Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Major Character Death

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ghost Ilya Rozanov - Character

Additional Tags:

Ghost Sex, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Ilya Rozanov Is Dead, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Paranormal, Explicit Sexual Content, Voyeurism, Sex Toys, Somnophilia, First Time Bottoming, Barebacking, Yearning, Needy Top Ilya Rozanov, Spanking, First Kiss, The Author Regrets Nothing

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-03 Updated: 2026-09-30 Words: 47,234 Chapters: 7/8

the shade of it all

Summary

A smutty ghost story by Calico

Inspired by this incredible tumblr post.

"It's got good bones," Shane said, to everyone who would listen, forestalling their totally valid concerns about depreciation and the novelty wearing off and like, subsidence. Boring stuff that Shane did not care about today because this was Ilya Rozanov's house. This was the actual house that Rozanov lived and died in, all those years ago. The man, the legend, and now – technically, if someone wanted to think of it like that, and Shane did – the roommate!

Notes

TW: obviously, Ilya has to have died for us to have ghost!smut, so there’s that. *awkwardly hits the MCD button*. There’s also the inherent consent issues of paranormal power imbalances and unwitting somno. But nobody is being made to do anything they’re not furiously fantasising about, you have my word.

Vibe check: fun porn with a few twists 😈👻

All the thanks to: Goat, Feral, GlitteringRock and hegemony for whipping this smutty frivolity into shape 👌

Chapter 1

SHANE

"It's got good bones," Shane said, to everyone who would listen, forestalling their totally valid concerns about depreciation and the novelty wearing off and like, subsidence. Boring stuff that Shane did not care about today because this was Ilya Rozanov's house. This was the actual house that Rozanov lived and died in, all those years ago. The man, the legend, and now – technically, if someone wanted to think of it like that, and Shane did – the roommate!

"I'm just concerned this is not a good investment," his dad said, and his mom was there nodding and wincing as well, and Shane shifted his weight and wrinkled his nose and eventually just shrugged.

"Yeah, you're probably right, but I've got a pretty broad portfolio of good investments now, right? You've seen to that. So… this one's just for me."

"I'm really concerned it won't fly on the market," Yuna said. "I know some people say novelty rentals are the way forward, but—"

"Doesn't matter. I'm gonna live in it."

David sucked air through his teeth as he looked at the cracked coving around the ceiling, the clouds of dark discolouration blooming from each high corner. "That looks like damp. I've got to say, Shane, I know you're caught up in the idea, but I'm honestly not sure you'll get a mortgage on it, the lender—"

"I'm gonna buy it outright."

"But the subsidence…"

"I'll get a surveyor," Shane offered, like a peace treaty. He patted the wall. "It's a good house, you'll see."

ILYA

Ilya stirred at the slap of the man's hand against the wall. It wasn't hard, not enough to pop bubbles in the ancient wallpaper or raise any plaster dust, but there was something else in it, warmth, intent, that reverberated soundlessly through the structure of the house and tugged Ilya's awareness to the surface.

This man was excited.

Well that made one of them. Ilya was bored.

Ilya allowed himself to coalesce out of the uncanny miasma of the fabric of the house, cocked his head, and scowled. Usually when men strolled in here excitedly it was to talk shop about conversions and ripping out walls and – Ilya shuddered – kitchen islands.

Ilya had put in a very specific kitchen when he lived here, in a fit of sentimentality: a replica of his childhood kitchen back in Moscow, one of the few spaces he remembered relaxing with his mother when he was little. He recalled sparse, precious Sunday mornings kicking his heels waiting for buckwheat porridge to simmer or dark dough to rise. He'd had this kitchen rebuilt to the best of his memory, with the same broad-panelled cupboard doors and built-in spice racks, the same cramped pantry and single yellow-framed window overlooking a sloping kitchen garden. He'd planted everything he could remember from his childhood in the garden, but most of it had died; only the dill persisted, vigorously self-seeding year on year, until the view from the kitchen window was of a rockery overgrown with relentless, homogeneous, feathery bright green, sprouting around and sprawling across the withered stumps of the other plants that hadn't made it.

Ilya had occasionally tried to recreate some of her cooking but it never tasted the same. He didn't have the patience to make the bread, couldn't get the flavours right in the soups or salads; after a few failed attempts he tried ordering in, and it still didn't taste right; maybe it was a side effect of the medication his doctor had given him, apparently that could make food taste different; maybe he would never correctly taste anything from his childhood again. Eventually he gave up and just put mayonnaise on everything, telling himself that did the trick.

Anyway—this guy. This guy, patting his walls. Ilya couldn't feel him exactly, but he could sense him, and there was a difference, it was crucial, it was key: the overwhelming sense that he had of this guy was that he wanted to be here.

Suspicious.

Ilya coalesced a bit more, enough that he could walk out of the master bedroom and lurk at the top of the stairs, glaring down. His fingers were translucent on the dusty banister, leaving no fingerprints. His footsteps were silent – they always were, unless he was rushing, which would occasionally make a floorboard creak. But Ilya had no need to rush. The one thing Ilya had now was time.

And ire. Ilya had plenty of ire: for the boring shiny-suit men who would come in talking their coma-inducing noise about kitchen islands and making the most of the ceiling height and converting some of the garages into extra reception rooms. Ilya's beloved cars were long gone of course, but if he concentrated their imprints remained, their fire-flash promise of leather-and-chrome freedom, the best freedom Ilya had ever tasted.

Ilya focused on the entranceway at the bottom of the staircase, waiting for today's interlopers to show themselves.

The man walked in and looked up. He was about Ilya's age, a couple of years younger possibly – twenty-ish. He looked right through Ilya. His hand came to rest absently on the banister at the bottom of the stairs, his fingertips stirring against the grain of the wood, and a tingle of something raced up through Ilya's palm. Fuck, what was that?

The man was really fucking pretty. Which should be immaterial, if he was about to tear up the floor plans for Ilya's beloved house, but coupled with that tingly feeling it felt like… something else.

"Yeah," the man said decisively, patting the banister. Ilya's fingers twitched. "I'm gonna put in an offer."

SHANE

"Whoa, this is really fucking spooky," Hayden said, with a performative shiver as he stepped over the threshold.

The movers were coming the following week, but the moment Shane had got the keys he'd wanted to spend the night. Symbolic, right? So he and Hayden had driven over with the bare essentials, just a couple of boxes, a camp bed, some beers.

"It's not spooky," Shane admonished.

"Fuck off, yes it is! Can't you feel him breathing down your neck?" Hayden sounded somewhere between delighted and alarmed.

Shane laughed, rubbing the back of his own neck. "I don't feel anything. Come on, let's get set up. The deck is really cool."

ILYA

Who the fuck was this joker?

He'd got used to sensing the pretty one – Shane – and his hand-pats, his long silences, his random muttered monologues that often died out as quickly as they'd started. But this guy, stomping after him with all the charisma of a syphilitic clown, nuh uh. No way was he getting comfortable in Ilya's house.

Ilya turned up the dial on haunting this guy in particular.

SHANE

"Yeah, okay, whatever you say," Hayden said, genuinely white about the gills now. He'd become more pallid and twitchy the longer the evening went on, even startling at bird noises. "Not haunted. Just the legendary Ilya Rozanov's abandoned mansion, perfectly preserved since the day he died, now passing into your hands on a dark and stormy night—nothing about that says colossal and inevitable haunting."

"It doesn't," Shane laughed. They'd migrated indoors when it started raining, and took a chance on some built-in red banquet seating around a booth-style dining table for dinner. Shane had had two beers and a takeout chicken salad, and with every bite had become more convinced that his new house was awesome. "It doesn't say haunting. It says, awesome historical hockey legend mansion that I now own."

"Sure, you own it legally, but I swear he is still here," Hayden hissed.

Shane looked at him. Under the bare flickering bulbs trailing from the ceiling above their heads, where surely some intensely eighties chandelier had once hung, he could now see way more of the whites of Hayden's eyes than usual. "Are you getting sick? You're looking kinda… sweaty…"

"Maybe," Hayden said, latching gratefully onto that explanation. "Yeah, maybe I caught something off the girls…" He scooped up their empty takeout boxes and carried them back into the kitchen, then reappeared empty-handed, wiping his palms on his jeans. He looked like a man on the run. "Uh, in any case, I better head off."

"So soon?" Shane said dryly.

Hayden gave the room a final suspicious look, then wriggled his shoulders like someone had dropped an ice cube down his spine. "Yeah! Thanks for dinner, I'll leave you to enjoy your haunted fucking house!" He laughed; it sounded like he was being strangled. "Unless you're having second thoughts now? Wanna lift back to mine?"

"Fuck off, I'm not scared of sleeping here."

Hayden huffed. "A sane person would be scared of sleeping here."

"Well, I'm not." Shane patted him between the shoulder blades as he showed him to the door.

"A sane person," Hayden said, warming to his theme, "would have waited for the movers to make the place habitable before—ow!"

"You okay?"

"Yeah, just tripped over the carpet. Uh. And what's with all this fuckin' migraine-inducing carpet, anyway?"

"It was the eighties? Anyway, I had it deep cleaned."

"I reckon the clean wasn't deep enough given the pattern's still there," Hayden grumbled, and tried to open the front door. It seemed to stick in his hands. He wrestled with it for a few long seconds before turning back to Shane. "Did you lock this?!"

"Uh, no," Shane said, moving him aside, and opened the door easily enough. Fresh air and a slanting wall of rain gusted in.

Hayden looked way too happy to be stepping out into the filthy weather. "Ah well, enjoy hanging out with Ilya Rozanov's ghost I guess," he said, clapping Shane goodbye before turning his collar up against the driving rain.

"Thanks, I will," Shane deadpanned, and winked.

"Fucking weirdo," Hayden said affectionately, before jogging to his car. "See ya Monday."

"See ya." Shane watched him drive away, the lights of his car rapidly obscured by the driving rain. There were precious few other cars on the road. It was a pretty isolated spot. Shane loved it.

Above him, the storm rattled the roof tiles.

Shane gave the flaked paint of the doorframe a quick pat, before easing the door closed again. It was immediately, uncannily quiet.

"Just you and me now, hey, Rozanov?" Shane murmured, grinning.

ILYA

Ilya watched the man – Shane – retrace his steps through the house after the far more annoying man had finally taken Ilya's many hints and fled into the night.

Shane rinsed out their beer bottles in the kitchen sink, muttering about trash bags and dish soap, then stacked them in the paper bag their food had come in. He was quick and neat. He paused to gaze out the kitchen window at the storm, but not for long. He ran his fingertips over the empty cupboard doors, tested the hinges, then nodded to himself.

Ilya shifted as if those swift, assessing fingertips had run over the back of his own neck.

"Yeah. This is great," Shane said, to the kitchen at large. His lips were quirked to one side, his eyes like sparkling black gemstones. He did not sound like someone planning to rip it all out in favour of a kitchen island.

Upstairs, Ilya watched him set out the camp bed in the middle of the room and heap it with an ungodly number of pillows. Then he watched Shane get undressed with the same neat, quick movements, revealing an impressively muscular body, even by Ilya's standards. Shane folded his clothes, leaving his boxers on despite Ilya willing him to strip them down as well, then took a trip to the master bathroom.

Ilya tensed. For two reasons.

Firstly: Shane had had the carpets up here removed, and then had the floorboards machine-polished, and in Ilya's peripheral senses it felt like Shane's bare feet were walking steadily along his spine.

Secondly: the necklace was in that bathroom. In a concealed drawer in the massive wall-to-wall built-in vanity, his mother's necklace – Ilya's tether in this realm – had lain undisturbed for nearly twenty years.

Ilya chewed his lip, waiting. He was ready to bang a door if needed. Ready to set some pipes squealing. But in his experience there were two types of people: people who came into this bathroom and set about opening every single drawer, and people that just wanted to brush their teeth.

Luckily, it seemed Shane fell into the latter camp.

Ilya watched him wash. He tried a little idle haunting to see what his reaction would be – occult symbols forming in the condensation on the mirror, the plumbing rumbling out a curse or two, then tried running the water a violent rust-red for a few seconds – but Shane seemed curiously unruffled by any of it. He wiped away the condensation with his fist, turned the taps off and on again, then picked up his phone and made a voice-note about getting the boiler checked.

Ilya retreated to the bedroom, bemused. Who was this guy, who seemed so pleased about purchasing a notoriously eerie property – it had gone to auction after the previous owners had only tolerated living in for two weeks – and yet didn't seem interested in any of the standard features of haunting?

Then Shane wandered back through the master bedroom, still only wearing his boxers, and Ilya froze. The rear view was incredible. His body was hot. Ilya had seen more than his fair share of fit bodies while he'd been alive, but practically none since he'd not-departed for the other side. He didn't think it was nostalgia that made this one eye-catching, though. This guy could be an underwear model.

He went round the front to get a closer look. Even when Ilya had been alive, this guy would have turned his head. Especially in the flimsy little black shorts, showing off those thighs, fuck. And the shadow of hair peeking out the top of the waistband, drawing the eye to a neatly centred bulge. It completely took Ilya's mind off haunting, until Shane settled down in his camp-bed in the middle of the room, shifting down in the bed and drawing his covers up to his chest, blocking most of his lovely skin from view.

And then Shane slipped on a pair of extremely distracting black-framed glasses, settled back against his many pillows. and buried his nose in a book about—fuck. About Ilya.

Ice hockey prodigy Ilya Rozanov, 1966 - 1989, left the USSR at the height of the Cold War at the tender age of sixteen, swapping Moscow for Montreal and making an NHL name for himself as a budding hockey legend. His aspirations to become a Canadian citizen were sadly never realized, as his generational talent was truncated by tragedy. While it was categorically denied at the time that Rozanov ‘took the easy way out’, the untimely demise of the notoriously troubled hockey superstar - and his iconic 1987 Porsche 911 Turbo in Orange Pearl Metallic - has never been fully explained. This book revisits the highs and lows of Rozanov's career, and asks the question—

The words on the back of the book blurred suddenly, and Ilya de-materialized before his eyes could start welling up for real. Fuck! What was Shane doing, bringing sensationalist trash like that under Ilya's roof? Ilya was not going to stand it!

He reached out into the currents of the nearby storm and whipped its energy up into a vortex, centred on his house; not strong enough to tear the roof off, but enough to set every loose shutter and window pane rattling. Enough to make the wind whistle through long-unused chimneys and make all the bare bulbs flicker. Enough to make the average human quail.

Shane grinned a little, hunkered deeper down under the covers, then turned his page.

"Fuck, yes," he murmured, still reading.

Irritated, Ilya re-materialized behind him. He stared down over Shane's shoulder at the blocks of text, the black and white photos of his own early triumphs in Montreal; the draft, early league events, early trophies. Early All Stars games. Every aspect of every picture looking so fucking outdated now.

Well, this was just great. His new roommate was very pretty, yes, but was apparently some sort of obsessive fan.

Ilya's focus dropped to the neat pile of Shane's possessions beside the bed. There wasn't much – he hadn’t yet moved in – but his phone was there, alongside a stapled booklet that seemed to be a grainy, photocopied academic treatise on obscure hockey plays. It had been liberally daubed with fluorescent yellow highlighter, and there were a bunch of notes scribbled in the margins.

Fucking hell. Obsessive fan nerd, more like it.

Ilya was still squinting at the incredibly boring-looking document when Shane's phone screen lit up with a text notification, showing a lock-screen of—huh.

A luminous picture of Shane, beaming in full hockey gear in an unmistakable shade of blue, eyes and nose all crinkled up with happiness, mid-celebration on center ice at—fuck! Wow. Wow.

Ilya briefly disintegrated, unable to contain the rush of feeling that that picture triggered.

This guy…

This fucking guy…

Was in the Montreal fucking Metros.

SHANE

Shane responded on the second bleep of text notification, fishing for his phone with one hand while holding his place in his book with the other.

The wind howled outside, like it was trying to target Shane specifically.

It was his dad, checking in. He grinned and typed one-handed, All good thanks. Good night.

He returned to his book. It wasn't a typical page-turner, maybe, but Shane couldn't put it down. The more he read about the late, great Ilya Rozanov's incredible talent, ambition and flair, the more Shane wished he could have met him. He was an inspiration. He seemed just as obsessed with the game as Shane was. And he'd led the Metros to several storming victories and two back-to-back Stanley Cups, a feat not repeated in twenty years. A feat Shane was dearly hoping to complete himself one day. Maybe using some hints and tricks from this very book?

Also, setting all that aside… fuck, the man was a smokeshow. 

Really, insanely hot. 

Eye contact that burned off the page level of hot. 

There was a picture of him in the book in sunglasses and running gear, all sweaty, that Shane couldn't look at for more than a few seconds before he'd start to get turned on. He had to not look at that picture in front of his parents—in front of anyone, actually, in case his face gave him away.

Shane was neither out nor proud. But in the deep dark privacy of his own mind, he knew what he liked.

And here…

In his new-old, sole ownership, totally private house…

With nothing but the rumour of the ghost of said smokeshow to keep him company…

Shane turned his phone face down on the floor, and opened up the book again.

ILYA

Well, this had now taken a turn for the very fucking interesting.

Ilya watched. He came as close to corporal as he could, planting his feet firmly on the polished floorboards, and stared straight at Shane. His attention probably felt like the air had filled with heavy oppressive vapour—not that Shane was paying any attention to the air right now. 

Ilya drank it all in as Shane started touching himself, slow and methodical, staring at Ilya’s picture.

It was a good picture, Ilya remembered—he'd just finished a work-out and the sun was shining and he was being interviewed about being the youngest player ever to something-or-other, he couldn't remember, but it had been a good day. And the guys with the camera hadn't ruined it. And Ilya had answered their questions and gone off to the showers in a fantastic mood, which hadn't dipped until the following week, when he received a cut-out newspaper clipping of the story and a note from his father about how disgusting and sloppy he looked, and how the phrases he'd used made him sound like an ignorant American.

Yeah, well, fuck him. His new friend Shane liked his photo. A lot, it seemed.

Ilya watched Shane's arm moving rhythmically under the covers. He still had his glasses on—damn, that was hot. His thick bare shoulders shaking, the tendons in his neck sticking out, pouty lower lip drawn in between his teeth, as he stared unblinking at Ilya's photo, starting to breathe hard.

Ilya guessed he was intruding on a private event here—but Shane had come into Ilya's house and was jerking it to Ilya's picture, so it was beyond him to feel bad about it.

This was already the most sex Ilya had witnessed in two decades. And sex used to be one of Ilya's favourite things.

Instead of feeling any kind of bad, he wondered if he could help at all.

He stole closer, walking up the length of the flimsy bed, watching the covers shift and flutter with the movements of Shane's hand. He wished he had the ability to pull the covers back, reveal the party going on beneath, but he was severely limited in that department. Over the years, so many of his abilities had faded. He was getting weaker in general, the longer the house lay empty, its energies dormant, Ilya’s power subsiding with it. All he could hope to do right now was watch.

Although Shane’s energy right now was the opposite of dormant. The man was practically radiant with it, sending out waves of mixed desire and frustration that Ilya could almost taste in the air. Could almost feel, pulsing over him in staticky replenishing bursts. 

In fact maybe… hmm…

He moved to stand behind Shane, looking down the line of the man's quaking chest, his trembling covers, the occasional too-brief flash of cock visible in his working fist before Ilya's view was blocked by the blanket once more.

Ilya reached out one translucent hand and laid his fingers on Shane's shoulder, feeling the muscle rhythmically flex. He couldn't apply any pressure, but he could feel the heat coming off him, the texture of smooth taut skin just starting to flush.

Shane gasped, tipping his head back, his eyes closing behind his glasses.

"Ah, fuck," he breathed, the book sliding to the floor, and his arm moved faster.

Which was pretty fucking interesting. Definitely implied Shane had felt something. That was… different.

Ilya stared down at him. Crystal-clear through the glasses, Shane's eyelashes were slanted black against cheeks dusted with the prettiest fucking freckles Ilya had ever seen. His lips were slightly parted, damp. Ilya drew a fingertip along them, again feeling their tempting soft heat, but he couldn't even make an indentation in that delicate pink skin, let alone coax them open or push his fingers inside. And he really, really, in that moment, wanted to push his fingers inside.

He squirmed, trying to content himself with stroking those pouty lips, watching for the fleeting glimpses of the man's erection beneath the covers—but it was pathetic, it was nothing, it was crumbs falling from the tablecloth of obscenity, and Ilya knew it. Stroking this man's mouth wasn't going to give him what he needed, any more than trying to stroke his own ethereal dick did anything these days. It felt good, but he couldn't get off, couldn't reach that elusive plane of sensation. Not for years.

Right now, he was being reminded of that. He felt like his body was becoming solid and vibrant with need—but it made no difference, because there was nowhere he could put those urges, nothing he could enact that would feel anything like his fading memories of actual sex.

"Mmh," Shane grunted, and his eyes flew open, exquisite behind his glasses, looking straight up at Ilya.

Fuck. That sent a jolt through him. Ilya's dick, locked in incorporeal frustration, nevertheless started straining. He dropped a hand to it, ever hopeful, but it still just felt like everything else: a scratch of pressure, an insubstantial whisper of intensity when he needed it at full volume.

"Fuck, Rozanov," Shane muttered.

Ilya's mouth dropped open, focus snapping back. Could Shane see him?!

But—no, Shane was staring vacantly right through him, two lines deepening between his eyebrows as he panted and stroked himself harder.

"Rozanov," Shane moaned, his eyelids fluttering closed again, lips parting.

Shane must be just… thinking about him.

Fuck, that made Ilya want to scream.

"Come on then," Ilya said roughly, though he knew he couldn't be heard. "Come on, stroke it for me. Stroke it for both of us."

"Yeah," Shane said, licking his lips, and then all at once he was kicking off his blankets and Ilya was greeted by the whole damn view. "Ahhhh, fuck…" He was spreading his legs as he whispered this, his hand flashing over his dick with wanton efficiency.

Ilya gazed at the freshly exposed body of his new houseguest. Fuck, he was gorgeous. That dick, thick and angry-looking, filling out Shane's fist and making Ilya's mouth water. Those plump, heavy-looking balls, jolting with the force of his strokes against Shane's meaty thighs. The unselfconscious abandon with which Shane was touching himself, making Ilya feel like he shouldn't be watching.

He… was going to keep watching.

"Uh, fuck," Shane said, squeezing his eyes tightly closed, gritting his teeth. "Yeah… no don't… don't…"

Wait, what? 

"Don't what?" Ilya asked, disorientated, his mouth dry as the show unfolded in glorious detail. Shane bent one knee, reached down with his other hand, gracelessly took a whole handful of his own thigh and pinched. Hard.

"Ow, fuck," Shane gasped, jerking the knee out sideways like someone was wrenching his legs apart. "Don't—please, anything but that, uhh, fuck."

"Anything but what?" Ilya demanded, and then he was watching open-mouthed as Shane's free hand delved between his legs, fingers pointed. Every bare bulb in the room started flickering.

"Uhhh, Rozanov, please, no," Shane whined, arching his back as he plunged his fingers into his ass—and his cock started spurting all over his heaving stomach, as Shane stroked himself vigorously, groaning.

Several bulbs blew out at once, and the air filled with a faint smell of burnt fuses.

Ilya felt like his eyebrows had crept into his hairline. He gazed down at Shane, restless and turned on and also, frankly, confused. "No...?"

"Fuck," Shane mumbled happily, at last, relaxing across the bed all at once, breathing hard.

Not an inch of his body was radiating no. And really… hadn't been. Throughout.

Ilya was still staring, phantasmic heart pounding away uselessly in his chest.

He was still staring when Shane traipsed off to the bathroom, holding his cock against his belly with the apparent aim of catching the come dripping down his abdomen into his cupped hand.

It was so undignified that Ilya was forcibly reminded that this was a man who had no idea he was being watched. That hadn't been a performance, an erotic act. That had just been Shane, entertaining Shane.

Fuck, Ilya wanted to grab him. And shake him, possibly, and ask what exactly had been playing behind those eyelids, when Shane used Ilya's name in vain? What exactly was he picturing Ilya doing to him?

Shane reappeared, nude, pink and clean. He strode back across the room with a faint smile on his face, which only broadened as he clambered back into his makeshift bed.

Ilya had no idea what energy he himself was putting out right now, but it clearly wasn't anything that made Shane uncomfortable. No, Shane was snuggling down as if Ilya's presence was downright welcoming.

Ilya didn't know what to make of that. He also didn't know what to make of his own body, still restless with unspent energy. If he dissipated himself back into the house, it would probably work its way out with a few environmental quirks – set the mercury rising in the old wall-mounted barometer for sure – which should ease this internal pressurized sensation at least.

On the other hand, Shane might be one of those rare humans who had dreams that Ilya could penetrate. Influence. Maybe they could even… interact. Fuck, he hoped so. As long as he could let himself in, that would be a much more satisfying way to expend that energy. He guessed he'd find out in another couple of hours.

But even if he didn't, there were a few strong suspicions Ilya now held.

His new roommate was a Metro. Probably. Almost certainly.

He was some sort of pervert. All signs pointed to this.

He was not afraid of ghosts. Perhaps, did not even believe in them.

Whatever else, with this new housemate installed, Ilya should be a lot less bored.

SHANE

Fuck, he hadn't come that hard in ages. It was like his body had been storing it up, waiting for the opportunity to be less furtive about it, less apologetic. Or maybe he'd been possessed by the spirit of Rozanov's ghost; who knew?

Shane grinned to himself and closed his eyes, feeling sleep rush up to claim him now that the fever gripping his body had burned out. It had been intense for sure. Maybe it was the storm outside, but the air had felt hot and charged, like static electricity was prickling up the back of his neck. A superstitious person might have imagined paranormal breath brushing his ear.

Shane was not a superstitious person. Outside of the hockey player norm, at least. Pre-game rituals, lucky talismans, yeah, of course.

But wild ideas about supernatural fingers pressing down on his shoulders? Come on.

Whatever that charge in the air had been, though, it had taken him from zero to sixty in no time. He'd felt like he was sinking directly into the picture of Rozanov, like he was staring right back at Shane with that energized grin, that perfect sweaty body; it was all too easy to let the picture come to life in his mind, colourized and animated. And what if that Rozanov, restored to full health, was more than human, huh? More powerful than a man… and more ravenous… 

What if Shane wasn't strong enough to fight him off?

A renewed yet sluggish pulse of heat went through Shane's gut at the memory, but the urge to sleep was too strong. Blackness consumed him with the force of the earlier erotic fervour, and Shane relinquished his grip on consciousness entirely.

ILYA

If consciousness was a spectrum with death at one end, ghosts could freely interact with approximately one third of the scale.

Vigorous people – hale, and hearty, and fully awake – need not apply.

In his experience, Ilya found the closer a person was – or had been – to the irreversible unconsciousness of death, the easier they were for him to reach; restless sleep was a poor substitute, but a decent deep REM, Ilya could work with. There was individual variation, obviously. Sleeping pills made it all hazy and unsatisfying. Overdoses created a dreamlike hall of mirrors, where Ilya himself could get lost at times. He imagined proper anaesthesia would be as sterile and orderly as a hospital corridor.

But an athlete who'd had a couple of concussions in the past, and who was currently sleeping the sleep of the dead following a particularly intense orgasm? This was as easy as unlatching a door and slipping inside.

SHANE

Shane opened his eyes to a curious technicolor daylight.

He was in the same room he'd fallen asleep in but—fully furnished. Well lit. And occupied.

"Finally," a voice said. A deep, accented voice.

Shane sat up abruptly, pushing aside decidedly thicker softer bedding than he'd fallen asleep under, and found himself in a big, old, antique-looking bed facing a big, old, antique-looking armchair, containing—

"Rozanov?"

Ilya fucking Rozanov, right there in the flesh, large as life, and unsmiling. Fuck.

This had to be a dream. But—he pinched himself surreptitiously, with no effect. Logic dictated this must be a dream but it felt so real.

"Oh, do we know each other?" Rozanov asked, except it didn't sound like a question; it sounded like he was making an argument. Aggressively. "I think we must. Otherwise, what you do – come here, my house, jerk off all over yourself – not very polite, huh?"

Well, fuck. Shane felt like he blushed from the scalp down. Not a cute blush. A red, roaring feeling like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

"Huh?" Rozanov repeated, and Shane belatedly realised he expected an answer.

"Sorry," Shane tried. It came out like a croak.

This couldn't be happening. It had to be a dream—a nightmare, clearly. Though even now, squirming with dull panic, Shane's hero-worship kicked in; he wanted to ask a thousand questions about hockey, about Rozanov, about the 1984 All Stars game where Rozanov had substantively disproved all assumptions about what could be achieved in the last five minutes of play… but the words were stuck in Shane's throat, because this man was even more devastatingly attractive in person. Especially angry, like he looked right now—really fucking angry. With Shane, in particular. For disrespecting his house.

Fuck, was this some subconscious manifestation of Shane's own guilt about letting himself go like that? Insane if so.

"Sorry," Shane said again. Fuck, his voice still wasn't right. As if Rozanov's disapproval had kicked a dent in the tin can of his voice box; as if his boot was on Shane's neck.

"Sorry," Rozanov mimicked. "Fuck you, 'sorry' – where's your fucking manners? Ever think to introduce yourself before you start jizzing all over my bedroom floor?"

Shane's hands flew up and he forced them back down. "Fuck, uh, s-sorry," Shane stammered, desperately wrong-footed; this was a nightmare. It was his house! He had a right to do whatever he wanted! But with Rozanov glaring at him, he felt like that was zero defence. "Um, Shane Hollander. Sir."

Rozanov seemed to like that, at least. "Shane."

"Yes, sir."

"Do you have explanation, Shane? For me."

"No. I mean, yes," Shane said, when Rozanov's eyes narrowed. Rozanov was enjoying this, he suddenly sensed. Making Shane squirm. And fucking hell, if Shane wasn't – kinda, sorta, secretly, guiltily – enjoying it too. His cock was stirring beneath the covers already. "I was, um."

"Um?"

