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The idea comes to Ilya easily when Shane starts to shift on top of him, suddenly restless. He knows exactly how Shane gets when he has to stay in one place for too long, but in all the time they’ve been together, Ilya has figured out the things that soothe him most.
It started slowly, curling a hand around Shane’s wrist and guiding it into his lap or over his chest, keeping him grounded. He didn’t wear watches often, but after seeing Shane toy with the clasp, keeping himself distracted, he started wearing woven bracelets more.
But in the privacy of their homes, away from prying eyes, it’s different; it’s Ilya’s fingers that settle him, turning him to putty. Shane never makes it easy though, but Ilya has never minded the challenge. It’s usually him wrapping an arm around Shane, and only when he starts to lean in, does Ilya brush the pads of his fingers over his jaw, over his lips.
It’s rare that Shane will initiate something, subtle in his movements as he takes Ilya’s hand, lining them up together, palm to pads—but Ilya knows him better. He knows him best.
“You don't have to ask,” Ilya had said the first time, sitting side by side in his Boston home, the morning before their game, scarfing down breakfast.
Shane had stilled, blushing furiously, but Ilya knew he had nothing to be ashamed of. He’d looked away from the show they were watching and smoothed his fingers over Shane’s lips, only moments later had he felt Shane's wet mouth gently start to suck.
But this time, Ilya doesn’t consider how Shane might react, if he’ll shy away or go headfirst—he just wants.
They’re lying on the couch post game, watching a movie from the too-long list Shane has made for Ilya to watch, when he begins to fidget on top of him. It’s his sock-clad feet beating against the arm rest that catch Ilya’s attention first, and then he’s scratching his nails over Ilya’s sweatpants, and then his entire body is squirming.
Shane’s cheek is smushed into his stomach, chewing on his lip and completely unfocused even as his eyes are on the screen.
“Up.” Ilya tugs on his shoulder and Shane sits up, wordlessly. It sends a thrill down his spine.
This Shane is his favourite, obedient and hazy around the edges, always quick to listen to everything he says, to everything he doesn't say.
Ilya shifts, head resting against the arm rest and pushes his pants down far enough for his cock to spring free.
Shane licks his lips, hands running up and down Ilya’s thighs. Restless.
“Lay down, moy shchenochek.” Ilya pats his thigh and Shane listens, tilting his head back and looking up at Ilya with big pleading eyes.
Ilya wraps one hand around Shane’s neck, the other around his still soft cock, and slowly feeds him until he feels the tip hit the back of Shane’s throat.
Shane swallows, but he doesn’t gag—he never does.
“Good boy,” Ilya murmurs. He tucks an arm beneath his head, the fingers of his other hand running through Shane's damp hair.
Shane swirls his tongue a few times, hollowing his cheeks and suckling. When he finally settles, he breathes through his nose and sighs, becoming a dead weight over him.
“When movie is over, you can make me cum.” He scratches behind Shane’s ear and feels him nod against his leg.
Good, Ilya thinks, a solution that fills them both.
It’s just over an hour later when the credits start rolling, Shane passed out and drooling on Ilya’s cock. If Ilya waits long enough, he could watch himself get hard in Shane's mouth, pump himself as he sleeps and finish—Shane’s stomach grumbles.
As much as he wants to indulge himself, he would rather Shane. Shane who looks tired and sloppy and huffing through his nose with each breath. He can't help but want to treat him.
He carefully shifts upward, his cock slipping out of Shane's mouth and stands. He slips himself back into his boxers and watches as Shane smacks his lips together, always looking for something to fill his mouth.
He makes his way to the kitchen, silently thanking Luna for gifting him one of those quiet blenders, as he makes a smoothie for Shane. Everything good and healthy, with a little more honey than Shane would say is okay but he doesn’t have to know.
It doesn’t take long for Ilya to make him the smoothie and tuna melt, but it’s long enough for Shane to wake up.
“Ilya?” Shane’s head is poking up from behind the couch, mouth hanging open and looking completely out of it, he looks beautiful. “I thought you left,” Shane murmurs, lethargic as he rubs a fist over his eye.
Ilya’s face softens, but that only lasts so long. “And go where? This is my house.” Ilya sits next to him.
Shane whines, tucking himself under Ilya’s arm. “Don’t be mean to me, you dick.”
“Don’t say stupid things,” he replies, but the words don’t hold any heat as he places the plate on Shane's lap, holding the smoothie up to his face.
Shane doesn’t move, but he does furrow his eyebrows at the glass.
“Are you trying to drink with your mind? Is this new trick you learn?” Ilya can’t help it; Shane is always an easy target, but especially like this—sleepy and confused.
Shane hums, leaning forward. Just when Ilya closes his eyes, meeting him the rest of the way, Shane bites his jaw, albeit playfully.
Sometimes, away from the ice and prying eyes, Shane lets himself be everything he wants to be. Ilya is the only one lucky enough to see Shane for all that he is. He’s commanding and eager, always learning, but he is also tender and docile. Here he isn’t someone who constantly needs to prove others wrong or perform for the cameras.
Sometimes, all Shane needs is the relief and steadiness that having something in his mouth brings him. On the ice, it’s gnawing on his mouth guard, or chewing on his lip. But in the solitude of the spaces they have created for each other, it’s Ilya in his mouth that brings him what he needs.
These are things Ilya would have found himself teasing Shane a few years ago, but he understands now. Shane doesn’t care to be asked ten questions about what he wants to eat or how he wants to spend the day; sometimes he just wants to be told what to do.
So Ilya will take his hand and guide him, he’ll speak to him in a way that leaves no room for Shane to think and only to listen. He’ll watch Shane hand over control because he knows Ilya will keep it safe in the palm of his hands, in the sound of his voice.
