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Shane anxiously checked the time on his phone for the third time in 5 minutes.
11:47 PM.
Their apartment was quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the distant sound of traffic outside, but Shane felt restless enough to crawl out to his own skin. The team had gotten back from the road an hour ago. Media appearances, equipment to unload, post-game obligations, all of which meant that Ilya was going to be late getting home. Also meaning that Shane had way too much time to think about whether his idea was terrible or not.
The jersey did not necessarily swallow him whole but it was much bigger than his own. Ilya's away jersey hung just past the top of his thighs, the sleeves slightly too long, the neckline stretched just enough from years of wear that it hung near the edge of his shoulder every time he moved.
Rozanov. 81.
Shane caught himself in the dark wall mounted TV screen and felt the heat slowly creep up his neck. This was ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.
Still, he stayed exactly where he was on the couch, one leg bent under him, pretending not to wait like a pathetic fucking dog for the sound of keys in the door.
Then *click*
Shane heard the lock click three seconds before it opened. His stomach flipped hard enough to hurt. The apartment door opened with a tired shove.
"Blyat" Ilya sighed as he kicked the door closed with the heel of his sneakers, duffle back sliding off his shoulders as he ran a hand down his face.
"Blyat" he muttered again, exhausted more than angry. He took off his beanie before he started speaking again. "Coach kept us forever. He..."
Then he stopped. The apartment plunged back into the same silence Shane was once in prior. Neither of the two men moved. Neither of them spoke.
Shane watched it happen in real time. The second Ilya's eyes landed on him, the fatigue vanished straight out of his body, almost as if someone had changed his batteries. The way his jaw closed, his shoulders squaring. For one long dangerous second, he just stared. Shane suddenly became very aware of every inch of exposed skin.
"What is this?" Ilya asked quietly, sharp eyes gliding over Shane's body.
The apartment that once felt too open and empty now felt suffocating. Shane shifted on his legs, sinking deeper into the couch.
"Hi." Shane tried to reply casually, failing in that.
Ilya didn't answer right away. He dropped the beanie next to the bag on the floor before slowly making his way over to the couch positioned in the middle of the room. He stopped just short of the edge, looking down at the jersey-dressed boy.
Shane's pulse jumped immensely.
"Moya lyubov... you're wearing my jersey." It wasn't a question. Not that anything Ilya said to Shane ever really was anyway.
Shane looked away, unable to hold the gaze Ilya was holding. "I was bored." He muttered, voice barely carrying.
"Mm. My boring boy got bored?"
Shane's fingers twisted into the worn fabric of the jersey, the scent of Ilya now overbearing. The silence stretched between them like thin ice over a lake— one wrong step and everything would shatter.
Ilya moved closer, hooking his fingers into the hem of the jersey, twisting the fabric under his fingertips slowly.
"You have had this for a while," Ilya's voice dropped an octave. "Kept it under pillow?"
Shane's breath hitched. "Not under my pillow but," Shane paused, "wait... you noticed?"
Ilya cocked his head slightly with dark, unreadable eyes, just enough to make Shane's stomach tighten. "I notice everything you touch."
Fuck.
Shane felt the familiar heat spread across his cheeks, down his neck and onto his chest. His eyelids flutter closed.
"Нет. Look at me."
Shane's eyes opened slowly, like it cost him something physically to do so.
Ilya was already watching him, close enough now that Shane felt the warmth coming from his body despite the cold still clinging onto his skin from outside. Ilya's hand stayed twisted in the jersey while the other came up, fingers lightly brushing along Shane's jaw.
Shane shivered but leaned into the touch. "You're cold."
"You are shy now?" Ilya asked quietly, accent thicker around the edges from exhaustion combined with the sight in front of him.
"I'm not," Shane swallowed hard. "I'm just cold."
A faint smile tugged at Ilya's lips "Wow, you are still really bad liar."
Shane opened his mouth to reply but nothing came out.
Ilya's thumb dragged lazily over the freckled heat of his cheeks before slipping down to tilt Shane's chin higher. "Da," he muttered. "Better."
Shane hated how weak his knees felt even as he sat down, and hated how weak his whole body felt. He was supposed to be the one teasing, the one in control of this whole thing.
"You're being intense Ilya."
A wider smile tugged at Ilya's lips "And you are wearing my name on your body."
Fuck.
"This was a bad idea," Shane muttered, trying to remove his face from Ilya's grasp.
Ilya's fingers tightened around Shane's chin just enough to stop him, not forcefully but steadily. Shane could feel the warmth of Ilya's fingers even through the embarrassment slowly threatening to swallow him whole right there on the couch.
