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Shane wakes with a start, his eyes snapping open in the darkness. Something is wrong. There are bugs beneath his skin, crawling all over his body, itching to get out. His breath comes in quick pants as though waking from a nightmare, though he doesn't remember dreaming. Ilya stirs against his back.
"Hey," Ilya's sleepy voice drifts into Shane's ear canal, like a soothing balm sliding all the way down to his core. His hand curls around Shane's bare waist under the blanket, rubbing soothingly across his abs, "What's wrong?"
"Sorry," Shane whispers, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, consciously settling his breathing like his therapist taught him to do. His eyes drift to the clock on the nightstand—4:18am. "I didn't mean to wake you. I'm fine, I think." It's a lie, and they both know it. Shane's nails beg to scratch at his skin, to draw rivers of blood to wash the unknowable, incomprehensible, bad feeling away.
Ilya's hand drifts lower, explorative. He cups Shane's soft cock through the thin layer of his boxers. "Hm, I thought—" he mutters to himself, taking his hand away. With a soft grunt, he shifts over and rolls Shane gently until he's on his back, blinking up at the ceiling. A gentle finger touches Shane's jaw, tilting his head until their eyes meet in the darkness. The only light in the room comes from the stupid LED display on the air conditioning unit, which Shane really needs to cover with a piece of tape. "How do you feel?" Ilya rumbles, voice thick with sleep.
"It's late," Shane begs, balling his hands into fists at his sides. He doesn't need to bother Ilya with this. "Go to sleep."
Ilya shakes his head sharply. "I am awake."
Shane can't resist the urge any longer, his fingers uncurling of their own accord to itch at the meat of his thighs. He pushes the blanket off of himself, trying to escape the feeling of being trapped between the layers. "I feel wrong," he moans quietly, tugging at the loose hem of his boxers. "Overstimulated, I think."
"Take them off," Ilya says softly.
Usually an order which makes Shane's blood rush south, the instruction instead curls around his heart like a ribbon on a present, tied into a big red bow. Shane nods, pushing the offending garment off his hips, curling his legs up to drag the boxers over his feet. He folds them in half, then again, before dropping them carefully off the side of the bed.
"Better?" Ilya leans in to press a kiss to Shane's cheek.
Shane considers it. He rubs his palms across the bare skin of his legs where the boxers sat, and he feels better there, but something is still off. He shifts his legs apart, letting his soft cock fall into the gap between his thighs, and slides a hand up to scratch at the thick patch of hair above his dick.
He usually keeps himself fairly well trimmed, but he just hasn't had the time recently—with hockey and press appearances and Ilya—and he's let his pubic hair grow out, forming soft curls that tickle where they meet his thighs. Bingo.
"I think I need to shave," he concludes quietly, turning to capture Ilya's lips in a quick kiss. He sits up and shuffles over to the edge of the bed, "Thank you. You can go back to sleep now. I'll be back soon."
He hears Ilya snort derisively as he stands, and the bed creaks behind him. Ilya is by his side before he's even reached the bedroom door.
"I can do it by myself," Shane protests softly as Ilya's arm, warm from being bundled in all their blankets, curls protectively around his waist. "I don't need an audience."
"Shh," Ilya hushes, kissing Shane's ear as they shuffle together through the darkness towards the bathroom.
It's like a firework going off in Shane's head as Ilya flips the overhead lights on—they're harsh and unyielding, making Shane squeeze his eyes closed and bury his face against Ilya's firm shoulder. "Uuugghh," he moans softly, letting Ilya guide him blindly into the room.
"Hop up," Ilya says at the same time as Shane's bare ass meets the edge of the counter by the sink.
The marble is frigid, and Shane whimpers, shaking his head against Ilya's skin. Everything is too much right now. Too itchy, too bright, too cold. It makes Shane want to scream.
"Okay, okay," Ilya relents, disappearing from Shane's hold.
Shane keeps his eyes shut against the brightness, whining pathetically at the loss of Ilya by his side. He'll blame the fact that it's currently some ungodly time in the early hours of the morning, and that he should be snuggled up in bed with his boyfriend, as to why he's so clingy and desperate.
"Here, sit," Ilya murmurs, and Shane squints one eye open to see that Ilya has laid out a big soft towel across the marble surface. Shane's heart thumps a couple of beats faster in his chest.
He hops up, hissing when the towel shifts with the motion and a cold piece of counter touches his thigh, but Ilya is already there, tugging it back into place. Shane blinks slowly, letting his eyes gradually adjust to the bright light. Between periods of darkness, he watches Ilya flit around the bathroom, collecting items from various cabinets and piling them all beside the sink. Ilya is naked, and unashamedly so, his soft, fat cock swinging like a pendulum as he works.
