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It starts as this: four fingers two knuckles in and the tickle of Ilya’s thumb, and then Shane says, “Fuck, wait, fuck, stop.”
Ilya freezes. “You want me to pull out?”
“No, just, fuck. Pause.”
He’s soft, he’s long gone soft, which, sometimes that happens when prep carries on for long enough, and Ilya’s never been shy about working him to hardness again, but Shane seems like he’s realising he’s bitten off more than he can chew. “Shit, Ilya. Sorry, I don’t think I can do this. I know it was my idea.”
“You want to still come like this?” he asks, and his wrist is straining holding himself this rigid, so he’d really like a response.
“It’s too much,” Shane huffs. “I’m stretched too much.”
Ilya, ginger, retracts then, laving his slick fingertips against Shane’s seizing hole. “Did I hurt you?”
“I don’t think so…” he pouts. “I just, I thought I was going to rip in half. It was just too much.”
“Okay, okay,” Ilya placates, taking his clean hand and smoothing it over Shane’s face, making the short hairs stick on his sweaty forehead. Shane must realise he’s giving him a blunt set of bangs because he huffs and goes to muss it up.
“Shit, I just—” and now Ilya can see that Shane’s heart is pounding and he’s taking lots of little, useless breaths.
“Shane. Deep breaths,” he reminds him, setting a good example with his own breathing, and he watches Shane’s eyes swim as he struggles to match.
When he finds himself settled enough to speak full sentences, Shane says, “Sorry, can we just take a shower?”
“How about a bath?”
Ilya spots Shane chewing at his bottom lip during breakfast the next day. “You know, we don’t have to.”
He sighs. “Ilya. We’re eating.”
“You don’t even know what I’m talking about,” he protests, but acquiesces. The conversation is picked up again when they’re tugging their sneakers on to go for a run.
“Ilya, we’re about to go for a run.”
And again when they’ve come back.
“I need to shower.”
Usually, by this point Ilya would accuse Shane of avoiding the question, because he is avoiding the question, but the evidence he’s accrued isn’t good enough and Shane will just roll his eyes and dismiss it. No matter, Ilya is good at pestering.
It actually starts like this: Shane sends a link to some daily fact website, and the fact of the day is something about Napoleon sending a letter to his wife or his mistress or something, and the letter saying Home in three days, don’t wash. Shane tacks on Lmao.
Ilya
this what youre into?
It did not escape Ilya that Shane would be flying to Boston to play the Raiders in three days time. He is also well aware that Shane thinks himself out of doing anything arbitrarily, and that his deepest desires are as such: he can be as vague as he wants and someone (Ilya) will still put in the effort to understand what he’s getting at, even if he’s not quite sure of it himself.
Shane
No. I think I would claw my own skin off if I couldn’t shower for 3 days
Ilya
hm
Shane would probably argue it starts as this: Ilya catches him hard in the showers and isn’t polite about it, Ilya refuses to lay off his cock when Shane’s about to come and swallows it all, Ilya tells Shane to get on his knees and he does (which sent a rush through Ilya that he chased in other people fruitlessly for years). Shane tells himself, eventually, okay, I like giving up control. It’s safe to do it during sex and with Ilya, and it’s a break from my high-stress lifestyle, and then he internalises that until he’s left no space for anything else in his head, or in the part of his head he’s dedicated to thinking about his dick — Ilya knows this.
So Shane calls himself a bottom, and he calls himself submissive, and he lets that become a single fact about himself (a fact he only lets Ilya know), but Ilya knows better; he knows there’s something caged in Shane’s chest. The truth of the matter is that not all sex can be weird therapy to balance out your life as a professional athlete, and that not all sex should be therapy, and Shane needs to stop telling himself so to justify fucking Rozanov in outlandish and perverted ways. You pathologize yourself out of enjoying the thing, which is a sentiment Ilya doesn’t really have the tools to express — and Ilya would be very, very sad if Shane worked himself up out of liking getting thrown around and fucked hard.
Shane mostly thinks of sex as a thing done to him, Ilya has observed, he thinks of kink as a thing to perform for Ilya, like wearing panties (something Ilya’s planning to suggest, something Ilya has plans for). You wear delicate underwear to get fucked in it and then you take it off, you wear it so Ilya will fuck you in it. He asks to get slapped so that Ilya can slap him, he asks to be called a slut so Ilya can say the word, and he likes all these things being done to him but he doesn’t really expect, or ask, to do things to Ilya. Ilya, of course, loves doing all these things to Shane, and he doesn’t really feel left out or yearning over Shane not reciprocating, but he knows Shane is holding back, and he knows Shane desperately wants Ilya to figure it all out for him.
Shane comes to him and says, what if you fisted me? Which is very Shane of him, an escalation of sexual desire (I like fingers, what about more?), and so Ilya hunkers down and studies fisting while Shane, he can only assume, goes to continue his daily routine of eating various powders and breathing hockey. Fisting gets put on the back burner, because Shane doesn’t really let his ass hurting affect his play (or any pain, which no hockey player can really afford), but it wouldn’t surprise either of them if this constituted too much. Shane, who doesn’t incessantly bring it up, must’ve packed the whole thing very squarely away in his mind. Ilya, who sees his hands every day, is less fortunate. He pinches all his fingertips to a point, he curls them into a fist, he holds the base of his cock and sees the difference in girth. He thinks: yum.
He gets Shane’s message about not bathing and thinks, yeah, three days is a bit extreme. He also assumes that Shane’s not the one who’s particularly interested in being stinky, which is curious because this is what Shane assumes.
