Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Post-Canon, Established Relationship, Married Couple, Shane Hollander Walks Ilya Rozanov Like A Dog, Light Dom/sub, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay, Service Top Ilya Rozanov, Power Bottom Shane Hollander, Sexual Overstimulation, Coming Untouched, Fluff and Smut

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-21 Words: 6,339 Chapters: 1/1

home ice

Summary

Things were good this morning. Shane woke him up gently and they stayed in bed a bit, just sharing warmth and soft, unhurried kisses until it was time to get up; Anya excitedly barked and jumped around them until Ilya opened the bay window to let her outside where she did her business before returning to beg for breakfast like they never feed her; Ilya grumbled about the food Shane prepared but he ate it anyway. This morning was like most of the mornings they’ve had since they got married and Ilya had seemed as excited about practice as Shane had felt.

Ilya’s grip on the steering wheel tightens. “Not now,” he says, and it feels like a slap to the face.

---

September 2021, married Shane and Ilya are now playing on the same team, and the things it does to Ilya.

Notes

The hockey boys have taken over, send help.

A big thank you to flan for encouraging me through this while feeding me delicious hollanov food at the same time.

“Okay, what’s wrong?” Shane finally asks, his stomach tied in knots.

Ilya’s been frowning during the entirety of their first practice at camp, looking like his breakfast didn’t agree with him except they had the same thing this morning because Shane made sure of it, and he’s feeling fine. Well, he was feeling fine, until Ilya got oddly quiet and all frowny, and Shane knows he’s not very good at figuring out what people are thinking, but he thought he’d gotten better when it comes to Ilya.

He doesn’t know what that face he’s been making means though and it’s bothering him, because today was Shane’s first practice as an Ottawa Centaur, and he’d been excited about it—a bit nervous as well, sure, but mostly excited. And now Ilya is making that face, the weird face Shane thinks makes him look constipated maybe, or at the very least bothered by something.

The silence is also not good. Shane has a mental list of things that make Ilya grow quiet, and nothing except Something is bothering him is matching right now.

Things were good this morning. Shane woke him up gently and they stayed in bed a bit, just sharing warmth and soft, unhurried kisses until it was time to get up; Anya excitedly barked and jumped around them until Ilya opened the bay window to let her outside where she did her business before returning to beg for breakfast like they never feed her; Ilya grumbled about the food Shane prepared but he ate it anyway. This morning was like most of the mornings they’ve had since they got married and Ilya had seemed as excited about practice as Shane had felt.

Ilya’s grip on the steering wheel tightens. “Not now,” he says, and it feels like a slap to the face.

What went wrong? Did Ilya just realize he actually hates the two of them being on the same team?

The thought makes Shane feel ill. Yes, they’ve played on the same team before during All-Star games and it was great, but that’s not the same as playing a whole season on the same team, is it?

Shane tries desperately to figure out what might have gone wrong during practice for Ilya to be so upset. He replays the whole session in his head, but then he thinks it started before they even hit the ice, and Shane didn’t even really say anything while they were gearing up. Did he?

He doesn’t think he did or said anything wrong, but that doesn’t mean Ilya can’t be having second thoughts about the two of them playing on the same team. Is it another adjustment they need to make, because going from seeing each other once in a while whenever their schedules would allow it, to living together turned out to be a major change they actually weren’t really prepared for? Or maybe Ilya liked the rivalry better. Shane wouldn’t blame him if he did, as obnoxious as Ilya can be on the ice, it was—exciting, to play against him. He does think he’ll miss it too, the thrill of facing off against Ilya Rozanov, the way Ilya would grin at him or smash him against the boards before whispering to him something he definitely shouldn’t be whispering during a game.

Yes, it drove Shane crazy, but it felt good too.

So, is that what's going on? Ilya had been excited about the two of them playing for the Centaurs, but maybe their first practice together made him change his mind.

Shane glances over. Ilya's jaw is tight, his eyes fixed on the road, but there's something in the set of his shoulders, the way he keeps shifting his weight, that doesn't quite read as angry. Shane can't put his finger on it.

