Work Text:
Above all else, it is imperative that Ilya doesn't laugh.
Doesn't matter that whatever Shane's about to say is bound to be unbearably cute and probably pretty boring. Ilya must nod along, make the appropriate noises of intrigue. Keep his expression smoldering and sexy. Encouraging.
Because the second he slips up and giggles, Shane's going to tell him to fuck off and will stop sharing the contents of his beautiful mind. It was hard enough to convince him to start sharing in the first place. Ilya cannot fuck this up.
They're in bed at the cottage. Curled up together for a snuggle before sleep, maybe handjobs, but they didn’t get that far before Ilya got this idea. He wants to know what Shane thinks about when he jerks off. He wants to know in detail. It’s the kind of thing they never used to have time for, and they’ve already agreed to two weeks of honesty. Ilya wants to know what kinds of things his new boyfriend gets off to when there’s no one else there to help him along.
And after a lot of coaxing, Shane has finally agreed.
"So, it starts with this like, rule I made up," Shane says.
Of course it starts with rules. Not promising, as far as Ilya's ability to hold in his laughter goes.
"The way it works is, whenever a team wins a playoff series, they get to choose a player from the losing team. And they get to just… do whatever they want with him. For an hour."
Ilya is ruined. The first giggle has escaped and his eyes are watering from the effort of holding in actual side-splitting laughter. It’s not funny; it’s just fucking adorable. Of course Shane’s fantasies are about hockey games.
"Fuck off," Shane says. "I'm not telling you any more."
"No, no, Hollander, please, I want to hear everything." Ilya rolls on top of him and cups his cheeks and kisses him, face aching from grinning so hard, chest aching from how happy this man makes him. "I am not making fun, okay? It's just you are so cute. And I love you." Saying that is still such a thrill it feels like an electric shock going through his heart.
Shane's little frown disappears, replaced by an equally little smile. "I love you too."
"If you love me, you will tell me rest of the story."
Shane scoffs. "God. It's not… it's nothing, okay?"
"It's not nothing. I want to hear it. So you, what, get to choose whatever player you want? And you choose me, right?" Either that or Ilya's about to find out who in the league Shane has a crush on.
"Oh, uh… no. I mean. I don't choose anyone. My team loses."
And that actually stuns Ilya speechless.
Shane volunteers.
Obviously he does. If he didn't, they'd take one of the rooks. Someone young and soft they know would be too intimidated to tap out. Shane has been through this before and he knows he can take it better than most, so why shouldn't he?
It also has to do with Rozanov being there, he admits. Captain's in charge of the rules, like making sure condoms get used, making sure no one guy takes too long; keep the line moving, and all that. Some captains don’t pay close attention and things get out of hand. Shane doesn't think it'll be like that with Rozanov. He already knows, from all the times they've been together, that Rozanov knows how to read him, always watches him closely to see how he's reacting. No one expects you to enjoy the winner's room, but Shane… well, sometimes Shane does. Just can't help it, with how much he loves being fucked. And he thinks, maybe, he'll like it even more if he can stop thinking and trust he'll be taken care of.
He showers, ties a towel around his waist, and walks alone to Boston's room. They let him in with hungry gazes, condom wrappers crinkling. No one's wasting any time. They've already pushed together a couple of benches that weren't bolted down to make something wide enough to be a sort of bed. Rozanov has a folding chair pulled up and he's sitting in it so he can supervise. He makes eye contact with Shane, a knowing look on his face. Shane feels exposed in a way that has nothing to do with being near naked. It's like Rozanov can tell he's going to enjoy this.
Then the moment's over. Rozanov barks at his teammates to remember the rules, adds on one Shane hasn't heard before about no fighting—apparently things got heated last time Boston won a series.
"Get rid of the towel," Rozanov says, waving at Shane. The two guys closest to him, Hammersmith and Carmichael, both reach for it. Carmichael's first and he tosses it away. Shane's getting hard already, but he's not quite standing at attention yet. Not enough for everyone to notice.
Someone shoves him between his shoulder blades and he stumbles forward, climbing onto the benches, settling onto all fours. He's nervous, heart pounding, but the blood's rushing to his dick, too. At least it's not so obvious in this position.
"All right, two lines!" Rozanov says. "No pushing! Feller, get to the fucking back, you don't have the patience to prep him right. No, I said wait your turn."
