Liz. 30s. she/her. Librarian & Armchair Romantic with several obsessions in rotation
welcome to...*gestures vaguely*...whatever this is.
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WIP Wednesday because why not? I'm nowhere near ready to post the fic anytime soon, but I felt like sharing some more of my Hollanov TSC AU today, just for fun.
enclosed below: angst. whump. HR hospital scene remix:
"Ilyaaa!"
Ilya shushes him, closing the infirmary door behind him as quietly as he can. He's not sure where the Pikes' rooms are, but he doesn't want to risk waking the children, or Jackie.
He turns back around, his back to the door. "I just – I just wanted to..." Ilya's voice leaves him, still catching on the memory of Shane lying motionless on the ground. His mind still hadn't caught up to how Shane looks now. "Are you okay?"
Shane bobs his head in a listless nod, as if he's drunk—not that Ilya's ever seen him drunk. "Iratzes fixed the shoulder and the collarbone," he taps on his sternum. "And the brothers said I would still feel the venom for a few hours but I feel fine," he slurs.
Ilya always finds Shane's denial amusing, adorable even, but he still can't shake away the fear that's held him all night.
It must show on his face, because Shane flops out his arm, reaching for him. "Hey," he says softly, then again, louder, "hey."
His volume finally gets Ilya to move. "Okay," he whispers, "shh, shh." He goes to Shane's side and takes his open hand, and his knees go weak at feeling it warm in his own.
"Yes," Shane hisses happily, his eyes drifting shut. "Bet-ter," he pronounces.
Heart in his throat, Ilya studies his face, looking for any lingering trace of injury, but the Silent Brothers and Shane's parabatai had healed it away. Shane is still pale from the effort of healing, making the freckles on his faces stand out even more. Even here, he's beautiful.
Ilya glances down between them, at Shane's thumb rubbing the back of his hand, as if to check he's still here. "You scared me," he confesses softly.
Shane hums. "'M'sorry."
"It's okay," Ilya whispers. He can't resist brushing a touch over Shane's cheek, warm under his fingers.
Shane smiles, prettier than any angel in Ilya's imagination, and leans into Ilya's touch. "And sorry 'bout last night. Hayden's hunt fucked up my plan."
Ilya presses his lips together, fighting a smile. "You will get him back for it, I'm sure."
Shane blinks his eyes open. They're a little distant, glazed over—the aftereffects of the venom—but still him, the man Ilya's come to know piece by piece, hour by hour in the time they've stolen away together. "When will we get another chance?" he whispers.
The question nearly takes Ilya out at the knees. He feels it, the desire to stay here at Shane's side, to tell the Praetor and the Clave to fuck off and be wherever Shane needs him to be. Whatever he wants.
But that's not how this works. Shane's family and life are here, and while Ilya doesn't have the former, the latter he can only find somewhere else. Coming here last night was a mistake. Ilya's heart is in too deep, and to keep pretending it isn't is too painful to bear.
"I'm sorry," Ilya rasps, "I don't know."
Shane's mouth turns down in a frown, dark eyes wide, and Ilya aches. "You'll be at the Accords signing right?"
Ilya allows himself a nod. He can't imagine it will be any more enjoyable than the meeting last month, but Wiebe was counting on him, so he would be there.
"Will you come to the cottage after?" Shane asks.
"I –" can't. I can't. "I don't know." He couldn't. He shouldn't. For Shane's sake even more than his.
Shane's hand twists in his grip, turning to interlock their fingers. "We could have a week, or even two, Ilya." His expression turns wistful, watching their joined hands. "Haven't you ever wanted more time?"
"Of course," Ilya blurts out. It was the last thing he should have said, but it was the honest answer.
"Then come with me," Shane pleads, "after the Accords. We'd be completely alone. Together. As long as you want to stay."
His words were still slurred by the Elapid venom, but it still sounded so perfect, and Shane was looking up at Ilya like he would shatter if Ilya said no.
"Maybe," Ilya answers, like the coward he is. "Maybe."
Shane beams, and Ilya thinks about doing more selfish, cowardly things, like kiss him, but then there's a knock at the door.
tagging interested parties that wanted to read: @themimsyborogove, @potato-jem, @sun-tomato
it's ilya's first morning waking up at the cottage. he's all drenched in soft golden light and warm along his left side, the press of shane's skin against his in the delicate, hazy morning sunshine is a heady thing. shane's body is lax, all his tissues like butter, soft and maleable, his skin dimpling where ilya presses his fingers into muscle. he's never had shane beside him quite like this. in boston he'd come close. waking up with shane trapped in the cage of his embrace but that had been a short nap, and shane hadn't been warm like this, he hadn't smelt like this. all sleepy and a little sweaty and a little like the smoke from the fire last night and a little like his eucalyptus shampoo. and it's the best he's ever slept. pressed along the soft line of shane's sleeping body, his bicep pinned beneath shane's head, and even when he wakes up and his arm is numb and a little sore at the elbow where it's been bent all night it's the best he's ever slept. it's also the best wake up ever.
