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With a hot six foot three Rozanov plastered to his back, Shane is in his happy place and quite literally about to purr. His ass hurts, his thighs hurt, his guts feel like they are going to bruise, and he is so, so at ease. So gooey. Even the sheen of sweat between their bodies feels more like the warm and protective layer of water on a wetsuit than the sensory nightmare it would usually be.
There is just one thing. He just needs to — well, he has something prepared for Ilya. He initially wanted to do it the second Ilya stepped into his apartment, but things happened, Ilya happened, with his big hands and big chest and his grunted “get on your knees, Hollander” and “bend over, Hollander,” and really, what was Shane to do?
It’s hard to say it because it betrays the humilating fact that he thinks about, and works on, pleasing Ilya sexually in his free time. It might also be the dread of having to initiate something. Not that Shane has issues with taking charge, or something.
But the discomfort will not stop him. Shane may not be the unstoppable force, but he is the equally powerful immovable object. People may underestimate the power of immovability, but come hell or high water, Shane is going to be Shane. And Shane, right now, has a plan.
He twists around in Ilyas embrace to look at him, or at least vaguely in his direction, cheeks warming. “Do you,” he says bravely, making eye contact with the only surviving yet nonetheless desacrated decorative pillow in the vicinity. Very bravely. Shane Hollander is the bravest man on earth, actually.
The silence stretches between them, filled only with Ilya’s tangible amusement. Asshole.
“Well,” Shane soldiers on.
“Say it, Hollander” Ilya purrs. His big, warm, evil hands move to cradle Shane’s cheek in a grip that feels miles away from kind. Yet also miles away from unsafe, never unsafe. Ilya’s grip is sometimes mean, sometimes playful, sometimes a little degrading, but always betraying the kind of wonder Ilya feels at what he gets to have from Shane.
Just like in that bathroom back in Vegas, Ilya prompts Shane to speak with one of his little encouraging hums, just shy of condescending. It makes Shane’s brain leak out of his ears a little.
“I want to do something” Shane says, then. It’s always so much easier to speak, to do anything, when Ilya makes him. It’s not his responsibility what happens after he does it, because Ilya made him. It also doesn’t need to be confident, and perfect, because he is forced to do it. He doesn’t need to be good at it. “It’s easier if I just show you. Let me show you?” He instinctively corrects the last part into a polite request, for reasons he chooses not to to dwell on.
Ilya chuckles softly and retracts his arms from their octopus-like grip on Shane’s face and torso, holding them up in an overexaggertaed gesture of defeat. Playfully surrendering himself to Shane’s whims. Like he’s a harmless little thing.
Shane sits up, two fingers fidgeting with the bedsheet underneath him. “You’re hard again, so…” he trails off. Then, a spark of his hard-won confidence seems to light up in him again. Shane Hollander does not fiddle with bedsheets, Shane Hollander asks for what he wants. And gets it.
He meets Ilya’s eyes, challenging, and flips on his back, scooting backwards until his head hangs over the side of the bed. For now, he keeps it up to maintain eye contact and watch the bewildered look in Ilya’s eyes. It’s delicious- being the one to shock Ilya with his desire for once. The power gets him high, just as it does on the ice, so he grins and says: “I want you to fuck my throat. Like this.”
Ilya looks- well he looks like he’s about to laser down an entire village with his eyes like an overpowered offspring of Gozilla from a trashy future sequel. Good thing Shane secretly loves Gozilla.
“Hollander,” Ilya says, threatening.
“Rozanov,” Shane answers, smiling.
Hot Canadian whimpering and moaning below him, Ilya is in his happy place and quite literally about to purr.
Shane is laying on his back, head dangling over the edge of the bed with Ilya’s cock down his throat all the way to the base. One hand is gripping Ilya‘s sturdy thigh, nails sometimes raking over the sensitive skin behind his knee, the other fisted in the sheets with his knuckles turning white. His feet are kicking and dragging over the sheets, but contently so, like a sick and twisted version of a cat kneading its paws. His back is arching off the sheets sometimes when Ilya pushes his cock deep and stays there, just grinding slowly to make Shane feel it. The sound is obscene, really, and Ilya is in heaven.
