Work Text:
glass room, perfume, cognac, lilac fumes
says it feels like heaven to him
light of his life, fire of his loins
keep me forever, tell me you own me
off to the races, lana del rey
The bass rattled his bones and sent aftershocks of discomfort through his skin. He felt blinded by the flashing lights, deaf from the thumping music. The bottom of his feet were adjusting to being fully planted on sticky floors and not slicing through ice on blades.
He didn’t belong here.
The sensation of his not-quite-girlfriend pressing the front of her body against his, breasts pressed against his chest, her hips rolling against his groin in a sensuous movement meant to mimic the sex she expected of him later, made him want to choke on nerves.
He didn’t belong here.
He was a bit shocked that her friend would so brazenly push his dick against his ass in a daring dance. He was in the center of the dance floor, surrounded by her friends and her coworkers and her. She was curling her arm over his shoulder and cupping Miles’ face in her hand as he rested his chin against Shane’s neck, his warm breath curling around his ear and making him anxious.
He didn’t belong here.
His body stopped moving of its own accord, at some point, not that he was really sure it had even been moving at all. His throat felt dry, the champagne Rose had insisted on making him thirstier rather than slanking the fire of his thirst.
“I have to go to the bathroom.” He said suddenly, sliding out from between his two dance partners and stepping further onto the dance floor.
He felt out of sorts. The music and lights disoriented him and he couldn’t quite tell which direction he needed to go. There was a smoke machine somewhere, making the room hazy, and Shane squinted his eyes looking for an EXIT sign somewhere midway up the wall at door height.
“Sorry.” He apologized as someone bumped into him as he tried to find his way to the perimeter of the room.
If he could find the wall, he could find a door, an exit, a reprieve from the music that was warring with his nerves and sanity. He briefly thought back to the jacket he’d left at the table Rose and her friends had occupied when he had shown up and regretfully said goodbye to it. He’d call tomorrow and see if an employee had scooped it up and tossed it in a junk box of lost and found.
“Excuse me.” He yelled, wishing to be heard over the music. “I’m just trying—“
“Oh, shit!” The voice yelled, grabbing Shane by the shoulders and pulling him brusquely against solid muscle. “Look who it is, Vicky! Fuckin’ Hollander!”
Shane wasn’t sure if his night could have slid any further into the sewer as he was manhandled by two Boston players, decidedly too happy to see him after they’d just lost to Shane and his team. “Uh, hey, Marleau, St-Simon. Good game tonight.”
“This fucker!” Marleau laughed, slapping Shane’s shoulder in a jovial way that he didn’t quite understand. He didn’t understand a lot of the ways players behaved. “God, didn’t think we’d ever see fuckin’ Hollander out partying, did we, Vick?”
“Ne jemais!” St-Simon said over the lip of his cup.
“Where’s your girlfriend, Hollander? I gotta fuckin’ meet her. Shit, that’s solid.”
“I, uh, I’m just… she’s back there. She isn’t really my girlfriend, though. We’re just, uh, hanging out. Dating, I guess.” He trailed off, jerking his jaw towards the exit sign he could just make out through the haze of strobes and smoke. “I’m actually heading out.”
“Non, non! You must have a drink with us!” St-Simon protested, grabbing a cup from the tall table to his side and pouring ambery, golden liquid from a glass bottle.
“Ah, I don’t really drink.” Shane said, holding his hand up in denial.
“Nonsense! Have a fucking drink with us, Hollander! Least you could do after you wiped the ice with us!”
Shane accepted the glass with a grimace, unsure of what was even awaiting his lips. He reluctantly brought it to his face, inhaling deeply but mostly smelling the scent of perfume and cologne and the sweaty bodies that surrounded him. “What is it?” He asked.
“Cognac!”
Shane knew, in theory, what cognac was, but in his limited experience, and he did mean that quite literally, it was something he’d only ever seen his mom use for cooking. Once. Or twice. In his almost twenty six years of life.
