Chapter Text
Bzzzz.
Half asleep, Ilya clumsily slapped the off button on his phone. It was the morning after what really shouldn’t have been, but sort of felt like, the worst night of his life. He could afford to be fifteen minutes late to the team bus.
Bzzzz.
That had not been Ilya’s allotted nine minutes between alarms. There was no way. Ilya turned his phone off again.
Bzzzz. Bzzzz. Bzzzz.
The fuck? Was it his roommate’s alarm?
Ilya cracked one eye open, looking toward the other bed, but Hammersmith was a lump under the covers. The weak dawn light filtering through the curtains was just enough to make clear that his phone screen was dark. It wasn’t him.
Bzzzz. Bzzzz.
The digital clock on the nightstand read 6:02. Ilya’d set an alarm for nine. What the fuck?
Bzzzz.
Ilya grabbed his own phone, yanking it out of the charger. The screen wasn’t lit up with an alarm at all, but an incoming call.
Jane.
Ilya smashed Decline, feeling far too smug for six in the morning.
Hollander could go fuck himself. Or, more accurately, go fuck Rose Landry. Ilya’d been a fucking idiot that day a few months ago, cooking for him, asking him to stay. Like they were, what, lovers or something? It was stupid. Ilya was stupid. Hollander had been biding his time with Ilya, waiting for the hottest woman in the known universe to fall at his feet.
Then Ilya had been discarded, like so many cigarette butts. Crushed underfoot and left to pollute some river.
God, that was dramatic, even for six in the morning, even for getting, by a generous estimate, two hours of sleep. Even for the emotional hangover of watching Shane at a club with Rose fucking Landry.
Bzzzz. Bzzzz.
Jesus Christ.
Ilya stabbed the decline button again. Served Shane fucking right. Who did he think he was, calling Ilya at six in the morning? Ilya could have been at some girl’s house. He probably should have been at some girl’s house.
Bzzt.
This vibration was shorter. A text.
Jane: Please pick up. Please.
Ilya couldn’t help the annoyance that lanced behind his sternum. Not three months ago, Shane had left Ilya’s penthouse without his fucking underwear because Ilya’d dared to call him Shane instead of Hollander. Now here Shane was, begging for Ilya’s attention.
Bzzt.
Jane: I need you.
Jane: Please.
Ilya rolled his eyes. Shane needed Ilya like he needed a fucking high stick to his stupidly straight nose.
Bzzzz.
Nope. No, no, no. Shane could call Rose Landry if he needed something.
Bzzt.
Another text. Ilya wanted to ignore it. He should ignore it.
He checked it.
Jane: Something’s wrong.
Jane: Please.
Ilya didn’t like the way his heart was starting to beat harder, as if he were nervous. He didn’t like the way his fingers were twitching, like he wanted to respond. He didn’t like any of it.
Bzzzz.
No. It was a bad idea.
But what if something was wrong? What if Shane had been kidnapped by a rabid fan or something? Though, they probably wouldn’t let Shane use his phone in that case. And if they did, Shane was smart enough to call the cops, not Ilya.
Bzzzz.
Ilya wanted to answer the phone.
But that was idiotic. He had all the power here, to leave Shane out to dry and move on. Ilya could call what’s-her-name, Harper, in Detroit, where they played next, and let her ride him until he forgot all about Shane Hollander and his ridiculous early morning calls.
Bzzt.
Ilya checked the text, like an idiot.
Jane: I’m scared. Please.
That was very . . . weird, for Shane.
Shane hated having feelings around Ilya, unless they were hatred or contempt or arousal. Never fear. Even when they kissed the first time, fucked the first time, when Shane was shaking with adrenaline and nerves, he never admitted being scared to Ilya. Shane didn’t trust Ilya with that, clearly.
The gulf between that and these texts must have been what piqued Ilya’s interest. Not concern. Ilya was not concerned.
Bzzzz.
Ilya was going to regret this.
He picked up.
“What?” Ilya whispered, padding to the bathroom and pulling the door closed as quietly as possible so as not to wake Hammersmith. He flicked on the light and stared at himself in the mirror, naked except for a pair of old sweats.
He did not look good. Ilya knew he was handsome, but he looked sickly in the mirror. There were circles under his eyes. He needed a shave. His skin was sallow.
“You need something?” Ilya said into the phone when there was no response.
“Rozanov?” Shane’s voice crackled. He sounded . . . bad. Like, sick. Or hurt. Or – Ilya forced this thought not to shove up any emotion into him – like he’d been crying.
“What is it, Hollander?”
A wet sound on the other end of the line.
“I-”
A pause. One long enough for Ilya to convince himself to hang up. He didn’t.
“Can you come here?” Shane finally asked.
“No,” Ilya said flatly.
Shane made a weird, high-pitched noise. If Ilya didn’t know better, he’d call it a sob.
“Please?” Shane’s voice crackled again. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Call Rose Landry.”
Ilya could hear the sharp intake of breath. “She . . . We tried. It’s not- She can’t help.”
What the fuck was that supposed to mean?
“You’re at the Four Seasons, right? I don’t live far from there.” More wet noises, a muffled gasp.
Bzzt.
Ilya lifted the phone away from his ear to see a text from Jane, with an address. It was the best choice to ignore it.
Ilya clicked it instead. It was only a couple blocks away.
“It is six in the morning,” Ilya said into the phone instead of something smarter, like No or Go fuck yourself or I have a flight to catch in four hours, idiot.
“I know. I’m sorry. I don’t-” A panicked sounding breath. “I don’t know what else to do.”
“Stop calling me.” Ilya jabbed the end call button.
There. That was good. That was final.
Shane could figure out whatever the fuck was going on by himself. He was an adult. He didn’t need Ilya. Ilya could go back to bed now, sleep until his actual alarm went off. He could block Shane’s number so no more weird, desperate calls came through.
That would be good. Would be smart.
Instead, Ilya put on a hoodie, slipped on his sneakers, and ran out the door.
Shane’s building was nice. Very nice. Doorman nice.
The doorman didn’t seem to recognize Ilya, or at least didn’t react, which Ilya distantly recognized as good. Whatever was going on with Shane, it didn’t need more eyes on it. Especially on the fact that Shane had called Ilya to come fix it.
Which Ilya was doing, for some godforsaken reason.
He had practically run here, like an idiot, and was running now, grateful the lobby was empty as he all but sprinted for the elevators, jabbing the button for floor sixteen once they opened.
This was stupid. This was really stupid. Shane had a billion friends. He had teammates here. He had parents not two hours away. He had stupid Rose Landry. There was no reason for him to call Ilya.
There was no reason for Ilya to be anxiously drumming his fingers on his thigh as the floors ticked by in the elevator. There was no reason for Ilya to sigh with relief that the doorway that matched the address Shane sent was right in front of the elevator, so Ilya didn’t have to go looking. There was no reason for Ilya to rap on the door so hard he was half wondering if his knuckles would split.
There was no reason for the knot of tension in Ilya’s chest to soothe minutely when Shane swung open the door.
And there was especially no reason for it to go tight again once he studied Shane more closely.
Because Shane looked . . . bad.
Well, as bad as he ever looked, anyway, being all stupid and perfect and freckled.
Shane’s hair was limp and greasy, his cheeks so flushed it looked painful. He was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and his lips were red and chapped. He was barefoot, wearing a thin pair of black boxer briefs and an oversized black hoodie, his hands shoved deep into the pocket of it, pulling it down over his groin like he was embarrassed to answer the door in his underwear, like he didn’t choose to not take two seconds to pull on pants.
“You came,” Shane said weakly.
“I did.”
Ilya didn’t even have time to say anything else before Shane was launching himself at Ilya. Arms banding tight around Ilya’s neck. Hands tangled into Ilya’s curls. Face tucked into Ilya’s throat. Chest pressed to Ilya’s, even one leg coming up to squeeze against Ilya’s ass, pull him harder into Shane.
He was trembling.
Without thinking, Ilya put one of his own hands awkwardly on Shane’s waist, the other under his thigh. It was just so he wouldn’t fall, of course. It had nothing to do with the feeling of Shane’s rapid breaths against Ilya’s Adam’s apple.
