Work Text:
«So, what do we need to talk about today?»
«Uhm. I don’t know. Do I ever know?»
«You don’t seem to, no. Last week we talked about… What was it?»
«Uh. That I didn’t leave the house for three days.»
«Right. How has that been going?»
«...Not very good. I mean, I— I’ve left for training, and I went with Shane to his parents’ house for dinner, but…»
«I mentioned last week that we might talk about treatment options for you, didn’t I?»
«...Yes.»
«Do you have any thoughts about it? Treatment?»
«Is this not treatment?»
«Talk therapy is a treatment, yes, but there are options that can work in tandem. Multiple treatments can be more effective.»
«What… What did you have in mind?»
«Well, I know you’re hesitant about medication—»
«I am, yes—»
«— but I think it might be the most beneficial treatment for you, Ilya.»
«...»
«I know it’s scary. But if you decide to go ahead with it, we’ll start slow. The smallest dose to start and see how you react to it—»
«React to it?»
«There are potential side effects, of course. But we’ll keep an eye on them, on you.»
«I’m not… I’m not saying no, I just— I don’t know.»
«You can think about it, Ilya, of course.»
«...What kind of side effects would I have?»
«They wouldn’t be too severe if we start slow, and gradual, and they’re different for different people, but usually they can include normal illness symptoms— fever, chills, upset stomachs. Sometimes they can include mood swings, sexual dysfunction—»
«Sexual dysfunction?»
«...Sometimes it’s a lower level of libido. For some people, that can be erectile dysfunction, for others it can be difficulty achieving orgasm. »
«...»
«...I know this is difficult for you, Ilya. Your body is important to you, and the function of your body is important to you, and—»
«Not just to me.»
«...Ilya. Would your boyfriend rather you have sex like you usually do, or would he rather you not be suicidal?»
«...»
«He loves you, does he not?»
«Yes. He does. I know he does.»
«If you can’t do things for yourself yet, it’s okay to do them for other people.»
«...Okay.»
⋆
Ilya hasn’t moved in a while.
Shane’s been watching him, of course he has, and he hasn’t moved at all. He’s just… sitting there.
He’s at the dining table, staring at the pill bottle in front of him, arms crossed on the surface of the table, eyebrows furrowed like he’s deep in thought. He is, probably. Shane kind of wishes he could hear what he’s thinking.
He lingers for another moment, just looking, watching, waiting. Ilya is wearing a hoodie, something big and soft and probably smelling faintly of those Russian cigarettes Sveta keeps bringing him. His hair is a mess— it’s overgrown, falling over his ears and the back of his neck. Shane loves it.
He reaches for it as he approaches him, pushes his fingers into Ilya’s curls as gently as he can so he doesn’t startle him.
“Hey,” he says softly. “You in there?”
Ilya barely reacts. He hums softly, exhaling.
“Not really.”
Shane pulls a chair over and sits next to him.
“You wanna tell me what you’re thinking?”
“Not really,” Ilya says again, his eyes finally shifting to look at Shane, shining with some slight amusement that makes Shane smile, tugging at Ilya’s hair a little. “Just…”
Shane moves to pick up the pill bottle, looking at it. Ilya is quiet again, watching as Shane reads the label.
Ilya Rozanov. 30 milligrams. Duloxetine. Take one pill orally daily.
Shane sets the bottle down and looks at Ilya again. He’s biting down on his lower lip, and he’s looking intently at the table, his eyes fluttering.
“Ilya,” Shane whispers.
“I’m scared.”
His voice breaks, tiny and weak in his throat, and Shane’s stomach aches. He wants to reach for him, to touch him somehow— his arm, or his leg, or his face— but he doesn’t. Ilya is tense, his shoulders drawn to his shoulders like he’s cold.
“What are you scared of?” he asks softly.
Ilya is quiet again, eyes finding the bottle and lingering like he’s looking at the pills through the white plastic.
“...Accidents,” he whispers. Shane nods even though Ilya isn’t looking at him, even though he can’t see. There’s another pause, and then Ilya exhales so sharply it startles Shane, dropping his head and covering his face with his hands. He groans quietly, his voice muffled in his palms.
Shane watches, his fingers twisting around each other.
“...Can I touch you?” he asks finally.
Ilya nods into his hands. Shane doesn’t hesitate, reaching out to touch his back, running his hand over Ilya’s shoulders gently, firmly, moving a little closer. Ilya mutters something in Russian into his hands, his voice too hushed and muffled for Shane to understand any part of it.
“Talk to me,” he says softly. “Please.”
Ilya lowers his hands. His eyes are closed, but he leans back into Shane’s hand like he’s asking for more. Shane rubs harder before he slides his hand up to the back of Ilya’s neck, squeezing firmly like Ilya does to him.
“...I have only known myself like this,” he says finally, whispering. He won’t look at Shane. “Sad, and— and sick.”
“Ilya.”
“What if I do not like myself?” Ilya asks suddenly. It rips Shane apart, but—
“Ilya, do you like yourself now?”
Ilya lets out a pitiful laugh, a teary one, and he finally looks at Shane, who raises his eyebrows, glancing between Ilya’s glistening eyes.
“No,” Ilya says softly, sad smile lingering. “I do not.”
“Then what do you have to lose?”
Ilya exhales.
“What if I get worse?”
Shane thinks about that sometimes. Coming home to find Ilya still in bed. He thinks about the dull shine of his eyes when he’s in a bad way, and he thinks about accidents.
“Then we’ll figure it out,” Shane says softly, firmly, squeezing Ilya’s neck and shaking him by it for a moment. “Right?”
Ilya closes his eyes. He looks like he’s falling asleep.
“You’re not doing this alone,” Shane whispers, leaning closer. Ilya lets him, falling toward Shane almost absently. “You know that, right?”
Ilya opens his eyes.
He looks at Shane like he’s desperate, his eyes gleaming with tears that threaten to spill over, flickering across Shane’s face like he’s trying to communicate telepathically. He sniffles, inhaling shakily, and his voice is whispered and cracking when he speaks again.
“What if I hurt you?”
Shane is already shaking his head.
“You can’t hurt me—”
“Shane,” Ilya interrupts, turning toward him a little. “I am mean sometimes.”
Shane’s throat tightens, and his hand slips over Ilya’s neck, stopping on the side of it so his fingertips are touching Ilya’s pulse.
“You know this,” Ilya says, his voice and accent thick. “Sveta knows this. And these—” He gestures to the bottle like it’s offensive. “— have many side effects, yes? One of them is— is irritability, and another is mood swings, and another is fatigue, and another is— I— I can’t sleep—”
Shane grabs his face, pulling him so he’s forced to meet Shane’s eyes.
“Baby.”
Ilya stops, sniffling. His lip quivers. Shane’s eyes sting.
“Then you will talk to me,” he says firmly, his voice as steady as he can manage. “Won’t you? Because we’re both adults, and we can deal with that, right? Ilya— Ilya, look at me. I know you. And I know you love me, and if you say something fucked up, or if you— if you do something fucked up, I’ll know you don’t mean it, and I’ll just fucking tell you that I’m upset, or I’m hurt, or fucking whatever, and you’ll apologize, and we’ll deal with it, baby, we—”
His voice breaks, and he chokes on it, brushing his thumbs over Ilya’s cheeks. He tugs him into a soft kiss, lingering for a moment as he exhales shakily. Ilya lets him, sniffling, his hands reaching to hold Shane’s wrists like he’s holding him in place, like he’s desperate for him to stay.
“Ilya,” Shane murmurs when they part. Ilya nods. “It’s scary.”
“It is scary,” Ilya agrees, lips brushing Shane’s.
“But you don’t have to be scared of…” He pauses, brushing his nose back and forth against Ilya’s. “You don’t have to be scared of losing me, okay? I’m not going anywhere. If these meds help, we’ll keep them, and if they don’t we’ll try something different.”
Ilya nods absently, lifting his head a little, and he looks at the bottle sitting on the table. Shane gazes at him, at his wet eyelashes and flushed cheeks, at the way his throat bobs when he swallows.
“I am scared,” Ilya says again, still looking at the bottle, his voice wavering. “I am— I am scared I will have an accident.”
“Ilya—”
“I do not trust myself.”
Shane’s chest splits open. It’s a continental divide.
He exhales slowly, falling forward to press his forehead to Ilya’s shoulder, and Ilya lets him, letting go of his wrists and letting his hands fall to Shane’s legs.
They stay for a while, and Shane lets his eyes close, tucking his face into Ilya’s neck to breathe him in. He was right about the cigarettes— it’s faint, but it’s there, like it usually is, and as much as Shane hates that Ilya smokes (as infrequently as it may be these days), he can’t deny that he’s grown to like the smell of it. It smells like Ilya, and like Sveta, and like all the clothes that Shane likes to steal from Ilya to wear when he’s away.
He takes it in, the distinct woody earthy smoky sweetness of whatever tobacco is in those damn things, and Ilya’s aftershave, and Ilya. His skin, his sweat. Shane would breathe in his fucking blood if he could.
He sits up slowly, leaving a soft kiss under Ilya’s ear.
Ilya sighs as Shane brushes their noses together again, leaning into the touch. Shane hums softly. Ilya’s eyelashes brush against Shane’s skin.
“Do you trust me?” Shane whispers.
“Yes.”
Shane kisses him softly and then he sits up, watching the distance between them grow achingly until it’s a normal amount of space. He lets go of Ilya. Turns. Picks up the pill bottle.
He hears Ilya’s breath catch, and he glances up as he opens the bottle. Push down and turn.
“Breathe,” he says softly. Ilya nods too quickly, blinking his eyes. “Ilya, baby.”
“Breathe,” Ilya repeats, nodding again. He inhales slowly. Holds it for four seconds. Exhales through pursed lips. His hands are tapping his legs. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Right.
Shane tips the bottle and carefully lets one pill fall into his palm. It’s a capsule, almost cartoon-looking. Half white and half dark blue, a tiny 30mg printed on the white in a weird orange, barely legible without Shane’s glasses.
He closes the bottle and sets it aside. Ilya nods again, breathing deeply, tapping and tapping and tapping. Shane stands and gets a glass of water.
When he sits again, Ilya’s hands are tapping more slowly. Shane scoots his chair forward until their legs are interlocked, and Ilya leans in like he doesn’t even notice himself doing it, eyes meeting Shane’s and looking.
“Hi,” Shane whispers. “Hi,” Ilya breathes.
“Okay?”
Ilya’s eyes flicker to the pill in Shane’s hand. To the water.
He nods, taking a breath.
“You trust me,” Shane whispers, leaning toward him. “Right?”
“Yes,” Ilya says, nodding, and then his eyes are gleaming again, glistening helplessly, and his breath catches in a little hiccup.
“Ily—”
“I trust you,” Ilya chokes, nodding. “I trust you, Shane, I would— I would put my heart in your hands.”
“God, Ilya.”
He sets the water down and leans in to kiss him, reaching to hold his face, cradling his cheek in one palm and a pill in the other. Ilya sniffles, his lips soft on Shane’s, kissing back gently and tiredly. Shane rubs his nose against Ilya’s as they part, pulling away to look at his eyes, to watch him.
He brings his hand up to his mouth and places the pill between his teeth, holding it gently. Ilya’s eyes look at it intently, watching as Shane leans in, and Shane can practically see the moment something shifts in Ilya, the moment he deflates and allows it to happen. His mouth opens, and his eyes drift almost-shut, and he takes the pill from Shane, allowing Shane’s tongue to push it into his mouth, allowing Shane to pull away and get the water glass, lifting it to Ilya’s lips.
“There you go,” Shane whispers, nodding as Ilya’s head tips back just slightly, his chin tilting for Shane’s fingers that press under it so gently. “Good boy.”
Ilya swallows. Shane sees his throat move with it, practically sees the pill itself, glowing through the tissue of Ilya’s throat and skin.
“There you go, baby,” he breathes, tilting the glass so Ilya can take another sip of the water, sliding his fingers from Ilya’s chin to his neck, brushing his knuckles over the curve of his throat as it bobs.
Ilya makes a soft sound. His eyes close, and he falls toward Shane just slightly, like he’s drifting off.
“Okay?” Shane whispers. Ilya exhales softly before he nods. “Yeah?”
“I am… I am doing this for you.”
It makes Shane’s stomach twist, and he says Ilya’s name softly, protesting, but Ilya doesn’t let him.
“I— I can’t do it for me,” he says, reaching for Shane’s hands. Shane lets him, turns his hands over so their fingers lock. “I can’t. Maybe eventually I will, but I— I need to do it for you right now.”
