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It's 8:02 in the morning when Shane watches Ilya sleep—dead to the world, curls a mess, with drool dripping down pink lips and onto their silk pillows—and thinks, I want to fuck my boyfriend.
Boyfriend. Ilya is his boyfriend. Ilya, who Shane has loved so deeply and quietly all these years, a gradual, insidious, slow creep of want that started in hotel rooms and spread to every corner of his chest until one day he had looked at Ilya and realized there was no version of his life where he wouldn't fall in love with him. Ilya, who's currently sprawled across their bed, one leg slung haphazardly over a pillow and the blankets tangled at his feet, mouth slightly parted, soft and slack with sleep. Ilya, who's sleeping while Shane is sitting right beside him, thinking extremely perverted thoughts about sticking his fingers into his boyfriend's hole and playing with it until he cries.
Silently, Shane's eyes track down the dip of Ilya's spine, tracing the shape of him in the golden summer light. He goes over the generous swell of Ilya's ass barely hidden by his boxers and lingers there. And he thinks, again, about what it would be like to fuck his boyfriend.
It's not something he's thought about a lot. More like a normal amount, really, which simply couldn't be helped when Ilya has practically the most perfect ass Shane's ever seen. But right from the start, Ilya had always been the one in control, experienced in all the ways Shane wasn't. There was something intoxicating about being unraveled by Ilya Sex God Bisexual Terminator Rozanov—or whatever it is his fans called him—and so, Shane had let Ilya push him into the mattress, let him cage him with his strong arms, let him tease him until Shane was begging to be fucked, again, and again, and again. They had settled into that pattern for the last several years: Ilya on top, unraveling Shane inch by inch.
Shane has asked, just once, several years ago, if Ilya had ever bottomed. They were in a hotel room after a game, bodies spent and sprawled on the sheets, and Shane knew he had approximately five minutes before Ilya would get up and leave. The question had been nagging at his brain for a while; surely, with a butt like that, Ilya could find lots of hot men wanting to top him. But Ilya had answered in clipped tones, how he almost tried once back in Russia but backed out. Shane wanted to push—why did you not go all the way? Were you scared? Did he hurt you? I'm going to fucking kill him if he hurt you—but Ilya had already closed himself off. That night, he left in three minutes instead of five.
But lately, with the both of them relearning each other in the safe haven of Shane's cottage, things have been... different. He's never had Ilya be this honest or open with him in all the time they've known each other, and Shane wants to gather every new piece of him and hold it close, keep it safe, tuck it somewhere no one else can reach. And sometimes, in the afterglow, when Ilya would be flushed and dazed and soft, gazing at Shane unguardingly, Shane has started to wonder: Ilya, would you let me take you apart like this? Would you trust me enough to fall open, to let go, to make you feel good the way you always make me feel good?
It's 8:09 now. Ilya shifts, like even in his sleep, he can feel Shane's eyes on him. He makes a small noise in the back of his throat, lashes fluttering before his eyes slowly open. His gaze finds Shane's almost instantly, and Shane watches as a tentative smile spreads on his face, like the breaking of a new sun.
"Hollander, have you been watching me sleep?" Ilya murmurs, voice still raspy from disuse. "Pervert."
Shane rolls his eyes, even as his heart kickstarts in his ribs. "How are you so annoying when you literally just woke up?"
"It's a very special talent," Ilya says, snuggling closer and pressing his face into Shane's chest with a contented hum. "Morning, sweetheart."
"Good morning, baby." Shane's hand finds Ilya's hair, fingers threading through the tangled curls. He pointedly does not look at the natural arch of Ilya's back, does not think about what he'd look like if he was face-down, ass-up on the bed. He clears his throat. "Are you hungry?"
Wrong thing to say, apparently. Ilya glances at him, the corners of his lips tilting into a smirk as he makes a big show of looking Shane up and down. "Hungry for what?" he asks innocently, raising a brow, and Shane shoves him with an exasperatedly fond laugh.
"For food, asshole. Who's the pervert now?"
Ilya's answering grin is a devastating thing. He stretches across the bed, raising his arms high and exposing the toned lines of his body, and Shane doesn't even hide the fact that he's staring, because, fuck, Ilya is stunning. Ilya winks at him playfully, like he knows exactly what Shane is thinking, before he gets up and trudges towards the bathroom, leaving the door open. Shane can hear him go about his morning routine—the sound of piss, then a flush, then the rush of running water—and it's just so domestic, so wrapped up in a life Shane never thought he'd get to live, that all he wants is to pause time through the sheer power of his mind and keep Ilya here forever. But that's simply not possible, so Shane gets up and makes their bed.
Once Ilya pulls on a pair of sweatpants, they go down to the kitchen together, getting started on breakfast. Shane works on the eggs, cracking them into a bowl and adding just enough spinach and cottage cheese to hit their macros. From beside him, Ilya makes their smoothies—Shane's smoothies, actually, except Shane makes Ilya drink them too now, because they're healthy and good for the gut even if Ilya calls them gross and that it tastes like grass.
Shane's already cooked rice before he went out for his morning run earlier, so once the eggs are done, he plates their food accordingly and sets them up on the table. Him and Ilya take their seats, eating in comfortable silence, and Shane doesn't even realize he's staring at the soft pout of Ilya's lips as he chews his food, not until his boyfriend kicks him lightly on the shin with a socked foot.
"You're quiet today," Ilya says, a small furrow in his brow. Shane wants to reach over and smooth it out. Then he realizes that he can, so he does just that. Like clockwork, Ilya melts into his touch, but his assessing gaze never lets up. He hums, poking his fork through his eggs, eyes never leaving Shane. "Is something wrong?"
Shane just shakes his head, offering a small smile. "Just thinking."
“About what?”
About how I want to try having my dick in your ass, he thinks, doesn't say, because that conversation seems crazy when it's only 8:37 in the morning. He waves his hand vaguely, reaching for his smoothie and taking a sip, if only to avoid Ilya's knowing stare.
"About... things. Hockey."
"Shane," Ilya starts slowly, eyes narrowing, fork pausing in mid-air. "You are really, really bad at lying. Astronomical levels of bad."
"Astronomical?" Shane echoes, lips twitching despite himself. He's suddenly transported to a dingy Vegas bathroom, Ilya just a breath away when Shane had whispered, wow. Genetic.
"Your dad taught me this word. It's almost the same in Russian," Ilya says, shrugging easily, like the thought of Ilya and David bonding doesn't make Shane's heart flip happily in his chest. "Really, Shane, what's wrong?" He pauses, something hesitant flickering across his face. "Is it something I did?"
"What—No!" Shane reaches across the table, taking Ilya's hand. "God, no. You're perfect, Ilya. I'm so happy you're here."
Ilya studies him. His thumb traces small circles on Shane's knuckles. "...But?"
