Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Sexting, Phone Sex, Dirty Talk, Sex Toys, Shane Hollander Has a Dildo, Episode Tag, Episode 4

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-09 Words: 2,140 Chapters: 1/1

Prelude To A Yellow And Black Vibrator

Summary

Rozanov has chirped him for being a bad sexter more than once, but Shane is confident in his first volley tonight.

Notes

The second I saw the trailer in October, as a Crave owner, I was like ‘you need to wait to watch this until you have time to write multiple fandoms’, because I knew it’d get me in the same way Hockey RPF and OMGCheckPlease did. So I waited until mid January, watched 123 the first night, 456 the second night, and have been hyperfixated ever since. Why would I possibly care about anything other than Ilya and Shane?

My girlfriend, best friend, and I, have joked that there should be an old school Quizilla ‘what does your favourite sex scene say about your personality’ quiz, because we were all able to pinpoint each other’s favourite scenes without the person claiming them aloud first. Mine is and always will be the Vegas D/s, but the first AllStars is very close. “Does touching your ass make you gay” has lived rent free in my brain for a month now, as has Shane trying to beat the scared accusations by dropping sex toy lore. So while I have about six WIPs, dildo fic was always going to be among the first completed.

Lastly… written for the ‘phonesex’ prompt for my 25 fandoms kink bingo card. Never before has a prompt jumped out so quickly after watching a new show, my god.

It’s blue

The moment Shane sends the text he wants to take it back. That, or disappear off the face of the planet. What seemed like a inspired beginning to his so called bad sexting two minutes ago is terrible now. Became terrible the instant the words landed on screen, uneraseable.

Rozanov sends back a single ? and Shane drops his face into his hands. If he was only slightly more dramatic he’d grab one of his hundred throw pillows and scream into it. If it was almost anyone else in his contact list -he could never do this with anyone else, not even Joe, who very well might be as gay as Vaughn presumed- he’d get himself out of this trap by quoting a line of Eiffel 65 and then bitching about being earwormed. But Rozanov won’t get the reference, and even if he did it wouldn’t get Shane out of this because he’d never text like that to Rozanov. He’d still be suspicious. A question mark. A fucking inquiry as to what his goddamn thumbs typed out. Jesus. Why couldn’t this be one of the many times in which Rozanov ignores him?

What is, Jane?

Shane hears the follow up text with his accent. How only a thick accent and a memory of hands on him has gotten him back to half hard after his panic and embarrassment Shane can’t say. He’s sick, probably. But Rozanov will like this, he’s sure.

My dildo, Shane types out, a lot of impact in only two words. Or at least he hopes.

Three texts come rapidfire.

Pics.
Now.
I beg.

They don’t do pics. Not really. Neither Jane nor Lily should have the ability to send a dick pic, a hairy ass pic, a jizz all over abs and pecs pic. It’s a risk. Any sexting is, if Shane’s being realistic. Rozanov texting about nine goals for nine inches of cock isn’t exactly subtle. But there’s only so much they can deny themselves. Hard enough to only touch each other a few times a year, there’s no way they can keep it pg in between those stolen nights.

It’s a nice dildo, as far as these things go. In a different life he might have been able to walk into a Spencer’s Gifts and get a twenty dollar vibrator, but Captain of the Montreal Metros Shane Hollander doesn’t get to buy sex toys from the mall when his half naked body is selling a Rolex on a billboard across the road. He bought it online, from a site with enough customers that weren’t obvious bots with reviews acknowledging discrete packaging. It’s phthalate and BPA free, because he doesn’t put anything into his body, his tool for success, unless it’s thoroughly vetted. It slicks up nicely with the similarly carefully sourced water based lube. And it’s ridged with veins, which makes a difference when he’s alone with only his own touch.

After a minute of internal debate, embarrassment warring with desire warring with common sense warring with curiosity, Shane ends up pulling the toy out of the drawer, bright blue sticking out among the detritus. He puts the dildo on the nightstand, balls down. It feels stupid, like the most fucked up little puppet, but what else is he supposed to do? Model it with showy hands, like he’s on CVS?

