ALAS!

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Rose Landry Characters: Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Rose Landry, Miles (Game Changers) Additional Tags: Pornstars, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, ex-hockey player Shane Hollander, revenge porn, not between shane and ilya, what do you mean the people in porn dont love each other???, past sexual trauma, Rough Sex, like they are actually fighting, extremely light cnc (it’s wrestling porn…), Verbal Consent, Consent King Ilya Rozanov, Dom Ilya Rozanov, Sub Shane Hollander, Subspace, jacob tierney directs it lmao, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Wrestling Kink, light pain kink, Light Choking, Virgin Shane Hollander, but he’s so freaked out, Good Friend Rose Landry, cart fiend rose landry, Alternate Universe - College/University, experienced ilya rozanov, at first i cracked and then i serioused, there is no hockey, Blowjobs, Rough Oral Sex, face fucking, good dom ilya rozanov, they love each other they just don’t know it yet, Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, happy ending get it Series: Part 1 of The Boxer Summary:

The only people who seemed entirely silent on the situation were the NHL. And, to Shane’s dismay, that silence persisted past his agoraphobic stint. No second-choice draft pick, no rookie season, no Stanley Cups, and no going pro. Ever. Everything he’d worked for, gone, because he’d lost a stupid bet and gotten hard in his pants while his teammates coated his lashes, tongue, and icy-red cheeks with their cum. Old teammates who, of course, were never identified. Probably the same teammates who, like so many others, had flooded his inbox with nasty messages calling him every name under the sun. The word faggot had crossed his screen so many times it was practically burned into his phone, tattooed into evidence of the fact that he was that thing hockey players loved to throw around as an insult. He was young, stupid, eager to please and obey, hazed by the people he wanted more than anything to trust. 

OR

After a viral video ruins Shane Hollander’s chances of ever playing for the NHL, he gets his lick back in other ways.

OR

All Ilya has to do is press the little button above his seat and in a matter of seconds a beautiful man will come stand in front of Ilya and ask what he can do for him. A beautiful man with beautiful freckles and shining brown eyes and biceps that had flexed tantalizingly when he'd helped an older woman with her overhead luggage during boarding. And not Ilya, no. He'll ask what he can do for Mr. Rozanov.

It's honestly almost too much. (Almost.)

The first couple of calls had seemed innocent enough, and the flight attendant ("SHANE," his name tag helpfully provides) had been the picture of customer service as he arrived at Ilya's seat with a pasted-on pleasant smile and confidently strode up and down the aisle to bring him a hot towel, a snack, an extra blanket, and always "if there's anything else I can do, sir, please let me know." Ilya had never appreciated the phrase "hate to see them go, love to watch them leave" more.

By the fifth call in the space of an hour, Shane seems to be getting suspicious. His smile has taken on a wry edge as he approaches Ilya's seat, but Ilya maintains perfect innocence as he asks Shane if he can close his window shade.

Shane stops just short of rolling his eyes. "Mr. Rozanov, I have a feeling you're more than capable of closing a window shade on your own."

Ilya shrugs, eyes wide in put-upon bewilderment. "It's stuck! I cannot budge it."

Shane sighs as he braces one hand on Ilya's armrest leans across him to pull the shade down (easily, of course). Ilya tries not to be too obvious as he breathes Shane in, reveling in having him so close, but Shane must sense it anyway because he freezes as he starts to pull away, looking back at Ilya warily as if he's not quite sure what his game is.

"Ah, my hero," Ilya praises softly. "I knew you could do it."

Ilya watches Shane swallow hard before he straightens up. "Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Rozanov?" he asks, a slight waver in his voice.

"Not right now, thank you, Shane. But I'll let you know next time I need you." Ilya points to the button above his head and winks, smiling at the way it makes Shane flush before he hurries away.

Ilya decides not to press the button for over an hour after that, just to see, and the way it makes Shane slowly grow more and more antsy is simply delicious. Ilya can tell he's itching for Ilya's next call, nervously shifting his eyes over to Ilya as he assists other passengers.

After about forty-five minutes, Ilya is playing a game on his phone when he senses Shane next to him and looks up, where he's nervously biting his lip. "Mr. Rozanov, I just wanted to let you know that we'll be starting beverage service shortly. I'll be busy with the cart for a while, so if there's anything you might need..."

He's so beautifully nervous. He's being so wonderfully good. Ilya rewards him with an honest smile, one that seems to put Shane at ease. "Thank you, Shane. I will be fine."

Shane breathes out, returning Ilya's smile. "Ok, cool. I'll, uh, check on you later, ok?"

"Ok. Thank you."

When Shane comes with the beverage cart, he asks for Shane's number. He's never seen anyone flush more prettily as he writes it down on an airline cocktail napkin and signs it "xx Shane."

~~

Not often. Maybe only a couple of times. Maybe only once.

