"believe me, she's not looking for a repeat performance."
unable to sleep, rose has plenty of time to think after that night at the club. | 2151w | now on ao3
rose stares at the ceiling. the champagne from earlier in the night has left her mouth dry and her temples fuzzy. there's water on the bedside, put there by shane before he kissed her shoulder and turned onto his side with the covers pulled up to his ear. drinking the water would mean moving, and moving would mean alerting the man lying next to her that she is awake, and if she alerts him to fact she is awake then he will feel obligated to turn back around and pretend like he hasn't spent the last three hours faking sleep. she can tell. he's too still, like a rabbit caught in a trap. so, rose stares at the ceiling.
there's a cobweb dangling from the lampshade. one lone thread, thick with dust, sways back and forth as if the room itself is breathing in tandem with them. she hasn't taken a full breath since the light clicked off. her chest aches.
that's all it is, she thinks, this constricting feeling. one deep breath, rosie, and you'll feel all better.
she closes her eyes and draws in a long, quiet breath through her nose but all it does is gather prickly heat under her eyes and wall up her throat. she swallows back the tears.
she can still feel all the places he touched her, careful and controlled, and the weight of him bearing down on top of her even as he held himself up politely by the elbows. the hollowed out, used, feeling between her legs stretches to her stomach where it churns against champagne and the three bites of sushi she had before going out to the club.
the night had gone well. right up until it hadn't.
"fuck, i'm sorry," he whispered into the crook of her neck, voice flayed raw in embarrassment even as his choked orgasm still echoed through him.
rose lay still. it was not the first time a guy she's been with has shot off early but this might be the first time they’ve tensed up around her like they expect to be shot for the infraction. when shane drew back, his dark eyes were panicked, darting across her face and showing too much white. she felt his cock softening inside her, slipping free, just like last time.
before she could offer even a lukewarm, "it's fine," he was discarding the condom with a quick, "shit, rose. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. let me . . ." and shuffling down to busy his mouth between her thighs because he was a thoughtful, earnest guy and that was why she'd liked him so much in the first place. he sucked her clit, lapped at her with the flat of his tongue, one hand grasping her tit, and let her rock down onto two fingers until she came. it was a sudden, sharp, cresting thing that left her wound tighter than she was before. under her gasping, he was silent. after, he kissed the inside of her thigh and wouldn't look her in the eye.
rose watches the gentle sway of the cobweb. a good housekeeper wouldn't let a cobweb linger, let alone build into a dusty rope visible even in the dim light filtering in from the streetlights below. unless his housekeeper doesn't touch his bedroom. some people she knows don’t like strangers in such a personal space. she doesn't care. she doesn't have secrets. she hasn't had true privacy since . . . she actually can't remember. she booked her first commercial at six months old, a local tv ad for diapers, and hasn't stopped since. acting carved away any shame until she was an open book.
she lets her head loll to the side. the sheet has slipped and she can see the scar on his shoulder. when she asked after the first time they tried this and eased the tension with small talk, he said it was from a hazing that went sideways when he was in juniors. he was light on the details, said that he fell into a fence spike in a crush of teenage bodies in the dark. he laughed it off but his eyes got that far away look in them she isn’t convinced he knows he has, and changed the subject. anyway, she has three hockey obsessed brothers, she could fill in the blanks.
at seventeen, rose had several ill-advised hook-ups with one of her brother's teammates. she cringes at them now, considers them one of her worst performances, but for all his swagger, the boy hadn't been able to hide how fucking obsessed with her he was. he was all grabby hands and grinding hips, his spit slick mouth hot on her ear as he parroted stilted lines he'd memorised from the porn he liked to watch, but she'd thought he was sweet, had been flattered by the attention, and liked the feeling of being wanted.
however, seventeen is a fickle age to be. attention never lasts and before too long they both moved on, but that boy, without meaning to, gave rose the beginnings of a frame of reference for desire she still carries with her. she knows when someone wants her. she knows how to make herself wanted. she's trades in desire every time she sets up a self-tape.