Cliff Marlow is the first to line up in front of Shane. He teases Shane's lips with the head of his cock before pushing in, warming him up first with just a couple of inches before he tests out more. Shane swallows him down, sucking eagerly, needing to prove himself. He doesn't want them laughing at him, thinking he's weak and can't take it. On the other hand, if he's too eager, they'll laugh at him for wanting it so bad.
He's going to be taunted and used either way. He might as well make the best of it.
"Holy shit, Roz, you weren't kidding," Marlow says, spreading his hand over the back of Shane's head, guiding him gently on and off. "He was fucking born for this."
Shane feels a hand on one of his ass cheeks, spreading it, and then the cold press of a lubed-up finger on his hole. He doesn't know who it belongs to, doesn't quite recognize the voice exclaiming, "Damn, he let me right in. Loosens up easy."
Shane flushes at all the praise. He doesn't get much more prep before there's a cock pushing inside him, stretching and stinging and making him moan around Marley's dick—a moan of protest, or maybe, something else.
"Hey, hey!" Rozanov says, starting to stand up. "He's not ready! I said to be patient!"
"Nah, Cap, I'm telling you, he's opened up already," says the man now thrusting in and out of Shane's ass. He reaches around and strokes Shane's cock just once, verifying that Shane is hard. "Yeah, you like that, don't you Hollander? Hard as a rock. See, Roz?"
Rozanov, satisfied, sits back down and keeps watching.
It doesn't take long, only a couple more guys, before the first orgasm is fucked out of him. It's Marlow, who edged himself in Shane's mouth and then decided he couldn't pass up a chance to come in Shane's ass. He's so big, maybe the biggest Shane's ever had back there. It feels like he's being split in half at first. The pressure is overwhelming, almost too much for him to keep focusing on whoever's dick is in his mouth right now, but they're doing most of the work anyway. Every thrust of Marlow's cock sends him to the edge, and next thing Shane knows, he's moaning around this other dick. Someone in the room calls out, "Look, he's coming!"
His release splatters all over the bench. Guys are crowding in to watch. Whoever's fucking his mouth starts to come, grabbing Shane's head roughly and forcing himself farther down Shane's throat.
Marlow takes another minute to finish, and Shane is whimpering, shaking at the continued dragging over his prostate. Another cock is shoved into his mouth and he sucks dutifully.
Marlow’s done, and the line continues. Fatigue sets in, and Shane wishes he could take a break, but that's not part of the deal. He's not going anywhere for a while. So when he feels his second orgasm building, it's a welcome relief, a reason to keep going, to keep focusing on the feeling of being filled with cock. He rocks back and forth, not caring anymore that they know he loves it, ignoring their taunts, just wanting to come again. Rozanov's gonna know he's a slut and he doesn't care. He needs it. He whines when one cock pulls out of him, desperate for the next one.
He comes again, choking and crying out around the dick in his mouth. He goes limp, muscles losing the ability to hold himself up. The guy fucking him holds his hips in place and the guy he's sucking off grips his hair to keep his head up. A natural, everyone's saying, born to take it.
He's weak now, though. So fucked out and spent he can't get back on his hands and knees. They give up trying to make him give head soon, just keep fucking his ass. It's been so long, he swears everyone's had to have gone at least once by now—everyone except Rozanov, who's just been watching. But he's still being fucked. Tears are leaking from his eyes from the overstimulation, but he's not gonna tap out, he's never tapped out. He can do it, he can take it.
Just when he thinks he can't anymore, there's Rozanov in front of him. He tips Shane's head up, cupping his cheeks. "Look at you, Hollander, doing so good." He kisses Shane's lips, like it's just the two of them, even with someone else still pounding Shane's ass. "Some of the team, they are ready for round two. What do you think? Can you take it? Little bit more?"
Shane is sore and burning. His jaw aches. "It's too much."
"I think you can do it," Rozanov says, petting his hair. "You can do it for me. Just a few more times, okay? Then I will have my turn. You want to come again?"
Nobody knows how to fuck Shane as good as Rozanov. Somewhere between all the overstimulation and the dull rhythmic thud against his ass he feels fresh desire kindling. His cock starts to swell again.
"Yes please," he gasps.
He waits eagerly through the next few rounds of being used by other players, clutching the bench, breathing, knowing Rozanov's gonna take care of him soon. Finally, he feels warm weight on his back and that familiar voice in his ear. "The hour is up, Hollander. I did not get to you in time. You still want?"
