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“No.”
Ilya’s voice is firm and steady. He pushes the word right into Shane’s mouth, close enough to feel the answering exhale.
“Please. Please, Ilya, I need–I can’t–”
Shane loses words and puts his pleas into his eyes, sadder and more desperate and with a shinier wet around the edges than Ilya can ever remember seeing.
“You can. You will. You are good for me. You will wait.”
Shane doesn’t answer. He bites his lip, can’t help but let out a tiny whine, but eventually nods his head once, quick and sharp.
“Good.”
Ilya steps back to take in the full sight. Shane is bound and beautiful, a thousand racehorses pent up under sweaty, shivering skin. Ilya strokes down the line of rope that crosses Shane’s chest and wraps around his waist, making sure to brush his nipple softly on the way. He pulls a sharp exhale out of Shane and a few quick breaths, which Shane re-steadies with effort when Ilya holds eye contact and breathes slow and deep in guidance.
“You look beautiful.” Ilya lets his hand skirt down to the lace garter he’d given Shane earlier that night, the crisp white shocking against his thigh. It’s so delicate. Shane had blushed a new shade of pink when he’d opened the box in the restaurant, then immediately snapped it shut and looked around like a rabbit that just heard a screech owl. Ilya, he’d said. What is this?
Ilya had just smiled and taken a slow sip of his drink.
Ilya kneels to kiss the garter now, slipping his fingers underneath to rotate it a few inches and feel Shane’s skin respond. He looks up at Shane from his knees, firmly placing both hands on Shane’s thighs in reassurance.
“You have waited for me before. You can do this. Do you know why?”
“Why?”
“Tell me. You know.” He kisses one knee softly, then the other. “Tell me what you are.”
Shane swallows hard, tears on the verge of falling. He scrunches his eyes shut and the first trickles dampen the corners. “I’m–” Ilya grasps Shane’s cock and pumps quickly once, twice, three times. “Fuck, Ilya. Fuck. Please…. Fuck, I’m a…good girl, okay? I’m good. I’ll be good, I promise, just please let me come.”
Ilya finds the scar he bit into Shane’s thigh a few months ago and sucks it into his mouth, biting hard enough to bruise and slowing his hand on Shane’s cock to an excruciating rhythm. He’s talked Shane through much worse. Ilya loses track of time when Shane relaxes into him like this, but he knows one day they started in the morning and it was dark before Ilya finally swallowed him into his throat. He still jerks off to the memory of Shane drinking water from the glass Ilya held to his lips during breaks.
Ilya lets the skin slide out of his teeth, then watches the fresh white marks refill with hot pink.
“Not yet.”
Shane flexes his wrists against their restraints. “When? What do I have to do? Jesus, Rozanov, please tell me what to do. I’ll do anything you want. Please just tell me.”
Ilya kisses along Shane’s thigh to the crease of his hip. He opens his mouth to press the underside of Shane’s tip to his tongue, not moving, just tasting the desperation leaking out. Shane goes perfectly still and looks away.
Ilya grabs his face and wrenches it forward, holding eye contact like it's not a request. He slowly drags his tongue up and over Shane’s slit, then sucks the precum into his mouth. Shane’s five o’clock shadow is rough against Ilya’s palm when his jaw flexes.
Ilya cocks his head. “I think you can go longer. If you really needed it you would have just come, yes?”
Shane’s eyes widen and his lip trembles. He slumps back against the chair and tries to tilt his head away. Ilya again pulls his face forward and leans in to bite Shane’s lip, hard, releasing and biting back down, sharp enough to taste blood. When he pulls away, he finally sees what he’s looking for: a real tear, not just a trickle, rolling down Shane’s cheek.
Ilya can feel his heartbeat in his cock. He rises from his knees and bends slightly to watch the shiny path carve itself into Shane’s face. “Pretty,” he whispers, “my pretty, pretty girl. I love you.” He licks into skin and tastes salt with the acrid chemicals of cream foundation and powder blush.
Shane closes his eyes, pushing more tears out of them. He’s shaking slightly. “I–I really need to come. Help me. I–please help me, I don’t think I can hold it…”
He cries out in shock when Ilya slaps his cock, hard. It springs back. Ilya laughs. “There. I helped.”
Shane groans and pants and tries to push out from the chair, humping up into nothing as much as the ropes will allow. “Please. Fuck. I let you put that thing on my leg, I sat still for the…stuff. What the fuck do you want?”
“‘Stuff’? What, you can wear makeup but not say the words?”
