Work Text:
Всё расхищено, предано, продано,
Чёрной смерти мелькало крыло,
Всё голодной тоскою изглодано,
Отчего же нам стало светло?
Днём дыханьями веет вишнёвыми
Небывалый под городом лес,
Ночью блещет созвездьями новыми
Глубь прозрачных июльских небес, —
И так близко подходит чудесное
К развалившимся грязным домам…
Никому, никому неизвестное,
Но от века желанное нам.
//
Everything’s looted, betrayed and traded,
black death’s wing’s overhead.
Everything’s eaten by hunger, unsated,
so why does a light shine ahead?
By day, a mysterious wood, near the town,
breathes out cherry, a cherry perfume.
By night, on July’s sky, deep, and transparent,
new constellations are thrown.
And something miraculous will come
close to the darkness and ruin,
something no one, no one, has known,
though we’ve longed for it since we were children.
- "Everything," by Anna Akhmatova (translated from the original)
There’s no better way to wake up than with Shane Hollander’s dick between your legs, and Ilya would openly affirm that sentiment under oath and penalty of perjury, or hell - under actual threat to his body and person, if necessary and/or required.
Shane’s different in the mornings.
Not a bad different. Maybe better, even - more pliant and relaxed, his body softened by sleep as much as his features currently seem to be, blurred slightly by the ambient cast of dawning sunlight peeking through the cottage blinds that they’ve compromised in leaving half-open ‘because Shane needs to regulate his arcadian rhythms’ or whatever it is his current health-based hyperfixation of the week demands.
What isn’t so soft?
The cock that Shane is presently rubbing at the apex of Ilya’s thighs, sliding it lazily against the very spot he kissed during their prior evening tryst after he proudly finished sucking Ilya off in a dazzling conclusion to that nightly agenda. So dazzling apparently, that Shane forgot to put his own underwear back on - leading to this current and very welcome development.
Ilya arches against him lightly, fully aware that Shane is still half-asleep and not entirely ‘in the know’ of his body’s little side quest and therefore taking care not to apply too much pressure to Shane’s curious dick until his brain can catch up. After all, in their regular and more - lucid - endeavors Shane is very clear about his preferences - hole, not peg, so it’s not often Ilya finds himself on the receiving end unless they’re satisfying Shane’s very persistent oral fixation.
“Mmmph,” Shane responds, and Ilya twists his neck to watch his eyes flutter open. Shane’s gaze drops down to take in their current, um, situation.
“Oh. Shit. Sorry.” He pulls himself backwards slightly and Ilya immediately misses the contact.
He turns and frowns, gesturing down to Shane’s groin. “Why sorry? Unless you are apologizing to him?”
Shane rolls his eyes, face still slightly glazed over with sleep. “Fuck off.”
“Mm, I don’t think I will,” Ilya replies, vaulting the length of his body playfully on top of him with one swift, fluid movement.
Shane protests out of principle but his retort is weak, especially when Ilya makes the very important point of swiping inside Shane’s mouth with his tongue, gently sliding it across Shane’s own to the sound of a resounding gasp. Shane’s dick stiffens against his stomach, bare and exposed without its usual cotton-based morning armor, and Iliya drops a happy hand downwards to stroke him in greeting.
“Good morning.”
“Jesus,” Shane gasps.
“Ilya,” Ilya corrects, smirking against Shane’s lips.
“Shut up,” Shane says, swatting him lightly on the shoulder.
“You shut up,” Ilya replies, effectively fulfilling his own request by connecting their mouths once more, deepening the kiss because he knows that in the back of Shane’s mind, his boyfriend is thinking about morning breath, and mouthwash, and the very boring and unsexy concept of flossing.
Nope. Not on Ilya’s watch.
He shifts his tongue to Shane’s right earlobe and Shane arches under him, rubbing his dick lightly across the ridge of Ilya’s abs. “Make me shut up, then,” he ekes out. Ilya glances at him in slight surprise at the unexpected pertinence.
Shane licks his lips and his eyes travel downward in a very indicative manner.
