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trepopnea [greek “trepein" to turn + "pnoia" breath]: a form of dyspnea (shortness of breath) that occurs when lying on one side (lateral decubitus position) but not on the other
Ilya gets his first real rejection from Shane after a game against the Raiders. It’s not particularly brutal, but the nasty check that had sent him careening into the boards last week against Toronto reared its ugly head today. He tries not to think about how he’d been pressed into from the side by Ilya until he’d had to clench his teeth inside the guard to keep in the wheeze that it threatened to drag out of him, tries not to let it show on his face for Ilya and everyone else to see.
By the end of the third period it’s enough that he knows he can’t ignore it. Theriault notices him grimacing, hand hovering over his side, relieves him of media to head to the medics instead. His ribs are tender when they poke and prod at him, and while he waits for the results of the quick X-ray they take, his phone chimes.
Lily [11:20]
?
[11:21]
Not today.
Lily [11:23]
No celebration?
How boring
Are you sad you did not get winning goal
[11:24]
Fuck off.
I just want to have a quiet night in, okay?
[11:25]
You know where to find me if you change your mind 😉
It’s not that he doesn’t want. He does. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d fucked at an ill-advised time – they’ve aggravated many a tweaked hip or knee or shoulder, but as much as Shane wants, he knows his body’s past its limit right now, dark purple smudged across his ribs and a sharp pain every time he inhales too deep. The elastic band can’t afford to snap at this point in the season; there’s too much at stake. For once he can’t let himself be selfish. He’s sure Ilya would understand.
Hockey players are notoriously cagey about injuries and Shane Hollander is notoriously cagey for a hockey player, so news doesn’t get out until the next couple days when they put him on injured reserve. As soon as it does, though, it comes with the familiar chime of his messenger app going off.
Lily [2:10]
Were you not going to tell me
[2:15]
No.
Lily [2:15]
What happened
[2:15]
Nothing happened. It’s a precaution.
Lily [2:16]
No one gets scratched for three weeks for precaution
What happened
[2:16]
Just some bruised ribs.
Lily [2:16]
And I am Russian model
They are broken?
[2:25]
Yeah.
Hard check against Toronto the other week
Lily [2:25]
You will tell me
Next time I will not find out from news site
[2:29]
Okay, Lily.
Shane knows what it’s like to push his body past its limits.
Being hyperaware of his body comes with the territory – he knows what goes in his body and how to use it, how to push and push until he’s just toeing the right side of the line of the elastic band snapping right back and blowing up in his face.
It’s Ilya Rozanov who shoves him over, one of the first times. Shane doesn’t expect anyone else to be awake, let alone in the hotel gym at this time of night until Rozanov occupies the bike next to him and starts pedaling, matching his speed near-instantly. It sends a flash of irritation through him; irrational, but there all the same, and he know he’s being petty when he flicks his eyes sideways to peek at Rozanov, catches the smug look on his face, and speeds up in response despite his quads screaming from effort, going further and further until Shane’s legs are near-cramping and he’s breathing heavily from his mouth.
They dismount eventually, and Shane leans back against the machine to try and catch his breath, inhaling deep lungfuls that make his chest burn and the stitch in his side rears up viciously. It’s painful. He’s well aware he’s pushed past the point where he’ll be pleasantly sore in the morning.
Water. He doesn’t have his water bottle, but Rozanov does, and he wraps his lips around the nozzle and sucks water into his mouth, pausing between mouthfuls to breathe deeply. He watches his throat bob with every swallow, for long enough to not notice Rozanov watching him too. Rozanov is grinning; when he meets his eyes, the asshole even winks. Shane’s breathing eventually slows but even with the sweat beading at his upper lip his mouth lies slack and bone dry.
Shane tips his head back, extending his leg. Rozanov lets his own fall open, stretching out his knee enough that his shoe rests against Shane’s. He can’t stop looking, from the sweat on his neck to the heart shaped cupid’s bow of his lips to the flash of white teeth as Rozanov leans forward and offers him his own bottle.
