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Of course neither one of them ever expected it: it started in one of those quiet moments you never think will turn into anything. Just one of those stupid post-practice rituals where they ended up lying around the house like overcooked pasta, too sore to fuck, too wired not to touch.
The lights were low. The Centaurs had lost again, which put Shane in a mood and Ilya in an even worse one, and neither of them was talking much. Shane was sprawled across the couch in a worn t-shirt and boxers, hair still damp from the shower, legs across Ilya’s lap where they belonged. Ilya had one hand on Shane’s knee, fingers drawing idle circles just above the bone, eyes fixed on the muted TV. Some old NHL Network rerun; the grainy kind that flickered like ghosts in motion.
Shane tilted his head back. “Talk to me in Russian.”
Ilya didn’t look at him, but Shane saw one of his perfect brows arch in amusement. “Why?”
“‘Cause I want to hear it.”
“You never understand.”
“That’s the point.”
Now Ilya did glance down. Expression incredulous like Shane had just told him he wanted to be stepped on by a moose.
“You get off on hearing things you do not understand?”
“I get off on your voice,” Shane said bluntly.
Something shifted. If you asked Shane later, he wouldn’t be able to say what exactly; just that something did. When the space went from being filled with nothing to being filled with, you know, something. He didn’t even say it to be sexy; just matter-of-fact. Like he was telling Ilya to turn the thermostat up or pass the remote. There was something honest in it, and vulnerable, and brave, in the way that made Ilya go very, very still.
“…You are very strange man,” he murmured, giving an affectionate small shake of his head.
Shane didn’t argue. He just shifted a little, letting one arm drape over his forehead, the stretch arching his chest. He was hard already. Not fully but that low, lazy ache of want that pulsed when he was tired and safe and just the right side of needy.
“Say something,” he murmured. “Anything.”
Ilya shook his head, muttering in Russian already, something fond and exasperated. But his voice was lower now, warmer, rolling consonants curling under his breath like cigarette smoke.
Shane groaned softly. “Fuck, yeah. That.”
Ilya’s hand moved. Up Shane’s thigh now, slow strokes of his thumb right at the crease. He didn’t reach for Shane’s cock: Shane was already twitching against the fabric, already shifting his hips like friction alone might do the job.
“Lay back,” Ilya said. “Put your head here.”
He patted his thigh and Shane obeyed, boneless, rolling to lay across the couch with his cheek pressed against Ilya’s leg. His hair brushed against the waistband of Ilya’s sweats. He was close enough to smell him - soap and skin and a trace of menthol from the muscle rub Ilya he’d used on his shoulders. Ilya picked up his phone and clicked open a YouTube video. The title was in Cyrillic. The thumbnail showed a grainy hockey rink and a row of suited commentators.
“Old game broadcast,” he explained.
“You’re gonna read me hockey stats?” Shane asked, one eyebrow raised.
“You said anything.”
He tapped play and began to speak. Russian spilled from his mouth in long, smooth strings: effortless, no stops, no hesitation. He didn’t even perform it, just read, eyes flicking over the screen, lips barely moving.
It fucking ruined Shane. The words were unintelligible, fast and rhythmic, consonants slapping gently against his eardrum like a hand stroking too slow, vowels drawn out in long, low murmurs that hit his spine and coiled. He couldn’t translate, couldn’t follow, but his body reacted regardless. His hips shifted. Rubbed. One lazy drag of cock against cotton. His breath stuttered; a low whine caught in his throat.
Ilya didn’t stop, not even to look down at him. He just kept reading.
“…перехватывает шайбу у синей линии…”
His hand slid back to Shane’s thigh, holding him down without pressure. It was present; the weight of it anchored him.
“Jesus,” Shane whispered, rutting now, slow and needy. “Don’t stop. Fuck. Ilya, don’t stop.”
A flicker of a smile ghosted across Ilya’s face. He kept reading, pace slower now. Deliberate. Like he knew exactly what it was doing; like he was calibrating the rhythm. Shane’s cock throbbed against the soft stretch of his underwear, the fabric damp, every shift of his hips slicker than the last. His ear pressed into Ilya’s thigh and he could feel the vibrations of every word, rumbled directly into his skull.
