Work Text:
It’s a rare night off for hockey superstar, Shane Hollander. For once, with no obligations from work, or teammates, (or from a certain blonde Russian), Shane finds himself stuck between watching TV and comparing Boston and Montreal’s schedules. He has the Raider’s game pulled up too, reading the live notifications as they pop up, announcing that Ilya has just scored the game winning goal. He allows himself a dumb, absolutely infatuated smile, enjoying the freedom to celebrate his…Ilya, on a game well won, in private.
Game finished, he sighs and puts his phone down. Ilya will, no doubt, be going out to celebrate tonight, and there is no reason that Shane cannot just sit on the couch and finish his show. He watches, awestruck as black and white pieces dance around a checkered board.
He never learned chess, always too busy with hockey and school growing up, but the show gives a clarity to the game Shane has never seen before. He feels the intensity and anger and calculations behind each move, and feels connected to it as if he were the one playing. He lets himself be swept away, the piano melodies transitioning the scenes in ways that give him a sense of grounding between locations. It’s almost enough for him to not hear the buzzing of his phone.
Having fallen between two of the (admittedly) exorbitant number of throw pillows, Shane eventually retrieves the device.
“Ilya? Hey, great fucking goal tonight,” Shane greets with a smile.
“Mmm you were watching?”
He bites back the instant reply of ‘of course I was’ and settles for what feels like a less intense version. “You know I did.”
Ilya hums again, “Da, this makes sense, where else could you see world’s greatest hockey player if you were not?”
Shane rolls his eyes, there’s some chatter on the line, but it’s distant like Ilya is close to the locker rooms but not actually in them. Shane can hear the cheers and ribbing, but isn’t able to make out any words.
“Where are you going tonight?” It feels like the safest question, choosing to ignore Rozanov’s comment.
Ilya laughs, and the sound squeezes Shane’s heart uncomfortably.
“Not sure, bar or club, who cares if there is vodka and pretty girls, yes?”
Shane returns the laugh, and tries not to feel as jealous as that comment makes him. He’s fully aware that Ilya fucks girls sometimes. And it's totally okay with him. No, really, he can fuck whoever he wants!
A loud sound blares from the TV, drawing Shane’s attention back to it. There are people screaming and the redheaded woman is drunk and stumbling as Shane scrambles for the remote, saying, “Shit, sorry!”
Having successfully completed his mission, Shane backs up the TV to where he was when Ilya called, and presses pause.
“Sorry,” he repeats, a little breathless from moving so fast.
But Ilya has gone strangely silent on the other end, even the background chatter has faded into nothingness.
“Rozanov?”
A deep breath and, “Who the fuck is Benny?”
Taken aback, all Shane can think to say is, “Uh, what?”
“Hollander.” Ilya says his name like a warning.
“What?” He spits back, unsure of the turn this conversation is taking, “It’s just a fucking show, what do you want from me? What, are you…are you fucking jealous?” Shane might be projecting a little, feeling defensive all of the sudden.
A low, dark chuckle sounds through the tiny speakers, “Just a show? Jealous?” he repeats. Shane doesn’t respond.
“Hollander,” the warning tone in Ilya’s voice has been replaced with something unreadable to Shane, who still stays nothing. One last small laugh is the last thing he hears before a hollow, beep beep beep.
Looking down, he sees the call has been disconnected.
What the fuck just happened?
Shane and Ilya have been doing, whatever the hell this is, for years. And after years, Shane has more or less learned when Ilya needs space, and when he needs to be pushed, but when he’s not sure, he airs on the side of space. Ilya has proven to him that he will talk to Shane whenever he’s sorted the bullshit is in his head. It doesn’t take Shane long to push the conversation to the side, choosing to aim his focus on the show once again. Three episodes later, he’s wrapping up the second to last episode. He’s almost tired enough to pass out on the couch, but one last episode is calling to him. And seriously, when is the next time he’ll get to watch TV like this? As the finale starts, Shane is expecting the loud Netflix intro, but not expecting the…is that knocking?
He presses pause, and sits as still as he can, waiting to see if he hears it again.
Nothing, and then an explosion of knocks.
What the fuck?
He leaps from the couch, and approaches the door cautiously. There’s absolutely no one he is expecting to show up, especially this late at night on a random Thursday. He creeps to the peep hole, and his jaw drops.
Because there, behind the now open door, is Ilya fucking Rozanov, looking as perfect as ever, and not like he just played a high contact sport hours prior, the asshole.
“What the fuck?” Shane says aloud.
The Russian smirks, and pushes his way inside Shane’s condo, making himself at home.
“No really, what the fuck?” Shane repeats.