rose looks at the short hairs on the back of shane's neck. his breathing is slower now, deeper. he's finally found sleep. good for him.
he's asleep.
and he doesn't want her.
these two thoughts rise up out of the fuzz in her brain, neutral statements that still sting. she thought maybe he was just shy, an introvert who knows how to turn it on when required, but she knows. she knows and the knowing doesn't even require her to go deep down because she's been in this position before. she sighs and turns back to the ceiling and the slow dancing cobweb.
he probably doesn't even realise he's doing it, she thinks.
he holds his breath before she kisses him, like he's a child that hasn't yet learned they need to lean into a body check. her first boyfriend did the same. the second and third hid it better but the second was grimacer, and the third leaned so heavily into macho bravado that it looped back to uncomfortable for both of them. they all tried to want her, or at least tried to want the idea of what she could be to them, but they were all looking for something she could never provide.
shane is doing the same and she wishes wildly for a moment that it would be different. heat rushes under her eyes once more and she stifles a hiccoughing breathe with the heel of her hand before scrubbing a palm over her face.
it's not your fault, rosie. i know you thought this time it would be different, but . . . but what?
she glances at the back of shane's head again. his hair is mussed against the pillow and she realises for the first time since she's known him, his shoulders have relaxed all the way. she's struck by just how vulnerable the curve where his neck meets his shoulder looks in the dim light. for a solid minute, rose lets herself look before reaching for her phone.
she types 'gay hockey players mlh' into her search bar despite the growing certainty of what the results will hold. op-eds asking if any player will dare to be the first to come out sit next to schedules for upcoming pride nights. rose lets her phone fall to her chest.
he holds his breath before she kisses him. she looks up at the cobweb. before she kisses him. has he ever kissed her? she isn't sure now. probably not.
he freezes sometimes too, like he's come to the end of a script and doesn't know how to improv. when it happened at the club, she thought it was because miles caught him off guard, but then, he darted off to the bathroom and she spotted all those boston players across the dancefloor.
when he didn’t come back, she found him sitting on the curb outside with a hand pressed to his mouth and his eyes squeezed shut. she sat next to him, trailed a gentle hand down his back and he froze, just for a second, less than a second, before he smiled and that had been enough to chase away her worries because she didn’t want to consider a different truth.
“just needed some air, babe. beer went straight to my head after the game,” he said and pulled her close, pressed one big hand to the small of her back and she’d shivered like she was seventeen when his thumb brushed across the edge of her sequin dress.
she got butterflies when she asked him if he wanted to get out of there and he said yes. honest to god butterflies. it seems silly. especially now that she considers that his smile didn’t reach his eyes and she’s almost certain that what she thought was the reflection of the streetlights were actually tears.
rose checks the time. she needs to get back to her hotel for her pick up. the makeup team will tell her off for drinking and for not sleeping. they’ll rib her about how her hockey player boyfriend kept her up all night, and she’ll laugh and let them think what they want to think because what else is she supposed do?
she slides out of bed, careful not to jostle him, and slips into the ensuite. the shower is huge, big enough for two - not that rose would know. blisteringly hot water sprays from the showerhead as she stretches her palms out, one to the slick tile, the other to the glass. plenty of room for two sets of broad shoulders if that’s what he wanted.
shane touches her like he thinks she might break. he handles her by her edges like you would crystal and, at first, she thought it was thoughtful reverence. now, she sees it for what it is: white knuckled obligation.
rose retraces his path across her body and washes his touch down the drain.
he would keep doing this, she thinks as she dries off and pulls on the spare set of clothes he insisted she keep at his apartment. he would push through. hurt himself. hurt me.
she stands in front of the mirror and raises her chin to look herself in the eye. i am the path of least resistance and he would make himself miserable to follow it.
and she understands. she understands now just as well she understood the first, second, and third time she found herself here, but they both deserve better.
she slips from the bathroom back into the bedroom’s suffocating quiet and looks up at the dusty cobweb.
