#sfrequests

Hi there!! Thank you so much for this request!! I had a LOT of fun with this one hehe

My hc that Shane can tell if Ilya has a cold/allergies by the sound of his sneezes is inspired by one of my all-time favorite fics (ironically featuring our other favorite Japanese/Russian skater pair) by the absolute LEGEND @hessickjim! Also inspired by conversations w the amazing @softsicknose, more to come soon <333

cw: mess, slight nsfw. feat. kink!Shane and annoying!Ilya 😈

Part 2

——

“Hahh…!”

Shane’s head whipped around at the sharp, desperate hitching to see Ilya’s head jerk downward in the direction of his shoulder.

“haAADZCHHHuhh!”

“Bless you,” Shane said, putting down his copy of The Hockey News on the kitchen counter as Ilya geared up for another sneeze - there was never, had never been, and would never be only one sneeze from the man - and Shane bobbed his head unconsciously in time with the next two sneezes that erupted from him.

“h’ISZCHHH’oo! hy’AADSZCH’ooo! -whoo,” Ilya let out a little breath, shaking his head slightly with a short sniff before going back to scrolling on his laptop.

“Bless you,” Shane said again, a little slowly. Hm. Something about the sound of those sneezes…Ilya was generally a pretty loud and unabashed sneezer, which was something that Shane secretly admired about him. He had the kind of easy confidence that Shane had never quite been able to possess, even while doing something as normal and innocuous as sneezing. But this triple had been…draining, based on the dazed look on Ilya’s face as he brought his palm up to rub violently at his nose. When would he learn that doing that would never help, Shane thought at the same time as Ilya’s expression turned irritated and his nostrils flared anew.

“hah! hahESHHHhh! ha’ATZCHHH’hoo! HAADTSZCH’ooo!”

“Bless you,” Shane repeated, frowning. “Ilya, are you feeling okay?”

Ilya sniffled again and looked at Shane, pointing a finger at his chest. “Me?”

Shane gave him an exasperated look. “Yes, you. Who else?”

“Da, of course I am feeling okay. Why?” Shane did not miss how he thumbed at the sides of his nose. Hmm.

“Are you…getting sick?”

Ilya raised an eyebrow but turned his eyes back to his laptop. “Sick? No, not at all. I am feeling fine.”

Shane paused. “Um, okay. Are you sure?”

Ilya nodded hastily, starting to get up from his barstool at the kitchen table. “Yes, all is good. -snf- I am thinking of riding bike in the gym. Want to join? You are planning on doing yoga today, yes?” He closed his laptop and started walking away.

“I…yeah. Sure. I’ll be right there.” Shane’s face scrunched in confusion. What was with him?

In the home gym, Ilya stuck his headphones into his ears and started pedaling on the stationary bike. Shane watched him as he laid down his yoga mat and took off his sandals. There was a tenseness in Ilya’s shoulders, and his legs loped around in circles a bit more…sloppily than usual. Like it was taking great effort to move his body forward.

Shane was in downward dog when he heard the familiar high-pitched gasp of Ilya hitching towards a sneeze. His head snapped up so fast that he felt a little dizzy, and he had to bring himself to a seated position so he didn’t topple to the floor.

He had a perfect view of Ilya’s face in the floor-to-ceiling mirror as his face contorted into one of pure sneezy desperation.

“hyihh!” Ilya had stopped pedaling, blue eyes narrowing and looking skyward, mouth gaping open, nostrils huge and flaring…

“hy’IZSSSCHH’yew! ha’ADTSZCHHHhh! haAAHDIZSCHH’oo!”

He sneezed openly, harshly, loudly, with no covering whatsoever. Despite Ilya being at least ten feet away from the mirror, Shane saw droplets land on the reflective surface. Insanely, instead of grossing him out, it made his mouth go dry.

“Bless you,” he called over as Ilya took his towel and blew fiercely into it, his expression still looking a little tickly afterward. He rubbed his nose up and down through the cloth, and desire shot through Shane’s body at the small, relieved sigh he gave.

“Thank you.” Still touching his nose, Ilya got off the bike and looked over at Shane, then at the bulge in his pants. He stared, transfixed, and Shane could practically see him salivating. It made the familiar creep of anticipation and excitement in Shane’s tummy all the more sweeter. Then Ilya shook his head slightly and cleared his throat, giving Shane a weak smile. “I am going to shower. I will be right back.” He left the room.

Shane’s jaw dropped. What the fuck? Ilya never resisted touching Shane, especially when he was clearly aroused. By the time that Shane had uncrossed his legs from Sukhasana and made it to the door, Ilya was long gone. Shane huffed, miffed, and turned towards the mirror. The droplets were still there, and Shane blushed and wiped them away with a towel, realizing why Ilya had left him there. With fucking blue balls.

Goddammit. Why was Ilya downplaying that he was obviously catching a cold? Did he feel like he couldn’t trust Shane with such an admission? No, that wasn’t possible, Shane reassured himself despite the anxiety gnawing at his brain. Then what? Well, he was going to fucking find out.

Adjusting himself with an embarrassing little noise, Shane headed to the bedroom. The muffled sound of the shower turning off greeted him. He sat on the bed, arms crossed, and waited for Ilya to exit the bathroom.

Ilya came out with a towel slung low on his hips and another rubbing down his wet curls. He saw Shane and stopped walking. “You are stalking me?” he said with a little smirk. Shane did not miss the tiny sniffle he gave and how it made his reddening nose twitch.

“Ilya, cut the shit. You’re clearly getting a cold. That’s why you won’t touch me. You don’t want me to get sick too.”

Ilya was quiet for a moment, looking at Shane contemplatively. For a moment, Shane thought he might be waiting for a sneeze to come. Again. Then he said, “Prove it.”

Shane gawked at him. “What?”

“Prove it. How do you know that I am getting the cold?”

Shane paused. Before he spoke, he had to remind himself, Ilya knows about you. You don’t have to hide anymore. He doesn’t think you’re a freak. He loves you. “Your sneezes sound different,” he said, feeling himself flush from top to toe.

Ilya’s eyes scanned Shane up and down, and a huge grin overtook his face. “Oh? My sneezes? What is so different about them?”

Shane was going to fucking kill him.

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” he said.

“I don’t know about that,” Ilya said. “You look more like…you are going to eat me.” He sat down next to Shane and started brushing a lock of hair over his ear. “What do my sneezes sound like, Shane?” He said in a low purr.

Shane felt himself start to get hard again. “They sound…tired. Um…heavy. Like they’re taking a lot out of you. You keep having to catch your breath after.”

“Hmm. I see.” Ilya was petting a fingertip over the curve of his neck now. “Anything else?”

The fucking bastard. “They’re louder. Even more than usual,” he said while side-eyeing Ilya, who gave him a mock-bashful ‘who, me?’ look. “And they make you sound all stuffed-up after.”

“You are very observant of me,” Ilya said with a generous sniffle next to Shane’s ear. Shane could hear how congested he was starting to sound. He swallowed, not sure what to do next. Ilya made the decision for him, gasping and burying his face in the towel he had used for his hair.

“ah’IDZSCHH’umf! hRASHHH’hfff! haRISCHHHhhmf!”

“Bless you,” Shane said, concerned when Ilya started coughing and couldn’t stop. Shane put a hand to his back as he sputtered. “Are you okay?!” When Ilya straightened up, Shane placed a hand on his chest and started to rub in soothing circles. “Jesus. That sounds like it hurts.”

“Spasibo. I’m -hgkm!- I’m okay.” Shane was crestfallen when Ilya gently removed his hand and scooted further away on the bed from him. “Shane,” he started. Shane did not like the uncharacteristically nervous look on his face.

“What’s wrong, Ilya? Why won’t you touch me?” he cried out.

