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Ilya had never been overtly religious. He believed in something, and he wanted to believe that he would see his mother again one day, but he’d never been one to enjoy a sermon or whatever judgemental bullshit any priest he’d been forced to listen had wanted to spew. Ilya had yet to feel the touch of God or the presence of something holy while staring at the Bibles propped against a row of pews as a choir sang their somber hymns, and while the stained glass windows and paintings depicting the Virgin Mary were objectively beautiful in the way they’d been crafted, they roused no urge in him to completely devote himself to something that probably didn’t give two shits about him.
But this did.
Shane Hollander makes devotion feel easy, like it’s breathing; something just as instinctual as it is vital, like Ilya might die if he even thought about straying away from his worship.
And oh, does he worship. He worships Shane the only way he knows how – he fucks into him, flattening him against the bed until the frame itself threatens to give from under them, his pace unforgiving in a way that, to Shane, is an act of reverence. Shane rewards Ilya for his faith with sounds of pleasure so sweet that they make Ilya feel delirious, completely drunk with both lust and love. Ilya soaks in every breath, every moan and gasp and sharply whispered yes, yes, please Ilya, don’t stop, please don’t stop – cataloging them into what could be his very own scripture, already containing enough pages to rival that of the Bible.
The morning sun shines through the windows, warming their sweat-slick bodies. A few rays catch on the golden cross that hangs from Ilya’s neck, casting its shadow amongst the freckles splattered across Shane’s upper back as it dances along each thrust. It looks like a brand – fleeting unlike the shape of Ilya’s teeth now collaring Shane’s neck and the curve of his shoulder. Ilya can’t help but to lean down to kiss them, hoping it would somehow make them stick for good, never to fade.
When Ilya sees the telltale signs of Shane’s rapidly approaching rapture – the sharp hitch in his breath, the way his body tightens around him and his back curls into a deeper arch, his legs spreading wider – he abandons the need to chase his own pleasure, and instead focuses on bringing Shane his. Ilya drapes himself over Shane’s back and curls his hand around Shane’s hip to reach for his weeping cock. Shane whimpers at the contact, his hips bucking back against Ilya, desperate to meet his thrusts half-way, no inch wasted.
“Fuck”, Shane wails, broken and breathless, his cock pulsing in Ilya’s hand with the need to burst. “Oh, fuck, Ilya–”
Ilya never got tired of the sight of Shane losing himself to pleasure, when he allowed himself to let go and melt against whatever Ilya would give him. Discipline and restraint didn’t matter when he could give himself permission to let Ilya have his way with him – worship him, like he deserves to be worshipped.
“You want it?” Ilya pants against Shane’s ear, squeezing his hip with his free hand. Shane nods frantically, letting out a low keen as he buries his face against the sheets.
“Yes, want your cum”, Shane babbles, sounding just as delirious as Ilya feels, too far gone to shy away from the filth that Ilya knew resided under his usual fluster. Shane clenches around Ilya’s cock again, tighter, impossibly tight. His jaw hangs slack while the rest of his body tenses under the force of his impending climax, every plea freely spilling out in tandem with Ilya’s thrusts, sharp and fast. “Please. Want it in me. Want it–”
Shane cuts himself off with a sharp moan, spilling onto Ilya’s hand and the sheets below. Ilya echoes the sound, slamming into Shane’s pulsing heat with a newfound vigor, desperate to fulfill his command – to mark him from the inside out. The imprints of his teeth and fingers aren’t enough. Ilya must claim him, every inch of him, every molecule and patch of skin until they become one and the same.
His mouth keeps running as he fucks Shane through his orgasm, Russian and English mixing together. He calls Shane beautiful and perfect and divine as his spent body grips him tighter, milking him towards his climax – which arrives at the very second Shane turns to look at Ilya over his shoulder, the dazed look of pleasure plastered all over his flushed face too much to bear.
Ilya spills inside Shane with a loud groan, burying himself as deep as Shane’s body could possibly let him, and somehow it still doesn’t feel like it’s enough. Ilya’s hands come to grab Shane by the waist, his thumbs digging deep into the dimples at his lower back. Ilya holds him tightly, making sure that their bodies would remain joined while he lays Shane onto his side, gentle and slow. He squeezes himself against Shane’s back, his cock firmly nestled inside of him, somehow still half-hard and wanting as Ilya buries his face into Shane’s hair, breathing in the smell of his sweat and savouring the wet heat of his body.
Shane makes a content sigh, immediately relaxing against Ilya. He often liked this, the prolonged stretch of Ilya’s cock while he basked in the afterglow of his orgasm, and Ilya liked it, too. Shane’s body is so warm, and it slots against Ilya’s so easily – like he’d been made for him. Like they had been made for each other. Two puzzle pieces refusing to detach, glued together by fate.
