Work Text:
(1) October 2013—Montreal
It’s not that Shane is actually planning to have, you know, anal sex with Ilya Rozanov. He will say no. He should say no. He keeps meaning to really tell Rozanov no when they text, but every time, Rozanov manages to trip him up with what might be flirting. Maybe. And it distracts Shane from his real goal, which is to say that they need to stop talking about anal sex in the months between hotel blowjob hookups, and also maybe stop the hotel blowjob hookups too, because it is all a very bad idea and Shane does not want to find out what will happen when they inevitably get caught having gay sex together. The only guarantee is that there will be consequences.
And yet. And yet here Shane is, poking around in his bedroom drawer. Sitting inside is a sad, lonely black silicone dildo that frankly pales in comparison to the thought of Rozanov’s dick, though Shane remembers being excited about it once upon a time. Maybe he just needs to buy a new, bigger dildo. Next to it is an expired box of condoms because Shane has not successfully managed to bring a girl back to his place in longer than he cares to remember. And then he has a half empty bottle of blue raspberry flavored lube.
Rozanov cannot know about the flavored lube.
Which doesn’t mean he’s coming over, of course. But if he were, Shane would want to showcase something a little more adult, not an accidental online purchase because he didn’t read the description properly while high on adrenaline from clicking “Add to Cart” on a dildo.
The Boston versus Montreal game is in three days, so Shane does not have time to order more lube through the internet and hope it gets here when it’s supposed to.
So: the store.
The store, where Shane procrastinates by filling up a cart with the rest of his grocery list. Salmon for dinner. Brown rice in case he’s running low. Frozen spinach and protein powder for his morning smoothies. Even a bottle of dish soap. Normal, regular items that he purchases all the time. And even the turn down the aisle proudly labeled “Sexual Wellness” isn’t too bad because he grabs the condoms first, which doesn’t even give him a deviant little thrill like it did when he was seventeen. They’re just condoms.
He knows there are a dozen reasons why a nice young man such as himself would be buying a bottle labeled personal lubricant. People buy lube here and in a million other stores every single day. It doesn’t tattoo “I might accidentally have anal sex with Ilya Rozanov” on his forehead for the world to see.
But the shelf in front of Shane paralyzes him.
A distraction comes in the form of his phone vibrating. He’s so grateful for it that he makes the mistake of not checking to see who the message is from.
What fills his screen is a picture of Rozanov’s chest from his broad shoulders down to the jut of his hipbones, clearly taken just out of the shower because of the towel that is slipping so low it barely preserves any sense of modesty. His skin looks wet. His right hand holds the towel and his knuckles are bruised and scraped. He looks—god, he looks—
Shane drops his phone and it skitters away from him, screen facing up. He lunges after it in a panic, nearly falling on his own face in the process. Frantically clicking the screen off, he shoves it deep in the pocket of his sweatpants and swears that it is not coming back out until he is alone. What the fuck was Rozanov thinking? He doesn’t know where Shane is or what he’s doing, and it’s the middle of the day on a Tuesday. Anyone could have seen that.
Suddenly in a rage, Shane grabs the first bottle he can reach. He scans the back just long enough to see that it says it’s good for all purposes, so it’s probably fine for anyone thinking about anal sex. Rozanov will never use this to touch his ass, but at least Shane’s going to get some mileage out of it with his future friend, a bigger dildo.
And now he’s getting the fuck out of here immediately.
But when he gets home, lube and condoms safely stored in the bedside table, Shane pulls up the photo again. He loses an entire minute of his life just staring and thinking about which part of Rozanov he wants to lick first.
He wants to put those fucked up fingers in his mouth.
Shane is starting to lose sight of why he’s supposed to say they can’t keep doing this.
(2) Fall 2015—Montreal
Rozanov next assaults Shane at the check-out line of his local health food store.
Maybe assault is a strong word, but the sight of Rozanov on the cover of a magazine, shirtless, arms over his head, flexing, smirking at the camera like he thinks he’s a gift to the universe—well. The store feels very hot all of a sudden, and Shane’s palms prickle.
