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Despite Ilya’s lukewarm response to the bonfire Shane had made him that first summer, three years ago now, it’s now tradition. Ilya has learned to love this ritual as he loves everything about summers at the cottage with Shane. It’s hard not to feel mesmerized by the glow of the fire, Shane’s gentle fingers combing through his hair, and Ilya doesn’t even get a little bit startled by the loons calling to one another anymore, or at least not very much. He loves those stupid little bonfires, the quiet intimacy of them, the way sparks and ash dance up to the night sky to join a million trillion stars, all shining down on them. The glow lights up a world that belongs only to the two of them.
They don’t do one every night, because Shane always tells him maybe you’re okay with your lungs turning black from smoke but I’m not planning on it, but they make sure to get one in every few days until they have go back to the real world. Two weeks ago, the wood pile had been piled high; now, after an entire fortnight of their blissful cottage idyll, there was only one measly log.
Ilya notices it as soon he steps out onto the deck with a mug of coffee shortly after getting out of bed. It’s hot enough that he doesn’t need to worry about mosquitoes, so he doesn’t bother with getting dressed. It’s nearly noon and Shane’s already been bustling around for a couple hours. Ilya assumes, based on years of evidence, that he’s downstairs working out in the basement.
There’s a blanket of quiet draped over the cottage that Ilya could easily believe stretches forever in every direction. Ilya sips his coffee and watches white, puffy, platonic ideal-shaped clouds moving slowly across the sky, and thinks about chopping the wood himself.
Whenever he can, he likes to surprise Shane with chores. He likes to prove that he can be thoughtful and capable, and that he knows without being told all the ways that Shane likes things just so. Normally this just means folding his laundry and putting it away without Shane asking him to, or cleaning up all of Anya’s toys and putting them in her little toy box instead of letting her leave them all over the place. He so rarely gets an opportunity like this where he can get his hands dirty, can prove to Shane just how good and helpful he can be.
The moment he’s done with the last sip of his coffee, Ilya pops back inside and puts on a pair of shorts and a shirt. He laces up the hiking boots Shane had bought him last summer as a surprise, with the soft, supple leather and the steel toe. Anya dances around him, tail wagging so hard her entire body shakes with it. She thinks they’re going to hike one of the trails Shane and his father once blazed through the surrounding woods. Ilya smiles.
“нет[1], Anechka,” he says softly, scratching her under the chin. “Later.”
She follows him down the hill to the shed where they keep the axe and a collection of logs that haven’t yet been split. He’s about a quarter of a kilometer away when Shane emerges from the shed himself, axe hoisted onto his shoulder. Anya barks a happy greeting and Shane looks up to smile at them both. God, his beauty is almost upsetting to behold. Anya takes off after a squirrel, but all Ilya can do is weakly raise a hand in return, and then, instead of being a normal person, just stand there staring.
He watches with what he knows must be raw, undisguised hunger as Shane leans the axe against a nearby tree and rolls over the tallest of the logs as a base. Not even his off-key whistling ruins the effect; if anything it makes Ilya burn hotter.
Shane has on a pair of jean shorts that Ilya knows without even needing to see make his ass look unreal. He's wearing his own steel-toed boots and an ugly, old, threadbare Boston Bears shirt that Ilya himself hadn’t worn since at least before his first time to the cottage, because Shane had long since claimed ownership of it.
Shane looks – well, to be frank, he looks like a wet dream. He’s a millimeter from straight up drooling as he watches Shane lift one of the smaller logs onto the base. Shane picks up the axe, steps back, swings it behind himself, then over his head. The world around them echoes with a crack! when Shane brings it down into the wood.
Ilya's breath hitches. Sometimes he almost wonders, how can Shane be real? How has nobody else laid claim to this man, how did Ilya get so lucky?
He watches Shane swing the axe again and again. It takes only three hits before this log is halved, at which point Shane drops the axehead to the ground and leans upon the handle so he can pull up the hem of his shirt to wipe his face.
