Archive of Our Own

For the rest of the afternoon, Ilya doesn’t push. He does, however, overnight a package: a vial of rosemary oil, a vial of jojoba oil, and, for good measure, a vial of castor oil. Overkill, yes, but he imagines Shane rubbing the first oil on, blushing, then the second–don’t miss a spot, Shane, and Shane’s nimble fingers pressing against Ilya’s pecs, trailing down his stomach–then the third, and his dick fattens enough to tent his shorts, and he has to practice slow, intentional breathing. Two decades of hockey has paid well, and Ilya has nothing but time and money; he can afford the outrageous shipping cost and overpriced hair treatments. 

Shane putters around. He has two calls back-to-back, then dips out for another run. True to his word, he clearly isn’t mad, but he stutters through small talk with Ilya, averting his eyes away from Ilya’s face, down to his chest, over the side of his shoulder. It probably doesn’t help that Ilya forgoes a shirt, dramatically scratching down his stomach whenever Shane drops his eyes. Shane stutters every time, and what Ilya was once reading as anger, he now sees as embarrassment. 

Shane, unexpectedly, keeps to his word. Past dinner, just as Ilya gets an email–Your package has been shipped: Mielle Organics Rosemary Hair Oil and 3 more–Shane finally speaks: “I’m not mad.” 

“I know.” Ilya turns his phone off. Red blooms across Shane’s face like watercolors on a wet piece of paper. 

“It’s just…” Shane drops his head into his hands, dragging his cheeks around, and lets out a curt huff. “Ilya, it’s so fucking stupid.” 

Ilya bites back a smile. “If it’s bothering you, it’s not stupid.” 

“It’s fucking stupid,” Shane groans. Ilya stands, stretching languidly–forcing his shirt up, really, though that’s no one’s business but his–and drops himself right next to Shane. He leans back, stretching his arms over his head. The hem of his shirt sits just shy of his belly button. Shane reddens. 

“You can tell me,” Ilya reassures. He scratches a hand along the underside of his stomach. Ilya’s hand strays south, and he digs into the recesses of his mind, therapy bullshit he’s never had to use, and magically procures: “You know we’re a team, Shane. You can talk to me, even if it’s stupid.” 

That works wonders. Shane peeks at him through parted fingers. “Promise you won’t laugh?” 

No. “Of course.” 

“It’s just–” Ilya settles a hand on Shane’s shoulder, and Shane abruptly stops. Ilya pets down, comforting, settling his hand lower and lower on Shane’s hunched back, dragging and stroking, until he’s pressed against the small of Shane’s back. Shane shifts forward. This time, Ilya can’t bite back his smile, and he prays that Shane’s too busy burning a hole in their carpet to notice. “Ijustdidn’texpectyoutoshave!” 

The red eats around Shane’s neck, creeping down his collar. He curls tighter into himself. If Ilya were to weasel a hand past Shane’s stomach, he would no doubt already be leaking himself wet, pressed obscenely against his boxers. Ilya’s not far behind. He wonders how long it would take Shane to break with a hand wrapped around his cock. In Ilya’s fantasy, Shane only admits right as he spills into Ilya’s fist, or–fuck–maybe right before, humiliation nearly as hot as his spend, and maybe Ilya would coo something deliciously cruel against Shane’s ear–

Ilya’s getting ahead of himself. He hears Shane perfectly the first time. “What did you say, baby?” Shane mumbles into his hands, and this time, Ilya really doesn’t hear him. “I need you to speak up, Shane.” 

“I just really didn’t expect you to shave.”

“Is that what you’ve been so upset about?” Ilya tries to keep his voice level, but it dips an octave. 

“I’m not upset, Shane mumbles.

“You’re not upset?” 

“I–” Shane says. He sits upright, squirming, hands carefully folded over his lap. He doesn’t look at Ilya, though he doesn’t have to; Ilya stretches out even further, half-slumped into the couch, the exposed skin of his stomach surely in Shane’s field of vision. “I told you it was stupid. Oh my god. I just didn’t expect it. It threw me off.” 

“Why’d it throw you off?” Ilya deserves an Emmy, an Oscar, all of them–the world’s first Russian EGOT winner–for his performance. 