“Okay,” Shane whispers, nodding, squeezing his hands, pretending his chest isn’t caving in on itself. “Okay.”
He kisses Ilya softly, lingering, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. Ilya groans quietly, breathily, and Shane nods, touching his neck again. Ilya melts into it, his head falling back like he’s baring his throat, like he’s submitting.
“Thank you,” Shane murmurs into his mouth as his fingers find their way around Ilya’s throat. “Thank you for doing this for me.”
Ilya nods wordlessly, lips parted, his head tilting as he leans closer to Shane. Shane’s chest aches, and he gives him another kiss, smiling a little at his desperation.
Only Ilya makes him feel like this.
Being in control is hard for Shane— even if it doesn’t seem to be. He does what he needs to, regarding hockey and otherwise, sometimes even if he doesn’t want to.
But with Ilya.
It’s always easy, whether it’s this— holding Ilya possessively and watching his eyes glaze over— or the opposite. It’s all so fucking easy, and Ilya is what makes it easy.
“You’re so good to me,” Shane whispers, pushing Ilya back gently. He goes easily, pliant, falling back into his chair and looking up at Shane like he’s awestruck as Shane climbs into his lap. “My sweet boy.”
Ilya nods, eyes fluttering.
“Yeah?”
“Yes,” Ilya breathes. His hands slide over Shane’s waist, gripping him tightly. “I want to be good for you.”
“You are,” Shane murmurs, nodding, holding Ilya’s face. “You let me take care of you, and you take care of yourself.”
Ilya lifts his chin, reaching up to kiss Shane, but Shane leans back, watching as Ilya pouts, his eyebrows furrowing.
“God, you’re so fucking cute,” Shane says, running a thumb over Ilya’s cheek.
Ilya turns his face into Shane’s palm, eyes fluttering shut, lips pursing to press a light kiss to Shane’s skin. He shifts, pulling Shane down against himself more firmly.
He’s getting hard. Shane smiles, caressing his face.
“Talk to me,” he whispers.
Ilya groans softly.
“I want to fuck you,” he says, almost whining, “before my dick stops working.”
Shane scoffs, leaning to rub his nose against Ilya’s.
“You know that’s a possible side effect, right? We don’t know that’s gonna happen.”
“Mm. If I expect it I will not be disappointed.”
Shane kisses him.
“If it does,” he murmurs, “we’ll figure something out. And—“
“A broken dick is better than a broken brain.”
Shane scoffs again, shaking his head, caressing Ilya’s throat.
“Your brain’s not broken,” he says softly.
Ilya doesn’t say anything, instead leaning forward and kissing Shane’s throat gently, lingering and breathing against his skin before his lips part.
Shane sighs, his head falling back, his fingers pushing into Ilya’s curls.
“I want to be inside you,” Ilya mumbles. He kisses Shane’s collarbone before he mouths at the muscle that becomes pronounced when Shane turns his head. “Please, Shane.”
His tongue flickers against Shane's skin.
Shane nods.
“Yes,” he breathes, face twisting into a grimace as Ilya’s teeth dig into his skin like this is what he meant by inside. “Fuck, of course, Ilya—“
Ilya stands abruptly, hands gripping Shane's thighs tightly. It startles Shane, who yelps, arms wrapping around Ilya’s neck.
Ilya exhales sharply, turning to lay Shane on the table.
“Fuck, Ilya—“ Shane starts, already moving to sit up, to laugh and say that they are not going to have sex in the dining room, but Ilya is already dropping to his knees, hands fumbling with Shane’s belt, and Shane’s mind turns to static. “Fuck.”
Ilya hums, eyes trained intently on Shane’s dick, and Shane swears again, reaching down to help him pull his pants down.
“Fuck, you’re so…”
Ilya trails off, his hands running up and down Shane’s legs, only disappearing for a brief moment to allow the fabric of his pants to get out of the way. His hands are warm, sliding over Shane’s thighs like he can’t get enough.
He pushes Shane’s shirt up. Shane lets him, lifting his arms up so he can pull it off and toss it aside.
“Ilya, shit—”
Ilya ignores him, kissing him clumsily, messily, desperately, and Shane reaches for him, arms wrapping around his neck and hugging him. Ilya moans into his mouth, and Shane thinks his voice tastes like the sky.
Ilya’s hands feel restless, like he can’t decide where to put them. They slide over Shane’s bare back, fingertips digging into his spine like Ilya is trying to dig it out of his spine, over his sides and his hips, over his chest, groping him lewdly. Shane is panting, nodding, shifting as close as he can until he’s perched on the very edge of the table, his fingers tangled tightly in Ilya’s curls.
He’s forced to let go when Ilya moves down, leaning to mouth over Shane’s neck and collarbones and chest, over his nipples and his ribs, over the soft rolls of his stomach.
“Fuck, Ilya—”
Ilya just hums, breathing hard against Shane’s skin, teeth catching. He tugs Shane’s underwear out of the way, and he takes Shane’s dick into his mouth smoothly, like it’s natural, like it isn’t something fucking insane.
“Oh—”
Shane falls forward, fingers clutching at Ilya’s hair. His mouth is so warm, and wet, and he’s sucking so sweetly it makes Shane’s whole body ache. He’s quivering like he’s cold, his eyes squeezed.
“Fuck, Ilya, that…”
Ilya hums softly, like he’s falling asleep, like he’s found peace here between Shane’s legs, and Shane feels the rumble of his voice in his fucking bones— it makes him shiver violently, groaning, hand squeezing in Ilya’s hair too tightly. But he can’t make his fingers unclench.
“Fuck, like that,” Shane moaning, sighing, his head falling back. “Mm, yeah, fuck—”
Ilya’s hand slides up his chest, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of Shane’s pec as his head lifts with a filthy, wet sound. Shane reaches up to hold Ilya’s hand to himself. He wants to keep it here forever.
Ilya doesn’t say anything, almost silent as he turns his head to press messy, spit and pre-come slick kisses to Shane’s dick and the insides of his thighs. Shane groans, leaning back a little to let him, allowing him to push his legs farther apart, allowing him to fall to his knees and drag Shane roughly closer to the edge of the table.
“Baby—”
Ilya lets out a sound that sounds like a whine, and he sits up a little, maneuvering Shane so his thighs are resting over Ilya’s shoulders. Shane falls back onto the table, and he’s suddenly grateful that there’s nothing but the pill bottle and glass, that they’re far away enough that they aren’t a problem.
Ilya groans, hands finding Shane’s hips and gripping so tightly they might bruise in the shape of his fingers. Shane would let it happen.
His back arches, his legs locking around Ilya’s neck as Ilya mouths at his balls, sucking them wetly, groaning against his skin. Shane shifts, tilting his hips for him.
“Fuck, Ilya, you’re so…”
Ilya just hums, lowering again, shifting Shane’s hips for him.
His mouth finds Shane’s hole, and Shane gasps, writhing on the table. He lets out a delirious laugh, because they’re in the dining room and this is fucking filthy, and debauched, and he loves it. It’s fucking bizarre, really, how much he loves it. Not just how it feels— Ilya truly can do magical things with his tongue— but all of it.
Being stupid with his lover, letting him take what he wants regardless of what they should or shouldn’t do, regardless of where they are. Ilya is moaning, his voice muffled by Shane’s ass, and Shane bites his lip, stifling his own noises to listen to Ilya’s, to theirs. Wet and slick and lewd, sliding and slurping and spitting.
Shane groans, reaching for Ilya’s hair, gripping it tightly as Ilya bobs his head, fucking his tongue into him. He’s fucking blissful, even though the table is hard and cold on his back, even though it’s an awkward position that is kind of straining his hips, even though Ilya is half crouching, half kneeling, and his legs will probably be sore after this. Fuck it all.
Shane hums softly, lifting his head to look, but all he can see is the very top of Ilya’s curls, so he lets his head drop again, hitting the table with a thud. He reaches for his own chest, grabbing at his flesh the way Ilya does, fingertips digging into his skin, catching on his nipples and pulling.
“Fuck, you’re— you’re so good for me, Ilya,” he whines at the ceiling. “You’re so perfect, oh, my fucking— god—”
Ilya makes a soft sound, something whimpered and pitiful, and it sounds beautiful.
“Yeah,” Shane gasps, nodding like Ilya can see him. “So fucking good, baby, fuck—”
He’s panting, his back arching at the small of it, moaning like he’s being fucked, really fucked, and he sounds pathetic, really. Debauched. Whorish.
“Fuck, Ilya, I’m gonna come.”
“Mm.”
“Fuck. Fuck, fuckfuck—”
Ilya’s hand finds Shane’s cock, stroking it quickly, slick with his precome, and Shane comes, wailing. Ilya groans, tongue sliding, lips sucking. It takes a long moment, and Shane is trembling, every muscle in his body quivering. His eyes sting.
Ilya eases up, hand slowing to a stop as Shane gasps for breath, and he lifts his head, letting Shane’s legs down slowly.
Shane lets out another laugh, covering his face when he sees Ilya’s. He’s smiling almost smugly, his cheeks red, his hair tousled, and he’s lifting his hand to his mouth, sliding his tongue over his fingers, sucking Shane’s come from them like it’s frosting.
Shane lets his head fall to the table again. His legs fall apart, around Ilya’s hips, his feet dangling.
“Thought you said you wanted to be inside me,” he says into his hands.
“Oh,” Ilya says smoothly, his skin sliding over Shane’s thighs as he leans over him, a hand sliding up his chest. “I did not say I was done with you.”
Shane’s hands are knocked aside gently, and Ilya is kissing him before he can say anything. Shane hums, shivering, reaching to wrap his arms around Ilya’s neck.
He can taste himself on Ilya’s tongue.
Ilya stands up straight, pulling Shane with him. Their heads tilt, tongues sliding, spit dripping.
“Fuck,” Ilya breathes when they part, lips brushing. “Mm.”
“You’re so gross.”
“You like it.”
“In the dining room, Ilya, Jesus.”
“You like it,” Ilya says pointedly, firmly, before he kisses Shane again. “At least if my dick breaks I can still use my tongue to fuck you, yes?”
Shane scoffs, tilting his head to let Ilya into his neck.
“You know I still want you to feel good too, right?” he asks softly, burying his hands in Ilya’s hair.
“I do,” Ilya mumbles, teeth rubbing Shane’s skin. “This makes me feel good.”
“I still want you to come,” Shane says.
Ilya lingers for another moment, sucking a soft kiss into Shane’s neck before he lifts his head and presses his forehead to Shane’s quietly. Shane’s hands fall to the sides of his neck, cradling him.
“What is that stupid English saying?” Ilya whispers. “About bridges?”
Shane blinks, lifting his chin so their noses nudge.
“...Cross that bridge when you get to it?” he says after thinking for a moment, a smile teasing his mouth.
“That,” Ilya murmurs. “We will cross bridge later.”
Shane smiles, letting their noses rub together.
⋆
It’s not that his dick breaks.
Really, for the most part, it works perfectly fine, just like it always has. The problem is that he can’t come.
He gets close, so fucking close, gets right up on the precipise, and then… nothing. It’s infuriating and frustrating and, honestly, it’s kind of funny. Maybe it’s the irony that gets Ilya— he jokes to Shane that it’s okay, that he’s already had enough orgasms to last a lifetime. Shane retorts that he wasn’t there for a good lot of them, and he— Shane— deserves to be there for twice as many.
Shane still tries. It’s kind of him.
Ilya lets him try— he would never complain about this, about a beautiful man between his legs— and even if it leads to a plateau instead of a cliff, it’s still nice.
He still likes it.
It feels good, even if it doesn’t end the way he wants it to, the way it used to.
He still tries to. He does everything he’s supposed to. He touches himself where he’s supposed to, how he’s supposed to, and he lets Shane pull at his hair and his nipples, lets him hold his throat and whisper in his mouth.
⋆
Shane takes everything Ilya gives him, and he gives everything Ilya will take.
“Fuck, oh my god—“
Ilya grunts. His head is hanging, his curls swinging in the air between them, and Shane reaches up to grab at him, one hand pushing his hair back and gripping it tightly— probably too tightly, really, but Ilya’s never minded that— and the other wrapping around his throat.
Ilya’s eyes are squeezed shut, and his eyebrows are pinched, and his lips are pursed, and he’s trying so fucking hard it makes Shane’s chest ache. He whines, tugging at Ilya’s hair to force his head up, and Ilya moves somehow faster. Shane groans, writhing, nodding even though Ilya isn’t looking at him.
It’s loud. They’re loud.
