Work Text:
Raiders Group Chat
Price: Alright boys
Connors: This already sounds like a bad idea
Price: My birthday is the day after we play the Dallas Stars
Marlow: Uh oh
Price: Since we’re already in Dallas we’re doing it properly
Connors: Define properly
Price:
Stockyards
Rodeo
Beer
Marlow: Wait — the Stockyards?
Price: Exactly
Connors: Isn’t that the place with cows in the street
Marlow: And Texas girls
Carmichael: Now I’m listening
Connors: Blonde cowgirls in boots
Marlow: Only reason to play in Texas
Rozanov: What is stockyards
Connors: Roz
Price: Real cowboys, saloons, rodeo
Connors: And very fine Texas women
Marlow: Those blonde curls of yours about to cause problems, Roz
Rozanov: You calling me pretty, Marlow
Marlow: Fuck off, Roz
Price: Stockyards tomorrow boys
Connors: Hell yeah
They walk down the wooden sidewalk, the whole street looking like something out of an old western.
Ilya remembers watching movies like this back in Moscow.
Cowboys. Guns. Shootouts.
He looks around at the saloons, the wooden storefronts, the horses tied to posts.
“So what,” he says skeptically, “this is like cowboy Disneyland?”
“Nah man,” Price says. “They’re real cowboys. They have rodeos and shit.”
“Okei,” Ilya says, unimpressed.
They keep walking until Price suddenly stops in front of a storefront.
“Y’all,” he announces, pointing. “We’re getting cowboy hats.”
Ilya doesn’t even bother arguing.
Inside the shop the walls are lined floor-to-ceiling with hats. Straw hats. Black hats. Tan hats. Wide brims and narrow brims stacked everywhere.
Price grabs the first one he sees and jams it onto Connors’ head.
“Perfect.”
Connors stares at himself in the mirror.
“I look like a divorced dad.”
“You look like you sell insurance in Amarillo,” Marlow adds helpfully.
Marlow tries on three hats in about thirty seconds, tipping each one at a slightly different angle in the mirror.
“Oh yeah,” he says admiringly. “This one’s dangerous.”
“You look like you work at a gas station,” Connors says.
“Your jealousy is showing.”
Price eventually finds a tan hat and declares himself authentic.
Meanwhile Ilya stands there holding a few options with deep suspicion.
The shop owner finally hands him one.
Black felt. Wide brim.
He puts it on.
It sits low over his forehead, the dark color making his blonde curls stand out even more.
The entire team goes quiet.
“…holy shit,” Connors says.
Marlow points at him.
“Buddy. That’s the one.”
Ilya glances at himself in the mirror.
He shrugs.
“Okay.”
They look ridiculous.
Objectively hot, apparently, judging by the way girls keep slowing down or outright turning around to stare at them — but still ridiculous.
Half the Boston Raiders are now wearing cowboy hats. Price insisted. Something about commit to the experience.
Marlow tips his hat at a group of girls walking by like he’s been doing it his whole life.
They giggle.
“See?” Marlow says. “Works.”
“Buddy you look like a gas station cowboy,” Connors says.
“Your jealousy is showing.”
They wander down the wooden sidewalks of the Fort Worth Stockyards, beers in hand, girls drifting past in boots and denim shorts.
Ilya walks a few steps behind the group.
He’s still not fully convinced cowboys are real.
Then he stops.
Across the street, something in a shop window catches his eye.
“…what the fuck is that, Marlow?”
Marlow looks over.
“Oh. Chaps.”
Rozanov stares at the mannequin.
Leather pants.
Except they are missing… significant portions.
“…what does that mean?”
“They’re for cowboys,” Price says immediately. “When they ride.”
Rozanov squints at the display.
“They ride with their dicks out?”
Connors nearly spits his beer.
Price groans.
“Over jeans, Roz.”
Rozanov nods slowly.
“Ah.”
He keeps staring.
Then frowns.
“…but why no ass.”
Marlow grins.
“Buddy you’ve never seen assless chaps?”
“All chaps are assless,” Price says.
Rozanov looks between them.
“…why.”
Marlow laughs.
“What, you wanna buy a pair so bad?”
Rozanov doesn’t even look at him.
“Why.”
“Protection,” Price says. “Brush, rope burn. Stuff like that when you’re riding.”
Rozanov studies the mannequin again.
Still unconvinced.
“…this seems like something people invented for fucking.”