Shane scans the picture meticulously for identity markers, be they reflections or distinctive furniture or sponsor merch. Only when he’s convinced there’s nothing does he send the shot. He’s gone too far to not send it, at this point. Plus there’s the sad truth that Shane’s so fucking weak for him. Whatever humiliation this might cause him to send it will be rewarded by knowing how much Rozanov will beat off over it. Like so many other things in his life, Shane just has to push through, and he’ll reap the benefits.

For seconds like eternities, the silent stillness of his phone kills him. The bouncing bubbles of Rozanov typing take off some of the weight, but he knows better than to be fully relieved yet. He knows just how many things can be typed, then deleted. And even once something is said, there’s always the problem of parsing tone. Shane isn’t safe until he sees the message on the glass.

Even your sex toy is Metros merch, he chirps, finally.

Fuck. Off. Shane replies as fast as his thumbs will allow. God, he’s such an asshole, Shane thinks, smirking at the screen.

No, is good. Smaller than my dick. Easy to take. Want to see you take it.

And there the fuck are the benefits he was talking about. Aside from the minor depression Vegas caused, the showing off was ridiculously hot. Knowing exactly how much Rozanov wanted to look at him? It’s not hard to imagine hooking up a knee under his lustful stare and pushing the silicone deep inside. Shane pushes his knuckles past the elastic of his briefs and starts with stroking over his pubic hair. His is trimmed, tidier than Rozanov’s, but he’s grown to love the damp tangle lube turns all Rozanov’s body hair into. Fuck, what he wouldn’t give for Rozanov to be over him right now, straddling him, slicked up cock dripping onto him.

Temporarily abandoned, Shane’s attention redirects to the phone as it buzzes with a text. It’s a struggle to open his eyes from how they’ve drifted closed, but it’s a text from Lily, not someone who doesn’t matter, and he needs to read it in full.

Could sit on your face and watch you plunge in and out. Hole so greedy

“Jesus Christ, Rozanov,” Shane moans, words unable to be contained. His hand shoots down to his cock as the image Rozanov painted sits in his brain. In all the times they’ve hooked up they’ve never done anything with Rozanov’s ass, apart from a needy grip if the kiss or fuck position allows it. And as emasculated as some people would want Shane to feel about that, he’s basically fine with it. He doesn’t really want to be vers. But if Rozanov ever asked, he’d rim the life out of him, make him feel like Shane does about the sensation. And of course Rozanov would be the one to find a way to bottom that involves spreading Shane deeper and wider. He’d sit on a throne and dictate speed and angle and it’s just so fuckin’ hot Shane can feel his whole body pulsing. His hand darts from his hair to his pec to pushing two fingers into his own mouth.

Has suction cup? Shane reads from where he’s dropped his phone on the bed the next time it vibrates. How is Rozanov still asking coherent questions? Shane’s so turned on he can barely think. It takes a lot of effort to pry his hand off his cock to one handedly type yes. He doesn’t know why Rozanov’s asking, but he’s certain it’s for a reason. Probably to serve his next filthy question.

Gonna stick it to my thigh.
Have you bounce up and down until your thighs hurt.
Until you’re sweating.
Will you sweat for me, Hollander?

Shane pushes his fingers down hard on his tongue, wishing it was something better. Warmer. Saltier. Will he sweat for Rozanov? Fuck yes. God yes. Yes

Would not even need to hold you up, Mr Athlete. Could scratch up and down your abs. Play with your tits.

That’s a splash of cold water. Shane spares just enough time wiping his fingers dry on the sheets he’ll have to change before holding his phone in the cup of his hands. Furiously, he types I’m. Not. A. Girl. Rozanov can like girls. That’s fine. But he can’t pretend Shane is one. He doesn’t get to do that.

You have remarkable tits. Want a nipple in my teeth, always.
But you didn’t like. Moving on.

