Archive of Our Own

Shane knew that, realistically, a hundred seconds was not a long time. For most people, a hundred seconds were over in the blink of an eye.

Minor penalties lasted longer – clocking in at a hundred twenty. When Shane was rarely made to sit in the box and watch the play go on without him, it was a similar feeling to how he felt about this time constraint. Like he was being punished for being off timing, for not following the rules.

Numbers had always fascinated him. Statistics, analytics, how the angle of a shot could impact the trajectory of a puck. Numbers were steady and sensical; they never changed. They only asked to be counted and calculated. He wasn’t even particularly good at math, he just liked the order of it. The surety.

He always had a timer going on in his head, counting down the time of each shift, each period, each game. When the arena timer got to under a minute and started flying through the milliseconds, Shane would glance up to settle it in and then he’d hear it in his head. Like a metronome. Telling him to give everything he had, to push and exhaust himself.

His coaches often kept him on the ice as his last shift when the buzzer was about to ring out. He’d skate a bit more furiously, really race to get the puck wherever he could one more time, whether they were winning or losing. According to most sports analysts, statistically Montreal performed better when Hollander was on the ice as a final shift. His time on ice average was twenty-four minutes, which was ironic, as that was already emblazoned on his jersey. It was also, he thought in private, ridiculously high. He was at the top of his game. Very rarely did any other forward in the league play as long as he did. So he took pride in that – that even with over twenty minutes of solid play from all his shifts, he still had the perseverance for a grand finale.

Which was why his failure regarding a countdown outside of hockey was so very… frustrating.

Numbers were a finite promise, their guidelines clear, letting Shane know what he could expect. There was another force in his life like that now – Ilya – and Shane thought maybe that’s why he was so hung up on it all. Maybe that’s why his video call to Ilya, as he counted down from a hundred, bounced through his head for days afterwards, letting him overanalyze and obsess over it.

He’d gotten to eight, then, before coming. Eight measly seconds had kept him from achieving the goal he’d set out for himself.

The fact that he’d been so damn close meant that it must be achievable.

And that bothered him.

Ilya had joked that Shane shot off easily, and Shane knew it was meant in good fun – he knew that – however. The perfectionist in him rankled. It was no secret to Shane now, years into their relationship, that he skewed towards obedience. It was easier with Ilya there, taking over, guiding him and bringing him to the brink of orgasm. Ilya would deny it or he would grant it. That was explicit instruction, which Shane could work with. He liked to listen; he liked to be good.

Which was why it was so fucking infuriating that when he tried to do it himself, it didn’t happen properly. His body wasn’t following the natural order of things. It was expected he should wait until the specific sequence of numbers was complete. His pleasure shouldn’t take precedence, just like as if Ilya was there. He was breaking the rules, he wasn’t following the countdown.

This was something he could work on, he decided. A steady build up of his stamina. An exercise in endurance.

He was a disciplined guy. It was just numbers. How hard could it be?

“You know,” Ilya told him in amusement, after Shane’s second failed countdown attempt a week later. “You are very in your head about this idea.”

Shane glared at him, hoping it was evident through the video call, though it probably wasn’t as effective with his come drying on his bared stomach. “It wasn’t even single digits. I only made it to thirteen this time,” he muttered petulantly.

“This really upsets you, yes?” Ilya cocked his head thoughtfully to one side.

He hadn’t come yet, Shane noted with a vicious self-deprecation, as Ilya slowly stroked himself. He had self-control. He was hundreds of miles away in an empty hotel room in Raleigh, and Shane was alone in Montreal with a dick that shot off too quickly. It made him miserable.

Shane nodded in answer, mortified to discover that his eyes were getting a bit watery. He hoped it wasn’t visible through the distance and the pixels.

“Oh, malysh,” Ilya sighed out. Apparently it was visible. Ilya’s hand gripped firmer at the base of his cock, head tilting back in a sigh before returning his gaze to the call. “I know you can be good for me.”

“I can,” Shane said, and his voice wavered pathetically.

“You always listen so well when I am there with you. Maybe you need rules for when I am away.”

Shane sucked in a stuttering breath. “Rules?”

Ilya nodded, his hand speeding up. His eyes looked very bright and evaluating. “Whenever you want to touch yourself when I am away, you will practise.”

“Practise,” Shane echoed, stupidly.

He was mesmerized by the sight of Ilya getting himself off. One side of Ilya’s mouth lifted up smugly, as if he knew how much this was affecting him. He probably did. “Yes, practise. If you get to one, you can come,” Ilya told him. “Not before. That is first rule.”

Shane bit his lip. “I’ll try.”

“No try.” He adjusted himself so he was leaning higher against the bed’s headboard, and then his free hand travelled downwards as well. “When you get right there, you stop. Pull hand away quick. Nice edge. Pause and then keep counting as you do it again.”

“What if I come anyway.”

“Then you will stop for rest of day. Try again next time.”

Shane had a feeling of excitement, like he was running his thumb over the freshly sharpened blades of his skates. “You said rules? More than one?”

“You need to tell me every time you practise.” Ilya looked him up and down. “Even if you don’t make it.”

That sounded reasonable. Shane could work with that. “What if you’re not free for a video call but I need to… practise.”

Ilya’s eyes were approving. “Still do, you can text me. I will text back when I can.”

“But that-”

“You will lie to me? Tell me you listened when really you came at ninety-nine?”

Shane was offended at the accusation. “Never.”

“Then you text if I am not free. I do not have time for you being a slut all the time.” Ilya purposefully lingered on the word slut, letting it roll out of his mouth slowly. “You will tell me and I’ll see if you had good practice or not.”

Shane shuddered in a gasp. “Okay.”

Ilya looked at him seriously. “If we do this, I will keep track, Shane. Whenever I get back, you will get punishment if you come before one. So it is up to you how much you want to practise.”

Something tight unwound in him at that.

“And this isn’t… boring? For you?”

Ilya laughed, the first thing that sounded strained as he continued to stroke himself off. “No, Shane. Not boring.” He smiled, dangerously. “Last rule. When you finally get to one, you will have to show me in person. So I know you can do it.”

“Yeah,” Shane said, trailing off when Ilya’s thumb worked at his slit.

“Say this better.”

“Yes,” Shane replied automatically. “Thank you. Yes.”

 “Clean yourself up for me now. Use your fingers.” Ilya watched, gaze dark, when Shane listened and dragged his hand up his stomach and chest to his mouth, collecting his release along the way. He sucked his fingertips, watching Ilya back all the while. “You do that so well. How is it?”

“It’s not yours,” Shane answered, honestly, and was a bit surprised at the reaction that got him.

