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Ilya’s on his third round of chest compressions when the taunts start.
“I’m going to kick your fucking ass, Rozanov,” he hears, panted out between rhythmic THUNKS.
Ilya makes sure not to lose his count before he retorts, “Hollander, you sound tired already.”
“You fucking wish,” Hollander spits, right as Ilya hits thirty compressions. He grabs the BVM next to him, and delivers no more than two breaths at a rate of ten to twelve breaths per minute, as indicated by the American Health Association’s CPR guidelines. He then returns to performing chest compressions. Out of the corner of his eye, he registers Hollander doing the same.
“You’re so fucking dead,” Hollander threatens.
“Not as dead as your patient will be, Hollander.”
“They’re already dead, how the fuck do I make them more dead?”
“You can make them less dead, like mine will be,” and then Ilya’s squeezing the BVM twice more and returning to the chest for his fifth and final round of compressions, making sure to watch his depth and rate.
Once he hits thirty, Ilya calls out done! and slaps the chest he had just been pumping on. Fortunately, he did not succeed in making his CPR mannequin less dead, because that would’ve been scary as fuck. Unfortunately, Hollander seems to have finished at about the same time as him, meaning his compressions were at the same rate as Ilya’s. Goddamn it.
Ilya turns to Hollander, who hasn’t broken that much of a sweat for having just done two minutes of CPR. “Told you your patient would be dead.”
Hollander graces him with a slight twitch of his lips, and a very pronounced eye roll.
The proctor looks between the two of them.
“Um… okay,” she says, looking confused. Ilya’s not sure what’s confusing. It’s a fucking skills competition, key word being competition. What good competition doesn’t involve trash talking your rivals?
The proctor seems to realize she’s not going to be getting an explanation and just decides to move on.
“Okay, so according to the data collected from the sensors on your mannequins, you both had appropriate depth and chest recoil the entire time.” Of fucking course they did, they’re both goddamn professionals.
“However, you,” she continues and points at Shane, “were performing compressions at one hundred and twenty four beats per minute on average during your last round. I don't need to tell you that that is outside the AHA's guidelines of one hundred to one hundred and twenty beats per minute.”
“Fuck yes,” Ilya cries out, at the same time he hears Hollander curse in a much less excited tone of voice. Hollander looks pissed, lips pressed together in a thin line and brows furrowed. Ilya can see it in his eyes, the steely determination to do better, beat Ilya. Sucks to suck, this one’s going to Ilya.
Ilya gets to enjoy his win for all of ten seconds before he remembers it’s intubation, next. Hollander seems to realize this too, his anger turning to anticipation. If Ilya had to guess, he’d say both him and Hollander are thinking the same thing right now: Ilya is completely fucked.
Ilya is, in fact, completely fucked. He doesn’t stand a chance, not when he’s competing against the medic with the highest pre-hospital intubation success rates in the county. Not that anyone but Ilya and Hollander care about the statistics. Ilya’s not bad at intubating, he could tube a mannequin blindfolded and in his sleep, but he’s no match for Hollander.
Ilya’s passed his tube through the glottic opening, and he’s taking his bougie out when he hears Hollander’s cry of time! What the fuck? Ilya finishes inflating his cuff and attaches his BVM to deliver a breath, making sure the mannequin’s lungs inflate, before declaring himself done as well.
He immediately turns to Hollander, who’s standing next to his own airway mannequin with the smuggest smile Ilya thinks he’s ever seen on the man. It’s a good look, and Ilya’s dick twitches when he realizes the smile is directed at him.
“Better get it together, Rozanov, or this’ll be boring,” and oh, Ilya’s not going to let this fucker win squat.
There’s three more stations to go, as part of the “friendly skills competition” they’re participating in at their region’s yearly EMS conference. The conference is supposed to be a meeting of the minds, a chance for people to learn and commune with other pre-hospital professionals.
It’s mostly just a lot of sex with strangers, and drama. And competition, now.
Ilya’s not going to be going to bed with a stranger tonight though, unlike most previous years. Whether or not there’s any sex involved is going to be up to if Ilya can beat Hollander at the next three stations.
Their trauma and medical scenarios they do individually. They’re graded off of the National Registry scenario standards, with the proctors free to add additional points if they’ve done anything exceptional.
Ilya feels fine about the trauma one, its a simple fall from a ladder with a head injury and fractured pelvis. Spinal immobilization, pelvic binder, load and go. During “transport” blood pressure goes through the roof, the heart rate drops, and breathing becomes irregular and inadequate. Ilya verbalizes one of his imaginary EMTs will begin ventilating the patient.
“At what rate would you like them to ventilate?” the proctor asks.
“I tell them to squeeze bag once every six seconds,” Ilya responds. The proctor scribbles something down, and Ilya continues running through the scenario.
The medical scenario, in comparison, is completely off the fucking rails. Ilya’s crouched in a conference room, pretending he’s talking to a patient in her living room. That’s fine, that’s a normal thing. The clowns, however, are both not normal and so very real.
There’s five real life clowns in this room, all trying to make balloon animals and tell jokes, while Ilya interviews his “patient,” an elderly female at her grandkid’s birthday party who’s now feeling short of breath. Ilya thinks this is probably primarily due to her heart rate pushing two hundred, but also the clowns definitely aren’t helping.
Time for some clown control.
Ilya points at a clown. “You. Find out whose cars are in driveway and have them move them onto street.”
“There’s only one car! We all came in it!” The clown honks. Ilya doesn’t know what else he was expecting.
“Okay,” he says, very calmly. “Move that car, yes?” The clown bounces off to go ‘move the clown car’ out of the imaginary driveway.
That brings Ilya down to four clowns and the patient.
Directing his attention towards another clown, Ilya asks, “Can you look for medication list? Either list or the bottles will be ok.” The clown wanders off.
Three clowns.
Ilya points at clown three. “You-”
The clown cuts him off. “That’s Buttons the Brilliant to you!” Jesus fucking Christ, what the fuck even is this. Ilya curses under his breath before refocusing.
“Buttons the Brilliant, see if you can get phone numbers from family to give to hospital.”
Buttons spins his propellor hat and leaves.
Ilya turns to the proctor. “Where are the children at this party?” He asks.
“There’s nine kids sitting in the living room watching you talk with their grandma. They’re crying.”
Ilya’s going to kill whoever made this scenario. Where did they even get the fucking clowns? Did people volunteer for this, or did they actually hire clowns?
“Okay, I want the other two clowns to go entertain the children in the other room and keep them distracted.”
Ilya is now down to no clowns and one patient. He can manage this. Now that he’s clown free, the rest of the scenario goes uneventfully. He breaks meemaw’s run of rapid a-fib and gets her to the “hospital” successfully.
He meets up with Hollander again for the tie breaker event.
“Hollander, I think you are lost,” Ilya says, when he sees him. “Clown car is in other direction.”
“Go fuck yourself, you’re the biggest clown here,” Hollander snipes back.
“Oh, so you are clown fucker?" Ilya watches horror sink in on Hollander's face as he realizes what he’s said. "That is good, Bubbles the Brilliant gave me his number, let me find it,” Ilya starts patting his pockets down while Hollander tries to slaughter him with his eyes.
The proctor clears his throat, quite loudly, and Ilya and Hollander turn to him. Hollander looks sheepish, Ilya just grins.
“Okay, so we’ll be doing round robin medication dosages. Starting with you,” he points at Hollander, “I’ll say a medication and you’ll give me the dosage. First person to give a wrong dosage loses, unless neither of you can get it. Unless otherwise specified, dosages are as outlined for adults per regional protocols."
Ilya gets the sinking feeling he’s fucked. He’s not going to go down without a fight, though. He and Hollander turn and face each other.
The proctor turns to Hollander, and they’re off. He and Shane bounce back and forth, listing drug dosages as the proctor makes his way though almost his entire stack of index cards. Ilya thinks the proctor might be sweating, now, actually, but he’s not taking his eyes off of Hollander to check.
( “They do know that they’re competing for like, a $25 gift card right? Like its not that big of a deal,” Rose says to Hayden as they watch from the side of the room.
Hayden shakes his head despairingly. “Don’t. Don’t question it. Just don’t. It’s not worth it.” )
It’s Ilya’s turn again, and the proctor reads his card: “Pediatric dose of Calcium Chloride in a cardiac arrest.”
Yeah, Ilya’s fucked. Why the fuck would he know that? He barely even knows what the adult dose is, because nobody ever fucking needs, or uses it. His only hope is that Hollander isn’t enough of a nerd and also doesn’t fucking know it.
“Pass,” Ilya says. Ilya lied, earlier. This is the most smug he’s ever seen Hollander look. He looks downright mean, the way he’s smirking at Ilya.
“For 10% solution of Calcium Chloride, the pediatric dose is 0.2mL/kg,” Hollander says, like a complete fucking asshole. And Ilya knows he just lost, but he can’t help but feel endeared. That’s his giant fucking asshole nerd, right there.
The judge announces the final results. Between the two of them, Shane won the trauma scenario, and Ilya won the medical one. The proctor compliments Shane on his use of end-tidal CO2 on the TBI patient, and subsequent hyperventilation in order to target hypocapnia. Not for the first time, Ilya thinks that Hollander’s too fucking good to be stuck doing this job.
Ilya won medical, because he actually handled the clowns, as opposed to Shane who just tried to work around them.
