Work Text:
Montreal--2013
Shane Hollander never had bad days.
Or rather, he refused to. His life ran on routine and carefully maintained discipline. He woke at six. He ran ten kilometers. He completed his pull ups, push ups, and crunches with the same mechanical consistency everyday. He stretched, made his smoothie and bagel, and watched SportsCenter from the opening highlight to the final segment.
Routine was stability to him. Routine was control.
Which was why the universe seemed almost vindictive in choosing this particular morning to unravel him.
He woke not to the soft buzz of his alarm, but to an abrupt, jarring thud that shook the ceiling above him.
He blinked, disoriented. Another thud followed, then the grating whine of a power drill. The upstairs unit had been undergoing renovations for weeks.
He reached for his phone. 7:52 a.m.
For several long seconds, Shane simply stared at the numbers on the screen, uncomprehending. His alarm -- his trusted, unfailing six o’clock alarm -- had not gone off. It had not even attempted to, because he forgot to turn it on last night.
His carefully maintained internal schedule was gone the moment he’d opened his eyes.
He shot upright, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, and immediately stabbed his calf against the sharp corner of the bedframe. The pain was immediate. He hissed under his breath and stood, only to step directly onto the tangle of running shorts he’d dropped on the floor the night before. His foot slipped, forcing him to lunge for the dresser for balance. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.
So much for a calm, controlled start.
In the bathroom mirror, he looked nothing like the disciplined athlete he expected to see each morning. His hair stood in fluffed up, uneven tufts. A faint crease from his charger cord marked the left side of his cheek.
He splashed cold water on his face, only for it to spatter back onto his T-shirt. He changed. The replacement shirt clung wrong. He folded the shirt and put it back in the drawer. He changed again.
He tried to salvage the morning with a shortened workout. No time for a run.
He planted his palms on the floor for push ups, only realizing halfway through the third rep that he’d forgotten his mat. The hardwood was unyielding, but he pushed through. By the tenth rep, his arms protested, and by the eleventh, his wrist almost gave out.
Pull ups offered no relief. Sweat from the hardwood made his grip slippery, forcing him to adjust constantly, breaking his rhythm. Stretching felt equally stubborn; his muscles refused to cooperate, and he couldn't get his breathing steady.
In the kitchen, he tried to cling to the familiar. Smoothie, bagel, and his SportsCenter. If he could just hit those marks, maybe, just maybe, the rest of the day would fall back into place.
He reached for the blender.
It slipped from his grasp, clattering against the counter before he managed to grab it. The sound echoed through the quiet apartment, rattling his frayed nerves.
He blended a smoothie anyway, even though the impending doom of the blender somehow spontaneously combusting gnawed at the back of his mind. His smoothie spilled over the rim of his cup, puddling on the dark granite counter. He mopped it up with paper towels, which left his hands feeling damp and sticky. SportsCenter droned on in the background, but he barely registered the highlights.
And Shane Hollander -- who didn’t have bad days -- was having one he could no longer ignore.
And the game that night didn’t make it any better.
If anything, it felt like the universe had been saving its worst for the Bell Centre.
From the opening faceoff, the rink seemed rigged against them. Passes missed their targets. Shots that should have been simple were blocked or deflected. The opposing team, whoever they were -- (Sabres? Penguins? Shane genuinely couldn’t remember) -- moved with a precision that made the Metro’s own plays look amateurish.
It wasn’t even elegant hockey.
Shane’s first shift was a disaster in miniature. He tried to lead the play, anticipate the puck, stay one step ahead -- but he arrived late by a fraction, missing the moment the puck slipped past a defenseman and into the neutral zone.
A single misstep, a slightly slower turn, and suddenly the opposition was charging toward their net. The puck flew past their goalie with terrifying ease before anyone could intervene.
The horn blared, and the crowd erupted. Shane felt a twist of helplessness coil in his stomach.
Every shift felt like a trap. The puck would move to a teammate, then immediately to an opponent. Efforts to defend seemed to vanish in midair, leaving open paths for the opposing forwards.
