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Ilya had learned, a long time ago, that matters of the body never missed Shane Hollander’s quick analysis.
Sometimes, conversation and silent cues could fly over Shane’s head; his earnestness was built into him as a pillar of his personality. It was one of the reasons Ilya had fallen in love with him in the first place.
But Shane was a physical creature. He was a brutal machinist on the ice, completely in control of each muscle and limb. Ilya loved seeing that same body melt into hotel room bedsheets, the way he made it work for pleasure. He was also hellbent on making sure that he was nothing short of perfect when it came to Ilya’s pleasure. Even when he’d been his most inexperienced, he barreled forward with a dogged desire to make it good.
So while Shane may occasionally laugh a little too late at a joke, he was sharp and assessing to the certain pitch of Ilya’s moans, any shifts that might indicate he wanted his cock sucked tighter or ridden harder.
He consistently came before Ilya did.
It was easy, when Shane was so sensitive, worked up by a few choice dirty words and rough touches. It was also done by no small effort on Ilya’s part. Despite what Shane might have believed, Ilya hadn’t been built in a sex factory that magically made him last longer. He’d just forced himself to practice, carefully figuring out when and how much to lean into sensation.
Because once Ilya came, he had to navigate around the aftermath.
He couldn’t remember what month it’d been, those years ago, just that they’d been in Shane’s stupid sex condo. He’d already made Shane come twice, once with his mouth and once with his fingers, and he was determined to eke out a third with his cock. He wanted to wring every last drop of pleasure from Shane before they’d go another couple months without.
Shane had sunken into the place where he got fuzzy and pliant, the way he always did when Ilya was particularly demanding. He wasn’t sure how he’d missed it, or rather, misjudged so badly. Shane had been loud as hell, boneless and leaking like a faucet, and Ilya had been so sure.
He’d let himself come, locking up against Shane’s body, but Shane was still writhing even after the last pulse. He’d begged for Ilya to keep going, and Ilya had really tried, given it his best effort.
It was Ilya’s human curse, how sensitive he was in the wake of an orgasm. He’d Googled it more than once, and it wasn’t at all uncommon, especially for people who weren’t circumcised like himself. He’d learned to navigate around it; namely by making his partners come before he did. He could live in the warm clutch of someone’s body for a while, as long as there wasn’t any crazy stimulation.
Still fucking into Shane even after he’d filled the condom was the exact kind of stimulation that made it feel like his crotch had been doused in gasoline and lit on fire. It was just too much, the pleasure rolling belly-up into a prickly, overwhelming sensation.
Fuck, I can’t, I’m sorry, he’d apologized, gritting his teeth against the mournful cry Shane had given him when he’d abruptly pulled out. It had taken him a few seconds to get his bearings, breathing through it, and Shane shifted to sit up.
Are you okay? Shane had asked, and Ilya didn’t like the calculating way his eyes swept over his trembling body, startlingly sharp for a man who had been out of his mind not even a minute earlier.
Ilya had answered by swallowing his cock, letting him come down his throat, and ignored the unsettling sense that this would return to haunt him.
✒ᝰ
It was a great ironic joke that Ilya used to go weeks, sometimes months, without hearing from Shane.
The radio silence had been broken up by hotel room numbers and snide comments about game play, but nothing substantial. More, then, as they got deeper into the whole mess.
Nowadays, he found himself compulsively checking his phone the second he woke up, before he got in the shower, over breakfast. Ilya took pride in being a dutiful boyfriend when it came to good morning texts, and beating each other to the day’s first message had unsurprisingly become a competition between them.
Shane would definitely win today. Because Ilya was groaning awake in his own bed, head pounding and mouth tasting like something had crawled in and died. Cheap vodka didn’t settle well now that he was over 25.
He fumbled to unplug his phone from the charger before stumbling to the bathroom, idly checking it as he pissed. He noted with a wince that it was already almost noon.
Jane 💙 [7:02 AM]
Good morning!
Sorry, I beat you to it today. ;)
Are you alive?
Despite the raging pulse in his temples and the slight roll of nausea, Ilya still smiled. He missed his boyfriend like a phantom limb, and there were too many minutes between now and their game tomorrow. Montreal wouldn’t even fly in tonight after their Jersey game, so Ilya’s first glimpse of Shane’s pretty face was going to be on the ice, unless he was up for a quickie.
It was cruel and unusual, but such was their luck. Ilya sat on the edge of the bathtub and texted rapidly.
Lily [11:52 AM]
fuck Marlow for having a fucking birthday and being fucking born
Jane 💙 [11:53 AM]
Oh wow you ARE alive! Was starting to get worried.
How are you feeling?
Lily [11:53 AM]
like I had too much bad vodka. bleh.
Jane 💙 [11:53 AM]
So much for those strong Russian genes.
Lily [11:53 AM]
this is your fault
You made me into a boyfriend and now I have no tolerance
Jane 💙 [11:54 AM]
Hm. Or you’re getting old?
Lily [11:54 AM]
how dare you
I am young and supple, you are thinking of hunter
he has one beer and his hip turns into dust
Jane 💙 [11:54 AM]
Supple? Use that for the next Scrabble night.
I’ve got to go, I’m at optional skate to help the rooks.
Love you, drink water! ❤️
Lily [11:55 AM]
love you xx ❤️ 😘 🥰 🍆 🍑 🕳 💦 😩
Jane 💙 [11:55 AM]
Jesus.
He took a shower hot enough to scald his skin raw and, to his dismay, found Marlow snoring away on his couch. He was still dressed in last night’s clothing, and Ilya wasn’t gentle as he shook him.
“Why the hell are you in my house?” he asked as soon as Marlow snorted awake. Marlow, who was now one year older and looked like death warmed over, eyed Ilya blearily.
“Uh, because you let me in?” he said, slow.
“I don’t remember this.”
“Well, you were pretty fucked up last night. I think I kind of just got into your Uber. And be nicer to me, asshole, it’s my birthday.”
“Yesterday was your birthday. It’s why I feel like shit.”
“Whatever. Let me take a shower and I’ll buy us breakfast. Lunch? I’m fucking starving.”
No one could ever say Ilya wasn’t secretly nice, because he let Marlow borrow some clothes so he didn’t have to put his musky club outfit back on. Ilya grumpily drove them to a diner that had never let him down after a night out, and he kept the windows down so the sharp March breeze could hit his face.
They were thrown into a booth in the back, and there wasn’t much conversation between them, hungover and defeated. Ilya was busy cramming eggs into his mouth when both of their phone screens lit up simultaneously with the team group chat.
“What do they want?” Marlow grunted, delegating Ilya to check. He figured it was more bullshit about the upcoming Montreal game. His teammates had been rowdier than usual, all foaming at the bit. The season was tracking on a total tear, with Montreal and Boston leading the rankings and holding steady, having made it through the winter slump.
Ilya was being more vicious than he’d ever been on the ice. Fans and commentators did not question why – they just loved the adrenaline. There were a select few people on this planet who knew the reason for the dial-up. That this season would be Ilya’s last in America before he manually ejected himself to the bottom of the barrel.
He didn’t want to think about it, so instead he scanned the texts flooding in.
Sebbin [1:39 PM]
AYYYYYYY
Roz did you hit that shit right after?
Jurand [1:39 PM]
she’s kind of butterfaced lolol
Hammersmith [1:39 PM]
ur fucking blind Jurand she’s hot as hell
our captain getting rockstar treatment haha
Dubek [1:40 PM]
Damn her tits r big
Rozy you BETTER have taken her back
Zadonsky [1:40 PM]
Nah he was too busy being butt buddies with marlow all night.
The more Ilya read, the more concerned he got, and he scrolled up to the original Twitter link that had started this chain of crass discussion.
“What did they send?” Marlow prompted again, and leaned over the table to try and see whatever Ilya was pulling up. The video rolled automatically, and the footage was dark, but clear. The camera unsteadily focused on the sidewalk before it snapped upwards. And there was Ilya, his leather jacket half falling off, with Marlow hanging drunkenly on his shoulder.
Because it was definitely him in the video, for sure, but the lights were all on with no one home.
There was a gaggle of people around them. Some of his teammates, and some strangers, everyone yelling over each other to be heard. Ilya vaguely recalled all of this. They’d gotten to the end of the night, and it had been unsurprising that they’d ended up surrounded by fans at the sports bar.
A girl giggled right into the camera, the lens so close to her face that Ilya could see where her mascara smeared a little, eyes huge and unfocused.
Ilya’s pulse roared in his ears. He remembered her. Pieces of her, anyway, the memory wading to the surface.
It’s going, another girl said behind the camera. The one in frame stepped back, and she did a tiny twirl. She was wearing a Raiders crop top, probably bootlegged, with ROZANOV printed boldly on the back of it.
It wasn’t a shock when she flipped the crop top to her collarbones, exposing the soft swell of her breasts, hardly contained within the lacy black material of her bra.
“Ilya!” she called, voice breaking into breathless laughter again; he winced at hearing his own butchered name. “Sign my tits!”
