Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Mildly Dubious Consent, as a function of, Somnophilia, Consensual Somnophilia, Freak4Freak Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Married Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Porn with Feelings, but also pwp, Kink Exploration, Incorrect use of benadryl, Author was overly freaked out sorry, Drunk Sex

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of My 30-Days of Anon HR Freak Shit

Collections:

Anonymous

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-12 Completed: 2026-03-10 Words: 12,043 Chapters: 2/2

Blanket Permission

Summary

“Have you ever thought about fucking me in my sleep?”
Ilya had nearly dropped his phone as he let the words process slowly in his head. And Shane flipped a page in his book before looking up at Ilya, innocently, like he hadn’t just–
“I mean only if you want to, I just think it would be hot, you know?”
Ilya heaves a sigh and tries to put the image out of his head. It would be wrong, no? For him to–for them to–

 

or, Shane has a new kink he wants to try. Ilya fights for his fucking life.

This is pure filth involving Somnophilia, Ilya's feelings about it, and Shane being a freak.

Notes

lowkey an aside from my other fic 'Downy.' Take that as you will. This is pure filth. Likely under negotiated kink, but uhhhhh it's what it says on the label, okay? Sue me.

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

“Have you ever thought about fucking me in my sleep?”

Ilya had nearly dropped his phone as he let the words process slowly in his head. And Shane flipped a page in his book before looking up at Ilya, innocently, like he hadn’t just–

“I mean only if you want to, I just think it would be hot, you know?”

Ilya heaves a sigh and tries to put the image out of his head. It would be wrong, no? For him to–for them to–

“I know consent turns you on, so I get if this is pushing it, but you would have my consent. I mean you do, like, blanket already.”

The thought of Shane in their bed, asleep, as Ilya touched him. Blanket consent, and Ilya has to shut his eyes. It’s so fucked. He’d do anything for Shane. He’d do anything for Shane and find it hot in the process. 

“You want this?” He asks.

“I think so. I don’t not want it.”

Where did he even come up with this? What the fuck are they putting in those hockey books these days? “But you would be asleep. You cannot consent in sleep.”

“No but I can before I go to sleep. Ilya, think about it,” he sets his book down and rests his head against the headboard so he can look at Ilya. He bites his lip and then sighs, “the first thing I’m aware of while waking up is you inside me, it’s,” he sighs again and Ilya needs to touch him, “fuck, and I could take something–you know how Benedryl lays me out–and it would just–”

Shane cuts himself off and throws the book on the ground before he grabs Ilya’s shoulders and swings around to straddle him, trapping Ilya’s phone between their chests. 

“You can say no,” Shane says as he grinds his hard cock into Ilya stomach, and fuck can he? When Shane went from boring hockey book to humping Ilya in less than a minute? “But I’m yours, Ilya,” and Ilya cannot help but groan, “I want you to use me.”

“I think about it, yes?” Ilya says, and Shane nods, pressing a wet kiss to Ilya’s lips. “Now I fuck you.”

“Yeah, okay.” 

He does think about it, to the point that he feels perverse and dirty. It had never crossed his mind. And sure, Ilya had woken up with Shane’s mouth around his dick before, just as Shane had with him, and no, they hadn’t really talked about it. Blanket consent before they really knew what that meant, but still this feels different. 

He stares at Shane while he sleeps and wonders what it would feel like to tug the blankets away and touch. Shane isn’t a light sleeper, but he doesn’t sleep like the dead either, so he doesn’t know logistically how that would even work. Shane had mentioned Benedryl, which seems to Ilya like one step below being roofied with the way it takes Shane down. He’d made the mistake of taking it once while having an allergic reaction before a game and he’d been a zombie and for the first time in his career, he’d been benched for performance issues. 

And Shane hadn’t touched the stuff since and he’d been one step away from writing a manifesto against the drug entirely, and so for him to bring it up? In this context? Fuck, he’d been thinking about this for a while. 

Because it would work, no? Two Benadryl and Ilya could be inside him without him even realizing what was happening? It’s fucked. It’s so fucked. And Ilya doesn’t like pills in the first place. 

“I have been thinking about it,” Ilya says while they sit on the couch. Shane is cuddled to his chest and there is a movie playing but none of that matters. 

“Oh?” Shane asks. “About what?”

“Sleep sex.” 

Shane seizes a bit and sits up, looking all too like an excited puppy that has been offered a treat. “And?” 

“I will consider, but no drugs. No pills.”

“Consider, as in?”

“I have considered. I will do it, but you will wake up before I can fuck you and you will be upset.”

Shane licks his lips and shakes his head, “I promise you, I will not be upset. Fuck, that’s so hot.”

“When do you want?” Ilya asks, and Shane looks nervous for a second. 

“Surprise me?”

Fuck. 

The first time goes like this:

Ilya tosses and turns all night, staring at the ceiling and at Shane and feeling something lecherous and wrong in his chest as he gets hard and softens over and over at the thought of having Shane like that. Ilya would have been happy to order Shane around in bed and fuck him normally for the rest of their lives, and yet here Shane is, inventing new avenues of torment.

It’s a Saturday morning. No practice. No obligations. No morning laundry. No plans. Just–just them. And this. And Shane is asleep with his ass up, face down into the soft pillow below, and–

By the time he gears himself up to do it, he worries that Shane will be waking up on his own anyway. 

And he worries that this is a mistake. That Shane will feel violated and be angry no matter how much he has reassured Ilya in the past week that he wants this. That he thinks about it. That he wants Ilya to own him so completely that every piece of him is his, even in sleep.

God, and its something about the amount of trust that Shane has in him. So wholly sure that this won’t wound him. That Ilya will take care and make it good. Ilya doesn’t deserve his trust. His love. His kindness. And he wants to scold himself for getting hard at the thought of using Shane like that, but Shane had nearly cum in his pants from a mere conversation about it, so he thinks his level of perversion is welcome within their marriage. 

Really he never would have thought about it. Shane is just–Shane is a fucking freak. 

So he tugs the covers down carefully, sure that the warm sweater Shane had worn to bed would keep him from waking from the cold air, and slips out of bed carefully. He paces a bit in the hallway and thinks of all the things that have led up to this. How perfect Shane is. Tying himself into knots so that once he is ready and wants something, he’s prepared to take it. To throw a fit and demand it so long as he knows it is what Ilya wants too. 

His pants are elastic around the waist, and Ilya is presented with Shane’s pert ass. He reaches out just to touch, trailing his fingers over the slopes of muscle and fat before dipping his forefinger between Shane’s cheeks, engulfed in the warm heat. 

His husband is the hottest man alive. 

And his husband will surely wake before he can loosen Shane enough to fuck him, but this is good, too. This is fucking hot. So he takes Shane’s cheeks into either hand and spreads him open slightly, back already beginning to ache from the angle of keeping his weight off of Shane’s legs, and swipes his tongue along Shane’s hole. 

He thinks if 21 year old Ilya, begging Shane for scraps of attention, could see him now, he’d have been admitted into a hospital for acute heart failure. 

He takes a steadying breath, pressing his hips into the bed to offer some relief for his shameful hard-on, and vows to make his past self proud, prodding his tongue past the rim and sucking at the musty skin slightly. 

Shane is squirming and he could be awake, truly he could, but Ilya keeps going. Squeezing the flesh of Shane’s ass and spreading him further, drooling down into him in practiced reverent strokes of his tongue. 

“Il-ya,” Shane moans, and Ilya smirks despite himself. 

“Good morning, sweetheart,” he says when he pulls away and prods a finger past the spit wet rim of muscle.

