1 – 2 of 2 Works in Sleepiness
- Sleepiness ×
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Shane hadn't been turned on when he woke up. But Shane's body was hardwired to be receptive when it came to Ilya, and so after a few deep kisses and a warm hand against him, Shane could feel the goosebumps rising on his skin. He could feel the low pops and buzzes in his spine. He could feel that low ache, deep inside him, that he'd only ever found one method to sate. Shane and Ilya have sleepy middle of the night sex.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 2,332
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #77359616
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Shane has had a long week and decides to relax by taking a bath and using a bath bomb to relax his muscles. He's so relaxed he takes a nap, not even registering the colour of the bath bomb he used... Inspired by someone, I dont remember who it was so if someone remembers the fic, please tell me. It basically had Shane taking some panadol or something cos he had a headache but he fainted and Ilya found him and thought he tried to overdose The rivalry between Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander was the kind of legend that fueled sports talk radio for decades. It was the stoic, iron-willed Russian Captain against the golden boy of Canadian hockey. On the ice, they were a collision of tectonic plates—heavy hits, sharp words exchanged through mouthguards, and a mutual disdain that seemed etched into their very bones. In reality, the disdain was the most expensive mask in professional sports. For over eight years, they had been a ghost story told in darkened hotel rooms and anonymous apartments. For two years, they had been "forever." They were boyfriends in the shadows, navigating a world of secret back entrances, and the constant, crushing weight of a double life. But tonight, the ice was far away. Ilya had just finished a late flight back to their shared sanctuary in Shane's quiet cottage outside of Ottawa, a home no one else knew Ilya was embraced in. The cottage was hushed, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator and the distant whistle of the wind against the glass. Ilya dropped his gear bag by the door, his shoulders aching from a grueling game against Toronto. He wanted nothing more than to find Shane, bury his face in the crook of his neck, and let the persona of "The Iron Rozanov" melt away. "Shane?" he called out, his voice raspy. No answer. A sliver of light spilled from beneath the master bathroom door. Ilya smiled faintly, rubbing the back of his neck. Shane must have beaten him home and opted for a soak to soothe his own battered ribs. Shane was a fan of rituals—expensive salts, high-end candles, anything to drown out the noise of being Shane Hollander. Ilya kicked off his shoes and padded toward the bathroom. "I’m home, malysh," he murmured, pushing the door open. "I hope you saved some hot water for-" The sentence died in his throat. The smile didn't just fade; it vanished as if it had never existed. The bathroom was thick with steam, smelling of hibiscus and cedarwood. But Ilya’s brain didn't process the scent. It processed the sight. Shane was submerged in the tub, his head tilted back against the porcelain, his eyes closed, his body unnervingly still. And the water-the water was a deep, visceral, terrifying crimson. It looked like a massacre. It looked like a life drained out into a ceramic basin. In an instant, the year was no longer the present. The luxury apartment dissolved. Ilya was twelve years old again, standing in a cramped kitchen in Russia. He was seeing his mother’s pale, limp hand draped across the ground, pills scattered everywhere. He remembered the silence of that day, a silence that felt like a scream you couldn't hear. The trauma, suppressed under layers of muscle, fame, and hockey padding, erupted like a geyser. "Shane!" The sound that ripped from Ilya’s chest wasn't a name; it was a sob, a fractured howl of pure, unadulterated agony. He didn't walk; he lunged. He hit the tiled floor on his knees with a bone-jarring thud, his hands shaking so violently he could barely grip the edge of the tub. "Shane! No, no, no-. Shane, wake up! Look at me!" Ilya’s large, calloused hands plunged into the dark red water, frantic and clumsy. He grabbed Shane’s shoulders, hauling him upward. His mind was a strobe light of horrors. Did he have a knife? Did he take something? Was the pressure of the secret too much? Did I miss the signs? "Please, pozhaluysta, Shane, don't leave me!" Ilya was hyperventilating now, the air coming in jagged, useless gulps. He dragged Shane’s limp upper body out of the water, pinning him against his chest, heedless of his own expensive sweater getting soaked in the red liquid. He was checking for wounds, his fingers searching Shane’s wrists, his neck, his chest, his eyes blurred by a thick veil of tears. "Stay with me, stay with me, I’ve got you-" "Ilya? Wh-what?" Shane’s eyes flew open, wide and disoriented. He sputtered, coughing as water splashed into his face. He felt Ilya’s heart hammering like a trapped bird against his back, felt the crushing, desperate grip of the man’s arms. "Ilya? What’s happening? Are we-is there a fire?" Shane scrambled for purchase, his hands splashing in the red water. Ilya didn't let go. He couldn't. He was rocking back and forth on the floor, holding Shane to his chest with a strength that was bordering on painful. His face was buried in Shane’s wet hair, and he was making a sound Shane had never heard bbefore, a low, broken whimpering. "You’re alive," Ilya choked out, the words barely intelligible. "You’re alive, you’re alive..." Shane finally managed to twist around in Ilya’s arms, his own heart racing from the sudden, violent wake-up. He looked at Ilya and his stomach dropped. The giant, stoic Boston Captain looked like a ghost. His skin was ash-gray, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused, and he was trembling so hard his teeth were literally chattering. "Ilya, look at me. Hey, look at me," Shane said, his voice dropping into a soft, urgent tone. He reached up, cupping Ilya’s face. "I’m okay. I’m right here. I just fell asleep. I was so tired, I-" Shane’s gaze flicked down to the tub, then to the red stains on Ilya’s clothes, then back to the tub. The realization hit him like a cross-check to the throat. The bath bomb. He had bought a new one at the boutique near the arena. "Midnight Rose," the label had said. It was supposed to be luxurious. He hadn't realized it would turn the water the color of an arterial spray. And he knew, God, he knew, about Ilya’s mother. Ilya had only told him once,
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 1,703
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #76473816