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Las Vegas – June 2021
Major League Hockey Awards.
Shane Hollander hates award shows. There’s always too much noise, too many people. The lights of the stage are too bright and he is sweating under his very expensive designer tuxedo. He feels itchy.
“Nervous?” Hayden whispers to his right.
Shane shrugs. “I just want this to be over”.
Hayden pats him twice on the shoulder. “You’ve got this, buddy. Everyone knows you’re getting it”.
“Hamilton might still win. He’s been amazing this season.” Shane anxiously tugs on his cuffs. He can feel his pulse fluttering under his skin.
“He has. But you’re better.”
As Hayden speaks, the two presenters come out on stage to announce the MVP of the season. The men are young, probably around nineteen or twenty, and visibly nervous to be presenting in front of the League; one of them is anxiously tucking the hair behind his ears. Shane smiles, reminded of the first time he had announced the Lady Bing Trophy for sportsmanship with Ilya, back in 2014. Had they been that nervous? Shane recalls the way Ilya had stroked his back in front of hundreds of people, yet none of them aware of the way that touch had made Shane want to fucking cry. He had been so touch-starved, so scared that he would never touch Ilya again, so anxious after months and months of silence.
It feels like a lifetime ago.
The two players (Harrison and Ortiz, maybe?) make some jokes, to which the audience politely laugh at. Shane can’t. ‘I’m being rude’, he thinks, but he can feel his stomach in his throat and is doing everything he can to not throw up on Hayden’s shoes.
“... Memorial Trophy for Most Valuable Player goes to—” Jesus. What if Hamilton does get it? What if he’s freaking out over nothing? Shane’s had a great season, but Hamilton is younger and more charming and ruthless on the ice. His team didn’t win the Cup, but they’ve never played better and it’s all thanks to Hamilton. That deserves an award right? But. But the Metros won the Cup. And it’s been one of Shane’s best seasons, everyone says that. God, he’s going to feel like an idiot if he doesn’t receive the award, he’s— “... ne Hollander!”
Shane puts his head between his legs, takes a deep breath, and gets up before the camera points at him.
The after party is even worse than the Award Show. People continuously talking to him, congratulating him. And Shane is polite, okay? So he smiles and asks them about their families and acknowledges how good they’ve played this year.
“I remember your assist in the Columbus - New Jersey match. It was impressive” he says.
“How’s your daughter?”
“Are you going somewhere this summer?”
“Yes, I’d love another glass. Thank you.”
“What did the doctor tell you? Will you be playing next season?”
People come and go. They shake his hand and pat him on the back. The conversations are so repetitive that Shane starts to feel dizzy.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he leaves his still full glass of champagne on the nearest table and walks towards the bar, greeting people on his way but not stopping to talk. He places the award on the counter and sits on one of the leather chairs. The bartender approaches him almost shyly, asks if he’d like something to drink and congratulates him. “Thank you. I’m fine, thanks. I mean. I don’t want anything. I’m good.”
The man nods. “Let me know if you change your mind. It’s on the house.” And then he winks and turns around.
"What?’" he thinks. Why did he wink at him? Did Shane do something that made him think that he’s— no. He hasn’t. He didn’t even wink, probably. He’s just imagining things. But when the bartender walks past him to other customers, he smiles at Shane and looks him up and down, twice. “There’s people here!” Shane squirms uncomfortably, suddenly very aware of where he’s at.
Fuck. He wants to leave.
He wants to go to his hotel room and take off the shoes and the very expensive suit and the bowtie, which has become a sensory nightmare.
Someone sits next to him, and the smell of cologne and aftershave hit Shane like a slap to the face. “Hollander.”
“Rozanov.”
He looks so good. Shane lets himself look at him— something he isn’t used to yet, even if they've been publicly friendly for years; the fear of someone seeing them together is so deeply engraved inside him that even now he can’t help but feel anxious. He forgets that he can look at Ilya now, they can talk without it being suspicious— they are acquaintances now after all. Ilya’s golden curls are styled back, except a few that’ve come loose and frame his face in a way that make him look like a 90s heartthrob. He’s not wearing his jacket, the white sleeved rolled up to his elbows. The top buttons of the shirt are undone. The skin is damp there.
“Congratulations” Ilya’s deep voice pulls him back. He’s smiling lightly, but his eyes are full of fondness, “you deserve it,” he whispers the words, so no one can hear.
“Thanks.” ‘I do. I do fucking deserve this because I have worked my ass off for months’. He wants Ilya to tell him he’s good — the best in the league. He wants to take his boyfriend to his room and kiss him. “So… You are not jealous, Rozanov?”
“I have many trophies, Hollander. I don’t have space for one more, where do I put it? Best to give it to you to fill empty shelves, no?”
“You’re an asshole,” he smiles.
