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Ilya’s luck has always been mercurial.
Too much of it, his father would say. Only the good luck, according to his brother. Always the bad, if you ask Sveta.
On the whole, it comes out pretty even in the wash.
Strange, the inconveniences he has learned to tolerate. He’d been more upset about the twisted ankle Tampa sprang on him last month. That’s the kind of injury that fucks up a whole week. This? One night and he’s good.
At least he knows how to fix this.
Cold places breed hard magic, Ilya knows that better than anyone. These Montreal bitches do not play around. They’d gotten the whole team last time, a logistical nightmare that ensured Marly was never, ever in charge of finding a hooker again.
Not that the Boston witches pull their punches. But they like the old stuff, biblical in scope. Full-on locusts raining down on Shane’s miffed little head, frogs hopping out of his skates and poking out from in between his furious, clenched lips. Ilya had gotten the angriest blowjob of his life that night.
But fucking Montreal. It’s always weird sex shit with the Canadians. And they’re just as likely to put the hex on their own boys if they lose. Shane’s had to wear the C twice in the years they’ve been … well, they’re not anything, but in the years since Ilya’s known him. The Metros fans are as vindictive as they are fervent, although Ilya can’t help but admire their creativity.
Giving Hayden Pike menstrual cramps on center ice had been fucking inspired.
Ilya’s the lucky C tonight, doubled over with familiar, lancing pain as they shuffled back into the locker rooms.
He’d gotten all-around sympathy mingled with thankful relief that it’s Cap’s turn to take one for the team. He’d immediately quashed the Captain Cunt jokes the first time they tried. That shit is just annoying.
Everyone had given him space to shower, except Marly, ever the gentleman and quick to help in his lughead way.
“You need a hand, brother? I know you got that girl here.”
And Marly would, truly, out of fraternal obligation, bend him over right in the showers and give Ilya a perfectly mediocre ninety seconds. It would get the job done. Friends look out for friends, they’ve all done it. He could take a quick nap and show up to Shane’s apartment like nothing had happened.
“We will figure it out, Marly, thank you.”
It’s not like he and Shane are a thing. They’re barely anything, and it’s not like they can ever be more than that. Still. Ilya hadn’t been in the mood for Marly’s perfunctory pump and dump. It’s like craving pizza and ordering tacos.
“Figure it out?”
Ilya just wants some fucking pizza.
“Bro.” Marly had turned off his showerhead and gotten a distance Ilya would only tolerate from a handful of people without pushing back.
“You going to Paris without me?” He had pressed one of his big, lumpy hands over his chest, heartbroken.
“I get you nice postcard, Marly, you can put it next to picture of me with your mother.”
If anything, Marly hits him a little harder when Ilya’s got a cunt.
Shane’s back door opens with its usual clandestine ferocity. Ilya lingers in the doorway, makes Shane haul him inside. Shane is strong enough to flatten Ilya if he feels like it.
“Took you long enough,” Shane grumbles, getting close to flattening as he backs Ilya up against the wall.
“Shane Hollander missed me!” Ilya kisses him, smiles into the messy press of Shane’s tongue. Always eager for it.
“Asshole.” Shane doesn’t stop kissing him.
Ilya wriggles a hand under Shane’s sweatshirt, sliding between soft fabric and warm skin. Shane stops him before he can get all the way to his tits.
“Get upstairs.”
One day he will get Shane to fuck in this stairwell. Probably a better move when he actually has his dick.
Ilya follows Shane up, shifting minutely in his jeans. It’s so strange to have all that extra space.
Shane’s pushier once he’s behind a locked door.
Like a cat that keeps pushing its head into your hand, Shane will just batter himself against Ilya until he gets put in his place.
“Want to suck your dick.”
“About that.”
Ilya takes Shane’s wrist and guides his hand down between Ilya’s legs. What a journey one face can take in a few scant seconds — expectant bliss, hungry urgency, blank befuddlement, soaring disappointment, frozen panic.
“Fuck. Shit, fuck, no, oh my God, Roz-”
“This is not big deal, Hollander.”
Ilya frowns, tightens his grip on Shane’s hand. He’d tried to jerk it away. Fucker.
“What, you are scared it will bite?” He presses Shane’s hand against him, the throb between his legs so different and so familiar all at once. Shane swallows, bobs his throat.