Then, just when Shane’s breath started to hitch in real gasps, just when he was panting and whining and grinding, Ilya broke the Russian for a second.
“You are so gone for me,” he said, low.
Shane cried out, high and breathless.
“Please—say more—say anything…”
“Such a good boy.”
The words snapped through him like a live wire: his back arched, his hips bucked. Oh, shit. He was going to come. He was going to fucking come just like this.
“No hands,” Ilya murmured, like he was reading his mind. “Just stay right there, pretty thing. Let me talk you there.”
Shane moaned, high and helpless, like a bitch in heat, and rocked harder against the fabric of their couch.
“Ты вся моя, понимаешь?” Ilya said, softer now. “Ты принадлежишь мне.”
The language drenched Shane, warm and sharp. He could feel the syllables wrapping around his cock, soaked into the rhythm of his body. He gasped, tried to say Ilya but couldn’t. His mouth too slack, his brain felt like cotton. He was almost there when Ilya murmured a phrase Shane recognised instantly:
“Khoroshiy malchik.”
Good boy. FuuuckShane came. Full-body shudder. A groan ripped from his throat, shameless and choked, as his cock pulsed wet and hot into his briefs. He couldn’t stop moving: hips twitching, grinding through it, soaking through cotton, legs trembling, mind gone.
Ilya looked down at him, flushed and limo-noodled in his lap.
“You like that?” he asked, almost amused.
Shane was panting, pink to the roots of his hair, legs splayed like he’d been wrecked. He nodded, but still couldn’t speak, lost in that weightless subspace where his thoughts calmed and his body hummed. Ilya brushed back a strand of hair from his face with gentle fingers.
“You say you want cock in your mouth,” he said, “but maybe all you need is my voice.”
Shane whined, actually whined, and shifted his hips almost imperceptibly. It drew a laugh from Ilya as he leaned back again, thumb brushing Shane’s jaw, like maybe maybe they weren’t done.
Ilya didn’t speak again right away. He just sat there with Shane’s head in his lap, one hand tangled in damp strands of hair, the other ghosting lazy strokes over the waistband of Shane’s ruined underwear. Shane was still breathing hard, barely recovered. His cock twitched, oversensitive and spent, and his thighs trembled every time Ilya touched him.
He hadn’t moved, or even pulled away and his mouth, fuck, his mouth was open; just a little. Lips flushed and wet, still panting like he wanted something else now. Something more.
Ilya watched him. The heat had drained from his own body but not the hunger. That stayed, coiled low and heavy, not urgent, just inevitable. A familiar slow-building pressure, wanting Shane’s tongue, his throat, his submission, not from punishment but from that desperate, grateful greed Shane only ever showed when he was on his knees or draped across Ilya’s lap, wordless and wild.
“You are still hard,” Ilya said, voice low, fingers pressing lightly against the damp fabric of Shane’s briefs. Shane made a broken little sound. Neither confirmation or denial, just a hitched breath.
“You came in your underwear like teenager,” Ilya murmured, amused.
He slid his fingers down and tugged the waistband lower, just enough to see the mess. Come soaking into the cotton, wet through to his inner thigh, glistening on flushed skin.
Shane whimpered.
“Poor thing,” Ilya murmured. “You made such a mess, krasivyy. Just from listening.”
Shane shifted and nuzzled into Ilya’s thigh, face hot, jaw working like he was trying to say something but couldn’t find words. Ilya’s cock was half-hard in his sweats. He hadn’t even touched it: the sounds Shane made were better than any hand. Now, he exhaled slowly and reached down, adjusting himself. Just the motion was enough. His cock swelled under the fabric, thick and heavy, and Shane’s eyes flicked up, glazed.
Then lower. He watched Ilya’s hand stroke once over the bulge and licked his lips.
“Ah,” Ilya said softly, tilting Shane’s chin up with two fingers. “Now you want more.”
Shane nodded. Just once. Quick. Ilya held his chin there, firm, eyes searching his face.