Ilya looked surprised at the emotion in Shane’s voice, and started to move a hand to Shane’s cheek when he stopped and placed it back in his lap. He took a breath in and out through his nose, which probably hadn’t been the best idea, judging by the way he needed to pinch it between his thumb and pointer finger immediately after. He sniffled, the sound thick and wet. “I am feeling…not great. Training camp is in two weeks. I do not want you to catch something from me.” He avoided Shane’s gaze and buried his nose back into the towel, blowing his nose with a painful-sounding honk that hit Shane right in the heart (and the dick).

Shane put a hand to Ilya’s thigh, and Ilya tensed but didn’t move. “Ilya. It’s okay. You’re sick, and I want to…take care of you,” he admitted shyly. “Even if I got sick too, two weeks is plenty of time to get over a cold. I’d be fine. We’d both be fine.” He snuck a glance at Ilya, and the softness in his boyfriend’s eyes took his breath away. “To be honest,” he continued with a little laugh, “I’ve barely even been thinking about training camp lately.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow. “You? Not possible.”

“I’m excited for it, of course, but…I’ve been having so much fun being with you this summer that I haven’t really been thinking about much else.” And I don’t want it to end, he thought.

Ilya’s hand grabbed his. “Me, too,” he said softly. They smiled at each other, and Shane cupped Ilya’s cheek in his palm. They still had plenty of time.

When Ilya started to nibble and lick at Shane’s neck, Shane moaned and said, “You should take some medicine for that cough.”

“Boooo! Tastes gross. Later.”

Shane made a show of rolling his eyes and throwing up his hands, but there was no hiding his wide smile. “You’re a baby.”

Ilya pressed a kiss to Shane’s cheek with an accompanying sniffle. “I’m your baby.”

“That,” Shane said, placing himself right in Ilya’s lap, where he always belonged, “is true. Now touch me, please, you fucking asshole.”

“Yes, I like all of these words, Mr. Bossy.” The wicked expression on Ilya’s face deserved to be painted and hung in the Louvre. Fuck the Mona Lisa, this was the real attraction people should come from far and wide to see. Michelangelo’s David come to life with cherubic golden curls and a crude grin. (Also, ahem, much larger assets.) “And then you will take good care of me?” he said, batting his lashes, blue eyes all pretty and sensual. He sniffled again and scrunched his perfect nose. Shane was so happy he could die.

I love reading all your fics so much so thank u 🫶

Thank you for this request <3 I’m combining this with another request for allergic!Ilya from @chaoticghostgremlin :) I had a HUGE idea for this one but it was getting too complicated and angsty and OOC for my liking, so I turned it into silly snz smut instead. 🤣 Am I embarrassed? A little. Am I gonna go hide after this? Probably. Honestly idek if I’m any good at writing sex scenes but screw it (heh), it’s fun and I enjoy doing it! Stole a “lube” idea from @snifflybabe but kinda chickened out on it lmao

——

Very Stupid and Irresponsible (H/eated R/ivalry, Ilya)

“How could we let this happen?” “We were both very stupid and irresponsible.” - Heated Rivalry, 1x06

Sorry, Ilyukha, this one’s all on you. Also, Canada, I am screaming at this. Pick a lane, eh? ;) <3

Prompt fills 💛 (pollen) and 💜 (lavender) from @heleniumx’s color list (sorry to taint it with this filth LMAO). VERY nsfw. Feat. kink! and honeymoon rhinitis!Shane. -4k words

cw: some mess

——

On May 10th - Shane’s birthday - Ilya made a very spontaneous, very idiotic decision.

The Centaurs were currently in the second round of the playoffs against Colorado. After playing their first two games on home ice, they were due to ship out to Denver tomorrow morning. Ilya and Shane had obviously never been on the same team during the playoffs, but Shane was acting exactly as Ilya had expected he would - singularly focused on winning the Cup, relentless in the gym, playing back video of their opponents’ special teams tactics over and over between bites of meals, pushing himself pushing himself pushing himself. Ilya knew that Shane was extra obsessive in his pursuit now that the two of them were playing together - and Ilya was certainly no less passionate about his desire to win with, and for, his husband.

Lately, though, there’d been far too many nights where Ilya had needed to coax Shane out of their media room, or off the stationary bike, or away from the Centaurs’ practice rink, and into bed for a good night’s rest. He wasn’t positive that Shane was sleeping well at all, though it was difficult to tell thanks to how spectacularly well he was performing on the ice, with two goals and an assist in the last game alone. He was en fuego, as the analysts loved to say, sure, but peak performance came at a cost. Ilya didn’t even think Shane would have remembered today was his birthday if Ilya hadn’t been there to wake him by wishing him a good day and giving him a kiss. The first thing Shane had said in response was, “Flight’s at 9 tomorrow, so we’ll have to be home from my parents’ early tonight.”

Ilya loved hockey. He wanted to play in the NHL into his forties, if possible. He was determined, a born leader, a great teammate, someone who loved to win and hated to lose. Plus, he was really, really fucking good at the game, one of the top two players in the entire goddamn world, the other just so happening to be the man he shared his entire life with. But even Ilya Rozanov had his limits, and he was worried that Shane was going to reach his own. He could burn out, get the flu, injure himself, or suffer any number of other misfortunes if he didn’t give himself proper care. If Ilya could do anything to help prevent that from happening, he would.

So when Ilya went to pick up the desserts he was bringing over to David and Yuna’s later tonight and passed by a local florist on the way back to his car, he realized that, well…there was at least one way he could help Shane.

Ilya did a quick mental calculation. They had to be at Shane’s parents’ at 6. It was 3:30. If he could time this well enough…

…Fuck it. Ilya was thinking with his dick, not his brain, at this point, which was honestly true most of the time when it came to Shane. He took a breath and prepared himself to step into the lion’s den.

Ilya entered the shop and immediately regretted it. It was as if someone had sprayed perfume directly into his nostrils, which began to quiver with the onslaught of pollen attacking them. Fuckfuckfuck, this was a bad idea. The arrangements were stunning, but all Ilya could see were little allergy bombs. He was going to have to make a decision, and quickly, lest he scare this poor small business owner, who was greeting him with a little “welcome!”, with a ferocious sneezing attack. He raised a hand as a hello, then covered his nose with it as he scanned the shop, landing on a little bouquet of pretty purple flowers.

Lavender - symbolizes purity, calmness, serenity, said the mini chalkboard next to it.

Ilya smiled through his watering eyes. Calmness and serenity. Perfect. Exactly what Shane needed. Purity…well, that one had gone out the window a long time ago. Ilya picked the lavender up anyway, giving the florist a $50 note and telling her to keep the change. He power-walked out of the shop holding the neck of his dark t-shirt to his nose, and managed to make it into his car without incident. Once he closed the door, however…

“haah! ha’ahh? haAASHHhhoo! AAESSHHHhh! hy’YESCHHooo!…oh, fuck…” Ilya reached into his jeans pockets, which was ridiculous because of course there were no tissues in there, before opening the glove compartment. Slava bogu, a mini pack of Kleenex. Thank you, baby, Ilya thought about his husband before blowing his nose with a loud honk. Fuck, if he was already this affected…

Well. He supposed Shane had better be prepared tonight.

Ilya was exiting the parking lot when his car’s touchscreen lit up with a phone call. Yuna Hollander.

Shit.

After a quick series of short blows to further clear his nose, Ilya tossed the tissue to the side and answered. “Hi, Yuna.”

“Ilya, hi,” Yuna said. “I’m going to the store in a little bit. Is there anything you’d like? Munchies or anything?”

Ilya smiled. Even though it had been years since he’d been adopted into the beautiful Hollander family, he was often still amazed at the tightness of their little unit, a place where love flowed freely, and where snacks were purchased. “No, thank you, I am okay.”