“No, I just.” Shane’s hand relaxes, like it always does when Ilya squeezes a touch too hard. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what? You did not hire la sorciere to give me magic pussy, Hollander.”
“No!” Too quick an answer, that one. Ilya frowns. He’s the one whose cock went poof when he stepped off the ice, but Shane looks infinitely more miserable.
“So? Not your fault.” Ilya shrugs. “But you can help me fix it.”
Shane’s mouth opens and closes, his eyes going anywhere that isn’t Ilya’s face.
What Shane does with his dick when it isn’t in Ilya’s mouth is none of his business. Shane never asks about the other women Ilya sleeps with, even if he surely hears about them. The pettiest babushka would decry the gossip mongering that flies around a locker room. He has always contemplated the women Shane dates as cardboard abstractions – two-dimensional at best, bland, interchangeable.
If this is the face Shane makes before he fucks them, they deserve genuine sympathy.
“Hollander.” That gets him looking, but does little to wipe the misery off his face. He’s still pretty.
“You know how this works. I helped you last time!”
“That’s different,” Shane blurts. It had been plenty different, especially when Ilya had gotten three fingers in Shane’s ass while he was fucking his exquisitely wet cunt. “Shane Hollander squirts” is the least surprising news Ilya could have imagined. Ilya has reminisced on this in more than one hotel room shower, and that night he couldn’t stay hard for that pharmaceutical rep in Dallas. A secret for the grave. Ilya likes Shane in any permutation.
“So what, I am just,” Ilya pouts. “Big dick? This is all I am good for?” He gives Shane’s wrist one last squeeze before releasing him.
“No. No! Of course not.”
Shane, to be fair, looks wounded. Or at least bashful.
“It’s fine.” Ilya pulls his phone out. “I will call Cliff, he can help.”
“You are not calling Cliff fucking Marleau!”
“These are rules, Hollander. Someone needs to fuck me, I sleep, all better.” Ilya shrugs as he swipes his phone open. He doesn’t want to fuck Cliff fucking Marleau either, but he likes the taste of Shane’s petulance in the back of his mouth. “If you don’t want to help me –”
“Jesus, I’ll do it, stop.”
He snatches at Ilya’s phone, almost manages to get it before Ilya jerks it out of reach.
“I just.” Shane’s jaw clenches together, always at war with himself. “I like it better when you’re the one, you know.”
“The one what?”
“Fucking me.”
Shane winces. Ilya knows it pains Shane to say these things. Hurts him like a splinter wrenched from under the nail, sharp and bright, need another four-letter word. Necessary.
“So this is just about what you want?” Ilya slings his voice low, slides his hand into Shane’s just-showered hair and curls his fingers.
“No, I –” His gasp is a rush through his perfect teeth as Ilya pulls, nice and sharp.
“You think you are in charge because I want you to use your dick for once?”
Shane knows what he likes but Ilya knows what he needs.
“Don’t worry.” Ilya nudges his nose against Shane’s jaw, inhales the spring-time scent of whatever Shane uses to wash his face. “It’s not like you don’t know how to do this.”
There’s something in the way Shane goes still. Like he’s been caught with something he shouldn’t have in his mouth, a guilty dog. Ilya arches an eyebrow.
“Hollander. You have never helped teammate with this?”
That blush is all the answer he needs.
Normally, first time is a red flag that Ilya immediately dodges. Too much responsibility, low return on investment. Shane is, as ever, his exception to this rule.
“You are a virgin!” Ilya beams at him. The grain of sand he’s always pocketed about whether Shane and Pike had fucked around dissolves in his stomach.
“Fuck you.”
“I am popping your boy pussy cherry!” He gives Shane’s head a fond shake, just to see him roll his eyes.
“I fucking hate you.” Shane is very cute when he’s a bitch.
“I don’t think you hate me that much.”
Shane is red faced and glowering but he’s still half-chubbed in his sweatpants when Ilya looks down pointedly.
“I think this is. Opportunity.”
A word Ilya has heard so many times. Rolls off his tongue, a word for the lips and the palate. He lets his breath run hot over Shane’s ear, kicks his leg in between Shane’s.
“Show you how to use this cock, hm?”