Ilya threw his head back again – more violently than before – and moaned. “I teach you what a good practice looks like.” His hand sped up as he masturbated, foreskin sliding down and up with each stroke. “Three, two, one,” he said tightly, and came with a sharp exhale.

He rolled his neck side to side to release some of the tension as his come finished shooting out, painting his abs. Shane swallowed. He had just come a few minutes ago but almost figured he could go again.

Well – he could, except Ilya had told him he’d only be able to try once a day.

“You make it look easy,” Shane found himself saying, a thread of awe audible. And maybe that wasn’t fair to himself, because Ilya had probably been about to come anyway, and just counted out a few numbers at random for Shane’s benefit. It hadn’t been a real countdown, a real challenge.

But… it wasn’t like Ilya needed permission to orgasm – that was something only Shane needed. Ilya could do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted.

Ilya’s eyes crinkled in the corners, pleased. “This will be fun,” he assured Shane. “Well. For me, anyway.”

Ilya: Have you had practice yet today?

Shane: Yeah, just got home from the rink twenty minutes ago. Why?

Ilya: Not that kind of practice.

Shane felt a swooping in his stomach as he read the text. It had almost been a week since they’d established the rules about this. Shane had tried once by himself in the interim, under the sheets of his bed, and gotten to the twenties before coming. He’d texted the result to Ilya, who had only replied back with a Good try. It had made him squirm in embarrassment and want to try again, before he remembered that had been his chance for the day.

He was driving up to Ottawa to meet Ilya tomorrow evening – unless he succeeded today, then that would be two instances Ilya would punish him for. Shane closed the fridge, meal-prepped lunch forgotten on the shelf.

Shane: Not yet.

The video call request came through instantly and Shane was proud of his suddenly trembling fingers for only taking two tries before pressing the option to accept it.

“Clothes off,” Ilya greeted him without preamble, already naked himself. He was lying on his bed in his house in Ottawa. If Shane didn’t have a charity event tomorrow morning, he would’ve used that image alone to somehow make the two hour drive over from Montreal in twenty minutes.

“Yeah, let me go to-”

“Kitchen is fine,” Ilya said, smirking.

“Jesus Christ,” Shane muttered to himself. He acquiesced, propping his phone up against the toaster. His shirt and pants were folded perfunctorily and dropped near the air fryer. He hesitated for a moment with his briefs, until Ilya rolled his hand in an impatient gesture, then took them off and let them join the pile.

Ilya let out a noise of appreciation, even though Shane’s cock wasn’t even hard yet. It’s not as if he’d been expecting this. “Where’s the lube?”

“Well,” Shane grumbled. “If you’d let me go to the bedroom inst-”

“Go get it,” Ilya cut him off. “I will wait.”

Shane’s mouth thinned slightly as he listened and turned to go, though he broke into a secret smile when Ilya let out a wolf whistle at his naked ass. A few moments later, he was back in the same position, cock considerably harder now and fingers dripping lube.

“One hundred,” Ilya supplied helpfully, starting him off.

Shane breathed out, steeling himself, nodded, and started stroking. “Ninety-nine, ninety-eight…”

Ilya watched him work mostly silently, taking his own dick in hand around the mid-eighties to join along. He sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, and Shane wished it was him that was biting it instead.

That made him stutter a bit in his rhythm of numbers, grinding to a halt at seventy-three. Ilya smiled, eyes knowing, and kept stroking his own cock.

“You never said anything about you being the one to start this, you know,” Shane panted out.

“Start what?”

“My… practices.” Shane felt the lube start to get tacky, so popped the cap on the bottle and added some more to his hand. “I thought it was gonna be me who would do it and then tell you.”

“Yes, you can still do it this way. But…” Ilya shrugged. “You are mine.”

Shane’s eyes rolled back in arousal when he touched himself again as Ilya said that. “Seventy-two… I am?”

“You question this?” Ilya sounded amused. How he could sound amused when masturbating, Shane would never know nor be able to achieve. No matter the situation, Shane only sounded whorish whenever he touched himself. It was embarrassing, no matter how much Ilya told him he loved it.

“No… Seventy-one.” Shane licked his lips, looking at Ilya through the screen in a way that was nothing less than adoring. “I’m yours.”

Ilya moaned in appreciation. “I tell you when I want you to practise and you’ll listen.”

Shane nodded, eyes wide. He tried to hold out, but it was the glimpse he caught of himself in the upper corner of his phone that derailed everything. He ripped his hand off his dick, trying to edge it, but he still careened over at a mortifying fifty-nine. It wasn’t gratifying, the orgasm. It was pitiful and ruined. Ilya laughed darkly when Shane’s come barely shot onto the kitchen cabinet, and followed him soon afterwards.

With detached jealousy, Shane noticed that Ilya’s orgasm looked satisfying. Ilya touched himself the whole way through, another hand going behind his body to grip his ass when he came. He didn’t have to rip his hand away, trying to stick to an edge. He didn’t have to dread being unlucky if he didn’t succeed, which would ruin his orgasm. In fact, there was a second Ilya looked utterly lost in the absolute pleasure of it. Shane felt like a voyeur, in a way, admiring something that he wasn’t allowed to have until he earned it.

“See you tomorrow after your event,” Ilya told him, voice silky.

When Shane met him in Ottawa the next day, Ilya spanked him until he cried. Two failed practices meant Shane wasn’t allowed to come until the following morning, before he had to drive back to Montreal, ass sore in the driver’s seat.

Shane’s current working hypothesis was to hope Ilya wouldn’t request a practice session, and just deny himself entirely for days until he really needed to come. Then his body would surely have to listen to him, with only just a hundred numbers in his way.

He would use the inherent desperation to trick himself into self-imposed obedience. If he lasted without coming until they reunited in a few days, then that was the ideal scenario.

Ilya had been busy and their schedules had not lined up, so he hadn’t sent a request to Shane for a practice. Shane had held out on his own for five fucking days and was feeling pretty needy. Ilya had just texted him to call, though, so his time was up.

He decided to test his hypothesis, hoping optimistically as he started the video call and intoned “one hundred” that he would be right.

As he continued, though, he wasn’t sure that his educated guess was working the way he’d intended.

“Eighty-three…” Shane whined out, hunching over himself where he sat on the chair in his empty Edmonton hotel room.

Ilya clicked his tongue so Shane whimpered and straightened up again, giving him a better view.

“Eighty-two, eighty-one, eight-” Shane let out a strangled groan, hand flying away from his dick. He heard a smattering of tinny laughter in the background of the video call audio. Was Ilya watching television while Shane did this? “Where the fuck are you right now anyway?”