They don’t talk. The only sound in the room is their ragged breathing, slowly evening out. Ilya drags his hand across Shane’s taunt stomach, reaching for his chest. He lays his palm there, listening to the calming melody of Shane’s heartbeat – quick but no longer racing, and yet heavy with affection.
Shane covers Ilya’s hand with his own, squeezing softly. Ilya is hit with an irrational urge to claw his way through Shane’s skin just so he could hold his heart in his palms and witness the love he could feel radiating from such a simple gesture with his own eyes – the love he sometimes still struggled to believe was real, because how on earth could he deserve to be loved by someone like Shane?
When Shane releases his hand Ilya drags it lower, continuing his silent worship. He trails his fingertips around the curve of Shane’s pecs and then over his nipple, if just to make him shiver against him, his body momentarily clenching around Ilya’s spent cock again. Ilya mirrors the pleased sound that leaves Shane’s parted lips and watches in awe how eagerly Shane cranes his neck, wordlessly offering himself to be devoured despite just having survived one consummation.
Ilya’s smiling mouth finds Shane’s throat, offering wet kisses along the arch of it, tongue occasionally turning into teeth while he gently drags his palm up and down Shane’s flank, feeling for the bones hiding under layers of muscle. At some point Ilya realizes that he’s counting them, fingers quietly passing each rib, mapping their length like he’s touching something sacred. He doesn’t remember how many he’s supposed to find, but he could swear that the gap between two of them is larger than the rest, like there’s something missing.
“Do you have all your ribs?”
Shane makes an incredulous sound. He shifts, trying to glance at Ilya from over his shoulder. “What?”
His face is still flushed, and the confused furrow of his brows and his scrunched nose makes him look even more adorable than usual – if such a feat was even possible. Ilya loses the battle of self-control and immediately leans in to bite at Shane’s cheek, earning himself a playfully exasperated huff before Shane swats him away.
“You know that story in the Bible, where God makes Eve out of Adam’s rib?”
“Everyone knows that story, Ilya”, Shane points out dryly. “Even people who aren’t religious.”
“Mm. I was thinking. Maybe God made me from your rib”, Ilya murmurs, nosing at Shane’s shoulder while he trails a finger along the hollow space he’d found before, like that would somehow make it bigger – make it true. “I feel like I belong here. Inside you.”
“Well you certainly have been inside of me”, Shane drawls, which causes Ilya to laugh. “Dunno about my ribs, though.”
“Maybe is why we both like this so much”, Ilya says, gesturing at their joined bodies. “Only way to make us feel whole again.”
He feels Shane’s chest stutter around a chuckle – quiet and fond. It’s the most beautiful sound Ilya has ever had the privilege to hear.
“I don’t know if that’s the weirdest thing I’ve heard come out of your mouth, or the most romantic”, Shane says, clearly pleased nonetheless.
Ilya makes a noncommittal sound in response, planting another kiss on Shane’s shoulder, and then his nape. He continues to mouth at Shane’s skin, leaving wet trails of spit and teethmarks in his wake, now counting freckles instead of bones.
“You don’t believe in God”, Ilya murmurs then, his mouth still latched onto Shane. It’s neither a question nor an accusation, but a soft acknowledgement said with a smile.
“I don’t”, Shane agrees. “But I don’t mind that you do. As long as you don’t, y’know, get all weird about it.”
“I just got weird about it”, Ilya points out, grinning.
Ilya can practically hear Shane rolling his eyes. “Not what I meant. Just don’t go off starting cults or blabbing bullshit about sin or whatever.”
“I think you just don’t want me getting on my knees for another man."
“Oh my god, shut up.”
Ilya cackles, digging his fingers into Shane’s ribs hard enough to make him squirm. Then, much to Ilya’s turmoil, Shane reaches out to tap at his hip, signaling him to finally sever the connection of their bodies, having reached his limit.
Ilya’s cock still hasn’t softened when it slips out of Shane, too enticed by his heat as it twitches pathetically against Shane’s hip, begging Ilya to crawl back inside him. Ilya feels the loss of Shane everywhere; his skin, his gut, his bones, his heart. Every part of him yearns for Shane, lost without its other half. Shane soothes his grief by turning around and squeezing himself against Ilya’s chest, draping his arm possessively over Ilya’s waist. His fingertips travel up, lingering at the curve of Ilya’s ribs. Ilya wonders if he’s counting them too, searching for an empty spot.
Ilya leans in to capture Shane’s mouth, the kiss soft and sweet. He cups Shane’s face, stroking his thumb over the freshly shaved line of Shane’s jaw. It earns him a content noise as Shane’s lips part, eager to invite Ilya in. But instead of giving into his silent request Ilya leans back, flashing a playful smirk at Shane.
“Is okay, you have no reason to get jealous. I worship you more than God”, Ilya says. “Doesn’t need to be a Sunday for me to get on my knees for you.”
Shane gives him a wry look, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement. “Isn’t talk like that blasphemy?”