Ilya can see the sheen of sweat on Shane’s abs even from here. He's immediately alight with the desire to reach out with his tongue and taste all that salt against Shane’s summer-hot skin, to push his shirt up higher and suck a bruise right onto Shane’s nipple. Most of all, though, he thinks for a moment what it would be like to lay down right there on the ground at Shane’s feet, and for Shane to drop to his knees and straddle Ilya’s face, to use Ilya’s mouth until he couldn’t breathe, to hold Ilya’s arms down with all that brute force, to make Ilya drink him in until he was choking with Shane’s cum.
It’s just that Shane is so – so strong. Beefy even. Jacked. All the things that would make any man blow a low whistle under his breath at the gym, impressed and jealous both. He knows that in Boston, it leads to dick-measuring contests, but that’s between a bunch of guys who really have each other’s backs.
Montreal is a bunch of assholes who don’t know how to be grateful for a good thing. They respect Shane as their captain, but Ilya has heard them speaking behind his back, and he wouldn’t think much of them even if they weren’t his archenemies on the ice or whatever. He wants to believe that they appreciate the full vitality of Shane, the fact of his curves and sinew and power. He wants to believe it, but his gut tells him that most of them resent it instead.
For his part, Ilya has always known how strong Shane is. Obviously. How could he not know? How many times has Shane checked him into the boards hard enough to bruise, his breath a wet heat at his ear? How many times has Ilya seen Shane in the gym, adding weight after weight to his bar and barely breaking a sweat when he lifts? How many more times than that has Ilya felt the ripple of Shane’s muscles under his fingers, gotten intimately familiar with the work Shane puts into looking the way he does, playing the way he does?
And yet, after they’ve spent days and days lounging around the cottage, playing video games and waking up when the sun is barely casting shadows, Ilya kind of… lets himself forget. He makes himself unlearn something that the rest of the world can’t see past. Shane Hollander, a fucking powerhouse of a man, one of the greatest hockey players to ever do it. Shane Hollander, rolling over to show Ilya his soft underbelly with an invitation to take a bite.
In bed, they like to paint pretty pictures together. They make believe that Ilya and Shane aren’t equals at the top of their game, that what Ilya wants he can always take, that Shane could never resist, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. The real truth is that Shane chooses to give himself to Ilya, chooses to let Ilya take control. Every time Ilya pins him down, slaps him so hard his skin turns red, bites him and covers him in marks that scream back off, it’s Shane’s choice. Every time Ilya holds him down and covers his mouth and fucks him until he cries, it’s really just a gift Shane bestows upon Ilya. It’s all part of the most devastating game of pretend Ilya has ever played.
Ilya’s eyes don’t leave Shane as the first log is split, then a second and third. The entire time, Ilya’s mind is buzzing with lust, and his mind conveniently supplies memory after memory of every time Shane has pretended he isn’t a fucking brick wall, has pretended that his body is just a weak thing for Ilya to make use of. Ilya is feeling insane by the time Shane starts on the fourth, and it only gets worse when Mr. Safety surprises Ilya by pulling his shirt over his head and tucking it in his back pocket.
Jesus Christ.This has gone too far. Ilya is immediately so hard he has to sit down or he’s going to get very woozy. He turns on his heel and speeds back up the hill and back into the cottage. He barely makes it all the way indoors before he’s pushing down his shorts and wrapping his hand around his cock, jerking himself harshly until he’s coming all over his own stomach.
Shane just has that effect sometimes.
***
Fifteen minutes later, Ilya has changed his clothes and let Anya back in. She immediately went over to her bed and fell asleep, and Ilya is settled now too. Well, to an outsider, he would seem like he is, anyway. He’s sitting on the couch, attempting to scroll through the 20 stupid videos Marly has sent him over the past week. Really, he’s been waiting for Shane’s return; every twenty seconds he glances up at the sliding glass door in the hope of catching Shane’s shadow inching towards him. He’s a live wire, made of charged atoms, all little negative particles of energy sparking and eagerly seeking out each and every one of Shane’s positive ions.