“I just guess I didn’t realize how much I liked you…” Shane trails off. Ilya bites his bottom lip. Patience is a virtue, this he knows, but there is nothing virtuous about his end goal. Besides, the thrum under his skin is more akin to eagerness than impatience. “Yaknow…” 

“I don’t.” 

“I like it when you don’t shave,” Shane admits. He swallows tight. “But it’s not an issue, really, if you shaved because you wanted to! You don’t have to not shave because of me or whatever. It’s stupid anyways–” 

Unsuspecting prey, Shane stares forward, beet red, and Ilya slinks closer, stills, and pounces: “You like it when I’m all hairy, huh?” 

“I mean, I guess–” 

“You guess?” Ilya leans forward. Finally, he pinches Shane’s chin between his fingers, and their eyes meet. Shane’s pupils blow so fat that the brown of his irises has been crowded out. Ilya forces his face closer, and Shane contorts his body to accommodate, pressing a hand atop Ilya’s thigh, right where his stomach settles over the top of his sweats. He pants a wet breath. “You guess?” 

“It’s really not a big deal, Ilya. I told you I’m not mad.” Ilya pinches Shane’s lips tighter, until the words force out in nothing more than a slurred mumble. His face burns under Ilya’s fingers. 

“Mm, but you are, aren’t you?” Shane balks. “You’re all mad that I shaved my chest and stomach? And you haven’t even seen my cock yet.” 

“You shaved your cock?” Shane asks, whisper-thin. 

Ilya ignores the question. “Does that make you all pissy? Knowing I shaved and didn’t ask you first?”

“I’m not pissy–”

“Oh,” Ilya coos. “But you are, aren’t you? Stomping your little foot around all day because you want me all hairy.” 

“No, that’s not what this is.” Shane squirms back, and Ilya pulls him forward. His body contorts further, doubled over Ilya’s stomach. He’s held up by his own arm–just inches away from Ilya’s cock–and Ilya’s hand. 

“You’ll tell the truth if you know what’s good for you.” Shane stills. His eyebrows jump. Ilya’s cock throbs, heavy in his shorts. Shane squeezes his thighs, bent over one another, and his eyes drop to the sliver of Ilya’s stomach still exposed. His stretchmarks shift with each breath, some still red around the edges. 

“Yes,” Shane finally admits.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes. I like it when you’re hairy. I was upset–”

“Pissy.” 

“--pissy that you shaved without telling me.” 

“There’s my good boy,” Ilya says. He relents his hold, fingers still pinched around Shane’s face, but lets Shane slouch back into himself. “See? Wasn’t that so easy? All you had to do was tell me that you like burying your face into my chest hair.” 

“I do.” 

“Good,” Ilya praises, drawing the word out an extra beat. Shane’s shoulders slump, and humiliation turns the corners of his eyes soft. “This is really my fault, isn’t it? I’m sorry, baby. That wasn’t very nice of me, was it?” 

“It’s okay,” Shane says. This time, when his words spill out mumbled, Shane can’t blame anything but his own embarrassment. 

“It’ll grow back soon enough, baby. I promise.”

“Will you shave it again?” Shane’s eyebrows pinch, a terrified divit growing between. Shane unfurls and angles himself closer to Ilya. His dick presses tight against his shorts. A little, wet grey spot adorns the front. Naughty. 

Ilya considers Shane’s question. Likely no, as ingrowns already itch along his chest. But… Shane awaits so expectantly, presenting himself, the flush of humiliation still lingering along his cheeks, and Ilya could play this game again. A full wax, maybe, or the threat of one, and Shane would grovel and beg on his knees. “Maybe.” 

Shane responds as if the words were already on the tip of his tongue, spitting them out before Ilya has even finished his sentence. “You shouldn’t.” 

“I shouldn’t,” Ilya repeats. “Why not?” 

“Because I don’t want you to,” Shane admits. Arousal twists in Ilya’s gut at the sweetness lacing Shane’s voice, pitched in a tone reserved for him. No one else gets this side of Shane, begging so sweet, flushed so pretty, just because Ilya shaved. Pathetic, really, phenom Shane Hollander, still in the prime of his career, but all he cares about is losing himself in his boyfriend’s pubes, armpits, stomach, all still tacky with a day’s work, broader and bigger with each passing month. The corner of Ilya’s mouth curls, and he sits in the silence, egging Shane to continue. Good boy, and he does: “I like it when you’re hairy. It–um–it’s really hot. I like feeling your hair on my back, and I like the way it smells. It makes you feel bigger than me.” 

