Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Rose Landry

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Rose Landry

Additional Tags:

Post-Canon, Characters Reading Fanfiction, Light Dom/sub, BDSM Scene, Sexual Roleplay, light consensual non-consent, Bondage, Winner’s Room (Sports RPF), Kink Negotiation, Shane Discovers a New Kink, Dom Ilya Rozanov, Top Shane Hollander, First Time Topping, Topping from the Bottom, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Fluff, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Series:

Part 7 of Inty's Gay Hockey Boys (Heated Rivalry fics)

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-05 Words: 7,372 Chapters: 1/1

Maybe We Could Change the Narrative

Summary

Shane discovers that hockey fans are writing RPF about the two of them. Ilya helps talk (and fuck) him through it.

Notes

To absolutely nobody's shock, I absolutely loved the new hockey smut and have started four different fics in the five days since we finished it, lmao. I hope y'all like this one!

“Ilya Rozanov?”

“Um. Yeah? I mean. Yes.” Shane drummed his fingers nervously on the wheel of his car. “I’m in lo—a relationship. Dating. I’m dating… Ilya. Rozanov. But, uh, in secret. Obviously.” 

“Holy fucking shit,” Rose breathed. 

Shane took one hand off the wheel just long enough to pinch the bridge of his nose, hard. He would have thought this would be easier—or at least, involve less stuttering and groping for words. It damn well should have been easier to say this to Rose than it had been to tell his parents, given that he was doing it on purpose, and not because he’d been caught making out on the back patio like a teenager. Plus, she already knew about the gay part, so he should have been starting with an advantage. But so far, he was 0 for 2 on not fumbling his ‘hey, so guess who I’ve been fucking’ conversations. 

Fuck, if he counted the insane awkwardness of when she’d basically come out for him, he was 0 for 3. Right at this minute, he couldn’t remember ever being 0 for 3 on anything in his life. 

“Sorry, what?” he asked, realizing belatedly that Rose had gotten over her shock and started making sense again. Or… not really sense, but she’d said something that wasn’t just Ilya’s name interspersed with increasingly creative profanity. 

“Oh, God, never mind,” she said. Her voice sounded genuinely embarrassed, which raised Shane’s eyebrows; there wasn’t a lot that Rose got embarrassed about. “I thought you would have already seen… Forget I said anything.” 

“I didn’t even understand what you said,” he said. “The what shippers?” 

“You don’t want to understand,” she said immediately. “Trust me, Shane, hockey RPF isn’t something you want to dip your toe into. Now, tell me everything about you and Ilya Rozanov. How did this happen? And when?”

In the moment, Shane let it go. But later that same week, he found himself with some time to kill. After stretching his original two-week vacation into a month and a half, Ilya had a number of calls he needed to catch up on with his agent, his team, his sponsors, etc. Some of them would be on video, and they’d agreed that having Ilya take them from Shane’s house was too dangerous. They knew a lot of the same people, after all. What if someone recognized the background from a similar call with Shane, or one of the videos he’d done there? So instead, Ilya had driven into town early that morning and gotten a hotel room for the day; with the curtains drawn, he could be on vacation anywhere. 

It probably wasn’t a great sign—for Shane's sanity and happiness in the near future, at least—that he was already missing Ilya after being without him for all of five hours. After his morning run, he’d tried reading for a while, then switched to playing a video game, then finally given up on recreation altogether and switched to doing research on some of the young prospects in the Metros’ feeder teams. It had only been the last year or two—since their first successful Cup run—that the management team had been starting to involve him in that kind of work, and he was deeply gratified at the trust and respect it showed in his discretion, his judgment, and his leadership ability. He wasn’t yet positive if he wanted to go into coaching after retirement, but it would be a natural next step, and he appreciated the chance to start testing the waters now. 

But his normally reliable focus was scattered—he couldn’t stop jerking at every sound, thinking it might be Ilya coming back, even though it was hours too early. He kept moving rooms, trying to find a spot where they hadn’t had sex yet—where he wouldn’t think about wanting to have sex—but he couldn’t stop feeling like he was five seconds from chubbing up at any moment. He tried to go back to it after his afternoon workout, but by 5:30, his eyes were swimming, and Ilya still wasn’t going to be back for another couple of hours, at least. Shane groaned as he leaned back in his chair and stretched. He’d spent entire weeks here in the past, completely alone except for occasional dinners with his parents. How was he already going stir-crazy after less than a full day? How was he already so dependent on Ilya’s presence that he couldn’t manage without him? 

And that was when he remembered the incomprehensible things that Rose had said when he’d told her about Ilya. He couldn’t remember the first one—some kind of shipping?—well enough to find anything that seemed relevant on Google. But the second phrase she’d mentioned… Well, that one got him a plethora of information. More, perhaps, than he’d wanted.

