Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander/Other(s)

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Connors (Heated Rivalry), Feller, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Gangbang, Group Sex, Leashes, Collars, in which we all suspend disbelief on minor characters sexualities, Sexual Free Use, Praise Kink, Aftercare, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Winner's Room (Sports RPF), except not rpf just unfortunately inspired

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-23 Words: 2,923 Chapters: 1/1

to the victors go the spoils

Summary

"It would… certainly raise the stakes of the game tonight."

Ilya could not have been more at attention than he suddenly was. "Yes?"

Shane huffed a laugh. "Yeah. I mean, if us losing means Boston gets to —" He stopped himself, blushing deeply, and Ilya leaned forward to needle at his ribs playfully.

"Gets to what, Hollander? You lose to Boston tonight, what happens?"

He already knew. But the possibility of it becoming a reality was so thrilling he could hardly contain himself. And he wanted to hear Shane say it out loud.

"If we lose… Boston gets to fuck me."

alternate title: fuck fuck pass~

Notes

It wasn't supposed to be a serious thing.

In fact, it had started off as mere pillow talk.

Montreal was playing Boston, which meant Shane was panting and whimpering in Ilya's bed as he teased him and worked him up. Pre-game sex was almost better than post, if only because it was ending the however-many-weeks-long drought they had gone through since the last time they were in the same city.

"Was thinking about you earlier," Ilya growled against Shane's throat, hands almost painfully tight where they gripped and spread his ass. "In the locker room."

"Thinking about — ahh — me in the locker room? With you?"

Ilya's mind wasn't focused enough to play with the double meanings of the English language — at least, not until Shane's frantic humping against his thigh grew suddenly more desperate.

He smirked against Shane's mouth, rumbling low in his chest. "Would you like that, Hollander? Getting fucked under the Raider's logo? Maybe with my team watching?"

"Oh, God, Ilya," Shane gasped, dripping like a faucet against Ilya's leg, and he wasn't even touching him.

"Ohh, you would," Ilya snarled, popping Shane swiftly on the ass. "The pride of Montreal, made a needy, begging mess in Boston's house, wrecked by Boston's finest…"

"Fuck—!"

And then Shane came, hot and sudden, all over Ilya's hip and thigh.

So of course, once the sex was well and truly wrapped up a couple of hours later, Ilya had to interrogate him about it.

"You seemed to like the idea," he purred as he played with Shane's hair.

Typically, Shane would have made a million excuses. He would have told Ilya he was just overeager from the long weeks apart. That he had been close anyways. That it was just a heat of the moment thing. Or he would have defaulted to telling him to fuck off.

But he was quiet for a moment this time. And then,

"It would… certainly raise the stakes of the game tonight."

Ilya could not have been more at attention than he suddenly was. "Yes?"

Shane huffed a laugh. "Yeah. I mean, if us losing means Boston gets to —" He stopped himself, blushing deeply, and Ilya leaned forward to needle at his ribs playfully.

"Gets to what, Hollander? You lose to Boston tonight, what happens?"

He already knew. But the possibility of it becoming a reality was so thrilling he could hardly contain himself. And he wanted to hear Shane say it out loud.

"If we lose… Boston gets to fuck me."

Boston wins. 5-2.

Ilya attributes this to the promise he made his boys before they hit the ice: whoever scored out there would score later that night. He would personally see to it.

Thankfully, the goals were scored by guys he tolerated the most. Maybe even trusted. Marleau, Connors, and Feller each landed shots that night, plus two of Ilya's own. It had been a pretty game to watch, if you were a Boston fan.

Ilya has since made arrangements to have access to the stadium after hours. Specifically the locker room. The other three have arrived first and have been instructed to wait there for their prize.

It's almost two in the morning.

Ilya arrives with prize in tow. They stand outside the door to the locker room as clothes are removed and neatly folded on a folding chair.

Shane is trembling.

Ilya, fully dressed, stands behind him, softly rubbing his hands up and down Shane's biceps. "They will have rules. They will behave." He nips at Shane's neck. "Be a good example for them, sweetheart. Show them how nice it feels to obey."

