It'd been too long—really, really too long this time–-and Shane can't remember a single one of his reasons for putting this off, for letting months stretch between him and this, getting this.
Rozanov's hands tighten around his hips, shunting his cock further up into him with a grunt. Shane throws his head back at the feeling, the stretch, the fullness. Fuck, the fullness of it. It's been too long, way too long. He's missed this, needed this, craved it.
Dangerous. But even that word doesn't hold the weight it should, not when Rozanov's hand moves from his hip to ghost along the straining muscle of his thigh and then back up to wrap around his cock.
"Oh fuck yeah," Shane pants out. The touch is this side of too much. He feels too sensitive for it. He's too close already, could come at any moment if Rozanov touches him just right. But he wants it. Wants whatever Ilya will give him. Will gladly take it. Fuck, it's been ages. He could probably come twice.
But Rozanov doesn't do anything else, doesn't tighten his grip, doesn't move his hand. "Roz, c'mon," he says, a second away from begging. He stills his own frantic movements on Ilya's lap and bends forward, pushing himself closer, rubbing his cock against Ilya's loose grip as if that'll give him the friction he needs.
All it actually gets him is a light slap to his ass. "I do not say stop," Ilya points out, thumb running over the slit of Shane's cock. His other hand dances along the area of skin he's just hit, a warning. Like he can't help himself, Rozanov's grip turns firm, unrelenting as he squeezes one of his ass cheeks. The touch is possessive, proprietary. So fucking good that Shane's mind is almost too foggy with pleasure to parse what he says next. "You are tired out after riding dick for two minutes, Hollander? Bad for your stamina stats, kotik."
It's not fair that Rozanov can still be such an asshole even as he fucks him. It's either like the world's shittiest superpower or the best case of multi-tasking Shane's ever seen.
"I'm tired from," he gets out, starting to ride him before Rozanov can smack his ass again. Which Shane wouldn't enjoy.
(Right? Probably. Definitely. Yes. Right?)
The words disintegrate in his mind as pleasure scorches up his spine like lightning. How is it so good, every time? How is it fair?
Rozanov smirks up at him, cocky and smug and such an asshole that Shane remembers exactly what he was going to say. "I'm tired from winning a hockey game tonight. Sorry you can't relate."
He moans out embarrassingly loudly when Ilya's cock bumps against his prostate, shutting his eyes and letting his head fall forward at the sensation.
Infuriatingly, Ilya's still smirking when he looks back at him. "The score was 2-1," he says. "We made you work for it."
"Not during the powerplay in the second period, you didn't," Shane retorts, automatic and only slightly breathless. Hockey's not something he has to think about. It's engraved in his bones.
And—there. Ilya's jaw bunches and his eyes flash. His lips tighten the same time that his hands do. Annoyed. Shane likes him a little bit annoyed. Likes him fast and rough and a touch mean.
"You barely have ice time tonight, I counted," Rozanov says, nails digging into his ass in a way that's making it really hard for Shane to focus on the chirping. His cock is still moving languidly in and out of him, Rozanov putting in most of the effort while Shane bounces mindlessly on his lap.
"Counted?"
"Yes, counted," Rozanov's smirk is back. "Very easy, not high number. Like I said. No ice time."
Now it's Shane's turn to scowl. That's always the dangerous part about bickering with Rozanov: he usually bites back.
It's not like he's wrong, which is shit in a way that Shane doesn't want to think about right now. It's the beginning of the season, the Voyageurs are fresh off losing in the final round of the playoffs, the team and staff went through a restructuring over the summer that's left the locker room feeling strange and unfamiliar, and Shane's knee went on the frisk two weeks ago during practice and out of an abundance of caution from coaches who don't know him, they've been putting him on the ice as little as possible until they can be convinced that he's fine, it's fine, everything's fine.
But Shane doesn't want to think about that, doesn't want to try to explain it, even if maybe Ilya would understand better than almost everyone in the entire world. No. Tonight, they'd had a victory on home ice, against Boston, and right now Shane's speared on the Boston captain's cock and still so close to coming that it's almost ridiculous.
He wants the record to state that hockey talk does not get him going.
It just, apparently, doesn't really sober him up either.
He's definitely regretting bringing up the game, especially when Ilya lets go of his cock completely to lay back and put his hands behind his head. Arrogance is such a fucking good look on him that it's not fair.
