Work Text:
“Still can’t believe he signed with Ottawa,” Hayden laughs over the phone. “This is almost painful to watch.”
Shane doesn’t comment on that, despite how much he wants to. Ilya moving to Ottawa was an important step for them as a couple, and Shane was trying his best to interpret Hayden’s remark in a way that didn’t undermine that. Instead, he zeroes in on the task at hand: peeling his sweet potatoes.
He’s in the middle of making dinner, and Hayden and J.J. are serving as live commentators via phone for the Centaurs game against the San Francisco Missions, with the occasional chirp about his “bird food” thrown in the mix. It was kind of nice, actually, almost functioning as a podcast to listen to as he worked. Shane decidedly wasn’t watching the game; watching Ilya lose despite his best efforts soured his stomach too much. Plus, Ilya was coming over later in a risky but much needed tryst, during which Shane was sure he would hear all about the epic lows and lowers of a Centaurs game.
“He is good,” J.J. admits, “but he cannot carry them alone.”
“Compliments for Rozanov?” Shane asks. “Wow, it must be going worse than I initially imagined.”
“Don’t be jealous, Capitaine. He may be good, but he’s not you, you know this.”
“Yeah, that’s why this game’s going the way it is,” Hayden adds.
“I’m not jealous. And Rozanov plays just fine. He’s usually brilliant on the ice, but…”
Shane doesn’t finish the thought. It would be a mess if he did. He’s there for me, he’d confess. He’s on this shitty team because we’re in love and I need him as close as possible without putting us under the microscope to be studied like fucking bugs. He’s brilliant but a loser by association right now. It makes me sick, but I need this to work.
He simply says nothing.
Thankfully, they move on to talking about how San Francisco is no better. The Missions are young, they say, mentally and literally. They play like it’s truly just a game and not their lives. Shane actually agrees with that; their play is usually on the sloppier side, and they make a lot of rookie mistakes. He half-listens to them as they mindlessly yap, shifting his focus to dicing his potatoes evenly and minding his fingers. He needed those. Couldn’t afford to chop himself up.
“Oh shit,” J.J. says suddenly, sounding genuinely amused. This makes Shane stop and listen, because nothing about this game would ordinarily be amusing. “You’re watching this, Pike?”
“Yes, duh,” he answers. It’s silent for a moment, and Shane bites back the urge to fill each passing second with a million questions about what's happening. He gives in once he hears Hayden repeat “oh shit,” sounding more serious.
“Oh shit what?” Shane asks.
“You’re seriously not watching yo—the game?” Hayden scoffs, and Shane’s stomach nearly drops through his ass at the near slip up. He knows what Hayden was going to say — your man or your boyfriend. It was bad enough Hayden could even reference Ilya as his anything, but to have done it with J.J. on the line would’ve been enough to send Shane into an early grave.
“Goldfish memory. You have goldfish memory,” he says, trying to keep his voice even. “I told you I’m making dinner when we started this call. How would I be seeing that right now?”
“Whatever. Rozanov’s havin’ a go with Medina.”
Shane sets his knife down completely. “What?”
“Ah, but he deserves this, the little fucker,” J.J. sighs, saying the last bit in French, “he’s like a fly, he’s been in Rozanov’s face all night. And then tripped him!”
“But did he actually,” Hayden argues, “or was it a skill issue?” Shane rolls his eyes at that; as if Hayden had any room to comment on Ilya’s “lack of skill.”
“Hayden, don’t start. We are watching the same game…”
J.J. and Hayden fall into discussion of Rozanov’s skill and whether or not it was a bad call, but Shane’s no longer invested in their conversation enough to comment. Ilya was tripped and dropped gloves over it. Was he okay? Was he upset? God, and he’s in the middle of the stupid game, he can’t even call or text Ilya to ask. Shane tries not to pick up his phone at all, tries to evade all temptation to look into the situation and just focus on his stupid fucking sweet potatoes. When they circle back to it some minutes later, though, he caves. He wants to try and see for himself, he thinks.