He leans in, presses his full weight against Shane’s body. Strange how close he can get without his own cock vying for space. He rolls his hips, smiles at the familiar press of Shane going hard against him and the novel throb of his own arousal. Heat between his legs.
“Teach you how to fuck like a real man.”
A low-stakes gamble, rewarded with the quick jackpot of Shane’s reedy whine. His eyes slide closed and he bites his lip, the same face he’d made the first time Ilya called him a greedy slut. Any panic that had hijacked Shane’s body melts away, his shoulders sloping down and his ribs expanding as Ilya tugs his hair again. Shane’s easy once he knows his place.
“You will do what I tell you?”
“Course.” So quick to answer, so eager to be good. Shane’s eyes gleam when he opens them, dark and bright in the staid lighting of his penthouse. Ilya shifts, presses himself against the thick muscle of Shane’s thigh. Pulsing, like his heart has flown south and nested there.
Shane smells like soap and toothpaste when Ilya kisses him, all scrubbed and shiny. In the small hours of roadies across fluorescent American cities he has pictured this, touched himself to Shane awash in suds, diligent as an altar boy as he readies himself for Ilya. Clean to the marrow.
Up the stairs, around the corner, onto the bed – Shane follows him face-first, kissed along until Ilya’s calves meet the mattress.
Shane wriggles out of his sweats with his usual efficiency. Ilya pushes him onto the bed, smiling at the bounce Shane always makes as he lands. Shane is made for movement. He watches Ilya strip until he’s down to his boxer briefs, familiar hunger giving way to a muted gulp as he stares at the flat front of Ilya’s crotch.
“Touch yourself.” Ilya waits until Shane has an easy hand around his dick before he shucks his underwear off. Lets Shane stare, wide-eyed, as Ilya dips his index finger between his new lips – nice fat ones, Ilya notes with pride. He’s slick and warm, as quick to get wet as he is to chub up at the sight of Shane.
He lets his finger glisten in the air before pressing it into his mouth, sucks louder than he needs to while Shane watches him. Salty, a briny concentration of himself he’s not quite used to. He tastes good.
“Come here.” He curls two fingers toward himself, hardly necessary with the quick way Shane inches himself to the edge of the bed. His toes curl in his socks as he plants his feet on the floor, a nervous habit Shane himself probably isn’t aware of. Ilya smiles and steps in closer, a scant inch between Shane’s face and Ilya’s belly button.
Ilya follows the curling path of his happy trail down to the wet split of his cunt, smiling at the rapt attention Shane pays him. He slides two fingers up and down, gathering slick before he searches for the searing bundle of his clit. His other hand finds Shane’s hair, only shakes once before he gets the blind-snap of Shane’s eyes on his. Lips parted and licked wet, Shane stares up at him, frozen in place as Ilya rolls his fingers over his clit and groans.
“I think he likes you.”
It always disarms him, this sweep of sensation that bursts from under his fingers and floods his whole body. Shane in desperate obedience always gets him hot, but this full-body throb floods his mouth and snaps right back to his cunt. He needs Shane all over him. He tugs Shane’s face up and spreads two cunt-slick fingers over his lips, paints him to gloss before he climbs into Shane’s lap.
Shane’s always a noisy kisser. Hums his feelings, purrs and groans and laps up anything Ilya gives him. The soft oh he makes as he sucks Ilya’s bottom lip rides straight down Ilya’s spine, kicks up a fist-clench throb between his legs. He straddles his legs around Shane, his knees sinking into the thick down of Shane’s comforter.
He guides Shane’s hand down, closes his own over it and pushes two of Shane’s fingers between his cunt lips. Another oh, wide-eyed, as Shane follows the gentle circles Ilya leads him through.
“Fuck, you’re. Really wet.” Shane’s other hand runs over his waist, his ass, down his thigh, like Shane can’t find a place to settle. Restless.
“Told you.” Ilya urges him lower, lets the pads of his fingers press against his opening. “He likes you.”
“So wet,” Shane mumbles, dazed. A tendril of pride finds Ilya, threads itself into his guts. He’ll get wetter than any girl Shane could ever find.
