Chapter Text
Shane sits on the couch, typing away at papers for the camp, and his mind drifts to last night’s escapades: Ilya sucking Shane’s brain through his dick, effectively distracting them both from Ilya’s “problem”, once again.
Rose had told him, many years ago, that a problem was something that could be fixed. And, as Shane drafts waivers for next summer, he allows his thoughts to wander. Ponder whether or not Rose’s statement was one stolen from Pinterest or valid. Or both.
Shane warned Ilya about drinking last night, since Galina had told them both the dangers of mixing a known depressant with antidepressants. Ilya argued that everybody will be drinking, and I cannot be only one not drinking, Shane, that is boring, or I am Russian. We had vodka before we had anti-crazy pills. And Shane is a simple man. He wants Ilya to be comfortable. If the warmth of vodka reminded him of a better time -a time without Shane’s nagging, or a time where they are both on better teams, or a time that is even remotely familiar- he could stay up all night watching Ilya’s breathing patterns.
After Ilya peeled himself off the shower floor and complained about his knees, they crawled into bed. Shane turned towards Ilya, limbs still a bit drowsy from the Rosé Rose had brought, and watched as his husband rolled over.
“You’re usually the big spoon.” Shane blubbered. He wasn’t sure if Ilya heard and ignored him, or if he was drunk and exhausted enough to fall asleep immediately, but there was no response.
Nevertheless, Shane snuggled against Ilya’s back, mirroring their regular position. Throughout the night, they’d shift and struggle with the blanket; someone would end up with their calves under the other’s legs, and the alarm would go off to tell Ilya to brace his hangover and swallow his tenth pill.
Shane let him sleep in for a few more hours before they silently and separately got ready for practice. Then, Ilya stayed after for a meeting meant for officials, while Shane ordered fast food as a treat. Ilya grumbled up the stairs after grabbing the greasy package and ate it in bed.
Shane isn’t sure whether this problem is one that can be fixed. So, he scribbles the names of kids already registered for camp in shorthand and leaves them on the counter for Ilya to see when he wakes up from his post-lunch nap.
The house is dark when Shane finally packs leftovers, and Ilya lets Anya out for her final potty break. He clicks his teeth and thumps his thumb in the gap between the open sliding door.
“Why is there a hand print here? Did you fuck Landry on the patio?” Ilya whistles as if he’d be proud of that, and not possibly heartbroken.
“No, Ilya.” Shane chuckles. He sets the Tupperware on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. “She fucked me.”
“Mm. Did she give it to you good?”
Ilya looks away from Anya, whose sniffing a patch of grass, to urge Shane on. Shane doesn’t quite understand why Ilya’s eyebrows are raised, and his lips are in a tight smirk. Unless this is Ilya’s way of asking how his day went with Rose. Or, most likely, his offhanded way to get Shane to break, to spout off about how yes, she gave it to me good. Better than you recently. Because Shane does know that would calm Ilya, in a sordid, pitiful way. Hearing what Shane would never say, since Ilya believes that’s what Shane thinks.
Shane is painfully aware they need to talk again, maybe this time say some things of substance, but routine is best. “Eh. I’ve had better.”
“Married him, yes?” Ilya’s got a playful twinkle in his eye, possibly provided by the moon in the clear Ottawa sky.
Shane shrugs, avoiding Ilya’s eyes, afraid his knees might buckle. “I think he has a wife now.”
Ilya nods sarcastically. “Big dick?”
“The biggest I’ve ever seen. Lucky girl.” An additional dig, since Shane has spent most of his life in locker rooms. Obviously, this entire interaction is just a beautiful way to dance around the real situation by talking about a fictional man’s comically large cock.
“Lucky guy.” Ilya calls Anya with cupped hands around his mouth. Apparently, she is digging around the fence again.
Anya tracks dirt into the house, and Shane barely registers it. He has to wipe off the smudge on the glass, call someone for the fence, and then sweep the evidence left on their hardwood. On top of it all, Ilya’s smile from only a second ago has fallen. He scowls as he brushes past Shane in the kitchen.
Shane knows better than to think Ilya is upset at him; they banter back and forth constantly. It’s more of an aggravation of everything, like how Shane is frustrated at his growing list of chores. He also knows they won’t speak about it unless they venture further into this make-believe man with a monster dick.
Ilya lay his head on Shane’s chest, scrolling idly on his phone. Harris posted a video about the viral hockey husbands, so he drops his phone onto the bedsheets. Shane told him to stop interacting with them because not all press is good press, Ilya and Harris doesn't appreciate negative comments. Especially from players.
