Archive of Our Own

Ilya should be mad that Shane is wasting their precious relaxing time at the cottage. 

Of course it’s only a façade, because how could he ever be angry with his beautiful boyfriend. That’s his baby. His lover, no matter how gross Shane finds the word. 

Ilya is finally allowed to love him, so they’re lovers forever, end of story. Living happily ever after.

But seriously: It’s ridiculous to go on a run when you’re on fucking holiday. 

That includes stupid fucking “recovery runs”. 

Even if they’re only thirty minutes long and Shane comes back looking deliciously sweaty and loose-limbed enough to let himself be fucked in the shower afterwards. If only Ilya holds him by his thighs against the wall during his orgasm, and who would he be to say no to that?

Still. They are supposed to be relaxing. Together, undisturbed, on every surface and at any time of day. 

So Ilya is crafting his best pout onto his mouth when he hears Shane push open the front door and shuffle down to the kitchen on socks because both of them take their shoes off inside like civilized people. The fridge opens. 

“I am glad the mooses did not eat you,” Ilya calls over his shoulder from the couch.

“Moose. Not mooses. And they’re herbivores. I’ve told you this before.” Water starts running, then stops. 

“Maybe you have, maybe not. Hard to remember when my brain is dying of loneliness.” Ilya actually spent the half hour of Shane's absence texting Sveta about his newly minted boyfriend, almost kicking his feet out of happiness.

“And I am glad that my boyfriend is not dramatic at all,” Shane says, rounding the corner to the living room. Thinking about the same thing as Ilya, their minds are already merging.

He is still in his running clothes, all black, which is always a good look. Maybe Ilya can take them off with his teeth later. 

“Hi. What were you up to?”

Ilya turns fully towards him, a perfect guilt-inducing pout firmly in place, when he catches sight of Shane’s hand. 

“What is that?”

“Potential sponsorship. I’m testing it before I accept the deal.” Shaking it slightly, Shane comes to stand in front of Ilya (always searching his proximity, as if Ilya might vanish) and lifts the object to his face.

No more words make it out of Ilya’s throat. It's gone dry, a desert whistling in his windpipe. The rest of his body sings like a kettle on the verge of boiling. 

Ilya watches helplessly as Shane wraps his lips around the mouth of the water bottle.

It’s hot pink. It’s distinctly phallic. The top part flares slightly, almost resembling… oh, God.

The opening of Shane’s new water bottle is so uselessly, abnormally big that Shane has to open wide to fit all of his beautiful mouth around it. 

Hysterically, Ilya thinks to himself that the designer of this thing should be taken out back and shot. Or sent a flower basket. Hard to decide. Hard to do anything except stare. 

Shane’s throat bobs. He swallows a load of water. His cheeks cave, then bulge when more flows into his mouth. 

A droplet trails down the edge of his bottom lip, leaving a shining path down his chin.

God. There's no denying it: The bottle looks like a fucking dildo. A big, hot pink, perfectly sized for being squeezed in Shane’s hand, dildo. 

And that thought, an image so brutally hot that Ilya has to adjust himself in his pants, stirs something in his memory. There was something, a long time ago, when they weren’t boyfriends yet — before they had even — oh fuck, when Ilya had asked him if he’d ever been fucked —

Jesus Christ. He remembers now. 

He remembers it exactly, in technicolour and at full volume blaring between his ears. 

The kettle whistles. Boiling point. 

Shane swallows one last time, his lips puckering tightly around the mouth of the bottle, and pulls off with a gasp. “Fuck. I needed that.”

Ilya swallows too. His mouth is suddenly full of saliva. There is a single invasive thought in his head. 

Out loud he says: 

“You never showed me your toy.”

Shane frowns. He wipes his mouth with his thumb, somehow making it look prim. “What?”

“Your toy,” Ilya says, unable to stop now. He feels hot all over, fizzing out of his skin. “You once said you had a toy. We could use it. Together.”

“A toy — you mean a sex toy?”

“No, I mean little car that kids ride around on and honk at his mother with. Yes, of course sex toy.”

“Fuck you,” Shane says without any heat. He is examining Ilya’s face with the sharp intensity he usually reserves for hockey gameplays. 

