1 – 2 of 2 Works in aequuitas
- aequuitas ×
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Ilya and Shane play together in the All Stars Game - then they have sex. AKA I understand why Jacob didn't want sex in Episode 5 but I did, so it's here. Yay! Takes place after the game but before all of the confessions. Don't worry too much about the logistics. Ilya has imagined this, of course. It’s something he won’t ever admit to Shane, but he’s thought of it over and over again. The two of them, playing together. What it would be like, how it might work. He knows what they’re like when they fuck - a wordless knowledge of each other that requires very little in the way of conversation, though neither of them are ever inclined to be quiet. Hockey is different to fucking, but not by much. Ilya knows how Shane plays, down to the skates he wears and how tight he keeps his helmet. But there’s no knowing until they’re on the ice together - and from the moment the puck drops it’s euphoric, all of it. The rest of the team might as well not be there for all that Ilya gives a shit. His attention is on Shane, on getting the puck to his stick, on taking it back when Shane needs it, on getting them to the goal again and again and again. The score is ridiculous, even for a game that is more fun than it is anything else. Ilya spreads his affection across the team, aware of how it would look if he kept coming back to Shane, but he knows how the headlines will look, what all the hockey podcasts will be talking about. The two of them, Hollander and Rozanov and the electricity between them on the ice. No team could ever afford to have them both, and Ilya knows it would be a bad idea, but it’s worth fantasising about, isn’t it? It’s in that post game haze that Ilya is more rash than he has any right to be and books a hotel. One a little further out, but with a big bed and good room service. He texts the name and the room number to Shane without any other details, and watches his eyebrows raise across the massive dinner table where their team has gathered for a post-game celebration. He aches with anticipation, the thrill of the game still sitting under his skin, and he’s one of the first to leave, much to the apparent surprise of the players who don’t know him, and the knowing grins of those who do. “Fuck, Rozy, you got a girl lined up already?” “No fucking way man, we’ve been here less than two days!” “Nah, that motherfucker has one in every city I swear -” Ilya doesn’t answer any of it, just grins, shows the table his favourite finger, and makes his way out. He doesn’t look at Shane, doesn’t try to see if he’s following. He will, of course he will. He always does. So Ilya gets a taxi and checks in to the hotel, makes his way up to the room. It’s a nice room, good view - Ilya doesn’t give a shit about any of that. He pulls off his jacket, slinging it onto the chair that reminds Ilya of another night and another fuck in a much fancier hotel room, and he waits. It’s less than half an hour before the knock comes, and Ilya pulls the door open, meaning to pull Shane in after him. But Shane, it seems, is just as eager. The door’s barely closed before they’re on each other, kissing with a level of desperation that they haven’t in a long time. Ilya manages to get his hand up to protect Shane’s head as they hit the wall, and that gives him the perfect leverage to twist his fingers into the dark strands, pull Shane’s face back a little. He already looks fucked out, his lips parted and his face flushed, those fucking freckles looking perfect on his cheeks. “Fuck, Shane, look at you,” there’s still a thrill that comes with using Shane’s first name, and if the way Shane shudders is any indication, he feels it too. “You felt on the ice, yes? Never played with someone that fucking good before, hm?” “Shut the fuck up,” Shane pushes forwards to kiss Ilya again, and then they’re fumbling to get at each other’s belts, kicking out of their clothes in a frenzied stumble towards the bed. Shane falls onto his back and Ilya crawls over him, feeling like a predator. He wants to devour Shane, wants to taste him and crawl inside his bones, wants to know what it feels like in there. For now, he pulls one of Shane’s legs up until it’s practically on Ilya’s shoulder and fists his cock, rough and demanding. Shane lets out a strangled noise, trying to fuck into Ilya’s fist and arch away all at once, and Ilya grins, animalistic. “Be good boy, Hollander, and maybe I fuck you,” they both know that’s where this is going, but that’s not the point. Shane forces his eyes open and Ilya is watching him, still working at his cock. He doesn’t keep it up long, not after Shane says, “Please, please want to come with you -” in this breathy voice that Ilya can’t say no to. He fumbles away for a moment, coming back with the lube that was in his pocket (“You had that with you during dinner?”) and starts in on prepping Shane. He’s always so vocal, like this, whimpering at the push and pull of Ilya’s fingers - one, then two, then a third because he’s feeling generous about it. By the time Ilya’s got a condom on and he’s rolling his hips to push in to Shane, he feels halfway out of his mind. It’s so much, so overwhelming, that for a long moment he just stays there, flush against Shane, holding him up off the bed. Then Shane looks at him, eyes wet and wanting, and Ilya loses all sense of self. The headboard makes contact with the wall and Ilya couldn’t give less of a fuck, driving into Shane like a man possessed, slapping Shane’s hand away from his own dick. No, he wants Shane to come just like this, on his cock, panting and needy with it. He wants to drink up those noises, the ah-ah-ah that comes rhythmically with Ilya’s thrusts. And he can feel it, in the bottom of his stomach, the desperate curl of it. Ilya wishes they were fucking raw, wishes he could feel all of Shane. For now, he settles with leaning over the bed. The pressure forces Shane to bend, and suddenly Ilya is impossibly deep. Shane all but screams Ilya’s name, head thrown back, and his cock jerks, coating his stomach, almost up to his chest. Ilya is mesmerised by the sight of it, and doesn’t last more than two thrusts before he’s shaking, coming as deep as he can, imagining for a moment that when he pulls out he’ll see the evidence of it leaking out of Shane’s hole. He doesn’t, of course. He pulls back, almost trembling, and there’s nothing but the slick of lube. Ilya ties off the condom, tosses it towards the trash. Means to go and get a washcloth, but – but it’s all there, painted over Shane’s body, and Ilya feels greedy. He leans over Shane’s body, ignoring his quiet, fucked out little, “Ilya -” as he drags his tongue up Shane’s stomach, tasting him there.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 1,542