They didn’t . . . hug like this. They didn’t touch unless they were fucking. Shane had made that boundary clear last time. But there he was, wrapping himself around Ilya like he’d missed him or something.
“Are you okay?” Ilya asked awkwardly, his lips brushing the top of Shane’s head.
“Better now,” Shane said into Ilya’s neck.
Shane shifted his weight, and Ilya felt Shane’s bulge nudge his hip. He was hard. Achingly so.
Ilya wanted to be annoyed – had Shane called him practically crying because he wanted a fuck? – but Ilya didn’t have a chance. Because Shane was . . .
He was humping Ilya.
They were in the hallway. Any of Shane’s neighbors could have seen them, could have watched Shane grinding restlessly, desperately. Yet Shane didn’t seem to care as he squeezed Ilya to him and rubbed himself on Ilya’s hip. He was shameless, a dog in fucking heat.
“What are you doing?” Ilya asked, his voice far more kind than he wished it was. He should be yanking Shane off of him, pushing him, yelling at him. Yet Ilya was standing still, letting Shane grind on him like a teenage girl with a pillow who had just discovered her clit.
“I’m sorry,” Shane muttered. “I’m so sorry. I- There’s no-”
Shane cut himself off with a high, keening noise, his hips stuttering against Ilya’s. It had hardly been five seconds, yet Ilya could feel wet heat through Shane’s boxers, through his own sweatpants.
Shane shuddered against Ilya, almost limp. A hot, wet drip ran down Ilya’s pants, falling onto his knee and sliding to his ankle.
Shane had come. He had humped against Ilya’s hip, desperate and shaking in his fucking hallway, and come.
This was fucking weird. This was almost scary. Shane didn’t do shit like this. And, sure, he had a hair trigger sometimes, but he didn’t come after a few desperate ruts against Ilya’s hip in a public fucking space.
“What are you doing?” Ilya asked again, a broken record.
“I’m sorry,” Shane repeated. His voice was raw. “I couldn’t do it, so Rose gave me this thing, and now I think I’m going to die-”
“Rose drugged you?” None of the words really mattered other than that. Ilya stiffened, hands suddenly clutching much more possessively at Shane’s body. “Eta suka. I will kill her. I will kill her right now.”
“No!” Shane yelped, finally pulling his face away from Ilya’s throat. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, his pupils blown wide. “I wanted to. I did it. Not her.”
“Did what?”
Shane’s flushed skin somehow went even redder. “I couldn’t fuck her. I wanted to. I was trying.”
Ilya ignored the pulse of sick jealousy he felt in his stomach. It was horrible. Shane was in obvious agony, and Ilya was mad because Shane wanted to stick his dick in some actress.
“So she said she had this stuff. And I only needed to take one, but I took two, just in case, and it-” Shane clumsily bumped his hips against Ilya’s. He was somehow already half-hard again. “Please fuck me.”
Ah.
That made more sense. Of course that was it.
Shane had taken too much Viagra or Cialis or whatever the fuck and needed to get off, so he called Ilya. Probably cared too much about Rose to wake her up at six in the morning, begging to fuck.
“Make Rose do it,” Ilya said, more than a little bitterness leaking into his words. “Or fuck yourself on a dildo.”
Shane whined wordlessly, hands tugging at Ilya’s hair like that would be more eloquent than words.
“I have to catch a flight, Hollander.”
Ilya was stupid. He was so fucking stupid. What had he thought would happen? Shane would say he’d called Ilya crying because he wanted him for more than sex? Because Shane had fucked Rose and it had been such a colossal mistake, and he was so sorry?
No. That was a fantasy, and an idiotic one at that.
This whole situation was idiotic. Shane had a girlfriend. He had a dildo, and hands, and probably plenty more sex toys that Ilya had never been privy to, because, Ilya realized sickeningly, that this was his first time at Hollander’s own home after six fucking years.
Ilya needed to get out of here. Fast.
He released his grip on Shane, grabbing Shane’s wrists and tugging his hands down from their grip on Ilya’s hair. Shane’s fingers clawed at Ilya’s neck as he did so, desperate, but Ilya moved them firmly down to Shane’s sides. He stepped back, forcing Hollander’s leg to release from around his waist.
There was no contact between them now, and that was good. It was good. This was the right choice.
Except Shane crumpled in on himself as soon as Ilya stopped touching him. His hands wrapped around his belly, and he doubled over like Ilya had punched him in the gut.
Shane wasn’t dramatic. Ilya’d seen him get a slapshot to the ribs, and he’d groaned and moved on. This was . . . bizarre.
“It won’t stop,” Shane said to the floor. His hands slid down and grabbed at his crotch, rubbing frantically over his boxers. “I can’t make it stop.”
They were still in the fucking hallway, and yes, it was six in the morning, but it was not private. Anyone could walk in, from their own apartments or the elevator. And Shane wasn’t exactly being quiet, gasping and groaning as he massaged himself. Viagra didn’t do this. It didn’t make you lose all sense of space, of boundaries, of . . . yourself.
This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t natural.
Ilya knew he would be happier, long-term, if he turned around and left. Bought a coffee at the Tim Horton’s across from the hotel, grabbed his flight to Detroit, and blocked Shane’s number for good.
But, though he wanted to be sometimes, Ilya wasn’t cruel. He couldn’t leave Shane like this, drunk with arousal and clutching his dick like he was in pain.
“What did you take?” Ilya asked, even as he knew it was a mistake.
“It was a sticker. Rose- I put them on my tongue. It was an eggplant emoji. God, Ilya.” Shane shuddered, still doubled over, still working himself.
“LSD?” LSD wouldn’t do this. Ilya’d taken plenty of that, and the most it ever did was make him stare at the sky, loopy and exhilarated. It never did . . . this.
“No,” Shane choked. “Rose called it nectar.”
Nectar.
It clicked together in Ilya’s mind, clunky and slow, but inexorable. Because Ilya knew about fucking nectar. He’d never taken it – he wasn’t an idiot – but he’d been around people who had. Hang out with enough rich people, and it came up.
It wasn’t a party drug. Wasn’t a fun one at all. Not only did it get you aroused, it made you crazy. Made you so horny you couldn’t function. Ilya had always begged off of it – he was horny enough without it – but he’d seen what happened on it. It made you insatiable for hours, days if it wasn’t dealt with.
It made you insane. It made you sick. It made you – and Ilya hated that this was the stupid word that came to mind – fragile. Vulnerable.
Sasha had taken it a few times, when they were teenagers, just to see. Ilya’d remembered his cries as he worked himself over again and again and again to no avail. He remembered Sasha begging Ilya to fuck him, then sobbing when Ilya couldn’t get it up again after the third round in a row. He remembered Sasha fucking Ilya, then panicking because he wasn’t getting fucked at the same time.
If Ilya remembered right, Sasha would take half a tab. Shane had taken two. No wonder he looked like he was going to explode.
Still. Shane had taken it with Rose. Why wasn’t she the one dealing with this?
“You should call Rose,” Ilya said hesitantly.
Shane gagged at the words, like he was nauseated by the mere suggestion. Ilya dutifully ignored the pleased rush he felt at that.
“No. No, it made me sick. I threw up. I can’t-” Shane squeaked, and Ilya watched the wet spot on Shane’s underwear grow larger.
There was no way he had come again. He’d climaxed not one minute earlier. But the stain was there, and Shane’s hand was shiny with pearly fluid when he lifted it away from his groin.
Jesus.
“You’re the only thing that makes it better.”
“Hollander, this is-”
“Just touching you helped. I can breathe when you’re here. Please, Ilya. Please.” Shane straightened somewhat, looking up at Ilya through dark lashes, clumped together with tears. He was so red all over, his lips chapped, his chest heaving.
Ilya knew it was wrong. Shane couldn’t consent like this. He was out of his fucking mind. Shane’d probably just as soon fuck a cactus if there was one around.
