Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Aftercare, Sub Shane Hollander, Established Relationship, Married Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Post-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Shane Hollander in Subspace, Shane Hollander in Subdrop, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Takes Care of Shane Hollander, Cock Warming, Cock Slut Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Has an Oral Fixation, Shane Hollander Has a Praise Kink, CMNM | Clothed Male Naked Male, Dom Ilya Rozanov, Face Slapping, Facials

Language:

English

Collections:

pepperroxd’s library

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-11 Words: 6,297 Chapters: 1/1

we're going down down

Summary

The touch is gentle and the cream is soothing but that doesn't stop the soft yelp that escapes Shane's lips at the touch. It isn't dissimilar to any other bruise he's gotten in his life, especially playing such a high velocity, full contact sport for a living. Except, those bruises were always angry and gnarled and put there in bouts of aggression and violence.

The bruises under Ilya's wide, warm palms were put there with love and devotion, with whispered words of degradation chased with the candied edge of praise. Each gently throbbing bruise and slightly raised welt decorating his skin this morning were honeyed kisses placed with perfect precision by the man who Shane has devoted himself to – mind, body, and soul.

Or, Shane experiences subdrop at an in opportune time and Ilya helps him.

Notes

This is not a bdsm/aftercare guidebook. It's shitty smut and fluff for fun. Do your own research and whatnot.

✌️

The inside of Shane's head is essentially cotton candy. Candy floss. Barbe à papa. There is nothing between his ears but air, spun sugar, and Ilya.

Vaguely, he is aware of Ilya’s hands on him. They smooth over the planes of his back and across his shoulders. Confident and strong fingers loosen the cuffs around Shane's wrists before taking them in hand. Warm lips press gingerly against each of his wrists and Shane can just make out affectionate murmured words to the no doubt pink skin there.

”Beautiful. You did so good, Shanya. So proud.”

A warm fluttery feeling pulses through Shane's body at the words.

Ilya eases Shane onto his back, away from the mess that he had made, and plants feather-light kisses across his flushed skin. Large hands cradle the sides of his face and thumbs reverently brush across the planes of his cheeks, no doubt removing well worn tear tracks from Shane’s skin. “I am going to clean you up now, okay?” Ilya says in a low voice. He doesn't make a move until Shane hums and nods in the affirmative.

Shane blinks open his eyes to watch Ilya stretch across the bed toward his nightstand. He returns with a plain charcoal grey box. He lifts the lid, and removes a few wet wipes from the pack within. The first touch along the ridges of his abdominal muscles makes Shane shiver and hiss softly as his muscles clench reflexively.

“I am sorry it's cold, lyubimyy,” Ilya coos softly, kissing Shane's cheek. Long, smooth swipes easily clear the sticky mess from his stomach and between his legs. “Do you want to lay here or move to clean bed?”

The question makes Shane smile a bit goofily to himself. Even while his brain is all confection and no concentration, he appreciates Ilya’s concern for his sensibilities. He considers as best as he can through the sugar haze. Shane knows that once his brain chemicals regulate and his adrenaline drops he will be very unhappy laying in the messy bed and tangled sheets. He also knows that he doesn't want to be apart from Ilya for even as long as it would take him to change the sheets.

“Move,” Shane manages to say in a horribly rough voice.

Ilya nods, slowly kissing Shane's red and swollen lips. He pulls back so that they are only a breath apart and asks, “I am going to pick you up now, okay?”

When Shane once again nods his head, Ilya moves and lifts Shane's spent and loose body from the bed in a bridal style hold. He carefully places the box on Shane's chest and leaves their bedroom. They walk down the hall to one of the guest rooms where Ilya arranges Shane beneath the covers after setting the box on the nightstand.

“I am going to grab something for you. I will be so quick. Count to twenty for me, lyubimyy, okay? I will be back,” Ilya promises, peppering kisses across the freckles on Shane's face.

Shane nods and takes a slow breath in before beginning to count, “One… two… three…”

Ilya practically sprints from the room and Shane cannot help the breathy giggle that escapes him at the sight of his hulking, naked husband running out the door. Shane continues to count, he's not sure if it's out loud or not, but he counts. Because Ilya asked him to and he loves to be good for Ilya.