The new position has Ilya's biceps on full display, and a not-inconsequential part of Shane wants to bend his head down to lick at the visible vein running beneath his skin. But he's also competitive enough to want to win this conversation, even though he's sensible enough to realize that's not really a thing. "Guess you had to do something while you were in the penalty box," he says, wrapping his own hand around his length.
He doesn't stroke it yet though. He just—he wants Ilya to tell him to. Maybe. He doesn't know.
Ilya's looking at him like he knows it. His eyes are their own sort of weight on Shane's body, expression suddenly unreadable as he considers him.
Whatever he sees or whatever he decides has him moving, pushing up from the mattress until he can wrap his arms around Shane and tug him into his chest with one hand. The other hand stays on the bed, arm flexing and straining as he renews his pace, thigh muscles straining beneath him as he fucks into Shane's trembling body.
It's unexpected enough to make him gasp, make his head fall back so he can stare at the ceiling and try not to shatter under the onslaught of Ilya Rozanov's attention.
"No," Rozanov bites out, half growl. Fingers tangle at the ends of Shane's hair, forces his head back to him. "I am not on ceiling."
The words are so nonsensical that Shane blinks back at him. Maybe there's some Russian phrase Ilya is using that doesn't translate well into English?
"You look at me," Ilya states, and then his hands are back on Shane's hips except this time he's tugging him off, slipping out of him like it's easy, like it doesn't leave Shane aching and empty and unsatisfied.
It punches a hurt little noise out of Shane, losing his cock. He grabs for Rozanov, any part he can reach that could keep him close. His fingers tangle in the necklace chain for a moment before abandoning it to run through his curls instead. "No, wait," he mutters, wondering if he should apologize. Wondering if he should beg.
Roz hushes him, rolling them over until he's flat on his back with Ilya kneeling between his legs. The only thing in Shane's vision is Ilya: his strong jaw, his flushed face, his messy curls, his smug grin. "Do not worry, Hollander," he murmurs. "My cock is not going too far."
"Get on with it then," Shane replies. Demands, really. He spreads his legs further apart, raises them into the air the way he knows Ilya likes him. "Fuck me." But he feels embarrassed, spread out and pinned down and vulnerable with it. Ilya's eyes are so heavy, it's like the weight of his stare could crush him. He wants desperately to turn his head away, press his burning face into the sheets and whatever reprieve they can offer him. Instead he makes himself raise his chin and harden his voice the way he does on the ice during practice when the rookies aren't paying attention. "Or I'll get back on top and do it myself."
"No, no," Ilya says. He bends, closer. So close. He kisses him briefly, greedy like he can't help it. But when Shane kisses back, Ilya pulls away. Fucking contrary asshole.
"You are tired from winning big hockey game," Ilya says. His accent is stronger now than when he'd met Shane at his hotel door. It always gets like this when he's turned on, which makes Shane even more horny. He loves his accent. He's scared to death about what Ilya could do with that information should he ever find out.
"Win one game, want princess treatment, yes?" Ilya is murmuring as he moves down his chest, pressing harsh, biting kisses against Shane's nipples. The pain makes him cry out, makes him push up into Ilya's mouth, desperate for more, for again, even in the midst of it.
"Yes?" Ilya asks again, resting his chin on Shane's stomach and peering up at him. His lips curl into a smirk that Shane knows the taste of. He's so fucking—beautiful. It's unreal.
What was the question again?
Shane blinks at him, probably looking—sweaty and stupid and cock-drunk. "Yeah," he agrees.
"Of course you do, printsessa," Ilya says, pressing his lips to the right of Shane's belly button. It's weirdly sweet, bordering on too gentle to be withstood. It makes Shane tremble almost more than the fucking had.
Ilya pulls away fast though; he's got this uncanny knack of knowing when Shane's at his limit. It's impressive, something else to be envious of. Probably a skill Ilya learned from years worth of sleeping with random strangers.
Which is also something Shane really, really doesn't want to think about right now. Or, like. Preferably ever, if he could ever get his brain to cooperate.
Ilya rises back up onto his knees and bullies himself back between Shane's thighs. The condom-covered head of his cock nudges against his hole, and Shane thinks he'd probably feel embarrassed about how eagerly his body responds to Ilya if he had the wherewithal to think about it at all at the moment.
