Chapter Text
Shane Hollander was exactly where he wanted to be.
Gazing up from Ilya’s mattress, Shane was met with adoring green eyes and blond curls that he wanted to twist his fingers into. He would have indulged, if the other man weren’t currently rather intent on pinning him to the bed.
Ilya, while straddling Shane’s hips, kept his own hands busy massaging the other man’s biceps and shoulders. He kept alternating between kissing Shane and pulling back to look at him, murmuring a soft, “So beautiful.”
Ilya’s fondness was always freely given, and it had a way of intensifying Shane’s neediness, like the soft affection was an aphrodisiac. The familiar warmth pooled in Shane’s chest, coursing down his spine. His erection pressed against Ilya, otherwise untouched.
He had already been stripped of his shirt, having lost it rather quickly after reaching Ilya’s Ottawan home half an hour before. Shane had expected Ilya would be eager; as of last night, his team was only one win away from an appearance in the Stanley Cup Eastern Conference Finals, and the promise of victory always made Ilya needier. Shane hadn’t been disappointed, having been greeted with his grinning boyfriend’s fervent kisses and desperate hands.
By now, Shane was ready for his shorts to go the way of his shirt, curious as to why they hadn’t, why Ilya’s hands remained above Shane’s waist. The Metro was eager for his own distraction, still mourning his playoff elimination from that afternoon’s game, only a few hours old.
But Ilya seemed to be holding back. Either that or he was thinking about something. Shane didn’t know how to ask what.
“I have a request.” The Russian’s elegantly accented voice delivered the statement without pretense, watching Shane for his reaction.
“Oh? Do you?” Shane asked, still rather distracted.
“Yes,” Ilya grinned, stalling for a moment with kisses over Shane’s jaw. “For how I want to celebrate this year… when I win the Stanley Cup.”
“When you win the Stanley Cup?”
“Yes,” Ilya dragged out the word, managing to draw it into two syllables before confirming, “When. You lost today, so… The path is clear, yes?” Ilya tilted his head, pursing his lips and making a show of thinking, adding, “Not that it wasn’t before.”
Shane huffed, squirming one hand free to playfully jab at Ilya’s side, “Fuck. You.”
Ilya was laughing already, hand darting back to catch Shane’s wrist, lifting it to pin it over his head. Shane let him, finding those green eyes softened the sting of the day’s elimination. Ilya didn’t say anything, just watching Shane. After a moment, Ilya jutted his chin out, making it clear he was expecting something.
Shane rolled his eyes, though he was pretty sure his grin gave his affection away. “Okay, fine. Tell me,” Shane said. “How are we celebrating this victory?”
Ilya’s eyes crinkled in pleasure, dipping down to press a kiss to the ridge of Shane’s cheekbone before leaning in, lips brushing against Shane’s ear. “Mmm,” He hummed against Shane, briefly taking his earlobe between his teeth before answering. “I want to fuck you.”
Shane closed his eyes, shuddering with want as Ilya pulled away. “You know you don’t have to win the Cup for that.”
He opened his eyes to find Ilya grinning. Slowly, the Russian released Shane’s wrist and shoulder, bringing his hands to rest at his hips. “I was not finished.” He began to kiss his way down Shane’s chest, luxuriating in the affection, taking his time to let his lips linger where he liked. Shane’s hands floated to Ilya’s curls, finally tangling in his hair. In that moment, Ilya had every ounce of Shane’s attention, whose arousal still ached between his legs.
Moving down the bed, Ilya settled himself between Shane’s thighs, hands still holding his hips. Making eye contact with Shane again, Ilya hesitated, wetting his lips before speaking. “I want to fuck you while you wear my jersey."
Shane’s breath caught, arousal interlaced with laughter. “Oh? So, you’ve lost your mind?”
Ilya always drew out the indulgent side of Shane, but this was a touch far.
Ilya huffed, lips briefly twisting into a faux pout as he propped his chin in the divot above Shane’s hip bone, looking up at him.
Ilya pulled one hand to Shane’s knee and began to walk his fingers up the man’s thigh, now playing at nonchalance, even as his voice deepened. He held Shane’s gaze, and Shane found he couldn’t look away. “Imagine it. I finish the game, I celebrate on ice with my team, I hold the Cup up for cameramen to get good shot of me. I go to the press conference. I go to the after party… Then I come home…”
“And I’m in your bed wearing only a Rozanov jersey, yeah? Number eighty-one?”
Ilya grinned, dropping another open-mouthed kiss on Shane’s belly, never breaking eye contact. “I knew you would understand.”
Shane laughed, pushing Ilya off of him. “I’m not doing that.” Unable to resist the urge to tease him, he added, “And you aren’t winning the Stanley Cup this year, anyways.”
“Oh?” Ilya held up a hand, feigning surprise. “Well, if I’m not winning then it should be no problem then?”
Shane pressed his lips together, fighting a grin. “So, what happens if you don’t win? It’s still just the conference semi-finals.”
“Yes” Ilya mused, now crawling up the bed, bringing his face level again with Shane’s. “But we are up three to two. When we win tomorrow…”
“If you win tomorrow, then you still have a whole four games to win in the Eastern Conference Finals, then another four in the playoff finals.”
Ilya shrugged a shoulder. “Fine. What do you want? If I don’t win?”
Shane wanted to consider the question. Instead, his mind was distracted by Ilya’s proposal, by the mental image of himself in the jersey, crimson fabric bunched up in Ilya’s talented hands and pooling between his knuckles, ‘Rozanov’ emblazoned across his back as Ilya thrust into him.
The silence dragged. Ilya kissed Shane’s warmed cheek. “You are thinking about what it would be like, yes? To have my cock inside you while my name and number are on your back?” Smirking, Ilya kissed Shane’s other cheek, then the corner of his mouth, before finally catching Shane’s lips with his. When he pulled back, he lowered his voice, drawing out his, “Please, Shane?”
Shane sighed, still watching Ilya. The request was already gnawing at him, feeding a voice in his head that asked what Ilya meant by it. “I’ll think about it.” Reaching up, he cupped Ilya’s chin, letting his thumb trail over the man’s lower lip.
“Ok-ay,” Ilya answered, separating the syllables. “You think about it.”
With that, Ilya tucked a finger beneath the waistband of Shane’s shorts, finally intent on giving Shane the orgasm he had been so patiently waiting for.