He refuses. Rozanov doesn’t let him. He shakes it in his face, and Shane relents.
It hurts, to be hungry for so long, but eventually the stomach gets used to the hunger, and the cramping pain fades into a distant feeling in the background – right up until the first hint of food, when it returns in full, more potent than before. Shane is hungry; his stomach cramps and his lungs burn but the rush of cool water in his mouth alleviates them. The more, this time, is voiced. He’s led past a dark ledge with nothing but a water bottle and the phantom feeling of warm fingers brushing his as he makes his way there. His stomach swoops as he walks right off.
When Shane was younger, he was often found with his thumb in his mouth, replaced by a lollipop as he grew older, then the drawstrings of several hoodies. He’s chewing on one when he hears knocks on the door in the way he’s come to recognize as Ilya’s, thrice in quick succession. Ilya never tends to linger outside in the hallway, but he does tend to antagonize Shane, so he steps into the doorway lazily, blocking the door and pulling his shoes off right there. Shane drags him in the same as he always does, swift like he’s a prey animal being chased.
The adrenaline spike from knowing that they could be caught overrides his fear for a handful of moments, and Ilya swallows it down by pressing Shane against the wall and dipping his tongue into his mouth. Shane would never admit that, never admit that the thought of being seen, of someone watching, made his cock twitch. He doesn’t have to, either; one of the times Ilya had made him come the hardest was when he fucked him against the hotel door, both too keyed up to make it past the entryway. They’d left the door unlocked, held shut by nothing but their body weights and Ilya pressed into him, whispering filthy praises and look at you, my pretty little slut. Careful, don’t want them hearing you outside, hm? as he slid two fingers in Shane’s mouth.
They’d done little to muffle Shane’s cries, but there’s little Shane loved more than his mouth full. That’s how he finds himself on his knees not ten minutes later, lips stretched around Ilya’s cock. It’s obscene, mouth wet with spit and tears in his eyes as Ilya thrusts in his mouth.
One of his hands moves from where it’s buried in Shane’s hair to his jaw, intending to grip tightly and force it to stay in place, but Shane lifts his head at the same time to look up at Ilya, and it lands on his neck instead. Ilya squeezes before he realizes, hand fitting around his throat and he thinks if he’d squeezed any harder, he could feel his cock against his palm, and isn’t that a thought.
“Sorry, sorry,” Ilya breathes, pulling Shane off him and cradling his face as he coughs. “Are you okay?”
“Again,” Shane rasps.
“What?”
“Again,” Shane repeats.
He shouldn’t, should at least try to do it safer, should tell him that they need to talk about this before they do it, but this time he’s pleading, eyes wide and wet, and Ilya can’t refuse when he asks like that. He feeds his cock back into Shane’s mouth, groaning when Shane immediately whines around it, hands coming up to grip the back of Ilya’s thighs as he takes it to the base.
Ilya buries one hand in Shane’s hair and the other trails down his face. “Okay?” he asks, and Shane hollows his cheeks in response. “Okay,” Ilya exhales.
He moves his hand down, resting lightly on Shane’s throat for a beat. His thumb and fingers fit nicely around Shane’s throat; he wonders what it’d be like if Ilya left five-coin imprints for everyone to see. Wonders what his team would think when he shows up the next day with Ilya’s marks on him, but – no. Ilya presses in gently, palm fitting around his Adam’s apple. Shane gags around his cock, tears beading at his waterline and slipping down his cheeks and oh, fuck, Ilya can feel the muscles spasm against his palm, can feel the tightening of his throat around his cock. It’s enough, too much, and he’s groaning a fuck, Shane, oh my god, and coming in his mouth.
Ilya presses a cool bottle of water to Shane’s still splotchy cheek later, delighting in how it makes him flinch and glare at him for a moment before he uncaps it and starts drinking. He watches his throat bob, a stray rivulet making its way down his chin, and wonders.