From his pocket, Ilya slips a slim, black leather collar and leash. He settles it around Shane's throat, fastens it behind his neck, and kisses the spot just above it. Shane shivers all over, breath quickening. He's past the point of witty retorts or whiny banter. He will either spiral and run screaming and naked out of this stadium for even considering this idea, or he will stay and…

"Good boy," Ilya murmurs, breath tickling his neck. "You look amazing, my love."

Shane swallows. He doesn't have a fit or run off. He stays.

Ilya gives the slightest tug on the leash in his hand. "No one but me is allowed to hold this. Is…" he trails off, grasping for the word, and finds it. "Lifeline."

Shane nods.

Ilya reaches into a different pocket, now withdrawing a sash of black satin. He raises it before Shane's face in front of him.

Here, Shane blanches. "I'm not sure —"

"Do you think you will be able to look them in the eye on the ice after this? If you remember how they look at you now?" Ilya's tone is earnest and genuine, rather than sarcastic and mocking. He's truly asking.

Shane thinks about it. He shakes his head.

"Good. Besides," Ilya whispers, "you only have eyes for me."

Heart slamming against his ribs like a body against the boards, Shane allows the blindfold to be tied securely over his eyes. The world goes black.

"Perfect, sweetheart," Ilya praises. "And if at any time you need to bail, you just say…?"

"Pomidor." There's no way Shane would ever randomly say "tomato" in Russian except to Ilya — and except as a safe word.

"Exactly." Ilya runs a hand down Shane's bare back. Pauses to nudge the base of the heavy glass plug nestled within Shane's ass. "Such a generous loser," he purrs. "Let's give my boys their reward. Down."

Shane sinks down on all fours, the floor cold to the touch.

Ilya gives the leash a tug. "Come."

They prowl into the Raider's locker room like that: Ilya, dressed all in black, gold chain winking at his throat, leading Shane blindfolded on all fours by the leash, not a stitch of clothing to be seen.

Marleau, Connors, and Feller just stare.

"Umm," Marley says brilliantly.

"Hollander and I made deal," he purrs. "If anyone has problem with it, leave now. I will give you back your phones and you can go home." All of their devices had been confiscated by him upon arrival. There was to be absolutely no digital grace of this night.

Ilya comes to a stop before a long bench and tugs the leash to signal Shane to do the same. He slowly kneels back on his heels, plug grinding inside him, chest heaving with anticipatory breath, head bowed. It's maddening and exhilarating, knowing that people are looking at him, but having no idea what their expressions are like. It's a loss of control that drives him wild. Fear and arousal war raucously within him.

None of the other Raiders move. They look at Shane, then back to Ilya. Ilya watches as, one by one, they stop looking at him. Eyes latched onto Shane's perfect, beautiful body, his lovely submissive pose at Ilya's feet, his half-hard cock stiffening visibly between his thighs.

They should thank me for this rare gift, he thinks.

"There are rules," Ilya announces, using his captain voice. "You will leave no marks. No scratching, no biting, no bruising. You come on him, not inside. You will only call him Hollander, same as you do on ice. And if you fuck his ass, you wear a fucking condom."

He scans the other three men closely for any sign of disgust or reluctance, and is entirely too pleased with himself when he finds none. Who else but them will be able to brag about fucking their rival team's captain to celebrate beating them at a game? Even if no one ever believes them later, the thrill of knowing it's real will live forever.

It does for Ilya, anyway.

"If you break any of these rules," he adds in a low warning tone, "I will shoot you. End of story."

Connors snorts. "You don't own a —"

Ilya pats his jacket pocket. Connors goes quiet.

"Now, if you want out, get out. I'm ready to get started."

Ilya leaves his teammates to deliberate as he guides Shane toward the bench. He grabs a clean towel and folds it several times to make a cushion. He positions Shane like a doll, propping him up on his elbows on the towel. He coaxes Shane's hips back, and Shane obediently perks his ass out and holds up his head. Begging to be fucked from either end.