“You have to ask,” he said.
Shane swallowed. Voice hoarse.
“Can I…?” He trailed off. Shook his head and again. “I wanna, fuck, I want it in my mouth.”
This time, it was Ilya’s breath that hitched.
“You can have it,” he said. “But only if you take your time. No rushing. No choking. No greed.”
“I’m not gonna—”
“You will,” Ilya interrupted, soft but certain. “Because you forget how slow I like it. You always want to be ruined fast.”
Shane groaned and rubbed his cheek into Ilya’s thigh like a cat.
“Then make me go slow,” he whispered.
And fuck, fuck, that did it. Ilya shoved his sweats down, thick cock springing free, already flushed at the tip, curved against his stomach. Shane’s breath caught. He leaned up, mouth open, eyes wide but Ilya didn’t let him dive, no, he pressed Shane’s head back down gently.
“Net. Start here.”
He guided Shane’s cheek to his thigh again.
“Slow for a minute. Let your mouth want it.”
Shane whimpered and nuzzled closer, the head of Ilya’s cock dragging against his temple. His lips parted on instinct. Ilya started speaking again. Russian now, low and clear and almost formal in cadence.
“Ты всегда такой нетерпеливый.”
Shane moaned into his skin. Ilya let the words run down his tongue, smoother now, hand curling in Shane’s hair, keeping him steady as he whispered:
“Ты знаешь, что я твой. Что я позволю тебе всё.”
That was when Shane broke. He turned his face and kissed Ilya’s thigh, once, then again, higher: open-mouthed and reverent. The next kiss landed on the base of his cock. He was shaking.
Ilya didn’t stop him, just whispered, “Go on, malysh. You earned it.”
Shane moaned and mouthed up the length; tongue dragging slow, lips wet, kissing and licking from root to tip. Ilya let his head fall back. A groan ripped loose from his chest as Shane circled the tip with his tongue, teasing, breath shaky.
Then, slowly, so slowly, he took it in. Just the head at first. Suckling. Swirling his tongue around the crown. His fingers curled into Ilya’s thigh, anchoring himself.
“You look so good like this,” Ilya muttered. “So good, zaychik. Sucking so soft.”
Shane moaned around him.
“Медленно. Расслабься.”
Shane unknowingly obeyed. No rush, just soft, wet pressure, drawing him deeper, inch by inch. He didn’t gag: he didn’t fight it. His throat opened in steady pulses, swallowing with little whimpers as Ilya whispered more filth into his hair.
“Такой милый. Ты хочешь быть использован, да?”
Shane whimpered and pulled back, gasped quickly for air, then dove down again. He was drooling already: spit slicking Ilya’s cock, dripping down his chin. He wasn’t jerking himself, he really didn’t need to. He was already hard again, cock twitching against the mess in his briefs as he worshipped.
And Ilya just spoke. No thrusting. No force. Only voice, steady and thick.
“Глубже. Молодец.”
Shane choked on a groan. Ilya chuckled, let his hand stroke Shane’s hair once, then again, gentle.
“You want to come like this, don’t you,” he murmured. “Mouth full. Cock aching. Hands behind your back like a good little boy.”
Shane let out a shattered mhmm, mouth stuffed, hips grinding into the couch with helpless, stuttering thrusts.
“You are so beautiful when you obey.”
Shane let out another whimper as his eyes rolled back. And then Ilya’s voice dropped to a whisper, just for him:
“Сделай это. Кончи для меня.”
Shane came. Again. Harder than the first time, like he ever imagined that would be possible. Without hands or friction; the sound of Ilya’s voice and his mouth full of cock enough to propel him over the edge. He shook, body tensing, spilling into his underwear again with a breathless cry muffled by Ilya’s skin. His thighs quivered. His lips tightened around Ilya’s cock like he didn’t want to stop sucking even while his orgasm ripped through him.
Ilya held him there. Softly. Just his palm on his nape, grounding him, letting him ride it out. Only when he was trembling and whimpering with overstimulation did Ilya pull him back. Shane gasped for breath, mouth red and swollen, chin wet, eyes glassy. He collapsed against Ilya’s thigh. Ilya stroked his hair once. Then again.