When he returns to the room, Shane thinks that he is on fifteen. Maybe seventeen. Numbers are hard and his brain isn't quite back to being a fully functioning brain just yet.

“Ilya,” he sighs happily at the sight of him.

Ilya smiles, warm and soft, as he walks over. He reaches for the heavy comforter covering Shane's body and moves to pull it back which is very rude. Shane huffs and grips the blanket tightly, letting out an annoyed huff of air.

“S'cold,” he whines, holding securely to the covers.

“I know, kotik, I know. Is why I have this. I just got it from the dryer. Nice and warm,” Ilya says, carefully pulling the blanket from Shane's hands. Shane's gaze drops to the black hoodie draped across Ilya’s lap. His hands let go immediately. Ilya chuckles. “Sit up for me.”

And, because Shane loves to be good for Ilya, he does.

Ilya brushes loose strands of hair from Shane's eyes and kisses him gently on the forehead, “There is my good boy. Thank you.”

Shane practically preens as Ilya manipulates his lazy limbs into the warm sweatshirt. He smooths it down Shane's body and even lifts the hood up to cover his head. Shane looks down at the stupid Ottawa Centaurs logo on the front and he knows that the back has Ilya’s name emblazoned across it. It is warm, and just a touch too big on Shane, and he is positively swimming in Ilya.

“I need you to turn over on your belly for me,” Ilya instructs, hands running over Shane's arms.

His nose scrunches at the request, “Nooo. M'too tired.”

Ilya snorts back a laugh and kisses Shane's cheek, “No, I know. I need to check your thighs and butt, lyubimyy, and put some cream on them.”

Right. Ilya had worked Shane's ass and the backs of his thighs over pretty roughly. At the simple mention of it, Shane is slightly more aware of the throbbing and stinging happening. He nods once and clumsily rolls over onto his front. He pulls a pillow down to rest his head on and closes his eyes.

He hears Ilya digging through the aftercare box and then feels the mattress shift before the bottom of the hoodie is pushed upward to rest at the small of Shane's back. Ilya's big hands glide over the rounded curves of Shane's ass, giving the tiniest squeeze, before trailing over the backs of his thighs. The feeling is more prominent now. Shane can practically feel each blossoming bruise and welt throb in time with his heart best. Ilya kisses the top of the cleft of Shane's ass.

“So pretty, Shanya. You look like a dream. I am so proud of you,” Ilya whispers, his lips brushing against his skin like a butterfly's wings.

Shane shivers happily.

He hears the opening of a tube and can just barely smell the pine-sage scent of the arnica cream before he feels the cool touch of it against his hot skin. The groan that slips from his lips is unintentional and unrestrained. Ilya's low chuckle slides across Shane's brain like molasses as his hands massage cream across the bruising flesh of his backside.

When he is done, Ilya lowers the hoodie once more and moves to lay beside Shane, pulling the covers over their bodies.

“Don't fall asleep on me yet. You need your snack.”

Shane whines, the sound petulant and foreign even to his own ears.

Ilya holds him closer, his lips right against Shane's ear, “No, none of that. You have been so good for me all night. You took so much and you need to eat and drink something before you fall asleep.” His voice is firm and solid. It leaves no room for back talk, negotiations, or arguments.

A shiver ripples up Shane's spine at the tone.

“You even helped refill the box after last time. You demanded the red gatorade and those dark chocolate covered dried orange chips.”

Reluctantly, Shane shifts to lay on his side and opens his eyes. Ilya grins and leans in to kiss him swiftly on the tip of his nose before handing over a bottle of gatorade and bag of Chiwis orange chips. He takes a few small sips and Ilya takes the bottle from him so that he can open the chips.

Shane slowly eats a few of the chips, his eyes closed as he chews.

“How do you feel?” Ilya asks, wrapping an arm around Shane while he eats.

“Mm. Warm. Sleepy. Achey. Good.”

