Work Text:
If Ilya could do it all over again, there is one thing he would change.
It's not a big thing. It’s so tiny, in comparison to everything Shane gives him: all his love and patience and kindness and his mocking smiles on the ice and his quiet laughter in the mornings and long summer days at the cottage and, yes, his body, his beautiful insatiable body that craves Ilya and welcomes Ilya and belongs to Ilya, as Shane swears over and over again. Ilya is so fucking lucky, so fucking amazed every time they touch, still overwhelmed with gratitude that never fades no matter how many times and how many ways they savor each other. It doesn't matter at all, really, that there is one way he's never had Shane, and never will.
But still. If he could do everything over from the beginning, he would ask Shane to fuck him, first.
He couldn't have known. Shane was gorgeous and horny and inexperienced and Ilya wanted to be inside him, as any normal man would, and then Shane responded the way he did, nervous but excited, so fucking pretty when he blushed, and it quickly became an obsession. He needed to fuck Shane, even just once in his life. Poor dumb 18-year-old Ilya, teasing and texting and wanting so desperately, with no idea what he was about to awaken.
Because fucking Shane Hollander for the first time was like dynamiting a dam. Unleashing a flood that could drown the earth. Shane was a force of nature, glorious, powerful, undeniable, and what he demanded, what he required, was to be fucked. Hard. And often. And well.
In the face of such elemental ferocity, Ilya can only stand in awe. He doesn't wish for things to be different; what would be the point? Wishing Shane Hollander was a switch would be like, well, wishing Shane Hollander didn't play hockey. You might as well ask the sky to change color to suit your mood. Ilya loves Shane for everything he is–and he is everything.
So Ilya’s job, his holy and exalted calling, is to fuck Shane until one of their bodies gives out. It is an honor he does not take lightly.
And it doesn’t matter if, every once in a while, he daydreams about being the one to get fucked, instead.
This is stupid, really, because Ilya has never been much of a switch either. He's only bottomed a handful of times. Even in his sluttiest era, he was seldom visited by the urge, and his partners have almost never suggested it–apparently very few people look at an enormous, muscular, Russian hockey player and think "I want to rail him." That's fine with Ilya. He loves to top, and he's good at it, as Shane reminds him regularly and unequivocally.
It shouldn't be a hardship to go the rest of his life without bottoming. It shouldn't be, and it's not.
But every time he pushes the thought down into the silent depths of his mind, it bobs up to the surface again.
Shane would be so beautiful as a top, is part of the problem. That lithe muscled body, those deep brown eyes, burning straight into Ilya’s soul as he works him open and gives him what he needs. Ilya can imagine it. Ilya does imagine it, not often–he can’t allow this impossible idea free range–but on rare nights when Shane has a game and he doesn’t, when their schedules don’t allow them to call or FaceTime, he retreats into his fantasies and lies supine and helpless while Shane takes him apart.
What bothers him, he tells himself, is that Shane has never even offered. He’s usually such a perfect boyfriend, so attuned to Ilya’s every need, but he’s never once considered that Ilya might want to be held down and teased until he’s begging for Shane’s cock.
Ilya nurses this little grievance for several weeks until the corollary occurs to him: he’s never offered, either. For all he knows, Shane might think about Ilya spread wide and wanting just as much as Ilya thinks about Shane plunging into him. Maybe they’re both holding something back, not wanting to be the first to bring it up.
Okay, then. Ilya will offer.
Even after he decides this, it’s another two weeks before he can bring himself to make a move. He’s nervous. Not even afraid that Shane will reject him, but afraid of how much he wants this, of how shaky and vulnerable it makes him feel. He thinks of their early years, all that struggling to maintain a calm facade, to never let Shane see the depth of Ilya’s craving.
But it’s not like that anymore. They’re boyfriends now. Shane loves Ilya. They trust each other. Ilya can trust Shane with this rare desire that won’t let him go.
They’re on the bed one night, both shirtless, Shane straddling him as Ilya works his pecs with hands and mouth. He catches one of Shane’s nipples between his teeth–a little hard, a little rough, just the way Shane likes it. Shane makes this sweet, delirious sound that hits Ilya’s system like a shot of good vodka, and suddenly Ilya feels brave. He tips his head back, looks Shane in the eyes, and says, “You can fuck me if you want to.”