“Okay, if you’re sure. Text me if you need anything. I’ll make sure to get you some ice cream, though. Shane...he can forage for his own berries or something.”

Ilya laughed, swiping at his nose, which was already growing tickly again. He glanced at the bouquet on the seat next to him, then cracked the windows a little to let in some air. Hopefully Yuna could still hear him. “Thank you, Yuna. I bought a fruit tart, maybe he will have some of that.”

“Right, we can only try. Did you see the Dallas-Jersey game last night? That was nuts. Nilsson got high-sticked in the mouth three times! His teeth must be destroyed, not that he had many left to lose—”

“ngkxht! -ngkkt! hh…hDXGKT!”

“Oh, bless you!”

“Ah, hgkm, thank you,” Ilya said with an itchy clearing of his throat. Shit. He was lucky it wasn’t such a long ride home. He felt absolutely coated in pollen, and he’d only been in the shop for, what, five minutes? And of course, his breath was hitching again.

“hy’IDKT! -hghxt! HNGKT-uhh!” Fuck.

“Bless you! Are you all right, honey? You’re not getting sick, are you?! The playoffs—”

“No, no, I am okay. It’s just, um, allergies.” Ilya felt his face grow very hot. No matter how well he knew Yuna and David, admitting any kind of vulnerability around them was…well, it was awkward. Not that they cared - Ilya knew they loved him regardless of his shortcomings, something that certainly could not have been said of his biological family after his mother had passed.

But Ilya would rather go back to Russia than talk to Yuna about his sneezing right now.

He could literally hear her frown through the phone. “Oh no! The pollen count’s been really high lately. I hope you don’t feel too bad tonight, Ilya.”

“I’ll be fine, I’m sure. I will just…take something for it at home.” His face was growing hot.

“Okay. Wait, are you driving?! Be careful, sweetheart, don’t drive if you’re sneezing!”

“Ah, all good here, I’m pulling into driveway,” he said, instantly feeling terrible for lying to her. He was only about three minutes away from home, but still. He could feel the tip of his nose begin to tingle and he did not feel like having a full-blown sneeze attack on the phone with his mother-in-law. But he also didn’t want to be rude and hang up on her out of nowhere, especially because she would absolutely call back and ask what had happened. And anyway, the road was clear…mostly. He pressed a finger hard beneath his nose to quell the tingling sensation. It helped a little.

“Okay, good. Take some meds and drink some water, okay? Big game tomorrow. See you later, love you.”

“Luhh…love you too,” Ilya hitched out, frantically tapping the “end call” button, and just as he stopped at a red light he cupped his hands to his face and—

“ha’ihh! iHh? ihhiHIhh?…hah…”

—Nothing. Just some useless hitchy breaths. What the fuck?

The hitching continued even after he parked, including when he had to stop in the middle of walking up the driveway, one hand holding the lavender and the other hovering in midair, as he hitched and hitched and his eyes filled with tears. He managed to snap out of his sneezy trance long enough to open the front door, upper body finally snapping towards the ground with a—

“HY’AAASSHHhhhooo!”

The enormous sneeze rang through the room; the soft sounds he’d heard coming from the kitchen died, shocked into silence. Through his half-open eyes as he gasped towards another sneeze Ilya could see Shane and Anya’s heads poking out from around the corner, twin expressions of surprise on their sweet faces.

Ilya braced his hands on his thighs as two more sneezes barreled out of him. “HAESSHHHhuhh! HAAHSHHhooo!”

He heard footsteps, then felt a hand rubbing between his shoulder blades as he sneezed harshly towards the carpet. “Bless you, bless you, bless you! Jesus Christ, Ilya, are you okay?” Shane’s touch ignited something in Ilya, making him smile a little and reminding him of why he was subjecting himself to this ridiculous, fantastic torture.

Ilya held the flowers up to his husband’s dumbfounded face as allergic tears began cascading down his cheeks. “Hhhappy birthday, Shade,” he said, proudly and stuffily.

Shane gaped at him. “I…what? Ilya, why do you have flowers? Are…” His big brown eyes widened in realization as Ilya leaned in and started to nuzzle into his neck with little kisses and sniffles.

“I thought I would give you your first present early, lyubimyy,” Ilya purred, nosing beneath Shane’s henley tee to lick at his collarbone.

“Oh my god,” Shane hissed into his ear, gripping Ilya’s shoulders tightly as Ilya continued to explore him, “are you insane? We have to be at my parents’ in like an hour and a half!”

“Mm, yes. I will be cured by then,” Ilya promised with a big scrunch of his nose. Shane did not look at all convinced by that statement.

“That’s not how allergies fucking w-work…ohh…” Shane’s protests turned to soft moans as Ilya snuffled and ground his nose back and forth into the divot between Shane’s pecs. When he pulled away, there was a small spot of wetness left behind on his shirt. Shane was transfixed by the sight, a pink flush creeping up from his neck all the way to his forehead, and Ilya took his chance to walk Shane backward until his legs hit the back of the couch. He gave his best pouty eyes and lips - something he knew never failed to make his husband weak for him - and ran a hand beneath his leaking nose.

“I have to sneeze so badly, and I need some relief, Shane,” he said, gesturing back towards the lavender bouquet. “Will you help me, sweetheart?” He grazed his mouth over Shane’s ear and sniffled wetly. “My nose is so itchy…”

“I…Ilya…” Shane gasped as Ilya tangled his fingers in his dark hair and covered his neck in open-mouthed kisses. Shane managed to gain control, grabbing Ilya’s face between his hands and wiping away a tear as it slipped down the tip of his burning nose. Fuck, Ilya was going to really start sneezing soon…and he couldn’t fucking wait. “Are you okay? Is it too much? We can stop if it’s too much,” Shane said hastily, breathily, looking both worried and very horny, running his hands over Ilya’s chest, his back, his shoulders, down past his stomach, fingertips grazing just beneath his jeans. Poor confused boy just needed to touch. Ilya growled and picked Shane up in response, hauling him into the guest bedroom down the hall. Just as he made it towards the bed, the intense roar of another itch clawed its way to life into his sinuses, and Ilya made sure to safely deposit Shane onto the mattress before he—

“HAESZCHHHhhh! HAADT’SCHUHhh! HDT’GYISHHhhooo!” He sneezed openly, making sure that Shane could see every desperate microexpression on his face, then opened his eyes to the sight of Shane tearing off his shirt, jeans and boxers, which were darkened with pre-cum. He looked hard and wet and wanting, and Ilya couldn’t wait to have a taste. But first…

Ilya gave a thick -snrff- to stop his nose from leaking. “Oh, Shade, I need some help,” he whined, making sure to emphasize his husband’s name as he rubbed a finger just beneath his nostrils and batted his eyelashes at him. Shane stilled immediately, eyes drawn to Ilya’s nose as if hypnotized. “My dose is so stuffy, please, will you get me a tissue, hodey?”

Shane dove towards the nightstand with an athleticism and rapaciousness that made Ilya crack up. He pulled several tissues out of a box and crawled his way back towards Ilya, looking a little bashful as if he hadn’t done this many times before, often at Ilya’s insistence. Ilya knew just how much Shane loved to take care of his nose. How much he loved to smear Vaseline over it when he had a cold, how much he loved to kiss (and occasionally nip at) it, how much he loved to hold tissues to it and rub his back as he cleared out his congestion. It made Ilya feel…special, really. Deeply loved. Cherished.

On his knees on the bed, Shane was slightly lower than Ilya, who bent his head down a little to give Shane better access. Shane held the tissues gently yet firmly to his nose. “Blow,” he commanded, and Ilya obeyed, letting out another loud honk as he did so. And Shane shivered.

