Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Praise Kink, Shane Hollander Has a Praise Kink, Light Dom/sub, Light Feminization, overuse of good boy, Porn with Feelings, Sexual Overstimulation, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, mentions of fisting but no actual fisting, Mentions of voyeurism but it's roleplay, Coming Untouched, Crying During Sex, Face-Fucking, Premature Ejaculation, Humiliation, Masturbation, Grinding, Hand Jobs, Orgasm Control, Multiple Orgasms, Good Boy Shane Hollander, Kink Exploration, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Sappier than the tags i feel, Idiots in Love, Developing Relationship, Character Study

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-08-12 Words: 11,090 Chapters: 1/1

be good

Summary

“Such a good boy,” Ilya says suddenly.

He’s surprised. Ilya likes to taunt him in bed the same way he taunts Shane on the ice; by being cocky, mean, and a little bit cruel. He enjoys getting a rise out of Shane while Shane likes to pretend to be annoyed by it. It’s a thing they do.

This is not their thing.

Or, Shane finds it difficult to ask for what he wants. Ilya has no problems understanding him anyway.

Notes

this was meant to be just a lil thing i wrote for exposure therapy for smut-writing + a mental break from my wip, but suddenly it sprouted legs and then wings and i was being dragged along for the ride.

housekeeping items:
- kind reminder i don’t know shit about hockey so pls just go with it, i tried and i apologize in advance if there are any blatant logistical inaccuracies.
- heed the tags - if you don’t like it, don’t read, pls and ty. i will cry if you’re mean lol, this was really out of my comfort zone <3
- content warning: there’s a mention of Shane jerking off when he’s 16. starts at “Shane was sixteen” and ends at “if he knew what Shane did.”
- they don’t have a safe word established but just know that they are both right where they want to be
- when does this happen in the canon timeline? *shrugs* before tampa and before the tuna melt debacle, that’s for sure

see you at the bottom <3

It starts, as most things do, in bed.

“You need to be quiet,” Ilya admonishes. “My teammates will hear you.”

Ilya’s concern is cancelled out by the way he grinds relentlessly against Shane’s prostate, hiking Shane’s legs up higher on his shoulders to get a better angle.

Shane’s eyes roll into the back of his head as he hiccups, “F-fuck you.”

A bead of sweat rolls down the side of Shane’s face. Annoyance distracts him momentarily from the pleasure building in his gut; he told Ilya to turn the air conditioning up before they started, but Ilya refused.

Canadians need every room like the arctic. It is already cold in here, Hollander, he had argued.

But it’s sweltering now, just as Shane predicted. He feels like he can’t breathe. Shane huffs and tastes the salt of sweat and sex in the air of Ilya’s hotel room.

The headiness makes him choke on a groan, his dick twitching as Ilya thrusts harder.

Ilya tuts his tongue, “So cock drunk you cannot stay quiet, Hollander? Or maybe, you like to be loud? So everyone can hear how well you take me? How much you need this?”

Shane can’t really help it when his ass clenches around Ilya, fire licking up his spine. He answers back through gritted teeth, “I can stay quiet, asshole. You’re the one who can’t shut the fuck up.”

Ilya tweaks his nipple in retaliation, and a betraying whine slips through Shane’s mouth.

“Sure,” Ilya chuckles meanly. “What was that again?”

Shane furrows his brows. He’ll show Ilya just how quiet he can be. He purses his lips together tightly, trying to focus on keeping quiet and not on his dick, which throbs uselessly against his stomach, red and leaking and needing release.

Ilya’s eyes darken. He pulls his cock out of Shane completely, and before he can complain about its absence, he taps the head back on Shane’s winking rim before roughly shoving back in, not stopping until his hips are flush with Shane’s ass. The filthy squelch of lube echoes in the room as Ilya buries himself back inside Shane, groaning in satisfaction.

“Fuck, always so fucking tight,” Ilya spits. “Wish you could feel this for yourself, Hollander. You tighten around me like you want to keep my dick inside you forever.”

Shane bites his tongue so hard he can taste the slow trickle of blood filling his mouth.

I want that. I would keep you inside me if I could.

Still, he remains quiet even as the pleasure makes his stomach tense and his toes curl. The only sounds he allows himself to make are the sharp inhales and exhales he releases every time Ilya’s balls slap against him.

Ilya notices and bucks his hips harder, nailing his prostate with experienced precision. “You think you can stay quiet, Hollander?”

Shane doesn’t answer. He can’t, or else he’ll start shouting. The challenge of not making any noise—of proving himself to Ilya—is causing him to barrel towards release faster than usual. He shudders as he grinds down onto Ilya’s cock as best as he can, chasing the feeling of being bullied open like this.

“You are wetter today,” Ilya muses nonchalantly, like he is discussing something as minor as the weather. “You are making a mess.”

It’s true.

Shane’s leaking so much precome that it’s making a slow crawl down the divots of his hipbones and pooling into Ilya’s sheets. It’s humiliating to see the evidence of his desire so blatantly; he couldn’t hide the truth of how badly he wants this, even if he tried. Shane says nothing, choosing to glare at Ilya instead.

Ilya’s eyes track his face, and he reaches a hand up to pet the side of Shane’s head. “You are serious about this. You will be quiet for me, kotik? You can do it?”

The gentleness of Ilya’s voice is contrasted by the way his thrusts turn sharper and how his other hand reaches down to grip Shane tightly, his thumb rubbing teasing, small circles into the crown of Shane’s dick, making it even more difficult to stay quiet. He swears he can feel Ilya grow harder inside of him.

Shane nods frantically, arms moving up to grip the back of Ilya’s neck so he has something to hold onto while Ilya fucks him so hard that he’s shifting up the bed. Ilya leans down to capture Shane’s mouth with his own. It’s less of a kiss than it is simply resting their mouths against one another, until Ilya shoves his tongue so far deep inside that it makes Shane choke.

“My teammates are probably sad they cannot hear you anymore. They were probably touching themselves to your sounds, wishing they were fucking you instead of me,” Ilya says, pulling away.

Fear and arousal are at war in his gut. Shane narrows his eyes and shakes his head in defiance.

No, you fucking asshole.

Ilya laughs. “They were, kotik. Who could resist you? Of course, they do not know it is Shane Hollander in here with me, getting ruined. You make such pretty noises; you sound like a girl.”

Shane’s ears are ringing. It feels like there is stuffing in his head. His legs burn from where Ilya holds them on his shoulders, and he wishes Ilya would let them go so he could have full control over his body—so he could place his feet on the bed for leverage and fuck back down onto Ilya’s cock until he comes.

Instead, all he can do is hold on and simply take what Ilya gives him. Listen to the depravity that comes out of his mouth and feign indignance, even as every word brings him closer to the edge of oblivion.

The headboard hits the wall with the force of Ilya’s thrusts, and although Shane is quiet, Ilya is not, only getting louder as he grunts and groans, fucking himself deeper into Shane’s fluttering hole.

“Such a good boy,” Ilya says suddenly.

He’s surprised. Ilya likes to taunt him in bed the same way he taunts Shane on the ice; by being cocky, mean, and a little bit cruel. He enjoys getting a rise out of Shane while Shane likes to pretend to be annoyed by it. It’s a thing they do.

