Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types, Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Oral Sex, Blow Jobs, Hair-pulling, Subspace, Shane Hollander in Subspace, Idiots in Love, Praise Kink, Rimming, Spit As Lube, Spit Kink, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Orgasm Denial, Orgasm Edging, Multiple Orgasms, Begging, Under-negotiated Kink, Come Eating, Come Swallowing, you can pry my em dashes from my cold dead hands, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, ilya is down BAD, Sexual Overstimulation, Crying During Sex, Coming Untouched, and I guess because people are already telling me, Wank and Tell | Creator is Open to Comments about Masturbating to This Work, Barebacking, Unsafe Sex, Fix-It, Ilya Rozanov Makes Tuna Melts

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-01 Completed: 2026-05-08 Words: 10,098 Chapters: 2/2

you light my fire like a cigarette

Summary

“Please,” he says finally, voice breaking as he gives in. “Fuck, please, Rozanov, I’m gonna—”

Rozanov pulls all the way back, mouth releasing his cock with a noise that makes Shane’s hips rock up into nothing.

“Rozanov,” he begs again.

“Hmm?” Rozanov asks, kissing Shane’s shaking thigh gently. “You need something?”

“You— fuck— you said I could come,” Shane says, trying to keep the accusatory note out of his voice.

“Mhm. When you say my name, yes?”

“I did!” Shane says, just a hint of a whine in his tone now. Rozanov smirks at him.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says. “My first name.”

OR:

Ilya does something a little different on tuna melt day.

Notes

I have nothing to say for myself, this is just filth.

this fic would not exist if not for my partner giving me... uh... inspiration.

Thank you to everyone on tHReads who pushed me to keep writing

title comes from 'iloveyou' by BETWEEN FRIENDS.

a couple lines from this fic have been lifted straight from the show. I believe one is from the book.

Chapter 1

Shane hadn’t quite been expecting this.

Sure, it’s already a little out of the ordinary because they don’t usually meet up the day before games like this. They wait until after the final horn, when the adrenaline and aggression is still flooding their bodies— two things they can gladly take out on each other. But Shane had barely blinked when he got the text from Lily inviting him to come over. He’d just made his excuses to Hayden and hurried over.

This is fucking weird, though, he has to admit.

It hadn’t started that way, Shane thinks, mind running over the events of the afternoon. He’d walked in, admired Rozanov’s place, then tugged him towards where he assumed the bedroom would be. All normal.

Then Rozanov had crowded him up against the wall in the living room and just… looked at him for a moment, eyes roaming all over Shane’s face, not saying a word. But then he’d leaned in to kiss him and Shane brushed it off. Or Rozanov’s warm, skilled mouth wiped it from his mind. Either way.

He lets Rozanov grip his jaw and angle his face so he can lick into Shane’s mouth gently and Shane’s toes curl against his will. It’s infuriating that Rozanov’s kisses do this to him, make him senseless, desperate for more. For whatever Rozanov will give him. But there’s something unfamiliar in the way Rozanov holds him now. There’s purpose threading through his touch that feels somehow both heavier and softer than usual.

Shane shakes it off and does the next logical thing. He drops to his knees and looks up at Rozanov pleadingly through dark lashes.

Rozanov makes a soft, amused sound. “Desperate for it already, yes?” he asks quietly, grabbing Shane’s hands from his thighs and guiding them up to the waistband of his pants. Shane is just far gone enough to shamelessly nod his agreement— he is desperate for it, he always is— as he tugs Rozanov’s joggers halfway down his thighs.

Before he can do anything else, Rozanov’s hand is in his hair, guiding his head back to rest against the wall. His other hand wraps around the base of his cock.

Shane licks his lips. Opens his mouth eagerly.

“Fuck,” Rozanov breathes, guiding his cock into Shane’s mouth slowly, inch by inch. Shane’s eyes flutter closed and his mind goes blissfully blank immediately. Rozanov uses his grip on his hair to pull him forward, then to keep him still as he fucks his mouth slowly, infuriatingly gentle.

Shane whines. Grips onto Rozanov’s hips, digs his nails in, tries to urge him to go faster, to make him choke on it.

“Shh,” Rozanov soothes, tugging on Shane’s hair until he pulls back a little. His other hand falls to Shane’s face, fingertips brushing almost imperceptibly against his cheekbone. It’s devastatingly tender.

Through the haze, Shane’s brow furrows in confusion. He gets the overwhelming sense all over again that something is fucking weird.

He glances up at Rozanov. Doesn’t know how to react when he’s already staring down at him, something soft and affectionate in his expression.

And the weird thing is— well, one of the weird things is— a big part of Shane just wants Rozanov to keep looking at him like that. Wants to nuzzle into his hand, press kisses into his palm.

A slow wave of panic starts rising in him at the realisation, but Rozanov chooses that moment to pick up his pace, tighten his grip on his hair, and Shane can’t focus on anything else when he’s on his knees like this, not even the impending panic attack he can feel building in his chest.

“Fuck,” Rozanov groans quietly when Shane takes him deeper, swallows around him. “Been thinking about you for weeks….”

There’s something there, in those words, mixed with the way Rozanov is gently petting his hair, that makes Shane think he should be paying closer attention. But Rozanov just rocks his hips forward again and all thoughts, all concerns slip into the void.

“You look so fucking pretty like this,” Rozanov says a little shakily, his hold on Shane’s hair going almost painful until it forces Shane to look up at him. “On your knees for me, my cock down your throat, fuck.”

An involuntary moan rips out of Shane’s throat at the praise. Rozanov pulls him off abruptly, gasping for breath, and helps him back up to his feet, directly into a kiss that makes his head spin.

“Bed?” Shane asks, a little desperately, and Rozanov nods, pulls him down the hall in between more frantic kisses.

When they make it to the bedroom, Rozanov pulls back just long enough to tug Shane’s shirt over his head. Shane expects him to just toss it to the side but—

Rozanov fucking folds it.

He’s too stunned to do anything but stand there when Rozanov finishes and starts working on getting Shane out of his jeans.

He’s still a little freaked by the time he’s completely naked and pressed face down into Rozanov’s mattress, but the feeling fades as soon as Rozanov starts kissing his way down his spine.

The noise he makes when he feels Rozanov’s hot breath on his hole is humiliating, completely undignified, but it’s nothing compared to the strangled cry that escapes him when he feels Rozanov’s tongue a second later.

“Ohfuckplease,” he gasps, rocking back against Rozanov, against his mouth, before he can stop himself.

Rozanov teases him with gentle licks for a while, barely-there pressure all around his rim, not stopping until Shane is mindless and incoherent.

“Fuck, I can’t— p-please, I need— it’s too— oh fuck—”

Rozanov pulls back just long enough to spit directly onto Shane’s hole. It’s filthy, absolutely obscene. It’s also stupidly fucking hot and it short circuits Shane’s brain. He bites down on the pillow underneath him to muffle his sobs when Rozanov starts licking his spit into him, tongue pressing in slow and patient, working Shane open.

"Oh my fucking god,” Shane whines, and he can’t stop his hips from grinding back, riding Rozanov’s tongue.

Rozanov chuckles, low in his throat, hands gripping Shane’s hips tighter as he buries his tongue deeper and Shane suddenly loses the ability to hold himself up anymore. His arms give out and he collapses face first into the pillow.

