Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

emotionally significant handjobs, Intercrural Sex, Clothes Sharing, Top Shane Hollander, arguably - Freeform, although it's unclear to me if the corresponding bottom!ilya tag would be appropriate

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-14 Words: 3,286 Chapters: 1/1

Held Fast; Carried Away

Summary

Ilya can barely see him in the dark, but he doesn't need to. He holds Shane's face in both his hands and kisses him.

"Hi," Ilya says, after a minute or three. "I'm sorry I missed you getting in."

"I'm not," Shane says, quietly. "I like coming home to you." Then - and Ilya can hear the smile creeping up his face - he adds, "You were wearing my clothes."

"Yes, well. I missed you." It's so easy to say that, now. Ilya turns onto his side again, pulling Shane's arm back over him.

Notes

What happened here is I thought about "emotionally significant handjobs" before falling asleep, and my traitor brain insisted I was required to wake up five hours later and spend the day making it happen.

Tags indicate what I think are the key selling points; I am not a wizard or a mind-reader and can't predict if your personal squicks or triggers may be briefly mentioned.

Ilya lets himself into Shane's apartment somewhere near midnight on the 23rd of December, and he's exhausted. The apartment is dark; Shane himself will be in the air somewhere between Winnipeg and Montreal.

Ilya is bone tired, and right now he wishes he'd done the sensible thing and stayed in his own bed in Boston tonight. He could have flown to Ottawa tomorrow morning; David would have picked him up from the airport and he'd have reached their Hollanders' house at roughly the same time as Shane, who'd have been driving home from Montreal.

Shoes: Ilya tucks them neatly into the cupboard which he now knows is dedicated to this purpose. Coat, beanie, scarf: likewise. He stands in the middle of Shane's apartment, hand still on his suitcase handle. For a moment, he doesn't just wish he'd stayed in Boston tonight; he misses the mid-season refuge of spending Christmas alone. 38 games in, the regular season isn't even halfway through, but every year he makes it to the 24th and the fatigue hits him. Some years, he's turned down invites to join his teammates' families, noting that he doesn't really celebrate Christmas. Sveta's mother's family had extended him an invite, his rookie year, and if they'd been based in Boston he might have gone. He'd told her he couldn't face another flight.

Now here he is, having scrambled out of the arena after his game and barely onto a commercial flight before last call, because when he made that plan, he didn't want to spend even a few hours longer than absolutely necessary apart from Shane Hollander. He's in Shane's apartment, and his traitor of a mind wishes for nothing so much as three days alone in Boston.

Ilya takes his suitcase to the bedroom. Normally, when he arrives somewhere, and certainly when he gets home to his own apartment, he doesn't unpack right away. There's no point unpacking here, either, not when they'll be driving to Ottawa tomorrow; but Shane will be annoyed if Ilya leaves his stuff just lying anywhere. Ilya squares the suitcase neatly at the end of the bed.

He doesn't need to take out his wash kit, because last time he was here - a full month ago, Christ, how had they lived like this for so long? - Shane had proudly presented him with a toothbrush. It was the exact same kind Ilya had had at home in Boston, last time Shane visited. Ilya does not, in fact, have strong preferences in toothbrush shape, but Shane does, and he'd noted the one that happened to be in Ilya's bathroom and tracked it down and bought a pack.

Ilya doesn't own pyjamas. He sleeps naked, or in his briefs if he's sharing a room on the road. Around Shane, he's usually naked. For some reason, going to bed naked in someone else's bed when that someone isn't here feels like it would be a weird thing to do. Without letting himself really think about it, he drifts to Shane's dresser. Second drawer; the space divided up by some kind of custom dividers (Shane paid a designer to cover his bed in pillows, but if he didn't personally customise this, Ilya does not know Shane Hollander). Clean sweaters and tops folded and stored vertically; on the left, a square space with one or two items folded and lain flat. Sweaters worn around the house, not in need of washing, but stored away neatly instead of flung on a chair.

Ilya pulls out the first one: black crewneck, Metros logo. He's about to put it on, and Shane can laugh at him later, when he notices the one beneath it. An impossibly boring olive-green hoodie. It's probably not the one Shane was wearing the first time Ilya was here - that was six years ago, and Shane is the kind of man who would replace a favourite sweater with an identical one in time. Ilya puts it on anyway.