This is not their thing.

For a second, Shane thinks that perhaps he’s imagined it in his fucked-out haze, but Ilya continues, “You are being so good, Hollander. You take me so well, like you were made for this.”

What little breath Shane had remaining has been stolen from his lungs. There’s a building pressure behind his eyes that only relents once tears rise to the surface of them, his vision going blurry.

(Shane was sixteen when he met a boy at summer hockey camp, with hands so slender they looked like a pianist's hands. He was on the opposing team. Shane can’t even remember his name, but he does remember his number: 41. 41 with the beautiful fingers and silky brown hair and wide smile, who’d brushed hands with him while he was passing out water to all the players.

Shane had gone home that afternoon and jerked himself off in slow strokes in the shower, and for the tiniest, briefest flicker of a moment his thoughts strayed to 41’s hands instead of his own.

When his come was swirling down the drain, and the shame settled in, he’d chanted in his head: bad, bad, bad and thought about the slurs 41 would have called him if he knew what Shane did.)

“It’s…am I—” Shane stammers, his voice cracking embarrassingly. He’s blushing everywhere; he can feel it bloom beneath his cheeks and to the tips of his ears. Shane’s cock seems to get its wires crossed because it too is flushing a deeper shade of red, bordering on purple, and it spits out another blurt of precome. “Can you—”

Tell me I’m good. Shane can’t get the words out and refuses to beg, even though he’s desperate for it. Ilya has no clue what he’s done. That he’s cracked open Shane’s insides, gutted him, and left the most secret, mortifying parts of his insides out on display with a few simple words.

Ilya looks at him assessingly, his eyes narrowing an infinitesimal amount. His hips stutter, losing their rhythm, as he stares so hard at Shane’s face it makes him look away from Ilya’s eyes and to his forehead, where it is safer.

After a brief pause, Ilya drawls, “You are good, Hollander. You are always good for me. I never have to worry about you behaving well. So perfect, to let me fuck you like this. It is like a dream.”

An involuntary keen slips through Shane’s lips and his body responds to Ilya’s words as if he’s been electrocuted, jerking in Ilya’s hold.

“My good boy.” Ilya punctuates his point by stroking Shane’s cock root to tip and grinding against his prostate at the same time.

The dam breaks. Shane thrashes his head from side to side, overwhelmed. Tears roll down his cheeks silently as his jaw drops and he gulps in ragged breaths while Ilya continues to fuck him like he is rearranging his insides.

The orgasm that had been steadily creeping up on him is suddenly here, his balls tightening.

“M’close,” Shane garbles, abandoning any pretenses of staying quiet, “Oh, oh, ah-fuck, Rozanov, I’m gonna come.”

“Not yet,” Ilya grunts, releasing Shane’s cock. “Not until I say you can.”

Shane feels his control slipping; a thin thread about to snap. “I can’t,” he whimpers. “I can’t, I can’t, Rozonav, please let me come.”

“Almost there,” Ilya pants, yanking Shane down onto his cock so hard that he will surely leave bruises from where he’s holding Shane by his hips. “Wait for me. I know you can do it.”

Shane claws at Ilya’s back and tries to focus on the uneven popcorn ceiling of the hotel room, on the uncomfortable stifling heat, on the throw pillows behind him that are slowly being pushed off the bed—anything to distract himself from the dizzying pleasure of Ilya’s cock pushing ruthlessly on his prostate and the throbbing of his own dick as he tries to fight his orgasm away.

Ilya slams his hand down on the mattress, snarling, “Fuck, Hollander, gonna fucking fill you up.”

It’s not true. They’ve always used condoms and probably always will, for however long their strange arrangement lasts (they aren’t exclusive, after all, and fucking raw crosses into too intimate territory for whatever they are), but just the thought of it has Shane drooling and whimpering needily into Ilya’s neck.

“Please, please give it to me,” he begs, digging his heels into the tops of Ilya’s shoulders. “Come in me, fill me up.”

“Fucking hell,” Ilya hisses shakily, and lets out a strangled noise as he begins to come. “Come with me now, Hollander. Be a good boy and come on my cock.”

Distantly, Shane hears himself yell, a guttural, pained sound as his dick jerks violently, releasing come in high spurts that smear between their torsos. His ass clenches rhymically around Ilya, milking the remnants of his own orgasm, causing Ilya to groan in overstimulation. He doesn’t move, though, keeping still inside of him so Shane can have something to bear down on as he comes, thrashing against Ilya’s body.

After, when his ears stop ringing and he’s massaging the cramps out of his legs from being hiked up to his ears for the better part of the night, he can feel the fear trickle back in.

“Do you think they heard?” Shane whispers, anxious at the thought of Marleau or Connors or fuck, maybe Carmichael, hearing Shane shout to hell and back from their room next door.

Ilya just smiles. “They are all at the bar. Have been at the bar since they left a couple hours ago. It is just us, Hollander. But you definitely need more practice. Maybe I will buy a gag for you, and bring it with me next time. ”

“You’re such an asshole,” Shane rolls his eyes dramatically, if only to hide the way his dick twitches at the thought and how his shoulders slump in relief. “You sounded like you needed the gag more than me.”

Ilya curls his hand around his jaw. For a second, Shane thinks Ilya might caress his cheek with his thumb, but instead Ilya lifts his hand and taps his cheek lightly, once, then twice. Not with the full force of a slap. Not enough to hurt. It’s not even a smack. But he does it with just enough pressure that Shane can feel the blood rush to his face in response.

Enough to wish Ilya would do it a third time.

After, Ilya is unusually quiet as Shane goes to the bathroom to get a wet towel and perches on the edge of the bed, wiping at the drying come on his torso. There’s a lot more of it than Shane expected. There’s even a small streak of it near his neck.

Jesus.

He can feel the weight of Ilya’s pensive stare, boring holes into the sides of his face.

“What?” Shane grumbles.

Ilya looks away, whistling as he scratches at his balls lazily. “Nothing. Just…wow. Forgot how much you go wild for my cock, Hollander. Is flattering.”

“Fuck off,” he mutters, feeling himself flush red. “It’s been a while, that’s all.”

The last time they’d seen each other was five weeks ago. To say Shane has been pent up is an understatement. Sometimes, Shane wishes he could go back to when he’d never known what pleasure his body was capable of, because then he wouldn’t crave this all the time: Ilya’s fat cock, his large hands, his plush mouth, and his intentful eyes cataloguing Shane’s body like a map.

Shane’s been rutting into his sheets and fucking his fist like an animal for days, eagerly anticipating what would happen when he crossed the threshold of this hotel room door. The orgasms he gave to himself were lacklustre; a poor imitation of what Ilya could give him.

So, yeah, it’s been a while.

It has nothing to do with Ilya calling him a good boy. Nothing at all.

“It has been too long,” Ilya agrees.

Shane startles and can’t help but blurt out, “What, fucking all of Boston hasn’t been doing it for you?”

He isn’t naive to the difference in their circumstances. That while Shane waits and marks off each day that passes in his calendar with a big, bright ‘X’ until he can see Ilya again, Ilya is off somewhere fucking someone else and having the time of his life. Shane is merely convenient and illicit, a heady combination that Ilya can indulge in now and then.