There were people who wrote fictional stories about hockey players? Like what, the Mighty Ducks, but with real people? But that didn’t seem like the vibe of the website he’d found, explaining it… 

What was M/M shipping?

Oh, fuck.  

Holy shit, there were people writing stories about him?

Him and Hayden? Hayden was his best friend! And he was married, with four kids! How had people written—he checked and nearly had an aneurysm—over eight hundred stories about him fucking his married best friend?!

Oh man, Ilya would be furious to know that people had written stories about Shane and Scott Hunter—

Oh, fuck! Hollanov, that had been the word Rose had said—

He clicked on the link with trembling hands, and found—

Three thousand works?!?!

Jesus fucking Christ. 

He wasn’t going to click on any of them. 

He was absolutely not going to sit here and read stories about him and Ilya being in a relationship. Especially given that several of the words under the titles—the few he understood, at least—seemed to indicate that a lot of them were about the two of them having very explicit sex. 

Apparently his dad hadn't been alone in thinking they'd gotten together during the All-Stars—about 90 percent of these works seemed to have been written since then. So at least he and Ilya hadn't done a horrible job of keeping up appearances before that...

He definitely was not going to read any—

Ilya slammed the stupid car door—he’d swear the thing was a Jeep, under its lying European decals—and hurried toward the door of the cottage. He’d managed to shave the drive that had taken Hollander two hours into just under ninety minutes, both ways. But with a three-hour round trip drive on top of all the meetings and calls he’d crammed in to avoid having to stay overnight, it had still made for an intensely long and frustrating day, and he wanted nothing more than to throw his boyfriend over his shoulder, carry him to bed like one of the boyars of old, and fuck him until he screamed.

And so he was very disturbed and unhappy to find the house seemingly empty—silent, and dark, and no one answered when he yelled Shane’s name. Where would Shane have gone? He pulled out his phone just to double check, but found no messages or missed calls. Why would he have left without letting Ilya know what he was doing? And without even locking the front door?

He pulled up Shane’s—or rather, “Jane’s”—number from his favorites and dialed it, pacing impatiently across the den. 

(They’d talked about changing the nicknames, but agreed it was premature. Personally, Ilya would be quite happy to leave it as it was indefinitely. Over the years, he’d grown quite fond of texting with “Jane.”)

A light buzzing came from the table, and Ilya swore aloud as he realized that Shane’s phone was sitting right there, in plain sight. He scowled as his heart started to pound. There was no way that Shane would have left the house without his phone, not even for some kind of emergency with his parents. He didn’t even go for a run without his phone, wallet, keys, and a little pocket first aid kit, for fuck’s sake! Ilya’s mind started to fill with catastrophes—some kind of hidden injury from the hit that had taken Shane out for the rest of the reason, an aneurysm or a blood clot, or maybe he’d gone down to the dock and been bitten by some kind of water snake—did they have water snakes in Canada?—or… 

Ilya forced himself to breathe, and started to search the house. It was a big place, after all—perhaps Shane was using the gym, with headphones in, and Ilya hadn’t been able to see the light. Or maybe he was in their bedroom, taking a nap. Or, or, or—

Or maybe he was in his fucking study, sitting at the desk, where he couldn’t be seen from any of the windows, scrolling some website on his desktop with all of the lights off, just so he could give his fucking boyfriend a fucking heart attack. 

Who even had a desktop any more, let alone with three extra monitors, like some kind of serial killer?!

Ilya swore in Russian as he slammed the door open and then hit the lights. “What the hell are you doing—” 

He stopped short as he took in the sight in front of him and slowly, slowly, began to grin. Shane—spinning around in his comfy office chair to face Ilya with a very guilty expression on his face, and his jeans wide open, and his very hard dick sticking out of his boxers—looked like he wanted to die of embarrassment. 

“I leave for one day and you cannot wait for me to get home?” Ilya asked, prowling closer. 

To his surprise, Shane just smiled soppily up at him. Ilya cocked his head to the side, asking a silent question. 

“You called it ‘home’,” Shane explained softly, his hands coming up to rest on Ilya’s hips as he got closer. 

Ilya’s heart lurched inside his chest—an almost hourly occurrence, in this strange new life of his—and he leaned down and kissed Shane greedily, relishing the way he opened up right away; how he was, as always, so eager and pliant in Ilya’s hands. 

Ilya let the kiss stretch on, until he was absolutely certain that all of Shane’s attention was focused on him. He let it go on, in fact, a little bit too long, because he got so lost in the taste of Shane’s mouth and the feel of his lips that he almost forgot what he was planning to do. If it had been a month ago, when he’d been so starving for it, he definitely would have chosen to forget. 

