Shotgun Smiles

i feel like the difference is that ilya is definitely not talking to svetlana about his and shane's sex life because 1) ilya thinks their sex is Sacred to a degree that's embarrassing 2) he's experienced enough that there's not a lot svetlana is going to be able to offer or add 3) that's hisshane and nobody else should be thinking about him.

Hollanov, Shane/Others, Ilya/Others, Scott Hunter/Many, Ryan Price/Many | Explicit | secret gay hockey player network AU, feat. my army of hockey OCs

Chapter preview:

Dylan had begged off of awards for the past few years, preferring to spend time with his family. The dynamic, obviously, had changed. Plus, the awards were in Orlando, and the boys wanted to go to Disney. They would fly in with their nanny Monday.

He stayed for most of the after party, catching up with other vets he'd lost touch with. Hunter and Archer were both in attendance, and they'd made loose plans to meet in Archer's penthouse tomorrow when they weren't so tired. Then Dylan went the fuck to bed.

Loud knocking woke him. The alarm clock on the nightstand read nearly two in the morning. Jesus. The knock came again.

Outside his door, Ilya Rozanov looked harried, dressed for a club, twitchy and maybe drunk. "Sorry," he said. "I didn't know who else — it's Micky."

In Roz's room down the hall, Micky was on the floor. Conscious, thank god, but curled on his side and shivering. The crotch of his pants was soaked.

"Fuck." Dylan hurried to kneel by his head. "What did he take?"

Looking like a kid in trouble with the teacher, Roz rubbed the back of his neck and said, "I thought it was just coke."

With coding and art by the devastatingly talented @mock-speed

Like show canon for this where they've been meeting at Shane's apartment and hotel rooms. Shane knows its because of his wife. But then ilya invites him to his house and fucks him in his marital bed (its not Svetlana has her own room) and then asks him to stay. Shane's like what about Svetlana and ilya is like she's on business trip

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Boston wins their series with Toronto in five, and then they're sitting pretty waiting for the other side of the bracket. The Metros come back from a 2-game deficit to drag it out to seven, but Florida plays physical and the Metros' defense is already spread thin from injury; Shane puts up three points in the elimination game and it's not enough. 4-3 in overtime, and the Metros are out in round one.

"Sorry," Ilya says later, when they call. "It was close."

"Yeah," Shane says. There's not much to say. "Not our year." No more words, just short harsh breaths on the line, and then: "Fuck."

If Ilya were there he would put his teeth to the tender crook of Shane's throat, press Shane down into the bed and take him apart slow. But he's in Boston and Shane's in a nondescript hotel in Miami, so instead he says, "Get in the bathroom."

"What?"

"You need a shave, yes?" Shane's beard is still patchy this early in the playoffs. Ilya's felt it scrape along the inside of his thighs, leave the skin prickling and warm. "Go do it. I will watch."

There's a thick wall of glass, separating Ilya from all of it, muffling everything. Everything feels heavy, and shit, and Ilya is sick of himself.

Restless, he swipes his messages open again, thumb tapping on Jane automatically, even though there's no new notifications. He wishes there was, even though that's stupid. But Hollander is fun to talk to, fun to tease, and Ilya wants—that. Wants to feel lighter again.

He drains the rest of his vodka—not particularly good, конечно—and pushes off the bar, shouldering his way through the crowd of tipsy, sweaty bodies.

The crisp air outside hits him like a welcome slap to the face, bracing, invigorating. There are other people out here, of course, smoking and laughing loud, but it's still quieter than inside the club. Ilya thinks about bumming a cigarette—he hasn't got any on him tonight, trying to be good, like an idiot—but he doesn't want to talk to anyone.

He walks a little further away, instead, and unlocks his phone again. The same week-old messages stare back at him, before he taps Jane again.

His thumb hovers over the little phone icon.

They don't do this. Ilya knows that. Knows Hollander will probably be weird about it, too.

He presses call.

The sound of the dial tone makes his stomach clench. He's holding his breath. Maybe Hollander won't even pick up. Maybe he'll see a missed call later, and—

"Hello?"

Ilya leans back against the building, closing his eyes. Something fills up his throat, briefly, and he has to swallow down.

"Hello?" Hollander says again, sounding tenser, like maybe he thinks this is a prank.

"Hi," Ilya says, and has no idea how to continue. They don't do this.

"What are you—is something wrong? Did something—fuck. Did something leak?"

Ilya knows it's a bit fucked up, but he can't help smiling at the sharpening edge of panic in Hollander's voice. He knows it wouldn't make sense, if he had to say this out loud to any other person on earth, but Hollander's predictability is oddly comforting. Relaxing. Ilya knows how to handle it.

"No, no, sorry," Ilya says, body loosening, warming up. "It was—uh, how you say. Pocket dial."

"Oh," Hollander says, voice looser and warmer, too, in Ilya's ear. It makes his scalp crawl pleasantly. "Okay. Um. Well, I can—let you go. I guess."

"Is okay. You are saving me from boring celebrations." Ilya pushes off the wall, starts walking back towards the hotel. Maybe, just maybe, he can keep Hollander on the phone long enough to jerk off together. "Gets old fast, when you are the best. I know you don't know this, as second best."

Hollander scoffs. "Fuck you."

"Mm. In three weeks, yes?" He thinks he hears Shane's breath catch a little.

"Yeah. Three weeks." There's a pause. Ilya wonders what Shane is doing, if he's in the kitchen, or curled up on his sofa, or in bed. Probably reading a boring hockey book or watching boring hockey tapes. Just the thought of it makes fondness surge up inside him. "You won't have to worry about celebrating then, when we beat your ass."

Ilya laughs, stride lengthening now the hotel is in view. "Shane Hollander, my hero."

"Mm. I'm very selfless, you know."

"Oh I know so. Very generous. Always so good for me."

Now the catch in Shane's breath is obvious. "Fuck. Shut up."

"Mmmm, no." Ilya's getting hard in his jeans. He walks past the reception, to the elevators. The doors ding as they close.

"What are you doing? Where are you?"

Ilya presses the button for his floor, impatient now, buzzing. "Back at hotel. I have whole room to myself." He lets that speak for itself, and grins at the sound of Shane's breath growing heavier in his ear. "And I will be so terribly lonely and bored, Hollander… and my cock is so hard…"

"Jesus fucking Christ."

"Mm, no, just Ilya is fine."

Shane laughs, and Ilya feels alive.

first impressions.

Shane: baby, of course. I would take such good care of you. Get you the nicest dirt I could. & I’d bring you to the rink every day so you could wiggle around on the ice :)

Ilya: okay :D would you still love me if I was bad at hockey?