He is no more special than the next tryst Ilya picks up at the club.

But Ilya grins toothily and shakes his head, “All of Boston is still not as good as you, Hollander.”

It happens again, this time in Montreal, three weeks later.

Ilya has him shoved against the door of his own hotel room as soon as Shane lets him in. He mouths at Shane’s neck.

“No biting,” Shane reminds him, albeit reluctantly.

“Who cares,” Ilya mumbles in response, already worrying at the skin near Shane’s jaw with his teeth. “Your teammates cannot tell whether a man or woman gave you a hickey, Hollander. Might boost team morale to see their captain can still get laid after losing so badly tonight.”

“Fuck you,” Shane pants. “We didn’t lose badly. It was a close game.”

Ilya’s eyebrows raise. “A close game for you, maybe. The rest of your team did not do shit.”

Shane tenses, hackles rising. Ilya wasn’t wrong, but regardless, he’s unknowingly pressing on a bruise. It was becoming a concerning pattern over the course of their last two games. The closer his team got towards the end of the season, the cockier they grew, the sloppier they played, and the less they listened to Shane—who tried to provide some sense of direction and leadership.

He’s been mulling over his method of captaincy for the better part of a month, wondering if they were a team that would benefit if he led with a firmer hand. That maybe his calm stability and consistency as a captain weren’t strengths, but actually weaknesses that enabled the team’s growing complacency. Perhaps they’d improve if he changed into someone louder, firmer, someone who could rile them up by puffing out his chest, and yell speeches that got their blood pumping before every game…someone just…better.

“So, what are you trying to say?” Shane says, defensively. “I’m a fucking good captain. They’re allowed to have off days.”

Ilya tuts his tongue and runs a consoling hand down the side of Shane’s neck. “I know you are, Hollander. You are not the problem. Your shitty teammates are. They have been having many off days lately.”

Shane’s throat tightens, and he turns away from Ilya’s hand. “I don’t want to talk about hockey with you. You’re ruining my mood.”

Ilya chuckles. “Hollander does not want to talk about hockey? My dick must truly be magical for you to be more interested in it than hockey.”

“Okay, that’s it. You’re leaving,” Shane huffs, shoving Ilya away from him and turning to open the door.

Ilya whines, pressing against the door to block him from opening it. “So strict, Hollander. Okay, okay. I will give you what you want.”

“Don’t want it anymore,” Shane lies.

Ilya slides a hand down to his crotch. Shane’s only half-hard now, but he’s still tenting at the front of his sweats, and his cock makes a valiant effort to get harder as fast as it can under the pressure of Ilya’s palm.

“Very believable,” Ilya says.

“You’re extra annoying today.”

“And you are extra grumpy,” he quips back, kissing him before dropping to his knees. “I will make you feel a lot better, Hollander.”

Faster than Shane can blink, Ilya has pulled down his pants to his ankles and is mouthing at his cock, kissing along his length and tonguing at his balls. He’s keeping his mouth open and lax, allowing saliva to pool before drooling it over his dick, making a wet mess that drips down Shane’s thighs.

Shane presses his back against the hotel door for something to rest on, bending his knees a little as he feels them start to buckle.

“Oh, fuck,” he moans, threading a hand through Ilya’s curls.

“Look at me,” Ilya murmurs, kissing the ruddy, leaking tip of Shane’s cock before swallowing him down to the base.

Shane clenches his jaw as he’s immersed in wet, tight heat. Ilya’s eyes remain locked on Shane’s face, catching his every wince and tremble as he attempts to suck the soul out of him. Once Shane hits the back of Ilya’s throat, Ilya groans, the vibration of his voice making Shane shudder. Ilya bobs up and down a few times, the room otherwise silent except for the filthy, wet schick of Shane’s cock moving through Ilya’s throat and Shane’s ragged breathing.

Ilya releases Shane to ask hoarsely, “Are you enjoying my mouth?”

The question is ridiculously stupid.

Shane is enjoying it so much, he’s overwhelmed by it. His dick is drooling a steady stream of precome onto the floor and twitches eagerly in Ilya’s hands, tapping him on the chin as if signalling its desperation to return to the warm cavern of his mouth. Shane watches as a string of something—precome or spit, or maybe both— hangs between his cock and Ilya’s lips.

“I asked you a question,” Ilya states, firmer now, squeezing a tight ring around the base of Shane’s cock with his thumb and forefinger.

“Oh. Feels good,” Shane whimpers.

“It is not polite for you to ignore me,” Ilya says it easily, like it’s more of an observation than something he’s taken offence by.

Still, Shane feels the telltale guilt of doing something wrong. The kind of bottomless shame that seems to come easy to him by doing something as simple as eating a cookie not accounted for in his meal plan, or saying no to a commercial deal his mother really wished he’d do, or failing to see when his team started to go off the rails.

“I’m sorry,” Shane stammers, “I didn’t mean—I didn’t mean to be—”

Ilya raises an eyebrow at him, interrupting him. “Shhh…Is fine. You are just overwhelmed by how good it feels, huh? Get a little mindless once your dick gets wet?”

Shane nods, heart in his throat and cotton in his ears, “I’m sorry.”

Ilya shows Shane he is forgiven by stroking his neglected cock. It’s almost methodical, ritualistic even, the way he works Shane with gentle hands. Shane bucks his hips into them, groaning. Ilya’s eyes roam his face, dark and greedy.

It’s strange to think that there is only one person in the world who has such intimate knowledge of Shane: of the right pressure to hold his cock, where he likes to be caressed under the head, the exact moments to go faster or slower. It’s even stranger to think that it’s Ilya Rozanov of all people.

Shane thinks that he is quite lucky that it’s him.

“So good for me,” Ilya whispers, so close that his breath hits Shane’s cock. “So good, malyshka. So pretty too. Prettiest I’ve ever seen.”

Ilya opens his mouth and spits on Shane’s cock.

“Holy shit,” Shane moans. “F-fuck.”

His hand picks up speed now, and Ilya doesn’t chastise Shane for moving his hips faster, fucking into the unrelenting palms that stroke him. It’s wet everywhere… spit and precome is frothing around Shane’s dick and spilling through the cracks of Ilya’s fingers, splattering to the floor, and Shane can’t catch his breath for a single moment.

“I wonder how you learned to be so good. Sometimes, it is fucking annoying, Hollander. There is little you are bad at. Maybe you were born to be good. Good person, good at hockey…good at taking whatever I give you.”

Shane’s stomach tenses, dick throbbing.

“And the best at taking my cock.”

And then it’s over.

“Sh-shit,” Shane exclaims, his sudden orgasm shocking him.

Ilya doesn’t even have time to get his mouth back on Shane’s cock before he’s spilling into Ilya’s hands without warning. Some come lands on Ilya’s cheek, and he makes a noise of surprise before hurrying to suckle at the head of Shane’s dick, catching the last bit of it inside his mouth. Shane yells and grinds his hips into Ilya’s face, holding the back of Ilya’s head down and in place while he swallows, wringing the last few waves of his orgasm out of Shane.

