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Ilya is playing houseboyfriend, and he loves it. Mostly.

The Metros are heading into the MLH Finals, and for the first time, he gets to be Shane's playoffs support system. It’s a privilege he doesn’t take lightly, shepherding Shane Hollander into the hockey history books. Shane had been skeptical when Ilya first suggested moving in, given his need for near-monastic focus, but Ilya swore up and down he’d be helpful. He would cook Shane’s macrobiotic meals and keep the house tidy and run all their errands.

When Shane pointed out that he was a millionaire and could simply hire someone to do those things, Ilya had said, “Yes, Hollander, but can they do it like this”—and walked into the kitchen wearing nothing but an apron.

Shane had fallen to his knees. Ilya had gotten to stay.

There was a time where Ilya couldn’t have imagined not being gutted by missing the playoffs. Now, though, any disappointment has been swallowed whole by the need to be there for Shane. To be indispensable. To be enough.

Sometimes it feels like an audition for the role of a lifetime. One he’s not sure he’ll ever be allowed to play, but one he knows in his bones was meant for him.

He hopes Shane feels the same way.

Next week Shane plays Game 1 of the finals at home against San Jose, and Ilya is patiently waiting for him to return from a team meeting. A pot of lentils with seaweed bubbles away on the stove, and it honestly doesn’t smell half-bad. The apartment is spotless. Ilya expects Shane at any moment, so he’s lit some vanilla candles and put on his softest sweatpants, the worn cotton ones his boyfriend loves to rub his face against. He can already feel Shane nuzzling into him—the hot, damp press of his mouth against the fabric.

Saliva is pooling under Ilya’s tongue even before his brain has fully processed the sound of the garage door opening. That’s how goddamn trained Shane Hollander has him, like Pavlov’s dog, only lovesick, dick-sick. He drops into a set of push-ups to perk up his chest, because he knows Shane will want to grab at his tits, and has just righted himself when the front door swings open.

And oh, that sweet, dark little head with its sweet, brown little freckles is home. Ilya will never get over the shock of beautiful Shane Hollander wanting to come home to him.

“How was team meeting, moya lyubimyy? Feeling ready for finals?”

Ilya lifts Shane off his feet with a grunt, pulling him in for a hungry kiss. He nips at Shane’s bottom lip—it’s pouty, perfect, slick with a minty balm that makes his tongue tingle. He’s wondering absently whether licking Shane’s asshole would transfer that tingling feeling down there when he registers it: Shane’s not wrapping his legs around Ilya’s waist the way he usually does. Instead, his body goes rigid, like a kitten held by its scruff.

“Um, yeah. About that.” Shane coughs. “We’re trying something new this year.”

Shane looks anywhere but at Ilya as he shucks off his shoes, then lines them up next to his galoshes at the door. The ritual takes a beat longer than it usually does. “The guys agreed not to have sex during the finals.”

Ilya laughs—as if Shane would ever agree to such a thing. And Hayden Pike? He’d never survive a sex ban. That man fucks like a rabbit and has a brood of baby rabbits to prove it.

“That is very funny, Shane.” He kisses him on the cheek and goes to check the lentils. “You are getting better at this joking thing, yes?”

“Shut up, I’m serious. We barely squeaked through the last round. I’ve never… you know I’ve never had sex during the playoffs. It’s the one thing that’s changed this year.”

It hits him in the gut. He’s never once considered that he might somehow be bad for Shane.

“You are saying is my fault Metros almost lost to old man Scott Hunter?”

Shane sighs. “I mean, no, of course not. But you can be a little distracting sometimes.”

That’s not how this was supposed to be at all. This—all of this—is what he’s good at, what he’s here to do: keeping Shane loose, happy, focused. He’s been helping. He knows he has. Ilya’s cheeks feel hot and his eyes start to sting and it’s stupid, so stupid, but he can’t stop the bite that creeps into his voice.

“I have been making smelly lentils and playing houseboyfriend all day for you, Shane Hollander. I have been doing this for weeks, and I barely see you, but that is fine because I love you and I know you are busy. But no—no touching you? For whole finals?” Ilya drops the pot lid—how long does it take stupid lentils to cook—and winces when it slams into his finger.

“I just need to be able to focus on the team’s performance. All the guys will be dealing with it. You can give Jackie a call, I’m sure she would be happy to commiserate.”

