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Ilya Rozanov had not cried in ten years. So much forgotten – the tensing of limbs, sharpness in the lungs, burning beneath his skin that came with it. Fear. A weakness that felt like falling, the ground rushing up with a promise of every bone shattering on impact.
This is different. There are arms encircling him now, a warm chest pressed against his face, a hand holding the nape of his neck. Gravity slides in place like it had been suspended all this time. Ilya lets it drag him down.
*
Shane Hollander spent every waking second as long as he can remember thinking. About hockey, schedules, his family, his team, his diet, his groceries, workout plans, game plans, power plays, techniques, his body, his house, his sexuality, his public image, Ilya Rozanov, always and stupidly Ilya Rozanov. The only time those loops come close to quieting down, is on a run, on the ice, underneath Rozanov's hands.
It's different now. The ribbons of Shane's thoughts begin to unfurl, a tranquil wax and wane at the back of his mind. Against the ear pressed to his chest he can feel his own steady heartbeat. Its rhythm spreads, pumping blood, alive and warm. Holding a silent conversation with the body next to it.
Where the space between them twists and disappears, a sensation akin to the brink of falling asleep begins to suffuse him; a sinking embrace, blurring edges to where everything becomes soft static. Shane closes his eyes and breathes, rise and fall of two chests as one. Lets go.
*
Time passes in unimportant, undefined liminality. Ilya's limbs feel heavy, as if he just ran a double. It brings the same release too, a comforting exhaustion.
Awareness creeps back slowly, like a caress. Shane's familiar scent, his understated aftershave, the faint sheen of sweat on his skin in the warm night, the heat of his body resting in Ilya's lap, wrapped around him.
It would be so easy to turn his head a little, run his tongue along the length of his neck, just where the veins press through. He lets the urge simmer for a while, feeding the hum until it tips over and Ilya exhales.
With the heat in the incremental space between them everything becomes Shane's smell, rushing towards his tongue over the soft skin. God, it's been so long. The taste tugs at him in desperate, hungry compulsion. Even more so the small sigh above, the bend of a neck to allow more access.
"You miss this?" He lets the sentence rumble against Shane's neck, follows it up with a stroke of his tongue over that sensitive spot beneath the ear. Say no one else can make you feel like this, swallowed behind it.
He only gets a hum that could vaguely be interpreted as a yes for an answer. That and a small held back movement of hips, warmness swellong prettily. against his thigh. Still, Ilya needs more.
He wants to sink his teeth in, bite Shane's answer from his throat, draw the blood towards the surface. Grazing where neck tendons meet flexing trapeze muscle, Ilya envisions his own bruises, on the ice for everyone to see, and sinks his teeth in.
*
On the net positive, Shane manages to pull back in time before Ilya's teeth can leave a real mark. On the downside, it kicks through his whole body straight to his dick. A prickling, almost burn, that his body chooses to alleviate by grinding his hips down hard.
"What the fuck." He hears his own indignation betrayed in the breathiness of his voice; sees it unmasked as a lie in the mischievous smile lighting up Ilya's eyes. "People are gonna see."
"See what?" Ilya asks innocently, looking up at him from where his lower lip still rests against Shane's collarbone. Ass.
"You can't give me a hickey before the fucking All Star game."
"We'll play on the same team. Is good luck."
"I'm serious." Shane glares down at Ilya. "Stop acting like a fucking teenager."
It cants over Ilya's face, shifting into a colder register.
"Just tell them you got it from groupie. Everyone knows Shane Hollander is womanizer now."
Bitterness laces the sarcastic tone. Not too long ago, Shane would have snapped back. Retreated into his head at the edge rapidly creating distance between them.
But by now, and in this moment, Shane knows what Ilya is doing. And so, instead of drawing away, he guides his hand to the back of Ilya's head, where his curls are longest and caress his fingers softly.
It takes an effort to will his mouth to open, let his tongue say the words that lie there heavy, because they're true.
"Want it here." Gingerly, he guides Ilya's head down, until his lips come to rest over Shane's chest. "Just for me."
Ilya's eyes on him are unfathomable, burn like coal. So does his grazing mouth, almost brutal in its lightness.
"You want it for later, yes?" In the echo Shane's yes resonates before the words are fully spoken, trailing into sharp breath with Ilya's tongue wrapped around a nipple.
