hi :) i told myself this would be a quick one, and i stuck to that this time! yay!

title is from ‘not enough’ by daughter which is on one of my shane playlists. timeline wise this is set during the beautiful, broad gray area that is the e4 fuck-fest montage. everyone say thank you jacob tierney. me personally i'm going to say thank you to eli for exhibiting enthusiasm about the project in general. i'm sorry that this did not remain an exclusive.

everything you can expect to find in the tags, except the F slur is in here once. shane's thinking it in his mind, though. nobody's actually saying it. he's so awesome.

i’m on tumblr
& so is this fic

and i promise i haven't forgotten about the fisting. it's just 19k+ words and getting longer the more time it spends in edits. so you can imagine what kind of stress i'm under. hopefully this scratches the mosquito bite.

okay that's all! love you, bye!

I’m waiting, I’m waiting 
It’s filthy, disgusting 
So ugly, I’m sure 
I’m ugly, disgusting 
And filthy for sure 

— ‘Spit’
Show Me the Body 

 

Do yourself a favor
Pull yourself out of it
Pull yourself out of here
Out of each other
'Cus it's not enough 

— 'Not Enough'
Daughter 

 

Shane was pretty sure he’d stayed in this exact hotel room before. Probably more than once. The shape of the water stain on the ceiling was definitely familiar, unless he was confusing it with a similar water stain in a different hotel in a different city in a different state. 

He was pretty sure Ilya had fucked him in this exact bed before. Twice, now, came the rueful realization as he lay on his back in the damp sheets. An agonized, mechanical groan ripped through the quiet as the AC unit kicked on. Shane shivered, buffeted by artificially chilled air that swiftly dried the sheen of sweat still clinging to his body. The air smelled stale, like every hotel room he’d ever slept in or been fucked in. Old cigarettes, other people’s bodies, years and years of dust and dander and mold and other things Shane didn’t have the energy to catastrophize about. 

This particular hotel room was small, almost impractical, almost claustrophobic—the only place to sit was the bed. On every side of the bed that didn’t touch the wall, there was a door. To his left, the bathroom. To his right, the enormous glass sliding door that led to the patio. In front of him, the door to the hall. All three doors were closed. 

Ilya was in the bathroom with the door shut, because he’d just fucked Shane, and after he fucked Shane, he always took a shower. That was the way Shane preferred it, for the most part: Ilya out of him, off of him, halfway to clean again by the time Shane had returned to full awareness. Every time they fucked, Shane wanted a shower and clean socks and a glass of water. Ilya, on the other hand, usually wanted a cigarette. He’d gotten into the habit of taking a pre-cigarette shower, because Shane wanted them both to take showers. Probably also because it was a good opportunity to put something between them. Distance. Space. A wall, a shower curtain, a door. A dingy, scratchy bath towel. 

The immediacy of Ilya’s absence tended to feel enormous, for the first few minutes. Shane could sometimes hardly believe that Ilya had been buried inside of him, deep enough that Shane was sure he could feel it in his navel, in his throat, behind his eyes. It always felt a little lonely to lie in bed while Ilya showered or smoked, especially after experiencing that kind of closeness. Shane told himself that he was fine with it. Ilya hanging around smoking was better than Ilya putting on his shoes and high-tailing it off the premises. 

There wasn’t really any such thing as afterglow, not on nights like this. There couldn’t be. The odds were stacked against them. The game had been hard, a battle stubbornly fought and skillfully waged, too many men in armor desperately scrabbling for victory. The hotel room was too small. Shane was too easy, too eager, wouldn’t let Ilya linger over kissing him or prepping him, he’d just wanted him inside, he’d wanted him totally, immediately, and then he’d regretted his urgency the instant it was all over. 

Ilya had arrived keyed up, complaining of a headache, fuming from his team’s loss. His bottom lip was split. He was pushier than normal, shoving, his teeth bared and bright white in the indigo of the dingy room, tearing at Shane’s clothes, holding him facedown into the sheets when he’d heard enough of his desperate pleading. He’d re-opened the wound on his lip at some point; probably while sucking Shane’s nipple. Dried blood streaked the taut skin of his pecs. Shane’s lower back ached. His throat ached. When he closed his eyes and listened to Ilya moving on the other side of the door, his chest ached. 

The water stain on the ceiling was shaped a little bit like Russia. Maybe that was why Shane remembered it. 

Ilya came out of the bathroom in a waft of humid air, immediately undoing all the feeble air conditioning unit’s hard work. He was dressed again, in his gray sweatpants and tight tank top. His lip glistened, no longer bleeding, but raw, open, visibly pink. 