Shane closed his eyes and spoke in a rush. "I was just… turned on. I should have controlled myself, probably. But I… didn't."

"What turn you on?"

"…You," Shane whispered. "Your picture."

"Huh."

"I'm sorry."

"How sorry?"

"Um… what?"

"Sorry enough you want to… how you say? 'Make amends'."

Shane had no fucking clue what that meant but his body seemed to be reading between the hot, blunt lines of Rozanov's speech; his heart rate was spiking, and he swore he was blushing again.

"How—" He had to break off and clear his throat. "Uh, how would I go about doing that? Making, um. Amends."

"Turn over."

"What?"

Rozanov gave him a demanding little smile. "What? You ask how make amends. I say, turn over. You do not understand English now?"

"No, I… I understand."

"So what is problem? I want to see your ass, Hollander. I see your dick already, very nice. Now I want to see rest. You object? You owe me. You are shy now? Hard to believe. You ask, I tell…"

Shane swallowed, reeling now. This was a lot. But Rozanov had him at an advantage, and in the grip of dreamlike logic Shane couldn't think of a reason not to do it. He wasn't going to run away. Or put up more than token resistance, if Rozanov wanted to touch him, probably, since he had literally just shot a massive load picturing something very similar to this, just—more predictable, in his mind. The look in Rozanov's eyes seemed very unpredictable.

"But what will you do? If I… do."

"Why don't you get on your stomach and find out?"

And so Shane did it, letting the blanket slide to the floor as he moved; stiffly, in more ways than one, he was turning over, onto his stomach, trapping his dick against the sheets, then pushing up a little so he could look back at Rozanov, keeping an eye on him, checking.

"You think I will fuck you now," Rozanov said.

"Um—maybe?" There weren't many other explanations for why Rozanov would want him bare-ass naked on his stomach, surely.

"Maybe," Rozanov agreed, which was… not reassuring. "I don't know we have time for that now. Your little display drive me fucking insane, Hollander. So now I just want to get off."

Fuck, that was somehow both the most terrifying and arousing thing anyone had ever said to him.

"So I think," Rozanov said, standing up all at once and unbuckling his belt. "Now. Easiest thing is I fuck your thighs."

"What?!"

He was walking closer. Shane could hear his footsteps on the bedroom floorboards.

"You ever did this?"

Shane shook his head, then gasped as a big, warm hand landed on the back of his thigh. He felt the bed dip as Rozanov climbed on behind him, his knees either side of Shane's knees, the warmth of his bulk sinking lower.

"What about this? You did this?" Rozanov murmured, his hand reaching the top of Shane's thigh, and then his thumb was sweeping into the crease of his ass, searching, pressing. Hard.

"W-wait!" Shane yelped, shaking his head again, the brief dry perfunctory touch raking over his nerves, making his cock pulse and his ass clench.

"No, see, too tight, you snap my dick off," Rozanov said dismissively, and pushed his fingers between Shane's thighs instead. "This, better."

It still felt shockingly intimate, that proprietary groping hand, pushing Shane's legs apart just enough that Rozanov's cock could slide between them from behind; Shane stayed carefully still as Ilya crawled on top of him, fitted his cock between Shane's thighs, and started to thrust.

His cock felt incredible. Unbelievably large, all hot, velvety hardness, sliding between Shane's legs, close to his ass, Rozanov's hands clamping them together. 

And it wasn’t—it wasn’t sex, not how Shane categorised it in his mind. Rozanov wasn’t fucking him. But it did feel incredibly dirty. Rozanov was definitely using him. For his own pleasure, and Shane was letting it happen, and obsessively recording every sensation, and maybe—maybe tilting his ass back a little. 

The obscene pumping action of Rozanov’s hips made Shane wonder about what would happen if he spread his legs; would Rozanov just slide right in? There was definitely nowhere to escape if Rozanov wanted that. Rozanov's weight was pinning him, Rozanov's hands holding him just as he wanted.

Shane focused on the full length of him, rutting between his legs, occasionally nudging the back of his balls when he changed his angle.

Rozanov came after far too short a time, it seemed to Shane, shooting between Shane's thighs and then pulling back; Shane felt a whole sequence of hot splashes over the back of his thighs, his ass, even his lower back, accompanied by a hoarse groan.

And then he—fucking pulled away, fully away, smacking Shane's ass appreciatively, leaving him hot and messy and aching for something more, something else.

"Wait," Shane started to say, but light was already rushing toward him, filling his vision.

"Now we are even," Rozanov's husky voice came, the last thing Shane heard as he jolted awake in the darkness, on his stomach, his cock hard and plaintive against his belly, his ass bare to the night—the blankets must have fallen off, somehow.

He groaned deep in his chest, grinding against the camp-bed. He didn't want to do this again, here, now, furtive in the darkness, like some fucking uncontrollable urge-ridden adolescent. But that hot splashing sensation haunted him, insanely visceral even as he reached back, found his skin unmarked, untouched, dry.

He didn't want to jerk off again…

Now we are even.

…but he was gonna have to.

Chapter 2

Chapter Summary

Shane starts to settle in, get used to the house and its… quirks.

TW: full on somnophilia , you have been warned. Also the voyeurism steps up a notch. Also sex toys; first time anal (it it still barebacking if it’s with a ghost? Is definitely still a creampie); Shane is the most unreliable narrator of all time

Chapter Notes

I’m having so much fun here guys, thank you for validating how much I love this idea! :D

SHANE

He went back to his old apartment for a few days, packing up the remainder of his stuff and running through the To Do list his mom had given him; mostly it was about making sure the movers didn't fuck up, which Shane was pretty sure was their job, but whatever.

He slept in his own bed for four nights.

He jerked off precisely one time.

He did not dream.

ILYA

Shane had left. Shane had come in here, filled up the place with his smell and his heat and his beautiful fucking freckles, and then left again.

Ilya roamed the halls for a while, then discorporated in an epic sulk that sent all the corvids in the area into flight. They screamed in circles around the rooftop, all black swooping outrage.

Just as he'd been starting to have fun.

SHANE

After a week that felt like a month, Shane moved in for real.

He felt a cool prickling sensation as he stepped over the threshold, as if the house had become alert to his presence once more. It was a ridiculous notion, totally far-fetched. But he kinda liked the idea, and the feeling; like the house had become attentive to him, somehow. He wondered if this was what people meant when they said some places just felt like home.

Shane's stuff had been delivered; his bed, his TV, a load more boxes; his home gym.

He got the gym set up first, choosing the biggest downstairs room with windows that weren't overlooked.

It felt nice to work out with a view of the garden. Especially by the open window, which was necessary as the house felt unnaturally warm within minutes of starting his work-out. Even as he stripped off more and more clothing, the house just seemed so warm. He resorted to working out topless, in some lightweight shorts, and still the house felt hotter than ever. Even with the window open, cold air prickling his nipples into tiny brown nubs, while he was working out he seemed unable to get the temperature down.

He guessed he was just used to the AC at the gym.

Air conditioning wasn't going to be an option here. He'd had someone come around the previous week to check it for feasibility, and for some reason they'd left abruptly and then never returned Shane's emails. Weird.

ILYA

Shane was back.

Ilya paced the corridors at the top of the stairs, drumming his fingers and trying to control the rising inferno inside him. Shane was back, with his thighs and his smell and he apparently loved to work out, in tiny little black shorts, that delicious chest bare and bouncing as he jogged on the treadmill, nipples pebbled in the breeze from the open window.

Ilya stalked around him, watching his ass work, his muscles bulge, his skin turning shiny with sweat. He was so fucking hot. Unselfconscious, on his own. Ilya wanted to rub his face over Shane's belly, lap the sweat from between his shoulder blades, bury his cock between those damp cushioned thighs again and rut.

But he couldn't touch him, or taste him, or pin him down, no matter how much he wanted to. Not by daylight, no matter how worked up he got; maybe once he would have had the power to do that, but not now.

But at night, if last time was anything to go by, it would be a different story.

SHANE

That evening, Shane got his new TV set up downstairs and sprawled out on his new couch, planning to catch some of the Winter Olympics. No one from the Metros had made the grade this year, but Shane had private sky-high hopes for the future.

The new couch was comfortable. Really much more comfortable than it had looked in the picture—Shane had hired an interiors guy, who'd said it was right for the era, the look, the vibe, so Shane had agreed. He'd agreed to everything the guy had said, in general and specifically, like about keeping all the big built-in pieces of furniture where they were. Make a feature of them, he'd said. Shane had gratefully agreed. The interiors guy had been one of the few tradespeople who hadn't taken one trip around the house and mysteriously decided their expertise was more urgently needed elsewhere.

Anyway, the couch actually felt great. He sank into its squishy embrace with a groan as the camera panned over the excited crowds.

Shane tried not to feel a pang as Team Canada skated out onto the ice; he knew every single one of those players, and he should have been there too. He was good enough, he knew it. He just needed the Metros to break their losing streak and he'd be the obvious choice. Next time. Next time.

The game was excellent. Shane got pulled into it, clutching the arm of the couch and leaning forward, relaxing enough to react out loud. And it was obviously his imagination but he felt like the atmosphere in the house was getting intense around him too, the shadows deepening in the corners, the air getting thick and charged.

At times he almost felt like there was a thigh pressed up against his own, sinking into the supremely squishy couch. An elation in the air, every time his team scored. Followed by peace.

ILYA

Fuck. It was good to watch sports again. Literally any sport, but especially this, world-class sport sitting next to someone who apparently got it, tensed and muttered at the same points as Ilya, growling in dismay and then hissing with pleasure. The last ten minutes of the game Shane was practically vibrating next to him. And his satisfied groan, as their team won, fucking took Ilya's breath away.

SHANE

Another thing that he eventually unpacked was his toiletries - he'd been managing on hand soap until now, and that had been fine. But there were some other products he preferred, privately – a kit from some organic unisex brand his mom had once started to arrange a brand deal with and then abandoned the moment there was a shot at CK. Their shampoo smelled like Shane imagined mountain men did, a woodsy clean formula that didn't make his nose itch. And they had a shower jelly that started off as a clear solid and then melted into a pleasant frictionless gel, with a similar scent, but not quite the same, and Shane liked that too; almost like he was in the shower with two different mountain men, both sliding their hands over him, under his arms, down his chest.

He wondered how Rozanov had smelled. It hadn't been discernible in the dream. Something vintage and hyper-masculine, probably. Maybe something Russian. Shane had no idea what that would smell like. Engine oil spiked with vodka? No.

He rinsed the suds out his hair, swiped the water out his face, then took another handful of jelly and started methodically rubbing his bare chest.

One of the pipes started making a humming, pressurized noise.

Shane adjusted the flow of water and kept going. All over, slow, enjoying it. He'd had a massage at the gym yesterday and it felt good to follow the path those brusque hands had taken. The masseur had been hot, with enormous hands, knuckles like walnuts, grip strength that made Shane sweat. Not that Shane would ever let on that he thought about that.

Shane's life was full to the seams these days with perilously hot, obviously straight men. It was a problem.

Had Ilya Rozanov been straight? Surely. He'd had strings of hook ups, famously. A wild womanizer.

It… kind of made it hotter if he was.

Ripped and ramrod straight was unfortunately Shane's type. Shane wasn't typically attracted to men who looked like they might give a damn – about him, or about anything. He liked assholes. Which was why he'd most likely die a virgin. Because there was no way he was letting the sort of guy that got his dick hard know anything about it.

Occasionally he got fan mail from dudes—everyone did. Everyone else seemed to take great joy in jeering and shaming the fuckass idiots sending that trash to hockey players, were they insane? What did they expect? Had the gay made their brains spill out their ears? Still, a hole was a hole… And Shane didn't join in, exactly. He didn't shut it down either. And he didn't mention getting that sort of fan mail ever, ever.

He especially didn't think about that phrase, a hole is a hole. Think about kneeling before the others while they took turns fucking his mouth and saying… stuff like that, while stuffing his throat.

Thoughts like that could get a guy into hot water in a locker room.

Now, Shane ran a thoughtful, soapy hand over his abdomen, then lower. He appreciated how much of his body was smooth angles these days. His new regime was working for him, he felt tight and strong and—and ready to be pushed around by a straight guy with a massive dick, he thought breathlessly. Recalling his dream with ease. The size of that thing he'd conjured up for Rozanov. The silken rigid weight of it. 

Shane reached down, slipping his wrist between his legs and squeezing around it, trying to recreate that dream sensation of squeezing his thighs closed around Rozanov's hard cock. The angle was wrong, though. Didn't feel the same. Didn't feel anything like the same. He needed the weight on his back, too. He needed to be pinned.

He'd looked it up, that move. Intercrural, said the private browser. A vintage act beloved by closeted gays and teens in boarding school. Was Shane a closeted gay? Was Rozanov? Apparently in his dreams. In life, Shane preferred not to put labels on things. What good would it do, naming stuff he had zero intentions of acting on? He was a professional in the NHL. If he wanted to stay that way… best just to say the two lifestyles were mutually exclusive, and leave it at that.

He wondered where he'd read about thigh-fucking before, though. He didn't remember. Or had he dreamt it up? Was it just a tidbit of reverse engineered obscenity from his messed up psyche where he couldn't have what he really wanted, even in the privacy of his own dream? The closest thing to being fucked aggressively from behind that his brain could manage, presumably having expended all its efforts making Rozanov his literal dream asshole.

Maybe his subconscious needed more… inspiration.

Shane ran his hands over his ass, groping and squeezing, and his internal interest fired up as reliably as if he'd flipped a switch. He tried to slow it down again, but the idea was taking hold. The hot drumming water helped, making the air steamy, dreamlike. His own skin, the curves of his own ass, felt shockingly erotic. Almost clawing himself in eagerness—soap wasn't lube, obviously, but it felt so good, so slippery, with water pouring over him, those dream memories springing up again, vivid as the first time. His cock rose steadily as his fingers dug in, stroked inwards, sliding, teasing…

The pipes started making a weird noise again.

Shame ignored it, far more focused inward now, locking on to the spiralling arousal as his fingertips circled his tender wet skin. Making himself wait, even now. Letting it build. Making himself ache, as he brushed back and forth, so close to where he wanted pressure, needed pressure. 

He was sucking in deep steamy breaths, rocking on the balls of his feet, cock straining under the running water. He'd get to it soon. Fuck, was he going to get to it. But right now he was flushed with the pleasure of waiting, of aching, throbbing, needing. His fingertips circled and danced. Until finally, finally, he gave in all at once, pushing into the second knuckle with a low groan.

The clanking noise reached a sputtering crescendo, and steam started pouring out of the shower head. What the fuck? Shane looked up in confusion, as the water pouring over him drained away and the air turned to a cloudy scalding haze.

What a thing to happen with his literal finger in his ass.

He eased his finger out again as he craned away from the vigorous hiss of uncontrolled steam, retreating hastily from the shower and shutting off the tap. 

Despite this, the shower head continued throwing out jagged spurts of vapourised hot water for a good few seconds, before gradually reducing to a petulant sizzling. 

Then just dripping. 

Jesus, he would have to get someone in to look at that—he could have sustained some pretty embarrassing burns!

Shane wrapped up in a towel and went down to the basement to reset the boiler; it didn't seem like there was anything wrong with it, but there must be. Unless there was a blockage in the pipes. That pressure had sounded insane. But maybe that was just old houses.

"Old, haunted houses," he murmured to himself, grinning.

The watched sensation hadn't faded away. If anything, it was stronger now. Shane liked it, though, liked how it made him aware of every fibre of the towel brushing his thighs, every elusive water droplet still wandering down his skin.

He padded back upstairs, heading straight to his bedroom.

His fancy toiletries weren't the only thing in that partially unpacked box.

And since the antique plumbing had so rudely interrupted his shower activities, he guessed it was the perfect opportunity to get reacquainted with… the phantom.

ILYA

Ilya hadn't meant to do that. He had just meant to watch, just hang out watching the show, maybe stroke his useless dick a bit, think about getting his mouth around the pretty pink head of Shane's cock as it bobbed and waved all perky under the tumbling water. He had not meant to get carried away. But it had just… happened.

He couldn't pinpoint exactly when it had become unbearable. When Shane was soaping himself, face lost in sensory delight, mouth curved up at the edges as he swayed under the pounding spray? When Shane put his hand between his legs, quite clearly recreating something of what Ilya had subjected him to the other night? Or… yeah. Or the money shot, when Shane teased and taunted his own asshole until Ilya was in no doubt about how much he wanted it. Dry-mouthed, Ilya had knelt down next to him and watched those wet fingertips circling, saw the dark rim of his hole twitching, the shiny globes of his ass so succulent and just begging to be held open while Ilya—Yeah, probably that was the point he'd basically succumbed to internal combustion.

And now Shane was out of the shower. Was all wrapped up in an itty bitty towel that did nothing to conceal his erection while he stabbed every button of the boiler with his forefinger. Ilya wanted to accost him, to get that towel between his teeth and tug. He wanted to pin Shane against the beeping boiler and—but now Shane was going upstairs again, two at a time. Okay fine, Ilya followed him. Up, past the ground floor, up toward the master bedroom. Well, made sense. Shane still had a hard-on and now he was probably going to subject Ilya to another one of those gritted-teeth jerk-off sessions that made his head want to explode.

It wasn't what Ilya wanted right now but he obviously wasn't going to miss it either.

Shane's bed was a not unwelcome addition to the room. Not as grandiose as Ilya's original bed, but a damn sight better than the camping monstrosity that Shane had dragged up here before. At least this bed was broad and deep, with a thick mattress and silky-looking bedding. Still too many pillows, though.

But Shane didn't go straight to bed. No, instead he went over to the box that all his bottles and creams – too many of these too, in Ilya's opinion – had emerged from already. He dug around, then made a satisfied noise and withdrew… a thing.

A…

Wow.

Ilya barely had time to clock that the lengthy item was apparently clear glass – a glass dildo, who the fuck owned a glass dildo? Surely that was a health hazard? – before Shane was rising to his feet and stalking toward the bed. His other hand held a bottle with a pump lid.

He was proving a lot less boring than Ilya had expected.

Shane tossed both items on the bed, which suggested to Ilya that it couldn't be glass after all. He was about to take a closer look when Shane removed his towel – taking the time to fold it neatly over the back of a chair rather than leaving it in a damp crumple on the floor, which Ilya found weirdly disarming – and his damp, naked body and raging hard-on immediately commanded Ilya's full attention.

Shane got on the bed, arranged a few of the many extraneous pillows into a sort of throne, and without further ado bent his knees and spread his feet wide apart. Giving Ilya, unprompted, the best view of several fucking decades. That perky pink dick was turning a darker hue, standing rigid above his rounded balls, and he must have waxed or something – Ilya wasn't sure when male grooming had properly taken off, but the rampant bushes of the eighties were definitely a thing of the past – because Ilya could see the dark glimpse of his hole as well, had an unobstructed view as Shane coated two fingers with lube and just… slid right in.

The overhead lights flickered. The overhead lights had been off, but now they were flickering. Ilya should probably get that under control but his attention was riveted to Shane's fingers, glossy with lube, plunging all the way in and then sliding out again, a quick and efficient glide. Again, and again, but he wasn't speeding up, wasn't even making that much noise about it.

A glance at Shane's face confirmed it; this wasn't the main event.

No Olympic medals for guessing what that would be.

Ilya roamed closer, putting his fingers out to try and touch the clear dildo, its thickly veined translucent shaft, the heavy-looking orbs at its base. He couldn't feel it exactly but he could see up close it wasn't glass, it was something else, flexible, but transparent.

It… Shane was reaching for it already.

Ilya's mouth went dry as he watched, shifting around to lie between Shane's spread knees, the best view in the house as Shane slicked the toy with lube and then brought it between his legs. And it—because it was clear, Ilya could see. He could see the dark tight pucker of Shane's hole as he rubbed the head of the toy against his ass, holding his balls out the way with his other hand. He could see the flash of pink as Shane pressed, starting to open up around it, even as his mouth emitted some of the most distracting noises Ilya had ever heard. Tiny, whimpering panting noises.

And then Shane pushed harder, moaning loudly as the tip eased inside, and Ilya's view was blocked by Shane's wrist but he could picture it, Shane's stretched hole, clamping tight and pink around the clear toy as it drove steadily inside. Shane wasn't shy with it, was lifting his hips and spreading those meaty thighs and rocking as he speared himself, until the hefty translucent balls were pressing against his ass and Shane's voice hitched up further.

"Ah, fuck, fuck," he whispered, grinding down on it. "Fuck… Rozanov."

It was like a jolt of electricity right down Ilya's spine. He growled under his breath, surging forwards, and just like that he was lying between Shane's legs, his body on top of Shane's, and his cock, it was aligned, it wasn't inside him, obviously, but it was in line with the toy, his hips were right there, and for one glorious humiliating moment Ilya stared down and pretended. Pretended it was the force of his hips, rocking the dick into Shane's ass. Pretended those moans and whimpers were in response to him.

"Fuck," Shane gasped, tipping his head back and wrapping a hand around his own cock at last. His other hand wrestled with the toy, getting it half withdrawn before sliding it home, hard. "Fuck!"

"Fuck," Ilya echoed, staring at his mouth, his long neck, wishing he could sink his teeth in and really pound him. He smelled incredible, the traces of expensive shower gel mingling with the earthy, musky smells of sweat and sex now rising off him in waves. Ilya wanted to lap at his neck and suck his cock and eat his ass and, God, all of it, he wanted to consume him, do whatever it took to make these pathetic little whimpers something that belonged to Ilya.

"Yeah, yeah," Shane said, wrist working the dildo now with dirty little flicks, using the balls as a handle and yet he also seemed to really like grinding them against his ass.

"You need a proper fuck," Ilya told him, reaching down to cover Shane's hand for the sense-memory of wrapping a hand round a cock while it flexed and leaked. "You need someone who knows what he's doing to bend you over and properly fuck you."

"Yessss," Shane hissed, throwing his head back.

"You need me to fuck you," Ilya said, certainty making his voice crack. "You need it so much, you are desperate for it, look at you."

"Yes, fuck, Rozanov, that's it, that's—yeah," Shane said loudly, shoving the toy in hard and coming in long staggered spurts, and Ilya ducked automatically to try and catch some in his mouth, before realising that was impossible. All of this was impossible.

Ilya screwed his hands into fists, gritting his teeth and snarling, and the lights flared in long ominous pulses, the bulbs giving off a plaintive buzz—but Shane's blissed out closed eyes witnessed nothing, he was reclined back into the bed now, his wrist limp between his legs as he stopped working the toy at last, the rest of his body relaxing in a messy unselfconscious sprawl.

Ilya seethed with unspent heat, wanting to punch something, wanting to fuck him so much; just roll him over and pull out the toy, replace it with his dick, all of it; shove inside, make Shane feel it, take him, make him squeal, make him his. Wanted and needed and couldn't, fuck!

This was insane. The degree of urgency he was feeling was unlike anything he'd experienced before. Which was understandable, surely, after two decades of nothing, that the intrusive presence of this glorious specimen, jerking off in Ilya's bedroom while moaning Ilya's name, would make him feel like this. He was only human. Well, ghost. But a red-blooded one! Come on!

He just needed to get it out his system, and then he'd be done with him, he was sure of it.

Soon.

SHANE

"You were thinking about me," Rozanov said, as soon as Shane opened his eyes to the old bedroom, the one from before.

Shane was naked in bed with a blanket pooled across his waist. And—he was back in Rozanov's bedroom. He looked quickly around, the fanboy in him trying to drink in as many details as possible while he had the chance. There was a trophy shelf, a long mirror opposite the bed, a few books with Cyrillic spines that probably warranted closer inspection… after.

Because now Shane was sitting on the edge of Rozanov's bed, still clutching his blanket, and Rozanov was sauntering toward him. Topless, in sweatpants. And he was enormous. Not taller than Shane necessarily, but bigger, his shoulders bigger, his arms, his chest. It all tapered in to his waist, then flared out again, in the most shapely ass Shane had ever seen on a guy, including in porn. A better ass than most women, Shane guessed, though Shane didn't tend to look at women. He was just perfectly built, a work of athletic art. And fucking enormous. And—he was smirking at Shane.

"Get a good look?"

"Uh, sure," Shane said, scrambling to his feet, resisting the urge to say 'sir' this time. They were pretty much the same age. The same height. So why did Shane feel like a rookie again?

"You are back for more."

An eager-to-impress, ravenous rookie who could still feel the lube coating his asshole from his very recent solo activity. "Maybe."

"I think so."

Shane balked. "I didn't say I definitely—"

"You just fuck yourself on dildo calling it Rozanov," Rozanov said, then added a little tutting noise, turned the corner of his mouth down. "I think you want it."

Shane felt himself turn pink, his hole throbbing at the memory. "You, uh, saw that?"

"Is my house," Rozanov reminded him. 

"It's my house," Shane said weakly. "Categorically, legally, it…"

"You only buy it because is my house," Rozanov said, shaking his head. "You know is mine. Down to the stones."

"Actually—" Shane started, and then cut off as Rozanov grabbed him by the face and squeezed. Around them, the wind picked up, slamming doors and rattling windows.

"My house," Rozanov hissed. "You got that?"

"Your house," Shane said quickly.

"I let you stay," Rozanov said, voice firm now. "You understand?"

"I—yeah," Shane said, swallowing hard and nodding, and the cacophony outside died down, leaving an eerie silence that seemed to hum and purr in Shane's ears.

"And you earn your keep, huh?" Rozanov said, with a tiny leer that turned Shane's brain to mush—and this was cheesy, right, this was something off a virus-riddled clickbait porn site, but it made Shane's cock hard and his hole pulse and so he was gonna lean in just as far as he could.

"How will I do that?"

"How do you think?"

"Uh," Shane said, gaze darting rapidly between Rozanov's eyes, trying to spot the right answer in their gorgeous ice-blue depths. "However you want?"

Something like impatience flickered in Rozanov's eyes. "Be specific."

The words welled up without Shane's permission. "Fuck me," Shane said, and then he heard himself, how low and earnest his voice sounded, and he flushed right across his cheekbones, "I’ll let you, uh, fuck my ass, if—if you want."

Rozanov raised his eyebrows again, stepped back, gave him a slow once-over. Then twirled one finger in a tiny circle, indicating turn around, and Shane's cheeks burned more, but he did it, he turned away to face the bed, letting the blanket fall.

He had almost no warning before Rozanov approached behind him, just the sound of fabric moving, a single footstep. And then he was right there, pressing his hard chest to Shane's back and his big, naked cock against Shane's ass, and the bare fronts of his thighs jostled against the base of Shane's buttocks, and he felt so strong, so hot, so real. A real fucking man, with only one thing on his mind.

Rozanov reached around and ran a firm hand up Shane's chest, all the way to the base of his throat. "Yeah?"

Shane nodded against Rozanov's big fingers, not trusting his voice right now. The crazed elation of potentially being about to take an actual dick inside him was tempered by a very real fear of it being this dick, which was so huge, attached to this man, who couldn't be more of an asshole if Shane designed him himself.

"Yeah," Rozanov said, all agreement, reaching down. His fingers found the crease of Shane's ass, still slippery with lube, tingling with anticipation. "All ready for me."

He should put on a condom, Shane thought suddenly, except that was ridiculous—Rozanov was a figment of Shane's imagination, not real, and so it wasn't like Shane could catch anything from him. But it still felt daring and forbidden as Rozanov's bare cock fitted between his cheeks; still felt dizzily unwise as he started to breach him, as well as so damned hot Shane almost came right there on the spot.

"Ah," Shane gasped, as Rozanov held his cock in his fist and pushed, deliberate and firm, finding the soft slick ring of muscle and pressing slowly but surely, hard enough to overwhelm all resistance. It was sublime and then, fuck, it fucking hurt. "Oh fuck, fuck, you—that—wait—"

To his credit, Rozanov did pause. "Too much?"

Shane panted, his head tipping back on Rozanov's shoulder, his own cock flagging as his attention zeroed in solely on the tight, stretched sensation of Rozanov pushing solidly into his ass. He was still standing, at least. "No, just, wait a minute."

"You are so tight," Rozanov mused, and Shane forcibly relaxed, willing his muscles to let the monster in, to soften and succumb.

"Okay," Shane whispered, and then inhaled sharply as Rozanov took that as permission to move, pushing slowly onward into his ass, every inch of him a hot, thick, naked demand. "Oh! God."

"Too much?" Rozanov asked again, slowing graciously to a stop once more—but the stop was in, the stop was the entire length of his cock buried in Shane's body, and actually, stopping there, the full thickness of his dick inside him, was almost more overwhelming than pulling out again.

"Nnnnno," Shane hazarded, gulping in breath as if he was running a personal best, "no, I—fuck, it's a lot, but I—I just—"

Rozanov made a buzzer noise like Shane had selected the wrong answer. "You did not do this before."

"Ummm…?"

"Admit it."

Uh. Well, no actual point denying it, was there? Shane shook his head, trembling all over, from the top of his head to the stretched blazing edges of his hole, stuffed full. "No."

"Hollander," Rozanov said, reproving now. "You should have said."

A weird wash of shame flowed over him, making him squirm. "Yeah, no, I—I don't care about that, I just want you to fuck me. But you are bigger than my toy? Yeah. So there's that."

To his amazement, Rozanov gave a soft laugh. "Hockey players," he murmured. "Always so fucking proud."

There was a story there, probably, but Shane wasn't in any sort of position to ask.

"I—" Shane started to protest, but his voice died away as he felt Rozanov's lips brush the back of his neck, nuzzling, nibbling. Rozanov's hands started moving too—one was still spread over the base of Shane's throat, half support and half threat, and the other was roving now, fingertips stroking elegant patterns over Shane's stomach and chest, making him shiver. The thick impale of his cock stayed exactly where it was, not demanding more, but not retreating either. Filled to the brim.

His mouth, though. 

Wandering and teasing over the sensitive skin at the nape of Shane's neck, meandering up to his hairline, exhaling there. Warm golden light sparked in Shane's belly and seemed to expand outward, filling him in successive pulses.

