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Shane Hollander doesn't like mess.
Ilya had learned through grimaces, the minuscule scrunch of Shane's brow when his stomach would press into the cold, damp sheet of whatever bed, in whatever hotel they were meeting up in.
Through Shane outwardly complaining with a less than subtle tinge of disgust in his voice—no, I'm not bothered at all, Rozanov—while he tried to ignore the sensation of the cool liquid and the tacky feeling it left on his skin.
Ilya didn't mind one way or the other, either Shane would dutifully come in his mouth like he often did with a charged, pent-up blowjob that held back weeks of want for both release and the need to be in each others presence before Ilya would even bother with pressing Shane into the mattress to get his fingers inside of him. Or, he would clean them both up with a washcloth that was wet, but warm and with a touch of too much gentleness that neither of them talked about.
Ilya does neither of those tonight, still brimming with annoyance of Boston's loss to Montreal a couple hours prior and he offers none of the usual pleasantries that would eventually lead to the two men tangled up in bed.
Not that Shane cared.
Ilya's mouth was on him before the door was locked, shoved against the flat surface with a hard push and an eager mouth, a hand shoved under his chin as Ilya slipped his tongue into Shane's mouth like he wanted to eat him alive.
"No talking," Ilya grinds out eventually, eyes searching Shane's for a certain look and is met with the glossy but wide-eyed stare that told him everything he needed to know.
Shane swallowed, audible, bottom lip quivering slightly under Ilya's tight grip on his face.
He nods. Simple and compliant.
"Maybe after," his voice is low, thick with pleasure and sounding non-committal, "if you listen,"
Boundaries, a goal; Shane would perform wonderfully.
And he does, the flush in their chests matching as Shane heaved out a tired sigh, hand running through his sweat-damp hair in a fucked-out daze.
He could feel the dampness of the sheet pressing into his back but couldn't find it in him to care at the moment with the sounds Ilya was making, one hand working furiously over his own cock as the other gripped Shane's thigh, kneading his fingers into the muscle like an anchor, mouth pulled tight, lips down-turned in a familiar frown as he spoke for the first time since ambushing Shane at the door.
"Fuck," it was soft, drawn-out and Shane thinks he's imagining it at first until he hears, "oh fuck, Hollander," and Ilya lurches forward, hand twisting into the sheet as he works the other over his shaft and covers Shane's stomach with his cum, his face softening for a fraction of a second as his eyes flicker up.
Shane isn't even looking at him, mesmerized at the sight of Ilya's cock and the last little squeeze he gives as the tip drags against Shane's skin and—fuck, he was going to hate the feeling of it in about three seconds flat but he's grateful of the visual that will be burned into his memory.
He couldn't talk even if he wanted to, awaiting Ilya's quiet departure to the bathroom that never comes because oh, he's leaning down, curls brush against Shane's thighs as his tongue slips out and drags through the pearlescent liquid.
Shane's dick twitches back to life despite how deeply he can feel the exhaustion in his bones.
Ilya smirks because he does notice, dragging his tongue up in long stretches as he cleans his own release off of Shane like it was a normal part of their routine, wiping the back of his mouth as he finished and reached for Shane's chest, giving it a light squeeze and a quick, soft slap as he fell into the bed beside him.
Then he laughs, quiet but bright and Shane looks at him with a gaze of what the fuck and he's about to speak before he remembers what Ilya had told him.
"Speak, Hollander," Ilya tells him, clearly amused but inquisitive, "you look like a scared cub who lost his mama. I can call her for you,"
He's joking. Shane knows he's joking.
"Fuck off," Shane gripes, "do not bring up my mom when we just—"
Of course, the words don't spill.
"Fucked," Ilya finishes for him, "is six letters, very hard for you, I know,"
Shane can't help but laugh, even it was short and inaudible, a quiet snort that Ilya barely registers.
