Work Text:
“What are you watching?”
Shane’s eyes dart up from his phone, thumb immediately pausing the video he’d been replaying for the last minute or so. He had thought his audio was low enough that from where Ilya was seated across the couch - their toes touching, wiggling against each other - the other man wouldn’t have heard the looping sound over his own phone.
They’d developed a love for spending time in each other’s space like this - minimal points of contact at times in the summer when it’s too hot to truly cuddle or sit shoulder to shoulder. They’d often play on their phones like this, with Ilya watching his brainrotted Instagram reels on a volume much too high, laughing obnoxiously at them and sending them to Shane, who would be sitting just a foot away. If not frying his brain with nonsensical videos or videos of people jumping off of roofs onto folding tables littered with beer cans, he’d have his phone horizontal, playing Clash of Clans. Shane would often be reading some article or scrolling along Twitter, the occasional huff of amused air leaving his nostrils.
But tonight, he’d opened up Instagram reels, just to feel something.
He’d curated his explore page as something made up almost entirely of sports related posts and the occasional nature photo. But apparently the reels feature was dominated by a separate algorithm, because he’d liked one short-form video of a bunch of Star Wars scenes spliced together to music and ever since then, his reels feed was commandeered by them. It wasn’t that he was complaining, certainly not when the influx of edits had started becoming more and more skewered in favor of one character in particular.
It’s the song looping that catches Ilya’s attention, thumbs hovering over his clan page as he manages the page of members. Someone got a little too mouthy in the chat, bye bye. The music looping from Shane’s phone drags his gaze up and he lets it play another two times before asking, eyebrow raised. He recognizes the song, something the Raiders would love to play in the locker room pre-game.
“Metallica?”
There’s a voice at the beginning of the loop that Ilya doesn't recognize.
Shane blushes and pauses the video, shrugging one shoulder.
“An edit. It’s when people make video compilations of shows or movies to music,” he explains. “Sorry, I’ll turn it down.”
“I did not think you would like Metallica.”
Shane swallows, lips twitching into a shy grin behind where he holds his phone up to obstruct Ilya’s view of his lover’s pretty face, other hand massaging at his pec.
“It’s not of the band, just their music. It’s an Anakin Skywalker edit.”
“Ahh, from your nerd movie,” Ilya teases.
Shane kicks at him playfully, he grabs the man’s ankle and jostles it around to combat the action, grinning widely at him.
“Is good? You have watched it maybe ten times.”
The other man rolls his eyes, curling in on himself a little and lifting one knee to bend.
“Not ten times,” he mutters, then turns his screen and shows the edit to Ilya, who bobs his head along to the music.
Ilya hums in approval, reaching out and swiping up once.
Instagram, unfortunately, does this thing where it will re-recommend reels you’ve already watched and liked to you days later. So the next edit that Ilya gets blessed with - the heart to the right tapped already by Shane the previous day - is of the same character, but instead set to a sensual song. The clips, Ilya happens to notice, are much more heated in nature as well compared to the previous edit. Shane scrambles and turns his phone screen off, recognition of the blunder evident on his face.
A grin breaks out on the blond’ lips as he tosses his phone aside and climbs over his boyfriend when the man attempts to stand up and bolt off somewhere to hide.
“Oh, I see!”
“You don’t see anything, asshole. It’s just an edit.”
Shane huffs when Ilya’s full weight traps him against the couch, wrists caught in the man’s grasp.
“I see, I see now Shanya. He is handsome, I know why you like your little porno edits.”
“They’re not-”
Ilya dives down and catches Shane’s lips in a kiss, swallowing up the hum turned pleasant moan that fills the shared cavern of their mouths. When he parts, it’s only enough to speak, their lips still brushing together.
“Hmm, I think, maybe, you have a type.”
Shane smiles softly, still blushing at his little habit having been caught, but less embarrassed with Ilya’s quickly growing cock pressing into his thigh.
“Yeah, maybe I do. Curly, blond hair, blue eyes, a little…erratic.”
Sad, yearning eyes. He doesn't say this one out loud.
Ilya blinks, narrowing his eyes at the freckled man below him.
“Erratic? You wound me.”
“Well, he killed a bunch of people - younglings, too - just to stop his wife from dying.”
Ilya scoffs, face contorted in an expression reading ‘so?’.
“I would too, for you моя любовь.”
Who wouldn’t for Natalie Portman, for Shane Hollander?
