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Shane looks at himself appraisingly in the hotel room mirror and wonders if this is all a terrible idea.
It's nearing the final few hours of their last night in Como, and Shane is eager to pull out all the stops to make their ultimate evening of their summer vacation the best so far. When Shane had first decided to surprise Ilya, it'd been fairly difficult to think of any way he could possibly top the hours upon hours of hot, filthy, it's-the-off-season-and-we're-in-Italy sex the two of them have been enjoying for the past week – however, after a few days of pondering, it had incidentally been Ilya himself who had given Shane this idea.
They had been in the gym of their luxury hotel (because even being in the off-season, even being on vacation, they are after all, just a couple of elite hockey players), when Shane on a slightly adventurous whim had managed, after many months of trying, to bench the same weight of his husband. Shane had been far to busy engaging every muscle in his body to celebrate, but he'd expected some cheering from Ilya – instead, when Shane glanced at Ilya, stood above him to spot, Ilya's eyes were dark, mouth slightly open, staring at Shane's straining arms and fucking drooling.
Which, once they had finished their workout, had given Shane the glorious idea that he now finds himself acting on.
He's no stranger to dressing up for his husband. In a way that would have the rookie version of himself blushing with a combination of stubborn humiliation and arousal, Shane has often tried on certain outfits or items of clothing he never could have seen himself in, purely for the reaction it gets from his husband – Ilya Rozanov, Captain of the Centaurs and legendary hockey talent, driven mad by his want for him.
There was the time that he had waited for Ilya to return home from a rare Centaurs-pre-Shane victory, sat on their couch, legs curled under himself all coy, in absolutely nothing save a Rozanov jersey (well, that and a large silver butt plug... if that also counts).
Or last Halloween, when Shane had been determined to one-up Ilya from the notorious Gladiator Incident. To this day, the look on Ilya's face when Shane had descended the stairs dressed as a cowboy – hat and chaps included, of course – makes for pretty good jerk-off material when Shane's (rarely) lonely. The memory of how Shane had ridden Ilya into the mattress at the end of the night until they had both come three times each is also fairly delicious.
Shane has even, after a lot of encouragement from a wine-drunk Rose the week before his and Ilya's third wedding anniversary, dabbled in wearing lingerie. That had been a special night; Ilya had gone fucking insane within seconds of seeing Shane sat on the edge of their bed, legs spread wide and entitled, in a lacy black bralette straining over his large pecs and a matching pair of panties straining over his cock.
So he's certainly dabbled in dressing all special for his baby before. And Shane is well aware of how much Ilya appreciates that Shane, ultimately, is a just a massive jock – he's noticed, over the years, how Ilya bites and licks his lips incessantly anytime Shane wanders around in a compression shirt and sweats. How Ilya ogles his ass when he does his yoga on the deck, more times than not coming up behind him and pulling his shorts down right then and there. How his pupils grow twice their usual size whenever Shane fights back against his hold, writhing around on the sheets and engaging his biceps to try and throw Ilya off.
Which is how Shane has ended up here. Stood in front of the mirror in their marble-clad, five-star hotel bathroom, dressed in a pair of blue calf-length tube socks, a tight-fitting white vest shoved up clumsily to expose his stomach, a backwards cap adorned with a Centaurs 'C', and a black jockstrap.
Shane has never been that eager to acknowledge his own beauty... but he knows he looks good.
The tank exposes the bottom of his abs and the arms that Shane is extremely proud of and that Ilya enjoys biting, and cinches tight around his waist to make it look far smaller than Shane is aware of it being, in turn making the span of his shoulders appear, frankly, fucking huge. The socks sit fitted around his calves and the muscles there that Shane has been focused on growing; the cap is new for him, and Shane's ended up with a sort of horny-fratboy-or-professional-athlete look, like he just walked out of the gym – or a wet dream.
By far the best part, however, is the jockstrap: it cups him perfectly at the front, offering a teasing glimpse of the imprint of his half-hard cock, and the back... when Shane turns, he can't help the giddy, high laugh that escapes him. As egotistical as it seems, Shane would be stupid if he didn't think he looked good enough to eat right now. The straps of the jock that grip his thighs and waist accentuate the slightly obscene swell of his ass, making the part of himself that Shane may be most proud of, and that Ilya would likely write poems about if he had the time, look even fatter than Shane already knows it is.
Fuck. Ilya is going to destroy him.
His husband has been gone rather a long time now. Shane knew that as soon as they got back to their room together, Ilya would be all over him, so Shane had accidentally left his jacket at the restaurant of the hotel, only noticing when they were in the elevator. Ilya, ever the gentleman, had immediately offered to go and retrieve it, sending Shane scrambling back into their room and out of his dinner clothes. But the restaurant is only so far away, and it's been almost ten minutes now.
And then, perfectly on cue, Shane hears the noise of a keycard being scanned, and the door to their suite opening.
"Solnyshko? I have your jacket, sorry I took so long..."
Shane takes a bracingly deep breath, and steps out of the bathroom.
"...there was someone who recognised me and I–"
Ilya's words suddenly end with a garbled noise as he freezes in the doorway to the bedroom, staring at Shane, stood in all his buff jock glory, looking up through his eyelashes at his husband across the room.
"Shane," Ilya says, voice dropping octaves. "Shane."
He bites his lip and shifts on his feet, teasing Ilya with just a brief view of the back of his outfit. "Do you–"
"Don't even ask," Ilya rasps, crossing the room in a second and stopping before Shane, hands instinctively coming up to rest possessively on his waist. "I– I love it, Shane, yebat, you are so hot."
Shane Hollander knows he's fucking hot. But still, he blinks up at Ilya and puts on an innocent tone and asks, "Really?"
"Yes, Shane, yes. Turn around for me malysh, come on."
Eager to get his full reaction, Shane instantly does as he's told, slowly spinning in place and showing off where the jockstrap highlights one of Ilya's favourite parts of him. When Ilya doesn't say anything he turns back, a promise to change if Ilya doesn't like it growing on his lips, until he sees his husband's face.
Ilya's jaw is slack, looking like all words in English – or Russian – have escaped him entirely. Silently, he urges Shane to turn again.
