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“Look at this,” Shane said, gesturing at the white fabric stretching absurdly tight across his chest. “This is exactly why there are instructions in the laundry room.”
Both he and Ilya were used to staff taking care of menial everyday tasks like laundry and cleaning. But at the cottage, they sought total isolation, which meant Shane made sure there were detailed instructions for things that could easily go wrong, like laundry.
“Yes, but they are so boring, solnyshko,” Ilya complained. In the warm beam of the afternoon sun, he was stretched out across their bed, one arm thrown over his eyes. “You are trying to murder me, hmm? Boring me to death?”
“Bore you,” Shane corrected automatically.
“Ah, so you admit it,” Ilya said, mouth quirking into a damnable smirk.
Between the two of them, it was Shane who needed the instructions for the laundry the most. Ilya was quite good at knowing how to sort by colours and fabrics, and which cycles to use. He had told Shane once, quietly, staring down as he sorted through a pile of clothes, that he used to help his mom out with household chores when she wasn’t feeling well.
On the surface, it didn’t make sense that Ilya would manage to shrink one of Shane’s shirts — except Shane was well aware that Ilya had a penchant to become bored and act out, always seeking new ways to frustrate and annoy him.
Ilya’s smirk widened as he stared at the firm lines of Shane’s stomach, visible though the taut fabric. Then his gaze lifted a little more and his mouth fell open. Just slightly but it was so sudden that Shane glanced down, expecting to see some gigantic stain even though the shirt was freshly laundered.
“Um,” Shane said. He awkwardly tugged at the shirt’s hem, having to purse his lips against the teasing sensation it caused as the shirt dragged across his nipples. “I’ll just — take it off.”
“No,” Ilya said, voice firm and too loud in the afternoon quiet of their bedroom. He shifted, moving to sit at the edge of the bed with his legs spread. “Come here,” he said, motioning between his legs.
Shane walked over. The way Ilya’s eyes remained fixated on his chest made him roll his eyes. “Ilya,” he said, a little exasperated. Ilya had seen him in a variety of states of dress and undress; the shirt was tight, sure, but it didn’t reveal anything new or exciting.
“Shh,” Ilya murmured. Lifting a hand, he dusted the tips of his fingers along the bottom swell of Shane’s pec. “Let me enjoy this, solnyshko.”
“Just admit you did this on purpose.”
Ilya didn’t respond. He only lifted his hand again, this time cupping the side of his hand along the bottom of Shane’s pec, as if Shane had substantial enough flesh to weigh against his palm.
Taking a deep breath, Shane steeled himself for whatever pleasured torture Ilya had in store for him because when it came to teasing Shane, Ilya seemed to have an endless well of patience. Probably only to spite Shane’s own impatience when it came to fucking.
So, predictably, Ilya took his time. He lifted and squeezed at each of Shane's pecs. He thumbed over Shane's nipples, briefly smirking up at Shane as it drew out a gasp.
“Fucking love your tits so much,” Ilya said as he grabbed two palmfuls of Shane's chest and squeezed, bright and startlingly tight.
A wall of flustered, embarrassed heat hit Shane. His response was somewhat hampered by a stammer as he tried to say, “They're not —”
Ilya pinched his thumb and forefinger against the flesh surrounding Shane's right nipple, as if he needed to create a target — as if the dark, peaked skin wasn't already horrendously visible through the straining fabric of Shane’s shirt — and leaned in, capturing it in a firm, sucking grip.
Shane hissed in a breath between clenched teeth; the suction of Ilya's mouth shot straight down to his groin like Ilya had found a direct line to his nervous system. It wasn't long before he was squirming and trying desperately to hide it in case Ilya decided to punish his eagerness — or, perhaps even worse, relentlessly cooed at him like he was something soft and too-precious.
When Ilya finally pulled off, he rested his chin against Shane's sternum and looked up at him with heavy eyes. A hand curled around his throat; gentle, only resting. “I want to take you to bed,” Ilya said.
That was unusual. Ilya didn't use coy language or beat around the bush when it came to fucking — he usually just said I want to fuck you, if he said anything at all.
“Yeah,” Shane said. “Okay.”
With a firm grip at Shane's hips, Ilya guided Shane onto the bed as he pleased, back against the headboard with all the pillows stacked behind him. Ilya even pushed his shoulders back, maximizing, embarrassingly, the display of his chest.
“Can I —?” Ilya asked, voice uncharacteristically thick as he, also uncharacteristically, let the question hang unfinished. His meaning was clear as he stared at Shane's left nipple, the stretched fabric not yet darkened by saliva.
“Of course,” Shane said, automatically; his body — his entire being — was as much Ilya’s as it was his own. There was a certain absurdity in Ilya even feeling the need to ask. Yet he seemed to hesitate even still and Shane raised a hand to the top of Ilya’s head, gently beckoning Ilya forward as his fingers worked to tease apart his curls, unruly from his time spent lounging in bed.
Breath flooded from Ilya’s lips as if his lungs were being slowly squeezed and he fell forward, forehead tipping against Shane’s sternum. Shane didn’t shift awkwardly but the urge was there, itching at his palms and the backs of his thighs. He felt unsteady, like he didn’t quite grasp something.
The way Ilya mouthed at his nipple was too shallow, rhythmic, and slow to really be erotic. Well, it was erotic, of course; in the way that any touch from Ilya was, inherently, to Shane. But there seemed to be no particular purpose — Ilya didn’t wait until Shane’s nipple hardened in his mouth before popping off with a loud smack of his lips; he didn’t lick or even nibble; didn’t open his mouth and huff warmly then purse his lips and breathe out cool air, using the contrast to drive Shane crazy.