“I am bigger than you,” Ilya mutters. Shane swallows tight, dragging his eyes across Ilya’s body.

“I know,” Shane says, and each word drips with desire. “It just reminds me that you’re bigger. And older. Because I don’t grow it like you do.” Shane pauses, an involuntary twitch of his hips interrupting his train of thought. “But…” 

“But…” Ilya says. Shane swallows tight against Ilya’s fingers.
“But I didn’t realize you had so many stretchmarks. And I like that a lot, too.” 

“You have stretchmarks, too.”

“Yeah, but yours are like…” Shane motions down Ilya’s body. He huffs, pulling the skin on his face tight as he tries to wipe the embarrassment away. “Yaknow. Mine are just there and have always been there. Yours are new.”
“You like that I’m bigger?” 

Shane nods. “I don’t like that you shaved, but I like your stretchmarks.” Shane presses his hips forward incrementally, just a hair closer to Ilya, then another, another, until his clothed cock is nearly flushed with Ilya’s exposed stomach. “You’re so big, Ilya.” 

“I’m so big?” Shane nods again, biting his lip, the fucking tease. “You know, it took forever for me to shave. I dulled out the first razor.” Viscerally, Shane lurches forward until his dick presses into the soft curve that was once hardened muscle. He pants wetly. His lids sit heavy over his blown-pupils. If it weren’t for his hold, Ilya’s sure that Shane would be nothing more than a puddle on their couch, melting through the fabric and frame until Shane is a mess on their floor. 

“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane moans, the noise punched out as he finally humps forward, dragging his cock along Ilya’s stomach, catching it on the ridge of his shirt. As if Shane can’t decide where to move, how to hump, whether the stretch of Ilya’s stomach feels better than the cotton of his shirt, each thrust stops before it really starts. Desperation drips off him, so palpable that Ilya could lean forward and lick it off his skin, starting at the hollow of his throat, tracing up his pulse point, lapping into Shane’s mouth, sucking the desire off his tongue. “Please, please–”

“Good talk,” Ilya says. He drops Shane’s chin, standing abruptly.“Glad we could work that out together.”

“Huh?” Shane’s brows knit together as he tries to process the loss of contact, hips twitching. Fuck-drunk already, and Ilya’s barely touched him. Pathetic boy, but Ilya wouldn’t have it any other way. “Wait, no–”

“Communication makes a healthy relationship.” Or whatever they say. Communication makes Ilya’s dick hard and Shane’s harder, and that’s all Ilya really cares about. Shane’s tongue lulls forward, trapped only by his bottom teeth. Patience, Ilya has to remind himself, lest he lose himself and slip his dick between Shane’s parted lips, trapping Shane against the irritated, short hairs lining the bottom of Ilya’s stomach and top of his thighs. “Always happy to talk through your problems. Even if they’re silly.”

Ilya draws the word out: siiiiiilly, the same cadence with which he’d call Anya silly. Shane whines. His hands stumble across the leather of their couch, searching for the ghost of Ilya’s body, searching for something to press his aching cock into. Fruitless, Shane gapes up at Ilya. His eyes beg for relief; his hips twitch for contact. Silly boy. 

And, anyway, it hurts Ilya to pull away just as much as it hurts Shane to be pulled away from. Shane has no clue what a hardship it is to leave such an eager, pliant body wanting, especially when frustration colors his cheeks and dapples the corners of his eyes so beautifully. For the greater good, Ilya tells himself, the good of watching Shane fall apart, hands so slick with oil he can’t grasp for the anchor of Ilya’s body, and he’ll just have to trust Ilya to catch him when he crumbles, spilling hot across Ilya’s bare stomach and stretchmarks and–

End scene, and Ilya cuts that train of thought off before he can convince himself to turn back and press Shane into the couch, fucking him lubed only by the slick pouring from Shane’s cock. Ilya grits his teeth and clenches his fists, patience of a fucking saint, and says, saccharine: “You can always come to me when things bother you, Shane. I want us both to be satisfied in our relationship, you know?” 