Skin slapping, rhythmic and wet from sweat and spit and Shane’s come sliding between them. Moans and whines and grunts of one another’s names. The bed is even creaking under them.
Ilya lets out a strained whine, the crease between his eyebrows deepening, and Shane nods, squeezing his throat a little, his fingers tightening absently.
”Come on,” he whispers. “Come on, come on, come on—“
Ilya moans, his lips parting, his muscles tightening, and Shane takes it, and he takes it, and he takes it, until it’s too much. He squirms, shivering, overstimulated from it all, and he pushes Ilya away as gently as he can, a hand landing on his shoulder. It’s slick with sweat.
“Fuck, okay,” Shane says weakly, pushing. “Stop, stop—”
Ilya stops. He pulls out right away, just like he always does when Shane needs him to, and he rolls off of him, falling onto his back with a rough exhale. Cold air rushes over Shane’s skin, and he shivers again, his arms falling helplessly to his sides. He can feel it in his whole body. He aches, but it’s not all bad. He doesn’t really think any pain Ilya inflicts could ever feel all bad— which, maybe, isn’t the healthiest thing in the worst, but if he’s honest, he doesn’t really fucking care. He’s not normal about Ilya Rozanov, about this.
“Fuck,” he exhales, catching his breath.
“Sorry,” Ilya says quietly, but there’s an underlying amusement in it, like he’s holding back a quiet laugh, and Shane swings his hand over to slap him aimlessly. It lands on his chest, and it seems to knock the laugh out of him. It makes Shane smile.
“Don’t apologize,” he says. “We’ve talked about this.”
Ilya just nods, taking a slow breath, and Shane takes a moment to look at him in the dim light of the bedside lamps. He’s glistening, quivering a little bit like the almost is right there, is still teasing him, just out of reach. His cock is still hard, still taunting Shane, still fucking irresistable.
“Baby,” he whispers.
“Mm.”
“Can I touch you?”
“You don’t have to.”
“You think getting to touch my boyfriend’s dick is a burden on me or something?” Shane says, rolling onto his side and propping himself up on his elbow to look down at Ilya. Ilya smiles lazily at him, eyes almost closed, and Shane touches him.
It’s wet with precome and lube, and Shane watches as it shines, and the shine spreads to his fingers.
“Does it still feel good?” he asks, tightening his hand, moving it slowly, watching Ilya’s face carefully. The pinch between his eyebrows is back, and he nods, exhaling sharply.
“Yes,” he says softly. “It feels good.”
“Yeah?”
“Mm.”
Ilya’s head falls back, and his eyes close, and his hips shift a little into Shane’s hand.
“God, you’re so fucking pretty.”
“Shut up,” Ilya mutters.
“Fuckin’ beautiful.”
“You’re annoying.”
Shane laughs, leaning down to press a kiss to Ilya’s chest, chaste and soft.
“Kiss me,” Ilya whispers. Shane lifts his head and looks at him, and he’s already looking back, eyes glassy like he’s high, lips shining with spit. “Please.”
“You don’t need to beg,” Shane breathes, already pushing himself up to reach, shifting onto his forearm and burying his hand in Ilya’s hair. His curls are damp.
Ilya moans, open-mouthed, letting Shane in easily, letting their tongues slide, letting their noses press into one another’s cheeks. It’s almost gross, clumsy and messy and wet, and Ilya shifts, fucking up into Shane’s hand. Shane nods, bumping their noses, letting their lips slide.
“Yeah?” he whispers when they part to breathe. Ilya exhales sharply, one of his hands finding Shane’s arm and holding it tightly.
“‘S not gonna work,” he mutters. Shane looks at him, at the frustrated crease between his eyebrows.
“You want me to stop?”
Ilya doesn’t answer for a moment, his lips parted as he breathes heavily, his muscles tight, before he does, nodding with a muttered, “Yeah.”
Shane stops. Slides his hand off Ilya’s cock and watches him tremble, watches the lack of stimulation wash over him before Shane touches his stomach, smoothing his palm over Ilya’s abdomen.
“Fuck,” Ilya breathes.
Shane gazes at him, watching his lips curve into a precious frown, a sweet little pout, but he doesn’t realize he’s smiling until Ilya’s eyes are cracking open and finding him. His eyebrows furrow, and his pout deepens.
“What?” he says almost snarkily, closing his eyes and facing the ceiling again.
“You’re so fucking cute.”
“Shut up.”
“I could eat you.”
“You are very odd.”
“You li-i-ike me…”
Ilya’s eyes open and he looks at Shane with a gaze so soft Shane kind of feels suffocated. They’re quiet, looking at each other in the silence that’s only filled by the fan across the room, until Ilya speaks again, his voice whispered and barely-there.
“I am so in love with you.”
Shane looks at him, eyes fluttering, and Ilya waits. He does this sometimes when Ilya gets tender with him— it seems to catch him off-guard, like Ilya is making his confession all over again.
Shane exhales.
“I’m so in love with you too,” he says softly.
Ilya smiles, his eyes squinting up at Shane preciously.
“Gimme kiss.”
Shane grins, leaning down to kiss him tenderly, slowly, carefully, relaxing against him and letting him fuck with his hair the way he likes to— it always feels intentional, the way his fingers push into the strands and pull and twist and run back and forth across his scalp.
Shane allows it. He’ll fix it when they take a shower, whenever they can finally pull away from one another.
⋆
Ilya sees his therapist on Mondays and Thursdays. They’re virtual meetings, and Shane does his best to give him privacy even though he can’t understand a word either of them are saying on the occasional times he forgets and hears them from the hallway. His therapist has a nice voice, smooth and gentle and soothing even though Shane can’t understand her. Ilya’s voice, Shane finds as he’s lingering, hovering against his own will, is different when he’s speaking Russian. Lower, calmer, faster because he doesn’t have to think his words through the way he does when he speaks English, and Shane wishes once again that he spoke Russian, that he could listen to Ilya speak his mother tongue and give him that ease.
He leaves after a few moments, creeping back down the hall to go to the gym.
Ilya is always tired after appointments, almost lethargic, and they don’t really talk about it, about what Ilya does in therapy, but Shane has a very vague idea of what they discuss. Ilya’s mother, his childhood, his father and brother. His brain. The way he thinks. Shane’s research on cognitive behavioural therapy led him down a rabbit hole a few weeks ago when his curiosity got the best of him.
They’re trying to change the way Ilya thinks. Which, Shane thinks, is a terrible way of phrasing that, like they’re brainwashing him and manipulating him into someone else’s mindset. They’re trying to ease it, the weight that comes with every thought Ilya has, the self-depracation and harsh expectations. They’re softening him, Shane thinks. Smoothing his edges.
Ilya doesn’t say much when Shane asks, “How’d it go?”
Fine, he says. Was fine.
Sometimes it’s more. I didn’t know therapists were allowed to be funny, one day, which makes Shane laugh. I am very tired, another day. Sometimes it’s just a light grunt, a wordless noise that says everything it needs to as Ilya climbs on top of Shane and sighs. Sometimes he falls asleep— sometimes it’s just a few minutes, and sometimes it’s until the sun goes down. Shane lets him, playing with his hair while he reads or rubbing his back as he watches gameplays.
He doesn’t know when it is exactly that Shane realizes that Ilya and his therapist talk about sex. He doesn’t even know what informs him of this— some off-hand comment that Ilya makes after an appointment, maybe, something so subtle that Shane didn’t even process it while his brain took it in.
But they do. They talk about sex.
Which is weird to Shane at first— part of him wonders briefly how professional these conversations are, where the lines of professionality lie when something like sex is being discussed, but Shane trusts Ilya.
Ilya trusts his therapist. He knows her. He actually understands what she’s saying.
And Shane can’t really complain when he can see Ilya getting better.
It’s not a linear journey, Ilya tells him after the first appointment with his therapist, repeating the words she’d said to him just an hour or so beforehand. It will not be smooth, and it will not be easy, and it will not be simple, but he will do it anyway. He wants to do it anyway. Shane nods as he listens, squeezing Ilya’s fingers, and then, when he finishes speaking, and Shane has kissed him tenderly, Ilya falls asleep. And Shane gazes at him.
It’s not a linear journey. He has good days, and he has bad days, and he has days somewhere in between, because nothing is black and white. Life is a mess of greys. Ilya cries some days, and he laughs during others, and sometimes he does both simultaneously. Shane is always pleased when he manages to make that happen.
They have sex. That hasn’t changed. Much.
And maybe it’s Shane’s research on therapy and the like, and maybe it’s Ilya’s actual therapy that’s impacting Shane without his direct involvement, but he realizes some things about Ilya and their sex. He likes it, of course he does, and it’s fun, but Shane finds that it’s something Ilya relies on. It’s consistent, and it’s mindless, and when they’re tangled in their bed or on the sofa (or in the kitchen, or the shower, or the laundry room once) nothing else exists. They’ve talked about silly fantasies of fucking on center ice, in front of cameras and crowds, of posting a non-existant sex tape online, but usually, most of the time, it’s just them. Nobody else, nothing else, no fans or coaches or teams. Just their bodies and their pleasure, and Shane thinks maybe that helps Ilya. Forgetting about everything else in the world while he fucks Shane, while they moan each other’s name. (Their first names.)
So he brings it up one day.
“Does sex help you?”
Ilya looks at him, his face blank.
“What?”
“Does…” Shane’s cheeks flush with warmth, and he shifts, closing his book that he hasn’t really been reading. He folds the page over when he can’t find his bookmark, and then he spots it in Ilya’s hand, spinning between his fingers. Shane doesn’t mind. “Does sex make you feel better?”
“Yes, of course it does.”
“I mean, like…” Shane pauses again. Ilya presses his foot more firmly into Shane’s. “Does it help your mental health?”
Ilya hesitates, lowering his phone, and he’s thinking. Shane can see it.
“I should talk to you about this, shouldn’t I?” he says after a few moments, lips quirking into a smile.
“You don’t have to,” Shane says softly.
“I should,” Ilya says, shaking his head. “You are my… partner. You should know.”
Shane exhales. He sets his book aside, watching as Ilya does the same with his phone. He’s still spinning the bookmark absently.
“Uhm.”
“‘S okay,” Shane says, nudging his foot against Ilya’s. Ilya does it back.
“I have talked to Galina about this,” Ilya says slowly. “About my… relationship with sex.”
“Okay.”
“I, uhm. I started young. Maybe too young.”
He laughs a little, but it’s something humourless, and Shane can’t even smile. He just nods.
“I started masturbating young,” Ilya says. “But it was… it was not really sexual. It just felt nice. Galina says this is normal,” he adds, and Shane nods again. “But I, uhm…”
His mouth twists, and he pauses, taking a breath. He flicks the corner of the bookmark under his nail.
“I can control my body,” he says finally. “When I could not control anything else. I could control my body. So I started having sex, and I got a tattoo, and I…”
Shane moves his foot so their ankles lock.
“I started smoking because I knew Mama hates the smell of cigarettes,” Ilya says softly. “And because I could. I started using drugs because I could.”
They haven’t talked much about that, the drugs. Shane’s always known Ilya has more of a party background than him— everyone does. Shane doesn’t mind being boring. And Ilya, in spite of it all, seems to like his boring.
“I have told Galina that, uhm…” He pauses, a smile threatening his face. It looks mischievous. “Not everything about our sex. But.”
Shane rolls his eyes, smiling.
“That I tend to be… in control.”
Shane’s smile softens. He nods.
“And that I have been… giving you more control,” Ilya adds tentatively. “Lately. And that I like it. A lot.”
“Mhmm.”
“She says this is good,” Ilya says with a nod that’s almost resolute. “That I trust you, and that I can… I can feel comfortable submitting to you. That it does not scare me.”
Shane nods again, his cheeks flushing, and Ilya sees it. He smiles.
“When we fuck, it does not feel like I am coping with something,” Ilya says. “It is… It is just sex.”
It should sting. Just. But Shane smiles, nodding, because it is. It’s sex. It’s amazing, and beautiful, and it’s one of the best fucking things in Shane’s entire life, but it’s also just sex. Physical, and hungry, and normal.
Ilya’s eyes are smiling. His foot brushes over Shane’s ankle lightly, caressing it, and Shane waits for him. Ilya’s eyes lower to the bookmark he’s still fidgeting with, his fingers just starting to fold it before he realises what he’s doing and sets it aside with a soft breath. Truth be told, Shane wouldn’t mind if he wanted to fold it and crease it and bend it, if he frayed it into dust. It’s just a bookmark, something cheap from a cup at the register of a bookstore.