But that's maybe his favorite thing, about fucking Rozanov. Everything else goes quiet. Just—just for a little bit.
Rozanov's hands run down the outsides of Shane's thighs and then grip him tightly, beneath the knees, to pull him closer. Shane lets himself be put, be tugged. Because then, if he does, maybe Ilya will say—
"Good boy," Ilya whispers and Shane's heart rate triples like he's just won a fucking Conn Smythe award.
"Please, Rozy," he says, begs, and that must be what Rozanov has been waiting for because a moment later he's being given his cock again, sliding back inside him as if it never left.
Shane moans, long and loud, and Rozanov presses his smirk against the skin of his calf. He can feel the line of it, the hint of teeth. He just doesn't care, not when he feels like this. Not when it's so good every time. And it's been so long, too long.
His sounds are forced out of him in little uh's as Ilya sets a hard, brutal pace. It's exactly what Shane needs, the kind of fucking he's come to love, the kind that has him awake and worried at two in the morning in the middle of summer that he's been ruined for everyone else.
"Was thinking about this," Ilya pants, necklace jumping between his pecs from the force of his movements. Shane moans out his agreement because, yes—him too. He spends way too much time thinking about this, planning on ways to make it happen again and sooner. Dangerous. Dangerous.
"Was not counting in penalty box," Rozanov adds, shoving his hips against Shane's ass so hard—so good, it must hurt— "Was thinking about this."
Shane lets his head loll back against the pillow and then to the side. He feels equal parts resplendent and scandalized. "During the game?"
Ilya doesn't respond, shifting instead and readjusting one of his legs. Shane's knee gives a warning twinge, but he doesn't care enough to stop and course-correct. He's so close, the edge of his orgasm just out of his reach. Ilya's the same, he thinks, can recognize the way his face scrunches up and his breaths get more shallow as he gets close to coming. Shane tries to spread his legs further apart. Wants to be good for him. Wants to feel him come inside him,
"All the time," Ilya says, corrects maybe. The words sound like they've been ripped out of him. "Da, I think of this all the time."
There's something there that Shane should focus on, should hear, something that remains just out of his grasp because a moment later, Ilya strikes at his prostate dead on and Shane's eyes roll back in his head with the force of his orgasm. He seizes up around Ilya's cock, hands clawing at his naked shoulders and almost definitely leaving red lines down his back. A second later, Ilya's hips stutter and then stall against his ass as he bows his head and shakes over and around him.
Shane's hands loosen, relax around Ilya's shoulders. Then they fall off completely as he pushes himself to enjoy the post-orgasm haze of soft pleasure that he only ever really gets to experience when it's Rozanov in his bed.
Time passes in quick, successive flashes, understood mostly through sensation. Rozanov carefully stretches out his legs, pulling at the muscles to soothe over their soreness. A warm, damp washcloth is wiped against his stomach, then down over the mess of come and sweat in his pubic hair.
Then—finally—Rozanov is there, all of him, pressed against Shane's back and arms wrapped around his middle. It used to take them ages to get comfortable like this, to figure out how their bodies fit together in ways that weren't explicitly fighting or fucking. But now they have it down to a science. A science and a strict schedule. Ten minutes of post-sex cuddling, for the endorphins and shit, and then one of them gets dressed and leaves.
Tonight, that'll be Shane. They're in Montreal after all, but they met at Ilya's hotel. More convenient. Closer to the arena. Shane had a whole list of reasons and excuses ready, but Rozanov hadn't asked at all.
Like maybe he doesn't care about Shane not letting him into his condo. Like it's not a big deal to him, one way or another. Like all he cares about is getting his dick wet somewhere private, and as long as that happens, nothing else matters.
The warmth in Shane's chest dims at the thought. That means it's time to go. If he's going to get weird about this, about Rozanov and whatever it is they're doing that's made Shane's head and heart go to fucking war against each other, then he's definitely not going to start getting weird here.
"Still four more minutes," Rozanov states, arms tightening around Shane's waist when he starts to pull away. "Has only been six. I thought you liked following rules, Hollander. Rules say I get four more minutes."
