Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Porn With Plot, Post-Book 2: Heated Rivalry (Game Changers), POV Alternating, Multiple Orgasms, Sexual Overstimulation, Biting, Choking, DEDOS EN LA BOCA, Subspace, Dom/sub, Dom Ilya Rozanov, Sub Shane Hollander, Character Study, Past Trauma, Introspection, spoiler alert: they talk

Language:

English

Collections:

Candy Hearts Exchange 2026

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-22 Words: 7,103 Chapters: 1/1

let's make a deal

Summary

"I've been thinking," Ilya murmurs, breath hot against Shane's mouth. "We never tested how many times you can come in an hour. You said two. Now I think you could do four."

Shane's head spins as all his blood rushes south. "This seems like an awfully complicated distraction," he says.

He feels Ilya grin against his lips. "So? It's working."

Shane wants to talk about Ilya's move to Ottawa. Ilya doesn't want to talk much at all.

Notes

sliebman10, hello hello! i tried to combine your prompts of "We also know how competitive they are with each other and how much that turns them on"+ "would also love to see some post canon moments" + your NSFW likes, and while I don't think I failed, things got way more emotional (and horny, which is wild considering THE ORIGINAL IDEA WAS HORNY) than I'd planned. i just really wanted to explore ilya's TLG thought patterns in their nascent state… #iykyk. Also thank you for your quick response to my email to the mods.. I'm sure you weren't expecting that 😆 I hope you enjoy!! <33

thank you as well to 🦝 for helping me iron out the plotty parts and to 🦉 for QAQCing after i tore apart my first draft. u guys are real ones 😙

title is from the OST by peter peter!

They have been at the cottage for twelve days. Shane cannot—will not—let Ilya put this off any longer.

Jane [7:14]:

< My mom just sent me these:

< https://www.apartments.com/jpgmb66/

< https://www.apartments.com/en8h4pq/

< https://www.apartments.com/zvmyfrw/

< My favorite is the last one. A bit smaller, but the best location. Only 10 minutes from the rink. Utilities included.

Ilya opens their text thread, then rolls his eyes. He turns to Shane, his gaze pointed. "I am right here, you know? You could just show me on your phone."

Shane shrugs his shoulders, the epitome of nonchalance. "It's good for you to be able to keep track of the listings. As Mom keeps reminding me, they get taken off the market so fast these days."

Ilya's eyes flick back down to his phone screen; he doesn't move to open any of the links. "I said we'd talk about this later." He doesn't sound irritated, but his tone is measured. Shane knows from past experience that one wrong step could lead to an argument, or, worse, Ilya clamming up for the rest of the night.

"It's been a week and a half. It is later," Shane points out, his tone gentle but firm.

Ilya's practices start next month, and he still hasn't signed a lease on an apartment. He refuses to have a serious discussion about the move, a mix of casual and avoidant that Shane can't wrap his head around. He knows that Ilya has already moved cross-continent, so maybe moving cross-country is less daunting to him, but it's still a massive change. He needs a plan. He needs housing.

"We can set up some tours today," Shane continues, soldiering onward. "I can't come to them with you, obviously, but you can take videos that I can look at later." God, he wishes he could go to the tours—not even in the classic 'I-wish-we-could-be-public' yearning way, but in a more 'I-could-force-you-to-confront-your-responsibilities' handler way. "We can leave early on Friday and get in as many as we can before your flight."

As Shane continues plotting aloud, Ilya locks his phone and sets it down on the coffee table. He swings his leg over Shane's to straddle his thighs. Hand on the back of the couch, Ilya leans forward, until Shane is forced to meet his gaze.

"Ilya."

"Shane." Ilya closes the distance between them, but Shane does not kiss back. Ilya's hands snake under Shane's shirt, his warm, broad palms solid against Shane's torso. Shane can't help the gasp he lets out when Ilya pinches his nipples, and Ilya uses the opportunity to slip into his mouth. He flicks his tongue down the length of Shane's, hot and wet and as addicting as always.

Shane's resolve is crumbling at an alarmingly rapid pace. It doesn't help that Ilya sucks on his tongue, rolling his hips in a slow, dirty grind. Shane's hands fly up to Ilya's back, fingers twisting into his shirt for purchase. Fuck, Shane is so easy. He knows he is. Ilya pulled out this exact diversion tactic on him last weekend, and Shane is still falling for the obvious trap.

With the final shred of his willpower, Shane takes a last stand. He pulls back, his voice thick with reproach as he says,"I know what you're doing."

Ilya hums against his lips, vibration buzzing down Shane's throat. "And will you stop me?" he breathes, hands massaging Shane's pecs.

