This is part of a longer fic exploring Ilya's relationship to queerness and vulnerability as he falls in love with Shane that has been bouncing around my brain for a few weeks now and is still being drafted out. But in the meantime, enjoy the first 1500 words as a little stand-alone ficlet in celebration of me finally reuniting with my muse after a shitty 2025.
Now with an angsty little related ficlet here.
Ilya Rozanov is fourteen years old the first time someone ever calls him a slur.
"Well you flap your hands too much when you talk. Like a cocksucker. " Niko Volkov jeers in response to Ilya's animated attempt to explain how to correct his poor backhand shot. "You better fix that weak wrist shit, Rozanov or else people will get the wrong idea."
And Ilya has already fumbled his way through enough enjoyable firsts with Sveta and the girl down the block to thankfully know he's definitely not gay, but still the word freezes him mid-explanation.
Around him the other boys cackle and titter, and Ilya knows he can't let this linger. It'll grow if unanswered into assumed truth. And Russia doesn't allow any reproach on the team it chooses for the International Prospect Cup. Ilya has one shot.
Niko Volkov goes down on the ice in one swing, blood spewing from his newly broken nose. Seems Ilya's wrists aren't so weak when supporting the shape of a fist. Ilya gets sent to take five by a stern coach, but around him his teammates look on with a newfound fear and admiration.
He's won his first fight in hockey.
Leaning against the cold concrete block wall outside the practice rink, however, he stares at his hands—right knuckles split and bloody—and curses having found yet another flaw about himself.
Soft. Weak. Lazy. And now this, these too expressive hands. He's always been off.
Better off not born, his father had told him once.
"Smoke?" The half-cracked voice of their bulky defender, Lev, interrupts his examination. Ilya looks up into smiling brown eyes and a crooked smile. His stomach does the same little flip it always does at seeing the boy who is the closest person he has to a friend on this team. It doesn't feel as simple as it usually does.
He takes the pack of cigarettes from the other teen's outstretched palm and ignores the way his skin tingles when he brushes his fingertips against Lev's freckled hand.
He's not gay. But he suspects he's not straight enough either. And apparently his fucking hands are giving him away.
Ilya lights his first cigarette and coughs his way through the burn and acrid smoke while Lev laughs and pounds a hand against his back.
"Glad you took that fucker down a notch, Rozanov," he says with an easy grin. Ilya feels the nicotine ease some of the fluttering anxiety skittering along his spine. The second drag is easier; he imagines the smoke scorching through him, reducing the ugly, soft parts inside of him to blackened ash. Nothing happens.
Ilya exhales with a shrug and tries his own cheeky grin instead, "He deserved it just for that shit backhand."
Lev cackles. Ilya's stomach does another weak flip at the sound as he takes a third hit.
Years later, Sasha will tell him that Nico once sucked him off on the weekend in an empty locker room, and Ilya will wonder if Nico had known they were alike somehow. Or if maybe he'd only been trying not to look too closely at himself and accidentally singed Ilya in the process.
He'll never see him again to ask. Nico will get dropped from the Russian national prospect youth program for his insufficient backhand before the year is out.
For now though, Ilya stands outside the Moscow rink next to the first boy who makes his pulse jump while he talks and jokes and realizes that his flamboyant gestures can perhaps be acceptably controlled if he's using them to hold a cigarette.
They eventually head back inside to finish practice, and Lev lets him keep the pack. Ilya resolves to use some of his meager allowance to buy more. It's a terrible habit he knows.
But better shit lungs and an NHL contract than queer hands that keep him bound to Russia.
Years pass. Ilya's talent outpaces any small disadvantages brought on by the occasional smoke. He's drafted easily to the Russian National Youth team, and his hands learn to stay by his side when he's talking regardless of if there is a cigarette held in them. He no longer worries about their possible betrayal.
Now he smokes more for the ritual. For the socially acceptable excuse to step outside for a moment to himself and see something of the world outside Russia when they travel.
Even if right now that something is nothing more than an icy parking lot in the middle of nowhere in a Canadian province he has no idea how to pronounce with a lighter that won't fucking light.
"Ilya Rozanov?" A curious voice cuts through the relative silence. Ilya's head snaps up to find a young man who he assumes must be on the Canadian team walking toward him.
The other boy gestures toward himself; Ilya's eyes catch on the freckles dancing across his cheeks. "Shane Hollander. I, uh, wanted to introduce myself," he extends a hand, and Ilya drops his lighter back into his pocket so that he can take it in his own.
Hollander's skin is warm. Ilya is struck with an insane urge to pull him in closer. His pulse spikes jarringly, and he grabs for his lighter again the minute their hands part, placing the cigarette once more between his lips.
Of all the times for his hands to become traitorous again, they do so meeting the one hockey player in the world who has a chance of being drafted higher than him. He recognizes Hollander from some old tapes and articles now.
None of them had ever mentioned his fucking freckles though. Ilya clicks at the lighter with a renewed purpose while Hollander continues,
"Oh, I don't think you're supposed to smoke here." Ilya's lighter chooses that moment to start functioning again and flares to life, delivering a shock of heat to his slightly too close hand in the process. Suppressing a wince, Ilya takes a steadying drag of nicotine before daring to look back at the boy next to him again.
None of the tapes or articles had ever done justice to Hollander's soft brown eyes either. Blyat. Dimly, he registers he hasn't responded yet.
"Okay," he replies, accent thick and clunky in a way he hates around the English word. At his side, he feels his unoccupied hand twitch, and he quickly raises the cigarette to take another pull so he doesn't do anything more damning.
Like reach out and trace those infuriating dots on Hollander's nose with his fingertips.
Somehow he manages to get through the rest of their interaction without embarrassing himself. Manages to find words that make the other man flustered. Ignores the fluttering sensation in his chest at the slight blush he manages to invoke on those freckled cheeks.
It's perfectly acceptable to try to rile up the other team.
It's also perfectly acceptable, he tells himself, for one team captain to attend the other teams open practice. Scout for weaknesses in the competition. Ilya's being a professional. He slumps in the stands and watches a geared up Hollander fly across the ice. The tapes didn't capture this fully either.
He keeps his hands shoved firmly in the pocket of his hoodie and wishes Canada allowed indoor smoking. It's just admiration for an amazing player that's all.
Hollander shows up to the Russian open practice with a woman Ilya assumes must be his mother, and Ilya grips his stick so hard his gloves squeak from the pressure. He decides then that he has to beat him, this too-perfect man. It's the only way to rid himself of the fucking tension skittering through him and get back to the controlled ease he's sacrificed so much to win.
The finals arrive, and Hollander is brilliant on the ice. Ilya plays the best hockey of his life so far in response, all while pushing down the thrill it sends through him to finally find someone who can compete at his level. Its enough for one more goal than Canada when the buzzer sounds.
Enough to proclaim Ilya Rozanov number one draft pick, and thus one step further away from his father's grasp. The real victory.
Ilya joins the line for handshakes triumphant, making his way down the queue of forgettable Canadian faces until he slides his hand into Hollander's once more. "See you at the draft," he chirps, allowing himself a small smirk.
Brown eyes meet his comment with a fierce look that hits Ilya squarely in the chest as Hollander gives his hand the expected firm grip. There are small calluses on his palm. They leave behind fiery sparks that linger on Ilya's skin and make his hands itch to feel them again.
He smokes three cigarettes outside the hotel later trying to rid himself of the feeling.
Writers have two modes and they are "i haven't written in three weeks and i am rotting from the inside and everything feels wrong and i don't know who i am anymore" and "i wrote for four hours straight and forgot to eat and it's dark outside and when did that happen and i feel like a god" and there is nothing in between. no chill. no medium setting. just famine or feast and a very confused nervous system.
everyone get more sex positive and resist the rise of conservatism and purity culture NOW!!!! i am so tired of seeing “queer” people shame others for expressing themselves sexually, for looking down on SWers, for insisting that sex is somehow devoid of meaning or emotionless, for implying that desiring sex is somehow dirty or abnormal. respectability politics is bullshit. you’re not morally superior and straight/cis people will not accept you no matter how badly you want them to. and guess what? the most vulnerable populations get hurt by this rhetoric. SWers, trans folks, queer black folks, queer indigenous folks, queer folks of color. please decolonize your mind. queer sexual freedom IS a form of resistance and a form of joy, and if you don’t understand that then you don’t understand your history.
Rating: Explicit (see ao3 for more), Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov
Chapter One | Chapter Two
In which, Shane gets uses his online shopping, an accidental Russian language deep dive, and that shared calendar he finally finished to get everything he wants from Ilya against his kitchen counter. 😉
A/N: Due to blessings from the writing and work gods, I actually finished Chapter Two on schedule! Enjoy the fluffy and smutty (omg so smutty 😳) conclusion to this little fic! As always, please come scream with me in the tags here or in a comment/kudo over on ao3, it's so fun to hear people's thoughts if you'd like to share
Can be read on ao3 here. Or Chapter 2 is below and the tumblr version of Ch 1 is here.
Enjoy! and as usual I own nothing, all glory belongs to Jacob Tierney and Rachel Reid.
Shane wakes early the next morning out of sheer habit; pale, early dawn light only just beginning to filter through the blinds when he opens eyes.
His mind whirls to life, anticipating an incoming alarm and searching for a list of inevitable tasks he surely needs to accomplish. Neither of which arrives as he slowly remembers today is an infrequent day off for both of them. A blessing from the MLH scheduling gods he didn't even have to manipulate into existence on their calendar.
Tomorrow, they both fly out from Montreal for opposite ends of the US. The Raiders to LA, the Metros to Tampa. Today though, there are no such obligations. Just twenty-four hours of Shane and Ilya.
Ilya. The man in question emits a soft snore next to him, right arm flung out across Shane's torso from where he's sprawled on his stomach. Shane soaks in the rare sight of him like this: peaceful, brow smooth and unworried, mouth pressed against Shane's shoulder as though he meant to leave a kiss there and fell sleep mid-action. That unending fount of warmth beneath Shane's sternum bubbles over at the sight and mixes longingly with the unfair knowledge that this can't be something he gets to see every day at this point in their lives.
And fuck, sometimes Shane doesn't know how he's going to survive his own years-long plan.
Sunrise brightens the streaks of golden rays dancing along Ilya's bare back, and Shane's eyes trace the constellation of moles that dot his partner's skin. He's tempted to divert his maudlin thoughts by following their path with his lips and waking Ilya to distract them both further, but he decides they get far too little rest during the season and settles for bringing his free hand around to hold the forearm draped across him instead. Ilya hums sleepily and nuzzles against his side. Closing his eyes, Shane attempts to let the solid warmth of his boyfriend's body pull him back under.