Ilya’s face falls. His fingers tangle and twist together, squeezing, too far away for Shane to take them.
“What are you thinking?” Shane asks.
Ilya looks at him. He blinks, his eyes fluttering a little, and he takes another breath, slow and steady.
“I should… I should tell you something.”
“Okay,” Shane says, shifting, settling, resisting the urge to cross his arms. “What is it?”
Ilya is quiet again, hesitating.
“I told you a while ago,” he says slowly, carefully, “that I hooked up with— with my brother’s fiancé.”
Shane nods.
“I did not tell you that, uhm…” Ilya says after taking a slow breath, eyes downcast like he’s ashamed. It makes Shane’s stomach hurt. “It was twice.”
“Okay,” Shane says softly.
“I initiated the first time. Not the second time. And then I slept with her friend. Once. She… She initiated it, the friend.”
“Okay,” Shane says again, ignoring the nausea.
“And, uhm.”
Ilya swallows, glancing across the room like he’s looking for an escape, and Shane can see it. The lack of control. Whatever it is that he needs, slipping from his hands.
“I was sixteen,” Ilya says. “She was twenty-three.”
Shane is quiet, looking at him.
“And the friend?” he whispers. Ilya meets his eyes. They’re glassy.
“Twenty-seven.”
Shane’s eyes sting, and he nods silently, looking at Ilya. He’s twenty-six now. Ten years ago, he was a kid. Ten years ago Shane was dreaming of the life he’s living now, dreaming of being at this point in his career, and they would come to fruition, but back then, they were childish. Ten years ago he was doing homework in his parents’ living room. Ten years ago, he and Ilya were softer, baby-faced and youthful. Kids.
“I— I wanted it,” Ilya says, his voice breaking like he doesn’t even believe it himself. “I wanted to sleep with them—“
“It doesn’t matter if you wanted it,” Shane interrupts, his voice low. “They took advantage of you.”
“She did not know,” Ilya says, defending them. Shane’s stomach turns. “She thought I was older the first time— I— I looked older—“
“No, you didn’t,” Shane says softly. “I’ve known you since we were seventeen, Ilya, we looked like teenagers. She had to know.”
Ilya stops, looking at Shane, his eyes wide like he hadn’t thought about that, and Shane wonders if he’s thinking about it too, about them. If he’s picturing Shane at the rookie awards, before that, closer to the time Ilya was raped. That’s what it is, isn’t it? That’s what that’s called, when a grown woman comes onto a teenage boy?
They were kids.
“Ilya.”
“I am okay,” Ilya says a little sharply. “I’m fine.”
“You know it’s okay if you’re not,” Shane says softly. Ilya looks at him. His chest is moving, up and down and up and down with every breath that feels too steady to be natural. “Baby.”
“I tried to say no to her friend,” Ilya says quietly. Shane’s stomach hurts. He moves forward, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I did not like her perfume.”
God.
His voice sounds so small.
He sounds so small.
“But she was hot,” Ilya says with a light shrug. “She said her friend told her I was good and she wanted to see for herself. It was… It was nice, I think. I felt special.”
Shane’s eyes sting, and he hesitates, swallowing, before he opens his mouth.
“Baby,” he whispers.
“Last year a teenage girl tried to flirt with me,” Ilya says, like he can’t even hear him. It’s abrupt, his voice steady. Shane blinks. “It was stupid. I just— I thanked her for the compliments, and I said I would take a photo with her, and I—“
He stops, shrugging, looking up at Shane, and Shane can’t quite read his expression.
“Why they couldn’t just do that?” Ilya says, his voice breaking, his language slipping like it always does when he’s like this. Distressed. “Just think I was cute or something? Why she couldn’t just ignore me?”
“Baby,” Shane says again, meeting Ilya’s eye and nodding slowly when Ilya takes a deep breath. “You’re okay.”
Ilya exhales shakily, rolling his eyes before he closes them, and he looks more annoyed than anything else, Shane thinks.
“Okay?” he asks. Ilya exhales heavily with a quiet hum, and then he shifts, retracting his leg from Shane’s so he can lean over his lap, toward Shane. Shane follows, falling forward and letting their foreheads press. “I got you.”
“I am not— I do not feel traumatized,” Ilya says, correcting himself in a way that must have been hammered into him by his therapist. Shane nods, closing his eyes, breathing in Ilya’s words. “I am angry.”
“They took advantage of you,” Shane whispers. “You should be angry.”
Ilya nods.
They’re quiet, breathing one another’s breath, eyelashes fluttering and catching when they look at each other. Shane swallows his nausea, and he can’t help but touch him, reaching out to hold his face, to cradle him. Ilya lets him, sighing.
“I do not think about it a lot,” he says after a while, nudging their noses together. “I did not think anything about it until I mentioned it to Galina. She has informed me that it is not normal.”
It makes Shane scoff, and he can feel Ilya’s cheeks lift in a smile against his hands.
“No,” he says. “It’s not normal.”
“It does not matter most days,” Ilya says quietly, his smile softening and then fading. “I think it is like… like my father. The things he did.”
Shane nods. His jaw clenches.
He hates to think about this. Of course he does. The thought of it, of Ilya— smaller than he is now, young and vulnerable— being smacked around by that man. The thought of Ilya sitting and taking it, listening to the cruel words his own father would use to describe him like he wasn’t even there, like he was a crooked coatrack instead of a boy. The words that would ingrain themselves into Ilya’s brain, into his vocabulary, the words he would use to describe himself like it was common knowledge, like it was as true as the sky being blue or sugar being sweet. Lazy. Selfish. Et cetera. Et cetera. Et cetera.
Shane swallows his anger. His eyes burn.
“It was shitty thing that happened to me,” Ilya continues. “That was done to me. It happened. It is over. I am okay.”
Shane sniffles, nodding absently.
“Shanya,” Ilya whispers. “I am okay.”
“I know,” Shane whispers. “I just… I’m angry.”
“I know.”
“You should have been protected,” Shane says shakily, his nodding turning to shaking. “Your brother should have done something, Ilya, he just— he just blamed you—”
“Andrei is an asshole,” Ilya says softly. “He does not care about me.”
“Somebody should have.”
Ilya exhales slowly. He nods, and then he reaches for Shane’s face, caressing it gently, thumb brushing over Shane’s freckles.
“Somebody does,” he murmurs. “Now.”
Shane gazes at him, and he savours his presence. He’s close enough to smell, close enough to touch and hold and feel, and Shane does all of it. He draws him in quietly, wrapping his arms around Ilya’s neck and hugging him. Ilya shifts closer, adjusting them so their legs can wrap around one another, and Shane sighs, resting his face on Ilya’s shoulder as he thinks.
He hates being angry, but he can’t help it.
Somebody should have cared. Somebody should have done something about all of it, about any of it. And Shane wishes, inexplicably, that he could have done something, somehow wishes even more that he could just take it away from Ilya. He can see it hurting him, even as he denies it, even as he doesn’t even seem to notice it himself.
He’s angry at those women, the horrible women that took advantage of Ilya— young Ilya, desperate for approval and affection— and he’s angry at Andrei. Shane doesn’t know what he could have done, but he should have done something other than blame Ilya, other than get angry at Ilya, other than be the way he is now.
He’s angry at Grigori, fucking of course he is. The man’s lucky he’s already dead, and Shane knows it was a drawn-out death, something long and painful and confusing, but a part of him that hides away, deep down in the depths of his desires, wishes it had been worse for him.
And he’s angry at Irina. He would never say it out loud, even though he suspects Ilya might be as well— why else would he take up smoking just because she had hated cigarettes?
Shane’s eyes burn. He tucks his face into Ilya’s neck, breathing him in. Ilya’s hand runs up his spine and stops at the base of his neck, squeezing. It feels odd, Ilya comforting him, but he accepts it, sniffling. Ilya’s hand tightens.
“I’m okay,” Ilya whispers.
“I know.”
“And I will be okay.”
“I know.”
“And I love you,” Ilya says, his voice soft. “And I love our sex.”
“I know,” Shane says, nodding as he lifts his head. He’s crying. That doesn’t happen very often, and he doesn’t know what to do with it.
Tears fall silently down his cheeks. It doesn’t hurt.
Ilya gazes at him, tilting his head like he’s fond, like Shane is something precious. He caresses him, fingertips gentle and tender as he wipes Shane’s tears away. brushes his fingers over Shane’s cheeks so lightly Shane barely feels it, wiping away his tears like he’s fragile. He smiles, and it’s fucking contagious.
“What?” Shane says quietly, suppressing a smile, trying to duck his head. Ilya doesn’t let him, holding his chin.
“My sweet boy,” he says softly, almost whispering. “You have such a big heart.”
Shane’s lip quivers. His chest aches. He reaches to hold Ilya’s forearms, nodding, sniffling.
“I hate to think about it,” he says brokenly, his voice weak. “You hurting. I fucking hate it, Ilya.”
“I know, baby,” Ilya whispers, letting their foreheads press. “I don’t hurt anymore.”
“Ilya.”
“I don’t,” Ilya repeats, brushing their noses against each other. “You make everything stop hurting.”
Shane chokes a sob back, squeezing his eyes shut, because he believes him, he does, but he wishes he could do more. Ilya deserves more. He deserves everything.
Ilya lets Shane climb on top of him, his arms open and accepting when Shane feels the need to tuck himself under the fabric of his shirt, as close as they can possibly be. He lets Shane cry, brushing his fingers through his hair and rubbing his neck and shoulders and back, and he rocks them back and forth the same way he always does when they need it. The first time he’d cried in front of Shane in Florida, the day he was told by his brother that he would not be allowed to contact his niece, the day Shane’s Obaachan died. Back and forth and back and forth and back and forth, slow and steady and careful. Sweet. Tender.
When he lifts his head, emerging from under Ilya’s shirt, Ilya gazes at him, reaching to cradle his face and brush his tears away, smoothing his hair down. He’s smiling fondly, and it widens when Shane makes a face, wrinkling his nose.
“You are so fucking cute,” Ilya says like it’s annoying. “My cute little bunny.”
“I’m not a bunny,” Shane says flatly. “I have normal sized ears.”
“Very cute ears,” Ilya says, touching one, rubbing the shell of it gently the way he does sometimes when he’s fidgeting absently. “Pretty little ears for my pretty little bunny.”
Shane rolls his eyes.
“You’re insufferable.”
“You’re adorable.”
He pinches Shane’s cheeks. Shane rolls his eyes again.
“Your eyes will get stuck like that some day,” Ilya says, pinching his cheeks again like he barely even notices himself doing it. “It is okay, I will still love you.”
“Oh, thank god.”
“Yes, you are very lucky.”
Shane suppresses a smile, his nose wrinkling again. It makes Ilya beam, makes his eyes light up, makes him laugh as Shane’s cheeks flush with warmth. Ilya giggles, drawing him into a clumsy kiss that doesn’t really work because they’re both smiling.
Shane tucks his hands under Ilya’s shirt and rubs at his waist, squeezing the soft rolls of his stomach. Ilya nips at his lower lip, lingering before he pulls away and looks at him again.
“...And I am very lucky.”
Shane’s cheeks heat further. He ducks his head. Ilya grabs at his jaw and pulls his head back up to look at him intently, seriously.
“I am very lucky,” he says again, his voice wavering for a brief moment. “You are…”
He stops, mouth twisting as he thinks for a moment, and Shane waits for him, brushing his thumbs over Ilya’s skin until Ilya sighs, eyes flickering over Shane’s face.
“...I am not very religious,” he says finally, voice soft, fingers caressing the sides of Shane’s neck so lightly it tickles a little. Shane savours it. “At all. But I think, sometimes, that if something could convince me of— of divinity, it would be you.”
Shane blinks.
His eyes burn, and he stares at Ilya, eyes flickering back and forth between Ilya’s. They’re glassy, but he’s not crying, steady and unwavering and perfect for Ilya to hold onto.
His hands tighten on Ilya’s waist absently, fingertips digging into his flesh, and his lip quivers even as he tries to stop it.
“You are a blessing,” Ilya whispers, hands gentle even as Shane’s tighten.
“Stop,” Shane breathes.
Ilya just smiles, leaning in so their noses nudge together.
“My favourite blessing,” he murmurs, lips brushing Shane’s.
Shane squeezes his eyes shut, kissing him softly and letting him pull him back into an embrace, and he wonders if anybody else has ever felt the way he feels right now. If this is normal, or if there must be something wrong with him for him to be so attached to another person. He can feel it in his whole body, in every fucking cell that makes him up, and he wonders— not for the first time— if soulmates are real. If he and Ilya are somehow cosmically bound. It feels like the only explanation for why he feels this so deeply, for why he feels like he might suffocate on it.
