Work Text:
June 2016, Montreal
Lily: Here
Ilya put his phone back in his pocket, wondering how long he was going to be waiting in this creepy back alley. He was early, he knew this, but he told himself it was because it would throw Shane off, surprise him, and there was nothing Ilya loved more than messing with Shane. It definitely wasn't because Ilya wanted more time with him.
But he hadn't given Shane a heads-up. He had simply arrived early, and now it occurred to Ilya that Shane might not even be home. How long was he going to be lingering in this god forsaken--?
The door leading to the apartment staircase banged open. "What the hell, Rozanov," grumbled Shane.
Ilya couldn't stop himself from grinning. He had achieved his goal of flustering Shane (which was always his goal). Shane looked like he had sprinted down the stairs, hair a little askew, and he was wearing sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt. He was also wearing--
"Glasses, Hollander?" asked Ilya in delighted surprise.
"What? Shut up," answered Shane reflexively. He scrabbled at his face, fumbling his glasses off and flushing. "I was reading."
"I did not say take them off," Ilya said mildly. "You can keep them on." He hoped that how badly he wanted the glasses to stay on did not register in his voice.
But Shane did not put them back on, instead shoving them into his pocket. "Just-- get in already," Shane ordered, waving his arm frantically. He was looking around the alley like he thought TMZ was lurking in the recycling.
Still smiling, Ilya didn't reply, pushing past Shane into the stairwell. As he moved past Shane, the air thickened between them like a tangible thing. He could feel Shane's heat, smell him. The urge to push Shane against the railing and kiss him senseless was almost overpowering.
However, Ilya had a plan for today, and the plan required making it past the stairwell.
He sauntered up the stairs ahead of Shane, knowing the way well by now. He opened the door of Shane's apartment, taking in the familiar cleanliness, the tasteful decor. The only minor imperfection was a picture of domesticity on the couch: a rumpled blanket, a book, a cup of tea on the coffee table.
I am not incredibly charmed by this, thought Ilya, determinedly. This is not endearing.
He walked over to the book, picking it up. It was a book on hockey history. He opened it, rifling through the pages, careful not to dislodge the bookmark wedged inside.
He paused when he got to the inside cover. There was a stamp on the front page that read 'EX LIBRIS,' and then, under that, a printed line where Shane had carefully signed his own name. Ilya traced the 'Hollander' there with one finger.
"What is this?" inquired Ilya, pointing to the stamp.
Shane looked a little bewildered at Ilya's interest in the book. It was true that, as a general rule, they did not peruse each other's possessions. Or, honestly, do much apart from fuck.
"It's a way to show the book belongs to me. 'Ex libris' is Latin for 'From the library of,' " explained Shane.
"Ah," said Ilya, nodding sagely. "This way, no one will try and steal your boring hockey book."
This earned a huff of laughter from Shane. Victory, thought Ilya, which is what he thought whenever he made Shane laugh. Or blush.
"You use bookmark," continued Ilya.
"Yes, I use-- You mean, you don't use a bookmark when you read?" Shane asked.
Ilya stared at him.
"I bet you dog-ear the pages," Shane said accusingly. "You know, fold over the corner of the page," Shane elaborated, when Ilya looked confused.
"Ah, no," said Ilya. "I leave the book open. On its face." He gestured with the book to demonstrate. "So the-- uh--"
"Spine has a crease in it?" supplied Shane.
"Yes, this," confirmed Ilya. Shane looked ill. It was remarkable how easy it was to bait Shane.
Shane made an exasperated noise. "Typical. Wait, why are we talking about this anyway? Shouldn't we be, you know--" Shane began.
"Having sex?" said Ilya bluntly.
The color rose in Shane's face, highlighting his freckles. Freckles, freckles, freckles, echoed Ilya's brain.
"I mean. Yes," said Shane.
Ilya put the book back down and turned to face Shane, moving closer to him. "Put your glasses back on," he said.
Shane blinked. "What? Why?"
"Because I want to see," said Ilya, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
As Ilya knew he would, Shane pulled his glasses out of his pocket and put them back on. He blinked at Ilya through the rims. "Better?" he asked.
"Better," Ilya answered, his voice dropping. The way Shane quickly did what he was told never failed to make Ilya go a little crazy. And then there were the glasses.
Shane looked delectable. So cute. Ilya swiped a finger across the top of Shane's cheek, just under the rim of the glasses, admiring the freckles there.
"Mr. Professor," said Ilya in a gravelly voice. "Mr. Library man."
Shane shivered. "Librarian," he corrected automatically.
"You are so fucking annoying," said Ilya, but there was no heat behind it.
He slid one hand firmly under Shane's chin and kissed him, gently, and then filthily. Shane moaned, pressing himself against Ilya, and Ilya felt Shane's hands carding through his curls.
Ilya maneuvered them so the backs of Shane's leg were against the couch, and then pushed so that Shane was sprawled out along the couch, breathing heavily.
He just barely restrained himself from crawling on top of Shane. If he didn't bring this up now, it wouldn't happen.
"As much as I love Mr. Professor," said Ilya, "I thought we might do something else today."
