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Ilya hurries out of the bar bathroom, taking big strides back to Shane. His Shane, who left the safe comfort of their apartment and the cocoon of his favorite couch blanket to accompany Ilya for a night out, despite the way the lights are too bright and the people too loud and the floor to sticky every time he takes a step. Ilya wants to leave him alone for the least amount of time possible.
He had asked Shane if he wanted to come with him to the bathroom, but all he got in response was a kick to the shin and a glare, so he didn't push his luck and hurried to the bathroom by himself.
Shane probably thought he was kidding, maybe even making fun of him for hating time spent entirely untethered in a crowd of people. He wasn’t. He would’ve even chosen a stall, so Shane could join him and stand right next to him, quite literally attached at the hip. He wants Shane to be comfortable. Maybe Shane could also help hold his dick while he pisses, just a little, maybe they could both use one hand each to hold it? It would be cute. He could take a picture, like people do of their hands shaping a heart together.
Also, he’s been eyeing this guy in the back of the bar that has been looking at Shane a little bit too long, with eyes a little too half-lidded. Remembering him, Ilya speeds his steps the fuck up. He is power walking, trying not to seem as desperate as he is by god forbid, jogging. Or sprinting. God, this guy better not be anywhere near Shane.
When he rounds the corner, two things register immediately. First, there actually is someone sitting next to Shane at the bar, the back of their head towards Ilya. Second, Shane is facing him, and there are tears in his eyes. Ilya halts his steps. Shane would hate it if he called them tears- because they are not falling. So he’s not crying, Ilya, fuck off, but his eyes are red, waterline drenched. He is barely holding on.
Ilya processes exactly three more things before he moves. The person with their back towards him is not a stranger trying to make a move on him, but one of Shane’s old teammates, the name of which Ilya has purposefully, with conscious effort, forgotten. Shane is gripping his glass of ginger ale so hard it’s about to burst. And, most importantly, Ilya notices with horror that Shane doesn’t even notice him coming back. Shane usually senses Ilya like they are intertwined souls. He is aware of Ilya, always, like he is aware of his own arm. If Shane doesn’t see Ilya standing only a couple of feet away from him, even when looking straight at him, that means he is so lost in whatever is going on inside of him right now that this constitutes an absolute emergency.
Combining all these observations, the path of action is clear.
Ilya steps forward, grabs the guy by the back of his collar, and yanks him off the bar stool right onto the nasty floor. A truly pissed Ilya fights like a real bitch.
“Oopsie,” he sings-songs, but it comes out quite terrifying, miles away from nonchalant teasing. Shane’s eyes blink up at him, and Ilya sees at least four different emotions circulating through them at lightning speed. None of them are Ilya, down, or Ilya, help me immediately, so Ilya considers himself off the leash and free to chase his game.
“Leave,” he grits through his teeth, turning back to the guy who is now in a heap on the floor, “now.”
Having quite obviously pissed Ilya off about the one thing he cares about most in the world, and also carrying the original sin of being a Metro, should’ve both been reason enough for the guy not to push his luck. But he gets up, surprisingly quick. And in Ilya’s defense, really, half his attention is still on Shane behind him, trying to telepathically sense his state of mind. To soothe him, somehow. So the incoming fist clips Ilya practically full force into the cheek and nose.
Ilya can feel the skin on his cheekbone split open thanks to a god-ugly silver ring on the guy’s finger. His nose is bleeding ridiculously, but he barely feels any of it. He grins, teeth stained bloody, and watches in real time how the misstep dawns on the guy in front of him. Ilya starts fights on the ice, but off the ice he only finishes them. He smashes the guy’s face, nose first, into the bar top. Then he grabs him by the neck and the back of the head, keeping his face down.
Ilya turns to Shane, who is staring at him. There's too many emotions on Shane's face, but it's decidedly not bad staring.
“What did he say to you?” He asks Shane. He doesn’t pay the struggling body under his hands any mind. Shane hesitates. Tears well back up in his eyes, and yes, the guy will have to die, Ilya decides. Ilya sends Shane a sweet smile, shakes his head softly, a small, private version of an it’s alright, don’t force yourself. Then he looks up at the ceiling, counting one, two, three, four lights up there. Then again. One, two, three, four lights. He will end this man’s entire — no, one, two, three four. Lights. He can feel the burning in his chest settling. He snorts up some of the blood that is running out of his nose, and wipes the rest off with his sleeve. From his current angle he can hold that man down with one hand, the two were mostly for the increased discomfort.
The guy’s nose is probably broken, so he grinds his face into the counter a little more. Then he bends down, mouth to his ear. No one will ever know what exactly he says to him. No one needs to know. It’s short and it’s brutal and most definitely illegal. Whatever.
Ilya straightens back up and lands a single, almost playful slap on the man’s cheek, a weird one given the angle, but it’s really only meant to be disrespectful.
