261 – 275 of 275 Works in Sub Shane Hollander
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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
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- 4,409
- Chapters:
- 1/1
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- 1
- AO3:
- #75628616
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Shane's shorts got Ilya actin' up by hollzy81
Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid
2025-12-11
A quiet afternoon turns dangerous when Shane wears the shorts he knows will ruin Ilya’s self-control. Shane and Ilya were home, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the room. Ilya was sprawled on the plush couch, resting on his back, his eyes glued his phone. The scent of rain-soaked earth drifted in from the open window, mingling with the faint aroma of Shane's cologne, a familiar and comforting presence. Shane emerged from the shower, the steam still clinging to his skin, his hair damp and tousled. He walked downstairs, the soft thud of his bare feet against the wooden floorboards the only sound breaking the silence. He was wearing shorts, but not just any shorts. They were the kind that Ilya knew, the kind that made his breath hitch, the kind that screamed, "Fuck me." They were a faded, soft denim, riding low on his hips, the waistband barely concealing the curve of his ass. Ilya's mouth watered instantly. He couldn't help it. He’d been captivated by Shane since the moment they met, and even after years together, the man still had the power to render him speechless. Shane seemed to notice his husband's reaction, a shy smile playing on his lips. He turned and headed into the kitchen, leaning against the counter, his back to Ilya, offering the perfect view of his ass. Ilya couldn't take it anymore. He rose from the couch in two swift strides, crossing the room and pressing himself against Shane's back. He wrapped his arms around Shane's waist, his hands finding purchase on the soft denim. "These shorts," Ilya murmured, his voice husky, "will be the death of me." He started grinding his half-erect cock against his husband's ass, the friction sending a jolt of pleasure through him. Shane moaned, pushing back against his husband, his body arching slightly. "Wore them just for you," he whispered, his voice thick with desire. "Fuck," Ilya breathed, the word a prayer, a promise. He started squeezing Shane's ass, his fingers kneading the soft flesh. Shane groaned, his body trembling. Ilya trailed kisses along Shane's neck, his lips and teeth finding the sensitive skin just below his ear. Shane closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against his husband's shoulder, and whimpered softly. "Does that feel good?" Ilya asked, his voice a low rumble. Shane moaned and nodded, his breath catching in his throat. Ilya started touching Shane's nipples through his shirt, twitching them between his fingers, teasing them with a gentle touch. Shane moaned out loud, the sound a raw, desperate plea. "Fuck, Ilya... more," he begged, his voice laced with need. Ilya, already on the edge, was completely turned on by everything, the feel of Shane's body against his, the sound of his moans, the way his eyes were glazed with desire. He couldn't help himself. He slapped Shane's ass, the sound echoing in the quiet room. Shane moaned, pressing closer to his husband, his body seeking more. "Again," he pleaded, his voice barely a whisper. Ilya cursed under his breath. "Fuck, Hollander. You’re perfect." And he smacked Shane's ass again, harder this time. Shane whimpered, the sound a mixture of pain and pleasure. "Ilya... fuck..." Shane's cock was leaking furiously, his shorts and boxers soaked in pre-cum, the evidence of his arousal undeniable. He couldn't take it anymore. He ground his ass harder against his husband, his hips moving in a desperate rhythm, and moaned, "Please." Ilya grabbed Shane's hair, pulling his head back, forcing him to meet his gaze. "Words, Hollander. What do you need?" Shane moaned. "I need you to fuck me... on this counter, fuck, Ilya." He started grinding harder, his body writhing with anticipation. "As you wish," Ilya said, his voice a low growl. He reached down, his fingers finding Shane's front. "Spit." Shane obeyed instantly, his eyes locked on Ilya's, and spit on his fingers. "Good boy," Ilya murmured, a possessive edge to his voice. Shane's eyes fluttered at the nickname, his body already trembling with the promise of pleasure. Ilya shoved Shane's shorts and boxers down in one swift movement, revealing his wet, throbbing cock. He started circling his hole with his fingers, his touch slow and deliberate, preparing him. Shane moaned desperately, his body arching. "Please... Ilya..." Ilya smacked his ass again, the sound sharp in the air. "You take what I give you, understand?" "Yes... Fuck... Ilya, whatever you say." Ilya groaned, his own control slipping. He pushed a finger in, slowly, deliberately, stretching Shane's hole. Shane moaned out loud, his body tensing. "This hole is so fucking tight," Ilya whispered, his voice thick with anticipation. "Can't wait to get it all loose." Shane moaned at the words, his hips bucking. Ilya added another finger, scissoring them, his touch becoming more insistent. He moved closer to Shane's lips, hovering over his ear. "Do you want that... want me to ruin your hole and make it mine forever? Ruin you for everyone else?" Shane's eyes rolled back, his head lolling against Ilya's shoulder. Ilya's fingers found his prostate, and he began to stroke it, his touch precise and relentless. Shane moaned, a long, drawn-out sound of pure pleasure. "Yes... fuck... yes, Ilya... ruin me."