But fortunately, after getting laid two or three—sometimes four!—times a day for several weeks, Ilya was sated just enough that his sense of mischief once again had the upper hand. And so, once he was positive that Shane was sufficiently distracted, Ilya flipped over and planted his ass square on the right side of his boyfriend’s lap; braced his left hand on the chair arm, pinning Shane in his seat; and grabbed for the mouse, so that Ilya could see exactly what webpage had gotten Hollander so hot and bothered. 

“No!” Shane gasped. “No, don’t read it!” 

His hands grabbed at Ilya’s shoulders and biceps, and he bucked up underneath him, trying to dislodge him—but Ilya had the edge in height and weight, albeit not by much, and there was no way that Hollander was going to be able to wrestle him off. After a few seconds of jockeying for position, Ilya was able to type in Shane’s password—his mother’s father’s jersey number in college followed by his mother’s favorite color and an exclamation mark, so predictable (fine, Ilya had seen him type it in a few times in the past month) and scanned his eyes down the white screen, filled simple, unadorned black words. 

“Rozanov ran his hand down Shane’s back,” Ilya read aloud, “his rough hands, callused from decades of gripping a hockey stick, contrasted sharply with the softness of the cotton ropes—are you reading porn? Porn of us?”

“I told you not to read it!”

Shane wasn't sure his cheeks had ever been this hot. Not during that first fateful shower, when he’d gotten hard, and then Ilya had started stroking his damn dick in front of him. Not the first time they’d fucked, when Ilya had opened him up so slowly and gently, without letting him look away or hide. Not even after Ilya won the Cup, when he had made Shane put on a show for him. No, the most embarrassed Shane had ever been was here, with his rigid erection that refused to go down poking into his boyfriend’s ass, while said boyfriend sat on his lap and read porn aloud to him. 

“Should I read this one, next? It looks like you clicked on it twice. What does this mean?” Ilya asked teasingly, as he continued to work his way mercilessly down Shane’s browser history. “Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics?” 

Shane groaned. “Oh god, no. Don’t read that one, I didn’t even understand it the first time, that’s why… I swear to god, I mean it this time, Ilya don’t. It’s some kind of weird werewolf thing, I think? Anyway, all of the ones like that are about, like, one of us going into heat, like a dog? Or me getting you pregnant.” 

“You getting me pregnant?” Ilya asked, sounding rather offended. “No, you are fucking with me, this is not true—” 

Shane snorted. Of course that was the part that Ilya found unbelievable. “Yes, it is! I mean, there’s definitely some with me being the… Omega, is what they call the one that gets pregnant, but it’s like, 70/30, you? Well, close to that. Of the ones I checked,” he added hastily, not wanting to make it seem like he’d downloaded the results into a spreadsheet and done a lot of meticulous math. Especially since that was exactly what he’d done. The impressive filtering and tagging system the site adopted had made it surprisingly easy. “Apparently they think that you’re a, um. Brat. And your swagger is you, uh, overcompensating.” 

Ilya was silent for a long moment. “What is swagger?” he asked finally. 

Shane smothered a laugh. “Uh, like… well literally, it’s how you walk, but it’s a metaphor for being really confident?” 

“Ah. Yes, I understand.” 

“You do?” Shane asked, a little incredulously. 

Ilya shrugged. “I have seen this. People think because I am strong and loud, big confident man, on ice, in life, must be opposite in bed. Does not bother me.”

“It doesn’t? I mean, you really don’t care that they think you—”

Ilya sighed, his body pressing down against Shane’s. Bracing both of his hands on the chair arms, he lifted himself up, brought his knees to his chest, and spun around until they were face to face. As he lowered his weight back down, his thighs clamping down on either side of Shane’s legs, Shane looked up at him and felt a little bit of his embarrassment fade at the tender, vulnerable look on his face. 

“No. I don’t care what anyone thinks about me,” Ilya told him, his voice deepening. “They are right, it would be hot if you fucked me. Is also hot when I fuck you. Why should I care that some people have good taste in men and in porn?” 

Shane stared at Ilya’s chest, with its conservative—for him—black silk shirt unbuttoned to show off his gold pendant, trying to decide how he felt about that. “And it doesn’t—” 

“Does it bother you?” Ilya interrupted. “That they think you are strong, silent type, who just wants to fuck his bratty boyfriend?” 

“How do you know—” Shane asked, jerking his eyes up in surprise. 

Ilya rolled his eyes in response. “Is obvious. Don’t avoid question. Do you mind, that they do not know how much you want my dick filling up your needy hole all the time?” 