"Gospodi," Ilya murmurs. Shane cranes his neck to look over his shoulder, watching as Ilya's gaze travels downwards. A moment later, his hands follow, large, calloused palms resting heavy on Shane's ass, groping the plush skin there and making Shane shudder. "All for me?"
"Of course," Shane replies.
"Bozhe moy," Ilya says, sounding completely and utterly awestruck. "My pretty boy. Such a dirty fucking slut."
The desperate whimper Shane can't help but loose gets cut off as Ilya spins him fully back to face him, and kisses him like he plans to devour him.
...Well. He probably does.
Ilya is still dressed for dinner, tailored pants that make Shane rabid and a white shirt that's practically see-through in the low light of the room, and Shane runs his hands greedily over every item of clothing he can, panting into Ilya's mouth and shamelessly pawing at his ass and waist and thighs and–
With a groan, Ilya pulls back, and Shane whines.
"Get on the fucking bed," Ilya orders.
So Shane does.
---
If there is a god, Ilya thinks, he must really love Ilya to have blessed him with the holy gift that is Shane Hollander.
Shane is– well, Shane is Shane. Capable of taking Ilya apart with just a look, reducing Ilya to pieces with a rock of his hips or a well-timed swallow. Shane could probably have walked out of the bathroom dressed as the fucking Centaurs mascot and Ilya would still want to pound him into the bed. But, god, if Shane hasn't gone above and beyond tonight.
His Shane, his husband is an absolute vision. Spread out on the darkened bed like a Baroque nude, reclining against the pillows so not to dislodge the backwards cap that makes Ilya's cock twitch with just a glance. He's flushed all the way down to his navel, his own cock straining against the front of that fucking jockstrap, and squirming impatiently as he waits.
Ilya can't get his clothes off quick enough.
Engaging in a brief battle with the buttons of his shirt, Ilya's soon enough ripping it off his body, smirking to himself at the small, needy noise that the reveal of his torso gets out of Shane. He shoves his pants and briefs down next, carelessly kicking them away and hissing when his cock hits the air, because yes he's fucking hard – how could he not be, with Shane before him looking like this?
Ilya knows that he's not necessarily been the best at hiding his deeply-rooted fetish for how much of a jock his husband is, but Shane's get-up proves that his husband discovered his secret long ago. "Ilya–a," Shane whines, his hands clenching and relaxing around the sheets like he doesn't quite know what to do with them.
"Yebat," Ilya mutters to himself, climbing atop the bed and crawling up the length of Shane's body until he's straddling him, hovering just above the bulge in his jock. "Ty takaya zhadnaya shlyukha."
Unlike their rookie years though, Shane does actually know Russian now – or, at the very least, he's picked up enough in bed to know when Ilya is saying you are such a greedy slut – and of course the words make Shane moan, hips jolting upwards to rub himself needfully against Ilya's achingly hard cock.
"Shit, Shane–" Ilya chokes out. He drops his own weight downwards a little, until they're grinding against one another like horny teenagers, Ilya folding forward at the waist to claim Shane's mouth once more.
The fucking noises that Shane makes, Ilya has often thought, could put most of the porn industry out of work. His desperate, high-pitched moans that Ilya devours, the low sounds he makes in the back of his throat when Ilya rolls his hips, the way he groans through his teeth when Ilya moves a hand to tweak one of his nipples poking through the thin fabric of his tank, they all make Ilya feel more crazed with want.
When they separate, Shane whimpers again, and Ilya's head spins. His own pace is rapidly becoming jolted and messy, the lewd sight of his cock pressing down on the wet patch of pre-cum soaking through Shane's jockstrap stoking the fire of arousal that burns low in his belly. It's a true testament to how much Shane's get-up is affecting him, that Ilya feels like he could come just from this... but he doesn't want to (no, with Shane all dressed up for him, Ilya reckons he deserves better than some sloppy frotting), so he shifts his hips up and away from Shane's, trying his best to ignore how his husband blinks up at him wetly.
Shane doe eyes are already a little glazed-over, and his voice a little slurred when he asks, "What're you going to do to me?"
Ilya curses under his breath. "What do you want me to do, moy greshnyy muzh, hm?"
The man beneath him doesn't answer, too busy... staring. It's remarkable, really, how through the haziness of arousal and the beginnings of slipping into subspace, Shane's chocolate-brown eyes manage to fix upon Ilya's cock, curving up towards his stomach where he's still straddling him, and gaze at it like it's some holy relic.
"Yeah?" Ilya purrs, shuffling on his knees up the length of Shane's torso until he's hovering over his collar. "You want something in your mouth?" Ilya smirks down at Shane, gripping his cock and suppressing a groan at the touch, and then tapping the leaking tip against Shane's lips, tightening his hold around his own shaft to pull down Shane's plush lower lip and spread his own pre-cum on the wet, pink flesh.
Shane hums, the vibrations of his desperate affirmation making Ilya hiss. "Fuck, yes, I want it."
Ilya quirks his brows, pretending to mull over his options. Because getting sucked off by Shane is, put simply, a divine experience... however, so too is fucking Shane, and that's when he's not in a tank top and jockstrap that make his ass look even more biteable than it usually does. In the absence of an immediate answer, Shane – ever impatient – has started nuzzling at Ilya's cock, lips mouthing at his drooling tip.
The sight alone shocks Ilya into silence, forgetting all about the mind games he was considering playing, instead frozen there straddling Shane's chest, staring down at Shane who is practically making out with head of his cock, utterly lost in his own world and his eyes heavy-lidded.
"Fucking hell," Ilya growls, sitting up on his knees.
Shane tracks the movement with wide eyes, whimpering at the loss. "What are you doing? Don't you want me to–"
"No, malysh," Ilya says, patting Shane's cheek comfortingly and feeling his heart go all warm and achey when Shane nudges into the touch. "Later, maybe."
"But– why not?"
"Because you are too hot for your own good," Ilya murmurs, "and if I let you suck my cock, I'd come too quickly."
Shane's mouth falls open, no doubt to retort something else along the lines of why the fuck are you not giving me what I want you evil man, so before he can do so, Ilya urges him up with hands on his hips. "Come on, roll over for me Shane. I didn't get a good enough look at you earlier."