"But—Well, I just..." Shane starts, then trails off when he doesn't quite know how to continue that sentence. He purses his lips, Ilya still staring at him questioningly, but Shane can't really look him in the eye anymore. His eyes drop down, landing on Ilya's mouth—except all that does is bombard him with fifty different images of what Ilya's lips would look like with saliva dripping down his chin, cheeks rosy-red, gazing up at Shane with hazy, galaxy eyes as he lies naked and ruined in their sheets.
And then, because Shane never learned how to control his lovesick mind when it comes to Ilya, that thought is immediately accompanied by the image of Ilya all fucked-out, his blushing face panting with the exertion of keeping his thighs spread, of being taken apart. He thinks about Ilya moaning and whimpering, hole fluttering helplessly as Shane teases it with his tongue, his fingers, his cock thinks about Ilya begging for him, to let him cum—
"Shane?"
—and suddenly Shane's hungry in a completely different way.
"How do you feel about bottoming?" he asks, the words tumbling out in a clumsy rush. Immediately, he wants to slap himself. Why did he say it like that? He wonders if his face looks as hot as it feels, like the force of a thousand suns are blazing on his skin.
Ilya blinks. "..What?"
"Um." Shane clears his throat, fidgeting in his seat, his breakfast long forgotten. "Just—would you be... interested? In bottoming?"
"Is.." Ilya hesitates; Shane can't read the look on his face, and he hates himself for it. "Is that something you want?"
"Yeah," Shane admits softly. "I want it if you want it. I just—" He looks down at the cut-up pieces of his eggs, shrugging helplessly. "I, um, thought of it this morning, when I came back from my run. And now I... I can't seem to stop."
He braces himself for the teasing, for Ilya to grin and call him a perv and make some kind of joke about Shane being insatiable or some shit. But Ilya simply sets his fork down slowly, gaze dropping to his plate, and he's silent for a long, long moment.
Shane's stomach twists.
"We don't have to if it makes you uncomfortable," he says quickly, nearly stumbling in his words. "Really, Ilya, I— I don't want to hurt you. I just thought it might be... nice. To have us switch things up a little."
"Oh." Ilya's shoulders curl inward. He glances up, but his gaze is fixed somewhere far away on the wall behind Shane. "Shane, am I— is this because I'm not satisfying you anymore?"
Shane's heart fucking lurches. "What? No. Ilya—no."
"Am I not doing enough? Am I not—"
"No, baby, that's not it." He's out of his seat before he realizes he's moved, crossing to Ilya's side of the table. He kneels beside him, taking his hands, forcing Ilya to meet his eyes. "I love you, and I love the way you make me feel. And—Jesus, your dick is fucking amazing, okay? I think I'm full-on addicted to it at this point."
He takes it as a win when Ilya huffs out a laugh. "Okay," he says slowly, eyes still searching Shane's. "Then why…?"
"Because I'd like to take care of you, for once," Shane interrupts, and he hopes he's saying the right words. "You're always the one in control—and don't get me wrong, I know you prefer that, and I do too—but I just... I want you to feel what I feel whenever you're inside me. I want you to know how good it can be. And, yeah—" He exhales, a small, embarrassed laugh slipping out of him—"I think it would be really. really hot to have you under me. And I… I would like to do something new with you. To have all of you, if you would let me."
Okay. Okay, that was a bit of a mess, but Shane thinks he might have gotten his intended message across, because Ilya stares at him, eyes wide and gentle in a way that's always reserved just for Shane. He can feel Ilya's hands trembling, just slightly, in his grasp, and when Ilya swallows, Shane's eyes snag on the bob of his throat.
"You already have all of me," Ilya says quietly, the corner of his mouth curving into a barely-there smile. "You've had me for a long time now, Hollander."
Shane smiles, feeling the love he has for this man building into his chest like a sunburst. "You've had me for a long time too, Rozanov. So..." he drifts off, squeezing Ilya's hands tentatively, "Would you want to try it? With me?"
Ilya hums. Gently, he frees his hands from Shane's grasp to continue eating his breakfast, though it must have gone cold at this point. He doesn't answer for a moment, but his foot brushes against Shane's reassuringly. And then, so softly that Shane nearly misses it—
"..Okay."
Shane blinks. And then he forces himself to calm the fuck down when his entire horny, Ilya-addled brain starts perking up and throwing a full-blown parade his skull. "Yeah?" he asks, embarrassingly hopeful, like he's back to being a kid who just got a pair of brand-new skates for Christmas. "And—and you're doing this for yourself, right? Not for me?"
Ilya pauses mid-bite. "I guess I... did think about it. Sometimes. What it would be like if we switched." Shamelessly, his gaze drops down to Shane's crotch, and a playful smirk tugs at his lips. "But you were always such a perfect bottom, so needy and desperate and aching for it—“
"Okay, I get it." Shane flushes, shoving at his shoulder. He gives his boyfriend a pointed look. "But you haven't answered my question."
"Yes, Shane, I'd like your big fat cock inside my big fat ass," Ilya drawls, taking the last bite out of his breakfast. He raises a brow. "Happy?"
"Can you be serious, please?"
Shane must sound pleading enough, because Ilya's expression shifts, the playfulness softening into something more genuine. "I want it, Shane," he promises. "Really. I- I trust you."
Something giddy blooms in Shane's chest. Fuck. He likes this man so much. He doesn't even realize he's smiling—all dopey and soft, probably—until Ilya pokes his cheek with a grin.
"Sweetheart," he says, amusement coloring his voice, "your eggs have gone cold."
The eggs have definitely gone cold, but Shane, for lack of better words, doesn't really give a fuck anymore. His breakfast is the last thing on his mind when all he wants to do is take Ilya to bed right fucking now and worship him the way he deserves.
Still. Macros are important.
"Why don't you go ahead and take a shower?" he offers, already starting to gather their plates. "I can finish up here and wash the dishes."
"Oh," Ilya says, eyes widening, the tips of his ears going pink. His lips curl, like he's biting back a bemused smile. "You want to fuck me now?"
Shane's face instantly goes hot. Was that not obvious? "I—yeah? I mean, we don't have to!" He's rambling now, feeling flustered. "We can do it whenever you're ready. There's no rush. I just thought—“
But Ilya's already leaning in, cutting him off with a kiss that is soft and sweet and tastes like the berries from his smoothie. Shane instinctively melts into it, his hand coming up to cup Ilya's jaw, and when Ilya pulls back, his eyes are bright and fond.
"I want it too," he says quietly. "I'll go shower."
And then he's gone, heading back upstairs, leaving Shane alone in the kitchen with a stack of cold eggs and a heart so full it almost hurts.
