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They’re tangled in each other, somewhere between recovering from their last round of sex and starting up again. Shane’s tingly and happy and half-electric, glowing with a fresh rush of love and vulnerability after a particularly toe-curling orgasm. His boyfriend’s a sex-drunk, sweaty mess and he’s kissing Shane sloppy and tender, and it’s the best thing in the world. Shane can hardly take it, he feels like he’s bursting, which is probably why he gives voice, at last, to the thought that’s been drifting unsaid through his mind for a while now.
“I was wondering if you might be open to me…topping, sometime.”
Ilya’s eyes go wide, but not with disgust or disinterest—with surprise, Shane can tell.
“What happened to the round hole to my square peg?” Ilya asks lightly. God, why is that so hot. Shane blushes, his fucked-out hole clenching on instinct.
“Nothing, obviously,” Shane says. He knows Ilya’s mostly teasing, but he appreciates the opportunity to clarify aloud. “You know I don’t ever want to stop that. Ever.” He knows this to be true about himself more than he knows he likes hockey. Like, holy shit.
Ilya hums, and kisses him. Shane responds eagerly, hoping his body language lets Ilya know this isn’t about being unsatisfied with what they do, literally the furthest thing from it.
“But that’s the thing,” he continues. “It’s funny because after Rose”—Ilya flinches as if there’s reason to be jealous, Shane swats at him—“after Rose, I honestly never thought I’d do that again. I don’t know that I’d be any good at it, God knows I’m out of practice if I ever was. I just—the idea doesn’t sound so crazy now that it’s you. Now that we’re here.” Shane clears his throat. This is the heart of what he’s been meaning to say, the part he wants to get right. “I just want to make you feel…what you make me feel. Or at least as close to it as I can.”
Ilya’s face is largely unreadable. Shane kisses him softly on the mouth.
“I know it’s a lot,” Shane tells him. “We definitely don’t need to, okay? I just wanted to bring it up. Think about it?”
Ilya sniffs, nodding, and oh, Shane can read him a bit better now, his blood picking up.
“I will,” Ilya says. “Thank you. You are very sweet.”
Fuck, Shane’s so fucking in love. He kisses Ilya hard, relieved he finally said it and excited for what’s to come.
“Now can you fuck me again?” he murmurs, smiling. “This conversation got me all riled up.”
Ilya rolls on top of him, saying something in Russian that Shane can almost understand.
When Shane wakes the next morning, Ilya’s looking at him with his jaw set tight.
“Morning, Ilya.” Shane leans up to kiss his boyfriend, thumbing his cheek. “What’s up? You sleep okay?”
“I want you to fuck me.” Ilya’s voice is soft and reverent as a prayer. Shane’s breath hitches, anticipation thundering through him.
“Oh,” he says hoarsely, and surges into a kiss. Whatever faith Ilya has in him, whatever devotion, Shane needs Ilya to know it’s returned a hundredfold.
“I did not mean now,” Ilya chuckles, his hands warm on Shane’s body.
“Whenever. Whatever. Jesus, you just tell me when.”
Ilya arches his brow.
“Tonight?”
Shane doesn’t know what his face does, but Ilya’s goes soft and smiley in response, so he’s grateful.
“Yes.” Shane can’t help himself. He’s half-hard from the morning, and when he squeezes one of Ilya’s perfect asscheeks, both of them fluster at the thrill and promise of it all.
“Yes,” Ilya agrees, smiling.
Shane swiftly regrets agreeing to “tonight.”
It’s barely midday and he’s burned through pretty much everything he has to do, which leaves only less urgent tasks, and none of them seem doable with Ilya Rozanov folding their laundry in the other room, waiting for night to come so Shane can fuck him.
Shane’s staring blankly at his email inbox when he glimpses Ilya making his way from the gym to the shower, shirtless and glistening with sweat.
By the time the shower shuts off, Shane’s given up, both on the email and “tonight.” He sits on the edge of the bed, hoping he’s not misreading.
“Uh,” he says, when Ilya walks in.
“Oh thank God,” Ilya says in a rush, and climbs onto his lap.
Shane groans hungrily into the kiss, ripping the towel from Ilya’s waist and not caring where it lands. How could he, when Ilya’s so hard for him, kissing him desperate and everywhere? Shane kisses back just as roughly, possessive and thrumming with desire. He lets his hands rove everywhere, Ilya’s beautiful jaw, his gorgeous pecs, the soft skin of his tight waist, that goddamn distraction of an ass.
“You’re so fucking sexy,” Shane whispers. “Tell me if you want to stop,” he says, before he gets too lost in sensation. “Tell me anything, okay?”
Ilya’s a wreck, uncharacteristic nervousness and visible excitement warring on his face.
“Okay,” he says, kissing Shane. “You too.”