Shane has always been so obsessed with putting his mouth anywhere near Ilya’s cock — at first it was adorable, in the way he was such a clumsy and stiff, yet eager little virgin, but quickly turned into Ilya’s undoing. Getting great head is one thing, but getting great head from someone who looks like they’ll die without your cock down their throat, well, it’s life-changing.
He needs to be good for Shane. He needs to do this right. His brave little thing is not only giving him the best head of his life, but also initiated it, showed Ilya how bad he wanted him, how he wanted him, what would make him feel good. He sounded hot, so commanding.
The time from Shane’s proposal up until now feels like it moved without his rational input, but thinking of making it good for Shane means his brain is slowly catching up to the situation. And with it comes, suddenly, a thought that freezes him like a pathetic little woodland creature in a sports car’s headlight.
Who.
Who taught Shane about this.
Anyone else, well, Ilya could tell himself it’s just the Internet. Curiosity, horniness, combined with free access to porn. But this is Shane Hollander, who is so paranoid about his online security and so neurotic about being in control of himself and married to virtually every form of self-denial that he would die on the spot if he typed out the word porn on any of his devices. Who has question marks written all over his face when Ilya guides him gently into new positions.
It must have been someone else.
It doesn’t help that Shane suddenly pulls him closer and takes Ilya all the way down his throat again without gagging even a little. Ilya is so stupid. Such an idiot. He spent the last two minutes buried in Shane‘s throat, mesmerised by the outline of his big dick under the skin like a total loser, and didn‘t realise. The last time they did this, Shane could barely take two thirds of his length in his mouth and gagged miserably every time he got too enthusiastic. He most definitely wasn‘t able to get his throat fucked for minutes on end with the only sound coming from his lips being happy little whimpers.
Ilya is going to kill someone, and then himself. Not Shane. Never Shane. But he is going to have to kill someone with his bare hands.
Shane whines pathetically under him, and Ilya is slammed back into his physical body, noticing his grip around Shane’s head and throat has tightened. And god, it is so, so terrible, because Shane is whimpering in pleasure and need, not in pain. Because Shane is a perfect, darling little freak and loves when Ilya pushes and grabs and hurts him a bit, forces him a bit, makes him take it.
Ilya needs to make this good for him. And then he will find out who has been touching him, and put an end to it. Maybe set fire to something dear to them. Break their legs and then maybe just the kneecaps of their entire extended family. But first he needs to make it so good for Shane, take him so high, so far up, that he will imprint himself into Shane‘s neurobiology. Into Shane’s body. Shane has to become Ilya-shaped, inside, actually.
Ilya pushes his cock a little harder into Shane’s throat, leaning his weight against Shane’s face. God, he takes it so good. So easy.
Ilya will shape him into his, so that Shane will always miss him when there’s someone else inside of him, because it will never feel quite right. Ilya will make it so good. And then… then he will make it very bad for someone else.
Shane is floating. Everything hurts, and everything is so good. He is surrounded by Ilya, his taste, his smell, his touch — he feels Ilyas hand on his throat, grabbing and tracing his fingers around the shape of his own cock. It puts more pressure on the already raw and probably bruised skin, and Shane‘s moans. It’s exactly what he wanted, the closeness, and the rough, unrestrained presence of Ilya.
“I’m the best, yeah? Fuck your throat the best, yeah? Hollander? Give it to you the best?” Ilya pants above him. His unoccupied hands wanders down to Shane‘s pecs, grabbing one roughly and then rubbing the pads of his fingers over Shane‘s nipple. “No one else comes close. You need it. You need me.“
Shane nods, as best as he can, moans in agreement, because yes, Ilya is everything. And everything is Ilya. Everything he does, everything he thinks, everything he dreams of is Ilya. Hockey is also there, but Ilya is also in Hockey. So Ilya is in everything. Shane can never escape the aching need inside of him yearning to collapse on his knees and ask Ilya to help him, help take the weight off, make him be himself without the pretense, move him and push him so he has no choice but to be good, so he can’t fail, and then reward him by making him feel so good that even his large, hockey-hardened body feels too small and too weak to contain it without shattering into a million pieces.