Ilya does the math in his head and groans. “Fuck!” Shane's the overall winner, god fucking damn it.
“Suck my fucking dick, Rozanov,” Shane jeers, being the poor winner that he is.
Whatever. At least he got Shane to admit he’s a clown fucker.
The end of the day finds them in their hotel room. Ilya’s on the bed, and Shane is pacing. Every so often Shane stops. Stares the wall down. Takes a breath like hes going to start talking. Turns to Ilya. Turns away. lets it out, like a deflated balloon. Starts pacing again.
Ilya knows Shane needs to do this to get his thoughts in order, but Ilya also knows that if he leaves Shane to his thoughts too long he'll start spiraling.
Ilya didn’t think it was going to be that big of a deal: they had bet, beforehand, that whoever won the skills competition would win a special reward of whatever the fuck they wanted. If Ilya won, he was going to make Shane wear lingerie the next time they fucked. Unfortunately, Ilya did not win, because he’s dating the best paramedic in the state. This is a turn on 99% of the time, except for when Ilya needs to win something. Then it’s annoying. But still hot.
“Shane,” Ilya starts. Shane pauses in his pacing and turns to Ilya. Ilya stands up from where he’d been lounging on the bed. He walks over to Shane and wraps his arms around Shane’s waist, bringing him in for a hug. Ilya lets himself indulge in the feeling of Shane, hugging him back and holding him close, for a moment, before Shane pulls away. Ilya keeps hold of his waist though, so he can’t go too far.
“Whatever it is you want, it is okay,” Ilya reassures.
“What if it’s kinky?” Shane whispers. Ilya probably should be surprised, but he also had a feeling that this’d be related to something sexual. He can’t imagine Shane wanting his special reward to be making Ilya clean the kitchen. Well, actually, he very easily could, but that’s not the point.
“Then it is kinky,” Ilya says. “That will not be anything new for us. But I did not know there was more you wanted to try.”
A few months ago, Ilya had brought up the idea of choking during sex, just to test the waters. Shane had shut him down immediately, which was fine, but it had also left Ilya with the impression that he had more or less found where Shane’s limits lay.
“Is this about the choking thing?” Shane asks. “I only said no to that because I’m not letting you compromise my fucking airway during sex.”
“But it is not compromising your airway when my dick is in your throat?”
“No. This is why you lost today, because that’d be my esophagus, not my trachea,” Shane corrects. He’s such an asshole sometimes, Ilya loves it. “Anyways, I don’t think we do anything kinky?”
Ilya abruptly feels like he’s lost the plot. “Hollander, I am pretty sure we do.”
Shane shakes his head, “I know we don’t.”
“So it is not kinky when I slap you?”
“No, we do that all the time,” Shane says matter-of-factly, like it explains everything. It explains nothing, actually.
“It was not kinky when I came in you and then made you wear plug?”
Shane flushes at the reminder of that time. He’d been really into it, Ilya knows this, because any mention of it makes him incredibly flustered.
“It was embarrassing, but not kinky?”
Ilya thinks his eyebrows might actually be hitting his hairline from how aggressively he’s raising them. Shane looks exasperated, like Ilya’s the one that’s not making sense here.
“Ilya, you tell me all the time i’m boring,” Shane huffs, like Ilya could somehow forget.
That’s because Shane is boring. His idea of a casual nighttime read is back issues of fuckass JEMS. So he’ll lie in bed in his pretty, dorky, reading glasses, before they go to sleep, reading articles on like, lights and sirens usage, or pre-hospital POCUS. He gets upset when Ilya drives more than five over the speed limit, which feels faintly ridiculous considering what Shane fucking does for a living. He’s trying to get Ilya into his boring yoga now, too, which Ilya does with him mostly so he can check Shane’s ass out in the process. He does a Sunday crossword religiously.
Even at work, at their fast-paced, adrenaline junkie jobs, Shane is still somehow boring. Shane brought a stroke into the ER a few shifts ago, and Ilya watched him describe it as a cerebrovascular accident. He has his own IV kit because he likes to use the same needles every time. The only things he ever takes from the EMS room are ginger ales, and if he’s feeling really spicy, a fruit cup.
Ilya’s boyfriend is so delightfully lame. Ilya loves him deeply for it. Shane is boring, but Ilya’s never bored of him. Especially not when it comes to their sex life. Ilya can think of approximately zero times he has had Shane in his arms and been bored. He’ll never get tired of watching Shane come undone beneath him, on top of him, next to him, and sometimes, not even in the same room as him.
Ilya loves holding Shane down and fucking him until he can’t think. Loves every moan Shane’s ever made when Ilya enters him. Loves how Shane sometimes can’t stop himself from sucking Ilya off. He could probably have plain old missionary sex with Shane for the rest of their lives and Ilya would still never get bored of it.
But that’s not what they do. Shane lets Ilya slap him around, call him names. Shane bites Ilya so, so fucking much. They experiment with toys. Things are so not boring in the bedroom with Shane.
(Sometimes, too, sometimes there’s days where Ilya just needs to feel useful, needs to feel like he’s good for something, that he’s good for Shane. And Shane will take him, and ride him, and tell Ilya how good he makes Shane feel, how much Shane loves him. Or, infrequently, when they’re both in the right mood, Shane will slip into Ilya, fill Ilya up with him.
Ilya thinks then, that he’s the luckiest motherfucker on the planet. If Ilya used up all his luck for the rest of his life on this one man. Well. Then bring on the broken mirrors.)
Not for the first time, Ilya feels a rush of gratitude that Shane’s with him and not anyone else. Ilya’s so glad he’s the one that has Shane’s trust, that he’s the one Shane wants to do these things with. He wants to spend the rest of his life trying to figure out what the hell Shane’s deal is.
Ilya refocuses, asks, “Shane, what is kinky to you?” Ilya has to find out.
Shane stares at the floor. “Kinky stuff is—I don’t know. Fursuits. Pissing. Whips. Leather jumpsuits. I’m not into that, usually. None of the of the stuff we do normally is kinky like that.”
Shane’s right, they don’t do anything that wild or out there. And while they haven’t even touched some of the tamer stuff, like restraints, Ilya certainly doesn’t think they’re vanilla.
Apparently Shane, does, though. Because vanilla sex to Shane includes biting, slapping, orgasm denial, degradation, and sex toys. Ilya doesn’t even know where to start with that.
“What? But I brought fursuit all the way here for you,” Ilya replies automatically, and then actually processes what Shane’s said. “You said 'usually'. So this thing that you want to try. It is kinky.”
“Kinda, yeah,” Shane says, and keeps staring at the floor. Ilya nudges his head up with the back of his hand, leans in and presses a quick kiss to his lips, and then touches his forehead to Shane’s.
“Shane,” Ilya murmurs, centimeters from Shane’s lips. “I will not judge you. I love you. If you want me to fuck you while I wear clown costume from one of the bozos downstairs, I will. And I would enjoy it, because I always love to fuck you. So unless you are trying to tell me you want threesome with Pike, it will be okay.”
Ilya’s trying to get better at saying what he actually means. They’ve had a handful of incidents, over the last year, where communication has broken down. Ilya’s learning that sometimes, even though Ilya feels like he’s wearing his love for Shane like a badge, screaming it from the rooftops, it does not feel that way to Shane, because Ilya’s not expressing it in a way that Shane’s aware of. So then Shane feels unloved, and Ilya feels unappreciated, and they start bickering.
And sometimes Ilya, born and raised in Mother Russia, thinks its easier to sit on his bad feelings and hope they go away than tell Shane about them. Shane however, is someone who does not appreciate finding out that Ilya is keeping these heavy thoughts from him. He wants to help Ilya, he doesn't think Ilya's a burden, and these are concepts Ilya's still trying to wrap his head around.
So they're getting better at talking, at being open. They’re working on it. Ilya's willing to keep working, as long as it takes to keep them together.
Shane sighs, and pulls Ilya closer, back into a tight hug. They’re about the same height, so Shane can easily rest his chin on Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya’s already changed out of their day clothes into sweats and a tank top, so he gives it maybe three seconds before—
Yeah, there it is, Shane sinking his teeth into Ilya’s flesh, right at the juncture of his neck and back. Not hard, not biting, just Shane taking Ilya into his mouth and holding him there.
Ilya’s never been so grateful to own the sheer amount of tank tops he does. He bought them because they make him look good, obviously, but they have the added benefit of leaving skin exposed for Shane.
Because for someone who hates PDA, or really any public acknowledgement that they’re a couple, Shane marks Ilya up religiously. Ilya doesn’t think a single week has gone by since they got together that he hasn’t had some kind of mark on his skin from Shane. Hickeys, bite marks, occasionally Shane will leave scratches down his back or on his arms, its all fair game for Shane. But usually it’s Shane getting his mouth somewhere on Ilya.
Half the time it’s not even a sex thing. They’ll be lying together, spooning in bed, and Shane will press his mouth to Ilya’s back, where the column of his neck turns into his spine, or his shoulder, anywhere it’ll be present but not visible at work. And he’ll suck a mark, or sometimes he’ll nip at the skin, or even sometimes he opens his mouth and clamps his jaw down, not enough to hurt, not enough to even constitute a real bite, but enough for him to leave indentations into the flesh there.