Ilya gives the head of his dick one last, filthy open-mouthed kiss before he gets up from his knees to kiss Shane on the mouth. He opens his mouth up slowly, a man on a mission, and Shane can taste himself on Ilya’s tongue as he feeds Shane what remains.

Once Ilya releases him, Shane pants. He’s quick to say, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He feels his cheeks darken with humiliation. He hasn’t come this fast since the first time they fucked. He feels like a goddamn teenager.

Ilya looks at him contemplatively. “Did I say you could not come?”

Shane splutters. “Well…well, no, but…”

“But?”

Shane lowers his eyes. “You haven’t come yet. You didn’t fuck me yet. I came in like, two seconds.”

Ilya grabs his chin between his thumb and forefinger, presses tightly enough to make Shane wince and pulls his face up until Shane meets his gaze. Then, Ilya rolls his eyes, “Was more like five minutes, maybe. Besides, you have never had a problem getting hard again at record speeds, Hollander. Do not worry your pretty little head about getting fucked, you will get it soon enough.”

As if to prove Ilya’s point, Shane’s dick twitches in interest.

“Alright,” Shane murmurs, embarrassment still clinging to his insides.

Ilya grabs a tissue from the box on the table near the front door to clean his hands and face.

“Good boys say thank you,” Ilya says, looking up at Shane from beneath his eyelashes as he wipes his hands.

Shane sucks in a breath and stills.

It feels like a test.

Ilya tosses the tissue on the table and leans against it, crossing his arms.

Shane’s throat is sticky, and his tongue is a wooden weight. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out.

His face burns with the shameful awareness that Ilya has seen this part of him—has spent their time together feeling the jagged edges of the yawning hole inside of Shane and pondering on it, until he plucked out the right piece of the puzzle to fill it.

Ilya raises his eyebrows, but there’s no hurry in his face, only a strange calmness. He’s treating Shane with the patience of a farmer leading a goat to water, or maybe, a butcher leading a lamb to slaughter, but either way Shane will take what he’s offering him with gratitude.

“Thank you,” Shane rasps. It comes out flatter than he intended, so he tries again, infusing his voice with as much sincerity and warmth as he can manage even as his voice shakes, “Thank you.”

“Good boy,” Ilya says solemnly.

There is shame and embarrassment, but there is also staggering relief. He’s dizzy with it.

“Good boys get rewarded,” Ilya grins, teeth glinting in the darkness of the room.

Shane’s cock, which, to his own surprise, is already hard and leaking once again. When did that happen? Ilya lowers his hand, makes his palm a makeshift leash that he closes over the head of his dick. He tugs, leading Shane deeper into the hotel room and to the bed by his cock.

And after it’s all over, Ilya chuffs him on the cheek on his way out of the hotel room, then sticks his finger into Shane’s face. Shane frowns but resists batting it away.

“Your team sucks because they are cocky and arrogant and rely on you to bring them victory. They know that even if they slack off, they have you on the ice to make everything better when they fuck up,” he spits. “You are an excellent hockey player and an even better captain.”

Shane can feel his mouth twitch into a smile. Satisfaction cocoons him, makes the sharp blades of his own insecurity and fear feel blunted. “Big words, coming from the enemy.”

“It is no fun watching them flail on the ice, Hollander. Is like watching children play.”

Shane shifts uncomfortably on his toes. They’re wading into uncharted territory. It’s a wordless agreement they have— to talk about hockey in only a vague sense. They can watch games and text each other commentary on whether Buffalo or Colorado are sucking more this season, or talk shit about Scott Hunter and the cobwebs forming between his joints, but they don’t talk about the business of their own teams.

They’re already doing enough damage by seeing each other like this. Shane is reluctant to give truth to the most likely and crudest theory that would emerge if their secret ever got out: that he’d traded strategy and team secrets for dick. Ilya Rozanov’s of all people, to be specific.

It’s a rare comfort, though, to be able to talk to someone else who understands. Shane wonders if he should be ashamed to accept reassurance from Ilya. Debates if it demeans himself to need encouragement from his rival. If, by accepting this, he’s subliminally positioning himself as the worse player and captain.

He twists the idea in his mind, turning it over and over again until it softens.

But it doesn’t feel bad to do this, quite the opposite, and Shane is too exhausted to deny himself this.

“So, what are you saying?” Shane mumbles.

“You are Shane Hollander. Decades from now it is your name that will be remembered. Not a team of losers who cannot match their captain, if they keep this up. Remind them of that.”

“How?”

Ilya looks at him knowingly. “You will figure it out, Hollander. You always do. Are you going to let it be so easy for Boston to get to the finals?”

“In your dreams, Rozanov,” he says, rolling his eyes.

Shane figures it out, because of course he does. For all his worrying and insecurity, he is Shane Hollander. And the best for a reason.

He beats them into shape, persistently cleaning up their act enough to get into a groove. Montreal wins against Detroit. And then against Los Angeles. When they’ve won 6-1 against Florida, Shane floats back to the locker room, high on adrenaline and the contentment of another win, and finds texts already awaiting him.

LILY

most competitive person i know.

congratulations, jane.

There’s a crawling sensation under Shane’s skin.

He filmed an ad today for some type of new sports drink, and the marketing team thought it would be a genius idea to douse him in water for the better part of an hour. They made him keep his white t-shirt and jeans on, though, because it was ‘sexier for audiences to be teased’ than for him to be simply shirtless and wet, so Shane grimaced and bore water getting thrown in his face and the unbearable sensation of wet denim.

He feels burnt out and jittery at the same time. Days like this can stretch him thin, even more than the most gruelling of matches. He throws himself onto his sofa, wondering if he should bother making dinner or just head to bed and try to sleep off whatever weird headspace he’s in.

His phone buzzes against his thigh.

LILY

u up? 👅💦

JANE

Not in the mood.

LILY

u are always in the mood.

JANE

Not now.

LILY

who stole your sense of fun?

JANE

Had a shoot today.

LILY

so u are saying more sexy images of jane will release soon 👀

JANE

Lower your expectations.

Don’t know how sexy I can look getting almost waterboarded by the marketing team.

I looked like a drowning rat.

LILY

rough day then?

Shane gnaws at his bottom lip.

JANE

I just feel bad.

LILY

bad like how? bad like sick?

JANE

Maybe.

LILY

there are children with bigger vocabulary than yours.

pike might even have u beat, and he is very low on the list of people i consider smart

JANE

You’re not funny

I don’t think I have a cold. No fever.

Just…bad, okay? I don’t know how to explain it.

LILY

try.

He breathes in through his nose.

JANE

I’m tired but I don’t think I can sleep.

I hate shoots. I don’t know what to do with my face or how to position my hands.

The studio lights give me a migraine.

I can still feel the wet jeans clinging to my legs…it’s weird.

LILY

go run a bath.

JANE

I’ve been wet all day, and you want me to sit in more water?

LILY

i was not asking.

make it hot. the bathroom should be steaming.

Shane gets up on shaking legs, trembling like a newborn deer as he shuffles to the bathroom and starts running the water.

LILY

do u have bubble bath?

Shane rolls his eyes in exasperation.

JANE

Are you serious?

LILY

😑

JANE

I have epsom salts? I save it for rough game days though

LILY

wouldn’t u say that today felt rough?

u are a millionaire but u hoard your salts for game days only…no wonder u feel bad

JANE

Okay, fine.

