Archive of Our Own

Lily: I want to see you

Jane: What’s stopping you?

Lily: Universe

Lily: Team is having party tonight and I cannot miss it (((

Jane: What about after the game? Like usual?

Lily: Yes

Lily: But I want more

Jane: More?

Lily: I want to sleep with you

Lily: Sleep sleep

Jane: You wanna spend the night?

Lily: Yes.

Jane: I want it too.

Lily: Yes?

Jane: Desperately.

Jane: Could you stay after the game? Come to my place?

Lily: Yes.

Lily: Flight day after game is at 1500

Lily: We will have time

Jane: Fuck

Jane: Okay

Lily: On my way to yours

Lily: What do you want tonight?

Jane: Anything

Jane: Everything

Jane: Whatever you wanna give me

Lily: Бля

Lily: You are perfect

It’s dark when he arrives, when he makes his way up the steps to Hollander’s condo like he lives there, like it’s his home too. It’s quiet. Hollander is in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, looking at his socked feet. He looks up when Ilya comes inside, toeing his shoes off and dropping his duffle bag to the floor, and he looks so small, his head ducked down, his hands tucked between his lower back and the edge of the counter. Waiting patiently.

God, Ilya loves him like this, all quiet and small and shy, like he isn’t desperate for whatever Ilya will give him. There’s a pause, a moment, and they look at each other across the apartment, the quiet stretching until it snaps— Hollander moves quickly, crossing the room and landing in Ilya’s arms, mouths crashing together, arms enveloping each other.

Hollander is hugging Ilya’s neck, head tilting and mouth opening like he can’t get close enough, and Ilya’s entire body aches. He slides his hands across Hollander’s back, pressing over the thin fabric of his shirt to feel the curve of his spine, the dip in his waist. He’s warm, and Ilya can feel it through his shirt.

“God,” Hollander gasps when they part, already leaning back in to kiss him again. Ilya lets him, wrapping his arms around his waist, and he’s smiling, because Hollander is on his tiptoes, like they aren’t nearly the exact same height, like he’s tiny. Ilya reaches down, and Hollander goes easily, jumps up a little so Ilya can hold him, can carry him back into the kitchen and set him on the nearest counter. He has to pull away to see as he carries him, and Hollander takes the loss in stride, sliding his lips across Ilya’s cheek to mouth at his neck.

“You played well today,” Ilya says lowly when he sets Hollander down on the counter, sliding his hands over his thighs and squeezing.

“Shut up.”

“You did,” Ilya says, grinning, tilting his head to let Hollander kiss under his ear. “You are not proud?”

“‘Course I am,” Hollander mumbles. “But I don’t really give a shit about that right now.”

“Oh? Should I feel special?”

“Yes.”

Ilya grins, grabbing Hollander’s head by his hair and tugging him up into a clumsy kiss. Hollander lets him, his head falling back, his shoulders slumping, like he’s melting, like he’s fallen apart under Ilya’s hands. Ilya loves this.

Hollander’s legs wrap around Ilya’s hips, pulling him in tighter, and his hands slide over Ilya’s chest and waist, pushing at his jacket until he sheds it, dropping it to the floor. Hollander pushes his hands under Ilya’s shirt, sliding over his skin, and Ilya groans into his mouth. Hollander’s hands are warm, palms gentle but rough with calluses.

“What do you want?” Ilya asks softly when they part, letting their lips brush. When he looks, Hollander’s eyes are still closed, his eyebrows furrowed like he’s in pain. “Hm?”

“Anything,” Hollander whispers. “Please.”

“You want sex?” Ilya asks. “We do not have to.”

“I want sex,” Hollander says, nodding, eyes finally opening and looking back and forth between Ilya’s. “If you want.”

Ilya smiles, tilting his head fondly and caressing Hollander’s face, watching his eyes flutter shut, watching his mouth open. It’s inviting, the darkness in his mouth, the tempting warmth and wet, and Ilya can’t help but slide his thumb inside. Hollander hums, closing his lips around it.

“I want,” Ilya murmurs. “I have idea for tonight.”

Hollander’s eyes open. They look glassy, dark and shining with something that Ilya understands. Hollander hums questioningly like he doesn’t want to open his mouth to ask.