His hands scrabble along the backs of Ilya‘s thighs as he pushes hismelf closer to Ilya, nose buried in his balls. Ilya‘s hands fly to grab his chin, hold him there, as he comes down his throat.
He doesn‘t pull out immediately, just keeps his cock in Shane’s throat while he pats and pets Shane‘s cheeks, his nose, traces his lips with shaky fingers. When he finally pulls out, he kneels down to kiss Shane upside down, hand gripping his neck to keep him still, a filthy kiss with Ilya‘s entire tongue pushed into Shane, open mouthed, like he wants to eat his cum straight out of Shane‘s throat.
“You‘re perfect,” he breathes into Shane’s mouth, exhaled air settling lightly over Shane’s lips and chin like early morning fog, “you did so well. So good,” he continues, stroking a warm hand over his cheek, thumb circling over the hinge of his jaw soothingly, “wanna see you come.”
Shane is so gooey from the proximity and praise that he only sluggishly follows Ilya’s command to get on the bed properly again. At least he is pretty sure he moves. Everything seems unreal, so he might actually still be in the same position, head hanging off the bed. Who knows. Not Shane. It’s so hard to be conscious of his body, and he can’t really see, and he can’t really think beyond the milky fog of good, good, good. Rozanov said I am good. I did good. He came down my throat so fast. I made him feel good, too.
Flopping on his stomach in the middle of the bed, Shane is forming a puddle of six foot man, eyes struggling to track Ilya’s movements next to his bed. He’s digging around in Shane’s drawer and — oh no.
“Not that one” Shane rasps, the words scraping painfully over the tender skin of his throat. Ilya halts his step, blue translucent dildo in his hand.
“Why not,” Ilya asks, smirk spreading on his face, “is the only one close to my size. It’s a new one, right? Is pretty. Is big. I want to see you take it.”
Shane wants to bury his face in the mattress to hide his embarassment, but he suddenly notices the absence that familiar feeling, the lack of cold water shooting into his face, spine and belly. He giggles, quietly. It’s impssible to feel anything but good in the minutes after sex with Ilya. He throws an arm across his face, nonetheless, to hide his giddiness when he replies: “I use that one for my throat.”
Ilya freezes in place, dildo dangling comically from his hand, wiggling around as his grip loosens and tightens in irregular intervals.
“What,” he answers, digging around his brain for any string of thought, really, please, even an incoherent one, he’d take anything, but it’s just nothing. He looks inside himself, and all he can picture is a tumbleweed blowing across the vast, sandy emptiness that is his inner life right this moment. Shane has this ability, he knows already, of just stripping him not only of pretense and cockiness, but of everything, until he is nothing but a vaguely Ilya-shaped shell, exposed entirely and without armour to the force field that emits from an immovable, terrible, honest Shane Hollander. Nothing takes Ilya apart as much as the honesty of Shane Hollander.
“I use it for my throat,” Shane repeats, still a little high and loose and in between little huffs. “I practiced, the past months, because I wanted to take all of you. In my mouth.”
Ilya still hasn’t moved a muscle aside from the death grip, in varying degrees of severity, he has on Shane’s dildo. He hopes Shane will interpet this as the terribly foreboding lurk of a deadly predator about to pounce, and not for whatever pathetic, down bad thing is going on with him right now.
His silence does not seem to affect a fucked out, giggly Shane all that much, because he just continues: “It was so hard at first, you know, but I know you can do it, and so obviously I can too. Even though it was harder for me, because you’re ridiculously big, Roz. I think this means I win.”