But he hadn’t. He’d had the most beautiful woman in the world at his feet, and Shane hadn’t wanted her. Even if he only wanted men, there were several options with less baggage on a Saturday night in Montreal. Now, early Sunday morning, Shane could flaunt that body and those freckles and find some early morning jogger or walk-of-shamer to take the edge off.
But Shane had wanted Ilya. And Ilya was weak. And he was selfish. And he was helpless in the face of Shane’s shiny, terrified eyes.
“Okay. Okay, Hollander.”
Shane’s face broke into a relieved, exhausted smile, and he scrambled forward to grab Ilya’s hand in his sweaty one and tug him back into the apartment.
Ilya’d dreamed about this so many times, about following Shane into his own apartment. Not a hotel room. Not that creepy fucking abandoned building. Shane’s apartment, with its hockey memorabilia and family photos and duvet Shane actually slept under. In Ilya’s imaginings, he’d taken his time. He’d complimented Shane’s taste in decor, or, more likely, made fun of it. He’d run light fingers over granite countertops and teased Shane for how spotless they were.
There was no time for any of that here, though. Ilya had hardly even closed the door behind him before Shane was launching himself at Ilya, wrapping both legs around Ilya’s waist in a stunning impression of a koala, and crushing their mouths together.
Shane’s lips were rough, his tongue searing, his teeth nipping. He was raw desperation in Ilya’s arms, a live wire of terrified arousal.
Ilya kissed back as best he could, but it was hard. He had no leverage, taking all of Shane’s weight in his arms. His hands settled around Shane’s thighs to keep him from slipping, but couldn’t do much more than squeeze and knead. He couldn’t caress, or hold, or grab the way Ilya wanted to.
But Ilya knew Shane needed this. The contact, the closeness. That had helped Sasha, before.
Ilya didn’t mind either. For all he knew this was a horrible idea, Ilya had a gorgeous man clawing at him, and he could feel arousal, thick and hot, pooling beneath his navel, spilling golden into his cock.
“Where is your bedroom?” Ilya asked against Shane’s lips. He hated that he had to ask at all.
“Off the kitchen. First door on the left,” Shane replied, nipping at the underside of Ilya’s jaw then laving his tongue over it. Wet and messy and desperate.
Shane would never do that in his right mind. In fact, he’d be disgusted. And Ilya’s chest squeezed at that realization, at how gone Shane really was. Ilya needed to be careful, or he was going to be stupid. Was going to make gooey eyes at Shane, and Shane would kick him out or delete his number or worse.
This was just sex. Desperate, drug-addled, panicked sex, but sex. Ilya could do that. He’d been doing that.
Ilya awkwardly walked them to Shane’s bedroom, following Shane’s muttered directions. It was hard to keep his balance. Shane wasn’t exactly light, and he was thrusting against Ilya’s stomach with increasing desperation, already hard again. At least there weren’t any stairs.
“Here,” Shane said against Ilya’s lips after a moment. His hips bucked against Ilya’s belly as Ilya eased the door open.
Shane’s bedroom was not what Ilya had pictured. Sure, there were the framed photos of him and a middle-aged couple Ilya assumed were his parents. Yes, there was a copious amount of pillows and a thick, intoxicating smell of citrus and mint that Ilya knew was Shane’s soap. And there was a picture of him with his Canadian teammates, proudly displaying their silver Olympic medals, the show-off.
But Shane’s bedroom was not boring, like Ilya imagined Shane’s bedroom would be. Not boring at all.
Clothes and bedsheets were strewn across the room, over the unmade bed. Ilya counted at least three bottles of lube in various states of use, scattered across Shane’s nightstand, his bookshelf, his headboard. There was a dildo on the floor, a fleshlight on a pillow, a buttplug on the dresser. And tissues. More crumpled tissues than Ilya had possibly ever seen in one place. In piles, and loose, and tucked into messy wads near, but not in, a full wastebasket.
And the smell. Under the scent of Shane’s soap was the thick, stuffy smell of sweat and lube and come. So much fucking come.
“Jesus,” Ilya said without meaning to. “You have been very busy.”
In his right mind, Shane would laugh at that or swat Ilya or scowl furiously. Now, though, Shane just nodded desperately.
“I- I can’t stop. I’ve tried, but I can’t.”
“Is okay,” Ilya reassured. “You don’t need to.”
“Fuck,” Shane muttered. “Fuck.”
Ilya wasn’t sure if the curse was a reaction to Shane’s current state, Ilya’s presence, or the mess of the bedroom, but he rubbed his thumbs over Shane’s thighs anyway in acknowledgement.
Ilya didn’t understand how Shane even had anything left in him, if all of these tissues were full of come. It must have been the drug, wringing every last drop from him. He was sweating so badly, too. No wonder his lips were so chapped. Ilya needed to get Shane water, or, better yet, an IV.
“Wait here,” Ilya said, setting Shane down clumsily on the bed before stepping back, watching as Shane’s eyebrows drew together. Not in confusion. In fear.
“No!” Shane gasped, panicked. “Please, please. We can go somewhere else if you don’t want to do it here. I have a guest room, or the condos, or-”
“Breathe, Hollander,” Ilya said quickly, low in his chest.
“Please don’t go.” Shane sat forward, cock somehow already tenting his boxer briefs again.
“You are-” Ilya clamped his mouth shut. He’d lost what he was going to say.
Because Shane was rubbing his head into Ilya’s belly. Nuzzling, really, like a cat with its most favorite person. He wasn’t snuggling into Ilya’s crotch, but his stomach. Like all Shane wanted was to touch Ilya. Like he wasn’t strung out from a sex drug, but rather from needing Ilya’s touch.
“Please don’t leave,” Shane said into the fabric of Ilya’s hoodie, barely intelligible.
“I am not leaving.” Ilya cringed at how fucking . . . tender he sounded. It was pathetic.
But all Shane did was stroke his cheek against Ilya again, desperate. Begging, almost.
“I want to get you water,” Ilya said quietly, pleading. “You drink the whole glass, and then I will take care of you. Okay?”
It was sweeter than Ilya had ever talked to anyone, especially Shane. He wanted to be embarrassed by it. He should be embarrassed by it. They weren’t dating. They weren’t friends. They weren’t anything.
But then Shane craned his neck to look up at Ilya, eyes so wet and glassy. “Okay.”
Ilya nodded mutely, slowly cupping Shane’s jaw and guiding him back so he was laying on the bed.
“Touch yourself until I’m back. Come if you need.”
Shane hardly needed the permission, given the state of his room, but Ilya said it anyway, just in case. He didn’t want Shane to hurt any more than he had to today. Not because of Ilya. In the future, sure, but only because Ilya was holding a Stanley Cup over his head, or maybe wearing Olympic gold as he had Shane suck him.
But not today. Shane would have to go through enough today.
Nectar did awful things to you. Sasha had bled once, he’d been so fucked up. He’d stroked too hard, or perhaps at a bad angle, and tugged his foreskin enough that the frenulum got a tiny tear. It hadn’t deterred him. He’d just stopped fisting his cock and switched to fucking his prostate, hardly caring about the blood.
Ilya wouldn’t let that happen here. He wouldn’t let anything bad, or, at least, worse, happen to Shane. Ilya would keep him hydrated and fed and well-fucked.
And then he would leave. Because this was just sex.
“I will be right back,” Ilya promised unnecessarily as he headed for the bathroom.
The light was on, thankfully, and the door open, so Ilya didn’t have to search and make Shane wait longer. The room was marginally neater than the bedroom. Fewer tissues and sex toys on the floor, at least, though Ilya did spot a discarded cock ring by the rainfall shower. Shane must have tried it to calm himself down before realizing it was hopeless.
There was a blue plastic cup on the sink, and Ilya held it under the fancy waterfall tap. The water was warm, but Ilya was pretty sure Shane wouldn’t care.
Ilya caught his own eyes in the mirror as he waited for the cup to fill. He was still tired, clearly, eyes still shadowed, but he didn’t look as bad as earlier. His cheeks seemed pinker, less gray. His eyes were more focused. Must have been the panic.
Once the cup was full, Ilya took a quick sip off the top to keep it from spilling over and brought it out to Shane. Shane was laying on his back, fisting himself quickly under his boxers as if it were too much work to shuck them off.