He leans down and pecks Shane’s lips quickly - once, twice. Shane chuckles.
“Well, exactly. Good thing it’s my type then.”
Ilya grins wide at him, kisses him slow and sweet while he lowers his weight onto the other man and lets his hands roam down his sides.
˚ ✦ . . ˚ . . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.
. ˚ * ✦ . . ✦ ˚ ˚ .˚ . . ˚ . ✦
It’s two weeks later when it happens.
Shane comes in from his morning run, sorting through the mail in his hands and earbuds in. He mouths aloud the different envelopes and where they come from, a few of them not even addressed to him due to some mixup or neglect of the carrier. He sets them on the kitchen counter and plucks his earbuds out, calling out to Ilya, who he assumed was still asleep or out back.
“Ilya?”
He waits for some answer, eyebrows furrowing slightly at the lack thereof. He wipes his hairline with the back of his wrist, choppy bangs he’s currently growing out sticking up in all sorts of directions above his forehead. With a roll of his eyes - figuring Ilya was still asleep - he starts to head down the hallway towards the bedroom to wake his boyfriend up with the sound of the shower running. If anything would wake the blond up, it would be the opportunity to see Shane naked and covered in soapy suds.
The hallway is dimly lit because of the overcast outside not allowing in nearly as much sunlight as the two of them had grown accustomed to at the cottage. When he takes a step towards the open door of the bedroom, a figure steps into place instead. Shane jumps back and scrambles for his phone, but just as he’s about to unlock it, red light floods the hallway alongside the thrumming pshhh ignition of the saber in the figure’s hand.
The sound that fills his ears is the all too familiar hum of what could sound like an old, dying projector casting an image over a blank wall - mechanical, dull, lower in tone than it should be. There’s the faint undertone of something oscillating underlying it, like if you were to blow into a fan and splice the sound it would produce with the projector hum. Shane knows this sound - he watched a video on how it was made all those years ago.
It’s familiar, and so is the crimson shade of neon light that outlines the silhouette of the figure - standing menacingly in the doorway to his bedroom. And so is the shape of the figure himself, the long, billowing sleeves beneath a cape that he knows is a brown so warm it’s almost maroon - a cape he knows is this color even in the deceiving shroud of red light because it had been worn by the very man that was cause for Shane Hollander’s sexual awakening as a kid.
The figure steps down the hallway in a slow glide, cape flowing easily behind him. Black boots covering as high as his shins have pant legs tucked messily into them, the glisten of the lightsaber reflecting off of the pleather stole draped over broad shoulders and crossed over his abdomen, then tucked into a belt. Dirty blond curls catch what little sunlight is shining through the tall windows behind Shane and by God, Ilya was so committed to the bit that he’d even drawn on the long, vertical scar over his right eyebrow for accuracy.
Shane feels lightheaded.
“Il-Ilya?”
He’s bracing himself against the countertop when Ilya steps into the light and his stoic face breaks out into a grin. He sways the lightsaber in his grasp around, playing with the swooshing sound it makes in reaction to the momentum change. It dangles from his grip easily - practiced. Shane’s knees feel weak.
“Has sound effects too,” Ilya notes conversationally as he slams the barrel of the long, lit rod on the edge of the counter beside Shane’s hips.
The saber shrieks with the impact and it’s a 1:1 to the sound from the movies. It flashes white at the spot where it had hit the granite, then goes back to its calm thrumming crimson shade. Shane’s eyes trace over the length of the barrel and up over the ridges of the hilt where Ilya’s thick fingers wrap around the metal.
“Four hundred for this, but is pretty cool,” he hums, turning the hilt over in his hand and taking a step back. “Been practicing when you are gone.”
He twirls the saber in his grasp almost as graceful as Hayden does in the movie, not fully as comfortable with the weight of it but trying all the same. It wooshes with the motion, garnet shimmering across his features as the lighted end passes in front of his face. Shane’s eyes stick to Ilya’s features - his proud grin, sharp smirk as their eyes meet.
“You like?”
“You-” Shane swallows, throat dry. “Did you do this…for me?”
Ilya looks a little sheepish and busies his gaze with the lightsaber again as he tosses it from one hand to the other.
“Maybe. Yes. You like?”