"Little keepsake" his voice is back to its full mischievousness and Shane finds it madly, annoyingly charming. At least until Rozanov takes a nipple between his teeth to tug playfully, and Shane arches, need starting to suffuse his brain.
"Or maybe like trophy. I fucked sexiest man alive."
"Your ego is even bigger than your head." There is no helping the smile that pulls at his lips.
"Hm, is not only thing big about me. You would know." Shane is in the process of rolling his eyes when Rozanov demonstratively rolls up his hips and yes, he has a point, because Shane does know and even half hard...Shane feels faint. Ilya grins. "Sexiest man in NHL then."
Shane huffs. "You wish." He clutches Ilya's face in both hands and Ilya obeys, moving up to press open mouthed kisses to the spot over Shane's rapidly beating heart.
*
Ilya imagines Shane in his bed at home, his dick in hand and a love bite Ilya made next to it, Ilya's name on his lips.
"I should give you one in better position, so you can see properly while jerking off." Under the hem of Shane's shorts he finds just that spot, pinches close enough to see a tremble in the frivolously strained fabric.
Shane whines at that, high and clear and Ilya stops holding back, setting to work on his designated place. Fingers in time with his teeth, every shiver and hitched breath should be memorized, along its corresponding location. Strategy for the next game. Because there will be, a nauseating strike of fortune. As if there was a way of forgetting either way.
A slow quickening under his tongue, heartbeats pulsing against the ribcage. Ilya feels drunk. This is too sappy, just a fantasy for one night until they go back into the real world. But all there is, in the end, is memory transcribed to skin, Shane's hand at the nape of his neck.
Pressing a finger into the dark bruise forming just above the nipple, Ilya watches violet bleed, willing it to seep in as deeply and permanently as possible.
With a hand cupping his jaw, he catches just a glimpse of Shane's melting eyes before he is swept up in a kiss that is hot and deep and spilling over with so many unsaid things, Ilya thinks they might fall down his throat forever.
*
Their kiss is viscous and languid, tongues playing against each other as time slows down to a hazy stretch. It should last infinitely, just the slickness of their spit and breath shared back and forth, a perfect cycle.
Teeth graze the flesh of his lower lip, a tug that shocks Shane into a wounded noise. He is suddenly very aware of his legs spreading over Ilya's lap. Lascivious, sexy, a little slutty.
So he arches into it, grinding down, circling hips in an echo of all the times he'd ridden Ilya until they were both delirious with it. The memory seems to reverberate because Ilya tears away from his mouth, whispers a low Fuck into the space between them.
Long, smart fingers leave heat wherever they go. Shane tears at Ilya's shirt, wanting to feel his skin against his own, right there, run his hand over his stomach, the soft hair trailing down.
Under Ilyas hands Shane's body becomes a soft curve, molded into the movements his limbs are given, guiding his hips down until they meet and Jesus. There it is, that devastating fullness pressed up against him, covering him, throwing him into an orbit around that singular point of connection.
How long has it been. Now, having it again, sinking into that feeling, it might have been living under his skin all that time. To survive without it, so long, seems an impossibility. Their movements are waves and waves of alternating pleasure and loss, connection and release.
Shane's body feels loose and soft as Ilya drags it against his own, using him, controlling the amount of pleasure he's allowing. The firm length against his own, so hard and eager for Shane, because of him, is familiar and shiny new at the same time. It surrounds him, clenches through his insides that beg to be filled up by it, runs down his throat that screams to swallow it all until it is raw and tender.
Shane's body becomes water, slides fluidly to the floor. There, between Ilya's legs, it finally comes home. The clean scent of fabric and the deep notes beneath, of skin, salt, sex, Ilya. Fuck. A shower of sparks shivers down Shane's body and he lets himself fall.
*
Usually, Shane is fast with it. And Ilya loves that. The eagerness of taking it all at once, gagging for it. But tonight, Ilya wants it slow. To draw it out as long as possible. He wants to watch, wants to see every detail.
Shane seems to catch the same vibe, because he noses at Ilyas crotch, up to where his pants meet his skin, those world-ending eyes burning into Ilya. A question. A challenge. And then Shane Hollander, proper, stick up his ass golden boy draws down the hem of Ilyas pants with his teeth. Ilya's dick jumps.
Just a moment of indulgence, running a thumb over the freckles as he helps Shane draw down his pants enough to free his dick. Shane's eyes flicker, close under the touch.