“You leave now, yes?” He hums, patting the cheek below his hand a few more times for good measure. The second he lets go, the man scrambles up and leaves his field of view. Ilya doesn’t even care enough to watch him leave. He can take a hit to the back of his head, no problem. But he can’t take watching his Shane sit on a stupid little bar stool all by himself.
Before he can move into Shane’s space, to touch him, to check in with him, Shane is up and off of his chair, moving in ridiculously brisk steps towards the bathrooms.
Ilya follows. Pride blooms warmly inside his chest when Shane doesn’t even turn around to check whether he is coming. Ilya will always follow Shane, no hesitation. No questions asked. Shane doesn’t turn around to look, to reassure himself, because he doesn’t need reassurance in this. He knows.
He is also intimately familiar with the little waddle in Shane’s step when he tries to walk especially straight and inconspicuous with his dick hard in his pants. He smiles to himself. Cat getting its cream, and all.
Shouldering his way into the bathroom again, right behind Shane, he is faced with the love of his life turning towards him, arms crossed confrontationally across his chest. His very broad chest. With perfect pecs, tits really. Big forearms. Biceps bulging. He's so deliciously intimidating, all mad and totally hard like this. He's definitely not appeased by Ilya ogling him, grinning.
“Wash your hands.” Shane snaps.
Ilya can sense his own pupils dilate in real time. Vicious kitten, his Shane. He drags himself towards the sink obediently, eyes never leaving Shane’s through the mirror. His arms are still crossed, brows furrowed, and he looks like he is raging mad, now. Ilya hisses softly as the water and soap hit the raw skin on his knuckles, smeared in the guy’s blood. Then he watches Shane blush, a subtle color underneath his pretty freckles, in real time.
The blood on his hands rinses into the dirty drain. It looks disgusting. Ilya flicks his eyes back up towards Shane again. Better. He is thorough, as he always is when Shane watches. Of course he always washes his hands well, but Shane is strict like those doctor’s office posters with the twenty fucking steps of hand-washing.
Ilya shakes off the water on his hands, but Shane frowns, so he turns the tap back on, takes a new load of soap into his hands, and keeps washing.
A man, the bartender if Ilya remembers the face correctly, opens the door to the bathrooms. Probably to check on them, or to fine them for the fight, but whatever he sees — two built hockey players, whipping their heads around to stare, violent tension in the air, probably — makes him take a step back again, door falling shut, steps rushing away from the door. Good.
Shane is appeased with his hand washing effort a very tense minute later. Ilya dries his hands on his pants. Shane frowns, arms still crossed in front of his chest. Ilya gifts him a crooked smile. Shane won’t actually do shit about Ilya's little rebellions when he is this turned on, and Ilya exploits the rare liberty like the asshole he is.
As soon as Ilya saunters close enough, Shane grips him by his shirt and drags him roughly into one of the stalls. He pushes Ilya’s back into the wall with a thud.
“Gently, now,” Ilya croons, looking way to smug. This is doing amazing things for him and his dick, really. Shane rarely gets this worked up anymore, but when he does, it takes Ilya right back to the first time Shane pushed him into a wall, angry, reprimanding him, and in the process enlightening a sweet innocent Ilya to the joys of sleeping with someone just as strong and bulky and mean as himself.
“Lock the fucking door” Shane hisses, hands still gripping Ilya’s shirt in a way that cuts the fabric into the back of Ilya’s neck.
Ilya throws his hands up in mock defeat, big bright winning smile on his face, one hand reaching to close the stall door fully and click the lock in place without taking his eyes off of Shane. Some of the blood from his nose drips onto his teeth, and Shane looks seconds away from somehow making this the problem of everyone in this bathroom, and probably the entire bar. Ilya is excited to find out in what way.
“Locked in with me now, little kitten, are you sure this is a good idea?” Ilya whispers into Shane’s temple, one hand raking through his hair with a vague threat. He gets two strong hands shoved into this chest and solar plexus, knocking some air out of him. Ohhhh. Yes.
"You're a fucking idiot! A bar fight! Are you fucking serious?" Shane hisses, a suppressed yell, pointer finger jabbing the air a hairs breadth away from Ilya's face. Oh, this is glorious. They are cramped nose to nose. It’s a terrible place to talk and have sex in, objectively. Shane is reprimanding him, clearly pissed. At least that is the surface emotion. Ilya knows, intimately, that this layer is shallow. Like aluminum foil wrapped around a steaming hot baked potato which is about to fill his very hungry belly. To Ilya, it’s also hot either way. Angry Shane, horny Shane, his Shane. Having Shane, his emotions, and maybe his body, in a filthy bathroom stall. Because he is too in love, too gone for Ilya, to care or even to worry too much.