Curse his stupid horny boyfriend and his stupid horny brain. They have three more days left, and if Shane is being honest, he'd much rather get laid than argue about the housing market, their time together already so limited. Ilya can't avoid it forever, but Shane will allow it for now.

He kisses Ilya instead of responding, his lack of an answer an answer enough.

"I've been thinking," Ilya murmurs, breath hot against Shane's mouth. "We never tested how many times you can come in an hour."

Shane, much to his chagrin, feels his lips curl into a smile. It's been years since that text exchange, and he'd never considered it seriously—thought it was foreplay chatter or Ilya trying to get a rise out of him (which, as Shane has realized since, is basically a Venn diagram that's a circle). "Okay…" Shane says, half wary, half expectant.

Ilya's hand slips to the back of Shane's neck, teasing over the hairs at his nape. "You said two. Now I think you could do four."

Shane's head spins as all his blood rushes south. "This seems like an awfully complicated distraction," he says.

He feels Ilya grin against his lips. "So? It's working." He rolls his hips, erection pressing into the front of Shane's sweats.

"Fuck you," Shane mumbles against his lips before canting up into his touch.

It doesn't take long for things to escalate. Ilya somehow finds the resolve to climb off Shane and drag him into the bedroom; Shane, personally, would have been perfectly happy with orgasm number one consisting of grinding on the couch until he came in his pants.

He loses his layers along the way, in only his socks and underwear by the time that his back hits the bed. He shuffles up to the headboard and watches as Ilya strips off his own pants. His cock is swollen in his briefs, the outline making Shane's mouth water.

Ilya climbs onto the mattress, reaching for the lube conveniently placed atop the nightstand. He makes a show of flicking the cap open while holding eye contact, pouring a dollop into his right hand. He tosses the bottle somewhere on the bed before tracing the line of Shane's briefs. With a light tug, the waistband snaps back against Shane's skin, and Shane lets out a huff.

"Stop teasing," he says, wrapping his arms around Ilya's back.

Ilya lets Shane drag him down until he's pressed flush to Shane's cock. "This?" Ilya asks, fingertip skimming across Shane's hip. "Barely teasing. I've done much worse."

And it's true—Shane thinks about how often Ilya works him up over text and then disappears, how he's cockwarmed him through endless rounds of Chel, all the times lube hasn't even made an appearance until Shane was on the verge of tears.

"But you only have an hour," Ilya says, pulling Shane out of his thoughts. "So I will be nice this time." He kisses Shane as his hand slips into his briefs and wraps a fist around his dick. Shane groans against his lips, the touch hot and wet and, fuck, he'll admit it—this is better than grinding on the couch.

Ilya wastes no time, setting a brutal pace while licking into his mouth. Shane's body thrums with heat, his arms around Ilya tightening. He never wants to leave this head space, where nothing matters but the weight on his tongue, the hand on his cock, the fire in his core—where he can only think of Ilya, Ilya, Ilya.

"Nngh," Shane groans as Ilya shifts his grip, fist pumping faster.

Ilya hums, amused. "You really are so easy, Hollander."

"Then why haven't I come yet, Rozanov?"

Ilya half grunts, half laughs, his grip on Shane tightening. "Don't threaten me with a good time," he says, then mouths down the line of Shane's neck. He hovers over a spot of skin and jerks over his cock three more times before biting down.

Shane moans, his entire body shuddering as he starts to come, Ilya stroking him through it. Just when Shane thinks he's done, Ilya clamps his teeth down harder, coaxing a final spurt out of his cock.

"Fuck," Shane groans, head falling to Ilya's shoulder.

With a grin, Ilya lets go, tongue laving gently over the bite mark like it'll do anything to temper the pain. He leaves a wet trail along Shane's jaw until he finds his lips, and Shane kisses back. He knows there's more to come—much more—but, for now, he takes the time to bask in the afterglow.

After a minute, Ilya rolls them over. His hands slide down Shane's back until they settle on his ass. Ilya squeezes, fingers hooking into Shane's flesh like talons, and Shane lets out a breathy moan. His face heats with embarrassment, but his mind is elsewhere, willing Ilya to dip under the waistband, down, down until he slips in—

Ilya flips their positions again, Shane's fantasy shattering in an instant. Ilya smiles as he locks their lips together; of course the smug jerk knew exactly what Shane had been thinking. Before Shane can bitch about it, Ilya deepens their kiss, devouring him like he's the last thing he'll taste. Any thoughts he'd had dissipate like smoke as he's dragged into Ilya's pace, his focus solely on keeping up.

Just as Shane needs to break for air, Ilya starts trailing down his body, across his collarbones and over his chest. Shane gasps when Ilya bites down, teeth scraping against his nipple before popping off with a wet smack. His hands knead Shane's pecs as he continues venturing south, licking the come off Shane's abs. Ilya dips into Shane's belly button, a bolt of heat shooting to Shane's cock.