"Feel better?" Rozanov asked softly, and Shane realised he'd started shifting and softly moaning, tilting his head to give Rozanov more access to his throat, tipping his hips back and rocking. The dick inside him still felt huge, but less impossible, less like something that would send Shane into shock; more like something he could soften around, adjust to, welcome.

"I… I…" Shane mumbled, and Rozanov kissed the back of his ear, lighting him up all down his spine. "I… oh, fuck, do that again."

Rozanov's lips opened around Shane's earlobe, his teeth playing along its edge, his tongue exploring. Shane could hear it, the soft wet noises as Rozanov licked his ear, feel his warm breath tickling over his neck. Unbelievably intimate; almost unbearably real. Heat swelled through Shane like some fucking classical symphony, a soaring pleasure that had him rocking back, taking more.

"Again?"

"Mmh," Shane said, nodding fervently now, his body a melting popsicle of sensation with Rozanov's dick at his centre.

Rozanov's hand enclosed Shane's cock, urging it to full hardness again. The uncomplicated warmth of his strong fist, sliding, made Shane want to groan.

"Mmmh," he said again, instead, and Rozanov rewarded him with a few squeezes, then a careful thrust. "Oh."

"Mm," Rozanov agreed, his mouth never pausing, his hips started to move more deliberately. "Ah, fuck, Hollander, your ass…"

Fuck, Shane thought, dazed anew that Rozanov was inside him, fucking his ass. Moving properly now, fuck—

A wave of dizziness threatened to overwhelm Shane. He was right next to the bed; he reached for it, pitching forward, planting one knee onto it and both hands. Bending his back. There, that was more stable, that was better, he could brace here. He could—

Rozanov made a low growly noise in his throat and seized Shane's hips in both hands, holding him in place as he thrust in deep.

—He could take it on his hands and knees as Rozanov fucked him. Hard.

ILYA

In the dreamscape, Shane was opening up for him beautifully now; his ass tight but supple around Ilya's cock, instead of the death-grip it had had on him when he first pushed inside. Shane’s ass was warming up and he was making a gratifying amount of noise, for someone as repressed as he clearly was.

Ilya held Shane's hips steady and fucked him, finding an easy rhythm that seemed to suit them both. It was good. Shane was bent forward over the bed, one knee up, both hands down; it meant Ilya could get really close behind him, pound him, and not have to worry about overbalancing or fucking the angle, and when Shane started making truly uninhibited noises it was very easy for Ilya to reach around and stroke him off as well.

In the dreamscape.

Outside of the dreamscape, it was different.

The bedroom – Shane's bedroom – was dark and quiet, and Shane was in his bed, on his front, fast asleep.

Ilya was as corporal as it was possible for him to be; a shining, blue-grey near-opaque three-dimensional body with the ability to touch and feel and act. If Shane woke up his form would probably become insubstantial again, but as long as Shane was asleep and dreaming – and very much enjoying the dream, just as Ilya was very much enjoying it – then Ilya's body here was as real as it would get.

In the dream, Shane knelt on the bed with Ilya's cock driving into his ass, vigorous and demanding while Shane moaned and arched and pressed back against him.

Outside of the dream, Shane's sleeping body was a relaxed sprawl amongst the silky bedclothes, and Ilya was hunkered down over him, listening for any change in his breathing. His cock was nestled between Shane's ass cheeks, poised and ready, but he wanted to be sure, really sure, that the dream was going well before he pushed inside.

The dream seemed to be going well.

Ilya found Shane's wet hole with his fingers, then guided his cock to press against it. Shane barely reacted, just a low inhale and a vague wriggle that might have nothing to do with Ilya. Except that it left Shane with his legs fractionally further apart, left his ass that little bit easier to penetrate. Good sign.

Ilya closed his eyes as he pushed, finding Shane's lax, lubed hole eased open readily for Ilya's cock, letting him push right in; Shane mumbled something and flailed a little, but it wasn't protest, at all. In the dream he was shouting and moaning and shoving back against Ilya's dick, but in reality the tiny unconscious movements were just as potent.

Ilya sank slowly in, as gentle as he could make it, then withdrew, sank in again—waiting, alert, all the while, for Shane to wake up and stop him. But Shane was deep in the dream, leaving his body peacefully sleeping, and still wet and loose from the dildo, too unbelievably enticing to resist.

And this—this was the first time Ilya had been able to truly feel his cock going into someone in decades. He'd missed it so much. Watching his hard length disappear fully into the dark rim of Shane's asshole was incredible; he didn't need the noisy accolades from the dream, when he had his own body's testimony shimmering through him.

Maybe it was because Ilya hadn't done it for so long but this almost felt like the first time he'd had sex: the tight yield, the hot grip of Shane's body robbing him of the power of speech; it just felt so damned good to push in until he couldn't get any further. To cover Shane with his body, press him into the mattress, pin him there.

Ilya wanted to make it last – was trying to, fucking Shane's ass in slow, steady strokes – but it was impossible. It felt too good. It was like pushing his cock into a liquid velvet knot, tight and elastic at once, clenching a little every time Ilya pushed deep. Like even in sleep Shane was trying to hold on to Ilya's cock instead of letting it pull out again.

Incredible instincts, Jesus. Ilya felt like he was entering paradise. He wanted to make a home here. Spread out in front of him, Shane looked so fucking perfect. His beautiful back was supple marble in the low light, gleaming; in the dream Shane was whimpering and undulating on Ilya's dick, but here Shane was barely shifting, just a soft tensing of his thighs as Ilya sank deeper, a muffled yowl as Ilya started to fuck him in earnest. But taking it, taking it so well, as Ilya moved inside him, as Ilya took great handfuls of his hips and shoved harder, faster.

Taking it and also, tipping his hips back more, his thighs spreading further. Like even unconscious he was trying to direct Ilya to a certain, more demanding angle.

Ilya shifted on top of him, aiming down, and his next thrust made Shane moan, a cut-off involuntary-sounded noise that echoed through the quiet bedroom. Fuck, that felt good. He did it again, again, and all at once felt Shane start to spasm around his dick. Ilya bit down on his own moan, pleasure spiking as he slammed inside and watched the ripples of force go through Shane's body—and then in the dream Shane was coming, coming all over himself just from the force of Ilya's cock in his ass, and Ilya groaned suddenly; in the dream, Shane was clenching and shouting out, but here Shane's ass just tightened infinitesimally. Somehow Ilya felt it twice as hard.

"Mmm," Shane whimpered, out loud, his orgasm peaking and ebbing; he was on the border of waking up, Ilya could feel it.

Urgent suddenly, Ilya fucked him harder, making the most of these final few seconds. He just needed to come, he needed to cross the finish line before Shane woke up. He pounded him, fingers digging in, letting his hips slam as hard as they wanted against that sweet, firm ass, burying his cock deep, feral, fast—before finishing inside him, emptying himself completely with a low, ragged cry of unusually powerful pleasure.

It felt like he had decades stored up, and Shane's body took it all, every last desperate jerk.

Ilya collapsed on top of him, relishing the rare heated sensation of skin on skin, of Shane's sturdy body taking all of Ilya's weight. Ilya was sweaty, heart racing, more alive than he'd been in years. Fuck, that felt good.

Shane mumbled and shifted beneath him, but didn't seem to wake. His breathing deepened again. He was probably lying in a wet spot and surely his ass felt impossibly full, but apparently Shane Hollander's subconscious was fine with that.

Ilya sure as hell wasn't going to end this any sooner than he had to. He lay on top of him, softening inside him, relishing the tight grip of Shane's body, his radiant satisfaction. Feeling stronger, more vibrant, more real than he had in years.

Eventually, as Shane slipped into a different phase of sleep, Ilya felt the edges of his corporeal form softening as well. He shifted back to pull slowly out, unable to resist holding Shane's ass open, watching; Shane whimpered again as he withdrew, his translucent come spilling out around his dick like so much warm, messy ectoplasm. Ilya pressed Shane's cheeks apart to watch, aroused anew by how much there was, how it was running down behind Shane's balls and dripping onto the sheets. He wanted to duck down and lick but he was too—his body was fading now, becoming less solid with every second that passed.

Experimentally, he tried to push his thumb back inside, and for a fleeting moment felt Shane's ass twitch around him, wet and warm, his pulse still fluttering at double speed, before the sensation faded away. He couldn't touch him any longer. 

And… fuck.

Fuck, Ilya wasn't done with him yet.

Not by a long shot.

Chapter 3

Chapter Summary

Shane throws a house party. Ilya is less than pleased.

TW: I hope y’all enjoy spanking…

SHANE  

Shane dreamed about Rozanov making him take his massive cock every night that week. 

Some mornings he woke up with tiny fingertip shaped bruises on his hips—he must be grabbing himself in the night, he thought, with an incredulous little laugh. Wild.

One morning he found his voice was slightly hoarse after dreaming Rozanov had pushed him to his knees and fucked his mouth, slow at first and then frenzied, demanding, eventually forcing the whole hard length of his cock down Shane's throat, at which point Shane had come so hard he'd woken himself up.

He was probably coming down with a viral infection or something. 

ILYA

Ilya had to be more careful. Shane's mouth was perfect, like the rest of him, and if Ilya could rotate between his ass and mouth every night for the rest of eternity, he'd be a happy ghost. But it had been a close one, Shane waking up like that, just as Ilya had been on the brink of shooting his load.

In the dreamscape, they'd been out of bed, Shane on his knees with his hands on Ilya's thighs, taking his cock like the champion he so patently wanted to be.

But in reality, Ilya was kneeling over him on the bed, feeding the head of his cock into Shane's mouth as Shane blurrily sucked and nuzzled, shifting restless amongst his many pillows. Ilya was jerking off into his mouth, one hand braced on the headboard, dazed with pleasure—but he'd have to pull away, soon, because he couldn't come like this, he couldn't flood Shane's mouth while he was sleeping, that was asking for—

In the dreamscape, Shane shoved suddenly forward on Ilya's dick and choked himself, managing to trigger his own violent climax before Ilya knew what was happening. And in the sudden swooping surge of it, waking himself up.

In a flurry of panic, Ilya dissolved his corporal body and returned to the fabric of the house, but he'd been on the brink himself, so close, and the energy shuddered out anyway, knocking off roof tiles and cracking several antique window panes.

Fuck.

This thing was becoming a problem.

SHANE

He opened a private browser and looked up "recurrent sex dreams", and found it might all be related to some unaddressed feelings he had about his life. Apparently it was very normal. Probably just his body’s need to have sex, and, possibly he had an unmet desire for intimacy—go fucking figure.

What it was not, it seemed – and multiple private browser windows agreed – was anything to worry about.

Further searches confirmed lots of sex dreams were a normal thing to happen, not unusual, not alarming. Possibly a sign of a high sex drive. Which, a few more searches confirmed, was a normal thing for athletes, not uncommon at all. Normal and natural. So that was good to know.

Shane closed the browser again.

So his potent and repeated desire to get fucked by Ilya Rozanov, in his dreams, was technically fine. 

Still, it might be a good idea to get out more. See some friends, maybe. All he seemed to do since moving into his new place was go to practice, and work out, and jerk off, and dream, and sometimes wake up covered in spunk, and other times wake up so hard he had to jerk off some more.

He'd never had so many orgasms in his life.

He walked around feeling fantastic, like he was winning in situations no one else even knew were competitions. And he didn't particularly want to reduce that feeling. But still. As the weeks passed, in the back of his mind, even he had to admit it was getting a bit… weird. To have withdrawn from society in favour of becoming some sort of horny recluse, ever since moving into his hot dead idol's so-called haunted house.

And so when Hayden started ribbing him about never coming out any more, and never inviting anyone round, and basically becoming a recluse – he obviously didn't know about the horny part – it brought Shane up sharp.

"Fuck it, fine," he said, folding his arms. "You want a house-warming party? Done. At mine. Invite everyone. This weekend. Happy now?"

ILYA

Something was off. Shane was ordering in way more food than usual, and hanging up strings of tiny little lights, and—and there were women. Multiple women briskly striding around, cleaning the whole house to an unnecessarily high standard, then hanging up a zillion decorations and plugging in endless lamps. No room was immune. Even the master bedroom was cleaned and tidied, all the ridiculous pillows positioned and plumped to within an inch of their lives. Lucky they didn't look in any bedside drawers, or Shane's precious reputation as a good boy would have been left hanging by a thread. Over the last few weeks, Ilya had become increasingly familiar with the contents of those drawers.

Downstairs, Shane was putting out bowls of snacks. Far more than any one man could eat. Far more than two men could eat, even had living Ilya been one of those men.

This was bad.

The team of women swept out as quickly as they'd arrived, cooing farewells and bidding Shane to 'have a great evening' and assuring him that they'd be back tomorrow – not too early! – for the clean-up.

Ilya went cold. Colder than usual.

What the actual hell?

Shane was hosting now?

SHANE

The party was going well!

Okay, the various new lamps, string lights and outdoor festoon lighting were clearly fucking something up in the electrics somewhere, as they all seemed prone to flicking on and off at random. Same issue probably, the speakers kept skipping, which was wreaking havoc with Shane's playlist – painstakingly curated for him as a Party Boss extra, featuring a guaranteed mix of recent bangers and stone cold classics.

The beer in the fridge wasn't getting that cold for some reason, and the auxiliary ice bath he'd arranged as back-up kept producing a weird drains-like odour as it melted. A lot of the red cups, also supplied by the party team, seemed more prone to cracking and seeping than usual, if not sudden and total disintegration. Possibly not unrelated, hazardous puddles kept forming on the floor in the kitchen. There had been some minor injuries.

Elsewhere, in the hallway, several creaky warped floorboards had actually tripped people, with one guy having to go home with a nosebleed and someone else ripping the sole off their expensive shoe.

But. Despite all this. People were dancing.

Shane considered people dancing to be the benchmark of a successful party. Not him, obviously. He did not dance. But he was happy to stand around, drinking in the success of this social event at his new house, while other people, people who did not have two left feet where non-sports activity was concerned, bounced around each other drinking warm beer and laughing.

"I've got to hand it to you," Hayden said, finding Shane in the kitchen as he went to refill a bowl of popcorn for the umpteenth time – they kept spilling, and despite the promises of the cleaning team Shane suspected he'd be finding sticky kernels underfoot for weeks. "This is more fun than I thought you were capable of organizing."

"Shut up," Shane said, laughing as he heaped a white cloud of popcorn into a bowl, then glanced up at Hayden's face at last. And frowned. "Wait, whoa. How'd you do that?"

Hayden totally had a black eye. "Oh, you know. Kitchen cupboard. While I was chopping limes. My bad."

"Wow. Sorry, man."

"Hey, I got off lightly," Hayden laughed. "That girl who came with J.J., the one bending your ear about kitchen islands? She ate shit and fell through the back door, almost brained herself on your rockery out there!"

"Fuck," Shane said, looking around with a renewed spike of anxiety. He was beginning to get a sinking feeling. Even though people were dancing, this seemed like… a lot of misfortune for one evening. "Is she okay?"

"Yeah, she's fine, just sprained her ankle or something," Hayden said, scanning the crowd. "I think J.J. took her home."

Now Shane looked around, it seemed like quite a few other people had also gone home. The sinking feeling intensified. The antique clock on the wall said midnight, but that was still early, wasn't it, for a party like this, the sort of party Shane was trying to throw? It felt early, for people to be leaving in droves.

A scream cut through the jovial atmosphere, and Shane's head whipped around.

He hurried through to the dance floor, where the music was pounding on but the dancing had stopped, and a knot of people were clustered around a woman with both hands over her face.

She was, Shane realized to his relief, laughing.

"No, no, it's stupid, I just thought—it's insane but I honestly thought I saw someone with an axe at the window," she was saying, laughing and hiccuping, waving at the dark glossy windows with their wavering reflections of the party looming up to the ceiling. "Fuck, that scared me. Oh my god. Thanks," she added, as someone passed her a drink.

"I'll check it out," a big square-jawed guy assured her—Shane didn't recognize him, which he guessed was a good sign of a successful party, but also made his uneasy feeling increase. Who else was here?

The guy chugged his beer, made sure the girl was watching, then waded out—and promptly managed to kick a large plant pot across the paving outside, cracking it and sending dirt and dark green leaves everywhere. Shane wasn't even sure what the plant was – something Russian and flowery, he thought, one of the few survivors of the original kitchen garden that wasn't dill – but the sight of its bedraggled dark form getting kicked across the stones made him feel weirdly nauseous.

All the outdoor lights fizzled out at once – not just flickering, fully dead – and the deck was plunged into darkness.

"Hey, is someone there? Stop fucking around," the guy yelled, his voice coming from a little further off, invisible now in the dark. There was a noise like something scuffling. Then the guy's voice rang out again, fainter still: "Hey, whoa, back off!"

And then… nothing.

The music pounded on.

Shane looked uneasily at the roomful of people who'd started dancing again in haphazard little groups.

He should probably go after that guy.

Everyone else seemed to have instantly forgotten about him, which was weird. It was like they'd forgotten there even was an outside to go to. They were just… dancing.

The wavering reflections were stronger than ever, without the outside illumination, giving the vague sense of a fairground hall of mirrors. It was almost hypnotic, everyone's hands waving in the air in unison.

And then suddenly, something outside fell with a heavy thump against the window: that same guy, his face a mess of dark red glossy blood, smearing the glass – and everybody, including Shane, screamed.

ILYA

Served him right.

Didn't see why anyone needed to call the emergency services about it.

Fucking overreaction.

All Ilya had done, actually, was a very small amount of poltergeist activity, coupled with an even smaller amount of phantasmic tinkering. He hadn't hurt anyone badly.

Ilya’s powers had been much restored by Shane’s continued, energizing presence in his house, so he’d personally call his actions pretty fucking restrained. He could have done a lot more damage. 

Now he could feel Shane's fury. That was the worst thing. As all the lights were turned on and the crowds traipsed out and the paramedics checked over El Doofus and his chipped tooth and barely broken nose – such a baby, seriously – the worst thing was Ilya's innate sense of Shane's cold blazing anger.

It wasn't entirely apparent who Shane was angry with. The house? That was irrational, didn't seem very Shane. With Ilya? Impossible, as Shane still had himself firmly stationed in the camp of not believing in ghosts.

It was only later that night, as Shane stomped to bed after brushing his teeth so hard he'd made his gums bleed, that Ilya understood.

Shane was angry – furious, in fact – with himself.

SHANE

Stupid, stupid, stupid. What had he been thinking? He couldn't throw a spontaneous party. He was not the sort of person who could do that. He should have had the whole place risk assessed, by a professional, not just left it in the hands of some last-minute team of party planners who clearly had a sub-par understanding of electrical safety, among other things.

That big guy hadn't done much more than chip a tooth, at least. He'd sworn blind he didn't know how he'd tripped up, said a vine had caught his ankle but there were no vines out there that Shane knew about. Maybe he'd just been blind drunk. Whatever, any remaining vibe was dead in the water once his bloodied face had appeared at the window. 

So that was that. Party, over.

Shane had overheard at least three people give covert sighs of relief as they crossed back over the threshold, as if weights had simultaneously lifted from multiple shoulders.

"I know, right? So fucking spooky," he'd heard someone else say, laughing, and Shane's skin prickled with a weird, protective, second-hand embarrassment that he found it difficult to shrug off, even hours later.

He definitely didn't feel like jerking off this evening.

He got into his black sleep shorts, then climbed into bed, picked up his book and scowled at it. He didn't really have the energy to read either. What a fucking disaster. This was why he shouldn't throw parties. He wasn't wired that way. If he lived with someone else, maybe, they could have shared the planning side of things. Risk-assessed together. Or if he lived with several someones – friends, or even colleagues – then at least they could have collectively shouldered the responsibility, maybe even designated leadership to someone who had the first clue about what they were doing in a group hosting situation.

He groaned softly and set his book aside, turning the picture of Rozanov on the cover – one of his favourites – face-down. He didn't have the energy to read, or jerk off, or do anything right now. He just needed to sleep.

ILYA

Another clue that something was wrong: Shane was dressed. Half-dressed. Wearing those flimsy, baggy black shorts that clung to Shane's hips like they'd been designed to torture Ilya in particular. But even though Ilya struggled to think of another outfit that would be more objectively slutty to him right now, he knew that wasn't why Shane was wearing them. Shane was dressed, in Shane's mind, to sleep.

Which was unusual. Lately Shane had been in the habit – gently encouraged by Ilya, exerting as much persuasive force as he could, running teasing fingertips and lips over as much of Shane’s skin as he could reach – of going to sleep naked, at least, if not also lubing himself up and fingering himself open, before getting any number of sex toys involved. He was nothing if not inventive. Ilya had to admit he'd learned some stuff.

But tonight, none of that. The drawer of interesting devices remained shut, Shane's dick remained untouched, and Shane's shorts were firmly on.

What a disaster.

Ilya roamed the dreamscape bedroom, waiting for Shane to arrive. Shane would need to hit the right sleep wavelength to get here—which was something he naturally seemed to find after orgasm, but in the absence of that physical switch being flicked it seemed Shane was sleeping too restlessly tonight.

Ilya paced the room, running a hand through his hair. He didn't like waiting. He'd gotten used to it, obviously, over years and years of gnawing solitude. But there was something different about this. This was waiting for something he'd grown to expect over the last few weeks, to anticipate; he felt like a dog salivating for a treat he'd already been promised. The tail was already wagging.

Shane's consciousness fazed in and out, in and out, but didn't linger or solidify.

Ilya threw himself down in the armchair with a groan. Fuck! What if he didn't show at all? It already didn't look good for Ilya getting any actual action, tonight, but after all the stresses of the day he was at least still hoping for a little conversation.

Shane talked too much, usually, in Ilya's opinion. In their post-coital sprawl-out time, Shane seemed to think nothing of babbling away to Ilya about hockey, whether Ilya felt like talking or not.

He had so many questions. He had questions about the Metros back when Ilya had been playing, and questions about various hockey greats of twenty years ago; and he had a seemingly limitless supply of questions about Ilya's own games, like Ilya would have all that shit memorized even now. Highlights he could do, but Shane seemed to expect an encyclopedic recollection of every single original play, which was kind of beyond him. But he tried, because it made Shane so happy when he got an answer, made his eyes light up and his gaze turn faraway.

He'd doubted Shane remembered much of those conversations by day, and then over the weeks he'd had cause to doubt those doubts. Because Shane had started asking advice on how to get the Metros back up to standard, which Ilya had initially treated as an excellent opportunity to shit-talk, but – after several nights of Shane earnestly telling him his bullshit tactic hadn't worked on the ice – more recently he had reluctantly started applying himself. Get the Metros back on form, alright. What had worked then? What might work now? What would make best use of Shane Hollander, rising generational talent by all accounts? Time for a sexy game plan.

And Shane had lapped it all up, eyes dark and sparkly, sketching out plays on bed sheets with his finger and nodding eagerly as it all slotted into place for him somehow.

And Ilya had wanted to kiss him.

Hadn't, obviously, kissed him. This wasn't about kissing. This was a loosely drawn sketch itself, just some paranormal sex-haunting of a budding new hockey legend, nothing more to see here. Ilya was regularly getting his rocks off for the first time in two decades; simple. So what if the guy enabling it was so closeted he might as well throw away the key? And so what if he was so talented he made Ilya's fingers twitch to pick up a stick and join him on the ice somehow? Still not Ilya's problem.

Also not Ilya's problem: how empty the house felt now, every time Shane went out; how cold it got, whenever he was gone a few nights for an away game.

How good Shane smelled, even – especially – after a work-out.

How sometimes Shane talked to himself, or read out loud from hockey articles and boring old books, and how the sound of his even, practically monotone voice made something in Ilya settle.

How good he looked in those glasses, seriously.

In the disastrous party aftermath, while the paramedics were fussing over that guy and his overly dramatic reaction to a modicum of unsolicited dental work, Shane had carefully gathered up the damaged plant from the paving stones and found a new pot for it, replacing it on the site of the broken one. He'd filled it with dirt from the kitchen garden, tucked its roots in, and heaped a little more dirt on top, pressing it in carefully and then giving it a cup of water. That had made Ilya feel all sorts of things.

The plant in question, Lily of the Valley, was not a popular one in Montreal; its sweet scent and small white bell flowers didn't make up for its aggressive invasive streak, out-competing many native plants without remorse. It had significance back in Russia, but Ilya hadn't expected anyone here to care for it after he'd gone. And yet against the odds, it had survived and self-seeded in that pot on the deck, until that drunken lumberjack's boot had collided with it—at which point Ilya had seen several fancy new shades of red.

On top of all the other insults that accompanied filling his house with drunken louts, that had been the worst. He'd been ready to grab Shane by the scruff of the neck and drag him off for a hard, fast spanking. But watching him rescue the plant and reinstate it with fresh dirt and water, that urge had died down again.

Now Ilya just wanted to hold him.

He rested his head back against the armchair and pressed a hand over his eyes. Shane Hollander was not a man to hold. Not a man to kiss. A man to fuck and use and make the most of; a man that got under Ilya's skin, with his boring habits and his awful friends; a man who had abused the sanctity of Ilya's household only this damn evening!

The urge to spank him rose again.

Ilya dwelled on that urge, stoking his displeasure with the diligence some might reserve for meditation or taxes.

On the bed, Shane fazed in and out again. Ilya watched from the chair, hardly daring to hope. He wasn't even hard. He just waited, resigned to the flickery dissolution once more.

But this time, Shane stayed.

SHANE 

Shane opened his eyes to the familiar half-light of Rozanov's bedroom, and immediately located the man himself sitting in his armchair, eyes narrow.

Shane pushed himself up off the bed. He wasn't naked, or hard, which was rare these days. He didn't know where to put his hands.

"You made it," Rozanov said, not necessarily sounding happy about it.

Shane resisted the urge to stick his thumbs in the waistband of his shorts. "Uh, yeah."

"What a fucking night, huh?"

"Yeah," Shane said vehemently, grateful he got it. "So much drama."

Rozanov scowled. "You throw party. In my house."

"Yeah," Shane said heavily. "Wish I hadn't."

"Oh, I don't need to make you regret it?"

"No, no, I already regret it," Shane said dryly, then paused. Something in Rozanov's voice had caught his attention, a loose thread snagging on a thorn. "How, uh, how were you going to make me regret it?"

Rozanov regarded him for a long, charged moment. Then said evenly, "I think you earn spanking." 

Shane felt his own eyebrows shoot up. "What?"

"What? You defile my house with bunch of fucking hockey plebs, they treat it like shit with their shoes and their drinks and you do nothing about it." Rozanov patted his knee. "Come. Take punishment like man."

Unbidden, Shane's cock stirred in his shorts. He hadn't jerked off this evening, hadn't planned to, hadn't expected to dream either. But this was… different.

"I don't think that's fair," he said, trying to put up a token resistance at least. "It's my house, I'm allowed—"

"Don't start that again," Rozanov interrupted, glaring.

Shane found himself walking closer, gazing down at him. Was Rozanov hard? Was he genuinely pissed with him? Angry, even? Fuck, he couldn't be angrier than Shane was with himself.

Oh. Oh. Maybe that was it. He’d read about this during one of his online deep dives.

Maybe this dream set-up was a manifestation of Shane's own anger; maybe this was an opportunity to work out his feelings on all his stupid choices tonight. 

Or, ha, sure, maybe it was the vengeful ghost of Ilya Rozanov, seeking retribution for various acts of mild vandalism against his homestead. Maybe.

"You're not serious," he said to Rozanov, meaning, Tell me what you want from me.

The lights flickered above his head, as if the house was caught in a rising electrical storm.  

"Serious like heart attack," Rozanov shot back, which was no help at all. His gaze swept over Shane in dismissive impatience. It felt like the shadows were lengthening around them. 

Rozanov was sitting in the old fashioned armchair; high-backed.

"I could just," Shane started, getting tongue-tied, ambushed by a huff of his own nervous laughter, "promise? Not to do it again. I… I’d honestly be happy to swear that." 

"Cute," Rozanov said. "Is not enough." 

"I—"

"Come on. Delay make it worse." He patted his thigh again, unsmiling. "Over my knee."

It was pretty undignified for Shane, kneeling next to him and then pitching forward over Rozanov's lap, his belly over those thick thighs.

But maybe undignified was the point, Shane thought, blood rushing to his face – and then Rozanov's hand smoothed solidly across his ass, cupping him through his shorts, possessive and slow, and Shane stopped thinking about anything else at all.

The was a pause, a momentary stillness, and then—

Fuck!

Fuck, that hurt.

Even through his shorts, it hurt.

What was he doing? This was ridiculous. Degrading. He was a grown man, he didn't—

Rozanov struck his ass again, harder, knocking the scathing words right out of Shane's head, filling his mind with a white-hot flash of pain instead. It ebbed quickly again but, huh. That was… different.

Shane focused hard on the sensation of Rozanov's hand coming down – smack – on the seat of his pants, rucking up the soft fabric of his shorts, just grazing the base of his ass. Ow. Again and again, and—Ow! Fuck, it really did hurt.

Well yeah, of course it fucking hurt, the man was a pro athlete. A legend at stick work with shoulders like a Greek god. Of course he could spank the life out of someone.

Shane bit his lip, trying not to gasp as the blows came down repeatedly, the impact ringing through him; he squirmed in Rozanov's lap, trying to arrange himself more comfortably, trying to – he didn't know – alleviate the pain somehow, redirect it, diffuse it by varying which area of sensitive skin got targeted.

"Be still," Rozanov muttered, "stop wriggling like little bitch," and Shane froze, stricken by the words even more than the pain.

The next blow made him feel red hot all over. Nevertheless, he held still.

"Better," Rozanov said, and his approval, fucked up as that was, made Shane feel wonderful. "Ready for real thing?"

What the fuck? "W-what's the real thing?"

In answer, Rozanov folded his fingers into Shane's waistband and tugged down his shorts. "This," he said, smoothing a possessive hand over Shane's buttocks; they already felt like they were glowing. Rozanov's fingertips brushed into the crease of his ass but didn't linger, even as Shane gasped and instinctively spread his legs.