“I bet you still have it. If it’s not broken, you don’t throw it away.” And if that isn’t good to know for his own future, an instruction manual on how to be something Shane keeps. “So let’s use it. Let me use it on you.”

“Use it.” Shane still only looks at him. His head is tilted, face not betraying anything. Not saying yes. Not saying no!

“What are you, a mountain valley that only makes echo? I want to use toy to make you feel good. Drive you insane, like you like so much.” 

And let me see. Please, Ilya thinks, please let me see one more time how you touch yourself. I didn't appreciate it enough last time. I'm better now.

“Where is this coming from, I wonder.” Shane hums, one short note that is neither here nor there.

“I cannot say,” Ilya says smoothly. “What, are you shy now? You told me about toy in the first place. Now I was reminded.”

Shane fights back the smile that inches into his expression. “Well, I didn’t think you’d still remember! It’s been years.”

“I do not forget these things.”

“Clearly.” Shane’s hands wring the bottle. He looks like he is getting lost inside his head.

Ilya shuffles forward on the couch, and reaches out to touch Shane’s leg, the fuzz of hair. The moment their skin touches, Shane exhales slowly.

“You want to make me feel good.”

“Yes.”

“With the toy that I mentioned to you years ago.”

“Yes. What is — how do you say — what is not clicking here?”

“I just — you don’t care that I still have it? Even though we're together now?”

“No. I am not jealous of plastic.” 

“Silicone, technically.”

“Jesus Christ, Hollander.” Ilya curls his palms around the sides of Shane's knees and squeezes him for emphasis. “Let me be clear as crystal. I want to use toy on you. Next time we are at your apartment —”

“I brought it.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

“You did?”

“I did.” 

Fluttering his fucking lashes as he says it, too. A menace shaped like the love of Ilya’s life.

“You really did.”

“Yeah.”

“Where.”

“Not telling you.” Shane steps out of his grip, the shy smile Ilya adores so much pulling at the corners of his mouth. 

Like he hasn’t just upended Ilya’s wildest fantasies onto the ground and picked the prettiest one out for himself.

“Do not bullshit me. This is serious now. You really brought the toy.”

“I swear! I didn’t think we’d get to it, but. I guess I thought — I thought maybe I could bring it up… sometime.” Shane trails off, suddenly tense. As if Ilya might judge him for bringing a sex toy to their cottage.

Ilya cannot let him feel this way for even a second.

“This is the hottest thing you have ever told me.”

“Is it?” Shane’s eyes crinkle back into a smile. His tongue flickers over his lips, a nervous habit. 

Ilya Rozanov, the luckiest man alive.

“Yes. For years I have been thinking about this toy. You tell me about it once and then never again. You deny me any information so I have to imagine the color and size in my mind. You leave me alone with my dreams.” Ilya ticks off every complaint on his fingers, well aware that he sounds like a petulant child. “And now you say that it is here and I was not informed? When you know how curious I am. I am wounded.”

He lifts his chin so Shane can see his face, the resolution there, the flush that he knows is already marking him up with rising desire for only this man in front of him. 

“I want to use it. Let me use it on you, let me watch. Whatever you want. Anything. You want to, yes? You would not have brought it otherwise.”

From across the lake, hazy morning light pours around Shane. His black clothes, silhouetted in gold, gleam from his sweat and dirt. 

Shane’s face has gone slack, shock written all over it. 

“I am serious,” Ilya adds. 

“I believe you. Wow.”

Silence. Space between them. Ilya giving space for Shane’s loud thoughts.

“I — “

Watching Shane beat his own anxiety looks like this: 

His shoulders slowly fall down from their defenses. He investigates every inch of Ilya’s face with his beautiful, intelligent eyes. Only then does he relax. Only then, his muscles uncoil like he doesn’t expect to be sidechecked into the board at any moment anymore.

To Ilya, he is the saint at the altar. Who better to worship him than a sinner?

“Okay,” Shane exhales. “Fuck. Okay, yeah.”

Ilya is up on his feet within a second, his dick twitching like a Pavlovian dog for whom the bell tolls. “Da! Let's —”

“Wait.” Shane puts a finger on his lips.