“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane said, a little shocked. He’d always loved it when Ilya talked dirty, but this was a whole new level. 

“Do you want everyone to know how loud you get when I fuck you?” Ilya continued, lowering his voice to a breathy rasp as he bent down and nuzzled at the side of Shane’s face. 

Shane felt his face get hotter even as he pushed up into the embrace, rubbing his nose against Ilya’s. “I don’t get any louder than you do—” 

“You do,” Ilya said, his voice deepening. “Do not be embarrassed. I love this, how loud you get for me.” 

He punctuated his last sentence by biting down on Shane’s earlobe, and Shane—unable to stop himself—moaned loudly, proving Ilya’s point. Ilya chuckled smugly, making Shane narrow his eyes and frown at him—or as much as he could, with the way his expression kept wanting to melt into a goopy grin. 

Ilya returned his attempted glare with a sunny smile; showing, once again, that he could see right through Shane. “You know, I think you do want people to know. You did not like reading stories where you fuck me like big, strong, macho man. To know this is what people think of you.”

“Fuck,” Shane said, leaning back in his chair. This conversation was surreal. “I… Maybe? I mean, I don’t actually want anyone to know what we do in bed, but I wish… I don’t know. I did like some of those stories, where… Where you were, like, doing it for the first time and you got all vulnerable and, you know, opened up to me—”

“Oh, yes?” Ilya grinned. “You want me to open up, be wide open and loose for you?”  

“Shut up!” Shane laughed and shoved him back, jerking his knees up at the last minute to keep him from falling off his lap. “But… yeah, I guess it bothered me to read some version of myself where… When I’ve had sex with women, it felt like a performance. Like I was expected to…” 

“Perform?” Ilya smirked down at him, then caressed his hand down Shane’s chest, covered only with his dull blue muscle shirt, and flicked the top of his hard dick. “You’ve never had, uh, what do they say? Performance issues, with me.” 

Shane groaned, leaning his head back, then ran his hands up Ilya’s arms. “It’s never felt like a performance with you,” he murmured, ignoring Ilya’s attempt to lighten the mood. “That’s what I mean. Do you—do you feel like you have to perform, for me? When you…” 

“When I fuck you? No. Even when we play games, like you being bellboy or delivery boy, is always me and you here. I love fucking you, Shane. Is never an act.” 

Ilya leaned down to kiss him again, but Shane held him off, both hands braced on his chest.

Ilya sighed and leaned back, pouting. “What else do you—” 

“Would you want that?" Shane asked. "For me to…” 

“Fuck me?” 

“Yeah.” 

Ilya considered it. “If you want to, I am happy to try. But is not…” he sighed. “I have done it. Is not bad. But I prefer it the other way.” 

“Oh. You did it with that guy, your coach’s son? Or…” 

“Or. No, Sasha, that was my coach’s son, he was a little older, but already very, ah, set in his ways. He knew what he wanted, knew I would be good person to give it to him. He taught me many things, but not this.” 

“Um. So then, you’ve, uh. You’ve fucked other guys, then? Since…”  Shane looked to the side, clearly uncomfortable, and Ilya wrapped his hand around his chin and neck, forcing his head back around and up. Shane sighed and leaned back, meeting Ilya’s eyes steadily for a second before lowering them back down to where his cross was swinging back and forth across his sternum. “I’m sorry, I know I don’t have any right to be jealous, it’s just…” 

“I am jealous of Rose Landry,” Ilya pointed out. “You can be jealous if you want. I think is hot for you to be jealous, in fact…” 

“Yeah, well I don’t want to be jealous! And I don’t understand why you're jealous of Rose, honestly, when you’ve had sex with a thousand women—” 

“No, not a thousand. Is too high, this number.” 

“Okay, sorry, a hundred, whatever—” 

“But these are just… scratching itch. Not relationship, like you have with her, in all the papers—” Ilya said absently, still parsing numbers in the back of his head. 

“You know, I have actually seen you with women in the papers…” 

“Does not count if they are blurry pictures with random women in front of club.” 

“Look, this isn’t the point I was trying to make. I—” 

“Perhaps two hundred, at most,” Ilya said thoughtfully. 

“What?” Shane squinted up at him, his forehead creasing in a delightful way. 

Ilya leaned down to kiss it, unable to stop himself. “I lost my virginity at 16, it has been twelve years since then. Between 2008 and 2014, I had sex every week, at least, but often with same women in each city. Say twenty, twenty-five a year. Years before, and after, I had much less sex, and more often with you, or Svetlana. So I think, definitely more than a hundred, but—” 

“Oh my god, I can’t believe you were actually doing the math!” Shane actually tried to lift Ilya off his lap, this time, and Ilya grabbed on to the arms of the chair and wrapped his legs around the seat, cackling. “What the fuck, Ilya!” 

