Archive of Our Own

He doesn’t mean to say it.

It just…slips out. Easy on his tongue. Comfortable, like it belongs there. Like it’s something Ilya has been saying for years. He can’t bite his tongue fast enough to stop it, clamp down hard on his bottom lip so forcefully it bleeds. 

Shane is on top, riding Ilya beautifully. Ilya feels dizzy with pleasure as he watches Shane use him. He loves having him in any position, but there’s something so erotic about letting Shane chase his own pleasure. He pants with every drop of his hips, switching between screwing his eyes shut, overwhelmed, and looking down at Ilya through his long lashes. The wet slaps of skin on skin fill their bedroom; Ilya has his hands wrapped around Shane’s waist, pulling him down even harder onto his cock. He feels so fucking good wrapped around him. He could lie here for hours and just let Shane have his way with him.

“Oh fuck, Ilya,” Shane moans. His freckled cheeks are flushed bright red, the same shade as the head of his cock. “Yeah, so fucking good.”

Ilya feels a little bashful from the praise. It gets him all worked up, knowing that he’s the one that makes Shane Hollander feel like this. Ilya is absolutely ruined—no one else will ever make him feel this way. 

Shane leans forward and braces himself with one hand on the headboard, the other on Ilya’s collar. Ilya is sure he doesn’t mean it this way, but it feels like he’s holding him down, making him take it. Shane’s bicep flexes as he rests his body weight onto his arm. It’s too much, the feeling of Shane keeping him in place, riding his cock. He feels like his chest is going to burst, so the only thing he can do is—

“Daddy.” It comes out as a strangled moan, breathed through spit-slick lips. 

Ilya can feel Shane pause above him, his movements faltering. His lips are parted, breathing heavily, as he looks down at Ilya. He’s about to come up with some excuse, try and brush it off as just a joke, something he said to tease Shane. 

But Shane whines, high in his throat, titling his head to the side as he sits back, forcing Ilya’s cock deeper into him. He frees his hand from the headboard, dropping it to his own dick so he can jerk himself off.

Ilya thrusts up into Shane. He’s clenching down so hard around his cock; Ilya wants more than anything to flip him over and fuck into his tight hole. But Shane still holds him down, still keeps one strong hand on his shoulder. 

“Ilya, fuck, I’m so close—“ Shane lurches forward so he can press his lips against Ilya’s. He misses, kissing the corner of his mouth instead, before hitting his target. It’s messy with too much tongue, which is how he always kisses when he’s close. Ilya grips the back of Shane’s head, tugging at his hair, pulling him closer. 

He feels Shane squeeze around him, tight, and his cock spurts against Ilya’s stomach. Ilya pants into Shane’s mouth as he does the same, spilling into the condom.

It’s only later that the embarrassment hits. Post-nut clarity, or something. Shane is clinging onto Ilya like a koala, big arms wrapped around his torso, face nuzzled into his neck. A few wild strands of hair tickle Ilya’s nose. Ilya can’t relax. It feels like every muscle in his body is taught. He can’t believe he said that. He’s Ilya Rozanov: he holds Shane Hollander down and fucks him hard, domineering. He doesn’t call him…that.

“I can hear you thinking.” Shane tilts his head so he can look up at Ilya. 

“That is my line, Hollander,” Ilya grumbles. It’s true; Shane thinks very loudly. When he’s mulling over something, his lips press into a hard line and there’s a slight crease between his brows. Ilya knows Shane and can pick up on when something’s bothering him.

Apparently Shane can too.

“Hey,” Shane says softly, adjusting so he’s propped up on one arm. “What’s up?”

“Is nothing.” Ilya purses his lips, hoping to appear nonchalant. “I am just thinking about how well you took my cock.”

Shane blushes but doesn’t let up.

“That’s not the face you make when you’re thinking about me like that,” He explains. “It’s the face you make when something is bothering you.”

“Hollander, you are saying you spend lots of time looking at my face?” 

“Oh my god, stop avoiding the question!” Shane squeaks, laughing as he lightly taps Ilya’s stomach. He leaves his hand there, caressing his skin, and lowers his voice. “Is it… is it about the thing you said?”