He just — sucked. Or, perhaps more aptly, Shane realised, with a bolt of hot, twisting confusion, suckled.
“That’s good,” Shane said, voice cracking. It wasn’t what he meant to say, because he hadn’t meant to say anything, too worried the only thing that would come out would be a what the fuck. But Ilya moaned, leaning more heavily against Shane, hands fisting the hem of Shane’s shirt, as he applied a little more pressure.
Shane sat there, unsure of what to do even as his cock eagerly responded to — whatever this was. His fingers continued combing through Ilya’s hair, sometimes twirling around a curl and giving a little tug. Ilya seemed to like it. And when Shane laid a heavier hand on the crown of Ilya’s head, Ilya made a happy noise and settled even closer.
Before long, the consistent pulling sensation on Shane’s nipple shifted from weirdly pleasurable to weird and overstimulating. When he could barely keep his fingers from twisting sharply in Ilya’s hair, nerves on the edge of overwhelmed, he said, “Maybe… maybe the other side, now?”
Ilya didn’t respond and Shane did let his fingers tighten, then, and pulled Ilya’s head back.
Ilya blinked up at him, heavy and slow. His mouth hung open, obscenely wet, and Shane could not resist bending down to kiss him. His mouth was familiarly plush but lax in a way Shane was unused to; usually it was Shane, relaxed from orgasm or wrung out from overstimulation, whose mouth fell open and available for Ilya to eagerly plunder with lips and tongue and fingers.
But unlike Ilya, Shane did not find a lot of pleasure in this lack of responsiveness. He gave quick, parting kisses to Ilya’s wet lips and chin and then directed Ilya’s face towards the right side of his chest.
With a pleased sigh, Ilya sank against him. He stretched his legs out, shifting from half-kneeling between Shane’s legs to settling on his stomach. It pressed his groin against Shane’s thigh and some tension within him released as he realised Ilya was as aroused as him. That meant this was still familiar ground, at least.
Dropping one hand against the small of Ilya’s back, Shane pressed Ilya’s firm stomach against his own aching cock as he squirmed a little. He expected Ilya to pull back and give him a knowing smirk before teasing him, or perhaps even punishing his eagerness — something that would offer Shane a blueprint of what to expect.
Instead, Ilya pulled back and looked up at him with hooded eyes as he murmured in Russian. Between Shane’s lingering uncertainty and the slight slur in Ilya’s voice, Shane's rudimentary vocabulary was not enough to interpret it.
Then Ilya said, "Please.”
The word was barely out but Shane could have sworn he saw a mild tremble pass through Ilya's bottom lip, as if Shane had cruelly denied him something.
"Ilya," he said gently, brushing some of the hair off Ilya's forehead. His skin was surprisingly warm. "I don't know what you said. English?"
Ilya blinked up at him, then blinked again. His eyes were wide and hazy. "I can make you feel good," he said. "Promise."
The snort came out before Shane could stop it. The idea that Ilya had to pledge that he could please Shane, as if that could ever be in doubt, was simply preposterous. Ilya's mouth fell open and his eyes darted back and forth, as if struggling to make sense of Shane’s reaction.
“Ilya,” Shane said, curving down to pepper Ilya’s face with kisses. “You always make me feel good.” He paused, mouth hovering just above Ilya’s, before whispering, “So good.”
When Ilya responded in broken-sounding Russian, Shane froze. It went unnoticed by Ilya, which was, in a growing theme today, unusual. But — no, Shane had probably just misheard. Spasibo he recognised easily enough, but the other word, after that… well, it was probably just a term of endearment Shane hadn’t heard before. His Russian lessons were slow-going, after all. Not because of an inadequacy on his part, but because he couldn’t get more than three words out without Ilya wanting to ravish him.
Switching back to English, Ilya said, “I will be so gentle with you.”
I like it when you’re not, was on the tip of Shane’s tongue. But not wanting to disturb this odd, soft mood, he just said, “Okay.”
Perhaps it was the wrong thing to say because Ilya just returned to Shane’s chest. Not even sucking, this time, just nuzzling his nose along Shane’s pecs.
“Can you grab the lube, dorogoy?” he asked, giving Ilya’s curls a mild tug.
He felt more than saw the small tremble that worked its way down Ilya’s frame before Ilya moved to obey. Usually, Ilya took to fingering and licking Shane open with a single-minded focus that, even to this day, could make Shane squirm a little self-consciously. But now his fingers were clumsy and slow as he focused on Shane’s chest with his mouth and other hand, almost like prep was just an afterthought.
“That’s good,” Shane encouraged. Ilya hummed, pleased, and his fingers worked slightly faster within Shane, but not nearly enough. Shane tried again, switching to Russian this time. “Eto khorosho, malysh.”
And that — Ilya moaned and spasmed almost violently. The way Ilya’s fingers twitched inside him felt good and Shane was about to say it again when Ilya pulled off his nipple with a loud pop and looked up at him.
“Da, mama?”
“Oh,” Shane moaned. “Fuck.” His eyes squeezed shut as his cock pulsed with arousal, precome smearing against his belly. His stomach twisted with a confusing mix of shock, horror, and desire.
So that was —
Well.
At least Shane knew now that he had not, in fact, misheard Ilya earlier: Spasibo, mama.
