trollswoll

Their sound of their lips is slick and loud, and Shane can hear the rush of his own heartbeat in his ears, the rustle of their clothes together. He’s not grinning on Ilya, and Ilya is pushing down into him, but there are these tiny presses of their hips, half hard- but not seeking anything further, not chasing, just content in the connection of their bodies in every place they can manage.

Ilya’s tongue draws back and Shane catches Ilya’s top lip with teeth and tongue, Ilya’s mouth tastes like his, their shared spit. Shane’s fingers find the shape of Ilya’s earlobe, thumb starts to rub over it softly, and it makes Ilya whine, like Shane knows it does, because he knows, knows very well how Ilya Rozanov kisses, how he likes to be kissed back. Ilya’s hand squeezes Shane’s hip, pulls him in tighter, drags his tongue over Shane’s, licks up over the roof of his mouth and Shane shivers. His jaw aches with the stretch of the kiss as Ilya licks into his mouth hungry.

Then the oven beeps, loud and jarring and Shane’s first thought is what the fuck? But then- oh- dinner. They had put the potatoes and vegetables to roast in the oven an hour ago and chicken legs half an hour ago. Shane had been going to find deck of cards he knew was in the living room because he had told Ilya he would to teach him how to play Cribbage. Ilya had already asked if they could play strip cribbage. Shane didn’t think it would be possible but he was sure Ilya would find a way.

He’d been leant over the coffee table, digging in a draw for the cards when Ilya had found him, a slap to his bent over ass, before his hands pulled Shane back into him. Shane had told him to fuck off and Ilya had said no and then Shane had jabbed at his side, Ilya had flicked Shane’s ear and then they were on the carpet slapping hands away. Then, as with the pace of the day it seemed, they were kissing again.

Shane pulls back with a gasp from the kiss. “Dinner. Ilya- we need to” Ilya’s mouth was already back on his own. Shane’s hands slid to Ilya hair, pulled, turned his head away from Ilya’s mouth. The alarm was still going off.

“It’ll burn” Shane sighs, shivers when Ilya’s mouth finds his jaw, kisses and licks at the warm skin.

“In a minute” Ilya rumbles back and drags his teeth over the light already fading hickey he left there this morning.

Shane sighs, heat rushes at the feeling and he swallows, wriggles under Ilya’s frame.

“You’ll be so” Shane’s voice is breathy and he clears his throat. “So annoying if I don’t feed you” and then Shane feels Ilya laugh against his throat.

“You have fed me plenty” Ilya grumbles back, hand sliding down to take a handful of Shane’s ass, voice heavy with innuendo.

“Shut up” Shane bitches and pinches Ilya’s side in the way he doesn’t like, and says “dinner Ilya dinner” and Ilya whines and pulls back. Shane bits back a whine at the loss of Ilya’s warmth, despite knowing Ilya getting up is how they will achieve making sure dinner isn’t burnt.

Shane’s hands, now with no Ilya to hold, lay by his sides and he looks up at Ilya up on his knees between Shane’s legs, looking down at him. His necklace swings and the light catches the glint of gold. He’s all tanned skin, corded muscle and moles in the low light. There’s a bruise from Shane’s mouth in his ribs. Shane licks his lips and he wants Ilya to fuck him again. The oven alarm beeps ever strong in the distance. Shane lets out a short breath through his nose.

“Come on then, up, mr dinner Ilya dinner, I thought this was urgent and you are just laying on floor” Ilya teases and Shane kicks his heel into Ilya’s ass.

“I will help with my big muscles don’t worry” Ilya smirks and then he’s pulling Shane up with the arm under his back, till Shane is sat over Ilya’s hips in his kneeling position.