He shoves the rest of his breakfast into his mouth, just so he can avoid running after Ilya to join him in the bathroom. Maybe Shane could show Ilya how he preps. Maybe, one day, he could even help Ilya with it. But the thought of Ilya bent over and spread open, with Shane behind and staring at the most intimate part of him, checking if he's clean and ready, has Shane's dick twitching in obvious interest. He wonders what Ilya's hole would look like, if it's pink or red or something darker with pigmentation, if he might have moles hidden around it. He wonders how sensitive Ilya might be there. And then he forces himself to stop thinking about his boyfriend's hole, and the clock reads 9:05 when he finally manages to get a hold of himself and finish washing the damn dishes.
By the time he makes it upstairs, his heart is pounding in a way that, frankly, feels ridiculous. He's already showered after his run, so he's clean and he's ready and he's been thinking about this all damn morning. But now that it's actually happening, now that Ilya is in the bathroom with the water running, Shane feels like he's back in that fateful hotel room after their CCM shoot, jittery and nervous as he waits for Ilya to knock on his door.
He sits on the edge of their bed. Tries to calm himself. Fails spectacularly.
He's still failing when the bathroom door finally opens, and Ilya steps out in nothing but a towel wrapped low around his hips. His curls are soft and freshly blow-dried, still a little damp at the ends, and the towel clings to the sharp jut of his hip bones, the golden skin of his stomach, the strong lines of his thighs. Water still beads in the dip of his collarbones.
There must be something in Shane's body language—maybe it's the way his breath catches, or the way his fingers twitch against the duvet, or the blatant way his eyes slowly trail down Ilya's body—because Ilya's lips curl into a knowing smirk.
"Someone seems eager," he teases. Shane just rolls his eyes.
He gestures for Ilya to come closer, grabbing for his hand until they're inches apart. He gazes up at Ilya, his fingers playing with the knot of his towel, unraveling it until it drops with a soft thud on the floor, not bothering to hide the hearts that are probably pooling out of his eyes.
"You're so handsome," Shane says, a little dazed, and he can hear the adoration clear in his voice.
He gets a firsthand view to the way Ilya's eyes go a little soft, a little vulnerable, and he leans in until his beautiful bare body is half on Shane's lap. "You are handsome too," he says, reaching down to hold Shane's jaw. "My sweet Hollander."
Shane tilts his head up, leaning into the touch. "I love you."
Ilya smiles. "I love you more." He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to Shane's forehead. "Now, are you going to fuck me, or will you just stare at my sexy body all day?"
Breathing out a laugh, Shane's hands settle on Ilya's waist, pulling him down and deftly maneuvering them until Ilya's flat against the bed, his curls pooled beneath his head. Ilya makes a little noise of surprise, and then he's staring at Shane with flushed cheeks and a parted mouth, the way he always does when Shane uses his strength in bed. He can feel Ilya's half-hard dick pressing against his thigh from where he's straddling Ilya's hips.
"I will fuck you," he asserts. "But I'm gonna take my time, open you up slowly. And you'll be good for me and tell me if anything hurts. Okay?"
Ilya swallows, eyes going dazed. "Okay," he repeats, nodding for good measure, and Shane preens.
They've rarely switched dynamics like this before, and certainly not with Shane as the top. Sure, sometimes he'd take control and ride Ilya into next Sunday, until Ilya was slack-jawed and whimpering and begging Shane to let him cum. But not like this, with Ilya on the receiving end.
Still, it's Ilya. Ilya, who Shane has known since he was seventeen. Ilya, who trusts Shane enough to grant him this.
So Shane relaxes, feels Ilya melt from his touch in turn. He catalogues his boyfriend's face—the rosiness of his cheeks, the shape of his cupid's bow, the flecks of blue-green color in his irises—and thinks, yeah. Being here with Ilya, loving him like this, is what Shane was made to do.
It's with that thought that he finally dips down, crashing their lips against each other.
Kissing Ilya is electric. It always has been. From that very first time in a cramped hotel room when they were nineteen and trembling, to now, years later, in their own bed with morning light spilling across the sheets. It still feels like lightning under Shane's skin, like his veins are humming with something that could power entire cities. Love and want and need, all tangled together, thrumming through him with every press of Ilya's lips against his.
Shane leads this time, and Ilya lets him. He feels Ilya go pliant beneath him, feels the way his hands find Shane's shoulders and cling, feels the moan that slips out of him and into Shane's mouth. And the kiss deepens, grows hungrier, until Shane's head is spinning and he's pretty sure he could do this forever, could drown in Ilya and never come up for air, and still die happy.
He parts Ilya's lips with his own, slipping his tongue inside, and Ilya makes this sound—soft and broken and so wonderfully undone—that goes straight to Shane's dick. The kiss turns messier, more desperate, all slick heat and the taste of mint from Ilya's toothpaste. He feels Ilya arch into him, and Ilya's hands find Shane's waist, gripping, tugging at the hem of his shirt like he's trying to pull him closer, pull him under, pull him all the way in. Shane groans against his mouth, his hand finding the bare skin of Ilya's hip, and Ilya shudders beneath him.
Shane pulls back just far enough to breathe, his forehead pressing against Ilya's. "Okay?" he asks. Jesus, he sounds wrecked.
Ilya's eyes flutter open. They're dark, hazy, pupils blown wide. "More," he croaks out, and it's music to Shane's ears. "Fuck, Shane, please. More."
And who is Shane to deny him when Ilya looks so pretty like this, asking so nicely?
He leans down, pressing one last, sweet kiss to Ilya's lips, before he pulls back and sits up. He reaches for the hem of his shirt and tugs it off, fumbling a little in his haste, and he tosses it somewhere across the room. He doesn't really care where it lands. All he cares about is the way Ilya's eyes go dark, trailing down his chest hungrily. It makes a shiver go down Shane's spine.
Ilya's hands find him immediately, palms sliding up his stomach, over his ribs, fingers splaying across his chest, before finally landing on Shane's shoulders. He traces the faint scar located there, and as much as Shane loves Ilya's touch—will always love Ilya's touch—he doesn't let himself get distracted. He's a man on a mission.
Dipping down, he moves his lips to Ilya's neck, right below his jaw, and Ilya tilts his head back with a soft, breathy sound. It's dizzying, having Ilya be so docile under him, so Shane kisses lower, trailing his mouth down the column of Ilya's throat, over the delicate skin where his pulse flutters. He pauses at the cross necklace resting between Ilya's pecs, pressing a kiss to the small mole just beneath it. Ilya's panting now, and Shane merely smiles from the ragged curse that slips from Ilya's lips.
He inches lower, mouthing over the moles scattered across Ilya's chest. And Ilya has a very impressive chest. It makes Shane feel almost regretful for not touching his boyfriend here as much as he should. He's only ever palmed Ilya's pecs in passing, in a frenzy, because it was usually Ilya squeezing Shane's chest like a fucking stress ball. Now, though, he wonders...
He leaves a fleeting kiss on Ilya's sternum. Then, he shifts, closing his mouth on Ilya's right nipple—and Ilya jolts like he's been shocked.