“Newark. Did you finish? Angle is not good for me to see.”

Shane, breathing heavily, shook his head. Ilya made a pleased noise, and Shane’s cock twitched. “I know you’re in Newark. I meant where in Newark.”

Ilya’s gaze left Shane’s to glance around his surroundings. “Hotel bar. Not much to do in Newark.”

“I thought you were in your room, Ilya,” Shane said indignantly.

Ilya shrugged. “Not my fault you are too horny to notice things.”

Shane felt his face get hot. “You can’t say that in public,” he hissed out, dick momentarily forgotten.

“Is fine, Shane, no-one is listening.” Ilya pulled a drink up from under the bottom of the screen, sipping at it and placing it back onto what Shane hoped was an abandoned corner table, far away from others. “Team went up. I have earbuds in.”

“Oh, great, that makes it okay then,” Shane shot out, sarcasm colouring his words in a way that made Ilya’s lips twist dangerously. Shane swallowed and reached for his cock again, but stopped before he made it.

There was a shot of exhilaration that went through him from the risk of it all. Shane knew that Ilya was smart and discreet; he wouldn’t have told Shane to call if he wasn’t confident Shane wouldn’t be seen. But still… the idea of being seen was maybe a bit. Enticing.

“Fix the angle,” Ilya told him, so Shane adjusted his position. He tried to stop his skin from crawling when he could clearly see more of himself on the phone screen now. Ilya sensed his hesitation and smirked wider. “This will count as failed practice if you don’t keep going.”

Shivering, Shane got a hand wrapped around himself again. His eyes slipped closed as he started moving it, the glide of his hand helped from where he was beginning to leak properly. “Seventy-nine.”

“Eighty.”

One eye cracked open. “…Seventy-nine.”

“No,” Ilya sing-songed. “You only said eight before stopping. Doesn’t count.”

“Fine,” Shane spat out, irritated, but Ilya was right and rules were rules. He pointedly articulated as he continued, “Eighty. Seventy-nine.”

Speeding up the numbers would be cheating, he knew, so Shane counted down at a pace that was normal. Maybe the tiniest bit faster than how he usually spoke. But that was understandable, surely – he just wanted to get this over and done with before somebody wandered by and caught a glimpse of Ilya’s phone. Shane was too distracted to really examine that idea thoroughly, especially because for the split second he did consider it, he had to pull away his hand with a gasp somewhere around sixty-seven.

He got through to the low forties before he had to pause again and edge. The last time they had done this, Ilya had been masturbating with him, but now Ilya was in public. Shane didn’t know which was worse – previously when he could see Ilya falling apart, or now when it was only Ilya coolly watching him.

Sometimes Ilya sipped his drink that he brought in from out of frame, and Shane watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed.

Shane wanted to lick the condensation from Ilya’s glass off his hand. He wanted to lick his cock. He wanted to lick his stupid throat with his stupid Adam’s apple.

“For-” Shane breathed out, a small cry woven through. His eyes fluttered and his hand hesitated. “Forty-two.”

Ilya shook his head. “You weren’t touching with that one.”

Being watched like this, with nothing else happening apart from Shane counting and touching himself, shouldn’t be this arousing. But Ilya’s steady eyes on his, meeting his and never looking away, was making his practice difficult.

Shane whined, but Ilya only said, quietly, “Try again.”

“I’m going to come,” Shane breathed out. He inhaled and exhaled, twice.

By virtue of Ilya answering the video call on his phone and angling it away from others in the bar, Shane had a very good view of his face blown up wide on his own screen. His pupils were big and dark, only a thin line of hazel encircling them now. “Then ruin it. You know the rules.”

“N-No,” Shane stuttered out, shaking his head. “Don’t wanna.”

“You’re going to do it,” Ilya laughed, head tilting in a shocked sort of disbelief. “You have to do it. You’re going to come, just from the idea of it all.”

Shane could almost see the humour in it, but he was too aroused and frustrated to appreciate anything. He hadn’t even brought lube on the road with him this time. He had held out on a practice session for days now, naively thinking that sheer force of will would stop him from masturbating on their string of away games.

But here he was in Edmonton, alone in his room because Hayden had made a trip to the big mall to get something for his kids. He was touching his dick and about to come, despite his best efforts. Because he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Been almost a week since last practice,” Ilya was continuing, and Shane almost hated him for it. His cock was throbbing even without his hand on it. “I am impressed. You held off because you thought it would be easier, yes?”

Shane huffed.

“This means yes,” Ilya informed him, smugly. “Sad it will not work.”

“I hate it when it gets ruined.” Shane also hated that his voice was veering into shrill.

Ilya took another sip of his drink. Shane heard it this time when he set it back down on the table, firmer than the times before. “Too bad,” he said, and his tone was firmer too. “Keep going.”

Shane’s protests were falling on deaf ears. He moaned when his hand returned to his dick. He rolled his balls and squeezed the base, fingernails scratching lightly at his pubic hair. “Forty-two,” he said through gritted teeth.

Each pass along his cock was torturous; the friction was killing him. His hips bucked into his hands as he entered the thirties, without his permission. Ilya’s gaze was pure avarice.

He managed to make it to thirty-seven before breaking the count. Shane’s hand pulled away, but it was too late. He watched dejectedly as an unsatisfying finish barely dribbled out the tip of his cock.

“See you day after tomorrow in Montreal.” The implication was evident of what awaited Shane.

Shane nodded wearily, exhausted and dissatisfied. Ilya winked at him before he ended the call.

Two days later, Ilya was waiting in Shane’s apartment when he returned home. He fucked him with a vibrator without touching his dick. Without touching him at all, actually.

Shane was allowed to come during his punishment, but it wasn’t enough. Ilya painted his release onto Shane’s body with a content moan, and Shane scooped it up to suck it off his fingers without even being told – that’s how desperate he was for something of Ilya to be inside him.

Ilya: Has been a week since I saw you in Montreal.

Ilya: You have only had one practice this week so far. Nineteen is close to zero.

Ilya: Sort of close.

Shane: I can do better.

Ilya: You can.

Ilya: Do you touch yourself when you don’t practise countdown?

Shane: No.

Ilya: Not at all?

Shane: Not at all.

Ilya: This is hard for you?

Shane: What do you think?

Ilya: Be polite.

Shane: …Yes. It is hard.

Ilya: Poor you.

Ilya: It is good?

Shane: I don’t know. I guess so.

Ilya: Tell the truth.

Shane: Yeah. Yeah it’s good.

Ilya: Good!

Ilya: I was thinking.

Ilya: You can fuck your ass but not touch your dick if you want to play around without official practice.

