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There's always been a moment of tension before Shane opens whatever door it is this time for Ilya to come through. Not that he lingers – it'd be both dangerous and cruel to leave Ilya outside those doors for long – but a moment, when he looks down at his hand curled on the handle and really thinks about what he's about to do. He always pushes through it, but he still feels it, every time.
Not this time, though. This time he's opened the door and is already hustling Ilya up the stairs before he realises. He nearly trips over a step, except that Ilya's hand on his arm catches him and takes enough of his weight to save him.
They end up holding hands, pressed together so they can go up the stairs as close to side by side as possible. Ilya's fingers are cold from the night air, rough with unmoisturised skin. It's really nice. Even if he'd only been away from Ilya for the day it took them to travel back from the cottage to Montreal separately, it's nice.
Neither of them had pointed out that Montreal can only be described as on the way back to Boston from Ottawa in the loosest possible sense, if at all.
Having Ilya in his space is different now, he realises as he watches the man shrug his coat off, toe off his shoes and stroll over to the couch. Not that Ilya has ever looked uncomfortable in Shane's apartment before, whether he had been or not – but maybe he had been, because Shane hadn't ever seen him lounge quite so comfortably. There's something different about the way he reaches for Shane, too, when he's done tidying Ilya's shoes away and comes near enough to be reached for. Proprietary, maybe that's the word. An expectation that Ilya is now sure will be filled.
And in Ilya's defence, Shane does step into those hands, does let himself be drawn down to straddle Ilya's lap. From this close, Ilya is all warmth and scent – his cologne, shampoo and conditioner, Shane's body wash and laundry detergent – features almost too close to properly focus on, especially when Shane's being tugged down for a kiss. He catches himself on Ilya's shoulders, their familiar muscled span, slips his hands up to comb into Ilya's curls as Ilya's hands go wandering up the back of his t-shirt.
"You miss me?" Ilya says against his lips, air from the words brushing over Shane's face.
"It's been less than a day," he says, instead of Yes, obviously yes.
Ilya hums like he heard it anyway. "Yes, I missed you."
Shane's shirt comes off easily under Ilya's practiced, hungry hands, and then those hands are everywhere, practically – up and down his back, grabbing at his pecs, skimming down to slip beneath his waistband. That's nice, too, but Shane still finds himself pulling back, breaking the kiss with a little pop of lips separating.
"I'm tired, Ilya." It's not a lie. He'd gotten a morning flight, and since getting home, he'd had a far longer call with his mom than he'd wanted to, then a call with his agent that had over-run, and a weirdly terrible last night's sleep at the cottage making all of that harder than it had to be. These days – honestly, for quite a while – being near Ilya doesn't feel like being in company in the same way that being near most people does, but still. He's tired. Unlike when Ilya's normally over here, they've literally just seen each other, spent two weeks together; there's none of that frantic, sand-in-the-hourglass desperation setting Shane on fire. He wouldn't honestly mind if they just cuddled and went to bed at a reasonable hour.
"Then lie back," Ilya says easily, "let me do everything. Would not be the first time."
"You asshole." He says it on autopilot, which is helpful because he pretty much just lost every other train of thought. The idea that he could just… just do that. That it wouldn't matter if he's tired, or not really in the mood, because Ilya would just manhandle him where he wants him and just–
Ilya's looking up at him. Smiling, that stupidly hot, smug smile that says he knows, he's seen something. Before Shane can muster any sort of defence to whatever this is, though, Ilya's twisting and Shane's falling.
The couch catches him heavily, and Ilya follows right after, straddling him where he's sprawled on his back. A bit breathless with shock, Shane reaches up to push him off, but Ilya catches his wrists, one in each big, warm hand, and presses them down to the cushions above his head. And then he keeps his hands there, like he doesn't trust Shane to stay where he's put. Which, Shane will admit, normally he can.
"Ilya," he says, and knows even as he says it that he's doing it wrong. That he doesn't sound at all serious about it, winded and belly up on the couch with his boyfriend taking up all the space in the world over him. "Get off me."
Sure enough, Ilya snorts and doesn't move a muscle. "Say it like you actually mean it," he shoots back, "and maybe I will."
"Stop." He tries, he really does try, to mean it. Wishes once again that he could ever master whatever trick there is to lying that everyone else seems to manage. "Get off me."
Above him, Ilya's eyes are going darker, the look Shane's learned to recognise and that his body has learned to thrill at. But then, as Shane stares up at him and tries not to noticeably pant, his jaw clenches and he looks down. "You are fucking dangerous," he mutters, "you know that?"