Rozanov does that a lot. Acts like a total asshole, and then turns it around to actually respect boundaries. Even their first encounter, forcing the water bottle upon him and whispering more when he thought Shane hadn’t indulged enough, but taking the bottle back with rewarding fingers as soon as Shane tried to pass it back. He’s seen Rozanov’s hook ups Reddit AMAs, and he’s always labeled as what women seem to call a Consent King. It sucks that there’s any other option, but Shane’s not stupid. The hockey landscape, and the dating landscape in general are full of sketchy line crossers.

New: stick it to wall. Exact height of my dick. Spit roasted by me and what you wish was me

Jesus. It’s crystal clear in Shane’s mind. The weight of Rozanov’s cock on his tongue, drool escaping the corners of his lips. The way his legs would tremble, like they do every time Rozanov fucks him standing. The thud of his ass hitting the wall again and again and again. Shut up

No no is hot

It is hot. Shane shouldn’t like this dirty shit as much as he does, he knows. Rozanov’s a degenerate, a slutty shit talking asshole. The shit he’s saying is fine for him, but not for a brand ambassador raking in millions a year. Not for the Asian role model thousands of kids want to emulate. Not for the face of smart hockey. But it is hot, hot enough to choose it over who he’s supposed to be every time. Rozanov makes him a betrayer, and he just doesn’t care, not when pinpricks of sweat bloom across his skin as he nears climax.

Want that Shane texts. It’s the last thing Rozanov’s going to get, Shane knows when he tosses his phone to the side so he can pinch a nipple like Rozanov almost almost told him to. The next time he’s picking up his phone, the next time he can bare to take his hand off of himself, will and can only be post climax.

Can have Rozanov responds as rapidly as he can type.

If Rozanov was here Shane would be clinging to him, leaving bruises the shape of his fingertips on his shoulders, or hips, or the curve of his ribcage. There was the one time Shane went crazy and scratched up and down his back, and it was steamy in the moment but knowing Rozanov would have to play it off in the locker room as just some girl as the Raiders chirped made it less so. He’s stuck to grabbing since then, bruises easier to explain away. But Rozanov’s not here, so with the hand that's not ruthlessly stripping his cock Shane reaches blindly for a throw pillow. His left hand squeezes it into oblivion, fluff warping and compressing with the intensity of his need. It’s not half as satisfying as a tricep, but between the pillow and his heels digging into the mattress he feels grounded. Enough to not shout out loud as he shoots off.

You finish? It’s a solid few minutes later, but Rozanov hasn’t bombarded him with any more lascivious mental images, implying that his own hands were as busy as Shane’s. There’s a warmth in the idea, thinking that Rozanov talking shit about him has been enough to get him off. At least for a few minutes he occupies enough of Rozanov’s mind to get him there.

No one ever teach you to use sexy words when sexting? Rozanov sends back.

You’re an asshole.

Your asshole? Possessive tonight, Hollander? Is okay. I stay in and play phone games tonight

It’s an impressive grammar based joke for the Russian. Shane could almost be proud of him for it, if it wasn’t making fun of him.

Do what you want, Rozanov. Try not to puke at morning skate, though. Shane is very aware of just how many girls Rozanov is still getting photographed with.

Five minutes later Shane hears the vibration of the text from his phone on the nightstand. The dildo, unused, is already hidden away, though given that it was handled he’ll have to wash it before he uses it next. He doesn’t bolt out of the bathroom to read the text immediately. He’s not that desperate. He won’t allow himself to be. He stays in the bathroom and methodically rubs a wet cloth over his stomach, his torso, and anywhere sweat broke out. But once the sheets are changed and he’s settled in for the night, he checks Lily only to see a screenshot of Rozanov’s current Candy Crush score. He could be playing it from a cab, but Shane would like to believe he’s telling him the truth. They’re so rarely able to do that, through no fault of their own. Their lives necessitate lies at every turn. It would be nice for Rozanov to be staying in to be the truth.