“Here.” Ilya awkwardly knee-walked across the bed to pass the cup to Shane. A little sloshed out, but Ilya figured Shane wouldn’t mind. The bed was covered in far worse at this point.
“That’s my nightguard cup,” Shane complained in a tiny voice even as he sat up and took it with his free hand. The other never ceased moving on his cock.
“You wear a nightguard?” Ilya laughed.
“F-fuck off. I grind my teeth at night,” Shane muttered, hissing as he worked what must have been a particularly sensitive spot on his cock.
“Jesus, Hollander. You are on a sex drug, yet somehow you are still so boring. Now drink.”
Shane scowled as he drank, frustrated, angry eyes locked on Ilya’s. Ilya remembered that look from seven years earlier, as Shane accepted Ilya’s water bottle in a hotel gym.
“All done,” Shane said after a minute, tipping the empty cup at Ilya as if to demonstrate.
“Good,” Ilya murmured, taking the glass from Shane’s sweaty hand and setting it on the bed, close enough that he didn’t have to get up, but far enough so hopefully neither kicked it. “Lay back down.”
Ilya went to stand up and strip, but Shane clutched at him, energy manic even as his grip was weak.
“Don’t go. Please.”
“Yebat, Hollander, I’m right here. Let me get my fucking pants off.”
“Oh,” Shane said, ducking his head. His hand was still massaging under his boxers. “Sorry.”
Ilya shucked off his hoodie and sweats, sighing as air hit his cock. He hadn’t touched it at all, but it was already sensitive, swollen well more than halfway to hard. Not quite leaking yet – Ilya never got as wet as Shane, anyway – but it would get there if Shane kept staring at Ilya like he was, dark and wanting.
“Fuck, your body,” Shane murmured, like it was the first time he was seeing Ilya naked and he was surprised at how built Ilya was. “You always call me pretty, but, God, Ilya, you have no idea. Just looking at you- God.”
Ilya’s movements, which had been so smooth despite Shane’s frantic need, stuttered.
Shane had called him Ilya.
Not “Rozanov,” or “asshole,” or, as in one hilarious chirp on the ice, “King of Mountain Bullshit.”
Ilya.
Shane wouldn’t let Ilya use his first name, but he’d use Ilya’s like it didn’t matter, like it didn’t feel like a fist in Ilya’s chest, wrapped tight around his heart. Not hurting, but with the power to.
It was the drugs. It had to be. Shane had made it clear he felt solely lust for Ilya.
Lust was safe. Lust was easy. Lust wouldn’t make Shane run away again.
Shane saying Ilya’s name must have just been a mistake, a slip of Shane’s pretty, wet tongue.
Ilya’s . . . whatever didn’t matter.
So Ilya crawled back onto the bed, relishing Shane’s relieved sigh. He licked into Shane’s sweet, pink mouth. He jammed a thigh between Shane’s legs. He shoved his hands under Shane’s hoodie, feeling the burning, sweat-damp skin.
“You want my hand? My mouth?”
“I don’t know,” Shane whined.
“You are so overwhelmed, I know. I can make you come in so many ways. How do you even choose?” Ilya added helpfully.
The teasing was good. Would keep Shane’s attention drawn away from the fact that Ilya’s expression was hopelessly soft and warm.
“Fuck off.” Shane swatted at Ilya’s side even as he crushed their mouths together again, just briefly, before Ilya pulled back.
“Maybe you want my cock?” Ilya would like that. The sweet, molten relief of Shane’s body would help him forget the way his name had sounded in Shane’s mouth.
“All of it.” Shane’s throat worked. “I want all of it.”
“Greedy,” Ilya teased.
“Shut up. I can’t- I can’t think. Whatever you want, Ilya, fuck, just faster, please,” Shane panted, his hands gripping Ilya waist bruisingly.
His first name again. Fuck.
“Okay, Hollander. Don’t hurt yourself.”
Ilya yanked off Shane’s hoodie without precision, ignoring Shane’s whines when Ilya had to stop touching him to get enough leverage to pull it over his head. Shane’s bare chest, always a distraction, heaved with his shallow breaths.
Shane was flushed pink, all the way to his belly button. His nipples, usually flat and brown and pretty, were flushed a deep pink, puffy.
Ilya didn’t have a real thing for nipples. They were nice, sure, especially on girls, but never overwhelmingly sexy. But now, Ilya’s gut clenched in arousal at the sight of Shane’s. He couldn’t help but brush his thumbs over the sensitive buds.
Shane arched into the touch, mouth going slack with pleasure. Shane’s nipples had never been particularly sensitive before, but now they seemed to be as responsive as his cock usually was, or his pretty hole. It was no wonder Shane had come just by humping Ilya, by fisting himself through his underwear.
“Why don’t we start here, hm?” Ilya’s voice was saccharine.
“Oh.” Shane blinked. “Okay.”
Ilya squeezed one nipple lightly, grinning when it made Shane choke on air. “You think you can come from this? From me playing with your pretty nipples?”
Shane’s eyes scrunched closed. “Yeah. I- mmh- I did already.”
“Fuck,” Ilya sighed, feeling his heartbeat in his cock. “So sensitive.”
Shane nodded. “M-my . . . it was hurting. I needed a break.”
God, even like this, Shane was shy. Couldn’t say outright that he’d fucked his hole or fisted his cock so much they’d gone sore. And, while that was a dizzying vision in and of itself, it was the fact that Shane had to talk around it that made Ilya’s cock jump, his throat thick.
“They look pretty.” Ilya forced himself to focus, rubbing his thumbs over Shane’s nipples again. “So pink for me.”
Shane twitched, his eyes locked on Ilya’s.
“It feels good?” Ilya asked, tapping each of Shane’s nipples now. Teasing.
“Yeah. Can you-” Shane cut himself off, swallowed, his sweat-slick throat working. “I want more.”
“Like this?” Ilya drummed his fingers faster, holding back a laugh when Shane gave a frustrated whine.
“No, asshole,” Shane grumbled. His hands came up to Ilya’s forearms like he could force Ilya to touch him better, like Shane’s grip wasn’t so weak that Ilya could’ve rejected it by flexing his hands the wrong way.
“More pressure, you mean?” Ilya used the pads of his thumbs to press deep over Shane’s nipples, enough to feel the strong muscle of his pectoral under the thin skin. The force wasn’t enough to hurt, would never be enough to hurt, but Shane twitched anyway, the insides of his thighs knocking against the outsides of Ilya’s.
“No,” Shane scolded. It was the most coherent he’d sounded all day.
“I am confused,” Ilya teased. “Maybe is language issue.”
“Fuck off,” Shane said. He was so hard against Ilya’s thigh, so frustrated. Ilya wanted so badly to take pity on him.
“Should we use Google translate?” Ilya said instead.
“Rub them, asshole!”
“Oh!” Ilya gasped, eyebrows twisted up in a parody of understanding. “You want me to rub your nipples?”
“Yes! Fuck!” Shane’s already flushed face was going fucking crimson with frustration.
It was probably cruel to tease Shane like this, when he was so out of his mind, but it was better than the soft, vulnerable alternative. Besides, Shane was so easy to rile up, so fun to bother. It was one of the reasons Ilya . . . enjoyed fucking him so much.
“Ilya?” Shane asked, oblivious to whatever blip had almost occurred in Ilya’s mind. “Please. It fucking hurts.”
The way Shane said his name, all desperate and earnest . . . Christ. Ilya would never get used to it.
Ilya thumbed over Shane’s swollen nipples in efficient, tight circles. Shane keened, back bowing into the touch like he needed to draw Ilya’s attention to him, like Ilya wasn’t enraptured with him constantly. Like Ilya was capable of being in a room with Shane without tracking his every movement, his most minute expression.
Just sex, Rozanov, he reminded himself brutally. Focus.
“You look so pretty,” Ilya murmured, pinching one nipple then the other, grinning as Shane squeaked with it.
Shane threw an overwhelmed arm over his face, his chapped lips just barely visible under his tricep. “It’s so good,” Shane said into his skin. “It shouldn’t feel so good.”