He opens Twitter, a rare occurrence, and immediately types “Ottawa Centaurs” into the search bar, knowing that the internet moves quickly enough to have posted something. Just as he expects, he is met with hundreds of results and he scrolls through until he finds what he’s looking for.
mia!!🌷
@puckbunnimia
HOLY. SHIT. #OttawaCentaurs
26 Retweets 0 Quote Tweets 49 Likes
Aaron
@sanfraaronhockey
Rozanov should have been EJECTED for pummeling Charmy like that! Overreaction at its finest! #OttawaCentaurs #SanFranMissions
6 Retweets 0 Quote Tweets 14 Likes
vic @missionsbaby18 · 6 sec
Replying to @sanfraaronhockey
“pummeling" is crazy lol. love charmy but he got what was coming tbh. everyone knows cens are gonna lose anyway so it was unnecessary to trip 81 like that
2
0
27
commentator haley 
@besthockeyclips
#OttawaCentaurs Ilya Rozanov vs #SanFranMissions Charlie Medina (!!!!)
60 Retweets 22 Quote Tweets 112 Likes
livvie🏒 @raiderzrozlover · 1 min Replying to @besthockeyclips
sorry to this man but roz looks so hot i wanna lick the sweat from his neck
3
22
43
Well, alright then, Shane thinks. That thought is immediately followed up with, same here, Livvie. He watches it on mute for a few dangerous seconds, since it’s already at the part where Ilya skates off to the penalty box, but he decides that’s enough and closes the app.
His fingers itch to open it back up.
Shane picks his knife back up instead, but realizes he can’t dice more than he already has. He sets it back down. He’s already chopped all of the potatoes to a normal size, any more and it may as well have been baby food. Jesus, he feels like his brain is broken. The glimpse of ROZANOV 81 spanned across his broad back and shoulders has broken his brain. Great. All it took was five seconds.
“Guys, I have to go,” Shane announces. It’s like a record scratch in real time.
“What the fuck, Hollzy, where are you going?” Hayden asks incredulously. J.J. just tsks disapprovingly.
“Kitchen, um…emergency. Sorry.”
He hangs up before they can call bullshit and turns his phone off completely. His brain is torn between begging him to finish what he’s started so he can eat dinner some time tonight, or needing to see the whole video from start to finish. Shane briefly wonders if this makes him some level of sick voyeur or some indirect sadist, wanting to see Ilya apparently pummel a man. Charmy, as they call him. He got what was coming for him though, as also stated by the internet. So…maybe Shane isn’t completely wrong for wanting to see it if it was a cause and effect type deal.
Food. He needed to eat and forget about it. Wait for Ilya to tell him first. End of.
•••
He watches it after dinner.
Shane sets his bowl down on the coffee table, sinking back into the couch cushions, and takes his phone from his hoodie pocket, unlocking it and opening Twitter back up. He searches, same as before, except now, there’s way more activity about it — screenshots of either player, Charmy’s split lip on display even in the lower quality captures, comments about the outcome, the apparently popular debate of if tripping even took place despite the ref’s call.
He thinks about that Livvie girl. Where is her post?
It doesn’t take long to find, granted her post has now climbed to three thousand retweets and over eight thousand likes within the hour, making it one of the top unofficial posts about the whole thing. It brings him back to the video though, the good one. And he hits play.
The game is going, and he spots Ilya quickly. A Missions player, number 7 and who he assumes to be Medina, is definitely all over Ilya, shadowing him horribly. Ilya has possession of the puck and passes it to someone. Shane doesn’t even follow his instinct to trace the puck; he’s focused on the clear way Medina deliberately swipes his stick right at the blades of Ilya’s skates. Ilya tries to catch himself before hitting the ice, narrowly missing the boards. While Ilya briefly stumbles, he pops back up right as the ref blows his whistle. It's too late, though. Shane can see it, and the play-by-play commentator knows it too: “Rozanov is going for him, and Medina knows it, didn't even go far. There go the gloves—“ and Medina really does drop them, one at a time, waiting for Ilya’s next move.
