Ilya making a ligma joke to Cliff when they meet up for the first time since Ilya goes to Ottawa. Cliff chokes up & is like bro. These rooks just don’t make me laugh like you do broski.
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[touches the ground gingerly] i can feel it… the vibrations of simulated sex between two massive men smashing their bodies together in Canada….. all is right in the world
since we were talking about shane always needing ilya to fuck him harder here are my thoughts on the matter. (it’s porn btw)
It’s cottage times after they’re married. Shane is insatiable. Ilya’s already fucked him three times today, once in the morning --waking him up with his mouth quick and messy, then again on the couch after lunch, jerking him off sweet and slow, and finally in their bed, a little while ago after edging him for close to an hour. But still he wants more, which is where they are now.
And herein lies the problem, Shane has been so needy lately, and though Ilya would love nothing more than to fuck his husband six ways from sunday at the drop of a hat, he can’t, he just can’t he’s so tired and the heart is willing but the flesh is getting weaker every second and probably wants a nap at some point. So he planned, planned meticulously to tire his husband out so they could rest a little together. But he miscalculated, should’ve gotten his dick in him sooner because now Shane’s been waiting all day for it and he needs more than Ilya can give.
He’s got Shane on all fours in their bed, and he’s pounding into him as hard as he can but Shane is still whining for more, and has been for a while.
Usually when he gets like this Ilya can find some way to ratchet things up a notch and push Shane over the edge, but not now. Wringing three orgasms out of him already today has just made it harder to get him there for this (hopefully) final time but Ilya’s just as spent and Shane has tears in his eyes because it’s so much and it’s so good but he needs more.
And Ilya can remember a time when everyone always asked more of him and he hated it but here’s his husband pleading with him ‘please Ilya, just a little more Ilya’ and he loves it so much can’t get enough of it really except that he thinks his dick might chafe if they keep going like this. He doesn’t have the right leverage for what Shane needs right now and all the repositioning they’ve done so far hasn’t helped just makes Shane squirm and beg while Ilya tries to get the angle that’ll make Shane going blissfully quiet. He’s got half a mind to just drag the whole mattress of the bed at this point and fuck him there, maybe a change of scenery will help. And as he thinks that he realizes it’s not such a bad idea, just with a little tweak.
So he pulls out of Shane—who whines at the loss—slaps his ass once to get his attention and orders him to get off the bed. Grabs his face when Shane just blinks at him, drags their mouths together and whispers some filth about if he wants to get fucked like a bitch then he doesn’t deserve the bed, the bed is for his husband not this desperate pleading thing. Lightly slaps his cheek a few times for good measure, Shane is still a little out of it and reeling from the lack of Ilya’s cock in his ass but he shakes himself out of it and slides off the bed (a little uncoordinated but whatever) Ilya follows behind him, and now they’re both kneeling on the hardwood floor of their bedroom. Ilya praises him once for his obedience before pushing him down so he’s face first on the floor, ass in the air. Slams back inside and starts hammering away as Shane moans so loud, Ilya’d be worried if they weren’t in the middle of nowhere. He has more leverage now that he’s not scrambling for purchase in their stupidly expensive sheets. There’s no rocking of the bed, no slamming of the headboard, just him and Shane pushing into one another on the floor and he knows this will be enough, he’s going to make his husband come again (and fuck up both their knees in the process) anything for his Shane.
Shane’s voice echos through the rooms as he shouts and comes all over their bedroom floor before collapsing into a heap, panting all the while. Ilya would let that be it but he’s feeling a little mean, he pushes down on Shane’s ass, pressing his over sensitive cock into the floor and smearing in the mess he made. He holds him there as he jerks himself off over Shane’s ass, using the hand keeping him pressed to the floor to spread him open and get a good look at his sweet abused hole. And that’s it for Ilya, the sight of what Shane was begging for enough to send him tumbling over the edge too. He comes all over Shane’s pretty pink ass.
Then they’re both lying on the ground next to their bed which is stupid, so Ilya uses his last burst of energy to gently lift Shane back on the bed and crawl in after him. Lets them both catch their breath for a moment before saying,
“Hollander, are you trying to kill me?”