But his thoughts are too awake now, energy buzzing along his skin, and he snaps his eyelids back open only minutes later with a soft sigh. He is terrible at sleeping in. Unwilling to move quite yet though, he runs his hand along Ilya's, tracing the outline of each finger as his mind wanders and skips. His brain pushes a random finding from the past weeks' Internet rabbit holes into focus: Russian tradition dictates that a wedding ring is worn on the right hand. Shane rubs the smooth skin at the base of Ilya's ring finger.
Someday when they both retire, he wonders if he'll place a gold or silver band there. It feels impossibly far off when he already knows he wants to see it there now.
Jesus he's being a sappy idiot. Stifling a groan at his own insufferable yearning, he slips quietly from the bed and manages not to disturb his sleeping partner as he dresses in running clothes and heads for the connecting bathroom to brush his teeth.
Downstairs, Shane forces himself to move through his morning routine, amended to accommodate for Ilya's presence. Blending his usual smoothie while turning on the coffee maker for Ilya. Pulling on his sneakers and grabbing his keys, but then making sure to scribble out a quick note because there is someone who expects to wake up and find him.
It's the first regimen he's ever adjusted for anyone else as an adult. And it's a bit unnerving how fast it's becoming the only version of it he truly prefers.
Once outside, the cool, crisp autumn air in his lungs and the rhythmic pounding of his feet against the pavement help to settle the restless anxiety itching between his shoulder blades. He completes an easy 5km circuit along his usual path, careful not to push too hard on a rest day, and returns to his apartment feeling much more rational and balanced than when he left.
He finds Ilya awake and sitting at the kitchen counter when he steps inside, and for a moment, Shane indulges in pausing to lean against the wall and watch him unnoticed. Ilya takes a bite of eggs, smiling at something on his phone screen as he chews. His boyfriend is wearing loose sweatpants and one of his ridiculously tight tank tops that somehow makes his chest and shoulders look even broader. Shane swallows hard at the small pulse of heat that zips through him. He should really go upstairs and shower now.
Ilya turns in his seat and looks over at him then, smile growing wider. Shane's legs move toward the kitchen and away from the stairs automatically.
(Because when has he ever been successful at doing what he should when it came to Ilya.)
"You left me," Ilya states, lower lip jutting out into a pout and hands reaching out to tug at Shane as soon as he's within reach.
Shane goes easily, stepping into the space Ilya makes between his legs and circling his arms around Ilya's shoulders while he corrects, "I went for a run."
It's a somewhat familiar argument. His boyfriend is predictably dramatic.
"Same thing," Ilya whines, arms crossing behind Shane's lower back to pull him in closer, "Abandonment."
A laugh escapes him. "Wow. Big word for such a big baby," Shane teases.
His partner drops his head to Shane's chest amidst an exaggerated groan. Shane wrinkles his nose slightly at the action; he can't smell pleasant. Ilya doesn't seem to mind, however, and continues bemoaning, voice slightly muffled, "Oh, I see how it is. You are sick of me already."
He leans back to throw Shane a mischievous grin, eyes gleaming, and Shane is struck by such an overwhelming sense of fondness that he can't find any other response except the truth.
"Never," he whispers, giving into the desire to run a hand through Ilya's soft hair. Ilya's gaze takes on a slightly wet quality.
"Blyat," Ilya murmurs, and then Shane finds himself being pressed into the counter as Ilya surges up to kiss him.
Ilya's mouth is hungry upon his, teeth nipping at his lips, tongue demanding entrance, heat instant and blazing between them. Shane moans at the sudden onslaught and does his best to keep up while his pulse roars, hands sliding to Ilya's jaw in an attempt to somehow pull him even closer. Ilya slips his hands under Shane's shirt, and the awful feeling of sweat-damp fabric gliding across Shane's skin yanks him back to reality.
He breaks the kiss, gasping, "Ilya, I'm all sweaty…"
"I do not care lyubimyy," Ilya answers and directs his mouth over Shane's cheek to suck at the underside of his jaw, bringing their hips flush in an indecent move that has Shane losing his train of thought briefly.
Finally, he manages to coordinate his lust-addled brain and limbs for long enough to detach Ilya's determined mouth from his neck and grit out, "I care."
"Shane," Ilya drops his forehead to Shane's shoulder with a low whine. "I am just going to make you dirty again," he protests, but his movements pause.
Shane attempts a deep breath to reel himself in further. The edge of the counter-top digs into his back as he does so, and the wild thought occurs to him that despite years of sex between them, they've somehow never fucked in a kitchen.
Which is a thought that really should be less blindingly hot than his half-hard dick apparently finds it, twitching against Ilya's where they are still pressed together. His too-observant boyfriend notices of course, and Shane feels him grin against his running shirt.
"Ilya," he warns, curling a hand around the back of Ilya's head and tugging sharply to force him up to meet his gaze. Ilya whimpers at the action, lips parting around a pant as his hips make an aborted thrust that catches the edge of Shane's cock and makes them both moan.
Fuck. For a moment all Shane can think about is the phone call that started his whole calendar project six weeks ago. Ilya pliant and completely fucking undone beneath him on the sofa. Fresh heat sparks to life along his spine. Maybe he should rethink this actually.
The itch of salt on his skin reaches an untenable level. Nope, holy shit he needs to shower. He tightens his grip and fixes Ilya with an arched brow.
Ilya fires back an imperious look of his own before ending their silent stalemate on a dramatically whined, "Fine."
Shane sends him a grateful smile, releasing his hold and running his hands placatingly across Ilya's chest while his boyfriend unpins him from the kitchen island with a petulant frown.
"I'll be fast," Shane promises, and then he darts forward to steal one last kiss from Ilya's lips, throwing Ilya an imitation of one of his own cocky winks and slipping from his grasp before his boyfriend can counter the feint.
Ilya groans. Shane sidesteps a swat aimed for his ass with ease and speeds from the kitchen.
"Such a fucking tease, Hollander!"
Shane's answering laugh echoes through the apartment as he takes the stairs two at a time.
~rHr~
The idea comes to him in the shower, or more accurately, while he's searching for his extra shampoo underneath the bathroom sink.
Shane had forgotten just how many toys he'd stashed under here in the intervening weeks. Making a panicked mental note to move them all to the bedroom closet ahead of the scheduled contractors' appointment the following Friday, he extricates another box from the cabinet and sets it on the tile beside him. Why the hell had he not thought to move the needed bottles in front of all of this? His hands close around what feels like a cylinder package, and he brings it toward him with a triumphant noise.
Only to find he's holding an irregularly packaged anal plug instead. This one is red silicone with a dark jewel at the flared base. He vaguely remembers the site claiming it was the perfect size for light prostate stimulation and longer wear, but he hasn't had a chance to try it out yet.
The vision of Ilya discovering the plug and pushing into him against the kitchen counter springs vivid and swift into his mind. The simmering heat from earlier flares through his gut. It's a fucking messy idea.
It's suddenly all Shane can fucking think about.
He spots the shampoo out of the corner of his eye and reaches for it, standing with both the bottle and toy in his hands. He's going to need lube.
The rest of his plan falls into place as almost an afterthought while he's throwing on a t-shirt and shoving a condom and packet of lube into his pants' pocket from his beside drawer. Straightening from his bend by the table, he releases a soft grunt as the plug inside him moves with the motion, and his eyes catch on his laptop atop the dresser by the door.
He grabs it and heads into the hall, adjusting his mental timeline for the rest of their day to include a brief calendar showcase while they were still somewhat coherent.
~rHr~
Shane is still mulling over his plan, and getting used to the subtle shift and rub of the plug, while he walks back to where he left his boyfriend. The fullness and stretch are manageable, but he honestly can't imagine how someone might wear one while moving about their day easily. Each step down the stairs further nudges a rounded side up against his prostate, creating a radiating thrum of desire that has his pulse pounding by the time he reaches the bottom stair.
Briefly, he worries about his ability to walk Ilya through even an aborted version of the conversation he envisioned earlier, but mercifully, the sensation becomes tolerable again by the time he crosses the living room and into the kitchen.
Ilya looks up from placing a dish on the drying rack by the sink when Shane lays his laptop down on the white marble counter. His eyes flit to the closed computer before meeting Shane's with a questioning glance.
Shane feels himself freeze slightly in response, newfound uncertainty and yesterday's mild panic shivering down the back of his neck.
Maybe it was too soon? Shane has always been way too intense about the things he's interested in. And a multi-tabbed shared calendar definitely fell under weird and too much didn't it?
"Something is wrong?"
Ilya's voice jerks Shane from his harried thoughts alongside a startled, "Huh?"
His partner drops the dishtowel and edges closer to him, movements tentative. Shane attempts to mimic a casual lean against the counter that he hopes will conceal his interior stress.
Ilya studies his posture, "You look like scared rabbit."
"What?" Shane deflects indignantly, "I'm fine—"
Ilya's brow raises in disbelief, and Shane cuts off his stammering with a heavy sigh. It was now or never.
"I…um..," he pushes past the anxious lump lodged in his throat. "I, uh, made you something," he begins again, resisting the urge to drop Ilya's steady gaze, "Well…I made us something. I guess."
Concern disappears from Ilya's features on a harsh breath and is replaced by abject surprise, jaw slightly slack, eyes flickering through a series of rapid emotions before landing on what Shane can only describe as boyish glee. Any of Shane's lingering hesitations flee at the sight.
Holy shit, he really is Shane's favorite person.
"You got me a present, zaychik?"
Shane repeats the word poorly. "What does that one mean?"
Ilya's mouth twists into an impish grin, "Rabbit."
On second thought, he is the most annoying person Shane has ever met.
"Oh fuck you," he groans, crossing his arms and releasing an exasperated huff, "I'm not showing you now."
"No, Shane, I want to see," Ilya implores, face crumbling into an earnest pout as he quickly amends, "Zaychik is like pet name, I promise."
Shane arches a brow at the protest and turns to face the kitchen counter. Ilya sidles up next to him immediately, hands pawing at Shane's side until Shane sighs and allows himself to be spun and ensnared in Ilya's arms. He loops his arms lazily around Ilya's neck and fixes him with an unimpressed stare. Ilya's expression turns contrite, and he places a soothing peck to Shane's cheek before pulling back to coax,
"I am sorry, moya lyubov. Please show me present."