“Mm, not done with you yet,” Rozanov says, and practically yanks Shane’s hips back so he can get his mouth back on him. This time, Rozanov doesn’t pause, plunging in deeper, greedier, driving Shane out of his fucking mind.

“Fuck!” Shane chokes out when Rozanov adds a finger alongside his tongue. “Gonna come, fuck, please.”

The finger and the tongue both pull back abruptly and Shane whines, trying to press back in search of Rozanov’s mouth again.

“Ah, I think no,” Rozanov says, sounding almost apologetic. He runs a soothing hand down Shane’s sweaty back.

Shane blinks hazy, unfocused eyes and fights the urge to look back at Rozanov over his shoulder. To beg. Instead, he takes a deep breath and waits.

Rozanov doesn’t stop touching him, hands running up and down Shane’s sides, petting his hair, kissing his back. After what feels like an eternity, Rozanov presses two spit-slicked fingers against Shane’s hole, rubbing gently for a moment before sliding inside slowly.

Shane groans and tries to press back, to take more of Rozanov’s fingers, but Rozanov presses him into the mattress, holding him down by his hip. “Be good boy and stay still for me,” he murmurs.

Part of Shane wants to bristle indignantly— good boy?— but the other, much bigger part of him is so fucking turned on by it that he can’t think straight.

“Please,” he manages to choke out, and Rozanov’s fingertips brush against his prostate for just a split second.

“Please what?” he asks. “Use your words.”

“Need you,” Shane pants, hating himself a little for admitting it. For needing it at all. “Need you to fuck me.”

Rozanov makes an approving noise and lets go of Shane’s hip to gesture towards the nightstand. “Top drawer,” he instructs, and Shane obediently reaches to open the drawer, but before he can grab the handle—

“Oh, fuck!” he gasps, hand slamming down on the top of the nightstand instead when Rozanov’s fingers start moving again, hitting his prostate mercilessly. Shane collapses back down onto the bed, knuckles going white around the edge of the nightstand.

“I thought you want me to fuck you,” Rozanov goads, fingers going still again.

“Fuck— you’re such— an asshole—”

“Top drawer,” Rozanov orders again, and Shane lets out an involuntary whimper as he reaches for the drawer again.

He’s anticipating it this time, but it doesn’t make it any easier to focus on his task when Rozanov starts fucking him with his fingers again. Still, Shane manages to yank the drawer open violently, hand searching blindly for lube and a condom.

“Fuck, here,” Shane grits out, practically throwing the items behind him. Rozanov grabs them with one hand, never breaking rhythm as his other continues working inside Shane, making sparks shoot up and down his spine.

“I’d like to look at you tonight, I think,” Rozanov says after a moment. “You on top?”

Distantly, in the very back of Shane’s mind— the part of him that isn’t just focused on Rozanov’s dick— he adds that to the list of weird things he’s noticed about today. Still, face hot, he nods. Gets up on shaky knees and lets Rozanov help him up and into his lap.

Warm palms settle possessively on his thighs, holding Shane steady as Rozanov gazes up at him like he’s never seen anything so perfect. Shane flushes and averts his eyes. Focuses on less confusing things, like getting Rozanov inside him as soon as possible.

He thinks Rozanov starts swearing in Russian when Shane finally sinks down on his cock, but he can’t be sure. No matter what he’s saying, the sound of it drives Shane crazy. He closes his eyes and just lets the sound wash over him. At least, until he catches English mixed with the Russian.

“—so fucking beautiful—”

Shane’s cock twitches while his mind fucking reels. It shouldn’t— isn’t the fact that they’re even doing this together proof that they find each other attractive? This isn’t news.

But they don’t say things like that to each other. And this entire day has felt kind of like they’re not quite stepping over the line, but definitely walking right along it, like a tightrope over the Grand Canyon. And Shane has no idea if there’s a net waiting to catch him if he makes a wrong move. When he inevitably falls.

Rozanov’s hands find his hips and tug him down to meet his thrusts. Shane’s mind goes fuzzy again and he bites down on his lip against the fucked out sounds that are trying desperately to escape.

“Ah, no,” Rozanov says, gentle fingers coming up to tug Shane’s lip out from between his teeth. “Those pretty noises are mine, I want to hear them.”

“Jesus fucking christ,” Shane breathes, brain stuck on the word “mine” like a broken record. He hates that he likes it. “Fuck, I think— I’m gonna—”

“No,” Rozanov says simply, and uses his hold on Shane’s hips to keep him from moving. Shane whines loudly, fighting his grip.

“What—? I need— fuck, please,” he babbles, and Rozanov shakes his head. He brings one hand to Shane’s hair, threads his fingers through it, then grips it tightly and pulls Shane down into a surprisingly gentle kiss. He doesn’t pull away until Shane starts whimpering into his mouth, trying to rock his hips again.

“Have you ever been edged before?”

Shane swallows hard. Shakes his head.

“Even by yourself?” Rozanov presses, and Shane’s face goes hot again. He tries to turn his head, avoid eye contact, but Rozanov’s hand in his hair stops him. “No?”

Shane shakes his head again.

Rozanov smiles, almost triumphant, then pulls him in closer, his breath ghosting along his jaw as he whispers something low in Russian that makes Shane shiver in his lap. “Keep riding me,” he adds in English, and Shane obeys immediately, glad to be allowed to move again. But Rozanov’s hand remains in Shane’s hair, preventing him from setting his own pace. Instead, he controls every motion, forcing Shane to move slower than he wants.

Rozanov lets him speed up every once in a while, lets him get so close his thighs start shaking, then makes him stop again, pulling him into a slow, soothing kiss to take his mind off of the torture.

“God, how many times are you gonna—”

“Until you say my name,” Rozanov says, and there’s something in his voice that sounds like a challenge.

Shane accepts immediately, and he’s determined to win.

Okay, he thinks, this is easy. So ‘Rozanov’ is like a safeword or something. I can do this.

Shane sets his jaw. Gives a tiny nod. Rozanov smirks at him like he knows exactly what Shane is thinking and gives a little nod back, then flips them without warning. He pushes Shane’s knees up to his chest.

“Oh, fuck,” Shane groans, back arching off the bed.

“Good?” Rozanov asks, like he doesn’t already know the answer.

“Deep,” Shane replies instead. Rozanov laughs, a low sound, then shifts his hips with purpose, thrusting even deeper inside. Shane gasps sharply, fingers scrabbling at Rozanov’s back in shock. He bites his lip, eyes clenched shut, unable to form words.

“Look at you,” Rozanov says, voice warm with praise. “Making a mess, leaking all over yourself….” He reaches for Shane’s cock and slowly strokes him base to tip once, collecting precome on his fingers as he pulls away.

Shane’s eyes fly open when he hears a wet sucking noise and, sure enough, Rozanov’s fingers are in his own mouth. He slams his eyes shut again, covering his face with his arms. Fuck, he’s close.

“Jesus christ, Roza—” He stops himself. Peeks out between his arms to see Rozanov’s reaction.

A slow grin spreads across Rozanov’s face.

