Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Anal Sex, First Time, Ilya Rozanov's shoulders, Ilya Rozanov's black tank top, Musician Ilya Rozanov, Wall Sex

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-25 Words: 9,387 Chapters: 1/1

Stickhandling and other hobbies

Summary

Do you need arms like that, shoulders like that, to play the drums? Surely not.

—

Or, Shane gets fucked in a bathroom.

Notes

I wrote most of this in March while I was trying to wrangle black dog into something resembling a coherent story and I was tired of dealing with, y'know, nuance and character development and logistics and those pesky things.

Sometimes you just want to write about Shane Hollander getting fucked in a bathroom, right? Then it tried to become the start of a much longer story about Shane and his laser focus on hockey but I didn't have it in me to write the 50k words needed to finish it, and I abandoned it to languish in gdocs. This weekend when I went to poke at it again and realised the first scene works as a one-shot, so I tidied it up a bit and here you go.

100% entirely the fault of the show's decision to put Ilya in a blank tank top and have him pick Shane up and carry him around. I am only human and so is Shane Hollander (in this story, anyway).

AU again, obviously, do I ever write anything else, only this time I didn't even let them have Saskatchewan. Shane is still Shane Hollander, Hockey Player. Ilya is not.

Shane likes music. He listens to music. He’ll put the radio on in the car, or — well, okay, usually he'll listen to an audiobook instead, especially if it's a long drive like heading to the cottage, but —

Look. The point is that music is fine.

He's just not sure that this is music.

"Fucking loud in here, huh?" Hayden shouts in his ear. Then someone bumps into them and beer sloshes out of Hayden’s glass onto the already-sticky floor. Hayden looks down, shrugs, and wipes his hand on his shirt. Shane tries not to wince. Hayden cracks up.

"What?" Shane says, though Hayden probably can’t hear him anyway. "That’s gross."

"Fuck, man, we're here to have fun! Loosen up!"

Like Shane hasn't heard that a thousand times. Like that's just a decision he can make — loosen up, dude — and it's done.

At least JJ does not need Hayden’s advice. JJ is already dancing. It's easy to spot him in the crowd: he's a full head taller than almost everyone else, sweat glistening on his forehead when the lights swing over him. Couillard, Gagnon and Andropov are out there somewhere too.

Another song starts and Shane has to put his mouth almost directly on Hayden's ear to even hope to be heard. "How much longer does this go for?"

"This is just the warm up," Hayden shouts back. "Andy’s hot Russian is up next."

Excellent. Amazing. Perfect. And it's still two hours until curfew. He takes a tiny sip of beer.

Hayden leans in and shouts again: "You planning to prop up the bar all night?"

The honest answer is yes, if he can get away with it. He’ll spin this beer out for maybe half an hour and then it'll just be hanging around until he can corral everyone and get them into cabs. Shane wouldn't have come out at all, but — well, he's got an A, now, and he's hoping for the C next season. Going out with the guys is really important for team cohesion.

Hayden shrugs, clearly giving up on him. "Okay, dude. You do you. I'm gonna go find the others."

The headliner doesn't come on stage until Shane has finished his beer. The volume of the crowd doubles when the lead singer walks on. It’s suddenly clear why Andropov dragged them all out here: even Shane can agree that she’s objectively attractive. She has a mass of dark red curls framing her face, legs that are improbably long, and she's wearing a little black dress that skims the tops of her slim thighs. Then she opens her mouth and starts singing, and the volume doubles again. Jesus Christ this place is loud.

It’s still not Shane's type of music. Not that he has a type, exactly, but if he did, he's pretty sure this wouldn't be it. In fact the band kind of reminds him of Wayne's World. He'd watched the movie a couple of weeks ago on the flight down to Florida, working through a list he found of cult classics, and there's something about a super attractive frontwoman for a band of unwashed twenty-something guys that just brings it to mind.

Still. It could be worse. If they'd come out with Jarvinen, Shane would be having his eardrums blasted with Finnish death metal right now.

The band are three songs into their set when Shane notices the drummer for the first time. Maybe the lighting changes somehow, or — Shane doesn't know. One minute he wouldn't have even been able to say if the drummer was a man or a woman and the next minute: a man.

Definitely a man.

Do you need arms like that, shoulders like that, to play the drums? Surely not.

And the drummer's face isn't bad either, from what Shane can see. There's no spotlight on him or anything, so it's just brief glimpses when the light catches his curly hair — his mouth — his jawline —

Yeah, okay. The drummer is fucking hot. Objectively, subjectively. Shane might not have a type when it comes to music, but when it comes to men — yep. There it is.

The Russian band only plays for half an hour and then they leave the stage. Shane hopes Andy found it worthwhile. It's been a long, loud evening for thirty minutes of looking at someone attractive from a distance.

But apparently it's not over yet. The guys haven't re-emerged from the dancefloor and Shane is just steeling himself to go and hunt them down when JJ appears out of the mass of bodies.

"Hollander! Ostie that was fucking incredible, no? She is super fucking hot, that singer."

"Sure." The drummer is hotter. "It's getting late, though, we should probably think about heading — "

"Fuck that! We are going backstage! Andy says he can get us in."

"What?"

"Fucking Russian mafia connections or something, I don't know. Come on." JJ starts pushing back through the crowd. And if Shane doesn't go along he’s going to lose track of them and they'll all forget about curfew and the last hour of waiting in this hellhole will have been wasted effort —

Fuck.

Backstage here apparently means down a narrow flight of stairs that Shane is pretty sure don’t adhere to NYC fire codes, then along a corridor with a strong smell of beer and sweat, and into a dressing room. If this is what the headliners get, Shane doesn't want to see where they keep the warm-up act.

At least there is no trouble getting in. Andy looks ridiculously proud of himself when they're making introductions. There's an old leather couch along the back wall and the singer — Svetlana, Shane thinks she said — is perched on one arm, the guitarists, maybe a Sasha and another name that Shane didn't catch, are lounging over the back of it. The rest of the boys gravitate over there, even though both guitarists are smoking. It's really not good for anyone's lungs, they should —

Oh.