“Good boy,” he whispered.
Shane shuddered like it was the only thing keeping him alive. He was boneless, sprawled across Ilya’s lap like a man wrung out, trembling in the aftermath of his second orgasm, body sticky, underwear soaked, breath catching in soft little aftershocks. But his mouth was right there, still slick, still red, and Ilya’s cock was throbbing. Hard. Unrelieved. Coated in spit and precum and flushed so dark it almost hurt. Ilya stared down at him. Ran his thumb over the line of Shane’s jaw and the way he leaned into it like a reflex.
Then he shifted his hips, just enough to press the head of his cock back against Shane’s lips.
“You are not finished,” he said.
Shane moaned, eyes fluttering shut, tongue already out. Ilya slid in slow. He didn’t push deep, not yet, he let the head rest against Shane’s tongue, hot and thick and twitching.
“Hold it,” he murmured. “Don’t move.”
Shane obeyed: mouth slack, eyes closed. His whole body had gone soft again, pliant. He looked so peaceful like this, which was insane. He looked like someone praying. Ilya’s breath hitched. His hand came to rest on the back of Shane’s head. The other braced on the couch. And then, finally, he started to fuck Shane’s mouth.
Slow. Measured, without the need for roughness or a punishing pace. There was only the wet, obscene sound of lips and breath, the warm slide of spit and the way Shane took it, letting him in deeper with every pass. Moaning low, throat humming, mouth relaxing open until Ilya could feel the resistance melt away and his cock slip deeper.
He didn’t last long, couldn’t, after everything. Not with Shane whimpering around him, eyes fluttering, tongue licking the underside like he was still starving, even now. Not with the image of Shane coming untouched still burned into his brain like a flashbang.
Ilya’s rhythm faltered, his voice cracked.
“Господи, ты убьёшь меня таким образом.”
Shane groaned, deep in his throat, and that broke Ilya wide open.
“Сейчас,” he gasped. “Сейчас, zaychik, держи.”
He came hard. A guttural groan tearing from his throat, hips jerking once, twice as thick pulses of come flooded Shane’s mouth. More than he expected. He saw Shane’s throat work to swallow, and keep swallowing, and Ilya nearly blacked out. When he pulled back, panting, Shane gasped for air and slumped, dazed, pressing his cheek to Ilya’s thigh like he couldn’t even lift his head.
Neither of them moved. The room was quiet save for their breathing. Ilya could hear his heartbeat rushing in his ears. Shane’s mouth was wet and red, come-slick, his chin dripping. His lashes were damp. His lips curved in the faintest, laziest smile. Ilya stroked his hair.
“You are unbelievable,” he muttered.
“Yeah,” Shane whispered. “So are you.”
Another beat passed. Then Shane asked, voice wrecked: “What did you say? Just before you came?”
Ilya smirked.
“I said you are going to kill me.”
Shane snorted, limp with exhaustion, then nuzzled closer.
“Worth it.”
Shane didn’t speak for a long time. He stayed curled across Ilya’s lap, one arm draped off the edge of the couch, the other tucked under his chest. His underwear was soaked, sticking uncomfortably to his skin, and his mouth felt…used; tender at the corners, thick with spit, jaw slightly sore from the stretch. But he felt good, bone-deep good.
Ilya was still running fingers through his hair, slow and lazy, not with any urgency, just a steady rhythm, like he was lulling Shane to sleep. He wasn’t hard anymore but his cock was still out, wet and soft against his thigh. Neither of them was in any rush to move. Shane sighed, shifting slightly.
“I can feel the mess,” he muttered.
Ilya chuckled, low and smug. “I told you not to be greedy,” he said. “You always make a mess when you are like this.”
Shane didn’t lift his head. “You literally fed me your cock. What was I supposed to do?”
“You were supposed to behave.”
“I did!” Shane protested, weakly. “I didn’t touch myself. I listened. I swallowed.”
“You also drooled all over my leg.”
Shane groaned and hid his face.
“God, you’re insufferable.”
“I am relaxed. There is difference.”