“I do not know what you’re talking about.” He’s staring at the ceiling now. He can’t look Shane in the eyes right now, no matter how big and brown and sweet they are.

“Ilya. Look at me.” Shane cups Ilya’s cheek in his hand, tilting his head so Ilya is forced to look at him. He doesn’t look upset, or angry. He’s smiling gently, earnestly. “Remember what you said to me when I was like, mortified about wanting to do the free use stuff?”

“I said you looked like a little bunny.” 

Shane rolls his eyes. 

“Not that. You said that I shouldn’t ever feel embarrassed about wanting stuff. There’s nothing wrong with kinky shit. We're a team, Ilya. I want you to feel comfortable and do things that make you feel good.”

Shane takes one of Ilya’s curls in his fingers and squishes it. They sit in silence for a moment. Now Shane’s the one thinking loudly, brows furrowed and lips pressed together.

“And…” Shane starts, voice lower than before. “I thought it was really hot.” 

That makes Ilya feel a little better.

“Yeah?” He asks, as if Shane would ever lie to him. 

“Yeah,” the other man repeats, wetting his lips with his tongue. His hand suddenly feels a lot warmer where it’s resting on Ilya’s lower stomach. 

“Well then I will remember that. For future use.”

Ilya flicks Shane’s arm and Shane swats at him, giggling as Ilya wrestles him into a bear hug. 

They drift off to sleep, intertwined and sated. 

***

It doesn’t come up again until much, much later. 

It’s the night the Metros are playing Carolina; a home game at the Bell Center. Whenever the Centaurs aren’t playing at the same time as them, Ilya tries to watch their games. It’s the only way he can get a glimpse of Shane when they’re apart. He has to settle for the shots of him on the bench, or a wide view of him bent over the circle at center ice. He selfishly only wants Shane to be the one scoring, because that means Ilya will get to see his pretty smile light up his television screen. The small moments of Shane he gets to see make up for the rest of the experience watching Metros games. Like now, as the ESPN broadcast shows a close up of Shane’s face during warmups: his forehead creased in concentration as Pike talks to him, probably about something pointless. Shane’s lips twitch in a smile and Pike knocks his shoulder against his captain’s before skating away.  It makes Ilya frown. Gives him a sour taste in his mouth. The broadcast is a reminder of what he can’t have—what he’ll never have.

Ilya watches anyway, secretly craving the moments that should be his. 

The Metros are up by one; Shane has the puck, speeding down the ice towards the Hurricanes’ goal. One of their defenders is on him—Thompson—but he can’t skate as fast as Shane. Shane’s approaching the back of the net, so he passes the puck to Pike and tries to swerve to the side, but Thompson is still on him, even though the puck is out of his possession, and the defender slams his entire body weight into Shane, shoving him against the boards. Shane’s head hits the glass, and when Thompson turns and skates away, Shane crumbles to the ground. 

The refs don’t call it. 

“He didn’t even have the fucking puck!” Ilya shouts, jumping up from the couch so suddenly it startles Anya. Shane’s still on the ground, and it takes a second for the refs to stop the game. 

It’s just like all those years ago, when Marleau checked Shane. But this time, Ilya isn’t there, frozen on the ice; he’s stuck in fucking Ottawa, and Shane’s limp body is just a smudge on his TV screen. 

“Get up, Shane,” Ilya grits through his clenched teeth. “You’re fine, get up.” 

Shane tries to get up. He barely makes it two paces before he slumps to the ice again, trying to catch himself with his hands. Shane stays where he is while the camera pans over to Pike, who is currently grabbing Thompson by the shoulders. The crowd roars with glee at the fight, but it just makes Ilya feel sick to his stomach. Pike gets one lame hit in before the refs break it up. 

The live video cuts away. They replay the hit, this time up close, the announcers’ commentary like nails on a chalkboard. 

“And Hollander gets decked by Thompson here. Let’s see it again; he takes it down the wall, he’s looking—he tries that little spin move. You’re already committed to the hit. This is not a penalty, even though it’s on the numbers.” 