“No, no, don’t be jealous,” Ilya cooed, draping himself more heavily over Shane. “Was never like it is with you. Even with Svetlana, I love her, I have fun with her, but… You make me crazy, Shane. I can never get enough of you. I would rather spend an hour watching you do boring things—yoga, or talking about interior decorating, or making spreadsheets with these sexy glasses of yours, than watch the ten most beautiful women in the world washing the sexiest car in the world in their underwear. Although this would be very sexy. Maybe you could wash car for me—” 

“I’m not washing a car so you can ogle me, fuck you,” Shane pasted a scowl on his face, glaring up at Ilya. But at the same time, his heart felt warm and light, and as Ilya leaned down over him, nuzzling and biting at both sides of his mouth, trying to pull them up at the corners, he couldn’t stop himself from smiling as he began to kiss him back. 

“Do you want to fuck me?” Ilya murmured, working his mouth down toward Shane’s neck.

“I… maybe?” Shane thought about it. “You know, I’m not completely sure, if… If I didn’t like it with women because I don’t like being the… top, or because they were women, or both. Rose offered—Uh. Never mind.” 

“What?” Ilya asked, pulling back. His expressive eyebrows immediately dipped in on the inner corners, making him look severe. “She offered to fuck you? To—what do they call it here?” 

“Pegging. Uh, yeah. But she was joking, I’m pretty sure.” 

“She was not,” Ilya said immediately, still looking pissed off. “No one would give up chance at that ass. Is second-best ass in League. But your ass is mine, Hollander. You will not forget this, in the future.” 

“Second-best?” Shane asked, a little outraged. He scowled, trying to think of what player Ilya could be—

“After mine, Shane,” Ilya said, rolling his eyes. 

Shane closed his own eyes, grinning. “Right. Of course.” 

“Which is yours,” Ilya said softly. “If you want it.” 

Shane took a deep breath, thinking about that. “Maybe… yeah. We could try it out, sometime. So then—you haven’t had sex with any other players, right?” 

Ilya bent down again and kissed Shane’s lips gently. “No. Has been very long time since I fucked other men. Years. Only during the summer, away from hockey. In Russia, other countries, I would go out to clubs, pick up other men instead of women. I wanted…” 

He paused. Shane stayed silent, trying to give his boyfriend the space to say—or not say—whatever he needed. 

It still sent a thrill up his spine, every time he thought of Ilya that way. 

“Sometimes, I just wanted to get laid,” Ilya said finally, with a short laugh. “Is easier, with men. Quicker. No pretending. But others… I picked ones who looked like you. To get closer to what I really wanted. What I was missing.”

Shane swallowed, hard, as that visual filled his mind: Ilya, in some dark, anonymous club, surrounded by needy, writhing male bodies. He imagined him picking one out from the crowd, trying to find someone who looked as much like Shane as possible. He thought about Ilya fucking this man from behind, shoving his face down, his hips rolling continuously like they did when he fucked Shane that way. He thought about Ilya fucking some guy and pretending he was fucking Shane. 

“Fuck. That’s so hot,” he stammered. 

Ilya breathed easier. He had sworn to Shane that he would try to be honest, and so far, he’d kept that promise. But he kept thinking—worrying—that they would finally stumble over something that would be too much for Shane, that would make him turn away. He should have had more faith in Shane’s bad-boy fetish. 

“Oh yes?” he murmured, burying his face in Shane’s neck. “You like that? Thinking about me fucking other men, wishing they were you?” 

“Yes,” Shane moaned, bucking up needily against him. “Yes, Ilya, please—

Ilya groaned. He loved it when Shane begged for things during sex. It had gotten even better since Shane had started using his real name. 

“So tell me more about what you did like, in these stories,” Ilya urged, nipping at Shane’s throat between words. “What was happening when I walked in? You were very worked up, yes?” 

“Um,” Shane said, clearly finding it difficult to form clear thoughts while Ilya was vampirizing his neck. Ilya could have stopped, to allow him to answer the question free of distractions,  but where would be the fun in that? “It was, um. Okay, so there’s this thing, apparently, that a lot of stories do—I thought for a second that they thought it might be a real thing in hockey, because it was in so many stories, but now I think it’s just, like. An idea someone had, and a bunch of other people liked it, and wrote variations on it? Like how every romance movie has the girl pop her foot up when they kiss?” 

“A cliche?” 

“How the hell do you know that word?” 

“Is same word in Russian. Stop getting distracted, tell me the story.” 

“Sorry, right. Okay, so there’s this thing where after a hockey game, the first star—or sometimes the player who scored the winning goal—gets to choose someone from the losing team to have sex with.” 