Ilya stills. The touch is so sudden, so brash for Shane, that he shuts up on impact. Up close, he smells even stronger like salt and sweat.

Hot.

“I want to do this. Right now. But first, I need a shower.” A gorgeous little blush is erupting from Shane's freckles and spreading all over his face. “And when I'm done, I'll — I’ll show you the toy. Okay?”

“Da. Yes, yes, okay. So okay.” He tries to nip Shane's finger. 

Shane pulls it away from him with a snort, leaving Ilya alone with the whine stuck in his throat.

“Great. I’ll be quick.” Then he steps out of his reach, water bottle in hand. He takes one last sip, his mouth kissing the lip of the bottle, and walks off.

Ilya watches, hypnotized, until Shane vanishes around the corner.

He stays seated on the edge of the couch for a moment longer, staring into the empty air, nothing left but the smell of Shane’s sweat.

Years later, and finally he’s going to learn the color.

“Ilya?”

“Bedroom!”

Water. 

Electrolytes on the side, so Shane can first drink water on its own and then add the powder to the rest of it. 

Chocolate protein shake made with unsweetened almond milk. 

Lube, water-based. (Yes, he googled — the silicone lube is out tonight. The internet says something about it potentially dissolving the material, and all Ilya wants to dissolve is Shane’s ability to speak.)

Ilya steps back from the nightstand, satisfied. He has collected everything Shane needs after a run, after sex. 

“Come here?”

He does.

Shane is already standing at the bottom of the small staircase. He looks up at Ilya, that shy smile on his lips. His hair is damp and pushed away from his face, his hands behind his back.

Holding something.

“Hello again.” 

“Hi,” Ilya hears himself say. Shane is in nothing but black boxer briefs and Ilya is unable to look away from him. The sight of all that naked skin makes his fingertips ache. “I want to see.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. Show me now.”

“First you need to do me a favour.”

“With pleasure,” Ilya purrs. He pulls his tanktop over his head, drops it carelessly right where he stands. Watches how Shane's gaze flickers over to it. Knows exactly that it aggravates him to no end, sometimes enough to put Ilya up against a door. 

“Not the favour I had in mind.”

“But still what you wanted.”

“Hm,” Shane says, stuck staring at Ilya’s chest, then lower where the hair on his belly goes from invisible to dark blond. 

“What do you want, hm? Take the toy on your back so I can see everything?” Options make it easier to choose, Shane once told him after sex, Ilya’s hand still possessively squeezing his hip. He has been accommodating happily since then. “Or do you want to be on your knees? Will you go or do you want me to put you there?”

“I, uh. No. Not that, not tonight. I want.” Shane hesitates, teeth worrying at his lip again. The tips of his ears are so pink. 

Ilya hums. Yes?

Voice turning resolute, Shane says: 

“I want you to listen to me.”

Something shifts in the air. Ilya feels a shudder travel down his spine.

“I'm listening.”

Shane straightens. 

Licks his lips, looks right at Ilya.

Holds their eye contact until Ilya's retinas are singed with Shane's imprint. 

Lets the silence simmer until Ilya vibrates in place like a dog anticipating the next command. He hopes that it will be heel. 

“Go get a chair.”

Even better.

Ilya moves. 

Without a thought, his mind blown blank except for the fragmented purposes of Shane and the chair and color color what's the color, he stalks into the living room.

A hand brushes his flank on the way. “Thank you.” 

Behind him, Shane's steps ascend into the bedroom.

Ilya blindly picks up the nearest chair. His heart is thumping so hard he might crack a rib.

One-handed, easily, he lifts the chair up the stairs, and is hit with the painting of Shane reclined against the pillows, one leg angled, his hands cradling —

“What's all this?” Shane is looking at Ilya's offerings on the nightstand.

“Your things.” Ilya is busy staring.

“My things,” Shane echoes. He picks up the lube, inspecting the label carefully. His other hand stays on the toy, gripping the length loosely. Ilya wants to replace it with any, every part of himself.

“Is anything missing?” Did I do well?

Shane lays the lube down next to his thigh. His dark eyes flicker back to Ilya, that famous laser focus narrowing in. 

