Archive of Our Own

Shane doesn’t know what he’s expecting when he walks through the front door of his apartment after one of the most satisfying wins of his career, but it’s not this.

“Did you lose a bet?”

The words stutter out of him before he can think better of it. He doesn’t remember the last time he blinked as he shoves his jacket thoughtlessly at the rack, kicks off his shoes and moves across the room.

Ilya makes an expansive gesture with his arms, before tucking them along the back of the couch. It leaves him all spread out, looking far more casual than Shane thinks he actually feels given how tight his jaw is. Focusing on Ilya is helping him stop thinking about himself, though, how he must look standing stock still in the middle of the room.

“I did not.” Ilya says, flat enough to make Shane worry he’s displeased for a moment. Then he smiles. “Jackie sent it to me.”

Shane inhales so sharply that he worries he’s going to do something very uncool, like choke on his own spit. “How did Jackie get your address?”

“I don’t know, Shane.”

Ilya is so needlessly hot at the best of times that it aches for Shane to see him here and not be touching him. But somehow the inclusion of a Metros jersey has made it so much worse. Worse even than if he was naked, which is a fucking crazy realisation to have.

Smirking, Ilya gets to his feet. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m not.” Shane protests, even though he can feel the heat growing in his cheeks as he stares and stares and—.

“All these years.” Ilya grins. “And still a shit liar.”

Shane blinks, unable to find the words that he really needs, Ilya getting closer step by impossibly slow step. “Would you…”

Ilya’s smile grows wider. “Turn around?”

“Yes.” Shane agrees, too quick, giving himself away even more than the colour in his cheeks already has. “Please?”

Inherently, he knows what he’ll find there. Jackie doesn’t know Ilya well enough yet to send him a Pike jersey, though Shane knows she might have considered it. Ilya wouldn’t have put that on, though.

Burned it, maybe, right in the middle of Shane’s apartment.

But awareness doesn’t make it any easier to keep his composure when he sees the massive 24, topped with Hollander in big bold letters.

Can you faint from getting hard too fast? How has he never looked that up?

“I almost did not put it on.” Ilya says, interrupting his rising panic and arousal as deftly as always. “I thought, maybe, it would be too much. For you.”

He lifts his shoulders helplessly, and Shane wishes for a moment he could see Ilya's face, as if he has any chance of tearing his eyes away from his name on Ilya's back.

“And me.”

The words almost don't register.

“But?” Shane manages to croak before the silence stretches too long, his hands itching to reach out, trace the letters, the numbers, feel Ilya’s skin beneath his name.

“But nothing, Shane. Obviously, I tried it.” He says, glancing back over his shoulder with twinkling eyes. “I have always looked good in blue.”

“Fuck off.” Shane laughs, no longer resisting the urge to step in, to press his face between Ilya’s shoulder blades and wrap his arms around his boyfriend’s waist. “Shut the fuck up.”

Ilya can’t have missed how hard Shane is, pressed eagerly against his ass, though Shane’s got no idea if he’ll mention it. He must have known what this would do to Shane, has begged enough times for Shane to wear his jersey.

“I do not think you want that.” Ilya says. “You like it too much when I talk, yes?”

“Yes.” Shane replies, instinctively. Has no choice other than to be honest.

Ilya hums, and he can feel it through his fingertips, through his lips. It grounds him. Makes it easier to think.

“Ilya…” He says, quiet enough that were they not this close together he doesn’t think he’d be heard. “I want… fuck. I want you to wear it when you fuck me.”

With a chuckle, Ilya reaches around behind him and squeezes Shane’s ass. “Possessive.”

Irritation flares hot inside him, but it’s overcome by an immediate wave of affection so strong it leaves him breathless. “Are you surprised?”

“No, no.” Ilya says, big palm rolling over the curve of his ass, muscles still sore under the firm touch after the hard shift he put in this evening. “Pleased? Yes. Very pleased.”

“Like you'd be any different if it was your jersey.”

Ilya turns, slowly, reaches a hand up to hold Shane's chin and bring their gazes in line. He smirks, leans in for a kiss that's far too brief for Shane's liking.

