Chapter Text
He’s just about to light up when hears his own name:
“Ilya Rozanov?”
Ilya turns. The man approaching him is dressed similarly: hoodie, jacket, beanie, jeans (it's an unusually chilly and gray day in LA). He’s clutching a duffel that’s slung over his shoulder and smiling as he approaches.
He’s a little awkward, Ilya thinks, then the man holds out his hand.
“Shane Hollander, I thought I should introduce myself.”
Total fucking dork.
Ilya shakes Hollander’s outstretched hand and resumes lighting his cigarette.
“Oh, um, I don’t think you’re supposed to smoke here,” Hollander says. He’s looking over Ilya’s shoulder, at the no smoking sign two feet away.
Ilya exhales. “Don’t worry. I brush my teeth before shoot.”
Hollander blushes, a baffling response considering that he’s probably going to have Ilya’s dick in his mouth within the hour. “I wasn’t, um. Thinking about that.”
He has freckles, Ilya notices. Shane Hollander has freckles. He has freckles and a pretty mouth and a bit of a baby face. God, they’re going to do numbers.
That is, if they actually end up doing this at all. Hollander looks increasingly uncomfortable, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
“Okay, well, I’m. Gonna go get ready,” he says, and he holds out his hand again.
Ilya takes it, bemused. He blows out another stream of smoke as Hollander turns to leave.
“Hollander,” he calls after him. “Is not fucking business interview, you know.”
He doesn’t miss the way Hollander’s eyes track the movement of Ilya’s cigarette back to his lips.
“Yeah, I know,” he says, and he practically runs back into the building.
So, Rozanov is kind of an asshole. Shane tells himself he’s disappointed, not surprised.
Still, it doesn’t exactly help his nerves. He can’t think too much about what he’s about to do, or he’s going to start spiraling and possibly have a panic attack. So he focuses instead on the logistics. Those, he can do.
First step, figure out who’s in charge—
“Hi, Shane.”
He turns and sees a guy he estimates to be in his mid-forties. He’s got a bit of a gut, a scraggly beard, and wireframe glasses.
“I’m Alan, production manager.” He holds out his hand.
Shane shakes it, feeling vindicated. Of course they’re shaking hands, because this is a workplace, and this the professional thing to do.
“Nice to meet you,” Shane says.
“Want to come into the office? There’s some paperwork for you to sign, plus I need to check your ID.”
Shane blinks. “Oh, really?”
“I know, I know. Just part of the process.”
He follows Alan into an office off the corner of the set. “Okay. Oh, and, I have my test results?”
Alan nods. “Great, yes, we’ll need that too.”
The paperwork portion of things goes smoothly. Alan tells Shane he has fifteen minutes before he needs to be in wardrobe (which is kind of funny, given the circumstances, but Shane supposes that getting naked on camera is part of the whole thing), so he heads into the bathroom.
Rozanov is already there. As promised, he’s brushing his teeth. With a slightly concerning ferocity, actually, but if that means Shane doesn’t have to taste his cigarette, he’s not going to give the guy a lecture on receding gum lines.
Shane takes out his own toothbrush. They lock eyes in the mirror and Shane’s stomach feels—funny.
After he got the call from his agent (something that still feels weird to even think in his head, that he has an agent), Shane watched all of Rozanov’s videos. Most of them were with women; apparently he’s relatively new to guy-on-guy stuff. Professionally speaking, at least. Shane doesn’t know if Rozanov is just gay for pay or if he’s actually bi or whatever, and it’s not really his business.
Anyway, it was hot, even the stuff with women, not that women do anything for Shane. But he could focus on Rozanov’s abs and hands and cock and pretend it was him, and he got hard every time.
And now it will be him.
Rozanov leans forward and spits. Shane finishes and does the same.
“We should talk?” he says, hating the way it comes out as a question.