He's fairly sure Shane grumbles something about being denied Ilya's cock in his mouth, but it doesn't stop him from doing exactly what Ilya asked, rolling onto his belly and then pushing himself up, so that he's supported on his forearms and knees, back arched so deeply one would think it were natural instinct (which it probably is, by now).
The deep curve of Shane's back pushes his ass up for Ilya's gaze, and fuck– "God, you look so good," Ilya says in awe. The midnight-black straps of Shane's jock frame his ass so that it looks even bigger and better than it already is, and Ilya can't help the way his hands move to grip greedily at the cheeks, the skin there so soft and plush. "Fucking love this ass, malysh, you look– you understand why I didn't let you suck my cock now, hm? When you have an ass like this, how could I not want to fill it up with my cum?"
There's a rumbling, happy sound from below, like Shane is purring into the sheets. Ilya's cock twitches, and with no pre-warning he lightly slaps Shane's ass. "I asked you a question."
"I... yes, I understand." Shane looks over his shoulder, his eyes big and needy and his freckles half-lost under the deep flush on his face. "Will you, Ilya, please?"
Ilya cocks his head. "Will I what?"
"Will you–" Shane turns, back to looking at the headboard. "Will you... fill me up with your cum? Please?"
Distantly, Ilya registers that he's feeling slightly dizzy. How Shane constantly manages to one-up both himself and Ilya will never cease to shock him, and make most of his blood seemingly rush downwards. "If that's what you would like me to do," he promises.
Ilya palms at Shane's ass, spreading him wide for his hungry eyes. "Such a pretty fucking hole, moy malchik," Ilya says, half to himself, watching with horny joy as Shane shudders in response. "So pretty, and–" Ilya inches one of his hands inwards until his thumb rests at Shane's rim, which clenches insatiably. "so tight, tightest pussy ever, Shane, fuck."
"Hnngh, Ilya, please," Shane whines, shifting on his knees and pushing his ass backwards into Ilya's hands.
"Mm, be patient," Ilya says, slipping a bit of that commanding tone he knows Shane loves into the words and seeing Shane shiver at the order. "Let me look, krasivaya shlyukha. You dressed up like this for me, after all." He leans forward, purring into his husband's ears, "I mean, come on Shane. If you dress up like slutty jock, what do you think will happen?"
That typical Shane brattiness (and hopefulness) is audible when he suggests, "You'll finally fuck me?"
The sharp smack of Ilya hitting him again echoes through the vast suite, immediately followed by a guttural moan from Shane, and Ilya's warningly low, "I said, let me look."
With that, Ilya returns to indulgently spreading Shane open. Shane, who is trembling just so in anticipation. Well. He only has himself to blame – as if it's Ilya's fault that he wants to make the most of Shane when he's all dolled up for him. Shane really is gorgeous everywhere, even with his massive rippling muscles and professional athletic physique he's just pretty – pretty eyes, pretty freckles, pretty cock, pretty ass, pretty hole.
"I don't know how you're still so tight, milyy," Ilya says conversationally, acting as if he cannot hear Shane's barely-suppressed whimpers of impatience. "I have not been leaving you unsatisfied," he snorts, "fucking you open every day and night." Ilya idly plays with Shane's rim again, gently scraping the nail of his index over the furled skin there and watching the way his hole twitches, trying its best to coax Ilya in even unprepped. "But every time you are still like this. Like virgin."
"Well I'm not a virgin," Shane snaps indignantly, "and I would quite like for you to fuck me now. Or at least some time in the next hour–"
Shane's complaints end in a surprised sort of squeak as Ilya shoves him down, moving him this way and that like a toy until he's laid back with his legs spread, facing up at Ilya.
"You are so," Ilya growls, "fucking," he pushes Shane's thighs down until they're flush with the bed, opening his legs wider, "impatient."
All Shane does is bite his lip in anticipation. Like this, Ilya can see his cock again – or where the jockstrap is doing barely enough to cover his cock. There's a distinct wet patch, visible even with the dark fabric, where he knows Shane must be leaking like a faucet, and the material does absolutely nothing to hide how hard he is. His eyes, pupils blown so wide they resemble inkwells of desire, track Ilya's movements as he reaches over to grab their nearly-empty lube from the nightstand.
"...Sorry," Shane says quietly, not really sounding sorry at all, instead just eager as he watches Ilya slick up his fingers.
"Is okay, lyubimyy." Ilya makes space for himself between Shane's legs, kneeling within the cage of his husband's beautifully vast thighs. "I know how you get. So worked up and horny until all you can think about is something inside you," he murmurs, pressing insistently at Shane's hole with his index until his rim gives with a soft moan from Shane. With his other hand, Ilya lightly taps at Shane's temple. "All cockdumb, huh?"
Shane hums in agreement, hips kicking to try and get Ilya's finger deeper. Ilya allows it, staring with glee and slight disbelief, as Shane's hole sucks the digit in. When the first finger is buried to the root, Ilya begins to tease the ring of muscle with a second, and Shane mewls above him.
"You want another?"
"Yeah, yeah I–" Shane pants, "I want it."
Ever so slowly, Ilya gives him a second, watching where Shane's tight little hole stretches, welcoming him in. "God, Shane," he whispers in wonder, because he's so turned on and so in love and so lucky that this man is his, that he gets to have this for the rest of his life.
Ilya curls his fingers slightly, revelling in the full-body shudder it earns him from Shane. And then, because he has a slightly wicked idea: "Still feeling impatient?"
"I don't– fuck," Shane moans, clenching tight as Ilya brushes over his prostate again, "yes, yes I'm feeling impatient, want your cock, Ilya please, give it to me–"
"Hm." Ilya scissors his fingers. "Are you sure?"
Shane glares at him. "Yes."
"Okay," Ilya says, pulling his fingers free with a wet pop and grunting as he spreads the excess lube over his cock. "Since you're feeling so eager."
Then he pushes Shane's legs up, hands splayed over the backs of his thighs, the skin there deliciously bronzed from days in the Italian sun, until his knees are almost touching his chin, and all he can make out is Shane's shiny, just-about-stretched hole and his surprised expression. Ilya notches the head of his engorged cock at Shane's rim, giving him no warning as he–
"Ilya, what are you–"
–steadily pushes inwards, groaning as that familiar wet, tight heat envelops him. Shane's hands scrabble at his back, babbling incoherently beneath him, "Unnghh, fu–uck Ilya please, wait I'm not– need you to– god, fuck–"
"There you go, malysh," Ilya offers as he bottoms out, "exactly what you wanted, hm?"
