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“I can’t believe we got snowed in.. And on Christmas Eve too!” Shane sighs, turning towards his husband.
In the time it had taken Shane to try to open the door and make a path through the shoulder-high wall of snow, realising that it would be impossible to get through and then coming back inside and pouting for a good few minutes, Ilya had already managed to change back into sweatpants and one of Shane’s t-shirts and was busy making something on the stove.
He hums while taking two mugs out - one with a loon and the words “Loony Bin Material” on it and one that had a Russian bear on it that looked suspiciously like the one on Ilya’s chest.
“I mean,” Ilya starts. “Are you complaining about getting me all to yourself?”
Shane steps fully into the kitchen, immediately gravitating towards Ilya. He wraps his arms around his waist, rests his head on his shoulder to peer over it and into the saucepan that Ilya is stirring.
He’s making hot chocolate. Shane’s favourite. He’d never say aloud that something so sweet could ever be his favourite but sometimes Shane thought Ilya knew him better than he knew himself.
Shane can’t help himself from grinning against his skin, leaving a little kiss right where the t-shirt slips down at his collarbone. The thing is too short on him – most of Shane’s clothes are, but he still insists on wearing them. Not that Shane is complaining. There’s nothing quite as intoxicating as seeing Ilya in his clothes, of admiring that sliver of skin between his hipbones. Of seeing Ilya so openly declare that he belongs to Shane. That he wants to belong to Shane.
“No,” he says. His words come out muffled, pressed against Ilya as he is. “I would never complain about that. I just wanted to give you a perfect Christmas. You’ve gotten so very few. You deserve the big tree and the Christmas feast and the playing games and dancing and being surrounded by loved ones. You deserve the Christmas magic.”
He can hear Ilya’s breath hitch, feel his hand still against the stovetop for a second. He says nothing, lets the other boy take this in.
He knows Ilya has a hard time with letting himself be loved. Knows it makes him uncomfortable, even when he craves it the most.
Ilya’s therapist says it’s because of the way he was raised. Ilya seems to think it’s just who he is as a person. But Shane knows it’s just that he needs more time. He needs time to get used to it. Time to let the words settle and wash over him.
Ilya blinks rapidly, takes a stuttering breath.
“You cannot just say things like that. It is not fair,” he whispers.
He moves the saucepan away from the stovetop, Shane clinging to him with every movement as he starts pouring the hot chocolate into the two mugs.
“How is it not fair?” Shane asks, amusement evident in his voice.
“Because," he starts, turning in Shane’s arms until they’re face to face. Shane twists his arms up and around him, hands resting steadily against the nape of his neck as Shane stands on his tiptoes; a sunflower reaching towards the light that is Ilya Rozanov.
“Because,” he says again, looking down at Shane through pretty eyelashes. “Now I’m going to have to get down on my knees and the hot chocolate I just made is going to get cold.”
Shane’s eyes dip down to his lips, up to his eyes and then back down again to that pretty, pink pout because sue him, he’s addicted to every part of Ilya but his mouth… his mouth is Shane’s personal gravity, a magical pull that keeps him grounded.
He sees Ilya’s grin, can feel himself matching the grin with one of his own, and then they’re kissing. It's soft and sweet as Ilya holds his face in his hands, thumbs brushing back and forth against the high points of his cheekbones. But Shane isn't in the mood for soft and sweet, Ilya’s words painting a pretty picture in his head and so he bites down on his lip and Ilya moans into his mouth. He opens easily, pliant under Shane’s fingers moving to his hair, pulling hard until Ilya arches into him.
It’s been years and years of this — of them — and still, every time he touches Ilya it feels like the first time. He watches with fascination as Ilya’s skin turns to goosebumps and blushes, watches with fascination as his lips trail down the column of his neck and his hands slip under the t-shirt Shane has stolen from him.
“I fucking love it when you wear my clothes,” he breathes even as he pulls the clothes in question off of him. Ilya blinks down at him lazily, hands settling in Shane’s hair.
“Yeah?” he manages to breathe. Shane is nodding even as his lips and teeth paint bruises onto Ilya’s pale skin, hands travelling reverently over the planes of his chest, the ladder of his ribs, the outline of his hip bones. Like he’s mapping out his body, trying to memorise everything by touch alone.