shane doesn’t let the housekeeper into his bedroom because he’s afraid they’ll find out his secret. he let rose in and she worked it out anyway. she pulls a tissue from the decorative box on the bedside table and steps up onto the ottoman at the foot of the bed. a neat pile of clothes is folded next to her foot. her dress lies forgotten on the stairs.
the cobweb drifts in a lazy circle and flutters away from her when she reaches for it. she rises up on her tip toes, wobbles, but stays steady. it gives her just enough extra reach to pluck it from the lampshade and fold it away in the tissue. with a sigh, she hops down and pockets it.
they aren’t so different. eyes have followed her since she was a child. there are expectations she must uphold. if rose were to put her trust in the wrong person they could take her career out at the knees without even trying that hard. some texts. some photos. she trades in desire, that much is true, but to want it? to take it? well, that was a step too far.
a rustle from the far side of the bed grabs her attention. he’s awake, half swallowed by pillows, panicked, hunted, eyes wide like a little boy caught doing something he shouldn’t. his voice shakes when he tries to offer her an explanation for the night before. the season. the stress. she tells him it’s fine and means it. the lump of tissue in her pocket burns like a brand against her leg. she kisses him gently on the mouth because that’s what girlfriends do and ignores the sharp clench of her stomach when he braces for impact.
rose stands.
rose smiles and rose leaves.
as her cab whisks her through the sleepy montreal streets, she turns the tissue with its dusty cobweb over in her fingers and resolves that she will not be the wrong person for shane.
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So obviously I was joking when I said I would Fix Ilya and the actual progress of therapy would be long and slow and ultimately he'd be leading the way but here are some things I would keep in mind as aspects of the plan or percolating in my head while we worked. long and discussion of suicidal ideation so it's behind a cut
-co-creating a non-stigmatizing, anti-carceral plan for how to manage suicidal ideation. this could be as simple as regularly asking “hey, any suicidal thoughts lately?”, asking what kinds of lethal means he has access to, and checking in to see what his experiences with those thoughts have been lately. I’d also establish, again day one or the first day he’s feeling pretty stable, a plan for what to do when/if those thoughts become active. Would he like help reaching out to a higher level of care? A loved one? Does he consent in advance to hospitalization if there’s a crisis where his judgment is impaired? (I don’t believe in or practice involuntary hospitalization and would also explain this, no I don’t care that it’s the law, forced hospitalization makes people worse and makes it dramatically harder for them to access actual support, don’t call my licensing board on me pls)
-a focus on strengths and resources and how to shore those up. Important in general, deserved by all human beings, necessary for depressed patients. Ilya has been through a lot. He also has a lot going for him, internally and externally. He is intelligent, especially emotionally. He is incredibly empathetic and loyal. He is the best (okay tied for first) in the whole world at something he loves to do—by definition he is hardworking and dedicated. He is a good leader and a good friend to his teammates. In terms of resources: yes, he’s short on interpersonal supports, but a partner who loves him, even a long distance partner, is a big support. He had friends in Boston he could perhaps stay connected to, and a relationship with Svetlana that he could learn to lean on. He has effectively unlimited financial resources. He’s in good physical health. These all point towards a positive outlook! like literally just making a list of these things might help.
-referral to medical. neuro workup to make sure there isn’t a physiological brain issue, since depression is a common symptom of all kinds of neurological illness and he works at the Get Hit On The Head Factory. Discussion with a good psychiatrist who I collaborate closely with. i would assume that SSRIs/SNRIs would be trialed and fail (because I don’t think he would want to be on a medication with sexual side effects, and also it’s a bad fit for this kind of depression usually, i will spare y'all my SRI haterade soapbox), it’s possible that something like Wellbutrin or Lamotrigine would be helpful or it’s possible medication wouldn’t be part of the plan.