He's aware that he's being ridiculous, but he pulls the neck of the hoodie up and swears he can faintly smell Shane in it still. Ilya pulls the drawstrings a little around his face, the way he's seen Shane do. The ends of the drawstrings are frayed, from being absently gnawed on.

It's past midnight. The Metros game had gone into overtime, as well as being played in a different time zone. The'll get their players home in time for the guys with wives and kids to turn around and pack the family into cars and planes on their way to the in-laws on Christmas Eve, but it could be another hour yet. Ilya is exhausted. He slides into bed - into his side of the bed. There's no point chasing the scent of Shane in the pillows; he knows Shane has some kind of cleaning service who will have come in and changed the bedding while he's been on the road.

Ilya does hurl the excessive throw pillows into a corner. He makes it as contained a pile as he can, and on his side of the bed. Then he's asleep, practically the moment he pulls the blankets around him.

Ilya drifts awake in what seems to be the early morning, and has a momentary panic - has something happened, did Shane's flight get grounded in Winnipeg? - before he realises that Shane is very much home, one arm flung across Ilya and his hand under the hoodie that has rucked up around Ilya's chest. Ilya simply slept through the door, and the sound of Shane coming in and getting ready for bed, and even through Shane joining him.

He's awake now because he's too hot. The two of them under winter bedding makes the hoodie intolerable. Ilya hates to dislodge Shane, but he needs the furnace of him off, now, and this intolerable, twisted-up hoodie off, now. They could do with one less layer of blankets, too.

Shane makes a sad sound in his sleep and clutches at Ilya's arm as Ilya wriggles out from under him. By the time Ilya has peeled a layer off first himself then the bed, Shane's breathing has changed, and when Ilya lays back down, Shane presses their foreheads together.

"Hi."

Ilya can barely see him in the dark, but he doesn't need to. He holds Shane's face in both his hands and kisses him.

"Hi," Ilya says, after a minute or three. "I'm sorry I missed you getting in."

"I'm not," Shane says, quietly. "I like coming home to you." Then (and Ilya can hear the smile creeping up his face) he adds, "You were wearing my clothes."

"Yes, well. I missed you." It's so easy to say that, now. Ilya turns onto his side again, pulling Shane's arm back over him.

Shane doesn't adopt the half-sprawl pose they'd been sleeping in before: instead, he wraps himself tightly around Ilya. This requires some awkward manhandling to get both of Shane's arms around Ilya's torso, but they manage it and Shane pulls Ilya back against his chest, one hand flat across Ilya's pecs and the other across his stomach.

Shane buries his face in the hair at the back of Ilya's neck and murmurs, "I missed you too."

Some part of Ilya thought they'd go back to sleep like that. It's as if they skipped the desperation of reunion; waking up together feels warm and safe, and they have time. But Shane's hands shift from holding him to stroking, feeling across Ilya's chest and abs, as if, in the dark, he needs to inspect him by touch instead of sight. Shane's lips travel down Ilya's neck, across the plane of his shoulder, and Ilya tries to turn in his arms to kiss him.

"Mm, no," Shane says, tightening his arms again for a moment. "Let me."

"Let you what?" Ilya asks, but arches his neck back a little to let Shane's mouth better reach his ear - oh fuck, Shane sucking on his earlobe really does it for him, Ilya's fully hard now and the sound coming out of his mouth really ought to be embarrassing.

"Hold you," Shane says, tweaking one of Ilya's nipples. "Love you" His other hand shifts to Ilya's hip, and grips it, preventing Ilya from turning further into the mattress. Ilya reaches his upper hand down to his own dick, instead, and Shane slaps it away.

"Let me, I said."

"You can love me and let me touch you," Ilya says, and it comes out whinier than he'd like. He reaches back and Shane doesn't stop him from gripping his hip behind him, pulling him fractionally closer. Shane - who, unlike Ilya, isn't wearing anything, even though Ilya knows he wears boxers when he's sleeping alone - is hard against Ilya's ass and doesn't seem to need much encouragement to grind up against him.

"You were wearing my hoodie," Shane says, although they've already established that. "I wasn't here, so you wrapped yourself up in my clothes?"

"Smelled like you," Ilya says, and while that's an embarrassing thing to admit, the pleased hum it gets from Shane is worth it.

"Let me…" Shane's sentence trails off and he can't seem to find the words. His arms tighten again and he nudges Ilya's leg forward so Shane can overlap his other leg with his own. "Want to wrap myself around you for a bit."

