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Shane shouldn’t be here.
He made a promise to himself to stop, especially after his encounter with Scott Hunter when he played him last week.
You’re starting to sound just like him.
Shane’s blood had run colder than the ice he was standing on. Scott Hunter knew something. Maybe. It was definitely Rozanov and his big fucking mouth’s fault if he did, and that’s why Shane is standing just outside his front door, because Rozanov deserves a massive telling off. That’s the only reason.
Still, it’s dangerous. Shane’s half expecting Scott Hunter to pop out of one of the doors with a maniacal laugh and a camera, and he really shouldn’t be here. He can tell Ilya off via text. He can call him every name in the book without any risk to his career and all his friendships, not to mention any risk of accidentally falling into bed with him. Shane can get clumsy, sometimes.
But he’s already knocked. The doorknob turns, and Ilya is standing shirtless on the other side of the threshold, grey sweatpants untied and hanging low on his hips. He’s a sight to behold. His square jaw, sharp jawline, offset by short locks curling sweetly into his face, and those plush, soft lips. The low light emphasizes the grooves between his muscles, his broad shoulders gleaming slightly. Ilya grins that Cheshire-cat grin that Shane loves to hate.
“Mind moving out of the way?” Shane hisses.
Ilya doesn’t budge. “Plenty of room for you to come in just like this.”
Shane glares at him, but decides that reducing the amount of time he’s out in the open is his priority. Sending Ilya his best death glare, he turns his body sideways and slides into the narrow gap Ilya is leaving him. His back scrapes against Ilya’s bare torso and his ass makes brief contact with Ilya’s crotch as he does, and it makes Shane falter.
A small smile is playing on Ilya’s lips once Shane is in and he closes the door.
“You’re a fucking asshole.”
“Most people like to start a conversation with a hello.”
“Yeah? Maybe I’m not most people.”
Ilya’s eyes slowly trail down Shane’s body, then back up to his face. “You certainly aren’t. I caught your game on TV last week and you gave me quite the surprise. Not such a boring boy, after all.”
“Last week?”
“Scott Hunter.”
Shane blanches. “No, that was—shut up.”
Ilya’s lips stretch into a lopsided grin. He has day-old stubble dotting his chin, which Shane decides he hates. It would probably scrape and scratch against his thighs, making his skin raw, and the burn would stay with him for days and—
“I don’t think I will,” Ilya says. “You have a lot of passion, Hollander. I like that.”
“It’s not for you.”
“I never said it was.” Ilya tilts his head. “Curious that you’re so eager to deny it.”
“Fuck you.”
Shane seethes silently as he struggles for words. Ilya leans against the doorframe, his hips jutting out slightly so Shane can see the thick outline of his cock in his sweatpants.
“You’re a—fuck off, you’re such a—”
Shane tries to continue his train of thought. That’s why he’s here, against his better judgment. To tell Ilya off. Somehow, he’s shoving at Ilya’s shoulders then tangling his fingers in his hair as he presses their lips together. Ilya grunts softly, immediately slipping his tongue in as his hands slide to Shane’s lower back. Shane’s own hands slowly trail down until they’re over Ilya’s biceps. His body is so hard, strong and muscular as Shane can feel him flexing under his touch. It makes his stomach swoop.
“You seem a bit pent up,” Ilya says, grabbing one of Shane’s hands and trailing it down his torso until it’s resting over his crotch. “Would you like to take all that energy out now?”
“Fuck. You.”
“You know that’s not how things work here,” Ilya says. “Get on your knees.”
Shane despises him. He drops to his knees. Ilya is hard and ready for him, and he licks a stripe up his cock as soon as he pulls Ilya’s waistband down. The fucking idiot isn’t wearing any underwear.
“Fuck,” Ilya says as Shane sucks on the head. “Fuck, Hollander.”
Shane blinks his eyes up at him, bobbing his head as he takes him down further and further. Ilya’s fingers card through his hair, stroking over his cheek, startlingly gentle in contrast to his heavy-lidded eyes and the wicked smirk on his lips.
Eventually, Ilya gently eases him off, pulling him up so he can kiss him again. His hands wander all the way down to Shane’s ass this time, squeezing before his fingers dip into his crease. Shane’s properly hard, can feel it as he grinds his hip into Ilya’s thigh.
“I want to fuck you,” Ilya says. “Can’t do that if I keep looking at your face when you’re sucking me.”