“Insatiable,” Ilya replies, pronouncing it carefully. Shane’s eyebrows shoot up at the word and Ilya allows himself a moment of self-serving pride. “It was in my crossword yesterday, so I looked it up,” he explains, simultaneously pushing himself up on his forearms and nudging Shane upright with his knees until he’s sitting up against the still-too-many-to-be-normal amount of pillows that always seem to be encroaching on their personal space in the bed.
“Impressive,” Shane murmurs, though his gaze remains in a trajectory that leads Ilya to believe he may be speaking more on the subject of the bulge in Ilya’s boxer briefs than his recent linguistic accomplishments.
“I am,” he says, taking credit for both. As he should.
“You are,” Shane agrees, and tugs on the elastic waistband of Ilya’s underwear like a needy kitten. Ilya helpfully hooks both thumbs underneath the band and glides the material down his thighs, wriggling suggestively as he pulls the undies backwards past his shins. His cock springs free, and he takes an indulgent second to twirl the cotton unmentionables over his head like a helicopter before tossing them off the bed.
“Dork,” Shane says, his eyes darkening in marked contrast to the offhanded jab. His hands drop to the smile area under the curve of Ilya’s ass and he presses his fingers into the skin in an attempt to draw him closer - the practically patented Shane Hollander heave-haul, which at this point in their relationship could pretty much be called a signature move.
Ilya rises to his knees, bracketing his thighs around Shane’s, but remains at just enough of a distance - because he is, at all times, a brat first and human second.
Hence the need for all of the, well - consistent ‘heaving and hauling’ on Shane’s part - Shane, whose eyebrows are now nudging each other in almost comical frustration. Ilya winks at their grumpy ridges.
“Something here you want?”
“Asshole,” Shane grumbles, fingertips growing more insistent. Ilya can feel the pressure of all ten on both hands, compass points urging him, and by way of physical propensity, his dick - to the one true north of Shane’s slightly open mouth.
“Asshole? Hmm, no, I don’t think it is that,” he says, leaning backwards into Shane’s palms saucily.
Shane loses the ability to form words, growling at him instead, and Ilya tosses his head back in laughter before leaning forwards in acquiescence to let the tip of his dick brush Shane’s lips lightly. The growl drops into more of a purr as Shane chases the offering, wrapping his tongue down its length all the way to the shaft, swallowing Ilya’s incentive to be a menace along the way, because now all he can think of is burying himself in the warmth of Shane’s mouth.
That warmth is only secondary to one other that’s a likely promise for later - a promise Ilya will have to maintain self-restraint in order to keep, given Shane’s present enthusiastic ministrations.
Though as urgent as Shane’s initial nudging may have been, again - it’s morning. And therefore, the performance Shane is currently giving is a markedly sweeter, more tender one than the brazenly urgent fervor underscoring their tumble in the darkness the evening before, like he’s taking his time to savor this most favored activity, basking in it like the sunshine currently warming the room.
Almost as if it’s a manner of worship as opposed to the simple act of sucking his boyfriend off.
The sheer, open level of care Shane’s taking with him catches Ilya off-guard, just slightly, and he covers his mouth to hide the intake of breath that’s more laced with inner emotion than charged with the electricity of arousal.
Shane glances up at him, noticing, and Ilya swallows before gently placing a hand on the nape of his neck to reassure him that no, there is no problem here to discuss.
Because there isn’t - the feeling suffusing Ilya’s chest isn’t one of dread or worry, he’s certain of that. It’s familiar, yes, but he can’t quite pinpoint why and despite his recent vocabulary enriching activities, the English word to describe it eludes him. He pushes deeper into Shane’s mouth in an attempt to shake it off, allowing the wet slide of Shane’s tongue to anchor him back into the present, very pleasant moment.
This quickly proves itself to be an actual problem for later plans, however, and Ilya permits himself only a few seconds of this dangerous decadence before popping off with a tiny sigh. Shane looks up at him with that quizzical expression lining his features again, and Ilya’s heart clenches at the fact that to this very day, every time - just like their first - whenever he doesn’t let Shane finish him off, some small part of Shane presumes it’s because he’s done something wrong.
“Too much, too good,” he responds as he always does to the question in Shane’s eyes, dropping a reassuring caress of the thumb across a particular sprinkle of freckles on his left cheek that Ilya tends to favor. Pink connects the space between them as Shane blushes at the praise.
