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When Ilya emerges from the locker room shower, steam billowing out after him, Shane is lounging on the bench, back against the lockers.
“Took you long enough,” Shane grumbles, trying not to stare at the slope of Ilya’s hips or the water clinging to his pecs. His hair is slightly damp from the shower, and Ilya has it pushed back to keep it out of his face.
“You did not shower with me,” Ilya pouts. “Had to wash my own back. Was not easy.”
“It’s nearly one a.m.,” Shane counters, eyes narrowed. “If I went in there with you, we’d never leave.”
Really, Shane is complaining just to complain. He doesn’t mind this little routine they have, when he gets to watch Ilya skate on the ice after-hours. When it’s this late and they know it’s just them, they can let their defenses down. Ilya can pause mid-lap and lean over the boards and kiss Shane like they are a normal couple who can do normal couple things.
Shane can’t deny that it’s a good deal. Sometimes Ilya convinces him to get on the ice too, but Shane has his workout routine, and he doesn’t typically stray from it. He’s content to sit on the sidelines, get his fill of Ilya without looking over his shoulder or worrying that his heart-eyes are too obvious. He just gets to be, to exist, with Ilya. And really, that’s more than he could have ever dreamed of.
With an audible sigh, Ilya plops down on the bench next to Shane and starts to dig through his gym bag for a change of clothes.
“Sorry to impact your beauty sleep, princess,” Ilya quips, knocking his shoulder into Shane’s.
Shane’s face flushes instantly and the locker room suddenly feels ten degrees hotter than it did a second ago. Shane’s jaw tenses. He clears his throat, shifts slightly. He tries to give off nonchalant and unbothered – but he’s never been able to pull that off. Especially not around Ilya.
The Russian man is standing above Shane, pulling his hoodie over his head. Ilya clocks the shift in Shane’s demeanor, because of course he does. His eyebrow quirks. He gives Shane a once-over. His eyes lock in on Shane’s lap, and Shane wishes desperately that he could melt into the floorboard, sink into one of the little lockers behind him, do anything but have to watch the realization play out on Ilya’s face, the knowing little grin form on his stupid, perfect fucking mouth.
“Fuck, Hollander, are you hard?”
“No!” Shane’s voice comes out in a squeak. His skin flushes, and he has to put effort into keeping his hands where they are instead of pressing them into the crotch of his sweats to cover up… absolutely nothing. Nope, definitely not his stiffening cock.
Shane hears Ilya’s quiet snicker as he drops the sweatshirt he was pulling on and slowly sits back down, his towel still around his waist. Ilya’s hand skates over Shane’s crotch, that smug little grin plastered on his face. Shane feels hot, wants to take his hoodie off, maybe strangle Ilya with the drawstrings.
He’s not fully hard – he absently thinks that all the blood in his body has evenly diverted itself between his dick and his face – but he’s stiff enough that Ilya notices it the second his palm makes contact with Shane’s dick over the fleece of his sweatpants.
Ilya curses under his breath in Russian, flexes his fingers around Shane’s length and gives it a little squeeze, as if Shane’s dick is a toy he can’t help but play with when it’s within reach. His hand splays wide, fingers curling around the top of Shane’s sweatpants and ghosting over the elastic waistband.
“What was it, Hollander?” Ilya asks, angling his body on the locker room bench so his lips are ghosting Shane’s clavicle, pressing a small kiss to the hollow there before traveling upwards. “What got you so hard, huh?” Sharp teeth nip at the underside of Shane’s jaw, and the brush of Ilya’s stubble mixed with that honey-thick accent makes Shane let out an embarrassingly soft whimper. “Did seeing me on the ice make you hot? Or was it imagining me in the shower, how good it could have been if you’d–”
Shane swears he can physically feel the moment when Ilya catches on, and it makes him want to melt into the floor. His cheeks are heating again – he can’t stop it – and he feels, stupidly, like his sinuses are stinging. Something about this quirk of his, this moment where Ilya is understanding and Shane can’t do a thing to stop it from happening, is kicking up his heart rate.