“Close your eyes, then.”
“If the view is there for me to see, I won’t miss a second of it.”
“And yet, you’re the one that stopped me.”
One corner of Ilya’s mouth quirks up. He squeezes Shane’s ass again.
“I learned a new word today. Brat. It reminded me so much of you. I think you are a brat, Shane Hollander.”
Shane bites at Ilya’s mouth. “And I think you’re an asshole.”
“You like it,” Ilya says, kissing his cheek. “You like it enough to get on your knees for me and look up at me with that sweet look on your face while you drool around my cock.”
Shane’s harder than he’s ever been in his life. His dick twitches against Ilya’s thigh, and Ilya grins.
“Just fuck me,” Shane says. “Or are you all talk?”
“You know better than anyone that I am not.”
“Probably not better than anyone,” Shane mutters, and Ilya gives him a surprised look with a raised eyebrow.
Shane ignores him and drags Ilya into his bedroom by his wrist. When Shane gets through the door, he turns on the soft light above Ilya’s bed. When the light allows Shane to see what’s hanging above Ilya’s bed, his eyes bug out of his fucking head. He stops in his tracks and gapes.
On the wall, directly above Ilya’s bed, is a 3-foot-wide framed poster of Shane being held back by his teammates, eyebrows knitted into a scowl as he hurls taunts at Scott Hunter. Shane blinks, because there’s not a chance in hell this is real.
He whirls on Ilya, who doesn’t look fazed in the slightest.
“What the fuck is this?”
“Do you like it?” Ilya grins. “Because I certainly did. You look sexy when you’re angry.”
“You fucking asshole. This is—this is illegal! This is copyrighted material owned by the NHL and I know you weren’t authorized to print—”
Ilya blows a raspberry. “Boo hoo, boring. I do what I want.”
“Take that thing down.”
“No, I like it. The frame is mahogany.”
Shane narrows his eyes. “How much did you spend on it?”
“I spent enough.”
“This is one of the stupidest things anyone has ever done. What if someone sees it when you have company?”
“They won’t see it.” Ilya shrugs. “I take it down before I let anyone in. I take very good care of your secret, Hollander.”
“So you just put it back up when they leave?”
“Yes. Sometimes I’m not quite…satisfied when we’re done,” Ilya says. “I need something to get me going, especially on cold and lonely nights in Boston.”
Shane’s ears ring. He’s not quite sure what to do with the revelation that Ilya Rozanov gets himself off to a framed poster of him screaming at someone. He should be extremely offended. He should be scared, knowing what Scott knows. Unfortunately, his dick decisively outranks his brain as it usually does in Ilya Rozanov’s presence, and all he wants to do is get on all fours and let Ilya have his way with him.
“Take it down or I’m not letting you fuck me.”
Ilya pouts. “But you are the only other person who is allowed to see it. Besides, it will really turn me on if I can look at it while I fuck you.”
“I don’t do it for you on my own? The real life version right in front of you?”
“You are plenty enough,” Ilya says. “But you know I am an overachiever.”
“You know what, fine, whatever. You’re such a fucking weirdo.”
“Weirdo,” Ilya repeats, drawing the syllables out like he’s testing them for the first time. “I like that one. I will be making good use of that word in the future.”
Shane mutters something about giving Ilya unnecessary weapons in his arsenal, but doesn’t protest when Ilya pulls off his clothes and manhandles him onto the bed, parting his thighs so he can settle in between them. Ilya starts kissing down his neck slowly, squeezing one of his pecs before moving his hand out of the way so he can suck on Shane’s nipple. He lifts his head off after a moment.
“What was the fight about?”
Shane sucks in a breath. “What?”
“Between you and Scott Hunter. Why were you so angry?”
Shane shrugs. “I don’t even remember.”
“Bullshit.”
“It was probably because he started sounding just like you.”
Ilya grins. “Ah. That’s good.”
Shane’s heart skips a beat. “Good?”
“Yes. No one should be able to get you as riled up as I can. If Scott Hunter can only do it when he is acting like me, then I am satisfied.”
Shane feels heat spreading across his cheeks. He’s absolutely not endeared. He can’t be. He rolls his eyes.
“Well, if you don’t fuck me soon, I might go to him instead. See if he’s like you in that respect, too.”