He doesn’t know where to look. Ahead is normal, but the magazine is within sight. It shouldn’t matter, because obviously Shane does not care about Rozanov regardless of how good his pecs look rubbed down with oil so they glisten in front of the camera. But his gaze keeps darting back, drawn to the mole on his chin, the impossible white of his retouched teeth, the whorl of hair at his armpit.
Last time they hooked up, Shane licked that armpit. The memory of it is so arousing that he feels slightly nauseous.
So Shane buys it. And whatever! He’s allowed to buy health magazines with articles about the benefits of switching to a plant based protein powder. It’s practically his job to care about that sort of thing.
The cashier doesn’t even blink at the magazine or at him, and Shane feels self-conscious for imagining that everyone in the entire store knows exactly who he is and why it’s weird for him to buy a magazine with Ilya Rozanov on the cover. Of course the cashier doesn’t care. There’s no way Shane makes her top three most interesting customer purchases of the day.
Shane’s subsequent moment of brief insanity must be because of the summer break. He hasn’t seen Rozanov since June, which means he hasn’t had an outlet for the frustration building in his dick. They text sometimes, more often since Rozanov flew back from Russia in anticipation of the pre-season, but there’s only so many times Shane wants to sext someone before he just feels needy and dissatisfied. He’s starting to develop a pavlovian response to his phone going off after nine at night.
The magazine is a goddamn nightmare. To put it in his bedroom feels like admitting he’s going to jerk off to it. Leaving it in the kitchen or living room, which is where innocent magazines go, means someone might come over and see it though, and this ends up the deciding factor.
Inside the pages, there’s one picture of Rozanov in a field—city boy, Shane thinks with a snort—naturally shirtless, sitting on top of an old picnic table with his feet propped on the seat. His skin is golden, his brown curls perfectly tousled in the light breeze. He leans forward, chin in hand, and stares into the camera with the exact same expression as when he goads Shane into making a show of touching himself: smirking, hungry, demanding. Shane lasts about thirty seconds and accidentally gets come on the edges of the magazine.
Three days later, he goes back and buys another copy. He vows to be more careful this time.
(3) November 2016—Boston
The first thing Hayden says when they get to their hotel room in Boston is: “Fuck! I can’t find my toothbrush.” A clatter follows from the bathroom, like he’s dumped his entire toiletry bag out in the sink. For Hayden, this is not an insubstantial number of items because Jackie turned him into a skincare fiend three years ago and now he’s got a nightly ritual involving tubes and pots of things Shane has never heard of in his life. “We have to go to the store.”
Shane says reasonably, “I’m sure the hotel can give you one.”
And Hayden, long-suffering, eternally-accepting-of-Shane’s-quirks Hayden, says, “Shane. Dude. You know that I have to use a certain kind of toothbrush when we’re traveling for a game.”
Oh boy.
“And as my best friend I’d expect a little more support from you in this.”
“Jeez, fine,” Shane says, already resigned. He is positive—positive—that everything would be alright if Hayden for one day used whatever toothbrush was available to him. But that’s not how superstition works. And Hayden has patiently tolerated all of Shane’s many superstitions and rules since the very first day of their friendship, so of course Shane will go with him to the store to buy a green Colgate brand toothbrush because that is what he uses, and Shane knows his on-the-road habits better than anyone else.
He fishes his phone out of his pocket while Hayden continues cursing in the bathroom. There are no new text messages waiting for him. Not that he was hoping to hear from anyone specific; he and Rozanov already settled their plans for tonight after Montreal’s practice so there’s no need to keep texting. It’s fine.
Shane taps out a search. “Hey,” he calls out to Hayden, “there’s a grocery store like a ten minute walk from the hotel. We should go now so we don’t miss the bus to the arena.”
“You’re the best, Shane!”
The walk is brisk. Shane hadn’t planned on spending any time outside while in Boston, otherwise he might have checked the weather and brought a thicker coat, but they hurry along quickly, legs in sync from practice of years running together.