Ilya tugs him up for a kiss before rotating their bodies so Shane is facing the front, enveloped in Ilya’s arms from behind. His back is warm from being pressed into the bedsheets, and Ilya lets the heat of Shane’s skin melt into his own, the elevated temperature only feeding the flickering flames of that oddly familiar, unnamed feeling in his chest. He transfers the press of his mouth to a spot right below Shane’s earlobe before pushing his groin forwards to platform another point of pressure - Ilya’s cock expressing the mastery of Shane’s handiwork much more effectively than his words could ever hope to convey.
Shane inhales sharply in response, dropping his head backwards to give Ilya more access to the real estate on the side of his neck, the corded, muscled skin there currently sprinkled with goosebumps vis-a-vis the swirl of Ilya’s tongue, which happily traverses the proffered expanse like a giddy explorer mapping new, uncharted territory and claiming it as his own.
“Fuck, Rozanov.”
“Soon,” Ilya promises cheekily, though the tight curl of tension in that spot just behind his bellybutton is a stern warning that should this still be Ilya’s desired final destination, he needs to get his shit together and en route, tout de suite - because otherwise he’s in grave danger of blowing the proverbial engine required for that particular journey.
He cups the side of Shane’s ass with one hand while the other discreetly grapples for the small bottle of lube on the nightstand. Shane yet again clocks the slight adjustment in movement and beats him to the punch, leaning over quickly to capture the bottle in his own fingers, drizzling a small amount over them before passing it back with a smug smile.
“Hollander is fast on his feet this morning,” Ilya jokes, working a finger inside.
“Always beating your ass,” Shane replies, but his voice is strained because his celebration in trouncing Ilya to the bottle of lube appears to be solely centered on using the spoils of his victory to perfect the slide of his fist over his cock.
“Mm. No, wrong again. It is not my ass that is getting a beating,” Ilya says with a nip to Shane’s neck, sliding a second finger inside the aforementioned body part, and enjoying how Shane’s initial yip of indignation relaxes into a softer, more sensuous groan.
The sun’s risen further in the sky since their waking, and it dapples Shane’s shoulder, bathing the freckles there in a wash of pale gold. Ilya follows the ray of light down Shane’s arm to the point of his elbow, drinking in the sight of him. He’s trying to do better with this (because therapy!), taking pauses to appreciate the moments of pure, unadulterated joy. To simply be present in the steady beat of happiness without apprehension that the storm clouds ever percolating in the back of Ilya’s mind will somehow snatch it away without warning.
It’s possible Ilya hasn’t mastered that skill quite yet, because Shane shifts, raising his arm to brush a hand on Ilya’s jaw behind him. “Everything is good,” he says softly in reassurance.
“Thank you, Mr. Obvious,” Ilya says, casually brushing off the cobwebs of residual gloom that he doesn’t quite feel up to unpacking on this beautiful morning, at least not yet.
Shane takes the hint. “Captain Obvious,” he retorts teasingly, drawing out the ‘s’ in a hiss as Ilya adds a third finger to his handiwork.
“How could I forget? Of course, Captain,” Ilya responds in kind, popping the ‘p’ saucily before dropping a kiss on the nape of Shane’s neck, partly in thanks for letting - whatever it is that’s brewing in Ilya’s mind fall by the wayside. Shane’s hand drops from Ilya’s face back to his own dick, stroking in time to the drag of Ilya’s fingers inside him.
“Will you fuck me?” he asks, and Ilya hides his smug grin in Shane’s hair, because this is always his end game - a little mental contest to see if Shane will cave first in asking for what he wants. A close one, this round, because Ilya was practically on the verge of doing the same due to that once-again annoyingly persistent pull of - something in his chest, fanned even higher by how softly Shane asks for it, the way he presses his back into Ilya’s chest, the movements of his body corroborating the veracity of his words.
“Is that what you want?” He purrs into Shane’s ear again, teasing them both now because Ilya’s dick is being very, very, insistent that Shane is not the only one wanting a certain something right fucking now.
“Please, yes,” Shane says without a single note of irritation in his voice, syllables liquid. Pleading. Tender.
“Tell me,” Ilya breathes into his neck, already working the tip of his dick into the crease of his ass.
“Want you,” Shane rasps out. “Want to - feel you.”