Apparently yesterday Marly had been on a weird frogs kick. He’s sent Ilya three videos in a row featuring a beautiful woman who speaks almost too quickly for Ilya to understand without subtitles, and in each of the videos she’s outdoors somewhere, zooming in on different species of frogs that all look like aliens to Ilya. wtf is this shit marly, he’d texted in response, and Cliff had immediately replied, idk man shes hot + frogs r cool followed by five fire emojis. It had made Ilya chuckle. Good old Marly.
The frogs are cool. They're cool in the same way Shane thinks nature is cool. Ilya is extremely fond of the way Shane will sometimes stop and point out tracks on the ground and name who they belong to in a hushed voice, or stare with awe at a perfect spider web glistening in the sun. The frogs are cool in the way that Ilya has learned from Shane to appreciate the world around him in the moments when they finally get to slow down. Until Shane, Ilya had never known the joy of just taking things slow. Anyway. No matter how cool the frogs are, Ilya can barely pay attention. That only gets worse when he hears the door open and close, and he looks up so quickly he’s surprised he didn’t put a crick in his neck.
Shane is standing there at the threshold of their home, eyes closed, sweaty and sun-browned, enjoying the cool air moving through the space courtesy of an enormous ceiling fan. He’s going to have even more freckles on his shoulders, even though Ilya can smell from here that Shane has been as religious about applying sunscreen as ever.
Any other time he’d be extremely interested in the fact that there exists a species of frogs named after zombies, but nothing could matter less to him in this second. He quickly turns off his phone and tosses it to the side without a second thought for where it lands. A breathy huff tells him the answer is probably somewhere near Anya. He stands and stalks towards Shane like a hungry lion, like a creature with a single goal.
Shane’s eyes flutter open the moment Ilya reaches for him. Ilya leers at him as he pushes him against the glass door.
“Ilya, stop, I’m all sweaty and gross,” says Shane, a weak protest for someone who is already arching his neck so that Ilya can seal his mouth to the skin there. There’s a faint hint of sunscreen in Ilya’s mouth, chemical and coconutty, but under that the salt of him on Ilya’s tongue makes him moan, and he pushes his torso harder against Shane’s in his quest to taste more.
“Sure, if you want that,” Ilya says, but he doesn’t stop at all. Instead he’s licking up the side of Shane’s neck, biting at his earlobe, dragging his teeth along Shane’s jaw. The last time they fucked wasn’t even twelve hours ago – sleepy, surreal orgasms exchanged in the bleary wee hours of the morning before they fell back asleep – but still Ilya is starving for it. He knows, deep in his soul, that he will never have enough of Shane, that he could devour him whole and something primal in him would search the world over for seconds, thirds.
He pauses and looks at Shane, considering. “Still want me to stop?” he asks.
Shane rolls his eyes, but his pupils are too blown to make it believable. He waves his hand as if to say, carry on. He’s grinning when he looks at at Ilya and says, “Well, you’re already here.”
Ilya smiles back. He presses his lips to Shane’s Adam’s apple and gives it a long, wet kiss before he moves lower down his chest. He lays his palm against Shane’s enormous bicep and notices, as if it’s never occurred to him before, that he can’t wrap his hand around it fully. That there would still be so much skin between his thumb and his longest finger. He’s so turned on he barely notices the sounds churning deep in his throat from the taste of Shane's nipple on his tongue. He sucks hard and Shane cries out above his head.
“Fuck,” Shane says, squirming under him, instead of asking Ilya to stop again. “Jesus, fuck, what – what is this even for?”
He pulls back and looks up at Shane. He meets those warm brown eyes, already hooded and staring at him as if hypnotized. “You chop firewood,” he says, stupidly, before wrapping his mouth around Shane’s other nipple, already losing his grasp on the finer points of English. Too overwhelmed by the scent and feel and sight of Shane everywhere around him to work his brain so hard, when all it wants is to let himself be taken away in a haze of desire.
