Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander/Rose Landry

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Rose Landry, (mentioned)

Additional Tags:

Sex Pollen, Recreational Drug Use, Pining, Pining While Fucking, Nipple Play, Blow Jobs, Anal Sex, Desperation, Begging, Multiple Orgasms, Coming in Pants, Erectile Dysfunction, Carrying, Light Angst, Soft Dom Ilya Rozanov, Infidelity (Sort Of), Spitting, Dry Humping, Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Come Eating, Thigh Riding, Finger Sucking, Bathing/Washing, Love Confessions, Top/Bottom Versatile | Switch Ilya Rozanov, Happy Ending, Top/Bottom Versatile | Switch Shane Hollander, briefly

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-14 Completed: 2026-04-03 Words: 35,848 Chapters: 5/5

The Birds and the Bees

Summary

“It won’t stop,” Shane said to the floor. His hands slid down and grabbed at his crotch, rubbing frantically over his boxers. “I can’t make it stop.”

They were still in the fucking hallway, and yes, it was six in the morning, but it was not private. Anyone could walk in, from their own apartments or the elevator. And Shane wasn’t exactly being quiet, gasping and groaning as he massaged himself. Viagra didn’t do this. It didn’t make you lose all sense of space, of boundaries, of… yourself.

This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t natural.

***

The morning after Ilya watches Shane and Rose together at the club, he gets a call from Shane. Something is wrong, and Shane says Ilya is the only one who can fix it. Ilya knows it's a bad idea, but that's never stopped him before.

Notes

Hi! So this was meant to be short, but it is currently 30k. Whoops, I guess?

All chapters are completed, just need to be edited. Will probably be posted in the next few weeks or so :)

**TW: There are some elements of dubious consent, as Shane is (consensually and purposefully) on a drug that makes him crazy horny. I didn't tag it as dubcon because I don't think that it crosses into that territory, as the prose makes it explicit that he really does want to fuck Ilya. However, if that is a worry for you, please skip this read!**

Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 1

Bzzzz.

Half asleep, Ilya clumsily slapped the off button on his phone. It was the morning after what really shouldn’t have been, but sort of felt like, the worst night of his life. He could afford to be fifteen minutes late to the team bus.

Bzzzz.

That had not been Ilya’s allotted nine minutes between alarms. There was no way. Ilya turned his phone off again.

Bzzzz. Bzzzz. Bzzzz.

The fuck? Was it his roommate’s alarm?

Ilya cracked one eye open, looking toward the other bed, but Hammersmith was a lump under the covers. The weak dawn light filtering through the curtains was just enough to make clear that his phone screen was dark. It wasn’t him.

Bzzzz. Bzzzz.

The digital clock on the nightstand read 6:02. Ilya’d set an alarm for nine. What the fuck?

Bzzzz.

Ilya grabbed his own phone, yanking it out of the charger. The screen wasn’t lit up with an alarm at all, but an incoming call.

Jane.

Ilya smashed Decline, feeling far too smug for six in the morning.

Hollander could go fuck himself. Or, more accurately, go fuck Rose Landry. Ilya’d been a fucking idiot that day a few months ago, cooking for him, asking him to stay. Like they were, what, lovers or something? It was stupid. Ilya was stupid. Hollander had been biding his time with Ilya, waiting for the hottest woman in the known universe to fall at his feet.

Then Ilya had been discarded, like so many cigarette butts. Crushed underfoot and left to pollute some river.

God, that was dramatic, even for six in the morning, even for getting, by a generous estimate, two hours of sleep. Even for the emotional hangover of watching Shane at a club with Rose fucking Landry.

Bzzzz. Bzzzz.

Jesus Christ.

Ilya stabbed the decline button again. Served Shane fucking right. Who did he think he was, calling Ilya at six in the morning? Ilya could have been at some girl’s house. He probably should have been at some girl’s house.

Bzzt.

This vibration was shorter. A text.

Jane: Please pick up. Please.

Ilya couldn’t help the annoyance that lanced behind his sternum. Not three months ago, Shane had left Ilya’s penthouse without his fucking underwear because Ilya’d dared to call him Shane instead of Hollander. Now here Shane was, begging for Ilya’s attention.

Bzzt.

Jane: I need you.

Jane: Please.

Ilya rolled his eyes. Shane needed Ilya like he needed a fucking high stick to his stupidly straight nose.

Bzzzz.

Nope. No, no, no. Shane could call Rose Landry if he needed something.

Bzzt.

Another text. Ilya wanted to ignore it. He should ignore it.

He checked it.

Jane: Something’s wrong.

Jane: Please.

Ilya didn’t like the way his heart was starting to beat harder, as if he were nervous. He didn’t like the way his fingers were twitching, like he wanted to respond. He didn’t like any of it.

Bzzzz.

No. It was a bad idea.

But what if something was wrong? What if Shane had been kidnapped by a rabid fan or something? Though, they probably wouldn’t let Shane use his phone in that case. And if they did, Shane was smart enough to call the cops, not Ilya.

Bzzzz.

Ilya wanted to answer the phone.

But that was idiotic. He had all the power here, to leave Shane out to dry and move on. Ilya could call what’s-her-name, Harper, in Detroit, where they played next, and let her ride him until he forgot all about Shane Hollander and his ridiculous early morning calls.

Bzzt.

Ilya checked the text, like an idiot.

Jane: I’m scared. Please.

That was very . . . weird, for Shane.

Shane hated having feelings around Ilya, unless they were hatred or contempt or arousal. Never fear. Even when they kissed the first time, fucked the first time, when Shane was shaking with adrenaline and nerves, he never admitted being scared to Ilya. Shane didn’t trust Ilya with that, clearly.

The gulf between that and these texts must have been what piqued Ilya’s interest. Not concern. Ilya was not concerned.

Bzzzz.

Ilya was going to regret this.

He picked up.

“What?” Ilya whispered, padding to the bathroom and pulling the door closed as quietly as possible so as not to wake Hammersmith. He flicked on the light and stared at himself in the mirror, naked except for a pair of old sweats.

He did not look good. Ilya knew he was handsome, but he looked sickly in the mirror. There were circles under his eyes. He needed a shave. His skin was sallow.

“You need something?” Ilya said into the phone when there was no response.

“Rozanov?” Shane’s voice crackled. He sounded . . . bad. Like, sick. Or hurt. Or – Ilya forced this thought not to shove up any emotion into him – like he’d been crying.

“What is it, Hollander?”

A wet sound on the other end of the line.

“I-”

A pause. One long enough for Ilya to convince himself to hang up. He didn’t.

“Can you come here?” Shane finally asked.

“No,” Ilya said flatly.

Shane made a weird, high-pitched noise. If Ilya didn’t know better, he’d call it a sob.

“Please?” Shane’s voice crackled again. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Call Rose Landry.”

Ilya could hear the sharp intake of breath. “She . . . We tried. It’s not- She can’t help.”

What the fuck was that supposed to mean?

“You’re at the Four Seasons, right? I don’t live far from there.” More wet noises, a muffled gasp.

Bzzt.

Ilya lifted the phone away from his ear to see a text from Jane, with an address. It was the best choice to ignore it.

Ilya clicked it instead. It was only a couple blocks away.

“It is six in the morning,” Ilya said into the phone instead of something smarter, like No or Go fuck yourself or I have a flight to catch in four hours, idiot.

“I know. I’m sorry. I don’t-” A panicked sounding breath. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“Stop calling me.” Ilya jabbed the end call button.

There. That was good. That was final.

Shane could figure out whatever the fuck was going on by himself. He was an adult. He didn’t need Ilya. Ilya could go back to bed now, sleep until his actual alarm went off. He could block Shane’s number so no more weird, desperate calls came through.

That would be good. Would be smart.

Instead, Ilya put on a hoodie, slipped on his sneakers, and ran out the door.

Shane’s building was nice. Very nice. Doorman nice.

The doorman didn’t seem to recognize Ilya, or at least didn’t react, which Ilya distantly recognized as good. Whatever was going on with Shane, it didn’t need more eyes on it. Especially on the fact that Shane had called Ilya to come fix it.

Which Ilya was doing, for some godforsaken reason.

He had practically run here, like an idiot, and was running now, grateful the lobby was empty as he all but sprinted for the elevators, jabbing the button for floor sixteen once they opened.

This was stupid. This was really stupid. Shane had a billion friends. He had teammates here. He had parents not two hours away. He had stupid Rose Landry. There was no reason for him to call Ilya.

There was no reason for Ilya to be anxiously drumming his fingers on his thigh as the floors ticked by in the elevator. There was no reason for Ilya to sigh with relief that the doorway that matched the address Shane sent was right in front of the elevator, so Ilya didn’t have to go looking. There was no reason for Ilya to rap on the door so hard he was half wondering if his knuckles would split.

There was no reason for the knot of tension in Ilya’s chest to soothe minutely when Shane swung open the door.

And there was especially no reason for it to go tight again once he studied Shane more closely.

Because Shane looked . . . bad.

Well, as bad as he ever looked, anyway, being all stupid and perfect and freckled.

Shane’s hair was limp and greasy, his cheeks so flushed it looked painful. He was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and his lips were red and chapped. He was barefoot, wearing a thin pair of black boxer briefs and an oversized black hoodie, his hands shoved deep into the pocket of it, pulling it down over his groin like he was embarrassed to answer the door in his underwear, like he didn’t choose to not take two seconds to pull on pants.

“You came,” Shane said weakly.

“I did.”

Ilya didn’t even have time to say anything else before Shane was launching himself at Ilya. Arms banding tight around Ilya’s neck. Hands tangled into Ilya’s curls. Face tucked into Ilya’s throat. Chest pressed to Ilya’s, even one leg coming up to squeeze against Ilya’s ass, pull him harder into Shane.

He was trembling.

Without thinking, Ilya put one of his own hands awkwardly on Shane’s waist, the other under his thigh. It was just so he wouldn’t fall, of course. It had nothing to do with the feeling of Shane’s rapid breaths against Ilya’s Adam’s apple.

They didn’t . . . hug like this. They didn’t touch unless they were fucking. Shane had made that boundary clear last time. But there he was, wrapping himself around Ilya like he’d missed him or something.

“Are you okay?” Ilya asked awkwardly, his lips brushing the top of Shane’s head.

“Better now,” Shane said into Ilya’s neck.

Shane shifted his weight, and Ilya felt Shane’s bulge nudge his hip. He was hard. Achingly so.

Ilya wanted to be annoyed – had Shane called him practically crying because he wanted a fuck? – but Ilya didn’t have a chance. Because Shane was . . .

He was humping Ilya.

They were in the hallway. Any of Shane’s neighbors could have seen them, could have watched Shane grinding restlessly, desperately. Yet Shane didn’t seem to care as he squeezed Ilya to him and rubbed himself on Ilya’s hip. He was shameless, a dog in fucking heat. 

“What are you doing?” Ilya asked, his voice far more kind than he wished it was. He should be yanking Shane off of him, pushing him, yelling at him. Yet Ilya was standing still, letting Shane grind on him like a teenage girl with a pillow who had just discovered her clit.

“I’m sorry,” Shane muttered. “I’m so sorry. I- There’s no-”

Shane cut himself off with a high, keening noise, his hips stuttering against Ilya’s. It had hardly been five seconds, yet Ilya could feel wet heat through Shane’s boxers, through his own sweatpants.

Shane shuddered against Ilya, almost limp. A hot, wet drip ran down Ilya’s pants, falling onto his knee and sliding to his ankle.

Shane had come. He had humped against Ilya’s hip, desperate and shaking in his fucking hallway, and come.

This was fucking weird. This was almost scary. Shane didn’t do shit like this. And, sure, he had a hair trigger sometimes, but he didn’t come after a few desperate ruts against Ilya’s hip in a public fucking space.

“What are you doing?” Ilya asked again, a broken record.

“I’m sorry,” Shane repeated. His voice was raw.  “I couldn’t do it, so Rose gave me this thing, and now I think I’m going to die-”

“Rose drugged you?” None of the words really mattered other than that. Ilya stiffened, hands suddenly clutching much more possessively at Shane’s body. “Eta suka. I will kill her. I will kill her right now.”

“No!” Shane yelped, finally pulling his face away from Ilya’s throat. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, his pupils blown wide. “I wanted to. I did it. Not her.”

“Did what?”

Shane’s flushed skin somehow went even redder. “I couldn’t fuck her. I wanted to. I was trying.”

Ilya ignored the pulse of sick jealousy he felt in his stomach. It was horrible. Shane was in obvious agony, and Ilya was mad because Shane wanted to stick his dick in some actress.

“So she said she had this stuff. And I only needed to take one, but I took two, just in case, and it-” Shane clumsily bumped his hips against Ilya’s. He was somehow already half-hard again. “Please fuck me.”

Ah.

That made more sense. Of course that was it.

Shane had taken too much Viagra or Cialis or whatever the fuck and needed to get off, so he called Ilya. Probably cared too much about Rose to wake her up at six in the morning, begging to fuck.

“Make Rose do it,” Ilya said, more than a little bitterness leaking into his words. “Or fuck yourself on a dildo.”

Shane whined wordlessly, hands tugging at Ilya’s hair like that would be more eloquent than words.

“I have to catch a flight, Hollander.”

Ilya was stupid. He was so fucking stupid. What had he thought would happen? Shane would say he’d called Ilya crying because he wanted him for more than sex? Because Shane had fucked Rose and it had been such a colossal mistake, and he was so sorry?

No. That was a fantasy, and an idiotic one at that.

This whole situation was idiotic. Shane had a girlfriend. He had a dildo, and hands, and probably plenty more sex toys that Ilya had never been privy to, because, Ilya realized sickeningly, that this was his first time at Hollander’s own home after six fucking years.

Ilya needed to get out of here. Fast.

He released his grip on Shane, grabbing Shane’s wrists and tugging his hands down from their grip on Ilya’s hair. Shane’s fingers clawed at Ilya’s neck as he did so, desperate, but Ilya moved them firmly down to Shane’s sides. He stepped back, forcing Hollander’s leg to release from around his waist.

There was no contact between them now, and that was good. It was good. This was the right choice.

Except Shane crumpled in on himself as soon as Ilya stopped touching him. His hands wrapped around his belly, and he doubled over like Ilya had punched him in the gut.

Shane wasn’t dramatic. Ilya’d seen him get a slapshot to the ribs, and he’d groaned and moved on. This was . . . bizarre.

“It won’t stop,” Shane said to the floor. His hands slid down and grabbed at his crotch, rubbing frantically over his boxers. “I can’t make it stop.”

They were still in the fucking hallway, and yes, it was six in the morning, but it was not private. Anyone could walk in, from their own apartments or the elevator. And Shane wasn’t exactly being quiet, gasping and groaning as he massaged himself. Viagra didn’t do this. It didn’t make you lose all sense of space, of boundaries, of . . . yourself.

This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t natural.

Ilya knew he would be happier, long-term, if he turned around and left. Bought a coffee at the Tim Horton’s across from the hotel, grabbed his flight to Detroit, and blocked Shane’s number for good.

But, though he wanted to be sometimes, Ilya wasn’t cruel. He couldn’t leave Shane like this, drunk with arousal and clutching his dick like he was in pain. 

“What did you take?” Ilya asked, even as he knew it was a mistake.

“It was a sticker. Rose- I put them on my tongue. It was an eggplant emoji. God, Ilya.” Shane shuddered, still doubled over, still working himself.

“LSD?” LSD wouldn’t do this. Ilya’d taken plenty of that, and the most it ever did was make him stare at the sky, loopy and exhilarated. It never did . . . this.

“No,” Shane choked. “Rose called it nectar.”

Nectar.

It clicked together in Ilya’s mind, clunky and slow, but inexorable. Because Ilya knew about fucking nectar. He’d never taken it – he wasn’t an idiot – but he’d been around people who had. Hang out with enough rich people, and it came up.

It wasn’t a party drug. Wasn’t a fun one at all. Not only did it get you aroused, it made you crazy. Made you so horny you couldn’t function. Ilya had always begged off of it – he was horny enough without it – but he’d seen what happened on it. It made you insatiable for hours, days if it wasn’t dealt with.

It made you insane. It made you sick. It made you – and Ilya hated that this was the stupid word that came to mind – fragile. Vulnerable.

Sasha had taken it a few times, when they were teenagers, just to see. Ilya’d remembered his cries as he worked himself over again and again and again to no avail. He remembered Sasha begging Ilya to fuck him, then sobbing when Ilya couldn’t get it up again after the third round in a row. He remembered Sasha fucking Ilya, then panicking because he wasn’t getting fucked at the same time.

If Ilya remembered right, Sasha would take half a tab. Shane had taken two. No wonder he looked like he was going to explode.

Still. Shane had taken it with Rose. Why wasn’t she the one dealing with this?

“You should call Rose,” Ilya said hesitantly.

Shane gagged at the words, like he was nauseated by the mere suggestion. Ilya dutifully ignored the pleased rush he felt at that.

“No. No, it made me sick. I threw up. I can’t-” Shane squeaked, and Ilya watched the wet spot on Shane’s underwear grow larger.

There was no way he had come again. He’d climaxed not one minute earlier. But the stain was there, and Shane’s hand was shiny with pearly fluid when he lifted it away from his groin.

Jesus.

“You’re the only thing that makes it better.”

“Hollander, this is-”

“Just touching you helped. I can breathe when you’re here. Please, Ilya. Please.” Shane straightened somewhat, looking up at Ilya through dark lashes, clumped together with tears. He was so red all over, his lips chapped, his chest heaving.

Ilya knew it was wrong. Shane couldn’t consent like this. He was out of his fucking mind. Shane’d probably just as soon fuck a cactus if there was one around.

But he hadn’t. He’d had the most beautiful woman in the world at his feet, and Shane hadn’t wanted her. Even if he only wanted men, there were several options with less baggage on a Saturday night in Montreal. Now, early Sunday morning, Shane could flaunt that body and those freckles and find some early morning jogger or walk-of-shamer to take the edge off.

But Shane had wanted Ilya. And Ilya was weak. And he was selfish. And he was helpless in the face of Shane’s shiny, terrified eyes.

“Okay. Okay, Hollander.”

Shane’s face broke into a relieved, exhausted smile, and he scrambled forward to grab Ilya’s hand in his sweaty one and tug him back into the apartment.

Ilya’d dreamed about this so many times, about following Shane into his own apartment. Not a hotel room. Not that creepy fucking abandoned building. Shane’s apartment, with its hockey memorabilia and family photos and duvet Shane actually slept under. In Ilya’s imaginings, he’d taken his time. He’d complimented Shane’s taste in decor, or, more likely, made fun of it. He’d run light fingers over granite countertops and teased Shane for how spotless they were.

There was no time for any of that here, though. Ilya had hardly even closed the door behind him before Shane was launching himself at Ilya, wrapping both legs around Ilya’s waist in a stunning impression of a koala, and crushing their mouths together.

Shane’s lips were rough, his tongue searing, his teeth nipping. He was raw desperation in Ilya’s arms, a live wire of terrified arousal.

Ilya kissed back as best he could, but it was hard. He had no leverage, taking all of Shane’s weight in his arms. His hands settled around Shane’s thighs to keep him from slipping, but couldn’t do much more than squeeze and knead. He couldn’t caress, or hold, or grab the way Ilya wanted to.

But Ilya knew Shane needed this. The contact, the closeness. That had helped Sasha, before.

Ilya didn’t mind either. For all he knew this was a horrible idea, Ilya had a gorgeous man clawing at him, and he could feel arousal, thick and hot, pooling beneath his navel, spilling golden into his cock.

“Where is your bedroom?” Ilya asked against Shane’s lips. He hated that he had to ask at all.

“Off the kitchen. First door on the left,” Shane replied, nipping at the underside of Ilya’s jaw then laving his tongue over it. Wet and messy and desperate.

Shane would never do that in his right mind. In fact, he’d be disgusted. And Ilya’s chest squeezed at that realization, at how gone Shane really was. Ilya needed to be careful, or he was going to be stupid. Was going to make gooey eyes at Shane, and Shane would kick him out or delete his number or worse.

This was just sex. Desperate, drug-addled, panicked sex, but sex. Ilya could do that. He’d been doing that.

Ilya awkwardly walked them to Shane’s bedroom, following Shane’s muttered directions. It was hard to keep his balance. Shane wasn’t exactly light, and he was thrusting against Ilya’s stomach with increasing desperation, already hard again. At least there weren’t any stairs.

“Here,” Shane said against Ilya’s lips after a moment. His hips bucked against Ilya’s belly as Ilya eased the door open.

Shane’s bedroom was not what Ilya had pictured. Sure, there were the framed photos of him and a middle-aged couple Ilya assumed were his parents. Yes, there was a copious amount of pillows and a thick, intoxicating smell of citrus and mint that Ilya knew was Shane’s soap. And there was a picture of him with his Canadian teammates, proudly displaying their silver Olympic medals, the show-off.

But Shane’s bedroom was not boring, like Ilya imagined Shane’s bedroom would be. Not boring at all.

Clothes and bedsheets were strewn across the room, over the unmade bed. Ilya counted at least three bottles of lube in various states of use, scattered across Shane’s nightstand, his bookshelf, his headboard. There was a dildo on the floor, a fleshlight on a pillow, a buttplug on the dresser. And tissues. More crumpled tissues than Ilya had possibly ever seen in one place. In piles, and loose, and tucked into messy wads near, but not in, a full wastebasket.

And the smell. Under the scent of Shane’s soap was the thick, stuffy smell of sweat and lube and come. So much fucking come.

“Jesus,” Ilya said without meaning to. “You have been very busy.”

In his right mind, Shane would laugh at that or swat Ilya or scowl furiously. Now, though, Shane just nodded desperately.

“I- I can’t stop. I’ve tried, but I can’t.”

“Is okay,” Ilya reassured. “You don’t need to.”

“Fuck,” Shane muttered. “Fuck.”

Ilya wasn’t sure if the curse was a reaction to Shane’s current state, Ilya’s presence, or the mess of the bedroom, but he rubbed his thumbs over Shane’s thighs anyway in acknowledgement.

Ilya didn’t understand how Shane even had anything left in him, if all of these tissues were full of come. It must have been the drug, wringing every last drop from him. He was sweating so badly, too. No wonder his lips were so chapped. Ilya needed to get Shane water, or, better yet, an IV.

“Wait here,” Ilya said, setting Shane down clumsily on the bed before stepping back, watching as Shane’s eyebrows drew together. Not in confusion. In fear.

“No!” Shane gasped, panicked. “Please, please. We can go somewhere else if you don’t want to do it here. I have a guest room, or the condos, or-”

“Breathe, Hollander,” Ilya said quickly, low in his chest.

“Please don’t go.” Shane sat forward, cock somehow already tenting his boxer briefs again.

“You are-” Ilya clamped his mouth shut. He’d lost what he was going to say.

Because Shane was rubbing his head into Ilya’s belly. Nuzzling, really, like a cat with its most favorite person. He wasn’t snuggling into Ilya’s crotch, but his stomach. Like all Shane wanted was to touch Ilya. Like he wasn’t strung out from a sex drug, but rather from needing Ilya’s touch.

“Please don’t leave,” Shane said into the fabric of Ilya’s hoodie, barely intelligible.

“I am not leaving.” Ilya cringed at how fucking . . . tender he sounded. It was pathetic.

But all Shane did was stroke his cheek against Ilya again, desperate. Begging, almost.

“I want to get you water,” Ilya said quietly, pleading. “You drink the whole glass, and then I will take care of you. Okay?”

It was sweeter than Ilya had ever talked to anyone, especially Shane. He wanted to be embarrassed by it. He should be embarrassed by it. They weren’t dating. They weren’t friends. They weren’t anything.

But then Shane craned his neck to look up at Ilya, eyes so wet and glassy. “Okay.”

Ilya nodded mutely, slowly cupping Shane’s jaw and guiding him back so he was laying on the bed.

“Touch yourself until I’m back. Come if you need.”

Shane hardly needed the permission, given the state of his room, but Ilya said it anyway, just in case. He didn’t want Shane to hurt any more than he had to today. Not because of Ilya. In the future, sure, but only because Ilya was holding a Stanley Cup over his head, or maybe wearing Olympic gold as he had Shane suck him.

But not today. Shane would have to go through enough today.

Nectar did awful things to you. Sasha had bled once, he’d been so fucked up. He’d stroked too hard, or perhaps at a bad angle, and tugged his foreskin enough that the frenulum got a tiny tear. It hadn’t deterred him. He’d just stopped fisting his cock and switched to fucking his prostate, hardly caring about the blood.