Suddenly they are close again, breath mingling between the mouths. Ilya’s mouth is bitten dark, his thicker upper lip swollen. His mouth shines in the low light of the cottage with his and Shane’s spit. It makes Shane’s cock pulse. Something swells in his chest. Shane squirms in Ilya’s lap and Ilya’s arm tightens around him, a firm grip that anchors him closer. Shane’s eyes dart up Ilya’s and he can see Ilya’s eyes staring at his mouth, dark and lidded. Ilya’s hand is on his face then and his thumb is making circles over Shane’s mouth. It feels like an old bruise, a muscle that aches after training. His lips throb.

“Mm” Ilya’s hum is low and maybe involuntary and Shane feels it vibrate through his own, and oh- when did they get that close again.

Then Ilya is kissing him again, soft pecks all over Shane’s mouth, closed mouth kisses that make Shane’s toes start working their wriggle again.

Ilya’s licking into his mouth and Shane’s hands are catching Ilyas face, and he’s been kissing Ilya for a decade, but it’s that same stupid heavy rush it had been when he was a teenager and all he could think was oh, that’s what kissing is because any kiss before it had seemed like it must be something else entirely, it didn’t even live in the same universe.

Shane made a soft sound, head heavy with the thought of their first kiss, the thought of Ilya knowing how to kiss him so well, of knowing just what Shane likes, being just what Shane likes. The taste of Ilya’s mouth being a comfort, a home. Shane pushes his hips down, pulls at the back of Ilya’s neck, sucks Ilya’s tongue into his mouth and- and then Ilya is pulling his mouth away with a slick sound and Shane whimpers, frowns.

“Dinner Shane, dinner” Ilya whispers and Shane puts his have over Ilya’s face, before he clambers up.

Ilya’s footsteps are quick behind him.

So they clean up from dinner, and Shane goes about setting up for them. He won’t let Ilya do anything, tells him, “Just let me. I know what we need.” So Ilya just sits on the sofa and waits, and watches Shane. Shane, who moves around the apartment with single-minded focus. Dishwasher on. Lights dim. Thermostat up. Cushion placed at Ilya’s feet, not for Shane this time, but for Ilya. He demands Ilya’s clothes, gets him stripped to just his boxers, then does the same for himself. He flicks the TV on to a hockey documentary he’s been wanting to watch. And then he turns to Ilya with a grin.

“Ready!” He’s bouncing on his feet a little, and Ilya can’t stop the warm chuckle that escapes from him.

“Excited, kotok?” And Shane rolls his eyes and says, “You should be excited,” but in truth, Ilya feels a bit nervous. He wants this to work. He’s seen how this can be like an off button for Shane’s brain, and there are some days he needs that too. Shane must sense some of what Ilya’s thinking because he says, “It’s going to be so good. I promise,” and places a soft kiss on Ilya’s forehead. Ilya slaps his hands on his thighs, stands up, and says, “Ok, do your worst, Hollander,” and Shane just laughs.

Ilya gets settled on his knees, already grateful for the cushion beneath him. The season’s barely started, but it’s already been brutal, and Ilya’s body is a patchwork of bruises, some fresh and some fading. As he goes to his knees, he thinks about Shane’s promise and the stress of the season and how good it would feel to not think for a while. He hopes Shane is right.

At first, Ilya feels a bit unsure. He loves Shane’s cock in his mouth, of course, but he can’t help feeling that he should be doing something. He’s so aware of the weight of Shane’s cock on his tongue, and shouldn’t Ilya be sucking him down, or bobbing his head? (No, Shane had said at dinner, cheeks pink, I want this to last) And Shane’s thighs are right there, so close they brush his ears, and isn’t Ilya supposed to be gripping them, guiding Shane deeper into his throat? (No, you’ll keep your hands still, too). And Ilya can hear the murmur of the talking heads on the documentary and the soft hum of the dishwasher, but he doesn't hear Shane groaning, oh, oh, fuck, yeah baby, just like that, so the whole thing feels a bit pointless. 