The drummer is here too.

Well, it makes sense, where else would the drummer be but his own dressing room? He’s not with the rest of the group, though. He’s sitting on the other side of the room in an armchair and he seems totally disinterested in the gaggle around Svetlana. He's holding a guitar, fingers moving over the strings and then breaking off to do something with the sticky-out knob things on the other end, and he's exuding an aura of I'm-cooler-than-you-so-fuck-off that Shane wishes he could pull off, like, ever.

Maybe he feels Shane's eyes on him, because he looks up. Their eyes meet for a second, and the drummer raises an eyebrow.

Shane looks behind him. There's no one there, so — yep, that eyebrow was directed at Shane.

At Shane, who is still hovering near the door like an idiot. He’s suddenly aware that he has hands. Should he fold his arms? No, he’s read that it comes across as defensive. Stick them in his pockets? Or, like —

The drummer is still watching him. There’s a slightly amused quirk to his lips now though and it takes his expression down from super intimidating to just, like, regular sick-of-all-this-shit levels.

Well. Shane is also sick of all this shit. And there's no harm in going over to talk to the guy, right? Just until Andy and JJ finish striking out with Svetlana and they can all go back to the hotel. Better than lurking by the door like some sort of weird bouncer.

Shane is not good at this though. Okay. Fuck. Just do it.

The drummer is still in the black tank top he'd been wearing on stage. Up close he is really, seriously, incredibly fucking ripped. Jesus Christ, his arms.

Do it. Open mouth. Talk. "Hi. I'm, uh, Shane. Hollander." Shane holds his hand out to shake.

The drummer's gaze is coolly assessing and he lets Shane's hand hang in the air a moment too long before taking it in his own. "Ilya." He doesn’t offer a last name.

"Nice to meet you." Ilya’s grip is warm. Firm. His hands feel rough; maybe he has callouses, from the drums. Do you get callouses from drumming? Shane abruptly wishes he knew literally anything about music.

"You also." Ilya's voice is a little hoarse, maybe from always shouting over crowds, and he has a thick Russian accent. It’s kind of soothing after all the screaming upstairs. "You do not want to try your luck like your friends?"

"Huh?"

Ilya gestures toward the group gathered around the lead singer. "With Svetlana."

"Oh." To be honest Shane had kind of forgotten that she was in the room. "No."

"You have girlfriend?"

"What?" Shane shakes his head. "No. Is that — that's not the only reason not to hit on someone."

Ilya shrugs. "She is hot. Most guys want to fuck her."

This is not at all how Shane thought this interaction was going to go. He'd thought — well, he hadn't thought, actually, but. Introduce himself, maybe chat about how much Ilya can lift? Normal things. But now Ilya's looking at him with that kind of closed-off stare, a little more intense maybe, and Shane's brain ticks over, click, click, oh, shit.

"She's not your — I mean, you two aren't — " JJ could maybe take Ilya in a fight, if he had to. The band's bass player doesn't look like he'd be up to much, but their lead guitarist is built, he might keep Andy busy. Shane's got fuck-all experience with fights, none off the ice, though he could, probably, if he had to?

But Ilya doesn't seem offended. It's hard to tell, he's got a pretty deadpan expression, but it shifts a little bit and Shane feels like he might be being laughed at. "No. We are not anything," Ilya says.

Well. Good. But now Shane needs to change the subject, because that was awkward as fuck. Music things? Music things. He nods at the guitar in Ilya's lap. "You play guitar as well as drums, huh?"

"Yes. I like both."

"But you don't sing?"

"No."

Ilya doesn't say anything more, just keeps — looking at Shane. Which. Shane was already feeling a little out of place tonight, and Ilya's scrutiny isn't helping. He'd had to ask Hayden to lend him a shirt because he hadn't planned on going out on this trip. It's just a black t-shirt but it's tighter on him than he'd usually wear and he's uncomfortably aware of the way it's pulling across his chest. The less said about his pants the better. Although they do have the Reebok logo on them, and his mom is always going on about being seen in his brands, so.

He clears his throat. "You're, uh. Awesome to watch. I mean — " fuck. "You're an amazing drummer."

Double raised eyebrows. Shane needs to learn how to do that; it might be helpful to keep the rookies in line next season. "You know about drums?" Ilya asks.

"I, uh. No. I don't really know anything about music, it's not really my thing." So why the fuck did he start talking about music? Fuck he's fucking this up. He still doesn't know what to do with his hands. He can still feel the callouses from Ilya's palm against his own. He shoves them in his pockets. "But you looked like you knew what you were doing?"

Ilya shrugs. "Is just hitting things with sticks. Is not hard." He swings the guitar off his lap and props it against the side of the armchair, picks up a beer from the floor, takes a drink. Shane watches him swallow, because what else is he supposed to look at, and the way Ilya's throat moves is — anyway. Now Shane has to swallow too. His throat clicks, dry. After a moment, Ilya says, "You are hockey player yes? Like your friends."

Oh thank fuck, no more music talk. "Yeah. Do you follow hockey?"

"Not really."

"Cool." Shane nods. That’s a relief at least; makes it less likely that Ilya will go online and post about how Shane Hollander is a weird twitchy dude with no chill who can't even hold a basic conversation.

"Mm." Ilya takes another drink. Shane watches, helpless. He should probably just make his excuses and go but he feels weirdly like it's not his call to make, so instead he's half hoping for a dismissal, some signal that he can just abandon this disaster of an interaction, but Ilya doesn't seem to be done with him yet because he lowers his bottle and says, "So, Shane Hollander who plays hockey and doesn't know about music. Tell me. What do you do for fun."

"Oh, uh. I don't know." Fuck. Come on, he can do better than this. He had one beer, no excuse for his brain feeling like it's made of taffy. "I work out a lot? Watch movies, I guess — I mean, we’re on planes all the time, so."