“I don’t wanna say that Ruby definitely stole it out of my bag,” Hayden says darkly as they approach the store. The automatic doors slide open and a whoosh of wonderfully warm air hits Shane in the face. “But I do think if anyone would steal my lucky toothbrush, it would be Ruby.”
“She’s like two, dude,” Shane argues. “You probably just lost it.”
“I have never lost a toothbrush in my life,” Hayden tells him. “Like, I’m ninety percent sure it was Ruby. And if it wasn’t Ruby, then it was Jade, egged on by Ruby. I’m telling you, she’s a menace.”
Shane snorts and shakes his head, trailing behind Hayden as he leads their way to the other side of the store where the toiletries are.
“I’m gonna tell Jackie to look for it in their toys, you’ll see,” Hayden says confidently. He plucks a package off the shelf in triumph. It’s the last green Colgate toothbrush available, so Shane supposes the hockey gods are looking out for them today. “You need anything while we’re here? I think I’m gonna grab a Gatorade.”
“I could go for a ginger ale.”
“Ah, the nectar of the gods,” Hayden teases. “You sure you’re okay to drink that before a game?”
“The game is tomorrow,” Shane snipes back. He follows again to the aisle labeled Beverages and waits for Hayden to hem and haw over blue or yellow Gatorade, even though he literally always chooses blue.
When it happens, Shane’s attention is on the ginger ale, searching for an individual can of Canada Dry instead of the six-pack carton because Hayden is right that he won’t drink this tomorrow before the game, so he doesn’t need extra. He spies it sitting on the top shelf and starts to reach up right as Hayden says, “Rozanov?”
His hand spasms and he bumps the can instead of grabbing it, sending it tipping back.
He turns, feeling like a skittish animal. Indeed, Rozanov is standing in the grocery store with a cart in front of him. He wears an old, worn Boston hoodie, soft-looking gray sweat pants, and a pair of slides with white socks, like it isn’t below freezing outside. He looks good, and Shane’s stupid heart flutters in his chest. Once Shane is able to drag his eyes up to Rozanov’s face, he finds an expression of shock and uncertainty that must match his own. Rozanov, though, is able to recover much quicker than Shane ever could.
“Pike. Hollander,” he says. The way his tongue curls around Shane’s name is lecherous. Or Shane is just projecting.
“What are you doing here?” Hayden demands.
Rozanov’s brow wrinkles and he looks at Hayden like that’s the stupidest question ever uttered on Earth. “I live in Boston,” he says slowly. “I am shopping.”
At the word shopping, Shane’s eyes fall to his cart, fascinated to learn what groceries Ilya Rozanov purchases the day before a game. It’s not particularly exciting. Cans of tuna, a bag of carrots, sourdough bread, a bulk package of raw chicken breasts, and two jars of pickles. It is, all things considered, an extremely normal cart of groceries. Shane would probably buy most of that himself, were he inclined to eat that many pickles.
Hayden scoffs.
“Better question, what are you doing here?” Rozanov asks. He doesn't even pretend to look at Hayden while he says it.
“None of your business!” Hayden says.
“We were, uh, we were just leaving,” Shane says. He reaches back up to the top shelf and snatches the can he didn’t knock over. “Practice to get to, you know how it is.”
Rozanov clicks his tongue. His face is absolutely inscrutable to Shane, and it must be so obvious that they can’t look away from each other. Shane feels hypnotized by the gleam in his eyes, the one that knows Shane has plans to go to his house later that very day. That he knows, come evening, he'll be the one taking Shane to pieces.
Shane fights to stop his hands from fidgeting. He glances away from Rozanov, uncomfortable, but finds himself improbably drawn back. Rozanov has not looked away.
“See you later, Hollander,” Rozanov says. He dares to wink at Shane, who has to turn away. What the fuck is happening?
“And Pike!” Hayden says unhelpfully. “Also me, I’m here.”
