This blessed #shosunday (thank you @hutsonwoolyums for starting this) I am sharing my gospel of Ilya trying to give a blowjob while just completely fuckdrunk. Hear my sermon
Shane is busy with a shoot all day (something A La Peloton, tonally) and Ilya is allowed on set after he promised to be on his best behaviour. But whatever it is has a lot of focus being put on Shane's legs (squat lifts, spin bike, pick your poison) which are also in Teeny Tiny Shorts and Ilya is. Having A Time. Biting his cheek to keep from barking you know how it is.
When they're driving home, Ilya keeps reaching over to squeeze Shane's thighs, and as soon as they're parked Ilya just YANKS him through the front door like You Need To Ride Me NOW Hollander It Is URGENT.
So Shane rides him into the mattress like a demon and Ilya is delirious with how good it is and just how fucking strong and delicious his husband's thighs are and he's running his hands all over his quads digging in his fingers and it's so so soooo good that Ilya's brain feels like it melts out of his ears as his whole world goes fuzzy. It's so good, in fact, that between waiting through the whole shoot with no distractions while Shane was focused elsewhere and all the filth Shane is whispering in his ear, Ilya forgets himself and finishes before Shane when he didn't want to, sent over the edge by Shane grabbing his wrists and pinning his hands between his thighs and calves before flexing, squeezing them in place. And Shane is a little surprised but mainly pleased and flattered, helping Ilya ride it out and then starting to stroke himself to completion once Ilya begins to soften inside him, whispering oh wow, guess you just couldn't wait any longer, baby, you got so excited just for me, huh?
But then Ilya, still dizzy and trying to remember how sentences work, pushes at Shane's wrist to stop him, then is pawing at Shane's hip and back like how he does when he rolls Shane over mid-fuck, but he's out of it enough that he can't just toss him down to the mattress like usual, so Shane lets Ilya pull out and follows the motion once he sees what Ilya's aiming for.
Instantly Ilya's is all over Shane, just slowly and blissfully dragging his lips fingers hips over every part of him like a paintbrush on canvas, smiling drunkenly. Shane thinks it's adorable but also he still has a massive hardon and this is just keying him up MORE and driving him crazy.
And so Ilya kisses his way down his chest, if you could call them kisses - he's really just placing his open mouth wherever he can reach, loose limbed and hazy, until he gets to Shane's crotch. He doesn't have the brain power left for any fancy words so instead he just groans out a quiet fuck before swallowing him down as far as he can manage.
Shane is just watching in silent awe as his husband just greedily indulges himself on Shane's dick - and there really is no word for it other than indulgence. It's got none of his usual technique or flair but it's sweet and artless and adoring, and he's humming deep in his chest as he savours Shane's taste in a way that vibrates right through everyone of Shane's bones. He has one arm curled around Shane's thigh in a grounding sort of hug, and the other hand is just resting on his stomach, curled loosely around nothing until Shane grabs it while gasping as Ilya laps clumsily over his slit. When Ilya collects himself enough to deepthroat, he pushes his nose right into Shane's crotch and nuzzles in so so sweetly, sighing around Shane's dick, and that's what finally throws Shane over the edge, clutching tighter onto Ilya's hand as he devolves into a mess of ah, oh, oh fuck, Ilya as Ilya swallows hungrily and thoughtlessly through it all.
Once the last waves have passed him by, he looks down with adoring eyes to see Ilya, head pillowed tenderly against Shane's thigh, eyes heavy and hazy and satisfied and full of so much love.
Characters that crumble without any pressure, characters who can only function when the stakes are high and fall apart in normalcy, characters who are so honed into weapons of the narrative that when the narrative slows they are left with nothing
(Inspired by @hutsonwoolyums post about Shane's scar)
(Buncha talk about god in here so if that's not your speed. Here's your warning)
Ilya was never much of a church-goer.
Wearing a cross wherever he went had certainly convinced some people otherwise, and it was easier to let people believe what they wanted rather than explain himself, but in truth he had about as much of a relationship with god as he did with a distant planet. Someone once told him it was there, so it probably was, but it had no impact that he could see. In truth he hardly thought about it at all.