But knowing that just left him confused. Sometimes in locker rooms, one of the guys would announce in a bragging kind of tone about how ‘I fucked this chick so hard she called me daddy,’ and the others would whoop and holler and slap that guy’s back in some kind of congratulations. Shane had never understood it. Well, he knew it was a sex thing, of course, but he didn’t understand why it would warrant that kind of reaction. Sometimes he tried to picture it — on his hands and knees, panting, calling Ilya daddy — and it was hot, sure, but Shane wasn’t sure it was any hotter than without that word.
For Shane, it was an abstract title to which he had no personal connection; he had never called his dad that, except maybe when he was too young to remember. But mama? He was quite positive Ilya had called Irina by that name because sometimes he used it for Yuna, too. Rarely, though, and always spoken sweet and shy, like it was something precious.
A shock of pleasure pulled Shane from his thoughts with a gasp. Ilya had curled his fingers, stroking Shane’s prostate.
“Where did you go?” Ilya asked in Russian, looking up at Shane with wide, pellucid eyes.
“Where?” Shane repeated in English.
“Is it not good? I want to make you feel good.”
“You always make me feel good,” Shane said. Lifting a hand to Ilya’s face, he brushed the backs of his fingers along his rosy, flushed cheek. Softly, he said, “But I want you inside me now, Iluyshka.”
As Ilya’s eyes fluttered, the sunlight turned his fine lashes into a golden fan across his cheeks. “Da,” he agreed. He removed his fingers, pausing for a second to pout when Shane quietly hissed, before slathering his cock with lubricant.
“You are so wet for me,” he said when his cock was finally, achingly finally, rubbing against Shane.
Shane had a feeling it was not his cock leaking all over his stomach that Ilya was referring to, but rather to the copious spread of lubricant around and inside his hole. Like a girl. His abdominal muscles jumped as the thought hit him, penetrating deep down in his belly.
“Feel so good,” Ilya said, more breath than actual word as he slowly, gently eased himself inside. His swollen lips were parted and heavy eyes glazed, with cheeks flushed as if he’d just returned from a run. “Mamochka.”
Shane wanted to close his eyes against the raw vulnerability in Ilya’s expression but settled for tipping his head back on a shocked, ragged gasp as his entire body throbbed. He felt emptied from the inside out, the entirety of his being desperate to be filled and remade under Ilya’s body.
The noise he made when Ilya was fully inside him, thighs flush against him, would have been utterly humiliating had Ilya not made a similar noise. He returned to suckling at Shane’s nipple, giving languid movements that more closely resembled rolls of his hips than actual thrusting, and Shane bit his lip to keep from cursing and pleading for Ilya to fuck him properly. Instead he held the back of Ilya’s head and focused his energy on circling his own hips, gasping whenever he managed to press Ilya’s cock against his prostate.
Yet Ilya was panting, so much that he struggled to keep his mouth latched around Shane’s nipple. Every once in a while he’d murmur something in Russian, only half understandable to Shane — things like fill you up and please and come inside you and so good. Shane tried to respond in kind but then Ilya started to knead his other pec, pinching and thumbing at his nipple. Even the slightest touch sent shocks of pleasure through Shane’s nerves, leaving him squirming and tongue-tied.
It took him by surprise, when Ilya’s sounds suddenly turned soft, gasping, and needy as he clutched at Shane’s ribs and pressed his face into Shane’s chest, his open mouth hot and panting against the fabric of Shane’s shirt as his entire body shuddered and he spilled inside Shane, gasping, “Ah, fuck, so good, so good.” Then he groaned, one arm wrapping around Shane’s back as his other hand dropped to rub and grasp at Shane’s belly.
“So good,” Shane murmured, hugging Ilya against him. “So good for me, Ilyushka.”
It was an aching loss deep inside him as Ilya began to pull out, and Shane couldn’t quite swallow down a whimper. But then Ilya’s fingers were there, pressing against him, coated in his come as it leaked out of Shane and onto the sheet beneath them.
“Mamochka, come for me. Skvirt all over my fingers,” Ilya said. That one word was unfamiliar to Shane but easy to understand as his fingers crooked so perfectly and insistently within Shane. “Please, please, mama.”
They were rarely in this position, where Ilya came first. If Ilya ever fingered Shane after coming, it was only when Shane was lost in a post-orgasmic, overstimulated haze, having already come at least once himself. Now, not yet over that precipice, all of Shane’s senses were prickling and overly attuned — he heard the clear squelching of Ilya’s fingers thrusting into his messy hole and Ilya’s words, wet, so wet, wet for me, mamochka; and he tightened his grip on Ilya’s hair and pulled Ilya back down against his chest, muscles coiling impossibly tight and toes twisting in the bedding as his orgasm hit him the moment Ilya’s mouth latched onto his aching, raw nipple.
They didn’t talk about it. That wasn’t unusual — they didn’t usually have post-fuck debriefs, after all. At most, they might talk about how hot something was but since that usually led to more sex, Shane mentally filed those kinds of conversations under dirty talk.
Later that night, they fucked again. By then, Shane had long since discarded the too-tight shirt, so Ilya only gave his pecs a mildly unusual amount of focus. And the endearments Shane got were all familiar — solnyshko and lyubimyy and kotenok.
The next morning, Shane made the mistake of wincing when Ilya’s mouth brushed over one of his nipples. Ilya’s smile was immediate and feral, and he took great joy in torturing Shane with the barest touches, far more more intolerable than if he had bitten and pinched harshly, until Shane was openly, wantonly begging Ilya to just fuck him already.