He's smiling again. 

“No. I think you got me everything I need.”

“Good. It’s purple,” Ilya says stupidly, without any more preamble. “Nice color. But I am bigger than this. This is for beginners.” It feels important to point out.

“Fuck you.” Shane grins wider anyways. He traces a finger along the shaft, gently taps the flared tip where the purple is lighter, almost — almost like it's well-used, and fuck, his cock twitches against his leg. He’s going to get hard so fast.

“It was recommended for people who can fit two fingers already. Best reviews on the website. I checked four different ones. It was supposed to be a test, not a regular thing. Back when I was — when we hadn’t yet — I just wanted to see if. If more would feel better.”

Ilya licks his lips. He's gripping the chair so hard that his knuckles hurt like a bitch. His other arm hangs uselessly, waiting for a command. “And? More is better. The real thing is better, yes?”

“Yeah.”

“Bigger, too. You like it big.”

“Fuck off.” Shane settles deeper into the pillows, the pink from his ears travelling to his face. He slides his free hand under the waistband of his boxers. “It's just because of you. Because you're, you know.”

Ilya can't resist. “Because I'm what, Hollander?”

“Because you're so annoying, Rozanov, shit,” Shane groans. He tightens his grip around the toy, almost like he needs something to hold onto. “Fuck. Fine. You're big and I like that. Now put the fucking chair down and sit.”

“Thank you. That is nice of you to say.” Ilya sets the chair down at the foot of the bed and sits, feeling warm and glowing all over. Pushing Shane's buttons until he cracks never gets old. 

“Why am I sitting here, and you all the way over there? I cannot use toy on you like this. Even Scott Hunter is not that tall.”

Instead of rolling his eyes, Shane cracks open the shell of Ilya's heart by asking: 

“Do you remember Vegas?”

His heart; plummeting.

How can he not?

The memory is a whip cracking across his face, opening the old flesh wound. 

“Yes.” The rush of guilt, the unforgivable crime of failing Shane so spectacularly, leaving them both in pieces, is a tidal wave. They’ve talked about it, but — “I am still sorry, I will always be, and I will never not kiss — “

“Watch me again.”

Speechless. Shane takes both his languages and eradicates them from Ilya’s tongue. Takes Ilya in his entirety and turns him inside out to stitch silk lining over the city graffiti of his walls.

“Just like you did back then. Watch me again. Watch me touch myself.”

Here and now, Shane is the one who watches him with his big brown eyes, gaze roaming all over Ilya’s body, twisting his beautiful hand around the toy and moving the other over his clothed cock. 

He finally looks up at Ilya’s face, mouth parted just a little, the pink of his bottom lip already shining a little with moisture.

“And when I tell you to, you can touch me. Not before.”

This man will be the death of him. 

Ilya will go gently into that good night if it awaits him behind the softness in Shane’s eyes, behind the trust that is placed into his hands right here and now. 

“Is that okay?”

“Yes,” Ilya says so fast he almost chokes on his own spit. His blood is roaring. “Always. Always tell me. Say what you want. Stop me, make me do things to you, anything you want. I have waited for this.” Shane makes him so stupid, he's balancing on the edge, tongue twisted up around the pointy English words.

“Oh. That’s, uh, good.” A pause where Shane’s chest rises. 

Ilya feels his own breath flood his lungs. He has unconsciously synced with Shane’s breathing. 

Then Shane tilts his chin down, game face on. 

“Okay. You’re going to wait, and watch me.”

“Can I talk?”

“Sure.”

Shane, his easily embarrassed Shane, puts his first sex toy to the parted heart of his mouth and slowly licks it from flared base to tip. 

The leather of the chair creaks in Ilya’s grip. He cannot move, so he talks.

“Did you do this when you were alone in hotel rooms? Did you put it in your mouth and imagine it's me?”

“Mhm.” Shane makes a soft noise, eyes sliding shut and the toy sliding between his plush lips. 

“You need it so badly. Did you get it before or after our first night? What did you suck first, this toy or my cock?”

Mouth stretching, fitting the girth further and further, Shane tilts his head back. His soft noises are becoming rougher. 

