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“I did not … know what happened. You touched over my pants, kissed my stomach. Went into my lap.” Ilya gestures with his free hand like he’s grasping for a word he can’t find, just out of reach. “Something was different.” Shane can’t say he remembers all that in as much clarity as Ilya does – the whole day is a bit of a blur in his mind. “We were having fun afternoon. Sex and naps and talking. And then I touched your hair and you went somewhere. Scared me, a little bit.” Blinking and still not understanding, Shane repeats, “I went somewhere?” Reaching over, Ilya picks up the booklet. One handed, he holds it against his thigh and flips to a page around halfway through with the word Subspace in bold at the top. He taps it with his forefinger. “Went here, I think.” Shane experiences a sub-drop without knowing what's happening. Ilya doesn't know either, so he makes it his mission to find out.
- Part 1 of Ilya and Shane explore gentle BDSM!
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 6,553
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #75733051
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“I want you to fuck me, Rozanov,” is the first thing Shane says as soon as the door closes behind him. “Hello to you too, Hollander. It’s good to see you. Want some coffee?” — After a bad game, Shane seeks out Ilya to relieve some tension in a purely physical way. Or at least that's what he tells himself. It's not that he wants to be comforted. Definitely not.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 2,943
- Chapters:
- 2/2
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #75668901
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Ilya’s hand wraps around his bare wrist and squeezes. Shane barely stops himself from collapsing to his knees. The pressure lights up every receptor of his touch-starved nervous system, wrenching a small, pained noise from the back of his throat. Every muted sensation comes flooding back so intensely that it almost hurts. He needs Ilya to hold him down until there’s nothing inside him but quiet. He wants to sink into him and disappear. It takes Shane an entire beat to remember where they are. Fighting against the fog in his mind, he manages to drag his gaze up to meet Ilya’s. There’s a slow-dawning horror and understanding on Ilya’s face. * Or: Shane is in subdrop after their encounter in Vegas. Ilya fixes it.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 8,770
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #75759461
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After a high-pressure game, Shane Hollander is a live wire of anxious perfectionism, desperately insisting he's "fine." Ilya Rozanov knows better. He can smell the oncoming omega crash. When Shane's brittle control finally shatters, Ilya must use every ounce of his firm, grounding alpha presence to guide his omega through the collapse—from frantic resistance, to overwhelming relief, and finally, into the safe, quiet space of total submission and praise. (Or: The one where Shane falls apart, and Ilya is there to catch him.) Collapse Into Me __________________ The hotel room door clicked shut behind them, sealing out the roar of the arena, the flash of cameras, the echoing chants of both their names. Shane’s name had been chanted louder tonight. He’d been perfect. Flawless. A machine on the ice. And now, inside the quiet, opulent suite, he was methodically coming apart at the seams. Ilya watched him from the doorway, his own gear bag dropping to the floor with a soft thud. Shane had already marched across the living room, his movements sharp and economical. He placed his own bag by the closet with military precision, toeing it into a perfect parallel line with the wall. He shrugged out of his tailored dress jacket, folded it once, and laid it over the back of an armchair. His tie came next, the silk whispering as he pulled it loose, but instead of discarding it, he looped it neatly around his knuckles, over and over, a tight, anxious coil . To anyone else, he looked composed. Collected. The consummate professional finishing his post-game routine. But Ilya smelled it. Under the sweat and the sharp, chemical scent of the arena ice, Shane’s omega scent was thin. Wispy. Like burnt sugar and over-steeped tea, pulled too tight until it was about to snap. It was a scent Ilya knew intimately—the prelude to a crash. It was in the air between them, a frantic, fading sweetness that made the back of Ilya’s teeth ache with instinct. “Shane,” Ilya said, his voice deliberately calm. Neutral. He took a single, casual step into the room, not wanting to crowd him yet. “I’m fine,” Shane replied instantly, the words clipped. He didn’t turn around. He began to move, not toward the bedroom or the shower, but in a tight, precise line from the sofa to the window and back. Pacing. His dress shoes made a soft, relentless shush-shush on the carpet. “Just need to wind down. The second period, that turnover by the blue line—it was a misread. I saw Tremblay cutting in, but I thought he’d go wide, and if I’d just pivoted half a second sooner, taken the inside lane instead of committing to the boards—” “It led to a goal,” Ilya finished for him, staying where he was, leaning against the wall by the door. He kept his body loose, non-threatening. He unbuttoned his own cuffs, rolling his sleeves up slowly, an attempt to project normalcy. “You won, Shane. 4-1. You had two assists. You were the best player on the ice.” “It was a preventable goal,” Shane shot back, his voice tightening, rising a half-octave. The pacing quickened. Six steps to the window, a sharp pivot, six steps back. His hands flexed at his sides, the coiled tie cutting into his palm. “A stupid, careless— I knew their forecheck pattern. I knew it. I told Hayden to watch for it, I diagrammed it in the locker room. And then I fell for it. Like a rookie. They’ll see that on film. They’ll all see it.” His scent spiked, souring with the acid tang of anxiety. Ilya saw the fine tremor in Shane’s trapped hands before he shoved them into the pockets of his suit pants. He was still in the uniform of the public captain, the tie a little too tight, the crisp white shirt straining across shoulders held in rigid, defensive formation. Every line of him was vibrating with a energy that had nowhere to go but inward, turning toxic. Ilya pushed off the wall. “Come. Shower. The steam will help. We will order food.” He kept his tone practical, a lifeline of simple, physical next steps. “In a minute,” Shane dismissed, veering away from Ilya’s approach as if burned. He ended up at the minibar, staring at its glossy door as if it contained the answers. “I just need to think it through. Map it out. So it doesn’t happen again. If I can see the sequence, where the decision tree branched wrong, I can lock