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Good thing the Raiders shill out on accommodations. That’s what Shane thinks when Ilya slams him against the wall, head thunking solidly against the faux-wood paneling. No hollow sound of cheaply applied drywall, a surface that could easily be punctured by the overly enthusiastic motion of a solid object. Like the back of a chair. Or a bedframe.
He doesn’t notice the ringing in his head. It could be the hit he just took from the firm hands pinning him to the wall, or it could be from the bunched-up muscles that punched him into the boards earlier that night. Shane’s left side is going to be one big bruise tomorrow. He normally gets even on the ice, but Ilya snuck that one in with seconds on the clock. He also happened to score the winning point in the same move, so Shane is smarting in more ways than one.
Obviously matchups with Ilya are always pretty electric, but tonight especially, he’s feeling wired, buzzing right down to his bones. A nasty play at the beginning of the game had taken him to medical for longer than he would’ve liked, and he got about half as much time on the ice he would’ve preferred which—it's not polite to say, but everyone knows it’s true—probably didn’t help the outcome of tonight' s game.
So as much as he likes it, Shane isn’t going to take that shit lying down. The inversion, lack of laser-focus and blood-pumping, has him feeling off his game, unsettled. Normally he would sweat it out at the gym. He shoves at the swell of Ilya’s bicep and is glad he’s got another way to burn his energy for the night.
Ilya grunts when Shane cuts at the meat of his lower lip with his teeth, and it’s only then that Shane realizes that he’s eschewed their usual greeting for something a lot more frenetic.
His mouth opens, maybe to stop, ask a question, apologize, but Ilya chases him there, nipping at the cut of Shane's jaw, his chin, his hand pressing into the bruises blooming on Shane’s shoulder. And at that point, Shane can’t let him get another leg up on him, can he? So he drags his hand down, nails catching at skin as he grabs the meat of Ilya’s ass, hefting him forwards so they press together, every sharp point of bone and the give of muscle.
Ilya breathes out a little noise, a huff of laughter, “The puck is not there, I promise.”
Shane has to stop himself from barking out a fuck off! or what?, so instead he just shoves a knee forwards. He’s not sure if he’s going for kicking Ilya in the nuts or giving the hardness pressing in between them something to do, but he ends up with some kind of mish-mash of the two, Ilya letting out a weird grunting noise that lands somewhere between pleased and shocked. It curves him inward, just a little, so Shane can shove him till the backs of his knees are folding on the edge of the bed and he tumbles down onto the sheets.
Ilya, of course, immediately stretches out languidly, as if this is where he meant to be all along. It pisses Shane off. He’s way too fucking cool for a guy whose dick has more structural integrity than a piece of rebar. Shane drops his hands down on either side of Ilya’s face, hovering over him on the mussed-up bedsheets. Why doesn’t he make his bed?
“You’re such an asshole,” he says, but it doesn’t come out the way he wants it too, so instead of hanging there and letting it linger he pinches at the soft skin of Ilya’s armpit. Ilya jerks, and then giggles. “What the shit, that hurts!”
“That’s the point,” Shane sniffs. Still, he tracks the way Ilya’s pupils dilate just a little at the action. He’s noticed that Ilya likes to stick his face in the hollow of Shane’s arm after they fuck sometimes, when they’re laying there trying to catch their breaths. They never stick around long enough for it to really matter, but Shane has thought, privately, that it’s a shame they always shower after games, that it would be thrilling to press their sweat-slick and hot-blooded bodies together. They get heart rates up pretty quickly regardless, but fuck, he’s seen Ilya killing it on the treadmill, wonders at the buzz and smell of him everywhere.
Of course, only with a spare pile of clean sheets on deck. They could do it in the gym, maybe, where the mess is par for the course. On the weight bench, it’s not uncommon to see the floor splattered with sweat, even spit for the more careless guys. He thinks about the clean leather, damp from fluids, wiping down after like any other set…
Ilya knees him discontentedly. “I thought you wanted to fuck Hollander, not whatever this is.”
“You’re such a diva,” Shane mutters, shifting so he’s kneeling on the bed with his hips astride Ilya’s. “Don’t you get enough attention on the ice?”
