Rating:

Mature

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:

Jealousy, Smoking, Mentions of Poppers, Discussing Past Hookups, flirting and banting and being a possessive asshole etc etc

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of frequently, secretly.

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-28 Words: 3,152 Chapters: 1/1

oh, to be completely at your beck and call (how i long to be your dog)

Summary

“Perfect,” Shane repeats under his breath, like it’s a ridiculous word. He stretches his shoulders out a bit; broad, strong torso pushing into the wall behind his body. God, he looks good. Ilya’s gaze slides down to his bare feet on the wooden balcony, then back up the strong walk of his thighs. 

“Yes, perfect. Too gay to fuck any women, but not so gay you bother to fuck any other men. Is my ideal situation.”

Years into their messy situationship, it takes sleeping with another man for Shane to figure out that he's gay. Ilya finds this out later.

Notes

i did a bit of dialogue freewriting to get back into the swing of the fic before last chapter and figured i'd bulk it out and post it for yall! just a missing scene where ilya finds out about bar guy

(if you're here without having read the main fic, u can probably read this just for sexy jealous banter but will be missing a lot of context lol)

The bitter, ashy taste fills Ilya’s mouth as he takes another drag of his cigarette. The head-rush feeling of the nicotine hits him quickly; he leans his elbows onto the balcony railing and taps the ash from the end of the cigarette off into the air, rubbing the papery filter between his fingertips. It’s dim outside, the city lights casting a hazy glow against a nighttime sky, and the burning orange tip of his cigarette stands out in Ilya’s vision, a hot point of life between his sore fingertips.

Ilya doesn’t smoke much anymore. Unfortunately, literally everyone who told him it was bad for his hockey was correct, and Ilya does have to pay some attention to his health if he wants to be the best in the fucking world. Most pressingly, Shane hates them – the smell on Ilya’s clothes, the taste in his mouth, the way it makes him sit up and fret about lung cancer statistics. He’s judgey and irritable about it as well as anxious, about its effect on Ilya’s health and hockey. Hockey being the golden achievement at the end of health, of course; all of Shane’s health-nut tendencies are only in service of his hockey.

So, Ilya doesn’t smoke much anymore, but he lets himself have one every once in a while. A reward when he plays a particularly good game, or a consolation when he’s particularly miserable. He’s ready to argue either case today, depending on which is stronger.

Behind him, the balcony door cracks. Ilya glances over his shoulder perfunctorily, but it can only be one person. Shane closes the sliding door behind him and levels Ilya with a flat look, which manages to recite an entire anti-smoking commercial in a second just through the air.

“Don’t say it,” Ilya warns him, flicking another mote of ash off the end of his cigarette and taking another quick drag. “My hockey is fine. I can smoke one and still score most goals in the whole league this season.”

Shane leans back against the plastered wall, jams his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, and heavily rolls his eyes. “You’re third right now, actually. Fucking Lemaire in Minnesota is ahead of you. Maybe you’d be first if you quit.”

“That is nothing to do with the cigarettes,” Ilya says defensively. “That is you breaking up with me, made me too sad to score in January. I would have ten more goals by now if you were gayer.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Shane says, but he lets out this sore little laugh too; not quite at the point of joking about it yet, still living in the pain of that time apart and how impossible their situation still feels, but always wanting to volley what Ilya throws at him anyway. “I didn't need to be gayer. Being too gay was already the problem.”

Ilya scrunches his mouth as if he’s considering this, then says, “No, I don’t think you are too gay. Perfect amount of gay for me.”

“Perfect,” Shane repeats under his breath, like it’s a ridiculous word. He stretches his shoulders out a bit, broad, strong torso pushing into the wall behind his body. God, he looks good. Ilya’s gaze slides down to his bare feet on the wooden balcony, then back up the strong walk of his thighs. 

“Yes, perfect. Too gay to fuck any women, but not so gay you bother to fuck any other men. Is my ideal situation.”

“Asshole,” Shane says, smiling, the pearly white smile that impossibly still has all his original teeth. Ilya's crowns ache. “You’re not the only guy I’ve been with!”

“Oh yes, I forgot,” Ilya says, letting out a little hum. He takes one more drag of his cigarette, speaking on the stiff inhale as he adds, “You kiss one boy when you were a little baby in juniors or something, right? Mm, I bet you were so cute.”