"F-fuck," Shane groans as Ilya swirls his tongue. His hands fly to Ilya's shoulders for purchase, his grip like a vise. He hasn't trimmed his nails since they arrived at the cottage; it has to hurt. Ilya only drops his hands to Shane's hips and squeezes with equal fervor. He drives his tongue down one more time before shifting his attention to Shane's cock. He coaxes the shaft back to full hardness with little nips and sucks and kisses, his fingers thumbing over Shane's balls in encouragement.

"Ah, aah, mmh—" Shane groans, the noises punched out of his lungs against his will. He's torn, his body throbbing in distress and desire. This is far from his first rodeo with overstimulation, but it flays him open every time, demanding more from him than he has to give. Yet Ilya always wrings everything out of him and then some, the greedy bastard.

Like a sixth sense, he waits until the exact moment that Shane starts dripping, precome beading at his slit, to swallow him down in one go. Shane is the one who chokes when his tip hits the back of Ilya's throat, the wetness of his mouth so sudden, so hot, so good. He throws his head back, breaths coming in rapid pants as he rides the knife's edge between pain and pleasure, the line blurring the longer Ilya sucks his cock.

Ilya's finger presses against his hole, and Shane gasps. It's one of the oldest tricks in the book, but it shocks him every time, the rush of arousal making his head spin. Through everything, Ilya somehow finds the lube; he slips in like it's where he belonged in the first place.

His second finger soon joins the first. When he curls them up, Shane's back arches off the bed. Ilya's throat seizes around the tip of Shane's cock, and he comes, the knife plunging under his ribs. This orgasm is nothing like the first, sharp where it was smooth, a struggle instead of surrender.

There's no way that Ilya can breathe or swallow right now, with Shane buried deep and shooting down his throat, but he takes it easily, effortlessly competent as always. When Shane finally relaxes back against the bed, Ilya pops off with a slight grin—not the expression he should be wearing after sucking Shane's soul out of his dick.

"Shut up," Shane mutters, arm coming to cover his eyes.

"I have not said anything," Ilya replies, rolling to the side and sidling up to Shane. He wrenches Shane's arm away from his face, which Shane would have normally tried to resist if not for the aforementioned soul-snatching sucking. His vision is bleary, but he tries to focus his gaze on Ilya. "Are you feeling okay?" Ilya asks.

Shane takes a deep breath. He feels exhausted, like after a brutal game, but at the same time as raw as a live wire. Eventually, he nods. "Yeah. Everything hurts a little, but I'm okay."

Ilya's hand slides up Shane's forearm until their hands are clasped together. "Good," he says, pressing a kiss to Shane's knuckles. "Because you still owe me two more."

Shane's eyes flash with fear, like a prey animal backed into a corner. Ilya wishes he'd been recording, the reaction priceless. He's sure that Shane didn't forget Ilya's proposal so much as that it got pushed to the very back of his mind as Ilya—generously, if he may add—ravished him.

"How much time is left?" Shane asks.

Ilya chuckles. Of course Shane is thinking about that. "You are making good time," he says without looking at the clock. "Easy when you come so quick."

Shane shoves at his shoulder, but it's weaker than his backhand. Ilya notes the sheen of sweat on his brow, the haziness clouding his eyes, and he can't help but smirk. Shane is fucked out, and the real challenge hasn't even begun.

Dropping their hands, Ilya moves to straddle him, careful to avoid rubbing back against Shane's cock. He has generously decided to give Shane a break—he's going to need it.

Ilya's fingers card through his hair, scratching over his scalp. He leans down to kiss Shane and swallows down the pleased sound that rumbles out of his throat. His hands begin to wander, down the planes of Shane's face to the column of his neck. He keeps the pressure light but the touch unrelenting, trying to maintain the hum of electricity under Shane's skin. He needs Shane to stay present in his body, or this next part is going to be very difficult for him.

"Shane," Ilya says eventually. "Are you ready?"

Shane hums, lips quirking up. "It's not like I have a choice, do I?" he replies, and Ilya snorts. He takes a moment to soak in the smile on Shane's face; it's going to be the last one he sees for a while.

Ilya leaves him with a peck on the lips, shuffling across the bed to open the drawer of the nightstand. He has to rifle around for a second until he finds what he's looking for, stored in a sheer blue bag. Ilya always tosses the bags that come with his sex toys, but Shane insists on separating them in storage like the meticulous freak he is.

Ilya takes the toy out and drops the bag back into the drawer. "Turn over," he says. Shane follows, though he's a beat slower than usual, like the connection between his brain and limbs is lagging. Good. By the end of this, Ilya plans on severing it entirely—Shane so consumed by his own pleasure that he can't think, much less move.