“Ah. But I am congratulating you like proper friend, Hollander.” He grabs the bartender’s attention and asks for a glass of vodka. “I wanted to talk to you before, but you are very busy. Best player, has everyone’s attention.” His lips are moist from the alcohol he sips.
An idea pops in Shane’s brain then, as he watches Ilya place the glass on the counter. It’s not something new, he’s actually been thinking — obsessing— about it since he arrived in Vegas five days ago, but he’s never thought about actually doing it until now.
“You know me,” he answers, distracted, his thoughts in a completely different place. Ilya licks the corner of his lips. “I love attention.”
The russian smiles, amused. “And what are you doing to celebrate this big win?”
Both men stare at each other.
“I think I’m going to bed early tonight,” words said many years ago. “I’ve never been the partying type.”
“You’re so boring, Hollander.”
“Fuck you,” there’s no heat in his words.
Later? Ilya mouths. Shane rolls his eyes.
“Anyway, I go,” Ilya grabs the glass from the bottom, resting it on his palm. “I leave you with your fans. People will be mad at me if I am the only one talking to you.”
Shane doesn’t want him to go. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone else. He wants to slip away to his room with Ilya and do to him what he did— what Ilya made him do, seven years ago. The glass he’s holding is the very same he was drinking from that night, while sitting on the velvet chair with his shirt open. Touch yourself. Show off for me, I want to watch you.
He wants to be watched.
Tonight is Shane’s special night, and he wants Ilya to watch him.
Look at me. I won. Look at me. Tell me I’m good. Tell me I’m the best.
The thing is, Shane loves winning. He’s a competitive, calculating person and has always known what he wants; to play hockey, to be great at hockey, to become captain of his team, to win the Stanley Cup, to win Best Player. Achieving those means that people recognize how great he is, and he thrives on it. And having someone like Ilya, so naturally talented, acknowledge his efforts… There’s nothing like that.
He realizes that he’s been silent for too long. His pants are starting to get uncomfortable for a completely different reason than before. “Sure, I’ll see you around,” he avoids Ilya’s gaze, but as the other man walks towards his teammates he grabs the phone from his pocket and quickly types a message to Lily: Penthouse 1. I leave in 30 minutes.
He gets an answer almost immediately.
Lily: so eager hollander
Jane: Yes. I’ll see you in an hour.
Lily: what am i going to do for half an hour after you leave? 🙁
Jane: You’ve never had a problem entertaining a crowd before, you’ll think of something.
Lily: k
don’t start without meee
Jane: Don’t be a baby.
4317 is the passcode for the door.
Lily: <3 <3 <3
He puts his phone in Do Not Disturb mode and decides it’s time to continue socializing, so he looks for Hayden —who is surrounded by at least 15 other players— and joins the conversation, which he doesn’t pay too much attention to. Something about a Minnesota player stealing a commercial from another player from Detroit? What he does, however, is check his watch every two minutes, annoyingly glaring at it when the time doesn’t pass quickly enough. The weight of the metal on his wrist starts to become too much, alongside the shoes (too tight), the fabric of the suit (too stiff), the fucking bowtie and even the lights.
He checks his phone again. Twelve minutes to go.
He could leave now, he could leave in five minutes, but doing it before the thirty minutes are done makes him feel as itchy as the collar of his shirt.
Suddenly, an arm comes down on his shoulders so heavily that he almost falls forward.
“Hollander, my man!” Vaughn’s very drunk voice pierces his ears. “A fucking legend everybody! How many of these do you already have?” He grabs the trophy, raising it like it’s the Cup.
“You can take it with you if you want, Vaughny. Seeing as you’ll never get one,” Hayden laughs.
“Fuuuuuuck off, Pike. I was talking to Hollander, why are you hereeeee? Don’t you have a wife to get pregnant again?”
“Hey! At least I have a wife—!”
They begin to chirp at each other, the rest of the men laughing and joining.
Shane wants to leave.
He checks his watch again, still seven minutes to go.
The excitement of what’s to happen hasn’t left him, it’s bubbling under his skin, mixing with all the stimuli he’s been receiving for hours. There’s thousands of tiny needles picking at him. Shane closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.
“Think about tonight. Make a plan for it,” that always helps, that he can control. He can map out everything he’s going to do with Ilya, he can concentrate on that.
The penthouse.
The glass of vodka.
The win.
The chair.
It’s my special day, Hollander. I want to watch.
So Shane starts to plan and when the clock hits the right time he excuses himself and approaches the bar again.
“Excuse me,” he tells the bartender, “could I have a glass of vodka, please?”
He takes the drink to his room.
The shower doesn’t relax him, it does wash away all the uncomfortable sensations from his skin, though. He cleans his body thoroughly, all the possible scenarios of the night running through his head while he preps himself; he pictures Ilya sitting on the velvet chair, holding the glass, while fingering himself to make sure everything is clean. His cock twitches when he rubs against his prostate.
