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Ilya Rozanov was a normal guy.
NHL star. Former captain of the Boston Bears and future captain of the Ottawa Centaurs. Stanley Cup winner. A good friend. A good person, usually. A good son, when he got to be. Currently in a somewhat-secret relationship with the man considered to be his hockey rival.
Very normal.
But he had this… thing.
Or, well, it was a thing that he refused to consider a thing, because that made it a little too real, a little too true, and that worried him. Because this not-thing was pretty abnormal, as far as normal people’s standards go.
He was obsessed with the way Shane Hollander smelled.
And not just when they were forced to attend a charity function, where Shane would apply a sweet-smelling product in his hair and wear an expensive cologne. It was also in the early morning, when he smelled like bed linens and sleep, or while they lounged on the couch together, the scent of his body wash mixed with laundry detergent lingering in the air.
It was also, far more self-indulgent, the way Shane smelled after a game, salt and skin and sweat underneath a layer of shitty locker room soap that attempted to mask it all but failed, ultimately, because although Ilya Rozanov was normal, his nose was decidedly not. He could probably detect Shane’s smell in a line-up if he had to, because he was truly, utterly obsessed with it.
So even though Ilya didn’t want it to be, it absolutely was a thing, but he’d never, ever do something as stupid as to act on it.
Or so he thought.
It was the first Saturday of their summer break after Ilya’s final year on the Bears. The two of them had already made themselves comfortable in Shane’s cottage in Ottawa, ready for a few blissful weeks of rest. The cottage had quickly become their own private sanctuary, a place that the world couldn’t quite reach them.
Shane was out on a run. Ilya had said he would join, but when Shane’s alarm went off at a mind-numbing hour, he had only rolled over, half on top of Shane, mumbling about how it was an evil time to get up and they should stay in bed all day instead. Shane didn’t go for that. Instead, he unceremoniously shoved Ilya off him and clambered out of bed alone with a request that Ilya start cleaning up the cottage if he got up.
Ilya knew better than to assume that if actually meant if and not when, so he gave himself an extra half hour of drifting in and out of sleep, face pressed into Shane's pillow, before begrudingly getting up to clean.
He had tidied up the living room and organized the kitchen (even though the only thing that was out of place was the spices, which Ilya purposefully pretended he didn’t understand alphabetical order for). He was just dragging the dirty clothes toward the laundry room when he heard the front door open and the familiar sound of Shane’s running shoes being toed off in the foyer.
“You actually got up,” Shane called from the entryway, sounding equally pleased and surprised.
“You doubted me?” Ilya called back. He heard Shane's footsteps, and then Shane appeared in the doorway of the laundry room, flushed from the heat and breathing a little harder than usual, which meant he'd pushed his pace on the way back. His hair was damp at the temples. He looked fucking beautiful, but then again, Ilya reasoned, he always did. “How was your run?”
“Hot,” Shane said. “Are you about to start laundry?”
Ilya motioned to the laundry baskets on the floor, then the machines, then the room as a whole, then shrugged. “No, I am just admiring the laundry room.”
“Ha. Ha,” Shane said sarcastically, already peeling his sweat-soaked shirt up and over his head. “Can you toss these in with the darks, please?”
Ilya nodded as he fiddled with the washer settings so they matched Shane’s frankly neurotic laundry standards. Once everything was correct, he turned to grab a fistful of clothes, and his mouth went dry.
In a flash, Shane had stripped completely down and was currently turning his socks right-side out, because he refused to believe that they got properly clean if they weren’t faced the correct way. But Ilya’s attention wasn’t drawn to the lines of his boyfriend’s muscles, or his beautiful freckles, or even the moisture still cooling on his skin, no.
Instead, his gaze snagged on the rumpled articles now sitting at the top of the laundry basket. A dark grey tank top, a pair of black briefs, and the socks, once they landed on top.
