Chapter Text
The first time Shane Hollander realized he loved having long hair, it happened entirely by accident.
It was Shane and Ilya's second summer at the cottage and Shane had been desperate to spend absolutely as much time as possible with his boyfriend. When their plan for the future had first formed over a year ago, Shane had thought they were absurdly lucky that Ilya was only one year away from free agency. His own contract still had another 3 years before it would be time to re-sign and after a decade of only hooking up 4 to 6 times a season they had assumed the long distance wouldn't be that hard.
It had been unbearable.
Halfway through the season, Shane considered the merits of Ilya asking for a mid-season trade.
Once they had really allowed themselves to admit that they wanted each other, that they loved each other, there was no amount of time long enough together to satiate their desires.
And the disgusting mushy truth was, it wasn't even the sex that had them completely desperate. Yes, they still craved each other's bodies like horny teenagers but more than that -Shane loved being in Ilya's orbit. Waking up next to him. Cuddling on the couch together. Sitting at the counter watching the other man make breakfast.
The domesticity they had come to share now that they were being truthful about their emotions was a heady drug that had both men nearly shaking from withdrawal in the weeks and months that separated them. So it really wasn't a surprise when they'd flown directly from the NHL awards to Ottawa and beelined directly to the cottage.
Once there, Shane petulantly refused to be separated from Ilya for more than a few minutes, not that Ilya was much better. In the month they had at the cottage, they'd resorted to grocery deliveries and Zoom calls with their agent and finally starting season conditioning in the cottage's small fake rink, though the rinks in town would have been vastly preferable. It had been the closest thing Shane had ever known to heaven and Shane dreaded having to return to society.
Mom: Shane honey, just a reminder that you'll need to be back in Montreal for the Speedo shoot next week
Mom: Make sure you don't get any weird tan lines this week
Shane was grateful that his mother didn't imply making sure that there weren't any other weird marks on the rest of his body. His parents had been mercifully silent at family dinners about the occasional hickeys that crept up their sons and future son-in-laws necks.
Mom: And schedule a haircut before then, your hair has gotten a little wild this summer
Shane: Thanks, mom. We will be in town early next week checking on renovations at Ilya's house so I can take care of it then
Mom: You might as well just start calling it your Ottawa house. I know you spent more time reviewing options with your realtor and Ilya did
Mom: I hope you made sure there was enough space for my future grandchildren
Shane: Mom please. We're not even married yet
Mom: And when will that be again?
Shane: I will make sure I get a hair appointment set up for when we are back in town
Shane: Love you
A few days later, the boys had packed up their lives at the cottage and made the transfer to Ilya's new house in Ottawa. Shane had toured most of the options before last year's playoffs had even begun and Ilya signed the deed before negotiations had even finished on his new contract with the Centaurs.
Even still, this would be their first night in their new home. The first place that they had really gotten to choose together.
Shane's first order of business had been attempting to reorganize the kitchen because according to him the method the movers had used had "No rhyme or reason whatsoever". Ilya's first order of business had been trying to "christen" the house by fucking Shane in as many rooms as possible.
"Ilya, you're being distracting. Please let me work." Shane skirted around the man trying to press him up against the cabinets.
The Russian man literally pouted as his boyfriend ignored the semi-hard bulge pressed against his ass in favor of alphabetizing a spice rack.
"I am calling Farah now. Telling her to cancel the contract because I am going to throw myself into the Atlantic since my boyfriend no longer loves me." Shane rolled his eyes while working on taking more of the mismatched bottles out of the cabinet. He should really order the glass spice bottles he'd been eyeing online so he could decant the spices into matching containers.
"How have you managed to trick half the league into being terrified of you as the Russian menace? You're such a big baby."
"Yes, I will tell her that he's left me for an especially good copy of Better Homes and Gardens"
Shane huffed out a laugh, but attempted to keep his face serious and stern. His hair had grown so long over the summer that it swished against the nap of his neck.
Attempting to signal that he meant business and wanted to get some work done, he swept his hair up into a small ponytail. Make direct eye contact with Ilya, Shane laid down the law.
"We will not have a lot of time together once training camps and pre-season begin. I'd like to make sure we've got our house set up properly, so it doesn't bother me later."
Ilya looked at him with a feral gleam in his eye, one that Shane hadn't seen since the start of the summer when they'd first seen each other after having gone a whole six weeks without touching during the playoffs.