He reads a sentence of the book Shane’s holding but, eventually, the words go blurry. He slaps the book and watches it flop onto Shane’s pecs.
“Asshole.” He grumbles, barely giving Ilya a second thought. Shane moves the book upright, keeping his arm as far from Ilya as is manageable to read.
Ilya entertains himself by tracing Shane’s bare abs, running his finger through the divots that carve around his muscles like Saran Wrap. Shane’s stomach twitches, and Ilya can see the pure concentration on his face. He focuses on the same page for a minute longer than usual. Ilya takes the opportunity to pry Shane’s hand off the side of the paperback, and idly sucks on his two middle fingers.
“Ilya. What are you doing?” Shane asks, bored. He keeps his eyes on the same sentence he's been struggling to read.
Ilya, regretfully, drops Shane’s fingers from his mouth. They fall slack on the bedsheets, like Hollander has given up control of the lower half of his arm. “I’m not sure yet. I will let you know.”
Shane regains strength in his hand and floats it to Ilya’s face again. Ilya greedily accepts the offer, then kneels above Shane, who is horizontal on the bed.
Shane, finally, abandons the book and its useless words.
Ilya leans to peck Shane briefly. "Grab the lube," he says.
"For?" Shane's eyebrows mix in sordid, curious excitement, and then fall stoic. Ilya's heart breaks in real time, seeing the disappointment flush his husband's face.
"My thighs."
Shane squints at Ilya. "What will lube do for your thighs?"
Either way, Shane sets the book in the nightstand drawer, where he fishes around for lube. Shane has to twist his wrist, and his biceps clench spectacularly. Usually, they use one of the many bottles Ilya hoards on his side, so it's towards the back. Foreign for Shane to use, even think of.
Shane hands it to Ilya, who nods his appreciation, then removes every article of clothing by peeling them off slowly. Like a cheesy stripper, Ilya runs his own hand over his pecs, his abs. He pauses at his waistband, pondering, then strips them as well. All while Shane watches, still confused. Ilya is acting sensual and confident, as if he is not upset at his limp dick.
Completely naked and beckoning for Shane to join, Ilya tells him, "Will make great surface for you to fuck."
Shane gapes up at him, probably unsure if he was understanding him correctly.
Ilya loves to squeeze between the tight hold Shane creates with his thick thighs, evidence of hard work and intense dedication, but he can pass the torch gladly.
He is a top, through and through, but would never deny Shane anything he asked for in bed. A night dedicated to fingering and eating him out, then Shane's puppy-dog eyes looking up from between Ilya's thighs, asking if he did good.
Thinking of that, or the reality of Shane wearing his glasses, should get Ilya going. Ready to fuck Shane's brains out. Give the lube a real use. Instead, Ilya sighs and rolls onto his side, so Shane is spooning him.
He remembers bits and pieces of last night: Shane trying to blow Ilya, then Ilya relenting and getting on his knees. Shane had been so hot, so powerful, standing above him and squeezing his throat, thrusting deeper, plugging Ilya's nose. It's rare for Shane to do anything but take what Ilya gives him, because usually, Ilya can give what he wants. What he needs.
He also remembers turning away from Shane and pretending to fall asleep. Shane, sounding like he was crying, said Ilya is normally the big spoon. Sure, Ilya gave Shane a decent blowjob, that Shane had to coax out of him by using every method he remembered, but he couldn't bring himself to face Shane afterwards. Like a coward.
Shane scoots behind him, already erect. His voice is wavering, similar to last night. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, Shane. This is big deal. Please, take my thigh virginity." Ilya jokes, even though Shane can't see his eye roll. Shane always approaches what he deems to be atypical behaviors from a top, as one would an alley cat.
Ilya hears the unmistakable opening of the cap, then Shane's huffs of preparation. The bottle squirts, then Ilya feels a cold swipe of generously applied lube in between his thighs. Shane runs his clean hand over Ilya's back, appreciating the outline of muscle and divot of bones.
"Shane?" Ilya crooks his neck to see Shane's face screwed up.
"Yeah?"
Seeing the trepidation written in Shane's furrowed eyebrows and slightly scrunched nose, Ilya shifts until he's practically on his back, facing Shane. "Are you sure?"
"I don't know how to do this." He says.
Ilya has never been able to successfully coax Shane to talk about his "horror stories" of when he was with women, so it could be totally true Shane doesn't know how to do this. Also, Shane has never expressed an interest in fucking any hole besides Ilya's throat, and that's what thigh fucking is supposed to simulate. A pussy.