It caused a ripple of whooping and cheering, complete and utter chaos at the request, but everyone was laughing. She pressed in closer, and he watched himself stumble into Marlow’s hulking frame.
“Oh, fuck, man. You really were wasted,” Marlow said in present, and Ilya swallowed hard. The last time he’d been that drunk was maybe, Jesus, back around the Rose Landry era?
It had been disorienting, standing outside of that bar, brain swimming in alcohol and trying to translate rapidly enough to keep up with the crowd. And then he was being jeered and shoved, with someone’s boobs in front of his face.
He watched his own unlaughing, unamused face, until Marlow slapped his back and yelled, “You heard the girl!”
“Go on, Roz!” Zadonsky urged, from somewhere off-screen.
And there was the moment the mask slipped on. He hadn’t been able to come up with something crafty enough without seeming like he was being a total fucking asshole. A real one. There had been exactly one working synapse left in his brain, probably, telling him to go along with it all. If he walked, it was the woman who would get ridiculed, not him. Ilya had joined in on the laughter, stilted, and took the Sharpie she was clumsily offering him.
Don’t do it, Ilya screamed in his mind, as if he didn’t know what happened next. Do not fucking touch her, Rozanov.
Ilya popped the cap off with his teeth and, with an unsteady hand, scrawled his name across the generous give of her chest. She laughed wildly, swaying close, and it got lost under the commentary of the little crowd.
“I love watching you play,” the girl said, and this part he didn’t remember. She was slurring in the video, probably at the edge of black-out. “I’ve watched since forever. Can I give you my num – ”
The video abruptly ended, and Ilya dropped his head into his hands to the soundtrack of Marlow chuckling again. He could dredge up the memory like silt – of someone trying to make him take a phone. There had been a drunken stumble to catch his car, a messy jerk-off session thinking about Shane, and he’d passed out while Marlow apparently died on his couch.
“I guess I kind of cock-blocked you. Sorry, brother,” his friend commented, oblivious to Ilya hanging dejectedly over his rapidly cooling food. It took a few seconds before he realized this wasn’t a good thing. “Hey, Roz, you good?”
“Jane,” he muttered into his palms, and Marlow choked a little around his swig of coffee.
“Oh. Yeah. She the jealous type?”
Ilya immediately remembered the hard glaze in Shane’s eyes when he’d made that idiotic comment about marrying Svetlana, possessive even before they’d laid out their bleeding hearts. It had been a stupid thing to say, but Ilya had been privately thrilled.
He wasn’t so thrilled now. There was a non-zero chance that Shane would put his head on a fucking spike.
“You could say that.”
✒ᝰ
Lily [1:55 PM]:
don’t go on twitter
just call me as soon as you can and let me talk
Lily [2:32 PM]:
Hollander pick up
I know you’re home location map tells me you are
Did you see the stupid fucking video?
you did.
Lily [4:45 PM]:
okay you are not picking up fine I will explain here
I was so drunk i am so fucking sorry. I will say it in russian too мне жаль
everyone was making a fuss and I did not think
I have done stupid boob signing lots of time
I could not think of a way to make it a joke and it would have been bad for her maybe
Любовь
Lily [6:21 PM]:
Good luck tonight.
Lily [11:03 PM]:
It has been all day please talk to me
At least talk to me before you go to sleep
Lily [12:07 AM]:
Okay.
Jane 💙 [12:09 AM]
Goodnight.
We’ll handle this tomorrow.
✒ᝰ
Ilya wasn’t panicking.
Really, he wasn’t. This wasn’t their first argument as a couple, and God knew it wasn’t close to being their first conflict in general.
All other fights had been relatively petty and solved within hours. Ilya knew he was being dramatic, because one day stretching into two of Shane being mad at him wasn’t the end of the world.
Still, he found himself up early for a jog, mostly to ensure he texted Shane before his flight. He re-read ‘we’ll handle this tomorrow’ over and over again as if he were a man about to step up to the guillotine.
He bounced his leg, breathing heavily as he sat on a park bench, and tried his hand.
Lily [7:37 AM]
Good morning Солнышко
have a safe flight
tell your team they have permission to start boohooing now
we will crush
Jane 💙 [7:40 AM]
That’s not happening.
See you on the ice.
Lily [7:41 AM]
you won’t come over before the game???
this is the doghouse
i am in doghouse hell
Jane 💙 [7:41 AM]
There wouldn’t be enough time.
Lily [7:42 AM]
as if you need a lot of it)))
You know we can be quick
Jane 💙 [7:42 AM]
No, you don’t get it.
I need time to get a proper apology out of you.
Ilya swallowed dryly, and readjusted his running shorts.
Lily [7:43 AM]
I see
should I be scared Hollander?
Shane didn’t respond. Ilya waited, and waited, until it just got pathetic. He ran home, stupidly half-hard, and the clock began an agonizing tick. There were only so many things he could do to distract himself, and he obsessively checked Shane’s location, watching as his boyfriend landed in Boston and went to the team-issued Marriott.
Ilya ended up being one of the first people at the arena, and he directed his restless energy toward checking in with their athletic trainer and greeting his teammates as they filtered in.
With each piece of gear he slipped on, the urge to text Shane got stronger and stronger. But something told him to be smart for two seconds and leave him be. He didn’t think he should be faulted – he was a desperate, silly man who wanted Shane’s attention any way he could get it.
Finally, finally, their team was released onto home ice for warm-ups. The canned playlist was playing over the speakers, and fans flooded into the stands, adorning blue and black in equal measures. A couple people screamed his name, and Ilya waved at the toddler that was being held up to the glass in a miniature version of his jersey.
He did a few laps with Jurand, their newest rookie, who was nattering away about defense. Despite his forced casualness, he sped up the moment his eyes landed on Shane, heart kicking at the sight of his boyfriend stretching on the ice.
“Jurand, go bother Marlow,” he said, and Jurand startled before peeling away with a sulky frown.
Ilya made himself glide rather than tear down the rink, and he circled Shane with a little flourish to get his attention.
When Shane looked up, it felt like a punch to Ilya’s diaphragm. He was always pretty under the fluorescents of the arena, freckles displayed in sharp relief and cheeks pink with the cold. His hair was falling around his face, and Shane didn’t bother to stop stretching, pushing deeper into a frog squat while he tracked Ilya with his dark eyes.
“Miss me, Hollander?” he asked with a grin, and it came out a little wobbly. I missed you. I missed you so much.
“I’d have to notice you to miss you,” Shane said flatly, and before Ilya could reply, continued with, “Play nice, Rozanov. I’m mic’d up.”
Ilya’s gaze fell to the tiny black piece of equipment clipped to Shane’s away jersey, and he allowed himself a second to grit his teeth. Fuck.
“I don’t know what you mean. I’m always so nice to you. I even let you win sometimes,” he said, and felt sweaty at his nape when Shane’s eyes narrowed. For the first time in a long time, he was having trouble reading his face. Shane was scarily good at controlling his expressions when he wanted to, narrowing all emotions down to tiny eyebrow twitches.
“Don’t you have to convince your team to get a goal tonight?”
And there was Hayden Pike, swinging into Ilya’s line of sight, annoyingly obstructing his view of Shane. He had a stormy glint to him, and Ilya understood this as a pitiful attempt at telling him to back off. Of course Pike had seen the video – all the players in the league probably had. It had been reposted thousands of times, even when the original poster had taken it down.
“Wow, Pike, you got your shift covered at the daycare?”
“Go be annoying somewhere else.”
“Ah, but it’s much more fun to be annoying here,” he sighed, and weaved over a few paces so he could stare at Shane, who resolutely wasn’t looking at either of them as he shifted to stand. “Don’t you have more fun when I’m here, Hollander?”
Shane cut a skeptical glance at Ilya from his periphery.
“Fun isn’t the word I’d use,” he said, and skated away, his shoulders stiff. Pike huffed and followed him like a loyal dog.
When they got back to the locker room, everyone keyed up and yelling, Ilya took the chance and texted Shane in a rush.
Lily [6:44 PM]
See you at face off.
Predictably, Shane didn’t reply, even though the read receipt ticked. Ilya waited a couple minutes before he threw his phone into his locker with a tsk.
“Okay, guys, I want a strong start! Keep your heads down and follow Rozanov!” LeClaire yelled, and Ilya grabbed his helmet before facing the expectant stares of his teammates. He gave a dramatic glance around, and then shrugged.
“Why the fuck are you all just standing here? Go fuck Montreal,” he said, loudly, and it was like releasing a bunch of rabid dogs at the starting gate.
The Bears flooded onto the ice under the flashing floodlights, the jumbotron tracking their explosive movements. Ilya did his usual lap, pounding the glass in front of screaming fans. The Montreal fanatics booed him viciously, and he cupped a hand over his ear, laughing in their faces. It made them jeer harder, which just got his blood pumping with a hot uptick.
When he met Shane at center ice, his boyfriend had flipped the switch that only got triggered during a game. He was locked up tight, practically vibrating out of his skin with the need to move.