By the second period, frustration had turned to tension. A reckless hit on a Montreal forward sparked a scuffle near the boards. Gloves hit ice, sticks clattered, and Shane skated over to separate the two. “Break it up! Break it up!” he yelled, along with the refs, voice rough. He felt embarrassed for how desperate he sounded.
Stephenson, flushed from the fight, skated past. “It’s getting out of hand, Cap!”
Shane’s chest tightened. “Stay on your feet!” The words sounded empty even to him.
The scoreboard was merciless. One goal, two, three. Every line change offered no relief, players came off muttering curses under their breath. Shane’s hands gripped the boards as he tried to marshal the next shift.
Vonduras skated past, shaking his head. “We can’t catch a break tonight. Not one.”
Shane didn’t answer. He was captain, yes, but the anchor he always prided himself on being had been ripped away.
By the third period, Shane’s awareness had narrowed. He saw only what was directly in front of him: the puck, the opposing player, the net. Everything else faded into background noise. The opposing forwards zipped past defenders, scored again, and again. Each goal made him feel less like a player and more like a spectator of his own team’s collapse.
When the final horn sounded, it almost felt like a relief, as shameful that was. Shane skated off, sticky with sweat, exhausted in a way that was more mental than physical.
The locker room had that unmistakable post-loss hush. Teammates moved around him quietly, speaking in clipped tones or not at all. Gear hit the floor with dull thuds.
Shane peeled off his uniform piece by piece. His undershirt stuck to his spine as he put his gear down. When he finally sat down, elbows braced on his knees, his chest still rose and fell too quickly -- like his body hadn’t caught up to the fact that the torture was over.
He dragged both hands down his face.
He hadn’t even finished pulling on a clean T-shirt when he heard a knock at the door of the room.
“Media’s coming in,” someone muttered. “Heads up.”
Of course they were. After a mess like that, they’d be starving for a clip.
The reporters trickled in, boom mics hovering in the air and lenses snapping up toward him. Shane straightened and tried to put on his professional voice.
First question fired before he could take a breath.
“Shane, tough loss tonight. What went wrong out there?”
He swallowed. “I… I’m frustrated. Mostly with myself. I wasn’t sharp tonight. I let the game get away from us.”
Flash.
“Did the early goals rattle the team?”
“We didn’t respond the way we needed to,” he said. Another flash.
“Some people are already calling this the worst Metro performance in seasons-”
“I’m not interested in labels,” he cut in, voice steady despite the burn in his throat. “We’ll review the tape, clean up our mistakes, and come back stronger.”
Eventually, as if they were granting him mercy, they left.
When the room was quiet again, Shane reached into his bag for his phone. His thumb hovered over the screen for a second, his pulse still uneven, then he opened his messages.
Shane: You free?
He hesitated.
Shane: Meet me at the penthouse
Another pause. The door closed again with a hollow thud.
Shane: Please.
He just needed to not be alone with the aftermath. Not tonight.
Lily: Be there in twenty.
Lily: Don’t go weird on me.
By the time he heard his front door click, Shane was in the bathroom splashing water on his face, trying to erase the redness around his eyes. He wasn’t crying, not really, just rubbed raw.
He heard the front door close.
“Hollander?” Ilya called, voice echoing through the high ceilings.
Shane trudged forward, socks gliding silently across the floor.
Ilya was halfway out of his coat, snow still melting in droplets on the dark wool. His eyes flicked up the instant Shane entered view. “Bozhe, you look like shit.”
“Thanks,” Shane muttered.
“Just saying what I see,” Ilya replied, shrugging out of the coat and dropping it over a chair with zero care for the upholstery. “What happened out there, Hollander? You played like pussy.”
“Wow. Nice to see you too, Rosanov.” Shane muttered, sitting down on his couch.
Ilya smirked and followed, hands slipping into his pockets with that frustrating confidence Shane knew too well. “Am I wrong?”
“Yes,” Shane snapped automatically -- and then deflated, rubbing both hands over his face. Ilya’s damp hair curled faintly at the ends. How could this asshole look beautiful all the time? “No. I don’t know. Maybe?”
“Did Montreal forget how to skate today?” Ilya said. “Or whole team decide to embarrass yourselves at same time? Very impressive teamwork.”