His family had attended their local orthodox church every week on the regular for the sole purpose of keeping up appearances and never mentioned the teachings again for the rest of the week. Ilya sometimes had seen his mother pressing her cross to her lips and gazing listlessly upwards, but he never knew why, and knew better than to ask when he shouldn't have seen it at all.
The only time he remembered actually caring what his pastor said was when they held her funeral in that very same church. Even then, he couldn't bring himself to swallow it all down. If she really was gone, she had to have gone somewhere nice, no matter how she ended up there. It had been too horrible to consider anything else.
Church had slipped out of his schedule as easily as school after the draft. He just... grew out of it. And hadn't touched it since.
Still, rainy evenings like this one have a way of unearthing old things from the soil caked deep in his heart. Not usually good ones. Usually bad. But with every rainy night before, he hadn't had his husband lying shirtless over him on the back patio couch, tipsy on wine together as they listened to the summer rain.
Shane's head is tucked into his neck and his hand is pressed up beside his chest, thumb brushing idly along his ribs. The heat trapped between their chests wards them from the chill of the rain and the petrichor mixes with the smell of Shane's hair. Ilya's fingers trace gently back and forth along his spine. From this angle he can map out the expanse of Shane's back - every dimple, divot, scratch, and his favourite: the scar. A dark smudge along his left shoulder, a little raised in the middle, a little tougher than the rest of the skin.
Early in their hookup days, Ilya has suspected it was a hockey injury. Hockey seemed to be all Shane was; it wasn't feasible that anything else would be allowed to write on his skin like that. But the more they saw each other, the more Ilya allowed himself to think of Shane when he wasn't there, the more he saw of Shane behind the hockey of it all, the more stories he came up with, picking one of his choosing for his fantasy of the night. Sometimes he earned it saving someone from a burning building. Other times, he'd caught a stray bullet before neutralizing the shooter in a bold tackle. Often, he got it from the edge of a knife while defending some faceless damsel in distress in an alleyway fight. (If the faceless damsel grew progressively more blond and muscular and Russian the more Ilya played the fantasy, nobody else needed to know.)
When Shane finally told him he'd just slipped on a camping trip and landed the wrong way on a sharp rock, he'd expected it to feel a bit anticlimactic or disappointing. Oddly enough, he'd been pleased, strangely protective of the new little factoid, carefully tucking it next to the other little pieces of Shane he'd been jealously hoarding.
He doesn't need to hoard anything now. He can glut himself all he wants, and he does, fingers trailing all the way up Shane's spine to brush his long hair away from his warm neck.
He still likes coming up with new backstreet for the scar. Tonight, he thinks the scar looks like a perfect little lipstick stain. Like an angel kiss. Except he hopes it isn't, since the idea of anyone else kissing Shane, even an angel, almost threatens to pop the tranquil, drunk little bubble they're in. Almost. But not quite.
It's thoughts of angels that bring his mind back to church, and it's thoughts of Shane that remind him of Adam and Eve. The first humans. The first couple, the first lovers. Ilya wonders if they ever felt just as he does right now, if the nature of love hasn't changed since it was invented.
As his pastor told it, or at least as he remembers, Eve was created from one of Adam's ribs to be his perfect partner. To complete him perfectly, to be two parts of the same being always walking outside the other's body. Ilya knows the feeling. That's how Ilya knows love hasn't changed, not in all these thousands or millions of years.
Ilya circles a clumsy, gentle ring finger around the edge of the scar, dragging a little on Shane's humid skin, and hums something low and content deep in his chest.
"I think. This is where they took the piece of you that they made me with." This late in the evening, with this much wine, his voice is husky and his syllables have gone lazy.
"Hm?" Shane intones. Hardly a word at all, more of a slight buzz of lips against Ilya's neck.
"Right here," he taps, once, twice. "Tiny little piece of shoulder."
Shane laughs. Or, he would, were he not half asleep, so he makes a sort of chuffing noise in his nose and twitches his lips. "What're you saying."
Ilya turns his head to the side, just a little, bringing his lips even closer to Shane's ear, careful not to budge him. "When they made you, when they made my Shane, they said, 'oh, we have made such a good Shane. The best Shane.'"
"'M the best Shane?" he smiled.