My love. Like dorogoy and lyubimyy, Shane knows this phrase as well. Ilya has used it so often in the last three months that Shane can recognize the cadence of vowels and consonants. They have been breathed against his lips, exalted into his skin. Slipped effusively into the structure of Ilya's English with such ease that Shane has almost forgotten how recent their appearance is. It's another thing he hadn't predicted. How many words Ilya would find to equate with Shane. New vocalizations of love that make Shane's heart clench and his breath catch. He expects someday he might be better immune to their use.
But for now the words and the soft, pleading gaze of his boyfriend have the intended effect.
He rolls his eyes, failing to hide his smile any longer, but still trying for a stern tone when he replies,"Fine, but behave."
The sincerity in Ilya's eyes glints heatedly at Shane's choice of phrase. A responding swell of need propels Shane forward and demands he taste the apology directly from his partner's mouth. Ilya hums into the kiss, but obeys Shane's words, pulling back after a few chaste pecks.
Which does nothing but turn the steady hunger in Shane's veins ravening.
Tamping down a reckless inclination to throw his plan out the window and promptly reclaim Ilya's mouth, Shane spins back around and pulls the laptop toward him. Ilya drops a kiss to his shoulder and drapes himself casually along Shane's back, arms hugging his waist. Shane forces out a steadying breath through his nose and resolutely ignores the way his abrupt movements have made the plug's presence very apparent once more.
Focus. He just needs ten more minutes of focus.
Biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood, Shane opens the laptop and pulls up the calendar, previous nerves returning in a whiplash to further cool his fevered mind.
"Oh," Ilya exhales, a soft whoosh against Shane's ear, "You actually made it." His voice is quiet and thick.
"Well, yeah, I told you it was a good idea," Shane explains. Anxiety churning in his stomach, he tries to turn to take in Ilya's reaction. Only to be held in place by a series of fervent kisses peppered across his cheek, ear, and neck.
Warm relief unfolds beneath his skin, and Shane releases a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. Ilya hooks his chin over Shane's shoulder and squeezes him in a tight hug. "Show me," he demands softly, grin pressing against Shane's cheek.
It's the easiest thing in the world to answer with a smile of his own and do as Ilya asks.
Shane takes Ilya through the various sections and tabs he created. Shows him how he's set up anonymous and separate accounts for both of them to use just for this; outlines the naming conventions he thinks they should use just in case anything gets hacked. Throughout his demonstration, Ilya is attentive but strangely restrained, offering only encouraging hums and pleased murmurs in place of the verbose chirping Shane has come to expect.
After a few minutes, Shane clicks into the final section and begins to explain the color coded labels he'd devised, "I did some research, and—"
"You made a stop light system for phone calls, yes," Ilya interrupts, amused.
Shane flushes, new heat racing through him at the memory of the extremely distracting internet search that led him to this system. He leans forward so that he has space to turn his neck and meet Ilya's now teasing expression.
"Ah so I don't need to explain?" He asks lightly, unable to resist shooting Ilya a playful smirk. Feeling brazen, Shane twists fully around to face his partner and continues, "Not going to need to keep you silent during a call marked red then?"
Ilya's eyes darken at the implied memory. "No, I am well-versed," he glances down at Shane's mouth with a naked thirst, voice dropping low, "Besides, who said it would be me keeping quiet?" Shane reaches blindly behind him to close the laptop, pulse becoming staccato and frenzied.
Phase one of today's plan was mostly complete anyway.
"Well-versed, huh?" He can't help but fixate on the odd word choice.
"Shut up," Ilya retorts. Shane sends him a shit-eating grin and expectant look in reply. With a put-upon sigh, his boyfriend rolls his eyes in defeat and continues, "Sveta wanted to watch Jane Austen marathon on TV last week."
Shane fails to hold back the bark of laughter that escapes him. He would be willing to bet good money that Svetlana could have cared less. He's pretty sure Ilya doesn't realize that Shane had caught him lingering on a TV rerun of BBC's Pride & Prejudice while channel hopping during his Labor Day visit. Ilya can be so soft sometimes. Shane loves him so much it feels insane. Idly, he wonders if Ilya would like a nice edition of the books as a Christmas gift.
"Rude," Ilya grumbles, luring Shane's distracted thoughts back to the present to find his boyfriend fixing him with a sheepish glare.
"Sorry, sorry," Shane replies, running his hands up and down Ilya's arms in a silent apology. Ilya's lips quirk up into a small smile at the gesture, eyes sparkling and dipping to Shane's lips once more in a heated flick that returns Shane's attention to his original goal with renewed urgency.
Leaning back against the edge of the counter, Shane grabs the soft material of Ilya's shirt in both hands and gives a firm tug. Ilya grunts in surprise and stumbles forward, steadying himself on Shane's waist. Shane flashes him a sly smile.
"Such a gentleman," he suggests just to watch Ilya's features smolder.
"No is lie," Ilya's grin is cocky and is combined with his hands sliding down to grasp Shane's ass, rolling their hips together in an obscene motion. The action shifts the silicone within Shane, the simultaneous pressure on his prostate and dick drawing an unexpected moan from his lips. Ilya's smile turns feral, grinding them together once more, and Shane temporarily surrenders to the wall of heat that slams into him, eyes fluttering shut. A roguish bite grazes his chin as Ilya continues, "I am clearly a rake."
He's Shane's is what he is. The thought is sudden and possessive and sears through his hazy thoughts, staggering his breath and forcing his eyes open to meet Ilya's. His boyfriend stares back him, mouth a knowing smirk that Shane often finds directed at him just after Ilya steals the puck from Shane's stick. A competitive irritation flares beneath his ribs, and he wants to wreck the arrogance from Ilya's expression.
"Hmmm, I don't know," Shane plays coy. Holding Ilya's gaze, he slowly bites his lower lip and enjoys the sight of Ilya's pulse jumping noticeably against his neck. Shane leans forward, eyes flicking meaningfully down to their flush hips, and makes a counter-play for the goal, whispering, "Feels like a rake would've already done something about this."
Ilya growls out a heated curse and pins Shane to the counter in a heady press of lips .
Fuck yes. Finally.
Victory scorches through him, and Shane moans into the kiss, mouth parting and allowing Ilya to slide a demanding tongue around his own. Greedy hands find the edge of Ilya's tank and push the fabric upwards until Shane can dig his fingertips into the firm muscle of his partner's back. Ilya hisses and nips at Shane's bottom lip in retaliation before leaning back to allow Shane to tug the shirt the rest of the way off.
Shane's shirt follows in a similar manner that he can't be bothered to pay much attention to as Ilya reclaims his mouth in a bruising kiss that sends a shock streaking down his spine and has Shane grasping for purchase in Ilya's hair. Ilya responds with a soft moan, hands sketching their own fiery path across Shane's chest, pausing to pinch lightly at an exposed nipple and pull a whine from Shane's throat, and eventually settling on an urgent grip of Shane's hips and rolling their hardening erections together.
"Ah, fuck," the words are punched out of Shane on a low groan. Inside him, the plug shifts and presses against him in that same duel sensation as before, and a resulting whimper follows. Holy shit. Against his lips, Ilya chuckles, grinding forward again with another hungry kiss, and then pulls back, forehead pressing against Shane's.
"So needy today, malysh," he chirps, breath hot near Shane's cheek. He drags Shane's rigid dick along his once more, and a thready moan cuts out any any retort Shane might have found, his muscles clenching around the silicone at the responding pressure.
God, Ilya had no idea.
For a moment, he indulges in the novelty, rutting against his boyfriend's length. Heat coils and tightens along his spine with each glide of the plug in reaction to his movement, and fuck, he could totally come from this. Another nudge along his prostate has him scraping his nails down Ilya's back from the intensity, drawing jagged moans from them both.
"Shit—" Ilya swears, capturing Shane's mouth in a dirty, open-mouthed kiss that quickly turns insistent, hands sliding beneath the waistband of Shane's joggers. A choked sound escaping him at finding bare skin. Shane's pulse roars in reply—it hadn't seemed pertinent to bother with boxers earlier—and suddenly it is imperative that Ilya fucks him. Now.
On a desperate whine, he breaks the kiss, hands fumbling to untie the drawstring of Ilya's sweats and push them from his hips. Ilya hurries to kick the boxers and pants from him and then eliminates the distance between them once more, groping for Shane's ass and rolling them back together in a lewd flick of hips. Shane drops his head back at the shift of the toy within him and releases a high-pitched whimper that Ilya responds to by trailing half-bitten kisses down the bared stretch of his throat.
Joggers are yanked down past his thighs, finally freeing his own aching cock and allowing Shane to revel in the delicious slide Ilya's heated skin along it when he reaches forward to take them both in hand. A loud moan reverberates around them at the touch—impossible to tell which of them it came from—and Ilya pauses his mapping of Shane's neck to sink his teeth into the skin. Shane whimpers, current sparking across his skin and down his dick where a pulse of pre-come coats his hand. Ilya's fingertips knead the flesh of his ass.
Wildly, Shane wonders what the pressure inside him would feel like if Ilya lifted him onto the counter digging into his spine, and he is half-decided on testing this theory when one of Ilya's fingers slides between his glutes to trace along his crease—
"Fuck Shane," Ilya whines, cock twitching in Shane's hold, "did you plan this?" An exploratory push at the plug's base causes Shane to squeeze his eyes shut on a breathy moan.
Wrenching his strung-out mind back from the edge, Shane manages to choke out, "Plan what?" The sentence comes out far more ruined than the innocent tone he intends.
Ilya's head snaps up, "Oh my god you did." A commanding hand grips his chin, and Shane pries his eyes open to find Ilya, face flushed, eyes awed and intent while he continues, "you planned to seduce me with calendar"
"Ah—" his response is lost to a groan as Ilya chooses the same moment to tap more firmly at the toy. "—fuck—" Shane clenches his jaw and spits out a strangled, "—maybe."
Ilya's stare turns molten. Shane reacts by running a thumb across both of their leaking tips and sliding a slick hand along them in a defiant stroke, watching Ilya's eyelashes flutter and his lips part around a satisfying gasp. He twists his hand upwards again hoping to repeat the sound.
When suddenly, his hand is knocked away, and he's being flipped around and pressed into the counter as Ilya releases an almost predatory growl. An exacting kiss is placed at the nape of his neck, then another between his shoulder blades, followed by the feeling of Ilya dropping to his knees behind him. Another bite is nipped to the small of his back, Ilya's fingers curling around the fabric of Shane's sweats to jerk them the rest of the way down.
"Maybe what is maybe," Ilya demands, spreading Shane's ass cheeks and releasing an awestruck groan, "There is a plug in your ass."
As if to prove his point, his boyfriend edges a determined finger around the flared base, thrusting the toy repeatedly along Shane's prostate and sending him scrambling to grab the counter's trim in order to remain standing. Shane lets out a helpless moan and presses back into the sensation.