Shane's head thrashes against the pillow, knocking his infuriatingly hot cap off and mussing his hair, somewhere between nodding and shaking his head.
Ilya gives him a bit of time to adjust (and if it gives him time to think about not coming in the next thirty seconds, then that's between him and his balls) steadily grinding forward and back a half inch and feeling Shane pulse and twitch around the nine-inch cock suddenly buried inside him.
"Chert, ty–" Ilya gasps, "takoy khoroshiy malchik dlya menya."
"Move," begs the man beneath him, "move, please."
And who is Ilya to deny Shane Hollander? So he draws his hips back, groaning at the friction and the view he has of Shane's rim clinging greedily to his lube-slick shaft, until only the head of his cock remains inside, before ramming back in.
Shane's back bows up off the sheets, and he almost sounds pained when he cries, "Ah fuck, yeah like that–"
If he didn't know that Shane was a total slut for it, Ilya's certain the way he fucks him would seem cruel. He immediately sets a pace that has Shane's whole body jolting in place, and his husband moaning like a whore.
"Is good?" Ilya pants, even though he knows it's good, because you don't get to fuck Shane Hollander for decades if it's not good, but he lives for the way Shane always sings his praises. Literally.
"Yes!" Shane wails, "It's good, so good, fuck me–"
Ilya rocks into him, the combined sounds of his own groans of pleasure, the wet squelching every time he slams back in, and Shane's own whining making him very grateful that he booked out the presidential suite, and they won't be getting any complaints of noise. Not that he would exactly mind someone overhearing, what with the way Shane is chanting his name like Ilya is transporting him to some other plane of existence.
"Ilya, Ilya, Ilya–"
"You– fuck– like that?"
"Uhhuh," Shane slurs, head lolling to one side, looking up at Ilya through tear-shiny eyes.
Shane clenches down on him hard and Ilya almost falls forward at how good it feels. "Fuck, milyy," Ilya says, guttural and raspy. He can't decide what's a better sight – Shane's face, flushed and blotchy with his eyes rolled back or Shane's hole, reddened and stretched wide around the base of his cock. "I love you."
"I l-love you too," Shane manages, hips rocking up to meet Ilya thrust for thrust.
"I love how you do this for me," he goes on, tweaking one of Shane's nipples and feeling him clamp down around him. "Love how you dress up for me, so hot, ty menya gubish."
Ilya's filled with the sudden urge to reward Shane even further, give it to him harder and deeper, to fucking carve out a space within him for his cock, and on a particularly harsh thrust Shane's arms fly upwards above his head, bracing himself against the headboard as Ilya moves his whole body up the mattress.
"Oh y-yeah?" Shane replies.
Holy fuck he looks good – colossal thighs, pushed up against his chest; colossal arms, holding back his entire body weight, muscles engaging as he uses the leverage to fuck back onto Ilya's cock. In the dip between his tits – tits which Ilya could worship, which are just as built as the rest of him – Shane's vest has gone near-transparent with sweat, just like under his arms, the dark hair there shining in a way that makes Ilya want to lick it. Shane's socks have fallen down around his ankles, and the force of their fucking has made the head of his cock escape from the hold of his jock, leaking sticky strings of pre-cum all over his abs. He looks so debauched, like he just walked out of one of Ilya's fantasies.
Shane suddenly squeals, legs kicking out slightly in pleasure and mouth dropping open, and Ilya knows he must have the perfect angle... so he keeps at it, feeling like he could come any moment, Shane looking (and sounding) like he could too.
"Ilya," he mewls, "touch me, please, need to come–"
"Hm, I–" Ilya moans, "I don't know..."
A single tear escapes one of Shane's wide eyes, and his cock jumps against his stomach. "What?"
"I don't think you need your cock to come, moy shlyukha, isn't it just there to look good?"
"N-No," Shane protests, even though Ilya can see how he hardly looks sad at all, can feel the way he tightens at Ilya's mocking.
"I think you can come from just your pussy, right malysh?" Ilya croons, watching as Shane's rim twitches around him, making his own cock kick in response, deep in Shane's guts. "That's all you need, isn't it: nothing touching your big, useless cock, just something fucking your hole, hm?"
The muscles in Shane's thighs tense and relax, legs trembling with his approaching orgasm. "I can't," he whines.
"Yes you can," Ilya says, somewhere between sympathetic and condescending. He glances down between them, at the place they're joined, Ilya's cock buried to the root and pressing against his prostate, where Shane's been spread so wide and fucked so swollen. "I know you can sweetheart, you've shown me before, your little trick." Ilya shifts one of his hands from where it was gripping Shane's thigh, moving it down down down until he's teasing a finger at Shane's rim. "Such a pretty fucking pussy, Shane, should I test how loose it is now?"
"What do you–"
It's easy really, with how relaxed Shane's hole is and how much lube Ilya fingered him with, to slip the digit in alongside his cock, but it makes Shane writhe with pleasure, crying out at the added stretch–
"Oh god, fuck, Ilya!"
–and get pushed over the edge, cock jerking and shooting ropes of pearly-white cum all the way up his chest.
This time Ilya does fall forward because of how good it feels, pulling his finger out of Shane and catching himself on his elbow so he doesn't crush his own husband. Shane's making all these breathy, whimpering noises right in his ear as his body shakes with the aftershocks, milking Ilya's cock and making him moan.
"Nghh fuck, Ilya are you close?"
Ilya's hips kick, pushing his cock impossibly deeper. "Yeah so close, malysh, 'm gonna–"
Shane gulps in great big breaths from the tiny space between them, begging him, "Come on, Ilya, please you said... you promised baby, are y'gonna– fill me up?"
"Tvoyu mat, Shane, let me..."
He thrusts once, twice, sloppy and uncoordinated, as all the while Shane spasms rhythmically around his cock, before he comes too. "Fu–uck," he groans, drawn-out and low, while his cock twitches inside Shane and claims him, fills him just like he asked.