“Uh-uh,” Ilya tuts. “Just like I’m sure he was when you fought, he can only ever be a poor imitation.” He leans down and bites at Shane’s belly, making him hiss and arch up. “I’m the only one who can fuck you like this.”
“You’re doing a terrible job of it.”
“Patience, Hollander,” Ilya says. “I don’t have you screaming every time you’re in my bed because I lack patience.”
“Not like you’re doing anything else in the—fuck, Jesus.”
Shane gasps when Ilya wraps his lips around his dick without warning, his tongue flicking around the head. He takes him in deep right away, giving Shane no time to get used to the sensation, or recover. Ilya’s always been a fucking pro when giving head, and Shane starts squirming and moaning as Ilya’s head bobs between his legs.
“Rozanov,” he pants, tugging on his hair. “Shit—Rozanov, I’m going to come if you don’t stop.”
“Mmm, can’t have that, can we,” Ilya says as he pulls off.
His hand reaches forward to pull open his nightstand drawer, and he fumbles in it for a moment before he produces lube and a condom. He slicks up his fingers, spreading Shane’s thighs further apart before they brush against his hole.
“Still okay?” Ilya asks.
Shane looks at him, and Ilya’s cocky facade has melted away just slightly, revealing the patience and concern underneath that Shane feels every time he’s with him. It’s one of the reasons he can’t seem to stop coming back.
“Yeah,” Shane breathes. “Still okay.”
“Okay,” Ilya murmurs. “You tell me if you get uncomfortable, okay?”
Shane can only nod, inhaling sharply as Ilya pushes in with two fingers. He goes slowly, leisurely, intently watching Shane’s face for every change in expression. Ilya’s fingers are so long and thick, and Shane’s lips part involuntarily as he starts breathing harshly. Ilya pumps slowly for a while, letting Shane adjust before his fingers graze his spot. Shane swears, grabbing Ilya’s wrist, and then Ilya’s pulling out. He slides on the condom and slicks himself up.
“All right?” He asks Shane as the blunt head of his cock presses against his hole.
“Yes, yes, fuck,” he says when Ilya pushes into him, long, thick cock stretching him so wide.
Shane used to think using toys on himself when he was a teenager would have prepared him for how this feels. But each time he lets Ilya in he’s reminded of how much more it is, how different it feels to have him murmuring a string of reassurances in Russian, feeling the sweaty heat of Ilya’s body against his skin, the unparalleled sensation of having Ilya Rozanov looking at him like he’s the last drop of water in the desert.
“I’m okay,” Shane says when Ilya bottoms out, before he can ask. “Move.”
And Ilya does. He gives Shane a moment to get used to his pace before he starts slamming his hips against Shane’s body at a brutal pace. Heavy panting and skin slapping against skin is all Shane can hear. His fingers dig into Ilya’s back against the stretch, the burn, and the euphoria of having Ilya inside him.
“More,” Shane says. “More, Rozanov, please.”
“Yeah,” Ilya grunts, slowing to a stop.
He pulls out, and Shane nearly whines at the loss, but then Ilya is flipping him over so he’s on his stomach. He pulls Shane’s hips up, then one of his broad hands is pressing into the center of his back so his shoulders press into the sheets. When he slides back in, the angle is much deeper, and they both moan.
“Perfect,” Ilya pants. “Fuck, I can see your perfect ass and your perfect angry face like this.”
“Shut. Up,” Shane says, the breaths punched out of him every time Ilya thrusts.
“You have no idea how good it feels to have you like this. You like it like this, too, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” Shane whines, turning his head against the mattress so he can get some air. “Like having you deep.”
“I like it, too. You sound so good when you’re like this. I love how you say my name.”
Shane should feel self-conscious about the whimper he lets out at that, but he just doesn’t.
“Fuck,” he gasps. “Fuck, Rozanov.”
“Yeah.” Ilya drapes himself over Shane’s back so his lips are a breath away from Shane’s ear. “Say it just like that.”
Shane doesn’t last much longer. Heat curls in his gut, and he might scream Rozanov’s name as he comes up his stomach. Ilya collapses down on him so Shane ends up fully pressed to the sheets, getting come all over them. Shane tries to avoid that if he can. But these are Ilya’s sheets, and Ilya was the one who brought this on himself.
Ilya presses a surprisingly tender kiss to the nape of Shane’s neck after a while.
“I should shower.”
“Yeah,” Shane breathes, still recovering. “I’ll go in after you.”