Ilya waves his hand dismissively. “Eh, God will agree. You are very sexy.”
“Maybe I’m not His type.”
Ilya feigns shock, clutching at his own chest. “Now that is blasphemy!” he huffs out while Shane proceeds to snort at him. “You are everyone’s type. Voted the sexiest hockey player two years in a row. Should have been every year. I will bribe the magazines next time, so they vote correctly.”
Shane grins, shaking his head to himself. “You’re an idiot.”
“Yes, but you love me”, Ilya says, beaming.
“Yeah, I do”, Shane responds immediately, so painfully earnest – like loving Ilya is just as easy to him as devotion is to Ilya, equivalent to the act of breathing, existing. Shane's voice is soft, but the curve of his lips is even softer. “More than anything.”
Oh, how Ilya’s heart weeps at the affection that bleeds from every word; every brush of Shane’s fingertips still trailing up his flank. Ilya bumps his head against Shane’s, their noses brushing together. The contact is barely anything, nothing but a slow caress, and yet Ilya feels it everywhere, his toes curling from the weight of it.
“Say it, please”, Ilya pleads with a tender smile. Shane answers it in kind, carding his fingers through Ilya’s hair as he leans in to press a kiss on Ilya’s cheek, and then his awaiting mouth, his lips already greedily puckered for Shane.
“I love you, Ilya”, Shane says. “So much. Ya tebya lyublyu.”
“Ya tebya lyublyu”, Ilya whispers – not once, not twice, but thrice, leaving a new kiss in the wake of each declaration. Shane happily accepts each one, melting against Ilya’s chest like candlewax to a flame. Now, instead of lust, Ilya feels delirious with the hopeless joy that fills his chest; the joy that surely would one day drive him mad with its might.
Maybe it already has. Ilya wants to slide back in the heat of Shane’s body and never leave. He wants to melt through Shane’s skin and make a home in the spot between his ribs or the part in his heart that belonged to Ilya – the part that tied them together. He wants to carve his name there. He wants to mark every patch of skin and bone until there’s no space left in Shane’s body that Ilya hasn’t touched or latched onto.
Ilya wants to tell Shane all of it, every macabre desire that resided in the hidden caverns of his soul, aching to spill out in the open, but it feels safer to hold them in, where nothing could unmake them. So instead he offers Shane one last kiss, reverent and slow before he pulls away, and says; “I’m sorry.”
Shane blinks. “For what?”
“You said I can’t start a cult”, Ilya clarifies. Then he grins, wiggling his brows at Shane. “But I think I should. The cult of Shane Hollander has a nice ring to it.”
“Please don’t start a cult for me”, Shane pleads, his tone deadpan, albeit betrayed by his playful smile. “I have enough weird fans as it is. At this point I have learned to keep away from places like Twitter.”
Ilya shakes his head. “No, no, is only a cult for me. Exclusive.”
“One person can’t be a cult.”
“What are you, cult expert? Besides, you deserve to be worshipped”, Ilya reaches to grab Shane’s ass, emphasizing his point with a few rough squeezes. “Your ass deserves to be worshipped. Is divine, truly. Proof of God’s existence."
Shane lets out a bewildered laugh, but it quickly melts into a moan when Ilya slips his fingers between the crease of his ass, now completely soaked with both lube and cum – Ilya’s cum, the proof of his claim over Shane. He rubs over Shane’s overflowing hole, feeling it clench and throb under his touch, begging him to bruise it further. Shane’s eyes darken, fondness quickly overtaken by lust, though neither fully consumes the other. They merge into something so beautiful it’s almost painful to look at, and yet Ilya can’t tear his eyes away.
Shane makes a show of biting his lower lip before he pushes Ilya onto his back and crawls all over him. He spreads his legs, shamelessly obscene, further parading the mess that covers his lower body, the insides of his thighs completely slick with it.
Ilya stares at Shane, breathless by the sight of him, naked and smiling and perfect, an amalgamation of both sin and heaven. The rays of the sun trickling through the large windows of his cottage frame his body with golden warmth like the halo of someone holy; someone worthy of worship. His cock sways heavily between his legs, already half-hard and leaking at the tip – or perhaps, like Ilya’s, it had never wilted, unsated like the man it belongs to.
Shane’s eyes rake over Ilya like he wants to devour him whole and God, Ilya would let him. In a fucking heartbeat. He’d carve his heart out of his chest if Shane just asked him to.
“Well, you better continue your worship then, Mr. Rozanov”, Shane murmurs, bracing himself against Ilya’s chest with a wicked smile. His fingers inch towards the cross around Ilya’s neck, grazing against it like he might tease his cock, the stroke slow and deliberate.
Ilya lets out a breathless noise of wonder, matching Shane’s eagerness with a dazed grin. His hands travel to Shane’s waist in a quick slide, ready to proclaim his devotion – and prove his worth.
“A-fucking-men.”