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“Sit on my face” Ilya panted, dragging Shane away from his desperate grinding with a hiss. The loss of his slicked cock sliding against Ilya’s rough boxers was a kind of grief he briefly thinks he’ll mourn for the rest of his life.
“Wha-” Shane mutters, fighting against Ilya’s iron grip tugging him up. He sits harshly on Ilya’s chest, panting as his brain fights to fit whatever words Ilya muttered into his Rozanov-drunk mind.
“No” Shane huffed, his heaving chest pushing into Ilya’s hand gripping his peck harshly, revelling in the feeling of his rough palm against his pebbled nipples.
“C’mon Hollander, will feel so good.” Ilya slightly sits up, resting on his elbows but still low enough to gaze up at Shane with a look so desperate it almost crumbled his reserve, but more objections worked their way up his throat, but Ilya worked quicker- killing them before he had a chance to utter a word.
“You won’t squish me Hollander, big strong Russian yes? I've taken pucks to the face before, you sitting on it won’t kill me. And will taste much nicer than puck.” Ilya smirked cheekily as he fell backwards on the bed, rough fingers gripping Shane’s thighs and ushering them further up his flushed torso until his ass hovered above Ilya’s face.
Shane gazed down, Ilya almost entirely blocked by the sight of his flushed cock, red and weeping from Ilya’s careful torture. He watched in awe as a drop of precum bubbled from his tip only to fall into the pile of golden curls under him. Shane couldn’t help the awe struck “fuck-” that he muttered under his breath at the sight, his obsession with Ilya’s hair bubbling under his skin.
Sometimes the sight of it was stronger in Shane’s memories than Ilya’s face was.
Visions of his fingers winding through them night after night poisoned Shane’s mind. Dancing memories of groans and grunts as he tugged them, Ilya’s throat vibrating around the length of Shane at the pull. The way the daylight caught them in the morning, the Boston sun pouring through Ilya’s windows and swirling through the spirals, creating shadows on the pillow for Shane to trace in lieu of his fingers instead tracing the moles spread across Ilya’s chest. He tricked himself each time into thinking his fingers waltzing through the patches of sun and shade would be the same as the warmth of Ilya’s skin under his fingertips.
Shane’s hands shake as he falls harshly back to earth, the urge for the warmth of intimacy melting the wax wings he and Ilya were both carefully guarding. Ilya grips his ass cheeks and pulls them apart, blowing air on his hole and watching it pucker, reminding Shane that emotional intimacy with Ilya was always beyond his reach, a teasing heat and bright light he could never reach. But physical intimacy was right there, below him gripping his skin and silently begging.
So, Shane allowed electricity and embarrassment to pool at the base of his spine and zap him each time he thought of Ilya studying the most intimate parts with the same reverence of someone praying at the altar of a church. He didn’t need to see his eyes to know what his gaze was doing, how it was sliding over his skin, Shane could feel the heat of his eyes marvelling at every mark and blemish that graced his golden skin.
Ilya strained his neck up, playfully sinking his teeth into the globes of flesh above him and watching Shane’s chest stutter above him. One of Shane’s hand moves mindlessly, fingernails swapping from piercing the cotton of the headboard down to dig into the flesh of Ilya’s skin. “More-” he begged breathlessly, sinking down millimeters further, lust not quite clouding his nervousness enough to fully seat himself on the face of the man below him.
Ilya obeyed, he was a well taught dog after all, his training so ingrained in his brain it soon became bone deep, working like Shane’s whimpered requests were a whistle at a pitch only he can hear. His tongue pointed and traced the previous impressions of his incisors, before sinking in again just above his past marks. The harsh bite made Shane’s hips stutter, glorious pain blooming over his skin.
Without thought Shane fell deeper and deeper, slowly but surely sinking onto the face of the man below him with each plunge of his teeth into his skin, fantasies of bruises flourishing over his body in the same shape of Ilya’s mouth.
Eventually Shane settles his whole weight on Ilya’s face, boneless and bruised, skin breaking out in goosebumps under the pink flush covering him. Ilya moves his mouth from his cheeks to his hole, teasingly pulling back and kissing and pecking the skin above him before lapping at Shane’s hole, his rough tongue pressed flat against the puckered skin only to point and press just inside, exactly enough where Shane couldn’t help the desperate plea slipping from his spit slick lips but not deep enough to scratch the gut deep itch.
Ilya didn’t ease Shane in, the very idea of not tasting every inch he could get made his stomach drop. So his mouth immediately worked like a man possessed, shivers tingling Shane with the filthy feeling of Ilya’s mouth on him. His spit cooled on Shane’s skin as he moved, with each rock of his hips on Ilya’s tongue Shane felt the chill. Grinding shamelessly and revelling in how Ilya’s nose teased the skin between the two places he needed Ilya most, tugging and pulling in a way that made his stomach turn, full of lust and disgust at the unfiltered pleasure wracking his body from just a tongue.
His flat tongue lapped at Shane’s hole, harsh hands gripping Shane’s ass cheeks and pulling them wider for more space, Shane’s whole body shivered at the feeling of Ilya groaning beneath him, hips canting up behind Shane chasing any contact.
Shane had half a mind to reach a hand back and rub his warm palm over Ilya’s overheated covered cock, dig the heel of his palm into his balls until he was crying into Shane’s hole helplessly. But the idea of having to loosen his iron grip on Ilya’s scalp and the puckered cotton of the headboard felt herculean, the threads of fabric desperately pulling at the contact, fighting to not snap open at the tension. Sisyphus forced to push that boulder up the hill for eternity had nothing on the all consuming agony required of Shane if he had to move a single inch from Ilya’s tongue fucking into him.
Ilya was a man starved, working his mouth over Shane until the pressure pounding in his temples won out, oxygen deprived mind working to lift Shane a few inches above his mouth so his pink glossy lips could suck cold air into his suffocating lungs. But the departure felt more like drowning than the suffocation of Shane’s skin on his ever could, so his harsh hands dragged Shane back down and started fucking his tongue in and out ruthlessly.
Just for a few seconds Shane gazes down and wishes he could see Ilya’s eyes, amber lamp light streaking over them and watching as his pupils slowly blow out, drunk on the taste of Shane. He knows the look all too well from nights when Ilya’s lips are stretched around his cock, warm hotel room lights casting shadows across his cheek, bands of illumination streaking over his eyes and dragging honeyed flecks to the surface, dark eyelashes fanning his cheeks with each eye flutter.
Sometimes he wishes for a polaroid camera to capture the whole image in front of him, maybe he needs to get an oil painting commissioned to immortalize what his gaze had always told him, Ilya Rozanov is not of this world. The moles and freckles dancing over his gilded skin, the muscles and harsh lines of his torso carved and molded in God’s image, curls falling over his blown out blue eyes, hot open mouth working over Shane’s body.
Ilya would probably think it was for other reasons, holding that very polaroid image until it was painted with white streaks, and Shane couldn’t deny that was part of it. But the other part of Shane needed proof that Ilya was real, he could be photographed and caught in ink. He didn’t just exist under Shane’s gaze, in his conversations, and living in the deep recesses of his mind.
Ilya Rozanov lived in the real world even when he was not touching Shane’s skin, he could hold that photograph and know he wouldn’t fade out of the image slowly like he would one day in Shane’s memories.
He’s all too aware that one day, when he finally pushes these feelings down enough they suffocate and die, Shane won’t have anything but his memories, slowly warping and being taped over by new ones. But that polaroid would live forever, hidden from the sun and living beyond whatever last contact he and Ilya would have.
Because this would be the last time, for real this time. Shane tells himself the same each time he sees Ilya, but somehow when he gets that singular question mark through text any resolve and determination fizzles out of his body and is replaced by the singular thrumming need for more.
But right now Ilya’s fingers were pressing into the meat of his thighs hard enough to bruise, and that would last just long enough that Shane didn’t need his memories to rely on, he had physical proof of Ilya Rozanov’s hands on his body and tongue inside him. And that had to be enough.
The ceiling welcomed Shane’s gaze as he whined into the air above him glassy eyes fighting the tears threatening to fall, but soon thoughts were leaking from his ears as Ilya brought a finger to Shane’s hole, pushing against his rim in a silent question, a guttural moan ripped from Shane's chest at the feeling.
“Yes yes yes- fuck- please. Need more. Ohmygod Rozanov-” Shane muttered above him, words pouring without a second thought, sheer desperation fogging the part of his mind that usually worked on his measured silence.
Ilya pushed one finger in, curling it alongside his tongue pressing against the spot that made stars dance in Shane’s vision. Shane rocked on Ilya’s tongue and finger, any bashfulness and nervous sloughing off his skin in waves as that familiar pressure began to build in his guts.
Ilya nuzzled further inside Shane, his tongue and finger working in torturous tandem and revelling at the unencumbered whimpers coming from the man above him. Both of Shane’s hands finally snapped down to the pile of golden curls, tugging harshly and revelling in the muffled grunt that comes from the contact.
Ilya starts moving harsher, Shane’s entire soul feels like it is pouring from his dick, a steady stream of precum staining both the fabric and the hair of the man below him. Sane Shane would whine at the blemish on his bed but this Shane can only rock his hips harder and hiss at the harsh brush of the fabric sitting across his headboard on his untouched tip.
He feels Ilya’s hips behind him circling harsher, but he pays no mind instead letting his eyes flutter shut, his abdomen tensing as he ruts against Ilya’s face, fine tuned to listen to the sloppy slick noises of his tongue fucking in and out of Shane’s hole. Blood rushed to his already hard cock, bobbing between the empty air at the top of his bed, and he’s sure there's none left in his brain judging from the all consuming fuzz blooming in his skull.
“Shit- keep going. gonna- gonna cum. Rozanov fuckkkkk-” Shane spoke through gritted teeth as the feeling of ecstasy finally overtook him, the flush heating his cheeks spreading down his entire body, tingling the tips of his toes as every sense overwhelms.
The tears that had been threatening his lash line finally spilt over, streaking down his cheeks and gathering in the hollow of his thrown back throat. He rocks through his orgasm, pushing down even harder into Ilya’s touch as cum spurts from his untouched dick, coating Ilya’s curls and the fabric of his bed in the streaks. Shane watches mesmerized as white streams decorate and weigh down the strands of gold.
“Fuck- Rozanov. stop, i can’t- ugh.” Shane slumps forward at the feeling of Ilya continuing to drive his tongue into him alongside rumbling moans vibrating inside him, his spent cock giving a half heated twitch at the feeling. Ilya lets out one last loud grunt before lifting Shane back onto his chest, strong thighs surrounding his head as the spit decorating his chin and face begins to cool.
Shane’s whole body felt boneless as the aftershocks rattled through him, weightless and floaty as Rozanov’s hands danced over his torso, tracing his abs and the freckles that decorate them.
Soon the weightlessness permeating his very being begins to fade, and Shane becomes aware of the spit on his skin and the fact that he’s neglecting Ilya completely, just as Ilya had teased Shane with after he had pulled that first orgasm from him in that Toronto hotel room.
“Let me-" Shane huffed, voice raw and scratchy from his endless vocalisations, slowly shuffling down Ilya’s body and reaching behind him in an effort to work his hands over his clothed erection.
“No,” Ilya pants, patting Shane’s stomach with a firm touch akin to greeting a dog, “m’ good. You don’t need to,”
Shane frowned at his words, his lips coming out in a particularly petulant pout. Ilya Rozanov has never said no to an orgasm. Historically, even if it's in the worst place imaginable. Shane briefly remembers a video TMZ leaked in their rookie year, Ilya getting a blow job behind a bar in Buffalo of all places. Some girl on her knees and Ilya rocking into her mouth, pretty tame stuff as far as leaks go, even more so knowing what Ilya really got up to.
He then pointedly tries to forget that he watched that very video on a loop until he could puppet each movement and word Ilya muttered, the way his fingers dug into the pile of brunette curls below him, how he told her to take it like a good girl as his hips pistoned into her crimson lipstick smudged lips, the grunt that fell from his face as his face hardened into the familiar scowl Shane knew meant he was unloading into her throat.
He then, really, really, tried to forget the weeks following watching where he jacked off to that video at least once a day, until the bone deep knowledge that he was violating Ilya’s privacy was too much to bear- after which he threw his phone into his blender with his morning smoothie in a moment of what he now knows as Rozanov fuelled insanity. His mom luckily didn't question his request to contact his apple sponsors for a new phone and Shane never saw another second of that video.
Point is, Ilya Rozanov prioritises cumming over almost every single other human need, and yet here he was panting under Shane with his cum in his hair, blown out pupils, red spit slick lips gasping for air, and saying Shane doesn’t need to pay him back.
Is this the first ever example of Ilya Rozanov just being… nice? Is Shane’s Canadian-ness rubbing off on him? Well parts of Shane are certainly rubbing off on Ilya, but his people pleasing tendencies were not one of the things Shane expected to.
“No, I can’t leave you like that, let me-” Shane muttered as he worked down Ilya’s body, ignoring Ilya’s protests and how his hands were working their way under Shane’s arms, bonelessly trying to tug his body back up but whatever strength he had earlier has seemingly worked its way out somehow, feeble fingers struggling to grasp as Shane’s skin.
The rough elastic of Ilya’s underwear welcomes Shane’s grip, but before he can start tugging he notices the dampness permeating them.
Pfft, and Ilya teased Shane about getting “wet like a pretty girl” (Shane shivers at the memory of Ilya’s scratchy voice whispering that in his ear and biting the lobe until more streams of precum bubbled from his untouched dick), what a hypocrite. Shane’s hands slide to grip Ilya through the grey cotton and it's only then he realises the wetness isn't concentrated to the waistband. It's everywhere, and in fact there's a large patch of darkened, almost black, fabric around Ilya’s tip.
Holy fucking shit.
Ilya Rozanov just came, untouched, from eating Shane’s ass until he cried.
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Ilya pov
Ilya was suddenly sure of something that had plagued his thoughts for his whole life.
This is, in fact, how he wanted to die.
Smothered under the body of Shane Hollander and hearing him whine and whimper as he tongue fucks him. Oxygen was no longer vital, all he needed was the heady taste of Shane and the squeeze of his shaking thighs around Ilya’s head.
Ilya was painfully aware of his building orgasm throughout, but his brain was so busy supplying “shaneshaneshaneshane” on a loop that it was pushed to the back until the more pressing issue (Shane cumming so hard he cried) was fixed.
Something about the saliva decorating his chin, the sloppy slippery sounds of his fingers lubricated by his spit fucking inside Shane alongside his tongue, combined with the oh so sweet noises Shane couldn't help but make when Ilya dragged him down far enough into the pits of debauchery drove Ilya more insane than anyone ever had. Than anyone else ever could.
He was fucking drunk on the taste, the feeling, the knowledge that Shane Hollander was grinding on his tongue and seconds away from cumming hands free. Ilya only wished he could see his face, watch his eyes glaze over and the tears create a film, gathering at his lashline without spilling, waiting for Ilya to lick them up. Watching Shane Hollander orgasm was the second coming of Christ as far as Ilya was concerned. Well, the second cumming, actually. And Ilya was the most devout follower there was.
No one else would ever see Shane like this, taste him like this, and Ilya couldn't help how his grip tightened on Shane’s thighs at the very thought. His Shane gave him so much, his first kiss with a man, his first blowjob from a man, his first everything with one.
Each time Ilya worried it would be the last, the vulnerability he had been divinely blessed with would soon run dry, yet here Shane was- willing and pleading to give even more of himself over to Ilya. And all Ilya knew was how to take and take and take. No matter how undeserving and greedy he may be.
So he worked, he let the calloused tips of his fingers press and rub mercilessly into Shane’s prostate, knuckle deep and ignoring the mutters of “too much” and “i can’t-” because Shane could. He always could take it, just like Ilya took from him. He pushed his tongue in further, feeling the drips of spit gather in the corners of his mouth and slide down his neck, slimy and sickening.
The world fell out from under Ilya the second Shane’s hole gripped like a vice around his tongue, that combined with the slow slide of cum through his strands of hair pushed Ilya further than he’d ever been before. A strangled groan left his lips as goosebumps began to spread over his skin, dragging and curling alongside bone deep pleasure.
A shudder wracked through Ilya’s entire body as his dick helplessly pulsed, writhing hips pushing into the air against nothing, desperately searching for the warm skin currently surrounding Ilya, engulfing his every sense as cum spread through his underwear.
Erratic and deep groans ripped out from his chest, and Ilya felt Shane burrow down even further into his grip at the vibrations, overstimulating him in just the right fucking way. An extra spurt of cum gathered between his curls when Ilya murmured “f-fuck Shane” into his hole, unbeknownst to the man above him grinding further and further down mindlessly onto Ilya’s tongue.
Ilya felt the growing sticky warmth of his boxers as his muscles finally began to release their tension, awareness returning to the numb shaking of his limbs.
He had finally given Shane a first, just not one he ever thought he would. And one he knew Shane would lord over him for the next 10 years.
He hoped he would have the chance to, anyway.
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Shane can't help the breathless giggle that bubbles from his chest. He probably could've helped how it turned into a full body laugh, but he really doesn’t want to. He feels Ilya slapping at his chest, grunting and groaning English and Russian expletives.
“Was too long since I last saw you, Hollander. And you had your mouth on me the second I arrived, was already close before you sat on my face,” he grumbled, trying to look put out. But Shane saw the thread tugging the corner of his lips, a genuine smile at the pure elation Shane was currently experiencing at his expense.
“What is it you said to me again?” Shane posited, “such a good trick Hollanderrr” Shane teased, rolling the r’s in his name with the most obnoxious faux Russian accent he could muster.
“Yes yes, well is even more impressive when I do it, of course.” Ilya smirked as he spoke, and Shane hated how off kilter he felt at the sight of it, hockey-chipped incisors peeking out of his lips and the way his eyes sparkled with that unshakable confidence in whatever just fell from his mouth.
“Mmm sure, always a competition with you Rozanov” Shane smiled softly, rearranging his body until he’s tucked into Ilya’s side, letting exhaustion nearly pull him under as the soft heartbeat of Ilya radiates in his ears.