“You made five goals today,” Ilya says softly, watching Hollander’s chin shift as he sucks on Ilya’s thumb. “Yes?”

“Mm.”

“So,” Ilya says, leaning in to brush his nose against Hollander’s because he can’t stand the distance. He can feel when Hollander’s eyes close, his eyelashes brushing against Ilya’s skin. “I want to get you close five times. Want you to hold off on it.”

Hollander shifts, his fingers tightening on Ilya’s sides, pressing into his skin.

“Hm?”

Hollander nods, exhaling heavily.

“Yes?” Ilya murmurs, running his nose along Hollander’s. “You will let me play with you?”

“Yeah,” Hollander says breathily, his voice garbled. “Play with me.”

Ilya hums softly. He kisses Hollander’s top lip before he pulls away to look at him, his fingers curling around Hollander’s jaw to shake his head a little. It’s condescending, but Hollander must love it, because his cheeks flush red, and he moans.

“You will tell me when you’re going to come?” Ilya asks, lifting his other hand to tuck Hollander’s hair back. “You will tell me to stop?”

“Yeah,” Hollander says quietly, nodding again. “I’ll stop you.”

“‘S good,” Ilya says. “What is your safe word?” Hollander blinks blankly at him, his tongue sliding across Ilya’s thumb. “To stop everything. What will you say if you need to stop?”

Hollander looks at him. His eyes look soft, like he’s gazing. He mumbles something, and Ilya finally pulls his thumb from Hollander’s mouth. It makes him whine a little, his eyebrows furrowing, but he speaks again.

“I’ll say red.”

“Good,” Ilya says, nodding. “That is good.”

He kisses Hollander intently, licks into his mouth and bites at his lip, and he reaches for his hands, pulling at them and guiding them up around his neck. He feels Hollander smile against his mouth, and Ilya thinks that might be his favorite feeling in the world— Hollander’s joy against him. He pulls Hollander off the counter, carries him to the bedroom down the hall, smiling when Hollander tucks his face into his neck like he’s hiding.

“Hollander,” Ilya says when he sets him down on the bed. Hollander looks up at him, his hands sliding over Ilya’s stomach, and he makes a soft noise, frowning a little, like he’s pouting. He’s cute, and Ilya can’t help but lean down to kiss him, touching his jaw. “Shane.”

“Mhmm.”

“Can I undress you?”

Shane lets out a soft sound, nodding, and he lets go of Ilya’s shirt. He’s pliant, soft and sweet as Ilya undresses him quietly, pulling his shirt up and over his head, pushing him to lay back so he can tug his jeans and underwear off. He even lets Ilya pull his socks off, tossing them aside. He’s already hard, which doesn’t really surprise Ilya— he’s always been sort of easy.

Shane sits up, leaning forward and tilting his head down to bury his face in Ilya’s crotch, sliding a hand up to push at Ilya’s shirt, forcing it up until Ilya takes the hint and takes it off. Shane hums breathily, nuzzling against Ilya’s dick, and Ilya’s chest feels warm. He runs a hand through Shane’s hair gently, smoothing it back and then holding the back of his head like it’s fragile.

“Okay?” he whispers. Shane nods, humming, taking another moment before he lifts his head, reaching for the button of Ilya’s jeans.

“How do you want me?” he asks, lifting his chin to look up at Ilya. He’s flushes, and his hair is messy from Ilya’s hands, and he’s so beautiful Ilya might fucking die. His chest clenches, and he has to force himself to take a breath so he doesn’t say something stupid like Forever. He can’t hold back a grin as he goes to the bedside table, opening the drawer and pulling out the bottle of lube that he knows is in there; it’s the only other thing there besides the box of condoms.

“Come here.”

He sheds his jeans, kicks them away, and he climbs onto the bed, pausing to toe his socks off. Shane watches, smiling like he’s amused by it, his nose wrinkling and eyes squinting in a way that looks youthful and careless. Ilya wants him to look like that all the time.

Ilya leans against the headboard, opening his arms and motioning for Shane to join him, and Shane comes easily, crawling over to him and glancing at where his dick is tenting his underwear before he settles between his legs, his back to Ilya’s chest. He exhales slowly, his head falling back to Ilya’s shoulder.