The car stops and Shane blinks, almost surprised to see their house standing in front of him. Ilya still doesn’t say anything though, he cuts off the engine and gets out of the car before opening the back door on his side to let Anya out. Shane scrambles to get out of the car too, and he can’t quite breathe as he follows Ilya to the front door.

“Look, I—” he starts as he walks inside and closes the door, because this is killing him, but Ilya is suddenly pushing him, and Shane’s back hits the door just as Ilya’s mouth meets his.

The kiss is hungry, as hungry as the hands that slip under his shirt, fingers digging into his waist. Shane can only moan, heat pooling in his belly and making him shudder all over, while Ilya devours him like they haven’t been touching for months.

“Wha—” Shane tries to ask as Ilya starts mouthing at his chin, his throat, and lands right over his pulse point. “What’s gotten into you?”

“You,” Ilya growls against his throat. “Wearing my colors.”

Between the hands groping him and the mouth kissing him and Ilya crowding him against the door, it takes Shane a moment to comprehend what Ilya just said, and even then—

“What?” He stammers. What does he mean, his colors? “They're our colors.”

Ilya makes another desperate noise against his throat that goes straight to Shane's cock. “Yes,” Ilya says and starts tugging on Shane's shirt to pull it off.

You're such a fucking asshole, he almost says because here he was, worrying Ilya didn't want them to play together after all, when he was actually horny, but then Shane's brain gets stuck on that word as Ilya successfully removes his shirt and drops it on the floor, his hands already roaming all over Shane's naked chest.

“That was not your horny face,” Shane says with a frown.

Ilya stops kissing his neck and looks up, cocking an eyebrow. “My horny face?”

Shane feels his own flush, because no matter how many years it's been, that mocking tone paired up with the heat in Ilya's gaze has always made his insides squirm in a strange mix of embarrassment and want.

“One of your horny faces.”

“Oh, I have several?”

Yes, he does. There's the one he's making right now, the small smile and sparkling eyes that mean I'm going to tease you until you beg me to fuck you; there's the sharp grin and wild glint in his eyes that mean I'm going to be a nightmare on the ice and then fuck you so hard you'll come handsfree; there's the pouty lips and impish look in his eyes that mean I'm going to blow you while you're on the phone with your best friend, there's—

“Tell me about my horny faces, Hollander,” Ilya says as he cups Shane's jaw and pushes his thumb between Shane's lips.

“Fuck you,” he mumbles around Ilya’s finger, his cheeks growing hotter.

Ilya's grin widens, wicked and satisfied. He pushes his thumb deeper inside Shane’s mouth, pressing against his tongue, making him huff loudly through his nose when he slips a thigh between Shane’s legs.

“The whole time,” Ilya says as he leans in to press a kiss against the corner of Shane’s mouth. “I see you and I think—” He pauses, his voice growing huskier: “Mine. Everyone can see.”

Shane squeezes his eyes shut, a moan tearing itself out of his throat as a spark of electricity runs up his spine at Ilya’s words. He swirls his tongue around the thumb in his mouth, his hips shifting back and forth as he seeks more contact against Ilya’s thigh.

“The second best player in the league,” Ilya whispers. “All mine.”

Shane opens his eyes to glare at him and bites on his thumb, but Ilya only grins and pulls his finger out to kiss him like he’s trying to crawl inside Shane, making him forget all about his taunting words.

Ilya’s hands slide down to Shane's belt, and Shane realizes distantly that they're still standing in the entryway, that Anya is probably watching them from somewhere, that they haven't even taken their shoes off.

None of it matters.

"All day," Ilya says between kisses, working Shane's belt open with practiced ease. "I wanted to fuck you in it.”

Shane laughs breathlessly because that's so incredibly Ilya, to spend a whole day looking miserable because he was desperately turned on and couldn't do anything about it. "You looked like you wanted to murder someone."

"I did," Ilya says, deadly serious, and drops to his knees.

“Fuck,” Shane moans as Ilya looks up at him through his lashes.

"Can I?"

It's not really a question—Ilya's already mouthing at him through his pants, already has Shane's zipper halfway down—but Shane nods anyway, his hand coming up to thread through Ilya's hair.