“So no -” Ilya tests the waters carefully, because there are times Shane prefers a condom for easier clean up, after the fact.
“Bare, please. All of you. Now.”
Okay. That is - like that phrase Ilya learned the other day - ‘clear as a bell.’
Ilya presses forward to give Shane exactly what he's asking, catching his own breath as he breaches the entryway.
It never gets old - or less astonishing, the initial feeling of Shane. Enveloping, all-encompassing, breath-taking. Ilya searches his crosswords daily for more words to describe it while simultaneously knowing no verbiage could truly do the experience justice.
But there’s a different quality to it today, somehow - because the deeper Ilya sinks in, the more that pull in his chest intensifies, almost like his heart is plummeting to some focal gravitational point, pulling the rest of him down along with it.
He swallows in an attempt to push it away once more, but then Shane squeezes around him with a blissful, melodious sigh and suddenly Ilya realizes why the feeling is so deeply familiar.
It’s the same pull he feels when his plane lands in Russia, the place of his birth.
Well, felt - it’s been some time since Ilya’s return to that complicated destination, those hours instead spent unpacking his feelings on that particular subject and many related wounds in his therapist’s chair more than once.
But regardless of his personal reservations and conflicted emotions, the body itself always seemed to know it innately when Ilya returned to the place where his existence on this planet began, the minute a glimpse of the brownish green expanse of native soil appeared through the mists of the clouds upon imminent landing.
It’s an identical tug of the soul. The same tumbling, plummeting realization that even if Ilya didn’t belong to it, Russia was his origin point.
Home.
Shane interrupts Ilya’s unexpected identity crisis by gritting out an “I’m close.”
And then upends Ilya completely when he whispers, “You first. Want to feel you come.”
Ilya Rozanov is not one to take orders. However in particular circumstances, exceptions can and have been made - and in this specific scenario, his dick very quickly makes the decision for Ilya before his brain can even acknowledge it being a perfectly acceptable option when weighing the risks.
Said risks being the danger of establishing the precedent that Ilya is actually capable of being obedient against the benefit of a very clear implied reward.
That reward making itself immediately known and freely bestowed as Shane follows him over the edge into his own fist, rocking back into Ilya so hard they careen into the pillows behind them, and for once Ilya is grateful for their plentitude.
Shane presses his face into Ilya’s sternum, his breathing as shaky as the pattering of Ilya’s own pulse. The buzz in Ilya's chest doesn’t recede as both of their heart rates slow. Instead, it envelops him completely, surrounding and devouring him all-consumingly just like the feel of Shane’s body did moments before - but not in a scary way.
It’s steady. Safe.
Home.
But that word isn’t quite right, Ilya decides, as he brushes his fingers over Shane’s freckles once more, permitting himself the gift of re-mapping their patterns despite Shane wrinkling his nose at the tickle of his touch.
It’s not so simple as ‘home.’ Not like a house. Not even like a safe resting place - though Shane certainly is one of those, and more.
But this newly discovered emotion Ilya’s seemingly unlocked as it relates to Shane is more intense than can be described by those simple English words. It’s something intrinsic, carnal. Biological, maybe.
Ilya’s origin point.
Rodina, Ilya’s heart supplies, skipping several beats as Shane snuggles closer with a content smile on his face.
Yet again, Shane notices the aberration in Ilya’s physiology, lifting his head and propping it up with his elbow to better assess him. “You’re pensive today,” he notes, then adds, “Thinking a lot,” - taking the care to clarify the definition of the word, just in case.
“Da,” Ilya murmurs, his thoughts still reeling. He smiles at Shane. “Well, what is saying - you are the company you keep?”
Shane hits him with a pillow. “Asshole. I’m making coffee.” Ilya’s gaze follows his bare butt with a small twist of pleasure in his gut as he gets out of bed.
Moya rodina.
A place of birth, or a place of becoming.
“Oh, and good morning!” Shane calls from the hallway, the pad of his bare feet headed towards the kitchen.
“It is,” Ilya murmurs.
He gets out of bed, following the sound of the coffee maker to the sight of Shane’s happy smile, basking in the knowledge that whatever souls are made of - his and Shane’s are of the same stuff, tethered together this beautiful morning - in what may perhaps be the birth of a new, miraculous world.