“Yeah,” he says, biting and sucking right where the outline of his hip bones meet in the middle. Ilya makes a sound so sinful that Shane has to stand back up, kiss it out of his mouth, always eagerly chasing after everything Ilya has to give him. “It’s like a branding. A way to let everyone know.”
Ilya smells like peppermint and oud, the way he always does, and for a second Shane gets distracted by the thought that it’s quite apt that oud is known as Wood of Gods. Because what else could Ilya be but a God? A miracle? Every single wish on a star Shane had ever made and then some?
“Let everyone know what?” Ilya wonders, pulling back to look Shane in the eye. Their noses brush against each other and Shane can see just how much Ilya’s pupils have dilated when their eyes meet. He’s waiting patiently for Shane’s answer – which comes immediately, Shane’s voice steady and low. Possessive in a way that shouldn’t be hot but that sends tingles down Ilya’s spine anyway.
“That you’re mine.”
Shane can see it – the way Ilya’s hazel eyes go unfocused. The way they darken to the colour of gunpowder, waiting for flint to strike and a spark to light them both on fire.
And then they’re kissing again and it’s a fight the way it always is with the two of them – harsh and vicious and Shane winces when Ilya bites through his lip but then he’s licking the blood up before Shane even has a chance to properly feel the sting and Shane has never felt this high in his whole life.
This is better than adrenaline, better than the rush of the game, better than anything else he’s ever known. This. Him. Ilya. Ilya is the reason.
Somehow they manage to make it to the table, Shane tossed on top of it, legs opened wide to make space for Ilya, and before they know it their clothes are scattered all over the floor, thrown over chairs in their haste to get to touch as much of each other as possible without hindrance. Shane keeps raking his fingers up and down Ilya’s back so much that Ilya has to wonder how he hasn’t drawn blood yet. He gives as good as he gets though and keeps painting Shane’s body in bites and bruises; as if he's Michaelangelo and Shane is David, his masterpiece come to life. Something so beautiful it demands the entire worlds attention.
Ilya’s hands are bruising and they leave fingerprints all over him, as if he were a crime scene. If loving Ilya was a crime Shane would gladly commit it, he thinks.
Ilya keeps his promise – gets his hands around Shane’s length and twists his wrist in a way that shouldn’t be graceful but always manages to be anyway. Before he can do more Shane lowers himself down onto the floor until he's at eye level with Ilya’s crotch. Takes his time here, hot breath ghosting over Ilya twitching cock as he licks and bites and kisses one thigh, his hand running up and down the other. He moves up, up, up until he’s by Ilya’s navel and then down, down, down the other way, spending as much time worshipping the other thigh as he had the first.
Ilya tastes like sex and sweat and the promise of a good time and he could spend forever on his knees in front of this man, worshipping every single inch of him, he thinks deliriously. He can tell Ilya is getting impatient though, the hands in his hair tightening as his breathing gets more shallow.
“Sweetheart-” he starts, pulling at Shane’s hair until he’s forced to look up at him.
Ilya groans. Shane looks absolutely ruined and they haven’t even started yet – lips swollen and red (from his blood or from the excessive kissing and biting, Ilya isn’t sure), chin shiny with spit. On his knees for Ilya with those hazy, dark eyes under lowered lids and the longest lashes Ilya has ever seen. He's never looked more obscene. He’s never looked more beautiful.
“Baby, don’t play with me,” Ilya says finally. Shane grins and it’s a grin that promises a good time, a grin more fit for a devil than a god.
“What happened to the importance of patience?” he says sweetly, his voice angelic in a way that doesn’t match the look in his eyes at all.
He’s referring to the previous night when Ilya had taken him apart over and over again, not letting him fall over the edge until he’d been a blubbering, begging mess. Only then had Ilya allowed him to come. Patience, he had said, was important.
Well, Shane was about to make him eat his words. In more ways than one.
“Don’t be a brat,” Ilya says but the impact of those words is lessened by how breathless he sounds when Shane’s fingers ghost over the length of him.
“I’m not being a brat, daddy,” he replies, licking a stripe along the thick vein his fingers had just traced. He uses the tip of his tongue only, just barely a touch but he feels Ilya twitch under him, sees the tightening of muscles in his abdomen, the precum that’s collected at his tip.