"Mm. Sounds exciting." Ilya's expression says otherwise. He drinks again, longer this time, bottle tipped back. Do people’s lips usually look like that wrapped around the mouth of a beer bottle? And when Ilya takes the bottle away the little dip in the middle of his top lip is wet, and he runs his tongue over it, and it's really — it's really.

Jesus fuck, focus on the conversation, Shane. "What about you? I mean. Apart from music. And obviously you work out too." Should he have said that? Possibly not. But Ilya's arms are unmissable.

Ilya shrugs. "I like to go out. Drink."

Shane tries to swallow again. "Oh yeah?"

"Mm. Also I like to fuck."

"Oh." Shane can feel his face heating up. But it's warm in here, so many bodies in a small room, that's all. Anyway Ilya's probably making fun of him, sometimes people do that when Shane is awkward at them, they kind of mirror it back to him, although it doesn't feel like he's being laughed at. It feels like — Shane doesn't know what this feels like.

Ilya drinks again, tipping the bottle back and draining the last of the beer. He gestures at Shane with the empty as he puts it on the ground. "You are not drinking," he says.

As if Shane hadn't already outed himself as incredibly uncool. "Oh, no. I had a beer, earlier? But I don't really like to drink during the season."

"Mm."

"I try to be pretty healthy I guess?" This is a little more like solid ground. Maybe they can talk about macros. Ilya's got to smash a lot of protein, with those arms. "I think it, like, helps my hockey."

"Mm." A little pause. Shane needs to stop looking at Ilya’s mouth. Then Ilya says, "And what about fucking?"

"What?" It's not as loud in here as it is upstairs, but maybe Shane's hearing has taken a hit. Ilya couldn't possibly have said that. "Sorry, what about — what?"

"Fucking," Ilya says again, clear as day, emphasising the consonants, his accent wrapping the word in something that does weird things to Shane's guts. "What about fucking. You like to fuck? During the season?"

Don't be uncool. Don't be uncool. "I mean, sure. I guess?"

Ilya seems to be waiting for him to say something more.

"I don't, like, abstain or anything?" Shane tries. Abstinence is like, you could but you don't, right? Shane can't and doesn't, that's different.

"Mm."

Shane wishes Ilya would stop making that noise. It's — Shane has no fucking idea what it means. Is Ilya laughing at him? Agreeing with him? Just being polite?

Then Ilya stands up. He's about Shane's height, maybe a centimetre or two taller, but the amount of muscle he's packing. Shit. He’d be fucking intimidating on skates.

"Come. I want to show you something," Ilya says. He starts toward the door.

Shane shouldn't go anywhere. He should take the chair Ilya's abandoned, hang out here until the boys are done. He definitely shouldn't be trailing after Ilya like this, looking helplessly over at the group around the couch. "But what about — "

Ilya stops with his hand on the doorknob. "She is not going to fuck any of them," he says.

"Uh. She's not?"

"No. Not even the tall one."

"JJ," Shane supplies automatically.

"Yes. She will let them try some more first, though. Don't worry."

"I wasn't worried about — " Svetlana. Although clearly Ilya had been keeping an eye out for her, which makes sense, she's the only woman in a room full of guys, half of whom are professional athletes. Shane tries again. "I mean, she looks like she can look after herself? Also, my guys are, uh. They're good guys."

"Good. Then I will not have to murder any of them." Ilya pushes the door open. "Come. We have maybe twenty minutes."

The corridor hasn't improved since Shane's last visit. Ilya leads him past a room with a piece of paper tacked on the door reading #2, past another door, unlabelled, and into a single-occupancy bathroom.

"This is a bathroom," Shane says. Ilya shuts the door behind them.

"You noticed," Ilya says. "Good."

It's nice enough, Shane supposes, as bathrooms go. Well, no. The floor is disgusting, and it smells like urine under the lemon of disinfectant, but there's enough space that he and Ilya can move around without bumping into each other or the toilet or the sink. Still, it's a bathroom.

"Why did you want to show me the bathroom?"

Ilya is jiggling the lock on the door. "Save me from slow fucking hockey players," he says, and Shane’s not sure if he was meant to hear that, Ilya was kind of talking to the door? But now Ilya is turning around and looking at Shane expectantly.

"Sorry, what?"

Ilya steps closer. His hand comes up. He takes Shane's jaw between his thumb and forefinger. Those callouses again, rough against the tender skin of Shane's throat. "I wanted to show you bathroom," Ilya says slowly, walking Shane backwards step by step until Shane’s back hits the door, "so we can do this." And then he kisses Shane.

Holy shit. Shane hadn’t — fuck.

Ilya’s lips are moving on his. Shane should do something, push Ilya away, something. Anything.

He feels Ilya’s teeth in his lower lip, just for a second, and then Ilya pulls back. "You don’t want?" Ilya asks.

Shane swallows. Ilya’s hand is still on his jaw, his throat. Probably that’s why he can’t breathe. "I. Uh." He didn’t think he could want; he can’t, ever, so why would he even let himself think about it. Also, how the fuck does Ilya have the nerve to just bring another guy into a bathroom and kiss him, what the fuck. "I — "

Ilya kisses him again.

Holy shit. Shane puts his hands on Ilya's shoulders to push him away. Only Shane didn’t think this through, because Ilya’s shoulders are what got him into this mess in the first place, and now Shane's got his hands on them, Jesus, they feel even better than he thought they would, Ilya is so fucking solid, and Ilya’s mouth is — big, like, wide, soft lips, chin a little scratchy with stubble and he's so confident, just taking what he wants so Shane doesn't have to do anything except let him —

Shane's brain short circuits. When it comes back online, Ilya's tongue is in his mouth, Shane's hand is in Ilya's hair, and one of Ilya's absolutely massive jeans-clad thighs is between Shane's legs.

Fuck, Shane tries to say, only Ilya's mouth is in the way, so it just comes out as fngh, which pretty much covers it. It feels really fucking good to grind his dick into Ilya's thigh, so he does. Ilya mutters something indecipherable in Russian and pulls back and bites Shane's earlobe and then uses one of his big hands to tilt Shane's head back and suck a kiss into his neck, so Shane obviously has to grind up on him again, and Shane has had actual real-life blow jobs on multiple occasions and no mouth on his dick has ever felt half as good as this does, what the fuck.