"Yeah," he breathes. "Yeah, okay."

Ilya hums, pleased, and gets Shane’s pants and underwear low enough to free his cock. He avoids the shaft to suck one of Shane’s balls into his mouth, and Shane throws his head back with a moan, his fingers tightening their grip on Ilya’s curls.

Ilya takes his time, switching between gentle suction and the flat of his tongue. Shane's thighs are already trembling, his other hand scrabbling against the door for purchase as Ilya finally, finally drags his tongue up the length of Shane's cock.

"Ilya," Shane gasps, and he doesn’t even care about the pleading edge in his own voice. "Please—"

But of course Ilya just pulls off entirely, looking up at Shane with those infuriatingly piercing eyes, his lips wet and red. "Please what?"

"You're such an asshole," Shane manages, tugging on Ilya's hair in frustration.

Ilya laughs, warm breath ghosting over Shane's cock and making him shudder. "You love it," he says, which is infuriatingly true, and then he takes Shane into his mouth in one smooth movement that makes Shane's vision go white at the edges.

He's good at this—too good, really—and he knows exactly what Shane likes. The steady rhythm, the occasional scrape of teeth that shouldn't work but does, the way he hollows his cheeks and takes Shane deeper until Shane is fighting not to thrust into his mouth.

"Fuck, Ilya, I'm—" Shane whines and Ilya just hums again, the vibration sending another jolt of pleasure through Shane's body. “I’m close,” he warns him, because he knows Ilya doesn’t mind swallowing but he also knows how much he loves deciding whether or not Shane gets to come.

(Shane loves it too, the surrendering, the not having to think about anything but how badly he wants Ilya to call him good, how it lights him up from the inside whenever Ilya denies him, the relief when he finally tells him to come.)

He knows Ilya is going to pull off before he does, but that doesn’t stop the whine that tears itself out of his throat, nor the way his hips buck, seeking Ilya’s warm mouth.

“Fuck you,” he croaks out at Ilya’s smug expression, his stomach clenching almost painfully.

Ilya hums and plants a wet kiss just below his navel, then stands up to kiss him on the mouth. “Bedroom,” he drawls against Shane’s lips. “Clothes off.”

So Shane scrambles to toe his shoes off under Ilya’s smug gaze and takes his pants and underwear off before heading towards the bedroom, he can hear Ilya cooing at Anya who’s probably already planted in front of her food bowl as he takes up the stairs and can’t hold back a snort, amused despite his aching cock.

Shane goes straight to the bathroom to leave his clothes in the hamper and take off his socks, then back to the bedroom where he pauses on his way to the bed.

Ilya said clothes off, but, well.

Shane doubts he’ll be disappointed by this, considering. He opens the closet and quickly scans its contents, a grin tugging at his lips when he spots Ilya’s Ottawa Centaurs t-shirt. He quickly puts it on and gets situated on the bed. For a second, he feels self-conscious in a way he rarely does with Ilya these days, but then he thinks about the heat in Ilya’s gaze, the way he kissed him like he really has been thinking about fucking Shane during the entirety of practice, and he can’t resist wrapping a hand around his cock to give it a few gentle strokes.

He thinks about it, really thinks about it, being out there wearing Ilya’s colors, their colors, everyone seeing it: the way they belong to each other. The scary things already happened; people know about them, his teammates turned against him the moment he made a mistake and put it on his and Ilya’s relationship, his job was threatened. Everything he was so, so scared of happened, but he didn’t lose everything.

Some fans, sure, but he gained others, and Shane never really cared about fans, only about hockey. A team, yes, but he has a new one, a team where no one would ever ask him if he ever let Ilya win when he’s been dedicated over ten years of his life to beating him on the ice.

The scary things already happened, so Shane can focus on how affected by them wearing the same colors Ilya is, and how that affects him.

Shane spreads his legs a bit more and reaches down with his other hand to press two fingers against his taint as he strokes the tip of his cock with his thumb; you're so wet, Hollander, he can hear Ilya's voice, his slightly mocking tone but also always a bit awed too, and it makes him shudder.