Ilya curls his nails into the chair and watches Shane’s body yield, always yearning to be cleaved open. 

“Yes, just like that. You take it so easily. If you got it before we fucked, did you practice with it? Worried you would choke on me? You still did. Little toy wasn’t enough to prepare you, but you still opened your mouth so eager.” 

Shane's lips hit the base of the toy. He takes the whole length just like he does Ilya's. The bulge in his boxers twitches, wet where the head of his cock soaks through the fabric.

“God,” Ilya says, voice unsteady from awe. “You like it so much. Maybe you got it after your first blowjob. Missed me that much?”

Shane blinks his eyes open at Ilya, brows knitting together like he's about to cry. Is he going to cry? Is he alright? Was Ilya too much?

Ilya starts to get up, heart hammering. “Are you —”

Shane shakes his head the tiniest bit. He points at Ilya, then to the chair. His finger shakes. 

An unspoken command:

Sit back down.

“Okay. I listen. I watch.” He sits, at the very edge of the stupid fucking chair, his hands on his knees so he can jump up the second Shane makes him. The coiled tension of his legs might slice his muscles clean in half.

Shane puts two fingers to the base of his toy. He inhales deeply, preparing for something, clutching the sheets with his other hand.

He tilts the toy into a different angle.

Ilya's lips part.

Shane nudges.

“Fuck,” Ilya rasps.

Shane swallows so hard that his entire neck trembles. 

And Ilya suddenly sees the shape of the toy press itself into Shane's skin from the inside of his throat, the thickness bending Shane's body into submission around itself. The toy is imprinted against his throat, shifting with every thrust, bulging when Shane feeds it to himself again and again.

“Fuck. Hollander, fuck.”

He is so hard that he can’t think. With trembling hands, he pulls his cock out of his sweatpants, squeezes himself with an aborted groan. 

Shane's noises are guttural, like the toy is reaching all the way to his vocal chords.

“Gonna come like that?”

“Mh-mh,” a sound that means no, and out goes the toy, a whimper following it.

Shane is panting hard. His mouth is open, air filling it where the toy just was, and Ilya knows with absolute certainty that his throat is still stretched soft and expectant. A sheen of spit glistens on the toy, one dripping thread of it connecting the tip to Shane’s bottom lip. 

“That's — ah — that's what you said back in Vegas too.”

“Less talking. Keep going.” It comes out as a growl. 

“Not up to you to decide.”

Shane slides his free hand over his chest, licking his lips. 

“Let me do something.” Ilya tracks the hand with the attention of a bloodhound. In the finest manner of torture, he has to watch Shane run the edge of a nail over his own nipple and moan from it, breathy and sweet. 

The toy has fallen between his pecs, slick from Shane’s mouth. “Should I?” 

“I listened well,” Ilya bargains, not even bothering to hide his despair. “You said I could make you feel good.”

“There might — might be something you can do.” Shane winces when he slides his legs together, soaked underwear shifting over his hard cock. He pulls at the waistband of his boxers. 

“Get these off me.”

“I can move?” Ilya leans so far forward that his ass barely touches the edge anymore. He's a live wire, waiting for Shane's electricity to jump over at the barest of touches and shock him alive.

“Yeah, yeah, come on.” Shane has a hand on his cock now, making loose, slow strokes. His boxers are tucked under his balls, hiding where Ilya wants to bury himself until Shane whimpers from the stretch.

Ilya is there within a millisecond. He steps out of his sweats and falls to his knees and forearms above Shane, holding a plank as easily as any hockey player would. He leans in — 

“No touching me yet. Only the boxers.”

“Okay.” Ilya can play games too, and it’s his job to win. “I won't.”

— lower, nose almost touching Shane’s stomach. 

“Good — hey! I said —”

“Shh. I know. I listen, remember?” With pointed delicacy, Ilya takes the fabric of Shane's boxers between his teeth.

“Oh.”

“Mhm.” Ilya grins and pulls. 

Shane assists him by wiggling helpfully, a giggle escaping him when Ilya makes sure that his hair brushes Shane’s legs in a tickle on the way down. 