Ilya thanks any and every higher power that Shane is able to walk himself off the ice with the help of their AT. No stretcher, this time. Thank fucking god. 

He doesn’t realize how bad his hands are shaking until he grabs his phone from the coffee table, pulling up Yuna’s contact. 

“Hi, Ilya.” She picks up on the fourth ring.

“Are you in Montreal?” Ilya asks hurriedly. The game has resumed; Morin, the right winger on Montreal’s second line, turns the puck over to Carolina in a rather embarrassing pass.

“Oh, no, we couldn’t make it to Shane’s game tonight. We just left to get dinner with friends,” Yuna explains.

“He is hurt,” Ilya blurts out, unable to soften the blow of the words. “He hit his head against the boards—the refs did not even call it, he was on ice and tried to get up but couldn’t.” Ilya’s throat feels thick. He can barely get the words out. 

“Woah, okay. Take a deep breath, Ilya. Did the broadcasters say how he was doing?”

“No, they just said it was not—what is the word?” Ilya thumps the heel of his hand against his forehead. Stupid, he thinks. His boyfriend is injured and he is in Ottawa, struggling to speak English. “It was allowed. And I need to go to him, but he would be so mad if I drove all the way to the stadium. I’m just—“

Scared.  His voice cracks before he can finish the sentence. 

“Okay, that’s okay.” She keeps saying it, over and over again. “He wouldn’t be mad at you. Let’s come up with a plan together, and then you can start driving over.”

It’s exactly what she does with Shane. Create actionable steps to make everything seem more manageable. 

They talk everything through; she’ll call Pike after the game and ask him to drive Shane home, as long as he doesn’t have to go to the emergency room. Ilya will go straight to Shane’s—he has the code, of course—and wait for the trade off. 

“Thank you, Yuna. Very much,” Ilya says once the plan has been made. 

“You don’t have to thank me, Ilya. I’m really glad he has someone who cares about him so deeply.” Ilya feels his eyes sting. “Text me with any updates, alright? Talk to you soon.”

Yuna hangs up the phone. Ilya keeps it pressed to his cheek for a moment after. 

The game is still playing on his TV when he leaves.

Ilya drives in silence. He’s driven on this highway so many times before that he shouldn’t need directions, but he still plugs Shane’s address into Google Maps. It’s always just in case; just in case there’s traffic, just in case the exit is closed. Just in case there’s anything in the way between him and Shane. 

The hit replays in Ilya’s mind, over and over again. Will it be like last time, when Shane couldn’t play for weeks? Or will it be worse; will he forget who Ilya is? What happens if he can’t play after this? 

Ilya doesn’t realize he’s crying until the taillights in front of him start to blur.

He gets to Shane’s house in two hours and 21 minutes. His phone dings as he pulls into the driveway.

Hayden Pike: Shane is okay. Doc says it’s prob not a concussion he just was dazed from the hit but wants Shane to take it easy for the next couple of days  

Ilya lets his head fall against the steering wheel. This man is going to kill him one day; Ilya will worry himself to death and he will be happy about it.

He lets himself inside, making sure to put his shoes neatly on the shoerack, next to Shane’s Reeboks. He checks Shane’s fridge, making sure that the ginger ale is stocked. There’s enough to last for weeks. Ilya takes off his hoodie, then puts it back on, then takes it off again. He goes back to the shoe rack; yes, his shoes are in the right place. Ilya half considers wiping down Shane’s kitchen counter for him, but mentally curses himself. Shane is hurt. Why would he care if the countertops are dirty or not?

Ilya finally decides to just sit and watch the door. He rests his chin on his hand, which allows him to rest his eyes for just a little bit. 

He nearly falls out of the chair, an hour later, when he hears the door unlocking.

Shane steps inside, his gear bag weighing down his left shoulder. The door shuts behind him with a heavy thud. Slowly, Shane places his bag on the floor, and then slips off his slides. They immediately go on the shoe rack. 

“Hey, Ilya.” 

Shane’s wearing one of Ilya’s sweatshirts—the black one, with the hole in the collar. He looks tired, but he still smiles sweetly. 