Shane sighed. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” Ilya asked, tilting his head. “Don’t tell the truth? What should I say? ‘Good job losing by five, Hollander?’’”
Shane squeezed his eyes shut. “Can you just--”
“Just what?”
Shane breathed out through his teeth. “Just not do this tonight?”
Ilya blinked once. Then he stepped in, closing the last inches between them until Shane had no choice but to look up.
There was still a sultry hint of cigarette smoke that stuck to Ilya’s clothes, and it slid over Shane’s senses like a hand. His gaze dropped helplessly -- hips, thighs, that whole inviting spread of him standing too damn close, close enough that Shane’s mouth actually parted before he caught himself.
“What happened?” Ilya asked, looking down at Shane through his lashes, his shadow falling clean over him.
Shane swallowed, throat suddenly dry. “I… had a bad day.”
One of Ilya’s eyebrows lifted. “You don’t have bad days.”
“I know.” Shane shrugged helplessly, hating how small it felt. “I know. But I did. Today was -- everything was off. From the second I woke up. And then the game…” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t hold onto anything. I kept messing up. I kept… thinking too much.”
Ilya didn’t interrupt. He just watched him.
“And now you look like you will puke,” Ilya said.
Shane managed a small laugh. “Yeah. Kinda.”
“Okay,” Ilya said quietly. “So. What do you need?”
The softness of that question hit Shane worse than the whole day had. They both knew they only met up to fuck.
He exhaled shakily. “I don’t… want to feel in control tonight.”
Ilya straightened. “Out of control,” he repeated, pacing once in front of Shane. “Like… smash the whole penthouse? Because sure, we can do this. But your decorator will cry.”
Shane let out a real laugh. “No. Not that.”
“Then how?” Ilya asked, head tilting. His voice dropped into a tone that hooked Shane right under the ribs. “Tell me.”
Shane’s breath stuttered. “I want,” He said, clearing his throat, flicking his eyes down. “To be told what to do.”
“Hollander,” Ilya murmured.
“Just tonight,” Shane rushed out. “I don’t want decisions. I don’t want responsibility. I don’t want to hold anything together. I’m tired of being the one who--” He sighed. “Who has to steer everything. I want someone else to take it. Just for a little while.”
A charged silence settled between them. Shane’s head dropped and he squeezed his eyes shut. Their nights together weren’t supposed to feel like this, they weren’t supposed to scrape this close to real.
Then Ilya lifted a hand, slow enough to give Shane every chance to flinch or pull back. He didn’t. Ilya’s fingers slid under his chin, tilting his face up until there was nowhere else to look.
“I do tell you what to do,” Ilya murmured. “Every time. ‘Flip over.’ ‘Get on your knees.’ ‘Hold still.’ And you always listen.”
Shane’s chest tightened. “Yeah.”
“But you mean… more,” Ilya said, thumb brushing Shane’s jaw. “Different kind.”
Shane nodded once, barely. “Like that… but in other ways. Does that make sense?”
Ilya’s eyes softened, but the intensity didn’t. “You want to give me control of you.”
Shane swallowed hard. “Yes.”
“Because you had bad day.” Ilya said.
“Yes.”
Ilya closed the remaining space with a single step, positioning himself so Shane’s chin pressed lightly to his thigh. Shane looked up through heavy, half lidded eyes, his mind already going soft around the edges. His hood fell off his head, showing off his messy hair.
“You really want me to decide for you,” Ilya said, voice steady.
Shane nodded.
“And you’ll listen.”
Shane’s pulse kicked up. “Yes.”
Ilya exhaled a slow breath. “Okay,” he said quietly. “But you tell me if I go too far.”
“I will.”
“And you tell me if you want to stop, yes?”
“I will.”
Ilya’s hands shifted, sliding slowly down Shane’s scalp. Shane let out a small whine as Ilya’s fingers ran through his hair. He felt Ilya getting hard next to his cheek, and the hand in his hair gripped lightly, guiding his head and nose to nudge against the bulge.