"Fuck," Ilya gasps, hands tightening on Shane's shoulders. "Oh god, Shane.”
Shane merely hums, which makes Ilya groan and tip his head back, and Shane has to hide the grin he's sure is growing on his face. God, his boyfriend is so hot. He uses his tongue to circle the sensitive bud, his teeth grazing against it, and Shane watches Ilya's lips part in a soundless moan. He files the image away somewhere sacred.
He pulls off with one last flick of his tongue, feeling concerningly lightheaded over the way Ilya's nipple goes puffy under his mouth. "You rarely let me touch you here," Shane says with a pointed look. He brings a hand up to lightly pinch Ilya's other bud, relishing in the way Ilya's hips twitch and his hands fly up to grasp at Shane's wrist, though Shane is unsure whether Ilya's trying to pull him off or keep him there. "You like it?"
Ilya's answer is a strangled sound that might be a yes.
So Shane does it again, gently prying Ilya's hands and redirecting them back to his shoulders. He laves his tongue over the dusky peak before sucking it gently. The action has Ilya's back bending beautifully off the sheets, his fingers moving to tangle in Shane's hair. So Shane continues teasing Ilya's chest, licking and nipping and tasting the remnants of Ilya's body soap.
Finally, he pulls off. "Still okay?" he asks.
"Yes," Ilya says breathlessly. "Jesus, Hollander, you're such a tease."
Shane simply grins. "Well, I learned from the best."
He doesn't give Ilya time to refute, dipping down to press his lips to the mole just below Ilya's ribs, then another to the cluster trailing down his stomach. He takes his time, kissing the expanse of skin, following the path of moles leading downwards. He flicks his tongue out, licking a slow line up the ridges of Ilya's abs, and Ilya shudders beneath him, a shaky exhale escaping his lips.
Shane nuzzles into the soft dark hair trailing down from Ilya's navel, breathing him in, feeling the way the muscles of Ilya's stomach flutter under his touch. Then he shifts lower, settling himself between Ilya's spread thighs, and looks up at him through his lashes.
Ilya's chest is heaving. He looks half-gone already, lips parted and swollen, the prettiest rosy flush painted on his cheeks, and the image of it sends electricity down Shane's spine. He did that.
"You've gotta relax, baby," he soothes, his thumb brushing circles on the tense muscle of Ilya's inner thigh. Ilya's sensitive here, on the plush skin near his crotch, so Shane's touch has him squirming. And, god, Shane loves it when he gets to make Ilya squirm, but still. "Are you sure you still want this?"
"I want it," Ilya breathes out, gazing up at Shane through half-lidded eyes. He pauses, his throat working around a nervous swallow. "It's just—it's new for me. So. I might be bad at this."
"You?" Shane gapes, before his mouth tugs into a frown. "You're perfect, Ilya. I'm the one who should be worried considering my disastrous topping experiences." The memory of those two awkward, fumbling attempts with Rose has him grimacing. He doesn't miss the way Ilya's brows pull together, a flicker of annoyance flashing across his face—that familiar jealousy that always surfaces whenever Shane’s ex-girlfriends are mentioned—and he sighs fondly. "But, baby, I wasn't interested in them. I'm interested in you. And if we both end up hating it, we can just switch back to our usual positions. Okay?"
Ilya exhales, nodding. "Okay."
Shane presses a kiss to his inner thigh, right where the skin is soft and sensitive. Ilya shivers under his lips. "I'll make it good for you," Shane promises against his skin. "Just relax for me, hm?"
He lowers his head, taking Ilya's hard dick into his mouth, and it's familiar—the weight of him on his tongue, the taste, the way Ilya's cock twitches and spills pre-cum against Shane's lips. It's the same rhythm he's learned over years of being with Ilya: he knows exactly how much pressure he needs to put to make Ilya's breath hitch, knows when to suck, knows when to pull off and lick the tip until Ilya's hips buck off the bed.
Ilya's hand finds his hair, fingers curling, and a low groan escapes him. "Fuck, Shane."
Shane hums, the vibration making Ilya's thighs spasm, and he works his way down slowly, taking more of him, tasting the musk and warmth of him in his mouth. He lets his tongue drag along the underside, trying to get his boyfriend nice and loose before they eventually move on, and Shane knows he's successful when he feels the tension in Ilya's body start to ease from under him.
His hands roam up and down Ilya's legs, palms sliding over the hard muscle of his quads, trailing down the soft skin of his inner thighs, then pressing into the sensitive crease where leg meets hip. Ilya shudders and moans, a soft sound slipping out of him that's almost dreamy. When Shane hollows his cheeks and takes him deeper, Ilya responds with a rough groan.
His boyfriend has gone boneless now, so Shane takes the opportunity to spread his thighs wider, just a little, just enough. His fingers trail lower, feather-light, ghosting over the sensitive skin beneath Ilya's balls, and he hears Ilya's breath stutter, hips rutting against the sheets. Shane hitches one of Ilya's legs up, hooking it over his shoulder, and Ilya somehow doesn't even notice—too far gone, too lost in the wet heat of Shane's mouth.
Tentatively, Shane's fingers blindly find Ilya's rim, soft and warm, and he traces a gentle circle around the entrance, feeling it flutter around him. It's a barely-there touch, except—
Except Ilya reacts like he's been struck. His whole body jolts, a choked gasp ripping from his throat, and before either of them can process what's happening, he's spilling into Shane's mouth, hot and sudden and completely unexpected.
Shane gags, coughing slightly, but he stays where he is, lips working against Ilya's cock as he milks him through it. It's only when Shane finally pulls off, eyes wide, does he stare down at Ilya—who's catching his breath, hands covering his face in embarrassment—and the whole sight of it makes Shane's entire brain blue-screen, his own dick throbbing with a want so sharp it almost hurts.
"Oh my god," Ilya groans, dragging his palms down his face. He sits up on his elbows, slightly wincing as he stares at Shane in horror. "I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry. That has never—I don't—"
"Ilya..." Shane starts, jaw slack. Fuck. He's so turned on right now. His brain feels like a scrambled mess of holy shit and that was the sexiest thing I've ever seen and I can't believe I just made Ilya Rozanov cum like that, and he realizes he's grinning like a maniac. "Ilya, that was so fucking hot."
Ilya blinks, cheeks still burning red. "What?"
"You just—" Shane gestures vaguely. "I barely even touched you. And you—" He laughs, breathless and disbelieving. "That was one of the hottest things I've ever seen, baby."
"Hot?" Ilya echoes incredulously. "Shane, I feel humiliated right now. Do you know how much it takes to embarrass me?"
Shaking his head fondly, Shane leans down to press a kiss to Ilya's forehead. "I'm serious, Ilya. You have nothing to be embarrassed about. That was..." He tries to tamper down his delighted smile. "I liked making you come quickly for once."
"Pervert," Ilya huffs, but there's a reluctant smile tugging on his lips.