"Always a slut for my cock, aren't you. Want it so bad."
A shiver runs over Shane's body, pink on his cheeks, rocking forward but catching himself, still. How prettily the plush-bitten mouth gives to the touch.
"Open up and show me how much." He hooks his thumb behind Shane's bottom teeth. At the glint of saliva pooling, Ilya has to grab himself at the base, hard. The rough tongue under his thumb sparks against his slit where he mirrors the movement, two hands in sync.
"At the pool today. You were watching." If there's a slight tremble in his voice he doesn't care, for Shane's hands clasped at his sides, hard and untouched, on his knees for Ilya.
"Look at me." Shane obeys. It's treacly, dripping, need and want poured with a sparkling edge of defiance.
"What did you think about." Shane huffs, about to turn away, but Ilya's not having it. He won't let him hide, not now, now that he's come so far and brought himself out here, brought Ilya out here into that nakedness between them.
"If you want" he gives his dick a stroke and Shane's eyes track down hypnotized for a moment before they rise up to the challenge. "You tell me."
"Hmm. Wanted to…" Shane seems to be surprised by his own voice falling dry and quiet in the room. "Wanted to kiss you right there."
Ilya strokes an encouraging thumb over his jawline, blushing like an apple in late summer. Shane leans into it, closing his eyes in remembrance.
"Wanted to lick the water off your stomach. Let you get me wet all over." With the breath of the words, low-spoken secrets, Shane tips forward into Ilya's space and Ilya would give him the world if it wasn't already cradled in his hands.
"Take those stupid, tiny shorts off. Feel you against my skin again, in my mouth, oh, yes…" the last words come at Ilya gently prying Shane's mouth open with his hand, urging him to look up at him.
Ilya holds his gaze as he slowly feeds his tip into Shane's waiting mouth. Watches for that moment of touch when the darkness of the pupils overtakes the warm brown, swimming opaque as he hums around the head, the way they flutter at the taste, strain to stay open at the first deeper thrust, flush with a sheen as he takes and takes and takes. Never once breaking their eye contact.
*
Shane could lose himself in this forever. The smooth slide, the taste that blooms through his whole body, every sharp curse from above.
It's over far too quickly. Ilya pulls him back by the hair, and it stings as thrillingly as the weight of his gaze, the shared knowledge of purpose. Soon enough Shane will be filled up by it. A craving that draws itself out honeyed, vast.
Still a bit dizzy, he sits back on his legs, connected to Ilya's cock by a thread of saliva. Along its glittering line, Shane watches Ilya's face contort as he cleans it up with his tongue.
And there he is, brought up to Ilya's mouth, all of it licked back up again, searing, open kisses that make Shane aware of how much he aches and strains. How good Ilya's grip on his waist feels. How this time Ilya is almost naked and Shane still completely clothed.
Shane feels wild with it. Remembers hotel rooms collapsing and unfolding through the years. Neon illuminated eyes, commanding, cold as glasss. The replication of touch thrilling through his veins, seeing it shift electric that composed countenance. The spell it spun between them. How even when they were touching, they didn't fully reach each other.
There is no more distance now, even without contact. Outside, the strip glimmers, faintly lighting up the room. Shane steps back and feels Ilya's eyes follow him. The buttons are smooth and pearlescent beneath his fingers. Ilya shrugs out of his pants, leaning back on his hands, beautiful naked body open towards Shane, his eyes following him sharply.
Shane lets the shirt slide from his shoulders. Even the way it falls, draping on the floor, seems intentional, delicate. Stepping back, he loses his pants, his underwear, following their departure with deliberate traces across his skin. It creates a shining pattern, every movement heavy as it is weighted by Ilya's gaze. He feels light, powerful, laid open to the bone.
The softness of the curtain is shocking at his back, the cold of the window thrilling beneath it. Shane arches against it, beckoning.
"Come here." Whispered words break the atmosphere of the room like a release.
"Fuck, Shane" Ilya's body is drawn, swaying forward, his eyes cutting into the space between them. Shane puts a hand on his chest and sees them follow. Takes a nipple between two fingers, rolling it and pinching, exhaling a moan and Ilya's gaze flutter towards his face, sticking to where the sound falls from Shane's mouth. Sliding upwards, it locks into him with an intensity that has Shane fighting his own eyes closing in abandon to it. The contact hangs heavy in the air, singular and closing in around them.