“Then open your mouth,” Ilya replies, the hands still in Shane’s hair trying to guide him towards where he needs him the most but Shane shakes his head, tongue now tracing barely-there circles around Ilya’s head.
“Hmm…” he says. “No, I don’t think I will.”
“Baby,” Ilya warns, his voice lowering into something that makes heat pool in Shane’s stomach. He’s half-hard already but Ilya’s voice alone is enough to get him there completely.
Shane ignores him, lets his tongue trace over his slit and then back around the head. Slow circles, little kittenlicks to slowly drive Ilya insane. He blows hot breaths onto the head, focusing on where the slit is producing so much precum it's started to trickle down his length and cover the silky skin Shane loves so much.
“Moy lyubimyy,” Ilya tries again and Shane can tell he’s getting frustrated. It’s not often that Shane doesn’t listen, at least not after the first warning, but he wants to push his luck today. See where it gets him. Knows that whatever Ilya has in store for him will be good. Will scratch the itch they both feel in each other's presence.
He traces back down the length of Ilya, spreading the sticky precum until he reaches his balls. Just as he's about to start licking a stripe down the seam of them he can feel Ilya’s fingers twisting tighter around the strands of his hair instinctively.
“Shane.”
It’s more of a growl than a word, danger dripping off of every syllable as Ilya yanks at Shane’s head until he has no choice but to look up at him again.
Yes, he thinks. This is what I want. Come out and play with me. Let’s have some fun.
“Are you going to be a good boy and listen?” Ilya says and Shane can feel himself slipping already. Can already feel the need to please Ilya. To be good.
“I’m always good,” he says, eyes narrowing, brows meeting in the middle in a frown. He just barely stops himself from jutting his lower lip out. He's still got some dignity left.
Ilya gives a laugh that sounds half incredulous, half amused, something dark that’s nothing like his otherwise light and easy laughter.
“Don’t lie, sweetheart,” he says, yanking Shane's head harder until his throat is completely exposed. “It’s not very nice.”
“You don’t love me because I’m nice,” Shane lets out sharply, struggling slightly against the harsh pull of his hair. It stings his scalp in the most delicious way.
“No,” Ilya agrees. “But I do love it when you’re good. So are you going to be good?”
They stare at each other for a long moment, neither one willing to back down, but Shane does want to be good. He does want to prove that he’s worthy. Of Ilya. Of his love. Of his attention. So he looks Ilya in the eye, opens his mouth slowly, tongue sticking out and waiting patiently. He can feel the mood change instantly, can see the way Ilya’s eyes darken with want. Can feel himself holding his breath.
Ilya’s fingers in his hair loosen, one hand coming down to let his thumb trace Shane’s lower lip before he presses it against his tongue. He explores his mouth, presses against the sharpness of his canines - vampire teeth, he calls them - doesn't allow Shane the chance to swallow the entire time. Shane sits patiently, never moving a muscle. He knows the rules. He knows what's expected of him.
“Good boy, you can suck now.”
Shane does.
It’s messy as he hollows his cheeks, sucks hard and slow and uses his tongue to the best of his abilities. Shane loves Ilya’s fingers, he loves his hands, but it's not enough. He's greedy, he wants more. He'll always want more of Ilya. Whatever he can get. He whines a little, the sound coming out needy and desperate. Ilya’s eyes haven’t left his the entire time and his breathing is getting more and more laboured as he watches his thumb moving in and out of Shane’s mouth.
“What is it? What do you want?”
“More,” Shane manages around the finger in his mouth.
Ilya raises an eyebrow.
“More what? Use your words, baby.”
Shane makes a noise of frustration at the back of his throat. Keeps bobbing even as he contemplates if he should be good or not. If he should give up the power. If he should beg. In the end, his desperation wins out.
“More fingers. Please.”
And Ilya Rozanov is nothing if not eager to please. At least when it comes to this.
There’s three fingers in his mouth before he knows it and he’s moaning in a way that would have the devil himself making the sign of the cross – three fingers moving in front of him in blessing except that the devil currently has those three fingers down Shane’s throat and he’s choking; a blessing in disguise perhaps, but honestly Shane doesn’t really care either way, more consumed with the heat that’s pooled in his stomach and the way that it’s spreading.