"What?" asked Shane guardedly.
Ilya reached into his jacket pocket and produced a black marker.
Shane looked at it for a half-second, and then said, "Oh hell no."
"Hollander--"
"You're not signing my ass again," Shane said resolutely.
"Mm, no, I will not do this," Ilya agreed. "Not unless you a very good boy," he couldn't help but add.
Shane's face turned even redder. Victory, Ilya thought again.
"No, I was thinking I would be fan this time," Ilya explained. "I owe you, remember?"
Shane's eyes darkened, running his gaze up and down Ilya. He licked his lips, and Ilya tracked the motion with his own eyes.
"Oh yeah?" asked Shane, interested.
"We don't have any games for a while. It's almost summer. We can mark each other, yes?" said Ilya, his tone a bit wheedling. He didn't know why he was still bothering trying to convince Shane. He was clearly in.
"I suppose so," said Shane, in an attempt at nonchalance.
"Do you have jersey?" asked Ilya.
The question hit Shane as if he had been struck by lightening. He jerked off the couch, saying, "I-- yes. Yes, wait right--" and then Shane was scurrying off to the bedroom. Ilya tried not to laugh.
Shane returned holding his Montreal Metros jersey, white and blue, with 24 across the back.
In the intervening time, Ilya had stripped off his jacket and shirt, and was now reclining on the couch. Shane eyed his bare chest with interest.
Ilya beckoned for the jersey with two imperious fingers. "Give."
As if in a trance, Shane handed over the Metros jersey.
It's a bit of a tight fit, Ilya thought as he shimmied it on. But it smelled like Shane, which was nice.
Shane had his eyes glued to where Ilya's biceps were straining against the fabric.
"Clothes off," ordered Ilya.
Shane started. "I thought-- I would be, you know. In charge, this time around."
Hot. "Ok, sure, you are in charge. But it is difficult to have sex when you still have your clothes on, no?"
"You still have your pants on," muttered Shane, but dutifully began shedding his shirt and sweatpants. He folded them neatly and put them on the coffee table.
Shane returned to stand directly in front of Ilya, flushed and aroused and uncertain.
"You are in charge, yes?" asked Ilya.
"Yes," agreed Shane, but made no move towards Ilya.
Ilya thought he might as well kick things off. "Shane Hollander," he purred, looking up at Shane though his lashes.
Shane gave a strangled groan, but still did not move. His crotch was level with Ilya's face.
Ilya reached up and toyed with Shane's waistband, saying, "I have been a longtime fan," he said, not breaking eye contact. "Ever since I first saw you on ice. You have en-witched me."
"Bewitched," corrected Shane absently.
"Yes, this," said Ilya.
What he said was true. And it felt so good to say something true for once. It was just a game, a game of pretend they were mutually playing, and in this weird in-between place of play and reality, Ilya could say true things and not have it mean anything at all.
Ilya kissed Shane's thighs, still toying with the hem of his boxers, and then moved upwards to mouth at the skin just above the line of his underwear. Shane was straining and leaking through the fabric. When he looked up, Shane's mouth was slightly open, his gaze almost drunk with arousal. Shane had forgotten to take his glasses off, thank god.
He withdrew his hands, and Shane's hips jerked forwards as though seeking out the missing contact.
Ilya leaned back, reaching to undo the zipper of his jeans. "I thought I could do something for you. To prove I am fan." He wiggled out of his jeans. "Best fan."
Shane's eyes passed over the Metros jersey, his exposed legs, his cock visible through his underwear. "Oh yeah?" he asked hoarsely.
Ilya was loving this. He loved the power he had over Shane that he had conjured up through sheer desire. He had always loved putting on a show, 'hamming it up,' as the English phrase went.
Ilya ran his hands over his body, slow and steady, messing with his own underwear now, then trailing his fingers along his happy trail.
"I watch every game." Truth. "I read every article." Truth. "I am always thinking, what can I do so that this man notices me?" ...Truth.
Ilya took himself out of his boxers and let his cock hang there, erect. Shane had wanted to be in charge, right?
"I was thinking," continued Ilya, staring at Shane, "that when you move, I move." And Ilya stroked himself once, languidly, to remove any doubt about what he was saying.
Shane nodded, understanding, and pushed down his own underwear. He took himself in hand, shuddering, still maintaining eye contact.
As Shane worked himself, so did Ilya, matching his pace. When Shane sped up, moaning and leaning over Ilya, Ilya also sped up. And when Shane stopped abruptly with a curse, Ilya also paused with his hand resting on his dick.
"Is almost too much, hmm?" Ilya murmured. "To see how much power you have over your poor fan."
"Sh-shut up," said Shane.
Shane reached behind him, where he had put a bottle of lube and some condoms after returning from the bedroom. He shucked off his boxers and settled back on the couch so that his thighs were on either side of Ilya's lap.
Straddling Ilya, he poured some lube onto his fingers and then reached behind himself.
Ilya made as if to grab the bottle of lube himself, but Shane said, "No, don't move."
"Yes," said Ilya, and then because he was mouthy like that, "sir."