“Oh. Cool.” Shane let his tongue wet his lips and he hesitantly tipped the glass, letting the smallest amount of liquor pass through to his mouth.
He coughed a little, the straight, pungent taste of alcohol taking him off guard. At least the champagne had the tiniest bit of sweetness and bubbles that reminded him of ginger ale.
“Atta boy!” Marleau hollered, downing the entirety of the alcohol in his own glass before going back for seconds, or thirds—Shane couldn’t be sure. Maybe fourths.
Shane’s fingers tightened around the glass as he stood there awkwardly, out of place and wishing to be anywhere but here; the club, with Rose and her friends, with Marleau and St-Simon. How the fuck did he get himself into this predicament?
“Roz is around here somewhere. Probably already got a girl to get his dick wet.”
Shane’s insides burned uncomfortably and without really meaning to, if only for the need to occupy his mouth so he didn’t speak out of turn, took another sip of the fucking cognac and coughed again.
“… you see him, Marly? He’s got a girl…”
Shane felt like he was a marionette and the destructive demon in his brain was his puppeteer. He clocked the direction Marleau and St-Simon were pointing with wide, wolfish grins on their faces and felt his eyes following the path of their fingers.
Ilya.
Time seemed to slow, the smoke machines seemed to have stopped, the music seemed to disappear in his ears in favor of a sharp ringing that made his skin crawl. He watched as Ilya scraped his hand from his dance partner’s throat, over her breasts and down her stomach, dipping just below the waistband of her skirt. His lips were sucking the skin of her neck into his mouth, lewdly, brazenly public in a way that Shane would never experience.
His feet grew roots and he found himself changing his postal code to this exact spot on the club floor. His throat was dry again, or still, because neither the champagne or cognac had done anything to dissuade his thirst, and he let saliva pool in his mouth to swallow. A brief reprieve.
Ilya must have felt eyes on him as he took to putting on a show for his teammates. His dancing got more suggestive and Shane was a prisoner sentenced to watching his hands rove over her body, pulling and pushing against her, against her clothes.
He didn’t belong here.
His skin burned when he felt Ilya’s eyes finally meet his gaze. He felt his skin warm, the voyeurism of the moment creeping over his skin like a spider’s web.
He licked his lips again and raised the glass back to his mouth, taking another long pull, but not quite finishing the drink. He set the glass on the table, a small sip left and lightly touched St-Simon on the upper arm. “I gotta go. Thanks for the drink.”
He didn’t linger to hear their protests.
He didn’t belong here.
He all but flattened himself against the wall and hardly let a throwaway sorry! cross his lips as he bumped into people on his way out. He was so close to the exit. It taunted him, beckoning to him like a siren in the sea, like it was the only song that could save him and lure him to his death all at once.
When he burst through the door, the January air blistered against his skin like scalding water and wind whipped against his face like he’d been particularly mouthy. He regretted, then, deciding that his jacket wasn’t worth the trouble of retreating further into the back of the club. He crossed his arms over his chest, using his palms to rub up and down his biceps to try and light a fire on his skin to keep him warm.
He felt the buzz of his phone in his pants pocket but didn’t bother fishing it out to look at it. He knew the probability that the name belonged to one of two flowers and he wasn’t sure which way he wanted the coin to land.
He should have said goodbye to Rose.
He could text her in the morning.
Shane was a bit frustrated with himself at letting the social situations he found himself inside the club dictate his sobriety. He didn’t feel drunk, but he refused to get behind the wheel of his jeep with even the slightest amount of liquor in his veins.
A DUI would be a career ender and not something he could ever live through the shame of.
He was further than a walk away from his Montreal apartment. He was much closer to his fucking sex condo.
“Fuck.” He hissed to himself, kicking at rock salt on the pavement as he crossed the street at the corner.
“Hollander!”
His name shot through the night like an American bullet and he flinched. From the cold, from the suddenness, from the sound of rushed footsteps gaining on him.
“Fuck off, Rozanov.” He grunted, tucking his shoulders to his ears.