Shane: I can?

Ilya: Of course, this was not part of rules.

Shane: What if I come from that?

Ilya: From just that? Without touching your dick?

Shane: Yeah.

Ilya: Slut. Lol.

Ilya: Then you tell me.

Shane: And?

Ilya: And what?

Shane: That’s it?

Ilya: That’s it. I am being very nice. Think of it as optional practice.

Shane: I always go to optional practice.

Ilya: I know. :)

Ilya: Practice is still practice though.

Ilya: So for example.

Ilya: If you come without touching your cock just from being greedy whore and fucking your ass wishing it is me. Then this still counts for punishment.

Video call duration – 12:21

Ilya: Good try! This is two practices now.

Ilya: See you in three days. Be ready in my living room. :)

Shane was sitting in a movie theatre two days later, next to half of the Pike clan. Jackie was home with the younger two, insisting the girls needed time with their Uncle Shane. Shane figured it was more Jackie needed some quiet time, but he didn’t mind. The pre-show was on and the twins were twirling in the aisle before settling in their seats between Shane and Hayden.

Shane’s leg was jumping. He was seeing Ilya in Ottawa tomorrow.

Almost as if the universe was mocking him, his phone chimed with a text.

Ilya: 💯

Shane: ???

Maybe the emoji meant Ilya had just given a really great team speech before his game? Shane glanced at the time on the top of his phone. The Centaurs were meant to start their game against Saint Paul in twenty minutes.

Ilya: Tell me when you are done practice.

Shane squinted in confusion as he read the words over and over, before his brain caught up and all the breath left him in a whoosh. He glanced up, saw Hayden next to him deep in discussion with Ruby and Jade about which Disney princess was the best, and so he let his thumbs fly incredulously over his keyboard to respond.

Shane: Now??

Ilya: Yes I am busy soon.

Shane: I’m out with Hayden and the twins right now.

Ilya: And?

A hot coal of pleasure settled deep in Shane’s stomach.

Shane: Give me two seconds.

Ilya: No Shane it is hundred. Two is too easy for you.

Ilya: Text me what number you need to stop on.

Muttering out an excuse to Hayden and the girls, Shane hurried out of the theatre. He found the nearest men’s washroom, ducking his head under the stalls to check that nobody else was there. Satisfied, he went into the farthest cubicle and made sure it locked tightly behind him.

Shane went to unzip his jeans, hissing when he found himself already starting to harden. The zipper took long seconds he didn’t have. He finally shoved his pants and underwear down to around his knees and curled his hand around his dick. After a second, he cursed and licked his hand, then tried again.

He attempted to concentrate, but every sound he heard – no matter how faint – kept him on edge. He was too alert, too keyed-up. He barely whispered out the numbers, inaudible to anyone else, hand jerking without coordination or finesse up and down his cock.

His eyes closed and his forehead leaned against the metal door of the stall in defeat. The first thirty seconds were counted down without issue, but he quickly realized he was too distracted to focus on staving off how good it all felt. He didn’t have the attention in reserve to stop himself from coming.

His hand flew off his dick, stopping his orgasm with a groan that he forcibly softened by clamping his jaw down.

Fishing his phone back out of his pocket, he registered it had been just under five minutes since Ilya had first texted him. He was hiding in a washroom stall, leaning against a metal sheet that was the only thing providing him some semblance of privacy to protect the public from his perversions.

“Pathetic,” he muttered out self-deprecatingly, navigating to the text chain.

Shane: Sixty-four.

Ilya: You came already?

Shane: No, I got my hand off in time.

Ilya: Very horny today.

Shane: Please,

Ilya: ???

Shane: Please can I. keep going

Ilya: I don’t know if you can handle today. Sixty-four is very high.

Shane: Fuck you I’m in a public washroom

Ilya: Hot. Lol.

Ilya: If you had been more nice I would have let you keep trying. But no. Stop there for today.

Shane: ..You’re not serious

Ilya: Very. That is two times you have practice. We talk about it tomorrow when you come to Ottawa.

Ilya: Now I go win. Be good boy.

Shane snapped out a disbelieving fuck, muffled where he bit his fist. He heard someone open the bathroom door a second later, heading for the urinals, and so he quickly pulled his underwear and pants up. His dick cut into the zipper of his jeans tightly but it luckily didn’t seem too noticeable. He left the stall, washed his hands, and re-entered the darkened movie theatre right as the opening credits were finishing.

“I was wondering when you’d be done, dude,” Hayden whisper-shouted to him.

Shane nodded dolefully and stared ahead at the movie screen. So did he.

Jade primly shushed them and handed back the popcorn for Shane to hold on his lap, which he accepted with some gratitude to have some additional coverage there.

That was one failed practice from fucking his ass on a video call, which Shane still hadn’t forgiven Ilya for goading him into – he’d gotten his hopes up for nothing. And one failed practice today.

Shane’s thoughts were saying the same things over and over in his head the next evening as he drove up to Ottawa; mostly a variation of stupid or goddammit.

He beat Ilya home and kneeled naked for him in the living room as he waited, letting himself be kissed once Ilya came through the front door.

Shane pleaded, trying to talk it through, but Ilya did more than just talk about it.

For his punishment that time, Shane was fucked face-down the whole time as Ilya held the back of his neck firmly. Shane could come as much as he wanted, but only if he got there himself, with his cock trapped between his body and the bedsheets.

It was miserable. It was exhilarating. He had never wanted to win a challenge so much.

They’d been doing this for just over a month now, and the closest Shane had ever gotten was four.

Ilya was about to head out for a long string of away games, swinging around the Great Lakes for a week then ending in Toronto before returning home. Shane knew he’d miss him fiercely for the ten days before they’d be together again.

When he got to four, it was a particularly devastating event, with Ilya keeping all his attention on Shane, not touching himself at all. He was calmly instructing Shane exactly how to stroke himself on the video call – describing what he wanted to see for pressure, when Shane should drift down to fondle his balls for a moment instead, how Shane should use his thumb to tease the head. The instructions were explicit, practically pornographic, and maybe that’s why Shane was so affected.

Shane had been so fucking close, and even when he ripped his hand away for the third time that practice, he knew it would be no use. He came, but pathetically, cock barely spurting out anything as it lost all stimulation. He started crying true tears of consternation at that point, spilling over from where they’d just been clinging to his waterline before, because he was really starting to fucking hate ruins.

That had been happening with more and more regularity in the past month, every time Ilya was away and Shane got his hand on his dick. He imagined that he was ruining himself for Ilya, biologically unable to find a proper release, debasing himself and becoming this needy sluttish thing that couldn’t even count down from a hundred without the enormity of his desire consuming him.

