Heated Rivalry (TV), Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Explicit, 5127 words
Tags: PWP, POV Shane Hollander, Mean Dom Ilya Rozanov, light Dom/sub, ruined orgasms, gangbang fantasy
Summary: After a bad game, Shane needs something. Ilya canât give it to him if he doesnât use his words. AKA Ilya threatens to whore Shane out to the Raiders
The place feels off. Like itâs at an angle. Shane whips his head around. All his stuff looks normal, in its right place, the Montreal backdrop glittering among the reflections of the lamps dotted around the place. He canât seem to focus on anything. Maybe Rozanov isnât even here. Maybe he has a second to pull himself togethâ
Shaneâs eyes lock onto Rozanovâs like a bolt slotting into place.
Heâs reclined into the corner of the couch, arm slung over the side, knee falling open onto the seat. Tumbler in hand, something brown he mustâve found in a forgotten cupboard. Looking amused.
âWell done,â Shane says, and his voice only wobbles a fraction. It should come easy to him. Itâs Shaneâs brand. But tonight, with him, heâs having to force the words out.
Rozanovâs eyes crinkle. âThanks,â he says. Shane doesnât expect any congratulations, but the absence of the return hangs between them, possibly even louder.
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it's 2014. everyone is doing the als ice bucket challenge. ilya rozanov is nominated for the ice bucket challenge. in true asshole fashion, once he completes his own video he nominates shane hollander to do the challenge next. shane hollander must complete the ice bucket challenge. he decides to film the challenge after practice, wearing a light gray compression shirt, shorts, and a backwards ball cap, with hayden and jj throwing the water on him. ilya rozanov watches the video, thinking it will be funny. he has never regretted his life choices more as he is forced to witness an already sweaty shane "jock" hollander become drenched in water, shirt clinging to his body even more, head shaking off the excess water with a grin, staring at the camera like he just knew ilya would be watching. it is like something out of ilya's - literally - wet dreams. he downloads the video to his phone. he makes another very large donation to the als association.
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Okay okay it's late I can post a sneaky dark fic premise shush nobody say anything SHUSH!!!
Basically, kidnapper au where Ilya holds Shane hostage at his own cottage. Shane is initially tied up and bound BUT he gradually gains certain "privileges" as time goes on and he behaves - bathroom, showers (all escorted and supervised), no manacles while he sleeps, longer chains so he can move around, even leisure activities later down the line. The only constant is he stays blindfolded the entire time and Ilya never speaks.
Eventually, the sensory deprivation makes Shane wholly dependent on Ilya as his sole source of companionship, specifically Ilya's touch because it's the only point of human contact he has. Shane becomes so reliant on Ilya that eventually the worst punishment Ilya can dole out is just,,, leaving him alone. Shane is always so desperately panicked when Ilya returns, so so grateful, big heaving sobs as he clings to Ilya, as he begs him not to do it ever again, he'll take any other punishment, he'd rather be beaten or starved, he'd let Ilya break his legs, burn him, choke him, anything ANYTHING but being left alone in the dark and the quiet,,,
They're also fucking the entire time, so. The Stockholm syndrome sets in QUICK.
And okay the sensory deprivation is so so important to me. Because Ilya never talks, but Shane slooowly comes to know Ilya's sounds regardless: his grunts of exertion when he's pinning Shane down,,, his harsh panting breaths after a particularly brutal punishment,,, his moans of pleasure when he's inside Shane,,, his derisive little exhalations at Shane's eventual pleading,,, his rolling warm laughter,,, the slow cadence of his breaths during slumber,,,
And then there's the way he smells, the way he tastes,,, the precise texture of his palms, his skin,,, every raised mole, every hair,,, Shane learns it all by heart
@sapphyshipseverything absolutely NAILING the core appeal of the sensory deprivation aspect of this au:
this au was made in a lab for me you have no idea!!!!!! Iâm also thinking that the sensory deprivation really helps to make Shane even more submissive and desperate to please. Because he gets so little sensory input and so few indications of Ilyaâs pleasure/displeasure with him, every tiny scrap of information is blown up to epic proportions in his mind, every bit of feedback feeling like a life or death situation. Like now the quietest, bitten back moan Ilya makes as he pushes inside Shane makes him feel victorious, the slight exhale of breath through his nose when heâs displeased makes him feel suicidal, the sound of Ilyaâs hand as it slaps his face feels like relief, because heâs still worthy of being corrected. He grows to hate his own sounds because they drown that feedback out, begs for a gag because he wants to be able to hear Ilya better, kisses his feet in relief when he lets him wear one.