Two weeks and a bit pass and Shane has returned to practice in a non-contact jersey. It’s early – too early, maybe, Hayden certainly seems to think so – but he manages to convince the team doctors that he’s okay enough to be cleared. Shane doesn’t think they’ll let him play a real game anytime soon, but it’s a home game and he’s pleasantly surprised when Theriault allows it.
His good mood doesn’t last for long. To his annoyance, Shane is on the bench for most of it, grinding his teeth at several points in the game. He’d been checked again in the middle of the first period, not able to duck out of the way in time and pulled – he’s taken to the medics immediately. He admits to them under their insistent and meticulous poking and prodding, and some mild threatening, that he’s having some difficulty breathing, a catch in his chest sharp enough to make him gasp when he inhales too deeply. They raise their eyebrows, alarmed, but thankfully in the end they have nothing to report that’s going to stick. Still, they explicitly ban him from rejoining the ice tonight. It’s enough to put him in a sullen mood, but when he comes back to the bench, they’re already down by two. His team was good even without him, capable of winning, but their first line was weak and Boston plays aggressively enough to poke at the deficit, hard, and it gives way like a bruised fruit.
It’s ugly and messy, sticky flesh and juice all spilling out between his fingers. He fists them at the hem of his jersey, just out of sight on the bench. He can barely look at Ilya when he passes by them on the way off the ice; a childish part of him wants to join the boos echoing in the Centre.
Frustration simmers hot in him all the way until he gets home. The shower he’d taken at the centre hadn’t helped, so he takes another – the scalding water gives him temporary relief; it’s distraction enough while he lathers his hair. He wraps a towel around his waist and catches his reflection in the mirror on the way out. He hadn’t noticed the angry purple painted across his side, extending from his nipple downwards. It’s mottled angry red in the places it isn’t dark – he hadn’t looked to closely, before, and hadn’t seen it spread larger than before. It’s darker than Ilya’s.
Shane rubs a curious hand down his side, hissing and flinching away when his fingertips brush across bruised skin just the slightest bit too firmly. He makes a second pass over it, this time pressing in deliberately, and it hurts. It hurts, but the pressure over it feels good, and so he presses a whole palm next, makes a low, wounded sound in his throat before pulling his hand away.
He carries the warmth of the steam with him when he exits, throwing on a pair of sweatpants and pulling on one of his more comfortable hoodies. He winces slightly when the pinch in his side flares up as he lowers himself onto his bed, but it’s short-lived. Shane unlocks his phone, scrolls down to the right contact, and hits send before he can think twice about it.
[10:13]
?
Ilya doesn’t respond for a bit. Shane watches the text bubble pop up and disappear twice before his phone chimes with an Okay. He settles back against the pillow, and he waits.
Thirty minutes later Ilya reaches Shane’s building. He lets himself in through the back door like usual. Shane’s slower than usual; Ilya has told him it’s a stupidly big house for one person, but Shane’s always opened immediately, always impatient. He peeps through the eyehole, watches as Ilya scuffs his toe against the floor outside Shane’s apartment while he waits for him to open the door – he’s been standing there a while.
Shane ushers him in the door before Ilya can get a good look at him. As soon as he's got the door locked behind him, though, Ilya is taking hold of him. They're on each other quick and frantic like they’re nineteen and desperate again. “Bedroom,” he mumbles between kisses, and yanks him in; Ilya bites at his bottom lip, hard, and Shane whines high in his throat as Ilya threads his fingers in his hair and pulls harshly before licking over the insult. His head jerks back and Ilya chases, bites at the exposed flesh of his throat.
“No marks,” Shane warns, kicking the door closed.
Ilya smiles against his neck. He doesn’t usually leave any, a long-time unspoken rule of theirs – one that he’s found a way around before. At some point no marks often became no new marks, Ilya pressing his lips around the edges of the bruises that bloomed on him earlier that night.