He was the most gorgeous thing Ilya had ever seen.
“Hollander, did you get the text I sent?” Ilya asked, and while Shane didn’t look at him, he still noticed the way his expression grew impossibly strained. “I sent very, very long apology in advance for destroying your entire team.”
Shane adjusted his grip on his stick, and Ilya wanted to shove him like a child, wanted to whine and poke and annoy him until he looked.
Pay attention to me, yell at me, fucking anything.
The ref gave a warning whistle, and Ilya’s body responded automatically, getting into position.
It wasn’t shocking to him, really, when he lost.
He found an excuse to bully Shane into the boards within the first fifteen seconds, and it was the closest he was allowed to be, in the view of the public. His body was a solid wall, familiar and strong; Ilya indulged in the millisecond of having his face close to Shane’s, even if he was met with an ugly snarl.
Shane escaped with a hard shove-off, nearly knocking Ilya on his ass, and from there the game didn’t lag. Not for a second, not even when sweat started to roll down his back and his muscles began to protest. Ilya cycled onto the bench, splashing water on his hot face and into his dry mouth.
The line moved quickly, and everyone seemed to be feeling the tension. It was unspoken, but they were all watching Shane closely. He was, frankly, being a bigger monster than usual.
“Godspeed out there, Jurand,” Sebbin said dryly, and the rookie grimaced before popping his mouthguard back in.
“I’m not afraid of that cocksucker,” he spat.
You should be, Ilya thought. Jurand went after Shane like an annoying gnat, clearly running his mouth, trying to keep up. It wasn’t shocking in the slightest when, less than a fraction of play later, a brutal check from Shane sent him sprawling. He was slow to get on his feet, but it was a clean hit, and Shane cut down the ice with clinical, scary precision.
“Rozanov, go!”
The line shifted again, and Ilya let his body work, the razor-thin blades of his skates flying as he launched himself back into the fray. Not that he got far – Jurand’s blind confidence had cost them the window, and the goal horn blared as Shane snapped the puck past St-Simon, through an impossibly tiny space over his left shoulder.
The point counter rolled over. 2-1.
Montreal fans leapt to their feet, and the resulting roar was loud enough to shake the foundation of the stadium. Ilya tracked Shane; Theriault was gesturing wildly as Pike shook him by the shoulders. The Voyageurs crowded his boyfriend until he was engulfed, and Ilya swung around to re-group.
LeClaire was visibly boiling, arms crossed tight, and told them to fucking focus.
Ilya had never been more focused in his life as he skated back onto center ice. The defensemen circled like sharks, as close to toeing the line of encroachment as they could manage.
Shane’s face was red with exertion, sweat glinting under the bright lights. He was pointedly ignoring Ilya.
“Very good goal, Hollander,” he commented, and hoped no one else noticed the tone of desperation that seeped into his voice, especially Shane. This was unbearable. “Your last of the game, no?”
Shane didn’t respond, but his eyes were sharp and cold as flint. Locked in.
Once, he'd gotten himself slapped by Svetlana for making some stupid joke at the wrong time, prodding when he shouldn’t have. He’d been young and stupid, and it had cowed him into apologizing under the sting.
It’s fine. You just have a talent for pissing people off. Watch your mouth more.
Advice he clearly hadn’t taken, because he was speaking before he could swallow the words back.
“After we win,” he said, “do you want my signature?”
Shane’s gaze snapped over to him, and if Ilya were a lesser man, it would have evaporated him on the spot. He looked like a raw nerve, and his jaw clenched as he worked over his mouthguard, the only tell-tale sign of his agitation. The ref bent between them.
The puck had barely graced the ice before Shane moved, faster than Ilya could manage to corral, and he was off like a smoking bullet. Ilya was on him immediately, heart pounding and mind gone blank with the chase, the need to follow Shane in all things.
The screams of the audience dropped away into the background, blocked by the rush of his blood as he played as furiously as he could. Ilya found the puck trapped on the blade of his stick, and he was flying, narrowing in on the Voyageurs goal. He tracked for a pass, an opening, anything that would let him hit the net.
Before he could get to the next breath or blink, he was being slammed into the boards, air punched out of his lungs in a ferocious woosh. The plexiglass gave a hard rattle. He didn’t need to look to know who it was, because only Shane could hit him with such precision and get away with it. Ilya stumbled, but didn’t go down, too determined.
“Fucking try me, Rozanov,” Shane snarled in his ear, and Ilya was burning alive. Under the heat of controlled violence was relief. He wanted Shane close to him all the time, pressed against his body, even when it hurt. Even when it got his cock half-hard in his jock.
And then there came the dizzying swarm as Ilya got dogpiled, and Shane snatched possession because it was his natural-born right.
Despite Shane’s best efforts, the Bears still scored the next goal in the third period. Ilya was exhausted, sure they would go into overtime, because now they were tied. But he’d see this through, and then later, he’d see it through. No matter how mad at him Shane was, Ilya knew they’d fight it out and fuck it out. Somehow.
His prediction was correct, and they slid into OT, all the players ran ragged and clawing to get an upper-hand. In the end, an assist from Shane to Comeau secured the Voyageurs as the winners, and Ilya couldn’t even be mad about it. If anything, despite the way his teammates hung their heads and muttered curses, he was proud.
Shane had left every part of himself on the ice. He was a terrifying thing, and he was Ilya’s.
“Jesus. What was Hollander on tonight?” Marlow groaned in the locker room, everyone stumbling and slow to strip their gear off. Complaints and layered conversations echoed, and Ilya focused on ripping everything from his body, moving quicker than his aching muscles appreciated.
“Woof, Jurand, that thing is gonna be twice its size by the morning,” Zadonsky commented, and Jurand was hobbling, face red with embarrassment. He’d played through whatever obvious pain he was in after Shane had knocked him down, and the cost would be additional stress on his swollen ankle.
Good. He was a hot-headed little shit, and even though Ilya could relate to that, he needed to be knocked down a peg. He had too many nasty comments constantly at the ready.
“Get that checked before you leave tonight and stay off it. Next time, don’t get so fucking proud,” Ilya said, because he was still the boy’s captain, and Jurand nodded.
Ilya showered as quickly as he could manage and struggled into his suit, getting more agitated as the minutes ticked by. He knew that Shane was doing the same thing as him, preparing to face the press, but the tone in their locker room was probably much different.
He wondered what Shane was thinking. How he was feeling, the high of a win curdling with his obvious, current disdain for Ilya.
Ilya managed to wear his persona like a second skin, though it felt more ill-fitting tonight. He made the journalists laugh as he promised their next game would be a sweep, commented on Shane’s check with a breezy, oh, did Hollander get me? Was like being tackled by a toddler.
It had felt like being hit by a semi-truck, but that was neither here nor there.
The moment he wrapped press, Ilya gathered his shit and strode out into the chilly spring night. He quickly checked Shane’s location, and his tiny blank contact icon was already on the move. He must’ve wrapped faster and already gotten his Uber to Ilya’s.
It made his heart clench a little, to know that even though they were locked into some strange stalemate, Shane still claimed space like this. He didn’t ask permission. He had the code to Ilya’s door.
Still, Ilya texted.
Lily [11:01 PM]
моя любовь
I will be there in 15
They didn’t really do warnings anymore, but he felt compelled. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, even though he didn’t know what else to say. As if he’d summoned them, those three telling dots popped up.
Jane 💙 [11:01 PM]
Okay.
See you soon.
He sagged in relief, and turned the radio on low as he navigated out of the parking garage. Boston flew by him in a blur of lights, Ilya’s hands restlessly shifting on the wheel.
He wasn’t sure what was waiting for him on the other side of his own door, but it didn’t stop him from rushing to get to it. The open concept let him see that the kitchen lights were off, but the soft designer lamps in the living room were clicked on. Ilya wandered in, dropping his bags and toeing off his shoes.
“Shane?” he called.
No answer. And then he could hear the shower running, the further into the space he got. He glanced down the hallway that led to his room, and considered it for a second. He could strip and climb into the shower with him, but if Shane was feeling extra prickly, it would be a hazard. He really didn’t want to get kicked back out, naked and wet and dejected.
So instead he busied himself with stripping his suit off, throwing the pieces of it in the general direction of the hamper. He’d bother with steaming it later. Ilya yanked on a pair of sweatpants and flopped into bed. When he pressed his face into the pillows, he thought of how they’d smell like Shane come morning. Like sweat and the sweet, fancy shampoo that Ilya kept stocked for him.
His dick twitched in interest.
The shower shut off, and Ilya swallowed, pulse picking up minutely and throbbing hard in his neck. Ilya had never in his life been scared of confrontation, aside from the force of his father, and he wasn’t about to start now.
It was just that he knew he’d fucked up. And Shane was allowed to feel however he felt about it, even if Ilya’s only desire was to move past it. Irrationally, the other day, he’d had a moment where he’d been irritated with Shane’s silence.
But then Ilya had begrudgingly flipped it the other way, imagining a scenario in which a fan shoved his body at Shane for a signature. Tried to take him home. It had pissed Ilya off so badly that it forced him into understanding.