"Fuck off," Shane says, because it's the easiest thing in the world to say to Rozanov. Quick and natural and uncomplicated. He can feel the beginnings of Rozanov's smirk against the back of his neck, can practically hear him thinking up some sexual shitty joke, so he adds, fast before he has to hear it, "I gotta ice this knee or the coach will get on my ass tomorrow and then I really won't have any ice time."
Rozanov's grip loosens, immediate. Shane pushes himself away, slower than he thinks he should. Leaving Rozanov's bed after sex is like how he's always imagined getting out of quicksand feels. No matter how much he wishes it could be as easy as ripping off a bandaid, Rozanov always lingers in his head. On his skin.
He tugs his underwear on and then the joggers he arrived in. When he glances back at Ilya, he's caught off guard to see him sitting up as well, arms crossed over his bare chest and glare affixed on his face.
He looks much angrier than he has all night, despite Shane's earlier attempts to wind him up. It makes him pause, rerun the last few minutes. Is Rozanov really that upset about missing a few minutes of post-sex hugging?
"What is wrong with your knee?" Rozanov demands, scowling down at Shane's leg like he can give it a visual examination from the bed and through Shane's clothes. "You let me fuck you like that with bad knee?"
"Nothing's wrong with it," Shane says, which isn't even a lie, really. "I just hurt it in practice a few weeks ago, no biggie. It was fine. The coaches are just being careful."
"Coaches only as careful as hockey players let them be," Rozanov shoots back with a frown so severe that Shane sort of feels like he's been brought in front of his franchise's GM for a scolding. It's not exactly a feeling he likes having with his asshole still loose and probably sticky with lube.
"I don't have to defend myself to you," he snaps at Rozanov, bending down to pick up his shirt and yank it over his head. The warm feeling from earlier is gone completely now. The anger helps a little, but mostly he feels—cold. Hollow in the face of Rozanov's sneering disappointment. "Leave off, alright?"
"Should never have put you like that," Rozanov is saying, like he can't hear him. He's running his hands through his hair, face dark, eyes furious. "Riding dick is bad for bad knees—bad knees is bad for future hockey!"
"It's fine," Shane insists, putting his hands on his hips and glaring back at Rozanov. "Look, I know my body, alright, I know what I can do, what I'm up for, and—"
And he hadn't cared. In the moment. With Rozanov inside him, Rozanov's hands running all over his body, Rozanov's lips on his skin. He hadn't been thinking about hockey, about the future, about how career-ending injuries can come out of nowhere like a puck to the face. It doesn't matter if you're wearing a helmet or a mouth guard—sometimes you blink and you wind up with broken teeth anyway.
All he'd been thinking was how good it felt. Rozanov could have broken his arm while fucking him and he'd probably have still tried to lace their fingers together. Dangerous. Dangerous.
He remembers why now.
He stoops down and grabs the crumpled black sweatshirt from the floor, balling it into his hands just to have something to hold.
"And I'll see you in a few weeks," he finishes, a lame mutter that leaves his mouth already limping. "We'll be in Boston the night before the game. If you…whatever. I'll text you."
He turns to go. Like a band-aid. Like learning to ride a bike. Do it enough times and you'll stop being surprised by the sudden sting of pain that comes from falling over.
But then Rozanov is there, still naked and frowning like Shane's gone and run over his dog or something terrible.
He snatches the bundled sweatshirt from his hands and crosses his arms. It should look ridiculous, a man as tall and broad as Ilya standing in front of him holding a sweater by one sleeve and wearing nothing but a petulant child's frown.
It doesn't.
"This is mine," Rozanov states, and Shane blanches before he can pretend to be confused.
Technically, yes. It's Ilya's. So was the tee that Shane had taken a few months ago, the last time they'd seen each other. So was the long-sleeved undershirt he'd taken the time before that. And the quarter-zip windbreaker. And the other tee. And—
Well. They've all been Ilya's. And if Ilya has realized, has figured it out—then…well that's embarrassing, verging on mortifying. Even though he's been pretty sure Ilya's been onto him the last few times at least. Maybe even before.
It's just—Shane likes it, wearing Ilya's clothes. He likes the feeling of them against his skin, which might be a manufacturer thing, he doesn't know. He likes the way Ilya's smell lingers on the fabric for ages. Likes that they're just a bit too big for his body. It makes him feel—like he…like he does in those post-sex ten minutes of cuddling time. Safe. And small. And quiet.