Connors doubles over laughing.
Marlow claps Rozanov on the shoulder.
“Roz, you planning on fucking a horse or something?”
Rozanov finally looks at him.
“Shut your face, Marlow.”
White Elephant Saloon is loud, packed, and already half-drunk by the time the Boston Raiders claim a corner.
Country music blasts. Boots thud against the wooden floor. Every table is covered in bottles and half-finished beers.
And Price has decided that because it’s his birthday, everyone is drinking aggressively.
“Chug,” Price says, sliding another beer across the table.
Connors groans. “Buddy, it’s like one in the afternoon.”
“Birthday rules.”
Connors chugs it anyway while the rest of the table pounds the wood and hollers.
Across the bar, a group of girls notices them.
Or rather—
notices Rozanov.
It’s immediate.
One blonde taps her friend’s arm. Another turns all the way around. Then there’s whispering, pointing, laughing.
Within thirty seconds three of them have drifted over.
Rozanov barely reacts when they slide up beside him.
“Hi,” one of them says brightly.
Another leans on the bar beside him.
“Are you guys hockey players?”
“Yes,” Rozanov says.
That seems to make them even more excited.
They start asking questions that make it clear they’ve never actually watched a game.
Ilya tunes them out and lets the other guys answer.
Someone grabs his arm when she laughs. Another leans close enough that her hair brushes his shoulder.
Behind him, Connors is losing it.
“Look at this,” Connors says. “Buddy hasn’t said three words.”
Price is howling.
Meanwhile Marlow is still talking directly into Rozanov’s ear.
“…and then tomorrow you’ll see the bull riding, which is insane because those bulls weigh like two thousand—”
Another girl pushes between her friends.
“You are really cute,” she says.
Rozanov nods politely.
“Yes.”
Someone grabs his hand, trying to pull him toward the dance floor.
Another girl tilts her face up like she expects a kiss.
Ilya barely registers any of it.
His brain keeps doing something extremely inconvenient.
Freckles.
Freckles across flushed cheeks.
A very specific Canadian hockey player who would absolutely hate this entire bar.
Rozanov exhales quietly.
Across the table Price is still talking.
“…and then the barrel racers come out—”
Connors jumps in.
“Buddy you gotta try the mechanical bull later—”
Rozanov closes his eyes briefly.
Two girls are now arguing about who gets to dance with him.
One laughs and leans closer.
“So… are you gonna kiss me or what?”
Rozanov sighs.
Honestly, he doesn’t really want to.
But it’s still better than listening to Marlow and Price explain rodeos for another twenty minutes.
So let leans in, letting her stick his toungue in his mouth.
It does nothing for him, still thinking of the lips of a certain Metros Captain around his dick.
Apparently his disinterest does nothing to defer the girl, she’s still fawning over him, asking for his number.
Ilya groans softly and pushes off the stool ignoring her.
“Vodka,” he says, stepping up to the bar.
The girls immediately follow.
He orders two shots.
Anything to stop drinking this American piss-water beer.
He downs them both and makes his way back toward the table.
“Marlow, I need some fucking air.”
Marlow has his tongue down some girl’s throat and barely looks up.
Ilya rolls his eyes.
He steps onto the wooden sidewalk and looks slowly down the street.
A few storefronts down he stops.
It’s the same shop.
Leather boots. Belts. A saddle.
And there—
hanging casually on a wooden rack—
the chaps.
Ilya glances once down the street.
Then quietly slips inside.
The place smells like leather.
Ilya picks up a pair from the rack and turns them over in his hands, examining the stitching.
An older woman appears beside him.
“They catch your eye, honey?”
Ilya holds them up.
“They are supposed to be… like this?”
She laughs.
“All chaps are like that.”
“Why.”
“Well,” she says, “cowboys wear them over jeans when they ride. Protects their legs from brush and saddle rub.”
Ilya nods thoughtfully.
“Yes.”
“But,” she adds with a grin, “some people wear them because they look good.”
Ilya considers that.
Then slowly smiles.
“I will take these. Can you ship them?”
“Sure can, hon. Where to?”
He writes down the address.
Jane
4274 Rue Saint-Denis
3e étage
Montréal, QC H2J 2K8
As she begins packing the chaps into a box, Ilya removes the cowboy hat he’s been wearing and sets it beside it.
“Can you add this.”
The woman looks up, amused.