Ilya wouldn’t let that happen here. He wouldn’t let anything bad, or, at least, worse, happen to Shane. Ilya would keep him hydrated and fed and well-fucked.

And then he would leave. Because this was just sex.

“I will be right back,” Ilya promised unnecessarily as he headed for the bathroom.

The light was on, thankfully, and the door open, so Ilya didn’t have to search and make Shane wait longer. The room was marginally neater than the bedroom. Fewer tissues and sex toys on the floor, at least, though Ilya did spot a discarded cock ring by the rainfall shower. Shane must have tried it to calm himself down before realizing it was hopeless.

There was a blue plastic cup on the sink, and Ilya held it under the fancy waterfall tap. The water was warm, but Ilya was pretty sure Shane wouldn’t care.

Ilya caught his own eyes in the mirror as he waited for the cup to fill. He was still tired, clearly, eyes still shadowed, but he didn’t look as bad as earlier. His cheeks seemed pinker, less gray. His eyes were more focused. Must have been the panic.

Once the cup was full, Ilya took a quick sip off the top to keep it from spilling over and brought it out to Shane. Shane was laying on his back, fisting himself quickly under his boxers as if it were too much work to shuck them off.

“Here.” Ilya awkwardly knee-walked across the bed to pass the cup to Shane. A little sloshed out, but Ilya figured Shane wouldn’t mind. The bed was covered in far worse at this point.

“That’s my nightguard cup,” Shane complained in a tiny voice even as he sat up and took it with his free hand. The other never ceased moving on his cock.

“You wear a nightguard?” Ilya laughed.

“F-fuck off. I grind my teeth at night,” Shane muttered, hissing as he worked what must have been a particularly sensitive spot on his cock.

“Jesus, Hollander. You are on a sex drug, yet somehow you are still so boring. Now drink.”

Shane scowled as he drank, frustrated, angry eyes locked on Ilya’s. Ilya remembered that look from seven years earlier, as Shane accepted Ilya’s water bottle in a hotel gym.

“All done,” Shane said after a minute, tipping the empty cup at Ilya as if to demonstrate.

“Good,” Ilya murmured, taking the glass from Shane’s sweaty hand and setting it on the bed, close enough that he didn’t have to get up, but far enough so hopefully neither kicked it. “Lay back down.”

Ilya went to stand up and strip, but Shane clutched at him, energy manic even as his grip was weak.

“Don’t go. Please.”

“Yebat, Hollander, I’m right here. Let me get my fucking pants off.”

“Oh,” Shane said, ducking his head. His hand was still massaging under his boxers. “Sorry.”

Ilya shucked off his hoodie and sweats, sighing as air hit his cock. He hadn’t touched it at all, but it was already sensitive, swollen well more than halfway to hard. Not quite leaking yet – Ilya never got as wet as Shane, anyway – but it would get there if Shane kept staring at Ilya like he was, dark and wanting.

“Fuck, your body,” Shane murmured, like it was the first time he was seeing Ilya naked and he was surprised at how built Ilya was. “You always call me pretty, but, God, Ilya, you have no idea. Just looking at you- God.”

Ilya’s movements, which had been so smooth despite Shane’s frantic need, stuttered.

Shane had called him Ilya.

Not “Rozanov,” or “asshole,” or, as in one hilarious chirp on the ice, “King of Mountain Bullshit.”

Ilya.

Shane wouldn’t let Ilya use his first name, but he’d use Ilya’s like it didn’t matter, like it didn’t feel like a fist in Ilya’s chest, wrapped tight around his heart. Not hurting, but with the power to.

It was the drugs. It had to be. Shane had made it clear he felt solely lust for Ilya.

Lust was safe. Lust was easy. Lust wouldn’t make Shane run away again.

Shane saying Ilya’s name must have just been a mistake, a slip of Shane’s pretty, wet tongue.

Ilya’s . . . whatever didn’t matter.

So Ilya crawled back onto the bed, relishing Shane’s relieved sigh. He licked into Shane’s sweet, pink mouth. He jammed a thigh between Shane’s legs. He shoved his hands under Shane’s hoodie, feeling the burning, sweat-damp skin.

“You want my hand? My mouth?”

“I don’t know,” Shane whined.

“You are so overwhelmed, I know. I can make you come in so many ways. How do you even choose?” Ilya added helpfully.

The teasing was good. Would keep Shane’s attention drawn away from the fact that Ilya’s expression was hopelessly soft and warm.

“Fuck off.” Shane swatted at Ilya’s side even as he crushed their mouths together again, just briefly, before Ilya pulled back.

“Maybe you want my cock?” Ilya would like that. The sweet, molten relief of Shane’s body would help him forget the way his name had sounded in Shane’s mouth.

“All of it.” Shane’s throat worked. “I want all of it.”

“Greedy,” Ilya teased.

“Shut up. I can’t- I can’t think. Whatever you want, Ilya, fuck, just faster, please,” Shane panted, his hands gripping Ilya waist bruisingly.

His first name again. Fuck.

“Okay, Hollander. Don’t hurt yourself.”

Ilya yanked off Shane’s hoodie without precision, ignoring Shane’s whines when Ilya had to stop touching him to get enough leverage to pull it over his head. Shane’s bare chest, always a distraction, heaved with his shallow breaths.

Shane was flushed pink, all the way to his belly button. His nipples, usually flat and brown and pretty, were flushed a deep pink, puffy.

Ilya didn’t have a real thing for nipples. They were nice, sure, especially on girls, but never overwhelmingly sexy. But now, Ilya’s gut clenched in arousal at the sight of Shane’s. He couldn’t help but brush his thumbs over the sensitive buds.

Shane arched into the touch, mouth going slack with pleasure. Shane’s nipples had never been particularly sensitive before, but now they seemed to be as responsive as his cock usually was, or his pretty hole. It was no wonder Shane had come just by humping Ilya, by fisting himself through his underwear.

“Why don’t we start here, hm?” Ilya’s voice was saccharine.

“Oh.” Shane blinked. “Okay.”

Ilya squeezed one nipple lightly, grinning when it made Shane choke on air. “You think you can come from this? From me playing with your pretty nipples?”

Shane’s eyes scrunched closed. “Yeah. I- mmh- I did already.”

“Fuck,” Ilya sighed, feeling his heartbeat in his cock. “So sensitive.”

Shane nodded. “M-my . . . it was hurting. I needed a break.”

God, even like this, Shane was shy. Couldn’t say outright that he’d fucked his hole or fisted his cock so much they’d gone sore. And, while that was a dizzying vision in and of itself, it was the fact that Shane had to talk around it that made Ilya’s cock jump, his throat thick.

“They look pretty.” Ilya forced himself to focus, rubbing his thumbs over Shane’s nipples again. “So pink for me.”

Shane twitched, his eyes locked on Ilya’s.

“It feels good?” Ilya asked, tapping each of Shane’s nipples now. Teasing.

“Yeah. Can you-” Shane cut himself off, swallowed, his sweat-slick throat working. “I want more.” 

“Like this?” Ilya drummed his fingers faster, holding back a laugh when Shane gave a frustrated whine.

“No, asshole,” Shane grumbled. His hands came up to Ilya’s forearms like he could force Ilya to touch him better, like Shane’s grip wasn’t so weak that Ilya could’ve rejected it by flexing his hands the wrong way.

“More pressure, you mean?” Ilya used the pads of his thumbs to press deep over Shane’s nipples, enough to feel the strong muscle of his pectoral under the thin skin. The force wasn’t enough to hurt, would never be enough to hurt, but Shane twitched anyway, the insides of his thighs knocking against the outsides of Ilya’s.

“No,” Shane scolded. It was the most coherent he’d sounded all day.

“I am confused,” Ilya teased. “Maybe is language issue.”

“Fuck off,” Shane said. He was so hard against Ilya’s thigh, so frustrated. Ilya wanted so badly to take pity on him.

“Should we use Google translate?” Ilya said instead.

“Rub them, asshole!”

“Oh!” Ilya gasped, eyebrows twisted up in a parody of understanding. “You want me to rub your nipples?” 

“Yes! Fuck!” Shane’s already flushed face was going fucking crimson with frustration.

It was probably cruel to tease Shane like this, when he was so out of his mind, but it was better than the soft, vulnerable alternative. Besides, Shane was so easy to rile up, so fun to bother. It was one of the reasons Ilya . . . enjoyed fucking him so much.

“Ilya?” Shane asked, oblivious to whatever blip had almost occurred in Ilya’s mind. “Please. It fucking hurts.”

The way Shane said his name, all desperate and earnest . . . Christ. Ilya would never get used to it.

Ilya thumbed over Shane’s swollen nipples in efficient, tight circles. Shane keened, back bowing into the touch like he needed to draw Ilya’s attention to him, like Ilya wasn’t enraptured with him constantly. Like Ilya was capable of being in a room with Shane without tracking his every movement, his most minute expression.

Just sex, Rozanov, he reminded himself brutally. Focus.

“You look so pretty,” Ilya murmured, pinching one nipple then the other, grinning as Shane squeaked with it.

Shane threw an overwhelmed arm over his face, his chapped lips just barely visible under his tricep. “It’s so good,” Shane said into his skin. “It shouldn’t feel so good.”

Ilya took the gasped praise in stride, continuing to rub tight circles, pausing every so often to grab the swollen buds between his index and middle fingers and tug at them before letting them go, even redder and more desperate than before.

“God,” Shane wheezed.

“Show me your face.” Ilya gave Shane’s nipples a particularly insistent rub. “Want to see what I do to you.”

Those little words had Shane flopping his arm out to the side, dead weight, like the only thing keeping him breathing was Ilya’s fevered rubbing on his nipples.

Shane’s face was slack, his eyes half-closed, his lips slick. He was so sweaty, so red, that Ilya almost blurted something stupid. Instead, he spat onto Shane’s chest, wet and messy and careless.

The saliva dripped straight over Shane’s sternum, a wet glob on already sweat-slick skin.

A sober Shane would probably recoil, disgusted. This drugged Shane arched into it, shouting, “Oh, fuck!” He squeezed Ilya between his thighs.

It wasn’t like this was Ilya’s first time spitting on someone, sexually or in a fight or to seal a handshake. Shit, he’d spat on Shane’s cock before, just to slick it when the lube felt insurmountably far away. But this felt different. This was heady. This stupid, tiny piece of Ilya on Shane’s skin felt like a brand, like it could make up for all the hickeys Ilya had held back on giving for seven aching years. This was a claim, Ilya marking his territory.

Because Ilya knew someone as prim and pretty and proper as Rose fucking Landry wouldn’t spit on Shane. Only Ilya got to do this. And, sure, it was a stupid caveman urge, but it was hot all the same, sending tingles of arousal down into Ilya’s stomach, his balls, his thighs.

God, Ilya was so hard, and he hadn’t even been touched. Shane was so fucking hot.

“You love it,” Ilya gritted out. It should have been a question, but it wasn’t. It was a declaration.

“Yeah,” Shane panted. “I do.”

Tiny whimpers fell from his lips as Ilya used his spit to ease the slide on Shane’s nipples. It made Ilya’s movements easier, faster, allowing him to go back and forth instead of circling.

He could press harder now without worrying about hurting Shane’s delicate pink skin. Ilya could work his fingers more forcefully, until the tips of them were numb. Ilya couldn’t even imagine what Shane was feeling with the nectar in his system.

“Oh, yeah, like that,” Shane keened, and Ilya’s neglected cock twitched, begging for attention. It was only made worse by the way Shane was making these high, thin whimpers through gritted teeth.

Shane’s nipples were so puffy, so angry red, that Ilya was almost relieved when Shane went stiff under him and yelped, “Oh, oh, ohhh, fuck!”

Ilya felt Shane’s hips shudder against him, a loud groan loosing from chapped lips, as he came yet again.

Shit, how many times was that now? Two? Three? Just since Ilya’d gotten here. Before he’d even laid a hand on Shane’s dick at all. 

Shane looked fucking stunning, laying limp on the bed, breathing shakily. His chest was heaving, his abs clenching, his eyelashes so long against his pink cheeks. His whole body was covered in a gleam of sweat, and his chest was even shiner with Ilya’s spit. He hadn’t even gotten his underwear off, yet he was still so debauched, so gorgeous in the light filtering in from the window.

Ilya wanted to squeeze his own aching erection at the sight, but he held off, kept his palms cupping Shane’s chest. If this nectar was anything like Sasha’s, Ilya would need to use every bit of his own stamina on Shane.

“Gorgeous,” Ilya said just loudly enough for Shane to hear him. The corners of Shane’s lips quirked up, and Ilya took that as a win. “I want to see your cock now. Is hard for me again?”

“Getting there,” Shane sighed ruefully, wiping his hands over his sweaty hairline. “Ugh. I hate this.”

“Hurts?” Ilya moved his own hands down, stroking over Shane’s ribs.

“So bad,” Shane cringed. “‘S better when I come, but then it comes right back.”

“Poor thing.” It was meant to tease, but Ilya said it too gently for it to sound right. “Let me help you.”

Ilya slid his hands down to the waistband of Shane’s black boxer briefs and tugged them down, exposing Shane’s dick. It was maybe a touch softer than fully erect, but still far more swollen than it should have been after so many orgasms. And, God, so red. Not flushed, but raw. He must have been tugging at it hard while he jerked himself off.

It made Ilya’s stomach clench in sympathy. Shane would be chafed soon, if he wasn’t already. He would be hurting so bad, beyond the pain of constant erections. Maybe even more than he was hurting now.

Ilya wanted nothing more than to make it better. To ease Shane into softness and hold him and rub fucking aloe cream on his dick. Not to jerk him off, but to soothe the inflamed skin. He wanted to swallow any of Shane’s resulting uncomfortable murmurs into his mouth as he kissed Shane over and over. 

But those soft, aching thoughts weren’t Ilya’s to have. Not right now. Not ever.

So he focused on Shane’s ruined underwear, guiding them off Shane’s muscled legs.

“Jesus, Hollander. You couldn’t take these off?” Ilya said.

The boxer briefs were truly disgusting. Crusted over in some places, soaking in others. A quick glance at the inside showed they were painted entirely fucking white, from waistband to halfway up the back. Shane would have to burn these; the come would gum up any washing machine he tried.

“I-” Shane’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I was trying to stop.”

“You did not do a very good job,” Ilya noted dryly.

Shane laughed, high-pitched and a bit crazed. “I said trying,” he added, rubbing his hands over his face.

“Not very hard. God, you should work at a bakery. Would save money on frosting.”

Shane snorted at that. His hands were shaking.

“Or construction. You would put paint stores out of business.”

“I hate you.”

Ilya’s sides twinged with delight before he could tamp it down.

Just sex.

Sure enough, Shane’s cock was swelling to full again, jutting up from his lap. Good. That was something Ilya could help with.

“Of course you hate me,” Ilya said, ignoring whatever feeling he’d just had. “I am better at hockey, at sex, at being handsome. Is natural to feel resentment. Now, I think I will suck you, hm?”

“Oh,” Shane sighed instead of engaging with Ilya’s stupid chirps. “That’s a good idea, yeah.” 

“Of course it is. I am very smart.”

Ilya didn’t wait any longer to clumsily scoot down and off the bed until he was kneeling on the floor in front of it. Shane’s carpet was rich and soft under his knees. He could stay here for a while. That was good; he might have to, later.

“Come,” Ilya directed helpfully, patting the end of the bed.

“I’m trying,” Shane said, not even smiling at his own stupid joke.

He followed Ilya’s directions, though, sliding down so he was sat on the end of the bed, Ilya caged in by his thick, muscled thighs. The view was intense from down here. Shane, taut and strung-out and strained, bent over Ilya’s wanting body. Shane’s cock, full and rigid yet again, bobbing just in front of Ilya’s eager mouth. Shane’s sweaty hands starting to curl into Ilya’s hair dreamily.

Ilya’s cock ached between his legs.

“So gorgeous,” Ilya mumbled despite himself. “Legs on my shoulders.”

Shane listened beautifully, swinging his thighs so they rested on Ilya’s traps. His ankles hooked together on Ilya’s back, heels coming to brush over the lumbar curve in Ilya's spine. Ilya could feel the slide of Shane’s sweat on his own collarbones. He could feel the way Shane was still shaking ever so slightly.

Ilya liked this far too much.

Being fucking surrounded by Shane. By the sexy, masculine smell of him. By the sounds of his loud, exhausted breathing in the quiet room. Feeling him, from Ilya’s toes, flexed into the expensive, plush carpet, to the ends of his hair, wound into Shane’s wanting fingers.

Ilya wanted to die like this. He wanted to be here forever. And that was a problem, certainly, but not one Ilya could solve today.

Not when Shane was begging to be sucked off.

“Please,” Shane said softly, as if he could read Ilya’s mind. “It hurts.”

Ilya could tell. Shane’s poor cock was drooling onto the carpet, leaking slow, pretty drips of precome. Ilya’s own dick was doing the same on his own thigh. Jesus.

Ilya didn’t waste time teasing or kissing all of Shane’s sweet, pink parts that usually distracted him when he was blowing Shane. Instead, Ilya slid his hands up the outsides of Shane’s thighs to grab Shane’s hips before swallowing him down. 

“Oh, yes, fuck,” Shane groaned.

Ilya sunk onto Shane’s cock until his lips brushed the heated skin of Shane’s pelvis, his nose buried in the thatch of dark pubic hair that had become matted with lube.

“Mmh,” Shane hummed tunelessly as he rolled his hips, like Ilya could somehow take him deeper.  Ilya didn’t gag, though, hardly even twitched. 

Ilya loved sucking cock. He loved sucking Shane’s cock.

He loved that Shane wasn’t small, and that Ilya had to relax his throat, breathe so carefully through his nose, to take all of him. Ilya loved how surprised Shane sounded every time Ilya sucked him so well. He especially loved how fast Shane came, every single time Ilya had him in his mouth.

It didn’t hurt that Ilya was a fucking show-off. Shane’s blowjobs were always enthusiastic, excited, but they weren’t skilled, or practiced, or precise. This was (yet another) realm in which Ilya excelled over Shane, and he loved to prove it.

Shane could never tongue Ilya’s veins so expertly, like Ilya was doing to him now. He could never swallow around Ilya this deep without gagging. He could never go up and down the entire length of Ilya’s dick so fast and smooth that Ilya’s toes curled.

Ilya relished in it, savoring the pretty sounds that leaked out of Shane’s mouth, the feeling of Shane’s heels kicking into Ilya’s spine, as if trying to get Ilya even closer.

Shane’s strong legs forced Ilya forward enough that the head of Ilya’s dick kissed against the end of the comforter. His cock had been so neglected that even that tiny sensation had Ilya moaning around Shane’s length.

“God,” Shane moaned. “Fuck, Ilya.”

Ilya squeezed the thick muscle of Shane’s quad, choking down a laugh when it made Shane jerk. 

“God, your mouth.” Shane nudged his hips up toward Ilya’s lips, silently coaxing Ilya to go faster.

Ilya complied with Shane’s urging movements, accelerating his pace, suckling harder. He could feel his cheeks hollowing with the effort.

“Ohh,” Shane moaned brokenly.

Ilya raised his head to the tip, laved his tongue over it, then lowered back down, feeling Shane’s hurried pulse, the hot, overworked skin, tasting the salt and sweat and precome. Ilya’s hands were wild, squeezing the base of Shane’s cock, grabbing his hips, clawing his abdomen, tugging at Shane’s hot, heavy balls.

Ilya’s hands became slick as they roamed over Shane’s body. He wasn’t sure if it was his own spit from earlier, his spit from now, Shane’s sweat, or maybe even more of Shane’s come. Regardless, it made Ilya feel sticky, messy. Out of control.

“Oh my God!” Shane groaned, hands twisting in Ilya’s hair, tugging hard..

Ilya moaned over Shane’s cock, letting the vibrations buzz over Shane’s straining erection, a hand snaking under his chin to tug on Shane’s balls, so heavy and hot.

“I-” Shane hiccupped. “I’m gonna come. Nngh, Ilya, fuck!”

Shane’s hips twitched, and his come flowed into Ilya’s mouth, hot and overwhelming and . . . weird.

Shane’s release never tasted bad – the man ate only fucking lettuce, after all – but it was sweet this time. Sweet enough that Ilya’s steady swallows stuttered. No salt to it, and hardly any tang. Like a fucking lemon cake.

Ilya’d tasted come like that before, with Sasha. Ilya’d chalked that up to diet or genes or whatever, but no. It must have been the drug. Maybe that was why it was called nectar: it made the come so cloyingly sweet, like a flower’s nectar.

That thought made Ilya’s stomach clench.

Because what the fuck was this doing to Shane’s body chemistry? Shane didn’t even eat desserts; why the hell would he have taken something like this? Why would Rose let him?

Ilya felt a possessive spark lance through him. He couldn’t do this anymore. He needed Shane. Not just to mitigate the arousal roaring in the pit of his own stomach, but to make sure that Shane had what he needed, had Ilya as close as fucking possible.

Ilya needed to fuck him now.

He let Shane’s cock slip from his mouth, Shane’s legs still perched around Ilya’s shoulders.

“I am going to fuck you,” Ilya declared, rubbing at Shane’s knee. “You have a condom?”

“No,” Shane said hurriedly. “I wanna feel you.”

Fuck, that was hot. Shane’d never asked for that before. They’d always used one, without question. They weren’t exclusive, and they weren’t stupid. They couldn’t be put on an injury list because they had fucking gonorrhea.

This time, though, Ilya didn’t want to use a condom, either. He wanted to come so fucking deep into Shane that Shane would have no doubt about the fact that he was Ilya’s.

But they couldn’t. Ilya hadn’t been tested in a month, and who knew if Shane and Rose were being safe? Probably not, if Rose was giving Shane a fucking sex drug. And, fuck him, that idea just made Ilya more hot with want and jealousy and anger.

Ilya would never be unsafe with Shane. He would always protect him. Even now, when Shane was just here for crazed, drug-addled sex and nothing more.

“We are using condoms,” Ilya murmured in a velvet voice, tilting his chin to brush his lips over the insides of Shane’s thighs. “Where are they?”

Shane made a quiet sound of displeasure before he muttered, “Nightstand. Top drawer.” 

Ilya untangled himself from Shane and stood up. Shane didn’t whine this time – maybe the orgasms were helping settle him. Ilya hoped so.

Ilya crossed to the nightstand on shaky legs, ignoring how his cock was bobbing, red and desperate, with every step. It would be handled soon.

The nightstand drawer had a full, unopened box of condoms in it. Ilya couldn’t help but wonder – had Shane and Rose not fucked at all? Fucked so much they needed a new box? Fucked raw?

The images stung, but Ilya ignored it as he ripped the box open gracelessly and pulled out a strip. Ilya was here now, not Rose. And, by the time Shane was satisfied, they’d probably go through half the box themselves.

And that thought, the sheer number of times Shane would need Ilya today, would need him to push into Shane’s wanting body, made arousal spool, heavy and thick, through Ilya’s body. His erection was a hot, aching line of need, pulsing between his legs hungrily, begging for Shane.

He needed him now.

Shane looked to be in a similar state, starfished on the bed, his dick full again. His cock was still wet with Ilya’s spit, but was so hard it was like he hadn’t come at all. Ilya’s cock twitched in mingled arousal and sympathy.

“You are stretched enough?” Ilya murmured as he knelt between Shane’s legs on the bed, condoms in hand. 

“Dunno.” Shane’s voice was rough – Ilya needed to get him more water. But first, this.

“You want to show me your hole? So I can check?”

“Jesus,” Shane muttered. “Okay.”

Ilya dutifully tucked his hands under Shane’s knees, encouraging Shane to bend them, let Ilya see how much more stretching he’d need, how much longer Ilya would have to make them both wait. Shane let Ilya do it, raising his legs to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, exposing his sweet hole.

God, it had been well-fucked. More of a gape than a hole, at this point. Open wide enough that Ilya would bet Shane had stuffed some of his fingers in alongside the dildo. The poor flesh was red, like Shane’s dick, and puffy like his nipples. Even Shane’s taint was raw, probably from keeping his fucking underwear on so long, if Ilya had to guess. Old lube and sweat made the rim shiny, and Ilya couldn’t help himself.

He sucked on his own thumb, quick, before hooking it on Shane’s rim and tugging down.

“A-ah!” Shane shouted brokenly, almost kneeing Ilya in the face.

“Is sensitive?” Ilya asked, not without sympathy, his other hand coming to the back of one of Shane’s sweaty thighs and cupping it, keeping it pressed up to Shane’s chest. Partially to save himself from being kicked, and partially to keep Shane’s hole exposed. “Hurts to touch?”