Ilya smiles, all teeth, and in return, that pissy look colors Shane’s cheeks once again. The grey spot grows steadily as Shane squeezes his thighs together. Shane scowls with the ferocity of a pissed off kitten, hissing at nothing, or a rabbit, stomping its foot just to make its displeasure known. By now, Shane should know that does nothing but fan the fire in Ilya’s gut, a fresh gust of oxygen, and the flames lick hotter up his spine. Silly boy. 

“Right,” Shane says, curt. Ilya claps his hands.

“Well! Glad that’s over. I’m going to head up, baby. You should come to bed soon, too. It’s been a long day for you,” Ilya says. He means it as a dig, but Shane’s so worked up that it likely doesn’t land. Regardless, the look of disappointment on Shane’s face as Ilya turns heel counterbalances; Ilya isn’t playing, Shane must realize, and he’s not cumming tonight. Ilya lets himself smile once he turns into the hallway.

Soon enough. Soon enough. 

Soon enough comes at the shrill ring of their doorbell not even twenty-four hours later. Ilya all but skips to their front door. The box sits, nondescript. 

“Shane,” Ilya calls. He drops the package on their coffee table.

“What?” Shane pokes his head into the room. 

“I have something for you.” For Ilya himself, really, but Shane doesn’t need to know that.

Shane hums, pressing a kiss to Ilya’s shoulder as he walks past. “What is it?” 

“Open it,” Ilya says. Shane listens, bending over the box, and he must have just come from yoga, his shorts wrapped tight around the curve of his ass. A cold glass of water on a hot summer day, Ilya drinks him in, gaze so invasive it borders on groping. 

Such a tease, Shane peels the tape off slowly, picking the end off and dragging it away from the cardboard. The rip echoes in their silent living room. Ilya resists the urge to creep forward and press himself against Shane, pushing him closer to the box, pulling Shane’s hand back and getting them both closer to what they want. The tension is the best part, this Ilya knows, but so is getting Shane naked and whining and begging for relief. 

Shane unfolds each flap carefully, and Ilya clenches his fists. Cruel and unusual punishment, though Ilya’s no longer protected under the American constitution, but there must be a Canadian equivalent keeping him from such torture. His cock hardens with each passing second, each minute twitch of Shane’s fingers Shane moves with such care and attention, first the thin layer of packing paper, next the packing slip, and–finally, Ilya wants to cry–reaches a hand in.

“What are these?” Shane pulls the first vial out, eyebrows threaded together.

“Read the label,” Ilya says, though it isn’t a suggestion. Shane pulls the second out, then the third, and the fourth, and realization blooms the prettiest pink across the bridge of his nose. Ilya rounds the coffee table, and the vials sit between them, Shane’s only protection from Ilya’s half-lidded gaze. 

“I don’t understand.” He certainly does; Shane’s cock mirrors Ilya’s own, tenting against the light grey of his sweatpants. 

“You want me to grow my chest hair back out, don’t you?” Ilya asks. He motions between them. “There are ways we can do that. These oils and massages work best.” 

“Don’t you think this is overkill?” Shane must mean the sentence as exasperation, but it comes out hoarse. 

“I thought you wanted me hairy. In fact, I believe your exact words were something along the lines of please, Ilya, don’t shave again, Ilya, I get all pissy when you don’t have any hair on your chest, Ilya.” Ruby or fire hydrant or candy red, make-up artists would have a field day naming the color that paints Shane’s face. 

Shane crosses his arms over his chest in defense; it does little to hide his tented pants. He blubbers out a handful of noises. “It’ll grow back soon enough anyways!” 

“But you were so upset, Shane.” 

“No, I–”

“Don’t lie to me,” Ilya interrupts. “I was kind enough to buy these even though you were pissy and rude to me yesterday. Are you really going to tell me I shouldn’t have?”

“No,” Shane mutters. 

“No, you’re not.” Ilya steps back, dropping himself against the couch. He spreads wide, stretching his arms along the back, splaying his thighs. When Shane inevitably presses close, the breadth of his shoulders will pale in comparison to Ilya’s. “You’re going to be my good boy, aren’t you?” 

Shane nods. “Yes.” 

“See how easy that is? You don’t have to fight me. I’m helping you.” Ilya shrugs. “That’s all. I know you were so upset that I shaved. I just wanted to make it better for you. Isn’t that so nice?” 