Ilya's not sure why this has can't be done face-to-face, but he gets the idea. Part of him insists he needs to break Shane's grip and turn around, wrap himself around Shane in turn, but he settles for craning his neck back far enough for a sloppy, mis-angled kiss, which Shane gives in and gives him easily. If Shane wants to hug him from behind and grope him like a teenager discovering boobs for the first time, Ilya can give him that, too.

It's not like Shane's hands on him are ever boring to Ilya. Shane traces the outlines of Ilya's hip, his pelvis, with one hand, and his pecs and collarbone with the other. The callouses on his hands - the same as Ilya's, they have the same callouses from the same lifetime of handling hockey sticks, although Ilya has a scar across his thumb from where he caught a blade to the hand in a messy three-man pileup - drag gently against Ilya's skin, covering it with little pleasurable sensations that come from being touched, being known, being loved.

"Okay?" Shane asks, and Ilya hears the echo of himself.

"Very," Ilya says, and relaxes into Shane. Granted, when Shane's next move is to go back to Ilya's ear with his lips - and fuck, his teeth, too, relaxed isn't quite the word. "Would be more okay if you touched my dick," Ilya can't help but point out. Shane, bless him, doesn't seem inclined to tease, moving at once to grasp Ilya through his briefs.

"Missed this," Shane mutters, into Ilya's ear.

Ilya, as best he can with the limited leverage he has, pushes his ass back against Shane's dick in turn. "Missed you too," he says, and Shane rewards him by starting to stroke him through the fabric.

Rather than stopping to remove Ilya's briefs, Shane slips his hand under the waistband and takes him in hand. Something about it - about being so closely wrapped up in Shane's arms while Shane handles his dick with practiced familiarity - brings a lump to Ilya's throat. No one's touched him like this since he was in his early teens, probably. He hasn't jerked off with, or been jerked to completion by, a girl since he was fifteen or so; since he started sleeping with girls who were more sexually experienced than him, in point of fact. The few other guys he's been with have jacked him off for a bit, as a prelude to sucking or fucking, but only Shane has ever climbed into his lap and jerked them both off together.

Ilya knows better than to open his mouth and blurt that out, because Shane is never the biggest fan of hearing about Ilya's previous partners, and the comparison to teenage experiments would sound like a slight on Shane's lack of experience. That's not the point, the point is that like this, Shane doesn't seem to be performing for Ilya - although Christ knows he's perfectly capable of showing off to get a rise out of Ilya. Most of the time, he's ruthless in amplifying the things he knows Ilya likes, like how he widens his eyes when he looks up at Ilya with Ilya's cock in his mouth. This is different, simpler, and it has Ilya's heart in his throat.

Ilya realises he's babbling, in a mix of Russian and English. "I love you. I love your hands. Soft hands, perfect hands." Shane huffs a laugh into Ilya's neck and flicks his nipple with the hand that isn't busy with Ilya's dick.

Shane has shoved the waistband of Ilya's briefs down under his balls by now, but he's still working Ilya with an economy of movement and a lack of artifice that isn't helping with the heart-in-throat feeling. It's also fucking hot: Shane is grinding his hips gently into Ilya's ass and the movement nudges Ilya forward, fucking into Shane's hand. Shane's jacking Ilya off like he's jacking himself off, like either of them would if they woke up hard at this time of the morning alone in their beds. Shane knows Ilya's dick as well as Ilya does, maybe better.

Shane knows where to linger with his thumb on the head of Ilya's dick, and when to speed up, and - shit, Ilya's close, impending orgasm rising suddenly, like the out-of-control moment when a soda bottle newly opened unexpectedly fizzes over the brim.

Maybe Shane expected it, though, because before Ilya can warn him he's murmuring "Yeah, like that," and nibbling at Ilya's earlobe again.

Ilya has the forethought to reach down with his own free hand and catch the mess as he comes, bracketed between Shane's leg and Shane's hand and Shane's arm around him and Shane's dick rubbing up against his ass.

Ilya takes a second to recover and then cranes around for another awkward kiss, which Shane gives him, but Shane's hips aren't still, he's rocking up against Ilya and he's so hard.

"Give me a second," Ilya says, and wriggles out far enough to yank his briefs off. He wipes the mess of his hand with them and, instead of flinging them out of the bed, bundles them (spunk side inward) into a ball and shoves them under the pillow. Tidy. Tidier than he'd otherwise be, at least.