Ilya finds the lube and pours some onto his fingers. He didn't even tell Shane how to turn over, but here he is, legs spread, ass up. Ready for him.

Ilya picks up where he left off, pressing two fingers against Shane's rim; they enter with little resistance. Shane lets out an incoherent noise, back arching deeper. Ilya stretches him until he's whimpering, body twitching like it doesn't know whether to sink back or pull away.

"Is okay?" Ilya asks, just to be sure. He's fairly certain that Shane nods, but it's hard to interpret with Shane's head buried in his arms against the pillows. "Use your words."

"Fuck, yes," Shane breathes, his tone grouchy. Ilya curls his fingers then smacks his ass, Shane's moan pitching into a whine.

"Don't be rude,"Ilya says. He pulls out his fingers and replaces them with the plug—it's slender, glass, with a wicked curve that pushes up against Shane's prostate.

With that, Ilya settles against the headboard and pats his lap. Shane comes like a dog, sitting back on his heels at Ilya's side. Ilya leans in, pressing a kiss to his lips while his fingers find the base of the plug and wiggle it around. Shane's moan is soft and beautiful, stuttering when Ilya forces it in a little deeper.

Smiling, Ilya relaxes back against the headboard and pats the space between his legs. "Come sit." Shane looks bemused until Ilya spreads his legs wider, inviting. He shuffles over, settling in the open space, his back to Ilya's chest. Ilya tips his head forward until his lips brush the shell of Shane's ear. "Okay, your turn." Shane's head cocks to the side in confusion. "Get yourself off."

Shane stiffens against his chest. "What?" he asks, bewildered.

"You heard me," Ilya says. "It's not fair that I have to do all the work now, is it?"

"You like doing the work."

He's not wrong, but Ilya also likes pushing Shane's limits. "You don't think you can do it?" Ilya asks.

"I never said—"

Ilya cuts him off. "Have I spoiled you so much, you cannot get yourself off anymore?"

"I can do it!" Shane finally snaps, and Ilya smiles against his neck. He's always so easy to provoke.

"Good," Ilya says, then presses a kiss against his pulse point. "If you come again, I'll fuck you for the last one." He hooks his chin over Shane's shoulder, gaze pointed and heavy on his soft cock. "So put on a good show, okay?"

Shane grumbles something under his breath; even at this angle, Ilya can catch the crease of his brow, the slight downturn of his lips. Shane grabs the lube next to his calf, squirting some into his palm. He settles back against Ilya, still stiff as a board. He doesn't move to touch himself, all but glaring at his cock like that alone could will it to rise.

Ilya wraps his hands around Shane's front, tugging him flush to his chest. "The clock is ticking," he teases, resting his chin on his shoulder again.

"I know," Shane replies, in that tone it gets when he's pissed at Ilya but even more so at himself. He still doesn't move.

"You can start slow, you know," Ilya says. His hands slide up Shane's torso, over his twitching abs to his firm pecs. He gives them a squeeze, revels in the way Shane's back shoots even straighter. "Warm up a little first."

Shane moves his hand from the sheets to his hip. He slides it down the line of his groin to the soft skin of his inner thigh. Ilya hums and kisses his shoulder in encouragement. A second later, he swipes the dollop of lube resting in Shane's other palm. "Use both hands," Ilya instructs.

Shane complies, his right hand now mirroring the left. Ilya rubs the lube over his fingers before returning them to Shane's chest. He massages his palms over Shane's skin, eased by the wet glide. Shane's breath hitches as Ilya increases the pressure, rubbing in slow circles.

They sit like that for a while, Ilya massaging Shane's pecs as Shane feels across other planes of his body. Slowly but surely, he begins stirring to life. He's only half-hard by the time that he reaches for himself, wincing as he wraps a fist around the base. Ilya plucks at his nipples, grinning as his dick jumps in his hand.

"Move," Ilya encourages. Shane does not, his body as rigid as a corpse. Frowning, Ilya pinches down. Shane cries out, and Ilya rolls the buds between his fingers, harder and harder until Shane finally complies. His hand moves up and down his shaft, but the movement languid and choppy, almost like he's drunk.

Ilya snorts out a huff. "You will not come if you go that slow, please. We both know this." He bites down on Shane's neck, jaw tightening until Shane finally sets a faster pace, his cock fully erect in his grip.

Ilya pats his cheek. "Good boy," he says, and Shane whimpers as he jerks over the head. Ilya's hand slides down to tease at Shane's lower lip. He's barely made contact when Shane lurches forward, swallowing down two of his fingers. Ilya's cock throbs as a flare of arousal shoots through him.

