thegingerphox



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  1. Public Bookmark *

    Summary

    all fics i write for the heated rivalry universe will be linked into this one. some will be connected. some will definitely not be.

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    28 Jan 2026

  2. Public Bookmark *

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    The thing about sex with Ilya Rozanov is that Shane can’t chill out about it.

    The predator that lurks under his skin is unable to settle, fighting endlessly against his hands, his touch, the feeling of his fingers curling at the nape of his neck. It's always a fight, even when Shane tries to be good, some sharp-tongued creature stirring in his chest, his instincts fired up and honed on the ice.

    Ilya, he thinks, enjoys it.

    OR: Shane's rut arrives. So does his bloodthirstiness. And, even worse, his honesty.

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    English
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    1/1
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    28 Jan 2026

  3. Public Bookmark *

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    “No,” he says, smiling gently, like he doesn't know how irritating he's being. “Is my room first, da? You should speak with front desk.”

    Hollander stares at him.

    And then he starts to laugh.

    You ask the front desk,” he shoots back, in between his odd wheezes. Ilya's heart starts to pound in double time, because this is not—this cannot be Shane Hollander playing bed chicken with him. Their competitiveness is fierce, to be certain, but surely, Hollander would be the bigger person, no? “This is my fucking room, Rozanov. Wild horses couldn't drag me away.”

    OR: Ilya's apartment is under construction. Shane's in town for a game. It'd be a shame if they somehow had the same hotel room.

    [or, or: we need some more goddamn 'there was only one bed' out here.]

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    1/1
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    28 Jan 2026

  4. Public Bookmark *

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    Shane doesn't even have to look up to know that Ilya is grinning, a feral, vicious thing as he knots his fingers in Shane's hair and tugs, just hard enough for Shane to let out a whine. The dull ache reverberates down his nerves, as he opens his mouth and pants, sucking down lungful after lungful of Ilya's sweat and musk, salt straight from his skin as he noses at the hem of his shirt.

    “Is good, we won,” Ilya murmurs, stroking his hand through Shane's hair. “Have been wanting to show—have been wanting to give prize.” He pauses, and Shane knows his next words are going to be a cruel gift, a dagger of lust straight between his ribs. “And Hollander has been eager to show off, yes? Three goals,”—he whistles, low and mocking as Shane shifts at his feet, his ears burning as Ilya cups the back of his head, scratching blunt nails over his scalp—“is like he needed to prove how bad he wants.”

    OR: Ottawa wins the Stanley Cup. Everyone gets a reward.

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    28 Jan 2026

  5. Public Bookmark *

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    “And Shane, if you are curious,” Ilya whispers in his ear, the word curls on his tongue just like it did over nine years ago. He then adds, close and hushed like a secret that the world doesn’t deserve, and because sometimes he is a lot more insightful than Shane would like, “We can switch.”

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    28 Jan 2026