He's so lost in it he almost doesn't hear the sound of Ilya climbing the stairs and he barely opens his eyes in time to find him standing in the doorway with his mouth open and his eyes wide. Ilya's cheeks are flushed and he's looking at Shane like he can't quite believe what he's seeing, so still he looks like he isn't even breathing anymore.

Shane’s face feels like it's on fire but he smirks, pleased with himself and with Ilya's reaction, and he gives himself a slow, torturous stroke.

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya says, his voice stuck between a groan and a whine.

“It's not your jersey, but…” he trails off and can't hold back a laugh when Ilya gets rid of the rest of his clothes, sprints towards the bed and crawls over him to kiss him hungrily.

“You will kill me,” Ilya groans against his mouth.

Shane used to feel so unbalanced, like he was the only one getting so affected by everything Ilya said or did, while Ilya could say things like I want to fuck you, and you like sucking my cock with a straight face. Ilya who’d had sex with men, well, a man, before Shane who’d only had sex that had left him wondering what all the fuss was about. He used to think the things Ilya said were just that, things he said, dirty talk, because he’s always running his mouth.

But Shane learned, and now he knows. He knows Ilya Rozanov doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean, that he’s just as affected as Shane is. It’s in his eyes, the way he looks at Shane like he can’t quite believe he’s real, the way he touches him, like he wants to leave the imprint of his hands on every inch of Shane’s body. It’s in the way his voice cracks when he says Shane’s name.

It was always there, in all the little things Shane learned to notice.

Ilya runs his hands under the t-shirt, groping and stroking and pinching, but he never tries to take it off and Shane can only let out a high-pitched laugh that turns into a moan when Ilya plants one last kiss on his lips and disappears between Shane's thighs.

Shane reaches down to bury his fingers in Ilya's curls as he swallows him down with a filthy noise and lets himself choke a bit on Shane's cock. Ilya wraps one arm around Shane's thigh to hold onto him and pushes his other hand under the Centaurs t-shirt to pinch at Shane's nipple. The sharp sting combined with Ilya's mouth around his cock makes Shane see stars, his back arching into the touch.

“Fuck, Ilya,” he gasps, a bit overwhelmed already, and isn't surprised to find Ilya looking up at him with mischief in his eyes.

Ilya pulls off with a loud pop but Shane doesn't get any respite as he kisses down his shaft, then runs his tongue against Shane's balls before sucking one into his mouth. Shane parts his thighs more and Ilya doesn't waste time burying himself deeper between them, nosing and kissing and licking every inch of skin he can reach like he's been starving. He sucks a bruise into the junction between Shane's groin and thigh, then moves further down his taint, obscene slurping noises and groans filling the air.

“Ilya,” Shane moans.

Ilya hums and pushes his thumb against Shane's hole, not hard enough to move past the ring of muscle.

“Ilya, please,” Shane hisses through his teeth.

Thankfully, Ilya must not feel much like teasing today, because he pulls off, his mouth and cheeks red and a wild look in his eyes as he reaches for the bedside table and the lube they left on top of it the other day.

“Beautiful,” Ilya says, almost to himself, as he squeezes some lube into his hand and smears it all over his cock. He's staring at Shane the whole time—no, at the center of Shane's chest, where his ring is sitting over the logo of the Ottawa Centaurs.

Shane brings a hand to it and strokes the pad of his index finger against the ring, and watches the way Ilya's hand tightens around his cock.

“Come on,” Shane encourages him, and just because: “Husband.”

Ilya lets out a wounded noise, something deep and feral, before he repositions himself between Shane's thighs. They lock eyes and Ilya guides the tip of his cock against Shane's hole, and Shane doesn't have the words to describe the sheer relief that washes over him as he feels the thick head pushing inside him.

Shane doesn't know what he prefers: when Ilya takes his sweet time teasing him, one finger at a time until Shane is writhing from overstimulation, forced to beg Ilya to just give it to him, please please please, or when Ilya can't stand to wait and needs to be inside Shane yesterday.

