Work Text:
There’s a conversation about who the freakest in their group happens to be. A common consensus is reached that it’s Ilya, though he disagrees.
There’s the seven of them sitting around the bonfire in the back yard of the cottage - Ilya, Shane, Rose, Svetlana, Cliff, Hayden, and Jackie. It’s rare that all of their schedules line up so perfectly; they celebrate with wine, beer, vodka, and whatever else swishes around in Marleau’s glass as he stands and makes a show of his hands while he talks animatedly. A bit of whatever it is lands on Hayden's thigh, just barely missing Jackie where she sits perched in his lap.
“Yo, Caveman, watch it, yeah?”
Marleau gives him a sideways glance, then drunkenly ruffles the smaller man’s hair. Jackie hides a chuckle behind her hand.
“Oh, sorry Princess.”
Shane sits beside Ilya, arm pressed into the blond’s side comfortably. Ilya’s arm is tossed over the back of the outdoor couch behind Shane, fingers toying with his hair absent-mindedly.
“Anyways, that’s probably the gayest thing I’ve done, other than all the late night practices with Roz.”
He sends the Russian a wink as he sits back down and Ilya shakes his head immediately at Shane, who gives him a look.
“Alright, question for the culture: what’s the most fucked up thing you guys are into?”
Cliff takes a sip of his beer and appraises the group, grateful when Rose speaks up first - eager.
“Okay, so,” she licks the wine from her glossed lips, “not me psychoanalyzing myself but, I think that because of how many gay boyfriends I’ve had, I really like the idea of watching two guys go at it, y’know.”
“Is that really all that fucked up, though?” Shane asks, raising an eyebrow.
She blanches.
“Omigosh, no, I-”
“I’m joking, Rose.”
She tosses a pillow at him when he chuckles and it hits Ilya instead. He gives her an exasperated look and she just sips more of her drink in return, then continues.
“But yeah, and I don’t mean like - like I don’t need to be involved. I kinda just wanna…watch.”
She shrugs as Svetlana snaps her fingers in approval at her. Shane is blushing, looking down at his drink bashfully while he mulls over her statement. Ilya’s fingers scratch lightly at his scalp, handsome face still turned towards the group.
“Don’t all go at once,” Marleau scoffs when the silence carries on.
“You go, then,” Svetlana offers.
“Hell nah, I go last because I was just ranting. Rules are rules.”
“What ru-”
“Jackie and I watch porn together.”
Jackie blushes a bright red and tries to hide behind her drink. Hayden’s big blue eyes scan the group, who only nod and shrug at him, all murmuring similar variations of ‘yeah that’s common’.
“Ilyusha might have you all beat,” Svetlana snickers.
Ilya throws the pillow form earlier at her.
“You can’t volunteer other people to go,” Marleau chides her.
“Oh suck his dick harder won’t you, don’t forget to suck in cheeks.”
“It’s fine,” Ilya says finally, taking another swig of his vodka before speaking.
He glances at Shane briefly, who holds his gaze with a warning glimmer in his eyes. The blond smirks.
“Most fucked up I am into…hm…” he ponders, tapping the rim of his glass.
He traces the rim with one finger, wide brown irises next to him watching the movement. When he speaks, Shane looks down at his own drink to hide his gaze shamefully.
“I like to fuck in public.”
There’s silence for a moment and Shane wants to curl in one himself to hide. Ilya admitted to enjoying fucking in public and the only person Ilya has been fuckign for the last few years has been Shane, and everyone here knows that. Hayden and Jackie glance at each other, considering. Rose’s eyes go wide and she smiles. Svetlana shakes her head at him. Marleau yawns obnoxiously.
“Kind of a let down from you, big Daddy.”
“Fuck you, Marly.”
“He’s lying, you liar,” Svetlana chuckles, kicking his knee.
He catches her ankle before she twists it free.
“Oh yes, actually. Since you suggest me, I will-”
“No-”
“No? ‘No’ she says, tебе нравится, когда я это игнорирую, не так ли?”
Svetlana tosses her head back and laughs, tugging her leg away from him. Shane’s eye twitches slightly, he takes a sip of his drink as Ilya’s arm tugs him tighter into his side.
“Sveta likes to pretend she does not want it.”
Rose’s mouth falls open into a wide grin and she leans on Svetlana, who hides her face and yet still yells from behind her hands.