Ilya presses a soft kiss to the tip of Shane’s nose. Shane looks like he is struggling, desperately, with something. His eyes dart all over Ilya’s face. His head keeps leaning in, like he’s being pulled in by a leash, but then he snaps back again. The kiss, however, seems to shift something inside of Shane. Before Ilya can even think about opening his mouth again, Shane presses a kiss to his nose in return. It is sweet for a second, and then it is not. His tongue stretches out as far as it can possibly go, Ilya knows from experience, and he licks a stripe clean over Ilya’s entire face, centering around his bloody nose. He laps the blood off of his skin, moaning softly. Then, he closes his lips around Ilya’s nose and sort of… sucks.
Ilya returns to his body after about ten seconds of life-changing horizon-expanding astral projection. Shane is still going at it. He is cleaning him up, Ilya realizes, weakly. Grooming him. There's a little rage in it, exasperation, but also tenderness. Care.
Shane’s hand are gripping viciously into Ilya’s dress shirt, like he won’t let him leave until he is taken care of to Shane’s satisfaction. As if Ilya could possibly pull away from this.
“Thank you,” Shane whispers, sweetly, in between licks, anger gone entirely. Ilya is too dumbfounded, still, to say anything in response. Shane is cleaning him. Not someone else's, but only his blood. The blood he spilled for Shane. As Shane’s loyal guard dog. And now he gets to crawl home, tuck tail, lay his head on the chopping block of Shane’s judgment. He gets to be found worthy. Good. He is rewarded with a home, with comfort. With care. Shane watched a video, months ago, during his routine deep dive on unlikely animal friends. One that Ilya saw playing over Shane’s shoulder with the way he was curled up in Ilya’s lap, chest to back. He saw a sheep, gently grooming the bloody dog that just killed a wolf for its sake. The dogs head was lowered, offering himself up. Submissive. He couldn’t get the image out of his head back then, stomach turning, and now he is starting to see why.
So Ilya runs his fingers through Shane’s hair and lets him dutifully clean his face off. Shane sucks on the skin of his cheekbones, licks his nose, the meat of his cheeks, laps over the top of his lip where some blood has pooled in the philtrum. Turns it into a deep kiss, but soon returns to his mission. To the open cut wound. He kisses it gently before lapping his tongue all over it, repeatedly. In it, a little, even. The grip in his hair tightens as Ilya hisses. Having Shane's tongue on a fresh, open wound hurts. But Shane must clean this too, he understands. Ilya will have to take it. Will do so gratefully.
Soon, an Ilya who is dazed and crazed, is clean. Shane unlatches from his face, scanning, finding it sufficient according to his standards. Ilya feels the spit dry on his skin, sticky and filthy and clammy and it’s a badge of honor. Shane, in front of him, looks relieved. Like he is back inside his body. Ilya is desperately horny, out of his min with it, but there is something he needs to do first. So he grabs Shane’s face with one hand, gently tipping his chin to get him to refocus on Ilya's eyes.
“What did he say?” He asks Shane, voice gentle. He needs to know. Needs to know how much damage was done. What parts of Shane to cradle gently in his hands and heal.
Shane shrinks in on himself a little in Ilya’s grasp, and he cannot have that. He places a kiss on Shane’s upper lip. Devastatingly gentle.
“You took care of me. Let me do the same for you.” He pets his other hand over Shane’s hair comfortingly. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Let me help you.”
Shane crumbles a little in his hold, like the emotions he locks up so efficiently, so fast, come flooding back through him, bringing him to his knees. It is unforgivable. Ilya should have killed that man. He couldn’t, because Shane would never forgive him for going to prison. He would hate the conjugal visits where Ilya would of course pretend to try and knock his wife up. He can’t go, so he can’t kill. He will, however, make sure this man never speaks to Shane again. A little late night visit never hurt anyone.
But this is about Shane, right here, right now. He peppers his pretty face in kisses. Holds him upright in his grip. Holds all his weight for him, with him.
“He said,” Shane whispers, ashamed. It’s gut wrenching, it’s nauseating, it rips Ilya clean open. Shane is beautiful when he is embarrassed, sweet and just for Ilya, but this is different. It’s being ashamed. Ilya feels tears coming, but he will not let them show. Not now. Shane would lock back up like a poked oyster if he knew how much Ilya feels about this. “He sat down next to me. I said nothing. He turned to me, I guess he was… angry, about me being quiet. He said ‘Fuck, you let us down first, Hollander’.” Shane’s voice progressively gets smaller, the last sentence barely audible. His eyes sparkle, all wrong, from the reflection of the harsh neon bathroom light in a sheen of wetness.
It’s a testament to Ilya’s love that his only instinct is to pull Shane into his chest, holding him close, cradling the back of his head and rocking him side to side gently, instead of running after that man to rip his guts out. He lifts himself onto his tiptoes to be tall enough to shield Shane fully, to let him bury his face in Ilya's chest without strain. To let him be small and sheltered, for a little bit.
