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Montreal played Boston again a couple months later. Shane was always excited for games, no matter how many he played, but he would be a big, fat liar if he said that this game felt like the others. He hadn’t seen Rozanov since that night.
The night he’d worn Rozanov’s name across his shoulders and probably, he thought, broken his brain.
Rozanov had certainly broken Shane’s, but he liked to think he was at least dignified about it. He wasn’t sure he remembered everything, and that was probably a good thing, honestly. Because what that most likely meant is that he hadn’t kept as much of his dignity as he’d hoped.
Oh well. It had been worth it to see Rozanov’s reaction. Privately, Shane thought that Rozanov, acting like that in particular, was the hottest thing he’d ever seen. And he’d rather get his dick cut off than admit that to anyone.
Shane was in the elevator, on his way down so he could head to the arena. He liked to get there earlier than most, which gave him time to get his mind prepped and focused before everyone else got there. His phone buzzed in his hand. A message from Lily.
Lily: Attachment: 1 image
The elevator doors dinged open, but Shane didn’t walk out immediately. He couldn’t. On his screen was the worst piece of revenge he’d ever been on the receiving end of, which wasn’t a long list, but still.
Rozanov, with his tongue out for God’s sake, in a blue Metros t-shirt, not unlike the Raiders shirt Shane had ordered for himself a few months prior.
Lily: Guess what’s on the back 😉
Shane groaned, inwardly he hoped, but it was entirely plausible that it had been out loud. Fucking Rozanov.
He pissed Shane the fuck off. He was pissed that Rozanov would dare pull a signature Shane Hollander move on Shane Hollander himself. He was pissed that he liked it. He was pissed that his mind was not even close to centered.
And he was especially pissed that Rozanov was making him wait to see the back. He knew what was on it. But he wanted to see for himself his own name and number right under those pretty curls.
Ugh. Shane looked around, and seeing no one, adjusted himself quickly in his pants, furiously beginning to type.
Shane: Are you fucking kidding me? Before the game??
Lily: Learned from the best 😈
Shane: I hate you
Lily: You can show me how much later
Insufferable. He was completely insufferable. The worst. This was about to be the longest game of Shane’s life.
—
Shane was correct. This was the longest hockey game of all time. It felt even longer since Shane was playing like actual ass. He’d been, um, uncomfortable since the elevator, and every time Rozanov slammed him into the boards, wearing that god-awful smirk that Shane hated that he loved, it only got worse.
The Metros lost that one. Shane would’ve loved to say it wasn’t his fault…and you know what? It really wasn’t. It was fucking Rozanov’s fault.
Shane couldn’t really explain that to his teammates though, so after he fulfilled all his post-loss captainly duties, he finally allowed himself to head towards Ilya’s place. He was frustrated at the loss, and hockey might have been a team sport, but his obsession with seeing Ilya wear the 24 certainly didn’t contribute positively. It was all he could think about, even as he stomped up the steps to Ilya’s front door.
Shane rang the doorbell, twice just to be annoying, and waited. He swore he could hear Ilya’s footsteps padding up to the door. A shadow crossed the glass pane on the outside of the frame right before the door swung open.
Ilya stood in the doorway, shit-eating grin curled across his face, Metros blue stretched across his chest. Shane shoved him backwards as he pushed inside, ignoring Rozanov’s sound of surprise. He shut the door carelessly behind him and kicked off his shoes, “Fuck you, Rozanov. Fuck. You.”
Rozanov laughed in that smug way of his, but his expression faltered a bit when Shane grabbed him by his shirt collar and hauled him close. Shane could hear the hitch in Rozanov’s breath, the swallow, even as he teased, “Hello to you too, Hollander.”
“Texting me with that before the game…” Shane hissed.
“Oh, you mean like you did to me last time?” Rozanov’s eyebrows lifted in mock surprise. Shane seethed.
It wasn’t like he could argue with that. He had, in fact, done first what Rozanov had just done to him. But he was still pissed about it, logic be damned. The hand that wasn’t currently wrinkling the Metros shirt collar flew to the back of Rozanov’s head, tangled in his curls, and yanked him forward to close the gap between their mouths.
“Mmmf!” Rozanov once again couldn’t hide his surprise. Shane guessed he was probably surprised at their whole current dynamic, but Shane was too irritated to roll over at any command right now. He pushed his tongue into Ilya’s mouth, claiming him, the way Ilya usually did to him. The kiss wasn’t gentle, but Rozanov moaned into his mouth, opening up for him with an ease that seemed contrary to the Ilya that Shane was most familiar with.