"Nuh uh," Rozanov said, sounding amused. "Not yet. First you pay for what you did."

Shane tried to breathe normally; failed. His cock was hardening – which had been revealed to both of them by the shorts' abrupt dismissal – and Rozanov's big hand groping his ass was doing nothing to calm it down.

Then Rozanov hit him again, a resounding slap with his open hand that made Shane's breath catch, rocking him forward against Rozanov's lap and shoving his cock against his thigh.

"Oh, God," Shane hissed, genuinely uncertain if this was pleasurable or a torment. On bare skin, the sting of it was heightened, but it was hotter as well, feeling Rozanov's big palm, his strong fingers. And the humiliation of how it must look, his shorts bound around his thighs, his reddened ass bare, brought its own potency. Was he leaving actual handprints?

"Ah! Fuck!"

"Count them off. I give you twenty, then we see."

The blows were coming hard and fast now, covering every inch of his ass, a different place each time, impossible to predict or prepare for. "Fuck."

"One," Rozanov corrected.

"Surely that's like, five," Shane said weakly, and got an extra hard slap for his trouble. "Ah!"

"One," Rozanov said, voice like iron.

Shane whined in his throat, tipping his hips back. His hole was throbbing again, his ass feeling a roasted red already. "One."

"Two." Smack, smack, smack—coming far faster than either of them was counting. Shane began to realize the counting was a sham. It was just giving his mouth something to do, a way of showing he was willing. Fuck, he was getting so turned on. He wondered what Rozanov would do if he started jerking off. Spank him harder, presumably. Win-win?

"Don't you dare," Rozanov said, and Shane realised his arm had moved as if to try and enact that plan. "I will tie your hands behind your back if you move a fucking muscle again."

Shane bit down on a wave of tremendous, mind-blanking heat at the snarl in his voice, squeezed his eyes tightly shut. "Th—three," he managed. Showing willing.

Rozanov rewarded him with a rough squeeze of his balls before resuming his rhythm, a tight controlled beating of his ass that made Shane's head spin. He felt himself start to float, pain and pleasure combining, the hot shock of each impact overlapping the other in a rapid, relentless build.

It must be endorphins from the pain, he thought, though it was unlike anything he’d felt before; even during prolonged HIIT he’d never reached a luminous place like this. 

The only problem with how fast Rozanov was striking him was that it brought Shane's breathy count up to twenty in no time. He tried letting a few go, then a few more, but Rozanov kept prompting him to keep count. Shane was squirming deliriously in Rozanov's lap, rubbing his cock against Rozanov's thigh, voice barely managing to shape the words as he got close.

"Nnnnineteen," he slurred out, panting freely as Rozanov's hand pounded him. "T… t… fuckkk…"

"Twenty," Rozanov supplied, sounding amused again.

"…Twenty," Shane said, more a gasp than a word.

The blows stopped. The world seemed to ring in his ears. Rozanov's hand cupped Shane's ass, slowly squeezing the overheated skin.

"Fuck," Shane hissed, and then jerked at the sound of Rozanov spitting in his hand, before a slick of relatively cool wetness dabbed over his asshole. "Oh, fuck, oh—"

"Shush," Rozanov said, covering Shane's mouth with his other hand. "Is not over. Not yet forgiven."

"Mmph," Shane grunted, as Rozanov's fingers pushed into his ass and mouth at the same time. His cock strained; he felt like a live wire ran between Rozanov's fingertips, joining inside him, encircling his cock en route. He felt high, giddy with the fading pain and so turned on he couldn't keep still. He sucked furiously on Rozanov's fingers, rocked back against the hand at his ass, and heard Rozanov's low laugh come again.

"Is like you have fever. Possessed. Maybe I let you throw awful party more often."

Shane shook his head emphatically, without letting Rozanov's fingers out his mouth.

"No?"

Another head shake to confirm.

"Maybe you learn your lesson then," Rozanov said lightly.

Shane nodded.

Rozanov rewarded him with a slick of lube, then a third finger in his ass, spearing slow and deep. "Good," he said, twisting, finding what Shane now knew must be his prostate and nudging against it. "Good boy, easy to teach. Take it so well."

Shane whined around Ilya's fingers, sucking hungrily.

"Okay," Rozanov said, as if something had been decided. He withdrew his fingers simultaneously, resting his fingertips on Shane's lower lip and then tapping thoughtfully at the skin behind his balls. Shane's attention zipped back and forth, dizzying.

"On floor. Down. Hands and knees."

"Not… bed?" Shane asked uncertainly, his own voice sounding impossibly raw. The bed was right there.

"You do not deserve bed yet."

Figured.

Shane shivered and nodded, then slithered down to the floor, assuming the position without needing to be told twice. His head was spinning deliriously again. That floating feeling, even though the pain had melted away. The only thing that mattered was Rozanov's voice, Rozanov's hands.

"Good," Rozanov said crisply, kneeling behind him.

Rozanov's voice, Rozanov's hands, and Rozanov's cock, Shane amended, as his ass was held open, and he felt Rozanov spit on his hole.

"Fuck," he whispered, the heavy pressure of Rozanov's cockhead laying over his spread ass. His skin was still hot and tingling from the spanking, and he imagined it must be bright, vivid, maybe even bruised. He swayed on his knees, daring himself to ask. "Uh… How does it look?"

"Red like cherry," Rozanov said, and then, murmured almost, "same red as my hard cock."

Well that was a shade Shane was extremely familiar with. His eyelids fluttered closed, picturing it. "Thank you."

"Such a good boy," Rozanov said, in the same soft dreamy pleased tone, and then he was pushing inside him, rougher than usual, and Shane fell forward onto his elbows, gasping.

"Ah, fuck," he bit off, Rozanov reaching his full depth quickly, starting to fuck him without waiting a moment longer. Every tap of his hard hips against Shane's sore ass sent a flush of wildfire through him. "God that's—fuck, wow, fuck, I don't—"

"Take it, then tell me after," Rozanov suggested, and Shane gratefully complied, unsure what he was trying to communicate anyway, just choking out noises he couldn't contain.

His earlier anger at himself felt like a distant memory, insignificant. Washed clean by this unparalleled intensity, this penance. The disastrous evening didn't matter, and neither did any of his choices, nor how he was living his life. All that mattered was Rozanov's approval, doing whatever Rozanov ordered, and Shane could do this, could kneel on the hard floor with his thighs bound together by his beleaguered shorts, and brace on his elbows and take Rozanov pounding into him; could do it and enjoy it. Nothing else held any relevance at all.

"Still you are thinking too much," Rozanov said, tinged with disbelief.

"No, I'm not, I swear I'm not. Uh, sorry."

"I should have you count this too?"

Shane drew in an uncertain breath. "Um, one…"

Rozanov let out a strangled laugh, then put a hand between Shane's shoulders and pressed him into the floor. "No. You should not be able to count either. Just feel."

It was a permission Shane hadn't known he needed, coupled with a pressure so firm it transcended degrading and edged into comfort instead. He melted completely beneath Rozanov's hands, existing only to receive his cock and follow his orders.

He might have mumbled something to that effect.

"Oh, fucking hell, Shane," Rozanov muttered, speeding up behind him, slamming into him without much rhythm at all.

It seemed to happen very quickly, then – Rozanov digging in his fingers, grinding out urgent, demanding pulses – and then Shane dimly recognized that Rozanov was coming inside him while he was still just taking it, trying to be good, trying not to move out of turn.

"Ah, fuck," Rozanov gasped, rocking forward on his knees and then righting himself before he could collapse on top.

For a moment Shane thought he hadn't realized Shane hadn't yet come, and a wave of delicious insignificance rolled over him – just a hole for him to use whenever he wants – before Rozanov was pulling out and rolling Shane onto his back, and Rozanov's lips were lowering over Shane's aching cock, and Shane lay there gasping as a whole new type of pleasure surged through him.

Rozanov’s mouth was hot, wet, somehow reckless, plunging down around him and swallowing tightly as his fingers pushed back into Shane's ass. Shane's hips rocked helplessly between the two sources of sensation, neither one eclipsing the other, just compounding, building, until he could hear himself gasping out a borderline incomprehensible selection of words as he came: Rozanov's name, mostly, and yes, and please, and thank you.

"So polite," Rozanov said, after he swallowed and pulled off, patting Shane's stomach as he lay there shaking. "Such manners."

"Fuck off," Shane said weakly, but there was no heat in it, only – he realized, too euphoric to feel alarmed – fondness.

Rozanov laughed. "More like it."

Shane willed his eyes open, before slowly recognizing that he was lying here with his shorts still round his thighs, his ass wet and hot, used-feeling. He tugged the shorts up, feeling slightly self-conscious; more when he saw Rozanov pause in retrieving his own boxers to openly watch him.

"So am I forgiven?" Shane asked, trying to change the subject. "For the uh. The party."

Rozanov sat back on his heels. He made a show of looking at his hand - the palm was red, Shane could see - and making a thoughtful noise.

"Mmm, I think, maybe. Probably. You seem very sorry. Will not disrespect my house like that again."

"I won't," Shane promised, low volume but fervent.

"And if you do, I bring you back for another spanking," Rozanov said easily.

Shane bit his lip to contain a smile, and nodded. "Sure."

Now that the high notes of orgasm were fading off, he became aware his ass was still thrumming, with sharp stabs of pain whenever he shifted. He wondered if it would still hurt when he woke up. It wasn't so bad that it would interfere with practice, he thought, but it definitely might be… a reminder. Fuck, that was hot.

"Can I get off the floor now?"

"Yes. Now, you have earned bed."

Shane rose swiftly to his feet, hissing as the sting intensified, and he'd been expecting Rozanov to move back, give him some room, but instead Rozanov offered a hand to steady him, and Shane took it without thinking; and now he was just standing there, upright, and they were too close together, and Shane was still holding Rozanov's hand.

For a moment he froze, still hazy with endorphins and gripping Rozanov's fingers to steady himself, and then Rozanov—

Rozanov kissed him.

Shane's knees almost gave way. And then his brain kicked in: fuck, fuck, fuck, he was being kissed by a man. Stubble was raking across his skin, Rozanov's full lips were crushed against his, and it felt so good, and Rozanov's tongue was—his tongue—fuck, this was so gay, somehow way more gay than being repeatedly fucked in the ass; Shane was going to pass out.

"Breathe," Rozanov said dryly, drawing back, already smirking, and Shane dragged in deep breaths and swayed on his feet, reeling in earnest. Rozanov's hand was still on his face, folded around his jaw now, almost gentle.

"I am breathing," Shane groused, ignoring how husky his voice had gone. His lips were tingling. "What the fuck, man?"

He went to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, then stalled at the expression flashing through Rozanov's eyes.

Rozanov's eyebrows inched up, like Shane was the outrageous one. "Oh right," he said, with a short laugh. "Now you freak out. You want my dick but nothing else. Maybe, actually, you prefer dildo."

Shane had offended him. Somehow, though it made no sense, Shane had offended this unbelievably hot, dead, genius hockey legend.

"I don't," Shane said quickly. The thought that Rozanov might want to kiss him, that that hadn't been some reflex or accident, was intense. Guys didn't tend to kiss in the sort of porn Shane watched. Spit, sure. The other stuff they'd done, yeah, definitely. But not kiss. "You just… surprised me."

"Uh huh?"

Shane nodded, feeling his chin move in Rozanov's warm hand. He looked from Rozanov's eyes to his mouth, still pink and damp from kissing him. His lips looked delicious.

"I'm not… I don't mind," Shane tried, then cringed inside. Fuck, he was messing this up. That wasn't the sort of thing guys normally said in porn. Or anywhere.

"You don't mind?" Rozanov's voice was sandpaper dry.

"If you want. I… look," Shane said, rallying against his own internal discomfort, throwing it out there, "whatever you want to do to me, I'm down. You know that." He waved at the floor, trying to indicate that what they'd just done had been similarly shocking, similarly unexpected, and yet Shane had been fine – more than fine – with that too.

"Whatever I want."

"That's right."

For a moment, Rozanov's eyes flared hot and dark like near-dead embers breathed to life. Then he said, slowly, simply, "Okay."

"Okay?" Shane said, absurdly grateful for some reason. With that one word, Rozanov was lifting the burden of even contemplating wanting this, more of this specifically, from his guilty shoulders.

Rozanov's gaze travelled Shane's face. "I can work with that," he said, and pressed their lips together again.

The shock of it, the unreal quality, was the same, but so was how good it felt. Shane's knees went weak again at the first brush of Rozanov's lips; he stepped forward, hands coming up to grab Rozanov's bare shoulders, and then they were kissing open-mouthed, hot and wet, and Shane's whole body wanted to get involved.

Rozanov's hands went into his hair, pulling Shane closer as Shane's hands mapped his bulging arms, his warm firm back. And it did feel gay, but it also felt like sex, again, the slide of Rozanov's tongue somehow as intimate as the slide of his dick. So it was another aspect to these gay sex dreams; so the sex dreams Shane was having were definitely not getting less gay.

Okay; okay.

Rozanov kissed Shane until he was breathless and then pulled back.

"You wanted to get on bed."

Shane nodded eagerly, and Rozanov tumbled him down onto it, and then they were laughing and kissing, and then smiling and kissing, and then just kissing, deep and endless, and for a moment Shane wanted to never wake up.

That was a pretty morbid thought, though.

He rearranged it systematically. He wanted to wake up, of course he did. But he wanted Ilya to be there.

…Rozanov.

He wanted Rozanov to be there.

"What?" Rozanov asked, pulling back and squinting at him, gaze filling with suspicion.

"Nothing," Shane said quickly, looking down, hoping his thoughts couldn't be read all over his face. Fuck, so embarrassing. 

"Ah," Rozanov said, his tone going stiff and quiet, his hands releasing. "You do not like?"

He didn't specify what he was referring to, but Shane could guess—this, lying here kissing, more likely to fall asleep than get hard again, was obviously way outside the unwritten gameplan they'd sketched out for this thing. The thought of it made Shane feel kind of needy and pathetic, feelings he didn’t like to associate with himself, didn’t approve of, and yet. He approved of Rozanov pulling away even less.

"No, I—I like," Shane said, probably too earnest but Rozanov shot him a tight grin that somewhat made up for his instinctive embarrassment. Shane swallowed, ducked closer, putting a concerted effort into being alluring again, playing to his strengths. Time to get back on track. He knew Rozanov liked it when he bit his lip and looked up at him through his lashes, eyes wide. "Feels good."

Rozanov's hand roamed down his side, back up. "Does it?"

Shane took a chance and brushed their lips together, then shivered as Rozanov sucked his lower lip into his mouth.

"Mmh. Yeah," he said, lower, when Rozanov released his lip again. "Really good."

"Next time maybe I fuck you like this," Rozanov muttered, rolling Shane onto his back and fitting himself between Shane’s legs, setting up a slow dirty grind with his hips before leaning down and pushing his tongue into Shane's mouth.

It was like completing a circuit, making Shane buzz pleasantly with unseen current.

Shane relaxed under him, gloriously pinned down, sucking on Rozanov's tongue and shifting his legs further apart. The thought of Rozanov being inside him, like this – how good that must feel, how overwhelming, looking up at him, all his weight on top – felt addictive.

"Next time," Shane whispered, and wondering, as he did so, if next time could actually be… this time. Refractory periods surely didn't belong in sex dreams…

Emboldened, he grabbed Rozanov's hand and drew it down, guided his fingers up inside the filmy fabric leg of his shorts.

”Or…?” he asked, blinking up at Rozanov, whose eyes immediately darkened.

Rozanov made an intrigued noise. His fingers slipped readily up Shane’s inner thigh; reached until his fingertips brushed the wetness around Shane's hole, swirled through it, and Shane inhaled sharply.

"Ohh," Rozanov said, starting to tease his fingers back and forth. "Here I think you go all, uh, cold, on me. But actually…" He pushed a long finger inside Shane, then withdrew it again, suggestive, making him catch his breath. "Still desperate for my cock."

"I wasn't cold," Shane protested.

"No?"

"No!" There was something here, Shane thought, something he might be missing. But there was also something he was very much aware of, very clear on, which was Rozanov's hand pushing right up the leg of his shorts and fingering him, messy and deliberate. "Fuck."

He could feel Rozanov was getting hard again. In the space of a few seconds, Rozanov's dick went from warm presence against Shane's hip to a rigid, insistent pressure. Shane's own cock reared in dumb response, pulling the damp fabric of the shorts tight against him.

"So wet for me," Rozanov whispered, sliding his fingers in and out, in and out. He was breathing more quickly again, still pinning Shane down, lifted just enough off him to watch his face as his hand worked between Shane's legs. "Want it so much, don't you? Lying here panting for it again, already, so wet, so open. My little slut."

Shane closed his eyes at the word, biting down on a groan as he lifted his hips against Ilya's hand. Highly reassured by the return to a simpler, filthier narrative. He felt shameless, obscene—and weirdly safe. With Rozanov on top of him like this, enclosing him in the confines of his weight, his arms, his face right there, his low mean voice, all Shane could do was writhe helpless and wanton beneath him.

"Yeah?" Rozanov asked. "Have I got that right? Is that you?"

"Yeah."

"My little…?"

Fuck, he was going to make him say it. 

"Slut," Shane whispered, his own cock throbbing at the sound of the word. This, this felt reassuringly like a porn dream again.

"Yeah. I filled you up already and now what do you want?"

"Your—" He had to drag in another breath to finish the sentence. "Again, your dick." He swallowed hard. "Your load. Again."

Rozanov made a low noise, withdrew his fingers, then pushed the fabric of the shorts right up into Shane's crease, pushed it to one side, lining himself up. "Don't even need to take them off," he said. "These tiny shorts, you wear them just to drive me insane, yeah? Just so I can't think about anything except your ass."

"Yeah," Shane said, because although that was not true he kind of wished it was.

"Well now I ruin them," Rozanov said, dropping his mouth to Shane's ear as he began to press. "You're so wet I can just slide back in. And little shorts cannot stop me."

"Fuck," Shane gasped, wrapping his legs around Rozanov's waist and arching up at the slippery push of Rozanov's cock back inside him. Shane didn't just feel slick; he was soaking, and the glide of Rozanov's thick length back inside only served to emphasize that. The shorts felt obscene now too, all shiny damp tautness around the rest of his ass, Rozanov holding the fabric aside to sink into him.

"Mm, yeah. Feels so good. Feel you, what is word…? Quivering."

"Fuck you, I'm not quivering," Shane protested, automatically, and then Rozanov started fucking him again, face-to-face, getting Shane's legs higher around his waist and kissing him fiercely, and Shane—yeah, okay, fuck, he was trembling all over, and Rozanov could probably feel that from the inside, yeah.

Quivering.

It was insanely good, though. This angle, this wet and messy, Rozanov driving him into the mattress, licking lewd and possessive into his mouth even as he found his pace again in Shane's ass—it hit that perfect alchemy of competitive teamwork, synchronized and dizzying, except the goal wasn't points or medals or cups. The goal was letting Ilya Rozanov ruin his ass for anyone else, and he was succeeding.

Shane looped his arms around Rozanov's neck and groaned, relishing how long it was taking; earlier he felt like he'd come in no time at all, but now he could lie back and feel every damn thrust. Feel every inch of him, spearing him completely each time. That floating sensation was back, the world turning sheer and shiny again. No pain this time though, only… only giving himself over to Rozanov, completely.

He raked his nails down Rozanov's back and felt him speed up.

"Is okay?"

"Fucking wonderful," Shane groaned, and Rozanov claimed his mouth again, hard vicious kisses that felt sufficiently demanding to be another part of Rozanov taking him, overwhelming him; kissing him back was another way for Shane to succumb to him. The fact it felt sublime was incidental, even.

"You take it so good," Rozanov gritted out, getting a hand between them and wrapping around Shane's cock. "I wanna feel you come around my dick before I fill you up again."

Again, Shane was dimly aware that another interpretation of this would be considerate. But he chose to take it at face value, played his part.

"Yeah, fuck, you're splitting me in half, I'm so close," he gasped, loving the sounds of the words in his own broken voice, how Rozanov snarled and sped up more in response. "I'm so close," he repeated, "I'm so full already but I wanna feel you unload in me, come on, I'm desperate for it, I'm—oh fuck," he interrupted himself, eyes falling closed, as Rozanov did something with his fist around the head of Shane's cock that shot him straight into space. "Fuck, fuck, Ilya–"

The spasm of it shook through him, as he coated their bellies in scalding splashes.

He didn't realize Rozanov was coming as well until the hands on his hips gripped tight enough to hurt, Rozanov slamming in and staying there, pulsing hotly deep inside as he pressed their foreheads together. Gasping out, almost pained—"Shane."

Shane didn't have the ability to think about that right now. "Fuck," he said again, grinding his hips up, panting against Rozanov's open mouth. His head was spinning again, his body liquid and shivery with pleasure. "Fuck, that was incredible."

Rozanov didn't answer, just kissed him again, his mouth roving Shane's face, catching on his cheekbone, his lower lip, sucking in passing, nudging their noses together.

Shane was too destroyed to do anything other than react favourably to this. He'd have a word with his subconscious later probably, about what alarming thing it said about him that he wasn't content with repeated gay sex dreams, now he apparently wanted a whole gay dream situation. But now wasn't the time for thoughts like that. Now was for shifting and moaning softly as Rozanov kissed him down from the heady crazy stratosphere he'd propelled Shane into.

By the time Rozanov reached down and eased out of him, Shane was boneless and blissed out and smiling dazedly at the ceiling. He was also now, he realised, incredibly fucking gross.

"Oh fuck," Shane muttered, though his voice was still dreamy. "Get these off me." The shorts. "Then maybe… burn them?"

It would be tidiest to wake up now, he thought. Spring awake in clean shorts and fresh bed sheets, please. But Rozanov snorted softly and helped him wriggle out of the shorts, then to Shane's low-grade horror he just chucked them on the floor.

"Hey," Shane protested, but Rozanov was already stretching out next to him, his long lean naked body pressing all alongside Shane, dropping kisses along his shoulder, then nuzzling his neck.

"You like that?" Rozanov asked, when Shane tilted his head and shivered happily.

Shane chose to interpret that as asking about the fucking, maybe the spanking. "Yeah," he said. "That was so hot. I'm gonna be feeling it for a week. I mean, I would be." If it was real. Shane hurried on from that sour-edged thought. "But you better watch out. It could backfire – treat me like this and I'll start throwing parties every other week just to annoy you."

He was joking, obviously, and it gave him a massive thrill when Rozanov laughed and patted him on the face, his palm cupping Shane’s cheek, not a jarring smack but not gentle either.

"You better not." His voice was low and warm. 

"No, I won't," Shane said, grinning. Rozanov patted his cheek again, then lowered his arm until it was a warm weight across Shane's abdomen. "Promise."

"Okay, deal," Rozanov said, nodding, laughing a little. "And in return, I will restore outside light."

Shane's brows drew together. "What?"

"You know," Rozanov said, pulsing his fingers in the air, miming a flickering light. "All the tiny bulb."

Shane stilled, giving him a confused smile. "What do you mean, you'll restore it?"

Rozanov shrugged. "Is okay, least I can do. You promise no more party, and…" He sniffed, then rubbed his nose. "You save my plant. Call it even."

Shane stared at him, still not getting it. Was Rozanov joking? But the way he was talking, it sounded like he was offering to do Shane a favour. A favour that they both knew about. A favour that was impossible. 

"Wait," Shane said again, squinting. "Are you saying you were responsible for the—all the lights going out?"

Rozanov stretched, rolled his neck until it clicked. "Among other things," he said modestly.

Shane scrambled to sit up, pushing up on his hands as if that would help him hear better. "What are you talking about?"

Rozanov still didn't look like he recognized why Shane was unnerved. But he had, at least, clocked that Shane was getting less and less calm.

"Is okay," he said, sitting up as well, then giving Shane a dismissive little shake of his head. "Never mind."

"Never mind?!"

"Never mind," Rozanov repeated.

Shane spoke over him. "No, look, what you're saying – or, or implying at least – is impossible," he said, then aimed a finger at him, brandishing it as Rozanov took breath to speak. "No. No, I'm serious—you're a figment of my imagination," he said loudly. "Figments of imagination can't fuck up my electrics."

Rozanov stared back at him, then laughed. "Sure. Okay. I am… what you said. Issue with lights, nothing to do with me."

His agreement made Shane swing wildly the other way. "Wait a minute, no, okay – wait," he growled, his mind racing now. "Say you did. Say it is possible, which it's not. What else? At the party, what else did you do – or want to take credit for doing?"

Rozanov rubbed the back of his head. "Just… just, whatever. A few accidents."

"You gave Hayden a black eye!"

Rozanov snorted. "He do that himself." Then glanced sideways at Shane. "I just make cupboard handle tiny bit slippery."

"Oh my god," Shane exploded. "I thought I just threw a really bad party! But you're saying—"

"It was bad party," Rozanov put in quickly. "Very, very bad. Terrible music, boring crowd." He shrugged. "I just stir things up a bit."

"You put someone in the hospital!"

Rozanov rolled his eyes.

Shane caught up with himself. "Except—except you didn't," he said firmly. "Because this changes nothing. You're still a figment of my imagination, so anything you say is still just – it's just bullshit corroborating yet more bullshit. There's no core of truth here."

"There—"

"Because I don't believe in ghosts," Shane said loudly. "I believe in—in psychologists, and doctors, and building surveyors and not… spooky bullshit," he finished, glaring accusingly.

Rozanov lifted both hands as if in surrender. One palm was still red. "Okay."

"Okay," Shane said firmly. "This changes nothing."

"Sure."

"I just threw a really bad party—"

"I agree."

"—and there was nothing supernatural about it," Shane ground out.

Rozanov waggled his head from side to side. "Sure."

Shane frowned at him for a long moment. "I'm going now."

"Sure," Rozanov said again, and shrugged, his jaw set, his eyes flinty now. "Whatever. Why do I care? I'm just – a whatever of your imagination."

"Right. Exactly," Shane said, stabbing his finger at him again. Unreasonably furious for a situation in which everyone was agreeing with him. "Yes you are."

"Exactly," Rozanov said softly.

"Good night," Shane said, with more force than necessary.

Again, Rozanov's voice sounded disproportionately quiet now. "Good night, Hollander."

And Shane woke up, heart racing, alone in the darkness.

Chapter 4

Chapter Summary

Fuck, now Shane is avoiding him.

ILYA

Ilya shouldn't have kissed him.

He paced the master bathroom, hands balled into fists. 

Stupid, fucking weak move.

The moment he'd done that – the moment Shane returned it, as eager and playful as Ilya had ever dared hoped, before melting into it, like Shane's whole body was riding a frequency only Ilya could play – Ilya was doomed.

The worst part wasn't just how good it had felt, Shane's warm soft mouth opening for him, or how it had made Ilya's body come alive on a level that was frightening. Well, it was that, but not just that.

The worst part was how kissing Shane had brutally cinched Ilya’s realization of how much he wanted to keep on kissing Shane. How much he wanted to tighten his grip on him, let this thing bleed irrevocably into daylight.

He knew it was stupid, insane even – knew that Shane didn’t believe in him, didn’t think of Ilya as anything more than a particularly inventive wet dream – but feeling Shane whimper and throw his arms around Ilya’s neck, sucking obediently on his tongue, had proved a devastating counter-argument. 

It had given Ilya the dangerous, seductive idea that Shane might want him in the daylight too. 

He'd tried to roll it back. He’d fucked Shane in those tiny shorts with a mouthful of obscenities—and then Shane had said Ilya and Ilya had flown apart at the seams. Self-preservation, gone. He'd choked out Shane's name and dropped the ball. The puck. The bomb. He'd told him everything, in so many words.

And Shane, being Shane, had freaked.

Of course he had.

What else had Ilya expected?

Fuck, this fucking sucked. He wanted to break stuff. Wanted to rail against the universe and shove Shane against a wall and demand to go back to how they'd been before. Simple. Unkissed. Fuck!

Ilya spun around and paced back the way he'd come, glaring at his own non-reflection in the bathroom mirror. Even to himself he wasn't visible right now, but he could perceive the faint, lucent outline of his silhouette, see how his presence seemed to cause a smudge in the air, making all the lines behind him just a tiny bit fuzzy. 

Shane had really, really freaked. Had aimed a trembling finger at him and insisted he wasn't real. 

None of that would have happened if Ilya just hadn't kissed him.

But in that moment, Shane stumbling to his feet like the well-fucked jock-twink of Ilya's heart, holding Ilya's hand and gazing at him like he'd nailed a natural hat trick—Ilya was not immune, okay? He was kissing Shane before he knew it.

And now, Shane was avoiding him.

SHANE

"They can be habit-forming," the team physician warned, and Shane nodded, nodded.

"I know. I'm not… but I've been sleeping so badly. I just need a few night's sleep. Proper, deep sleep. Before the big game."

She gave him twenty-eight pills, said he could double up if needed; said to space them out, use sparingly, take breaks. Come back if the problem didn't go away.

Shane nodded and nodded.

He was pretty sure this would solve his… problem.

ILYA

He'd taken something. Shane had juddered into the dreamscape lying flat on Ilya's bed, having taken something strong enough to knock him out; his mind was lolling open like an unbarred gate. What lay in there was totally vulnerable.

Ilya felt a strong, primal instinct to saunter inside and make a mess. Have some fun. Sift through Shane's unguarded consciousness, wreak havoc, plant seeds.

But… he didn't.

He bit his fist and paced the floor and stayed outside.

SHANE

 Shane told himself he felt better now that those ridiculous dreams had stopped.

Not physically better, sure. He had to drink a strong black coffee every morning now to shake off the groggy pill hangover. He felt a little jittery a lot of the time. And he wasn't anywhere near so horny, which he told himself was a good thing, but it definitely took the shine off his mood as well.

But it was worth it. He might not wake refreshed, but he also didn't wake with a raging hard-on or covered in spunk; taking it all into consideration, he assessed that he was now winning on the sanity front.

His descent into erotic gay madness had been reversed.