Shane kisses him, arches himself up and licks into Ilya’s mouth, sloppy, writhing under Ilya. Ilya’s so intent on kissing him back he loses track of Shane’s hands, and he deserves a medal for not biting Shane’s lip clean off when he feels Shane’s cock nudging against his pussy.
“Oh my fucking god, Hollander, you can’t just stick it in!” Ilya rears back and stands up,
Shane looks about as miserable as a man with his hand around his hard cock can look. “I, but, I thought – ”
Ilya cuts him off and cuffs him on the shoulder.
“Tell me this is not what you do to girls!”
“You’re not a girl,” Shane snaps, his mouth opening and closing a few times like he can’t think of anything else to say.
Ilya wraps his big hand around Shane’s jaw. “No shit.”
He squeezes until Shane’s lips purse out, a shade past affection but far from a bruise.
“But what kind of friend would I be if I let you fuck these poor girls like this?”
Ilya swallows. Friends. Giving him a hand, like Marly said. They’re just helping each other out. He doesn’t remember having this strange tension in his stomach the last time he’d gotten cursed, but it had been over a year. Probably some rearranged bits on the inside.
He pulls Shane’s face up and leans down to kiss him, snags his fat bottom lip between his teeth.
“You like when I use your mouth.” Ilya’s pretty sure he could stick his fingers in Shane’s mouth while he’s dead asleep and he’d still start sucking them. He presses down against Shane’s tongue, lets some spit run out around his knuckles.
“I can use any part of you I want.”
A good reminder for Shane. How could anyone touch him and not realize he needs to be led? Cruel, to put Shane in charge. To lay more weight on his overburdened shoulders.
Shane hums around his fingers, slipping back into ease as Ilya idly caresses his tongue.
“So you are going to be a gentleman,” Ilya shakes him for emphasis, “and make me come before you fuck me.”
A gentle slap to Shane’s cheek, friendly, before Ilya releases his grip on Shane’s mouth. He settles at the head of Shane’s bed, resplendently nestled among pillows Shane didn’t choose. A pharaoh on his litter. He beckons Shane, two fingers curled towards himself, a gesture Ilya worries has wired itself into his brain and won’t depart even when Shane is some married man he sees at occasional awards galas.
Shane crawls up to him, liquid grace on hands and knees, a sublimation Ilya marvels at every time he watches Shane brick-wall his way across the ice just to vaporize in Ilya’s mouth. He resists the urge to grab Shane’s hair and force him down, takes a beat to sip on the tension rolling off of Shane’s massive shoulders.
A click as Shane swallows, staring between Ilya’s legs. His hands slide up Ilya’s thighs and stop. Pitiful.
“Hollander. You have never eaten pussy before?”
“Of course I have. It just … looks different.”
“They all look different! Mine is very nice, trust me.” Of course he’s looked at it in the mirror.
“It’s just.” Shane’s brow creases. “More hair.”
“This is sexy!” Ilya rolls his eyes. “What, you have only seen little Barbie doll girls?”
Christ, he probably has. Ilya sighs, loud in his chest, lets his head slump back against his pillows.
“Sorry I did not have time to get wax before I came to fuck you, Hollander.” Another sigh, more indulgent this time. “Did not seem to bother you last time.”
Last time, when Shane had choked on his dick with such wet abandon Ilya could have wrung his pubes out like a dishrag. Shane’s cheeks redden, with remorse or remembrance, it doesn’t matter. He lets out a grateful sigh as Ilya grabs his ear, his breath warm against Ilya’s skin.
“I have to do everything myself.” Ilya shakes his head, rolls Shane’s warm earlobe between his fingers. Pinches to make sure he’s watching as Ilya slides a hand down, vees his fingers apart to spread his lips open.
“You know where clit is, yes?” Ilya smirks, always warmed when he can tease Shane.
Shane glares at him and nods, his jaw set to determined. If there’s one thing he hates more than being in charge, it’s being bad at something.
“Let me. Please?” Shane knows what he does with his eyes, Ilya’s sure of it. Ilya knows exactly where his clit is as Shane licks his lips and blinks up at him.
Ilya nods, whispers his “Yeah,” his skin prickling all over like it always does when Shane uses his manners. He spreads his legs wider to make space for Shane’s head, leans back and closes his eyes as Shane’s fingers slot over his own and his breath runs warm against Ilya’s skin.