Take off your clothes.
His free hand travels to his dick and strokes it twice. Ilya is going to watch him do that, he’s going to be sitting there, obedient like a dog, sipping his drink while Shane fingers, touches and fucks himself. He’ll want to do it— let me do it Hollander, you know I can make you feel better— but Shane will tell him to stay and Ilya will do it. He would do anything Shane asks him to. “Shit,” he curses, and forces himself to stop touching.
This is my prize, Rozanov. Tonight you watch me.
He steps out of the shower half hard, and puts on some socks and the loosest and comfiest pants he owns. Putting anything else on would be a waste of time and Ilya would ask him, diverted, why he’s wearing so many clothes when he clearly wants to be fucked.
It doesn’t take long before he hears the door unlock.
Ilya walks inside. His hair is messier than it was an hour ago. He comes up to Shane and kisses him sweetly.
“Hello, моя любовь. Did you miss me too much?” They haven’t seen each other in so long. The past months have been frantic, neither of them staying in Ottawa and Montreal for more than a day before leaving for another city. “I have missed you”.
“Yeah?” Shane closes his eyes when Ilya’s lips find his pulse point.
Me too. Me too. I have missed you terribly. I hate this. Every day it becomes harder to be away from you.
“So much. I have been thinking about this for weeks.”
And when Ilya’s hand cups him through his pants, Shane pushes him away.
“Are you going to congratulate me properly?”
The other man smirks and looks at his crotch.
“I was doing that, no?”
“No,” he places a hand on his chest when he tries to get close again, “I mean properly. With words, Rozanov.”
“Ah. I see,” he takes two steps back and opens his arms towards Shane. “Congratulations winning MVP, Hollander.”
Shane’s heart skips a beat. More more more more.
“That's it?”
A smile takes over Ilya’s face, understanding.
“You deserve it, дорогой.” Shane doesn’t stop him when he approaches this time. He closes his eyes and lets the back of his head rest against the window. Soft lips brush against his nose and cheeks. “Best player in the League. My Shane. Always so good, yes?”
“Yes.”
“I am so proud of you. You earn it. You work so hard. And now look at you, only player who has four Hart Trophies.”
Shane wants to get on his knees and let Ilya fuck his mouth while he tells him all those things. He thinks about it for a second, but he has a whole night planned and won’t waste it.
“Thank you,” he says instead. “Take me to the bedroom”.
Ilya immediately grabs him by the back of his thighs and hoists him up and a wave of arousal hits Shane like a ton of bricks. He buries his fingers in Ilya’s curls and opens his mouth with his own, pushing it even wider by sliding his tongue inside. They moan into each other's mouths, biting and sucking desperately.
They reach the bed and tumble onto it, neither of them letting go of each other. Ilya pushes Shane’s legs open.
“Wait,” he mumbles, trying to get away from Ilya’s demanding mouth, “wait, wait.”
“What?” The russian breathes.
“Get off.”
“What?” he does it anyway. His hair is a mess.
Shane points to the other side of the room with his chin, where he has placed the velvet chair. Ilya looks at it and back at Shane.
“Get on the chair,” he says.
“What?”
Shane gets up and hooks his fingers in Ilya’s belt loops and yanks him forward, making him lose his balance.
“It’s my special night, Rozanov. I want you to watch me.” The other man chokes. He looks at Shane like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “I want… I want you to sit there and watch me touching myself,” Shane’s cheeks flush, embarrassment and excitement engulfing him like a wave, “and I want you to be good for me and stay put.” Ilya’s eyes are so wide, mouth open. “Okay?”
Ilya nods. “I— yes.”
“Good.” He feels a bit dizzy, not like he was downstairs, uncomfortable and distressed. No. Having Ilya like this, pliant and willing to do whatever he wants makes Shane feel light headed. “Sit.”
Ilya goes, staring at Shane the whole time. He doesn’t relax against the chair, his whole body a live wire, buzzing with electricity. Strong fingers dig into the fabric of the armrests when Shane lies on top of the bed, his back against the cushions. He traces his hand down his throat, across his chest, squeezing one of his pecs like Ilya would; a deep groan escapes his mouth when his thumb brushes against the nipple.
“Ah,” he pinches it, rolling the tiny bud between his thumb and index finger. He can feel his cock jump against his thigh.
Ilya follows the movement, his chest raising and falling heavily. He looks so different from how he did years ago, composed and controlled, dominating the whole bedroom from the chair. Now he looks… uncertain, like he doesn’t know what to expect or what to do. It’s not easy for him to take a more submissive role in the bedroom; although Shane is the one usually calling the shots (he has Ilya wrapped around his fingers, complying every single one of his needs), Ilya is the one who pushes him around, who grabs him by the jaw when they kiss, who puts him on all fours and fucks him, hand around his neck, until he’s crying on the sheets. But this… this feels different.