Ilya hands the gatorade back so that Shane can have a few more small sips. When Shane makes eye contact with him over the lip of the bottle, his brows furrow slightly. He can almost see the gears turning behind Ilya’s eyes. He reaches out with a free hand to press his thumb against the deepening line between Ilya’s eyebrows.

“Good,” he repeats, stronger than before. His brain was reconnecting but his tongue hasn't quite regained full faculties yet. He knows that sometimes Ilya worries too much and feels a low simmering guilt after scenes where he's been especially rough with Shane. As if he hadn't asked for it and consented enthusiastically every step of the way. “You did… good.”

Ilya chuckles softly but nods anyway as he moves Shane's snack to the nightstand. Shane sighs and presses close to Ilya, laying his head on his shoulder. He can feel the blissful cotton candy cloud melting away and he misses it for a moment. The moment however disappears as quickly as it came as Shane's eyes drift shut and sleep pulls him under.

When Shane wakes, gentle light is diffusing through the curtains and when he reaches out across the bed his hand finds nothing but cold sheets. Something thumps painfully in his chest as he pushes himself to sit. The movement drags the roughed up skin of his ass and thighs across the sheets, making him hiss and swear softly under his breath. But before he can stand to try to alleviate the pain, Ilya is in the doorway.

He's wearing joggers that hang dangerously low on his hips. He looks absolutely sinful as the golden skin of his chest practically glistens in the morning light. Shane is so distracted by the sight of his husband that he hardly notices the tube of arnica cream in his hand.

“Good morning, My Shane,” Ilya greets softly. He rounds the end of the bed and approaches Shane easily. He brushes some hair back and lays a lingering kiss to the apple of his cheek. “Turn over so I can put more cream on for you.”

Shane goes without a question or fight. He rolls over onto his front, settling with a happy sort of sigh. Ilya lifts the hem of the hoodie once more and sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth. Shane twists enough to peer over his shoulder at his husband who is straddling his knees.

“Is it bad?” Shane asks in a sleep-heavy voice.

Ilya clicks his tongue and glances up to meet Shane's eye, “You look beautiful but… it will definitely hurt. Can I show?”

Shane can feel his face crease and crumple in sleepy confusion at the request. He blinks long and slow, almost slow enough for his eyes to stay shut so that he can drift off again into a saccharine cloud of dreamy unconsciousness. When he forces his eyes open again – How long had they been shut? – he cranes his neck again to look back at Ilya.

“Show?” Shane asks just as a tiny mewling yawn is pulled from him, making him press his face into the downy pillow beneath his head.

Ilya chuckles, low and rough like river rocks cascading against one another, “Da. Show you a picture.”

A single burning thump emanates from deep within Shane's chest. He can't help but wonder what he looks like back there if Ilya is so intent on making sure that he sees. Swallowing thickly, Shane nods his head jerkily against the expensive cotton pillowcase.

He expects the soft shutter sound of Ilya taking a photo with his phone because he is an absolute heathen who keeps his sound on at almost all times these days. Now that there is nothing, no one, to hide. Instead, Shane feels the cool touch of cream being spread up the backs of his thighs and up over the curve of his cheeks. The touch is gentle and the cream is soothing but that doesn't stop the soft yelp that escapes Shane's lips at the touch. It isn't dissimilar to any other bruise he's gotten in his life, especially playing such a high velocity, full contact sport for a living. Except, those bruises were always angry and gnarled and put there in bouts of aggression and violence.

The bruises under Ilya's wide, warm palms were put there with love and devotion, with whispered words of degradation chased with the candied edge of praise. Each gently throbbing bruise and slightly raised welt decorating his skin this morning were honeyed kisses placed with perfect precision by the man who Shane has devoted himself to – mind, body, and soul.

He hears it then, the electronic shutter of a camera, and feels Ilya shifting on the bed.

“Here. Look,” Ilya murmurs, suddenly laying beside Shane, their heads sharing a pillow.