-making a diagnosis (probably major depressive disorder, recurring, moderate). Explaining, in detail, what that diagnosis means, what the prognosis is, and what it means to have a diagnosis. i’d also want to know a lot about what that means to him especially in re his mother
-a lot of listening to him share about daily life stressors. He’d probably have a lot to say bc he’s an outgoing guy and he’s lonely. initially not much of it would have a lot of emotional content, which is fine. this is also where hopefully he starts to feel comfortable talking. I would also continue to focus on strengths—what are the good things, what is he enjoying, etc. i'd ask a lot of questions about shane because he'd need a space to talk about this person in his life that's so important that he has to keep secret. not to tell him what to do in the relationship or anything. just to give him space to talk.
-then some gentle prodding to encourage him to share his feelings about these things. identifying what those feelings are like. Discussing how he’s coping with them and if there’s other methods he can think of trying. And then, crucially, starting to engage with where those feelings come from,. And listen, it doesn’t take the world’s most gifted analyst to draw the line from “I am not good enough for my boyfriend” to “I was never good enough for my father, which I know because he told me that repeatedly, usually while hitting me,” or from “Shane doesn’t really want me around” to “my mother didn’t care enough about me to stay alive.” And now we’re in it!!
-you probably don’t come right out and say those things, but you start to encourage him to draw those connections, to see where those ideas about himself may have come from, and to recognize what he learned about relationships when he was young. Two crucial things I’d keep an eye on here. First, very very important to avoid implying that “you learned about relationships from your parents” = “you are like your father (or like your mother, but especially not like your father)”. Secondly, again, strengths focused. I would be genuinely impressed with anyone who came from such a traumatic background who had developed such loving relationships and strong interpersonal values in adulthood, and I would say as much.
-the idea is that, gradually, he starts to understand that the way he sees the world and himself was shaped by his early life experiences, and that he doesn't necessarily believe those things anymore. it helps that he has always been able to keep a fair amount of psychological distance between himself and his father's ideas about him. the mom stuff would take a lot longer, like, years before he'd be willing to look right at the fact that she also taught him things about himself that hurt. but it'd be a little at a time
idk i hope this answered the question and/or was interesting! tagging ppl who asked: @ober-affen-geil @dontworryfolkswetookallherteeth @assorted-fandom-things @girl-son @goldenbunniesxo @thedragonflylover
happy late hollanoversary :DD imagine this is a framed photo of shane and ilya taken by yuna at the cottage sometime after they get married in 2021 :)) hehe
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One of Shane's main vices in life is a hotel slipper. My man is a fiend for those slippers. Every hotel they stay in on the road he hopes there are those thin disposable hotel slippers, wrapped in sealed plastic. He doesn't even have to ask Hayden anymore, both pairs are his. He will pack one pair untouched into his luggage and use the other after the shower during their stay. There are whole shelves in his bathroom cupboard at home and at the cottage dedicated to the storage of untouched hotel slippers and, to Shane, there is no greater pleasure in this world than stepping into a fresh pair after a long day and a hot shower.
Another closely guarded take of mine is that I think Hollanov actually did do the whole lovemaking thing before the cottage.
Not often. Maybe only a couple of times. Maybe only once.
Some brutal fucking game where Shane cracked his fucking head on the ice hard enough that Ilya swore he felt it through the ice. The visor on his fucking helmet snapped off. His ears rang and his head swam but he didn't lose consciousness, his eyes were dilating fine. The trainers kept him back for half a period but eventually had to let him back out on the ice because someone complaining that much and talking that lucidly was probably alright. And he is, he is actually alright, but by the time the adrenalin of the game is gone and by the time he's done self-flagellating for the fact that, after all of that shit, Boston won by one point--by the time that's done, he's tired. His head aches. And this is the last time he gets to see Ilya, maybe, before playoffs ramp up and they don't speak for awhile. So of course he still goes to Ilya's place and of course he lets Ilya kiss him hard in the doorway, though he can't help the slight Ah, ah that comes out of his mouth when Ilya does his normal thing and fists a hand in his hair.
"Oh, oh, your head." Ilya says this far too gently and far too sweetly, like one might to an animal or child. Because Ilya is a little like the Big Bad Wolf and at times speaks with a voice not his own. Sometimes he opens his mouth but what comes out isn't his normal voice, deep and sexy and sometimes crude. At times he speaks with a different voice enirely--soft, higher. Call it loving, if it wasn't Ilya fucking Rozanov.
