Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander

Additional Tags:

Possessive Behavior, Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Possessive Ilya Rozanov, Piss Marking, Spit Kink, Mildly Dubious Consent, Freak4Freak Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Come Marking, Come Eating, Blood Kink, Blood as Lube, Sexual Freak Ilya Rozanov, Sexual Freak Shane Hollander, Jealous Shane Hollander, Possessive Shane Hollander, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dry Humping, Masturbation, Shane Hollander is a Mess

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Hollanov Smut

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-18 Completed: 2026-05-19 Words: 11,655 Chapters: 4/4

Avarice

Summary

Four bodily fluids that define the obsession between Canada’s Shane Hollander and Russia’s Ilya Rozanov.

Notes

I’m so sorry about this I couldn’t ignore my brain 😭

Dubious tag is for the exchange of bodily fluids without the others knowledge or consent. Both of them do this at some point and the other would 100% be into it if they knew it was happening, but they dont so

Chapter 1: Piss

Chapter Summary

Ilya feels feral at the thought. Wild and manic with the need to mark what he subconsciously has been calling his for years now.

God, Shane really has turned him into a dog.

Ilya stops pacing, frozen. Dogs mark their territory. Ilya knows they scent mark things like cats do, rub up against things, but they mostly mark their territory by one action: pissing on it.

Chapter Notes

Ilya texted Shane exactly three minutes and twenty seconds ago, yet the door to his ridiculous sex building stays closed. Ilya frowns down at his screen, the bright flash blinding him briefly, before he looks through their sent messages one more time.

They'd planned this, down to the minute Shane expected Ilya to show up at his door, yet the chronically on-time Hollander is three minutes and twenty-seven seconds late to actually let Ilya in. The message still reads delivered. No reply.

Ilya checks the time again. Three minutes and twenty seconds becomes four minutes, then four minutes and twelve, thirteen, fourteen seconds. Not that he's counting.

He exhales sharply, shoving his phone back into his pocket, then immediately pulling it out again. Maybe Shane had texted him within the time it took him to put it back in his pocket?

Still unread.

It's quiet outside, dark and chilly with a mild wind that is threatening to turn Ilya's nose raw and red if Shane doesn't get it together and let him in. Ilya glances around, checking for the fourth time that no one is lingering besides his sorry self, before he looks at his phone again, like he doesn't have both his volume maxed all the way up and his ringer set to vibrate.

Shane is always paranoid about answering the door as quickly as he can, not waiting even a second after Ilya sends the usual here text to swing open the door and pull him inside.

So what does it mean that he isn't opening the door? That he hasn't even read Ilya's text?

Ilya's jaw tightens in building frustration, worry, and the absolutely embarrassing swell of hurt that threatens to overwhelm the other two. There are very few reasons Ilya could imagine Shane not answering the door for and none of them bring Ilya any peace. The one that haunts Ilya the most, the one he ignores as best he can on a good day and wallows in on a bad day, is the thought that one day Shane was going to realize he could do better than Ilya. That he could charm some other man or maybe woman and have them eating out of his hand.

The vague thought takes shape quickly, infesting Ilya with a wave of possessiveness so fierce it physically pains his chest. He’s jealous too, an ugly greedy feeling that claws itself out from deep within him, but it is the urge to dig his teeth into Shane, to mark what’s his, that takes up the majority of his thoughts.

The thought that Shane could find someone easier, someone who doesn't tease him until he’s flushed with angry arousal, someone who is uncomplicated, who can be seen at his games wearing a jersey with a big smile on their face, almost brings Ilya to his knees.

Ilya has no right to feel this way; they are supposed to be two men who fuck occasionally. That is the sum of their relationship off the ice. Two rivals who share a secret.

Ilya is not supposed to be standing out here in the cold, spiraling over Shane Hollander not opening his stupid fucking door.

"Unbelievable," he mutters, pacing around in a small circle, back and forth in front of the locked door like the dog Shane turns him into. He feels like a dog left outside in the cold, one that has displeased his master one too many times and now must deal with the consequences of his actions.

Ilya feels himself overthinking, lost in his conflicted feelings as desire and hurt and unearned possessiveness make him fall into a state he has never experienced before.

What could be keeping Shane? Surely he would tell Ilya if something came up, if only to keep Ilya from showing up and being too visible outside of the building. What could possibly distract Shane long enough that he would leave Ilya out here to be hypothetically caught?

The suspicion from before lands heavily.

Ilya huffs out a low, dark chuckle, the sound of it loud in the quiet of the night. There is no humor in it. He can suddenly imagine it, the image vivid in his mind—someone else keeping Shane occupied inside. Someone grazing light hands along Shane’s side as he shivers, a moan caught in his throat. A woman gripping Shane’s hair as they kiss languidly against his kitchen counter. Perhaps a man tightly gripping the back of Shane’s neck as he sucks dark hickeys on to his sweaty, heat flushed skin. The kind that Ilya salivates at the idea of being given permission to leave.

Ilya’s chest tightens, sharp and acidic. This feeling is so ugly. He knows that. This darkness doesn’t suit him, doesn’t fit how he wishes he could feel. He wants to be indifferent or maybe even simply sad. Being sad over the idea that Shane could be with someone right now; it’s not the best, but it would be far more acceptable than what Ilya is experiencing.

Ilya wants to pretend he does not care, that he has waited long enough, that he has been humiliated and that this is the final time he’s going to put himself through this.

Unfortunately, Ilya does care. That is the problem.

His fingers curl into fists at his sides. He considers leaving—calling a cab, going back to the hotel, pretending his entire thing with Shane never even happened. Pretending Shane doesn't get under his skin in ways he refuses to name.

Ilya does not stop his pacing.

He lingers there, seething, refusing to leave like he has something to prove—to Shane, to himself?, he's not entirely sure.

Ilya’s mind wanders even further as time passes slowly. It eats at him incessantly, the thought of Shane with anyone but him. He recognizes his own hypocrisy, but it does nothing to stop the possessive beast inside him. The creature growling and foaming at the mouth, snapping its jaws in unrestrained desire to mark Shane as his. The rabid dog that wants to take until everything is his.

Shane doesn’t allow Ilya to mark him like he's imagining some unknown man is doing to him right now; no marks can grace his skin, his fear of his teammates asking questions too high. He feels distraught at the thought that Shane might be allowing someone else to leave the marks that Ilya was refused.

Ilya feels feral at the thought. Wild and manic with the need to mark what he subconsciously has been calling his for years now.

God, Shane really has turned him into a dog.

Ilya stops pacing, frozen. Dogs mark their territory. Ilya knows they scent mark things like cats do, rub up against things, but they mostly mark their territory by one action: pissing on it.

Ilya’s heart skips a beat. He can suddenly see himself staring at Shane, the freckled man on his back before him. His legs slightly open, a dark flush across his chest that quickly spreads. His beautiful cock engorged and twitching, laying pretty in a groomed thatch of hair as a moan escaped his pretty pink lips. Ilya can see himself grip his own cock, eyes dark and greedy at the sight of Shane, as he releases a steady flow of piss across Shane's stomach. He can imagine the way it would pool slightly at the dip of his belly button before it would fall across his abs, spreading across his body before spilling onto the sheets below him. Ilya wouldn’t stop at just his stomach. He would point his dick around, marking lower until he would piss directly on Shane’s dick, wetting his cock and heavy balls, matting down the sparse dark hair. He would mark it with his piss, claim ownership of Shane and his pleasure at the same time. Ilya wouldn’t stop, would finish the act of true possession by making Shane present for him, his ass in the air and his cock heavy between his legs. Ilya would save the last dregs of his piss to pass Shane’s gaping, twitching hole. Would bare his teeth in satisfaction as the act would make Shane gasp, would make his cock drool onto the sheets below him.

