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Ilya generally avoids everything to do with Shane's pre-game ritual.
First of all, it's not his business. Second, what he doesn't know can't hurt him. Third, Shane is self-conscious about it. And fourth, the memory of how much blood was in Shane's apartment haunts Ilya's nightmares.
What he should have done was turn tail and run the first time his thumb slipped against a smear of blood on the back of Shane's neck without an injury to explain it. But by then, he was already years into whatever this is between them, and all too willing to simply wipe the stain clean and keep fucking Shane into the mattress. Ilya hadn't wanted to press. He honestly hadn't wanted to know.
Now that he does, he waits at the end of Shane's block for almost ten minutes after his uber drops him off, unwilling to knock until the hour turns over from one fifty-nine to two on the dot. He doesn't push the door, either, merely knocking twice and waiting. Nothing substantial has changed; Ilya and Shane still always meet when they're in the same city, they have mind-blowing sex, and one of them slinks back to a hotel room a couple hours later while the other mourns an empty bed. Only the tiny details are different, like the exact punctuality and the folding knife in Ilya's pocket.
Shane doesn't leave him waiting long, answering the door in jeans and a tee shirt with shower-damp hair still plastered against the nape of his neck. His cheeks are bright and flushed, his eyes wild like a starving coyote, his hands restless at his sides. Like he's been waiting for Ilya. A shiver runs down Ilya's back, but he can never tell anymore whether the arousal is pure or tangled by raw, animal fear. All the blood leaves his brain either way.
Ilya steps through the door, allowing Shane to shut it before grabbing him by the waist and pulling him closer. He must have just shaved because the scent of his after is sharp and stringent in Ilya's nose, his skin is baby smooth and soft under Ilya's lips, and his hands are desperate claws where they curl against the back of Ilya's shirt. Before he says hello, Ilya drags him into a kiss that only scratches the surface of weeks of longing. It's the same desperate plea for connection that keeps him here, whatever the consequences: no one else compares to Shane, and Ilya has never been interested in second best.
When they break for air, Shane gently bumps their foreheads together. “Missed me?” he asks through a crooked smile.
“Of course not,” Ilya says, rather than Always, all the time, like his tongue itches to speak. “Your game against Admirals was messy, almost losing.”
Shane shrugs, averting his eyes.
“I don't lose anymore.”
“Mm, okay,” Ilya teases. The Raiders haven't won against the Metros in a couple of years--not that any team has, when Shane skates like he was born on the ice--but they've come the closest, and he's determined to break the streak tonight. He cups Shane's face and presses his thumb into his bottom lip. “Wait for game later. I am going to mop floor with your smug fucking faces.”
Shane kisses the tip of his thumb and smiles up at him. Those big, glossy, adoring eyes never fail to make Ilya weak in the knees. “Fuck you,” he says without any bite. “You're washed up, Rozanov, face it. Might as well move to Montreal if you ever want to win again.”
As if it could ever be so simple. Ilya can think of maybe three good reasons to join the Metros, and at least a thousand bad ones off the top of his head, but he files them away behind the benefits. He would get to see Shane all the time. They could play together. And it would be even riskier for Shane to kill his own teammate.
“So mean to me,” Ilya chastises him fondly, “but look at you.” He can't resist stroking the freckles over Shane's cheek any more than he can stop himself from kissing Shane again. “Can't believe I get to have you.”
Ilya starts walking, guiding Shane backward toward his room. They're no strangers to fucking on the nearest piece of furniture, but he isn't able to look at Shane's living room without his stomach turning, and the memories in his bed are far safer. Shane goes with him easily, though he can't manage more than a step at a time without pulling Ilya into another desperate kiss. As they cross the threshold to his room, Ilya gets his hands under Shane's shirt to yank it off him. As soon as it's out of the way, he does the same with his own, allowing him to feel Shane's warm, solid chest beneath his without barriers as Ilya lays on top of him.
Shane hitches one of his legs up over Ilya's waist so they're perfectly lined up to grind against each other. His heel digs into Ilya's thigh to keep him close. Close is good enough. Though it pains him to do so, Ilya parts from Shane's lips once more to kiss down his neck, where he can feel the thundering beat of Shane's heart beneath his skin, luxuriating in the soft hitch of Shane's breath. This hasn't changed. Ilya knows Shane's body like he knows his own, and has learned to play it like a fiddle until Shane sings for him. And he always does.
“Beautiful,” Ilya tells him, because how could he not. “Too pretty for your own good, Hollander. Maybe you win because other team is distracted.”
“Something like that,” Shane breathes.
Ilya hesitates for a split second. He still has questions, which Shane has promised to answer, but he's been spacing them out between their interactions in a paltry attempt to keep the peace. Ever since he walked in on Shane's clean-up, Ilya has felt off balance, like he's suddenly found himself halfway across a minefield with no safe way out, and as unsteady as it feels, he can't seem to stop seeing Shane.