He wants, no needs, friction desperately except there’s nothing on the kitchen floor other than Ilya’s legs and honestly? Ilya’s legs will do. They will more than do.
They’re scratching the itch inside of him as he starts rutting shamelessly against his husband like a crazed animal; letting his feral side come out and play. Letting his most basic instincts take over and take charge.
Ilya is the only one who ever gets to see him like this; wild and free and absolutely, utterly, thoroughly depraved.
His brain shuts off when he gets like this. Ilya says he gets cock-hungry. That he's a slut, that this is all he's good for. And he must be right because all Shane can think of is how good gliding against Ilya feels. How good Ilya’s fingers in his mouth, down his throat, feel. He can't think of anything else. Nothing outside of Ilya exists.
His eyes are filled with tears at this point, Ilya pushing as far back as he can but even then his fingers aren’t long enough and Shane is begging earnestly now, a string of please, please, please in between the sounds of choking and spit running down his chin, dripping down his throat and pooling in his collarbone, down on the floor. Some of it hits against Ilya’s leg, creating a smoother glide for him and Ilya must take pity on him because he takes his fingers out and finally, finally gives Shane what he wants. Slaps once, twice, three times with his cock against his cheek before finally resting against his lips.
Shane only barely resists shivering, the familiar weight in his mouth feeling like a homecoming. Like he’s finally where he’s meant to be. Right here under Ilya’s heedy gaze. Listening to him coo as he watches Shane, still rutting against him.
“Are you really that desperate? Hm? If only the world could see you like this, humping my leg on the kitchen floor like a bitch in heat. So shameless. So needy. Prim and proper Shane Hollander reduced to nothing but this. A depraved, filthy little mess. A cockslut.”
The sounds Shane makes are pathetic, little whimpers as he waits for Ilya to tell him it’s okay to close his mouth. To finally get to wrap his lips around him.
But Ilya is evil and vindictive and he’s waiting, waiting even as Shane’s movements against his leg get more and more desperate, the rutting starting to lose its rhythm and he feels something coil inside of him.
He’s not sure if the friction he’s getting is enough, it feels like he’s scratching at an itch with gloved hands and he doesn't think it's going to be enough, he really doesn't, but Ilya isn’t giving him more and he’s so close, he can feel it. His abdomen is tightening and he can see the stars just out of reach, can already picture what it will be like but he doesn’t want to come before Ilya has even started. He's not sure he'll even be able to get there. He's not sure if he'll be able to stop himself if he can.
Luckily that decision is taken away from him as Ilya moves his leg away, forcing Shane back onto his haunches.
He lets out a sound of betrayal, still too far gone to form proper words. He’s all feelings right now, his mind still clouded by the high he had almost reached. Despite just thinking that he didn’t want to get there before Ilya he still stares up at Ilya with contempt in his eyes, blinking angry tears away.
“Oh, were you close? Did I ruin your little humping session, sweetheart?” Ilya is pouting, cooing in a condescending way but Shane nods anyway, careful not to move too much around Ilya. He still hasn’t told him he’s allowed to start sucking and he’s trying to be good. He has to keep reminding himself of it but he wants to. He wants to be good for Ilya.
Even if only so that Ilya will give him his leg back.
Ilys tsks.
“Baby, you know you need to ask for permission for that,” he says.
Shane wants to bite him. Shane wants to scream. Shane wants to cry. Shane wants Ilya’s dick moving in his mouth right now.
Ilya observes him for a moment, a hand coming up to brush a stray curl away from Shane’s forehead.
“Colour?” he says and his voice is gentle now as he takes Shane’s tears in.
“Green,” Shane manages around his cock. “So very green. Please, sir I need to-”
“Go on,” Ilya interrupts him before he can finish. “Suck.”
Shane gives him what might be the best blowjob he has ever given, which is saying something.
It’s messy and sloppy and wet and hot in all the right ways.
He tries to make himself as tight as possible around Ilya, takes him as far back as he can and chokes until he can feel all of him, his hands coming up to play with his balls too. But Shane can be just as vindictive as Ilya and he can still feel the trembling in his thighs from his denied orgasm, the frustration still hot in his stomach. So he takes it slow, setting a pace that he knows Ilya will consider torturous. That will drive him wild.