Shane slides his other hand down to his cock and wraps his fingers around the clothed length. His head rolls to the side when he starts pumping it slowly, feeling the fabric around the sensitive skin.
“Блять, Hollander. Fuck.” He’s breathing through his mouth, eyes darting between the hand on his chest and the one touching his dick.
Shane swallows the embarrassment down. “Feels so good,” he says. He squeezes the top of his dick and rubs it. “Uh—!”
Ilya is sitting on the edge of the chair now, looking like he’s going to pounce on Shane any second.
He can’t have that now, can he?
He quickly takes his pants off and gets off the bed to carefully place them on the side table. He walks towards Ilya, who is looking up at him with a bewildered expression. A sharp inhale fills the room when he gets down on his knees between Ilya’s legs and rubs his face against his thigh, a musky scent filling his nose when he leans forward.
“Shane,” Ilya’s hands cradle his head, pushing it towards his cock, confined inside his tailored trousers.
“I told you,” Shane whispers, grabbing Ilya’s wrists and putting his hands on top of the armrests, “to stay put.”
“Shane.” Ilya looks at him, pupils wide.
“You were so composed last time, do you remember? So bossy.” He nuzzles his nose against Ilya’s crotch.
“I wasn’t composed” Ilya thinks, “I was losing my fucking mind seeing you touch youserlf but I didn’t want you to see how desperate I was.”
“Let me touch,” he wants to sound demanding, but comes out like a plea.
Shane opens his mouth and runs his tongue along the seam, the fabric hot against his face.
“No,” he says. Ilya makes a strangled sound. “I told you already, this is my night and you’re going to give me what I want. Can you do that?”
“I am going to die” the russian thinks. Shane’s voice makes him feel weightless, like he could float away. His entire body is thrumming with tension, with the need to touch but not being permitted to do so.
“Yes—” he claws and the soft material when Shane sucks. “Yes, yes, I can.”
“Are you going to listen?”
“Yes. Shane.”
“You are not allowed to touch yourself. You are going to sit here with your clothes on. And you have to keep your eyes on me.” With a smooth movement he grabs the glass of vodka that he previously had put under the chair. “Here. Drink this.” Ilya does, spellbound. He takes the drink, his eyes locked on Shane’s, and sips the liquid. Shane’s brain fills with static at the display of obedience. “Good.”
Getting on the bed again, he crawls back to the position he was before. Now completely bare, he opens his legs wide and wraps his hand around his cock, while the other starts caressing his balls. He’s so hard already, the tip of his dick dark and moist with pre cum, which he uses to rub his palm against it in short, quick movements. He had come once like that— Ilya holding the base of his dick with one hand, and the other kneading the glans mercilessly, rubbing and pressing it until Shane had cried. Fuck, that had felt so good.
He opens his eyes to stare at Ilya, whose eyes are fixed on the tip of his cock. He can see the outline of the man’s own dick from where he’s lying; it’s probably so uncomfortable, being so hard in those pants.
“I,” he sighs, “have been thinking about this all night. I was getting hard when you were talking to me at the bar Ilya, fuck. Was thinking about doing this.”
They look at each other. Ilya says something in Russian and that makes Shane smile.
He slides his hand lower, down to his hole.
“Jesus, Hollander.” Ilya sounds high, the words slurred. “Open— open more. Lemme see. I want— Let me see it.” He obeys, opening his legs as far as he can, displaying himself for Ilya. “S’pretty. Shane.”
Adrenaline shots through Shane’s body at the words.
“Am I pretty?” He teases a finger against his opening, circling around it before pushing it inside. It’s too dry, so he coats his fingers with the moisture oozing out of his dick. This time the slide is easier, getting to the first knuckle with no resistance.
“So pretty, baby. You look— gorgeous.”
A flush spreads across his cheeks at the praise.
“Thank you. Feels good, too.” He pushes another finger inside and starts pumping them, stretching himself. It’s not as good as when Ilya does it, every time he fingers himself it feels more like preparation than enjoyment, but he has a show to put on so he moans gravelly. “S’not as good as your fingers, though.”
“I do it,” the words come rushing out of his mouth, his English thick. “I can—”
“No.” His hips raise from the bed when his fingertips brush against his prostate. “Ah! I told you, Rozanov. You watch.”
Ilya bends over himself. He is gripping the glass with such force that Shane wouldn’t be surprised if it shattered.
“моя любовь…”
“Hush. Drink your vodka.” Ilya raises the glass to his lips. “Hm, good boy.”
And Ilya… Ilya moans. A sound so sudden and profound that it echoes across the room. He’s so turned on, cock so hard pulsating against his trousers that it’s almost painful. The need to grab himself is so strong... Will Shane be angry if he does it? He crosses his legs in an attempt to gain some friction, but the cotton fiber presses tighter against his dick, making it burn.