Ilya would fuck him after, covered in piss and marked completely as Ilya’s.

Ilya is broken out of his fantasy when he finally registers his half-hard cock twitch in his jeans. He wants it, wants to mark Shane as is in the same way stray mutts obsessively mark their territory.

Only, Ilya can not do any of that. Not only because Ilya highly doubts Shane would be cool with any of what Ilya just imagined, but also because Ilya is still locked outside, alone, while Shane is maybe upstairs, entertaining a guest he likes more than he wants Ilya. Someone he likes so much he forgot to cancel, forgot to tell Ilya to fuck off in a dismissive, cold text.

Ilya glares hard at the building in front of him, thoughts swirling. It comes to him slowly, floating out of the back of his mind like maybe it had been hiding there for some time without him noticing.

Ilya could not mark Shane directly, but his stupid sex building sits right in front of Ilya.

He sucks in a breath, sharp and sudden, as he registers the ache in his dick—and his bladder.

His hands shake as he immediately starts unbuttoning his jeans, zipper sliding down with barely any noise. It is quiet still, the night just as dark as it was five minutes ago. The area is abandoned besides Ilya. No one will see. No one needs to know.

Ilya steps closer to the door, tugging his boxer briefs down to slip his heavy cock out. He points it directly at the door, breathing labored slightly as he hesitates for just a moment.

This is crazy. Ilya is acting crazy.

His bladder aches slightly and his dick fully kicks in his hand, making Ilya’s hesitation disappear.

He almost groans when he finally lets himself go, hot piss escaping his cock. He can only vaguely see the stream in the dark, but he can hear the liquid hitting the metal door. He revels in it, the satisfaction of marking this place as belonging to him. The cold that had bothered him before is hardly even noticeable now as he empties his aching bladder onto the door in front of him.

He shifts slightly, aiming for the brick walls around the door, humming at the way it sounds. Heavy wet splatters grace his ears, a contrast to the sharp ting from the metal that had blessed his ears just a moment ago.

Ilya is panting by the time he shakes the last drops from himself, fighting the urge to fully grasp his cock and just stroke. He has a vision of his cum streaking the door, complimenting the wet shine of his piss, but it is interrupted when he hears a faint sound behind the door.

He shoves his dick back in his pants, wincing only slightly as he buttons and zips himself back up. He has his phone in hand and is doing his best to look unbothered, if slightly annoyed, when the cursed door finally swings opens, light flooding out.

Shane stands there, eyes slightly wide, out of breath and gripping the door handle like he was afraid of what might—or might not—have been on the other side.  His hair is a mess, like maybe he's been running his hands through it, and there's a faint crease between his brows that doesn't smooth over even after he's made eye contact with Ilya.

"Sorry," he says quickly, a grimace falling over his face. "My mom wouldn't hang up."

Ilya blinks at him as it takes a moment for the words to register. His mother?

"Your mom," Ilya repeats, incredulous, and every single dark and twisted thought he’s just experienced flies out of his head. Then he laughs sharply, the sound closer to a cackle than anything. "This is why you keep me waiting? Grown man can not get his mother to stop telling him to remember to wear Rolex next time he leaves his home?"

Shane rolls his eyes, grumpily telling Ilya to fuck off even as he steps aside, making room. "You're still here, so clearly you weren’t that offended I made you wait.”

"I should demand compensation," Ilya shoots back, fake and real indignation leaking from him.

“Compensation,” Shane hums, a small smile flashing across his face. “Good word."

Ilya feels his stomach flutter, a giddiness filling him, and he moves forward to step past Shane, where his eye catches on the brick wall next to them.

There’s a dark patch, made visible from the light spilling out of the doorway.

Ilya forces himself forward, swallowing a sound that threatens to escape him when his dick full on leaks in his pants. He feels light headed as he follows Shane up the stairs, brain foggy with lust, and he has to shake himself when Shane pauses for a moment to shoot a look over his shoulder.

“You could’ve texted again,” Shane says before moving along once more.

“Ah,” Ilya clears his throat, gathering himself and sending a salacious smirk at the other man, “I should not have to nag you to be on time for important, sexy hook up.”

Shane glances back at him again, clearly making sure Ilya can see him roll his eyes. “It won’t happen again.”

“Make sure it does not,” Ilya responds with a sniff, grinning at the scoff Shane lets out as they finally enter his apartment.

Ilya’s mind briefly flashes back to that dark patch of brick, the way his piss sounded splashing over the building where Ilya fucked Shane for the first time, before he is suitably distracted by the way Shane grips at his curls, his hot mouth eager to get Ilya’s tongue entangled with his own.

Shane will never know Ilya has left his mark on this place, but Ilya will know. He will let this memory bring him comfort when Shane inevitably brings someone else here. When he finally tells Ilya he’s tired of their years long back and forth affair that means nothing and has to stay that way. When Ilya is left behind and forgotten, he will know deep inside himself that he left his mark.

Chapter End Notes

Hope you enjoyed Ilya pissing on the sex building 👍

Next bodily fluid? Spit 😏 💦

Chapter 2: Spit

Chapter Summary

I want to be the only one who gets to smell this, Shane thinks, unable to stop the thought. I want to leave spit trails along his neck, his jaw, across his chest. I want people to see there is someone who has a claim to him, even if that claim lasted for a single night.

Chapter Notes

:P

Shane listens as Rozanov curses something in Russian, rustling around as he sits up and grabs his phone from the hotel's side table. They don't usually hook up before games, but Boston had arrived a day early for their game against Montreal and was flying out almost immediately post game in order to head to Winnipeg for their next away game. They wouldn't have had time to meet up otherwise. They had chosen Rozanov's hotel room for simple convenience; Shane's building was busier during the day and it was more likely Rozanov skulking around outside would be noticed than Shane slipping into a hotel would be.

Rozanov had some sort of team obligation that day, possibly a team dinner, but Shane hadn't been listening that closely on account of Rozanov's hand was on his dick, but he knows just from the way he quickly stands, running his hand through his hair, that he's probably running late to whatever it is.

Rozanov rounds the bed and heads immediately for the bag that was discarded on the plush chair in the corner of the room. He digs through it, grabbing something from his toiletry bag, before he pauses at the sight of Shane, still stretched out and loose-limbed from the orgasm he had just had.

"Stay until I am finished," Rozanov mutters, leaning down quickly to lick into Shane's mouth. Shane feels a bit dizzy with it, but the feeling stops once the other man leans back and heads towards the bathroom.

Shane watches him walk away, eyes glued to the way his ass moves as he walks, before the door is shut slightly, ajar enough that he knows steam will still be able to escape.

Shane lays there, eyes now glued to the ceiling above him, and he takes in several deep breaths, each one deeper than the last. He holds for three, four, five seconds, before releasing, the slow build of something in his chest not dissipating, but not getting any worse either.