Shane goes still. He’s blushing dark under his freckles, but he doesn’t break eye contact. “Ilya. What?”
The moment of bravery is over. “Nothing. Never mind.” Ilya wants to crawl under the bed and hide. He goes for the next best option and buries his face in Shane’s neck, kissing and sucking. Shane is quiet for a moment, stroking his hair, and Ilya thinks maybe he’ll just let it pass and they’ll never have to talk about it again.
“You want that?” Shane says gently. “You want me to top you?”
“Very sorry, no English,” Ilya mumbles into Shane’s collarbone.
“You asshole,” Shane says fondly. They’re quiet for another minute. Then Shane says, “You know, when I’ve done that before, it hasn’t gone great.”
“With women,” Ilya says, still not lifting his head. “I am prettier than Rose Landry. And have bigger tits. You would stay hard with me.” As he says it, though, Shane shifts in his lap and Ilya can feel that he’s going soft. They both are. He’s completely fucked this up.
“I could try,” Shane says. Ilya shakes his head, rolling his forehead on Shane’s shoulder. He doesn’t want Shane to try. He wants Shane to shove Ilya on his back and crawl on top of him with eyes like a panther’s. He wants Shane to want to fuck him.
“Ilya,” Shane insists. “I can try. I want to give you anything you want, sweetheart. I might not be good at it, but if you’ll be patient with me, I’ll try it.” Ilya should have known it would go this way. Now they’ll have incredibly awkward sex, Shane doing his best as always even in a role that doesn’t suit him, and it will be fine, but it won’t be what Ilya craves.
“Is okay,” he says, finally looking up at Shane again. “Was just… little thought.” What’s the English word he needs? “Impulse. Stupid impulse. Does not matter. I don’t even like it that much.”
Shane’s beautiful mouth turns down just a little. “You don’t even… you’ve done it before, then? Bottomed?”
“Few times,” Ilya admits.
“You never told me that.”
“You never asked.” They tend to steer clear of any discussion of Ilya’s extensive sexual history. Shane gets jealous sometimes, a little, but mostly it’s Ilya who prefers to avoid the subject. It makes him feel stupid–all those years throwing himself into bed with random women (and occasionally men), going through the motions, running away from the one person he truly wanted.
“I’m asking now,” Shane says. “When did you bottom?”
“First time was with Sasha,” Ilya says. Shane knows about Sasha, the outline at least. “Wanted to try it, but… was no good. He is not good top. Too careless, too selfish.”
He sees a muscle tighten in Shane’s jaw, but his boyfriend’s voice is soft. “Ilya. Did he… did it hurt?”
Ilya laughs. “Ah, no. Might have hurt if he got more than the tip in before he came.”
Shane laughs too. “Pathetic.”
“We were teenagers,” Ilya reminds him. “And I am very beautiful. Cannot blame him too much.”
“I can blame him as much as I want,” says Shane. “Did you try again?”
“Not with Sasha,” says Ilya. “A few times with other men, years ago. Just guys from bars.”
“Did you like it?” Shane asks.
“Sometimes,” he says. “This one leather daddy, older than me, big guy… he made it feel very good. Bent me over couch and fucked me from behind. That was hot.”
“Mmm. It sounds hot.” Shane scratches the back of Ilya’s neck lightly, and Ilya shivers. Maybe he hasn’t completely ruined tonight, after all. “Bet you looked nice like that.”
“It was after away game, though, so I never saw him again,” Ilya says. “Most times were… okay. Best was with Sveta.”
Shane’s hand on Ilya’s neck goes still. Fuck. “Svetlana? You’ve bottomed with Svetlana?”
Sveta is a sore spot. Shane has met her, and they get along well, but he doesn’t like to be reminded that she and Ilya used to sleep together. Plus, there was that time Ilya said he might marry her. Shane has forgiven him for that, but he’ll probably never stop making Ilya pay for it. Ilya has explained over and over that it was never like that between them, not really, but the fact is that Sveta and Shane are the only two people he’s fucked who he loves, and to Shane, that makes Sveta his competition.
Competition, Ilya thinks. Oh. He’s played this all wrong, but it’s not too late to turn it around.