And, worst of all, those slutty-looking running shorts, made of dark synthetic fibers gone even darker where they had wicked Shane’s sweat directly from his body. Ilya usually refused to let Shane wear them unless he went running by himself, because otherwise Ilya would only stare at Shane’s ass the entire time and consequently trip over his own two feet, a lesson learned the hard way, so Ilya hadn’t seen this particular pair of shorts or even thought about them in weeks.
But now Ilya couldn’t stop thinking about these fucking shorts—Shane wearing them, Shane’s ass in them, Shane sweating in them—even though Shane’s bare ass was less than a meter away from him.
“Are you okay?” Shane’s voice snapped Ilya out of his thoughts, and he looked up to see Shane staring at him in amusement. “I’m not putting you out with a few extra clothes, right?”
“Ah… no, no,” Ilya stammered. “I will put them in.” Forcing a smile that he hoped screamed I’d do anything for you and not I want to lick the sweat off your body, he reached for the dirty clothes and grabbed a handful, depositing them into the washer.
“Thank you,” Shane said. He stepped forward, laid a hand on Ilya’s shoulder, and leaned forward to press a chaste kiss to Ilya’s cheek. “I’m going to shower, okay?”
All Ilya could do was nod, because he had been hit with a cloud of air that smelled so undeniably like Shane that it made his saliva thick and his knees feel weak. Once Shane left, with one final glance and a smile over his shoulder, Ilya finally allowed himself to exhale.
He stood there for a moment, listening to Shane’s footsteps recede down the hall, and then the soft click of the bathroom door. Then he looked back down at the laundry basket.
The shorts were still in it. He had grabbed everything around them first, apparently, unconsciously, and now they sat there on top of all the normal laundry, dark and accusatory. He picked them up.
He didn’t mean to do what he did next. Or, more accurately, he didn’t consciously decide to do it. Like the way a lot of things did with Shane, it just kind of happened, his body acting before his brain could catch up or intervene and explain why this was a terrible fucking idea.
He brought the shorts up, and he breathed in.
The smell hit him all at once. It was Shane, overwhelmingly so, salt and pungent musk. Beneath it, detergent and body wash and something sweet too, something that was just Shane and always had been Shane and always would be Shane. The fabric was still warm where it pressed against Ilya’s nose, and he lowered the shorts slightly, then brought them back up, nose finding another spot as he breathed in again.
On the third sniff, his brain finally caught up. His first thought was something like What the fuck is wrong with you, and the second was, unhelpfully, another variation of the same. The third thought, quieter and more honest, was that he liked this. Hell, he fucking loved it, and he wasn’t entirely regretting it.
He was smelling his boyfriend's dirty laundry. Voluntarily. In the laundry room, where he was supposed to be doing the laundry and not sniffing it. Ilya Rozanov, NHL star, Stanley Cup winner, by most accounts a perfectly functional human being, had just pressed a pair of running shorts to his face and inhaled like a fucking dog.
He lowered his hands.
His face was hot. Not in the way it got after an intense shift on the ice, or when Shane pressed up against him, or even when Shane looked at him a certain way. The heat was plain embarrassment, which had bubbled so quickly in his chest that it startled him.
He couldn’t even force himself to laugh it off, because not only was he flushed in embarrassment, he was horribly turned on.
He threw the shorts into the washer, then picked up the basket from the floor and tipped the remainder of the clothes into the machine, covering his shame with them. He shut the door and pressed start. The machine hummed to life, and Ilya stood there with his hands braced on either side of it while his cheeks burned, staring at the wall and willing his erection to go down.
Normal. Completely, totally normal.
✧
He managed to ignore it for a while.
It was long enough for it to feel like a fluke, a one-off terrible decision, but not long enough for him to forget about the scent. If he was being honest, he didn’t think any amount of time would be long enough for him to forget that fucking scent.
But he was doing okay. Because he was a normal, well-adjusted person. He definitely didn’t eye the wet stain trailing down Shane’s back after their workouts for an inappropriate amount of time, and he definitely did not try to coax Shane into having sweaty, post-gym sex more than once.