"Best anyone," Ilya declares with a blind kiss to the tip of his ear. "Anyone ever. And then they said, 'this Shane we made, he is so good. He needs someone to love him, to care for him, make him lie down on the porch and drink wine, so this Shane must have an Ilya.'"
Ilya can see only a little sliver of Shane's eye as he squints it open to gaze up at Ilya. He looks like nothing bad has ever happened to him in his life, like all his pain has rolled off of his body like rain off a patio roof. "That's the best idea."
"Mmhm. Very smart. And they took little piece of you, from right here," he presses his thumb lightly onto the scar, right in the middle, "to make me." Ilya smiles down at him and brings his hand back up to Shane's hair. "Is why I was born after you."
"Oh yeah?" Shane hums. Ilya can feel the twist of his lips against his chest as he smiles. "Glad they made you, then. Just the way you are. They made you perfect."
"Only because you are so perfect to start with, lyubimyy."
Ilya looks down at Shane, gazes back at that little sliver of his dark brown eye, and feels like it all makes sense. Like he's clicked into place, exactly where he was designed to go, two parts finally made into a whole. He feels full. He feels complete.
As he tips his head back and closes his eyes, hands resting heavy over Shane's broad back, he listens to the storm and wonders if it rained in the garden of Eden.
It's the most wonderful time of the week (#shosunday hosted by @hutsonwoolyums )
I'm imagining married Ilya waking up before Shane at the cottage. They didn't shut the blinds the night before and the golden midmorning sun is streaming onto Ilya's face, lighting up his eyelids in a warm red before he squints awake. He spends a solid ten minutes just staring at Shane's face resting on his chest, turned away from the sun.
Ilya's not usually the first one awake, and it's even rarer that Shane doesn't wake up less than a minute after. But Ilya knows Shane doesn't like to start the day too late, so he takes the opportunity to wake Shane in his favourite way.
Careful not to wake him, he gently rolls Shane onto his back as he hums softly in his sleep. He pulls back the covers and slides his way down the bed. Shane is slightly hard more mornings than not and today is no exception. Ilya is half tempted to start by mouthing him through his boxers, but he wants Shane to wake up to the best part, so he slides the garment off and takes Shane onto his tongue.
Shane hums again, something soft and thoughtless, and Ilya waits for him to settle again before ducking his head further forward. He takes him in bit by bit, starting with delicate little laps at his slit, indulging himself fully and swirling his tongue every which way before swallowing deeper. With every few inches he takes in, Shane's breathing comes out a little harder, a little louder, every so often letting out a little whimper high in his throat, behind his nose, as he kneads the sheets with little twists of his fingers. Ilya loves all of Shane's noises - loud and passionate, fucked out and slow, frantic and overstimulated, sometimes low and demanding. But there's something about these rare little sounds from his dreams that scratch an itch in Ilya's brain, something about the intensity of feeling packed into such a quiet noise.
Ilya presses his nose into Shane's stomach once he's swallowed him down completely and groans in satisfaction. Above him, Shane moans from deep in his throat as the vibrations pass through him. Ilya can feel his breaths quicken from where his face is flush with his belly.
He's heard it said before, probably from some of Shane's numerous athlete biographies, that the way you start your morning sets the context for your whole day. Ilya would start every single morning like this for the rest of his life if he could, beginning his day with Shane's taste on his tongue and moans in his ears and strong thighs bracketing his face, flexing just slightly under Ilya's ministrations.
And he knows Shane loves to start the day like this too, with Ilya beginning to set a rhythm along his length and hollow his cheeks just how he knows Shane likes.
"Mnh- 'lya-?"
Ah, there he is.
Ilya tips his head back just enough to meet Shane's eyes. And what a fucking sight he is in the mornings - his dark, sleep-hazed eyes, half-lidded but so deep; his full lips, parted lazily and sticking slightly at the corners; his dark hair flying out in every direction and catching the morning sun like the haphazard leaves of a tree. Ilya can't help but be overcome by just how fucking beautiful he is. How lucky he is that Shane lets him have him in this way.
It's almost enough to make his rhythm falter. Almost.