"Why did you…." Shane asks when he finally gains the courage, words lingering again as his face heats, eyes flicking toward his stomach.
"Ah," Ilya acknowledges, "is no different, yes? Just cum," he shrugs.
Shane isn't repulsed by it.
It was curiosity, really.
"Did you like it?" Ilya inquires with a twitch of his eyebrow and a smirk that oozes temptation.
"It was…hot," Shane decides, spending too long ruminating over an acceptable adjective and his face flushes with embarrassment, "the taste—it doesn't…gross you out?"
Ilya chuckles, "I am not thinking of taste, Hollander," he admits, "It was efficient, yes? No mess,"
Ilya makes a motion with his hands, swiping one of the other like wiping them clean before he waves his hands away in a throw away gesture.
Shane shouldn't find it so fucking endearing.
"Yeah…sure," Shane agrees, "Efficient?"
"Good, yes? It is my word of the day," Ilya explains, falling into the casual banter that sometimes happens, not always.
Shane tries not to smile and fails but hides it, thankful for the shirt that hits his face as Ilya unfolds it, crumples it in his hand and tosses it toward him.
—
Shane wouldn't say he enjoys the taste of it, but knowing it was Ilya spilling into his mouth, hot liquid spurting over his tongue and into the back of his throat, it was frighteningly pleasant.
And it should have ended there, a quick trade-off of blowjobs before their early flights the following morning.
Ilya back to Boston, Shane to Toronto.
They didn't have time for this.
Still, Ilya clambers over him all brutish and uncoordinated, limbs loose from his admittedly, mind-blowing orgasm.
He wouldn't admit it but it was always like this with Shane, only with Shane.
Hollander, he thinks. Just Hollander, even if he enjoys how easy his name falls off his tongue when he's alone, forced to work his cock to full hardness over some short, clipped text exchanges when he's feeling too ashamed to bother Shane—Hollander, with a text that would bleed too much vulnerability.
They sext, of course. But, it is always built around teasing and jokes, never serious.
There was a moment, one night, where his greed had lapsed his judgment, his fingers hovering over the send button
Ilya
I need you
No.
He'd shut his phone off, tossed it somewhere toward the other side of the bed and fucked his fist until he had a less than satisfying orgasm and fell asleep, wondering if Shane had sent that chat bubble appear and disappear.
Shane did, but he didn't think to follow up, sitting in the other side of the screen feeling the same amount of guilt, unknowingly.
"Shouldn't you go?" Shane asks, betrayed by the smile that graces his face and spreads wide while his finger splay out against Ilya's ribs, curling around his side.
"You want?" He nods down.
Shane was hard again, obviously.
"No, you already—" Shane begins,
"Is okay," Ilya responds, "I help you,"
He unfurls one of Shane's hand from his side and brings it to his mouth, eyes focused expectantly on him, nodding toward his hand.
"Spit," clear and concise, Shane gathers his saliva and spits, ignoring the twitch in Ilya's expression at the action and then his own hand is wrapping his cock but Ilya's never leaves.
He can feel the callouses against the back of his hand, the weighty and strong grip that guides over his shaft and squeezes at the head, a careful and choreographed dance that both of them had memorized.
What they like, what they want, neither of them needed to use words most of the time.
Shane releases a slow, shaky breath that Ilya matches with an exhale, his gaze flickering between Shane's face and his cock, already leaking at the tip.
"Fuh," Shane whimpers quietly, "Fu-fuck,"
Ilya responds with a warm acknowledgement that soothes Shane, a gentle mhm and a pace that quickens and remains unrelenting.
"Sensitive," Shane gasps, "fuck, I don't think I—"
"Da," Ilya nods even though Shane can't see, his eyes still closed, lips parted slightly, pink and swollen still from earlier and glistening.
He could kiss him, he should, but he didn't want to miss a single moment of this.