Ilya doesn’t mind it. Sometimes he feels a bit like a chew toy, but it’s like, in a hot way, so its fine. He likes the reminders of Shane on him. Ilya likes that his boyfriend can’t keep his mouth off him. And he likes that his boyfriend wants to claim him.
Ilya’s not sure why he does it, Shane gets really uncomfortable whenever Ilya asks, and Ilya’s worried if he pushes it too far Shane might stop. Which Ilya doesn’t want him to do, first of all, he wants Shane to bite him forever. But Ilya’s also picked up on that it’s a self soothing thing, sometimes. He has a feeling that’s what’s going on right now.
So Ilya’s a good squeaky toy for his boyfriend, and rubs his back soothingly while he gets chomped on. Eventually, Shane releases Ilya’s flesh, and speaks.
“I—you know I overthink sometimes,” Shane starts, his chin still on Ilya’s shoulder. “And it’s just—it can be a lot, this job can be a lot. But it helps, when we fuck. Especially when you—when you take control. And you could, I'd let you take control and do anything, even if it hurt, and it’s not that I want you to hurt me but I don’t want to have the choice. I don’t want the choice to be mine.”
If Ilya felt lost before, it’s nothing compared to the way he feels now. What?
“I—when we fuck, and you’re completely in control, that helps. I just want—I want to know you’re in control, and that you’re making the choices, because you made the choice for me. Because I didn’t want you to, and you did anyways.”
Against Ilya’s skin, Shane mumbles, “I want you to hold me down and use me, and not let me say no.”
Ilya has absolutely no idea what to say in response to that. He, at first, doesn’t think he’s heard Shane right. But no, there’s nothing else he could’ve mistaken that for.
Ilya’s never thought about it. Yes, Shane often ends up completely at Ilya’s mercy by the end of sex, so far out of his head that he couldn’t stop Ilya if he tried. And sometimes when Shane’s like that and wants something, Ilya’ll let his begging fall on deaf ears. Because he also likes being mean to Shane, sometimes, calling him names and making him struggle. But it’s only ever Shane begging for more. More fingers, more of Ilya, sometimes more come.
He’s never begging for Ilya to stop, or crying that he’s had enough. If he did, Ilya would stop. Immediately, no questions asked. Ilya knows this instinctually, so he’s never thought about what it’d be like if he didn’t.
The thought is terrifying. He can’t, Ilya can’t do this, he doesn’t want to hurt Shane. But he would also do almost anything for Shane, if he asked. Ilya knows that he would jump off a cliff, let his body lay on the crags, broken and mangled, if Shane asked.
That would be easier than what Shane’s asking for now. Shane’s asking for Ilya to shove Shane off the cliff with his own two hands, because he trusts those same hands will be there at the bottom to catch him.
Ilya’s desperately trying to get his brain into gear and thoughts in order, because Shane has started to take his silence as a no, and is beginning to apologize.
“I’m sorry, it was too much, I—we can just forget this happened,” he starts stammering. Ilya keeps rubbing his back.
“Sweetheart,” Ilya says, so low it’s almost a whisper, and loosens his embrace so he can step back, slightly, and see Shane’s face. Shane won’t look at him. Ilya places a hand on Shane’s face, cradling his jaw and tilting his face up. “It is okay,” Ilya says, leaning in to press a soft kiss to Shane’s forehead.
“I told you, we can just forget it—”
“Shane. I did not lie. I love you, I am not judging you. I want to be able to do this for you.” Another kiss to Shane’s forehead. “I want to make sure I know what you are asking for. I do not want to hurt you.”
“Do you remember when you wouldn’t let me come?” Shane asks.
Ilya immediately recalls the day Shane’s talking about.
(Shane had had a bad trauma patient. Shane’d done everything he could, but the patient still bled out before they made it to the ER. After his shift ended, Shane had been, well, on edge. Shane gets in a mood, sometimes, after bad calls, Ilya had come to realize. There’s a pattern to it.
First, Shane needs to feel in control.
That time, Ilya had let Shane push him onto the couch and demand that Ilya eat him out. Shane’d been leery of it, the first time Ilya tried to eat Shane’s ass. He had stopped being leery around the time Ilya got his tongue in his hole.
So Shane sat on Ilya’s face, and Ilya licked, nipped, and sucked at Shane’s hole until he could feel Shane’s thighs shake where they bracketed his face, until Shane had sat back and told Ilya to fuck him. Ilya pushed Shane into the cushions of the couch, face down and gorgeous ass up. Ilya preferred seeing Shane’s cute face, in general, but this view wasn’t bad at all.
It was cute that Shane thought Ilya was actually going to fuck him, though.
Instead, Ilya had dove back in. Shane called him a dick, an asshole, but he had rolled his hips back into it, and eventually Ilya had spotted him trying to get a hand on his dick. He’d slapped Shane’s hand away.
Because Ilya’d known that secondly, after bad calls, Shane needs to get out of his head.
Ilya’d put Shane on his back, worked his fingers into him, his hole loosened and slick with Ilya’s spit, until Shane was shaking, moaning, broken apart beneath Ilya’s hands.
He looked so pretty then. Shane always looks pretty, Ilya can and will die on that hill, but Shane was fucking divine underneath him that night. Watching him plead, and beg, and thrust up desperately into nothing but the air. Ilya let him get close, one more time, and then had pulled his fingers out.
When Shane finally broke down crying, fat tears streaming down his face, Ilya’s name the only coherent word on his lips, that’s when Ilya had finally wrapped his hand around Shane’s dick.
If they were in a movie, the way Shane wailed when Ilya stroked him and told him to come would’ve caused all the birds on the street to spook, and fly away.
Shane’d come, and then he’d let Ilya take care of him until he molded back into himself, into the beautiful neurotic shape of Shane Hollander.
They’d fallen asleep together, and didn’t wake up until the evening. They fucking ached, because they were too old to be sleeping on the couch, but Shane had been shocked, telling Ilya he can normally never sleep after bad calls unless he pushes himself to exhaustion beforehand.
He’d ridden Ilya later, slow and tender, as a thank you.)
Ilya nods.
“That day, if I had said stop, or no, you would’ve, right?”
“Immediately,” Ilya answers without thinking.
“It’s like, if we did that again, and I said stop, or no, and then I struggled and you held me down and used me anyways because the choice isn’t mine. It’s yours. I’m all yours,” the words rush out of Shane’s mouth.
It’s so much, what Shane wants to trust him with. With what Shane already trusts him with. Shane and his unwavering faith that Ilya will never hurt him, will never want to hurt him. Ilya feels sick with it sometimes. Nobody’s ever trusted him the way Shane trusts him. He doesn’t know what to do with it.
He doesn’t know what he’d do if he shattered that trust. Ilya doesn't know what he'd do with himself.
“I am not saying no. I am not upset,” he reassures Shane. “But I need to think about it, okay?”
Shane looks hesitant, but he nods. Ilya hates that he can’t give Shane a yes, right now, that he can’t give his beloved wonderful boyfriend what he wants. But Ilya's so fucking scared, and he needs time to sort himself out, to figure out if he can do this.
“Okay.”
Ilya kisses Shane, again, and again. They don't have sex that night, but they still fall asleep in each others arms.
It doesn’t come up again for another couple of weeks.
There’s a morning, where they’re in Ilya’s apartment. They’re not coming off an overnight, so Ilya got to wake up in the same bed as Shane, since Shane had stayed over last night, like he does most nights, now. Shane’s eating a fucking grapefruit for breakfast because he’s the lamest human alive and is scrolling lazily on his phone. Things are soft. Comfortable. Ilya wants this every fucking morning for the rest of his life.
Ilya’s been doing some thinking.
“If we do your thing,” Ilya shatters the tranquil silence. “Where you want me to ignore if you say stop. If you really want to stop. How do I know?”
Shane sets his spoon and phone down. Gives his grapefruit a hearty stare while he thinks, and then looks up at Ilya, who’s sitting on the edge of the table.
“Isn’t the whole point that even if I want you to stop, you won’t?”
“Shane. I—” Ilya cuts himself off. Tries again, “It is a lot, that you are trusting me with. I need to know. If you really, truly do not want it, I need to know. You need to tell me. I can’t—” his voice breaks, fuck, shit, Ilya’s not supposed to be crying right now. Nope, this is not happening. Ilya slides off the table onto his feet.
Shane pushes his chair back from the table, but stays seated. “Ilya.” Shane says his name like it’s a plea and a command.
Ilya’s helpless to do anything but drop to his knees next to him. He rests his head on Shane’s thigh. He can feel Shane’s hand card through his hair, scratch at his scalp. Shane’s in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs, that might be Ilya’s, actually, now that he’s looking. Regardless, it means that Ilya can press a kiss to the skin of the thigh beneath him.
“You are so important to me,” Ilya mouths against Shane's leg, and it’s not a lie, but it’s not the entire truth, because Shane is the most important thing to Ilya. “I cannot hurt you. Do you understand, Shane? I want to do this, but I cannot do this if it will hurt you.”
Because he has been thinking. And it’s not that he’s not into it, conceptually. He loves turning Shane to mush, underneath him, and both he and Shane like it when Ilya gets a little mean. Ilya’s not concerned he won’t be able to do it. He’s worried that he won’t be able to stop. That he’ll like it too much. That he’ll lose himself in Shane, in taking Shane, and he’ll miss the signs screaming that Shane truly wants to stop.