Shane nods again. His shoulders sit high, pulled up just under his ears. “Thank you.” 

“Good boy.” Shane’s hips twitch. Ilya resists the mirrored movement of his own. “You know, it’s best we start as soon as possible.” 

“Yeah?” Shane’s voice pitches down, the word dripping off his tongue like honey off a spoon. Downright pornographic, whining out the last vowel. Is Shane even cognizant of how he sounds, or is the implication of touching Ilya enough to shed him of his inhibitions? 

“Yeah,” Ilya repeats mockingly. “I don’t know if I can reach everywhere to massage, though. I might need help.” Shane swallows so thick that Ilya can hear it across the room. 

“Yeah?” Shane parrots again, the only word his fuck-drunk brain can form. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, spit glinting in the bright afternoon light. Ilya has half the mind to chase the muscle as it retreats back into Shane’s mouth, lick him open, and clean the gleam of his bottom lip, thumbing it back in. 

“If only I had someone,” Ilya sighs. He shrugs, a crooked eyebrow dragging up Shane’s body. 

Hook, line, and sinker, Shane replies, “I can help.” 

“So helpful,” Ilya coos. Shane bites his lip, nodding. If Ilya didn’t know Shane so intimately, he’d assume the blushing virgin act was nothing more; but Shane’s always like this, perhaps a factor of their age gap, experience gap, something that makes Shane so nervous and coy, and, whatever it is, Ilya hopes Shane never gets over himself. “What are you waiting for?” 

As if activated by Ilya’s words, remembering his own autonomy, Shane scrambles to attention. The vials clink together as he grabs them, all four in one hand. Not even five steps later, and Shane perches himself on Ilya’s lap, the vials cradled against his chest. His dick presses against Ilya’s stomach, but there’s nowhere else for it to go, no longer concave enough to allow for modesty. Instead, Shane leans forward, balancing himself atop Ilya’s thighs. Ilya can see the exact moment Shane registers how the movement drags his cock across Ilya’s stomach, hips twitching involuntarily, the part in his lips gasping out an aborted groan. 

Such a fucking tease, draped over Ilya, his mouth as shiny as his eyes. Shane threads his fingers under Ilya’s shirt, dancing up his stomach, before grasping the hem and yanking. Impatient, Shane claws at the fabric, deft hands reduced to nothing more than the trembling shove, up and up and up Ilya’s chest. Shane’s face twists in concentration, but he makes little progress. He fumbles for another second, then Ilya grants him reprieve, wrapping his own arms around his chest to strip the shirt free. 

“So eager,” Ilya mutters. Shane ducks his chin. “Can’t even slow yourself down enough to help me, huh?” 

“You’re so big,” Shane says. His eyes rake across Ilya’s body, the curve of his stomach and stretch of his chest, dipping down to where Shane’s muscled thighs rest atop Ilya’s own, broad enough to support them both. 

“I know, baby. You’ve said that.” Shane nods, blinking to center himself, but his eyes fall to Ilya’s chest anyways. He fumbles with the vials, setting three down next to them. Ilya doesn’t know which he holds, and it doesn’t matter. Shane will get through the first, maybe the second if they can control themselves long enough, but certainly not a third, not with the way Ilya aches in his own shorts, throbbing in time with Shane’s cock against Ilya’s body. “You just can’t help it though, can you? All pissy that I’m shaved, happy you get to help. It’s not your fault you’re a little stupid, is it?” 

“I’m not stupid,” Shane says weakly. He untwists the cap, scraping the long dropper against the mouth of the vial as he pulls it out, tongue trapped between his parted lips. Amber oil chases down the side of the glass, over Shane’s finger, one lone drop falling on Ilya’s stomach. 