Shane smacks him on the arm for that, they’re not Hollander and Rozanov anymore, Ilya knows that he just needed to see the little crease in Shane’s brow that meant he was himself again, no longer clouded by desperate need. Ilya smiles at him, twines their fingers together as they lie side by side.
Shane smirks at him and raises an eyebrow. “What? too much for you?”
Ilya just laughs. Pulls Shane closer to him, wraps his arms around him.
“It’d be too much for a whole team, fuck Shane you get so crazy for it.”
He loves that they can speak like this with each other now. There used to be a time when Ilya had to tread carefully, the smallest joke about the magnitude of Shane’s desire would get him to clam up faster than anything. Always worried he was too much, too weird. Not anymore though, now he’ll happily try to climb Ilya any chance he gets and no amount of jokes or imitation gripes from Ilya will get him to stop. He’s perfect.
Shane purses his lips.
“So what I’m hearing is you don’t want to go again.”
Ilya groans.
“Shane. If we keep going like this my dick will literally fall off.”
Shane pouts, mock pity in his eyes.
“Poor baby,” he coos, “need me to kiss it better?”
shane voice what if i was a rookie and you were my captain and you forced me to my knees to suck your dick and then made fun of me for how eager i am to use my mouth on you and made me thank you for giving me your cum and maybe called me some really bad words as well
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shane texting ilya after a metros game like: im so fucking tired of carrying this entire team on my back like fuck sure we won tonight but i'd have had a goddamn hat trick if stevens hadn't been off fucking sides like at what point is it easier for me to be the only guy on the fucking ice at least then no one is gonna miss my fucking passes
shane 2 minutes later to the media: oh for sure it's a team effort, we all do our best to contribute 🙂
hayden pike has this hetero-centric idealistic fantasy of finding jackie a friend that is also shane’s spouse. he wants to be a couple of couples. the ‘wives’ hang out and are best friend and the ‘husbands’ hang out.
when women don’t work out, and he’s forced to find shane a boyfriend, it’s still with this idea in his head that shane’s boyfriend will just be an extension of shane like jackie is for him. jackie and shane’s man will be friends. so that hayden doesn’t lose his Shane Time (tm). he’s trying to find shane a man who can be his Wife and jackie’s friend, thus completing their perfect heteronormative group of four. without disrupting existing dynamics.
he can’t fathom shane getting with a Man. a Bro, a Jock, a Man who is a guy who is plainly a guy, ya know. that’s why ilya messes with his head so much. ilya, in hayden’s mind (and in reality, but pike is going to get bitter in his own head), ilya rozanov is better than him in everything. and the crux of it is that ilya gets to have shane. ilya gets to infringe on what hayden thought only he had the special privilege of getting. in hayden’s mind, shane is a prize and ilya won. but also back to the point, ilya is very clearly a man and in a gay relationship with shane. a gay relationship that hayden can’t comfortably assign hetero roles to (he doesn’t—can’t—imagine shane ‘being the girl’ and rozanov messes with both this idea and the fantasy. if shane would just dump him and get with a yoga guy, or a personal trainer, or any number of more ‘acceptable’ gay men, then hayden can have his happy little life and his happy little wife and his happy little second wife(shane) who also has his own happy little wife.
ilya gets along with jackie great, and the kids, but he’s a man who would rather hang out with his boyfriend/husband and ‘the guys’ than sit and be jackie’s little friend who is married to shane. that’s what’s at the core of hayden’s continued dislike of ilya.
People the other day were posting about the Hollanov AU possibilities of prince/knight and for the record, that is great and I support it. But if I could quick also make an argument for prince4prince?
Okay, so walk with me: this would take place in a world where political marriages between two men sometimes happen, but it's a pretty recent thing and some people still have hangups about it.
.
“You wanted to see me,” says Rozanov, “alone?” He’s smirking in a way that makes Shane reasonably sure he’s being mocked, but for once in their very short acquaintance, Shane won’t take the bait.