Ilya turns back to Shane and leans down to kiss him properly, one hand in his hair. Shane lets him, for about ten seconds, before he pulls back and says,

"Come here. Please. I need…"

Shane grips Ilya's hip. Instead of hauling him on top of Shane, or pulling him alongside Shane so Ilya can get his hands or his mouth on his dick, Shane yanks Ilya back into the same snug position as before, back pressed up against Shane's chest and Shane's dick nestled in the curve of Ilya's ass. Shane gets his knee between Ilya's legs again, manhandling him a little, and as ever, Ilya loves it when Shane manhandles him a bit. He moves his lower leg back and his other knee up a little so Shane's knee can get leverage on the bed underneath him.

Shane thrusts frantically, rubbing off against Ilya's ass. Evidently it's not quite enough, because he makes a frustrated little noise and pulls his arm out from underneath Ilya. Now Ilya's pushed flat against the bed, one of Shane's beautiful, broad hands pressing down on his shoulder and the other gripping his hip. Fuck yes. Ilya had no idea he wanted this, but being pinned down while Shane chases his own relief against Ilya's body? Add this to the list of things he wants, which, when it comes to Shane Hollander, is a pretty fucking long list.

Still, Ilya's brain is coming back online. Unlike Shane, he's not desperate past all strategy.

"Lube?" he asks, already reaching for the bedside drawer.

Shane utters something that sounds affirmative, so Ilya grabs the tube. He squirts some on his own palm before handing it back to Shane.

"Slick your cock," he tells Shane, and Shane has to lift up from Ilya's body to do that. Ilya takes the opportunity to angle himself back toward lying on his side, and reaches down to spread the lube along the top of his thighs, along his taint. He cranes his head around to meet Shane's eyes as he does.

"Oh," Shane says, sounding genuinely surprised. "Oh. Yeah, that works." Ilya smirks at him, feeling pleased with himself.

"Come here then," Ilya says, reaching back for Shane's hip. Shane figures out an angle quickly - it involves a hand pressing down on Ilya's back, which satisfies something in Ilya even though he's not getting hard from any of this. At least, not right now. He's pretty sure he would get off on it, if he hadn't already come, and isn't that a novel thought? Never a dull moment with Shane Hollander.

So much for low-mess, limited clean-up, Ilya thinks, as Shane grips his hip and groans, spilling between Ilya's thighs. They're both covered in lube and spunk, as are the bedsheets. Nevertheless, when Shane flops back onto his side of the bed he doesn't complain about Ilya following him, wrapping himself around Shane face-to-face the way he'd wanted to earlier, and kissing him for long, unhurried minutes. Shane tangles his fingers in Ilya's hair and murmurs love you again and again between kisses.

Shane's typical anxiety kicks in at about the same time the lube-and-spunk mixture starts going tacky. They pull apart, and Shane's expression of distaste at the state of their thighs gives way to a frown. Ilya lets Shane go to fetch a cloth, knowing it will take Shane a moment to find the words. That gives Ilya a moment to think through what he'll say in return.

"Was that… okay?" Shane asks, passing Ilya a damp cloth.

"More than okay," Ilya says, reaching for his hand.

"I kind of got carried away." Shane squeezes his hand back.

"I like you carried away," Ilya says. He doesn't say I liked it when you pinned me down and fucked me; you should do that more often. Maybe in different ways. He's not quite sure how Shane would take that; he's not quite sure if he himself will feel the same way tomorrow. Ilya takes Shane's chin in hand and kisses him again, feels him melt into Ilya the way he does so well. "You get so worked up from jerking me off you have to rub off against me, I like this very much," Ilya says. "Is good for my ego."

Shane laughs and swats at him. "Asshole."

"You love it."

"Yeah, I do." Shane's eyes crinkle up. "I really do."

There's a moment's pause, and Ilya realises they aren't going to be going back to sleep. "Shower?" he suggests.

Shane makes a face. "Laundry. If we put that on now, it'll be done before we have to get on the road."

Ilya steals another opportunity to wrap his arms around his naked, beautiful, perfect boyfriend. "You shower, I start laundry. Then I shower and you order breakfast."

This is good, too. Sharing chores and eating together. They'll drive to Ottawa in Shane's terrible car, and sleep under Shane's parents' roof, like people who don't have to snatch hours together from the jaws of the MHL schedule. Like people who have time. Like boyfriends - no. Partners.