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“I want to try something.”
Ilya glances up, killing the blue of his phone screen and tossing it across the kitchen island, allowing Shane his undivided attention.
“Like?”
“Like in the bedroom.”
“Like?” Ilya probes.
“Like…like role reversal,” Shane mumbles.
“You want to fuck me?” He raises his eyebrows, tilting his head.
“Too far, not funny.”
Ilya laughs to himself, looking down to hide his bright smile. What a handsome smile.
“I just, I don’t know, I wanna try being more…dominant.”
“Great start.”
“Shut the fuck up.” He swats his husband’s shoulder, moving past him towards the fridge.
Ilya tugs his arm, forcing him to spin and fall right onto his chest. He peers into his dark eyes, holding his sides tightly as he leans down to kiss his husband. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yes, we will try.” Ilya holds the sides of his face, brushing over his freckles, “I can be your little bitch,” he scrunches his nose, his top row teasing a grin.
“When aren’t you?” Shane rolls his eyes, turning back to his task.
“Right.” Ilya slaps his ass as he slips away.
–
Slicing plastic strains against his tired wrists, a red ring sores the skin underneath. His feet, pointed outward, are secured to the pillared footboard, and his body is limp against the Egyptian cotton. Everything is so heavy: his eyelids, his thighs, his mind. His head drops back carelessly, thumping the pillow underneath him. White light draws a stripe on the floor–he blinks–a shadow stands at the edge, broad and biting the pink of his bottom lip.
“Beautiful,” it calls to him.
Ilya hums in response.
“Colour?”
“Green,” he whispers.
Before the word leaves his lips, the mattress dips between his parted thighs, and a familiar scent overwhelms his senses.
“Shanya?”
“Yes, baby?” he kisses his neck.
“Shanya.” He beams, sinking into the feeling. Warm lips roam over his throat, periodically opening to lick and bite at the delicate skin. When they move behind his ear, his back arches off the bed–strong hands force him flat to the bed.
“Down, boy.”
“Sor-” half the word stutters out and dies as Shane’s mouth starts again, his teeth nipping the cartilage of his lobe; the apology twists to a groan. He slithers down the line of his throat to his collarbones, tracing his clavicle with the point of his tongue, holding his gaze–Ilya’s cock twitches at the scene.
“Shane,” he exhales, pleading.
“Shh, baby, just take it.” His hand reaches between them, the sweat of his palm smoothing down Ilya’s stomach to his groin, stroking torturously slow.
“Malysh.” It comes out more desperate than intended.
His breath hitches when Shane’s hand speeds up, a delicious friction just enough for a bead of precum to form; his thumb swipes over the head.
“Say ahh.”
Ilya’s jaw drops unhesitatingly. Shane slides the pad of his thumb over his tongue, smearing his spend on the muscle. He gladly takes it, moaning and sucking around the digit before he gulps down, enjoying the tang of himself.
“Taste good?”
Ilya nods dumbly, high on a strain of lust the same scent as warm honey. Shane’s drool drips as a chord, wetting his cupid’s bow, sliding down the curve of his mouth. He frees the finger to lick at the corner, to paint his top row of teeth in clear gold.
“Fuck.” Shane’s brows furrow in a blend of concentration and arousal.
He slides down and up Ilya’s shoulder, his hands centring at his neck again, tracing the hickeys blooming violet. They stay there–never tightening, simply lingering as a manifestation of proprietary–as Shane licks into his mouth. The feeling of their tongues dancing to the allegro beat of their hearts is everything every time, but them, like this–him on top, guiding, and taking precisely what he wants–this, he’s convinced, is the closest to heaven Ilya will ever see. He whines, fucking whines, when Shane’s lips leave his, travelling down his body, and he cannot believe himself.
Shane licks down his sternum, down his linea alba, then nestles into the hair hiding his navel; his tongue dips out, tasting the sharp V of his crotch. Shane’s eyes flick up, his desperate urge undeniable in those dark orbs. He decorates the shaft with shy pecks, then laps at the head of his cock, swirling his tongue before swallowing him completely, only slightly gagging at the intrusion. His head bobs, once, twice, before sliding off, neglecting Ilya, raging and red. He worships his body, kissing down brawny legs, alternating between the thickness of his thighs and strong calves as he makes his way to his ankles, pausing at his heels.
“Green?”
“Green.”