Ilya isn’t even going to ask what commiserate is, because it sounds close enough to miserable that it feels obvious. He needs Shane. Needs to feel the solid weight of him under his body, taste the salt of his sweat and his come. When everything is too much, too heavy, Ilya loses himself in Shane’s body.

Its familiar contours keep him safe when he feels the darkness creeping in.

Ilya’s fingers twist in Shane’s white t-shirt, pulling him tightly against his chest. He inhales his soap-clean scent and tries to laugh, because maybe laughing will make this easier. “I will die, moya lyubimyy. Do you want to be responsible for death of Ilya Rozanov, world’s greatest hockey player?”

“Ha ha, Ilya. Come on, you won’t die.”

For a long, pathetic moment, he feels like he might.

Shane holds his gaze, brown eyes sympathetic but firm. “You know I hate to disappoint you. But I made a commitment and I have to honor it.”

“Hollander. It could be two or three weeks before finals are over.”

Shane pokes at the undercooked lentils. Huffs. “We’ve gone much longer than that.”

“Yes, but that was before, when we did not have any choice!” It comes out more sharply than he’d intended. “When I could not sleep next to you every night. Or see your little glasses every morning.”

He sinks to his knees behind Shane, pressing his forehead to the curve of his boyfriend’s lower back. He knows even as he does it that it’s too much, too needy, and he closes his eyes to shut out the shame of it.

“I’m sorry, Ilya. I love you, but no sex, end of discussion.” Shane turns and looks down at him, one hand stroking Ilya’s hair, and Ilya knows that he means it. “If you can’t handle it, you don’t have to stay here. I’ll understand.”

Sometimes Shane makes Ilya feel like he’s being an unreasonably horny teenager, with the way he needs him so desperately, so physically. He doesn’t know how to explain that it’s not about the sex. Still doesn’t have all the right words in English, or maybe in any language, to describe it.

“No,” he says quietly. “No, I do not want that, Shane. Please do not send me away. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I will be good.”

Ilya is not good.

He tries everything he can think of to break Shane without pissing him off. And he wouldn’t try at all, of course, if he thought it would genuinely jeopardize Shane’s game.

The problem with Shane Hollander is that he forgets how fucking good he really is sometimes. He thinks he needs tricks and superstitions to win, but he doesn’t. He needs love and care and a really good railing every night of the week.

So Ilya conveniently “forgets” to bring a towel into the shower, then calls for Shane to bring him one while is cock is half-hard and his body is appealingly cloaked in steam. He jerks off with the bedroom door open and fingers his ass while he does it, right as Shane is vacuuming the hallway (why is Shane vacuuming the hallway?). He moans loudly around his soup spoon at dinner—and it is not easy to pretend that macrobiotic mushroom broth is delicious—then licks it clean while maintaining eye contact.

Nothing is working, and a dull, aching pressure is building behind his ribs.

Most days, Shane ignores his seduction attempts with what seems like effortless indifference, but Ilya suspects his boyfriend is enjoying it a little, the shift in their power dynamic. It occurs to him that Shane may be discovering what he has known all along: Ilya may dominate him in the bedroom, but Shane Hollander calls the shots. Has always called the shots, since that very first day in Saskatchewan when Shane’s freckles had stolen what limited English he had.

When Shane gets home after winning Game 1, Ilya is on the couch, working lube over his cock and thinking about Shane’s final goal of the night—the sharp snap of his wrists, the clean bar-down shot. The efficient little fist pump after. Ilya wishes he could’ve seen it in person, but letting people watch him watch Shane is too dangerous.

He’d hoped his boyfriend might want to celebrate with him, because nothing is sexier than seeing Shane in his element, ruling the ice, even on TV. But Shane just gives him a once-over, eyes briefly lingering on Ilya’s hard, leaking dick.

“Look at you,” he says, a little smirk ghosting his features. “No self-control at all. Pathetic.”

Ilya comes all over himself and Shane smiles.

Fuck, Hollander, insult me again.

After losing Game 2, Shane gets masochistic about his workout and decides to plank until he collapses. Ilya doesn’t love this—losing sucks, and he hates that Shane is disappointed. But pushing himself past the brink doesn’t actually serve a purpose, and puts him at greater risk for injury.

Ilya makes himself watch for ten unbearable minutes as Shane holds perfect plank position, muscles taut, firm ass in the air, until his sweat is dripping onto the floor and his body begins to shake uncontrollably.

Oh, God, Shane is whimpering. His face scrunches tight like he’s about to come.