“Better,” he sighs once Ilya sits back up. They’re both so hard that it must hurt. Ilya resists the urge to push his cock against Shane’s and get them off fast and messy. “Don’t go back to the chair. Stay here.” 

Finally. Ilya takes himself back in hand. “Going to show me how you get ready for your toy?”

Shane doesn’t answer him. He upends Ilya’s lube from the nightstand into his palm and slicks up the toy with efficient strokes. 

Pulling one of his knees to his chest, strong muscles flexing, he teases the head of the toy against his hole. 

“Hollander,” Ilya starts. “You did not prepare —“

“In the shower.” Shane drops his head back and sinks the toy into his ass with a pleased moan. 

Ilya almost crosses himself at the sight. His cock jerks in his hand, slicking his grip with precome. 

“Watch me.” 

“Okay.” He is obedient. He is trying so, so hard to be good.

Shane digs his heels into the bed, glutes tensing under his freckled skin, and starts fucking the toy into himself.

Because he is good, because Shane never asks him for anything and gives so much, Ilya obeys. It takes all the discipline that years of hockey training have drilled into him to sit there, a loaded spring tied to the detonator of his self-control, and not stick his tongue between Shane’s cheeks to lick him where the toy splits him open. 

Shane’s entire body trembles with every thrust of the toy that he gives to himself. The sound is filthy, filling the entire room around them, drowning out everything except Shane fucking little ah-ah-ahs out of his flushed lips.

Ilya only finds words in Russian. He grits them out between his teeth, knows Shane won't understand, has to say them anyways as he starts jerking himself to the sight of Shane riding the toy like he's being paid millions to do it.

“Crazy man. Beautiful, insane miracle of a man. What do you do to me? How do you always surprise me? I love you, I will kiss every part of you for the rest of my days. You have me forever and you don't even know. My love. Fuck, you are so fucking hot.”

Shane is a wreck, face red and slick with sweat, his wrist straining from the difficult angle. His fingers scramble for purchase, slipping once, twice, and then he misses. 

The toy slips out of him entirely.  

Shane makes a noise close to a sob.

“No — I, I want —”

“Shh.”

Ilya picks up the toy and drags it over his mouth, his tongue tasting Shane and lube on it. 

“Watch,” he teases, and sucks it like he did back in the game room when Shane was on the phone, relaxing his throat and going fast until Shane whines.

“Roz- Rozanov.”

He pulls off, a grin tugging the corners of his mouth up.  

“You need something?”

“Yes,” Shane hisses, and then, “yess,” when Ilya lines the toy up and allows the head to slip back into his empty hole. 

“Like you are made for it.”

Shane’s eyes have gone glassy, unfocused. His hands hold fistfuls of the blanket, chest heaving hard and lifting his puffy nipples to Ilya’s attention. He will bite them, later.

“You are so hard. Getting close?” Ilya keeps the toy ruthlessly still. “If you want it, take it.”

Shane squirms, moaning even louder, knees bumping almost up to his elbows from how far he opens for Ilya. He grabs the headboard, trying to get himself seated fully on the toy, failing, muscles shaking so violently that Ilya thinks for a second that he’s having an orgasm already. 

“Yeah, yes. I want to come —“

“Then I need to know how you want it. With the toy? My cock?”

“Fingers, your fingers —”

“So I can touch?” He needs to ask. Needs to hear it out loud, to be given permission for the hunger inside him to turn into feasting. It’s also a little payback for making him wait, hearing Shane beg for him in return. 

“Yes, I need —”

“Who do you need? What's his name? You know that it isn't Rozanov to you anymore.”

“You! Just, please — Ilya, please —”

Ilya descends on him.

He crashes their mouths together into a bruising kiss, rough and clacking with teeth, filthy as soon as Ilya slides his tongue into Shane's panting mouth to taste where he moans deep from his throat.

His hands trail to Shane's nipples and run fingertips over them, flicking hard.

Shane's head rolls back, his eyes with it. 

“Ah —”

“Driving me insane —” Ilya grabs the headboard to steady himself, and reaches for the toy. 

Before he can get his hand around it, Shane bats him away, the motion a weak pawing because he trembles too hard to put enough force into it.