“Fuck, love that sound,” he moaned. “Love you.”

“Love you. What do you need, Shane?”

Shane looked deeply into Ilya’s eyes. “I need you to fuck me.” His voice was husky with need. His face said, destroy me.

“I will, sweetheart. But first…” Ilya held up a finger, then darted out of the room and brought back the flowers. Shane looked like he was about to start drooling.

Ilya held the lavender close to his face, which involuntarily and wholeheartedly scrunched at the fragrant scent. “I have never seen such beautiful flowers,” he said. “If I wasn’t afraid of giving the florist a heart attack, I would have smelled each one to see which made me sneeze the most for you.”

“Ilya,” Shane moaned weakly, voice high and broken. He started to move his hand downwards, but Ilya shook his head.

“No. You don’t get to touch yourself yet. That is for me,” he gestured at Shane’s leaking dick. Then, not caring that he might regret it later, he held the flowers to his nose and took a deep inhale. His head jerked back, and he released a few itchy coughs before tossing the lavender aside and pinning Shane down to the bed. The image of Shane’s awed and aroused face would be burned into Ilya’s memory forever. But right now, he wasn’t thinking of anything but the precarious tickle in his nose.

“hih! hih, ihh, IYHhh, hYIHhh…!”

Ilya buried his face in Shane’s neck. “haAAASHHh! -HRISHHHhuhh! hrRUSHHhhhoo!” Shane cried out and oh, god, Ilya could feel the pulse of the other man’s racing heartbeat against his nose.

“HY’ESCHHhh! hyeh, ehHhh, ESCHHhhh! eshh-esHhh-ESHhhhoo!” The sneezes were getting more rapid, more intense. Ilya felt them in his chest as they yelled their way out of them. Clearly, his past smoking habit hadn’t affected his lungs too much.

After a spraying “YESCHHhhoo!” against Shane’s chest, Shane grabbed the lube he’d conveniently placed on the pillow next to him and warmed it in his hands, but just as he started to reach for Ilya’s cock, Ilya dipped his head downward between them with a softer, no less wet “AESHhhoo!”

“There,” he said with a wink and a sniffle. “More lube.”

“If you don’t get in me in the next five seconds I am going to snap your neck,” Shane growled.

“Mm, so bossy. Well, is your special day.” Ilya pushed Shane back against the blankets and entered him, reveling in Shane’s ecstatic yips and whines. “Moy ángel,” he murmured with another hitching breath. He started to gasp, overwhelmed with the dual sensation of filling Shane up while also needing to sneeze out the pollen in his nose, and momentarily paused in his thrusting. Shane took the opportunity to change their positions, moving to sit in Ilya’s lap. Ilya went along with the motions as he stuttered out, “hn’yehh…ehh-!”

Shane started bouncing as Ilya’s head surged downward once more. “haashh-aashh-AESHHhh!”

“Fuck!” Shane rode Ilya for dear life, gripping his shoulders so hard that he knew that there would be bruises tomorrow — maybe he could convince the boys that he was trying cupping therapy — abs clenching with the fluid movements of his body rolls. Ilya appreciatively watched his husband’s moves reach Magic Mike terrritory, then gave a great snort against his revolting sinuses. At the sound, Shane raised his head from where it’d been pressed against Ilya’s collarbone and just stared at his nose, and Ilya made another snuffly noise and scrunched the appendage dramatically, adding a little wink for good measure. Shane devoured his mouth with delicious uninhibited moans as Ilya drove into him harder, faster, deeper—just as his nose began to itch again and he buried it into his husband’s chest—

“AD’JYISH’HHHhhoo! HAAAHHhhshuhh! HAAH-AHH-SHOOO!”

Shane screamed as loudly as Ilya had ever heard him. “IlyaIlyaIlyaILYA oh GOD I’m coming—”

Shane came spectacularly over both of their stomachs. He continued to cry out as he rode through his orgasm, taking huge heaving gasps into Ilya’s chest as Ilya released inside of him. They clutched each other for a while, and then Ilya pulled out, rubbing his nose in squelching circles with his palm, surprised that it was taking Shane so long to—

In a flash, Shane grabbed some tissues out of the box and held them in his cupped hands. “hy’ischhh! -ihshhiew! shhiew! hy’eschhuhh! -eshhoo! ESHhiew!”

“Bud’ zdorov—”

“ehh-hiew! ischhuh! ISHhhuhh! hy’ISCHhuhh! ishh-ishh-ishhuhh!”

“Wow. Bless you.” Ilya rubbed Shane’s back as the rapid little sneezes took over his body. “This is a lot for you. You must be very satisfied.”

Shane thoroughly blew his nose and gave Ilya a pointed look. “No shit, asshole.” The words couldn’t have been said in a gentler tone.

“Good. I am here to make the birthday boy happy.” Ilya gave Shane a shit-eating grin, but then Shane reached over to give him a soft, chaste little kiss, and he thought his heart might stop. “You do,” Shane said softly, reverence clear in his voice. “Thank you. I love you.”

“Я влюбился в тебя с первого взгляда,” Ilya replied.

Shane’s face scrunched up adorably in concentration as he attempted to translate what Ilya had said. Then his eyes widened, and he grinned, and a beautiful pink flush spread over his cheeks. “So did I,” he breathed.

Ilya brushed his thumb over the length of his husband’s straight sniffly nose, still sniffling himself - he needed a tissue yesterday. He thought back to the moment when Shane — quiet, reserved, oft-aloof — had first approached Ilya, like he was greeting a friend rather than the man the entire hockey world had pitted him against before they were even drafted. He’d looked so cute, bundled up against the cold weather, smiling and politely offering a hand to shake, his striking freckles immediately catching Ilya’s eye. And here he was now, just as fucking cute, sweaty and spent and staring at Ilya like he was something precious. He offered Ilya the much-needed tissue box and Ilya blew loudly, Shane giving an “mmm” of appreciation and stretching out his limbs. He checked his phone. “Oh fuck, we have to leave in an hour.”

“Is that not enough time to do your hair or something?”

“Fuck you. You’re a mess.” Shane’s brown eyes looked worried as he searched Ilya’s face. Ilya knew he looked terrible, if the soreness in his sinuses and the heat of his nose and the wetness of his eyes were any indication. But god damn, did he feel amazing. There was nothing quite like being loved and worshipped by Shane Hollander. “Are you feeling up to go out tonight? Because we can stay home. Oh, and bless you, by the way, like a thousand times.”

“Thank you. I’ll be fine.” His eye was itching a little, too, but he resisted the urge to rub it. “As long as I get to shower with my sweet Shane so he can get all this pollen off of me.”

Shane tucked a curl behind Ilya’s ear, then kissed his nose. “Okay, but we have to be quick.”

“No sneezy blowjobs, do you mean?”

Shane paused and bit his lip so hard it started to turn white. For a moment Ilya thought he was going to text his parents and cancel, but then he let out a slow breath through gritted teeth. “I…fuck. No. We have to go.”

“Okay. Next time.” Shane swallowed, eyes huge, and Ilya found that he was already planning ‘next time.’ Although that ‘next time’ was less likely to come out of thoughtful planning; it was much more likely that Ilya’s fucked-up nose would just act up out of nowhere. No matter how it happened, he would make sure that Shane would have the best time.

Shane had once admitted to Ilya that he’d planned on taking the secret of his attraction to sneezing to the grave…

“…but then I heard you sneeze for the first time, and…fuck, I couldn’t control it, and you fucking knew right away.” Shane’s gaze was averted and he was beet red, but a tiny shy smile was playing out on his lips.

Ilya put an arm around Shane’s shoulders and kissed his warm cheek. “I always know what gets you turned on. You have a very obvious tell.”

Shane turned to look at him, curious. “I do? What is it?”