“Fuck-fuck, fuck, Ilya,” Shane grinds down into the bed, “you gotta fuck me. Right now, please.”

“Yes,” Ilya spits down onto Shane’s asshole and prods his finger in just slightly deeper, before reaching with his free hand into the side drawer for lube. “Yes, now I will fuck you.”

“What if I slept with a plug in my ass,” Shane says a week later, and Ilya has to carefully set his phone down on the counter to avoid flinging it across the room. 

Ilya breathes deeply. “What would this accomplish?”

Shane chews around the green leaves of his salad contemplatively and swallows. “Then you could fuck me before I woke up. You wouldn’t have to get me open, I would just be ready for you.”

Right. Because Ilya had found the most innocently perverse motherfucker on the entire planet and attached himself both legally and in soul. Shane doesn’t even–Shane thinks porn is irritating and disingenuous and he cannot get off to it, so where does he even–

How the fuck does he come up with this stuff?

Ilya leans forward a bit and taps on the table. He cannot lie and say that in the process of thinking about it, Shane had once again effectively poisoned Ilya’s otherwise straight forward and untarnished sexual urges. He cannot lie and say that the way Shane looked at him the entire morning following waking with Ilya’s tongue in his ass hadn’t made him more receptive to the idea as a whole. 

“We don’t have to,” Shane says gently, and Ilya shakes is head. 

“Is hot.”

Shane levies a beautiful smile and takes another bite of his leaves, “I thought so, too.”

That night when they crawl into bed, sans plug or drugs or anything penetrative, Shane whispers, “Sometimes I wonder if it would make me dream about it. Like if you fucked me good enough, I wouldn’t even have to wake up because you’d be fucking me in my dream, too.”

Shane, your mind is so fucked and I love it and you so much it aches, what the fuck is wrong with you. “Yes, okay,” he says. “Yes, okay, tell me when you want and I will do.”

Shane lifts a brow and kisses Ilya, “Just like that?”

“You offer to let me fuck you, I like fucking you very much, what is problem?”

Shane smirks and shakes his head, “No problem. But it’s okay if you want to think about it.”

“You want, yes?”

“Yes,” Shane says surely this time. No wavering. 

“Then yes, I give.”

It takes a while. Not long enough for Ilya to forget, but long enough to push to the back of his mind. Practice happens like normal, Shane does his chores religiously, Ilya fucks him most every night, and all is well. 

It’s a Friday this time. And Shane tip toes into the living room where Ilya is watching a documentary on Animal Planet. He steps fully in front of the television and waits for Ilya to ask, “Yes?” before making his move. 

He steps forward and drops down onto Ilya’s lap, pressing his hips down and pressing his lips fully against Ilya’s throat. 

“Fuck,” Ilya says, and takes hold of Shane’s gyrating hips. “Fuck you are the hottest man ever, fuck–”

“Just men,” Shane says into his ear, so Ilya shakes his head. 

“Women, too, yes, except I forgot about me. I am hottest man. You are hottest man’s husband.” It’s a lie. Ilya is husband to the hottest man on planet fucking earth according to People magazine and Ilya’s own ego. 

“Here’s the thing, Ilya,” Shane says and grinds down against his stomach, missing his dick by several inches but it has Ilya moaning anyway. Shane grips one of Ilya’s hands that grasp his ass tightly and pulls it away and then lets go. “Touch my ass, baby, I wanna feel you.”

Yeah. Yeah okay. 

Ilya dips his hand into Shane’s briefs and slides his fingers carefully towards his hole. The closer he gets, the more wet and warm it becomes and Ilya’s breath catches when instead of being allowed to finger Shane’s perfect asshole, he finds the body warmed metal of Shane’s favorite plug. 

Fuck. Fuck, Shane, you’re so fucked, by me, I’m going to fuck you–

Shane kisses him roughly and then pulls away, tugging at his wrists to unclench Ilya’s desperate grasp from his hips. “I’m going to bed,” Shane says casually, and then with great intention, “Okay, yes?”

Are you okay with what I’m asking? Ilya hears, and he nearly tells Shane that it’s stupid to even ask. If Shane has given away blanket permissions to his body, Ilya had done the same long ago. There is very little Ilya could fathom that he would say no to if it would put this expression and pretty blush on Shane’s face. “Yes,” he says, and he comes out too high pitched to he clears his throat. “Yes, okay. Go sleep. I will join you later.”

Before he retreats, though, Shane smiles at him and leans down to kiss him sweetly. “I love you, Ilya,” he whispers into Ilya’s mouth. 

“Da, is because I am sexiest man alive,” he says back. Shane gives him an unimpressed look so Ilya smiles and wrinkles his nose. “Yes, I love you too, so much that I am not fucking you right now because you want me to be inside you while you sleep, so go before I take it back.”

“Op,” Shane lets out, and then turns to retreat into the house. 

What the fuck. Kinky motherfucker. 

He gives Shane hours, sure that he will toss and turn in anticipation and wanting him to be in deep enough sleep that this does for him whatever it is he is searching for. He waits until his documentary is over as well as the episode of the next show, and the entire time he’s half-hard and wanting so bad. Thinking about Shane in their bed, waiting for him, trying to force himself asleep so that he can wake up with Ilya inside him, fucking him. Laying there with that plug in his ass, grinding down backwards for friction and relief when he should be trying to sleep. 

And Ilya really doesn’t like pills. He doesn’t. But he wonders if a day came where Shane really needed it–got too sneezy to sleep, nose running, genuinely needed it–if maybe he would want Ilya to take advantage of that. He’s sure Shane would ask, if he wanted that. Unless he wouldn’t. Unless he hoped that Ilya would take this to the next perverse level and combine it with their other deal. The blanket permission. The–the surprise of it all. He feels icky even thinking about it, and watching another episode before he can work himself up to going to their room. 

Shane doesn’t snore, but he breathes deeply in sleep and with light puffs of air out of his nose. He’s on his stomach, situated on top of the blankets. And it’s enough, as it always is, to see the curve of Shane’s ass sticking up for Ilya to get fully hard again. Shane is so hot it should be a crime.

Fuck, what the fuck. 

He doesn’t stop feeling dirty inside as he carefully tugs Shane’s pants down past his butt, and it wars with the want and heat of it all. His heart and head fight against each other, and so he forces himself to focus on what is important. He grabs the lube from the side table and carefully, inch by inch, settles himself to sit on the back of Shane’s thighs, keeping most of his weight up on his knees. He sits there for a long while, listening to Shane breath, waiting for the pattern to change and give him away. It doesn’t.

So Ilya takes a deep breath and fingers at the base of the plug, carefully pulling it out by the millimeter. Shane’s breath does catch slightly, but Ilya ventures on, watching in bleak fascination as Shane stretches around the widest part of the bulb. 

Shane must’ve fucking pumped the lube directly into his asshole. He very well could have, given how much of a pervert he is. Clear lube leaks out of him and Ilya–

Ilya gives into exactly what Shane wanted. He pushes the ick away by force. He focuses only on the shape of Shane’s ass, the begging pucker that winks at him in loss, and the sound of Shane’s breathing. 

He’s asleep, Ilya’s brain supplies uselessly as he shifts forward. He’s asleep, he’s asleep, he can’t–this is fucked you can’t–what the fuck this is so hot–

Ilya slides in easy, moving so slow, so careful, and he’s shuddering with it. The heat around him, the slump of Shane’s sleeping frame, completely at Ilya’s mercy. And all Ilya wants to do is worship him. 

He makes it so far as their hips being flush together, mind whiting out when his balls press against Shane’s skin. Shane’s breath hitches again, and when Ilya drags out slowly, it turns into a long drawn out moan. 