Ilya sounded unfairly pleased with himself. Shane rolled his eyes, even though they were closed.
“Whatever. You gonna get up and clean me or what?”
“Net,” Ilya said, stretching out under him. “I am going to carry you to the bathroom like lazy spoiled brat you are.”
Shane opened one eye. “You’re not gonna carry me.”
Ilya didn’t answer. He just adjusted his grip, slipped one arm under Shane’s back and the other beneath his knees, and, effortlessly, lifted.
Shane squawked.
“Ilya!”
“Shhh,” Ilya murmured, already walking. “Neighbours will hear.”
“Put me down, Jesus—”
“You are light.”
“I’m not—”
“You are. Like wet cat.”
Shane groaned, face burning, and dropped his head against Ilya’s shoulder.
“Why are you like this?”
“I like when you whine.”
He was definitely smiling: Shane could feel it against his temple. They crossed the short hallway into the bathroom. The lights were dim, soft, automatic - the ones Ilya insisted on installing after Shane stubbed his toe three times in a week. Steam clung to the air from earlier, faint traces of shampoo and eucalyptus soap still lingering. Ilya set Shane gently down on the edge of the tub.
“You sit,” he said. “I will handle it.”
Shane watched him move, confident and grounded. Not in the slightest rush at all. The same way he played. The same way he fucked. He leaned back, arms braced behind him, while Ilya turned the water on and adjusted the temperature. Not testing it like most people did; knowing where it needed to be. The faucet ran smooth and hot. A small puff of steam curled upward. Ilya turned and reached for Shane’s waistband.
“Up,” he said.
Shane lifted his hips obediently. His soaked underwear peeled down, wet and clinging, and Ilya made a soft tsk of disapproval at the sight of the mess: come streaked across his thighs, dried between his legs, sticking in places that were clearly going to itch later.
“This is obscene,” Ilya murmured, crouching between Shane’s knees. “What did I say about getting sloppy?”
“That I should be proud?” Shane offered, smiling.
“You should be grateful I don’t tie you up and make you clean it with your mouth.”
Shane’s breath hitched.
“Jesus.”
“I am teasing,” Ilya said but his tone stayed dark, thick with warmth. His hands were steady as he ran a warm cloth up Shane’s thigh, wiping gently, slow and methodical. “You would not last five minutes.”
Shane tilted his head. “If you said please, I’d do anything.”
Ilya looked up at him then and smiled.
“Ya znayu,” he said softly.
I know.
He rinsed the cloth and continued; wiping him down but handling him, like Shane was something valuable that needed to be cared for properly. He lifted each leg, cleaned behind the knees, ran warm water over the soft skin inside his thighs. Shane leaned back against the tiled wall, letting his eyes fall closed. His voice was softer when he spoke again.
“I missed this,” he murmured. “You taking care of me.”
Ilya didn’t say anything, simply worked the cloth a little gentler and pressed a kiss to the inside of Shane’s knee.
“You’re always working so hard,” Shane added. “Even now that we’re here. Same team, same city. It’s easier but it still gets to me sometimes.”
“I know,” Ilya said again, quiet. He dropped the cloth in the sink and came back to sit beside Shane on the tub’s edge.
“You think I do not watch you when you are burning yourself out,” he said. “I do. You hide it better now but I still see it.”
Shane leaned against his shoulder.
“I’m trying.”
“You do not have to try when you are with me.”
There was silence after that. Not awkward. Just…heavy. Warm. Ilya kissed his temple then stood, grabbing a clean towel, and wrapping it around Shane’s hips with the same easy care he’d shown all night.
“You good?” he asked.
Shane nodded. “Yeah.”
“You still remembering how I sounded when I made you come with nothing but my voice?”
Shane groaned. “Fuck off.”
Ilya grinned.
“Good. We do it again next week.”
Shane looked at him, eyes soft now. Smiling, but sincere.
“You’ll always take care of me like this?”
Ilya stepped in close, hand cupping his jaw.
“Every time you need it.”
He kissed him slow. The type of kiss that said you’re mine and we’ll keep doing this forever.