Rozanov crosses his arms. He’s taken off his jacket, his hoodie, and now Shane’s caught staring at his biceps. “Yes. Okay.” Then he walks to the door, and Shane’s confused until Rozanov holds it open for him, waiting.
Rozanov leads him into a small kitchenette across from the office. There’s a microwave, a mini fridge, and a coffee maker. The half-empty box of donuts on the table makes Shane’s stomach turn a little, so he’s relieved when Rozanov sits on the couch in the corner, dropping his bag on the floor.
Shane sets his bag down too, tucking it close to the couch and out of the line of traffic. When he sits next to Rozanov, there’s a little smile tugging at his lips, the first sign of a real emotion Shane’s seen from him, outside of steely indifference.
“What?” he asks.
Rozanov gestures to him. “Talk.”
Shane opens his mouth, then closes it. He has no idea where to start.
“I’ve never done this before,” he blurts.
One of Rozanov’s brows quirks. “What, gay porn?”
“Like, porn, in general.”
“You never had sex on camera?”
Shane shakes his head. It’s only the tip of his disclosure iceberg, but Rozanov throws his head back, clapping a hand over his own face as he slumps down the couch, and Shane’s glad he didn’t say more.
He feels himself bristle. “What, is that a problem?”
With a sigh, Rozanov sits back up. “Is fine. What is off limits for you?”
Shane’s agent had pitched the whole thing as very first-timer friendly. Nothing extreme, nothing kinky. Just some sucking and fucking.
“I thought we were just going to have, like. Pretty normal sex.”
Rozanov huffs a laugh. “Boring.”
Shane frowns. “What’d you have in mind, then?”
“No, no. Boring is fine.” He looks at Shane, gaze assessing. “You will suck my cock?”
Suddenly Shane’s mouth feels very dry. “Yes.”
“Can you deepthroat?”
His face is burning, but he knows he can—he’s practiced. He nods.
“Then we do that. Then I fuck you. Okay?”
“Okay,” Shane agrees, and it comes out like he’s swallowed gravel. He clears his throat.
Then Rozanov grins, and fuck.
Shane realizes he’s already hard, enough that it’s noticeable. He shifts, trying to cover it, but Rozanov just laughs.
“What, you are embarrassed of your boner, Hollander? Is whole point of this.”
Shane lets out a shaky laugh, because, well, Rozanov is right. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Be embarrassed when you can’t get it up,” Rozanov tells him.
“Won’t be a problem,” Shane tells him coolly. “Worry about yourself, Rozanov.”
“Ha. You are brat.”
Shane scowls. “No I’m not.”
Rozanov leans in. “I think you are,” he says. How did his voice get lower? “I think you are brat, and when you are brat to me while we shoot I think I will spank your ass.”
Shane feels slightly lightheaded. He does not dislike that idea, and it’s probably entirely obvious. Somehow, he’s moved closer to Rozanov. It feels like their skin has magnetized, like they’re pulling nearer and nearer.
“You don’t know that I’ll be a brat,” Shane says.
“No,” Rozanov says easily, then he smirks. “But I hope.”
By the time they settle onto the on-set couch for their pre-shoot interview, Hollander is properly nervous.
It’s not obvious, but Ilya’s already begun picking out little tells: touching his face, clenching his fists, blinking a little more than normal.
Ilya’s kind of into it.
Because Hollander is awkward and dorky and boring, but somehow in a really fucking hot way.
It makes Ilya feel slightly crazy. He has to remind himself that he’s at work. And it may not be a stuffy office job, but he still needs to keep it together.
The costuming for the shoot is simple. They’re both in jeans (Ilya’s are ripped) and t-shirts (Shane’s hangs over his frame, whereas Ilya’s hugs every part of his chest). They’ve been through hair and makeup, too, where Chrissy the stylist chided Ilya for coming to set in a beanie, but still managed to do something with his curls all the same.
They’re both wearing a little bit of foundation to help with the harsh studio lighting, but thankfully Hollander’s freckles are still visible.