“Ilyaaa,” he says, and grumbles before pushing his face into the pillow. “Fuck,” Ilya can still hear, “fuck.”

Ilya isn’t sure if Shane is awake or in the process off, but the broken off way he speaks–so wanting, so trusting, so fucked through already with only one stroke–Ilya gets to work. He pushes back in, framing Shane’s waist with his hands and rubbing his thumbs into Shane’s skin. He grinds his hips down over and over, and when Shane reaches around and grabs Ilya’s hand, anchoring it to the back of his head by threading it through his hair, Ilya obeys the unspoken command and holds Shane down while he fucks him. 

Little muffled, “uh, uh, uh,” and the sounds of Ilya’s body slapping into Shane’s is the only thing in the room. 

It’s–it’s hot. He can admit it. He isn’t too big to admit it. It’s so fucking hot. Shane wants it so bad. Wants Ilya so bad. God, he trust Ilya so much, so much to have him like this, to see him like this, he’d let Ilya do anything to him, any fantasy he might come up with it is Ilya he will come to and ask for it. And fuck, what else will he come up with?

“Fuck, Ilya, Ilya I’m gonna–fuck, I’m, I’m,” Shane cries out, and Ilya lets out a chuckle that sounds more like a growl as he leans down to speak into Shane’s ear. 

“Already, sweetheart? I’m just getting started. You will be good, yes? Let me finish?”

Shane cums like a switch gets flipped, grinding down into the bed and back up into Ilya frantically. His hands tangle in the sheets, clutching them so tightly. 

He’s so unbearably hot. Ilya tsks at him, “Now it will hurt you,” he says, “You should have waited.”

Shane shakes his head and turns so his face is exposed. Tears stream down his face and for a moment of horror, Ilya realizes that he didn’t check in the moment Shane woke. He stops all movement and leans down, kissing Shane’s cheek. “Moya lyubov, moya lyubov, you are okay?”

“Fuck, Ilya, keep fucking me. I wanna feel it. I want it to be too much.”

Naturally. 

It’s Ilya that needs comfort after, though. After he wipes the evidence from Shane’s hole and kisses his way down his back and up again. Once he has stripped the sheets while Shane sits on the floor in a daze with an absentminded smile on his face. Once Ilya tucks Shane into bed and retreats to get water for the both of them. 

It is Ilya that crawls into bed and crumbles. 

He doesn’t cry, nothing so drastic, but he feels altogether like he did something truly wrong. Truly perverse. Like-like he’d taken something that wasn’t his, and worse he’d found it erotic and hot. 

“Ilya,” Shane whispers and tugs Ilya to him by the arm. “What is it? What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” Ilya responds. “Was just intense. I am thinking about it.”

Shane nods and gives him time while he occupies himself with pressing dry chaste kisses to every crease in Ilya’s hand. 

“Are you alright?” He asks gently. 

Shane pauses his kisses but leaves his face cradled in Ilya’s palm. “Ilya, I–it’s not something I want to do all the time, but fuck, it was exactly what I wanted. I wish I could have slept longer. You could use me and finish in me and let me just wake up sore and–”

Ilya squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, “Shane, stop. Stop–I am not–this makes me feel bad. As if I’ve done something wrong.”

“Oh,” Shane says, and finally he shimmies closer so he can envelope Ilya fully into his arms. “I didn’t realize. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked for that–”

“No, it was very hot. I could have not done it or stopped anytime. I liked it. And I do not like that.”

Shane doesn’t argue with him. He presses gentle kisses to Ilya’s cheeks and whispers to him until Ilya’s eyes droop. “You were so good, Ilya. You take care of me so well, always making me feel good just the way I ask.”

The next time is months and months later. Shane hadn’t broached the topic again and Ilya had descended into the pits of fucking despair becuase Shane had a control panel in Ilya’s brain where the only option for sex and sex adjacent activities is on and Shane had turned the freaky sleep sex on and nobody thought to go back and turn it off. 

He’d been so good the next morning. He had cooked Ilya breakfast and actually eaten it with him instead of drinking liquid salad. And he’d told Ilya that he was a good husband. That there is nobody else for Shane but him. That Shane wants him in all ways, for all reasons, for all times. 

It’s nothing Ilya hadn’t known. But it felt nice in the uncomfortably fragile state he’d been in that morning. He didn’t even really know why. Maybe something about Shane’s total surrender? The total trust that Ilya would do what he asked and do it right? That for Ilya to be given such trespasses to Shane’s body as not a violation but a form of worship–it’s fucked. “And if you ever wanted that again, you don’t have to ask,” Shane had said quietly, “you can just have. I want you to just have. But you never have to if you don’t want to.”

And Ilya keeps thinking about it. 

So the next time, the opportunity presents itself in the form of cat hair, clinging to Jackie Pike’s jacket when Shane hugged her goodbye. He spent the entire rest of the evening sneezing. He’d showered and changed his clothes and thrown the entire hamper, unsorted, into the washing machine. Ilya had vacuumed the sofa and when the sneezing continued, he took a lint roller to it as well. 

“Fuck it,” Shane says, stuffed up and pinching his nose to stave off another sneeze. “Fuck this shit.” He stomps over to the bathroom and throws open the mirror cabinet loud enough that Ilya trails in behind him to make sure it’s not broken. He watches as Shane cracks open a small bottle and dumps two small pink pills into his hand and tosses them back without water or another word. “Can’t fucking do any goddamn thing around here,” he says, and Ilya isn’t sure what exactly he’s cursing out, but he nods along in support. 

He also knows what those pills are. 

Ilya shoves at Shane so he drops down and sits on the toilet seat cover with a scowl. Ilya turns the shower on, cranking it all the way to hot, and Shane breaks his scowl to offer the hint of an irritated smile. 

“Steam will help with snot,” Ilya says, and Shane nods in agreement. 

“Yeah, yeah. Hopefully the meds kick in. I might fall asleep during that documentary, but I’ll try.”

Shane does try. He spends the last half hour throwing his head back into the sofa every time it dips down. His eyes are visibly heavy and whenever Ilya says something to him, he receives a half assed response and towards the end, only a, “Mhm.”

“Come on, moya lyubov, let’s go to bed.”

Shane nods, and his nose cleared up an hour ago and he hasn’t sneezed in just as long. He sticks his arms straight up and Ilya smiles as he helps his husband stand, draping Shane’s arms around his body and helping him to bed. 

“I’m not an invalid,” Shane says.

“I know.”

He helps Shane undress and laughs when he drops into the bed with only his briefs on.

And the switch in Ilya’s head is on. Shane never shut it off.

He thinks about that first time, when Shane brought it up. How bright eyed and turned on he’d been. God, Ilya thought about when he’d actually done it. When Shane had woken up while being fucked and shot off like a fucking rocket and the first coherent thing he did was to tell Ilya that he’d have liked even more. That he wants Ilya like that, if Ilya wants. 

But he can’t–fuck, he’s hard and leering at his husband’s sleeping frame and he can’t just do it. He can’t. 

So he steps up to the side of the bed and runs his finger through Shane’s hair, tugging slightly to turn his head towards Ilya. 

“Shane,” Ilya says right next to his face.

“Hm,” Shane response without opening his eyes. 

Ilya whispers it, tugging Shane’s hair again but a bit harsher, “I’m going to fuck you now, yes?”

Shane’s eyes don’t even crack open, but a moan rips out of him and he grinds his hips uselessly into the bed. “Mhm,” he slurs out. 

In what world is that enough?

In the one Shane and I are in where he’s the kinkiest fucker I’ve ever met and he’s got me close behind, god fucking dammit. 