“And you liked too, douchebag!”
Hayden and Jackie laugh easily at Rose jostling Svetlana around by her shoulders. Marleau purses his lips as if impressed, then downs his drink. Ilya turns to look at Shane, who is quiet. It’s not unusual for him to be, but still he checks.
“What’s that mean?” he asks Ilya, eyes squinted - calculating.
“She likes to pretend to not want to fuck, like-” he leans in to Shane’s ear to whisper it, breath warm and smelling of vodka and cigarettes. “Rape.”
Shane’s eyes widen impossibly and he quickly looks down at the ground, hiding the way his eyelashes flutter. He swallows, tasting the schnapps flavor of his beer in his mouth. Ilya, ever perceptive and especially so when it comes to Shane Hollander, grins at the reaction. He’s about to speak again into his lover’s ear when Svetlana kicks at him again.
“You liked too, asshole. You liked so much you ask to do it again!”
Ilya’s face feels hot, Marleau nearly chokes on his drink and points at him.
“You’re blushing! I knew you Russian fucks did!”
“There’s like…scenes you guys do for that kind of thing right?” Jackie asks suddenly.
Ilya, grateful for the distraction, clears his throat and nods.
“Yes, we were drinking. She pretended to get too drunk-”
“Ilya, I swear to-”
“-and tries to push me away. Is very common actually, many women like this in the bed.”
“No, yeah, I’ve read about this!” Rose chimes in, adjusting in her seat so that she sits on her feet. “It’s a means to control the narrative, even women who have never been assaulted end up dabbling in it because it’s a way to reclaim control in a patriarchal society.”
The group is quiet - contemplative.
“The men who bring it up first though,” she shakes her head and sips at her drink. “Sick and twisted.”
There’s an easy, collective bout of laughter. Ilya grabs another drink and settles back next to Shane, leaning into him again to kiss at the top of his ear. The skin is warm.
“Alright Hollander, your turn,” Marleau says, leaning back in his seat.
“Ah, Hollander is very-”
“Will you shut up?” Shane snaps, though his voice doesn't hold any real malice to it.
Ilya smirks and steals a kiss from his beer flavored lips, then gestures at him to speak.
“I guess,” Shane sighs, eyes searching the ground for what swirls through his mind.
They’ve done so much. Things he’d rather not tell the circle, but he figures that these are friends who have poured their own hearts out bare for the sake of trust, so he could do the same.
“I guess the weirdest thing I like is, uh…I have a collar.”
Ilya barks out a high-pitched laugh and it's his turn to hide behind his hand now, face glowing a bright shade of red. The group erupts into hoots and hollers. Marleau high-fives Shane.
“You blushing Russian fuck, I knew-”
“I didn’t think you would actually tell them,” Ilya laughs, turning to press his face into Shane’s neck.
The brown-eyed man blushes just as bright, avoiding most of their gazes for the next hour.
And so it begins.
…
The sounds of their footsteps echo in the hallway leading to Shane’s apartment. His grown in, coarse strands fall over his forehead, palm flat on the wall and dragging along the architecture while Ilya’s hand - greedy - covers his lower back. The blond’s hand is a large and imposing presence on his body, one thick pinkie finger dipping just below the hem of his shirt and underneath the waistband of his shorts. He fumbles with his keys in his pocket, leaning heavy against the wall by his doorway as he fishes them out.
Hair falls over his face like a curtain, Ilya brushes a strand behind his ear and leans in to press the softest kiss there. Shane closes his eyes - it makes the swaying sensation more dramatic in his mind. He steadies a hand on the wall and loses the fight against a soft smile. Ilya’s hand winds around to his hip, gripping firmly at his side and pulling him to his body, away from the stable wall. Shane makes a non-committal sound in his throat, teeth dragging over his plump bottom lip.
“Should probably - hic - say goodnight,” Shane mumbles drunkenly.
One more drink, he’d told himself three drinks ago. But the handsome stranger with the golden curls and sandy brown unconnected goatee had insisted on paying for him - had insisted on keeping his glass full and his cheeks pink with his suave.
The man leans into him - he smells like fancy European cologne, Shane notes appreciatively - and drags his lips over where Shane’s blush has reached the tip of his ear.
