Work Text:
There’s no guidebook to this, going through ten years of adrenaline with someone: hazarded glances across the ice, rabid fucking in hotel rooms—to waking up slow in their bed for two weeks straight, and missing them even when they’re right in front of you.
It’s unfair, really, is what it is. Unfair that it took so long. Unfair that it makes sense after so long, when they’ve known the months apart from each other more intimately than the seconds together. It’s unfair that this is all they get, and then they’ll have to go back to another season spent counting down the days, their lives taking the shape of circles on a calendar again.
Ilya can already feel himself going crazy with it. Still though, and very fortunately for him, there are two things that hold true, nurse his fears with a bone deep assurance: they are terribly and disgustingly and all the words obsessed with each other, and they are way too fucking good at making up for lost time.
Shane is way too fucking good at making him feel like he’s 18 again; constantly thrown out of balance and controlled mostly by his dick. Ilya’s got a hair trigger at this point—everything gets him going, sets him off. So it’s unfair when Shane walks out of the bedroom wearing those shorts again, the blue ones that ride up, that Ilya has already sucked him down in. It was cute; for all that Shane Hollander is the most successful, likely the wealthiest player in the league, he rewears his clothes to an almost concerning degree.
It’s something else now, after Ilya’s crowded the man against the nearest wall and it was all he could do not to cum right then and there. There was an experiment once, Russian guy who trained dogs to drool with just a bell; Ilya wonders if that’s what’s happening to him.
“Oh fuck,” Shane tosses his head back with a thud, and Ilya only takes it as room to get closer, press his mouth in further. Here, Shane doesn’t care about marks, wants them even, and Ilya’s made good friends out of his neck and the way it colors just as quickly, just as pretty as the rest of him.
“You are,” He starts, words splintered by a sharp hiss as Shane reaches down between them to cup him in his sweats. “You are problem for me, Hollander.”
Shane palms him faster like he already knows this, is just happy to reinforce the point. Ilya would have half the mind to let Shane get him over just like this, standing, the two of them unsteady on their feet and blowing like racehorses against each other, but he wants more. Always more.
And he can hear the smile in Shane’s voice when he asks, “You want me to be sorry?”
In response, Ilya wrestles a hand under Shane’s thigh, hefts it around his hip so he can get more access, gain an angle to his wet grind. The drag is so juvenile, so good it has them both reaching around to claw at each other’s asses, pulling in and in, and it’s funny, and this is no competition, but they both move in the same desperate tandem that it almost seems like it is.
“Fuck,” Ilya groans. Shane drops his jaw, knocks their noses together until Ilya gets the hint and catches Shane’s mouth with his own. It has been the thrill of his life, to learn that kisses unravel Shane almost, almost quicker than anything else. The hand keeping his leg upright slides up, through the wide opening of his shorts and back to where Shane likes him best, and finds nothing else there.
Ilya stills. “You are not wearing underwear.”
Shane shudders out a keening, confused sound that is unlike anything Ilya has ever heard from him before. “Half the time you aren’t,” He’s squirming, trying to get them moving again, as if Ilya needs the extra convincing. “Why do I need to?”
“Hollander,” He groans, helpless to it. His brain is a thick, cottony buzz; sometimes he swears Shane was made in a lab—a studied, perfect answer to his undoing. “You brought me here to die.”
“What?” Shane wheezes, before it molds into his disbelieving, airy laughter. “You—don’t say that.”
“Take these off.” Ilya growls. He drops Shane’s foot back to the floor, his hands bumping as they fumble back into motion. “Get them off, come on.”
Shane moans, “Oh fuck, fuck, okay,” Jolting like he’s been jumpstarted. For all his talk, Ilya doesn’t make stripping easy for him, for them, because he would rather have Shane’s lips than uncomplicate things. The man is not any more naked when Ilya is kissing him again, herding Shane towards the closest thing he can fold him over, which is thankfully the couch. They pull apart just enough for Shane to sit, Ilya on one knee between his legs as he tries to help, mostly struck dumb and watching as Shane shucks his shorts off the rest of the way. It’s not his fault, never is; Shane’s worse than distracting, especially like this, pink and panting full-body, his brown eyes all pupil.