"Oh, I didn't realize," Shane lies, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck and wishing desperately he could put his hands in his pockets without looking even more guilty. "My bad."
Ilya's scowl darkens. "You always fold your clothes before sex," he says. "It is weird, I notice. So I notice when you grab clothes from the floor instead of your neat little piles. You steal mine on purpose."
"It was an accident," Shane insists, swallowing around nothing. He gives up and shoves his hands in his pockets. "Sorry." Then, just in case it helps, "Bro."
"I am not your brother," Rozanov says. His fingers are white-knuckle tight on the sweatshirt. "You wear my clothes to cover the hickey I give you, do not call me bro."
Shane feels a moment away from throwing up his hands, maybe storming out of the room altogether like that'll save him from the humiliation of this conversation. He never wanted Ilya to find out about the clothes thing. Had definitely never thought Ilya would decide to interrogate him about it.
"Look, whatever," he says, aiming for brusque even though it goes against all his instincts. It's easier like this, to curl away, to retreat inside and put on whatever mask he has available. This one is High School Hockey Player Gets Almost Caught Staring At Another Boy In The Locker Room—one of his favorites, one of his most-used. "I said sorry. You like that sweatshirt. Fine. It's over. And—and anyway, if you've known about it for ages, why are you starting something now?"
"I ignore petty theft for good boys," Ilya replies. "Not bad boys who do not tell me when they injure their knee."
Shane really does toss up his hands now. "I'm fine," he snaps. "Worse now after this conversation, shit."
Ilya does not look moved. Shane hadn't really expected to be. The Russian is stubborn to the bone when he decides to make something an issue. Why Shane's bum, perfectly fine knee has made the list, he doesn't know. Doesn't want to think about. Not—here at least.
He pinches at his nose and then shakes his head. "Is this done now? Can we be done here? Yeah. Okay, I'm—I'm gonna go. I need to ice this. I'll see you around, Rozanov."
He turns to go because Ilya has never actually stopped him leaving and it's not as if he can really chase him down the hotel hallway, naked as he is.
Ilya catches him against the hotel door, turning Shane around until they're almost chest to chest, only a slim amount of space separating them. It's a familiar position. Still now after all these years, all this time, it makes Shane's heart race.
Ilya holds out his sweatshirt. His face is hard to read, some mix of emotion that Shane doesn't know how to name. Contrition, maybe, blended with obstinance. "Take it," he says, pushing the sweatshirt into Shane's hands.
"No way," he replies instinctively, batting it away. "I don't want it."
"What, it is thrill of the hunt for you then?" Ilya pushes the sweatshirt forward again, an offering. "Stealing, that is okay, that is the point. But given as gift, hm, you think, no, unacceptable?"
"I—" Shane's eyes fall away, find refuge in staring at the floor. "Look, I'm…sorry, okay, I am—"
It's a terrible thing, to be caught wanting. To have so much desire in you it makes your head spin, makes you find ways to let it out like it's pressure to be released. Makes you do stupid things like—like steal your fuck buddy's clothes and wear them around your house just so you can smell him and pretend he's there with you and you're not so goddamned lonely in the middle of the night.
Ilya's other hand cups Shane's chin. Gentle. Surprisingly so. "Hey," he murmurs. Sweet. Achingly so. "I like it. It is nice seeing you in my clothes. Fit you better than they fit me."
"They don't," Shane argues weakly, semantics, because it's the truth. Ilya's broader in the torso, the arms. His shirts are noticeably too big for Shane. He loves them anyway.
"No, I am right. It is, how do you say. Objectifying fact."
"Objective," Shane provides. "Objectifying is like. When you make something that isn't about sex about sex, I think."
"Then it is objectifying fact, and I am still right, " Ilya grins down at him. It's a softer smile than any he's given him so far tonight. Almost as soft as the stupid sweatshirt's fabric.
"Fuck off," he says, helpless agains the urge to smile back. Dangerous. It's too dangerous. It's too much. Ilya is closer now, swaying forward across the distance between them like he cannot help himself.
"Come here," Ilya commands, and Shane obeys.
They kiss for long drawn out moments which could be minutes which could be hours. Kissing Ilya is always like that for him. Kissing Ilya is always time-consuming—but in the best way.