The Raider's logo frames him perfectly on the far wall. Ilya's cock is painfully hard in his pants.

Marleau, predictably, is the first to crack. He lets out a low whistle and prowls a couple steps closer. "Gotta say, that's a pretty picture," he muses, adjusting his groin.

Feller is close behind. "Can I, uh…" He leans closer to Shane, hand hovering over his ass.

Ilya nods his permission.

The crisp, loud smack that rings through the empty locker room is like a gunshot. It's nothing, however, compared to the lovely, surprised moan that escapes Shane's open mouth.

Feller admires the angry red handprint he's left on Shane's ass. "Wanted to do that for years," he growls, smacking Shane again. "Bet no one ever paddled your bratty ass before, eh Hollander? Never put you in your place?"

Ilya doesn't love the way Feller is talking to Shane, but he doesn't hate it either. He also doesn't hate the increasingly loud gasps that escape him each time Feller spanks him. Ilya meanders around the bench, spotting Shane's dripping cock as he changes angles.

He reaches Marleau and gives him a nudge. "Go on. He's all ready and waiting for you. Don't waste his time, Marley."

Marleau finally unfastens his fly and tugs his half-hard cock out. He approaches Shane's head, tapping himself on Shane's parted lips. "You want it, Hollander? You gonna take it like a good little bitch?"

Shane's mouth opens further, tongue tentatively reaching out toward the head of Marleau's cock. Marleau hisses when Shane swipes over his slit, easing a hand into his black hair and coaxing him closer. Soon he's feeding Shane his full length, drool pooling around Shane's lips and dripping down his chin.

Ilya feels like he's on fire. He eyes Feller impatiently. Feller reaches for the lube and the condoms and starts rolling his pants and underwear down to his mid-thighs. "Damn. Guess the rumors are true, eh Marley?" he chuckles as he rolls on a condom. "Hollander suck cock as good as they say?"

Marleau rolls his head back. He holds Shane's skull in place as he fucks his mouth at an even pace. "Shit, yeah, he's definitely done this before." He glances slyly at Ilya, who just pulls out his own cock and begins stroking himself in response.

Connors has started to do the same. "I didn't think I'd be into this, but…"

"Is okay," Ilya murmurs. "Hollander is gay enough for all of you. Look how much he loves it."

Shane is doing nothing to refute the words. He presses his ass back into Feller's waiting hands as he tugs his cheeks apart and grips the base of the plug still lodged within him. A thin trail of precum is already dripping down onto the floor from the head of his swollen, weeping cock. When Feller finally tugs the thick plug out, Shane moans loudly around Marleau's cock.

"Shit," Marleau mutters. "He keeps up like that and I'm gonna —"

"Outside only," Ilya reminds him sternly. Marleau takes a deep breath and nods.

It doesn't take much longer though, because once Feller eases into Shane, he's whimpering and choking around Marleau with every thrust. Marleau barely yanks him off in time to come on his face, striping the black blindfold with streaks of filmy white and spattering Shane's still-open mouth.

"Good," Ilya rumbles. "Come on, Connie, your turn."

Marleau and Connors swap places as Feller picks up his pace, hips snapping faster as he fucks Shane harder. The sounds coming out of Shame are so beautiful, breathy and tender and overwhelmed. His ass is still a lovely shade of red from Feller's earlier punishment, adding to the rosy, well-fucked look of him. Ilya slows his stroking on himself, lest he blow his load just looking at him.

"Come on, Hollander," Connors growls as he steps up to Shane's face. "Take it all like the champ you are."

He shoves his full length straight down Shane's throat, holding him there as he groans with pleasure. Ilya watches Shane's collared throat bulge out around Connor's (admittedly impressive) shaft and shivers.

"Feller?" Ilya glances to where he's rutting into Shane's ass with a frenzied determination.

"Almost… one sec…" he pants, before hurriedly pulling out and snapping the condom off. He comes on Shane's cheeks and back with a broken, haggard sound.

Ilya feels so close already, but he doesn't want to come just yet. He eyes Connors as he slowly rocks back, giving Shane a moment to breathe before he starts enthusiastically fucking his mouth. The leash trembles in Ilya's other hand.