For a moment or two, they pant into one another's skin, bodies shuddering and satiated. Shane blinks up at him with his hazy eyes, like Ilya is some divine being, and Ilya leans in to claim his mouth, both of them moaning quietly as they ride it out.
"Shane," Ilya murmurs. "My Shane, moya lyubov, so good for me."
"I'm glad–" Shane clears his throat and continues weakly, "I'm glad you liked it."
"Liked it, he says." Ilya snorts. "Shane, you destroyed me."
Shane's brows furrow. "In a... in a good way?"
"Jesus," Ilya groans. "How are you so cute?"
"Excuse me? I–" Shane looks deeply affronted, which unfortunately only adds to the cuteness of his expression. "I'm not cute, I'm meant to look, like, all strong and stuff."
"You do," Ilya affirms. "Just also very cute. Like a kitten."
"Right, that's it," Shane attempts to kick Ilya off, completely failing to do so, "get out of here, get your dick out of me Ilya, my thighs hurt–"
"So ungrateful," he mutters.
One of Shane's eyes twitches.
"Okay, okay, sorry lyubimyy, I will pull out now," Ilya says. "Even if I don't want to," he adds in a whisper, smirking when he catches Shane's mouth wobbling as he tries to suppress a grin.
For all of his demanding, Shane makes a slightly mournful noise at the loss of Ilya's cock filling him, a noise which then transitions into a satisfied sigh as he stretches his legs out either side of where Ilya remains kneeling. Ilya automatically starts to massage each of Shane's thighs, loving the way Shane smiles from the easing of his wearied muscles. Although, as much as he adores acting as a temporary post-sex physio to his husband, Ilya can't stop himself from indulging just a little more, ignoring the way Shane squeaks when he pushes his legs up and out again.
From here, with Shane's magnificent thighs and magnificent calves out of the way, Ilya gets a view of one of his favourite things in the world. Without the fat base of Ilya's cock plugging him up, Shane's hole is already steadily leaking cum, the white stickiness making his rim twitch and glisten.
"Malysh," Ilya rumbles. At the sudden change in tone, Shane's head immediately perks up. "Push out for me..."
Ilya knows that if he were looking at Shane's face, he'd likely see him blushing something stupid right now; but he's not looking at Shane's face, because how could he, when below it–
"No Ilya, you know I don't like doing this," Shane whines, but as much as he claims to dislike it, it doesn't stop him, which Ilya knows is because as much as Shane would deny it, deep down he is just as dirty as Ilya is, if not more. His hole, puffy and red, clenches and loosens, making more of Ilya's cum ooze out slowly, tracking it's way down Shane's ass and pooling on the sheets (Ilya makes a mental note to tip the housekeeping staff very generously as he ogles the lewd scene).
"Fuck," Ilya breathes out, rubbing a hand over Shane's leg and feeling his cock, impossibly, twitch against his thigh. He gathers what's leaking on a finger and toys with Shane's rim before pushing the cum back inside him, curling the digit up just so to feel the hot convulsing of Shane's insides.
Ilya repeats the motion again and again, until he's gathered all of his cum that Shane so dutifully pushed out, and Shane is whimpering quietly.
"Baby," Shane croaks. "I can't– 'm too sensitive."
"I know," Ilya coos, "I'll stop now."
But as he pulls his finger out, Ilya starts to think. He gazes at where Shane's rim clings desperately to the digit, before letting it free with a wet cinch. He considers the way Shane let him play with his hole, despite how he just came, how loose and pliant he is right now. How the orgasm Ilya just gave him was because of the added stretch of a finger alongside his cock. Ilya thinks about how Shane, the love of his life and most incredible man in the world, ultimately loves to be filled like a dirty slut – how they've tried all sorts of things over the years to sate Shane's infinite hunger: plugs, dildos, beads – but how Ilya has never given him...
"Shane."
"Mhm?"
"I have an idea."
That word, the excited thoughtfulness in Ilya's tone, makes Shane sit up fully. He meets Ilya's eye and tilts his head. "Oh? What is it?"
"You remember last time I opened you with four fingers?"
"Um, yeah. It was good. I mean, it hurt a bit at first, but you hadn't fucked me yet so it made sense. Once I got used to it, it felt great."
"I think you could take four now." Ilya replies, "Easily."
Shane bites his lip. "Right. Is that your idea?"
"Not exactly." Ilya glances down at Shane's swollen entrance, then back up again. "Well, yes, at first, but then... do you think you could take more?"
If anyone else where watching, they'd likely miss the little move Shane makes – but because Ilya knows this man better than himself, he immediately catches how his question has Shane squirming. "Like– your... fist?"
Ilya nods slowly. "Yes."
There's a reaction Shane has, very rarely, when he is so caught off-guard both by the filthiness Ilya utters, and how into that filthiness he is too, that he just sort of... short-circuits. Nowadays, it's a blessing when Ilya gets to witness it, what with how they've practically ruined one another with their combined want, so he savours it now. The way that Shane's pupils visibly grow in size, how his mouth drops opens, how he shivers with anticipation.
Shane blinks, slow and syrupy. "Oh."
"We don't have to, obviously, if you don't want–"
"No," Shane interrupts. "No, I..." he audibly swallows, struggling to speak the words aloud, and Ilya knows he should coax him back into that place he likes, where his thoughts go all foggy and gentle because he knows Ilya will take care of him. "I want it."
"Really, milyy? You want my fist in you?"
"Yes, please."
Ilya kisses him again, and murmurs into his lips, "Asking so nicely, always so polite for me, my Shane." He presses his mouth to Shane's cheeks, his nose, his hairline, feeling like his heart is growing with every contented noise Shane makes in return. "You are sure you want to be fucked by my fist? Want my whole hand in your greedy hole?"
Shane keens, high and broken. "Yes, fuck, Ilya I want it so bad–"
"Say it."
"Say what?" Shane parrots dumbly.
Ilya nips his ear, and growls, "Say, I want your whole hand in my greedy hole, Ilya."
His husband quivers, and for the first time since they both came, Ilya lets his eyes wander down to Shane's cock. He is not disappointed (or surprised) to see that Shane is already more than half-hard, the jockstrap doing close to nothing to hold his cock now, bunched to one side from how roughly Ilya fucked him.