"You come for me," Ilya tells him, "one more,"
He thinks Shane agrees, but it sounds more like a whine until Shane eventually nods and it only takes a few more minutes before Ilya pulls his hand away and sits back, watching as Shane brings himself over the edge, his entire body tensing as he cums in short, weak spurts over his hand.
Shane can't even bring himself to open his eyes, groaning weakly as he tries to relax and will his body to sink more comfortably into the bed.
Somewhere far away, he feels a hand wrap around his wrist and his arm drags up then there's a tongue.
Hot, wet, murmuring something Shane can only deduce as Russian.
It was kitten-like, his tongue lapping up the salty tang off his skin, moaning for what Shane thinks is show—Ilya likes to fuck around, maniacal to his core, but as Shane opens his eyes to find the source of the noise and touch, he's met with a heavy gaze and two of his fingers shoved into Ilya's mouth.
And he doesn't stop, cleaning his hand until there was nothing left, tongue flat and drags from his wrist to the tip of his fingers for good measure before the hand is shoved gently away and landing on Shane's chest.
"Could not leave you dirty, Hollander," Ilya remarks.
"Fuck off, Rozanov," Shane retorts, attempting to sound vicious but coming up short.
It makes Ilya laugh, which makes Shane laugh.
"I make it easy for you, no mess," He shrugs, "and I did not eat much at team dinner earlier so…"
"Shut up," Shane shakes his head in amusement, watching as Ilya dressed quickly, bottom half clothed and shirt halfway over his head by the time Shane can muster the courage to sit upright.
It makes him sick to his stomach how much Ilya's company relaxes him, always fearing that free fall when Ilya leaves, the pit of ignored and unanswered question about himself that he refused to address but always found himself on the edge of, a dark hole waiting to swallow him up.
"Goodbye, Hollander,"
Shane offers a weak smile that doesn't reach his eyes, "Bye,"
—
"Ah, no," Ilya wags his finger, plucking the glasses from nightstand and swinging them between his pointer finger and thumb, "back on, book down,"
It was late, the cottage was dark save for the lamp near the side of the bed and they're both staring each other down, stripped down to their underwear and nearly ready for bed.
Except, Ilya is clearly not.
"I was thinking," Ilya begins and Shane shoots him a look that earns him a gentle palm to the face as Ilya shoves him.
Ilya throws his hands up in defeat despite the glasses slipping into his face once more, "Fine," he sighs, crawling toward his side of the bed, "I will sleep instead,"
"No, no," Shane interrupts in a that sounds so needy that Ilya can't help but give in, moving until he's straddling Shane but not giving him his weight, raised up on his knees and towering over him, Ilya's hand shifting into his hair and curling tight.
"I want to come here," Ilya drags his thumb over Shane's bottom lip, dragging slowly up to his cheekbone, the cluster of freckles,"here," over his nose, "here," and gently pushing the glasses up the bridge of Shane's nose, "here too, yes? You would like that?"
Shane nods and Ilya waits, doesn't move an inch.
"Yes," he answers with a surprising steadiness.
"Good, end of the bed," Ilya nods, climbing off of him with ease and circles, meeting Shane there.
Immediately, Shane is reaching for him. More precisely his dick, just beginning to stiffen under the fabric as he brushes a hand through Shane's hair and tilts his head back, "No, you don't touch,"
"What?" Shane asks, sounding appalled.
But, his hands do move away.
"Sit on them," Ilya suggests, "it will help you,"
Shane challenges him with an eyebrow.
"I am not joking, Shane," Ilya responds, "you touch, I stop, and I will hate not seeing my come all over your beautiful face but it is rule. Only one, I think you can manage, da?"
Shane clears his throat and nods quickly, "Uh huh, yes—da," he rambles out, moving his hands underneath his thighs as Ilya steps between his spread legs.
It gives Ilya the advantage of Shane being eye level with his groin, his thumb rubbing gently over Shane's forehead as he squeezes the hair bunched in his grip.