“Shut the fuck up,” Shane mutters, without any heat behind it, and covers his face again. Rozanov pulls back slowly, almost pulls out completely. He waits until Shane starts whimpering, starts trying to rock his hips, then fucks back in hard enough to make him cry out louder than he has all night. “Oh, holy shit, like that, fuck, just like that!”

Rozanov grabs Shane’s wrists, tugs his arms away from his face, pinning his hands above his head.

He feels it building, feels the fireworks sparking in him with every thrust, and wonders briefly if he can get away with not telling Rozanov how close is. If he can get away with finally coming. He wonders if Rozanov would punish him somehow, maybe, and hates how appealing the idea is.

“Going to come on my cock?” Rozanov asks, smirking at him like he’s reading Shane’s mind again. “Going to scream my name and come all over yourself for me?”

Shane grits his teeth. Fights the painfully strong urge to start begging.

“No,” he insists instead. He’s absolutely not going to be saying Rozanov’s name— there’s no way Rozanov can fuck him for longer than he can hold out, and Rozanov always makes sure he comes first.

Rozanov slows down yet again, barely pulling out before grinding back in.

“Is okay,” Rozanov says, leaning in for another kiss and sucking on Shane’s tongue until he squirms. “You’ll say it soon enough.” A muscle jumps in Shane’s jaw as he resists, but Rozanov just smiles wider.

“Wanna bet?” Shane rasps, defiant despite the tremor in his voice as Rozanov’s hold tightens a little. As far as comebacks go, it’s not great, but his brain isn’t cooperating right now. He’s actually pretty sure it’s currently leaking out of his dick.

He bucks up helplessly when Rozanov twists his wrists, unable to stop himself. The shift in Rozanov’s grip grows rough, control barely threading through his motions as Shane gasps beneath him. Heat radiates between them, sweat beading off Rozanov’s chest and onto Shane’s chest and Shane feels like he’s on fucking fire.

Rozanov kisses his way down Shane’s neck, then his chest. His lips wrap around Shane’s nipple and Shane shudders as he licks and sucks and bites gently at it. Shane’s cock twitches between their stomachs.

Rozanov pulls out abruptly, leaving Shane whimpering and clenching desperately around nothing. He doesn’t even have time to complain before Rozanov is moving down the bed and fucking him roughly with three fingers, swallowing his cock down in one smooth motion.

Shane chokes on a sob, hips rocking up involuntarily. Rozanov just takes it, humming his approval, and Shane’s thighs start trembling again. He can feel tears streaming from the corners of his eyes, sliding down past his temples and into his sweaty hair, and he knows he’s going to give in. He’s about ten seconds from coming his brains out and he doesn’t know if he can handle Rozanov stopping again.

“Please,” he says finally, voice breaking as he gives in. “Fuck, please, Rozanov, I’m gonna—”

Rozanov pulls all the way back, mouth releasing his cock with a noise that makes Shane’s hips rock up into nothing.

“Rozanov,” he begs again.

“Hmm?” Rozanov asks, kissing Shane’s shaking thigh gently. “You need something?”

“You— fuck— you said I could come,” Shane says, trying to keep the accusatory note out of his voice.

“Mhm. When you say my name, yes?”

“I did!” Shane says, just a hint of a whine in his tone now. Rozanov smirks at him.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says. “My first name.”

Shane goes completely still. The panic from earlier comes back full force, alarm bells ringing in the back of his head.

What?

Saying ‘Rozanov’ was a game he could handle, a fun little challenge.

This doesn’t feel like a game at all, it feels like Rozanov just casually tossed him a grenade.

And— christ, did he just call him sweetheart?

Rozanov is still staring at him, watching his eyes as though they have subtitles there for what Shane’s thinking.

“Is too much?” he asks quietly after a moment, and the look on his face just about shatters Shane’s heart. He looks braced for rejection.

But is it too much? Shane isn’t sure.

On the one hand, they’ve been doing this for almost a decade at this point. Saying Rozanov’s name once isn’t going to kill him or ruin… whatever it is they have going on.

On the other hand… it feels a hell of a lot like taking a big ol’ intentional step right off the tightrope. And he’s not entirely sure he’s ready for that. It feels like a confession Shane isn’t ready to make.

Except the look Rozanov’s giving him makes him want to reassure him. Say no, of course it isn’t too much.

He gives the smallest shake of the head, avoiding eye contact.

As soon as he gives the go-ahead, Rozanov’s mouth is back on him. He’s gentle this time, licking around the head slowly and then working his way back down, his fingertips twitching against Shane’s prostate the entire time.

It takes Shane a minute or two to get back into it, to get his mind off of the fact that he just agreed to say Rozanov’s name, but soon his hips are twitching again as he seeks out more of the wet heat of Rozanov’s mouth.

“Mm, fuck, Rozanov,” he groans. “Your mouth is so fucking good.” Rozanov hums his agreement and Shane’s hand flies down to grip his hair. “Fuck, stop, I’m gonna come.”

“Not ready to scream my name yet?” Rozanov teases, voice a little hoarse.

“Fuck you,” Shane snaps back breathlessly. “Not gonna scream anything.”

“We will see,” Rozanov replies, then swallows him back down.

“Fuck!” Shane gasps, arching up so quickly that Rozanov almost chokes and has to hold his hips down. “Stopstopstop—”

Rozanov pulls off, starts pressing messy, wet kisses along Shane’s thigh instead. The fingers inside of Shane go still. “You okay?” he asks in between kisses.

“Fuck me,” Shane demands instead of answering, grabbing at Rozanov’s shoulders and tugging insistently. Rozanov huffs a laugh and lets Shane pull him back up the bed.

“Needy thing,” he teases finally replacing his fingers with his cock, and Shane nods frantically.

“Yes. Need you. Now, please, more,” he replies, clawing at Rozanov’s biceps hard enough to make him hiss.

“Going to mark me?” Rozanov asks breathlessly. “Show everyone that I—”

He breaks off, averting his eyes, but Shane hears the end of his sentence as clearly as if he’d shouted it and it hits him like a sucker punch.

Show everyone that I belong to you.

“Oh, fuck!” Shane shouts, and that’s it, he gives up, it’s too fucking much. His entire body is trembling, tears are leaking from his eyes, and he’s so hard he can’t think straight. “Ilya!”

Ilya’s eyes snap to his as though he can’t believe what he just heard, like he didn’t expect Shane to actually say it at all.

“Fuck, Shane,” he groans. He grabs a fistful of Shane’s hair and tugs. Leans down to crush their mouths together. “So fucking good for me,” he pants in between messy, desperate kisses.

“Please, Ilya, can I—?”

“Come for me, sweetheart,” Ilya orders.

Shane comes so hard his vision whites out. It feels like it goes on forever, painting his stomach and his chest. Somewhere, distantly, he hears sobbing and thinks it might be him. But he can’t make himself stop, everything just feels so overwhelmingly good.

Ilya keeps going, fucking him through the aftershocks until Shane is whimpering and shoving weakly at his shoulders.

“Shh,” Ilya soothes, rubbing his hands down Shane’s sides until he stops shaking. He leans down to kiss him, but Shane’s mouth won’t cooperate enough to kiss him back. His head is all floaty and warm and he can barely feel his body at all. Still, he tries his best to suck on Ilya’s tongue when he licks at his open mouth.

“Ilya,” Shane mumbles, and Ilya leans in close, presses their foreheads together.