“I know,” Shane mumbles, “I have nothing to be sorry for. But it hurt, Ilya.” he is quiet for a while, then. Ilya feels a tear soak into the front of his shirt. Then: “I remember decorating his birthday cake,” he whispers, a quiet sob in between his words, “in his favorite color.”
Ilya holds his breath, tilts his head back, blinks up at the ugly ceiling, trying not to let his tears fall.
Ilya knows, from years of being with Shane, inside of Shane, that his worst fear, his most vulnerable opening, is being seen as something other than he is. Something worse. He is haunted by the experience of looking around and realizing everyone thinks he did bad, is bad, when he did more than his very best. Tried so hard. Tired himself out to his bones doing more than anyone else ever would, but it still isn’t enough to be considered good. To be seen as someone who cares, who loves. As who he is. Shane is terrified of being considered a disappointment, a letdown, compared to the person he was supposed to be. It’s two sides of the same coin, Ilya thinks: being a disappointment, and being misunderstood. At least in Shane’s case, because he would never disappoint anyone. He’s to sweet, too good, too dedicated. But the years of being the odd one out, and at the same time the one everyone expected to be perfect, have left their marks.
That bastard hit right into Shane’s sweet little soft and furry underbelly.
Ilya will fix this, for Shane. He will protect him, keep him safe. He will wrap him in a blanket, at home, make him his stupid medicinal herb mix tea, whisper softly to him. Keep him fed and hydrated while Shane processes this in his own beautiful head. In this stupid bathroom, he cannot do much. But he will do what he can.
“Will kill him,” he mumbles into Shane’s ear, “just say the word.”
Shane huffs a wet laugh into Ilya’s chest. Good.
“No. You know I would hate the —“
“Conjugal visits,” Ilya finishes for him, chuckling. Shane is so adorable when he is honest, and carefree, and shameless. And Ilya needs to show him that he knows. That he knows Shane, sees Shane, even if its about something stupid and pointless.
He feels Shane smile against his chest, softly, like he understands.
A small silence.
Then:
“Ilya.” Shane mutters, lifting his head from Ilya’s chest. His eyes are still a little wet. But he is also flushed, now, and his eyes sparkle differently from where he peeks up at Ilya. Mischievous, intentional, and unguarded. “I’m hard.” It’s so sweet in the way its so unabashed, without decorum, no pretense. Ilya loves him, deeply, irrevocably.
<3
It’s not Shane’s fault, really. The being hard and begging for it in a dirty public bathroom thing.
On the one hand, his body signals bad. Whether it is anger, or sadness, or guilt, he rarely knows. He can deduce it from the circumstances, usually, but right now it all feels like a mess of bad. But at the same time, he is desperately horny, and that feels much more urgent. Like a blanket over the bad. And like a cure, also. At least for now, in the short term.
He had already taken note of this… thing he has a while ago. Ilya can never know, but he owns a little notebook, the size of his palm, where he jots down weird things that make him hard. Or that make his stomach do that fluttery thing he cannot quite place but knows is… Ilya-caused. Once in a while, he will turn his notes into thematic clusters. The entries Ilya’s split lip, Ilya’s broken nose, Ilya’s cut finger, Ilya’s nosebleed, Ilya’s knuckles after a fight he clustered as Ilya’s blood? With a small annotation, in brackets: urge to lick?
The urge was there, always, ever since they were teenagers, but it never reached the critical mass for action like this.
So it really didn’t surprise him all that much when he felt himself hard in his pants at the sight of blood all over Ilya’s face. Especially given the context. Another one of his clusters: Ilya defending me (violent!).
And this time, he just couldn’t help it, really. It was a doubled arousal, Ilya bloodied in his defense, and Ilya was right there, and he just had to clean it up. Taste it, swallow it. It was as he expected: metallic, warm, with a weird texture in his mouth, like after licking the surface of paper. Also very Ilya. Swallowing it down was even better. Pieces of Ilya inside of him always are. And seeing Ilya all cleaned up again, taken care of, was also… satisfying.
Many things for his notebook happening tonight. It's a shame he doesn't have a minute to himself, with the way Ilya is plastered against him. But it might also kill him to unlatch from his husband right now, so it's also all good.
There's also the fact that Ilya knows him. Knows about the stupid conjugal visits. Knows that Shane is hurt, deeply. Knows how to rock him at just the right speed and angle to be helpful rather than disorienting. Shane can be a complicated man to know, to please, but Ilya has never let him down. Has always taken the time to understand him and his needs, no matter how specific and strict. Without putting his own interpretations him.
Sometimes, Shane suspects that Ilya has his own notebook, on Shane traits. The thought makes him desperately hard. The idea of Ilya using the little Muji pen Shane gifted him last year to dutifully jot down his observations… god.