"Why am I dangerous?" Shane asks immediately. He tries to press upwards, but Ilya's hands on him are unyielding, his weight unyielding – and, if he's honest, he could try harder.
"Because," Ilya all but snaps, and Shane can feel the mood shifting around them, "you tell me oh, we shouldn't, oh Rozanov, we should stop, get off me, Rozanov, and then you look at me with those big, soft eyes," and with each of those last three words, he lifts Shane's wrists and smacks them back into the cushions, as if in punctuation, "like a fucking baby deer, and you just let me anyway. Do you know how that makes me feel?" His voice drops, gaze boring into Shane's until the eye contact itches. "You scare the shit out of me sometimes, Hollander."
For a moment, it's all Shane can do not to snap back that, well, at least that makes them even.
Ilya sighs. "You like it when you say stop and I give you what you want anyway. Yes?" Another shake of his captive wrists, though this one is gentler, whatever weird mood Ilya is in maybe starting to settle. "Say it."
"Yes," is the best he can do to that. He's long since given up trying to lie to this man.
"So," Ilya says, like he's explaining something to a child, "what do you want me to do if you say stop and I ignore you and you meant it, that time? What happens then?"
Shane blinks up at him, stomach swooping as though he's missed a step. Ilya sounds so serious, looks so serious, as though this thing Shane hadn't even accounted for in his wildest nightmares is actually a real possibility.
The only thing he can think to say is, "I trust you."
"That's nice," Ilya replies evenly. "I don't."
He's flushing, he knows he is, probably looks ridiculous, and Ilya just keeps looking down at him. "Fine," he grits out. "What about, if I say 'red' you know I'm serious. Does that work?"
Apparently it's now Ilya's turn to stare down at him, all that weird sudden tension going suddenly slack. "Shane," he says slowly, a quiver in his voice, "how do you know what safe word is?"
"Fuck you. I can't know things?" Ilya absolutely doesn't need to know the details behind the multiple frantic Googling sessions in Shane's past, most of which had given him more questions and panic attacks than answers. He'd learned some stuff, at least. About himself. Things he maybe should have already known, but that's how it always goes for him, isn't it? Fuck, his cheeks feel like they're on fire. "Does that work or not?"
"Eyes on me," Ilya tells him – orders him – and Shane realises he'd turned his face away to stare into the back of the couch. He obeys before he can think not to, and his annoyance with himself for that, and with Ilya, melts away as soon as he meets Ilya's eyes. There's that particular look in them, the one Shane's learned to categorise as fond. It should embarrass him more, to be looked down at like he's a little kid or a pet or something, something smaller than Ilya and more than a little silly, and loved for it. It shouldn't make him melt.
"Yes," Ilya says, all warm and slow once again, "that works."
A part of Shane – not a good part, he knows it's not a good part – wants to be kind of grumpy. Now Ilya's made him come out and say it, now he's had to pick out a word that actually means no, where's the point in pretending? Especially when Ilya had definitely been the one who started it in the first place. Except that when he tries absently to shrug Ilya off and sit up, it just… doesn't work. Ilya keeps him in place right where he wants him, stares down at him with those hot, intent eyes that he sometimes sees a glimpse of on the ice, but only when Ilya's fixed on him to the exclusion of everything else and is getting ready to try and absolutely fuck him up.
Okay, so maybe there's still a point.
He's so caught up in those eyes, that gaze he's spent his entire career pitting himself against, that he nearly misses Ilya tensing in preparation. Nearly; he's spent his entire career pitting himself against this body, as well. He notices, but he doesn't do anything, not in time to stop it.
And maybe, when Ilya gets his hands under Shane and flips him over, he gets a little help from Shane going with it. Maybe. Definitely not much, though.
Before he really knows it, he's on his front, face smushed into the cushion up against the armrest, naked chest scraping against the fabric. While he's still catching his breath, a rough hand hooks into the waistbands of his sweatpants and boxers both and yanks them down, hard enough to hurt as his dick is pulled free. Not all the way down; they tangle around his knees, but maybe that's what Ilya was aiming for, right, because now his legs are trapped together, he can't kick out properly, he can't get free–
Ilya's hands are spanning his wrists now, grabbing them and pulling them up, pinning them so hard against the small of his back that his bones grind. It hurts, and the hurt sharpens everything, speeds his heart rate until he's panting into the cushions as Ilya straddles him again, hips settling firm against his ass. He's hard, Shane can feel it through his pants, against his own now-bare ass. Ilya's hard, and he's got the person who got him hard pinned, helpless, beneath him, to do whatever he wants with.