Shane walked him backwards, mouths still joined, until Rozanov’s back was against the wall right there in the foyer. Stepping back, he watched as the Metros logo rose and fell as Rozanov’s chest heaved. Shane smirked at the sight. He looked dazed, lips already red and swollen where Shane had bitten them. His head tilted back against the wall, eyes heavily lidded but still tracking Shane’s every movement, “Hollander—”
“Well?” Shane cut him off, looking at him expectantly.
“Well, what?” Ilya’s tone still held some of his usual sass, but his voice was soft.
“Let’s see it,” Shane demanded, drawing a circle in the air. “Turn.”
Rozanov didn’t even try to argue. He simply rotated, revealing, yes, a big white 24 and across the shoulders: “HOLLANDER”.
Shane walked forward, because oh my god, he had to touch him right fucking now. His palms slid across Ilya’s back, first over the number, and then over the name. Shane’s hands lingered there for a bit, on Rozanov’s shoulders, when a thought occurred to him.
“My name looks good on you,” he said low into Ilya’s ear. Shane’s breath tickled the curls tucked there, but his hands began to move. Ilya made a noise that sounded, at least for him, very close to a whine and shivered as the words sank in. Shane’s hands crept down Rozanov’s arms and only stopped to encircle his wrists.
“Put your hands on the wall, Rozanov,” Shane said, even as he himself guided Ilya’s palms up to press flat against the smooth surface. Rozanov’s head dropped, his forehead resting there too. The position forced him to bend at the waist, his back arched slightly, and his boxer briefs stretched tight across his ass.
Shane couldn’t resist grinding against him, once, twice, even as he pulled away, trusting Ilya would keep his hands where he’d put them. Yanking his shirt off, and yes, of course folding it too, he stepped back. He wanted Ilya to feel the space he was putting in between them, even as he realized this was the most vulnerable he’d ever seen the man.
Shane was still worked up, but his heart clenched when he thought about the way Ilya must feel with him to allow himself to be put in such a position. He couldn’t think of another time, in any of their hook-ups, where Rozanov hadn’t been the one taking the lead.
And Shane liked it that way 99.99% of the time. That 0.01% that was left, well, Rozanov had forced his hand. His emotions ran high, and in his fight to control them, somehow he supposed he’d found himself in control here too. That wasn’t necessarily the shocking part— Shane was constantly fighting to control every aspect of his life that he could. It felt better that way, safer.
No, the shocking part, the part that had Shane a little awestruck if he was honest, was that Rozanov was letting him take the reins. Standing quietly, just where Shane had placed him— he was being… good.
As if he could sense Shane’s thoughts, Rozanov looked over his shoulder. His feet shifted with pent-up energy, and his eyes, though glassy, darted around from Shane’s face to his body to the floor, like he wasn’t quite sure where to look.
The lack of confidence looked foreign on Ilya, and though Shane loved his usual cocky demeanor, he couldn’t ignore the reaction his dick was having to this uneasy version standing in front of him.
Rozanov’s eyes finally bounced to Shane’s face again, and he took the opportunity to reassure him, “You’re alright. Just wanna look at you, okay?”
Rozanov relaxed a little, “Okay.”
“Forehead back on the wall for me. Please.”
Ilya’s lip quirked up a little at the request, and it was more of a request than the other demands had been. Shane thought about how often Ilya checked in on him, always making sure he felt safe and that nothing hurt. If Shane was really going to go through with this (this being taking charge), he was going to take notes from the best.
“All good?”
“Yes,” Ilya exhaled slowly, nodding, and Shane watched as more tension seemed to melt away from his shoulders. He turned back, resting his forehead once more against the wall. Just… waiting.
Shane came closer again, deciding quickly that both of them had waited long enough. He trailed his hands up Rozanov’s spine, tracing the cool matte of his own number. “I know you probably did this to be an asshole. And you cost me the fucking game. But you look so fucking good in this blue that I can’t force myself to stay mad at you.”
“Da, now you know how I feel,” Ilya said in that smartass tone, nodding and craning his neck to look back at Shane again. So much for him being good, Shane’s brain chirped helpfully. Knew that wouldn’t last long.
Shane put a hand on the back of his head, turning him back to face the wall, “Do you want me to touch you or not?”