“Yes, Hollander, is possible to bottom with girls,” he says with his most annoying smirk. “You have heard of dildos?”
“Of course I’ve–fuck off,” Shane says. His mouth twitches, and Ilya knows he’s trying not to smile.
“Women can buy dildos too. Can fuck men with them, or other women.” The smirk spreads into a grin. “Sveta is very good with dildo.”
Shane twists his fingers into Ilya’s hair and tugs gently. “Ilya.” A warning. Shane knows exactly what Ilya is trying to do.
That doesn’t mean it won’t work.
“Was fucking hot,” he goes on, eyes locked on Shane’s. “So different from usual. Hot to see her like that, taking control.” It had been a little silly, too, especially the first time; Sveta couldn’t stop giggling about how weird the strap-on felt, the way its weight moved. He doesn’t need to tell Shane that, though.
“She was… in charge?” He watches Shane swallow. “You let her?”
“Yeah. When she was wearing dildo, I let her push me around, put me where she wanted me. She liked me on my back, so we could both watch it go in.” The memory is hot. Shane’s eyes on Ilya’s face are hotter. “One time she handcuffed me and fucked me so slow. Would not touch my dick. I don’t even know how long, felt like hours.”
“Did you come like that?” Shane rasps. “Untouched?”
“No, I could not. She made me fucking beg, but finally she put her hand on me…” Ilya slides his own hand down to demonstrate. His erection is back. He can tell that Shane’s is well on its way, too. “Her strap still inside. Baby. I came so fucking hard, I thought I would die.”
“I don’t want to hear any more about Svetlana,” Shane says. He’s so pretty when he’s lying. His mouth hangs open as he grinds down against Ilya’s dick.
“Different time,” Ilya manages to say, though he’s breathing so hard it’s difficult to get the words out, “she made me suck it first. To get it wet.”
“Ilya, shut the fuck up,” says Shane, and shoves him backward onto the bed.
“You asked,” he protests, triumphing in the weight of Shane’s hands pinning his wrists down, Shane’s hips working between his thighs. “Is okay, Hollander, if you cannot do this–cannot fuck me like Sveta does. I know you do not have experience–”
Shane grabs his chin, hard, and shoves two fingers into Ilya’s mouth. “I said. Shut. Up.”
Reflexively, Ilya tightens his lips around Shane’s fingers, sucks them, strokes them with his tongue. Shane had to let go of one of Ilya’s wrists to grab his face, but Ilya leaves the hand above his head anyway. It feels fucking good, to go pliant under Shane, to give up control for once.
“Svetlana doesn’t fucking touch you,” Shane says. Ilya moans his agreement, wet and open-mouthed. “You’re mine. Whatever you need, I’m the one who gives it to you. Understand?” Fuck, Ilya understands, he understands so well. This is exactly the Shane he’s been imagining, the Shane he’s been yearning for: this predatory, powerful man, staring down at him like Ilya is a decadent treat.
Shane’s slick fingers thrust deeper into Ilya’s mouth. “Nice and wet,” he says. “Like you said. With Sveta.” His other hand grips Ilya’s wrist so hard it will probably bruise. Ilya whimpers, already stupid with bliss.
“Yeah, you want that, don’t you? I’m gonna open you up with your own spit, and then…” Shane’s pupils are huge and dark. “Then I’m gonna remind you who the fuck you belong to.”
Ilya has tears in his eyes, but they are from gagging, not from being completely overwhelmed by how much he loves this man. Russians do not cry during sex.
He whines a little when Shane’s fingers leave his mouth and Shane’s weight leaves his body, but then Shane is pulling his pants and boxers off in one motion and kneeling between his legs. Two spit-slick fingertips circle his hole.
“Is clean,” Ilya gasps. “Got… ready for you, before.”
“Oh, baby,” Shane murmurs, syrupy condescension dripping from his voice. “You’ve been planning this, huh? You wanted my dick so fucking bad.”
“Yes.” One fingertip slides into him, and Ilya moans. “Wanted it for weeks. Thinking about being fucked by Shane Hollander. Being slut for Shane Hollander.”