The water is done and I added them, happy?

LILY

show me.

Shane sends a picture.

LILY

get some pieces of chocolate and bring them with you.

JANE

You think I keep chocolate in my apartment?

LILY

omfg u are so boring jane

would send u a grocery order with food if it would get there in time

JANE

I think I have cacao nibs from a recipe I tried.

LILY

had to google it.

of course u would have gross alternative to real chocolate.

close enough.

bring a bowl to the bathroom.

By the time Ilya’s done bossing him around, Shane is settling into his bath. The only light in the room comes from the two candles Ilya told him to light. He eats a handful of cacao nibs and tells himself he’s pink from the hot water and not from blushing as he sends Ilya a photo of the bowl.

LILY

good boy.

i bet u look pretty.

do u want to video call or do you just want this?

Shane doesn’t know if he’s capable of carrying a conversation right now and is unwilling to break the tranquil silence in his bathroom.

JANE

This is good.

If that’s okay.

LILY

Would not have asked if it was not okay.

The bone-cold feeling he’d come home with is gone, replaced only by a syrupy warmth that starts in his belly and spreads outwards, to every limb and down to his toes.

It almost feels like a hug.

LILY

better?

Shane doesn’t just feel better; he feels good. And he realizes with a bit of surprise that he’s gotten hard. He dries one of his hands off with a nearby towel and is careful not to drop his phone into the water when he takes a photo.

His legs are pressed together, providing a delicate frame for his cock. It’s ruddy and swollen, straining so much beneath the water that the tip of it breaks the surface, a pearlescent bead of precome already blooming from his slit.

LILY

fuck.

wish i was there.

would swallow you whole.

let you fuck my mouth until i am choking on it.

would you last longer than last time?

Shane writhes in the water. He presses his legs together, enjoying the teasing friction that it provides on his balls and against his length. Ilya isn’t with him, but Shane feels as though he’s being watched regardless, and he pulses more precome, looking at his own cock with hooded eyes.

LILY

do not touch yourself.

Oh. Shane’s hands hang limply on the sides of the tub while his cock jerks, demanding attention. He swallows heavily.

JANE

Until when?

LILY

until whenever i say.

He’s lightheaded, and he knows it isn’t from the steam.

JANE

Okay.

LILY

when u finish the bowl of your fake chocolate, sit until the water cools.

dry off with your softest towels and tuck yourself in bed.

do not put on any clothes.

JANE

Okay.

Shane doesn’t think—his brain turning soft and smooth, with nothing to focus on except abiding by Ilya’s instructions. He floats. The salts relax his muscles and make the room smell like eucalyptus leaves. He watches his shadow flicker in the candlelight against the walls.

He lets the horrible day wash over him and then releases it down the drain, with the rest of his bath water.

When he gets in bed, his cock is still aching. The feeling of his sheets against his skin makes Shane whimper. He allows himself a bit of self-indulgence, arching his back to hump against his silk-spun duvet, keeping his hands fisted against the mattress beside him.

He works himself up until he’s purple, until he has to stop before it goes too far. Arousal ebbs and flows, and despite not coming, his limbs feel loose and heavy, satiated even in the absence of release.

JANE

In bed now.

LILY

u did well.

He watches Ilya type and stop before beginning again. Seven minutes later, he gets a final text:

LILY

i am proud of you.

thank u for being good.

The words warm him more than anything else has tonight.

Ilya makes him wait until the following afternoon. Shane has just finished his workout when Ilya FaceTimes him, and the arousal that has been simmering in the background comes back with astounding force.

He orders Shane to stick his dildo to the edge of his tub and spews filth as he makes Shane ride it while he watches. He calls him sweet nothings like baby, angel, and darling. Croons kotik and malyshka into the phone, and calls him other names in Russian that Shane can’t understand, so much as feel. He describes how needy his hole looks, how slutty he is to fall on his knees so fast, how he can fuck himself with his dildo all he wants and it will never satisfy his ass the way Ilya’s cock can.

When Ilya finally gives him permission to come, Shane knows he’s been good without being told.

They don’t exactly talk about the new developments of what they’re doing, but it’s not like they give a name for anything they do together. But it grows, expands…bleeds into the mediocrity of Shane’s daily life so that he feels invigorated by something other than being on the ice.

Shane will mention that he’s grocery shopping and Ilya will demand pictures of what’s inside his cart. He’ll order him to throw in a chocolate bar or two and won’t shut up until Shane relents.

If Shane stays up too late, watching game tapes and catastrophizing about the next game, Ilya makes him FaceTime him so he can see Shane put away his laptop and tells him he isn’t allowed to touch it past 9 PM, chatting his ear off about Marleau’s dating problems or the latest animal documentary he’s watched instead.

Other times, Shane complains that he doesn’t want to go to the club or bar with his team. He goes, despite everything, because at the end of the day it’s important to show effort as captain to connect with his team. But sometimes, when he’s particularly drained, Ilya gives him permission to just say no. Orders him to, if that’s what it takes. And with the relief of the decision out of his hands, Shane will say no and stay at home, and the world doesn’t end.

Ilya starts asking him how often he jerks off. Makes him text him every time he feels like doing it. Sometimes he allows Shane to come, sometimes he doesn’t, without rhyme or reason.

Shane likes it.

He likes everything they do.

But what he likes most of all is knowing what comes next whenever he listens well.

Good boy.

“You seem different,” Hayden says. “Doesn’t he seem different?”

Hayden and Jackie stare at him from across the table, assessing him. Their monthly dinners are a new thing—a tradition Jackie insisted that he and Hayden partake in. Quality time for friendship was important, and time at the rink didn’t count. It also gave them an excuse to drop the kids off at their grandparents so they could have a proper evening together with just the adults.

Shane just appreciated that he could hang out with Hayden without being dragged to the bar with the other guys.

“Hmh?” Shane chokes, swallowing around a forkful of salmon and rice.

“It’s not a bad thing,” Jackie is quick to reassure as he gulps down some water.

“Nah man,” Hayden shakes his head. “The opposite. You’re like…all glowy...”

“As opposed to looking like shit most of the time, is what you’re telling me,” Shane says dryly.

Jackie smiles at Shane placatingly as he shifts in his chair. “It’s been a long season for everyone, but especially you. You just…you look good, Shane. Less stressed out. Lighter.”

“It’s easier to be in a good mood now that we’re not losing all the time,” he explains, a half-truth at best.

It earns him a fist bump from Hayden. “Fuck yeah, brother.”

Jackie grins, “I’m glad. You guys deserve it. It’s not long now until the finals.”

“Although I have to say,” Hayden says, pointing his fork at Shane. “I suspect your good mood isn’t just about the season.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, faking cluelessness.

He knows exactly what Hayden means.

Hayden jerks his chin at Shane’s phone, lighting up by his plate.

LILY

<2 unread messages>

“I find it hard to believe this doesn’t have anything to do with Boston Lily.”

Jackie raises her eyebrows, “Haven’t you already been seeing her for a while now?”

“Yeah, but it was just casual before,” Hayden answers before he can respond himself.

“Who’s to say it’s not still casual?” Shane argues, hastily flipping his phone over.