The camera angle changes and zooms in as Ilya shakes his own gloves off in a swift motion, grabbing Medina roughly by the front of his jersey and starting to glower. His face shifts to anger when Medina shoves him in the face, knocking his helmet off and saying something inaudible to those watching at home. Shane’s eyes widen a fraction as Medina tries to push Ilya off in a futile attempt to get the grip on his jersey to loosen. Something flashes in Ilya’s eyes before he shoves his head right back, immediately punching Medina in the mouth. It stuns Medina momentarily, crimson staining his teeth and lips quickly, providing enough time for Ilya to clumsily yank his jersey up over his face and skate them back into the boards. Medina tries to gain a semblance of control, clinging and swatting blindly at Ilya, but he just looks like a helpless fool as Ilya pulls him down to the ice. Shane tries not to wince as he watches Medina go down shoulder first.
The camera then zooms in on Ilya even more, his chest heaving up and down as he looms over Medina's motionless body. His stare down is interrupted by Medina slowly getting up, followed by a ref tapping Ilya and pointing in the opposite direction. Ilya merely shrugs and nods in agreement, skating away to the penalty box.
And then it’s over. Just more commentary over footage of Ilya sitting there, looking sweaty and pissed off and gorgeous, actually. He always does though. They both get five for fighting, and Medina gets an additional two for tripping on top of another two for instigating. He is also shown in the box, yelling through the glass, but Ilya is simply not entertaining it.
Shane can't help it; he rewinds it just a bit to see Ilya grab this man by the jersey once more. His beautiful face scrunches up more with every hit and pull, his stupid, sweaty helmet hair all in his eyes and curling at the base of his neck. Shane feels it in his fucking gut.
That Livvie girl was so right and Shane hates it. He hates that he almost thinks of being at the receiving end of all that sweaty manhandling, shoved up against the boards two inches from Ilya’s face. Ilya wouldn’t go easy because it’s Shane, but he’d opt for the opposite; he’d hit harder because of it. He hates that he really does want to jump through the screen and rub his face over Ilya’s sweaty hair and lick the sweat right off his cupid’s bow.
Fuck. That’s so gross. He should not feel like this at the idea. Warm all over, with his stupid pulse kicking up.
He tries to ignore it as he cleans his dinner dishes, repeating no to himself in his head over and over to try to stop his horrid brain from thinking Ilya, Ilya, Ilya. It’s like spraying a cat with water, or he hopes it has that effect. Maybe that’s what he needs. To spray himself with water in a nice relaxing shower. A cold, relaxing shower…He would find a way for it to be relaxing.
Shane decides that’s exactly what he’s going to do. In actuality, he just ends up standing there, pressing his head to the cool tile and letting the water run down his back with his eyes closed. Shane tells himself it’s not okay to be turned on by your boyfriend fighting. He got a damn penalty and it’s bad. It’s morally reprehensible. No matter how sexy he looked doing it, it’s not okay. He himself hasn’t even fought! It’s a performative, pseudo-machismo act to be fighting in the middle of a game like that. And…and…
And he really did look so good doing it. He couldn’t believe Ilya was coming over later. He had to pull it together. And quickly.
Which meant that his brain should definitely not be curating images of a sweaty post-game Ilya doing this exact same thing, water cascading down his throat and shoulders and everything. Shane imagines droplets catching in the light dusting of hair across his chest and in his happy trail as he runs his hands through his hair. He was fairly confident that later, it would be his own hands taking the same journey, this time grabbing and pulling to see what sounds would push past Ilya's lips. His brain goes absolutely wild when he thinks about wearing his very own Rozanov jersey, smelling just like his boyfriend, worn and all, and Ilya being unable to contain himself at the sight. Maybe he would be pulled in with a rough tug, or shoved into a wall the same way, his mouth taken and claimed with a strong hand cupping his jaw or throat. Or even shoving him down by his head.
He's startled out of his trance when a sound escapes his lips, his eyes widening in realization that he was doing the exact opposite of what he had set out to do. Shane can’t believe himself honestly. After all his efforts, the cold shower and everything, here he was, hard as hell and wasting water, his hair unlathered and his loofah unused. He hadn’t even so much as spared a glance towards a bottle of soap. His shower was the definition of unproductive.
Well, until right now, that is.
Shane decides he needs a release, no longer concerned about the moral aspect of finding his boyfriend fighting to be hot. He grips his cock and nearly falls to his knees, they buckle under him so hard. This won’t take long at all, not with how busy his brain is.