“I would not know.” Ilya speaks with his lips against Shane's. “Because you will not let me see.”

Shane squirms, wanting to look away. He doesn't, and Ilya’s expression is so pleased that his worry is gone in a heartbeat.

“You didn't have to do this.” He says, and Ilya rolls his eyes.

“You are so weird. I did not have gun to my head, Shane.” He says, exasperated but fond. So fond. “I like how it makes you look at me. I like when you look like everything is too much.”

He's not wrong, is the thing. Shane feels like he's going to burst, shivery and hot all over. It is too much, and he doesn't want it to ever stop.

“Ilya…”

“Mm, come with me.” He says, taking Shane's hand and pulling him towards the stairs. “I want to suck your dick.”

Shane's never going to say no to that. He trails after Ilya, spares a moment to wish they were kissing their way up the stairs like they have so many times before. Then Ilya looks back at him, eyes full of heat and promise, and getting up them in one piece feels like the most important thing.

“Sit.” Ilya says, when they reach the bedroom, gesturing loosely at the bed.

Shane complies with a haste that he'd be embarrassed about if he had even a single brain cell to spare. When he looks back at Ilya he's smirking, pleased.

“What?” He asks, when Ilya doesn't say anything.

Just filling the silence makes him feel better, especially when Ilya still doesn't say anything. He watches, eyes wide, as Ilya pushes his sweatpants down, steps out of them to leave him in…

Wait.

“Are you…?”

Ilya puts his hands on his hips, hitching the hem of the jersey higher on his thighs. He turns and Shane groans, a broken, gutted noise at the sight of Ilya's glorious ass.

“Jackie sent wrong size.” Ilya says, turning back. He's half-hard and Shane can see it now, Ilya tucking the jersey up around his waist. “She thinks I am bigger than I am.”

Shane stares. Licks his lips.

“Uh huh.”

“Shane.” Ilya grins. “My eyes are up here.”

“You're naked in my jersey.” Shane protests. “Let me enjoy it.”

“Oh, let you.” Ilya laughs. “If you were not enjoying it, I would worry. You did not bang your head tonight?”

“You were watching.” Shane says. He still feels a bit lightheaded. “Right?”

“I was.” Ilya says, walking closer. “You played very well. Made it easier to wear your name.”

Shane opens his mouth to reply but Ilya chooses that moment to sink down onto his knees and what comes out instead is a wheezy, desperate noise. He blinks, remembering to lift his hips when Ilya reaches for the waistband of his sweats and pulls them down along with his underwear, rough enough that Shane whines again.

“Is this all you can do? Make noises at me?”

“Ilya.” He huffs. “Give me a break.”

“Mm, no.” Ilya says, after the barest consideration. “I don't think so.”

A string of helpless curses leave Shane's lips when Ilya bends forward and takes the tip of him deep, wet heat surrounding him as Ilya's hand fits around the base of his dick.

He grunts and curls forward, digs his fingers into Ilya's hair and when he opens his eyes, there's his name, flexing over the span of Ilya's shoulders.

“Fuck me.” He pants, and Ilya pulls off to press several long, smiling kisses along the length of him.

“You can wait.” Ilya mutters against his dick. “You found time to shower before coming back to me, so obviously there is no rush.”

Shane frowns, watching the blissful relaxing of Ilya's forehead when he presses his face right into the hair at the base of Shane's dick and inhales slowly.

“You…” He starts. “Are you disappointed?”

Ilya pulls off, shrugs. “Is fine. Do not feel like you have to. I like when you smell bad. And good. But bad, too.”

Shane forces himself to breathe as Ilya sinks down again, pressing Shane's dick deep enough that his throat flexes around it. Ilya moans as if it's the hottest thing that's ever happened to him, as if Shane's dick choking him is all he ever wants.

Fingers pulling tighter at Ilya's hair, Shane flails with his other hand and then slams it down on Ilya's back, fisting in the jersey, the 2 and 4 pulling together in his grip.

He thinks about all the times they've done this. How he's never dared turn up at Ilya's door without showering. Never dared open the door to Ilya without scrubbing the filth of a game off him.

