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“Ho-ly fuck,” Hayden murmurs beside him, “What’ve the Russians been feeding him?”
It’s a fair question. Shane doesn’t have to follow Hayden’s eyes across the rink to know exactly what he’s talking about; his own gaze is already there, his throat dry, and his mouth—his mouth—fucking wet. He swallows the thudding pressure in his chest. Holy fuck.
If nothing else, bulking has been treating Ilya well.
They haven’t seen each other in six months save for uninvited but head-spinning glimpses of Ilya’s pubic hair on Shane’s iPhone, always when he’s out in public, with friends, in the grocery store, in the gym, and at some point between now and the last time Ilya made Shane’s life flash before his eyes in a downy hotel bed, Ilya’s gotten massive.
He’s always been a big guy—Shane isn’t small either—but it’s obviously not the pads or the jersey making Ilya’s arms look fucking huge. Even from here, Shane can tell that his neck is thicker, his face softer, his chest… he definitely doesn’t have visible abs under all the polyester and spandex, and the thought makes Shane’s own gut clench. If his own abs disappeared, he’d be inclined to starve, but right now, he wants to be eaten.
It’s freaking him out. He’s never wanted Ilya to be different, let alone… bigger… but Shane likes pressure—weighted blankets, heavy hoodies— and he likes being under Ilya, and he needs that on him as soon as humanly possible. He knows Hayden’s comment doesn’t expect a reply, but he couldn’t get a word out even if he wanted to. His tongue feels leaden and hot.
When they face off, he can smell the cinnamon chewing gum on Ilya’s breath from two feet away. He keeps his face an indifferent mask, unaffected, unafraid. Ilya is grinning.
“You want dinner later?” He asks Shane across the ice, just loud enough to make Shane a little warmer between the legs.
“Fuck off,” Shane tells him. I’m going to beat you first. Then you can swallow me whole.
He can tell right away— with more than a twinge of satisfaction—that he’s minutely faster than Ilya now. No one puts on that kind of weight and just gets away with it, not even Rozanov, and Shane has the puck, passes it, races off to the left to catch it again and nearly has to pirouette to avoid a hip check, Ilya coming in like a brick wall and more than making up for the new friction on his skates with momentum and intention to kill.
It’s entirely personal, Shane thinks. No fair. Putting on fifty pounds is fucking cheating.
“Looks like you’ve been eating for two, Rozanov!” Someone calls, “When are you due?”
“Go ask your father,” Ilya chirps back, skating backwards like a cocky idiot, which he is, and can be, because no one wants to get too close to him now that he looks twice as much like he could put them in a neck brace.
But Shane is still faster. He’s earned his agility being so fucking anal about his macros, and his gym routine, and his all-sober stress relief tactics, and he earns the win they get, and the hungry look on Ilya’s face that he sees over his teammates’ heads in their celebratory circle. He stares back, sweaty and satisfied and ready for bed but not exactly for sleep.
“Good game, boys,” he says. Come and get it, he thinks.
“Very nice swerve out there,” Ilya says, regarding Shane in the light from the amber fixture by the hotel suite door with his head on a tilt, “I would have regretted breaking your neck.”
“Would you,” Shane says flatly. It’s been almost fifteen or twenty seconds with the door shut and they’re still fully clothed, and he’s trying hard not to look at the way Ilya’s cream-colored t-shirt is stretched across his pecs. And his belly. Shane feels sick.
“Mm,” Ilya shrugs, meat of his broad shoulders rising, falling again, and he looks terribly dense but incredibly soft. “Probably. No chance to beat you if you cannot play.”
“…You slowed yourself down,” Shane says, digging in. He needs this conversation thing to end with his face in a pillow, and soon. “Your coach is going to be on your ass about it.” He lets his eyes shift to Ilya’s broad midsection, then his face, then down again, and to what he can see of the waistband of his jeans, shadowed under the hem of his t-shirt, where, if he isn’t seeing things, the button looks stretched a little tight.
“I am not concerned.” Ilya moves forward, finally, crowding into Shane’s space and making him step back, pressing his game-tired body against the door, nose to nose, chest to chest, and Shane can feel Ilya’s soft front grazing his firmer one, teasing his shirt, “Are you?”
“…No,” Shane admits, “I’m into it. I like it.” Which Ilya already knows. He can definitely feel Shane’s dick, how bad it’s chafing in his briefs.
“Mm. I thought you would.”
“Did you?”
“Of course. You have a thing for being… hunted, no? Overwhelmed?”
“Something like that.”
“Hm.”
Ilya’s roving hand comes to rest cupping the crotch of Shane’s jeans. He still smells like cinnamon; No cigarettes tonight. Shane half-wonders if Ilya is abstaining for him. He wonders if Ilya’s put on weight just to drive him insane.
“It’s all for you,” Ilya says into Shane’s mouth.
Their clothes come off on the way to the bed, and then Ilya is on him, nipping at his nose, his ears. They wrestle almost like they mean it, until, panting, Shane is caught on his stomach like a six-foot rabbit and turned over, and grins as Ilya bares down on him again.
They’re fitting together better than they ever have; the give of the new flesh keeps their hips from knocking much, and while there’s plenty to be said for running one’s tongue along the outlines of a set of abs, Shane wants his hands on and in the creases that form on Ilya’s sides and belly when he twists in a different, jonesing, totally animal way.
Their mouths together are warm and sweet; Ilya catches Shane’s tongue between his teeth, sampling Shane’s bottom lip, then his top one, the meat of him pressing Shane into the mattress, all thick forearms and thighs and middle, Shane lets himself go liquid. He’s eroding. He’s beginning to be consumed.
He spends 98% of his time performing competence and straight-backed athletic professionalism, white-knuckling his routines, and all he wants right now is to disappear into this other man’s heat, pliant skin already slightly sticky under his fingers, until he doesn’t have to think anymore.
The new plush layer of fat over full muscle makes a pretty heavenly handhold, like it was designed to be gripped by him, and, as Ilya begins to work on him, opening him up, the idea that it might have been is hot on his face and deep in his gut. All for him.
All for him.
Ohh, fuck—