Work Text:
‘Shane Hollander takes it up the ass.’ He remembers seeing that on a huge rainbow sign once in Philadelphia. He’d nodded at it pleasantly when the fan tried to throw it on the ice.
No big deal. A chirp he heard all the time. He’d been totally cool about it. Gritty had stolen the sign and given him a googly-eyed thumbs up. Shane had laughed and everything.
Nobody really knew he thought he might want to, or who he might want to with. So it was fine. Funny, even.
He’d had no idea.
“Jesus Christ,” Shane mumbles, facedown in the sweat-soaked pillowcase. “God.”
His body feels like a struck bell. Maybe this is what a concussion is like, everything swept clean away for a moment while the rest of you vibrates apart. Less painful, maybe just as life-ruining. His legs are still shaking. His toes are curled. He can feel, very distantly, Rozanov stroking the small of his back. From even farther away, he can hear Rozanov’s voice, low and husky, saying something against the skin of Shane’s shoulder, his neck.
“Is it always like this?” Shane asks finally, dragging up the strength to turn his head into a nuzzling kiss. As always, the tenderness of Rozanov’s mouth is a shock. It shouldn’t be, by now. They’ve hooked up many, many ill-advised times. The shoving, the biting, the sudden hesitant moments of softness, nothing is new except, well.
This.
“Is what always like what,” Rozanov hums, mouthing at Shane’s jaw, kissing his way up to the sweat at Shane’s temple. He’s clingy tonight. Something else new. By now one of them has usually peeled away.
Shane has usually pulled away. Tonight, Shane’s pretty sure his legs wouldn’t hold him.
And he feels — cracked open. Scooped out. Obviously a little raw, literally tender where he’s been pried open and made to take it, but there’s something less literal about the feeling, too.
This whole thing, with Rozanov, has been an exercise in making himself stupidly vulnerable to the worst possible person. Letting Rozanov literally inside his ass shouldn’t have been that big of a change, but god, it felt so different. Rozanov had been so focused, so intent, so in control of it all, letting Shane go limp and shudder around him.
Shane would feel a little bad — he’s always been so careful, to be perfectly reciprocal in sexual situations. But all he’d done tonight was sweat and take it and beg and let Rozanov move his body wherever he’d wanted it.
Based on his current clinginess, Shane doesn’t think Rozanov has any complaints, though. He hopes not, because Shane needs to do this again, like. Immediately. Every week. Today, yesterday, tomorrow.
But maybe it was a fluke. It could be a fluke, right?
“I mean, it wasn’t like that, when I… you know. With my fingers? Or a dildo.”
Maybe it’s just better with a real human being. Maybe it has nothing to do with liking to be held down and taken apart. Maybe it has nothing to do with Rozanov at all.
“Ohhhhh,” Rozanov says, and tugs Shane against his chest. His heart is still thudding, Shane can feel it under his own skin. He’s smiling enormously, and Shane has to look away before he does something dumb like tell Rozanov he’s gorgeous.
“You mean, is it always so good, being fucked?”
“Yeah,” Shane says, feeling stupidly shy, given that his ass still feels hot and he’s covered in his own come, and Rozanov is palming his ass with one of his huge hands, and they are both incredibly naked. Somehow more naked than he’s ever been in a locker room or shower. This is peak naked. “Is it? Always so good?”
He’s a little surprised when Rozanov doesn’t take the opportunity to boast or preen, just shrugs one shoulder and reaches out to the nightstand for one of his damned cigarettes. Shane hates that he doesn’t hate the smell, or the taste, as much as he used to.
“Many people like it. But I do not know.” He’s not looking at Shane, focused on lighting the smoke hanging from his mouth. He mumbles around it, “I only top.”
“Right. Obviously,” Shane says, shaking his head.
“Obviously,” Rozanov repeats a little mockingly, maybe, a little bit of a lilt, and blows smoke towards the ceiling. At least it’s not in Shane’s face. “You like it. A lot.” There’s no judgment in his voice, just smugness, and a curl of heat. He’s looking at Shane now, mouth curving up at the corner, around the cigarette. “I’m better than your plastic cock?”
And there it is.