“Shower is free,” Ilya said, somewhat unnecessarily. 

“Thanks,” Shane said. “Are you, uh—“

“Yes, Hollander, I’m going to have a cigarette,” Ilya said. “One a week will not kill me.” 

Shane had been going to say headed out. He felt bad for even considering the question. He felt bad for a lot of reasons, which was ridiculous. Shane should feel fine, maybe even good—he’d won his game, and he’d come with Ilya inside of him. Instead he felt strangely hollow, and antsy; he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was running out of time. He supposed neither of those victories really mattered, in the long run. He’d forget all about the good feeling tomorrow. His reward for winning a game was to play another game. His reward for spreading his legs for Ilya was secondhand cigarette smoke and an uncomfortable gape that would linger for a few hours. 

“That’ll still add up,” Shane said, because he felt like he needed to say something. “There are fifty-two weeks in a year.”

“I am not having fifty-two,” Ilya said. “I am having one. Don’t worry, I will go outside. Your lungs are in no danger.” 

Ilya loomed imposingly, silhouetted by the yellowed bathroom light. His shoulders were broader than they’d been in the summer; he took up space, filled the doorway, occupied every available inch of the tiny room. He tended to be bulkier this early in the season, his body well rested and conditioned, ready to shed weight in the heated battle for a spot in the playoffs. The breadth of his chest and the thickness of his arms made Shane feel sick with want. His stomach ached. Ilya had a nasty bruise on his midsection, and a welt on his pec in the shape of a stick handle. The game had been incredibly rough, in hindsight; blood and gloves and bodies on the ice. A struggle, like always. Shane was tired of push-and-pull, of complicated footwork. He wanted Ilya back, every last scorching inch of him, on top, inside, and he wouldn’t even complain about the dirty, disgusting mess they’d made of the sheets. He would be grateful; he would be quiet. 

Shane felt the telltale burn of tears in his eyes and his nostrils. He didn’t want Ilya to see him cry. In a flat, careful voice, he said, “Okay.” 

Ilya scoffed lightly, like they were teasing each other, sharing their usual verbal sparring. Shane forced himself to set his jaw and get over it—he was being weird, too much, overly-sensitive. He didn’t look up when Ilya bent at the waist to rifle through the pockets of his discarded jacket. Ilya produced a pack of cigarettes and his lighter, and without flicking even so much as a glance in Shane’s direction, he went to the sliding door. It took him a moment to find the drawstick for the drapes; he pulled them back with a flourish, and flipped the lock on the door handle. The thought of another door closing behind Ilya was unbearable. Shane was sorry he’d begged for anything at all, sorry he’d wasted all their time by wanting so much, so soon. 

“Rozanov,” Shane said. 

“What?” Ilya asked. “You cannot talk me out of it, Hollander. Your fault for being such a good lay.” 

“No, I'm not—I was going to say that I could come with you,” Shane said. “I mean, if you want company.”

“Company,” Ilya echoed. “Okay. You know, I hear this is a free country. I think that means you can come, if you want. But if you bitch about the smell I will make you go back inside.” 

With that, Ilya opened the door, and went out onto the balcony. Cool evening air filtered in, pebbling Shane’s skin with goosebumps. Ilya had left the door slightly ajar, and it called to Shane like an invitation—Ilya liked to shut doors, to slam them, even, solidly shutting everyone and everything out. Those big glass patio doors made quite the sound when they were shut hard, shaking the wall, sealing the room like a vacuum. Shane slipped out of bed, ignoring the sudden twinge in his back and the sticky feeling between his legs. He got dressed, in his own sweatpants and t-shirt and socks, and then he followed Ilya outside. He shut the door behind himself as gently as he could, but it still rattled in the frame. 

Boston had a specific smell to it, especially when it was sunny, and especially at night, even twenty-two floors above street level. Shane couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose. A breeze ruffled his hair, lifting sweat-damp tendrils off the back of his neck. He needed a haircut. He wanted a shower. Ilya had adopted a casual, mannish posture in one of the two deck chairs, his thighs spread wide. Shane was appalled by how good he looked, how impossibly handsome and rugged and unattainable. Moonlight limned every contour of his body, washing him silver. Droplets of water trembled on the tips of a few curls, quivering with tension, ready to fall. Shane could see the outline of Ilya’s soft cock inside of his sweatpants. He felt himself salivate at the sight of it. He tore his gaze away, and looked for something else to think about. 