“I know what I am worth. More than this, I think. Maybe I will find the new guy, he will treat me right…” Ilya pushes himself up, dramatically searching, and Shane doesn’t even think before he’s shoving those broad shoulders back down on the mattress, other hand pinning one of Ilya’s arms down by the wrist. He attacks Ilya’s mouth first, noses down his clavicle and bites at a nipple, relishes the sigh he gets. “You know I outperform any rookie,” he says, grinding his ass down on Ilya’s hard-on.
“Yes, if the category is boring me to death, you will certainly get a prize,” Ilya grunts, bucking his hips up, trying for friction or maybe to throw Shane off. He squirms, and Shane can feel him bracing for a real tussle, and Shane usually loves to give Ilya what he wants, which is usually also what he wants, conveniently enough, but right now there’s no way in hell he’s letting Ilya win this one.
He does want to suck his cock though. So he leverages himself and pins Ilya down to the bed through the sharp buck of his hips. As if Shane hasn’t had years to practice riding Ilya like a bull. When Ilya’s strong arms grab at Shane’s waist, shoving at his tender side, Shane hisses out, “Dirty play, Rozanov,” and wastes no time yanking them down and pinning them to his chest with a firm hand.
The wide, sharp grin on Ilya’s face blooms hot under Shane’s skin. He seems half feral, flustered and happy to be so all at once. For all they’ve fooled around it feels like something he doesn’t get to see much. God, Ilya is always so up there. In control. Hot as shit, but Shane wonders if it grates sometimes.
“You have claws, Hollander?” Ilya snarks, trying for condescending but sounding a little too breathless for it to pass. It makes Shane smile, sure he’s won something.
Ilya could break Shane’s hold if he wanted, but Shane sucks him down and that’s distraction enough. He curses, shoving himself up into Shane’s mouth until Shane digs his nails into the sharp cut of his hip in warning.
Ilya’s fucked Shane’s face plenty of times so he can’t blame him for this. But not tonight. Shane feels driven by some single-minded focus, an urge that compels him to box at the edges of Ilya’s careful carelessness. Just once. He’d like to see him lose it.
Ilya doesn’t stop fighting him, and Shane wouldn’t expect anything less, wouldn’t want anything else. He takes Ilya down to the throat without preamble and presses behind his balls to hear the ragged groan that rumbles in Ilya’s chest. Shane relishes the stretch of his jaw and the almost-too-much fullness that comes from working Ilya’s length down his throat before pulling off, wrapping a hand around the firm weight of Ilya’s shaft.
Ilya buries a hand in his hair, trying to pull Shane back on his cock or something, but Shane pushes against his hold. It feels good to butt up against the unyielding pressure as Shane twists his hand around the base of Ilya’s cock, jerking him roughly. It feels like a fight. He should get the lube, but he doesn’t want to give Ilya any more chances, so he just spits on the length of him and rubs a thumb over the slit, encouraging.
The noise Ilya makes is wounded. His heels are grinding into the mattress, body tense with need. He really is beautiful. The hand on Shane’s head has turned less controlling, more steadying, Ilya searching for purchase as Shane works the hot line of his cock in his hand. He knows every part of Ilya now, knows to squeeze as he leans down to lick a stripe from root to tip, and the unexpected heat has Ilya pulsing in his hand. It’s good.
It gets better when Shane’s mouth trails down, lapping familiar at his balls, and he doesn’t think before he’s licking flat over Ilya’s hole. It can’t be overstated how Ilya jolts, shivers through his cock, his heaving chest, the ah he lets out, grip on Shane’s skull bruising.
“Yeah?” Shane asks in the humid space between Ilya’s legs. As long as they’ve been doing this, Ilya’s never asked for it, but Shane feels bold tonight. And why shouldn’t he? He has the second-best hockey player in the world twitching under his hands right now. He has a loss he needs to make up for. He needs this. He kisses a mole on the inside of Ilya’s thigh. Probably Ilya needs it too. They’re both athletes. They like pushing their bodies, testing limits.
“Do not ask stupid questions,” Ilya grits out, which makes Shane snort. He’s palming his own dick in his hand now and for some reason that makes Shane frown. He shoves his shoulder under Ilya and the shocked noise he makes as Shane flips him around is very funny.
“This way?” Shane asks, a question that doesn’t really need to hang in the air because Ilya is already shoving himself up on his hands and knees even as he shoots a pout back at Shane.
“You are not very polite, treating me like this.”