Ilya kissed his cheek again. “Your dick gets hard.”

Shane pushed Ilya away as the Russian started to laugh. “Fuck you.”

…And Ilya was happy that he could indulge his husband’s deepest fantasies. Lord knew that Shane fulfilled all of his. Even the ones he had no idea he was fulfilling, like when he bent over to put the laundry in the washing machine, or when he wore only his glasses, boxers and a Team Canada sweatshirt while reading in bed.

Ilya would wonder when he became such a sap, but truly, he knew the answer: the moment he had first laid eyes on Shane Hollander.

“Happy birthday, my love.”

Shane hugged him tightly. “Thank you. God, you’re the best. Let’s get washed off so you feel better.” Shane pulled Ilya’s still-drippy face in for a deeper kiss, then took him by the hand to lead him to the bathroom. Before they could leave the bedroom, however, Shane’s phone buzzed with a text. He checked it, and his face went bright red. “…Uhhh, Ilya?”

“Hm?”

“Why is my mom asking me if you’ve taken a Claritin today?”

Ilya blushed too. “Oh. Um. Long story. Come on, let’s shower, we do not want to be late.” With that, he led his confused baby boy far away from his phone.

——

Hope you're doing well!

THANK YOU 💖💖💖 I hope you are doing well too, friend! :D and ty for all the amazing fic ideas!!

From the moment I first saw S/hane H/ollander, I knew he needed some dust allergies heehee~

Bunny (H/eated R/ivalry, Shane) 🐰

As soon as Ilya exited the taxi in front of the building Hollander had purchased as their fucknest - scratch that, as an investment - the door opened.

Hollander was standing there all dressed up for the occasion, wearing a sweatshirt and track pants and looking a little…grumpy. Something in his expression was pinched and irritated, and it made Ilya wonder if something was bothering him. If he was all right. Hell, if he needed a hug.

So, naturally, Ilya had to deflect from showing any kind of concern by being a smartass instead.

“‘Honey, I am home?’ This is right saying?”

Hollander smirked, but there was a tightness in his mouth and around his eyes that Ilya found a bit jarring. “Get in, you weirdo.”

Ilya raced Hollander up the stairs and narrowly edged him out of reaching the apartment first. Such was their routine. Fighting each other for a scrap of dominance before Ilya took over in the bedroom. (But only if that was what Hollander wanted, of course.)

Ilya stepped into the loft and, as usual, noted the small changes to its appearance - this time, Hollander had painted the kitchen a light beige. Sensible. Practical. Predictable. Boring.

“tsshiew!”

Ilya turned around at the soft sound. At first he thought that Hollander had shushed him, like a handsome, poorly-dressed librarian, but then he saw his brows knitting upward and his mouth gaping open in the unmistakable look of a man who needed to sneeze.

“hihh!”

A very cute man who needed to sneeze.

“hgnxt-shiew!” Hollander buried his face in his elbow with another impossibly tiny sneeze. He straightened back up with a delicate little snff, blinking rapidly, and when he caught Ilya staring at him, he blushed and said, “Excuse me.”

Well. That was fucking adorable.

“Bud’te zdorovy - bless you,” Ilya clarified at Shane’s confused look.

“Oh.” He sniffled again, the sound quieter than Ilya could ever imagine his own sniffles being. “Thank you.”

And just like whenever Ilya noticed a small crack in the veneer of Shane Hollander’s perfection, he had to poke at it a little.

“You are having a cold?”

“What? No, I…” Shane looked down at the floor, avoiding Ilya’s questioning gaze. “I, uh. I was just downstairs looking at the renovation in the other apartment.” His eyes narrowed slightly and his nostrils started to flutter. “Ihht’s really dusty in there.” His breath caught, and then he had his nose tucked right back into his elbow and away from Ilya, courteous as ever. “hdt’schiew! -tschhiew! Excuse me,” he repeated, and not only was he still blushing, he was turning redder than before. He was also, Ilya noticed, blinking back tears. He looked…like a fucking angel. Ilya huffed a laugh.

“Bud’ zdorov. You are…allergic? Is right word?”

Shane said a soft “thank you” and nodded, still not looking Ilya in the eye. Something about his expression - shy, embarrassed, slightly dazed, like he might still have to sneeze - made Ilya fucking melt.

Shane sniffled, the sound a little wetter than before, then froze. “I’ll be right back,” he said, then Ilya heard him close the bathroom door and the soft ssshhhh of him blowing his nose. So gentle. So polite. So well-mannered. So…Shane Hollander. Canadian wunderkind and consummate gentleman. A prince of the ice.

Ilya wanted to swallow him whole.

When Shane came out of the bathroom, Ilya noticed that he was rubbing at his pink nose absentmindedly. He caught Ilya’s eye and grinned, and the next thing Ilya knew he and Shane were shirtless on the bed, kissing and grabbing at every inch of bare skin they could, and Ilya was only faintly aware of a few itty-bitty snffs cutting through their uninhibited moans and gasps until—

“tschieww! idt-chyiew! hahh! adt’chyew!” Shane pulled away, face buried back in his elbow. When he emerged, with a deliciously vulnerable little “nghuhh,” he scrunched his face up with another snrff, nose twitching, and Ilya couldn’t stop himself from saying, “Krolik.”

Shane, who had been about to place his hands back to where they’d been splayed on Ilya’s chest, paused. “Sorry, what?”

“You. The way you move your face, is like krolik…like, like zaychik, like…fuck…” Ilya grasped at the air as he sought the word. Then he looked back at Shane’s pretty, perfect, dumbfounded face, and it came to him. “Like little bunny,” he finished.

Shane scrunched his face again, this time in annoyance. “I’m not a bunny,” he grumbled, and Ilya was delighted to see that another red flush was spreading over his cheeks and nose. (There was nothing - nothing - Ilya enjoyed more than making Shane Hollander blush. The redness really brought out his stunning freckles.)

Ilya shook his head. “No, no. Of course not. You are big, strong man who makes cute face like bunny.”

There was a pause.

“Rozanov,” Shane warned.

“Hollander,” Ilya challenged.

Shane crossed his arms over his chest. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Just making…observation? Yes, observation,” he said when Shane gave his first attempt a terse nod. “You do this” - he tried his best to copy Shane’s post-sneeze face scrunch and nose twitch - “and I see little bunny. Very cute. Hop hop hop.”

Shane looked about ready to make Ilya hop, hop, hop his ass back to Boston on a stretcher when his breath started to hitch again. He grabbed hastily for a tissue from the box on his nightstand and held it tightly to his nose and mouth. “isch’hew! haSHhew! hy’ishhuu! …ugh, fuck…” Something clenched at Ilya’s heart as Shane groaned and wiped at his eyes with another tissue. He was starting to sound quite miserable. Shane tucked the box of tissues under his arm and started to move off the bed when Ilya touched his shoulder.

“Bud’ zdorov. Where are you going?”

“Thank you. I, uh.” Shane’s shoulders were tensed up to his damn ears. He looked like he wanted to disappear into thin air. “I need to, uh…” he gestured at his nose.

Ilya shrugged. “You don’t need to go for that.”

Shane averted his gaze yet again. “But it’s…gross,” he said softly.

“Not gross. Stay. Is okay.” Ilya patted the pillow next to him.

Shane sighed and sat back down. He plucked a few tissues from the box and blew into them, gently. Ilya could tell that he was holding back how much he really needed to blow. He put a hand on his shoulder and rubbed it with his thumb. “Is okay, Hollander.”

Shane took in a breath and blew a little harder, face crinkling from the effort, and by the relieved sigh he gave after, Ilya could tell that he was feeling a bit better. For some reason, that made Ilya smile. He watched Shane take another tissue and massage his straight nose methodically in circular motions.