“Fuck, can’t hold it anymore, I’m gonna—fuck.”

Shane collapses into a quivering heap. Ilya has to leave the room.

When Shane goes to San Jose for week two of the finals, Ilya has never been more relieved. He misses his boyfriend, but at least the little menace isn’t tempting him every day. David and Yuna come over for Yahtzee, and he builds a new shelf for Shane’s boring hockey books, then alphabetizes them by the author’s last name.

If he takes Shane’s dirty clothes out of the laundry and jerks off into them, no one needs to know.

But then each team wins a game, which means by the time that Shane flies home on Thursday night, Ilya will still have to suffer for at least five more days. Game Five is on Saturday, and Game Six will be the following Wednesday. If the Metros need Game Seven, he’ll be waiting until next Friday to feel Shane skin to skin.

Ilya won’t survive it. He already feels like he’s lost a limb.

The morning after Shane returns from San Jose, his boyfriend is on the couch, watching the game tapes. He’s wearing stupidly short running shorts and little white socks that Ilya wants to remove with his teeth. With a notebook in his lap and a pencil behind his ear, Shane looks like an overeager, especially dedicated schoolboy. The tip of his tongue is lodged in the corner of his mouth as he stares at the screen.

Ilya wants to suck on it. Wants to slide his tongue along Shane’s until he is weak and panting and begging to feel Ilya’s cock in his mouth. The thought already has him half-hard.

When Shane shifts his weight, Ilya sees the black boxers peeking from between his legs, and fuck, he wants to press his face to the apex of those thick thighs. Wants to bite that creamy skin, leave bruises in the shape of his teeth that will have Shane’s teammates chirping him for days.

It starts to feel purposeful, the way Shane spreads his legs, exposing the perfect heat of himself for Ilya to see. He stifles a groan and slides to the floor, resting his cheek against Shane’s knee. Shane doesn’t even look down; his eyes stay glued to the tape.

God, he can’t take it anymore.

“Shane, moya lyubov?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“What if I just … put it in my mouth for little bit?”

Shane shushes him. “I’m trying to watch the game tape. Could you stop thinking with your dick for a second? Do you not want me to win?”

“Please.” It comes out like a whine. “I will not even move. No sucking. I will just sit on my knees with your cock in my mouth. Is not sex. Is just … keeping your dick warm, yes?”

Shane glares at him, and Ilya is surprised to feel his eyes starting to brim.

“Oh—oh, hey, Ilya, what’s going on?” Shane pauses the tape, a crinkle appearing between his brows. He looks lost.

“Please, solnyshko. I am drowning without having you.”

Ilya’s cock feels impossibly hard already, his too-tight boxers trapping it against his stomach. He almost wants to rut against Shane’s leg, to hump the muscle of his calf like a dog in heat.

Shane looks so sweetly troubled at Ilya’s sudden outburst of emotion that it almost undoes him. “It’s really that bad for you?”

“Yes. Please, Shane, I—I am begging you.”

Shane blinks, like he’s really thinking about it. He rakes a hand over his mouth.

“I guess if I don’t come, and you don’t come, it doesn’t have to count. I’m going to focus on the tape, though, okay? And you can just…sit there for a bit. But no funny business.”

Ilya nods. Shane spreads his legs wide.

“Come here, Ilya.” Shane lifts his hips, easing his shorts and briefs down until his cock springs free. Ilya hasn’t seen it in what feels like forever. Even half-hard, it makes his mouth water: cut, thick, with a little freckle under the head that begs to be kissed. Ilya arches an eyebrow.

“Shut up, it’s a natural reaction.”

“I did not say anything. I am being good.” Ilya leans forward and opens his mouth, spit already pooling under his tongue.

“Go on, then. Take it.” Shane strokes Ilya’s hair, still looking a little worried. The furrow between his brows is adorable. “Just be quiet so I can concentrate, please?”

Everything Ilya has wanted for the last two weeks is in front of him, there for the taking. Ilya moves his mouth over Shane’s dick and it’s heaven and hell all at once. The slide of that soft, delicate skin beneath his lips drags a moan out of him before he can stop it, and he feels Shane’s body stiffen. Watches his eyes slip closed for the briefest of moments.

Shane looks like he’s enjoying this. He looks like he hates himself for it a little. But then his focus is back on the tape.

“Sh—shit, that pass was sloppy.”