“Shane, sweetheart, is that what you want?”

Shane groans and grinds his hips down again, “Ilya,” he gets out, and he sounds like he’d drunk himself under a bar. Or gone days without sleep and the moment his head hit the pillow, he has his husband panting over him asking for sex. 

“Shh,” Ilya whispers, “sleep now. Is okay.”

Ilya sits at Shane’s side and stares for a long time. Hours probably, he’s not sure. He doesn’t know what Benadryl feels like. He is exclusive to menthol rubs and stretching when something pains him, and otherwise he just ignores symptoms until they go away. He doesn’t like pills. So he doesn’t know just how out of it Shane is. 

He knows it’s fucked. He knows. Is it Shane’s fault? Ilya’s sexual deviance is tied entirely to him, but Ilya doesn’t want to place blame. Not when this was Shane’s desire first. 

He begins slowly. He sits at Shane’s side and runs his hands against his skin, lightly brushing his knuckles in trails up and down his back, leaving goosebumps in his path. 

Shane is very beautiful. Very kind. Ilya loves him very much. Trusts him very much. Knows that if Shane wanted to skewer himself on Ilya’s morning wood before he’d clawed himself to waking, he’d be nothing but thrilled at the sight upon waking. Would beg for it every morning, probably. Would relish in his luck and love and he would never want Shane to feel poor about it. He wants Shane to take from him. Whatever he wants. 

In that they are the same. 

So he squirts some lube onto his fingers and tucks his hand into Shane’s brief, finding his way to Shane’s hole and rubbing it. He takes his time, even as Shane breathes deeper in his sleep. He takes his time breaching one finger inside, curling it up into Shane and watching in fascination as his ass seizes up lazily. 

Ilya is so hard he might pass out. 

A second and Shane’s shoulders are tight, too. A third, crooked to hit his prostate, and Shane is making little noises on every breath out. He always loves this part. The care before. Opening Shane up, seeing out easily and quickly he loosens and his body begs for Ilya. It’s no different now. Like his body begs for it. 

So Ilya gives it. 

Again, he is gentle, pushing down the ugly feeling in his chest and instead focusing on the burning heat in his hands and dick. He throws his leg over Shane, assuming the same position as last time, and drags his dick up and down through the slick mess of Shane’s ass. It catches on Shane’s loose rim over and over, until Ilya himself is grinding forward slightly. 

And for all he’s already done, this is a point of no return, yes?

I want you to just have, Shane had said, so Ilya has. 

He presses in, resting his forehead on Shane’s muscled shoulder and moaning loudly into his skin. Shane lets out a punched out, “uh,” and his legs widen vaguely, but nothing that would betray his waking. 

“Fuck, Shane,” he groans out in russian as he fucks in fully again, letting the warm wet drag of his husbands ass wipe his mind from all coherent thought. “Fuck, Shane, I’m so in love with you, my love, sweetheart,” he shifts forward a bit to he can suck on Shane’s ear and keep fucking him, “I’m so in love with you and you trust me so much, I never want anything but you.”

Shane’s body seizes over and over, and Ilya can tell the moment Shane begins to become aware in a sluggish slow draw. 

It begins with a moan that sounds like it was ripped from Shane’s throat, followed by a weak buck of his hips back into Ilya. So Ilya grips Shane’s hips tight enough to bruise, “No, moya lyubov, you are asleep. Stay still.” 

“Fuck me,” Shane chokes out, and Ilya licks up along his shoulders. 

“Am right now, yes. Is good?”

Shane isn’t speaking in whole sentences. He is slurring out words and moaning and the only word he gets out over and over is Ilya’s name. 

“You with me, sweetheart?” Ilya asks, and Shane shakes his head. 

“Dunno.” It comes out broken and stilted, a new syllable for every frantic thrust into Shane’s ass. 

“Still good?”

“Don’t sto–”

It’s enough. Even though it trails off into a sigh that is more a moan than anything else, it assuages some of the worry in Ilya’s chest. Enough that when Shane clenches down around him and finishes with a weak whine and no warning, Ilya thinks his every organ shuts down and restarts again. It burns from his finger tips to his toes and he can feel the texture change on his dick as his cum mixes with the slick lube in Shane’s hole. 

He can’t help it when he slams in one more time so his hips are flush to Shane’s cheeks, reaching down and spreading them apart to spear him even deeper. He can’t help it when he twitches inside him over and over and over with little stilted humps of his hips, leaving every last drop of cum inside Shane. 

Shane has rolled onto his back when Ilya returns with a wet cloth and all the shame back and comfortable in his body. He is watching Ilya with a soft smile and half cracked eyes, parting his legs without prompting and tipping his hips upwards so Ilya can easily wipe away the mess. 

He can’t quite look Shane in the eyes. He worries. God he worries. 

“That was the hottest thing you’ve ever fucking done, Ilya,” Shane says, voice still slurred and tired, but Ilya heaves a sigh of relief. “I could wake up every day like that, honest, I’m so fucked just thinking about it.”

As if to prove his point, Shane’s dick valiantly twitches against his stomach and Ilya smiles and shakes his head. 

“You okay?” Shane reaches out with one hand, and Ilya takes it and uses his own free one to wipe at Shane’s stomach. 

“I am okay.”

“Come here, baby,” Shane tugs at him, and Ilya drops the cloth onto the ground, which will surely get him in trouble come morning, and falls into Shane’s arms. “That was so good for me, Ilya,’ Shane says, and kisses his way across Ilya’s cheeks. 

Ilya fucking loves when Shane gets like this. Gently affectionate and doting. He loves the way his soft chaste kisses feel against his face and his hands, and how beautiful and kind his husband is. 

“Did you like that?” Shane asks. 

“Was very hot. I am very, uh–”

“Conflicted?”

“Yes, conflicted.”

“That’s alright.” He can tell Shane wants to say more, but the Benadryl hasn’t really faded entirely, and it’s the middle of the night anyway. 

‘We’ll talk in the morning. Sleep, Moya lyubov. Sleep.”

Chapter End Notes

I'm not catholic but I am going to confession this weekend.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

If you are following along with the series, this is part of my atonement for making everybody fucking cry over the watersports, okay, I'm SORRY.

If you're not.... um.... here's chapter 2.

 

Lowkey inspired by the line in one of the later fic in this series, “You have as much a claim to my body as I do. In that way we are one" and in this weird ambiguous universe that this series seems to take place in, this one happens after that, I guess. There is *no* timeline that makes sense. ANYWAY.

I'm aware that the tone is different than the first chapter. It's been a long month of writing, I've changed 💅 (for the worse)

They don’t talk about it in the morning, and he thinks it's intentional. He could have tried and prodded at Shane to explain his side and offer comfort to Ilya. But instead, it’s easy silence where he’s woken up to gentle kisses and the latent grogginess. 

He waits. On and on he waits for Shane to bring it up. Through the whole day and the next. 

And then weeks go by and Shane doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing stopping him from bringing it up himself, but life goes on. 

Life goes on but Ilya’s a bit stuck. Shane just trains him so easily for things that he didn’t even know he could or should want. 

He’s known so thoroughly and embarrassingly by Shane, who now waits until Ilya is home before doing certain chores or who will lay about on the couch half naked and talk about something awful and boring like the merits of carbon steel as an alternative to teflon. Shane probably knows this too, he just hasn’t said. 

Ilya can’t stop thinking about it, but there’s nothing easy in the feeling. Shane had said it clear enough before. ‘You have as much a claim to my body as I do,’ he’d said. ‘In that way we are one.’ It’s just so much less straightforward in practice. 