All while Ilya watched him solemnly, no doubt already knowing he’d fail. Already planning what Shane’s consequences should be for his failure.

Shane had been trying to ignore it, but it was rattling around his brain like a jackhammer that he still hadn’t succeeded yet in the countdowns. At this point, he just wanted to draw a neat line under it and be done with it.

He realized, with a shock to his system, that he could only barely remember what a real orgasm felt like. It had just been failed practices for weeks now when he was alone, or punishments for his failed practices when Ilya met him in person.

His stupid body couldn’t even edge itself properly for another four fucking seconds. He’d almost had it.

He was reaching levels of desperation he’d never imagined possible, which was probably why the supplications poured from his mouth like a fountain.

“Please, please,” he was begging even as his come was still dribbling out, dripping onto his own blue comforter below him. His apartment was quiet apart from his pleas. “Ilya, please. Let me try again. Fuck. I almost had it. Please, I was so close. Fucking please.”

Ilya gave him a saccharinely sweet look, shaking his head.

“But I- But I can do it,” Shane sobbed.

“You came, Shane.” His voice was so fucking gentle.

Shane’s mouth was open because he wanted to scream, but instead he took in big gulps of air, breath stuttering in his chest. “That wasn’t.” The tears were flowing into his mouth, now, intermingling with his snot and saliva. “That wasn’t one.”

Ilya snorted, looking pointedly at the come where it had landed in its weak arc on the sheets. “Maybe not a good one. But still one.”

Shuddering, Shane shifted so he was lying down on his bed. He tipped onto his side, bringing the phone closer to his face.

Ilya clucked his tongue sympathetically. “I know, printsessa. But you are being such a good boy for me.”

“It’s never going to happen.” Shane felt the tears from his face change course to travel horizontally across his face to the pillow he was laying on.

“You are very close. It will happen soon, I’m sure.”

He choked on a frustrated wail, strangling it in his larynx so it didn’t become audible. Ilya spoke to him soothingly for nearly a half hour until Shane’s head stopped spinning and the tears dried sticky on his cheeks.

It had almost been a month and a half, now. A week since the video call where Ilya assured Shane he could do it. Shane had, in fact, not been able to do it yet.

Ilya was in Toronto, finally back in Canada after the lineup of American cities. The Centaurs had lost 2-1 against the Guardians last night in OT and he’d texted Shane that he was more than ready to get home.

He’d also implied he was more than ready to have Shane at home tomorrow for purposes of him needing to pay up.

Ilya was leaving a fucking Tim Hortons in the late morning, when Shane video called him after he couldn’t take it anymore. “Whoa,” Ilya opened with, using a hand to tilt the phone down quickly.

“One hun- What the fuck,” Shane moaned in complaint when Ilya’s setting registered, his hand already on his dick. He hastily adjusted his phone upwards so the camera only showed him shoulders and above, not the whole of him sitting on his bed. Ilya’s flight back to Ottawa left in a few hours; he thought he’d be packing for it at the hotel alone.

“You did not give me warning,” Ilya chuckled. “We were in the States all week. Missed honey dip.” He lifted up the brown paper bag and a double-double to the camera.

To Shane, even he couldn’t stoop so low as to masturbate on a video call when Ilya was in a Tim Hortons, no matter how keyed up he was. That seemed both mortifying and also somehow… sacrilegious.

“Call me when you’re in your hotel room,” he pleaded, reaching to end the call.

“Wait, wait,” Ilya chided, shuffling some things in his hands. Shane’s view was his walking feet on the grimy Toronto sidewalk as he flipped the phone around in the process. Shane could hear loud voices and a siren in the distance. A few seconds later, the audio changed as Ilya connected his earbuds. His voice sounded warmer, closer, the rest of the world a bit muffled. “Don’t hang up. We are at Fairmont, just next door.”

“Put me in your pocket.”

Ilya huffed a laugh at that. “I want to do that all the time.” He shifted the phone again until all Shane could see was darkness.

“Can you still hear me?” Shane asked.

“Mhm,” Ilya said, seemingly through a sip of coffee. He swallowed. “Start counting.”

“You’re not even looking,” Shane complained, taken aback.

“I like listening to you in my ears.”

“Ilya,” he said, trying for a warning tone, and hating that it sounded a bit like a whine.

“Off you go.”

Shane sighed out a wavering breath and brought his attention back to his cock, which had only flagged a little. “One hundred,” he said, determinedly. The lube was slippery on his fingers and he bit his lip a little, then adjusted. He was going to fucking get it this time.

“Good.”

“Mm. Ninety-nine…” He kept going, focusing on the black screen in front of him. He stroked his cock double-time to his counting – not too fast, not too slow. Smooth and steady.

By the time he hit eighty, he heard a whoosh and then Ilya’s background noise got quieter. He must have entered the hotel. “Doing so well,” Ilya murmured, and his proud voice was a sudden shock.

Shane shivered. “Seventy-nine… thanks. Uh. Seventy-eight, seventy-seven…”

“I can’t wait to see you in a few minutes,” Ilya said lowly, reaching a timbre full of promise. Shane let out a whimper before he could bite it back. “The things I’m going to-”

“Holy shit, are you Ilya Rozanov!”

A new voice came through the video call audio and Shane’s hand flew off his cock like it had been burned. His heart thundered in his chest. He was hidden, he was fine, he was safe.

Ilya had told him to not hang up.

Nevertheless, Shane switched the video off in horror with shaking fingers so there was only audio.

Ilya gave his PR-approved laugh, going through the polite niceties. He let the fan take a selfie and get an autograph, keeping the earbuds in all the while. Shane could hear everything. A few minutes later that felt like years, there was finally quiet again.

“I’m in the elevator.” Ilya’s voice rang out loud through the call. He sounded a bit disappointed. “You stopped.”

Shane spluttered when there was movement on the screen; Ilya’s hand grabbing the phone to bring it up to his face again. He was alone. “Of course I stopped.”

Shane hurried to turn the video option back on. His own face looked back at him, flustered. Meanwhile, there was a fucking smirk on Ilya’s face. “I think you like it,” Ilya confided, like he was indulging a secret. “Almost being caught.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Your dick is still hard.”

“Fuck off.”

Ilya took another sip of his coffee, entertained. “Seventy-six.”

A shaky breath exited Shane’s lips. “Seventy-six,” he agreed. His hand resumed its task, and he tried to ignore just how right Ilya was – his dick was still hard.

The elevator dinged Ilya’s floor as Shane got to seventy-one, and he kept going. Ilya snorted, as always, when Shane said sixty-nine. He paused in the hallway, presumably in front of his hotel room.