“Lucky girl,” she says.
Ilya just smiles.
Later that evening, at the rodeo, the Raiders are halfway through another round of beers when Ilya finally checks his phone.
Shipping confirmation.
Delivered in three business days.
He leans back in his seat.
Slowly rubs his palms together.
Across the arena a bull rider gets launched into the air and the crowd erupts.
But Ilya only watches with quiet satisfaction.
Somewhere in Montreal, Shane Hollander is about to receive a package.
And Ilya is very, very excited.
Jane: Why did you send me chaps.
Ilya looks down at the message.
Then slowly smiles.
Lily: I learned about them in Texas.
Three dots appear immediately.
Jane: That doesn’t answer my question.
Lily: They are practical.
Jane: For what.
Ilya pauses.
Then replies.
Lily: For all the riding you do.
Jane: ?
Lily: 🍆🍑
Jane: 🙄
Lily: Try them on. Show me.
Jane: Asshole.
Lily: Do it. I wanna see your asshole in them.
Jane: You’re supposed to wear them over jeans.
Lily: Hollander you are so boring.
Shane doesn’t respond for a moment.
Lily: We play in Montreal next week.
Jane: I know.
Lily: Ok I make you deal. You win, we do whatever you want.
Jane: And if you win.
Lily: You wear those and ride me.
Jane: Ok.
Lily: 🤠
The Bell Centre is loud before the puck even drops.
Montreal always is.
Red and blue banners hang above the ice. Twenty thousand people on their feet for the home captain.
Across the red line, Ilya Rozanov circles slowly with the Boston Raiders.
He glances up.
Shane is already looking at him.
Just a brief look across center ice.
But Shane’s mouth twitches.
Ilya smirks.
The bet hangs between them like a loaded gun.
The game starts fast.
Montreal comes out aggressive.
Shane wins the opening faceoff clean.
“Good draw, Hollander!” someone yells.
Two shifts later they line up again.
“Still time to back out,” Shane mutters.
“Scared of cowboy hat, Hollander?”
The puck drops.
Shane wins again.
Of course he does.
Midway through the period Montreal scores.
1–0.
Shane raises his stick once.
But as he skates past center ice, he looks directly at Ilya.
Message received.
Boston pushes back.
Ilya is everywhere.
Late in the period he steals the puck.
Breakaway.
The crowd gasps.
He lifts the puck clean over the pad.
Goal.
1–1.
He glides past Shane.
“Nice goal earlier.”
“Enjoy it while you can.”
The game tightens.
Seven minutes left.
Still tied.
The puck’s loose in neutral ice.
Ilya grabs it.
Shane chases him.
They skate stride for stride.
“Don’t even think about it,” Shane mutters.
Ilya laughs.
Cuts inside.
Shoots.
Top corner.
For half a second the arena goes silent.
Then Boston explodes.
2–1.
Ilya glides past Shane.
“Looks like you’re riding tonight, Hollander.”
“Game’s not over.”
But they both know it is.
Three minutes later the buzzer sounds.
Boston wins 2–1.
Players line up for handshakes.
Ilya passes Shane near center ice.
“Don’t forget the hat.”
Shane glares at him but whispers
“Code’s 1919.”
Ilya lets himself into Shane’s condo with the code.
He still calls it the fuck house in his head.
The door clicks shut behind him and he barely has time to take two steps inside before Shane is on him, grabbing his shirt and hauling him forward into a hard kiss.
Ilya laughs against his mouth, hands coming up automatically to steady him.
“Slow down, Mr. Cowboy.”
Shane pulls back immediately, rolling his eyes.
Ilya takes the opportunity to look.
Really look.
His gaze drags slowly down Shane’s body.
Navy t-shirt. Grey sweats. Bare feet on the hardwood floor.
Shane looks hot in anything.
But this is decidedly not what Ilya told him to wear.
“What?” Shane asks, a little impatiently, catching the direction of his stare.
“You know what, kotenok.”
Shane tries to glare at him.
Ilya just meets his eyes and holds the eye contact.
And holds it.
Until Shane finally breaks first.
“Ilya,” Shane says flatly, “I’m not fucking wearing chaps.”
Ilya smiles lazily.
“Ah, but Hollander,” he says, pushing off the wall and stepping closer, “we had a deal. Da?”
Shane stares at him for a long moment.
He clearly considers kicking him out.
But there is one fundamental rule Shane Hollander will never break.