He still felt something in the house, admittedly, that sense of being watched in his own home. He'd started to feel it more and more: the back of his neck prickling as he poured a ginger ale; a weird sense of malevolent energy when he put on the perfectly acceptable playlists Hayden sent him; that strange delicious intensity whenever he watched sports.

If he'd been superstitious, truly superstitious, enough that he believed what the imaginary Rozanov had told him in that unnerving dream, he probably would have become convinced he was "being haunted". By the ghost of his hockey legend idol from twenty years ago. Yeah.

Whereas now, at night, Shane slept deeply, and the dreams had stopped.

Sure, he might wake fuzzy and disoriented, and sometimes had a weird sense that he'd been running in circles, but that was probably just after-effects. Normal, scientific after-effects of established medications prescribed by an actual doctor. Nothing to worry about!

ILYA

Sometimes, Ilya didn't wait in the dreamscape. He loitered in Shane's real, present day bedroom overnight, watching mutely as Shane got ready for bed, took his tiny pill, drank half a glass of water, read ten pages of his book. And then… slept.

Ilya stared at him sleeping, his face ashen and beautiful in the darkness. Sometimes the covers were over him; sometimes they spilled to the side, revealing his glorious muscular limbs, his trim stomach, his little black shorts. Those shorts.

Ilya didn't touch him. It wouldn't be the same. Now he knew how it felt to have Shane writhing and moaning on every thrust of his dick, anything less felt like a pauper's meal. Ilya hungered for the full feast.

But Shane seemed determined to avoid him.

Ilya trailed after him in the house, trying to make a game of second-guessing his opinions and anticipating his moods. Sometimes, just staring at his profile as Shane did boring things like order groceries on his phone or ruffle his hair despondently in the mirror. Occasionally Shane practiced acceptance speeches, which Ilya found both hilariously deadpan and charmingly unnecessary. He'd always just said whatever came to mind when a microphone was stuck in his face. Probably why Shane was increasingly better at this stuff than him.

The speeches were needed though, because it seemed Metros had started to win, securing a place in the playoffs for the first time in years. On winning days Shane would come home pumped, sometimes humming to himself, sometimes reclining on the couch like a prince to replay the tapes, chatting to the room at large as he reviewed plays and slyly chirped the opposition. Ilya found it all far too endearing.

Different were the losses. The Metros still didn't have all their shit together, clearly, and on those days Shane was a thundercloud, stomping around with his brows drawn, eyes blank. He still reviewed the tapes, but diligently, sitting forward with his elbows on his knees, full of resignation and sharp little asides.

Those days, he would scribble down a lot of his comments in a grid notebook, his handwriting slanting every which way. Ilya squinted over his shoulder to find page upon page of mistake correction notes and scribbled sketches, from simple footwork to power play positioning, ruthlessly cutting of both himself and his teammates alike.

His critique was brutal.

Ilya liked him more and more.

"Incredible! What a game to start the playoffs! We've not seen anything like this since the late great Rozanov, God rest his soul, was dominating the ice in '88… but Hollander seems to be a worthy successor! Could this be the year the Metros claw their way back to the Cup?"

SHANE

Shane didn't use the pills on away games. He didn't even take them with him. Any night in a hotel, he was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, waking up before his alarm, raring to go.

But at home, no matter how hard he pushed himself, by the time he got into bed his brain was restless. The issue wasn't being afraid of the dreams. The issue was how much he missed them.

He told himself not to get distracted. The goal was the playoffs: nothing else mattered. And the Metros were definitely starting to win more than they lost, it was undeniable; the issue was, the difference often seemed to hinge on the advice that Rozanov had been giving him.

That smarted.

Having cut himself off from the source, that especially smarted.

Even though Shane rationalized that the "advice" must actually be from his own subconscious, filtered through the book he was reading about Rozanov's notorious and diabolical tactics, the detail had still only clicked for Shane when he'd heard it as if from the man himself. Stretched out in bed, Rozanov's fingers lazily trailing over his stomach, Rozanov's lips a contented idle pressure against his shoulder between answers.

Now people were starting to ask him, after the more successful games, how did he think of that fearless feint of a move, specifically, which was so reminiscent of…

"I've just been studying some old tapes," he insisted. "Like, from our last winning streak. I want to bring that energy back."

"Well whatever you're doing, it seems to be working! Shane Hollander, single-handedly bringing Ilya Rozanov's flair back to the Metros! Could this be the reincarnation we've all been waiting for?"

Horrible choice of words, in Shane's opinion, but he kept smiling, even if it felt like more of a grimace.

And the Metros kept winning.

Shane did watch some old tapes, but it wasn't the same without the laconic commentary he'd grown so very, very used to.

The house continued to feel intense. But not supernaturally intense, Shane told himself. Probably just some high atmospheric pressure.

Shane reduced his sleeping pill to half a tablet.

ILYA

Tonight Shane had clearly taken less, but he'd still taken something.

He appeared in Rozanov's bed in his usual shorts and nothing else, and immediately sat up, scrubbing a hand across his face, looking around bleary-eyed.

"Illllyaaaaa," he cooed, when he saw him.

Ilya stared. "Uh. Hi."

Shane struggled to his feet and then lurched forward, crossing the floor and grabbing onto Ilya's bare shoulders with both hands. "Whoops!"

Ilya steadied him, ignoring his body's immediate howling urge to throw Shane onto the bed and ravish him.

"Whoops," he said quietly.

Shame beamed at him. "I missed you," he declared. His voice was slurring around the edges, and his eyes were bright. "'S good to see you."

Ilya tried not to smile at that. "I thought you were done with me."

"No," Shane said emphatically, shaking his head hard. "No! No way. 'Cos actually—I need you."

Ilya's heart thumped hard, but Shane was already continuing, slapping Ilya's chest with friendly authority.

"You – you! – are winning this thing for me, everyone says. The thing. The Metros. Ice hockey," he said, as if Ilya might need reminding, and his forefinger stabbed insistently at the center of Ilya's chest. "We are on a winning streak. Thanks to you."

"You are the one on the ice, Hollander." Ilya said each word carefully, even taking care to include the definite articles. As formal as he could make it, the words like chips of ice on his tongue.

Shane just smiled. "No. No no no. I am on the ice but it's you," finger-stab, finger-stab, "in my head," tapping his own temple, "that is elevating my game. You. An' me. Together."

"Mm," Ilya said, refusing to acknowledge the flush of warmth that spread through him at this particular phrasing. Shane was clearly high as a kite. It was probably meaningless. Probably. "Maybe."

"And…" Shane said, lowering his voice as if someone might overhear, "it's not just your advice I need."

Ilya sighed, raised his eyebrows. "No?"

"Nuh uh," Shane said, and his unconscious echoing, of the precise syllables and intonation that Ilya used, again made Ilya's heart squeeze. And then Shane looked at Ilya with his huge dark brown eyes and said earnestly: "I need your dick."

Predictably, Ilya's dick took an interest in this statement, and he was seized by the urge to grab this unusually pliant-looking Hollander and fold him into all sorts of shapes, fuck him just as hard as he wanted.

But he did still retain an awareness that the last sober thing Shane had said to him had seemed pretty decisively to end… all that.

"Is what you want? I don't think so."

Shane looked offended. "It is," he said spiritedly, and then his eyes crinkled with determined delight. "I'll prove it to you."

"Holland—"

Shane's mouth landed on Ilya's neck, his tongue messy and eager, which was diverting enough that Ilya didn't manage to intercept Shane's hands as they slid lasciviously down his chest and dived into his pants.

They encountered Ilya's half-hard cock, making Ilya inhale sharply. Even being pawed like this, graceless and greedy, felt phenomenal when it was Shane. Fuck, he was doomed.

"Mmm, yeah," Shane mumbled, sucking a haphazard path down Ilya's neck, then seemed to think better of it and slid abruptly to his knees.

"Whoa," Ilya mouthed, staring down at the top of Shane's head as he rubbed his face against the bulge of Ilya's cock, before his busy fingers started cooperating to open Ilya's pants and get it out. "Uh—"

"Finally," Shane growled, though it had been less than thirty seconds since he'd started touching him; and then he was sucking on the head of Ilya's cock, moaning around it—and Ilya was only fucking human. Well, ghost.

Shane's tongue was still just as messy and eager. Ilya watched his own cock hardening rapidly in Shane's mouth, Shane trying to suck it all in and then getting surprised when that only made it bigger.

"Careful," Ilya murmured, without much conviction; fuck, it was hot to watch him choke on it.

Shane's hands ran up the back of Ilya's thighs, squeezing rhythmically on his ass, urging him deeper. His mouth was flooded with saliva, spilling from his lips as he moved his head ever more lewdly, fucking his own mouth on Ilya's dick.

"Fuck," Ilya whispered, pleasure coursing through him, and then Shane was pulling off and sitting back on his heels, red-mouthed and glaring.

"Do it properly."

Ilya almost swayed. "Properly?"

In answer, Shane grabbed Ilya's hands and brought them to his head, palms over his ears. "Properly," he insisted, with a little mime of significant force, and swooped back in.

His hair was black silk against Ilya's fingers, too short to tangle. It still ruffled as Ilya's fingers sank deeper, curved around his head; as Shane tried to swallow him to the root with more enthusiasm than finesse, gulping down and then having to back off, again and again. So fucking sloppy it made Ilya's toes curl.

"You don't—have to," Ilya tried, and then had to bite his own lip because Shane was doing it anyway, was ramming Ilya's dick to the back of his mouth and swallowing, swallowing him down, and the rush of that, the clenching softness of Shane's throat as he forged down recklessly, almost made Ilya's eyes roll back in his head.

Shane whimpered around it as his lips enclosed the base of Ilya's cock, and Ilya did his best not to grip his head and hold him there. But Shane was holding himself there, and fuck, it felt so good, all muscular tension and fluttering wet tremors; fully enclosing him for several pulsing seconds before Shane pulled triumphantly back.

"Y'see? Won't break." His reddened wet mouth, as he gazed up at Ilya, was a daring smug curve. "Wanna try an' break me? You can't."

Ilya's cock gave an unhelpful twitch at that. He took back his hands, trying to gather his wits. "Hollander," he said heavily, and now he was sounding too earnest as well, "I am not trying to break you."

Still smirking, Shane winked at him. "Wish you would."

"Fucking hell," Ilya breathed.

Shane's tongue darted out, started licking the head of his cock again, making slow circuits, dirty, actively pornographic. The wet shine on his tongue was dazzling to Ilya. He watched – and felt – a fresh surge of pre-come get spread around by Shane's swollen lips, watched his visible pleasure at lapping it up, and couldn't hold back a groan.

"You are trying to kill me again."

Shane's lips parted in an easy grin that also took Ilya's breath away. "Don't wanna kill you," he murmured. "Wanna bring you back."

Ilya stared at him, the world pulsing around the edges now.

Unperturbed, Shane licked a worshipful path down the full length of Ilya's cock, and started mouthing his balls instead. He pushed his whole face beneath them, making a good effort to suck one into his mouth.

Ilya gritted his teeth. "Hollander, fuck, stop. That tickles." It did not tickle. It made him want to sit on Shane's face, which felt decidedly more risky right now.

"Mmm," Shane hummed, rubbing his face against Ilya's balls like a big, stoned cat. "Want you to fuck me so much. Want you to unload in me, make me feel it. Want your dick."

Ilya was hitting breaking point. "Hollander," he said again, harshly now. "Get up."

Shane rose to his feet, petulant now. "What?"

Ilya stared at his sullen pout, even redder than usual. "You should go. Wake yourself up or, or go dream about something else. I want you so fucking much but this is not right time."

"You want me so fucking much?" Shane smiled the smile of a man who had already won. "Then why won't you fuck me?" His hands were moving again, shoving down the clingy black shorts just enough to get himself out, the waistband pushing his balls up, his cock slapping his belly. He stepped in to push their dicks together. "Huh? Why not?"

Ilya could feel how hard he was, how thick, how wet at the tip. "Uhh…"

Shane shoved him backward, bearing down on him; it was three paces to the armchair, and then Ilya was slamming down into it and Shane was on top of him, heavy, determined. Kneeling astride him and grinding his hips, enclosing both their cocks in his hands.

"Want you," Shane panted, stroking them together, falling immediately into a fast, hard rhythm that made Ilya's balls draw up. "Want you so fucking much as well. If you're not gonna fuck me, at least let me see it. Paint me with it. I wanna shoot all over you."

"…Yeah?" Ilya said, at a fucking loss as to how he was expected to withstand this. Shane had his dick in his hand, Shane was hard and urgent against him, Shane was pinning him in his own armchair—"Go on, fuck, do it."

"Oh I will," Shane promised him, running his thumbs over the heads of their cocks, smearing them together. He crowded closer and kissed him on the mouth, and Ilya moaned softly, opening to taste his lips, play his tongue against Shane's.

Shane gave a little growl at his acquiescence and stroked faster, and Ilya moaned again, muffled by Shane's mouth, held down by his weight, perfect, perfect—

"Oh fuck," Ilya said, as everything rushed to the surface.

"You gonna come for me, Rozanov?" Shane growled, and the hot possessiveness in his voice almost ended him.

Ilya tried to pull himself back from the brink. "Fucking make me."

"Yeah," Shane breathed, triumph lancing through his voice like a sunbeam. His hand hit the perfect rhythm, quick and squeezing with a knowing little twist to it, and Ilya felt his soul start to ascend. "Yeah, I will."

"Fuck!"

"Tha's it."

"Fuck," Ilya moaned, as his whole body seemed to dissolve in pleasure and then catapult out through his dick. Fuck, yes, yes. He was coming like a fountain, streaking them both, as Shane kept stroking and watching, his bright dark eyes sparkling with satisfaction before his lashes fluttered down, face creasing in pleasure.

"Yeah, yeah—ah, fuck, that's it. Yeah."

Ilya felt the wet jolts as Shane came all over him – there seemed to be a lot, like Shane had been storing it up for him, which was a thought Ilya enjoyed immensely – and then Shane was slumping on top of him, kissing his cheek, his mouth, any part of Ilya he could reach; and then he was gone.

Just—vanished, slipping out of Ilya's hands as easily as rolling over in bed.

Which was probably exactly what he'd done, swapping one sleep cycle for another.

It didn't feel deliberate; didn't feel like their conversation had finished or like Shane had flounced away, but what did Ilya know?

Maybe to Shane, he'd got what he came for.

Ilya recovered his breathing in the empty dreamscape, adjusting slowly to the sensation of no longer being pinned, no longer being kissed, no external heat source rubbing up against him. No Shane.

He could go find him, of course, in Shane's own bedroom. But what Ilya wanted more than anything right now was to steal into Shane's bed, press up against him, wrap an arm around him from behind. And he wasn't sure that would be welcome.

He stayed where he was.

SHANE

Shane woke with a dry mouth and a strange feeling of delicious exhaustion. He was not well rested. But he didn't feel bad. No, he felt better than he had in weeks – since before he started the nightly pills, probably.

He felt like he'd fully relaxed. Properly slept. And woken so hard it was aching.

He couldn't remember what he'd been dreaming about, only that it had felt good; he had a couple of fleeting sense memories of a mouth against his, another of wrapping his hand around another cock alongside his own – fuck, he wished – and then, joy. A sense of amorphous, flickering elation that didn't have a clear picture attached, but which he'd only experienced with one person before.

Fuck.

The dreams – those dreams – must have returned.

Shane chewed his lower lip, staring at the ceiling. Maybe he should go up on the dosage again.

It was probably the most sensible idea.

But… he didn't want to.

He felt great.

He jerked off, a perfunctory physical chasing of release in which he refused to think about Rozanov. A couple of the faceless hot sense memories snuck in, but he didn't pursue them.

Afterward, cleaning himself off in the bathroom, he realized he was staring dreamily at the big, built-in vanity that the interior designer had been so excited about, all those weeks ago.

It ran wall to wall with an inbuilt enamel sink below a large antique mirror, more mid-Century than eighties in style, except for the colour, which was a bold polished mahogany with mother-of-pearl handles. It had big cabinets below a dozen tiny drawers. Shane realized he'd never even looked in most of them.

He pulled one drawer out at random: empty, obviously. Well, of course it was. The whole house would have been professionally emptied before he'd even moved in. His fingers twitched though. There was something oddly beautiful about this gleaming cabinet. Historical, he supposed.

He reached for another drawer, the shiny little handle fitting neatly between his finger and thumb—then heard a slamming noise elsewhere in the house, what the hell? Was that the front door?

He hurried downstairs, pretty old furnishings forgotten.

There was no one downstairs. He checked every room, then looked outside the front door. Nobody out there either. Probably just the wind?

He squinted at the sky. It was a warm, peaceful, early summer's morning. Sunny, even. Not stormy. No wind.

It occurred to Shane that he had a free day stretching out ahead of him, and no plans beyond reviewing more tape and working out. And while that was a solid day off, something about the big blue sky seemed to mock it.

He wondered about inviting Hayden over. He didn't want to go out, but maybe some beers on the deck after his work-out? Then he remembered the black eye, and wondered if there was anyone else more suitable. Not that he believed his house was haunted, because of course he didn't. But he wouldn't be surprised if Hayden thought it was. After everything.

He scrolled through his phone, trying to find a suitable candidate to invite over. Not someone else off the Metros, that would be weird. And no one he'd had at the housewarming, because he didn't need to be reminded of that disaster. That narrowed down his list a lot.

He had a couple of school friends who'd moved locally. But none he knew well enough to invite to his house—or he would've invited them to the housewarming, wouldn't he? Right. His cousin? But she was even more awkward than Shane was. Without the league-level small talkers of their extended family, they might suffer.

He eventually settled on Callum, who was a distant friend from a summer camp he'd enjoyed hanging with a couple of years back, and who texted congratulations after most games Shane won. But not in a sycophantic way, more like – just letting Shane know he'd caught the game, remembered him.

He was also engaged to his girlfriend of three years, which made Shane feel better about inviting him over solo. No potential for… misunderstandings.

Sure man, sick! I heard you bought that creepy old mansion…

…followed by a handful of emojis that Shane didn't see the relevance of. So that was awesome: his day was stacked, and now he had a socializing deadline. Meanwhile those tapes wouldn't watch themselves. He got to work.

ILYA

It seemed to Ilya that Shane was on his phone a lot, all day. Groceries arrived—three types of beer, Ilya noted, immediately alert. Not what Shane normally drank. And Shane seemed to be going round checking things in the house a lot more. Tidying up, putting stuff away.

Suspicious.

He still did his usual day-off stuff as well, and thankfully seemed to have forgotten all about the bathroom. That had been close. Shane’s questing fingers, sliding and inquisitive along polished wood, had filled Ilya with a dull confused throb - part alarm, part arousal - that had been slow to settle again. 

He wouldn’t have minded that curious meandering of Shane’s fingers anywhere else in the house, but not there. Too close to the heart of things. 

Eventually, when Shane seemed to show no intention to return to the master bathroom in a hurry, Ilya started to relax.

He generally enjoyed watching Shane's established afternoon routine: critique a game, wearing those glasses; work out until his muscles bulged and his skin shone; shower. Watching him rotate slowly beneath the spray, Ilya started wondering what Shane's inclination would be tonight. Maybe he'd want to forego the tiny pill completely?

He watched Shane get dressed—not in formal clothes at all, but a warning bell still clanged in his brain because Shane wasn't just reaching for the familiar black shorts. He was still wearing sweatpants, but nice ones, fresh from the laundry in a silky navy fabric that made his ass look like a weapon. And a simple white t-shirt, but again, sleeker than usual, more fitted.

Ilya started to scowl.

The doorbell rang.

SHANE

"Hey man," Callum said, slapping Shane's shoulder and then immediately stepping back. "So yeah—here he is! Thanks so much for letting him visit!

"Hey, buddy!" Shane beamed, looking straight past Callum to the adorable white puppy between Callum's ankles. It was small, fluffy, and right now skittish as all hell. "Shy?"

"Yeah, he literally can't be left alone yet but also is deeply fearful of all strangers. Super fun!"

"Relatable," Shane joked, kneeling down to offer the puppy his hand.

It scooted even further behind Callum's ankles and started shivering.

"Sorry," Callum laughed, slightly embarrassed now. "He's only eight weeks old."

"It's a big scary world," Shane said, standing again and backing up a couple of paces, doing his best to wave down the awkwardness for both of them. "Well, come on in, hopefully he won't get spooked by the house itself..."

Fuck, he hoped not. That would be peak awkward, trying to explain to his not-that-close friend why his new puppy was cowering in the corner shaking like a leaf.

Well, funny story, but Hayden thinks it's haunted…

"Wanna beer? I've got, uh, a selection," he continued, filling the silence as Callum concentrated on scooping up the puppy and carrying it across the threshold.

"Thanks—whoa! You weren't kidding. This place is huge!"

"Yeah," Shane said, and then, quickly, "uh, watch out for the floor, people sometimes trip. And the bannister can give pretty massive splinters. And uh, sometimes there are loose wires trailing… I checked earlier but occasionally stuff… happens…"

He realised Callum was looking at him strangely. "What is this, Home Alone Six?"

"No! Just—watch yourself," Shane said, laughing self-consciously, ducking his head. "Especially while you're carrying this little guy."

One of the puppy's ears was folded inside out. It was really cute.

"Yeah don't worry, I'll watch my step," Callum said, striding on with a confidence that Shane really wasn't feeling.

He knew he'd checked the floors before, and the stairs, and ran through a "puppy proofing" check-list he'd found online, and was certain he'd ticked off every single item. But still.

He couldn't shake a weird, protective conviction that Callum and his puppy might trip or stumble or, or something, anything. Some weird misfortune might befall them.

But… it didn't.

Not while Shane was showing them around. Not out on the deck, when they had a couple of beers while the sun obligingly set in a blaze of glory. Not when it started getting cold, and they went inside to the couch, put a game on, grabbed some snacks.

Nothing spilled, no one got injured, there were no breakages.

And the puppy… well. Far from shaking in a corner somewhere, the puppy seemed right at home.

"This is crazy? He's never like this!" Callum laughed, as a white ball of fluff zoomed around the whole circuit of the ground floor, ears flapping, mouth open, eyes all sparkly. "I mean, sometimes I guess, when it's just me and he's had a bunch of training treats…"

The puppy screeched to a halt and flopped over, rolling on his back and wriggling ecstatically.

Callum watched in fond bemusement, occasionally nudging him with his socked foot.

"What can I say, man? Seems he likes your house."

"He's got great taste," Shane said, trying to clamp down on his smile at hearing someone say that. C'mon, don't be weird.

"Nah, it's strange though, he's normally super shy. Maybe your house has good karma or something." He grinned, "Or maybe you've got the dog equivalent of catnip hidden somewhere."

"The dog equivalent of six espressos."

The puppy jumped to all four feet at once and bounced off again, racing out of sight into the hallway and then charging back dragging one of Shane's Reebok's.

"Oh my god. I'm so sorry," Callum laughed, as the puppy tumbled delightedly with his prey at their feet, kicking and snarling with glee.

"Don't worry, I don't really wear them. Anyway, how's uh…" He blanked momentarily on Callum's fiancée's name, then masterfully recovered himself. "Engaged life?"

Callum's eyes softened even more than when he was looking at the puppy. "So great. Like okay, I wouldn't wish wedding planning on my worst enemy, but… that feeling of having chosen?" They were three beers in, a rare indulgence for Shane. The puppy – now playing tug-of-war with Shane's sneaker and an invisible assailant – gave them something to look at. "It fucking rocks. Anyway, how about you?"

Shane felt his smile dim slightly. "Not so much. No, there’s no one. I don't really wanna hook up with a fan. And… I don't really meet anyone else."

"Sounds rough," Callum teased, and Shane belatedly realised how that sounded. Like he thought everyone he met loved him. 

"Fuck off, that's not what I meant," he protested, then tilted his almost empty beer bottle, keen to change the subject. "Another?"

"Sure," Callum said, draining his own bottle, and then suddenly the puppy was jumping into Shane's lap, startling him.

"Whoa! Hello!"

"I'll get them," Callum said, grinning. "You've got your hands full."

He left Shane with the puppy and went into the kitchen. Shane briefly had no idea where to put his hands. The little creature was so light, a lean bundle of springs beneath all that fluff, bouncing on and off Shane's lap like someone was teasing it. Someone not Shane. Then all at once the puppy flopped down next to his leg and showed off his belly, giving Shane a look that was somehow besotted and demanding at once.

"Oh you're really cute, huh? Aren't you?" Shane found himself saying, putting out a hand to cautiously pet him.

It was probably the beers, but he felt warm and relaxed, companionable almost. Like his fingers were stirring against another big hand, brushing together in the soft fur. It felt like there was a knee resting obliquely against his own, the puppy snuggled up in between them. A surge of contentment rose through him, the soft warm pressure of the little creature curled up against his thigh, and those other indistinct pressures that would be more difficult to explain.

Chosen.

Ridiculous, but it was nice to pretend.

He sat there comfortably, his hand drifting and toying, and when Callum came back he wordlessly took the other couch. The puppy stayed where it was.

Despite his best intentions, Shane found himself yawning within three sips of his next beer.

"Past your bedtime, superstar," Callum said with a grin, and Shane felt a stab of unwise interest. Fuck, he needed a—someone. He needed someone to speak to him like that. Easy and sort of teasing. Someone who was not engaged to a woman, preferably.

Someone whose thumb belonged rubbing over Shane's knuckles, lazy now the puppy they were both petting had fallen asleep.

"Yeah, I better hit the sack. I've got practice tomorrow," Shane said, reluctantly getting to his feet. "But this was fun, man. Thanks for coming over."

"Thanks for having us! C'mon boy!”

The puppy opened his eyes and looked balefully at his owner.

Callum bent down to him and patted both his thighs, grinning. "C'mon! Time to go!"

Was it Shane's imagination, or did the room get noticeably colder?

"Come on," Shane said, keeping his voice gentle, shifting his legs in what he hoped was a non-threatening yet prompting manner.

The puppy sprang up, looked between them for a huge-eyed frozen moment, then ran away.

Properly away, scampering straight out the room and—he'd gone upstairs?!

"Wow, I'm so sorry," Callum said helplessly, hurrying after.

Shane shook his head, taking the stairs two at a time as the puppy vanished out of eyeline. Fuck, the massive dark house seemed to be expanding around him.

"Nothing to apologize for. He must be just… skittish again."

"Yeah," Callum said, with a doubtful laugh. "Weird."

There followed at least half an hour of trailing around after the tiny dog, the humour draining from the situation as he found ever-more inventive corners of Shane's huge, creaky, increasingly shadowy house to hide in.

Callum kept apologizing in a way which made Shane feel more and more guilty, though he couldn't nail down why. Eventually they got the puppy cornered, which felt terrible, and Callum pounced, wresting the overstimulated little creature out from the dark corner he'd wedged himself into, holding him tight with both hands.

"Well, uh, thank you again," Callum said, strained now, heading quickly for the front door.

"Yeah… Sorry about that." Shane said. Yeah. So this had turned into a stone-cold disaster.

"Not your fault," Callum insisted, over the top of a vigorously struggling, whining puppy, "obviously," which was… true, right?

"Yeah, uh, sure. Still. Hope you get home okay. Thanks for a great evening."

"Same, man, great to see you. Thanks again."

His words seemed totally sincere and yet all Shane heard was 'get me out of here.'

He bid them goodbye, giving one last apologetic wave to the frantic puppy before closing the door behind them.

Silence.

Fuck, it was dark.

And freezing. He didn't know when it had gotten so freezing.

Shane traipsed back through the house, busying himself with clearing up dishes and tidying up for the night, and couldn't help but notice that what light there was had changed. Like someone had swapped all his warm white bulbs for cold white. But he had to be imagining things. That couldn't just happen.

Could it?

No. 

No?

…No. 

ILYA

Well this fucking sucked. He'd thought Shane was getting them a puppy.

Shane had brought in the puppy – yeah, with that boring man (Ilya had looked up several words for him: vapid, vacuous, boring like potato soup, and not good kind) – but Ilya had stopped paying attention to the man as soon as he'd clocked his total lack of checking Shane out in his smart fitting clothes.

Any red-blooded homosexual would have made a move within six minutes of Shane offering sunset beers on the deck in those sweatpants, Ilya reckoned. This man: neither homosexual nor threat. And brought housewarming gift of puppy! 

Ilya had forgiven the boring.

For several glorious hours, Ilya had played with his new puppy. Named him, wrestled shoes with him, buried his face in his silky tummy. They’d played chase and fetch and hide-and-seek, all while Shane and his boring straight friend chatted.

Exhausted at last, both puppy and Ilya had eventually settled down on the couch with Shane, ousting the interloper – who was outstaying his welcome, to be honest – to allow Ilya and Shane to pet the little dog together.

Ilya's fingers had toyed with Shane's as the puppy went to sleep, and he'd briefly, truly relaxed.

And then the interloper had tried to take him away.

Ilya's new best friend, his new baby, the light of his life, his one true purpose, the best boy Ilya had ever met—this evil boring man was trying to take him away.

And Shane, with whom Ilya had been willing to share his new puppy, was on the side of evil!

Ilya would not take that lying down. He whipped the puppy up into an excited frenzy again. He showed him all the best hiding places.

And then, when evil triumphed and the poor little thing was viciously torn from Ilya's loving arms and bundled into a Honda Civic, Ilya sulked.

He was still sulking when Shane turned up in his dreamscape bedroom, sullen and scowling – clearly several beers did not mix well with the half-pill taken this evening – and so Ilya ignored him.

Instead, he went around opening all the windows, letting in moths and biting insects and any other nocturnal interlopers that wanted to come poke around inside.

Shane wouldn't let him have a puppy? Fine, how about a possum? How about a raccoon? How about a colony of mosquitoes, huh?

Huh?

SHANE

Fuck, something had bitten him in the night. He stared down at several small pink welts on his leg and grimaced. He wasn't hungover exactly, just incredibly dehydrated. And with a dry mouth like he'd slept with the window open.

Which… huh.

Fuck.

What the hell?

ILYA

Now Shane was sulking as well.