“Shane,” Ilya coos; he’s trying so hard to sound okay, keeping his voice from cracking into a sob. He clears the foyer in two long strides and wraps his arms around Shane’s sturdy form. Inhaling deeply, Ilya tucks his face in the crook of the other man’s neck. He’s firm flesh, hard muscle that’s real. He is okay. 

“You didn’t have to drive down. Hayden and Jackie would’ve made sure I was okay,” Shane says softly. He’s cradling the back of Ilya’s head, massaging his soft curls. It feels nice.

“Hayden has brain damage too. Did you know this?” It’s easy to slip back to his usual jabs at Hayden; anything to keep Shane from noticing the way his hands shake.

“Stop it,” Shane chides, tugging on a strand of Ilya’s hair. The feeling makes Ilya’s spine melt, curling him deeper into Shane’s touch. “Oh, baby…”

“You are the one that is hurt. I should be taking care of you.” Ilya’s voice is muffled by the fabric. Shane’s arms feel so perfect around him, keeping him close and grounded.

“I’m fine,” Shane says. “They really don’t think it’s a concussion. It just looked bad and hurt like a bitch at first.”

Ilya grumbles and shoves his hands underneath Shane’s sweatshirt and t-shirt, aching to feel his warm skin. Shane smells like the cheap dressing room soap and his linen detergent. 

“Hey,” Shane breathes. Ilya likes when he says it; he likes how his voice pitches higher at the end. “Wanna kiss you.”

Ilya tilts his head up so he can slot his lips against Shane’s. Whatever Shane asks for, he’ll give it. Shane’s hand tightens in his hair—an instinct—while Ilya’s hands roam. They kiss slowly at first; Ilya bumps his nose against Shane’s when they pull away briefly to breathe. Ilya’s brain tries to parse through all the sensations: the softness of Shane’s lips, the warmth of his skin, the hard muscle of his thigh pressing against his crotch. Shane’s hand moves from the back of his head to Ilya’s cheek. The touch is so gentle, so caring, that Ilya pulls away to nuzzle into it. Shane runs his thumb along his cheekbone. 

“Can I carry you? Will not jostle your pretty head too much?” Ilya asks, pursing his lips in the slightest pout. Shane puffs out a laugh. 

“Just be gentle tonight, okay?” Shane’s voice gets a little quieter. Ilya kisses his cheek, then his nose.

“I want to take care of you,” he mutters. “You just have to lay back and look sweet. Please?”  

Shane’s breath hitches; his eyes quickly scan over Ilya’s face, reading him. Shane’s usually the expressive one. His face is quick to reveal what his words won’t say, but Ilya wonders if he’s the same now, too. If Shane has softened him up, or he just knows Ilya too well.

“I love you,” is what Shane says before grabbing Ilya by both cheeks and pulling him into another kiss. Ilya lets himself be pushed and pulled by Shane, like when he’s at the beach and floats in the water, letting the waves move him how they please. Shane’s body and touch keep him grounded. 

Shane squeaks in surprise when Ilya hoists him up by the back of his thighs. Shane is large, all hard muscle from years and years of hockey. Ilya likes how they’re matched physically; Ilya can push him around and Shane can fight back. They are perfect for each other in many ways.

Ilya carries Shane to the bedroom, setting him down gently. He would prefer to have him on the bed immediately, but Ilya knows how he gets about outside clothes on the sheets. 

“Where do you want me?” 

Ilya chews on his bottom lip while he considers this. 

“Sit on the edge,” He instructs, grabbing Shane’s pert ass through his sweatpants just to tease him. Shane swats his hand away, and starts stripping down. Ilya feels himself firm up in his pants, arousal stirring as Shane folds each item of clothing and places them on the ottoman. 

“Are you just gonna stand there, or…” Shane shoots Ilya a look over his shoulder. His hair is ruffled from pulling the sweatshirt over his head. Ilya suddenly feels nineteen all over again. 

“Ah, yes,” He says sharply, hurrying to kick off his sweatpants and throw off his t-shirt. He likes when Shane looks at him like that; like he’s a little embarassing. Like Shane is better than him. Fuck. His briefs suddenly feel too tight. 