He finds himself watching Shane in the middle of the night feeling predatory and wrong for it. Shane would let him, he knows. Shane would enjoy it. But there’s something in his chest that won’t let him try again. 

“What if you did it to me?” 

Shane pauses, papers in hand, and looks down at Ilya. “Do what?” he laughs. 

Yeah, that’s fair. It’s been months.

He’s doing something with their finances in the office, shuffling through files and mail, and leaning forward to squint at the computer while clicking around. His glasses are pushed up almost against his face so his eye brows will leave marks on the upper edges, which will only make him mad later. Occasionally, he whispers under his breath while he reads, or he’ll staple papers together and look at Ilya out of the corner of his eye.

It’s all very unfortunate for Ilya, so he sits on the floor against the wall to watch–transparent and uncaring, because Shane has been very boring on purpose lately. 

 “The, um,” he looks away and wrinkles his nose. Shane asks for things so shamelessly. “The sleep sex.” 

Shane sucks in a breath. He sets the papers down and swivels in the chair before sliding down to the ground and shoving Ilya’s knees to drop. Ilya has no reason for shame and Shane doesn’t seem surprised when he straddles Ilya and finds his dick hard–it’s the whole reason he’s in here, after all. But Shane has a half bitten smile and gentle hands as he asks, “You want that?” 

He swallows and trails his hands up under Shane’s shirt to feel his warm skin. “I want to do it to you, Shane. It’s in my head a lot.” 

Shane licks his lips and leans forward almost imperceptibly. “Yeah?” he says breathily. His pupils are already blowing out. 

“You still want that?” 

Shane makes a noise that might’ve meant to be a laugh, but it catches in his throat. “Mhm. Yeah, I want that, Ilya.” 

“I need to understand–I feel wrong,” he frees one hand from Shane’s clothes and taps at his own chest. “I feel wrong for wanting it, and I need to understand.”

Shane doesn’t argue with him. He just looks at Ilya for a while, running his thumb over Ilya’s brow and giving him a sweet kiss on the mouth before he nods. “I hadn’t pictured it like that. But I can do that. If it would help you understand.” It won’t do for me what this will do for you, Shane doesn’t say, but Ilya hears it. For you, though, I’ll do it.

In most things, it’s Ilya on that end. Where he’s doing his best to keep up with Shane–and enjoying every second, but not always understanding. And normally he can fumble his way to understanding because Shane is Shane and Ilya likes fucking him very much. 

In this though, he hasn’t been able to reconcile it. He hopes Shane isn’t offended about it. That Shane has so much trust in Ilya’s word and yet he can’t find it in himself to trust Shane’s waking consent. 

He asks Shane not to tell him when. And Shane agrees. 

It will be even harder for Shane, he knows, because where Shane isn’t necessarily a light sleeper, Ilya tends to oscillate in and out of sleep with every creak of the house. Back when he first moved to Boston and traffic passed by constantly, the cars would wake him, but he’s since gotten over that. 

Shane has never been a problem for him, though. Shane wakes up first often enough, and Ilya hardly ever feels him get out of bed with any real clarity. But still, the times that Shane drapes himself over Ilya during the night, tickling his chest with his breaths and causing Ilya’s arm to fall asleep, he wakes. Only a few moments–long enough to look at Shane and make sure he’s comfortable before sleep takes him again. So it will be harder. He can’t sleep through things like Shane can. 

But that’s not the point anyway. The point is understanding. 

Every night for a week, he goes to bed buzzing. Anxious and worried and staring at Shane a bit too intently as the man ignores him in favor of tucking in. He understands why even if he doesn’t like it, because until he’s able to settle down, every noise wakes him up. Shane will breathe too loudly and Ilya is staring at the ceiling in response. 

He knows, logically, that Shane hasn’t forgotten, and he wonders if this is how Shane felt while Ilya dithered around doing this for far longer than this. The constant anticipation and worry that it just won’t. 

He is caught between waking and sleep for a brief second, as Shane grumbles into his neck and throws a leg over Ilya’s thighs. Awake enough to worry but not enough to move about it, he glances down, finding Shane’s eyes closed and his breathing already deep and content again. It’s easy, just as it always is, to fall back asleep. 

Shane is on top of him, in golden morning light, and the bed and pillows swallow Ilya’s shoulders and head as he’s helpless but to watch on. It fades in and out and Ilya can’t tell if he’s blinking or breathing or if he exists at all. Sometimes Shane rides him, rolling hips that puts pressure on Ilya’s. Sometimes it’s his mouth, his hands. For a moment it’s Ilya’s own and Shane stands off to the side. 

His hands won’t work but still they move to grab Shane’s thighs, holding him down and helping lift until Shane is back to the side of the bed watching as Ilya jerks off. 

Words refuse to fall from his mouth and his body is tight and delirious. “Shane,” he says, and it’s the only word he can get out. 

“Ilya.” 

Shane says it so beautifully. His name always sounds the nicest on Shane’s lips. Like he’s always a bit irritated and in love.

He used to dream about Shane all the time back in Boston, and even more once he made it to Ottawa while Shane was still in Montreal. He would think of him in so many precarious situations, on and off the ice, and it wasn’t always sex but often enough it was. Shane would be sitting on his couch watching bad TV, though at the time he didn’t know what types of shows he liked. Or he would be narrating a hockey game at Ilya’s side on the bed. 

His imagination was limited back then, as Shane existed in only two ways, but still it tried. The dreams would eventually change in their frequency and texture, looking more and more like sitting at tables across from Yuna and David with Shane at his side in the moments before it was allowed. 

Now he knows more about Shane than everybody else–has more pieces held within his chest than he ever thought possible–and with it less and less reason than ever to dream about him. If his eyes open, Shane will be there. Always. Tangible, loved, and his.

He’s looking at the back of his own eye lids and there is a weight on his hips and pressure around his dick. Up and down, smooth and gentle rolling motions. Heavy breathing from an open mouth and Shane’s legs tremble around him. 

Little broken off moans from Shane’s lips. The heaviness of his cock every time he seats himself fully down onto Ilya. 

And Ilya’s still looking at the back of his own fucking eye lids. 

“Fuck,” he chokes, and Shane pauses his movements. 

“You with me?” Shane’s voice is higher pitched and stilted through his breathing, and god the weight on Ilya’s hips is so good.

His hands work again and he pulls them from above his head and under the pillows to grab for Shane blindly. Thick muscled thighs feel like fucking home in his hands and he squeezes, encouraging Shane to move again. His eyes are so heavy. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. 

“Come on,” he says, and forces his focus away from the already tightening muscles of his stomach. Already warm in his spine and Shane plants a hand down right in the soft part of his torso and uses it as leverage. 

Ilya’s so close to sleep and orgasm at the same time and he doesn’t know, “How fucking long were you–oh shit, fuck.”

“Not long at all.” Shane’s fingers curl down into Ilya’s stomach until it hurts, and finally he pries his eyes open. 

“Fuck me.” 

“I am.” 

“Fuck.” 

Shane pauses and looks down at him. He’s flushed bright pink, veins in his neck are visible and his hair is sticking up in every direction. God had Ilya dreamed about this, and the liminality of wake and sleep has his mind frozen still. He looks otherworldly. Like a fucking sex angel or something equally hedonistic. His eyes are hooded, cutting off half his big brown eyes from view, and from the angle the white below his iris shows. “Fucking hell.” 

His glasses–

“You want me to finish too fast, yes, is that what this is, to prove a point or–”

That’s something else Shane likes, though now is not the time, god Shane likes everything doesn’t he, Ilya never stood a goddamn chance.