“No,” Shane pants, pupils blown so wide that he looks high, drunk on being opened up. “I want you to,” he guides Ilya’s index finger, swiping it through the mess of lube around his hole, before he nudges it next to the toy —

Beside it, as if he wants both Ilya’s finger and the toy at the same time —

“Fuck — are you gonna —”

Ilya’s finger slips in, stretching Shane around the purple silicone, one knuckle first, then the second until the heat of his insides make Ilya's head spin.

“Fuck, fuck —”

“You're crazy, I cannot believe you —”

“Ilya —”

“You love it. You love being full, don't you? You like when I fuck you so hard that you feel it tomorrow. Toy alone can't do that, can it?”

“No,” Shane moans, arching his strong back into a curve so elegant that Ilya wants to trace it with his tongue, so instead he puts his mouth where sweat pools in Shane's collarbone and licks the salt off of him.

“Only I fuck you like that.”

“Yeah, yeah —“

“Say it.”

He hears his own heartbeat pounding inside his skull. Thump, thump, thump. Fucks his finger into Shane in the same rhythm. 

“Only you,” Shane sobs, not a sound he makes when he’s sad but the one where he feels so good that he can’t help but cry from it all.

Ilya slides his finger in all the way. Shane’s hole greedily sucks him in. Ilya sits back on his heels so he can ready his other hand on the toy.

“Here,” he drags the toy out and back in, mercilessly finding Shane's prostate with it. His finger moves at the same time, obscenely sinking into the tight heat of him, lube leaking on the bed underneath them.

Shane whines, muscles going bowstring-taut under freckled skin, his ass lifting off the bed. He pushes himself down on both toy and fingers like they could be taken from him, as if he can't get it and Ilya deep enough inside of his body.

“Stop, I’m gonna — “

Ilya goes faster, hard. 

“No — you,” Shane slaps his hand over Ilya’s, trembling. He tries to sit up, falls back down on shaking forearms. 

“Me,” Ilya asks, mouth dry. His hands are still.

“I want to come with you,” his chest rising and falling hard, Shane looks at him in a daze, tight heat clenching around Ilya’s finger, “with you inside me.”

Ilya kisses him roughly. He pulls his finger out, then tugs at the toy until Shane’s walls give and he grunts at the loss of it. 

Dropping it carelessly on the floor, Ilya grabs Shane by the hips to roll them over.

“Wha—”

“I listen,” Ilya manages to say. His cock presses between Shane's cheeks, trapped between his thick thighs and the slick promise of his well-stretched hole. “You want me to watch, I will watch.”

Shane stares down at him. Ilya digs his hands into Shane’s hips hard enough to bruise. 

“Ride me.”

“Fuck.” He lifts himself up, palms spreading wide on Ilya’s chest for support. 

Ilya kisses the pounding blue vein at Shane’s left wrist. 

“Condom?” 

“No.” Shane curls his trembling fingers around Ilya and positions him like he owns him entirely. “I want it like we did yesterday.”

Ilya only manages to choke out a disbelieving little: “Raw?”

He becomes nothing and nobody then, as in one controlled, athletic motion, Shane sinks himself down on his aching hard cock.

“Oh,” Ilya hears him say, almost in wonder, soft and happy and whimpering a little when he clenches around Ilya on the way down, “yess. Fuck, you’re perfect.”

“Shane. Shane.”

“Ilya,” says the angel silhouetted by morning light on Ilya’s lap, bright enough to blind, so hot and tight around his cock that Ilya has to close his eyes in order to not come immediately. 

“Ride. Me.” His voice is a shattered croak. 

“Gonna come when I move.” 

“Want you to.”

The velvet heat around him goes impossibly tighter. A grunt punches out of Ilya when Shane peels himself up and off him, grinds himself down so hard that Ilya too might be bruised tomorrow (hopefully, finally, forever if he’s allowed). 

“Watch,” Shane orders, all hesitation gone. 

Ilya cannot speak. He nods so hard his hair falls over his face. Opens his eyes. 

Shane circles his hips, once, sweat rolling down his flushed face and chest in glistening lines. A shudder sways him from head to toe when he finds what he wants, pressing Ilya against his prostate with brutal precision. 