It became — a problem. Just wearing any kind of shirt had Shane hissing with discomfort, and the chafing from running and other workouts was absolutely agonising.
He waited until Ilya was preoccupied with making lunch one day to slip out of the cottage with some flimsy excuse of checking the well. It had proven to be a rather unexpected and useful excuse; as Shane had come to learn, Ilya had no experience with anything even vaguely related to the outdoors, so he didn’t seem to understand how it worked, including what kind of maintenance it might need or how often. In fact, he had always been rather underwhelmed by the well altogether, and to this day he refused to admit it was the best water he had ever tasted.
But Shane didn’t really like lying to Ilya, even for something so inconsequential, so he really did walk to the well and even gave it a cursory glance before opening a private browsing tab on his phone.
He could barely look at his screen as he typed out his search query: remedies for extremely sore nipples.
It should not have surprised him that all the results that popped up had to do with breastfeeding, and it certainly should not have made his cock twitch.
He tried not to dwell on that. Luckily, it seemed this was a common enough problem that he should have no problem finding an over-the-counter balm at any drugstore. Also luckily, he had already been planning a grocery run, a task from which Ilya was explicitly forbidden ever since last year, when Ilya had been responsible for the grocery run after a multi-day fuckfest that left Shane almost too exhausted to remember his own name. He’d bought nothing but candy (‘is cereal, Hollander,’ he had insisted) and frozen meals that were more filler than actual nutrients.
“What is this?” Ilya asked a few hours later, waltzing into the foyer just before Shane managed to slip out the front door. “Shane, is fucking two hundred degrees.”
“It’s twenty-four degrees, Ilya,” Shane said, because he had checked. “And I’m… cold.”
Ilya’s skeptically-raised brow said just how believable that was. Shane couldn’t even disagree, standing in shorts, a baseball cap, and large sunglasses that obscured almost half his face, which was all completely weather-appropriate, plus a bulky sweater with the hood pulled up over his head, which was admittedly not weather-appropriate.
“Ah,” Ilya said, with a too-knowing twist to his lips as he crowded Shane against the door. “I know what you are doing, Mr. Big Disguise.”
“What?” Shane asked, throat tight and pulse thrumming in building panic as Ilya stared down at his lips, hands easily slipping under Shane’s various layers to find the bare skin of his stomach. It was not enough — never enough, for either of them — and Ilya’s hands lifted until he could tweak Shane’s already-throbbing nipples. Shane hissed, one leg jerking against Ilya’s thigh at the burst of pain.
Ilya only chuckled, swallowing half of the noise with his mouth on Shane’s. “You are little pervert," Ilya murmured, and Shane’s face burst into flames even though it was Ilya who had sucked his nipples raw while calling him mommy just a few days ago.
“We need more lube, yes?” Ilya said, smirking at something in Shane’s expression. “Can’t let anyone know that hockey’s golden boy fucks, hmm?”
“That’s n—” Shane bit down on his tongue so hard he flinched.
“Shane,” Ilya said, voice dropping to something softer and more serious. “Why do you not ask? I will go.”
A bitter taste clung to the back of Shane’s throat. “No, Ilya, it’s okay. Really.”
“You will get sick like this,” Ilya insisted, tugging at the drawstrings of Shane’s hoodie. “You will get — ah, heat stroke. And die. And then who will I fuck?”
“Yeah, that’ll be really hard for you.” Shane rolled his eyes, trying to cling to annoyance even as a smile tugged at his lips. “Clearly you’ll be absolutely devastated.”
“Yes,” Ilya agreed. “So you should let me go, solnyshko. I will make very good choices. You will be too embarrassed to even look. Will probably bring back, ah…” He waved a hand. “Bottle of maple syrup instead.”
“Maple syrup?” Shane said. “Ilya, those are in completely different aisles.”
“Yes, because you are very bad at buying groceries.”
“I’m way better at it than you.”
Ilya shook his head. “Not at sex groceries,” he said.
“Sex groceries aren’t a thing, Ilya!”
“See?” Ilya said. “So bad!”
“You can’t just invent something then decide I’m bad at it,” Shane said.
“So what is it called, when I go and buy us very nice lube, hmm?”
“That’s just called an errand, Ilya. It doesn’t have a specific phrase.” Shane sighed, closing his eyes briefly as he tried to remind himself of the task at hand. “Really, it’s fine,” he said. “Besides, you’d probably waltz around with a big sign that says ‘I’m Fucking Shane Hollander’ or something like that.”
“No, no,” Ilya said. “Is shirt, not sign!”
Shane groaned and pushed Ilya away as Ilya laughed. Then their bodies found each other once again, arms wrapping around each other as they traded a few kisses.
“You are so brave, solnyshko,” Ilya said, giving Shane’s nose a quick peck. “I will make it up to you, da?”
No one was around. Shane had checked the aisles on either side before slipping down the one that said family planning, yet he couldn’t stop glancing over his shoulder.
There was no reason for anyone to recognise him. And even if they did, he had already rehearsed a story about a visiting friend who was nursing. An actual baby, unlike Shane, who had been left in constant discomfort after a single day of Ilya suckling at him with the intensity of a newborn.
Coming to the section of the aisle with baby products, Shane grabbed the first lotion he saw before continuing on, walking quickly but not suspiciously so. On his way to the self-check-out, he grabbed a similar-looking jar of plain old regular body lotion, too many bottles of shampoo (picked carefully; Ilya was surprisingly fussy about this kind of thing), and a few bags of candy. The candy was just meant to provide an easy distraction from Ilya so Shane could stash the cream somewhere in the house but he had to bite back a smile as he pictured Ilya’s boyish excitement.