Loving Ilya Rozanov is at the very core of his entire being.
⋆
“So I have an idea.”
“Uh-oh.”
Shane suppresses a grin, kicking at Ilya’s leg under the counter they’re sitting at. Ilya kicks back, glancing up from his phone.
“Tell me your idea.”
“It’s about sex.”
Ilya drops his phone with a loud clatter, turning to face Shane properly, setting an elbow on the counter to prop his chin in his hand in a cartoonish demonstration of undivided attention. Shane giggles, kicking him again, watching as his eyebrows raise questioning.
“Go ahead.”
“I was thinking,” Shane starts slowly, reaching a leg out to hook it on Ilya’s. “About how you can’t come.”
“Uh-huh. You have solution?”
“Not really a solution, just…”
Shane hesitates, looking intently at Ilya, who looks intently back, lifting an eyebrow after a moment.
“I cannot read minds, Hollander.”
Shane scoffs, looking away, up at the ceiling and then across the room, suppressing a smile. His face flushes with heat, and Ilya’s knee presses to his.
“Okay, just— just hear me out.”
“Hearing you out.”
“What if we, like, had sex,” Shane says slowly, looking at Ilya’s knee on his own. “But without, like… trying to come?”
Ilya blinks. His expression shifts into confusion, his eyebrows furrowing adorably.
“That is… what sex is for, yes?”
“I mean—” Shane exhales sharply, pressing his knee more firmly against Ilya’s. “Yeah, I guess, but— but it doesn’t have to be, does it?”
He shifts closer, reaching for Ilya’s hand and pulling it toward himself, tangling their fingers and squeezing tightly.
“What if I just…” He trails off, looking down at Ilya’s hand and opening it, tracing the lines of his palm lightly enough that he knows it tickles. “Touched you just to make you feel good? Without any big end goal or anything?”
“You do make me feel good,” Ilya says, his voice soft. “Always.”
“I know,” Shane says. “I just… I want you to actually enjoy sex.”
“You think I do not enjoy what we do?” Ilya says, almost interrupting, his expression hardening as he pulls at Shane’s hand, suddenly serious. “Shane.”
“No, I— I know you do,” Shane says quickly, nodding, squeezing his hand. “I just—”
He exhales slowly, rubbing his thumbs over Ilya’s palm firmly as he thinks. Ilya waits for him like he always does.
“We don’t have anything to do tomorrow,” Shane says finally, looking up at him through his eyelashes. “Or today. I wanna take my time with you.”
Ilya blinks, his eyes flickering across Shane’s face.
“I was thinking,” Shane says slowly, “that we could just hide away in our room for a while, and I could play with you.”
He hears Ilya exhale slowly, heavily.
“We can take it slow,” he adds, looking up at Ilya. “I want…”
He trails off, coming to silent stop as Ilya meets his eyes, and he kind of regrets bringing this up at all, because his face flushes with heat, and he’s fucking embarassed. Of course he is.
“What do you want?” Ilya whispers, leaning in, brushing his nose against Shane’s. “Hm?”
“Ilya…” Shane breathes. His hands are shaking suddenly, even as they tighten on Ilya’s hand, and he thinks it’s kind of insane how Ilya still— always— makes him feel like this, like he’s a blushing virgin, even when he’s taking initiative.
Ilya hums softly, rubbing his nose against Shane’s, kissing him so sweetly it feels filthy. Shane’s shoulders fall, and he slumps toward Ilya, who catches him like he always does, his hands gentle and assertive and perfect on Shane’s neck. Shane could die happy in them. He sighs.
“Tell me,” Ilya whispers, his lips brushing Shane’s.
“Wanna worship you,” Shane breathes, his eyes still closed. “Like you deserve. Want you to feel good without thinking about it.”
“Fuck,” Ilya exhales. Shane’s eyes flutter open, and he looks at Ilya imploringly. He’s already nodding. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
Shane’s lips quirk into a smile, and he looks back and forth between Ilya’s eyes.
“Okay?” he says again. Ilya grins, bumping their noses together.
“Yes,” he says. “Okay.”
Shane beams, his shoulders rising to his ears, and he leans in close enough that their faces are mashed together. Ilya laughs lightly, kind of giggling, and Shane has to kiss him about it, so he does. He grabs Ilya’s face, squishing his cheeks. Ilya’s laughter tastes nice in his mouth.
“Will you get ready for me?” he whispers against Ilya’s lips, pushing a hand into his curls and squeezing his fist the way Ilya always seems to love so much. Ilya’s breath catches, and he leans into it, his neck arching. Shane’s smile grows and he licks shamelessly at Ilya’s lips.
“Yes,” Ilya says, nodding as much as he can against the tension of Shane’s hand in his hair. “And you can do whatever you want.”
“Anything?” Shane murmurs, teeth catching Ilya’s lip. “‘Cause I have some ideas.”
“Dangerous,” Ilya whispers.
Shane giggles, pulling him into another clumsy kiss, tugging sharply at his hair. Ilya groans softly, his hands holding Shane’s face like he’s cradling him, palms flat to his cheeks, fingers pressing firmly. His tongue slides over Shane’s lips, and Shane lets him in easily, humming as he sucks on it. He gets distracted here, in Ilya’s lovely mouth, trapped between his hands, until they separate to breathe.
He gasps, blinking his eyes open, and he pushes Ilya away gently.
“Go take a shower,” he says breathlessly. Ilya’s head falls back lazily. He’s smiling, and it’s beautiful, but Shane swats at him anyway, covering his face and shoving him playfully. “Get out of here.”
Ilya gets up. He walks with a bounce in his step, almost skipping, and Shane grins.
“Be thorough,” he calls after him. Ilya turns to walk backwards for a few steps, saluting Shane before he turns back around to hop up the steps to their bedroom.
He tidies up while he waits, wandering around the kitchen and living room, putting away the dishes, squaring away the throw blankets Ilya loves to make into nests on the sofa. He goes to the bedroom and listens to the water in the shower falling to the tile floor, listens to the distant, muffled sound of Ilya humming a song that Shane doesn’t know. He makes the bed even though they’re going to ruin it, smoothing out the blankets and sorting the pillows out closer to the headboard than he usually puts them. They’ll need the space tonight.
He tugs his shirt off and folds it neatly. He puts it on the dresser and sits on the edge of the bed, waiting patiently until the water turns off. He kicks his feet, letting them bump against the bed until the door opens and Ilya emerges like some supervillain, skin sparkling with water, surrounded by steam. He’s got his towel tied low around his hips, and Shane feels himself combust as he admires him.
“Hi,” Ilya says lightly, like he wasn’t expecting Shane to be right there.
“Hi,” Shane says. It’s absent, his eyes still scanning Ilya’s skin. There’s a fading hickey on his chest. He should work on that. “C’mere.”
He comes here.
Shane looks up at him, his eyes wide, and Ilya looks down at him, his head tilted like he’s curious, like he’s analyzing Shane, studying him. Shane loves it when he looks at him like this— he feels so small, but in a good way. Not like he’s in danger, not like he’s insignificant, not like he’s fragile, but like he’s protected. He’s safe here, small under Ilya’s gaze.
Ilya touches his face. He brushes his thumb over Shane’s freckles, and then over his lower lip, and Shane reaches for him, his hands sliding over his waist, up his chest to grope at his pecs.
Ilya kisses him softly, their noses pressing, and Shane savours it, humming.
“You are supposed to do what you want with me,” Ilya whispers when they part, lips wet and brushing Shane’s.
“Mm.”
Shane lingers for a moment to savour it some more, and then he pulls his head away, tilting and ducking it to press his face into Ilya’s neck. He takes a long breath, inhaling the scent of his soap, savouring the feeling of the water droplets chilling his skin.
“I am,” he murmurs a little later than he meant to, distracted by the feeling of Ilya’s skin on his tongue. He slides his hands over Ilya’s chest, lingering at his pecs to grope and squeeze before he moves on, across his waist and stomach. He follows with his mouth, pressing absent, sloppy kisses to Ilya’s stomach. He untucks the end of the towel and Ilya lets it fall.
Shane hums softly, ducking his head so he can bury his face in the hair around Ilya’s soft cock. It’s still damp from his shower, and it smells like the soap Ilya’s used for the past few years. Some kind of spring rain or something.
Ilya’s hand buries in Shane’s hair. He looks up to find Ilya looking back at him, his eyes half-shut and glassy, his lips parted like he’s still in awe of how much Shane wants him, like he hasn’t gotten used to it.
Shane takes him in his mouth gently, watching as Ilya’s head falls back, exposing the line of his throat. Shane loves his throat. Which is a bizarre and nonsensical thing to think at any time, but at a time like this— Ilya’s dick filling his mouth, Ilya’s chest taking up most of Shane’s vision— it feels perfectly rational.
He’s so beautiful it kind of feels like it’s killing Shane. It always feels like that.
He hums quietly, lingering in place, letting his head fall forward until his nose is pressing to Ilya’s lower stomach, until he’s full of him. Ilya groans softly, his hand burying itself in Shane’s hair, and they stay here. Shane closes his eyes, listening to the sound of Ilya’s heavy breathing as his cock hardens steadily. Shane has to pull back after a few moments, his throat tightening, choking a little bit. He lets his tongue stroke at the underside of it, opening his eyes to look up at Ilya, and he finds him already looking back, his eyes soft and glassy like he’s drunk. He’s smiling.
“You are so good at that,” Ilya whispers. Shane hums, pulling away to take a gasping breath, and he spits, rubbing the wetness into Ilya’s skin. He can hear it, the slick slide of his saliva on Ilya’s dick, lewd and obscene, and he kind of really loves it. He thinks he’s always been into that— the gross sounds that come from sex, the sounds that make him shiver. “Fuck, Shane.”
Shane hums again, watching his spit shine before he leans back in, tongue outstretched. He lets him in easily, taking a slow breath to suppress a gag. Ilya moans, fingers tightening in Shane’s hair, tugging at it as he moves Shane’s head back and forth gently.
“Good boy,” Ilya breathes, fingers digging into the nape of Shane’s neck, scratching through his hair as he holds his head down. Shane takes it, shoulders jerking as he gags weakly, coughing around Ilya’s cock. “Fuck, good boy.”
He lets go of him, and Shane gasps, coughing again, swallowing the spit that doesn’t escape down his chin. He’s staring, gazing at Ilya’s cock as a bead of precome appears, and he leans forward like he’s in a fucking trance, licking it up.
“I would not have thought this the first time we slept together,” Ilya says softly, cradling Shane’s head, brushing his fingers over Shane’s cheek gently.
“Thought what?” Shane asks quietly, stroking Ilya’s dick loosely.
“That you would be such a whore for it.”
Shane smiles, finally tearing his eyes away and looking up at him. He hums, letting Ilya pull at his hair so his head tilts, exposing his cheek, and he nods, opening his mouth. Ilya doesn’t feed his cock to him, instead rubbing himself on Shane’s face lewdly, almost mean with it. Shane grins, moaning, his eyes fluttering shut.
“Fuck, you love it,” Ilya murmurs, fingers tightening in Shane’s hair like he’s worried he’ll try to get away, like Shane would want to get away from this at all. Shane nods, letting out a breathy Uh-huh as Ilya slaps his dick against his face.
“Yeah,” he breathes, turning his head to let it land on his tongue. Ilya hums like he’s satisfied, fingers loosening in his hair to scratch at his scalp. “‘M a whore for you.”
“Just me, huh?”
Shane nods, closing his lips around Ilya’s cock and suckling, sighing blissfully. Ilya is caressing him, thumb brushing over Shane’s freckles— Shane knows he’s touching his freckles. Ilya is obsessed with them.
He takes his time, flickering tongue over the slit of Ilya’s cock, sliding a hand over his shaft and the other slipping the other between his legs. Ilya lets him, widening his stance, his head falling back again as he holds Shane’s hair. Shane loves this. Everything about it.
He pulls away for just long enough to spit on his fingertips, and he reaches up as he takes Ilya back into his mouth, sliding his fingers over Ilya’s nipple. Ilya inhales sharply, his expression shifting into something pained, wincing a little.
“Fuck, Shane.”
Shane takes him deeper. He hums.
It makes Ilya jerk, makes him startle and clench his fingers in Shane’s hair, and Shane laughs, lifting his head.
He stands, reaching to wrap his arms around Ilya’s neck, drawing him into a clumsy, wet kiss. Ilya groans into his mouth, hugging his waist tightly. He whines after a moment. Shane grins.