"Does it matter what I call it?"
"Maybe it matters to me." Ilya stalks into the bathroom and returns with empty packaging in his hand. “Here. You are the French speaker. Translate.”
Shane grits his teeth. “The English is on the label too, asshole.”
Ilya waggles the packaging in front of him, insistent. “Read it in English then.”
“Fine.” He breathes the words out as quickly as he can get through them. “L’Oréal Paris Infallible Pro-Last Waterproof Pencil Eyeliner. Okay?”
“Thank you.” Ilya pecks Shane on the forehead. “I will make a deal with you. If you cry enough so black makeup can reach to…” He points to a spot on Shane’s left cheek. “...this freckle. Then I will make you come.”
“But–”
“What? You think I am not generous? I said you will come.”
“Ilya.” Shane swallows. “It’s waterproof.”
Ilya taps his finger to his chin. “Hmm. I think I have heard this word before, but maybe I forgot.”
His eyes sparkle when he flashes Shane his most innocent grin.
“Show me.”
Shane’s crying, not a few tears but a torrent, and Ilya’s so close he’s not sure he’ll be able to hold off.
“Fuck, Shane. Again.”
Shane looks up, a pathetic puppy dog with his tail between his legs, and chokes out: “Please hit me.”
The slap comes hard and fast, and he sobs into it, head jerking to the side before his chin rolls down to his chest. His shoulders curl in and he’s prey, cornered, trying to protect himself with nothing but air.
Ilya holds up the mirror to Shane’s face again, pointing out the fateful freckle untouched by the eyeliner. He clucks his tongue and puts the mirror back on the side table.
“Ilya. Ilya. Please. It’s not going to work.”
“I think you might be right.” He picks up the eyeliner pencil and regards it. “This is really good quality. We should write a review.”
Shane’s face falls. He heaves a shuddering breath. Ilya sets the pencil down and takes Shane’s head into gentle hands, stroking his hair. He stands next to the chair and pulls Shane close, close enough for his head to collapse on Ilya’s torso. Ilya holds him through a fit of sobs that move through Shane’s whole body.
“You are okay, Shane. It will be over soon. My beautiful, beautiful girl.” He kisses the top of Shane’s head, coming away with sweat on his chin. “You only have to try harder.”
“No,” Shane breathes, guttural and muffled against Ilya’s stomach. “No, I can’t. I’m sorry. I did my best. I really tried, I’m sorry.”
Ilya strokes down his neck, along his shoulder, down his arm. He is warm and solid and completely unyielding, and he can feel more tension flowing out of Shane's muscles with each defeated sob. The fight drains out of Shane as he breaks down. "I tried," Shane says again, a fresh wave of whimpers shaking him gently.
Ilya waits a few minutes until all he hears is the occasional sniffle.
“Shane,” he purrs, “think. You can come when there is black makeup on your freckle. I did not say it has to be eyeliner.”
Shane freezes. His strings go taut again. “What?”
Ilya shrugs. “It looked like you didn’t want to sit still anymore for the mascara, so I left it in the bag. In the bathroom.”
Shane jerks his head back to look up at Ilya, eyes wide and sparked with hope. “But is that-I mean…can you still put that on me?”
“You want that? You can ask.”
“Yes, I want that. I want you to do that.”
“Do what?”
A flicker of understanding crosses Shane’s face. He almost looks dizzy with it. “Rozanov. Ilya. Please, will you put mascara on me? That’s–I want it. Can you please let me wear it? I want to wear it for you. I…I want to be pretty for you.”
Ilya strokes his cheek. “And?”
“And…” Shane drops his eyes for a second, but he forces them back up to meet Ilya's. “I want to be your good girl.”
Ilya moves to the front of the chair to face Shane. He tips up Shane’s chin and gives him a tender, lingering kiss, letting his hand drift slowly and deliberately down while Shane makes tentative hopeful noises. He pumps Shane’s cock in his hand, getting him hard again, and whispers in his ear.
“And now I believe you.”
Ilya unscrews the cap and leans forward to sweep the spoolie across long wet lashes. He murmurs praise as he adds more coats, precise and delicate, coating the top and bottom lashes but avoiding the water line.
He steps back and admires his handiwork.
“Okay. All done.” He holds the mirror up again so Shane can see, keeping it in front of his face. “Now look. Tell me when you do it.”
Shane's lashes were already long, but now they fan out an improbable distance with an exaggerated curl. They flutter an inch above the freckle that Ilya had pointed out.