He has his plan: he has bought a pair of panties which would look equally as ill-fittingly erotic on the both of them, and he must leave them somewhere for Shane to interpret. The ‘where’ is how this gets difficult, because it could imply a whole lot. The first place Ilya’s mind goes is on the bed, presented in an obviously sexual way, but Ilya leaving panties out could only imply that they’re being left out for Shane, and then Shane will presumably put them on. It’s leading a horse to water and being surprised when the only thing it does is drink — Ilya wants Shane to splash. The same applies to putting them in Shane’s side of the dresser (and putting them in Ilya’s dresser is useless, Shane will never look there). He could leave the panties just around, or perhaps in the laundry, or somewhere neutral, but Shane’s neuroticism is just as liable to assume that they’re someone else’s and that Ilya is cheating on him. It’s a lot of mind games to get your boyfriend to tell you to put on women’s underwear, but he’s pretty sure his boyfriend wants to tell him to put on women’s underwear, so he can’t just pony up and wear the underwear on his own accord.
In the end, he puts them in the living room with his laundry service delivery (surely if he’s had them laundered with all his other clothes, they’re his, right?), and when he comes home from two polite drinks with Marleau at the bar, commiserating over the loss to Montreal on home ice, he sees Shane has already let himself in and the underwear is gone — perfect, and, not so perfect. On his bed, Shane is wearing nothing. Perfect once more.
The underwear doesn’t come back into play until Boston visits Montreal, and Ilya is nursing a few bruises to his jaw and a shot of tequila curdling in his belly — his exit ticket from the bar. He thinks he’s getting too old to entertain rookies. He opens the door expecting Shane to be doing yoga, or practicing mindfulness or something, but instead he is accosted and brought to the floor. Shane, wearing nothing but the panties, has pinned Ilya’s arms with his knees and has his head in his hands, holding his cheek to the stretched out crotch of the thing, where his fat cock pulses hot and presses up again Ilya’s face. Ilya wants to catch it in his mouth, pull the underwear down by the hem and free Shane, suck him to the root, but as he struggles he’s held still, one hand of Shane’s pinning him hard and the other roving through his hair, over his neck, against his ear. His hips start up a rhythm, humping at Ilya’s face, grunting and breathing hard but not saying anything, and Ilya just takes it with a limpness. His hair’s roughed up, plastered to his forehead, the bulge of Shane’s cock bumping up against his nose, pulling at his top lip, settling into the valley of his eye, rubbing at his skin up and down, the whole time slicking and dragging its way, and Ilya moans into it loudly and unabashedly. He realises he wants Shane to fuck every part of him, and he realises, quite dumbly, Oh, I’ve pissed him off.
“Take it,” Shane breathes. “Fucking take it,” as he comes with a harsh shove of his cock against Ilya’s cheek, so that he’s forced to open his mouth and allow Shane to push deeper, hard against his jaw and teeth through the meat of his face, and his cum seeps through the fabric and smears up against his skin, and then Shane falls to his knees beside Ilya, panting and saying, “These weren’t, like, Svetlana’s, were they?”
“No,” Ilya replies dumbly. “They were mine.”
“Okay, well, uh,” and then he steps out of them and they drop onto Ilya’s lap. The entire thing is very dumbfounding, because he’s pretty sure he’s supposed to jerk off into them now, but he can hear Shane going to shower, and his face is still tacky and he’s still rock hard. He does the next best thing, he puts them on the counter and joins Shane under the spray.
Panty plan was maybe a success? It certainly wasn’t a failure when, after their shower and under Shane’s instruction, he wrapped them around his cock and pumped the tangle in his fist, when Shane got the light in his eye that says shove that thing in my fucking mouth, and he did so, and systematically emptied everything he’s ever had into Shane’s tight, slick asshole. And then shower two, or three, or, actually, that had been the fifth shower Ilya had taken that day, which is why Shane always insists on full body lotion, and Ilya never complains about doing the lotioning — or being lotioned.
Ilya also finds out that his whole body lights up like a Christmas tree, like the big Christmas tree in Times Square, when Shane tells him to do something, when he gets to see the heavy-lidded, lip nibbling look Shane gives when he then watches Ilya do that thing, and Ilya thinks why hasn’t he ever put his dick in me?
He knows Shane is not a categorical fan of fucking, because Shane associates having to fuck with having to fuck women, but that’s a lame excuse when Ilya is here, waiting, waiting, and Shane’s cock is thick and heavy. Ilya will teach him how to wield this blunt instrument.
They end up talking about the fisting thing the only way Shane knows how: around the matter; in bed after they’ve showered, Shane’s socked feet pressed to Ilya’s calves, and he says, “You’re not, like, getting bored of me, right?”
Struck by the idea that Shane’s somehow figured out Ilya’s sex mind games, he says, “What? No.”
“Just, because, like, I feel like you were having so much adventurous sex before, with other people, and I’m, like, holding you back.” He digs his toes in then, through the wool of his socks, and Ilya holds himself still to feel it.
“Shane, I think you misunderstand hook-ups.”
“Oh?”
“It’s not, like, adventurous. It takes a lot of trust to do some of the stuff we do, and patience.”
“Oh.”
“And I only ever what to do it with you.”