Shane loved it. The feel of the fabric against his nose and cheek, the smell of musk. It felt like he was punch-drunk on Ilya's scent. He inhaled against his length, mouth opening slightly to run his lips up and down the bulge.
Ilya slowly eased his hand from Shane’s hair, fingers lingering at the strands. Then he stepped back half a pace.
Shane’s body swayed from the loss of closeness, his body still leaning forward. Ilya could already see his cock getting hard in his shorts.
“Look at you,” Ilya murmured, voice low and sure. “You’re not even in the room, Hollander.”
Shane’s shorts tightened at the sound of his name, and when he opened his mouth, nothing came out but a shaky exhale.
“Alright,” Ilya said. “Listen carefully.”
Shane’s spine straightened on instinct. His hands flattened against his thighs as he kept his gaze on the man above him. “On floor,” Ilya said.
Shane’s head dropped and he moved before thinking, sliding off the couch and down, the cool floor meeting his knees. His palms pressed to the ground to steady himself, before sitting back on his knees. He was fully hard now, cock straining against his tight shorts.
Ilya watched him descend with a look that could’ve pinned him in place even without words.
“Good,” he murmured. “Stay up. Don’t slouch.”
Shane stayed exactly where he’d been but aligned his back straight, hands resting obediently on his thighs.
Ilya didn’t speak. He just looked at him, standing there with his boots planted and his head slightly tilted. He was studying Shane like he was some delicate, breakable thing he wasn’t sure he should lay a hand on. The silence stretched long enough that Shane’s thoughts began to run.
Did he look stupid like this?
Was Ilya waiting for something he hadn’t done yet?
And then Ilya’s boot shifted. Just a slow, deliberate tap against the inside of Shane’s knee, pushing it outward a little farther.
Shane obeyed without a sound, thighs parting another inch, back straightening. Heat trickled down his belly.
A soft hum came from Ilya’s throat. “Mm. Better.”
He stepped closer, the leather of his boot brushing lightly against Shane’s inner thigh. His breath caught, eyes flickering to the man above instinctively before dropping again. Shane’s fingers curled into his thighs on reflex.
“Hands stay where they are,” Ilya said.
The heel of Ilya’s boot met Shane’s throbbing cock, pressing down with just enough weight to make Shane moan out. His muscles tensed, then loosened all at once, a shaky exhale slipping out of him as Ilya pressed harder.
“Good. Exactly how I want you.”
Ilya dragged the point of his shoe up in a slow, deliberate line, reaching Shane's tip. Shane’s spine arced subtly despite himself.
“Already making noises?” Ilya asked. “Barely touched you.”
Shane’s pulse drummed in his ears, body trembling under the slow, controlled weight of the boot. “Keep your eyes down,” he said. “But let me hear you.”
“Fuck,” Shane trembles out. “Fucking, please Rozanov--” He squeezes his eyes shut. He lets out a sound he didn’t even recognize -- sharp, sucked in, almost like an inhaled sob ripped straight out of him.
Ilya finally lifted his boot. Shane sagged a fraction before forcing himself upright again, blinking hard as his vision swam.
“Breathe.”
Shane obeyed, but the breathing was definitely unsteady. In his lap, Shane could see a dark outline of a puddle of precum through his shorts.
Ilya didn’t wait for him to get fully steady. “On the couch,” he said, nodding toward it once. “Now.”
He did as he was told and stood up, each step a little dizzy, like the floor wasn’t entirely certain under his feet. He reached the couch and sat, looking back up at Ilya as if waiting for the next instruction -- because he was.
Ilya closed the distance in a few calm strides, stopping just in front of him. “Lay down.”
Shane eased back into the cushions, his breathing finally settling into a slow, measured rise and fall of his chest.
“Good,” Ilya murmured, taking his hands out of his pockets. “Now undress.”
Shane’s hands moved without thought, tugging his hoodie and shirt up and over his head in one rushed motion. The soft metallic slide of Ilya’s belt coming loose snapped his gaze upward just as he pushed his shorts down.
Ilya didn’t bother to pick up the belt where it landed; the sharp clatter of the buckle against the floor barely registered to Shane before the taller was bracing a knee on the couch and climbing over him, caging him in with his body.