Jesus Christ. Ilya chuckles darkly and teases the same finger under the base and along his stretched rim. Shane whimpers at the unyielding pressure the plug creates, and Ilya repeats the motion.
It's too much and yet not enough at all.
Frustration cuts through the scalding tension building within him, and he wrests a hand from the counter to reach back and fist in Ilya's curls.
"Well, I don't know" he grits out, fingers tightening and prying a whined exhale from his partner, "you're still talking instead of fucking me so yeah—"
"Blyat lyubimyy—" Ilya groans, straining against Shane's grasp to lean forward and suck a bruising kiss to the top of Shane's backside.
Shane can barely keep up with his fast-incinerating thoughts which is probably why he replies without bothering to reflect,
"Yes—fuck—traxni menya pozalyusta."
Behind him, Ilya freezes, the plug's pressure inside Shane lessening as his partner's fingers still. Distantly, Shane considers that while a little imperfect, his pronunciation really wasn't half-bad. A proud recognition that promptly flies from his brain when his words finally seem to land, and Ilya falls against Shane with a broken moan, hands flying to grip his thighs almost painfully.
"Fuck Hollander, you are trying to kill me," Ilya pants, forehead pressing into Shane's skin, "You planned to kill me, yes?" His voice is perfectly wrecked, and Shane was so fucking right all those weeks ago.
It was fucking thrilling using Russian to make Ilya Rozanov come undone.
Turning slightly to take in Ilya's prone form, Shane eases his fingers in his partner's hair, carding through the stands in a soothing motion before gripping lightly to encourage Ilya to look up. His expression is a ruin of lust, eyes hooded and dazed, and Shane feels a stunning surge of want flood through him at being the cause.
"Maybe," he finally replies, flashing Ilya a bratty smirk. Predictably, Ilya features regain their intense focus with a mischievous twitch, his boyfriend holding Shane's gaze and leaning in to bite at the sensitive skin of Shane's ass while sneaking a hand around to grasp his throbbing dick in a firm stroke.
Shane whines in reply, vision blurring slightly, before managing to tighten his hand once more in Ilya's hair and fix him with a meaningful look.
Ilya raises a brow in an innocent expression and nips again at his ass. Shane's eyes narrow. A low chuckle puffs along his skin, and then Ilya acquiesces, "I will need to go get lube and condom."
Shane allows himself a winning grin, releasing his grip on Ilya and stating firmly, "Right pocket." And is rewarded for his earlier planning when Ilya's expression falters around a fevered moan, hands leaving Shane to scramble frantically for the discarded pants.
Things between them turn ravenous after that. Ilya spreads Shane to remove the plug gently from his ass, extracting a low whimper from Shane at the loss and an equally devastating sound from his partner. Ilya replaces the toy with his own urgent mouth, sliding his skilled tongue along Shane's rim and eating him out for several charged and endless minutes until Shane has to drop to his forearms against the kitchen counter and clench his jaw in an effort to keep his legs from giving out.
Lips sweep starved and exalting kisses up his spine, Ilya pausing at some point once he stands to rip open the condom and lube packets behind him. Shane hardly hears the sound over the pounding rush in his ears. Then, an arm snakes around his torso and hauls him upright against Ilya's chest.
"This is what you wanted, yes?" Ilya asks, tone far more controlled than Shane knows what to do with. His cock throbs and leaks messily in response. Ilya ghosts a hand along the cleft of Shane's ass, mouth nipping at an earlobe before continuing, "For me to fuck you in the kitchen?"
Shane's eyes flutter shut of their own accord, and he fights for coherence long enough to confirm an adamant, "Fuck—yes." Which Ilya answers by sliding two lubed fingers into him with ease, curling and finding Shane's prostate immediately. A shout rips from his chest, and he gives in to the incessant pleasure that rends through him, head falling against Ilya's shoulder as he fucks back into the motion.
"Blyat ty ideal'na," Ilya mutters, voice no longer composed, and Shane notes the win against his partner's composure in a flash of triumph. But then a third finger joins the other two, and the thought perishes in a scorching blaze.
"Pozhaluysta," the word falls from his lips, begging and without him fully registering it. He has no idea if it fits whatever Ilya has just said. Hell, he's not even completely sure which language he said it in.
It has the intended effect thankfully. A wounded moan vibrates against his neck, and Ilya pulls his hand from Shane's body, distracting him from the hollow emptiness by leveling kisses to his ear and throat. Steady hands press purposefully along his skin, and Shane follows the silent ask to bend over the counter once more, bracing himself on his arms. Beneath him, the marble is a cool relief on his overheated skin.
A gentle kiss is placed upon his nape, and Ilya gives a reassuring squeeze to his hips before Shane feels the press of Ilya's dick at his entrance. Moaning in dizzying relief, he drops head between his arms, entire world reduced to the intoxicating stretch of Ilya slowly filling him. His partner bottoms out around a soft moan. Shane responds with a low groan and tries not to immediately come apart.
"Okay?" Ilya chokes out, voice strained, arms bracing himself on either side of Shane's. Urgent heat boils over inside him. Jesus Christ, Shane needs him to fucking move.
Nodding, he shifts his weight onto one arm and reaches for Ilya's hip behind him to tug him slightly deeper, wringing another debauched moan from them both.
Then with a curse, Ilya drops his forehead to rest heavily between Shane's shoulder blades and finally starts to fuck him.
Time grows stretched and fuzzy. The thick, slow glide of Ilya within him flares white-hot and all-consuming, and Shane's sense of reality disintegrates from the blinding heat that escalates between them.
At some point, Ilya raises up to drive deeper into him, cock catching on Shane's prostate with each hard piston of his hips, and Shane's arms refuse to continue holding his weight, his torso flattening against the counter beneath him as he keens.
Behind him, Ilya moans Shane's name and increases his pace until Shane is gripping at the opposite edge of the surface with white knuckles and babbling incoherently. Ilya's hips slap out a filthy rhythm against Shane's ass. The tension within him ratchets up in a relentless onslaught, tightening along his skin and coiling urgently at the base of his spine.
"Oh fuck—Ilya—" he sobs out at another pounding thrust against his prostate, pressing his forehead into the hard counter. He's pretty sure he's drooling slightly which is a mess he didn't predict.
Ilya's answering moan is fevered and ruined, slamming into Shane and flinging him closer to the edge at the sound.
And maybe it's that Shane vaguely put this whole plan together around the phone call where he first discovered it. Or maybe it's just that Shane is so fucking close he needs to make sure Ilya is right there with him—equally destroyed by this. But something inspires his burning, scattered thoughts to string together the next words around a lewd moan.
"—you're so fucking good for me."
Ilya's hands grip Shane's hips so hard he'll definitely have bruises later—the thought of which drags a whine from Shane's throat—and suddenly Shane is right fucking there, teetering on the edge, a pinpoint of friction and need and Ilya. Then,
"Fuck—Shane!" Ilya shouts and comes with a shattered groan, hips stuttering and grinding into Shane, hand reaching around to stroke along Shane's length. And Shane is helpless to follow, body going taut and tension snapping as he flies apart underneath him in an unyielding release, spilling against his stomach in thick bursts.
Ilya collapses along his back, breath rapid and blistering along Shane's overwrought skin, drawing a residual shudder through him. He unfurls his clenched grip from the counter's far-side and Ilya slides a hand along his arm to thread their fingers together in a grounding press.
"Holy shit," he mumbles. Ilya hums in agreement and places a needy kiss to his shoulder. The air around them is humid and thick. Shane focuses on trying to breathe through it and return his heart rate to normal while his awareness of the world slowly creeps back in.
"So you have other sex toys now?" Ilya says after another moment, voice hoarse and words muted by his mouth resting against Shane's sweat-damp flesh.
Shane giggles at his boyfriend's one-track mind, "Maybe…"
"Hollander," Ilya groans and nips at his back. Shane wriggles beneath him, clenching around Ilya's still-sheathed dick and drawing a latent whine from them both. Ilya is undeterred, "Maybe you finally show me dildo now, yes?"
Shane simply sighs contentedly in response, thoughts still too-sluggish for a witty reply even as his spent dick gives a half-hearted twitch at the idea. He files it away for later once his fucking legs remember how to work.
Eventually, they separate, Ilya sliding from Shane with a small grunt to dispose of the condom. Shane straightens, bending carefully on jellied knees to pull on his pants. He finds his shirt and is using it to wipe the cooling come from his stomach (he definitely needs a second shower) when his eyes catch on the streak of white fluid across the bottom cabinets.
"Ugh, I knew this would be messy."
His boyfriend laughs behind him, and then Shane is being spun, Ilya's hands cupping his face for a soft kiss that makes his heart stutter slightly from the sheer affection poured into it.
Ilya pulls back after a moment, expression fond, "Never change, moya lyubov." Another kiss. "Go wash, I will clean up."
Shane looks back at him in wonder, adoration threatening to collapse his lungs and crack through his ribs. Ilya smiles bashfully under Shane's intense stare. Sometimes Shane wants to crawl inside of him.
"Cleaner is under the kitchen sink," he finally manages to stutter out in place of something insanely lovesick. "Oh, I have special wipes for the wood—"
Ilya rolls his eyes at him, muttering a loving, "freak," and shoos him from the room.
He's washing his hands when Ilya joins him in the bathroom, wrapping his arms around his waist and dropping his forehead to Shane's shoulder while moaning theatrically,
"I cannot believe you made sex calendar for me."
Shane flicks water over his shoulder at his idiot of a boyfriend. "Fuck you, I made a shared calendar for us."
Ilya raises his head and sticks his tongue out at Shane before replying, "Same thing."
"Asshole," Shane volleys back, drying his hands and flinging the hand towel at Ilya's smug face. His boyfriend dodges it easily, and it lands behind them with a damp smack on the tiled floor.
Ilya doesn't miss a beat. "You like it," he teases, meeting Shane's eyes in the bathroom mirror and sending him a cheeky wink. Then his gaze turns soft. "I love you."
Steady, easy affection replaces any mild annoyance. Sometimes Shane can't believe he spent so much time afraid of wanting this. He's so fucking happy and in love. They could have had this for years.
They have this now, he reminds himself.
"Ya tebya lyublyu," he whispers back. Ilya's smile is incandescent. Sometimes Shane can't believe he has the power to cause it.
A light kiss is pressed to the top of Shane's bare shoulder, and Ilya clears his throat, "I…also love it. The, ah, shared calendar." His teeth worry the skin of his bottom lip, expression raw and vulnerable in the mirrored reflection. Shane is struck by the need to turn around and witness it firsthand. Ilya drops his head to Shane's and sniffs, voice thick around a quiet, "Thank you."
