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:

Video, Masturbation, Coming Untouched, Come Swallowing, Rewards, Sexting, when your situationship is so hot scoring goals you gotta jerk off about it

Language:

English

Collections:

Heated Rivalry Bingo

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-09 Words: 3,124 Chapters: 1/1

Go Where You're Appreciated

Summary

Lily: i think you have earned a little reward. do not scroll any more until you are alone ;)

Shane flushes so hot he almost drops his phone.

Shane had a great game. Ilya has a great idea.

Notes

for the watching clips/porn square for heated rivalry bingo!

my thanks to cryptidafter for turning shane's erotic self denial up to eleven and lugarn for cheerleading.

i am on tumblr at technicallyverycowboy.

Montreal finishes up their road trip in Pittsburgh and it's a bloodbath. It's wonderful.

Shane's on it the entire night. He scores twice in the first period, gets the hat trick in the second, and fires off one more in the third for good measure. The Pittsburgh crowd is furious; after the last goal, Shane hears a chant of fuck you, twenty-four and, atypically, it doesn't bother him at all. He's not responsible for the fact that their goalie has, apparently, never played hockey before.

The score is 6-0 at the final buzzer and the team surrounds Shane, whooping and yelling, while the Pittsburg players skate sullenly toward their bench. Shane feels great. He's never been high before, but he imagines it must feel like this, heart pounding, head flying, body electric, laser focused. It's amazing. He could play six more games.

The locker room is louder and more chaotic than usual and it barely bothers Shane.

Shane retrieves his phone from the upper shelf of his stall and — yes, exactly as he was hoping, he has messages from Lily. He taps in his password as plans to go out and get drunk and dance and get laid fly over his head and behind his back. It's been a good trip, a really good trip, good enough that no one remembers they're tired.

Lily: good job

Lily: would be more impressive if it was team other than pittsburgh

Lily: but still pretty good :*

"Asshole," Shane murmurs and he can't help smiling.

Lily: i think you have earned a little reward. do not scroll any more until you are alone ;)

Shane flushes so hot he almost drops his phone. Underneath that is a series of messages in variations of: skip me, keep going, and tell pike to go away that go past the bottom of the screen. Shane stares at that demarcation line, where not yet is cut in half, and his heart pounds so hard he can feel it in his teeth and jaw and ears.

"You gonna make it, dude?" Hayden asks from his left.

Shane jolts and instinctively tries to throw his phone into his bag and cram it into his pocket at the same time and ends up smacking the screen against his thigh and half-punching himself. He can feel how hot his face is. Hayden raises an eyebrow.

For a brief moment that's equal parts anticipation and embarrassment, Shane considers bolting out of the locker room back to his hotel and dealing with the consequences in the morning.

"I'm fine," Shane says, a little high and a little fast. "I'm good. I'm fine."

"Whatever you say, man." Hayden grins. "You look super fine."

"Good. I am."

"Good."

Shane is saved from having to insist to Hayden that whatever he's thinking, it's not that, by an assistant ducking in to retrieve him for interviews. Shane shoves his phone in his pocket and goes. He’s still smiling, a little.

(Sometimes Shane wonders why he has to insist that it’s nothing and no one every single time, even though he knows that a) he isn't fooling Hayden and b) is probably just making it weirder.)

Interviews take forever even though it's an away game. Everyone wants to congratulate him for his impressive performance, which is nice, Shane supposes, it's always nice to get compliments for things he's actually proud of. But his attention keeps wandering away from the questions and toward Ilya.

He’s a beat late with even his most rote answers. He does his level best to not look as impatient as he feels, but he's so aware of his phone in his pocket against his thigh.

What the fuck does reward mean? What is Ilya doing? Shane can picture Ilya smirking as he sent the messages, the same way he does when he’s needling Shane before they fuck. Ilya loves to tease and Shane hates being teased except for how he doesn’t, with Ilya.