“Or you can go in with me.”
Shane groans into the sheets. “Okay, but no funny business. I’m already going to be sore enough tomorrow as it is.”
He can actually feel Ilya grin against his skin. “Yes, you are.”
“Asshole,” Shane grumbles. “I’m only coming in if I don’t have to walk there.”
“Okay.”
Shane yelps as Ilya immediately picks him up off of the bed bridal style and carries him into the bathroom.
He pretends to be irritated when they’re in the shower, but secretly he loves it, because Ilya lets him hog the warm spray. Ilya also makes a game out of getting clean, getting his hands soapy and trying to rub over Shane as much as he can. Shane does the same, and their time in the shower passes in a mad competition where Shane tries to cover Ilya with soap before Ilya does the same to him. It might be ridiculous, and it might be childish, but Shane is laughing in a way he hasn’t done in ages, and if he’s not mistaken, there’s a hint of a pink tint on Ilya’s cheeks.
Ilya carries him back to bed even though Shane doesn’t ask him to. Unable to fully stop his smile, Shane rolls off the mattress and starts to hunt down his clothes.
“I should go.”
Ilya’s lips pinch together. “Okay.”
“Early flight back to Montreal tomorrow.”
“Right, of course.”
Shane’s gotten his boxers and sweats back on, and he’s pulling on his t-shirt when Ilya says,
“Seriously, what were you and Scott Hunter fighting about?”
Shane glares at him as his head pops through the hole of his t-shirt.
“Let it go.”
“I will bother you about this until we’re both old and wrinkly unless you tell me now.”
Shane internally groans. He wouldn’t put it past him. What’s worse is that Ilya is the exact kind of person to do it at the worst possible time. The fucker would easily be three fingers deep in Shane until he was begging to come before stopping it all and asking him about Scott fucking Hunter again.
He hesitates for a beat too long while Ilya pulls on his sweats. Ilya tilts his head when he’s finished. His brows furrow as he reads something on Shane’s face.
“He wasn’t mean to you, was he?”
Shane huffs. “No, nothing like that.”
“Then what? Surely it wasn’t something homophobic.”
“Christ, no.” Shane swallows. Ilya’s circling a bit too close.
Ilya’s lips stretch into a grin. “Was it about me?”
Shane can’t help it, he starts laughing. Perhaps a bit too hard. “No, fuck no. Why would it be—no, Jesus Christ. It wasn’t about you, no.”
Shane’s face is flaming when he finishes talking, and Ilya looks like a mischievous cat that just gleefully knocked over a lamp.
“Oh wow, it really was about me—”
“No it fucking wasn’t. Shut up.”
Ilya giggles. Literally giggles, like a small child would. “You got into a fight over me?”
“Yeah, a fight over who you pissed off more,” Shane shoots back. He’s never living this down, not until he’s in his grave.
“This poster is definitely never coming down.” Ilya tilts his head back and groans, cupping squeezing around his dick through his sweats. “Fuck, it’s going to get me so hot now.”
“Fuck this, I’m leaving.”
“Hey, wait,” Ilya says, closing the distance between them before he can.
“No, I really should—you’re wrong, it wasn’t—I’m just going to go.”
Ilya pulls Shane close. Shane refuses to meet his eye as Ilya leans down to whisper in his ear.
“If it helps, I’d get into a fight over you, too,” Ilya murmurs. “In front of God and everyone.”
Shane’s cheeks feel hotter than they’ve ever felt in his life, and he knows it must be showing. He hides his face in Ilya’s shoulder, just because it’s so close. He can’t contain the way the corners of his lips curve into a smile.
Ilya lets him stay like that for a moment, swaying them slowly back and forth. Eventually, Shane lifts his head up. Ilya’s eyes are sparkling.
“I really should go,” Shane says.
“Of course. Early flight.”
“Yeah.” Shane smooths his hair over self-consciously. “Um, bye, I guess.”
“You’ll see me soon.”
Shane heads towards the door. Ilya follows him out. Shane turns back one more time before he slips out.
“Alright. I’m going to go before someone sees me.”
“Get home safe, Hollander.”
Shane slips out of the door and lets it shut behind him. He presses his lips together tightly, but it’s no match for the smile that curls over his cheeks.
He really shouldn’t, but…
“See you soon, Rozanov,” he whispers one last time, to a closed door.
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