“We’re taking it slow today,” he whispers, running his fingertips over Ilya’s neck. “Right? Just want you to feel good.”
Ilya nods, exhaling shakily.
“Feel good,” he mumbles. Shane smiles, pulling away to gaze at him, turning them slowly until Ilya’s back is to the bed.
“Lay down for me,” he whispers softly. “Please.”
Ilya smiles, his head falling back lazily, and he moves to the bed, dazed eyes on Shane as he lays down. Shane watches, hand absently rising to his own chest, fingers absently squeezing at the flesh that Ilya always seems to love so much. Ilya watches, eyes widening like he’s starving.
“C’mere,” Ilya says, almost whining, reaching up and grabbing at the air between them. Shane giggles, climbing over the bed until he’s on top of him, straddling him. “Fuck, you are so pretty.”
Shane hums, dragging his fingers through Ilya’s curls, his eyes fluttering shut as Ilya’s arms wrap around his waist. It feels so fucking good, Ilya’s bare skin sliding across his, in such a plain, mundane way. In the same way a cool breeze feels on a hot day, or a quiet shower feels after a long game. Shane melts against him, burying his face in his hair as he kisses Shane’s neck softly.
“Do you know this?” Ilya murmurs, lips brushing Shane’s skin.
“Hm?”
“That you are so pretty,” Ilya says, lifting his head, looking at Shane like he’s sleepy. Shane brushes his curls back. “Is very important that you know this.”
“I’ve heard it a few times.”
“From who?” Ilya says. A laugh bursts out of Shane’s chest. “I will fight them.”
“Do you want me to know that I’m pretty or not?”
Ilya exhales, pouting adorably, and Shane wonders how he’s ever supposed to win an argument with this man. He giggles again, tugging at Ilya’s curls as Ilya’s gaze falls, scanning Shane’s neck, collarbones, chest. He exhales slowly, a hand sliding up, across Shane’s skin until he’s cupping one of his pecs, groping him almost tenderly.
“Nobody should ever see you like this,” he says, tilting his head and leaning in, brushing a barely-there kiss against Shane’s neck. “Except me.”
“Nobody does see me like this except you,” Shane says absently, tilting his head to give him space.
“Good.”
Shane’s eyes close, and his chest tightens suddenly, his eyes stinging. He blinks them at the ceiling, tugging at Ilya’s curls to guide him down his neck, over Shane’s collarbones until he reaches the spot Shane loves so much, just under the slight jut of the bone, soft and sensitive.
“Nobody sees me at all,” he says softly. “Except you.”
Ilya is quiet, sucking at Shane’s skin before he lifts his head with a wet sound, and he reaches up, drawing Shane in by the back of his neck until their mouths are touching.
“Good,” he says again.
Shane shivers, nodding, his stomach doing a somersault. He loves it when Ilya says shit like that, when he makes Shane feel kept. Like nobody else is entitled to anything about Shane, like Shane belongs to him.
Ilya kisses him slowly, then pulls away to mouth at his cheek and jaw, and Shane grins, shoulders tensing as he suppresses another shiver, as he ignores the way Ilya’s tongue tickles the underside of his chin. Ilya moves lower, ducking his head, and Shane moans, finally pushing him back. It catches him off-guard judging by the way his eyes widen, by the sound he makes.
Shane giggles again, holding him down with a hand firm against his chest, just over his heart, and Ilya grabs at him, whining pitifully.
“Let me suck on your tits.”
Shane laughs, his hand sliding up to Ilya’s neck, and Ilya is grinning, his hands holding Shane’s forearm gently.
“Ask me nicely,” Shane says, only half-joking. Ilya’s eyes flutter shut for a brief moment.
“Please,” he says softly, weakly. “Can I have your tits in my mouth, please?”
“Jesus,” Shane breathes, his stomach turning. His hips shift absently, mindlessly, and he’s helpless to it, to move forward so he’s straddling Ilya’s waist instead of his hips, leaning down. Ilya’s eyes follow his movement, lips parting like he’s awestruck. “You’re so sweet.”
Ilya doesn’t say anything, distracted.
“Open your mouth,” Shane whispers.
He does. Shane smiles, falling forward and propping himself up on his forearms above Ilya’s head. He looks down, balancing on one arm to hold his pec in his other hand, squeezing and guiding it to Ilya’s mouth. Ilya’s eyes flutter shut, his lips closing around his nipple.
“Fuck,” Shane breathes, his head falling forward. “‘S so warm.”
Ilya hums, his expression softening, sliding a hand between them to knock Shane’s hand aside, taking over. Shane laughs softly, falling to balance on both arms, burying his face in Ilya’s hair. He moans, his voice muffled.
It’s slow, and quiet, and Shane kind of wants to stay here forever, listening to the occasional soft moan from Ilya’s throat, the wet sound of his tongue sliding every time his mouth opens. He’s muttering absently, his voice lost in the maze of Ilya’s curls.
“Fuck, that feels so good,” he says quietly. “Love your fucking mouth.”
Ilya groans, sucking harshly, pulling away enough to catch the very end of Shane’s nipple between his teeth gently.
“Shit,” Shane hisses. “God, Ilya.”
“Mm.”
“Fuck, let me…”
He slides off of Ilya’s body, falls to his side, and Ilya whines petulantly, his eyebrows furrowing. Shane grins, pulling him close again.
“‘S okay,” he says softly, squirming up so Ilya is eye-level with his chest. “C’mere, baby.”
Ilya comes here. He sighs, sliding his tongue over Shane’s nipple before he takes it in his mouth with a quiet hum. Shane smiles, reaching to draw a pillow closer, resting on it and gazing at Ilya.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers. Ilya whines, wrapping an arm around Shane’s waist and pulling him in tightly. Their legs entwine, and Shane regrets not taking his pants off earlier, because he can’t feel Ilya’s skin on his thighs or hips. He loves the skin of Ilya’s thighs— so soft and smooth, thin and sensitive in the creases of his groin, perfect for Shane to leave faint bruises on. The perfect canvas.
Ilya’s hips shift. Shane watches, biting his lip as he nudges his knee between Ilya’s. Ilya lets him in easily, lets his leg raise until his knee is pressing to Ilya’s cock, and he groans.
“Does that feel good?” Shane whispers. Ilya nods, humming affirmatively, his voice breaking in his throat. “You want me to touch you?”
Ilya moans, his hand clawing a little at the small of Shane’s back before it tucks under the waistband of his pants. Shane smiles.
He takes his time, relaxing into the bed as he reaches down and touches Ilya’s dick, trailing his fingers lightly over it for a few long, drawn-out minutes. Ilya’s dick twitches, and it leaks, and Ilya, for the most part, ignores it. He moves minutely against Shane’s thigh when it’s too much to bear, but he says nothing, mouth latched to Shane’s chest, arms wrapped around him tightly.
When Shane’s fingers finally wrap around him, Ilya moans breathlessly, his voice high in his throat, and it sounds beautiful. Shane hums, petting his hair, nodding when Ilya looks up at him desperately, eyes glassy like he’s begging, like he’s checking that this is okay. Shane cradles the back of his head and guides him back down to his chest.
“There you go,” Shane murmurs, nodding when though Ilya isn’t looking at him, his eyes closed. “Good boy, just take it, okay?”
“Mm.”
Shane hardly even needs lube— Ilya’s wet enough that he’s convinced he could slip right inside Shane if they tried— but he lifts his hand and spits in it anyway. They both like it like this, wet and slippery and as messy as can be. Ilya is shaking a little, his thighs tensing and untensing, squeezing Shane’s leg between them. His hips shift into Shane’s hand, chasing the slow slide of his palm.
“Don’t move,” Shane says in a voice steadier than he feels. “Just take it, Ilya.”
Ilya nods, whining softly. Shane exhales slowly, ducking his head down to kiss the top of Ilya’s. He loves the sound of Ilya’s voice, especially when it’s like this, all weak and fragile, breaking in his throat and choking out of him.
“Fuck, baby,” Ilya moans. His fingers pull at the fabric of Shane’s pants, and Shane shifts to let him tug them down, just past his hips, so he can grab at his ass. It feels nice even though he’s not really doing anything but groping and kneading.
Shane swirls his fingers around the head of his cock, rubs his skin back and forth gently, squeezes and releases in a way that makes Ilya groan low in his throat. He can feel the coolness of Ilya’s breath on him, drying spit and drool on his skin, and it should be gross, should be disgusting, but he can’t help the way it makes his stomach warm.
“Fuck, give me…”
He lifts his hand, tilting his head to look at Ilya, tugging his hair. He doesn’t even have to finish the sentence. Ilya spits on his fingers, his mouth already flooded with drool, and Shane swears under his breath.
“‘S disgusting,” he mutters, reaching down again to spread it on Ilya’s dick. Ilya moans, nodding, hips jerking into Shane’s hand. “You like that, huh?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You like being nasty?”
Ilya hums, nodding again, squirming. Shane’s hand tightens around his dick. He can feel it twitch.
“Fuck, I…”
He shifts, moving away from Ilya, who whines as he watches him go, reaching for him helplessly. It’s oddly charming, his neediness.
“I need you in my mouth,” Shane whispers, moving to hover over Ilya’s body to kiss his chest. “Okay?”
“Okay,” Ilya says, nodding, his eyes closing, rolling onto his back. “That is okay, yes.”
Shane laughs, smiling brightly, making his way down Ilya’s pretty body, leaving wet kisses with every breath.
“You’re so perfect,” he murmurs. “I’m so lucky.”
“Shut up.”
“Can’t believe this is real.”
He runs his hands over Ilya’s body, savoring the smooth softness of his skin, fingertips pressing into the softest parts of him. He takes his time, his sweet, sweet time, kissing and licking and sucking, rubbing his face against his stomach and the insides of his thighs like he’s a fucking cat, like he wants to get under Ilya’s very skin. It’s absurd, and it’s morbid, and it’s gross, but Shane kind of thinks he’d like to do that— to rip Ilya apart so they can be closer, to let Ilya’s blood stain his skin, to open up both their ribcages so their hearts can touch with nothing in the way.
He thinks there’s something wrong with him.
But Ilya loves him.
“Fuck, I could eat you,” Shane mutters, pressing his face into the crease of Ilya’s hip, inhaling the smell of his skin and soap.
“I would let you,” Ilya says. He has his hands covering his face like he’s embarrassed, his voice muffled in his fingers, but Shane can still see his chin. It’s shining with his spit.
“Romantic,” he quips. Ilya lowers his hands and grins down at him.
“Bite me.”
Shane snorts, and he shifts lower, settling on his front, reaching down to tug his pants below the curve of his ass so Ilya can see it. He gets comfortable, lifting one knee, arching his back, hooking his arms under Ilya’s legs and tugging him closer.
“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya says softly, propping himself up on his elbows to look at him. “You are so fucking hot.”
Shane just hums, turning his face into Ilya’s thigh and nuzzling against it before he opens his mouth.
“Yeah,” Ilya breathes at the first touch of his teeth. “Come on.”
Shane bites him. He closes his eyes in bliss, closing his mouth around the meat of Ilya’s leg, digging his teeth in, sucking, and he knows he’s going to leave marks behind— he knew that before Ilya was even out of the shower.
He moans softly, fingers tightening where they’re holding Ilya’s hips.
“Fuck,” Ilya says loudly. Shane hears him fall back onto the bed, and he grins, jaw closing harder. It makes Ilya let out a string of swears in Russian. Shane doesn’t understand it, but somehow he does.
“You want more?” he asks when he releases him, eyeing the shape of his own teeth in Ilya’s skin.
“Yeah,” Ilya says, panting. “Give me more, please.”
“God, you’re so sweet,” Shane whispers, purposely close to the bite mark, lips brushing it, breath cooling the lingering spit. “You make it so easy.”
“Make wh— Oh—”
Shane bites him again, and then again, and then again, leaving mark after mark after mark behind on Ilya’s perfect skin, marring it and bruising it. Ilya takes it all so beautifully, squirming and writhing against Shane’s hands, reaching to hold onto them like it will help. He’s groaning, grunting in pain, letting out pitiful sobs, and all the while, his cock weeps.
Shane kisses the thinnest, softest skin of his hips gently, teeth just barely nipping, letting his hands turn so Ilya can lace their fingers tightly.
“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya chokes, his breath catching. He can’t seem to stop moving. Shane watches curiously, fondly. “Please, baby, please, I—”
“Slow,” Shane whispers, kissing his thigh. “We have time.”
