RueElizabeth
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His wellness check doesn’t come in the form of burly men with guns, demanding he put his hands up while they pin him to the wall and deem him a danger to himself or others. It comes in the form of a six foot even, doe-eyed boy in a Metros pullover, freshly showered hair still damp at the ends, and worry dotting his face like the freckles across his nose. He looks angry, too, like Ilya might still find himself against the nearest wall, and not in the fun way.
“What the fuck, Rozanov?”
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Ilya takes personal leave without telling anyone. Shane doesn’t need to ask him about it, but he knows what needs to be done.
Bookmarked by RueElizabeth
21 May 2026
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“Four months without a chance to fuck you. It is killing me.”
“What if…” Shane says. “I have an idea of something that could help. Since I don’t want you to die.”
Ilya grins wider than he means to. He catches it in his tiny frame on the corner of the screen, then fights the urge to cover his mouth like a little girl at his archrival - who he fucks regularly, and thinks about almost constantly - simply admitting he prefers him alive.
“What, you coming here? You have early game. Three hours to fly to and from Boston in the middle of the night, I don’t think it will work.”
“No. Remember in Nashville, when I told you I, um, have a thing?”
“More specific, Hollander.”
“I could use it. I could…pretend it’s you.”
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Several months after winning MVP in Las Vegas, Ilya fights constantly to keep Shane Hollander out of his mind. After leaving a failed first date, unsatisfied, he finally finds out what color Shane’s “thing” is.
Bookmarked by RueElizabeth
20 May 2026
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Ilya Rozanov’s opponents would describe him as a brutal savage with a dirty record, known for hitting after the bell’s gone off. Spectators would describe him as a cocky spitfire with the stats to back it up, dollar bills passed around like candy whenever he was in the cage. Commentators would describe him as a barreling force of nature with a promising legacy. Weighing in at a hundred and eighty-five pounds of raw muscle, he was the son of Grigori Rozanov, notorious Russian street fighter, and he pulled no punches, so to speak.
Shane would describe Ilya Rozanov as a fucking asshole with, admittedly, a pretty clean uppercut. Hardly any of the matches he’d watched him win had lasted the full five minutes.
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AU. Shane first introduces himself to Ilya Rozanov ten minutes before they’re slotted to beat the shit out of each other in front of a live audience. They go together like fire and gasoline.
Bookmarked by RueElizabeth
20 May 2026
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play destroy by kneeinjury
Fandoms: Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid
27 Jan 2026
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Shane is silent for so long that Rozanov leans, slouching against the doorframe, and raises his eyebrows at him expectantly. “Yes? You are selling bibles?”
“You fucked my girlfriend.” It tears out of him.
“Ah,” Rozanov drawls, as if the thought is just now occurring to him, “yes. I did.”- Language:
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Bookmarked by RueElizabeth
19 May 2026
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assist by schittyfic for Sirens_scales
Fandoms: Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types, Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid
05 Apr 2026
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When Ilya answers, he’s greeted with a whimpered moan that goes straight to his head, leaving him reeling like he’s just thrown back another shot. His mouth drops open, the cigarette dangling stupidly from his lower lip for a second until he plucks it free with his other hand.
Holy fuck. He must be dreaming. But the rough breaths filtering into his ear are too real, tethering him tightly to the moment.
“Jane,” he murmurs, gleeful and shocked. “This is not like you.”
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Or: after Shane confesses that he can struggle to get off if he's too stressed, Ilya suggests he should just call him next time. He doesn't think Shane would ever be desperate enough to go through with it.
Bookmarked by RueElizabeth
17 May 2026