Chapter Text
January 2015, Montreal
Shane places an icepack on his shoulder, flopping down onto the couch. He should call off tonight. Tell Rozanov to head to the club instead of his building on the outskirts of town. It would be the smart, logical thing to do. But when it comes to Ilya Rozanov and Shane’s ever-present need to be fucked within an inch of his life by the Russian, he never makes the smart choice.
He picks up his phone and his shoulder pops, a sharp pain following. Shane curses into the empty apartment.
When Shane was fourteen, he was practicing out on a lake with his dad, returning shots late into the night like they always did when the water was frozen enough. There was a small dent in the ice; Shane’s blade caught it awkwardly and sent him, shoulder first, into a rock. It left a gruesome cut, got blood everywhere, and dislocated the bone. Shane was convinced his dad was going to pass out from the stress.
His junior’s team was on their way to the playoffs and he was the captain. He couldn’t miss out on the very important games after the holiday break. So, he ended up returning a week later, not letting his shoulder heal properly.
Ever since, he occasionally has reoccurring pain – if he overworks it or gets checked into the boards the wrong way. The worst of it all is when it rains.
It’s pouring in Montreal. The rain is bulleting the window enough to rattle the glass. It’s been raining all day, with no show of slowing down. Which means Shane has spent all day in agony. All he can hope for is that it clears up in time for the game tomorrow.
It’s rare for Boston to fly in the day before a game, but it worked out in their schedule this week. Shane had been looking forward to, dreaming of having Rozanov two nights in a row. Now his shoulder is trying to cock block him.
They had an optional skate this morning, that Shane begrudgingly didn’t attend. He never misses a skate, but the pain was too strong. Just the idea of putting on his pads had him grimacing. Hayden had texted him ‘Shoulder that bad?’ when he didn’t see him there.
And yeah, it is bad. Because now it’s affecting his already very sparse sex life.
The icepack isn’t cool anymore, so Shane gets up to place it back in the freezer when his phone goes off.
Lily: Here
So much for calling off tonight. Shane rolls his shoulder, deciding to not even bring it up to Rozanov. Even though they are talking more and more these days, he thinks childhood injuries are maybe too personal for their arrangement. Rozanov is here for sex, not to hear about Shane’s issues.
He lets Ilya in, he’s drenched from the rain. Once they get inside Shane’s apartment, Ilya is all over him. Their lips crash into one another – hands sliding under shirts to palm at each other’s stomach and hips, Rozanov always groping Shane’s chest when he gets the chance.
It’s always like this when it’s been over three weeks since they’ve seen each other. It’s all heat and teeth and exactly what Shane needs to forget about his shoulder. Shirts are discarded along the way up the stairs, Rozanov attaching his lips to Shane’s neck.
They blindly fumble with each other’s zippers, tugging at their waistbands to strip the other as quickly as possible. Not looking, too focused on diving his hand into Shane’s pants, Ilya doesn’t move out of the way before shoving him, shoulder first, into the doorframe. Any other night, Shane would shake it off – not even react.
Not tonight.
He makes an embarrassing whimper as pain shoots down his arm. He pulls away from Rozanov and folds himself in half. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He groans, trying to pull himself together. But the pain is too strong.
“Hollander?” He bends to try and meet his gaze, but Shane turns away. He can’t have Rozanov see him with tears in his eyes. “What happened?”
Shane takes a deep breath and finds the strength to stand up straight. “I’m okay. Sorry. I’m okay.” He repeats. Maybe if he says it out loud, he’ll believe it. He attempts to lean in, kiss Rozanov again, but he stops him with a firm hand on the center of his chest.
“You are not okay. You are in pain.” Why does Rozanov have to be so perceptive? Why is he able to read Shane like no one else can. And why does he have to care? “Here-.” He adds, waving at the edge of the bed. When Shane doesn’t move, he continues, this time as an order. “Hollander. Sit.”
Shane can’t disobey him. He doesn’t have it in him. His body is tethered to Ilya’s. When he tells him to do something, he does it. Shane sits on the edge of the bed, sniffling away the tears stuck in his eyelashes. He massages his shoulder with his free hand. “Really, Rozanov. I’m fine. I just need a second.”
The issue is, he didn’t hit the doorframe that hard. Ilya’s slammed him into walls, the boards, or even the floor a few times with more force than that. He has to know that something else is wrong. He’s looking him over, with a sincerity that Shane rarely sees from the Russian. “Is the rain?”
They both glance at the window, watching the rain pound the glass. “Yeah. My shoulder.”