He’s ignored, and Shane lifts his hand from Ilya’s torso and reaches back to slap at his knee which Ilya lifts in response immediately. Instead of answering, he leers down at Ilya and pushes his glasses up by the middle bar with one finger and leans back to rest his weight on Ilya’s raised leg, hands trailing down his own torso as his stomach muscles flex tight. It’s performative and fucking awful. Ilya’s fucked. 

“You awake yet,” Shane groans, as if Ilya hasn’t been running his mouth already. “You lookin?” 

Ilya has to touch, so he drags his hands up Shane’s body and begins to sit up, but Shane shakes his head and shoves him back down. 

“No, Ilya,” he moans again, and grinds deep into Ilya’s hips. “You’re asleep, remember?” 

You just told me to be awake, he doesn’t say. But it doesn’t matter. Shane’s just running his mouth, too. 

Shane stays on him for a long time, drawing lines through his drying cum on Ilya’s stomach while Ilya hides behind his forearms and breathes. 

It’s awful for so many reasons, but mostly that in a way he gets it. Thinking about Shane taking from him like that, how good he must’ve felt. And functionally he’d always known that was the point, but it's different to see it. 

His pleasure is Ilya’s, and Ilya’s is his. 

And so maybe there’s just something about being allowed to touch Shane’s body without the expectation of a response. Shane deserves to be worshiped, in wake and sleep, with every part of Ilya’s being. Like Ilya has been allowed to kneel at the feet of a touchstone, where the only tangible thing is what he’s willing to do in service of supplication. 

His pleasure is mine, and mine is his. In that way, too, we are one. 

“Are you alright?” 

“Mhm,” he pulls his arms away and reaches for Shane, feeling at his stomach while Shane flexes for him. “I am alright.”

“Was it good?” 

He’d be fine waking up like that everyday. Honest. “Yes. I’m sorry for not understanding, but, um, I do. Now. Very much. I’m–that was very–I’m going to fuck you again in a bit.” 

Shane cracks a smile and nods. “Yeah, okay.” 

–

It becomes a thing they do–not often but enough that it’s a thing. Awake in the middle of the night and Shane’s body is there and he touches, and always before long he wakes. It’s the only flaw in a plan like this, but it's hot, though it's usually foreplay more than anything. 

And Shane loves it. He’s always blissed out and tired the mornings after, and Ilya too finds himself smiling awake on the rare nights Shane has woken him up with kisses down his chest or already opened up and positioning Ilya’s dick inside of him. 

“We should get sleep trackers,” Shane says one night while they fall back asleep and Ilya devolves into laughs before he can give a real answer. “No, I mean it.” He’s sure Shane is rolling his eyes in the dark. “You could see when I was in deep sleep and vice versa, make it last longer before we wake up. You could fucking ruin me, Ilya.” 

The shame is there, hiding, and probably won’t ever go away, but even brighter is the trust. The want. The love. 

They’re at a party in the off season, and Shane is drinking. He’s light and responsible, still, but Ilya has stopped any further intake himself in favor of coaxing more and more down Shane’s throat. In the first hour, he’s warm and flushed and Ilya is stuck watching him from across the room. 

Ilya holds a conversation with Hazy as best he can, but he has a specific image in his head that he can’t get rid of no matter how hard he tries. And so while Hazy is doting on Lisa’s new project that Ilya does truly care about, he pulls out his phone while nodding along. 

Ilya: Get drunk tonight. As much as you can without getting sick. 

“So she’s working with remote clinicians so provide more complete care in more rural areas–”

Shane grabs his phone from his pocket. Half a second and his eyes are cutting across the room to Ilya, who winks. 

Jane: Why?

Ilya: Won’t need a sleep tracker that way. Get drunk.

Shane’s eyes widen and he takes a deep breath while staring at his phone, and then he begins nodding. 

“–but they’re working on more year-round–” 

Shane pockets the phone without responding, but he downs the drink in his hand and excuses himself from the group he’s lingering in to make his way back to the bar. 

“–and she says in Northern Ontario access is such a problem–”

“Hazy,” Shane calls. “You doing shots?” 

“Yes. Hollander’s doing shots? Yeah, we all are.” And to Ilya, “I’ll tell you more later, don’t worry.”

“I look forward to it,” Ilya laughs while trailing behind to join the group, where he begs off his own shot as the designated driver and locks eyes with Shane while he tosses it back. 

He corners Shane in the bathroom–or maybe Shane summons him, it all means the same fucking thing anyway. He’s dazed and flushed red against the bright lights and he’s staring in the mirror in the same way Ilya does when he realizes he’s far drunker than he’d thought. 

The lock clicks behind him and he leans against the door while Shane stares, eyes widening and narrowing at himself. 

“I’m fucked up.” 

“Mhm. Yes.” 

“Like really fucked up.” 

“Yes.” 

Shane blinks one more time at himself and finally turns his gaze to Ilya. “So,” he says as a sigh, “what’re you gonna do to me?” 

“You want to be ruined, yes?” 

His eyes flutter shut and he moans quietly in his throat. “Yeah.” 

“Mm. What happens if you do not wake at all?” 

“Shit,” Shane spins and leans his butt against the counter, and reaches out lazily–so drunkenly–for Ilya. “Shit, Ilya, you keep going. If I don’t wake up then, I wanna wake up sore.” 

Ilya shuffles forward, leaving the door in favor of pressing himself fully against Shane’s front and pressing his forehead to his. “You are sure?” 

“I thought we got past this,” Shane says with irritation that he would probably hide while sober. 

“Shane.” 

“Yes, I’m sure. Please, I didn’t get this fucked up for nothing. Make it worth it for me, okay, Ilya?” He bats his eyes, playing Ilya’s heartstrings like a goddamn fiddle, “You’ll do that for me, right?” 

“Yes, Shane.” I’d do anything for you.

Shane is kissing down Ilya’s neck in the car, and Ilya has to keep one hand over Shane’s seat belt buckle to keep him from taking it off and crawling across the center console. His breath is pure vodka and the fake fruit punch that had dyed Shane’s lips red. 

Ilya’s skin on the right side of his neck is sticky with saliva and Shane trying to get closer. 

“Shane, we’ll be home in a few minutes, just–”

“Pull over.”

“No.” 

Shane bites his neck and Ilya flinches away. “Come on, why not? You could fuck me over the hood, or I could blow you–I could fucking do that now if you would just let me unbuckle–”

“No.”

“Or we could do sexy mechanic, you like that, I’ll pretend to fix something and,” his words are all running together and it takes everything in Ilya to focus on the road and he tries to shove Shane away with his elbow. “And–or the tree thing, remember when you fucked me in the dirt, it’s summer, we could–”

“No.” 

“I’ll read the car manual from the glove box, it’ll be so fucking boring, Ilya, come on–”

Shane doesn’t even hear Ilya, undeterred, and keeps going. Pawing at Ilya’s neck and pants, ending up with his hand around Ilya’s dick and just holding it in hand while the other clutches the bar above the door, to drunk and fucked up to coordinate talking and moving at the same time. 

And by the time they make it to their driveway, Ilya is dizzy and Shane is crawling into his lap the second he allows him to unbuckle. The seat can’t move back fast enough and Shane’s ass keeps hitting the horn, and it’s a stupid fucking electric seat but Shane isn’t deterred. So as Ilya slowly moves back, Shane is wedging himself down inch by inch, horn blaring, as he sucks Ilya’s tongue into his mouth. 

He’s going to wake the neighbors. They’re going to get the fucking police called on them. He tries to tell Shane this, but he just groans and keeps going. 

And fuck, Ilya’s already fucked, so what. 

“Let me take you inside.” 