Ilya patted his arm. “Wow. Your nose really does not like dust.”

“Nope,” Shane agreed, pinching at the bridge of his now cherry-red nose. “Fuck, I don’t have any allergy meds at this place. I’ll have to go home.”

Faintly, Ilya wondered what “home” looked like for Shane. Would Ilya ever be able to see it for himself? It was probably bland and spotless and inoffensive to the eye, the perfectly appropriate home for the perfectly mannered golden boy. But maybe that wasn’t so bad. And maybe…Shane Hollander wasn’t so perfect after all.

But Ilya, who had seen Shane face down, ass up at least a dozen times by this point, knew that already.

“Okay. But only after I fuck you into this mattress, da?”

Shane looked at him, surprised, tissues clutched in one fist. “You still want to…?”

Ilya nodded. “Yes, Hollander, I am not scared of you and your tiny little bunny sneezes.” He had to hold up his hands as Shane grabbed the nearest pillow - one of the small stupid decorative ones - and whacked him with it. “Oh no, not your pillow army! Malen'kiy krolik—no, nooo!” Ilya gasped with laughter as Shane kept smacking him, saying through his smile, “Am I still a bunny now, Rozanov? Huh?”

After a faux-struggle, Ilya managed to pin Shane down by the arms. For a moment, he just openly stared. Somehow, Shane’s eyebrows were the perfect shape. Did he know this? Was he aware of just how fucking beautiful he was? Ilya cleared his mind of the thought as Shane’s nose twitched, so small that Ilya almost missed it. But he didn’t.

Here's Part 2 for @asapyam3's request! Also featuring ideas from @softsicknose, who should be considered the premier expert on how to wreck I/lya R/ozanov.

(SIDE NOTE: The problem with looking for a full-time job is, well, looking for a full-time job. But working part time has given me plenty of time to write lately, and for that I am sooo grateful! Thanks for reading!)

Part 1 (edit: fixed the link. 😅)

---- 

I/lya drove home in a rush, thankful that there were few people on the road at this time of night. The moment he shut his front door, he had to pause and lean an arm against the wall to hold himself upright as he staggered forward with—

“AESHHHhhh! HAESHHHhuhh! HAAADTZCHooo! hy'YASHHhhhooo!”

Motherfucker. 

He stormed into his bedroom, found the tissue box on his nightstand, and ripped out a wad of paper with the same force as someone pulling a stubborn weed from their garden. He blew so fiercely that his nose actually tore through the flimsy first layer of tissues. Tossing them to the side, he flopped on the bed and pawed at his nose, the fucking thing squeaking and squelching as it immediately refilled with congestion. The sensation of needing to sneeze again was so strong that he fisted his blanket in both hands as he jacknifed forward. 

“HYISZZCHuhh! AAASHhhoo! ha’ehh! hAESHHHhhooo!” 

Quiet! rang an unwelcome voice in his head. I/lya froze. Suddenly he was eighteen years old again, newly drafted in the NHL, sitting at the dinner table with his father. 

I/lya Gr/igoryevich. Do not ever interrupt me with that disgusting racket while I am speaking to you again. And during our meal, of all times. How many times have I told you to be quiet!

(Alexei had called with an update two days prior. Their father was not doing well.)

They haven’t seen one another sick yet, and Ilya is still a tad uncomfortable with being tender and soft with Shane, but when Ilya shows up to Shane’s place as planned the day before a game he finds Shane just so sick. Shane basically stumbles to the door, hair and clothes a mess, voice congested and raspy, nose red and snuffling, squinting confused at ilya - he had been so busy sleeping and being miserable he had gotten his days confused (and was hoping he wouldn’t be sick by the time they planned to meet so he had put off cancelling plans).

Shane is just so embarrassed to be seen like this by ilya, but Ilya is adamant about coming in and taking care of Shane. Shane fights against the mortification of being seen drippy and sick and gross, the way how bad he feels is making him overly emotional and sensitive and needy, and how much he doesn’t want to be any of those things. Ilya fights against the rising tide of protectiveness he feels, the soft warm squirmy feelings he doesn’t really want to address yet, the sweet soft way Shane keeps looking at him, and he really really tries hard not to let an I love you slip

Hi Blake <333 Thank you so much for this request! It's not a lot at all, I love all the sweet little details so so much! Hope you enjoy :)

Hockey fans, the "Mike" is definitely Mike Milbury LMAO

An (Un)healthy Scratch (H/eated R/ivalry, Shane)

Ilya first saw the news while scrolling through Twitter in his Montreal hotel room. 

--

Pierre Beaulieu @ hockeytalkie:

Shane Hollander (illness) is out for next two games against NYA and BOS, per reports #MTLMetros

--

Illness? Ilya frowned. He picked up the remote and turned on CBC Sports. Some boring suit-and-tie analysts Ilya didn’t care to learn the names of were yammering around a long table, their chairs spaced comically far away from each other.

“The Metros camp has confirmed that Shane Hollander won’t be playing in this weekend’s back-to-back set of games due to illness. Surprising news, since he hasn’t missed more than one game at a time in his entire career so far. Mike, how do you think Montreal can compensate for losing their captain as they near the playoffs?”

“Montreal had better hope that Hollander gets well soon. They need all the scoring power they can get if they want to make it to a top three playoff spot in the Eastern Conference. Frankly, as good as they are, they can’t do that without him.”

Fucking assholes, Ilya thought. Can’t give him a goddamn second to breathe. He had to shut the TV off before he threw the remote at the screen.

He let out a long breath and texted Shane:

Lily:

You are sick?

No response.

After a few minutes of waiting, Ilya felt unusually antsy. He and Shane had planned a few days ago to meet at Shane’s apartment tonight - since the All-Star Weekend, they’d been texting nearly every day - and Ilya wasn’t sure he should show up if Shane wasn’t answering. What kind of illness could he have? It would have to be something pretty bad for him to be out for two games straight. Ilya tried to resist the urge that had been clawing at his heart since he first saw the news report - to go to Shane and offer him care. To soothe him from whatever was making him feel unwell. To kiss and cuddle and comfort him. 

Fuck. Ridiculous. What a stupid, terrible idea. 

Still…he wanted to make sure that Shane was okay, at the very least. Maybe he was even okay enough to sleep with. Sexually, of course. Not sleep with sleep with.

Sighing, Ilya grabbed his jacket and left the room before he could convince himself not to. 

——

The cab dropped Ilya off in front of Shane’s building, and he zipped up his jacket against the chilly air. Before he knocked, he checked his reflection as best he could through his phone screen and ran a hand through his windswept curls in an attempt to tame them. He closed his eyes. What the fuck was he doing? He didn’t even know if Shane was home. But where else would he be? Not at the arena tonight, he knew for sure. Definitely not, as he would have assumed a few weeks ago, with Rose Landry. An unpleasant feeling that felt suspiciously like jealousy surged through him. 

He knocked. 

After a few moments, the door opened a crack. “…Ilya?” came a small, hoarse voice. 

“Is me,” he replied. 

Shane opened the door fully, and Ilya felt his face fall. The man looked awful. His skin was white as bone - hell, even his freckles looked pale - save for the deep flush in his cheeks and his fiery-red nose. He was wearing an oversized sweatshirt with the hood covering most of his messy dark hair, flannel pajama pants, and two different colored socks. His face was creased with sleep marks, and, though Ilya would never tell him, a small spot of drool dotted the corner of his mouth. He’d clearly been woken by Ilya’s knocking, and a pang of guilt went through Ilya as Shane sleepily rubbed his eye with a fist. 

“Oh,” Ilya heard himself say. 

Shane stared at him for a moment, mouth open, then he put his head in his hands. “Oh fuck. It’s today. I forgot to text you…Look, you need to go. You can’t be here.” His eyes were wide, panicked, like a spooked horse that needed calming. He moved to close the door, but Ilya grabbed it and held it open. 