“Yeah,” Shane admits reluctantly, giving in. He’s doomed.
“Damn right,” Rozanov says, and his smirk is so annoying. Shane is getting up and leaving any second now. Soon his limbs will feel less like jello, and he’s going to go. “Still nice to hear.” He breathes out another curl of smoke, and smiles again. “You sound so good, telling me you like it.”
“I got kind of loud, huh,” Shane mumbles, and feels his face get hot. Jesus, he’s so sticky. He’s disgusting, everywhere. He should shower. He should go. It’s getting late.
“Yes,” Rozanov says with a happy sigh. “You tell me, I am a sex god.”
“I did not say that!” Shane protests, and it’s stupid, to be this giggly with Ilya fucking Rozanov, who really needs to quit fucking smoking, especially in bed.
“You did not have to. I could tell.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Shane says, but he doesn’t disagree. God, he kind of wants to just. Climb back on Rozanov’s dick right now. It’s soft against Rozanov’s thigh, but Shane thinks he could get it hard again, if he wanted. Shane’s wet and open for him already. It’d be so easy.
“Did, uh. Did you like it? It was good for you, too?” he asks, trying for casual. There’s a silent beat, with only his stupid heartbeat thudding in his chest. It’s so loud, Rozanov must be able to hear it.
Rozanov doesn’t turn his head, but his eyes find Shane’s. He takes a last drag of smoke, then without breaking eye contact, puts out the cigarette in the ashtray next to the bed, which is stupid and dangerous and not at all sending sizzles of lighting along Shane’s nerves. Oh god.
“Da,” Rozanov says, and his hand smells musky, smoky, when he tips Shane’s face up, still staring at him. No one has ever looked at him this closely. “I like it.”
And then he’s kissing him like he’s starving, and Shane knows that feeling, he knows it. His legs have fallen open, an offering, and Rozanov‘s hands are taking it, unerring and sure. Fuck.
“Easy for me,” Rozanov says roughly against his mouth. “You want more? I will give it to you.”
“Yes,” Shane breathes out, already panting, hips rolling. “Please.”
“So polite, Hollander,” Rozanov says hoarsely, and fucks Shane with his fingers until Shane’s begging, breathless and shocked all over again by how bad he wants it. It can’t always be this good.
“Please,” he says again, and thinks Rozanov will tease him, will make him call him a sex god, say he’s a better player than Shane, but Rozanov just gives him what he wants. Pressing his thighs up and open, god, he’s so open, he feels red hot and exposed, and Rozanov‘s dick is a hot endless drive that goes deeper than Shane thought possible, than he remembered.
“Christ have mercy, Jesus fuck,” Shane mumbles, clutching Rozanov’s shoulders, arms, anything he can reach as he stares at the ceiling. The slick sounds, the burn of his thighs. He’s shaking again, covered in Rozanov’s heat, his attention.
“You need it,” Rozanov groans, and he’s working fast, piston hard at Shane’s hole. Shane is shaking under him, holding up his own legs, tossing his head like he’s trying to get away, but he’s not, he’s not. “Hollander, you love it.”
“Yeah, fuck,” Shane says, because he does.
“It’s good?”
“So fucking good, Jesus, you know it is.”
“You make it look good,” Rozanov says, and it’s not — Shane had kind of worried, a little, that Rozanov would be gross about this, make Shane feel less for taking it up the ass, and from him, of all people.
But Rozanov doesn’t, at all.
“I love you like it,” he says, like he knew Shane needed to hear it. “Be loud for me.”
Shane can do that.
*
He doesn’t get a chance to find out if it’s just Ilya’s dick that makes anal sex so fucking good, or if Shane’s just inherently ‘a total bottom’, as Rose had put it over drinks.
He’d dropped his own drink when she’d confessed to having tried it herself.
“It’s really intimate, though,” she sighs, after they’d mopped up the ice cubes and reordered. “I always feel really, I don’t know… exposed? Intense? It feels great, but I’ve only done it a couple times. It’s just, a lot.”
“Yeah, that’s kind of what I like about it,” Shane says, stirring his cocktail with his straw. Too many calories, but it had ginger ale in it, and he couldn’t resist, and he also couldn’t ask questions like this sober.
