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  1. “I'm serious. We can’t just—what, you want us to dress up and wander into Times Square like idiots? To celebrate the New Year? In public?” “See?” Rozanov grins wider. “You already understand concept." “You are unbelievable.” “And you,” Rozanov counters, leaning in just enough to steal Shane’s attention again, “are very boring.” ---Shane and Ilya, in the middle of their will-they won't-they, ring in the New Year together.

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  2. Ilya and Shane win their first Stanley Cup together. And celebrate it.

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  3. new year's eve by

    Heated Rivalry (TV)
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    2026-01-01

    They’d never been together on New Year’s before. This year, that was going to change.

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    AO3:
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  4. “Shane,” Ilya mocked, copying his lover’s tone. “I do not need my shoulder to fuck.” he said. “It’ll still be better not to put any strain on it.” Shane insisted, guiding him to walk backwards until the back of Ilya’s knees met their couch, and he was made to sit. There was a blush colouring his cheeks, but his eyes were dark and filled with desire as he stared Ilya down. “Just- just sit there, I’ll claim my reward myself.” Oh. Oh fuck. Or Ilya is injured, but that wasn’t going to stop Shane from getting rewarded for their win.

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  5. Ilya never imagined himself waking up beside anyone for the rest of his life. Never imagined wanting to, longing for it so much and so hard it felt like he was either dying or going crazy. Never imagined he would share a forever with somebody. Not until that fateful 23rd of December 2008 in freezing Saskatchewan. Not until a thing as trivial and simple as freckles dusted on cold-kissed skin made time stop and the world start spinning. Not until this borning, and short, and pretty, and perfect and outstanding Canadian boy who everyone deemed some new hockey God extended his hand to him and stole his fragile heart. Not until Shane Hollander.

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  6. 5 times Ilya is in denial that he snores, and one time he catches Shane doing the same.

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  7. After Shane Hollander collabs with Calvin Klein for a sexy shoot, he’s the next big thing. Ilya, his secret lover, is not happy about this. After all, Ilya’s never been much of a sharer. OR Ilya owns tf out of Shane!

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  8. All mine by

    Heated Rivalry (TV)
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    2025-12-30

    Shane and Ilya go to a club where Shane gets too friendly with other guys, Ilya isn’t too happy about it Or Ilya makes sure Shane knows who he belongs to

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  9. Hayden Pike has just discovered Ilya Rozanov's plans to murder Shane Hollander, and he is panicking, ok? Or- Ilya and Shane's odd foreplay leave poor Hayden in a frazzle with the implications of Ilya Rozanov lurking in the shadows of a parking lot, licking his teeth like a wolf. (Multiple POV's)

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  10. self indulgent fic where ilya suprises shane with a sex machine… despite being anxious and a little annoyed shane just wants to please him

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  11. When Rose comes to visit Shane and Ilya for Labour Day weekend, Shane imposes a no sex rule. The walls are thin and he's just not comfortable with the idea, okay? Ilya thinks this is the stupidest thing he's ever heard and is intent on getting Shane to crack. So what if he's maybe acting a tiny bit possessive? He's not jealous. Russians do not do this.

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  12. He drives to the airport with an unshakeable urge to pull over and turn around. He smokes four cigarettes in a row before he boards the plane, then chews an entire pack of gum on the flight to try and cover the worst of the smell.

    He exits the airport half-hoping that Shane has chickened out of the whole thing. Then he spots him, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel in the most boring suburban dad car Ilya has ever had the misfortune of laying his eyes on, and he’s so happy to see him that his legs feel unsteady beneath his weight.

    --

    Or, the cottage, Ilya's version: an extended ep 6 featuring my take on what happened in the gaps we didn't see.