You don’t go back on a competition.
Especially not one connected to hockey.
Shane sighs sharply, turning away.
“Unbelievable.”
He walks toward the bedroom.
Ilya follows, grinning.
Shane opens the closet and reaches to the top shelf, pulling down the box Ilya had shipped.
He sets it on the bed and opens it.
The leather chaps are inside.
Shane exhales slowly through his nose.
”Strip” Ilya says.
Shane rolls his eyes but starts moving. Fast. Efficient. The same quick, practiced movements he uses in the locker room.
Hoodie off
Ilya reaches out and catches his wrist.
“Hey.”
Shane looks back at him.
“What?”
Ilya tugs him slightly closer.
“Slower, put on a show for me, kotenok.”
Shane sighs and hooks his fingers into the hem of his T-shirt.
He pulls it off slowly, then—without even thinking about it—folds it once and holds it awkwardly in one hand.
Ilya watches this with growing amusement.
Shane immediately reaches for the waistband of his sweats, shoving them down his hips and stepping out of them.
Then he picks them up.
“You are stripping for me, kotenok.”
“Yes,” Shane snaps, “and I can do it like a civilized person.”
He turns slightly away, muttering under his breath as he folds the sweats and stacks them neatly on top of the shirt.
Next steps out of his boxers, folding them automatically and adding them to the careful pile on the dresser. Ilya just watches amused by the instinctive neatness of it.
Finally Shane shakes the chaps out once, the leather creaking softly.
He steps into them.
The leather slides slowly up his legs as he pulls them on, hugging the outside of his thighs before he fastens the belt at his waist. The straps settle into place and suddenly—
They fit.
Very well.
Ilya’s breath catches.
From the front, the chaps frame Shane’s hips and those powerful thighs in a way that’s… borderline criminal. The leather runs down the sides of his legs while the open front leaves nothing hidden, the cut drawing the eye straight along the line of his body.
And from the back—
Ilya’s eyes drop.
The leather cups Shane’s ass perfectly, tight across the curve of it, framing it in a way that makes it look almost sculpted.
Shane shifts his weight, clearly aware he’s being stared at.
“What,” he says defensively.
Ilya doesn’t answer right away.
He just lets his gaze travel slowly up and down again.
Shane in nothing but the chaps.
Bare chest. Bare legs. The leather sitting low on his hips.
And somehow the fact that Shane had been so grumpy about it only makes it worse.
Or better.
“God,” Ilya murmurs finally.
Shane crosses his arms, trying very hard to look unimpressed.
“Well?”
Ilya takes a slow step closer.
“Kotenok,” he says, voice warm with approval.
“…you look very good in these cowboy clothes.”
Shane rolls his eyes.
But before he can say anything else, Ilya steps forward and pulls him in, his hands sliding immediately to Shane’s bare ass where the chaps leave him completely exposed.
The leather creaks softly as Ilya drags him closer.
“Come here, kotenok.”
Shane makes an exasperated sound but lets himself be pulled in.
Ilya kisses him, slow at first, then deeper, one hand still cupping the curve of Shane’s ass.
Shane exhales against his mouth.
It doesn’t take long.
Ilya feels it almost immediately when Shane presses closer, heat building between them.
He breaks the kiss just enough to glance down.
Then he groans.
“Fuuuck.”
Shane flushes instantly.
“Don’t—”
But Ilya is already grinning, his hands tightening slightly on Shane’s hips.
“There is no way these weren’t made for fucking.”
Shane drags a hand over his face.
Suddenly Ilya grabs Shane’s wrist and twists it behind his back, using the momentum to turn him before shoving him forward. Shane lands bent over the dresser, chest flat against the wood. The surface rattles softly from the impact.
Shane barely manages to catch himself on his forearms with an annoyed sound, his hair falling forward into his face.
His ass is up, framed perfectly by the chaps.
Somehow he looks even more naked than when he’s actually naked. The leather straps hug his hips and thighs while leaving the rest of him bare. That beautiful, plump ass, best in the league, built from years on the ice, all muscle and power.
Shane turns his head slightly, glaring back over his shoulder.
“Ilya—”
But Ilya can’t help himself.
He brings his hand down in a sharp spank.
The sound cracks through the room.
Shane jolts and swears, palms pressing harder into the dresser.
“You asshole!”
Ilya just grins behind him, very pleased with himself.