Shane's whole body flushed. Victory.
Shane continued to finger himself open, squirming and moaning. "Fuck," Ilya said in Russian, tilting his head back so he wasn't looking at Shane. He wasn't sure he could look, or he wouldn't last.
"Kiss me," ordered Shane, breathlessly, and Ilya's head snapped back up to comply.
He gripped Shane's head firmly, bruisingly, as Shane continued to ride his own fingers.
Ilya's thoughts were a litany of "Jesus, ебать," interspersed with white noise.
Finally, Shane was shoving a condom into his hand. After rolling it on and lubing up his dick, Shane shifted so Ilya's cock was lined up with his entrance.
"So, you think I'm the best player in the league?" Shane asked, pupils blown black, sweaty and grinning. The question mirrored the last time they had done this, Ilya teasing Shane.
"What?" asked Ilya in Russian. Then, switching to English, "Come fucking on, Hollander."
Shane raised his eyebrows. " 'Hollander', that's pretty familiar from a fan. Am I--" and he ground his hips against Ilya's-- "the best?"
You will kill me, thought Ilya. "Very, very good. So good."
Shane looked at him.
"One of the best, yes, ебать," relented Ilya, and Shane sank down onto his cock.
Maybe the angle for fingering himself open wasn't very good, because Shane felt tight as hell.
"Holy fuck," Ilya said in Russian, and looked at Shane to make sure he was ok. Shane's head was thrown back in ecstasy, so Ilya figured he was fine.
He rested his hands on Shane's hips but resisted the urge to move.
Shane began rolling his hips, eliciting groans from both of them. After rocking back and forth a few times until he was taking Ilya fully, Shane started moving in earnest.
He started fucking himself on Ilya's cock, Shane's cock bobbing between them, but instead of touching himself, his hands were roaming over Ilya. His hands skated across the Metros jersey, through his hair, along his cross necklace.
This was far more intimate than the last time they had done this. They were face to face and, despite the way Shane was fucking the life out of him with his hips, his hands were gentle.
Ilya felt his heart seize. He felt he couldn't look at Shane again, but this time for a different reason. He leaned forward to kiss Shane, and made the kiss hard and scorching, as if to dispel whatever gossamer thing stretched between them.
"Can you-- ah," gasped Shane, and Ilya understood.
"Yes," he grunted, and seized Shane's hips, fucking up into him roughly. The sex was always athletic, but this felt beyond, Ilya thrusting up into Shane mercilessly, Shane clutching at Ilya with his eyes rolled back.
"Do you want--" began Shane.
"What?" asked Ilya between thrusts.
"Autograph," huffed Shane.
Oh. The game, yes. "Yes, please will you sign--"
But Shane was already reaching behind him to grab the marker from the coffee table. He rucked up the Metros jersey, and--
Signed Ilya's chest. The center of his chest, highish, slightly to the left. Very close to his heart.
"Fuck," said Ilya, and he was coming.
Shane worked himself once, twice, and then he was coming too, all over the signature and a bit on the jersey too.
They stared at each other for a second, breathing heavily. Something between them felt charged, vulnerable. It felt like they were skirting around the edge of something very dangerous. Finally, Shane broke the silence.
"Last time, you said-- you said you signed tits all the time," Shane said in a would-be... joking tone? A light tone? He sounded strained.
Ilya wracked his brain. Probably, he had said this. He was impressed Shane remembered. "Yes, this is true, I do." Ilya was going for unaffected, but his voice was also strained.
"So, I thought it was my turn to sign some tits," said Shane, definitely going for joking now.
It wasn't working. Ilya stared down at the neat, cursive signature, at its placement, and all he could feel was how unbearably intimate it was.
"First time signing tits, Hollander? Terrible signature," said Ilya, not making eye contact. It was not a terrible signature.
Ilya patted Shane's hip as a sign he wanted to get up. "Bathroom."
Shane moved off of him silently, and Ilya padded his way down to the bathroom. He peeled off the jersey and stared at his chest. 'Shane Hollander' looped in neat letters above his heart, just above '24'.
For the second time that day, Ilya traced 'Hollander' with his finger. He felt unbearable longing, so sharp in his chest it was painful. He pressed his hand into the signature as if to etch it there forever.
He was so, so fucked. He knew he had been fucked for a while. But. This was the first time he had openly admitted to himself how deeply he was screwed.
After collecting himself a little and wiping himself down, he returned to Shane with a wet cloth.
"One day, I will get this tattooed," he told Shane in Russian.
"What?" asked Shane, mystified.
"I said, 'I can give signature as well'," replied Ilya in English. He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, staring at Shane's ass.
"Fuck off," said Shane, but he was smiling. Victory.
At least, thought Ilya, I will have something to take back to Russia with me this summer, trying to ignore how hollow his chest felt.
Bonus: The next day
Lily: Oh fuck
Jane: What
Lily: Ok don't panic
Lily: Pike saw signature
Jane: WHAT
Jane: HOW
Lily: No, of course he did not
Lily: Am joking
Lily: Obviously
Lily: 😘