Shane grunts at the action and looks up at Ilya plain but open, the kind of openness that begs for demands and something to keep him grounded.
Ilya spreads his palm over his cock and squeezes, calculating the moment Shane realizes what is really happening, mouth hanging open the slightest bit, almost reflexively.
"Eager, yes?" Ilya teases, "You are so predictable,"
And he loves it, loves Shane.
The words are still new, so fresh and raw.
"I am thanking you," Ilya says, his hand slipping below his waistband now but not shifting the fabric down and Shane can do nothing but stare helpless at the small dot of wetness forming in the fabric where the head of Ilya's cock is straining against it, "for inviting me here, for being you,"
"And?" Shane retorts with a tinge of cockiness that Ilya can never get enough of.
"I really want to see you in your glasses when I make a mess of you," his cadence is so relaxed that it pulls Shane into a sense of ease, staring up at Ilya like he was some divine deity.
Slowly, he shifts the fabric down his hips with one hand, going and going until they hit the floor a soft noise and he kicks them away, his cock on full display for Shane now.
"Pretty," Ilya remarks with a deep sigh, his hand loose around his shaft as he moves, foreskin swallowing the head with his lazy movement.
Shane makes a face at the word and Ilya tilts his head, curious.
"No? Handsome, yes?" Ilya asks but tuts, his tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth, "Pretty is fitting, too. Pretty freckles, pretty mouth, I have not done anything to you and you already look like you want to cry,"
Shane was so entranced he hadn't realized the tears forming at his waterline. He wasn't even sure why it was happening or what emotion he was feeling, he wasn't even sure this was real.
"It is," Ilya answers and Shane hadn't realized he was speaking out loud until then, "you are very pretty when you cry, milaya,"
Shane only gives Ilya's face attention when he speaks to him, otherwise his eyes are always focused front and center, his tongue dragging against his bottom lip in a silent plea.
He wants Ilya in his mouth. Now. Shane almost inches forward and fixes the problem himself but Ilya is quicker, reprimanding him with a sharp tug at his hairline.
"No touching counts when it is also your mouth," Ilya reminds him as he fixes his pace to something more consistent and harsh, brow drawing together in a tight line as he exhales, groaning low and slow.
The sound makes Shane vibrate with unresolved need. It is both glorious to watch and also a cruel punishment, watching Ilya work himself up so openly.
He's holding Shane taut and admiring every inch of his face, every subtle twitch, the tip of his cock that glistened with precum only barely grazing Shane's chin and it makes him gasp and wow does that really fuck Ilya's plan up to drag this out.
"Look at me, Shane," it was clear as day, echoing inside his head as his eyes snap up to Ilya.
"Still here?" Ilya asks, a gentle check-in. Shane nods, swallowing around the lump in his throat that had formed, unable to speak to the amount of emotion he was feeling toward Ilya in this moment.
"Still here," Shane echoes and he can tell Ilya is growing closer by the way his teeth are biting at his bottom lip, his hand moving over his cock in uneven strokes, squeezing around the tip and occasional at the base, like he is praying to hold off for a few seconds longer.
"Are you gonna come for me?" Shane asks with a boldness that creeps up on even himself.
"Fuck, Shane," Ilya groans, "yes—yes, da,"
Shane pushes against Ilya's hold, presenting his face right against the end of Ilya's cock, his finger brushing against Shane's chin with every stroke.
"Please," Shane begs and ultimately seals Ilya's fate.
He moans Shane's name like he's calling out to god himself, painting the planes of Shane's fast with his cum in careful strokes, across his chin and just under his bottom lip, freckles drenched, his visions obscured and selfishly taking away Ilya's perfect view of Shane's eyes, the liquid smeared across the frames, both of them heaving like they had ran a marathon.
Ilya slumps almost instantly to his knees, moving toward Shane as he pulls him in and kisses without preamble, uncaring of the mess of his partners face.