So, it’s really a lot of factors leading to this. The being hard in a smelly public bar bathroom thing. But here they are now, and Shane needs Ilya, right here. With his spit still all over his gorgeous face. In the ugly lighting, that somehow still makes Ilya look stupid good. Accentuates the sharp features of his face just right. He notes, with a warm feeling in his chest, around his heart, that Ilya is speechless. Nice.
“Please suck my cock, right here, Ilya?” He asks, small smile playing around the corners of his lips. Ilya responds beautifully well to direct communication of his needs. It was unintentional, at first, because he didn’t know any other way to be with him. All he knew was pretending, before, but there was no pretending with Ilya, so there was only honesty left. He never learned to be coy, or especially seductive with his words when he was Shane, himself, and not playing someone else, reading from a well-practiced script. Now, he likes to consciously play into it. There is little shame in him, thanks to Ilya. And Ilya reduced to a blushing statue, about to be tipped over defenselessly by a gust of wind, is always worth the tiny blip of what must be embarrassment running down the sides of his spine.
Ilya is on his knees so fast there is an audible knocking sound the moment they hit the tiled floor. Shane strips off his hoodie, he’s burning up anyways, and folds it into a small, soft rectangle. He gently drops it on the floor in front of Ilya.
“Your knees will hurt,” he smiles, softly, speaking from painful experience, “and the floor is dirty.” Kneecaps are also fragile little things, even on a buff hockey player. Ilya looks up at him like Shane is the most magical being to ever walk the earth, and it has Shane’s knees going a little weak. He puts two hands on Ilya’s shoulders, pressing down a little as a signal to stay, knowing Ilya is about to get up and kiss him romantically for half an hour. Again, speaking from experience. But right now he desperately needs to come.
Ilya lifts one knee at a time to get settled on the plush hoodie.
“Such a good boy, Shane.” He drawls, hand settling on Shane’s thighs. “Did so well. So good. Know exactly that what he said isn’t true, yes?”
Shane nods, sort of preoccupied with the vision of Ilya down on his knees for him. And being desperately hard, a familiar mouth just an inch away.
“Say you didn’t let anyone down.” Ilya pushes, nonetheless.
“I didn’t let anyone down.” Shane answers, flourishing under Ilya’s gentle kisses over his clothed dick like a pretty potted plant under summer sun and fresh water.
“That’s right. Perfect boy,”Ilya whispers, eyes glinting up at Shane. His thigh twitches in response. This tone, this face, means something is up. He is about to come undone, be a changed man.
Ilya’s hands wrap around his left calf, gently lifting it from the ground. He gives Shane enough time to adjust his balance in the process, but he still wobbles a little. Their eye contact burns Shane terribly as Ilya lowers the sole of Shane’s shoe onto his own crotch.
Instinctively, Shane pulls his foot up in the air a little, scared to accidentally hurt Ilya. But the grip around his ankle is tight and vicious. Ilya, under him, nuzzles his nose, bloody again, further into Shane's jeans and smirks. It's so pretty. The blood seeping into his jeans. Ilya, with a foot on his cock. It's all new, and Shane is so hard, and Shane is going to die.
“Show me who you are, Shane Hollander,” He presses his cheek into Shane’s thigh looking so beautiful, so devoted. “Show me I’m serving the right master.”
“Ilya-“ Shane argues, even as he obeys sweetly and keeps his foot hovering just above Ilya. Not pulling it back further.
“Do it, Shane.” The tone leaves no room for argument. It’s beautiful. Shane remembers how it felt to receive a command like this from Ilya the first time. How the landscape of possibilities and outcomes and interpretations and meanings in front of him, swirled and confusing like an unfinished Van Gogh painting, suddenly narrowed down to one single well lit path. Just one way forward. A safe way. With a guide taking him by the hand, gently, reassuring him he’s being good, doing the right thing. It feels like this every time. On the next exhale, Shane can feel the too-muchness of the world exit his body like an exorcised demon.
He steps down onto Ilya’s crotch. He’s gonna be so good, the best, show Ilya he can do exactly as he is told. Ilya takes his foot and grinds it in slow circular motions, and Shane gratefully picks up on the hint. He takes over, imitating the motion he was just shown.
"Fuck," Ilya moans, head dropping against Shane's thighs, eyes slipping shut. "That's it. See, they just don't get it, Hollander. That you own me. That I am the one serving you."
Ilya’s breaths come fast and flat into Shane’s pants, wet exhales. His hips roll up to meet the soles of Shane’s shoes, bucking up and making Shane wobble on his legs. He looks gone, Shane notices, just from this. Ilya’s face is flushed, eyes falling closed and opening again in short intervals, his whole body shifting closer. He needs it, desperately, Shane realizes with a start. That feels incredibly good, a warm, tense wave rolling from the crown of his head down to his lower belly. He is making Ilya feel good in a new way. Is offered a new way to please. But it's also more than that: it's having Ilya Rozanov panting on the cold and dirty ground, just because he told him he was hard. That he needed it.