"Of course," Shane murmurs and tilts his head to brush his lips against Ilya's in a comforting peck. Ilya releases a shaky breath when they part, and for a moment they just hold each other, foreheads pressed, eyes closed. Shane wonders if Ilya can hear the million unspoken endings that he's left hanging in the air between them, his mind unable to choose just one. Of course I did this for you. Of course I wanted to make this for you. Of course I love you.
Of course I want to share a life with you.
Shane wants everything with the man in front of him, shared calendars are just the start.
Ilya breaks the silence on a pensive noise, pulling back to send Shane a sideways grin, "I will send you my schedule to add to it, yes?" But there is a simpler phrase underneath it, silent and more matched to the lone tear track Shane spots on Ilya's cheek.
I do, too. I want a life with you too.
Shane feels his own eyes burn at the recognition. An irrational urge to drop to one knee and vow to bind himself to the man before him presses at the forefront of his mind. He pushes it down and tries not to jump ahead.
"Oh fuck you," Shane limits his reaction to the words spoken, although he can't keep the smile from his voice, "I'm not your secretary." Ilya waggles his eyebrows at him in response, eyelashes slightly wet even as his face contorts into a silly expression.
Shane's mouth twitches, and they both fall into an easy laughter. But Ilya's eyes are still brimming with devotion a moment later as he leans in to meet Shane's lips in a tender press.
It's a sealed vow they just haven't said yet.
They'll get there eventually.
For now, Shane stands in a bathroom in Montreal and kisses his boyfriend and ponders what other templates and forms he can bring to their relationship in order to evoke a similar calendar effect.
literally what would we do without gif makers thank you gif makers THANK YOU GIFMAKERS i love nothing more than to watch a tiny moment of a scene loop over and over and over the world is so beautiful
your dashboard is supposed to be at LEAST halfway full of shit you have no context for and fandoms you're not involved in. it is the natural way of the universe
ilya starting antidepressants and getting a lot of initial side effects. it’s bad enough that shane finds him sitting on the bathroom floor at two in the morning.
ilya is sitting curled beside the toilet, one arm folded across his stomach, the other resting against the seat like he’s been hovering there awhile.
shane stops in the doorway immediately.
“baby?”
ilya flinches slightly at the sound of his voice, like he’d forgotten other people existed.
he looks exhausted. pale in the dim light. his chest rises with slow measured inhales, like he’s trying not to make the nausea worse.
“hey,” shane says softly. “how long have you been in here?”
ilya shrugs weakly, which means too long.
shane reaches for him, fingers brushing gently against his cheek. ilya leans into the touch for exactly one second before squeezing his eyes shut hard.
“head hurts,” he says quietly.
shane’s hand slides up into his hair, thumb brushing his temple. “again?”
a small nod.
“dizzy too?”
“mhm.”
“nauseous?”
ilya lets out a humorless laugh. “what gave it away?”
another wave of nausea seems to hit because ilya closes his eyes briefly, breathing slower through his nose.
shane lowers himself to the floor beside him and ilya lets himself be pulled against his chest.
for awhile they stay like that.
shane’s hand moves slowly up and down his back. grounding him through each lingering wave of nausea whenever it hits. every time ilya tenses slightly, shane’s fingers tighten reassuringly against him.
eventually the queasiness seems to ease enough that ilya’s breathing evens out.
“think you can stand?” shane asks quietly.
ilya nods against his chest.
shane gets up first, then carefully helps him upright.
vertigo suddenly hits when ilya shifts his weight, enough that he grabs the edge of the bathroom countertop.
shane steadies him immediately. one hand at his back, the other gripping his waist.
“easy.”
ilya exhales shakily then suddenly looks so worn down.
“sorry,” he whispers.
“hey,” shane’s voice goes soft instantly. “none of that.”
shane keeps one arm firmly around him, guiding him carefully to their shared bedroom while ilya stays tucked close against his side.
the bedroom is dark except for moonlight spilling pale across the sheets. shane guides him down carefully onto the bed, then climbs in beside him without hesitation.
ilya folds against his chest, forehead tucked under shane’s chin while shane pulls the blankets over both of them. his body feels tense even now. wound tight under his skin.
for awhile neither of them says anything.
finally ilya speaks, voice muffled against his skin.
“what if the meds don’t work?”
“then we try different ones.”
“and if those don’t work?”
“then we keep going.”
shane says it so simply. like there’s no universe where he leaves.
“i don’t want to feel like this anymore,” he whispers.
shane shifts just enough to cup his face, thumb brushing gently beneath his eye.
“look at me.”
ilya does eventually.
his eyes look exhausted, shining faintly in the dark.
“you’ve been carrying this by yourself for a long time,” shane says softly. “you don’t have to do that anymore.”
ilya’s expression crumples.
“what if nothing works?” his voice cracks suddenly. “what if i’m always going to feel like this?”
shane’s entire face changes.
immediately.
“hey. no.”
“what if i’ll never be fixed?”, he says, a single tear running down his cheek.
the words come out so quiet shane almost misses them.
and god, that hurts.
because ilya sounds terrified when he says it.
he pulls ilya closer instinctively, one hand cradling the back of his head.
ilya makes this small strangled sound and suddenly he’s crying against shane’s shoulder. exhausted, overwhelmed tears that seem ripped out of him against his will.
“hey hey,” he whispers, one hand rubbing firmly up and down his back. “it’s okay. c’mere.”
ilya shakes his head hard against his shoulder, embarrassed by it somehow.
“i’m trying so hard,” he says through sobs.
“i know you are.”
shane’s chest aches so badly he can barely breathe around it.
he presses slow kisses into ilya’s hairline, his temple, anywhere he can reach while he cries quietly against him.
“four weeks,” he whispers against ilya’s hair. “doctor said usually around four weeks things start getting easier. the headaches and nausea pass first. then the rest.”
ilya’s breathing stutters shakily.
shane tightens the blankets around both of them before pulling ilya impossibly closer, until there’s barely space left between their bodies at all.
shane keeps holding him long after the crying quiets.
long after ilya’s breathing finally starts to even out.
every so often he presses another soft kiss into his hair, whispering sleepy little "i love you"s into the dark while his fingers move slow and constant along ilya’s back.
and eventually, somewhere close to dawn, ilya finally falls asleep still curled tightly against his chest while shane holds him the entire night.
Every time someone comments on my old fic, i feel like I'm an old actor getting paid residuals. Appreciate you, old-fic-commenters. Key source of emotional income, tbh.
Rating: Explicit (see ao3 for more), Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov
Chapter One | Chapter Two
In which, Shane gets uses his online shopping, an accidental Russian language deep dive, and that shared calendar he finally finished to get everything he wants from Ilya against his kitchen counter. 😉
A/N: Due to blessings from the writing and work gods, I actually finished Chapter Two on schedule! Enjoy the fluffy and smutty (omg so smutty 😳) conclusion to this little fic! As always, please come scream with me in the tags here or in a comment/kudo over on ao3, it's so fun to hear people's thoughts if you'd like to share
Can be read on ao3 here. Or Chapter 2 is below and the tumblr version of Ch 1 is here.
Enjoy! and as usual I own nothing, all glory belongs to Jacob Tierney and Rachel Reid.
Shane wakes early the next morning out of sheer habit; pale, early dawn light only just beginning to filter through the blinds when he opens eyes.
His mind whirls to life, anticipating an incoming alarm and searching for a list of inevitable tasks he surely needs to accomplish. Neither of which arrives as he slowly remembers today is an infrequent day off for both of them. A blessing from the MLH scheduling gods he didn't even have to manipulate into existence on their calendar.
Tomorrow, they both fly out from Montreal for opposite ends of the US. The Raiders to LA, the Metros to Tampa. Today though, there are no such obligations. Just twenty-four hours of Shane and Ilya.
Ilya. The man in question emits a soft snore next to him, right arm flung out across Shane's torso from where he's sprawled on his stomach. Shane soaks in the rare sight of him like this: peaceful, brow smooth and unworried, mouth pressed against Shane's shoulder as though he meant to leave a kiss there and fell sleep mid-action. That unending fount of warmth beneath Shane's sternum bubbles over at the sight and mixes longingly with the unfair knowledge that this can't be something he gets to see every day at this point in their lives.
And fuck, sometimes Shane doesn't know how he's going to survive his own years-long plan.
Sunrise brightens the streaks of golden rays dancing along Ilya's bare back, and Shane's eyes trace the constellation of moles that dot his partner's skin. He's tempted to divert his maudlin thoughts by following their path with his lips and waking Ilya to distract them both further, but he decides they get far too little rest during the season and settles for bringing his free hand around to hold the forearm draped across him instead. Ilya hums sleepily and nuzzles against his side. Closing his eyes, Shane attempts to let the solid warmth of his boyfriend's body pull him back under.
But his thoughts are too awake now, energy buzzing along his skin, and he snaps his eyelids back open only minutes later with a soft sigh. He is terrible at sleeping in. Unwilling to move quite yet though, he runs his hand along Ilya's, tracing the outline of each finger as his mind wanders and skips. His brain pushes a random finding from the past weeks' Internet rabbit holes into focus: Russian tradition dictates that a wedding ring is worn on the right hand. Shane rubs the smooth skin at the base of Ilya's ring finger.
Someday when they both retire, he wonders if he'll place a gold or silver band there. It feels impossibly far off when he already knows he wants to see it there now.
Jesus he's being a sappy idiot. Stifling a groan at his own insufferable yearning, he slips quietly from the bed and manages not to disturb his sleeping partner as he dresses in running clothes and heads for the connecting bathroom to brush his teeth.
Downstairs, Shane forces himself to move through his morning routine, amended to accommodate for Ilya's presence. Blending his usual smoothie while turning on the coffee maker for Ilya. Pulling on his sneakers and grabbing his keys, but then making sure to scribble out a quick note because there is someone who expects to wake up and find him.
It's the first regimen he's ever adjusted for anyone else as an adult. And it's a bit unnerving how fast it's becoming the only version of it he truly prefers.
Once outside, the cool, crisp autumn air in his lungs and the rhythmic pounding of his feet against the pavement help to settle the restless anxiety itching between his shoulder blades. He completes an easy 5km circuit along his usual path, careful not to push too hard on a rest day, and returns to his apartment feeling much more rational and balanced than when he left.