Shane’s heart swells with love. The kiss stretches out almost infinite between them, or maybe it only feels that way because Shane never wants it to stop. Even when he wants more, he never wants it to stop.
Slowly, slowly, Ilya moves his kisses down Shane’s body. Shane threads his fingers through Ilya’s hair, muttering half-nonsense praise as Ilya sucks him.
Ilya’s mouth brings perfect, molten pleasure as always, but there’s something different in his movements tonight. Instead of Ilya’s usual teasing or single-minded focus, he moves slow and worshipful. He sucks Shane like he’s sizing him up for the first time, and as Shane watches him, feels him, he can already tell how badly Ilya needed this. Or at least, how much he enjoys it.
Shane wants to give him everything.
“Come here,” Shane murmurs, and when Ilya rises to meet him in a kiss, they’re both breathless and smiling.
“You feel so good,” Shane says, voice a raspy mess. He’s got Ilya’s leg hooked around his waist, two fingers pressed to Ilya’s tight, clenching entrance. Ilya’s face is even more of a wreck now, crumpling into something broken and beautiful as he squirms against Shane’s fingers. “God, that’s so hot. Fuck, Ilya—can I eat you out?”
Ilya bites off a string of choked Russian swears. Shane’s so fucking hard, heart pounding so loud he’s almost surprised Ilya can’t hear it.
“Yes,” Ilya says, and Shane feels like he’s made of the fucking sun.
Shane kisses him, then helps him onto his knees. Ilya hugs a pillow to his chest, sends Shane a blazing look over his shoulder, and hikes his hips up in offering.
Fuck.
Ilya’s so fucking sexy Shane can still hardly believe it. His perfect body, the arch of his back. The moles and beauty marks dotting his skin, constellations Shane could lose himself in, find himself in, every single night. Those thick, hairy thighs, the obscene swell of his muscled ass. And finally—
Shane licks his way up Ilya’s crease, long and hard. He curls his tongue into Ilya’s tight little hole for the first time and shudders at the almost violent clench of arousal surging through him.
“Oh my God,” Ilya says, his voice trembling.
“You taste so fucking good,” Shane says hoarsely. “Ilya. Fuck, fuck, I love you.”
Ilya makes a broken sound, and Shane loses himself in licking his hole.
If he’s being honest with himself, Shane maybe wanted this more than topping. He does want to take Ilya apart with his dick at least half as well as Ilya does with him, but his desire to eat Ilya’s ass has been nagging at him for the better part of their relationship, and maybe this was in part a way of asking for it.
The truth is, Shane wants to eat Ilya’s hole at least like half the time he blows him. He fucking loves sucking Ilya’s dick, licking his balls—sometimes he presses his tongue to the sensitive skin just below and Ilya goes crazy. But he’s never asked to rim him before even though he’s wanted to. Ilya always fucks him after he eats him out, and Shane had mentally linked the two.
He’s realizing now they don’t need to be inseparable—Ilya makes a sound that makes Shane suspect he might be able to get Ilya off with this and nothing else—he files that thought away for the future.
God, he’s wanted it. Ilya’s asshole is so cute. And so fucking sexy. Tight and clenching, smooth and pink amid the darker hair there, the last intimate part of Ilya Rozanov Shane hasn’t been able to get his mouth on, until now.
The vulnerability is so thrilling it’s almost painful. Ilya really has him like this all the time, fuck. Once again Shane finds himself almost overwhelmed at how good a top Ilya is, how good a boyfriend, even before they were boyfriends. It had never really felt this exposing from the other side.
Shane kneads Ilya’s ass, opening him wider, eyes rolling back in pleasure as he thrusts his tongue inside. He grinds the heel of his hand against his own twitching erection, a fresh shape of obscene pleasure flooding his senses at the clutch of Ilya’s hole.
“Fuck, Shane!” Ilya cries out, a perfect wreck of wanting. He’s tight and hot inside. He tastes like skin and sweat and soap and maybe a touch of something earthy, which to Shane’s mild surprise only makes Shane harder, makes his blood run hot and his cock clench. God, Shane’s inside him. Shane’s licking him here, tasting him here, stroking him open with his fucking mouth. What a fucking privilege, what a gift, to be allowed to pleasure this stunning fucking man with everything Shane has to offer. Shane licks at him harder, more urgently. He breathes him in, reveling in the specific taste that, if Shane has his way, no one else in the world will ever get to have.
He tries to remember everything Ilya does with his tongue here that drives Shane crazy, but he’s dizzy with desire, drunk on the pleasure of taking Ilya Rozanov apart like this, and anyway, whatever instincts he has seem to be working. He loses himself in laving Ilya’s hole with indulgent kisses, open-mouthed and wet and sloppy. Ilya opens for him beautifully and any of Shane’s lingering self-consciousness fades with the stuttering of Ilya’s hips, the wet spot he’s making on the bedsheets. Ilya’s moans and sobs go right to Shane’s ego and his dick.