“Watch,” he repeats, and starts riding Ilya’s cock. 

Ilya holds onto Shane’s hips and lets himself be taken. Wildfire licks up his spine as Shane picks up the pace on his cock, head thrown back in ecstasy, nails biting red marks into Ilya’s chest. 

He’s treating him like — like — 

“Fuck, you feel so, so good —“

He’s Shane’s favourite toy, Ilya thinks deliriously, happier than he’s ever been and so close to coming that he has to bite his tongue for the pain to keep him from floating off. 

“Gonna, gonna —“

Ilya grunts and digs his feet into the bed. His hips snap up to meet Shane’s ass, the slapping of their skin filthy from lube and sweat. 

He is so close, he wants to come and bite into Shane’s shoulder while he fills him up, he’s so fucking beautiful and Ilya is going crazy for him, his mind empty and blissfully molten — 

“Ilya —“

All he can see is Shane. All he can do is take a hand to his mouth, push his fingers in until Shane’s tongue goes down for him, fit them as deep into his throat as the toy before. 

Shane comes like that, the force of a storm unleashing, spit-slick lips sucking at Ilya’s fingers and his hole at Ilya’s cock. 

His orgasm shakes him apart, muscles seizing up into stone and then collapsing softly, toes curling into the dirty sheets. 

Ilya does not blink. Ilya watches.

Ilya lets him take it all, take everything, all that he has. It belongs to Shane. 

Shane finally loses his hold on Ilya’s chest and falls forward, clenching so tightly around him that Ilya draws a little blood from biting his tongue. 

He moans around Ilya’s fingers, sucking weakly until Ilya pulls them out carefully. 

“You,” Shane says the moment his mouth is empty. His pupils are black when he looks at Ilya’s red, sex-drunk face. 

Ilya forces himself to nod.

“Now you. Come.”

It should be embarrassing how little it takes. 

The order out of Shane’s mouth, him swiping his fingers through his own come on Ilya’s stomach and pushing it past Ilya’s slack lips as he lifts himself and sinks back down, tight hole gripping Ilya so tight his vision goes black. 

“Yess,” he hears before the blood rushing in his head takes over, his cock squeezed so hard that his orgasm rips from him in endless, deafening waves, and then just this:

“Perfect, Ilya.”

“By the way, you are not taking sponsorship.”

Shane looks up from where he is laying on Ilya’s chest. “Huh?”

Ilya noses along his neck, feeling Shane’s slowly calming pulse under his lips. Shane is petting his belly and tickling the hair of his happy trail. (And indeed, Ilya is happy, for the first time in a long, long while.)

“If you drink from the sex toy bottle in public, it will basically be a coming out. You put it in your mouth as if it is a dick. They will see that you know how to give blowjob. Tell the sponsor no.” 

“Oh, that sponsorship. Alright,” Shane agrees easily. 

“Good.”

There is a brief moment of silence where Ilya gets to enjoy the peace and quiet of holding his boyfriend in the Canadian morning light. They are away from the world. Breakfast is going to be pancakes, Ilya decides, maybe some football or a swim, after which they go back to the couch and he puts some more marks on Shane’s inner thighs. 

It’s perfect.

“Actually, I bought the bottle. It wasn’t sponsored.”

“What!”

“What?”

“You tricked me!”

“Barely. I didn’t think it’d remind you of the toy. I didn’t think you would remember that at all, to be honest.”

“Hollander.”

Shane props himself up on his elbows next to Ilya, grinning. There are golden spots in his hair from the sun pouring into their bed. Ah. Does he think of it as theirs already? 

“Rozanov.”

“You bought a sexy water bottle to what, provoke me so I fuck you so hard you cry?”

“Well,” Shane mumbles. He is well on his way to blushing a charming dark red. “When you put it like that. I hoped it would make you do something. I was open to a variety of results.”

“You are a — someone who makes evil plans. Like a dictator.” 

“I think you mean a menace?”

“Man, yes,” Ilya shrugs and props his chin on the top of Shane’s head, squeezing him tightly. “I will take revenge. Just wait and see.”

Laughing into his chest, warm breath tickling the skin over Ilya’s heart, Shane says: 

“I look forward to it. “