Ilya leans forward, taking Shane’s nipple into his mouth. Quiet whimpers turn to gasps when Ilya bites down, then shakes his head slightly back and forth.
“Ow, fuck! Ah, that hurts, it’s–”
Ilya pinches his other nipple, hard as he can.
Tears start to pool in Shane’s eyes, and he closes his mouth. Hot salt water flows across the layers of mascara, blessedly runny mascara that starts to paint his face.
He watches the black grit pool below his eye in the mirror, but it runs just to the right of where Shane needs it.
"Fuck. I...Ilya, I need more. Please hurt me more."
Ilya can't help the moan that he hums into Shane's chest.
"Of course. Whatever you want," he coos, dropping to his knees to reach for the skate he'd sanitized and tucked under the bed that morning.
The bright red lines scratched into Shane's thigh are too shallow to bleed much. They're not too shallow to light up Shane's pain receptors when Ilya pours rubbing alcohol on them.
"Je-Jesus Christ." It's still not enough. "Deeper, please."
Ilya shuffles around to Shane's left side, still on his knees, making Shane's reflection bounce around in the hand mirror he tries to keep in front of Shane's face. He settles back onto his heels and eyes the lines that follow the curve of Shane's hips. Tiger stripes, he'd heard somebody call them once. They take Ilya's breath away. He doesn't have any hands left to stroke himself, but he can't remember a time when he was harder. He needs to make this cut count.
He positions the blade of the skate at the top of one of the stretch marks, feeling the tension of the skin that resists as he pushes it in. He watches the silver disappear into liquid red. With reverence, he traces the light groove, long and deep enough to finally draw out of Shane exactly what he needs.
“Oh my god, Ilya. Yes. Fuck. Look, it-”
Ilya doesn’t even bother to verify before he’s on top of Shane, threatening to topple the chair backwards with both of them on it. He’s kissing him, and he’s smearing thumbs through mascara rivers, and he can’t wait another second. “My good girl. I knew you would do it. Tell me how you want to come.”
“Full,” Shane begs into Ilya’s mouth. “Please fuck me.”
Ilya fumbles with the ropes, frantic, and catches Shane when he slumps forward, limbs stiff and tingling from not moving for so long. He half-walks, half-carries him to the bed and lays him down on his back, shimmying up Shane’s body to replace the security of the restraints with the comfort of body weight.
Shane is a vision, exhausted and limp and buzzing with need, liquid. Ilya drops his head into Shane’s neck and moans kisses down to his chest.
“Fuck, Shane.” He rocks back on his knees to remove Shane’s plug, breath catching in his throat when he sees how ready Shane is for him. “Tell me again.”
“I’m yours, Ilya. Your good girl. Please fuck me. Please.”
Ilya’s hand flails for the lube, grabbing it off the bedside table. He pumps it into his hand and gets them both ready, so desperate to sink into Shane’s warmth that his hands are shaking. He hoists Shane’s knees up, tells him to hold them, and guides himself to push inside.
Shane’s moan is in a higher register than usual as Ilya finally moves his hips forward, bringing them as close together as they can get. Ilya doesn’t start to move again right away, overwhelmed with the tight heat, unsure if he’ll be able to hold back until Shane’s had enough.
“Please don’t make me wait, Ilya. Fuck. Oh my god–”
Ilya can’t resist him, doesn’t want to deny him another second. He slicks the front of his stomach with a quick swipe of lube, then bends down and traps Shane’s cock between them, moving himself against Shane’s prostate and providing external friction at the same time.
Shane’s breaths come fast and shallow. “Oh my god. Ilya, can I come? Please.”
“Yes. Come for me.”
Shane tenses around Ilya’s cock, his stuttering gasps warming Ilya’s face. Ilya fucks him through it with the last ounce of self control he has, barely holding on until they’re both coated in Shane’s come. Finally, he buries his face in Shane’s neck as he goes still, pulsing inside him and whimpering hopelessly as his orgasm floods out everything else. He rolls his hips a few more times, groaning at Shane’s grip, and shudders with the aftershocks.
He breathes deep and collapses in a heap, Shane’s familiar warmth hugging every part of him. Ilya’s hands roam idly over the indents from the restraints on Shane’s skin, tracing them.
In a half-conscious haze, Ilya notices the mascara stains on the pillowcase. He makes a mental note to try to wake up early to soak it.
Then he pulls Shane to his chest, hoping Shane’s eyes are still wet enough to leave a mark.