I think Shane goes into the weeks at the cottage thinking that he knows what he's getting into. He knows that there will be emotions and he knows that having Ilya all to himself will be a heady sort of bliss that will be difficult to come out on the other side of unchanged. He knows that this is their time to be completely alone together and that it will change him fundimentally as a person. He knows that they are going to fuck on every conceivable horizontal surface in the damn place and some of the verticle ones too, and also that he might have to pretend that this whole thing isn't wish fulfillment of the highest degree. Like he didn't build this fortress of solitude in the Canadian wilderness and think to himself that maybe, someday, he could bring someone here. And he didn't look at the Ilya-shaped blank space where that person formed in his imagination. And he didn't buy this bed and touch himself in it while imagining--fuck, not even Ilya's dick or his mouth (although, yes, Ilya's dick and mouth) but just. Ilya's arms around him and Ilya's scent and Ilya's legs tangled with his own.
So he's prepared for what he thinks is going to happen because he's been falling into bed with Ilya Rozanov for the majority of his adult life and he thinks he knows what all of that means. Ilya has a sexual appetite that Shane prides himself on satisfying. They make the best of their limited clandestine time together to the tune of multiple rounds of sex most times they find themselves within 100 miles of each other. Boston and Montreal, yes, but also a handful of times in Vegas. Vermont, half a dozen times over half a dozen years. All Star weekends in Florida and California and fucking New Jersey. Brooklyn, once, because the stars aligned. Shane is very used to shoving two furtive fucks into the space of a handful of midnight hours.
So yes, the time that stretches before them is utterly gluttonous in comparison, and Shane knows that even two professional athletes in peak physical condition won't be able to set the kind of brutal pace they normally allow themselves for two entire weeks, but still. The sex will be hot--fucking unbelievably hot, and it will be nasty and it will be rough and it will be almost fucking constant.
And it is. They barely keep their hands off each other for the first day. Sitting down to play Chel with fucking clothes on is conceived as an attempt to be at least a little normal, as is kicking the soccer ball around. Shane is just a little turned on, constantly, and he would think there was something actually medically wrong with him if he didn't occasionally see Ilya tucking his erection more snugly into the waistband of his shorts. It feels insane. It feels like they are the only two people in the world and they're slowly burning each other up like the filament in a faulty lightbulb.
Then, it settles a little, and the first thing Shane notices about it is the sound of it.
Ilya's got him on his elbows and knees, just how he likes, and he's still open from the morning, and Ilya is tapping his dick on the small of Shane's back and saying Knock Knock and Shane is burying his face in the bedsheet and hiding his grin and telling Ilya that he's a fucking idiot.
"This is how you ask me for it?" Ilya replies. "Is this how my good boy asks to be fucked? No, I don't think so. Use your pretty words."
So Shane says, "Fuck," and then, "I want it. I want it so fucking bad. Please give it to me."
And Ilya taps his cockhead against Shane's hole and says, "This what you need, sweetheart?"
"Yes yes fuck please I need it I need it so fucking bad." Which is probably objectively false, because Shane has had it, repeatedly and good and whenever he fucking wants it, multiple times a day for the last 72 hours. Need probably flew out the window the second or third time Shane had the very routine thought of "I want to be sucking Ilya Rozanov's dick right now" and then realized that nothing was stopping him from doing so. Need has settled into a slow-burning, constant and pervasive want that is making it difficult to focus on his actual needs, like calories and REM cycles.
"Gonna give it to you," Ilya says. "Ask me again, one more time, ask nicely--"
"Please fuck me oh my God please fuck me--"
And Ilya is a hedonist. Shane knows this. He likes sugary foods and fast cars and beautiful people and filthy sex. He likes to have exactly what he wants when he wants it and he likes it to be given to him exactly how he asks. Shane has always, on a level that is crawling further and further to the surface of his being with every day spent alone with this man, been utterly smug that Ilya has never had to ask him twice for what he wants, once they're in bed together. Mostly because Ilya never asks and Shane always gives; has made a study of understanding that when Ilya quirks an eyebrow in a certain way he means Take Off Your Shirt. When Ilya taps his thigh in that certain spot it means Spread Your Legs. When Ilya puts a thumb against Shane's throat and just barely digs his nail into the tender swell of Shane's voice box it means Moan Pretty For Me Baby.
So Shane knows that Ilya takes his pleasure freely, and doesn't hold much back in the taking. This makes it all the stranger and lovelier when Ilya pops the head of his cock into Shane and releases the kind of raw, punched out sound that Shane has only heard from him on the ice. After a hard hit, when he has physically lost control of his ability to moderate his own sounds, the height of release, the height of wantonness, reeling with a punch. A stark, perfect moment of pure reaction.
"Oh, fuck," Ilya moans, in the silence created by Shane going utterly silent and almost completely still, lest he miss a single solitary detail of what's happening. "Uhn. Fuck, Shane."
"Yeah," Shane says, experimentally. "Oh, fuck. Fuck, baby, you feel so good."
"Fuck," Ilya snarls again, and it's like--it's like a fucking dam breaks, something that was built in Ilya's chest before Shane ever knew him, because it just does not stop. The sounds flowing out of him seem to do so without much or any express permission from his brain. He is gone, moaning almost inconsolably as he presses his entire body against the length of Shane's.
"Shane," he says, eventually, and doesn't stop. "Shane, Shane, fuck, SHANE--"
And Shane stops even understanding it as his own fucking name. Suddenly it's blasphemy, it's sacrament, it's a foreign fucking word that means something deliciously vulgar and it's a secret Ilya is keeping from him. It means I love you, and You are a perfect slut, and it means I will fucking ruin you.
And when he comes--God, when he comes. He tells Shane he's gonna give it to him and then he fucking does and every window in the room seems to shake with the power of his voice. Shane somehow feels every vibration of Ilya's vocal cords in his own toes. He barely understands that he's reaching his own calamitous orgasm before it's right there, sudden and stunning like a puck to the gut, and Ilya's voice is still in his ear, low and intense, stroking over his stomach and telling him, "So good, Shane. Let it go."
And because Ilya has set such a lovely example, Shane can't help but turn his head, all the better to be heard, and let it go.
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