Shane’s tongue swipes over him, a slow sweep that curls Ilya from his toes to his eyes, maybe Shane isn’t so bad at this, maybe –
“Ow!”
Ilya’s ass fully rises off the mattress as Shane sucks at his clit like he’s trying to pull it off.
“Hollander!”
He yanks Shane back, shakes him by the hair.
“You are like fucking dog with treat.”
“You said–”
“I said find it, not turn into fucking vacuum cleaner.”
Ilya shakes his head, sucks his cheeks in as he stares down at Shane.
“Such a disappointment.”
Shane hates being bad at anything, but that doesn’t stop him from going dark-eyed and molten when he’s bad for Ilya.
“Not your fault.”
Ilya’s cunt throbs as he gives Shane a few smacks on the cheek, chastising. Shane’s eyes blur out of focus, as hot for this ugly itch they share as Ilya is.
“Are all your girlfriends as boring as you, Hollander?”
Another smack, and Ilya cups his cheek, makes Shane look at him.
“They never told you how to be good?”
For one moment, Shane looks right at him, wet eyes weaponized to strip Ilya bare. No. No one but you. All great beauty needs a touch of sadness, but Shane has been greedy, drunk too deep from the pool of their impossible situation. Ilya swallows, banishes this hungry ghost with a mean jerk of Shane’s hair.
“Open your mouth.”
Shane obeys, tongue out, a good dog who won’t wolf his treats down this time. Ilya guides him down, hair-held, until Shane’s breath pants over his clit, his tongue not daring to follow.
“Give me your hand.”
He snatches it, lets Shane settle himself as he pulls Shane’s left hand up. Ilya bites his thumb gently, watches the indents of his teeth disappear as Shane holds, waits for him.
“This is why Shane Hollander is such a good player.” Ilya smiles, splays his legs wider. “Very coachable.”
Ilya can’t even identify what it is he hates about that word, like he can’t identify how he knows Shane will rut his hips against the bed when he says it. He just does.
“This,” Ilya says in his most pedantic voice before darting his tongue against the center of Shane’s thumb, “is clit. This,” he drags the tip of his tongue around the periphery of Shane’s thumb, “is how you start. Understand?”
Shane hums against him, mm-hmm, a different kind of pleasant in Ilya’s current state.
“Good.”
He licks another circle around Shane’s thumb, almost drops it as Shane copies him, teasing around the sides of Ilya’s clit. Shane follows so easily, a perfect mimic for every movement of Ilya’s tongue across his thumb.
It’s so different from the usual narrowing pleasure of Shane’s mouth on him. Syrupy, drenched, like he’s floating in space and growing roots into Shane’s bed all at once. Shane is so good, warm and soft against his clit, moaning against it and nosing into Ilya’s pubic hair.
He’d stopped giving Shane the warning months ago, and it’s almost for himself that Ilya mumbles “I’m close” around Shane’s thumb, names this familiar and foreign pressure building up inside him. He twists a hand into Shane’s hair, presses him close, his back arching up as he grinds tight circles against Shane’s obedient, tireless tongue.
His legs clench together as he comes, not that it seems to bother Shane. He doesn’t need any urging to keep going, even as Ilya drops the reins on his thumb and shudders through it.
“Fuck, Hollander.”
The lines of Ilya’s body blur as he rides against it, a wave that drops him just to kick him higher over and over. Shane must be sore but he doesn’t stop, both arms wrapped around Ilya’s thighs now, anchoring him as every muscle Ilya possesses fights the urge to levitate. He comes more than once, for sure, but the number gets fuzzy after that.
Finally, panting, sweat waging war with the remnants of his shameful “Shane-night” hair product, Ilya pulls Shane off his overworked clit and hauls him up. The dazed expression on Shane’s face is familiar, but he smells different when Ilya kisses him.
“Was I good?” Shane’s lips are swollen, shiny. The dizzy look softens him out, smooths the bridge of his nose and unclenches his jaw.
Ilya takes his hand, guides it down, pushes the tips of Shane’s two fingers to dip inside.
“Not bad.” Ilya grins. He’s sopping. There will be a wet spot bigger than Shane’s face underneath him.
“See? You can learn.”