But then Shane spreads his thighs a bit more, and Ilya sinks down a bit lower, gets his nose pressed right up against Shane’s belly. And Shane is mostly soft, but he lets out a sigh and a “so good, Ilya,” and, ok, that is nice. And then Shane does something Ilya doesn’t expect. Two fingers tap Ilya’s chin, look at me, so their eyes are locked when Shane says, “Please, Sir, may I touch your hair?” and oh, fucking hell, Ilya might die right here. They’ve tried our sir once or twice, and every time Ilya’s brain short-circuits. It’s the way Shane says it, a little breathless and eager. It’s the way it makes Ilya feel, trusted and powerful. And Shane is looking at him now with so much love in his eyes and waiting so patiently for an answer, fuck.

Ilya nods as best he can in this position, and Shane says “Thank you, Sir,” and Ilya groans and sinks down down down as Shane’s hands find his hair. And then it’s all gentle tugs on his curls and Shane’s strong fingers running over his scalp, and someone is moaning, and oh, that’s me, Ilya realizes. Ilya spreads his knees a little wider, sinks into his body a little more, and that earns him a, “That’s right, Sir. Get comfortable."

Jesus, Shane is going to kill him. 

They stay that way for a while, Shane’s lovely fingers in his hair and Shane’s perfect cock in his mouth. Shane’s hard now but seemingly in no hurry, just keeping his hands tangled in Ilya’s hair and saying, “Love your mouth, Sir,” and “Sir, you’re taking me so good,” and Ilya is…he’s not floating, not like Shane gets, but his mind is calm in its own way. It’s just that somehow Shane has crowded out everything else. Or narrowed it down, maybe, made it seem small and insignificant compared to Shane’s strong hands and thick thighs and big cock. 

And then Shane says, “Sir?” and gives Ilya’s hair a little tug, like maybe he’s been asking for a while, and all Ilya can do is give a questioning groan, taking Shane out of his mouth to answer is unfathomable, and Shane asks, “Sir, can I fuck your mouth, please?” And suddenly Ilya has never wanted anything more in his life. He moans, long and low, and his own hips fuck up like he’s the one asking, and Shane just says “Oh, thank you, Sir, thank you,” before he tightens his hands in Ilya’s hair and starts to move. 

Ilya feels delirious. He knows he’s drooling, but he can’t stop it. He’s hard, he thinks, but it’s difficult to tell when his whole body feels like a circuit of pleasure stemming from the point where his mouth meets Shane’s cock. Every time Shane fucks in deep, he says, “Thank you, Sir,” and every time Ilya answers with a whine. When Shane pulls back, Ilya can taste the pre-cum on his tongue, and his own cock leaks in response. Shane’s pace is steady, and his body is strong and solid, and Ilya’s mind is blank but for Shane Shane Shane. 

“Sir, oh, oh, it’s so good. I think I’m—you’re gonna make me come,” Shane gasps out, and Ilya wants that, desperately. “Please, please, Sir, can I come?” And it’s almost too much, Shane begging like this and calling him sir while he’s holding Ilya’s head tight and fucking deep into his throat. He feels so powerless. He feels so powerful. 

Ilya isn’t sure what noise he makes to signal his permission, but Shane, perfect Shane who understands everything, knows a yes for a yes. He fucks his hips up one last time as he shudders and shakes and spills. Ilya’s shaking too, and he can’t stop it. He feels like he’s might fly apart into thousands of pieces, but then Shane says, “Sir, let me—” and strong arms are hauling Ilya up and settling him on the couch, and Ilya’s got a lap full of Shane, Shane who is saying “Want to make you come, Sir, can I?” and Ilya nods, he thinks, but mostly he keeps his eyes fixed on Shane, Shane who unraveled him completely, Shane who will put him back together. And then Shane’s warm hand is wrapped around Ilya’s cock, and Shane is saying, “Please, please, Sir, give me your cum. Please, can I have it? I need it, I need it so much,” and Ilya, who can deny Shane nothing, gives him what he needs.