Ilya groaned, and Shane could practically hear the eyeroll, “Da, please, do that.”
“Are you going to stop being an asshole?”
“I will do whatever you want if it will make you touch my dick right now.” Well, at least he’s comfortable with this, the dickhead.
“Then I want you to lose the attitude, Rozanov,” Shane wrapped his arms around Ilya and dipped his hands underneath the hem of the Metros shirt. His fingers traced patterns as he pressed his lips to Ilya’s neck, letting himself breathe in the comforting scent. His hands travelled lower and lower until they slid underneath the waistband of Ilya’s underwear. Ilya groaned his approval, and his hips bucked when Shane’s fingers brushed against his already hard cock.
“Please, Hollander,” Ilya full-on whined this time. “Please, just–”
“You like that, hm? You like when I tease your cock?”
“Fuck, yes. Has been too long. Need more, please.”
He sounded wrecked, and how he could go from full-of-sass, asshole-extraordinaire to borderline begging in all of a minute was beyond Shane, but shit, he didn’t care. His mouth found Ilya’s earlobe– Shane knew he was weak for that– and he wrapped his hand around Rozanov’s cock, grinding his own against the cleft of Ilya’s ass.
The effect was immediate. Rozanov hissed something in Russian and tried to move his hips in time with Shane’s, but Shane stopped him with a firm hand on his hip. “No, you’ll take what I give you this time.”
Ilya huffed, but his hips stopped moving. “That’s it,” Shane murmured. “Should I let you fuck me tonight?”
“Fuck, Hollander, why are you even asking that?” He was panting now as Shane stroked him, and he didn’t sound quite as cocky anymore.
“Because I want you to beg me,” Shane lifted his hand under Ilya’s chin. “Spit.”
Rozanov groaned like the words pained him, but he did as Shane asked. Shane continued working his cock, the glide easier now as he spread the wetness around Ilya’s shaft.
Ilya shuddered as the pleasure coursed through him, and Shane rutted against him, letting himself get lost in his own pleasure for just a moment. He wondered what it would feel like to have that ass squeeze his cock. Ilya did have a really fucking good ass, and Shane was confident that Ilya was aware of that. Maybe one day they could switch, just as a one-off. Both of them were more than happy with their usual dynamic, but… the thought lingered in Shane’s mind every time he saw it bounce.
Now though, even as he stroked Ilya, felt the heady weight of him in his hand, he only wanted one thing. Well, okay, two things. But one thing immediately.
“Rozanov.”
“Hollander,” Ilya groaned in response. Shane couldn’t see his whole face from behind where he was standing, but he saw Ilya had his eyes closed still, only occasionally opening them to watch where Shane’s hand gripped him.
Shane’s other hand crept up Rozanov’s shirt, cupping his pec briefly before pinching his nipple. He rolled it lightly in between his fingers as Ilya whined.
“Don’t you sound pretty like this? I almost hate to stop but—” Shane stopped. Both hands fell away from Ilya’s body, and Ilya made an indignant noise of protest. Shane ignored him and stepped back, creating space for his next order.
“But you’re going to suck me. And if you do a good job, Rozanov, maybe— just maybe, I’ll forgive you for the stunt you pulled and let you fuck me, hm?”
Rozanov was already turning and sinking to his knees before he even answered. His eyes held that glassy look again, and his voice was breathy when he forced out, “Yes, Shane. Or, fuck—Hollander.”
Shane’s heart stuttered for a beat when Ilya said his first name. He’d used it before, and Shane was pretty sure he’d called Rozanov “Ilya” last time first. But it wasn’t often that it happened, still rare enough that Shane could see some of the glassiness fade in Ilya’s eyes, giving way to something akin to panic.
He didn’t want that. He wanted Ilya calm and pliant and not panicking. Even though his own mind buzzed a bit, faint alarms— too much— pulsing somewhere far off, unable to fully cut through the fog of lust, and something else maybe, that surrounded Shane’s thoughts. Shane stepped forward again, crowding into Ilya’s space, his nose to Shane’s groin.
“Shhh. Yes, Shane,” he said, threading his fingers through Ilya’s curls. “It’s okay.”
Shane was relieved when Ilya leaned into him and nodded silently, pressing his face further into Shane’ crotch and inhaling deeply.
“Do you want it?” Shane asked him, fingers pulling at the waistband of his own sweats.