“You look pretty,” Ilya tells him.
“Fuck you, you’re wearing makeup, too.”
“Yes. But I am not pretty.”
Hollander blushes.
It’s too fucking easy. There are definite downsides to being someone’s first on-screen partner, but Ilya would be lying if he said that this is one of them.
“Okay, ready to get started?”
Ilya can’t remember the director’s name. The man is unremarkable, another middle-aged white guy with a doughy body in a long line of them.
“Ready,” Ilya says, and there’s a beat before Hollander realizes that they’re all waiting on him.
“Oh—ready.”
“Great. So. Shane, this is your first shoot, right?”
Shane licks his lips and runs his hands over his thighs. Another nervous tic, Ilya thinks, but when Hollander speaks, he’s smooth, polished.
“Yeah, it’s my first shoot. But I’m really excited.” He smiles, that same stupid shy smile he gave Ilya outside.
“Ilya, are you excited to be working with Shane?”
“Yes, am very excited to be his first.”
“Anything in particular you’re looking forward to?”
“This mouth,” Ilya says, and he reaches over to grip Hollander’s chin, squeezing a little.
He half expects Hollander to slap his hand away, but Hollander just dips his head and looks up at him through lidded eyes.
Jesus fuck.
“That’ll work,” the director says, and maybe Ilya keeps holding Hollander’s chin for a second longer than he needs to before letting go.
They move to the proper set, which is just a room made to look like a college dorm, though Ilya has his doubts about how accurate a depiction it is. It’s a simple little undergrad setup: Ilya, jock top; Hollander, nerdy bottom.
It’s a bit of a stretch. Ilya can tell that underneath the loose shirt, Hollander is impressively muscled. Not as much as Ilya, but still, not exactly some little twink.
And not that it really matters, because this is a job (something he’s frequently having to remind himself of today), but Ilya prefers that. It’s hotter, bending over a guy who’s big enough to take him in a hypothetical fight.
They stand across from each other next to the bed as the crew adjusts the lights. Hollander’s hands are balled into fists at his sides. He’s not making eye contact, staring somewhere beyond Ilya’s shoulder, and Ilya begins to suspect that Hollander may be masking even more apprehension than Ilya realized.
“You are scared,” he says.
Hollander glares. “I’m not scared.”
“Is okay,” Ilya tells him. “Normal.”
Hollander looks down, jaw working. “Were you?” he asks after a moment. “Scared, I mean?”
“Me? No, never.” He only manages to keep a straight face until Hollander meets his eyes.
Hollander gives him a tiny smile.
“You say if you need a break. Okay?”
Hollander nods. “Okay,” he agrees quietly.
“All right,” they hear from behind the camera. “You boys ready?”
“Ready,” Ilya says.
He sees Hollander swallow. “Ready,” he echoes.
“Rolling.”
Ilya doesn’t give Hollander the chance to wonder what to do. He steps forward, closing the space between them, and takes Hollander’s face in his hands.
“I like these freckles,” he says, voice low. It’s more for him than the cameras.
Hollander sways forward, and Ilya kisses him. He makes it deep but not urgent, getting his tongue in Hollander’s mouth the moment his lips open. Hollander’s hands come up to fist in Ilya’s shirt, pulling it even tighter, which is good—the camera will like that.
It’s a good kiss. Chemistry is part of the job, but that doesn’t mean it comes easily. Ilya’s already rock-hard in his jeans, which is also part of the job, but he also has this tugging feeling in his gut that makes him want to throw Hollander down on the bed now now and fuck him until he cries. As slow as he’s kissing him, he wants to go faster, he wants to take more, spurred on by the kind of heat that’s usually reserved for hookups where a camera isn’t pointed in his face.
Ilya pulls away to drag Hollander’s shirt over his head, and fuck, yes, Hollander’s body is as toned and muscled as he predicted, though actually seeing it surpasses what he could have imagined.
Hollander’s hands go to the hem of Ilya’s shirt, but he looks at Ilya, like he wants permission, so Ilya gives him a little nod. A moment later they’re both bare-chested and Ilya doesn’t even have to think about kissing Hollander again, it just happens, like they fall into each other.
After several minutes, Ilya breaks off the kiss and gives Hollander’s face something between a pat and a slap. He wants to be a little mean to him, because it’s hot and it’s fun and he has a growing suspicion that Hollander is very into it, but he also wants to be soft, to handle him with kid gloves because it’s his first time and he keeps blushing and smiling and looking at Ilya like he’d do whatever he says.
So, naturally, Ilya hooks his thumb into Hollander’s bottom lip and pushes in, deeper and deeper, until Hollander whines and sucks on it.
Maybe not a brat, after all.
Their bodies are already pushed together, but Ilya gets an arm around Hollander’s waist and holds him there so they can rub up against each other.
Hollander’s wet, red mouth around Ilya’s thumb is making it impossible not to think about what it’d feel like on his cock. Unfortunately for Ilya, the pace of porn is much slower than a real fuck, so he draws it out, getting more and more worked up until finally (fucking finally) the director tells them it’s time to move on.
With Ilya’s thumb still in his mouth, Hollander looks at him, unsure.
Ilya pulls his hand away. “Get on your knees,” he tells him, and boom, like that, Hollander just drops.
Ilya undoes his jeans and shoves down his briefs until his cock springs free. He fists a hand in Hollander’s hair. He’s about to tell him to beg for it, but Hollander is apparently done waiting for Ilya to cue him into everything, because he leans in and swallows Ilya’s entire cock like it’s nothing, like he does this every day.
“Fuck,” Ilya moans, startled into it.
From what little Ilya knows about him, Hollander strikes him as a very neat person. But the way he sucks cock is messy, downright filthy. The juxtaposition of it short circuits something in Ilya’s brain, and then Hollander swallows around his cock, and shit—
“Break,” he bites out, using his grip on Hollander’s hair to pull him off.
“Cut,” the director calls, and Ilya closes his eyes and thinks unsexy thoughts, breathing deep.
When he opens his eyes, Hollander is still on his knees, which doesn’t help.
“Was—was that okay?” Hollander asks.
Ilya nods. “Yeah, was good.” Too good, but Hollander doesn’t need to know that. “You are natural.”
“Do you, um.” Hollander swallows. “Have any feedback?”
Ilya can’t help barking out a laugh. “Feedback? You want fucking performance review of sucking my dick?”
Hollander, already flushed, goes even redder. “Fuck off, Rozanov, I just…”
“Fine, fine. Top rating, you are very good cock-sucker. I can go again. You ready?”
Hollander looks a bit like he wants to keep bickering, but he nods. “Yeah.”
“Ready to go,” Ilya calls over his shoulder.
“Rolling!”
They pick up where they left off. Ilya tries to imagine himself somewhere else, somewhere he’s not getting perfect head.
Thankfully, the director intervenes.
“Shane, this is great,” he says. “But can we get some of you licking it?”
Hollander sits back on his heels for a moment and nods before he gets back to it, this time tonguing at the tip of Ilya’s cock, then licking up and down the length of it until the director interrupts again.
“Now can we have Shane choking on it? Some gagging?”
Hollander’s eyes snap to meet Ilya’s.
“Okay?” Ilya asks.
Hollander wipes at his spit-slick mouth with the back of his hand. He nods.
“You are sure? Is okay if you don’t want to.”
“I’m good,” Hollander says. “Just—I don’t wanna, like, puke on your dick.” He mumbles the last part.
Ilya smiles. “You won’t. Ready?”
Hollander nods, then his mouth is back on Ilya, and fuck, it’s torture. Ilya pulls him further down, focusing very carefully on not hurting Hollander instead of how good it feels to make him choke on Ilya’s cock.