“Yes,” says Shane, heart pounding. “Close the door behind you.”
It’s the first time they’ve ever been alone together before. Rozanov raises his eyebrows, but he does close the door. He takes the chair across from Shane. The way he slumps in his seat is unfortunately attractive, but then, that applies to nearly everything he does.
“How did you escape the rest of your retinue?” asks Rozanov idly.
“I evade them very rarely,” Shane says. “They were not prepared.”
“Mm,” says Rozanov. “I evade mine very often, so I am always prepared.”
There is no point in prolonging this. “I need to tell you why the marriage cannot take place,” says Shane.
“You mean our marriage,” says Rozanov blankly. “The one happening in ten days.”
Shane nods. “There is a provision,” he says. “It’s not used very often but if we both object, we can still get out of it.”
“You agreed before. What has changed?” Rozanov’s tone is unreadable, and Shane cannot make himself look at him.
Shane had known, on some level, that the only way out of this situation would be to explain it to Rozanov, but his resolve had been considerably stronger in the early hours of the morning, following another sleepless night. With Rozanov in the room, Shane’s determination is weakening every second.
“I’m sick,” Shane tries.
“You seem healthy enough to me,” says Rozanov.
Shane can feel his face start to heat. “Not that kind of sick.”
“What kind, then?” Rozanov presses.
“Does it matter?” says Shane.
“You are the most duty-bound person I have ever met,” Rozanov says. “Your entire life is obligation. Why is this the one charge you refuse?”
This is agony. Shane reminds himself how much worse it would be, for the whole mess to come to light after the wedding. An annulment. Rumors swirling around them, Rozanov sent home in likely disgrace.
“Look,” says Shane, “you deserve someone who can be with you.” He fights the urge to drag a hand down his face. “Someone who could properly consummate the marriage.”
“And you cannot?” says Rozanov. “What, are you going to try to tell me you aren’t interested in men?”
Shane freezes. Rozanov is more perceptive than he looks. “No,” Shane grits out. “Uh. I am.”
There is a long pause.
“The problem is the way I’m interested,” says Shane.
“And what way is that?” asks Rozanov.
Shane presses his lips together.
“What,” says Rozanov, “should I start listing ways?”
“No,” says Shane before he can stop himself. “Fuck you.”
With some men, this would be the start of an international incident. When Shane risks a glance at Rozanov, there is no fury, no outrage. Maybe a glimmer of triumph, although that makes no sense.
“I, uh,” Shane says. “The things I want are—are perverse.”
Again, no anger. Rozanov also does not run screaming from the room. He says only, “Perverse how?”
For obvious reasons, Shane has never needed to tell anyone before, but he does probably owe Rozanov the truth.
“I have heard other men talk,” Shane says unsteadily, “about what they like, when it comes to matters of the flesh.”
Rozanov nods. Shane is standing with his toes over the edge of a precipice. There is nothing left to do but fall. He swallows.
“I have never heard another man say he wants to be the one on his knees,” Shane makes himself say.
Another pause. Shane’s heart is in his throat.
“This is not unusual, in my experience,” says Rozanov.
Shane stares at him. “What?”
“Every time a man has his cock sucked, there must be someone doing the sucking,” Rozanov says. “The act cannot happen without it, no?”
Shane’s mouth is hanging open. He closes it. “I mean, it happens,” says Shane at last. “But a man isn’t supposed to—”
“Enjoy it?” says Rozanov softly. “And you do?”
“I think I would,” says Shane, ruthlessly honest. “Very much.”
“You think you would, but you have never done it?” Rozanov says. He’s almost smiling.
Shane feels absurd all of a sudden. In my experience, Rozanov had said, implying he has committed such acts before, maybe with some frequency, while Shane has done almost nothing. He breathes through his nose and tries not to feel like a child. Shane’s inexperience is not the problem. His perversion is.
It occurs to Shane that he had chosen to share perhaps the mildest of his predilections. Worse, that he had done so because on some level, he still does not want Rozanov to think less of him. Stupid.
