Sorry this took me a bit, also never attempted to write sub space ever before so not sure how it reads but I love the concept and I'd definitely like to write more about it sometime so hopefully it improves!:
It isn’t until Shane empties the second black plastic takeout container of Chinese food that Ilya notices anything is up. And even then, he really only catches on because Shane reaches for a third container, most of the way full of pork lo mein that Ilya had ordered. Ilya always over-orders from the Chinese place with the expectation that they’ll have easy leftovers to warm up for lunch the next day (or breakfast if he feels like it, because sometimes does). But it seems maybe they won’t have any leftovers tomorrow at the rate Shane is going.
Ilya eyes him for a moment, but aside from Shane eating more than usual, he isn’t sure what he’s even noticing, so he turns his attention back to the game. Colorado is in the middle of blowing a 3 goal lead in Game 4 of the Conference Finals against Vegas. If they lose this one, that’s the end of their season. Vegas scores again. Goalie interference for sure, Ilya thinks. Ludicrously, the refs don’t seem to agree.
“What?! That was—Shane, you are seeing this shit?” Ilya exclaims, indignant on Colorado’s behalf. He expects Shane to back him up on this, but oddly, he says nothing.
“Shane.”
Ilya looks over at him, and realizes he isn’t answering because his mouth is full. He also doesn’t even really seem to be paying attention to the game. His head is angled towards the TV, sure, but his eyes aren’t focused on it. Ilya takes a moment to observe. He’s still slurping down lo mein, but his pace has slowed down considerably. He’s taking ages to chew and swallow each bite, like it’s hard work. Like he’s almost forcing himself to do so. That is, until his chopsticks hit the empty bottom of the container. Ilya raises his eyebrows. That was a lot of food. More than Shane typically eats in one sitting, he’s sure.
Shane, meanwhile, seems to almost have forgotten Ilya is sitting with him on the couch. He leans forward to place the empty container back on the coffee table, and lets out a faint “oof” as he does so. Free of the container, he flops back and burps quietly into the back of his hand, immediately followed by a soft sound that’s awfully similar to—
Ilya raises his eyebrows even further. Did Shane just moan to himself? Is he imagining things? He whips his head around to look for Anya. Did she make a noise? No. Anya is across the room, asleep in her bed. He looks back at Shane.
Shane is still facing the TV, still looking at but really seeing the game. His eyes are a little glazed over and his chest is rising and falling more quickly than it should be for just sitting on the couch. He’s got one hand hidden inside the front pocket of his hoodie. His lips are slightly parted, and his cheeks are a little pink. He looks…fucked out, for lack of a better word. He looks, Ilya realizes suddenly, a lot like he does when he’s on his knees for him, wordlessly imploring Ilya to let him get his mouth on his cock, so turned on he can barely come up with the words to beg.
Ilya knits his brows together. What the fuck? He glances back at the hockey game. No, nothing crazy happening there. He glances back down at the empty takeout containers littering the coffee table. He glances at Shane’s presumably empty can of ginger ale.
Hmm. A mystery. Ilya loves a mystery, especially when said mystery involves deducing why his husband is currently visibly hard and leaking in his sweatpants in the middle of Colorado-Vegas Game 4 for no discernible reason. Ilya’s feeling the telltale heat of arousal building in his gut himself from this display, even if he’s still confused.
He isn’t sure what compels him to say it, he doesn’t make a habit of commenting on Shane’s eating habits, especially not like this, but—
“That was a lot of food, malysh.” It’s out of his mouth before he can think better of it.
Shane slowly turns his head to face him, lips slightly parted, eyes a little hazy. He swallows, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Huh?”
“I said,” Ilya repeats, “That was a lot of food. Someone was hungry, yes?”
Shane blinks at him, slowly. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. “I…huh?”
Ilya raises an eyebrow, amused by whatever’s going on. Shane appears to be hearing him from somewhere underwater, from that familiar place he goes to where his mind is blissfully quieted by want and sensation and the only thoughts he can manage are need need need more Ilya please more. It’s just that usually Ilya can tell how he got there.
“You ate almost three containers of Chinese food Shane, you must be…ah, what is the word..,” Ilya gestures vaguely, trying to remember the English phrase he’s heard people say at parties when they’ve eaten too much. “You must be stuffed, yes?”
His words finally get through to Shane, who gasps quietly. He stares at Ilya, cheeks pink. “Ilya, I..I’m..uh.” He sounds far away, like his thoughts are coming to him slowly from off in the distance. Ilya notices again that he still has a hand hidden in his hoodie pocket, but that it’s at a weird angle. It’s like he’s got his hand pressed resting higher up his torso than it would normally be if it was just resting in there.
Ilya feels something slowly falling into place. He’s still not sure what’s happening, but he’s not stupid, and he can tell that something about what he just said is definitely turning Shane on more. He scootches over closer towards Shane and smirks. He’s definitely sure which version of him Shane needs right now, regardless of the cause. Clambering into Shane’s lap, he looks down at him, gently gripping his chin and running his thumb across Shane’s bottom lip.
“What is it, Shane?” He asks steadily, purposefully. “What is getting you like this, right now?” He tilts Shane’s head up to look at him. He’s met with those big, beautiful, brown eyes, pupils blown out, lashes fluttering.
“Ilya,” Shane says it so quietly. He tries to lean up to kiss him, but Ilya sits up straighter, mouth just out of reach. Shane’s brows crease adorably, and he frowns. “Ilya, please?”
Ilya desperately wants to give Shane whatever it is that he needs, if he could only figure it out.