“But you are, aren’t you? Too stupid to tell me what you thought the first time, too stupid to know what the vials were for.” This has to be Ilya’s favorite part–though maybe every part is Ilya’s favorite, ever-changing as he watches Shane work himself up and fall apart–the wet gasp of desire as Ilya’s words work their way directly into Shane’s bloodstream, heady and hot. If Ilya were to press his fingers against Shane’s veins, they would surely burn with arousal, heated by Ilya and Ilya alone. “That’s okay. That’s why you need me. I’ll do the thinking for you.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Why don’t you start with putting some of that–what is it? Jojoba?--On my chest. Work it in real good, baby. Don’t miss a spot,” Ilya says. He’s lying, cobbling together bits and pieces he read online, yet Shane listens. He dangles the dropper over Ilya’s chest, and oil rains down, slipping across Ilya’s chest and pooling over his stomach. And Shane dips the dropper back in, pulling more oil, dancing the glass atop Ilya’s skin. “There you go. Good boy.” 

The bottle disappears from Shane’s hands, and Ilya can’t bring himself to care where it ends up: across their carpet or staining their couch or seeping into the wood of their coffee table. None of that matters, anyways, not when Shane finally sinks his fingers into the fat of Ilya’s chest. His fingertips slip for purchase across the slick expanse of Ilya’s once-hardened pecs, soft enough now for Shane to knead, digging his fingers in. Groping, groping is the better word, and Ilya bites back a moan as Shane gropes, his broad hands barely enough to reach across Ilya’s chest. 

Shane whimpers with each twitch of his own fingers, and Ilya has to wonder if he’s even aware, too gone to stop the noises that spill from his lips. Shane’s fingers press in, digging the tips of his fingers against the buried, corded muscle of Ilya’s chest, teasing each fiber from the other, and this time, Ilya can’t bite back a moan. His cock throbs in time with the press of Shane’s fingers, heartbeat roaring in his ears. Ilya’s entire body pulses with the touch, a live wire, sparking with each groping hold, zipping down his spine. 

Shane’s fingers find their way to Ilya’s nipples, pinching and rolling, each press more torturous than the last. Ilya had intended this to be a test of Shane’s patience, but it’s wholly backfired. Shane parts his lips so pretty as he stares at his own kneading hands, frozen with desire, and how is Ilya supposed to restrain himself? Shane has always been his weakness, a testament that never rings truer than when Shane’s on his lap, entire existence whittled to nothing more than Ilya. 

“Make sure you get all over,” Ilya says, timbre so gruff he barely recognizes his own voice. Shane obliges, his hands wandering south.  “Wouldn’t want you to miss a spot.”

Shane’s hands cup around the underside of Ilya’s stomach, nimble fingers pressing and prodding. Shane, it seems, has abandoned the massage farce, his touch simply groping, grabbing whatever part of Ilya he can reach–all of it, as much as he can, his fingers everywhere all at once. His hands graze around Ilya’s dick, and this really is a testament to Ilya’s patience, the command right on the tip of his tongue: touch me, baby; stop playing, baby; come on, Shane. Shane would listen; Shane always fucking listens. 

But Shane’s hands continue their exploration, mapping the soft dips and rises of Ilya’s body, cataloguing the changes the prior months have brought. Ilya’s body isn’t what it was during his prime, certainly not what it was a year ago, and Shane meets that with an open curiosity, bright across his cheeks. His hands paw and prod, lifting and smushing Ilya’s stomach, Shane’s mouth parted in blatant arousal. 

“I think I’m done,” Shane whispers. 

“Done with what, baby?” Ilya asks. Shane’s hips jerk forward. 

“Done with the oil. It’s been rubbed in,” Shane says expectantly. 

“But there’s three more bottles?” Ilya eyes them. Patience, he reminds himself. “I thought you wanted my hair to grow back.” 

“But I rubbed the oil in.” Frustration cuts deep between Shane’s brows. Ilya bites back a smile, shifting his thighs below Shane. The effect is immediate: another jerk, a weak moan. 

“And I bought all of these because you were so upset with me? Are you not grateful? Do you not want to use them?” 

“No, I am–” Shane interrupts himself with a curt huff. He wiggles on Ilya’s lap, unconsciously searching for pressure. “I am grateful.” 

“Then you should probably apply the next one. Just to be safe.” Shane grabs for another vial, his movements far less coordinated than the first. He pulls the dropper out, more oil, then clumsy hands across Ilya’s chest, scrambling for purchase. Pawing, groping, reaching anywhere he can, Shane scrambles across Ilya’s chest, down his stomach, hips jerking forward. Even if he wanted it, a massage isn’t possible, not with how slick Ilya is. 