He tugs at his hoodie, pulling it over Shane’s head. Shane watches it crumple to the floor, his sweatpants following immediately after. He’s bending to reach down and drape them over the chair, when Ilya tugs him back. “I win, I decide, hm?”
Shane’s heart thumps like a sledgehammer in his chest. “Yes,” he breathes. He can’t quite hide the desperation in his tone, eyes wide and expectant when he looks at Ilya, but Ilya’s are zeroed in on his torso, where it’s painted a dark enough blue that it looks black in the dim lighting of his bedroom.
It would be so easy, Shane thinks. So easy for him to reach into his chest – to dig it all out and hold it in his hands. Any other time he’d beg Ilya to be careful, to be gentle with him, but – no, that’s not what he wants tonight. Ilya reachest a hand out, fingers hovering, asking permission and Shane grabs it, presses his palm to his side. He all but falls forward like he's threaded his fingers between his ribs, hooking under his sternum and pulling him in.
“Please,” Shane shudders, his chest expanding with desperate breaths.
Ilya swallows them down, presses his mouth to his again, hot and insistent. He tugs at Shane’s boxers and slides his hands under them, palms warm over the soft curve of his hips. He grabs a handful of Shane’s hair and wrangles him close once again, kissing him so forcefully it makes the both of them stumble. Shane’s back hits the mattress and Ilya crouches over him, one knee indenting it next to Shane’s hip, swallows down the gasp that elicits from him, too. Like this, he breathes what Ilya gives him; it doesn’t make it all the way down to his lungs before he’s wheezing it back into Ilya’s mouth, breathless in the way he is when Ilya’s fucking him hard and fast, when he’s so full he can feel it in his throat.
“Ilya, come on –”
“You talk a lot today,” Ilya inhales, sealing his mouth over Shane’s again. Shane sighs against Ilya’s mouth, letting his lips press against Ilya’s. They pull back for a moment, and then Ilya’s fingers tilt Shane’s chin forward as he shifts back in. He catches his bottom lip between his teeth, biting sharply before letting go, and a warm tongue presses against the seam of his lips. Shane raises himself on his elbows, ignoring the sharp shooting pain in his side as it screams with effort, leans forward so Ilya can bite at his lip again, and this time he whimpers around an exhale. “Does it hurt?”
Shane shakes his head. It’s a lie, and Ilya knows it. He raises an eyebrow. “You know what happens if you lie,” he tuts, squeezing his waist. Shane nods, inhaling sharply. He does remember, the time he wasn’t able to sit down without wincing for the better part of the week, the time he had welts on his back, the time he had to explain away the small, angry-looking circular marks as an allergic reaction.
“Just a little,” he admits. It’s a safe answer; doesn’t give away anything major, but it’s somewhat true. Ilya moves his hands up Shane’s sides and his breath hitches, growing faster and shallower. He stops just before he reaches purple skin and rests his hands there, fingers digging into his ribs. He could lift him just like this, Shane thinks. Pick him up and push him further up the bed, flip him over. Shane wouldn’t have to do anything, wouldn’t get to do anything but take it.
Ilya presses his lips right under Shane’s jaw, biting lightly at the skin there before trailing down to his collarbones, to his sternum. He flicks a nipple, bites right under it before laving at it with his tongue. Shane’s hips shift, trying to thrust forward against Ilya’s thigh between his knees, anything for the slightest bit of friction. He whines when Ilya pulls away, plea sitting prettily at the tip of his tongue, but Ilya lets go of his other hand on his hips to hold him by the jaw and angles his head such that Shane is staring straight ahead, making eye contact with him, and the intensity of his gaze is enough to make Shane let out a soft sound.
“Open up,” he commands, and Shane does – hand moving from his jaw, Ilya dips two fingers into Shane’s mouth and he accepts them greedily, sucking on his fingertips, swirling his tongue around Ilya’s thick fingers. Ilya presses down on Shane’s tongue, making him gag - saliva drips from his mouth as he makes a choked noise, coughing slightly.