But, two and a half weeks after The Shorts Incident, as Ilya had started referring to it in his mind, Ilya woke up hard.
He had been having a particularly steamy dream, with Shane riding him nice and slow, taking the length of Ilya’s cock with each bounce, moaning so beautifully for him while working up a sweat. And Ilya knew that was his unconsciousness’s way of teasing him, of fucking with him, because he was forced to stare at Shane’s slicked skin and he couldn’t even smell it, couldn’t even taste it, because it was all a dream.
With a tired, aroused groan, Ilya rolled onto his stomach and reached to the other side of the bed, craving contact, but his fist closed around empty sheets.
Shane walked into the room a second later, wide awake and fully dressed. “Good morning.”
Ilya mumbled something that sounded adjacent to “Morning,” into his pillow, and Shane chuckled. He stepped up to the bed and buried his fingers into Ilya’s curls, petting his head.
“I’m heading to the grocery store,” he said. “Do you need more Coke?”
Ilya leaned into the touch, freeing his mouth from his pillow. “Stay, please.”
Nails scraped gently against Ilya’s scalp. “I have to go,” he said. “Do you want to come with me? I’ll wait for you.”
Ilya made a dissatisfied sound and rolled to his back, peering up at Shane. “Please stay.” With his foot, he managed to kick the duvet down enough to expose his crotch and the very noticeable tent in his underwear. “I will make it worth your while.”
“You’re insatiable.” Shane huffed a laugh and stroked Ilya’s hair once more before retracting his hand. “Coke?”
Ilya nodded, defeated, and Shane leaned down to press their lips together briefly.
“I’ll be right back,” Shane said against his mouth.
“Okay,” Ilya whispered. They kissed again, then Shane straightened and walked out of the room.
Ilya shifted to the other side of the bed and buried his nose into Shane’s pillow. His boyfriend’s departure did nothing to flag his erection.
A hand wiggled between the mattress and his body, slipping beneath the waistband of his underwear until he could wrap his fingers around his cock. The first touch sent a shiver down his spine. He humped into his hand a few times before determining the angle wasn’t quite right, and rolled onto his side with a hard breath.
He worked himself over, smearing precum across the length to ease the glide. Behind his eyelids, he could picture his dream once again. Shane above him, rocking onto him, sweat beading on his temples and sliding down. With his nose still tucked against Shane’s pillow, he could even imagine the tang of the sweat in the air.
Gripping the pillow with his free hand, he rolled all the way onto his back and deposited the pillow onto his face. He shucked off his underwear, tossed them carelessly to the floor, then took himself back in hand as he planted his feet against the mattress.
He was sure he must look an absolute mess of a sight right now, grinding desperately into his own palm with his boyfriend’s pillow practically glued to his face, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.
“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya mumbled into the pillowcase, thrusting up into his hand. He could feel the warmth pooling low in his abdomen, growing with each frantic pull of his cock, but as quickly as it grew, it would wane again. He brought himself to the edge several times, but his body wouldn’t bring him over.
Frustration building, he released himself and shoved the pillow off his face to stare up at the ceiling. Why the fuck couldn’t he come? It had surely never been a problem before. He’d never had an issue getting himself off, even when he and Shane had gone a couple rounds the night prior (which they had, of course, because Shane was right: Ilya was insatiable).
Maybe he just needed… something else. A moment later, his brain supplied the something he needed, but he was rather unsure of the solution. He swallowed, and while it moved the lump in his throat, it did nothing to dislodge the thought from his head.
Slowly, giving himself ample opportunity to change his mind, Ilya got up and inched his way toward the closet. What he was searching for was just inside the door: the laundry basket, filled about halfway with various items of their shared clothing. And, well, it wasn’t Ilya’s fault that he could see the waistband of Shane’s underwear poking up toward him, beckoning him to make another poor decision.