Fuck, nevermind, he knows what he prefers right now. The desperation with which Ilya enters him, the noises he's making as he can feel Shane relaxing around him, letting him in, deeper, the look on Ilya's face as he watches his cock disappear inside Shane.

“Sweetheart, you take me so well.”

Yes, that. Shane preens, because it's truer now than it has ever been. It’s never been difficult, but it feels deserved now, when Ilya can take him so often that Shane's body just welcomes him every time, like—

“Like you were made for me.”

Shane Hollander was made for hockey. From the first game his mom showed him, probably, even if Shane can't remember it: his hands were made for gripping his stick and guiding the puck. His feet were built for skating, ankles flexing into deep crossovers, edges biting into the ice through sharp stops. His hips were made for twisting, his shoulders built for protecting the puck, absorbing checks, delivering them. His eyes for reading the ice, tracking the play three moves ahead, finding the soft areas in coverage. His knees, for the way they bend deep into his stride, the power they generate pushing off the ice. His ears for listening to the clack-clack of a stick against the ice: I’m here, I’m open. His stomach, to digest the best food into the fuel required to perform at the highest level.

Every inch of his body belongs to hockey.

Or it used to, because now… Now, his hands are also made for carding his fingers through Ilya’s soft curls while he’s half asleep in front of the TV, his head resting on Shane’s lap. His feet are for nudging Ilya’s (I’m here), kicking Ilya’s shins (you’re a menace), for running faster than Ilya (that’s all the garbage you eat). His hips are for Ilya's hands to hold onto, his shoulders for Ilya to nuzzle when he’s waking up in the morning. His eyes are for crying when Ilya fucks into him so good he simply can’t hold them back, and his knees for kneeling at Ilya’s feet. His ears are for listening to Ilya's gentle whistling snores in the morning, and his stomach is for hurting when Ilya makes him laugh too hard.

“Yes,” Shane moans as Ilya bottoms out and stills with a groan.

Yes, he was also made for Ilya, and yes, maybe everyone should know, he thinks when Ilya runs a hand over his thigh, purposefully avoids Shane’s cock and fists the bottom of his Centaurs shirt instead.

You’re going to stretch it, Shane almost says, but any concern for distended fabric flies out of his head when Ilya starts fucking him.

It’s only in times like this that Shane’s head finally becomes quiet: when he’s full of Ilya, his hands gripping the sheets in a fruitless attempt at staying right where he needs to be while Ilya sets a punishing pace. Shane won’t last long, not when Ilya gets like this, solely focused on making Shane lose his mind with each thrust. He doesn’t fight it, there is no reason to when Ilya has seen it all already, when there is no one around who can hear them, and even then, would it really matter? Not anymore, not when decency is the only thing that can hold them back, not secrecy.

Shane lets himself be loud, because it’s so good and because he knows that’s what Ilya wants, just like he knows Ilya wants to see him fall apart on his cock.

“Ilya,” Shane moans and makes himself let go of the sheets to reach out with one hand, and Ilya understands immediately because he releases the now crumpled fabric of his t-shirt and shifts without missing a beat to lean forward and allow Shane to wrap his hand around the back of his neck.

Ilya grabs the headboard with one hand and slips the other under Shane’s shoulder blade, the angle of his thrusts shifts just slightly and it draws a whimper out of Shane that Ilya immediately swallows hungrily.

Shane can barely kiss back, but Ilya seems content to just breathe the same air as him, grinding his hips just right, and it builds, and builds. “I'm—fuck, Ilya.”

“Yes,” Ilya moans. “Let me see, Hollander.”

And it's so easy to give him what he wants when he's fucking Shane just right, when he’s looking at him like that, Shane doesn’t even need to touch himself, he comes with a whimper, his release hitting his chest and staining the Ottawa Centaurs t-shirt.

“Fuck, fuck,” he can hear Ilya moan, his voice a bit muffled by the ringing in Shane’s ears, his thrust speeding up.

“Don’t come,” Shane rasps.

“What,” Ilya says distractedly as he keeps fucking into Shane the way he does when he's about to orgasm, hard and almost desperate.

Shane has to bite back a moan. “Ilya,” he makes his voice sound firmer and moves his hand so he can wrap it around Ilya's throat. “Do not come.”