Shane scrawls something in his little notebook, and it takes everything Ilya has to stay still. Every fiber of his being is screaming at him to suck Shane’s cock, to swirl his tongue around the head and graze it with his teeth in that way that makes Shane whimper helplessly before taking him deep in his throat. As if Shane can hear Ilya’s thoughts, his cock begins to thicken on Ilya’s tongue, warm and velvety-smooth and growing heavier by the second.

It makes him feel powerful, being able to affect Shane this way, and he has been powerless for nearly two weeks now. He feels a little drunk with it. To be on his knees before Shane fucking Hollander, to be able to make his cock hard without even sucking it, is the headiest drug.

Ilya closes his eyes and breathes around Shane’s cock. He couldn’t say how long he kneels there. He doesn’t even hear the game in the background, doesn’t feel the ache he knows should be building in his knees—he’s so attuned to Shane’s body before him, inside him. Every shift of Shane’s weight on the couch, every noise of frustration over his game. It all washes over Ilya until he feels one with Shane, a supplicant before his boyfriend, holding his perfect cock in his mouth.

The world has narrowed to the nap of the rug underneath his knees, the pulse of Shane’s heartbeat on his tongue. The soft curl of dark pubic hair that just brushes Ilya’s nose. He inhales as deeply as he dares, drawing the musk of him—salt and sweat and the faint citrus scent of their shared bodywash—into his lungs and holding it there.

Ilya must be doing a good job of keeping quiet, because Shane suddenly curses at the tape and jolts forward on the couch, like he’s forgotten Ilya is there. “Fuck, how did I miss that? JJ was open!”

The motion makes Shane’s cock hit the back of Ilya’s throat, and they both gasp. Ilya chokes a little—Shane is big, the biggest he’s had—and saliva trickles down his chin.

“Y-you okay?” Shane asks. His gaze dips to Ilya for a split second, and Ilya feels him twitch on his tongue.

“Mm-hmm,” he says. At the vibration, Shane’s fingers find his curls and tighten. The tug tears through Ilya’s body like an electric current and he hums against Shane’s skin.

“Fuck, don’t do that, Ilya, stop it.” A little whine creeps into Shane’s voice. Needy in the way that Ilya loves to fuck out of him. But he can’t, he can’t, because he promised Shane he would be good.

Shane’s attention is back on the game, anyway. “What the hell was Hayden doing there…”

Ilya settles back into the near-meditative state that is holding Shane’s cock in his mouth. He feels his own dick growing heavy, aching, and he’s desperate for some friction, but he’s already getting more than he could have hoped for tonight.

Then the tide turns in the game.

Game Four hadn’t been all bad for the Metros, Ilya remembers. Shane had scored twice in the second, and the tape is almost there.

“Hollander’s in alone on a breakaway!” the commentator shouts. “Forehand—backhand—he scores!”

Ilya tastes salt on his tongue.

Oh, God. Shane is leaking in his mouth. Is he—turned on by watching himself score?

Fuck, Hollander.

Shane’s cheeks are pinking up behind his precious freckles, a soft heat blooming across the bridge of his nose. There’s a little crinkle between his eyebrows, too, like he’s trying to fight his biology, the animal part of him that responds to displays of power, even—especially, maybe—his own. Ilya watches Shane’s lips part around a noise he doesn’t quite manage to choke back.

He's about to score a second goal, Ilya knows.

It had come quickly after this one, maybe a minute later. San Jose had been rattled by his breakaway, and Shane had won the next faceoff. Ilya remembers watching the puck come back to him, the way Shane had shot quickly before the defense or goalie could even get set. He’d scored again almost before anyone realized what was happening, because Shane Hollander was just that good, even in a losing game.

Ilya can’t see the screen, but he can feel it coming. Shane’s thighs tense on either side of his head, firm muscle bracketing his cheeks, and oh, Shane could crush him like this. For a delirious second, Ilya wishes he would.

“Hollander scores again!”

This time, Shane’s hips buck. He thrusts into Ilya’s mouth with a gasp, and Ilya tries to stay still, he really does. But feeling Shane get turned on by watching himself score is too much, too good, and the drag of Shane’s cock between his lips is irresistible.

He needs it to happen again.

The remote is next to Shane on the couch. Ilya plucks it from the cushion, angles it behind him toward the TV, and presses rewind.

“Ilya, what—”

“Forehand—backhand—he scores!”