Shane emerged from the bathroom in a billow of steam, gloriously half-naked since he’d only bothered to pull on briefs. Ilya’s mouth practically watered at the miles of bare, bronzed skin, the way his hair stuck to his flushed face. He’d been growing it out, and Ilya was ravenous over it.
Shane glanced at him before quietly going to Ilya’s closet to hang up the pieces of his suit, aside from his tie, which he tossed onto the foot of the bed. Interesting.
“You have a hot man in bed and you do not even kiss him, how sad,” Ilya said, lightly, going for teasing. His pulse kicked up another notch.
“Yeah. Maybe I’ll kiss him when I don’t want to strangle him,” Shane replied, patting his suit coat before shutting the closet door with a little too much force.
You can strangle me, Ilya thought manically, if it’d make you feel better.
Without knowing what else to do, he rolled to his feet and padded over to where Shane had frozen on the other side of the room. He kept clenching and un-clenching his fists, like he didn’t know what to do with his hands.
Usually, he’d jump on the bed and fall atop Ilya with a voracious hunger.
He reached out and circled his fingers around Shane’s wrists, testing. He was still stubbornly keeping his gaze somewhere over Ilya’s shoulder, as if staring at the wall was more interesting.
“Your rookie plays like shit,” he said, voice tight. “That little smart-mouthed one.”
“Yes, Jurand has a head full of bricks. And a sprained ankle, probably, after the way you hit him tonight.”
“Good.”
“You played well,” Ilya said, because if anything ever served to make Shane soften, it was compliments. “Very good game tonight. Was very hot when you got me on the boards.”
“Yeah. Well. I’m just disappointed we won. How else would I get the Ilya Rozanov’s signature?” he asked, and finally met Ilya’s gaze. Even when the rest of his face was set in stone, his eyes betrayed whatever emotion was lurking just beneath his skin. They were a little wet, like they always got when Shane felt something too big for containment. But they were fierce, too, searching Ilya like he was working out a puzzle.
Ilya couldn’t help it. He kissed him, hard and a little sloppily, because he was about to explode if he didn’t. There was no world in which he had Shane this close to him and could leave him unkissed, not anymore. Shane lagged, and all it took was a grip to his jaw to spur him into action.
Ilya groaned the moment he was able to slip his tongue in, falling into the taste of him. No matter how many times they kissed, whether it was sweet or nasty, it never failed to shock Ilya with how intoxicating it was. The firm press of Shane’s soft lips, spit slipping everywhere without a care in the world. Shane wrapped his arms around Ilya’s waist, and then they were crushed together, Ilya sliding a palm over Shane’s ass and squeezing.
And for a few amazing seconds, everything was normal and perfect.
Ilya broke away from his mouth to start a needy descent down his neck, and Shane shoved his shoulders. It was surprising enough that it forced Ilya back a step, and Shane was glaring now. Oops.
“That’s not how you say sorry,” Shane hissed, even though he sounded out of breath. A surge of something flared in Ilya’s gut, trapped between the browbeaten need to make this right and the age-old urge to argue.
“Isn’t it?”
It was a gamble. He wanted his finger on the pulse, call it intuition.
Ilya could see that he was trapped somewhere between resolution and desire. It may have been easier to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness. But his boyfriend was a dangerous thing right now, and God help him, Ilya couldn’t resist.
He liked it when Shane’s sharp edges caught on his soft sides. He liked it when all of Shane’s intensity bubbled up onto the surface.
“Did you want me to sign your tits too, Hollander?” he asked. “Make things even?”
There was some saying about playing stupid games.
“You are fucking unbelievable,” Shane snapped, before slamming back against Ilya, hands sinking into his hair as he pulled him into a more ragged, fierce kiss. Their teeth clacked, the force practically vibrating through his jaw.
Ilya moaned, clutching at the slight give of Shane’s waist before frantically grappling the nape of his neck. Shane pulled on his curls, hard, hard enough to sting sharp and precise. Ilya pressed his growing erection on Shane’s hip, grinding it, searching for that hot friction. It didn’t last long enough before he was getting shoved again.
“Get on the bed.”
The command from Shane wasn’t an uncommon one. Ilya stared at him, at his flushed face, at his dark eyes. He reached out again, a tease on the tip of his tongue.
Shane slapped his hands away, and insisted, “Rozanov. On the bed, now.”
Ilya’s cock twitched at the tone, like Shane was ordering around a misbehaving mutt. More often than not, Shane was a brat. He liked the push and pull, leaned into Ilya’s baited wind-ups before inevitably giving in to the current of submission.
He forced himself to bite back a smirk, and humored the order, trotting over to the bed and flinging himself on with a flourish. He tossed his shirt, and under Shane’s watchful gaze, teased down the hem of his sweatpants. His dick slapped against his belly, foreskin already withdrawing slightly from the strain.
“I’m where you want me now, yes?” he said, kicking the pants away. He trailed his knuckles along the thick length of his cock, slow and light. “Come here, Shane.”
Shane rolled his bottom lip beneath his teeth but made no effort to move. A few seconds stretched by, and Ilya hesitated.
“Shane, I said – ”
“If you keep touching yourself,” Shane interrupted, “I’ll make myself come while you watch, and you won’t even get to fuck me at all.”
Ilya’s hand froze completely. Shane’s expression didn’t waver, aside from a minute twitch of his eyebrows.
Call his bluff, Ilya’s brain supplied.
“What is this?” Ilya laughed, stilted. “You are in charge now, Hollander?”
“Maybe.”
“You wouldn’t last five minutes. Your fingers wouldn’t be enough and then you’d beg for my cock,” he said with a grin that was looser than he felt. Shane hummed, eyes darting between Ilya’s face and his hand, which was still just sort of awkwardly half-wrapped around his dick. Ilya thought about tightening the grip, but for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
“Try me.”
Fucking try me, Rozanov.
His tone was quieter now than it had been on the ice, but he was still bubbling with a certain intensity. Slowly, Ilya’s hand lowered to lay beside his hip, and he clutched the linen duvet to keep it grounded.
Shane took a step forward, and then another, and another. He breezed past the bed, and Ilya’s head nearly snapped off his neck as he turned to watch Shane walk toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Ilya asked. Shane kept going, disappearing from sight. “My hand is off! Shane?”
There was no response. He could hear Shane’s footsteps fading, and Ilya shifted uncomfortably. His impulse was to spring up and follow, but something kept him firmly rooted to the bed. He ran his hands down his thighs, massaging the muscles hard, ears strained to hear any sign of life.
It was a minute or two or a lifetime before Shane returned. He walked to the side of the bed, and Ilya swayed in a bit, like a flower following the sun.
Shane had something in his hand. Held it up.
A Sharpie.
“You know, I’m not even really that mad anymore,” Shane said, and flipped the pen between his index and ring fingers, the same way he would a puck. “I still ended up here, using your door code and shower. Because you’re mine, right?”
“Yes, yours,” Ilya said, and it sounded breathier than he would have liked.
“Get over here.”
If asked in a court of law, Ilya would refuse to admit how fast he fumbled to fulfill the request. It wasn’t like there was a lot of ground to cover – all he had to do was lunge to the side of the bed, re-shuffling until he was on his knees, body weight sagging the edge of the mattress. Kneeling had them almost face-to-face like usual, and Shane didn’t hesitate to settle a warm hand against the base of Ilya’s throat.
He pushed, firm, making Ilya lean so far back that he had to throw his hands out behind him to keep from toppling over. It forced the heavy swell of his pecs up, and Shane ripped the cap of the Sharpie off with his teeth.
He was practically panting as Shane laid the thick felt tip down to the side of his sternum. The pressure of the pen gliding across Ilya’s skin was unyielding as Shane scribbled his practiced signature in huge sweeps, branding it across Ilya’s chest.
Shane tapped the pen against his chin, admiring Ilya like he was wandering through an art museum. He wanted to look down, but he was more fascinated by the way Shane’s expression changed, mouth parting and eyebrows knitting skyward. Visibly aroused, as if the strain in his briefs wasn’t enough evidence.
“How does it look?” Ilya asked quietly, and it snapped Shane out of wherever he’d gone. His rabbiting heartbeat picked up impossibly faster when Shane grabbed Ilya’s phone from the bedside table and swiped the screen.
They didn’t do photos. They never did photos. Ilya watched, equal parts shocked and turned on, as he was suddenly staring into a camera lens.
“You tell me,” Shane said as the shutter snapped. He flipped the phone and tossed it onto the bed, leaving Ilya to reckon with his own image. That was never an issue – Ilya had a fun time looking at himself.
And now he looked, and looked, gut molten at the proof of dark ink that was scrawled across his heaving chest. His boyfriend had impeccably neat script, the mark of someone who’d been writing their own name with a flourish for years now. Shane Hollander.
When Ilya had been a stupid teenager who fumbled with English characters, even Shane’s tidy, swooped signature had incited within him a deep envy and irritation. Now, he pressed his palm into his own sternum, wishing he could brand the letters there permanently. He never saw himself like this, flushed and taken off-guard and a lot in love.