Ilya nods, his chest rising and falling quickly, his eyes closed. Shane presses the side of his face to Ilya’s thigh, hushing him gently, nodding, pushing his hand up to Ilya’s chest.
“Breathe,” he whispers. Ilya nods again. “‘S a lot, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Ilya says weakly. “‘S so much, it— Fuck.”
Shane sucks on one of the marks, deepening it, smiling as Ilya’s back arches, as his cock jumps.
“Shane.”
“Sorry,” Shane says softly, pressing a kiss to the same spot, watching Ilya wince and hiss out a breath. “Can’t help myself.”
“Fuck, I’m…”
“What?”
“Give me a moment.”
“‘Course, baby,” Shane whispers, resting his face on Ilya’s thigh.
He waits, watching Ilya breathe steadily, watching him gather himself. He takes his time, like he’s reminding himself of what Shane’s been saying. They have time.
It’s a few minutes. Longer than Ilya would usually want to take, just laying there, holding hands, laying in bed in the quiet of night, in the soft golden light of the bedside lamps.
Ilya hums after a while, fingers squeezing Shane’s.
“Okay?” Shane whispers. Ilya nods.
He’s still hard, still flushed a pretty shade of pinkish red, still wet and shiny, and Shane shifts closer. Ilya feels it, and he lifts his head to look down.
“Fuck, you are so hot.”
Shane giggles, tucking his face in the crease beside Ilya’s cock and swaying his hips teasingly. Ilya bites his lip, rolling his eyes, but Shane can’t tell if it’s a fondly annoyed roll or a turned on roll.
“Can I suck you?” Shane asks, nosing at his dick.
“If I ever say no to that question, you should kill me,” Ilya says. Shane huffs out a laugh. “I am a clone. You need to eliminate me before I take over the human race.”
“You’re so weird.”
“Suck my dick.”
Shane laughs brightly, pushing himself up to rest on his elbows, and he does as instructed, sliding his tongue up Ilya’s cock before he takes it into his mouth. Ilya moans, his face tightening like it hurts, his eyes squeezing shut, and if Shane’s mouth wasn’t full, he would tell him how fucking beautiful he is when he’s anguished. And also at any other time. Of course.
He’s a fucking angel. He’s divine.
Shane bobs his head, releasing Ilya’s hand to hold him in place, palm pressing flat against Ilya’s stomach, firm. Demanding.
“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya says. Shane chokes out a laugh. “Your fucking mouth, fuck.”
Shane moans, letting his lips part, letting his spit fall over his hand, letting himself make a mess. Ilya mutters something in Russian, something Shane can’t even hope to understand.
“—baby,” Ilya moans, writhing, pushing against Shane’s hand, but Shane presses harder, pinning him down. He knows Ilya likes it when he does this, when he manhandles him and holds him down like he’s smaller than Shane is. Shane likes it too, and he likes the other way around. He thinks he likes everything with Ilya. He thinks he would like anything with Ilya, as long as Ilya is involved.
Shane’s eyes suddenly sting. His chest feels tight, and his entire body aches with it, with everything there is in him for Ilya.
God, he loves him so fucking much.
He gazes at him, lifting his head to gasp for breath, stroking Ilya steadily.
“Okay?” he asks. Ilya nods.
“Yes,” he gasps. “Fuck, yes, it’s okay—”
Shane nods, watching him, mouthing at his cock before he lowers his head, shifting down. Ilya’s stomach tightens when Shane’s lips find his balls, when he sucks them into his mouth, and from here, Shane can see the thin sheen of sweat covering his body. He’s almost sparkling.
“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya chokes, his voice thin. “You’re so good for me, baby.”
Shane hums, nodding, swirling his tongue, and Ilya groans. His hand releases Shane’s, and it reaches for his cock, but Shane grabs it, snatching it out of the air and pulling it down to pin it into place. Ilya whines, squirming a little, and Shane fights a smile, carefully keeping his teeth away from Ilya’s skin.
Ilya is panting, his chest heaving, and it’s a fucking vision. Shane laces their fingers and tightens his grip, holding Ilya’s hand in place against the bed. Ilya’s leg kicks out, restless, and Shane has to pull away to giggle.
“Shut up,” Ilya says, but he’s grinning too. “I can’t stand you.”
“You love me,” Shane says, kissing Ilya’s thigh. He shifts down again, his hips pressing against the bed for a moment, and he hasn’t even been chasing his own pleasure at all, has he? He’s hard, of course he is, but he’s just been laying here, dick pressed to the bed without a thought, but he doesn’t mind it, doesn’t feel the need to grind or hump or swirl his hips. He’s having fun.
“I do,” Ilya says, nodding. “Fuck, I love you so much.”
“Fuck, Ilya.”
He leans back in, sucking kisses into Ilya’s skin, lingering at the spots that make his thighs tremble. And then he shifts lower, and then lower, and Ilya gasps, his thighs tightening.
“Oh, fuck—”
“Okay?” Shane checks, lingering, his head ducked.
Ilya gasps again, his hips shifting, nodding.
“Okay,” he says breathlessly. “It’s okay, yes.”
Shane smiles, pressing a soft kiss to Ilya’s hole, watching him writhe.
“You’ll tell me if you don’t like it?”
“Yes,” Ilya gasps, nodding. “Yes, of course, just…” He grabs at him, resisting against his hand, desperate. “Please.”
Shane nods, humming, drawing one of Ilya’s hands to his head, guiding him to grab his hair— which he does with hardly any prompting— and then he reaches for Ilya’s thigh, pushing it up, holding him open.
“Fuck,” he breathes, swallowing. “There you go.”
He leans in and slides his tongue over him, smooth and gentle. Ilya gasps, shifting against him, tugging at his hair.
“Slow,” Shane murmurs, but he doesn’t really know who he’s reminding.
Ilya moans, his back arching, his legs trembling. Shane’s breath catches, his stomach turning the way it always does when he does something new— something torn between anxiety and excitement, now mingling with arousal and need.
“Fuck, Ilya,” he says weakly. “You’re so gorgeous.”
He is. It may be an odd thing to think as he stares very intently as his boyfriend’s fucking asshole, but he’s gorgeous. Shane caresses the back of his thigh, and he closes his eyes, sighing as his mouth meets Ilya’s hole again, his tongue fluttering and sliding. He moans, sucking, lingering when Ilya lets out a rough groan.
He’s panting, breathless, pushing at Ilya’s thigh again, releasing his other hand to push at his other leg.
“Hold this for me,” he says, voice muttering, like he isn’t speaking to his beloved boyfriend about his limb, like he’s handing him something unnecessary or irrelevant. Ilya just moans, reaching down to hold his legs by the backs of his knees. It’s obscene. Shane’s hips finally shift against the bed. “Fuck, baby.”
“Please,” Ilya whispers, eyes squeezed shut.
Shane whines, tucking his arms against himself so he can reach for Ilya’s ass, grabbing and maneuvering him so his hips are tilted up, so he can spread him open.
He moans as he licks into him, tilting his head for a better angle, pointing his tongue so press it inside. Ilya groans, his legs shifting like they’re fighting against the grips of his hands, and it’s such a beautiful sound it makes Shane ache. He loves the noises Ilya makes when he feels good.
It’s filthy. His chin is wet with his own spit, and he’s grinding against the bed pathetically, and Ilya is moaning his name like he can’t even hear himself, and Shane is reminded somewhat suddenly that he loves having sex.
It’s fun. This is fun, playing with Ilya’s perfect body, seeing what makes him whine, what makes him squirm. It feels good, even if his scalp is sore from Ilya’s fingers pulling at his hair, even if his lower back is a little sore from the angle he’s laying at, even if his jaw is sore from working at Ilya’s ass. Fuck, it feels good.
He loses himself in it, his eyes fluttering shut, his fingers digging into the flesh of Ilya’s ass as he holds him open, his breath hot and desperate. Ilya is moaning, whining, and Shane’s never heard him like this before, his voice high in his throat, pitiful. Pathetic.
He doesn’t know how long it is before Ilya lets go of his legs and shoves at him, pushing him away. Shane startles from the suddenness of it, sitting up, kneeling, blinking his eyes open as Ilya moves, groaning.
“Are you—”
“Fuck, come here.” Ilya says, his voice breaking. It sounds like he’s crying, but Shane can’t see if he is, because he’s turning around, kneeling and falling forward, reaching back, blindly, for Shane. “Come on, Shane, please—”
Shane watches, his eyes wide, his blood hot, reaching absently for Ilya’s hand. Ilya pulls weakly at him.
He’s presenting himself for Shane, his back arching beautifully, and Shane swears under his breath, awestruck.
He moves forward, pushing Ilya’s hand into the bed before he grabs at his hips, his ass, instinct taking over as he shakes the softest parts of Ilya, as he smacks at him gently. Ilya groans, burying his face in the bed, his voice muffled.
“Fuck,” Shane breathes, watching the curve of his back. “Look at you.”
Ilya says Shane’s name. It sounds so nice in his mouth.
Shane hums, gripping Ilya’s ass, pushing so the arch of his back deepens, spreading him open.
“Pretty fucking hole.”
Ilya groans. His voice breaks. He’s definitely crying.
Shane swears again, and he leans down, spreading his legs so he can reach him.
He already knew he loves using his mouth. He loves kissing, loves making out for as long as possible, kissing Ilya like the world is ending or like the world doesn’t exist at all, and he loves oral— he’s loved sucking Ilya’s dick since they first started seeing each other— but this…
It’s like doing both at once. He’s moaning, pressing his face into Ilya, pressing his tongue as deep as he can, fingers grabbing and squeezing and worshipping. When he pulls away to catch his breath, he sees Ilya’s cock, hard and leaking, and he decides that he doesn’t need to breathe, actually.
“Fuck, Shane, that— that feels so fucking good,” Ilya is saying, voice mumbled and moaned and muffled in the bed. He’s writhing, squirming, pressing back against Shane’s face until he finally reaches for him, twisting so he can shove his fingers into Shane’s hair tightly, holding him in place. Shane groans, grabbing his ass, smacking it once and then again when Ilya moans. “боже мой—”
Ilya falls forward again, dragging Shane with him, and Shane laughs, hovering over him, fucking his tongue into him.
“Fuck, give me— give me a finger,” Ilya chokes. “Come on, baby, please—”
Shane nods mindlessly, sitting up and looking at him, at the spit-matted hair, at his glistening skin. He’s panting, breathing hard, needy, and he knows that the whole point of this was to take their time, to not rush and let Ilya just feel good without any kind of end goal, but he fucking wants him to come. Fuck, he wants him to come. He wants to see it, to watch it happen, to see how Ilya’s hole clenches.
He gathers saliva in his mouth, pausing for a brief moment, pushing two fingers into his mouth to get them wet. He ignores the way Ilya is begging, the way he’s pleading and commanding, the way he’s writhing like he’s searching for some kind of stimulation in the air.
“Fuck, stay still,” Shane mutters, reaching to holding his ass open. “Just…”
Ilya groans, stopping like some kind of string has been cut.
“Come on, baby,” he whimpers. “Come on.”
Shane holds him. He moves to wrap an arm around Ilya’s hips, holding him in place as he slides his fingertips over Ilya’s hole, as he presses one inside. Ilya moans, and Shane turns to look at him. He’s nodding into the bed.
“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane breathes. “You’re so tight.”
“Fuck, Shane.”
“Yeah, baby,” Shane says breathlessly, shifting his finger, turning his hand so it twists. “Fuck.”
“That feels so good,” Ilya says, accent heavy, thick on his tongue. “Deeper, baby, please.”
“Fuck, okay,” Shane says, nodding, shifting to settle next to him, pressing his finger in deeper, as gentle as possible. “Is that— Is that okay?”
“Yeah,” Ilya breathes, nodding again. “Fuck, can you…”
“Tell me,” Shane says, panting. “What do you need?”
“Uhm,” Ilya says, pushing himself up on his hands, his head falling, moving back against Shane’s hand. “Turn it up, like…”
He gestures vaguely, and Shane grins, laughing almost deliriously. He does his best to follow directions, searching hopelessly.
“Talk to me,” he says softly.
“Fuck, you’re so good for me,” Ilya says. He’s panting, his voice breaking.
That wasn’t what Shane meant by talk to me, but he’ll take it.
“It’s good?”
“Yes,” Ilya says, nodding, falling forward again. “It’s good, baby, you’re doing so good. Keep…”
“I won’t stop,” Shane says, nodding, curving his finger, shifting it. Ilya groans, his face pressing into the bed, swaying like he’s high, like he’s delirious. “I got you.”