“You back with me, мой хороший мальчик?”

“Mmm,” Shane replies, completely out of it, and Ilya chuckles affectionately.

“I will take that as no,” he says, and presses little kisses into Shane’s hair and all over his forehead. “Is okay, I’ve got you.”

Shane comes back to himself slowly. He blinks the tears out of his eyes and glances up at Ilya. Whatever his expression is, it makes Ilya smile softly at him. Shane smiles back, suddenly feeling a little shy, which is ridiculous because Ilya is literally still inside of him.

And, god, still so fucking hard. Shane groans at the feeling. He’s oversensitive already, but he desperately wants Ilya to keep fucking him.

“Ilya,” he whines, somehow managing to move his arms. He grabs at Ilya’s hips and pulls him forward until Ilya takes the hint and grinds in deep.

“Want me to keep going?” Ilya asks, and Shane nods quickly.

“Want you to come on me.” The hand in Shane’s hair tightens.

“Fuck. Not yet,” Ilya replies. “Shh,” he adds when Shane looks like he’s going to complain, “you were so good for me, солнышко. Don’t you want your reward?” The hand that isn’t in Shane’s hair wraps around his oversensitive cock.

“I— oh, fuck— I can’t,” Shane gasps, hips twitching away from Ilya’s hand. “Ilya, ‘s too much.”

Ilya’s hand stays wrapped firmly around the base of Shane’s dick. “Do you trust me?” he asks, and Shane is nodding before he can even stop to think about it.

Ilya drags his slick hand loosely up Shane’s cock— just enough friction to make his breathing go a little harsher. When Shane finally stops twitching with every stroke, Ilya starts fucking him again, every thrust slow and so deep it makes Shane groan.

Despite his protests and squirming, despite the tears welling in his eyes at the overstimulation, it doesn’t take long at all for Shane to get hard again.

“Oh my fucking god,” Shane pants, starting to rock up into Ilya’s fist again. “Harder, please— wanna still be able to feel you tomorrow….”

Ilya obeys immediately, letting go of Shane’s hair to settle loosely around his throat as he fucks Shane harder.

He scrabbles for Ilya’s hand, pulling it so it’s a little tighter. Ilya gives the tiniest experimental squeeze and Shane chokes on a sob, precome leaking steadily from his cock and onto the knuckles of Ilya’s other hand. A new urgency sparks in Ilya’s eyes, his thrusts growing messier as he watches Shane unravel.

“You want to still feel me?” Ilya repeats, smirking down at him. “Want to remember this feeling when I slam you into the boards tomorrow?”

“Yes, yes, fuck, please, Ilya, wanna feel you forever,” Shane babbles. He’s still fucking into Ilya’s hand but he’s having trouble keeping a steady rhythm with how much he’s shaking.

“I’ve got you,” Ilya soothes, tightening his fist just a little, stroking him just a bit harder. Shane inhales sharply, one tear slipping down his cheek as he starts to come undone, gasping Ilya’s name through clenched teeth.

Ilya leans down, catching Shane's tear on his tongue, possessive hunger sharpening his expression. He kisses Shane fiercely, devouring the sound of his ragged breathing as he picks up his pace. Shane presses closer, desperate for every scrap of friction Ilya can give him.

Shane arches under him, sobbing out a broken moan as Ilya drives into him harder, the heat between them overwhelming every other sensation. Suddenly Shane's body goes rigid, his back bowing as another orgasm crashes through him, shaking him with brutal intensity. “Ilya,” he whines as he comes. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to ever come again without Ilya’s name in his mouth.

But Ilya doesn’t let up, relentless as Shane’s muscles twitch helplessly beneath him. He shifts his grip, forcing Shane’s thigh up higher, making every thrust angle rougher. Ilya’s body shudders; sweat drips from his jaw as he loses control, chasing release with wild, ragged thrusts.

“Where— fuck— where do you want it?” he asks finally, and Shane’s face goes hot. “Come on, baby, where do you want my come?”

Shane averts his eyes, entire face burning, but out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ilya’s knowing grin. Perceptive fucker.

“Hmm,” he says, feigning thoughtfulness. “Here?” he asks, fingers coming up to trace Shane’s lips. Shane shakes his head.

“Here, maybe?” Ilya continues, fingers sliding down to toy with Shane’s nipples. “All over your pretty chest? No,” he decides finally, and his fingers trail down to where they’re still joined.

Shane’s reaction gives him away entirely. He shudders, hard, and an involuntary whimper escapes him. “Please,” he gasps, mindless. “Need it.”

Ilya curses, rough with urgency, as he fucks him harder, the bedsprings creaking beneath their bodies. Shane claws at his shoulders, desperate, while Ilya buries his face against Shane’s neck.

It isn’t long before he’s pulling out of Shane roughly, stripping off the condom, and manoeuvring Shane over onto his hands and knees. Shane moans loudly, arching his back.

“Ilya, oh fuck, Ilya, please. Need you. Need you to come on me, need—” He breaks off into a gasp when he feels Ilya press his cock right up against his hole.

Ilya could fuck back in so easily, could come inside him so deep he’d feel it leaking out of him all day—

He bites the pillow under him hard so he doesn’t start begging for Ilya to fuck him bare. He’s already so hard again, it wouldn’t take much….

“Fuck,” Ilya groans, and then Shane feels it. Hot come pulsing right against his entrance. He whimpers, tries to keep still until Ilya is done, but he can’t help but rock back into the feeling.

Eventually, Ilya slumps down over Shane’s back, boneless, breath still shaky as the aftershocks wrack him. He presses gentle kisses everywhere he can reach along Shane’s back, then traces tentative fingers down his spine.

“Do you want…” he starts, and his fingers press oh-so-lightly against Shane’s hole. Shane presses back against them before he can even think about doing anything else.

"Yes,” he breathes, and Ilya presses in slowly.

It’s so fucking wet and Shane can’t get over the mental image of Ilya finger fucking his come into him. He’s shaking again, trembling apart on Ilya’s fingers, but he can’t stop. Everything is sensory overload.

Ilya stops way too soon, leaving Shane gasping into the pillow.

“Ilya,” he whines, but Ilya shushes him.

“I made such a mess of you,” he says, and the tone in his voice has Shane glancing back at him over his shoulder. He looks wrecked. “I should help clean you up, yes?”

“I… what?” Shane asks, brain lagging. But then Ilya is lowering his head and—

If Shane had thought Ilya’s mouth on his hole before had felt filthy, it was nothing compared to Ilya licking his own come out of him.

The slick heat pushes Shane closer to the edge, his thighs already giving out beneath Ilya's relentless tongue. But Ilya doesn't stop, holding Shane close, his fingers bruising Shane's hips as he keeps going.

“Jesus fucking christ,” Shane whimpers, one hand coming back to tangle in Ilya’s hair and pull him closer. Ilya makes a surprised noise against him, but goes willingly. “Ilya. Ilya, fuck, I’m— oh my god, Ilya, I’m gonna come—”

Ilya hums and presses his tongue in just a bit deeper and Shane shudders violently, white-hot pleasure ripping through him as he explodes right there, clenching desperately around Ilya’s tongue. Ilya doesn’t stop, mouth unrelenting as Shane comes. He only slows when Shane’s thighs start to jerk uncontrollably. Ilya finally pulls away, licking his lips, his eyes wild, and Shane collapses onto his back, not even caring that he’s on top of sweat and come soaked sheets.