Rozanov's scent lingers in the room. The cologne he wears is a familiar smell to Shane at this point; he's worn the same brand and scent for years now and it continues to capture Shane's thoughts. It's deep and rich with amber notes, something spicy and so very masculine. Shane feels weak in the knees whenever he catches a scent that's even slightly similar.

It's a problem.

He finally forces himself to sit up, dirty sheets pooling around his lap as he slowly stretches. He's still feeling good, satisfied in the way only Rozanov seems to accomplish, but they hadn't exactly been gentle with one another, both too eager for release.

Shane has to blink away the memory of Rozanov's hand gripping the front of his throat, the way he had only ever squeezed enough for Shane to feel it, but not leave a bruise. Shane won't allow himself to think about what that bruise might look like, what it might feel like if he ever told his rival to just squeeze a little bit harder. How sore his throat would be for days afterwards, with a collar of claiming bruises around his neck.

Shane flushes immediately at the thought and huffs to himself, suddenly uncomfortable. He reaches for his own phone, determined to confirm he hasn't missed anything while otherwise occupied, and is confronted with his own browser once he unlocks his phone.

Shane winces and then frowns darkly at his last search pops up.

Shane hadn't gone looking for it; he has in the past, searching Ilya Rozanov then adding the word stats, then interview, only to delete those words and eventually finish his search with women.

This particular image was shown to him in the locker room two weeks ago. It's from a night out in Boston, inside a club that Shane has seen Rozanov be caught in before. This one had made the rounds simply because the woman was identified as the sister of someone who played for Toronto; Boston had just beat them 5-2 that night and Rozanov getting all hot and heavy with the player's sister had caused plenty of tongues to start wagging.

Shane had heard all of this, vaguely nodding along to several of his teammates calling Rozanov an asshole, but had been almost entirely distracted by the photo.

Objectively, it was actually a very well lit shot. Whoever had taken it had incredible timing, as the strobe lighting of the club highlighted the two in such a way that was very sensual. Alluring. Rozanov's head was tilted back slightly, only his side profile visible. He was wearing a satisfied little smirk, eyes closed. The woman had her lips pressed against his jaw, necking at him and probably getting a nose full of his scent.

Shane's lips pursed as his jaw tightens. His eyes track down from where her lips touch his skin to the way the lighting shows, in just the faintest way, the trail of shine on Rozanov's neck.

She had clearly dragged her mouth along his neck, maybe sucking, maybe just licking a long line; who knows. The picture captured the remains though, the sleek shine of it tinted the same purple and blue shade the rest of the club lighting had.

Shane swallows thickly around something in his throat. The spit shine of it all had captivated him then and it captivates him now. The way she had probably tasted him in public, complimented by the way his scent surely drove her high, brought out something inside him that he's scared of.

His heart beats too fast, his palms start to sweat, and he feels a well of something deep inside himself try to rear it's ugly head. Shane refuses to acknowledge it, won't allow himself to dwell on it after the hours he has already spent on staring at the picture while alone, and instead stands to get himself dressed.

He collects and puts on each item of clothing with as much precision as he used when taking them off, staring down at the floor in an attempt to ignore the still open phone on the hotel bed. He goes to grab his shirt and winces when he stumbles slightly, knocking into the hotel chair and jostling the bag sitting there.

Something comes loose and falls with a dull thud once it hits the floor.

Shane immediately flushes with embarrassment, eyes shifting towards the bathroom. All he can here is water and some faint splashing as Rozanov moves around in the shower, so Shane sets his shirt aside long enough to bend down and gather whatever it was he knocked down. It ends up being the toiletry bag Rozanov had apparently not securely put away from earlier. It's unzipped and Shane has to carefully make sure nothing spills out as he moves to put it away the right way, only his eyes catch on something reflective sat on top.

His heartbeat skips slightly when he slowly pulls the cologne out of the bag. He holds it in his shaking hands, just stares at it like the loser he's starting to feel like, before he sets the bag down and flips the bottle around to read it.

It's all in cyrillic. The fact Shane can't read it, is unable to put a name to the scent that he can't stop thinking about, sends a pang through his chest. His fingers tingle as he uncaps it, bringing it to his nose and inhaling. It's stronger from the bottle, but it's the same scent. The same warm, maculine scent that leaves his mouth watering.

It dislodges thoughts that Shane has been tactfully avoiding thinking about while still in Rozanov's general vicinity. I want to be the only one who gets to smell this, Shane thinks, unable to stop the thought. I want to leave spit trails along his neck, his jaw, across his chest. I want people to see there is someone who has a claim to him, even if that claim lasted for a single night.

His mind flashes back to the picture and he fully grimaces, finally feeling the swirling upset that has been taking up residence in his gut. Shane can't do any of what that woman did. Rozanov would probably hate if Shane ever even mentioned wanting some type of ridiculous claim over him.

The scent still lingers with the cap off and Shane breathes it in, finally naming the clawing desperation he has been fighting so hard to ignore. Jealousy. Possession. Either, both, the two so mixed up together that Shane suddenly feels sick with it. He wants something, to mark and claim in some way, but the visible aspects of the thought shakes something in him that he isn't prepared for.

He thinks of invisible claims, of the way he still feels the hands around his neck even without the bruises he secretly longs for, and an idea slowly comes to mind.

It's honestly a little disgusting. A gross violation of whatever trust Rozanov has for him. He shouldn't even be thinking it, let alone doing it.

He just got off and he's suddenly so, so hard. He's already leaking in his underwear and Shane would be humiliated, but he's still staring at the cologne and thinking.

His mouth has been watering for a bit at his thoughts and he hasn't swallowed. Has just held his viscous spit in his mouth, tongue occasionally rolling in his mouth as he collected more. It's sharp in his mind now, the image of what invisible claim he can make that satisfies him without anyone else, especially Rozanov, ever knowing.

Shane brings the uncapped cologne up to his mouth and spits.

He doesn't do it hard, simply let's his saliva pool and drool out of his mouth in a slow, steady fall. Shane has the brief thought of what it would feel like if he did this with Rozanov's cum, if he collected it in his mouth and let it slip slowly off of his tongue, but he pushes that aside to focus.

Most of it makes it into the bottle, already half empty and with plenty of room. Some dribbles down the side and coats Shane's hand. He finally closes his mouth, chin wet with residue, and he shakily places the bottle down on the bedside table. He swallows and stares at it.

He takes his spit coated hand, listens carefully for any sign Rozanov was almost down, then he shoves his hand into his pants and jerks his cock with speed. It's a shock to his system, finally acknowledging how hard this has made him. He whimpers and shakes with it, completely lost in what he has just done, what it will mean.

Rozanov will come out of that bathroom eventually. He will get dressed and he will complete his routine by picking up the bottle Shane has just desecrated and dab the scent onto his skin. Shane's spit will exist on his neck, on his wrists, wherever he likes putting his cologne, for weeks. Every time he goes out wearing it, every time someone brushes their nose against his neck, when he fucks into whatever random woman he has picked up, Shane's invisible mark will be there. Shane will be an unseen presence in every interaction Rozanov will have for the next however many weeks depending on how long the bottle lasts.

Shane just manages to shove his pants down and catch his release in his hand as he bites back what would have been a mortifying scream. His cock is jerking in his fist, cum drooling out of his slit, and Shane feels like he's gonna pass out. His balls are pulled tight against his body and he almost can't stop himself from letting out the sob that threatens to escape him.