And once press is finally done, it takes a second forever to beg off going out with the rest of the team. Yes, he knows it's going to be fun and yes, he knows they don't have a game tomorrow and they can cut loose and yes, he knows that having fun is good for you, but he's still going to head back to the hotel and get some rest.

”Come on, Hollander!” JJ yells, throwing an arm across his shoulders. “You were the king of the game tonight, that’s worth a drink, non?”

There’s a chorus of agreement from the team. Shane’s drumming his fingers on his thigh as he scrambles for a response that isn’t everyone needs to get the fuck out of his way because he has something so much more important than liquor and loud music burning a hole in his pocket.

"He's got a single this time," Hayden says, seeing Shane's patience starting to fray. "Let him enjoy it."

Shane puts on his suit as slowly as he can possibly make himself do it. He’s not going to leave the arena looking sloppy, that’s not who he is. He wants to. He really wants to, and that’s a new and strange feeling for him. Carefulness has been baked into how he moves through the world for his entire life. Recklessness is dangerous and uncomfortable, but Ilya’s different. It always works out when it’s Ilya.

What the fuck does Ilya mean by reward?

Shane makes his escape and hustles back to the hotel as quickly as he possibly can.

His adrenaline never really came down after the game and he feels hyper focused and scattershot at the same time. He’s incredibly aware of the chub he’s working up, how his clothes feel against his skin, his scalp prickling with impatience. His cab driver asks Shane a couple questions he doesn’t take in at all and answers with noncommittal noises. Shane has an American $50 in his wallet and hands that off as a tip, no change, he doesn’t need change.

He charges through the hotel lobby with his head down and hits the elevator button three times, even though he knows that won’t make the car come any faster. He presses his palm against his thigh over the shape of his phone. He thinks about how Ilya looked coming into his hotel room their first time, confident and golden and dangerous.

The elevator ride up takes about a thousand years and stops on every other fucking floor. Shane’s foot taps so loudly in the confined space a woman who gets off two floors beneath him scoffs as she exits. Shane does not care.

He makes himself not run to his room and his hands are shaking a little as he smacks his plastic keycard against the lock. When it beeps, he flings the door open, steps inside, and yanks it closed.

He forces himself to take a deep breath, then another, then another. In for five, hold for five, out for five, until his heartbeat isn’t pounding against his ribs like it’s trying to escape.

Shane deadbolts his room door.

He plugs his phone in and lays it face down on the side table.

And he starts his post-game routine.

Shower first, long and hot as he can stand it. He gets half-hard just from the sensation of his own hands on his body mixing up with Ilya's messages and anticipation. He doesn't touch his dick. He feels like he's vibrating for how bad he wants to. He likes it, though. He likes that shivering need crawling up and down his spine.

Once clean, he dries off and pulls on a pair of boxers and a tee shirt that he accidentally-on-purpose stole from Ilya after Ilya used Shane's tee shirt to wipe come off his face and obviously he couldn't wear that back to his hotel. Shane promised he'd give it back and never did.

He's had it for months and it's been through the wash several times, so it doesn't smell like Ilya anymore. Still, it's a little too big in a way Shane's own shirts aren't and the difference in fit is — something. It does something to Shane. He rubs the material between his fingers for a moment, bottom lip caught between his teeth. It occurs to him, for the first time, that Ilya never gave him his stained shirt back either.

After that is personal care and Shane doesn't allow himself to rush. He brushes and flosses, scrapes his tongue, puts moisturizer on his face and lotion everywhere else, runs his fingers through his hair, rubs icy hot on the bruise on his thigh he's going to pretend came from a puck and not his own hand. The whole time he's imagining his hands as Ilya's hands. God, he hopes whatever Ilya's sent has his hands in it.

And then, once he's done all of the things he's supposed to do, he crawls onto the bed, turns off the light, and picks up his phone.