Ilya pulls his fingers out and wipes his chin with a finger, before leaning back. “Lube?” he asks, and Shane twists his body to reach his dresser drawer. He realizes immediately it’s the wrong thing to do, because air leaves him in a whoosh and he bites his lip to hold back his groan. “One minute,” he gasps, twisting back to lay on his back for a moment, catching his breath, wet and rasping.
He has no misconceptions about the kind of sex they have – it’s hot and incredibly athletic, and not slow, tender lovemaking. Sometimes Shane finds himself straining past his limit for it, waking pleasantly sore the next morning. Which is why he needs to tell Ilya, needs to be selfish for once. “Ilya,” he whispers. “I don’t know if I can –”
“You can,” Ilya tells him. He smooths a hand over his sternum, the other coming up to cup his cheek. “You’re perfect, Shane, I know you can. I will take care of you,” he adds. “It’s my win, I cannot let my prize break before I enjoy it, hm?”
He trusts Ilya more than anything, knows he wouldn’t do anything to truly harm him, but he’s still unsure. He hears the click of the cap of lube, and nods anyway. “Please,” he exhales.
Ilya opens him up like that, lifting one leg to rest over his elbow while he scissors his fingers in, slow and purposeful. He takes his time with it, Shane’s breaths quickening with every passing moment until he’s panting and moaning pleas for Ilya to just fuck me already, please, please, I can’t –
Ilya just presses his lips right by his ribs. “No, don’t –” Shane begins, but he can’t get much else out, keening high in his throat as Ilya sucks harshly, bites at the skin with his teeth. He sucks over the tender skin, expands the area mapped by Shane’s bruises, staking his claim – those are his marks on his Shane.
“Ilya,” Shane begs. “I’m ready, please.”
“You’re ready when I say you are,” Ilya tells him, adding a fourth finger. Shane moans at the intrusion, the stretch venturing just this side of too much. He feels so full.
He’s able to hold out only for another few minutes, not unaffected himself – dark patch forming where his cock leaks in his own underwear too. “How do you want it?” he asks Shane.
“On my back,” Shane tells him. It’s the easiest for him, with the least strain on his ribs. He’d wheezed his way through the shower when he’d lathered up his legs, not able to hang his head low for too long, so his preferred place on his hands and knees was out of the question.
Ilya considers it, then shakes his head. “Turn to your side,” he commands, disregarding Shane’s answer. Like he didn’t have a choice in the matter in the first place. He slicks himself up as Shane maneuvers himself on the bed, trying to slide a pillow under his hip to keep the weight off his side.
It doesn’t help. The first slide of Ilya inside him punches the breath right out of him.
Ilya’s always been big, a stretch and more to take even for Shane after all these years, but it feels like extra effort to take him today. He lifts one hand to brace it on the headboard, the other fisting in the sheets as Ilya thrusts forward, sinking in seemingly endlessly. Shane’s gasp is thick and ratchety as it leaves his chest. He writhes, thrusts his hips back against Ilya’s but he’s held in place by a firm grip on his hips.
“Other side, Ilya, can you –”
“But you look so beautiful like this,” Ilya murmurs in his ear, pressing a kiss behind it and punctuating it with a thrust that draws another pathetic sound out of Shane. One of his arms wedges underneath Shane next to the pillow and anchors itself just around his ribs, teasing the edge of his injury – it’s tender enough that Shane can feel it, but not enough to truly worry him yet; the other grips his hip tightly as he begins to set a slow rhythm.