"I want–" Shane starts, gulping. "I want your whole hand... in my– my greedy hole, Ilya." And then, because he knows exactly which of Ilya's buttons to push, "Please."
It's a messy jumble of expletives in both English and Russian that leave Ilya's mouth at Shane's lewd request, and he urges Shane up again with gentle touches. "Over, solnyshko, over onto your stomach, want the best view–" Ilya begs. He knows, of course, that however which way they do this Shane will look good, but when he's on his hands and knees it's incomparable – the loss of not being able to see his beautiful expressions is made up for by how Shane arches like a whore every time, practically shoving his ass back into Ilya's face.
On this occasion, though, Shane seemingly decides to turn his internal slut-meter up to the max, rolling onto all fours and then lowering himself, first onto his elbows, and then further, until he's braced on his knees, ass high in the air and back in a devastating arch all the way down to where his entire front from his chest up is lying flat on the bed, arms folded before him. Ilya's pretty sure he couldn't even do that – but that's a topic for another time (a time when Shane will no doubt berate him for never doing yoga), because of course he now has the privilege of the incredible sight that is Shane's fat ass framed by that wicked jockstrap, perky and round and all Ilya's.
He spreads Shane open with needy hands, tsking at what he sees. "Aw, malysh. Not so tight anymore, huh?"
"Don't–" Shane begs, but the way he pushes himself pack into Ilya's hands tells another story.
"Don't what?" Ilya repeats. "Don't look?"
"No– I don't know."
Ilya hums, eyes drinking in where Shane's been fucked open, hole pulsing under the attention and leaking beads of Ilya's cum. "I think I get to look as much as I like. You know why?" He folds forward, draping himself over Shane's back. "Because this slutty little hole is mine, isn't that right?"
"Yeah," his husband pants, "yeah, that's right."
"What is?"
"It's all– all yours, all for you, Ilya please–"
Fucking hell. One day, this man will be the death of him (oh, but what a way to go). Ilya goes to grab the lube which he'd hastily abandoned on the bed in his rush to fuck Shane, but stops halfway there, distracted by the black and red cap lying on one of the pillows from where it fell off Shane's head earlier. Gently, he puts it back in it's rightful place, backwards atop Shane's head, securing it to Shane's sweat-damp hair.
Then he continues with his task, squirting out enough lube to coat three fingers. Ilya presses a soft, loving kiss to the base of Shane's spine before he begins. "If it's too much you tell me, yes?"
Shane nods eagerly. "I'll tell you, I promise. Can you please–"
Ilya hushes him, somewhat condescending. "Shh, we go slow. Okay?"
"...Okay."
It's easy to slip two fingers past Shane's relaxed rim, and as much as Shane clenches weakly around them, Ilya can tell he needs more. The third takes a bit more coaxing, Ilya petting over the swollen ring of muscle to get it to open for him. Unlike when Ilya's prepping him, when Ilya is leisurely and languid, he instantly starts scissoring the three fingers, focusing on the task at hand (ha, at hand) to stretch Shane wider than he's ever been before.
"Is it fine?"
"More than fine," Shane replies, "I need– need more."
"Whatever moy malchik wants," Ilya swears, the pet-name making Shane tighten.
With the fourth finger Ilya edges into him, Shane moans loudly. It's similar, if not marginally bigger, to the width of Ilya's cock, which explains why Shane's suddenly mewling like a bitch in heat again. However, the four of Ilya's thick, calloused fingers are dwarfed by what Shane truly wants – the large, knuckle-rough intrusion of his whole fist. Ilya can't even predict how Shane will sound by the time they get to that.
Every time Ilya widens his fingers as far as he can in the heated clutch of Shane's insides, or curls them to press against his prostate, it releases sticky dribbles of cum, Shane's body trying impossibly to empty itself as Ilya plans to fill it all the way back up again.
"You are okay?"
Shane moans brokenly, convulsing around Ilya's four fingers. "Y– fuck– yes!"
"Fuck, Shane, you look..." Ilya doesn't think he's even capable of putting it into words, native tongue or not. "Ready for more or quick break?"
"M-More," Shane slurs.
Ilya kisses him again, a row of three, open-mouthed things to the skin beneath Shane's vest. He removes his fingers, petting over Shane's thigh when he sighs sadly at being left empty again. For a second or two Ilya freezes, staring at where Shane's hole gapes – it's small, and Ilya knows he'll look far more destroyed by the time they're done, but even so: "So fucking hot, Shane."
Shane purrs, and wiggles his ass, which Ilya takes to mean (fluent in Hollander as he is) please stick your whole hand in me now, please please please–
Ilya's preparing himself when Shane says, "Lube, Ilya, you need– more."
"I know," Ilya says, because he does, and because he is pouring what feels like a literal gallon of lube onto his hand right now.
Beneath him, Shane suddenly stiffens. His head whips back and his eyes are dark when he asks, "Have you done this before?"
"No, moy revninyy zaychik," Ilya chuckles quietly. "Never had a pussy as needy as yours, if that's what you're worried about."
"Oh." Shane mumbles. Through the thin material of his top, Ilya can see his flush. "Well. Good."
Once his hand looks almost comical from his slick it is, Ilya runs a soothing hand down Shane's back. "Ready?"
Shane hums into the pillow that he appears to be gripping like his life depends on it.
"Was that a–"
"Yes! Yes, I'm ready, can you– please, Ilya, need it so bad–"
"Whatever moy malchik wants," Ilya says, repeating himself because it's true – he would offer Shane the world if he asked for it, will happily spend the rest of his life at the beck and call of the incredible man below him, delivering on his every request and wish. Even (or perhaps especially) when that request is to fuck Shane with his fist.
He squishes his dripping fingers together into a conical shape, until they resemble something like the beak of a bird. Then, Ilya positions the tips of all of his five fingers at Shane's open, desperately clenching hole, and pushes.
At first, Shane just seems to be panting, until Ilya reaches his second knuckles, at which point Shane starts to groan, low and drawn-out. "Ah, hnnghh, fucking shit–"
"You want to stop?"
"No, no! Don't– don't stop, just," Shane, somehow, manages a little breathy laugh, and Ilya feels the vibrations of it, the way his body shakes, all the way through his hand, "just, hah, a lot."