“Nooo, no goodnight Shane,” he whispers, maybe half as drunk as his boyfriend.
“Yesss,” Shane slurs, fingers clumsy while he tries to pick out his house key on the ring.
Ilya makes a sound as if he’s pondering the decision - as if it’s his to make and not Shane’s. It is. They both know.
“I don’t do that on - fuck-” he drops his keys and whines pathetically, finishing his sentence while Ilya leans down to pick them up for him. “I don’t do that on the first date.”
He reaches for the keys, Ilya lifts them from his reach with a teasing smirk, one eyebrow raised.
“Not even a little kiss?”
Shane huffs at him, furrowing his eyebrows as best as he can manage this drunk and turned on.
“Just one little kiss for me? Hm?”
Ilya curls his finger underneath Shane’s chin with his free hand, tilting it up just barely. Fuzzy brown eyes meet pale ones - sharp and knowing. Shane shudders, the crown of his head rested on the wall behind him where he was now effectively pinned. He defies the glower at him.
“No kiss for me? I buy you so many drinks though,” the man coos, thumb brushing over his lover’s - victim’s lip.
He drags it down, watches it snap back up. Shane shudders, lump in his throat bobbing when he swallows.
“Just a kiss,” Shane manages to get out in a raspy whisper.
Triumphant, Ilya grins - all predatory canines.
“Just one little kiss, I promise,” he lies through the predatory canines.
Shane nods, tip of his pink tongue darting out to wet his lips. It brushes over Ilya’s thumb where it still rests pressed into the plump tissue and the man has to physically restrain himself from sticking his thumb in Shane’s lying little whore mouth where it belongs. Instead, he leans in and moves his thumb just in time to press their mouths together. Shane’s eyelashes flutter while he closes his eyes, fingers twitching with the instinct to pull Ilya closer by his jaw, his hair, anything he can manage to get his grip on.
Ilya closes his eyes and slides his hand to the back of Shane’s head, cradling it while he savors the taste of his drunk boyfriend’s mouth. Vodka and ginger ale and desperation to be used. Likely taste for Shane Hollander to have. He hums against the man’s mouth, keeping his promise for all of ten seconds before he’s tracing the line of Shane’s lips with his tongue. He half expects the other to let him in, mind so foggy with alcohol and lust. He’s pleasantly surprised instead, when one of Shane’s hands comes to press at his chest.
He lets the kiss break, pants softly against spit-covered lips while he dives in to reconnect. Both hands push him back by his chest and he’s stunned for a split second at how the actual amount of strength shown makes him pause. He leans back, eyebrows furrowed slightly. They have their word - their gesture, if the mouth happens to be occupied.
“I said - hic - I said - hic, fuck, I-”
“You cannot even say anything, Бедняжка,” Ilya chuckles, letting condescension dip into his voice now. “You are too drunk.”
He jingles the keys in front of Shane’s face, snatching them back upwards when he goes to grasp for them. Ilya laughs in his face, smashing their lips together and pinning the man’s mouth to his. Shane pushes at him with considerably less force than before. Ilya groans into the wet part of Shane’s lips, biting at his lower lip with much less care than usual. The gentle abuse drives a shocked moan from Shane, whose cheeks heat at the reaction.
Ilya slides his tongue into the man’s mouth, the arm holding the keys sliding around his waist to tug their bodies closer. Shane tries to fight it, tries to buck backwards against the wall. Ilya keeps him pinned where he can grind his quickly hardening cock against the front of Shane's jeans - where he’s already embarrassingly hard. Shane, again, tries to shove Ilya away - tries to push himself further into the wall. This time, Ilya lets him. He releases his hold on him, keys still trapped in his fist, and watches Shane lose momentum and stumble back against the wall with a thud.
Ilya laughs at him.
“Look at you, stumbling around drunk, teasing-”
“Fuck you,” Shane spits out, lips still shiny with Ilya’s.
Ilya tilts his chin up at him and stuffs his hands into his pockets.
“You are making a fucking scene. Stumbling around drunk as fuck, bringing home random men to whore yourself out to.”
“No I’m not,” the freckled man starts.
“My fucking spit is all over your mouth,” he watches Shane wipe at his lips with the back of his hand, “look how fucking hard you are. You think you can get free drinks and go home and say ‘no, no Ilya, I don’t do that on first date’?”