“Shane,” he implored, not sure what he was trying to ask for, but Shane heard something there anyway. He stepped closer, and allowed Ilya to clutch at his hips.
Ilya slipped his fingers beneath the band of Shane’s briefs, and slowly wiggled them down, watching his face. He breathed a little harder as Ilya worked them all the way off, mouth damn-near watering at the sight of Shane’s thick, cut cock. It was predictably already wet at the tip.
“It can be hot, no?” he asked, slowly leaning in. Shane allowed a soft kiss to the cheek, lolled his head to the side when Ilya’s mouth found his ear. “You got jealous, huh, lyubov? They all think they can have me, and you are the only one who actually can.”
Shane’s breath stuttered, and then he took a careful, measured inhale.
“It pissed me the fuck off,” he said, and Ilya practically preened. “You’re my boyfriend. No one should even…”
He trailed off, and Ilya felt that certain thrill in his belly grow, sitting on the precipice of something.
“No one should what?”
“No one should think they have a chance in hell.”
The tone was back, that edge of heat, as if he was offended that anyone even dare to glance in Ilya’s direction. Ilya groaned, yanking him in until he was forced to brace a knee on the mattress to avoid falling.
“Maybe they will always try, but I will always be yours. Yes, Shane?”
“Yes,” Shane whispered. And his eyes darted all over Ilya’s face. “So are you gonna make it up to me, Rozanov?”
They’d played this game before, just not in this way. Sometimes, Ilya would needle and tease until it hit a nerve, and Shane would froth and snap, forcing Ilya into a saccharine apology. The equivalent of cooing and kissing the skinned knee that came from a play-fight. I am kidding, solnyshko, you know this.
Ilya slid his hands up and over Shane’s broad shoulders, sipping a slow, filthy kiss from his lips. Shane swayed, getting both knees on the bed and clambering into Ilya’s lap. He sucked on Shane’s sweet tongue, bit at his lips, noses occasionally bumping harshly.
“I’d do anything,” he murmured, and found that he meant it. Ilya would feed into this. He’d atone.
Shane ran the back of his knuckles down Ilya’s throat, squeezed one heavy pec, and gave him a chaste kiss before he shoved. Ilya flopped down into the pillows with a breathless laugh, and any other hope of air was swallowed by consuming kisses, languid and wet.
It sent Ilya into a tailspin, to have all of Shane’s body weight crushing him, overcome with the force of how much he had missed this. Missed him. His bare, hot skin, firm touches and the pitch of his little moans.
So he was extra pliable, maybe, and didn’t protest as Shane worked his arms above his head. All of his focus was on how Shane was grinding them together, the friction maddening. He had half a mind to flip them over, to get his mouth on Shane’s ass, but it felt a little far away. In a minute. He’d do it in a minute.
Shane disconnected their lips with a soft click, and Ilya shamelessly chased after them, distracted. Something cool slipped around his wrists, and then they were being pressed together, the soft insides so flush that he could feel his own pulse.
“What is this?” he asked, even though he knew, could understand as Shane worked to bind his hands tighter together. The texture of his silk press tie was unmistakable. Shane tested the give of it with a sharp tug, and Ilya was almost dizzy; a little fabric wouldn’t restrict him that much, but it still felt unyielding.
“Just making sure you actually keep your hands to yourself, since you seem to have trouble doing that,” Shane replied, and the air left him in a sharp whoosh as his belly flipped.
He had known, distantly, that he was into this; he’d let a girl handcuff him to her bedframe, once upon a time. It had been fun until it wasn’t, until the lack of control had turned him jittery and unfocused.
It was impossible to ever relinquish himself over to other people, for long. But this was Shane.
When Ilya didn’t immediately come up with a retort, Shane massaged the thick muscle of his forearm, grounding and sure.
“Is this okay?”
“Yes,” Ilya said quickly. “Yes, just fucking – do something.”
Something flickered in Shane’s face, and Ilya didn’t exactly have time to worry over it, watching closely as Shane sat up, straddling Ilya’s hips. He pointedly angled himself away, and Shane got a grip on his own cock, working it slowly.
It followed the same pattern Ilya would use on him, languid strokes before a massage to the head, eliciting a gasp. Ilya squirmed, sure that this would last for a minute before Shane would fall back on top of him. But a minute turned into two, and then Shane’s hand was speeding up, his gasps falling faster alongside the pace.
“Shane,” Ilya said, urgently. “Shane, don’t come.”
“Why not?” Shane breathed, and his eyes fluttered as he gave a particularly rough-looking twist to the head of his cock. “Feels so good.”
“I’ll make you feel better. Let me touch you.”
“How are you gonna do that? Your hands are useless,” he replied, and Ilya grit his teeth. His hands? Useless? The same hands that had delivered pleasure to Shane for a decade?
“I don’t care, use my face,” he said, voice lilting into something that was shamefully close to a whine. Shane considered him, but didn’t stop touching himself. “Come here, let me suck your dick, sit on my face, whatever. Please.”
He hadn’t meant to tack on the extra word, but it made Shane flush harder, and he dropped his hand. Relief rolled through Ilya’s body as Shane leaned down to kiss him, too chaste for his liking, but still a kiss.
“Get up here,” he encouraged as Shane knee-walked over his torso, legs spreading wide to accommodate the breadth of Ilya’s body. A few years ago, something like this would have had Shane hesitant. But here, now, he was unapologetic as he got a grip on Ilya’s hair, forcibly propping his head further up.
“Yeah, like that,” Shane groaned as Ilya enthusiastically got his mouth around the tip, sucking hard. He wished Shane could understand more deeply just how much Ilya loved his cock, got stupid over it, the unique taste of him searing and addictive.
He couldn’t get all the way to the root at this angle, and he certainly couldn’t use his hands to cover the distance, but he made up for it in enthusiasm. Ilya let himself drool, so each strained bob of his mouth was extra wet, eliciting nasty noises that always made Shane blush harder. He laved his tongue against his sensitive frenulum, and it got the exact reaction he wanted – a loud moan and kick of his hips.
Usually, Shane would pause, needing Ilya to bully him into allowing a loss of his manners. But he just pushed forward again, and Ilya stilled, eyes practically rolling into the back of his head as Shane gently started to fuck his face.
Take whatever you want, make yourself feel good, he wanted to say, but was too busy appreciating the way Shane’s thick girth made his jaw sore, throat clicking each time Shane nudged it.
“I’m gonna come,” he gasped, and Ilya dutifully swallowed to make his throat contract, ready to take it, but found his mouth woefully empty two seconds later.
Shane moved away hastily, jacking himself off with quick strips, and something strangled came out of Ilya’s mouth as he watched his boyfriend spill all over his heaving chest. The splash was warm and sudden, dripping pale over the dark ink that was scrawled on Ilya’s skin.
His brain felt disconnected from his body, and he jerked up into thin air at the sight of Shane coming all over his own signature. His pretty name, branded onto Ilya’s body. It wasn’t subtle, this mark of possession, and his head swam in a dizzy rush.
“Holy shit,” Shane said, panting. He ran his fingers over the swell of Ilya’ pecs, smearing his come over the Sharpie ink and into Ilya’s chest hair. He seemed dazed, and Ilya writhed a little, a silent command for attention. Softened by his first orgasm, Shane rewarded him with a kiss, and Ilya greedily accepted.
“Am I forgiven?” he asked, voice raspy, and Shane hummed.
“Oh, not even close.”
Thank God.
Ilya restlessly twisted his fingers together as Shane kissed along his cheek, then his jaw, and down the side of his neck. It was slow, syrupy, and Ilya was helpless but to just let himself feel as Shane sucked on his nipple and bit hard enough to sting. He paused, and then skimmed the straight slope of his nose up and into the exposed arch of Ilya’s armpit.
“You fucking pervert,” Ilya laughed as Shane nuzzled into the wiry hair there and took a deep breath. His cock kicked at the intimate gesture; Shane had never been secretive about how much he liked the way Ilya smelled, whether he was doused in cologne or dripping with sweat.
“Says you,” Shane muttered, and Ilya flinched at the tickle of his moving lips against the tender skin there.
The next stretch of time was a matter of endurance, because Shane seemed committed to kissing and licking every inch of Ilya’s torso. Even cleaned up his own come, which made Ilya nearly pass out from the sight. By the time he was suckling at the muscle that carved the shape of his pelvis, he was out of his mind, a little sweaty and kicking at the sheets.
“Shane, come on, please,” he urged. “Please, sweetheart, use that perfect mouth.”
It went ignored, Shane moving to kiss right near the crease of his leg. His face rolled inward, and Ilya hesitated as Shane slid his hand to the soft meat of Ilya’s inner thigh. The request was clear, and Shane flickered his eyes up. They were so sweet, dark in the lowlight of the room, and Ilya let his legs part the tiniest bit. He knew he’d done the right thing when Shane practically purred, and Ilya gasped as the sensitive skin of his inner thighs got attacked with harsh sucks and nibbles.