“Like what?” Ilya prompts.
Shane's short nails dig into Ilya's back, dragging down with enough force to make a groan slip past Ilya's lips.
“No, tell me,” he pants. He wrenches himself away from Shane's neck, the distance giving him both the chance to admire Shane and a better shot at defending himself if the conversation goes poorly. God, this would be so much easier if Shane wasn't the most beautiful thing to ever happen to Ilya. “Крaсавчик,” he mutters, “this is how you get away with it?” He cradles Shane's cheek in his hand. “Too pretty to suspect.”
When Shane turns his face away, Ilya lets him go, even if his heart twinges in his chest. “Kinda,” Shane admits reluctantly. “They say I'm charming.”
“Eh.”
Ilya moves down to the button of Shane's jeans, popping them open only to pause with his hand poised over Shane's lower stomach. He's getting good at this game: sneaking his questions between advances, keeping Shane in that warm state of mind where he'll actually answer them, and stifling the panic rabbiting in the base of his skull.
“So, this is thing?” He asks, tilting his head to try and catch Shane's eye. “You are most charming murderer.”
“Don't be a dick,” Shane huffs.
“Me? Never.” Ilya ducks to kiss Shane's cheek, then his nose, then the opposite cheek, pressing their faces together. He can't help kissing Shane again, on the temple this time, before he continues. “I must be lucky,” he says, “to know you are most boring man alive.”
That gets an honest laugh out of Shane, and Ilya rewards him by tugging his zipper down. Immediately, Shane lifts his hips to shimmy them down, and his eagerness has Ilya grinding into Shane's skintight sponsored boxers. Ilya has seen the commercial hundreds of times.
“If being a serial killer doesn't make me interesting,” Shane starts as he kicks his jeans off, “what would?”
Ilya rushes to get his own pants and boxers out of the way so he can get his hands on Shane again. Every time they have sex Ilya needs to savor it, to make use of every moment and ingrain them into his very being in case it's the last earthly pleasure left before his life ends. If Shane kills him, Ilya will only have himself to blame.
“Depends,” Ilya drawls, shimmying down Shane's body to position himself between his thick, muscular thighs. Despite being a bit leaner than Ilya, Shane is still mostly muscle, and when Ilya presses an open mouthed kiss to the bulge in Shane's boxers, they snap closed around Ilya's head. He looks up at Shane through his lashes to see him staring up at the ceiling. “How do you do it?”
Shane buries a hand in Ilya's hair, dragging him back just enough to keep him from reaching his dick. “No, Ilya, that's gross.”
But Ilya simply shrugs and settles into the mattress. Like this, he can imagine Shane squeezing his throat between his legs. Ilya might be able to do some damage, but he won't have the leverage to get Shane off him before his neck snaps or he falls unconscious.
“I am curious,” Ilya defends. “I have never seen so much blood before. Is hard to do.”
He props himself up on his elbows to wrap his hands around Shane's thighs, feeling the minute twitches of the musculature. Even like this, he probably couldn't pry Shane off him if it came down to it. All he can do is subtly shift his hips against the bed for friction and wait for Shane to give him more.
“It's part of the disposal process,” Shane admits, still holding Ilya back by the hair. “Do we have to do this now?”
Ilya bites Shane's leg, not hard enough to bruise, but with the right amount of force to make him tighten his hold around the sides of Ilya's face. “Was just a question,” placates Ilya.
“Yeah, sure.” Despite his annoyed little exhale, Shane releases Ilya's curls and relaxes his thighs enough for Ilya to reach for the waistband of his boxers again. “Suffocation for home games, because I don't have to worry about evidence on the- uh, the bodies.” He raises himself to help Ilya drag the last piece of clothing off him, legs falling open once his underwear are out of the way to make more room for Ilya between them. “Have to be more careful out of town,” he adds, shuddering when Ilya wraps a lazy hand around his cock. “‘S harder to hide.”
He throws his head back with a whimper when Ilya kisses the tip of his dick.
“Mmm, sounds like you,” Ilya says.
He doesn't press Shane further. He'd much rather take Shane's cock into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks and pressing his tongue against the underside, because Shane always falls apart beneath Ilya like this. Once, Ilya had thought of him as easy, but the sentiment curdled the moment it occurred to him. It implies something too casual, or perhaps a lack of effort on Ilya's part, or an insult to the discomfort written across Shane's face when someone else hits on him. Easy, no. Not Shane. But by now, Ilya is the world's leading expert on Shane Hollander, and he supposes that makes it seem much simpler than it is.
“Fuck,” Shane sighs. Positioned like this, he easily crosses his legs over Ilya's shoulders, and one of his warm hands finds the back of Ilya's neck to push him down further. “You're such an asshole.”