(This is because Ilya Rozanov is a loverboy at heart, always has been. Shane doesn't know this yet.)
"It's fine," Shane mutters, already searching for Ilya's mouth again. "Come on. Come on."
And Ilya obliges him, slots their mouths back together and slots his hands behind Shane's thighs to lift, and Shane loves that. He always does. He would never ever tell Rozanov, but he fucking loves submitting to him in that way--giving over his entire body as something to be picked up, moved around. This instrument of his that he keeps so finely tuned, and when he's with Ilya it doesn't belong to him anymore. It feels so fucking good, every time.
It feels especially good tonight, when all he's heard for hours is Fuck Hollander that one was bad. Careful with that head man we're gonna need it. That one was nasty, you sure you're good. Gotta be careful man.
Ilya says absolutely none of this. Ilya hauls him to the bedroom and tilts onto the bed, landing on it widthwise with Shane under him. He kisses Shane's stomach and hips as he takes off his pants for him and then he rests his chin in Shane's bush as he smiles and says, "You have headache, hm? I see you squint."
"A little. It's fine."
"You know what's good for headache?" Ilya kisses him twice, once in the hip, once on the stomach, low enough that Shane feels the suction of the kiss at the base of his dick.
"What?" Shane whispers, arms over his head and knees dropped onto the bedspread.
"Orgasm," Ilya says simply. "Releases chemicals, makes you feel good. I'll make you feel good, okay? See if that headache goes away."
And Ilya, as always, makes him feel good. But only after he puts a pillow behind Shane's head and a pillow under his hips and asks him if he's comfortable. And Shane would roll his eyes and accuse him of patronizing him, making fun of him for taking the hit, if there wasn't something different in Rozanov's eyes tonight. He kneels between Shane's legs and looks down at him, hands massaging Shane's thighs, and he looks unbearably handsome. Shane tells him so.
"Are you gonna fuck me?" Shane murmurs, when the staring and the touching has gone on for a very long time.
"Mm-hm. Yes." Ilya kisses his belly again, presses his forehead there. Says something that might be So beautiful or Pretty boy or even My baby. Shane decides it's not for his ears and doesn't listen, and then makes himself forget he ever heard it.
Ilya fucks him for absolute ages and says things like Feel good? Nice for you? Nice full feeling in your tummy? How is your head, baby, feel better? And Shane doesn't know why it doesn't feel condescending, why it feels so fucking good to let Ilya handle him this way when they normally snarl and bite at each other after games like the one tonight and like it that way. He doesn't know why this version of Ilya's control over him feels so right and fucking special.
Shane comes twice. Once with Ilya's hand around his cock, hand fisted in Ilya's perfect hair, Ilya grunting into his neck, the beautiful sensation of Ilya's thick cock twitching inside him, ideal in almost every way. Once a little later, in Ilya's mouth after he'd come and tied off the condom and got back in bed and kissed his way slowly down Shane's body from his shoulder to his hip. A gentle, soundless orgasm that Ilya swallowed down without comment before he rested his cheek on Shane's hip and dozed for a little while.
Shane taps his chin because it's getting late and he's going to miss curfew.
"I will pay your fine," Ilya mutters next to Shane's balls.
"Bad idea," Shane mumbles. There's a beat of silence, and then he says, "We probably shouldn't...do it like that again."
Ilya, after a moment, only nods.
It's the closest they come to talking about it. The way that it gets just a bit too real sometimes. The way that they let it keep happening, each of them making eye contact with it and then plucking their own eyes out just to forget its shape.
At the door, Ilya says, "Your head feels better, yes?"
And Shane says, "Yeah, you took good care of me."
And Ilya puffs up, proud of himself, then kisses the side of Shane's head while Shane resists the urge to say Fuck, Rozanov, what did I just say, because he wants it. Goddamn it, he fucking wants it and he's tired of denying himself.
So he lets himself be held for just another minute, because someday he won't have this choice anymore.