“Well, and then I thought I would like to, you know, have you really fuck my mouth for once. Now that I can take it.” To Ilya’s horror, Shane seems content to share the entire thought process, like a documentary, when Ilya hasn’t processed shit so far. “And then I thought that the angle isn’t all that smart, you know, upside up. No matter if I’m kneeling or lying down. So I thought we could do it upside down. I first tried it while hanging myself from the pull-up bar, but then, well, what we just did came to mind. Because I do want to be comfortable.” Shane turns his head, movements in slow motion. “…Uhm?”
Hearing the slight edge of uncertainty, Ilya instinctively closes in on Shane, settling on top of him, arms bracketing his face and fingers interlaced on top of Shane’s head. Ilya actually, genuinely, needs to be taken out back and shot, he thinks. He spent the past ten minutes thinking about other men, well, other men with Shane, but still other men. Hurting other men. But not Shane, he wasn’t thinking enough about Shane. His Shane, who honest to god has pushed a dildo down his throat regularly for months because he wants Ilya there so bad. Shane, who has managed to invent a sex position, just because it would let Ilya fuck his mouth better. There will never be anyone like him. Ilya needs to get it the fuck together, right now. Needs to make sure Shane will never want anyone but him. Needs to make him feel so good he never stops wearing his heart on his sleeve like this around Ilya.
Shane looks beautiful under him, so beautiful, so cracked open and content to exist without disguise, simply as what he is. Ilya wants to cry, a little. “Let me just get this right,” he starts, “you came up with this yourself? Used that big beautiful hockey brain to come up with freaky sex position?”
“It was logistically efficient” Shane pouts, pouts, and Ilya wants to kiss him. So he does. Then, he rubs his nose against Shane’s, for good measure.
“Logistically efficient” Ilya repeats, murmuring. His mouth pulls into a gentle smile. It’s miles away from the murderous rage he felt crunching his insides minutes ago, but what remains is that he needs to show Shane how good he is.
“I will make you come now, yes, pretty boy?” Ilya whispers into Shane’s ear, then sucks the earlobe into his mouth. Shane whimpers. Then, quietly: Please.
Ilya keeps a hand on the tops of Shane’s head, cradling it, as he stretches the rest of his body off the bed to grab a different dildo and the lube off the nightstand. Nothing could make him let go of Shane. He needs to know that Ilya is there, taking care of him. He needs to feel warm. Needs to know he did good, so good.
He grabs Shane’s legs to tug them apart and pushes the dildo into him without hesitation, just one smooth glide, one hand holding down Shane’s twitching lower back to make sure he doesn’t mindlessly fight against the overwhelming feeling. He’s still soft and open from their first round earlier this night, and yet Shane whimpers heartbreakingly, like he’s being hurt. But it’s a good noise, Ilya has come to learn. It’s a noise of surrender. A noise of control and poise being ripped from someone, even though it is a load-bearing structure. Shane just crumples, and it is never not a spectacle.
No one has ever loved having Ilya inside them like Shane does. Has ever desperately needed it like Shane does. Ilya changes his grip on the dildo and fucks it inside at a criminally perfect angle. “You’re so good, Hollander, look at you.” He watches Shane twist weakly in the sheets, fucked out and desperate, trying subconsciously to crawl away from the feeling. Ilya puts one leg up on the mattress, kneeling on the back of one of Shane’s legs to keep it pinned down. He does the same with the other leg, careful to rebalance some of his weight on his arm. Shane can’t go anywhere, now, not even with his animal bran’s instinctual twisting around. Ilya has him, now.
He can’t see Shane’s face, which was a huge calculation error on his part, but the way his hands twist in the sheets like he’s afraid of falling down a cliff, the glimpse of the side of his face where his eyes are slipped half shut, mostly rolled up into the back of his head judging by the white between his lids, and his mouth hanging open, jaw relaxed for once in his life, tide Ilya over.