The pace picked up a bit faster and soon there was a rushed breeze of companionship beside him. “Is not what you want.” He said, brushing his coated arm against Shane’s skin. “Where is your jacket? Is cold, Hollander.”
“‘M fine.”
“Why are we walking?”
“I know why I’m walking, Rozanov. No one asked you to.”
Shane saw Ilya’s eyebrow quirk upwards out of his peripheral and it pissed him off that he even noticed the movement. He tucked his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and somehow managed to hike his shoulders further up his ears.
“You are angry.” He stated, no inflection to indicate it was a question. “At me.”
“I’m not.” Shane grunted, his eyes narrowing to combat the bite of the wind and cold. “I’m not anything.”
Shane, actually, was angry. Not necessarily at Rozanov but more at the situation he found himself in. He shouldered ninety nine percent of the blame for the circumstance he currently found himself in, Rozanov’s only crime having called him by his literal first name.
Shane.
And his precariously made house of cards crumbled like gale force winds knocked it down instead of a whispered name.
Ilya kept pace beside him, uncharacteristically quiet, almost like he was enjoying the experience of doing something normal with him in public, even as desolate as the Montreal streets were at this hour. Easily explained away as a flippant ‘ran into each other in a club, needed fresh air.’
Shane felt Ilya’s arms shift, digging into his pockets and heard the flick of a lighter.
“You shouldn’t smoke.” He could feel the eyeroll.
“Da, and you should have coat. But, here we are. I have cigarette and you have nipples so hard to cut glass, hm?”
“Fuck you!” He snapped, crossing his arms back over his chest. “What do you even want?”
Ilya stopped walking, his fist snapping out and grabbing Shane by the elbow in a tight grip. His cigarette hung loosely between his lips, the filter glowing brightly. His eyebrow was cocked, the corner of his mouth tipped in a lazy smile.
“I think you know what I want, Hollander.” He said before taking a pull from his cigarette.
“Oh, you’re fucking full of it.” Shane hissed, ripping his elbow free, turning on his heel and stalking off.
He heard the laugh echo behind him but didn’t hear footsteps pick up behind him. He tried to shake off the disappointment he felt.
“You will leave your girlfriend at club, Hollander? Marleau has big crush, hm, might not have girlfriend by morning.” Ilya called out behind him.
“She’s not my girlfriend.” He called back, flipping him off without looking, and turned a corner that deposited him on his sex condo’s street.
He wasn’t alone on the street for very long, Ilya’s longer legs carrying him the distance Shane had put between them quickly. “What do you mean? I see photos myself, Hollander.”
“It doesn’t matter.” He brushed it off, stepping down the dark alley that would carry him to the laneway behind his building.
He heard Ilya continuing to follow him, a few steps behind him as the alley was barely wide for one professional athlete, nevermind two. “So, you just date movie star? Casual?”
Shane ignored him and keyed the code into the security pad, waiting for the lock to disengage. “Goodnight, Rozanov.” He threw over his shoulder, slipping inside the stairwell and pulling the door closed behind him.
The door stopped abruptly, sending a shockwave of surprise through his arm. “Ah. No.” Ilya said, pushing his foot further into the landing, stopping the door from closing any further. “I will come up.”
Shane could shove him back and slam the door shut with barely any effort. He knew he could do this, shut the Russian out, leave him in the laneway and trek up the stairs that would lead him out onto his sex condo’s floor. He knew he could, he really, really did.
“Whatever.” He huffed, turning back and beginning to take the stairs two at a time to feel the burn in his legs instead of his nerves.
He heard the door latch at the bottom of the stairwell and heard the steps taking the stairs behind him at a slower, lazier pace, almost like Ilya was taking it all in like he hadn’t climbed the stairs so many times before.
Like he was drinking his fill of a place he never expected to see again.
Shane tried not to think too hard about why he kept the sex condo house key on his keychain as he slipped the metal into the lock and pushed the door open with the toe of his shoe. He kicked them off haphazardly, letting them land wherever they did beside the door like it didn’t make his skin crawl.