Shane rolls his eyes, catching that smile with a quick, chaste kiss. "Says you," he quips lightly against Ilya's mouth. He feels Ilya's lips curve even wider under his.
Pulling back, Shane reaches for the nightstand drawer. His fingers find their trusty bottle of lube and a foil packet—he's had Ilya fuck him without condoms throughout their time at the cottage, but he's not sure if Ilya would want that for himself—and he sets them on the mattress beside them, his heart picking up speed again. The sight of Ilya sprawled beneath him makes his chest hurt wonderfully.
"We don't have to do this," he reminds softly, one hand finding Ilya's. "We can stop right now. We can wait. Whatever you want."
Ilya's fingers simply curl around his. "I want this," he promises. "I want you. I trust you, Shane."
It's just a few words, yet Shane feels like he could move mountains. He lifts Ilya's hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. "Okay. Then—" He steadies himself, letting his gaze drag down Ilya's gorgeous body before meeting his eyes. and he hears his own voice turn rough. "Turn over for me. Come on, baby, on your knees. I want to see you."
Ilya's eyebrows shoot up, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. "Bossy."
Shane merely smiles. "You said you trusted me. So trust me." He reaches out, fingers lightly squeezing Ilya's waist. "I want to take care of you. Let me."
Ilya, for once, doesn't put up a fight. He gets into position, only slightly unsteady from his earlier orgasm, until he's on his elbows and knees. He shifts his hips higher, and having Ilya like this—open and trusting and spread out all stunningly just for Shane to take—knocks the air right out from his lungs.
"Like this?" Ilya asks, his voice muffled against the pillow.
Shane swallows. Hard. His hands find Ilya's hips, thumbs pressing into the dip of his lower back. The position has Ilya's ass on full display, round and full and jiggling just slightly with every micro-movement of his hips. Almost like Ilya's presenting himself, offering himself up, and Shane thinks he might be drooling. Every coherent thought in his head has evaporated into a haze of pure, primal want.
Fuck, his dick is aching.
"Yeah," he manages to breathe out. "Fuck, Ilya, you're perfect." Then, petting the side of Ilya's thigh, Shane adds, "Tell me if anything feels wrong, or if you want to stop. Promise me."
Ilya turns his head, glancing over his shoulder. "I promise."
Shane leans down, pressing a kiss to Ilya's hipbone. "Good boy," he murmurs, and he feels Ilya shiver beneath him.
His palms move to Ilya's cheeks, thumbs pressing into the soft, plush curve of his ass. He spreads him open carefully with trembling fingers, hearing Ilya suck in a sharp breath, and then Shane stops.
And stares.
He can't help it. He's seen Ilya everywhere, tasted him everywhere, except here. He watches the flutter of Ilya's hole, pink and clean and all puckered up, and it's dizzying. His eyes latch on the light fuzz of hair, the way the skin turns darker further inside, softer and more sensitive, and he's pleased to see there are moles around Ilya's rim—just two small ones towards the left. Ilya's hole clenches around nothing but air, and Shane's throat is suddenly very, very dry.
It's only when Ilya lets out a flustered huff, nudging Shane with his foot, does Shane finally jolt out of his daze. "Are you checking me out, Hollander?" Ilya asks, having twisted his head around, eyebrows raised in a mix of embarrassment and amusement. He's blushing, cheeks colored a lovely shade of pink, and Shane's lizard brain wants to devour him whole.
Or devour his hole. Whatever. Same thing.
"Sorry," he chuckles, but it comes out shaky. "I just— you're so pretty down here, baby."
Ilya groans, probably in mortification, and Shane almost wants to say ha! Now you know how I feel. "It's just an asshole, Shane."
"Yeah, but it's your asshole."
"That doesn't even— oh, fuck—"
The rest of Ilya's protest dissolves into a startled gasp when Shane leans in, pressing a long, wet kiss to Ilya's rim, and he feels Ilya's whole body jerk in response. He breathes him in, the action warm and intimate, and his exhales ghost over the sensitive skin, making Ilya twitch and shiver.
Then Shane pulls back slightly, and starts pressing kisses around the curve of Ilya's ass—his cheek, the swell of it, the vulnerable skin just beside his hole. He nips gently, drags his teeth over the plush flesh, licks Ilya's taint all over with his tongue until Ilya is moaning wreckedly. Shit, why haven't they done this sooner? If anyone came looking for him, they'd have to pry him away, because Shane could stay buried in Ilya forever.
"Shane," Ilya whines, squirming. "Shane, what are you—"
"Just appreciating you," Shane murmurs against his skin, leaving another kiss to the inside of his thigh, and Ilya's breath hitches.
"You are killing me, Hollander."
Shane laughs, low and warm. "Sorry, baby," he says, nuzzling apologetically to the reddened skin. "I just wanna savor this. You look so cute when you're flustered."
"What?" Ilya turns just enough to glare, though it's immediately rendered ineffective with the way his ears are still tinged pink and his eyes have gone glazed. "I have my ass in front of your face, and you're calling me cute?"
"And hot," Shane adds. "You're also very, very hot like this, Ilya."
Ilya huffs, probably about to make another snarky comment, but Shane doesn't give him the chance. He leans in without warning, spreading Ilya's cheeks even further and dragging his tongue in a slow, firm stripe over the warm furl of muscle, and Ilya makes a choked, desperate sound that Shane feels vibrate through his entire body.
"Fuck," Ilya moans, arching his back into Shane's hold. "Oh, fuck, Shane—"
Shane feels his head spin with unbearable arousal. He watches the heated flush creep down Ilya's neck, across his shoulder blades, and he's never seen anything so breathtaking.
"Look at you," he murmurs against Ilya's skin. "So pretty for me. I've never seen you like this, baby."
Ilya's only response is a shaky exhale and the tremble of his hips as he pushes back, seeking more. Emboldened, Shane does it again, pressing his tongue flat and broad, laving over the sensitive skin until Ilya's hips stutter and his hands fist in the sheets. It's a first for both of them—Shane has never done this to anyone before, never wanted to. But this is Ilya, and Shane has spent years on the receiving end of Ilya's devoted attention. He knows what feels good. He's learned from the best, after all.
Teasingly, he starts drawing tight little circles around Ilya's pucker with the tip of his tongue, giving quick little kitten-licks until he can feel Ilya's thighs trembling under his fingers, all these gorgeous moans and breathy whimpers slipping from his lips. It's intoxicating, so Shane keeps licking, sucking on Ilya's rim and flicking his tongue into it, relishing in the way Ilya writhes. But Shane holds him steady.
Distantly, he can feel himself growing impossibly harder, straining in his boxers with the sheer want to fuck Ilya senseless. But Ilya's reactions to having his hole eaten out like this is just so hot. Shane kind of wants to bite him.