“Ah. The scar.” Ilya sits next to him on the edge of the bed. He reaches behind Shane to rub his thumb against the scar. “I wondered what happened.” Rozanov is always kissing the scar when he takes him from behind. He could use one of those kisses right now.
“Dislocated it. Didn’t heal right.” He leans on Rozanov, letting him rub soothing circles into the tight muscle of his shoulder. He’s practically purring, it feels so good. It’s almost like he’s holding him. Shane thinks he could doze off just like this, in Rozanov’s arms.
Rozanov nudges Shane’s leg with his own. “Rain fucks with me too… my knee.”
And wow, okay. They are actually talking about themselves. For once they aren’t keeping their conversations about hockey or sex. “ACL?” Last season, their backup goalie tore his and Shane remembers how brutal the recovery was for him. He’s still struggling with it a year later.
“No.” He replies. Shane covers his knee and rubs it. Ilya eases into the touch, leaning on Shane the same way he’s leaning on him. “Doctors say bone is crooked. Not sure why.” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. But it sounds like a big deal to Shane. How often does it hurt him? How will this affect his career long term? Does he have anyone to talk to about all this? After Sochi, Shane thinks he knows the answer to at least one of those questions. “I get shots for it.”
Fuck, injections already? He’s only twenty-four. “That bad?” He turns to face Rozanov, their faces close enough, Shane can smell the tobacco on his breath. He chooses not to chastise him for smoking, just this once. Maybe it helps with the pain?
“Sometimes. It – uh, what is phrase – comes and goes.”
Shane nods. “Yeah. Same for my shoulder.” He gives Ilya’s knee a squeeze. “Is it hurting you now?”
“No.” He replies immediately, but Shane’s not sure he believes him. “Earlier, on the plane. Not so much right now.” Then he leans in to kiss him. Shane goes pliant in his arms, letting his mouth fall open so Rozanov can slide his tongue in. Which he does. They move on autopilot. Melting together like butter on warm bread. It’s perfect, like always. “You still want?”
“Yeah.” When their lips are moving against one another, the last thing Shane is thinking about is his sore shoulder. “You?”
“Yes.” He replies, angling himself to lightly push Shane back onto the bed. He moves up, while Rozanov kisses his shoulder. “I will be gentle.” He sounds like he’s teasing. But he knows Rozanov is serious. “You will not move this, okay?” He places Shane’s arm against his side; his shoulder neatly tucked into the pillow. “You move; I stop.”
Direct orders, a challenge. This Shane can do – and Rozanov knows it. “Okay.”
Ilya starts his descent down Shane’s body at a leisurely pace. For once they don’t have a deadline. He has to go back to his hotel room eventually, but there’s no morning flight to worry about. They can take their time. Or Ilya can. Because Shane’s not allowed to move. All he has to do is lie back and enjoy.
He takes his nipple into his mouth, softly biting on it. Shane’s chest lifts up, pressing himself closer to Ilya, but then he pulls back and lifts an eyebrow at him. “Already, Hollander? Do I need to tie you up?” The image only makes Shane harder. They’ll have to try that another time, when his shoulder can withstand the strain.
He didn’t even notice his hand had moved and is now tangled in Ilya’s hair. “Fuck – sorry. I’ll be good.” He tucks his arm under the pillow and grips the top of it.
Ilya’s face falls, his usual cocky smirk he perpetually wears in bed is nowhere to be seen. “I do not want to hurt you.” The way he says it makes Shane’s chest tighten.
“You won’t.” You can’t, he wants to say. “What about you?” He reaches with the hand he’s allowed to move and once again cups it around Ilya’s bad knee. “Is this position okay for you? I can ride you?” Shane hasn’t been on top yet; preferring to give all the control to Rozanov. But he’s been practicing with his dildo, and if it would be more comfortable for him, why not give it a try?
“I’m fine, Hollander.” He swats Shane’s hand away. “We will fuck like this. Want to see you...” Shane’s breath hitches. “… in case it hurts.” He adds because of course that’s what he meant. Not because he wants to look into Shane’s eyes. Not because this isn’t anything but meaningless, ill-advised sex.
Ilya grabs a condom and lube from the drawer and gets to work.
They’ve never hooked up like this – at such a slow pace. Even the first time they ‘went all the way’ – it only took a minute or so before they were moving at a rapid pace. Ilya keeps his word, moving gently while he opens Shane up on his thick fingers. It’s hard not to grab him, hold onto his shoulders and grind down onto Ilya’s hand. But behaving for Rozanov has always been a turn on for Shane. He likes to obey. He keeps still, only letting his hips jolt on their own, when Rozanov toys with his prostate.