Ilya's grip leaves his wrists, but only as Ilya's whole weight falls on him, heavy enough to shock all the breath out of his lungs all over again. By the time he's got enough presence of mind to struggle, there's the sound of a lube packet tearing open – must have been in Ilya's pants pocket, presumably out of habit because Ilya must know that Shane's got lube here – and when Ilya lets up with the weight on him, two slick fingers force their way right in.
Shane gasps, shudders, tries to pull away. He can't. There's nowhere to go, all he does is press himself further down, and Ilya just follows. He clenches up as hard as he can, but that doesn't do anything to push Ilya's fingers out. All Ilya needs to do is press down, crook them at just the right angle with no effort at all, and it's all Shane can do to keep breathing, let alone struggling.
"Still so loose," Ilya croons above him, smug triumph in his voice, "so open. Look, your body does want me after all."
"Don't." What a thrill, what an insane fucking thrill it is, to speak all the denials he'd wanted so badly to give for all these years, and still have all the wonderful things happen to him anyway. Shane can feel his pulse in his trapped dick, his fingertips, the soles of his feet. "Please, Rozanov, don't."
"Ah, no." A sharp little slap to his ass, enough to make Shane flinch and hiss, clench up around where he's being held open. "You know what you call me."
"Ilya," falls out of his mouth as quickly and easily as his hole is opening under Ilya's forceful, practiced fingers. "Please, please don't do this, I don't want this, I don't–"
The next smack is hard enough that he loses his breath. "Liar," Ilya sing-songs, behind and far above him even as his mass presses Shane to the sheets. "I know what you want better than you do, pretty baby. Haven't I always?"
How can Shane argue with that, ever? It's true.
It's not long at all before Ilya's pulling his fingers free, with a gross little wet noise that makes Shane flinch and Ilya snort with laughter. He wipes his hand off on Shane's back, casual as anything, ignoring Shane's outraged noises in favour of shoving his pants down. Shane can feel it, the fabric bunching where they're pressed together, the bare tops of Ilya's thighs rubbing against his own.
The hot line of Ilya's cock comes to rest against his ass, and then Ilya repositions and it's right there, between his cheeks, rubbing up against his wet, sensitised hole when Ilya grinds down. It always sends a thrilled little shock through him, that first moment of contact, but tonight that shock feels more akin to the first times, their first few hook-ups when he'd been half out his mind with panic and the newness of it all.
It's been so long since fucking Ilya has scared him, and that's good, that's how it should be. Except now he's realising that maybe some sick little part of him kind of missed it, in a way. How out of control it made him feel, how helpless and alive.
He can't stay still, not with this burning through his chest. Scraping together all the strength he has left, he shoves upwards.
Another day, he might have made it. Ilya's the stronger and heavier of the two of them, but not by that much, not by enough to make it a sure thing. But he's pinned face-down, his legs are still tied together by his sweatpants, his every muscle feels liquid from tiredness and the fingering and whatever happens in his head when Ilya talks to him like this, holds him and moves him like this. So he barely manages to get his knees under him before he's being forced right back down.
"Stop that," Ilya tells him, a laugh in his voice as he crushes the resistance out of him. Like Shane's struggling isn't any sort of threat, just cute. He ruts down harder and Shane can't keep the helpless whine in, especially when he feels the hot, wet smear of Ilya's pre-come against his skin.
They'd stopped using condoms all the time at the cottage. Before that, Shane hadn't know how to ask– obviously Ilya's a professional athlete, his body is his career, it would have been ridiculously stupid of him to put himself in danger of contracting an STD. But it would have been ridiculously stupid of Ilya to take up smoking as well. He'd been worried, maybe, of any question betraying him; worried about Ilya crooning a mocking little You don't trust me, Hollander? and having to find some way to say Yeah. Yeah, I trust you. But I don't know if I should. I don't know if it's smart. Shane's body is his career, too.
That's done now, though. They don't always go without – sometimes it's too inconvenient to get messy, and sometimes Shane gets in his head about the feeling of it – but they do, sometimes. He knows Ilya prefers it without, that it feels better for him, but he often asks Shane anyway. Checking in, with that casual care that Shane had never used to know what to do with.
Not this time. This time, Ilya lets go of Shane's wrists with one hand for just long enough to line himself up, then shoves all the way in.