So he does just that, biting into Ilya's right asscheek in a way that makes Ilya cry out, burying his head into the pillow. Shane simply soothes the bite with a lick of his tongue, laving against the soft, flushed skin, before dipping his tongue back inside.
"Please," Ilya chokes out, just as Shane starts working him open sloppily, alternating between broad, fat strokes and teasing flicks that have Ilya shaking in his hold. He turns his head just enough to gaze at Shane with glassy eyes. "Shane, fuck, please."
Reluctantly, Shane pulls off, pressing a lingering kiss to the swell of Ilya's ass. His gaze zeroes in on to the sight of his boyfriend's rim, colored red and swollen and dripping with his spit. It's all just so lewd.
"Please what?" he asks innocently, bringing his other hand up to trace featherlight circles over Ilya's pretty little pucker, watching the way it flutters and clenches helplessly.
"Fuck me," Ilya groans, his voice raw. There's sweat beading at the soft dimples of his back, and Shane wants to lick it clean. "Please fuck me. I can't—I want you inside. Please."
Shane sucks in a breath. How often does he get to have Ilya Rozanov begging for his cock in bed? He uses one hand to palm himself through his sweatpants—which, for some reason, he's completely forgotten to take off with how focused he was on Ilya's pleasure
"Not yet, baby," he coos softly, even though every fiber of his being is screaming at him to just push in and feel Ilya all around him. But he knows better, and he doesn't want to cause his boyfriend pain. "You're not ready for my cock yet."
Ilya whines, high and desperate and so unlike his usual composed self that Shane's dick is making a mess in his boxers despite not being touched. "Shane—"
"I know." Shane kisses the small of his back. "I know you want it. But I want this to feel good for you. I want you to remember this as something good, okay? So just—trust me."
"I do trust you," Ilya breathes out, the words slightly muffled by the pillow, and Shane's heart swells.
He presses another chaste kiss to Ilya's lower back, and it's then that he notices the fine tremble running through Ilya's legs, the way his thighs are quivering with the effort of holding himself up. The position has been good for access, but Shane knows firsthand how it can take a toll.
"Flip over," he says gently. "I want to see you."
Ilya hesitates for just a second.
Then, slowly, he shifts. He rolls onto his back, his limbs moving like they're weighted down, and when he finally settles against the mattress, gazing up at him, it hits Shane like a sucker punch to his stomach.
Ilya looks wrecked. His chest is heaving, his skin flushed practically everywhere. His pupils are blown so wide there's barely any blue left, his lips turned red and swollen from biting them. Sweat has plastered his curls to his forehead, and there's a sheen of it across his collarbones, his stomach, the dip of his hips. He looks utterly debauched, and Shane hasn't even gotten inside him yet.
Shane has to bite down on his own groan, his jaw going tight with the effort of holding himself together.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You have no idea what you look like right now."
Ilya's lips curve into a weak, hazy smile. "Sexy?" he asks teasingly.
Shane shakes his head. "Beautiful."
Beautiful doesn't even begin to cover it. Ilya's bright and breathtaking and golden, always has been. Still, Ilya looks surprised by the confession, his cheeks turning an impossible shade of fever-red as his mouth drops into a silent oh.
It's here where Shane's patience starts running thin. There's a beautiful boy laid out under him, golden skin against blue sheets, and Shane needed to get inside Ilya's ass yesterday.
So he grabs for a pillow, nudging Ilya to lift up and placing it beneath his hips. He reaches for the lube, uncaps it, and coats his fingers. "Tell me if it hurts, okay?" he says, and Ilya nods, desperate, pulling his knees to his chest and exposing his puffy hole once more.
God. What a fucking vision that is.
Gently, Shane presses the tip of his finger against Ilya's entrance and, fuck, Ilya is tight. Shane watches his face—his brow furrows, and his lips part as he lets out a hitched breath—and he pushes in, just a little more, feeling the heat of him.
"Good?" Shane asks.
"A bit weird," Ilya admits shakily, twitching like he's trying to stay still. "But good weird." He gasps as Shane wiggles in deeper. "Oh god, Shane—"
Shane smiles a little, remembering the first time Ilya did this to him. Ilya had been so patient, so careful, so young, talking him through every sensation. He wants to do that for Ilya now, wants to be the one holding him through it.
He hooks one of Ilya's thick thighs over his shoulder and works his finger in a slow, steady rhythm, eyes never leaving his boyfriend's face. Eventually, the crease in Ilya's brow smooths out as he gets used to the feeling, and his lips part on a soft exhale. Shane notes the way his legs shake when Shane curls his finger just so, how his breath catches when Shane presses deeper.
"Okay," he says softly. "I'm going to add another now."
He eases a second finger in, slow and careful, and Ilya lets out a shuddering moan. His hands find the sheets, gripping, and his jaw tightens. Shane watches him adjust—watches the way his throat works, the way his eyes flutter closed, the way his body slowly starts to open up for him.
"Fuck," Ilya gasps, tipping his head back. "Fuck, Shane, I can't—"
"You can. You're doing so well," Shane cuts in softly, pressing a kiss to Ilya's knee. "So good, baby. Just breathe."
Ilya nods, throat bobbing as he exhales. He's still hard—mostly—but Shane notices it's softened. He doesn't worry though, not when Ilya's still making those soft, breathy sounds of pleasure, still pressing his hips back into Shane's hand.
His own dick, on the other hand, is so fucking hard he thinks it might burst.
But today is about Ilya. So he continues stretching his boyfriend out, fingers moving in a gentle scissoring motion, loosening him. And then, Shane curls his fingers, searching and searching, until—
Ilya's eyes fly open, a shocked, punched-out sound tearing from his throat.
"Found it," Shane murmurs, a grin spreading across his face.
He presses against that spot again, rubbing it teasingly, circling the pad of his finger against Ilya's prostate until Ilya is shaking beneath him. He delights in the string of Russian that slips past Ilya's lips, his chest heaving and his legs spreading wider, shameless and needy as he chases the sensation. Shane watches with rapt attention as Ilya's lips fall open with a sound that's almost a sob.
"Shane, fuck," Ilya keens, hips bucking up helplessly.
"I got you, baby." Shane adds a third finger, slower this time, and Ilya's breath stutters. "Feels good, hm?"
Ilya's tighter now, the stretch more intense, but he's also so responsive, so beautifully laid out, that Shane can't look away. His gaze darts over Ilya's face, checking for any sign of discomfort, but all he sees is heated pleasure. Ilya groans when Shane eases his fingers back, and his eyes go glassy when Shane finds his prostate again.
By the time he's properly worked three fingers into Ilya, moving in a nice, steady rhythm, Ilya is a gorgeous, ruined mess beneath him. His skin is slick with sweat, cheeks painted in a permanent blush. And then, Shane notices it—the way Ilya's eyes are rimmed with tears, wet and glassy and threatening to spill over, and something primal and hot and possessive surges through his chest, so strong it nearly knocks him over.