(I think if Ilya did decide to talk or let him see him, he would go catatonic for a bit, not just because of the reveal but because being able to see Ilyaâs reactions would feel like seeing God. Worshippers arenât supposed to actually meet their gods, theyâre supposed to infer their moods from obscure and confusing signs in the world around them)
She's nice and objectively very beautiful, but that's where it ends. His last failed date was at least into baseball - something they could pass the time with after realizing they weren't gonna be A Thing. But tonight...Christ.
They also wonât be A Thing, only itâs obvious in less of a 'haha oh well - anyway did you catch that save in the fifth inning' way and more of a '...........' way, on account of the fact that Shane's blasted through all his prepared talking points, and now has nothing to do but notice all the other elements of the evening that continue to taunt him.
The soup is a weird consistency. The little candle at their table snuffed out fifteen minutes ago, sitting dead beside the clump of lettuce he somehow managed to drop between the bowl and his plate. There's a tiny bit of brussels sprout caught between his lower back molars that's driving him fucking crazy, refusing to be dislodged by each subtle poke of his tongue.
And he thinks, maybe, that he wouldn't care so much about this trainwreck of an evening if he didnât feel like itâs being broadcast to the rest of the restaurant. Not that people are watching, really. Just one. Just the mean looking security guy who's posted up on the back wall, keeping an eye on the room with an easy, almost bored gaze that somehow keeps landing at Shane's table.
Or...well...less Shane's table, and more just Shane himself.
The restaurant is drenched in dim mood lighting, so he can't be positive it's a look of pity this guy's giving him. But realistically, he's not sure what else it could be. Shane's blowing it, after all. Hard. This whole thing has turned into some sort of lowkey humiliation ritual, each pass of the guy's attention over him causing heat to crawl up the back of his neck.
Whatever. They're about halfway done with their entrees. And he's willing to bet she won't be taking the dessert menu when it comes around, which is fine by him. Theyâre in the home stretch.
Shane wipes his mouth with the weirdly scratchy cloth napkin. Pokes his tongue at his lower molars as he goes for his glass of wine. Can't help but flick his attention over to the back wall, warmth settling in his belly as he takes in, not for the first time, how that black uniform shirt snugly stretches over a tight chest, sleeves clinging around big biceps. Security guy works out. Obviously. He's a fucking security guy. And he's looking right at Shane again, just close enough to catch how his eyes dip down the front of Shane's dress shirt and then back up.
It's got something fluttering in Shane's chest as he pulls his gaze away, bringing his wine glass right back up before he can set it down again. Right. Okay.
"Are you nearby?"
Theyâre the first words out of his date's mouth in what feels like twenty minutes, and to be quite fucking honest it throws Shane, his brow pinching in light confusion.
"Sorry?" Such a hot thing to say. He couldn't be nailing this more, could he?
"Your place..." she says again, and there's this insistence in it that finally gets the cobwebbed wheels turning, "is it close?"
Shane blinks.
Schools a quick lift of his eyebrows before they can fly up.
Oh.
She thinks-...
"Uh..." Right, right right. "Yeah, about...half hour maybe?"
So, no.
That doesn't seem to deter her. She simply nods, then goes back to eavesdropping on the date that's going much better at the table behind her.