"Want them all to come in here," Ilya pants, like he is possessed, "want them all to see who you are. My sweet shlyushka, always, but also the one I worship on my knees. Like a believer." He takes on hand to stroke over the cross around his neck, devotedly, while looking up at Shane in awe. The sparkle in his eyes, when he opens them long enough to look at Shane, properly, is nothing short of religious.
For a moment, there is only silence, broken by wet pants and the quiet bell-like sound of Ilya's necklace being played with. Then, there’s hands on his zipper, Ilya greedily pulling it down like he came back from his mental meandering, and finally, finally, there is a hand on his cock.
It's a lot, really. It's searing a path through Shane's guts to see Ilya like this, on his knees, looking up at him like Shane is something to worship. Not for his obedience, this time, but for his strength. His power. It feels good, but it is also wobbly ground to stand on. Shane has never been here before, doesn't know the rules. The infinite paths surrounding him, all possible scenarios and outcome start unfolding in front of him again. Caging him in.
But Ilya, of course, has him. A strong hand pulling his thighs away from the bathroom stall wall, up towards Ilya. Shane is pulled into sliding his back down the divider, just a little, thigh muscles locking the position under strain. It’s really not much, and it certainly isn’t necessary for Ilya to have better access to his cock. But it's relief, immediately. He isn't asked to enter a playing field he does not understand. Doesn't want, either. He knows the one Ilya rolls out for him, now. He is still safe in Ilya's care. The worship does not place him onto a pedestal where he starts being responsible for what happens.
Ilya likes to put him in positions that require all of Shane’s strength to hold during sex. He must have noticed how good it feels for Shane, to give it his very best. Not only by being good, and doing well at sex, but also by enduring with the entire strength of his body. How much he likes the burn in his muscles, the way he thinks he cannot keep going but then can, just as long as Ilya tells him to. How he feels after, warm and entirely tired out. Peaceful.
This is a nice version of it, a kind one, probably because Ilya wants to make sure he cannot fail. It’s sweet, really. Shane scoots down a little further on the wall in protest and Ilya chuckles softly into the space where his thigh meets his crotch. It’s very difficult, really, to balance like this. He only has one leg to rely on fully, if he doesn’t want to crush Ilya. That would be horrible. Terrible. But he can do it. Will do it. To impress Ilya, to show he can take it, to show that he is so good.
It's so sweet, to be known. Ilya knows he needs the added command, the added task, to still feel comfortable with the shift in their usual dynamic. Well, not a shift in dynamic as much as positions. Actions. Ilya is just a terrifying when he looking up at Shane from a dirty bathroom floor.
When he sinks down on him, Ilya’s mouth is warm and wet and familiar. The feeling doesn’t shock him, not anymore, not like it used to do. Now it’s more like a place of comfort. Ilya takes Shane down to the base, all the way into the back of his throat. The humming vibrations around his cock from an enthusiastic, content Ilya really do wonders for him. He knocks his head back into the wall, fingers digging into Ilya’s hair. Not to guide, that’s not his place. Ilya knows best how he likes it and what he needs. Shane just wants to feel the soft curls and the repetitive motions of Ilya’s head, the movement of his jaw. Wants to witness it all.
Before he fully gets lost in the relief, he pushes his foot down further onto Ilyas crotch. He can feel the hardness there, twitching. He imagines himself in this position, what he would like. What would feel good. Ilya will correct him if he’s wrong. So he takes the tip of his shoe and pushes down meanly.
Ilya whimpers around his cock, desperately, and it’s a sound Shane has never heard before, not like this. But he knows the sound intimately, has shaped it every day in his own nose and throat. Ilya needs, just like Shane does, and Shane will provide. Always. The motions of his foot come down harder on Ilya, who pushes up into it, humping desperately, and also pushing himself further down on Shane’s cock like he is raging mad.
It’s mind-meltingly hot. He is still kept safe by Ilya’s instructions, knows Ilya will keep him in place and in check if he dares to move or stop. But at the same time, he gets to stand over Ilya like this, who is desperately humping his shoe like his life depends on it, sucking his dick so good and so eagerly. Ilya was right — he is Shane Hollander, the man who gets Ilya Rozanov, terror of the MHL, on his knees and begging to get stepped on. On a filthy bathroom floor, nonetheless, the one thing he denied Shane all these years ago.
Shane grabs tighter onto Ilya’s hair, pulling at the strands. Moves the entire sole of his foot over Ilya’s cock so he has more to rut up against. His muscles are burning from keeping the squat-like position essentially one-legged while his legs shake from Ilya’s magic on his cock. But its so good, he can’t think, can’t breathe, he can’t be anything other than good and perfect and anything that Ilya wants him to be. No, better: is already everything Ilya wants. Does not have to be careful, does not have to try. Can do no wrong, in Ilya’s hands.
He will make Ilya come, like this. And then he will put his mouth over Ilya’s jeans and clean him there too.