“Shit.” He is going to touch himself. He has to. He—
“Don’t do it.” Shane’s voice is like a whip. He’s three fingers deep now, his cock so wet.
“Fuck you,” he spits.
“I mean it, Rozanov. You can’t control yourself?”
“Fucking Christ, Hollander.”
The soft squelch of Shane’s fingers going in and out fill the room. Ilya’s mouth waters. The view in front of him is so obscene, his boyfriend naked and open begging to get fucked, how can he not—?
“You are not going to touch yourself. You are not going to come until I say so. You told me you could do it, ah, before.”
“I can,” he lies. “I can.”
“Are you sure? I don’t kn–know, you’re not being very good.”
“I can. I promise” I’m good I’m good. “’m sorry, I can do it.”
A pleased smile takes over Shane’s lips.
“Eyes on me, remember.”
You are the most beautiful thing I have seen, Ilya wants to say, but the words die inside his mouth when Shane pushes the three fingers into his ass and whimpers. The city lights reflect the sweat on his skin, like he is melting “I can’t believe this is mine to see.” Shane Hollander, the golden boy, the perfect player, fucking himself in front of Ilya, putting a show just for him. No one else knows the way his body goes hard then soft when he touches that place inside, no one gets to see the shadows and lights dancing on his skin.
“Fuck, ‘s too dry,” he reaches the drawer on the bedside table and takes out a bottle of lube. Ilya doesn’t have time to think where he got it from, hypnotized by the way Shane dribbles the liquid on the tip of his dick, sliding down down to where he needs it most. The wet sound his fingers make when they are thrust inside is filthy.
“Better?” he asks, because he needs to know if Shane’s feeling good.
Shane nods.
“Yes. It’s good, but—” he’s fucking against them now, raising and dropping his hips like he doesn’t know if he wants the feeling of his fingers on his prostate or his hand around his cock. “It would be better if they were yours. You— shit— you always go deeper. It’s not… not enough.”
“I—” he stops himself.
Shane laughs, not unkindly, knowing exactly what Ilya was going to say. I will do it, I will make it so much better. Let me, let me.
“You want to touch?” he’s being mean. Ilya nods, squirming in the chair. His knees are pressed firmly together. “Too bad,” Ilya gasps, like he’s been punched. “But— but, yes, I think I need something else.”
The glass almost falls from Ilya’s hand when Shane reaches once again inside the drawer and pulls out a dildo. His heart starts beating so fast he’s sure Shane can hear it.
“What—”
Shane does have the decency to look quite embarrassed.
“I have missed you,” he wraps one of his lube covered hands around the silicone shaft, “so much. And I have been here, in this hotel, for almost a week remembering that night. Thinking about what you asked me to do, and how hard you fucked me afterwards.”
“Hollander.”
“And I— I couldn’t stop thinking about doing it again.” He rubs the tip of the dildo against his hole, shiny with lube and eager to have something else but fingers inside. “So I ordered this.”
“Hollander,” he repeats.
“‘t was scary,” he continues, ignoring Ilya. “But the delivery was discreet and I didn’t have to put my name on it, only the name of the hotel. Fuck, Ilya, I— I just wanted something inside me so bad.”
“Shane,” there’s a lump in his throat. He wants to scream.
“He has been fucking himself in this room for days thinking about me”.
“And tonight,” he pushes the swollen head inside. Ilya chokes on his own saliva. “When we were at the bar and you ordered the vodka… I wanted it so bad, Ilya.” His head drops against the padded headboard when another inch gets slipped inside.
“Shane. Sweetheart, малыш. Let me do it, I will fuck you” he doesn’t know if he’s speaking in English or Russian. He can’t think. His mind is empty, the only thought being the desperate need to give Shane what he craves.
Shane’s thighs are shaking when he squeezes in the last part of the toy.
“But this feels— this— hmm, fuck, Ilya.” He starts to move the dildo, not getting it out, just rubbing it in small circles against his prostate. That is how he’s been getting off —plastic dildo inside his ass and thinking about his boyfriend. He has fucked himself hard with it, like it was Ilya’s cock, he has gotten on his knees and ridden it until his legs were shaking, he has put it in his mouth and fingered his ass at the same time. “It’s so good. ‘S big, too.”
“Baby, please.” He is going to come. He is going to come inside his pants, untouched, from watching his boyfriend fuck himself with a dildo.
Something in Ilya’s voice makes Shane stop his movements and look at him.
“Look at you. You are so hard, aren’t you?” he grabs the back of his thigh and pushes his knee against his chest, opening himself even more. “Fuck! It’s so deep. It’s like having you inside, Ilya—
“Is not” he says, desperate, “no— is not, Shane.”