Shane spreads him, heart racing with something almost like triumph. He spits on Ilya’s hole, panting as he watches the wet glob trickle. Ilya curses in English this time.
“I’m going to finger you now,” Shane tells him.
“Yes,” Ilya says, grinding back at him. “Fucking fuck me already.”
Shane’s giddy with love and triumph, fumbling for the lube.
“Not until I’m sure I won’t hurt you. Hold on.”
Shane nearly sobs into Ilya’s shoulder when he sinks his fingers inside. He had no idea how fucking erotic it would be, penetrating him like this. Ilya makes the prettiest fucking sound, canting his hips back in eagerness, and in that moment Shane feels more powerful than he ever has on the ice. Maybe anywhere.
“More,” Ilya rasps, and Shane gives him more, heart and ego swelling. “So good, Hollander. Wow.”
“I love feeling you like this,” Shane tells him. His voice betrays the truth of it, thank goodness, because that’s a fucking understatement.
“I’m ready,” Ilya says, and Shane finds he is too.
Ilya arranges Shane against the headboard, straddling him. Shane clings to his fraying sanity through gritted teeth as Ilya strokes a generous amount of lube onto him, and when Ilya finally sniffles and sinks onto his cock, they both cry out. Shane’s trying his very best not to cum on the spot as Ilya’s tight, perfect ass envelops him to the hilt.
“Oh fuck, Hollander,” Ilya says, his expression crumpling. He sounds as gone as Shane feels. He’s so beautiful it almost breaks Shane’s heart somehow.
Shane wants to give him everything.
Shane meets his gaze and rocks up into him. Gently, just finding a rhythm, figuring out what muscles he needs to be most effective.
Ilya’s jaw drops, his eyes squeezing shut. Jesus fucking Christ. This is what Ilya Rozanov looks like taking cock, taking Shane. Shane didn’t know it was possible to fall any further in love, it’s like he’s plummeted through a planet of it and came out the other side, still falling, somewhere in unknown galaxies now, constellations that match the map of Ilya’s moles and nothing else.
Ilya sniffs and braces himself on Shane’s shoulders. He lifts himself almost all the way off, only the throbbing head of Shane’s dick inside him, and then sinks himself into Shane’s lap, taking him to the hilt.
Ilya’s fucking riding him. He finds a rhythm easily like he always does, and Shane’s eyes go hot, fresh pleasure spiraling through him. He misses having Ilya inside him, but it does honestly feel good, which is something of a relief. It feels really, really good, literally nothing like any girl, because it’s Ilya. It suddenly occurs to Shane he could wear a plug the next time they try this, maybe the smaller of the two Ilya’s bought him this past year, which makes him nearly cum on the spot. Thank goodness he hadn’t thought of it sooner, actually, he doesn’t want to rush this.
“Ilya,” Shane murmurs, leaning up into a kiss. “Fuck. Do you like it?”
Ilya sputters a hysterical laugh, grinding down on him.
“Yes,” he says, his voice a raw wrecked thing. “I like it.”
Shane grins at him, thrusting up just that much harder. Ilya whines, rearranging himself on Shane’s lap, riding him even harder now. His muscles flex, lips puckering, sweaty chest heaving with effort. Ilya looks like a god. Ilya looks set fucking free, and Shane’s breath hitches with a flare of vindicated pride that he worked up the courage to ask for this.
“You’re so beautiful,” Shane bites out helplessly. “Fuck.” He gropes Ilya wherever he can reach without impeding his rhythm, turned on out of his mind at every inch of him. “You feel so good on my dick.”
Ilya makes a broken sound, the edges of his mouth curving up to beam at Shane.
“Oh, fuck yeah. Shane.” Ilya grits his teeth and takes Shane’s dick like it’s a fucking gift.
“God,” Shane moans, letting his head fall back against the headboard in wanton pleasure. He loses himself in the perfect pleasure of Ilya’s ass, the way Ilya fucks down onto Shane with the same obscene expertise he brings to everything in bed. Shane meets his thrusts but lets Ilya set their rhythm, mesmerized at his boyfriend chasing his pleasure on Shane’s dick. Ilya’s own erection bobs ignored between them.
Topping, Shane finds, feels closer to getting off when Ilya sucks him than when he bottoms, which is to say not his favorite thing in bed but only because the comparison is literal heaven on earth, something Shane is probably almost clinically addicted to. This isn’t that, but the sight and feeling of how much Ilya fucking loves it somehow makes it nearly just as good. It’s hot as hell and so much fun, and as much as Shane’s addicted to Ilya’s dick, he’s also addicted to making Ilya feel good, and this is such a big hit to those pleasure centers it feels like something new and wonderful has broken through.