Maybe it starts as this: Ilya’s coach’s son is being so fucking annoying that he has to wrap his paw around his shoulder and shove him back against the wall, and his laugh is so rancorous that Ilya wants to squish his mouth shut, but his other hand’s busy bunched up in his shirt, so he has to do it with his mouth, and that kind of puts into perspective all the times Ilya’s jerked off to wrestling matches. And then Sasha calls him a fucking faggot (or, the Russian equivalent) and he finds he likes the sound of that. They fuck one hundred times, all the same, and a hundred times again, until the muscles in Ilya’s groin that flex when he comes hurt.
Sasha’s taller than him but he’s got spindly limbs that rattle when he’s tossed around, and a bite to the way he says Ilyusha, use your stupid dick for something good and fuck me, so he does, which is a terrible secret they both don’t trust the other with.
Ilya starts fucking Svetlana, because they both want practice, and he thinks finally, someone who doesn’t always nag me, but Sveta nags just fine — he just happens to actually like her. And Sveta’s where Ilya first learns about patience and trust. She comes to him with ideas, he asks her, “Am I doing it right? Is this what you wanted?” and acts according to her responses. And they both figure out what they like, or at least, what the stupid and young versions of them like. Once, Sveta tried to stick a finger up his ass, but she keeps her nails long. The idea made Ilya shudder, and they never really revisited it.
Maybe it starts when he’s ten, waiting for his mum to finish paying for fuel, and the guy behind them in line says, “You’re pretty like a girl,” in a voice that makes Ilya so sick to his stomach he kicks him in the shin and bolts off. But that would be a shitty place for this all to start. Maybe he just wants to be asked am I doing this right? (and maybe he wants to say no, so they can work together and readjust — a sick, sick fantasy).
“Drapeau was in the locker room talking about getting his ass eaten today,” Shane says over a video call, face looking sour.
“So? Did you tell him you are an expert in this?”
The face twists more. “No, that’s gross. Why would he want that?”
“Shane. I eat your ass,” he reminds him.
“Well, yeah, but I’m getting fucked after that. What’s he doing? the fucking? It’s not a natural escalation,” Shane dismisses in the plain way he always says extremely ridiculous things. “He said: One day, I want a bitch to eat my ass while I fuck a different bitch. I told him that sounds like a great way to break a girl’s nose, and that he shouldn’t call them that.”
“Polite Canadian boy.”
“He’s Canadian too,” he says pointedly, and then heaves a sigh as he gets up to brush his teeth. “You don’t call me your bitch when you’re talking in the locker room, right?”
“No. I say my Jane, and I say my Jane never eats my ass, she hasn’t even asked to,” Ilya says, sighing and snuggling further into his bicep in bed.
“Do you actually?”
“No, I do not talk about these things with my teammates. They have invented some Russian sex god version of me to keep themselves entertained with instead,” he says dryly, which makes Shane laugh. “Maybe they are right.”
“Yeah yeah, whatever,” and then there’s silence over the line as Shane gets down to what he got up to do.
“You would like it,” Ilya muses, humming. Shane garbles out a what past his toothbrush so he elaborates, “Eating ass.”
He spits, and from the shitty angle of his phone flat on the counter Ilya can see the spots of foam on his mouth and chin. “I wouldn’t know how.”
“I’d teach you.”
Ilya, in his bashed around head, has cooked up some idea where they 69 this lesson. Where he pries Shane’s cheeks apart and lays instructing kisses on his hole, and then Shane will repeat everything he’s just done on Ilya’s hole, and they’ll keep feeding each other pleasure for hours and hours or whatever, becoming one beast, the snake that eats its own tail, perfect balance. In reality, human spines don’t really work that way.
At some point their relationship got fucked up enough that Ilya helps wax Shane’s pubes when they’re in town together, instead of doing normal couple things like watching Iron Chef or having brunch. Ilya thinks it started happening around, after the time he had to beg Shane not to bleach his asshole but before they both started peeing while taking showers together. “I just want a clean slate,” he tells Ilya very seriously, but they come to a compromise that he should keep something short and trimmed above his dick. Ilya, on the other hand, is under strict instruction to never touch any of his pubic hair, lest Shane have nothing to hold on to when he’s working the head with the back of his throat, so it’s kind of a shock when he says, “We should wax your ass too.”
“You want to kill me,” he says flatly. “Divorce is too difficult so this must be the way.”
“We’re not even married. You could go to a professional if that makes you feel better. I just think you’d like it,” he says, giving Ilya a look. And, whatever, Ilya gets rammed into boards by 200 pound men for work, and he’s not that furry down there, so if Shane wants to go to town ripping every individual hair out then he can.
What transpires might be the most humiliating thirty minutes (sixty? maybe? Ilya forgets, Shane tells him it was less than five) he’s ever endured. It starts with him bent over, Shane spreading his cheeks with the span of his hand and inspecting. Then, he gets a pair of little scissors and tells Ilya to spread himself for him because he needs to trim everything down to a quarter of an inch, which makes Ilya ask, “How long is that?”
He assumes Shane shrugs, he can’t see, and then the snipping sounds commence, razing up Ilya’s spine every time he hears it — even though the cold metal blade barely ever touches him. Then, the wax (from the fancy wax warmer that Ilya got Shane, the fool) is applied and it’s another zing. The strip is laid and Ilya reminds himself he literally just did this for Shane, he’s done it for Shane a bunch of times, and all Shane does is flex his forearms and grunt at most, so he can’t be a pussy and squeal or whatever. It’s fine, it barely hurts.