Ilya, when he’s thought about this over the last few weeks, has sometimes thought that it feels like Shane reached into his own chest, ripped his heart out, and dropped it, still beating, into Ilya’s bare hands.
Shane must love him, so incredibly, to trust him with this. Ilya wants to do this for him.
“Pick a word to use,” he continues, “if things get too much. I need you to promise me you will use this word. If you really need to stop. I will ignore everything else, but I will stop for that.”
Shane tucks a stray curl behind Ilya’s ear. Ilya leans into the touch.
“Loon,” Shane answers, eventually. Shane can be such a shit sometimes. Ilya loves him. “And if my mouth is full, I’ll tap you three times. Or kick you three times, or whatever.”
“Okay." Ilya prays he’s not making a mistake when he says, “Then I will do this for you.”
It’s been a trying shift for Ilya. There’s always a lot of turnover at services with the new year, and with that comes new hires. New hires who don’t know what the fuck they’re doing, and call for backup every fucking call. By midnight, Ilya’d seen the same fucking crew three times because they kept calling for him to come and help him. This last time, they told him they 'just wanted to pick his brain.' Ilya had ripped them a new one, afterwards, because in the time they had spent waiting for him to show up, they could’ve just gotten the patient to the fucking hospital.
So it’s deeply irritating, but multiple Januaries in, Ilya’s at least started to feel more prepared for it. He’s annoyed, but he’s not snapping at every single crew, and kicking up a fuss like he would’ve in the years prior. He thinks that being with Shane has helped too. Ilya’s felt a lot less inclined to start trouble with other people, because it’s not as fun as starting shit with his boyfriend.
Speaking of whom, as rough as the shift’s been for Ilya, it seems like it’s going worse for Shane. Ilya doesn’t see him at all until over an hour past midnight, and it’s barely for a second, him and Pike bringing a patient in while Ilya’s heading out to go back another fucking crew up. Their patient looks bad, Ilya spies the distinct shape of a bag of Cardizem hanging off the stretcher’s IV pole and winces. Shane doesn’t even acknowledge him as they walk past, which isn’t abnormal. It’s a sick patient, Shane gets locked in, and Ilya’s gotten the dopamine hit of seeing his face.
Shane doesn’t appear again until dawn’s about to break. Which, given the winter month, means it’s less than an hour before the end of their shifts. Ilya hasn’t been on a call in a whole fifteen minutes, which is the first time that’s happened this night. A respiratory alert gets paged in with a eight minute ETA, but Ilya’s comfortable where he is in the nice office chair reserved for charge (Scott Hunter hasn’t had a single second to sit down tonight, so Ilya doesn’t feel bad) and he can see the resus bays from where he is, so he doesn’t get up. The unit calling it in isn’t 2435, so Ilya only half gives a shit.
He does a double take when he sees Shane walk through the ER doors. He wasn’t expecting to see his boyfriend in the first place, but more than that, Shane looks fucking livid. Ilya can’t see his face from this distance, but Shane’s shoulders are drawn back and tense, and he’s clenching his fists tightly. Ilya’s reminded of a cobra, reared up and stiff just before the strike.
And, much like a cobra, Shane bites.
Interestingly enough, Shane’s not with Hayden. Instead, he’s with two other people branded with the same polo as him, marking them as coworkers. He knows one of them has to be a medic, because Shane’s service doesn’t run double EMT crews. Shane must’ve had to back them up when Ilya was on his last call. He assumes Pike got stuck with driving the second ambulance to the hospital, if Shane rode with the other crew. That would also explain why it wasn’t their unit calling it in.
Ilya watches them wheel the patient into the resus bay. One of the crew members is using a BVM to ventilate the patient, which means the patient isn’t breathing for shit. Ilya’s curious, and wants to go see what’s going on, but he has things to do.
The second they disappear into the resus bay, Ilya’s on the move. He steals out of the ER and into the hospital proper’s atrium. It’s nearly empty, and in no time at all Ilya’s shelled out for a full can of ginger ale from the nearest vending machine, and is power-walking, cooly and smoothly, not old-person style, back into the ER. This is a familiar routine to him.
He slips back inside, and makes his way to the other side of the ER, where the ambulance entrance, and his destination of the EMS room are. He peeks into the resus bay when he passes by. In the split second glance he gets through the sliding doors, the first thing Ilya sees is a tech, bent over the bed in the bay, doing chest compressions. The second thing he sees is Shane, speaking with the attending in the corner of the bay while the resident runs the arrest. Shane’s face reveals nothing, which says everything to Ilya.
Ilya realizes two things, simultaneously, in perfect clarity: that he should’ve bought a second can of ginger ale, and that by sunset, Shane Hollander will be broken by his hands.
Ilya gets back to his apartment and immediately steps into the shower. He thinks about what Pike told him, when he’d shown up not long after Ilya started waiting in the EMS room for Shane.
“It was really bad, dude sounded like he was slurping the last of a milkshake when he breathed. I didn’t catch all of it, but it sounded like he’s been like this for days and the wife only called now. He was covered in shit too, it was gross as hell.”
And then:
“Shane had to take over the call because the other medic wasn’t doing like, fuckall, they got into it and Shane had to pull seniority. The whole thing was a complete nightmare. I still fucking hate you, Rozanov, but Shane seems to be like, disgustingly in love with you, which is why I’m warning you that he’s going to be taking this one really hard.”
Ilya cleans himself off and thinks he’ll call Shane after he gets out, try and get him to come over. He’d barely even smiled when Ilya handed him his ginger ale, and had told Ilya he was going to go home and take a shower after he got off, he’d text Ilya later. Ilya was halfway back to his place before he remembered that Shane had his own apartment.
Ilya doesn’t bother with a shirt, after, and walks out of his bedroom with his sweatpants slung low on his hips. He makes it a few steps into the living room and stops.
Shane’s sitting on his couch. He must've let himself into Ilya's apartment with his key. He's changed out of his uniform into a t-shirt and joggers, his hair is damp, and he’s seated completely still, arms crossed. If Ilya was a lesser man, he’d be hit with the vague sense that he’s in deep trouble.
However, Ilya knows his Shane.
“Hello,” Ilya greets. Shane’s eyes flick over to him, but he says nothing.
“Shane,” he tries again, keeping his voice gentle. There’s a chance he’s misreading this situation, and wants to confirm the mood Shane’s in before Ilya does anything about it.
“Fucking what, Ilya,” Shane immediately snaps back. Yeah, okay, that’s about what Ilya thought he was going to get in response.
“Are you okay?” Ilya asks. Shane just stands up and storms over to Ilya in response.
All of a sudden there’s two hands in Ilya’s hair and a tongue in his mouth, and yeah, if Ilya didn’t already know what Shane needed, he’d know it now. He kisses Shane back, letting Shane work his lips against Ilyas, bite his lips, suck on his tongue.
Up until Shane starts getting impatient, trying to push Ilya towards the couch. Any other day where Shane was like this, Ilya’d normally let him do it, let him work it off. Today he holds his ground. Shane splays his hands across Ilya’s chest, attempting to shove him. In response, Ilya’s hands shoot up to grab both of Shane’s wrists.
Shane immediately tries to break Ilya’s hold. “Get the fuck off of me, Rozanov,” he seethes. Ilya clocks the use of his last name and tightens his grip.
“What do you think you’re doing, Hollander?”
“I was trying to get you on the fucking couch so I can sit on your dick,” Shane hisses, “but now I’m standing here while you’re being an asshole.”
“Are you going to ask for what you need, Hollander, or am I going to have to take it?” Ilya asks, surprisingly calmly. He’s giving Shane a chance to back out, to stop this train before it ever makes it on the rails.
As an answer, Shane surges up, trying to capture Ilya’s lips again. Ilya dodges at the last second, shaking his head.
“Behave,” Ilya scolds. Shane looks about ready to rip Ilya’s head off, now. “That is not an answer.”
“I don’t need anything from you,” Shane spits, and well, if that’s how he wants to play it.
Ilya drags Shane into the bedroom, keeping his hands firm around Shane’s wrists. Shane, for all the fight he’s been putting up, lets Ilya pull him into the room without more than token resistance.
And then in one swift movement, Ilya has Shane pressed against the bedroom wall, both of his arms pinned above his head, held in place by one of Ilya’s hands. He crushes his mouth against Shane’s, starting by tugging at Shane’s lower lip, sucking on it. Not long after they start kissing again, Shane starts trying to grind his hips against Ilya’s. Ilya lets Shane work himself up, enjoying the feeling of it for now.
“Come on, you dick, fucking touch me,” Shane tries to demand. Cute. Ilya steps away, enjoying how Shane groans when he’s suddenly grinding into nothing but the air.
“Here is what is going to happen,” Ilya says. “You are going to get on your knees. You are going to let me fuck your mouth. And after, I will give you what you need.” He squeezes his hand where he’s gripping Shane’s arms. “And you will listen, because otherwise you will get nothing.”
He releases Shane’s arms, and can’t help but grin when Shane shoots him a glare but drops to his knees immediately. Ilya’s never going to get tired of seeing Shane on his knees for him. Even if Shane looks disgruntled about it.
When Shane’s been on his knees for long enough making no move to get Ilya’s cock out of his pants, Ilya gestures with his hand for Shane to get on with it.
“Fuck you Rozanov, you didn’t say I had to get your dick out, too,” Shane snaps.