But Rozanov doesn’t respond, and Shane just wants to get the hell out of here immediately, so he starts walking. They have to pass Rozanov to get to the front of the store, and the aisle is not wide enough to avoid a whiff of his cologne.
“God, what a fucking asshole,” Hayden seethes as they move. His voice is too loud for how close they still are, and Shane hears Rozanov laugh behind them. “Yeah, you heard me!”
“Ignore him,” Shane says, tamping down the urge to smile. He wishes he could take his own advice.
But as they walk away, Hayden keeps looking back. Shane refuses to turn around, neck already pricking uncomfortably from the thought that anyone who looked at him might see the panic and uncertainty that surely must be written all over his face. If he gets another glimpse of Rozanov, who knows what his face will do? Surely he looks like someone who just ran into the man who’s going to fuck him later today.
“That’s so weird,” Hayden mutters as they finally exit the aisle. “He drinks the same brand of ginger ale as you do.”
Shane’s heart pounds so hard it’s amazing Hayden can’t hear it. “W-what?”
“I just saw him grab, like, a whole case.”
“Huh,” Shane says. He chances one quick, brief, minuscule glance back, but Rozanov is already gone from the aisle. Shane wishes he had turned around sooner and then mentally kicks himself for the thought. “Weird. Yeah.”
(4) July 2017—Ottawa
Shane should have planned better before going to the store, but in his defense, he’s only recently managed to shake off the worst effects of the concussion and hasn’t quite integrated back into his normal life. Most of his planning ahead skills have been focused on flight times and how he’s going to manage picking up his famous rival from the airport.
Plus, there was a bit of a tiff with his parents who simply don’t understand why he can’t send them along with a shopping list to get groceries for him. While Shane trusts his mom to get exactly what he needs to stay on his macrobiotic diet, she thinks this is food for one person on a two week silent meditation retreat. She does not know that Ilya Rozanov is coming and will expect to be fed while in Ottawa, and Shane would really like to have Coke on hand for him to drink. If his mom sees Coke on his shopping list, she might start to think the concussion was worse than everyone thought and force him back to the hospital for a check-up.
Also: lube and condoms. So much lube. His parents will not be making that purchase.
This is how he ends up in the produce section, apple in hand, with the sudden realization that outside of Coke and tuna melts, he doesn’t actually know what kind of food Ilya likes. Pickles—he remembers Ilya buying pickles last year. But what if he despises broccoli? Or can’t stand sweet potatoes? Does he have any allergies? Shane had a teammate once who was allergic to mustard, which meant he couldn’t have radishes. Should Shane get Russian food? What even is Russian food? Beets, he thinks, and apparently pickles.
He pulls out his phone and hesitates over their text thread. This feels like it would be easier over a phone call.
Maybe he just wants to hear Ilya’s voice.
“Okay,” he mutters. He hits call.
The phone only rings twice. Shane was expecting longer, and he forgets for a second to respond when he hears, “Hollander?”
“I—Rozanov. Hi.” Shit, he’s never called out of the blue like this before.
“Hello.” Ilya sounds amused.
“How, uh, how are you?”
“Oh, good. Very busy, you know. I have this big vacation coming up.”
There is no stopping the goofy grin that spreads over Shane’s face at the reminder. “Yeah, I guess you do. You excited for that?”
Ilya hums down the line, deep and warm and familiar. It wraps around Shane’s mind like a thick blanket, and he has to press a hand to his mouth to force his smile into something more normal. “Yes. Very much.”
“Me too.” The words are too small for what Shane really means, but they are all he can offer.
“So.”
“So?”
Ilya chuckles. “Shane. You called me.”
Right. Shit. “Right,” Shane says. “Um, so I’m at the store and I was wondering if you have any food allergies?”
“Such a good host,” Ilya teases. “But no.”
That’s good, that’s easier. “And what about . . . foods you like? Or hate, I guess.” Shane worries his lip and hesitantly picks up a zucchini. He makes a pretty good grilled zucchini salad.