Theyâre laughing it up back there. Clinking their glasses. Thereâs lots to laugh about here too, but itâd be in a pathetic way that he just canât get himself to concede to yet. So, Shane tops off his dateâs glass. Eats his salmon. Shakes off the little flutter of interest that skips from his chest down into his lap as he once again catches eyes with security guy, who seems to be finding this all very entertaining. Doesnât seem mean at all, actually. The more Shane looks. The more he looks back.
More wine. Theyâre finishing the bottle. His date thanks him and is, to her credit, being very cool about how the metaphorical candle has clearly snuffed out between them before their meal is even done. Now they just need to get on the same page about metaphorical dessert.
Shane takes a gigantic swig, letting it sit in his mouth for a second before gulping it down - warm, warm, warm in his belly.
She thinks heâs gonna take her home and fuck her.
Maybe he should. To make it up to her.
Except Shane hasnât been hitting any homeruns on those lately either, has he?
Fuck.
The bottom of his wine glass clatters loudly against the edge of his plate as he sets it down too rough, movements suddenly unsteady. It pulls attention from all around, because of course it does. Everyone look at the idiot who can't hold his alcohol.
What a nightmare. Security guy must be fucking loving this one.
But when he glances over, the wall is empty. No silent, teasing eyes. No intriguing presence. No muscles, thick and sturdy and big enough that Shane could really put up a-
âBe back.â
In a single blink, his date has pulled herself up from the booth and made her way towards the bathroom, already digging into her purse without looking back.
Right. Actually, a break to reset sounds better than any dessert they could offer him here. So, with a little nod to inform their server that heâll be back too, he gathers himself and steps away from the table.
It's not until the cool October breeze washes over Shane's face that he realizes how warm he was getting.
Probably from the wine.
And the embarrassment.
And the impending doom settling in his guts, another realization not too far behind.
Whatever, he decides, using the privacy to slip a finger into his mouth and finally free his molars of the offensive feeling - thank god. Stupid brussels sprouts. They weren't even cooked right.
It's dark around the back of the restaurant. Nice and quiet too, tucked away from the busy road out front. Shane takes in the moment with a grounding tip of his head toward the moon with his eyes closed. Deep breath. Hold it. Don't think about why all his dates with women have been absolute dogshit. Aaaaand release.
Only when he breathes out, it's not alone.
He breathes out, and it's paired, horrifyingly, with a gentle huff of laughter from further down the building. The smell of fresh cigarette smoke.
Holy shit, heâs not alone.
Shane attempts to settle the startle in his heart, but it's no use when he turns to see the figure leaning up against the brick wall, those familiar eyes now watching him in the cool moonlight.
"Jesus Christ..." It slips out. Just on the end of Shane's breath. And suddenly he could really use another cool breeze for his face.
Because the security guy is as imposing as he was inside, simply trading moody burgundy for darkened brick. But his face is softer up close. Sweeter, somehow. And very, very handsome.
Shane tears his gaze away the second those lips curl into a teasing grin, shaking his head. All that red wine is really doing a number on him.
âWhen is big day?â
Oh god, his voice is deep.
Shaneâs gotta get it together. And yet, itâs impossible to keep from being drawn right back into that grin, even as he seeks clarification. âBig day?â
âMm, your wedding,â he says, nodding casually back inside without looking away. âLove at first sight, yes?â
It's...
Okay, so he really is an asshole. And whatâs that accent? Russian?
Shane hangs his head, but can't hold back the breathy chuckle that falls from him. No use in denying it, he guesses. Especially when he kinda wants to hear this guy talk to him some more. "Really funny stuff, man..."
"Mm."
"Wonât haveta worry about a wedding gift, at least."
"Oh, no? You were doing so well."
Something weirdly giddy flips through Shane's chest as he straightens to throw the security guy a look. Because now that it's just the two of them, he's out here openly fucking with him. And Shane knows that. So why is it making his body light up from head to toe?