Back in the car, he debated slipping the jar into the pocket of his hoodie but Ilya would probably feel it when he pressed up against Shane as soon as he was home and make some stupid innuendo about Shane being excited to see him. It was safest in the bag with the lotion and shampoo, he decided, which would go to the bathroom anyways. Everything else would be diverted to the kitchen.
Ilya was already outside when Shane drove up the cottage’s driveway, so eager to pull open Shane’s door that Shane barely had time to roll to a stop and turn off the car.
“I missed you,” Ilya said, already tugging Shane up out of the car and back against it, kissing him until Shane felt suffocated under the sweaty heat of his layers.
“Okay, okay,” Shane said. He had to turn his head to the side to free himself from Ilya’s relentless mouth. “I’ve got a lot of bags to bring in.”
“I will bring in,” Ilya said as he busied himself with licking sweat from Shane’s throat. “I will carry all in one trip.”
“I don’t know,” Shane drawled, biting the inside of his cheek as he tried not to give himself away with a smile. “It’s pretty heavy, Ilya.”
Predictably, Ilya pulled away and fixed Shane with an affronted look. “You think I’m weak?” he asked. “Hollander, I will bring in all the bags with my pinkie.”
“Alright,” Shane said, rolling his eyes as he pushed Ilya away so he could retrieve the keys and pop the trunk. “Go ahead.”
The normal groceries were in the trunk, allowing Shane to grab the small drugstore bag from the front seat. Ilya indeed carried the rest of the bags in, though he huffed and snapped, “Is only expression, Hollander,” when Shane pointed out he was using all of his fingers instead of just his pinkie.
Inside, Ilya paused in the foyer and Shane’s hand clenched around the handles of his singular bag. “Groceries go in the kitchen, Ilya,” he said carefully.
Ilya turned to him with an expectant look. “Where is my kiss? I am so strong and helpful.”
“I literally bench-pressed more than you this morning,” Shane pointed out.
Ilya clucked his tongue and glanced down at Shane’s hand. “This is not groceries?” he asked, jutting his chin at the drugstore bag.
“Uh, it’s,” Shane stammered. “Going to the bathroom.” Not a lie. “And, um. Oh. Actually, I have something for you. Even better than a kiss.”
Ilya’s head tilted curiously. “What, your asshole is in bag?”
“Ilya,” Shane hissed as his cheeks heated. He barely parted the handles enough to stick his hand in and pulled out one of the bags of candy.
“Candy, in home of Shane Hollander?” Ilya said. His eyes lit up as he dropped the groceries to the floor and plucked the bag of candy from Shane’s hand. “This is an exciting day. But you are liar.”
Shane stiffened, hand tightening reflexively on the bag still in his hand. “What?”
“This is not better than kiss from moy lyubimyy.”
“You’re such a sap,” Shane murmured, even as he leaned in to give Ilya a kiss. When they pulled away, he watched, fondly, as Ilya ripped open the bag. “Don’t eat too much,” he warned, reaching out to brush a hand through Ilya’s hair. Ilya paused, the bag tilted, about to pour what would no doubt be a disgusting number of candies into his waiting palm.
“Da,” he said quietly. To Shane’s surprise, he took only a single piece of candy before carefully folding the bag up.
Shane’s mouth opened, then closed. Following some strange impulse that bubbled up in his throat, he said, “That’s a good boy.”
Ilya ducked his head, but Shane caught the small smile on his face.
“Okay, now go put these away,” he said, pointing to the grocery bags. “And I know you know where everything actually goes, Ilya, so I don’t want to find any carrots in the cutlery drawer. Again.”
“What’s a nursing bra?” Shane muttered to himself as he read the instructions on the back of the jar. It promised not to stain any clothes, including nursing bras.
He was in the bathroom which did not exactly guarantee privacy, but he had already used up his well maintenance excuse. He glanced at the closed door before opening a private browsing tab on his phone for the second time that day.
Then his phone fumbled out of his grip, fingers suddenly shaky as his stomach tightened with a sudden shock of interest at the images that came up.
It was stupid. Stupid, and reckless, and kind of weird — maybe? Shane didn’t really have a frame of reference, but he couldn’t recall any of his teammates ever talking about anything like this. But when he picked his phone back up, his eyes lingered on the search results, advertising online stores selling nursing bras.
Shane found himself reading up about how to measure his chest — and he really hoped Ilya wouldn’t find him like that, half-undressed in the bathroom with a measuring tape — only to discover his proportions did not align with any of the sizes listed. He sighed, about to give up when a line in the description caught his eye: Can’t find the perfect size? Consider trying some extenders!
It turned out extenders were little scraps of fabric with hooks that would let him extend the band (as he learned it was called) of the bra as much as needed.
He added a dozen extenders to the cart, just to be safe, along with a bra that was as close to his theoretical size as possible. Then he paid an exorbitant express shipping fee to make sure it would arrive before their time at the cottage came to an end.
Ilya spent that night with his head in Shane’s lap, startlingly docile. He hadn’t even put up a token protest when Shane had suggested a sports documentary instead of a movie. When Shane ended up getting hard — an inevitability, with Ilya’s cheek resting so warm against his thigh — he sucked Shane off, quiet and diligent. Then he sat up, tucked himself against Shane’s torso, and grabbed one of Shane’s hands, shoving it down his tracksuit pants. He sort of… used Shane’s hand, like Shane’s fingers weren’t twitching with eagerness to wrap around Ilya’s cock. Ilya kept his hand wrapped around Shane’s hand and set a slow pace, as if Shane was only barely tolerating the passive use of his own hand.