This was mostly uncharted territory. Shane was the only one who had ever really been allowed in this space, near the core of him. They’d been experimenting in the past year with how much Ilya was willing to give, working him closer to accepting more vulnerable forms of touch (namely, a tongue in his ass).
But he wasn’t prepared for that tonight, and Shane didn’t betray that trust, instead swallowing down Ilya’s cock with essentially no warning. Ilya groaned loudly at the tight, wet heat, having gone so long with no stimulation. Shane wasn’t hesitant, rocking his head and getting Ilya halfway down his throat.
Shane’s touch crept beneath the swell of his ass. It brushed into his crack, and Ilya’s heart stuttered at the way Shane popped off his cock to ask, earnestly, “Can I?”
“Just not all the way inside, I don’t think,” Ilya said, even though it made him feel a little strange, to set that boundary so clearly. Shane obviously had no issue with it, simply went back to work, moaning at the taste of his pre-cum like he always did. There was just the additional light, feathery touch of his fingertip at Ilya’s hole, pressing, but not sinking in.
Ilya didn’t understand how that light pressure could make him feel so goddamn insane, but it did, heightening an already technically amazing blowjob. Shane rubbed at his hole and gagged slightly as he forced Ilya’s cock as deep as it could go, and oh, no.
The surge of impending orgasm slammed into him like a freight train. It appeared suddenly, jolted by the endless stretch of teasing, and something in Ilya’s brain panicked. He couldn’t come, if he wanted to fuck Shane immediately. Shane, who was hard again, grinding against Ilya’s leg like he thought nothing of it.
“Shane,” he managed through gritted teeth.
If Shane wanted Ilya to come like this, he would. That was the promise. But Shane popped off, and squeezed the base of Ilya for good measure, quelling the danger. Ilya was panting, and Shane mouthed at the rapid rise and fall of his stomach.
“God, I love sucking your cock,” Shane murmured, almost to himself. “You’re being such a good boy.”
It was said breezily, as if he were commenting on the weather, but something in Ilya’s chest rolled over and whined. A whine, he realized, that came from himself. Breathy and low, but still there. Shane gazed up at him again, the same sharp look drawing over his features.
“You like being good for me? Making it up to me?”
“Yes,” Ilya rasped, and found that he meant it.
“Are you gonna fuck me the way I deserve?”
Shane sounded sincere; he didn’t put on some showy, seductive voice. It just made it hotter to Ilya, the unpracticed dominance, the way he probably saw this entire thing as a simple necessary correction. It let Ilya sink deeper, less ashamed when he found himself practically begging, “I will, just let me show you. You know I can make you come on my cock, lyubov, so easy. Please, Shane, let me fuck you.”
Well. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d begged to fuck Shane, he guessed.
Shane ghosted his hand up Ilya’s chest, pausing over the print of his name before landing a sharp slap. It cracked over his nipple, and Ilya hissed in his next breath as Shane abruptly stood.
“Where are you going?” Ilya asked.
He wasn’t proud of the needy way it came out. Shane raised his eyebrows as he rattled open the top drawer of Ilya’s bedside table, pulling out the lube. Ilya’s nerves settled as Shane clambered back on top of him, giving him a moment of grace as he massaged one of his biceps.
“Untie me. Let me open you up,” he urged.
“You think I don’t have enough practice doing this on my own?”
The implication was clear, but Ilya still writhed in protest as Shane slicked one finger and swiftly worked it inside himself with a groan. He rocked into it, forcing their cocks to slide together, Ilya’s gone a flushed, irritated red.
“Let me do it. I’ll do it better than you can, it will feel better, just let me. You love my fingers, you love how deep they get,” he babbled, but Shane, once again, ignored him. He was breathing something about how good it felt, how tight, and Ilya was desperate to get his hands on him. Even if his fingers weren’t inside Shane’s ass, he wanted them on the nape of his neck, on his waist, anywhere.
“Shane, let me fucking touch you.”
“You are,” Shane said, giving a pointed thrust against Ilya’s groin. It felt amazing, but it wasn’t the same, and they both knew it.
“You know that’s not what I meant, Hollander, I want to touch you.”
“And I said before that your hands are useless,” Shane snapped, rising to the bait of Ilya’s petulant tone. “You’re making it worse for yourself.”
Ilya pursed his lips, but forced himself to be quiet, even though watching Shane’s arm work as he opened himself wider was certified torture. He flexed his hands, trying to shake off the pins and needles, and petulantly curled his toes into the sheets. He was practically trembling with the need to move, to be an active participant in Shane’s pleasure.
But this isn’t about you, is it? his brain whispered.
“Good enough,” Shane muttered, almost to himself. He slapped his lube-sticky hand on Ilya’s chest, squeezing both his pecs like they were his personal stress relievers. Bracing his weight, trusting Ilya’s sturdy body to withstand it, he rolled forward.
Shane whimpered as he forced Ilya’s cock to slide between his ass cheeks, and the squeeze made Ilya choke on air. He expected Shane to get a steady grip so he could sink down, always eager to have Ilya inside him, but he just kept undulating his hips.
“Please,” Ilya whined, and tossed his head back as the tip of his cock caught on Shane’s hole, disappearing inside the tiniest bit inside before it popped back out.
“Please what?” he asked, fumbling for the lube bottle. He squeezed a good amount into his palm and reached back, slicking up Ilya’s aching cock before he pushed it slowly back between his cheeks.
It was impossibly wet now, and the room was punctuated with the quiet schlick of the lube and their heavy breathing. On a hard pass, the head of Ilya’s cock well and truly pushed inside, bullying against the soft resistance of Shane’s rim. The sudden heat and pressure made Ilya groan, overlapping Shane’s soft cry.
But then he moved, and Ilya slipped out, and he was going to go insane. His dignity was dead, anyway.
“I can’t – I need you on my cock, I need to fill you up, baby, please,” Ilya begged, and Shane’s breath stuttered at the endearment. Had Ilya ever called him that? He didn’t know. He had no cognizant thoughts past getting Shane Hollander to ride him. “I’ll make you scream, I promise. Just take it, Shane, make yourself feel good.”
In a show of mercy, his pathetic pleading worked, because Shane purposefully angled his hips on the next slide. Ilya sank inside, and then kept sinking as Shane lowered with a breathy moan.
“God, you’re big,” Shane sighed, and all Ilya could do was helplessly whine. “I love this cock.”
The words sat wrong, and Ilya found himself saying, “Yours, it’s yours.”
“Yeah?”
Shane rocked his hips, easing himself into it, and Ilya just stared at his face. His pretty face, swollen mouth parted, eyebrows furrowed like he was pissed off. His blush had bled into his neck and into his chest, dark nipples hard and begging to be sucked.
Ilya needed to touch him. He clenched his hands into fists as Shane got his knees up under him so he could start making real movements, fucking himself a little faster, going a little harder.
“Holy shit, you’re so deep like this. Like you’re in my stomach.”
It was said softly, a bit slurred, one of the only signs that Shane was properly affected in the usual sense. Ilya felt stupidly proud that his body could constantly reduce Shane into something that teared up and chased pleasure with a blind desperation.
Ilya lost time, abdomen clenching each time Shane’s tight heat engulfed him on the downstroke. He was alternating between bouncing and frantically circling his hips, trying to hit that hot target inside of himself.
“Ilya,” he cried, and Ilya swam toward the surface, blinking heavily at the tinge of urgency in Shane’s voice. He had gotten engrossed in watching the micro-expressions of his face, swept under the pure, addictive rush that always threatened to drown him when he had Shane atop him.
“What do you need?” he urged, and Shane tripped over the next words he tried to get out. “Tell me, whatever you ask, I’ll give it to you.”
“Fuck me right. I need you to fuck me,” Shane said, even as he rode harder, as if he wasn’t doing the work himself. “Come on.”
The pins and needles that Ilya had been ignoring in his fingertips had spread into something numb at this point, and he strained against the stupid tie, twisting his wrists. The knot tightened the more he pushed against the fabric, and Ilya grit his teeth.
“Untie me and I will.”
Shane tipped his head back, either not hearing Ilya or willfully ignoring him. He strained harder, the vein in his arm popping, but silk was nearly impossible to rip. Shane was scrabbling at Ilya’s thighs, trying to find purchase as he searched for a better rhythm.
Shane could probably ride a mechanical bull into the ground if he wanted to, but he was already one orgasm deep for the night, not as sensitive. He would need more to get him off, unless he touched himself.
Something panicky bled into his chest, and Ilya didn’t understand it, just that Shane was too far away despite being connected to him in the most primal way possible.
“Shane!” he barked, and Shane snapped to attention. “Untie me, please.”
He wasn’t begging just for fun this time, and Shane could tell.
“Okay, yeah, hold on,” Shane stuttered, and Ilya twisted around impatiently as Shane worked at the knot. The moment it loosened, Ilya was struggling out of it, his muscles burning as he was finally able to bend his arms.