Ilya slaps him across the cheek, hard enough for it to sting but nowhere near hard enough for it to leave any form of mark. Shane stares up at him, breathing heavily, his pupils completely blown.
Shane swallows, when Ilya pulls his cock out of his sweatpants himself, and Ilya laughs.
“Such a cockslut,” he drawls, and strokes himself, lazily. “Always so thirsty for it.”
Before Shane can sass him back, he rubs the head of his cock across Shane’s lips, smearing them with precum.
“Open,” Ilya commands. Shane does not open his mouth, so Ilya grabs a handful of his hair and yanks. Shane groans, loudly, and Ilya presses himself against Shane’s lips again. This time, Shane’s lips part for him.
Ilya keeps Shane’s head in place with a firm grip on his hair as he feeds his dick into Shane’s mouth. Ilya recalls the first time Shane ever sucked his dick, when he could barely even fit half of Ilya in him before he was threatening to gag. Now, Ilya’s able to press in until Shane’s face is pressed against the hair at the base of his cock, and Shane doesn’t even flinch. Ilya loves him so fucking much.
Ilya lets out a low moan once his dick is settled in Shane’s throat. “Fuck, Hollander, you take it so well. Like you were born to suck my cock.” Shane whines at that, but makes no move to pull away.
The heat of Shane’s mouth feels as good as it always does, wet and yielding around his dick. Fucking perfect. Ilya doesn’t resist the urge to buck into it like he normally does, letting his hips roll and his cock hit the back of Shane’s throat. This, they don’t do a lot, because Shane’s almost always more interested in sucking Ilya’s dick than letting Ilya passively use Shane’s mouth.
So Ilya savors the sensation, groaning as he rolls his hips. Shane’s eyes are closed, and Ilya can feel him breathing heavily through his nose. Shane looks so fucking gorgeous like this, face stuffed with Ilya’s cock. Ilya can’t wait to mess him up.
“Is this what you needed, Hollander? To choke on cock?” Ilya asks, accentuating his point with another thrust of his hips. He can feel Shane try to shake his head as he lets out a dissenting noise. “No? You do not think this is what you need?”
Ilya draws back even more before plunging his dick back into Shane’s mouth. Both of Shane’s hands fly up to Ilya’s legs, his nails digging into the back of his thighs as Ilya uses him. Ilya pauses, for a second, in case this is Shane trying to tap out. but when Shane doesn’t squeeze, Ilya wastes no time in continuing to use Shane’s mouth.
“That is too bad. Because this is exactly where you belong. On your knees, choking on dick.”
Ilya fucks Shane’s mouth messily, relentlessly. The room is filled with the obscene sound of the slap of his balls against Shane’s chin and Ilya’s groans. Ilya gets lost in the pleasure of it for a while, until he feels a moan from Shane around his dick.
Ilya focuses, and yeah, that’s Shane on his knees letting his mouth get fucked by Ilya’s cock, so turned on by it that he’s started thrusting his hips into the air.
“Look at you. Getting turned on from having your face fucked,” Ilya croons. He delivers one last hard thrust into Shane’s mouth, and then stills, letting his cock sit heavy in Shane’s mouth for a moment.
Instead of pulling out himself like he normally would, Ilya instead uses his grip on Shane’s hair to slowly slide his head back, off of Ilya’s cock. Shane lets him.
And oh, Shane’s a gorgeous fucking mess once his mouth is free. He’s gasping for air, his eyes are beginning to water with unshed tears, and there’s a pretty pink flush on his face under his freckles. There’s drool running down his chin, and a string of saliva connects Shane’s swollen lips, shiny with spit, to the tip of Ilya’s cock. He looks so fucking good, Ilya has to squeeze himself hard at the base to stop himself from coming all over Shane’s face. He wants to add his signature to that work of art, but he can’t.
He’s saving himself, wants to fuck Shane. But Shane doesn’t need to know that, so Ilya says, “Maybe I will come on your face. Would be hot, yes?”
“Fuck you,” Shane croaks out, voice already hoarse.
“So yes? Okay,” Ilya starts stroking his cock again, but doesn’t make it more than an inch before Shane’s grabbing at his hand, trying to get him to stop. Ilya knew he would, because his boyfriend is a giant fucking cockslut.
“No, I—” Shane’s been staring at Ilya’s dick, but he looks up at him to ask, “Fuck me, please?”
Ilya can’t help but groan, because doesn’t that feel good to hear? Ilya doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of hearing Shane plead. It sends a rush through him, every time, that he’s reduced this smart, headstrong, stubborn man into begging for Ilya’s dick.
Shane scrambles up off his knees as Ilya yanks him up by his hair. He captures his lips in another kiss, much messier than the first one, Shane’s lips still covered in saliva, both of them breathing heavy into the kiss.
Ilya gets Shane on the bed, somehow, he’s not too sure, caught up in working his tongue against Shane’s. He can tell Shane’s starting to really ache for it now, making soft noises into the kiss as he slides his tongue against Ilya’s. Unfortunately, Ilya wants Shane on his front for the next part, which means he has to stop kissing Shane. Reluctantly, he detaches himself from Shane. Ilya can’t help but grin as Shane instinctively tries to follow Ilya’s mouth, seeking out more.
“Ilya,” Shane breathes out, whinily. Ilya pats him on the cheek.
“Clothes off, on your stomach,” Ilya directs. He swipes the bottle of lube from off the bedside table—he doesn’t even bother putting it away most of the time, it’s usually back out within a day anyways—absently noting that they’re running low, again. Ilya fucking swears he just bought more, but whatever, he has more pressing issues, like Shane, who is just finishing tugging his joggers off and kicking them off the bed. He fully has no underpants on, underneath. Ilya feels fucking crazy.
Ilya sheds his own pants while Shane gets situated on his stomach, and then kneels on the bed, between Shane’s spread legs. He grabs Shane’s hips and pulls him up, forcing Shane to bend his knees slightly so that Ilya can, essentially, get himself a lapful of Shane’s ass. This has the added effect of sandwiching Shane’s cock between his own stomach, Ilya’s dick, and Ilya’s thighs, so Shane, of course, immediately tries to grind his hips so that he can get friction against something.
Ilya groans, because it feels fucking good, but the crack from the impact of Ilya’s hand against Shane’s ass rings even louder through the room, drowning it out. it’s followed immediately by a gasp and a throaty moan from Shane.
“Stay still,” Ilya snaps.
“Ow—god, fuck, okay, fine."
Ilya grabs Shane’s ass with two hands, spreading him open to reveal his hole. Ilya realizes he’s at risk of waxing poetic about an actual asshole, but what can he say, every part of Shane Hollander is hot, including his hole.
“Stop teasing,” Shane complains. Clearly Ilya hasn’t fucked with Shane enough if Shane’s still making demands.
“You like it when I tease,” he says, covering his hand with lube.
“No I don’t—hngggh,” Shane’s retort turns into a groan as Ilya starts pushing two fingers into Shane. He knows Shane can take it, they’ve done it before, when they’re both worked up and don’t want to spend forever getting Shane prepped. Ilya usually likes to start with one though, but today is Shane’s special day, so he gets two.
“Is there problem? I thought you were tired of teasing?” Ilya asks, pressing his fingers deeper into Shane. He’s so hot, and so so tight around Ilya’s fingers, he always is. Ilya takes his time, working Shane open, working him up. He can feel the tension in Shane’s thighs, how much effort he’s putting into not moving.
Ilya can also feel his own thighs becoming increasingly wet, as Shane’s dick leaks where it’s stuck between him and Ilya. So he curls his two fingers inside of Shane right where—
From the moan Shane lets out, Ilya knows he’s succeeded in finding Shane’s prostate. Shane arches his back even further and tries to grind down on Ilya’s fingers, searching for more. Ilya takes pity on him and lets him, because it’s really hot when he gets all desperate.
“So fucking needy, such a whore for it,” Ilya says as he scissors his fingers inside Shane.
Shane tries to protest this. "Not a whore," he whines, as he keeps grinding back on Ilya’s hand. Which just proves Ilya’s point, really.
“No?” Ilya curls his fingers just right inside of Shane again, earning him a prolonged groan from Shane. “But you moan like one.”
Ilya continues fucking him with his fingers, and he knows Shane isn’t far from coming now. Ilya’s been trying his best to ignore his own arousal, but if Shane keeps grinding his cock against Ilya’s like that, he’ll be soon to follow. He’s losing his mind, god, fuck, shit he needs to be inside Shane.
Ilya abruptly pulls his fingers out from inside Shane. Shane makes an unhappy noise, and Ilya swats him lightly, on the side of his ass that doesn’t have a red handprint forming on it already. He pulls Shane up so that he’s fully on his knees, and Shane props himself up on his elbows.
He arches his back, and begs, “Ilya, fuck me, please, I—I want you.”
“You want me to fuck you?”
“Yes, please, please fuck me,” Shane rolls his hips back, as if acting like a whore will get him stuffed with cock sooner.
“Hm, maybe if you come on my fingers, like slut you are, I will think about fucking you,” Ilya lies, because he’s always thinking about fucking Shane. Especially now, with Shane’s hole right in front of him, inviting him in. Ilya wants to be inside of Shane, needs to be inside of Shane, wants to spear him open and fuck him into the mattress, whining underneath Ilya where he belongs, but he also has a job to do.
“You asshole, just fuck me, I want you in me, I want to—to come with you in me,” Shane groans into the mattress.