"I can do that," Shane mutters, scratching absently at the itchy, uncomfortable skin on the inside of his thigh.
Ilya shushes him gently, batting his hand away. "Is done," he says with a soft smile, crowding himself between Shane's legs and cupping his face in both hands. "I will make it better," he promises, tugging Shane in for a kiss. His thumbs rub soothingly across Shane's cheeks, no doubt already flushed a soft shade of pink from all the attention.
Unlike Shane, who has to hold himself back from yawning directly into Ilya's mouth, Ilya seems wide awake, despite the time and manner of his waking. Always ready to take care of him, even when Shane refuses to ask for help.
"You don't have to," Shane murmurs futilely, turning his head into the crook of his elbow to yawn properly. He reaches for the clippers Ilya placed on the counter and finds his hand swatted out of the way once more.
"Hollander. Shut up," Ilya says firmly, "let me do this." He steps sideways towards the sink, turning the hot water tap a few times and dipping two fingers into the flow. Once satisfied with the temperature he stoppers up the sink, letting the water level rise to fill the bowl.
Shane watches through sleepy, half-lidded eyes as Ilya soaks a washcloth in the steamy water. It shouldn't be so sexy—the concept of Ilya carefully and tenderly doing something like this for him—but Shane feels his traitorous dick twitch regardless.
Ilya looks so beautiful, his sleep tousled hair contrasting brilliantly against his marble-cut body, and Shane can't help but reach out and touch. He meets Ilya's shoulder first, before trailing gentle fingertips down the length of his arm. Ilya rings out the wet washcloth, eyeing Shane with a small smile.
The warm, damp cloth makes Shane gasp as Ilya applies it gently to the area above his dick. He goes slowly—thoroughly dampening the area with gentle passes of the cloth, working the water past the soft barrier of Shane's curls until he reaches the skin beneath.
He slides the washcloth back into the sink and picks up the electric trimmer, checking the guard before flipping the device on. A low, electric buzz fills the quiet, echoey room. That's usually Shane's least favourite part—a whining, horrible sound that he can feel behind his back teeth—but with the clipper in Ilya's hand, somehow it doesn't bother him so much.
"Ready?" Ilya asks, and it's all Shane can do to nod in response.
Ilya curls his free hand around Shane's dick, tugging gently to pull the skin taut, and Shane watches, rapt, as Ilya lowers the trimmer towards his crotch.
It's not sexy, it shouldn't be sexy, why is it sexy?
The clipper vibrates gently against Shane's skin as Ilya glides the blades through the mass of hair. His dick twitches in Ilya's hand, and he can't help but notice a smirk tugging at the corner of Ilya's lips, though his impromptu barber otherwise stays a consummate professional—if one can be such a thing whilst holding onto a client's cock.
The first few passes bring away a veritable thicket of hair, and Shane feels an immediate rush of relief as Ilya removes the guard to knock the hair out of the blades into a small pile behind the sink.
"It already feels better," Shane whispers, resting his hand on the back of Ilya's neck—not to drag him in, just to touch, to complete the circuit.
"Good," Ilya says, leaning in to kiss Shane anyway, like he can't help himself. "Will you hold, please?" he asks, pressing the clipper into Shane's free hand—he knows Shane likes to feel useful, even if he's not doing anything. He retrieves the washcloth and brings it back to Shane's body, wiping away the excess hairs.
Shane spreads his legs further, enjoying the attention, and leans backwards. The cold of the mirror behind his back gives him a shock, stealing the breath from his lungs, and he shoots forwards with a visible shiver. "Fuck," he gasps, a little more awake than he was previously, "that's cold."
Ilya chuckles softly, turning to grab a second towel and draping it around Shane's shoulders. "For the princess," he murmurs, laughing when Shane scowls at him.
It does help, though, and Shane leans back with a pleased sigh as Ilya cups his balls in the washcloth. His dick is definitely waking up to the attention, and he bites his lip in embarrassment as it pulses softly, begging for touch.
Ilya takes the clippers from him, pushing Shane's legs further apart and tugging his dick to one side so he can trim up the edges with careful precision. "You like it," he teases, his voice taking on a singsongy tone, as Shane's dick swells in his hand. He tugs it skyward, pressing his thumb to the base to pull the skin taut as he runs the trimmer oh-so-carefully across Shane's balls.
"I like you touching my dick," Shane pouts, as Ilya stops doing just that to clean off the blades. He's already at half-mast, his cock jutting embarrassingly outwards from his half-trimmed bush.