“That is good,” Ilya murmurs. He wraps his arms around Shane in a hug and Shane sighs again, reaching to hold onto him, his hands sliding over Ilya’s forearms. “Do you feel good?”

“Yeah?” Shane breathes. “Feels good.”

“Haven’t even touched your cock yet.”

“Don’t even have to.”

“Oh, I know.”

“Asshole.”

Ilya nuzzles into his neck, taking a breath. He smells like the soap he always uses, even when he’s in locker room showers— he keeps a little travel-sized bottle of the stuff to use. Ilya wants to eat him.

“Be nice to me.”

“I am,” Shane says, almost whining. “Please.”

“Please, what?”

“Just…” Shane wiggles, shifting and pressing back against Ilya’s dick. “Touch me. Please. Play with me.”

Ilya moans weakly into his neck, releasing him from the hug so he can do what he asked so nicely for. He touches him, slides his hands all along his stomach and his chest and his waist, pausing to grope his pecs, to thumb at his nipples, and Shane is already worked up, back arching, breaths heavy.

“Fuck, Ilya, I…”

“I know,” Ilya murmurs. “Just let me take care of you.”

Shane moans, his head falling back again. Ilya glances at him, and he can see just a sliver of his face from here, but he can see that his eyes are closed, his lips parted and glistening.

“Good boy.”

“Mm, fuck.”

Ilya slides a hand down Shane’s body, presses against his belly just to watch his hips shift, before he finally touches his dick. He loves Shane’s dick. It fits so perfectly in his hand, and it always gets so wet— Ilya hardly needs to use the lube to play with it, but Shane always seems to like it slippery, wet and messy, and Ilya will always indulge him.

“You remember what to do?” Ilya murmurs into Shane’s ear before he bites it gently, tonguing at the skin between his teeth. Shane chokes, hips shifting again to push into Ilya’s hand. He’s moving his fist slower than Shane usually likes. “Hm?”

“I— I’ll tell you to stop,” Shane says, his voice thin. “When I’m close.”

“Good boy,” Ilya purrs. Shane whines, squirming a little. Ilya grins. He shifts, nudging his own hips forward so his cock presses against the small of Shane’s back. “You feel that?”

“Yeah,” Shane gasps, nodding as Ilya’s hand speeds up.

“You feel how hard you make me?”

“Yeah, yes, I feel it—”

“You want it?”

“I do,” Shane says, nodding again. “I always want it.”

“So needy,” Ilya says softly. Shane nods again.

“Can I have it?” Shane asks, his hands gripping Ilya’s arms so tightly it almost hurts. “Please?”

“Mm, not yet,” Ilya whispers. “Is your reward, if you are good.”

Shane swears under his breath, squirming again, and then he’s grabbing Ilya’s wrist, jerking his hand away and trembling, whining pitifully.

Ilya watches his dick twitch, watches it leak, and he’s awestruck, like he’s watching the Northern lights or something.

“Close?”

“Fuck off.”

“That’s one,” Ilya says quietly. Shane whines. “Ready?”

“Yeah, just… Yeah.”

Ilya pulls his hand free of Shane’s, and he strokes him quickly, grinning when he lets out a yelp, shifting like he’s trying to get away from him. He’s gasping, clinging to Ilya’s arm tightly, and his legs come up like he’s trying to close himself off, so Ilya pushes his legs between them, holding them open.

“Ilya, fuck—”

“Don’t come yet,” Ilya reminds him, singing it to him. “Da?”

Shane whines again, hugging Ilya’s arm to himself, turning mouth at his bicep, and Ilya lets out a light laugh, giggling as he watches his own hand moving up and down. He can hear it, slick with Shane’s precome, steady and rhythmic until Shane bursts, “Stop!”

Ilya pulls his hand away, and Shane quivers, moving like he’s trying to roll onto his side, to curl up into a ball. Ilya runs his hand over his stomach and chest, rubbing like he’s trying to give him a massage.

He’s breathing hard, gasping, and Ilya listens to it, closing his eyes as he rests his head against Shane’s.

Shane moans weakly. He’s hugging Ilya’s arm to himself now, his arms wrapped around it like he’s scared to let go.

“Two,” Ilya breathes.

Shane whines, burying his face in Ilya’s arm.

“You are okay,” Ilya coos, rubbing his chest soothingly. “Yes?”