It stops, eventually, and Shane is left gasping lightly with a hand full of cum and his slowly softening cock hanging out. He numbly grabs some tissues to wipe his hand, tucking himself away, before picking up the open bottle once more.

He breathes in, once, twice, noting that his spit hasn't changed the scent. No one will ever know because there's nothing to notice. He caps the cologne and swirls it, combining the spit and liquid for good.

He places it back, right on top, and finally collects his discarded shirt to slip it on. He sits at the edge of the bed to pull his shoes on, jumping slightly when the bathroom door swings open and Rozanov emerges with a towel wrapped loosely around his waist.

Shane hadn't even heard the water turn off.

Rozanov catches Shane looking and he sends him a familiar, infuriating smirk, brushing past Shane to collect some clothes from his bag.

"See something you like?" he asks as he drops the towel without shame.

"You wish," Shane says dryly, throat tight at the slightly damp skin on display.

Rozanov laughs, clearly amused by his obvious lie, pulling on clothes fit for a night out with his team. He says something in Russian, the tone teasing, but Shane is distracted when he watches him pick up the cologne bottle.

Shane's pulse spikes.

Shane watches in silence, trying and failing not to stare, as Ilya dabs some on his necks. He touches his wrists and then behind his ears, humming slightly as he goes about his routine. Shane's dick tries valiantly to get hard again, but he is thankfully spared from that humiliation.

The scent wafts it's way to Shane and he finally looks away.

"Not going to shower first?" Rozanov asks casually, glancing up and down at his clothes. "No one will be here to notice if you stay to get clean."

Shane shakes his head, standing and awkwardly putting his hand into his pants' pockets. "No. Forgot I promised my mom I'd look over some paperwork, need to, uh, get on that."

Rozanov snorts, swiping up his wallet and room key as he turns towards the mirror by the door, checking his hair. "Of course you must do this, can not keep мама Hollander waiting."

"Fuck you, asshole," Shane replies, glaring half-heartedly at him on his way to the door.

Rozanov grins in response, tongue sticking out slightly as Shane slips past him, subtly checking the hall for any random people, before rushing out, heading towards the other end of the hall where the elevator is located.

He catches the Russian's parting, "See you around, Hollander," just before the door closes behind him.

"Yeah," Shane replies quietly, knowing Rozanov wouldn't have heard it.

The air is chillier in the hallway than it was in the room. It's quiet. Shane takes the back exit on the way out, careful to not be seen by any Boston players who might already be waiting in the lobby for their teammates.

Shane escapes from the hotel, swimming in something that is made up mostly of satisfaction. Relieved to not have been caught leaving, to not have said something he's barely holding tight inside his chest; to have left something of himself with Rozanov, something that marked him, made him into something Shane can haunt without actually being there.

It's enough, Shane thinks to himself, it has to be enough.

Chapter End Notes

I had to edit this three times because I kept trying to save and my browser would log me out TT.TT if you see any mistakes no you didnt

next up?: CUUUUM

Chapter 3: Cum

Chapter Summary

Ilya feels a pulse of heat in his gut. He swallows, mouth suddenly watering, and he decides that he doesn't really care if what he's doing is crazy, not when it comes to Shane. He moves the fabric, dragging his fingers through any cum that has yet to dry. It's soaked into the fabric for the most part, but his fingers come away sticky. He debates the merits of laying down and jerking off with the underwear, shoving them into his pants and tugging on his cock with them, but he knows there's something else he wants even more.

Chapter Notes

ilya NO

Ilya has the brief thought that this is maybe pushing it, that this specific hook up might actually get them in trouble, but then Shane lets out a little whimper, something high pitched and needy, his fists gripping Ilya's jacket and tugging the material closer to him, and everything except Shane is forced out of his mind.

Shane responds beautifully when Ilya scrapes his teeth along his neck, grunting when Ilya's hands slip into his unbuttoned shirt. Ilya takes a moment to squeeze Shane's firm tit, licking along where he had just nipped at him. Ilya suppresses a shiver when Shane's hands move from his arms to wrap around the back of his neck and into his hair. Ilya's eyes almost roll back when Shane digs his nails into his scalp, not scratching violently, but just enough that Ilya can feel them there.

Shane uses his grip to tug him back slightly and he captures Ilya's lips in a wet kiss, the slide of tongues a familiar heat. Ilya removes his hand from Shane's shirt and uses it to hike one of Shane's legs up onto his hip. He shifts just slightly before he grinds his pelvis against Shane.

They moan together, lips not detaching. Ilya's cock pulses in his jeans at every sound Shane makes, the wanton need sending sparks down his spine. Shane's moans get louder as he humps forward, hitched thrusts showing his desperation.

They should stop, take a second to breathe and maybe move this to Shane's hotel bed, but Ilya feels ravenous, his need manifesting in the grind of his cock against Shane's. He can't stop himself from sucking lewdly on Shane's tongue and gripping his thigh as hard as he dares. He imagines squeezing those solid thighs until his knuckles turn white, Shane's skin turning red with a bruise, the shape of a hand solid evidence that Ilya had been there.

"Мой любимый," Ilya gasps out once their lips part, stuttered breaths mingling as they move against each other. "So hot, Hollander. You need me so bad, could not even make it to bed."

"Shut up," Shane gasps in return, both hands now buried within Ilya's curls, one tugging slightly when Ilya speeds up for a moment just so he can hear Shane's breath hitch. "You pushed me against the door as soon as it was closed. You have no room to talk!"

Ilya hums, because Shane is right, but he makes sure to add a questioning tone to it, just to make sure Shane knows he's mocking him. It makes Shane's already red face deepen in color, his brows furrowing in an expression that only Ilya can get out of him.

"Hm, maybe," Ilya finally replies, tilting his head forward slightly so he can speak directly into Shane's ear. He is already close, which should be embarrassing considering they have been humping against Shane's hotel door for only about five minutes, but Ilya has long ago learned Shane's tells. Shane's eyes are blown wide and they look damp, like he might start tearing up from pleasure. His head keeps threatening to tilt back, like he's unable to support it on his own. He has the habit of exposing his neck to Ilya that constantly drives Ilya insane; it is not fair for Shane to present his pretty, gorgeous neck if he is not going to let Ilya dig his teeth in and bite, "but I am not one who is so desperate for cock that I am leaking through my pants."

Shane's hips instantly thrust forward and he gasps loudly, body taught as he comes right there against Ilya. Ilya groans in response, rubbing against Shane as the wet spot on the front of his pants, evidence of just how much his dick leaks when around Ilya, grows slightly larger. Ilya is getting close now, Shane's pleasure sparking Ilya's own, when Shane lets out a little sound, something that almost sounds like a sob, before pulling Ilya's head fully into his neck.

"Please," Shane begs.

Ilya's cock responds immediately and he has his teeth buried in the crook of Shane's neck as he starts to come in his own pants. His cock spurts inside his underwear and it is almost too much, the way the fabric has been rubbing his dick this entire time leaving him sensitive and raw. He has enough mind to not tighten his jaw, to not make the bitemark deep and bruising, but rather something Shane could hide, but that is about the only thing he can manage until his heart finally starts to slow.

They stand there against the door, heavy breathing the only sound in the room. Ilya gently releases Shane's leg, letting the other man finally stand on both feet. He moves back slightly, stepping far enough apart he can meet Shane's eyes. Ilya's gaze darts around his flushed face, entranced by his freckles and dark eyes, only to grimace when he shifts again, reminded suddenly of the mess their encounter has made of his pants.