“He jerked me off, actually,” Shane says, as if they both don’t know that Ilya remembers. Then, curiously, he adds, “And there was, uh, one more.”

At this, Ilya pauses. He finally gives in and stubs out the last inch of his cigarette, tossing it into the upended plantpot he uses as an ashtray and turning around to face Shane properly.

“You have not told me about that one,” he says, slowly.

Even in the dim light of the evening, Ilya can see the way Shane’s cheeks get hot with nerves or embarrassment, maybe a bit of both; his eyes slide away from Ilya for a second before meeting his gaze again, like Shane’s steeled himself, as if he’s taking Ilya at a face-off.

“Well. It was while we were, you know,” he says. “Not seeing each other.”

That’s one way to phrase it; they were seeing each other every day, which was part of the problem. But Ilya understands the difficulty – they can’t say broken up because they were never unbroken, before that point. There are so few words to put on this thing between them that ever seem to adequately describe it. An utter failure of taxonomy.

That, right now, is the least of his worries. Still a little buzzy from nicotine and with the sickly taste of smoke in his mouth, Ilya notes his own jealousy like another external sensation to the body; a squirming in his stomach, a soreness in his chest.

“You what, fucked him?” he asks. “You let someone else fuck you?”

He can see the way Shane prickles; shoulders raising, jamming his hands deeper into his pockets, working his teeth against each other so his jaw shifts. Defensive, but also looking guilty, like he owed Ilya anything, like Ilya hasn’t fucked half of Boston around him. 

“Not fucked, I mean,” Shane says, voice dipping lower. “He just blew me? I, uh, went to a bar. I was just, I don’t know – I was trying to figure stuff out.”

For a moment, they’re both quiet, as Ilya runs this revelation through his mind. He thinks he objectively has no right to be jealous. They really weren’t anything at the time, and Ilya had tried to fuck other people while they weren’t speaking – his dick hadn’t worked, but he’d tried. The objective take doesn’t, of course, stop him actually feeling jealous. Doesn’t stop the painful clutch inside of him at the idea of Shane’s body – soft, strong, beat-up hockey body, a perfect specimen of athletic obsession which Ilya has catalogued down to the dark hairs on his knuckles and the blistered soles of his feet – giving over to someone else. That’s supposed to be his. Ilya has always been so bad at sharing.

“So, what, you could not figure out you were gay with me fucking you for two years, but this stranger sucks you one time and that does it?”

“I mean, yeah, I guess,” Shane says.

Right. Ilya’s stomach plummets. Suddenly, the warm summer air is cloying, grabbing at his skin uncomfortably like strangers' hands.

“Okay, whatever,” he says, and strides past Shane to push the balcony door open and retreat back inside.

The sound of Shane’s bare footsteps follow him, but Ilya doesn’t glance back. He goes to the kitchen, grabs a beer, opens it against the countertop with an angry thump. Tries not to picture what the kind of guy Shane would pick up in a bar would look like. He’d definitely have been masculine, strong, big muscles. He'd have needed to approach Shane first, so he'd be confident, flirty, maybe a little cocky. Even for a quickie, Shane would have a type. 

“Ilya, come on,” Shane says behind him; his voice a touch into exasperated, like they both know Ilya’s being irrational but will indulge it anyway. It’s not like Shane’s one to speak about jealousy – he practically did tricks on Ilya’s dick in front of Sveta when she visited. “I think I said that weird, just give me a second.”

Ilya sighs, and turns. He takes a sip of his beer, raises his eyebrows; waiting.

He watches as Shane swallows awkwardly, his throat working. Shane steps closer; close enough their bodies get that magnetic draw together, feeling each other’s heat. One of his hands reaches out and grabs onto the belt loop of Ilya’s jeans, tucking his finger into it, like he’s keeping Ilya on a leash. Ilya lets him.

“I just mean, like,” Shane says, looking down at his own hand where it’s hanging onto Ilya, “I used to think I probably just didn’t like sex with anyone except for you? I’d had a couple experiences with girls in juniors and I hated it all, so it was, like – I don’t know, I could compartmentalise, I guess. Realising that I could enjoy it with a random guy is made me figure out I was gay, yeah. Because it made me figure what normal sex that most people are having is probably like. I just, uh, I like you too much, is the thing. I knew it couldn't be that good with anyone else so I kind of thought, like, how could I be gay, if you were the only guy who’s that good? Sorry, I don’t know if that makes sense.”