“A slut for me, huh? With this tight little hole?” Just that single finger, working in and out, barely, maybe to the first knuckle. They’ve done this much before, Shane’s finger inside Ilya while sucking his dick, but it feels so different when Ilya knows it’s building up to something more. “You sure you’ve been fucked before? You feel more like a virgin.”
Ilya’s jaw drops open, he gulps for air, his back arches. For a second he thinks he’s already coming, but no, not yet.
“Holy shit,” says Shane. His hand goes still. “Ilya. Baby.”
“Do not fucking stop Hollander I will fucking kill you,” Ilya manages to say, in some approximation of English. Shane laughs under his breath and goes back to fingering him.
After another minute, Shane pushes in with the second finger. Ilya is moaning on every gentle thrust. “Don’t worry,” Shane says conversationally. “If this is your first time. You don’t have to lie to me. I can teach you how to take my dick. I’m good at it.”
“Is not my first fucking time, Hollander, what the fuck.”
Shane laughs. It’s a little mean, and Ilya loves it. “Oh yeah? How big was Svetlana’s dildo, like four inches?”
“I don’t know! It was normal fucking dildo.” It wasn’t four inches, but it was also, now that Ilya thinks about it, noticeably smaller than Shane. Ilya is very proud of his big dick, but as with so many things, he and Shane are close to evenly matched. Ilya’s actually not sure, upon consideration, that he’s ever taken a dick as big as Shane’s.
“Oh, you’re nervous,” says Shane, affectionately scornful. “Relax, baby. I’m not going to hurt you.” He presses a kiss to the inside of Ilya’s knee. “Let’s get you wetter, yeah?” Ilya expects him to reach for the lube in the bedside table, but instead Shane uses his free hand to lift one of Ilya’s thighs up and back, spreading him obscenely. Ilya tosses his head back on the pillow and curses.
“No, watch me,” Shane says. Ilya does. Eyes locked on his, Shane opens his mouth and lets his tongue loll out, spit dripping off it–drooling, fuck, Shane Hollander is drooling–down onto his own fingers where they disappear into Ilya’s hole. Ilya feels Shane’s spit sliding down his rim and considers dying, or going insane. Then Shane says “Good boy” and he decides he can do both.
Shane gets a third finger inside him. It’s tight, but Ilya breathes through the stretch and makes himself relax, and then–fuck, it’s so good. It burns a little, in the best way, like his legs burning on the ice when he’s skating flat out, not caring how sore he’ll be later. He doesn’t have much leverage like this, but he rocks his hips, trying to take Shane deeper. In response, Shane curls his fingers, and–
“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck, Shane, Shane!”
The love of his life smirks up at him from between his legs. “Forgot you had a prostate, huh?”
“How did you find that so fast? How does that feel so fucking good? My love, you are brilliant, you are perfect…” Dimly, Ilya realizes he’s speaking Russian. He can’t focus on translation right now. He’s hot all over, trembling with a feeling so intense it barely counts as pleasure. Shane just keeps smiling, those perfect fingers working inside him, dragging him toward the edge.
“Shane.” He claws the English words from the depths of his brain. “Too much. Please. I will come.”
“Yeah,” says Shane, not slowing down at all. “You’re gonna come, and then I’m gonna fuck you.”
“Will be too… too much,” Ilya pleads. There’s another word he wants, but he can’t find it.
“You’ve fucked me when I was oversensitive a thousand times, Ilya,” and oh, that’s the word he needs, oversensitive, he opens his mouth to thank Shane, but then Shane says “Don’t be such a baby” and Ilya’s orgasm hits him like a fucking stampede, flattening him in its endless, animal rush.
Shane’s fingers stay inside him as he shivers and gasps through the aftershocks. Ilya’s stomach is striped with his own come, and Shane gazes up at him as he lowers his head and laps at it like a kitten. Another spasm racks Ilya’s body. “Shane. Fuck,” he says again. At least those words he remembers. The most important ones.
“You came without touching your dick,” Shane says. “You ever do that before?”
“No. Fuck.” Ilya feels around until he finds his shirt where one of them threw it earlier, uses it to wipe off his stomach. “Never. You are fucking sex god, is what you want to hear?”