Even with prep, even with lube and practice, he's always so much. Nearly too much, to be cored open so wide and so deep, no matter how slow they take it. And Ilya is absolutely not taking it slow. He doesn't give Shane so much as a moment to adjust before he's pulling out and bullying his way back in, ignoring Shane's sharp hiss at the burning stretch in favour of setting a punishing rhythm that Shane can barely breathe between. They've fucked this hard plenty of times, high on adrenaline and desperation and months without seeing each other, but even when they first started, Shane doesn't know that it was ever so, so vicious. Ilya's hands a brutal restraint on him, rather than busily wandering as they normally do. Holding him in place, making him take it.
His cock twitches hard, trapped between the softness of the couch cushions and his belly. Ilya isn't touching it – isn't, Shane realises suddenly, going to risk letting Shane wriggle free to touch it. He's just going to, to use Shane, to fuck him for his own pleasure, for the feeling of Shane wrapped round his cock again after only a whole day without, and he won't care if Shane comes from that or not, because that's not the point. Shane wanting this isn't the point. The point is that Ilya wants to fuck someone, wants to fuck Shane, and whether Shane says yes or no is irrelevant, because he gets to do it anyway.
He must be really, properly fucked up, because the thrill in his guts is more than fear, so far beyond fear that it carries him up and away like an updraft, sends him soaring to the place only Ilya's ever taken him. That place where he doesn't think, doesn't have to think, just has to be a body that goes where Ilya moves it and does what Ilya tells it to and feels, feels everything. He can float in that place for what feels like hours, moved only by Ilya's hands on him, Ilya's cock in him, rocking him deeper into the couch with every harsh thrust. Maybe he does. The rhythmic stretch of Ilya using him and the scrape of the cushions against his cock are his only real measurement of time, and it doesn't feel like they'll ever stop.
"There you go," Ilya is saying from all that way away, hot and dark between panted breaths, "there you are, my good boy. Silly thing, all that protesting, when I knew best what you needed. Lucky for you I didn't listen, huh, lucky you have me to fuck you like you didn't know you need."
Shane tries to protest that, tries to speak, but he's lost control of his mouth and all that comes out is a slurred whine. Ilya laughs, the way he used to laugh at Shane when they were younger and Shane had no idea what he was doing or what he even wanted, and lets go of one of his wrists to put a hand on Shane's head instead. Pushes it into the couch cushions until Shane's whole world is darkness, close wet darkness and Ilya's cock sliding endlessly deep in and out of him.
"Taking me so well," Ilya keeps going, now he knows Shane can't say a word to stop him, "fitting me perfectly. This is why you can't say no to me; you're made for me–" a gasp as Shane clenches around him, completely involuntary, "–made for me to fuck." And maybe he is, because he knows Ilya so well, now, knows the way his thrusts are speeding up until the couch shakes with the force he's applying to Shane, the changing timbre to his moans. Ilya's close. Ilya's going to come in him, going to–
"Pull out," he gasps, into the cushions he's gotten wet with his breath and spit and tears, "please, pull out–"
Above him, Ilya laughs, jagged with exertion. "You don't want my come in you?"
"No!" Dirty, disgusting, someone else's bodily fluids dripping out of him– it's everything he should hate, and he does, when he thinks about it in the abstract. When Ilya's not on top of him, in him, marking him up from the inside.
Another laugh, and Ilya collapses down onto him, crushing his arms between them, grinding in so deep it makes his stomach clench up. "I think you do, though," he croons right into Shane's ear. "I think however hard you try to pretend, underneath it all you are a filthy," an especially harsh slap of his hips, "little slut. Know how I know that?"
Breathless under Ilya's weight and the molten heat of those words, Shane only manages to shake his head a little, smearing his face against the cushions. Ilya presses a kiss to the back of his head and hisses, "Because you're mine."
The words are barely out his mouth before he comes, groan reverberates through Shane's sternum, hips slamming Shane down so his cock is as deep inside as it can possibly get. Filling Shane up even though Shane begged him not to, just because he wants to–
Shane's orgasm grabs him by the throat, and he comes so hard that he loses track of himself entirely. Vision, proprioception, whatever noises he's making – all of it's gone, just a ringing silence, Ilya around and inside him, and pleasure so sharp it hurts.
When Ilya lets go of his wrists, it feels like he hasn't, the bones still holding the imprint of his grip. Shane keeps them where they are as he tries to adjust to it, and to the sudden full-body lightness as Ilya peels himself up and off, to the empty space left when he eases his cock out. The cold, too; it isn't cold in his apartment, the heating's working fine, but he'd gotten so quickly used to being blanketed, pinned. He shivers, tries to curl into himself, but that'd take a lot of muscle control that he seems to have lost.