“It was what I said? Just before?” Ilya asks, and his voice is so soft, just next to the shell of Shane’s ear, that Shane can’t figure out if Ilya is being sincere or if he’s about to be the butt of Ilya’s jokes until whatever weird limbo they’re in snaps. And even after that, would Ilya tell someone? It’s one thing to be gay, but to like this–
It doesn’t matter anyway, because the way Shane stills, keeps his eyes trained on the floor, is enough of an answer. His sinuses burn, and he mentally shakes himself, trying to ward off the rush of adrenaline that’s coursing through his veins. He suddenly feels like a teenager again, alone and embarrassed and ashamed, so fucking ashamed, of the way he’s feeling, of the things he likes.
“Hey–” Ilya’s leaning back, sitting up. His voice is serious now, and the hand that was pressing into Shane’s crotch floats up into his line of vision until the Russian’s rough hand is cupping his cheek.
Shane leans into it despite himself. He keeps his eyes closed and lets his head hang heavy into Ilya’s warm palm. He nuzzles into Ilya. He tries to breathe.
He knows, logically, Ilya wouldn’t make fun of him – not for this, at least. Ilya has his own complicated feelings around masculinity, and Ilya Rozanov is a lot of things – a dick, arrogant, impulsive, childish… – but he is never cruel. Not to anyone, but especially not to Shane.
“Shane,” Ilya’s voice is sharper now, jarring enough to pull Shane out of his spiraling thoughts. “You are working yourself up to have panic attack. What is wrong?” He gives Shane’s face a little shake, and Shane lets his eyes snap up, braces himself like he’s ripping off a band-aid. He expects to see at least a bit of amusement, if not disgust, in Ilya’s gaze. He sees nothing but warm honey eyes filled with concern.
Shane opens his mouth, then closes it again. He looks at Ilya steadily, trying to find the words, any words. It’s taking all his energy just to keep his tears at bay.
“It is because I called you princess,” It’s not a question, so Shane doesn’t bother answering. “It got you hard.” Ilya says this matter-of-factly. Shane’s eyes flit away again. There’s a pit in his stomach that makes him sure something awful is about to happen. Instead, Ilya’s face softens even more.
“You are ashamed of this. That you like it.” This time, Shane gives a tiny dip of his chin, so small he wonders if Ilya will even notice. Ilya catches it, of course. He gives Shane a small, sharp nod back, and Shane doesn’t know what to make of that.
He feels vulnerable, alone in the locker room with his supposed archrival piecing together the most shameful parts of Shane’s desires in that slow, thick Russian accent.
Rozanov makes a soft cooing sound in the back of his throat, and the sound is so gentle that Shane has a hard time believing that it’s directed at him. “Poor Hollander,” Ilya murmurs, his accent heavier like it always is when Ilya is speaking quietly. He leans forward, lips pressing gently against the slope of Shane’s nose, then his lips. Pulling back, he whispers into Shane’s mouth. “Poor princess.”
Shane jolts, his head rearing back and spine straightening up. The adrenaline that Ilya’s gentle, lulling voice was chasing away comes back full-force. Shane plants his feet on the locker room floor, ready to push off and leave. He can’t decide if he’s more angry at Ilya or upset at himself. This is weird, and Shane is weird, and why would Ilya want to be with someone like that, when he can have anyone he fucking wants? Dread starts to creep up the back of Shane’s neck.
Ilya is good at hockey for many reasons, but one thing he excels at is predicting his opponent’s next move. So it’s no surprise that when Shane tries to shake out of Ilya’s grasp, Ilya’s one step ahead with his hands firmly planted on Shane, stopping him from moving.
“Let me go, Rozanov,” Shane mumbles. He doesn’t trust his voice not to waver if he speaks any louder.
“I will let you go, if you want me to,” Ilya responds calmly. He’s holding Shane in place with one hand cradling his cheek still, a thumb stroking his jaw, and his other hand laying delicious, grounding pressure on Shane’s upper thigh, inching ever-so-slowly closer to his crotch. Desperately, shamefully, Shane realizes he’s even harder than before, and there’s a wet spot on the front of his sweatpants from the way his dick is leaking. He feels confused, ashamed, but impossibly aroused. “But– is not what you really want, though, hm? For me to let you go?”
Shane doesn’t answer. They both know he could get up if he even half-tried.
But Shane doesn’t move. His breathing is still sharp, his eyes still downcast, his shame still swirling in his gut.