Ilya’s cock throbs as Shane wiggles, reaching for more skin. He’s too far back for any real contact, but the thought of Shane, pressed against Ilya’s dick, is more than pleasurable enough, the ghost of a thigh or the curve of Shane’s ass. And Ilya could have it all, with just a whisper, and yet he holds it from both of them. Patience, patience, patience, but it’s so hard for Ilya to remember why he needs to wait, Shane warm and wanting right on top of him, fingers digging into the meat of Ilya’s pecs– 

“Please,” Shane begs, and that’s why. His hips roll forward again, oil dappling the front of his sweats. Not even the washing machine will save those, but if they’re already long ruined, there’s no sense in saving them further. Please, Shane begs, and he’ll get his relief, but Ilya won’t let Shane pull himself free. If he wants to cum, he can do so trapped in his pants, spilling against the oil he’s just rubbed onto Ilya’s chest. 

“Please, what?” 

“Please, Daddy,” Shane whines, and Ilya’s groan rings so loud he can barely hear the word slur out of Shane’s mouth. Daddy, fuck, not a title Shane often bestows upon Ilya, saved only for when Shane’s feeling a special type of sweet. And, here, he must be, tucking his face into the small of Ilya’s neck, hands fumbling uselessly against skin, no longer grabbing, just holding. 

“Silly boy,” Ilya coos. He wraps his hands around the dip of Shane’s waist, pulling him forward. Shane’s breath hitches against Ilya’s neck, an aborted gasp as his dick finally presses firm against Ilya’s stomach, uninhibited by Shane’s own shame. “Daddy’s sorry that he shaved, you know? I would’ve never done it had I known how upset you’d be.” 

“It’s ok, Daddy,” Shane pants, mouthing wet at Ilya’s skin. Ilya pulls him forward and backwards, savoring the hitch in Shane’s breath. Resolve abandoned, Shane fucks forward recklessly; if it weren’t for Ilya’s hands, Shane would’ve long slipped free. 

“You did miss a spot, though, baby,” Ilya says. Shane pulls his head back. He looks drunk, fucked-out, high, so inebriated that Ilya almost feels bad, almost. But not bad enough, clearly, lifting his arm and continuing: “You forgot about my armpits.” 

The noise that punches out of Shane is guttural. Shane clamors, falling face-first into Ilya’s shaven pit. His hips rise with the movement, dragging his cock against Ilya’s sternum, contorted however he can to smell Ilya, to feel Ilya, to fuck against Ilya. 

“Daddy,” Shane whines, though the noise is lost in Ilya’s skin. “Daddy.” Ilya could listen to Shane say it forever, Daddy, a title only for them, a title so trusting. Daddy, and Ilya will take care of Shane, do whatever Shane needs, whenever. 

“I know, baby. Daddy was so mean.” Shane nods, scraping his face against Ilya’s armpit, tucking his nose impossibly closer. Ilya will never shave again, every razor in their house gone by tomorrow, if that’s what Shane wants. “I just didn’t realize how much you loved it, baby.” 

“I miss it,” Shane whines. His hips roll ceaselessly, though rhythm is long lost, fucking forward because it’s all he knows how to do. Daddy will bring him pleasure, Ilya prays Shane knows, so he doesn’t need to think himself silly; Ilya has him, Ilya will always have him. “I miss your body hair, Daddy.” 

“I’ll grow it back, I promise.” Ilya releases Shane’s hip, his free hand rising to press Shane in closer to his armpit. The cartilage of Shane’s nose bends, but Shane goes willingly, tucking impossibly tighter. Ilya’s good boy, always so pliant and needy, even when he’s upset, slipping and sliding on Ilya’s skin, and–

And Shane’s tongue pokes out, dragging along the skin of Ilya’s armpit, and it’s as though Shane just pressed his tongue against the underside of Ilya’s cock. The sensation zips through Ilya’s body, down each finger, boiling red hot in his stomach. And Shane keeps going, lapping at the bareskin, tucking himself closer with each lick, hands fumbling across the expanse of Ilya’s back. If Ilya could pull him any closer, they’d be one. 

Shane sticks his tongue out, again and again, and Ilya may die. Nothing compares, not the press of his cock into Shane’s hole or mouth, not Shane’s tongue against his neck or nipples; a league of its own, though maybe Shane just has this effect on him, erogenous zones defined only by Shane’s touch. Maybe Ilya would feel equally insane if Shane lapped at the back of Ilya’s neck, behind his knees, across his ribs, Shane’s touch the common factor. 