It hurts a lot, and then Shane says, “I need to go in again,” so everything hurts a second time, then he goes on, “Fuck, sorry, one more time,” and applies a little dab of wax that he rips off with the corner of the strip. “Last bit,” he warns, and plucks some stray hair with a pair of tweezers. Then, he tears open some little packet and laves Ilya’s poor, virgin, ravished asshole with something slightly oily, which relieves any pulling residue he felt on his skin. He flexes his hole, it feels good. His entire body is drenched in sweat and he needs a shower.
“Pretty,” Shane comments mildly.
“Fuck, Shane. I don’t know if I can ever wax you again,” he pants.
“Don’t be a baby.”
They shower, they crawl into bed, and Ilya is really mourning his whole 69 idea because it sounds super excellent. Maybe he should invest in more yoga and mindfulness. Shane breaks his moping to say, “I mean, has anyone ever eaten your ass before?”
A few girls have offered, but, “No.”
“Do you want to, like, come from it?”
Ilya hedges his bets. “Do you want me to?”
Shane thinks a moment. “Maybe not. Maybe I want you to fuck me after.”
“I thought that’s not natural escalation, you said.”
He rolls his eyes, crossing his arms across his chest. “Whatever. Lie down, ass up.” It sends a zing over Ilya’s spine.
If anything, he just wants to know how he’d do it, how Shane would fuck him, with his big body and his hard muscles and his brown cock.
Ilya settles down, arms bracing the pillow he’s smushed his face into, and Shane sits abreast his thighs. He slaps his ass then, hard so the fat of it reverberates, and he says, “I love this thing.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Shane bites, and Ilya makes a note to grind back on Shane more when they dance (not that they ever really dance).
He spreads his cheeks then and seems to take in Ilya’s fresh, naked hole — waxed just for him, by him, still a bit sensitive to the touch.
“You’ve eaten pussy before,” Ilya reminds him, which makes Shane scoff.
“Yeah, poorly.”
“Did you like it?”
“I’m gay.” Ilya shifts to look Shane in the eye, and he sighs. “It wasn’t as bad as the rest of it.” That makes Ilya snort.
Step one in playing the long game complete: Shane presses a dry and chaste kiss to his hole.
“Good?”
“Spit.” It hits Ilya like a cannonball. “Fuck, more.”
Ilya wishes he could see, if he could see Shane he’d tell him to well up all the saliva he can and let it fall naturally from his hanging tongue onto his ass, but he can’t see and he’s not nearly that patient, so he has Shane spit again and then he says, “Lick, like I do.”
But Shane doesn’t start broad and assertive like Ilya does, he starts with little kitten licks around the rim that makes Ilya twist at the waist. Then, he starts flicking his tongue right against the pucker and, fuck, Ilya should adopt this technique. The next step is usually to try and hook his tongue into Shane’s asshole. He likes to pull on a side and watch the thing yawn open, he likes to spit right into the colon, but Shane keeps himself surface level, licking harder and firmer. Ilya wants to tell him to stiffen his tongue and start jabbing.
Shane takes a finger then, and pries Ilya’s hole wide, dragging it down from the bottom. “Hold yourself open for me,” he instructs quietly, and Ilya leaps to do it with the enthusiasm of a dog being told to sit because it’s about to get a treat.
Cheeks spread, hole agape, Ilya thinks, tongue, now! like he’s a coach or something. Instead, he whines, “Do something,” like a bitch.
Shane shoves his thumb in. It’s pretty dry; at least, the inside of Ilya is dry, so it burns a bit, but that’s not the reason Ilya lets out a sound like he’s been gut-punched. “Fuck, Hollander. Fuck, fuck.”
Shane pulls his thumb down then, and Ilya feels him shift forward, feels him fit his tongue between fingernail and rim, fat and wet and worming. “Hollander. Fuck.” He just hums in response.
He takes his thumb out, cupping his palms over Ilya’s hands to do the spreading, licking hard and in earnest, bobbing so his nose brushes at Ilya’s tailbone, and his waxed asshole makes everything feel so slick and streamlined.
He’s pushing and shoving and moulding around and Ilya thinks, fuck the long game. “Just fucking, just stick it in. Put it in, you fucking—“ There’s not a word for what Shane is right now. Ilya settles on minx, which is the type of phrase that is usually liable to make Shane gag.
Shane — God, Ilya can fucking smell it on him — gets a bit frazzled and pulls back. He puts his thumb all the way back in, and it slides easily.
“No, no,” Ilya wails, near crying. “Your fucking cock, Shane. Your cock.”
“You’re not stretched enough,” he whines back, pulsing into his hole, and, yeah, Shane probably knows better than Ilya, but fuck him, fuck knowing better.
“I don’t fucking care.” He’s kicking his legs like he’s trying to tread water, and he feels Shane bear down on his thighs to get him to quit. “You have to fuck me, please. You have to. It’s immoral that you haven’t.”
He thinks Shane’s laughing, he says immoral? but Ilya is so impatient he’s getting fucking angry. “Fuck me, Shane. Fuck me like one of your girls.”
“Fuck you, Rozanov.”
“Nooooo,” he howls. “Me, me.”
And maybe that makes him mad enough, because he rears back and then, in an instant, Shane’s cock is in him. Like a bullet train, like a fucking bullet. It burns and the spit's gonna start drying soon and this was a really bad idea for a first time bottom but fuck, fuck, if Shane moves he’s going to come, his stupid untouched cock jammed up against the sheets and the tears not yet fallen from his eyes. Fuck. “Fuck.”
“Fuck, Ilya. I can’t move.”