Once he's deemed Shane ready, Rozanov lines himself up. He rests the tip at his entrance and looks down at Shane with the same concerned look from earlier. "Okay?" Shane nods. He's perfect right now. He always is when he's in bed with his rival.
When Rozanov pushes into him – Shane swears he can feel every inch opening around him. It takes his breath away. It’s almost romantic like this. Face to face and moving in a way that’s not just hastily chasing pleasure from each other’s bodies. “Fuck please, Rozanov.”
It’s too much - the attention, not being able to move, the way Ilya is taking such good care of him. It’s not enough to make him come, but it’s lighting Shane up in a way he hasn’t felt before. It’s terrifying. He’s not sure if he wants to live in this moment forever or end it before he says something he’ll regret.
“Harder.” He demands, needing more pressure. “Fuck c’mon – I’m not fragile.” He begs, but his voice is wavy and there are tears stuck in his eyes. It’s not the first time he’s cried during sex – but Shane refuses to count tears stemmed from gagging or overstimulation. That’s just natural. These tears are raw and vulnerable, cracking a part of Shane open that should remain locked.
Rozanov doesn’t speed up, but he thrusts harder, hitting deeper and deeper with each slide of his hips. Shane grips the pillow, too keyed up to worry about ripping the seams. His own cock is heavy on his stomach, sitting in a pool of precome. Every thrust pushes out another drop. “Don’t touch yourself.” He demands with gritted teeth. He’s unraveling too – he’s just better at hiding it. “No strain on your shoulder – you will come just like this.”
Shane wants to say it’s his left shoulder. That he can still move his dominant hand. But he’s not sure he has the brain capacity for sure a long sentence. All his sense has been slowly fucked out of him for the past hour. Maybe that’s an exaggeration - it's hard to tell how much time has passed when he’s wrapped up in the bliss of having Rozanov inside him. “More – please, Roz-“
Ilya slams his hips down, hitting Shane’s prostate perfectly. He throws his head back, moaning loudly as the pressure builds up his spine. He’s so close, he can taste it. He lifts his hips just enough to rub the tip of his aching cock against Ilya’s abs. The friction is jarring, catches Shane off guard as the world around him starts to blur. He can’t believe he almost denied himself this tonight.
“Fuck, I’m gonna come – fuck yes – Rozanov, don’t stop!” He wails, shamelessly grinding into Ilya’s stomach. Thankfully, he seems too lost to notice that Shane is technically cheating by rubbing his dick. He knows how much Ilya likes to watch Shane come untouched. But the slide of his sweaty abs against his sensitive head is too good, Shane can’t stop.
Ilya’s not holding back anymore. It was nice while it lasted, but they both know that slow and gentle is not their speed. He pistons his hips, chasing his release. “Come now, Hollander.”
Another order. Shane can’t deny him, his body already passed the point of no return. His orgasm hits him like a wave crashing on the shoreline – a gradual build until all he can feel is pleasure flooding his senses. He paints both their stomachs, groaning when one rope hits Rozanov’s chin.
That sets him off – he comes too, filling the condom as he curses in Russian. Shane has put together a few of the words Ilya frequently uses when they are together. He knows ‘fuck’ which is what he says again as he pulls out and collapses next to him.
Usually, Ilya will remain inside him – rest his full weight on top of him and they’ll hold each other as they come down from their impeccable highs. Shane suddenly feels cold without Rozanov’s heat wrapped around him. He attempts to slide closer to Ilya, maybe rest his head on his chest, but he stands up before Shane gets the chance. “Stay there. I will be back.”
“Oh. Okay.” He spreads out and stretches out his shoulder, rotating it a few times before settling it back into the pillow. There is cum drying on his stomach and lube dripping out of his hole, but Shane doesn’t move. He stays put, star-fishing across his king bed while he waits for Ilya.
The tap turns off and then Ilya emerges from the ensuite with a wet cloth. He wipes his own stomach, the condom already discarded. Then he moves onto Shane – wiping his stomach and then in between his legs. He melts into the bed, hit with a sudden wave of exhaustion after coming so hard.
“See you tomorrow.” He yawns, watching with half-hooded eyes as Rozanov puts his clothes back on.
He zips his jeans and looks Shane over. “You will play?”
“I should be fine by then. The pain never lasts too long.” The rain is supposed to stop overnight. A day is about as long as Shane usually has to deal with when it comes to his shoulder pain. It's manageable.
“Right.” He doesn’t sound convincing. Shane wants to ask – say anything that will keep Ilya for a little longer, but he’s tired and Rozanov is already halfway through the door. He can always bring it up again tomorrow.