It takes so little for Shane to give up like this with Ilya. It’s what terrifies Ilya so bad — that someone else could give it to him too. If Shane needs it so much, the weight off his shoulders, then who is Ilya to demand him to carry it all by himself for months on end while they are miles apart? But Ilya is selfish. Ilya wants to pace around Shane all day like a guard dog, snapping his teeth at everyone looking at Shane a little to gently, a little to greedily. Wants to hoard shane like a dragon, sleep curled around him every night so he can’t go anywhere without him noticing. It’s not his right, but. But. A part of him hopes that maybe, this is all for Ilya. That Shane doesn’t just need to let go of the weight, but that he wants to give it Ilya, saying here, hold this for me, I trust you.
His hand drifts up to Shanes neck, pinning it in place gently and stroking over the hammering pulse. He starts pushing the dildo only halfway into Shane, just enough to push into his prostate mercilessly, not allowing for the relief of a slide further inside. Shane’s moans are a vibrating staccato under Ilya’s hands, brows furrowing. “Roz,” he rasps through his fucked up and pinned down throat, sounding nothing short of a prayer.
Ilya pushes in rougher, harder, holds Shane down better so he doesn’t have to worry about what to do, about whether he wants to come, can even come. Ilya will just make him. Ilya will shoulder it all. “I’m here,” Ilya rasps into his ear, sucking his earlobe into his mouth, “I’m always here.” It’s sort of a lie, and unfair, but he needs Shane to know. He will take a plane to fly to Shane the day before a game, hell, even on game day and miss the whole damn thing, just to make him come. To see his wet, darling little eyes begging so sweetly, asking for help, for Ilya to take him to that safe and sound little bubble where everything is warm and easy and he can’t do anything wrong. To be needed, by Shane. Ilya would go to war, besiege a city, crack open his chest to show his beating heart. This is a need of mythical proportions, right out of a fable about the gods.
He can’t ask Shane to promise that he’s Ilya’s. Not right now, not when he is supposed to be relieved of his duties, including having to take care of Ilya’s fears. It would be unfair, in this mood, too. But Ilya still needs to put all this… this… obsession (it is not allowed to be love) somewhere, so he fucks into Shane so hard he knows his wrist is doomed and he will play like a newbie shit the coming week, and rambles into Shane’s temple:
“Should’ve let me show you. Should’ve let me teach you, Hollander. You’re so sweet, working so hard for me, but it should’ve been me in your throat from the start. Stupid rubber doesn’t even taste the way you like. You should’ve called me, should’ve said ‘I need my throat fucked’ and I would have been there in two hours to do it for you. You call me. Tell me you’ll call me, Hollander.”
Shane looks like he is being continuously eletrocuted with low-voltage current, and Ilya tells himself its because of what he said, and not because of the merciless stimulation on his prostate. He doesn’t say anything beyond the obscene, continuous whine coming from his chest.
Ilya needs him to, just this once. Just a little, needs to know he won’t let someone else do this to him, see him like this, need someone else like this. He grabs Shane’s face, squeezes his cheeks a little, pats them, and forces Shane to look at him. He knocks their foreheads together at an awkward angle, which cannot feel good for Shane, but he needs it.
“Say you’ll call me” he begs, eyes darting over Shane’s face desperately. Shane makes a noise that’s at best a distant relative of an affirmation, sounding like unghhh-hungh.
“Say it” Ilya prompts again, shaking Shanes face a little.
“C’ll you” Shane answers, eyes locking with Ilyas, looking like this is costing him all the effort he has in him.
“Yes, yes, mhmm-mhmm, that’s right, Hollander. You call me.” His voice is playful and condescending, but inside, Ilya is only slightly appeased. He needs more, just a little more, again. He rubs their noses together, breathing in Shane’s flat and wet exhales.
“Say ‘I need you to come over here and fuck my throat’,” he continues, smile stretching on his face when he sees a bratty little furrow appear between Shane’s brows, “aw, but you like practice, Hollander, no? C’mon, I want to make sure you can do it. I even gave you the script, made it easy. Now you just need to practice.”
Shane’s look would be that of a leopard with killing intent, if the tears and sparkly eyes and the still ongoing moaning wouldn’t turn it into an earth-shatteringly seductive look of the sex kitten variety. He looks so disgruntled, and Ilya is so gone for him. He licks a broad stripe across the half of Shane’s face he has access to, because he knows Shane pretends to hate it but secretly gets off on it.