“I don’t know,” Shane stammered. His cock was leaking again between his bent legs, dribbling over his flushed belly. “It’s, ugh- it’s weird.”

“Tell me.”

Shane sunk his teeth into his plush bottom lip. “Like, pressure. But- hotter.”

“Painful?”

Shane shook his head. “I don’t think so. I don’t-” He gasped when Ilya nudged his thumb a centimeter deeper. “It’s like when you catch your skate blade wrong. You’re fine, you know you’re fine, but . . . yeah.”

“Eloquent,” Ilya teased, wetting his lips.

“Shut up,” Shane groaned. “I don’t fucking know, Rozanov. It feels like . . . a l-lot. Like when you’re outside in winter and your hands are numb, and you go inside. Like you’re burning, but you know i-it’s good.”

Ilya swore softly in Russian, remembering how Sasha’d likened nectar to doing coke with his dick. Of course boring, sweet Shane’s closest comparison was going inside after being cold. It was so wholesome it made Ilya’s teeth hurt.

“How many times?” Ilya started to run his thumb across Shane’s rim, back and forth. So, so slow. His own dick was drooling copiously, dripping onto the bed, and he wanted nothing more than to sink into Shane. But he needed to know. “How many times did you fuck it already?”

“F-fingers, or toys?”

Ugh, Shane was so fucking . . . cute, making sure he was doing a good job answering questions about his drug-fueled masturbation. Ilya hated how much he liked it.

“Either.”

“Five? Ten? I can't-" Shane inhaled harshly as Ilya slid his thumb even deeper, almost fully buried. “I don’t remember.”

Ilya hummed, low in his chest, all sympathy. Shane was always precise, always focused. Especially on the ice, but even when he was taking rough thrusts from Ilya, he was cognizant, and aware, and . . . himself. This frayed bundle of nerves was Shane stretched to his absolute limit.

It was horrible and sexy and awful and gorgeous. It made Ilya just as hot with anger as with arousal.

“Please f-fuck me,” Shane said when Ilya was silent for a beat too long. “God, please.” He looked like he might cry.

“I will,” Ilya said, tongue thick in his mouth. “I will. I promise, Shane.”

Fuck.

Shit, shit, shit. Ilya hadn’t meant to say “Shane.” It just slipped out, easy as anything. But now Ilya was screwed.

Because Shane was okay calling Ilya to fuck him for hours upon hours, but make him a tuna melt, try to talk to him about anything besides sex, use his first name, and that was far too intimate. Would make Shane leave in a huff, embarrassed and panicked.

Ilya froze, waiting for Shane to panic, to kick him out, to hit him or something.

But Shane just keened, arching his back up.

“I can’t wait anymore,” Shane whined. “It hurts.”

It was as if Ilya hadn’t spoken at all. Thank God.

So Ilya gently, so fucking gently, withdrew his thumb, cringing at Shane’s soft, keening noise at the loss.

“Okay,” Ilya mumbled stupidly. He wasn’t perfect at English in the best of times, and this ridiculous fucking moment of Shane begging for his dick had made him worse than usual.

Ilya grabbed a condom and opened it without preamble. The sweet relief of touch from just rolling on a condom had Ilya groaning. He was so fucking hard, fucking needy for Shane. He had no idea how he held out this long without dying, or passing out.

He had no idea how Shane had, either.

“Please,” Shane asked, as if Ilya wasn’t readying himself as fast as he could.

“Almost, almost.”

Ilya grabbed one of the abandoned bottles of lube and drizzled far too much over his cock, ignoring the dribbles that pattered onto the comforter as he stroked himself roughly. Shane probably didn’t need it, being so wet and open already, but his poor skin was so raw. Ilya couldn’t make that worse.

“Okay,” Ilya said again once he was slicked up enough, settling between Shane’s still curled-up legs. Shane wrapped one leg around Ilya’s waist, the other held to his torso by Ilya’s firm grip, as Ilya used his free hand to guide the tip of his cock to kiss against Shane’s entrance.

Fuck, Shane’s hole was so hot, so open. It was a greedy little thing, flexing around the tip of Ilya’s dick like it needed Ilya to start pounding into him, like it couldn’t bear to let Ilya be gentle. Ilya’s fingers twitched as he fought to keep his pace easy.

“Relax,” Ilya murmured. He didn’t need to say it; Shane was as open and stretched and loose as anything. Ilya could’ve fucked into him dry, with no warning at all, and it would be an easy slide.

But Ilya couldn’t do that. Not when Shane was so strung out, so overwhelmed that his fucking genitals were rubbed raw.

Instead, Ilya went slow. If he were a good bit stupider, he’d call the manner loving. A soft, inexorable sink forward, punctuated with hurried kisses over Shane’s heated cheeks, his pretty freckles, his scrunched-closed eyelids. Ilya didn’t stop kissing until he was fully seated, the hot sheath of Shane’s wanting body filled to the brink.

“Oh,” Shane sighed quietly.

“Is okay?”

“I-it-” Shane let out a broken, stuttered breath. “It doesn’t hurt.”

Ilya cupped Shane’s cheek possessively.

“Does it feel good? Need a new angle, or-”

“No,” Shane interrupted. He laughed wetly. “M-my dick doesn’t hurt anymore. It . . . it feels good.”

Good was an understatement for Ilya. Shane was so fucking perfect under him, around him. Even so loose, so fucked-out, the clutch of Shane’s body was wanton, tugging at Ilya’s cock like it wanted to milk him fucking dry. Pleasure was tugging at Ilya’s insides, at the very core of him, and he hadn’t even moved yet.

And Shane. God, Shane. 

His bangs were stuck to his forehead with sweat, his cheeks neon with color. His eyes were gently closed, eyelashes dusting the tops of his cheeks. His pretty lips were parted, his tongue darting out to wet them. His fucking freckles looked perfect, painted over a face slack with pleasure and relief.

“God, Ilya, please move. Please fuck me.”

Ilya was helpless but to comply, putty in Shane’s oversexed, exhausted hands. He savored the slide as he pulled out a few inches, Shane’s slick, wet heat welcoming him greedily as he pushed back in.

It was barely a thrust, yet Shane was gasping like Ilya was fucking him into the mattress.

“Oh, yes, fuck,” Shane sighed, his fingers wrapping around Ilya’s shoulders and gripping tight, like he was scared Ilya would leave if he didn’t hold him here. As if Ilya wouldn’t give up everything – hockey, women, fucking air – if it meant he could be here, inside Shane.

Ilya groaned wordlessly and started to set an easy pace. It wasn’t quite languid – Shane was far too frantic for that – but it was steady, driving. Something Ilya could keep up for a while. 

“You are so sexy,” Ilya told him honestly. “Sucking me in so greedy, like you will die if I am not inside you.”

Shane only responded with a broken moan, his hips raising jerkily to meet Ilya’s unhurried thrusts.

“It feels good?”

“Yeah, God, yeah.” Shane shoved his face into Ilya’s shoulder, his hot breaths fanning out over Ilya’s collarbone. He could feel Shane’s drool dripping down his pec, sloppy and wet.

It was sexy, sure, but it also made Ilya feel vaguely sick. Because Shane didn’t drool. He could get desperate, or whiny, or fucking limp when he was being fucked particularly well, but he didn’t drool. He didn’t go limp and slack, as if the only thing keeping him alive was Ilya’s cock inside him.

It made Ilya wrap a possessive arm around Shane’s back, press him to Ilya’s body as Ilya used every single muscle he’d ever agonized over in the weight room to sit back on his heels, pulling Shane with him and onto his lap. The new position had Shane curled up on top of Ilya, held up only by Ilya’s arms, his weight pressed onto the tops of Ilya’s thighs.

It ruined any and all leverage Ilya had to thrust properly, forcing him to just make aborted rocks while clutching Shane to him. It was overly possessive, and objectively made the sex worse.

But, God, Ilya couldn’t help it. He needed Shane as close as possible, needed to feel Shane’s cock dribble precome over his abdomen, his belly pressing Shane’s abused dick between them. He needed to hear Shane’s stuttered gasps as Ilya fucked him messily, sloppily, poorly.

Ilya needed to feel that Shane was safe, and here, and, as deluded as some part of Ilya knew this was, his.

“Oh,” Shane sighed, tilting his face into the side of Ilya’s neck.

“So good,” Ilya praised through clumsy lips. “So good for me.”

Shane’s teeth scraped along Ilya’s neck. He wasn’t biting, or sucking, or anything, just letting his mouth hang open as Ilya rocked them gracelessly. Shane’s knee was digging into Ilya’s side, his fingertips gripping painfully on Ilya’s traps. Ilya’s muscles burned with the weird, contorted position, holding Shane’s torso to his own while driving his hips up into Shane, who, not without reason, wasn’t doing a lick of the work.

Ilya’s body begged for him to adjust them, but Ilya couldn’t. He would die. He would fucking collapse right there if there was any distance between them at all.

Later, Ilya might be able to reason that it was because of the nectar, that contact helped it and Ilya had just been trying to help by getting Shane so close. But, in the moment, it was a possessive, needy urge that made Ilya decline to relieve his tired muscles, to just stay there, rocking them.

They didn’t really need much leverage, anyway. Shane could probably come from a stiff breeze at this point, and Ilya wasn’t much behind. How could he, when Shane was this desperate for him, this strung-out and eager for Ilya’s cock?

“God, Ilya, fuck,” Shane mumured breathlessly.

Christ, Ilya loved hearing the sound of his name in Shane’s mouth. Non-Russians always said it so clumsily, so stiffly, and Shane was no exception, but it didn’t sound stupid when Shane said it. It sounded like a plea.

“You are so gorgeous,” Ilya said honestly, mouthing over Shane’s throat. “You feel good?”

Shane nodded clumsily, his head knocking against Ilya’s as he did. “So good, fuck.”

It was not a good fuck. Maybe one of the worst ones Ilya’d had. There was no rhythm, barely any friction, and Ilya’s body was aching.

But Shane was sighing happily as his cock rubbed between their abdomens, wetting them both. Ilya drifted a hand down to Shane’s ass, squeezing greedily and using it to get the barest hint of leverage, rocking Shane’s body to meet Ilya’s thrusts. The grip meant that Shane’s dick was being massaged between them more firmly now, and he tossed his head back, canting his hips into the lazy, desperate motion.

“Oh, fuck, yes,” Ilya groaned. “Just like that. Fuck yourself on me.”

Shane listened beautifully like always. Though his hips were just giving weak pushes against Ilya’s body, it allowed Ilya’s shitty thrusts to gain a little momentum, made sweet heat start to build in the pit of his stomach.

“Oh,” Shane gasped desperately, his hips moving faster. “God, it feels so good. I think- mmnh . . .”

“You will come?” Ilya asked, using the hand on Shane’s plush ass to rock him more steadily, crush his cock between them a hair more skillfully.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m close.”

“Come for me, Shane. I want to see it,” Ilya encouraged.

Ilya slipped the tip of a long finger down the cleft of Shane’s ass, letting it rest so, so delicately at Shane’s rim. Not pressing, or moving, or doing anything other than feel Shane’s muscles relax as they gave way to Ilya. Shane was trusting Ilya to help him through the stupid nectar, and the feeling of his rim swelling and retreating in time with Ilya’s soft rocks was a physical manifestation of that.

Fuck, it was so hot.

Shane was so fucking sensitive that the added stimulation of Ilya’s finger on his rim had his hips stuttering within seconds.

“Fuck, Ilya, fuck, God, oh-” Shane cut himself off with a broken gasp, nails digging into Ilya’s shoulders.

Shane’s back bowed, trapping his cock between them as he shot off. His come coated their bellies, smearing as Ilya kept rocking him. It was hotter and stickier and messier than Ilya would think was possible. There was so much of it, too, as if Shane had been holding off for weeks rather than coming constantly for hours.

Shane’s walls clenched on Ilya’s dick desperately, like they wanted to lock Ilya into Shane’s body. Ilya wasn’t sure he’d mind.

Ilya rolled his hips into Shane twice more before he was coming, too. The orgasm seemed to start from Ilya’s fucking hairline, hot lashes of pleasure burning against him as he drained himself into the condom. He was discombobulated as he came, clumsy and keening in a manner so embarrassing Ilya could feel himself blushing with humiliation as well as exertion.

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya gasped. He felt his fingers dig into Shane’s muscular ass, squeezing desperately. He wanted to say more, to praise Shane’s body, his climax, but he couldn’t make himself speak. He was stupidly exhausted, stupidly enamored, just stupid with Shane.

So he let them flop forward, a soft oof leaving Shane’s mouth as the wind was knocked out of him when he hit the bed, Ilya planted on top of him.

Ilya’s arms were crushed by Shane’s solid weight, but he didn’t move them. He needed Shane close. So fucking close. Close enough that he could never take another stupid, fucked drug. Close enough to never run off to Rose ever again.

“Jesus,” Shane panted to the ceiling.

“No, just me,” Ilya teased, his voice gravel. He took a shuddering breath, feeling his cock start to soften inside Shane. “But it’s an easy mistake.”

Shane waved a hand like he was brushing Ilya’s words out of the air. “That was . . .”

Intense? Too much? All I wanted, now let me up so I can call Rose and tell her to fuck off?

“. . . ugh,” Shane said instead. “I’m so tired.”

“You are okay?” Ilya asked, rubbing Shane’s back as well as he could while his hand was being squashed by their combined weight. “You feel good?”

“No,” Shane said miserably. His pretty eyes slipped closed. “But it hurts less.”

“Oh, malysh.” Ilya mumbled, grateful Shane didn’t understand Russian. Ilya didn’t think he’d take kindly to being called baby. Ilya could hardly believe he was saying it himself. That was how fucked he was for Shane.

If Ilya was smart, he’d leave now. Shane had come a few times. He wasn’t in danger. As long as Ilya filled a water bottle for him before leaving, Shane would be fine. This would be a blip on the radar in a year, an awkward break in Shane’s perfect relationship with Rose Landry.

But Ilya was dumb. Calling Shane baby. Wanting to call him other things, sweeter, grosser, more . . . romantic things. Wanting not only to fuck him through this, but hold him after. Ilya wanted to get him more water as much as he wanted to plow Shane through the mattress.

And that was a problem. A big one. Because Shane had made it pretty fucking clear this was only sex to him. Whatever more Ilya might want from him had been reserved for Rose.

So Ilya would take what he could get.

Ilya yanked his arms free and wrapped his hands around Shane’s hips before he pulled out slowly, shushing Shane’s quiet noises of discomfort. He pulled the condom off and tied it, tossing it somewhere in the mess behind him. It hardly mattered, given the state of the room.

“You want more?” Ilya asked, sitting cross-legged by Shane’s head. “I need a few minutes, but I can fuck you again.”

Shane hummed, eyes glazed over. “Yeah, yeah, I do.”

“Okay-”

“Not now, though. I’m tired.”

That was good. That was really good. With Sasha, he had gradually gotten sleepier as the nectar burned through him, as though the horniness was slowly replaced with exhaustion at an equal rate. And Shane undoubtedly needed sleep, if he’d been coming this much. Plus, they’d played a game last night, and he’d likely not slept since. Of course he was fucking exhausted.

Yet Ilya felt like a lance had speared him. Shane was sated for now, so Ilya was dismissed. It made sense. It was all this was. Maybe Ilya could still catch his flight to stupid Detroit-

“You’ll stay?” Shane asked in a tiny, desperate voice. Ilya could tell he hated asking from the set of his jaw, the line of his eyebrows. 

“Yes,” Ilya replied, too easily. “I’ll stay.”

Shane visibly relaxed, turning onto his side, away from Ilya. He was still covered in his own spend, his hole leaking lube, his whole body sticky with sweat. If Ilya was a stronger man, he would go to the en suite and get him water, a towel, and clean him up. If he was stronger than that, he’d put his sweats and hoodie back on and leave.

As it was, Ilya just laid down behind Shane, wrapping an arm around his waist and tugging him against his chest. And, fuck him, Ilya liked it. Maybe more than the sex, if he was honest. He liked how sticky and sweaty and sated they were. He liked feeling Shane’s exhausted, even breaths as they expanded his ribs, pressing him into Ilya.

He liked drifting off to sleep with Shane in his arms.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

This was originally part of a longer chapter, but it was so long that I decided to break it up, hence the longer chapter count now.

Enjoy!

Ilya sort of wished that he had a few seconds of disorientation when he woke up. Maybe if he’d been confused upon waking, he could claim that everything that happened that morning had been a mistake, or an accident, or . . . something.

Instead, when Ilya woke, sticky and disgusting, he knew exactly where he was. Shane fucking Hollander’s bedroom. The room was still thick with the smell of sex. The hair on Ilya’s belly was matted with come, his muscles stiff from not stretching enough after the game, after their fuck.

Shane was still asleep. He’d rolled over at some point, and his face was now pressed to Ilya’s side. He was still so flushed, but he wasn’t shaking. He wasn’t scared, either, his eyes closed, his breaths puffing gently against Ilya’s ribs.

Ilya’s stomach hurt. His head hurt. His fucking chest hurt. He’d had no sleep and emotional whiplash, and he hardly cared. Because Shane seemed so comfortable. He would be up soon, needing more, but he was still for now.

Ilya didn’t ever see him like this. Completely relaxed and open. Every other time Ilya’d seen Shane he’d  either been glaring at Ilya on the ice or deep in the throes of pleasure. Last time, before Ilya’d ruined it, he’d been close to seeing Shane like this. So fucking close, before he’d scared Shane enough to run off into Rose stupid Landry’s arms.

But now, Ilya was here, and could watch Shane’s little twitches in his sleep, listen to his endearingly gentle snores.

Proper daylight was filtering into the room now, and Ilya could hear the sounds of Montreal waking up below Shane’s penthouse. Dogs barking, cars honking, wind blowing. Church bells, if Ilya listened carefully enough.

And, fuck. More buzzing.

Ilya carefully, so carefully so as not to wake Shane, slid away.

Shane made a sleepy, upset noise, but shifted his hips and stayed asleep. Thank god. He needed it.

Ilya found his phone in the pocket of his abandoned sweats at the end of the bed. Marlow was calling. Ilya declined it quickly, catching the time as 10:28. He’d missed the team flight to Detroit, as well as twelve calls from Cliff, five from his coach, and two or three texts from just about every other player and staff member on the team. Fuck.

His phone buzzed again. Another call from Marlow. Ilya declined it again.

A text now.

Marlow: Answer or I’ll shit in your suitcase.

Ilya called him back.

“Roz, where the fuck are you? Coach is fucking livid.”

Ilya cringed. He hadn’t bothered to think of a lie or excuse before coming here. He hadn’t thought of anything at all.

“I am busy. Emergency,”  Ilya whispered, ducking into the hallway, but leaving the door ajar. This way, he could talk without waking Shane, but still hear if Shane needed Ilya to fuck him again. Which Ilya half-wanted, for himself, and half-didn’t, for thought of Shane’s poor fucking body.

“The fuck?” Marlow growled. “Being hungover isn’t an emergency. Get your ass to the airport. Coach held the fucking plane for you.”

Jesus. Ilya should get cut from the roster for this, not have a fucking plane held for him. Perks of being the best player in the league, he supposed.

“Tell them to take off without me,” Ilya said hurriedly. “I will not make it.”

“Dude, you can puke on the plane. C’mon.”

“I am not hungover.” That was true. Not from alcohol, anyway. “I am . . . handling something, okay?”

“The hell you need to handle in Montreal?”

Ilya cringed. He knew what he could say, and he didn’t want to, but what the fuck else would get Marlow off his back?

“It’s a, um, girl,” Ilya lied, running a hand through his hair. It was incredibly tangled from Shane’s wanting fingers.

“Oh.” Marlow paused. “Jane?”

Ilya inhaled sharply.

“What, you think I don’t know who my best buddy texts every single fucking time we’re in Montreal? I’m dumb, not stupid, Roz.”

Ilya swallowed. “Yes, it is, um, her. She is not doing well.” It was a half-truth. Which, in Ilya’s experience, tended to be bought much more easily than outright lies.

“Shit,” Marlow sighed. 

“Yeah, shit,” Ilya agreed.

“She okay?”

Ilya peeked through the crack in the door to see Shane still asleep, rolled onto his stomach, his muscular ass looking incredibly biteable. “Yes. She will be fine. I just need to be here.”

Marlow groaned. “Wear a condom next time, asshole,” he scolded. “And get her on birth control.”

“I should,” Ilya said easily, sliding back from the door.

“Make sure you get her lots of ice chips. And the super pads. Like, the ones that are basically diapers.”

“Good idea,” Ilya said, half-giddy with the fact that Marlow was coming up with his cover story for him and half-delirious with lack of sleep.

“I’ll tell Coach . . . something.” Ilya could picture the resignation on Marlow’s face. “You take good care of her, okay? Don’t fuck up her life more than you already have.”

God, if only Marlow knew how right his words were.

“Yes. I will.”

“Fuck,” Marlow groaned. “You owe me one.”

“I do.”

Marlow hung up the phone without saying goodbye, and Ilya breathed a quick sigh of relief. 

Thank god for Cliff. Ilya had left his hotel room that morning with no plans, no excuses. No thought for how this could fuck him over.

Shit, he hardly had any thought for it now as he padded over to Shane’s kitchen.

He opened Shane’s fridge, rolling his eyes at the contents. Half a dozen bottles of something called “wheatgrass shots.” Cartons upon cartons of lemon-flavored protein shakes. A package of salad greens without dressing. A tupperware of plain grilled chicken. A couple wrinkled, sad-looking oranges. No leftover pizza or questionable takeout containers. No junk food at all. Even Shane’s fucking bread was a loaf of healthy 12-grain bullshit.

There was a six-pack of ginger ale, though, so Ilya grabbed that, the oranges, and a fancy-looking Brita pitcher and placed them on the counter. On second thought, he added a few of the protein shakes to the pile. They were probably gross, but would be good for Shane, with how much energy he was expending.

Ilya switched to opening cabinets, looking for something easy. Pretzels, chips, something like that. Closest he could find was a print-out in a drawer for a low-fat kale chip recipe. Christ, Shane was boring.

 Ilya would order a pizza or something later, he decided, but this would keep Shane from collapsing for now, at least.

Ilya gathered his spoils into his arms and walked back to Shane’s bedroom as quietly as possible. Shane was sleeping fitfully, his hips twitching. Whatever relief he’d gotten must have been fading. Ilya would wake him, give him some stimulation, but if Shane could shoot off a few times while still getting sleep, that would be better. Shane needed the fucking rest, and his poor dick needed a break from being stroked.

Ilya put the food down on the nightstand and went to the en suite.

Pissing felt fucking nice, and washing his hands felt nicer. He was still gross, the hair on his belly matted with Shane’s release, his fucking pubes greasy with lube. He would take a shower, just briefly, but he didn’t want Shane to wake up and wonder if Ilya had left, not for even a second. He’d taken enough time on the phone.

So Ilya located a stack of washcloths under the sink and wiped himself up perfunctorily. The cool cloth felt good on his sticky, overheated skin. His soft cock twitched eagerly as Ilya cleaned it, but he ignored it. Shane would need to be fucked again soon. Ilya couldn’t get himself off now; it would be selfish.

Ilya swiped under his arms, behind his balls, watching himself in the mirror. He looked exhausted, yes, his eyes deeply shadowed, his lips chapped, but he also looked . . . good. His skin was no longer sallow, but rather golden. His eyes were bright. His hair was tangled, but it had good bounce.

There was no reason he looked so good, except-

Except he was fucking smiling. Beaming, really, like all he’d ever wanted was to fuck Shane Hollander and then scavenge snacks for him. Ilya tried to school his features into a careful scowl, but it didn’t work. His eyes were still fucking dancing. 

Ilya needed to get a grip. Shane would be back with Rose Landry as soon as the nectar was out of his system. By Ilya’s estimate, that would be about twelve more hours, maybe twenty-four, given how much Shane had taken. Then Shane would be part of Hollywood’s it couple again, and Ilya would have his list of booty calls organized by city. In a few hours, Ilya would never have him again.

There. That worked. Ilya’s eyes were hooded again, his smile fully killed.

All business now, Ilya wet a few more washcloths and carried them, along with a tube of Aquaphor and some acetaminophen, over to the growing pile on the nightstand. He settled, cross-legged, on the bed near Shane’s head.

Shane was slowly blinking awake, bleary-eyed and clearly disoriented.

“Ilya?” he asked, voice rough.

Christ, his fucking name again.

“I’m here.” Ilya rubbed a hand over Shane’s hip.