Even at the cottage…

“You are thinking so loud.” Ilya lifts his head and presses his grumbling complaint into Shane's stomach. “Should I worry?”

“You… you really wouldn't mind?” He asks, feels a bit silly and exposed for it.

“Mind?”

He looks so confused that Shane feels guilty for making this a bigger deal than it needs to be. Again.

“If I was still. Sweaty. Gross.”

Ilya immediately looks relieved, ducking down to kiss the slick tip of Shane's cock, tongue flicking out to tease his slit.

“Oh nooo.” He says, breath tickling Shane where he's most sensitive. “The man I love, coming to me sweaty and gross? Put him in jail.”

“Ilya.” Shane murmurs, cheeks hot again. “Be honest.”

With a slow exhale, Ilya sits up, brings their lips together in a kiss that tastes like Shane's skin. He imagines for a moment that Ilya's lips might be covered in sweat, his sweat, musky and salty and filthy and his dick pulses hard enough that Ilya laughs into the kiss.

“I am being honest.” Ilya says, when they part. “Are you?”

Shane swallows past a ball of anxiety in his throat. Watches Ilya's lips quirk as he realises Shane's coming around.

“Next time. Maybe I won't shower.”

“Maybe.” Ilya echoes. When Shane nods, he huffs out a fond breath. “I can work with maybe.”

Shane watches his face too closely when he comes in for another kiss and then sinks down quickly enough to make Shane gasp, mouth fitting around his dick again.

“Shit.” Shane breathes. His fingers tighten in the jersey again and he focuses on the texture of it, the fabric, the printed numbers, because if he can focus on that he might not come embarrassingly fast.

Ilya sucks him with the sort of commitment that Shane knows he's lucky to experience. He'd feel more overwhelmed by it if Ilya hadn't admitted he felt the same way about Shane, then after a breathless kiss had declared them a perfect match.

Shane's pretty sure after that he'd sucked Ilya until Russian praise rang around Ilya's Boston home and Shane's tongue was covered and—.

Ilya moans, reaching a hand down and pressing two knuckles hard at Shane's perineum. It breaks Shane out of his thoughts without any chastisement, though when he looks down Ilya is giving him a knowing look.

Shane flushes, bites back an apology, and focuses instead on watching his boyfriend at work.

When Ilya pulls back to breathe, he winks at Shane, balances the tip of his dick on that plush lower lip. When he speaks it feels so odd that Shane shivers, watches his dick jump and betray him.

“You do not have to distract yourself.” Ilya says, as if Shane isn't busy leaking down his chin. “You can come, Shane. I will still fuck you.”

“I know.” He says, too quickly, like he doesn't actually know anything at all. He feels stupid, dizzy, overcome by this man.

“Okay.” Ilya says, tilting forward to suck on the tip of him.

“Okay.” He repeats.

Shane is focussed so strongly on watching that his orgasm almost becomes background noise. Ilya was good at this when they met, so much better than Shane was, and he’s only got better over the years of learning every single trick to make Shane tremble and sweat, curses tripping easily from his lips.

When Ilya shifts back, a strand of spit connects him to the end of Shane’s dick and he stares at that too, hungry for any sign that they’re here, together.

“Should I be offended?” Ilya asks. “Usually you go off like rocket.”

Shane huffs, kicking his foot into the generous curve of Ilya’s ass. “Fuck you. I was enjoying it. Thinking.”

“Thinking.” Ilya repeats, followed by a series of slow, wet kisses to Shane’s tip. “About?”

It feels so impossible to sum up in words, so Shane goes with his gut. “You.”

Ilya’s lips pull down in an exaggerated pout. “Cute. Come on my tongue.”

A snorting laugh escapes Shane as Ilya ducks down again and swallows him deep. He almost doesn’t want to, but the obviousness of Ilya’s demand is impossible to ignore. Shane feels the heat in his gut flare into something bigger than he has words for, nails scratching Ilya’s back through the jersey as he comes, panting, curled over his boyfriend enough to almost press his forehead to his own name.

“Better.” Ilya says as he sits back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You made me think I was losing my touch.”