There is something in Ilya's eyes, even in the half dark, a sheen that marries a question for permission to a hunger fed on voracity. A smile breaks across his face, putting his teeth gleaming against the static of the room. Dangerous. Delighted. Bloodthirsty as the ice. And Ilya goes to his knees.
*
The first thing Ilya does is to make good on his promise. On the almost translucent skin over Shane's hip bone, a pretty plum colored bruise forms quickly. In his loose embrace, Shane's concentrated stillness holds a writhing impatience beneath.
Cold emanates from the window as his hands press into the firm flesh of Shane's thighs, exposed against the air. Ilya chances a glance upwards and there's nothing but miles and miles of skin above him, beautiful and palpitating and Ilya wants to say so many things but instead presses his words into Shane's skin with his tongue and lips and teeth.
Moans drift slowly into mewls the longer Ilya kisses everything but Shane's needy, flushed dark cock. How cute. He lets a hot breath ghost over it.
Shane's voice breaks around a whimper like it pains him, a drop of pearly precome beading up, running down.
Ilya wants to frame that sound, make it his ringtone, wake up to it every morning. So he does it again.
"Ilya" Shane's voice sounds wrecked, all pretext of anger leaked out into something approaching supplication. Ilya wants more of it, all of it.
Shane's hands twitch, an aborted movement. Can't have that.
"Hands behind your back."
The quickness with which Shane's hands clasp behind him thrills through Ilya.
It curves Shane's stomach forward, bending his body in the most luscious way and Ilya kisses the flexing muscles, brings up his hand to knead his tits, nipples peaked and hard under his fingers.
Shane's body starts to tremble, a shiver winnowing his frame. Holding him in place, Ilya can feel the flexing strain.
He searches for Shane's eyes, knows it is exactly right when he finds them blissed and breaking, gasping suprised into the restriction.
Continuing light kisses against his hips, his belly, his thighs, Ilya takes his time to draw out every last desperate noise. When he feels sated, and thinks Shane might be ripe for it, he sits back, allows:
"You can touch now."
But Shane's hand doesn't come to his weeping dick. Instead, it slides, fingers trembling, into Ilya's hair, holding on like a drowning man. It tips him up towards Shane's shimmering face, unsnarls him head to toe.
*
Ilyas head bends back, a moan twisting from his falling mouth. His eyes are an endless well. Shane is so hard he thinks he might faint.
"Ask." Ilya's voice is rough like granite, needy like silk.
As if it needed the permission, Shane's tongue rises to the occasion.
"Please fuck me. Need you inside."
Ilya smiles, wide and crooked and ascendant. "Turn around."
Shane does, pushing away the curtains to get a better grip on the glass. Only hazily it comes to him, that he is full frontal naked at a hotel window, about to get fucked.
Before he can panic about it, he feels hands pulling apart his ass and all his attention rushes into the sensation of being spread and exposed, breath held. A drop of spit breaks on his waiting hole and Shane moans.
But then, where he expected a finger, something warm and soft runs over him. Shane's whole body convulses.
Ilya's tongue runs around his rim and all Shane can breathe out is "Oh fuck, oh my fucking god oh fuck fuck fuck" as his brow falls on the mercy of cold glass. The only thing keeping him from melting onto the floor are the strong, warm hands wrapped around his thighs.
Ilya licks into him. Eyes crossing, the lights in the distance swim into a dancing sea of color.
Shane murmurs words that neither cohere nor make sense but he has to externalize, how crazy he is with it, oh god how madly insanely good this feels. In reward he feels a satisfied hum vibrate through himself, a smile against his spread cheeks.
Faint metal on his lips as Ilyas hands relentlessly draw him apart, heavy, shameful swing of his untouched cock against the air.
He can't help himself, pushing back on it and Ilyas hands grip around his waist, fucks his tongue deeper, their movements becoming synced as Shane falls apart.
*
Ilya has a lot of favorite things Shane Hollander does during sex, but grinding on Ilya's face with absolute abandon must be a new highlight. He lets Shane fuck himself on his tongue, dizzy from the lack of air, the movements of hips, the contractions of his body, the increasingly sloppy moans from far above. It becomes Ilya's whole world.
"You think you can come like this?" He can feel Shane drawing him in, faster, faster...