He could have been injected with tranquilizers and it still wouldn’t have slowed him down. Ilya wrapped his arms around Shane and slammed him onto his back, managing to not slip out, somehow. That particular move was usually more graceful, but Ilya was frantic, taking a millisecond to adjust before he was pounding into him.
“Oh my fucking God,” Shane cried, digging his fingers into the flexing muscles of Ilya’s back so hard that his blunt nails threatened to break skin. Ilya agreed, because fucking God. It was euphoric to get his hands back on Shane, one clutching his hip in a way that was sure to bruise, the other squeezing his pec to feel it jiggle from the thrusts.
“Is this good?” Ilya asked, and it came out imploringly. Am I good?
“S’much, Ilya, you’re – so beautiful — ah!”
Ilya scrambled to notch his palms into the slight divot of Shane’s waist, yanking him into his lap over and over as he drove forward. Shane’s dark hair was sticking to his face, and Ilya didn’t know where to look, eyes darting between his maddening freckles to his wet, bouncing cock. One thigh was wrapped around Ilya’s hip, trembling, but the other kicked helplessly. Ilya snatched him behind his sweaty knee and shoved it to his chest, opening him wider.
“Fuck, fuck, just like that,” Shane choked out.
“Yeah? This what you wanted?” Ilya said, and this was what he knew. Reducing Shane to a boneless puddle, steering his pleasure, making him sink like a heavy stone into his own desire. Shane’s eyes flickered back before finding Ilya’s face, and they were so hazy and sweet, his favorite thing.
“Did it feel good to be in charge for a while?” Ilya asked, even though the question sat clumsy in the space between them, chasing after a role that he thought he’d cemented. “Just wanted to be a mouthy slut, huh? I’m –”
His next word, whatever that might have been, was promptly slapped out of his mouth. Shane’s palm connected to his face so quickly that Ilya didn’t see it coming, and it was hardly enough to even hurt, just a smart sting across his cheek.
Ilya’s rhythm abruptly stuttered, shocked. Something white-hot and sharp lit up inside of him, something he didn’t recognize.
Shane was emboldened by Ilya’s slack-jawed reaction, putting that same hand back on his face and squeezing so hard that Ilya’s lips were forced into a pout.
“That’s not how this is going tonight,” Shane said, and Ilya’s hips jerked involuntarily at the direct, low tone. “You’re the mouthy slut, here, Rozanov, and you’re the one who’s supposed to be apologizing. So shut up and earn it.”
Ilya scrambled to obey, thrusting like he’d never stopped, and Shane’s grip on his face didn’t falter even as he dissolved into moans. His fingertips were digging painfully under the sharp angle of Ilya’s cheekbone, and he wanted and wanted and wanted.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “Hit me, sweetheart, fucking let me feel it.”
Shane didn’t hesitate, slapping Ilya for the second time, harder, enough to slightly rock his head. It only made Ilya fuck into him faster, hips smacking against the back of Shane’s thighs with loud, painful claps. It blended with the sharp crack of Shane’s hand connecting for a third and final time.
Suddenly, and rather helplessly, Ilya came.
It was crashing through him before he could even think to control it, sudden and vicious, lighting up every nerve. He groaned, low and ragged, slamming home into the clutch of Shane’s body. He was cursing, maybe, in English or Russian, he didn’t know. Shane got a fistful of Ilya’s curls in his hand and yanked his head down, trying to kiss him, but Ilya was panting too hard to coordinate his tongue.
“Yeah, just let go for me,” Shane whispered, biting at Ilya’s bottom lip, and he couldn’t help but grind forward, as if he could force his cum deeper inside. His arms shook, exhausted from maintaining the same position for so long and then being made to support his body weight. Shane ran his hand up one of Ilya’s sweaty biceps and wordlessly tugged, urging Ilya to collapse onto his elbows.
Ilya’s brain felt static and blank, the tell-tale sign of an amazing orgasm; he pressed their faces together cheek-to-cheek, signature mole against Shane’s freckles.
“Fuck, oh fuck,” Ilya said, gasping for air, and something zipped around the back of his mind, cobbling together the details of the last couple minutes. He knew what Shane sounded like when he came, and even half-blacked out, he would have registered it.
Shane was still hard and leaking, most likely trying very hard to be patient.
Ilya pressed a sloppy kiss to Shane’s lips, shoving down the shame that tried to claw its way to the surface, seething that he’d allowed himself to come before his partner.
“Hold on, lyubov, I’ll take care of you,” he said quickly, and his voice sounded far away, even to himself. “Let me eat you out so I can taste myself. Will make you come so hard, yes?”
Shane’s legs tightened impossibly around Ilya’s waist when he went to pull out, locking at the small of his back.
“I want to come on your cock,” Shane breathed. “It’s what I deserve. Keep going.”
I can’t, Ilya wanted to complain, it’s going to hurt too badly, I can’t.
But Shane’s eyes were huge and dark, glazed over, his fingers running restlessly through Ilya’s hair as he started squirming ruthlessly. Ilya clenched his jaw, because he was rapidly descending on the other side of his release. Shane was still so tight around him. Too tight.
“You said your cock belongs to me, right? Let me use it.”
Ilya moaned, guttural and broken, tucking his face into the hot hollow between Shane’s neck and shoulder. If he told him that he really couldn’t, Shane would accept it, no questions asked. Ilya would still make him come with his mouth, or his fingers, or both. His cock had never been the sole deciding factor in their pleasure.
But it felt like it was now. Felt imperative that Shane take from him until there was nothing left.
With a shuddering breath, Ilya drew his hips back and slowly, pointedly fucked back in, trying to ease himself into the feeling. Except there wasn’t really any sort of easing – it was like hitting a brick wall of sensation, and Ilya let out a hiss of breath through grit teeth. But he managed to make himself thrust again, and again. His body seemed to instinctually understand that it was here to make Shane feel good. Nothing else mattered.
Ilya prided himself on discipline. He was known for being virtually indestructible, taking pucks to the jaw and blows to the knees without ever slowing down. He got up and kept playing, because he always got up.
Here, pressed flush against the man he loved, Ilya had never been more determined. He’d also never felt more out of control as he picked back up to a vicious pace, even though it was less steady than usual. His eyes watered, groin on fire, the pins and needles shifting into one blinding wash of pleasure-pain.
“Oh my god, right there, Ilya, right fucking there,” Shane whispered harshly into his ear, hugging him tight around the neck. He kicked at the swell of Ilya’s ass like he was some prized workhorse, a wordless plea for him to go faster, and Ilya sucked desperately at Shane’s throat to keep himself grounded.
He had to still for a moment, overcome and trying to collect himself, choking a dry sob into Shane’s neck.
“I know. I know it’s a lot, holy shit, you’re so good, Ilya – fucking giving it to me.”
Ilya grasped for the singular fraying thread of pleasure, trying to hold onto it. He was staying hard by sheer force of will and stimulation, even though it should by all accounts be shriveling. The things Shane Hollander did to him, he guessed.
There was a grossly wet noise happening where their bodies connected, like they’d used a whole bottle of lube. It took Ilya a moment to understand, because he was so strung out, but he realized that it was because of his cum. His cum, smearing all over their thighs and catching in their pubes.
Christ.
The seconds between his next ragged breath and the ones after were lost, and something in him caved, sinking into the pain until it started bubbling into a different feeling. It was like massaging out a hardened knot in his muscles, or the distinct second of sizzling pleasure when bare feet hit hot asphalt.
Ilya white-knuckled the sheets so hard that they ripped off the corners of the mattress, and he was jackhammering into Shane now, who was just brokenly repeating Ilya’s name like a chant.
“I’m so close, Ilya, make me come,” Shane babbled, clawing at Ilya’s shoulders. He was surely breaking the thin top layers of skin, but Ilya’s entire body was vibrating, all sensations bleeding into one another. “I’m – Ilya.”
Shane clenched hard as he came, breaking apart on Ilya’s cock, and Ilya made a noise he’d never heard from himself before. A moan so loud that it bordered on a shout, hardly muffled into Shane’s damp hair, and he recognized with wild disbelief that another orgasm was battering its way through him.
Or maybe he’d never stopped coming in the first place, he didn’t know, just that he nearly buckled under the pressure of it. There were rarely any moments in life in which Ilya Rozanov was speechless, and this was one such rare occasion. All he could do was breathe through it, each exhale dragging with it a ragged groan.
His heart was beating hard enough that it threatened to bust through his sternum, and for a long, blissful moment, Ilya just buzzed on a high that he’d never quite experienced. But like all highs he’d ever ridden in his life, he was destined to crash once it ran its course.
His body demanded to be attended to in sharp relief as Shane shifted, soft noises falling from his mouth, and Ilya locked up.
“Shane,” he choked out, “stay still.”
Shane immediately froze, and Ilya reached down, fitting his fingers into a V-shape around the root of his cock. He didn’t know why, just felt that he had to stabilize himself as he slowly pulled out, whining at the painful clench in his groin.
“Hah, fuck.”