Slowly, Shane opens his eyes and twists just enough to look over at the offered phone. The screen is full of Shane's ass and thighs, skin gleaming from the cream that Ilya just massaged into it. His thighs are covered in thick, even marks from the leather flogger that Ilya had thudded harshly and repeatedly against the skin the night before. His ass is a collage of fingertip and large hand bruises interspersed with heart shaped welts and bruises from the riding crop that Ilya had rained down against the curves of his ass.

“Pretty,” Shane breathes out. His fingers stretch toward the screen and spread in order to zoom in on the kaleidoscope of discoloration against his tan skin.

Ilya lays a heavy kiss on Shane's temple and drags his nose along his hairline, “My pretty boy with his pretty bruises.”

Shane flushes, heat spreading quickly across his face and racing down his neck toward his chest. Ilya only chuckles and kisses his hair.

“Are you ready for plan?” Ilya asks, slipping a hand back to grasp at the nape of Shane's neck. Shane's eyes flutter shut as he nods his head slowly. Ilya kisses his cheek before continuing. “We are going to shower and have something to eat. Then, I will put more cream on for you before we head to our video meeting.”

It's always been a marvel to Shane that Ilya’s body, made of strong muscle and granite, can be so soft and delicate. He has never felt safer or more cared for than pressed against Ilya’s broad chest with his sculpted arms wrapped around his body. Shane has carried the evidence of how powerful Ilya’s body is for years from hard checks against the boards to finger shaped bruises on his inner thighs.

He's also carried the gentle weight of Ilya’s love for almost as long.

Right now, he feels it in the way Ilya's fingers work the conditioner out of his hair beneath the balmy shower spray and how his hands skate tenderly along the lines of his back. He enjoys it so much that when Ilya turns the water off and makes a move to pull away, Shane cannot help the downright pathetic whine that escapes his lips as his fingers try to grip onto the slippery skin at Ilya's waist to keep him there, pressed against him.

One of Ilya's hands buries itself in the damp hair at the back of Shane's head and tugs just enough for Shane to get the memo and lift his head from where it's been tucked reverently in the hollow of Ilya’s throat. Ilya's curls are dark and plastered to his head, framing his light eyes beautifully. Shane wants to kiss him. He leans in and just as their lips brush one another, Ilya very rudely pulls him back by his hair like he's a puppy being scuffed for misbehaving.

There is no helping the pout that pushes Shane's lips forward at the treatment.

“Dressed. Breakfast. Cream. Meeting,” Ilya repeats, deliberately slow like Shane's brain is still made of lighter than air candy.

Shane narrows his eyes, “Kiss first.”

Ilya grins, clearly amused, “You drive hard bargain, Mr. Hollander.”

The grip in Shane's hair loosens so that Ilya’s hand is cradling the back of his head, while his other hand lifts to take hold of Shane's jaw. His fingers dig just a little into Shane's jaw as he effortlessly maneuvers Shane's head at just the angle he wants before their lips are pressed together. Shane's entire body sags, pressing his weight against Ilya, as their lips linger just long enough for an electric current to shoot through his body and reach the tips of his fingers and toes.

Ilya pulls away oh-so-slowly and both of their eyes slide open to meet as he does so.

Fuck, Shane loves this man.

“Dressed. Breakfast. Cream. Meeting,” Ilya repeats in a hushed tone with a too pleased smirk on his lips.

Shane rolls his eyes but follows Ilya out of their shower, happily accepting the plush towel that is handed to him. After drying his body and wrapping the towel around his waist, Shane takes a few moments to do his skin care in the bathroom mirror. He can hear Ilya puttering around in their bedroom but as he finishes applying his moisturizer, there is silence. Something squeezes strangely at Shane's heart but he simply shakes his head and walks out into the bedroom.

The sheets on their bed have been changed, Shane notices as he makes his way to the dresser. They are just going to review game footage with the team today, no real practice, and there is still a vague syrupy slosh somewhere inside Shane's brain so he doesn't want to do much in terms of looking presentable. He reaches first for a pair of shirts but stops just as his fingers touch the fabric.

The bruises on the back of his thighs.