He retreated further into the sparse apartment, heading to the thermostat to crank the heat so he could remove the chill from his bones. He heard Ilya close the door behind him, heard the lock engage, Ilya’s shoes getting toed off. He watched from his peripheral as Ilya straightened his shoes and Shane’s with the tips of his sock covered toes into a neat line.
Ilya took his time removing his jacket, hanging it on the hook beside the door before he moved further into the apartment, hovering a foot away from Shane and the thermostat.
“Hm.” He hummed, stepping past Shane, the ghost of his fingertips trailing over his back, sending a shiver down Shane’s back. “Rose Landry is not your girlfriend?”
Shane closed his eyes and resisted the urge to smash his forehead through the drywall. “No.”
“Ah.” Ilya said, resting his ass against the back of the couch, resting his hands against the frame and crossing a leg in front of the other. “But you are… dating, yes?”
Shane groaned, turning away from the wall and resting his back against it. “Yeah, I guess. Kind of.”
“What is kind of? You are or you are not.”
“Fuck off. It’s not that simple. It’s complicated.”
“Is simple, Hollander. You have sex with her?”
“You’re such a fucking asshole.” Shane snapped, crossing his arms. “It’s none of your business.”
Ilya’s eyes narrowed, lights of the city below glowing against his face, putting his bone structure in stark relief, his eyes almost glittering with arrogance that Shane shouldn’t find attractive.
“Ah.” Ilya hummed like the answer was laid before him with striking clarity.
He pushed away from the back of the couch and if Shane’s brain wasn’t slow with liquor, he’d have thought to have moved away from the wall. He’d have regained space that Ilya was determined to close. Ilya’s body halted a breadth away and Shane tried to melt into the wall as his hand raised between their bodies, cupping Shane’s chin in between his thumb and index, his middle finger creating a shelf for his head to rest against.
Shane’s breath stuttered in short, uneven breaths. He dropped his eyes from Ilya’s face, choosing instead to focus on the glint of gold resting around his throat. Ilya’s throat bobbed as he swallowed and Shane couldn’t help the thought of how much he wanted to suck the flesh into his mouth from barreling through his mind.
“Eyes.” Ilya whispered, nudging Shane’s chin with his fingers.
Shane shook his head, the movement stunted by the grip Ilya had him in. “No.”
Ilya’s knees bent and he brought himself down an inch or two to look Shane in the eyes. “Da.” He said, his voice smooth, husky, impatiently patient. “Tell me, Hollander. I am asking nicely, I think.”
Shane reluctantly let himself look into eyes that reminded him of late summer leaves kissed by the arrival of autumn, bright and mischievous. “No,” he said quietly, “I didn’t have sex with her.”
Ilya’s tongue slipped between his lips like a tease, the breath exhaled through his nose creeping over Shane’s skin like a whisper light blanket. “Why not? She is… pretty. Like you.”
“I’m not—we’re not—“
“Not what?” Ilya’s voice slipped lower, a crackle at the end of his question, and his face moved in closer, his nose sliding against Shane’s.
“Compatible.” He gasped, pressing the crown of his head into the drywall. “We’re not—I don’t—fuck.”
“Compatible? What is this word?” He asked, tilting his own head backwards, giving Shane the tiniest bit of reprieve and space.
“It means we don’t go… together.” Shane groaned. “I’m, fuck, I think I’m gay. I can’t—I don’t… I don’t want to have sex with her, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear? I’m gay and I can’t even sleep with a movie star because of it?”
Ilya smiled, all teeth and crinkles at the corner of his eyes. “Hm, gay? What makes you say that, Hollander?” He asked, shifting and pressing his thigh between Shane’s legs.
Shane closed his eyes, in defeat, in pure sexual frustration, he wasn’t sure. “Fuck you.” He breathed, swallowing heavily when he felt his cock stirring in his pants, Ilya’s thigh the sweetest temptation. His cologne, the musk of sweat and cigarettes swirling around Shane like lilac fumes made him feel dumb, horny, desperate.