Shane doesn’t move after the first hit.
He stays braced over the dresser, chest pressed to the wood. The surface rattles faintly under his weight.
So Ilya just stares down at him for a second, breath catching.
The chaps frame him perfectly, leather hugging Shane’s hips and thighs while leaving the rest of him bare. His back is flushed, muscles shifting under Ilya’s gaze every time he breathes.
“Fuuuck, Hollander,” Ilya mutters, voice low and rough. “You look so hot in these.”
Then he does it again.
His hand comes down hard, another sharp smack, the sound echoing in the room.
A second red handprint blooms across the opposite cheek.
This time Shane actually makes a sound.
A low moan slips out before he can stop it, his hands tightening against the edge of the dresser.
Ilya grins.
“You like that, kotenok?”
“Fuck you,” Shane shoots back immediately, voice strained.
But the way his hips shift forward says something else entirely.
Ilya does it again.
And again.
Soon he finds a rhythm.
Each strike lands solidly, the sound sharp in the quiet room. Shane’s breath keeps catching on the impact, little gasps slipping out as he presses forward against the dresser, hips rocking helplessly as if trying to find friction against the wood.
The desperation in the movement makes Ilya’s head spin.
Shane tries to keep it together at first, jaw clenched, but the sounds start slipping out anyway, short moans he clearly isn’t planning to make.
Ilya loses count.
He only stops when his own palm starts to sting.
“Jesus,” he breathes, shaking his hand once.
Shane is still leaning over the dresser, breathing hard, hair falling into his face.
Ilya reaches down and grabs the back of it, curling his fist in the strands and pulling him upright.
Shane turns toward him slowly.
His pupils are blown wide, lips parted, chest rising and falling faster than it should be.
For a second Ilya just looks at him.
“Fuck, Hollander,” he whispers.
Then he crashes into another kiss.
Shane melts into it immediately, hands grabbing at Ilya’s shoulders as if he’s been waiting for that.
Ilya’s hand slides back down to Shane’s ass, the skin hot to the touch. He squeezes once before lifting him up.
Shane’s hands wrap automatically around Ilya’s hips for balance as Ilya carries them toward the bed.
He drops Shane onto the mattress.
Ilya taps his hip.
“Roll over.”
Shane obeys without arguing, turning onto his stomach, still breathing hard.
Ilya grips his hips and pulls them back slightly, positioning him, spreading his asscheeks slightly before leaning down and dragging his tongue over Shane’s hole.
He can’t help but pause for a second afterward, biting into one of the reddened cheeks.
The sting of it draws a sharp, pained gasp from Shane.
Ilya gets up and goes to Shane’s bedside drawer, pulling out the lube and a condom. The drawer slides open with a quiet wooden knock against the frame. For a second Ilya glances down at the familiar clutter inside, the ordinary domestic things sitting side by side with what they are about to do.
He grabs the bottle and the foil packet and shuts the drawer again.
He tosses the condom onto the pillow next to Shane’s head, where it lands softly against the rumpled white fabric, then crawls back onto the bed, kneeling behind him.
The mattress dips under his weight.
The leather of the chaps creaks softly when Shane shifts. They are ridiculous and perfect at the same time. Dark brown leather, smooth and slightly worn looking, molded around the powerful lines of Shane’s thighs while leaving the rest of him bare. The fringe along the sides sways and brushes the sheets every time he moves, the strands whispering against the cotton.
The belt of the chaps sits low across his hips, the metal buckle glinting faintly in the warm lamplight. The leather hugs the muscles of his legs like it was made for him.
Ilya coats his fingers with lube and gently slips one inside without too much preamble.
Shane moans immediately, the sound low and helpless, and pushes his hips back instinctively.
Ilya leans down over him, mouth right by Shane’s ear. His breath ghosts over the shell of it.
“Greedy, kotenok.”
Then he slaps Shane on his already very red ass again.
The sound is sharp in the quiet room.
“No. You will stay perfectly still while I prep you.”
Ilya pauses, expecting a very original “fuck you” or “asshole” from Shane. Something stubborn. Something indignant.
But he gets neither.
Just a nod.
It is small and immediate.
Ilya watches him for a moment, surprised at the obedience.
Then he leans down and presses a slow kiss at the base of Shane’s spine, right above the belt of the chaps. The leather strap runs across the small of Shane’s back, warm from his skin. Ilya’s lips linger there for a second before he straightens again.