“Fuck, don’t.”
Ilya stretches out then, cluelessly and blindly pawing at the bed side table to reach for the lube, and when he can’t reach it Shane stretches to pick it up. It shuffles them, a movement inside of him that makes Ilya choke on his own throat.
“Shane, how do you fuck? Tell me, show me.”
Shane rears back, and from hours and hours of input Ilya knows exactly how his spine is arching, and he squeezes out globs and globs of cold lube right where they meet. He tosses the bottle aside and then he starts patting over where Ilya’s rim is stretched the thinnest over his cock, massaging lube in from the outside, pulling out to slick his own dick through it, fitting himself back in. They both freeze, no movement, not even their lungs filling or their hearts pumping.
“You feel so fucking good Ilya. If I move I’ll come,” he says, serious.
“Okay, okay, let’s just breathe.” Slowly, they take their first breath in tandem, and then their second.
“Am I hurting you?” Shane asks, and Ilya doesn’t know how to put enough enthusiasm into his yes to answer properly. He rephrases: “Is it okay?”
“Yes,” Ilya huffs.
Shane settles down on him, over him, blanketing his body so his stomach and chest presses all the way along Ilya’s back, and when they breathe they both lift.
When Shane fights during a game, he grabs the guy by the shoulders and shoves him face down into the ice, and then he just holds him there, squirming and kicking out, til he’s limp and gives up. Or until a ref peels him off. Ilya tries not to get too trite about hockey and violence and sex, mostly because for a long time the sex he was having most was with stranger women and it’s bad to get that all jumbled together. Locker rooms are full of dudes who think it’s all jumbled together, and the shit they say makes Ilya’s lip curl. This is all to say, Ilya hopes Shane fucks like he fights — single minded and firm, scolding.
He humps once, grunting and getting the feel for it. Ilya makes another one of his gross, strung-out sounds. Shane’s cock lands like a hammer, it nails him right in the prostate.
“That’s so fucking perfect, Shane. So good.”
“Yeah?”
“Keep going.”
Shane finds his leverage scrunching up Ilya’s hair, forearm heavy on his shoulders, and Ilya wants to tell him choke me. Instead, he lifts himself, lifts the both of them, to wrestle an arm around his neck, and Shane responds accordingly — laying the other hand flat against the back of his head in a headlock. Ilya secured, Ilya moaning wildly like he’s broken upon the wheel, Shane starts thrusting.
He works towards finding a rhythm like he rides, punching his blunt cock up into Ilya in regular intervals, completely in control of his body. Ilya feels so puffed out and squashed beneath him, so snug in the crook of his bicep, that he can’t suck full breaths in. He thinks he cries and whines like an animal caught in a trap. Held down, in a headlock, fucked. His vision gets hazy, eyes watering, and his whole body is getting so stuffed with pleasure he thinks he’s going to burst — or start sobbing or something.
Shane keeps packing it in, right in his ass, right up against his prostate, and then he asks, “Are you close?” and Ilya hadn’t even considered it because he never expected that this would have to stop at some point. Is he close? Yeah, obviously.
“Touch yourself.” Shane lets up, just a fraction, so Ilya can jam his hand up against his dick and hold it to his belly. He doesn’t stroke himself, he doesn’t need to; Shane’s thrusts heft them both up and lets them fall back down. Ilya feels like he’s getting killed. He feels close, he feels like he’s coming.
Shane only fucks harder, firmer, meaner. “Take it,” he says, grunting, words muddled by his face pressed against Ilya’s shoulder blade. Juddering hips, slapping into Ilya’s ass, thump-thump-thump like a fucking metronome. He hooks up on the upstroke, grinding in, and fuck, yeah, Ilya’s coming. He sounds like a car crash as it happens. Shane probably comes sometime around here too, but Ilya’s too out of it to notice.
Shane extricates himself with a sigh, walks over to the bathroom to get a wetted hand towel, and comes back to clean Ilya over. He starts with wiping the sweat off the plane of his back in long, careful strokes, and then feather-light dabs over his hole. Ilya sighs, settling into the pampering. “Sorry,” he says, presumably mopping up his own cum. “I should’ve asked.”
“I would’ve said yes.”
Shane leaves the room without saying anything, and Ilya worries again, oh, is he mad at me? Then, he feels something cold and satiny slap across his ass. The panties, thoroughly laundered, have made a return. Shane says, “They’re yours, aren’t they? Put them on.” Ilya rushes to flip over, drawing his legs up to slip them through. “After a shower.”
Okay, well, step three (four?): Get Shane wrist deep, preferably before Ilya has to wax his asshole again for it. He’s already ruminating when he sees Shane, red from the hot shower, haloed by steam, step out of the bathroom drying himself off. He sees Ilya has put the panties on, a baby blue against how gold his skin looks under the lamplight, and smiles. Then, he scrunches the towel against the back of his head and tosses it in the hamper
“Lotion?” Ilya suggests, and to his surprise Shane wrinkles his nose.
“Not tonight.”
Ilya wriggles a bit, because the underwear is tight, digging into his hips, and whenever he shifts he can feel it in his ass. Shane lies down beside him, soft and glowy and warm, naked, and he needs to adjust himself.
Under Shane’s watchful gaze, eyes wide and glistening but still, settles with tucking it up, leaving the shaft pinned down by the hem and the head exposed. Shane cocks a brow then, looking at the ruddy tip pulse.
“You liked that? This?”
“Was so hot, Hollander. Felt like I was dying.”