“C’mon man, give us a little here. Sure, you would meet up here and there whenever you were in Boston. But now, this girl has been blowing up your phone non-stop for months. Every time I look over at you in the locker room, you’ve got your head buried in your phone, and I know for a fact that you’re not looking that happy to be texting your mom.”

They stare at him wide-eyed and unblinking.

“She’s…yeah…” he says lamely. “Of course it’s going well. We’ve been seeing each other for a long time.”

“I think it’s sweet,” Jackie pipes in. “She’s good for you, Shane, if she keeps you looking as happy as she does.”

“It’s still casual,” he insists. “We’re just talking more, that’s all.”

“So you say,” Hayden smirks. “That’s how it starts, man. Take it from me.”

Jackie nudges her shoulder against Hayden's, and they intertwine their hands on the table. Shane looks away when Hayden leans in to kiss the side of her forehead.

“We all could use someone to lean on. Someone who knows what we need. Casual can be fun, but sometimes you outgrow it. You should let yourself enjoy it, if that’s where it’s heading,” Jackie says.

It’s not that easy for us, he thinks bitterly. There is no room to grow. We only have this.

“You should bring her around to the next dinner if she’s ever in town,” Hayden says. “I’d love to meet the girl who’s got you floating like this.”

Shane’s phone buzzes again on the table, and he turns it on ‘do not disturb’.

Ilya texts him a post-game interview of himself out of the blue. It was uploaded fifty seconds ago to ESPN’s YouTube channel.

JANE

???

LILY

i know u are missing my handsome face 😜

JANE

Blocking you, be right back.

LILY

be right back… are u 100 years old lmfao

means laughing my ass off in case u did not know

watch the video

jane

jane

come on

they ask me about u

they love to ask me about u and u love to hear people talk about u

especially me

i am sending you a present, u should be nice and thank me

JANE

How can I watch it if you keep texting me?

LILY

fine.

Ilya’s still sweaty after the game. The reporters are asking him the usual rotation of questions after a win, and Shane is only half-paying attention to Ilya’s gloating until he hears his name. He rewinds.

“Montreal hit a bit of a wall during this latter end of the season, but they’ve managed to really turn things around. You might even say that they’re closing the gap on the strong headstart Boston’s had this season. Hollander seems to be leading that turnaround. Have you been paying closer attention to how he’s been playing?” The reporter asks.

Ilya cocks an eyebrow, and when he looks into the camera, Shane feels like he’s looking directly at him.

“I always have my eyes on Hollander,” he answers. “It would be a mistake not to. It is true Montreal has been struggling lately, and I think Hollander has turned what could be a very bad situation for their team into a decent shot at the finals.”

“Is it affecting how you prepare to approach him on the ice?”

Ilya shrugs. “He is strategic and consistent. More than most players in the league. He creates opportunities for his team, even if things are going badly. He is an excellent hockey player and captain, and is playing a very good season.”

Blood rushes south. Shane is getting hard.

Ilya continues, “Hollander is good; I will not deny this. It is fun to play against a true competitor. No one offers a challenge quite like him. But I also know what I am capable of. I have no reason to be scared. I will keep doing what I am doing.”

“And you said that Montreal has a ‘decent shot’ at the Cup. Why is it just decent and not a good one?”

Ilya throws his head back and cackles. “Because Boston is still here, of course. Knock us out of the season and then maybe you will have better luck at the Cup this year, Hollander.”

He ends his interview with a wink and Shane’s entire body flushes. He replays the clip. And queues it one more time for good measure. He purposely does not allow himself to think too hard about his hand shoving his sweats down to palm at his dick.

LILY

did you like my interview?

JANE

You sound too cocky./ My fans will be anoyed.

LILY

they are always annoyed with me.

like u.

typos?

not like u to make mistakes.

hands busy?

JANE

no they arewn’t

LILY

jane

janeeeeeeee

Shane replays the video again and again. Listens to the deep rasp of Ilya’s voice, the satisfying way he curls his ‘r’s when he says his name. He rolls on his side to pull the lube out from his bedside drawer and gets his hand slick.

I always have my eyes on Hollander.

He is an excellent hockey player and captain.

He twists his fist around the head of his cock and groans into his empty bedroom. Fucks into his fist the way he would into Ilya’s hand, into his mouth.

Hollander is good.

He whimpers and thrashes and sticks his thumb into the slit of his cock, just like Ilya does when he’s feeling particularly mean. When he comes, he’s careful to collect it all in the palm of his hand, shivering the whole time.

Shane texts a photo of it to Ilya.

He’s standing at the sink washing his hands, but he doesn’t feel as satisfied as he usually does. In fact, he feels the opposite…a bit unsure and a lot anxious, and Shane is second-guessing everything that has led up to this moment: where Ilya can read him with startling ease.

Can see the darkest, neediest parts of him and comply with their demands.

It doesn’t feel casual anymore.

What are they even doing? What is Shane doing?

His phone buzzes.

LILY

fuck.

LILY

ready for round two?

LILY

<Incoming FaceTime>

Ilya takes one look at Shane’s face after their call connects and winces. “You do not look happy, Hollander. What? Did it feel that bad coming without me there?”

“Does it…is it weird?”

Ilya sighs and makes a show of slipping his hand back out of his pants. “What is weird? What is wrong? You have made a tight knot in that pretty little head of yours.”

Shane purses his lips. “Be serious.”

“I am serious,” he promises. “Especially when you frown like that.”

He gnaws at his lips and considers what to say and how to say it. “The way that I am. What I like.”

“You like a lot of things. You need to be more specific.”

“You know what I’m talking about, Rozanov,” he forces through gritted teeth.

Ilya’s face softens. Or maybe it’s just the light. His voice is gruff when he says, “There is nothing weird about you, Hollander.”

“You don’t think of me…differently? Because I give you control? Because I like—”

I like being a good boy, he thinks bitterly.

Ilya chokes on a laugh and looks at him in exasperation. “When have you ever done something you did not want to do? You are like an angry kitten. I could not control you if I tried.”

“You do, though,” he argues. “We’ve been doing it for weeks.”

“You give me control because it makes you feel good. Because you want to. You could take it back just as easily. I only do this because you allow it, Hollander,” Ilya says. “Is that what this is about? You do not like it anymore? We can stop if that is the case.”

Shane shakes his head and looks away. “So you do this because you know I like it. Need it.”

“I do it because I like it,” he corrects. “You think I am not getting off on this too? That every time you are good for me, it does not feel like a fucking dream come true? I just volunteered to do a post-game interview where I kiss your ass as foreplay, Hollander. Which you have not yet thanked me for, by the way. But yeah, I think I am pretty into it.”

It feels as if the worries that have been filling Shane like a balloon are popped by a single pinprick. He can feel himself deflating slowly, slipping into a buttery-slick haze where everything is as simple and easy as Ilya makes it out to be.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

Ilya tilts his head in acknowledgement, and the corners of his mouth twitch up. “Your problem is that you think too much, sometimes. You worry too much about being good rather than just doing it. Do you like what we do?”

He nods.

“Tell me,” Ilya prompts gently.

“I like what we do,” Shane admits reluctantly.

Ilya grins. “And I do, too. That is all that matters. You and me. Okay?”