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 2 versions
- AO3:
- #77036521
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Shane and Ilya go grocery shopping so they can make borscht. That's it, that's the fic. “No, no, fresh dill, fresh dill, Hollander. Put that back.” Ilya swats at the offending dried dill - who would dry dill? - in Shane’s hand, which had been coming dangerously close to the basket Ilya is currently carrying. “You want to make borscht you need fresh dill.” “Alright, fresh. Got it.” Shane’s mouth tips up at the corner, and Ilya knows he is not angry. This was his idea, after all – he had asked Ilya what he misses from home, and Ilya had struggled to come up with anything. Eventually, after what felt like hours, he had only been able to give the names of a few dishes. And Shane, ever attentive, and endlessly obsessive, has apparently decided that Ilya cannot go another day without borscht. So here they are. In a supermarket. Together. This, too, had been a debate, as most things in their lives are. They could have arranged for a delivery, but Ilya had been sure some of the ingredients would be wrong, replaced by people who did not know the difference between beets and sweet potatoes. Then Ilya had said that he would go alone, because he knew what to get. This, Shane had argued, defeated the purpose, because then Shane would not know what to get if he wanted to make it again and Ilya wasn’t around to come shopping. The solution then is this - the two of them in a supermarket together, shopping together, and pretending that they are just friends. They’re used to that, at least. Pretending. Not normally so public, like this, but pretending is not difficult for them, now. It’s in the way they angle their bodies, in the way they don’t let their fingers brush as Shane hands Ilya beets for inspection, each one having to be approved before it goes into the basket. Even with the charity slowly finding its legs, there are boundaries that can’t be crossed, even here. It helps that Ilya looks particularly grumpy. He hates Canadian supermarkets, with their bright lights and their music, their overly apologetic customers who apologise at the mere potential of bumping into someone nearby. He has said sorry more times today than he thinks he has ever before in his life maybe. And it makes Shane smile every time, which is the only reason Ilya is not going completely insane. They’re in the dairy aisle, arguing over what constitutes good sour cream - Shane has apparently decided he is now an advocate for the Canadian dairy farmers - when a shy voice says, “Excuse me,” drawing both of their attentions. Before them is a group of three boys, all around ten, Ilya imagines. The one who had apparently spoken is bright red, and Ilya’s expression softens as he spots the phone clutched in the boy’s hands. “You want photo, yes?” The boys nod, eager, and apparently relieved that they hadn’t had to ask aloud. Shane glances at Ilya, and then at the boys, and then back again. Ilya pays it no mind - the charity, again, is their cover, is it not? “Okay, you can have photo. But on one condition.” Shane looks positively alarmed now, and it has Ilya biting back a wider smile as one of the boys asks, nervously, “What?” “You must never cheer for Metros ever again, yes? They are terrible team, with very bad captain.” The boys stare at him for a moment, and then dissolve into giggles, shoving at each other as they step forward to crowd around Ilya and Shane. An adult - presumably a parent - steps forwards to rescue the boy’s phone. Ilya arranges himself on the other side of the boys, opposite to Shane - barely in touching distance. They look like nothing more than two people who happen to know each other through hockey. Ilya says to the group, “Say Centaurs rule!” and grins at the noise Shane makes. It’s all over fairly quickly, the parent thanking them profusely, Ilya reaching out to high five all of the boys, and then they’re on their own again - more or less. Shane grabs a sour cream, shoving it into the basket, and says, “You’re really good with kids.” It catches Ilya by surprise - so much so that he doesn’t even bother beginning the argument again, simply following Shane to the next aisle. “Is easy to be good with kids. Say things that make them laugh and then do what they ask. You are not good with kids?” “I’m alright with kids.” Shane glances back at him, adding loose bits to their basket. They have all they need for the borscht anyway, now. “I don’t know how to talk to them, I guess. Hayden always says I talk to his kids like they’re tiny adults.” “This is because Pike is idiot with four children who does not know how to -” “Ilya.” “Shane.” They check out in relative silence, after that, loading the car. Ilya slides into the passenger side and slides his hand straight into Shane’s, as though deprived of the feeling. He has been, and if the way Shane squeezes his hand back is any indication, he feels the same. It sets something in Ilya at ease, the way it always does when he is reminded that whatever he feels for Shane, whatever big something sits in his chest is reciprocated, and Shane feels it too. They don’t talk about kids again, or the picture. They discuss stats, instead, whose team is looking better, who has more of a shot at the cup this year. They both know it won’t be the Centaurs, but it’s nice to argue anyway, as though they are on teams of equal footing. This carries through their unloading of the car, their putting away of all of the things not required for borscht. And then all the ingredients are laid out, and Ilya is summarily banished to the other side of the island. Shane is learning, he insists. He will learn. Ilya lets him peel one beet, watching with a smile, before he says, “You need gloves.” “What?” Shane looks up with pink fingertips, expression baffled. “What do I need gloves for?” “Beets.” “The beets I’m peeling now?” Shane’s eyebrows pull together in an expression Ilya adores, one that makes him laugh.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 1,676
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 2 versions
- AO3:
- #76937821