“I have new diet,” Ilya says. “I hope this is okay?”
Shane brightens. He’s great at following diet plans. “Oh yeah? We can work with that. What’s the diet?”
“It is called the, ah, carnivore diet. You have heard of this?”
“I don’t think so,” Shane says, frowning. “Is that . . . you eat mostly meat?”
“Oh, I definitely eat meat,” Ilya says.
Shane drifts closer to the butcher counter. He had ground beef, chicken breasts, and bacon on his list already, but maybe he should get more. “Do you like pork?” he asks. He could probably roast a pork tenderloin. His dad has done it before and could send Shane a recipe.
“Do I like pork,” Ilya repeats, not a question.
“Yeah, they’ve got, um, pork chops, or sausages if you prefer—”
“Mmm, yes, I prefer.”
Shane blinks at the pork chops. “Why are you talking like that?”
“Like what?”
It’s the hitch in his breath that gives him away. Shane has heard that noise a hundred, a thousand times, in person and over the phone. He hisses, “Are you seriously fucking—” He has to cut himself off. If anyone has recognized him and is, god forbid, listening in right now, he cannot say that out loud.
Ilya just laughs because he is a massive fucking asshole.
“I can’t believe you,” Shane snaps.
“You are the one who is not hanging up,” Ilya sing-songs. “I told you, very busy when you called.”
“Busy doesn’t mean—” Masturbating. Shane whips his head around furiously, but the store is practically dead at nine in the morning on a Tuesday.
“Busy can mean—fuck—many things.”
Now that Shane knows, the signs are obvious. Ilya’s voice is tight, gravely, the little sigh that interrupts his words is a beacon. He swallows and closes his eyes, sending a very clear mental message to his dick that it needs to stay calm. Except with his eyes closed, Shane has created prime real estate behind his eyelids for picturing Ilya in bed, dick in hand, jerking himself off to thoughts of Shane.
“I just wanted to know if you liked zucchini,” Shane says, definitely not in a whiny way.
Ilya moans through a laugh, which is a confusingly sexy sound for someone to hear while standing in a grocery store. “Talk to me,” he demands. “Let me hear you. After—after I come, I will tell.”
Shane’s fingers curl around the handle of the grocery cart so tightly he worries he might have the strength to warp the metal. He can’t believe he’s doing this, but maybe he shouldn’t be surprised anymore at what Ilya brings out in him. “Talk? About what? Zucchini?”
“I am starting to think you mean something different from zucchini. Very—what is the word, phallic?”
“Oh, fuck you,” Shane mutters, blushing furiously. “It’s not like that. I can’t—”
“No, no, tell me about your zucchini, Hollander.” The way he says it is filthy, accent winding around his words in a way that means Shane’s dick will no longer listen to him. How has his life come to this, half-hard in the grocery store while his—long term hookup gets off in his ear?
Shane huffs. He shifts uncomfortably and tugs at the collar of his sweatshirt. “I like to grill,” he says. “At my cottage. I have this really good zucchini recipe, it has olive oil and—”
“Shit, you are serious.”
Bullheaded, Shane soldiers through. He called to talk about food, and so he is going to talk about food. “Olive oil and lemon pepper seasoning. You have to do it on the grill, though, or it doesn’t get charred enough. It’s better that way.”
“Fuck,” Ilya bites out. He’s panting down the phone. “And you—you will make me this? This burnt zucchini?”
“Asshole, it’s not burnt.” Why is Shane smiling? “It goes really well with chicken and—”
Ilya comes before Shane can get the rest of the words out, his moan long and loud enough that Shane glances around again to make sure a person hasn’t crept closer. His face burns with a combination of embarrassment and shameless arousal. Really, he just got Ilya Rozanov to come by talking about zucchini recipes, which should come with a trophy for weirdest dirty talk ever invented.
“That did it for you?” Shane asks. “The chicken?”