Shane huffs at him, stamping his foot indignantly. He sniffles and Ilya can see the shame welling up in those big, beautiful, brown eyes. Ilya wants to see those tears fall.
“You said just a kiss,” Shane mutters, voice wavering like he’s on the verge of crying.
“And you believed me?”
Shane’s breath catches in his throat. He watches Ilya while the slightly taller man takes another step towards him, crowding him into the wall.
“Poor thing, stupid slut,” he pulls his hand free of his pocket and knocks his knuckles against the side of Shane’s head. “Only rocks in here, hm?”
He pets over the spot gently with his open hand now and Shane fights the urge to preen under the careful caress. Instead, he turns his face away and sniffles again. Ilya’s breath is warm on his ear.
“Fucking drunk bitch, pretending like you don’t want a big, thick cock fucking you to sleep tonight. Like you don’t need it,” he brushes Shane’s hair behind his ear in a display of softness that sits juxtaposed to his filthy lips. “Stop fucking lying to both of us and open the door before your neighbors have to watch me fuck you on the floor.”
Shane swallows, eyes trained on the floor. He shivers at the gentle touch to his hair, body thrumming with excitement at every nerve ending. Ilya is pressing the keys into his hand and he turns to face his door, unlocking it with a tremor in his grasp. The second the lock clicks, Ilya is reaching around him from behind and turning the knob to nudge both of them into the space. Shane stumbles and quickly catches himself on the table beside the door as Ilya closes and locks the door behind them.
Ilya walks into the space like he owns it, body language all too cool while he admires the space with a casual pep in his step. His hands are shoved into his pockets, curls bounding while he nods at the large space. Shane admires him through his lust-clouded lens, then remembers that he’s supposed to be afraid and angry rather than reverent and encapsulated by his Adonis.
“Get the fuck out.”
Ilya turns to look at him, seemingly surprised at his bravery. He stalks over to Shane, who cowers against the table he’s dropped his keys on. The blond’s grip is too harsh on his jaw, bites into his cheeks just the way he likes. He whimpers as Ilya’s fingertips dig into the hinges of his jaw and force it open slightly.
“Whores don’t make fucking rules,” he whispers. “Whores don’t say ‘no fuck on first date’, whores don’t say ‘get out’.”
He jostles Shane’s head with a shake to get his eyes open when they squeeze shut.
“You do what I-” the pronoun is accented with his free hand coming to smack at Shane’s freckled cheekbone. “-fucking tell you.”
Shane cries out softly at the slap, used to a force much, much greater than that by now, but playing his part all the same. A tear falls from the corner of his eye and Ilya wipes it away with his thumb, popping the digit in his mouth to lick the salty secretion. He releases Shane's jaw, watches him crumple against the table and grasp at it for support.
“You cannot even stand by what you say,” he laughs cruelly, shrugging his jacket off and tossing it on the back of their couch. “You are so fucking hard, look at you.”
He toes his shoes off, kicks them towards their shoe closet. Shane stares down at where he’d visibly hard in the front of his pants, straining against the fabric. He turns his face away from Ilya - actually flinches - when the man nears him again. But rather than touching him, the blond just watches him cower against the table. He appraises the sight, waits for Shane to safeword.
Instead, Shane - so beautiful, so degenerate - raises his teary gaze to meet blue.
“I can fuck you here or I can fuck you in big, soft bed. You choose.”
Shane swallows. His eyes dart to the hard floor beneath them and in the split second that Ilya watches the man’s muscles tense, he knows what is about to come. He catches Shane’s arm when it comes to swing at him, quickly twisting it behind his face and slamming his front up against the door. Adrenaline courses through his veins - Shane putting up a fight was exciting, but watching him give up would be even more euphoric.
He presses Shane’s wrist into his back, careful not to push too hard or wrench too far.
“Fucking stupid skank,” he laughs, breath right over the man’s ear.
Shane makes a sound that’s half of a sob and half of a moan. He’s blushing crimson all the way up to his ears, skin tacky with sweat. Ilya yanks him away from the door and takes the both of them down after walking two steps to their rug, rolling on top of Shane. Shane winds up on his back, fighting with Ilya's greedy hands while the man yanks his shirt over his head and exposes pretty brown nipples to the air.