Shane seems to have finally come down as well because he too is shifting in discomfort, pulling away from Ilya completely to step around him and go further into his hotel room. He makes a beeline for his suitcase, the contents of his perfectly packed bag revealed to Ilya's eyes. Ilya contemplates making his way to the bathroom, stealing the shower so Shane either has to wait or join him, but he is distracted when Shane curses.

"Fuck," Shane mutters, moving aside perfectly folded articles of clothing, clearly searching for something, but coming up empty.

"What?" Ilya asks.

"I don't have anymore underwear," Shane mutters, his ears returning to the pink flush he had just started to lose.

"You? You do not have extra underwear packed?" Ilya asks, incredulous.

"Shut up," Shane snaps back with a scowl, still looking in his bag, like maybe extra would simply appear if he doesn't stop searching. "J.J. spilled wine on my pants at dinner last night and they bled through. Then Miity wasn't watching where he was going during breakfast and got me with a full cup of coffee. I sent them to be laundered before you got here, but there's a problem with the machines or something; the hotel told me they'd be clean by the time we get back from the game tonight, but until then I'm wearing my only other pair."

"So you wear cum-stained panties to game," Ilya tells him, cackling when Shane whips around to send a harsh glare at him.

"Shut up, asshole, they're not panties!" Shane hisses, his freckles stark against his red cheeks. They way he stutters slightly catches Ilya's attention, something heated he very much wants to explore, but they're interrupted when Shane's phone starts ringing.

Shane grabs for it and answers, huffing in annoyance. Ilya is mostly focused on his face, flashes of what type of bet he could propose and win that would result in Shane Hollander wearing a pretty pair of panties just for Ilya to enjoy. The daydream is interrupted when Shane hangs up his phone and groans loudly, head falling into his hands.

"Ah, what has Shane Hollander so upset?" Ilya asks, taking in his slumped posture.

"One of the rookies broke something or is going to break something? I don't know. Hayden was with them in one of their rooms and is panicking," Shane explains, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth as he gently started to bite at it.

Ilya's eyes lock onto this action, his spent cock starting to show signs of life again, and responds, "You would think with a million kids Pike would know how to handle baby players."

"Shut up, he has three," Shane says into his hands. He eventually raises his head, a grimace following as he glances down at his pants. He stares at them for a moment or two before he drops them, wincing as he peals his underwear away from him.

Ilya watches with interest, unashamed as he blatantly stares at Shane's cock. It is reddened sightly, both from having just been hard and from rubbing up against the cloth of Shane underwear. It's sticky with cum, slightly chubbed up like maybe if Ilya shoved Shane onto the bed and took it into his mouth, he would succeed in getting it to return to full hardness.

He doesn't get the chance because Shane wipes his cock and balls quickly with a wet wipe he pulled from his bag and then tugs some gym shorts on, free balling it. He also changes to a more fitting compression shirt, laying the button up on his bed.

"I will be right back," Shane tells him, picking his phone back up and heading towards the door. Ilya watches Shane walk out of the room and feels a little pathetic at the way he he couldn't look away from the shape of Shane's dick in his shorts and then the way they hugged his ass.

Left alone, Ilya has nothing to distract him and his mind, so thoughts start to creep in once more. He shouldn't currently be in Shane's hotel room; that is true for every time they meet, but Shane rooms with Hayden on the road and they are not currently even in Boston, but New York.

Ilya should be back in Boston, packing up his travel bag and sending stupid memes into the Boston group chat. They play Brooklyn in two days and had been set to travel early tomorrow morning to get there a day early. Ilya had been looking at the schedule and noticed Montreal would be in New York for a game that night; they would be on the way to the airport right when Boston would be arriving in Brooklyn. The chance to possibly meet up with Shane, even for a few hours, was too tempting to Ilya. He had let his coach know he had a sudden sponsor meeting in New York and was easily able to get permission to head down a day before the rest of the team. Their next game is back in Boston, so it wasn't even hard to hop into one of his sports cars and make the three and a half hour drive to Shane's hotel.

Ilya probably should've rented a room for a single night instead of heading straight to Shane and risk showing up with Pike in the room, but he had not been thinking with the head located on his shoulders.

He does not want to acknowledge that maybe his heart also played a part in his decision to see Shane as soon as possible.

Ilya exhales, running a hand through his hair, trying to dispel the direction his thoughts have gone. He does not need to think about what his heart may or may not want from Shane. He is already far too aware of how possessive he feels of the other man; any other emotions that may or may not swim under the surface do not need to be brought to light.

He shifts, immediately grimacing when he is vividly reminded of the drying cum sitting tacky in his pants. He glances down at his crotch, contemplating whether it would be smarter to take the loss and leave in cum stained underwear or to simply discard them as a lost cause. Shane had told him to stay, but there was a small chance Pike might return with Shane and Ilya standing in their hotel room would not be a nice surprise. His gaze drifts and his eyes land on Shane's discarded boxer briefs, sitting not so innocently on the floor. Shane is usually more meticulous, but Ilya doesn't blame him for leaving them on the floor considering the current state they're in.

Ilya finds himself stuck staring at the discarded garment, familiar emotions swimming forward. The lustful swell from earlier still lingers, the evidence of their frantic dry humping keeping him from fully disengaging with it. Another emotion, one he is increasingly familiar with, returns as well.

Ilya sees the streaks of cum on the inside of the boxer briefs and he feels a dark satisfaction at the sight. He did that to Shane; made him feel so good he came without anyone having to touch his dick. This was proof of Ilya's ability to drive Shane wild, to have him unwind and then wind up in ways no one else could.

He's bending over and picking up the underwear without really thinking about it, hooking them on his pointer finger and bringing them up to dangle in front of his face. His breathing has grown ragged, his mind quieting. His cock stirs, sensitive and aching.

This feels heady, like Ilya has made some claim on Shane's body that he hadn't before. He still remembers the night he whipped his cock out and left his mark on Shane's ridiculous sex building, had jerked off to the memory more than once. This feels different.

Ilya feels a pulse of heat in his gut. He swallows, mouth suddenly watering, and he decides that he doesn't really care if what he's doing is crazy, not when it comes to Shane. He moves the fabric, dragging his fingers through any cum that has yet to dry. It's soaked into the fabric for the most part, but his fingers come away sticky. He debates the merits of laying down and jerking off with the underwear, shoving them into his pants and tugging on his cock with them, but he knows there's something else he wants even more.

Ilya licks a broad stroke across the wet fabric, moaning obscenely at the salty musk he finds there. He doesn't hesitate any further, shoving one hand in his underwear to grasp his rapidly rising dick and the other to shove more fabric into his mouth. He sucks on the material unashamedly, eyes rolling back as he his glides his sticky hand harshly up and down. His cock is so sensitive, still tender from the friction of their earlier humping, that it almost hurts. He sets a fast pace, moaning pathetically as he sucks as much of Shane out of the garment as he can.

He's already so fucking close, turned on not just from the physical stimulation, but from the possessive pride of making Shane Hollander come undone against him. His grip tightens, and when he feels his climax approaching, he quickly pulls the boxer briefs out of his mouth, shoving them into his underwear. He groans as his cock jerks, cum shooting out and landing on Shane's underwear. He humps the material frantically, whimpering slightly as he tries to force his cum into the fabric.

