41 – 52 of 52 Works in Crying
- Crying ×
-
“Mmnnh, no, come back. This is big deal. First time Shane Hollander has ever thrown punches. First time Shane Hollander has been punched. Everyone is talking about it.” “I punched Peterson because he slammed you.” It should have been satisfying watching the way shock immediately blushed over Ilya’s face, but all Shane could feel was embarrassment for even admitting it. “He was… I mean… He was all over you. And it– I don’t know, I was just so angry that he was touching you that I— I don’t know. I just saw red and, I don’t even remember all of it.” Shane felt like he was losing himself. He knew he was more emotional these past few weeks, a swirling mess of feelings and breaking his diet and lazying around more, but he had chalked most of it up to Ilya’s influence. or, Shane Hollander is pregnant, and doesn't know it yet, and is increasingly confused why he's feeling so crazy lately. Acting so strange. Crying so much. So horny.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 10,825
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #77033616
-
keeping the faith in a place that we hope won't pass by iittaliia
Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid
2025-12-30
”Mom, you know, right?” ”Know what?” Yuna replied distractedly. ”That I am -“ Shane didn’t get further, his voice cracking embarrassingly. // Or, sober Shane finished what high Shane started.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 1,546
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #76710671
-
where do we start on a love that we know so well by iittaliia
Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid
2025-12-30
”I told her how I felt”, Ilya said quietly. ”About you.” ”You told my mom before me?” Shane’s voice cracked. He knew it was illogical to feel jealous of his mom for having gotten clarity on their relationship before him, but he couldn’t help it. ”She was not high at the time”, Ilya pointed out, shrugging like it was not a big deal, and Shane wanted to punch his teeth in. Or kiss each one of them individually. Definitely one of the two. // Or, Shane and Ilya finally spoke the same language at the same time.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 2,096
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #76729166
-
self indulgent fic where ilya suprises shane with a sex machine… despite being anxious and a little annoyed shane just wants to please him
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 1,911
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #76710736
-
all you suckers just wanna be me by Anonymous
Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid
2025-12-28
“And the both of you just assumed that, what? Jackie and I would just play along? Did either of us even factor into this stupid thing, outside of making us cum?” Shane asks, crossing his arms. He looks annoyed, one of Ilya's favorite emotions to see painted across his face. “Or was this all about your giant fucking ego?”
Ilya smirks, and Shane groans, throwing a pillow at his face. “Don't even fucking start.”
“Me?” Ilya says, buzzed and happy, thrilled to be irritating Shane as always. “Ego is not the only thing giant about me.”
OR: Hayden & Ilya make a bet. Shane (and Jackie) win.
- Part 7 of heated rivalry masterlist
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 11,143
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #75959046
-
Shane has had a long week and decides to relax by taking a bath and using a bath bomb to relax his muscles. He's so relaxed he takes a nap, not even registering the colour of the bath bomb he used... Inspired by someone, I dont remember who it was so if someone remembers the fic, please tell me. It basically had Shane taking some panadol or something cos he had a headache but he fainted and Ilya found him and thought he tried to overdose The rivalry between Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander was the kind of legend that fueled sports talk radio for decades. It was the stoic, iron-willed Russian Captain against the golden boy of Canadian hockey. On the ice, they were a collision of tectonic plates—heavy hits, sharp words exchanged through mouthguards, and a mutual disdain that seemed etched into their very bones. In reality, the disdain was the most expensive mask in professional sports. For over eight years, they had been a ghost story told in darkened hotel rooms and anonymous apartments. For two years, they had been "forever." They were boyfriends in the shadows, navigating a world of secret back entrances, and the constant, crushing weight of a double life. But tonight, the ice was far away. Ilya had just finished a late flight back to their shared sanctuary in Shane's quiet cottage outside of Ottawa, a home no one else knew Ilya was embraced in. The cottage was hushed, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator and the distant whistle of the wind against the glass. Ilya dropped his gear bag by the door, his shoulders aching from a grueling game against Toronto. He wanted nothing more than to find Shane, bury his face in the crook of his neck, and let the persona of "The Iron Rozanov" melt away. "Shane?" he called out, his voice raspy. No answer. A sliver of light spilled from beneath the master bathroom door. Ilya smiled faintly, rubbing the back of his neck. Shane must have beaten him home and opted for a soak to soothe his own battered ribs. Shane was a fan of rituals—expensive salts, high-end candles, anything to drown out the noise of being Shane Hollander. Ilya kicked off his shoes and padded toward the bathroom. "I’m home, malysh," he murmured, pushing the door open. "I hope you saved some hot water for-" The sentence died in his throat. The smile didn't just fade; it vanished as if it had never existed. The bathroom was thick with steam, smelling of hibiscus and cedarwood. But Ilya’s brain didn't process the scent. It