Ilya kicks off his shoes and keeps walking, past the stairs and into the living room. Shane follows instinctively.
“Why aren’t you in Boston? Didn’t you just play a game? No, didn’t you just win a game?” He asks, watching Ilya grab the remote off the couch, who points it at the TV and presses play. The red N zooms in, dissolving into a stream of colors before a voice rings out through the speakers.
“You know, most times when people tell us something’s for the best. It’s for the worst.”
Eyes snapping to the screen, Shane instantly breaks out into a cold sweat. Because the words coming from the TV are not in English. They’re in Russian. Mind reeling, looking for anything he can say to make it seem like something else was happening. Maybe he just likes the way Russian sounded? But, no even the fucking subtitles are in Cyrillc.
He’s. Fucked.
Ilya throws the remote down, not pressing pause, and stalks towards the dark haired man.
“Hey, wait, stop I’m fucking watching that,” Shane says, sidestepping Ilya so he can grab the remote to pause it.
“You are?” Ilya cocks his head, “I had no idea.” He licks his lips, watching Shane scramble with the remote. TV now paused, Shane feels oddly locked in a stalemate. He feels like if he breaks eye contact with Ilya, or moves in anyway, the world might explode. Luckily, Ilya being, well, Ilya, is so good at making first moves, that Shane doesn’t have to be the one to break the spell between them. He feels like prey watching the blonde walk towards him.
“I know you know why I’m here, Hollander, so why don’t you just give up now, hmm?”
What the fuck? Shane thinks. Because he certainly has no idea why this man showed up at his front door tonight. He tells him such.
Ilya laughs, “You expect me to hear a Russian man, who is not me, speaking sexy to you through the phone, and not book the earliest flight out?” Shane swallows, very aware of how close Rozanov is to him now, he backs up until his calves hit the couch. There’s a 50/50 chance that this is ending with them fucking or fighting, and he can’t pick which one to prepare for.
“Uh…” is all his brain lets him say.
Fully standing in front of each other now, Ilya reaches his hand out to grip Shane’s jaw, gently. (75/25 Shane’s brain whispers).
“So Shane Hollander, want to tell me why you are watching a show about world’s most boring game, in fucking Russian?”
An expert in avoidance, Shane latches onto the least important part of his sentence, saying, “You don’t like chess?”
Ilya squeezes his jaw lightly, “I didn’t say that.”
“You called it boring.” Shane prods.
“I call you boring all the time, you think I don’t like you?”
Shane flushes, and Ilya can’t help himself. He bends down to kiss his lips, then whispers against them in Russian, “Answer the question, angel.”
“I-I don’t know, it’s a good show! There’s not many good shows with Russian dubs on Netflix.”
Ilya pulls back a bit.
“Why are you looking for shows with Russian dubs?” Ilya’s hand, once resting on Shane’s jaw, has now moved down to the slope where his neck meets his shoulders. thumb softly rubbing back and forth on his collarbone.
“Because I…” Shane trails off, takes a breath, and starts again, “Because I learned Russian?” He says meekly, happy anything came out of his mouth at all.
“Why did you learn Russian?” Continues the interrogation.
He swears he’s never seen Ilya’s eyes as intense as they are right now. It’s probably why his next words slip out unconsciously, and a little hysterically. “Because I fucking love you! Okay?”
“Then why won’t you fucking speak to me?” Ilya also sounds like he’s losing some of his usually, tightly gripped control.
“I don’t fucking know!”
Ilya growls and pushes down on Shane’s shoulders; he falls to a sitting position on the couch and is quickly straddled by the other man’s legs. Then they’re kissing, and it’s hungry, passionate, and messy.
“Fuck, this has to be a dream,” Ilya breathes when they pull away, “this can’t be real, you can’t be real.”
Unsure if he should be offended, Shane chooses to listen to the whisper in his head. In the choice between fuck or fight, fight loses nine times out of ten.
Might as well bet all in.
“Rozy, fuck, did you really fly all the way out here because you heard Russian on my TV? What were you thinking? That some other man was…dicking me down? Like you’re not blessed with the world’s greatest fucking cock I’ve ever seen? Like everyone else hasn’t been ruined for me since day one with you?”
Grinding down, Ilya is more unraveled than Shane has ever seen him, “You have never been sexier than you are right now Hollander. ‘Dicking me down’? Who the fuck taught you to say this shit, maybe I should be fucking jealous.”
“There’s uh, more resources out there than you think.”
Ilya kisses him again, for as long as it takes for him to form coherent sentences in either language. Shane has to understand what this fucking does to him, right? Still kissing, one hand is laced in black hair, the other is moving towards their pants. It’s messy and fumbled but eventually, he’s able to get both dicks out of their pants one handed. He shifts his hips until Ilya’s able to wrap the hand around both of them together, and starts stroking.