"You going to come like this?" Ilya says between kisses, easy, like Shane could if he wanted, like Ilya would be happy just to hold Shane here up against the door, kiss him, fuck his mouth with his tongue while Shane grinds one out on his thigh, Jesus Christ.

And — yes. But also no. Because then this would be over and Shane is suddenly absolutely sure that he can't leave this bathroom without having touched Ilya's dick. It's critical to his ongoing existence. He needs to get a hand on it. Now. Five minutes ago.

He shifts back just enough to take the pressure off his dick. He can't go far, anyway, pinned like this between Ilya and the door, not unless Ilya chooses to let him. Probably that should bother Shane rather than get him so fucking turned on that he can't think. Luckily he doesn't need a brain to get Ilya's jeans open. He fumbles with the button, then works the zip down, but he still can't see anything — Ilya's got black underwear on and the lighting in here isn't great and there's hardly any space between them anyway. He twists his wrist, cups Ilya's dick through the fabric and it twitches under Shane's fingers, fuck. He bites his lip, squeezes a little just to feel the heat of it again, and then Ilya is kissing him, biting at his lips while Shane just holds on with his arm trapped between them, feeling Ilya's dick get even harder in his hand.

"Your mouth," Ilya says, like that makes any kind of sense — Shane's mouth? Ilya's the one who keeps disconnecting Shane's brain with his tongue — but maybe Ilya means something else because he breaks the kiss and leans back and he runs his thumb over Shane's bottom lip. Obviously Shane has to open for him, take Ilya's thumb into his mouth, suck on it, curl his tongue around it, fuck, why is this so hot.

"You want to suck my cock?" Ilya says, and Shane hears himself make an embarrassing noise around Ilya's thumb, before Ilya finally slides it out so Shane can talk. And Shane does, fuck, he does want to, but even though he's more turned on than he's been in his entire fucking life, they're in a bathroom, he can't get on his knees in here.

"I do, I mean I would. But the floor is — "

"Floor is what." Ilya runs the pad of his thumb along Shane's bottom lip, spreading his spit.

Shane tries to get his brain back online. "Uh. Filthy?"

"This is problem?"

Shane’s still got a hand between them, and he tries to stroke Ilya's dick, though the angle is terrible. "We could just do this?" Or, without underwear, he means, obviously. He bets Ilya's hand would feel amazing on his dick, callouses rubbing where he's most sensitive, fuck.

But: "Mm. No." Ilya takes Shane’s wrist and moves his hand away. "I think we can do better than that."

"What?"

"Turn around."

Ilya has definitely got some sort of freaky Russian mind control going on. Shane is turning before he can think better of it. Before he can think at all.

"Arms up." Ilya’s hands are on Shane's shoulders, running up his arms, straightening his elbows until Shane's hands are pressed one on top of the other against the door above his head. Ilya leaves one hand there holding Shane pinned and the other drops back down to cup Shane's dick through the front of his sweatpants.

Okay. Well. Shane had kind of been hoping for more, after that lead up, but he's not going to object or anything, not with Ilya pressed along his back and Ilya's mouth on his neck. Ilya can jerk him off against the door if he wants. It'll still be the hottest thing that's ever happened to him.

But Ilya just gives his dick a quick squeeze, and then his hand is sliding around Shane's hip to his ass, Ilya shifting slightly to the side as his fingers dip under the waistband of Shane's sweats, over his ass, between his cheeks and over Shane's hole, fuck, fuck, fuck, is he really —

"What are you — " Shane manages.

Ilya presses again, fingertip rough through the cotton of Shane's underwear. "I think you know."

"But." Shane should stop this. This is fucking insane, they're in a bathroom, his teammates are down the hall. "We can't?"

It definitely comes out as a question. Ilya pauses, but only for a second, and his lips are still moving under Shane's ear, kissing the spot just behind the angle of Shane's jaw. "You want me to stop?"

Then Ilya takes his hand away — fuck, no, Shane didn’t actually want him to stop, he was just — but then it's back, sliding into Shane's underwear, skin on skin. It was hot upstairs, is hot, down here, and everything is sticky-damp with sweat, Ilya’s fingertip tracing a circle around Shane’s hole.

Shane’s forehead hits the door. "Jesus fuck," he manages. "You’re insane. We can’t. We really should stop."

"I don’t think is what you want," Ilya says. He circles again and then presses with the pad of his finger, testing. "And I want to fuck you."

They can’t. Can they? Ilya’s finger presses in again, a little firmer this time, and Shane can’t help himself; he pushes back and feels himself start to open for it.

"You want it," Ilya says. He sounds obnoxiously self-satisfied. It shouldn’t be hot. "Tell me. Say you want me to fuck you."

"I haven’t got anything," Shane tries.

"Don't worry, I have." Shit. Of course he does. Ilya probably does this every night.

"Tell me," Ilya says again. His breath is hot on Shane's ear. "Say yes, Ilya, I want you to fuck me."

"I’m not going to — "

Ilya’s finger presses once more, deeper again and starting to drag with nothing but sweat to ease the way, and then he’s pulling his hand out of Shane’s pants and patting him on the hip, moving away, the heat of him vanishing. "Okay. Then we are done here. Let’s go back, see your friends."

"What?" Shane’s still got his arms above his head. He could move them, now; Ilya’s not holding him there. But. He doesn’t. He turns his head to the side so he can look at Ilya out of the corner of his eye. "Wait, what?"

Ilya shrugs. "You don’t want to fuck, is fine. I will find someone else." He starts to do up his jeans.

"No, that’s not — I don’t — "

Ilya’s hands pause on his flies. "You want to fuck?"

Shane swallows and nods.

"Then ask for it."

How does Shane have enough blood in his body to blush this much while he's also this hard. He closes his eyes and turns his face into the door. "Please fuck me," he says, as quietly as he thinks he can get away with.