By the time Ilya realises what he's doing and decides to set his own pace, tired and frustrated by Shane’s slow bobbing, he has tears running down his face, spit and precum dribbling down his chin. He wraps his fingers around Shane’s hair, yanks hard and starts moving him back and forth like a puppet on a string, watching himself disappear down Shane’s throat over and over again as Shane flattens his tongue and swirls it around him, moaning the entire time.
He likes it best like this. When Ilya takes charge. When he doesn't treat him like he's something fragile. When he uses him for his own pleasure, not giving a thought to Shane’s.
Ilya wraps his hands around Shane’s throat, feeling himself as far down as Shane can take him. Shane is sure it looks obscene, the way Ilya’s cock is bulging at his trachea but Ilya seems to love it. Presses his hands harder against Shane’s blushing skin and massages himself through Shane’s throat, his hand moving up and down while he presses against old bruises and lovebites.
All Shane can do is whimper and hump the air desperately, hips moving on their own accord. Ilya still hasn’t allowed him back onto his legs and the lack of friction is slowly driving him insane. The only thing keeping him from crying in earnest is Ilya’s praise.
“You’re being so good for me,” comes out in between laboured breaths. “Just like that, baby. Yes, hold it right there. That’s a good boy. You're taking me so well, moy lyubimyy.”
Shane has to remember to breathe when Ilya holds him down, nose resting against coarse curls, and Ilya reminds him that he can tap his thigh if he needs an out.
But Shane is not a quitter and he’s sure as hell not a spitter so he takes it all, everything Ilya has to give him and he keeps sucking, hands coming up to squeeze at Ilya’s balls again, until Ilya’s moan turns into a whimper and he takes a step back to distance himself from Shane’s mouth, hands trembling with the aftermath of his orgasm and the overstimulation.
He rarely tells Shane when he's about to come these days because Shane has confessed once before with a blush on his face that he prefers it to be a surprise, prefers to keep sucking Ilya through his orgasm until he’s a trembling mess. There’s nothing that makes him feel quite as powerful as having Ilya Rozanov on his knees for him but giving him a small death in the form of the ultimate pleasure is a pretty close second.
“That’s enough, baby,” Ilya says, still in a haze of his own. While he recovers, Shane opens his mouth, shows him a mouthful of the cum he hasn’t swallowed. He swirls it around, keeps his mouth open and waiting until Ilya grins lazily down at him, eyes filled with something like reverence as he strokes his cheek.
“You’re so good to me, sweetheart.”
Without warning, Ilya spits into his mouth harshly, once and then again for good measure, his eyes never once leaving Shane’s and Shane can’t help the desperate noise that escapes him as he watches the spit fall from Ilya’s mouth and into his own, mixing with his cum.
“Go ahead, you can swallow. Good boy.”
Shane beams at the praise, swallows easily. He knows it’s disgusting but he loves the way Ilya tastes. Bitter and salty and familiar. Like home.
He barely pays any attention to Ilya raising him back on top of the table, too lost in his own thoughts and feelings. Ilya turns him around, positions him on his elbows and knees. He runs his hands slowly down the notches in his spine, leaving goosebumps and a spreading blush in his wake.
Shane shivers at the touch. He loves Ilya’s hands. So pretty. So soft, despite the callouses caused by years on the ice. So big. They fit perfectly between Shane’s own despite being almost twice as big. They also fit quite perfectly against the dimples in his back, right over his ass, which is where they come to rest now. Shane draws his arms back and spreads himself open expectantly for Ilya who seems to contemplate something for a second as his fingers brush against Shane’s hole.
“That wasn’t there this morning,” he observes, a single finger circling the that in question.
“ ‘twas supposed to be a present,” Shane replies, voice dripping sweetness like honey. He’s hoping Ilya will forgive him for doing this without his knowledge if he uses that voice, silky and saccharine in a way that always manages to melt Ilya’s resolve.
“Hm,” Ilya says. “Did you play with yourself when I wasn’t there, then?”
Shane shakes his head vehemently, looks back over his shoulder so that Ilya can see his face. He swears he’s been good. He’s not lying.
“No, I put it in after you fucked me this morning. Didn’t want anything to spill.”