Shane is usually the one coming up with scenarios for their bedroom (or bathroom, or kitchen, or backyard…), so to come back from his run on a Thursday morning to the love of his life dressing up as the fictional character that nudged him in the right direction regarding his sexuality as an adolescent was as unexpected as it was so deeply erotic that Shane couldn’t help but drop to his knees then and there with a thud he’d pay for when the bruises blossom. Ilya seems shocked by the wordless submission, grip tightening on the handle of the lightsaber and lips twitching into that wide, giddy grin that Shane loves to see on him.
He schools his expression as best as he can, then brings the tip of the lit rod to Shane’s chin - almost touching, but not quite. The bit of research he’d done of watching the edits he figured lived in some saved folder on Shane’s phone provided him with enough cannon fodder for the moment. All he could do was hope that it didn’t sound as corny coming from his mouth as it did the actor’s.
“You lack conviction.”
Shane’s eyes snapped up to his face where they’d previously been roaming over his fully clothed figure, fingers twitching at his sides with nothing to do - nothing to grab.
“Fuck. I love you. I love you.”
Ilya takes a step closer, unable to help the way his mouth twitches at the admission. He presses a button housed at the hilt of the saber and it powers off, unlit rod-like bulb dull white as the light retracts. He sets it on the countertop behind Shane and grips the back of Shane’s head with both hands, shoving him forwards to nuzzle his crotch. Shane moans into the fabric, hands immediately flying up to scramble with the front of the dark tunic and tug it upwards. Ilya tucks the fabric into the belt sitting above his waist and lets greedy hands tug his boxers down to his ankles.
Shane is always enthusiastically participating in Ilya’s pleasure when he’s on his knees like this, but now he’s ravenous.
He swallows him down with little preamble or decorum - hungry tongue curling around the base of his cock and cradling it as he slides Ilya down his throat. He gags once, used to working up to getting him this far down this quickly. The taste is salty, briny on his tongue the way he loves. The freckled man on his knees whimpers as he swallows around his lover, spasming throat making a wet, garbled sound as he moans at the taste that blooms by his tonsils. Ilya grunts, fingers tightening in the dark mess of still sweat-damp hair.
“Fuck,” he lets slip, groaning as he watches Shane work his willing mouth on him.
Shane bobs his head back and forth, chest heaving a bit with each swallow of the intrusion until he starts getting used to the feeling enough to set a rhythm. His thumbs aren’t even tucked into his fists, splayed instead over the backs of Ilya’s bare thighs and encouraging more abuse; he wants to gag and choke.
“Better fucking swallow it all,” Ilya breathes, pupils wide and crazed as he watches his lover’s frenzied gagging.
Shane moans and nods quickly, tilts his head side to side with each drag and pull. Spit is collecting at the corners of his mouth, puffy lips shining with it. He’s looking foggy in the mind already - eyes closed and lids twitching with each gulp of precum down his throat. His face is flushed, vein throbbing at his temple in such an eye-catching way that Ilya can’t help but drag his thumb over it gently - soothing his lover’s eager pulse. He watches him, awestruck, as less than half of his cock at the base meets the air every second or two.
He’s never seen Shane take him like this, not even that first night they spent together all those years ago.
Ilya can’t even find the heart to be disappointed by this revelation, not when Shane pulls back for air - reluctant - and jerks the spit-covered cock that had been stuffed down his throat with both hands. His pace is as quick, as desperate as his mouth had been, but with less rhythm and finesse. He’s shaking, Ilya realizes, down there on his knees. He coos at his lover and yanks his hair back so that their eyes meet just as Shane is about to dive back in to swallow him down again. The freckled man makes a noise - impatient.
“Bend over the counter.”
Conflict passes over his flushed features, but he obeys. Shane stands on shaky legs and turns to bend over the counter, yanking his training shorts down with haste. Ilya helps him, presses a hand between his shoulder blades to force his chest against the countertop. Shane gasps at the cold that seeps through his damp shirt, but spreads his legs apart all the same after tossing his shorts off of one ankle.
They’d made love in the early, early morning. Before Shane’s run, and Ilya had fallen right back asleep after. It’s hardly enough when Ilya spits down at where Shane clenches around nothing desperately, but it’s enough that with the combined stretching hours prior and how Shane had lathered his dick in spit just now, it’s entirely possible that they can make it by with minimal pain.
Something - the past eleven years of their relationship, maybe - tells him that Shane is more than willing to handle a little pain.