"Yes, yes, so close..."
Ilya pulls back, running a flat hand through the slickness, feels Shane's hole shudder against it.
"I think you can too." The wet smack of his hand against one ass cheek echoes his words. "But I don't want you to."
Shane looks obscene, open to him like this, waiting, craving. Ilya takes a moment to admire it, before he finally brings him close, back flush to him, body singing with their points of contact.
Splaying his hands over Shane's ribs, soothing down his flanks he leans into him, to whisper in his ear.
"Want you to come on my cock."
Need rolls in waves under Ilya's searching fingers, Shane's flushed face turned into his voice, the moan Ilya can feel in his own chest as it presses against the fluttering wings of Shane's shoulders.
"So, are you going to be good for me?"
Delicious, delirious bend of Shane's body back into his body, as much a desperate Yes as the one whispered from his mouth, spelled out in the taste behind his ear where sweat sparkles heady over Ilya's tongue. Ilya wants to give him everything, take all he can get, down to the last drop.
Before he lets something stupid slip from his lips, he brings Shane's jaw back with his fingers, licks into his mouth, a messy kiss that heats him up all the way through.
Breaking away to grab lube and a condom, he is presented with Shane's sweat-gleaming body. Overwhelming, its graceful restraint even in abandonment. Absurd how he can be allowed all of this.
Pressing his hand between Shane's shoulder blades, he bends this body that is so strong and beautiful on the ice and even more beautiful here, in their own little universe, until it spreads before him, open for just him to claim.
*
With the first breach of the blunt head Shane's body sings in expectation. All the more devastating the void left behind as it withdraws again. Never entering long enough to satisfy, to fill, it stretches into him only to disappear again. Shane wants to scream, maybe does, his body contracting around nothing.
Taunting, Ilya slaps the head over his hole, running his hard, slick length across him without entering. Shane's knees almost buckle. The thick tip dips back into him, runs along the inside of the ring in a controlled circle, only to leave him open and gaping for more as it retreats.
The humiliation, the sweet, punishing strain lights Shane up, dips him into a syrupy rhythm as Ilya slowly feeds him more of his cock again and again, pulling back every time only to let Shane move back on it a little more, give him controlled measures of choking length.
Finally, when Shane is out of his head with it, restraint long forgotten in sighs and surrendering motion, two hot hands grip his waist, hold him in place. Drawn open, Shane can feel the cold on his wet rim, involuntarily flexing against it.
The wish to see Ilya's face becomes a need and against better judgement, Shane chances a look into the reflective surface of the window. There it is, his own wrecked face, disheveled hair, wild eyes. But behind it, beside it, a mirror of a mirrored shadow, Ilya, curls haloing, eyes fixed on Shane, incessant, violently beautiful, all-consuming.
Feeling Shane's eyes on him, he locks their gaze between the doubled lights of the nightlit window.
"So beautiful. Taking it so well." The words reach Shane as from far away, fingers dancing across his bent back like echoes in the distance. "Let me take care of you."
And then he presses into him, finally, slow and hard and breathtaking, filling him up, up, all the way and Shane's mind wipes out in the numbing, devastating pleasure. He can hear his own voice slurring, the whole world smearing into fuzzy nothingness.
And then Ilya moves and it vibrates singing through his insides, hollowing him out, the delicious drag of it. He needs more, harder, fuck me harder, please and Ilya does, as he gathers Shane up in his arms. Fast and rough and incredibly good. It grazes all those impossible places, sparking white and golden bliss through him all the way down to his toes, all the way up through his tongue that opens his mouth to keen, punched out sounds on every movement.
After a while, Ilya slows down to long torturous strokes, brings a hand around to his belly. It shudders through Shane, the pressure, how it intensifies and layers into him, how maybe Ilya can feel his cock lined up through the softness of Shane's belly, as he whispers how beautifully Shane is taking it, how good he is for him.
When his movements become harder again, Shane finds himself crushed against the glass, mercifully cool on his hot cheeks, on the sensitive skin of his nipples. The composition of his body disintegrates, light distant between his eyelids, pleasure so high it becomes agony as it draws through his inside, cresting towards its own release.
On that precipice, just before he can stumble over the edge into annihilating nothingness, Ilya withdraws. The emptiness is shocking, wrecking, distant exploding stars. He contracts around nothing, feels the aborted spasms leaking out of him, a ghost of relinquishing that's painfully receding from him.