Shane would probably keel over and die of embarrassment if anyone saw or, God forbid, mentioned them. Shaking his head, Shane opts instead for a simple pair of grey sweatpants. He gingerly pulls on a pair of boxer briefs, then the pants, and grabs a plain black t-shirt before slipping on the same sweatshirt he had slept in. It isn't dryer warm anymore, but it's still a bit big and just as comfortable.

Downstairs, Shane finds Ilya in the kitchen making them both coffee. He shuffles behind Ilya and lays his cheek against his shoulder as his arms wind around his trim waist.

“I love you,” Shane mumbles as his face is squashed against his husband's back.

Ilya hums, the sound low and Shane can feel the vibration in his cheek and chest. “I love you too, Моя обезьянка,” Ilya replies, squeezing Shane's hand where it is laying against his stomach.

“Wazzat?” Shane asks.

“Monkey.”

Shane huffs indignantly, “Mean.”

When he tries to pull away, Ilya turns and wraps his arms around Shane's shoulders to hold him close. Ilya laughs, peppering loud, smacking kisses anywhere he can reach on Shane's face while Shane struggles against him. Ilya is laughing, and Shane is laughing, and they are kissing. And Shane isn't sure his heart has ever been so full and carefree than in this exact moment of playing with his husband before breakfast in their own home with heart shaped welts gently pulsing on his ass.

With one last purposefully loud kiss, Ilya pulls away. “I made you coffee and oatmeal,” he says, pushing some of Shane's shower damp hair from his forehead. He smiles as he slowly steps free from Shane's orbit. Ilya turns toward the refrigerator. “What fruit do you want on top?”

“You,” Shane grins.

Ilya's head snaps to the side to stare at Shane. A smile slowly spread across Ilya’s face, practically filling the room and Shane with brilliant sunshine. “And people say you aren't funny,” Ilya teases, opening the fridge with a shake of his head.

“You are the only one who insists that I'm not funny,” Shane scoffs. He grabs his coffee mug from the counter – because it is his coffee mug and Ilya knows him well enough to know that Shane will only drink coffee from this particular mug. He takes a small sip of the black coffee and sighs. “The raspberries are going to go bad soon. If there are any strawberries left that'd be good too.”

Shane moves to the other side of the island and slowly lowers himself down onto the stool. There's a low throbbing pain from the back of his knees up to his hips as he settles, and he knows there has to be a less than attractive grimace on his face.

Ilya returns to the counter and slides a bowl of oatmeal with berries and cinnamon sprinkles on top.

“Still tender?” he asks as he begins to fix his own bowl.

Shane winces, trying to find some sort of comfortable position, “I can feel them every time my heart beats.”

“Then the hearts were appropriate,” Ilya grins to himself.

Snorting back a laugh, Shane stirs his oatmeal and takes a bite. “Where did you even find that?” he asks, lifting a single questioning eyebrow.

Ilya shrugs, “You can find lots of fun things on the internet. Crops that leave hearts, cuffs strong hockey player cannot break, paddles that leave the word slut on your ass.”

Shane nearly chokes on his coffee. He slaps a hand against his chest and tries to regulate his own breathing for a moment before looking up at the smug as shit grin on Ilya's face.

“We can look later tonight. See if you like.”

Ducking his head, Shane feels his face flood with heat. He knows he will like.

Sitting in the front seat of Ilya’s car, leaning more on his hip than resting on his backside, Shane cradles Ilya’s phone in his hands. The picture Ilya took of his bruises before leaving the house with Shane bent over the back of the coach from Ilya massaging in the arnica cream, is taking up the full screen. The bruises are less angry than the first picture, which Shane does flip too a time or two, and the welts have gone down completely.

He zooms in on a heart bruise right in the middle of his left cheek. It is a perfect print outlined in a deep red color while the middle is already shifting from a maroon to a purple. Shane never thought that he would describe bruises as beautiful, especially ones on himself, but looking at the way Ilya’s work looks decorating his sensitive skin makes Shane feel a little breathless.

Shane is so enthralled by the images that he doesn't even notice when Ilya parks the car, only looking up when the phone is delicately pulled from his fingers.

“We are here, Shanya,” Ilya says, already undoing his seatbelt.