He finds Ilya awake and sitting at the kitchen counter when he steps inside, and for a moment, Shane indulges in pausing to lean against the wall and watch him unnoticed. Ilya takes a bite of eggs, smiling at something on his phone screen as he chews. His boyfriend is wearing loose sweatpants and one of his ridiculously tight tank tops that somehow makes his chest and shoulders look even broader. Shane swallows hard at the small pulse of heat that zips through him. He should really go upstairs and shower now.
Ilya turns in his seat and looks over at him then, smile growing wider. Shane's legs move toward the kitchen and away from the stairs automatically.
(Because when has he ever been successful at doing what he should when it came to Ilya.)
"You left me," Ilya states, lower lip jutting out into a pout and hands reaching out to tug at Shane as soon as he's within reach.
Shane goes easily, stepping into the space Ilya makes between his legs and circling his arms around Ilya's shoulders while he corrects, "I went for a run."
It's a somewhat familiar argument. His boyfriend is predictably dramatic.
"Same thing," Ilya whines, arms crossing behind Shane's lower back to pull him in closer, "Abandonment."
A laugh escapes him. "Wow. Big word for such a big baby," Shane teases.
His partner drops his head to Shane's chest amidst an exaggerated groan. Shane wrinkles his nose slightly at the action; he can't smell pleasant. Ilya doesn't seem to mind, however, and continues bemoaning, voice slightly muffled, "Oh, I see how it is. You are sick of me already."
He leans back to throw Shane a mischievous grin, eyes gleaming, and Shane is struck by such an overwhelming sense of fondness that he can't find any other response except the truth.
"Never," he whispers, giving into the desire to run a hand through Ilya's soft hair. Ilya's gaze takes on a slightly wet quality.
"Blyat," Ilya murmurs, and then Shane finds himself being pressed into the counter as Ilya surges up to kiss him.
Ilya's mouth is hungry upon his, teeth nipping at his lips, tongue demanding entrance, heat instant and blazing between them. Shane moans at the sudden onslaught and does his best to keep up while his pulse roars, hands sliding to Ilya's jaw in an attempt to somehow pull him even closer. Ilya slips his hands under Shane's shirt, and the awful feeling of sweat-damp fabric gliding across Shane's skin yanks him back to reality.
He breaks the kiss, gasping, "Ilya, I'm all sweaty…"
"I do not care lyubimyy," Ilya answers and directs his mouth over Shane's cheek to suck at the underside of his jaw, bringing their hips flush in an indecent move that has Shane losing his train of thought briefly.
Finally, he manages to coordinate his lust-addled brain and limbs for long enough to detach Ilya's determined mouth from his neck and grit out, "I care."
"Shane," Ilya drops his forehead to Shane's shoulder with a low whine. "I am just going to make you dirty again," he protests, but his movements pause.
Shane attempts a deep breath to reel himself in further. The edge of the counter-top digs into his back as he does so, and the wild thought occurs to him that despite years of sex between them, they've somehow never fucked in a kitchen.
Which is a thought that really should be less blindingly hot than his half-hard dick apparently finds it, twitching against Ilya's where they are still pressed together. His too-observant boyfriend notices of course, and Shane feels him grin against his running shirt.
"Ilya," he warns, curling a hand around the back of Ilya's head and tugging sharply to force him up to meet his gaze. Ilya whimpers at the action, lips parting around a pant as his hips make an aborted thrust that catches the edge of Shane's cock and makes them both moan.
Fuck. For a moment all Shane can think about is the phone call that started his whole calendar project six weeks ago. Ilya pliant and completely fucking undone beneath him on the sofa. Fresh heat sparks to life along his spine. Maybe he should rethink this actually.
The itch of salt on his skin reaches an untenable level. Nope, holy shit he needs to shower. He tightens his grip and fixes Ilya with an arched brow.
Ilya fires back an imperious look of his own before ending their silent stalemate on a dramatically whined, "Fine."
Shane sends him a grateful smile, releasing his hold and running his hands placatingly across Ilya's chest while his boyfriend unpins him from the kitchen island with a petulant frown.
"I'll be fast," Shane promises, and then he darts forward to steal one last kiss from Ilya's lips, throwing Ilya an imitation of one of his own cocky winks and slipping from his grasp before his boyfriend can counter the feint.
Ilya groans. Shane sidesteps a swat aimed for his ass with ease and speeds from the kitchen.
"Such a fucking tease, Hollander!"
Shane's answering laugh echoes through the apartment as he takes the stairs two at a time.
~rHr~
The idea comes to him in the shower, or more accurately, while he's searching for his extra shampoo underneath the bathroom sink.
Shane had forgotten just how many toys he'd stashed under here in the intervening weeks. Making a panicked mental note to move them all to the bedroom closet ahead of the scheduled contractors' appointment the following Friday, he extricates another box from the cabinet and sets it on the tile beside him. Why the hell had he not thought to move the needed bottles in front of all of this? His hands close around what feels like a cylinder package, and he brings it toward him with a triumphant noise.
Only to find he's holding an irregularly packaged anal plug instead. This one is red silicone with a dark jewel at the flared base. He vaguely remembers the site claiming it was the perfect size for light prostate stimulation and longer wear, but he hasn't had a chance to try it out yet.
The vision of Ilya discovering the plug and pushing into him against the kitchen counter springs vivid and swift into his mind. The simmering heat from earlier flares through his gut. It's a fucking messy idea.
It's suddenly all Shane can fucking think about.
He spots the shampoo out of the corner of his eye and reaches for it, standing with both the bottle and toy in his hands. He's going to need lube.
The rest of his plan falls into place as almost an afterthought while he's throwing on a t-shirt and shoving a condom and packet of lube into his pants' pocket from his beside drawer. Straightening from his bend by the table, he releases a soft grunt as the plug inside him moves with the motion, and his eyes catch on his laptop atop the dresser by the door.
He grabs it and heads into the hall, adjusting his mental timeline for the rest of their day to include a brief calendar showcase while they were still somewhat coherent.
~rHr~
Shane is still mulling over his plan, and getting used to the subtle shift and rub of the plug, while he walks back to where he left his boyfriend. The fullness and stretch are manageable, but he honestly can't imagine how someone might wear one while moving about their day easily. Each step down the stairs further nudges a rounded side up against his prostate, creating a radiating thrum of desire that has his pulse pounding by the time he reaches the bottom stair.
Briefly, he worries about his ability to walk Ilya through even an aborted version of the conversation he envisioned earlier, but mercifully, the sensation becomes tolerable again by the time he crosses the living room and into the kitchen.
Ilya looks up from placing a dish on the drying rack by the sink when Shane lays his laptop down on the white marble counter. His eyes flit to the closed computer before meeting Shane's with a questioning glance.
Shane feels himself freeze slightly in response, newfound uncertainty and yesterday's mild panic shivering down the back of his neck.
Maybe it was too soon? Shane has always been way too intense about the things he's interested in. And a multi-tabbed shared calendar definitely fell under weird and too much didn't it?
"Something is wrong?"
Ilya's voice jerks Shane from his harried thoughts alongside a startled, "Huh?"
His partner drops the dishtowel and edges closer to him, movements tentative. Shane attempts to mimic a casual lean against the counter that he hopes will conceal his interior stress.
Ilya studies his posture, "You look like scared rabbit."
"What?" Shane deflects indignantly, "I'm fine—"
Ilya's brow raises in disbelief, and Shane cuts off his stammering with a heavy sigh. It was now or never.
"I…um..," he pushes past the anxious lump lodged in his throat. "I, uh, made you something," he begins again, resisting the urge to drop Ilya's steady gaze, "Well…I made us something. I guess."
Concern disappears from Ilya's features on a harsh breath and is replaced by abject surprise, jaw slightly slack, eyes flickering through a series of rapid emotions before landing on what Shane can only describe as boyish glee. Any of Shane's lingering hesitations flee at the sight.
Holy shit, he really is Shane's favorite person.
"You got me a present, zaychik?"
Shane repeats the word poorly. "What does that one mean?"
Ilya's mouth twists into an impish grin, "Rabbit."
On second thought, he is the most annoying person Shane has ever met.
"Oh fuck you," he groans, crossing his arms and releasing an exasperated huff, "I'm not showing you now."
"No, Shane, I want to see," Ilya implores, face crumbling into an earnest pout as he quickly amends, "Zaychik is like pet name, I promise."
Shane arches a brow at the protest and turns to face the kitchen counter. Ilya sidles up next to him immediately, hands pawing at Shane's side until Shane sighs and allows himself to be spun and ensnared in Ilya's arms. He loops his arms lazily around Ilya's neck and fixes him with an unimpressed stare. Ilya's expression turns contrite, and he places a soothing peck to Shane's cheek before pulling back to coax,
"I am sorry, moya lyubov. Please show me present."
My love. Like dorogoy and lyubimyy, Shane knows this phrase as well. Ilya has used it so often in the last three months that Shane can recognize the cadence of vowels and consonants. They have been breathed against his lips, exalted into his skin. Slipped effusively into the structure of Ilya's English with such ease that Shane has almost forgotten how recent their appearance is. It's another thing he hadn't predicted. How many words Ilya would find to equate with Shane. New vocalizations of love that make Shane's heart clench and his breath catch. He expects someday he might be better immune to their use.
But for now the words and the soft, pleading gaze of his boyfriend have the intended effect.
He rolls his eyes, failing to hide his smile any longer, but still trying for a stern tone when he replies,"Fine, but behave."
The sincerity in Ilya's eyes glints heatedly at Shane's choice of phrase. A responding swell of need propels Shane forward and demands he taste the apology directly from his partner's mouth. Ilya hums into the kiss, but obeys Shane's words, pulling back after a few chaste pecks.
Which does nothing but turn the steady hunger in Shane's veins ravening.
Tamping down a reckless inclination to throw his plan out the window and promptly reclaim Ilya's mouth, Shane spins back around and pulls the laptop toward him. Ilya drops a kiss to his shoulder and drapes himself casually along Shane's back, arms hugging his waist. Shane forces out a steadying breath through his nose and resolutely ignores the way his abrupt movements have made the plug's presence very apparent once more.
Focus. He just needs ten more minutes of focus.
Biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood, Shane opens the laptop and pulls up the calendar, previous nerves returning in a whiplash to further cool his fevered mind.
"Oh," Ilya exhales, a soft whoosh against Shane's ear, "You actually made it." His voice is quiet and thick.
"Well, yeah, I told you it was a good idea," Shane explains. Anxiety churning in his stomach, he tries to turn to take in Ilya's reaction. Only to be held in place by a series of fervent kisses peppered across his cheek, ear, and neck.