“That is not the only thing I want,” says Shane. And he reaches for the worst, most incriminating fantasies he can think of, thoughts that make him burn with shame even when he is alone. And Rozanov—cocky, boastful, outrageous Rozanov—sits and listens. It is absolutely horrible, but after the first few, there is something strangely comforting about admitting these things aloud to another person. He wonders if this is how Catholics feel in confession.
Rozanov does not react with mockery or disgust. Occasionally, he asks a question—so in your mind, when this man holds you down and makes you take it, is he rough with you? Does he hurt you? And Shane answers with the same curious detachment, Maybe but it is less about the pain and more about not being able to stop him, because he knows I want it.
Sometimes there is an odd strain in Rozanov’s voice, but he does not flinch away from any of Shane’s lurid, sinful imaginings. Shane regrets meeting this more considerate side of Rozanov only now, before they are to prevent the wedding from ever happening.
If Shane is being honest, he loses track of the time, is only reminded of the outside world when footsteps sound in the hallway behind them, from the other side of the door.
“Ah, so they’ve found us,” says Rozanov, with an unfairly devastating smile. “Your people or mine, do you think?”
An awful thought seizes Shane. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?” he says, cold in the pit of his stomach.
“Of course not.” Rozanov stands, stretches. “Who would believe me?”
The door opens. “Your Highness, where have you been?” An unfamiliar voice. One of Rozanov’s retinue, then.
Shane busies himself with the papers on the table.
“Right here,” Rozanov tells his attendant. “No international incidents today. We were just having a chat.”
“Thank you for the conversation, Highness,” Shane tells Rozanov, holding out his hand to shake. When Rozanov steps close enough to clasp hands, Shane adds in an undertone, “I can draft the papers to void our engagement tonight.”
Rozanov takes Shane’s hand in his own. His palm is warm and dry, his fingertips rough with callouses. His Royal Highness Ilya Rozanov is known to be a fine athlete, skilled in fencing. So is Shane. There is a reason King David and Queen Yuna had hoped the match might be a happy one. Shane feels a pang of something, that they will likely never have another conversation alone. Still, he has at least freed Rozanov from a life shackled to Shane’s debaucherous soul.
Rozanov squeezes Shane’s hand. “Don’t,” he says.
“What?” says Shane.
“Don’t draft the papers,” says Rozanov, almost casual. “I will not sign them.”
He releases Shane’s hand, turning to go.
“What do you mean?” says Shane dumbly.
Rozanov looks back at Shane and smiles again. There is an edge of something to it that Shane doesn’t know how to define, except that it makes him shiver.
“Our wedding is in ten days,” says Rozanov. He backs out of the door, attendants urging him forwards. “Thank you for the conversation. Very illuminating,” he calls from the hallway.
shane holding onto ilya’s fingers with his whole hand at the cottage is so sweet to me… it’s so reminiscent of something kids do, grabbing onto someone they love with a clumsy grip. and shane is just a kid, with ilya… something about you makes me feel small, shy, safe. if i’m holding onto you, i’m tethered. even the barest point of contact anchors me. it feels unreal that you’re here with me, i get to show you everything, let me show you everything. we never get to hold hands anywhere else, and i’m allowed to want you, here, in this place that always made me feel like i could exist freely. i’m allowed to touch you however i want; i want you to touch me whenever, wherever, all the time, here. we don’t have to hold hands just to go up the stairs, but i want to. i know we have two weeks, but i don’t want to let go of you for even a second — call it making up for lost time.
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It’s been days. Days of being in bed. Stewing in filth. Contaminating Shane with it. He doesn’t complain. He never complains. His sweet lovely Shane. He tries to help. Tries to motivate him to get out of bed with promises of a fun afternoon doing whatever he wants.
A ride on his motorcycle - I’ll even go on the back. Arms around your waist.
A trip to his parents - Dad said he’d make chicken parmesan.
Sex - You can do whatever you want. Whatever. Take me however you want. I won’t complain.
His Shane begged. Pleaded. Bargained. But nothing he did could spark Ilya’s heart. It was beating. Beating dull. Heavy. Dead. Opening his eyes felt like a dramatic feat. Getting out of bed felt impossible.