Ilya has to find his voice. “Knees, Shane, come on—”
“Fuck, please,” Shane sighs, flipping onto his stomach and turning his hips up without much else. There’s really not enough space or time to be doing this, or at least that’s the excuse Ilya makes for himself as he hunches in close behind him, gets his lips on the rise of Shane’s ass just seconds after. Shane’s whole back shakes with the shudder of breath he sucks in. “Fuck, Ilya, I’m gonna be sore.”
“I won’t fuck you,” Ilya rasps, his thumbs smoothing over the dimples at Shane’s lower back. “Just—”
“No, I want it.” Shane says, head twisting so he’s looking over his shoulder. Their eyes meet, and Ilya has to reach down, squeeze the tent in his pants to keep from blowing over. It’s fucking ridiculous, and Ilya will never forgive him, never wants to forgive him, this golden boy who somehow puts him to shame.
His nostrils flare, “Later. Soon. I promise,” His English getting coughed up short. “I need this now.”
He doesn’t elaborate, but he doesn’t have to with the sucking kiss he places just to the right of Shane’s crack. Shane drops to his elbows with a flourish, his legs splitting apart even wider. He’s so flexible that Ilya could get sick with it, his spine curving sharply towards the couch, his pelvis offered up skyward. His ass is all evidence with the view—all meat and muscle and man, and purpling with two weeks’ worth of Ilya’s fingerprints pressed into it, around it. Truly, if someone else saw it, they would know another person had been there.
“You bruise like a peach,” Ilya tells him, wonders just how much Shane knows it himself. If he’s looked in the mirror, breath catching just like Ilya’s is now, always does. “You know this?”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Moy persik.” Ilya murmurs, words slurring as he bends down, flattens his tongue from the underside of Shane’s balls, up through the inner seam of his crack. Shane is so fucking big here that Ilya can’t even reach rim to mouth without having to hold him apart. So he does just that. Thumbs Shane open until the tight furl of skin is stretched to his liking, and laves a fat line up Shane’s hole. One of Shane’s socked feet jets up to his head out of reflex, almost knocks him flat out. Ilya moans.
“You like that?”
He can hear Shane splutter. “Don’t talk into my ass,” He says then, rough out his throat, before he pauses, huffing like he’s helpless to it, “Asshole.”
Ilya has to bite his cheek. Shane really can never leave him, because Ilya can’t imagine being this good with anyone else. Laughing as easy. Not that Shane could ever hear how funny he is, of course. It would get to his head.
“I love you.” Ilya says instead, then closes his mouth around Shane’s hole, and sucks.
“Oh, god.”
Shane rocks forward on his knees, body jerking like it’s stuck between chasing the feeling and running from it. Ilya might actually be halfway to crazy already because this is his favorite. It’s not often that Shane doesn’t know what to do with himself. Ilya sees that a lot with him here, being a man with ritual, an idea of what’s next, how to proceed. Now though, Ilya steels his tongue, presses inside, and Shane bucks back on his face like he’s been thrown.
“Shit, sorry, I’m sorry, oh,” He babbles. Ilya doesn’t care. It’s funny even, the irony. He never considered himself an ass man before Shane, who is bad at getting his ass eaten. “I—I can’t, I won’t last.”
And it really is the worst part of the best thing, not being able to talk, if he really wants to do it right. Yeah, Ilya would say, just to hear the hitch in Shane’s voice, you want to cum like this? Can I get you there? I want to, let me please, come on, but instead he’s left rolling Shane’s cheeks in his palms, letting them ride his face. His nose is bunched up, aches with it—really, he could live here. Quit hockey, spend his days like this. Eventually, hot curiosity gets the better of him though: Ilya lifts a hand around to Shane’s front, wraps it clumsily around his cock. It’s almost shocking how wet Shane is, sticky like he’s already gotten off. Ilya groans, giving Shane’s cock a few tugs, just to get him messier, feel him twitch and slick in his palm, all heat and flesh and his. Shane sounds to barely smother a shout into the couch before he’s slapping Ilya’s hand away, reaching behind himself to pull his own cheeks apart. He’s otherwise wordless, but the move says plenty, and is easily the hottest way Ilya’s been bossed in his life.
His fingers are basically dripping with pre now; he circles one around Shane’s rim, tests the give. They fucked once late this morning, the two of them both on their sides, Shane’s leg floating in the air as Ilya pressed in and in. Shane’s hole yields to him with little resistance now, taking Ilya’s pointer right to the second joint.
