take Ilya's dick out of your mouth before you talk

shane: hey :) play better next time best buddy :)

😏

A sneak preview from something in the water:

Ilya watches Shane stretch out in his chair on the dock and pluck his book off the weather-beaten boards. He moves with slow, fluid grace here, like a cat in a sunny spot in front of a window. Contented. Unguarded. At home.

Ilya looks at him and remembers the sharp, white-hot spike of terror he felt when he woke in the middle of the night to find him missing from their bed.

For a moment, Ilya had assumed he had gone to the bathroom or went to get a drink. He closed his eyes and breathed deep and waited a moment, trying to pick out sounds of Shane moving around elsewhere in the cottage, but none ever came. When Ilya stretched his arm out to the empty space in the bed, he found the sheets had long since gone cold.

Then he shot out of bed.

He stumbled around the house, tripping blindly over corners and thresholds he wasn't yet familiar with, trying to find where Shane had gone. The door was still locked from the inside. All the windows were closed. None of the lights were on. The car was in the drive. Everything was silent, save for the distant hum of the air conditioner.

At a loss of where else to look, Ilya slipped out the back door and strode across the dew-covered grass to the adjacent building that held Shane's personal synthetic rink.

There were no lights on, but the door leading inside stood ever so slightly ajar. His heart in his throat, Ilya slid inside and peered around. The darkness was absolute. Only the indicator lights on the machines that maintained the ice pierced the smothering curtain of black.

Throwing all caution to the wind, Ilya flicked on the lights.

Shane was on the slab of ice, smack in the center. He was barefoot, dressed only in his sleep pants and a thin shirt, lying facedown. Ilya's chest tightened and a wounded noise was wrenched from his mouth as he hurried over, the ice biting at his bare feet as he tried not to break his neck getting to Shane.

"Hollander?" Ilya gasped as he went to his knees beside Shane, his momentum nudging both of them forward a couple of inches. "Shane? Shane, please, open your eyes, please —"

"Hmmn?" Shane's eyes came open slowly and he took in a deep breath, his body coming online bit by bit. "Ilya? What's wrong?" he mumbled, sitting up and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

"What is wrong?" Ilya exclaimed, aghast. "What is wrong? Shane, you are laying on ice with no padding or anything in the middle of the night. How did you get here? Are you feeling alright?" His words were frantic, ramming into each other as they tumbled from his mouth, but he couldn't help it.

Shane lying on the ice had looked, for just the smallest moment, like his mother lying in her bed, never to rise again.

"I'm fine, Ilya, it's okay," Shane assured him as he came fully awake. He looked around the rink building, puzzled, but not openly alarmed. "I… I don't remember how I got here. Weird."

He stood up. Ilya rushed to stand with him and held out his arms for support, but Shane was stable on the ice, even without skates. He wasn't bruised or bleeding. His eyes were clear, his pupils a normal size. He was fine. He was completely fine. He had just… sleepwalked, perhaps. That was something people did, sometimes. It figured Shane Hollander would go straight to the ice, even when unconscious.

"I'm sorry I scared you," Shane said sweetly, and the terror that had gripped Ilya since his eyes flew open finally relaxed its hold. "Come on, let's go back inside."

They left the building, the ice slightly wet beneath their feet, but when Ilya glanced back before turning off the light, there wasn't a mark to be found on its surface. It was like they'd never been there at all.

Ilya who just listened to Shane on a flight talk for two hours straight about Bird Facts:

Thinking about Shane crying whining about how it hurts, or it's too much, or he can't do it, or he needs to cum, and Ilyas reply is just, "Shh, I know."

I know as Ilya smacks him open handed across the face, making Shane gasp and cry.

I know as Shane stands in front of him, legs spread, so Ilya can not so lightly kick the toe of his boots in Shane's balls.

I know as Ilya fucks another load into Shane, his poor caged cock leaking and drooling into the mattress.

I know as Shane starts to cum dry, over sensitive and fucked out, still riding Ilya because every time he stops Ilya hurts his poor tits.

And he does, Ilya does know. He knows he hurting Shane, he knows Shane is at his limit, he knows sometimes Shane likes to fail, and Ilya likes to be the one to push it, push him, like poking at a horrible bruise just to watch him wince.

Shane needs him to know, is the thing. He needs Ilya to be the one to make the decision, and if Shane tells him, then he's giving that decision to Ilya. He's not saying "it hurts and I can't take it anymore." He's saying "it hurts and I need you to chose if I take anymore."

His body isn't his it isn't ever his it belongs to the NHL to his team to his fans to his coaches to his manager its Ilyas and by telling Ilya his struggles and plights its not his to worry about anymore.

So Shane gasps and pleads and begs and says "I can't cum anymore."

And Ilya says "I know." Because he does; by acknowledging Shane's limit he's taking the burden of it from Shane; Shane doesn't have to worry about trying to make himself cum anymore, Ilyas just playing with him, and by telling Ilya he's giving the responsibility of that knowledge, of that limit, of what's done with it, over to him.

And Ilya loves it. Wants to be the one to push Shane Hollander around, to decide his limits, to push him to the edge and sometimes over it. No one gets to take Shane apart like this, no one gets to do whatever the fuck they want to the best hockey player in the world, expect him. Ilya.