Instead, Ilya crinkles his eyes in his best approximation of a grin and a wink as he squeezes Shane's thigh with one hand and slides his other up to his stomach. Looking back down, he pushes his efforts, less careful now that Shane is awake.
"Uh- oh, fuck, Ilya- mh, god, don't stop, shit."
Another benefit of this rare morning treat - hearing Shane beg in his rough morning voice. The sound sends a little thrill right down Ilya's spine and into his dick as he groans again and pushes a little into the mattress.
Ilya picks up his speed as Shane fumbles a clumsy hand down to thread loosely and aimlessly through his curls. He can feel from his hand on Shane's belly how his abs begin to quiver with his coming release, can hear the building shakiness of his breath.
"Mm, fuck, Ilya... ngh- Ilya, fuck, oh my god-!"
Ilya finishes Shane off with a targeted brush of his tongue and a hollowing of his cheeks as Shane's thighs tighten around his ears. For a moment, he's enclosed in a beautiful, quiet world where nothing exists but his husband pressing in insistently from all sides - around Ilya's face, his scalp, his tongue, down his throat, breathless but full of his scent. The perfect little bubble falls away as the last shocks subside, and Ilya lets Shane slip from his mouth, licking one last stripe upwards as he falls out.
When he looks up, Shane is facing the ceiling, arms out by his sides. Ilya perches his chin in one hand and traces his fingers idly through Shane's pubes with the other. His feet kick lazily back and forth behind him. When Shane collects himself enough to push up onto his elbows and look back at Ilya, his face is flushed beautifully, his summer freckles displayed in high contrast, and a clumsy smile is tilted over his lips.
Ilya lets a smile grow over his own face, something that sprouts from deep behind his ribs and winds its way upwards. With one last kiss to Shane's knee he examines his stunning husband in the morning light and simply says, "Good morning, lyubimyy."
Feeling heartsick about Ilya in Tampa leading up to the Feelings Talk.
Before the bar, the leadup of maybe I can convince him, she doesn't need to know, what's one more secret. I can teach myself to be okay with it. If that's all I can get, I'll make myself okay with it.
Then the tentative, overwhelming, heart-clenching hope of maybe I'll get a second chance, he said they were incompatible, maybe he'll come back to me, at least for a little while, at least until he finds someone new. Please, all I need is a little bit longer. It won't ever be enough but I need to have you just a bit longer. I had months but I couldn't figure out how to stop fucking wanting you, and the only cure is to feed my addiction.
How adrift and bubbly and uncertain and strange he must have felt in that time between the bar and the bed, sick with the fucking hope of it all and the fear that it'll be crushed again like it was last time but still unable to stop fucking hoping. On tenterhooks through their whole game, through their time at the pool, seeing how Shane was looking at him like he wanted him again but knowing to be careful this time, and how different that must have felt, having it come back after being ripped away instead of taking it for granted.
But most of all, the newly cowed affection - the restrained, desperate mantra of I promise if you take me back I won't mess up this time. I promise to make things just like they were before. I promise to never ever want anything again. I promise never to show you just how viscerally I want you, down to my very core. I'll rip away every part of me you don't like if that's what it takes. Even if my soul sings for you, I'll shut it up if you don't want to hear it. You want me to hide it, and I'll do that until it kills me. Anything to keep you. I don't care if the hiding mutilates me from the inside out as long as I can bleed out at your feet. As long as I can be good for you. Please just let me stay.
We all know and love the final girl, but I want to know more about the first girl. The forgotten girl. The unlucky catalyst. The girl who's buried twice, first to be killed and last to be avenged. The girl that everyone else thinks about, when that phone call comes, when the backdoor is mysteriously unlocked, when the blade slides home. But she had no one before her to provide context. She was all alone with her fear and she died without knowing that her brutal sacrifice would birth the creation of a final girl who lives. The girl who watches as the girls after struggle and fail again and again until finally, finally, she wins but it's bittersweet because she had a whole lineage of dead girls to guide her way and the first girl had nothing. She was always supposed to fail and she did it so beautifully they've changed the meaning of her name about it, she is no longer a person she's that first brutal death.
Water coded characters but instead of being the calm, soft, healing one they're like an ocean; relentless and terrifying, always dragging things back into the heart of them and never surrendering it, like a rip, poisonous to any who intake to much of them, prone to tempest and storm.
