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Shane’s skin is buzzing.
For the past week Shane has felt a hair-trigger away from vibrating out of his own skin. The restlessness building from his stomach down his fingers runs at a rolling boil despite all attempts to snuff the flame. After morning skate, Shane does his lift with a twenty-five pound weighted vest. During scrimmage at the end of practice, he does his best impression of a gnat with a hockey stick so Ilya will slam him against the boards. At night, Shane drags Ilya on top of him and can only find respite after his husband falls asleep and over two-hundred pounds of warm dead weight drags Shane under.
Sex is also proving to be mostly futile.
Sex that usually pulls Shane down to a place more blissful than dreamless sleep and halts even the most frantic of Shane’s racing thoughts does little against this kind of restlessness. Shane begs for it hard and fast in bed with his legs pulled up over Ilya’s shoulders. He fucks himself impossibly deeper on Ilya’s cock bent over on the living room carpet and scrapes his knees and elbows raw with rug burn. Ilya, his sweet, enthusiastic Ilya with a seemingly endless libido gives Shane all he’s got and then some. The other day Ilya made him come four times in two hours until his cock was entirely spent and could only kick weakly against his stomach in a shivering orgasm before Shane had tapped out. Exhausted down to his bones, Shane had thought finally, until he had crawled back into their bed with fresh, cool sheets and tossed and turned until Ilya had finished his shower and settled on top of Shane, chest to chest, looking moderately concerned that Shane’s eyes were still open.
But Shane Hollander is no quitter, and thus rides his husband for all he’s worth. The Centaurs are on a rare three-day stretch of no games before a road trip, and Shane has decided to make the most of it and get to the bottom of whatever the hell is wrong with him.
Ilya’s big, calloused hands travel roughly up and down Shane’s torso, pausing occasionally to tweak a nipple or squeeze his sides. Despite Shane doing most of the work bouncing his hips, Ilya’s eyes are glassy, face flushed, and swollen, kiss-bitten lips parted as he looks up at Shane’s face and down to his weeping, neglected cock like they hold all the secrets to the universe. Shane leans down and captures Ilya’s lips in a messy kiss, all tongue and spit, and moans as the angle changes and Ilya’s cock slams into his prostate dead-on. Ilya’s hands fly down to his ass, digging his nails into stretch marks and bruising the white fissures red.
Ilya’s hands squeeze, then smooth over his ass before he sucks on Shane’s bottom lip and brings his right hand up and down, smacking Shane’s cheek with a satisfying crack that rings through their bedroom above their kissing and panting and the filthy wet sound of lube sliding in and out of Shane’s hole as Ilya fucks up into him.
“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane pants, breaking away from Ilya’s mouth and dropping his head in the juncture between Ilya’s neck and shoulder to mouth at his chain. Ilya breathes hard against him, hot against his sweaty hairline. Shane doesn’t need to look at him to know he’s smiling as he smacks Shane’s ass again in the same spot, hard, heat on heat, sending sparks of delicious pain up Shane’s spine into his brain and scrambling his neurons.
“I want to see you, lyubimyy” Ilya says, keeping one hand firm on Shane’s reddened asscheek and sliding the other up to splay across the middle of his back. Shane loops his arms around Ilya’s neck and nods, and has a fleeting, hysterical flashback to Ilya’s couch in Boston when he’s flipped onto his back without Ilya pulling out. He sighs at the sensation of a cool, silk pillowcase against his overheated nape. His smile morphs into a breathy moan as Ilya adjusts and bottoms out fully, leaning over Shane until all he can see is the thin ring of blue around Ilya’s blown out pupils and his curls haloed around his head, glowing golden in the setting sunlight coming through the window.
Ilya threads the fingers of one hand through Shane’s keeping it pinned above his head. The other goes to his hip, thumb digging into the bone as he picks up where he left off at the same relentless pace. Shane moans, throwing his head back so Ilya can mouth and nip at his throat. His cock drags deliciously against Ilya’s stomach and he has the terrifying realization that he’s going to come soon. The buzzing is still there, tucked deep under his ribcage making him feel wild and frantic. His asscheek throbs faintly where Ilya had smacked it. He wants Ilya to do it again, smack him open-palmed until his skin is red and raw and tingling. Distantly, he regrets not moving onto his stomach when they changed positions so Ilya would have uninhibited access to his ass and the backs of his thighs to mark up until his fingers were numb and all cognitive thought had left Shane entirely.
Shane pushes at Ilya’s shoulder so he leans up and takes the pressure of his cock. He squeezes the hand still trapped above his head and brings it to his mouth to suck on two of his fingers. His mind quiets marginally more at that, and Shane lets his eyes flutter, looking up at Ilya hazily as he takes his fingers down to the knuckle and back up to lap at his fingertips, like he’s sucking his cock.