“Ah, yes, I think so. Yes. Probably.” Ilya’s hand dropped from Shane’s jaw, his fingertips pressing into his throat, feeling the erratic thrum of his heart in his pulse.
The last vestiges of fight were melting from Shane like a snowcapped mountain as he felt Ilya tracing his body with feather light touches that turned and held his body like Atlas. “I’m sorry.” He whispered.
“Sorry?” Ilya asked, his face incredibly close to Shane’s now, again, the pillow of his lips catching against his chin as he spoke.
“It was nice. Before.” Shane felt Ilya tense against his body, his leg shifting between Shane’s, almost pulling back.
Ilya didn’t need Shane to vocalize what before was. “It was.” He agreed tightly. “Before.”
Shane opened his eyes. Ilya’s eyes weren’t in his field of vision, but he didn’t need to see his face to read the tenseness in his body. “I’m sorry. For leaving. I… I panicked.”
“Panic over nothing.” Ilya sighed, his hand smoothing over Shane’s stomach before he stepped back, leaving Shane in place against the wall, a chasm returning between them.
“It wasn’t nothing.” He insisted, pushing away from the wall and crowding against Ilya in return. “It felt like something.”
Ilya had gone from red hot to ice cold. “It can’t be something, Hollander.”
Shane scoffed, his eyes petulantly looking away from Ilya to the windows that overlooked the street. “Then why are you here? What do you even fucking want from me, then, Rozanov?”
Ilya’s fists tightened at his sides before he cursed something in Russian, something broken sounding. “We meet up, we have sex. It is cycle, Hollander.”
Shane’s face scrunched, his hands running through his hair in frustration, pulling tightly against the strands, forcing his scalp to protest. “I can’t pretend I don’t like you anymore.”
“No. No, no, no.” Ilya said quickly. “You don’t like me, Hollander. I’m not… I’m not—“
“Worth it?” Shane asked desperately. “I like you. Too much. It's killing me.”
“Stop, stop.”
“No. You followed me here, this is my place. It felt like something and—“
“I wouldn’t be able to go home to Russia!” Ilya snapped. “Do you get that? I couldn’t go home. Ever.”
Shane sighed, the fight that simmered in his body like a tea kettle going lukewarm. “What would happen?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to find out.”
Shane pushed past his own reservations and moved across the few paces that separated them, his palms curling over Ilya’s hips first, before looping entirely around Ilya’s waist, pulling his body against him. Ilya was tense in his arms before he melted, tucking his face into the crook of Shane’s neck, his own arms wrapping around Shane’s back. Shane’s shoulder began to feel wet, tears Ilya had probably held back for years leaking into the thin cotton of his shirt. He swayed a little, rocking Ilya gently, his hands rubbing a smoothing path up and down his back.
“My father,” Ilya mumbled against Shane’s shoulder, “is sick.”
“Cancer?”
“Dementia.” He sniffed.
“I’m sorry.” Shane told him, for an entirely different reason than his first apology of the night. “He wouldn’t be good… about it?”
“He is police. My brother is police. It is…”
“And your mom?”
“Dead.”
Shane tightened his arms around Ilya, squeezing him to his body like he’d disappear into the night at any moment. “I’m sorry.”
Ilya’s breath was hot against his skin and they were quiet for a minute, Shane giving him a few moments to collect himself in the safety of his embrace. He carded his fingers through Ilya’s hair, his mouth pressing a gentle kiss against his temple.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, softly, “for leaving. You didn’t do anything wrong. It was me.”
Ilya nodded against his shoulder before lifting his head away. His eyes were watery and red, tears like dew drops on his eyelashes, an errant curl falling over his forehead. Shane thought he’d never looked more beautiful. He pulled his hands from Ilya’s hair and cupped Ilya’s cheeks in his palms, holding him steady, secure in his grip.