You and me. Ilya doesn’t mean it the way Shane wants him to mean it. He’ll take what he can get.

“Okay,” he repeats.

“Now, why don’t you be a good boy and get on your knees, and show me how grateful you are for my gift.”

They don’t see each other for another seven weeks. When they reunite in Boston, it’s at Ilya’s apartment instead of a hotel room.

I will make you scream so loud that it will scare my team and the hotel staff, Hollander. My apartment is safer.

He doesn’t get a chance to take inventory of the place because Ilya is kissing him as soon as he walks through the door, chasing his mouth even as he’s herding Shane to the bedroom.

“Off, clothes off,” Shane pants.

He hasn’t come in a week, a miraculous achievement only made possible by the promise of Ilya destroying him thoroughly if he was successful, and he’s two seconds away from combusting.

Ilya tuts his tongue, “No patience, no manners.” But he’s flinging off his shirt and unbuttoning Shane’s jeans with shaky hands, equally eager.

Once they’re both naked, Ilya sits with his legs flung over the side of the bed and positions Shane so that he’s kneeling in front of him.

“I’m going to fuck your mouth now. You can come,” Ilya informs him, “as soon as you need to. As fast as you need to. But you will not touch yourself to get there.”

And before Shane can say anything in response, Ilya’s feeding him his cock and Shane is choking in his haste to get it all down as fast as possible. Shane has seen Ilya’s dick countless times before, but it still makes him go cross-eyed, still makes butterflies creep into his belly at seeing how big he is.

It gives Shane a sick sense of pride at knowing how much cock he can take easily, in any of his holes.

Ilya lurches and gasps, wrapping his hands around the back of Shane’s head as something to hold on to. Shane hollows his cheeks as he bobs up and down, being gratuitous with his saliva, making Ilya’s cock slick and sloppy.

He digs his fingers into Ilya’s thighs and moves them upward to his hips, tapping on them, giving Ilya a signal that he can begin.

Ilya starts moving his hips, fucking into Shane’s mouth as promised. Shane has a hard time keeping his eyes open, but he wants to enjoy every moment of Ilya’s pleasure—seeing his brows furrow, sweat beading at his temples, his jaw clenching.

Shane can feel his lips swelling and reddening from their effort. He makes an encouraging noise, and then Ilya is fucking into his mouth in earnest, whimpering as he hits the back of Shane’s throat. Shane moans and swallows around his length, pushing Ilya’s hips back and forth to rock him into his throat even faster, allowing Ilya to use him freely.

Shane’s own cock throbs uselessly against his thigh, thick and sticky and weeping. He humps into the air, fruitlessly trying to seek friction where none exists.

Good boys don’t touch themselves if they aren’t allowed, he reminds himself.

Shane gets a hand in between Ilya’s legs, massages the thin skin between his balls and ass.

Ilya grunts, weaving his fingers through Shane’s hair, grabbing a handful of it that he uses to yank his head up and down, “Yes. Fucking take it.”

His eyes were already watering with the effort not to gag around Ilya’s cock, but they well up even more with tears of frustration as his cock strains and yearns for touch. Ilya caresses his freckles, smiling when the tears begin their slow crawl down his cheeks.

“Need a little help, baby?” Ilya coos. “Here,” he whispers and shoves one of his legs in between Shane’s crotch.

Blood is roaring in his ears. He takes the gift he’s been given with grace and begins humping Ilya’s leg eagerly, moaning around Ilya’s cock as his own leaks a steady trail of precome on Ilya’s shin. He can feel himself losing air, getting lightheaded as his throat protests and all he tastes and smells is nothing but Ilya, Ilya, Ilya.

It’s over as soon as it started. Shane’s cock jerks once and then twice, and he’s coming, making garbling noises around Ilya’s length as he spills come across Ilya’s leg and to the floor, rolling his eyes as his orgasm shatters through him.

Ilya yanks Shane off of his dick.

Shane whines, bereft, but Ilya shushes him and wipes Shane’s lips with the back of his hand. “I am not punishing you. You were perfect…too good, too fast. But when I come, I want to be inside of you.”

Ilya pulls him up from the floor and pushes him to his back on the bed, wrapping his hand around Shane’s spent cock. Shane grimaces, oversensitive, the pleasure bordering on pain.

“Rozanov,” he whispers, grabbing Ilya’s wrist. “Too much.”

Ilya smirks meanly, “You will take what I give you. I know you can do it.”

Heat tears through his stomach, creeping up his torso and to his face.

“Okay,” he cries.

Ilya strokes his overworked cock until Shane’s half-hard again, wincing and jerking, his body rebelling against the onslaught of sensation.

It’s so much.

Shane gets only a brief moment of respite when Ilya pulls a bottle of lube and condom from his bedside table. He wets his hand generously, pets at Shane’s perineum fondly, before shoving two fingers up into his ass.

“So gorgeous here, too,” Ilya whispers absent-mindedly. Shane isn’t sure if Ilya’s talking to him or to himself. “So soft. Tight.”

“Yes,” Shane hisses, eyes rolling back in his head, feeling the satisfying burn as his muscles stretch to accommodate the intrusion. He tilts his hips lower, bearing down. “F-fuck, uh, uh, more. Please.”

Ilya gives him a third finger.

“One day you might be able to take all of me,” Ilya says casually, scissoring him open. “My whole fist could fit inside you, I bet. If you really tried. Your greedy hole might even suck me in until my elbow.”

Shane’s cock jumps, fully hard and aching, and his heart stutters in his chest.

He would put his entire arm in me.

“I want it,” he gasps, bleary-eyed and begs, “I-I can do it. Please, please. Give it to me.”

Ilya hums in consideration. Teases his hole by rubbing on it with a fourth finger, but never puts it inside. “Maybe another time. You have already come once, kotik. I have been waiting to get inside of you.”

He slips his fingers out, and before Shane can mourn the loss, he’s pressing the blunt head of his cock against Shane’s rim. Shane expects him to shove inside in one abrupt movement, but instead, he moves infuriatingly slow. Shane’s jaw drops open, and he pants as he feels the full impact of Ilya, stretching him open inch by glorious inch.

Ilya leans down and captures his mouth in a filthy, open-mouthed kiss. He kisses Shane until his lips hurt and he’s breathless. They move their bodies together in a slow rhythm, unusual from their typically frenzied fucking, but it gets Shane’s blood boiling just the same.

Ilya presses their foreheads together, eyes boring into his. He gets a firm hand around Shane’s jaw, holding him into place so Shane can’t look away.

When they first started fucking, Shane had internal boundaries of intimacy in place that he told himself were not allowed to be crossed.

No kissing on the mouth because it somehow felt gayer than getting fucked (a failure of epic proportions considering that the first time Ilya met Shane in his hotel room for sex, Ilya placed one gentle hand on Shane’s cheek before Shane had chased Ilya’s mouth for a kiss himself).

No kissing on the forehead for obvious reasons (failed because Ilya is a freak that isn’t satisfied until he’s gotten his mouth over every square inch of Shane’s face).

No holding hands because there isn’t a need to (failed because Shane liked to intertwine his fingers with Ilya’s as something to ground him whenever it felt like his orgasms would somehow send him through the ceiling).

