dillwithit

No I agreeeeeeee I think the only way Shane would have been okay with it is if they were Polaroids that he could look away safely, know where they are and keep them safe under lock and key. They each have their own fancy lock boxes that Shane bought them, keys safely stored away. They have a handful of Polaroid that are just for them. It is a bit over the top- Shane knows but this is the most precious thing to him he can’t risk it.

The photos include:

Shane on his knees, face planted into Ilya’s crotch, Ilya’s hand cradling the back of his head

Shane laid on the bed, eyes closed, face blissed out with his face covered in Ilya’s cum, Ilya’s thumb playing with his lips

Shane on his knees, Ilya’s hand gripping his waist

Ilya naked and flexing with a big stupid grin

Ilya between Shane’s legs, Shane’s thighs over his shoulders, only his curls visible

Shanes ass, Ilya’s big hand gripping one cheek, able to see a hint of his hole, dripping out cum and puffy

Ilyas chest, covered in cum

Shane’s chest, covered in cum

Blurry photo of Shane sat across Ilya’s lap, mid riding him, cock hard and dripping against his tummy

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."

They are also, crucially, having the filthiest and nastiest sex that two guys in their twenties with an extremely willing monogamous partner can think up. Things are WILD. They are Yes And'ing each other in ways that they are legit going to have to process by sitting quietly alone in a room for an entire day at some point in the future.

They're going at it raw, of course. Ilya is spitting in his mouth and making Shane thank him for the privilege, then calling him a slut when he does. Shane is letting Ilya chase him through the woods. He's wrapping Ilya's fingers around his neck and begging while Ilya tightens his grip. Ilya decides at one point that if Shane can't come on his cock alone then he doesn't get to come. Shane doesn't receive oral a single time at the Cottage without having to swallow his own cum. Ilya walks around with a piece of gauze on his forearm because Shane bit him and drew blood. Ilya fucks Shane with his nose way up inside Shane's armpit the entire time, huffing and licking. Ilya comes on Shane's face in the shower and Shane is so far down and loves the feeling of being marked so much that he asks Ilya to piss on him. Shane is never more than two minutes away from having Ilya's tongue or dick in one of his holes, no warning given aside from a command to spread his legs or get on his knees.

“shane hollander? sorry, i don’t know the names of all assistant coaches.”

“shane hollander? the zamboni driver for montreal? does good job, sure, but i have seen smoother ice.”

“shane hollander? who is that? does he sell popcorn during the games so that he can at least watch from afar?”

“shane hollander? you mean the guy who has coffee cart outside the arena because selling iced drinks is the closest he will get to hockey?”

“shane hollander? of course i remember him. he is park guide now, did you know? yes that is the closest he will get to sticks.”

(to the journalist) “shane hollander? is that the name of your son? does he want my autograph?”

Ilya watches Shane’s eyes blink, slow and heavy. Long lashes down against the lightest freckles just under his eyes. Ilya thinks Shane might have finally slipped into sleep, a slow exhale from Shane’s nose that fans out against Ilya’s thumb, where it is rubbing slow circles over Shane’s pouty lips, the rest of his fingers curled gently around Shane’s cheek, tucking into the silky hair behind his ear.

Ilya’s eyes fall over Shane, from the top of his head, to his strong brows, his closed eyes, strong nose, the shape of his full bottom lip that Ilya rubs rubs over, watches it pink and warm smudging under his touch. Ilya wants to kiss him, but he doesn’t want to pull him out of sleep if he’s sinking into it. Ilya takes a deep breath in, licks over his own lips instead. They taste like Shane anyway, Shane’s skin, the warmth of him, his salvia, his cum. Ilya’s eyes trace the line of Shane’s neck, down to his shoulder, bare where the covers had slipped down. Ilya catches the corner of the blanket, with the hand not cupping Shane’s back tugs it up over Shane’s shoulder and he rubs his warm flat palm over the fabric.

Shane lets out a low whimper, a noise caught in the back of his throat and then a low soft hum and his eyes are blinking back open, a tiny flutter of lashes and the dark brown of his eyes are on Ilya’s once more. Hi baby, there he is, Ilya thinks fondly, and his pointer finger drifts up, rubbing by the corner of his sleepy eye. Shane just stares at Ilya, big sweet brown eyes and dark lashes and Ilya loves him so much, so desperately.

Knowing Shane is awake, Ilya leans in and takes the kiss he’d wanted, Shane’s upper lip between his, his thumb still playing with Shane’s bottom lip in gentle brushes. Ilya feels Shane wiggle and flex his toes against the top of Ilya’s foot and Ilya smiles as he draws back.