Ilya looked up at him, pupils blown wide, “Yes. Shane.”
Shane smiled softly, “Good boy.”
Ilya blinked at the praise, like he wasn’t used to hearing he was “good,” and Shane silently resolved to tell him more often. Even if it was just behind closed doors and always in this context. This way, sexually, secretly, was the only way Shane could have him, after all. But everyone deserves to be praised sometimes, Shane thought.
A bit of the hazy look had returned to Ilya’s eyes, so Shane snapped the elastic of his waistband, drawing his attention back down. Ilya’s gaze locked to where Shane was aching and hard, but he was clearly hesitant to touch, waiting for instructions. Fuck, that was hot.
“Pull ‘em down. Underwear too.”
Ilya dragged Shane’s sweats down his legs, boxer briefs followed, and then Ilya was on him. His mouth was wonderful and warm as it closed over Shane’s head. He wrapped one hand around the base, the other gripping Shane’s thigh, rubbing up and down as if Ilya were mapping Shane’s skin by touch.
Shane sighed, low and drawn out, “Ilya, fuck. That’s it.”
Ilya came even closer on his knees, until he was as fully pressed to Shane’s leg as the angle would allow for. Shane didn’t miss the fact that Ilya was attempting to grind against him, but fuck, if the neediness didn’t look good on him.
Ilya groaned when he heard his name from Shane’s lips. The vibrations in his throat had Shane putting one hand on the wall behind Ilya to steady himself.
The hand still tangled in Ilya’s hair tightened around the strands as Ilya upped his efforts. He pulled off briefly, only to spit on the shaft, spreading it with his hand and twisting, just how Shane liked it.
“Shit,” Shane gritted out as Ilya flicked his tongue over his frenulum. To make matters worse (achingly better), when he leaned forward and looked down, he saw the block letters of his own last name across Ilya’s shoulders. “God, Ilya. That fucking shirt —” Ilya moaned around him and pulled him in deeper by the backs of his thighs and “— shit —” another glance down, the 24 bobbing along with Ilya’s ministrations “— nope, off. You gotta get off, right now, Rozanov.”
He wrenched Ilya off by his hair when it became clear he wasn’t going to stop on his own, yanking his head back and forcing him to look up at Shane. Ilya had a huge shit-eating grin on his face. Of course.
“You—” Shane panted, trying to look stern, “you are such an asshole.” He huffed a laugh, caving as a smile forced its way through. “C’mon. Bedroom. Now.”
Shane dragged Ilya to his feet, refusing to let go of his hair until Ilya was already moving, falling into step behind him like an obedient puppy.
When they reached the bedroom, Shane yanked Ilya forward, kissing him hard. His hands crept down to palm Ilya’s ass, and he smacked it once, twice, just because he could. Ilya groaned into Shane’s open mouth and tangled his fingers in Shane’s hair.
Shane wondered if Ilya was itching to pull hard on his hair, bare Shane’s neck, and bite him there, like he usually did. If he was, he managed to restrain himself, allowing Shane to do exactly that to Ilya this time. Ilya whimpered, and Shane took the opportunity to walk him backwards.
Their knees hit the bed, and they fell in a tangle of limbs that left Shane on top. He had one leg in between Ilya’s, and through the one thin layer of fabric that separated them, Shane felt how hard he was.
Ilya bucked against his thigh and whined, reminding Shane once again of a puppy. Big, bad, terror on the ice, Russia’s-Greatest-Rage-Machine Ilya Rozanov was whining and whimpering and humping Shane’s leg like a fucking puppy.
He couldn’t help but smirk at the desperation. He knew it was mean, that Ilya hadn’t been touched by himself or Shane since he’d stroked him by the wall, but god. After the text he’d sent before the game, the way he kept pushing, even after Shane made it fucking clear that he was in charge tonight, the way he’d almost purposefully made Shane come before he’d wanted to— well, he was fucking begging for Shane to be a little mean.
“Aw, baby,” he grabbed Ilya’s chin, forcing him to make eye contact, just to make him squirm. “You’re so desperate. Is that for me, hm? Is that really why you bought that shirt?” Shane leaned down, his voice low as he growled into Ilya’s ear, “because it makes you feel like mine.”
Ilya threw his head back with a pained noise halfway between a groan and a sob, “Please, Shane, please— fuck— I need you.”
“Need me like this?” Shane asked, his hand snaking between them to yank Ilya’s briefs down enough to take him in his hand.