"We can never leave here," Ilya tells him, "I need to keep you in this bed forever,"
Shane knows he isn't being serious, but he says it as so and he chuckles against Ilya's mouth.
"Okay," agrees without hesitation, both of them snorting softly at the absurdity of the idea of this turning into some lucrative sex cottage, falling off the face of the earth because neither of them could be apart long enough to function.
Ilya takes a moment to examine Shane, a smirk that turns into a full grin as he eyes that cum smearing across Shane's glasses and most of his face.
"I made a mess," Ilya admits, "big mess,"
Shane squirms at the contact of Ilya's tongue at first, weakly shoving him away as he cradles Shane's face and licks from jaw to temple, occasionally stopping to kiss Shane with a slow rhythm, tongue filling inside to share the test of himself with the man he loves.
He plucks Shane's glasses off careful and before Shane can think he's scampering away to grab an actual means to clean them, ripping a tissue from the box at his bedside before he turns back toward Ilya who is lapping at the lenses like he's licking off the last bit of dessert from his plate, careful not to waste a single crumb.
When he's satisfied he's slipping them back onto Shane's face, the crumpled tissue forgotten as it tumbles to the floor and Shane is sinking into Ilya's touch again.
"Tired," is all Ilya mumbles into Shane's skin as his hands wrap around Shane's midsection, "cuddle me?"
Shane snorts at the duality of this man—once towering over him now crumpled at his feet and while physically large, wants nothing but to feel smaller and be held, lulled to sleep by the safety blanket he's become accustomed to, coincidentally named Shane Hollander.
—
It was early morning, a sliver of sunrise drenching the room in warmth and Ilya was curled around him, head resting against Shane's shoulder as the head of his cock pressed inside.
Painstakingly slow, but necessary.
They had fucked into the deep hours of the night and Shane was still loose come morning, nodding to Ilya's silent question when he shifted in bed, his hard cock pressing into Shane's thigh and Ilya's fingers already circling his rim.
It was a position that didn't lend much intensity and allowed for a laziness that had settled inside their bones as they both rock against each other in tandem and eventually Ilya's is spilling inside of Shane with a soft groan.
There's a brief moment where neither of them move, listening to the other breathe, but after time Shane is reaching for the cold but still damp cloth that he had left on the bedside table to take care of the next morning.
And here they were, mirroring the same position they had found themselves in a handful of hours prior.
Shane absentmindedly tosses it at Ilya's chest but he's met with a mumble of complaint before Ilya tosses it to the floor and moves Shane around without preamble until he's chest down, ass on display and he's sinking down the mattress between his legs.
Shane lets out a choked gasp at the press of Ilya's tongue, "Il—Ilya," it was sharp, but not pained.
"Shh, malysh," Ilya chides, pressing his tongue in deeper to the taste of skin and salt and his own release, drinking in every noise that was forced out from Shane's chest, weak murmurs met with a hand that reaches behind to grip Ilya's curls, pressing him firmly between Shane's spread cheeks.
Ilya could die like this, happily.
He sucks at the sensitive ring of muscle when he's finished and then digs his teeth into Shane's ass and presses a gentle kiss against the faded marks at his hips, just because he loves fucking with Shane, "Asshole,"
"Yes," Ilya retorts, "is my favorite thing about you,"
Shane laughs weakly before Ilya is attacking his neck and slowly works his way to his mouth, body draped over him completely as he pulls Shane in for a quick, chaste kiss.
"Want to shower?" Ilya asks, his chin resting against Shane's shoulder, mouth forming into a natural pout.
Surpringly, Shane shakes his head.
"Mmm," Ilya hums, "I clean up nicely, yes?"
Shane nods, finding himself mute as he watches Ilya with a familiar dazed look that comes with the mix of early morning confusion and a love drunkenness they both share.
"Lay back," Ilya orders softly, "I want to blow you,"
Right, he still hadn't come.
