Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Fantasizing, Explicit Sexual Content, Dirty Talk, Top Ilya Rozanov, Soft Dom Ilya Rozanov, The Kink Is All Fantasy, But Includes, Bondage, Dom/sub, Orgasm Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Season/Series 01

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-01 Words: 2,880 Chapters: 1/1

World enough and time

Summary

“You’re such an asshole,” Shane mutters into his crossed forearms. They don’t have time for Ilya to linger like this, not in the middle of the season, butted up against their inflexible schedules. The cottage is a distant memory, months behind and months to go.

“What would you do if we had more time?”

Notes

The dangerous thing about leaving bookmark comments is that sometimes the author sees them and develops fresh inspiration.

Anyway, this is dedicated to someone who read Patience and other virtues and said "Hot as fuck but honestly half the fantasy of these sorts of things is just to have the free time to play these games in the first place". You are right and correct, actually.

The door code is muscle memory. Shane keeps his hood up around his face and one hand tucked into his pocket, but the drifting snow winds its way in anyway, settling on his exposed wrist and melting on his neck. It’s not as cold in Boston as Montreal, but it’s a close thing.

The lock whirrs, and Shane slips inside. His numb fingers tingle, and his face prickles from the heat. He’s glad he only needs glasses to read. Some of his teammates wear them, and they’re always wiping fog away as they walk into buses and buildings. “It’s me,” he calls. “Shane.”

“Who?” Ilya wanders down the hall, thumbs tucked in the band of his sweats. “Oh, were you on ice today? New Montreal defenseman?”

“Oh, is that what I was doing when I scored two goals?”

Ilya shrugs. It’s a languid movement, shoulders and body flexing together, muscles bunching under his tee shirt. Shane is already half-hard. “I have most points in the league. I do not need to pay attention to what the second-best hockey player is doing.”

“You’re such an asshole.”

“And you are late,” Ilya says, and pins Shane against the wall. He catches Shane’s chin in his hand and tips his head back. Shane thaws under the attention.

“The guys wanted to go out,” Shane mumbles, eyes slipping shut. Ilya’s hand rests lightly on his throat, thumb stroking his flickering pulse. “It’s the rookie’s birthday.”

“What about my birthday?”

“Your birthday’s in June.”

“Half birthday,” Ilya amends. “Is… now? Soon?”

“Ok, fine,” Shane agrees, willing to play this game. “What do you want for your half birthday? Which is today and not next month.”

“Good that you ask. I have many ideas. I will prepare a, uh. Power point.” He says it in two words, enunciating each one separately, and Shane knows his face is slipping into something soft and lovesick.

“I can’t wait.”

“No time for my very sexy presentation tonight. Because you were late.”

“It wasn’t my fault!” Shane hangs his coat in the closet and sets his scarf in a tidy pile on the kitchen counter. Ilya tucks up behind him and slips his hands under Shane’s shirt, palms flat against his stomach, and shudders theatrically.

“You are cold.”

“Well, it’s cold outside.”

“Could have been warm if you were here on time.” Ilya’s hand moves, sliding down Shane’s body to tug at his zipper. Shane leans back into him, enjoying his warm, steady presence, the faint sandalwood and citrus smells of his competing shower products. The citrus is the stuff they keep in the Boston locker room, Shane thinks. Ilya only smells like that after a game.

Ilya pulls Shane’s pants open just enough to skim his hand under Shane’s boxers, grasping just to touch. He pulls Shane closer, chest pressed against Ilya’s front, and bites gently at the back of his neck, chin grazing the bumps of Shane’s vertebrae. They’re so close Shane feels every dragging breath as if it were his own.

“I missed you,” Shane whispers, and Ilya grouses into his skin. Shane’s Russian lessons haven’t gotten very far yet, but he doesn’t need to understand to know what Ilya wants.

They kiss for a while in the kitchen, Shane now up on Ilya’s counter, Ilya making space between his thighs. Shane tugs Ilya’s curls into disarray, and the hanging lamp catches in the frizz, gilding him like some renaissance angel.