As always, it is nearly impossible to make Ilya come first. He managed to do it only twice — one time involved truly scandalous panties on Valentines day that Ilya had rubbed himself against, just frantically humping Shane with his pants barely down to his knees like he absolutely lost his mind, coming all over the lace. The other was slow sex, missionary, soft kisses, Shane absolutely gone with his face tucked away in the crook of Ilya's neck, whimpering and whispering Daddy.
"So good, Ilya, thank you, thank you," he whimpers, egging him on. He wants Ilya to come first, this time. It won't be easy, but Shane can see how Ilya's eyebrows draw together and up in the middle, desperate, how he is humping Shane's shoe without rhythm, how he pushes his head down on Shane's cock without finesse like he just needs it pushed down his throat again and again.
Shane is so gone in the feeling that he only notices now, during his sweep of Ilya, that Ilya's hands have come to support his ass, carry some of the weight of the position he put himself into. He must have slipped lower, his legs shaking, and Ilya caught him. Not noticeably, no loud support, but one that has Shane, without giving him the feeling of being weak and needing it. His thighs still burn, he still gets the struggle. But Ilya is there. Shane loves him to bits.
"Feel so good, love you, need you," he whispers, little moans and whimpers between each word of praise. He adds a little twist to every push of his foot into Ilya's cock. His strong fingers massage Ilya's scalp skillfully, not unlike one would do to a beloved pet. A good pet. Then: "You're so good, Ilya."
And yes, that's it, because Ilya stills under him, then pushes two final times up into Shane's shoe, choking himself all the way down on Shane's cock, and comes in his pants.
Then, the door opens. It's a terrible sound, really, clearly a door hinge no one has bothered to take care of for years. They both freeze. There's steps over the bathroom tiles, then a stall next to them opens.
Shane does not have it in him right now to feel terror, though. They are sheltered from view, unless someone presses their cheek down on the filthy floor to catch a glimpse of too many legs, and knees, in their stall. They're okay. He was aware of this possibility from the start, would have never walked in here with Ilya in the first place if he wasn't okay with it.
Ilya, under him, furrows his brows and blinks his eyes open, searching. He doesn't have to worry. Shane is good. Ilya should get to bask in the afterglow, like Shane loves to do. He keeps his hands buried in Ilya's hair, gently keeping him pushed down on his cock. Smiles down at him, sweetly. Tension bleeds out of Ilya immediately, and he settles again. Sucks gently on Shane, barely perceptible, who bites down on the meat of his hand to keep quiet. Shane's foot is still on Ilya's crotch, but lifted mostly off. Ilya still pushes against it gently, sometimes, but jerks back immediately when it must feel like way too much. It doesn't seem to completely stop him, though.
The moment of calm, of silence, feels good. Shane is familiar with the feeling of tunnel vision when they fuck, where everything else narrows down into a world that's just big enough to contain the two of them. He doesn't even feel his entire body most of the time, just the parts of it that feel the most. Also he is desperate, usually, feels an urgency to feel better, more, to come, to make Ilya come.
Right now, it's a little pocket of spacetime, just for them.
Now, he can just feel. With Ilya there, sucking him, there aren't many thoughts he could focus on, stays free of anxiety. He wants to remember this feeling, for later. He hasn't felt this calm and carefree while still largely present and conscious, not fucked out of his mind, in a long time. He watches Ilya, below him, so devoted, so gorgeous, so good. Maybe he will ask him to do it again — Ilya just keeping him in his mouth like this. To get a break from it all. By the looks of it, Ilya would not be opposed.
As the stall door opens next to them again, followed by the sound of running water, Ilya's eyes flick up to Shane's. Full of mischief, this time. Uh oh.
Ilya pulls off hallway of his cock, slowly, and unhinges his jaw further to let some spit drop onto one of his hands. His eyes do not leave Shane. One of his hands gone from Shane's ass now, the full weight of his body falls on his thighs again. He whimpers, softly, as he tries to catch it, succeeds, but it hurts. Ilya takes the leg that was hovering over his crotch up over his shoulder, taking half of Shane's weight, and keeping him pinned to the stall wall. It also spreads his ass enough for Ilya to push a spit-wet finger into Shane, all the way, in one go.
It's not lube, it hurts, a little, and Shane is so, so gone. Pinned down like an especially interesting butterfly specimen, depending on Ilya for balance, cock down his throat and finger in his ass and it's good, good, good. Ilya keeps a finger pushing into his prostate as he takes him down all the way again. His eyes burn into Shane, a little wet from all the soft, subdued gagging. He's merciless, like this, when he is single-minded, locked into Shane's pleasure like a bloodhound. No cost is too high, no casualty worth avoiding. Like this, Shane knows, he wouldn't stop even if someone walked in again.
