luningravatic

But in the last one he not only catches his eye but he *smiles* and Ilya fucking *melts*.

There are so many reasons a person may choose not to come out and there is no reason a person would owe the public or a stranger that information. Certainly it's not owed simply because someone is famous.

By @moreloveforjm_

No—it’s because one thing Ilya knows is two things for certain. One: Shane is the best. THE best. Ilya talks a big game and he can back it up because he’s a generational talent in his own right, sure, but he is not Shane Hollander. He teases his husband and calls him “second best player in the league” because it gets Shane in a mood that always leads to fun (and that’s business that stays between Ilya, several ruined sets of sheets, and the thin walls of multiple hotel rooms). When you get down to it, he’s the famous and amazing Ilya Rozanov, yes, but that’s…that’s Shane Hollander. Shane “break the internet, top two and I ain’t number two” Hollander. Shane Thee Hollander.

Two: despite being Shane Thee Hollander, first of his name, baddest of bitches, and the Beyoncé of their field (and a cutie patootie on top of all that), Shane is not loud about his accomplishments—and Ilya thinks he should be. Shane lets the accomplishments speak for themselves. He achieves, breaks records, wins and wins and fucking wins some more, and just keeps going. He’s a force of nature. Ilya thinks his husband should have an opportunity to be loud, braggadocious, and downright obnoxious if and when he wants because, again, he’s Shane fucking Hollander.

So when Shane starts off a conversation with “I’m going to say something kind of mean,” Ilya rolls out the proverbial red carpet. Talk your shit, baby. I’m all ears.

“He’s really confident for someone with such low shooting accuracy.” Exactly. The nerve of him to even breathe your air, much less chirp at you.

“…but if I showed up in that outfit, Twitter would never let me hear the end of it!” You’re so right. He looked awful.

“Fuck him! And not in the good way!” Yup! Say it again! Matter of fact, let me get you a microphone.

“I love Hayden—as a friend, Ilya, Jesus—but maybe a vasectomy is a good idea.” I’d put ten babies in you if I could, but you’re still absolutely right about this. Jackie’s had enough.

“I respect Scott, but he’s not exactly in his prime, you know?” Scott is a dinosaur. It’s a miracle that he dodged the asteroid and made it this long without turning into dust. We should call and tell him ourselves.

“Our wedding was better.” Of course it was. I got to marry you. Any event with you at the center is the best. All the others are bullshit.

“I’m not taking that shit from some fucker with a receding hairline and no points for an entire season. Pick a struggle, asshole.” We should book him a flight to Turkey for one of those procedures. Can’t fix the other thing, though.

Listen- do you guys understand that Shane gets so comfy with Ilya that he starts to fidget and soothe with Ilya’s body. And like- he doesn’t even realise it half the time, it’s like his only little stims and subconscious movements he’s always done. Like how he rubs his feet together in small circles as he drifts to sleep, or taps his fingertips to his collarbones or presses the heel of his palm between his pecks when the locker room gets too loud, too much, how he presses his lips together, rolls them outward over and over as he reads, brushes the pad of his thumb across his Cupid’s bow as he sits scrolling through his phone. Or the more subtle ones, tapping his big toes up and down inside his shoes during interviews.

Anyway- all that to say when Ilya and Shane have been in love for a little while when Ilya’s body starts to kinda feel like an extension of Shane’s (maybe a short while before they fell in love too, but that he never really let himself think much into at all). And with this comes the gentle fidgeting, Ilya’s curls twisted in and through his fingers over and over and over. The edge of Ilya’s jumper, or the soft warm skin of his earlobe between Shane’s thumb and finger, rubbing slow circles over and over. Pushing his toes against the muscle of Ilya’s thigh, or his toes in rhythmic pulses. Shane’s folding his fingers of Ilya’s longer ones, opening and closing their hands together, presses the pads of his fingers down against the blunt press of his nails. The small motion of the rub is his cheek the very slight in and up nuzzling motion when they are cuddled up, against the shirts and jumpers and sweat pants of Ilya’s he likes most (over time more and more of them seem to become that lovely soft worn fabric that Shane enjoys most).

And it’s that too, resting his head in Ilya’s lap, slow deep breaths and running his lips against the seam of Ilya’s sweats, boxers (that turns into the other comfort too, Ilya’s cock in his mouth soft and warm and full for him, heavy on his tongue, something to let his mouth get wet and swallow around. His hand in Ilya’s treasure trail, pubic hair, fingers scratching through it, the extra soft downy hair that lives there. Sometimes when Shane’s body can find any of its other ways to push out its shuddering discomfort, energy that feedback loops from his toes to his scalp to his eyelids so over sensitive and shaking apart a little- nothing else pushes it out but Ilya inside him, keeping him stretched and open and full, Shane facing Ilya, bodies tangled, his thigh hitched over top of Ilya’s and barely there rocks of his hips, too small to do much but smooth out some of Shane’s buzzing between them both, and Ilya lets him spread it till it’s all gone, all lovely and syrupy and stretched out and out out out of Shane’s body, finally quiet and grounded.)

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