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  13. Jitterbug by

    Heated Rivalry (TV)
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    2025-12-30

    Footsteps come running over, Shane grasping at Ilya’s face, his shoulders, worry in his eyes as he looks him up and down as if making sure he’s okay. “What is it? What happened?” “There’s a fucking creature on your mirror, Hollander,” Ilya tells him, gesturing far wider than he needs to. “This big. Is enormous.” “It can’t be that big,” he mutters, then he opens the door, and starts laughing. “Oh my god.” “Close the door, Shane, we can’t let it out!” “What?” Shane opens the door even wider, the creature now fully visible in the light. It’s just as terrifying from far away, the eye spots making Ilya feel like it’s staring at him. It sees into his soul—it’s going to come for Ilya in the night and crawl all over him. Disgusting. “It’s just a moth, Ilya.” A bug has entered the cottage. Shane is totally cool about it. Ilya is not. Summer is peaceful, quiet. At least, this one is. Ilya’s never had a particularly quiet summer before—always home in Russia tending to his toxic family, taking care of his father, drinking away the time. Here, at the cottage, with Shane, he’s finally content with his life, and how impossibly boring it’s become. Moments like this, where he and Shane are in bed together, naked and sex drunk, make him realize all his suffering was worth it. Well, maybe not entirely worth it, but it didn’t amount to nothing. He’s not trapped in Moscow mourning his awful father or constantly fighting his brother, he’s home, safe, with a boyfriend he loves and a life planned together he thinks will be all too worth living. Now he’s kissing Shane, the Metros’ captain straddling his hips as they kiss slowly, lazily, almost casually, like they can take their time. They have all summer, after all, maybe they can take their time. Shane tastes like warmth and lake water, and he knows they showered after their latest swim, but it still lingers on his tongue. Tilting his head back, he allows Shane to drag his kisses onto his neck, tugging the skin between his teeth as he sucks a bruise there. Since no one will be seeing him in the coming weeks, Ilya figures one little hickey is harmless. Well… maybe there are several between the two of them. A soft moan parts his lips, his lover’s name on his tongue as he buries his face in Shane’s hair. It’s a little longer now toward the middle-end of summer, but it’s still soft and smells of Shane so Ilya loves it. He especially loves it when he tugs on those dark locks, earning a soft little whimper from his boyfriend. His boyfriend. It still feels surreal to think that after all this time, after all the pining and heartache and hoping beyond hope that this is real, that Shane loves him, too. Sometimes, Ilya thinks he might be the luckiest man in the world… if only their circumstances weren’t so unlucky. If only they could actually, properly, publicly be together, but they can’t. It’ll be years before Ilya can kiss him in the daylight, but that’s a problem for future Shane and Ilya. Present day Ilya is currently enjoying a hickey, and plans to return the favor momentarily. As Shane kisses his handiwork, Ilya flips them over, attacking his boyfriend with a series of kisses that leave him laughing breathlessly. The sound makes him feel euphoric—it also makes him hard. He feels like he could go another round, though they’ve already had sex twice that evening, but from the whimpers coming from Shane and the wetness he feels against his belly, Ilya doesn’t think he’d mind. “Already hard for me, Hollander?” “Fuck you,” Shane grumbles, but he doesn’t protest as one of Ilya’s hands reaches between them, gently stroking his cock. “Oh, fuck.” Ilya grins against his boyfriend’s lips as he swipes a bead of precome over Shane’s tip, using it to stroke him in earnest, both of them panting slightly. Shane’s cock is soft to the touch, even though he’s painfully hard. The good thing about Shane coming so quickly, is he always comes back just as fast. Stroking him a little bit faster, Ilya plants kisses along the edge of Shane’s jaw, breathing in the scent of him as his rival begins to pant a little harder, a soft moan leaving him a moment later. “Oh fuck, Ilya,” he whimpers, head arching back into the pillow. “Fuck…” He spits into his hand, then resumes stroking him, going at a swift pace as Shane becomes a mess beneath him. There’s still come on his belly from earlier, and already, Ilya can tell there will be more soon. “You like that?” he asks, then he kisses Shane before he can answer, the response cut off as a moan into his mouth. Clearly, Shane does like it. He likes it so much his hips buck into the touch, his body leaning into Ilya’s, like he craves him. Ilya runs his thumb over Shane’s slit, earning himself another drawn out moan. “Oh god, Ilya,” he breathes. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna come.” “Come for me, Shane,” Ilya tells him, kissing his jaw again as he strokes him a little faster. “Come for me.” And he does. Shane comes apart with a sharp cry, oversensitive and overstimulated, and he spills all over Ilya’s hand, over his own stomach, onto Ilya’s chest. He kisses him after, rolling on top of Ilya so that he can kiss him deeply, hands wound tight in his hair as he shivers through the aftermath. “I love you,” Shane whispers, and it’s the fifth time he’s said it today alone, almost like he can’t get enough. “I love you, too.” Ilya moans as Shane kisses him again, the two of them grinning as they rest their foreheads together. “I should clean you off.” “What a gentleman.” Smacking him lightly on the chest, Ilya pushes Shane off of him, making his way into the bathroom as the other man wolf whistles behind him. Eyes rolling, Ilya flicks on the bathroom light, ready to grab a wash cloth for Shane, but he immediately screams instead when he sees what’s sitting on the mirror. Right in front of him on the reflective glass, is the biggest bug he’s ever seen. Its wingspan is enormous, easily seven or eight centimeters, brown and black coloring the edges of said wings, with two little black and white eyespots on the corners. Ilya runs back out of the bathroom as soon as he sees it, the towel forgotten in the name of running from the nasty ass bug that’s made Shane’s bathroom its temporary home. Ilya has seen bugs before, seen cockroaches in Moscow and Boston, seen spiders and butterflies and beetles, but none of them have been this fucking big. This is easily, by far, the