He presses the tip of his cock against Shane’s ass, reveling in the full body shiver that wreaks havoc on Shane’s nervous system to the point that his leg fully kicks up off the ground just in anticipation. Ilya chuckles, free hand smoothing over the firm, supple curve of one cheek. He digs his thumb into one indent of the matching set at the base of the other’s spine, then presses his cock into him slowly.
“Yes, yes,” Shane whispers, lips pressed moist to the countertop as he breathes condensation against it.
“Beg more. Beg me for it.”
“Please, fuck - I need you, please, so bad, so…so bad, I need your dick.”
Ilya can hardly wait much longer after seeing the display of eagerness Shane had on his knees, mouth full of his cock and a hunger in his eyes he’d never seen. He spits down at where they’re joined as he pushes into him more. There’s a squeak as Shane’s palms slide against the counter towards his sides, he struggles to hold himself up. The blond is about halfway inside of him when his eyes catch the lightsaber on the countertop.
Something overtakes him.
Pale eyes with blown irises slide to the back of Shane’s head. He reaches over his shoulder and picks up the saber by the hilt, grasps it with a force unbreakable, and rears his arm back with a bend in his elbow. He presses the unlit tip against where Shane is already stretched around him and spits again - more generous than any time before. Shane reacts only when Ilya starts to press the rod into him, quickly snapping his head to look over his shoulder.
He lets out a sob as the toy breaches him alongside Ilya’s cock.
His body trembles violently, knees giving in and nearly knocking together. Ilya holds him upright and keeps their gazes locked as he slides the rest of his still wet cock into him and bullies the thinner shaft in alongside it. It’s a tight fit, but it isn’t anything they haven’t done before. Shane lays so pliant, so pretty against the counter while Ilya uses him.
“Is enough for you? For your slutty fucking ass?” he asks, watching the man’s rim catch along the toy until Ilya is fully sheathed inside of him.
He’s clenching due to the extra width inside him, choking Ilya’s cock with the ring of muscle. A slow roll, a test. Shane chokes out some pained sound, sweaty expanse of his back seeping through his shirt. The freckled man nods where he presses his cheek to the cool counter and whines, babbling quietly to the air.
“Love you, lo-love you…love…love y-y-yo-ou,” he sobs openly, bucking his hips back as best as he’s able on weak, shaky legs.
Ilya digs his thumb into the button of the hilt and crimson screams to life. The saber vibrates when ignited.
Shane cries his name when he cums all over the side of the cabinet.
“Ilya,” he wails, pressing curled, clenched toes into the tile below him and spurting ropes of white onto the wood just below where he’s bent.
Ilya’s eyebrows twitch as Shane clenches around him, gaze flitting between where Shane’s face finally falls slack after his orgasm rips through him and where his irritated rim sucks more and more of him in impossibly. He lasts two, maybe three thrusts before Shane’s whines of overstimulation and full-bodied shudders - aftershocks tormenting his muscles - drive him over the edge.
He keeps the lightsaber inside of his boyfriend, joined next to his cock while he empties himself inside of him and marks him. It’s quicker than he’s used to finishing, with much less talking than he’s used to providing. But there’s evidence that Shane hadn’t minded the difference splattered all over the kitchen cabinet.
Ilya pumps the last few drops of his cum inside of Shane before pulling the lightsaber free and setting it on the counter, still thrumming low in their ears despite the rush of blood drowning it out. He leans over Shane’s back and kisses the back of his neck, skin tacky with sweat underneath the layers of tunic material. Shane is a mess, skin shiny with a sheen of sweat and eyelids fluttered closed. He’s evening his breathing against the counter, Ilya pets over his cheek in a gentle caress.
“Okay?” he asks, not even fully returned to his one senses yet.
He kisses Shane’s ear, his thumb tracing slow over the curve of his lover’s cheekbone, up over his eyebrow. Shane nods, swallows with his dry throat.
“Okay,” he whimpers, voice catching, raspy. “Love you, love you…fucking love you.”
Breathless, the blond chuckles at him.
“Love you too,” he hums, kissing the hinge of Shane’s jaw and down to his chin until cinnamon-sweet brown eyes open and find him.
“Won’t be able to watch the…the movies anymore without getting horny,” he pants.
Ilya snorts.
“This was problem for you before now, pervert.”
Shane laughs, giddy and unguarded. They stand, Shane cringes as he feels the slow, viscous white glide down his thighs and coat his asscheeks. They shower.
Swirling around in Shane’s brain already are thoughts of how to give Ilya this and more.