Ilya took the gasped praise in stride, continuing to rub tight circles, pausing every so often to grab the swollen buds between his index and middle fingers and tug at them before letting them go, even redder and more desperate than before.
“God,” Shane wheezed.
“Show me your face.” Ilya gave Shane’s nipples a particularly insistent rub. “Want to see what I do to you.”
Those little words had Shane flopping his arm out to the side, dead weight, like the only thing keeping him breathing was Ilya’s fevered rubbing on his nipples.
Shane’s face was slack, his eyes half-closed, his lips slick. He was so sweaty, so red, that Ilya almost blurted something stupid. Instead, he spat onto Shane’s chest, wet and messy and careless.
The saliva dripped straight over Shane’s sternum, a wet glob on already sweat-slick skin.
A sober Shane would probably recoil, disgusted. This drugged Shane arched into it, shouting, “Oh, fuck!” He squeezed Ilya between his thighs.
It wasn’t like this was Ilya’s first time spitting on someone, sexually or in a fight or to seal a handshake. Shit, he’d spat on Shane’s cock before, just to slick it when the lube felt insurmountably far away. But this felt different. This was heady. This stupid, tiny piece of Ilya on Shane’s skin felt like a brand, like it could make up for all the hickeys Ilya had held back on giving for seven aching years. This was a claim, Ilya marking his territory.
Because Ilya knew someone as prim and pretty and proper as Rose fucking Landry wouldn’t spit on Shane. Only Ilya got to do this. And, sure, it was a stupid caveman urge, but it was hot all the same, sending tingles of arousal down into Ilya’s stomach, his balls, his thighs.
God, Ilya was so hard, and he hadn’t even been touched. Shane was so fucking hot.
“You love it,” Ilya gritted out. It should have been a question, but it wasn’t. It was a declaration.
“Yeah,” Shane panted. “I do.”
Tiny whimpers fell from his lips as Ilya used his spit to ease the slide on Shane’s nipples. It made Ilya’s movements easier, faster, allowing him to go back and forth instead of circling.
He could press harder now without worrying about hurting Shane’s delicate pink skin. Ilya could work his fingers more forcefully, until the tips of them were numb. Ilya couldn’t even imagine what Shane was feeling with the nectar in his system.
“Oh, yeah, like that,” Shane keened, and Ilya’s neglected cock twitched, begging for attention. It was only made worse by the way Shane was making these high, thin whimpers through gritted teeth.
Shane’s nipples were so puffy, so angry red, that Ilya was almost relieved when Shane went stiff under him and yelped, “Oh, oh, ohhh, fuck!”
Ilya felt Shane’s hips shudder against him, a loud groan loosing from chapped lips, as he came yet again.
Shit, how many times was that now? Two? Three? Just since Ilya’d gotten here. Before he’d even laid a hand on Shane’s dick at all.
Shane looked fucking stunning, laying limp on the bed, breathing shakily. His chest was heaving, his abs clenching, his eyelashes so long against his pink cheeks. His whole body was covered in a gleam of sweat, and his chest was even shiner with Ilya’s spit. He hadn’t even gotten his underwear off, yet he was still so debauched, so gorgeous in the light filtering in from the window.
Ilya wanted to squeeze his own aching erection at the sight, but he held off, kept his palms cupping Shane’s chest. If this nectar was anything like Sasha’s, Ilya would need to use every bit of his own stamina on Shane.
“Gorgeous,” Ilya said just loudly enough for Shane to hear him. The corners of Shane’s lips quirked up, and Ilya took that as a win. “I want to see your cock now. Is hard for me again?”
“Getting there,” Shane sighed ruefully, wiping his hands over his sweaty hairline. “Ugh. I hate this.”
“Hurts?” Ilya moved his own hands down, stroking over Shane’s ribs.
“So bad,” Shane cringed. “‘S better when I come, but then it comes right back.”
“Poor thing.” It was meant to tease, but Ilya said it too gently for it to sound right. “Let me help you.”
Ilya slid his hands down to the waistband of Shane’s black boxer briefs and tugged them down, exposing Shane’s dick. It was maybe a touch softer than fully erect, but still far more swollen than it should have been after so many orgasms. And, God, so red. Not flushed, but raw. He must have been tugging at it hard while he jerked himself off.
It made Ilya’s stomach clench in sympathy. Shane would be chafed soon, if he wasn’t already. He would be hurting so bad, beyond the pain of constant erections. Maybe even more than he was hurting now.
Ilya wanted nothing more than to make it better. To ease Shane into softness and hold him and rub fucking aloe cream on his dick. Not to jerk him off, but to soothe the inflamed skin. He wanted to swallow any of Shane’s resulting uncomfortable murmurs into his mouth as he kissed Shane over and over.
But those soft, aching thoughts weren’t Ilya’s to have. Not right now. Not ever.
So he focused on Shane’s ruined underwear, guiding them off Shane’s muscled legs.
“Jesus, Hollander. You couldn’t take these off?” Ilya said.
The boxer briefs were truly disgusting. Crusted over in some places, soaking in others. A quick glance at the inside showed they were painted entirely fucking white, from waistband to halfway up the back. Shane would have to burn these; the come would gum up any washing machine he tried.
“I-” Shane’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I was trying to stop.”
“You did not do a very good job,” Ilya noted dryly.
Shane laughed, high-pitched and a bit crazed. “I said trying,” he added, rubbing his hands over his face.
“Not very hard. God, you should work at a bakery. Would save money on frosting.”
Shane snorted at that. His hands were shaking.
“Or construction. You would put paint stores out of business.”
“I hate you.”
Ilya’s sides twinged with delight before he could tamp it down.
Just sex.
Sure enough, Shane’s cock was swelling to full again, jutting up from his lap. Good. That was something Ilya could help with.
“Of course you hate me,” Ilya said, ignoring whatever feeling he’d just had. “I am better at hockey, at sex, at being handsome. Is natural to feel resentment. Now, I think I will suck you, hm?”
“Oh,” Shane sighed instead of engaging with Ilya’s stupid chirps. “That’s a good idea, yeah.”
“Of course it is. I am very smart.”
Ilya didn’t wait any longer to clumsily scoot down and off the bed until he was kneeling on the floor in front of it. Shane’s carpet was rich and soft under his knees. He could stay here for a while. That was good; he might have to, later.
“Come,” Ilya directed helpfully, patting the end of the bed.
“I’m trying,” Shane said, not even smiling at his own stupid joke.
He followed Ilya’s directions, though, sliding down so he was sat on the end of the bed, Ilya caged in by his thick, muscled thighs. The view was intense from down here. Shane, taut and strung-out and strained, bent over Ilya’s wanting body. Shane’s cock, full and rigid yet again, bobbing just in front of Ilya’s eager mouth. Shane’s sweaty hands starting to curl into Ilya’s hair dreamily.
Ilya’s cock ached between his legs.
“So gorgeous,” Ilya mumbled despite himself. “Legs on my shoulders.”
Shane listened beautifully, swinging his thighs so they rested on Ilya’s traps. His ankles hooked together on Ilya’s back, heels coming to brush over the lumbar curve in Ilya's spine. Ilya could feel the slide of Shane’s sweat on his own collarbones. He could feel the way Shane was still shaking ever so slightly.
Ilya liked this far too much.
Being fucking surrounded by Shane. By the sexy, masculine smell of him. By the sounds of his loud, exhausted breathing in the quiet room. Feeling him, from Ilya’s toes, flexed into the expensive, plush carpet, to the ends of his hair, wound into Shane’s wanting fingers.
Ilya wanted to die like this. He wanted to be here forever. And that was a problem, certainly, but not one Ilya could solve today.
Not when Shane was begging to be sucked off.
“Please,” Shane said softly, as if he could read Ilya’s mind. “It hurts.”
Ilya could tell. Shane’s poor cock was drooling onto the carpet, leaking slow, pretty drips of precome. Ilya’s own dick was doing the same on his own thigh. Jesus.