Tears burn in his eyes, threatening to fall as his own voice comes from far away, begging please, oh god can I come, please
And then Ilya is close to his ear, sweat slick between them as their muscles merge and he is enveloped.
"Ask me properly." That voice, that flesh surrounding him is Shane's whole world. It does not even take thought, letting his tongue do the work for him, making it so easy.
"May I come please, Sir."
*
It takes everything Ilya has not to come right there.
He buries himself deep and waits there for a second, letting the fullness reverberate between them. The irresistible resonance of the words light him up, glows under his fingers as they smooth down Shane's flanks, grip his hips in answer.
"Come for me, baby."
He fucks him hard, then, counting every contraction of muscle inside and outside, stretching time limitless as Shane shakes apart on his cock. He holds him through it, strokes becoming slow and leisurely, milking it for every shudder, every drop.
Coming down from it, as Shane's body relaxes and falls softly pliant in his hands, Ilya feels slightly disconnected from himself, his hardness distant, external. Sweat glitters in the arch of Shane's spine. It would look gorgeous with Ilya's come on it, marking what he just claimed.
As he goes to pull out however, a hand grabs his ass, holds him inside. Shane falls back against him, nosing at his jaw, locking them together with a flung arm. He mumbles something, adorable and disgruntled. Ilya kisses him where the veins pulse slow, thinks he can make out something like stay and not yet.
His body suffuses with warmth, indistinguishable between his own tingling skin and the muscles he runs his hands over as he slowly begins to move again. There is no hurry left, only the comfortable drag of bodies in sync, melting into each other, making a home in their shared movement.
It doesn't take long for Shane to moan again, small, pained sounds that Ilya can watch falling from his lips, eyelashes throwing swaying shadows over his flushed cheeks. It curls low in his belly, tight around his cock, scalding across his skin.
Shane's lips are parted, gleaming with spit. Ilya slides his fingers along their seam in time with his slow strokes. A tongue comes out to lick at them, shocking and gorgeous and then an edge of teeth, playfully biting at his fingers. Ilya laughs and laughs, ringing through his body as silver and lightning.
Against his palm, he can feel his own name mouthed like an offering, a groan torn from him, flexing his fingers. He lets them slide down to rest around Shane's neck. Shane tips forward, into it, whispering oh my god yes please please and Ilya can feel the movement of his Adam's apple strain against him.
Ilya begins fucking him in earnest then, fragile pleas cradled like a miracle in his palm. Shane's body clenches around his, giving him more than Ilya has ever deserved. He feels a drop on his hand and has to see Shane, has to kiss him, lick the salt off his face.
*
Shane sinks into the kiss, into Ilya's arms as he's held, slowly maneuvered back onto the bed and wow sinking into the soft duvet, surrounding his body like a cloud.
He grabs for Ilya again, thinking he might float away if he doesn't feel his weight on top of him, inside him. Only when he is covered by lean muscle and warm skin, Shane sighs happily, brings his aching legs to fall open. There is more he can have still. It seems like this need, this want will never stop, will go on forever.
Merciful, the soft press of Ilya's cock against him and Ilya's eyes on him, so earnest and open, murmuring Is okay? In answer, Shane brings his hand to the hard muscle of Ilya's ass, so satisfying to dig his fingers into, urges him into him and oh yes even better than the overwhelming sweetly painful stretch is the breaking in Ilya's eyes, the unbelieving adoration, the overwhelmed gasp of his mouth as he sinks in.
Shane lets his head fall back to savor the stretch. His body is delicate, bruised all over, like it should break but doesn't, growing over and above itself. Stolen time. Ilya is slow at first, torturous, every stroke drawing tears to Shane's eyes. It is tremendous, dissolving. His own cock is small and soft between his legs, his body exposed and pliant as it splits apart.
Willing his eyes to open, Ilya blurs above him like an apparition, still looking out for Shane, straining so hard, his face utterly devastated. Shane takes it into his hands, lets his own legs be brought up, splayed further apart until he thinks he might break under the pressure, the incredible fullness inside him.
Displaced where the whole body runs like one raw nerve, a live wire, every thrust sparks showers into an endless, full oblivion opening up inside, threatening to overtake him as his eyes roll up and into his head, broken to the core, laid bare.