"Нет," Ilya said softly. "Bad idea would be if you hid when I came home."
"I thought about it." Shane scoffed weakly.
"I know." The faint smile stayed on Ilya's mouth, tired but genuine. "You think very loudly."
"That doesn't even make sense Ilya"
"It does to me."
Fuck.
Shane hated it when Ilya did that. Hated how easily Ilya could peel him open with just words.
Shane finally manages to free himself from Ilya's grip, slumping deeper into the cushions instead.
"You're enjoying this too much."
Ilya shrugged out of his jacket slowly, eyes never leaving Shane's. "Mm, a little."
"A little." Shane repeated flatly.
Ilya draped his jacket over the arm of the couch before stepping between Shane's legs. Suddenly, there was nowhere for Shane to look but up.
The exhaustion was still there now that Shane looked closer. Faint shadows under his eyes, damp golden hair curling slightly from melted snow, his shoulders slumped from the road trip and the game and everything else.
But underneath it all—
That look.
The one that made Shane feel like he was being undressed with just eyes. The one that made him feel carefully dismantled. The one that made him feel-
"Shane?"
Shane blinked up at Ilya, pulse hammering against his throat. The jersey suddenly felt too thin, like Ilya could see through it—through him.
Ilya exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate, before slipping a hand beneath the hem of the jersey. His palm was rough against Shane's bare thigh, warm despite the cold still clinging to his fingers.
"Tell me," Ilya murmured, thumb pressing into the soft skin above his knee. "Why tonight?"
Shane shrugged, eyes darting down. "I dunno. Missed you."
The corners of Ilya's mouth twitched. "Liar."
"Shut up."
"Make me."
Shane swallowed hard, reaching forward to grip Ilya's thighs, the rough texture of his denim pants pressing deep into his skin. He moved slowly before pressing his face into Ilya's crotch. The scent of Ilya's arousal hit Shane like a physical force, musky and warm, making his mouth water. He hesitated just for a second, long enough for Ilya's fingers to twist into his hair, tugging impatiently.
"Are you scared of my cock, Hollander?"
Shane exhaled sharply through his nose, the taunt igniting something low and hot in his gut. His tongue darted out to wet his lips before he dragged his teeth over the stiff fabric of Ilya jeans, slow and deliberate.
"I'm not scared," Shane murmured against the tenting denim, the words vibrating against Ilya's dick. "Just making sure you know who's in charge here."
Ilya's grip tightened in Shane's hair, pulling just shy of painful. "Blyat," he growled softly, his hips jerking forwards involuntarily, revealing his impatience. The friction drew a ragged breath from Shane's lips— half-laugh, half-moan— before he finally popped the button on Ilya's pants with years of practiced ease. The zipper hissed open and Shane didn't hesitate this time, his mouth already watering at the promise of skin.
"No underwear?" Shane whispered, licking a calculated stride up Ilya's dick, collecting the spurt of precum resting on Ilya's tip.
"Нет, too uncomfortable for long drive." Ilya groaned, his fingertips tugging against Shane's hair.
"Mm." Shane hummed, swiping kitten licks along Ilya's length.
Ilya's breath hitched when Shane's tongue flicked over the swollen head of his cock—once, twice—before Shane abruptly pulled back, leaving Ilya twitching against the damp air between them.
"Shane.” Ilya growled slowly, a warning.
Shane smirked, dragging his thumb through the mess of precome beading at the tip. "You're impatient."
"You are fucking with me." Ilya groaned, eyes now darker than they ever were before.
"And you're fucking desperate," Shane breathed, swirling his thumb over the slit before sucking it clean with deliberate obscenity. The taste burst across his tongue.
salty, familiar, Ilya.
His own cock throbbed painfully against the couch cushions.
Ilya's fingers flexed in Shane's hair, his hips jerking forward instinctively, seeking friction. Shane dodged the movement easily, laughing low in his throat as he palmed Ilya through the open fly of his jeans instead.
"Tell me what you want," Shane murmured, tightening his grip just shy of cruel.
Ilya exhaled sharply through his nose. "You know what I want."
"Say it."
"Рот." The word cracked like a whip.
Shane's stomach clenched. He loved this. He loved when Ilya's control frayed at the edges, when his accent thickened with want. He leaned in, lips brushing the leaking head as he spoke. "Ask nicely."
For a heartbeat, Ilya didn't move. Then his hand slid from Shane's hair to his throat, not squeezing, just holding. His thumb pressed against Shane's pulse point as a silent reminder.
"Open your mouth," Ilya murmured, voice rough.
Shane obeyed.