“My needy boy. That’s ok. Daddy has you. You can be needy,” Ilya says. Shane mumbles a response, but, tongue still tucked against Ilya, the words are inaudible. So needy, Shane humps forward, lost in his own pleasure. Secretly, Ilya likes him most like this; lost and pathetic and needy, Shane’s pleasure belongs entirely to Ilya like this. Ilya couldn’t care less if he cums, so long as Shane feels good

“You can be as needy as you want, baby, always.” 

“Just need you, Daddy,” Shane whines. 

“I know, I know. My good boy.” Shane pants, tongue heavy and hot, raging the fire in Ilya’s gut. Needy, always so fucking needy, and Ilya wouldn’t have it any other way. Shane barely humps forward, his cock trapped against Ilya’s stomach. His pants must be soaked through by now, the oil and Shane’s leaking tip, damp and sticky and just the right texture to fuck into. “My baby. Daddy has you, even when you’re so upset with me over something so silly.” 

Shane moans, and Ilya continues: “I’ll never shave again, I promise. Keep myself so hairy just for you. I’ll keep you tucked in there whenever you want. You can fuck against my chest and armpits whenever, baby.” 

“Please,” Shane begs mindlessly. 

“It’ll be so unruly, baby, Daddy will chafe right against your back whenever he fucks you, you know? But that’s what you want, don’t you? You’ll be so red all the time because you just can’t tear yourself away from me, rubbing yourself stupid all over me.” 

“Daddy–”

“I know, baby, I know.”

Shane’s hips stutter, the only warning Ilya gets before Shane shoves forward. He sobs wet against Ilya’s armpit, body trembling, every muscle pulled taught, and this is Ilya’s greatest pleasure, watching Shane spill inside his own pants, all because of Ilya. For a few aching seconds, Shane is reduced to nothing more than his own desire, body jerking up and back and down, no clue where to go, no clue whether he wants to keep chasing the sensation. Shane can only live in it; Ilya can only watch. 

His own cock throbs, but Ilya doesn’t pay it any mind. Selfishly, Ilya resents that he hadn’t pulled Shane forward, watched the orgasm break him, eyebrows knit and lips parted. The cherry on top, Ilya’s favorite part of his favorite part, but he already has Shane, shuddering with the aftershocks in his lap. Ilya won’t be greedy. 

“So good for me, Shane,” Ilya whispers into Shane’s hair. He cards a hand down Shane’s back, firm and steady strokes to help ground Shane. He takes an exaggerated breath, then another, hoping Shane’s chest will find a similar rhythm. 

“Fuck,” Shane pants. 

“Not quite.” 

“Ilya,” Shane chastises, though there’s no heat to his voice. He shudders a breath, matching Ilya’s own. 

“What!” Ilya throws his free hand up in mock innocence. “I’m not doing anything!”
Shane ignores him, finally pulling himself free from Ilya’s armpit. Spit glistens across his cheeks, an angry red from the sharp, short hairs decorating Ilya’s body. “When did you even have time to buy those?”

“Yesterday. I overnighted them.” 

“After we spoke?” Shane’s eyebrow jumps.

“No, before.” Ilya shrugs. “You aren’t as subtle as you think you are.” 

“I’m plenty subtle!” Shane says.

“Mm, no. Not even a little bit. If there was a competition for least subtle person ever, you’d be banned. Too unfair to the other contestants.”

“Ohmygod,” Shane groans, tucking his head in his hands. “You didn’t have to buy all those.”

Ilya waves the thought away. “It was nothing.” 

“Ilya.”

“Shane.” 

“Really. I told you I wasn’t upset.” 

“Oh no,” Ilya says. “I know that. But it was fun anyways.” 

“It was a waste of money. We’ll never use those again.” 

“Mm, no,” Ilya repeats. A smile creeps across his face. “You see, we have to do it everyday. For the best results.” 

“Ilya,” Shane says. A familiar flush grows across Shane’s nose. “No we don’t.”

“Same time, same place tomorrow?” 

“Ilya.” 

“Well!” Ilya says. “I’ll see you then!”