That seemed to soothe Shane, his eyes slipping closed again. It was awfully, tooth-achingly sweet, the way his only concern upon waking was if Ilya was still there. It made the possessive urge in Ilya’s chest crack open, blossoming into a hot, searing ache.

“How do you feel?”

“My dick hurts,” Shane sighed.

Ilya petted over Shane’s side protectively, like he was a stray dog that Ilya was trying to comfort after a too-close encounter with animal control. Ilya could feel each of Shane’s muscles, standing out starkly like the anatomy diagrams in the team trainer’s office. Shane was always gorgeously, sexily muscular, but this was more than that. This was what muscles felt like with no water insulating them.

“You need to drink,” Ilya murmured softly.

“I’m not thirsty.”

“I did not ask. Sit up.”

“Ugh,” Shane complained, even as he pushed himself up to sit. He slumped against the headboard, legs falling open and his cock bobbing, hard and angry red, between them.

“Here.” Ilya turned to grab a ginger ale and popped the tab before pressing it into Shane’s sweaty hand. Between the condensation and Shane’s loose grip, he almost dropped it, but Ilya held it steady until Shane’s fingers curled around it properly.

Water might be better, but Ilya thought the sugar would be good. Plus, if Shane’d thrown up earlier like he’d said, maybe the ginger would settle his stomach or something. Whatever – Ilya was a fuckbuddy, not a doctor.

Either way, Shane downed the whole can in three long pulls before setting it back on his own nightstand with a clatter.

“Taste good?” Ilya asked.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Good. You will get sick without drinking, coming like this.”

Shane ducked his head. His cheeks were still so hot, and they burned even brighter now, his arms coming to fold over his middle like he was ashamed. Ilya couldn’t have that.

“You’re doing very well,” Ilya praised lightly, distractingly, cupping Shane’s chin. There was a soft scrape of stubble there, and Ilya rubbed it with the heel of his hand. “You need more?”

“Obviously,” Shane huffed.

It made sense that he was so frustrated. When Ilya flicked his eyes down, he could see a bead of precome running down the head of Shane’s cock. Ilya hadn’t even touched him, wasn’t doing anything arousing at all, yet Shane was leaking like Ilya had three fingers in his hole. A tender pang of sympathy lit up Ilya’s belly.

“Let me take care of you,” Ilya said, voice low, gentling. “How do you want it?”

“Wanna be close,” Shane said. “In your lap.”

Ilya’s heart thudded stupidly at the words. “Come here, then.”

Shane didn’t need to be told twice.

He moved like he was drunk; his muscles were so slack, yet so inexorably strong as he swung a leg over Ilya’s hips and bent down to kiss him viciously. Ilya kissed back as best he could, feeling as Shane’s eager hips rocked down into his belly. 

It took barely a second of kissing Shane before Ilya’s dick started to fatten up where it was laying against the crease of his hip. The soft, creamy skin of Shane’s thigh rubbed against it as he kissed Ilya, goading it into full hardness. Ilya wrapped his hands around Shane’s huge biceps and squeezed, an outlet for the sensation pouring into his erection.

“You want to ride my cock? My leg?” Ilya asked. The words were garbled by the fact that Shane wouldn’t let Ilya pull back at all to speak, but Shane appeared to understand by the way he was humming fervently against Ilya’s tongue.

“Which one? Need words,” Ilya tried, even though his bottom lip was fully between Shane’s wanting teeth.

Shane pulled back, chapped lips gone redder, freckles perfect and stark on flushed skin.

“All of it,” Shane panted hurriedly, like Ilya was being absolutely unreasonable for asking what Shane wanted. “Just- Faster.”

“Okay. We can go faster.”

Shane helped with that effort, setting a lightning quick, bruising pace. He sucked Ilya’s bottom lip into his plush mouth again and bit at it until Ilya thought the skin might split. One of Shane’s hands pulled at Ilya’s hair gracelessly as the other snaked between them, wrapping around his cock and stroking desperately.

A twinge of worry pulled at Ilya. Shane’s cock was so overused – he shouldn’t be masturbating dry like this, regardless of his level of arousal.

“Lube?” Ilya murmured eloquently against Shane’s lips.

“Too far,” Shane murmured. “Need it now.”

His fist was moving fast, bumping up against Ilya’s abs, the muscles of his arm bulging and flexing rapidly under Ilya’s fingers. Ilya slid a desperate hand down to Shane’s wrist to attempt to slow it down, but it was hopeless. Shane just dragged Ilya’s hand along with his rapid strokes, as if Ilya wasn’t touching him at all.

Ilya couldn’t let Shane keep going. Ilya wouldn’t let him hurt like Sasha had.

“Shane,” Ilya urged. “Shane, stop.”

Shane finally sat back, lips all kiss-swollen, pupils huge and dark in the midday light. His hand was still working himself, but in a looser grip, at least.

“What?” Shane asked. He looked genuinely perplexed that Ilya had asked him to stop.

“Ride me,” Ilya said, throat dry. He knew it was mean to hold Shane up when he was so desperate, but Shane’s dick needed a fucking break from being stroked. Riding would help. If it was on Ilya’s dick, he could come from his prostate instead. If it was on Ilya’s thigh, at least the movements would be different, and hopefully less chafing, on Shane’s sweet, overburdened dick.

Selfishly, Ilya wanted the former, wanted to get some relief for himself. But the thigh would be faster. Wouldn’t necessitate Ilya checking on Shane’s hole and stretching him again if he needed it.

“I need it now,” Shane whined, dark eyes darting down to his nearly purple cock. Poor thing. It made Ilya's decision easy, at least.

“You will have it. Get on my thigh.”

Shane scrambled clumsily to switch his straddle from Ilya’s hips to his thigh, starting to rock his hips against the strong muscle there, his cock leaving slimy little trails of precome that ran into Ilya’s leg hair.

The adjustment was good. The pressure on Shane’s dick wasn’t too much heavier than the vice grip with which Shane had been working himself, but he was only moving maybe an inch or two instead of the entire length of cock. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do, especially since the lube was all the way at the foot of the bed, and Ilya wasn’t moving.

“Is good?” Ilya asked, laying sweaty, steadying hands on Shane’s shoulders, rubbing the velvet skin behind Shane’s earlobes with his thumbs.

“Yeah,” Shane breathed. “It’s b-better than my hand.”

“Stings less?”

“No. M-more you.”

Jesus.

Ilya’s dick throbbed to full hardness within three heartbeats, his mouth growing wet with spit. It was pathetic, how a throwaway sweet comment like that had Ilya harder and headier than Shane humping his fucking leg did.

Because Ilya didn’t just want Shane physically. He was fucking gorgeous, yeah, but Ilya wanted all of him. Wanted the way he criticized Dallas Kent’s stick handling and the way he folded his clothes every time he stripped and the way he chewed on his hoodie strings.

Ilya knew he was ruined. For men, for sex, for people. Ilya’d known it since far too early. Known it since age nineteen, the first time he fucked someone else after having Shane’s virginal, eager mouth for the first time. Everything had been compared to Shane since then. Forever and ever and fucking ever. Ilya didn’t see a way out.

It was why Shane and Rose’s relationship had hurt so bad, on some level. Because, to Ilya, Shane was irreplaceable. The fact that the inverse wasn’t true never failed to make Ilya’s jaw tense, his breaths come in short, angry pants through his nose. Not anger at Shane, especially not now, with his soft, high sounds, his fingers digging into Ilya’s shoulders. A bit of anger at Rose, but that was unavoidable.

Really, Ilya’s anger was mostly at himself. For being so soft for Shane. For wanting nothing more than to have Shane close.

At the end of the day, Ilya needed to just get over it, with Svetlana or Harper from Detroit or literally anyone else. Ilya just needed to focus on the pure, physical sensation of Shane. There was plenty of that.

Especially now, with him straddling Ilya’s thigh, riding it hard. He was thick and heavy with muscle, and Ilya’s leg sort of hurt with the fury of Shane’s thrusts as he humped him, but it was so hot. Shane’s face was glazed with sweat, his pink lips open in a sigh, his hands digging into Ilya’s shoulders for balance. Shane’s cock was drooling copiously, making Ilya’s leg so wet that each of Shane’s pushes into his flesh caused a light squelch, Ilya’s worries about lube abandoned.

“Hnng,” Shane moaned wordlessly.

Ilya’s own dick was swollen, aching with the tangle of feelings in his chest and the pulse of arousal coming from seemingly everywhere else. Every time Shane’s thigh nudged Ilya’s dick, Ilya felt the mix of overwhelmed pleasure and hurt in his fucking teeth.

“You are close?” Ilya murmured, forcing himself to focus as he glided a hand up the flexing muscles in Shane’s back.

Shane nodded feverishly, teeth worrying at his lower lip, hips going somehow faster on Ilya’s leg.

“Fuck, Hollander. Doing so good. Let go.”

Shane let out a low, deep sound before painting Ilya’s hip and crotch with his spend. There was so fucking much of it.

Without thinking, Ilya swiped his fingers through it. It was thick and hot on his hand, making Ilya’s dick pulse in jealousy. Ilya didn’t hesitate for a second before raising it to his mouth, tasting the thick warmth of Shane’s overwrought body. His come was still so fucking sweet.

Shane, meanwhile, was oblivious to Ilya’s possessive tasting, instead slumping forward onto Ilya’s torso, face tucked into his neck, hands loose around his back.

“Tired?” Ilya asked gently, gliding a hand down Shane’s sweaty spine. Talking made the aftertaste of Shane’s come more obvious in his mouth, and Ilya’s hard cock twitched. “Want to sleep again?”.

Shane shook his head, bumping his nose into Ilya’s neck. “Too horny.”

“Is okay,” Ilya said unnecessarily. “Drink some more, then I’ll fuck you. Okay?”

Shane grunted in affirmation before peeling himself off of Ilya, sitting back against the headboard. The mess of Shane’s come smeared between them, over Shane’s still-red, still-hard cock. Ilya needed to clean him. He needed to take care of him, desperately, impossibly. It was a problem.

“Water or ginger ale?” Ilya asked, throat dry himself.

“Ginger ale, please.”

Ilya snorted at Shane’s ever-present politeness and passed him a can, watching protectively as Shane took slow pulls from it. It was stupid – it wasn’t like Shane would drown on twelve ounces of soda, but watching Shane felt urgent. More urgent than cleaning Shane’s come, drying tacky across Ilya’s groin. More urgent than catching the flight to Detroit.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” Shane muttered after a moment.

Ilya jumped, half-worried Shane was reading his thoughts or something, before realizing Shane’s gaze was pointed down at his own dick, which was hard again. 

“Is not ridiculous," Ilya said. “You took a drug, and now you’re high. Is normal.”

Shane rolled his eyes theatrically. “It’s a shitty fucking high.”

“Is a shitty drug. You, um, what’s that phrase? Fucked around and found out.”

Shane laughed bitterly. “I feel stupid.”

Ilya didn’t ask what he wanted. Why take it at all? Why call me? Did you not know what would happen, you gorgeous idiot?

Instead, Ilya nodded and said, quite magnanimously in his opinion, “You are not stupid. Not all the time, at least.”

Shane didn’t seem to hear the seriousness in Ilya’s words.“God, this is so fucking humiliating,” he said under his breath.

“You are not wrong,” Ilya agreed, grabbing a ginger ale for himself and taking a quick sip. He was so thirsty, it tasted fucking amazing.

Shane scrubbed a hand down his face. “You’ll never let me live this down. Next face-off, you’ll say something like ‘You do not have boner. Strange,’” he said in a horrible Russian accent.

Ilya laughed despite himself, ignoring the pleasurable rush he felt when Shane gave a weak smile.

“I will not mock you for this,” Ilya said, waving his hand around to indicate the entire situation.

“You won’t?”

“No. I do not mock things about you that are so . . . sensitive.” It was too earnest by half. Ilya covered for himself quickly, adding, “Besides, you are a good fuck. Is fun for me to be here.”

“Good for you,” Shane sighed, melancholy rolling off of him in waves. “I’ve come probably thirty times, and it still fucking hurts.”

Ilya hummed in acknowledgement. “Is normal.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes,” Ilya said stiffly. “You are doing fine.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “I don’t think it’s normal to come thirty times, Rozanov.”

“Is normal on nectar.”

“How do you know?” Shane looked at Ilya then. Ilya was ready for his gaze to be accusatory, angry, but it wasn’t. His eyes were wide and . . . trusting.

Ilya swallowed uncomfortably. “Is not my first time with . . .” Ilya gestured vaguely at Shane’s erection. “. . . this.”

“Oh.” Shane took a long pull from his ginger ale. “Why did you take it?”

“I didn’t. My, um- the coach’s son did. When we were kids.”

Shane seemed to contemplate that for a second, his gaze drifting back to fix on his hard cock. Ilya waited for him to start stroking it, but he stayed still.

“He said it could be fun, sometimes,” Ilya added unnecessarily. Shane hadn’t asked, and probably didn’t want to know. He wanted Ilya for his high libido and eager body, not his life story.

But Shane nodded slowly. “Was it? Fun, I mean.”

Ilya hesitated. “I do not think so. It seemed to hurt more.”

“It does hurt,” Shane murmured, so obviously pained that Ilya’s insides ached.

“It made him stupid. Made him make bad choices. I wasn’t as . . . watchful as I maybe should have been.” Ilya wasn’t sure why he was saying this. He knew it would be too much for Shane. Ilya was always too much for Shane. But Ilya continued anyway, mealy-mouthed. “I will not do that with you. I will be good to you.”

Shane didn’t say anything, just blinked slowly.

“Here,” Ilya said after a too-long pause. He grabbed a protein shake from the nightstand and pressed it into Shane’s hand. “Drink this. Okay?”

Ilya waited for Shane to ask more questions, or to ask to get fucked sooner, or to simply kick Ilya out, but Shane just opened the drink and downed it, as if mollified by Ilya’s stupid promise.

“Thanks,” Shane said after a minute, as if it were normal for them to be sitting in Shane’s bedroom on a Sunday morning, both naked and visibly aroused, sharing what amounted to breakfast.

“Was in your fridge. Just got it for you.”

Shane shook his head. He had a dribble of shake on his chin. If not for the faint yellow color, Ilya would assume it was come.

“Not that. Being here. I know you have a game tonight.”

“You check my schedule?” Ilya teased with a vicious half-smile.

“No. Maybe. I don’t know. I just- Thanks. You didn’t need to do . . .” Shane gestured at the pile of food, the washcloths, Ilya’s still hard, come-covered cock. “. . . all this.”

Ilya shrugged. “You still think I am asshole, hm?”

“Not very much now.”

Ilya ignored the way that made his heart thrum in his chest, instead opening one of the shakes for himself and downing a quick sip.

“Fuck, Hollander, this is disgusting,” Ilya cringed, holding the drink away from his mouth like it would jump back in there and assault his tastebuds again. He was no stranger to protein shakes, but, shit, this one was nasty.

“They’re lemon,” Shane replied, like that made it any better.

“And taste like shit.” Ilya took another sip just to recoil.

“Shut up. They were on sale,” Shane said.

“And you are a multi-millionnaire.”

“Fuck off. It’s just a protein shake. Who cares?”

“People who are not boring,” Ilya muttered.

“I was wrong. You are an asshole.”

Ilya snorted. The chirping was easier than whatever they’d been doing before. It was normal. And, yes, Ilya had more he wanted to say. Sweet things. Soft things. Gentle things. But that wasn’t what this was. 

“You are finished?” Ilya asked soberly.

Shane nodded, shifting uncomfortably. His come had dried across his abs, and it made Ilya’s fingers twitch. “Let me clean you. Then I will fuck you.”

“Oh,” Shane exhaled smoothly.

Ilya took the protein shakes and put them back on the nightstand before grabbing one of the washcloths. Ilya cleaned himself quickly, sloppily, missing streaks of come and trails of sweat with his speed. It didn’t matter; he wasn’t the priority.

For Shane, Ilya got a fresh washcloth and checked the temperature on the inside of his wrist. It was a little cooler than lukewarm, but maybe that would feel good on Shane’s heated skin.

“Lie down.”

Shane went onto his back easily, quiet as Ilya wiped him up, his eyes tracking Ilya’s every movement. Ilya started with Shane’s stomach before drifting up to his chest, wiping away the tacky remnants of his own spit. Shane shuddered when the cloth rubbed across his bruised nipples.

“Is okay, solnyshko. I know it hurts.”

Ilya couldn’t believe he was using a pet name like that, but he couldn’t stop himself. How could he when Shane was looking at him like that, like Ilya was the only thing keeping him from combusting? At least Ilya’d said it in Russian. Maybe Shane would forget all about it.

It seemed like he might. His eyes were unfocused, lips gently parted. Neither the sleep nor the food seemed to have made him any closer to coming back to himself. He was still unfocused and hazy, his eyes fixed drunkenly on Ilya as Ilya cleaned him.

It made Ilya want to do stupid things, like hold him or call him more pet names.

“Ilya, please. I’m so hard,” Shane noted helpfully when Ilya drifted the washcloth to his lower belly, as if Ilya could not see how his dick was full and red, standing perpendicular to his body, precome pearling at the tip.

“I know. I will help, but I need to clean you first.” Ilya nudged the washcloth closer, just above the base of Shane’s cock. “I can clean here?”

Shane swallowed. “I’m hard,” he said again, a refusal and a plea all at once.

“Yes. But you need to be clean. It could . . .” Ilya rubbed a hand over his bare chest to demonstrate, furious that he couldn’t remember the stupid word for it. “Get all red. Sting.”

“Rash?” Even drugged, Shane was still helping Ilya with English. God.

“Yes, rash. You could get one. I can clean it? I will help you after.”

“Okay,” Shane said in a small voice.

“I will be gentle,” Ilya promised.

He was. He didn’t wipe the washcloth over Shane’s dick, worried the rubbing would be too much on the delicate skin. Instead, he dabbed at it so fucking gently, like Shane’s cock was made of soft clay and Ilya didn’t want to make an indent.

Shane’s breath caught as Ilya dabbed at the head, a blurt of precome falling onto the cloth.

“Hurts?”

Shane shook his head, his bangs in his eyes, hands flexing into fists repeatedly. “Wanna come again.”

Ilya hummed an acknowledgement and folded over the washcloth. “You let me clean you and drink some water, and then I will fuck you. Okay?”

“God, Ilya, yes,” Shane sighed, his dick twitching. “Want your cock so bad.”

It was the nectar talking, yes, but Christ, the words had Ilya’s belly full and flipping with arousal. It didn’t hurt that Shane was so beautiful like this, relaxed and desperate and trusting.

But priorities. Shane needed to be clean.

So Ilya blew out a hard breath and dabbed the washcloth over Shane’s balls. They were tender enough that he fucking whimpered at the sensation.

“You are okay,” Ilya said. “I know is awful.”

“No,” Shane said quietly. “It feels . . . good.”

Ilya’s swollen cock kicked, and he smiled crookedly at Shane’s flushed face.

“Good. I want you to feel good. Roll on your side.”

Shane dutifully turned toward Ilya, and Ilya moved on, guiding Shane’s thighs open with a gentle hand on his knee. He reached the cloth low, hovering above Shane’s hole.

“Breathe,” Ilya said, wiping the cloth over Shane’s entrance.

Shane inhaled sharply, snapping his legs closed around Ilya’s forearm.

“Is okay,” Ilya soothed stupidly.

He could feel how puffy, how hot Shane’s hole was, even through the towel. It was clumsy, this angle, with Ilya unable to see what actually needed wiping up, his wrist caught between Shane’s strong thighs. Shane’s breath stuttered a few times as Ilya washed him. Ilya couldn’t even twist his wrist to adjust the angle, Shane’s thighs were clamped so tight.

But Ilya continued, slow and careful, until Shane’s discomfort started to visibly melt into pleasure. Until Shane’s cock was drooling copiously, until Shane was humping back into the washcloth like rubbing it on his rim would be enough to make him come. Shit, with how sensitive he was, maybe it would.

“Feels good?” Ilya asked gruffly.

“Ilya, I’m so hard,” Shane said, cheek pressed to the bed. “Please.”

“I will take care of you.” Ilya let go of the washcloth, his wrist still trapped by Shane’s thighs. He could feel the heat of him on the pads of his fingers, so tantalizingly close. “You want my cock?”

Shane nodded wildly, rubbing his face against the bedspread.

“Okay. Okay, solnyshko. Relax.”

Ilya curled his fingers forward until the middle one nudged Shane’s entrance. Even though Ilya had wiped the lube away, Shane was still so open, sucking Ilya’s finger in to the second knuckle, dry. Inside, he was so hot, so desperate. Ilya’d fucked him only a few hours ago, but just feeling Shane around his finger like this made Ilya’s dick strain, curving up to his fucking belly button.

“Oh,” Shane sighed, his face going soft, relieved, relaxed.

Ilya wasn’t touching Shane’s prostate. His finger wasn’t big enough to give any stretch. Shit, he wasn’t even moving.

Yet Shane was sighing like Ilya had stuffed him fucking full, like there was a fucking vibrator pressed inside him at the perfect angle, his mouth in a moue to rival a fetish model.

“You feel so good in me,” Shane sighed to the ceiling. “So good. Fuck.”

Ilya huffed a strained laugh. “I am hardly touching you.”

“Doesn’t matter. You feel so fucking good, every time.” Shane rocked back against Ilya’s fingers, groaning.

Ilya’s dick pulsed at Shane’s words, arousal a live wire around his frenulum, the tops of his thighs, deep in his belly. Ilya knew it was the drug, that it was barely Shane saying these words, that if he truly thought these things he would never be with Rose, but it was so fucking hot, anyway. Ilya loved having Shane desperate for him, the way Ilya always was for Shane. 

“Let me get a condom.”

Ilya curled his wrist to snake his finger out of Shane’s body, but Shane made a desperate, unhappy noise and clamped his legs together. He was so fucking strong that Ilya’s wrist was pinned between his sumptuous thighs, just the tip of Ilya’s middle finger still inside Shane. Ilya couldn’t move it back or forward with Shane’s tight grip, so it just stayed there, barely nudging past Shane’s rim.

“Fuck,” Shane murmured, his face scrunching. “Oh, my god.”

Ilya cringed. He’d had no intention of teasing Shane with the nectar from his system, but Shane had trapped Ilya’s hand, was forcing Ilya to just barely ghost a touch over his sensitive rim.

“Relax,” Ilya half-pleaded, his voice gravel. “I can’t fuck you like this.”

Shane made a weird, strained groan.

“You want my cock?”

“Yes, fuck, yes. Please.”

“Then you need to relax.”

Shane’s cheeks went so red as to be almost purple, the drug and the exertion and, Ilya was pretty sure, the embarrassment making blood weave between his freckles, his face practically glowing with flush.

“I d-don’t want to be empty,” Shane explained, the words sounding punched out of him.

Ilya felt the tips of his own ears go a pleased pink. It was stupid – it wasn’t like Shane said he wanted to be filled by Ilya, specifically – but he felt it nonetheless.

“Please,” Shane said. “Please don’t.”

“God,” Ilya said, his cock fucking throbbing at Shane’s words. He needed to fuck Shane, he needed it fucking now. But he couldn’t let Shane be empty, not if he was this scared.

An idea flashed, semisolid, in the back of Ilya’s mind.

Their very first time, Shane had been so nervous, enough that Ilya’s own terror felt puny by comparison. But he’d been so eager. So fucking eager to please.

He’d gotten on his knees for Ilya. Kissed Ilya with anxious, graceless lips. And, in maybe Ilya’s favorite moment of all of them, had sucked Ilya’s thumb into his mouth like it was natural, like he’d done it every day of his life and wanted to continue to do so.

“You won’t be empty,” Ilya said now. “ I promise.”

Ilya tensed his obliques so his weight wasn’t quite so heavy on his elbow, and adjusted the hand not clenched between Shane’s legs to cup his pretty face. The skin burned in Ilya’s hand.

“Here,” Ilya offered, rubbing his thumb over Shane’s plush bottom lip. “Suck.”

Shane listened so, so beautifully. He immediately swallowed Ilya’s finger into his mouth, his cheeks hollowing as he suckled, his eyelids going heavy so fast. The inside of his mouth was wet and velvet and fucking . . . adoring, his tongue laving over Ilya’s finger like it was trying to taste every single square millimeter of skin.

“There,” Ilya said in what he hoped was a soothing manner. “Nice and full. Now relax for me.”

It was almost strange how quickly and easily Shane’s thighs loosened around Ilya’s wrist. Never in Ilya’s innumerable sexual experiences had the mere act of sucking on his fingers soothed his partner so quickly, so fully. Not with Sasha when he was high. Not with Shane, ever.