shane is looking up at him when he blinks his eyes open. he gets an eyeful of puffy-faced, sleep rumpled shane. all big brown eyes and freckles and mussed hair and swollen pink lips -- from kissing, from all the kissing they did yesterday, their mouths drawn together over and over and over throughout the day like they just couldn't stop. ilya wakes up to shane murmuring 'good morning' all gravelly and low, soft and sweet. his voice like honey. and ilya says 'good morning' back and his accent is a little thicker than normal but he doesn't feel self-conscious. shane smiles at him and ilya melts. shane gets these lines just beneath his eyes, dimpling into the skin of his cheeks when he smiles like that, and his mouth stretches puffy and red and lovely and ilya is helpless but to confess 'i like you' and shane's eyes are so so so tender when he says 'i like you too'. ilya stares at him, moves his hand to card his fingers through the mess of shane's hair and he wants to kiss him so bad but shane is moving, nuzzling into his touch, smiling as he settles back against ilya. and ilya turns his face to press his nose into shane's hairline, breathing him in, swallowing around those other words sitting in his throat.
it's quiet for a while, shane just breathing deep against him as the forrest outside wakes up, birds chirping and bugs buzzing in the rising heat of the morning. ilya wonders if shane's fallen back asleep but then shane is rolling into him, pressing his mouth to the underside of ilya's pec, smearing his mouth over the moles dotted there and he's making that sound that's something like a purr and makes ilya want to eat him. ilya turns his head down and watches shane as he nuzzles his face into ilya's pecs, as he kisses over ilya's breastbone and heart. his fingers stay in shane's hair, gently tugging on the strands as shane presses tight tight tighter to his side until they're plastered together, shane's leg between his, half of shane's body on top of him.
and then shane is lifting his head and ilya is cupping shane's chin, pressing his thumb to the corner of shane's mouth, tugging on his pretty swollen lips. shane's face tilts into the touch and his tongue sweeps over his bottom lip, catching the tip of ilya's thumb. shane's hands are tucked around ilya's ribs, fingers making circles over sensitive flesh. and then ilya is bending awkwardly, stretching his neck to capture shane's mouth in a searing kiss. he doesn't care that the angle hurts his neck or strains his traps. he wants to kiss this beautiful sleepy version of shane that's nuzzling into him and purring like he's some big, heavy cat. and shane's mouth tastes like stale morning breath and his lips are sloppy and a little over sensitive but ilya doesn't care. the kiss is perfect. he licks into shane's mouth and drags shane closer until shane is sitting on his stomach and bending down over him, his big hands now on either side of ilya's head and holding him in place. shane's thumbs rub over his earlobes and ilya breathes a sigh of relieve -- the touch soothes the parts of him still lingering in the impossibility of this all -- and ilya grips shane's face back, thumbs pressing into the hinge of shane's strong jaw and urging him to release, to slacken, to let ilya press his tongue into the depths of shane's hot mouth. shane relents to the touch easily, of course, jaw slack and breathes panting in increasingly higher whines and ilya bites at his already sensitive lips and sucks on his tongue.
the makeout turns to rolling over the mattress, limbs tangling together, hands shoving briefs aside so they're entirely skin-to-skin. ilya's hands find the meat of shane's ass and his fingers dig in, kneading the flesh, pushing them closer together. shane's hands mimic the movement of ilya's and he grins as shane squeezes his ass and drags their hips tight together in a uncoordinated inelegant rhythm. rolling waves of pressure and closeness in each sliding press of their swollen cocks together. and shane is breathing a little shaky and his mouth has dropped open and his lashes are fluttering and his cheeks are pink and ilya is dropping kisses over and over and over, all across the skin in reach. a kiss to shane's jaw, his chin, his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, his eyelids, his brows, his lips, his lips, his lips. and he wants to swallow shane whole and he wants to look at him forever and he wants to fuck him and he wants to hold him and he wants to kiss kiss kiss him.
"please fuck me," shane's whispering, shivering when ilya presses his fingers between his cheeks and feels where shane is still relaxed and tender from yesterday. they'd fucked once, twice, three times before the end of the day. unable to help themselves. the first time a rush of pushing biting scratching shoving with shane on his knees. then with shane on top gripping at ilya's chest and riding ilya so filthy, so fast, so fierce it had made ilya's brain melt out his ears helpless but to grasp at shane's hips and grunt with each skilled roll of the man's body. then with shane on his back, legs locked around ilya's hips and their fingers tangled, pressing into the mattress above their heads as they kissed and moved lazily in the soft glow of the lamplight. and between that they'd kissed, and kissed, and kissed. kissed tangled on the couch after dinner. kissed by the firepit with ilya's hands cupping the back of shane's head. kissed in the shower pressed against the cool glass. kissed after they'd brushed their teeth, breaths minty, shane sitting on the counter and wrapping his legs around ilya's hips, keeping them close together.