Shane is moaning, gasping, meat of his own hand still in between his teeth to stifle it. He's still too loud, too obvious. The sounds punched out of his throat echo in the empty bathroom. He clasps his own hand over his mouth, now, holding down fiercely. He wishes it was Ilya's. Will need it when they are back home, when he finally gets fucked into the mattress crying and begging with Ilya keeping his mouth shut, shushing him sweetly. He pushes his palm up a little higher, so his index finger blocks a portion of his airflow, too. Ilya does it, sometimes, when he is especially terrible to Shane. It doesn't feel the same when it's Shane's own hand. He whimpers, needily.
He is going to beg for it, later at home. Not just the sweet warmth of Ilya's mouth, freeing him from his troubles, gently. But also to get folded in half, knees up to his ears with Ilya's weight on the back of his thighs, arms slung around them, holding him down. He pets his head, then, sometimes. But Shane likes it more when his palms join over his mouth, press the back of his head further into the mattress, make sure he can't move and can't beg and barely breathe. When he makes it so that Shane can only take and take what Ilya gives.
Now, his eyes meet Ilya's. He sees the recognition settle in them, how Ilya sees immediately what he is thinking about, just by the shape of his eyes, the furrow of his brows. The cut on Ilya's cheekbone is bleeding again. It must hurt, to have his face so scrunched up and jaw opened so wide, it must tug on it and burn. Shane reaches down, dizzy, cotton feeling spreading already around his limbs and brain. He holds it back with effort, knows he still has to make it home, cannot be fully taken care of in this bathroom. His thumbs comes down gently on the open cut, pushes in a little, then. Ilya moans around his cock, and it's so good. The sensation, but also the feeling of Ilya's warm flesh and blood under the sensitive tips of his fingers. He rubs a little, feeling out the edges of it. Seeing Ilya hurt is terrible, but like this, when it's not real hurt, not real injury, not real pain, it's beautiful.
Shane's thumb comes back wet, and he puts it in his mouth, immediately. With the taste of Ilya's blood in his mouth, he comes, way too loud, head banging back against the stall wall, the thigh that is bearing his weight shaking. The grip in Ilya's hair tightens as he keeps him down on his cock. He used equal strength to push him off, years ago, but he knows better now. Knows that Ilya loves it. Knows also how good it feels to have him swallow around him, to be warm and safe in his throat when he comes. To rest in it more, after, to come down from the sensations gently.
Ilya's finger strokes him through it gently, too. When he pulls off his cock slowly, carefully, he doesn't pull it out. Instead he lifts Shane's leg higher, pushes him further into the wall and pulls his hips forward. Before Shane can say anything, or process anything, really, Ilya's mouth is on his hole, licking around his finger.
Shane gasps, hands pushing down on Ilya's head like he can use it to lift himself up and away out of Ilya's grip. He can't. There's a tiny bit of tongue pushing in next to the finger, then just lapping around it. He moans, embarrassingly high, hands scrabbling at Ilya's scalp helplessly like a little baby cat picked up from the ground for the first time. It's wet, and warm, and it's slowly becoming Shane's favorite sensation on earth next to all the other Ilya-caused sensation, but he also hates it because it turns him into something he barely recognizes. Into something he has no control over, even less than usual, with Ilya on him.
Not in a public bathroom, then.
"Ilya!" He hisses. Smacks the palm of his hand down on the crown of Ilya's head. Playful but still reprimanding. Ilya huffs a laugh onto Shane's hole, and it's a terrible feeling, and Shane needs it again, desperately. Just not here. They need to be home now. Where he can give himself up fully.
Ilya collects himself, smile still playing around his lips. He pulls out of Shane, places a sweet kiss to the space where his crotch and thigh meet, gets up standing again with a frankly terrifying cracking sound coming from his knees. Before he can fully morph into standing-up-Ilya, Shane takes him by the shirt, grip tight, and swings him around into the stall wall, right where Shane just stood. Ilya's hands fly up, and it would look defensive if Shane didn't know better. Ilya just wants to keep his hands from interfering with Shane. Wants to make sure he lets him. It's so sweet. His eyes practically glow, radiant, like he just swallowed a bar of Uranium.
Shane drops to his knees, onto his own warm hoodie, and it really isn't that soft at all. Ilya's knees must have hurt. Shane will think of a better solution for next time. For now, he rips Ilya's pants open and presses his face into his soaked through underwear. There's the bang of a fist against cheap plastic, and a whispered Fuck above him, so he smiles, presses his face into the cotton further, like he needs Ilya's cock and his cum it to breathe. He does, kind of. He doesn't get much air, buried in Ilya like this, or choking on him, or swallowing down his cum, but he can breathe, for once, with all the weight off of his chest.
Strong fingers come to cradle his head, carding through his hair in praise. Shane smiles into the cotton, pulls it down. Ilya hisses, in oversensitivity, probably, but he lets him. Shane will clean Ilya here, too, dutifully, happily. Because he wants to.
And he doesn't need to do, or be, anything other than that.