Eventually, Ilya pushed Shane’s shirt up to mouth at his nipple with a quiet whimper.
Shane felt reasonably assured that Ilya would like what he had just ordered, at least.
Shane stared in the mirror. It was odd, how the addition of a little fabric could make everything feel more… illicit. He was used to going shirtless at home — being with Ilya made it difficult to keep any clothes on at all — and he had spent too many years stripping down in crowded locker rooms to be uptight about nudity. But now, if he used the little clasp at the top of the cups to pull the fabric down and expose his nipples, it felt obscene.
With a sigh, he threw on one of Ilya’s shirts; a little baggy, able to hide the ridge of the bra’s band underneath.
But the secret did not last long. Two hours later, he and Ilya were lounging on the couch, arguing over what to watch. This devolved into a physical tussle for the remote, which inevitably turned into making out. Shane had no choice, really; at one point, Ilya pinned both his hands above his head, and he could not possibly respond in any way other than to moan and rub up against Ilya.
“Shane…” Ilya pulled back, eyes bright and lips upturned as he dropped one hand to tease along Shane’s ribs. “What has moy plokh kotenok done, hmm?”
Shane swallowed, tugging light but firm against Ilya’s remaining hold on his wrists. Ilya let go immediately and Shane sat up, resisting the uncomfortable itch along his arms that made him want to wrap them around himself.
“It’s no big deal, okay?”
“Okay,” Ilya agreed. “Show me this tiny, tiny deal, then.”
Ilya’s fingers returned to Shane’s ribs, dancing right at the edge of the band. Logically, Shane knew Ilya must already recognise it’s a bra; he had far more experience with women, after all. There was no reason to hesitate, but then again, Ilya didn’t know the full truth. What if Shane had gone too far — made this into something too weird?
“If you don’t like it, that’s fine, just — don’t laugh, okay?” Shane said.
Ilya’s head tilted. “When have I ever laughed at you?”
“Yesterday,” Shane said flatly.
With a huff, Ilya said, “That doesn’t count!”
“What do you mean, ‘doesn’t count’?”
“Shane,” Ilya groaned. “I am on death’s bed —”
“Death’s door.”
With another groan, Ilya flopped down, chin resting on Shane’s stomach as he pouted up at Shane, bottom lip jutted and eyebrows lifted together pleadingly.
“You know that doesn’t work on me,” Shane said, even though he was already reaching for the hem of his shirt because it absolutely did work on him. Soft cotton caught between his fingertips Anxiety thrummed against his ribs. He stared at a fixed point across the room, just a few centimetres to the left of Ilya’s ear. There was a large knot in the wood panelled wall, a dark contrast to the lighter brown that was easy to focus on as he pulled the shirt over his head.
“Fuck,” Ilya said, low and dragged out. His hands settled on Shane’s hips with a tight grip, biting into flesh and muscle. “You want to kill me.”
Shane risked a glance at Ilya and saw his mouth widen into a grin. “Do you like it?”
“Your pretty tits, all wrapped up for me? Of course, malysh.”
“No, it’s not — I mean, okay, yeah, but. It’s, um, special?” Shane said, blunt nails scratching nervously against the couch’s fabric now.
Ilya’s brows furrowed just a little. “Is very nice, Hollander, but —”
Shane reached up and undid the clasp at the top of the right cup. Biting down on his lip, he pulled the fabric down.
Ilya’s expression was difficult to discern; his mouth had fallen open, slightly, but that was not a clear indication. He glanced up at Shane and back down, a few times, seeming hesitant. When he lifted a hand, agonisingly slow, it was to push the fabric back up towards the clasp.
Shane’s stomach lurched, hot humiliation burning under his skin.
And then Ilya undid the clasp and peeled the fabric back down, as if trying it out for himself. Shane watched, breath caught in his throat, as Ilya’s eyes darkened.
“Fuck,” Ilya said again, this time through teeth clenched so tightly that a muscle in his jaw twitched. He repeated it with the other cup. “Fuck, Shane.”
Stomach fluttering with nervous excitement, Shane cupped the back of Ilya’s head, gently urging him forward. But Ilya’s muscles locked, refusing to give in. Instead he looked around them before reaching down to scoop Shane’s shirt back off the floor.
“Put it back on,” he said, shoving the shirt at Shane.
Once again, Shane’s stomach lurched, his insides twisting into a nauseating tangle. “Oh,” he said, pulling the shirt on. The shirt was loose on him, just as it was before, but whereas earlier it had offered a disguise, now it just felt ridiculous; like Shane was a child playing make-believe in a parent’s too-big clothes.
“We watch movie, yes?” Ilya said, grabbing the shirt and tugging it down, like Shane was too pathetic to even dress himself. “And maybe I will…” Ilya’s focus fell to Shane’s chest. He dragged his tongue across his bottom lip then bit down on it. His eyes darted up again, questioning, seeking Shane’s gaze.
“Oh,” Shane said. Warm relief suffused his stomach. This was all… part of the fantasy, he supposed? “Yeah, okay. Whenever you’re, um. Ready.”
Ilya’s mouth curved into a crooked smile. He pushed up, pressing a loud, smacking kiss to Shane’s cheek before he reached out to grab the remote from the coffee table and held it up for Shane to take.