Shane uses all the discipline drilled into him over years of hockey to stay completely still.
On the ice he has spent thousands of hours holding position under pressure, locking his body into place while chaos happens around him. That same iron control shows now.
Only little sounds escape him.
Small whines.
Soft breaths.
A broken moan when Ilya adds another finger.
Or when his fingers brush past Shane’s prostate.
It is no easy feat for either of them. Shane has his entire body tensed, muscles drawn tight as cables as he tries to stay perfectly still for Ilya like a good boy. The leather of the chaps stretches faintly across his thighs each time his muscles flex.
Ilya can feel every shift of tension through his hands.
He works slowly, patiently, stretching him open, fingers moving carefully as he coaxes Shane’s body to relax.
The room fills with quiet sounds. Breathing. The faint creak of the mattress. The soft rustle of leather fringe against the sheets.
Finally, finally Ilya is scissoring three fingers in and out of him.
Shane’s breathing has gone uneven now, but he is still trying so hard not to move.
Ilya pulls his fingers out slowly.
For a moment he just looks.
Shane’s hole looks absolutely sinful. Gaping slightly, fluttering, already beginning to clench around nothing as if searching to be filled.
And Ilya has no desire to deny it.
Or himself.
Any longer.
The mattress shifts under his weight, the sheets still warm and tangled around them.
Shane looks up immediately but doesn’t move. He stays exactly where he is, body held in place with that same quiet discipline Ilya had demanded earlier, waiting for instruction like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Ilya studies him for a moment.
God.
He’s perfect like this.
Flushed, breathing hard, hair falling across his forehead in soft curls damp with sweat. The leather chaps still hug his thighs, the dark brown worn smooth along the seams where they flex with every small movement. The fringe hangs loose along the outside of his legs, brushing the sheets in soft whispers whenever he shifts.
And Shane just waits.
Perfectly obedient. Perfect for Ilya.
Ilya slides his hands under Shane’s arms and hauls him up into his lap.
Shane lets himself be moved easily, the leather of the chaps sliding warm against Ilya’s skin.
The fringe sways with the motion.
For a second the room is quiet except for their breathing.
Shane’s clearly desperate now. His whole body is tense with it, shoulders tight, chest rising and falling too fast. His cock presses hot against Ilya’s stomach, leaking steadily, searching for friction, contact—anything.
God, he’s so hard.
Ilya grants it to him.
He reaches up and pulls Shane down into a kiss.
It’s deep and sudden and consuming. Shane melts into it instantly, lips parting, one hand gripping the back of Ilya’s shoulder as if he might disappear otherwise.
For a few seconds the world shrinks down to just that kiss. Slow, hungry, and full of heat.
Shane almost forgets everything else.
Almost.
When Ilya finally pulls back, Shane’s eyes are blown wide and dark, pupils swallowing the blue. He looks dazed, breath still catching from the kiss.
“Please,” he whispers.
The word comes out soft and wrecked.
Ilya tilts his head slightly.
“What do you need, kotenok?”
“You,” Shane breathes.
The word slips out before he can even think about it, pulled straight from memory. Vegas flashes through his mind—both of them years younger and just as reckless.
Ilya hums thoughtfully.
“Hmm,” he says. “That’s not going to work today, kotenok.”
Shane blinks.
“I need you to tell me what exactly.”
For a moment Shane just stares at him.
His brain feels like it’s moving through syrup. Thoughts scatter and slip away before he can catch them. He knows what he wants, but forming the words feels impossible.
Tears spring suddenly to his eyes.
Fuck.
He hates that.
Ilya notices immediately.
He reaches up and gently brushes his thumb under Shane’s eye, catching the tear before it falls. Then, with quiet amusement, he leans forward and kisses the corner of Shane’s eye, tasting the salt.
“Aww, kotenok,” he murmurs softly. “Those tears are beautiful.”
“Please,” Shane says again, voice cracking slightly. “Please, Ilya.”
“What?” Ilya prompts. “Tell me.”
Shane squeezes his eyes shut for half a second, dragging the words together with effort.
“Please fuck me,” he finally manages. “I need your cock in me.”
Ilya smiles slowly.
“Kotenok,” he says, voice warm with amusement, “it’s my special night. I won, remember?”
Shane nods helplessly.
His hair falls forward with the motion, the curls messy and soft against his forehead.