It let Ilya draw his hand back from between Shane’s legs as quickly as he could without hurting him. He moved fast, efficient, grabbing a condom from the strip he’d snatched earlier and ripping it open with his teeth. Maybe wasn’t the safest way to do it, but Ilya didn’t exactly have two free hands.

Shane moaned around Ilya’s thumb at the sight of the condom, the vibration buzzing over Ilya’s arm like he’d just hit his funny bone.

“So good,” Ilya muttered, rolling the condom on one-handed. Thank god he’d had so many threesomes; putting on a condom while his other hand was occupied with warm wetness was practically second nature at this point.

Ilya twisted awkwardly to get the lube from the end of the bed without taking his thumb out of Shane’s mouth. He had to kick the bottle up with his foot before grabbing it properly, but it worked, and Ilya drizzled the slick haphazardly over his cock, smearing more around Shane’s hole. He wanted to rub it around, make sure it was easy and nice for Shane, but Shane’s teeth were starting to worry around the quick of Ilya’s thumbnail, and pleading, keening sounds were tearing from his throat.

Neither of them could wait any longer.

Shane was on his side in a fetal position, and Ilya’s exhausted, distracted mind couldn’t puzzle out how to find a good angle to fuck him while leaving his thumb in Shane’s mouth. He eventually settled on kneeling behind Shane, one leg swung over his hips so Ilya’s heel was touching the tops of Shane’s thigh, his foot planted on the bed. Ilya leaned on the knee of the other leg until he was in some sort of fucked-up, desperate lunge.

It wasn’t comfortable, but it had the head of Ilya’s cock kissing Shane’s hungry entrance, and that’s really all he needed.

“I can fuck you?” Ilya asked, strangled.

Shane nodded even as he sucked on Ilya’s thumb harder, like he was scared Ilya was lying about fucking him and just wanted an excuse to have his hand back. Like Ilya didn’t want all of him to be wrapped up in Shane’s velvet heat all the time.

“Okay. Relax for me. I will not hurt you.”

It was an unnecessary promise. Shane was so open, and Ilya’s cock so slicked, that he had to strain to slow the slide down rather than to force himself in.

“Oh,” Ilya sighed as Shane’s tight heat swallowed him. The twin points of electric contact, around his thumb and around his dick, had Ilya shuddering. Goosebumps rose in a wave across his bare back. Shane’s body was so silken around Ilya, softer and hotter and more welcoming than any other Ilya had felt.

Even through the condom, Ilya could feel the urgency of Shane’s hot, sweet hole, sucking him in so greedily. It was as if they were built for this, to be twined into one another in this way. Ilya had never had a more perfect fuck than he did with Shane.

One day, when Shane was less on the verge of collapse, Ilya would want to do this for longer. Would want to slip his dick into Shane’s heat and have it just sit there for hours. Until neither of them could bear it. Until Shane’s body accommodated enough around Ilya that he hardly noticed he was being filled anymore, until it faded into a background of warmth and safety and . . . everything else Ilya felt for him.

For now, though, Shane was keening around Ilya’s thumb in his mouth, his teeth scraping against it and spit running warm across Ilya’s palm. Shane needed him to move.

Ilya complied easily, sliding out halfway before sinking back in, slow and insistent. He rubbed his thumb over Shane’s tongue as he thrusted, feeling Shane’s broken, wordless moans vibrate his hand as Ilya dragged himself in and out of Shane’s desperate heat.

“You are so good,” Ilya murmured. “Perfect for me.”

Shane groaned, laving at Ilya’s thumb even harder, his lips pink and swollen around the finger.

Pleasure squeezed Ilya’s insides tight, until his bones felt too big for his body, his thrusts sloppy and hungry. He collapsed forward over Shane, pressing wet, fevered kisses to his temple, his hairline, his ear. He was sweaty, and Ilya licked it up like a cat with cream, savoring the salt of Shane’s skin, the dirtiness of it, the stretch along his own inner thigh from the awkward lunge.

“Mmmh,” Shane moaned around Ilya’s hand.

Shane’s dick was an angry red, precome dribbling copiously onto the bedspread. Ilya wanted to help, but his hand was occupied with Shane’s mouth, and the angle was too awkward for Ilya to use Ilya’s other one. Shane would need to come on Ilya’s cock.

It wasn’t a hardship. Ilya loved the feeling of Shane coming on his cock. It just meant that Ilya would have to focus more. He couldn’t just thrust for his own pleasure, using a hand on Shane’s dick to compensate. He couldn’t come when he wanted, either. He would need to hold off and concentrate on where Shane needed him.

Ilya gritted his teeth, breathing hard through his nose as he quit thrusting and instead started a firm rock, the head of his dick nudged neatly against Shane’s prostate. He knew Shane’s body so well at this point he hardly had to aim, just relaxing into it and working his hips into Shane.

Shane, for his part, was all but mewling at the tight, targeted sensation. Ilya rubbed his thumb over Shane’s tongue, a shitty imitation of a soothing pet, and it made Shane keen loudly, his ass rubbing against Ilya’s pelvis as he rocked his hips with the motion.

Ilya grunted wordlessly with each fevered grind of his hips, the thumb in Shane’s mouth matching his rhythm. He sucked Shane’s earlobe between his teeth greedily and tugged before letting the soft flesh go.

“Feels so good. So good for me.”

Shane responded with a garbled yell, the sound muted and contorted by Ilya’s thumb in his mouth. It took Ilya a second to parse it, but his hips stuttered as soon as he did.

“Ilya,” Shane was moaning around Ilya’s hand.

“Fuck,” Ilya murmured, voice rough and accent thick. He was worried his English wasn’t intelligible at all. “Come for me, Shane. Come on.”

Ilya rubbed his cock inside Shane, trying desperately to move enough, in the right way, before he shot into the condom. Ilya wanted Shane to come before he had to be empty again. Ilya wanted to feel it around himself before he pulled out.

He shouldn’t have worried.

Shane made a guttural, punched out noise as somehow more come jetted out of him, flowing onto the bedspread, onto Ilya’s ankle, still planted in front of Shane’s thighs. It was so warm and sticky on Ilya’s skin, and Ilya couldn’t keep himself from furiously pressing his lips to Shane as the aftershocks shuddered through him.

Ilya kissed the side of Shane’s swollen mouth, his own lips rubbing over his hand, still in Shane’s mouth. It should have been stupid, messy, gross. Instead, it was only erotic as Shane moaned and writhed into it.

“Fuck, fuck!” Ilya groaned, rocking himself inside Shane as his pleasure crested in a thick, heavy wave. He felt heat boil over, scalding him pleasantly as he shot into the condom. He fucked forward through the aftershocks, sighing as his orgasm faded, leaving him loose and spent.

Finally, finally, when Ilya’s dick was starting to spark with overstimulation, he sat back, tugging himself out of Shane, sliding his thumb out of Shane’s mouth and wiping the spit off on Shane’s cheek so gently, so tenderly.

“Jesus,” Shane said, voice rough. His face was shiny with sweat and his own saliva.

“So gorgeous,” Ilya murmured honestly, tying off the full condom with his newly free hand. The pad was wrinkled from the wetness of Shane’s mouth.

“Feels so good,” Shane sighed dreamily.

“Yes,” Ilya said, voice rough. He wanted to lie there for a minute. He wanted to tell Shane how perfect he was. He wanted to promise to make Shane feel good as long as Shane would let him.

Instead, Ilya ran his clean hand through Shane’s hair and asked, “You need more?”

Shane nodded.

Chapter End Notes

I hope you liked it! More to come ASAP! Comment/kudos if you'd like; I'd love to know what you think!

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

Thank you for reading! Also hopefully this doesn't need to be said, but no AI here! All fuck-ups are my own :D

Btw, I have no idea if Ginuwine was a thing in Russia in the mid to late 2000s, but bear with me for the vibes, okay?

Enjoy!

They went on like that for a while, until afternoon sunshine was coming through the windows and splashing Shane’s skin with golden light. Ilya’d gotten Shane off twice with his mouth, three times with his hand, twice with his tongue in Shane’s hole, twice with his cock, and once, very impressively in Ilya’s opinion, by just tugging rhythmically at Shane’s balls. The whole time, Shane’s desperation never cooled beyond a few short windows where Ilya could force water or more protein shake down his throat.

It was . . . intense. Ilya was exhausted, and starving, and so fucking dirty with sweat and come and lube. He wasn’t sure he would ever be able to get hard again.

When Sasha had taken nectar, Ilya remembered it being almost like a retreat. All plans had to be canceled, phones turned off, Ginuwine CD in the background. This, meanwhile, felt more like a gantlet.

Yet Ilya didn’t mind.

He kind of liked it. Kind of really liked it. It was difficult and strenuous and back-breaking, and Ilya fucking liked it. He’d always enjoyed athletic sex, and trying to keep up with Shane, and, most of all, fucking Shane. This was the pinnacle of all that, a combination of all of Ilya’s favorite hobbies, and he was more than happy to experience it.

Even now, exhausted cock gone soft and headache pounding, Ilya was having fucking fun. He had Shane spooned in front of him as he pressed a thick black dildo into Shane’s tired hole. Ilya wasn’t even thrusting it, just massaging it back and forth across Shane’s prostate while Shane hiccuped, overwhelmed. Sweat was dripping down the line of Shane’s throat, his hands fisted uselessly in the sheets, every muscle tense with pleasure.

“You think you will come?” Ilya murmured gently.

Shane nodded, eyes scrunched shut, teeth clenched. “Almost,” Shane said.

“Shh,” Ilya said soothingly. “Take your time, malysh.”

Ilya rocked the dildo a bit faster, bending down and sucking the shell of Shane’s ear into his mouth. Shane’s sweat was salty in Ilya’s mouth as he worried at the smooth skin with fervor.

“Oh,” Shane sighed. One of his hands came up to clutch at the back of Ilya’s neck, and he squeezed hard.

Ilya felt more than saw Shane’s orgasm. The dildo became harder to move as Shane clenched around it. His hand gripped bruisingly on Ilya’s neck. Ilya could feel every muscle in Shane’s body bunching, even his ear in Ilya’s mouth seeming to pull away as Shane’s face tensed.

“Fuck,” Shane sighed, suddenly limp.

Ilya let Shane’s ear fall from his mouth and leaned back, gently pulling the dildo free as he did so. He wiped it off carelessly on his own thigh then tossed it behind him on the bed. Ilya would have to use it again in a minute, given the deflated state of his own dick, but Shane needed it out for now. Let his hole have a break, given that it had been stuffed full for most of the past ten hours, at least.

“You feel good?” Ilya asked, rolling onto his back.

Shane nodded mutely before turning over himself, ending up on his stomach, half sprawled over Ilya. He was definitely still running a fever, color high on his cheeks and body burning against Ilya’s.

“More?” Ilya asked simply.

“In a minute. Just . . . in a minute.”

Shane thunked his head down on top of Ilya, pillowing it on Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya reached a hand up and carded through Shane’s sweaty hair, and Shane sighed as if the touch was a relief. Ilya waited for Shane’s hips to start grinding, or maybe his inhales to deepen into heavy snores, but Shane stayed still, his breaths even. When Ilya flicked his gaze down, Shane’s eyes were lazy, unfocused, but open.

He wasn’t napping. He was . . . cuddling. They were cuddling.

It was weird. It was very fucking weird.

They didn’t cuddle. They fucked and left. The one time Ilya had tried, Shane had wound up with Rose fucking Landry.

“Hollander,” Ilya said hesitantly, “what are you doing?”

Shane responded with a muted grunt, turning his face into Ilya’s chest and rubbing his forehead against it.

“Maybe you want me to suck you?” Ilya tried.

“No,” Shane said simply, winding one of his arms around Ilya and squeezing him in a far-too-pleasant hug.

“You are tired?”

“Not really.”

Ilya waited for a follow-up, but none came. Instead, Ilya felt the heat of Shane’s cheek on his pec as Shane unabashedly rubbed his fucking face on Ilya.

Ilya immediately tensed, lower back floating off the mattress with the tightness suddenly rippling over his body. He knew plenty about sex, and drugs, and drugged sex. But he didn’t know about . . . this. The way Shane seemed to want touch from Ilya.

Sasha had never needed contact like this on nectar, regardless of how out of his mind he was. And, while Shane tended to like Ilya’s touch quite a lot (though, so did everyone who had it – he was Ilya fucking Rozanov, after all), that had never been enough to make Shane cuddle. Besides, Shane was on a sex drug. He should want Ilya’s dick and nothing else. Shane never wanted anything else, no matter how hard Ilya tried.

But the way he was snuggling into Ilya’s body was really . . .  nice.

It was what Ilya had wanted when he had bought that idiotic flat of ginger ale and turned on the hockey game and asked Shane to stay the night. It was what he wanted that night in Vegas when he made Shane put on a show for him. Shit, it might have been what he wanted when that stupid, gorgeous, freckled boy approached a seventeen-year-old Ilya in a Saskatchewan parking lot all those years ago.

Now, the thought made Ilya’s stomach churn with more than just the exhaustion of fucking all day on no sleep and little food. He felt his heartrate start to kick up, and he looked down anxiously to see if the hammering against his ribs, the rushing in his ears, had disturbed Shane. Of course it hadn’t. Shane was still rubbing his adorable, perfect nose along the valley between Ilya’s pecs, utterly oblivious, like touching Ilya was all he wanted.

It had seemed like that earlier, when Shane had rubbed his face on Ilya’s stomach, not his crotch. How he relaxed when Ilya stuck his thumb in his mouth. Like he wanted any and all contact from Ilya, not just sexual. Like he had feelings that were maybe more than-

“Ilya?” Shane said.

“Cyka blyat!” Ilya cried in a painfully high-pitched voice, jumping half out of his skin as he bolted upright and knocked Shane off his chest.

Shane didn’t have far to fall, just a few inches to the soft mattress, but he still loosed a quiet, “Oof,” as he plopped onto the bed.

“S-sorry,” Ilya stammered, his throat suddenly dry. “You, um, startled me.”

Shane smiled, his nose crinkling adorably, all of his teeth showing. His hair was sticking straight up on one side, his cheek had an imprint of Ilya’s cross necklace on it, and there was drool on his chin. Ilya’s heart pounded harder.

“You are okay?” Ilya asked, tongue clumsy in his mouth.

“I feel like I should be asking you that,” Shane said, gesturing at Ilya’s tensed form.

“I’m fine,” Ilya said stiffly, running his hands over his thighs like he was smoothing his pants, even though he was naked. He noticed that fact halfway to his knees and stopped awkwardly, lifting his hands jerkily before settling on crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“You seem fine,” Shane teased. His eyes looked almost gold with the way the fading sunlight caught them.

“Whatever,” Ilya huffed. “You want water?”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll get it. I gotta piss.” Shane stood. He was hard yet again, with a slight wobble in his usually confident steps. His nipples were swollen, red-rubbed. His dick was raw, overused.

But he was coherent enough to realize he had bodily needs besides fucking. Together enough to voluntarily get himself water. He was coming back to himself. And that was good. That was really good, objectively. It meant Shane would be in control of himself again, could return to his normal, boring life.

Yet Ilya’s belly felt hollow in a way that had nothing to do with hunger.

Within hours, if not minutes, Shane would remember that he was dating the most beautiful woman in the world. He would remember that he had no feelings for Ilya. He would realize that he didn’t like cuddling with Ilya. He would ask Ilya to leave, and Ilya would never have him again.

Ilya was being stupid. He must have been hypnotized by Shane’s greedy, gentle touches. This only ever ended one way. Ilya knew that.

Shane wasn’t himself. Nothing he did could be believed. Shit, the state of his room was evidence enough of that. Ilya had never seen it before, but Shane folded his clothes before Ilya fucked him, every time. He kept his hair trimmed short and neat. He wasn’t messy. He wouldn’t cover his room in uncleaned sex toys and come-filled tissues if he was anywhere near cogent. If he was in his right mind, he wouldn’t let Ilya compound that with empty cans, discarded protein shake cartons, and half a dozen come-covered towels.

Next time Shane fell asleep, Ilya would clean it. Maybe order that pizza, too. And then he would go.

Because there was no way that Shane wanted him. Not the way Ilya did. Not outside of this ruined fucking bedroom. Not in a world where Shane wasn’t drugged and didn’t need Ilya’s dick constantly. No. Outside of here, Ilya was a rival and a fuckbuddy at best.

Shane hated Ilya most of the time. Shit, even yesterday during the game, Shane hadn’t even looked at Ilya, his face a mask of quiet indifference and general dislike.

And that wasn’t even to mention the Rose Landry of it all. Rose, who was gorgeous and perfect and “very serious” about Shane, as she’d said on Ellen two weeks ago. (Ilya had watched the interview against his will because it was on in an airport lounge. He had not found the video on his phone later and rewatched it three times, growing more sweaty and angry every time. He wouldn’t do such a thing.)

Shane certainly felt the same as Rose; he’d taken strange drugs he’d never heard of just because Rose offered them to him.

The fact that Ilya, for the barest of moments, had thought Shane felt anything else was, frankly, pathetic.

But it would be fixed soon. Shane would probably pass out again in the next couple hours, overstimulated and exhausted, and Ilya would slip out. It was cowardly, sure, but it was better than the alternative of sitting here, waiting for Shane to come to his senses and kick Ilya out himself. It was better than letting the sickening feeling in the bottom of Ilya’s chest, the one he hadn’t felt since that stupid fucking tuna melt, grow any more than it already was.

There were certainly flights back to Boston that night. Ilya would miss the Detroit game, starting in a few hours, but he could get to Boston in time for the film session tomorrow. That would be what a good, non-pathetic, MLH captain would do. 

Resolute, Ilya turned his attention to one of the oranges he’d collected earlier, peeling it quickly. The light citrus smell cut through the musk of their sex, which was good. Ilya needed as much refreshing as possible.

“How is your cock?” Ilya asked, businesslike, when Shane came back from the bathroom.

“Hurts a bit.” Shane shuffled back over to the bed. He’d clearly made something of an effort to freshen up, but his hair was still sticking up, greasy instead of glossy. “Not just, like, the hurt from before. The skin hurts.”

Ilya made a soft hum of sympathy. “Is doing a lot. Is probably tired.”

“I’m tired,” Shane sighed, sitting back on the bed and scooting over to Ilya so their knees were brushing.

Ilya adjusted minutely, shifting away, but Shane just spread his legs wider. Ilya forced himself to be fine with it. It was just a knee on a knee. Fuck knew Ilya had touched Shane more intimately before.

“Here.” Ilya took a segment of the orange and passed it to Shane. “Eat, and then I will get you off again.”

Shane nodded, eating the orange in neat, small bites. His cock was bobbing between his crossed legs, but he hardly looked at it. Was probably tired of looking at it.

“Can I ask?” Shane said after a minute, his hand covering his full mouth like he had anything physical to hide from Ilya at this point. “About the times your coach’s son did nectar?”

Ilya’s insides twisted uncomfortably. “If you want,” he said, cautious.

“Why did he take it? This feels awful.”

Ilya’s sides stung unexpectedly. “I don’t think he minded. He does not like being . . .” Ilya waved his hand, searching for the word. “Present, I guess. I understand. His father is horrible. Nectar was an escape, even if not a pleasant one.”

“Did yo-” Shane cut himself off rapidly. “How long did it last? Were there permanent effects?”

“You are not stuck like this,” Ilya teased lightly. “Is supposed to be a day or so until it is finished. When did you take it?”

Shane chewed for a minute. He was so flushed. “Maybe three in the morning? I don’t remember.”

Ilya passed him another orange slice, eyeing the boring, stainless steel analog clock on Shane’s nightstand. “Is five now. Should be done soon, then.”

And so will we.

“Good,” Shane said awkwardly. “Good.”

“Yes,” Ilya agreed, just as awkwardly.

There was a pause before Shane spoke again. “What helped your coach’s son? When he took it?”

“Coming. Touching. Water. Nothing special.” Ilya shrugged one shoulder, taking his time with his own orange slice.

Ilya had his own questions he wanted to ask. Like why the hell would famously regimented clean eater Shane Hollander take a drug he knew nothing about? What the fuck had Shane wanted to happen? What had Rose done after? What had she done when Shane had started getting sick?

More than those questions, though, Ilya wanted to know why Shane had called Ilya. And why the hell did Shane keep touching Ilya, in a non-sexual sense? 

That feeling in Ilya’s insides flared again, and he pressed the heel of his hand to the bottom of his ribs like he could physically squash it into submission.

“You okay?” Shane asked, looking at Ilya’s palm on his abdomen.

“Fine. Are you?”

Shane shrugged. “Hurts no more than usual, I guess.”

Ilya could help with that. Couldn’t go back in time and stop Shane from taking it. Couldn’t tell Rose Landry that he would punch her perfect face if she so much as thought about Shane ever again. Couldn’t make Shane just stay, that stupid day a few months ago. But Ilya could do this.

He put the discarded orange peels into a neat pile on the nightstand and turned back to Shane.

“What do you want? Toys? Fingers? Cock?” Ilya was completely soft, spent, but he was confident he could get it up again if he focused. Shane’s pretty, soft sounds would probably get him there.

Shane’s head fell back, eyes closed, blush neon, as if Ilya’s words were tugging him down and backward by the hair.

“All of them. I want all of it.”

Ilya didn’t tease Shane for being greedy. For once, he didn’t really have it in him.

Instead, Ilya pushed himself up so he straddled Shane’s thighs. They were hot, feverish, between Ilya’s, and damp with sweat. Ilya should get him in the shower soon, if Shane could stand being on his feet for that long. Maybe a bath would be better-

“Fuck,” Shane panted, strained. “Don’t tease me. Please.”

“Okay. Okay, malysh.”

Ilya leaned over to the nightstand, forgoing grabbing the lube in favor of plucking up the Aquaphor he’d gotten earlier. It was good that Shane was so boring; if he had fancy lotion instead of a product made for geriatrics, it might not be a good idea for Ilya to stroke him with it. Could make the redness on his dick worse.

Like this, though, Ilya could squirt a copious amount into his hand and wrap a loose fist around Shane’s dick. Ilya pumped gently, spreading the ointment around.

Shane inhaled sharply at the simple, too-light movement. “Fuck, Ilya.”

Ilya hummed in acknowledgement, ignoring the valiant twitch his cock gave at hearing Shane use his first name again. Instead, Ilya carefully swirled the ointment around Shane’s sensitive cockhead with his thumb.

Shane gasped, rolling his hips into Ilya’s fist, his sweaty hands grabbing at Ilya’s biceps like he wanted Ilya as close as possible. His touch was frantic and fevered, yes, but also warm and generous and inexorable.

 It was . . . loving.

The thought pierced Ilya’s mind like a hollowpoint, unexpected and devastating.

Shane couldn’t love Ilya. Shane had Rose, and he had made it crystal fucking clear that he preferred that. Anything Shane did now should be chalked up to the drug. Shit, there was probably a medical explanation for the cuddling, even.

Ilya needed to stop himself from thinking this way. He needed to jerk Shane off a few more times, then get out of there. Any other thoughts or impulses were because Ilya was starving and exhausted and oversexed.

“Is good?” Ilya asked, voice a low rumble.

“Yeah,” Shane breathed. “C-can you go faster?”

Ilya was happy to comply. Slicked with Aquaphor and the copious drips of Shane’s fresh precome, Ilya accelerated his pace, tightening his grip and adding a soft twist at the head as he did. 

“Want you in me,” Shane sighed, fucking into Ilya’s fist.

“God,” Ilya sighed, gritting his teeth.

“Can you?” Shane asked, looking up at Ilya with hungry, exhausted eyes. “Please?”

Ilya’s dick twitched. It was swollen between his legs, but not hard enough to fuck Shane with. It almost hurt, trying to let arousal pool in his cock yet again. Like the last few seconds of a game seven, down one, pushing as hard as he could because no other player could do what he could. Like it was all down to Ilya, regardless of exhaustion.

“Maybe,” Ilya finally sighed. “Soon.”

Shane groaned, frustrated. It would be funny if Shane’s disappointment didn’t make Ilya’s fingers twitch with the need to fix, to soothe.

“I can help,” Shane said frantically. “Here.”

Ilya only had enough time and presence of mind to make an embarrassing noise of protest as Shane knocked Ilya’s hand away from his cock and gave himself a pump.

“Wh-”

Ilya cut himself off as he understood what Shane was doing. Rather than bothering with finding the lube or even just squirting out more Aquaphor, he was slicking his hand with the mess already on his dick. That way, Ilya could have a nice, wet handjob.