Shane grinds against Ilya’s stomach, holding Ilya’s head against his chest with both his arms in a tight headlock, mindless and using him to get off. Ilya’s trying to keep his wits, a fucking lost cause at this point, and finally the seat moves far enough back that Shane is no longer hitting the steering wheel and he sits fully down. “I gotta get off, first,” Shane slurs. “I can’t sleep like this, I gotta finish.” 

“I’ll take you inside, Shane.”

“No but this is so hot.” He drags the last word out, and they’re too fucking big to do this. Two grown men were never meant to fit in one driver's seat, but Shane won’t move, even when Ilya pops the door open. He just braces a foot down against the paved drive for leverage. “Remember when we used to meet halfway,” he says against Ilya’s cheek, slobbering the smell of vodka and punch onto Ilya's skin. “In those little nothing towns in Vermont? You didn’t have a problem with car sex then.” 

“I don’t have a problem with car sex.” What is Ilya even saying right now? “Shane, get up.” 

Shane pulls back and frowns and his tone of voice must have been enough because he rolls his eyes with a huff, and tumbles out of the car, stumbling to brace against the side when he loses his footing. 

“Back then I was desperate,” he says as he gets out and steadies Shane with an arm around his waist. “Now, I’m married. I don’t have to try as hard.”

“Oh, fuck you.” 

“It’s true. You are very easy for me.” 

Shane pinches his side between his nails. “Yeah, and you’re so hard to get.” 

“Hard? Yes. Inside. Now.” He says it as if Shane is going to walk anywhere without the support Ilya provides, but it makes him laugh, and that’s enough. 

Shane’s lips are still stained red after he brushes his teeth, and his head is so heavy that it rests against Ilya’s the entire time he scrubs with his eyes closed. Ilya tells him he can go to sleep without, but it is not a welcome suggestion at all. So he digs through the kitchen drawers and leaves things on the counter so he’ll be in trouble in the morning–he does like being in trouble for things like this very much–and brings back the pills to preempt Shane’s headache in the morning. He forces him to drink water and stages more at the bedside.

It’s good, though, to stand with Shane leaning heavy against him and watch him brush his teeth as the foam collects on the corners of his mouth. Dreaming about times like this had led him here, so who would he be not to cherish it. 

Shane’s tooth brush is still in his mouth when Ilya begins to tug at his dick, so he hurries to spit and rinse and throw it in the cup in response. So dazed and drunk, smiling sweetly and wanting in the mirror, watching Ilya’s hand move under his waistband. His eyes are so heavy and they keep falling shut until again he leans his head against Ilya, and lets himself be touched. 

Ilya is terribly in love. 

It does feel a bit like worship. He’s realized that. In the same way people kneel at altars with nothing but their faith and twists of candle smoke in response, he does this for Shane. 

He doesn’t ever have to be afraid that this is wrong. Nothing about Shane is wrong. Nothing about his wants and the way he moves through the world, so differently than Ilya himself. So careful in the steps he takes, always second guessing and putting his weight down in increments. Not with Ilya, though. With Ilya, he blazes through, and nothing could ever be wrong about that. 

Shane is face down in the pillow and Ilya rolls him gently to keep him from suffocating. Looking at Shane won’t ever get old. He has such pretty lips and perfect skin, with his freckles that become even more pronounced in the summer. 

Ruin is such a subjective word. 

Ilya’s ruined in many ways and it’s all Shane’s fault. 

Shane is still in his party clothes, which are just jeans and a button up and they come away easy enough. His limbs are heavy, though he isn’t entirely vacant. When Ilya lifts him up to pull the shirt out from under him, his hazy eyes are open and watching by the time he’s rested back into the pillow. Goosebumps raise on his arms and legs and he hums occasionally. 

Ilya folds the clothes, unable to help the smile when he does it. Perfect squares for no reason, as the next home they find it the hamper with the rest of the wash. 

He’s naked, soft and spent, and Ilya has all the time in the world to just look. To think there was a time that he would look to memorize and not to feel–that Shane’s body wasn’t as familiar as his own as he was fed bits and pieces for years to stave off the starving. 

“Shane?” He says it quietly, and Shane blinks slowly in return, watching Ilya’s every move with a delay. His jaw moves like he’s going to speak, but his lips don’t move and no noise comes from his throat. “It’s okay. Sleep. I’ll take care of you.” 

Slow blinks to close, and Shane sighs out a large breath. 

He has time. 

He starts with Shane’s feet, rubbing the sole and pressing kisses to his ankles and shins. He has time if he wants it, and so he gently bites Shane’s calf and admires the light impression left behind. Hurting Shane is not the goal, but making his body remember until morning is. There’s so much softness in the mass of muscle that makes up his legs. 

There are no knots in Shane’s legs during the off-season and no cricks in his feet. He’s gotten bigger as he’s aged, and not in the way Ilya is sure he himself will when the time comes to retire on McGriddles and laziness where Shane will like him anyway. Once he only needs to be fit enough to fuck Shane into oblivion rather than for hockey. And Shane had never been scrawny, nothing even close, but he thinks Shane’s prime might still be ahead of him with the way he’s changing in his thirties. 

 It’s unbearable, really, to think about, so Ilya doesn’t. 

Shane is still sensitive, and when Ilya makes it up his thighs–and once he’s worked his tongue into the divots of his hips–he takes his soft cock into his mouth. Shane’s stomach seizes, and Ilya watches his face, waiting for him to open his eyes. They flutter, and with a hum, he turns his head into the pillow. 

He very well might be sick in the morning. More than just a hangover. 

Make it worth it, then. 

The problem is that given this freedom and ability to touch and laze about, he thinks he could fill the whole night. That he could fall asleep with Shane’s cock in his mouth, or kiss his neck and leave a ring of bruises down to his collarbones. He has things to accomplish, but he’d be content. 

Still he forces himself to pull away, leaving a thick coating of saliva on Shane’s sensitive flesh, and moving up his body. Kiss against his soft stomach, unflexed and squeezable like his thighs and calves, and Ilya traces where the defined lines would be if Shane were to be awake and posturing. Shane works so hard for this perfect body of his, and Ilya is lightheaded with it. He always is. It’s a fucking problem. 

Fingers lace in his hair so gently as he takes Shane’s nipple between his teeth, and Shane sighs again. What is he feeling? The hand at the back of his head presses down, though, so he sucks in earnest. They massage into Ilya’s scalp, but again when he looks up to Shane, his eyes remain closed and moving beneath the lids. 

Shane’s legs move open, butting up against Ilya’s side so Ilya hooks his thigh up over Shane’s and rests it in the open space. He’s breathing heavily and Ilya is doing his level best to count how many bumps and wrinkles surround Shane’s nipple. It's research. Can’t be rushed. Nothing to be done. Shane makes a noise in the back of his throat and Ilya loses count and has to start again. He knows this is not what Shane intended, but he has so much fucking time. 

He’s dead weight. Ilya, though, has endless practice manipulating this body, and with little struggle he gets him back onto his stomach, taking an inordinate amount of time to position Shane’s head in such a way that he hopes his neck won’t be sore. Shane keeps humming and sighing, and once his back is exposed, he curls his arms underneath the pillow and his head and settles in. 

Ilya collects the lube from the night stand and is again caught staring. Shane is just so fucking pretty. Magnificent. He understands why everyone was so shocked in the beginning. He always did, but looking at Shane like this reminds him of just what he’d done in his younger years. What and who he’d managed to pull. A man that should be on the cover of every goddamn magazine out there, and he’s Ilya’s. Implausible and stupid, but the proof is passed out drunk in the bed before him. 

And to want this? From him?

Tell that to the fucking magazines.   