Obviously Shane's loss was much less great. He had not lost the firstborn child of his heart, his most valuable soul-bond, his precious new puppy.

But he was pissed about the windows or something. He stomped around shutting them all, rattling the window panes when they got stuck slamming down. 

Then he drank a lot of water, went to practice. Then came home and acted like a monk, eating only brown soulless food with not one speck of joy, and taking a whole sleeping pill at nine PM.

Out like a light shortly after.

Well, fuck him.

Ilya wasn't going to touch him like this.

But he wasn't so restrained about Shane's phone.

Once Shane was asleep, deeply asleep, Ilya had a lot more freedom to interact with his stuff. Any of the stuff in the house, really, but especially stuff meaningful to Shane.

He keyed in the passcode he'd watched Shane enter a hundred times, then scrolled through messages – fuck, was Shane actually terminally boring? All his texts were from his teammates and his parents! Good job he was cute – until he found the guy from the other night.

The last couple of messages were edifying:

Hey, is it okay if I bring our new puppy? He's too little to be left yet! And Cara's going out with her friends. (Accompanied by a picture that Ilya immediately wanted framed.)

And Shane saying, Sure!

But failing, Ilya noted darkly, to offer $100k to purchase said puppy on the spot.

Ilya loaded up a text. He'd never had a phone, but he'd watched their takeover in the last couple of decades and learned the basics.

Hey, Ilya texted, because that was how Shane started all his messages. Bring back puppy.

There was a pause. Then blue dots appeared on the screen. It seemed to take a long time.

Eventually a new message popped up: LOL good one. He's sleeping now. Thanks for a fun night though! Good luck in the big game tomo!

Ilya screwed up his face, then typed some more. Puppy is good luck mascot. Bring back!

The dots were quicker this time. He sure is! I'll send you a pic before the game. He'll be cheering you on at home!

Fuck. That was the worst option. Shane, apparently, would be getting puppy pictures before his game, probably wouldn’t show them to Ilya, and he'd surely clock that Ilya had stolen his phone. Lose lose!

Ilya deleted the messages he'd sent. Then thought better of it, and wiped the whole chat. Better to ask forgiveness and not permission, or however that phrase went.

The next morning, Shane occupied himself with all his normal pre-game rituals: bowl of disgusting fibrous breakfast, protein smoothie, stretches. 

Then usually he would just go, leaving the house in silence, Ilya bereft and pacing.

This morning, though, Shane seemed… distracted. He kept making little faces to himself, his mouth turned down at the corners. He squeezed the back of his own neck so often Ilya’s fingers began itching to squeeze it too. He kept sighing. 

Partway through the terrible smoothie, a text message arrived. 

Shane stared at it a long time, face softening enough that Ilya gave in to the urge to swoop across the room and peer over his shoulder. 

It was a photo of a bland looking couple wearing Metro’s jerseys, cuddled up with thumbs aloft, insignificant to Ilya in every way compared with the star of the photo, which was Ilya’s puppy. Eyes: bright. Mouth: open. Tail: a white wagging blur. 

As promised, read the caption, which hopefully Shane wouldn’t question. 

Ilya couldn’t bring himself to worry about Shane getting suspicious about his phone, though. Not when he’d fallen immediately back in love. That fluffy little face! The floppy ears! He wasn’t even jealous that the puppy had made Shane’s eyes soften like that, brought half a smile back to his lips. Ilya could understand it. 

But… Shane wasn’t actually looking at the puppy. Shane’s attention, Ilya realised, before Shane sighed suddenly and put his phone away, had been more focused on the goofy, beaming couple. 

Well. No accounting for taste. 

Shane finished his smoothie, started getting ready to go, and then hesitated, looking at the couch.

He rubbed his thumb over his knuckles, just like Ilya had done the previous evening.

Then Shane shook his head and hurried to pick up his bag. He shoved on his shoes, checked his hair in the hallway mirror, and muttered "Let's fucking go," to himself, which despite Ilya's generalized sinking feeling still made him grin.

Shane got all the way to the front door.

He stopped.

Then he turned and walked wordlessly back to the TV, switched it on. Sports channel; the one that would be showing his big game, later, live.

"I'm fucking losing it," he said to himself, with a half-laugh. His gaze darted around the room, cheeks tinged pink. 

Then he left for real.

And Ilya sprawled out on the couch, beaming.

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

SHANE

They won, but it was close.

And Shane wanted to talk about it.

He tried to talk to his team but they were just happy to have won—One giant leap closer to the cup! Fuckin' A! C’mon! 

So Shane talked to himself. Exited the celebrations early, took himself home, and talked to his heart’s content to… his house.

His house seemed to listen.

Shane complained about the painfully obvious gaps in concentration they’d displayed mid-game, and the sloppy communication, and the too-slow reflexes. Slowly, he felt his shoulders come down from around his ears. 

He went through to the TV and turned it off. He wasn't examining why he'd left it on too closely. But something about knowing his every move was broadcasting here, that technically someone sitting here could watch him play, live—it had sharpened his edge in the game, okay? 

Say no more. Say no fucking more.

It was hot. Shane was still wearing the suit he'd changed into after the game, and it was not ideal for the early summer weather. He lost the jacket and tie and walked into his kitchen, unbuttoning his collar.

He'd forgotten to buy ginger ale. But there was one, in the fridge door, and the oversized ice cubes he liked were waiting in the freezer too. Huh.

Shane put an ice cube in a glass and covered it with ginger ale, then took a slow sip leaning against the kitchen counter. He'd have to remember to buy more.

It was still really hot in here, the sun streaming in the window, making the air warm and the shadows crisp.

Shane started opening his shirt.

A delicious breeze swept in from nowhere.

Steadily, Shane opened the rest of the buttons.

He still wasn't examining his actions too closely. Just going with what felt natural. For all the issues he’d been bemoaning, overall it had been a great game. Loads of moments where he, specifically, had excelled. That felt pretty good.

Who was he kidding? That felt excellent. 

He pressed the cold glass over his neck.

He thought he heard something, almost like a sigh.

This was getting weird.

But… good weird.

Probably just post-game endorphins making him feel like this, his skin buzzing, his senses heightened. That seemed like a rational explanation.

"It's just so hot," he said to no one, and stripped off his shirt completely. He folded it and set it to one side. Then, because the shirt looked strange on its own, he removed his suit pants and folded them as well.

He was half hard, just from the play of warm air over his bare skin. Well, fuck it, it was his house, he could do whatever he wanted, wherever he wanted.

Casually, he adjusted himself in his boxers, lips parting at the pleasurable jolt that went through him at his own touch.

Pressure flared all up and down his back, like someone had come up behind him.

Even though he knew there was no one there, Shane looked around. Then checked the kitchen door was shut, the window onto the little kitchen garden was completely private. It was, of course it was; he knew this. But it hadn't seemed important before. Whereas now, it was important.

He pushed down his shorts, added them to his neat pile of clothes. Stood there, hard and naked in his kitchen, refusing to analyze. He didn't know what was coming over him—just post-game horniness, he reminded himself. Endorphins. Yeah.

He was so fucking horny. This specific game had made him feel crazy. Playing knowing his every move was being broadcast to—to the house.

Every goal amplified a thousand.

Shane lowered his hand to his cock and felt that strange, heavy presence behind him again.

Like the gaze of some predator, stroking over him, drawing ever closer.

It was a glossy, intense feeling that made his mouth dry.

He started toying with his cock, then looked around—there was a bottle of Cold Pressed Organic Extra Virgin Olive Oil on the counter, and a glug of it in his trembling cupped palm soon spilled everywhere. Fuck it, he'd clean up later.

He was not feeling like himself right now. He was feeling a little… wild. 

He brought both hands in to stroke the oil over his cock, then reached back. Tried to finger himself, slick and slow, while jerking off; being brazen about it, because fucking hell, why not? This was his house, his kitchen. His winning goals, his private solo celly. Fuck, yeah.

The temperature in the room seemed to increase exponentially.

"Yes," Shane whispered, getting into it, rocking back against his own hand. He thought about going upstairs, getting a toy, but it seemed too far away.

So instead, he braced against the counter, and imagined.

Shamelessly.

He imagined Rozanov stalking around him, watching intently, unsmiling, jerking himself in time.

Stroking that big, heavy cock to the same pace that Shane was stroking himself.

The thought made him want to moan. Made him want to goad him, show off. He tried to pulse his fingers in time with the beat in his head, but it wasn't enough, not nearly enough. He tried another finger, but it didn’t come close to what he was imagining. 

Fuck, he was going to have to get a toy, even though upstairs felt a million miles away right now. He needed it, needed to be filled, he needed—

A sensation like the lap of a tongue caught him under the jaw, and he gasped; withdrawing his fingers from his ass, his hand on his cock going still.

"Whoa!"

That felt so real. 

So, uh… yeah. He must be really imagining things. Possibly getting… heatstroke? Was that a rational explanation for this? 

Or maybe he was psyching himself out by visualizing Rozanov's mouth sliding over the back of his neck in such lurid detail. He wanted it so much that, in the heat of the moment, some combination of the charged atmosphere and those post-game endorphins must be transforming that want into an actual sensation that his skin was reporting. Like a phantom limb, except—that was not a limb. It was very much a tongue, and the bare hint of teeth, making shivers bloom all the way down Shane's spine.

And was that a hand on his wrist, urging him to start stroking again? It couldn't be.

But he could keep going.

He slowed it down, each stroke longer now, his fist sliding the full length of his cock as the sense of being watched intensified.

He swallowed hard, showing his dick off, displaying it—even though it was ridiculous it felt good, imagining Rozanov watching him, squeezing beads of pre-come out the head of his cock, rubbing his thumb over the glans.

He knew what he was experiencing must be his overactive imagination but he didn't care, right now; it felt incredible, teasing himself, needy and outrageous as he pictured Rozanov watching his every move, wanting him every way imaginable.

"You would've liked my winning goal today," he muttered, all at once dropping all pretence. "I pulled off one of your blind assists, no one else saw it coming."

He felt like someone laughed against his ear.

"You would've spotted it a mile off," he said blurrily, tilting his head back, tightening his fist. "Fuck, I wish you could've been there, we would've hammered them. Ruined them. We would’ve dominated the ice together, fuck, especially in the second period, did you see? I needed you, it was a fucking shambles—fuck," he bit off, feeling like his nipples were being pinched. 

Like a reprimand but… not, obviously. 

He shuddered out a breath. "S-sorry," he said, and the pressure - the imagined pressure! - lessened. 

Shane’s hand started moving faster over his cock of its own volition. It was insane, but he swore he could feel it, someone else's hand covering his own; a big, male hand.

Fuck, with his eyes closed, he really could feel it.

And not just that—something else.

Something was pressed against his bare ass.

Shane widened his stance, head clouded with how much he wanted it, wished for it. Imagining Rozanov's cock with a fervor so intense he could almost convince himself it was real, that the obscene pressure of a hard length between his ass cheeks was real. He reached back with one hand, grabbing his ass and pulling, recreating the sensation of Rozanov holding him open.

The pressure sensation increased.

"Fuck, I want it, I want your dick," he whispered, his own desperation audible in his hushed voice, wavering as he swore he felt the pad of someone's finger brush his oiled hole.

He increased the pace on his cock, squeezing his eyes closed, picturing it, Rozanov's cock, right there, poised against his hot, slick, slightly puffy asshole. It felt so real, the promise of it, the threat.

"Fuck, go on, put it in me," he said, jerking himself hard, imagining Rozanov staring down at the naked invitation of his hole, spreading it for him, clenching and relaxing and then—fuck, he could feel hands gripping his hips, imaginary hands but they felt so real, and then, slowly but surely, fuck, fuck.

He could feel something pressing on his ass – Rozanov's dick, it felt exactly like Rozanov's dick – the pressure building rapidly until the head pushed inside. 

Shane moaned loudly and bent forward against the counter, and fuck, he must be hallucinating now, this couldn't be happening, but it was, he could feel it, the glorious slick stretch around him, the steady push, unmistakable. It was hot and thick, better than a toy, better than anything, and it wasn't in his head, unless he was asleep again somehow, but this didn't feel like a dream at all. His senses were all heightened, the colours hyper-real, and it smelled like his kitchen, Rozanov's kitchen, the light was slanting through the window onto the hard cool counter with a scratch in it, condensation beading on the sides of his abandoned glass.

And he could feel it. He was being impaled against his kitchen counter as he arched and begged for it, there was nothing like it, he was chanting under his breath "fuck, fuck, fuck," as the whole of Rozanov's length slid inside and then he was in, hips against Shane's ass, hot breath on the back of Shane's neck, the ghost of a groan in his ear as he started to thrust.

Insane but perfect; impossible but exactly what Shane needed.

ILYA

He hadn't expected to be able to do this. 

He hadn't thought it was possible, let alone a good idea. But as Shane wandered around wearing less and less, sucking down ginger ale and blotting his dewy brow, sliding an ice cold glass across his neck, Ilya had felt himself get more and more corporeal.

Until he could touch him. Not necessarily as hard as he wanted to, definitely not at first, but he could see Shane reacting to him. He could see hairs rising on Shane's arms, the shivers going through him when Ilya blew on his neck.

The hotter Shane got, the more Ilya's touch seemed to register. Until Shane was properly lost in it, oiled hands stroking himself, putting himself into a position against the counter that just begged to be taken from behind.

And so Ilya took him from behind.

Fuck, this was the feast he'd been starving for. It felt raw and wild and real, plastering himself against Shane's back and fucking him against the counter, hands clamped over Shane's hips, feeling him clench and moan in response. Shane's arm was working hard now, beating himself off, and the closer he got to orgasm the more solid Ilya became. 

Fuck, yes, this was what he needed. Shane’s visible acquiescence made him hotter, harder, like a current of electricity feeding directly into his core. Ilya could see his own hands flickering opaque, see his cock vividly outlined as it drove into Shane's ass, more than real enough now to seriously pound him. He was making him feel every inch of it, each thrust hitting home; Shane’s reaction tumbling out in a gratifying series of gasps and curses. 

And it wasn’t just the effect on Shane that was making Ilya’s decade; it was his own senses, flooding back. He could feel the air on his skin, taste the sweat on the back of Shane's neck, smell him—Ilya felt horny and alive and himself again. He wanted to stay like this, sunshine painting their sweat-sheened skin, as long as possible.

Then he felt Shane start to tremble, tightening and flattening himself against the counter, shoving back, and realized his own window to get off was about to be cut short.

"Please, please, fuck, yes, there," Shane was saying, rearing backward.

Ilya let himself get lost in the rhythm of his body's demands, powering toward his own climax in rapid, brutal thrusts. Pinning him against the counter and giving it to him as hard as he could. It only served to drive Shane higher, faster – fresh sweat breaking down his back, his voice hitching – and as Ilya started to empty himself vigorously inside him, to his amazement Shane shuddered and came as well, turning his face sideways against the counter and filling the air with his strangled cries.

He was absolutely stunning like this.

"Yes, moy—" Ilya began, and cut off again; even though Shane almost certainly couldn't hear him, he still didn't want to finish that sentence.

"Fuck, fuck," Shane was mumbling, pushing up on his hands and throwing his head back, eyes closed, flushed and glowing, visibly reeling with pleasure.

Ilya wrapped his arms around him and kissed his neck, having no idea if Shane would feel it but wishing he would. His heart was pounding in his chest. He wondered if Shane could feel that too.

"Fuck," Shane said again, dreamy now, finally relaxing against him.

That felt so good it was concerning.

Eventually, Ilya started to disengage, slowly pulling out and watching with satisfaction as translucent fluid ran down Shane's thighs – he didn't know how Shane was going to explain today's events away, but it sure would be fun to watch him try to argue with the evidence of his own body. 

Shane made a raw little noise and collapsed over the counter, broad shoulders rising and falling as his breathing settled.

The man looked truly well fucked, Ilya thought smugly. A picture of debauchery—and so beautiful that, despite his smugness, Ilya suddenly felt like something got stuck in his throat.

Ah.

Uh oh.

Now the raging lust had ebbed away to a more acceptable level, Ilya knew he should want to slip away. Normally – not that there was anything that passed for normal now, but in all the hook ups he'd enjoyed before his untimely death – Ilya would bow out as soon as possible after. Make himself scarce, get some space, recalibrate following his conquest. Start planning the next one. 

But this didn’t feel like just a conquest… and there was nowhere else he wanted to be… and he had no desire for any other next one. 

Instead he just wanted to hold Shane, nuzzle him, make him laugh. Answer all his boring questions. And maybe… never leave his sight again?

Fuck.

This had crept up on him, somehow. Which he’d spotted as a possible problem, before, but then dismissed, because it was impossible - Shane didn’t even believe in him! And then he’d overlooked it, even as the problem grew out of all proportion—it had slipped past him, amongst all the frustration and avoidance, the restless pacing, the interminable wait. 

But now, lingering here - even as his corporeal self faded away again to its faintest, most threadbare form, imperceptible to the human eye - it was painfully obvious.

He'd well and truly fallen for Shane fucking Hollander.

SHANE

Fuck. Now what?

Well, in the short term, Shane thought he'd better put a pin in freaking out until he'd got himself cleaned up.

He showered, put on some fresh shorts, poured away his melted-to-undrinkable glass of weak caramel-coloured soda, and found himself back at the fridge.

There were four cans of ginger ale in the door now.

He added it to his list of things to freak out about shortly.

He filled a glass with more large ice cubes and fresh ginger ale, took a grateful sip, then went to slump on the couch, putting on a recent Boston game.

They were playing Boston next, and they were going to be tough to beat. The fierce rivalry was legendary, right back to Rozanov’s time. Shane wanted to prepare. He got his notepad out and everything.

He stared unseeing at the screen for several minutes, eventually admitting that he wasn't able to focus at all.

Apparently, the time to freak out had arrived.

He muted the TV.

So that… just happened.

A full body hallucination, apparently. With physical… effects. 

Maybe it was a side effect of the sleeping pills?

Not likely.

He was getting sick, coming down with a fever?

He felt great, though. Really, exceptionally great, his body still thrumming, all hazy with afterglow. A winning game followed by a mind-blowing prostate orgasm would do that to a guy.

Shane stared at his own hands, starting and stopping a million different attempts to compartmentalize and rationalize and… he just couldn't any more.

It had happened. It had.

He knew that sensation. Hell, he craved that sensation. There was nothing else like it. Not fingers, not dildos, nothing else compared to the feeling of that big, strong man pushing him against a hard surface and fucking him open, fucking him to completion, speeding up as Shane got close, grinding into him at the crucial moment—it was not something it was possible for Shane to imagine that vividly! He couldn't get that effect himself. He had nights and nights of frustration to prove that.

Which meant the only logical conclusion was…

And he couldn't quite believe he was even thinking it…

But it seemed increasingly certain that he really did… live… in a haunted house.

With a ghost.

And not just any ghost: the ghost of his dead, male idol. Who, by the way, liked to fuck him. A lot.

He took a stabilizing sip of ginger ale. Perfectly cold.

Right.

"Okay," Shane said out loud. "Level with me."

The house remained silent.

"That was you." Shane said it quietly, testing the words in the open air. Insane sounding, yeah. But… "That was you, I'd recognize the…" No power in the universe was going to induce him to say girth out loud. "The… feel of it, anywhere. That was you," he repeated, softer again. "Wasn't it?"

Obviously the house said nothing.

But Shane thought he felt something, a nudge in the air, a barely perceptible shift, like the change in daylight as clouds thinned but didn't quite part yet. Like… a nod.

A swirl of confusion and certainty welled in Shane's chest, and he scowled.

"Oh, come on," he said irritably. "You can do better than that. Surely. I'm asking you a simple question!"

Nothing.

"Well, that doesn't make sense. How could you do all that, in the kitchen, where you felt very, uh, present, but now you can't even write me a note?"

He stared at the pad, where the pen lay resolutely still and silent and not at all possessed.

"And you did all that stuff at the party," Shane grumbled. "Surely it's harder to wrap a non-existent vine around someone's leg than to write yes. Look, I'll even hold it for you."

Feeling incredibly foolish, he balanced the pen in his lax fingers, poised as if to write, and waited.

Nothing.

Maybe he was wrong.

But he knew, he knew, in his bones, he was not wrong.

"Unless it's… too calm right now," he said uncertainly. "Is that it? At the party, you were angry, and earlier, you were turned on… Can you only move stuff if you're, like, heightened in some way? Or—or I am?"

Was that a nudge of the pen in his fingers or was Shane imagining things? Wishing?

This was pathetic. Ridiculous, not rational. The delusional act of someone genuinely spiralling. Probably he had imagined it all, probably it had just been an incredibly vivid sexual fantasy, hyper-real because Shane was just that desperate. Probably this was what it felt like to be on the brink of a psychotic collapse.

Or maybe he just needed to get Rozanov more… heightened.

He set the notepad aside, then licked his lips.

Fuck it.

There was only one way he felt certain he’d get an answer.

"So, something I do know," he said conversationally, stretching out on the couch, "after all this time, is that it does not take you long to get going again."

He felt like the house sat up and took notice, the faintest ripple of amusement stirring the edge of his mind.

Shane took another sip, getting his lips wet, then slowly and deliberately licked them clean. 

For a moment he could almost feel a thumb chasing the tip of his tongue along his lower lip—but not quite. 

He slid the glass down his throat again, not stopping this time, drawing its cold smoothness down over his pecs, resting over each nipple in turn until they crinkled into hardness. Held it there until his breath caught at the cold.

Then—"Now I want your mouth on me," he said thickly.

The air in the room seemed to become charged; clouds not parting so much as massing, roiling.

Shane kept his eyes open, though he felt slightly self-conscious—but really, he told himself, either he was performing to an empty room, in which case, no harm, no foul, or the actual spirit of Ilya Rozanov was in this very room. If so, he didn't want to miss a glimpse of him.

He slid the glass slowly down the middle of his chest, leaving a shining wet trail of condensation, making himself shiver. His other hand slowly groped himself, squeezing his chest, rubbing warmth back into the chilled nub of his nipple, spreading the wetness around.

He imagined what Rozanov would be seeing, and kept the glass moving, drawing slow circles, clenching his abs against the stunning cold. Wriggling under it, gasping a little.

His cock was starting to plump up again, and with it came a sudden surge of boldness.

"I swear to god, Rozanov," Shane gritted out, drawing a freezing arrow down the sensitive groove of his hipbone, "if you are hanging back laughing at me I'll have you fucking exorcised."

Another ripple of amusement.

"That's right," Shane said, his breathing getting laboured as he traced the glass back up the other hipbone, ice cubes clinking against the sides. "I'll salt the place and get a priest all up in your business, see how you like that."

He thought he felt a warning hand close around his throat, swallowed hard and bared his neck.

"Or not?" he whispered to the air, shockingly aroused now. "I wanna be on the same side, can't you see that?"

The pressure lessened—but teasing, Shane thought, not abandoning. He hoped.

He wet his lips again. "So… you wanna join in, or are you gonna make me do all the work myself?"

Now it felt like clouds were parting and he was caught in a slanting sunbeam.

Shane chose to interpret that as a good sign. 

"Down here," he said, shimmying down the shorts and chucking them in the direction from which the intensity was emanating. "I want your mouth here. Like this."

He slid the freezing condensation-slick glass up the underside of his dick, shivering sharply. Fuck, that was cold. But then he felt a stirring in the air above him, like someone had gotten a lot closer very quickly, so it was worth it.

He did it again, drawing it out, eyes closing to focus only on the icy glide along his increasingly rigid dick, how it sent tendrils of cool sensation out across his whole lower body—and then another sensation joined it, the hot unmistakable slide of a wet mouth, and Shane let out a gasp that was half arousal, half triumph.

"I knew it."

"Mmm," came a low, familiar rumble, and the glass was extracted from his hand and set on the floor.

Yeah. Fuck yeah that was Rozanov's mouth alright, enveloping him, all silky greedy warmth. That was Rozanov's weight, settling over his spread thighs; Rozanov's hands, fastening to his hips and holding him still. He was here.

Shane almost didn't dare look. What if opening his eyes broke the connection? He kept them shut for a few long seconds, luxuriating in the simple pleasure of getting his cock sucked, before curiosity overpowered him.

If it actually was Rozanov on top of him, then Shane had to see.

He stared down.

And—fuck.

It wasn't quite as real as the dreams had been, but it was close. He could see Rozanov's familiar tousled head, the sleek planes of his face – the details crisp right down to the distinctive mole on his cheek, his downcast eyelashes – but his whole form was somehow translucent as well, faintly glowing with an icy blue cast to every line, and Shane was left in no doubt whatsoever.

This was not a sexual hallucination of a man he'd seen in pictures. His own mind would not have added these unnerving details.

This was a ghost.

Rozanov looked up sharply and caught Shane's gaze, all crystalline blue-grey eyes; it was like being perceived by the North wind. Shane's cock, disappearing between Rozanov's full lips, looked a vivid blood-flushed pink by comparison.

Ghostly cheekbones hollowed as Rozanov smirked around his mouthful of Shane's dick, his eyes blazing with something more than acknowledgement—and then Rozanov went to work on him.

Shane's own eyes fluttered closed again as he melted into it, Rozanov's talented mouth rising and descending, sucking and teasing. The enormity of what this meant was dwarfed by the intensity of sensation pouring over him. So what if this confirmed his haunted house suspicions? At least the ghost he was obsessed with gave incredible head.

"Fuck," Shane breathed, lifting his hips before moaning as Rozanov slammed them back down; and then "goddamnit, Rozanov," as Rozanov feathered his tongue, the wrong side of the line between tantalizing and rewarding; and then "wait, wait—Ilya, wait," when it suddenly started to feel too good, too much, too soon.

And that made them both freeze.

"What?" Ilya had drawn back from Shane in order to speak, and with the removal of his mouth Shane felt like he was able to peel himself off the ceiling of pleasure to form coherent words as well.

"Um, Ilya," Shane said, and immediately second-guessed himself. "Can I call you that?"

"Hmm, let me see. Less than one hour ago I was inside you, yes? I think we are on first name terms."

"Fuck off," Shane laughed, appalled and then, when Ilya mimed pulling away from him, said quickly, "no, I don't mean that, I just mean—"

"I know what you mean."

Shane hesitated. "But you… if I come, I won't be able to see you any more, is that right? That's the only reason I stopped you."

"Ohhh," Ilya said, the edges of his lips curving. "Well, yes. Probably. Til tonight, at least. If you leave off tiny pill."

Shane flushed, oddly mortified. Ilya knew about that. "The pills were just…"

"Avoiding technique," Ilya said sagely.

"Um, I guess. But I… I don't like them, it was only because I—" was very much avoiding you "—thought I was going crazy. And maybe I am? Because…" Shane waved helplessly, indicating them both. "But um, even so, I'm not gonna take them any more, I'm done with that." He wondered wildly if Ilya could hear the rest of it, lurking on the tip of his tongue right now: whatever this is, I'm all in.

"Is okay," Ilya said, with a tiny shrug at Shane's babbling. Then he winked. "I am lot to get used to."

Shane's gaze flickered involuntarily down, then back. There was something about how Ilya had paused with his hand around Shane's cock, holding it close to his mouth but speaking past it, holding him but not stroking, not licking. Completely relaxed and proprietary about touching him, like he knew him… well.

"Have you been here the whole time?" Shane asked, his voice betraying a tinge of incredulity.

"Of course. Is my house."

"Yeah, you said," Shane said weakly. "Fuck though, really? This whole time?"

He was definitely blushing now.

"Whole time. Every night. Even boring ones." Ilya was openly smirking at Shane's rising discomfort. "You are remembering how many night you fuck yourself calling my name.”

Astute. Shane grimaced. "Maybe?"

"Ohhh, Rozanov, please, no!" Ilya moaned, affecting a disturbingly accurate accent to mimic Shane's first night in the camp bed.

Shane felt he must be crimson all over. "You saw that?"

Ilya nodded, and something in Shane's stomach flipped, his chest tightening. That felt like a lifetime ago. Before he had even begun to accept that this shameful thing he secretly wanted might, in fact, be the totality of everything he wanted. 

“I did see that. And I wonder what is going through your head,” Ilya said, thoughtful like a lion contemplating which part of a gazelle to start gnawing on. 

Shane tried to think of an explanation that wasn't completely excruciating. "Uh, right. That was just a stupid… I dunno… I just found it hot at the time." He swallowed. "The idea. Of being. Made to do stuff, by you. Um, yeah." Yeah. Still excruciating.

Ilya tilted his head, assessing. "You like it, being forced? Or you like not having choice?"

"I… I don't know," Shane said, squirming, not ready to commit to either of those advanced-sounding options. "It was just a spur of the moment thing. And—"

He broke off. Ilya's focus sharpened. "And?" 

"And it made it less, uh, gay," Shane admitted, cheeks flaring again. "If you were making me do it." 

Ilya squinted at him, then looked at where his hand was still idly massaging Shane's cock, keeping him hard, needy. Making him exceedingly aware of what this conversation was interrupting.

"You do not like to be gay," Ilya said skeptically. He made it sound like there was no other explanation for what Shane was. "You just pass time with lot of gay sex while waiting for right woman to come along?"

"I—no, I—well, kinda, yeah," Shane said, flustered now. "You were a figment of my imagination and I—I figured I just needed to get it all out my system."

"Huh," Ilya said, a dark flash of amusement in his gaze. He drew a circle with his thumb around the crown of Shane's cock, and Shane shivered suddenly. "I tell myself same thing."

"Now?" 

Shane's alarm must have shown in his voice, because Ilya's gaze softened. "No. Before." 

It still made Shane feel weird and urgent, the idea of Ilya telling himself anything like that. "Well I changed my mind," he said, soft but clear. "I'm done waiting. I… know who I am now."

"Hockey player who believe in ghosts and is total homosexual, yes?"

"Fuck off," Shane laughed, nudging Ilya's side with his knee in a half-hearted threat to shove him off the couch. "But yeah, I guess."

"So embarrassing," Ilya teased, drawing out the words and resuming the circling of his thumb. "Gay and irrational. Paranormal believer. The truth is out there."