Ilya considered that. “First star is not always from winning team. Is not always even a player.” 

“Obviously I know that, that’s not the point.” 

“Scoring winning goal makes more sense.” 

“That wouldn’t allow the goalies or most of the defensemen to participate.” 

“True. I am not goalie or defensemen, so I care less about this.” 

“Ilya, it’s not a real tradition.” 

“Yes, but if they are going to write stories about us having sex, they should make sense.” 

“The whole thing doesn’t make sense!” 

“No, it could makes sense, if you are in world where hockey players are okay with gay sex. We have many odd things like this, traditions, rules about who gets to fight and when, who buys who drinks, when you shave and do not…” 

“I mean, it’s also kind of, uh, rapey?” 

“ … Oh.” Ilya thought about that for a second. “So… Winner chooses any player, and that player does not have choice?” 

“Yeah, basically. I mean, some of them have rules and stuff about who you can pick, but…” 

“Mmm. Still, is just story. Some things… Are fun to play, but not to do in real life.” 

“I mean… I don’t know. Is it okay to get off on something like that?” 

“When you and I play that you are hotel bellboy, and I am asking you to accommodate me—this is not thing I would ever do in real life.” 

“Well… Yeah, but…” 

“Is just game, Shane,” Ilya said, leaning down and kissing him again, seductively. “You are not bad person for whatever gets you off.” 

Air burst out of Shane’s lungs, uncontrolled. “Yeah?” he asked, feeling tears sting behind his eyes. God, he was getting stupidly worked up over this, he just… His emotions always felt dangerously close to the surface when Ilya had his hands on him, and reading those stories, he’d been so turned on, but at the same time, he had been worried that it was… wrong. Shameful. 

“Of course,” Ilya said, matter-of-factly. “It hurts no one, yes? Like playing video game, you shoot people or run over pedestrians, does not mean you are evil person who would do this for real.” 

“Right,” Shane agreed, feeling the tangle of tension in his chest loosen up even more. “I mean, it’s just words on a page…” 

“Or it could be just a game that we play, in our bedroom,” Ilya suggested. “Or here.”

Shane felt his eyes open wide. “You—you want to…?” 

“Sure,” Ilya said, grinning at him. “Why not? Is fun fantasy for me, no? Means I am one who scores the winning goal, like always—” 

“In this one, you were actually the first star—” 

“Whatever. Maybe I did both. And I choose you, of course. Sexiest player on opposing team, second-best ass in league, as we have agreed—” 

“I didn’t agree to that—”  

“You did. You know my ass is better, do not argue. So you must wait for me, yes? To come and claim you?” 

“Y-yes,” Shane said, feeling his heart pick up. “They—Hayden and JJ had to bring me to this special room, and tie me up, and, uh, prepare me. For you.”

He closed his eyes for a second. That had been the first part of the story where he’d started to feel… uncomfortable, about how turned on he’d been. He’d never wanted his friends that way, he still didn’t, but the idea of them being forced to get him ready, to turn him over to his greatest rival, knowing exactly what was going to happen to him—

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya groaned, no doubt imagining that as well. 

Or perhaps he was just imaging Shane as his helpless prize, all tied up and naked and— 

“But in our version, no one else should get to touch or see you,” Ilya said. “I like this idea, your teammates being forced to give you to me, like trophy I have won from them, but they do not get to touch you. Only I do that.” 

“Yes,” Shane moaned, arching up into him. “Yes, they have to hand me over to you, they feel guilty for not winning the game, knowing that now you’re going to fuck me until I’ve forgotten my own name.”

Ilya bent down and tangled their tongues together, giving Shane exactly what he wanted. “Do you want me to tie you up?” he whispered. 

There was no way he didn’t already know the answer to that; no way that after all these years, he couldn’t read it off of Shane’s face. But Ilya waited for Shane to gasp out a quiet “yes” before he clambered off of him and ran out of the room. After he left, Shane quickly got out of the chair and tore his clothes off, until he was standing naked behind his desk, looking wildly around the room. Should he go to his bedroom? Or—

When Ilya came back into the room, he stopped short just inside the door, staring at Shane with wild eyes, opened so wide that they showed white all the way around, pupils so big that Shane could barely see the gold-flecked green he loved so much. Shane was on the other side of the desk now, sitting in one of the other armchairs—simpler than his custom office chair, made of wood and fabric padding, without wheels. He sat with his legs spread as wide as they could get, naked as the day he was born, and his hands clasped behind the chair back. He swallowed hard, loving the way Ilya’s want showed so clearly on his face. 