“The chicken,” Ilya echoes. His voice is blissful, low and lazy. Shane is abruptly mad that this isn’t a video call, even though there’s no way he could have done that while he’s in the store. “Was very good orgasm. Did not expect you to call.”
Shane shakes his head at the air. “Start talking,” he says. “You said you would, if I talked to you. What do you like to eat?”
Clicking his tongue, Ilya says, “Is very simple, Shane. I like to eat you.”
(5) Summer 2019—Montreal
“Yuck,” Ilya says with feeling.
“Oh my god, they’re not that bad.”
“Are you five hundred years old? Are you older than ancient Scott Hunter?”
“I think the color is—”
“Color is old man color. Scott Hunter’s dinosaur father would wear that color. You are much too young and pretty.”
Shane rolls his eyes at Ilya on his phone so hard he nearly strains a muscle and puts the glasses frames back on the rack. “So not those,” he says, casting his gaze about for another potential winner. Shane had thought the hazel green could be a fun style without being too flashy, but clearly he is not built with the taste required to make these delicate choices.
“Fuck no, not those.” Ilya sounds disdainful.
“You just want me to get the exact same pair again,” Shane accuses. He plucks a set of gold wire frames with round lenses as a wild card pick—he just wants to know what Ilya will say.
“I am open to options,” Ilya says magnanimously.
“Options like these?” He slides the glasses up onto the bridge of his nose and lifts his eyebrows as he looks straight into the camera.
“Hollander.” The word comes out with so much disgust that Shane has to laugh. He glances at himself in the mirror and isn’t particularly impressed either, but they’re not bad. Not his style, but in another life he could totally rock these.
“Okay, okay. So what color should I get?”
While Ilya hums over that question, Shane wishes he could see his face. They’re on Facetime with Shane’s camera turned on so Ilya can see the glasses, of course, but his own camera is off because this is still a public optometrist office and there are other people in the room. Also, Ilya had bitched and moaned all last night that he wasn’t going to be there to guide Shane into making the correct decision, which is how he agreed to do this with AirPods in and Ilya’s camera off.
“Black is obvious answer,” Ilya says. “But too easy. Show me dark blue.”
Shane takes a step back to scan the offerings. Picking out dark blue versus black or gray is a harder task than it ought to be, but his eyes finally alight on a pair of matte metal frames in dark blue. The shape is similar to his old pair and Shane, who has never loved dealing with the change of needing new glasses, finds himself intrigued. Shane Hollander with blue glasses—who would have ever considered such a thing?
“I like these.” He slips them on and glances at himself in the mirror. The blue is really nice. His eyes look more chocolate colored, and the frames are still dark enough to feel normal.
“Go to the window,” Ilya orders. “Light is very bad over here.”
“You didn’t need better light for any of the other ones,” Shane says mildly, doing as he says.
“The rest were so bad, did not need second look.” Ilya goes quiet as he considers. Shane imagines him sitting in his kitchen, tapping one finger against his chin the way he does when he’s considering a problem very deeply. “I like these also.”
“Yeah?” Shane can’t help but smile.
“Very boring. Very sexy.”
Shane snorts, glancing over his shoulder to check the distance between himself and the rest of the room. No one is paying attention to the weirdo on this phone. “Boring and sexy doesn’t sound possible.”
Ilya scoffs very loudly. “No, no, is very possible. Shane Hollander special. You are the most boring man alive, and sexiest.”
And despite himself, Shane flushes at the compliment—because when Ilya says it, he knows boring is a compliment. He steps back over to the mirror so he can squint at his reflection, wishing he had put his contacts back in after the appointment, but he hadn’t wanted to do that with unwashed hands. “So you think I should get them?”
“Yes.” Ilya’s voice is a rumble of approval. “They make your freckles . . . pop.”
“Who the hell taught you that word?” Shane tosses back, laughing as he takes the frames off again. Ilya’s stamp of approval is good enough for him to pick them.
“How long does it take to get new glasses?” Ilya asks instead.