Ilya’s limbs are heavy, a pleasant weight that keeps him kissing Shane like they have all the time in the world. He pushes Shane’s fingers, lets him carefully slide inside. Shane is so gentle.
“Does your girlfriend get wet like this?”
Shane doesn’t have a girlfriend. Still, Ilya hates this woman, this smiling simulacrum with happily married parents and an affable older brother, who doesn’t flinch at loud noises and waxes all the hair off her body.
Shane doesn’t have a girlfriend, but he just says, “Never” and kisses Ilya harder.
“Now you can fuck me, Hollander.”
Shane’s fingers are still inside him. “Do you want to get on top of me?”
Ilya snorts. “What, so you can lay there like piece of furniture while I do all the work?”
Ilya has, to be fair, lain back and let Shane do all the work before. Spellbound, paralyzed with it while Shane rides him and turns all that muscle into an ocean possessed of its own hungry gravity. Shane can put in work.
“Come here.”
Shane is so handsome. Amongst the other secrets that will share space in Ilya’s coffin is how obsessively Ilya has watched every interview Shane has done, every YouTube compilation and highlights reel, that fucking energy drink ad. He knows the general opinion on Shane’s bullpen answers — wooden, canned, rehearsed. He’s not giving anything away, is he?
Pearls before swine. Shane gives everything if you know how to look. Like the bouquets and leggy runs Sveta swears justify the price of the wine he pays for at dinner, Shane is nuanced. Subtle. A reward for the close watchers, the puzzle-solvers like Ilya. Shane moves through a dozen emotions that Ilya can taste on his palate, each one more precious than the last.
That flat line across his well-worked mouth, eyes wide and moving over Ilya’s face like a hummingbird, that jump of his nostrils — nervous, the lead-me kind, the kind that makes Ilya throb and ache no matter what’s occupying the space between his legs.
It’s Shane’s first time.
“This is easy, Hollander. First I use your mouth.”
He kisses Shane, hums at the taste of himself there.
“Then I use your dick.”
He kisses Shane again, his own nose scrunching up as he flexes unfamiliar inside muscles. Shane’s fingers go still inside him.
“Ok,” Shane huffs, so much sincerity as he nods his head. He could keep Shane like this forever, cupped in his hand, so eager to please. All that biddable strength rolling between his palms, following Ilya as he maneuvers Shane between his spread legs, pulls his fingers out and nudges the head of his cock against Ilya’s cunt.
“Nice and slow.” Ilya takes Shane’s fingers again, salt-slick and shining with his own spelled arousal, guides the bare tip of them between his lips. He digs his other hand into Shane’s hip, pressing until the head of Shane’s cock is inside him. A different fullness than something in his ass, but it still takes a moment to adjust.
“Wait.”
Shane immediately goes still, the only betrayal the minute tremor of his lips as he stares at Ilya. Good boy.
The future is such a fraught and fragile thing, a haze he shouldn’t peer into too closely. He shouldn’t think about next times and later ons, about whether Shane would let him put a leash on his neck and tug the next time this happens. If they’ll still be fucking the next time some witch gets a bug up their ass about Ilya’s hat trick, if they’ll still be talking at all.
That he doesn’t want anyone else to fix this problem ever again.
“More.” He sucks Shane’s fingers deeper, moaning as Shane slides into him at the same pace.
Shane stares down at him, focused, holding himself at bay. It’s the same face Shane makes when Ilya chokes his grip on Shane’s dick and tells him not to come. Shane likes it. Points that same fang of delight into Ilya’s neck, whets his appetite to see Shane want and wait for him.
“Slower.” It’s not even what he wants but it’s too good to watch Shane struggle. His forehead will break into little beads of sweat soon, his ears pinked at the tips, the barest hint of tongue worked between his teeth. How could anyone look at Shane and not read the rainbow of emotion written across his face? Ilya could get witch-struck into a worm and still decipher every scrunch of Shane’s nose.
He finally pushes Shane’s fingers into his mouth until he’s down to the knuckle and Shane’s bottomed out inside him. It’s good and weird and too much. Shane’s thick everywhere and Ilya can feel all of it, this rearrangement of his body a temporary thing that threatens to linger, this curse that’s meant to shame him but just gives him another way to want more of Shane.