“You wouldn’t make me do all the work, right?”
Shane shakes his head again, still confused, his brain only half catching up to where Ilya is going with this.
Ilya reaches over toward the bed.
The cowboy hat lies where they tossed it earlier.
It’s a ridiculous thing. Wide-brimmed, dark felt, the edges slightly bent from being handled too much. The band around it is braided leather with a small silver clasp that catches the light from the bedside lamp.
Ilya picks it up and turns it once in his hands.
Then he places it carefully on Shane’s head.
The brim dips low for a second before Shane adjusts automatically.
For a moment Ilya just stares.
Shane looks absurd.
And devastating.
His face is still flushed pink, eyes glassy from emotion and effort, hair spilling out from beneath the dark felt hat in messy waves. The leather chaps frame his thighs, the fringe hanging loose and swaying slightly every time he breathes.
He looks like something straight out of a ridiculous western fantasy.
Except real.
And right here in Ilya’s lap.
Ilya can’t help the grin spreading across his face.
“Ride me cowboy.”
He tugs his boxers down to his thighs, his cock springing free and slapping lightly against his stomach. With one hand he lifts Shane’s hips, guiding him over his lap and lining himself up carefully.
The blunt pressure pulls a soft whine out of Shane, but he lowers himself in one smooth motion.
“Fuck, kotenok,” Ilya breathes. “Such a cockwhore.”
“So perfect for me.”
He murmurs it quietly while Shane catches his breath.
Shane clenches around him and Ilya nearly sees stars.
Holy fucking shit.
For a moment Shane is frozen there, breath stuttering in his chest. Then he relaxes, going all liquid heat, and begins to move.
Jesus Christ. Ilya’s going to die.
Shane sets a slow pace with the lazy roll of his hips. Ilya’s heart feels like it’s about to claw its way out of his throat, every shift of movement sending sharp sparks through his overheated skin.
Those fucking thighs. Absolute weapons on the ice. Now wrapped around Ilya’s lap, framed by the dark leather of the chaps.
The leather shifts and creaks faintly every time Shane moves. The fringe along the sides sways against Ilya’s legs with each roll of Shane’s hips.
Shane rides him like he was made for it, his cock bobbing between them, occasionally brushing against Ilya’s stomach.
Ilya can’t help himself. He leans forward and closes his mouth around one of Shane’s nipples.
“You like that, hm?” he murmurs against his skin, voice rough. “Want me to touch these pretty tits of yours?”
He hums softly, teasing the nipple with slow attention.
“Bozhe… they’re so fucking pretty, malysh. Think I could make you come just from this, da?”
Shane throws his head back, the cowboy hat nearly sliding off.
Ilya catches it just before it falls.
The dark felt brim bends slightly between his fingers as he lifts it away. He settles it onto his own head with a crooked grin, pushing it down at an angle.
“You know what they say, kotenok.”
“What?” Shane asks between breaths.
Ilya tilts the brim down slightly.
“Something about if you take a man’s hat…” he says lazily. “He belongs to you.”
Then he looks up at Shane again.
And for a moment he just stares.
The brim of the hat throws a soft shadow across Ilya’s eyes, but Shane can still see the expression there.
And the stupid thing is… it’s true.
Ilya belongs to him.
Completely.
Not just tonight. Not just here in this ridiculous moment with the cowboy hat and the leather chaps and Shane flushed and breathless in his lap.
Always.
Since the very beginning.
Since the first day Shane found him standing alone out in the parking lot. Awkward. Stubborn. Pretending he didn’t need anyone.
Shane had walked straight up to him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Held out his hand.
That stupid handshake.
Ilya had taken it without thinking.
And that had been it.
Hook set. Line thrown. Game over.
Every year since then has just been Ilya slowly realizing the truth he had been too dumb to see back then.
Somewhere between the hotel hook-up, the faceoffs on the ice, and the late-night texts, in all the quiet moments no one else ever noticed, Ilya had given himself over completely.
And he would do it again.
Every time.
So he tilts the hat down slightly and looks back up at Shane with a crooked, helpless grin.
Shane looks down at him, ducks under the brim of the hat to kiss him, and then picks up the pace. He starts bouncing in Ilya’s lap, desperate, and Ilya’s gone.