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya breathed. Several of Shane’s silk ties dangled from his left hand, and as he advanced slowly toward him, he tossed a tube of lube and a condom onto the floor in front of him. 

“Hollander,” Shane corrected. “I want—this is our first time, in the story. You and I, we’ve flirted, and we both wanted to have sex, but we’re rivals, we’re supposed to hate each other, and so we’ve been afraid to admit…” 

“Ah, so very different from reality,” Ilya joked. “Okay. Hollander. I have wanted you for so long, wanted to have you, to beat you… And now, you are mine.” 

“Yes,” Shane gasped, feeling begin to crowd out the other thoughts in his mind. “Rozanov. You won, so. I’m yours.” 

Ilya swore again as he hurried forward. With shaky hands, he knelt behind the chair and tied Shane’s wrists together, then pulled them down and leashed them to the bottom of the chair, so Shine could barely lift his ass from the wooden seat. Ilya shuffled around on the floor, moving around the chair to tie Shane’s feet to the chair legs. 

“So what do I do to you, in the story?” he asked, looking up at Shane playfully. 

“Uh—well, I was tied to a bed in the story. I… didn’t think of that.” Shane laughed awkwardly. “I was too turned on.” 

“Is okay,” Ilya assured him, straightening up and resting his forearms on Shane’s knees. “I like you stupid and—what do they say?—dick-drunk. So I fucked you?” 

“After making me suck you off, yeah.” 

Ilya shuddered. “That would be hot,” he agreed. He unbuttoned his shirt and discarded it behind him. “But maybe, ah, what do you say—change the narrative… So, I want you, but I am afraid you do not want me, yes?” 

“Uh—yeah, I guess. And I think we’re both afraid that our teammates will hate us if we fuck a rival player. You know, without it being… part of this ritual.” 

“Yes. So, I have you all tied up for me. I can do anything I want to you.” Ilya worked his pants off, next, and his shoes, until he was kneeling before Shane entirely naked. “But I want to make sure that you will like it, so you will come back to me, after.” 

“Okay…” 

“So maybe, I do this.” Leaning forward, Ilya took Shane’s dick into his mouth, as he’d done so many times before. 

Shane gasped, arching back as much as the rigid chair would allow—which wasn’t much. As Ilya dipped down, taking him deep, he was immediately aware of a difference between this and the previous times he’d sucked Shane off. Shane was always insanely responsive, always starving for it; but this time, he seemed almost unhinged, completely out of control as he writhed against the ties, making the chair rock back and forth, legs thump loudly against the wooden floor, swearing and gasping out Ilya’s name. 

His first name—Ilya, not Rozanov. But Ilya figured he could forgive him for breaking character. 

As he continued to bob his head, going slowly and teasingly, making Shane beg for it, he carefully pumped some of the lube into his hand and began to work himself open. It had been a very long time since he’d done this, and he wanted to make sure he was very loose and wet for Shane, to make sure it wasn’t uncomfortable and didn’t make him feel guilty, the way he was when he left scratches across Ilya’s back. Long before he was done, he had to pull his head back and grip his hand tight around the base of Shane’s dick to keep him from coming. 

“That’s one,” he said quickly. “I do this three more times, yes? Before you are finally allowed to come. As a punishment for losing.” 

“Oh fuck,” Shane swore, looking down at him with eyes that had gone so wide and black, Ilya could hardly see the warm brown of his irises at all. “Jesus, Ilya—I mean, Rozanov—” 

Ilya laughed as he bent down again, and Shane keened, working his hips frantically in the minute movements that were all the ties on his ankles and wrists would allow. 

Ilya should definitely have put some ties around his waist, too. Next time, he would. He would take him on his bed, utterly helpless, unable to move even an inch as Ilya pushed inside him— 

If he hadn’t been such an incredible, skilled multitasker, he would never have been able to open himself enough in time—Shane was more worked up than Ilya had ever seen him, even when they’d gone months between encounters. As it was, he thought it was just barely adequate when he cut off Shane’s incipient orgasm for the third time and rose up to his feet, hands shaking so badly that he nearly dropped the condom. He ripped the packet open with his teeth and worked it onto Shane’s dick hastily, praying it wouldn’t rip. Not that he really cared, but he wasn’t sure if Shane would want to deal with the mess, for his first time. 

“Oh, shit,” Shane said, seemingly only just then realizing what was going on. “Now?”

But then again, perhaps Ilya was being unfair. He’d been very distracting, after all. “You still want to?” he checked. 

“Yes,” Shane said immediately. “Yes, I still want to—fuck, Ilya, please, I need you, let me—” 

His words disintegrated into a long, guttural moan as Ilya straddled him and immediately sank down on his sheathed cock. 