God, Shane was fucking smart. And efficient. And it was fucking hot, Shane using slick warm from his own body to make Ilya feel good.

And then Ilya couldn’t think of any more compliments because Shane’s huge, hockey-rough hand was curling around Ilya’s mostly-soft dick and tugging, massaging Ilya through his foreskin like it was a custom-made masturbation sleeve.

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya hissed.

It didn’t really feel good yet, but Ilya could feel it getting there. It was like an intense buzzing behind his balls, in his fucking prostate. Ilya wasn’t sure if it was pleasurable or painful.

Shane looked up at Ilya then, his hand still rubbing Ilya’s dick steadily. Shane’s eyes were wide, and earnest, and fucking happy. Like all he wanted was to give Ilya a sloppy handjob in a disgusting bed while they were both covered in Shane’s come.

“Love your dick,” Shane said, all golden-boy-of-hockey earnestness, enhancing the image. “Could do this forever, if you’d let me.”

Forever? Jesus fucking Christ.

Ilya almost fell over, his dick aching as it swelled lethargically past half-hard, starting to jut up from his lap.

“Yebat,” Ilya muttered to no one, arching into Shane’s touch without meaning to.

It was all too much, too sensitive, sickening and sexy all at once. Ilya could feel his thighs shaking, his jaw clenching.

“Want you in me so bad,” Shane said, still staring at Ilya. “Always do.”

Always?

That wasn’t a thing Shane said. That wasn’t something he wanted. It should have made Ilya panic, but instead it caused the buzzing in Ilya’s insides to burst, blossoming into proper pleasure.

Ilya didn’t dare think about why that word aroused him so much. Because it wasn’t mutual, and it didn’t matter.

“You want me to fuck you?” Ilya managed to say, voice strangled. He could. He was almost hard enough.

“Yes, god,” Shane sighed. He broke eye contact then, bending forward and sucking one of Ilya’s nipples into his mouth, rubbing his tongue over it, nipping at Ilya’s pec with the edges of his teeth.

Ilya choked on air at the desperate way Shane was mouthing at him. It was insane, the way Shane’s eyes fluttered closed, the way he looked almost peaceful, even fucked out and high on a sex drug. He looked utterly soothed, just from having so much of Ilya all over him.

The sight knocked Ilya’s cock into fullness with a few stuttered strokes of Shane’s fist over him. He clumsily peeled himself away from Shane, falling onto his own hip next to him. Ilya’s overused cock throbbed at the lack of contact, his nipple pebbling as the cool air of the bedroom hit his warm, spit-coated chest.

“Condom,” Ilya muttered, patting the bed blindly, eyes locked on Shane’s smile. It was beatific, just at the promise of having Ilya in him within a few moments. God.

Ilya found the condoms after a few more moments of frantic scrabbling around. His hands trembled as he tore one open and rolled it on. Just that bit of sensation had Ilya sucking air through his teeth. His dick was almost as exhausted as his head.

Ilya needed to leave. He needed to fly to Boston and delete Shane’s number and maybe go on a celibacy retreat during the off-season. He needed to stop.

Instead, he wrapped a sweaty hand around the top of Shane’s thigh and squeezed. “Your hole? Is ready?”

“I can take it,” Shane said fiercely, shuffling down the bed so he was laying on his back, legs spread. “Faster.”

Ilya didn’t want to fuck him like this, in missionary. It was too close. Shane’s huge, dark eyes would be right in front of Ilya’s, his pretty freckles close enough to kiss. His swollen, wanting mouth would be right in Ilya’s. Ilya couldn’t. It would just be too much.

“Turn over,” Ilya tried.

Shane shook his head, mussing his hair even more as it rubbed against the bedspread. “Wanna touch you,” he complained. “N-need to touch you.”

Oh, god. It didn’t make any sense. It was like when Ilya was first learning to read English and there was a typo, or a word cut off at the end of a page. He knew enough to know something was wrong, but not enough to identify what it was or how to fix it.

“Please, Ilya?”

Ilya was fucking helpless in the face of Shane’s quiet, anxious words. Ilya heaved a slow, long-suffering sigh, and grabbed the stupid Aquaphor and slicked himself for the umpteenth time.

“Yes,” Shane sighed, ridiculously relieved, as Ilya awkwardly settled himself between Shane’s legs. Ilya’s arousal, a sharp, aching thing between his legs, nudged at Shane’s hole.

“Okay?” Ilya stammered. He wasn’t sure what he wanted Shane to say.

If Shane said no, maybe the fuzz in Ilya’s head would clear, and he could think properly. Maybe he would realize that he was deluding himself. Maybe Ilya would be able to muster up the strength to book a flight to Boston and get out of here.

But if Shane said yes, Ilya could be inside him, feel Shane all around him, hot and wanton, even through the condom. If Shane said yes, Ilya could watch him go lax with pleasure. If Shane said yes, the warm ache in the very pit of Ilya’s stomach that he’d been forcing down might rush into every part of him.

Maybe Shane would have that same ache.

“Please,” Shane said in a small voice.

“Okay,” Ilya repeated in a mumble, half to himself, before he sunk into Shane’s welcoming, begging heat. It was overwhelming. Ilya’s dick was so oversensitive, and Shane was so, so hot inside. Ilya knew it was from fever, from stupid fucking drugs, but it didn’t change the blissful glide of Ilya into Shane’s body.

“Oh,” Shane sighed happily when Ilya’s hips met the meat of his ass. His legs wrapped around Ilya’s hips. “Feels so good.”

It was so easy to pretend that Shane did feel the same way, with him speared on Ilya’s cock like this, face slack with pleasure and peace, like all he ever needed was Ilya in him. It was so easy to thumb over Shane’s high cheekbones and start a gentle, simple rhythm, hardly moving much at all.

Ilya could feel that his own skin was all red, from his knees to his hairline. He did not blush as a rule, but he knew was flushed now, almost ashamed about how good this felt, being inside Shane.

Ilya stopped fighting it, letting his head hang forward, his forehead inches away from headbutting Shane. Ilya would leave when Shane fell asleep. Soon, he would undoubtedly see headlines about Shane and Rose, and have to do a million faceoffs with Shane on the ice, and all of it would make him fucking sick.

But for now, Ilya just let himself enjoy the easy rocking of their hips, so familiar after so many times together.

Shane, too, looked utterly blissed out, head tossed back, mouth slack, hips arching to meet every one of Ilya’s thrusts. Ilya loved it.

“Fuck, fuck- ugh, fuck, yeah.” The curses tumbled past Shane’s lips as his hands scrabbled clumsily, digging in at the back of Ilya’s neck.

The touch hurt – Shane wasn’t exactly being gentle right now – but Ilya didn’t mind. He just watched Shane’s face, scrunched with pleasure, his freckles wrinkled so prettily.

“W-was it this good?” Shane panted, eyes soft as they fixed on Ilya’s.

“Huh?” Ilya panted, bracing his weight on the mattress above Shane’s head.

“With your coach’s son? Did you make- oh- make him feel this good?”

Ilya fought a hot, annoyed surge in his chest. Could Shane really not understand how little Ilya wanted to do anything but fuck him? Why the hell did he want to talk about fucking Sasha?

“Does it matter?” Ilya meant it to be harsh, but his words came out fuckdunk and loose.

“Doesn’t even make sense,” Shane mumbled unhelpfully. “You feel so good.”

The praise settled thickly in Ilya’s belly, pressing pulses of arousal into his balls, his spent dick, his taint, with renewed, overeager pressure, even as it made Ilya’s chest tight with adrenaline.

“So good, too,” Ilya complimented, nosing at Shane’s temple.

Shane continued like Ilya hadn’t spoken, “It’s not the stupid- ahh, there, yes, oh- it’s not the nectar.”

Ilya panted, not responding.

“I feel like this all the time, w-with you.”

“Desperate?” Ilya teased, feeling emotion clawing at the back of his teeth without permission.

“No. Or, yes, or- ugh, fuck, Ilya.”

Shane’s fingers dug in at the back of Ilya’s neck like he was trying to wring sense out of it. Ilya inhaled sharply at the painful pressure, but didn’t stop him.

“I feel so much with you,” Shane sighed, squeezing Ilya between his thick, strong thighs.

“Of course,” Ilya managed to say, voice rough with the effort of keeping his steady, driving rhythm as Shane said this shit. “I am a good fuck.”

Shane loosed a soft whimper as Ilya snaked a hand between them to work one of Shane’s sensitive, puffy nipples.

“No,” Shane said breathlessly, barely audible over the slapping of their skin.

“Too much?” Ilya asked, lifting his hand.

“No,” Shane said again, frustrated, clumsy hand slapping Ilya’s fingers back down against his chest. The determined line between his eyebrows was hilarious in contrast with the way his whole body was jiggling with Ilya’s thrusts.“It’s not just- fuck- not just sex. I feel-” Shane cut himself off with a sharp gasp as Ilya squeezed his pec, scratching his nails carefully around Shane’s areola.

“Feel good?”

Shane ignored the question. “It’s more, Ilya, it’s . . . it’s more.”

“What is more?” Ilya asked harshly. His rhythm faltered for a second, and Shane gave an annoyed whine until Ilya regained it, body numb and uncoordinated. His thrusts were weak now, his heart pounding in his ears, his dick.

“I feel more,” Shane cried, like that was an explanation.

“You do not want to tell me this,” Ilya said, breath catching harshly in his throat. Shane was fucked out and fucked up. He didn’t mean a word of what he was saying.

“I do.” Shane’s eyebrows drew into a frustrated line, his pink lips pressing together. “Every time, with someone else, I c-can’t stop thinking,” Shane continued, like thinking was a deeply dirty, depraved act. “E-every time, I think about you.”

“Fuck, Hollander.” A sharp pulse of possessiveness sparked through Ilya’s body, driving his hips faster. Shane couldn’t be saying what Ilya thought he was. There was no way. Shane was with Rose. He didn’t want Ilya. He probably never had. Ilya must be misunderstanding, or Shane was confused, or . . . something.

“It wasn’t bad with Rose, it wasn’t. But- oh, oh, fuck- I couldn’t get it up with her. I tried.”

A sober Shane wouldn’t have said this to Ilya with a gun to his head. Ilya knew that. He knew that, and he needed Shane to realize it, too.

“I thought it was-” Shane cut himself off with a stuttered gasp when Ilya’s dick nudged his prostate. “I thought it was nerves, b-but I don’t think so. I think I wanted you. I think may- maybe I-”

Shane was cut off by Ilya ducking down to kiss him. It was clumsy, teeth knocking together, tongues slipping gracelessly against one another, mouths unable to quite lock together with the frantic movements of their hips.

But it quieted Shane. Thank fucking God. Ilya was too weak, too stupid, too pathetic to handle this. Not when it wasn’t real.

So Ilya swallowed Shane’s moans, sucking on his tongue, petting his heaving chest. Ilya couldn’t listen to any more of Shane’s words. 

All Ilya could do was this. Kiss Shane and fuck him and please him until he was letting out a broken, jagged gasp and climaxing over their stomachs. Ilya could make Shane’s come spurt, thick and hot, over his own hand, covering his knuckles until the drips wound down to his wrist. Because that was what they did. They fucked. 

They didn’t do . . . whatever Shane was trying to do.

Ilya broke the kiss after a moment, tongue running over his own wet, swollen lips, hips stilled in the hot, desperate clutch of Shane’s body.

“Keep going,” Shane half-ordered, half-begged under Ilya, still working his hips against Ilya’s even though he’d already shot off. “Wanna see you come. Wanna feel it.”

Ilya didn’t want to. If he did, this would be over. He would pull out and wait till Shane fell asleep and leave. Ilya couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

“Please,” Shane said against the underside of Ilya’s jaw. His voice was shaking. “I need it. I need you so bad, Ilya. Please.”

Jesus.

Just Shane’s desperate pleading was enough to tip Ilya over the edge. His orgasm was weak by any standards, pathetic by Ilya’s own. His dick blurted a pitiful amount of come into the condom, his thighs shaking. Distantly, Ilya thought he could feel his teeth chattering.

“Fuck,” Shane said, muffled by the heavy weight of Ilya’s shoulder. “God.”

Ilya grunted in agreement. That was safer than risking whatever he might say while still buried inside of Shane.

Still, Ilya didn’t make a single move toward pulling out. He could be so overstimulated he vomited and he wouldn’t pull out. Not if this was the last time. 

Shane appeared to be on the same page. He used his hands on Ilya’s neck to hold him overwhelmingly close, sweaty chest to sweaty chest, heaving belly to heaving belly, Ilya’s softening cock still tucked snugly inside of Shane. Shane’s arms slid around Ilya’s back, squeezing his lats fervently before ducking down to shove his nose into the hollow under Ilya’s jaw, his heavy breaths fanning across Ilya’s throat.

Ilya’s entire weight was flopped over Shane, but Shane tightened his arms when Ilya tried to adjust. Every twitch of Shane’s muscles knocked against Ilya’s softening dick inside him, giving Ilya a little sting of sensation every time.

It was torture, and Ilya would never leave.

“Ilya,” Shane said, muffled by Ilya’s chest.

“Hm?” Ilya hummed.

“I meant it.”

“Meant what?” Ilya asked, purposefully oblivious.

“You really do make me feel so good. Even now, you make it so much better. I don’t know why, but you do.”

Ilya petted a clumsy hand through the short hair above Shane’s ears, a possessive, anxious weight settling over his body, heavy and hot and dizzying.

“Makes sense. No one can fuck you like me.”

“No,” Shane argued, his teeth nipping at Ilya’s collarbone, the top of his stupid bear tattoo. “It’s not that. Or not just that.”

Please don’t. It will only make this harder.

“I think I maybe feel things for you. More than, like, sex things.”

Ilya couldn’t help how tense he went, nor how mushy his insides became when that only made Shane cling to him harder. Ilya wanted to see Shane’s pretty eyes, see how hazy they were, so Ilya could excuse this as the nectar. He wanted to have this conversation sober, and weeks ago, when Shane was on Ilya’s couch, fucked well and belly full from a tuna melt Ilya’d made him.

“This is a bad idea,” Ilya said, his tongue clumsy and stupid in his mouth.

“I know,” Shane said, just a touch too sad for Ilya to be able to breathe easily. “I know, and I don’t care. I think I . . . want more.”

“Shane-”

“I think you do, too, right?”

“Does not matter.”

Shane tensed, frustrated, and the sudden pressure on Ilya’s overwhelmed dick made him rush out a shaky exhale.

“It does matter. It does.”

Ilya sighed, slow and long-suffering. This was a bad idea. Shane couldn’t mean anything he was saying.

But Ilya was so tired. Not from the fucking, or the lack of sleep, or the emotional whiplash of the last twenty-four hours. No, Ilya was tired from all of it. From nearly ten years of wanting and hiding and hurting.

Besides, Shane was holding him. And, fuck, he was inside Shane. 

“I feel things, too, maybe,” Ilya finally said in a strained, soft voice. 

Ilya waited for the excuses, the caveats, the qualifiers to start spilling out. But our careers. But Rose. But the league. Nothing came out, though.

Nothing except a soft noise from Shane as he weaved his fingers together behind Ilya’s back and squeezed him in somehow tighter.

Chapter End Notes

Thanks so much for reading! I hope you liked it :) Last chapter + very short epilogue will be up soon.

Let me know what you think! Comments and kudos make my day :)

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Thank you for reading!

Ilya was scared shitless.

Shane couldn’t mean what he said, about wanting more. Because, while Ilya had craved this for months, if not longer, Shane certainly hadn’t. There was a reason that, the only time Ilya had dared to try and broach topics like feelings with Shane, he’d run. Straight into Rose Landry’s perfect, movie star arms.

This was more than playing with fire. This was playing with a stick of fucking plutonium.

“Here,” Ilya murmured, whole body tight, nerves jangling at the fact that he was still fucking inside Shane. “I will pull out now. Okay?”

“Yeah,” Shane said easily, legs falling open. “Just- slow?”

Ilya nodded, exhaling evenly as he sat back. Ilya’s cock gave a pathetic wash of relief at finally not being stimulated, and he squeezed the base gently, almost as an apology, as he tugged off the condom and tied it closed.

“Come back,” Shane said, one hand reaching absently in Ilya’s direction. Again, that feeling in Ilya’s insides bubbled up furiously, biting at the bottom of Ilya’s throat. He swallowed around it, helpless, as he tossed the condom in the direction of the wastebasket, and went willingly to lie on his side, facing Shane.

Ilya couldn’t keep himself from studying Shane’s profile from this new angle. The slope of his straight nose. The ridge of his eyebrows. The swell of his over-kissed lips and the hollow between them where his breath was coming out in quiet sighs. He was so fucking pretty.

“I’m sorry,” Shane said to the ceiling, oblivious to Ilya’s staring.

Here was the rejection, coming even faster than Ilya had expected.

He braced himself for it as best he could when he was so exhausted and fucked-out, his hand came to rest on Shane’s chest, the tip of his middle finger between Shane’s collarbones. “Is not your fault,” Ilya said thickly. “Everyone says things they do not mean, especially high. You did not know what the drug would do to you.”

“No,” Shane said, a touch too emphatic. “I’m sorry for . . . leaving.”

Ilya froze.

“What?” he asked, voice thin and oddly high.

“I shouldn’t have left. Last time, I mean.”

“What?” Ilya repeated intelligently. There was no way Shane was saying this. Ilya must have hit his head at the game, or maybe gone into a sex-induced coma. Shane would never say things like this in real life.

“After . . .” Shane trailed off, as if Ilya didn’t know exactly what “last time” meant. “In November.”

“Ah,” Ilya said, playing along, like he didn’t remember it in perfect, painful detail.

“Yeah,” Shane said awkwardly, folding his hands over his belly.

“You left your underwear.” It didn’t really have anything to do with Shane’s words, but that was the image left in Ilya’s mind: sitting on his couch, the sound of his front door slamming still ringing in his ears, as he stared at Shane’s abandoned boxer briefs, tossed carelessly onto the arm of the couch, the phantom weight of Shane still pressing onto the tops of Ilya’s thighs.

“I panicked,” Shane said, full of apology and shame. 

“Was my fault.” Ilya swallowed, wishing the memory wouldn’t make his chest so hot. “I made it serious. I said your name.”

“No,” Shane corrected swiftly. “That was . . . I liked that.”

God, Ilya couldn’t breathe at all, like he was having an allergic reaction to Shane’s apology and his throat was closing up. He wanted to scratch at his neck, attempt to open it, but he couldn’t make himself break contact. He needed to keep contact with Shane, where he could feel Shane’s steady inhales, sense the slick of sweat stuck to him.

“Then why did you go?” Ilya asked after a long, painful moment.

“Because I said your name,” Shane sighed in a big puff of air. “It felt . . . okay if you had feelings for me, but I didn’t want to have feelings for you.”

Hurt lodged in Ilya’s sinuses, pressing up to sting behind his eyes. “Am not as perfect as Rose Landry, hm?” Ilya said petulantly.

“What? No. She has nothing to do with this.”

“Then why did you run to her?”

“I didn’t-” Shane cut himself off, pressing the heel of his hand between his eyebrows and taking a long, slow breath. He was quieter when he continued, “I didn’t want to have feelings for you because I didn’t know what to do with them. I was scared. I haven’t felt anything like this . . . ever.”

“Not with Rose?”

Shane shook his head slowly, thoughtfully, the dark, gossamer strands of his hair floating loosely around his head.

“It must be difficult,” Ilya said. “To have feelings for someone, but date someone else.”

Shane finally looked at Ilya then, tilting his chin to the side. His dark eyes were wet and sad, but focused. Not very hazy at all anymore. 

“It won’t be. Not anymore,” Shane said as if he was sharing a secret, his lips quirking up at the edges.

Ilya’s pulse pounded in his ears. “‘Not anymore?’”

“Yep,” Shane said simply.

“What is different?”

“Rose and I broke up.”

Ilya inhaled sharply. His heart, which had just started to relax, jumped into his throat, beating wildly.

“When? You did not say anything.”

Shane had the grace to dart his eyes away, sheepish. “Last night. Or- this morning. I don’t know. Before I called you.”

Ilya inhaled sharply. “Why? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t not tell you. I guess . . .” Shane shut his mouth, already pink cheeks flushing brighter. “I guess I was embarrassed.”

“So you would rather I come here under the impression that I was helping you cheat?”

Shane scrunched his eyes closed. “You’re right. That wasn’t okay. I- I wasn’t thinking.”

Regret surged through Ilya, making him ache. Shane hadn’t been thinking. He’d been drugged and exhausted and scared. Desperate. Of course he didn’t feel the need to update Ilya on his relationship situation. If anything, the fact that Ilya hadn’t asked himself was its own worry.

“Sorry,” Ilya said awkwardly. “I am not being fair.” He moved the hand on Shane’s chest to brush over his cheek. The skin was soft, delicate.

“No,” Shane said, steel in his tone. “You’re right. It was my fault.”

Ilya felt something inside him splinter at the obvious anger in Shane’s voice. Shane was so hard on himself, always. When Ilya’d won the cup before him and teased Shane for it that night in Vegas, Shane’s rage at himself had made his voice so tight, his muscles so tense. This was even worse, his body stiff and unhappy under Ilya’s hands.

Ilya had to fix it.

“Is okay,” he said, petting over his cheekbone.

Shane leaned into it, rolling onto his side to face Ilya, smushing Ilya’s hand into the bed with the weight of his tired head.

“I forgive you,” Ilya added, just in case.

Shane just sighed softly and nuzzled into Ilya’s palm, chin brushing the sensitive inside of Ilya’s wrist.

“You like my hand?” Ilya asked quietly. It could have been a tease, but it was far closer to a prayer.

“Yeah. You, um . . .” Shane’s teeth sunk into his plush bottom lip. “I meant it, earlier. You help a lot. Make it hurt less.”

Ilya’s whole being felt pathetically soft at Shane’s words. “You are hurting again?”

Shane huffed a weak laugh through his nose. “I mean, I’m fucking hard, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Ilya’s gaze drifted down to Shane’s cock, which was rising to fullness again. God.

“You want to get off? Or talk?”

Shane lifted one of his broad shoulders in a lazy shrug. “I’d rather talk, I guess. I’m fucking tired of coming.”

Ilya smiled sadly before nudging his leg forward, pushing it between Shane’s legs.

“Here,” Ilya said, pressing his thigh upward against the underside of Shane’s cock. Shane shivered. “You can talk and rub yourself.”

“Oh,” Shane sighed, wrapping his legs around Ilya’s and gently angling his groin down. “That’s good.”

“I am very creative, hm?” Ilya said with a lazy smile as Shane slowly canted his hips back. “You want lube?”

Shane nodded, his cheek pushing into Ilya’s hand as he did, and Ilya patted clumsily before finding the Aquaphor and drizzling some directly onto his own thigh. It splattered cool and messy on the sweaty skin.

“There,” Ilya said. “Is better?”

Shane gave an experimental push forward, shuddering as he did. “Yeah,” he breathed. “Much better.”

Ilya knew he was smiling dopily, and he didn’t care. “Take what you need.”

Shane listened. His thighs were searing around Ilya, the muscles and the soft bits of fat pushing into Ilya’s flesh, trapping him in. Unlike the terrified way Shane had gripped Ilya’s wrist between his thighs earlier, this was luscious, easy. Like Shane was happy to have a part of Ilya between his legs, rather than scared about it being taken away.

“Okay,” Shane breathed, setting up a slow rock. His cock was leaking warm against the crease of Ilya’s hip already, despite his sedate pace. “We can talk.”

“How do you feel about the break-up?” Ilya prompted, one hand coming to cup Shane’s hip. Not moving or gripping. Just touching, feeling his gentle undulations.

“I think okay? It’s scary.”

“Scary?”

“I, um . . .” Shane trailed off in a way that had nothing to do with his slow humping. “I think I’m gay.”

“Really?” Ilya quirked an eyebrow, looking pointedly down at Shane’s hard cock humping his thigh.

“No,” Shane huffed. “Like, really gay. Not like you.”

Ilya resisted the urge to tease more. He needed to be delicate with this. “You are saying you only like men?”

Shane ducked his head into the bedspread, hips still pumping languidly. “Yeah, I guess. I guess so.”

“And this is scary?”

“Yeah,” Shane scoffed. “I can’t- What if the league found out?” Shane’s hips started to tick up in speed, a physical manifestation of his anxieties.

“About you or . . . this?” Ilya asked, petting Shane’s hipbone with his thumb to emphasize what the this was.

