I need to tell you "you win Shane, you fucking win, Shane…" has been repeating in my head nonstop since I read it. I am wracked with the seven jealousies, etc.
(ONLY seven? Here, have a Tampa ficlet based on the original post)
Shane's arms are like the arms of a clock, circling, pulsing around the numbered face of Ilya's arms, his back, and through his hair, pulling, pulling firm, before grasping his own knee, pulling back so that Ilya can get deeper. They both hurt. Ilya had wrecked him before, left Shane red and sensitive to the touch, and Shane had sucked Ilya's cock hard enough that his teeth imprinted through the sheath of his lips. And then he'd had him on his hands and knees, slow and grinding like they had forever, and that was supposed to be it, but Shane hadn't dressed after their shower, hadn't said goodbye. He'd pulled Ilya back into the mire of the hotel bed sheets and arranged him between his legs, slicking himself enough that to slip back inside seemed more an inevitability to Ilya than an impossibility, even though a third time seemed like it might kill them both.
Better to die, as they say.
The pain is fine, the pain is welcome, the pain means Shane is here. Ilya's knees slip in the sheets. Ilya's rhythm is fucked, not good for getting either of them off. He's not keeping time; he's not a clock worth saving, not a clock worth anything. He isn't chasing the feeling, he's keeping it, holding it, locking it up within him. When Shane leaves and when the plane takes off and when Ilya answers his brothers' call he will still have it, it will be safe inside Ilya, carved into the muscles of him like a scar.
"Kiss me," Shane says, and Ilya knows a command when he hears one. Ilya gives him his open mouth and his tongue to suck as they rock together.
"Feels good?" Ilya asks after kissing for a time, bookending the question with a long stroke inside.
Shane throws his head back. "Ah—fuck yeah. Do that again."
Ilya does. He draws out and fucks in, slow, long, taking time to put his mouth on Shane's throat in between. The ridge of his windpipe, the soft give of his pulse. Shane reveals himself so easily, shows his hand, and with each piece Shane reveals he grows more solid, more real in Ilya's arms.
Shane's been calling the shots all night: arranging Ilya as he likes and rearranging their hearts into a new configuration. Leaving fresh wounds in his wake, soothing them with his words and his tongue and his lips and careful, reckless careful presses of his fingertips to Ilya's skin. To his heart. Since when are Ilya's wounds something to be cared for? His wounds have always been left to scab in the air. He has learned to dress them himself.
"I—want you," Shane gasps, and they're reaching a rhythm now, Shane's hips roll with his, the clock is ticking. There is only so much time that they are allotted. "I—oh my god, Ilya, I wish we could just stay, wish I could, fuck, take you home with me—"
Ilya moans into Shane's shoulder, grateful he's hidden, but Shane is calling the shots and he takes Ilya’s face between his hands, forcing his gaze, obtaining it. Shane has always gotten what he wants. Fame and skill and cups and Ilya— he can have Ilya any time he wants.
"Alright, okay, fuck, okay Hollander," Ilya says, increasing his speed, watching the tenderness of Shane's gaze to crack into pleasure, "Fuck, you win, you fucking win Shane. Shane, oh Shane—"
He buries his face against Shane's neck and says his name, begs and pleads around his name, moans his name like it's pain pulled from his body. A physical burden, lifted.
After, he pulls out and rids himself of the condom, thinking that he will pull Shane into the shower again, but Shane's hands are greedy, and he is calling the shots. He keeps Ilya between his legs, arms around him. Ilya is still in Shane's loving embrace, still taking his comfort. Hours of being loved, or something close to it. How will Ilya return to anything less?
"Just stay a minute," Shane mumbles, rocking them. "Just another minute, then I'll go. Stay."