Ilya wants as much of his seed to soak into the fabric as he can get.

He pulls the fabric away eventually, close to sobbing from overstimulation, and he drops the clothing onto the floor where he found it, his hands shaky and knees weak. He grabs the pack of wipes Shane had used and he stumbles over to the bathroom, wincing the entire way. He has to stop and breathe for a moment when he first tries to peal his own underwear away from his body, his cock so tender he feels faint.

He eventually succeeds in getting completely bare, wiping himself off delicately. He's covered in his own spend and he has to use a second wipe just to confirm any sticky residue is removed from his skin. He doesn't even pretend to think about putting the ruined underwear back on; he tosses them in the bathroom trashcan, throwing the wipes and then some toilet paper on top, so they're hidden from sight.

He regrets wearing jeans now, avoiding zipping them up even as he tugs them back onto his legs. He stands there, jeans up but open, cock out, for what feels like forever. He's in some kind of weird headspace, satisfied in a deeply disturbing way that he has to use all his energy on not exploring or giving it a name. He hears the door's lock click and he finishes doing up his pants, taking a bracing breath as he tucks himself away.

He pokes his head out and meets Shane's eyes, the other man frowning at him in return. It sits on his face in such a way that it looks more like a cute pout than an actual upset expression.

"They want to go out for lunch and won't take no for an answer," Shane explains, heading to his bed, tugging his shirt off on the way. "The rookies don't want to wait until we get to the arena."

"And they need captain to babysit?" Ilya asks, raising a judgmental eyebrow when Shane throws him a look over his shoulder.

"Team bonding," Shane mutters in reply, dropping his gym shorts and giving Ilya the perfect view of his gorgeous ass and tight little hole. Ilya couldn't get hard again even if he tried, but he still tilts his head and stares unabashedly.

Shane pauses, staring at the discarded pants and underwear. Ilya watches him intently, his heart skipping several beats when he bends further down and scoops them up.

"You do not have to wear dirty panties," Ilya says when Shane just stares at them without moving. "You have already free-balled it today."

"Who taught you that word?" Shane asks, turning his eyes to stare at Ilya with disgust.

"Marly," Ilya answer, smirking slightly when Shane's expression only grows more distasteful.

"You're fucking gross," Shane shoots at him, groaning before he starts sliding the underwear on. "This is fucking gross."

Gross isn't the word Ilya would use. He finds his complex vocabulary in both English and Russian has left him, mesmerized as Shane unknowingly nestles his cock and balls within Ilya's depravity.

This is so much better than pissing on his building, Ilya thinks.

Shane slips his pants from earlier on as well, smoothing over the fabric to check for any obvious signs of cum. The fabric is no longer looks wet and the solid black shade covers anything that might have been visible on something with more color. The button up shirt is next, Shane making quick work of straightening out the upturned collar.

"Have fun playing папа for Маленькие хоккеисты," Ilya says, needing to say something, anything.

"I don't know what that means, but fuck you," Shane huffs, glancing down at his phone when it buzzes in his hand. His eyes widen, a sharp breath escaping him before he whips his head to look at Ilya. He's on him before Ilya can blink, shoving him toward the hotel room door with some force. "Hayden forgot his wallet and is on his way; you need to leave now!"

Ilya moves, more unbothered than he should be. He plants his feet just before the door, shaking off Shane's hands. Shane opens his mouth, probably to yell at him, but Ilya is already gripping Shane's face in one hand, his other coming up to grasp at the back of his neck.

"You were so good today, Мой любимый," Ilya whispers, making direct eye contact with a wide-eyed Shane. His mouth drops slightly at the words and Ilya is cursing Pike internally, oh-so-tempted by the spit-shiny pink lips in front of him. "Enjoy your lunch in your filthy panties and think of me, yes?"

"Asshole," Shane gasps out, his hand coming up to tightly grip Ilya's wrist. Ilya smirks in response, leaning forward to kiss Shane. He steps away from him as soon as Shane seems to be really getting into it, finally pulling away for good.

He slips out the door without another word, quickly making his way to the staircase door. Shane's room is at the end of the hall, right next to it, and Pike would likely be coming from a room closer to the other end of the hall.

Ilya hums to himself as he descends, his thoughts already on the next time he will get Shane in his arms and on his cock.

Chapter End Notes

ilya YES ;)

I wrote the second half of this fic in a public hospital waiting room trying to occupy myself while my father was being probed not once, but twice. I managed 1.5k words of this chapter that way lol

all translations are from google
Мой любимый my beloved/darling
папа papa
Маленькие хоккеисты baby/little hockey players

Chapter 4: Blood

Chapter Summary

Shane watches the clip play, heart in his throat, as Rozanov appears on screen, jawing at one of the veteran Ottawa players. Shane can't see his name from the angle of the video and he doesn't actually care. Rozanov is on screen, wild and sharp-edged, blood bright against his mouth where he was hit. He looks like he's smirking around the blood, teeth bared as a ref drags him towards the tunnel, clearly being tossed from the game.

He looks like something Shane can't name, something that could ruin him completely and he would still not regret it.

Shane doesn’t realize he’s leaning closer until the video ends.

Chapter Notes

:D warning for this chapter is that blood is briefly used as a poor substitute for lube

have fun

Shane hears about the fight right after Boston humiliates Ottawa 6-2 in their own arena. 

“Rozanov got into it tonight,” J.J. mentions casually from across Shane, scrolling through highlights on his phone.

Shane glances up at hearing Rozanov's name, gaze locking onto J.J.'s phone, before he glances away, returning to shedding his gear. He's flushed with sweat, still reeling from his own hard fought OT win against Chicago. He managed to slip one past their goalie with only two minutes left in OT, Shane wanting to end things before they made it to a shootout; Montreal's successful shootout attempts weren't good this year, so it was best to avoid SO's when they can.

"Oh, yeah?" Shane asks as casually as he can, tugging at the laces of his skates.

"Took a right hook to the lip," J.J. snickers, pushing his phone in front of Shane's face.

Shane watches the clip play, heart in his throat, as Rozanov appears on screen, jawing at one of the veteran Ottawa players. Shane can't see his name from the angle of the video and he doesn't actually care. Rozanov is on screen, wild and sharp-edged, blood bright against his mouth where he was hit. He looks like he's smirking around the blood, teeth bared as a ref drags him towards the tunnel, clearly being tossed from the game.

He looks like something Shane can't name, something that could ruin him completely and he would still not regret it.

Shane doesn’t realize he’s leaning closer until the video ends.

“…asshole,” he mutters, though it lands softer than it should. He says it just to have something to say, J.J. agreeing with him as he pulls his phone away.

Rozanov's game ended before Shane's did, and they agreed to meet at his condo after their games, so he finishes stripping and showers as quickly as he can stand. He still gets there before Rozanov does, though not by much. Shane's eyes immediately fall to the cut that mars Rozanov's lower lip. It's red and raw, almost angry looking.

“Seriously?” Shane says after a beat. “You couldn’t avoid one fight?”

Rozanov shrugs, unapologetic. “He started it.”

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true," Rozanov says smugly, smirking at Shane as he follows him up the stairs.

Shane rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t push it further. Not when Rozanov looks like that; slightly disheveled, adrenaline still clinging to him, that restless energy humming just under the surface. Shane feels his body warm at the image, a flush traveling down his neck that he knows he won't be able to hide. 