“Fuck,” Shane groans, down an octave where his control over himself grows claws. Ilya digs his hand into the meat of Shane’s hip, holds him shaking until a bead of sweat wends its way down his temple. He pulls Shane’s fingers out of his mouth, makes them pop so loud Shane winces.
“Feels good?” Ilya tries to tamp down the shake in his voice. He shifts himself, angles his body to take Shane that much deeper, presses his thighs against Shane’s hips.
Breathing sounds like it’s hurting Shane. “I didn’t know it could … it’s not like, I mean, you’re so-”
“Shh, Hollander, mouth time is done.”
It’s a mercy, to grab a hank of Shane’s hair and pull, hard enough to yelp him back into his body.
Ilya can see it, like he’s left his body and floated up to Shane’s bedroom ceiling. Some polite girl spreading her legs, missionary, barely making any noise while Shane moves with the loveless rhythm of a foam roller against his hip. They don’t understand Shane.
“Just do what I tell you.”
An easy lead, to pull Shane’s hair and guide him, out to the tip and slowly back in.
“You hear it?” Ilya would hear this noise through six feet of dirt and a pine box. He’s so wet it’s tickling his asshole, sucking at Shane’s cock with each stroke. The kind of nasty that rides Ilya’s lip up to bare his teeth, gleeful.
Shane just nods, two bright circles blooming on his cheeks. His hands are braced just under Ilya’s shoulders, bunching into the snowy sheets Shane keeps on his bed. He’s breathing out through his mouth, hissing past his teeth, the leash Shane keeps on himself always the tightest one.
“Faster.” Another jerk to Shane’s hair, a heel to his ass. Doesn’t take long for Shane to find a rhythm. His cock keeps hitting something inside Ilya that smarts, good-hurt like a sore muscle, something he’d pay for later if he were always built like this.
“Come on.”
But this is just tonight, one stolen moment that their future hasn’t snatched out of his hands yet.
“This is best you can do, Hollander?”
Shane frowns, determined, snaps his hips harder. A runnel of sweat ekes out of his hairline, dives for his eye. Shane barely blinks.
“This is my fault. I let you get lazy.” Ilya sucks his teeth, shakes his head. “Just lay there while I do all the work fucking your ass.”
An easy string to pluck. Shane’s whole body shudders, his eyes swimming out of focus with the miserable bliss Ilya knows so well.
“You need discipline.”
Ilya shows his hand, waits for the wide-eyed yes to shadow Shane’s face, as legible as Shane’s name sprawled across an autograph. He wraps his legs around Shane, locks him in place and slaps him across the face.
“Fuck, Rozanov.” Shane squeezes his eyes shut, one of his arms faltering and his hips jerking desperately. “I’m gonna come, I can’t-”
“Did I say you were done?”
He pulls Shane down, lets his weight squeeze the air from his chest as they kiss. He always likes the taste of himself in Shane’s mouth.
“You need to control yourself.”
He grips the back of Shane’s neck, pinches until Shane blinks at him. Pink-cheeked and bleary, eyes welling up with that bottomless pool that lurks just under the surface of Shane’s rigid exterior. He pulls Shane down harder, wills his weight to take Ilya down with him until he can swallow Shane whole.
Shane’s teeth graze his shoulder, so close to leaving something Ilya can take home with him. He won’t. Ilya tightens his grip on Shane’s neck, tugs him in until there’s nothing but Shane filling his cunt and his lungs and the empty spaces in between.
“Little more, you can do it.”
Shane likes to come the way he likes to win – hard-wrung, everything left on the ice, blood in his mouth. Earned. They’re moving together, always so easy to match his heartbeat to Shane’s, the call and answer that never quite fits with anyone else. He can clock it down to the second, see the play of Shane’s dug-in hands and his slack-held mouth, the high trap muscles and the low moan in his throat.
And there, bitter, a spur in his side. It doesn’t matter that he can read Shane’s body like his own. One day Shane will marry some nice, dull girl and put some babies in her while she pretends to come. Maybe he’ll think of Ilya when he does it. Ilya digs a heel into Shane’s ass, goads him, pulls his hair harder.
“Look at me.” He pulls Shane back, rough. In the final second before Shane’s surrender he flattens, stretches his neck back, his face haloed by warm light and shining with sweat. Ready for it.