His dick was hard, aching, it was a wonder he had managed to last this long with his mind floating like it was.
It doesn't take long for him to reach his edge either, shooting his load straight into the back of Ilya's throat like he always did, Ilya moaning in satisfaction as he glanced up at Shane, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"Breakfast now?" Ilya asks, slowly crawling back up the bed until he's barricaded Shane in with his legs and arms, "For you, I mean. I think I'm full,"
Shane knew it was coming. Ilya waits for the smile to break, cheeks flushed a faint pink in a matter of seconds.
"I am joking," Ilya admits, "I will drink your gross smoothie with you and drown myself in bacon while I watch you do yoga,"
"It's good for you," Shane argues, beginning to list off all the benefits.
Ilya makes a disgruntled noise and waves him off lightheartedly.
—
When Ilya made the move to Ottawa Shane wasn't expecting it to get this bad—if anything, they've gotten worse over the years.
Distance did not correlate properly with desire.
Even with drive considerably less between Montreal and Ottawa, they're time together was more charged and hurried than before.
And Shane wanted the quiet tonight, the silence in his brain.
Ilya spotted it in his expression the moment he walked through the door.
They made it to the couch, which was a feat in itself. Shirts ripped off hastily and hands mirroring their eagerness as they dipped below each others waistbands, drawstrings pulled loose.
It was the best fucking hand job of his life, Shane thinks. Bar none.
Ilya moaning into his mouth, whispering something sweet in Russian that Shane wasn't familiar with but too worked up to decipher.
"Here," Ilya grunt, pushing Shane backwards an inch on his lap as he lets the spit dribble from his mouth and onto their cocks, pressed against each other as Shane takes over, leaving Ilya's hands free to roam his boyfriends body, something he had missed dearly over the past two weeks.
"You are trying to kill me," Ilya complains, a prominent pout as he rubs his hands over Shane's biceps and squeezes, "is—fuck, is cruel, Shane,"
"Missed you," Shane murmurs against his skin, lips pressed against his temple as his hand works them both furiously, thumb circling the heads in a sloppy figure eight that has Ilya biting his fist and groaning out a broken, "O-oh, shit,"
Ilya is embarrassed at how quickly it was all over.
He stood no chance against Shane when he jumped him like this, accepting his fate with a pitiful whimper as Shane gasped against his open mouth and pulled them both over the edge, thick spurts of cum shooting simultaneously over their naked chests and Shane's hand.
"I am getting you back for that," Ilya promises and Shane can only laugh, weak and broken as they both glance down at the mess they'd made.
Shane raises his eyebrows in question.
Ilya shrugs, "Too far," he decides, dragging his finger up Shane's chest, unsure who's release he was collecting before he was pressing it over Shane's lip, finger sinking into his mouth.
"You are in a mood today," Ilya notes, chest shaking with laughter before Shane is matching Ilya's movement and shoving his thumb into Ilya's mouth, the heady taste spreading over his tongue.
"Practice was a lot," Shane admits but doesn't elaborate on the why—Ilya could dissect it later, he only cares about Shane in this moment and what he needed, reveling in Shane's willingness as he cleans the mix of themselves of his boyfriend's chest and feeds it directly into his mouth.
"I need you," Shane admits and his chest surges with admiration every time he hears it now, words he was admittedly terrified of so many years ago but would beg to hear now and often did.
"Come here," Ilya murmurs, his hand curling around the back of Shane's neck and into his slightly grown out hair, weakly shoving Shane's fingers out of his mouth and kissing him with force, tongue slipping inside of Shane's mouth, urging Shane to let himself break for a moment and fall apart in Ilya's lap.
Ilya can feel the anxiety under his skin, his hands falling to Shane's waist as Shane kisses him with sloppy enthusiasm, licking at the remnants of Ilya's cum lingering against his neck, vocal cords vibrating against his tongue as Ilya groans and then his lips are on Ilya's once more, pushing the cum into Ilya's mouth as their tongues trade the release.