“Mhmm.”

“Tell me, sweetheart.”

“Fuck, I’m okay, I can— I can take it.”

Ilya hums softly, nodding even though he isn’t looking at him, and he touches him again, this time slowly, teasingly. Shane throws his head back, letting out a whine that almost sounds like a squeal, and Ilya giggles again, taking his time with it. He lingers for a moment, rubs his fingertips just under the head like Shane likes. Shane lets out a deep groan, his body tightening, and one of his hands releases Ilya’s arm to lift to his own mouth. Ilya tilts his head to watch, grinning as Shane shoves two fingers into his mouth, moaning around them.

“Okay?” Ilya asks. Shane nods, pushing them deeper into his mouth, hips moving against Ilya’s hand. Ilya lets him move for a moment before he moves one of his legs, pressing his knee into Shane’s hip to hold it down. “Don’t move.”

Shane says something around his fingers that sounds like a Fuck but Ilya can’t really decipher it.

It takes a moment before Shane tells him to stop again, and Ilya can understand that. He pulls his hand away, lets it hover in the air as he watches Shane squirm. Shane pulls his fingers out of his mouth and clutches at Ilya’s arm.

“Three,” Ilya murmurs.

“I ca— I can’t do it,” Shane says, gasping, shaking his head. “I can’t do it.”

“Yes you can,” Ilya says lightly. “I know you can.”

“I can’t,” Shane says, shaking his head again.

“Well you should have thought about that before scoring so many goals today, huh?”

Shane laughs. It’s a beautiful sound, all breathy and weak.

“How the fuck was I supposed to— to know you were planning this?”

Ilya grins.

“Expect the unexpected.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“You want to stop?”

“No, I don’t wanna stop, I wanna come.”

“Only two more,” Ilya coos, tilting his head to mouth at Shane’s neck. “You can handle two, right?”

“Ilya…”

“Don’t you want your reward?” He grinds a little against his back again as a reminder, and Shane gasps, nodding. “You want it?”

“Fuck, yes, I want it,” Shane says breathlessly. “I want it, I want it—”

“Be good for me,” Ilya murmurs, tonguing at his earlobe. “Okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

Oh, fuck.

Ilya groans into Shane’s neck, sucking a kiss under his jaw harshly, and he shouldn’t do that, shouldn’t risk leaving a hickey so clear on his skin, but how the fuck is supposed to hold back after that?

“Say that again,” Ilya demands, reaching for the lube and opening it with one hand, the other preoccupied with holding Shane possessively, like someone is going to try and take him away. He drizzles the lube, cold, on Shane’s dick, snaps it shut and tosses it away. “Again.”

“Fuck, yes, sir,” Shane whines, nodding, squirming as Ilya’s hand wraps around him again, spreading the lube, warming it up. “Yes, sir, yes, sir, ye—” He cuts off with a beautiful moan, sliding back against Ilya’s chest, turning his face into Ilya’s bicep. He groans through his teeth, and Ilya moans softly, nodding.

“Bite it,” he says, and he’s breathless now too, panting as he works his hand quickly over Shane’s dick. It sounds obscene— it usually does when they’re in a bedroom together. Wet and slick, punctuated by moans and gasped swears. “Bite me, baby.”

Shane groans, his teeth closing on Ilya’s arm, and Ilya’s eyes close. He savours it, the sharpness of Shane’s teeth, the pressure, the slide of his tongue. He mumbles something softly, and Shane moans.

Shane only lets go as he gasps Close, and Ilya forces himself to stop.

“What number are we on?” he asks, and really, he expects a stubborn groans or a hissed Fuck you, but he doesn’t expect Shane to whine, writhing against him.

“I don’t know,” he chokes weakly. “I don’t know, I don’t know, sir, I—”

Ilya hushes him softly, lifting his dry hand to run across the top of Shane’s head, smoothing over his hair, and Shane gasps, shifting desperately.

“Is okay,” Ilya says softly, letting Shane take his hand and guide it to his neck. “That was four.”

“Fuck, I can’t…”

“You can,” Ilya says, nodding, wrapping his fingers around Shane’s throat like he wants, firmly, but not tight enough to cut anything off. “I know you can. Just one more.”