“Uh, it can be like a week.” Shane folds the frames and holds them in his fist, not willing to signal to the technician that he’s made a choice until he’s off the phone.
“So you will have them by our next game.”
“Yeah, probably. Why? Wanna judge them in person?”
Ilya sighs like he’s disappointed in Shane. “Hollander, sweetheart, no. I want you to let me come on your face while you wear them.”
Shane chokes on his tongue and descends into a coughing fit.
“I thought this was obvious, but then I remembered, my boyfriend is most unobservant man in the world. Only for hockey does he notice things.”
“I-I notice other things,” Shane grumbles, working hard to get the words out around his wheezing.
Ilya concedes the point. “Maybe.”
When he can finally breathe without threatening to hack up another lung, Shane says, “Okay. I’m going to go buy these.”
“Good choice. I love you.”
“I love you too,” Shane says, “you asshole.”
(+1) Winter 2020—Ottawa
“Shane.” Ilya’s voice drifts in from the bedroom door. “We are . . . out of lube.”
Shane rolls his eyes. “Haha, asshole. Not falling for it.” The stupid joke isn’t even good enough to get him to open his eyes or stop grinding his hips slowly into the bed, luxuriating in the simmering arousal and the smell of Ilya’s shampoo on his pillowcase. He hitches a knee up to put himself more fully on display, arching his back slightly and doing everything except waggle his ass to entice Ilya back to bed. “Will you just hurry up?”
“Moya lyubov,” Ilya says. His tone is not playful. “You are very beautiful, but there is no lube.”
“What.”
Fingers tap their way up Shane’s calf. Shane turns his head to eye Ilya suspiciously, still not quite certain this is anything but a joke. “You checked the living room?”
“Yes.”
“And the kitchen?”
“Of course.”
“The, uh, garage?”
“Da.”
“And the shower is . . . .”
Ilya sighs. “Finished yesterday.”
This is enough to convince Shane to roll over and sit up to stare in disbelief. “And you didn’t fucking buy more?”
“I thought there was more!” Ilya protests. “Somewhere. We have a lot of lube.”
“Clearly not,” Shane says scathingly. “I can’t believe this. You!”
“I thought of you while I used the shower lube,” Ilya cajoles.
Shane groans and slaps his hands over his face. He’s so horny. He hasn’t gotten fucked in four weeks thanks to a truly vindictive series of scheduling conflicts between the Montreal and Ottawa teams. And on top of that, he also hasn’t gotten off in a week because he—and Ilya!—thought it would be hot to wait for Ilya to fuck it out of him. And obviously that was a one-sided thing, but to find out that they have no lube because Ilya was fucking jerking it in the shower yesterday instead of stocking up on the necessary supplies is infuriating. Rage inducing. Shane has never felt more like a bitchy bottom.
“How the fuck is there no lube?” The words don’t even make sense in that order.
Ilya winces. “We ran out, yes? I can go get more.”
Shane stares at him. To say he’s desperate might be a strong word, but not inaccurate, and the idea of getting off with hands or mouths is not appealing after a week spent edging himself on late night phone calls with Ilya describing how deep and hard he would fuck Shane when they finally saw each other. “Yes,” he says, in a tone that he thinks is actually very even-keeled. Yes, Ilya will go get more lube. Before Shane dies of orgasm denial.
“Will be twenty-five minutes,” Ilya says as he picks up his jeans from the floor. “Maybe twenty.”
“Don’t speed,” Shane says. He can’t help it.
Ilya’s dick bobs stupidly as he shrugs his pants up his legs and tries to cram it back into his clothes without making it too obvious that he’s hard. Shane thinks about reminding him of the concept of underwear, but he’s feeling vindictive and the punishment of denim on delicate skin seems appropriate.
“Only a little,” Ilya says.
“If you get pulled over for speeding and I have to wait here with no lube while you get a ticket,” Shane tells him, “I will burn your house down. And you will never have sex again.” He means every single word of this threat with a conviction he usually reserves for the ice.
“No speeding,” Ilya concedes with wide eyes. His T-shirt goes on.