It’s going to be different than any of the times they’ve done this before. Shane opens for him easily–he always does–but the deeper he presses his fingers in, garnering little reaction from Shane, it only really begins to sink in that he isn’t going to wake up for this. Not in any way that counts. 

He’s not going to last. He knows that before he even tries, so instead he shuffles down the bed, intent on making good on his word. Shane’s hole stretches around his two fingers as he opens and closes them with little purpose other than looking. The space between them is wide and fleshy, and he curls his fingers in to pinch the rim between forefinger and thumb in a way that makes Shane squirm while awake. True to form, his back tenses, and Ilya runs his fingers around the edge with little rubbing motions. 

There’s time. So he shuffles back up, tugging his fingers out of the open space and squeezing Shane’s ass on the ascent up his body. “Come on,” he says, as if Shane is going to respond. “Come over here.” Ilya rolls Shane onto his side, back to Ilya’s chest, and his body offers no resistance when Ilya hooks a hand under his knee to hike it up and expose Shane again. 

He curls his hips up and under so they lay flush against Shane, and his dick slides into the crease of his ass, held still in the lube slicked warmth. He could fuck him like this, just using the warmth and light pressure to get off. It wouldn’t leave Shane feeling it, though, so he reaches down and drags the head of his dick along it until it catches on Shane’s hole. With just a small bit of pressure, he slides in. 

He hopes Shane is dreaming about it, or just conscious enough to feel him. It only takes a few thrusts into Shane before his belly tightens to snap and Ilya is cumming inside of him. And his eyes are heavy too, but he has to use his time. 

The cum leaks out when he exits, and he pushes it back in, collecting little slings of it on the tip of his finger and tucking it back inside Shane to wipe off on his inner walls. 

More and more bruises and hickeys bloom along Shane’s back. He leaves one right at the arch of his lower back off to the side of his spine and one on either shoulder blade. On the inside of his thigh where the skin is soft and sensitive and down to his calf. Right below his ear. Shane’s nipples are hued purple, too, before Ilya pulls himself away. He’s covered. 

“I look like I got fucking chewed on,” he’ll say in the morning, once the heat wears off, and Ilya will have to shrug and say, “Who’s to say you weren’t?” 

He would have liked it if Shane had awoken during this, to see the dazed look in his eye as he realizes what’s happening or if his body already knew. Shane will plot later to figure that out, he’s sure. 

Truly the only problem with this is how badly he wants to know how Shane is feeling. What he’s going to feel like in the morning. His favorite part of sex has become watching the way Shane reacts to it and needs it–needs him. He can’t pinpoint the exact moment in time that Shane’s pleasure–that Shane’s reactions to that pleasure in body and voice–had taken precedence over his own, but surely it was back when they were still just dumb kids in hotel rooms. Maybe since the first time. It’s just so good for him when it’s good for Shane. And right now he has no way of knowing except pure blind faith. 

He fucks him again, after laying about and kissing his body for far too long, this time with Shane’s legs thrown over his shoulders to he can watch his face. Ilya enters slowly, taking his time to watch himself slowly disappear inside until he’s flush with Shane’s body. He sinks in easily as he’s given no resistance at all. 

His calves dig into Ilya’s shoulders with a dead weight, and Ilya keeps his arms wrapped around them to keep them in place. Shane isn’t hard but the precum that had begun pooling between him and the bedsheets while on his stomach continues on in small beads that Ilya keeps reaching out and touching. Collecting them on his thumb and taking it to his lips. Sacred in its proof of response. 

And between one moment and the next, where he’s sucking his thumb clean, Shane’s eyes are open. He’s blinking and rolling them and he’s so clearly out of it, but when they lock on Ilya between his legs, they widen. “I’m so drunk,” he slurs out without using his lips or teeth to form the words at all. 

“Yes,” Ilya says gently as he pauses his movement. 

“Ilya,” Shane groans in his throat and shuts his eyes again. “Ilya.” His head lolls to the side and he laughs in a stilted breath through his nose. 

Ilya moves again, testing it, seeing how he’ll react, and Shane’s mouth falls open around a moan. 

“You might not remember this at all,” Ilya tells him, as he pulls out almost to the tip, and Shane’s expression stutters. 

“Mhm.” 

It doesn’t matter anyway. So Ilya pushes all the way back in, earning a grunt from the man below him, and the beginning of a burn in his lower spine. Shane’s breathing is loud and when Ilya drags out again, his mouth falls open. He’s going to drool, probably. It’s going to dry on his face so he’s crusty in the morning. 

He’s so soft inside, hugging Ilya tight at the base and providing warmth and contracting muscles inside. Ilya’s insides twist with it and he’s so fucking easy for Shane, it’s awful. Twisting and contracting and he starts to move faster. Shane wants to be sore and the way to do that isn’t soft loving strokes while he stares down at him. It’s this, and eventually he spreads Shane’s legs and presses them up so he can lean down over Shane. It’s not perfect and where Shane would normally clutch at his legs in this position to keep them in place, it’s Ilya that has to do it, but the angle is better. And he can kiss Shane’s chest, easier, and further purple his nipples. 

His body curls up more and more inside and Shane pants below him, asleep or not Ilya doesn’t know, and so he does his best to make it even harder. Faster. Rough enough that the sound of his balls slapping against Shane’s ass echoes around the room that only makes him want to do more. He’s not even sucking on Shane’s chest anymore as his face digs painfully into his sternum, gasping for air as his hips rabbit back and forth.

It’s all the way up at the base of his skull, thinking about Shane in the morning, looking at the evidence on his body and knowing what Ilya did for him. He’s going to be so fucking pleased. He’s going to spin around in the mirror over and over and touch at his hole and flinch away from the soreness and he’s going to be so happy with Ilya. 

“Fuck, Shane. Fuck.” He’s going to wake up first and hungover and stumble his way to the bathroom and when he flicks the lights on, he’s going to forget why he’s in there because of how he looks. It inspires Ilya to give him one more, right at the center of his chest, biting and sucking and leaving a reddened spot in his wake. Maybe he’ll convince Shane to get his name tattooed on him someday. Right above his collarbone, or maybe low on his hip, for everyone to see in the locker rooms. 

Shane’s dick is twitching and still soft, nestled in a puddle of its own making, and his hole is squeezing almost painfully tight around Ilya’s dick. Ilya helps him along, taking his soft flesh into hand and manipulating it up and down as it stretches in his hold and refuses to fill. But still, he can feel when Shane’s orgasm hits him from the inside, and in the blinding pressure and heat of it, his dick weeps out a few more weak drops. 

Ilya’s fucked. And he works hard to slam in a few more times, before he cums inside of Shane for the second time. 

Ilya cleans him as best he can on shaking legs and near delirium in his own pleasure, wiping away the leaking cum from his ass and the drool and curling around him to sleep. He’s not even drunk but he thinks this is worse. 

There’s a pressure on his hips and his arms are trapped in the blankets as warm fingers trace his lips. They flutter around, tugging at the corner of his mouth and worming their way in to get a swipe of saliva that then drags away across his cheek. 

Soft lips to his forehead. Warm breath against his face. 

Yes, Ilya is very happy. 

“I know you’re awake.”

“Sh.” 

“I look like I got fucking chewed on, you know that?” 

Ilya smiles and cracks his eyes open, looking up at Shane’s bruised and chewed neck. “No. How did that happen?” 

Chapter End Notes

IDK how I pumped out 7 of these in 7 days at the beginning of this, that was insane behavior.
Couldn’t be me. 💅

If anyone cries at this, I'm deleting the series (I will not be doing that)(I'm a liar)(But what if???)(No, I'm lying)