Ilya didn’t waste time teasing or kissing all of Shane’s sweet, pink parts that usually distracted him when he was blowing Shane. Instead, Ilya slid his hands up the outsides of Shane’s thighs to grab Shane’s hips before swallowing him down.
“Oh, yes, fuck,” Shane groaned.
Ilya sunk onto Shane’s cock until his lips brushed the heated skin of Shane’s pelvis, his nose buried in the thatch of dark pubic hair that had become matted with lube.
“Mmh,” Shane hummed tunelessly as he rolled his hips, like Ilya could somehow take him deeper. Ilya didn’t gag, though, hardly even twitched.
Ilya loved sucking cock. He loved sucking Shane’s cock.
He loved that Shane wasn’t small, and that Ilya had to relax his throat, breathe so carefully through his nose, to take all of him. Ilya loved how surprised Shane sounded every time Ilya sucked him so well. He especially loved how fast Shane came, every single time Ilya had him in his mouth.
It didn’t hurt that Ilya was a fucking show-off. Shane’s blowjobs were always enthusiastic, excited, but they weren’t skilled, or practiced, or precise. This was (yet another) realm in which Ilya excelled over Shane, and he loved to prove it.
Shane could never tongue Ilya’s veins so expertly, like Ilya was doing to him now. He could never swallow around Ilya this deep without gagging. He could never go up and down the entire length of Ilya’s dick so fast and smooth that Ilya’s toes curled.
Ilya relished in it, savoring the pretty sounds that leaked out of Shane’s mouth, the feeling of Shane’s heels kicking into Ilya’s spine, as if trying to get Ilya even closer.
Shane’s strong legs forced Ilya forward enough that the head of Ilya’s dick kissed against the end of the comforter. His cock had been so neglected that even that tiny sensation had Ilya moaning around Shane’s length.
“God,” Shane moaned. “Fuck, Ilya.”
Ilya squeezed the thick muscle of Shane’s quad, choking down a laugh when it made Shane jerk.
“God, your mouth.” Shane nudged his hips up toward Ilya’s lips, silently coaxing Ilya to go faster.
Ilya complied with Shane’s urging movements, accelerating his pace, suckling harder. He could feel his cheeks hollowing with the effort.
“Ohh,” Shane moaned brokenly.
Ilya raised his head to the tip, laved his tongue over it, then lowered back down, feeling Shane’s hurried pulse, the hot, overworked skin, tasting the salt and sweat and precome. Ilya’s hands were wild, squeezing the base of Shane’s cock, grabbing his hips, clawing his abdomen, tugging at Shane’s hot, heavy balls.
Ilya’s hands became slick as they roamed over Shane’s body. He wasn’t sure if it was his own spit from earlier, his spit from now, Shane’s sweat, or maybe even more of Shane’s come. Regardless, it made Ilya feel sticky, messy. Out of control.
“Oh my God!” Shane groaned, hands twisting in Ilya’s hair, tugging hard..
Ilya moaned over Shane’s cock, letting the vibrations buzz over Shane’s straining erection, a hand snaking under his chin to tug on Shane’s balls, so heavy and hot.
“I-” Shane hiccupped. “I’m gonna come. Nngh, Ilya, fuck!”
Shane’s hips twitched, and his come flowed into Ilya’s mouth, hot and overwhelming and . . . weird.
Shane’s release never tasted bad – the man ate only fucking lettuce, after all – but it was sweet this time. Sweet enough that Ilya’s steady swallows stuttered. No salt to it, and hardly any tang. Like a fucking lemon cake.
Ilya’d tasted come like that before, with Sasha. Ilya’d chalked that up to diet or genes or whatever, but no. It must have been the drug. Maybe that was why it was called nectar: it made the come so cloyingly sweet, like a flower’s nectar.
That thought made Ilya’s stomach clench.
Because what the fuck was this doing to Shane’s body chemistry? Shane didn’t even eat desserts; why the hell would he have taken something like this? Why would Rose let him?
Ilya felt a possessive spark lance through him. He couldn’t do this anymore. He needed Shane. Not just to mitigate the arousal roaring in the pit of his own stomach, but to make sure that Shane had what he needed, had Ilya as close as fucking possible.
Ilya needed to fuck him now.
He let Shane’s cock slip from his mouth, Shane’s legs still perched around Ilya’s shoulders.
“I am going to fuck you,” Ilya declared, rubbing at Shane’s knee. “You have a condom?”
“No,” Shane said hurriedly. “I wanna feel you.”
Fuck, that was hot. Shane’d never asked for that before. They’d always used one, without question. They weren’t exclusive, and they weren’t stupid. They couldn’t be put on an injury list because they had fucking gonorrhea.
This time, though, Ilya didn’t want to use a condom, either. He wanted to come so fucking deep into Shane that Shane would have no doubt about the fact that he was Ilya’s.
But they couldn’t. Ilya hadn’t been tested in a month, and who knew if Shane and Rose were being safe? Probably not, if Rose was giving Shane a fucking sex drug. And, fuck him, that idea just made Ilya more hot with want and jealousy and anger.
Ilya would never be unsafe with Shane. He would always protect him. Even now, when Shane was just here for crazed, drug-addled sex and nothing more.
“We are using condoms,” Ilya murmured in a velvet voice, tilting his chin to brush his lips over the insides of Shane’s thighs. “Where are they?”
Shane made a quiet sound of displeasure before he muttered, “Nightstand. Top drawer.”
Ilya untangled himself from Shane and stood up. Shane didn’t whine this time – maybe the orgasms were helping settle him. Ilya hoped so.
Ilya crossed to the nightstand on shaky legs, ignoring how his cock was bobbing, red and desperate, with every step. It would be handled soon.
The nightstand drawer had a full, unopened box of condoms in it. Ilya couldn’t help but wonder – had Shane and Rose not fucked at all? Fucked so much they needed a new box? Fucked raw?
The images stung, but Ilya ignored it as he ripped the box open gracelessly and pulled out a strip. Ilya was here now, not Rose. And, by the time Shane was satisfied, they’d probably go through half the box themselves.
And that thought, the sheer number of times Shane would need Ilya today, would need him to push into Shane’s wanting body, made arousal spool, heavy and thick, through Ilya’s body. His erection was a hot, aching line of need, pulsing between his legs hungrily, begging for Shane.
He needed him now.
Shane looked to be in a similar state, starfished on the bed, his dick full again. His cock was still wet with Ilya’s spit, but was so hard it was like he hadn’t come at all. Ilya’s cock twitched in mingled arousal and sympathy.
“You are stretched enough?” Ilya murmured as he knelt between Shane’s legs on the bed, condoms in hand.
“Dunno.” Shane’s voice was rough – Ilya needed to get him more water. But first, this.
“You want to show me your hole? So I can check?”
“Jesus,” Shane muttered. “Okay.”
Ilya dutifully tucked his hands under Shane’s knees, encouraging Shane to bend them, let Ilya see how much more stretching he’d need, how much longer Ilya would have to make them both wait. Shane let Ilya do it, raising his legs to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, exposing his sweet hole.
God, it had been well-fucked. More of a gape than a hole, at this point. Open wide enough that Ilya would bet Shane had stuffed some of his fingers in alongside the dildo. The poor flesh was red, like Shane’s dick, and puffy like his nipples. Even Shane’s taint was raw, probably from keeping his fucking underwear on so long, if Ilya had to guess. Old lube and sweat made the rim shiny, and Ilya couldn’t help himself.
He sucked on his own thumb, quick, before hooking it on Shane’s rim and tugging down.
“A-ah!” Shane shouted brokenly, almost kneeing Ilya in the face.
“Is sensitive?” Ilya asked, not without sympathy, his other hand coming to the back of one of Shane’s sweaty thighs and cupping it, keeping it pressed up to Shane’s chest. Partially to save himself from being kicked, and partially to keep Shane’s hole exposed. “Hurts to touch?”
“I don’t know,” Shane stammered. His cock was leaking again between his bent legs, dribbling over his flushed belly. “It’s, ugh- it’s weird.”
“Tell me.”
Shane sunk his teeth into his plush bottom lip. “Like, pressure. But- hotter.”
“Painful?”