Shane is content, soft and sweet in his arms, doing his happy toe wriggle, Ilya feels like he truely must the the only man in the world to experience this level of joy, since he is the only man to have Shane Hollander in his bed, in his arms, doe eyed and his. Gorgeous and pliant and sweet, after Ilya had fucked him to tears, shaky wet gasps in the sheets as he bared his hips back up into has driving thrusts. After he’d whined “love you love you” as he came. Muttered “Ilya, Ilya” with reaching grabbing hands to pull Ilya down onto him as he came down form his orgasm, voice broken and shaky and desperate.

It’s been a month since he’d seen Shane, and the ache of missing him felt like a distant memory, like years ago, like he’d never lost the shape of him in his hands. Like Shane won’t be gone in the early hours of the morning.

Shane tilts his chin up and Ilya is distracted from his thoughts, eyes back on Shane and watches the slight part of his mouth. His silent ask for a kiss. Ilya rushes to comply, kisses him soft and sweet, slipping his thumb away to lick into Shane’s mouth, rubbing it over his cheek in slow circles instead.

The sound Shane makes as Ilya parts the kiss makes heat rush through Ilya, makes his stomach twist. He’s so desperately in love with him. He wants to live his life just to hear that sound again and again and again. He wants to lick Shane’s molars and brush his thumb over his eyelids and nuzzle his face info the curve of his hip and bite his chin.

“Love you” the words are sweet soft from Shane’s mouth, spoken against Ilya’s mouth and Ilya has the entire world between his fingers. He is water, afternoon sunlight. He is here here here and safe.

“I love you” Ilya whispers back, runs the back of his knuckles from the top of Shane’s cheek to his jaw, skimming his fingertips down over his neck.

“You wanna sleep?” Ilya asks, fingers find Shane’s ear, thumb plays with his earlobe.

Shane nods, nods, bumps his lips against Ilya’s in a nuzzle and Ilya’s hand goes back to cupping Shane’s face, his thumb goes back to soothing Shane’s lips. Watches as Shane sighs happily.

“Sleep” Ilya urges, squeezes the arm wrapped around Shane’s waist, watches Shane’s eyes slip shut.

“Okay” Shane sighs and he’s tilting his chin up in the tiniest motion against the rub of Ilya’s thumb.

Ilya’s heart is horribly and sticky and thudding in his chest, adoration knows at his ribs and drips down the back of throat. His sweetheart, his soft thing, his heart really, his whole heart so gentle here where he exists with Ilya, his “Zaychik” Ilya barely says the word, feels it catch like how your throat clicks before you cry.

“Mm?” Shane hums and Ilya presses his face into the side of Shane’s head, exhales slowly.

“My Zaychik” Ilya whispers into his hair.

“Ty takaya milaya tol'ko dlya menya, pravda? Takaya krasivaya. Moyo serdtse. Ya khochu ukusit' tebya za shchochki, ya khochu snova zanyat'sya s toboy seksom, ya khochu dat' tebe usnut'. Mozhesh' spat', zaychik, vot tak, s moim bol'shim pal'tsem, so vsem moim telom.”

You’re so sweet just for me, aren’t you? So beautiful. My heart. I want to bite your cheeks, I want to have sex with you again, I want to let you sleep. You can sleep, bunny, like this, with my thumb, with my whole body

Ilya feels Shane’s tiny smile under his thumb, the happy sigh at Ilya speaking Russian. Even if he doesn’t know the words. Ilya know Shane loves when he speaks Russian freely around him.

Shane’s sleepy hand finds Ilya’s chest and pats, pats over his heart and Ilya knows, feels Shane slip into heavy sleep in his arms.

Shane asks in the morning, when they are saying another stupid goodbye against the door. Whispers the question, like it’s something private, asks “what is um zay- zaycherk? Zayek?” He tries to sound out the word, all jumbled and Ilya hooks his fingers in the front of Shane’s pants, pulls his hips in to his. Ilya needs to fuck his again. They barely have time for a few more kisses.

“Ah” Ilya nods. He should have known, his clever little boy, picks out words that he finds the sound of, words that Ilya coo to him, that he uses like names.

Ilya kisses Shane, long and slow, licks into his mouth like he can keep the taste of him with him for the next weeks apart. “Bunny” Ilya exhales as he pulls back, takes Shane’s face in his hand and squeezes once softly.

“Huh?” Shane asks, face all kissed and lovely and Ilya laughs.

“Means bunny, like you, cute little bunny” Ilya smirks and revels in the blush that pinks Shane’s cheeks, he wants to push up Shane’s hoodie so he can see it splotch on his chest too.

“You like hm?” Ilya says after a moment and Shane shrugs, tells him to shut up and oh he does like it Ilya realises, he really likes it. He calls Shane bunny, in English this time a week later during FaceTime sex and Shane cums so hard he goes out of frame, trembling.