"Slow, then."
"Yeah, yeah, slow."
Ilya continues with Shane's assent, shifting further and further inwards a millimetre at a time. The way Shane opens for him– god, Ilya's sure he could go mad from the sight, and it makes his cock jump, how taut Shane's rim is, how it convulses insatiably around his hand, swallowing more and more of it in until–
"Fuck!"
Ilya freezes. "Lyubimyy?"
"Fine, I'm... fine, I just–"
"This is biggest part," Ilya says, glancing at where he's stopped, the base of his fingers and the looming, huge mass of his knuckles and palm.
"Mhm, yeah, I can– unghh, can feel that."
"You still want?"
"Yes," Shane slurs. Ilya peeks over his shoulder to where Shane's mashing his face into the pillow and sees that Shane's drooling into the silk pillowcase. His entire body is trembling, whether in anticipation or desire Ilya cannot tell, but his hole is still spasming, trying it's best to draw in something larger than what it visibly is itself.
As Ilya begins to push again, his whole forearm tensed with how slowly and carefully he's moving, Shane starts to take big, heaving breaths, his whole torso expanding and shrinking from the force of it. "Shane, you need to–"
"Il–ya," he mewls.
"Malysh?"
"I–" Shane's hole clamps down, and he makes a garbled, guttural sound. "It's too much, I can't–"
"We can stop," Ilya reassures him. "But I think you can. If you stop tensing–"
"What do you fucking think I'm trying to do?"
"I know," he soothes, "I know." Ilya keeps his hand where it is, buried to almost it's widest point in that twitching heat, and runs the other one over Shane's thighs, his broad shoulders, his back, the tank top damp with sweat. "You are trying so hard, always so good for me moy krasavchik, moya shlyukha. Always so good and so beautiful, my Shane."
Shane looses a high sob, body quivering. Careful not to jolt his arm, Ilya leans down to kiss Shane's cheekbone, smiling into his skin when Shane turns his head, granting him access to kiss down his face until he reaches his lips. "I love you," Ilya whispers into the flushed skin of Shane's cheeks.
"You are perfect," he goes on, with a kiss to Shane's temple.
"You ruin me," with a kiss to the corner of his eye, licking away a tear.
"You are all I could ever need," Ilya murmurs, pulling back to mouth at the lobe of Shane's ear.
And slowly, achingly slowly, Shane relaxes. Ilya keeps peppering him with kisses, pouring praise and sweet nothings into his ear, as all the while he feels more of his hand be enveloped by tight, hot wetness until Shane's taken his knuckles and the widest point and he's still taking more with Ilya's pushing a little harder again and Shane's sobs have transformed into hiccups of intoxicating pleasure and he's moaning and moaning and–
"Holy fucking shit," Ilya breathes. With Shane sounding better, Ilya takes it as a sign to pull his torso back once more, so that he's in his original position, kneeling behind Shane's ass.
"Is that..." Shane rasps, "is that it?"
"Yes. Yes, fuck, Shane."
"Give me– a second."
"Of course, as long as you need milyy." Ilya knows he's rambling, but it's like he's lost all control of himself. Shane asking for a pause gives Ilya the opportunity to reach for his cock, which he notices, all of a sudden, hurts from how hard he is. When he gives himself a stroke, Ilya groans. "Fuck, Shane, if you could see yourself, I wish–"
In his desperation to get past Ilya's knuckles, Shane has taken him all the way down to the wrist. Honed by years of hockey playing and weight lifting, Ilya's wrist is by no means small. It wouldn't be anyway, but seeing Shane take it, seeing Shane's hole–
Shane's rim is stretched so wide it's obscene. And yet, his hole is still twitching and clenching erratically, desperately begging for more before Shane can even voice his wishes.
This may be the single-greatest thing Ilya has ever suggested.
"'Mkay... you can move now."
"Are you sure?"
Shane somehow finds the wherewithal to look over his shoulder and huff, but just as his mouth opens, Ilya's draws his whole hand back, making Shane's eyes roll back. "Ily–ah!"
If Ilya thought the spectacle of his entire fist in Shane's hole was the hottest thing he has ever seen, he promptly learns that his fist emerging is even hotter. The puffy rim clutches onto his hand as Ilya pulls back, stretching and contorting to the grooves of his knuckles and fingers like it cannot stand to be left empty.
When Ilya drives back in, Shane's entire body jolts with the motion of his arm, and Shane keens. "Oh fuck, fuck, fuck that's so good, Ilya–"
"Uhhuh? You like having my whole hand in your sloppy cunt?"
"God, yeah, love it–" Shane babbles, tightening like a vice, and it's so different like this; Ilya's fist being so much bigger than his cock that it's almost painful every time Shane's muscles spasm around him.
He keeps unhurriedly jerking himself off as he builds a rhythm, cock kicking in his grip every time he plunges his fist back inside Shane's needy hole. Even as he steadily gets quicker, Shane's hips rocking back into his thrusts, Ilya ensures he's being gentle and slow – which in turn makes it so much better, letting him get a proper good, lustful look at the way that Shane's reddened rim distends slightly from the force and mass of Ilya's fist each time he withdraws.
Shane seems to have lost most brain function, reduced to a staccato, teary tempo of uh-uh-uh. He rolls his ass back in time with Ilya's movements, fucking himself on Ilya's fist, muscles in the backs of his thighs tensing. His slutty little vest is soaked through with sweat, and Ilya can see through it where the elegant, built muscles of his back shift underneath his skin as he lets himself drown in such an alien pleasure. One of his socks is halfway down his foot, getting closer to falling off every second and his cap is askew on his head.
From the back, it seems like the only thing still as Shane put it on is his jockstrap, but a quick glance beneath his husband shows it's all but fallen away at the front. Shane's cock hangs hard and heavy between his thighs, completely untouched and yet dripping all over the sheets. Ilya moves to look back up until he spots something that makes his vision black out for a second.
Where Ilya's fist is buried deep inside Shane, there's a distinct bulge under the skin. With every push-pull of Ilya's arm, it returns and recedes, an obscene swelling where Ilya's rearranging Shane's guts.