“God, look at you, Shane… do you even know how fucking beautiful you are like this?” he says, voice slipping into breathless babble. “Riding me like you own me… da, just like that—Jesus—fuck, that’s it. You’re so good, kotenok. So perfect taking my cock. I knew you would be… knew you’d be incredible. C’mon, c’mon—don’t stop, malysh—just like that…”
The words spill out of him in an incoherent rush.
Every half-formed thought he’s ever had about Shane seems to tumble out at once.
Prettiest thing he’s ever seen.
The light catches in Shane’s half-open eyes, glimmering in the tears clinging to his lashes. It highlights the freckles scattered across his flushed cheeks.
“Oh—shit, Ilya—”
Ilya hums softly as he leans forward again, closing his mouth around the nipple once more, teasing it until it’s swollen and pink.
Shane whines low in his throat, his hips stuttering as the sensation climbs higher.
“Fuck, please, Ilya—I’m so close, I’m so close—”
Shane’s cock bobs between them, red and swollen, streaking pre-cum across his stomach. The rhythm of their bodies grows faster, the sounds of movement filling the room.
“Ilya—oh fuck—”
And then he comes.
His body tightens all at once, muscles clamping around Ilya as the tension breaks.
Ilya’s control snaps with it.
His vision flashes white as he follows moments later, a rough groan tearing out of his throat.
For a while neither of them moves.
Still swimming in hazy bliss, Ilya finally drops his head onto Shane’s shoulder. He presses slow, clumsy kisses along the damp curve of Shane’s neck, his cheek, the corner of his mouth.
Anywhere he can reach.
His arms wrap around Shane’s waist, pulling him closer, holding him there.
Shane just stays collapsed against Ilya’s chest, their bodies rising and falling together as they catch their breath.
For a while neither of them says anything.
The room is quiet except for the slow rhythm of their breathing and the faint rustle of the sheets when Shane shifts.
Ilya looks down at him and presses a soft kiss into the dark strands of Shane’s hair.
God, he loves this man so much.
The thought lands heavy and bright in his chest. He wishes, suddenly and fiercely, that he could just say it. Just say it out loud and be done with it.
Instead he murmurs quietly into Shane’s hair, almost too soft to hear.
“Ya tebya lyublyu.”
Russian. His own little secret.
Shane just hums against him, warm and content. He doesn’t understand the words and doesn’t care enough to ask, not when everything feels this soft and heavy and good.
They lie there until their breathing slows.
Then Ilya tilts his head slightly.
“You know what else they say, kotenok?”
Shane makes a noncommittal noise against his chest.
“Hm?”
“Save a horse,” Ilya says solemnly. “Ride a cowboy.”
Shane sits up immediately and smacks him on the chest.
Ilya bursts out laughing.
Shane groans and flops back down against his shoulder again.
“I thought I was the cowboy.”
“It’s my hat,” Ilya points out.
Shane lifts his head just enough to squint at him.
“Then why the fuck am I wearing chaps, Rozanov?”
There’s absolutely no bite in his tone.
Ilya considers this very seriously.
“It makes your ass look pretty,” he says flatly.
“Not pretty,” Shane argues automatically.
“No, not pretty,” Ilya agrees after a thoughtful pause.
Then he adds, completely deadpan,
“Prettiest man in the league.”
Shane immediately blushes again.
He tries very hard to pretend he didn’t hear that, but he settles a little deeper against Ilya anyway.
A moment passes.
Then Shane wrinkles his nose.
“Sticky,” he finally mutters.
Ilya snorts.
He helps Shane shift off him, which earns a long, dramatic groan from Shane, then gets up to throw the condom away. On the way back he grabs a random shirt out of Shane’s laundry hamper.
When he returns, Shane eyes the shirt like it’s a biohazard.
“What is that?”
“You’re sticky, da?” Ilya says, holding it out.
“Ilya! Get a wet wipe.”
“Shane,” Ilya says as he climbs back into bed, “I am not leaving this bed until morning.”
“Ilya! You have to brush your teeth!”
“Nooo.”
“God, you’re such a baby.”
Shane finally sighs and drags himself out of bed to go find a wet wipe himself.
His back is to Ilya as he walks away, the chaps still on, his ass completely exposed and flushed red with the clear imprint of Ilya’s handprints.
Ilya lets out a loud whistle.
“And they say chaps aren’t for sex.”
Shane pauses mid-step.
“Who says that?”
“Price and Marlow.”
Shane slowly turns his head and stares at him.
Then he shakes his head.
“I don’t even want to know.”