It was a pair of light blue briefs, ones that Shane got on some brand deal that Yuna told Ilya about but he didn’t listen to. He knew they hugged Shane beautifully, though, and specifically remembered peeling this particular pair off his boyfriend’s body a day ago.
(“Sweetheart,” Ilya had purred while he peeled the material off. “You will ruin your nice, new panties if you keep leaking so much.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Shane had snapped, but his face was burning as he said it. And he had blushed even harder when Ilya brought the underwear up to show him the large spot of sticky moisture left by the wet tip of his cock.)
Deciding not to kid himself, he plucked the underwear out of the basket.
The spot had dried, of course, but the disgusting part of Ilya’s brain told him the scent would still be there. Wordlessly, he carried the article back to the bed and flopped down onto his back.
Underwear in one hand and dick in the other, he brought the fabric to his nose, pressing where he believed Shane’s dick would’ve been, and took a deep breath in. As disgusting as the thought was, he had been correct, because it still smelled so distinct, so Shane, that it immediately clouded Ilya’s head.
“Fuck,” he exhaled, his voice a little shaky as he started stroking himself again. This was so wrong, and it was moderately disgusting, but fuck, it was working. After only a handful of pulls, he could feel the familiar coil low in his gut, orgasm building.
He was just about to finally come when a voice startled him.
“Holy shit.”
Ilya yanked the underwear away from his face with a gasp. Shane was standing in the doorway, arms down by his sides and eyebrows raised in surprise. Slowly, the shock eased out of his expression, and a slow smile spread across his face.
“What do we have here?” Shane asked.
“Shane,” Ilya whispered, sitting up slightly. “Why are you here? I thought you were—”
“Going to the store? Already gone?” Shane finished the thought, head tilting slightly. “I forgot the list. I texted you to send it to me, but you didn’t reply.” He gestured toward the bed. “I guess I know why now.”
Ilya glanced toward the nightstand, where his phone was still plugged in and sitting face down on the wood. He hadn’t heard it ping with a message, but he had been rather preoccupied.
“Sorry,” Ilya said. “Let me, uh…” He moved to get up, to do… well, he wasn’t entirely sure what, but anything would’ve been better than continuing to be in his current position. As he shifted, Shane raised a hand to make him pause.
“No, please,” Shane said. “Don’t stop.”
Ilya’s throat worked around a swallow, and he continued to sit up. “Shane—”
“I said don’t stop,” Shane repeated, voice dipping lower. “Keep going. I want to watch.”
Oh, Ilya thought dumbly. He likes this too.
He brought his hand back to his cock and only managed one flick of his wrist before Shane tsked gently. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Humiliation flooded Ilya’s system at his tone, and the hand still clutching the underwear twitched. Slowly, without taking his eyes off Shane, he brought the fabric to his nose and took a deep breath in. He must’ve managed to put his nose directly over where Shane’s cock had been leaking that night, because the smell was even stronger than before. He couldn’t help the way his eyes slipped shut or the way his hips bucked up into his hand.
“That’s it.” Shane had finally left the doorway and was creeping toward the bed, shedding his shirt as he went. “Good boy.”
Ilya whimpered as precum dripped across his knuckles. He used the slickness to speed up, dragging his fist over his length in long strokes. Over the edge of the fabric still pressed to his face, Ilya watched Shane come closer until his legs were pressed against the edge of the mattress, but he didn’t reach out to touch.
“You know,” Shane said conversationally. “That color really complements your eyes.”
“Shane,” Ilya gasped, lowering the briefs to speak. “Please—”
Shane shushed him and finally reached out, but not to touch Ilya the way he craved. Instead, his hand wrapped around Ilya’s wrist and moved it forward, pressing the fabric forcefully back to his face. “Don’t talk. Keep going.”
Ilya mumbled out a curse into the clothing, but otherwise did as he was told. He was getting close, but he couldn’t tell Shane that because fabric was still being shoved against his nose and mouth. He whimpered instead, lifting his hips into his hand. His stomach clenched once, twice, and then Shane released the pressure on his wrist, pulling the fabric away.
