1 – 2 of 2 Works in Crystal_Heart_Sherriden
- Crystal_Heart_Sherriden ×
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Ilya dresses Shane in his jersey as Shane cooks dinner - just his jersey, nothing else. Shane stares up at Ilya, his breath catching as he slowly battered his eye lids. His fingers traced Ilya’s muscular chest blinded by tenderness. He suddenly became hyper aware as Ilya holds the jersey like it’s something fragile. Black and red. His name on the back. 81 stitched clean and familiar, still faintly smelling like laundry soap instead of sweat for once. He shakes it out once, then looks up at Shane with a small, private smile. “Stand still,” Ilya says. Shane snorts. “I’m standing.” “Better,” Ilya replies, stepping closer. Shane lets himself be guided without comment. He’s tired — the good kind of tired the type you feel after a long day of training— and pliant in a way he only is with Ilya. He lifts his arms when Ilya tugs his hoodie up and over his head, blinking a little as cool air hits his skin. Ilya pauses. Just for a second. He takes Shane in like he’s memorising him again — the familiar lines, the way Shane’s shoulders slope when he’s relaxed, the way the fabric of his boxers curls on his hips. “You okay?” Shane asks softly. Ilya nods, clears his throat, and slips the jersey over Shane’s head. Fabric slides down warm skin. Ilya’s hands linger longer than necessary, smoothing the shoulders, tugging the hem down so it sits right. He adjusts the sleeves carefully, thumbs brushing Shane’s wrists like it matters. “Turn,” Ilya murmurs. Shane does. Ilya straightens the back, fingers pressing briefly over the stitched ROZANOV and 81, pride flickering sharp and bright in his chest. “My number,” he says quietly, “where it belongs. But.” Shane glances back over his shoulder. “Yeah?” Ilya steps in close, resting his chin briefly against Shane’s shoulder blade. His fingers grip the fabric of Shane’s boxers and slides them down, “There perfect now it looks better on you.” Shane’s mouth curves into a smile he doesn’t try to hide. “You’re biased.” He giggled pulling the fabric of the jersey down to cover his exposed body. “Very,” Ilya agrees. He moves around to face him again, tugging the collar just a little, lining it up the way he likes. Shane watches him with that open, steady attention that still knocks the wind out of Ilya sometimes. “You know,” Shane says, “most people just… hand someone a jersey. You’re making me look like a hockey bunny.” Shane chuckled suddenly feeling self conscious about how much skin he was showing. Ilya shrugs, unapologetic. “Most people are boring and besides you’re my hockey bunny.” Shane laughs softly, then reaches up and hooks a finger into the collar, pulling Ilya just close enough to rest their foreheads together. “Thank you,” Shane says — not just for the jersey. Ilya kisses him, quick and warm, then presses his palm flat over Shane’s chest where the number sits. His hands trail further down grasping the flesh of Shane’s arse like it was silk. Shane let out a gasp at the sudden grasp as Ilya lifted him onto their kitchen island. “Mine,” he says, possessively but certain. “Right down boy unless toy want dinner to burn,” Shane teased pushing Ilya away. Ilya draws his phone careful to not disturb Shane as he’s at the stove, wooden spoon in hand, brow furrowed in concentration like dinner is a hostile opponent he intends to out-think. Ilya’s jumper hangs off him — sleeves too long, shoulders just a little too broad, the hem brushing his thighs revealing just a little bit more skin each time he moved. The collar dips loose at the neck, soft and lived-in revealing a few hickeys that dotted Shane’s collar bone from a few days ago, unmistakably Ilya’s doing. It looks wrong on Shane in the way all the right things do. Ilya lifts his phone without thinking and as Shane reached for the spices, the fabric lifting just enough… Click. Shane doesn’t notice. Not at first. He’s just carefully stirring in the oregano, lips moving as he counts under his breath. Ilya takes another photo — from the side this time, capturing the way Shane’s hands disappear into the sleeves when he grips the spoon. Click. “Are you burning it?” Ilya asks mildly.
- Part 2 of Heated Rivalry Original Plots
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 1,426
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #77963771
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Shane accidentally bites Ilya whilst suffering a sensory overload.
- Part 1 of Heated Rivalry Original Plots
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 1,162
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #77912396