“But it fills me up, just like you. I can feel it— here,” he touches the skin under his bellybutton, “so deep.” He starts properly fucking himself with the toy now, pushing it almost all the way out and inside, angling it so it brushes against his prostate each time. Wet sounds fill the room, accompanying his moans and whines and Ilya’s heavy breaths. “Ngh— Oh, my God. Fuck, fuckfuck—!”
“Stop,” Ilya says, a tone of panic in his voice. “Shane, stop, I’m going to come I— please.
“Please, what? Please let you fuck me, please let you come?” Ilya does look like he is going to come any second, eyes desperately searching for Shane's. He’s flushed from his cheeks to his chest, a shade of pink so pretty that Shane wants to lick it. It’s rare to see Ilya blush, and even rarer to see him this undone. He looks intoxicated. “Come here. Take off your clothes.”
He gets up with shaky legs, and almost rips his clothes off. His cock springs out when he takes off his underwear, swollen and so so hard. He gets to the end of the bed, unsure of what to do next.
“What— where do I—” he wants to crawl on top of Shane, but he doesn’t know if he’s allowed.
“Come. Kiss me, please.” Shane is lying almost completely flat on the bed now, the cushions scattered around the sheets and floor.
Ilya can’t not kiss him. He drags himself on top of Shane, his skin burning where they touch, kissing his chest, then his neck and his chin and then his mouth. A whimper reaches his ears, but he doesn’t know if it comes from him or Shane, who wraps his arms around Ilya’s neck to get him closer.
This is what he loves most. Kissing Shane. He should kiss him more often, he thinks, all the time, maybe. He always clings to Ilya like he’s drowning, opens his mouth so sweetly for him, offering himself. They suck on each other’s tongues with open mouths, they bite and pull and kiss until their lips are puffy and sore, until Shane’s fingers grab his chin and push him away.
“You didn’t kiss me, that night,” he runs his fingers through Ilya’s hair, damp with sweat. Ilya is looking at him like he’s trying to understand the words, but can’t. “I left and we didn’t even kiss.”
It’s kind of awkward, admitting that after seven years when he’s got a dildo up his ass.
Well.
Ilya blinks.
“I am sorry,” he rests his forehead against Shane’s, he’s panting through his words “I wanted to do it very much. And I was very scared because I never wanted to kiss another person before like I wanted to kiss you that night. I was… Not right, in my head. I was asshole.”
Shane’s heart clenches. “He wanted to kiss me.”
“It’s okay.”
“I kiss you now. I can kiss you as much as you want.” His lips are soft, careful, when he kisses his cheeks.
“Uhm. That’s nice. But I’m not done with you yet.” He raises one of his legs and puts his socked feet on Ilya’s stomach and forces him apart. “Do you want to fuck me?”
Ilya coils his fingers around Shane’s ankle, kneading the flesh underneath the soft material.
“Yes.”
“Okay,” Shane unwraps Ilya’s hand and guides it towards the toy. “Then fuck me.”
There’s a moment of silence in which Ilya processes the words and what they mean. He whines when he understands what Shane wants him to do.
“Hollander.”
“Fuck me, Rozanov. It’s what you wanted.”
“No. Not like this, no— Shane.”
Shane shushes him and presses their lips together, the gesture such a sweet contrast to his words that Ilya’s head spins a bit.
“Go on,” he spreads his legs as wide as he can, arranging himself, “make me feel good, okay, my love?”
He carefully takes Ilya’s cock in his hand and positions it downwards, against the cleft of his ass but not his hole, where the dildo is buried. Ilya is still holding the base of the toy, and the position makes it look like the dildo is Ilya’s actual cock buried inside Shane, while the actual thing rubs pathetically between his cheeks, seeking friction. When Ilya looks down and sees his hand gripping the toy like he would his dick, he whimpers and thrusts forward, frustrated when the toy goes deeper but he doesn’t feel it.
Ilya is going to cry.
“After— Can I fuck you? After? Please.”
“We will see. Come on, Rozanov. Fuck me like it’s your cock inside of me.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
He firmly grabs the base of the dildo, velvety and soft, and Shane wraps his legs around his waist. He leans his hips backwards, pulling the toy almost all the way out, watching Shane’s hole stretch around the enlarged head; they both moan loud when he thrusts back inside.
“Yes,” Shane gasps, “like that. Don’t stop, Ilya, don’t—”
Ilya fucks into him desperately, mind empty, his eyes fixated on the dildo, not being able to look away. He feels like he is a toy made for Shane’s pleasure. It’s his job to make Shane feel good, to make him whine and writhe against the sheets. His own pleasure is secondary— always has been, even when he makes Shane choke on his cock, or when he presses him face down on his couch and slams into him hard and fast, it’s all because he knows how much Shane loves it. He is a devoted man, who lives for the praise of making his partner feel adored.