Hollander takes it like a champ, gagging and gripping Ilya's thighs, and when Ilya judges that it’s been long enough, he pulls out and drags his cock over Hollander’s lips. He slaps it against his cheeks, and Hollander pants and whines and there’s a split second where Ilya moves to jerk himself off and come all over Hollander’s flushed, messy face, but then he remembers that they are on set, they are doing a shoot, he is at work.
“Okay, let’s cut and get ready to move to anal.”
Ilya exhales. He could use a fucking smoke.
Shane and Rozanov both strip down to their briefs as the crew resets the lights. They’re going to resume on the bed. Rozanov will finger him open and then he’ll fuck him. Easy.
Except Shane’s jaw aches, his face feels sticky and disgusting, and he’s harder than he’s ever been in his life.
He has no idea what he’s doing. He doesn’t even know if it’s good, or if he looks stupid. He kind of thought that the director would be doing a little more…directing, but outside of telling them broadly what to do next, they’re sort of left to their own devices, leaving Shane to rely on Rozanov to help him figure it out.
At least Rozanov doesn’t seem to mind. He’s leaning against the wall, drinking from one of the crinkly plastic water bottles one of the production staff came to pass out to them.
Shane’s already drained his own. “Bottled water is really bad for the environment,” he says, and immediately feels like the world’s dumbest person.
“Okay, Mister Planet,” Rozanov deadpans. He holds his out to Shane. “Here.”
“What?”
“Yours is gone. Have more.”
Shane generally doesn’t like drinking out of the same glass or bottle as someone else, but given where his own mouth has already been, he should probably make an exception in this case. He drains the rest of Rozanov’s bottle.
The production assistant circles back a few minutes later to collect the bottles.
“Wait, wait,” Rozanov says.
“What?”
“You recycle?”
“Um, yeah, sure.”
He raises an eyebrow at Shane. “See? Not so bad.”
Shane resists reciting the statistics he knows about all the “recycled” plastics that still end up in the landfill. “Thanks,” he says instead.
Not a minute later, they’re being beckoned back to the set. They arrange themselves on the bed, Shane on his back, Ilya blanketing him.
“Rolling!”
They start with kissing. The kissing is nice, nice enough that Shane doesn’t dwell on what he’s doing with his hands or wonder if his face looks normal. It feels easy. And also really fucking sexy.
Rozanov shimmies out of his own underwear, then starts taking off Shane’s. Shane only barely resists the urge to cover himself with his hands.
Rozanov looks down at his cock. “Pretty,” he says, then he curls to press a kiss to the head, and suddenly Shane’s over his embarrassment. Rozanov pushes Shane’s legs to spread more and crawls between them. He kisses down Shane’s neck, his chest, his thighs.
Fuck, it feels good.
And it feels better when Rozanov takes his cock in his mouth.
“Holy shit,” he gasps. “Fuck, fuck.”
One of Rozanov’s hands claws up Shane’s stomach to slap at his chest before pinching his nipple.
“Fuck,” he moans.
“Yeah, that’s good, Shane,” someone—Marcus, the director, he thinks—says from behind the camera. “Let us hear you.”
Shane shuts his eyes. He brings his hands up to grip the pillow beneath his head and focuses on not coming in Rozanov’s mouth, which would be bad for several reasons. One, he’s at work and he’s not supposed to come until the end of the shoot as planned. Two, it feels fucking good and coming might make it all stop. And three, if he comes early, Rozanov will be way too fucking smug.
“I think that’s good, Ilya,” Marcus says. “Let’s move on.”
Then Rozanov’s mouth is gone, and Shane whines before he can stop himself.
“Shh.” Rozanov kisses him again, the messiest kiss they’ve shared yet, and Shane thinks he can actually taste his own dick which is gross but also hot. He’s panting by the time Rozanov pulls away.
He pats Shane’s belly. “On your stomach, on your stomach.”
Shane rolls over, heart pounding his chest.