Ilya leans into the touch rather than away from it, feels Shane mouthing along his jaw. “Good boys don’t bite.”
Shane whimpers, tucking his face in Ilya’s neck. He squeezes his legs together.
Ilya hums, nuzzling his nose into Shane's hair. He sets the plate on the table and brings the glass to his mouth, not wiping the smoothie from the top of his lip. Shane eyes him for a long moment before giving in, swiping the flat of his tongue over Ilya’s mouth.
“Mhm.” Ilya curls his free hand around Shane’s throat and squeezes, letting Shane lap away every last bit.
Shane pulls the straw out of the glass and before Ilya knows it, his cheek is cold and dripping with the liquid.
“Serious?” Ilya huffs.
Shane shrugs, sucks the remnants on the straw before setting the glass aside. In one smooth motion, he throws a leg over Ilya’s lap and his arms around his shoulders. “Let me help.”
“You are useless. Puppy can’t clean own mess.” Ilya curls his hands around Shane’s waist and pulls him close, chests flush together.
Instead of answering, Shane tilts Ilya’s chin to the side and licks a stripe over his cheek, slow and lingering.
“Shane.” Ilya presses his cheek harder when he feels the tip of his tongue flickering. His hands slide up Shane’s ribs, over his arms and grab his wrists, twisting his arms behind his back.
“Can’t handle it?” Shane breathes out, chest heaving as he sits back.
Ilya shakes his head, incredulous—even off the ice, Shane finds a way to grind his gears. “How about I make you handle it?” He shifts Shane’s wrists into one hand, brushing his thumb over Shane’s bottom lip. “Heel.”
Shane’s mouth falls open and his lips wrap around Ilya’s thumb. Wordlessly, he slides off Ilya’s lap and settles between his legs, pulling off his thumb with a pop.
Ilya spreads his legs, slouching further into the couch. He tugs on the drawstring of his sweatpants, but before he has the chance to pull them down, Shane’s hands are there first, pulling his cock out.
“Don’t fall asleep on my cock again.” He pats Shane's cheek, condescending, and grins.
Shane looks up through his lashes, his cheeks tinged pink. “Yeah,” he murmurs, wrapping a gentle hand around the shaft, thumb smoothing over the wet tip.
After that, Shane doesn’t waste any time as he takes Ilya’s cock deep into his mouth. Ilya threads his fingers through the hair at the base of Shane’s skull and pulls, grunting, “That’s it, baby.”
Shane hums around his cock, bobbing his head up and down. His left hand holding Ilya’s and the other wrapped around the base of Ilya’s cock.
Ilya takes a shallow breath, can’t help but thrust into Shane’s mouth when Shane buries his nose into the mess of curls between his legs. He swallows hard as he runs his tongue over his teeth, his grip turning harsh in Shane’s hair.
“Sweetheart,” Ilya rasps, but all it does is make Shane bob his head quicker, wet squelches echoing in the otherwise quiet house.
Ilya comes without a warning, body twitching.
Shane, ever the showoff, pulls off slowly with a filthy, wet gasp, Ilya’s come dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Ilya pulls him onto his knees, running his hands through Shane’s hair and kisses him, hard.
Ilya holds his hands out. “Spit, pup.”
Shane spits, drool spilling from the corners of his mouth. He’s half humping Ilya’s leg, eager to get off as Ilya slips a hand into his pants. Shane is hard and leaking as he jerks him off brutally slow.
“My dumb little boy, huh?” Ilya breathes against his mouth. “Is okay, shh, just sit and be pretty, all you are good for.” He presses their foreheads together, listening to Shane moan as they both watch Ilya get him off.
“Yeah, yours.” Shane swallows, shirt rucked up beneath his arms and tenses. “Oh fuck, fuck.”
It’s only a matter of seconds before Shane is a trembling mess against him, breathy noises eliciting from his mouth as he comes all over Ilya’s hand.
Shane slouches forward as his body goes lax, tucking his face in Ilya’s neck. “Now feed me,” he mumbles.
Ilya knows what he means as he listens to Shane’s stomach grumble. But he’s never liked listening to Shane until he’s begging anyway. He yanks him back by the hair and smears his fingers over Shane's lips, watching them disappear into his mouth. “Treat before dinner.”
Shane’s eyes are glazed, lashes wet as he sucks Ilya’s fingers clean, never breaking eye contact. Ilya can’t take it anymore, he hauls Shane up with ease and lays him on the couch. “You make me crazy, Hollander.”
Shane looks down, even after all this time, after proving he is anything but innocent, he shies away. It only makes Ilya want to ruin him more.
“I let you on furniture.” He grabs Shane’s chin and tilts it up. “”Even though you are dirty.”
Shane’s legs twitch beneath him, his nails digging into Ilya’s thighs. “I was good.”
Ilya tilts his head and then his face immediately softens. “Always, lyubimyi.”
He pulls his beater over the top of his head and wipes Shane's stomach. Once they're sitting up again, he hands him the plate, food now gone cold, but Shane never complains after sex, too cock drunk.
Shane eats the sandwich quietly, feeding Ilya in between his own bites as they turn back to the TV. He switches the plate for the glass when he finishes, Shane finding his spot tucked under Ilya’s arm.
Shane hallows his cheeks around the straw, slurping obnoxiously.
“Can’t help it, can you?”
Shane smiles, smug.
Some things are just theirs, like these moments; when Shane can feel his most vulnerable or desperate and know Ilya won't blink twice. These moments are just as much for him.
This time Shane doesn’t hesitate when he grabs Ilya’s hands, fingers slipping between his warm tongue and settling.
Ilya can’t help but pull him closer, hiding his pleased smile in Shane’s hair.