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- English
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- 1,721
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- 1
- AO3:
- #75604546
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“Do you–” his breath hitches as another sharp stab of arousal sweeps through him.” Do you enjoy seeing me like this?” he asks, tipping forward desperately, tilting his head up and back as if giving Ilya access to his mouth. He hears the break in his own voice, the whimper that threatens to break out, and wonders if it is enough to convince Ilya to be merciful. Or: Ilya's grey sweatpants make Shane incredibly horny.
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- AO3:
- #75615121
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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.
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- English
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- 2,692
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- 1/1
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- 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)
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- English
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- 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
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- English
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Breakin’ all the rules, like they weren’t made for you by mickeysmyheart
Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid
2025-12-05
“What happened with Scott Hunter? I need to know everything. He played horribly, just like two days ago in Boston,” Rozanov says rather quickly, his English has been slowly improving— or it just sounds like it is because they go months without speaking most of the time. OR Ilya FaceTimes Shane after his game to find out why he fought with Scott Hunter.
- Part 2 of Hollanov Prompts
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- English
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- AO3:
- #75281061
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with a temper like you by starblushed
Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid
2025-12-05
Lily: What did Hunter say to piss you off? Me: What? Lily: You got in a fight with him last night. Lily: Why? Ilya confronts Shane after the fight with Scott Hunter on the ice, and edges the truth out of him.
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- English
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- AO3:
- #75286816
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It has been six months since Ilya Rozanov has texted, acknowledged, or said anything at all to Shane Hollander after the Sochi Olympics, and Shane is on edge waiting for the day Ilya might talk to him again. They finally face one another at a pre-game conference, and the Russian man at Shane’s shoulder acts as though nothing is wrong. After the conference, Ilya corners Shane in a bathroom to antagonize him further and pushes a little too far. When they finally face each other on the ice, Shane does something he has never done in all his years in hockey: he throws a punch.
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- English
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- AO3:
- #75265586
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trace me onto your skin by keifteef
Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid
2025-12-02
Shane Hollander has been keeping his identity a secret for his entire hockey career. How could he be so irresponsible as to lose his suppressants?
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- English
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- 9,364
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- 1/1
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- AO3:
- #75114511
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“Do you want to know how it feels?” Shane let his hand fall back to the couch. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and lifted a brow at Rozanov. “What – holding the Cup? You’ve already made that joke once.” “No.” Rozanov’s fingers encircled Shane’s wrist and then he was pulling Shane’s hand between his legs. Or: Shane tops.
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- English
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- 1
- AO3:
- #74941796
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a million little apologies by AdaElise
Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid
2025-11-29
After the first two episodes, I couldn’t get over how soft Ilya was, specifically the way he kissed Shane’s back when things got intimate. It stuck in my brain, so I wrote this on a whim about what might’ve happened if Shane really sent that text.
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- English
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- AO3:
- #74937596
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It was Ilya’s thing, apparently. A week of texts leading up to this game. Blurry photographs of toys laid out on a quilted over and links to videos that had Shane achingly hard in anticipation. It was a promise, not a request.
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- English
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- AO3:
- #74972396
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“You wanted this, didn’t you? You want to choke on my come?” Ilya murmured. “Yes,” Shane gasped, taking the Russian’s cock off his mouth to breathe for a second. The admission ripped from his, surely soon, sore throat. “More. Harder, Ilya.” The request was a match to Ilya’s wick. His movements doubled in speed, his hips bucking hard. Shane was lost, his consciousness reduced to Ilya’s thick head constantly pressing on the back of his throat and the iron grip on his neck. or the one in which Ilya and Shane can't keep their hands off each other.
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- English
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- AO3:
- #74506941
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“We both know you love to be rewarded for being good and working hard,” Ilya tenderly stroked the side of Shane’s neck with his thumb. “But when you make a mistake, I think you would maybe like a little bit of punishment.” He squeezed again on the word “punishment,” tighter, tight enough to make Shane’s breath hitch.
Shane has a penalty box installed in his home practice rink at the cottage, and it inspires some new feelings in Ilya.
Part of The Off Season Fic Fest!
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- English
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- AO3:
- #69845031
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