Fire coded characters but instead of being erratic, emotional, 'fiery' and destructive they are like a hearth; a low constant heat, warm and inviting, nurturing to those around them, a focal point for family and gathering together, providing clarity and light and guidance in darkness, slowly but surely burning themself out in sacrifice for the comfort of those around them.
I saw a few posts talking about Ilya with various manicures so I think it's time to break this out of my notes app. Presenting: Rose convinces Ilya to get a manicure, post-TLG💅
It took some convincing on Shane's part to get Ilya comfortable hanging out with Rose (for her part, she was practically on her knees begging to meet him for months after Shane told her he was dating someone). Ilya really wanted to hold a grudge, but he was raised not to be rude to ladies, and he had to eventually admit that she really was delightful. It helped that she suggested they go dancing together when Ilya had nobody else who could keep up with him at the clubs. So, after getting all the petulance and passive aggression out of his system, he and Rose get along like a house on fire.
Rose and Ilya are hanging out one-on-one at Rose's place in LA one evening while Shane is out at a special shoot or something. He left in a good mood, claiming relief from how Rose and Ilya like to gang up on him with loving teasing and go crazy with gossip and shittalk, but really he's glad for his husband to bond with one of his best friends.
So they're hanging out, getting wine tipsy, and Ilya in all his drunkenness keeps getting distracted by Rose's iridescent manicure.
“What colour even are they. They are changing. What is this witchcraft”
After a giggle fit, Rose hits him with, “Have you ever wanted to paint your nails?”
Ilya snorts, “Pretty delicate manicure would not last long on a hockey player, Rose.”
“Maybe not long acrylics, sure, but short ones with shellac would! Or biogel, that stuff lasts forever. There's so many types of nail polish. And you wear big gloves all the time anyway. Except when you fight, I guess.”
Ilya squints. “What, so you would have me punch people with pretty pink nails?”
After a brief, consuderung pause, Rose giggles, “Okay, but wouldn't that be so funny?”
Ilya sips his wine and raises an eyebrow as she continues.
“Imagine with me. Go into imagination land. You are not Ilya Rozanov but instead some random, irritating, mediocre player playing for a mediocre team-”
“Is okay, you can just say Metros.”
“-and you're playing against the Cens. And you decide to chirp their captain, Ilya Rozanov, but he chirps you back and it's devastating.”
“Mm, accurate, please continue.”
“And because you're a Metro, you don't have the brain cells to make a better retort, so you drop the gloves, and Rozanov drops them in response.” Ilya nods acquiescingly and takes another sip. “And as his fist is flying towards your face, the last thing you see before your ass is on the ice is a cunty red manicure the same shade as a Centaur jersey.”
Ilya is quiet for a minute, staring contemplatively, before he starts snorting into his wine glass. "Oh my god, Rose, this is incredible idea."
"IT'S PSYCHOLOGICAL WARFARE, ILYA!! They'll be so stunned by the cuntiness of your nails that they'll choke and lose the upper hand."
So she gives him a simple, pretty shellac manicure in Centaurs red on her living room floor (“why do you have all this nail stuff? You can afford a salon, Rose” “and you can afford food delivery but you're the one who insisted on making us BLTs at 9PM. hush”).
Ilya has a lot of fun with the sense of them. Very smooth and clicky, he keeps rubbing his thumb over them, tapping tables with them, checking his nails like a diva. He already talks with his hands a lot and now he's got a little extra flair to go with it.
The Cens all compliment him on them. Wyatt considers out loud getting his own painted. Shane thinks they're really hot, especially when Ilya puts them in his mouth later.
And lo and behold, some nobody mediocre player does chirp him later on about some stupid homophobic nonsense. And Ilya tries not to start fights anymore since Shane doesn't like it, so Ilya just chirps him right back with his best smug smirk. And the other player drops their gloves first, and Shane didn't say anything about fighting back, so Ilya does the same, and it turns out that a catty red manicure really is effective at stunning stupid homophobes before they get their lights punched out.
Ilya makes a show of elegantly checking his nails on-camera before putting his gloves back on.