Warm relief unfolds beneath his skin, and Shane releases a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. Ilya hooks his chin over Shane's shoulder and squeezes him in a tight hug. "Show me," he demands softly, grin pressing against Shane's cheek.
It's the easiest thing in the world to answer with a smile of his own and do as Ilya asks.
Shane takes Ilya through the various sections and tabs he created. Shows him how he's set up anonymous and separate accounts for both of them to use just for this; outlines the naming conventions he thinks they should use just in case anything gets hacked. Throughout his demonstration, Ilya is attentive but strangely restrained, offering only encouraging hums and pleased murmurs in place of the verbose chirping Shane has come to expect.
After a few minutes, Shane clicks into the final section and begins to explain the color coded labels he'd devised, "I did some research, and—"
"You made a stop light system for phone calls, yes," Ilya interrupts, amused.
Shane flushes, new heat racing through him at the memory of the extremely distracting internet search that led him to this system. He leans forward so that he has space to turn his neck and meet Ilya's now teasing expression.
"Ah so I don't need to explain?" He asks lightly, unable to resist shooting Ilya a playful smirk. Feeling brazen, Shane twists fully around to face his partner and continues, "Not going to need to keep you silent during a call marked red then?"
Ilya's eyes darken at the implied memory. "No, I am well-versed," he glances down at Shane's mouth with a naked thirst, voice dropping low, "Besides, who said it would be me keeping quiet?" Shane reaches blindly behind him to close the laptop, pulse becoming staccato and frenzied.
Phase one of today's plan was mostly complete anyway.
"Well-versed, huh?" He can't help but fixate on the odd word choice.
"Shut up," Ilya retorts. Shane sends him a shit-eating grin and expectant look in reply. With a put-upon sigh, his boyfriend rolls his eyes in defeat and continues, "Sveta wanted to watch Jane Austen marathon on TV last week."
Shane fails to hold back the bark of laughter that escapes him. He would be willing to bet good money that Svetlana could have cared less. He's pretty sure Ilya doesn't realize that Shane had caught him lingering on a TV rerun of BBC's Pride & Prejudice while channel hopping during his Labor Day visit. Ilya can be so soft sometimes. Shane loves him so much it feels insane. Idly, he wonders if Ilya would like a nice edition of the books as a Christmas gift.
"Rude," Ilya grumbles, luring Shane's distracted thoughts back to the present to find his boyfriend fixing him with a sheepish glare.
"Sorry, sorry," Shane replies, running his hands up and down Ilya's arms in a silent apology. Ilya's lips quirk up into a small smile at the gesture, eyes sparkling and dipping to Shane's lips once more in a heated flick that returns Shane's attention to his original goal with renewed urgency.
Leaning back against the edge of the counter, Shane grabs the soft material of Ilya's shirt in both hands and gives a firm tug. Ilya grunts in surprise and stumbles forward, steadying himself on Shane's waist. Shane flashes him a sly smile.
"Such a gentleman," he suggests just to watch Ilya's features smolder.
"No is lie," Ilya's grin is cocky and is combined with his hands sliding down to grasp Shane's ass, rolling their hips together in an obscene motion. The action shifts the silicone within Shane, the simultaneous pressure on his prostate and dick drawing an unexpected moan from his lips. Ilya's smile turns feral, grinding them together once more, and Shane temporarily surrenders to the wall of heat that slams into him, eyes fluttering shut. A roguish bite grazes his chin as Ilya continues, "I am clearly a rake."
He's Shane's is what he is. The thought is sudden and possessive and sears through his hazy thoughts, staggering his breath and forcing his eyes open to meet Ilya's. His boyfriend stares back him, mouth a knowing smirk that Shane often finds directed at him just after Ilya steals the puck from Shane's stick. A competitive irritation flares beneath his ribs, and he wants to wreck the arrogance from Ilya's expression.
"Hmmm, I don't know," Shane plays coy. Holding Ilya's gaze, he slowly bites his lower lip and enjoys the sight of Ilya's pulse jumping noticeably against his neck. Shane leans forward, eyes flicking meaningfully down to their flush hips, and makes a counter-play for the goal, whispering, "Feels like a rake would've already done something about this."
Ilya growls out a heated curse and pins Shane to the counter in a heady press of lips .
Fuck yes. Finally.
Victory scorches through him, and Shane moans into the kiss, mouth parting and allowing Ilya to slide a demanding tongue around his own. Greedy hands find the edge of Ilya's tank and push the fabric upwards until Shane can dig his fingertips into the firm muscle of his partner's back. Ilya hisses and nips at Shane's bottom lip in retaliation before leaning back to allow Shane to tug the shirt the rest of the way off.
Shane's shirt follows in a similar manner that he can't be bothered to pay much attention to as Ilya reclaims his mouth in a bruising kiss that sends a shock streaking down his spine and has Shane grasping for purchase in Ilya's hair. Ilya responds with a soft moan, hands sketching their own fiery path across Shane's chest, pausing to pinch lightly at an exposed nipple and pull a whine from Shane's throat, and eventually settling on an urgent grip of Shane's hips and rolling their hardening erections together.
"Ah, fuck," the words are punched out of Shane on a low groan. Inside him, the plug shifts and presses against him in that same duel sensation as before, and a resulting whimper follows. Holy shit. Against his lips, Ilya chuckles, grinding forward again with another hungry kiss, and then pulls back, forehead pressing against Shane's.
"So needy today, malysh," he chirps, breath hot near Shane's cheek. He drags Shane's rigid dick along his once more, and a thready moan cuts out any any retort Shane might have found, his muscles clenching around the silicone at the responding pressure.
God, Ilya had no idea.
For a moment, he indulges in the novelty, rutting against his boyfriend's length. Heat coils and tightens along his spine with each glide of the plug in reaction to his movement, and fuck, he could totally come from this. Another nudge along his prostate has him scraping his nails down Ilya's back from the intensity, drawing jagged moans from them both.
"Shit—" Ilya swears, capturing Shane's mouth in a dirty, open-mouthed kiss that quickly turns insistent, hands sliding beneath the waistband of Shane's joggers. A choked sound escaping him at finding bare skin. Shane's pulse roars in reply—it hadn't seemed pertinent to bother with boxers earlier—and suddenly it is imperative that Ilya fucks him. Now.
On a desperate whine, he breaks the kiss, hands fumbling to untie the drawstring of Ilya's sweats and push them from his hips. Ilya hurries to kick the boxers and pants from him and then eliminates the distance between them once more, groping for Shane's ass and rolling them back together in a lewd flick of hips. Shane drops his head back at the shift of the toy within him and releases a high-pitched whimper that Ilya responds to by trailing half-bitten kisses down the bared stretch of his throat.
Joggers are yanked down past his thighs, finally freeing his own aching cock and allowing Shane to revel in the delicious slide Ilya's heated skin along it when he reaches forward to take them both in hand. A loud moan reverberates around them at the touch—impossible to tell which of them it came from—and Ilya pauses his mapping of Shane's neck to sink his teeth into the skin. Shane whimpers, current sparking across his skin and down his dick where a pulse of pre-come coats his hand. Ilya's fingertips knead the flesh of his ass.
Wildly, Shane wonders what the pressure inside him would feel like if Ilya lifted him onto the counter digging into his spine, and he is half-decided on testing this theory when one of Ilya's fingers slides between his glutes to trace along his crease—
"Fuck Shane," Ilya whines, cock twitching in Shane's hold, "did you plan this?" An exploratory push at the plug's base causes Shane to squeeze his eyes shut on a breathy moan.
Wrenching his strung-out mind back from the edge, Shane manages to choke out, "Plan what?" The sentence comes out far more ruined than the innocent tone he intends.
Ilya's head snaps up, "Oh my god you did." A commanding hand grips his chin, and Shane pries his eyes open to find Ilya, face flushed, eyes awed and intent while he continues, "you planned to seduce me with calendar"
"Ah—" his response is lost to a groan as Ilya chooses the same moment to tap more firmly at the toy. "—fuck—" Shane clenches his jaw and spits out a strangled, "—maybe."
Ilya's stare turns molten. Shane reacts by running a thumb across both of their leaking tips and sliding a slick hand along them in a defiant stroke, watching Ilya's eyelashes flutter and his lips part around a satisfying gasp. He twists his hand upwards again hoping to repeat the sound.
When suddenly, his hand is knocked away, and he's being flipped around and pressed into the counter as Ilya releases an almost predatory growl. An exacting kiss is placed at the nape of his neck, then another between his shoulder blades, followed by the feeling of Ilya dropping to his knees behind him. Another bite is nipped to the small of his back, Ilya's fingers curling around the fabric of Shane's sweats to jerk them the rest of the way down.
"Maybe what is maybe," Ilya demands, spreading Shane's ass cheeks and releasing an awestruck groan, "There is a plug in your ass."
As if to prove his point, his boyfriend edges a determined finger around the flared base, thrusting the toy repeatedly along Shane's prostate and sending him scrambling to grab the counter's trim in order to remain standing. Shane lets out a helpless moan and presses back into the sensation.
Jesus Christ. Ilya chuckles darkly and teases the same finger under the base and along his stretched rim. Shane whimpers at the unyielding pressure the plug creates, and Ilya repeats the motion.
It's too much and yet not enough at all.
Frustration cuts through the scalding tension building within him, and he wrests a hand from the counter to reach back and fist in Ilya's curls.
"Well, I don't know" he grits out, fingers tightening and prying a whined exhale from his partner, "you're still talking instead of fucking me so yeah—"
"Blyat lyubimyy—" Ilya groans, straining against Shane's grasp to lean forward and suck a bruising kiss to the top of Shane's backside.
Shane can barely keep up with his fast-incinerating thoughts which is probably why he replies without bothering to reflect,
"Yes—fuck—traxni menya pozalyusta."
Behind him, Ilya freezes, the plug's pressure inside Shane lessening as his partner's fingers still. Distantly, Shane considers that while a little imperfect, his pronunciation really wasn't half-bad. A proud recognition that promptly flies from his brain when his words finally seem to land, and Ilya falls against Shane with a broken moan, hands flying to grip his thighs almost painfully.
"Fuck Hollander, you are trying to kill me," Ilya pants, forehead pressing into Shane's skin, "You planned to kill me, yes?" His voice is perfectly wrecked, and Shane was so fucking right all those weeks ago.
It was fucking thrilling using Russian to make Ilya Rozanov come undone.
Turning slightly to take in Ilya's prone form, Shane eases his fingers in his partner's hair, carding through the stands in a soothing motion before gripping lightly to encourage Ilya to look up. His expression is a ruin of lust, eyes hooded and dazed, and Shane feels a stunning surge of want flood through him at being the cause.