“I love you so much,” Ilya says. He reaches back blindly, hand flapping a little, and Shane catches it, nodding, lacing their fingers and holding on tightly. “You’re so good to me, baby, I’m so— Fuck, I— I can’t—”
He can’t find his words. Shane recognizes it, the way his sentences break, the way he stutters.
“‘S okay,” Shane whispers, nodding even though Ilya can’t see him. “I know, baby, I got you. Just take it.”
“Yeah,” Ilya chokes. “I can take it.”
Shane hushes him gently before he looks down, watching his own finger disappear into Ilya’s body, and he bites his lip in concentration, shifting his finger, moving it, prodding and searching until—
“Oh—”
Shane lights up, turning to look at the back of Ilya’s head, at his free hand that’s clutching the blankets next to him.
“There?”
Ilya just lets out a string of what are undoubtedly expletives in Russian, and Shane grins. He lingers, pressing his finger into the spot intently.
“Shane— Fuck—”
“You’re so fucking hot,” Shane mutters. “God, Ilya.”
“Holy shit, Shane.”
Shane giggles, letting his head fall forward to rest his forehead on Ilya’s back. He hears Ilya’s breath catch on a light laugh, and it’s beautiful.
“Does it feel good?” Shane asks softly. “You like it?”
“Yes,” Ilya gasps, nodding, shifting back against Shane’s hand. “It feels so good, baby, fuck.”
“God, we should have done this sooner.”
Ilya laughs lightly again, his voice breathy and soft.
“Yeah,” he chokes.
“Fuck, I love you.”
Ilya moans softly, pushing his face into the bed and writhing. Shane takes a slow breath, willing his heart to calm the fuck down, and he looks at his finger inside Ilya, at the stretch of Ilya’s ass around it. He swears under his breath, leaning to spit slowly on it, watching.
“Do you want another?” he asks roughly.
“Yes. Fuck.”
Shane nods, exhaling slowly, and he does it slowly, pulling his finger out of Ilya and spitting once more, rubbing it over his hole with two wet fingertips before pressing them inside as slowly as he can. Ilya groans, low in his throat, and Shane bites his lip. His hands are shaking, and he wonders, for a moment, if Ilya feels like this every time they fuck, every time he needs to work Shane’s body open and pliant to take him. If he feels fucking drunk on it.
“Good?”
“Mhmm.”
“Talk to me,” Shane says softly, stroking his fingers inside Ilya gently, running his other hand across Ilya’s ass. “Let me hear you, baby, please.”
“Shane,” Ilya chokes. “Fuck, it feels so good, I— I can’t…”
“You can,” Shane assures him, leaning down and kissing his ass, lingering to bite at him. Ilya doesn’t even seem to notice. “Take it, baby, you’re okay, aren’t you?”
“I can take it,” Ilya moans, one of his knees sliding out from under him. Shane grins, twisting his fingers. “Fuck, Shane—”
“Slow,” Shane murmurs. “Nice and slow.”
Ilya moans quietly, and he lets himself fall forward onto his front, melting into the bed. Shane smiles, gazing at him. For a moment, between heavy breaths, Ilya looks like he’s sleeping, nude, laid bare in an easy way that’s beautiful like classical art, and for the first time in his life, Shane wishes he had spent half his time on the ice learning to create— to sculpt or paint or draw, just so he could try to recreate this. It deserves to be captured forever, to be admired and studied for centuries like the works of Michelangelo and Titian.
Shane’s throat tightens. He blinks his eyes when they sting, and he reaches to caress him, tracing the smooth divot of his spine, the lines of his shifting muscles as he squirms.
“God, Ilya.”
“Mm, that feels…” Ilya falls quiet, his hips rising against Shane’s fingers, making them shift, and Shane finds what he seems to be searching for, crooking his fingers. “Yeah, fuck, right there—”
“I got you,” Shane whispers, pressing his fingers into the spot, turning his hand so his wrist doesn’t strain. “Just breathe for me, baby.”
Ilya moans, hiding his face in the bed, his voice muffled.
“Let me see you,” Shane says, looking up at him, and it only takes him a moment to lift his head, looking over his shoulder at Shane. His cheek squishes against the curve of his shoulder, and his eyes are glassy and glazed, and his face is flushed pink, and Shane is so in love it might kill him. “God, you’re so fucking beautiful.”
Ilya whines, falling forward again, resting his head on his bent arm.
“You are killing me.”
“Just let it feel good.”
“It does,” Ilya groans, nodding. “It feels so good, baby.”
“Breathe.”
Ilya hums, inhaling slowly, steadily, nodding into his arm, and Shane watches his shoulders rise and fall with it, watches him relax into it, into the pleasure he can’t escape from.
“Fuck, there you go,” Shane breathes when the tension in Ilya’s back eases. “That’s it, baby boy.”
Ilya whines. Whimpers. And Shane is already fucking in love with him, but for some fucking reason, it draws him in deeper, tightens his ribcage around his heart and makes his stomach ache.
“God, Ilya,” Shane chokes. He falls forward, sliding his hand to the spot between Ilya’s shoulders, and he pushes, pressing him into the bed as he leans down to kiss him. His skin is warm, and tacky with sweat, and Shane loves it.
He loves it.
Shane kisses him slowly, softly, and it’s so quiet he can hear it. It sounds nice with Ilya’s voice, weak and pitiful as he moans. Shane presses his fingers into him firmly, smoothly stroking at him. Ilya’s thighs tremble.
Shane moves onto his knees, hovering over Ilya’s body, kissing him and kissing him and kissing him, letting his tongue grace over his skin, tasting the salt of his sweat. He savours it, humming, his breath catching as Ilya’s ass clenches around his fingers.
“Fuck,” Ilya chokes. “I think I’m going to come.”
It makes Shane’s stomach flip, makes his heart fucking palpitate in something like excitement. He grins unabashedly against Ilya’s shoulderblade, teeth grazing his skin.
“‘S okay,” he murmurs. “Just let it happen, don’t chase it.”
“‘S hard,” Ilya groans, hips shifting. “Fuck, Shane.”
“I know, baby,” Shane breathes. He moves up, kissing the back of his neck, pausing just to slide his tongue over it, humming. “Just take it.”
Ilya moans, nodding. Shane looks at him, resting his forearm on the bed in front of Ilya’s face so he can look at him. His eyes are closed, but when he feels Shane’s weight shift in front of him, his eyes flicker open, searching for a moment. He reaches for Shane like it’s instinct, like he can’t not. Shane lets him, shifting closer so Ilya’s hand can close around his wrist. His fingers are shaking.
“I got you,” Shane whispers. “‘S okay.”
Ilya nods, moaning, his lips parted. He barely seems present at all, like he’s out of his fucking mind. Shane groans, ducking his head to kiss his cheek messily, clumsily, his lips finding Ilya’s ear after a moment.
“I fucking adore you,” he breathes.
He punctuates it with a slide of his tongue, tracing the shell of Ilya’s ear before he slips it inside, filthy and nasty and just what Ilya loves. Shane knows it.
Ilya’s hips shift. His hands tighten on Shane’s forearm, drawing it toward himself absently. Shane lets him, mouthing at his ear as Ilya clings him, tilting his ass up to Shane’s hand.
“Harder,” Ilya gasps, nodding. His shoulders are tensing, his eyebrows drawing together, and Shane nods, lifting his head to look at him, panting. “Right there, yes—”
Shane swears under his breath, gasping, rubbing at the spot harder, firm and intent.
Ilya falls quiet, gasping sharply, his nails biting into Shane’s wrist as he winces, as he squeezes his eyes shut and bares his teeth, and Shane watches in awe until a noise rips its way out of Ilya’s throat. It’s rough, almost violent, and it’s loud.
“Fuck,” Shane gasps, nodding. “That’s it, baby, you got it—”
Ilya sobs, his body convulsing, his ass clenching. Shane moans, leaning in to kiss him, clumsily sliding his mouth across Ilya’s, swallowing the sounds he’s making. He’s saying something, babbling, but it’s so slurred and mumbled that Shane can’t even tell if it’s English or Russian.
And then, suddenly, he’s understanding him, hearing him, and it’s his name.
Shanya, Shanya, Shanya…
Shane sniffles, nodding, attempting to swallow the lump in his throat.
“I got you, baby, it’s okay—”
Ilya groans, writhing, and he lets out a sob, because he’s crying now, in a way that Shane has never seen before. It’s open, brazen, like it’s more than sex, like it’s so much more than just an intense orgasm. Shane watches, blinking tears away so he can see him clearly, and he can’t even really tell how he feels.
It’s like watching a natural disaster, something awe-inspiring and devastating, something beautiful and tragic. Ilya’s tears are falling, seeping into the sheets under his, and his skin is glistening.
HIs expression is shifting, turning to anguish and bliss and ecstasy even through his tears, until he squirms and squeezes at Shane’s wrist, finally uttering a weak, “Fuck, stop, stop—”
Shane pulls his hand away, easing the pressure he’d been rubbing into Ilya’s prostate, letting his fingers slip out of him slowly. Ilya shudders, his breath trembling like he’s freezing, and Shane wraps his arm around his waist, pulling him in close, ignoring the filth of his hand. Ilya lets him, clutching at him, his breath jumping as he tries to catch it.
“I got you,” Shane murmurs, nodding when Ilya’s eyes, wide and glassy, search his face like he’s desperate, like he’s scared. “You’re okay.”
Ilya exhales roughly, blinking repeatedly, and Shane nods, running his hand over his back gently, analyzing him. He shifts, rolling over so he’s facing Shane completely, curling into himself like he’s trying to shrink— and isn’t that a sight. Someone so brazen, so bold and beautiful and loud in his own existence turning into this, small and quiet and pitiful in Shane’s arms. Shane lets him, nodding, opening his arms for him, sliding one under the curve of Ilya’s neck. Ilya lets him, lifting his head for a moment. His hands have to release Shane’s arm to let him closer, and he doesn’t seem to know what to do with them, absently hovering before he reaches for Shane. His hands are warm from clutching at the sheets of the bed, from clinging to Shane’s arm, sliding over Shane’s chest and collarbones and neck until they tangle in his hair like he’s searching for something to hold onto, to keep him steady.
“Нихуя себе,” Ilya breathes. Shane lifts his chin to kiss his forehead as softly as he can.
“I’m right here,” he whispers. Ilya nods, fingers tightening in Shane’s hair. “Fuck, Ilya.”
He shifts closer. The sheets under Ilya are soaked, but he doesn’t mind it.
“Shane,” Ilya says.
“Yeah.”
“You’re amazing.”
“I’m amazing?” Shane says, pulling back to stare at him, watching his expression soften into an almost-smile. “Jesus, Ilya.”
“I love you so much,” Ilya says softly, his voice barely even there at all. “You’re so good to me.”
“Baby.”
“I don’t deserve you.”
Shane moves, rolling so he’s hovering over Ilya, so Ilya is laying on his back, looking up at him. His eyes are flooded again.
“Ilya,” Shane says slowly, his voice steadier than he feels. “Baby. Are you listening to me?”
Ilya sniffles, hiccupping on his breath, and he nods, his hands finding Shane’s shoulders. He’s still shaking. Shane will get him some water when he’s calmed down.
“You’re mean to yourself,” Shane says firmly, meeting Ilya’s eyes intently. “And what you say about yourself isn’t true.”
Ilya looks at him. His eyes flutter, and his lip quivers, and Shane’s chest aches.
“I love you more than anything,” he whispers. “And I—”
His voice breaks, his throat tightening, and Ilya blurs in his eyes until a tear falls. It lands on Ilya’s face, but neither of them reacts, neither of them moves to wipe it away. It’s barely there at all.
“Nothing I do for you is a sacrifice,” Shane says softly. “And nothing I do for you is difficult, or a burden or a nuisance, and nothing I do for you is pity, because you are fucking everything to me, Ilya.”
Ilya is crying again. He’s so beautiful.
“I love you more than anything,” Shane says, leaning down to kiss him softly, letting their lips brush. “I fucking adore you, Ilya, I would do anything for you.”
Ilya lets go of him, and then he’s reaching up, wrapping his arms around Shane’s neck and drawing him in so he can’t hold himself up. He lands heavily on top of him, exhaling roughly, closing his eyes.
“Fuck, I love you so much,” Ilya says. His voice breaks.
Shane tilts his head to let him closer, exhaling slowly as Ilya nuzzles into his neck, his skin wet. He cradles him, lifting a hand to Ilya’s curls and combing through them as he listens to him. He’s rambling, mumbling into Shane’s neck, his words slurred and soaked with tears.
я тебя люблю, я тебя люблю, я тебя люблю…