“Not really.” Shane crawls up his body, and it hits Ilya for the first time that he is naked and Shane is still half dressed. It’s delicious, feeling so exposed, so vulnerable. Straddling Ilya’s hips, Shane kisses him hard, pushing his head into the mattress. “I want to hear you beg for it,” he whispers.
“Why?” Ilya has recovered enough to say. “You need extra time to get hard?”
Shane sits straight up. “If you’ve changed your mind about bottoming, I can go jerk off in the shower.”
“No!” Ilya grabs Shane’s thighs. “No. Baby. Angel. Please. Was a joke. I want your dick.”
Shane raises his eyebrows but otherwise doesn’t move.
Ilya licks his lips. “Shane, my love,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “I want you to fuck me. I have wanted this for so long. I want your dick. Please. Please fuck me. I am… I want to feel like I am completely yours.”
“Ilya. God,” Shane breathes. “I love you so much.”
He stands and strips with his usual graceful efficiency, then grabs the bottle of lube from the table. “Condom?” They’ve been exclusive for over a year now, but they still use condoms more often than not, because of the mess.
“No,” says Ilya. “Please.” He pauses, then adds, “No one has ever come in me.”
Shane freezes. Ilya is pretty sure it is scientifically impossible for a man’s eyes to turn completely black from lust, but nevertheless, he sees what he sees. A moment later Shane is on top of him again, grabbing Ilya by the hair and kissing him so deep and filthy he hears his jaw pop. Ilya moans into his mouth. Shane’s cock is hard, pressing into his hip; Ilya can feel it leaking on his skin. Ilya doesn’t think he can get hard again this fast, but his own dick twitches bravely in response.
Then Shane rolls off him and flops on his back on the bed.
“Okay,” he says.
Ilya pushes himself up on his elbows and stares at his boyfriend. “Okay? Hollander, you have skipped a step.”
“No, I haven’t.” Shane pours some lube into his hand and slicks it slowly up and down his cock, accompanied by lovely little half-vocalized grunts of pleasure. Ilya watches, confused and entranced.
Finally, Shane looks back at him and says, “Get on.”
“What?”
With a self-satisfied smile, Shane folds his hands behind his head. The picture of relaxation, if it weren’t for his cock standing at a sharp angle, dark with blood and glistening with lube. “You want this dick so bad, show me. Come take it.”
Ilya is going to marry this man so much. He rises to his knees and swings a leg across Shane’s body. Shane is gorgeous, spread out beneath him: his broad, muscled chest, skin warm and nearly hairless except for the dark tufts under his arms. He watches hungrily as Ilya lubes up his fingers and reaches down to slick himself.
“You're beautiful,” Shane says.
Ilya’s slippery hand finds Shane’s cock and works it once, twice, earning a low moan that rumbles up his legs. As he lines it up carefully with his hole, he meets Shane’s eyes.
“I love you,” Ilya says, and sinks onto Shane’s dick.
Slowly. It’s big. It’s–fuck, it’s so fucking big. It doesn’t hurt exactly, but he feels it so much there’s hardly room in his body. Ilya’s eyes flutter closed as he eases down, then up again, fucking himself on one sweet inch.
“Holy shit,” Shane says. His voice is strained. When Ilya opens his eyes, Shane is red from his face down to below his nipples, body tight with tension.
Ilya laughs breathlessly. “Going to come already? Just like pathetic Sasha?”
“No fucking way,” Shane says. “It’s just, fuck, it’s hot. Feeling you work for it like this.”
“Told you I want it,” Ilya says. He lets himself sink down a little more, take it a little deeper, and groans. “Fuck. Maybe you are right. Maybe I am virgin. Never felt like this.”
“Me neither,” says Shane. “Keep going. You can take more.”
“Don’t fucking rush me, Hollander.” Ilya can take more, though–he wants more–so he does, little by little, deeper and deeper. His thighs burn. At some point his cock decided it wanted a piece of this action; he’s hard again, but that doesn’t matter right now. Nothing matters but Shane inside him, hot and perfect, filling him up to his ribcage, up to his chest.
“Baby,” Ilya says. “You are fucking my heart.”
Shane laughs, not a low sexy laugh but a cackle of surprise that makes his abdominal muscles jump, which in turn makes Ilya whine. “That’s so gross, Ilya,” he says, but he sounds delighted. His hands are still folded behind his head.