"Fuck," he swears, petting over Shane's tongue. Shane inhales sharply through his nose, sinking down further on Ilya's fingers. Ilya watches, transfixed, as Shane's hand speeds up on his cock, hollowing his cheeks like his life depends on it.

He's almost there, Ilya can tell. Still, he can't help but remark, "Feels like I have still done a lot of the work, no?" Shane groans, pace faltering for a split second. Ilya shakes his head, his free hand sliding up the column of Shane's neck. "Such a slut for me. But you need to focus." His grip tightens around Shane's throat. "Breathe."

Ilya feels Shane swallow, his throat bobbing against Ilya's calloused palm. His rhythm grows faster as his breath thins, short, ragged puffs punctuating each stroke. Ilya's gaze stays fixed on Shane's cock, the tip cherry-red and starting to leak.

It doesn't take long—can't, given how little oxygen Shane has left to make it happen. One second Ilya is applying more pressure and the next Shane is spilling, the tiniest blurt of release dripping out of his slit onto his fingers. It's so little, it looks like precome, but Ilya can tell from the noises clawing their way out of Shane's throat that he's coming. Ilya feels his body flood with a sickening heat, the mix of arousal and pride nearly enough to push him over the edge.

As Ilya slowly releases his grip, Shane's orgasm continues, a few more drops leaking out of his cock. Ilya murmurs instructions into his ear, telling him to breathe slower, breathe deeper. It takes a while for Shane's mind and body to sync up, but he eventually listens, their breaths flowing in tandem.

"Fuck—you," Shane says, the intensity tempered by the slur in his voice.

Ilya kisses the tight line of his jaw. "Soon." He nips at Shane's ear before kissing the corner of Shane's lip, which quirks up. Ilya pokes out his tongue, and Shane's grin grows until Ilya is licking his teeth. "Are you under?"

"No. Had to focus too much."

"Do you want to be?"

"Please."

Ilya flips their positions, slamming Shane's back into the mattress. He whines when Ilya pulls the plug out of his ass, throws it somewhere behind him. Shane's legs wrap around Ilya's back as he yanks down his briefs and lines up his cock. Usually, he likes to stretch Shane a bit more—three fingers is ideal—but Ilya's patience today has run out.

His fingers squeeze the bottle of lube too hard, an absurd amount gushing onto his cock and Shane's hole. Ilya does not give a single fuck as he slams the bottle on the bed and starts pushing forward. Shane's eyes shut and he throws his head back, hot and tight and wanting.

Despite his abrupt entrance, Ilya feeds the rest of his cock in slowly, aware that Shane is highly sensitive at the moment. Inch by inch, he keeps tabs on Shane's expression and body language.

When he's about halfway sheathed, Shane's eyes blink open and he quips, "What's the rush?"

Ilya thrusts in with a growl, wiping the smug look right off Shane's face. If he's going to act like a brat, he's going to be treated like one. Ilya bullies his cock the rest of the way in, until he can rest his forehead against Shane's. Shane's breath is hot against his lips, and Ilya closes his eyes. He needs a second to calm down, lest he blow his load within thirty seconds. Shane has done so well today; he deserves better than that.

Shane's ankles dig into Ilya's back, dragging him in impossibly closer. "Are you going to move?" Shane asks, nose bumping against Ilya's.

"Be careful what you wish for," Ilya says, then locks their lips together. Shane kisses back as Ilya pulls out, slamming back in so hard the bed creaks.

He fucks him until all Shane can do is pant against his mouth, drool running down his chin. Shane's legs eventually fall to the mattress, too weak to hold themselves up. Ilya grabs them at the bend and pushes Shane's knees to his chest, his pace not faltering for even a second.

After guiding Shane through three orgasms, Ilya is at the end of his rope, his cock begging for release with every thrust. Still, he holds back, his need to see Shane fall apart for the last time stronger than his own urges. "Touch yourself," Ilya commands. "Come on, do it."

Shane's fingers wrap around the base of his half-hard cock, his expression crumpling. Ilya coaxes them higher, higher, until Shane is grasping the tip. His face contorts in agony, tears gathering along his lashes, a broken wail leaving his lips. He doesn't even stroke himself, using Ilya's thrusts to rock his cock up into his hand.

Ilya's muscles are screaming at him, his head loud with static at how long he's staved off his orgasm. But he hastens his pace—faster, harder, meaner—until Shane's cock is full and heavy in his fist. Ilya's skin crackles with electricity at the sight, and he crashes their lips together, pouring everything he has left into the kiss.

Shane does his best to return it, but it's not long before his jaw goes slack. He pants against Ilya's mouth, whines when Ilya bites at his lip.

"Are you close?" Ilya asks.

Shane just moans, long and reedy.

Ilya drops one of Shane's legs and replaces Shane's fist with his own. "Come with me?" Ilya asks, less a question than a demand.