"Ilya," Ilya says, pointedly.

"What?"

"Please fuck me, Ilya."

Oh my fucking God. "Please fuck me, Ilya," Shane repeats to the peeling paint.

"Better. Okay. Since you ask nicely."

He probably should be expecting it, but he’s not: Ilya yanks down his sweatpants and underwear in one smooth move so his bare ass is exposed. Then he kicks at Shane’s ankles until Shane’s legs are spread as wide as the sweatpants will allow.

"What," Shane says again, like he’s the one with English as a second language. "Here? Like this?"

"You have somewhere else?"

No, obviously. Just. Against the door?

The crinkle of a packet. A cool fingertip against his hole, slick, and then pressing straight in, no hesitation, not fucking around at all. The intrusion of it always takes Shane’s breath away when he fingers himself, and this is so much more: he’s not in control at all, and Ilya has big hands, long, thick fingers.

"You are tight," Ilya says, conversationally, pressing deep, testing, sliding his finger out again.

Shane sucks air into his belly. Come on, he can do this part, he knows how to do this. "I don’t — fuck — do this very often."

"You don’t let your teammates fuck you? Is shame. The tall one was hot."

Shane is not going to think about JJ right now. Not with Ilya working him open, one hand proprietary on his ass, spreading him for — shit, two fingers, now, Shane thinks. Too fast, it's uncomfortable, but he wants it anyway, there's something wrong with him, that he likes this too-much feeling.

"Hollander?"

Oh yeah. Ilya had said something, about the team. "I don’t, uh. I don’t know what you do with your band, but hockey players don’t really — Jesus — tend to fuck each other in the dressing room?"

"They are missing out." Ilya curls his fingers as he slides them out and Shane rocks up onto his toes. That, oh, Christ, that’s the spot he drives himself insane trying to reach with his own hand, fucking hell. "You are tight, but you are very good at taking it. I think you like this very much."

He still sounds like he’s having a casual conversation about whatever the fuck it is that musicians talk about. Time signatures? Tuning their instruments? And meanwhile Shane is about to combust.

"You want another?" Ilya asks. He twists his fingers inside Shane, then answers himself, "Yes. I have big dick, I will give you another."

He does: a pause for more lube, then he starts to press back in. Shane forgets himself for a second and tries to move away from the stretch of it against his rim. Ilya makes a disapproving noise and slaps Shane’s ass, what the fuck, then grabs Shane's hip and holds him still as he pushes inside.

"Stay still," Ilya says. "You can take."

It shouldn't help — what would Ilya know about what Shane is capable of, anyway — but it does, somehow. Shane breathes and makes himself focus on opening for it and then he does, Ilya's three fingers prying him open, so much wider than the dildo he'd finally given in and bought last year. He should have gone for a bigger one, probably, but he’d chickened out.

"Good," Ilya says when he's pressed deep, knuckles against Shane's rim. "One minute, then I will fuck you."

He doesn't try to fuck Shane with his fingers, no pretense of trying to find Shane's prostate again, just holds Shane there, one hand tight on Shane's hip, the other three fingers deep in Shane's ass, pressing a little every now and then, testing. Shane's hands are so sweaty against the door they're starting to slip. He needs to move, he needs — something. Actually, what he needs is to say something before this goes any further: Ilya might be an arrogant asshole but he’ll probably go easy if Shane just asks. But somehow Shane doesn't open his mouth, and he doesn't open his mouth, and then the minute must be up because Ilya slides his fingers out completely and says, "Okay. I think you are ready for me."

This time he slaps Shane's ass with the hand that's just been inside him. Shane can feel the lube tacky on his ass cheek.

"Now you take clothes off," Ilya says.

What the fuck. It's the push Shane needs to turn around and face Ilya at last, trying not to give in to the urge to cover himself with his hands. Ilya's fingers have just been in his ass, they're probably meant to be beyond being shy about their dicks now. Still, "I'm not going to get naked in a public bathroom!"

Ilya shrugs. Fuck, his shoulders, Shane had almost forgotten. "Is best to do naked. But you can leave shirt on if you want. I don't mind."

Well. Okay. Shane has already got his ass out, pants around his knees. How much worse would it be if he just took them off? He starts to push his sweatpants down, then stops and looks over at Ilya, who hasn't moved, who is still fully dressed other than having his jeans open, the hard line of his dick just visible in his underwear. "Aren't you going to — ?"

That fucking smirk. "No."

"But — "

"I can fuck you like this. But getting fucked, no. You have too many clothes."

Okay. Fine.

Shane thinks for a moment. If he toes his sneakers off, like — that, and then stands with his socked feet on top of the shoes while he gets his pants and underwear off over his ankles, then he can — yep, shove his feet back into his shoes, all without anything touching the ground. And if he folds his pants with his underwear still inside them, like so, he can leave them on the edge of the sink. Perfect.

Except he still ends up standing in a public bathroom, bare assed, dick out, in nothing but Hayden's too-tight t-shirt and sneakers.

"You are done?" Ilya asks. He is still smirking.

Shane swallows. "I didn't want — "

"Anything to touch floor. Yes. I noticed. Come here."

Shane is going to stop doing what Ilya tells him any minute now. Any minute. Any minute.

Fuck.

His reward for good behaviour is Ilya crowding him back up against the door and kissing him again. Jesus, Ilya's mouth, how is anyone supposed to make sensible choices when they're being kissed like this. It's ridiculous, it's just lips and tongue and teeth but also it's being consumed, it's surrender, it's blissful silence in his head, right up until Ilya pulls back and steps back and shoves his own underwear down and gets his dick out.

Because Ilya's dick looks pretty fucking big, not that Shane has a lot of grounds for comparison. Shane must have seen hundreds of dicks in locker rooms over the years, but not usually hard, and also he's never been about to be fucked by any of them before. Turns out that changes his perception of size a little. Obviously Ilya's done this before. Obviously he knows what he's doing. Obviously it's going to fit. Just. Shane swallows. It's. Big.