and then shane's pleading, again, "please, ilya, fuck me." and ilya is humming, nodding, pressing shane down into the mattress and pushing his knees back to open him up. he's staring for a moment, thumb brushing over where shane is sensitive and clenching around nothing, begging to be filled, and then he's moaning and dragging his tongue over the hot flesh, kissing and sucking and prodding into shane's body with his slick tongue. and he stays there between shane's legs until his chin is slick with saliva and shane is writhing and tugging at his hair. when he pulls back shane is all blushing neck and flushed chest and sweat slick forehead and wide blown pupils and he's so so so fucking pretty. he's so fucking pretty and he likes ilya. he's so fucking pretty and he wants ilya to fuck him. he's so fucking pretty and he wants to relax with ilya, for once. and ilya is crawling back up his body and kissing him again and shane is moaning and biting at his mouth and arching up to rub his cock into ilya's hip and he's cupping ilya's balls with one hand and shoving the other in ilya's curls and gripping tight and saying "i like you so much" and ilya is grinding his body into shane's touch and then he's gasping and fuck did he just...?
shane's hips still and ilya squeezes his eyes shut and lets out a long, self-admonishing groan, head dropping down to the crook of shane's neck, hiding himself there in the warmth of shane's skin. and shane is giggling and ilya is pinching his side and shane is just giggling harder.
"did you just...?" shane asks and ilya is growling "shut up" as shane is tugging on his hair trying to get him to look at him. when he pulls back -- finally -- he expects to see maybe disappointment but shane is grinning wild and wide. his eyes are all crinkled and his freckles are bunched up around his nose and his mouth is stretched in a smile ilya has never seen before and he puffs a breath as he looks at this pretty, beautiful, perfect man. who likes him. so much. of course he just...
"sorry," he mumbles and shane shakes his head and nuzzles their mouths together, dragging lazy kisses over ilya's slack lips. "no," he's saying "that was hot" and ilya is making an indignant sound. it was definitely not hot that he just came from shane barely touching him and talking to him all sweetly in his deep morning voice. "you really like me," shane teases and ilya groans "you like me so much you came before i even did anything" and ilya is muttering "shut the fuck up" and shane is laughing again but it turns to moaning gasping whimpering when ilya wraps a calloused palm around shane's dribbling cock, thumb pressing meanly into the sensitive head.
and then he's bullying shane onto his stomach and yanking his hips up and spreading his cheeks with his hands and pushing his tongue back into shane's hole. eating him out ferociously, rough and sloppy, morning stubble dragging a little painfully over sensitve skin. and he won't touch shane's dick. he won't let shane come. he won't let shane touch himself. he's indulging in sucking and kissing and tonguing at shane's pretty wet loose hole until he is hard again and then he's fucking shane long and slow and mean. not quite giving him enough to come, driving him over the edge of over sensitve, holding him down between the shoulder blades and making him take it. ilya's come once now he can go on and on and on. and shane is whimpering, tears spilling over red cheeks, by the time ilya finally picks up the pace, adjusts his angle, and gives shane what he wants. fucking into shane hard and brutal and precise. cock dragging over that perfect spot on every press in and on every drag back out. still he doesn't let shane touch himself and shane is hiccuping, gripping at the sheets and clenching his teeth around pathetic little mewls by the time he is finally coming. handsfree. shaking beneath ilya's hold. ilya pulls out and tears of the condom and jerks himself off furiously until he's coming all over shane's ass, painting his skin in sticky, thick cum. shane's gasping at the sensation and his spent cock dribbles more between his legs as he whimpers, reaching back for ilya's hand, fingers clenching and unclenching begging for connection.
and ilya's slowly turns shane over and slides their fingers together, bring shane's knuckles to his mouth, kissing over the thick, boyish knobs of his knuckles. and then he's slumping over shane and kissing all over his face and murmuring "i do really like you" and shane is smiling, dopey and fuckdrunk and angling his face into each kiss like a sunflower seeking sunlight. "i really like you" he's mumbling and their noses nudge and their lips smear and that's how ilya wakes up on his first morning at shane's cottage.
At a Book (c.1882). Marie Bashkirtseff (Ukrainian, 1858-1884). Oil on canvas. Kharkiv Art Museum.
Bashkirtseff attended the Académie Julian, one of the few European art schools that accepted women. Bashkirtseff kept a journal, which documented the struggles of a woman artist of her time. It was published under the title, I Am the Most Interesting Book of All. She also published writing for the feminist newspaper, La Citoyenne.
And next thing I knew, I was on a plane to Mexico. I didn’t even pack a bag. I bought a bundle of novelty shirts at a nearby gift shop. This one says, “What’s up, beaches?” instead of “bitches” for humor reasons. But you hate humor. Well, I’m a joke now, so it suits me.