He pistons his hips in time with his hand, his core tightening, his body aflame. The tears finally fall from Shane's lashes, and Ilya gives into the feral urge to lick them off his face. The salty tang bursts across his taste buds as his tongue follows the trail all the way up to the corner of Shane's eye.

"Ilya—ah, ahh—" Shane pants, and the desperation in his voice pushes Ilya over the edge.

"F-fuck, Shane, now, come right now." Ilya's orgasm crashes into him, so intense that his eyes roll back. He shudders and moans through each wave of pleasure, stars bursting behind his eyelids. He feels more than sees Shane's release, the faint twitch of his cock, the weak trickle that leaks out, its texture more like water than come. Ilya wants to say something, to shower Shane in the praise he deserves, but can't get out more than an incoherent Shane as he rides out his high.

After what feels like hours, Ilya finally comes back to himself. He collapses on top of Shane, aftershocks twitching through his entire body. He kisses Shane across the collarbones, up his neck, over the mark left by his thumb. "Moy lyubimiy, that was amazing. You are amazing."

Shane smiles, a dopey little thing. His eyes are still shut, his head lolling to the side. Oh, he's gone gone, Ilya thinks, a smile pulling at his own lips. He shifts to kiss him on the lips, then realizes he's still inside him. Carefully, Ilya slides out; Shane doesn't even wince.

Ilya rolls to the side, keeping their bodies flush. He continues whispering praises, smattering him with kisses, carding his fingers through Shane's sweat-damp hair. Shane presses up into his touch like a cat, his smile growing impossibly wider.

Ilya loves when Shane gets like this—his head quiet, his inhibitions lost. If Ilya thinks about it, it's the only time he ever sees Shane truly relaxed. Ilya wishes that Shane would let go more, would stop being so hard on himself all the time, but he of all people understands that it's not as easy as it sounds. If this is the only thing he can do to get Shane to shut his brain off, Ilya will happily deliver every time.

Ilya presses a soft kiss to Shane's lips. "Can I go to the bathroom? Get you cleaned up?" he asks.

Shane frowns and he shakes his head. He turns onto his side, slinging an arm over Ilya's waist to keep him close.

Ilya chuckles. "You're going to regret this," he says, hand finding the nape of Shane's neck.

Shane shakes his head again, tucking it into the nook of Ilya's shoulder. Ilya's hand slides up, teasing the short hairs at the back of Shane's neck. He scratches at his scalp, stares down at his face until Shane seems too loose to protest. Ilya extracts himself before he can think too hard about it, finds the plug amidst the tangled sheets, and makes it to the bathroom in a few short strides.

With the plug clean and a warm towel acquired, he practically leaps back onto the bed. Shane's arm hovers in the air, waiting to snap closed like a Venus fly trap. "Stop, stop," Ilya whispers as Shane tries to pull him into a hug. Shane initially frowns but lets out a happy hum as Ilya runs the warm cloth across his skin, cleaning up the bulk of the mess. Ilya gives himself a quick wipe down before tossing the towel to the end of the bed, hand coming to rest between Shane's shoulder blades.

They both float like that for a while, Shane in his own world, Ilya immersed in it.

"How—how long?" Shane eventually asks, voice rough.

"Three hours," Ilya responds. "Much too long. You have failed."

Shane shoves him with a laugh. "Stop fucking with me. How long?"

Ilya looks at the clock over the dresser. "Forty-ish minutes. Exceeding expectations, as always." Shane lets out a small cheer of victory, the same one he makes when he scores a particularly good goal.

"Could have probably gotten out one more before the hour," Shane considers, still smiling.

Ilya's eyebrows shoot up. "Would you like to try?" Shaking his head, Shane burrows deeper into Ilya's body, his knee slipping between Ilya's thighs. Ilya chuckles. "Maybe next time."

"Next time," Shane slurs, hooking his ankle around Ilya's calf. Ilya lets out a long, slow breath, his blood roaring in his ears. He loves sex, loves sex with Shane, but what comes after—the cuddling, the pillow talk—is still relatively new, and nothing makes his heart beat faster.

They slip back into silence, Shane breathing against Ilya's skin. Ilya feels his stomach rumble but lets himself indulge in the calm atmosphere for just a bit longer, eyes slipping shut.

When they blink back open, the room is aglow in the warm light of golden hour. He didn't think that much time had passed. Slowly, he shifts his weight onto his elbow, props his chin on his knuckles. He looks out the tall windows of the bedroom, gaze flicking between the wisps of clouds, the rustling leaves, the endless horizon over the lake.

After another minute, Shane stirs at his side. Ilya's eyes dart down to meet his, lashes fluttering back to wakefulness.