Ilya's not watching his reaction, at least: he's busy rolling a condom on with practised ease, slicking it up, and then he's back and kissing Shane again.

"Okay, lift up," Ilya says into his mouth. He slides his hands down Shane's sides to cup his ass. "Up. Put legs around me. I will hold you."

"Are you — "

Surely he can't be serious.

Although Ilya looks like must practically live at the gym, so maybe he could really —

Shane puts his hands on Ilya's shoulders, braces himself and Ilya nods and Shane jumps and Ilya lifts him like he's nothing. Shane gets his legs around Ilya’s waist, and then Shane is being held up, balanced between Ilya and the door, and Ilya's dick, slick with lube, is nudging up between Shane's ass cheeks, holy fuck.

"Now you don't have to touch floor at all," Ilya says. He doesn't even sound out of breath. He kisses Shane under the jawline and down his neck. "See, I am very considerate lover."

Not even a sexy Russian accent can make that word sound good. "No," Shane manages to reply. Sure, Ilya's not holding all his weight, the door's doing half the work, but fuck this is impressive. Ilya is rock-solid, not even a little tremor through his arms, and Shane weighs north of two hundred pounds.

"No?"

"No," Shane agrees, feeling almost giddy, breathless. He'll blame it on the crunch he's holding. It makes him say stupid things, like: "I asked you to fuck me like ten minutes ago and I'm still waiting."

"Impatient." Ilya squeezes his ass; Shane suspects it would have been another slap, if Ilya hadn’t had his hands full. "Don't worry. I give you what you need."

There's no going slow, Shane guesses, with Ilya holding him up like this; they're just going to get on with it. And Ilya does, shifting his weight and hitching Shane up a few centimetres higher. "Can you, like this," he says, and his hand on Shane's ass guides him to tilt forward — a little more work for Shane's core, but nothing he can't handle. Then Ilya shifts again and holds Shane up one handed for long enough to get his dick in position, head pressing up against Shane's hole where he's still slick and open.

"Okay?" Ilya asks, which — what, do people say no to him at this point? — but Shane supposes he can appreciate the gesture, even as he nods and lets his head fall back against the door, eyes closing. He can’t watch himself getting fucked, Jesus.

Ilya grunts an acknowledgement and his grip on Shane's ass tightens a little as he starts to push in, only — fuck, the angle must not have been quite right after all because the head of his dick presses in for half a second and then slips out.

Ilya curses in Russian, tightens his grip and hitches Shane higher up the door again. "Can you help," Ilya says suddenly. Which. What? Shane's pinned against the door here, there's really not much he can do other than try to hold the crunch, which he's already doing, but. Oh. Right.

He keeps his eyes shut but drops a hand from Ilya's shoulder and reaches blindly beneath him until his knuckles bump against Ilya's dick.

"Yes. Good," Ilya says. "Now can you — "

And Shane can, if he concentrates. He gets a hand around Ilya's dick, awkward on his wrist but manageable, adjusts the angle, and holds Ilya's dick steady. It almost feels like he's about to fuck himself with a toy as Ilya gradually presses up and in.

Then it feels nothing like his dildo at all.

Holy shit. Holy shit. It's — fuck, it must be the angle, surely this isn't normal, because Ilya's dick feels like a fucking baseball bat, it's splitting him so wide. He can't breathe. He's got both hands back on Ilya's shoulders and he's trying to claw his way up to get away from it, even as Ilya is cursing in a long unbroken string of incomprehensible syllables.

"Stop — relax," he hears out of the mix, and Shane abruptly realises he has tensed up all over, legs so tight around Ilya that Ilya probably can't breathe either.

But if he relaxes, Ilya's going to slide in deeper, and Shane can't, he can't —

"I have you. You can take. Just relax."

Shane takes a breath. Another. Starts at his ankles and lets the tension go out of his body one muscle group at a time like he's done a thousand times before. It helps, and it doesn't; Ilya still feels huge inside him, impossible, but the desperate animal panic starts to fade, ebbing breath by breath until there's just his heartbeat pounding in his ears, the echo of it everywhere Ilya is touching him, fingers gripping Shane's ass so hard he's going to have bruises, the hot ache of Ilya's dick inside him. Just the tip, he thinks, hysterical. They've barely started. Christ.

And Ilya hasn't moved, hasn't said anything, just held him steady while Shane got his body back under control. Shane can't look at him, can't open his eyes or he'll lose his shit again, but as soon as he stops feeling like he's going to shake apart he nods and says, "Okay, you can — okay. Just — slow."

And Ilya does. His control is absolutely fucking insane. He keeps his grip tight on Shane's hips and he slowly feeds Shane his dick, inch by inch. God, it hurts, dull fat pressure, like nothing Shane's ever felt, but not impossible anymore, just improbable, riding the limit of what he can take. It feels like it gets wider again at the base, and then it's done, the fabric of Ilya's jeans rough against his ass. Shane can't hold his head up anymore: he lets it fall forward and Ilya's forehead comes to rest against it and then they're just breathing into each other's mouths.

"Still okay?" Ilya says after a moment. It's the most ridiculous fucking thing Shane has heard all day, and he’s being fucked against a door right now.

"You mean apart from your giant dick up my ass?" He does not sound okay. Fuck, this is so far beyond anything he's ever imagined.

"I mean, can I move."

Ilya punctuates it with a little roll of his hips and, oh. Oh, fuck.

Ilya makes a self satisfied noise. "Better," he says, and does it again. He's — Shane knows Ilya's dick can't have, like, gotten smaller in the last thirty seconds or anything, and it sure as fuck doesn't feel small, but it also doesn't feel like it's going to split him open any more. He just feels overwhelmingly full, and there's something — there, when Ilya moves like that it lights up his whole body.

"Fuck," he blurts, mindless, when Ilya does it a third time. Shane is going to buy a bigger dildo as soon as he gets home. No. He's ordering it tonight. Although that's not going to cut it, is it, because a dildo can't kiss him like this, deep and filthy, and it doesn’t smell like this, sweat and cigarettes and maybe a hint of cologne, and a dildo doesn't have fucking massive shoulders that Shane can hold on to.