Ilya sighs with fake disappointment. “What a dumb whore,” he bemoans, “cannot even follow simple directions.”
Ilya shakes his head, presses three of his fingers into Shane, and wastes no time beginning to pump them in and out of his hole. Shane’s thighs are shaking, Ilya notes with pride.
“I’m not—” Shane’s protest turns into another moan as Ilya curls all three fingers inside of him. “Fuck, god, Ilya.”
Ilya reaches under Shane and wraps his hand around his cock.
“No, Ilya, don’t—I won’t—” Shane says, even though he’s already trying to thrust into Ilya’s grip and roll his hips back into Ilya’s fingers at the same time. So fucking greedy.
“Come on, Shane, come for me,” Ilya demands, and gives Shane’s dick a stroke as he rocks his fingers in and out of Shane.
“Oh, fuck—” Shane shane moans like it’s being ripped out of him, thrusting his hips desperately and erratically into Ilya’s fist as Ilya holds his fingers against Shane’s prostate, applying relentless pressure until Shane’s cock is done spurting. As soon as he’s done, his hips finally still, Shane’s knees give out, and he collapses onto the bed.
Ilya knows Shane’s really out of it already, because he dropped directly onto the wet spot on the mattress and isn’t reacting to it at all.
Ilya gives Shane a very polite whole thirty seconds to recover, and perhaps remember that Ilya still has fingers in his ass. When after that time, Shane’s still done nothing but pant heavily into the mattress, Ilya curls his fingers.
Shane seems to seize on a breath, startling at the sensation.
“Ilyaaa, too soon,” he slurs into the mattress.
Ilya doesn’t even feel bad, for what he’s about to do. Shane’s been such a fucking slut, if he wants Ilya’s dick so badly then he’s going to make sure he good and goddamn gets it. Ilya pulls his hand out of Shane, and gives his cock a few strokes, getting some lube on it. There’s more than enough in Shane’s hole right now to compensate.
He grabs Shane’s hips and pulls him back up onto his knees. Shane makes a truly valiant effort to get himself up on his elbows, but fails, his upper half remaining pressed into the sheets.
Ilya can’t hold back any longer, not with the sight of Shane blissed out in front of him, hole back on display. He straightens up, and makes sure he has a solid grip on Shane, keeping his ass in the air.
“Ilya, wait, it’s—” Shane cries out as Ilya lines himself up with his entrance. Ilya’s made Shane come multiple times in one session before, but there’s always been some amount of recovery time in between, much more time than the maybe two minutes Ilya’s giving Shane now.
Ilya slides into Shane, groaning loudly. God, he’s still so fucking tight, it gets Ilya every fucking time. Shane takes him so fucking well, like he was made for it, like he was put on this planet to take Ilya’s cock in every conceivable way, perfectly. Once Ilya’s completely inside Shane, he stills, because he will fucking come if he moves right now and he’s not coming before he’s fucked Shane like Shane’s been begging for.
“Ngh, Ilya, it hurts—” Shane whines. So ungrateful.
“This is what you wanted, yes? Is what you were begging for,” Ilya grits out. He’s holding tightly onto Shane’s hips, both to steady himself and because he suspects if he lets go Shane will just collapse into the mattress again, and they can’t have that.
“It’s—it’s too much,” Shane whimpers, his hands clenching tightly onto the sheets.
“Hm, I think is exactly what a whore like you needs,” Ilya states, and then begins to thrust into Shane. Shane keeps whimpering and whining in response, initially, but before long they begin to morph into breathy moans and soft grunts as Ilya fucks into him. Ilya’s grunting too, on every thrust, each snap of his hips against Shane filling him with a need for more, a need to fuck Shane harder, the way Shane really fucking needs it.
Fuck, Ilya needs to hold Shane, needs to get his lips on him. He risks removing a hand from Shane’s hips, and fists it in Shane’s hair. He tugs at it, pulling Shane’s head back, just to hear the way Shane gasps as he does so, involuntarily rolling his hips back.
Then, Ilya drapes himself over Shane, as much as he can without losing his balance—slides his other hand from Shane’s hip to wrap around his chest, and gives Shane’s hair another firm tug. Finally, Ilya straightens up, forcing Shane up with him by the hand in his hair and arm around his chest. Shane makes a noise thats a cross between a yelp, a whimper, and a moan at having been forced onto his knees. His hands scramble for purchase, and eventually land on Ilya’s arm, the one that’s gripping his chest and keeping him upright.
“Oh, fuck—oh my god,” he breathes out, grabbing onto Ilya.
Like this, Ilya can see that Shane’s dick is nearly hard again, red and angry, and still covered in Shane’s own cum.
“See, you really are whore, hard again for me already,” Ilya grunts.
Ilya keeps his arm across Shane’s chest, but releases his hair, and grips his hips again. He’s definitely going to leave a mark. The bruises will look so good on Shane, though, in the shape of Ilya’s hands.
Ilya presses his mouth into the crook of Shane’s mouth and bites, sinking his teeth into Shane’s flesh. Shane keens, arching back against him, and Ilya chooses that moment to slide out and slam himself back into Shane. Ilya presses a messy kiss to where he bit as he fucks up into Shane, not being able to get as deep with this angle but also not caring.
Shane’s head lolls back onto Ilya’s shoulder with a punched out moan, and Ilya turns his head to try and capture Shane’s lips in a kiss. The angle is awful, it’s sloppy, and it’s mostly just them clacking teeth and rubbing their tongues together, but Shane’s so sweet on Ilya’s tongue, Ilya can never get enough of him.
When Ilya pulls away from their kiss, Shane’s mouth stays hanging open. It looks so empty, like it’s begging to be filled like the rest of Shane. Ilya doesn’t think, just adjusts the arm across Shane’s chest so he can reach Shane’s mouth and shove his fingers directly into Shane’s open mouth. He groans helplessly as Shane takes three of them, immediately trying to suck on them. With three fingers, Shane can’t close his mouth around them, so there’s already drool starting to spill from his mouth. There’s not a lot of room for Shane to do anything with his tongue, either, and so instead Ilya just presses his fingers in, and in, and in. Shane’s moaning around Ilya’s fingers is distorted, muffled, but Ilya can feel him trying, the vibrations against his fingers.
“This is what you needed,” Ilya grunts, “greedy fucking slut, can’t get enough. Have to have all your holes filled.”
Shane whines and clutches onto Ilya’s arm, clinging on desperately as Ilya keeps thrusting up into him. Shane’s legs start sliding out from underneath him, and Ilya’s in shape, but Shane is also in shape, and he doesn’t think he can support the entirety of Shane’s bulk while also trying to fuck into him.
Ilya keeps his hips moving, but at the same time starts pressing Shane back down, until he’s face down on the mattress again. Ilya’s stayed plastered to his back, keeping his arm wrapped around Shane, but he does slide his fingers out of Shane’s mouth. His fingers are covered in saliva, and so Ilya does the only thing he can think of: he wipes his hand off on Shane’s face, right onto his pretty freckles.
Immediately, Shane is gasping, and pleading, “Ilya, fuck, I need—I need—oh, please.”
“Please what? Tell me what you need,” Ilya growls, because he wants to hear Shane say it, beg for it. And then, because he’s an asshole, “Or else I pull out and come all over your back.”
“No, no, nononono,” Shane’s voice cracks as he sobs, his words slurring together. “Need it in me—’m yours, please—cum in me—fuck, please pleaseplease.”
And who is Ilya to deny such a polite request? His pretty slut begging so nicely for his cum?
Ilya finds it in him to pick up his pace, growing sloppy in his desperation. He has no idea if he’s hitting Shane’s prostate anymore, and frankly he doesn’t fucking care, Shane’s so good, so broken underneath him and tight around him, and he’s all Ilya’s, and Ilya’s going to give him what he fucking needs, so he bites down at the junction of Shane’s neck and shoulder again as his hips stutter and he comes inside Shane with one more punishing thrust.
Shane’s near incoherent underneath Ilya, as Ilya pumps him full of his cum, groaning against his skin. Ilya detaches from Shane’s shoulder so that he can whisper, right next to Shane’s ear, as he pinches one of Shane’s nipples, “What do good cumsluts say?”
“Thank you,” Shane wails around a moan as he comes, again. His hips bucking wildly back into Ilya, his cock spilling, completely untouched.
In the aftermath, Ilya pulls out carefully, and Shane turns over and flops onto his back, trying to avoid the multiple spots on the sheets splattered with cum. He’s panting, still desperately gasping for air, and Ilya crawls over and hovers above him. It’ll never stop blowing Ilya away how fucking gorgeous Shane is. His face is covered in spit, his eyes red rimmed, tears brimming in his eyes, the skin around his pretty freckles flushed, and to top it all off, there’s a blossoming bite mark on his neck.
Ilya’s not done with him yet.
He lowers himself on top of Shane, tangling their legs together as he presses soft kisses to Shane’s mouth. they’re sweet and unhurried. Ilya’s in no rush to get himself hard again, he just came.
Ilya breaks their kiss, pressing another quick one to the corner of Shane’s mouth. He trails his mouth down the column of Shane’s neck, across his chest, and lets his teeth graze across one of Shane’s nipples, earning him a hitched gasp. He laves his tongue over it for a bit, feeling Shane arch his chest up against his mouth, and he knows he’s smiling against Shane’s skin as he delivers one last bite before moving on. Ilya presses a line of sloppy, open mouthed kisses, down Shane’s stomach, the muscles of Shane’s abdomen quivering underneath each press of Ilya’s lips to his skin.