He caresses his midfoot, decorating Ilya’s feet with small, reverent kisses as he subtly massages the arch. After the last peck, he centers himself between his thighs, starting again. He takes it all in one mouthful, humming at the full feeling. His cheeks hollow as he bobs his head, taking Ilya deeper on the down. The tip of his cock grazes Shane’s throat, and he bites his lip bloody to suppress a moan—he fails. Shane’s eyes flick up, studying the thin red line on his lower lip, the crinkles on the corner of his eyes as his face contorts in arousal; he takes his cock all the way down as blood trickles down the inner flesh. A frisson racks his body, and Shane pays his trembling no mind, sucking sloppily, letting spit and tears gather on his chin. It’s fucking pathetic the way Ilya is squirming at the sensation; it’s too much, too good, yet somehow entirely lacking.
“Shane.” It leaves as a groan.
His lover looks up through rows of dark lashes, teasingly batting his eyes as he hums around his cock.
“Fuck, Shane, the ties,” he breathes out.
“Mm.” Shane lifts off to lick the skin connecting his hip and pelvis. “The ties?”
“Can I take them off?”
“I’d love to see you try,” he teases.
“Fuck,” Ilya groans as Shane’s hand wraps around his achingly hard cock, stroking him steadily–his fist tight and slick and his tongue still teasing the edge of his groin. “Take them off.”
“Ask nicely.” Shane’s grip is possessive.
“Please. Off.”
“Nicer.”
Ilya exhales, trying and failing to compose himself. “Baby, please. Please, can I have them off?” His words shake, and he can feel his orgasm building at the base of his cock.
“Magic word.”
“Mommy,” he strains out, painting Shane’s hand and torso in streaks of translucent white. Shane’s palm moves from his crotch to his own chest, smearing Ilya’s cum sensually over his body, and circling his nipples.
“Mommy,” Ilya gasps in awe.
“Shh.” Shane moves a still slick finger over his lips, shushing him. He pushes between the pink flesh, sucking cum off his pointer like a lolly, rolling his eyes in contentment. His gaze drops, meeting similarly hooded eyes, as he reaches past him to the nightstand.
“Know what this is?” He runs the flat metal up Ilya’s forearms.
“Blade.” Ilya’s breathing quickens.
“Nooo,” Shane coos. “It’s a knife.” He runs his finger over the serration. “Beg for it.”
Ilya lets out a steadying breath, trying to ground himself; this feels like a sexy, fucked up dream he hasn’t woken up from–thank god.
“I’m not going to tell you again, Ilya.” The steel presses into the meat of his shoulder.
“Please, use your knife on me, mommy.” His words spill out slurred.
“Anything for you, baby.” Shane slides his thumb between Ilya’s joint and the ties, slicing through each plastic restraints—careful. Ilya’s palms clasp the sides of his ass, nails digging tiny crescents between white lines of his cheeks.
Shane jerks in unexpected pain, huffing out a laugh. “Eager.”
Ilya can’t think to banter. His mind is lost; all the blood used for thinking swims straight to his cock the moment he cups skin. Ilya’s hands squeeze the plump flesh, travel across his hips, then up his stomach, groping Shane’s pecs.
“Love your tits,” Ilya mumbles.
“Ily,” Shane moans at the thick, wet warmth circling his nipples, tipping his head back in pleasure.
“Tastes like me.”
“They're yours.”
And Ilya surrenders to the daze he’d been resisting, whining against Shane’s slick areola.
“Let me taste you.” Ilya’s middle finger brushes his hole.
“But-” Shane can barely protest before Ilya’s circling the ring of muscle, threatening to push past.
“I want to,” he protests before Shane can.
Shane leans over to kiss him sweetly, his hand moving up to hold Ilya’s face as their lips twist and lock.
“Okay.” He pulls away to move up his frame, posing on his chest, and peering down, reading Ilya’s face for any sign of doubt; excitement and lust shine in Ilya’s large pupils.
“Colour?” He hovers over Ilya’s mouth.
Rough hands pull him down; he mutters ‘green’ barely in time to lick a broad stripe over Shane’s hole. Shane keens at the pleasure, his hands slamming onto the oak. They clasp together, elbows and ulnas pushed against the headboard, rolling his hips as Ilya’s mouth moves precisely, teasing his rim. He starts slowly; small, tentative licks growing into quick flicks of his tongue, moving past his tight ring. Moans and gasps replace the quiet of the room; the sound of something slick being chewed and then spat out echoes underneath desperate pants.