"You look so pretty when you are embarrassed," Ilya comments, swapping back to the warm cloth to wipe Shane clean. If he drags the washcloth up and down the length of Shane's dick a few more times than strictly necessary, who's to say?
Shane groans, rocking his hips into the touch, but Ilya doesn't keep at it for long. He has a job to do.
He makes quick work of the rest of the hair, revisiting any small patches that he missed as he knocks everything down to an even 2mm.
Shane's sigh is one of relief as Ilya puts the clippers down. The water has cooled slightly by the time Ilya wipes him off, but that's okay. "Thank you," Shane whispers, though the words don't seem to do the act justice. His cock is swollen between their bodies, standing straight up, and when he thinks to look, he realises that Ilya isn't far behind.
"You feel better?" Ilya asks, using the towel beneath Shane to dry him off, squeezing his cock with the soft fabric.
If Shane were doing this himself, he'd probably get the razor out and shave himself fully smooth, but he's not going to ask Ilya to do that for him. He moves his legs, satisfied with the lack of curly, ticklish hair, and pets against the grain of the newly spiky patch above his dick, watching his hard cock bob softly. He nods. "Much better, thank you, Ilya."
Ilya watches him, his brow furrowed. "You want it to be smooth," he infers, correctly.
"No, it's okay," Shane says in a rush, watching shamefully as his heavy cock leans in Ilya's direction, like a sunflower chasing the sun's rays, "you don't have to, this is more than enough."
"Okay," Ilya says, picking up the can of shaving foam and giving it a hefty shake, "I want it to be smooth."
Shane can't help but be touched; Ilya knows him so well.
He watches Ilya take a brand new razor from the packet—women's (Shane read once that women's razors are better for intimate shaving)—and place it on the counter. Ilya kneels down in front of him to get a better angle as he squirts a wad of shaving foam into his palm. His hands are cold as they spread the mess around the base of Shane's dick, cupping his balls.
Seeing Ilya on his knees for him makes Shane's dick jump, warmth flooding his core.
"You have to be still," Ilya murmurs, capturing the head of Shane's cock between his lips and suckling on it as he takes the plastic protector off the pink-handled razor. He drags the blade in one long stripe through the foam before spitting Shane's cock out and shaking his head. "Too dangerous," he mutters to himself, reaching up to rinse his hands and the razor in the sink.
Ilya is probably right, but Shane can't deny that he loved the thrill, and he wraps a hand around his cock while Ilya is occupied. His body thrums with need, and he strokes himself a few times to take the edge off, until Ilya pointedly clears his throat.
"Be useful and hold it out of the way," Ilya instructs, and Shane feels his whole body flush. He does as Ilya says, tugging his shaft down so Ilya can carefully pass the razor across his skin.
He's been with Ilya for years, but Shane's not sure they've ever done anything quite this intimate. It makes his cock throb in his hand to be shown so clearly how deeply Ilya cares about him.
He can feel every hair being sliced cleanly at the root, Ilya's careful, considered strokes ensuring that he doesn't revisit the same areas more often than he needs to.
Shane repositions his cock as Ilya works, spreading his legs and pulling areas taut as five razor blades simultaneously glide across his skin. He's never trusted anyone this much, with anything, but he's not even nervous. Ilya won't hurt him.
"I'm so turned on," Shane whispers, as though it's a secret.
"No way," Ilya replies sarcastically, leaning in to worry his tongue against Shane's sensitive frenulum. He pauses for a moment, then quietly adds, "Me too."
"I don't know why this is so hot," Shane says, as Ilya's precise blades pass along his scrotum.
"Because you are a freak, Hollander," Ilya replies. The jab is easy, and not untrue. "I think I have finished," he says, rinsing off the razor and retrieving the washcloth to wipe Shane free of any remaining foam suds.
The water is fully cold now, and Shane shivers as the chill zips up his spine. The cold water doesn't do anything to curb his dick's enthusiasm, though—he's too far gone for that.
Ilya quickly trims up a couple of patches that he missed, and hums, satisfied. He presses his fingertips into the smooth skin above Shane's dick, and finally takes Shane into his mouth, all the way down to the root.
"Fuck, Ilya," Shane gasps, one hand flying to bury itself in Ilya's curls. The towel slips from his shoulder and the cold mirror presses into his back, but Shane couldn't care less. "Ohhhh, thank you," he groans, as Ilya's head starts to bob in his lap.
Once again, thank you doesn't feel like enough.
"I love you so much," Shane gasps, rocking his head back against the glass. Ilya's mouth on him feels wonderful, warm and wet, and the enthusiastic way Ilya sucks him sends zaps of excited energy down his legs, making the bottoms of his bare feet tingle.