“I did,” confirms Shane, his words tripping over themselves. “We needed more, so, I, I – I did, oh fuck.” Ilya knows that later Shane’s beautiful skin will be mottled pink and purple, a clear message to anyone who happens to see that he belongs to someone. Well, duh. He belongs to Ilya.
Without looking, Ilya reaches up and cups Shane’s warm cheek in his hand. God, even his jaw is strong, so certain under Ilya's fingertips as Shane pants warm, humid air into his palm. Ilya wants to hold him gently, wants to slap the shit out of him, wants him to know he is loved, wants him to know that he is Ilya’s alone to worship, to use, to have.
Except for the palm cradling Shane’s face with such gentle care, Ilya moves away from Shane and laughs with genuine delight when Shane, eyes closed, tries to follow with his mouth.
“No, no, Shanya,” he says. He lifts his gentle hand for the barest of moments before it’s landing heavy on Shane’s cheek with a crack. Shane gasps and Ilya can see the wet spot that grows on the front of his jeans. Ilya grabs at the hard, clothed ridge of Shane’s cock. “Stay.”
The sound Shane lets out could only be described as a whimper. Ilya loves this next part. He loves how Shane always knows what he wants. He adores that he doesn’t have to tell Shane to put his arms behind his back, to stand up straight and tall and not list dreamily towards Ilya. Shane just does it. Fuck. Shane just does it, and the movement makes his pecs stand out, makes the ripple of his biceps even clearer.
When Ilya used to volunteer at the dog shelter in Boston, he’d loved watching the bigger breeds play tug of war with the smaller dogs or with the puppies. The bigger dogs would hold the rope in their mouths and bite down the slightest bit, grunting as if they were really trying to hold on all the while. The little guys, on the other hand, would pull with all their might, snarling and growling and getting all worked up. It had always made him laugh, but here, right now Ilya might as well be one of those little guys, and it isn't funny at all. It's mostly just mindblowingly, lethally sexy.
Ilya drops down all the way onto his knees and thanks his past self for having the wherewithal to jerk off earlier, because Shane’s powerful thigh is suddenly balancing on his shoulder, making Ilya feel grounded and real. He rarely loses it before he’s ready, not like he can make Shane do with just the right combination of fingers and tongue, but the heavy weight of that thigh rubbing against his cheek, the ripple of Shane’s abs when Ilya glances up at him – he thinks that today, he would have already, in locker room terms, blown his load.
He unceremoniously removes Shane’s jeans and is met with a sight that almost causes Ilya to choke on his own saliva.
Shane isn’t wearing underwear.
Ilya sucks in air through his teeth. He raises his eyes and meets Shane's, and Shane is blushing, caught. Ilya smiles. “Oh, Моя звёздочка[2], were you always planning to put a show on for me?"
Shane shudders, the same abrupt shiver that has always been Shane’s tell: a clue that a switch has been flipped, that Shane is turned on the way you turn on a light, all at once, every corner now bright and golden and everything so starkly visible. Ilya loves this moment, is so grateful for Shane’s open, unmistakable wanting. It doesn’t matter how often he’s handed this present, how many ways it’s wrapped up in a bow. It always fills Ilya with such gratitude.
His smile grows wider. “You were,” he says, trying for accusation but he knows it comes out more like awe. He can’t decide what he wants to look at more, Shane’s wide eyes, the way his mouth has dropped open, or the way Shane’s dick is growing steadily harder. Ilya licks his lips. “You wanted me to watch, Шалунья[3], didn’t you? You knew it would make me want you, you knew I’d see you.”
“I thought,” Shane gasps, breath hitching as Ilya draws a gentle teasing finger along his length. “I thought you’d like it.”