The kisses turn harder when Ilya walks Shane backwards to the bedroom, his sock feet slipping on the hardwood. Ilya tumbles backwards onto the bed and catches himself on his elbows. He lost his shirt at some point, leaving him in only loose sweatpants and a grin.

Shane falls automatically between his knees, panting against the soft fabric. He can feel the whole shape of Ilya, the swell of his cock and the weight of his balls, and he fits as much into his mouth as he can through the fabric. “Fuck, come on. Take these off.”

Ilya lifts his hips and Shane strips him bare. He lets Ilya guide his movements, hands on either side of his head slowing the frantic bob of his head so that Ilya’s cock slides slowly in and out of his mouth, resting softly on his tongue while Shane digs his fingers into Ilya’s skin, trying to pull him closer.

“So impatient,” Ilya chides on the downstroke, and Shane glares at him as best he can with his lips stretched wide.

“Gotta be quick,” he says, once he manages to wiggle himself free. He kisses the inside of Ilya’s thigh. “The bus leaves at six, and I’m already supposed to be back.”

“And this is my fault?”

It’s neither of their faults, but that doesn’t make it easier to see each other in stolen snatches, scant hours where there should be untarnished days. Shane moves to kiss Ilya again and lets the urgency bleed through. “Fuck me?”

It’s easier on his stomach. Faster. Shane settles on hands and knees, head down by the covers. Ilya kneels between Shane’s calves and presses a single lube-slick finger inside, lingering. He likes to take his time with it, opening Shane up slowly, coaxing his muscles tender.

“I can take two,” Shane says. They don’t have time for Ilya to linger.

“And I give you one.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Shane mutters into his crossed forearms, and then shivers when Ilya does add a second, stroking carefully. “What would you do if we had more time?”

Shane’s been thinking about it a lot recently. The cottage is a distant memory. He can barely remember how they spent the time. Languid, long days stretching into each other. Ilya fucking into him in the sun-drenched afternoon. Shane falling to his knees in his expensive, modern kitchen with its expensive, modern tile floors. It had left bruises on his kneecaps, little purple smears that Ilya chased with his tongue. He misses the evenings most, both of them worn out from swimming, from fucking, curled up near each other in an intimacy that can’t be replicated in stolen moments.

“One more hour?” Ilya asks, and twists his fingers so that Shane gasps. “Mm. Maybe I fuck you twice.”

“Fuck off, you can’t get it up again that fast. And no, that’s not what I, oh fuck, Ilya.” 

Ilya repeats the motion, pulling a shiver out of Shane that starts at the nape of his neck and works its way down his spine. “How much time?”

“What?” Shane’s brain is already foggy. He’s slipping into that soft, quiet space.

“You ask what I would do with more time. How much time?”

Shane is swimming through heavy water, drowning in a flood of sensation. “A week,” he offers, and bucks up into Ilya’s fingers. Ilya, infuriatingly, pulls them away and flicks Shane with his finger, nail up against the crease of his thigh, dragging him to the surface.

“One week?”

“We don’t have a week now,” Shane snaps, annoyed. 

“No. We have one hour, and I will fuck you so good you will want to miss your stupid bus. But,” Ilya says, cutting off Shane’s annoyance, “first I will tell you what I would do instead, I think.”

“Oh my god. You’re the worst.”

Shane flips onto his back, arm over his face. Ilya settles between his knees and tucks one of Shane’s calves up onto his shoulder, so far that the stretch is almost uncomfortable. It’s a promising position. Shane’s whole body is open for Ilya, and he takes advantage, plucking a nipple between two fingers and tugging gently like they have all the time in the world.

“I like you like this,” Ilya says, and rolls that nipple between finger and thumb, harder, until Shane whines, arching up to relieve the pressure. “You will let me do whatever I want. Open.” He digs his other thumb into Shane’s mouth as though to prove his point, and Shane sucks obediently, getting it wet.