"Goddamn, Hollander," Connie huffs between thrusts. "You got a mouth on you like a porn star. Shoulda figured."

Ilya can't help but to preen at the words. Yes, he thinks. Enjoy him this one time. Know you will never get to have him again. But I will. He belongs to me.

Connors takes longer to get where he's going, but eventually he too is pulling out and releasing on Shane's face. Ilya is glad he blindfolded him; Connors's orgasm face is not pretty.

"Nice, Connie," Marleau chuckles from where he's leaned against the wall, cock tucked away and hands shoved into his pockets like nothing happened. "You gonna show us how it's done now, C?"

Ilya grins. Of course he is. He trails a fingertip down Shane's back, dodging streaks of drying cum, and kneels behind him, cock gliding between his still-slick cheeks. He gives Shane's cock a squeeze and delights in the gasping moan that it draws out of him. He's so proud of him for not coming for anyone else.

"Watch and learn, dickheads," Ilya laughs.

Ilya thrusts in to the hilt, Shane's body already worked nice and open for him by Feller. He yanks hard on the leash, pulling Shane upright onto his knees against him. He holds the leash tight in one hand and squeezes the base of Shane's cock with the other, snarling against his neck as he starts thrusting up into him.

"Oh, God, please, please, fuck —" Shane babbles, head rolling back against Ilya's shoulder. His cock drips profusely onto Ilya's fist. He holds him tighter, refusing to let him come until he's almost there himself.

"So pretty on your knees for us, Hollander," Ilya taunts as he fucks him harder. "Is where you belong, I think. Warming the cocks of the victors."

A wavering, keening sound flutters from Shane's bruised, red lips. He clenches deliciously around Ilya's cock, showing him just how the filthy words affect him.

"You like it, yes? Taking it from us like this, in our house, like a dog in heat?" Ilya has to bite his own cheek to keep from winning his teeth into Shane's bare shoulder.

"Y-yes! Fuck, yes, please, give it to me, I want it, I want to come…"

Ilya fucks him faster. He finally starts pumping Shane's dripping cock, drawing pulses of crazed pleasure him deep inside him.

"Come, then, Hollander. Come for us."

Shane cries out, arcing away from Ilya as he erupts. Ilya grabs his hips in both hands and forces him back so he can slam into him once, twice more, and then he too is coming. Breaking his own rules and filling his insides — but he's allowed, so it's okay.

For a moment, the only sound is their joined breathing as they come down. Then Marleau's stupid ass starts clapping.

Ilya glances up and scowls. "Reward given. Be grateful." He pulls out of Shane, admiring how his ass drips in the aftermath, and fishes everyone's phones out of his pocket. He tosses them on the bench and nods. "Get your shit and go. And keep your mouths shut."

The others don't need to be told twice. Each grabs their phone, shoves it in a pocket, and leaves the locker room. They mutter their thanks for a good time over their shoulders as they leave.

When they're finally alone, Ilya helps Shane to his feet. He unfastens the collar and removes the soiled blindfold with tender, careful hands. Shame blinks blearily at the light once he can see again, already making a face as his fingers swipe through drying cum on his jaw.

"Here," Ilya murmurs, guiding him to their showers. "This way. We get you cleaned up, sweetheart. You did amazing."

Ilya sheds his own clothes and continues to lavish praise on Shane as they bathe, holding and kissing and washing him under the hot spray of the water. Shane, for his part, is tired and raw and will probably remember to be anxious about this in the morning, but for right now, he's hazy and fuzzy and safe in Ilya's presence.

"Was good?" Ilya asks, desperate for assurance despite Shane never using their safe word.

"Mm. It was… very good. Even, uh, even Marleau."

Ilya grins against his neck and kissses him there. "Lucky you did not have to look at them," he purrs. "They are so ugly when they fuck."

Shane laughs. "I'll keep that in mind," he says, voice dropping low, "in case we ever let you guys win again."

Boston has a very, very good season that year.