Ilya hums around him just to feel Shane jump before he gets to work. As much as Ilya usually loves to get his hands on any part of Shane he can reach, he keeps one hand on Shane's hip to pin him down and the other on the opposite thigh in case he needs to push it to the side. Shane is always good for him, though; he squirms, but stays still enough not to get in the way of Ilya fucking his throat on Shane's cock.
He typically stays where Ilya puts him. Shane is eager to please, to the point Ilya sometimes feels mean for making him wait to take more. Hearing Shane whine when he hits the back of Ilya's throat makes up for it, though. And when Ilya swallows around him, Shane's heels dig into Ilya's back as his back arches and his thighs crush Ilya's face between them again.
“God, Roz,” Shane whimpers.
Ilya moans around him in answer, relishing in the noise it elicits. He rolls his hips against the bed, desperate for friction, as he flutters his tongue against Shane's cock. No matter who else he fucks, Ilya loves giving head to Shane the most. He can't imagine anyone more beautiful, sensitive, or responsive, and it drives him crazy, like everything else about Shane. Since the day they met, Ilya has been out of his mind for a serial killer with a weak backhand. He'd laugh at anyone else in his position.
But the second he considers the idea of someone else here, seeing Shane like this, his heart starts to ache in his chest as if his longing is a physical vice around it. At least he knows no one could take his place. Ilya has known Shane for too long, and discovered too many of his secrets, for anyone else to compete for his coveted position, but it grants little security; he's sure Shane would find life far easier without Ilya in it.
“Wait,” Shane groans above him, bringing Ilya's focus back to the weight on his tongue and salty precum gathering at the corners of his mouth. “If you don't stop, you're not gonna be able to fuck me before the game.”
Reluctantly, Ilya pulls off Shane's cock and wipes his face with the back of his hand. “Would be tragic.”
“Yeah, well-”
Ilya surges up to kiss Shane before he gets out his smart response. He has to drag Shane with him a few inches across the mattress to reach into the nightstand for lube. They do only have a couple hours before Ilya has to be at the rink for practice, and their game isn't long after, leaving him without the time to work Shane over until he's begging for it. Perhaps after the game.
As he rushes to pour lube on his hand to prep Shane, he spills some across Shane's stomach, but it only makes the friction as they grind against each other more delicious.
But it's not enough for Shane, apparently. “Gonna take your time on the ice tonight, too?”
“In your dreams. And, I am getting there,” Ilya assures, “be patient.”
When Ilya reaches down, Shane's legs fall open easily to make room. It would be easier with Shane on his stomach, but then Ilya wouldn't be able to see the crease in his brow and the flush on his face as Ilya presses a finger into him. Ilya can't tell whether he missed seeing or hearing Shane more. Cell phone videos don't do him justice. They never capture the best part, either, which is how hot and tight Shane is around just one of Ilya's fingers, like a promise of how good he'll feel around Ilya's cock.
“Not gonna break,” Shane complains less than a minute later, impatiently writhing under Ilya. “C'mon.”
Ilya does give him a second finger, but not without a short laugh. “Greedy.”
He kisses Shane again, and when Shane bites his bottom lip, Ilya scissors his fingers to stretch Shane faster, making him shudder and twitch with the sudden burn.
“Ah, see?” Ilya teases as he adds another. “I go too fast and then you are quiet. Makes me sad.” He crooks his fingers up into Shane's prostate and grins at Shane's answering moan. “Yes, want to hear you, like that.” The next desperate sound out of Shane's mouth has Ilya leaking all over his stomach. “Good boy.”
Shane's head tips back, exposing his throat for Ilya to kiss down as he fucks Shane on his fingers. “Hurry up,” he begs. His voice makes his skin buzz under Ilya's lips, but the desperate pitch of his tone isn't enough to counteract the brusque words themselves.
“Mmm, ask nicer,” Ilya orders.
“Fuck you.”
He bites at the junction of Shane's shoulder and neck. “No. Try ‘Fuck me, please,’ and I might.”
“Rozanov,” Shane pleads.
Ilya withdraws to pour more lube into his palm and take his own cock in hand, propping himself up on his other arm. “Ask nice,” Ilya reminds him.
In a heartbeat, Shane hooks his ankles over Ilya's calves, wraps his arms around Ilya's ribs, and flips them over so he's seated in Ilya's lap. And, as he balances himself up on his knees, his thumb and forefinger splay over Ilya's collarbones, close enough to his neck for Ilya's gut to tighten in panic and his dick to twitch in his hand.
“Will you fuck me,” Shane enunciates, “please?”
Ilya swears under his breath as he guides himself inside of Shane. His eyes roll back in his head immediately. This never gets less overwhelming. Shane is always perfect around Ilya, but this angle lets him reach especially deep when Shane lowers himself until his ass sits in the cradle of Ilya's hips.