Ilya fixes himself, tucking an arm under his pillow, using the other arm to prop himself up. From how they are positioned, Shane pressed against Ilya with his groin just under Ilya's ass, Ilya can't reach Shane's dick to direct him.
"Put your cock between my thighs," Ilya instructs. He sucks in a harsh breath when Shane does just that. His shaft barely brushes Ilya's balls, slick from the lube and hesitant from Shane's guiding hand. "Tell me if it's too tight."
Shane shakes his head. His face is red under his freckles, and his eyes are closed in focus. "Fuck, that feels good." He grits out, half-ashamed, half entranced.
"Da. Now, do what feels best. Thrust, roll, whatever." Ilya rocks his hips backwards, surprising Shane, goading him to move.
Shane tips forward, then draws back, once, twice. Ilya meets him for every gentle thrust, adding pleasant noises and grunts, even though he can't feel anything. Simply knowing Shane is enjoying himself is enough.
"Can you talk to me?" Shane asks. He snakes one hand around Ilya's waist, his nails leaving red trails across his abdomen. Shane thumbs at Ilya's nipple, then clamps his mouth around it. Still rocking slightly, not completely lost in it yet.
Ilya ropes his arm over Shane's neck. "What would you like me to say?" He grips Shane's jaw, removing his mouth from Ilya's now swollen bud. "That you are doing so well, taking me like this? That I want you to use me, so I can milk you dry with only my thighs?"
Shane's body trembles as his thrusts become hurried. Ilya feels his husband's dick slipping in and out of the pocket his thighs form. Precome and lube mix so Shane glides can increase their pace. "Yeah. That—that."
"Mm. Maybe I want you to talk to me." Ilya growls. "Maybe I want you to tell me how good I am doing. How well I take you."
Shane slumps his forehead against Ilya's bicep, breathing in and out. His hips stutter as Ilya clamps his thighs tighter on a downstroke. "Okay." He pauses. "You're doing so well, taking me. L-letting me use your hole."
Ilya disguises a chuckle as a hitched moan. Shane sounds, attempting to dirty-talk his husband, like he's covered in egg yolk. He seems disgusted with himself, like his words hurt to come out. Ilya doesn't want to entertain that for much longer.
"My hole? Hm. I miss your hole. Was so good to me. Inviting me in. Keeping me there." Ilya muses.
Shane tangles their legs together at the base of their bed and holds Ilya's hip, moving it back on him. He loses all semblance of rhythm, replaced by eager rutting. Then, he switches to a sensual roll of his hips, favoring the head of his dick.
"Ilya. Ilya—I'm g-gonna cum."
"Yeah? You're gonna cum 'cause I'm so good. I remember the feeling."
The only answer is breathy whimpers and whines. Ilya reaches his hand backwards to cup Shane's ass, encouraging him.
Shane tenses against Ilya, making vulgar noises into the muscle of Ilya's arm. "Oh God, Ilya. Nghhh—"
Shane bursts cum in and over Ilya's thighs. It lands warm and sticky on pure muscle; Ilya lets out a lewd moan in unison with Shane.
Ilya gives them both a moment to catch their breath: Ilya from brain pleasure, never bodily. Shane from orgasming. Then, "Lick it up."
Ilya shifts onto his back, and spreads his legs. He beckons for Shane to look at the mess he made, and raises his eyebrows for him to listen. If Ilya were flexible enough, he would make a feast out of his husband's cum.
Shane shakily settles between Ilya's thighs. He pokes his tongue out, panting, making hooded eye contact with Ilya as it sweeps and collects his own spend. He unhinges his jaw to show Ilya what he gathered, then swallows through an open mouth.
"Fuck, Shane. How do you taste?"
Shane thinks, then decides, "Like lube." Ilya can't help but laugh, voice deep in his satiated state. Shane, post or pre or during orgasm, takes things so literally.
Shane continues indulging for a few moments, while Ilya watches. His head is completely engrossed. His dick, however, is not. Shane is close enough to Ilya's crotch to see this, and Ilya's heart breaks a bit for his husband. Having to experience an orgasm all alone, then be faced with Ilya's lack of excitement. And there's no way to make it up to him.
Shane crawls up Ilya's body. He looks like he wants to say something; it's on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he kisses Ilya reverently.
Ilya apologizes with his tongue and secures it with his teeth. He grips Shane's hair in tufts between his knuckles, and shoves their noses against each other. He breathes in ShaneShaneShane. And breathes out IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou. I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry.