Work Text:
*
"Oh my god—Rozanov, oh god—"
Wet slaps of footsteps.
Hurried, loud panting. Not the kind Ilya likes best—when Shane's mouth hangs open, reddened, waiting and widening further as Ilya's cock thrusts.
Behind eyelids getting heavier, there's Shane.
Shane.
"No, hey, wake up. Look at me."
A large and wet hand carefully cradles where Ilya's skull thumped down.
Ilya tries to blink. Unsuccessfully.
But his vision clears.
"Hey, Ilya, we cannot contact an ambulance right now—"
"Talking, all this talking," Ilya mutters in a throaty-sounding Russian, finally going upright.
He doesn't know how everything went sideways. And painful.
The dock to Shane's cottage is much, much harder than expected. Ilya could have figured with the roughened surface scratching his elbows, as he rolled on top and pressed the tip of Shane's dick, cum-slickened, against the roof of his mouth. Getting more hardened twitches.
Ilya blinks, glancing at Shane's expression tightening with worry.
"Yes, I am fine," he reassures, in English this time. Ilya lets Shane's fingers rub down to inspect. "Have had worse. You have had worse."
"With a helmet on, " Shane reminds him, dragging fingertips more affectionately into Ilya's curls.
He leans up, kissing there.
"Aaugh... no more talking now..."
Ilya grunts, using the air deeper in his chest. He pats Shane's leg covered in wet, dark hairs. They should be drinking Ilya's beer. It's long gone. Probably having catapulted off into the air, out of Ilya's hand, falling and disappearing down into the lake as Ilya fell.
"I just wanna make sure you're really fine, Ilya," Shane whispers, helping him as they walk back. "The headaches can come later."
"Coming sooner is better..."
Ilya's mouth quirks up.
"Wh-ohmygod, you're such a pervert."
"Says the man who wanted to do this where your stupid Canadian wolf-birds can see."
*