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  14. The Ford is a rusted-out red bucket, the tent is a mess of orange nylon, and the Norwegian woods are a lot steeper than they looked on the map. The wilderness doesn't care about NHL standings, and right now, it’s winning. For six years, Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov have lived in the quiet of hotel rooms and the heat of the game. But here, far away from the cameras and the crowds, their guard is finally starting to drop. Between charred sausages, a ruined pair of sneakers, and a leaking tent, they are running out of ways to hide from the truth. As the summer ends, they have to decide if they are brave enough to stop being rivals and start being something else entirely. The morning is quiet. The grass is grey with dew as they pull out of the driveway, the air cool enough to make Shane shiver. He’d insisted on renting this red Ford—a rusted-out bucket that he called "the authentic experience"—and it coughs as Ilya hits the street. Ilya looks at the dashboard like it’s a personal insult. Shane knows he’s thinking about his Ferrari. Shane watches Ilya’s profile in the dim light. He listens to the engine’s uneven beat and almost hopes the car just stops. A stall would freeze the world right here. It would keep them trapped in the smell of old upholstery and cold air, holding the moment still before the real world starts calling them back. A bottle of bug spray rattles in the door, breaking the silence. Shane reaches out to steady it and glances at the mess in the back seat. Tents, sleeping bags, and groceries are piled to the roof. It’s a disaster, honestly. They leave the city behind, passing quiet streets where only a few windows are lit. Shane leans his head against the glass. For six years, this is all they’ve had: fast, desperate nights in hotel rooms in cities like Detroit or Columbus. Quick sex after games where they spent an hour trying to smash each other into the boards. Even then, Ilya always made a point of pinning Shane down. Shane can still feel it if he closes his eyes: the silver cross Ilya wears dangling cold against his skin, and the sound of Ilya’s ragged breath in his ear. He loves it—the feeling of being held there by someone who actually can. Shane smiles at his reflection. He definitely has a thing for being pinned down. Lately, though, it’s been different. The hotel rooms turned into tuna melts in Ilya’s Boston apartment and long nights on his massive sofa. And Shane, being Shane, freaked out. He remembers storming out of Ilya’s place, stammering some lie about an early practice while trying not to see the hurt in Ilya’s eyes. Maybe Ilya can feel him starting to spiral again, because he suddenly reaches across the gearbox and takes Shane’s hand. The shift happened so slowly Shane didn't even notice. Ilya Rozanov—the arrogant Russian superstar who can score fifty goals or bruise Shane’s hips with the same ease—has become something else. Shane doesn’t have a name for it yet. He just knows he somehow ended up asking Ilya to come to Norway. He blames the drugs they gave him in the hospital after his last concussion. They were good drugs. He still remembers Ilya visiting him in that white, sterile room, his large hand brushing Shane's cheek. It was the only thing that felt real. Now, though, he’s stone-cold sober and terrified. Coming out has never felt like an option. Not in their world. The locker room is still a place where "faggot" is a punchline and any sign of being "soft" is a target. Even with guys like Scott Hunter leading the way, the fear is still there, eating at him. Every time he thinks about the flight back, a knot tightens in his chest. The new season is waiting for them, and the questions won't stop looping: What if Ilya decides this is too much work? What if the distance and the risk aren't worth it? Or worse—what if he stays, and ends up in a grey interrogation room back home because he’s been "corrupted" by a Canadian? It sounds like a bad Cold War parody, but the fear is real. Shane is most definitely freaking out. Again. Ilya strokes the back of Shane’s hand with his thumb. He meets Shane’s gaze, and his eyes are uncharacteristically kind. Fuck. Maybe it will be easier in the woods, away from the slurs and the cameras. He hopes so. Because when this car eventually turns back toward the airport, summer is over. The world will expect them to be rivals again. Just the thought of it makes it hard to breathe. *** “We should’ve bought the one that expands,” Ilya says. “Like fucking Transformer.” He sounds just as pissed off as he does after a missed breakaway in the third period. They’re parked at the base of a trail that goes straight up the mountain. The plan was simple: pitch the tent, look like they know what they’re doing, and start hiking before lunch. Instead, it’s a total disaster. This tent—bought during a rush of "we’re going to be outdoorsmen" energy in Oslo—is more complicated than any play Shane has ever seen on a whiteboard. Shane leans against the rusted Ford and just watches him. He can’t help but smirk. Ilya Rozanov, who can deke out the world’s best defenders, is currently losing a fight to a pile of orange nylon. His hair is a mess, and he’s somehow managed to tangle a cord around his ankle like a trap. For a guy who spent the whole flight acting like a mountain was just another challenge to beat, Ilya looks exactly like what he is: a prince from Moscow who grew up in five-star hotels. He knows as much about the woods as Shane knows about Russian opera. In the NHL, someone else handles everything. Someone else books the flights, carries the bags, and makes sure the towels are warm. Out here, there’s no PR team to make their incompetence look like "grit." “The box said it’s a four-man tent,” Shane says, holding the manual. It’s written entirely in Norwegian. “Only if those four men are very small,” Ilya mutters, “and have no personal boundaries at all.” He gives the fabric a shove and looks up at the grey peaks and the endless trees. “Seriously, Hollander. You bring me to the edge of the world just to prove we are both idiots?” “I think we bought a garden ornament,” Ilya adds, kicking a pole. “Not a shelter.” “Maybe it’s a test,” Shane says. It’s the kind of empty encouragement he usually uses in the locker room when they’re down by three. “If we survive the tent, we might survive the trip.” That arrogant grin flickers across Ilya’s face—the one that’s way too charming to ignore. It makes it hard for Shane to keep his guard up.