“Will you forgive me?” Shane asked him, his thumbs swiping over the apples of his cheeks.
Ilya’s nostrils flared, his lip wobbling for a small moment before he surged forward. Ilya was all mouth and teeth as he took Shane’s lips for his own, his arms winding underneath Shane’s and gripping the back of his neck, holding him in place. Shane stumbled a bit, his hands falling from Ilya’s face and clutching at the fabric of his shirt, balling it in his fists.
Ilya pulled Shane backwards, never breaking from their kiss as their tongues reacquainted themselves. Shane hummed against his mouth, a hand releasing his shirt and stopping against the wall so Ilya didn’t hit it roughly as they stumbled through his sex condo towards the bedroom. Ilya’s fingers found the short hairs at the nape of Shane’s neck and pulled, startling a loud groan from his mouth.
“Fuck.” He sighed, pushing Ilya into the bedroom doorframe, curling his hand around the wood, slotting his thigh between Ilya’s and pressing forward roughly. “Am I forgiven?” He asked lightly, biting at Ilya’s Cupid bow.
“Da. Yes.” Ilya moaned, the crown of his head hitting the back of Shane’s hand, stopping him from slamming it into the doorway.
Ilya’s hands fumbled with the buckle of Shane’s belt and button on his jeans. His hips arched away from the doorframe, pressing his cock against Shane’s thigh as he worked his hand into the front of his boxers. Shane hissed out a breath as Ilya’s hand curled around his dick, twisting his wrist and making heaven explode behind Shane’s eyes.
“Mmph, fuck. Fuck.” Shane groaned, rolling his hips into Ilya’s fist.
Ilya’s thumb swiped over the slit of Shane’s cock, smearing precome over the head and shaft in a rough downturn of his hand. “So hard already. For me.”
Shane’s fingers fumbled through the buttons on Ilya’s shirt when all he wanted to do was rip it apart and send them flying to his floor. “So many fucking buttons.” He hissed impatiently.
“Is designer, Hollander.”
Shane pulled the last button free and shoved the fabric off Ilya’s shoulders, his mouth immediately attaching to his collarbone, his teeth finding a home against the flesh. He kissed his way down Ilya’s stomach, enjoying the jump of his muscles under his roving mouth, and worked his jeans open. Shane pressed his face against the silk of Ilya’s boxers, breathing in the heady scent of arousal before he sucked the fabric into his mouth, his tongue licking against the wet spot Ilya’s cock had formed.
“Fuckkkk, da. Yes.” Ilya’s eyes rolled into the back of his skull.
Shane’s fingers pulled at the waistbands of Ilya’s pants and boxers and slipped them down his thighs. His tongue wet his lips before he sucked the head of Ilya’s cock into his mouth, tucking his lips over the edges of his teeth. The flat of his tongue cradled the underside of Ilya’s dick, massaging the thick vein that had mapped itself in Shane’s memories and soul. His fingers clenched into the flesh of Ilya’s thighs as he opened his mouth wider, more desperate, notching the tip against the back of his throat, burying his nose into the patch of pubic hair at the base.
“So good, Hollander.” Ilya hissed, tucking his thumb into the corner of Shane’s mouth beside his cock and flexing his hips. “Fuck, look at you. So good for me, yes?”
“Mmm…” Shane hummed and Ilya saw stars as the vibrations sizzled in his spine.
Shane bobbed his head in tandem with the thrusts of Ilya’s hips. He moved a hand away from one of his thighs, moving it to Ilya’s balls and cupped them in his palm, rolling and tugging. His middle fingertip found a home against Ilya’s perineum and pressed and massaged while long strings of garbled Russian broke free of Ilya’s mouth.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck! Stop! Oh, fuck, Hollander, not yet. Fuckkkkk!”
Shane set his cock free from his mouth with a wet pop and Ilya hooked his hands under Shane’s arms and hauled him up from his knees. Ilya’s tongue swept into Shane’s mouth, licking away traces of his own arousal and Shane’s spit as he pushed away from the door frame, walking Shane backwards towards the bed in the center of the room.