Made this post about 15 minutes after the repair guy who fixed the pump on my dishwasher packed up his tools and left, as the dishwasher was whirring along doing my dishes from that morning.
He said the exact same thing, which I did not know before that, so spreading this knowledge.
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Every time I see a gifset of the stairwell kiss I'm like oh surely this has been slowed down. It hasn't! He is genuinely lingering like that. Do you do that with all your hookups Ilya. Jesus fucking Christ genuinely are you okay. Is the We Meet Up We Fuck Is Simple in the FUCKING ROOM WITH US. what are you DOING man.
I simply have to go to bed now, but please remind me tomorrow to talk about Shane and Ilya roleplaying Shane getting fucked by an entire hockey team, where Ilya plays every single player, just changing into different team hoodies/jerseys/caps for each character.
Shane admits to Ilya one day that a fantasy he's always had is being taken by a whole hockey team. And he's a little embarrassed by it because he knows how impossible it is. I mean firstly where are they going to find a whole hockey team that's into the idea of gay sex? ("Least of our problems, Malysh. You just need to tell them that fucking Shane Hollander will make their game better and even the homophobic ones will stop to think about it. What was the second problem?") Secondly, Ilya doesn't share, and Shane doesn't want anyone besides Ilya. So it's kind of a hopeless fantasy, even if it is one of his favorites.
"Leave it to me," Ilya says, pressing a kiss to Shane's lips. "I will make your dreams come true." And before Shane can ask how, he's being pushed down into the pillows as Ilya begins kissing him long and slow and filthy.
A few days later, Ilya tells Shane to cancel any plans he has for Saturday because he's going to need him the whole day. Shane knows when Ilya says this it's usually a sign that he's about to spend the day being thoroughly fucked, so he's more than happy to cancel his plans to hangout with Hayden. And sure enough, a few days later, Shane finds himself on all fours on the bed in the guest room, facing a mirror Ilya has strategically placed, wearing nothing but a jersey for a fake team emblazoned with 'Rozanov 81', a pair of socks, a cock ring, and a plug that Ilya had worked into him earlier to prepare him.
Shane takes a moment to look at the jersey in the mirror. He must have gotten Harris to design a team logo or something because the front of the jersey has a graphic of an O, circled by a comet. ("The team is the Ottawa Comets. Just go with it, okay?") and Shane is more than happy to. He's touched that Ilya's gone to such lengths for this, and it immediately clears up a lot of questions that would have distracted him later.
After what feels like ages, Ilya walks into the room and stops at the door just staring at Shane for a moment.
"I was just getting the guys all settled in and laying down the ground rules," he says. "And then I realized that I had to be the first one to have you or I would be so jealous for the rest of the day."
Shane is so hard already he thinks he might pass out, but he just arches his back like an invitation, pleased when he hears Ilya moan behind him. A moment later, he appears in the mirror behind him. He's wearing shorts and a tee with the same graphic as the one on Shane's jersey.
"My Shane, how am I supposed to share you when you are here looking like this?" he says, pulling off his shorts and climbing onto the bed to murmur this against the shell of Shane's ear. Shane feels goosebumps erupt all over his body. "This is why you must wear my jersey the whole time. I want all of those assholes to know that even though I am being very kind and sharing with them, you are mine and only mine. Yes?"
"Yes," Shane hisses, pressing his ass back against Ilya, desperate for him to start fucking him. "Only yours, baby."
When Shane looks up to catch Ilya's face in the mirror, he's please to see that his eyes are dark and full of need and his cheeks are slightly flushed. Ilya slowly removes his shirt and begins kissing Shane down his jaw, neck, upper back, pulling down the neck of his jersey to reach more skin.
"I thought the plan was for everyone to fuck me," says Shane, head spinning a little at the feeling of Ilya's lips on the nape of his neck. "This is a lot more kissing than I was anticipating." He's being a little bratty, but he can't help it. He just wants Ilya to fuck him already.