Ilya’s thighs slid to either side of Shane’s hips, weight settling with a deliberate pressure that made the couch dip beneath them.
“Good,” Ilya said again, quieter this time, almost a purr. His palm came down on Shane’s chest, kneading slowly, thumbs dragging across the tense lines of muscle and to his nipple, squeezing his pecs in a way that made Shane’s spine arch just an inch off the cushions.
“Unzip me.” Ilya said, leaning down to press open mouth kisses to Shane's neck.
“Um, Okay,” Shane stuttered, using his shaky hands to slowly unzip Ilya's tight jeans. When he finished, Ilya met his mouth, licking his way inside. Shane moaned a low moan, opening his mouth to let him in, gliding his tongue along Ilya's plush bottom lip.
“You want my cock, Hollander?” Ilya whispered into his mouth, running his fingers through Shane’s hair with one hand as the other hand pulled down his pants and boxers, his dick springing free against Shane’s bare chest.
Shane nodded, breathing heavily through the kiss. Ilya rubbed his cock against Shane’s cleavage before pulling back, spit lingering between their mouths. He squeezed Shane's cheeks together softly. “Fuck. So pretty.” Ilya purred at the sight.
He moved his legs, maneuvering his way towards Shane's mouth, putting his cock against the boy's wet lips. He can already see it now, Hollander snot nosed and crying, his lips puffy from all the sucking.
Shane started to lick the tip slowly, allowing his tongue to flatten on the underside of the head. Ilya exhaled something low, tapping and rubbing his length on Shane's tongue. A salty leak of precum beaded at Ilya's tip, and Shane curled his tongue to swallow the taste.
“Your fucking mouth…” Ilya tapped his cockhead down hard on Shane's tongue. “Need your throat.”
Shane nods, letting out an agreeing “Mmhn…” before Ilya slid deep into the back of his throat. “Fuuuck, Hollander.” Shane swallowed around his length, letting him slide deeper in, hitting the bottom of his throat. His hands instinctively went to hold the back of Ilya’s thighs, but Ilya interrupted, “Hands above your head.”
He obeyed instantly, lacing his fingers together and stretching his arms above his head. If he were in his right mind, he might’ve felt embarrassed exposed like this, but his thoughts were already thinning out. Ilya pulled back, then thrusted his way back in, earning a guttural sound from the boy below him.
“So warm.” Ilya teased, holding each side of Shane's face. His eyes were closed, but if they were open, he knew Ilya would be looking directly at him. He had a thing for seeing himself go in and out of him. Shane's nose rubbed up against the small patch of hair at the base of Ilya’s navel every time Ilya thrusted in. He swore he shaved it a couple days ago. Crazy how quick his hair could grow back.
Ilya kept his length deep in Shane’s throat, moving slightly to thrust deep into the back of it. Shane moaned around the base, tongue lengthening to allow Ilya full range. Shane's eyes squeezed tight, gagging -- finally -- and Ilya guides Shane's head to pull back. Shane's eyes snap open, coughing out some spit onto his chest.
“How’d you get so good?” Ilya said, licking his lips.
“D’nno. Feels good.” Shane rasped out. Ilya allowed Shane to get in a breath or two before diving back in, fucking deeply into Shane’s throat. He kept a steady rhythm, using one hand to hold Shane's head, and the other to pin down his arms above his head. Saliva gathered at the back of Shane’s throat, making him swallow against Ilya’s weight, earning a long, shuddering moan in return. The pressure was divine.
“Hollander.” Ilya rubbed his thumb along his freckles as he picked up pace. Shane locked eyes with him, and Ilya quickly looked up and away. “Hah-- ,” Shane could hear Ilya mutter something in Russian, “ты меня погубишь,” “ty menya pogubish’” over the lewd sounds of wet smacking before he pulled out, knees buckling over him and coming on the side of Shane’s face and hair with thick, hot strands.
Before the shiver had fully left his body, Ilya was already leaning down, fisting a hand in Shane’s hair and dragging him up into a kiss. They kissed messily, hungrily, mouths sliding and tongues tangling until the heat finally ebbed and Ilya collapsed over him, chest heaving against Shane’s.