How he thought he’d never be here, in this room, again.
He pushed Shane backwards, watching as he bounced once he landed on the mattress. Ilya kicked his pants off the rest of the way before curling his hands around Shane’s ankles and divesting him of his bottoms. “Shirt off.” He demanded, folding the pants and tossing them onto the dresser to his side.
Shane smiled a shy smile, his arm reaching behind him and grabbing his tshirt by the neck and pulling it off. He tossed it at Ilya who dutifully folded it, which Shane appreciated, even if the method left a bit to be desired, and tossed it to the dresser to join Shane’s pants. He toed his socks off and Ilya didn’t spare them another glance as he dropped to the bed on top of Shane, holding himself up with straight arms that made his biceps bulge, the brachial veins running through his arms whispering an enticing invitation to the tip of Shane’s tongue.
Ilya buried his nose into the crook of Shane’s shoulder, pressing hot, open mouth kisses down his pec, before pulling a nipple between his teeth and tugging. He lowered his hips against Shane’s, keeping himself propped up on his hands, and began to grind their cocks together.
Shane hissed a breath in between his teeth, a hand curling around Ilya’s head and holding him to his chest. His other hand reached between them, awkwardly gripping their cocks together in a firm grip that made his thoughts slip from his mind and Russian drip from Ilya’s mouth.
It was awkward, a bit rushed and sloppy but Shane didn’t care. He grunted and tossed his head deeper into the pillow, thrusting his hips up against Ilya’s, knocking him off balance and causing him to fall roughly onto Shane.
“Fuck.” He grunted, moving up to his elbows and snapping his hips in a rough manner. “Can I fuck you, Hollander? You will take my cock?”
“Fuck. Yes. Please, please.”
Ilya’s hand shot out blindly, fumbling down on the handle of the nightstand. He was successful in his endeavor, his hand clenched around a strip of condoms and a bottle of lube. The cap opened easily, liquid spilling over his fingers and onto Shane’s stomach in his hurry to lubricate. He snuck a hand to Shane’s perineum, massaging lube into the skin before slipping a finger into his ass.
He easily took the first finger to the second knuckle with a soft whimper. Ilya kept his thumb pressed to Shane’s taint as he worked a second finger into his ass, flexing his wrist.
“‘O’m’god,” Shane moaned, flexing his hips upwards which caused the fingers in his ass to press against his prostate. “Fuck. Oh my god.”
“Is good?” Ilya asked, kissing his sternum as he began curling his fingers inside of Shane.
“So good. Fuck, don’t stop.”
“Not stopping.” Ilya confirmed, pushing up onto his knees between Shane’s thighs.
Ilya scooped an arm around one of Shane’s legs, draping it over his shoulder as he bent at the waist and slipped his mouth over Shane’s weeping cock. He bobbed roughly, loosening his throat and letting the head of his cock hit so deep in his esophagus that he felt like he was sucking Shane’s soul out of him.
He hummed, squeezing more lube over Shane’s ass and his fingers before slipping a third finger in to the knuckle. Shane murmured broken pleas and promises to Ilya that Ilya couldn’t quite make heads or tails of while his whole life began and ended with Shane’s cock in his mouth and his fingers in Shane’s ass.
Shane was delirious with pleasure, writhing and gasping as Ilya tormented him in the best ways—beyond every thought he’d had of the carnal activities that had awaited him tonight.
“I’m gonna—“
“Mmmnn.” Ilya denied, letting Shane’s cock drop from his mouth with a sloppy open mouth kiss to the head, the tip of his tongue sliding against the slit that leaked with want. “Not yet.”
Shane let out a pathetic whine from deep, low in his throat as Ilya ignored his cock, opting instead to bite at the inner flesh of the thigh that was resting still on the bed. “I wanna cu—“
“Da, I will not leave you like this.” Ilya promised, pulling his fingers free.
“Fuck, Roz, fuck. Please. Fuck me—I, I need to come.”