He got Ilya to look like that. He can't even bring himself to care about all of llya's past hook-ups anymore, because he'll be the only one to ever see Ilya like this.
"Please," Ilya chokes out, breaking him away from his thoughts. "Shane, please, I need you—I need—"
Shane's heart pounds. He pulls his fingers out slowly, and Ilya shudders at the loss.
"You have me," Shane promises, his voice rough. "You did so good, Ilya. So perfect for me."
Ilya makes a desperate sound, and he reaches clumsily for Shane, pulling him down into a kiss that's all teeth and tongue and need. Shane groans into Ilya's warm mouth, rolling his hips down to rub their erections together, before pulling away.
He makes quick work of finally shucking his sweatpants and underwear in one fluid motion, not missing the way Ilya's eyes go dark once he's finally undressed. Shane smirks a little, kissing Ilya's knee. He reaches for the lube and the foil packet haphazardly laid beside him, but Ilya's hand catches his wrist, stopping him.
"No condom," Ilya pants. "I want to feel you."
Shane's eyes nearly bulge out of his head. "You want me to fuck you raw?!"
"Please, Shane."
Jesus. For as much as Shane is in optimal health, he's certain Ilya might actually send him into early cardiac arrest if he keeps this up. The thought of being inside Ilya with nothing between them, when they've only ever done this a few times and the other way around, has his cock about to blow right off.
"Are you sure?" he manages, his voice cracking. "Ilya, are you absolutely sure?"
"Yes," Ilya says, frantic and breathless. "Yes, fuck, I want to feel you, I want all of you, just please, please get inside me already."
Really, that's all the permission Shane needs. He tosses the condom aside, slicks himself up with lube, and positions himself at Ilya's hole. Slowly, he presses the tip of his cock inside, and the heat of Ilya is utterly overwhelming—tight and impossibly warm and so fucking good Shane's vision goes white for a second.
Ilya moans, loud and wrecked, his head falling back against the pillow. "Oh god, sweetheart—"
"Shh," Shane soothes, even as his own voice shakes with the effort of not cumming in five seconds flat. "You're so tight, baby. Can you relax for me?"
Ilya nods weakly, and Shane pushes in a little more, feeling Ilya's body tighten impossibly around him. A tear slips down Ilya's cheek as he gasps at the intrusion, and Shane is taken back to the first time Ilya had fucked him. He wonders if Ilya feels the same way Shane had felt that night, if he's being just as good to Ilya as Ilya was to him.
He feels Ilya trembling beneath him, so Shane leans down to kiss his cheek, his lips, the corner of his perfect pink mouth.
"Still okay?" he asks breathlessly, and Ilya's legs hitch higher around his waist in response, bringing him deeper.
"More," Ilya chokes out. "You can go harder. Please."
Shane doesn't need to be told twice.
He pushes in fully, burying himself to the hilt, and the feeling—god, the feeling of Ilya wrapped around him, impossibly hot and impossibly addicting—has him seeing stars. He has to pause, has to breathe, has to remind himself once again not to come right there and then, no matter how incredible Ilya looks and sounds and feels.
And he's Shane's. No one else gets to see Ilya spread out and wrecked and starry-eyed. No one else gets to feel how tight and warm and perfect he is, the way he clenches around Shane's cock like he was simply made for it. Shane feels insane. Ilya makes him feel so insane.
He starts moving—slow, shallow thrusts that make Ilya gasp and moan and clutch at his shoulders. He's so beautiful like this, it makes Shane ache. He wants to bite into Ilya's soft underbelly and dig in. He wants to meld their bodies together until they lose the shape of themselves, like maybe then he'll get to keep Ilya forever—inside his lungs, beneath his flesh, cradled in his ribcage like a second heartbeat.
He moves Ilya's thighs a little higher, changing the angle, and Ilya's eyes fly open, a sharp, desperate cry tearing from his throat. "There," he pleads, mouth falling open. "пожалуйста, Shane, right there—"
Shane grins, pounding against that spot with every thrust. "Yeah, baby? Right here?"
"Yes—yes, fuck—"
Shane picks up his pace, the rhythm growing harder, more frenzied. His entire world has narrowed down to this: to the heat of Ilya's skin and the sounds spilling out of his lips. It's like Ilya's suffocating him, dragging him inside. Shane groans as he thrusts in and out and in again, making the bed squeak recklessly from under them, though the sound is nothing compared to Ilya's own pretty moans.
And then, when Shane hits a spot just right, Ilya positively sobs, back arching gorgeously into Shane's hold.
"Shane," Ilya pants, chest heaving. "I can't—I'm so close—"
"God, Ilya," Shane groans. He pulls back, feeling Ilya clench uselessly around him, just to slam right in and make Ilya keen. "You gonna come untouched for me?"
Ilya swears in Russian, eyes fully squeezing shut, only to reopen and roll backwards. He wraps his leg tighter around Shane, keeping him there—as if Shane would even want to be anywhere else.
And Shane's barely holding on, the coil in his stomach tightening with every thrust into Ilya's heat. He feels Ilya bring his arms around his back, and Shane lets himself be dragged down into a sloppy, frantic kiss. Shane tries to maintain his pace, does his best to touch Ilya just right. He pistons his hips, pushing deep into Ilya's hole, drinking in every moan and whine and breathless plea.
Their breaths tangle together, a messy chorus of sounds that fill the room. Shane loses himself in the rhythm of his hips, the way Ilya's body takes him in perfectly.
He can tell they're both close now, especially when he catches the tell-tale trembling of Ilya's thighs, the way his untouched cock leaks copious amounts of pre-cum all over his happy trail. Emotion swells inside Shane's chest, so vast and all-consuming that he has no choice but to kiss Ilya again. He wonders if Ilya can feel it—the love spilling directly from Shane's lips into his. When drool starts to slip from the corner of Ilya's mouth. Shane chases it with his tongue, licking it away, and Ilya moans against him, broken and overwhelmed.
Ilya turns his face away, burying it in the pillow like he's trying to hide. But Shane won't let him. Not now, when this is the most beautiful thing Shane's ever seen.
He grips Ilya's chin, turning his head back till their eyes meet.
"Look at me," he says, his voice rough, frazzled. "I want to see you. I'm going to make you cum, Rozanov, and I want to see your face when you do."
Ilya's eyes are glassy, wet with tears. "Fuck, Hollander."
With his free hand, Shane reaches down, wrapping his fingers around Ilya's length and stroking him in time with his thrusts. Just a few times—short, quick tugs that have Ilya crying out, his blunt nails scratching down Shane's shoulders hard enough to leave marks. Ilya's mouth falls open on a silent scream, and Shane watches the way pleasure rips through him, the way his eyes squeeze shut and his body tightens and then he's coming, spilling over Shane's hand and his own stomach.