The horizon was uninteresting, nothing but dark sky interrupted by other buildings, mostly hotels, all with their own repetitive grids of balconies. Shane shoved his hands into his pockets. He shivered. His room was a corner unit, which meant no neighbor to his left, and a bend in the wall shielding them from any potential neighbor on the right. Above and below them were more balconies. He hoped they were all empty. He didn’t know why he hoped that, but he did. It wasn’t like they were going to talk about anything serious. It wasn’t like they were going to do anything at all. 

“You think they can see us?” Shane asked, lifting his chin to indicate the far off buildings. 

Ilya shrugged, unbothered, and flicked his lighter. “Probably. You can go in, if you are worried. I will not die of boredom. Actually, that is more likely to happen with you here, now that I am thinking about it. Maybe for my own safety you should go back inside.” 

He was holding a cigarette in his mouth, almost delicately, on the side of his face that wasn’t an open wound. It bobbed frenetically as he spoke, wavering against the surface tension of his plump lower lip. His lighter wouldn’t cooperate; he flicked it furiously, cursing under his breath, until a flame leaped from it. Shane watched the cherry glow as it caught, then flare brilliantly as Ilya took a drag. He watched the barrel of Ilya’s chest collapse as he exhaled. 

“Well?” Ilya asked. 

Shane blinked, surprised. He felt himself flush, immediately embarrassed by the patronizing tone of Ilya’s voice. A smug smile bowed Ilya’s mouth, revealing the set of his teeth. One of his pale eyebrows was arched imperiously. Shane squirmed internally, his insides suddenly slippery with the shame of being caught staring. 

“Well, what?” Shane asked. 

“Feels like you are standing guard.” Ilya gestured loosely, waving his cigarette with wild abandon. “Sit down.” 

Shane didn’t want to sit down. The night smelled like cigarettes and Boston and cheap hotel shampoo and his own sweat. It occurred to him that Ilya was probably not wearing any underwear. On the street below them, traffic carried on, heedless of the hour. Shane was sore and exhausted and covered in spit and sweat and blood and lube and come and he still wanted. His need felt brand new, like he hadn’t even been touched yet. He realized, with a lurch, that he didn’t want to ask Ilya to touch him; he would rather die than beg for that right now, not when he felt like he might crawl out of his skin. He wanted it, though, wanted Ilya’s body back so badly. 

“Actually, uh—“ Shane scratched the back of his neck and dropped his gaze to the floor by Ilya’s chair. “Would you mind if I sucked you off?”

Ilya’s eyes widened. He took the cigarette out of his mouth. Shane felt a little proud of himself for surprising him. Once upon a time it had been easier to do that, to impress Ilya, to make him marvel at his eagerness, his willingness. Less so, lately. The sex was still good, still great, still beyond Shane’s wildest dreams. He just couldn’t seem to shake the morose, unsatisfied feeling that lingered afterwards. Shane figured it had to be his fault, somehow; he’d made it up in his head, or he’d done something differently, once, by accident, that had forever altered the structure of their rendezvous’. He definitely had to be less exciting now, given how many times Ilya had fucked him. They’d been at this so long they were starting to stage repeat performances in the same hotel rooms. Ilya was looking at Shane with unbridled amusement, his eyebrows quirked mischievously. 

“Would I mind?” Ilya asked. “No, I would not mind. You want my cock again that badly, Hollander?” 

Shane’s stomach did an unpleasant, sickly-sweet little flip. “Yeah. Please.” 

“We will make a deal, then,” Ilya said. “I will give it to you. But you only get to hold it. When I finish this, maybe I will let you beg me to fuck your face. Maybe I won’t. Depends. You agree?” 

The breeze picked up, becoming more of a wind. It carried away almost every trace of smoke as it tugged at Ilya’s damp curls; it chased a trail of goosebumps up Shane’s back. He didn’t feel compelled to ask about the fine print of Ilya’s proposal. There had to be a catch, somehow, but he didn’t care. Shane felt fuzzy, dizzy, like he’d been dropped into a box and shaken very hard and then dumped onto this balcony with Ilya, not knowing which way was up or which direction was right or whether he should drop to his knees on the filthy concrete and crawl, ready to express his gratitude, ready to show Ilya that he deserved this second chance. 

“Yeah,” Shane said. He cleared his throat. “I agree.” 

“Then come here,” Ilya said. “Get on your knees.” 