"Chort vozmi," Ilya moans. "Shane, you– your–"
Unsure how even to describe it, Ilya pets over the distending of Shane's belly with his other hand, and Shane shrieks. "What are you– fuck! Do that again, baby, Ilya–"
Ilya repeats the motion, pressing down this time, feeling his own hand within Shane, a realisation that makes his cock ache. "Jesus, malysh, you feel how deep I am in you?"
Shane mewls his agreement... or at least Ilya thinks he does. Truly, he can't hear much of Shane's whimpering and whining over the lewd, disgusting sound of his own fist fucking Shane's hole. Shane was right to demand so much lube, but it makes for a filthy soundtrack, loud squelches every time Ilya carves his way back in again. A slimy, sticky mess of liquid leaks down Shane's taint and balls, a deluge of fucked-frothy lube and the milky remnants of Ilya's own cum, displaced by the sheer intrusion of his hand, dripping and pooling on the damp silk sheets.
"Ilya," Shane chokes out, his voice a raspy remnant of what it once was. "Ilya, Ilya."
Around Ilya's fist, Shane convulses, and Ilya knows he must be about to come. He resumes his lazy jerking off, almost doubling over at how close to the edge he suddenly feels. It's so much, the schlick-schlick-schlick of his stroking his cock, the wet gurgling of him fist-fucking Shane, the way Shane has started begging in a high voice, "Please, please, 'm gonna come, gonna come–"
"See, malysh?" Ilya pants out, furiously stroking himself and driving his hand into Shane. "What did I say? Your useless, dumb cock doesn't need anything–"
"Fu– nghh– fuck!"
"–you just want something inside you." Ilya grinds his knuckles against Shane's abused prostate, licks up a stripe of sweat from the back of his neck. "Who could've guessed what you needed all along was my fat fucking hand deep in your hungry pussy?"
"Ohh shit, 'm gonna–"
Shane gets so tight so quickly that it actually does hurt, and Ilya groans through his teeth as Shane comes. He's fairly sure he hears Shane slurring some garbled French into the pillow as he orgasms, and that always makes him feel proud, knowing he's fucked Shane so hard his brains have turned to mush.
As soon as the squeezing of Shane's hole lets up, and Shane's eyes have rolled back forwards, Ilya's husband begins to whimper and shake. Sometimes when they fuck, Shane enjoys basking in the afterglow, Ilya still buried within him, warmed within the body of his love. But that is when Ilya stuffs Shane full with his cock – his whole fist is something else entirely. And Ilya can tell, immediately, that now Shane has come, it is too much.
"Shane?"
"Hnnngh?"
"I take it out now, yes?"
Shane doesn't answer with words – nothing out of the ordinary, particularly after something like this – just nodding and humming faintly. Ilya goes slow, just as slow as he did putting it in, and even after coming, Shane's hole clings to his hand as he pulls it back. Ilya coos in praise at what Shane has taken, kisses the top of his spine, until his fist comes free with an obscene slurping sound.
For perhaps the hundredth time that night, Ilya's brain goes blank at what's before him. Shane's hole looks destroyed: it gapes uselessly wide, entrance a deep red, swollen and puffy. The brunt of Ilya's fist has left him completely and utterly open, weak squelching noises emerging from where the lube-shiny, pink insides of him are exposed. He's oozing excess lube and cum, something which Ilya knows Shane won't love the feel of, but his husband clearly isn't capable of clenching to keep it inside.
For a second, Ilya allows himself a depraved fantasy, an imagined future where Shane's hole never returns to normal, forever cratered in the shape of Ilya's fist, and permanently open for Ilya to stick his cock – or whatever else Shane may ask for, no matter the size – into.
"Bozhe moy..." Ilya traces the tip of his pinky finger over Shane's quivering rim, and stares as his hole barely responds, tightening weakly and making a wet, hollow sound.
"Unhh, 'sit bad?" Shane mumbles.
"No," Ilya rushes to say, the word breathy from how quickly he's stroking himself now. "No, it's– so fucking hot Shane."
Shane gulps, "Ilya, am I–"
"Yeah, yeah, dermo–" Ilya flicks his wrist, feels his balls draw up. "You're fucking gaping, Shane. Can you– can you even clench, malysh? Just fucked you so open and loose on my hand, huh? Useless, messy hole."
"Mm, but it's yours," his husband slurs.
Ilya whines, his cock twitching in his grip, before he's spurting ropes of cum all over Shane's overused entrance.
Shane hisses, his rim pulsing feebly. "Did y'come on me?"
Slumping over, Ilya pants, "Yeah."
Shane seems to purr again, gradually letting his legs slip out from underneath him until he's lying flat on his belly. "Okay. Now it's yours."
"Fuck me," Ilya groans, collapsing on his back beside him. "Shane. You cannot say things like that to me if you don't want to go again."
Cracking open a still-hazy eye, Shane says quietly, "Y'just told me 'm gaping. Don't think going again is a good idea, Ilya."
Ilya snorts. "No, I suppose you're right." Shane looks so warm – debauched and wrecked, yes – but also just so content, languid and floaty in the way he only is after sex. "I love you so much," Ilya murmurs, closing the space between them to kiss his breathtaking husband.
"Ya... tozhe tebya lyublyu," Shane whispers in return.
"You want bath?"
Shane snuggles into the sheets – the patch under his head is miraculously clean, likely the only place on the bed that's the case for, and Ilya vaguely wonders if the hotel will have to burn them. "Mm in a minute. Just wanna lie here for a bit."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," Shane breathes, then yawns, his long dark lashes fluttering against his freckled cheeks and reminding Ilya of butterfly wings. "Happy lying here. Happy being here with you."
"That's good, lyubimyy. I am very happy being here with you too."
Shane smiles at him, weary and satiated, but a smile nonetheless, and Ilya gets a hand round his shoulders to pull him close. Shane sighs into the crook of Ilya's neck and nuzzles his throat. Ilya places a kiss atop his head, and holds up his other hand in front of himself, seeing how far up his forearm they went, the remnants of lube drying sticky on his arm and sheening in the low lighting.
Ilya stares, and thinks of how much Shane took, and of how it is nothing in comparison to the love he feels. But perhaps it conveys enough... a handful of desire, at the very least.