There are a handful of cars in the parking lot already. None that Shane can identify as belonging to their teammates. They arrived early since Ilya is captain and Shane is, well, Shane. Although, he does recognize Harris's truck parked not far from them. So maybe Troy is already here too.

“Oh, Shanya. I am going to run to Harris's office quickly. He said he was going to be posting pictures from last BBQ at Bood's and he took pictures of Chiron and Anya. I have to see,” Ilya explains happily as the two of them walk towards the building. He turns and presses a quick kiss to Shane’s head. “Go to film room. I will be back soon.”

He doesn't wait for Shane to respond before he jogs off toward Harris's office.

Shane is left standing alone in a long, empty hallway. He swallows thickly and turns to make his way toward the film room. A shiver runs up Shane's spine as he walks. He hugs himself, essentially burrowing for warmth in his husband's sweatshirt. It's a strange, sudden feeling, but he brushes it off and continues.

No one is in the film room when he arrives. There are several tables and lots of empty chairs.

He stands in the doorway, momentarily unmoored in the face of decisions. He shakes his head in an attempt to focus and moves to take a seat near the back of the room. It's an unusual choice for Shane but he doesn't want to sit closer and feel everyone else's eyes on him for the whole of their meeting.

Shane lifts the hood over his head and lays his head down on the fold of his arms in front of him on the table. He breathes slowly in through his nose and exhales steadily through his mouth. He wishes he went with Ilya. He wishes Ilya had stayed with him. Shane screws his eyes shut and tries to push away the clingy pathetic voice inside his head.

He can sit and wait for his husband for a few minutes. He's not going to melt and dissolve after sitting by himself for a bit.

“Hey, Cap!” a voice calls loudly, startling Shane.

Sitting up quickly, Shane blinks rapidly until his eyes focus on Wyatt and Dykstra sitting at the next table over. Wyatt laughs. “Shit. Sorry, Hollzy, we saw Rozanov on the back of your shirt and thought Cap was trying to sleep through our meeting.”

Shane forces the closest approximation of a smile that he can. “It's fine. I was having a lazy morning and didn't want to get dressed. Ilya went to see Harris before the meeting,” Shane explains. He can't help but wonder if his voice sounds as wooden and far away to them as it does to him.

More and more people quickly fill the room.

But none of them are Ilya.

Shane absently spins his wedding ring around his finger. He keeps glancing toward the door every time it opens silently wishing it were Ilya. Eventually, Coach Wiebe walks in with both Troy and Ilya beside him. Ilya's eyes scan the room, starting at the front where Shane normally sat, until they land on Shane in the back.

Ilya makes his way to Shane, slipping into the seat beside him.

“I am sorry. I got caught up talking and lost track of time,” he explains in a quick whisper. He makes a move like he is going to lay a hand on Shane's leg but stops himself. Shane had implemented a strict no PDA at work rule when he signed with Ottawa and normally he adhered to it without a problem.

But he was cold and a little lonely, which didn't make a lot of sense even to him, and he just wanted to crawl into Ilya's lap and live there.

Exhaling shakily, Shane turns his attention to Wiebe at the front of the room.

For a while Shane tries really hard to pay attention, he does. He just… can't. His leg starts bouncing under the table, drawing looks for Bood and Dillon. He can't, for the life of him, make out what he is saying. And he can't see the screen very well. He thinks it's because he may need his glasses, which are sitting on his nightstand at home, but when he blinks and a single hot tear slips down his cheek, Shane realizes he can't see because his eyes are watery.

Ilya finally places a hand on Shane's knee, probably to get him to stop shaking. When Shane glances his way, Ilya freezes.

“Are you okay?” he whispers, leaning close.

Shane can only shake his head. He knows he's probably feeling a drop right now, which doesn't make sense to him. Ilya had been so attentive and careful with him after their scene last night. So, why was he crying in the middle of a team meeting? Oh, God, he didn't want anyone else to see him like this.

Ilya produces his phone from his pocket and rapidly types something before tucking it away.

“Come on,” he murmurs, getting to his feet.

Shane shakes his head again. He can't just leave like this. What would people think?