“Stop.”
With a broken noise, Ilya released himself. He tossed his head back as his cock twitched pathetically against his stomach. “Fuck, Shane.”
“You’re so beautiful,” Shane whispered, almost reverent, so quiet he may not have even realized he said it. Finally, he climbed onto the bed, situating himself so he was sitting on Ilya’s thighs just above his knees. His jean shorts were rough against Ilya’s sensitive skin. “Is this a new thing?” Shane asked then, nodding toward the underwear.
“Yes,” Ilya said, then backtracked. “Well, no, but maybe yes. New to act on. But I have always liked your smell.”
“You know you don’t have to sniff dirty underwear like a pervert to smell me, right?” Shane said. The words were condescending, but Ilya’s cock twitched in interest anyway. Shane wrapped his hand around it and stroked once, from base to tip. “But you just couldn’t help yourself, hm?”
Ilya opened his mouth to reply, but his words dissolved into a moan as Shane rubbed over the head of his cock with his thumb, a little too rough.
“No, you couldn’t,” Shane answered for him. His free hand tangled into Ilya’s hair and tugged his head backwards, bringing them eye-to-eye. “Tell me.”
“I couldn’t— I can’t,” Ilya managed, even as Shane started to move his hand quickly. “Fuck, I can’t help myself. Can’t. Please, fuck.”
“Tell me when you’re close,” Shane said, eyes trained on his own hand.
Ilya lasted about thirty seconds before he was inhaling sharply. “Close, cl— fucking hell,” he spit out as Shane let go of his cock unceremoniously. His slick hand plucked the underwear from where Ilya had dropped it to the mattress.
It was a welcome pressure this time, cotton pressing against Ilya’s nose and mouth. Shane cupped his hand so that Ilya could still breathe but had to take deep pulls of air to feel like he was getting any oxygen at all.
Once his breathing evened out, Shane let the briefs fall to Ilya’s chest and took his cock in hand again. His fist slid quickly over Ilya’s length, twisting over the head the way he knew drove Ilya crazy, slicking back down to caress his balls, then repeating.
Ilya was moaning unabashedly, eyebrows drawing together as his mouth dropped open, about to signal that he was close, but Shane was already releasing him. Sometimes, Ilya thought Shane was more in tune with Ilya’s body than he himself was.
Shane must’ve been feeling merciful, because he allowed Ilya a chance to calm down, leaning down to press their foreheads together. Then, with a parting kiss to the corner of Ilya’s mouth, Shane stood and finally took off his pants and underwear.
It was clear Shane wasn’t unaffected by their activities, even though he was trying so hard to maintain a cool and calm composure. Once it was released, his erection sprang up toward his stomach, already leaking precum down the shaft. The tip was bright red, looking hot and sensitive, and Ilya wanted nothing more than to get his mouth around it.
But today wasn’t about what Ilya wanted.
Dimly, he registered that Shane was talking, and he tuned back in to him asking, “You know what smells even better than day-old underwear, Rozanov?”
The use of his last name made his cock traitorously kick again. They had grown so comfortable and in tune with one another over the years that first names or, in Ilya’s case, pet names were second nature now. But something was exhilarating about the reminder of what they were once, what they used to do, the impression they had on one another so long ago.
His mind was too fuzzy to answer, and Shane huffed impatiently. “I asked you a question.”
Ilya was so turned on that it was hard to remember what Shane had asked, even if it was only a few seconds ago. “What smells better?” he eventually asked.
Shane didn’t answer verbally. Instead, he motioned for Ilya to lie down, which he did. Once Ilya was exactly where Shane wanted him to be, Shane crawled back onto the bed and shuffled to straddle Ilya’s face, knees planted on either side of his shoulders and hands pressed against his chest for balance.
And that answered Ilya’s question.
Ilya was no stranger to eating Shane’s ass. He knew what Shane smelled like down here—heady, musky but clean, a little sweet from his soap—but at that moment it was intoxicating, and he felt like he was experiencing it for the first time.