“Y-no,” Ilya’s aborted head nod turned to a shake, probably realizing Shane wasn’t going any further than this without prompting. “No, no, is not enough, Shane. It’s not.”
“Tell me what you need then, Rozanov. I said, I want you to beg for it,” Shane hissed as he nipped at Ilya’s ear lobe.
“I– I want to fuck you, please,” Ilya’s eyes were wet, and Shane knew he was probably mortified inside. Though apparently, desperate horniness wins out over mortification sometimes. Shane rewarded him for it, kissing the outer corner of his eye where a tear pooled and threatened to fall.
Then, Shane made it worse.
“Fuck, baby. Already crying for my ass and you’re not even inside me yet– is it really that good?”
And Ilya, as expected, threw an arm over his face. He didn’t say anything, only shaking his head and hiding from Shane’s gaze.
Shane huffed a laugh and yanked Ilya’s briefs the rest of the way down and off. Snatching the bottle of lube conveniently set on the bedside table, he moved to straddle Ilya’s thighs. He flicked the cap of the lube open and drizzled some on one hand.
“I’m gonna open myself up for you, Ilya, since you’re apparently too overwhelmed to help me take care of you.” He leaned forward, bracing himself on the Metro’s logo covering Ilya’s pecs. “And then I’m gonna ride you until the only name you remember is the one on the back of that shirt.”
Ilya gasped as Shane sunk a finger into himself, “God, yes, Shane. Faster, please. Need to be inside you.”
“Don’t rush me, Rozanov,” Shane panted, as if he also wasn’t rushing himself. He was just as desperate for Ilya’s cock as Ilya was for him, but holy fuck, he’d never seen Rozanov like this before. Was this what Shane normally looked like to Ilya? With that thought lingering in his mind, Shane was determined to keep up the persona for as long as possible. He wanted to give Ilya as much as he could, and he knew Ilya enjoyed the usual role he took on. But as good as it felt for Shane to let go, he imagined it was an even more rare and precious feeling for Ilya. He could give him that— he was sure of it.
As pissed off as he’d been about the shirt— well, he wasn’t pissed about the shirt. God, he wasn’t pissed about the shirt. He was fucking turned on, and he was pissed he’d let it affect the game. But the shirt itself? On the Boston Raider’s star center Ilya Rozanov himself? It was something he’d keep in his mind’s vault forever. Surely he could reward Ilya for that.
“You don’t want to hurt me, do you? Hm?” Shane prompted. Ilya’s arm fell from his face, and he shook his head, eyes big and watery.
“N-no, not ever going to hurt you, ever,” he gasped.
“Sh-sh, I know,” Shane pushed Ilya’s hair back, soothing him and smiling softly. “I know you’d never hurt me. But you’re so big, and you know I’m always so tight when I squeeze your dick. Just a minute, baby, and I’ll give you what you need.”
Ilya nodded and settled, though his hips still bucked, seemingly involuntarily, as though even his body was searching for Shane’s.
Finally, finally, Shane worked himself up to three fingers and deemed himself ready to take Ilya’s cock. He rolled the condom he’d grabbed from the bedside table onto Ilya and slicked him up quickly, not lingering too long. His cock had been long ready, and Shane could tell just from lining him up at his entrance.
Shane felt just the tip pressed against his hole, and his hands landed on Ilya’s torso, bracing for the stretch and then absolute bliss he’d already deprived himself of for too long.
“You ready, baby?”
“Yes, yes, fuck, please. I can’t wait anymore, Shane, I can’t.”
Shane sank down, throwing his head back as Ilya stretched him, until just the tip was past that ring of muscle. A groan punched out of him, and Ilya moaned as Shane squeezed the head of his cock. He dropped down further, slowly, just an inch at a time, until he was fully seated.
Shane panted, hovering over Ilya, whose open mouth matched his own. Ilya looked up at Shane like he’d hung the fucking moon— like he’d never seen anything like him in his life, even though they’d been here together many times before. His eyes sparkled, maybe from unshed tears, maybe from the stars that lived there. The ones Shane was convinced could never be permanently dimmed.
“You look so pretty, Hollander.”
And Shane’s heart ached. Ilya swallowed, and his throat bobbed nervously, like he wasn’t sure if what he said was okay. Like he was expecting Shane to run.
As if Shane could or would run anywhere while impaled on Ilya’s monster cock.