“Either. Both. I don’t know. I’m just . . . scared.”

Ilya had thought before about the league finding out about them, too. A phone left in a cab. A photographer looking through a window. A hidden camera in a hotel room.  If it got out, Ilya’s family would know. His father, even through the thick of Alzheimer’s, would certainly find out. Ilya would never be allowed back home. Which maybe was okay, since he was so fucking tired of his shitty summers with his shitty brother smoking shitty cigarettes, but also made Ilya feel like his stomach had been sliced open. 

Ilya swallowed. “It is . . . strange to think about,” he said after a beat.

“Yeah,” Shane said simply.

Ilya hummed, bending forward to press his lips to Shane’s hairline, comforting. It was far softer than anything that had been allowed in their relationship so far, but so was this whole conversation. So was the lazy, easy rocking of Shane’s hips, trusting Ilya to take care of him without any desire for Shane to return the favor.

 This was new territory. One that allowed terrifyingly tender hairline kisses.

“You are still scared now?” Ilya asked.

“Mm-hmm.”

Ilya’s throat went tight again as he asked the next question on his mind. “Dating Rose made you less scared?”

“Yeah.” Shane’s voice was thin. “It was like a security blanket. She was pretty, and funny, and fun. I thought maybe I liked girls, I just . . . had high standards.”

Ilya huffed a sad laugh, ignoring the jealous pinches in his belly as Shane extolled Rose’s virtues.

“But I couldn’t sleep with her,” Shane continued. “Or, like-”

“What happened?” Ilya almost didn’t want to know, but he wasn’t sure he would ever breathe again if he didn’t ask.

“We tried. She, um-” Shane paused, hips stilling.

Ilya tugged at Shane gently, encouraging him to keep rubbing himself, to relax. “You can tell me.”

Shane’s hips started again, movements tentative and tiny. “The first time, I thought I was just nervous. She’s, like, an actress and famous and whatever.”

Ilya nudged his leg harder into Shane’s crotch, possessive.

“I, um-” Shane scrunched his pretty eyes closed. “I couldn’t get it up.”

Ilya made a quiet sound of sympathy. He didn’t know much about Shane’s sex life outside of his times with Ilya, but they’d never had such an issue. The opposite, really.

“What did you do?”

“That time, I-” Shane cut himself off with a soft noise. He must have found a particularly nice angle against Ilya’s leg, his thrusts going harder, but staying just as slow. “That time, I just didn’t think at all. Like, her mouth was good, and her, um, pussy didn’t feel bad, exactly.”

“You got hard?”

“Yeah.” Shane put a sweaty hand on Ilya’s shoulder, giving himself a bit more leverage for his humping. “Took a while, but yeah, I did.”

Ilya’s stomach rolled. “You fucked her?”

“That time, yes.”

“It was good?”

Shane laughed tightly. “No. After, like, thirty seconds she flipped us over and rode me.”

Ilya slid his hand around to Shane’s ass, squeezing the thick muscle there. It made Shane sigh.

“Did you come? Did she?”

Shane gripped Ilya’s shoulder harder. “Eventually. Her legs got tired, and I flipped us over again, but I-” Shane’s hips broke rhythm, grinding in dirty little circles rather than his earlier rocks. “I wasn’t doing very well. And I, um-” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I got soft. Not all the way, but like, enough.” Shane exhaled slowly through pursed lips. “So we, um, just jerked off next to each other.”

“The second time?” Ilya asked, hoping the possessive relief washing over him wasn’t obvious. “What happened then?”

Shane seemed more embarrassed about that instance. He ducked his head forward, planting his forehead on the front of Ilya’s shoulder and just rubbed on Ilya’s leg for a little bit, mute.

Ilya didn’t push it. This would be a hard enough conversation sober and on someone’s couch, let alone drugged and humping someone’s thigh.

“Your dick is feeling good?” Ilya asked instead. “Do you need anything?”

Shane shook his head. “Sorry. Just a second.”

Ilya kissed the crown of his head. “Is okay. Just asking, sweetheart.”

Shane visibly shuddered at the pet name, and Ilya smiled despite himself. Today aside, they didn’t do pet names, and Ilya certainly never used any in English, not with anyone. Not seriously, at least. But Shane seemed to love it, grinding himself a bit faster, and Ilya made a quiet promise to call him more sweet things, if it made Shane this loose-limbed and happy.

“You want to come?” Ilya asked.

“N-no. Not yet. Just . . . it’s weird. Talking about this. With you.”

Ilya felt himself chuckle. “Yes. It is a bit weird.”

Shane’s glutes flexed in Ilya’s broad hand. “I saw you last night. I saw the girl you were with. God, Ilya, I was so . . .”

Jealous? Sick? Ravenous?

“. . . embarrassed. Because you were clearly getting this girl really worked up, and I couldn’t even dance with Rose without drifting over to you. I felt stupid and-” Shane leaned back, looking up at Ilya, his nose wrinkled like he was disgusted at his own words. “I felt so weak. You were obviously fine seeing me with someone, and here I was, spinning out.”

“The girl I was with had a boyfriend, if it matters.”

Shane laughed, and Ilya saw the relief he’d felt himself, moments earlier, writ over Shane’s dark, shining eyes. “You didn’t fuck her?” Shane asked in a painfully hopeful voice.

“No. I did not want to very much.” Ilya paused carefully. He needed to do this. He needed Shane, innocently rolling his hips against Ilya, all warm and wet, to know that he wasn’t the only one strung out here. But, God, the memory of Shane leaving Ilya’s house, so panicked he’d left his fucking underwear on Ilya’s couch, stung violently. Ilya rubbed a thumb over the swell of Shane’s ass, trying to soothe himself. His next words fell out of his mouth clumsily, tongue slipping around the English. “I was not fine. Seeing you with Rose was horrible.”

“Oh,” Shane breathed. He thrust a bit harder into Ilya’s thigh. “I had no idea.”

“I was . . . upset,” Ilya added. “To see you with someone else.” He swallowed and moved the hand from Shane’s ass to pet a sweaty, anxious hand up Shane’s flank. “I think it has been a long time since I would be okay seeing you with other people.”

“How long?” Shane asked quietly. His ruts were smaller now, tense.

“I don’t know. I tried to explain, um, last time.” Ilya felt ashamed color bloom on his cheeks, heating the back of his neck. He didn’t like it. “I do not think I did it well.”

“Last time?”

“Yes.” Ilya wasn’t sure he could refresh Shane’s memory without embarrassing himself, so he left it at that.

“Last time you asked me if I liked girls and then told me about all the ones you were with.” Shane’s eyes narrowed with hurt and frustration, even as the nectar blew his pupils wide and made his hips jerk hungrily. “How is that explaining anything?”

“I don’t know.” Ilya’s voice felt oddly thick. There was no reason to lie at this point. “I think I was . . . scared, too.”

“You- we don’t do that.” Shane’s fingernails bit at Ilya’s trapezius, but Ilya didn’t mind. Kind of liked the reminder that Shane was here, one even clearer than Shane’s desperate cock on his leg. “What the fuck?”

Ilya nodded mutely. He wasn’t used to feeling this self-conscious. He was Ilya fucking Rozanov. He had a bear tattoo on his pec because it was funny. He wasn’t someone who got ashamed. Yet Shane was tugging it out of him relentlessly with every flash of his pretty, anguished eyes and every slow grind of his hips.

“Why?” Shane asked. “Why then? Why do it like that?”

“I don’t know,” Ilya lied.

“One second you’re asking me to stay the night, and the next you’re telling me how many girls you fuck. Then you say my name, like you- Like you . . .”

“Like I had feelings for you,” Ilya finished for him.

“Yeah. What the fuck?” Shane repeated.

“I don’t know. I was, um. . .” Ilya swallowed stubbornly. “Was not smart.”

Shane rolled his eyes. It shouldn’t have been possible for him to look so pissed with his hair a mess, his skin damp with sweat, his hips working fervently against Ilya’s leg.

“Why?” Shane asked again. “You could’ve done anything, but you did it like that. Acting like you had feelings two seconds after saying you didn’t care-”

“I never said that.” Ilya wasn’t sure if it was the lack of sleep, hunger, or shame that was flaring hot in his belly. “I never said I did not care. I was asking about girls because I wanted to know if you felt like I did. If we were just fun and forbidden or if you also had, um, feelings.”

Shane’s brow smoothed immediately, and Ilya wasn’t sure how to feel that the knot in his own chest loosened at the sight.

“I am sorry I did not tell you outright,” Ilya continued. “I thought you might not be, erm . . .”

“Receptive?”

“Yes. I thought you were not ready. I was . . . testing it out, I guess.”

“I guess you weren’t wrong,” Shane muttered darkly.

The pit of Ilya’s stomach ached, and he lifted his fingertips to Shane’s chin, guiding him forward for a sweet, slow kiss. Shane’s lips were so chapped, his mouth still hot with fever. Ilya couldn’t believe he was here in the first place, that Shane had called him in his hour of need at all, let alone that Shane was now saying all these things to Ilya and letting him say them back.

He needed a minute.

“Here,” Ilya said when they broke apart. He pushed his thigh up, feeling the hot, desperate line of Shane’s cock. “Make yourself feel good.”

“I’m not done talking,” Shane said, gaze sharp like he didn’t know Ilya would tear the sky in two for him.

“I know. But I like feeling you on me.”

“Oh,” Shane breathed. “Okay.”

He obediently began rocking again, exhaling softly. Ilya was surprised he hadn’t climaxed yet; maybe the drug was finally working its way out of him.

“Is okay?”

Shane nodded, plush bottom lip pouting out at the pleasurable sensation.

“I am sorry. For last time,” Ilya continued as if they’d never paused. “I should have been more direct. Less scared.”

“I don’t know if it would’ve helped,” Shane said, thighs clamping around Ilya’s as he worked his cock. “I was scared, too.”

“Are you scared now?”

Shane nodded, and Ilya’s heart pounded. “But I’m okay. I’m- Yeah. I’m okay.”

Ilya let the wet, dirty sounds of skin on skin fill the thick air, before asking,“Were you scared with Rose?”

“Not at first. At first, it was simple.” Shane groaned quietly. “It was like I was finally doing what I was supposed to, you know? Everything felt easy.”

Ilya knew that Shane was leaving the rest unspoken. That it would never be easy between him and Ilya. That it might always hurt. That Ilya wasn’t sure if he even cared about avoiding that hurt anymore.

“Easy until the sex?” Ilya asked, taking Shane’s earlobe between his fingers and rubbing it in time with the movement of Shane’s hips.

“Yeah,” Shane agreed. He was starting to sweat more, making his humping slicker, a bit faster.

“What happened? The second time?”

Shane didn’t reply for a second, pumping his hips against Ilya’s muscled leg instead. His breathing was coming faster, his cock leaking more steadily.

“It was last night. After the club.”

“Oh,” Ilya breathed, adrenaline running cold and sour through his veins.

“I couldn’t get hard,” Shane said through gritted teeth. “Maybe it was the beer, but I couldn’t.”

“What did you do?”

“God. I thought of y-you.” Shane’s skin went bright red, down to his belly button. “The way you fuck me. Your mouth.”

Hedonistic, obnoxious pleasure blossomed in the adrenaline’s place in Ilya’s body. “It worked?”

“A- a little. But then Rose wanted me to fuck her, and I couldn’t and I was . . . I was wishing it was you, instead.”

A possessive fire in Ilya’s belly blazed hot. His spent dick twitched, like all he needed to go an umpteenth round was this quiet, ashamed confession. Because Ilya did have Shane in this moment. He had Shane’s cock on his body, Shane’s face inches from his. And it was stupid, and not quite true, but Shane felt like Ilya’s in that moment.

“But it wasn’t you,” Shane continued, oblivious to the way Ilya’s insides were melting for him. “So it wasn’t working. And Rose said her friend had given her something for . . . that. I thought it was a Viagra, but-”

“Did she make you?” Ilya slung his arm around Shane’s back possessively.

“No. No, I wanted to. I was-”

Shane cut himself off with a high-pitched whine.

“Shh,” Ilya murmured before he could think better of it. “You are close?”

“Yeah,” Shane breathed.

“You come, then we talk more. Okay?”

Shane nodded frantically, rubbing his cheek into Ilya’s hand, still tucked beneath Shane’s head, as his hips began to jerk erratically.

“There we go, malysh,” Ilya murmured, his unpinned hand coming to the side of Shane’s thick waist, pulling him forward at the same time as Ilya drove his thigh up. Shane hardly had to move at all; Ilya was content to do the work for him.

“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane gasped.

Shane’s grip went somehow tighter around Ilya’s shoulder. His hand was shaking with the effort.

“Shh,” Ilya soothed. “I will take care of you.”

Shane’s muscles loosened a fraction. He wasn’t relaxed in any sense of the word, but it was enough for Ilya to move him, to guide him back and forth in time with the pushes of Ilya’s leg until Ilya felt Shane’s cock jerk.

“Oh,” Shane cried, “Ilya, fuck- God!”

Shane shuddered before stilling, his come splashing warm over Ilya’s thigh. It drooled down to Ilya’s soft cock, his tired balls, hot and pleasant. If Ilya’s dick wasn’t utterly exhausted, he was sure he’d come himself, just from the feeling of Shane’s spend coating his most delicate, sensitive places.

Instead, Ilya just petted exhausted fingers through Shane’s hair while Shane trembled with the force of his orgasm. Maybe Ilya should wipe him up, but he didn’t bother. Shane would be adding to the mess again soon enough, and, selfishly, Ilya didn’t think he could handle Shane any further from him than this, half on top of him.

“Better?” Ilya asked, rubbing behind Shane’s ear.

“Yeah,” Shane sighed.

“My leg is here if you need it.” Ilya pushed it up again, watching Shane’s nose wrinkle at the wet squelch such a movement caused.

“Thanks.” Shane’s skin was so pink with fever and arousal and embarrassment, and Ilya wanted to crawl inside him to feel him everywhere. It was certainly pathetic, but Ilya didn’t even mind. He just slid his hand up to cup the back of Shane’s neck, running his fingers through the short hairs there.

“You want to talk more?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Ilya swallowed. He was worried this part would upset him, but he needed to know. Needed to be there for Shane.

“So,” Ilya murmured, “Rose drugged you.”

Shane slapped weakly at Ilya’s chest in protest. “It wasn’t like that. She . . . she just said she had something.”

“She didn’t say what it was?”

Shane sighed, his breath hot on Ilya’s face. “She did. Said it was a sex drug. She said her friends took it.”

“You didn’t ask anything?”

“I dunno. No,” Shane muttered, his eyebrows drawing together, the relief from his orgasm clearly fading.

“Why did you take so much?” Ilya’s touch became a bit heavier, more possessive.

“I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking that much about it.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, Ilya,” Shane huffed, frustration making it sound almost like a whine.

“What if you had a drug test this week?”

“I don’t know! Okay? I don’t know. I just-” Shane blew out a slow breath, eyes shuttering. “I wanted it to work. My body’s always worked, and it wasn’t, and I was so fucking mad. And I just wanted it to be done.”

Ilya pressed his thumb into the hinge of Shane’s jaw gently, his whole being fucking shattering at Shane’s desperate, ashamed words. Ilya waited for Shane to say more, or to shutter his open, scared expression, but Shane just sighed, sounding so exhausted. He probably was. God knew Ilya was.

“You are doing so good.” Ilya rubbed the back of Shane’s neck with sweaty fingers. “I know this is not easy.”

“Yeah,” Shane mumbled.

It would be kinder to have given Shane a moment, but Ilya couldn’t help himself. He wanted to know every single event that had happened between Shane’s hungry, terrified staring on the dance floor to his phone calls, hardly five hours later. He wanted to know every thought that had crossed Shane’s anxious mind.

He wanted to know exactly how angry he needed to be at himself for not doing what he wanted, for not crossing the club in long, protective steps before grabbing Shane’s thick waist and covering his mouth with his. Claiming Shane as his, in front of the entire club. In front of Ilya’s teammates. In front of stupid Rose.

“What happened once you took it?” Ilya finally asked, tongue uncomfortably thick.

Shane answered quickly. “Well, I, um, started feeling sick after.”

“How sick?”

“My stomach hurt. And I had a headache, I think.”

“And she still fucked you?” Ilya’s tone was sharper than he’d meant it, accusatory and overprotective and desperate all at once.

“I didn’t tell her,” Shane muttered, like Ilya was an idiot. “I wanted to just fucking do it.”

“How did it go?” Ilya asked, tangling possessive fingers into Shane’s sweaty hair.

“Does it matter?” Shane mumbled.

“You do not need to tell me, but I want to know.”

“Ilya,” Shane whined, uncomfortable.

“I am not going anywhere,” Ilya said steadily. It was true. Shane could never say anything to Ilya that would change the warm, full feeling that generated from the center of his abdomen and spread out into every soft touch he gave Shane.

“Fuck,” Shane murmured. His hips were starting to twitch again. “This is so fucking embarrassing.”

“Is okay. You are okay.”

“Oh, God.” Shane ducked his face into the hollow between Ilya’s shoulder and his neck, his voice muffled by Ilya’s sweaty skin. “Okay. She was touching me, and my stomach hurt, but I figured it was fine. Nerves. But then w-we were in missionary, and I, um . . .”

Ilya could feel Shane’s face scrunch up on his chest, his voice seemingly caught in that tension too intensely to speak.

“Shane,” Ilya said softly, pressing gentle, soothing kisses to the top of Shane’s head. “Did you vomit on Rose Landry?”

Shane nodded, every muscle tight, like he was going to shatter apart.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Ilya sighed, overcome. He slid his arm down to Shane’s waist and rolled them so Shane was fully on top of him, his beautiful, solid weight shoving Ilya into the mattress, his half-hard dick still pressed to the top of Ilya’s thigh. “Oh, Shane.”

It was as if Ilya was trying to make every word he couldn’t say or didn’t know how to express beam directly into Shane’s body through sheer osmosis. Like touch alone could express all the soft, sweet things Ilya needed Shane to know.

Poor fucking Shane. So ashamed, so embarrassed, so frustrated, that he drugged himself enough to throw up over Rose fucking Landry.

Ilya didn’t exactly understand the situation – he had a reputation as a ladies’ man for a reason – but he knew the feeling. Anxiety and disappointment and terror, swirling around your insides like a poisonous cocktail. The feeling of not being good enough, not being perfect enough, not being enough.

The fact that Shane had felt such things during something as sweet and tender and lovely as sex made Ilya’s insides ache.

“Most of it was in her hair, not her face,” Shane mumbled, as if he needed to defend himself.

Ilya felt wetness on his neck, and he prayed it was sweat, not tears. Either way, Ilya would be here. He would hold Shane for as long as he was allowed.

Ilya glided gentle hands up Shane’s muscular back, his powerful thighs, his thick arms. “Is okay, Shane. I’m so sorry, lyubimyy.” Ilya wasn’t sure where that endearment had come from, but he didn’t regret it. Shane was beloved to him, especially right now, splayed out and completely open for him.

“She was so nice about it,” Shane said into Ilya’s neck. “Broke up with me then and there, which was fair. But she called me a car, and stayed on the phone until I was home. She didn’t know how bad it would be. She was sorry.”

“Shh. Is okay,” Ilya murmured. It wasn’t Shane’s job to absolve her.

“S-she was the one who told me to call someone I trusted. Thank God you showed up. God, Ilya.”

Ilya had no coherent response to that, not with how he was going so soft and gooey inside, like a chocolate bar left in the backseat of a car in the middle of summer. So sweet, but too melted to be functional.

All he could do was just cup Shane’s jaw and guide his face up until Ilya could kiss him, sloppy and uncoordinated and graceless. Shane kissed back, limbs limp, even as Ilya could feel his cock swelling yet again. Jesus.

“I will always show up for you,” Ilya promised clumsily against Shane’s lips. “As long as you let me, I will be there if you need.”

Shane gave a quiet whine, and Ilya wasn’t sure if it was out of horniness, embarrassment, or acknowledgement of Ilya’s words.

“What do you need now, Shane? Let me take care of you.”

“Need you,” Shane said simply, drifting his lips down to Ilya’s jaw.

“You have me.”

“No. Want you closer.”

Shane was flopped on top of him, their bodies mushed together. How the hell was Ilya supposed to get closer? They could fuck, maybe, but Ilya was far too spent to get hard again.

Yet Ilya couldn’t let Shane’s desperate, whimpered words go ignored. He was pretty sure he would die if he tried.

“Here,” Ilya said, gears clicking slowly in his head. “You want to be close to me?”

“Please.”

“You are hard?”

“Ugh,” Shane sighed with disgust, rubbing his now-full erection against Ilya’s hip. “Yes.”

“Would you want to fuck me?”

“Huh?” Shane asked stupidly, angling his head to look up at Ilya. His eyes were wet, his eyebrows furrowed deeply, like Ilya was speaking gibberish and he was desperate to understand.

“My dick is . . . tired. I cannot fuck you, solnyshko.” Shane looked devastated, so Ilya quickly added, “But you can fuck me. It would help?”

“Ilya,” Shane mumbled instead of answering.

“It will make me closer. Will help you feel safe.”

Shane hadn’t said the safe part, but the lines of terror radiating off of him had been clear from his very first phone call. Of course he was scared; he’d been drugged, then promptly kicked out, by someone he wanted to love. And Ilya didn’t blame Rose, exactly, but he did want to fix it. Needed to.

“You’d let me fuck you?” Shane asked, forcing his head up properly. His eyes were round and so worried.

“Yes. I want you to.”

“Do you even like it?”

“Sometimes,” Ilya said honestly. “Is nice, once in a while.”

Shane hesitated. “I’m not good at it,” he whispered, like it was a secret, like what had happened with Rose hadn’t made that evident, like he wasn’t begging to be filled constantly. 

“I know. But does not matter. I can’t come again, so you do not need to worry about if it is good for me. Is just for you. Just want you to feel good.”

A hot blurt of Shane’s precome wet Ilya’s thigh, even as Shane was worrying his chapped bottom lip nervously.

“You want to try?”

“What if-”

“I am not going anywhere, Shane,” Ilya said thickly, grabbing Shane’s face between his hands. “Even if you vomit on me.”

Shane laughed, a breathy, crazed giggle, and Ilya felt like his sternum was cracking open.

“Okay,” Shane sighed. “Okay.”

Ilya nodded. “Let me get the lube, okay?”

Shane rolled off of Ilya, leaving Ilya to sit up and scan the bed for one of the bottles of lube. He was cold without Shane’s weight on him, even in the heated, sex-scented room. It was good, probably. Let Ilya breathe properly, and think a little better.

Ilya had to think a little better, because this was important. Ilya was pretty sure this was Shane’s first time fucking a man, and his nerves were written in the wrinkle of his brow, the rapid rise and fall of his muscular chest. Especially after Shane’s last time fucking someone had ended . . . like that, Ilya needed this to be good for him. To be safe. To be- well, fun probably wasn’t the best word, given that Shane was terrified and drugged- but enjoyable, at least. 

Ilya could give that to him. He had to.

“You want to watch me get ready?” Ilya asked as he retrieved the lube from where it had been tossed to the side.

“Yes,” Shane breathed, squeezing his cock. “Fuck, yes.”

There was a tease about Shane’s eagerness on the tip of Ilya’s tongue, but he bit it back. Shane was feeling sensitive enough.

“Here,” Shane said, passing Ilya a pillow. “For your hips. It, uh, makes the angle easier.”

Ilya shuddered. Somehow, Shane was making Ilya fingering himself something sweet. Something caring. God, Ilya was fucking ruined for him.

“Thank you,” Ilya said, not without awkwardness. There was a dark stain on the dark blue pillowcase, but Ilya didn’t care. He was already filthy.

Ilya laid the pillow down and rested on his back on top of it, feet planted a few inches in front, as if he was about to do a bridge pose. Shane arranged himself cross-legged in front of Ilya’s splayed legs, his own cock fat and red in his lap, like he was getting a front row seat to a sex show. Which, Ilya supposed distantly, he wasn’t not.

“You want me to help?” Shane asked as Ilya uncapped the lube.

“No, is okay. Will be faster this way. You just watch.”

Shane exhaled quickly, his hands flexing on his thighs.

“You can touch yourself,” Ilya said with half a laugh, noting Shane’s hesitancy. “Nothing I have not seen.”

Shane snorted. “I didn’t want to be rude.”

God, Shane was so fucking Canadian. Ilya wanted to bite him.

“I am very sexy, Hollander. Is okay to jerk off to it.”

Shane ducked his head, as if Ilya being sexy was somehow embarrassing. “I just mean, like, this isn’t gonna do much for you. I didn’t wanna be unfair.”