Ilya tipped onto his side, limbs flinching, like he was trying to shake out the thousands of sizzling pinpricks that needled his body. He felt Shane’s fingers on his face, combing through his hair, the familiar even-keel of his voice floating in the air.
Once, he’d gotten fantastically drunk and laid on the rooftop of his first apartment while it snowed, numb and dizzy but blissfully zoned out. Laying in bed, now, felt similar.
“I’m here,” Shane said, and Ilya automatically relaxed, distantly aware that he’d started grappling blindly for Shane’s body. “It’s okay. Come on, let me hold you.”
For all that Ilya liked to toss Shane around, they were practically evenly matched in muscle mass, so it was easy work for Shane to haul Ilya into his arms. He let himself be arranged as Shane laid him out over his chest, but pointedly made sure their crotches weren’t pressed together. Instead, he dragged one of Ilya’s legs over his and held him tight.
“I was good?” Ilya slurred, and Shane pressed a kiss into his curls, and then featherlight on his forehead.
“The best, really, that was amazing. You held on so well. You’re perfect for me, huh? My Ilya.”
Ilya sighed, nosing against Shane’s chest, and Shane didn’t comment as he idly started mouthing at his nipple. He only had the energy to keep it up for a second, and then he just went lax, lips smushed to the swell of muscle.
“Are we okay?”
It was a vulnerable, needy question, born from some reedy anxiety that had been silently living in the back of his brain since yesterday. Shane ran his knuckles over Ilya’s cheekbone, making a strangely wounded noise, and said, “I love you more than anything, Ilya, we’re so okay. Now rest.”
✒ᝰ
When Ilya came to, some hour or so later, he was greeted with aching muscles and a spectacularly dry mouth. For a split second, he worried that he was hungover all over again. But there was no blinding headache or low-grade nausea. Rather, he felt loose and sated, insanely good. The kind of good that was produced by a hard-earned win or a grueling workout.
“Welcome back,” Shane greeted as Ilya stretched so hard that his limbs vibrated.
“Mm. Hi,” he murmured. He wasn’t laying on top of Shane anymore, but was instead rolled on his side, notably cleaned of sticky cum and sweat. Shane was sitting cross-legged next to him, wearing a pair of Ilya’s gym shorts and scrolling on his phone.
“Here.”
Shane leaned over and grabbed Ilya’s water bottle from the bedside table. Ilya took it gratefully, relieved when he heard ice cubes clinking around inside. He guzzled half of it in one go, the frigid water soothing his parched throat.
“Fuck, that’s good.”
“I cut up apples and a pear I found, too. Want some?”
“I feel like spoiled little prince,” Ilya said muzzily, wiggling closer to Shane. Shane took the bottle before Ilya could knock it over, and he threw his arms around his boyfriend’s waist, pillowing his head on a thick thigh.
“I’d usually agree, but you worked hard,” Shane said, and pushed an apple slice to Ilya’s mouth. He sucked it in, and it burst crisp and fresh over his tongue, a shock of sugar that he very much appreciated.
“So we will talk about how you almost killed me?”
Shane brushed Ilya’s curls back from his forehead, and he sounded serious when he replied, “Was it too much?”
“Of course, yes.”
“Too much in a bad way?”
Worry bled into his tone, and Ilya nuzzled his face against Shane’s leg.
“No, solnyshko, not in a bad way. I am a big boy. I would have told you if I wanted to stop, and you were sweet. Well, mean, but sweet,” he said. “I didn’t know you had it in you, Hollander.”
“Did you like it?” he asked, and Ilya rolled slightly so he could look up at Shane’s face. His expression was pinched, and Ilya rubbed a hand soothingly over his back.
“I loved it. Maybe, uh, we don’t do that all the time. My dick really did almost fall off,” Ilya said, and Shane snorted. “But it was hot. All of it. The tying up we could do more.”
“And the slapping?” Shane mumbled.
“If you let me slap you next, yes,” Ilya grinned, and was relieved when Shane mirrored him, if not more reserved. “I deserved it, no?”
At that, Shane softened, and he unfolded his legs, silently requesting for Ilya to move his head. They shuffled around until they were both on their sides, facing each other, feet tangled and Shane’s arm resting over Ilya’s ribs.
“I was mad for a little while, you know? When I saw the video. The guys were watching it in the locker room and laughing. Just being assholes,” Shane said quietly. “But I sat on it. You didn’t make me mad, not really. It’s just really fucking frustrating to not, like, have you all to myself. I know it was just some stupid fan signing, but it made me feel weird.”
Shane paused, pursing his lips to the side, and something in Ilya’s chest clenched. He wished he could go back in time and punch himself for not being more clever, more aware.
”Shit. I wish I was better at talking about this.”
Ilya brushed his fingertips over the freckles he loved so much, taking a moment to think.
“You are doing just fine,” Ilya said, and tipped him up by the chin as he started to dip. “Listen. I’m sorry, Shane, I really am. It’s hard, maybe, to act like I’m still twenty and an asshole.”
“You are an asshole.”
“Yes, but an older one,” Ilya laughed, and leaned in to kiss Shane’s nose. “And one that is in love with you. I was so drunk, and so stupid. So I’m sorry. I want to…I want to be the best, for you.”
Shane was quiet, and his gaze had slipped back into the softly rendered haze that only cropped up around Ilya, when they were basking in the aftermath and having hushed conversations. They were still getting used to it, this whole talking thing. Shane’s lashes fluttered as he glanced at Ilya’s mouth. His sweet boy.
“The whole time, every time I’m out, I want to go home so I can talk to you. Whenever I go anywhere, I am thinking about you. I always miss you,” Ilya continued.
“It’s the same for me,” Shane replied immediately. “I love you, you know that?”
“I know, sweetheart. I love you too.”
“Say it the right way.”
“Ya tebya lyublyu.”
Shane smiled, and Ilya kissed him softly, pleased when Shane shuffled to be even closer. They were properly holding each other now, and Ilya was full, so full. It was quiet between them for several long minutes, punctuated only by the wet click of kisses and sighs.
“Just so we’re clear, though,” Shane murmured, nudging Ilya’s nose with his own perfect one. “If you ever sign someone’s tits again that aren’t mine, they really will never find your body.”
Ilya laughed, and kept laughing, until Shane was grinning, too. He nestled into the crook of Shane’s shoulder and hummed, feeling clingier than usual. Which was saying something, considering he’d live inside Shane’s skin, given the chance.
”Do you have rubbing alcohol?” Shane asked, and Ilya raised his brows even though Shane couldn’t see it.
”For what?”
“Gotta get the Sharpie off you. And delete that photo.”
Ilya shuddered as Shane lightly ran a finger down the curve of his spine, and he said, “Later. We’ll do it later. Keep cuddling me.”
”’kay.”
He’d put it off as long as possible. Maybe, just maybe, he could get away with hiding the photo in a locked folder. Tangible proof that he belonged to Shane was hard to come by, after all.
✒ᝰ
Ilya watched the stream of people as they walked past the large windows, bustling through Brooklyn in their well-worn sneakers or on the squeak of bicycle wheels. All the noise was muffled outside of the tiny studio, speakers blasting some old pop-punk track that Ilya didn’t half-mind. He’d witnessed, earlier, two of the tattoo artists arguing over the playlist.
“You’re sitting really well.”
He blinked, and then grinned at the girl who was currently jabbing him with dozens upon dozens of tiny needles, diligently filling in the black shading. She was impossibly cool, with a shock of fiery red hair and a complicated, ornate neck tattoo. Ilya had found her on Instagram weeks ago and booked the first spot she had available.
“I’m Russian,” he said, and something about that made her laugh.
“Russian or not, you’d be surprised how much guys move around,” she said, and swiped his arm with a paper towel, drawing away the dots of blood. “So, I googled what a loon was after you sent in your request forms. Can I ask what made you pick that? Kind of a random bird.”
Ilya glanced in the vintage mirror propped up on the wall, and he could see how the tattoo was coming together, a bold and traditional design. The loon’s head swanned over the round of his shoulder, one majestic wing fanning down his bicep.
He hadn’t made it to the play-offs, but Shane had. Shane, who would be exhausted whenever his season ended, had still taken on the task of helping Ilya find a new home in Ottawa. He’d blocked out time in his busy schedule to ensure he could assist Ilya with the move after they got back from the cottage.
No one in this tiny tattoo shop knew who he was. Ilya Rozanov meant nothing to them. He figured, maybe, that a sliver of the truth would be worth the risk just for the relief of speaking it.
“My girl is Canadian,” he said, and thought that one day he might be brave enough to simply say partner. “She has this big lake house where there are tons of loons. I think they are a little creepy, maybe, but she loves them. She thinks they’re cool. And they remind me of her.”
His artist paused, and gave him a soft, endeared smile. Ilya’s heart hammered away proudly.
“That’s so fucking sweet,” she replied. “You know, most men come in here and just get their girlfriend’s names tattooed in big-ass font.”
Ilya barked out a sharp laugh.
“Maybe I will do that one day, too.”