“You look pretty too, Rozanov.” He couldn’t call him Ilya here. “My blue brings out your eyes.”
Ilya’s lips twitched in the corners, probably hiding a smile. Shane couldn’t dwell on it long, though. Ilya shifted his hips upwards, not enough to be considered a thrust, but enough to remind Shane how badly he needed to be moving right now.
“I know, I know. Put your hands on me.”
Ilya obeyed, his hands flying to Shane’s waist, thumbs caressing the expanse of skin they sat on. Shane pushed up on his knees, the slow slide achingly delicious. Ilya must’ve thought so too because his head dropped back, and his grip on Shane tightened as he let out a moan, “Fuckkkk.”
Shane dropped back down, and the sudden movement had Ilya crying out. It was a desperate, aching sound. One that he’d never heard Ilya make before, one he’d never even considered possible from him.
Shane wanted to hear it again.
He pushed up and dropped back down again hard.
Ilya keened. The little tear in the corner of his eye that had been threatening to spill over for the past few minutes finally did so, setting something off in Shane’s chest. He kissed the tear away, tasting the saltiness on his lips as he set a pace that was quick and punishing. Shane couldn’t bear to deprive Ilya anymore, or himself for that matter.
All Ilya could do was chant “ShaneShaneShane” and hold on tightly as Shane slammed onto him over and over again. His eyes were screwed shut, and Shane thought privately that Ilya had never looked prettier than he did right now.
Ilya always looked good. Better than good. He looked strong and sexy and powerful always. But here, just for Shane, he looked pretty.
Or at least, Shane let himself believe, just for this moment, that it was just for him. He knew it probably wasn’t. Sometimes, like now, his…whatever it was with Ilya didn’t feel casual. But Ilya was the expert on casual hookups. Shane only had this one. So.
This was probably typical of a casual hookup.
But just for now, Shane allowed himself to pretend that he was the only one who got to see Ilya like this. It was striking— the contrast between Raiders #81 Ilya Rozanov and the man who, lying under him right now, begging for him, was just Ilya.
Shane leaned down again, pressing his forehead to Ilya’s. The angle shift made Ilya’s jaw drop open, and Shane shared the sentiment.
“Oh fuck, baby. Right there, that’s so good,” Shane gasped into Ilya’s open mouth as Ilya’s cock nailed his prostate over and over again. Shane’s cock twitched, and he could feel his balls drawing up. He took himself in his hand, squeezing around the base to try and stave off the orgasm that had crept up from out of nowhere. “Fuck. Ilya, you’re gonna make me come.”
“Do it, please. I want to make you come,” Ilya begged, strands of hair clinging to his sweaty forehead.
“You first,” Shane grunted and doubled his efforts.
“But—” Ilya made a valiant effort at protesting, but caved quickly, giving way to the pleasure Shane was forcing on him. “Shit. Fuck. I-I’m—”
“You gonna come for me, Rozanov?”
“Uh-huh, I’m about to— Shane,” Ilya came hard with a shout, filling the condom. It seemed to go on longer than normal, and Shane fucked him through it, keeping his rhythm steady until Ilya was scrambling, his hands grasping at skin, and whimpering for Shane to stop.
Shane felt like he was about to explode, and it almost killed him to take Ilya out, to have his hole clench around nothing. But he remembered how Ilya had finished when Shane had worn his Raiders shirt, how unbelievably fucking hot that must’ve been for Ilya to see, and he wanted that for himself. He climbed off of Ilya and knelt next to him.
“On your stomach,” he growled in Ilya’s ear, but it was more of a warning than a request. Shane grabbed Ilya’s hips and flipped him. Ilya let out a yelp of surprise, and Shane couldn’t help the huffed laugh that snuck out of him.
Sometimes Ilya forgot Shane was also a 200 lb hockey player.
Ilya’s hands were up by his head, pushing up so Ilya could watch Shane over his shoulder. Shane pushed Ilya back down as he straddled his ass again, but he let him watch out of his periphery as Shane yanked the blue fabric tight.
The white matte HOLLANDER 24 stretched like a blank canvas, and Shane was about to become the next Jackson fucking Pollack.
Spitting in his hand, Shane worked himself, hand twisting over the tip with just the right amount of pressure, and fuck, this wouldn’t take long.
Ilya’s curls, and fuck, Shane’s name. His number. Ilya watching him, waiting for— fuck.