“Fuck, I love seeing you like that,” Ilya says, then leans up to kiss Shane deeply, letting him taste them both on his tongue.

Shane groans helplessly into the kiss, clinging to Ilya’s shoulders for grounding. Concern flickers across Ilya's face as he pulls back and brushes sweat-soaked hair from Shane’s forehead.

Shane swallows. He can vaguely feel the panic from earlier trying to claw its way back into his chest, but he’s too relaxed, too boneless to do anything but let Ilya hold him close, reassuring him with gentle touches.

“I should go,” Shane says eventually, though he makes no move to get up.

“Or you could stay,” Ilya says simply, but he’s watching Shane’s eyes carefully for a reaction.

“I told Hayden—”

“Is Hayden your mother?”

Shane huffs a laugh. “No.”

“No, he’s not? Who cares what you told Hayden?” Ilya leans in close to kiss at the sensitive spot he knows is on Shane’s neck. “Stay,” he adds, and Shane gives in. He has all day tomorrow to freak out as much as he wants. He grabs Ilya’s arm and wraps it around himself, right around his waist.

A nap next to Ilya sounds so good right now.

“Fine,” he says through a yawn. “But you’d better not snore.”

The last thing he feels before he falls asleep is Ilya pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead.

“Sweet dreams, моя любовь.”

Chapter 2: and I know I should go [but I will probably stay]

Chapter Summary

“Look, about yesterday…” Shane trails off awkwardly, not really knowing where his sentence is going to end up.

“Mm, what part?” Rozanov asks quietly, voice raspy with sleep, and takes a few steps closer, until he’s crowding Shane against the wall. “When you come on my cock, screaming my name? Or when I fuck you so good you sleep for—” he checks his watch, “—eleven hours?”

Heat flares low in Shane’s stomach at the reminders. His eyes are pulled involuntarily to Rozanov’s mouth.

“Rozanov—” he begins, but Rozanov’s narrowed eyes stop him from saying anything else.

“Shane,” he replies pointedly. Shane feels his pulse skyrocket again.

“Fuck. Don’t— you shouldn’t call me that—” he splutters.

Rozanov reaches out and grips his jaw with one hand, forcing Shane to look at him. “What should I call you, then?” he asks, using his thumb to trace Shane’s bottom lip. Shane’s eyes flutter closed and he resists the urge to suck Rozanov’s thumb into his mouth. “Hmm?”

Chapter Notes

The sequel literally a fuck ton of you asked for. I dunno if it lives up to the first chapter, but... here, this is me throwing porn at you and then running to go hide.

thank you to the absolutely wonderful rayrayswimusic for being my beta.

mind the tags, a couple have been added

Shane wakes up abruptly, groggy and confused, with a weight on his chest and panic clawing up into his throat. He lets his eyes adjust to the near total darkness and takes quiet stock of his surroundings.

He can’t hear Hayd snoring one bed over, which means he’s not at the hotel. It’s dark in the room, so he’s been sleeping for at least five, six hours. And he’s completely pinned to the bed.

The weight turns out to be Rozanov (or… Ilya? Fuck, fuck, fuck!) sleeping soundly on his chest, a tiny bit of drool pooling where the corner of his mouth meets Shane’s skin.

Rozanov. Ilya. Fuck. Shane feels his heart rate pick up, feels the relentless pounding of it in his fucking throat. He can’t handle this right now and he can’t have a panic attack here.

He can’t even extract himself without waking his bed partner— Ilya is wrapped around him like an octopus, one leg slung between both of Shane’s, strong arm wrapped all the way around his stomach. Shane doesn’t think he’s ever been held like this in his life. It feels like being under a weighted blanket and, if it weren’t for the panic, he’d love to sink back into it and drift off again.

But, as it is….

“Rozanov,” he whispers, voice tight.

Rozanov doesn’t move.

“Rozanov,” he tries again, more urgently this time, and Rozanov just snuggles closer, buries his face in Shane’s neck.

“Ilya!” he hisses, finally shoving at him a little to wake him.

“Mm,” Rozanov replies, and presses sleepy kisses into Shane’s neck. “Is too early. Go back to sleep, Shane.”

“Fuck, I can’t, I gotta… gotta get up, gotta… find my clothes….” His breathing is noticeably erratic now, and he strains against Rozanov’s hold on him.

Rozanov immediately gets up and moves to the other side of the bed, sitting up to observe in confusion as Shane springs out of bed, gathers his clothes, and ducks into the en-suite bathroom.

He immediately sits down on the closed toilet seat and puts his head between his knees, trying desperately to breathe deeply. Trying to ignore the fact that he’s completely naked, freaking the fuck out in Ilya Rozanov’s bathroom.

“Clothes,” he mutters, and reaches for the discarded pile on the floor. Shirt. Jeans. Socks.

Fuck, he’s missing his underwear.

He gets dressed anyway, sans boxer briefs, and turns to face his reflection.

Oh, god, he looks—

He looks completely fucked out. Ruined. There are bite marks on his neck that his shirt barely hide; his lips are red and swollen; and, when he lifts up his shirt, there are red marks on both his hips in the shape of fingertips that are sure to turn purple within the next couple of days. He vividly remembers Rozanov yanking him back by his hips and holding on when he was—

Jesus.

He turns on the tap so he can splash cold water on his face. It wakes him up a bit more, but it does nothing to slow his heart rate or soothe his panic. It just makes him more alert to fully appreciate his anxiety.

He shuts off the water, dries his hands and face, and turns to look at the door. The big, intimidating door with Ilya Rozanov on the other side of it, definitely still awake, definitely waiting for him to come out of the bathroom and offer some sort of explanation. Shane can see light streaming in from under the crack in the door and he can picture Rozanov sitting there expectantly, waiting for Shane to reappear.

Shane takes a deep breath, tries and fails to steady himself, and turns the handle.

Rozanov is sitting there on the bed, waiting for him, exactly like Shane pictured him. Well, not exactly. He hadn’t been prepared for sleep-tousled curls and flushed skin. He also hadn’t been prepared for the hurt, resigned look on his face.

Shane looks away. He hears the bed springs squeak as Rozanov gets off the bed and walks towards him.

“Look, about yesterday…” Shane trails off awkwardly, not really knowing where his sentence is going to end up.

“Mm, what part?” Rozanov asks quietly, voice raspy with sleep, and takes a few steps closer, until he’s crowding Shane against the wall. “When you come on my cock, screaming my name? Or when I fuck you so good you sleep for—” he checks his watch, “—eleven hours?”

Heat flares low in Shane’s stomach at the reminders. His eyes are pulled involuntarily to Rozanov’s mouth. His pretty lips.

“Rozanov—” he begins, but Rozanov’s narrowed eyes stop him from saying anything else.

“Shane,” he replies pointedly. Shane feels his pulse skyrocket again.

“Fuck. Don’t— you shouldn’t call me that—” he splutters, looking anywhere but at Rozanov.