“I don’t have a prostate though, so I’m probably missing part of the appeal,” Rose muses, and nibbles on a maraschino cherry thoughtfully. “I’ll ask Miles later. Don’t worry,” she says preemptively. “I won’t mention you at all!”
Shane unhunches his shoulders. He should trust her more by now, probably, but part of him still feels hunted even talking about this out loud. He doesn’t even feel safe googling around on his phone most of the time.
Which is part of why he’s not likely to ever get fucked by anyone else. Sure, there was the one guy in Mexico, which was. Fine, not world-rocking, just fine. Better than women, which seems like a low bar (no offense to women, Rose!).
“None taken,” she says dryly.
Anyway, not worth the risk, is what he was saying. So he’ll never know if Lily’s improbably huge dick is a mystical religious experience, or if getting fucked in general is just that good.
“Maybe it’s better not to know,” he says morosely around a mouthful of ice.
“I think you might already know, babe,” Rose says, and laughs when he says, “Shh. Shhhhh.”
He thinks about it more during the blinding headache that sparkles through his morning routine. Mexico Guy is definitely not statistically significant, but Shane refuses to believe that Ilya Rozanov has the only life-changing dick out there.
Even if it is the only one he really wants.
*
Just having Ilya’s eyes on it makes Shane’s stupid pathetic dildo better. It’s big and that creepy flesh tone, because that seemed better than anything alien-colored or attention-grabbing. Shane had bought it in shame and desperation and fear, thinking he’d never get the real thing.
Suddenly the silicone feels better than it ever has before. Splitting him open, hitting deep. It’s not the same, no, nowhere near the same, but with Ilya watching—
“Harder, Hollander,” he hears Ilya rasp over the phone. “You call that fucking?”
“Go fuck yourself,” he pants, and arches his back.
“Don’t have a dildo,” Ilya says, around the slick sound of his hand. Oh, Shane wants to see. He slows his own hand, shivering, leaving the toy just inside him, and turns his head to see Ilya on the screen, eyes blown so dark.
“Amazon,” Shane says, dazed, barely remembering what he’d been about to say. “Very discreet.”
“I’ll wait for you instead,” Ilya says, eyes intense, focused like he’s in a Cup game and Shane’s the puck, or maybe the net. “Touch your tits for me.”
“I don’t have — ahh.” Shane always forgets how heightened it all feels, even his nipples, when he’s on the edge like this. He’s already come once on this call, and now everything’s oversensitive, torturous.
Ilya hasn’t come at all yet. He’s so good at holding off, waiting, focusing on Shane. Shane forces his eyes open and finds Ilya’s face.
“If I were there, you’d have come three times by now,” Ilya purrs, voice dark. “All over yourself, until you cry. Fuck yourself again. For me. You can do it.”
“I wouldn’t cry,” Shane lies, and he’s coordinated, sure, but he’s falling apart, too, and he misses Ilya so badly, his hands, his touch. But his eyes are burning on Shane’s skin, and his ragged breath is loud in the room.
“I’m so close, it’s not — Ilya, please,” he says blurrily, voice bouncing as he tries desperately to reach deeper, hit harder, and twist away all at the same time. It’s too much, it’s not enough.
“Harder, you can take it,” Ilya’s saying, and god, Shane hopes he’s getting off on this, hopes it’s good for him, too.
“Ilya, Ilya, I — oh fuck.”
“Yes,” Ilya hisses.
“Fuck,” Shane says weakly, and collapses, clutching his phone to him.
“I hate your dildo,” Ilya says into the companionable silence, both of them breathing hard. He stares at Ilya’s beautiful, shadowed face and wants, god wants more than anything, to kiss him. “Tell me I am better.”
“You’re the best,” Shane says, too tired to lie, and Ilya’s smile makes him so stupid that he reaches out to touch it, the screen blocking him. “It’s always better with you.”
Shit, that was too much. That was too much, wasn’t it?
“Yes, same. For me.” Ilya says, and there’s a blur that makes Shane think maybe he’s touching his screen too, the tiny backlit version of Shane’s face.