processed the sight. Shane was submerged in the tub, his head tilted back against the porcelain, his eyes closed, his body unnervingly still. And the water-the water was a deep, visceral, terrifying crimson. It looked like a massacre. It looked like a life drained out into a ceramic basin. In an instant, the year was no longer the present. The luxury apartment dissolved. Ilya was twelve years old again, standing in a cramped kitchen in Russia. He was seeing his mother’s pale, limp hand draped across the ground, pills scattered everywhere. He remembered the silence of that day, a silence that felt like a scream you couldn't hear. The trauma, suppressed under layers of muscle, fame, and hockey padding, erupted like a geyser. "Shane!" The sound that ripped from Ilya’s chest wasn't a name; it was a sob, a fractured howl of pure, unadulterated agony. He didn't walk; he lunged. He hit the tiled floor on his knees with a bone-jarring thud, his hands shaking so violently he could barely grip the edge of the tub. "Shane! No, no, no-. Shane, wake up! Look at me!" Ilya’s large, calloused hands plunged into the dark red water, frantic and clumsy. He grabbed Shane’s shoulders, hauling him upward. His mind was a strobe light of horrors. Did he have a knife? Did he take something? Was the pressure of the secret too much? Did I miss the signs? "Please, pozhaluysta, Shane, don't leave me!" Ilya was hyperventilating now, the air coming in jagged, useless gulps. He dragged Shane’s limp upper body out of the water, pinning him against his chest, heedless of his own expensive sweater getting soaked in the red liquid. He was checking for wounds, his fingers searching Shane’s wrists, his neck, his chest, his eyes blurred by a thick veil of tears. "Stay with me, stay with me, I’ve got you-" "Ilya? Wh-what?" Shane’s eyes flew open, wide and disoriented. He sputtered, coughing as water splashed into his face. He felt Ilya’s heart hammering like a trapped bird against his back, felt the crushing, desperate grip of the man’s arms. "Ilya? What’s happening? Are we-is there a fire?" Shane scrambled for purchase, his hands splashing in the red water. Ilya didn't let go. He couldn't. He was rocking back and forth on the floor, holding Shane to his chest with a strength that was bordering on painful. His face was buried in Shane’s wet hair, and he was making a sound Shane had never heard bbefore, a low, broken whimpering. "You’re alive," Ilya choked out, the words barely intelligible. "You’re alive, you’re alive..." Shane finally managed to twist around in Ilya’s arms, his own heart racing from the sudden, violent wake-up. He looked at Ilya and his stomach dropped. The giant, stoic Boston Captain looked like a ghost. His skin was ash-gray, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused, and he was trembling so hard his teeth were literally chattering. "Ilya, look at me. Hey, look at me," Shane said, his voice dropping into a soft, urgent tone. He reached up, cupping Ilya’s face. "I’m okay. I’m right here. I just fell asleep. I was so tired, I-" Shane’s gaze flicked down to the tub, then to the red stains on Ilya’s clothes, then back to the tub. The realization hit him like a cross-check to the throat. The bath bomb. He had bought a new one at the boutique near the arena. "Midnight Rose," the label had said. It was supposed to be luxurious. He hadn't realized it would turn the water the color of an arterial spray. And he knew, God, he knew, about Ilya’s mother. Ilya had only told him once,
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 1,703
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #76473816
-
Shane dropped his gaze. “You’re really going to make me ask?” “Yes,” Ilya said. “You ask, maybe you get. So, ask.” “Okay,” Shane said. “I want you to fuck me.” Ilya started to laugh. “Don’t—this isn’t a fucking joke, alright?” Shane snapped. “Shut up. I want it to be different. Or, no—the same, but more. I want you to just make me fucking take it. Shit. I don’t know how to ask you for this.” “No, no, is good start so far,” Ilya said. “Go back to the part where I get to make you fucking take it. That’s good. Tell me more.”
- Part 1 of missing scenes
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 12,030
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 2 versions
- AO3:
- #76021551
-
“You lie to yourself, Hollander. Not to me.” “What, because you know me so well?” “Yes. I do. Don’t I?”
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 10,346
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 2 versions
- AO3:
- #76358436
-
hang up (i'm coming to you) by Raverin2
Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid
2025-12-16
Shane ended things with Rose, and then he finds himself in the same city as Ilya. He's not expecting to see him, but he does take a risk… then he bares his soul.
- Part 1 of Heated Rivalry
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 3,249
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #75846916
-
You'll hear me (howling outside your door) by photographer_of_thoughts
Heated Rivalry (TV)
2025-12-12
Lily: You left your shoes here. Shane frowns, looking down at his feet that are only covered by his black dress socks. Fuck. He walked out without shoes? He hadn't even noticed. or, Shane leaves the Vegas penthouse without his shoes. He might also be having a panic attack.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 4,176
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #75621751
-
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
-
Shane thinks of universes in which the plane never lands. Or, an alternative continuation of the post plane scene. In which Ilya is nowhere to be found, and Shane is mourning the love that was kept silent,
- Part 1 of Emergency Number
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 3,448
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #75425831
- ← Previous
- 1
- 2
- 3