“Fucking - hold still,” he barks out, fending off open-palmed swats at him while he undoes the front of Shane’s pants.
One hit lands.
It isn’t enough to whip his head to the side, but it stuns him - the both of them, really. Shane freezes, hand mid air and trembling as his palm stings with it. Ilya’s eyebrows furrow down at the man, cheek stinging from the contact. There’s a glimmer of real, actual regret in Shane’s teary eyes - like he’s about to safeword just to apologize, having not intended to actually connect the swat with anything. Ilya winks at him, face unchanging otherwise, and the freckled man relaxes into the ground he’s pinned to.
“Bad choice,” Ilya says.
He rears his hand back and slaps Shane across the face hard - across the same cheek he’d hit him on. The man cries out at the sharp contact, another tear slipping out. Ilya watches red blossoming over Shane’s pretty face where he’d hit him and grins, rearing his hand back again to repeat the action when Shane finally starts giving in.
“No, please!”
Ilya leans down and breathes a warm huff over the stinging spot, making Shane squirm away from him.
“Then fucking stay still,” he warns, sitting up again to pull his own shirt off.
Shane sniffles and hides his face in his elbows crossed over his face. Ilya stands, unbuckling the front of his pants. Shane sits up quickly and before he can stand, he’s slapped across the face again - half as hard as before. He whimpers, looking up at Ilya through tears.
“Fuck, you look cute when you cry,” Ilya breathes out in a show of desire uncharacteristic to the scene so far.
Shane fights a smile at the praise - having heard it so many times before but letting it swell in his chest none-the-less. He sniffles miserably, eyes dropping to Ilya’s large hands working over his belt.
“Maybe, since you can’t behave-” he pulls the belt free from the loops of his jeans and holds the two ends together. “I hit you with this instead, hm?”
A full body shudder overtakes Shane and he quickly shakes his head, but whereas his actions lie, his eyes don’t. They follow the movement of the belt while Ilya drags a rough finger over the leather and slaps it against the couch a foot away. The sound echoes in the apartment and Shane chokes a cry out, quickly scrambling to his hands and knees and crawling over to Ilya.
Foggy in the brain as Shane nuzzles his miserable, teary eyes and snotty nose against Ilya’s thigh, the blond man’s brain struggles to catch up when his all-too-willing victim actually pleads for his hand.
“No, no please,” he shakes his head, voice slightly muffled into the denim covering Ilya’s leg.
“No,” he coos, hand coming to thread into the soft pile of black hair. “Belt or hand? You choose. You like my hand better, no?”
Shane contemplates, then nods slightly upon deciding not to test his limits by choosing the obvious third option that wasn’t offered.
But really, he chose the option he really wanted anyways.
The grip in his hair tightens and his face is illuminated again when Ilya pulls his head back from where it hides. He isn’t given even a moment before Ilya smacks him across the cheek once again. The impact is back to being sharp and biting like the first one, drawing fresh tears to his eyes. His brown irises are already framed by red rims, wet drops clinging to his eyelashes. They’re jostled free at the impact, wetting Ilya’s palm.
The blond brings his hand to his face and licks over his palm, spit joining the tears while the salty taste makes his cock jump in his pants. He slaps Shane again, the wet contact making the sound echo off the apartment walls now as it joins Shane’s sob. He tightens his grip in the man's hair when he tries to turn his face away, forcing him back into place. There’s a pretty red five-fingered blossom on Shane’s cheek.
“It hurts?” he asks coyly.
Shane nods, whimpering pathetically.
He slaps him again, harder. Tears slide down Shane’s cheeks freely now, searing hot over the mark on his face.
“It hurts?”
“Yes! Fuck, fuck it hurts,” Shane cries, voice strained and raspy while he chokes it through a sob.
Ilya smiles, shaking his hand out where even his palm begins to sting now. He loosens his grip on Shane’s hair and watches the tension leave his lover’s shoulders, knees and palms digging into the carpet, back arched so pretty.
“You love it,” he chuckles, watching Shane try to shake his head - try to deny him, deny the truth.
Ilya hits him again and revels in the way Shane immediately presses his face into the strained front of his jeans after. A nose dive into his hard cock, wall of denim separating them. Then, he turns his cheek to expose the one unmarred, nuzzling his reddened cheek on the rough fabric while he sobs. He’s crying into the denim and seeking out more abuse, debasing himself even more.