Ilyas voice was laced with wildfire, though he managed to keep it low and even. "How do you expect me to keep my hands off you when you keep saying things like that?"
"Like what?" Shane said a little breathlessly, eyes locked on Ilya’s mouth.
"You called it our house." Shane's eyes snapped up to meet his boyfriends.
"Oh"
This time he didn't resist when Ilya flung himself at Shane, lips crashing together as Shane was hoisted up onto the counter. Shane wanted to hold out a little longer - pretend like his body wasn't desperate for Ilya's mouth - at least long enough for Shane to annoy Ilya just a little bit.
But the game was up and Shane was just as hungry for it as Ilya pulled down Shane's shorts and briefs in one go and took him in hand. The marble countertop that Shane had installed felt cold against his ass, sending a shiver up his spine.
"This can't be sanitary," Shane rasped out as Ilya's tongue darted across the head of Shane's cock.
Ilya's tongue drew a long stripe up his cock, licking up the small drops of precome already leaking like an ice cream cone.
"We have disinfectant wipes," was all Ilya had to say for himself. And Shane cringed at the realization that it did actually make him feel a bit better and let himself give in to the sensation.
Like the slut he apparently was, Shane brought one leg up onto the countertop next to him giving Ilya full access to lick his hole right there in the kitchen. Ilya grinned up from between his legs.
"This is the best meal I think I'll ever have in this kitchen."
"Well, that's not saying much about our culinary skills," Shane said, trying to sound deadpan but the effect was lost in a breathy moan. "Fuck, Ilya."
Ilya stood up and kissed Shane senseless while pulling Shane off the counter and settling his legs back on the floor. Once Shane was firmly planted back on the ground, Ilya pressed him against the counter on the adjoining island.
With a firm hand in the center of Shane's back, Ilya pressed him down until Shane was lying face down on the counter; bent over at the hips. Shane appreciated the cool sting of the stone against his nipples.
Like the slut his boyfriend was, Ilya fished a travel-size bottle of lube out of his pants pocket, because of course the menace had planned this in advance.
Shane moaned as Ilya slowly eased his slicked-up length into him, more than a little pleased at the unrelenting press of the counter trapping his hips. Unlike a soft bed, the counter's resistance allowed no room for Shane's hips to surge forward to escape the intrusion as Ilya pinned him down.
He put a hand to his mouth against the counter, attempting to stifle the frankly obscene noises emanating from his throat.
Behind him, Ilya tutted in disapproval.
"No, lyubimyy. I want to hear you. I want to hear your screams echo through this big empty house so loud the neighbors will hear what a good slut you are for me."
Shane wanted to comply, but he was so far gone that he was struggling to wrap his head around what to do. His brain was too hazy with blissed out pleasure, it was overwhelming.
Behind him, Ilya laughed seeming to recognize the internal struggle Shane was going through. Without warning, Ilya grabbed Shane's ponytail in his fist dragging Shane's upper half up onto his hands.
That much weight being pulled on his scalp should have hurt, and in some ways it did slightly, but the long hair had allowed Ilya to take hold of all of it at once. Once Shane was supporting himself on his arms, Ilya looped the small ponytail and pulled Shane's head back so it was pointing towards the ceiling. His other arm looped under one of Shane's arms, his hand wrapping around his throat - not with much pressure but with clear possessive intent.
Ilya kept up a punishing pace with his hips. Every time Shane lost himself, head trying to nod down in delirious pleasure Ilya's hand would tug on his hair. Half moans, half screams were ripped out of Shane's very core as he lost all sense of decorum, echoing off the sparsely furnished walls.
As Shane came he sent up a small thanks for large mansions and even larger NHL salaries to afford them.
Later that week, Shane sat in a barber's chair looking at his own reflection. He really should ask for his same old cropped fringe. Considering Speedo's team would already need to use makeup for the solid line of fading bruises across his hips (which he really hoped would be written off as a hockey injury, maybe from going over the boards?), Shane really shouldn't be angering them more by tweaking his look.
Still, when Shane replayed the memory of Ilya's hands wrapped around his hair —
"I'm working on growing out my hair. I'd like to keep it long, can you just clean it up?" Shane asked, a little guiltily. Would the barber see the shame written on his face? Would he know the reason behind the choice?
"Of course, Mr. Hollander. No problem."
Ilya was going to tease him relentlessly about this.