Ilya gives a noise of approval. Moves Shane’s hands away and spreads his cheeks himself as Shane turns back around and lets his forehead rest against the table. His cock finally has something to rub against but Ilya is keeping him on his knees, legs spread apart. He can’t do anything in this position except for hope that Ilya will be merciful.
Ilya pulls slowly at the plug to test it. It’s a beautiful thing, adorned with a red crystal. Ilya’s favourite colour. Shane had chosen it specifically for him. He can’t help himself from leaving an appreciative kiss on his right side.
The plug resists for a second and Shane moans at the feeling of it moving inside him, dragging so deliciously. Ilya moves it back in before pulling at it again. Slowly. Torturously. He never takes it out, only watches in fascination as Shane’s hole moves with it as he pulls and accepts it easily, swallowing it eagerly, when he pushes back in.
“Ilya,” Shane moans. He's not sure how much of this he can take.
Ilya tsks.
“Now you know better than that, don’t you? Try again,” he says and bites into the flesh that he had just kissed.
Shane is trembling with the effort to stand still by now but he doesn’t even flinch as Ilya’s teeth settle into his skin, deep enough to leave dents. He hopes they do. Another mark. Another memory imprinted onto his skin.
“Daddy,” Shane whispers breathlessly as Ilya drags his tongue over the bitemark, soothing the reddened skin.
Ilya hums in approval.
“Better,” he says.
Finally, he pulls the plug all the way out and watches as Shane’s hole resists at first before it lets it go and winks at him, closing back up again. No matter how many times they fuck, no matter how often, Shane always seems to remain tight. He's not sure how that is but Ilya feels like a blessed man for it.
Shane feels like it's a curse. The worst feeling in the world. That feeling of emptiness. He needs to be full. He needs Ilya to fill him up again.
It doesn’t take long for Ilya to work his fingers in and scissor them until Shane is ready to take him. The plug had done a good job at preparing him and so had the leftover lube and cum inside him. He still takes his time with eating him out though.
There are few things Ilya loves more than eating Shane out, tongue licking and prodding until he reaches as far as he can inside of Shane. Until he has spit dripping down his chin and his nose buried into pink skin, right alongside long fingers.
He loves it even more when Shane has been wearing a plug and he can taste himself inside of him. Can feel the way he's marked him this morning. Maybe even last night.
Judging by the way Shane keens and whimpers, arching his back and moving himself until he’s fucking himself on Ilya’s tongue he can tell that Shane likes it too. He keeps going, eating him out like it was all he was born to do (and sometimes he thinks it might’ve been because he fits so perfectly, right here, between Shane’s thighs) until he can hear Shane sob, until his hole is pliant and open and warm. Waiting for more.
“Please,” Shane says, hips moving back and forth against Ilya’s mouth, chasing his high on Ilya’s tongue. “Please, please, please.”
Shane isn’t even sure what he’s begging for at this point. All he knows is that it feels good. All he knows is that he needs moremoremore. He needs Ilya.
Ilya is just about to reach for the lube they keep in the drawer of miscellaneous things in the kitchen when Shane’s hand comes up and stops him, graceful fingers wrapping urgently around his wrist.
“I’m just getting the lube, baby. I’ll be right back,” Ilya reassures him, tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear. Shane shakes his head, pouting and Ilya can’t stop himself from dropping a kiss against his forehead.
“No,” Shane murmurs petulantly, rubbing his nose against Ilya’s. “No lube.”
Ilya blinks.
They’ve done it before so it’s not a surprise really. But he still always tries to make sure Shane actually wants it. That he isn’t floating away when making a decision like this one.
“Are you sure?” he says, scanning Shane’s face. His eyes are a bit hazy, filled with unshed tears, but other than that he looks perfectly alright. Skin blushed and forehead sweaty, sure, but otherwise okay.
Ilya still prefers the verbal confirmation though.
“Yes. Green. No lube.”
And that’s that.
Whatever Shane wants, Shane gets.
Shane is back on his knees, elbows resting against the kitchen table, but Ilya pushes at his lower back until he’s head down, ass up. He palms at Shane’s ass, hands kneading the pale flesh slowly, torturously. Shane wiggles against him, impatient as ever.
“Hurry up,” he whines.