Shane falls back onto the pillows and tries to become one with the bed, sighing with the whole weight of the world on his shoulders. Ilya presses a quick kiss to his forehead, and then two more to his mouth. “I love you.”
“Love you too,” Shane says miserably.
Ilya practically runs out of the house, which is the correct action. Groaning at the ceiling, Shane reaches down to the floor for his own pants and snags his phone out of the back pocket. The fact that his clothes are on the floor and not folded in a neat pile is an excellent demonstration of just how needy he is right now, but apparently there’s nothing to be done for it.
Scowling, Shane orders five bottles of lube for next day delivery. He already knows that whatever store Ilya goes to will not have the brand he prefers because it is good and fairly expensive lube, and the closest store guaranteed to have any lube at all is just a fucking Shoppers Drug Mart.
He sends Ilya a screenshot of the order confirmation. And then, to be petty, he takes a picture of himself from his nose down to his nipples, two fingers in his mouth and the pink of his tongue visible.
Jane: [photo] hurry the fuck up
The message shows as read three minutes later. Shane has moved on to touching himself—though it’s more like taunting himself. He rubs his chest like Ilya would, thumbs at his own nipple, skates down to ghost over his inner thighs. As pent up as he is, it feels almost as good as touching his dick, which is the one thing he cannot do. He’s invested too much into this game already and he doesn’t want to come until he has Ilya inside him, fucking him through the oversensitivity until Shane is crying and, impossibly, hard again. The thought of it is the only thing keeping him from throwing a fit.
Lily: fuck
Lily: there are a million people here
Shane checks the time. It has been eleven minutes already.
Jane: I changed my mind
Lily: ?
Jane: when you bring me lube I’m going to get myself off with the vibrating plug you bought me, and you’re just going to watch
Jane: and this time YOU don’t get to fucking come
Lily: would be fucking hot
Lily: but you are sure you don’t want my dick?
The next picture is a bit of a trick to set up and far more brave and explicit than the kind of photo Shane usually sends. His dick is fully in frame, hard and visibly leaking over his belly, but his hand reaches past it, fingers out of sight but clearly touching his hole.
Jane: [photo] the fuck do I need you for?
He puts his fingers back in his mouth while he waits and drools all over them. The spit is just slick enough to let him push one finger inside himself, not as smooth as he likes it but workable for now. He barely lasts a moment before pressing the second finger inside. The stretch is rough and raw and fucking not enough.
Jane: my fingers feel so good inside
Jane: should I let you open me up for the plug with your fingers?
Lily: you are evil
Jane: maybe if you’re good I’ll let you lick the come off my hand after
He can imagine Ilya’s expression as he reads that message, his grumpy horny face with his eyebrows scrunched together and his lips parted in a little moue.
Lily: please say you are not serious
Lily: need to fuck you
It is so hard to take a picture of one’s own ass, but Shane rolls over and contorts his spine until he manages to get one that shows off the fact that he’s still fingering himself.
Jane: [photo] very serious. now I might not even come on my hand. bed feels good.
Jane: very sad for you
Lily: leaving store
Lily: don’t you dare come
Jane: you better hurry then. but no speeding!
Lily: 10 minutes
Jane: and no texting and driving
Lily: never
Shane smiles and passes his phone back over to his nightstand, satisfied for the moment as he settles in for the wait. He takes his fingers out, dissatisfied by how much they feel like not enough when all he wants is Ilya surrounding him, encompassing him.
Ilya will get to fuck Shane tonight, there’s no doubt about that. But he’s gonna have to work for the privilege.
With that thought in mind, Shane gets up and walks to the drawer of the dresser that houses Ilya’s collection of sex toys so he can pull the aforementioned plug out and set it pointedly on the mattress. It won’t hurt to make sure Ilya knows what his competition is. And maybe, since it’s already out and Shane will be messy and wet and open, Ilya could use it on him later.
He stretches back out on the bed and waits for Ilya to come home from the store.