Ilya’s head feels fuzzy.
Ilya rewards him for the show he’s putting on by smacking his other cheek now, twice in rapid succession. By the time he lands a third blow, Shane is shouting into the denim while his body tenses where he kneels on the floor. Ilya watches his poor baby cum in his pants, untouched and red in the face. Covered in tears and just aching for more abuse, his boyfriend only looks up at him through wet lashes once he comes down from his high.
“See?” he asks, digging one finger into Shane’s forehead to push him back slightly. “Fucking cum for brains, stupid whore. I know more than you.”
He pushes Shane back by his forehead and the man collapses onto the rug, eyes closed and chest rising and falling rapidly while he catches his breath. He hardly puts up a fight, in fact, he’s mumbling something that Ilya only catches once he’s got his jeans kicked off his legs finally. He peels his boxers off, setting them aside while he sinks to his knees and starts yanking Shane’s shoes and pants off.
The whore babbles something to himself through his tears - out of breath from the fight he’d put up.
“You know more, you - fuck - you know more, you do,” he’s nodding, crossing his elbows over his face to hide.
“I know more than you, yes.”
“You know more than me.”
Ilya smiles, dragging Shane’s boxers down his legs and settling between his bent knees.
“And you are braindead stupid bitch.”
“And…” he hesitates, Ilya slaps his inner thigh. “And I’m a braindead stupid b-bitch!”
“I already fucking know that,” Ilya breathes out through a grin he can’t be bothered to hide, dropping his hand down between his lover’s legs.
Shane whines something ridiculous like a ‘no, please’ that Ilya obviously ignores, then it’s clear why he even tried when the blond’s fingertips brush over a firm glide of silicone nestled wet in the freckled boy's ass.
They’d prepped before leaving to get dinner and drinks. Ilya had opened him up slow, taking his time to ensure he could meet Shane’s request should the time come. Shane’s request?
To make it real.
“You’re fucking pathetic,” he laughs, fiddling with the toy - pulling it out until the widest part stretched Shane’s rim uncomfortably just to drive it back in.
Shane tries to squirm away from him, grappling at the rug for purchase. Ilya lets him jerk himself upwards, watching the toy pop out of his ass and taking with it a gush of lube poured inside Shane’s ass for good measure. The sudden emptiness makes Shane cry out, legs quickly moving to clamp shut. Ilya forces them open, strong hands digging into thick muscle. He crawls over Shane’s body, fighting once again with the man’s truly sad attempts at batting him away. Fed up, he grips one wrist tightly and yanks Shane to lay instead on his front.
Shane sobs, shaking his head as he’s pressed into the rug. The head of his cock - spent and coated in cum from his first release - brushes against the rug and it makes him jerk his hips back. Coincidentally, Ilya’s cock is trapped behind his hips with nowhere else to go. His hand covers the side of Shane’s head, presses his face down into the soft rug.
“Fucking liar. Bad boy, liar,” Ilya groans, rubbing his hard cock between Shane’s cheeks that sit wet with lube spilled out from him seconds ago. “Tell me no, but you were ready all night. I didn’t even need to waste money getting you drunk, hm? You wanted it. You want it.”
Shane shakes his head, trying and failing to buck Ilya off of him. He’s strong enough that it would be an even fight - he doesn’t want even, clearly.
“No, I don’t! I don’t want it, please,” he cries fat tears, pretty face shrouded in red. “Please, pleasepleaseplease, don’t.”
Ilya groans into his ear.
“Fuck, beg more for me,” he taunts, kissing Shane’s ear.
The man flinches away from the contact, tenses up when he feels Ilya guiding himself - pressing his hips into the rug and trapping him. He feels the head of Ilya’s cock sink into him and tries to remember to thrash rather than fuck back against it.
“No, no,” he leaks against the rug, fully hard again already, “stop. Please, pleasepleasstop. Stop!”
Ilya sinks the first of nine inches into him. He squeezes his eyes shut, knees spreading and allowing more of his lover in. The sting is still there despite the prep, despite his ass sitting stretched around a plug for hours by this point. It’s a pleasant sharpness that radiates up through his hips, shoots up his spine and settles deep in his abdomen at the same time.