“So good,” Ilya breathed, giving Shane a quick, messy kiss. “Good… good… good.” Each word came with another hungry drag of his mouth. It pulled a lopsided smile from Shane.
“You spent?” Shane rasped, still catching his breath. The edges of his mind were starting to pull together again, until Ilya lifted his head and looked at him.
His eyes were dark and hungry.
“That was just the first,” Ilya murmured, thumb brushing Shane’s swollen lower lip. “You think I’m done because you made me cum?”
Shane’s breath stuttered.
Ilya leaned in, brushing his mouth over Shane’s ear. “Not even close,” he whispered. “I’m going to make you cum before I’m satisfied.” He kissed him against his puffy lips, one hand threading into Shane’s hair to drag him closer.
He slid off the couch and stood, giving Shane’s hair one last slow tug before stepping away.
The sudden distance made Shane’s stomach dip. His skin felt cold without Ilya’s weight. He blinked up.
“Up,” Ilya said, voice steady. “Come to me.”
Shane pushed himself upright, swaying slightly as he stood. His limbs felt light and unreliable, like he needed permission to move each one. Ilya didn’t offer help. He just watched him with that dark, claiming kind of patience. Ilya stripped out of his pants and kicked his shoes aside as Shane approached.
“Good boy,” Ilya murmured under his breath when Shane reached him -- barely loud enough for the room, but plenty loud for Shane.
The praise made Shane’s whole body go pliant.
His thumb traced under Shane’s lip. “Follow me.”
He walked backwards toward the wide floor to ceiling window, never breaking eye contact. Snow fell outside in slow spirals, the city glowing beneath it -- and Ilya stood right in front of it, backlit, like the city didn’t dare touch him.
Shane’s stomach dipped.
Even in the haze, some instinct flickered: “What if someone sees them? What if--”
Ilya glanced back at him, reading it instantly.
“Keep walking,” he said, voice a low rumble. “No one can see you from here. And even if they could…” His gaze dragged over Shane’s bare skin, slow and deliberate. “They would only see how good you listen.”
Shane swallowed hard, stepping closer to the window hesitantly. The closer he got, the bigger the city looked, like it could swallow him whole.
He felt Ilya come up behind him, heat wrapping around him without touching.
“Good boy,” Ilya murmured. “Stay right there.”
Shane’s fingers twitched. His knees felt loose. The glass fogged lightly with his breath, and his mind slipped even deeper.
The height terrified him. The exposure thrilled him. And Ilya’s presence behind him made both feelings melt into something dizzy and sweet. Standing here, naked, face and hair sticky, Shane felt impossibly vulnerable.
“Look down,” Ilya said gently, like he enjoyed the way Shane shivered. “Let yourself feel it.”
Shane did, eyes dropping to the city below, and his whole body jolted with a nervous, breathless whimper he couldn’t hold back.
Ilya stepped closer, crowding into his space until Shane’s chest nearly brushed the glass. The cold radiated through it his whole body.
“There,” Ilya murmured, voice dropping. “Now stay. I want to see your face while I decide what to do with you.”
Ilya stepped back a few paces, letting Shane catch his full reflection in the glass. He didn’t touch him; he simply watched, eyes dark and deliberate, taking in every curve, every shiver, every flush of heat across Shane’s skin.
Shane’s hands didn’t know what to do with themselves, so he rested them lightly on the window glass, fingers splayed. Ilya began pacing slowly around him, circling like a predator observing its prey. Shane’s head stayed down, watching the reflection of his own flushed, trembling form, aware of how completely visible he was.
“Beautiful,” Ilya said finally, voice low and rough, not stepping closer, just letting the words hang in the space between them. “Soft, so open… the world would know, looking at you, that you’re mine.”
“Look at yourself, Hollander,” Ilya murmured, voice low and commanding. “See what I see. You’re mine, and perfect like this.”
Finally Ilya approached, slipping off his shirt in one smooth motion before hugging Shane from behind. Ilya leaned down just enough to brush Shane’s ear with his lips. “Stay. Don’t move until I tell you.”