Shane went, his body lurching forward urgently like he’d been tugged on a string. He ignored Ilya’s delighted, dry laugh and he ignored the hot, insistent shame that rose up inside of him in response to it. Ilya reclined further, letting his legs fall open, resting his head against the back of the chair. His posturing was arrogant, masculine in a way that made Shane feel hungry. Ilya was razor sharp, a heightened version of himself, his teeth glinting in the moonlight. It felt like they’d reset the clock and started all over and something still remained to be proven. A face off, in a way, with one winner and one loser. If Shane was lucky, Ilya would wrench victory from his hands without even giving him a chance or a choice. 

Shane folded himself to his knees on the floor in front of Ilya. A small part of him expected to be stopped. He braced his hands on Ilya’s thighs, mostly to feel the warmth of his body and the firmness of muscle. His lips parted, almost instinctively; his breathing picked up, sitting shallow in his lungs. Shane kept his eyes low as he leaned in to drag his open mouth over the obvious swell of Ilya’s cock in his pants. He left a dark smear of spit on the light fabric. 

“You are making a mess, shlyushka,” Ilya said. “I did not bring spare pants.” 

“Sorry,” Shane murmured automatically, thoughtless, not at all apologetic. “Sorry, I just, you always smell so good, I want—”   

His hands slid up Ilya’s thighs, shoving the hem of Ilya’s tanktop up, pulling his pants down. The hair on his lower belly smelled like cheap hotel soap; Ilya was clean, recently showered, and Shane found himself a little annoyed by that. He pressed his tongue flat to the hair and breathed, panting deep and humid against Ilya’s skin. His fingers were still hooked in Ilya’s waistband, tugging insistently, as he nuzzled into the warmth of his body. He wondered what he looked like, on his knees, open-mouthed and drooling like a dog; he wondered if Ilya liked it, if it made him happy to see Shane like this. 

Shane sat back on his heels. He could see the base of Ilya’s cock, hemmed in by dark curls; he wasn’t hard, but his interest was undeniably piqued. A short, sharp exhale punched itself out of Shane’s lungs. He took Ilya’s cock in his hand, pulling it free, just far enough that he could get his mouth on it. The skin was hot and smooth, a familiar weight against his palm. Part of him hoped that Ilya would get hard, and decide to let Shane skip all the tricks and formalities in favor of getting him off. 

He craned his neck, and using his hand, guided Ilya’s soft cock into his mouth. It felt odd, not to suck it. Counterintuitive, almost. Shane relaxed into it, keeping the tension in his lips soft, opening his throat, using his own body weight to press down onto it. He was relieved to find he could manage it all, like this, without gagging or tearing up. His nose brushed coarse curls; he exhaled, slow and metered, and settled, his eyes closed. The floor of the balcony was cold, and already growing uncomfortable to kneel on. Shane narrowed his focus, zeroing in on the taste of Ilya’s skin and the smell of his body and the weight of him on his tongue. 

Ilya cupped the side of Shane’s face in his hand. It startled him, slightly, to be touched. Shane sat still while Ilya brushed his thumb over his bottom lip, where he was stretched wide. A small touch, but one that sent another shiver racing down Shane’s back. His chin was already wet with spit. He wondered if Ilya was going to make fun of him for drooling. 

“Good boy,” Ilya said. “Feels good?” 

Shane made a low sound. He swallowed ineffectually. Ilya snickered, his laugh teasing and light. He skated his knuckles up the side of Shane’s face, past his hairline, and shifted his grip to lace his fingers through Shane’s hair. The gesture was intimate, careful. Part of Shane wanted him to stop; it was too much, too good. His body often tried to reject tenderness, like it knew that if he got used to it, he would never be able to live without it. He knew he wasn’t entitled to it, especially not from Ilya, and asking for it was dangerous, uncharted territory. This thing between them had rules for a reason. No visible marks, no sleepovers, no expectations, no promises. They didn’t miss each other. They didn’t linger over each other’s bodies. They didn’t need each other. They both had other things going on, all of much higher priority. 

“Too bad you are so good at hockey,” Ilya said, “because you could be making very good money as a porn star.” 

He laughed again, meaner this time. Shane whimpered. Ilya stilled his hand, pausing to briefly cradle the crown of Shane’s head. He pressed down, the weight unmistakable, and held Shane in place. 

Moments later, cigarette smoke sharpened the air again, building into a haze that floated around Shane’s head. The scrape of it in his lungs was unpleasant and distracting. Shane let his eyes drift up, briefly, to look at Ilya. He had a certain grace to him when he was smoking, practiced and unhurried; Shane wasn’t a fan of the smoking, but he liked to watch, even though he knew his admiration was blatant in its self-indulgence. 