Rozanov reaches out and grips his jaw with one big hand, forcing Shane to look at him. “What should I call you, then?” he asks, using his thumb to trace Shane’s bottom lip. Shane’s eyes flutter closed and he resists the urge to suck Rozanov’s thumb into his mouth. “Hmm?”

“I… what?” Shane asks, dazed, blinking his eyes back open slowly.

Rozanov chuckles. “What do you want me to call you?” Rozanov repeats, leaning in closer. “Sweetheart? Baby? You seemed to like those when you were begging me to come all over your—"

“Jesus fucking christ, Rozanov,” Shane grits out, managing to push him out of the way. He stumbles over to the bed so he can sit and shove his head back between his knees.

“Shane?” Rozanov sounds worried now. Shane hears footsteps, then Rozanov crouches down next to him. He settles one warm palm on Shane’s thigh and the other on the nape of his neck “Shane. Is okay, this is panic attack. Deep breaths, sweetheart. Do with me, да?”

Rozanov inhales slowly through his nose, stroking the clammy skin at the back of Shane’s neck with gentle fingertips. He holds the breath for a few seconds, then exhales just as slowly through his mouth. Shane closes his eyes and tries to focus on Rozanov, his breathing. The big hand on his thigh.

“Ilya,” he mumbles, and he hears his voice from far away, as if it’s not his at all. His head feels fuzzy like it always does after an attack, body numb, brain lagging. Everything feels dreamlike, unfocused and hazy.

“Shh, just breathe,” Rozanov replies, and the hand on Shane’s thigh moves to his hair, petting gently, fingers occasionally coming to scritch at his scalp. It feels so soothing, so relaxing, he slips off the edge of the bed without meaning to, onto the floor, into Rozanov’s arms.

Rozanov makes a soft sound of surprise, but gathers Shane up in his arms anyway, holds him tight around the waist, still breathing deeply in his ear.

“No, fuck, I shouldn’t,” Shane remembers suddenly, pushing weakly at Rozanov’s shoulders. “Gotta go.”

“Is almost one in the morning, sweetheart,” Rozanov reminds him gently. “You want to wake Pike? And past curfew.”

At the mention of Hayden, Shane’s panic spikes again. “Oh, fuck, Hayd is gonna have so many questions tomorrow. I’m gonna be so bruised in the locker room and everyone is gonna—”

“Bruised?” Rozanov asks sharply, pulling back to examine Shane’s face. “Bruises where?”

Shane stands up on unsteady feet and pulls up his shirt instead of answering.

Rozanov reaches out for his hips with hesitant hands, his fingertips featherlight as they move over Shane’s skin. Still, Shane’s breath hitches. His eyes close. Rozanov touching him always feels good, but this is a whole new level. It’s tender. Sweet.

Loving.

Shane whimpers quietly when he feels Rozanov’s mouth pressing apologetic little kisses into his hip, tongue darting out to soothe over each red mark.

Shane’s hand finds its way into pretty, soft curls entirely without his permission. Rozanov grabs him by the belt loops and pulls him closer, placing kisses all over Shane’s stomach now.

“Ilya.” The name just slips out, he doesn’t mean to say anything at all, but Ilya makes a soft, approving noise and nips gently at his hip.

“Shane,” he replies, like saying his name is as easy as breathing. He looks up at Shane. “Stay,” he insists.

Ilya Rozanov is literally on his knees, asking him to stay.

He shakes his head to clear it. He feels a headache coming on from all the rapid breathing during the height of his panic attack.

Rozanov must take the head shake as his answer, because he pulls away, lets Shane’s belt loops drop from between his fingers, and starts to stand, looking dejected.

“Wait!” Shane replies, shaking his head even more emphatically now. “I didn’t mean— I wasn’t… fuck. Yes. I’ll stay.”

“I can stay in guest room if you—”

“Ilya,” Shane interrupts gently. “It’s okay. I want you to stay. Here.”

The smile that lights up Ilya’s face feels like a fist clenched around Shane’s heart. He swallows hard.

“You are overdressed,” Ilya whispers, reaching for the button on Shane’s jeans. “Can I?”

Shane nods. Allows Rozanov to undo them and slide them down his legs. He stumbles into Rozanov as he steps out of them, but Rozanov catches him easily and helps steady him before tugging at Shane’s shirt.

Rozanov folds his clothes again. When he’s done, he turns around and just looks at Shane. Shane takes a hesitant step forward, towards Rozanov, feeling suddenly more vulnerable than he ever has before. With anyone.

He suddenly wants to be much, much closer to him.

“Can I…” he begins, too quiet, then clears his throat. Rozanov closes the distance between them and puts a hand on his hip.

“Come on,” he instructs gently, guiding Shane towards the bed. Shane gets in, then lifts the sheet up so Rozanov can get under it, too.

There’s a long, uncomfortable silence once they’re both in the bed. Shane feels his heart thudding painfully in his chest and wonders if Rozanov can hear it.

What the fuck does this mean? Sleeping, intentionally, in the same bed as Rozanov? It was one thing when he was lost in the afterglow of being fucked senseless— he’d passed out in seconds then. But now, they’re sharing a bed like—

Like a couple. Does he want to be a couple?

This, he thinks, is exactly why he should’ve gone back to the hotel. The hotel is uncomplicated and familiar, with curfew and Hayden’s snoring. This is too fucking weird, too close. He doesn’t know how to handle this shift in their routine, what his role is here. Normally he has a part he slips into. He comes over, begs for Rozanov to fuck him stupid, then picks up his clothes and what’s left of his dignity and leaves. He doesn’t stick around to cuddle.

And anyway, what did Rozanov even mean by asking him to stay? Why would he want him to? What could asking someone to stay over mean, besides ‘I like you and want to spend more time in your presence’? And, when he thinks about it, doesn’t he want the same from Rozanov?

God, does this mean he’s gay? Ilya isn’t, Shane is sure. He’s seen him with so many women. But Shane…. And fucking a man is one thing, but dating one?

It’s not just any man, though. It’s Rozanov. Ilya.

“Breathe, Hollander,” Ilya orders, reaching out and tangling their fingers together, and Shane cringes at the sudden use of his last name. Is Ilya regretting this already? Is it over before actually even beginning?

“Shane,” Shane whispers.

“Hmm?”

“Use my first name,” Shane says quietly, and Ilya looks at him curiously for a moment. “Please.”

Ilya just stares at him for another minute, then looks away and lets go of Shane’s hand.

Shane’s heart climbs back into his throat. Fuck, he thinks. I fucked everything up. He braces for… something. Rozanov to kick him out, maybe. Or, no, Rozanov wouldn’t do that. Not at one in the morning. But maybe he’ll just politely show Shane to the guest room and—

“Come here, Shane,” Ilya whispers, holding out his arm to the side, just above Shane’s head on the pillow. Shane only hesitates a second before he scoots in closer, relief flooding him. He curls up into Ilya’s arm, lays his head down on his chest, and runs his fingers through the line of hair leading down from his navel.

“Ilya?” Shane whispers back after a moment.

“Hm?”

“Can I… I mean, will you…”

Ilya turns over on his side to stare at him. “What is it, солнышко?” He reaches out to Shane’s face, tracing a careful thumb over his freckles.

Shane’s eyes slip closed. His breathing picks up again for a different reason.

“…kiss me?” Shane asks quietly.