it down.” “You can think in the shower.” Ilya took another step, his voice layering with a gentle alpha rumble, a coaxing note meant to soothe, to pull him gently back from the edge. It had the opposite effect. Shane flinched, actually flinched, and took two rapid steps back, putting the bulk of an armchair between them. His eyes, when they finally flicked to Ilya’s, were wide and glassy with suppressed panic. The beautiful hazel was almost all pupil. “Don’t. Just— don’t, Ilya.” His voice cracked on the name. “I’m fine. I need space. I need to process. I can’t— I can’t think when you’re…” He gestured vaguely at Ilya’s entire presence. The ‘fine’ was a brittle lie, shattering even as he said it. Ilya could see the cracks spreading, a web of fine fractures across the perfect ice of Shane’s composure. Shane’s breathing was all wrong—shallow sips of air that didn’t reach his lungs, the rise and fall of his chest too quick and high. His knuckles were white where he gripped the back of the chair. The beautiful, controlled omega who commanded the ice with a whisper was being devoured from the inside by a frantic, scrambling thing, an animal caught in a trap of its own spinning thoughts. Ilya’s own instincts, usually kept on a firm, civilized leash, began to stir and then rise. A low- grade alarm pulsed through him, syncing with his heartbeat. His omega is in distress. He is not safe. He is not grounded. He is hurting himself. The analytical part of his brain, the strategist, concurred coldly: Shane was spiraling, his thoughts looping into a self-flagellating frenzy with no exit. He was seconds from hyperventilating, minutes from a full, shuddering omega crash that would leave him feeling raw, sick, and vulnerable for days. The time for gentle coaxing was over. The time for patient waiting had passed. Shane was too far gone to reach for the lifeline himself. Ilya would have to go in and get him. Ilya shifted. It was subtle, but in the charged, silent room, it was as loud as a thunderclap. He straightened to his full height, rolling his shoulders back, his spine aligning into a posture of pure, unassailable authority. He let his own scent bloom—not an aggressive challenge, but a deep, anchoring, deliberate wave of cedar, old leather, and steady, warm earth. An alpha’s scent of stability. Of claim. Of here, and now, and me. He poured it into the space, a tangible force meant to counter the thin, panicked sweetness choking the air.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 4,409
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #75628616
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At the secluded cottage, Shane and Ilya's intimate evening takes a turn as Ilya proposes something new.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 2,161
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #75594731
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i clutched your arms (like stairway railings). by Anonymous
Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid
2025-12-11
He was alone because Ilya had left because Ilya always had to leave. [...] He felt horrible. Ilya had left. Maybe Shane hadn’t been good enough? No, he would’ve left anyway. He always left.
But maybe he would’ve stayed a little longer if Shane had been better? Maybe if he’d been better, used more of those tricks he’d been trying to learn, he wouldn’t have left so soon. Maybe he would’ve wanted to stay like Shane wanted him to stay. Would’ve wanted to hold him like Shane wanted to ask him to do. Maybe Shane wouldn’t be trapped in this cavernous space between worlds, feeling like he was free-falling, searching for the path out of this emptiness.
OR
Shane experiences sub-drop for the first time. Ilya holds him through it.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 2,692
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #75601531
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don’t touch, that’s the rush by starblushed
Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid
2025-12-10
He liked it when Rozanov held him down, more than he would ever admit, liked those big hands around his waist, around his wrists, pressing on his back so his chest would lie flat on the bed and his back would arch to give Rozanov the perfect angle to take him apart. He liked it when Rozanov held him tightly and kissed him gently, he liked it when Rozanov looked at him like he was the only thing in the world. Omegaverse Ilya and Shane try something new in bed, with unexpected consequences.
- Part 1 of HARD (hollanov omegaverse)
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 4,052
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #75567221
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June 2014, Las Vegas Post the Las Vegas Scene, sub!Shane drops hard and Dom!Ilya races to save him. **** From Jane: We didn't even kiss Shane didn't mean to send the text. He was so dizzy and cold and unsteady after leaving Ilya's room, he didn't even remember if he HAD sent the text. His fingers were too numb to undo his shirt buttons, he felt like the floor was dropping out from beneath him, he was nauseous and exhausted and didn't know why he couldn't stop shaking, why couldn't he stop shaking...? From Jane: ww dnt v ks The text came through as gibberish, and “Fuck.” Ilya threw his clothes back on and ran to get to Shane's hotel room. He'd been too far in his head to pay attention to Shane being quiet and shivering after they were done. Shane had stumbled getting out of bed, bumped into furniture, struggled with the door and Ilya had heard it but he'd been too much of a coward to get out of bed and check and now his submissive was sending gibberish texts and that wasn't good. “Sorry sorry sorry.” Ilya muttered as he ran. “I’m coming. I’m coming, hold on.”
- Part 2 of Heated Rivalry
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 6,117
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #75332731
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After taking multiple hits and a painful loss, Shane Hollander faces his worst enemy. Not the press, not the injuries- himself. Or: Ilya soft doms Shane into subspace and makes him feel better after a bad game
- Part 1 of Hollanov
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 2,348
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #75153681
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“I like it,” he says weakly. “I like it, I like you holding me like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like you own me.”
---
or; They're falling in love. They can't have it, even if they can have each other, just for a little while.- Part 1 of Мой сладкий мальчик
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 10,495
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #74995891
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