“You have been thinking of this all day,” Ilya told him, moving the phone screen to tap his room key on the door. “Answer me.”

“Sixty-two… Yes. Sixty-one. I have. Sixty-two. No, sixty. Fuck.” Shane’s breath hitched. He paused, fighting the urge to squirm.

“Uh oh, Hollander,” Ilya said, not sounding very sweet at all, as he entered his hotel room. He flopped onto the bed and groaned as Shane kept going. The numbers were sounding more strained now. “What will I do with you tomorrow, after you don’t make it today. This is your fourth practice this week. Very horny.”

He wasn’t even lying – Shane had really ramped it up this past week when Ilya had been on the road.

Since the last time when he’d begged Ilya brokenly, and then cried for another hour afterwards, he realized he needed to end this challenge once and for all. That meant switching up the variables.

His last hypothesis of self-enforced celibacy had been idiotic – he could see that now. So his current hypothesis was that, if he just masturbated more and more, he would build up a tolerance to the act instead. His practices would get more productive through increased repetition. He hadn’t been successful as of yet, but he consistently got to the single digits each time he’d tried, so it was almost working. It just meant that, on the flip side, there were more opportunities for Ilya to punish him for it when they reunited in a few days. It was a double-edged sword.

“Fifty-four, fuck you I’m going to make it… Uh. Fifty-three. Fifty-two.”

Ilya’s voice sounded lost in thought. When Shane looked at the phone screen, Ilya’s tongue licked his lips. “I think I’ll come four times. All by myself. On you. And you’ll just have to sit there and watch. No touching.”

Shane garbled out forty-five and had to take his hand away as another pause as he pictured it. “Fuck.”

“Unless you want to practise more before you see me. I could add on to number when you fail again,” Ilya continued, eyes looking greedy at Shane’s moment of weakness. Shane brought his shaking hand back to his dick and continued counting woodenly for another long moment until Ilya threw in, “I don’t come as quickly as you, though.”

“Forty-one.”

“Such a slut for it, Shane.”

“For… Forty.”

“You shoot off so quick. But I’d take all day.”

“Thirty-nine.”

“And you wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.”

Shane’s hand slowed to a crawl, gripping the base of his cock and twisting. He almost lost it, but snatched his release back, the last vestiges of his self-control clawing into keeping his hand moving without coming. Time moved slowly for a few moments as he finished the thirties and started on the twenties. His hand pumped again, keeping steady with each number. He watched Ilya on screen set the phone down and strip, lying down on the bed.

It was fucking incredible to picture; being unable to do anything in person when Ilya used him. Ilya wouldn’t even need to use him, was the thing, he’d just shove his pleasure in Shane’s face as he found it all by himself. Shit.

“Twenty-eight… Would you tie me down?” Shane had to ask, breathless. It was more breaths than numbers now. He kept going.

Ilya groaned, shucking off his underwear and getting his hand on his own cock. “I would do whatever I want to you.”

He missed Ilya so much – they’d been apart for a week and a half. He’d take anything Ilya would give him when they were together.

“Yeah,” Shane said. His voice was dreamy, now, coming out slow like syrup. It matched the crawl of his hand as he touched himself and kept reciting numbers. “Twenny… un.”

“Say it better,” Ilya said, firmly.

Shane licked his lips. His eyes were half-lidded and couldn’t leave the sight of Ilya. He pushed out the consonants crisply, because he’d been told to. “Twenty. One.”

“I already do whatever I want to you, shlyushka.”

With a whimper, Shane’s hand moved away automatically before he even realized. His dick was twitching as it curled up to his stomach. He curled a fist into the bedspread.

Ilya let out a little pitying noise, proven false by the bite in his gaze, and kept touching himself. He was starting to leak – but never as much as Shane – and used his fingers to gather the wetness and tug down his foreskin.

“I think… I think’m gonna come, Ilya.” Shane sounded very far away.

The brightness of Shane’s phone cast onto his comforter, stark in the darkness of his bedroom. Ilya took up the whole frame, big and strong and starting to sound like he was getting properly affected from this too.

“You miss me touching you, don’t you.”

Shane’s cock twitched again, without him even getting a hand on it. “I do,” he said, and it sounded wrecked.

“I miss it too.” Ilya’s grip on his cock squeezed, then relaxed. Shane could see every centimetre as it disappeared and reappeared between his moving fist. “Be good for me so you can get your reward.”

“Fuck, Ilya.” Shane’s hand tensed even further in the sheets, the pressure so intense he wouldn’t be surprised if they tore. His dick was leaking down beside where his hands were clasped rigidly – he could feel it dripping down the shaft. “Wanna be good for you.”

Ilya’s voice was mean, granting him no quarter. “Then touch yourself and don’t you dare fucking come until you say one.”

Gasping raggedly, Shane’s hand flew back to his cock and he started up again. His hips chased the motion forward, and he swayed with it. His eyes hadn’t left half-mast for what felt like hours. “Twenty. Nineteen…”

He kept going, not having enough wherewithal to even care anymore when each number was punctuated with a whorish moan. Ilya was done with leniency. He was fed up with failure.

It occurred to Shane, as he hoarsely counted down all the teens, that maybe this was just what he’d needed. Explicit instruction, something to listen to, to obey. Maybe this challenge was something that defied hypothesizing. He just needed to fucking submit and do what Ilya told him to do.

He held onto that like a lifeline – a mantra, a prayer – as he reached twelve. His hand and cock were wet with precome and lube. His face was wet with something else he didn’t have the brain power to think about right now. Ilya looked at him like he’d never seen anything more gorgeous in his life, pride evident even through the phone and the pixels.

Shane hiccupped through ten, making it sound like it had two syllables. “Almost there,” Ilya encouraged, tightly. Through the haze of pleasure, Shane recognized Ilya’s hand was flying fast over his own cock. It was quicker than the speed Shane was going, chasing his own pleasure, trying to catch up to Shane.

Shane’s whole body fucking shook as he counted down the single digits to five. “Four,” he moaned out – brokenly, pathetically. This was the closest number he’d ever gotten to before in his previous practices.

“So close, Shane.”

“Fuck,” Shane slurred. He remembered Ilya teaching him how to do it, all those weeks ago; Ilya had counted three, two, one, and then came hard onto his flexed abdomen.

“Tri,” he gasped. He switched to Russian without even intending to. Because, really, all these practices had been for Ilya. They had always been for Ilya. He deserved Shane’s orgasm, granted through permission, in words he taught Shane himself.

Ilya was looking at him right now like he’d find a way to get the team’s chartered plane to reroute to Montreal just so he could parachute into Shane’s bedroom right this instant. Ilya was watching him unravel with nothing but the deepest and darkest craving in his eyes.