Prolonged eye contact was a firmer one on his list, and Ilya’s seemingly incessant need for it usually made him uncomfortable. Shane had always turned away, rolling onto his back to arch his ass at Ilya instead, or angling his face into the pillow to hide.

And now, Shane could wrestle out of Ilya’s grip, could throw him across the room through brute force alone if he really wanted to.

He can, but he won’t. His cock gets slicker, and his skin burns hotter, as he allows Ilya to manhandle him and bore his eyes into Shane’s all he wants, tying up his own control up in a pretty bow and laying it at Ilya’s feet.

“You need this,” Ilya urges, continuing to peer into Shane’s eyes as if he’s performing hypnosis.

“I need it,” Shane parrots, tightening up like a vice around Ilya’s cock. “Need it so bad, Rozanov, come on, fuck me.”

Ilya groans and picks up the pace, moving his hips in a way that has Shane mewling and chanting yes, yes, yes. He can feel his orgasm building, a steady climb instead of a rapid acceleration, each deep thrust hitting his prostate and bringing him closer to bliss.

Ilya watches his face intently, looking at him with barely concealed affection. Shane thinks it might almost be tenderness in his eyes, but perhaps he’s just being too hopeful. Maybe he’s just seeing the reflection of his own stare in Ilya’s.

“Fuck,” Ilya spits and begins rolling to his back, gathering Shane in his arms to bring him along with him.

Shane complains, “I was close.”

“I know,” Ilya smirks. “Could feel you start to milk my cock already, but thought this would be more fun.”

He slaps Shane on the ass, and it makes him jolt. “Ride me. Take what you need.”

“Fucking lazy,” Shane mutters. “Making me do all the work.”

“By the way your hole is trying to squeeze my dick off, I think you are more than happy to be sitting on it like this,” he retorts.

Shane starts to move his hips, partly to get Ilya to stop talking and partly because every part of his body is screaming at him to move.

“Yes,” Ilya goads. “Just like that, Hollander. Fucking unbelievable that no one knows you can ride cock like this. Except me. You are all mine.”

Shane was sweating before, but now he feels hot all over, exertion making him pant and making his legs burn. He makes a bleating noise, and Ilya coos oh, bunny, like he feels bad for him, like Shane paints a pathetic picture bouncing on his dick, and it makes Shane move even faster.

“Look at yourself,” Ilya demands. “Look how desperate you are.”

Shane looks down. It looks almost comical, the way his own dick strains ramrod straight against his stomach, nearly purple. He’s smearing precome over his own abs, a fresh spurt of it coming to the head with every downward stroke.

He leans in to steal a kiss. Ilya hums happily into his mouth and his hands paw at Shane’s ass, massaging into the flesh.

Shane bends his knees even more and leans in a bit further (he sends a mental thank you to his yoga instructor), and the change is enough to make the head of Ilya’s cock nudge his prostate with every bounce. Ilya starts driving up his hips the smallest amount, meeting Shane’s frantic movements with ease.

“R-rozanov, ah, ah, right there,” Shane says. He can recognize he’s babbling nonsense, can hear himself making punctured noises with pleas and Ilya’s name thrown in between, but he’s helpless to stop it in his worked-up state.

“Come on, Hollander,” Ilya encourages. “Come on my cock. Milk me dry the way you have been trying to all night.”

“I can’t,” Shane hiccups, feeling the threads of his orgasm brush by him too weakly and too quickly that he can’t hold onto them. “Can you—” Shane’s voice cracks. “I can’t…”

“What is it? Tell me what you need,” he says, reaching up to brush a thumb across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, tracing the path of his freckles. “I will not give it to you unless you ask.”

After all this time, humiliation still wells unbidden in his chest. His pace slows into a steady grind, chagrin making his cock soften a bit.

Shane closes his eyes.

“Tell me I’m good,” he whispers. “Want to be your good boy.”

“Say please.”

“Please,” Shane begs.

Ilya moves his hands from his ass and to his hips, pushing Shane back and forth on his cock, spurring him to move faster. “You are. You already are. Such a good boy, my good boy. The best I could ever have. Open your eyes.”

Everything is blurry when he opens them back up. Ilya leans in to lick the trail of tears and salt from his cheeks.

An intense pressure is building inside of him. It’s familiar, it always is, but the intensity of it this time scares him. He’s going to make a mess.

“Good,” Ilya hisses.

“Just-just want to be good,” Shane pleads, knees buckling and faltering, but Ilya catches him, helps bounce him in his lap and spears him with his cock with no issue.

Ilya groans in his ear, “Always an overachiever, Hollander. You have been so good already…are always so good for me. And you still want to be even better? You can come on my cock like a good boy, Hollander, and I will be the luckiest fucker alive.”

Shane wails. His cock pulses and jerks, paints their torsos white.

The pleasure feels endless. His hole shudders around Ilya’s cock almost violently, nearly pushing him out with its force, but Ilya continues to fuck his way through the resistance. Ensures he keeps bullying against Shane’s prostate until there’s no more come left for his cock to give. And even when Shane’s been wrung dry, he still feels like the waves continue to crest.

Is he still coming, or has he come again already? Is this the second or third time? Will it ever end?

He doesn’t know. Can only grip onto Ilya’s shoulders and hold on as he trembles with ecstasy.

“Fuck,” Ilya groans, gripping his waist tightly. He pounds into Shane’s twitching hole, burying himself to the hilt, his orgasm on the heels of Shane’s. “So good, you are so good for me. My good boy.”

Finally, it ends, and Shane feels like all the strength in his body has been taken with it. He slumps against Ilya, who leans back on the bed and arranges them both on their sides. Shane can’t do anything but watch as Ilya gently slides out of him and makes quick work of disposing of the condom, fetching a damp towel, and wiping down the planes of their bodies until they're as clean as they can be.

Ilya comes back and settles beside Shane. They lie in silence.

It is a while until Shane can catch his breath, but even once he does, his heart continues racing in his chest with no signs of slowing. If they were in a hotel room, now is about the time that Shane would throw on his clothes and stumble into the hallway with a quick goodbye. Shane might even get one final kiss, if he was lucky.

But they’re not in a hotel room, they’re in Ilya’s apartment. Shane doesn’t have practice until the late afternoon tomorrow, and some part of him feels like he might shatter into a million pieces if he leaves.

Ilya looks at him hesitantly. “Are you okay?”

Shane nods and bites his lip. He moves gradually, closing the distance between their bodies. Ilya watches him with wide eyes. Shane grabs Ilya’s arm and moves it higher so Shane can curl underneath it. He moves Ilya’s other arm so it’s wrapped around his waist.

Slowly, Shane rests his head on Ilya’s chest.

“Is this…is this okay?” Shane asks tentatively.

The planes of Ilya’s body, once rigid and tense, finally begin to relax.

Ilya swallows. He answers quietly, “It is good, Shane. You are good.”

The rumbling of his voice reverberates from Ilya’s chest, and Shane nuzzles his face into him to chase the feeling.

He’s drifting towards sleep when he mumbles, “You’re good too, you know.”

Shane feels the press of lips against his forehead, a hand stroking his hair, and finally succumbs to the heaviness of his eyelids.