Rozanov smooths a hand down Shane’s back, stopping to rest on his ass. He spreads his cheeks, and suddenly it feels like this is all happening too fast, which is insane since they’ve been rolling around together for hours now.
Shane tries to take deeper breaths, but his chest feels tight.
“Hollander,” Rozanov says softly. “Okay?”
Shane’s tongue feels too thick in his mouth.
“Hey.” Rozanov’s voice is in his ear now. “Need a break?”
Shane nods.
“Break!” Rozanov calls.
Low chatter breaks out on set.
“Sorry,” Shane mumbles. “Sorry, I…”
“Hollander, you are having panic attack.”
“Fuck you.”
Shane feels fabric land on his back. “Put those on,” Rozanov orders.
It’s his briefs. Shane turns, and Rozanov’s already stepping into his.
“Is this okay?” Shane asks.
“Sure.”
He sits up on the bed and pulls his underwear on.
“Come on,” Rozanov says, and Shane feels like he’s leaving class without permission as he follows him into the kitchenette.
Rozanov bends down to his duffel and starts digging through it until he pulls out a terrycloth robe. “Here.”
Shane frowns as he takes it. “What’s this for?”
“Wearing. Unless you have your own?”
“No,” Shane admits, and he feels stupid, like he’s made yet another rookie mistake by not bringing his own robe to the porn shoot. He slips it over his shoulders and takes a seat next to Rozanov, who’s already sprawled on the couch, seemingly unbothered that he’s only in his briefs.
“What are we doing?”
“Taking break.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“So you stop freaking out,” Rozanov adds unhelpfully.
“I’m not freaking out, I’m just nervous, okay?” Shane hesitates. He knows he should keep this to himself, but two minutes ago Rozanov had him spread out on the bed, and when they go back in there, he’s going to be inside Shane, so Shane stares down at his hands and admits, “It’s my first time.”
“Yes, you say this.”
“No, I mean…”
He hears Rozanov suck in a breath. “Hollander.”
“Don’t—don’t make it weird.”
“‘Make it weird’? Hollander, I am not the one taking dick for first time ever on camera.”
“It’s not like—I have a thing,” Shane says, feeling himself flush down to his chest.
He can feel Rozanov staring at him. “A thing?”
“A dildo.” Shane risks a glance over at Rozanov.
“You fuck yourself with dildo and you think is same as getting fucked on camera?”
“No! God, I just mean—it’s not like I’ve never been. You know. Penetrated.”
Rozanov’s gaze is too sharp for Shane’s liking. “Is this dildo how you learn to deepthroat?”
Shane doesn’t say anything, which is answer enough.
“Fuck! Hollander!”
“Look, I just thought you should know, okay? But you don’t need to make it a big deal.”
“Hollander, look at me.”
Reluctantly, Shane turns to face him.
Rozanov’s watching him very closely. Almost like he’s sizing Shane up.
Finally, he says, “We go slow. Okay?”
Shane nods. “Yeah. That sounds good.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
They stand up and go back to set. They strip down and get back on the bed, and Shane moves to get on his stomach but Rozanov stops him with an arm around his waist.
“Stay on your back,” he tells him, before he raises his voice. “Ready!”
“Rolling!”
Rozanov settles back between Shane’s legs and kisses him again, a little gentler now, and Shane almost wants to call him on, tell him that he doesn’t need to be babied, but maybe he does, a little.
Then Rozanov pulls away and pushes Shane’s legs up over his shoulders, and before Shane can even process the change in position, he feels hot breath on his hole and—
“Holy shit,” he gasps. “Holy shit, fuck, oh God.”
This is a sex act Shane wasn’t prepared for. His experience consists of a few aborted attempts at sleeping with his ex-girlfriend Rose, and using his dildo. Neither prepared him for the feeling of Rozanov’s slight stubble rubbing against his cheeks, his tongue licking long stripes up and down his hole.