“Now you can come.”
It’s the back of Ilya’s hand this time. She’ll never do that. Shane takes the hit and keeps his face turned away as he comes, shuddering where Ilya’s locked his ankles to hold him close.
Of all the warmth Ilya seeks when he’s cold, it’s the blood-flush on Shane’s freshly-struck cheek that soothes him deepest. Ilya presses his face against it, soaks it in. There’s new warmth between his legs, too, waves of it that might be coming from Shane or might be bleeding out from his heart, some subtle rearrangement Shane has snuck past the net of this stupid curse.
“Stay inside me.”
Crushing, Shane’s weight on top of him, inside him, moaning into his mouth. Ilya could disappear. However he fits himself to Shane’s body, there is always this moment where Ilya peers into oblivion. It would taste so sweet.
“Fuck, Rozanov.”
Two of Shane’s favorite words. Ilya swallows, remembers what he’s good for. He steals another kiss, pats Shane on the cheek. “Good job, Captain.”
Shane doesn’t roll his eyes, just stares at Ilya. Too bright, too sweet. He knows why Shane is always so tense. He’s too dangerous when he’s soft.
“Hollander, first rule of being good fuck is not to fall asleep on top right after.” As if Shane ever does. Still, it cuts the tangle between them, seals this vast thing shut again where it needs to stay.
Shane rolls off him, flops next to him with his head on Ilya’s chest. Ilya usually hates this sticky feeling afterwards, itchy and unwanted where it seeps down his thighs. It’s not so bad tonight.
Shane noses into his shoulder. “Did you … it didn’t seem like you came?”
Ilya has been accused of lacking self-control, but anyone would award him a medal for holding back the bark of laughter that ricochets though his chest. He stifles it, too tired to watch Shane rapid-cycle through the five stages of grief as he realizes every woman he’s slept with has probably faked it.
“Ah, no. I don’t think I can, from stuff inside.” He mimes it to be obnoxiously clear, two fingers sliding into his circled thumb and forefinger. “Not like you.”
Shane’s pleased grumble seeps into his chest. Ilya kisses the top of his head, noses in to smell the warm musk of his scalp winning the battle over his shampoo. He’ll take care of Shane soon.
“I’m sorry they got you. We keep running those public service ads.” Shane snorts. Those ads are a fucking joke and everyone knows it. The sponsors love the spectacle.
Ilya shrugs. “Is the job. Sometimes you lose your tooth, sometimes you lose your dick. Usually comes back.”
That gets a laugh out of Shane. A quick, bright thing, something Ilya can never get enough of.
“Ok, Hollander.” Fatigue is seeping into Ilya’s body, the kinetic meandering of magic running its course. He takes a deep breath, feels it where he’s sore.
“Wake me up in half hour and I will eat your ass until you cry. Pay you back.”
He’s already rolling onto his side when Shane’s hand presses into his shoulder, urging him flat on his back.
“I want to go down on you again. I mean. If you want me to.” Shane’s hand splays flat across Ilya’s stomach, inching lower.
“Hollander.” Ilya shifts, lets his legs fall back open as he closes his hand over Shane’s. He’s yet to find a level of exhaustion Shane can’t rouse him from. Shane’s fingers slip between his cunt lips, noisy when Ilya guides him to circle around, sliding through his own arousal and Shane’s come leaking out of him. “You like my cunt this much?”
Shane’s mouth opens and closes, a universe of words birthed and dying on his lips. He swallows, both his nostrils twitching as he takes one quick breath.
“I want to be good at it.”
Ilya catches his smile before it falters too much. Of course. Shane will outstrip him in this arena, too, perfect this skill and take it with him when he’s traded to another team. This pallid, pretty woman should cut Ilya a check every time she has an orgasm. Damages for the outsize place she occupies in his imagination, a benign tumor that shouldn’t bother him but eats up everything around it.
“Mm, yes. Shane Hollander has to be the best at everything.”
He’s already pushing Shane’s head down, already steeling himself to stay awake long enough to hold this temporary form and pretend he wants Shane to do this to anyone else.
“Show me what I taught you.”
That’s the problem with curses. The changes are temporary, but then he’s left with what remains. Ilya spreads his legs and wills his luck to hold out a little bit longer.