“Fuck, I’m…”

“I know,” Ilya says nicely, squeezing his neck gently. “You are doing so well for me, my sweetheart. My good boy.”

“‘M your boy,” Shane says weakly, nodding, exhaling slowly, intentionally.

“That is right,” Ilya murmurs. “You are my boy, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Ilya moans softly, touching him again. Shane gasps, grabbing Ilya’s hand that’s holding his neck and holding on tightly. Ilya watches him, watches his thighs shake and his stomach tense, watches his muscles contract and his legs kick, and Ilya’s heart aches. He’s trying so fucking hard, and he has no idea that Ilya will fuck him even if he comes before Ilya says to.

“Ilya, please—”

“Not yet,” Ilya says lightly.

“Please, please, please—”

Ilya watches his stomach tighten. He lets go.

Shane lets out a frustrated groan, his hands tightening on Ilya’s wrist, and Ilya grins, setting his hand on Shane’s chest and resting it there, hushing him softly as he catches his breath.

“Oh my god, you’re gonna kill me.”

“You’re being so good for me,” Ilya says softly, rubbing his chest. “My perfect boy.”

“Fuck, I…”

“Say it for me.”

“‘M your boy.”

“My what boy?”

“Your— Your perfect boy.”

Ilya hums, kissing his ear softly, pulling at his neck to make him tilt his head. He goes so easily, like clay in Ilya’s hands, pliant and trusting. Ilya mouths at his ear, slides his tongue over it, and Shane moans weakly. It makes Ilya smile, and he pulls away enough for his lips to brush Shane’s ear softly as he speaks.

“That was five.”

Shane freezes for a moment.

“Can I come?”

“How do you want it?” Ilya whispers, running his hand over his chest and stomach like he’s rubbing the lube and precome into his skin. “Hm?”

“Want you,” Shane says, whining. “I want you so bad.”

“What do you want from me?”

He’s teasing him. He knows what he wants. He always knows what he wants.

“Your…” Shane writhes, pressing back against him like he’s restless. “Your fucking cock.”

Ilya grins into his neck, humming as he slides his tongue over his skin. It’s salty with sweat, and he savours it.

“Can you hold on while I open you up?” he asks. Shane nods anxiously.

“Just don’t touch my dick.”

“Ugh,” Ilya groans. “I’ll try.”

“Don’t do it.”

Shane lets go of his wrist so he can use both of his hands, and Ilya watches the skin of Shane’s neck flush after his hand disappears. He kind of wishes his handprint would stay there, wished people would see that someone held Shane like that, that Shane let someone hold him like that. That he was so vulnerable, so willing and pliant under Ilya’s grip.

Shane’s knees bend as Ilya touches him, fingers wet with lube and spit, and he slides down Ilya’s chest a little like he’s trying to get closer to his hands. His dick twitches where it’s resting against his stomach, flushed red, and Ilya gazes at it.

“Is good?” he asks as he presses a third finger inside him. He’s tight, clenching around Ilya’s fingers, breathing hard.

“Yeah,” he says breathlessly, nodding. “‘S so fucking good, I love your hands.”

“Yeah?” Ilya says, watching his own hand move, fucking his fingers into him, spreading them apart a little. He wants to ask Just my hands? He wants to hear Shane say…

“Fuck, that feels…” Shane trails off, moaning softly, squirming, moving his hips back against Ilya’s hand. “That’s so good.”

“God, you love it.”

“I do,” Shane says, nodding. “I love it so much.”

Ilya hums, his face flushing with heat, and he pulls his fingers out slowly, rubbing Shane’s hole for a moment before he slides his other hand down, pressing both index fingers inside and pulling gently, stretching him open.

“Oh my— Fuck!”

Shane convulses, one of his arms reaching back to hold Ilya’s shoulder. His nails bite into his skin, and Ilya smiles.

“You like that?”

“I do,” Shane gasps, nodding. “Yes, sir, I— I like it—”

“I think you are ready.”

“I am,” Shane agrees quickly, nodding again. “I’m ready for you, sir, please—”

Ilya swears under his breath, and he moves, pushes Shane off of him and forces him to lay down. Shane moves so easily. Ilya pushes his underwear off, kicks it over the side of the bed, and he hovers over him, touching his face, and he kisses him. Shane’s mouth opens before their lips even touch, his tongue outstretched, and Ilya has to give him what he wants, right? He’s a kind lover, or whatever he is.