From far away he hears words and his own name, again and again like a prayer, Shane oh god Shane and he pries his eyes open, brings up his hand around Ilya's face, flushed cheeks, melting eyes. Ilya's thrusts inside him become erratic, rocking Shane's body and for a wild moment Shane thinks Come in me, fill me up until I drown until he remembers that Ilya's wearing a condom. But in the flow the words just come, meaningless and still like a mantra wrapping around each other it's okay come on come on give it to me yes give me
Ilya shouts, fucking into him so hard it rocks Shane's whole body up the bed, drag inside him and along his exhausted limbs that feels like dying, being reborn. He brings up his arms to revel in it, to luxuriate in it, his cock slapping wetly on his stomach, filling again with his own delirious moans. And then Ilya is drawing out and stroking himself violently, come falling across Shane's chest, all the way up to his mouth. Shane licks it up, swallows just to see it break incredulous in Ilya's glossy eyes.
*
Ilya has been to mass, has prayed and supplicated in his life, but the closest he's come to a religious experience so far might be Shane Hollanders naked body stretched golden and shining and bruised before him, his own come painted across his stomach and chest, curled on his tongue.
Ilya groans, chases after it, licking into Shane's mouth, drinking up every aftershock like clear water, down into Shane's sighs and caresses, lets it wash him clean.
Underneath him, Shane shifts, writhing languidly. His cock is hardening again so prettily, just for Ilya.
He kisses down Shane's neck, across his chest and lazily draws a finger across his own come. Smears it viscous around Shane's cock. It is so delicate, so alive, so sensitive as it shudderingly plumps under his fingers.
"You have been so good for me." He runs the finger around the wet head, pressing into the slit just lightly, to hear the broken sigh.
He realizes his own voice comes out hoarse, crackling, but Ilya doesn't care. In this soft, fantastic moment everything is possible.
"I think you deserve reward, yes?"
He props himself up to look at Shane again, whose dazed eyes follow him, freckles stark against his face, incredibly soft and open. The most perfect thing in the world.
Ilya gathers up some of his come, smears it over Shane's lips to make them gleam and licks it up again as Shane's mouth parts pliant beneath him. He should die and be buried here.
Against their kiss, bodies warm and sliding slick against each other, Ilya asks "You think you can come again?"
Shane moans, writhing beneath him, eyebrows lifting almost despairingly.
"I don't know." Breathy, pressing his half-hard cock into Ilya's thigh. His insatiable minx. His little angel, fallen straight from heaven to crush Ilya into a thousand pieces.
It comes out like a prayer, an invocation. "You want to?" He searches Shane's eyes, in his nodding head an infinity of trust, possibility.
Ilya takes his time, kissing and licking along every bruise he has left, until he can finally wrap his lips around the head of Shane's cock, lovingly cradle it in his mouth to hear the hiss and soft exhale. Guided by the sounds he slowly begins to lick along it, his fingers wandering down across the balls, the taint, to find the hole under his fingers loose, stretched and fluttering. Fuck.
He lets a finger curl in to feel Shane buck into his mouth, humming around the sensation. With a second finger, Shane moves on it self-forgotten, fucking into Ilya's mouth in shivering bursts. It's blissful, calming. Nothing else in the world can come even close.
Ilya draws back to see Shane's bobbing cock, full and flushed red again, leaking clear precome in glittering beads. The flutter of him around Ilya, the smooth mechanics of his hips, fingers sliding in and out of him, rippling through his body.
"So perfect" he whispers into Shane's hipbone, right across the blooming bruise, and in Russian "I want to stay inside you forever."
Shane's hands come down into his hair, holding him there, fucking himself on his fingers in slow undulations, his dick smoothing against Ilya's open, hungry mouth. Ilya loves it, the tensing of muscles just before it happens, the way Shane's eyes are glazed with bliss but still locked into him, overwhelmed by his own pleasure and still choosing to share it with Ilya, contracting around his fingers, beautiful, otherworldly, perfect. Shane comes and Ilya relishes every drop that falls on his face, hands, waiting mouth.
*
In the aftermath they lie together, breathing, entwined, entangling. Soon they will have to separate, leave this room. But for now it envelops them, suspending reality for a few ephemeral moments.
Outside the windows, far beyond the lights, the sea glitters in its ancient oscillation, surging and breaking and surging again.