“Mm,” agrees Ilya. He darts out his tongue to lick at the head of Shane’s cock, just for a brief moment. “You thought I’d get off on how big and strong you are, hm?”
“Yeah,” breathes Shane, “Yeah, I saw you watching, I saw – you – ” but Shane can’t finish what he’s trying to say, because Ilya leans forward to take Shane into his mouth. He watches Shane’s reaction through his eyelashes and luxuriates in every detail of it. The sight of Shane’s jaw dropping so that his lips form a desperate o. The tangy summer scent of him catching in Ilya's nostrils. The delicious salty taste of his precum. Best of all, the heft of him on his tongue. The sound of Shane losing himself to pleasure, Ilya’s name a prayer in Shane’s mouth. “Ilya, Ilya, you feel so good,” says Shane, sounding more and more gone.
Ilya struggles to keep his eyes open, but every so often he flutters open his eyelids so he can steal a glance at the way Shane’s abs are straining, how Shane puts a leash on all that power just so that Ilya can drink his fill. And every time, Ilya swallows him a little deeper, makes himself choke on Shane’s dick with single-minded fervor, ignoring as best he can the urge to gag. His chin drips with drool and precum and his wanting is as big and inescapable as the sky. Finally he is able to swallow Shane deep enough that his nose is rubbing against the wiry hair that decorates the base. The blood rushing in his ears sounds like thank you, thank you, because all of this is what Shane wants for him, and Ilya is so grateful for this gift. All he wants to do is repay Shane in kind.
Sucking off Shane isn’t like anything Ilya has ever done with anyone else. It’s an experience he hoards close like precious treasure, the velvet warmth of it, the inimitable taste, the way it allows Ilya to just be for a moment. With Shane in his mouth he’s no longer Ilya Rozanov, prodigal son, hated brother, hockey star, Boston’s Russian Casanova turned failing captain of a losing team. Kneeling before Shane, he’s at once nothing and everything. Here he can be anything Shane knows how to want.
He wants to get lost here on his knees for his Shane. He wants to live right here forever, in their own private heaven, all the rest of the world fallen away. He wants to let himself float away on how good it feels when the head of Shane’s dick rubs just so against the back of his throat, or when Ilya runs his tongue along the vein on its underside, or presses it against the seam of Shane’s ball sac, soft and heavy. Shane just keeps moaning, as undone by the bliss of it as Ilya is.
But Ilya doesn’t intend to squander Shane’s generosity. He has plans to make the most of it.
He forces himself to pull off Shane and stands up quickly before the draw of that gorgeous cock becomes too much for Ilya to ignore. He immediately takes Shane’s hand and guides him towards the couch.
“What’re you doing,” Shane says, following willingly. He doesn’t ask like he actually cares about the answer. This too is part of the game. Shane’s already handed over the keys and helped Ilya climb into the driver’s seat. Shane might make some noise about who gets the aux cord but really he already knows that Ilya will take good care of him, that he’ll get them where they need to go.
This is what it’s like every time: Ilya goes to the car dealership, looking for a Vespa. Shane hands him the keys to a fucking jet.
Okay, so it's an imperfect metaphor, he could workshop it, but who cares when he’s got Shane Hollander, willing and pliable under his fingers? With a gentle nudge between his shoulders, Ilya encourages Shane to bend over the arm of the sofa. It's a good move because now Ilya gets to be up close and personal with the muscled expanse of Shane’s back and shoulders, covered in a breathtaking array of freckles. Ilya kisses each of those holy freckles with a sense of reverence most people reserve for when they’re in the presence of a canonized saint.
“You know,” says Shane, and Ilya is impressed that there’s barely a wobble in his voice. He almost sounds nonchalant. Ilya reaches over him to pull a bottle of lube from between the cushions as Shane wiggles to make himself more comfortable. Ilya places the lube on the ground within arm’s length. “When I bought my fourteen thousand dollar sofa, I kinda thought I’d need to take pretty good care of it. Like, not rub my sweaty body directly all over it.”