“I want to be the best for you,” he says, feeling cracked open. He thinks Ilya might say “You are” or something. Tries not to wait anxiously for it.
“Come three times for me next week, then,” is what he says instead, and then Shane hears him laughing from across the bed, where Shane tossed the phone.
*
At the cottage, after everything, after they’ve made their plans for the charity and their future, Shane’s feeling understandably giddy. Free time and a boyfriend who loves him, who knows him, who wants to fuck him all the time? And he gets to keep hockey? Bliss. An actual dream come true, harder to win than a Cup had been.
A replay of some Winter Classic is still on the TV, halfway through the third period by the sound of the commentators, the sticks and pucks. Outside, the lake is rippling in a summer breeze, and somewhere birds are calling to each other. The sunlight is thick enough to touch, puddling thick and warm on the floor.
Ilya is making something, cheerful clattering sounds coming from the kitchen, and Shane is still splayed out on the couch, running fingers through the mess on his stomach. He’ll clean it up soon. There’s wet wipes next to him that Ilya had found and started to use, before Shane stopped him.
“I just wanna, uh, not rush. Cleaning up, I guess? This once,” Shane had said, still foggy and dreamy with orgasm.
“Gross,” Ilya had said, eyes bright. “Hot. Stay there. I’ll be back.”
“Lazy,” he teases now, standing over Shane with plates, cans of soda dripping condensation. He places them on the coffee table and reaches for the wipes. “You need me to clean you up?”
“Nah,” Shane says, sitting up, acknowledging inwardly that he is now feeling a little gross and too sticky for comfort, but Ilya bats his hands away and tackles him, swiping at his fingers, his belly, his thickening cock, laughing when Shane flinches away from the cold of the wet wipes.
“There,” Ilya says, pleased, and smacks a kiss to Shane’s forehead that leaves Shane smiling helplessly. He hops off the couch and returns with the plates. “Eat. I’ll fuck you more later, promise.”
“So good to me,” Shane smiles up at him, and Ilya kisses him, before slapping him lightly on the cheek.
“Stop distracting me. Eat the food. Take your medicine.”
“What, I wasn’t doing anything,” Shane protests, and Ilya grumbles happily at him around his sandwich, something about big brown eyes, and then they watch the old game together, feet tangled, heckling the refs between bites.
He doesn’t know what makes him say it, later. He’d finished off the sandwich and even the chips. Ilya has one arm curled around him, holding him close. Shane feels so good. His collarbone’s a little sore, still, but nothing to worry about, nothing to the lazy warmth, the places where he can still feel Ilya, his mouth and hands and dick.
Body satiated in every way, the promise of more of what he wants and needs to come. Jesus, has he ever been this happy? He hopes Ilya is this happy, too.
“Hey, do you ever. You ever want to?” he asks, without really thinking about it, and then wonders why he did.
“Ever want to be a ref? Only for kid games,” Ilya says, and fuck, that’s cute.
“No,” Shane laughs, but he’s asked now, so he might as well clarify. “I don’t know, you ever want to, not, uh. Be on top?”
Ilya startles. Not a lot, just enough to feel easily, pressed against his side.
“You don’t like it anymore?” he asks after a second, and looks at Shane with huge exaggerated shocked eyes. “You’re tired of my dick already?”
“Come on, I’m being serious,” Shane laughs. “You know that’s not it.” He’s a little too obvious about how much he loves it, he’s pretty sure. “I just, uh. Want to be sure you’re getting what you want, too.”
“Everything I want,” Ilya says, kissing him. “It's right here. Can’t believe you make me say such things. Terrible man.”
Jesus, he’s a good kisser. A good everything.
But still. Shane wonders, a little. Getting fucked is so good. Isn’t Shane being greedy? Shouldn’t Ilya get to have it, too, if he wants it?
He can’t stop thinking about it, so he asks again, after dinner, in the shower. “So, uh. Have you ever bottomed?”
“No,” Ilya says after a moment of blinking under a curtain of wet hair. “I like fucking. It’s not.” He pauses a long time, with the water running between them, before he starts messing with the bottles of hair product, picking out a conditioner. “Never come up.”