Ilya ripped the foil open, pinching the tip of the condom and rolling it down his cock with practiced ease and determination. More lube found itself pooling in his palm before he wrapped his hand around his dick, his own hips thrusting against his fist.
He noticed the head of his cock against Shane’s ass, barely pressing forward, just a hint of a promise. “Is ok?”
“Please,” Shane begged and it was the prettiest sound Ilya had ever heard, “I need it.”
Ilya licked his lips and pushed his hips forward, slowly, letting Shane’s body adjust around his intrusion. Ilya’s body felt tense, coiled, pleasure burning through his veins like top shelf liquor. He dropped to his elbows again, burying his cock as deeply as Shane could take him and grabbed for his jaw, tugging and pulling until he could seal his mouth to Shane’s.
The kiss was more breath and teeth than kiss but Ilya couldn’t find it in him to care as Shane’s leg dropped from his shoulder and hooked around his waist, locking his ankles together under Ilya’s ass. “Is good?” He asked, biting at his chin.
“Yes, so good. So, so good. Oh my god.”
Ilya’s body flexed as he snapped his hips forward, sending a shiver through his spine. He received a gasp and a flex of Shane’s legs around his waist from the movement, begging and pleading for him to go, go, go…
Ilya was spellbound by the way Shane’s freckles bunched on his cheeks as his brow furrowed, eyes closed in concentration as he focused on what Ilya’s cock was doing to his ass and the way his stomach muscles caused a pleasant friction against his dick. Ilya could feel the beads of precome slicking over his stomach and it made him grind harder, thrust his hips faster.
His crucifix dangled between them, the tip of it dragging against one of Shane’s nipples and making his nostrils flare.
“Oh, god, Hollander,” Ilya grunted, a bead of sweat dripping down his forehead. “Fucking touch yourself.”
Shane slipped a hand between their bodies, wrapping his cock in his hand and twisted the skin in a punishing rhythm that matched the thrust of Ilya’s hips. His mouth opened, his breaths a staccato of oh my god, fuck, yes and oh god—
“I’m coming, fuck! Oh my god, fuck, fuck!”
“Come for me, Shane. Fuck, fuck.”
“Ilya, m’god—“
His come came instantaneously, rapid and hot and thick over his hand and Ilya’s stomach. He could barely breathe as he jerked his cock through his orgasm, his hips continuing to rock against Ilya’s, whose garbled Russian and open mouthed kiss against his Adam's apple made Shane’s body feel electrified all over.
“Fuck, Shane.” Ilya moaned into his throat, his hips stuttering to a slow stop as his orgasm was wrung out of his cock. “God.”
Shane melted into the mattress, spent and satiated. He curled his arms around Ilya, breathing heavily on top of him, and pressed a kiss to the mop of sweaty curls on the top of his head. Ilya hummed, shifting his hips and letting his cock slip from Shane’s ass. He was content to lay there for a moment until Shane felt exposed and too messy to continue to live with it.
“Ok?” He asked softly, nuzzling his face against Shane’s pec, pressing a gentle kiss to the skin.
“M’good. You?”
Ilya blinked before closing his eyes tightly. He swallowed roughly, his heart thumping so brutally in his chest that he was certain Shane could feel it galloping. He was good, too good. The amount of good that left him feeling hazy and drunk and searching for the other shoe that was mid drop.
He hummed, turning his head so he could rest his chin against Shane’s sternum. The position was awkward and vulnerable but Shane met his gaze with little hesitation once he had lifted his hand to cup his cheek.
“If we could be something…” he trailed off, the pad of his thumb swiping over bewitching freckles. “… I’d want to be something.”
Shane’s smile was soft, chocolate melting to mocha as his eyes swept over the flush of Ilya’s skin. “Yeah?”
Ilya gave a short nod, pushing up to his knees again and leaned down. “Yes. Something.” He hummed, pressing a chaste kiss to Shane’s mouth.
“I want that. Too, I mean. Something with you.”
not beta’d