A hand petting over his shoulder; Shane leans into it with a happy little hum. Then, even better, there are arms sliding round his waist and turning him over onto his back, much more gently than he'd been flipped before. He scrunches his face against the light, and at the tacky wetness of the cushions against his back and neck – he's probably getting his own spit in his hair, not to mention the come. Abstractly, from far away, he wishes he'd asked Ilya to put a towel down. Which is funny, isn't it, the idea of Ilya conscientiously putting a towel down before pretending to– well. Do what he'd just done. It's funny. Shane's giggling, and probably sounds like an idiot, but he can't care too much about that either right now.
Above him, as his vision starts to refocus, Ilya's face is painted with warm light and concern. "You are okay?" he asks, and his voice has gone very gentle
"Never better." Fuck, he sounds like he's on whatever insane painkillers they'd given him for his collarbone, and he can't make himself care one bit. "C'mere."
His arms feel like overcooked noodles – his whole body feels like a overcooked noodle – but he doesn't need to do much more than drape them over Ilya's shoulders before he's coming, collapsing down on his elbows to nuzzle his sweaty face against Shane's sweaty face. It's less of a cuddle and more of a pile, but that feels good, pressure on him, Ilya's glowing-coal warmth. Even the sweat and the various other things all over both of them feel okay, right now.
Maybe not for long, though, not now he's thinking about it too hard. He shifts against the wetness at his back, feels himself making another face.
"Poor baby," Ilya says, and they're halfway off the couch, Ilya taking what must be most of his weight, before he really knows they're moving.
The journey to the bathroom doesn't seem to stick in Shane's mind; he only really realises they've changed location when Ilya guides him to sits down on the toilet. He steps away and turns on the shower; not far enough that Shane needs to make grabby hands to get him back, even if he kind of wants to. Through eyes still a bit blurry with tears, Shane watches him strip – he hadn't even gotten his clothes off, had he, just pulled his pants down enough to get his cock out, and the thought makes Shane's sore, soft dick twitch – watches him hold a hand under the spray to test it. Watches the warm yellow of the bathroom light on his sweaty face, his disarrayed curls, the serious press of his lips.
Only when he's satisfied with the temperature does he come back to tug Shane to his feet, shuffle them both in and close the door behind them. Two hockey players in one shower cubicle. That's the start of a joke. It's a good job Shane had listened to his mom and gone for a large one, but even if he'd gone larger, he doesn't think they'd be leaving any more space between them than they are right now. They're not going to get clean properly like this, which is something Shane would normally care more about.
Ilya was satisfied with the temperature, he realises all of a sudden, when it was what Shane had set it to. The one time Shane had showered at Ilya's place, and the times he'd used Ilya's shower in hotels after Ilya had used it, the water had been much hotter than Shane would prefer it, before he'd changed the setting to his comfort. Which Ilya hadn't done, just now, even though he'd cheerfully boiled Shane alive the last time they showered together this week.
"You're walking fine," Ilya says, quiet enough under the falling water that it might as well be to himself. Despite his words, he's still holding Shane like he thinks he'll collapse otherwise, hands petting over him with the thorough care of a paramedic checking for injuries.
There, now it makes sense. The careful way Ilya's touching him; the unfamiliar something in his voice. Shane can't help the smile tugging at his lips. This man. He'd tell the whole world how sweet he really is, how good, but nobody who's ever spoken to Ilya would believe him. "You didn't hurt me, Ilya."
A hand on his jaw, tilting it up from the blankness of the tiles to Ilya's dripping face. His cheeks are still a little flushed, if not nearly as flushed as Shane's probably are. "No?" he asks, and it's maybe the closest to tentative that Shane has ever heard him. Or, at least, the closest he's heard since he started knowing Ilya well enough to really pick him apart.
"No," he replies.
He must have gotten the tone right this time, because Ilya relaxes so completely that Shane has to play catch-up, realise in retrospect how tense he actually was. "Alright, then," he says, on a rushed-out sigh. "But I will still cuddle you. And baby you." He nuzzles against Shane's face, presses a kiss to his temple. The shower water slicks their hair together, Ilya's probably closer to his shade right now than it normally is. "My brave boy."
"Yours," falls out of Shane's mouth with no thought at all. It makes Ilya hold him tighter, kiss his head more gently when it falls to rest against Ilya's shoulder. Ilya's arms come up around him properly, a hug rather than a hold, and Shane falls into them, lax and useless, totally content.