“A week,” Ilya says, considering. He watches Shane’s face as he talks, and Shane can feel the hot blush building on his cheeks and dripping down his neck. “I would fuck you every day.”

“What else?” Shane’s words are garbled around Ilya’s skin. Of course they would fuck every day. Twice a day, probably. More.

“I would not let you come,” Ilya says, and Shane makes a hot, wounded sound. “Not all week,” Ilya soothes, and he swaps his attention to Shane’s other nipple, nail digging in. “Until I get bored, maybe.”

“Oh, fuck,” Shane gasps when Ilya removes his thumb from his mouth. It’s a mean thought, nearly cruel. That Ilya would keep Shane on edge while he wrung his own pleasure out of Shane’s skin. “How long?”

“We know many times you can come in a day,” Ilya says, because they'd tested it, his mouth drawing it out of Shane again and again until Shane begged him to stop. “Maybe I want to know how many times you can wait.”

“Fuck. What would you—what would you do?”

“I would tie you up in my bed,” Ilya says and positions Shane’s hands above his head. Shane twists his fingers together and stretches his hands up above his head until his fingertips touch the headboard, shoulders straining. “Good, like that. I would keep you there for days, maybe.”

“Days?” Shane is the kind of breathless that comes after a hard hit on the ice.

“Mm. All day, like this. Spread out in my bed. Naked. There for me to fuck when I want. If I want.”

“And the rest of the time?”

Ilya shrugs. He skims his fingers down Shane’s ribs, tracing each indent of skin and muscle. “Whatever I want. You will wait there. I will tie your legs too, maybe, so I can fuck you how I want.”

“I couldn’t do anything about it.” Shane is vaguely aware of the tremble in his voice, but doesn’t care enough to corral it. Days tied up in Ilya’s bed, only there to be used. Open and wet. It’s an impossible, incredible thought. “I’d have to take whatever you put in me.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. His hand finds Shane’s cock and two thick fingers rest around the base, tightening. “I would keep you hard. Not for you. For me.” Shane shudders again, his whole body building into the motion. He finds the headboard with his fingers again, and Ilya nods approvingly. “Good.”

“Jesus Christ,” Shane mutters. He flexes the leg that’s over Ilya’s shoulder, trying to drag him closer. “Fuck me. Please.”

“Maybe I do not want to,” Ilya says, though the slick of lube against Shane’s hole belies his words. “Maybe I want to make you beg. You beg very pretty.”

“Please.”

“Like that,” Ilya agrees, “but more. I can do this—” two fingers slip into Shane, angling unerringly up and stroking hard against Shane’s prostate “—until you ask properly. You are very stubborn, Hollander,” he says, which is a lie, and adds: “Maybe I make you come like this and do not stop until you beg me to fuck you.”

Shane can’t find the words for how much he wants that. He can’t find words for anything, except a muffled litany of profanity that Ilya will have to take as agreement. Shane hates the overstimulation after he comes, but his mind is fuzzy with arousal at the thought of Ilya bringing him to that point and keeping him there until Shane begs. Until Shane has to beg him to fuck him, until Shane chooses the abuse he can bear.

Ilya’s cock nudges between Shane’s legs and Shane bears down as Ilya thrusts slowly in. He bottoms out, his hips against Shane’s skin, and then stops. Shane blinks up at him. “What are you doing?”

“Ask nicely.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Shane grouses. He wiggles up against Ilya, trying to use any leverage he has with his arms still stretched over his head, his leg slung up on Ilya’s shoulder.

“I have all week,” Ilya says, and flicks a finger against Shane’s stomach. “How long do you think I can stay here?”

“Fuck,” Shane manages, all the breath leaving him in a rush. “I don’t know. A while.”

“I think I can stay here for hours,” Ilya says. He runs his nails down the inside of Shane’s thigh, leaving little red trails on the sensitive skin. Shane tries to squirm away, but Ilya has him caught tight. “I think you should ask nicely, Hollander, or you will be very sore tomorrow.”