Shane shook his head. “I don’t think so. I don’t-” He gasped when Ilya nudged his thumb a centimeter deeper. “It’s like when you catch your skate blade wrong. You’re fine, you know you’re fine, but . . . yeah.”
“Eloquent,” Ilya teased, wetting his lips.
“Shut up,” Shane groaned. “I don’t fucking know, Rozanov. It feels like . . . a l-lot. Like when you’re outside in winter and your hands are numb, and you go inside. Like you’re burning, but you know i-it’s good.”
Ilya swore softly in Russian, remembering how Sasha’d likened nectar to doing coke with his dick. Of course boring, sweet Shane’s closest comparison was going inside after being cold. It was so wholesome it made Ilya’s teeth hurt.
“How many times?” Ilya started to run his thumb across Shane’s rim, back and forth. So, so slow. His own dick was drooling copiously, dripping onto the bed, and he wanted nothing more than to sink into Shane. But he needed to know. “How many times did you fuck it already?”
“F-fingers, or toys?”
Ugh, Shane was so fucking . . . cute, making sure he was doing a good job answering questions about his drug-fueled masturbation. Ilya hated how much he liked it.
“Either.”
“Five? Ten? I can't-" Shane inhaled harshly as Ilya slid his thumb even deeper, almost fully buried. “I don’t remember.”
Ilya hummed, low in his chest, all sympathy. Shane was always precise, always focused. Especially on the ice, but even when he was taking rough thrusts from Ilya, he was cognizant, and aware, and . . . himself. This frayed bundle of nerves was Shane stretched to his absolute limit.
It was horrible and sexy and awful and gorgeous. It made Ilya just as hot with anger as with arousal.
“Please f-fuck me,” Shane said when Ilya was silent for a beat too long. “God, please.” He looked like he might cry.
“I will,” Ilya said, tongue thick in his mouth. “I will. I promise, Shane.”
Fuck.
Shit, shit, shit. Ilya hadn’t meant to say “Shane.” It just slipped out, easy as anything. But now Ilya was screwed.
Because Shane was okay calling Ilya to fuck him for hours upon hours, but make him a tuna melt, try to talk to him about anything besides sex, use his first name, and that was far too intimate. Would make Shane leave in a huff, embarrassed and panicked.
Ilya froze, waiting for Shane to panic, to kick him out, to hit him or something.
But Shane just keened, arching his back up.
“I can’t wait anymore,” Shane whined. “It hurts.”
It was as if Ilya hadn’t spoken at all. Thank God.
So Ilya gently, so fucking gently, withdrew his thumb, cringing at Shane’s soft, keening noise at the loss.
“Okay,” Ilya mumbled stupidly. He wasn’t perfect at English in the best of times, and this ridiculous fucking moment of Shane begging for his dick had made him worse than usual.
Ilya grabbed a condom and opened it without preamble. The sweet relief of touch from just rolling on a condom had Ilya groaning. He was so fucking hard, fucking needy for Shane. He had no idea how he held out this long without dying, or passing out.
He had no idea how Shane had, either.
“Please,” Shane asked, as if Ilya wasn’t readying himself as fast as he could.
“Almost, almost.”
Ilya grabbed one of the abandoned bottles of lube and drizzled far too much over his cock, ignoring the dribbles that pattered onto the comforter as he stroked himself roughly. Shane probably didn’t need it, being so wet and open already, but his poor skin was so raw. Ilya couldn’t make that worse.
“Okay,” Ilya said again once he was slicked up enough, settling between Shane’s still curled-up legs. Shane wrapped one leg around Ilya’s waist, the other held to his torso by Ilya’s firm grip, as Ilya used his free hand to guide the tip of his cock to kiss against Shane’s entrance.
Fuck, Shane’s hole was so hot, so open. It was a greedy little thing, flexing around the tip of Ilya’s dick like it needed Ilya to start pounding into him, like it couldn’t bear to let Ilya be gentle. Ilya’s fingers twitched as he fought to keep his pace easy.
“Relax,” Ilya murmured. He didn’t need to say it; Shane was as open and stretched and loose as anything. Ilya could’ve fucked into him dry, with no warning at all, and it would be an easy slide.
But Ilya couldn’t do that. Not when Shane was so strung out, so overwhelmed that his fucking genitals were rubbed raw.
Instead, Ilya went slow. If he were a good bit stupider, he’d call the manner loving. A soft, inexorable sink forward, punctuated with hurried kisses over Shane’s heated cheeks, his pretty freckles, his scrunched-closed eyelids. Ilya didn’t stop kissing until he was fully seated, the hot sheath of Shane’s wanting body filled to the brink.
“Oh,” Shane sighed quietly.
“Is okay?”
“I-it-” Shane let out a broken, stuttered breath. “It doesn’t hurt.”
Ilya cupped Shane’s cheek possessively.
“Does it feel good? Need a new angle, or-”
“No,” Shane interrupted. He laughed wetly. “M-my dick doesn’t hurt anymore. It . . . it feels good.”
Good was an understatement for Ilya. Shane was so fucking perfect under him, around him. Even so loose, so fucked-out, the clutch of Shane’s body was wanton, tugging at Ilya’s cock like it wanted to milk him fucking dry. Pleasure was tugging at Ilya’s insides, at the very core of him, and he hadn’t even moved yet.
And Shane. God, Shane.
His bangs were stuck to his forehead with sweat, his cheeks neon with color. His eyes were gently closed, eyelashes dusting the tops of his cheeks. His pretty lips were parted, his tongue darting out to wet them. His fucking freckles looked perfect, painted over a face slack with pleasure and relief.
“God, Ilya, please move. Please fuck me.”
Ilya was helpless but to comply, putty in Shane’s oversexed, exhausted hands. He savored the slide as he pulled out a few inches, Shane’s slick, wet heat welcoming him greedily as he pushed back in.
It was barely a thrust, yet Shane was gasping like Ilya was fucking him into the mattress.
“Oh, yes, fuck,” Shane sighed, his fingers wrapping around Ilya’s shoulders and gripping tight, like he was scared Ilya would leave if he didn’t hold him here. As if Ilya wouldn’t give up everything – hockey, women, fucking air – if it meant he could be here, inside Shane.
Ilya groaned wordlessly and started to set an easy pace. It wasn’t quite languid – Shane was far too frantic for that – but it was steady, driving. Something Ilya could keep up for a while.
“You are so sexy,” Ilya told him honestly. “Sucking me in so greedy, like you will die if I am not inside you.”
Shane only responded with a broken moan, his hips raising jerkily to meet Ilya’s unhurried thrusts.
“It feels good?”
“Yeah, God, yeah.” Shane shoved his face into Ilya’s shoulder, his hot breaths fanning out over Ilya’s collarbone. He could feel Shane’s drool dripping down his pec, sloppy and wet.
It was sexy, sure, but it also made Ilya feel vaguely sick. Because Shane didn’t drool. He could get desperate, or whiny, or fucking limp when he was being fucked particularly well, but he didn’t drool. He didn’t go limp and slack, as if the only thing keeping him alive was Ilya’s cock inside him.
It made Ilya wrap a possessive arm around Shane’s back, press him to Ilya’s body as Ilya used every single muscle he’d ever agonized over in the weight room to sit back on his heels, pulling Shane with him and onto his lap. The new position had Shane curled up on top of Ilya, held up only by Ilya’s arms, his weight pressed onto the tops of Ilya’s thighs.
It ruined any and all leverage Ilya had to thrust properly, forcing him to just make aborted rocks while clutching Shane to him. It was overly possessive, and objectively made the sex worse.
But, God, Ilya couldn’t help it. He needed Shane as close as possible, needed to feel Shane’s cock dribble precome over his abdomen, his belly pressing Shane’s abused dick between them. He needed to hear Shane’s stuttered gasps as Ilya fucked him messily, sloppily, poorly.
Ilya needed to feel that Shane was safe, and here, and, as deluded as some part of Ilya knew this was, his.
“Oh,” Shane sighed, tilting his face into the side of Ilya’s neck.
“So good,” Ilya praised through clumsy lips. “So good for me.”