“Dying is hot to you?” He shuffles onto his side, getting his eyeful. “You don’t want to do this, like, every time, right?”
“No, I would miss your hole too much. But, is nice, every once in a while. Maybe. Up to you.”
“I didn’t think I would like it so much,” he admits quietly, bracing to hold Ilya by the hip and rubbing over the fabric in small circles. “Or, I don’t know. I thought I’d be really bad at it.”
“Why? ‘Cause you were bad at fucking women?” He gets a slap on the stomach for that.
“You’re drooling, Rozanov,” he drawls, and Ilya goes to wipe his mouth but finds nothing. He looks down and sees his own cock smearing at his stomach. Shane had cried out, after they talked about the whole panty thing, how was I supposed to know? but now he looks at Ilya and says, “I should’ve known. You’re such a fucking girl.”
He drags his hand then, across Ilya’s stomach, until his thumb rests against the head. Shane brushes at it, lightly. “So pretty.” Ilya’s hips buck, thighs pressing together. “Yeah, good girl. You did so good.”
“Did I?”
Shane chuckles at himself, edging closer. “You know, my purple dildo? I had one before it.”
“Mm,” Ilya hums, more into the feeling of his tip being played with than anything Shane’s saying.
“I didn’t know what size to get, so I just got one that matched my dick, and it was way too big. I ended up throwing it out. I’m so impressed by you.”
Ilya feels like his whole body cinches, and Shane sits up to hold both sides of hips down. He folds over himself then, perpendicular to Ilya to nuzzle at his bulge. He calls it, “Cute,” and then his tongue starts dancing over the head.
“Oh fuck, Shane.”
He always assumed putting Shane in charge would be the same as Shane’s captaincy — cold and stern and serious. He’s only been privy to one Shane Hollander locker room speech — the All-Stars game, where it literally shouldn’t’ve mattered — but he remembers it vividly. Shane didn’t do any baseless hyping, he didn’t try to fake anything, he laid out the truth, the fact that there was a role for every player on the ice and that they needed to fulfil it if they wanted any chance at victory. Shane puts responsibility on every shoulder, and he dispenses accountability accordingly, and he’s very clear that, even though he knows exactly what everyone needs to do, he can only do his own job — it’s your fault if you fuck up. Ilya doesn’t exactly know how that would translate to sex, because there’s no real clear line between that and getting held down and fucked, but he didn’t imagine this. Shane basically coos at him, almost mean, taking him apart in this restricted, convoluted way. He keeps his attention purely on the head of his cock, licking and kissing at it, making Ilya wiggle around and feel girlish, making his thighs press up together.
“Shane,” he hears himself whine, high and stringy, and Shane says, “Let me play with you.”
It punches any fight out of him. He sinks into the mattress, watching Shane curl over him, his whole upper body pulsing with the movements of pleasing Ilya.
“You eat pussy like this?” he breathes out, and Shane cuts him a hard look. “Is good, girls are very lucky.”
He sees Shane flush then, and focus in on applying suction. The coming kind of just happens, it makes Ilya’s throat seize and his knees kick up, ankles pressed together til they hurt, and Shane laps up every little drop to draw it out. He falls away.
When Ilya goes to hold his cock, Shane is warm and still soft, and he says, “Too sensitive. Let’s sleep.”
One time is not practice enough for phase two, and either way Ilya has more things he wants to do on Shane’s cock — like riding. He finds it’s harder to get into the rhythm of fucking when you’ve got a big fucking stick up ur ass. He tells Shane as much, and says, “I get why you’re like this now.”
“I know how to fucking ride,” Shane scolds, clamping his hands down on each hip. “You lack finesse,” he tuts, which Ilya doesn’t quite process because Shane has started guiding his rocking with a firm force that makes his biceps bulge. “Like this.”
He brings fourth a rocking like the moon guides the tide, steady and strong and measured — metered so Ilya can get the hang of it. Fuck, it feels so much better. He tells Shane this too.
“Make fun of me,” Ilya gasps, still manoeuvred by Shane’s big hands.
“What?”
“Fuck me, make fun of me.”
Shane gets the picture, he starts matching his own movements with upwards thrusts that punch into Ilya’s prostate, and then he says, “God, you're pathetic.”
He moans like he’s been hit. “Yes?”
“Yeah, you need me to do everything for you, to show you how.”
“To teach me?”
“Yeah. Yeah, you can’t do anything for yourself, you need my help,” he breathes, swinging his hips up in fluid motions. “It’d be better to just use your mouth.”
“Nooo, Hollander,” he whines, but he lets himself be bounced by Shane’s thrusts, the absurd athleticism of them, rocking and bumping like he’s in a little dinghy boat on choppy waters. “Fu-u-ck,” he moans, all broken up by the movement. “So good.”
Coming like this is different. Topping, he feels the instinct to bully his way into and through the feeling, following that impulse into fucking hard into Shane. But here, now, he feels himself lock up; he needs Shane to buoy him through as his hips twitch, to stop him from ruining the moment. He thought maybe the running from pleasure was a Shane thing but now, as his thighs and knees lock and he tries to heave himself off Shane’s cock, as Shane has to fuck up hard and hold him, he realises it might be yet another thing they have in common.
Shane and Ilya have two nights and two days in front of them and Ilya realises if he wants Shane’s fist it’s going to have to be now; and, because he lacks finesse, he says:
“I can take more,” shifting over to Shane’s side of the couch and cupping his cock, soft and warm in his shorts.