"Maybe," he finally replies, flashing Ilya a bratty smirk. Predictably, Ilya features regain their intense focus with a mischievous twitch, his boyfriend holding Shane's gaze and leaning in to bite at the sensitive skin of Shane's ass while sneaking a hand around to grasp his throbbing dick in a firm stroke.
Shane whines in reply, vision blurring slightly, before managing to tighten his hand once more in Ilya's hair and fix him with a meaningful look.
Ilya raises a brow in an innocent expression and nips again at his ass. Shane's eyes narrow. A low chuckle puffs along his skin, and then Ilya acquiesces, "I will need to go get lube and condom."
Shane allows himself a winning grin, releasing his grip on Ilya and stating firmly, "Right pocket." And is rewarded for his earlier planning when Ilya's expression falters around a fevered moan, hands leaving Shane to scramble frantically for the discarded pants.
Things between them turn ravenous after that. Ilya spreads Shane to remove the plug gently from his ass, extracting a low whimper from Shane at the loss and an equally devastating sound from his partner. Ilya replaces the toy with his own urgent mouth, sliding his skilled tongue along Shane's rim and eating him out for several charged and endless minutes until Shane has to drop to his forearms against the kitchen counter and clench his jaw in an effort to keep his legs from giving out.
Lips sweep starved and exalting kisses up his spine, Ilya pausing at some point once he stands to rip open the condom and lube packets behind him. Shane hardly hears the sound over the pounding rush in his ears. Then, an arm snakes around his torso and hauls him upright against Ilya's chest.
"This is what you wanted, yes?" Ilya asks, tone far more controlled than Shane knows what to do with. His cock throbs and leaks messily in response. Ilya ghosts a hand along the cleft of Shane's ass, mouth nipping at an earlobe before continuing, "For me to fuck you in the kitchen?"
Shane's eyes flutter shut of their own accord, and he fights for coherence long enough to confirm an adamant, "Fuck—yes." Which Ilya answers by sliding two lubed fingers into him with ease, curling and finding Shane's prostate immediately. A shout rips from his chest, and he gives in to the incessant pleasure that rends through him, head falling against Ilya's shoulder as he fucks back into the motion.
"Blyat ty ideal'na," Ilya mutters, voice no longer composed, and Shane notes the win against his partner's composure in a flash of triumph. But then a third finger joins the other two, and the thought perishes in a scorching blaze.
"Pozhaluysta," the word falls from his lips, begging and without him fully registering it. He has no idea if it fits whatever Ilya has just said. Hell, he's not even completely sure which language he said it in.
It has the intended effect thankfully. A wounded moan vibrates against his neck, and Ilya pulls his hand from Shane's body, distracting him from the hollow emptiness by leveling kisses to his ear and throat. Steady hands press purposefully along his skin, and Shane follows the silent ask to bend over the counter once more, bracing himself on his arms. Beneath him, the marble is a cool relief on his overheated skin.
A gentle kiss is placed upon his nape, and Ilya gives a reassuring squeeze to his hips before Shane feels the press of Ilya's dick at his entrance. Moaning in dizzying relief, he drops head between his arms, entire world reduced to the intoxicating stretch of Ilya slowly filling him. His partner bottoms out around a soft moan. Shane responds with a low groan and tries not to immediately come apart.
"Okay?" Ilya chokes out, voice strained, arms bracing himself on either side of Shane's. Urgent heat boils over inside him. Jesus Christ, Shane needs him to fucking move.
Nodding, he shifts his weight onto one arm and reaches for Ilya's hip behind him to tug him slightly deeper, wringing another debauched moan from them both.
Then with a curse, Ilya drops his forehead to rest heavily between Shane's shoulder blades and finally starts to fuck him.
Time grows stretched and fuzzy. The thick, slow glide of Ilya within him flares white-hot and all-consuming, and Shane's sense of reality disintegrates from the blinding heat that escalates between them.
At some point, Ilya raises up to drive deeper into him, cock catching on Shane's prostate with each hard piston of his hips, and Shane's arms refuse to continue holding his weight, his torso flattening against the counter beneath him as he keens.
Behind him, Ilya moans Shane's name and increases his pace until Shane is gripping at the opposite edge of the surface with white knuckles and babbling incoherently. Ilya's hips slap out a filthy rhythm against Shane's ass. The tension within him ratchets up in a relentless onslaught, tightening along his skin and coiling urgently at the base of his spine.
"Oh fuck—Ilya—" he sobs out at another pounding thrust against his prostate, pressing his forehead into the hard counter. He's pretty sure he's drooling slightly which is a mess he didn't predict.
Ilya's answering moan is fevered and ruined, slamming into Shane and flinging him closer to the edge at the sound.
And maybe it's that Shane vaguely put this whole plan together around the phone call where he first discovered it. Or maybe it's just that Shane is so fucking close he needs to make sure Ilya is right there with him—equally destroyed by this. But something inspires his burning, scattered thoughts to string together the next words around a lewd moan.
"—you're so fucking good for me."
Ilya's hands grip Shane's hips so hard he'll definitely have bruises later—the thought of which drags a whine from Shane's throat—and suddenly Shane is right fucking there, teetering on the edge, a pinpoint of friction and need and Ilya. Then,
"Fuck—Shane!" Ilya shouts and comes with a shattered groan, hips stuttering and grinding into Shane, hand reaching around to stroke along Shane's length. And Shane is helpless to follow, body going taut and tension snapping as he flies apart underneath him in an unyielding release, spilling against his stomach in thick bursts.
Ilya collapses along his back, breath rapid and blistering along Shane's overwrought skin, drawing a residual shudder through him. He unfurls his clenched grip from the counter's far-side and Ilya slides a hand along his arm to thread their fingers together in a grounding press.
"Holy shit," he mumbles. Ilya hums in agreement and places a needy kiss to his shoulder. The air around them is humid and thick. Shane focuses on trying to breathe through it and return his heart rate to normal while his awareness of the world slowly creeps back in.
"So you have other sex toys now?" Ilya says after another moment, voice hoarse and words muted by his mouth resting against Shane's sweat-damp flesh.
Shane giggles at his boyfriend's one-track mind, "Maybe…"
"Hollander," Ilya groans and nips at his back. Shane wriggles beneath him, clenching around Ilya's still-sheathed dick and drawing a latent whine from them both. Ilya is undeterred, "Maybe you finally show me dildo now, yes?"
Shane simply sighs contentedly in response, thoughts still too-sluggish for a witty reply even as his spent dick gives a half-hearted twitch at the idea. He files it away for later once his fucking legs remember how to work.
Eventually, they separate, Ilya sliding from Shane with a small grunt to dispose of the condom. Shane straightens, bending carefully on jellied knees to pull on his pants. He finds his shirt and is using it to wipe the cooling come from his stomach (he definitely needs a second shower) when his eyes catch on the streak of white fluid across the bottom cabinets.
"Ugh, I knew this would be messy."
His boyfriend laughs behind him, and then Shane is being spun, Ilya's hands cupping his face for a soft kiss that makes his heart stutter slightly from the sheer affection poured into it.
Ilya pulls back after a moment, expression fond, "Never change, moya lyubov." Another kiss. "Go wash, I will clean up."
Shane looks back at him in wonder, adoration threatening to collapse his lungs and crack through his ribs. Ilya smiles bashfully under Shane's intense stare. Sometimes Shane wants to crawl inside of him.
"Cleaner is under the kitchen sink," he finally manages to stutter out in place of something insanely lovesick. "Oh, I have special wipes for the wood—"
Ilya rolls his eyes at him, muttering a loving, "freak," and shoos him from the room.
He's washing his hands when Ilya joins him in the bathroom, wrapping his arms around his waist and dropping his forehead to Shane's shoulder while moaning theatrically,
"I cannot believe you made sex calendar for me."
Shane flicks water over his shoulder at his idiot of a boyfriend. "Fuck you, I made a shared calendar for us."
Ilya raises his head and sticks his tongue out at Shane before replying, "Same thing."
"Asshole," Shane volleys back, drying his hands and flinging the hand towel at Ilya's smug face. His boyfriend dodges it easily, and it lands behind them with a damp smack on the tiled floor.
Ilya doesn't miss a beat. "You like it," he teases, meeting Shane's eyes in the bathroom mirror and sending him a cheeky wink. Then his gaze turns soft. "I love you."
Steady, easy affection replaces any mild annoyance. Sometimes Shane can't believe he spent so much time afraid of wanting this. He's so fucking happy and in love. They could have had this for years.
They have this now, he reminds himself.
"Ya tebya lyublyu," he whispers back. Ilya's smile is incandescent. Sometimes Shane can't believe he has the power to cause it.
A light kiss is pressed to the top of Shane's bare shoulder, and Ilya clears his throat, "I…also love it. The, ah, shared calendar." His teeth worry the skin of his bottom lip, expression raw and vulnerable in the mirrored reflection. Shane is struck by the need to turn around and witness it firsthand. Ilya drops his head to Shane's and sniffs, voice thick around a quiet, "Thank you."
"Of course," Shane murmurs and tilts his head to brush his lips against Ilya's in a comforting peck. Ilya releases a shaky breath when they part, and for a moment they just hold each other, foreheads pressed, eyes closed. Shane wonders if Ilya can hear the million unspoken endings that he's left hanging in the air between them, his mind unable to choose just one. Of course I did this for you. Of course I wanted to make this for you. Of course I love you.
Of course I want to share a life with you.
Shane wants everything with the man in front of him, shared calendars are just the start.
Ilya breaks the silence on a pensive noise, pulling back to send Shane a sideways grin, "I will send you my schedule to add to it, yes?" But there is a simpler phrase underneath it, silent and more matched to the lone tear track Shane spots on Ilya's cheek.
I do, too. I want a life with you too.
Shane feels his own eyes burn at the recognition. An irrational urge to drop to one knee and vow to bind himself to the man before him presses at the forefront of his mind. He pushes it down and tries not to jump ahead.
"Oh fuck you," Shane limits his reaction to the words spoken, although he can't keep the smile from his voice, "I'm not your secretary." Ilya waggles his eyebrows at him in response, eyelashes slightly wet even as his face contorts into a silly expression.
Shane's mouth twitches, and they both fall into an easy laughter. But Ilya's eyes are still brimming with devotion a moment later as he leans in to meet Shane's lips in a tender press.
It's a sealed vow they just haven't said yet.
They'll get there eventually.
For now, Shane stands in a bathroom in Montreal and kisses his boyfriend and ponders what other templates and forms he can bring to their relationship in order to evoke a similar calendar effect.