Shane laughs, flopping onto his back. “No. No you’re not.”

“Take off your shirt.”

With a grumble Shane does as Ilya asks, folding it up into itself and dropping it off the bed to worry about later. He doesn’t think Ilya would appreciate it if he got up to put it on the side.

He barely has a moment to settle with his head on the pillows before Ilya is sitting across his lap, pinning him down, rutting against his belly so hot and hard that it makes Shane giddy. He knows he’s grinning like an idiot, can see the way Ilya is trying not to match it to hold on to some control.

Like Shane won’t give it up to him, always. Like Shane doesn’t love his smile.

“When I get you in my jersey.” He says, and Shane opens his mouth to protest only to have a heavy finger placed on his lips. “You will ride me so I can see my name on you.”

“Oh I will?” Shane grins, cheeks sore.

Ilya nods. “You will. So I can push it up and see you take me.”

“I’ll let Jackie know to order one.”

Ilya makes a noise like he’s been stabbed, falling forward and pressing his face to Shane’s throat. He growls, nips at the sensitive skin as hard as he dares without leaving a mark and then sits up. He stares at Shane, stares and stares and then smiles.

“Don’t joke. I love you.”

It’s embarrassing that that’s enough to make Shane’s dick twitch, even worse that Ilya definitely feels it.

“Mm, I think you’re ready for more.” Ilya smiles. “I should open you up before you come all over yourself. Messy.”

“I like messy.” Shane lies, and just for a moment Ilya pauses, raising one eyebrow. “I like messy sometimes.”

“Mm, okay.” Ilya says in obvious disbelief. “I will use a lot of lube then, make it wet.”

“Right, but you don’t have to be wasteful.”

He feels like he’s so transparent like this. Maybe he is. It doesn’t seem to matter to Ilya. Ilya nods at him, gives him a thumbs up with the hand not digging into the side table for the bottle of expensive lube that they’ve both realised is worth the money now.

“Whatever you say, Mr Boring.”

Shane laughs, rubbing his hands over his face. “Fuck you.”

Settling back down between Shane’s spread legs, Ilya blows a raspberry on his inner thigh and before he can react to the sweet silliness of it, there’s a slick thumb rubbing at his asshole. He melts, hands falling beside his head on the bed like he’s begging for Ilya’s hands around his wrists.

“Pretty thing.” Ilya murmurs, and Shane’s not sure if it’s directed at him or his hole. Either feels entirely possible.

Submitting to Ilya’s gentle care has always been easy, but like this, with Shane’s jersey pushed up around his elbows, one arm slung over his hips to keep him still, Shane can already feel himself slipping.

“I wish you could see.” Ilya murmurs, nibbling softly at the rise of Shane’s quad. “You always open so easily for me. Hungry, Shane. Like you need some of me in you, always.”

Shane makes a helpless noise, midway between an agreement and a plea. Ilya’s smirk is hidden against his thigh but he can feel it, gets a reward in the form of Ilya curling a finger sweet and sure against Shane’s prostate.

“Good, Shane.” Ilya says, as he slips another finger into Shane’s body. “Keep behaving and you will get everything you want.”

It feels like he should protest. Claim back some of the fierce power he felt upon first seeing Ilya wearing his jersey.

But it was never about that, was it?

Shane pushes against Ilya’s hold enough to rock back into his fingers, two becoming three quicker than he’s really ready for after so many weeks apart, but slower than he needs, deep in his gut, where all of his desperation for Ilya lives.

“Calm, Shane.” Ilya urges, and it draws a huff from him. “I do not want to lose my cock to your tight ass.”

“Fuck off.” Shane huffs, clenching tighter just because he knows it’ll make Ilya smile.

“Maybe I have to.” He says. “If you don’t relax.”

Shane puts real effort into thinking about relaxing, which has never been helpful for him actually relaxing. But he knows he can overcome his brain by promising himself it’s for his own good - the sooner he gets loose for Ilya the sooner he can get taken apart like he craves.

“Good.” Ilya says, and Shane floats on that feeling, the simple praise. The honesty. “Good, Shane.”

Knowing that he’s doing it right.