Ilya grabs firmly at the back of Shane's neck and tugs slightly until Shane gets with the program and gets to his feet as well. Luca glances momentarily over at them at the movement but turns his attention back to Coach. Ilya takes Shane's hand and silently leads him back out of the room, through the facility, and to the car.

Once in the relative safety of their car, Ilya twists and takes Shane's face in his hands.

“Hey, hey. You are okay. This happens sometimes. We know this. There is nothing wrong with you or me, okay?” Ilya’s voice is soft but firm and Shane sighs as it washes over him. He nods slowly, sniffling slightly as more tears slip down his face. Ilya brushes them away. “We are going to go home and I am going to help you feel better. Okay, Shanya?”

Shane nods.

“Words, please.”

“Yes,” Shane manages to rasps out.

“You want me to put you down again? Get you out of your head?” Ilya breathes against Shane's cheek.

Shane shivers, whether from the chill of his own body or from promise in Ilya’s tone he has no idea. His tongue is suddenly too big for his mouth and much too heavy for words. He can only nod his head fervently, almost knocking foreheads with Iyla. Ilya tsks at him, moving his mouth to Shane's ear.

“Ask. Nicely.”

The whine that comes out of Shane shocks him. It is loud and crackling. It doesn't sound like him at all. He shivers again and tries to work his jaw to coax actual words out. “Please,” he manages to whisper. His whole body is trembling. He knows that that will not be enough for his husband, and exhales shakily. “Please, Ilya. Please, let me be good for you. Love being good for you.”

Ilya coos softly, mockingly, against the shell of Shane's ear.

“Take off all of your clothes. Kneel by the couch,” Ilya instructs, teeth nipping sharply at Shane's earlobe. The hard tone of Ilya’s voice, the straightforward instructions, are like a lifeline. It's a buoy in the choppy waters of Shane's brain.

Shane quickly pulls off his shirt and hoodie in one motion, followed by shoving down his underwear and sweats. Once he is fully naked, Shane walks over to the sofa and gets on his knees. His heart is already slowing just a little as his breathing becomes less shallow. He thrives on following Ilya’s directions like this, when he doesn't have to think or decide anything. He just gets to act and feel and fall forward into the safety net that Ilya has built for him.

He is unsure of just how long he has been kneeling on the living room rug, but he knows that Ilya left the room not long after he got into position. When Ilya finally enters into his peripheral vision, he is still fully dressed. The contrast to Shane being completely bare sets a small fire in the pit of his stomach.

Ilya stops right in front of Shane so that the bulge in his sweats is mere centimeters from Shane's face. Shane's mouth appreciably floods with saliva. He can feel his eyes as good as cross as he tries to look at it so close up. Ilya laughs at him.

“Silly, slutty little Shane. You want my dick in your mouth?” he asks so easily, as if he's asking what book Shane is reading.

Shane nods, biting back a small whimper. God, he wants to feel the hard flesh across his tongue, pushing into his throat. He wants his jaw to ache from the exertion of keeping his mouth wide to accommodate Ilya’s cock. Ilya threads his fingers into Shane's hair and tugs him forward, smushing Shane's face against the hard cock beneath Ilya’s joggers.

Shane groans at the familiar scent that hits his nose. Ilya’s body wash combined with the warm and masculine scent that is all him. Shane's mouth falls open and he is panting against him now. He can all but hear the warming fans between his ears as the edges of his thoughts soften to cotton.

Ilya takes a step back and lowers himself down onto the sofa. His knees are spread obscenely and Shane can't bring himself to look anywhere but the prize between them. Ilya’s hand pats at his own thigh, beckoning Shane forward like a dog.

“Come here, pretty boy.”

Knowing better than to stand, Shane crawls the short distance to the couch to settle between Ilya's legs. “So good,” Ilya croons, reaching out to take Shane's jaw in one hand. Shane notices, of course he notices, that Ilya’s other hand is shoving down the front of his joggers to free his cock. When it slaps against his stomach, Shane hears a high-pitched whine that definitely couldn't have come from him.

Could it?