Fuck, this has never happened before. As far as Shane knows no one's ever agreed to go longer than the allotted hour. Normally this is where he'd pick himself up and limp back to his own room, chin held high. But…
"I need you," he gasps. "Fuck me, Ilya, please."
(Oh, that was the wrong name. It doesn't matter. Keep listening.)
Rozanov fingers him carefully first, sees how swollen and abused his hole is. But Shane insists he's ready. He needs Rozanov's cock. Just some extra lube, and he'll he okay.
He moans gratefully when Rozanov enters him. Rozanov hikes Shane's pelvis up and uses his slicked hand to give Shane's cock some attention. Shane cries out, writhing and begging—not even sure what he's begging for at this point.
Rozanov murmurs to him in Russian and English, telling him how good he feels, how good he takes it. And Shane wants it to be true. He wants to be good, wants to prove himself to Rozanov, but he's so fucking tired and spent, he doesn't know if he can come again, he just—
"Shh, sweetheart, you can," Ilya tells him. "Just breathe. I know you can do it. Yes, so good, just like that."
Shane's sobbing as he comes, practically dry, hardly anything left to spill onto the bench. But Ilya's holding him and talking him through it, filling him up, driving into him again and again until he comes too. They collapse onto the bench together. It’s over. Finally, Shane rests.
The room has emptied out. Ilya carries Shane to the shower and they have it to themselves. In the spray of warm water Ilya delicately soaps up Shane’s body, checks him for tears. Gives Shane's hole some kisses and gentle licks. He washes Shane's hair, letting Shane lean heavily against him while he does.
Losing a playoff round sucks, but at least he always gets his consolation prize.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Hollander."
"What? Was it weird?"
Ilya doubts he's ever been harder in his life. His dick is tenting his underwear, leaving a wet spot at the tip. "Turn over. Now."
A minute later, when he's between Shane's legs preparing to enter him, he mutters, "Yob tvoyu mat' (Fucking hell). Marley does not have a bigger dick than me."
Shane seems like he might have something to say in response, but it's quickly choked off by his own gasps as Ilya pushes in and starts pounding him hard and fast.
"Holy shit," Shane manages, like this is a lot, like he hasn't just finished telling Ilya his fantasy of getting railed by twenty-three guys in a row. Ilya didn't ask how long he's been refining that particular fantasy. How many times he's lain in bed, desperately stroking himself while he imagines one dick in his mouth and another in his ass. Judging by the level of detail, it’s been a lot.
Ilya finds himself wishing he was two people, that he had a clone of himself, so he could help Shane live out part of that fantasy. Short of that, he reaches for Shane's mouth, slides a few fingers between his lips. Shane opens, sucks on them. Ilya pushes in farther, adds his thumb and his pinky. He slows his thrusts a little, wanting to make this last.
"Look how greedy," he purrs. "One cock is not enough for Shane Hollander, huh? He likes both ends filled up."
Ilya pushes his hand in even more, until Shane's teeth are digging into his knuckles, spit dripping down his palm. Shane's breathing hard through his nose. Ilya can tell he's close already.
"Too bad is all for me, hm? No one else is allowed to have you. They just get to watch, maybe. You want that? You want me to invite the team so they can watch you come?"
Shane is whimpering, trembling, then he moans loudly around Ilya's hand and clenches on his cock. Ilya grits his teeth and fucks Shane through the orgasm, fighting off his own growing urge to come. Not yet. They aren't even close to done.
Shane falls limp, and he whimpers again. Ilya keeps fucking him. "Good. So good," Ilya says. "You want more, though, I know. You want to come again. Go ahead, sweetheart, it's okay. Come as many times as you need. I will fuck you all night, if is what you want."
God, if only. Ilya's stamina has improved since their early days together, no doubt, but he'll be lucky if he can last through five more minutes of this. It's just Shane, squirming under him, making helpless little noises in his throat, eyelashes fluttering. He does shit to Ilya that no one ever has before. His relative innocence combined with his raging desire and his filthy mind. It's a kind of irresistible that makes Ilya want to fuck him to the other side of the planet.
As Shane was telling Ilya his fantasy, Ilya was aware, somewhere in the back of his mind, that there was meaning to it beyond just a need to get fucked. There was something so unmistakably Shane about it. He wants to be fucked and to be good for getting fucked. Have pleasure required of him; have it be something he's expected to do, rather than a weakness he guiltily gives into. That way he can feel good without failing to be the perfect golden boy.