Shane was so fucking close. He’d never been this fucking close. He only needed two more words.

“Dva.”

He heard the loud curse Ilya spat out when he realized what Shane was saying, followed by a torrent of praise that Shane had no current capability to translate. “Do it,” Ilya ordered, switching back to English with a laboured breath.

Shane’s eyes closed from the overwhelm and he breathed out, “Odin.”

There was a split second of a pause where his body adjusted to the idea, to the notion that denial was actually being dissolved after a month and a half, with Shane’s brain realizing that his hand wasn’t moving away this time.

Sensation slammed back into him and he let out such a loud moan, his voice cracking through the sheer volume of it. His eyes squeezed tighter at the feeling and there were tears sliding down his face, gliding into his wet open mouth as he shouted his way through. His release splashed over his hands, his thighs below him, his torso that strained with each shuddering breath.

It felt indescribably good, but not as good as the sense of relief washing over him from finally being able to succeed. He was exposed and split open, like a raw nerve.

“That’s it. So good. So fucking good.” Shane wondered how his thoughts were becoming audible, until he realized that it was Ilya saying the words. He could start to hear a bit now after his moment suspended in ecstasy, now that his body spasmed and began to try and regulate itself once more. Ilya was repeating himself viciously, praising him over and over. “Good boy, that’s a good fucking boy, Shane.”

And that felt somehow even better than the first proper orgasm he’d had in ages, even with its aftershocks still coursing through him.

His eyes finally pried open to catch onto Ilya fucking his fist harshly. Shane nodded wordlessly, and Ilya came with a shout of his own.

Shane breathed out a laugh without intending to. This was the easiest he’d breathed in weeks. There was a load lifted, the millstone around his neck ascending away, the timer quietened in his brain. It felt like liberation.

Shane played his game that night like he was flying, not just skating on the ice. They won 4-0 at home against Winnipeg; not all of the goals his, but that was alright. He didn’t feel a sense of foreboding when the final minute counted down in the third. Numbers made sense to him again.

Ilya had boarded his flight safely to Ottawa, texting him once he’d gotten back to his house. Shane saw the messages afterwards in the dressing room, including some of congratulations – both for the game and finally managing to get through a practice properly. He floated through post-game interviews, chatted with his teammates and coaches, and then was finally alone in his car.

He had every intention to return back to his apartment – he really did – so he could get a good night’s sleep and set out early tomorrow to Ottawa. But he wasn’t surprised when his route changed without even intentionally meaning to. The snow was holding off, luckily, just a flurry dusting the roads as he left the metropolitan streets of Montreal to merge onto the 40 West. He crossed the bridge, left the island, kept driving, watched the highway change into the 417 when he hit Ontario some time later. The lack of traffic this late at night meant he was pulling into Ilya’s driveway just under two hours later.

“What the fuck?” Ilya laughed when he opened the door after Shane texted him he was here. He looked rumpled from sleep, curls mussed and mouth plush.

“Missed you,” Shane replied, simply. “Couldn’t wait till tomorrow.”

“Sweetheart,” Ilya purred, drawing him in close and taking him to bed where it was warm.

Tomorrow was a rare day off for both of them, a shared and singular calendar day of freedom in their schedules. Shane knew the value of seconds now, so he wasn’t regretful he’d driven here, even though it was now nearly two in the morning and he was exhausted.

They didn’t do much before falling asleep, Ilya just kissing him and holding him close. Happy murmurs of praise lulled him off, and Shane didn’t even know he’d drifted into sleep so soundly until he awoke with a start hours later.

The sun was shining through Ilya’s windows. That was the first thing he registered. His eyes blinked open slowly, focusing on the panes of glass, the outside brighter than usual due to the snow that refracted the sunshine.

His hips jerked up with a gasp when the next thing he abruptly realized was that he felt something around his cock.

The third thing that came through to his brain, now waking up, was sound.

“Fifty-eight.”

Shane blinked in surprise, making an unintelligible noise as he stirred. He’d been counting numbers down for weeks now, their vowels and consonants both torturous and comforting in their familiarity. But that wasn’t him counting.

“Fifty-seven…” Ilya’s voice was lower in the mornings. A timbre like honey, dripping over Shane’s consciousness the more he awoke. “Oh, good. You’re up.”

“The hell?” Shane croaked out in confusion.

Awareness was coming through in patches, now, and Shane grunted again when another spike of pleasure jolted through his body. His eyes snapped down to see Ilya between his legs, mouth kissing Shane’s thigh as a hand slowly worked itself up and down Shane’s cock.

Shane’s pajama pants had been shoved down to his ankles near his socks. His sleep shirt was rucked up to below his armpits. Ilya’s other hand reached up now to palm one pec, thumbing his nipple.

Meeting Shane’s eyes, Ilya licked a stripe up the seam between Shane’s thigh and groin. “Fifty-six.”

His fingers tightened briefly around the base of Shane’s dick, then loosened and drew upwards slowly to the head.

“What?” Shane couldn’t help but breathe out a moan. “But it’s done, I-”

“Last rule,” Ilya said, patiently. “Remember?” He paused the countdown, which meant he also paused the motion of his hand.

Shane’s brain was still coming online, so it took him a long moment to think back in his long-term memory for this particular instruction. His gaze sharpened when he remembered. “I have to show you in person? Now?”

“I am feeling nice,” Ilya assured him, kissing the hair at the base of his cock. “I am helping you.”

“Jesus Christ,” Shane whined when Ilya started counting and jerking him off again, his head slamming back into the pillow so he stared up at the ceiling. Sunbeams were striping across it in tilted slants. He tried to slow his breathing and manage his excitement, ramped up when he had been sleeping without him even knowing. The idea that Ilya had awoken before him and felt so much ownership over Shane’s pleasure was extremely arousing. “How long have you been-”

Ilya snorted, his next number of forty-nine being answer enough. Right.

Now that the last remnants of sleep had dissolved mostly from Shane’s mind, his body started to take over. Sensation was flooding in with the lucidity, over a month of muscle memory reigniting. His legs drove his cock up against his own accord, and he bit his lip when Ilya’s other hand moved from his chest down to hold his hip firm.

“Mm, you were very tired. Forty-two. Almost got halfway in countdown before your body even noticed.” Shane whimpered when Ilya’s teeth lightly bit down on the delicate skin under his abs. His hand worked steadily, more copious amounts of precome starting to flow now that Shane was conscious. “Forty-one. I am so nice, yes? Got rid of lots of numbers for you when you were still sleeping. Forty.”