Shane’s sitting at the end of the bed now, hands resting on top of his thighs, pointedly not touching his erection. It’s fat and flushed against his stomach; Ilya wants to worship him. 

“Shane,” Ilya breathes. He wants to say it over and over again. There’s something else on his tongue, sitting heavy on his tastebuds. He’s not ready for it—not yet—but he knows it’s there.

“Ilya.” Shane is squirming a little; he gets like that when Ilya makes eye contact with him too long. 

“I want to taste you,” Ilya admits. Then, for good measure: “Please.” 

“Yeah?” Shane’s voice is breathy. Ilya nods. Of course. I’ve never wanted anything more. 

Shane blushes then adjusts so he’s on his hands and knees. Because he’s just so good for Ilya, he drops his chest to the bed, arching his back in a sloping curve. His cock hangs heavy underneath him. 

“So beautiful,” Ilya says softly, stepping forward. He reaches out to run his hand over the flushed skin of Shane’s ass, tracing a stretch mark with his thumb. “Please.” Ilya has no idea why he says it, doesn’t know what he’s even asking for. 

Shane cants his hips back, tantalizingly. 

“Come on,” he whines. “Want your mouth.”

Ilya sinks to the ground, knees brushing against the soft carpet. He’s face-to-face with Shane’s hole; he loves seeing every sensitive part of Shane. The parts of him that are kept hidden from everyone else—they are only for Ilya.

Shane moans when Ilya’s tongue licks a stripe up his hole. Ilya wants to eat up his noises, or bottle them up for safekeeping. 

“Yeah, shit.” Ilya starts slow; he alternates between languid licks with the flat of his tongue and pointed probes with the tip. Shane tastes like sweat and skin. Maybe a little like the soap he used to clean himself before coming over. Even after an injury on ice, Shane took the time to scrub his hole, knowing he’d be seeing Ilya.

“Oh fuck, Ilya, feels so good.” Shane’s starting to babble, which means Ilya’s doing a good job. He quickens the pace of his tongue, groaning into Shane’s skin and pawing his ass. He spreads his cheeks wider, and Shane leans deeper into the stretch, whining. Ilya loves the pressure on his face. He thinks that he wouldn’t mind staying here forever, letting Shane use his mouth for his own pleasure. 

Shane keens when Ilya pushes the tip of his tongue past his rim. Ilya’s neglected dick throbs at the sound, but that’s not important right now. The only thing that matters is his—his Shane, the man who keeps him in check. The person who puts him in his place with a simple no, Ilya. Shane fucks himself backwards on his tongue, humming and chirping contentedly. Ilya drags his hand down the pert curve of Shane’s ass until he reaches his cock; it’s firm and velvety in his hand. Ilya pumps it—once, twice—just to give Shane a little bit of release.

“Holy shit, I’m gonna come if you—Ilya!” 

Ilya gives Shane’s hole one last taste before pulling away, chest heaving.

“Daddy.” It slips out from Ilya’s lips so fucking easily; his voice pitches up into a whine as he rests his cheek against the back of Shane’s thigh. There’s a bead of sweat on his forehead and his cock is throbbing. Breathless, Ilya feels his throat tighten. He loves Shane so much. He’s so good to him, too good to him. Ilya doesn’t know if he wants to fuck into him or curl up in his arms. “Was it good?” 

What’s unsaid: was I good? 

“Mhm, so good.” Shane’s smile is bashful when he flips around, flopping down to stretch out on the bed. Ilya takes in the hard lines of his body, the hair dusting the inside of his thighs. “Will… are you gonna fuck me now?” 

Ilya doesn’t even realize his hand has drifted down to his cock until he drags his thumb over his leaking head. 

“Да, yes.” Ilya scrambles over to their nightstand so he can grab the lube and a condom. When he turns back around, Shane is biting his lip, legs spread. Fuck, Ilya mouths. His Shane is so beautiful. 

“M’gonna need fingers,” Shane says quietly. “Not ready for that big of a dick.”

He can’t really say it seriously—the corner of Shane’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. But Ilya still feels his body go hot, hearing Shane talk about him like that. 