Shane's so tangled up in the kiss that he doesn't even notice when Ilya pulls his hands above his head. He goes along with it, would go along with anything Ilya wanted when they're like this. Leaving the hotel room feels like an idea someone else had, some stranger who has no idea what's best for him.
Ilya breaks this kiss with a small, simple peck to his lips. Then another, like he's starving. Shane tries to follow as he leans away, but before he can push closer again, a wall of fabric descends over his eyes.
He emerges from the sweatshirt's head-hole already spluttering. Ilya's grinning at him, all red lips and bright eyes. Unrepentant. "You are going straight home, yes?" he asks, pulling the sweatshirt the rest of the way down Shane's chest and coaxing his arms through its holes. "And you have coat to wear on top?"
Shane blinks, then frowns. The motherhenning is new. "Yeah, I'll get a car from the lobby," he says because he at least knows the answer to that question.
"Good, good," Ilya says, smoothing down Shane's front. Shane opens his mouth to protest, but he's cut off with another kiss so spine-meltingly good that he thinks he loses a few minutes of brain functioning. When he comes to, he's back against the hotel door, jacket in his arm and shoes by his feet. Ilya's nuzzling his face up against the edge of his jaw, pressing kisses along the line of his jawbone. Extra affectionate tonight. Maybe this is how he gets when he doesn't get the whole ten minutes of post-sex cuddling.
It may be worth experimenting with, if it'll get him more of this side of Rozanov.
"Ice your knee very well, da?" Rozanov murmurs, running his fingers along the hem of the sweatshirt and down, over his thighs. "I will be very sad if you get permanent injury and retire from hockey early."
"That's not gonna happen," Shane says, with all the confidence of someone who's worried about that maybe five times a week since he was seven years old.
"If you ice it, yes, yes," Rozanov agrees. He pulls back, angles Shane's chin up to meet his eyes. "I will be very upset with you otherwise. My rival cannot be Scott Hunter, Hollander. Very bad look for me, beating old man into ice."
Shane lets out a surprised bark of laughter. "I think you're underestimating Hunter. He's having a great year."
"He has two great years left maybe," Rozanov says dismissively. "Then he will retire with old man back problems and I will have no one if I do not have you. Ice your stupid knee."
"You almost sound concerned, Rozy," Shane murmurs, tipping his head forward in a silent request for another kiss. Either he is ignored or denied; he doesn't know which one would be worse. Either way, Rozanov lets go of him and takes a step away. Sensing an impending dismissal, Shane shrugs on his coat—over the sweatshirt.
"Good night, Hollander," Rozanov says, and Shane goes.
It's not until he gets into the taxi that he realizes something's off. The cab driver takes one look at him in the rearview mirror and winces so badly that Shane's momentarily afraid that he somehow tripped and got 'Just Got Dicked Down By Ilya Rozanov' tattooed on his face.
"Win the game but lose a bet, eh?" The driver asks, craning his head to look at him in the back of the cab.
"Sorry?" Shane asks, pulling one of his headphones from his ear and turning from the window to look at the cabbie.
"Your shirt," the cabbie says, waving a hand back towards him. "Can't imagine Captain of the Montreal Voyageurs wearing a Boston Bears hoodie except cause he lost a wager, right?"
Shane blinks and then looks down. The upside-down logo of the Bears, stylized and obvious, stares back at him in blinding yellow and gold.
"Right," he says faintly. "Yeah. Bad luck, I guess."
The cabbie keeps talking, says something else, but Shane's attention has officially been lost. He pulls out his phone with fumbling hands and swipes through it until he can find his conversation with Rozanov.
Jane: youre such a fucking asshole. This is a bears shirt I can't be seen out in this!
Rozanov responds within moments, which just confirms Shane's hypothesis that the other man has been lying awake in bed waiting for him to notice and react. Notice and react; that about sums up his whatever-this-is with Rozanov. Notice and react and then fucking obsess over. Wash, rinse, repeat.
Lily: you are petty thief here. I am innocent victim.
Jane: I cannot believe you.
Lily: I am Russian, we wrote book on crime and punishment. perfect punishment for pretty boy crime, no? :)
Lily: sweet dreams ;)
Lily: but send pic, yes?
Lily: for poster
Lily: for posture
Lily: for post reality
Lily: for forever, but just for me.