One of Ilya's hands pets softly at the newly exposed skin at the base of Shane's dick, and the other dips lower, sliding into Shane's crack. He pulls off with a delighted gasp, looking up at Shane through his eyelashes. "Leh—let me shave you here," he begs, one fingertip stroking gently between Shane's cheeks.
"You like it," Shane parrots Ilya's earlier words back at him, and Ilya doesn't even try to deny it, just nods and nods. And what a monster Shane would be to deny his boyfriend this, after Ilya has done so much for him.
He slides off the counter and Ilya shuffles backwards, and Shane finally gets a real view of just how much Ilya likes it. His cock is standing proud from his lap, practically purple, and trembling with need.
"You really like it," Shane whispers, lifting his foot to slide it along Ilya's length, wet with precome.
"Don't," Ilya begs, his voice thready, like he's on the edge of orgasm and has been for a while. Shane puts his foot back on the floor. "Let me finish the job," Ilya says, grasping Shane's hips to turn him around.
Shane lets himself be manoeuvred, folding himself over the counter and reaching back to spread his cheeks.
Ilya makes a needy noise in his throat, leaning in to kiss Shane's tight little pucker. He doesn't linger long, instead reaching over to the sink for the cold washcloth. He swipes it through Shane's crack, wetting down all the hairs, before pushing a small amount of the cloth into Shane's asshole, making him gasp.
Shane shivers, delighted, as Ilya spreads shaving foam around the area and picks up the razor. He's not even embarrassed any more, not after seeing how Ilya is so into it.
He can only feel what's happening, hot puffs of breath across his ass as the blade slides down the inside of one cheek. He hears the soft slosh of water as the razor is rinsed, and then Ilya is right back, clearing the other side.
"You are so hot," Ilya pants, dragging the razor carefully across Shane's perineum, "thank you for trusting me."
There's a splash as Ilya throws the razor in the sink, and Shane feels one final swipe with the cloth before Ilya's mouth is back on him.
Shane gasps, rocking back against Ilya's face as his boyfriend's tongue breaches his hole. With both hands stretched behind him, Shane finds himself pinned chest-down on the counter, his cheek pressed into the mirror as Ilya slobbers all over his hole. Every shuddery breath clouds his reflection in a puff of condensation.
Ilya's hands replace Shane's, tugging his cheeks apart, and he pulls back just enough to say, "Touch yourself," before diving straight back in, his tongue licking a long wet stripe up the newly smooth skin.
Yes, sir.
The angle is awkward but it doesn't matter as Shane finally wraps a hand around his aching cock. A thrill shoots down his spine as his hand brushes against the soft, hairless skin at the base.
"Oh, god, Ilya," he moans, squeezing his eyes shut as Ilya's tongue laps at his hole like a parched dog. Orgasm coils in the base of his spine as Shane slicks himself with his own precome. "I'm gonna—" he starts, cutting himself off when he feels spunk splatter across the back of his thigh. Both of Ilya's hands are on his ass, which means—"holy shit," Shane gasps, rolling his hips against Ilya's face as he rockets over the edge, painting the cupboard door in stripes of white.
Shane looks over his shoulder just in time to see Ilya collapse backwards onto the tile, an extremely satisfied smile on his face. It takes Shane a moment to convince his legs to work before he follows suit, falling into a panting heap at Ilya's side. The tile is cold. Neither of them seem to care.
"Did you—" Shane starts to ask, at exactly the same time as Ilya says, delighted: "I came untouched!"
His laugh is joyous, full and bright, and Shane can't resist capturing his lips in a kiss. They've had plenty of practice teaching Shane to come untouched, but that's never something Ilya has focused on for himself. It might be the first time he ever has.
"Fuck, Ilya," Shane groans. "Why was that so hot?"
"Do you know about Love Language?" Ilya asks, and Shane can't help but snort a surprised laugh. "I was reading about it. I think Acts of Service is your Love Language."
"What?" Shane asks, curling his body up against Ilya's, resting his head on his boyfriend's heaving chest. He knows vaguely what Ilya's talking about, but doesn't know enough to accept or refute what he's saying. "Why were you learning about Love Languages?"
Ilya shrugs a shoulder, "So I can be better boyfriend," he says simply, and Shane's heart instantly grows three sizes.
"My god, you're a softie," Shane murmurs, cupping Ilya's face to pull him in for another kiss. "Never met a man so soft in all my life."
Ilya smiles against his lips, "You like it, though."
"Oh, I wouldn't change it for the world."