"Hey," Shane says, voice still lilting.

"Hey," Ilya replies with a small smile. "You back on planet Earth yet?"

Shane hums, eyes shutting again. "What goes up must come down," he replies, then yawns.

"Good thing is easy to get up," Ilya teases, pressing his thigh forward.

Shane snorts. "Ha ha, very funny." His hand slides up Ilya's back to his shoulder. Ilya gets the message and drops his weight back onto the bed. He tips his head forward until their foreheads are pressed flush.

"I'm going to go make dinner," Ilya says. "You can stay here, if you want."

Shane shakes his head slowly, nose bumping against Ilya's. Ilya pecks him on the lips, a final indulgence for both of them before he pulls away. Well, tries to. Shane's leg, still hooked around his, stiffens, along with his hand on Ilya's neck.

"Let me go, you big baby," Ilya says, knocking their foreheads together lightly. He tries again, but Shane's grip on him is koala-tight. Ilya places a hand on his sternum, ready to push him away, when Shane's eyes open—big and brown and still a little glossy, strikingly gorgeous in this light. Ilya instantly relents, a captive to their warm glow.

"Look," Shane starts, and Ilya knows that tone. He lets out a soft swear; he should have known this was a trap. "I know you don't want to talk about it," Shane continues. "And we don't have to yet. But … Mom and I are being so pushy because we're worried."

Ilya's jaw clenches, his whole body growing taut. He doesn't like worrying others, isn't worth being worried about. "I'm looking, I promise. Nothing to worry about," he insists.

"Yeah, there is," Shane says, hand sliding down to rest against Ilya's cheek. "It's going to be such a big change. And we just—we want your move to be as easy as possible. So, if there's anything we can do, anyway we can help … could you please let us know? You don't have to do everything on your own."

Ilya hesitates before replying, "I know." And he does, objectively. Knows that the Hollanders are offering because they care about him, knows that they won't lord it over his head and ask for favors later. But that doesn't mean he's ready to let them—not yet. Someday, maybe.

Shane's brow furrows, trying to parse Ilya's noncommittal answer. Ilya reaches forward, thumbing over the divot like that alone could smooth it out. He knows he should say more, but he can't find the right words. Anything he musters—a flippant remark, an obvious diversion, full-fledged rejection—would hurt Shane, and that is something Ilya has vowed to avoid. He's done enough damage over the past decade with his words. Never again.

"How about this," Shane says. "You can continue the search on your own. But once you do narrow it down to, say, three places, can you promise to send me and Mom the listings? Just so we know you're not going to be homeless."

Ilya almost breaks when Shane's thumb starts stroking across his cheekbone. Even after a year, Ilya isn't used to such tenderness. It's always been his job to provide for others: to satisfy his father's demands, to buy food and clothes and jewels for his family, to bring glory to his fans, his country. He hasn't had any relationships that have warranted the reverse, not since his mother.

But while she never asked anything of him, he fell short for her, too. While she was alive, they were both bound by his father's expectations. Expectations that suffocated her slowly. Whatever she had needed from Ilya to keep going—and he knows there must have been something—he would never know.

So now for not just Shane, but Yuna and even David to want to take care of him, want only the best for him… It's difficult for Ilya to process, to wrap his head around why, much less to accept.

But this is Shane's olive branch: a compromise. And Ilya doesn't want Shane to keep worrying. It's a good deal.

Ilya sniffs, then nods slowly. "Okay."

Shane leans in, pressing a chaste kiss to Ilya's lips. "Thank you."

They lie there, the tension in Shane's body easing with each exhale. Ilya still feels restless, though; he should be thanking Shane. For his patience. For his grace. For staying. But there's a lump in his throat, so tight he can't even swallow around it.

Ilya forces his hand, which had curled into a fist at Shane's sternum, to unfurl. Slowly, he drags his palm across Shane's chest until it settles over his heart. Ilya presses down hard enough to feel the slowing thump, thump, thump—a physical reminder that Shane is still here. He hasn't left yet.

Sometimes, Ilya feels like his life is just a countdown to the day that Shane has finally decided he's had enough. Since last season started, Ilya has been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Once the honeymoon phase ended and they were back to hotel-room hook ups and long weeks apart, Shane would surely realize he could—deserved to—do better. Find someone like Hunter's boyfriend who can follow him to games, who relishes in his attention and jumps to talk about things like their future and their feelings.

But their one year anniversary came and passed. And then they have conversations like this and Ilya is reminded that Shane cares about him, so much, too much.

But will love be enough? The longer he is difficult and stubborn and reticent, will Shane be able to continue to love him?