“Get - hic - get off, getoffme - fucking, ah, ah-ha, no,” he’s losing the will to lie as if his eyes aren’t crossing - as if drool isn’t pooling beneath his mouth and into the rug.
Ilya grabs his discarded boxers and balls them up, shoving them into the drooling gape of Shane's mouth to shut him up.
“Enough of that,” he says light-heartedly, patting the man’s reddened, raw cheek before busying himself with sinking in more.
He’s inside Shane fully in no time, his boyfriend’s fight having left, limbs having weakened - dumbed down by cock. Once he’s situated, he starts fucking him at a pace they’re both well acquainted with. Shane cries into the floor, mouth stuffed full while sobs turn into moans and pleas for more, harder. He’s pressed flat into the floor, two-hundred and thirty pounds of muscle laid over him - pinning him helpless.
“Couldn’t even fucking last two seconds,” Ilya marvels, sweat droplets forming at his hairline. “Need cock that bad, hm? Dirty bitch.”
Shane’s fingers grip at what of the rug he can grasp. His body tenses. Ilya is crude when he feels the man tense up below him and around his cock.
“Gonna cum? Go on, fucking cum. I told you, you need this. You need to be put in your fucking place. So easy to make you cum, just slap you hard in your pretty face. Fuck you while you cry and beg me to stop. Boom, blowing your fucking load everywhere.”
Shane cries out and bites down on the makeshift gag in his mouth, eyes crossing while he paints the rug below his hips in white. The pressure around Ilya’s cock tightens and he’s sure that if he was a weaker man, the dark-haired man would be wringing him dry already. But he is strong, especially for his boyfriend he’s strong. He winds one arm around the front of Shane’s neck, forearm digging into tacky sinew. He flexes his bicep, firm muscle pressing against the poor thing’s windpipe.
Shane chokes, grasps at Ilya’s arm with his shaky hands, and does nothing else but lays there and takes it.
Ilya fucks him feverishly, a man chasing his own pleasure inside the prettiest freckled victim he could ask for. Shane reaches a hand up and grips the rug, tries to yank himself upwards in an attempt to pretend like he wanted to escape. Ilya’s chuckle is warm, taunting in his ear. The blond reaches up and grabs his wrist, yanks his arm back down to pin it against his side. Shane is valiant despite the exhaustion settling deep into his bones. Shane loves to be overpowered - gets drunk on it despite greedily pulling two orgasms already from his spent body.
“Where will you go? Hm?” Ilya asks, licking over the shell of Shane’s ear the way he knows his boyfriend leaks for. “You belong here, face down and stuffed with my fucking cock, bitch. You can take it.”
Shane shakes his head, dazed. He muffles something whiny about it being ‘too much’.
“I said you can fucking take it.”
Shane’s cheek is pressed into the rug again, abused one facing him and beaming a screaming reddish pink. Ilya spits on the raw patch of skin, watches it drip down Shane’s mouth and along the corner of his lips. Shane grimaces at the feeling, but his eyebrows jump for joy and give him away instantly. Ilya frees the man’s arm at his side and uses three fingers to smear the spit around on him, pushes a bit of it over where his lips are stretched around the boxers gagging him.
He shifts his hips, rug digging into his own knees now in a way that he’s sure will leave the slightest burn. He can’t imagine the marks Shane will have come morning. He can imagine taunting him about them for days to come, though.
The new angle makes Shane grunt, guttural and drawn out behind the fabric silencing him. He takes each thrust at this new angle well, voice hitching higher and higher with it. His eyes are squeezed shut, legs twitching each time his lover - his attacker - drives into him. Something builds behind his abdomen wall slowly, deep below his abs and belly button. Something he pinpoints as familiar - and exactly how - as soon as Ilya yanks his hips up slightly. The arch he’s forced into shocks the feeling into action. He panics.
Not on the rug. No.
He wants to gesture for Ilya to stop, but the feeling of the building sharp ache in his ass gives him pause. It almost makes him want to cry: the ache, the remnants of pleasure, the lack of choice, the shame that floods his face as soon as he floods the carpet beneath him in his bladder contents. He’s doing it before he realizes, too lost in the sensation of overstimulation.