They’re not touching, which at this point feels a little unusual, but then Ilya turns and grins at him, familiar and teasing. “You make it look so fun, sometimes I can’t help but wonder, what’s so great about it? Then I remember, it’s me.”
“Ha ha,” Shane says, then, feeling very brave and magnanimous: “Just, you know. I could top, if you wanted me to.”
Ilya laughs at him, and fends him off easily, gently, when Shane tries to goose him for it.
“I could, hey!”
“Not necessary, Дорогой,” Ilya says, and Shane goes hot all over, hotter than the spray. “What, you like that? Baby,” he croons, and Shane sways towards him. “Darling. Sweetheart.”
He’s cupping Shane’s ass in his hands now, pulling their hips together, and Shane is very willing to let it go, whatever Ilya wants.
“You do like that,” Ilya says, eyes very dark, watching him carefully. “Being my sweetheart.”
“Yeah,” Shane says, and how are there still surprises like this between them? He feels a little dizzy. “I guess.”
Ilya breathes out something in Russian, and closes his eyes. “Fuck, Shane Hollander, I love you.”
Wow, it still feels like crashing into a wall, in a good way.
“I love you, Ilya Rozanov,” Shane says, and then they’re grinning at each other, naked and wet and holding each other. It’s good. He believes Ilya when he says it’s good.
*
It’s not that Shane wants to fuck Ilya. Even when he was in denial, Shane was still pretty aware of what his ideal role in sexual things would always be. He knows Ilya loves it too; the louder Shane gets, the tighter Ilya holds him, the wilder and wobblier his thrusts get, the more he starts getting loud back. It’s the hottest feedback loop of all time. Shane has no complaints.
He’s a little curious, he guesses. What it would be like. To push Ilya around, to get him out of his head. Ilya’s always so cocky, so sure. And his ass was certainly almost as distracting as his dick, beautiful curves of muscle that Shane loved to palm during blowjobs, to pull on when he was begging Ilya to go hard, go faster, to give it to him more.
If no one’s ever asked Ilya for it, then maybe Ilya never got to think about it. To try it out.
And Shane knows, now, there’s some things Ilya is comfortable asking for and some he’s not. That he feels pressure to be everything Shane needs, and obviously Shane is needy, especially in bed, and maybe Ilya feels like he has to stick to that?
He just doesn’t want to let Ilya down again. He doesn't want to ever realize again, suddenly, and almost too late, how much Ilya’s given up for him. How much Ilya lets go, lets slide, to give Shane what he thinks Shane needs. Shane doesn't want that. He wants to be a good partner. A team player.
“I’m on your team,” he tells Ilya earnestly, tipping over a little into his lap. “You have to pass to me. I’m here to pass to. I can take it.”
“I cannot believe no one told you about the brownies,” Ilya says, amused, and sweet, and a perfect, perfect husband. “No one thought you would eat one, probably.”
“I just want to, if you want my dick in your butt, you have to tell me, I can do it,” Shane tells him earnestly. Ilya’s loud, ringing laugh startles the other side of Fabian’s pool party into looking over to the two of them, curled up on a lounge chair where Ilya had hauled Shane off after noticing him zoning out on the smoke machine. But not even that will distract Shane now because he is focused.
Even that adorable bright giant wide-toothed grin, so cute, god he’s so cute. Even that will not distract Shane Hollander, who is going to be the best husband. A better husband than even Ilya.
“Let me make you sooooo melted okay.” That came out wrong. “I want to. Mess you up.”
“Because fucking me will do that.”
“It does to me! And maybe, you just don’t know. You don’t know. You didn’t do it before.”
“That is true,” Ilya says, and he does look thoughtful. Hah! “I do like when you put your tongue near there sometimes, during the blowjobs.”
“Yes!”
“I will tell you if I decide I want it, okay, baby?”
“Promise?” Shane insists.
“Promise,” Ilya says, and lifts Shane in his arms.
“Oh, that is — very high up,” Shane says, clutching his neck. The ground is very wobbly and far away.
“Someone’s very high up,” Ilya agrees, his voice a rumble under Shane’s cheek. “Let’s get you somewhere I can introduce you to the joy of snacks. And also sex when high.”