"Fuck off," Shane growled, wriggling under him, starting to catch his breath again. 

"I am wrong?" Ilya purred, clearly enjoying himself now. "Actually you are still waiting for alive Canadian girl to come along?"

Shane cringed. "Not at all." 

"Good. If you invite this girl in the house, I give you another spanking." 

Shane's eyes half-closed. "Now you're making me reconsider." 

Ilya glared. "Don't test me." 

"Don't make it worth my while," Shane shot back, and was rewarded by Ilya's positively filthy smile. 

"Mm," Ilya said, and slid his thumb in a tiny figure-eight under the head of Shane's cock, making him hiss. "You liked spanking, very much."

Shane closed his eyes for a moment as the memory of that night washed over him like actual lava. "…Yeah. A lot."

"I think you like, how you say? Responsibility. Taken away."

"Hey, I'm very responsible," Shane protested.

Ilya's lips curved. "I know. Good captain, good routine, team player, right? Young for Metros, so very, very good. An example."

"Sure, I guess."

"Sound like hard work," Ilya said, slowing it right down. His thumb repeated its path, this time pressing into Shane's slit, just a nudge, sending sweet sparks juddering through him. "Sound like golden boy might need a break…"

"Maybe," Shane said again, his mouth going dry. He would agree to anything Ilya said right now, as long as he kept looking at him, touching him.

"Good thing you come to my house," Ilya said. "You get my attention. You are… most interesting thing to happen in long time."

"Thanks, I think?" Even now, he wasn't certain he believed it.

"You are welcome."

"But if you've seen how… how I am… for weeks," Shane said, flushing with sudden doubt, grappling with a deep need to hear it all spelled out, "how can you… I mean… do you actually like what you see?"

For a moment Ilya looked like he didn't understand the question. Then he said simply, "Yes."

"Oh."

"You are very, uh, what is word…? Spellbinding."

Shane wasn't sure that was the word. That sounded like… not him. "Really?"

"Hypnotic," Ilya agreed. "Good to look at, listen to. You are so pretty, but you do everything the same each time, I get to enjoy it. Like my favourite show."

"Oh," Shane said, and there was a different type of heat flooding him now, less embarrassed, more appreciative.

"I know what come next."

"Often me," Shane suggested slyly.

Ilya acknowledged that with a laugh. "Is often you," he said, and then dipped his head, mouthed suggestively at the crown of Shane's cock, lips parting around it, sliding his hand down to the base.

"Ah, fuck," Shane said, the buzz of that sensation mingling deliciously with the effect Ilya's words had been having. "Your mouth…"

"Mmm," Ilya said, slowly taking him right the way down, then pulling off again as Shane whimpered, making a demonstration of it. "Enough questions, no? You would like me to continue now?"

"Uh," Shane said, fighting a brief vicious war between want and need: he wanted Ilya's mouth back on his cock but he still needed answers. "I mean I would, but—" But he wasn't going to last long if Ilya kept sucking his cock in that showy, confident way. "But if I get off, you'll go, right?"

"Probably. But if you lose interest, I will also go."

"I can't see that happening," Shane said truthfully. "You're Ilya Rozanov. I've been obsessed with you for—well, you know."

"Ha. I do know." Ilya cocked his head, considering Shane's dick with a frankly evil glint in his eye, then slowly licked across the tip again.

Shane shivered at the heat rolling through him at that simple, deliberate touch. "Fuck!"

"Mm, good idea. I think I have solution to your problem."

"What's that?"

In answer, Ilya kissed the head of his cock and then surged up Shane's body, lying on top of him and fitting his hips between Shane's legs.

"Do you think you can take my cock in your ass without coming?"

"What? No, probably not," Shane admitted, and Ilya flashed him another wicked grin.

"Let's find out." He held his hand up for Shane to lick his fingers. "Get them wet."

Shane clamped down on another shiver, sucking three fingers into his mouth and trying to work up saliva around them. Ilya's fingers were big and slightly salty and perfect to suck on – well, almost perfect – and Shane found himself getting lost in it, feeling thrills both familiar and new, his own cock rearing up between the damp heat of their stomachs.

"Okay, enough," Ilya said at last, sounding slightly dazed himself. He lifted a little and reached down between them, slicking them both together, before arranging Shane's thigh above his hip and lining up his cock. Even that light brush of intent felt so, so good. Fuck, Shane wanted it. But that—

Shane stared up at Ilya, so turned on he could taste it. "I warn you," he said softly, even as his whole body throbbed, "I know you said let's find out, but if you push that thing inside me at this angle there is every probability I'll come in ten seconds flat."

"Mm, is not what we want," Ilya said, smirking again. His eyes were utterly beautiful when his smile reached them, even when his expression was pure mischief. "Maybe is good if you cool off first."

He reached down, out of sight, and for a crazy moment Shane thought Ilya was going to pour the drink all over him. But he didn't. He was doing something with the glass, though, something that made his eyes twinkle even more; and then Shane felt it, the slippery chilled intensity of an ice cube against his thigh.

His breath caught. "Oh! That's cold."

"Is it?"

The ice cube zig-zagged playfully up his skin and onto his other thigh, searing cold, leaving wet trails.

Shane wriggled uselessly, trying to evade the sensation, seeking out the lost heat of Ilya's dick pressing against him instead.

"Ah-ah-ah," Ilya said, shaking his head and shifting back slightly, his wicked grin returning. "This first," he drawled, and slid the ice over Shane's hole instead.

Shane gasped twice as loud, but kept still. First implied a sequence, right? A sequence that would surely next feature his cock?

"Better," Ilya said, faux soothing, and then with a sleek little nudge of his thumb he was pushing the ice cube inside.

"Oh fucking hell, fuck, god," Shane blurted, the intense cold lancing through him, an incredible contrast to the heated pounding of his pulse everywhere else. It was—fuck, it was cold, and thicker than he'd realised, a vivid density inside him now, greedily accepted by his ass and sending flutters of blazing coldness right through him. It must be melting quickly in the furnace of his body, but that thought didn't help cool him down, because he could also feel how wet he was getting, and surely Ilya could feel it too.

"Cold enough for you?"

"Fuck," Shane whined, "that was mean."

"You love it," Ilya told him, and then forestalled his reply by aiming his cock against Shane's entrance, blissfully warm now against the shocked skin.

Shane made a soft, fervent noise that might have been yes or please. The heat of Ilya's dick was mesmerizing after the ice; he felt like he was being thawed. "Go on," he croaked, opening his eyes when Ilya still waited.

Ilya locked onto his gaze, then kissed him on the mouth, before finally pushing his dick into Shane's body.

"Fuck," Shane gasped, the familiar-and-new sensations soaring. He tightened his leg around Ilya's waist, trying to drive him deeper, chase away the lingering chill of the ice, fill himself up with heat instead. "Oh, fuck, yeah, go on, please…"

Ilya made an amused noise against his cheek, pushed in to the hilt and paused. "I thought you have question."

"I forgot my question," Shane insisted. "Just fuck me."

"I thought you do not want to come, 'ten seconds flat'..."

"I do want to come," Shane retorted, regretting his past statements with the intensity of a thousand suns. The thickness inside him made it impossible to think of anything else. "I changed my mind. God, fuck me."

"So slutty…"

Shane whined.

"One day I make you wait," Ilya said, with a thoughtful little hum. "I make you wait, however much you protest… and wait… and wait…"

"But not today?" Shane asked hopefully, even as he thrilled at the idea of Ilya making plans for one day.

Ilya gave another of those soft, wicked laughs, then pulled out and drove back in. "Not today."

Shane grunted at the force of it, squirming beneath him, then panted gratefully as Ilya folded Shane's knees over his shoulders and took control of the pace. He made it fast and hard, the echo of their earlier adventure in the kitchen, but this time Shane could see him perfectly, could feel it all, every shift and squeeze and thrust. And it—it did not take long. Almost as soon as the shock of cold had melted away, urgent heat took over Shane's whole body again. He rocked up against the force of it, meeting Ilya halfway each time, and Ilya seemed to like that a lot. A lot.

"Made for me to fuck," he whispered, against Shane's hairline. "Aren't you? Been waiting for me."

"Yes," Shane said, nodding blindly.

"I'm here now."

"Yes—"

"Gonna make you feel it—"

"Yeah, yeah, I want it, give it to me—"

"So slutty for me," Ilya purred, and slid his tongue into Shane's mouth.

Shane sucked on it rhythmically, feeling his balls get heavier, more swollen.

Ilya drew back, rested his forehead on Shane's as he pounded him. "Take my cock, every day, every hour," he said, and Shane didn't even know if that was possible but by god would he enjoy finding out.

"Yes," he panted, "yes, Ilya, yes…"

"And are you gonna come for me, Hollander?" Ilya demanded, the breathless burr of his voice hardening.

"Yes," Shane said, and then impulsively, squeezing tight around him, "sir—yes, sir."

Ilya groaned loudly at that, and Shane could feel him swelling in his ass, feel his deep thrusts getting slower, greedier, grinding towards his own release.

"Whatever you want, sir," Shane gasped out, and then, with his last coherent thought before his climax wiped his brain completely, managed to throw out, "always."

"Fuck Shane," Ilya growled, kissing him again as he started to come.

The sparkling cyclone of Shane's own orgasm took his full attention: he was vaguely aware of Ilya pulsing inside him, and of light bulbs flashing and blowing overhead, but mostly it was his own pleasure he was consumed by, transient but monumental.

Afterward, his vision came back first, then his greater awareness, and finally his ability to speak.

"Fuck," he said clearly, blinking. Still full, still pinned. "You're still here."

Ilya blinked back at him, allowing Shane's knees to slither off his shoulders. He looked down at himself, as if also intrigued by what he saw. "Huh. I am."

"Why is that?"

"Mm, no idea."

Shane gave a testing wriggle. "Is it because you're still inside me?"

Ilya's lips curved. "Maybe," he said, and pulsed his hips, making Shane shiver.

Is it because I'm falling in love with you, Shane didn't say, though he was so awash with afterglow that it easily could have slipped out.

"Maybe… enjoy while it lasts," Ilya said, sliding an arm beneath Shane's neck and kissing him soundly.

Ilya faded significantly when he pulled out, and even more when Shane staggered away to wash—but when Shane padded back into the room, clean and partially dressed again, Ilya was still there, just: a translucent form sitting watching the Boston game, one hand in his dark sweatpants, the other sprawled along the back of the couch.

"I thought you'd be gone completely," Shane said, taking the seat next to him. Impulsively, he reached for Ilya's hand, marvelling as every line of him brightened. Still translucent, but more vivid. "Oh, that's cool."

Ilya turned their hands over on his thigh, examining them. "Hm. Maybe more contact is better."

They wound up spooning on the couch, watching the game, and for a moment Shane felt so comfortable he almost drifted off to sleep in Ilya's arms.

Then the Boston captain scored.

"Oh, he's good," Ilya remarked, as the man celebrated onscreen.

Shane blew out a breath. "Yeah," he said. "One of the best, probably. We play them next."

"Ah. Good team."

"Yeah. I'm pretty worried about them," Shane admitted. "They might break our winning streak. We actually haven’t beaten Boston since we lost you."

"Ouch."

"Yeah. I feel like we're turning it around on so many levels, but Boston are still like… our Achilles heel."

Ilya made an acknowledging noise. Then, almost conversationally, "They tried to sign me, you know. When I became free agent from Montreal."

Shane blinked. "Really?" That wasn't in any of the books.

"Da. But I prefer Metros. They draft me and they were good team, mostly. Even though…"

"What?"

Ilya shrugged. "Well. Made lot of enemies with that decision."

"How come?"

"Boston form was so strong – they would have taken Cup that year with me." He said it with such quiet confidence that Shane didn't even question it. "Would have made lot of people lot of money. Instead, Montreal take Cup again, with me - again. I always wonder…"

He trailed off. Shane felt wide awake. "What?"

"If it was one of them."

"One of them what?"

Another shrug, smaller this time. "Who cause accident."

Shane sat up, twisting around to stare at him. Distractedly, he noticed that Ilya had faded even more, was now just a beautiful line drawing of himself bathed in the faintest uncanny glow, and though Shane could still feel him, warm and present, even that felt less… substantial, than before. The whole thing was so weird that if Ilya hadn't just said that, Shane would have been completely distracted.

Instead, he heard his voice go very even. "What do you mean by that?"

Ilya laughed harshly, pushed a hand through his hair. "No, I know, is stupid. I had many other enemies too. No reason to think it was a Boston hit. One thing I am very good at, collecting enemies."

Shane didn't laugh with him. "No, I mean, what do you mean, accident?"

"…or maybe it was someone from back home, sent by my father. Was my first suspicion. Maybe they only meant to scare me but they fucked up. I don't know—"

"Ilya," Shane interrupted, reaching up to clasp his face in both hands. "What do you mean, accident?"

Ilya rolled his eyes, made an impatient gesture toward himself. "The accident! You know? The bridge, my car? Why I am like this?"

Shane stared. "But the book said…" The words tasted like ash in his mouth. "…the book implied, you did that on purpose."

Ilya raised his eyebrows. "The book? The book know better than me?"

"No, obviously," Shane said, trying not to flail for words, "and it didn't say for certain, but it heavily suggested that… well, you'd had a hard time of it, getting out of Russia, you lost your mom." Shane lowered his voice, cautious of offending. "You were in therapy, you took meds for depression…"

"So I was in therapy and took meds for depression," Ilya snapped. "So what? They worked, most of time. I escape Russia. I get help. And I was playboy hockey superstar, Hollander – life was good. Not bed of roses dawn til dusk, but pretty fucking good."

"Oh," Shane said, wide-eyed. "Oh! But that's… I mean, there's a whole chapter on it. On why you might have. You know."

"Drive my beautiful new car off bridge?"

"Yeah."

"I did not do this," Ilya said darkly. "Was fault with car."

"Were you going too fast?"

Ilya’s eyes narrowed. "No. Or—maybe, but that was not reason. My guess is, someone tamper with brake line. I try to slow down for bridge approach, instead lose control, go faster. It happen like blur, but I just knew there were so many people, I could hit. Instead I swerve off—just me."

"But…" Shane felt like his throat was closing. His heart pounded, his eyes prickling with scalding tears. "But that… That's…"

The shadow of a thumb brushed his cheekbone. "Long time ago," Ilya said, although his voice was fading now as well. "Do not worry for me."

Shane sniffed angrily, trying to control himself. "No, wait. Don't go, not yet. I'm okay. I just—Ilya, are you really telling me someone did it on purpose?"

Amazingly, Ilya huffed a laugh at that. "Shane," he said, with a wry smile that reached into Shane's chest and broke something, "I do not know how many more ways I can say someone did it on purpose."

"Fuck!"

"Of course they did. Only question is, why did NHL cover it up?"

His form was increasingly transparent, fading faster than a wisp of smoke in a breeze.

"Wait, no," Shane said, aghast now, urgency rising. "You can't say that and go! Don't go," he growled, grasping at Ilya's shoulders.

"I will still be here."

"That's not enough," Shane said, knowing he was being unfair but he couldn't help it, Ilya couldn't drop a bomb like this and then disappear, it was unbearable. He needed more time. He needed more details. He needed to know exactly what Ilya was talking about, so they could put their heads together and solve this thing, and if that took a team of experts, or legal reps, or historians, or investigative journalists, or – or just time – then Shane would and could make that happen. Because Ilya Rozanov deserved to be remembered correctly. And if someone had hurt him—then they deserved to pay.

A dozen expressions crossed what was left of Ilya's face, ending on a flash of poignancy. "I know," he said, his voice sounding transparent too, and then—another note, something determined, resolute. "Shane?"

"Yeah?"

"There is a way," Ilya said, as the last traces of his form disappeared.

Shane stared fixedly at the place he had been, stricken, uselessly willing him to return.

"To see me always. To keep me with you always," came Ilya's voice, as soft as the lingering last note of a song, haunting, ephemeral. "But only if that is what you want."

"There is?! How?"

"In master bathroom. Top drawer, on left. You will find… necklace."

END

Chapter End Notes

me: and that is the end of the story I was trying to tell

also me: *writes 5k epilogue because I just CAN'T leave it there*

ETA: wow 💗 thank you for the near unanimous decision that this isn’t over. Rest assured the epilogue IS in the works, and getting longer and longer the more gorgeous ideas you people throw at me…

While it’s cooking, if you like intense immersive AUs (& my writing style 😅), might I shamelessly draw your attention over here for a while… (my favourite of my Shane/Ilya stories)

Chapter 6: Epilogue 1/2

Chapter Summary

A little something sweet to tide you over...

Chapter Notes

EPILOGUE: SIX WEEKS LATER

SHANE

Stanley Cup, tick.

The elation of bringing it home to Montreal after twenty years in the wilderness, tick.

Soaked in champagne, blinded by flashbulbs, paraded through the stadium on his teammates' shoulders, tick.

And Shane enjoyed it all, he did, it was a lifelong dream made real, it was the culmination of so much work and tactics and everyone expected him to party hard now, to stay out late and relish every minute of it, and Shane…

Shane went home, face aching from grinning, not even minding when the Uber driver broke the speed limit on two separate occasions. He was a tipsy Stanley Cup champion on his way home before midnight… because a certain someone would be waiting for him there.

At the end of his driveway he paused, fixing the gold cross necklace around the base of his throat with slightly clumsy fingers. He hadn't dared wear it on the ice, needing his focus to be absolute for this final, crucial game. But now he felt the uncanny connection unfurl inside him like a firework exploding through his solar plexus, a rush like no other.

Ilya.

Shane walked up to his front door, unlocked it, opened the door wide—and was promptly sprayed full in the face with ice cold champagne.

"Hey," Shane growled, throwing up his hands to shield his eyes, and so he was unprepared for a sudden soft battering of paws at mid-thigh level. "Hey!"

"Hey," Ilya said gruffly, lowering the champagne bottle and throwing his other arm around Shane's sodden neck, dragging him across the threshold and kissing him full on the mouth.

Shane changed his tone. "Hey," he repeated, beaming, words muffled against Ilya's lips, heedless of the puppy now scampering deliriously around their feet. "We should shut the door…"

Ilya's arm tightened and he manoeuvred them around so that the door could slam shut—and then he was pushing Shane back against it, crowding close to him. With Shane wearing the necklace, all traces of the blue-grey glow had vanished: he was tanned and tawny and right now, slightly flushed, cheeks and lips ruddy, dark gold hair tousled like he'd been running his fingers through it repeatedly.

"Better?" Ilya took a swig of champagne from the neck of the bottle, then leaned in to kiss him again.

It was messy and fizzy and giddily euphoric, accepting the crisp dry mouthful of effervescence onto his tongue and swallowing it down.

Ilya grinned and repeated the move, more deliberately, keeping his other hand on Shane's face, and Shane felt like he was bathing in celebration, swallowing the champagne Ilya kept feeding him with his mouth, grinning from ear to ear.

"Fuck," Shane said at last, breaking off as a miss-timed mouthful threatened to make him splutter. "Not sure if you're trying to get me drunk or drown me?"

"Neither," Ilya said seriously. "Truth is I am planning to suck your cock with my mouth full of fizz, I hear it feel very good for you, but every time I get distracted by your beautiful lips."

"Oh," Shane dumbly, his body responding like Ilya had rung a bell, even as he asked weakly, "In front of Anya?"

Ilya paused and his eyes widened. "Good point."

He gave the heavy cold bottle to Shane and squatted down at his feet to speak in low, serious tone. Their puppy was three months old, the colour of a gingersnap and could bounce twenty-seven times a minute (they'd counted).

"Now listen," Ilya said, earnest now, framing Anya's fluffy face with his big hands, "you cannot see this, you will think daddy is attacking daddy, but he is not. Nothing to worry about—we are good here. So you should go play upstairs. Where's your bed? Off you go!"

To Shane's amazement, the tiny dog licked Ilya on the nose and then bounded off upstairs without looking back.

Ilya rose to his feet and gave Shane a sly look, slanting his hips, somehow making the single step closer into a saunter. "Where were we?"

"Have you been training her while I…?"

"Of course! Not much else to do here… except watch beautiful man perform all tricks I taught him on TV…"

Shane couldn't help but grin bashfully. "You noticed that?"

"Yes," Ilya said, all decisive smugness. "One after other, all my favourite moves. And executed so prettily. Was like you were blowing me kisses all game."

Shane felt his cheeks heat at the thought.

Ilya's gaze darted down, then up. "And earning champagne blowjob…"

He retrieved the bottle from Shane's lax grip and took another swig, swallowing it himself and then kissing Shane deeply, the cool slide of his tongue making Shane tingle all over. His other hand swept up into Shane's hair, which had mostly escaped the earlier spray, and then he raked his nails down the back of Shane's neck.

"Oh, fuck," Shane gasped, breaking the kiss to press his head back against the door, and Ilya took the opportunity to drop to his knees and nuzzle the front of Shane's pants, rapidly proceeding with his plan.

A mouth full of fizzy liquid around his cock felt interesting certainly. The prickling bubbles added a cool, wet thrill of sorts. But Shane was mostly lost in reverie at the sight of Ilya's face, the easy parting of his lips, his outlined cheekbones. He was so fucking good at this, and the pleasure he took in doing it was evident in the noises he made, which Shane was very familiar with now, and the way he soon set the bottle aside to grasp at Shane's bare hips with both hands, steering him, holding him in place as he worked.

"Oh fuck, Ilya, oh—" Shane interrupted, as Ilya did things with his tongue that had surely been outlawed since the 1980s, "please, fuck, please, fuck—"

Ilya pulled off and looked up, panting open-mouthed, lips so shiny and dark it looked like he was wearing lipstick. "Fuck you?"

"Y-yeah…"

"Later," Ilya declared, resuming his efforts, the determination of an athlete paired with the eagerness of a man who hadn't seen his lover for several weeks.

It had been nine hours.

"Oh god," Shane bit off. Talking to the absurd hallway chandelier, the fizzing spitting tiny light bulbs, anyone but Ilya himself because Ilya would not listen; Ilya was devotedly applying himself to sucking Shane's cock until the world filled with unseasonal constellations of stars.

Ilya's hair felt silky-thick in his questing fingers, and his mouth was perfect. Shane abandoned all restraint and shoved in hard, enjoying how Ilya grunted around him perhaps more than he should. He did it again, again, relishing the soft wet give of Ilya's mouth, the noises he was making, almost pained. Momentarily uncertain, Shane tugged him back by his hair, checking despite everything he'd not got this wrong, but one look at Ilya's blissed out face confirmed it: this was fine.

More than fine, it seemed Ilya loved getting his face fucked, was guiding Shane's hands with him as he forged back down; taking him deeply, swallowing against Shane's dick, rocking and sucking, urging him to thrust.

Shane squeezed fistfuls of Ilya’s hair in both hands and fucked his sweet mouth, gazing down as Ilya took it, took it. He felt incredible, on top of the world, need and dominance combining, warm and loose with champagne and pleasure and fuck, he loved him, loved coming home to him, loved this strange wild existence they shared together.

It might break the mood to start babbling about that right now, so instead he let the words rearrange hot and sharp on his tongue. "I love your mouth," he gritted out, staring at the thick dark length of his cock sliding between Ilya's wet lips, again and again. "You're so fucking hungry for it."

"Mmh," Ilya grunted, half confirmation, half smirk.

"Waiting—for me to get home, planning this," Shane said, biting off the words lest they get swallowed by his own gasps. “I bet your mouth was watering.”

Another confirmatory grunt, as Ilya's slick hands massaged the base of his cock, his balls.

“Next time I'll—put the necklace on straight after the game, would you like that? Send everyone else away and let you have me in the locker room?"

He could worry about the logistics of that later, because Ilya clearly liked that idea, making a growly noise in his chest and speeding up, bobbing his head on Shane's cock. Ilya's hands smoothed around to enclose Shane's ass, pawing restlessly at first, then with more deliberate focus.

"I bet you'd like it," Shane said hoarsely, as Ilya's wet fingers held his ass apart, delved purposefully. "Sucking me dry, still in my gear, and then spinning me around, pushing up my jersey and fucking me against the l-lockers," he gasped, as Ilya's finger pushed up into his ass, and the tip of his cock pulsed slickly against the back of Ilya's mouth. "Oh, fuck, do that again, do that—fuck, I'm gonna come."

Ilya made a pleased noise and did everything again, coordinating his fingers with the slide of his mouth and then swallowing Shane down, and Shane gave in to it, just feeling and reacting as it all gathered together behind his balls, and then he was coming, hips staggering, shooting into Ilya's open mouth with a groan, painting Ilya's tongue.

Ilya surged forward, taking him deep, letting Shane hunch his hips against his mouth for his final few hard thrusts, quaking around him, fingers crooked inside him. Fuck, so perfect. Fuck.

Shane unpeeled his hands at last, spent. "Fuck," he whispered, breathing hard as Ilya sat back triumphantly and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "If this is what I get for winning the Cup," he continued, dazedly, "what are you gonna give me if I get an Olympic gold?"

"This is not for the Cup," Ilya said, clearly lying, but radiant and tipsy and beaming up at him. "This is for coming home to me," and he was perfect, perfect, Shane felt like time was slowing as he gazed down into his no-longer-otherworldly eyes; and Shane wanted to stay like this always, luxuriate in this feeling, cling to it; never allow anything else to change. 

Chapter End Notes

Stay tuned for Ilya’s POV and a tiny bit more plot to finish… 👻🥳

Chapter 7: Epilogue 2/3

Chapter Summary

more ghost!Ilya railing Shane in their haunted house. Together. It could not be going better. Which... may be a problem.

Chapter Notes

I KNOW THE NUMBER WENT UP

I've been off having hollanoveau adventures instead of finishing this thing, but someone left a lovely comment and I remembered: I have more epilogue for you! Not EXACTLY what you guys were asking for but I hope something equally interesting... (plus one visual that even I think is hot as hell)

You may wish to reread the first part of the epilogue to re-orientate, but if not, please enjoy being dropped straight back into the action by one of my most favourite ever first lines.

ILYA

With Shane's thick cock buried deep in his throat, pulsing hard, hips twitching as he climaxed, Ilya had a fleeting thought that he could not be happier.

Contentment surged through him—and with it came a strange misty feeling, a flickering unreal dissociation, as if he was starting to go transparent again around the edges.

And that—no, no no no, wait—

Alarm jerked him back to himself, to the face-fucking, to his fingers buried in Shane's ass; grounding himself in the physical discomforts of the hard floor beneath his knees, the spasming muscle of Shane's hole clamping his fingers together, Shane's dick invading his throat. The floaty sensation dispelled again.

Cautiously, Ilya relaxed his focus. Fuck, he was here, he was still here. Right where he was meant to be. He flexed his fingers, making sure to swallow greedily as Shane's cock withdrew, milking it for every last drop.

The remnants of that strange feeling melted away, eclipsed by how stunning Shane looked, panting and swaying, hands hovering in the air as Ilya pulled off him.

It was replaced with the urgency of how badly Ilya wanted to fuck him now.

"Fuck," Shane whispered, as Ilya withdrew his fingers and sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth. Shane looked magnificently dazed. "If this is what I get for winning the Cup… what are you gonna give me if I get an Olympic gold?"

"This is not for the Cup," Ilya lied, grinning up at him. "This is for coming home to me."

Shane's eyes seemed to glow, pupils huge, seeming almost bewildered with pleasure. "Yes," he said hoarsely, nodding. "Every time."

Ilya's own grin widened, and he scooped up the champagne bottle and rose to his feet.

"C'mon, Cap," he drawled, taking a quick swig to disguise how completely gone he felt, hollowed out and light-weight with need, "get naked for me, then let's get you upstairs for a proper celebration."

Shane's lips curved at the nickname, and his voice grew a little steadier. "Okay."

He stripped off down to his socks, then opened his mouth willingly when Ilya swayed close and proffered the bottle again.

Ilya poured a little stream of champagne straight into Shane's mouth—slightly too much, the golden liquid overspilling his lips in a sticky, gently obscene cascade of droplets.

Shane spluttered and swallowed heavily, mouth twisting in protest.

"Asshole."

Ilya made a production of ducking to lick the wet trail off Shane's chest, lasciviously sucking every sticky-sweet droplet away, grazing Shane's flat brown nipple in passing.

"Forgive me," Ilya said formally, and gave the nearest nipple a showy little kiss.

"Yeah, okay," Shane said, as the nub of it perked up against Ilya's persuasive tongue.

With a satisfied hum, Ilya swapped sides, treating himself to a bite this time.

Shane gasped. "Ow! Unforgiven!"

Ilya grinned and rose to kiss his mouth again, hard. Tasting the faint glimmer of wine on his lips still, and enjoying his immediate acquiescence to Ilya's tongue. By the time he drew back, Ilya's body was thrumming all over and he was fairly sure Shane was seeing stars.

"We will see," Ilya said. "Come on."

They passed the bottle back and forth between them as they made their way up to the bedroom, Ilya walking backward through the broad hallways for some of it, unashamedly admiring. To his delight, Shane preened at the attention, even raising his hands and pinching his own nipples, keeping them erect. Fuck, Ilya loved post-orgasmic Shane.

He loved all versions of Shane.

He was so fucking lucky.

He started to feel dangerously floaty again.

He forced his gaze down from Shane's smirking lips to his half-hard dick, his thick thighs; tried to focus on how annoying it was that Shane still had his socks on, when Ilya had told him to strip naked.

But it wasn't actually annoying. Right now, it was hot. Fuck, everything about Shane was so fucking hot. The way those white socks gripped his muscular calves? Hot. The perky brown nipples peeking through his splayed fingers? Hot. The slightly irritated look he was giving Ilya as he openly leered? Hot.

Even though Ilya had spent the best part of three months redesigning his entire existence around Shane Hollander, he increasingly seemed too perfect to be real. For real! How was he like this? Swanning into Ilya's afterlife out of fucking nowhere? Fulfilling Ilya's needs like some psychological hat-trick, smashing them into the net, one by one.