“Fuck, Shanya,” Ilya groans, eyes fixed on his fingers disappearing into Shane’s mouth. Shane whines, muffled, at the nickname and squeezes his wrist. “You make me crazy, you’re so—fuck—so perfect, my Shane.”
How crazy, Shane wonders, his brain two steps behind his body as he releases Ilya’s fingers with a gasp and brings his hand to his cheek. Ilya clutches his hip and thumbs the corner of his mouth. His thrusts are getting more erratic as he pounds his hips into the backs of Shane’s thighs and Shane realizes wildly that it’s now or never. Now or Shane will lose his chance to slap a Hail Mary shot to the goal of quieting the understimulation plaguing him—
“Hit me.”
Ilya stops entirely, halfway out of him, thumb catching the corner of his lips. Desperately, Shane clenches around his cock in a silent plea to stay inside and locks his ankles around Ilya’s lower back. It’s a dirty play, sure, but Shane is so wired he thinks he would actually disintegrate into dust if Ilya left him empty right now. Ilya’s eyes dart over his face, mouth parted. Shane holds his gaze steady willing his confidence to stay within his grasp and squeezes the back of Ilya’s hand still cupping his cheek.
“You want me to slap you?” Ilya asks, uncertain as he still grinds his hips unconsciously. “In the face?”
Shane’s cock jerks. “Yeah,” he breathes, “right here.”
“I don’t want to hurt you, moya lubov,” Ilya says, quiet.
Part of Shane wants to tell him never mind so Ilya can get back to fucking him hard and fast and he stops giving Shane that terrible, worried look. A bigger part of Shane knows he wants it, he needs it, and knows Ilya wants it too.
“You won’t hurt me,” Shane assures, “at least, not in a way I don’t want.”
At that, Ilya sucks in a breath, his eyes darkening. The slow, agonizing grind of his hips starts to quicken into deep thrusts that Shane feels all the way in his stomach.
Shane’s composure starts to slip. He fucks himself down on Ilya’s cock, meeting his thrusts, thighs tensing around his hips. “Please, Ilya,” he whines, “please, baby, I need it.”
Ilya’s piercing stare doesn’t leave his face as he sits up higher on his knees. The first hit is barely a tap, Ilya lining his hand up to the apple of Shane’s cheek like he’ll sometimes line up his cock to Shane’s hole, tapping at his rim before pushing inside. Shane inhales greedily in anticipation, hands clutching Ilya’s ribs.
He watches Ilya as he brings his hand back away from his face like if he stares hard enough he’ll be able to sear the memory of Ilya’s flushed cheeks, sweat beading on his hairline, his moles and beauty marks behind his eyelids for eternity.
In the same way he brought his palm down on Shane’s ass what seems like a hundred years ago, Ilya brings his hand down onto Shane’s cheek hard, whipping his head to the side with the same crack, only this time sharper, louder, reverberating in his eardrums and his skull where pleasure-pain ricochets from his smarting cheek down to his ankles still locked around Ilya’s back.
“Fuck, Ilya, oh my god,” Shane starts to babble, a dam inside him broken. He clenches impossibly tighter around Ilya’s cock, and Shane hears him swear in Russian distantly above him. “Fuck, that was so good, oh fuck, again,” Shane begs, heat welling behind his eyes. If he’s lucky, Ilya might make him cry, “please—fuck—again.”
Ilya moans, swears louder this time and grabs Shane by the chin to face him. Shane opens his eyes, not even having realized he closed them, to a dark, unreadable expression in Ilya’s eyes looming above him.
“You are crazy, Shane Hollander,” Ilya says, like a prayer. Ilya’s cross and his wedding ring swing on their chain between them in time with his thrusts nailing Shane’s prostate on every pass. “You are going to kill me.”
With no testing tap or other warning, Ilya slaps Shane again on his left cheek.
Shane keens, back arching up and hands scrambling for purchase on Ilya’s sides. There’s no break as another slap comes onto the same spot, pushing Shane’s head further into the pillow. Between moans punched out of him from Ilya’s hands and his cock, Shane turns his face to the other side and Ilya brings two sharp smacks in quick succession to his right cheek before grabbing the hair at the crown of his head and pulling so Shane’s throat arches and Ilya bullies his tongue into Shane’s mouth for a desperate, biting kiss. Shane clutches at Ilya’s curls to bring them impossibly closer. Shane’s face feels hotter than any fever he’s ever had. He kisses Ilya like he’s trying to devour him whole. Ilya kisses back like he would let him.