•••
As soon as Ilya enters the house, shutting the door softly before taking off his shoes and jacket, the disappointment radiates off of him like a bad cologne. Shane feels terrible, especially when Ilya approaches him and sighs heavily, dropping his head to Shane’s shoulder. Instinctively, Shane’s hand comes to rest on the nape of his neck, massaging gently with his thumb. Ilya turns his head into the crook of Shane’s neck, breathing in his familiar scent.
“I’m sorry,” he says, slightly muffled, “game was terrible.”
“That’s okay. I didn’t see it.”
“No?” Ilya asks, picking up his head to look at Shane. He shakes his head, sliding his hand up into Ilya’s hair and gently scratching his scalp.
“No. I didn’t.”
“Well, then I was kidding. Was perfect. We won.”
“Hm,” Shane hums, “and I’m on the treasury board with Dad.”
“Asshole. I’m going to start recording you,” Ilya tells him, a small smile appearing. “Everyone says I’m the asshole, but they don’t know about their precious Shane Hollander.”
“Precious?”
“Yes. Until I put your true colors on the tweet app for the world to see.”
The Twitter misnomer became a permanent inclusion in Ilya's vocabulary, starting on a sleepy, wine drunk night at the cottage many moons ago. Despite Ilya now knowing the proper name, he still says it because it never fails to make Shane laugh. He takes pride in the way Shane smiles down at him, and can feel a smile of his own growing marginally in response.
“Oh no, not the tweet app,” Shane gasps, sarcasm dripping from his tongue, “however will I live that down?”
“You don’t. You just don’t.”
“Now who's the asshole?”
“Still you.”
Ilya leans down and hauls Shane over his shoulder suddenly. A surprised, unfiltered laugh bursts from Shane as he clings to Ilya, making sure he doesn’t fall. He makes a weak protest to be put down, arguing that Ilya should be sore from his game. Shane swats at his back and ass, but Ilya ignores all of it for the whole walk to the bedroom. Ilya drops him down, the bed bouncing a bit under his weight. He watches as Shane moves around so he’s laying “correctly,” his head on the pillows instead of across the middle. He pats the empty space beside him, inviting Ilya to join.
Ilya does him one better; he crawls onto the bed and over Shane, propping himself up on his hands and settling between Shane’s thighs. Shane hums in contentment as he smooths his hands over Ilya’s chest, his eyes narrowing around Ilya’s throat. He watches him swallow once, then twice, admiring the fine lines of his neck and taking in the handful of scattered moles. Shane finds himself mourning the post-game sweat once again. He so badly wants to run his tongue along the smooth column of his throat, but only if it carries that tang of salt. He thinks of sliding his hands up, squeezing and pressing his thumbs in hard enough to bruise. He knows Ilya would let him too.
“You really didn’t watch my game?” Ilya asks, drawing him from his thoughts. Shane’s gaze lifts to meet his. There’s a brief pause while Shane decides what to say, but it’s enough to fuel Ilya’s suspicions.
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”
Ilya makes a soft, thoughtful sound before leaning in close, enough that their noses almost touch. Shane closes his eyes, anticipating a kiss, and when it doesn’t happen, he opens them, finding Ilya just… looking at him.
“You are lying,” Ilya says decidedly.
Shane huffs a sharp breath, not expecting that to come out of his mouth. “What are you talking about? I’m not lying.”
“You are. Why?”
“You’re being obnoxious. Can you just kiss me, please?”
“No. I don’t want to kiss a lying liar who lies.”
“Jesus Christ, Rozanov,” Shane sighs, and tries to push Ilya off. He doesn’t budge, so Shane drops his hands. “What do you want me to say?”
“The truth.”
“I didn’t watch your game.”
Shane tells himself this is very much not a lie. He truly didn’t watch the game; he watched the fight video. Four times. And replaying different parts each time. He now thinks of sweat and ice, thinks of Ilya stuffing as much of his sweaty jersey in his fucking mouth that will fit, thinks of rough hands and plexiglass. Shane’s face goes warm, and he knows he’s blown his cover now.
Ilya looks Shane over and shakes his head in disbelief, shifting his weight to one hand as he mumbles, “Don’t believe you.” With that statement, his other hand comes under Shane’s waistband, palming his already half hard dick, his eyes never leaving Shane’s.