It also doesn't say things like: "I am going to fuck you now, okay?" Which.

Have they not? Has this not been fucking?

Oh. Okay. It has not. Shane is learning so many new things today. That was just the warm up, if you can call taking a huge dick up the ass a warm up.

This is fucking.

Ilya starts him off slow, those little hip rolls building and building until he's fucking into Shane with his full length each time, and only then does he pick up the pace. He's controlled, but steady and relentless — of course he is, he's a fucking drummer — and Shane's breath is forced out of him on every stroke, no room left for anything inside him but Ilya's dick; gravity and Ilya's strength and the whole fucking world pulling him down on it, remaking him around it. He could cry with how much the feeling is, how devastating it is that he's never had it before, that he might not have it again.

"Touch yourself," Ilya says. Sweat is beading on his forehead and his arms, like the effort is finally getting to him. "Hollander. I want to see."

His dick. Fuck. Shane had somehow almost forgotten about it, but Ilya has so many good ideas. He touches himself how he does when he's just starting to jerk off, light, running his palm over the head of his dick at the end of every stroke, smearing pre-come. It feels amazing, but it's also a waste, because every time he blinks his eyes open Ilya is right there with his face and his hair and his arms and his shoulders and it'd be a fucking shame for Shane not to get his hands all over every part of him while he can; Shane can touch himself any day of the week but he never gets this, does he.

And, oh, wait. He could — yes. He shoves Ilya's tank top up to his armpits and now he can see Ilya's abs working in all their glory as he slams into Shane like a fucking metronome, bam, bam, bam. His chest is amazing, pecs so huge some of the guys would probably mistake them for boobs and jerk off to them, acres of warm skin dotted with moles. Shane wants to taste them, all of them, lick and bite his way all over Ilya's entire body. He makes do with touching instead, thumbing over Ilya's nipples, running the backs of his fingers over Ilya's abs. "You’re so fucking — ungh — Jesus, how are you — " and then Ilya slams him down harder and he can't manage words any more.

"You are not touching yourself," Ilya says. There’s a rough edge to his voice, finally, like the exertion is starting to get to him. The tendons are standing out on his neck. Shane wants to bite them. "Come on. I want to see you come on my cock."

Shane has been on the verge of coming since he nearly rubbed one out on Ilya's thigh, and if he even lets himself focus for one minute on how fucking good Ilya's dick feels inside him, how deep he's getting, this is going to be over.

He doesn't want this to be over.

Fuck it, he's pretty sure Ilya realised how desperate he is for it when he agreed to being fucked in a bathroom. "Don't want to come yet," he grinds out. "Don't — want you to stop. Fuck."

Ilya swears, something Russian and guttural, and his control slips for a few strokes, going savage and rough. He's so fucking strong. Shane definitely can't let himself think about how if they weren't up against a wall Ilya could probably go for hours, like maybe he’d just fold Shane over the arm of a couch and fuck into him over and over until Shane came, and then keep going, fuck him through it oversensitive and squirming until Shane got hard and came again — and how Shane would let him because there'd be no point in fighting it, not when Ilya could put him wherever he wanted and hold him there, make him take whatever Ilya wanted to give him, maybe even slide in in one of his big fingers alongside his dick —

"Oh, fuck," he hears himself gasp, because he wants that, oh fuck he wants —

And there's no way Ilya can know the fucked up shit in Shane's head, so it must just be a coincidence that he adjusts his grip on Shane's ass, pulling him open even wider for his dick, calloused fingers slipping around Shane's rim where he's so stretched already, and Shane's dick jerks in the air between them and he's coming before he can stop himself, white-hot pleasure and relief and devastation all at once, ass clamping down on Ilya's cock and gasping as he spills all over his own chest.

"Fuck, are you — Hollander, fuck — "

Ilya surges forward and kisses him through it, fierce and biting. The head of Shane’s dick bumps against Ilya’s abs and it’s so fucking sensitive he feels like he needs to come again, or keep coming maybe, but he’s got nothing left to give. Little runs of aftershocks keep sparking through him at the tiny shifts of Ilya’s dick inside him; he shivers and the movement almost sets him off again. Shane didn’t think guys could have multiple orgasms. Maybe it’s a prostate thing. Maybe it’s a getting-fucked-by-Ilya thing.

"I can’t believe you did that," Ilya says, when he finally releases Shane’s mouth. He’s got his supernatural control going again, his dick huge and hard and unmoving in Shane’s ass.

"Mm," Shane manages. Jesus, he just got fucked against a door. He's going to have fucking friction burns on his shoulder blades. His abs hurt, his legs hurt, his ass hurts. He wants to do it again, right now, every day, forever, wants to live in this floating place where nothing matters except what his body can do in Ilya's hands, on Ilya's cock.

"You do that a lot?"

It's hard to make words. "Huh?"

"Come hands free," Ilya says.

"Oh." Shane risks opening his eyes. "No, I, uh. I've never done it before."

Ilya's eyes stay on him a little too long, and the universe shifts into sharper focus. Shit. Did he just give himself away?

"Is hot," Ilya says eventually, so at least he’s not going to make anything of it. He nods down at where their bodies are still joined. "You want me to put you down?"

Is there a way of saying I don’t ever want you to put me down without sounding like a psycho? Probably not. Also obviously Ilya can’t really hold him up forever and Shane already has some serious stretching to do or he won't be able to walk tomorrow, let alone skate the day after that, but. "No, you should keep going." Ilya hasn’t come yet. Shane wants to feel him come. Shane needs to feel him come, so that when Shane jerks off to this memory he can finish with the knowledge that Ilya got off from fucking him.

"Most people don't like," Ilya offers. "Being fucked, after they have come."

Fuck him for thinking Shane Hollander is most people. "I can take it."

"Mm."

Shane can interpret that one just fine — I don’t think you can — so he summons every memory of going over the boards for one more shift when he thought he was done, pulls himself up with Ilya’s shoulders as leverage, just an inch or so, and shoves himself back down on Ilya’s dick. Oh, fuck, it's a lot, but he’s not going to let it show. "I. Can take it."