“What more? A dildo?” Shane asks sceptically.
“Your fist.”
He splutters then, grabbing Ilya’s wrist to stop him rubbing. “What? You wanna show me up?”
“No, I want your whole fucking body in me,” Ilya admits, maybe a touch emphatic, but he doesn’t reel back. “I want you to smack my ass fucking hard, to shove your fist in it. Please.”
“Why? Did something happen?”
“What could have happened?” Shane just shrugs. “My ass met your fat dick, this is what happened. Now it wants more.”
Shane rolls his eyes then, hand coming up under Ilya’s shirt as the man drapes over him. He claws up his spine, light scratches like he’s a cat, like Ilya could purr for him. If Ilya purrs like anything, it’s like a sports car. If anything, he revs.
Conversation is tabled because Shane’s alarm goes off and it’s sludge time, so he needs to go and blitz together something vaguely smoothie and very green. Ilya watches with wide eyes and a scowl, and he takes tepid sips from his cup with prejudice, glaring and offended. He’s had about two mouthfuls before Shane’s finished his portion and makes grabs for Ilya’s, then both glasses are drained, rinsed, and put in the dishwasher.
Shane, standing on the other side of the kitchen island, stalks over to Ilya and grabs his ass hard, then slaps it harder. “You won’t be able to take it.”
“You’ll make me take it,” he says back easily, knowing Shane’s been thinking with his fist the whole time and crowding him against the lip of the counter with his hips. Hand still on his ass, Shane presses them both firmly together. “You’ll work your wrist into me.”
He slips away. “You’re an asshole, Rozanov.”
“Mm,” he hums, following Shane to his side of the island.
“How do you even — like — fist someone?”
“You put your fist in them, sweetheart,” Ilya says, placing a hand on Shane’s shoulder, where it dips between the muscle groups. “One finger at a time, like this—“ From behind him, he brings his pinched together fingers to his vision, right in front of Shane’s nose. “When they’re in, the fist just happens, right in me.”
“You want that?”
“Yes.”
The whole affair starts with the low simmer, middling eroticism Ilya associates with marriage: standing naked and still a bit damp as Shane goes to his linen closet to get a towel to lay over the bed. At least it’s not a puppy pee mat, or whatever, but he said it was either this or they do it in the spare room (which doesn’t have a pair of glasses and a thoroughly annotated hockey book, sitting like a vista on the bedside table), so, whatever. Ilya doesn’t think having to drag his dick against rough cotton weave is all that appealing, but Shane holds it out for his inspection and it’s soft and fluffy. It’ll probably feel like humping a cloud.
Then, he’s lying on his stomach and still shower-sticky, and feeling like he’s breathing through his skin like an amphibian. Whatever. Shane’s kind of pacing around behind him and fiddling with the lube and saying shit like, “Are you sure?”
Yes, Ilya is fucking sure. “Shane,” he says, stern, trying to piss Shane off enough to bark at him, but now he looks over his shoulder and sees, shit, maybe Shane’s melted into subservience. “Shane,” he repeats, softer. “I’m sure.”
“You want me to spank you too?” he asks, and the word spank sends a spark of humiliation through him like a flare. “Want me to call you a bad boy?”
Ilya can't tell if Shane’s being wry or not, so he says, “No, you’re slapping me because you are so mad you cannot help yourself.”
“Oh.”
“Yes,” Ilya says, instructs: “You are mad because I’m a slut who hasn’t learned.”
Quietly, Shane mumbles, “Why? Did you fuck someone else recently?” because he is too scared to say the word cheat.
“No, but maybe pretend I did.”
“I can’t do that, Ilya.”
“Okay,” he concedes, tucking his forearms under his chin. “Mad because I played better hockey than you.” He earns a ringing slap to his thigh for that. “Exactly, like that. Yes.”
“You’re a brat,” Shane says, massaging the impact zone, no doubt making it hotter and redder. “You know that?”
“Yes, Shane. Please.”
Shane sits on his thighs then, their skin tacking together, and spreads his cheeks so wide the pull hurts. Ilya tries to make his asshole wink, but he doesn’t think he has as much finesse with it as Shane does — Shane could probably speak with his hole; he can definitely beg with it.
He feels, firming, Shane’s knuckles brush against the furl, and he thinks for a second to be a smartass about it but then Shane shifts to stroke with the flat of his thumb and, fuck, Ilya’s going to have that whole fist in him.
“Lots of lube,” he breathes out, to which Shane studiously replies, recanting: There is no such thing as too much lube, which isn’t true but whatever. The first finger glides in, welcomed, so Ilya tells him to start with two.
Maybe Shane lacks finesse, or maybe he’s a glut, because he uses those two fingers to toy incessantly at Ilya’s prostate in come-hither motions that are less stretching and more, “Fuck, Shane, hold on.”
“Already?” Shane deadpans, unimpressed. Ilya wriggles his hips around, unwisely, to try and settle, but he still has to eke out a yeah. They work together to get Ilya on his back, alleviating friction on his cock.
“Focus on stretching,” he guides as Shane hauls him up by the thighs so that they press against his own, Ilya’s heels digging into the mattress behind Shane’s back. “Put three in this time, spread them.”
Three is a lot, maybe too much of a jump now that Shane’s actually pulling them apart, and his knuckles bang up against his rim over and over as he carves in and digs out. Shane works with a tight-drawn, eyebrows-furrowed dedication like how Ilya pictures scientists wear their lab coats and dissect frogs, and Ilya realises he’s much too into the mechanics of this for the whole spanking angle. He stays there, pushing at Ilya’s walls, at his muscles, until he feels loose and battered, and then Ilya breaths, “More.”