Shane pats his side soothingly. “You can tap out whenever you want,” he says. He does mean it earnestly, but he’s not surprised that Ilya seems to take it as a challenge.
“No. I am good from every angle. You know this.”
He does know. Shane should be checking how clean Ilya is, but his nose is already stuck almost between Ilya’s asscheeks and he certainly doesn’t notice anything, so whatever. He trusts his hygiene habits. Thank god he’s European. He wraps a steadying hand on Ilya’s dick, the other pulling him apart, and sticks his tongue in Ilya’s hole.
Jesus, he’s tight. Shane has to backtrack a bit, lick around the rim, massage the meat of his ass soothingly to get him to relax. It’s not like he has much experience in this part, so he takes it slow, exploratory, probing at the clench of muscle curiously.
“I am not so fragile,” he hears Ilya say above him. “I manage just fine without you.”
Shane makes a discontented noise he hopes communicates You lick your own asshole when I’m not around? He ignores the pleased flare in his gut that Ilya apparently only gets fucked by himself, not some stranger. He wonders how often he does it, what he looks like. On his stomach? His back? After a good practice probably, stringing his energy out and making it last.
So that’s what he’s got on his mind when he starts teasing Ilya, licking over him, other hand coming up to press his thumb just under where Ilya wants him, sharp and grounding. He can’t see Ilya but he can hear him, the rumble of his voice as he sweats and curses. It’s nice to feel the flex of muscle under his hands, the pressure of Ilya holding himself for Shane, the thrill of restrained, latent tension.
But he’s got to get things moving at some point. When he surfaces Ilya’s got his head down, muscles flexed like the kind of ridiculous big cat that gets CGI’d next to him in fragrance commercials. His hands are clasped in a firm fist, and it’s keeping him from touching his cock. He’s been holding himself up very well so it doesn’t brush the bed or give him any extra friction.
“Had enough?” Ilya asks as if he’s not the one shaking with need right now. It makes Shane roll his eyes, impossibly fond. Of course Ilya will be obstinate until the day he dies.
“Just getting started,” he promises, and he leans over to grab at the lube, hand on Ilya’s firm back to steady himself. He can feel the way he trembles under his palm, anticipation to strain as he shoulders Shane’s weight. Shane stays there a second longer than he needs to and watches a bead of sweat trace a path down the side of Ilya’s face.
Shane settles on his heels. He taps Ilya’s side to get him on his back again. The eyes that meet his are wild.
“You’re being good,” Shane says cautiously, rubbing absent circles into Ilya’s thigh as he hitches his leg over his shoulder.
“I’m always good. I am the best.” Ilya tosses his head a little, preening, the arrogance that aggravates Shane’s teammates and makes him smile, against his better judgement.
“You are,” Shane concedes, tracing Ilya’s rim with slick fingers. “The best. After me.”
The affronted noise Ilya makes at that is lost in his groan as Shane pushes a finger into him. He hitches himself onto his elbows so he can meet eyes with Shane, brow furrowed adorably. “You are the best, which is why you lost tonight?”
“Fuck off,” Shane says and shoves another finger into Ilya rougher than he should, probably. He doesn’t even realize he’s done it until he feels Ilya kicking at his back, and he feels bad for all of five seconds before he sees the look on Ilya’s face, eyes bright with need.
“Prove it to me.” Shane keeps his eyes on him as he pushes in deeper, spreading his fingers a bit. Ilya’s cock leaks sluggishly on his stomach.
“You think you're the best? I'm not sure.”
The words are uncomfortable on his tongue. Shane's not really practiced at this, not like Ilya seems to be, but he knows what they're both like. Ilya bats Shane’s hand away. “I will show you. I am not the one moving like Scott Hunter.”
“Oh my god why are you talking about Scott Hunter right now?” Shane groans as he grabs the condoms Ilya tosses up to him. Ilya shrugs. “I was thinking of the slowest creature on the planet. To describe how you are moving right now.”
“Say anyone else’s name again and I leave,” Shane warns, even though they both know he’s lying. Ilya looks like a hyena right now. It’s kinda funny, and flattering. It occurs to Shane that maybe he should be nervous because the last time he tried fucking someone it was fairly awful, but that person wasn’t Ilya Rozanov, so.
“Are you good?”
“Why do you only ask stupid questions, Hollander?” Ilya demands, and his callousness should offend Shane but he knows him, so he just smacks his side lightly and rests the tip of his cock against Ilya’s hole.