Drinking in Shane’s moans, he thinks, I’ve been ruined too.
After they cum, Ilya pulls away slightly, raises his hand to his mouth and makes a big show of licking his hand clean while Shane catches his breath below him.
“Bedroom.” Is Ilya’s demand, as he dismounts Shane’s thighs. They make it there in record time. Shirts discarded along the way, they stare at each other in the dim lighting of the bedroom, before stripping their pants and underwear off too. Sufficiently undressed, Ilya grabs Shane to push him face first into the bed. Crawling up between tanned, toned, legs, the blonde grabs Shane’s ass, and licks a solid stripe from his balls to his tight hole.
Shane mumbles something in the mattress.
“I’m going to fuck you now, okay angel?”
Unintelligible mumbles are his only response, which will not do. Ilya bites Shane’s ass, who lifts his head up yelping, “Fuck!”
Ilya kisses the bite, “Tell me I can fuck you. Wanna hear you say it.”
“Fuck, God, yes, please fuck me, need to feel you in me.”
Satisfied, Ilya moves to grab the lube from the nightstand, returning quickly with a finger already covered, and starts swirling it around the entrance. Shane’s moans below him are his cue to press the finger fully inside.
Ilya has years of practice working Shane open with his fingers, years enough to know that he is not fully stretched when the dark haired man moans, “Please, Ilya, just fuck me already, it’s good enough, please.”
“Since when do you call the shots around here, hmm?” Shane will just have to suffer a little longer while he waits, some patience would do him well, Ilya thinks.
“Rozy, Ilya, please, I wanna feel the stretch today, wanna still feel you when you’re gone tomorrow, please, I swear it’s good enough, please.”
Fuck, he’s going to have to build up a new resistance to Shane’s fucking mouth, because right now he is powerless, no choice but to listen and give in to the begging. He’s withdrawing fingers, and wrapping them around himself, jerking back and forth to cover the whole length with lube.
“Hips up.” He commands, and is pleased by the speed in which he’s obeyed. He lines up the head, pressing against Shane’s hole in a way that makes him crazy, and waits.
Waits for the cantering of hips and the shaky cries of ‘please please’. Waits until he hears the word he’s desperate for.
“Ilya.”
He shoves himself all the way in, holds himself there, and breathes. He’s so fucking tight from being underprepped, and Ilya is wanting to last a little longer than just minutes.
“Fuck Hollander, no one says my name like you, like a fucking prayer, I fucking love it.” He pulls out a little, and starts rocking in, back and forth. “Do you say my name when you’re here alone, hmm? Stroking your dick by yourself, do you think of me? Do you cum with my name on your lips like when you are riding me?”
“Fuck, Ilya…” Shane’s Russian is slurring a bit, which drives Ilya crazier.
He speeds up, fucking into Shane harder now, mewls falling from lips once again squished into the mattress. Ilya wraps his hand around Shane’s leaking cock, and starts pumping.
“You feel what you fucking do to me, Hollander? Learning Russian for me, who fucking does that, huh? You. You do. You did. For me. God, all for fucking me. Fuck.” He isn’t going to last long anymore, and Shane’s cries sound like he’s feeling the same way.
“Are you gonna cum for me, Hollander? Hmm? Wanna feel the way your ass grips my cock while you do. Yes, that’s it, baby, fuck, cum for me, Shane.”
Shane’s orgasm rocks his whole body, arms giving out, slumping down, Ilya has to use his own arm to keep Shane’s hips up.
“Fuck, Shane!” Are his last words before spilling himself inside of Shane, distantly aware they didn’t talk about the no condom, but not able to bring himself to say anything about it yet.
They lay there, back to chest, as their breathing evens out. Ilya makes a move to finally slide out of Shane’s ass, rolling over to grab a rag, he swipes it between Shane’s legs as softly as he can.
Shane groans, but adjusts so it’s easier for Ilya to complete his task. “‘m sore”, he mumbles.
“This is what you asked for, yes?” Ilya finishes and banishes the rag to the floor. Shane grumbles in response. Grabbing Shane’s shoulders, he indicates what he wants, and is rewarded by the dark haired man rolling over. Ilya hovers over Shane for a moment, before bringing him in for a long kiss.
When he pulls away, his eyes are closed, tucking himself into Shane’s neck as he whispers, “I love you, too, you know.”
The tip of Ilya's cross is cold, making Shane shiver where it grazes his chest. He grabs gold curls and forces him back into a kiss, where they are content to stay for as long as the world will let them.