“Shchenok, talk to me. Was it something I said?” He runs through the last few sentences. He’d only said a few things, all variations of the comment on how much Chinese food Shane had put away. Could that be it?Shane had started sinking into this headspace in the middle of eating, now that Ilya thinks about it. Is that a thing? Are people into that? More importantly, is Shane into that? Shane is certainly not going to be helpful, it seems. It’s all Ilya has to work with, so he tries.
“Was it the Chinese food? Was it me saying you ate a lot?”
He reaches down and palms Shane through his sweatpants, feeling him twitch at the words. Shane moans in lieu of an answer, eyes closing, trying to hide his face in Ilya’s chest. Ilya does not let him. He grins, delighted to have made this discovery.
“Ahhh, it was, wasn’t it? Me saying you must be stuffed, yes?”
“Ugh, fuck, Ilya,” Shane is back looking up at him now, eyes so dark. “I don’t, I can’t—“
“Are you full, Shane? Does that feel good for you? What are you doing with your hand?”
“Ilya, ungh, wait—“
Ilya slips his hand into Shane’s pocket before Shane can react, covering Shane’s hand with his own where it had apparently been resting flush against what Ilya now realizes is the taut crest of Shane’s stomach under the sweatshirt, rounded out and packed with takeout.
Shane’s chest is heaving now, and he’s closed his eyes to avoid looking at Ilya. He tugs his hand free from inside the sweatshirt and grips Ilya’s thighs, nails digging into the fabric of Ilya’s sweatpants. Ilya searches his face as he slides his own hand out of the pocket, only to slip it under Shane’s shirt and onto the skin of his stomach. He spreads his fingers out experimentally, fitting his hand back over the gentle swell of Shane’s upper belly. The skin is warm, and so soft, and when he pushes in with the pads of his fingers, he quickly feels how full Shane must actually be. He feels solid to the touch, and he whimpers quietly at the pressure, throwing his head back against the couch.
“God, fuck, Ilya, I need—that feels—mmff.”
Ilya is enthralled. He’s fully hard now. Perhaps because Shane being horny never ever fails to also make Ilya horny. How could it not? But perhaps also because it’s just sexy to see Shane, usually so buttoned up around food, at least in Ilya’s presence, overindulge a little. Perhaps because it feels so hedonistic that Shane is obviously enjoying this overindulgence so much.
Ilya’s always been something of a hedonist himself, never one to deny himself his base urges; he likes feeling pleasure in all its forms. Sex, food, fast cars, loud music, anything that feels good usually feels even better in excess, in his experience. Shane has never been like that. Shane has always defaulted to the opposite, everything in carefully monitored moderation, never too much, sometimes not even enough. Yet here he is, brain foggy with pleasure just from filling himself to the brim with greasy noodles and meat and rice.
Ilya pushes up the front of Shane’s sweatshirt and t-shirt to expose his belly to the slightly cool air of the living room. Colorado loses in overtime, but neither of them notice. They’re both too busy watching Ilya’s hands frame the bloat of Shane’s stomach. Ilya places one hand on the side of his belly, drags the tip of a finger across its surface with the other, licks his lips subconsciously. He can see Shane’s belly rise and fall with the quick in and out of his breathing. Somewhat labored breathing, he might add. Shane seems to have eaten enough that taking a deep breath is a little difficult. Fuck. Why is that so hot?
“Please Ilya, I need—I’m so fucking—“ Shane’s eyes drop closed. “Ilya, just—please.”
“Hmm? What do you need?” Ilya looks at him expectantly, schooling his features despite his own growing need to do what Shane obviously wants and kiss him, touch him, fuck him.
Shane looks a little desperate. He grips Ilya’s wrist, stopping him as he moves to rub his palm over what Ilya has to admit is a really adorable little belly.
“Please touch me,” he pouts, trying to drag Ilya’s hand down to his dick.
“Oh, but I am already touching you.” Ilya reminds him, stroking across his belly with the other hand. Shane huffs out a breathy little sound, clearly frustrated but also clearly loving the sensation of Ilya’s hand on the sensitive skin where he’s fullest.
“Not my stomach, Ilya, please,” Shane tries again.
“Oh, no? You do not want me to touch your stomach?”
Ilya removes both hands and Shane whines, trying to lean forward to reach for them again, but stopping short when all the food he ate gets in the way. He flops back against the couch, hands coming to cradle his own belly again, wincing.
Ilya tuts, replacing Shane’s hands with his own. “Hmm. You are so full, malysh. What is the expression? Eyes bigger than stomach, yes?”
Shane nods rapidly, not bothering to pretend. He’s too far gone. He just wants Ilya to touch his cock. Or his belly. Or ideally both at the same time.
Ilya considers him, gently gripping his stomach and pressing in here and there, as if judging exactly how full.
“Hmm. I will give you what you need.”
Shane looks at him like he hung the moon. “Thank you Ilya, thank you, I—“
“Which is dessert, I think.” Ilya cuts him off.
Shane gapes up at him, eyes a little unfocused. “What?”
“Dessert. I think is what you need. I will go get you some dessert. After dessert, I will give you the other thing you need.”
“Ilya, wait—please”
“Stay,” Ilya tells him as climbs off of Shane’s lap. Ignoring his pleas, he makes way to the kitchen. He returns shortly with a container of mango sorbet from the freezer, and a spoon. Shane is sitting exactly where he left him, hoodie still pushed up over his belly.
“Good boy.” Ilya tells him. Shane whimpers quietly, wetting his lips with his tongue as he eyes the container of sorbet. This is going to be fun, Ilya thinks.