“Then don’t,” Shane says, the words soft and hitching at the end as he rolls his hips up against Ilya’s hand.
Ilya grips his cock, starting to stroke him, and Shane breathes a soft moan. He dips his head to nose at Shane’s jawline, and Shane tilts his head back without being asked. Ilya mouths wherever he can — kissing and biting and sucking just under the hinge of his jaw, feeling the pulse of his heartbeat strong and fast under his lips. Shane shamelessly grinds his hips up to meet Ilya’s downstrokes, and he’s completely hard in Ilya’s grip in no time.
Ilya trails kisses up Shane’s chin before reaching his lips, giving him one quick kiss before licking into his mouth. Shane moans into it, his hands coming to grip Ilya’s face as he’s being devoured. Ilya’s hand moves farther down, the rough pad of his finger teasing over his taint and hole. Goosebumps break out all over Shane’s skin as Ilya breaks the kiss to speak.
“You want this?” Ilya asks, voice rough, and Shane nods. “Tell me.”
“I want it.”
“Then tell me the truth. I’m not going to fuck a liar.”
Ilya continues to rub his middle finger over his hole, not hard enough to breach, but enough to make a point. He watches as Shane’s brows furrow, his lips parting to exhale shaky breaths and soft moans. He presses a bit harder, hoping to draw out something, anything from Shane’s mouth like a confession. I watched it, and you were good. I’m sorry you’re on this shit team of kind men for me. Man in the Crease is going to ha—
“The fight,” Shane says suddenly. Ilya freezes and Shane makes an exasperated sound.
“The fight.”
“I-I saw it. Watched it. That’s the truth.”
“And?”
“Got off after,” he admits. Ilya hums thoughtfully and takes his hand out of Shane’s pants, and Shane whines at the sudden loss of contact. “What—”
“Tell me about it,” Ilya says, leaning back to strip Shane of his sweats and boxer briefs. “What did it for you? The losing again or me in the penalty box?”
“Neither.”
Shane watches Ilya toss the clothes aside, adding his own shirt to the mix, and moves down the bed, lying on his stomach and kissing Shane’s inner thighs. Ilya then takes hold of his cock and traces his tongue along a prominent vein on the underside, making Shane’s body twitch and tense as he says a soft fuck.
“You talk or I stop,” Ilya warns, and Shane props himself up on his elbows, looking down at Ilya as he spits on the head, letting it mix with Shane’s precome and drip a bit before slicking it down the length of him in his grip, squeezing and thumbing over his slit. Shane groans and tilts his head back, shutting his eyes and bucking into Ilya’s fist.
“Fuck, you just looked so good.” Shane tells him, picking his head up to look at him again, “wish you came home to me right off the ice, all sweaty like that. Wish it was me.”
“Wish what was you?”
“Fuckin’ Medina. He—fuck—he doesn’t know how good he had it, getting to see you up close like that. Getting your hands on him.”
“Mmh,” Ilya hums, “you want my hands on you, Hollander?”
“Please.”
“Tell me what else you want.”
Ilya presses another kiss to Shane’s inner thigh before dipping his head to tongue over Shane’s balls, sucking them into his mouth one at a time. Shane’s body tenses, and he falls flat onto his back before closing his eyes, his hands resting beside his head. He shivers when Ilya pulls off with a pop and releases his dick. He lets it slap against his stomach before licking up the length of it where it lay, his eyes lifting to Shane. Shane’s stomach quivers on a breath, and he moves one arm to rest over his eyes.
“Want you to be rough with me,” he mumbles, and oh. “Not crazy, just…fuck, just enough to feel it, or…you know.”
Ilya hums thoughtfully, starting to push on his thighs, and Shane seems to get the idea after years of this — he uncovers his face to cup the backs of his knees and pulls, bringing them to his chest. Ilya can’t help but think of how perfect Shane is as he kisses the backs of his thighs down to his ass, sinking his teeth in gently before swiping his tongue slowly over his hole. Shane sighs, and Ilya moves back a bit to bring his hand to his mouth, sucking and drooling generously over his pointer finger before circling the puckered skin with his now slick finger.
“No,” he tells him, voice low, “I don’t know. I want you to say it.”