But every night Shane laid down beside him. Kissed his chapped lips. His fuzzy unwashed mouth. Snuggled into his side. Pressed his nose against his skin. Breathed in his unwashed scent. Rank. Sour.
Tonight was no different. Shane emerges from the bathroom. Hair damp from a shower. Breath minty from toothpaste. He kneels on the bed. Gazes into Ilya’s half lidded eyes. His brown eyes full of loving concern.
He runs his fingers through matted curls. Grease shining on the digits. Rubs his hands across his sweaty skin.
“Don’t worry baby,” He whispers. Crawls down the bed. Moves the sheet back to reveal his cock resting below unruly pubic hair. “I’ll make you feel good.”
Ilya shakes his head. He’s too gross down there. Too dirty. Too weak to protest fully. Shane brings his head down. Swallows roughly. Throat tightening at the sour scent.
White-yellow pearls of smegma appear when he pulls his foreskin back. Ilya shuts his eyes tight. He doesn’t know if he can watch his Shane debase himself like this. Debase himself like this for him.
Shane’s tongue is warm. Wet. Hot. Against his sensitive skin. He can feel Shane’s shaking hands against his hip bones. Feel him struggle against his own repulsion. Can feel the thick substance falling away against Shane’s tongue. Crumbling into his mouth. Shane’s fingers curl against his skin with every swallow.
His dick is engulfed in Shane’s perfect wet mouth. He opens his eyes and looks. Shane’s crying. Tears dripping down his nose as he works his mouth up and down his cock. His skin is tinted green. Face pinched in disgust. Repulsion.
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Ilya Rozanov with a mommy kink HEAR ME OUT!!! Okay so he’s in denial. In Boston when he was sad he would subconsciously seek out dramatically older women and take them home, have an uncharacteristically sweet/caring night with her, and cum the moment she calls him her sweet boy.
He shoves it down very very far when he starts dating Shane.
But maybe he has a terrible day and he feels like he can’t get out to bed, let alone take care of himself. And maybe Shane is so sweet, and coaxes Ilya into the shower and washes his hair for him. And Ilya wants to collapse with the overwhelming love he feels, and Shane’s hands feel so fucking good massaging shampoo into his curls, and Ilya feels himself start to slip beneath the surface and into a headspace he’s avoided for years.
And then they’re on the bed and Shane is letting Ilya lay completely on top of him, stroking his hair and scratching his scalp and whispering nice things in Russian. Shane is being so sweet, so fucking caring, that Ilya just has to bite him right on the chest. He leaves a pretty little indent and eventually finds Shane’s nipple, and latches right on. Shane doesn’t yelp or tell him to stop. So Ilya sucks, blinking up at his husband every once in a while with glassy eyes.
Ilya doesn’t even notice himself getting hard he’s so focused on suckling. Shane tugs him gently to suck the other side and rubs his back. Hes being so sweet. Shane is so sweet. And Ilya is floating, completely taken care of. Shane is praising him, and then because of some kind of divine intuition, he murmurs something using words he only learned recently. Ya tak sil’no tebya lyublyu milyy mal’chick. I love you so much sweet boy.
Ilya doesn’t even think before he replies quietly with ya lyublyu tebya mama.
Shane goes still for a moment, but Ilya doesn’t notice. He’s too busy rocking his dick forward against Shane’s thigh, humming and sighing, and it feels so good, and he’s acting only on instincts when he reaches down to jerk Shane off too.
They both cum with shuddering gasps shortly after. Shane cleans them up, and only then does Ilya open his eyes and realize what the fuck he just did. He sits up quickly and tries to get a grip. “Fuck, Shane, I’m so sorry I — fuck.” Ilya’s crying too now, which is even more embarrassing. But Shane shushes him and holds him and tells him it’s so okay and he didn’t mind over and over again.
After, Ilya feels like kind of a pervert and he should definitely talk to his therapist, but it was nice to sink into something that felt so safe…and it felt really good…and Shane was into it…….
Anyway it becomes maybe a monthly-ish thing. They fuck about it.
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