Sweat runs down his chest and back, making Shane’s legs slip from the grip they have around his waist. His mouth is open, breathy moans being fucked out of him. He looks at Ilya, pupils wide and dark.
“That’s perfect. That’s— Oh, Ilya—”
Fucking Shane but not actually fucking him make his eyes roll back, trying to get as much friction as possible when his dick drags against Shane’s cheeks. He starts thrusting harder, faster, Shane’s body arching against the sheets.
“Is good?” He asks. “Am I—”
Shane digs his fingers into the sheets and screams at a particularly hard shove against his prostate.
“You’re doing so good,” he manages to say with a hoarse voice. “So perfect for me, Ilya. You’re making me feel so good. Don’t stop, that’s it, don’t stop—”
“I will give you anything. I will— I want to be good for you. I am doing good?”
Pleasepleaseplease tell me it’s good tell me I can fuck you later please—
Shane shoves his thumb inside his mouth. Ilya’s vision turns white for a moment. He sucks on it like it’s Shane's dick, wrapping his tongue around the tip of the finger.
“So well, my love. I’m so close. Are you going to make me come, Ilya?” And then Ilya sobs and buries his face on Shane’s neck. He nods, incapable of forming words. “Yeah? Are you going to fuck me like this until I come from your dick?”
Ilya’s dick twitches, once, twice, and panic jolts through him. He stops moving, but Shane keeps rubbing his ass against his cock.
“Fuck, stop— I’m going to come, Shane. I don’t—” But he doesn’t stop. He starts to sway his hips back and forth, rubbing his ass against Ilya’s cock. Ilya starts trembling, barely clinging to the control he has over his body. It’s too much, it’s not enough. “Please. Please, малыш. You told me I can’t come, please— I want to be good for you.”
“You’re going to come?” Shane lifts his head to meet his eyes.
“N–no, not until you tell me. Please, sweetheart, I can’t—.”
“Shh,” Shane drags his thumb across Ilya’s eyelashes, wet with unshed tears. “Don’t come yet. Can you do that for me?” A shuddering sob rips through his body. He nods, whimpering like a dog when his cockhead rubs across Shane’s skin. “Can you hold it and let me use you a bit longer?”
Use me. I’m yours. Use me however you want I love you I belong to you you are everything to me I won’t come until you tell me to I promise I will be good— He doesn’t know if he’s saying the words out loud, his mind empty. He’s been carved out of his body, he is but a hollow machine programmed to fuck Shane and do as he says.
Shane smashes their mouths together and locks his ankles tightly, pushing Ilya forward. He keeps rolling his hips, meeting every thrust of the toy and eagerly rubbing his ass against Ilya’s dick.
The room smells like sex, filthy and loaded. The wet smacks of their bodies colliding together echoes across the windows. Shane feels drunk on the noises and the smells and the sensations being ripped out of him. “How can this feel so good?” He is delirious with pleasure, never wanting it to stop.
Ilya keeps making noises like he’s a wounded animal, whimpering and cursing and gasping for air. There’s a frown between his eyebrows, eyes closed, focused on diving the dildo as far as he can with every push. He’s shaking, concentrated on not coming before Shane tells him to. Shane drinks him in, his Ilya— the cocky hockey player, the womanizer— reduced to a dumb whiny mutt, obliging Shane’s every command.
“I want you,” he whispers, and Ilya’s head snaps up so fast his neck clicks. There’s no green left in his eyes, pupils so dilated there’s only black pools staring at him with barely controlled lust.
“Please.”
“You did so well. I think you can fuck me properly now. Do you want to?”
“Yes, yesyes. I want. Please, любимый.”
“All right. Let me,” Ilya gives him some space, wincing when his dick gets exposed to the cold air of the room. It’s wet at the top, cum leaking out of it, and flushed a shade of red so dark it’s almost purple. Shane’s mouth waters. He takes the toy out, and gasps when his hole clenches around nothing. With shaky legs, he turns around and lowers his chest to the sheets, arching his back for Ilya to see. “Fuck me like this, please?”
“God, Hollander.” Big hands grope and squeeze Shane’s cheeks, pulling them apart to expose the tiny hole, glistening with moisture. He hears Ilya gasp when he sees how stretched it is from the toy.
“Come on, Ilya. Do you want it?”
“Da— yes. Can I? Can I, Shane, please?”
“Yes.”
Ilya presses into him, holding his breath until he bottoms out. He is gripping Shane’s waist with shaky hands, anchoring himself because the feeling of Shane finally around him is so overwhelming that he thinks he might black out.
“Thank you, thankyouthank—” he’s mumbling against Shanes’s shoulders. “Is good, like this? Are you— is good?” he needs to know that this is what Shane wants. That he’s doing his job correctly.
“So good, my love. Come here.”