Ilya goes very still, his eyes widening and his lips parting on a shaky exhale. Shane strokes his neck with his thumb and feels how fast Ilya's pulse is against the pad of his finger.

“Not yet.”

“Shane.”

“Not yet. Keep fucking me.”

Ilya's eyes glaze over and he looks stunned, so Shane moves his hand again and presses his thumb against Ilya's lower lip. “Keep fucking me, please,” he says and pushes his thumb between Ilya's parted lips. They automatically close around it as Ilya bucks his hips a little bit, making his cock shift inside Shane in a way that drags a shaky moan out of him.

He feels so fucking sensitive from his orgasm, his body begging for it to be over now that he came, but it will do what Shane wants it to do.

“I want to come again,” Shane says, and thinks about how he would never have said such things without Ilya drawing them out of him before, despite the thrill it sends shooting through him. “Make me come on your cock again.”

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya whines around his thumb and it should sound ridiculous, but it only makes Shane's stomach clench almost painfully.

His cock is softening against his belly and he doesn't know if he'll manage to get hard again, but it doesn't matter.

“Slow,” Shane instructs Ilya, watching the way his face contorts, split between his frustration and his ever present will to please Shane.

He gives a shallow thrust, then another, breathing hard through his nose and lighting Shane up from the inside. It's too much already, the drag of Ilya's cock against his overstimulated prostate and he feels impossibly huge like this, like he shouldn't be able to fit inside Shane.

“Shane,” Ilya whispers hoarsely.

It hurts. It’s nowhere near the worst pain Shane has ever felt; he’s a hockey player, pain is a part of the job, from bruises and little cuts to bad sprains and broken bones, he’s used to pushing his body past its limits. It’s what they do, give their all and more just for a chance to win the cup, so Shane’s pain tolerance is probably higher than the average person and there’s also the fact that, well. He likes it a bit too.

(Ilya digging his fingers into bruises other players have put on Shane’s body like he’s trying to reclaim them, Ilya fucking him hard on his hands and knees despite Shane’s whole body protesting because of how sore he is from their last game, Ilya smacking his palm against Shane’s ass again and again until he’s begging him to stop but not really, Ilya knows, he knows him so well, Ilya tugging on his balls right as he’s about to come, making Shane’s back arch off the bed with a shout.)

Perhaps more than a bit.

Shane tries to stay relaxed, but each thrust is sending his body into overdrive, and he keeps clenching around Ilya like he can’t decide if he wants to keep him inside forever or make him pull out. Ilya lets out a strangled moan and starts speeding up his thrusts just a bit, and Shane feels like he’s being punched in the gut.

Shane keeps his thumb inside Ilya’s mouth and presses his index finger under his chin, grabbing his bottom jaw and giving it a little shake. “I said slow,” he says.

“Shane,” Ilya chokes out around his mouthful, sounding genuinely distressed, his hips stuttering.

“Slow,” Shane repeats. “For me.”

He takes his thumb out of Ilya’s mouth and rubs the spit covering it against his bottom lip, emboldened by the way Ilya’s looking at him, his pupils so wide his eyes look entirely black.

“For you,” Ilya moans and starts moving again.

“Yes,” Shane hisses. “For me.”

“For you,” Ilya leans in to nuzzle his cheek, so Shane moves his hand to the back of Ilya’s head, where he can thread his fingers through his damp curls. “Anything, Shane. Everything.”

Ilya keeps mumbling, his accent thick, his words slurred until he seems to give up on trying to speak in English, the Russian too much of a jumble of words for Shane to pick up on it in his own state despite the progress he’s making every day with his husband’s mother tongue.

Shane is so used to always being in control—his body, what he eats, what he says, when to nod, control the puck, ignore the pain, take your shift, look this way, smile, push, push, push—he wouldn’t have known how much he loves relinquishing it if it wasn’t for Ilya Rozanov. He doesn’t know if Ilya could just feel it right from the start, if he took one look at Shane and instantly knew he would be oh so easy for him, but the way they fit together is simply so perfect, Shane doesn’t want to question it. Sometimes, though, Ilya gets like this: eager to please, to be good, starved for Shane’s approval, and it took Shane way too long to notice, to understand.