“Ilya—“
“Tell me.” Ilya presses his finger in, up to just the first knuckle, just enough to feel it stretch around the digit, and removes it slowly, hearing Shane make a soft whimper. He collects more saliva over his fingers and now presses in two, just as deep. An actual moan comes from Shane, and Ilya curls his fingers just a bit, greedy to hear more of it. “You want this?”
“Yeah,” he breathes, “you know I do.”
“And?” Ilya asks, conversationally, even though his heart is beating hard as he coaxes this out of Shane. It’s important, his words. Ilya would hate to read this wrong.
“Want you to push and pull me around, just—whatever you want.”
“Fuck, Hollander.”
Ilya bites his lip as he pushes his fingers deeper, twisting his hand just so, and Shane grips his thighs harder as Ilya’s fingers brush over and prod at his prostate. Shane's eyes flutter shut at the sensation of Ilya fingering him and working him open. Whimpering moans and low hums come from Shane on each exhale, precome weeping steadily onto his stomach from his swollen cockhead, and when Ilya removes his fingers and replaces them with his tongue, Ilya hears Shane whisper god, yes.
Having Shane like this, on his tongue and flooding his senses, makes Ilya feel a bit insane, and he thinks of all the things he wants to do to him. He thinks of all the other places he wants his mouth and fingers, and where he could leave his handprints behind. It’s almost as if his brain short circuits with the images as he gets Shane slick and sloppy with spit, saliva dripping down his chin as his tongue prods and swipes over his perfect hole. Shane trembles under him, and Ilya is rock hard at the sight; whatever he does next he needs to be decided upon quickly. He's not sure how much longer he can last like this.
He eases up onto his knees and Shane’s eyes follow the movement. Ilya wipes the mess from his face before leaning over Shane, placing his hands on either side of his head. Shane allows his legs to fall to either side of Ilya’s hips before leaning up to shuck Ilya’s pants down his thighs enough to free his impressive cock from its confines. Then, no longer able to help himself, he takes Ilya’s face in his hands, initiating kisses.
The kisses begin slow and open mouthed, tongues tangling as Ilya ruts his hips into Shane’s. Their lips meet again and again and his dick grazes over Shane’s, adding to the friction. Ilya’s hands lift to smooth over the underside of Shane’s thighs, feeling the muscle and light dusting of hair on them under his heated palms. His second favorite cluster of Shane’s freckles resides on the back of Shane’s right knee, and he squeezes at it, making Shane hum approvingly into their kiss. It courses through Ilya’s blood, making him feel like he’s slightly vibrating with wanting too much at once.
In a manner that is clumsier than Ilya would have liked, he manages to maneuver Shane onto his front. Ilya watches in adoration as Shane shifts up towards the pillows before unceremoniously shoving them out of the way and ridding himself of his shirt. He lies his cheek flush to the mattress, obedient and pliant and ready to be taken by Ilya. Ilya yanks Shane’s hips up, deepening the arch of his spine, and Shane reaches back with both hands, grabbing his own ass and spreading himself for Ilya. Ilya nearly comes on the spot at the sight — Shane Hollander’s huge, deliciously veiny hands exposing the perfect, sensitive little pucker of his hole as it winks with the slight tug, accompanied by his heavy balls hanging low. Fuck.
Ilya groans low in his throat, taking hold of his own cock and slapping it against Shane’s hole, smearing his steady stream of precome over it.
“C’mon Ilya,” Shane whines in response, “please.”
Ilya decides it might be his favorite word Shane ever says. Please.
Ilya must take too long, because Shane lets himself go and fists his own dick, stroking himself slowly. He rocks his hips forward into his own grip, and Ilya watches for a moment, looking him over and loving the way his boyfriend can put on a perfect show. He takes in the dusting of freckles like glitter sprinkled over Shane’s back, eyes glazing over at the way his back muscles work as he moves. Ilya finds himself shaking his head, at first in awe, but then in decision.
“No,” he says, reaching for Shane’s free hand, the left one, pinning it behind his back. “No, give me your hand.”