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  15. “M’ sorry, I’m sorry”, Shane whimpers, “Jus’ needed something dirty, couldn’t smell you on your clothes. Smelt bad, smelt wrong. M’ sorry, m’ sorry-” “Is okay, my love”, Ilya reassures, trying desperately to focus on comforting Shane, eyes zeroing in on the way his husband’s legs have fallen open, revealing Shane’s tuft of dark pubic hair and the shimmer of slick on his protruding labia, “What do you need, moy lyubimyy?” Ilya asks, “Tell me- and I will get it for you” Or Shane wants Ilya's dirty clothes for his nest.

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  16. Renegotiations by

    Heated Rivalry (TV)
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    2025-12-30

    Shane, who has been in the process of unmasking his autism after his very late diagnosis post- retirement, comes across a fun new problem: verbal shutdowns in bed. Ilya helps him calm down and navigate newly discovered terrain.

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  17. ball and chain by

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    2025-12-30

    “What is this ‘ball and chain’?” Ilya frowned. Ilya's teammate grinned. “Wife. Girlfriend. Nagging you. Controlling. No fun allowed.”

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  18. You: Why are you sending me pictures of cats? Lily: its not cat You: Yes, Rozanov, that is a cat. Lily: no Lily: is angry kitten Lily: like you --- or: ilya sends those angry kittten pics to shane.

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  19. Ilya and Shane celebrate a significant anniversary.

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  20. No Going Back by

    Heated Rivalry (TV)
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    2025-12-29

    Shane feels guilty for all of Ilya's sacrifices. Seeing Ilya's Instagram posts tips him over the edge. Maybe he's finally ready for the world to know more.

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    AO3:
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