He pauses to gather spit under his tongue, and Shane’s eyes open to look at him, trained on Ilya’s mouth as the spit falls to Shane’s tongue. His eyes roll back. Ilya groans.

He stretches across the bed to reach the drawer, and he should have gotten this out earlier, before he was naked and resting on top of Shane’s bare body. He doesn’t want to get off of him.

He forces himself up to roll the condom on, and Shane pushes himself up onto his elbows to watch, his lips parted as he pants, his eyes shining. His eyelashes are wet.

“Okay?” Ilya checks, running a hand over Shane’s thigh. Shane nods, reaching for him. He pulls him in by the back of his neck, tugs him down until their mouths meet, open and wanting, tongues sliding, teeth biting.

Ilya falls forward, catching himself on his forearm as Shane falls onto his back, his legs around Ilya’s hips. Shane’s arms wrap around his neck and hold him down, keeping him in place so they’re just panting into each other’s mouths, strings of spit catching on their lips and tongues. Ilya reaches down.

Shane’s head tilts back like it always does when Ilya pushes in, and Ilya looks at him, watches his expression shift, his eyes squeezing shut, eyebrows furrowing, mouth gaping silently before he lets out a sharp groan.

“Oh, fuck—”

“Is good?” Ilya asks softly. “You like it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Tell me with words.”

“Ilya, I…”

He moans again, hugging Ilya’s neck, pressing their faces together clumsily. He reaches down when Ilya doesn’t move, grabbing at his ass and pulling so his hips shift.

“Fuck,” Ilya hisses, moving again, fucking him slowly. Shane just groans, burying his face in Ilya’s shoulder, mouthing at his skin. “You are… You are speechless?”

Shane giggles, nodding, his teeth bumping Ilya’s shoulder.

“Bite me,” Ilya chokes, nodding. “Do it.”

Shane bites him. It hurts. It makes Ilya move faster.

“Fuck, that’s it.”

Shane’s moan is muffled against Ilya’s shoulder. His fingers dig into his skin, gripping him so tightly it hurts, and Ilya fucking loves it. He pushes himself up, pulls away from Shane’s mouth, and he plants a hand on his chest, pressing him down into the bed. He moves faster, harder, and Shane wails, his back arching, his hands flying to clutch at Ilya’s. Ilya watches in wonder, sliding his hand to squeeze Shane’s pec, holding him tightly. Shane holds his hand in place.

“Fuck, you are gorgeous,” Ilya says quietly, breathless. Shane’s eyes open and find him blearily. They’re glistening, shining with tears, and it makes Ilya’s chest ache. “You are okay?”

“Don’t stop,” Shane breathes, nodding, pressing his palm down over the back of Ilya’s hand. “Please, sir.”

“I won’t stop,” Ilya says, nodding. “Whatever you want, my— my baby.”

Shane is nodding, and tears start to slip past his lashes, cascading beautifully down his cheeks, past his temples and into his hair, and he’s glistening, shining like a fucking painting, like something holy that Ilya has no business admiring.

He thinks about it as he fucks him, how it’s always felt wrong for Ilya to look at statues and paintings and icons of saints and angels, how just glancing at them felt like a sin even though they were created to be admired, created to be gazed at. Sometimes he even feels guilty for the cross that hangs around his neck, the cross that’s there right now, swinging in the air and hitting his chest with every firm, deep thrust he gives Shane.

But Shane.

He looks holy. He looks fucking divine, and Ilya looks at him shamelessly, eyes scraping hungrily over his body, over his chest that bounces a little every time Ilya’s hips hit his ass, over his arched neck and tensed stomach, over his weeping cock and trembling thighs. He’s so beautiful that looking at him feels wrong, feels sinful, but Ilya can’t look away. Not when he’s groaning Ilya’s name, clinging to his wrist, legs wrapping around Ilya’s hips like he doesn’t want him to pull out too far.

And those icons and angels, they were created to be admired, gazed upon in wonder and awe, but not by Ilya. But Shane Hollander, he was created to be admired, to be gazed upon in wonder and in awe, only by Ilya.