“Can’t be here? Why?”

Shane was not making eye contact. “I, uh…I’m really sick.”

“I can see. And?”

“And it’s…gross,” he said, a hand tugging nervously at his long shirtsleeve. A rosy pink flush was creeping up his face to his ears. It was adorable. 

You are so beautiful, Ilya wanted to say, then squashed the thought down into a little ball and threw it away in the trash can of his mind. “Not gross,” he said instead. “Not you.” Before Shane could respond, Ilya put a hand on his shoulder and ushered him gently back into the apartment. He guided Shane back around to face him. He looked even more unwell up close. The light in his eyes was dull, defeated. Dark circles hung beneath them. And his nose…a deep red against his wan skin, his nostrils and septum looking particularly irritated and scrubbed half to death by what Ilya assumed was frequent tissue usage. Ilya brushed his fingers against Shane’s cheek. “How long have you been feeling not well?”

Shane shrugged. “Coach sent me home during practice yesterday,” he said, eyes casting downward, his face turning a deeper red than before. He looked so…ashamed. Like he had done something much more unforgivable than catch a cold (flu?). Something twisted in Ilya’s stomach.

Not long ago in Florida, Shane had held Ilya in his arms and rocked him back and forth as he cried. Ilya wanted to do the same now. He settled for enveloping him in a hug. Shane lowered his head onto Ilya’s shoulder. 

“…Don’t wanna get you sick…” he mumbled.

Ilya kissed the top of his head. “Do not worry about that.” Shane tightened his grip against Ilya’s waist. They broke apart, and Shane muffled a little cough into his arm. “Sit,” Ilya said, gesturing to the couch. Shane complied, looking small and rumpled in his pajamas. “Have you taken any medicine?”

“This morning,” Shane said. His voice was an absolute wreck. “Ilya, please, it’s okay, you can leave...” He started to cough again, deep, congested barks that must have been killing his throat. Ilya sat next to him and put a hand on his heaving back. He started murmuring sweet nothings in Russian as Shane took in a deep gasping breath and turned his back to him. 

“hih…! htschhh! HDTsch’uhh! hyy’ITZCHyew! -TZCHHiew! -coughcoughcough-…”

Oh. Ilya had heard Shane sneeze a few times before, soft little things that he found adorable and sweet, but these were harsher, wetter, a little louder. Not like the ones he tried his best to hold in and hide. “Bud’ zdorov.”

“Thags…” Shane had a hand over his nose, his face scarlet. “Uhb. I’ll be right back.” He scurried away to the bathroom and shut the door. Ilya heard the sound of him blowing his nose, more coughing, and the sink being turned on and off. Ilya took the time to grab a box of tissues from Shane’s bedroom - the air was stale, and the trash bin was overflowing with tissues - and started going through the kitchen cabinets. Shane stood a distance away from him, looking hesitant to move closer. “What’re you doing?”

“Have you had food?”

“Uh…no.” Shane put his arms around himself. He looked like he was freezing. Ilya went to the thermostat and turned up the temperature a few degrees.

“Hollander. You need to eat something warm. Will help your nose and throat.” Ilya went back to scrutinizing the pantry and fridge. “Do you keep any normal food in your apartment?”

Shane quirked an eyebrow. “What’s ‘normal’ food?” 

“Is what I said. What normal people eat.” Ilya squinted at the label on a box. “What is…'qwee-noh?'”

“Quinoa,” Shane corrected. “It’s a seed, I like to eat it with fish—”

“Mhm. I am going to order you takeout. Soup,” he said when Shane opened his mouth to protest. “From Chinese restaurant the other week.”

Ilya thought of that day fondly. It had been shortly after their reconciliation at the All-Star Game, just a few weeks ago. After an especially long session of what Ilya tried not to think of as lovemaking, Shane had been unusually indulgent and ordered them egg flower soup and fried rice from one of his favorite restaurants. They’d eaten on the couch, watching highlights from the game they had played against each other hours before, Ilya trying - and failing - not to stare as Shane sat next to him in only a Metros sweatshirt and boxer shorts. Something Ilya said had made Shane throw back his head in laughter, and before they both knew it Ilya was kissing his neck, and they were right back in bed where they had started the night…

Ilya was broken from the thought when Shane started to gasp again. He turned around to see him duck into his cupped hands, covered by his sweater paws. “hh’tschhhiew! hhih…ihh! hyishh’uu! hadt’choo! hadt’CHIEW!…nghhh…” He grabbed a few tissues and held them to his poor red nose.

“Bud’ zdorov,” Ilya said. He had more important things to do than reminisce right now. Or think about how happy that memory made him. Or give in to the instinct he had to protect this man from his hurting. He’d felt that way towards Shane for a long, long time, actually. Stop it, Rozanov. Ilya took a menu out of one of the infuriatingly neat drawers in Shane’s kitchen and called for delivery.

___

The two ate quietly at the table, a blanket wrapped around Shane’s shoulders. 

“Soup is hot enough?”

“It’s great. Thank you.” Shane looked up from his meal, a warmth shining through his glassy eyes. He smiled shyly, and Ilya felt warmth shoot through him too.

“You are welcome.” Ilya concentrated on adding more wonton strips to his own bowl to resist leaning over the table and kissing him. He knew Shane would freak the fuck out if he did that, and he wanted to keep him comfortable, especially since he was clearly feverish. He placed his hand over the other man’s instead. “You’re so cold,” Ilya said with surprise.  

Shane took his hand away. “Sorry.”

“Hollander. Good Canadian boy. Stop apologizing. Eat more soup.”

Shane nodded without a retort, finishing his soup like Ilya asked. He just wants to please. Ilya ignored the unwelcome(?) thought. Once they were done, Ilya took Shane’s hand - it was much warmer than before, slava bogu - and led him into bed. The navy comforter was soft, familiar. Peaceful. Shane. They lay under the covers and Shane looked up at him from beneath his lashes. Those gorgeous brown doe eyes…they looked heavy with exhaustion, and a little wet.

“Tired?” Ilya ran a hand over his silky dark hair.

“Kinda.” Shane turned away again, nose buried in his elbow, and for a few moments Ilya thought his need to sneeze had gone away. Then he pitched forward. “haah…! ahh’choo! adt’chyew! ah! ah-CHOO!” Had Shane been feeling better, Ilya might have gently teased him for having the most textbook sneeze of all time. A literal “achoo.” How basic. How cute. But when Shane turned around, Ilya saw a tear slip down his face from the force of the sneezes.   

“Bud’ zdorov.” Ilya reached for a tissue and dabbed the tears from Shane’s eyes as he sniffled.

“Mmh, thanks…don’t know why I feel so shitty…” he buried his face into Ilya’s shoulder, wrapping his arms tight around him.

“You have the flu,” Ilya reminded him. “And…” he put a palm to Shane’s clammy forehead. “…da. Still a fever.”

“Everything hurts,” Shane said softly. Judging by the embarrassment on his face, it must have taken serious effort to admit this to Ilya. (To anyone?)

Ilya ran his hands up and down Shane’s arms, his shoulders, his back. Shane hummed with pleasure. “Better…” His eyes closed and, shortly after, he started snoring quietly against Ilya’s shoulder.

Two thoughts ran concurrently through Ilya’s head:

We can’t be anything. 

and,

Loveyouloveyouloveyouloveyou

He needed to leave for practice in a few hours. He also probably should wake Shane up and guide his head towards his pillow so he didn’t hurt his neck. But, for now…this. As Shane slept, Ilya stared up at the ceiling.