Shane closes his eyes, hiding his face in the rug up by his face and sobbing into the boxers in his mouth. Ilya only notices his mess when he’s close, thrusts getting sloppy and uncoordinated. There’s a warmth on his knees where they’re pressed into the rug between Shane’s, forcing them open. He pauses, hand snaking around to Shane’s front and immediately finding wet warmth - thin, not viscous like cum. He barks out a laugh.
“You piss yourself?”
Shane whimpers, tucking his chin into his collarbone and surely giving himself a mild case of rug burn on his forehead. Ilya groans, wet hand clamping down on Shane’s hip and hoisting it up into the air.
It’s mean - the thought that comes to his head. It’s mean and it might just be what makes Shane finally gesture to him to stop - to end their little scene. Except Shane has gone this far without doing so yet. He takes the leap.
He yanks Shane back by his hips about a foot, dragging his pretty hidden face along the dry rug until it isn’t dry anymore. Shane jerks back, Ilya’s hand grips at the hair behind his head - holds him there, testing. Shane doesn't gesture. He lets Ilya guide his head back down into the quickly cooling puddle.
Ilya lasts exactly three more pumps of his hips - pressing Shane’s gorgeous, teary, reddened face into the piss puddle he’d made. Fucks him in it. Cums inside of him with a groan that cracks as it leaves his throat. He stills inside of Shane, spent and spurting the last bit of cum into him that he’s sure he’ll have for the remainder of the night.
And he’s not done.
Because Shane, the love of his life, is nothing if not insatiable.
“Look at your fucking mess,” he groans, shoving Shane to the side when he pulls out of him.
Cum leaks out of him at the movements, slides over his thighs. The freckled man yanks the boxers from his mouth and hurls them up at Ilya, who catches them and uses them to wipe his cock off. The takes the sight in - Shane, flushed in the skin and moving to sit up - and assesses. The rug is old - needs replacing anyways. And Shane ruined it first. He slaps the other across his piss-covered cheek and revels in the whimper it earns him.
“Did I fucking say you could sit up?”
Shane - eyes wary in a confused sense - lowers himself to lay back down on his side, trembling with exertion as he relaxes into a slightly drier patch.
“Look at you, made big mess all over your rug, stupid drunk cunt.”
Shane shudders, eyes closing and cock twitching despite having given everything he had already.
“Stay still. My turn.”
Anticipating that Shane will open his eyes immediately - which he does, Ilya knows his boyfriend that well - he aims first for the pretty brown nipples sitting on his pecs. Whatever sound leaves the darker-haired male is reminiscent of a gasp, or maybe a moan. He closes his eyes on instinct and Ilya grants the wordless obedience with recentering his stream over pretty freckles.
“Open your fucking mouth,” Shane obeys. “Fuck, yeah like that.”
Shane’s bangs stick to his forehead, bottom lip trembling. Some of it drips into his mouth, he lets it sit there - Ilya is hydrated and has been drinking plenty of fruity cocktails tonight, he notes - unsure of just how much he likes it. They’d discussed this before - tested it out on each other’s legs and extremities in the shower - and he’d found that so long as the sensation of it drying on his skin didn’t linger too long, he was fond of the feeling.
But now it was lingering.
Ilya’s stream dies down and he throws one last insult at Shane, whose cock perks at the shame that powers his veins like oil in a well-cared-for machine.
“There you go. Remember me next time you try to pretend you don’t want.”
Shane nods, licking his lips out of habit. He sits up and slicks his bangs back from his face, hair dripping wet with it while droplets slide down his jaw and chin.
“I need-” he takes a deep breath, hands shaking slightly. “I need a kiss. Please. Fuck. Loon. Loon.”
Ilya drops to his knees and wipes at Shane’s face, thumbs brushing over his eyelashes when Shane closes his eyes. He’s shivering, fists clenching and unclenching in front of him. Ilya presses a firm kiss to his lips, hands brushing his wet hair back and holding his head there - grounding him. Shane lets out a choked sound into his mouth, wiping at his eyes when they part.
“Sorry, I liked it. I did. I just-”
“Need shower?”
Shane nods miserably, adrenaline fading from his body now. Ilya hauls him up to stand, silences him with another kiss when he whines about the rug.
“Was old anyways,” he says as he leads Shane to their bathroom, “I will throw out in the morning.”
When Shane is clean and no longer wants to crawl out of his skin, he curls into Ilya - who pets him well into the night before they both fall asleep.