So, Shane tries to stay in control, this time. It feels almost impossible, it’d be so easy to just let himself be swept up by all the sensations overloading his system right now. It just feels natural for Shane, especially when the way Ilya is still fucking him despite how overwhelmed he is makes him feel used in the most delicious way.

“Faster,” Shane says eventually with a little tug on Ilya's hair. “Don't come.”

Ilya's never been quiet during sex, he talks and he moans and groans, he never tries to hide how much he enjoys what they’re doing, but the noise he lets out at Shane's instruction is one he's very rarely heard before. It's a noise so desperate that, combined with Ilya's faster pace, has Shane feeling like he’s flying. He’s doing this, holding Ilya inside him, directing the way he gets to fuck Shane, and it’s an even stronger rush than the kind Shane experiences when he gets the puck exactly where he wanted it to go.

“Shane,” Ilya rasps his name like a prayer and looks into Shane’s eyes. “Please.”

He’s so beautiful like this, his face red from exertion and how hard he’s focusing on not coming because Shane asked him to, the layer of sweat covering his body like they just got out of practice, his curls sticking to his temples and forehead, his gorgeous lips parted on needy whimpers.

“You have to—ah, have to make me come,” Shane reminds him and shudders at the growl Ilya lets out when he looks down between them and sees that Shane’s cock is still soft.

“You’re mean,” Ilya whines. “Shane Hollander is so mean. Let me fuck you properly then.”

Shane looks at him doubtfully. “Can you?”

Ilya’s face grows even redder if possible, and he snaps his hips up in a harsh thrust that makes Shane yelp.

“Don’t I always? You have critics?” Ilya asks, narrowing his eyes.

It almost makes Shane break character, because it’s just ridiculous. No one has ever made him feel the way Ilya does every time, no one has ever touched or fucked him as good as Ilya. There is no one else, it was over for Shane from that very first night. But he looks at Ilya, the defiant look on his face, the crease between his brows, the way he breathes through his nose, half-angry half-horny.

Shane smirks at him. “Looks like you’re reaching the end of your shift.”

Ilya’s eyes grow wide and his mouth falls open on a sound that reminds Shane of one of Anya’s broken squeaky toys, a pathetic wheeze torn between outrage and laughter.

“Ah, you kill me, Hollander,” Ilya groans but he also looks so proud Shane preens a little bit. “I can’t fuck you if I’m dead, please.”

Shane pretends to consider it for a bit, but then he finally gives Ilya a nod. “Alright.”

The glint in Ilya’s eyes is a warning of its own, but it still doesn’t prepare him for how he pulls out suddenly and manhandles Shane on his front so fast all the air rushes out of his lungs when he lands on his belly.

“Ilya—” he starts to protest, but whatever he was about to say gets lost when Ilya straddles the back of his thighs, spreads his cheeks and sinks back inside him in one swift thrust. “Oh, fuck,” Shane curses, his hands scrambling to grab the pillow his face is half buried into.

Ilya grabs his hips with both hands and starts fucking into him with such a fast pace Shane’s mind goes blank.

It hurts again, but it hurts good, Shane feels it deep in his lower belly, the constant stimulation against his prostate, the toe-curling sensation of Ilya grunting and working hard on top of him, pinning him in place and fucking him into the mattress. One of Ilya’s hands leaves his hip to grab the back of his neck, c’mon, c’mon, Ilya is muttering, his grip tight like a vise, Shane’s nose and mouth are muffled by the pillow and he can’t quite breathe. His lungs start to burn a little bit, he can feel the blood rushing to his head, beating in his ears.

“I give it to you,” Ilya pants, never slowing down. “You wanna come again? Aye aye, captain, you ask, I give.”

Shane manages to twist his head enough to free his mouth. “Not captain anymore,” he gasps out.

“Shane.” Ilya’s rhythm stutters just a bit. “It’s sex talk,” he bemoans and Shane might have felt embarrassed once, but he knows how much Ilya actually loves it when he remains fixated on details.