It’s not the hardest Ilya’s fucked him, but already Shane is feeling it, the burn of exertion in his lungs spreads through his body, hot and fiery and he reaches back to hold onto Ilya. Ilya is pulling him back and thrusting up into him at the same time, skittering sparks up his spine and liquid lust through his veins. A few more moves, and they settle into a near punishing rhythm, Shane rolling his hips up just to be brought back as Ilya pulls him down onto his cock. He can’t think through the fog of desire, can feel his lungs working, knows that he’s panting, but it feels like he can’t get enough air, like the rush of Ilya keeps driving it out before it can reach his blood. Or maybe it’s because his blood is boiling, rushing too fast and too hot through him for anything to function.
And, fuck, he’s so gone. He’s not going to last, he realizes. His body can’t keep it up for much longer, begging for relief.
“Ilya, Ilya, please, I’m going to –”
“No.”
Tears dot Shane’s waterline and spill over, leaving his cheeks warm and wet as he begs Ilya. “I need to come, please.”
Ilya’s hand disappears from his hip and comes down on his ass, first on one side, then the other. Shane yelps at the impact, moaning as Ilya caresses it after to soothe the sting. “You will come when I say you can, my love.”
Shane shakes his head. He wants, he needs to come now. He can’t take it. “Please, Ilya, sir, I’ll do anything –”
Ilya shushes him, thrusting harder into Shane just as he presses his hand to Shane’s side, this time digging his thumb into the bruise lightly, dragging out another filthy moan. He tilts Shane’s head back, dipping his tongue into his mouth, cutting off his air. Shane breathes through his nose, shallow and rapid until he can’t, kisses Ilya until his vision swims and black spots dance in his periphery. He breaks off, wheezing and collapses back against Ilya’s chest just as he comes all over his own.
“I’m sorry,” he slurs, the last of his tears still dripping from his eyes. He can’t hold himself up, boneless and exhausted as his head lolls back against the crook of Ilya’s neck.
“Shh, sweetheart,” Ilya says, smoothing a thumb under his eyes. “Come on, up.” He pulls out of Shane, maneuvering him onto his elbows and knees and slides right back in. “My beautiful trophy. God, look at you,” he says.
Ilya is murmuring something, but Shane can barely pay attention. His mind swims with big, hot, tight as Ilya presses a kiss to the nape of his neck as he thrusts his hips, words of encouragement dripping from his lips. “So good, Shane,” he says, “so beautiful. You’re taking me so well.”
Shane moans at the praise. It already feels like so much, and all he can do is take slow, shuddering breaths while sinking further, and he rolls his hips, not enough for much stimulation, but just to feel how deep Ilya is in him.
“Shane, fuck, Shane,” Ilya groans. Shane can feel the aborted movements behind him. He feels Ilya pull him even closer, thinks he hears him shout his name, but he’s too far under to make out sounds clearly.
Ilya lifts off after a moment, breathing heavily. Shane feels like there’s lead in his limbs, sinking bonelessly on the bed as if the life’s been sucked out of him as he pants, coming down. In the meantime, Ilya has retrieved a towel to clean himself and then Shane. Warm hands touch Shane’s cheeks, his neck, his shoulders, his arms, his waist; he runs a cool cloth and press soft kisses against his skin, and he does so with such gentle strokes – Shane would have been humiliated if he didn’t enjoy it so much.
Shane looks at Ilya’s eyes, pupils still dilated and lashes clumped with moisture, but so, so beautiful. His cheeks are flushed with embarrassment and waning arousal his forehead is faintly glistening with sweat, and Shane wants to split apart his skin and crawl inside. Ilya touches him reverently, worships him in a way that reminds Shane of the way he has watched him cradle his trophies and presses his lips to cool metal.
Ilya finally crawls in next to him, pulling the sheets over them. Shane smiles at him tiredly but no less brightly, the high never fading even with the exhaustion setting in. He twists to lay his head down on his folded arms, staring up at Ilya.
Ilya’s cross tickles Shane’s forehead when he leans down to press a kiss into his sweaty hair.
“Good?” he murmurs.
“Never better,” Shane rasps. Ilya’s lips quirk up, smile no dimmer than the sun.