Ilya had been on the drought to end all droughts, staring down a seemingly impassable chasm of restless, unfulfilled desire? Shane had brought the best sex of Ilya's life into Ilya's bedroom, at a frequency bordering on the mythical.

Ilya had gradually succumbed to the realization that he wanted Shane's company, as well as all that mind-altering, unlife-affirming sex? Shane had stuck around—and brought the best puppy on earth with him, filling Ilya's house and attention with the constant diversion of their beautiful scrappy fluff-ball whenever Shane himself wasn't at Ilya's beck and call.

And now it seemed Shane was tackling Ilya's deeper unmet desires as well. Ilya had always been consumed by a low-grade gnawing resentment that his untimely death had also tanked the Metros' success; he'd told himself he should be gratified that they'd fallen apart so completely without him, but instead it had always stung. Had he taught them nothing? Fundamentally, their failures were an insult to his memory, however irrational that might sound. And yet here was Shane, somehow, amazingly, against all odds, dragging the Cup back where it belonged. Spot-lighting Ilya's best moves after all these years, reinvigorating his life's work for a new generation. Putting his name back in lights and onto everyone's lips; righting the wrongs of Ilya's past, one determined hyper-focused play at a time. And doing it all with a breathless smile, a secret grin that was only for Ilya.

Just dizzyingly perfect.

Ilya was at risk of getting carefree.

And carefree, for a ghost, was rumoured to be very dangerous territory.

In the bedroom. Anya had eschewed her own bed and made a perfect, round, fluffy ginger circle in the middle of their bed instead.

Shane opened his mouth to scold her but Ilya forestalled him.

"Come on! Good girl!"

"That's not her bed," Shane said reproachfully, dodging out of the way as a shiny russet cannonball hurtled toward them. To be fair, he was almost naked, and her fluffy paws boasted needle-sharp claws.

"Yes," Ilya agreed, vigorously ruffling the puppy as she bounced and huffed, "but what is more important, huh? Telling off this good, good girl for giving us time to ourselves, or restarting puppy training when—" He gave Shane a meaningful look while keeping his tone playful. "—I just want to be inside you?"

Post-orgasmic Shane, Ilya had discovered, was a glorious pushover.

"Okay," Shane said quickly, "good point, make her leave already."

Ilya feigned outrage. "Make? Make? Such bad manners! Don't you worry, I will punish him," he cooed to Anya, and then closed his hands steadily around her haunches, the command signal he'd been working on all week. "Downstairs bed, off you go."

Gratifyingly, the training held, and he received a tiny bump of her muzzle against his nose before Anya's fluffy heels were bounding out the door.

He watched her go, making Shane wait. Then rounded on him. "Where were we?"

Shane's eyes went all glowy again. "You wanted to be inside me."

"And?"

"And… I want that too?"

"And?"

Confusion flashed pleasingly through Shane's expression. "Uh, I don't know? What else do you want?"

"Will you do it, whatever I say?"

"Probably," Shane said, without hesitation, his smile going crooked.

"I like this picture you paint," Ilya said slowly, retrieving a bottle of lube from the drawer and tossing it casually onto the bed, enjoying how Shane’s focus zipped over his every move, "you know? Of fucking straight after game. So now I want you in your Metros jersey. And nothing else."

"Oh." A hundred thoughts zoomed visibly across Shane's face, a faint flush travelling down his bare chest. His cock was making a valiant effort to fill up again. So part of Shane clearly liked the idea – even if another part of him found the request shocking, or embarrassing, or… unprofessional? But crucially his expression looked more turned on than unwilling.

"Okay?" Ilya asked, putting a command edge beneath his tone, a hint of black leather. Twice in as many minutes, he found himself hoping the training would hold. "Problem?"

"No! No problem," Shane said hastily, then paused again at his closet. "Um, it's just, actually…"

Ilya steeled himself for Shane demurring after all, hesitating too much, maybe backing out. Maybe even now a part of him did want to keep Ilya separate from his work, his skill, his uniform—or maybe he felt embarrassed about wanting it? Maybe he wanted Ilya to persuade him to do it; maybe Ilya should have waited to ask this until Shane was fully hard and desperate again.

"…I got this too. Would this be okay, um, instead?"

He was pulling out a blue jersey. Metros blue. But it wasn't number 24.

Oh, Ilya fucking adored him. His instincts had been wrong; Shane wasn't reluctant. Shane was doubling down.

Ilya stalked closer, skin fizzing all over. "Where did you get that?"

"Uh, online. Collectors' item. I—I hope it's genuine?"

It was genuine, Ilya could see instantly. Not a copy. The fabric and stitching were so familiar, some seams warped, some tones slightly faded. Ilya closed the rest of the space between them in an instant, taking it from Shane with both hands.

Fuck, now Shane looked shy. And hopeful.

Ilya's thumb found the worn area on the jersey's cuff where he'd sit in the sin-bin passing the stitching between his teeth, gnawing restlessly, counting down the seconds til he could get back in play. He vividly remembered the first winter he'd been in Canada, just sixteen; he'd tuck his nose into the neck of one of these jerseys and breathe the heat coming off his own chest, making a tiny warm cave in the vast cold country he'd chosen over the even vaster, colder country he'd left behind.

Ilya turned the jersey over in his hands, finding his number, tracing it. Fuck, he had worn this, for some of those old games, faded in memory and yet still so fucking real. It was like the cheers of the crowd had sunk into the fibres between his fingers. He could almost taste the sweat of past effort. He had worn it, he was convinced.

And now Shane was going to wear it for him.

Ilya handed it back to him. "Yes," he said, when Shane's gaze snapped to him. "Is good – was mine."

"And can I, um, do you want me to wear it? For you," and Ilya's arousal surged at the tentative enthusiasm in Shane's voice. 

"Da," he said thickly, then smirked. "Keep socks on."

Shane grinned and obeyed, pulling Ilya's jersey over his naked body – keeping the socks – and Ilya's mouth went dry. Shane wasn't fully hard again yet, but the jersey trailed down over his ass, skimming the tops of his bare thighs, making the heavy hang of his cock just a suggestion behind the hem of the fabric.

Ilya found he had to lick his lips to be able to make words. "When did you get it?" He was positive he hadn't seen it before. He would have noticed.

Shane's cheeks gained a pretty, bashful pink tinge. "Uh, a while ago. After I signed the contract for this place, but before I moved in. I'd been thinking about it for a while, then this one came up, mint condition apparently, not signed but they swore you'd worn it. And no one else had worn it either, since—uh, since your time. And buying something like that had always seemed too crazy before, but then… not as crazy as buying a whole house?"

"No. Buying whole house is peak crazy," Ilya agreed. Then he felt his eyes go narrow. "You never wore it before?"

"No!" Shane looked appalled.

"But you think about it," Ilya guessed.

"Uh… sometimes," Shane said, blushing harder.

"Wearing my jersey and jerking off."

"No," Shane insisted, glancing straight at him and then away, mumbling, "more like wearing your jersey and getting you to autograph it."

"Fuck, that's cute," Ilya admitted, circling him. The mirror across from their bed showed him another angle, the jersey just slightly oversized on Shane's narrower frame. "Where would you have me sign it?"

"Um… here, probably." A sleeve.

Ilya touched the proffered arm, then kept circling. The sight of Shane in his old jersey was flicking on lights in his brain that he'd never been aware of before. He'd never had someone else wear it before. Groupies, sure, they'd turn up in twos and threes in bright blue polyester and the number 81, not quite the right shade, very shiny. All too happy to hoist the replica jerseys up so Ilya could sign their tits – it was the eighties, after all – but the feeling of this fabric, sliding over Shane's heated skin, was something else. Something evocative and erotic and primal, almost, like Shane had stepped right through into Ilya's past. 

Ilya was struck with a familiar, piercing desire to see Shane up close and personal on the ice. But that would be impossible. Yes, he was more real than ever at home, the site he’d been haunting for years and the resting place of the necklace, but outside the perimeter of his house, even with Shane wearing the necklace, things got… unpredictable, again. 

No, this was probably as close as Ilya would get to seeing Shane in all his gear. 

Pity, because Ilya's jersey looked so fucking good on him.

"Pretty," Ilya said, without meaning to; looking at Shane's freckles, his pouty lips. The vintage blue made them stand out all the more vividly. Details like that somehow never made it through the TV screen.

"Fuck off," Shane mouthed, without even the slightest edge to it.

Ilya felt like he was dreaming, unspooling, spiralling. He reined in his thoughts, even as he got out his dick.

"Get on the bed." His voice was unrecognizable.

Again without hesitation, Shane crawled onto the bed on his hands and knees. Ilya watched the hem of the jersey slide up over his thighs. The fabric still covered his beautiful ass, but barely. The tops of his thighs were just on display, and there was a glimpse of the dark hang of his balls, between his legs, deeply shadowed. Ilya wanted to sink his teeth in and—

Ilya groped himself roughly, trying to calm down. Shane had already come, he reminded himself. He was orgasm-pliant and rosy-cheeked and absolutely obedient, but Ilya would still need to be gentle, careful to make it good, not just mount him without preamble and fuck him raw.

"Look back at me," Ilya said, crawling onto the bed behind him, and Shane looked over his shoulder, biting his lip. So fucking pretty it should be outlawed. He hoped Shane had a good view of himself in the mirror, how his hips were crooked back already, the jut of them veiled but the angle oh so needy.

"Good," Ilya said, as if the sight didn't threaten to undo him as well. "Keep watching."

Ilya reached down and clasped Shane's ass with both hands, bunching up the thick fabric and then smoothing it flat again. It was mesmerizing, Shane's gleaming skin pale against the vivid blue, the heat coming off of him. Ilya felt like he was in a horny trance, some personalized and deeply revealing porno. There he was, entirely lost in pushing the hem of his old jersey up the steep curves of Shane's ass, just enough to reveal his target, before folding forward and burying his face in Shane’s ass, fisting the cloth against his hips.

"Ahhh—" Shane sighed, sounding relieved and frustrated at once. What, had he actually wanted Ilya to take him straight away? Maybe, probably.

Ilya's dick throbbed, but he set about making them both accept this course of events instead, kissing and nuzzling deeply. He knew he was right when Shane leaned back against him, spreading his knees wordlessly wider. Ilya lost himself in this sensation as well, the intimate taste and feel, scrunching the jersey in both hands to pull it taut against Shane's body as he breathed every devotion against Shane's hole.

Shane's breath hitched and wavered as Ilya lapped and sucked, getting him wet, holding his hips steady through the slinky fabric.

"C'mon Ilya, don't tease," Shane groaned, and Ilya caught the echo in it; maybe Shane had been building a picture of this in his head too.

"You want me."

"Uh, yeah," Shane breathed, rocking back against his mouth. "So much."

"Maybe you picture it too, huh? You in my jersey, taking my dick."

"Well yeah, for the past few minutes that's been on my mind!"

"Is good. We are thinking same thing. But first I need you to relax, hm?"

Shane grunted in impatience and so Ilya slowed it down even more. He wasn't even exaggerating much. Shane was always insanely tight after a game, everywhere, from core to calves—multiple muscle groups holding the tension of being pushed to the limits of their endurance and then, most often, neglected beyond a few wind-down stretches, a perfunctory hot shower.

Ilya had barely fingered him earlier, just the push of two fingers to give Shane something to grind against. Now Shane's tight rim twitched furiously against his tongue as Ilya teased it, taunted it; reminding Shane's hole how good it felt to ease open for him, before cruelly withdrawing again.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Rozanov," Shane growled, after he'd done that maybe a dozen times, and Ilya grinned and bit the curve of his ass instead, leaving a flushed red crescent.

"I told you. Be patient."

"Once you're in you can go as slow as you like," Shane grumbled, proof if Ilya needed it that the champagne was having some sort of an effect by now. "I just need… more…. C'monnnn…"

Ilya pretended to consider it, as if his own body hadn't revved like his favourite ‘87 911 Turbo at this open pleading. He was so hard, sweating under his clothes. He wished them away with his mind and—they didn't budge. Fuck, he was so corporeal right now he was going to have to remove his clothes manually. And just at this moment he didn’t have a hand free, with both occupied restraining Shane’s hips where they were rocking against his face. 

"Ask nicely," Ilya said instead.

"Please," Shane said immediately, so vehement that Ilya suspected he also must be hard now, again. He reached around and was pleased to find the solid length of Shane's dick pushing aside the trailing edge of the jersey.

On a whim, Ilya wrapped the fabric around it and started to stroke.

"Ilya! Fuck," Shane yelped, sounding scandalized but also shoving recklessly into Ilya's fist.

Ilya refused to answer, instead focusing on working his tongue once more, finding it infinitely easier to get inside him like this; licking deeply into the tremulous heat of him as Shane shivered and whimpered and swore.

"Ilya," Shane said again, a wet spot forming in the cloth gripped in Ilya's hand; fuck, that was hot, "please, please—"

Ilya gave in. There was no sound sweeter on earth than Shane's voice wavering like that, strained with need, imploring. Ilya surged up over him, releasing Shane's cock to fish around for the lube bottle instead, finding it at last, fumbling slightly, sweaty-palmed. How was he like this? Already? But it was like the world had shrunk to this moment, the connection between them glowing white-hot, magnetic, filling his vision with staticky pulses.

Ilya stroked himself with a brisk drizzle of lube, trying not to squeeze too hard. Could get embarrassing… Fuck, he was panting, when had that started?

But Shane was panting too. And muttering under his breath, impatient and whiny.

Ilya moved on instinct, blindly reaching beneath the jersey to guide himself, brushing his cockhead against the slick hot promise of Shane's hole; biting down on a hushed, breathless noise as he pressed and angled, feeling its rigidity start to give. Ilya still thought he should have opened him up more first—but Shane clearly didn't think it necessary. And it was hot, having to prize him open with the head of his cock, feeling Shane relinquish space to him by devastatingly slow degrees.

Eventually Ilya gave in and pushed with his weight behind, entering him firmly enough that Shane squeaked and shuddered, but Shane didn't pull away, so Ilya just said, "See?" And kept pushing.

"Mmph," Shane said, and Ilya realized he was biting his own fist. Maybe he should ease off. But no sooner had he thought that than Shane blurted, "don't stop—I can take it."

"Then don't cover your mouth," Ilya huffed, the depth of his own voice stolen by how good it felt to have Shane this tight around his cock, sliding all the way in. All that trembling heat was a gift now, and watching the way his number stretched and gleamed over Shane's broad back was adding one hell of an extra thrill. "Let me hear you."

"Ilya…" Shane slurred, collapsing onto his elbows, head falling forward. "Fuckkk. Yes. Keep going."

Ilya was close to bottoming out—he wanted to see Shane's face as he did.

"Look at me." He slowed the push of it right down when Shane didn't react straight away.

"Ah," Shane muttered, and how a man could make a single syllable sound so plaintive and irate at once, Ilya had no idea.

Ilya braced both hands on Shane's hips and started to withdraw.

"No," Shane protested.

"Look at me," Ilya said again, though he couldn't exactly talk, because his attention had been irrevocably captured by the vision in front of him: his jersey draping down over Shane's rounded ass as he pulled out, obscuring the sight of his cock entering Shane's body. For some reason that turned him on even more.

"You look at me," Shane said, complaining now.

"Oh, I am looking." He felt Shane quiver around him, and they both gasped. Ilya held the jersey up with his thumbs and gave an experimental thrust; fuck, it felt amazing, sinking into him with that visual, pulling out until just the head remained inside and then giving him the whole glorious length at once.

Shane thumped the mattress with his fist, groaning fervently. "Yes…"

"This what you wanted?" Ilya whispered—he'd intended it as a bark but his voice was dissolving again, lost in the wave of pleasure at breaching Shane's hole again and again.

"…yes…"

"Good," Ilya said lamely. Fuck, he was being rendered speechless by the grip of Shane's body, the heat of him, the way he took it, so familiar now and yet blindsiding him every single time. How was he real? He rallied. "Okay, look at me. Do it this time. In mirror."

It was a mistake. He realized the moment their eyes met through the crisp reflection, he was doomed. The sight of his own mostly clothed body draped over Shane's – wearing Ilya's jersey and those white socks and nothing else – was already a lot, but the eye contact was devastating. Shane's flushed face, dewy with strain and scowling with effort, pleading through the mirror with those damned big brown eyes—Ilya was lost. He pushed up his jersey, seized Shane's bare hips, and pounded him.

"Oh fuck, fuck, Ilya, fuck," Shane babbled, melting immediately with his eyelids gliding closed once more, and Ilya folded forward, wrapped his arm around Shane's chest and hauled him back against him. Fucking god bless all that yoga, Shane's body could take it at all sorts of angles, so this blurry mess of ass-up-elbows-down and all Ilya's weight on his back seemed completely fine. More than fine, Shane rocking and mumbling beneath him, evermore urgent as Ilya just about remembered to get a hand beneath him, stroke him off as well. Not in time, no, because he was a ghost not a fucking wizard; but it was enough, apparently, when Shane yelled and arched and spurted all over the bed.

"Ye-e-esss," Shane moaned, voice modulated around the force of Ilya's thrusts, the sound of it getting under Ilya's skin and making him glow all over.

He was perfect. This was perfect. Everything was perfect.

Ilya's own orgasm was building, fast now that he could feel the aftershocks ricocheting through Shane's body. Ilya turned his head to watch them in the mirror again, the world tingling white around the edges, saw that his reflection had turned luminous as well. Almost dreamlike, he spread his light-infused hand over the back of Shane's neck and crushed him down into the mattress, slamming out his last few thrusts as hard as he could.

"Mine," he said, pitching it guttural; it came out fervent but… ethereal. "You are mine, eternally—say it."

"Yes…" Shane's voice was a shattered, shimmering thing, barely discernible. "Yours, all yours, only yours."

And an overwhelming white flash of pleasure took Ilya completely.

SHANE

Stanley cup – check.

Champagne blowjob – check.

Coming like a fire-hose with Ilya still punishing his ass like he owned it – a big fucking fantastic fucking check, Jesus.

He was so lucky.

He wriggled under Ilya's weight as he continued to fuck him. Fuck, this was almost his favourite part, his own pleasure still reverberating, enjoying the customary change in pace as Ilya finished himself off with an increasingly selfish rhythm: a possessive snarl, a flurry of thrusts, then coming apart as Shane slurred out "Yours" in reply—but then everything went quiet. 

Instead of collapsing on top of him, panting and gasping, Ilya's weight vanished and he was silent—less than silent. Ilya was gone. Shane was empty. Shane was alone.

Shane rolled over, bleary and confused, pushing up on his hands and looking around. What the hell?

Ilya had… vanished. Had been right in the middle of finishing inside him, corporeal as he damn well pleased, hot and heavy and pretty fucking loud as well, and then he had just… evaporated, into thin air.

Shane shifted uneasily, scanning the corners of the room. This was off. Way off. Ilya didn't ever normally do that. Since the day Shane had first put on the necklace, Ilya had made a post-coital habit of luxuriating on top of him – or under him – until Shane complained and insisted they disengage. Normally they'd lie there together in a delicious sweaty slump, peppered with little kisses until such time as the shower started calling out to him in earnest.

Maybe Ilya had something else planned?

Shane wasn't sure what that might be, though. He certainly didn't have the energy to go for round three. The combined force of a career high triumph, half a bottle of champagne and two orgasms in quick succession had reduced him to a languid puddle of contentment. 

Now he just wanted to relax. Together.

But maybe Ilya wanted some time on his own.

Seemed less likely. Kinda impolite. But, okay. 

Shane occupied himself by stripping off the sweaty, stained 81 jersey and then laid it carefully across his armchair with a little smirk. No longer mint condition, and he regretted nothing. He’d wash it first thing tomorrow. He liked the idea of it going into the usual rotation of laundry, now. He really liked the idea of Ilya wearing it some time. Maybe they could even—no. Impossible to imagine getting onto the ice together. But he could dream.

He might mention it to Ilya when he got back from wherever he'd gone.

Yeah, okay, this was getting ridiculous now. Where was he?

Shane dimmed the lamp, then heard light footsteps scampering up the stairs, and just had time to roll over and shield his debauched body with a hastily grabbed blanket before a tiny soft figure was hurling herself across the room and scrabbling up onto the bed.

"Hey, hey, stop it," Shane protested, holding the puppy away from him before she could lick his neck. There was only one person that Shane allowed to lick his neck—operative word being person. Or maybe the operative word was one.

He carded his fingers through her silky fur, appeasing her with a good scritch all up and down her back. Then he cocked his head, abruptly perplexed. This was even weirder. Normally, if Ilya wasn't entertaining himself with Shane, or watching sports, he was invariably cosseting Anya. There really weren't many other places he gravitated to these days.

A shiver climbed its way up Shane's spine.

Where the hell had Ilya gone?

ILYA

Fuck that felt good, incredible, he was coming and coming, it was perfect, Shane was perfect, everything was—wait, what the fuck?!

Ilya felt like he was moving, sailing through space or possibly time itself, surfing an orgasmic wave of pleasure that was going on far too fucking long.

Ilya fought his eyes open, the blissful white-light-heat-ecstasy cascading through him, a climax to end all climaxes that did not stop. The room around him had disappeared as well, and Ilya's body had disappeared, and Shane – Shane had disappeared – and no, no, no way, absolutely not, as far as Ilya was concerned this white light euphoric paradise-hurtling bullshit could fuck right off.

It was not his time.

Any fucking fool could see that.

He would not panic.

Ilya tried to pinch himself, but he had rapidly become a disembodied spirit with a distinct lack of opposable thumbs.

Fine, a mental pinch then: he thought about losing Shane. He'd only just found him, and now he was losing him, and—yes, that fucking hurt.

It didn't slow down the hurtling rush though.

Shit! What was he meant to do then? 

He tried to think of what Sveta used to say about ghosts and 'passing on', her haughty authoritative mish-mash of Russian folklore and the fashionable new-age witchcraft she'd raved about after one too many trips to nineteen-eighties San Fran; okay, something about the timing of it all. Yes, the idea of losing Shane hurt, but it wasn't a hurt that predated his death, so it wouldn't have any traction here.

Fuck.

He racked his brain for pre-death lacerations to his psyche, and was dismayed to find that Shane had dealt with most of them. There were still scars of course, various psychological splinters lodged deep, but the superficial aches and pains of his Canadian life held very little power now.

Even the deeper wounds of being bereaved and estranged by those he should have relied on, the rolling perilous hurt of a life in the closet, had been salved to some extent. The pain of losing his mother was of course still there but the lancing sorrow of it was now clean, not poisoned, not ugly, because it was no longer true that he had lost the only person who could ever love him back. There was someone in his life now who loved him as she would have wanted, even if they hadn't quite said that out loud yet; against the odds, Ilya had found himself someone who he knew his mother would have loved too.

Fuck, what if this was it, he was being sucked inexorably into whatever came next, and he'd never told Shane any of this? Fuck, fuck. He needed more time.

It was insane to think that the greatest loss of his life no longer counted as unfinished business. But no: being sad about a very sad thing, without being twisted in resentful knots about it, was apparently not grounds to roam the earth unsatisfied. 

Only the unlived life is free of grief—another thing Sveta used to say, her hand in his hair, his wet cheek in her lap. And that was it. He was glad he'd known his mother long enough to love her; and he was glad now of the man he'd become, in no small part honouring her memory. The grief was still there, but cleansed, elevated.

And not enough to hold him back from a one-way trip to nirvana, apparently.

Fuck! Okay, okay, what else. What about Sveta herself? Desperate now, Ilya tried to lean into his complicated feelings about Svetlana Vetrova, daughter of an influential hockey legend goalie, and legend herself between Ilya's sheets when she wasn't off building her commercial empire—but even there he felt nothing but peace. The regret he'd always felt at never managing to love her back was validated now. He wasn't meant for her; he was meant for Shane.

Ilya snarled, a pure and disembodied sound. This sucked! Peace and acceptance was no fucking good; he was running out of time! He needed to land this already!

He no longer felt euphoric, but the rushing sensation was speeding up, not slowing down. There was white light all around him, getting brighter. He felt like his consciousness was pulling apart from itself, spiderweb threads in the sunlight, disintegrating under the slightest pressure.

He was losing this, helpless—losing Shane, so fucking soon, too fucking soon. What else? Fuck, what else, what else? He hadn't felt this powerless since—ah.

His death.

Jackpot.

He hadn't thought about it for a while – indeed, he'd actually started having some weird feelings of acceptance about it, because if he'd never died he would have surely been too old by now to seduce Shane Hollander – and definitely wouldn't have the hip strength to fuck him like he needed – but now he ripped off the band-aid of that burgeoning acceptance and let all the old poison rush to the surface again.

Technically it was peri-death not pre-death but he figured the memory of awful, lurching realization still counted and it didn't… it didn't feel clean. The pain of that day, of that drive, was still twisted and ugly and unsatisfying. He'd been fucking murdered and he didn't know by whom, or why.

The white light dimmed.

Ilya redoubled his focus. Because it wasn't just his death that hurt—it was the betrayal. How dare someone sabotage his favourite car? And how could he not know who had done it—how could there be a whole fucking list of people who might have had it in for him? That was fucked up. Even more fucked up: how dare his asshole father have been such a colossal shit that Ilya's instant, top suspicion was that this was Grigori Rozanov's last act from beyond the grave? And… was it going to hurt?

The rushing sensation faltered.

Ilya leaned on the pain like someone expertly pressing a bruise. How dare someone rip his life away when it was finally just starting to get good? He didn’t. Fucking. Deserve it.

The white insubstantial nothingness splintered, and darkness flooded in. Blessed, familiar darkness.

A moment later, the best sound in the world, a sleep-roughened half-groan of a voice: "Ilya?"

Ilya rolled over in bed, back in his body, his sweaty aching wonderful naked body next to Shane in the pitch blackness, and only just managed to bury his face in Shane's shoulder before the sobbing began.

SHANE

Shane had been fast asleep, and then he wasn't.

Ilya had been somewhere else, and then he was here.

Disoriented and groggy, Shane had been opting to blame the champagne. This was why he didn't drink, he couldn't handle it, it made his head all muzzy. He'd drunk a litre of water and walked around the house calling for Ilya, Anya stalking at his feet, then eventually he'd given up and gone to bed, her silent shape a weighty curved comet against the back of his leg. Ilya would be back. Wherever he'd gone, he would be back. There was no other acceptable option.

What was Ilya going to do, ghost him?

Anyway, here he was.

And now he was rolling into Shane's welcoming arms and… sobbing.

What the hell?

"Hey," Shane said quickly, aghast but only wanting to help, gathering Ilya into his arms and letting him sink his face into the hollow of Shane's neck. "Hey…"

His attempts at comforting him, or maybe the sound of his low voice, seemed to cause a new eruption of emotion. Ilya was shaking. There were tears, sliding wet against Shane's neck, and the hot huff of his laboured breath, and Ilya’s trembling fingers latching onto Shane's arms and clinging—it was a lot. Shane held him, at a loss for what else to do. He couldn’t think of anything to say. He didn’t know what this was, and he definitely didn’t know how to make it better.  

Shane felt a scuffle of movement next to him: Anya, jumping up to investigate, snuffling earnestly at Ilya's cheek. Nuzzling him.

Ilya sobbed even harder.

Eventually Shane got it: he wasn't supposed to do or say anything. He just had to be here. He stared at the darkened ceiling, squeezing the shuddering body in his arms as hard as he dared, and made what he hoped were undemanding soothing noises.

At long last, he detected that the peak of emotion was starting to subside.

"Fuck," Ilya said wetly, against his throat. "I'm sorry."

Shane felt his brow crinkle. "Why are you sorry? That's not…"

"I fucked up," Ilya said, his voice sounding as raw as if he'd been screaming. "I got too happy. What is word—complacent. I nearly ruined everything. I… I love you."

Shane had opened his mouth to say That makes no sense but his voice died away at the naked emotion of Ilya's words. They hadn't actually said that before.

"Holy shit," he said, and then rushed on, the words sliding against each other in ungainly haste, "I mean, I love you too, Ilya, I—"

"Shhhhh," Ilya hissed, hiccuping against his throat. "Don't make me happy."

"All I want is to make you happy."

"Well, don't," Ilya implored, ragged now, and Shane couldn't tell if he was joking or deadly serious, but he knew an order when he heard one.

"Okay," he said gamely, stroking the back on Ilya's neck with two fingertips, up and down. He cast around for inspiration.  "I guess I'll… steal all the blankets tonight. And uh, kick you if you snore. And I'll tell Anya your pillow is her pillow."

Ilya gave a tiny, gruff little laugh. "I do not do this – snore."

"Hate to break it to you…" Shane teased, and Ilya raised his head in mock outrage, meeting Shane's gaze at last. Shane struggled not to react at the sight of his red-rimmed eyes with their spiky, dark, wet lashes. "…you categorically do snore. On your back, anyway. Ever since you started sleeping next to me for real. I figure it's my job to…" He mimed rolling over a heavy log. "Do us both a favour."

"Fuck off," Ilya laughed, though his eyes seemed fathomless, intent. "Is lies. Liar told you—"

"Heard it with my own two ears," Shane interrupted, and flashed a toothy grin, aiming for incredibly irritating. Succeeding, he reckoned, when Ilya's eyes narrowed.

"Fuck off."

"You're like a chainsaw. I'll record it on my phone next time."

"Only asshole would do that," Ilya grumbled, but grudgingly smiling. "I will tell everyone. Shane Hollander, he is asshole, don't let him deceive you with big brown eyes."

Shane made his eyes as big as possible and smiled back at him. "They'll never believe you. My boring, good boy reputation? Bulletproof."

Ilya made an aggrieved noise and flopped down next to him. Anya followed suit, sprawling out dramatically alongside with her paws pressed together.

After a few minutes, Ilya's hand snuck onto Shane's chest.

Wordlessly, Shane enclosed it with his own.

He still didn't know what was going on, but at least Ilya was back beside him. Right here. And that was all that mattered.

Shane waited until he was on the fringes of sleep before venturing, "Unhappy enough?"

"For now," Ilya rumbled, and squeezed his fingers.

Shane lay awake for a long, long time.