“Eyes on the prize, champ,” Shane reminds him—he’s so close he can taste it.

Ilya curses and leans in to nip at Shane’s shoulder and it doesn’t take much longer after that. It’s just too good, Ilya’s weight on top of him, his cock thrusting in and out, the obscene sound of flesh hitting flesh combined with their moans. Shane’s oversensitive cock keeps rubbing against the sheets with every thrust and it’s still soft but he can feel himself leaking and making a mess.

The sensation that’s been building and building finally erupts and Shane comes, moaning Ilya’s name like a broken record. It’s so much it brings tears to his eyes, his whole body seizing with it and clenching around Ilya who keeps fucking him through it until he’s completely spent.

Shane’s ears are buzzing, his head feels like it’s been filled with cotton and he’s still shaking when he realizes that the constant noise he’s hearing is Ilya sobbing the same word again and again, his forehead resting between Shane’s shoulder blades as his hips keep thrusting in a way that is definitely too much now.

“Please, please, please,” Ilya is literally begging, and Shane feels like he’s been struck by lightning when he understands Ilya is still waiting.

“Yes,” he says, his whole mouth feels numb. “Yes, yes, Ilya.”

It barely takes another thrust, Ilya moans like he’s been shot and Shane feels him coming, his cock pulsing deep inside him and bringing more tears to Shane’s eyes, too much, too much, too much.

Ilya collapses on top of him, the two of them breathing hard and shaking all over.

Shane has no idea how long they remain like this, he just drifts for a bit, warm and content, until the presence of Ilya’s softening cock inside him becomes simply unbearable and he gives the tiniest wiggle Ilya understands immediately. He groans and shifts his hips just enough to pull out, mouthing gently at Shane’s shoulder.

Shane feels utterly drained, he wants nothing more than to fall asleep right here, but he knows he’ll hate himself in the morning if they don’t clean up, change the sheets, and have dinner. Summer is over and the season might not have started yet, but it will soon enough, and Shane can’t afford to deviate from the carefully crafted routine that’s taken him to and through the playoffs.

It’s just a little bit of noise in the back of his mind, muffled by the endorphins coursing through his body, and Shane is more than happy to ignore it for now. He sighs contentedly, and manages to lift his hand with a monumental effort to reach just enough behind his shoulder and pat Ilya’s head.

“Good goal, Cap,” he croaks.

Ilya lets out the ugliest snort and nuzzles his shoulder, giggling. “Shane Hollander,” he purrs. “Murderer and comedian.”

Shane laughs, more like a wheezy exhale than anything else with Ilya’s weight on top of him. “Not so boring anymore, eh?”

“Mmmh, no,” Ilya says with a kiss. “Still boring.” He heaves himself up and lies down on his side right next to Shane. “Killed by boredom,” he says and rolls on his back, spreading his arms, closing his eyes and opening his mouth to let his tongue loll out in a frankly terrible and cartoonish impression of a dead body.

Shane rolls his eyes, but the fondness he feels threatens to make his heart burst out of his chest. “I love you,” he says.

Ilya starts, his eyes flying open comically. “Revived!” He rolls on his side again, puts one arm around Shane and shifts closer to press a kiss against his lips. “It’s a miracle.”

You’re the miracle, Shane wants to say, and so he does, and gets to watch Ilya’s jaw go a bit slack in shock, and the most adorable blush spread across his cheeks and nose. His face does something strange then, like it can’t quite decide between beaming and crying. The sight tugs at his heart, and Shane shifts on his side to pull Ilya in until he has his face pressed against Shane’s chest.

“I love you,” Ilya mumbles there, against his heart, in English, and then again in Russian.

Shane pets his hair gently, and kisses the top of his head. Ilya makes a soft noise at the back of his throat and leans into his touch like a giant, content cat.

Washing up can wait a bit longer.

So can everything else—the sheets, dinner, his routine, the life that exists outside this room. For now, there is only this: Ilya warm and solid against him, Anya's nails clicking somewhere down the hall, the Centaurs logo sticky against Shane’s chest.

Theirs.