Ilya’s lower belly rose and fell as he breathed, stretched taut when he took a long drag, softer again when he released it. Shane didn’t actually know how long it took to smoke a cigarette. He had no idea how long Ilya was going to keep him here like this, in full view of anyone who cared to come outside and stare. Spit was sticky on his chin, dripping, following the line of his windpipe to soak into the collar of his shirt. His jaw ached pleasantly, but the strain was nice—it felt like his legs after exercise, sore because he’d pushed himself to accomplish something. Tears welled in his eyes, reflexively, and he let them. 

“I think maybe they can see us from over there,” Ilya said conversationally. “What do you think they are thinking is happening? They would probably guess that I am getting my dick sucked. But I do not think they assume it is the great Shane Hollander crying on my cock, hm? That would be impossible, because Shane Hollander won his game tonight. He is definitely out with his friendly teammates, getting drunk, picking up girls, celebrating his win, like good hockey players are supposed to do. And you are good, aren’t you?”  

The mention of girls and bars prickled at Shane; those things had become something of a sore subject for him, as of late. He didn’t go out, didn’t party, didn’t hook up. He never had. He probably never would. It had never been a problem before. Everyone knew this about him—his teammates, Rozanov, the press. Ilya, on the other hand, did go out and party and hook up. Everyone knew this about him—Ilya’s teammates, Shane, the press, the type of girls who went to specific bars because they knew NHL players were in town. He knew Ilya went out to bars to find women all the time. He didn’t have any right to be upset about it, but something ugly took root inside of him every time he saw pictures online—most of them grainy, bleached white in places from the flash, rendering everyone’s pupils red. 

It made him sick to his stomach to see those photos, and yet, he sought them out anyway. In a roundabout way he was reminding himself that Ilya didn’t belong to him—Ilya didn’t need him, Ilya could get laid in any city in the world without even trying that hard. Shane spent long nights scrolling through pictures of Ilya, taken in dozens of random bars all across North America, with his arms around women who looked a lot like Shane. Pretty faces, dark eyes, dark hair, freckles on their forearms, their waistlines soft and their thighs thick where Ilya’s fingers dug into them. There were fundamental differences, obviously; when Ilya squeezed Shane’s chest he got a palm full of conditioned muscle. When Ilya pulled down Shane’s pants he was greeted by skintight black UnderArmour. But it was there, plain as day, the Shane that Ilya was finding in all of these women. It was clear to Shane why Ilya was doing it. He knew exactly what those women had that he himself did not. 

He’d never mentioned it, not since he started noticing it. He wasn’t sure how to bring it up, or if he should. He wasn’t sure if Ilya had picked up on it yet. It felt wildly egotistical for Shane to think he was doing it on purpose—perhaps even delusional. You miss me, he could say. You fuck women who look like me because you miss me. Are they as good as me? Do they get wetter than me? Would you like it if I wore Victoria’s Secret under my uniform for you? Can they take all of you on their first try, do they sound prettier than me when they’re begging you, do they tell you that you’re so big and you feel so good, do they make it tight for you when they can tell you’re about to come? If I told you that I missed you too would you stop fucking them? 

Shane felt his chest tighten with misery, as his thoughts quickly spiraled into a dark, unhelpful place. He couldn’t do anything about what he lacked; he couldn’t do anything to make himself a better, more practical choice for Ilya. All he could do was try to be good for Ilya when he was given a chance to be with him. He let his weight fall forward, further into Ilya’s body. The head of his cock nudged the back of his throat. Ilya grunted, surprised, and tightened his grip in Shane’s hair. 

“Such a shame that it’s so dark. You look so pretty like this,” Ilya said. “Everyone should get a chance to see. But it’s just for me, da? You only show this to me.” 

A bead of spit tracked its way out of the corner of Shane’s mouth and down his chin, molten in its descent. A tear followed it. Shane screwed his eyes shut and swallowed, working his throat uselessly around Ilya’s cock. 

“I think you would let me keep you like this forever,” Ilya said. “You would stay down there on the dirty floor until I said you could get up. Hm? How long? Hours, maybe?” 