Shane’s first goal replays, and a wrecked little moan spills from his lips. He’s fully hard now, so thick that Ilya’s lips are stretched wide around him. Spit leaks from the corners of Ilya’s mouth as Shane rocks his hips once, twice, three times against his face, let’s go falling from his lips with each thrust. Ilya blinks hard and relaxes his throat, willing himself not to choke around the perfect length of his boyfriend. He can take it. He can do anything for Shane.

Shane, who hasn’t even looked at him, because he’s so engrossed in watching himself onscreen. So fucking hard for himself. His eyes are glassy in a way they’ve never been when Ilya has watched game tape with him before. But Shane has never watched tape with his cock down Ilya’s throat. Maybe they can always do it like this from now on.

Ilya could stay on his knees like this for hours. Forever, if Shane wanted. His knees ache and his cock throbs but it is good, it is so good, to be useful. To be what Shane Hollander needs during the finals.

When the second goal hits, Ilya is ready for it.

“Fuck, yeah,” Shane rasps, and his ass leaves the couch, hips thrusting into the air as he pumps his fists. His cock hits the back of Ilya’s throat. “Oh—oh shit, Rozanov—”

Shane scrambles backward on the couch, fingers pressing frantically against the base of his dick as it slides free from Ilya’s mouth, but it’s too late.

“No—fuck, no—”

He comes with a wrecked little cry, splashing hot stripes across Ilya’s face as his hips buck against empty air.

“God, Ilya, I can’t—oh—”

Shane coats Ilya’s cheeks, his nose, and Ilya moans, sticking out his tongue to catch as much of it as he can, so he can swallow it down and make Shane part of himself like he hasn’t been in weeks. It’s bitter and salty and his all his and Ilya lets it collect on his tongue, lets Shane see it drip down his lips.

Shane is staring at Ilya’s mouth, pupils blown wide. When Ilya swallows, Shane’s lips part on a breathy whimper as another spurt of come erupts from his cock.

“F-fuck, Jesus Christ!”

“This is what happens when you do not come for weeks, sweetheart,” Ilya grins, licking his lips. He drags his fingers through the come on his cheeks and he sucks them into his mouth greedily. “God, you taste good.”

Shane rakes a shaky hand down his face and groans. His chest is heaving, spent cock twitching on his thigh. “I can’t believe I did that. I’m the worst captain ever.”

“Don’t say that,” Ilya says fiercely, rising up on his knees to cup Shane’s jaw. “You are better captain than they deserve. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to make you to come.”

“No, it wasn’t—it wasn’t your fault. Um.” Shane’s voice is rough as he rubs his cheek against Ilya’s palm. His gaze flicks down between Ilya’s legs, lingering on the bulge in his sweatpants. “Fuck, and I’m the worst boyfriend ever. I’m letting everyone down at once.”

“You could never let me down, Hollander. It is okay. Really. Being close to you, tasting you, it is enough.” Ilya brushes their noses together softly, trying to soothe him with his skin, the only way he really knows how. He moves to pull away, but Shane chases his lips. It’s a quick, almost clumsy kiss, and Shane exhales against his mouth with a shudder.

“Maybe … it’s not enough for me.”

Ilya’s breath catches.

“No?”

Shane shakes his head, a small, almost frustrated motion. He rakes a hand through his hair, then lets it fall, and his eyes drop briefly to Ilya’s crotch before they meet his gaze. “No.”

“Shane. You have already broken your rule once. I cannot let you do it again.”

“You’ve been doing so much for me—”

“I can wait until after finals. You are too hard on yourself already, and I will not make it worse.”

“Look. If you come now, maybe it only counts as, like. Part of the same sex act? So it’s still only slipping up once?” Shane sighs against his mouth. “Please.”

Ilya has never been more grateful that Shane is so bad at math.

“Okay, then I have idea,” he says slowly, lips moving to Shane’s ear. “You need to watch tape, yes?”

Shane nods against his cheek, huffing out a weak laugh. “I really should.”

“Maybe you let me fuck you while you watch the tape. Is called … multitasking, no?”

Shane makes a strangled noise.

“Would you like that, Hollander? Would you like to watch yourself play hockey while I fuck you?”

“Yes,” Shane rasps, fingers twisting in Ilya’s hair. It sends a jolt of electricity down his spine.

“Then you do not look at me. You focus only on the game. You take your little notes, and I … I will take you.” Ilya stands, smirking. His legs feel like jelly after kneeling for so long and when combined with the anticipation of what’s to come, it feels a little like he’s floating. “Will be our little secret, yes? Bend over the couch, kotenok.”