Shane let out a shaky, breathy sound, almost a moan, the sound carrying faintly against the glass, and Ilya’s hand tightened slightly in his hair, tilting his head back to deepen the effect, leaving Shane completely undone.
Ilya leaned in, his mouth ghosting Shane’s jaw. “You are going to stand right here,” he whispered, “while I fuck you, and when I tell you to cum, you will.”
Shane let out another soft, involuntary whine.
Ilya's hands snaked down Shane's torso, fingers ghosting around his untouched cock. “Use your words, Hollander. Tell me what you want.”
“I… I want…” he started, voice barely more than a whisper, “…I want you to fuck me.”
Ilya’s lips twitched into the faintest smirk, his eyes glinting in the reflection of the window. “Good,” he murmured, voice low against the back of Shane’s neck, lips brushing and teasing the sensitive skin. “Say more. Don’t stop now.”
Shane let out another shaky exhale. “I want you-- I want you to fill me, Rozanov,” he stammered, “please, Rozanov.”
Ilya’s fingers finally met Shane’s cock, precum already dripping out of the base and hardwood. “Nnh… god--” Shane whined. Ilya stroked slowly, down to the base and up to the tip. Shane let his head droop and squeezed his eyes shut, but Ilya positioned his chin back up. “Open your eyes.” Ilya's mouth caught the back of the other's neck as he stoked him. “Watch yourself. What are you thinking?”
“I-- ‘m glad you're touchin’ me,” Shane blurted out. “Feels so good… so, so good, Rosanov. Fuck--” He babbled, and Ilya stoked harder, earning a loud sting of moans from him. “Oh god… please--” His voice cracked, moans coming out in ragged bursts.
Ilya could feel Shane’s body trembling under his hands. “Need-- more…” and when Shane gasped out the word “Inside,” Ilya pulled back.
Shane’s body hit the glass lightly, knees quivering, damp cheek smearing cum against the cold glass. Heat pooled low in his belly, his fingers fisted against the window, searching for something to steady himself as his breath came in short, ragged bursts.
Then, with two words spoken, “Open yourself,” Ilya turned and began to walk toward the bedroom.
Shane’s body remained pressed to the glass. His body shifted, arching his back to get more leverage. He pried himself open with one finger, moaning something low and needy, His dick kept twitching against his will, begging for release. His other hand fisted tighter against the window, knuckles white, as he tried to ground himself.
The city lights outside blurred into long streaks, indifferent to him, stretching endlessly beneath the glass. How would the city feel if they saw their own hockey captain, the man who led the team with pride, utterly undone and exposed?
Then, after what felt like an eternity, a rustle of movement returned. Footsteps approached, and Ilya's reflection reappeared.
Ilya’s voice cut low through the silence. “Ah, very good.” Shane felt the familiar weight of Ilya behind him as he removed his finger. When he turned slightly, he saw Ilya opening a gold foiled condom, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Now… you get what you want.”
Ilya grabbed Shane’s face by the cheeks and kissed him hard and deep as he stroked himself, rolling on the clear condom. Shane's body gave as he felt Ilya push inside him, and his mind stuttered with a “Holy fuck.” Ilya’s broad hands clamped on Shane’s hips, pushing all the way in, bottoming out as he got to the base. “Fuhh…” He exhaled, kissing between Shane’s shoulder blades.
Shane’s cheek was against the glass, but wasn't even cold anymore. His whole body was steaming with arousal. Ilya pulled back, then slammed back into him, rocking his body minutely. The apartment echoed with the wet, rhythmic slaps against Shane’s ass and their sharp, ragged moans.
“Hollander,” Ilya grunted, drawing further back, and thrusting in hard. Shane felt every inch inside of him, filling him, stretching him. He knew this was just casual, but he wished they were exclusive so he could fuck him without that rubber barrier.
Shane’s head banged lightly against the glass as Ilya pushed back on his neck, gripping harder to thrust faster. Shane felt sweaty, so sweaty, but it was even worse as Ilya moved his hand from his hip to his cock. Each thrust earned a stroke.