“Ilya.” He breathes, determined not to get lost in his head again. “More, please.”

“You want four?” Ilya asks, then dips down to look at where Shane is stretched for him. “Maybe need four.”

All of them Shane doesn’t beg, but one day, he’s going to be braver. “Please.”

Ilya’s eyes are warm when they meet Shane’s. “Okay, Shane.”

The fourth finger is a stretch that he often needs but doesn’t want, because getting Ilya inside him is more important. But when he feels Ilya’s little finger slide in too, he knows he needs it.

This isn’t like the cottage, where Ilya was inside him often enough to mean Shane had to up his aftercare routine. He’s not had anything bigger than his own fingers stretching him for weeks, both of them far too busy to carve out time for each other despite Ilya’s new proximity.

“Fuck.” Ilya curses. “You make it look easy.”

Ilya knows it isn’t, which makes the praise sound all the better. Shane feels tears tracking down into his hair, gasps out nonsense as Ilya works him up to the ridge of those strong knuckles that he loves to hold, to kiss.

“Okay.” Ilya snaps eventually. “Enough. I need you, Shane.”

He’s not in any position to argue, but Shane does lift his arms and reach for Ilya with a wide, delighted grin as his boyfriend grabs the lube and slicks up his dick.

Ilya tuts. “Where’s my patient boy?”

“Not here tonight.” Shane says. “Fuck me with my name on you.”

Ilya’s groan goes right through him, gets him fully hard after the intensity of being fingered open. He winces a bit as Ilya shoves one of his legs up, feeling the lingering strain of the game. It only makes his dick throb harder, though. Ilya knows that much.

Ilya guides himself forward, sinks in with an ease that he wouldn’t have found if they’d been as impatient as Shane really wanted. It steals Shane’s breath, almost too much as it always is. Only this time, he watches the Metros logo move across Ilya’s chest, watches the 24 on his bicep as he braces a hand beside Shane’s shoulder.

“You like this so much.” Ilya says, sounding faintly awed.

“I like you so much.” Shane pushes back. “The jersey is just… it’s extra.”

Ilya leans over him, hiding all of what makes this such a big fucking deal, and Shane can’t find it in himself to mind. The leg that he pushed up earlier falls over his bicep, covers the number but Shane imagines he can feel it there, branding him. Maybe he could talk Ilya into another tattoo…

Maybe he could get an 81…

“I felt that.” Ilya laughs, nips at his jaw. “Tell me.”

“I thought.” Shane gasps, his head spinning almost too much to make sense of words. “About getting a tattoo of your number.”

Ilya’s eyes go so wide it’s almost funny. He kisses Shane hard enough for their teeth to clash, his groans melding with Shane’s and the slick sounds of their fucking only growing with every fierce thrust of his hips.

“And me?” He asks, words hot and wet against Shane’s lips. “24?”

Shane grunts, his cock jumping where it’s trapped between them, against the front of his jersey. “Yes. Yeah. Fuck.”

It’s dangerous for Shane to think about something so permanent. But fuck, it does it for him, Ilya’s breath hot against his throat, dick hot in his ass. Love on the tips of their tongues and in every way their bodies move together.

He wants this forever.

He comes with that thought floating through his mind, not even slightly embarrassed that he’s come twice before Ilya has even come at all.

“Fuck, Shane.” Ilya grinds out the words, pressing up and urging his thighs up and wide. Ilya pushes down on them, watches where his dick is moving in and out of Shane’s body while Shane stares at the growing stain that he put on the front of the jersey. “You feel so good when you’re pulling at me. I can see it. Stretched and hungry, always.”

“Always.” Shane manages, though it feels like his heart is about to beat out of his chest. “Ilya, come in me.”

It’s such a simple demand but it makes Ilya’s eyes roll back all the same, the relative novelty of not using condoms still enough to get him going. Shane feels the pulse of Ilya’s cock, hears his pleased groan and watches the pink of his cheeks deepen as his face screws up in pleasure, Shane’s name on his lips.

“I love you.” He says, as he pitches forward again and flops on top of Shane, then rolls over until he eases out of Shane’s body and he can starfish on the other side of the bed.

