retreat
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Shane does not pull away, does not speak, does not kiss him again, just holds him like it is easier than letting him go, rocking them slowly back and forth on the edge of the mattress. There is a damp patch on his very nice new shirt where Ilya has failed to swallow back his tears, but he is cradling Ilya to him, anyway, like it doesn’t matter. Like it costs him nothing to do it.
Nobody has touched Ilya this way in a very, very long time. He had forgotten that it was possible to be handled with care—to be treated like a breakable object, instead of a broken one.OR: What happened in the hotel room after the Tampa Bay All-Stars Game.
Bookmarked by retreat
11 Mar 2026
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“I always feel so safe with you,” Shane pants into the pillow as Ilya fucks into him. Shane flat on his belly on the bed, Ilya plastered on top of him like the world’s heaviest weighted blanket, their skin pressed together all the way from their knees to the nape of Shane’s neck. “So safe, so safe, I’m—oh, fuck, Ilya—“
By all measures, Ilya should be touched by this comment, if not wildly turned on. Instead, he finds he has to squeeze his eyes shut for a brief moment, hips stilling, to focus on thinking sexy thoughts so his cock doesn’t go soft.
—
Ilya has some issues with the notion of safety, especially as it applies to him.
Series
- Part 17 of my anonymous heated rivalry fic
- Language:
- English
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- 3,710
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- 1/1
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Bookmarked by retreat
10 Mar 2026
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“Happy winner,” Rozanov says, kissing Shane’s hip. “How does it feel? Good, yes? Such a strong alpha.”
Despite the teasing lilt, a soft, rolling r in strong, Shane can tell that Rozanov is being sincere. He has never gotten the impression that Rozanov uses it as an insult with him—unlike every time he whips it out mid-game to taunt an opponent, or to provoke someone in an interview. Shane blinks down at him, and is reminded of what this is. Of why, in every way, they are implausible.
Rozanov adds, “What?”
“You just never call me that,” Shane says. His grip on Rozanov’s shoulder tightens.
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Ilya’s been muzzled his whole life.
He’s been told to sit, to stay, to stand and smile. When to be quiet, and when to speak. He’s been dressed up and paraded around with a high collar tight around his throat. He’s been kicked in the ribs and patted on the head by the same cruel master. Total obedience expected, and enforced by discipline when adoration failed. He was torn from his mother too early, stunted forever, given over to strangers when his limbs were still gangly and he still whimpered in his sleep.
Shane is the first person who’s ever loved him like a human, and not like a beast.
Bookmarked by retreat
10 Mar 2026
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Dialect (ˈdī-ə-ˌlekt). Noun: A variety of a language used by the members of a group.
...Shane's been fucking Ilya Rozanov for a decade and yet somehow the more time they spend together the more he realizes how little he actually knows about Ilya, like, as a person. As a partner.
Again, he wishes he spoke Russian. That they had any shared native language besides sex and hockey.
Bookmarked by retreat
10 Mar 2026
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Bookmarker's Notes
I am absolutely devastatenly earth-shatteringly in love with this fic. Really moved me