The first thrust was slow, deliberate, Ilya's dick sliding over Shane's tongue until the tip bumped the back of his throat. Shane gagged instinctively, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, but Ilya didn't pull back. He waited, letting Shane adjust to the stretch.
"Good," Ilya muttered when Shane relaxed, his other hand carding through Shane's hair almost tenderly. "Now take it."
Shane hollowed his cheeks, sucking hard as Ilya fucked into his mouth in shallow, controlled strokes.
The salt-bitter taste of precome coated his tongue, the weight of Ilya on his lips dizzying. He reached up blindly, fumbling with the hem of the jersey until his fingers found his own aching cock, stroking in time with Ilya's thrusts.
Ilya noticed immediately. "Нет." He caught Shane's wrist, pinning it to the couch. "You don't touch. Not until I say."
Shane moaned around the cock in his mouth, the vibration earning a sharp groan from Ilya.
"Fuck. так красиво," Ilya hissed, his hips stuttering. His grip on Shane's throat tightened fractionally, just enough to make Shane's vision blur at the edges. "You like this? Being used?"
Shane couldn't answer, couldn't do anything but take what Ilya gave him, spit-slick lips stretched wide, tears streaking his cheeks.
Ilya's breath came faster, his thrusts losing rhythm. "Close," he warned, thumb pressing harder against Shane's pulse.
Shane braced himself, but instead of coming down his throat, Ilya yanked him off with a wet pop, his dick jerking in his fist as he came across Shane's face in hot, thick stripes.
Shane gasped, stunned, as cum splattered his cheeks, his lips, the collar of Ilya's jersey.
Ilya didn't let go of his throat. “Posmotri na sebya," he murmured, swiping a thumb through the mess on Shane's chin before pushing it past his lips.
Shane sucked the digit clean, his own cock twitching untouched between his legs.
Ilya's eyes darkened. "Now," he said, releasing Shane's wrist, "show me how much you missed me."
Shane's fingers trembled as they finally wrapped around his own cock, the relief of touch almost painful after being denied. His hips jerked into his fist, the precum slicking the way as he stroked himself in quick, desperate pulls.
Ilya watched him with half-lidded eyes, still holding Shane's chin between his fingers. "Medlenneye" he commanded, his thumb pressing harder against Shane's bottom lip.
Shane whined but obeyed, forcing himself to slow the frantic pace. His breath came in ragged bursts, the ache between his thighs bordering on unbearable.
"You look pretty like this," Ilya murmured, dragging his gaze down Shane's body. His voice had gone rough around the edges now, eyes fixed more on the jersey hanging off Shane’s body than anything else, the dark fabric swallowed him in all the right ways.
Ilya’s hand slid slowly over the fabric, fingertips pressing against his own name almost reverently before tightening possessively at Shane’s waist.
“My jersey,” Ilya said quietly, almost to himself, like the sight still hadn’t fully settled into him. His gaze dragged lower, taking in Shane’s flushed skin, the trembling breath in his chest, the way he looked completely unraveled wearing something that belonged to Ilya and Ilya alone.
A slow hunger darkened his expression.
“You wear my name like you were made for it,” Ilya muttered. “Fuck, Hollander. Look at you.” His thumb brushed over the stitched numbers again before he leaned closer, forehead nearly against Shane’s. “All mine.”
"Fuck you," Shane gasped, but there was no bite to it.
Ilya smirked. "You wish."
Shane's rhythm stuttered when Ilya leaned down, his breath hot against Shane's ear. "Come for me," he whispered, lips brushing the shell of Shane's ear. "Show me how much you needed this."
Shane's orgasm crashed into him with startling force, his back arching off the couch as pleasure ripped through him. Cum splattered across his stomach, the jersey, his fingers, but he barely registered it, too lost in the dizzying rush of sensation.
When Shane finally came back to himself, Ilya was still hovering above him, watching him with a satisfied smirk.
"Pathetic," Ilya murmured, though his fingers traced gentle circles against Shane's hipbone.
Shane swatted weakly at his arm. "Shut up."
Ilya caught his wrist, pressing a kiss to the inside of Shane's palm.
Shane groaned, slumping back against the cushions.
The jersey was ruined, the couch was ruined, Shane was ruined, but as Ilya pulled him closer, pressing lazy kisses along his jaw, Shane couldn't find it in himself to care.
The apartment was quiet again, the hum of the fridge filling the silence between their breaths.
Shane closed his eyes, letting himself sink into the warmth of Ilya's body.
Ilya's fingers carded through Shane's hair, slow and absentminded.
"Next time," Shane murmured against Ilya's collarbone, "I'm hiding."
Ilya chuckled, low and warm. "Liar."
“Yeah.”