He knows exactly what he’s doing with those words. Has to hide his grin into the crook of his arm. Because Ilya’s hand comes down once, twice, three times without any warning. Harsh enough to leave a print every time. Shane barely has time to react before he does it with his other hand, marking his other side the same way. His sobs are close to turning into wailing by the time that he's finished. His cock is so hard, leaking pools of precum down himself and the table and he still hasn’t gotten any relief.
The spankings are only making it worse.
He’s afraid he might explode at any point. He’s afraid he’s going to come untouched.
“That wasn’t very polite, Hollander,” Ilya admonishes. His voice is low and dangerous again and if Shane wasn’t already achingly hard he sure as hell would be now.
“ ‘msorry, daddy. I just need you inside me, please. It hurts.”
Ilya rubs his hands over the skin he’d just angered, soothing it gently as Shane keeps rambling incoherent apologies and pleas.
This is the way Ilya likes him the best – completely undone. Beyond any decorum or self-imposed cages. Free.
“It’s okay, baby. You were just being needy, yes? A needy little cockslut. Because that’s what you are, right? A deprived little thing, desperate to come?”
Shane whimpers and Ilya isn’t sure if it’s at the words or the fact that he’s slowly started to sink into him. Inch by merciful inch.
“That’s why you were humping me like an animal earlier, yes? Because this is all you can think of? How to get yourself off? How to be a good hole for daddy?”
Shane moans as Ilya bottoms out. He’s nodding as he feels the sting of Ilya entering him. It hurts in the best way possible, that drag against his inside. Like pressing against a bruise. Shane thinks that he’s never felt better.
Bury him right here, with Ilya’s cock inside of him, because this is the best he has ever felt and surely anything that would come after would not live up to this moment right here where he can feel Ilya’s hip bones right against his ass and feel Ilya inside him, hard and burning him up from the inside out, filling him so perfectly.
He feels whole like this. What else could be better than that?
Ilya grabs a handful of his hair and pulls until Shane is arching his back and resting it against Ilya’s front. Ilya smells like sex and sweat and everything unholy and Shane wants to breathe him in until his essence is in his lungs, floating through his body in his bloodstream.
Ilya holds him up, one hand wrapping around his lower stomach and the other one around his throat.
“Answer me when I talk to you,” Ilya growls.
Shane can hardly remember what Ilya had been saying, so overwhelmed with the feeling of Ilya inside him still not moving.
“Yes,” he manages eventually. “Yes, I’m a whore for you, fuck-. Only for you. Oh. Please. Please move. I can’t-”
Ilya does. It’s brutal and fast right away and Shane lets out a laugh, so far gone in this feeling of goodgoodgood.
He feels delirious when Ilya’s hand around his throat tightens, his other hand tracing the outline of his cock against Shane’s stomach and then pressing down and the only thing that keeps Shane from coming right then and there is the focus he has to keep on breathing through his nose.
“Fuck,” Ilya moans when he feels Shane clench around him. “You feel so good, baby.”
“Harder,” Shane manages to wheeze out, fighting against the pressure on his throat and the one building in his stomach. Ilya listens, starts thrusting harder until he hits the bundle of nerves that has Shane seeing stars every time and before he even gets a chance to warn Ilya that he might pass out (from feeling too good or too much or because of the lack of oxygen, he’s not sure) Ilya is letting go off him, holding him up by his arms instead. There's nothing quite as hot to Shane as the fact that Ilya can hold both of Shane’s wrists in one of his hands. Can control his movement by pressing them behind his back and keeping him there, even as Ilya keeps on thrusting.
He sputters as his body does its best to get air back into his lungs and for a second it burns but then Ilya is turning his head and kissing the breath right back out of him, open-mouthed and dirty, more panting and tongue than actual kissing.
Shane starts fucking himself back onto Ilya as he chases his high, grinding down harshly everytime he thrusts into him. Ilya moans into his mouth and Shane does his best to swallow it down because he’ll take anything Ilya gives him. Spit, cum, moans. He doesn’t care, he wants it all.
“Daddy,” he pants into Ilya’s mouth. He can barely concentrate enough to string coherent sentences together, too lost in this feeling building inside of him. “I’m gonna-”
“I know, baby,” Ilya groans, hips pistoning wildly. “It’s okay, you can come.”