Ilya leans in immediately, gentle hand at the nape of Shane's neck pulling him to meet him halfway. He presses a slow, sweet kiss to Shane’s forehead, then the tip of his nose, then, finally, his lips. Their breath mingles for a second— hesitant, warm, shared in the fragile space between “almost” and “fucking finally”.

The kiss begins as a whisper— just the faintest brush of lips, testing. Shane whines involuntarily and tries to lean in for more, but Ilya controls the kiss— he almost always does— and takes his time with it. He holds Shane’s face as though he’s going to disappear at any second and oh-so-slowly coaxes his mouth open with his tongue.

Shane opens for it eagerly, desperately, but Ilya goes just as slowly as ever. The kiss is unhurried, exploratory. It reminds Shane a little of their first one. He shivers, grabs onto Ilya’s shoulders to try to urge him closer and Ilya only resists for a moment before he lets Shane pull him until he's practically on top of him.

The last of Shane's panic slips away like water down the drain when Ilya leans down on him, pressing him into the mattress, one thigh between both of his own. He feels like a hot, weighted blanket and Shane has never felt so secure and, god, taken care of.

"Fuck, Ilya," he sighs when he pulls away to breathe. He feels Ilya's cock twitch against his thigh and arches up into him without thinking, whimpering quietly.

Ilya groans and drops his head into the crook of Shane's neck. "Those noises, baby," he mumbles, pressing kisses all over the love bites he'd left earlier. "Ты меня погубишь."

Shane shivers at the pet name and almost bites his bottom lip to keep more embarrassing noises from escaping before remembering Ilya's words last time. Those pretty noises are mine, I want to hear them. Fuck. He can feel himself getting harder against Ilya's hip. His mind is starting to float already, slipping into that familiar head-space where all that matters is Ilya’s hands on him.

"Ilya," he pants, angling his neck so Ilya can keep licking and nipping at the sensitive skin there. "Ilya, please."

"So needy again already," Ilya says quietly, but he sounds pleased. "Earlier not enough for you?"

Shane shakes his head frantically. "More. Please."

"Please what, солнышко?"

"Please fuck me again," Shane begs.

Ilya swears under his breath. Shane opens the top drawer of Ilya's nightstand and fumbles in it blindly for lube and a condom, but he hesitates before handing them over.

There's no way he should be thinking what he's thinking right now. His head is still fuzzy from his panic attack, it must be, because otherwise, there's no way he'd be considering—

He drops the condom back into the nightstand and shuts the drawer. Pointedly holds the bottle out to Ilya and hopes desperately that he won't make a big deal out of this, make him talk about it.

A stunned, disbelieving look crosses Ilya's face for just a second. Then he's taking the lube and giving Shane a small, hesitant nod.

And Shane doesn't wanna talk about it, doesn't wanna know, but he has to know—

"Have, um… have you ever…?" he asks, eyes closed, bracing for whatever the answer might be.

“No,” Ilya says quietly, and the soft, adoring look on his face when Shane opens his eyes makes his breath catch in his throat. He forces himself to make eye contact. Ilya’s eyes never leave his as he pops open the cap of the bottle in his hand. Shane rolls over onto his stomach, pushes himself up to his hands and knees.

“Ohhh, fuck,” he gasps when he feels Ilya’s breath on his skin and braces for what he knows is coming next— the electric shock that is Ilya’s tongue on him.

Ilya eats him out like he enjoys it even more than Shane does— which Shane doesn’t think is actually possible. He laps gently at his tender, abused hole, little noises muffled by Shane’s skin. Shane whines, embarrassed by the fact that his thighs are already shaking, but then Ilya presses his tongue inside of him and Shane’s vision whites out and he forgets to be embarrassed about anything. Forgets anything else exists other than Ilya and his pretty, talented mouth.

“Fuck,” Ilya growls when he pulls away. “Fucking love how you taste….” Shane cries out when Ilya eagerly continues, dragging his tongue slowly across his hole, getting him all wet with spit.

He feels absolutely filthy. He feels like he’s being worshipped. The two ideas together make his vision blur with overwhelmed tears.

He can’t help but try to squirm away when Ilya presses a lube-slick finger into him, but he takes a deep breath and tries to stay still.

“Sore?” Ilya asks, perceptive as always to every infinitesimal detail of Shane’s behaviour.

“I’m okay,” Shane insists, pressing back against Ilya’s fingers. “Just— fuck, need you in me.”

Ilya stretches him open slowly and gently, taking his time as though they have hours and hours to spend together.

Which they do, Shane supposes. It’s not like he’s going to mourn the loss of sleep if they stay up all night doing exactly this. He might be dead on his skates for the game tomorrow (later today?), but right now, he really doesn’t care.

“Fuck, more,” he demands, and Ilya huffs a little laugh before finally fucking Shane with a second finger.

“Bossy,” he teases. “So, what, you think you are in charge now?”

Shane huffs a laugh. “You— fuck, that’s good— you know you’d do whatever I ask,” he jokes back breathlessly, and Ilya’s fingers still inside him. He leans in to press a gentle kiss to Shane’s lower back and Shane can feel the shift in the atmosphere like a switch has been flipped.

“Yes,” Ilya agrees finally, sounding deadly serious. “I would.”

Shane’s chest feels cracked open at the honesty, at the tenderness in his voice. He swallows hard, grabs Ilya’s hand where it’s resting on his hip, and tangles their fingers together. “I know,” he whispers back.

And he can’t say the words yet, that’s way too fucking scary and he’s only just starting to admit things to himself, but the words are still there, hovering in the air above them.

Instead he brings Ilya’s hand to his lips and brushes a kiss across his knuckles. It’s the closest he can let himself get to the truth right now without freaking the fuck out again.

Ilya keeps his fingers tangled with Shane’s, the fingers of his other hand still working him open.

“Ilya, fuck, please,” Shane begs, rocking back steadily now.

“Something wrong?” Ilya asks, and Shane can practically hear the smirk in his voice. “You need something?” He teases at Shane’s hole with a third finger. Shane gasps. His cock pulses, precome dripping onto the sheets underneath him.

“Need you,” he complains, arching his back.

“Mm, need me to what?” Ilya replies easily, pressing a third finger into him and finding his prostate immediately. “Need me to hold you down? Pull your hair again, maybe? Fuck you so hard you cry?”

Shane nods eagerly— that’s exactly what he needs. Needs to be out of his mind with desperation again, needs Ilya to take care of him so he doesn’t have to think or panic anymore.

“No. Roll over,” Ilya orders, hand letting go of Shane’s to move to his hip and guide him onto his back, grabbing a pillow to put under him to angle his hips. “Not done looking at your pretty face,” he admits when he sees the question in Shane’s eyes. Shane gives him a shaky, shy smile, even as his face heats up at the words.

He lets Ilya press his legs up to his chest and waits while he slides in closer. A full body shudder runs through him at the knowledge that Ilya is about to be inside him with no latex barrier for the first time.

“You still want?” Ilya asks, pressing just the tip of his cock to Shane’s entrance.

“Fuck, need it,” Shane gasps, and the next second his eyes are rolling back as Ilya presses in, in, in so fucking slowly Shane is trembling by the time he bottoms out.