Ilya drizzled the lube over his fingers slowly, pointedly. “I never said it was not fun for me. Just because I do not do it much does not mean I hate it.”

He lowered his slick fingers down, past his soft dick, his sac, before coming to rest in front of his entrance. Shane’s eyes were locked on Ilya’s hole, utterly transfixed. If it were any less obviously sexual, the intensity of Shane’s face would remind Ilya of a child staring at an iPad.

“God, Ilya,” Shane breathed. He wrapped his hand loosely around his own poor, oversexed cock and gave it a few tugs.

“I told you,” Ilya said dryly. “I am very sexy.”

Shane nodded frantically. “Wanna see it.” Then, embarrassed, “Please.”

Ilya smirked. “Okay. Okay, lyubimyy.”

Ilya exhaled slowly and began to pet his rim with his middle finger. Just soft. Just feeling. He wasn’t trying to tease, but it had been a long time since he’d done this. A few years, at least. Ilya’s only regular male fuck these days was Shane, and Shane didn’t have any interest in Ilya’s hole, really. None of the girls Ilya fucked particularly liked strapping. Even Svetlana had to be in a certain mood.

So the feeling as he eased the tip of one finger in was intense and novel and drew a shuddering breath from Ilya’s lungs. There wasn’t much of a stretch, hardly any sensation at all, but it was wholly . . . unfamiliar.

“Holy shit,” Shane muttered, his hand moving faster on his own cock.

“Yes,” Ilya agreed. “Holy shit.”

He took another slow, deep breath, and guided his middle finger deeper, to the second knuckle. If Ilya was fingering someone else, he’d use these moments to seek out their prostate or G-spot, rubbing it to try to get the uncomfortable stretch to feel good. Now, though, with his spent dick, Ilya didn’t bother, instead rubbing his finger in urgent circles to try to stretch himself adequately as quickly as possible.

It wasn’t a difficult process, necessarily. The fact that Ilya hadn’t properly eaten all day meant he didn’t need to worry about cleanliness, and his fingers were practiced enough. Some of Shane’s come was still smeared over him, making the slide easier than it would have been. It also didn’t hurt that he had Shane’s hungry, searching eyes locked on his hole, goading him on.

Ilya slid a second finger in, and Shane’s Adam’s apple bobbed, his muscles tensing.

“I- is this what I look like?” Shane asked, his voice high and oddly thin.

“Hm?” Ilya asked distractedly.

“All . . . full?”

Ilya nodded. “Yes. You are much whinier, though.”

“Fuck you,” Shane muttered, but there was no steel behind it. Just heat, his hand massaging his dick frantically.

Ilya stilled his fingers inside himself. “You are going to come? From watching?”

“I think so. Fuck,” Shane gasped.

Ilya’s mind started to churn quickly. “You are clean? You were safe with Rose?”

“I- what?” Shane stammered. “Yeah, we used condoms-”

“And you are clean?”

Shane nodded jerkily.

“Good. Then do it here.” Ilya used his free hand to tap the place his fingers entered him. The sensation made him jolt. “Make my fingers all slick.”

“Holy-” Shane cut himself off with a groan, rolling forward so he was kneeling between Ilya’s spread legs, one hand braced on Ilya’s knee, the other flying over his cock.

He was so sweaty and flushed and dirty. Debauched. It was hot, certainly, but it was more than that. The desperation in Shane’s eyes, the set of his jaw, the way his freckles were getting scrunched by his focused grimace . . . it was fucking beautiful.

Ilya cupped Shane’s cheek with his free hand, petting the fevered skin. His fingers had stilled inside of himself.

“Come for me. Make me feel it.”

“Oh, Ilya, oh!” Shane gasped, and Ilya felt hot ropes of Shane’s release paint his hand and taint and hole. It made the slide hot and easy and loose, Ilya scissoring his fingers inside of himself, smooth and slick.

“Watch,” Ilya urged, spotting Shane’s blissed-out, closed eyes. “See what you did to me.”

Shane inhaled sharply before opening his eyes, plopping down so he was sitting on his heels, his thighs tucked between Ilya’s spread legs, his gaze locked on Ilya’s stretched hole. 

Ilya’s cock twitched at the raw hunger in Shane’s expression, and Ilya glanced down to see it red, a bit fatter than fully soft. Maybe he could . . .

A quick swipe over his prostate made Ilya gasp with discomfort, his legs jerking enough to almost kick Shane. It was like someone had replaced his blood with soda water.

No. No, his dick was done for now. 

But Shane’s wasn’t. It hadn’t gone soft at all despite coming, was curving up toward his belly button. He wasn’t quite as big as Ilya, but he was thick. Hefty. For all Ilya’s bragging, Shane’s cock was probably on the bigger side of anything Ilya had ever taken. It wasn’t intimidating exactly, but it did make Ilya’s pulse jump, encourage him to start tugging at his rim with a little more urgency.

“Oh, my God,” Shane mumbled. “My come is inside you. This is insane.” His hand was still on Ilya’s knee, and he squeezed it.

“I’ve swallowed it before,” Ilya replied unhelpfully, scissoring his two fingers.

“But it-” Shane looked like he was in pain. “You’re fingering yourself with my come.”

“Very- ah-” Ilya paused as he began to rub his rim with his ring finger. “Very observant.”

“Shut up,” Shane said, lightly swatting the inside of Ilya’s leg. “I’m just- Holy shit.”

Ilya bit back a half-laugh, half-groan as he nudged the tip of his ring finger inside himself. Three fingers was a lot under any circumstances, and doing it like this, splitting himself wide with no sexual pleasure attached to it, when Ilya was already overstimulated and fucked out, had him panting harshly through his nose.

“Does it hurt?” Shane asked quietly, squeezing his own dick.

“No. Is . . .” Ilya wasn’t sure there was a good word for the feeling. “It will be good,” Ilya finally finished. “I’m almost ready.”

Shane made an embarrassing, high pitched noise, but he didn’t seem shy about it, for once. “How do you want it? On your back might be more comfortable, but your stomach-”

“Is not for me,” Ilya interrupted. “Put me where you want me.”

“Okay,” Shane said, squeezing Ilya’s knee again. “I- I want you like this, I think. I wanna kiss you.”

“Okay.”

Ilya flexed his fingers inside himself a few more times, rocking a bit. The full sensation was not exactly pleasant, given how exhausted Ilya’s arousal was, but it was fine. He could handle it, and he wanted to, for Shane.

“Okay,” Ilya said again. “Get a condom.”

Shane nodded hurriedly, obediently, leaning over Ilya to grab the strip where they had been abandoned. His hands were shaking as he tore one open and rolled it on, and Ilya wanted to kiss him.

Perhaps Ilya understood, to some modicum of a degree, how Shane had been feeling, earlier. Ilya wanted Shane close. So fucking close. Close enough that even Ilya’s most private, intimate place was touched by him.

“L- lube?” Shane stammered, his pupils swallowing his dark eyes.

Ilya pressed the bottle into Shane’s hand with his clean one before taking a deep, slow breath. Ilya knew the only thing more intense than stuffing himself full was after, when you were empty.

It wouldn’t be long – Shane was eagerly slicking himself up over the condom, fucking into his lube-coated hand – but it would be uncomfortable for those few seconds. Ilya exhaled, dragging his fingers out as he did. It didn’t sting or burn so much as ache, deep, deep inside him, robbing him of his breath, making him dizzy.

“Oh,” Shane sighed, wrapping his lube-covered palm around the back of Ilya’s calf. “You’re gaping.”

Ilya shuddered a laugh. “Fill it, then.”

Shane didn’t need to be told twice. He nudged forward until the head was kissing Ilya’s open rim. His eyes were locked on Ilya’s, soft pants leaving his full, red lips.

“Holy shit, Ilya,” Shane murmured. He wasn’t even in yet, but his expression was scrunched like he was about to come.  “I can’t- I don’t even know what to do.”

Ilya could help with that. He took his hand, only belatedly realizing it was the one that had been tucked inside himself, and draped it on the small of Shane’s back. Shane’s muscles were shaking, his skin slick with sweat.

“Here,” Ilya said, voice gravel, as he began to push Shane forward. Shane went easily, sinking into Ilya steadily. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. Ilya wasn’t aroused, but the way Shane filled him was steadying, gentling. Like a hot shower after a brutal check into the boards.

Shane was decidedly less calm.

“Oh,” he was gasping. “Oh, fuck, you’re so hot. You’re so fucking hot, and I’m in you, holy shit, oh, Ilya, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Ilya almost laughed, but just breathing too deeply had Ilya’s throat going tight at the fullness. There was a reason Ilya didn’t do this often. It was intense. How Shane did it every time, Ilya had no idea. He could hardly think, let alone breathe, let alone fuck.

But he didn’t have to. This was for Shane.

“Move,” Ilya encouraged, strained. “Take what you need.”

And, fuck, Shane did. His eyes fluttered closed, and he folded himself over Ilya, touching him everywhere. His lips, his cheeks, his chest, his fucking eyelids. Shane’s hands and mouth were so gentle, like Ilya was some sort of precious glass sculpture that Shane wanted to learn every contour of.

His hips were another story. They pistoned filthily in and out of Ilya with a driving, steady pace, sending shocks of overstimulation into Ilya’s belly.

“Is good?” Ilya panted between thrusts. Somehow, his arms had wrapped themselves around Shane’s neck, holding them both steady, hugging Shane close.

“Yeah,” Shane panted, his bangs falling into his eyes. “I th-thought it wouldn’t be, but it’s perfect. Holy fuck, you’re perfect.”

“Mm,” Ilya murmured helpfully. “Take what you need.”

Shane listened, moaning and starting to work himself in and out of Ilya desperately.

Ilya lost track of time quickly. He was vaguely aware of Shane pulling out a few times and rolling on a new condom, but those moments just felt like waves in a mostly-still sea. Maybe it was the exhaustion or the lack of proper food, or maybe Ilya had somehow absorbed some of the nectar through the air or Shane’s come or something, but he felt very content to just lay there.

He loved how close Shane was, touching him everywhere. He loved Shane’s quiet, constant whines as he chased his pleasure. Ilya stopped even minding the overstimulation, letting it fade into a hot, staticky buzz behind his navel.

It hardly mattered. It was just Ilya using his body to make Shane feel good. Nothing else, no other feelings, were relevant. Shane was finally getting the relief he craved, and it was all from Ilya’s body. Ilya was half sure this was all he’d ever wanted, all he’d ever want again. To just be there for Shane, to soothe him in every way he could.

Ilya hoped he could. God, he hoped he could.

It was hours or months or years later when Ilya came back to Earth with Shane’s sweet murmur of, “Ilya?”

“Hm?” Ilya said pleasantly. Shane’s hips had stilled, but he was still buried to the hilt inside of Ilya. His hole ached, exhausted. Shane was heavy, Ilya belatedly realized, making Ilya’s every breath effortful, but he hardly minded. He loved the easy, simple closeness. 

“You . . . It feels so much better,” Shane said. “I can think again. It’s not hurting.”

“Good,” Ilya murmured. His tongue felt thick, his thoughts syrupy.

Shane’s expression was miraculous, his eyes wider and brighter than Ilya’d seen since watching Shane win the fucking cup on television. Beads of sweat were running down his temples, dripping off his jaw and pattering coolly onto Ilya’s torso.

“You need more?” Ilya asked. His voice was rough and weak, sand over tissue paper.

“No,” Shane said, beaming. “I don’t.”

“Fuck, that’s good,” Shane sighed a few hours later, folding another slice of pizza in half. They were on Shane’s bed, three orders of garlic knots, a two-liter of Coke, another of ginger ale, and three meat-lover’s pizzas arranged next to them. Ilya’d ordered delivery while Shane slept, after they’d each taken a long, long shower where, between the two of them, they’d used up an entire bar of soap and, by a conservative estimate, half a bottle of shampoo. It hadn’t been a sexy shower. They were both too touched-out and spent to do anything but clean themselves. The only reason they’d showered together anyway was because Ilya was half worried Shane (or, honestly, himself) would pass out and knock their head on the fancy tile of Shane’s rainfall shower.

Shane had put on a hoodie after, and he was rubbing his cheek against it every so often as he ate, the last bits of the nectar probably still working its way out of him. He wasn’t feverish anymore, just cozy and sweet-looking, hair still wet from the shower.

For his part,  Ilya was wearing a pair of Shane’s (clean) boxer briefs, plucked from Shane’s drawer. They fit a bit weird, but they weren’t covered in come or stinking of sex, so Ilya’d figured it was fine.

Shane didn’t seem to mind, sauce smeared on his lips, fingers greasy, content to just eat their pizza in companionable silence, Shane’s muscled legs thrown over Ilya’s. It was, blissfully, not really sexual at all. It was just fucking nice, eating and talking, the velvet quiet of Montreal late on a Sunday night in January settling in Shane’s bedroom. 

It was maybe the first time they’d been alone together when Ilya had zero intention of sleeping with Shane, and Ilya was enjoying it. Like, really enjoying it. As in grinning-stupidly-down-at-his-slice-of-pizza enjoying it.

“Of course you think the pizza is good. You love sausage,” Ilya teased stupidly, squeezing Shane’s quad.

Shane laughed, lightly punching Ilya’s arm. “That’s a sore subject, you know.”

“Oh,” Ilya said with mock innocence. “What do you mean?”

“Fuck you.” Shane grinned.

“You’re the one who told me you were gay.”

“I will kick your ass, Rozanov,” Shane said. The threat was undercut by the way he’d curled his ankle to rub Ilya’s side with the arch of his foot.

“You will not. You are far too sore.”

Shane shrugged good-naturedly, those huge shoulders rising up toward his pretty ears.

“Are you? Um, sore, I mean. Like, there.” Shane asked after a minute, the color in his face momentarily back, painting his cheeks sunrise pink.

Ilya shook his head. “Is a bit tender, maybe. I have had things in my asshole before, you know.”

“I know,” Shane said hotly, making it obvious he did not, in fact, know. “I just . . . I know it’s been a lot for you.”

“Was nothing.”

“You had a game tonight.”

“Eh,” Ilya said, shrugging. Just that effort ached, he was so exhausted. “I think I like this better.”

Shane smiled so broadly that Ilya couldn’t help but lean over and kiss him, still holding his pizza in one hand. It was slow and achingly, pathetically tender, Shane’s mouth warm and tomato-scented.

“You had an off-day, hm?” Ilya asked when they pulled back.

“Hey,” Shane said, shoving playfully at Ilya’s shoulder. “You made fun of me for checking your schedule, but you know mine.”

“Maybe,” Ilya shrugged. He was pretty sure he was smiling dopily. “Need to keep an eye on the competition.”

Shane didn’t laugh at the joke, instead cupping Ilya’s cheek, rubbing his thumb over the stubble. “It’s not just that anymore, right? It’s- We’re, like, more?”

“More?” Ilya quirked an eyebrow. His pulse was thrumming. Suddenly, the six slices of pizza he’d downed weren’t sitting very easily anymore.

“I’m not saying we’re getting married or anything, but-”

“Marriage?”

“No! Or, um-”

“So this is on the table?” Ilya teased.

“Stop.” Shane scowled. “I’m trying to, you know . . .” He gestured vaguely in front of himself, the way Ilya did when he was trying to remember a stupid English word.

“Sorry, malysh,” Ilya said, like that word didn’t define the relationship all on its own. He grabbed Shane’s hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing the palm. “Go ahead.”

Seemingly mollified, Shane continued, “I don’t want to just fuck anymore. I like the fucking, but I also want to . . . talk to you, maybe. Sometimes.”

“Makes sense. You aren’t always very understandable when I am fucking you.”

“Fuck off,” Shane groaned.

Ilya grinned and kissed Shane’s hand again. It tasted like pizza grease and sweat and, despite the shower, just a bit like the salty bite of his cock.

“I like talking, too,” Ilya said as an apology.

“We could call more, maybe?”

“Good idea. Phone sex is hot.”

“Ilya,” Shane scolded, “can you stop thinking with your dick for five minutes?”

Ilya just darted his eyes down to Shane’s finally soft dick, tucked inside his underwear. Shane flicked him.

“I do want to call you,” Ilya admitted.  There. That was a good start. “And I want to . . . be with you. Like this.” Ilya gestured around them.

“Recently sober?”

Despite the joke, Ilya could still see the fear locked into the tension in Shane’s jaw, traced along the flare of his nostrils.

“No,” Ilya clarified firmly. “This. Relaxed. Eating pizza. Talking. Touching. I like moments with you that are easy, that are . . .”

“Peaceful?” Shane tried.

“Yes. Peaceful.”

Shane looked pleased at that, a small smile playing at his pretty lips.

“I like those bits, too.” Shane nodded, almost to himself. “Maybe we can just start with calling more. Like, not just to hook up.”

Ilya swallowed dryly. “Yes. I would like that.”

“Cool,” Shane said, ducking his head just a touch. “Cool.”

They ate in a comfortable silence for a while, knees touching.

“Are you busy this summer?” Shane asked once he finished his slice.

“I go to Russia in the summers,” Ilya said.

“Oh,” Shane said, looking a hair too disappointed for such a simple fact. “I was thinking maybe we could, like, go somewhere. I have a cottage. We could do a week. Or two, even.”

Visions of that silly ESPN puff piece that Ilya had watched so long ago rippled through Ilya’s mind. The lake view, Shane doing yoga on the deck, the jet skis.

Ilya wanted to say yes. Badly. 

“My father . . . he is not doing well. I might need to be there.”

“Oh. Totally.” Shane bobbed his head, overly understanding. “That makes sense.”

Ilya nudged Shane’s shoulder with his own. “But we can call. Or Skype, maybe. I do not want to go the whole summer without seeing you.”

They both smiled pathetically at that.

“When’s the next time we can see each other?” Shane said.

“All-Star Game?” Ilya tried. “We do not play Montreal until February.”

Shane noticeably pouted at that, and Ilya had no choice but to kiss his temple, comforting. “We will call, though. And we have tomorrow. Or today. Whichever.”

Shane exhaled a short laugh through his pretty nose. “When do you have to go?”

“Fuck,” Ilya sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I have no fucking clue.” Ilya’s head was fuzzy and aching. He didn’t even know what time it was. Last he’d checked, when he’d ordered the pizza, it had been around midnight. He had no idea what flight he should get, or where he should even meet his team. Shit, he didn’t even have clothes, besides a ratty pair of sweats and a hoodie that both probably stank of sex.

“Jesus,” Shane muttered, flicking his eyes down to the bedspread.

“What?” Ilya asked. Almost without meaning to, he tucked his fingers under Shane’s jaw, guiding it up so he was looking up at Ilya properly. “What is it?”

“I’m just . . . sorry. And embarrassed. You shouldn’t have needed to come here.”

Ilya knocked his forehead against Shane’s, letting his eyes slip closed and breathing in the easy, clean scent of Shane. “Is not a hardship to be here. Would not ever be, but especially not now.”

“Why?” Shane asked in a whisper.

Ilya curled his hand around the underside of Shane’s jaw. “Well, you are very pretty, for one. And I love fucking you. And being here meant that we could talk about . . .” Ilya paused. There wasn’t a non-awkward way to say this, especially in a language as clunky as English. “We could talk about calling more,” Ilya finally settled on. “That alone would make this worth it.”

“Oh,” Shane said. Ilya could feel the muscles of Shane's cheeks press into his hand as he smiled.

“Yeah, oh,” Ilya teased, leaning over and pressing his spent, swollen lips to Shane’s.

Ilya wasn’t ready to leave. He loved hockey, yes, and his team, and even Boston, but Ilya had zero interest in going back. His clothes smelled like Shane’s citrus fabric softener, having been freshly laundered, and Shane’s head was on his shoulder, his hands tucked in the pocket of Ilya’s hoodie as they stood in Shane’s kitchen, and it just wasn’t enough. Ilya wasn’t sure it would ever be enough.

It had been an annoying few hours. Utterly exhausted as Ilya was, Shane was worse, so Ilya’d cleaned Shane’s bedroom basically on his own. That had been fine, just stupid – why run the stupid washing machine when he could spend his time kissing Shane’s fingers? – and then Ilya’d had to make calls.

Marlow, to say thanks for saving his ass. His coach, to apologize profusely. His agent and the assistant GM to find an excuse for breaching his contract with an unscheduled, unapproved absence (family emergency, they were calling it). A call to the Bears’ logistics coordinator to figure out a flight back to Boston. It was in coach on fucking Frontier, but it would get him back in time for their 2 p.m. film session.

But these last five minutes, waiting for the Uber while Shane wrapped exhausted arms around him, were the worst of them all.

“Maybe my flight will be canceled. Is January. Could be storms,” Ilya said hopelessly.

Shane sighed, warm breaths puffing on Ilya’s neck. “I want that, too.”

Ilya let himself feel Shane’ sturdy, strong body draped over his own for another few moments before asking, “You are feeling better? All the way?”

Shane nodded, the movement nuzzling his cheek into Ilya’s collarbone. “I never want to have sex again, but I’m okay.”

“You will be ready by All-Star Game, though?”

Shane snorted, pushing ineffectually at Ilya’s chest. “Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

Ilya squeezed Shane’s waist and brushed his lips over his temple for another few, blissful seconds before his phone buzzed. The car was here.

“I should go,” Ilya said softly.

Shane went tense, squeezing Ilya in for a last, brutally tight hug. It would’ve hurt if Ilya wasn’t gripping back just as tightly.

“I’ll see you in Tampa?” Shane asked, leaning back just enough that his exhausted, perfect eyes could look at Ilya.

“I’ll be the handsome one, with the C on my jersey.”

Shane didn’t even laugh, just bent forward and pressed weary, slack lips against Ilya’s. It was chaste, unmoving, more of lips touching than a kiss. Ilya loved it.

Ilya’s phone buzzed again, and he broke away lethargically.

“See you soon,” Ilya said slowly, extricating himself from Shane.

“Bye.”

As Ilya walked out of Shane’s apartment, he felt a wide, real smile split his face. Maybe the biggest he’d smiled since the stupid tuna melt. Because, even though he had to leave now, and nothing was properly figured out, and their relationship would still be confined to these short, clandestine hookups, Shane felt things for Ilya.

The same things Ilya felt, it sounded like.

And, for now, that was more than enough.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much for reading! Let me know what you think :D

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

Just a short, cutie epilogue :)

Shane wasn’t sure he had ever felt worse physically, or better mentally. Not after he broke his arm winning a tree-climbing competition in elementary school. Not the few times he’d been hungover. Shit, not even after winning his second cup with a strained hamstring.

Every muscle hurt. His hole was sore. His nipples pinched. He had a headache, his stomach hurt, and his balls felt like shriveled fucking grapes. His finally flaccid cock stung and ached with every step. He didn’t even know how the fuck he was going to put on a jock for the game tomorrow.

Yet, watching the door close behind Ilya as he left for the airport, Shane felt fucking dreamy. His lips were still warm from the pressure of Ilya’s against them. He could still smell Ilya on his T-shirt. He was smiling through cracked lips.

Shane forced himself to go through the motions of a recovery day. He hadn’t exercised properly since the Boston game, hadn’t even stretched, but he had no energy nor intention to. Instead, he made himself a smoothie with the berries he kept in the freezer, waddled uncomfortably to his couch, and laid on his side as he turned the TV to ESPN. It was showing tennis.

Good. Shane needed a break from people touching.

His phone was still on the coffee table where he’d dropped it after Ilya arrived, and Shane grabbed it. There were no fewer than sixty messages from the team group chat, wondering what everyone’s off-day plans were and trying to make Disney reservations for their road trip to Florida next month. Past that, there were a few texts from his mom about brand deals and their vacation plans to Mexico. Some from his dad about a new recipe for eggplant skewers.

Shane didn’t reply; he was too exhausted to think of responses.

There were also a few texts from Rose. Shane’s thumb hovered over their conversation for a few seconds before moving on. He could handle that later. He did want to be Rose’s friend, eventually, just . . . not right then.

He was still in a haze. Not from the drug anymore, Shane was pretty sure, but from Ilya. Who liked Shane enough to miss his game to take care of him. Who liked Shane enough to fuck him for hours and hours. Who liked Shane enough to tell him to call more. And Shane felt sort of weird about all of it, yeah, but he also felt weirdly happy.

Grateful and embarrassed and awkward, but happy.

As if the universe was listening to his thoughts, a new text popped up. 

Lily: You are beautiful.

Lily: I miss you already.

Lily: Is it too soon to call?

Shane smiled and, for the umpteenth time in the past thirty six hours, pressed Call.