“No,” Ilya says. “I don’t think is what you want at all, princess.” With a little hum, he shifts his hand up slightly to cup Shane’s cock again, now fully hard and aching. Shane whines, writhes, lets his head fall back against the lockers with a dull thud. Keeping his body upright feels like a monumental task now, with Ilya’s confident hands and his warm breath and his devastatingly tender gaze.
Ilya is looking at him, assessing Shane’s reaction to the word. For all his bravado, Ilya is always doing this: checking in in his own ways, learning the hitch of Shane’s breath that means he’s feeling deliciously overstimulated versus the sharp gasp that means that Shane is at his limit. Now, Ilya decides, Shane is far from hitting his limit. In fact, he seems like he’s desperate for more – and Ilya is all too happy to give it to him.
“On your knees,” Ilya keeps his voice soft, fighting the urge to get all dominant and stern. This is new, more precarious. Ilya knows he’s walking a delicate line and one step too far could derail this, derail Shane. He can tell he has to work Shane up to this, to accepting what he wants, what he needs.
But Ilya is a patient man. For Shane, at least.
Shane’s eyes are a little glassy, a little teary as he obeys, shifting off the bench and onto the floor, moving as if his limbs were jelly.
“Good boy,” Ilya cards a hand through Shane’s hair, pushing a few strands out of his eyes. “You look so pretty like this.” Shane stiffens a little. Pretty isn’t a word they use. Pretty is what Ilya called him the day they shot their commercial, when they had their make-up on for the camera. Shane can’t deny the little zing of arousal he got that day, even if it was an insult.
But Ilya says it with such reverence now, his face still so soft and tender, that Shane can’t imagine that Ilya doesn’t mean it with his whole heart. He rests his cheek against Ilya’s leg, his mouth falling open a little as he stares up at him through his lashes. Ilya is calling him pretty, and his cock is hard, and none of this feels wrong or bad. It feels fucking amazing.
Ilya inhales sharply through his nose, letting out a little groan as Shane’s hands drift up to grasp the edge of the towel still wrapped around Ilya’s waist.
“Please,” Shane whispers.
“Go ahead, princess,” Ilya nearly sighs with relief when Shane undoes the towel and Ilya’s cock bobs up between them. Shane’s pupils go a little wider at the word, whining softly. Gently, Ilya grasps the back of Shane’s head and guides him toward his cock.
As Shane leans forward to take Ilya into his mouth, Ilya notices Shane’s cock, flushed deep red and bobbing against his stomach. It’s no doubt painful, but Shane seems so hyper-focused on sucking Ilya off, as if it’s all he needs to be satisfied. And fuck if that doesn’t make Ilya harder.
“God, you’re so good at that,” Ilya rasps as Shane takes Ilya deeper, choking slightly but not making any moves to ease up. “Look so fucking good with my cock down your throat.”
Shane moans, digs his fingernails into Ilya’s thighs. The bite of pain mixed with the vibrations of Shane’s throat makes Ilya’s hips cant. He forces himself to ease up.
“Fuck. Fuck, Shane.” Ilya’s ragged breaths mingle with Shane’s gasps as both men struggle to get their breathing under control.
Shane feels raw, inside and out. His eyes are watering from taking Ilya so deep, his cheeks red from exertion and embarrassment and pure arousal. He doesn’t need to ask why Ilya stopped – Shane is certain that Ilya would have come down his throat if Shane kept going.
And he wanted that, craved that, but he knew what Ilya would say: I decide when you get to swallow my cum. And Shane wanted, desperately, to be good for Ilya. To be good and obedient and pretty and–
“Look how wet you are,” Ilya’s voice startles Shane a little, and his eyes snap up to see Ilya resting – quite casually for a man who was seconds away from orgasm – against the lockers. His breathing is slower, but his chest is still heaving. His legs are splayed, framing Shane kneeling on the floor. Shane’s sure he looks how he feels: messy and desperate, pupils blown and hair mussed and cock weeping.
Then, Ilya’s words register. The word punches Shane in the gut, in some delicious, terrible way: wet. Like a girl. Shane whimpers.