Ilya’s hand slides back into the hair at the back of Shane's head and tugs him forward until he is feeding his cock straight into Shane's slack mouth. “Mm, just hold it for me. Just keep it right there,” Ilya says on an exhale, more breath than voice.

Shane wants to complain but Ilya simply tugs his hair until his head is resting on Ilya’s thigh and his cock is filling his mouth. His fingers pet soothingly through Shane's hair, scratching at his skull. “Stay right there, like a good boy. No sucking, just hold it,” Ilya instructs.

Then, he reaches for the remote.

Shane can't see the television from the angle he's at and Ilya turns the volume down just low enough that Shane can't make out what is happening. He sighs through his nose and lets himself relax as Ilya continues running his fingers through his hair.

The stretch of his lips and jaw quickly settle in and Shane can feel the way his thoughts begin to drift and swirl inside his skull. His hands tangle together between his own knees as his joints and muscles loosen. He loves this. He loves feeling useful for Ilya. He loves being given a task and just doing it.

Absently, as his thoughts drift away, he gently swallows around Ilya's cock and his tongue wiggles lazily against the underside. The move is muscle memory at this point, he hadn't even thought about it. Ilya's hand makes contact with Shane's cheek. It's not the hardest that he's ever hit Shane but it's still jarring. He pulls open his eyes and blinks up at Ilya, brows knitting together in confusion.

“Good cocksleeves do as they're told,” Ilya says, striking him again. It hits Shane like a freight train, sending him over the edge and loosening whatever tether was holding him on the ground. Ilya must notice because he smiles down at him, lips stretching wide. “Mm, there he is. My sweet, sweet boy. Now, stay still. I am finishing show.”

Shane wiggles a bit at the praise, feeling his pulse thudding through his body. Ilya turns his attention back to the television but his hand stays in Shane's hair. His eyes fall shut again as he breathes steadily through his nose. His whole body feels weightless while his blood rushes through his veins like freshly cracked carbonation.

The backs of Ilya’s fingers brushing his cheek is what rouses Shane back to his body. He blinks slowly, shifting slightly on his knees. Ilya gently urges Shane off of his cock, letting it slip free and slap back wetly against Ilya’s stomach.

“How do you want to end? Do you want to cum?” Ilya asks, taking his dick in hand and slowly stroking it.

Quietly, Shane does his best to assess his body. Sure, his dick is half hard between his legs but the burning need to cum isn't there. He just wants to be good for Ilya. Shane shakes his head slowly like he's moving through quicksand. Ilya grins as his hand steadily picks up pace. Shane can see the hitch in his breath and the shifting muscles in his arm.

“I'm going to, fuck, cum all over those pretty little freckles.”

Shane lifts just a little up from his position to push himself closer to where Ilya is stroking himself. His eyes are locked on, watching as pre-cum spurts from his slit and glides down to meet his fist. Shane whimpers softly at the sight. He could live here, on his knees in front of Ilya’s gorgeous cock, and be happy.

Ilya tugs Shane just a hair closer and suddenly Ilya is swearing under his breath in Russian as his body jerks and the first rope of cum lands on Shane's cheek. His eyes fall shut as he feels each bit of cum hitting his skin.

Maybe he should have told Ilya that he wanted to cum because this feels amazing. But, it's too late now.

Shane startles and opens his eyes as Ilya’s thumb brushes against his face. He swipes and gathers his spend and pushes it down to Shane's lips. He feeds it to Shane's eager mouth, slipping his thumb inside waiting lips.

“Mmm,” Shane hums happily. He sucks lazily at Ilya's thumb as he lowers himself back down to rest on his heels.

Ilya smiles warmly down at Shane. The inside of Shane's head is once again cotton candy. Candy floss. Barbe à papa. There is nothing between his ears but air, spun sugar, and Ilya.

Always Ilya, who will make sure he is okay no matter what happens.

Ilya who will beat his ass raw and lavish him in praise the entire time.

Ilya who will tend to his every need before he can vocalize them.

Ilya who loves him enough to leave heart shapes bruises on his ass, and cum streaked across his face.

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