But Shane isn’t even fighting it, really. He probably also just gets off on looking pissed. He makes a grab for Ilyas hand, and holds it to his cheek. Then he speaks into it, like he would speak into a phone, while his body rocks up and down suggestively from Ilya’s thrusts inside of him.
“I need you to come over here and fuck my throat,” Shane says into the hand-phone, “Sir,” he adds, because he is a bastard. Ilya’s dick tries its very best to get hard in his sweatpants. Ilya decides he will personally figure out how to defy dick biology within the next months so he can fuck and cum in Shane until neither of them can go anymore. God, he is so hard, spiritually. He was joking, mostly, on that one phone call with Shane back when he was sitting in that underpass in Russia, but the title does actually seem to do something for him.
But before Ilya can pivot further towards being a leering, confident sex god, something flickers across Shane’s face. It’s the look you get in your eyes before you take down the arms that are protecting your face from a punch. It looks like letting go of safety, and it scares the crap out of Ilya the second he sees it.
“Need you to come over here and fuck my throat,” Shane breathes, all freckle-y, looking up from below his lashes, “…Ilya.”
Ilya blacks out for an indeterminate amount of time. Then, something settles in his chest, finally. Inside of him the big scary dragon gets to curl up around his hard-won treasure, and the guard dog watches the intruder step away and out of view, knowing he has defended his home well. Ilya settles back into himself.
He is Ilya — not just some hot guy, some hockey player who conveniently gets Shane off, is he? At least not anymore. He is Ilya, to Shane, and he will reward Shane for it. Prove to him that he has chosen well.
He grabs Shane by his waist and shoulder and flips him on his back, is on him like a starving animal within fragments of a second. He wants to fuck him, be inside him, but he can’t yet. He will later. But for now, he pushes Shane into the bed with the full weight of his body, cradles his face in one hand and somehow, impossibly, twists his arm in a way that allows him to viciously fuck that godforsaken dildo into Shane.
“It’s alright, I’ve got you,” he mumbles into Shane’s cheek, licking soothingly at the corners of Shane’s eyes where the tears stubbornly refuse to fall. It’s okay, he will take care of it. He presses his nose into Shane’s cheek, mouths at the remnants of baby fat there. “Shane” he hums, again, and then again. Shane kicks his feet under him, tries to throw his head back in pleasure, and Ilya makes sure he can’t. It’s probably also a little dread of the oncoming orgasm that will surely tear him apart. Well, Ilya will make sure it does.
He nuzzles into Shanes face, staring at him, eyeballs almost touching, as he feels and sees Shane cum underneath him. It’s a mind-shattering one, he can tell, by the way Shane barely moves with it, like he is paralysed with the feeling. It’s just tiny muscle twitches all over, one long, whimpery, gasping breath in, and then out, like he is sobbing. He can feel the cum seeping between their stomachs, which is an issue because it means there is space in between their bodies, which can never, ever happen again. Shane looks lost, entirely far away, his eyes unfocused and searching over the ceiling and Ilya’s face that is blocking most of it.
There is a long silence, in which Ilya stretches out his arm and wrist, but refuses to move any other part of his body lest he accidentially loosens some of his grip on Shane. Or, god forbid, leave him cold and uncovered. Ilya, in a fit of madness about having one hand out of commission and one holding Shane’s face, tries to interlink their toes. Shane snorts an ugly, weak sound, and grabs Ilya’ toes back.
Suddenly, Shane’s eyes focus on him. “… Did you say something about kneecaps? Before?” Shane asks.
“No.” Ilya will take this to his grave.
“You gonna get off?”
“Oh I did get off. Will get off again.”
“Fuck you. Asshole.” Shane snarks. Then, brows furrowing and head suddenly whipping up off of the bed, toes clenching meanly around Ilya’s: “…who the fuck taught you that meaning?”