“More?”
“Four, stop right before the knuckles.” Shane does so diligently, then he looks to Ilya for guidance. “Twist it” he instructs. “Slowly.”
Ilya’s spine a curve, propped up on Shane’s thighs, watches as Shane’s biceps bulge and he rotates the four fingers in him, stretching him out and out and holy god. Ilya locks up at the sensation so fiercely he thinks his spine compacts, and then Shane resets his position and says, “I think you can take my knuckles.” He studies Ilya’s face then, which is surely red and cracked apart. “I mean, tell me if you can’t.”
“I can.”
“The angle’s a bit tough.”
Ilya, though his hair is sweat-matted to his forehead and his mind is a bit fuzzy, can admit one weakness: he’s not putting his fucking legs in the air. He can’t imagine it, feet dangling, toes doing weird things. When Shane folds up in that position he’s normally in socks, and he’s very graceful, and Ilya suspects he likes having his own knees to snuggle up against. Ilya does not feel the same way. “Okay,” he croaks. “Back to back.”
He’s very unhelpful dead weight as Shane withdraws his slimy hand and tries to wrestle Ilya onto his stomach. He lands like a sack of flour, Shane pats at his ass and he feels it jiggle.
The four fingers slot back in easily; Ilya’s canted his hips so his slick head volleys between his belly button and the towel and Shane’s got a hand prying his asscheek wide. He starts twisting when Ilya tells him twist, and the stretch reverberates through his whole fucking body, carving him out. Ilya feels Shane curl them in slightly and tilt, and he knows what’s next: the knuckles of his index and middle finger pop, and then the other two follow suit. Holy god. Ilya’s ringing in his own ears, he sounds like he’s being strangled and his back is seizing up and when Shane asks, “Are you okay?” he tries to nod vehemently into the sheets but he just scrunches them by his face and digs his forehead in so hard he thinks he manages to get rug burn from Egyptian cotton. This being confirmation enough, Shane starts twisting again (slowly, tentatively). Holy god. His body is doing things, things are being done to his body, that he has never experienced before — that he could never conceptualise before. Shane Hollander’s one step away from his whole hand.
Suddenly Ilya can imagine nothing more: his rim kissing around Shane’s wrist, Shane bullying his fist up against his prostate, punching back and forth so that his wrist bone pops in and out and the pressure never fucking lets up. Twisting again.
“Shane, the thumb,” he moans. Tuck it in, tuck it in. “More lube and the thumb.”
Ilya hears his huff of struggle as he tries to cross over himself and reach for the lube while his hand is caught, caught in the trap of Ilya’s fucking ass, sucked in. It tugs a bit at his hole, which makes him groan loudly and Shane freeze, but Shane’s starting to understand the nature of the situation and carries on — he can do no wrong.
Everything is hot, his whole life has been erotic. Every touch and brush and word spoken has been foreplay leading up to this. The world is sexual, sexuality is his, he’s rambling. The lube is warmed, and he wishes he could rear his head around because Shane likes to heat the tube between his thighs sometimes. The lube is applied to Shane’s fist as he’s drawn it out. The lube is fucked into him. The blunt curved end of Shane’s thumb teases at him, his nails short and his hands tough. He slips it in.
The final hurdle is the biggest one, the meat of his palm (his actual fist), and he’s sure it’s slow work, but he’s so strung out he doesn’t even realise it’s happening until he hears Shane softly gasp, “Oh my god.” The bulk of him is in, he’s in.
Ilya’s been mumbling some continuum of yeah, yeah, yeah this whole time, mindless encouragement, and he’s still going. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
“Ilya,” Shane whispers. “What now?”
“Work your wrist in me.” He nudges in further, and this is probably the limit, then he snakes his free hand around to see if Ilya’s still hard and finds that he is. “Rock.”
“What?”
“Rock, your fist, back-forth.” He does, butting his fist up against his prostate and shoving around his insides. Ilya blindly grabs for the hand around his cock and presses it firm and hot against his lower groin, and he says, “Feel.” Feel yourself moving around in me.
“Fuck,” Shane says very succinctly. “Fuck, Ilya, touch yourself.” It’s one firm squeeze around his cock and then he’s coming, getting it in his bellybutton and across his stomach and dripping down onto the towel, and then he collapses forward and traps both Shane’s hands so that he’s pulled forward too. He rests his head against the span of Ilya’s back and breaths deeply. “Was that good?”
There’s no words for what it is. Ilya’s head is ringing so loudly he thinks an IED went off. He might never hear clearly again, he can’t open his eyes. Shane extricates himself soundly, slow and gentle even though he must be so horny his eyes are crossing, and then he jerks off into the wide gaping maw of Ilya’s hole, and his cum adds to the slurry of lube.
Good girl, Shane says. “You are so fucking good.” He’s walked to the side of the bed and crouched, found Ilya’s level, to say that to his face. Ilya wants to take his red fucking mouth, his wet bottom lip, and pull. Fucking pull.
A little part of that night lives on in every day of their lives together. After a week, Ilya books an appointment and gets his ears pierced. Six months later, as a gift for signing with the Ottawa Centaurs, as an offhand show of Shane’s wealth, he gets a pair of dangly diamond earrings in a robin egg blue box. At the presser, he wears them. No one comments, they look beautiful on camera, Shane calls him a pretty even when Ilya tops.