Title, which drives me absolutely insane (because it's so accurate and, also, hot), from @softsicknose. Request/another collab of ideas with her <333 Set while Shane is in Montreal and Ilya is in Ottawa. 1.9k words

my throat and ears started to hurt while writing this...I think our boys are getting their revenge on me for all the misery I put them through....

---

Ilya was awoken from a hazy doze by the vibration of his phone next to his ear. He sniffled back his congestion as he looked at the screen.

Shane: Just so you know, my mom’s coming over to yours in a little bit. 

Ilya felt nerves flutter in his stomach as he read his boyfriend’s text. Oh god. Yuna is…coming here? He didn’t quite know how to respond. He loved his future mother-in-law dearly, of course, but the idea of her seeing him like this…germ-ridden, sweaty, voice croaky and hoarse, nose burning and tickly and red…

Thank you so much! Looove this idea. I got a little carried away so this is gonna be a two-parter. Threw some EDM in there for @poetic-illness and myself! Part 2 will have less hockey and more snz, I promise 😘

Quiet (Part 1/2) (H/eated R/ivalry, Ilya)

Part 2

——

They let Hammersmith pick the playlist for warmups tonight, because of course they fucking did. Ilya liked EDM as much as the next guy who needed something loud and visceral to listen to in the gym, but even by his standards, this was way too goddamn much. Especially when he was already dealing with a killer headache. Hammersmith was ancient; shouldn’t he have picked something more age-appropriate, like…smooth jazz?

The Boston arena thrummed with the whirrs and shrieks of dubstep as the fans nearest the glass watched in rapt delight. While the rest of the Raiders skated around their zone, pummeling their poor goalie Bernier with pucks to the net, Ilya hung back because he had been asked (told) to talk with the team’s resident reporter. These were his least favorite kinds of interviews, when the music was blasting so fucking loud that he didn’t think the fans watching at home would be able to hear a goddamn word either of them said.

“ILYA, THIS IS YOUR THIRD GAME THIS SEASON AGAINST ST. LOU—”

Gospodi. Why did they even bother with this shit? Wubwubwubwub, went the speakers, the sound reverberating through Ilya’s skull.

“—DO THAT TONIGHT?”

Shit. He hadn’t been playing attention to anything other than the ever-present throbbing in his head. He ducked his head towards the mic, looked directly into the camera, and said: “We need to play our game and win.” He nodded when the interviewer thanked him and skated to up to Hammersmith at center ice.

“You could not have picked more louder songs if you fucking tried,” Ilya told him, with a bit more vitriol than he meant to express. He skated back to the Raiders bench and heard Hammersmith call out, “The fuck, Rozy?”

Ilya tossed some pucks over the glass for the kiddos. #81 FOREVER, read one of their signs. He blew a kiss to an adorable little girl, who squealed and jumped up and down, her father giving Ilya an appreciative nod. He returned it and skated off to do some stretching, trying his best to ignore the dull ache in his throat.

By the end of the first period, Ilya felt about ready for bed. This was not good, considering the Raiders were already down 3-0 to St. Louis. In the locker room, he let their coach do the yelling as he swallowed against a swelling lymph node. Fuck. They had Montreal tomorrow, and Ilya was not about to lose a game to Shane Fucking Hollander because he had a little sniffle.

By the end of the second, now down 5-0, the fans’ boos echoing down the hallway as the Raiders trudged back to the locker room, Ilya banged his fist against the wall with a growl of frustration. He had taken a stupid tripping penalty that had led to the most recent St. Louis goal, and he’d been clipped on the chin by a high stick right after (no call, of course). He rubbed at his jaw - there would definitely be a bruise there in the morning - and sniffled. He grabbed a towel and held it to his dripping nose while Coach reamed the team for their shitty penalty kill efforts. Could it get any fucking worse tonight?

…It could, actually. 7-2 final. When Bernier was far enough out of his crease, Ilya slammed his stick against the crossbar and felt a short-lived satisfaction when it snapped in half. He glanced at the crowd and saw that even the little girl from before was booing. Well, shit.

Back in the locker room, after another round of monotonous interviews, Ilya changed quietly. He noticed some of his teammates glance nervously over at him, likely confused by his silence. Ilya just couldn’t conjure up the ability to give any kind of speech about his disappointment right now. He was more annoyed with himself than he was with the boys, anyway.

He was in the process of taking off his jersey when a fierce tickle ignited in his nose.

“haaAASHHuhhh! haADTSCHh’ooo! hy’ISHHHhuhh!” He sneezed into his sweater. His nose immediately started to run, and he wiped and pinched it into the inside fabric. When he poked his head out, Marleau was looking at him with concern.

“Jesus. Bless you, Roz.”

Ilya nodded his thanks, then stripped and hit the showers. He let his frustration and, hopefully, his cold symptoms wash down the drain. Big day tomorrow, after all. Ilya had to beat a certain freckled pretty boy’s ass. Oh, and he had a hockey game to win, too.

——

Something was up with Rozanov.

He hadn’t sexted Shane in an attempt to fluster him before the game (which, to Shane’s chagrin, always fucking worked). In the locker room, Shane had debated whether or not to ask him if they were meeting up at Rozanov’s place tonight. He’d given in and texted him, but had received no response.

Shane saw him from afar during warmups. Rozanov looked…off. Normally he was chatting with his teammates or interacting with the crowd in some way. But right now…he was standing completely still, staring down at the ice, looking zonked out. Shane wondered, for a brief moment, if he had fallen asleep standing up. And with his eyes open. On skates. On ice. Could someone even do that? Then Rozanov started to move, and Shane decided that he should probably stretch his hip flexors instead of stare at the Boston captain like a creep. (That stretch might be useful to him later, anyway.)

During the national anthem ceremony, as the crowd listened in silence, Shane heard an odd sound coming from the Raiders zone. He looked up and saw Rozanov with his glove to his face, hunched forward, making some kind of strangled noise that was echoing across the ice.

“-hngkt! -nghhxt! ah’ngkt! hhngkt-shuh!”

Oh. He was sneezing. His shoulders jerked forward with every stifle, and his face was turning red from exertion.

“hd’ngkt! -ngkxt! -hkt’shuhh…”

The sneezes sounded like they were getting harder to control. With a final “AH-ngxt!” just as the anthem singer finished with an unnecessary amount of vocal runs on “and the hoOooOoome of the braAaaAaave,” Rozanov shook his head and a Raider standing next to him gave him a pat on the shoulder. Then it was game time, and Shane cleared his mind of Ilya Rozanov and his little stifled sneezes.

Just a few minutes later, Shane was on a breakaway, skating into the offensive zone by himself. Suddenly Rozanov’s big body was looming in front of him to defend the net, but Shane deked around him and handily scored on a wrister to the goalie’s far side. The crowd groaned as Shane and his teammates celebrated. As he high-fived the other Metros on the bench, he turned his head and saw Rozanov bent over, stick resting on his thighs, still breathing heavily. He looked exhausted. He looked sad.

Shane knew it should have made him feel good to score against his archrival. It usually did. But it didn’t tonight. During a TV time-out, Shane skated up to him. His nose, always pink on the ice, was ruby red, and as Shane said, “Hey,” a bit of wetness trickled out of one nostril. He scrubbed at it with his glove, rubbing his nose in circles with his palm. That can’t be good for him, Shane thought.

“Are you…okay?”

Rozanov sniffed. “Fine, Hollander.”

“You sure?”

Rozanov gave him a hard stare. “Yes.”

“Because you look—”

Before Shane could say another word, the ref blew the whistle and play started again. Shane and Rozanov bent down to take the faceoff, and Shane saw that he wasn’t looking him in the eye like he usually did to try and distract him from the puck.

Shane won the faceoff cleanly.

When the horn went off at the end of the third, final score 5-2 Montreal, Rozanov left the ice without a single look in Shane’s direction.