“I know the joy of sex,” Shane protests, but not very hard. Drunk sex is a lot of fun with Ilya these days, when they have the time to indulge, and he’s sure high sex will be fun too.
And he got his promise. He heard it. He can wait.
But not for dick, he’s getting that right now.
And maybe also some french fries.
*
Obviously, Shane knows there’s stigma to being gay in general. There’s extra stigma to being the one who takes it, instead of the one who gives it. It’s homophobic and misogynist. Who knows it better than pretty boy Shane? He still sees shit about it on signs all the time, except now it’s Ilya, not Gritty, getting up in the faces of the so-called fans.
(“Only I can call you slut,” he says, furious afterwards, crowding Shane against a wall. “Because you’re mine.”
“Yep,” Shane says dreamily, and then Ilya’s distracted from his anger by laughing at him, and it’s all just another day of being an out, married hockey player on a team with his husband.)
He knows Ilya doesn’t think less of Shane for liking to be fucked; for all Ilya’s swagger and bravado, he’s an absolutely devoted husband. Shane knows he’s adored. He hasn’t felt disrespected by Ilya maybe ever. Not since those early years, when they didn’t really know each other yet, when they were both still raw and confused and angry all the time.
Not thinking less of Shane doesn’t mean Ilya might not think it about himself. Brains are weird like that, Shane knows.
“God, your mouth,” Ilya says, and he’s pinker than Shane has seen, pretty much ever. Shane is a little floored by how loud Ilya had gotten, when Shane let his tongue explore a little more than he’s dared before.
“It’s okay?”
“Very,” Ilya says, and slowly lets his legs fall a little more open. “You don’t mind? You’re sure?”
“I want to,” Shane says. “Let me take care of you. I’m here.”
The autumn months are always hard, for some reason. Shane has noticed the pattern, maybe seasonal, SAD, or maybe it’s something else, but Ilya gets a little more in his own head as the days start to dwindle, the air getting colder and darker.
“I take care of you,” Ilya says, frowning at him, but he stays when Shane puts a little strength into holding him in place. He could get up, easy; they both know who has the height and muscle in this marriage. But he lets Shane keep him where he is, and that — that makes Shane light up inside, in a way he thought only happened when it was him being held down.
But he likes this. This is okay. This is good.
“We take care of each other,” he says, and rubs his cheek against Ilya’s inner thigh, savoring the heat against his skin. He kisses his way back down, nosing along Ilya’s cock, nuzzling at his balls. Lets his mouth get everything wet, and then starts slowly tonguing Ilya open again.
“God, Shane,” Ilya says, and then dissolves into Russian. Shane’s started to understand it better, even when slurred and blurry like this. It’s hot, how rough and shocked Ilya sounds already, when Shane’s barely gotten started. Shane’s grinding against the mattress, his own cock hard and leaking, moaning a little as he works his mouth.
“Fuck,” Ilya shouts in Russian, and his hands finding Shane’s head. “It’s too good, stop, stop.”
Shane stops immediately and looks up. Ilya’s enormous cock is extremely hard and interested in the proceedings. Later, Shane promises it mentally. Ilya looks dazed beyond it, staring down at him.
“It feels weird,” he says. “Not bad.”
“It’s okay if you don’t like it,” Shane says, more than happy to shift to sucking Ilya’s beautiful dick.
“I like it,” Ilya says slowly. “Is that okay?”
“It’s very okay,” Shane reassures him, putting all his heart into it. I can be what you need, too. Whatever you need. “It’s hot. I like hearing you.”
Ilya is watching him, trusting. Shane knows now how soft Ilya can be. It feels almost too much to bear; he’s overfull, bursting, with the fact Ilya trusts him to show it. Literal years to get here, and worth every moment.
“Keep going?”
Ilya nods, and Shane circles Ilya’s hole with a finger, watching his face. Ilya hums a little, eyes falling heavy-lidded. “Yeah, keep going.” His mouth curves up on one side. “Show me what you got, Hollander.”