“Holy fuck--” He said raggedly, rotating his hips, rubbing against Ilya. Shane felt like he was drowning in ecstasy until his eyes flew open, “Wait-- I’m gonna,” and without warning, Shane came hard, spirting strands against the glass as Ilya still pounded into him. He moaned loud, louder than he should, and Ilya caught his open mouth in a kiss.
He repositioned both hands on Shane’s waist and bucked into him, Shane all drool and tears against the glass.
“God--” heat licked at Ilya's spine, “One of these days, ’m going to break,” He said. Shane, coming off his high, had no idea what he meant. He just let himself be used by the man behind him. “прямо на катке, где все могут видеть.”
Shane squeezed his eyelids shut. Ilya pumped his hips faster, harder, kissing at Shane’s neck. “Shit,” The Russian muttered softly, his thrusts becoming uneven.
“Hollander, Hollander… Oh God--” Ilya came shuddering inside against Shane, and the sound of his name on his lips was like a lightning jolt. Shane’s whole body rubbed up against the window, sweaty skin squeaking against the glass. Ilya collapsed on top of him, pulling out and resting his pelvis against the curve of Shane's ass.
“Lose…” Ilya panted against Shane’s back. Shane turned his neck, eyebrow raised. “Lose… more, ‘nd more. Lose games more often, if you be like this.”
“Oh, you asshole.” Shane smacked at Ilyas thigh, and he took the hint to get off of him. Ilya stepped back, sitting back on the couch, pulling off the rubber.
“I play you tomorrow. Maybe if I lose, we can meet up again,” Shane said, “but I doubt it.”
Ilya’s lips curved into a teasing smirk. “Your legs… they will be sore,” he murmured, fingers tying the end of the condom. “You not think about that?”
“Your legs will be too,” Shane shot, voice rough. “Don’t think you get away clean.” Ilya’s chuckled as he stood up, wandering to the kitchen to the trash can. “Maybe.”
“Just… come shower with me,” Shane said, rolling his eyes, his voice a little breathless. Ilya smiled and followed as Shane led the way.
The rink was alive with the squeak of skates and the slap of sticks against the ice. Shane’s heart was still racing, not from what had happened in the apartment, but from the game itself. Yesterday's loss had been brutal, today he had a good day, and tonight felt different.
At the edge of the rink, a group of cameras approached him. “Big game tonight,” a reporter began. “Any different approaches you have tonight after yesterday's loss?”
Shane tilted his head, letting a small, controlled smile slip across his lips. “Honestly? I feel more prepared this time. I’m ready to lead our team, and I think we’re ready to handle anything the other side throws at us.”
Another flash of a camera. “And personally, how do you feel facing the Bears and Ilya Rozanov again?”
“Not like I care that much.” Shane joked, waving bye to the cameras before slipping onto the ice and skating away.
Soon, the puck dropped, and the game was underway. Shane felt his muscles wake instantly, the adrenaline sharpening every sense.
Shane faked left, then pushed right, and the shot hit the net -- goal. Skating past Rozanov he yelled, “Not fast enough for you, Rozanov?” leaning forward just enough to tease.
The rest of the game flew by in a blur of fast passes and relentless back and forth. By the final period, Shane’s team had the rhythm, and another clean shot found the net. Goal.
When the final horn blared, the Bell Centre erupted. The Metro bench emptied as teammates piled onto Shane, slapping him on the back, shouting and laughing.
Shane’s chest heaved, a grin splitting his face despite the exhaustion, pure adrenaline and satisfaction fueling him.
Across the ice, the Bears skated back to their bench, defeated. Their coach shook his head, muttering under his breath, frustration etched into every line of his face.
Ilya glided past Shane on the ice after his team mates left, a teasing smirk pulling at his lips. “You know… you really ruin the plan, Hollander.”
Shane slid to a stop. “Guess you’ll just have to wait, Rozanov. Maybe I like winning more than disappointing you.”
“Yeah, yeah…” Ilya rambled as he skated away, making his way off the ice with his team.
Shane drew in a slow breath, the cheers of the crowd echoing in his ears. Win or lose, he knew Ilya would be texting him tonight -- and somehow that made the victory even sweeter.