The fucking asshole. Ilya sets his beer down on the counter, because it's suddenly the least interesting thing in the room. Shane's dark eyes are captivating, sneaking glances at him from beneath his lashes, and Ilya can smell the fresh heat of his body. He abruptly feels like he's drowning.

“So I fuck you too good, that was the problem?” he asks.

Shane rolls his eyes, but sways closer to Ilya, tightening his grip on Ilya’s jeans until their bodies touch at the waist. “Shut up. Kind of.”

Ilya grins. Finally, he reaches out and slides his hands over Shane’s back, down his flank, then grips hard at the curve of his ass through his soft sweatpants until Shane lurches against him.

“I change my mind, this is really hot,” he says. Shane squirms in his grip; Ilya leans in and kisses his chin, nips his jaw with sharp teeth. Into the hot-smelling crook of Shane’s neck, he says, “Tell me about this average blow you had from this stranger. He was hot?”

“Uh, I guess,” Shane says. “Tall. He was friendly.”

“I bet he was,” Ilya scoffs. He slides one hand inside Shane’s sweats now, pushing them down a little to bare the curve of his plush ass in the middle of the kitchen. “You are too pretty for your own good. All alone in a gay bar with your sad eyes, they must have been swarming around you.”

“Oh my god, you’re so dramatic,” Shane says with exasperation, but he’s pushing his ass into Ilya’s hands, so he can’t be too annoyed. He lets out a little breathy sort of laugh as Ilya sucks at his neck. “It wasn’t like that. I was just like, awkwardly stood in a corner wearing a hoodie. Everyone else was shirtless and covered in glitter and rainbows and shit.”

“Now I know you are generalising,” Ilya says. One of Shane’s hands works into his curls, pulling painfully tight at the roots.

“You don’t spend time in gay clubs either, how would you know!”

“Mm, you don’t know what I did in Moscow all those years. Very fun secret little clubs there if you know right people,” Ilya says, which is mostly true, although it’s also true that he’s never been to a gay bar in America and has no idea if it looks like the oversaturated version they show on television. He keeps one hand on Shane’s ass and slides the other up inside his t-shirt, groping his tit. “What else did your stranger do?”

Shane shifts a little under his hands, squirming between the two places Ilya’s squeezing. His bottom lip is pushing out, red and wet and pouty. “I dunno,” he says, as he uses the hand on Ilya’s hair to push him more into Shane’s neck. “He offered me a drink but I didn’t want one. Uh, he asked if I wanted poppers.”

This, Ilya genuinely didn’t expect. Shane and any kind of drugs are so incongruous together that it sounds like hearing Shane went to the moon. Pausing with his jaw open against Shane’s skin, Ilya says searchingly, “You said no, yes?”

“Of course I said no! I’m a professional athlete, Ilya.”

“Well fuck, it’s not like they are performance enhancers,” Ilya points out. “Unless the performance is gay sex.” Now, actually, that is a thought. “Would you do with me, if I got some?”

“Absolutely fucking not!”

Ilya kisses his neck again, where he smells like spicy soap and warm skin. “Would be hot,” he says. “They make you giddy and warm and your ass soft. We could do in the off season, nothing to show on a drug test.”

“We’re not fucking doing that,” Shane says, in the tone of voice that usually means he kind of wants to do something that he thinks he should feel bad about. Ilya loves that tone of voice. Loves that he knows it so well.

“You would be crazy sexy.” Licks his jaw. “Even needier for me than you are now.”

“I’m not needy,” Shane says, in his grouchy little contrarian tone of voice. “You’re needy.”

He’s not wrong. Ilya feels drunk on it sometimes, how bad he needs Shane. They don’t need to do fucking poppers – maybe that’d be a hot idea for sometime, but Ilya couldn’t overly care less, as long as Shane’s with him, hot breath on his skin, thick body pressed against him. Ilya would give up anything for this feeling. He'd jump off the roof if Shane told him to.

Ilya pushes Shane back, back, and Shane lets him, until their tangled bodies descend onto the couch with an oof of hard impact. Ilya clambers over him, straddles Shane’s body and catches his jaw in one hand.