“But this is fucking hot.”

Shane snickers as he uses his jelly arms to help Ilya pull off the jersey, biting back a displeased noise when Ilya throws it off the side of the bed. Now’s not the time to give into the instinctive urge to get up and fold it.

“You know she sent that as a joke right?” He asks, almost without realising he’s speaking.

Ilya’s head tips lazily over so that he can smile at Shane with half-closed eyes.”Mm, maybe. Or maybe, as a suggestion.”

Shane frowns. “What do you mean?”

Ilya’s lips turn down in disapproval and he opens his eyes to properly glare at Shane. “You think the Pikes are so boring Shane. They have ten children!”

“Four.” Shane corrects, but he's smiling now, understanding the implication. “And don't make me think about them when I can feel your come leaking out of me.”

“Oh, poor baby.” Ilya coos, leaning over him, kissing his forehead, his nose, his smiling lips. “I take such bad care of you.”

Shane watches mutely as Ilya shuffles down the bed, pushes his thighs apart and leans down, hot tongue lapping eagerly over his hole and cleaning up the come that was just starting to get uncomfortable. He curses, arches his back and stares down with what he hopes is obvious appreciation, Ilya’s eyes opening in time to lock their gazes.

He makes such a meal of it that Shane is almost embarrassed all over again, the hungry moans and wet slurps of Ilya’s tongue making him feel more of a mess than he is.

“You’re…” He starts then realises he doesn’t know what he wants to say. “Fuck. You don’t take bad care of me.”

Ilya sits back, lips and chin slick. “I know.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “It’s not hot when you know it.”

“Yes it is.” Ilya says, sitting up, climbing off of the bed and reaching his hands out for Shane. “Everything I do is hot. Sorry to say.”

Shane allows himself to be pulled up to his feet even if he’s capable of getting up on his own, falling into Ilya’s chest and smiling as two strong arms wrap tight around him.

“You’re not sorry.” He says.

“Mm, yes I am.” He says, with that faux serious expression that Shane adores. “After shower, I will say sorry to your asshole for being so much.”

With a disbelieving scoff Shane pushes him away and walks off towards the bathroom. “I think it’ll forgive you.”

Ilya laughs, chases after him and pulls him back, waddling them towards the shower. “You think? Wow, I have a chance with Shane Hollander's asshole? Most famous asshole in the MLH?”

“That's you.” Shane says, and Ilya laughs again with enough force that shakes them both.

God he loves making Ilya laugh.

“You say the nicest things.” Ilya presses the words into his throat, reaching past him to turn on the water, holding him tighter when he shivers a bit at the cold tiles under his feet. “I can do that too - you let me take good care of you now, yes?”

“Yes.” Shane says, melting into the strong hand that pulls on his chin and brings their lips together for a gentle kiss. “Please.”

Ilya smiles, sleepy sweet, and it’s the most beautiful he’s looked all night. “Mm, good. Thank you.”

Ilya doesn’t let him go even as they move under the water, pressing a sigh into Shane’s shoulder, hands moving over his belly, his chest, squeezing indulgently. It’s not getting clean, not where Shane really needs it right now, but it is the sort of intimacy they both went years without, so Shane is in no rush to hurry things along.

“Are you still thinking about the jersey?” Ilya asks, knowing how important conversation is to keeping Shane present, grounded.

“Yeah.” He says, tipping his head back against Ilya’s shoulder. “I can’t wait to go out there, pick it up… and fold it.”

Ilya lets out a displeased groan, pinching Shane’s nipple. “Shane.”

“I was actually thinking about how nice this is.” He says quickly, trying not to squirm away from the aching pull of Ilya’s fingertips. “Intimate.”

Ilya hums, repeats intimate like he’s trying to learn the shape of the word. “Yes. I like that.”

The water is warm, but Ilya is warmer, and Shane drifts in the pleasure of his presence, knows they have two precious days before Ilya needs to get back to Ottawa. He intends to make the most of every single second.

“I love you.” He says.

Ilya kisses his cheek, his jaw and then diligently sets to cleaning him properly. “I love you too, Shane.”