Without asking, Ilya’s hands came up to grip Shane’s ass cheeks, spreading them further apart. Thankfully, Shane allowed it, even welcomed it as he pushed himself further back into the touch. He was still soft and a little loose from their time together the night prior, so Ilya allowed himself to lick into his hole.
“God, I love your mouth,” Shane sighed. He spread his knees a little further and used the leverage to rock down against Ilya’s face.
Ilya hummed in acknowledgement against the warm skin. Shane tasted almost as good as he smelled. It wasn’t quite a discovery at this point, but it was an accepted fact.
He alternated between licking and sucking at the rim and pushing his tongue past the ring of muscle, working Shane over until the bottom half of his face was coated in his own saliva and his jaw started to ache. Above him, Shane was babbling out a string of encouragement that hardly sounded like English to Ilya’s cotton-filled ears.
There was the faintest quiver of Shane’s thighs on one particularly filthy grind, and Ilya could hear the way Shane’s control was fraying in the hitch of breath that followed.
Spurred on by the sound, Ilya doubled down on his efforts. Ignoring the twinge of his overworked jaw, he tried to bring Shane to the edge, desperate to feel him clench around his tongue as he climaxed.
Suddenly, Shane leaned forward, refusing Ilya the honor. A needy whine punched its way out of Ilya’s throat involuntarily, and Shane laughed at him as he turned around to face him.
“Relax, baby,” Shane said. “I’m not done with you.” He rubbed a hand over Ilya’s thigh soothingly. “Sit up, against the headboard.”
Ilya moved sluggishly, limbs weighed down by the heavy arousal still coursing through his veins. He propped himself against the headboard as requested, then graciously accepted the lapful of Shane he received. Their hips slotted together like puzzle pieces, and Ilya had to bite back a pathetic noise as their cocks rubbed.
Their lips met. It was sweet for all of ten seconds until Shane began licking greedily into Ilya’s mouth. Minutes stretched on while they kissed, moaning into each other’s mouths and grinding against one another. A string of spit connected them when they parted.
Doing less to actually clean him up and more to make him messier, Shane smeared his palm through the mess of saliva across Ilya’s face, then roughly patted his cheek twice. His thumb found Ilya’s bottom lip, tugging downward until Ilya opened his mouth. Shane’s jaw worked briefly, then he leaned over Ilya, spitting directly onto his tongue. There was another hard tap to his cheek, then his mouth was being coaxed shut.
“Swallow.”
Ilya’s lips parted on a shaky exhale after he followed the direction. Shane smiled at him, far too warmly for the situation they found themselves in. “Good boy. I’m gonna ride you now.”
Ilya nodded eagerly, helpless to watch as Shane found the lube and drizzled some over Ilya’s cock.
And, okay. Ilya may be obsessed with the way his boyfriend smelled, but there was nothing and would never be anything that compared to the first push into Shane Hollander’s body. Feeling himself carving a space into Shane’s body left Ilya breathless more often than not. This time was no different, heat all-encompassing as Shane slid down and down until he was seated flush in Ilya’s lap, breathing raggedly.
With only Ilya’s tongue as prep, Shane was fucking tight, and Ilya was sure the stretch was dizzying, so he stayed as still as he could, allowing Shane time to adjust. He watched the furrow between Shane’s eyebrows slowly melt away as the initial pain of the stretch morphed into pleasure.
“Fuck,” Shane breathed. “Love your cock so much.”
“I thought you loved my mouth,” Ilya quipped, and Shane rolled his eyes at the same time that he ground his hips down.
“Shut up,” Shane demanded, and Ilya did.
The rhythm Shane set was brutal, and Ilya was caught between watching the muscles in his thighs work and his face contorting in pleasure as he took what he wanted.