Shane turned the television on as Ilya settled against him, cheek pressed to Shane’s chest and arms looped around Shane’s back.
It took a few attempts before his thumb hit the right button to turn on the television. Within seconds, the remote was slick in his too-tight grip as he struggled to flick through movie options at a normal pace — not too fast and not too slow. They had been arguing about what to watch mere minutes ago but he couldn’t remember what either of them had wanted.
“Just pick something boring,” Ilya sighed. “Is what you want.”
Shane’s thumb slid towards the centre button, pressing play on a random title. Colours flashed across the screen as the movie started but he couldn’t make sense of the images. Ilya’s head was a heavy weight on his chest, crushing his sternum. He blinked hard a few times, trying to take in the movie, but he was unable to concentrate.
Yet his senses were attuned to every minute shift of Ilya’s body against him. He wondered what it was like for Ilya. Was he able to focus on the movie, or was his mind narrowed in on the delicate ridge of the bra’s cup against his cheek? Was he concentrating on it, willing his senses to hone in on the satin-smoothness even though the shirt Shane was wearing? Whenever he shifted a little, rubbed his cheek back and forth like he was getting more comfortable, or laughed, or even just smiled, did it serve any purpose other than to feel the cup more firmly against his skin?
Shane didn’t know, because he wasn’t paying enough attention to the movie to tell if Ilya’s laughs and smiles were well-timed. Hell, he didn’t know if he had even picked a comedy movie. But he thought of the times they would be at charity events together and all he could hope for was incidental touches between them. Everything he did would be carefully calculated in service of those fleeting, coveted moments; he would cut through a crowd at a certain angle to be able to quickly press his hand to Ilya’s lower back, or he would place his glass a little too close to Ilya’s on a table, forcing their fingers to brush when they both reached for their drinks at the same time.
Shane swallowed, frowning at a strange thickness in his throat. His hand shifted on the couch, twitching with restlessness, and he sought out Ilya’s hand, tangling their fingers together. The thickness in his throat gradually dissipated. His head tipped forward, drawn to press a kiss to the crown of Ilya’s head. He allowed himself a moment to breathe in the simple joy of Ilya’s shampoo, indistinguishable from his own because now Shane used whatever Ilya preferred.
When it finally happened — when Ilya fisted Shane’s shirt and pushed it up his torso, the rumpled cotton and warm skin of Ilya’s hands dragging along Shane’s abdominals — Shane didn’t know what to do with himself. His hands hovered over Ilya’s back as he stared at the television screen, determined not to perceive Ilya too strongly, or do anything to interfere with the moment.
Hot breath precipitated the touch of Ilya’s lips; a few kisses over the bra’s cup, a warm-up, before he gentled open the clasp and peeled the fabric away. More kisses in a torturous circle as Shane’s breath began to stutter. Then Ilya’s mouth finally parted and closed on his nipple, applying gentle pressure.
On his next exhale, Shane’s arms dropped, like a puppet with its strings cut. One hand settled on Ilya’s back as the other teased at the curls at the nape of his neck.
Ilya fell into an unrelentingly steady, rhythmic pressure that Shane’s body reformed around: his hips lifted, rutting against Ilya’s thigh in a similarly undulating rhythm; his fingers twisted in Ilya’s hair, tugging in perfect sync with Ilya’s mouth.
When Ilya broke from the routine to suck a little harder, applying the lightest pressure of teeth, Shane groaned, head falling back. “Fuck.”
“Shh, not yet,” Ilya murmured.
“Please, Ilya.”
“Shh,” Ilya said again. “So good, mamochka.”
“Fuck.”
The sounds from the television were too loud. It hit Shane, out of the blue, and he fumbled with the remote to hit the mute button. Wanted to hit the power button but settled for just squeezing his eyes shut against the bright, rapid motions. There was still some kind of pretense to maintain, after all, even if Shane didn’t fully understand it.
Behind the darkness of his closed eyes, Shane’s senses narrowed to Ilya’s weight and warmth atop him, the wet suction of his lips, and, Shane thought, the very quiet sounds of his mouth and throat working. There was nothing to distract Shane but it was easier to manage this way, without his body and mind competing against too many inputs. It was easier to take a deep breath, hold, and slowly exhale. His cock throbbed and he breathed through that, too. He tried to reframe the moment in his mind, reminding himself that this was for Ilya, not for himself.
“Okay,” he said. He patted Ilya’s head. “Take what you need, Ilyushka.”
Ilya made a sweet, simpering noise in response and as much as it filled Shane with aching desperation, it softened something inside him, as well.
When he opened his eyes again, it was just in time for the clouds to part outside. He blinked heavily against the mid-afternoon sun as it poured in through the large windows, filling the room with an indolent, warm light. Lifting one arm over his head and pointing his toes, he stretched until his muscles lightly trembled, as if he had just awoken from a nap.
“Khorosho, Ilyushka,” he said, daring for the first time to look down and drink in the sight of Ilya’s flushed face and heavy-lidded eyes. He only intended to trace the slope of Ilya’s rosy cheeks but greedily, his fingers lingered at the corner of Ilya’s mouth and Ilya shifted, releasing Shane’s nipple to latch onto his index finger instead, tongue immediately laving at the pad of his fingertip. Ilya’s gaze lifted, slow and clouded with pleasure.
The air was a cool shock against Shane’s finger as Ilya suddenly pushed up onto his elbows and captured Shane’s mouth in a sloppy, reckless kiss. It was wet and not much else. There was certainly no finesse to it and Shane felt almost feverish, every centimetre of skin flushed and pulsating with need.