Shane wanted to pull off, to open his mouth and start saying yes, to start making stupid promises. I’d let you keep me anywhere forever, if you take me home with you I’ll never ask for anything else, keep me in your gym bag, keep me in your pocket, take me out and show me off, take me out and use me and then put me back again, I’ll be so quiet, I’ll be so good, you won’t even know I’m there. He was glad his mouth was full, giving him no choice other than to remain silent, though he knew that if he said any of those things it would be mistaken for sex-addled babbling. Ilya would probably laugh at him. Shane knew it was all improbable. The mandate of secrecy was good, useful, safe, their only real option. Ilya would never grab his ass in a dark club and pull him in for a kiss; Shane would never allow it. In another life, maybe. Another world. If Shane was anybody but himself, he could let Ilya lay claim to him in public. He could be wild. He could be the kind of person who wanted something or someone in full view of other people. 

It wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about it before, though. After a devastating loss he would indulge himself with fantasy, imagining the most dramatic scenarios possible, making his wanting public in a way that spurned reason and shunned propriety. He pictured himself gritting his teeth and stalking the length of the tunnel between the home and away locker rooms, to find Ilya sitting in his cubby, halfway out of his gear, soaked with sweat, his chest still heaving, his face ruddy with exertion. He would get down on his knees and offer his open mouth to Ilya like some sort of prize, in front of all his teammates. They’d be surprised, maybe, and they’d laugh at him, and he would let them, he would like it. Maybe they would jeer or call names, like dirty cocksucker or faggot, and Shane would keep doing what he was doing, and he’d prove them all right. 

Then, if he was good, when Ilya had finished with him he would haul Shane up off the floor and into his lap. He would let Shane lick the sweat from his throat; he would laugh when Shane shoved his face into Ilya’s armpit and sucked in one greedy breath after another. Ilya’s derisive teasing would lodge itself deep inside Shane, slithering, constricting, making him feel hot with shame. And everybody watching would know that Shane was needy and nasty, that he was easy, that he was hard in his pants just from sucking Ilya’s cock. Everybody would know that he begged for it, that he bent over and took it as often as Ilya would give it to him. That he loved it so much it made him sob, made him sick, made him feel so happy and so satisfied that he didn’t think anything else could ever come close. 

Ilya flicked ash onto the floor. In an infuriatingly casual tone, like he could read Shane’s mind, he said, “You are hard right now, I bet.” 

Shane couldn’t reply. His jaw and throat and eyes were burning; it took all of his focus not to struggle, not to start sucking, not to put it all to an end too quickly. He had a bad habit of doing that. Ilya moved his leg to slip his ankle between Shane’s thighs. A harsh, guttural sound punched itself out of Shane’s chest as Ilya brushed up against his oversensitive cock. His underwear was damp, sticking to his skin. He’d been hard since he’d gotten down on his knees, since he’d shoved his face into Ilya’s pants and breathed him in. Ilya was getting hard, too, stretching Shane’s lips wider. His breathing stuttered as he adjusted to the sudden fullness. 

Ilya tightened his grip on Shane’s hair, holding him down on his swiftly thickening cock. Shane opened his eyes in time to watch Ilya stub out the butt of his cigarette on the arm of the chair and flick it to the floor. The concrete bit into Shane’s knees. His eyes were swimming with tears. 

“Do you have anything to say?” Ilya asked. 

Shane blinked up at him. He didn’t know what kind of question that was. If Ilya just wanted a confession in general, Shane had plenty to offer. I think about you fucking me in front of your teammates or maybe when I touch myself I think about the sounds you would make while you’re fucking somebody else or maybe I daydream about being with you all the time and I feel like I owe you an apology for that. A split second later, Ilya tugged him free with one smooth yank. Shane gasped, choking on a mouthful of sticky, viscous spit. Silvery threads dangled from his lips and chin and the tip of Ilya’s cock. He resisted the urge to reach up and wipe his face with the back of his hand. He couldn’t breathe; he didn’t want to breathe. He wanted Ilya to put him back and leave him be. He would forfeit the rest of the season, the rest of his career, to stay on his knees between Ilya’s legs forever. 

“Answer me,” Ilya said. “Or you are shy? You think someone will hear you? That is no good. We had a deal, Hollander.” 

His chest burned when he inhaled; his hair burned at the root where Ilya was pulling it. He felt like he would never again be able to form complex, rational thoughts. He felt like he might cry if he didn’t get Ilya’s cock back inside of him. Somehow, over the roar of his own blood in his ears he heard the heavy, unmistakable slide of a balcony door opening, closing, falling into place with a slam. 

He held his breath. He couldn’t tell where it had come from—above, below, beside, maybe the dark recesses of his imagination. Ilya was still hard, and Shane was having a hard time ignoring it. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the wet tip. He was vaguely aware of the fact Ilya had asked him a question, but he had no idea what it was or how to answer it. He whined, stuck, and tried to get his tongue back on Ilya’s cock. He couldn’t reach, and he couldn’t move; Ilya held fast to his hair, and didn’t give him an inch. 