Ilya grows at the gesture and squeezes a handful of Shane's ass right, pulling him as close as he can.
"Is my job," Ilya snarks playfully, "enough,"
Shane doesn't complain when Ilya lays him out on the couch to clean the rest of his chest off, doesn't protest when Ilya gets his mouth around Shane's soft cock and cleans him there, though he begins to harden in Ilya's mouth which earns him an intrigued noise from Ilya.
"Hollander," The word is loaded, heavy, eyes begging the obvious question that Shane finds himself blushing over, even after years of sex with Ilya.
"Shower first," Shane suggests
Ilya snorts knowingly.
The water had ran cold long before Ilya was finished with him but Shane couldn't be bothered to care.
—
Ilya could see the gears moving in Shane’s brain.
“Shane, spit it out before your brain explodes,”
Clumsily, Shane works through his words.
Carefully, like he was plucking them from his thoughts one at a time.
"Lean back," Shane starts and Ilya listens, watching as Shane spread himself out on his stomach against the sheets, inches away from Ilya's bare dick.
Out of habit, his hand finds a place against Shane's face.
"You want to suck my dick? Groundbreaking, Hollander."
Shane clears his throat and shakes his head.
"First of all, fuck you," Shane chirps, "and don't—don't touch me. I want you to, uh, just watch. If you touch me I'll stop,"
Okay, so Ilya was the one that needed to worry about his brain exploding. Cool.
"Okay," Ilya answers without missing a beat despite how internally he was losing his shit.
The blowjob is nothing short of fucking glorious.
He doesn't look away from Shane once, settling back into his elbows as Shane spits crudely onto the head. It was relentless, the heat of his mouth and eventually his throat, swallowing around Ilya as Shane's nose pressed into the trimmed hair at the base of Ilya's dick.
The tears are visible but silent when Ilya comes with a shout and without warning, his body collapsing into the sheets as he reboots.
He can't do anything but stare, mostly at the ceiling, occasionally dragging toward the window and out into the night sky
Shane's head is resting against the inside of Ilya's thigh when he speaks, small and quiet, "How was it?"
“You sucked all English words in my brain through my dick, I think," Ilya admits.
When he finally finds the strength to look down at Shane, he's smiling. Not subdued, either. It was big and satisfied, eyes twinkling with amusement.
Both of them fall into a fit of tired laughter before Shane finally decides to move, but Ilya catches his wrist before he can venture too far.
“We are not done,”
Shane looks at him curiously, having already came earlier in the night with Ilya pressed against his back, surrounded by Ilya wherever he could reach.
“Ser'yezno” Ilya mumbles, “you give me mindblowing orgasm with your mouth and expect me to just roll over and sleep?”
Shane shrugs because, well, yeah it really was that simple.
“I am not done with you,”
Ilya makes a dramatic show as he flails himself down flat and pats his chest, grin splitting across his face and Shane hates how easily it charms him.
It's unfair.
They don't do it like this often, but Shane doesn't know why he feels so nervous, as if Ilya didn't know him inside and out.
Carefully, Shane moves his way onto the bed to cage Ilya in with his thighs, hovering slightly, and Ilya nods encouragingly as Shane grabs the headboard and is guided by Ilya’s hands until he can only see half of Ilya's face and his hands are squeezing Shane's ass playfully, nudging him even further forward.
“Touch yourself,” is all Ilya tells him before he’s squeezing at Shane’s ass, pulling his cheeks apart to drag his tongue over the sensitive ring of muscle, “but do not come, Hollander, not until you are in my mouth and I give permission to you,”
Shane makes a weak noise of acknowledgment as Ilya kneads at his ass, feeling the soft nip of his teeth into the flesh before his tongue returns to offer a series of gentle licks, not quite ramping up.
He's waiting for Shane to answer, of course.