“You are brave today,” Ilya manages between breaths, his hips twitching up while Shane takes a moment to get used to being so full of Ilya's cock. All the while, Shane's hand stays splayed so close to Ilya's throat he must be able to feel Ilya's heart trying to beat out of his chest. “You like taking my cock like this?”
Shane nods as he rolls his hips forward, not so much riding Ilya as rocking on his dick to grind it against every sensitive spot inside of him. Ilya can't decide whether to look at Shane's gorgeous face, or his sweat-damp chest, or his bright red cock, or his powerful thighs. He's perfect from head to toe and if Ilya dies inside of him, it's worth it.
“Obviously,” Shane grunts.
Ilya gets his hands on Shane just beneath his ribcage to help him move. For his effort, Shane clenches around him, making Ilya's toes curl and his hips jump, which in turn causes Shane's hand to slip up onto Ilya's throat. He lessens the pressure immediately, but for a moment, Ilya does not breathe, and his heart doesn't beat.
Then all the blood left in his brain rushes to his dick.
He plants his feet against the mattress, tightens his grip on Shane enough to bruise, and fucks into him with feral abandon. Each thrust punches a noise out of Shane's lungs, needy and involuntary, all as he clenches around Ilya and weeps precum down his shaft with each forceful press against his prostate. Whenever Ilya bottoms out, Shane's hand spasms on his neck. Ilya can't tell if he's choking on a crushed windpipe or his own spit but he can't bring himself to stop fucking Shane.
“Fuck, Hollander,” he growls when he finally gets a good breath of air. “Take it so well, good fucking boy. Мой любовь, мой превосходный Shane.”
A particularly hard thrust has Shane collapsing forward onto Ilya's chest, his grip finally sliding up to Ilya's jaw. Immediately Ilya shifts his hold to Shane's ass to hold him in place as he fucks him. And when Shane's fingers press against his bottom lip, Ilya kisses them and then darts out his tongue to lick them. He's almost disappointed when Shane doesn't push them into his mouth.
“Most gorgeous man in world, needs my cock so bad he has to ride me,” Ilya babbles, gasping when Shane bites his pec and doesn't let go. “Fucking, fuck, Hollander, Shane, возлю́бленный.”
Shane's tongue presses against the skin between his teeth and Ilya shivers.
“Mister fucking perfect, fucking beautiful,” Ilya carries on. Shane releases his jaw only to bite Ilya again a couple inches over and he feels it like a hit of cocaine straight to his bloodstream, slamming into Shane hard enough to make him bounce with each thrust. “Ah, fuck, you-” A slight arch in Shane's back changes the angle, making him tighter so Ilya breaks off in a moan. “Я собираюсь скоро кончать, you are close?”
When Shane doesn't stop biting Ilya to answer, he takes that as his cue to get a hand around Shane's dick, still wet with spilled lube, and sets a punishing pace that matches the rhythm of his own pounding into Shane. Ilya feels more than hears Shane's moan, both as a soft vibration against his chest and as a debilitatingly delicious flutter of muscles around his cock.
“Good boy,” Ilya coos, and Shane picks another spot to imprint his teeth on. If Ilya lives to see tonight's game, Marleau will have a field day.
As soon as Ilya thinks as much, Shane's hand falls down to his neck again, and when Ilya swallows under his palm, the pads of his fingers tighten ever so slightly around the sides of his throat, and Ilya sees stars. He might be talking, he's definitely making noise, but all he knows for sure is that he can hear his heart beating inside his skull and the entire world is reduced to Shane. Somewhere in the middle of it, Shane's cum splatters up their stomachs.
While Ilya's still coming back to himself, Shane eases off his throat and his chest at the same time, and the resulting rush of relief sends another pitiful sputter of cum deep inside of Shane.
Ilya rolls them back over before he pulls out. His legs are shaking, but nowhere near as bad as Shane's. He can't bear to stay away to clean them up properly. So he snatches a couple tissues from the nightstand to wipe Shane's cum off them before Shane gets frustrated by the mess, then flops back onto the mattress beside him and drags Shane into his arms.
Shane mumbles something against Ilya's shoulder.
“Hmm?” Ilya prompts, gently tugging Shane's head back by the hair.
“D'you have an alarm set?” Shane mumbles.
Ilya shakes his head fondly. On the other side of the bed, behind Shane's back, is a digital alarm clock to assure him he has at least twenty minutes before he has to think about getting dressed and headed to practice. More than enough wiggle room to hold Shane while he catches his breath.
“I have time,” Ilya reassures him. “Not leaving yet.”
Shane lets out a shuddering breath of air, but accepts it with a quiet nod and tucks his face back into Ilya's shoulder.