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    Summary

    “We usually fuck after games!" Ilya defends. "We are off schedule. My body knows this. It is confused.”

    “Yeah, well, we’re not getting any closer to fucking—at home—unless you get the damn ointment on me. Fucking—shit, Ilya.”

    His entire face scrunches up when Ilya, now kneeling on the floor in front of him, slightly readjusts his leg for a better angle.

    Every inch of him is flushed with the control, blood running hot just underneath the surface, trying to circulate the pain meds. Shane looks tender like this, the familiar planes of his body watercolored with bruises and scrapes, the pain not so much one central thing as it is a pulsing, throbbing presence in the room with them. Ilya wants to play with it, a little. Wants to take it gently between his teeth and tongue at it until he’s worked out all the tears and pleasure and messy insides.

    So he is definitely horny, yes.

    Language:
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