He's so amped up he types his password incorrectly three times. (The panicked thought that maybe he forgot his own password and he won't be able to see what Ilya sent spikes through him. Which is ridiculous.) He impatiently flicks away a handful of other notifications and opens his chat with Lily.

Lily: keep going

Lily: not yet

His dick jumps and he shudders. One handed, he shoves his boxers down and kicks them aside. Sitting, the hem of his shirt brushes against his dick and there is no world in which Shane could stop the embarrassing whimper that comes out of his throat.

Ilya is in California, four hours behind. He's still on the ice. Shane can picture him in Boston black and white and gold, cocky smile, easy grace, blue eyes. He wonders if Ilya is thinking about Shane while he plays, anticipating messages from Jane waiting for him after the final buzzer.

Shane scrolls.

There a couple more keep going messages and then —

A video clip.

"Holy shit," Shane says. (He gasps. It was a gasp. He'll never admit it.)

It doesn't happen often, but they have sent photos now and then, just long enough to drink in for a few moments and then immediately delete. Lily and Jane's plausible deniability would only go so far if Shane kept photos of Ilya sprawled over a hotel bed, one hand circled loosely around his cock. Shane's sent them, too. He's not good at photographing himself and never thinks he looks hot, but Ilya says he likes them. Well. He says a lot more than that.

Shane has to grind the heel of his hand into the pit of his stomach so he doesn't come.

Jane: you're insane

unsent

Shane puts his glasses on and taps the video.

First, blurry, shaking shapes with crackling thumps. A soft Russian curse. The image stills on a neatly made hotel bed. The curtains are closed, but the light seeping in around the edges is warm and bright.

Ilya sprawls onto the bed and looks at Shane — looks into the camera.

He's naked. The light from the lamp casts his body in mellow shades of gold. Shane inhales sharply and the ah of it is loud in his own ears. He lets his eyes greedily roam Ilya up and down. Mussed curls, the rise of his collarbone, the dips low on his stomach that bracket his dick, the long lines of thick thighs. Ilya's dick, fat and hard, surrounded by dark curls, laying against his belly.

Shane shifts his hips back and forth. He curls his free hand into a fist and presses it into the mattress. His dick twitches. This is the most reckless, insane thing Ilya has ever done and that includes the whole shower thing. Shane could keep this.

In the video, Ilya brings one knee up and drops his other leg off the bed. The splay is a better angle for Shane to be able to see him. Shane wants to shove his face into Ilya's pubic hair and inhale the musk of it. Maybe his armpit, too, or his neck. Shane wants that dick bullying into the back of his throat and staying there.

Ilya spends a few seconds running his palms around his neck and over his chest, down his stomach and hips. He scratches lightly at his thighs. Not enough to leave any sort of mark, just hard enough that he shivers from it. His eyes slip closed for a moment and his lips part a little. The sound isn't great, but Shane thinks he hears a sigh. He wants to swallow it.

Ilya trails his fingers back up. He catches both nipples with a nail and they stiffen; his mouth curls up in a satisfied little smirk. Shane brings his free hand to his chest and pinches his nipple and chokes on a grunt at how good it feels. It never feels this good when he touches himself. It just doesn't.

Ilya folds one arm beneath his head and with the other reaches down to cup his balls. He rolls them in his palm and tugs lightly. His dick flexes and he laughs, soft and a little breathless. A flush blooms on his cheeks and shoulders and across his chest.

Shane suddenly remembers a night where Ilya sat astride Shane's shoulders and fucked Shane's mouth from above. Shane had sucked his balls into his mouth and rolled them around his tongue until Ilya had to chant, "Stop, stop, stop," to keep from coming before he wanted to.

Then Ilya opens his eyes and looks back at Shane. Four thousand miles and hundred timezones and it doesn't matter, he's still looking at Shane.

Ilya wraps his hand around his dick and pulls so fucking slowly; Shane watches the head emerge from his foreskin, red and shining at the slit. A noise somewhere between a groan and a sigh rumbles out from deep in Ilya's chest. Shane groans, too, he can't help it. He can feel frissons of animal desire ricocheting through his body in improbable places: his scalp, the soles of his feet, the roof of his mouth.