And maybe it’s horribly possessive of him, maybe there’s a part of his brain that’s fucked up beyond repair, something broken that he never knew even existed, but he wants Shane. He wants to keep him, wants to do this every fucking day until he dies, wants to make sure nobody else ever gets to see Shane Hollander like this.

He falls forward, holding himself up with his hand on Shane’s chest, and his other hand finds Shane’s neck, fingers wrapping around his throat. Shane groans, his head falling back, a hand pushing into Ilya’s hair and pulling so he leans down.

They kiss messily, lips sliding, swallowing each other’s moans, and Ilya fucks him so hard part of him worries they’ll both bruise, but he doesn’t think either of them would mind it. Ilya would want to keep them, would push his fingers into his hips hard enough to never let the bruises heal, to keep the aching pressure in place.

He presses in deep, as deep as he can, and Shane lets out a scream, pulling at Ilya’s hair so their faces are pressed, Shane’s nose crushed against Ilya’s cheek. Ilya stops, swirling his hips without pulling out, moaning when Shane tightens around him.

He feels the warmth of Shane’s come on his stomach. Shane moans brokenly.

“Бля,” Ilya swears, pushing himself up, fucking Shane once, then twice, and five more times before he comes, trembling from head to toe, groaning deeply. Shane is moving, almost twitching, and he pulls Ilya down when Ilya stops. Ilya falls easily, burying his face in Shane’s neck, breathing hard. He can feel Shane’s chest rising and falling, can feel his come sliding between them, their skin tacky with sweat, and he thinks it feels like heaven. Shane wraps himself around him, arms and legs holding him tightly, and Ilya lets him, resting his full weight on him.

When their breathing slows, Ilya moves to look at him, but Shane clings to him.

“Don’t go,” he says, his voice weak and breaking. “Don’t leave.”

“I am not leaving,” Ilya says softly, pushing a hand between Shane and the bed to hug him to himself. “I will not leave, I have you.”

“Fuck,” Shane chokes.

“I’m here,” Ilya murmurs, kissing Shane’s neck, nodding. “I’m right here.”

“Ilya.”

“Baby.”

“Stay here.”

“I am staying. As long as you need.”

“Can you still stay the night?”

“Yes,” Ilya says quickly, nodding into Shane’s neck. “I will stay the night.”

I will stay forever, he doesn’t say. Just ask me, and I will do it.

It takes a while, and Ilya waits. He breathes into Shane’s neck, inhales the scent of his soap and sweat, and he reaches a hand up to play with his hair, dragging his fingers through it slowly. Shane’s breathing slows until Ilya thinks he’s fallen asleep, and he doesn’t move, because he would stay here overnight, soft dick still inside Shane, come sticky between them, sweat drying and making him shiver.

But Shane is awake. He drags a hand over Ilya’s back, tracing his spine, and he groans softly.

“You are okay?” Ilya asks softly.

“I’m okay,” Shane whispers. “That was…”

Ilya finally pushes himself up, staying as close as he can while still looking at Shane clearly. His face is flushed, his eyelashes wet, his lips kissed swollen.

“Was it too much?” Ilya asks, looking at him intently.

Shane smiles tiredly, shaking his head, his eyes scanning Ilya’s face like he’s looking for something.

“No,” he breathes. “It was…”

He trails off again, and then he moves slowly, sitting up and pushing Ilya so he sits up too, so they’re facing each other. And he kind of looks like he’s going to cry again, his expression tense.

“What is it?” Ilya asks, tilting his head, touching Shane’s face gently. “Tell me, sweetheart.”

Shane’s eyes flutter, blinking tears back.

“Call me your boy again,” he whispers. Ilya blinks.

Ilya cradles his jaw. Looks into his eyes.

“You are my boy,” he says softly. “My perfect baby boy.”

Shane nods. A tear falls down his cheek.

“Shane,” Ilya whispers. “What is wrong?”

Shane shakes his head, reaching for Ilya’s face, and he kisses him.