“Oh so what, is a crime to need a gorgeous man to suck my cock now?” he teases.

He straddles Shane’s chest and tilts his clothed crotch towards Shane’s face, grabbing himself through his jeans. Shane tries to shove him off, except he doesn’t really try, sort of just pushes Ilya’s thighs with his hands and then hangs onto them like he’s scared Ilya might really move.

“Who said I’m sucking you off?” Shane says, grinning up at him, rosy-cheeked and shiny eyed and so, so fucking pretty Ilya could cry. “I never said that.”

“You think I need you to say it?” Ilya leans down and catches Shane’s mouth for a second. The first proper kiss this whole conversation, he realises only when he’s drowning in Shane’s lips, tugging at the soft, plush heat of them and feeling it work all the way down to his stomach, a giddier rush than nicotine, than poppers, than fucking anything the rest of the world has ever come up with. All the drugs ever created are just chasing the high that one second of Shane Hollander's tongue can give. “Are you forgetting I am sex god so good that you thought you only turned gay when I was fucking you?”

“Shut up,” Shane tells him warmly. He puts his hands up the back of Ilya’s tank top, rucking it into his armpits, then wets his lip when he’s staring at Ilya’s bare chest. The air burns. Ilya puffs out towards him, presenting the rough swell of his muscles for approval.

“Better than your stranger in the bar, no?” Ilya prompts. He grabs one of Shane’s wrists, rough, and brings it to his own chest, forcing Shane to squeeze his tit. Warmth floods through Ilya, the rough prickle of sensation trickling down from his sensitive nerve endings to the pooled heat in his cock.

“I dunno, I’d have to look at him again,” Shane says, grinning, because he’s a shit. Ilya leans forwards and brackets his arms either side of Shane’s head, trapping him against the cool leather of the couch. Shane squirms under his gaze, rubs his thumb over Ilya’s nipple.

Ilya spreads his legs wider around Shane’s body, settling the full weight of his cock down onto Shane’s belly, and then reaches down to smack the side of Shane's ass hard through his sweats before putting his arm back up around Shane's head.

“Nobody else is ever allowed to suck your cock except for me,” Ilya tells him. “Okay?”

“I know, Ilya,” Shane promises. He runs his blunt nails over the short hairs on Ilya’s chest, scratching at the grain, sending a rough shiver down Ilya’s spine. His hips squirm beneath Ilya’s legs, the hot point between them growing. Shane kisses his mouth once, twice, then says, “You’re one to fucking talk, though. I don’t even want to hear about how many people your dick’s been in.”

“Lots,” Ilya says, putting his thumb on Shane’s chin and dragging his plush lips open, looking at the gape of his gorgeous mouth. “But you are the best, by a million times, so I already forget all the others.”

That makes Shane’s cheeks go red; he says, awkwardly around Ilya's thumb on his lip, “Okay, uh, well, same.”

“Yes, you sure?” Ilya asks. “You don’t need a reminder?”

Ilya balances his weight on Shane’s body to work a hand between them, rubbing hard at the hot bulge in the front of Shane’s sweatpants, and lets a wet string of saliva pool against Shane’s neck where he’s leaning into it. His mouth still tastes like cigarettes. Shane shakes a bit. His throat works under Ilya’s mouth. Ilya wishes they were in a bar bathroom, somewhere filthy, somewhere public, somewhere he could make Shane do something awful that he’ll never ever do with someone else. 

“Uh, I would take a reminder,” Shane says, and Ilya gets on his knees.

After, Shane gets out a special bottle of leather cleaner from under the sink and fusses over the couch while Ilya lounges naked on the floor and wishes he could have another cigarette. He watches Shane, in nothing but his tight black briefs, frowning down at the back of the bottle like he’s never cleaned something in his life before, and his heart swells. 

Yes, Ilya thinks – this is the man he wants it all with. Worth never having another hot bar hookup or stranger’s mouth in his life, as long as Shane won’t, either. The sexy thoughts and the jealous thoughts and the mushy thoughts all scrunch into one gaping pit of intensity in Ilya’s chest, and finally he flops back on the floor and lets out a loud, dramatic groan.

“Hollander, you are fucking killing me,” he says, while Shane is squinting at his phone, googling how to get cum out of leather with his thumb-nail worried between his teeth. Love of Ilya’s ridiculous life.