“Last chance to back out,” he warns, mostly joking. Ilya doesn’t dignify that with a response. He just growls and shoves himself back onto Shane’s cock and that’s that, and suddenly Shane is inside him, hot and tight in a way his mouth or the channel of his fist usually isn’t, and he has to grab Ilya’s shoulder bruise-tight to stop himself from immediately fucking him balls-deep.
“Fuck,” he says, with feeling. “Thought you were good, impatient asshole.”
“I will be good when you fuck me,” Ilya’s fingers are tapping down his chest and Shane is not letting him have that one. He bats his hand away, bites down at the swell of Ilya’s chest, and the movement forces him deeper. Ilya makes a punched out noise, hands scrambling for purchase on Shane’s back, his waist, and Shane cuts the crap and gives him what he wants.
For all of Ilya’s talk, Shane doesn’t actually want to traumatize him, though he’s sure Ilya would goad him from going zero to one hundred if he had his way. It’s not just about him. Shane isn’t really used to enjoying this. He’s gonna take whatever time he needs.
And there’s an exciting thought: he is enjoying this. He likes feeling Ilya’s body give in to his. He likes the twist of Ilya’s mouth that he normally only gets when Shane blows him that he doesn’t usually get to see. He likes one of Ilya’s strong hands anchored around his neck, grip almost punishing.
They reach for each other at the same time, Ilya pressing up seeking just as Shane drops his head down to smears his mouth messy over Ilya’s own. It’s all tongue and teeth. Ilya opens up for him here, too, and Shane has to remember to keep his focus, rhythm, because Ilya pulls away to say “I am not sure this is really a challenge for me…”
“Just a Tuesday for you, huh Rozanov?” Shane pulls Ilya up by the hip so he can fuck deeper, and Ilya clenches tight around him, a wanting noise pulling itself from his throat. His leg kicks up to press at Shane’s back. Shane smothers his grin in a nip to the scruffy underside of Ilya’s jaw. Part of him wants to slow down, take more time, feel out the little quirks he hasn’t gotten a handle on yet.
But mostly he wants to win. He scratches at Ilya’s abs, watches his cock twitch at that. He leans down to kiss him again, holding himself over Ilya so the heat between their bodies stays caught in the air, unspooled tension that makes Ilya pull at Shane discontentedly. His nails are carving spots out on Shane’s back. His mouth is trailing down Shane’s tender side, hiding new bruises under the less-new ones.
“My teammates are gonna see those,” Shane pants. Of course this just makes Ilya grin up at him. “And you can say, Ilya Rozanov, he’s just too good, he got me good.”
His Canadian accent is awful. “I don’t sound like that,” Shane says to cover up the way his dick throbs at the thought. Realistically, obviously, he would throw himself into traffic before having his team know anything about him and Rozanov. But he thinks about having a mark on him, something private, secret, hidden in plain sight. Pressing on it a little in the showers. Ilya’s teeth bite into him. He moans.
Ilya grins at him, mouth wet with spit mostly, but through the little burns on his skin Shane imagines something else of his smearing his mouth. He thinks of the core strength it’s taking Ilya to keep himself folded up like this. He loves the agreement of their bodies. Ilya clenches tight around him, teasing, and that’s it. Shane grinds into him as he empties into the condom and hopes Ilya feels it in his throat.
Shane’s hand slips on the sweaty curve of Ilya’s hip. He jerks Ilya’s cock roughly as he softens inside him, still pressed right there, and enjoys the fuck Ilya grits out as he cums. Shane lowers him back on the bed and knows his arm is going to be sore tomorrow. He likes feeling the little aftershocks shudder through Ilya, his damp cock and the clench of his hole, but he can read the little screw on his face and pulls out carefully.
Shane keeps one hand on Ilya’s side as he licks Ilya’s spend off the other. He’s pleased to keep the mess so contained. Ilya makes a noise beneath him. Shane pats him a little clumsily. “I guess you can keep up with me.”
Ilya launches himself at Shane. They don’t end up showering for a while.
A few days later, in the locker room before practice, someone whistles at the color mottling Shane’s side. “That from Rozanov? Bastard got you good.”
Shane stretches his arms over his head, feeling the burn and ache. He thumbs at the bruise, a spot just a little more tender than the rest. “Yeah. But I’ll get even.”