“I will stretch you,” Ilya promises. He reaches down to rest the pad of his thumb against Shane’s opening. “So pretty.” 

“Fuck off.”

“It is the truth,” Ilya insists, circling Shane’s rim. It tenses under the touch. “Very pretty. I would taste it all the time if I could.”

Shane tries to roll his eyes as Ilya coats his fingers in lube, but his breath hitches when the cool substance smears over his hole. 

“Oh,” Shane breathes as Ilya slips one thick finger inside, already wet with Ilya’s spit. He's so tight; no matter how often they do this, Shane’s always so taut and wet for him. 

Their breaths and the slick sounds of his lubed fingers fill the room. Shane plays with his nipples while Ilya stretches him open, tweaking the sensitive bits of flesh. He circles his hips so Ilya’s fingers sink in deeper. 

Ilya doesn’t know how he got so lucky. Their relationship is hard, of course, but…. it’s worth it. He’d do anything to keep Shane here with him.

“Do you want condom?” The words are hard to get out; Ilya stares, mesmerized by the way Shane sucks in his fingers.

“Mm, don’t know.” Shane sighs, lolling his head to the side as Ilya spreads his fingers. “What do you want?” 

It’s an invitation, giving him a choice to say something safe like going to fuck this tight little hole bare. Or:

“Please, I—let me fuck you raw, want to so bad.” 

Ilya’s whining like a petulant child. He wants it terribly, wants to feel the way Shane clenches around his cock.

“Asking so nicely,” Shane coos, teasingly grazing Ilya’s thigh with his foot. “Okay.”

Ilya jolts, scrambling to coat his dick in lube. It’s messy and too much—whoops—but he can’t bring himself to care. He’s usually so much more suave than this; he was just really thrown off by watching Shane go down again. 

Shane preens when Ilya slots the head of his cock against his opening. He’s so pretty; long lashes, flushed skin, dusty freckles. 

Ilya groans as he sinks his cock into Shane. He’s so fucking tight, warm and wet and his. Ilya nudges his hips forward, breathing heavily as he pushes into Shane, his balls eventually snug against the other man’s taint. 

“Fuck, so big.” Shane half-laughs, throwing his arm over his eyes as he adjusts. “You have to give me a sec, babe.”

Ilya nods frantically, smoothing his hands over the tops of Shane’s thighs, which frame his hips. One hand slips over to thumb at Shane’s slightly softened cock. It perks up at the touch, and Ilya hums, pleased.

They stay like that for what feels like hours. He’s sure Shane is teasing him, making him stay still while his hole flutters around his length. It feels so good, but Ilya is overcome with the desire to move. He doesn’t even realize he’s whining until Shane reaches out and squeezes his hand.

“I know,” Shane purrs. “It’s so hard to control yourself.”

“Daddy,” Ilya chokes. His tongue feels thick in his mouth. “Please let me move. Please.” 

“C’mere.” Shane tugs on Ilya’s wrist, pursing his lips. Ilya folds easily, bending down so he can kiss Shane. The movement forces himself inside even deeper; Shane moans softly against his lips. Ilya desperately kisses at his jaw, trying to get any taste of his skin. “I love you. Go ahead.”

Thank you, Ilya breathes, barely a whisper. He rolls his hips, hard, punching into Shane and making him whimper. 

Ilya’s good at sex. Lots of practice with a very sexy hockey player, you see. He knows how to angle his hips, how to keep a rhythm that will make Shane fall apart. 

“Yes, fuck.” Shane’s eyes flutter shut. His body jolts with each thrust, and Ilya suddenly remembers that he’s supposed to be gentle. So, he slows down, dragging his length all the way out, then pressing back in. A strangled moan rips from Shane’s throat. Every sensation feels overwhelming. Shane’s thighs squeeze where they’re wrapped around Ilya’s waist, his heels bumping against his back. 

“Feels so good, daddy, shit.” Ilya grabs at Shane’s left pec, squeezing the tight muscle. 