Shane’s erection all but disappeared during their break, but now he’s leaking against his own stomach, cock jerking every time Rozanov’s tongue spears into his ass. He wants to touch himself, but he’s not sure if it’s allowed, so he claws at the bedding instead.
“All right, Ilya, can you start fingering him open?”
Rozanov’s face lifts from between Shane’s cheeks. “Okay?” he asks Shane.
Shane nods. “Yeah. Yes.”
Rozanov pours a liberal amount of lube over his fingers before bringing one to Shane’s hole. He circles Shane’s rim, taking more care than he needs to before finally pressing it in.
“Is okay?” Rozanov asks again.
“Yeah, it’s good,” Shane breathes. “You can do more, I’m ready—”
Rozanov kneels up and leans close. He presses a wet kiss to Shane’s neck, then says, “I know. You took it so easy. Your hole is slutty.”
He says it so quietly, Shane can’t believe the cameras will pick it up, but that’s the last thing he cares about. His cock jerks at the words, spurting more pre-come over his stomach, and Rozanov groans. “So wet for me.”
“You have to stop,” Shane whispers.
Rozanov freezes, taking his hand from between Shane’s legs.
“What is wrong?”
“I’m gonna—I’m gonna fucking come if you keep saying shit like that.”
Rozanov breathes out a laugh. “Okay, okay.” He bites down on Shane’s shoulder, then he’s back to focusing on opening him up. Two fingers, then three, then Rozanov begins moving them, pressing on Shane’s prostate until Shane’s practically writing beneath him.
“Please,” Shane pants. “Please I need—”
“What?” Rozanov presses.
“You,” Shane says, and then hurries to add, “to fuck me. Please.”
Rozanov braces his hands on either side of Shane’s head. Shane feels Rozanov’s cock at his rim, and shit, he’s had it in his mouth, he knows it’s big, but it feels impossibly large now.
Their foreheads come to touch as Rozanov starts to push in. He takes it slow, watching Shane carefully until he finally bottoms out.
“Is okay?” he asks, sounding a little out of breath.
Shane did that, he thinks. Shane made him like this.
“Yeah,” Shane says, because it is. He feels every inch of Rozanov inside him, but it doesn’t hurt.
Then Rozanov starts to fuck him a little, still very slow, and not very deep.
“Okay?” he asks, again.
Shane squeezes his bicep, trying to communicate that he’s fine, that he’s not going to break, that Rozanov can actually properly fuck him. “Yes.”
Either his touch or his tone seems to get the point across, because Rozanov snaps his hips and then it goes from feeling fine to feeling good.
Fucking great, actually.
And this part doesn’t even feel like work. Shane lies back and lets Rozanov fuck him, lets the pleasure build, and he doesn’t touch himself he realizes a second too late he’s going to come.
“Oh fuck,” Rozanov breathes when he realizes Shane’s spilling all over his own stomach.
“Shit, shit, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry—”
Rozanov leans down to whisper in his ear. “Don’t apologize for coming on my cock, Hollander.”
Shane groans.
“Can we switch positions?” Marcus asks. “Shane on his stomach?”
“Good to keep going?” Rozanov asks him.
“Yeah, yeah,” Shane agrees, and he wriggles onto his belly when Rozanov slips out of him. He buries his face in the pillow and moans when Rozanov pushes back in.
“Oh, fuck me.”
“Is okay?”
“Yes,” Shane half-shouts into the pillow, then starts when Rozanov slaps his ass.
“What did I tell you? Brat.”
Shane’s hard again, something he would have previously thought impossible.
Rozanov grips his shoulder and fucks into him so hard the bed shakes. Rozanov is dripping sweat, panting, and Shane would rather die than tell him this, but he’s impressed with his stamina.
“I’m close,” Rozanov says, oddly loudly until Shane realizes he’s telling the crew.
“Give us one more minute, Ilya!”
Rozanov makes a strangled noise.
