It’s a few years into their relationship when Ilya realizes that his left arm is ever so slightly stronger than his right
It’s not really noticeable, not to anyone else, not even Shane. It’s just something that pings in Ilya’s brain when he’s in the gym strength training, that it’s just a teeny little bit easier to lift on his lift. He knows this isn’t exactly unusual, even — most people are slightly uneven, most people are a little bit stronger on their dominant side
… except Ilya is a rightie.
He puzzles over this for a while, wondering if he ought to be doing a few extra reps with his right arm, wondering if he ought to try to even it out, wondering how the fuck this even happened when he’s literally always favors his right arm/hand. He uses it to pull Shane close, to open doors for Shane, to hold himself up while he fucks into Shane……
And meanwhile, he’s using his left hand to jack Shane off.
Ilya puts the pieces together mid-hand job, when Shane is settled between his legs, back to chest. He’s got his right hand on Shane’s leg, rubbing his thumb over the soft skin on his inner thigh, while his left hand strokes Shane hard and fast until he’s whining and begging for release.
Ilya hides his reaction by biting into the sensitive skin on Shane’s neck and lets him come before rolling them both over so he can laugh into a pillow.
“What?” Shane says, scowling as he wriggles underneath Ilya, sensitive and sated. “God, you’re such an asshole. I didn’t come that fast.”
“No,” Ilya eventually manages to say through tears of mirth. He’s still hard, but he’s pretty sure he’s accidentally killed the mood. “No, no, you were perfect.”
“Then what the fuck is wrong with you?” Shane twists around so they’re face to face, and Ilya can bury his face into the crook of his shoulder.
“You know,” he says after he’s calmed himself down with the scent of his boyfriend’s sweat, that musky, salty smell he’s grown accustomed to having in his bed. “You know how my left arm is stronger than my right?”
“Yeah, so?” Shane says. He’s got this adorable, frustrated look on his face, all scrunched up and angry. “What does that have to do with — oh.” His eyes flick down to Ilya’s left hand, coated in his cum. “Oh my god, Ilya, are you serious? Is this why your right backshot is weaker than your left?”
Of course that’s what Shane worries about. God, Ilya loves him.
“It’s ok!” he says, grinning wickedly as he pushes himself up onto his left elbow. “I will even it out. Only rightie handjobs this summer.”
Shane’s smile grows slowly. “I bet your right hand isn’t as good at it,” he says, and his words reek of a challenge. “Bet you’ll need lots of practice.”
Huh. Mood not killed at all, then.
Ilya kisses Shane deeply and runs his hands — including the cum covered one — through his hair, ignoring the squeak of protest in lieu of the twitch of interest in both of their dicks.
“Good thing I have a great personal trainer,” he says and winks.
Training season has never been so much fun.