“Love your cock.” Shane’s biting his lip now. His brows are creased–in concentration, in pleasure–as Ilya drives into him. “Always so good to me–ah–Ilya.”

Ilya can’t form words. He can’t think of a single sentence, in English or Russian, that he can push past his lips. His focus has narrowed in on Shane, only Shane. Their bedroom has blurred in his peripheral vision, leaving Shane’s beautiful form. He’s got tunnel vision. All he knows is this sight; Shane underneath him, face contorted in pleasure, whining and moaning on his cock. 

Shane opens his eyes just enough to look at him. Ilya watches the ways his dark eyes flit over his face, taking him in. He wonders what he looks like. Does he get just as flushed and teary eyed as Shane does when he’s fucked out? Ilya’s not sure he wants to know.

Ilya leans forward so he can rest his body weight against Shane. He sucks on the sweaty skin of his neck, swipes his tongue over his collarbones. Shane tries to kiss him sloppily, but Ilya can’t stop panting.

Like a dog. 

“Ilya, m’close,” Shane grunts as Ilya buries his head into his shoulder. His breath tickles the shell of Ilya’s ear. “Touch me, please.” 

Ilya shoves his hand in between their sweat-slick bodies, grasping Shane’s hot erection. He tries to stroke him in time with his thrusts, but he can’t focus on anything other than the tight hole around him. Shane’s gripping tightly onto his shoulders, his nails scraping against Ilya’s skin.  

“Going to come,” Ilya admits, lips smearing against Shane’s neck. “Please let me come, daddy. I need—wanna come inside, Shane, s’too much.”

He feels the moment that Shane’s orgasm hits. He knows it well by now. His body goes rigid and he pulls Ilya even closer than before. Shane is silent for a split second as the first bit of come splatters between them, then a loud sob comes from his chest.

Ilya bites down so hard on his tongue he worries it might bleed. He’s of a one track mind as he fucks Shane through his orgasm; he didn’t give him permission to come yet. He can feel the hot streaks of Shane’s come on his stomach. Shane’s body rocks underneath him with each jab of Ilya’s hips. Ilya mouths at the skin underneath Shane’s ear. He’s trying so hard not to come, but it’s really hard when Shane is so fucking tight around him.  

“Please, daddy.” Ilya doesn’t even recognize his own voice. 

“Oh, baby,” Shane says softly. He runs his hand over the back of Ilya’s head. A gentle pet. “I’m sorry. Want you to come on me.” 

Ilya sobs. 

“Thank you,” he whines as he pulls out of Shane, wet and messy. Shane looks completely fucked out; his stomach is smeared with come and he can barely keep his eyes open. Ilya starts to jerk his own cock—firm and slick with lube—while taking in the sight. 

He’s so handsome. He takes such good care of me. I’m so proud of him—he’s so proud of me. I never want to lose him. 

Ilya comes, unsure if it’s Shane or daddy or something else entirely that leaves his lips. 

His come lands on Shane’s stomach, on his soft cock, wherever it can reach. He watches in awe as his spend mixes with Shane’s. It’s both arousing and so tender.

Once their breathing has slowed, and Ilya’s mind has cleared, he gets the urge to just…lay on top of Shane. To cover him with his body–to keep him safe. Shane accepts it, wrapping his arms around Ilya’s broad back. His fingertips ghost over Ilya’s shoulderblades. 

“Ilya,” Shane whispers. It’s the same way he says I love you. Ilya feels his throat tighten and the corners of his eyes start to sting. 

Nononono–

“I love you so much.” It’s hardly a new admission from Shane; they say it to each other everyday. They say it in silent ways, too; Ilya cooks bland salmon and quinoa for Shane’s dinner (with no complaints), Shane sends Ilya good luck messages before every game. Ilya keeps his fridge stocked with ginger ale, and Shane shows him photos of dogs that look like Anya. Ilya must be crying now; his lashes are clumping together. His breath hitches as he tries to stop the tears, but that just makes a measly sob come out. Shane shushes him. 

“Я тебя люблю,” Ilya repeats. “Shane, I love you.”

He’s not sure if the words will ever be heard outside of these four walls. But for now, he’s happy to say them over and over again.