“Jesus fucking christ,” Ilya grits out, staying perfectly still, and Shane feels the hands at his hips shaking a little.

“Good?” Shane asks, and he knows it is, but he has to hear Ilya say it out loud, wants to hear how good he feels. How good Shane is making him feel. If it’s as earth shattering for him as it is for Shane.

“Fuck— yes— I can’t— god… Ты понятия не имеешь.….” He’s babbling, losing his English, and Shane can relate— he’s losing his entire fucking mind.

He clenches around Ilya’s cock experimentally and gasps. He feels desperate, hot all over, and his mind is just drifting in that floaty place it goes to when Ilya is involved.

The hold Ilya has on Shane’s hips becomes harsh, urgent. “Fuck, baby, have to stay still,” he breathes out, eyes shut tight. “I need— just a minute, fuck….”

Shane tries as hard as he can to stay still, to be good, but his hips keep rocking forward just a little, involuntarily. He can’t take having Ilya inside him and not moving, it’s too overwhelming.

“Holy shit,” Shane mumbles, reaching out to grip onto Ilya’s shoulders. “You feel so fucking good inside of me.”

Ilya groans at the words. He pulls back just enough to grind back in slowly and just that is enough to make Shane’s nerve endings feel like they’re being electrocuted.

“Are you— fuck, Ilya, that’s so good, oh my god— are you gonna come inside me? Please, Ilya, I need—” Ilya shoves two fingers in his mouth, presumably to get him to stop talking. Shane moans around them and starts sucking eagerly. Ilya’s cock twitches.

“мой хороший мальчик,” he mutters, petting Shane’s tongue with his fingers. “Such a slut for my cock every fucking time.”

The words hit Shane like a physical blow to the spine and he moans around Ilya’s fingers again, arching up into his slow, measured thrusts. He reaches out for him, grasping at thin air until Ilya leans close enough for Shane to hold onto his shoulders again.

“Harder,” Shane demands, word distorted around Ilya’s fingers.

“No,” Ilya says simply. “I’m going to fuck you just like this, nice and slow, and you are going to come on my cock or not at all.”

Shane whimpers, hips jerking towards Ilya’s uncontrollably. “Ilya,” he complains when Ilya presses his hip into the mattress and holds him there.

“Shh,” Ilya soothes, pulling out before grinding in deeper and making Shane choke on a sob. “Going to make you feel so fucking good….”

It’s too much and not enough all at the same time. Shane keeps whining pathetically, arching his back and trying to rock back onto Ilya, so fucking desperate he can’t think straight anymore. Ilya just feels so good inside of him, hot and big and exactly what Shane needed, he’s beyond desperate for more. He feels a hot stinging in his eyes again and clenches them shut tight to avoid letting any tears fall.

He’s never wanted to be so close to someone, never wanted to literally fuse himself to another person, but it’s all he can think about now, how badly he needs Ilya to stay buried inside him forever.

Ilya fucks him so slowly Shane feels like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin. Every inch of him is aching with need and despite all his talk, when he opens his eyes again, Ilya doesn’t look like he’s handling the excruciatingly slow pace any better than he is. His composure, his restraint is slipping.

Shane clenches down around his cock. He’s rewarded for his effort when Ilya’s hips stutter and he thrusts back in harder, faster than he has been. Ilya’s fingers slip out of his mouth and his hand moves to cup Shane’s jaw.

“Jesus— fuck, Shane, don’t—"

Shane looks directly into Ilya’s eyes, sees the almost pained expression of a man desperately trying to hold onto control.

He clenches again. Ilya breaks, pulling Shane’s hip to tug him down to meet his thrusts.

His hand flies to Shane’s hair to yank his head back, angle his mouth how he wants, and the next thing Shane knows he’s being kissed and bitten all along his jaw and neck.

Marks, Shane thinks, he shouldn’t leave any—

He can’t make himself actually care right now. Not when Ilya is finally, finally fucking him like he needs, just on the verge of too much.

“Fuck, harder,” he begs, pulling Ilya in closer by the hair. “Bite me again, harder— oh my god—” He knows he’s going to look like a debauched wreck in the locker room later and there’s the tiniest part of him that’s looking forward to it, that wants people to see proof that he’s Ilya’s and Ilya’s alone.

The truth of that thought hits him like a freight train. He cries out sharply, head thrown back, and comes all over his own chest so hard he feels like he’s shattering apart. He hears Ilya saying something, but he sounds a million miles away. He tries to focus. His body has gone completely liquid and his brain is filled with static.

“—going to come, fuck Shane, so fucking tight around my cock, I can’t—”

Shane moans and claws at Ilya’s shoulders. “Please,” he slurs out finally. “Fuck— come in me, please, wanna feel you inside me, dripping out of—”

He’s cut off by Ilya’s loud groan and the hand tightening in his hair to the point of pain. Shane’s vision sparkles. He can fucking feel Ilya coming inside of him, cock twitching and pulsing and it’s slick and hot inside and Shane wants it to go on forever. Ilya keeps going until he can’t anymore, until they’re both oversensitive and shaking, then collapses forward, panting, and presses his face to Shane’s chest. He places gentle kisses all over, wherever he can reach, mumbling in Russian the entire time.

“Я тебя не заслуживаю,” he whispers, sucking a mark into the skin just above Shane’s left nipple. “Ты такой идеальный. Останься со мной навсегда.”

Shane holds Ilya there on top of him, running his fingers soothingly through his sweaty curls while they both come down.

“Mm, we should shower,” Ilya says finally, though his eyes are closing and he’s adjusting on the bed to hold Shane more comfortably.

“Not ready for you to pull out yet,” Shane admits quietly. “Still feels good.”

Ilya nuzzles into his neck. “Mm, we could get you a plug,” he says, nipping Shane’s jaw. “Keep my come in you for long as you want. Keep you filled up and stretched, ready to take me whenever….”

Shane gasps and clenches down around him again, involuntarily this time, and Ilya swears under his breath.

“Behave,” Shane says, reaching around to swat Ilya lightly on the ass. Before his hand can make contact, Ilya’s hands are grabbing his wrists and pinning them down to the bed.

Ilya leans down for a kiss, then hesitates. Cocks his head. “…are you going to run away from me again?” His tone is casual, but Shane can see the genuine concern on his face.

He swallows hard, then shakes his head.

“No,” he whispers. “I’m done running from… whatever this is.”

The smile that lights up Ilya’s face makes Shane feel as though he’s swallowed pure sunshine, heat flaring bright in his stomach.

“Good,” is all he says, before leaning in to finally kiss Shane— only to be interrupted by Shane’s stomach growling angrily.

“Oh, fuck,” Ilya says, and he looks like he’s remembering something important. “You did not eat!”

Shane laughs. “It’s okay, Ilya.”

“Ah, no, is not. I had whole plan to—” He shakes his head, cutting himself off. Then he sighs.

“You had a plan?” Shane asks, giddy at the idea that Ilya’s been thinking about this, that it wasn’t just another impulsive decision.

“Yes. Very serious, this plan. I had important question to ask you. So.” He looks at Shane very seriously. “Shane Hollander.”

“Yes?”

“You like tuna melts?”

Shane grins.

Chapter End Notes

there's a reference in here to my other favourite show that literally no one but my partner is gonna get and laugh at. all for you, baby.