Shane lets go of his cock, dropping his hand and obediently offering it to Ilya, making a disappointed but needy sound. Ilya then grabs it, gripping both of Shane's hands in a firm restraint behind his back. Shane whimpers at the feeling of Ilya sliding his hard cock over his rim and along his crack. Ilya understands the sound as permission, lining himself up and thrusting into Shane's hole with a low grunt, unable to stop until he's buried to the hilt. Shane squeezes around him deliciously, his wrists itching to move, but Ilya tightens his hold and starts to pull out slowly, just enough to keep the head in before fucking back in roughly. He builds up a rhythm that way, and each time is punctuated with one of Shane’s sharp groans.
The bed rocks into the wall with steady thuds, their bodies meeting in a solid smack on every hard thrust. Shane turns his head, burying his face against the mattress to quiet himself, and Ilya immediately plans to rectify that, needing to hear every little desperate noise from him. Ilya leans over him and gets a fistful of Shane’s hair in a tight fist, sharply yanking his head up, and Shane whimpers both from the slight change in angle and the pull, hard enough to hurt.
“Ilya, fuck,” he says, voice slightly strained.
Ilya releases his hair after a bit, instead using that hand to turn his head and press his cheek down into the mattress once again with force.
“Mmh, harder,” Shane mumbles.
Ilya gives in to the request, grunting as he picks up the pace. Shane gladly takes it all, punchy, masculine sounds escaping him alongside the occasional encouragements — yes, like that, yes, fuck. Shane’s skin is flushed and sheen with sweat, as is Ilya’s own. Ilya adjusts his grip on his wrists, but knows Shane wouldn’t even move them even if he let go. This fact brought out a visceral reaction in Ilya, burning him up hotter, his hips driving even harder. Shane was so good, perfect, even. In every sense of the word.
“This is how I’d have you against those boards,” Ilya grits out, “can’t do anything but take it.”
“Y-yeah,” Shane breathes, his thighs sliding to open slightly wider, “I want that.”
“You’re mine, Hollander. Tell me.”
“I’m yours,” Shane says, without thinking twice, “only yours.”
Not that Ilya didn’t know it, but God, hearing it from him that he wanted and needed him just as much, prompted or not, just did something for him. Made his heart beat just a bit faster and his dick a little harder. It could be the only thing Shane said on repeat and Ilya was sure he would nut in two minutes flat. There was no difference now; it got him even closer.
Ilya slightly changes the angle of his thrusts once more, taking everything from amazing to holy shit, and Shane knows he’s done for, the sheets brushing against his cock the only stimulation needed other than Ilya pegging his prostate relentlessly. His hole pulses around Ilya’s cock as the familiar feeling of release hits him like a truck, choking him and burning him up from the inside out.
“Fuck me,” he gasps, “oh fuck, I’m coming, holy—”
“Do it,” Ilya grits out, “give it to me.”
It wracks him, his body writhing as he comes hard, his back and arm muscles flexing with the movements as he tries and fails to free himself. Ilya releases Shane’s wrists to instead grab his hips possessively, driving into Shane harder to chase his own release. He swears on a groan once it hits, and his hips roll into Shane, his body jerking and tensing as he comes hard.
The only sound in the room is their labored breathing when they both come down from it all, sweaty and spent. Ilya leans down and presses a kiss to the skin between Shane’s shoulder blades, and Shane makes a soft sound at the gesture. Ilya lets Shane’s hips go, and watches as Shane starts to fully relax, his eyes closing and breaths evening out. Ilya chooses to pull out then, and Shane’s eyebrows immediately furrow, causing a whiny sound of protest. Ilya continues though, and watches for a moment as Shane’s hole flutters around nothing. He barely resists the urge to shove his fingers in, bury his face back there. Instead, he lies on his back beside Shane. Shane opens his eyes, ass still in the air, and Ilya can’t help but laugh.
Shane lifts a hand to brush sweaty curls off of Ilya’s forehead before thumbing over his cheek, and Ilya seems to want to say something. Shane’s eyebrows jump curiously, and Ilya smiles a little at that.
“Should I make it a habit?” he asks. “The fighting?”
“No, don’t,” Shane answers honestly, sliding off of his knees to lay flat on his stomach. “Just keep the…being sweaty and sexy part. People like it. I love it.”
Ilya huffs another laugh and Shane shifts closer to him, pressing a kiss to his cheek and nose before kissing his lips, just once.
“Okay, Hollander,” Ilya says, voice soft. “Anything for you.”