It’s different from earlier. Soft and sweet and slow, lingering as they breathe. Ilya cradles the back of Shane’s neck, pushing his fingers into his hair, his other hand falling to his throat, and Shane’s head tilts back a little bit like it always does. He has to let go when Shane’s arms wrap around his neck, hands sliding over his shoulders as he sighs, and he reaches for his waist, hugging him and pulling him up. Ilya’s dick slips out of him, and they both let out soft sounds, but they don’t stop— Shane climbs onto his lap, his mouth falling open, his tongue sliding into Ilya’s mouth, and it’s a lot. It’s intense, and slow, and heavy, and it feels like a confession.

They’re panting when they separate, gasping for breath, their foreheads pressing. Shane’s hands slide to Ilya’s face, cupping his cheeks, and Ilya’s throat tightens. He squeezes his eyes shut when they sting, and he tilts his head down, burying his face between Shane’s palms.

He wants to die here, tucked away in the palms of Shane Hollander’s hands.

Their noses nudge together. Shane must feel Ilya’s tears on his hands.

They kiss again, soft and chaste, before they finally look at each other, and it would be easier for Ilya to recover from a knife to the chest. He looks away, squeezing his eyes shut, taking a slow breath, like he’s been thrust into cold water.

“What is it?” Shane says, sounding worried. Ilya looks at him, analyzing his face, tracing his freckles.

“You are so fucking beautiful I cannot stand it.”

A smile splits across Shane’s face, and he laughs quietly, like they’re hiding here, like he wasn’t just screaming Ilya’s name.

“Can you stand it a little longer?” he asks. Ilya is already nodding.

“Yes,” he says softly, “as long as you want.”

Shane looks at him. His eyes flicker across Ilya’s face.

“Take a shower with me?”

“Yes,” Ilya says again. Whatever you want.

The shower is nice. The steam smells like Hollander, masculine and warm, and Shane won’t let go of him. It’s like he’s scared of it, of any distance between them, like Ilya is going to vanish into thin air if they let go of each other. But Ilya won’t complain— he washes Shane’s hair, blocks his face from the water so soap doesn’t fall into his eyes, and he kneels on the tile floor to wash his body as gently as he can, pausing to press absent kisses to his skin as Shane’s hand pushes into his hair. It catches, the curls only damp, and Shane apologizes when he pulls the hair sharply. Ilya just looks up at him and quirks an eyebrow.

“So soon?”

“Shut up,” Shane says, but he’s laughing, cheeks pink.

They kiss under the fall of the water, and they’re quiet. There’s nothing they have to hide here.

They don’t dress, but Ilya wraps a towel around him, shakes him around a little just to hear him giggle, and he leads him into the kitchen to make him drink some water. Shane does as he’s told, downs the whole glass, but before Ilya can say anything at all, he’s refilling it and pushing it into Ilya’s hands.

They stand close when Ilya finishes the water. Too close, really— it’s unnecessary, but Ilya loves it. Shane tucks his face into Ilya’s neck again, exhaling. He’s still holding the towel around his shoulders like it’s a blanket, and Ilya should get him a blanket, shouldn’t he? Something that isn’t damp and rough on his skin? Something soft like he deserves?

“Were you serious about staying the night?” Shane asks quietly.

“Yes,” Ilya murmurs. He wraps an arm around him. “Very serious.”

Shane looks at him. His hair is damp, and his eyes are a little red. There’s a bruise forming on his neck, under his ear, and it’s painfully obvious, but Ilya loves it there, something he left behind.

“Come to bed with me?” Shane whispers.

There are spare toothbrushes under the sink, and when they lay in bed, their breaths both taste of the same fresh mint. They’re still bare, skin sliding smooth and soft over one another, legs tangling, arms enveloping. Shane’s face presses to Ilya’s chest, laying almost on top of him, and Ilya wonders if Shane is worried he’ll leave without saying goodbye. He runs his hands over his back, rubs his muscles gently and tenderly, plays with his hair and breathes him in, and Shane eventually falls lax against him, breathing steadily.

Shane’s breath is warm on Ilya’s skin. Ilya stares at the ceiling, listening to Shane breathe, listening to the passing traffic outside. It’s dark— Shane draws the curtains when he goes to bed— but there are slivers of light shining through, passing shades of silver and gold, flickering through the room faintly.

He’s asleep.

Ilya tilts his head to press a kiss to Shane’s hair, and he whispers under his breath, “Я так тебя люблю.”

Shane shifts, rubbing his face against Ilya’s chest, and he murmurs something back.