They enter his condo, the lights he turned on when he first got there a warm, low light that leaves Rozanov glowing in gold. It makes Shane's stomach clench in a way that scares him, so he clears his throat, tugging Rozanov up the steps to his bedroom and then into his ensuite bathroom. 

“Sit down,” Shane says, opening one of the cabinets and grabbing a hand towel, turning the sink on to lightly wet the fabric.

Rozanov listens to him, surprisingly compliant, tilting his head back as Shane presses the fabric carefully against his lip. He's doing this simply because it looks messy still; it's a small thing, this practical care.

Shane ignores how it doesn't feel small at all.

“Hold still,” Shane mutters.

“I am holding still," Rozanov mutters, his voice muffled slightly by the towel. He's staring up at Shane from his seat on the toilet lid, eyes heated as Shane delicately dabs at the raw wound.

“You’re talking,” Shane admonishes him half-heartedly, his neck burning red as he meets the other's gaze.

Rozanov huffs out a quiet laugh, then winces. “Worth it.”

“Yeah?” Shane asks, glancing away to drop the towel in the sink; he'll have to wash it by hand later to make sure there are no blood stains. Rozanov meets his eyes again when he turns back, something unreadable flickering there.

“Yes," the Russian mutters in response, his legs brushing against Shane's lightly, a teasing touch that sends sparks across Shane's skin.

Shane holds his gaze, his breath stuttering, before he's surging forward, all his work falling to the wayside as their lips meet harshly. They kiss fervently, clawing at each other as Shane walks backwards, tugging Rozanov with him as they stumble their way out of the bathroom and into his bedroom.

They pull apart, panting, and Shane wastes no time removing his own clothes, more than efficient at rapidly folding them while Rozanov sheds his own clothing and drops them haphazardly on his floor. Shane grunts when the Russian slides his hands down Shane's sides, his strong grip making Shane dizzy as he picks Shane up long enough to buck against him, their cocks rubbing against each other deliciously, before he throws Shane back onto the bed. 

Shane bounces slightly, but is unbothered as he pushes himself fully on to the bed, lifting his arms to welcome Rozanov into his grasp. Shane moans when he feels the wet slide of his mouth trailing across Shane's throat and chest, the warmth of his breath giving Shane goosebumps. He hadn't turned any of the lights on when they first entered, heading straight for his bathroom, so the only light into the room comes from the soft glow of the bathroom doorway, the light barely enough for Shane to glance down and see Rozanov take one of his nipple's into his eager mouth.

Shane's back arches when Rozanov sucks, his weeping cock twitching eagerly at the ministrations. His nipples weren't always as sensitive as they are now, but Rozanov loves to play with his chest when they hook up, and Shane's body has quickly accustomed itself to finding pleasure when his full chest is cupped and fondled, Rozanov's rough hands squeezing and kneading him to his heart's content. 

It's been a while since their last hook up and they don't actually have a lot of time; it might have been smarter for them to meet half way rather than having Rozanov drive two hours to Montreal just for him to have to leave a few hours later, but Shane hadn't brought it up and Rozanov hadn't seemed to care when they agreed. 

Shane wants to be embarrassed at how fast he's falling apart under Rozanov's hands, but he can't make himself feel it; the Russian's mouth feels too good against his skin, warm and wet as he suckles at Shane's nipple while tweaking the other, pinching and rolling it between his fingers. 

"I'm going to suck your cock," Rozanov mumbles as he pulls his mouth away, kissing Shane's heaving stomach. "Not enough time to fuck you like I want."

Shane feels a little disappointed they don't have longer, but this entire hookup was an indulgence that he doesn't often get to have, so he nods his head, moaning in relief when Rozanov wraps a hand around his hard cock, pumping a couple times as he settles himself between Shane's legs.

"Ты звучишь так красиво, котёнок," Rozanov mutters something in Russian, heated gaze meeting Shane's as he licks a broad strip up Shane's cock.

Shane jerks at both the words and the motion, not needing to know what Rozanov is saying to get stupidly turned on by his heated tone. He whines slightly, clenching at his sheets, as the tip of his cock is place on a warm tongue. Rozanov smirks at him, taking his leaking dick and directly smacking it against his waiting tongue. Shane twitches at the sight and obscene sounds, utterly enraptured. Rozanov swirls his tongue over the tip, humming slightly at the taste, and then immediately takes half of Shane's cock into his mouth. 

Shane moans, head thrown back at the sensation. Rozanov might have an impressive cock, but Shane isn't lacking in that department either; Rozanov's ability to deep throat his dick has haunted Shane for the entire time they have been hooking up. The suction the Russian is applying is light at first, more of a tease, but he quickly gets to work when Shane whimpers out his last name.

His balls tingle as they're fondled in Rozanov's sure grip, his mouth working Shane's entire length in and out as he sucks Shane off. His other hand rubs gently at Shane's inner thigh, trailing slowly up and behind his balls until it rests against his asshole. Shane shudders at the sensation, gasping. Shane’s hips buck involuntarily, the sensation familiar as Rozanov slowly pushes Shane towards the edge of orgasm.

Shane reaches forward, desperate to get Rozanov’s gorgeous curls in his fist. He tugs on the soft strands, groaning slightly when he feels a moan vibrating around his cock.

“Holy shit,” Shane pants out, aborted jerks keeping him from fucking too deeply down Rozanov’s throat. “Please, it feels so good,” Shane gasps out, eyes squeezing shut as his cock is pulled deeper into the warm cavern, spit starting to collect at the edges of Rozanov’s mouth and dripping down Shane’s balls.

Rozanov’s throat feels like heaven around him, the wet slide driving Shane crazy. The hand on his balls shifts, resting on Shane’s thighs and parting them just a little further, staying there to rhythmically squeeze Shane’s thigh in a soothing motion. The other starts to apply more pressure to his tight hole, the tip of his finger gently but firmly probing as it is slowly pushes into Shane. Shane can’t hold back a little sob at the dry penetration, the slight burn sending tingles up his spine.

“Ты так хорошо справляешься, котёнок,” Rozanov mutters when he pulls off briefly, the Russian nonsensical to Shane’s slowly melting brain.

He feels drunk on it, lost in the way Rozanov is happily moaning around his cock. Shane glances down and makes eye contact with the other man, gaze caught and held as Rozano’s finger wiggles deeper into him, a firm stroke dragging right across his prostrate. Shane jerks, tugging harshly on the curls still in his hand, coming down his throat that stays tight around him.

His breathing is bursting out in warm puffs, his cock tingling as it falls free from Rozaano’s panting mouth, and he can’t stop the helpless moan that leaves him when the Russian climbs up the bed, hand stripping his cock furiously as he stands over Shane’s flush face. Shane is eager for it, his spent cock even giving a valiant twitch, as he sticks his own tongue out, mouth open.

Rozanov groans loudly, a murmured fuck leaving his lips right before he’s painting Shane’s face with his release. Shane takes it without flinching, pleased at the way the white strips streak across the bridge of his nose and cheek, the last of it finally hitting his waiting tongue.

Shane doesn't mind swallowing right now, too pleased as he simply looks up at Rozanov and his watchful gaze.