Ilya knows he's catastrophizing, but that's never stopped him from spiraling. Curse his stupid dramatic thoughts, his stupid irrational brain. They're what have held him back from telling Shane the truth, whispering in his ear that Shane will mock him or, worse, tell Ilya to not bother, because Shane doesn't want the same thing.

But as Shane cups his cheek, looking at him like he's something delicate and precious, Ilya is able to silence the voices long enough to admit, "I don't want to rent. I want to buy."

Shane's head cocks to the side, like a confused puppy. "But…" he says, trailing off. Ilya can see the barrage of thoughts running through his head: the feasibility of the timing, the state of the market, the logistics of the move—all irrational, impractical, expensive. All things Ilya already knows.

But he's less worried about those details—they'll work themselves out, they always do—than spooking Shane off again. They've talked about it, but it still hurts Ilya to think about the day at his Boston home, the fall out on the couch and Shane's resulting reaction to date Rose Landry. All because Ilya wanted too much, too fast. He knows things are different now, but again: stupid thoughts, stupid brain.

"I am moving here. I am staying here. It is simple," Ilya says, to convince himself as much as Shane.

Shane doesn't say anything. The tension in Ilya's body grows with each passing second, bracing itself for rejection. It will still burn, but at least Ilya will be ready for it.

Then, tears spring to Shane's eyes. He lets out a quiet sob. He tucks himself into the crook of Ilya's shoulder, tear tracks wetting Ilya's skin. His fingers dig into Ilya's back, holding onto him like a lifeline. Despite his heart hammering in his chest, Ilya feels frozen; he still isn't sure what Shane's reaction means, but it's not what he'd been expecting.

"Fuck," Shane says, pulling back. He presses their foreheads together, eyes locked on Ilya's. "I love you so fucking much."

They've said it hundreds of times, but the raw ferocity of Shane's voice knocks the wind out of Ilya's lungs. Ilya feels a pressure build, unbidden, against the back of his own eyes, and he shuts them tight to hold it in. Only once the urge has passed does he open them again. He whispers, voice cracking, "I love you too." He means it, but it's not enough, his true depth of feelings ineffable.

Shane sniffles, a fresh track of tears running down his cheeks. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" he asks.

"Maybe I thought that Mr. Real Estate would buy my picks out from under my nose," Ilya jokes, back tracking away from sincerity before it overwhelms him.

Shane digs his ankle into Ilya's calf. "I'm serious, Ilya. That's not something you had to keep from me. Of course I want you to move here. That was the whole fucking point of you signing with the Centaurs."

Ilya shrugs, like there aren't a million reasons he stayed silent. But as exasperated as Shane sounds, his gaze is equally awed, joyous—delighted, even. Those goddamn doe-eyes finally break the dam, a single tear escaping to roll down Ilya's cheek. Shane leans forward and kisses the corner of his eye. Ilya lets out a wet laugh. How the tables turn.

"You still have to keep your promise," Shane says. "Once you've narrowed down your options, send me and Mom the links."

"Okay," Ilya says. This time, it feels less like a compromise and more like an agreement, stepping forward together rather than meeting in the middle. Ilya has been browsing Zillow for months now and he's saved a few homes, but nothing has felt perfect yet. And now that he's thinking about it, it's kind of stupid that he hasn't told Shane about his plan.

Shane gave them the cottage, a respite, their sanctuary. Now that they're going to be living only two hours apart, Ilya wants his place to feel like an extension of that haven, a safe space that suits both of their needs. Where Shane can use his own key to get in the front door, where they can take a nap in the sun without fear of being spotted, where they can argue about the placement of furniture and the contents of the fridge.

Ilya wants Shane to feel at home. Like it's his home. Their home.

But how could Shane feel that way if Ilya doesn't let him help pick out the goddamn house?

All this nonsense about Ilya resisting the Hollanders help, but he's finally realized: it's not just about him, it's about them. Ilya shouldn't call all the shots; that'd make him just like his father.

As he contemplates his stupidity further, his stomach grumbles, loud enough to cut through his thoughts.

"Dinner?" Shane asks, looking pointedly down at Ilya's stomach.

"Please," Ilya says. Shane pats him on the cheek before rolling out of bed. Shane shuffles to the bathroom to clean up more while Ilya heads out of the bedroom. He bypasses the kitchen to go to the living room and grabs his phone off the table.

Lily [7:03]

< https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/446010726_zpid/

< This one is in a good location but I do not like the kitchen. Too small. And outside is boring, like you. Needs paint job and better garden.

Ilya sends off three more listings with his commentary, Shane's phone pinging in rapid succession. Shane is still in the bathroom, but of course he has the ears of a bat. "Who's texting me?" he calls out.

"A hypocrite," Ilya shouts back, smiling as he sends one more link. Then he pockets his phone, walks into the kitchen, and starts pulling out ingredients for dinner.