“Well?” Ilya said. “I’m waiting.” 

Shane smelled cigarettes again, pungent and intrusive. He could feel his heartbeat in the pit of his stomach. It took him a moment to find his voice and remember how it worked.  

“Can I make you come?” he asked. “Please?” 

“Come on, Hollander,” Ilya said, his tone heavy with exasperated disappointment. “We both know you can do better than that.” 

He wasn’t sure if he could. In fact, he was pretty sure he was going to fall apart, right in front of Ilya. He was going to start crying in a way that wasn’t sexy. He was afraid that if he opened his mouth to beg, he might ask for the wrong thing. He might ask for something he couldn’t have and shouldn’t want, something Ilya could never, ever know he thought about. Ilya gave him a shake, tearing a small, pained cry from his chest; he could feel tendrils of hair snapping at the root, giving under the tension of Ilya’s unforgiving grip. 

“Please,” Shane said, tight and wrecked. “I want to make you come. I can make it so good for you, I can—you can fuck me, or I can—whatever you want, I want it. Please, Rozanov. Make it hurt, I’ll take it, I want to feel you tomorrow, please. It’ll be so good, I can be so good—“

“Okay, enough. Stop talking,” Ilya said. “Open your fucking mouth.” 

Shane’s mind slammed to a halt. He stopped talking. He opened his mouth. 

Ilya cupped both of his hands around the sides of Shane’s head, pressing the heels of his palms against his ears, and pulled him down onto his cock. He wasn’t gentle about it, and didn’t pace himself. The back of Shane’s throat made a thick, wet sound when Ilya made contact with it; his vision momentarily whited out as he fought the reflex to pull away. Ilya held him still and worked him through it, ignoring the way his lungs heaved and his spine rolled. Shane balled his hands into fists, squeezing his thumbs, and tried to swallow through the gagging. He felt his core pull tight as Ilya dragged him back and forth, taking what he wanted from him, heedless of his  guttural choking. It hurt, in a way that Shane knew would ache for a long time afterwards. 

“Da, good boy,” Ilya said. “Fuck. Half the hotel knows how nicely you can beg for cock, now, yes? You think they are jealous of me? That I get to fuck your pretty face like this, that you beg me to do it? Fuck, Hollander.” 

He’d set a fast, brutal pace, one that Shane wanted to protest. He didn’t want it to be fast. His knees hurt and his throat hurt and his vision had started to fade to black at the edges, but he didn’t want it to be over. Ilya was seconds away from coming down his throat, which meant he was only minutes away from pulling up his pants and putting on his jacket and leaving Shane alone again. He felt like he’d been pulled apart from the center, stretched in a dozen different directions. Ilya liked to make a big mess when he fucked Shane’s face—the act was already visceral, and it seemed to become louder and more extreme every time. Shane wasn’t really crying, but there were tears in his eyes, rolling down his face, forced out of him by the repeated intrusion of Ilya’s cock. 

The final tug was the firmest—Ilya shoved Shane’s face down and held him, his hips twitching forward fractionally. Shane couldn’t breathe; Ilya was so far inside of him there was no room for air, nowhere for it to pass through. When he came it seared the back of Shane’s throat, sudden and shocking. All he could do was close his eyes and work his throat in an urgent swallow; he felt it spilling from his mouth, dripping onto his clothed thighs. Shane was so hard it hurt. Spots dappled his field of vision. He hitched himself forward to alleviate the pressure, and groaned when his cock came into contact with Ilya’s leg. Like a switch had been flipped, he did it again and again, until he was rutting frantically, trying to push himself over the edge without asking for any help. 

“You’re not coming,” Ilya said. “Stop it, you’re not going to come. Hollander. Stop.” 

Shane sat up, confused, suddenly aware of the fact that he could breathe again. Ilya had let go of him, and his mouth was empty, and he was covered in spit and come and he wanted a shower so badly. He wanted to come so badly. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. 

“What? Fuck. You have to, I have to—” Shane rolled his hips down again, sending sparks up his spine. “Please, Rozanov. Please, fuck, please let me.” 

“No,” Ilya said. “Stop.” 

“Please,” Shane hated the way his voice sounded, thready and plaintive. “I was good. You told me I was good.” 

“Yes, you were very good,” Ilya said. “You are still not coming.” 