Shane’s teeth scraped along Ilya’s neck. He wasn’t biting, or sucking, or anything, just letting his mouth hang open as Ilya rocked them gracelessly. Shane’s knee was digging into Ilya’s side, his fingertips gripping painfully on Ilya’s traps. Ilya’s muscles burned with the weird, contorted position, holding Shane’s torso to his own while driving his hips up into Shane, who, not without reason, wasn’t doing a lick of the work.
Ilya’s body begged for him to adjust them, but Ilya couldn’t. He would die. He would fucking collapse right there if there was any distance between them at all.
Later, Ilya might be able to reason that it was because of the nectar, that contact helped it and Ilya had just been trying to help by getting Shane so close. But, in the moment, it was a possessive, needy urge that made Ilya decline to relieve his tired muscles, to just stay there, rocking them.
They didn’t really need much leverage, anyway. Shane could probably come from a stiff breeze at this point, and Ilya wasn’t much behind. How could he, when Shane was this desperate for him, this strung-out and eager for Ilya’s cock?
“God, Ilya, fuck,” Shane mumured breathlessly.
Christ, Ilya loved hearing the sound of his name in Shane’s mouth. Non-Russians always said it so clumsily, so stiffly, and Shane was no exception, but it didn’t sound stupid when Shane said it. It sounded like a plea.
“You are so gorgeous,” Ilya said honestly, mouthing over Shane’s throat. “You feel good?”
Shane nodded clumsily, his head knocking against Ilya’s as he did. “So good, fuck.”
It was not a good fuck. Maybe one of the worst ones Ilya’d had. There was no rhythm, barely any friction, and Ilya’s body was aching.
But Shane was sighing happily as his cock rubbed between their abdomens, wetting them both. Ilya drifted a hand down to Shane’s ass, squeezing greedily and using it to get the barest hint of leverage, rocking Shane’s body to meet Ilya’s thrusts. The grip meant that Shane’s dick was being massaged between them more firmly now, and he tossed his head back, canting his hips into the lazy, desperate motion.
“Oh, fuck, yes,” Ilya groaned. “Just like that. Fuck yourself on me.”
Shane listened beautifully like always. Though his hips were just giving weak pushes against Ilya’s body, it allowed Ilya’s shitty thrusts to gain a little momentum, made sweet heat start to build in the pit of his stomach.
“Oh,” Shane gasped desperately, his hips moving faster. “God, it feels so good. I think- mmnh . . .”
“You will come?” Ilya asked, using the hand on Shane’s plush ass to rock him more steadily, crush his cock between them a hair more skillfully.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m close.”
“Come for me, Shane. I want to see it,” Ilya encouraged.
Ilya slipped the tip of a long finger down the cleft of Shane’s ass, letting it rest so, so delicately at Shane’s rim. Not pressing, or moving, or doing anything other than feel Shane’s muscles relax as they gave way to Ilya. Shane was trusting Ilya to help him through the stupid nectar, and the feeling of his rim swelling and retreating in time with Ilya’s soft rocks was a physical manifestation of that.
Fuck, it was so hot.
Shane was so fucking sensitive that the added stimulation of Ilya’s finger on his rim had his hips stuttering within seconds.
“Fuck, Ilya, fuck, God, oh-” Shane cut himself off with a broken gasp, nails digging into Ilya’s shoulders.
Shane’s back bowed, trapping his cock between them as he shot off. His come coated their bellies, smearing as Ilya kept rocking him. It was hotter and stickier and messier than Ilya would think was possible. There was so much of it, too, as if Shane had been holding off for weeks rather than coming constantly for hours.
Shane’s walls clenched on Ilya’s dick desperately, like they wanted to lock Ilya into Shane’s body. Ilya wasn’t sure he’d mind.
Ilya rolled his hips into Shane twice more before he was coming, too. The orgasm seemed to start from Ilya’s fucking hairline, hot lashes of pleasure burning against him as he drained himself into the condom. He was discombobulated as he came, clumsy and keening in a manner so embarrassing Ilya could feel himself blushing with humiliation as well as exertion.
“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya gasped. He felt his fingers dig into Shane’s muscular ass, squeezing desperately. He wanted to say more, to praise Shane’s body, his climax, but he couldn’t make himself speak. He was stupidly exhausted, stupidly enamored, just stupid with Shane.
So he let them flop forward, a soft oof leaving Shane’s mouth as the wind was knocked out of him when he hit the bed, Ilya planted on top of him.
Ilya’s arms were crushed by Shane’s solid weight, but he didn’t move them. He needed Shane close. So fucking close. Close enough that he could never take another stupid, fucked drug. Close enough to never run off to Rose ever again.
“Jesus,” Shane panted to the ceiling.
“No, just me,” Ilya teased, his voice gravel. He took a shuddering breath, feeling his cock start to soften inside Shane. “But it’s an easy mistake.”
Shane waved a hand like he was brushing Ilya’s words out of the air. “That was . . .”
Intense? Too much? All I wanted, now let me up so I can call Rose and tell her to fuck off?
“. . . ugh,” Shane said instead. “I’m so tired.”
“You are okay?” Ilya asked, rubbing Shane’s back as well as he could while his hand was being squashed by their combined weight. “You feel good?”
“No,” Shane said miserably. His pretty eyes slipped closed. “But it hurts less.”
“Oh, malysh.” Ilya mumbled, grateful Shane didn’t understand Russian. Ilya didn’t think he’d take kindly to being called baby. Ilya could hardly believe he was saying it himself. That was how fucked he was for Shane.
If Ilya was smart, he’d leave now. Shane had come a few times. He wasn’t in danger. As long as Ilya filled a water bottle for him before leaving, Shane would be fine. This would be a blip on the radar in a year, an awkward break in Shane’s perfect relationship with Rose Landry.
But Ilya was dumb. Calling Shane baby. Wanting to call him other things, sweeter, grosser, more . . . romantic things. Wanting not only to fuck him through this, but hold him after. Ilya wanted to get him more water as much as he wanted to plow Shane through the mattress.
And that was a problem. A big one. Because Shane had made it pretty fucking clear this was only sex to him. Whatever more Ilya might want from him had been reserved for Rose.
So Ilya would take what he could get.
Ilya yanked his arms free and wrapped his hands around Shane’s hips before he pulled out slowly, shushing Shane’s quiet noises of discomfort. He pulled the condom off and tied it, tossing it somewhere in the mess behind him. It hardly mattered, given the state of the room.
“You want more?” Ilya asked, sitting cross-legged by Shane’s head. “I need a few minutes, but I can fuck you again.”
Shane hummed, eyes glazed over. “Yeah, yeah, I do.”
“Okay-”
“Not now, though. I’m tired.”
That was good. That was really good. With Sasha, he had gradually gotten sleepier as the nectar burned through him, as though the horniness was slowly replaced with exhaustion at an equal rate. And Shane undoubtedly needed sleep, if he’d been coming this much. Plus, they’d played a game last night, and he’d likely not slept since. Of course he was fucking exhausted.
Yet Ilya felt like a lance had speared him. Shane was sated for now, so Ilya was dismissed. It made sense. It was all this was. Maybe Ilya could still catch his flight to stupid Detroit-
“You’ll stay?” Shane asked in a tiny, desperate voice. Ilya could tell he hated asking from the set of his jaw, the line of his eyebrows.
“Yes,” Ilya replied, too easily. “I’ll stay.”
Shane visibly relaxed, turning onto his side, away from Ilya. He was still covered in his own spend, his hole leaking lube, his whole body sticky with sweat. If Ilya was a stronger man, he would go to the en suite and get him water, a towel, and clean him up. If he was stronger than that, he’d put his sweats and hoodie back on and leave.
As it was, Ilya just laid down behind Shane, wrapping an arm around his waist and tugging him against his chest. And, fuck him, Ilya liked it. Maybe more than the sex, if he was honest. He liked how sticky and sweaty and sated they were. He liked feeling Shane’s exhausted, even breaths as they expanded his ribs, pressing him into Ilya.
He liked drifting off to sleep with Shane in his arms.