It's the wine probably. Sweet red historically gets him acting stupid. Or maybe it's the way the guy holds Shane so comfortably in his attention, as he draws his cigarette up to his lips to take a lazy drag.
Shane swallows. Wets his bottom lip. Pulls his heavy gaze up from the glowing tip to meet those intriguing, sparkling eyes as smoke fills the air between them.
Wow.
"I uh-... I'm usually...better..." he hears himself say. The short noise of curiosity floating on the smokeâs coattails prompts him to clarify. "I like-...you know...have game."
It's not a lie. And yet Shane has somehow never felt more stupid than he does in this moment, the need to clarify to this man that he's not actually a loser suddenly very very important to him.
Which is why his body doesn't know what the fuck to do when it's getting hit by that smile again. That tease. The sweetly shitty headnod he gets as the guy gives him a little "Mm...okay."
Oh god Shane wants... Much more than he wanted when he was sitting across from his literal date. "Alright, fuck you..."
It shouldn't be this easy. He shouldn't be smiling so big with a stranger. Playing so much.
He should go inside. Capitalize on this feeling and use it to turn his date around.
Or he could stay right here, feet planted to the asphalt, acknowledging the wanting tug of his own body.
If he moves right now, itâs not gonna be in the direction of the door.
âWhat is your name.â
Shane swallows, nostrils flailing with a big breath in. âShaneâŚ?â He watches, with another one of those flutters under his rib cage, as his answer seems to satisfy. And before he can stop himself he hears it - from his own mouth - each word clung with the worst Russian accent possible. âWhat ees your name?â
Oh god what the fuck. Heâs never touching red wine again.
Not even the genuine grin curling across those tempting lips can make up for the embarrassment - the laughter. âWow. This is your best try?â
âNo,â Shane insists over a scowl. And to be honest he doesnât even know what heâs answering. His best accent? No. His best attempt at flirting? Also no.
Wait a minute. Is he flirting?
âIâm-⌠I should go back. âŚinside.â Never mind how somethingâs kicking and screaming in him at the thought. Never mind how he stays exactly where he stands.
A concept not lost on security guy. Who never did actually give him his name, by the way. âOkay, Shane.â
Itâs noticeably kinder than he could be. Heâs still teasing, obviously, but he says nothing about his date. No predictions on how the rest of his night will go. He just brings his cigarette up to his lips, pulling in a hit that hollows his cheeks in the dark as he keeps their eye contact.
Itâs the first time Shaneâs ever craved nicotine.
He needs to go inside bad.
With a huff, he pulls his phone out of his pocket. Half past eight. He has no idea how long heâs been out here. Only that itâs too long when heâs got someone waiting at the table for him. So they can pay. So they can leave. So they can-âŚ
Shane shifts uncomfortably, jaw squaring. And heâs not exactly sure how he lets it slip out, but it does all the same, the question far too genuine for the situation. âHow do I tell her Iâm not gonna fuck her?â
Itâs the setup of a lifetime. The perfect pitch for a grand slam. And yet the man in front of him doesnât swing.
No. Instead, he keeps Shane in his sights, eyes roaming up and down the blush hopefully hidden by the shadows back here. And then he answers. âSimple. You tell her you are fucking someone else tonight.â
Shane can feel the exact moment his stuttery little heart sinks from his chest to his dick - to his voice, quiet but undeniably curious. âSomeone elseâŚ?â
Because the atmosphere rushes forward with the guy, adrenaline spiking in his core as his phone is slipped out of his hand.
Shane watches him thumb something in with breaths that wonât fill his lungs. Swallows down whateverâs trying to fight its way out of his mouth right now, before it can shatter the tension and ruin the moment.
And when his phone is being handed back to him, Shaneâs heart is fucking pounding, eyes hungrily taking in whatâs been left on his screen.
A phone number. And a name.
Ilya.
He shoots his attention back up, but itâs too late. Security guy is making his way to the back door, snuffing out his cigarette on the brick.