Shane could feel his lower lip trembling. He felt desperate in a pathetic way; he didn’t know how to rationalize the fact that he wasn’t going to get what he wanted. Gently, Ilya dragged his thumb across Shane’s chin, and pushed his finger into his mouth. Shane sucked it clean, exhaling heavily as he fought back against what his body told him it needed. It took him a few minutes to settle down; Ilya lit another cigarette and sat, quiet and patient, while Shane kept his eyes shut and let his mind wander. He rested his head against Ilya’s thigh to breathe him in—smoke and sex and sweat, and found it comforting in a way that should’ve been terrifying. 

“Come on,” Ilya said. “Get up, I’m finished.” 

He held out his hand. Shane took it, and rose, unsteady on his stiff legs. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and craned his head up, blinking. Salt had dried on his lashes and spit had dried on his chin, making his skin feel tight. He felt dazed, the rest of him loose, like he’d been forcibly detached from his body. His gaze dropped to the floor and stayed there. 

Ilya opened the sliding door, and stepped aside. Without looking up at Ilya, Shane went back into his room and threw himself down on the bed. He stared up at the ceiling and listened while Ilya put his jacket on, tied his shoes, pocketed his cigarettes, and opened the door to the room. He was surprised when Ilya paused, halfway out, a faceless silhouette backlit by the neon red of an EXIT sign. 

“Goodnight, Hollander,” Ilya said. “See you next time.”

Four weeks, Shane wanted to say. It’ll be four weeks. It’ll be a Wednesday. I’m going to miss you every single second between now and then. I’ve already started, I already do. 

“Yeah, for sure,” Shane said, instead. He couldn’t look at him. “See you around, Rozanov.”

Ilya shut the door. 

It made a solid thunk noise as it slid into the jamb, a heavy, dead sound that fell flat in the stifling air of the room. Shane covered his face with his hands. He really wanted a shower. He really wanted to not want to leap out of bed and chase Ilya down the hallway and throw himself in front of the elevator and say please don’t go. He swallowed hard, trying to physically force the feelings down. 

He doubted he would be able to go on like this for much longer. This, whatever this was, merely scratched the itch. It kept him clinging to the fragile hope that one day he would finally decide he’d had enough of Ilya, and he didn’t need to do this anymore. One day he’d wake up, and he’d have gotten it out of his system. His stomach wouldn’t flip when he got a text message. His knees wouldn’t buckle when he got backed up against a wall. He was never supposed to have this; he was never going to get to keep this. He needed to not need it. 

On the bedside table, his phone lit up, vibrating with an incoming message. 

Shane stewed in furious silence. He counted to ten. He hated himself. He rolled over and looked at the notification. What he saw made him feel sick and sad and sorry and excited. 

Don’t worry, next time I will let you come. I am nice like that. 

Every next time was a gamble more risky than the last. Shane didn’t know how many more next times he had in him before the things he fought so hard to wrangle decided to make themselves permanent. He couldn’t help but think that this was stupid teenager shit, and he never should’ve let it happen in the first place. He was too old to be chasing such flights of fancy. He had too much on the line, too many other things to worry about. Eventually, he was going to have to grow up and say it was the last time. 

He knew that now was not that time; he wasn’t strong enough to call it quits. He sighed. He let himself send his reply without thinking about it too hard, without backspacing and re-typing a few times like he normally did. He pretended it didn’t matter. A promise of next time was virtually nothing. Next time didn’t have to mean anything if he didn’t want to; none of it did. 

I’m looking forward to it.

It felt stupid, to be lying there alone, with Ilya’s come all over his face and an ache in his groin that just wouldn’t let up. He considered making himself come, reaching into his sweats and giving himself what Ilya wouldn’t let him have, flouting Ilya’s authority while he wasn’t there to reinforce the rules. The idea of coming without Ilya there to guide him through it, or to actually contribute, bored him. It wouldn’t be the same. He couldn’t even come, didn’t even want to come, without Ilya. 

Shane knew that he should want more for himself. It wasn’t right, what he was doing, keeping such a huge part of himself in the dark, but maybe he could keep doing it for a little bit longer. It could be sustainable, as long as his needs were met. As long as Ilya decided to meet them. As long as Ilya didn’t leave him hard and unsatisfied and horny enough to cry in some tiny hotel room. As long as Ilya didn’t leave him. 

The water stain on the ceiling looked like nothing, now—no body of water, no country. It was just ugly, and spreading, and probably indicative of a more serious issue. He couldn’t stand the sight of it. 

He hauled himself out of bed. He went into the bathroom to take a shower. 

He shut the door behind himself.