“Please, yes,” Shane pants, voice garbled. No doubt drooling onto the couch. Ilya’s eyelids flutter at the mental picture. Shane only allows himself this kind of sloppy when he’s close over the edge—the second finger Ilya sinks inside him it’s almost like Shane sucks in, hungry for it, his walls spasming and coaxing him further. “I’m there, ah, god—I’m there.”
His hands are shaking where he’s holding himself apart. Ilya gets his free hand over, tangles their fingers together even when it’s kind of impossible, his other wrist flexing, a third finger sliding home easy to the knuckle.
“You’re so good Ilya, fuck, that’s—” He withdraws his tongue then, ducks his head to let his mouth scrape up Shane’s taint, getting teeth and spit everywhere as he digs deep, bullies against Shane’s prostate. “So good, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna, I can’t—”
He very much can and does though, is the thing. Ilya can feel it, in the way the clutch around his fingers turns almost painful with Shane all seized up. Can hear it, even with a mini ocean in his ears, Shane near yelling, his voice rasping around the end vowel of Ilya’s name. Ilya wants to be with him everywhere. Without even thinking about it, he’s palming at Shane’s front again, trying to catch his release before any more can stripe the couch. He can’t help it, wants it all, everything.
“Ilya,” Shane grabs at him with both strong hands then, keeping him in place and riding his palm until he’s shivered through the aftershocks. Ilya waits for Shane’s breathing to settle before withdrawing the hand inside him, kissing Shane’s left cheek when he makes a soft noise at it. Shane is usually syrupy slow in the first few minutes after a good orgasm. Hesitant to move. So much so, that it’s enough for Ilya to raise his brows when Shane turns to his back, measured and a little jerky, but flipped around regardless.
“Hey,” Shane croaks. His eyes widen at his own voice, and the smile that splits his face is unreal. It would maybe be embarrassing, how much Ilya has missed him, but Shane looks that dopey mix of relieved and happy that mirrors just what he feels.
“Hello, Shane.” He replies.
“Take off your pants please.” Shane requests, simple, and Ilya has always been a giver. He exhales a punched-out sound, and is suddenly hyperaware of his cock where it strains in his sweats. He rises up higher on his knees, nudges his pants down with his clean-ish hand. The other is coated with Shane’s spunk—naturally, it’s the one he wraps around his newly exposed shaft.
Shane’s mouth widens. “You gonna cum for me?”
“You want it?” Ilya asks, too much heat coiling in his belly already.
“I do,” Shane sighs, almost dreamy. He claws at Ilya’s stomach, an expectant arch in his back as Ilya quickens his grip, not even trying to draw things out, “Get up here, on my chest, yeah, yes, like that.”
“Shane.” Ilya breathes, hunched over. He can never last long, not when Shane doesn’t want him to. It’s artless, the way he cums, one hand working his cock, the other squeezing Shane’s right tit. But as he paints Shane’s chest, cockhead dragging over Shane’s jackrabbit pulse, Shane looks at him like he might be everything.
He doesn’t do too much in the comedown. Just sags back on his knees. Maybe plays a finger over Shane’s sternum until Shane’s scrunching his nose up. Then Ilya flops on top of him. Shane grumbles something that he can’t make out, but in the same breath there are lips pressed in his curls, hands smoothing over his back. Shane huffs.
“Really, I just took a shower before I came out here.”
Ilya smiles. “You have a well. Water bill is nothing.” He turns his head upright, so their eyes are meeting. “But I’m feeling, how do you say, too giving?”
Shane guffaws. “Generous?”
“Generous,” Ilya shrugs. “We can take one together.”
“You wish, dude.” Shane laughs. His eyelids are at half mast, making him look a sleepy fond. Ilya would do anything for him. Even skip out on a wet Shane Hollander and potentially more sexy time if it made him happy. Shane doesn’t move though. Instead, he runs a hand through Ilya’s hair, unblinking, and Ilya is trapped in him. “This is so unfair.”
Shane doesn’t elaborate, but he doesn’t need to. The last of two weeks together, and Ilya is fast to understanding Shane more than he does his own self. He doesn’t know what the future has in store for them. Only three things hold true now: they are terribly and disgustingly and all the words obsessed with each other, they are way too fucking good at making up for lost time, and Ilya will do everything in his power to make this work.