Hours. He would be sore, Shane knows. Ilya isn’t small. He imagines it. Ilya holding him just like this, his legs pinned up, his arms tied. Ilya keeping him stretched around his dick until Shane gives in.

“Please,” Shane tries. “Please fuck me.”

Ilya thrusts lightly, barely flexing, and stills again. “Like that?”
“Please fuck me properly.” Shane has to squeeze the words out. He’s no good at talking about it. He likes when Ilya does. Ilya has an unerring sense of what Shane wants to hear, spilling out filth that turns Shane’s bones into jelly. “Please fuck me harder.”

“What if I don’t want to?” Ilya gives him another slow rock of his hips.

“Please, Ilya. Please.” Shane’s voice is breaking. He’s caught somewhere between forever and now. The decadent, lazy summer layered on top of today’s rushed hour.

Ilya’s grin is wolfish, like he’s won something. “Today I want to fuck you hard,” he says, and follows it up with a series of quick thrusts, making space for himself deep in Shane’s body. His hand twists mercilessly over Shane’s weeping cock. “Maybe next time I want to fuck you slow. Maybe next time I fuck you for hours and come inside you. Maybe I put a plug in you after and leave you like that until I am ready to fuck you again.”

Shane doesn’t recognize his orgasm until it hits him, hard enough to hurt. The fantasy plays inside his mind even while his body shudders through the aftershocks. He’ll tie me up after this, Shane’s mind supplies, as Ilya bends him nearly in half, his mouth hot on Shane’s neck and his cock driving in and out of him. He’ll leave me like that. He simmers in that hot afterglow while Ilya uses him, one hand driving into Shane’s shoulder for leverage, his fingers tight enough to bruise.

 

Ilya towels him off after, lingering with the damp cloth over the inside of Shane’s knee and the wet smear on his stomach.

“I’m taking a shower before I go,” Shane mumbles, eyes closed. “You don’t need to do that.”

“I know.”

“Would you want—” Shane cracks an eye open to find Ilya looking back at him with undisguised fondness. “The things you said.”

“You like the things I say.”

“Yeah.” There’s no point denying it, not when Shane came so hard that there’s come drying in the sparse hair across his chest. “But it’s not. It doesn’t—” He’s not entirely sure what he’s trying to say, but Ilya just smiles, his expression softening fractionally more. No one else sees him like this, Shane thinks wildly. Only me.

“Of course I will not tie you to the bed for days,” Ilya says reasonably. “Not good for muscles. I will let you up to take a walk around the bedroom. Maybe suck my dick.”

“Fuck off,” Shane says, but they’re grinning at each other. “It’s hot. I wish you could.”

“You would get bored.”

“Not if you were there.”

“I will play video games and leave you tied up for hours. You will cry because my dick is too far away.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m crying in this scenario.”

Ilya shrugs one shoulder. He tugs Shane to his feet and pushes him in the direction of the shower. It’s easily large enough for the two of them, but Ilya lingers at the edge of the spray and watches Shane lather himself with Ilya’s sandalwood body wash.

“Summer is not so long from now.”

“Playoffs first,” Shane reminds him, as though either of them could forget.

“Yes, yes. After Montreal loses, it will be summer for you. You will go to the cottage and wait. Much longer for me. I will let you look at my ring.”

“I have more rings than you do.” Shane slips his head under the spray to rinse his hair. He’ll have to hide the wet under a hat so Hayden doesn’t notice.

“For now.”

“What’s your point?” 

Ilya holds out a dry towel and Shane steps out of the water and lets Ilya wrap it around him. “I have many ideas for when we have more time,” Ilya says plainly.

“Yeah?” Shane is exhausted and sore. He is effervescent. He will never get enough of Ilya, not if they had every day together and every night. He pulls Ilya into a kiss, fingers tangling in hair. “What kind of ideas?”

“I will make Power point,” Ilya says, and god. Shane loves him, every impossible inch.

His taxi is waiting when he steps back out into the swirling flurries, Ilya’s gloves on his hands. It’s winter still, but he can already feel summer, waiting in the wings.