Some brutal fucking game where Shane cracked his fucking head on the ice hard enough that Ilya swore he felt it through the ice. The visor on his fucking helmet snapped off. His ears rang and his head swam but he didn't lose consciousness, his eyes were dilating fine. The trainers kept him back for half a period but eventually had to let him back out on the ice because someone complaining that much and talking that lucidly was probably alright. And he is, he is actually alright, but by the time the adrenalin of the game is gone and by the time he's done self-flagellating for the fact that, after all of that shit, Boston won by one point--by the time that's done, he's tired. His head aches. And this is the last time he gets to see Ilya, maybe, before playoffs ramp up and they don't speak for awhile. So of course he still goes to Ilya's place and of course he lets Ilya kiss him hard in the doorway, though he can't help the slight Ah, ah that comes out of his mouth when Ilya does his normal thing and fists a hand in his hair.

"Oh, oh, your head." Ilya says this far too gently and far too sweetly, like one might to an animal or child. Because Ilya is a little like the Big Bad Wolf and at times speaks with a voice not his own. Sometimes he opens his mouth but what comes out isn't his normal voice, deep and sexy and sometimes crude. At times he speaks with a different voice enirely--soft, higher. Call it loving, if it wasn't Ilya fucking Rozanov.

(This is because Ilya Rozanov is a loverboy at heart, always has been. Shane doesn't know this yet.)

"It's fine," Shane mutters, already searching for Ilya's mouth again. "Come on. Come on."

And Ilya obliges him, slots their mouths back together and slots his hands behind Shane's thighs to lift, and Shane loves that. He always does. He would never ever tell Rozanov, but he fucking loves submitting to him in that way--giving over his entire body as something to be picked up, moved around. This instrument of his that he keeps so finely tuned, and when he's with Ilya it doesn't belong to him anymore. It feels so fucking good, every time.

It feels especially good tonight, when all he's heard for hours is Fuck Hollander that one was bad. Careful with that head man we're gonna need it. That one was nasty, you sure you're good. Gotta be careful man.

Ilya says absolutely none of this. Ilya hauls him to the bedroom and tilts onto the bed, landing on it widthwise with Shane under him. He kisses Shane's stomach and hips as he takes off his pants for him and then he rests his chin in Shane's bush as he smiles and says, "You have headache, hm? I see you squint."

"A little. It's fine."

"You know what's good for headache?" Ilya kisses him twice, once in the hip, once on the stomach, low enough that Shane feels the suction of the kiss at the base of his dick.

"What?" Shane whispers, arms over his head and knees dropped onto the bedspread.

"Orgasm," Ilya says simply. "Releases chemicals, makes you feel good. I'll make you feel good, okay? See if that headache goes away."

And Ilya, as always, makes him feel good. But only after he puts a pillow behind Shane's head and a pillow under his hips and asks him if he's comfortable. And Shane would roll his eyes and accuse him of patronizing him, making fun of him for taking the hit, if there wasn't something different in Rozanov's eyes tonight. He kneels between Shane's legs and looks down at him, hands massaging Shane's thighs, and he looks unbearably handsome. Shane tells him so.

"Are you gonna fuck me?" Shane murmurs, when the staring and the touching has gone on for a very long time.

"Mm-hm. Yes." Ilya kisses his belly again, presses his forehead there. Says something that might be So beautiful or Pretty boy or even My baby. Shane decides it's not for his ears and doesn't listen, and then makes himself forget he ever heard it.

Ilya fucks him for absolute ages and says things like Feel good? Nice for you? Nice full feeling in your tummy? How is your head, baby, feel better? And Shane doesn't know why it doesn't feel condescending, why it feels so fucking good to let Ilya handle him this way when they normally snarl and bite at each other after games like the one tonight and like it that way. He doesn't know why this version of Ilya's control over him feels so right and fucking special.

Shane comes twice. Once with Ilya's hand around his cock, hand fisted in Ilya's perfect hair, Ilya grunting into his neck, the beautiful sensation of Ilya's thick cock twitching inside him, ideal in almost every way. Once a little later, in Ilya's mouth after he'd come and tied off the condom and got back in bed and kissed his way slowly down Shane's body from his shoulder to his hip. A gentle, soundless orgasm that Ilya swallowed down without comment before he rested his cheek on Shane's hip and dozed for a little while.

Shane taps his chin because it's getting late and he's going to miss curfew.

"I will pay your fine," Ilya mutters next to Shane's balls.

"Bad idea," Shane mumbles. There's a beat of silence, and then he says, "We probably shouldn't...do it like that again."

Ilya, after a moment, only nods.

It's the closest they come to talking about it. The way that it gets just a bit too real sometimes. The way that they let it keep happening, each of them making eye contact with it and then plucking their own eyes out just to forget its shape.

At the door, Ilya says, "Your head feels better, yes?"

And Shane says, "Yeah, you took good care of me."

And Ilya puffs up, proud of himself, then kisses the side of Shane's head while Shane resists the urge to say Fuck, Rozanov, what did I just say, because he wants it. Goddamn it, he fucking wants it and he's tired of denying himself.