“Is okay?” Ilya grunted out. He had forgotten what this felt like—or maybe it had never felt like this. It had never involved him being in complete control of every aspect and movement of the encounter. It had never been with someone he loved. Someone he trusted, with his life, with his heart. 

“So okay,” Shane moaned, bucking up against him. “So good, Ilya—” 

‘Fuck, Shane,” Ilya gasped. He braced his hands on the back of the chair and Shane’s shoulder, then rose up and sank down again, taking Shane to the hilt this time. The next words came out in Russian, his grasp on the English fracturing as lust and need took over his mind. “You feel so good inside me. Love taking you like this, love riding you, love having you beneath me—love you, so much—” 

“Ilya,” Shane panted, barely intelligible. His eyes were overflowing, tears streaking down his cheeks. “K-kiss me, please, Ilya—oh my god—” 

Ilya bent himself into a pretzel to fulfill the request; it was wet and messy, both of them barely coordinated enough to make it a kiss and not just smashing their lips and tongues wildly together. They’d barely been going for more than a few minutes, but his dick was brushing against Shane’s belly with every rise and fall, and he wasn’t going to last very long at all—

“Love you, Ilya, love you so much—” 

Ilya groaned and came, his seed spurting wildly across Shane’s belly and chest. 

“Fucking hell,” Ilya muttered, as he sank down again, collapsing against Shane, his body going boneless and heavy, exhausted. 

“Ilya,” Shane pleaded. “I’m so close—holy shit, so close, please—” 

“Fuck,” Ilya said again. But he pushed himself up and started to ride Shane again, forcing his weak muscles to do his bidding as he had during a thousand games and practices and competitions, where he’d pushed himself to his limit and beyond. “That’s it, Shane. Come for me, sweetheart—I need you to come in me, now—” 

Shane let his head fall back against the chair back, his throat making a beautiful curve against the soft light as he squeezed his eyes shut and came, his cheeks were a dark, dusky red, with paler tracks showing where the tears were still streaming down from the corners of his eyes. He had never been so beautiful. 

“I love you,” Ilya whispered again; in English, this time, although he knew Shane had understood the Russian. He shook his head, still drinking in the sight of him. “Fuck, Shane. How do I love you this much?” 

Shane groaned, barely conscious as Ilya undid the ties and lifted him out of the chair. 

“Fuck, that was so good,” he moaned, as Ilya carried him into their bedroom, with his arms slung over Ilya’s shoulders and his legs locked around Ilya’s waist. “Holy shit, you’re strong. You know I weigh a hundred and ninety pounds?” 

“Yes, I know, is on your stat page. But you are less, now—you need to bulk up after the injury. I should make you some borscht. You are too skinny. How are you to get a husband, so skinny you are?” 

After a stunned moment, Shane started laughing weakly, burying his face in Ilya’s shoulder. “Fuck, that was so hot,” he said again. 

“Yes. I am sex god, all know this.” 

“You are,” Shane agreed, knowing that he would regret it later, but unable to summon up any energy to be snarky, with the pleasure and exhaustion and satiation still running through his veins. 

Ilya let him drop out of his arms onto the bed, hard enough that he bounced twice. He sprawled out and found Ilya staring down at him, his mouth open. 

“I have killed you,” he said. “You are dead, is only way you would say this. Everyone, I have very sad news—I have murdered Shane Hollander, I am very sorry—” 

Shane started laughing and found that he couldn’t stop. He rolled over onto his side, still wheezing, until Ilya spooned up behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist, kissing the side of his face and neck. 

“Stop, you are scaring me,” Ilya said finally. “Shane.”

Shane laughed even harder, his sides hurting, tears seeping out of the corners of his eyes. He didn’t want to, it was just that Ilya sounded genuinely worried, while Shane felt maybe better than he ever had in his life. It was like all the emotions he’d always held in were leaking out around his edges, coming out as laugh 

“I’m sorry!” he gasped out, finally. “I can’t stop. I just—God, I love you. I don’t know, why I'm doing this—” 

“Is okay. As long as you are not dying, for real.” 

“I’m not dying.” 

“Good. You are not allowed to do this to me any more. My heart, it can’t take it.”

That finally cut through Shane’s brain enough that he was able to swallow the last of his giggles. He turned over onto his back and pulled Ilya down into a kiss, their hands moving up and down each other’s arms and chests. There was no urgency about it, now—they weren’t nineteen, any more, to be able to get hard again this quick. They were simply taking comfort in one another, finding pleasure in the feel of wet tongues and skin on skin. God, but he could never get enough of this; of having the time to take as long as they wanted with each other, of drinking in each other’s presence. 

“So,” Ilya murmured finally, his mouth moving across Shane’s chest. “What else did you read about?”

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