“You can’t fool me,” says Ilya in return, unable to keep the laughter out of his voice. He’s plastered against Shane’s back, dropping kisses further and further down. “I already know you used to jerk off right here. Watching Bears play, probably.”
Shane looks over his shoulder and glares at him. “I would never jerk off to a Bears game,” he says primly.
“Ok,” he says, pretending to let it go for now. Instead, he drops to his knees again, despite a twinge in his thigh that’s telling him he’ll be feeling this later. This time, the sight that greets him isn’t Shane’s proud, beautiful cock, but instead the enticing pink of his hole. Ilya can’t help it – he presses his palm down on his own dick, willing it to calm down just a little. Every part of Shane is just so beautiful.
Ilya leans forward, tongue-first, mouth already watering. This isn’t new to him at all, and even so, that first taste is reminiscent of tales of ancient inventors and philosophers, a discovery that opens the whole world to a more complete understanding, a tangible Eureka! He chases that flavor, flicks his tongue against the sensitive skin, coaxing loud, wanton cries from Shane that might as well be the cottage’s theme song by now.
He places his hands where Shane’s glutes concave in, appreciates the way the muscles tremble restlessly under his fingertips. He spreads Shane’s ass, and the sound of his name on Shane’s lips makes Ilya want to gobble him up, a horny Baba Yaga.
Ilya’s appetite doesn’t prevent him from the ever-present need to be an asshole, though. Why would it? Shane knew what he was getting into. Ilya pulls back suddenly and just kneels there, admiring the view. As if commenting on the weather, he says, “Did you know Youtube keeps watch history? Search terms? Last week I happened to search ‘Ilya Rozanov top ten best plays,’ just curious, you know, and – ”
Shane cuts him off there. “Will you shut the fuck up?” he says, looking over at him again, his eyes glittering. His voice is a glorious combination of all of Ilya’s favorite ways that Shane can sound: irritated, amused, turned on as hell.
“What?” says Ilya, the grin on his face making it difficult to sound as innocent as he’s trying for. “I think it’s nice! You know, some guys, they watch a lot of porn. Shane Hollander? He likes to watch, eh, let me think of the title. Oh yes. ‘Ilya Rozanov Shirtless Post-Game Interviews: Three Hour Compilation.’”
Shane shakes his head, laughing, and says, “You fucking asshole," and then reaches back to grab Ilya’s hair and force Ilya back to where Shane wants him. This is the first crack in that illusion they’ve crafted together: Shane doesn’t go easily at all, it turns out. His hand is so big and sure at the crown of Ilya’s head, so strong and unshakeable. The sensation of Shane’s fingertips against Ilya’s scalp is like electricity.
Ilya rewards such initiative with a long hum as he drags his tongue from the silky skin behind Shane’s balls and doesn’t relent until he reaches the pink pucker of his hole. He breaches Shane, presses his tongue in as deep as he can and then tries to get deeper, even though he knows it will hurt later, even though he has to take big gasping breaths every so often, even though he knows he’ll be talking weird for a day or two. The sounds Shane makes above him are music to Ilya’s ears.
After several long minutes, during which Ilya transforms from a man with his own wants and needs into something created for the sole purpose of pleasing Shane, he comes back to himself a little and realizes that Shane’s grip on his hair has gotten looser, and better yet – he’s trying to say something. He pulls back so he can better pick out the words.
“I need it, I need you,” Shane begs, again and again, quiet and desperate. “Ilyuskha, I want it, please.”
Ilya’s dick twitches. He can last a long while when he wants to, but the sound of Shane asking him so nicely is a surefire way to take Ilya from 0 to 100. Well, okay. A baseline 50 to 100.
“I got you, солнышко[4], I got you,” Ilya coos at him. He picks up the lube from where he left it next to his own knee, proud of his own forethought, and coats his fingers in it.