No matter how long in between sex, no matter what position they chose, no matter what dynamic they went for that day, they both craved each other equally. So when Shane took and took and took, bouncing on Ilya’s cock like there was nowhere else he’d rather be, Ilya gave and gave and gave, because there was nowhere else he’d rather be, either.
All Ilya cared about were his hands on Shane’s waist, the snap of Shane’s ass against his hips, and the sweet-sounding moans falling from Shane’s mouth.
Ilya was too caught up in ShaneShaneShane to notice the other man leaning backward a little. Suddenly, there was cotton being forced against his face again.
There was a smear of wetness that hit Ilya’s lip, and Shane panted out, “Lick it.”
As he did, he noticed that Shane was now holding the underwear he had been wearing this morning. Ilya was tasting what Shane had leaked onto the cotton only a few minutes ago, coaxed out by his arousal from watching Ilya fuck his own fist.
The realization pulled a low, rumbly noise from deep in Ilya’s chest. He brought the wettest part of the fabric into his mouth and sucked on it, allowing the taste of Shane to flood his senses once again.
“Fuck, that’s gross,” Shane said, contradicting himself as he used two fingers to press the fabric further into Ilya’s waiting mouth. “You’re so— fuck, you’re so filthy, Ilya.”
His head flopped back against the headboard, and he groaned, hot breath warming the fabric.
“Yeah? Do you like that?” Shane continued. “Like being filthy for me?”
With nearly half of the briefs wedged behind his teeth, Ilya couldn’t possibly respond, so he just moaned again, eyes screwing shut. He felt dizzy and hot all over, and he was definitely going to come soon if Shane didn’t stop moving.
The underwear was yanked from Ilya’s lips and quickly replaced by Shane’s own mouth as he dove in for a filthy kiss that was far more teeth and tongue than sweetness.
“Are you close?” Shane mumbled against his lips, sensing the hitch of Ilya’s breath.
“Yes.” Ilya nodded frantically, grip tightening on Shane’s hips. “Can I come? Please, please, let me come.”
“You can,” Shane said with an indifferent shrug of his shoulders. “But I’m gonna keep riding you until I’m done.”
“Fuck,” Ilya spit out. There was a bloom of pain at the back of his head as he smacked it into the headboard, but it did nothing to quell the ache in his balls. “Fuck, Shane, sweetheart, I’m coming.”
“Come for me, Ilya,” Shane commanded, and as he had several times already that morning, Ilya did.
True to his word, Shane didn’t stop spearing himself on Ilya’s cock, even as it pulsed inside him, making his hole impossibly sloppier. There was a squelch, and Ilya made a strangled sound, looking down to watch as some of his come dribbled from Shane’s hole and slid down his length.
“Shane, malysh, sweetheart, please,” Ilya babbled, grip tightening on Shane’s waist. “I can’t take it, please, please.”
“You can,” Shane repeated, though it was less dismissive permission and more of an assurance. “Almost there.”
The rhythm was lost, Shane now resorting to short flexes of his hips to keep chasing the pleasure, and he had finally wrapped a hand around his cock to stroke himself to completion. After another minute, filled with slick noises and Ilya’s incessant whimpers, Shane finally came, shooting across Ilya’s stomach.
Panting, Shane wiped his hand through the mess on Ilya’s skin, collecting come on his fingertips. He gave Ilya a questioning look, to which Ilya nodded, and then those come-covered fingers were being pushed past his lips. Ilya licked over the skin hungrily but unhurriedly, savoring the taste of Shane.
When the fingers were clean, Shane extracted his hand, then dipped it into the mess again, repeating the process until Ilya’s skin was tacky from spit, but otherwise clean.
“Good?” Shane asked.
“Good,” Ilya answered with a tired grin.
After they cleaned one another up and fell back into bed for a mid-day nap that Shane debated taking but Ilya absolutely needed, Shane turned his head upwards to look at Ilya.
“Please tell me you aren’t going to keep stealing my underwear,” he said.
Ilya hummed quietly and pressed a kiss to Shane’s hairline. “No promises.”