“I beg you to fuck me and you still make me do all the work,” Ilya grumbles.
“Oh, yeah?” Suddenly, Shane grabs Ilya by the hips. In the same motion, he thrusts up, hard. The sound that comes out of Ilya’s mouth is not a word in English or Russian.
“Better?”
“Fuck.” Ilya braces his hands on Shane’s chest and rocks back to meet the next thrust. “Yeah, fuck, gimme, love you, fucking love you–” Shane’s dick isn’t quite hitting the precise spot his fingers found, but it’s everywhere, filling up his senses, filling up the world, instead of light or air or gravity there is only Shane, Shane, Shane.
“Love you too,” Shane groans. “Gonna–give you what you need. No one else.”
“No one else, Shane. All yours.”
Shane's eyes burn into his. “Fucking show me.”
Ilya doesn't have a lot of experience in this specific position, but he didn't become the greatest hockey player of his generation because he lacks stamina. He gives it everything he's got. Shane lies back and lets Ilya set the pace, slow at first, then faster and harder, finding a rhythm and rocking into it until they're both sweating and breathless and frantic. Ilya could swear he can feel Shane's pulse inside him.
After only a few minutes, his shoulders and thighs are trembling. It turns out riding dick works different muscles than ice skating. He’s about thirty seconds from collapsing onto Shane’s chest. Shane must notice, because he runs his hands up Ilya's arms and cups his chin. "Baby,” he says. “Roll over for me.”
Ilya doesn’t so much obey as melt. He sprawls on his back, panting, while Shane arranges himself on top of him. Then his legs are over Shane's shoulders, and Shane's face is above him, the size of the entire sky.
“You did so good,” Shane says. “I'm gonna take care of you now, okay?”
Angel that he is, he doesn't wait for an answer, just slides in, slow and inexorable and so fucking deep. Ilya sucks in air and grabs Shane’s shoulders for dear life.
“Fuck me,” he groans. “Fucking–use me, Shane.”
“Yeah?” Shane’s next thrust is harder. “That’s what you want? You want to be a good little hole for me to use?” Shane’s cheating a little, borrowing a line Ilya’s used on him a thousand times, but it still crackles through Ilya like electricity, makes him throw back his head and keen.
“Want to be good for you,” Ilya says.
“You're so good,” Shane says. His voice is gentle but he’s starting to get rough, his legendary control fraying at the edges. Ilya is helpless to do anything but dig his nails into Shane's back and take it. Shane is pounding into him now, less precise and more urgent with every stroke, and Ilya can see the haze in his eyes that means he's close.
“Your hole,” Ilya says. “Only yours to fuck. Only yours to come in.” Shane's mouth drops open, and Ilya summons unimaginable strength and gets his hand between their bodies, wraps it around his dick, because he knows they're almost out of time. “Fill me up. Want to come with your come in me.”
“Fuck fuck fuck,” says Shane, higher and quieter each time, and then his body is shaking and he's coming, and Ilya can feel it, hot and wet inside him, can feel the way Shane jerks, and Ilya's hand tightens on his cock of his own accord and he's coming too.
They lie there together, breathing. Ilya slowly becomes aware that his hips are killing him, since he's still folded in half under Shane.
“I see now why you do so much boring yoga,” he says. “Is good for bottom to be flexible.”
Shane chuckles and lifts up so Ilya can straighten his legs. This means his softening dick slips out of Ilya's hole. The combined sensation leaves Ilya simultaneously relieved, disappointed, slightly grossed out, and incredibly satisfied. That's Shane Hollander’s come leaking out of him onto his organic Egyptian cotton sheets. Which Shane Hollander is definitely going to make him get up and wash, any minute.
“You want to do it with me sometime?” Shane asks, nuzzling Ilya’s ear. “In case we ever want to try this again?”
“Yoga? What the fuck, Hollander,” Ilya says. “Is one thing to get fucked, but I have reputation to maintain, you know?”
Shane laughs sleepily into Ilya's hair. He's sweaty and heavy and sticky with Ilya's come. Ilya is so in love he might explode.
“Okay,” he says. “Maybe sometime I try yoga.”