On another day, maybe Ilya will think of this again, and feel sad. Angry, even, at a world that has taught Shane it's wrong for him to feel good. But for now, Ilya doesn't have room for all of that. His focus is singular, and it's to fuck Shane into a state of unmitigated bliss.
Shane's breathing quickens, and he starts thrashing his head in a way that makes Ilya pull his hand free, thinking Shane needs to tell him something. Instead, once Ilya's wet fingertips slip free of his mouth, Shane whines, "Hey," and cranes forward to chase them as Ilya moves his hand away.
Christ, Ilya almost comes right then and there. He needs to retake control of this situation before Shane's hunger makes him fall apart. He shifts his weight, getting his hands under Shane's hips, and adjusts them so he can plunge in even deeper and grab Shane's cock while he does it.
"Oh, fuck. Oh God, Ilya. That's too much. Oh God."
"Shh, shh, no." Ilya hunches over to kiss Shane's back. "It's okay. You don't have to worry. You don't have to do anything, eh? Just relax, let me take care of you." Ilya wants to so badly. Shane deserves it, and he trusts Ilya with it—even in his fantasy, he knew Ilya would take care of him. So Ilya keeps stroking him, keeps thrusting into him, moving slowly so it lasts. Shane is rock hard and shaking all over. "You get to feel good now. As much as you want. You're so good, Shane. So fucking good."
Shane grabs at the bedding, buries his face against the sheets. He cries out desperately and hot come spills onto Ilya's hand. And that's it for Ilya. He's coming too; groaning half in relief and half in disappointment he couldn't hold out longer. But Shane just feels so fucking amazing and fuck, Ilya loves him so much.
Ilya slumps to the bed, rolling Shane with him onto their sides, still rubbing Shane's softening cock.
"No, too much," Shane mumbles. He grabs at Ilya's wrist. "Stop for real."
Ilya moves his hand to Shane's thigh and peppers the side of his face with kisses, grinning in between. "Only two times? You wanted three so bad in the story."
Shane snorts weakly. "Seemed better when I imagined it. I never actually jerk myself off for all three times."
"Hm, okay. We will work on it. Two for now, three next time. Then four and five."
"Jesus." Shane snorts again, fully laughing this time, and he turns his head to kiss Ilya, reaching around to anchor Ilya's head in place. They kiss a few more times, soft and sweet. "Thank you."
"I liked the part where you lost to me in the playoffs."
"Shut the fuck up." Shane rolls over the rest of the way, tries to pin Ilya, and they wrestle over it.
"Then I go on to win the Cup, do you think? And you jerk off when you watch from your couch?"
"No. No, you fucking lose the next series. It's a slaughter."
Ilya surrenders and lets Shane pin him down, knowing it's all for the nefarious purpose of Shane kissing him some more. Ilya takes advantage of the new arrangement to squeeze Shane's ass with both hands.
"Mm," Shane hums against Ilya's lips. "I think it's your turn now. You have to tell me a fantasy."
"Okay. It's this. I find second best player in the league, and every time I make him come he tells me I am better than him."
"Asshole," Shane says, grinning too much to keep kissing. "Come on, I'm serious. You must have some good ones."
Well, yes. And no shortage of them involving Shane. They tend to be simpler, though, than what Shane shared. Just images, like Shane bent over whatever piece of furniture Ilya is looking at in the moment. Or fun settings, like center ice (Shane would like that one) or a beach they have all to themselves. Usually when Ilya has more elaborate daydreams, it's after he's finished jerking himself off, when he's thinking of taking naps with Shane, spending the night with him, making him breakfast. That was all self-indulgent bullshit for the longest time, and Ilya is still wrapping his head around the fact that it's not anymore. Somehow it's just real life.
Ilya doesn't want to admit to any of that right now, though. Fucking on a beach, that's better. Licking saltwater off Shane's skin. "You are saying you want to go for round two?"
That seems to give Shane pause. "Well. Maybe in the morning. Or—wait, I know. What if we did a different one every night? And we can take turns, go back and forth."
Of course he came up with a system. Ilya's so charmed he has to try, once again, not to laugh, but he does smile. This perfect fucking man. All his, for real. Ilya can finally stop pretending he doesn't want him all the time and forever. "I like it. We will do it."