Time blurs and passes without Shane noticing, blissed out and content as they lay together for several long moments. When he can finally function, the other man is already getting dressed, Shane barely getting himself together enough to sit up. He’s refusing to call himself disappointed when Rozanov declines his offer to join him in the shoer; he needs to head back to Ottawa, Shane’s game going to OT stole a chunk of time from them they had originally planned to take advantage of. He’s starting to feel the dry cum on his face, itchy and pulling at his skin, so he gives Rozanov a subdued goodbye while heading to his shower.

Shane sighs, rubbing his hand through his hair as he heads straight for his shower, turning it on to the exact temperature he does every night. He turns towards his cabinet, reaching to grab a large towel, but is frozen when he catches sight of himself in the mirror.

He’s not surprised to see the cum still streaking his face, but the light streaks of blood catch him off guard. Shane realizes with a jolt that Rozanov’s lip must have re-opened at some point, dry streaks of blood decorating the entire front of Shane’s body. It’s not a worrying amount, Shane thinks, just enough marks to note the color across his skin.

Shane swallows, his throat suddenly dry, as he glances down at his cock.

There’s a slight red tinge to it, Shane thinks hysterically, captivated by the sight. It’s not the flush of blood that usually turns his dick red with need, but rather the mixture of Rozanov’s spit and blood covering his throbbing cock.

Shane feels dizzy suddenly, eyes darting rapidly to all of the red that covers him. Minuscule, really.

Shane can’t breathe.

His dick has somehow found the will to start to fill, blood pounding as his breathing picks up.

Shane can’t describe this feeling; he doesn’t know what to call the way his mind feels twisted in on itself, dark satisfaction at the sign that Rozanov was there. The Russian’s mouth had worship Shane’s chest, licking blood onto  his pebbled nipples. He’d drug his bleeding lips across Shane’s stomach and onto his cock, completely ignoring the way it must have stung every time he gagged on Shane’s cock or hallowed his cheeks and sucked.

Shane’s erection bobs in the mirror and he feels crazy. He wants more of it, he realizes. Not drenched, he doesn’t want his rival actually hurt, but he wants enough of it covering him that he looks owned. Rozanov’s cum is covering his freckles and his blood is smeared along Shane’s cock. Barely there, but there nonetheless.

It should be annoying; gross, even. Shane should really be feeling the discomfort of being covered in two different tacky things. His skin should crawl and he should be hopping in the shower, desperate to get the evidence of their little tryst off of his skin.

Evidence.

The word lands heavily in his mind before he can stop it. Evidence is what Rozanov has left on Shane, his DNA marking Shane at the very base level. Shane swallows, remembering the taste of what little cum had landed on his exposed tongue. He sort of wishes more of it had ended up inside him.

His fingers lift almost without permission, hovering for a second before brushing lightly against one of the streaks on his chest. The red flakes faintly under his touch, the blood long since gone dry.

Shane inhales sharply. His reflection looks different like this, marked in a way he’s spent years avoiding, careful and deliberate about never letting happen. His fingers come away faintly stained, and he stares at them, something distant and focused settling over him. His thoughts feel slower, heavier, like they’re moving through something thick and viscous. 

He should wash it off. Instead, he stands there a second longer than necessary, watching the way the color lingers against his skin, against his hands. He glances at the towel in the sink, remembers wetting it to try and clean up the bleeding lip even a little bit, and his heart jumps into his throat.

He feels like a bystander to his own actions when he turns the bathroom sink on, running his right hand under the faucet, before he turns it off and wipes the blood on his chest with his wet hand. It immediately streaks the once dry substance, the small amount smearing red onto his chest and hand. Shane continue this, methodically dragging his wet hand across every little bit of blood Rozanov left decorating him tonight.

He's gotten most of what he can on his hand, his pointer and middle finger stained a more brightly hued red than anything else on his body, and Shane stares at his fingers.

What exactly is he doing? He should wash his hands, that should be his next step, but the idea of wasting all that he has collected leaves him upset on a level he doesn't wish to examine. He doesn't want the blood gone, after all, he wants to keep it. He wants it buried inside of him, so deep it stays with him.

Shane's cock jumps at the thought, a bead of pre-cum oozing out of the tip as he finally realizes what he wants.

Shane bites his lip to stop a truly embarrassing moan from escaping, lifting his leg up and settling it firmly on the bathroom counter. He could go back into his bedroom for this, where he has supplies, or he could climb into the shower that is still spitting out hot water and improvise with body wash, but Shane stays where he's at, facing himself in the mirror. He doesn't want anything but Rozanov's blood for this.

Shane tilts his hips, shifting until he's arched at the right angle and he reaches behind himself, gasping when his wet fingers feather across his hole. Shane is doing this dry, which isn't exactly a good thing. Blood doesn't actually seem like something that would be that great of a lube; Shane doesn't care. He doesn't prep himself thoroughly or go slow, he rubs forceful circles on his entrance and braces as he fucks into himself with bloody digits.

It hurts and Shane can tell it hurts, somewhere in the back of his mind, but all he can focus on is the knowledge that he's fucking Rozanov's blood into his greedy hole, his ass clenched tight in desperation around his fingers. He's moaning, unashamed, as he finger fucks himself using his rival's life essence, locking onto his own cum covered face since he lacks the ability to currently see himself fucking his blood stained fingers. 

He can picture it though: his hole red and tender, sloppy and slick around his fingers, the blood slowly disappearing from his digits as they coat his walls. 

Shane's legs shake under him as he speeds up, his fingers grazing across his prostate as almost an afterthought. His cock hangs untouched, heavy and red in front of him, wet and dribbling like a cunt that's just been fucked.

"Rozanov, fuck, Ilya!" Shane shouts as he humps forward at the thought, unable to stop himself from coming onto his counter as he fucks back against his fingers. His chest seizes as he whimpers out nonsense, his breath hitching as he fights back tears of ecstasy. He heaves, mind blank, as his cock finally stops shooting ropes of cum, slowly softening.

Eventually, Shane exhales, sharp and steady, and carefully puts his leg back down, reaching for the already soiled hand towel.

He wipes his fingers carefully then uses the same towel to wipe up his cum. He'll take the time to actually get out his cleaning supplies for his counter later; he's suddenly very, very eager to get clean. 

He hops into his now lukewarm shower, erasing the evidence of his debauchery. There’s nothing left when he finally emerges soaking wet, grimacing when he realizes he has to walk across the floor and drip water everywhere since he forgot to actually get the bigger towel out of the still open cabinet.

Shane lingers there, hands braced against the counter and fresh towel around his waist, staring at his own reflection like he’s trying to find something that’s already gone. His phone buzzes in the other room and Shane already knows who it's going to be; no one else would text him this late.

He doesn’t move right away, simply breathes and absorbs everything he just did before carefully folding it all up and packing it away into a dark corner in his mind.

When he finally does move, it’s to reach into another cabinet for some cleaning supplies, and to give his counter a quick scrub, unable to leave it alone like he thought. Everything needs to be clean and put back in place, exactly as it should be. He needs it to look like nothing happened here for him to be able to believe it.

Shane can hear his own thoughts drift past him, the name Ilya floating front and center, but he bats it away and goes to bed, determined to forget all of this by morning.

Chapter End Notes

hope you enjoyed this freaky ass fic

Ты звучишь так красиво, котёнок - You sound so beautiful, kitten
Ты так хорошо справляешься, котёнок. - you're doing so good, kitten