There’s definitely something about it. Being on the other side, opening Ilya up, Ilya letting him. It’s not scratching the same itch being fucked does, it’s something different. Mine, he thinks, watching Ilya process the new sensation, his own heart kicking up a notch when Ilya starts pushing down onto his fingers. He’s doing this with me, no one else. No one else could ever.
“What the fuck,” Ilya says when Shane, with deep concentration and careful intent, finally locates his prostate. “What — oh my god, Shane.”
“That’s it,” Shane smiles up at him, crooking his fingers and setting a steady, rocking pace. “Like it?”
“That’s so,” Ilya kicks a leg out and tosses his head, then glares down at him. “That feels too good, I — no, don’t stop, you fucker. Oh. Oh, god.” He’s so pink. It’s incredible. Shane feels awed, and hot, and really fucking horny.
He picks up the pace.
“Next time, I should get one of the plugs, wear it at the same time,” Shane says, grinding his hips against the bed as he tries out a new angle and is rewarded with a low, deep moan that he can feel all the way down here. “Fuck, that’d feel so good, but maybe, mm, distracting.” He wants to do a good job on Ilya, after all. “Maybe not.”
Whatever Ilya was going to say about that dissolves into mush as Shane licks up his cock, hand still working carefully away. Ilya’s legs are shaking a little now; there’s sweat dark at his temples, and he looks devastating, devastated. He looks wrecked, like he’s been through a seven game series. Like he’s trusting Shane to get them to the end of it.
“Still good?” Shane asks, checking in just in case.
“Don’t stop,” Ilya begs, and comes before Shane can even get his mouth all the way around him. Shane is very ready to nuzzle and pet him, afterwards, to bask in the afterglow, but Ilya just tosses him onto his back, panting and looking electrified.
“I need to do that to you now,” Ilya says, looming over Shane on all fours. He looks wild, and so sexy Shane’s dick is already twitching and leaking. “I want to take you apart.”
“Oh, if you want,” Shane says airily, and allows himself to be devoured.
*
Maybe one day he’ll fuck Ilya. Maybe Ilya wants it, and one day will let himself have it, and Shane will be the one to give it to him. Shane even thinks, shocking himself a little, that he’s looking forward to it. A different perspective, a new position. Like playing right wing, when he’s been center all his life. It’s not his best playing, maybe, but he still learns something new, and it’s still fun, because he’s playing with Ilya.
Hell, Shane would even put on goalie pads for a game, if Ilya wanted to try it out.
“You would not,” Ilya laughs, swatting his ass and looking interested when Shane yelps.
“I would! I could do it,” Shane protests, skating backwards on the practice rink, away from the dangerously smug look on Ilya’s face. “Okay, obviously not a real game. But like, a practice game. For the camp, or whatever.”
Ilya crowds him against the boards and kisses him. “You just like it when I shoot on you.”
“I do like that,” Shane admits, smiling up at Ilya from under his lashes. “Everybody wins, I guess.”
“With you in net, definitely. No, you cannot do it, I would go mad. I would lay my body in the crease to protect you, and all the children would pummel me with pucks, and then you would have no husband any more. Terrible plan, Shane.”
“That’s not how you play defense, dummy,” Shane laughs again. He forgets where this metaphor was going, it was a dumb metaphor anyway.
The rest of the team is going to be here any moment, and while the Centaurs are pretty used to walking in on the two of them canoodling — “I do not canoodle, what Canadian nonsense word is this” — Shane breaks it up.
“Thanks for offering to be worst goalie ever,” Ilya says later, in bed, after a relatively tame night of handjobs and competitive frottage. They have a game against New York tomorrow and Shane doesn’t want to do anything too physically or emotionally strenuous.
“Mmph,” Shane says, still pretty liquid after having managed to outlast Ilya’s handjob an extra half second. “I would do it, for you, though.” He wants to be clear. After the last decade, he’s learned it’s better to be clear. “Anything you want. You can ask me. You can always ask me. You can have what you want, too.”
The room is dark, and safe, and Ilya is as close as a human can get without actively having sex, wrapped around Shane, and nuzzling in. “Yes, I know,” Ilya says, and he even sounds like he believes it.
“Goal,” Shane says, content, and falls asleep.