“Fuck, fuck, Ilya,” Shane breaks the kiss, tossing his head back and forth against the pillow. Between his smarting cheeks, Ilya’s deep and unforgiving thrusts, and his cock dragging against Ilya’s stomach, it’s almost too much. “I’m close—shit, fuck—I’m gonna come,” eyes wet, Shane pleads, “Ilya, please,”
“Shh, lyubimyy, it’s okay,” Ilya soothes, smoothing his thumb over the reddest part of Shane’s cheek, “I’ve got you, it’s okay,” he says, love dripping like honey from his deep, rumbling voice as he rears his hand back for a final smack against Shane’s face.
Shane’s orgasm hits him like a freight train, cock jerking, untouched. Come shoots up to the hollow of his throat and he vaguely feels hot tears soak the hair at his temples. Shane tumbles down to the heaven where only Ilya Rozanov can lead him, overwarm and flushed all the way down his chest. Love you, Shane thinks, or maybe says, love you, as Ilya spills into him.
He drifts, distantly aware of Ilya arranging their limbs to a more comfortable position where they can both lay down without Ilya having to pull out. He feels Ilya soften inside him, feels one of his firm hands rubbing up and down his chest, and comes to awareness from the weight of Ilya’s gaze and kisses pressed to his jaw.
He blinks down at Ilya and smiles sleepily, turning his chin down for a proper kiss. Ilya gives it easily, and then one, two more little pecks for good measure.
“My Shane,” he says, not quite meeting Shane’s eyes but seemingly distracted by where his face feels the most flushed and hot, “can I clean you up?”
Shane nods, grunting when Ilya’s soft cock slips out of him. He stretches, feeling calm and satiated in a way that almost feels foreign to him after the week he’s had. Listening to cabinet doors opening and closing from the en-suite, the world rights itself on it’s proper axis and Shane feels like he can breathe again, slowly and deeply.
He feels the bed dip and opens his eyes to Ilya, in his boxers with a warm cloth he brings between Shane’s legs. He lets Ilya manhandle him as he pleases, not even complaining when the fabric drags over his sensitive rim and his spent cock. He wipes the come drying on Shane’s chest and Shane lifts his hips so Ilya can dress him in a loose pair of shorts. Ilya turns to grab something off the nightstand, which Shane realizes is a bottle of aloe they keep under the sink for Ilya in the summer.
Ilya squeezes some of the gel onto his fingers and gently rubs it over Shane’s cheeks down to his jaw. He sighs at the coolness against his flushed skin and brings one of Ilya’s hands to his lips to kiss it.
“Hey,” he starts, when Ilya doesn’t meet his eyes right away, “you okay?”
“I’m okay,” Ilya says easily, “just want to take care of you.”
Shane smiles and lets go of his hand. Ilya returns it and once Shane’s skin has been sufficiently soothed, he rubs a hand over Shane’s hair as he goes to put the aloe back under the sink and the washcloth in the dirty laundry basket.
When Ilya joins him back in bed, Shane settled his weight on top of him, folding his hands on Ilya’s chest and settling his chin on them. Ilya scratches his scalp, eyes lidded and heavy.
“This is new,” Ilya says mildly, “usually you are begging me to crush you like a pancake.”
“I feel better now,” Shane says. Ilya’s eyebrows raise slightly, like he wasn’t expecting Shane to say that. He hums, pushing a wayward strand of hair back from Shane’s forehead.
“You have been all worked up lately,” Ilya observes, “and just needed something extra to turn your brain off?”
“I guess,” Shane says, suddenly feeling ridiculously insecure considering that this was his husband who he regularly has mind-blowing kinky sex with, “did you like it?”
“I liked it,” Ilya answers easily and smiles, thumbing over the shell of Shane’s ear. “Not something I want to do all the time, but I liked it.” He cups his hand around the back of Shane’s head to pull him closer, “kiss, krasivyy.”
Shane lets himself be pulled and kisses Ilya like he’s starving. As always, Ilya responds in kind, hooking his arms around Shane’s back and flipping them over. Shane laughs, breathless as Ilya’s mouth captures his again, and sighs as he starts to kiss open mouthed across the width of his throat, under his jaw. Never one to deny himself the opportunity to feel his husband up, he lets his hands wander over his broad shoulders and strong back until Ilya’s mouth travels upwards to nibble lightly at his earlobe.
“Race you to the shower,” he says and bolts up from the bed, narrowly avoiding Shane’s grab to his wrist and almost trips over the pile of his clothes left by the bed in his haste to beat Shane to the bathroom.
“You asshole,” Shane calls after him, stripping his shorts and following Ilya into the shower where he pins him against the tile and bites at his neck and shoulder in contentment.