"Patience, My Shane. I get special husband privileges," he says, scraping his teeth a little against Shane's skin in that way that drives Shane crazy, before finally, finally slowly starting to pull out his plug. "Do you know how excited they all are downstairs? They cannot wait to get the chance to fuck the beautiful god of hockey, Shane Hollander. But this is still my turn and I will enjoy it."
And enjoy it he does. Ilya takes his time, hitting all the angles that Shane likes, murmuring to him the whole time about how beautiful he is, how he's so fucking amazing for agreeing to do this to make him popular with the team, how grateful he is that his husband would do that for him, what a sacrifice it is because he knows that Ilya is the only one he wants. Shane lets himself get lost in it, surrendering completely to whatever Ilya wants to do, only concentrating on not coming. That's the one rule he's been given and there's no way he's breaking it.
When Ilya comes a few moments later, immediately plugging Shane back up and kissing him everywhere, telling him over and over how good he was, how fucking hot that was, how good and obedient he is for remembering not to come, Shane's legs are already feeling weak. But he takes a deep steadying breath. He still has a whole team to go.
"I'm going to send the first guy up in a bit, Solnyshko," he says, pressing one last kiss to Shane's shoulder. "Are you ready for him?"
Shane nods, not sure if he's still able to form words at this point, but not really needing to either. Ilya climbs off the bed, goes to the en suite to clean himself off, and then pulls his clothes back on.
"Oh I forgot to say, the whole team is from Russia. Isn't that so weird? Anyway don't get a fright when they sound like me, okay?" And Shane can't help but laugh to himself a little as Ilya leaves the room.
Shane doesn't have to wait long before he's back, this time wearing different shorts, no shirt, and a backwards cap.
"Wow, Rozy wasn't joking," he says in a thicker accent than his own. "You are a fucking, uh what you call, smokeshow. I can't believe he's just letting us fuck you. But I see he did leave a reminder that you belong to him." He removes the plug, and Shane feels a bit of Ilya's cum leak out in a way that sends shivers through his whole body.
And as Ilya's "teammate" takes him, Shane has to concentrate even harder on not coming. He's not giving in this early. Shane finds himself grateful for the cock ring, because he's starting to think that without it, this might be impossible. It's the dumbest, hottest thing they've ever done, and Shane couldn't be fucking happier.
By the time Shane's taken three more "teammates", there are tears streaming down his face, his legs are trembling and he's so hard and desperate that he feels like he might actually die if he doesn't get to come soon. Thankfully, Ilya seems to sense this, because when Shane's expecting a fifth teammate, he's relieved that it turns out to be just Ilya.
"Please, baby," Shane begs, voice shaky with tears and need, unable to do much more. "Please I need to... I'm dying here."
"The rest of the guys have decided to have their turn another day," says Ilya, climbing onto the bed to kiss Shane so gently. He places a hand over where Shane's belly is bloated with cum. "You did so well, Malysh. They cannot stop talking about you. I'm the man now, all thanks to you."
"Of course, Lyubimyy," he carefully removes the cock ring and then finally, at last, wraps his hand around Shane's cock. It only takes a few tugs before Shane comes harder than he ever has in his life, so hard he can't even make a sound. As soon as he's done, Ilya gathers him into his arms and kisses him so sweetly and reverantly that Shane can't help but cry again. "That was so perfect, My Shane. You are so perfect. God, I am so lucky. The luckiest man on earth definitely."
Shane is so blissed out and dazed after that, that he barely remembers Ilya carrying him to the shower, carefully removing the plug and remarking at how much he took, how fucking amazing he is, how much he enjoyed it. He barely remembers Ilya carefully cleaning them both, washing his hair, drying him off, taking him to their room to get changed into his comfiest sleep clothes, and finally climbing into bed with him and pulling him close.
"Did you enjoy it though, Lyubimyy?" he asks, pressing a kiss to Shane's forehead. "I know it wasn't a whole team, but was it at least what you hoped for?"
And Shane nods and snuggles closer into Ilya, completely spent, eyes heavier than they'd ever been. "It was fucking everything, baby."
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