“O-okay,” Shane stutters, “Yeah, yes,”
“Yes what?” Ilya asks
“Jesus, Ilya,”
“You will tell me, yes? When you feel it?”
Shane nods again, unsure if Ilya is even looking at him with how tightly his eyes are squeezed shut now.
He clears his throat softly, “I won’t come,” Shane tells him,“until—until you tell me I can,”
Ilya makes a noise of satisfied agreement before he's laser focused on the task at hand, tongue working over the puckered hole like he was trying to prove a point, pushing the tip of his tongue inside.
Startlingly, Ilya’s hand is guiding Shane's own to his dick, his mind stuttering for a moment as his tongue dips inside of Shane’s asshole more insistently.
Right. Ilya wanted him to touch himself.
Get with the goddamn program, Hollander.
His eye fall shut as he jerks himself with his free hand, the other still gripping the headboard tight.
When Ilya manages to slip a finger inside Shane alongside he's diligent mouth, Shane’s forehead collides with the headboard as he’s creeping up on his own orgasm, lost in the feeling, rocking into Ilya’s movements on instinct.
It gives Ilya a perfect view of Shane's face, a private moment to admire his expression.
Shane is so far gone.
And by the time Ilya is voicing him to move back, eager to get Shane's cock in his mouth before he shoots his load, he doesn't even hear it.
Three fingers and a sudden change in angle has Ilya pressing directly into Shane's prostate and he's coming without warning. It was a perfect but volatile combination.
Shane cums with his hands flat against the headboard to hold himself upright, release pulsing out and onto Ilya’ chest and neck, some of it unmistakable hitting Ilya's face.
His dick twitches weakly as the feeling fades and Shane doesn't know why he's mortified, but he is.
"Is better if you waited until you were in my mouth," Ilya jokes when the blood stops pounding in Shane's ears, earning a weak laugh in response.
"Fuck you," Shane offers endearingly, peaking an eye open to the sight of Ilya covered in Shane's cum.
"We are even now," Ilya decides, reaching blindly for the box of tissues on the nightstand and shoving a single tissue at Shane, wordlessly. But, there's an itch that Shane can't reach, at the center of chest.
Ilya was covered in him, giddy and light, waiting eagerly for Shane to clean him up and Shane doesn't really think before he's shifting down and running his tongue over Ilya's cheek, lips, stopping to kiss him fully and with fervor, earning a soft groan from Ilya as he chases Shane's mouth when he moves away and continues his descent. Ilya shifts to his elbows again, watching Shane wipe the back of his mouth before he's circling his tongue around Ilya's nipple.
Ilya hisses at the action and parts his lips with a vexed expression, eyes tracking every single movement Shane was making, perplexed beyond belief. It isn't until Shane is taking the gold chain of his necklace, the thickness of the gold cross laying flat over his tongue as he sucks it into his mouth and cleans the surface of his own release, glancing up at Ilya who was mere seconds from disintegration.
"Gospodi, poshtadi menya," Ilya prays to whatever was listening,
"What?"
"I said I love you," Ilya lies and Shane obviously knows.
"No you didn't," Shane leans forward now, thumb brushing along Ilya's bottom lip, smiling innocently at his boyfriend.
"Fine, watching you clean your cum off my chest almost killed me, okay?"
"You do it to me," Shane retorts, like that was the answer to everything.
"Yes, but you," he pokes a finger into Shane's chest, "do not,"
Shane shrugs weakly, "I just…felt like it. I can't explain it,"
"You are strange creature," Ilya says fondly, "always surprising me,"
Ilya smothers him with his mouth now, gentle and teasing kisses over his face as he pulls him, growling into his neck as he bites down playfully, "Fuck," Ilya laughs again.
"I am going to be thinking about that for weeks, you know, so mean of you Shane Hollander,"
"Get over it, Rozanov," Shane grins, shoving at Ilya's shoulder.
"No," Ilya pouts, "never,"