Shane doesn’t have to be told twice. He jumps up, kicking off his shorts from where they’re trapped around his ankles, and moves behind the couch. As he bends over, he rucks his shirt over his head, leaving himself completely bare for Ilya.

Even after ten years, the sight still takes his breath away.

He hands Shane his notebook and pen – “You will still take notes, Hollander” – then retrieves a packet of lube from where he keeps them stashed on the fireplace mantle. Ilya positions himself behind Shane and finally, finally lets himself touch him the way he’s wanted to for weeks. His thumbs sink into the sweet dimples at the base of Shane’s spine, tracing slow circles before dipping down to the muscled curve of his ass. Ilya palms his cheeks reverently.

Shane shivers on a groan. He is fully bent over the back of the couch, elbows sunk deep into the cushions. He grips his little Moleskine notebook in one hand and a pen in the other. Ilya has every intention of fucking him so hard he can’t write, but it’s adorable that Shane wants to try.

Such a dedicated captain.

“So beautiful, sweetheart.” Ilya grabs the remote off the couch and rewinds the game. “Now, be a good boy and watch yourself play, yes? Pretend I am not even here.”

Ilya presses play and slicks himself up using the lube packet, coating his fingers and cock until they’re dripping. He nudges Shane’s thighs open with one knee and brushes two gentle fingers between his cheeks. Shane’s hole is sweetly pink, puckered and tense from weeks of abstinence. Just begging to be ruined. Shane, to his credit, keeps his eyes on the screen, but his fingers tremble where they grip the pen.

When Ilya pushes a finger inside him, explores the tight heat of him with slow, purposeful strokes, Shane gasps and drops the notebook. “Ilya—”

“Ah-ah, Captain, focus,” Ilya tsks, pulling away. It hurts to leave him empty, to pull away when he needs to be inside him so badly, but Shane has a job to do.

“Fuck, right. I’m watching, I’m watching.” He picks up the notebook.

“Good boy,” Ilya murmurs, low and pleased, breathing against Shane’s neck as he presses two fingers back into him. “So disciplined.”

Shane makes a noise that might be a laugh, might be a groan, and Ilya watches him write something down. His scrawl is completely illegible but it’s proof of his effort, the relentless dedication that Ilya loves so much, even if he can’t always understand it. He can’t help but be a little awed; he rewards Shane with a crook of his fingers.

“Oh, fuck—”

“Tell me what you see, Hollander.” He pumps his fingers in and out slowly, making that come-hither motion that always makes Shane babble and whimper.

He hears Shane swallow. “JJ— he was cheating high there. He should’ve—God—” His voice falters as Ilya scissors his fingers open, gently stretches him wide. “Should’ve stuck with his man.”

“Mm,” Ilya agrees. “And next time, what will you do?”

“I’ll—fuck—I’ll tell him.”

“Good boy. Such a good leader.”

Shane’s head drops forward, forehead nearly touching the couch cushions. His breath comes out ragged, but he nods, like he’s accepting an order.

Onscreen, the play resets, and Shane shifts his hips, wiggling back against Ilya’s fingers.

“Keep watching, moya lyubov. You said you needed to focus, yes? Make sure you are writing everything down.”

Shane lets out a shaky breath. His pen moves across the paper. “Yeah,” he manages. “Yeah, I’ve—I’ve got it.”

Ilya smiles and lines himself up against Shane’s entrance. “Of course you do.”

He finally does what he’s waited two weeks for: presses into Shane Hollander, claims his space inch by aching inch. It’s hot and slick and so goddamn tight his knees almost give; Shane clenches around him, greedy, pulling him deeper like he was made to fit there.

Shane inhales sharply through his nose, but doesn’t cry out, doesn’t even glance over his shoulder when Ilya bottoms out. His eyes stay fixed on the TV, pen still moving, though the lines he’s scrawling in his little notebook have gone jagged, uneven. The only tell—the only proof that Ilya is inside him right now—is the way his fingers flex and tighten around the pen, knuckles bleached bone-white.

It does something to Ilya’s brain. Shane ignoring him, staying focused on the game, on being a good captain, while Ilya uses him, grinds into him, needy and mindless—it twists the knife in the best, worst way. Like Shane is above it somehow. Perfect, untouchable Shane Hollander, better than Ilya’s baser instincts and yet still allowing it to happen. It makes Ilya want to wreck him, to ruin that control. To make sure he feels it for days.