Ilya immediately presses his chest against Shane’s back, getting closer to him. Shane turns his head and caresses Ilya’s nape to pull him into a kiss. Ilya’s cock twitches inside him. Shane circles his hips, squeezing his muscles, and Ilya moans loudly.
“Can I move? Can I—?”
Shane kisses his cheek.
“Go slow.”
He obeys. Pulls out and gently pushes back inside, making them both sigh. This was his job, to fuck Shane however and whenever he wanted, to make him feel worshipped, like the most valuable thing in Ilya’s life. He finds a steady rhythm; slow and deep just like he was asked. He grips Shane’s ass with one hand and pushes his face against the sheets with the other, slipping his thumb inside his mouth. Shane wraps his lips around it, sucking it as deep as he can and Ilya’s pace falters. He is gone, completely docile under Shane’s command, pliant like a dog following his owner’s instructions.
He fucks Shane like that for what feels like hours, both of them moaning loudly, shaking against each other.
“‘m close,” Shane says, words slurred because of the thumb in his mouth. “Ilya— fuck, I’m so close.”
Ilya nods. He is going to make Shane come from his dick, not that dildo or his fingers. His job. He takes his thumb out of the other man’s mouth and grips his waist, making his thrusts deeper and longer.
“I’m— Oh, God. Oh— fuck, Ilya. Ilya.”
The squelching sounds fill his ears, alongside Shane’s whimpers and pleas. He can feel the warm muscles contract against his cock, squeezing deliciously.
“Don’t come don’t come,” he tells himself. “You can’t. He didn’t give you permission.”
Shane hides his face in the mattress, all the muscles in his body tensing up and making him shake violently. He clenches his fingers twice, holding onto the fabric for dear life before coming with a shout when Ilya grinds his cockhead against his prostate, hard. Stripes of come paint the sheets as he comes, his hole spasming around Ilya’s cock, still fucking in and out of him because Shane didn’t tell him to stop. He rides his orgasm like that, shaking and crying and still getting fucked by his boyfriend.
Ilya stops his movements when Shane whines from the overstimulation.
“Shane—” don’t come don’t come.
There are white spots dancing across the room, Shane’s eyes unfocused and wet with tears. He nuzzles against the fabric under him, as a way to come back to himself. Carefully, he turns around, whining when Ilya’s dick slips out.
Ilya is looking down at him, eyes wide and eyebrows raised in a painful expression. There’s a silent request drawn all over his face and body. He grabs his dick and, when Shane nods, puts it back inside.
“Baby, please. I will be careful I promise, can I— just a little, please—”
Shane hugs him, pressing their bodies together.
“Yes, yeah. C’mon, give it to me.” Ilya thrusts hard inside, a man desperate for release he hasn’t been given. “Are you still trying to hold it?” Shane’s fingernails run over Ilya’s back. He nods, frantic, stuttering words in russian. “So good for me. You behaved so well. Do you want to come?”
Ilya cries, burying his face in Shane’s hair.
“Please.” He has never wanted something as much in his life.
Shane places their foreheads together and smiles at him, adoration shining in his eyes.
“Come for me, Ilya.”
And, fuck, Ilya does. It’s like something inside of him breaks when he hears those words. Shane commands him and Ilya obeys. He comes with a silent scream, squeezing Shane against him, body shaking and releasing so much come it hurts. There’s nothing else but Shane, nothing matters but them and this.
He pants as the tremors subside, trying to get air into his lungs. Shane’s fingers are combing his hair out of this forehead, and he’s pressing small kisses all over his face. They stay like that for a few minutes, basking in the afterglow.
Ilya drops his head to Shane’s shoulder. A disbelieving laugh escapes his mouth.
“Holy fucking shit, Hollander.” He says, not processing what just happened. “What the fuck.”
Shane cradles his head against his chest. He’s breathing heavily as well.
“Are… Are you okay? Was it too much?” He sounds genuinely concerned.
“I don’t think I have ever come like this, fuck. You killed me. I am dead.”
Shane squirms beneath him.
“So,” he insists. “Was it okay?”
Ilya kisses the side of his neck. The skin is salty from the sweat.
“So okay, Hollander. Next time you tie me up, yes?”
“Jesus. Shut up” He laughs, blushing.
“What” Ilya raises his head to stare at him, “you give me orgasm so good I see God and now you are shy?”
“Shut up.”
“Hmm, yes, Hollander. Boss me more, tell me to shut up. I think I will get hard again.”
“You are the worst.” Shane smacks him playfully and rolls his eyes when Ilya moans exaggeratedly. He carefully tips his head to press their lips together. “I love you.”
Ilya smiles.
“Я тоже тебя люблю.” He rolls over, body limp against the bed, and makes space for Shane to cuddle against him. “We need to get you more trophies if you are going to fuck me like this after.”
Shane snorts.
“Okay.”