Ilya settles himself on his stomach between Shane’s legs, sucking a bruise into the jut of his hip. Then, before Shane has time to react, Ilya ducks down and takes Shane’s soft dick into his mouth.
The groan Shane lets out is ethereal, shocked and gutted. Shane immediately starts writhing wildly, trying to get his cock out of Ilya’s mouth. Ilya’s prepared for this, and has a hand on Shane’s hip, holding him down before he can escape.
“Ilya, what—” Shane chokes out, clawing wildly at the sheets.
He swirls his tongue around Shane’s dick, the taste of his come salty on his tongue. Shane’s getting his hands in Ilya’s hair, tugging but not pulling him off. One of his hands cups Shane’s balls, plays with them as he lavishes Shane’s cock in attention. Shane’s still soft, but Ilya doubts he’ll stay that way for much longer.
He can hear Shane’s babbling above him: “No, Ilya, Ilya I can’t, too much—no, please.”
Ilya thought it was going to be difficult, for him to keep touching Shane even when Shane’s pleading with him to stop. And it is, a little bit, but most of him is secure in the knowledge that he’s giving Shane what he needs. His beautiful slut begged so prettily earlier, cried at Ilya implying he was going to cum anywhere but deep inside of his hole. If he needs it so badly, Ilya will deliver.
Ilya can feel Shane growing in his mouth, slowly. Once he can taste precome on his tongue, he knows he’s accomplished what he wanted to do.
Ilya slides off Shane’s dick, applying suction at the head so he can detach with a pop. Shane shudders, his hips moving of their own accord to try and follow the heat of Ilya’s mouth. So desperate. Ilya places a single kiss to the tip of him in response, and the broken whine Shane lets out at that is so fucking delicious.
“See, you are getting hard again already,” Ilya says, and then spits out, “cockslut.” Shane chokes on a gasp. Ilya watches the rise and fall of Shane’s chest, heaving erratically. He loves this man so fucking much. Ilya’s going to ruin him.
Ilya glances down, and notices that some of his cum is leaking out of Shane’s hole. That’s not acceptable, not when his baby’s worked so hard to earn it. So Ilya gently, carefully, traces Shane’s puffy, abused rim. At the touch of Ilya’s fingers, Shane actually starts crying—not the sobbing around moans he was doing earlier, unshed tears in his eyes—no, Ilya can tell, these are real, genuine tears from sheer overstimulation.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Ilya coos. “What is the matter? You wanted cum so badly, earlier. I am just putting back where it belongs, back in your greedy hole.”
Shane manages to choke out an “Ilya,” around a heaving sob, and Ilya takes the cum he’s collected on his fingers and presses it back into Shane. He doesn’t go any deeper than the pads of his first two fingers, but he repeats the process until all the traces of him that escaped past Shane’s entrance have been pushed back inside.
Shane’s fully hard again, now, his cock back to leaking like it always does.
“You are so wet,” Ilya swipes his finger over Shane’s slit, collecting some on his finger as he speaks. “Do you need to get off one more time? Two was not enough?”
“Can’t,” Shane whines on an exhale, drawn out and pitchy. Ilya pushes himself up so he’s level with Shane’s face again.
“You know that is not your choice to make,” Ilya murmurs, taking in the current state of Shane.
He looks beyond fucked out. There’s fat teardrops running down his face, freckles still shiny and spit-sticky. His mouth is wide open, parted perpetually around broken sobs, lips still red and swollen. Shane's tongue is poking out of his open mouth, and his gaze is glassy eyed, pupils blown, unfocused.
Ilya grabs his chin, puts his thumb in Shane’s mouth, hooks it in a cheek, and tugs. Shane follows, letting Ilya move his head side to side by the thumb in his mouth without offering any resistance. Oh, Ilya could do anything to him right now, couldn't he? That's Ilya’s pretty doll, his, all his.
“See?” Ilya asks. “You are mine to use. And I say you can. So you will.”
He drags his thumb out of Shane’s mouth, and Shane makes a raspy noise at the loss of it. He’s not outright sobbing anymore, but there’s still tears streaming from his eyes. Ilya cups his face, gripping Shane’s cheeks, forcing his mouth to stay open, pushing his tongue out further.
“You still need more, baby, I know,” Ilya soothes, “is okay, I have you.”
Slowly, carefully, his mouth hovering just above Shane’s, Ilya lets the saliva gathered in his mouth slide past his lips. It lands directly onto Shane’s outstretched tongue. Ilya closes Shane’s mouth for him. This close, Ilya can see every freckle in exquisite detail.
Shane swallows, moans. “Thank you,” he half mumbles, half slurs, once Ilya’s released his face.
Jesus fucking Christ. Ilya’s fully hard again, now, has been getting there since he took Shane’s dick into his mouth. But god, fuck, Shane has him throbbing again. He needs to be in him, Ilya needs to fuck his pretty whore, fuck.
“Of course,” Ilya grunts, looking for the lube, lost somewhere on the bed. “But you are a greedy thing, you still need more.” Ilya finds it discarded at the foot of the bed, and slicks himself up with it again. He hisses, slightly, still a bit sensitive from his previous orgasm, but it’s nothing he hasn’t done before.
Shane seems to be so fucking out of it he hasn’t even noticed what Ilya's been up to. He’s just lying there, a whimpering fucking mess, stupid on cock, his hips thrusting pitifully into the open air.
The moment Ilya’s cock is lined up with Shane’s hole, Shane flinches, violently, and then winces at the movement.
“Ilya, don’t, stop, no—can’t, I can’t—” He sounds beyond desperate as he begs for Ilya to stop. Too bad he wanted to be such a fucking slut earlier, this is what he gets.
And, again, Ilya slides himself into Shane. He tries to be slower, this time, knowing that Shane is beyond overstimulated, and that the pain could very easily cross over to being the bad side of too much. It’s so hard, though, when Shane feels tight and hot around him, inviting Ilya in. Ilya just wants to fill him up the way he deserves, the way he needs.
Shane's sobbing wretchedly, chest heaving, babbling a near incoherent stream of protests. Ilya leans down, captures Shane’s lips in another kiss. Shane’s barely moving his mouth against Ilya’s, just sticking his tongue out and gasping as Ilya pushes himself further into him.
Ilya groans into Shane’s mouth as he bottoms out. He presses kisses to both of Shane’s eyelids, his eyes tightly shut with tears slipping out.
“I will take care of you,” Ilya says, so, so gently, and then starts moving. He grabs Shane’s good leg and hitches it up against his chest, adjusts his angle, and-
Shane screams, on the first thrust against his poor, poor, prostate. Actual, downright, honest to god screams, like it's being ripped directly out of his chest. He tries to arch back, writhe away from it, but Ilya has a hand on his waist and a grip on his thigh, so he’s not going anywhere. He's Ilya's, now.
He leans over Shane, pressing their chests together as he rolls his hips, again and again.
Shane surges up, and bites down on him, on his shoulder, above his clavicle. His jaw is locked, pain blossoming where his teeth are digging themselves into Ilya’s skin. There it is, Ilya thinks, there’s the cobra strike. This isn’t a bite for fun, or to leave a mark, this is Shane, overwhelmed, expressing himself the only way he can. Ilya feels claimed, for a moment. He thinks Shane might actually draw blood if he clenches his jaw any harder.
“Fuck, should I cum in you again?” Ilya groans out, he’s losing his fucking mind, Shane on his neck, his cock so fucking deep in Shane. Ilya gets a tortured whine from Shane in response. Ilya honestly doesn’t even know if Shane’s capable of speaking right now, but if his baby wants another load, he’s going to have to ask for it.
Ilya feels so hot, crazy with how much he wants to fucking come. Shane’s still sucking on his neck, whimpering brokenly, helplessly, against Ilya’s skin, and he’s overwhelmed with it, with how much he wants to fucking fill his baby up, use him like he deserves. Ilya grits his teeth and snaps his hips against Shane, relentlessly.
Shane clenches down around him, with both his hole and his teeth, and all Ilya can do is groan, and keep going, keep fucking into Shane. “Oh,” Ilya gasps, “you—fuck—know what to say.”
Shane’s teeth leave his neck, Ilya barely even registered they were still there, the only thing he can think about is getting deeper into Shane, using him, breaking him. Shane’s head falls back onto the bed, and from the way he looks, absolutely fucking gone, Ilya feels certain he’s not going to get any more words out of him.
"Too fucking stupid with cum to respond," Ilya manages to get out between grunts. And then, because Shane’s jaw is still lax—his mouth open, like it's pleading to be filled up even more—Ilya leans over and spits in it again. Shane barely even reacts, beyond a ragged gasp and a pitchy moan, god, fuck, he's so fucking out of it, so drunk on cock. Ilya's going to do it, fill his baby up again, give him what he’s been begging for, his whore, his cumslut, his Shane, Ilya loves him so much he doesn’t know what to do with it, he's taken it so well, he's going to take Ilya so well again, Ilya's gonna stuff him full.
Ilya feels a ragged moan escape from him as his hips stutter, and that’s it, he’s coming, “Shane, love you,” Ilya manages to groan out, his second load joining the first inside of Shane.