Chatter and light and clinking glasses seep into the dark, easy vibe theyâve made themselves back here as he opens the door. A break in the trance. A pop of the bubble.
Shane pulls in a breath again, lungs burning.
And then Ilya tosses him a wink, voice low, âSee you soon.â
The door shuts behind him.
Everything grows dark and still again.
AndâŚ
Shane blinks, tossing glances to the right and left of him in borderline shock because what the fuck. What just happened to him? That was all real?
Thereâs a very good chance the brussels sprouts actually killed him and theyâre trying to resuscitate his lifeless body in the booth right now, his date long gone. ButâŚ
Another gust of October breezeâŚ
Excitement, potent and real in a way he hasnât felt for a long time nowâŚ
A smile works its way across Shaneâs lips as he double-checks the number on his screen, and then he pockets his phone, inspired to make his way back inside to-
All movement stops for a moment as he looks down at himself. Or, more specifically, the front of his pants.
Oh.
âŚwow.
Okay, a few more minutes and then heâll go back inside.
Time for zoom quiz 2!! I hope you all have been reheating with an eye for detail...
Hi! There are 40 multiple choice questions with zoomed in screencaps of Heated Rivalry episodes. Please select the correct episode each scre
I will be personally sending badges to the first 500 responses and/or the first week of the quiz being live, whichever happens first, then I'll make the badges accessible for anyone!
ilya dropping shane off in the middle of the woods and telling him the challenge is he has to find his way home with no supplies or guide tools but actually ilya is hunting him đĽ°đĽ°đĽ°
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wait all this talk about a hypothetical Scott and Kip divorce got me thinkingâŚ
Imagine Scottâs at an all star game, drunk off his ass at the bar. Shane walks in and leans on the bar and Scott notices that Shaneâs not wearing his wedding ring. Shane always wears his ring off the ice, there have been fucking articles about how Ilya wears his on a chain and Shane doesnât
Scott audibly sighs and Shane looks over at him. Scottâs too drunk not to say, âFuck, sorry, Iâm just so glad Iâm not alone. When did it happen? It was the fucking media, right? That was part of it for us. All this pressure to be perfect. Who can live up to that?â
Shaneâs like, âUh. What?â
Scottâs like, âSorry. Probably still fresh, huh? It is for me. Iâm just glad I wonât be the only gay divorcĂŠ in the league. Hey maybe we could time our announcements so they come out at the same time? Soften the blow for each other? Or, no, that could get political fastâ Scott keeps drunkenly rambling on
Shaneâs just standing there, panicked, trying to figure out the best way to break the news that the only reason heâs not wearing his wedding ring is because it really breaks his immersion in their roleplay that heâs a random slut Ilyaâs picking up at the bar
This makes them look like the main couple and imma be so clear THIS relationship WOULD end in a murder-suicide that people would talk about for decades even outside the hockey world TRUSTT
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Rolex invites Shane to the Royal Box at Wimbledon again and this time Shane accepts because Rolex specifically asked if he could bring his husband as well and fuck yes he can and together Ilya and Shane are ready to serve so much cunt. They both get dressed in some sharp, elevated summer suits, Ilya in Versace and Shane in Gucci, the dramatic sunglasses & the bitchiest, judgiest mogging are ON, they mirror each other as they cross their legs; occasionally they're holding hands or sit with Ilya's arm around Shanes waist, they are the epitome of power husbands & this is their playground. Do they have one clue what is going on on the court? Of course not. That doesn't stop them from having a fabulous time showing off each other. They know they steal the limelight looking as devastating as they do, together. Turns out these dreadful PR appointments are actually incredible fun when you have your husband/best friend / soulmate with you and Shane can't imagine how he ever did this without Ilya.
Now picture this, occasionally they whisper into each other's ears, sometimes its just sweet nothigns and sometimes it's some devastating chirps about tennis, and each time a precious smile breaks through, only for each other, but it drives the photographers wild.
(afterwards, Ilya is excited to have the perfect summer with Shane where they fuck their way across europe)
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