Ilya’s gaze is fixed on Shane’s cock, which is indeed, Shane has to admit to himself, wet. The tip is glistening with precome that’s dribbling down the angry red head. “Pretty boy, pretty cock,” Ilya murmurs, voice quiet like the words weren’t meant for Shane to hear.
“You want to be a good boy for me, princess?” Ilya asks. His voice is a little leering now, a little taunting in the way that makes Shane’s brain turn to goo.
“Yes,” Shane rasps, nodding almost frantically. “Yes, Ilya, please, I want to be good for you–”
“Sh,” Ilya leans forward and cups Shane’s face in his hands. He kisses Shane softly on the lips, moving down to his chin, his cheeks, his eyelids, his forehead. “You are always good for me, moy lyubimyy. Always good.”
Shane feels his himself deflate a little, a whoosh of relief rushing through him. It’s silly, he knows, that hearing Ilya say he’s good calms all the heightened senses swirling in his body, but he can’t help the way the reassurance lands so softly in his brain, sends little happy signals firing off.
“Touch yourself,” Ilya says. And Shane does, immediately, leaning back a little and wrapping a hand around his cock. He had barely registered how achingly hard he was, but now that Ilya has brought attention to it, the sensation is nearly unbearable. He squeezes the base and groans at the relief. It’s a few beats of silence, nothing but Shane’s breathy moans and the sound of his hand sliding up and down his cock.
“Krasivaya printsessa,” Ilya says reverently, then translates: “Beautiful princess.”
Shane writhes a little, that familiar feeling building at the base of his spine and spreading–
“Stop,” Ilya says, his voice a little sharper. “Hands off.” Shane whimpers but obeys. He knew Ilya wasn’t going to let him come that quickly – especially not with Ilya’s equally hard cock still bobbing between them.
“You are going to come with my dick down your throat.” Ilya dips his chin a bit and Shane shifts forward eagerly, licking a stripe up Ilya’s cock before swallowing him all the way down.
“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya grits out, tangling long fingers in Shane’s hair and guiding him up and down his length. “You look so pretty like this, on your knees. Perfect.”
Shane tries to nod a little, sucking Ilya desperately, hands reaching up to cup his balls and give them a light squeeze. Ilya screws his eyes shut, his jaw clenched as he lifts his hips in time with Shane’s motions. He holds Shane at the base of his cock for a few moments, letting him gag a little, get Ilya’s dick wet with saliva.
“Oh, fuck,” Ilya groans. When he lets Shane up, Shane doesn’t even take a second to catch his breath. He’s sucking the head of Ilya’s cock back into his mouth while his hand works up and down Ilya’s shaft. Shane’s other hand is on his own cock, moving at the same rhythm.
“You’re going to come for me, yes, printsessa?” Ilya says between heavy breaths. “Touch that pretty dick until you come, Hollander.” Shane was too far gone to respond, just making little noises in the back of his throat and jerking himself faster.
“Fuck, fuck, Hollander–” Ilya tenses, holds Shane’s head in place and lets out a long string of Russian curses as he shoots down Shane’s throat.
Even when Ilya’s spent, Shane keeps sucking eagerly, swirling his tongue and milking every last drop of cum from Ilya. He’s about to push Shane off his oversensitive dick when Shane pulls off himself, gasping and groaning until he’s coming too, leaning back as ropes of cum splash up, hitting his chest.
“Fuck,” Shane whispers, releasing his cock and looking up at Ilya with heavy-lidded eyes. “Fuck.”
Ilya flashes him a crooked grin. “Yes. Fuck,” he repeats. He reaches out and traces a finger down Shane’s jaw. “Fuck. That was hot, Hollander.”
“Yeah?” Shane’s earlier traces of panic are gone, and he only looks a little embarrassed now, smiling shyly.
“Yeah,” Ilya echoes.
They sit in silence for a few beats, letting their breathing return to normal as they stare at each other with goofy, blissed-out smiles.
“Looks like you will shower here anyway,” Ilya says with a huff of laughter, motioning to the ropes of cum dripping down Shane’s chest. He squeezes Shane’s shoulder softly, presses a kiss to the top of his head, and gets up. He holds his hand out to pull Shane up, keeping his hands on his hips for a moment to keep him steady before turning him toward the showers.
“Come on. I’ll even wash your back. Give you princess treatment.”
"Fuck off."