It drives him completely, irreparably insane.

Ilya pulls out slowly, air hissing through his teeth at the slick drag and the filthy wet noise the lube makes. He digs his fingers into Shane’s hips, hard enough to leave bruises that he hopes will send a clear message to the locker room: this man belongs to someone. His beautiful skin, his perfect body, his fierce heart, all his. Property of Ilya Rozanov.

Shane hips wiggle almost imperceptibly—he can practically hear him begging for it—and heat unfurls in Ilya’s gut. There he is. He still wants it. Still needs it. Ilya slams back into him, burying himself to the hilt like he has to prove it.

“Oh, Ilya,” Shane moans.

“Mm, stay focused, Shane. The game.”

Shane nods, then flinches. For one awful second Ilya’s terrified he’s hurt him somehow, that maybe he’s being too rough after weeks without sex, but no: he’s reacting to the game tape.

“Shit,” he moans. “Played so—so badly—” he gasps.

Relief flashes through him, chased just as fast by irritation. Ilya twists his fingers in Shane’s hair and pulls. “No, Hollander. You did not. Hayden Pike, now he is terrible—"

“God, Ilya, shut up—”

Ilya snaps his hips on a punishing thrust, harder this time, punching the air out of Shane’s lungs on purpose. “Who scored two goals for the Metros, Shane?”

“I—I did.”

Better, but not enough. Ilya rolls his hips slow and filthy, feeling the way Shane’s body gives around him. “Yes. And who is best player in MLH finals, Shane? In the fucking league?”

“Well, I don’t kn—”

Of course he doesn’t. Of course he’s still doubting, tearing himself apart over nothing. “You are, Hollander. Say it. Say it or I stop fucking you.”

He stills for one heartbeat, then two, and for a second, Shane just gasps into the silence. Ilya almost caves, almost gives in, because he can’t bear to watch Shane fold in on himself like this, but then:

“I’m—I’m the best player,” he says. Shaky at first, then stronger as Ilya grinds into him, falling into a steady rhythm, giving him something to hold onto. Shane raises his voice over the filthy slap of skin on skin. “I’m the best player in the league.”

Yes. That’s his Shane. Wrecked and open and owning his power.

“Who’s going to win the cup, Shane?” Ilya reaches around and takes Shane’s cock in hand. It’s already hard again for him. He swipes his thumb over the tip, feels the bead of wetness collecting there. Smears it down the shaft and pumps it hard.

“I—fuck, I am?” Shane gasps, voice raising like there’s any question.

“That’s right, sweetheart, you are Shane fucking Hollander and you are going to win the cup. Write it down in your little notebook.” He strips Shane’s cock, hand jerking the shaft and twisting at the tip as he continues to drive into him. Shane buries his face in the couch cushion, body jolting forward with every thrust.

“Ilya, shit, it’s … too much, please…”

“You can take it, Hollander. I know you can. Take my fucking cock and write it down.”

Shane keens into the sofa, hips jerking to hump Ilya’s hand. He manages to put pen to paper and scrawl out something that could be I’m going to win the cup but could be complete gibberish, and Ilya’s next thrust lands so hard the pen flies out of Shane’s hand, clattering to the floor.

“Oh,” he moans, head dropping to the cushion along with his notebook. “Oh, fuck, Ilya.”

“Watch the game, Hollander. We are going to see your goals again. When you score, you are going to come for me.”

“Yes—yes, please—”

Ilya pounds into him as just as tape-Shane approaches the goal, pure poetry on ice, his center low, head ducked, faking out San Jose’s goalie so he wastes precious energy defending the wrong corner.

“Look how good you are, Hollander. Andersen didn’t even see it coming, did he?”

Shane groans. “Uh-uh.”

“Forehand—backhand—he scores!”

Ilya drives into Shane’s sweet spot just as the goal horn blares. His back arches and he starts to look back over his shoulder and as much as Ilya wants to see those sweet brown eyes when Shane comes, wants to watch the tears pool and fall over his pretty lashes, there’s still another goal Shane needs to see.

“Ah-ah,” Ilya admonishes, fisting a hand in Shane’s hair, dark strands like silk under his fingers. He tugs harder than he needs to and earns a pathetic whimper as the play resets onscreen. “Watch. Look how you fucking owned the ice, Hollander. Such a pretty goal. Such a pretty captain. Do you think they know?”

“Wh-what?” Shane gasps, as he wins the faceoff onscreen.