Shane can feel it in the hungry grasp of every muscle in Ilya’s body, can read it in every line of muscle, hear it in every wrecked breath. Ilya rides him, and—Shane can tell—something has been set free.
This makes sense, this is exactly what Shane wanted, but it’s still almost overwhelming. When Ilya fucks him, especially those first times but also always, it makes Shane feel free. Both their lives are packed routines that govern their bodies down to the marrow. It’s a privilege and also Shane’s dream job, yeah, but Shane hadn’t realized how much it felt like a cage until Ilya pressed inside him and showed him what it meant to let go of everything but pleasure.
I just want to make you feel…what you make me feel, Shane had said, and as he watches Ilya gasp and ride him, he’s pretty sure he succeeded.
God, this is all his. This gorgeous man is willing to give him everything, including his trust and his love and this decadent fucking ass.
Shane feels powerful and capable and so, so fucking loved.
“You have,” Shane tells him, between thrusts, “the nicest ass I’ve ever seen in my whole fucking life.” Shane kisses the words into Ilya’s mouth. “It deserves to be fucked properly.”
Ilya makes a strangled sound. He grits his teeth, shoves them away from the headboard, and pushes Shane flat against the pillows. Shane sinks in even deeper at the new angle and his eyes go wide, hands going over his head in reflexive surrender.
“Cum for me,” Ilya says, more desperately than Shane’s ever heard him say it, and that’s all it takes.
“Oh my God.” Shane sobs as orgasm wrecks him, the sound muffled in Ilya’s kiss. Ilya keeps the pace as Shane’s hips stutter, fucking Shane’s cum deep, deep into his ass for the first time.
“Yes,” Ilya hisses, as Shane fills him. “So good, Shane. Fuck, yes.” He moans, squirming at the obscene squelch inside him, and Shane twitches in pulse after pulse of indulgent pleasure. “I love it,” Ilya’s voice comes quiet and raw as a confession, flooding Shane’s heart. “I love you. Give it to me.”
“You’re incredible,” Shane pants, when he can breathe again. He kisses Ilya all over, both of them smiling foolishly, a fucking mess. Ilya eases off him, still hard, and as the clouds of his orgasm part slightly, Shane feels a pang of regret. “I wanted to feel you cum on my dick,” he realizes, saying it aloud before he can get shy about it. “Really thought I might get to.”
Shane scoots himself against the headboard again, clutching Ilya in his lap, not letting him go far. He kisses Ilya breathless, and then he brings two fingers to Ilya’s fucked-out hole again.
Ilya sinks onto him in eager response. Shane curls his fingers, searching, and almost instantly Ilya’s face is crumpling again, pretty mouth falling open as Shane rubs against his prostate. He’s so loose now, so open, even after his own orgasm Shane can barely take how hot it is. He slips a third finger in and Ilya bites his lip, nodding, and they both know it won’t be long now.
“Maybe I could try again sometime?” Shane asks him softly, and then that’s it—it takes a moment for it to register, but at that Ilya’s coming for him, rather spectacularly and entirely untouched. “Oh,” Shane says, love and pleasure and triumph licking up his spine. “Oh fuck.”
All Ilya’s muscles go taut with his prostate orgasm, the first one Shane’s ever given—his handsome face twists in a release of pure ecstasy, the lines of his neck, his abs, his thighs going tight—he clenches so hard on Shane’s fingers Shane can barely move but he doesn’t need to, only needs to rub just there, right there, watching in awe as thick ropes of cum spurt from Ilya’s stiff, twitching cock. All for him.
“Yes,” Ilya gasps, shuddering, when he can speak at last. “Yes, I would like that.”
They sink into each other’s arms, and Shane’s eyes prickle with tears. Almost a decade of clandestine nights. Making the most of a few hours at a time, years yawning wide and empty in between. And now they have a lifetime to take each other apart every way imaginable.
“Thank you for trusting me,” Shane says softly, planting a kiss on Ilya’s sweaty forehead.
“Thank you for fucking me,” Ilya chuckles, swatting at Shane’s formality, setting Shane at ease. “I love you very much.”
“I love you so fucking much,” Shane says in a rush. “God, that was hot. That was fun. And,” he adds, because he’s already dreaming about it (he usually is), “I can’t wait to ride you so good later.”
Ilya smiles, shaking his head.
“I love you so fucking much,” he says, snuggling into Shane’s arms.
Shane squeezes him tight, proud of himself and somehow deeper in love than he was an hour ago, which should be impossible when you’re completely fucking smitten. As long as Ilya’s with him, as long as they’re in this together, anything is possible. As long as Ilya’s with him, no cage feels like something they can’t open.