Shane’s hands move from the wood to his thighs, holding onto the thick muscles of his husband as his body writhes on his tongue, riding his face. Their movements sync, as they so often do, Ilya’s tongue slipping out on the back, then fucking into him on the forth.
Shane’s hands fumble behind him, searching for and finding Ilya’s shaft, before he leaves his lips, stroking his husband as he descends.
“Tell me.” His eyes shift between Ilya’s dick and his eyes.
“Green.”
Shane rises on his knees, hovering to line himself up with the head. “Good boy,” Shane grins, sinking onto his cock.
Ilya’s entire body stills, his hands grip the white fabric beside him. He closes his eyes, counts to three–then counts to seven and makes it to five–before Shane rises again, and his eyes squeeze tighter. His sensitivity is nothing compared to the certain burn Shane endures, but every nerve is all too hot, yet frigid at the same time.
He sets a manageable pace, rising and falling intentionally. Ilya taps his thigh hurriedly, urging him to speed up, and Shane gratifies him enthusiastically. He bounces up and down, fucking himself on Ilya’s hard cock, his ass clapping as he meets Ilya’s thighs. He rises, and Ilya braces in anticipation, but instead, Shane throws his leg around, fully spinning as he rummages through sheets for the jackknife. He cuts through black ties straining against Ilya’s ankles, then reaches to find him again, his grip tight and impatient, dragging down the length. He strokes him shoddily, his hand shaking with anticipation, before he takes him again.
He bites his bottom lip, leaving a rounded indent in the flesh. His arms bolster him, his back slightly arched as he rides Ilya. Firm hands grasp his, rubbing soft circles into the thin skin of his wrist. He pushes his hips forward, sinks back to Ilya’s bone, then repeats. It’s slow and sensual, and nothing like the rough fucking they usually prefer—it’s a different satisfaction, one rooted in something deeper than desire, their eros. Ilya’s hands wander his body, fingers glide feather-light over sweat-slick skin, tracing the protruding veins of Shane’s arms as he raises and rolls his hips. They stutter on the come down, and his knees feel inflamed, but every other part–his heart, mind, and soul– tells him ‘faster’, ‘harder’.
His rhythm quickens, sexy and slow now sharp and staggering, but yielding panoramic pleasure. His hips stutter in relent, and his stamina is down to nothing, just trying jerks that miscarry. Ilya’s palm splays between his shoulder, pushing his head to the mattress. His arms rest above it, gripping the footboard as Ilya kneels behind him; Shane’s back curves temptingly as his face smoothes the wrinkles below his cheek. Before he can mumble in protest, Ilya’s pressing back into him, one hand stilled on his back while the other supports worn-out hips. He starts slowly, falling into Shane, before he draws back and pushes in, his movements hard and fast and fulfilling. Shane lets out a strangled groan, extending his arms in front of him as Ilya’s thrust speed up, never faltering in accuracy.
“Fuck, fuck, Ilya.” His arm twists behind him, bent at the small of his back.
Ilya’s hand meets his, gripping tightly as he drives into his husband, Shane recoiling in time with him. The other arm flails behind, skimming Ilya’s torso, hungry to touch. Ilya holds onto his forearms with both of his, pulling them back as he thrusts into him.
“Shane,” he grits out, skin slapping in the background of their moans.
“Close, baby, so close. Keep going,” Shane begs into the fabric, spit and tears wetting the white.
“Fuck.” Ilya releases his bruising grip, practically collapsing onto Shane as he pounds into him, his hands crawling to his chest. “Fuck, mommy,” he moans, rolling his nipple between his fingers.
“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane cries out as he cums, wet heat spilling out of him.
“Shane,” Ilya whines seconds after him, his weight fully crashing onto him.
Minutes of uneven staccato breathing pass, the sillage of sex and sweat sails through their bedroom as their orgasms wash through them.
“Holy fuck,” Ilya chuckles, tossing himself to the side.
“Mmm,” Shane hums agreeingly, “You okay?”
“Veryyy okay.” He smiles.
“Need a Gatorade,” Shane laughs.
Ilya’s eyebrows jump in amusement, “Wow, big risks today.”
Shane rolls his eyes in false annoyance. “Go get my Gatorade, ‘little bitch’.”
“Yes, mommy.” Ilya leans in for a peck before swinging trembling feet off the mattress. He’ll crawl to the fridge tonight.