Shane was coming. Fucking bliss. He watched as the first shot hit the 2, the next on the second ‘L’. The rest followed, and he swore loudly, not even sure he was speaking English, as it went on and on.
When he’d wrung himself dry, he pushed up the shirt, folding it in on himself as best he could, before collapsing onto Ilya’s back. Shane laid his head on Ilya’s shoulder and let his eyes close for a minute, basking in the warmth of the skin to skin contact.
“That was…” Ilya started.
“Good for you?” Shane asked, trying not to worry that Ilya hadn’t enjoyed it as much as he had.
“Fuck, Hollander. Who taught you to act like that? And say those words?”
“Umm,” Shane tried to think of a less embarrassing answer than ‘you did,’ but honesty and exhaustion won out. “S’not like I was taking notes, but you’re a pretty good teacher.”
Ilya shifted underneath him, and Shane took the hint, rolling off to lay beside him. He couldn’t force himself to make eye contact, and Ilya’s lack of response wasn’t lost on him. Ilya flipped to his back, pulling the condom off his rapidly softening dick. He tied it off and threw it in the general direction of the trash can. Shane made a face. The Metros shirt followed to the floor, falling closer to the dirty clothes hamper.
Shane felt Ilya look at him, so he dragged his eyes to Ilya’s face. He was pleased to see the lasting effects still lingered. Ilya’s cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were clearer now, still a bit glassy, but dryer than they had been.
“You are good student,” Ilya murmured, something soft in his expression that Shane couldn’t quite put his finger on. He must be tired, Shane thought.
“Thanks,” Shane almost whispered, drawing out the ‘s’ sound like he did when he wasn’t sure what to say. “Shower now?”
Ilya blinked like Shane had interrupted some deep thoughts, but he nodded, pressing a kiss to Shane’s lips before rolling off the bed.
Shane followed him, placing a hand on his lower back as if to guide him. As if this wasn’t Ilya’s house. But the simple touch made him feel like he was helping in a way.
Ilya seemed to need it less than Shane did after Ilya had railed him into the next season, but Shane wasn’t about to let him feel abandoned, or like Shane didn’t care.
Because he did care, like a normal amount for a casual hookup. The same way Ilya cared for him post-sex. Casual. Safe.
He sat Ilya down on the closed lid of the toilet, running a hand through his hair, and turned the shower on. Ilya leaned on his hip and let himself be petted while they waited for the shower to heat. His face was more guarded than usual, probably because he was used to caring for Shane, not the other way around.
That was okay. Shane was just glad Ilya was letting him at all. Some kind of feeling crept over him, some kind of wistful something that didn’t have a name.
Ignoring it, he checked the shower and found it hot. He pulled Ilya up by his elbows and guided him in first. Ilya went willingly.
“You are coming in too?” Ilya asked when Shane didn’t move immediately.
“Yeah. Yeah,” Shane shook his head as he realized he’d just been standing outside the shower watching the water soak Ilya’s hair. “Sorry, just—”
The word “thinking” went unsaid as he trailed off.
Shane stepped into the shower and followed Ilya under the spray.
“I really did like that shirt on you,” Shane said as Ilya moved to let him under the water.
“What, it did not make you mad?” Ilya snorted.
“No, I mean it did, but I wasn’t mad at that. I just—” Shane huffed, frustrated that the words weren’t coming easily. “I was upset that I kept getting distracted. It was…” Ilya was never going to let him live this down, “affecting my game.”
Ilya’s eyebrows raised in mock surprise, and he smirked, “Really?”
“Fuck off, you were distracted too!”
“Mm, yes. Is true. But I didn’t play that bad.”
It was a lie, and they both knew it. Months ago, when Shane had sent the picture that had started this whole thing, Ilya had played terribly, and Shane thought it was good that maybe now they were even. He wasn’t going to debate him though.
“Asshole,” Shane said, trying and failing to keep a smile from spreading across his face. But then another thought occurred to him. “What if someone sees that you have that?”
“What, the Metros shirt?”
Shane gave him a ‘duh’ look.
“Is fine. No one will see.”
Shane wasn’t convinced. “But what if they do?”
“Then I will tell them an old hookup left it here. Very kinky girl. Into roleplay,” Ilya waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “It’s only half lie.”
“Go fuck yourself, Rozanov.”
“Ah, but you already did,” Ilya grinned, pulling him in.
Shane rolled his eyes, but accepted the kiss with a smile.