The blowjob followed by the rimming has made Shane loose and pliant, plus they’re half a month into their annual sexcation. There’s barely any difficulty at all when Ilya pushes two fingers into Shane.
Not that the ease of it, the familiarity, does anything to moderate the way Shane reacts, this time and every time. “Fuck,” he cries, drawing it out long and hot and hungry, “oh fuck, Ilya, yes.”
Of course, it’s not like Ilya has room to talk. The heat of Shane clenching around his fingers, the sight of the way they disappear into soft velvet warmth – it always makes Ilya feel breathless with want, dizzy with the honor of being the one to take Shane apart. It takes everything in him to drag his eyes away from the view, but he wants to see the rest of Shane, wants to see the way he’s dropped his head by now, the way his arms shake as they struggle to hold the weight of his upper body.
Ilya is rewarded immediately for his willpower. Ilya’s eyes meet Shane’s through the window created between Shane’s arm and torso. Those eyes are like magnets, but Ilya wouldn’t look away even if he could: he has to take it all in, has to commit it all to memory. The way Shane’s strong biceps aren’t shaking at all, the way his mouth hangs open, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, cheeks red and lips plump from biting.
Panting and probably flushed and sweating himself, he fucks his fingers into Shane, soft and slow at first. Shane doesn’t close his eyes, though Ilya can tell he has to fight not to. His fingers go deep, deep, until he can feel the little bundle of nerves that lights Shane up like fireworks. Shane’s eyes fall closed for a moment and he jerks his hips so that his cock drags against the soft leather of the sofa.
“Is that what you needed?” Ilya asks, a little like he’s mocking him, but in a way that doesn’t quite disguise his awe. “Or do you need more?”
Shane nods, his face a mask of absolute euphoria. “More,” he mouths rather than says, and then his eyes flutter open again. His eyes are lined with unshed tears, the way he still doesn’t realize even happens.
Who cares about English at a time like this? Ilya shakes his head in disbelief and tells him, Ты такая красивая — как это возможно? Как это может быть правдой?”[5]
He knows Shane only picked up on about a third of that at best, but it’s enough that Shane’s lips curve in that sweet, secret smile that Ilya loves so much. It’s enough that Ilya gives in. He pulls out his fingers only to plunge back in, this time with three, and fucks Shane relentlessly.
He fucks him hard, and fast, and Shane’s hips stutter helplessly against the arm of the couch. There’s been a shift that Ilya recognizes from years of experience, when Shane lets go and gives it all to Ilya, when he surrenders everything and lets Ilya give him everything back. It’s an addicting feeling, one that Ilya cherishes like nothing else in this world.
Shane pushes back on Ilya’s fingers while Ilya drives his fingers deep inside, dogged in his persistence and merciless in his assault on Shane’s prostate. Ilya can’t help plunging his hand into his underwear so he can jerk himself off, feeling insane. He can’t help the moans that are being dragged out of his own mouth, just wordless appreciation and overwhelmed gratitude. They manage to find a rhythm at some points before it falls apart again, as they chase the bliss of loving each other, of wanting each other.
With a long, aching, choked-off cry, Shane comes all over the couch. Ilya keeps his fingers inside him until he follows Shane off the cliff a few moments after. He pulls them out and wipes them on his own now-ruined shorts.
Shane droops forward onto the couch. “Well, fuck,” he mumbles into the cushions. He turns his head so that he can address Ilya more clearly. “You are so good at that.”
Ilya smiles. He stands and comes around to sit down on the sofa, and Shane rearranges his body to lay his head in Ilya’s lap. “We’re so good at that,” he corrects.
They’re quiet for a short while, enjoying Anya’s snores, the birdsong in the distance, the way the sunlight shifts through the trees or hides behind clouds. Shane is the first to speak.
“You know how I said we can’t have bonfires all the time?” he says, looking up at Ilya.
Ilya looks back down at him and raises an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“I changed my mind,” says Shane. “I gotta have more reasons to chop wood.”