It's stupid to want someone this much.

Ilya lets go long enough to spit in his palm, then returns. He settles into a fast rhythm, not quite frantic, but purposeful. He's not fucking around or trying to draw it out. The wet sound of Ilya's palm pumping away makes Shane feel like he's going to -- dissolve or unravel or implode, something like that, something violently irreversible, and Shane wants to.

Shane wonders if maybe Ilya was pressed for time. Maybe stopping to do this made him a little late to the game and he had to lie to his coach and teammates about why. Maybe watching Shane score got him so hot he had to be reckless. Maybe Ilya sometimes feels like this thing they do is going to kill him, too.

In the video, Ilya’s breath deepens from panting to lower, staccato grunts. His heel pushes into the bed as he starts to bring his hips up to meet his hand. His abs go tight, so do the long muscles in his thighs. The line of his ass divots every time he fucks up, where that powerful muscle connects to his hip. The dim lamplight heightens the shadows to extravagance. He’s so fucking beautiful.

Shane sees the moment Ilya starts to come for a split second before he actually does. His balls draw up tight and his shoulders jerk inward. His toes curl into the bed and his eyes squeeze shut. He groans, low and long, and it sounds like it hurts but the good kind of hurt, the kind you chase after.

He shoots up his stomach and chest, the rhythm of his hand going shallower and faster as he works himself through it. Come spurts over his knuckles. The spatter shines against his skin.

Shane wants it in his mouth, on his face, dripping down his fucking thighs. His own dick is painfully fucking hard. His breath is a harsh, gasping ah, ah, ah that Shane is only distantly aware of. He still hasn’t touched himself..

When he’s finally finished, Ilya doesn’t collapse as Shane expects.

Instead, he levers himself up with uncoordinated limbs. He reaches for the camera; there’s a couple seconds of his hand in extreme close up, then blurry shapes and thumps again.

“What are—“ Shane gasps to his empty room.

Ilya’s face fills the screen and Shane shivers. He’s so — so much. His curls are in total disarray, damp with sweat at his temples and along his hairline. His pupils are blown wide and his mouth is spit wet and red. Shane doesn’t see Ilya’s face when he’s coming that often. This is what he’s been missing? Fuck.

Ilya stares into the camera for a few seconds, mouth open. Shane can hear his raspy breath.

Then he raises his fucking hand into frame and splays his fingers. Come threads between them like spiderwebs. There are streaks across his knuckles. Ilya flashes a grin, self-satisfied and pleased, and licks it up.

He holds his tongue out for a moment, so Shane can see the pearlescent white of it gathered there.

Shane comes so hard the muscles in his thighs seize up. Wetness stripes up his belly and he tips to the side with a noise that might be a groan, might be a shout, or just a garbled tangle of nonsense noise. He squeezes his eyes shut and tears leak out the corner. It lasts forever. He thinks he might die.

When he comes back into his body, breath ragged in his chest, he opens his eyes to the chat screen again, video ended. He fumbles the video back open with clumsy fingers and drags across the bar to the very end again. He might have missed something.

He did miss something. Ilya pulling his tongue back into his mouth and swallowing.

“Oh my god,” Shane murmurs. “Oh my god, oh my god. Fuck. Oh my god.”

The video minimizes again. There is a single message below it.

Lily: hope you liked :*

Before he can overthink it, Shane stabs the camera button and snaps a picture of the mess he's made on himself. It’s dark and a little blurry, but it’s the best he can do and Ilya never seems to mind that Shane’s a shitty photographer. The point isn’t how pretty the picture is.

He sends it.

Jane: it was okay

Jane: that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life

unsent

Jane: you’re so beautiful

unsent

Jane: this was better than all of the goals combined

unsent

Jane: thank you, that was good