“Do you think they know Captain Shane Hollander is a slut for Ilya Rozanov?”

The noise that tears from Shane’s throat is inhuman—a high, keening wail that lights up Ilya’s every nerve ending, dragging him to the brink just as Shane’s second goal plays on the TV.

“Hollander scores again!”

“Come for me, captain,” Ilya grits out, hips pounding fast and dirty against Shane’s ass, balls slapping against him on every thrust. “Come right—fucking—now.”

Shane spills instantly, spurting hot come over Ilya’s fingers in long, gushing ropes. His hole spasms around Ilya’s cock, a tight fit made impossibly, unendurably tighter, squeezing him in long, pulsing waves as Shane sobs into the couch cushions, bites out half-formed words that might be fuck and Ilya and please or might be nothing at all because he’s crying so goddamn hard it’s impossible to tell and Ilya is going to die like this. He’s going to die watching game tape because Shane Hollander gets off to watching himself score and it’s so fucking hot he can’t bear it, his perfect, good boy with his perfect, tight hole and his perfect, fucked-up little brain—

“Oh, Hollander, fuck,” he moans, burying himself to the hilt one last time as the orgasm tears through his body. His fingers clutch at Shane’s back, nails scraping frantically for purchase, because if he doesn’t hold on he’s surely going to collapse to the floor or maybe just fall off the face of the Earth entirely, slip into some kind of void in space-time created by the cataclysmic event that is coming inside Shane Hollander while Shane is still pulsing into his hand, still working his cock with his tight little hole and screaming Ilya’s name into his couch.

Ilya’s hips stutter wildly, losing any kind of rhythm as the final spasms wrack his body. He collapses onto Shane, boneless and heavy, barely catching himself on his elbows before he crushes Shane into the couch. His heart is hammering, lungs burning as he drags in air, mouth open and panting against the damp curve of Shane’s neck. And still it feels like the first full breath he’s taken in two weeks.

To be inside Shane, warm and held and utterly his, settles something deep in Ilya’s chest. This is where he fits. This is home.

He’s still flying, still floating in the afterglow, when he realizes that Shane is shaking underneath him. Cold drops into Ilya’s stomach all at once.

“Shane—solnyshko—I am so sorry.” The words trip over themselves as he pulls out too fast, wincing at the loss of heat, at the sudden, horrible distance between their bodies. His hand hovers over Shane’s lower back, unsure, before rubbing a cautious circle, like maybe it can undo whatever damage he’s done. “Please do not be upset. Is all my fault.”

But then Shane turns his head and he’s—laughing?

“Ilya—” Shane tries, before dissolving into giggles. He pushes himself upright, unsteady after so much time bent over the couch, and then folds forward to bury his head in Ilya’s chest, nuzzling into the soft hair around his nipples.

“What is so funny, Shane?” he asks, suspicion creeping into his voice.

“Um. Six of the guys have already broken? Hayden slipped up before we left for San Jose.”

Ilya grasps him by the shoulders and holds him at arm’s length, searching his face for the trick, the thing he must be missing. “Hollander,” he says slowly. “So you are saying… there is no more rule? There has been no rule?”

Shane winces, looking a little cowed, but there’s still laughter tugging at his lips. “I mean, well— no. I guess not really, not anymore? But I wanted to see how long you could make it—”

“You have been torturing me!”

“Look, it was really hot,” Shane says softly. “Watching you suffer. I—um.” He ducks his head, then looks up at Ilya through his lashes, still damp with fucked-out tears. “I kind of liked seeing you beg for once.”

A blush blooms behind his freckles and Ilya can’t even be mad.

“Oh, yes?”

Shane steps in, closing the gap between them. His hands come up, tentative at first, then firmer as they settle at Ilya’s waist, thumbs dragging along the lines of Ilya’s Adonis belt. He leans in and kisses him, slow and teasing with a hint of tongue.

“Yes,” he breathes into Ilya’s mouth.

“Hollander,” Ilya says, voice rough. “I will spend the rest of my life on my knees begging if that is what you want.”

And he means it. God, does he mean it.

“But do not ever fucking do that again.”

Shane arches an eyebrow—that angry kitten look, sharp and annoyed and unbearably fond all at once.

“Please,” Ilya corrects immediately. He swallows and makes himself hold Shane’s gaze. “Please do not ever fucking do that again. I am begging you.”

“Good boy,” Shane says, and Ilya Rozanov loses his goddamn mind.