He starts sucking at Shane’s neck. Takes his earlobe between his teeth and pulls. Pinches his nipples between deft fingers. Starts panting and moaning words in Russian that Shane recognises but can’t quite place. Ilya Rozanov is everywhere and Shane isn’t going to last much longer. It’s all becoming too much, the feeling of goodgoodgood feeling more like godgodgod because Shane isn’t a religious person but this has to be divinity, the way Ilya is making him feel. There’s no other explanation.
“You’re so amazing. God, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, do you know that? I love you so fucking much, Shane,” Ilya whispers against him as he lets go of his wrists and starts stroking Shane, quickly losing his rhythm when he chases his own high and that’s all it takes for Shane to roll his eyes back and let go.
He feels like a supernova, all light and tingly and explosive and for a second he’s floating outside of his body and watching himself from above. As cliche as it sounds, his toes curl and his muscles spasm and before he knows it their kitchen table is painted in white and Ilya’s panting becomes laboured as he continues to fuck Shane through his orgasm.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he says, forehead coming to rest against Shane’s shoulder blades.
“Come inside me. I want to feel you. Fill me up, daddy,” Shane replies, fucking himself more deliberately against his husband.
His hand comes up to comb through Ilya’s hair. He lets his nails scratch against his scalp, harsher than necessary but Ilya only whimpers against his skin and then he’s coming too, filling Shane up just like he wanted. Shane clenches again, on purpose, and does his best to savour this moment.
He loves this feeling, the way Ilya floods him with his warmth. Yet another way to mark him.
It might be slightly unhealthy, Shane muses, the way they’re both obsessed with belonging to each other. Even still he’s tracing S and H over and over again onto Ilya’s arm with his finger as he thinks this. He loves claiming Ilya, too.
Ilya kisses him properly this time, still moving against Shane but slowly now. Leisurely.
They’re slow, languid kisses. Kisses just for the sake of kissing. Just because they can. Savouring the aftermath of their love together.
Eventually Ilya eases out of him (and if Shane whines at the loss, always doing his best to cling to Ilya; to avoid that feeling of emptiness, that’s nobody’s business but his), cleans both of them (and the table) up and helps Shane redress before he dresses himself and settles them both on the living room sofa.
He wraps a blanket tightly around Shane who is always perpetually cold and makes to stand up but Shane catches his hand before he gets to.
“Where are you going?” he says, pouting. It’s a genuine pout as well, not one of the ones Shane uses when he wants something. He’s always like this after sex. More open. Vulnerable. Ilya is a little bit obsessed with it.
Ilya gives him a reassuring smile, kisses his forehead.
“I’m just reheating the hot chocolate. I’ll be right back, I promise.”
He watches Shane take that in, blink away the neediness in his eyes, and nod.
“Hurry.”
Once Ilya is back Shane curls up in his lap, Anya napping at their feet as they sip their hot chocolates in comfortable silence. Eventually Shane moves his head so it’s resting in the crook of Ilya’s neck.
“Did you like your present?” he asks sleepily, rubbing his eyes in a way that makes Ilya’s heart skip a beat.
Ilya’s skin is warm, the way it always is and Shane burrows closer. Breathes him in. Musk. And cloves. Always cloves. And something else that he can’t quite pinpoint. Something that’s entirely Ilya. Something that's home.
Ilya smiles down at him. Runs his hand up and down Shane’s back.
“I loved it, thank you,” he says. Shane hums and does his best to suppress a yawn. Ilya snorts.
“Go to sleep, moy lyubimyy,” he says fondly. Shane shakes his head.
“It’s only noon,” he protests.
Ilya sighs.
“Just take a nap, I will wake you up for lunch. Obviously I tired you out, you should rest.”
Shane gives him a scathing look, his dark eyes sharp once again.
“Bold of you to assume that you’re the reason I’m tired.”
Ilya raises an eyebrow.
“Are you saying I am not?”
Shane wisely keeps his mouth shut but he glares for a few more moments, for good measure.
Eventually Ilya’s hand moving up and down his back manages to lull him to sleep but right before he goes he whispers:
“Merry Christmas, Ilya.”
He’s not sure if he dreams it or if Ilya actually responds but either way he gets a reply.
“Merry Christmas, Shane.”