It was precisely why he grabbed a fistful of Ilya’s hair at the same time that he struggled with the simple latch on the other cup. There was more force than necessary as he shoved Ilya’s head back down.
The suction of Ilya’s mouth was a little harsher this time, coupled with intermittent grazes of his teeth that made Shane’s hips buck. So it took Shane a while, lost in the sensations as he was, to notice a very slight rocking alongside his thigh.
Looking down, Shane had to watch for a moment before he could pick up on the very slight hitch of Ilya’s hips. It seemed all the more wanton for how furtive it was, as if Ilya’s desire could not be known.
“Good boy,” Shane said. He rested a hand on Ilya’s head and gently scratched at his scalp. “That’s it. My perfect boy.”
Ilya’s shoulders hunched before a full-body shudder worked its way through him. He moaned and might have mumbled something but whatever it was was not urgent enough for him to remove Shane’s nipple from his mouth. He reached up a hand to grab at Shane’s other pec, fingers biting into the bra in a harsh squeeze that made Shane’s eyes water. More importantly, his cock throbbed against the firm muscle of Ilya’s stomach.
Shane was hard but Ilya was starting to rut against the couch more firmly, something Shane had never witnessed before — he was a master of self-control, especially if Shane had yet to come. He could happily edge Shane for hours without rubbing against the mattress or palming himself, as if he was completely unbothered.
Keeping one hand cradling the back of Ilya’s head, Shane reached down and wrapped his hand around the hard muscle overlying Ilya’s hip. Ilya’s motions immediately stopped and his body tensed, like he had been caught doing something untoward.
“It’s okay,” Shane soothed. Applying pressure to Ilya’s hip, he encouraged Ilya to shift over until his crotch was pressed against the thick muscle of Shane’s thigh. “You can have it. Take what you need, baby.”
It took Ilya a few seconds but gradually, he began to rock against Shane’s thigh. Shane watched the flexing of his powerful muscles through the thin fabric of his trackpants and longed to grab one of Ilya’s asscheeks, really feel the muscle working under his hand. But it seemed too bold in this moment, like he might risk breaking the tentativeness of the mood.
He settled for Ilya’s lower back, not quite guiding him but softly reassuring.
There was a gentleness to Ilya’s peak when it finally hit; he made a soft sound, and he stilled instead of furiously chasing his own pleasure as he normally would inside Shane’s body, and his mouth softened so he could pant against Shane’s skin. It put Shane in the unusual position of murmuring softly to Ilya — so good, sweet boy, I love you, baby — while stroking his hair and back.
Ilya was still panting when one of his hands dropped to fumble at Shane’s crotch, too uncoordinated to figure out the mechanics of loose sweats and boxer-briefs so he just wrapped his hand around Shane like that.
“Here — Can you —” Flushing with embarrassment, Shane cupped his own pec — the one Ilya had neglected for a while now — and all but shoved his nipple into Ilya’s face. The humiliation was worth it for Ilya’s immediate, loud moan and the way he clutched at Shane, pulling Shane as close to his mouth as possible.
“Fuck, yeah, that’s —” Shane groaned and pushed up into Ilya’s awkward grip. His underwear rubbed dry along his shaft but the tip was wet with precome and Ilya seemed to notice this, of course, adjusting his grip to grind his palm down into the head of Shane’s cock and Shane bit down on his lip hard, muffling his cry as he came.
Ilya was up and against him in an instant, face tucking into Shane’s neck. It was muscle memory rather than conscious thought that had Shane’s arms slinging around him immediately.
“Fuck,” Ilya said. His voice sounded wet and Shane hummed, holding him a little tighter and stroking his hair. “That was…”
“Good?” Shane offered when it seemed nothing else was coming.
Ilya pulled away slightly, his eyes wide and red-rimmed as he eyed Shane. “Yes? It was…”
His cheeks were adorably pink, and Shane smiled as he pressed the back of his hand against Ilya’s face.
“Good for me,” Ilya finished. “It was —?”
“Good for me, too,” Shane said.
With a little nod, Ilya tugged Shane’s shirt back down before settling against him once more, cheek pressed to Shane’s chest as he faced the television. He snaked a hand underneath Shane’s shirt to idly cup Shane’s pec.
The peaceful moment was broken less than a minute later.
“You pick terrible fucking movie,” Ilya complained.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Yes, is so boring!”
“I hate you,” Shane said.
Ilya pushed up a little so he could stare up at Shane. “You love me,” he said simply. Not with wonder as if this was only now dawning on him but with the assuredness of stating any other banal fact, like that the sun would set in the west and rise again in the east.
“Yeah, I do,” Shane said. He held Ilya a little tighter against himself as he reached out to grab the remote even though Ilya, all two hundred pounds of him, was not in any danger of being accidentally dislodged. “How about one of your movies with all the explosions and the cars?”
“Da,” Ilya said.
The hand on Shane’s pec tightened and he glanced down, taking in Ilya’s small frown and pursed lips. Ilya’s mouth fell open but he did not say anything and for a moment, Shane wondered if he was going to hear it again — that confusing, tantalising name. Mamochka.
Instead, Ilya pressed his cheek more firmly into Shane’s chest and eased the grip of his hand. “Spasibo,” was all he said, quietly, but it was enough for Shane.
“Pozhalusta, Ilyushka,” Shane said back, gratified at the shiver he felt against him.