Shane feels Ilya pulse and shudder through the aftershocks, and the sight of Ilya's face—unraveled and ecstatic and so, so beautiful—sends Shane crashing over the edge with a groan that's almost a sob. He buries himself deep, spilling into Ilya, and he comes harder than he's come... ever? In his entire life? Shane doesn't know for sure, but he rides it out and dips down till their lips meet for the nth time that day, thrusting into Ilya as he whimpers sweetly into Shane's mouth.
When they come down from their high, Shane finally slumps against Ilya's limp, sweat-slicked body. It should be gross, but Shane doesn't even register it, not when Ilya looks absolutely heavenly from where he's sprawled underneath him, his curls splayed like a halo around his head. His chest rises and falls in uneven bursts, skin stained a bruised pink, and there's this glazed, fucked-out look in his eyes when he glances at Shane.
It makes Shane's stomach swoop. He forces himself to bite back another silly love confession.
He's the first to move, pressing a soft, tender kiss to Ilya's forehead.
"Was that good?" he asks, holding back a sheepish smile.
Ilya gapes, staring at him indignantly, like the question itself is an insult. "Good?" he echoes, but his voice is scraped raw from all the sounds he'd been making, and Shane feels a fresh wave of heat pool in his belly. "Shane, that was fucking incredible. I don't think I will even walk for the rest of the day." He glances at the clock on Shane's nightstand and makes a little squawk at the back of his throat. "And it's only 10 am!"
Shane's lips twitch, his chest puffing with a ridiculous amount of pride. He leans down and plants a quick, light kiss to Ilya's mouth. Then he looks down at the obvious sticky mess on his boyfriend's stomach, and reality crashes back in.
"We should probably clean up," he sighs softly.
Ilya merely groans, dragging a lazy hand over his eyes. "Hollander," he complains, "you're literally glowing from the incredible, mind-boggling sex we just had. Why would you want to move now? Can't we bathe in this afterglow?"
"We can bathe in the afterglow when my dick still isn't lodged inside you," Shane points out matter-of-factly, rolling his eyes. "Plus, don't you feel gross?"
"Don't care," Ilya mumbles, but Shane is already moving, pulling out slowly, carefully.
Except Ilya's breath hitches, and his body clenches around Shane like he's trying to keep him there. Shane's jaw goes tight, his dick giving a valiant, exhausted twitch at the feeling.
"Ilya," he says warningly, pointedly not dwelling on how Ilya's hole flutters around him. Ilya huffs, relaxing, and Shane finally pulls out. He looks down, and his brain practically blacks out at the sight.
He can see himself spilling from Ilya's rim—a thin, pearly trail slipping out, mixing with the remnants of lube. He's transfixed, utterly entranced by the evidence of his own cum seeping out of Ilya's body, marking him, claiming Ilya as his. He circles a finger over Ilya's hole, pushing the spill back inside like he can leave this trace of himself there.
"What—oh." Ilya jolts, his whole body twitching, and another deep flush crawls up his neck.
"Fuck," Shane breathes out, gaze snagged on the way Ilya's swollen rim pulses under his touch. "Christ, Ilya, that's so hot."
Ilya lets out a soft moan, his legs spasming like it wants to close. "Shane—" he starts, his voice shaky.
"Hm?" Shane pokes, fingers brushing over the reddened skin. He feels a possessive thrill curl through him, hot and heady, as he dips a digit back inside.
"Shane," Ilya repeats, and this time his voice is tighter, more strained. His hand reaches out clumsily, gripping Shane's wrist. When Shane glances up, Ilya flashes him what might be a teasing grin, but it's softened with the way he still looks entirely ruined. "As hot as this is, I—I'm so sensitive. I don't think I can go another round."
"Oh." Shane blinks. He pulls his hand away, watching his cum spill back out from Ilya's pucker a little forlornly. "Sorry, baby. Must have gotten carried away."
Ilya manages a shaky laugh, sinking back into the pillows. "You think?"
"Can't help it," Shane grins, leaning down to kiss Ilya's cheek. "You look so blushy like this."
Ilya gasps, affronted, and he smacks Shane weakly in the chest. "Russians do not blush, Hollander."
As if. Shane would like to kindly point out that Ilya's been properly flushed for the entirety of the last hour, except he forcibly stops himself from going down that train of thought as soon as his mind supplies the image of his boyfriend's gorgeous, blissed-out face. He clears his throat, letting out a light scoff. "Sure, asshole."
"Hey, you like this asshole," Ilya says, raising his brows playfully.
Shane just shakes his head, but he's smiling as he finally untangles himself from Ilya, stalking to the bathroom to grab some wet wipes and a clean towel. He makes quick work of running the latter under warm water and wringing it out.
Ilya is sprawled out eagle-spread on the bed by the time Shane returns, watching him through half-lidded eyes, and he shifts his arm just slightly to make space for Shane to sit.
"I'll clean you up now," he murmurs softly. Ilya shoots him a lazy thumbs-up.
He starts with Ilya's stomach, wiping away the cooling mess with gentle, careful strokes. Ilya shivers at the warmth, a soft moan escaping his lips when Shane's hand dips lower. Shane cleans his thighs next, then around his ass and inside his hole, and Ilya flinches slightly, a sensitive little jerk, but a small, dazed smile plays on his lips the whole time.
"Still feeling okay?" Shane asks.
Ilya hums, his eyes nearly closed. "Mm. Perfect."
Shane finishes cleaning him by helping Ilya put on a clean pair of boxers, then takes care of himself quickly. He gets dressed, though he doesn't bother with a shirt considering the summer heat. Then, he chucks the soiled blanket into the laundry basket, grabs a fresh one, and finally slides back into bed, pulling Ilya close until his head is resting on Shane's chest, one leg slung lazily over Shane's hip. Ilya curls into him like he belongs there—because he does, Ilya belongs to Shane just as much as Shane belongs to Ilya—and his breath is warm against Shane's skin.
"Thank you," Ilya murmurs. "For doing this."
"Of course," Shane presses a kiss to the top of his head, even as his heart threatens to beat right out of his chest. "Thank you for trusting me."
Ilya hums, snuggling closer, his arm going slack from where it's tossed over Shane's ribs. Shane feels Ilya's body begin to relax, the tension melting out of him.
"Are you already sleepy?" Shane finds himself asking, amused.
"You just fucked my brains out, Hollander," Ilya groans quietly, the words muffled against Shane's chest. "I think I deserve a nap."
Shane laughs and just holds him tighter. "Yeah," he agrees. "You do."
He lies there, Ilya's steady breathing slowly evening out, the weight of him warm and solid against Shane's body. He watches the rise and fall of Ilya's shoulders, counts the beats of his heart, and thinks he could stay here forever. His fingers draw lazy letters against the dip of Ilya's back, tracing out invisible declarations Ilya already knows.
I love you. I'm yours. Forever, if you'll have me.