Shane made to sit up more properly, to get a better look, but Ilya shook his head and pressed the hand on his hip down firmer. Craning his neck, Shane could just see the twist of Ilya’s hand under his cock. He shivered.

As he worked his way counting down the thirties, Ilya’s mouth stayed busy close to Shane’s cock but never touching it. His lips brushed the light hair over Shane’s balls as he nuzzled them.

“You were such a good boy yesterday,” Ilya confided to him.

It didn’t seem fair, to Shane, that even when Ilya was mumbling into the most private part of Shane, that Shane never once questioned who was driving. He’d sucked Ilya off more times than he could count after all these years, but whenever the roles were reversed, it never felt the same. He was either choking on the privilege of being near Ilya’s dick, or luxuriating in the privilege of receiving Ilya’s attention on his own dick.

One would think that the act was inherently submissive, but Ilya wielded this – and all things sexual between them – with precision. He even winked, as if he knew what Shane was thinking, when he continued counting. “Thirty-two. Thir- uh oh.”

Shane’s stomach had swooped dangerously, his abdomen crunching inwards. Ilya saw the contraction of muscles just above his line of sight and removed his hand. “I know you can be good like yesterday,” he said as he leaned up and over to kiss Shane on the mouth. It was wet and sloppy. He angled his body carefully to not have anything press into Shane’s arousal.

Nodding into him, Shane kissed back desperately, moaning for the same tongue Ilya had been using to trace over his hips that was now in his mouth. “Yesterday, you won your game,” Ilya told him between kisses. “You drove here early. You didn’t come until counting to one.”

A free hand tapped Shane twice on the cheek, sharply, when Ilya pulled back. “You’re going to be good for me again today.”

“Yes,” Shane agreed breathlessly, and Ilya grunted with finality.

He lowered himself back down, letting Shane reposition this time so he was leaning against the headboard. The pillows were cushioned against his hips.

Ilya spread Shane’s legs outward. “Thirty-one,” he murmured, left hand stroking Shane off now. Shane hysterically wondered if Ilya had even used lube, or had just jerked him off dry until he was dripping enough to make up for it… His mind unconscious but his dick still eager to please.

The sun was glowing. It limned Ilya’s sandy messy curls like a halo, and caught the movement of his gold chain to make it glint.

“Thirty. Open.” Ilya held out his right hand, and Shane obeyed without thinking. He sucked the fingers deep into his mouth, sound more audible when Ilya pushed in deeper.

“Mhm. Twenty-nine, twenty-eight.” Ilya drew the fingers out, and Shane forced in a ragged breath at how they glistened from his saliva, evident in the light. It matched the sweat beginning to form on his own chest.

Ilya trailed the wet fingers down Shane’s body, groping at a pec and flicking a nipple before moving on. He smirked at the reaction that got, shaking his head when Shane tried to hitch his body forward for more stimulation on his dick.

“Twenty-seven.” Ilya’s brow furrowed in concentration when he traced the wet fingers of his free hand over Shane’s hole. “Twenty-six.”

His left hand was still gradually pumping Shane’s cock, steady like a countdown should be. A measured time from the upstroke and the fall. It matched the numbers lilting out of his mouth.

“Fuck.” The word punched out of Shane, drawn out from somewhere deep inside him, when Ilya’s index finger worked its way in.

It was a stinging stretch – it always was when Ilya opened him with just spit – complimenting the pace of Ilya’s hand. It entered him in lockstep to the strokes, and Ilya put a second finger in as he drawled out, “Nineteen.”

Shane keened when he spanned the two fingers outwards. Tears pricked in his waterline. Ilya’s thumb stroked his entrance pacifyingly. “One more,” he muttered. “Eighteen.”

His wrist worked Shane’s hole with a level of understanding from years of doing just this. His third finger entered Shane around thirteen, and Shane’s hands flew up from laying by his sides to grip the posts of the headboard beside him.

“Twelve,” Ilya said, smiling approvingly when his eyes flicked up to take the sight in. “Eleven.”

Shane was nodding, nodding, nodding; his arms strained where they held on for dear life. He could feel the tautness all the way down to his shoulders.

“Haaa,” was the strangled noise that chose to leave Shane’s mouth, as Ilya rotated his wrist and started driving it back and forth. It was firm and brutal, sliding out when Ilya’s hand retreated to the base of Shane’s cock, and then shoving back in when he drew his hand back up.

Shane could feel the corners of the posts cutting into his palms from desperately trying to avoid an orgasm; he’d have marks there.

“Four more, shlyushka. Three.”

“Fuck, Ilya, please,” Shane choked out, gaze latching onto his. “Fuck-”

Ilya lowered down, intense and intent as he brought his mouth closer to his hands. “Two.”

“Please,” Shane repeated in a whine.

Ilya’s mouth was at the head of his cock now, where he was still leaking. “One. Come,” he said, lips brushing the tip, and then moved his hand off so he could fit his mouth over instead.

Shane came with a hoarse yell, Ilya humming encouragement all the while that sent vibrations down Shane’s pulsing cock as his throat worked to swallow Shane’s release.

He’d missed this so much – Ilya warm in him, on him, deciding for him. Owning him.

His pelvis slammed up into Ilya’s mouth, and Ilya took it without complaint, swallowing Shane all the way down. His fingers still crooked in Shane’s hole, moving back and forth, drawing out Shane’s orgasm.

Shane was babbling, brain supplying the only words he could think of. “Thank you, th- thank you.”

There was a persistent tremor that shook through his body, without his volition, when Ilya finally took away his mouth and his fingers. He stretched out over Shane again, using steady hands to help him loosen his grip on the bedposts. With a shushing sound, he encouraged Shane to quieten, turning him onto his side and lying next to him.

Feeling the hard length of his cock pressing into his hip, Shane reached for it with trembling fingers until Ilya threaded their hands together and looped his arms around in an embrace. “Later, malysh,” Ilya murmured in Shane’s ear. “You’ve been so good for so long.”

Shane knew that, realistically, a hundred seconds was not a long time. For most people, a hundred seconds were over in the blink of an eye.

It took him counting to almost two hundred in his head, before his heart rate evened out and he finally stopped shaking. The even breaths of Ilya, audible behind him, were six seconds each, plus a brief pause in the middle to switch between inhale and exhale.

“We have all day,” Ilya assured him, yawning as he held on tighter. Shane felt a kiss pressed to his temple when Ilya settled in comfortably.

To Shane, all day meant thousands of seconds, millions of moments.

Precious time between the two of them, time that they were rarely able to spend together.

He relaxed more into Ilya, relishing the pleased sound that caused, and let time tick on without counting it.