"Can you."

"Fuck you." He drags himself up, slams down again. Fuck, fuck, it's everything from before but turned up to eleven, melting his spine. "I can take anything you can give me."

Ilya snarls something and shoves Shane up the door, slams into him four times, five, six, no finesse at all, grinding deep and dirty at the end of every thrust, and then he stops dead, panting, "Like that? You want it like that, Hollander?"

More aftershocks sparking through him. He can't think. He nods, or tries to, and Ilya must take it as agreement because he starts slamming in again, four strokes this time, stops when he's fucked in deep and asks, "Is not too much?" like he's asking if he's put enough cream in Shane's coffee, and fuck him and giant dick all the way to Russia and back.

"Yes," Shane says through his teeth, grabs the back of Ilya's head, fingers tangling in his curls, pulls him in so they're forehead to forehead again. "Yes it's too much, it fucking hurts, I want it, stop fucking around and fuck me."

The sound Ilya makes in response is almost inhuman, and then he's finally losing control, rhythm gone, slamming in over and over again, turning Shane inside out, fuck, it's so much. Shane shuts his eyes, looking for respite, but then there's nothing but the feeling of Ilya huge and unyielding inside him; opens them, and there's Ilya, curls plastered to his forehead with sweat, veins standing out along the length of his arms, mind-alteringly hot, unbearable, nothing to do but bear it. Shane is going to be jerking off to this for years, to Ilya just giving it to him, using him.

Ilya bites Shane's collarbone when he starts to come. If Shane hadn't just had the longest orgasm of his life he would probably get hard again at the feel of Ilya's dick pulsing inside him, pressed so deep it's like Ilya's trying to mark a claim on him somewhere no one else will ever be able to reach.

"Fucking hell," Ilya pants into his neck, when he's finally done. "I think you have killed me."

It's almost certainly a weird move for Shane to pat Ilya on the shoulder. He does it anyway. Ilya put in a solid shift.

"Okay," Ilya says after another moment. "I am going to put you down now."

Shane doesn't try to hide his wince when Ilya pulls his dick out. He has absolutely fucking earned that wince: I survived being fucked against a bathroom wall by a giant Russian man, and all I got was a sore ass. His hips feel like they've been screwed into their sockets wrong. Also, Shane has been in control of his legs for nearly twenty three years now and he definitely remembers how to stand up. He's just, like, choosing to lean against the door because he wants to, and not at all because he's in danger of sliding to the ground like an overcooked noodle.

Across the room, Ilya's legs seem to be working just fine. He's dropping the condom into the trash like this is just an everyday activity for him. Maybe it is. Maybe he won't even remember this night happening, or it'll just blur into a series of indistinguishable fucks in indistinguishable bathrooms.

Ilya catches him looking. "You are okay?" he asks. He turns the tap on and gets a few sheets of paper towel wet, then wipes at his dick. Expert-level public bathroom clean up happening over there; Ilya has definitely done this before.

"No, I'm. I mean, yeah, I'm fine."

"Good." Ilya throws the paper towel in the bin, does jeans up then pulls his phone out. "Twenty minutes," he says, sounding satisfied. "Okay. I will go back now. You will come and get your friends when you are ready, yes?"

"Wait." Reality hits like an unexpected ice bath. Oh, Jesus. Shane had forgotten — how the fuck had he forgotten. "You can't say anything. You can't tell anyone, I mean, that we — "

"It is not their business if we fuck."

"No, but. Nobody knows that I, uh." He's literally never said the words I'm gay in his life, and he's not going to start now, even to the guy who just fucked him up the ass.

"Hollander. Is fine. I will not tell anyone."

"But they're going to ask you where we went. Hayden will — "

"Is Hayden your mother?"

"What? No, but."

"Then who the fuck cares what Hayden thinks."

Shane cares. Shane can't. If the guys find out about this then literally everything will be ruined. Just because Ilya is a musician and people probably expect him to fuck anything that moves. That is not Shane's life.

Ilya rolls his eyes when Shane doesn't speak. "Fine. If anyone asks, I will say we went to get drink. Yes?"

Fucking hell. Though it's probably the best lie there is. The boys know Shane doesn't usually have more than one drink, so maybe if they think he's had too many it will explain why he's looking — he glances at his face in the mirror. Fuck. No amount of beer will explain this.

But it's still better than Ilya telling the truth.

"Okay. Yes. If they ask, then — okay."

"Okay. Well, was fun." Ilya's just standing in the middle of the small space, looking at Shane expectantly, eyebrows raised. Shane doesn't know what he wants from him. This is what you're meant to do with hookups, right? Fuck, come, quick clean up, everybody leaves. Shane's doing his best to let that happen instead of doing something embarrassing like asking for Ilya's number, or if the band is ever going to come through Montreal.

"You have to get off door," Ilya prompts after a moment. "So I can leave."

Oh, shit.

"Sorry. I — sorry." Shane pushes away from the door and grabs his sweatpants off the sink so he can hold them in front of his dick. He's going to have to try to clean up before he gets dressed again, but at least like this he can let Ilya out without his dick in full view. "Okay, you can — go."

Ilya’s looking at him again. Shane has no idea what the expression on his face means. "You are sure you are okay," Ilya says, after a moment. "I did not hurt you."

No, just ruined him for any other sexual experiences ever and condemned him to months of fucking himself with a fake dick trying to recreate a thousandth of the feeling of whatever the hell this was. "No, it was. I'm good."

"Okay."

Shane's not expecting Ilya to kiss him. He didn't think that was a hookup kind of thing to do. It's really — nice.

He forces his eyes back open.

"Bye, Hollander," Ilya says, hand on the door latch. "Oh, and you will maybe want to do something about your shirt."

Oh god. Shane looks down. Hayden's t-shirt is a complete fucking mess, come all over it. "Oh, shit."

Ilya smirks at him. "I told you is better to do naked."