“I think I’m gonna come again,” Shane says, also announcing it to the room, even though he’s not sure if he should.
“Shit, okay—Ilya, can you get him up so we can get a shot?”
Rozanov wraps an arm around Shane’s middle and hauls him up to his knees until his back is pressed to Rozanov’s chest.
“Oh God.” It makes the angle ten times deeper. Why didn’t they do this before?
“You need me to touch your cock?” Rozanov murmurs.
“Ung,” Shane says.
“Is better if you can come again without.”
“Okay, yeah, I can do it.”
“Fucking hot,” Rozanov groans, then he grips Shane’s chin and turns it until they’re kissing again.
Shane moans into it. “Gonna come, gonna come,” he slurs against Rozanov’s lips.
Rozanov smacks his ass again. “Yes, fuck, come on my cock—”
That does it, pushes him over the edge. The second orgasm is a little painful, but maybe even better for it. His brain whites out, so that one minute he’s upright, leaning back against Rozanov’s chest, and then next he’s back on his stomach, face down, ass up, and he feels Rozanov pull out just in time to come all over his hole.
Shane’s not even close to catching his breath when he hears the director yell, “Cut!”
Ilya stares at his come splashed over Hollander’s pretty little hole. Part of him wishes they had a longer shoot planned, that they could keep rolling and he could lick it all up, or push it all back into him.
Fuck.
The crew’s moving around them, breaking down the equipment, and Hollander looks as dazed as Ilya feels.
“Is that it?” he mumbles.
Ilya nods. His legs feel like jello as he walks five steps to pick up his robe, holding it open for Hollander.
“Oh, no, I’m all…”
“Hollander, come on, I don’t give a shit.”
Hollander pushes himself to sit up and takes the robe, but still doesn’t put it on. “What now?”
“Shower. Get my come off your ass.”
Amazingly, Hollander blushes. The man came twice, untouched, on Ilya’s cock, and somehow he’s still blushing.
He stands and slips on Ilya’s robe as Ilya puts his briefs back on. He leads them to the bathroom, where there are four separate shower stalls.
Usually, after a shoot, Ilya’s eager to get into his own stall and enjoy some privacy with his own body. It’s standard.
But Hollander doesn’t know that.
Ilya flicks open the curtain of the stall furthest from the door, where he’s already dropped off his body wash and shampoo. “Come on, I have things in this one,” he tells Hollander as he turns on the water.
“Oh, um, I brought my own stuff, I could get it.”
Ilya shrugs. Like it doesn’t matter to him one way or the other.
Hollander shrugs off Ilya’s robe and gets into the shower.
Ilya is tempted to lather Hollander up himself and try to pass that off as a totally normal thing to do, too, but he keeps it professional, or as professional as they can when their bodies knock against each other every time one of them moves.
“Uh, hey,” Hollander says.
Ilya turns as he works shampoo into his scalp. “Hm?”
“Was that, like. Was it okay?”
Ilya stops what he’s doing and stares. “Hollander. Come on. Was fucking hot.”
“Yeah, I mean, I had a good time. Obviously. But do you think it was good on camera?”
“You come on my cock twice, camera will love it.”
Hollander flushes down to his chest. “Oh, okay.”
“Plus you moan like bitch in heat.”
“Fuck off.”
Ilya smirks.
They dry off with the cheap towels the studio stocks, and then, because Ilya is a gentleman, makes the short trek to the kitchenette in just his towel to retrieve both of their bags.
Once they’re dressed, he holds out his hand. “Phone.”
“What?”
“You have phone?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Give it.”
Shane hands it over, and Ilya texts himself.
“There. Now you have my number.” He grins. “Text if you want review of future work.”
“Fuck you, Rozanov,” Shane says, but he’s doing that thing where he’s smiling, not quite meeting Ilya’s eyes.
Ilya leans forward and plants a kiss on his cheek, right below his smattering of freckles. “Was pleasure doing business with you, Hollander.”