Shane sounds devastated, destroyed. He’s sobbing around hitched moans and whines. Ilya’s got him.
Ilya wraps his hand around Shane’s dick, angry red, messy with spit and precum, and starts quickly jacking Shane off. Shane wails at the first stroke, which turns into a gutted moan on the second stroke, and on the third stroke, Shane’s coming for the third time, back arching, spasming around Ilya, eyes squeezing shut.
Barely anything comes out of Shane’s cock. But out of his mouth comes a broken, near silent whimper, and then hoarsely, feverently: “Oh, fuck, Ilya—love you.”
And then: nothing.
Ilya, in his post orgasm haze, takes a solid moment to realize his boyfriend no longer appears to be conscious. He’s sure there’s something he’s supposed to check. Pulses or something, probably. He doesn’t know, he can’t fucking think right now. So Ilya pulls out, collapses on top of Shane, and smashes the side of his face against Shane’s sternum.
He can hear Shane’s heart beating rapidly. He feels movement under his head, the rise and fall of Shane’s chest. Assessment done, he’s fine. Life saved, or whatever.
Its only a few seconds later that he hears a hoarse groan, but not of the sexy kind. The kind of groan old people make when they try to stand up, or in this case, when one’s very well fucked boyfriend regains consciousness.
Ilya stays there, listening to Shane’s heartbeat, his breathing, until they’ve both calmed down, somewhat.
Once Ilya’s sure Shane isn’t dead and or dying, he rolls off of him, because he doesn’t know how Shane’s going to be feeling right now and doesn’t want to smother him. He doesn’t know how Shane’s going to be feeling about him right now. Maybe he went too far, and Shane doesn’t want anything to do with Ilya right now.
Shane, though, immediately whines and rolls himself over so his entire body is pressed against Ilya’s. He rests his head against Ilya’s shoulder, and they lay like that for a while more, silent except for their breathing.
Shane speaks first, surprisingly.
“So,” he rasps, and holy fuck, he sounds destroyed.
Fuck, did Ilya fuck his throat up? Shane will never forgive him if he fucked up his airway, Ilya doesn’t even know how he’d do that but it’s possible, maybe, he doesn’t know, he went to every con-ed session for a year and ruining your partner’s airway with dick never came up, fuck, shit, fuck, Shane’s never going to trust him again.
Ilya needs to get it together, needs to get it together now, because Shane needs him, or maybe Shane doesn’t need him, because Ilya blew it, fuck, he knew he couldn’t be trusted with this, why would Shane let him do this?
“Ilya. Ilya, hey,” he hears Shane say, but he can’t focus, Ilya feels sick, almost, fuck, he thinks he’s shaking, what’s wrong with him right now? Is he fucking crying? He touches his own face, feeling wetness, what the fuck, why is he crying?
“Ilya,” and that brings Ilya to attention, because that’s Shane’s medic voice, the voice he uses with patients that aren’t listening, or are being combative. It’s his listen to me or else, voice. Ilya blinks, more tears sliding down his face, and registers Shane’s face above him, Shane’s entire body on top of his.
Shane looks concerned, worried. Says, “Ilya, hey. Listen to me. This was good. It was exactly what I wanted. You didn’t hurt me, I’m okay. I love you. I’m not going anywhere, okay?”
Ilya tries to process this. It takes a second, because his brain feels like a hurricane, and also because English is not coming easily to him right now.
Shane’s not mad. Ilya didn’t hurt him. Ilya didn’t go too far. He’s okay. Shane still loves him.
“Was okay?” Ilya asks, tentative, unable to find more words.
“More than,” Shane looks away, “it was actually—well, I liked it. A lot.” Shane flushes, “like, a lot.”
Okay. Okay. Ilya can work with this. He takes a deep, shuddering breath. Lets it out. He’s okay. He will be okay.
“I am sorry,” Ilya starts apologizing, but is very quickly shut up by the press of Shane’s lips to his.
“Ilya, shut up,” Shane whispers against his lips. The tone is so familiar Ilya can’t help but crack a small smile at it. “There’s nothing to apologize for,” he reassures Ilya.
And then tries to move, and winces. He immediately glares at Ilya, daring him to open his mouth, “Not even for that.”
Shane remains sprawled on top of Ilya. The weight is grounding, a reminder that Shane is here, he’s not going anywhere, Ilya didn’t fuck this up. Shane’s okay, they’re okay.
Eventually, though, he can feel tension creep back into Shane, and that’s when Ilya remembers what a fucking mess they made. He’s sticky, Shane’s sticky, the bed is sticky, god, he might just throw these sheets out, they’re disgusting. But first, they should probably get cleaned up.
He presses a kiss to the top of Shane’s head, and manages to slip out from underneath him with the minimum amount of movement required from Shane. This part, Ilya knows the steps of. In an ideal world, they both shower and strip the sheets. Given that Shane currently can’t move, and Ilya still feels like one strong breeze would shatter him, neither of those things will be happening tonight.
They’ve done this enough that Ilya doesn’t need to think about it: wetting a towel, getting a throw blanket from the couch, grabbing water for the both of them. Shane hisses, when Ilya wipes him down, as gently as he can, but still won’t let Ilya apologize. Ilya tosses the blanket on top of the soiled sheets and calls it a later problem.
When Ilya's back in bed, having cleaned him and Shane off enough that they're at least not sticky everywhere, Shane lets Ilya mold himself to his side, rest his head on Shane’s chest. Shane’s absently, sleepily running a hand through Ilya’s curls, and Ilya’s on the verge of drifting off, when Shane speaks.
“Thank you,” he whispers, pressing a kiss into Ilya’s curls. “You’re perfect, I love you.”
You’re the love of my life. Ilya wants to tell him. Move in with me. I want to spend forever with you.
But before he can open his mouth, he’s asleep.
When Ilya wakes up, long after the sun sets (Ilya checks the clock on his nightstand, they slept for twelve fucking hours), his legs are tangled with Shane’s, and Shane is still asleep, facing him, his head on one of Ilya’s arms. This is rare, Shane’s almost always up before Ilya, so Ilya takes the opportunity to stare at him, trying his best in the darkness to observe the soft lines of his face as he sleeps, count his freckles, memorize the planes of his body. Ilya doesn’t really think, just watches Shane breathe, peacefully.
Shane comes to after another half hour, give or take, and the first thing he does when he wakes up is smile at Ilya. Ilya’s so completely helpless to do anything but smile back.
“How are you?” Shane asks, voice still rough.
“I should be asking you that instead,” Ilya replies, feeling that same strange feeling from before. Like he’s sinking, but also exploding, but also he’s nothing.
Shane, because he is the best boyfriend in the entire world, keeps smiling at Ilya, and says, “Really, really good. Sore, but I can live with that.” Shane gives Ilya a look. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Ilya takes inventory. Physically, he feels fine. A little bit sore in his thighs and arms, but nothing compared to what Shane must be feeling. Shane thankfully didn’t break skin when he went full vampire on Ilya, so he doesn’t have to worry about that.
Mentally, he’s not sure. He’s embarrassed at how he reacted in the aftermath, pissed at himself that Shane had to comfort him, when it was supposed to be the other way around. He still feels weird, too, worried that he hurt Shane, worried that the other shoe will drop any second.
“Okay,” is what he lands on. “I am okay. I am… better, now. Than before. I am sorry, for earlier.” The look Shane gives him is so nasty Ilya does not bother apologizing any further. Shane smiles, again, when it’s clear Ilya will not be trying to do that.
“No apologies, okay?” Shane yawns, stretches, makes a face. “I’m just sore,” he says, before Ilya can get any ideas. “If you really want to make it up to me, help me to the shower?”
That, Ilya can do.
Much, much later, after they actually shower, Ilya sits Shane down and lets him tell him all about what happened on the call, what went wrong. They dissect it, together, and he notes Shane being much less self-critical than normal after something like this. Ilya hopes that means he did well.
Even later, after that, they curl up on Ilya’s couch under a blanket together, and watch a NHL game. Well. Shane’s watching a NHL game. He's really invested, because Shane always is, and normally Ilya’d be too—when they watch games they each pick an opposing team to root for and definitely get way too heated, cheering and jeering at each other. But right now, Ilya’s content lying with his legs sprawled across Shane’s, halfway between dozing off and being awake, listening to Shane neg on the refs, and the players, and the coaches, and the fans.
“Are you awake?” Ilya suddenly hears Shane ask, and he blinks his eyes open. Shane’s staring at him, looking unbelievably fond.
“Mhm,” Ilya mumbles, and then adds, “love you.” Because it’s true, and Shane deserves to know, always.
“Love you too,” Shane returns, easily. He pauses for a second, and then asks, “What were you going to pick, if you had won?”
Ilya looks at Shane, comfortable on Ilya's couch, in Ilya’s clothes, giving him such a dopey smile, and swears he pops a PVC, the way his heart skips a beat. He thinks about Shane, trusting Ilya in his entirety, letting Ilya completely tear him apart and remake him from the ground up. Letting Ilya hold his heart in his hands, giving Ilya all of himself and then some.
Ilya remembers what he was going to ask for, the lingerie still in a box in the back of his closet.
What Ilya says instead is, “Move in with me.”
The way Shane beams at him—it’s like getting flashbanged, bright, violent, disorienting. But the way he lunges forward, captures Ilya’s lips in a gentle kiss, feels like more of a yes than anything else could have.