Work Text:
Las Vegas, June, 2014
Ilya’s Suite
Ilya paces the length of the suite while he waits for Hollander to arrive, the lights dim, the city shining bright below him outside the tall windows.
It should be easy. Should not feel like all of this, the suite, the drink, his unbuttoned shirt and bare feet on sparkling black tile are nothing but lies, luring Hollander to believe that he’s capable of being what he needs.
It does, anyway. But he has had practice. He can pretend. That he has everything in control, that he is not scared, that his hands are not shaking. That this is not something he needs just as much as Hollander does.
The keypad on the door beeps softly twice and flashes green for unlocked, and Ilya runs a hand through his hair and straightens his shoulders. Everything else—it can wait until later.
The door opens, Hollander slipping through the crack. The static that’s been crawling underneath Ilya’s skin since this afternoon goes quiet.
He steps fully into the suite, closing the door behind him and leaving a hand splayed on the wood as he stands and glances briefly at Ilya.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” Ilya returns. His fingers twitch at his side, standing by the sofa. Ilya aches to close the distance, but this isn’t only about him.
“We should… talk,” Hollander manages, swaying on his feet.
“Yes,” he agrees. “But not yet. After.”
Ilya braces himself for an argument, braces himself for his own inner voice that’ quick to snap no. Wrong. Good doms would talk before.
Good doms would make a plan far in advance, so that it doesn’t take one of them dropping to figure things out.
But Shane takes a breath, tension bleeding from his shoulders, and says, gently, “Yeah. Okay.”
Hollander loves to defy him on the ice, and Ilya is comfortable with that. He’s used to defiance.
But here, in private, Hollander is… different. Softer. So willing that it drives Ilya crazy, makes him want to take Hollander somewhere far and private and away from anyone that could take advantage. Including, sometimes, himself.
“I think. I think I’m still a little…” Hollander blinks heavily, touching his mouth with his fingertips as if surprised by the sound of his own voice. “Sorry.”
“You have been waiting long time,” Ilya agrees. “There is something you want?”
His head shakes, then knocks back against the door as he swallows. Ilya traces the line of it with his eyes. “I don’t—you can pick. I just.”
“You just…?” Ilya presses.
“You know, it’s been—it’s been a while. For me. So I might…”
“Hollander,” he says, as if the ending of that sentence doesn’t terrify him. “We have private suite and nowhere to be until morning. Is okay if you drop.”
His hand tightens on the handle behind him that he’s still clutching, knuckles losing color when he squeezes. Dropping his chin to his chest, Hollander clamps his eyes shut and nods.
“Just—you’ll make sure no one sees, or…?”
Ilya’s chest hurts. “No one will see but me,” he promises. “You are safe here.”
The pinch around Hollander’s eyes eases but he keeps them closed, looking like he might fall asleep leaning up against the door. There is not much in this room to work with, not much that doesn’t feel impersonal the way most of the hotels do.
The floor is cold and hard underneath them, the furniture all minimal and angular, too sharp to be all that inviting. But Ilya has lowered the lights enough to dull the edges some, turned the lamps more yellow than blue. He can work with this, he thinks.
He hopes.
“You like plans, yes?”
Hollander’s eyes open again, his face tilting toward Ilya’s voice. “Mhm.”
“Okay. Here is plan. Are you listening?”
“Listening,” he echoes with a murmur.
“In a moment, you will undress,” Ilya says. “You will take off fancy clothes and fold them for me and put them on the couch, but you will leave on your underwear. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Ilya nods. “Good. Do this now.”
His face has cleared a little with the instruction, his hand finally falling off of the handle to hang by his side. Hollander turns slowly and begins to slip off his shoes by the door, leaving his socks as he approaches the back of the sofa to lay his suit jacket over.
Ilya watches as he meticulously removes each of his layers, fighting the urge to push Hollander’s fingers away and let himself have the privilege instead. But Hollander isn’t like that—has never been. There are steps to his submission, even now, even like this.
It was much easier for them to lean into this when they hadn’t talked about it, Ilya thinks. When they were dancing around something, knowing without really knowing at all.
It’s Hollander that’s undressing, but Ilya has felt stripped bare since the bathroom this afternoon, too much of himself out there now to take back.
In front of him Hollander finishes folding his slacks, laying them neatly on top of his dress shirt and discarded tie on the back of the couch. He stands there in his socks and faces Ilya, tugging absently at the hem of his boxers on his thighs as he shuffles on his feet.
There is a rhythm to this. A pulse. Ilya holds out a hand.
“Come.”
Hollander moves forward as if tugged by string, and he falls into Ilya’s chest just the same as he had earlier in the day. Ilya feels his shuddered exhale like a fist to the ribs. He slides a palm up the back of Hollander’s spine, in between his shoulder blades, settles it on his nape and squeezes.
“M’sorry,” Hollander chokes. “I know this is supposed to be casual. I—I don’t know why I need it so fucking bad, I tried not to. I really tried. It’s like you said, we’re not anything, but I—fuck—“
“Hollander,” Ilya tries, but it only makes his shoulders draw up further. “Shane.”
He goes quiet at the sound of his name, still, waiting, and Ilya swallows as he slips fingers into his hair and pulls his head up, uses his other hand to hold him up by the jaw.
“You are dropping, yes? Everything feels bad because you are sick. Has been too much, too long.”
His lower lip jerks when Ilya presses a thumb to it, his nod small and reluctant. “S’bad.”
“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “So we will talk about this. Later. Right now you need to be quiet. You need to let me take care of you. You can do this for me, yes?”
Hollander’s eyes drop to Ilya’s chin, a divot burrowed between his brows. Ilya traces the turn of his mouth into a frown.
“I—I don’t want to drop,” he admits with a rasp.
He squeezes the back of Hollander’s neck again. “I know. But you are safe and I will be here the whole time. I will not leave this room.”
His eyelids drop, lashes wet the next time he blinks. But he still doesn’t cry, the twist of his face stubborn and practiced, something Ilya has seen before.
“I don’t—I don’t like this, Rozanov.”
Vzyalsya za guzh, ne govori, chto ne dyuzh, Ilya thinks. Do not start something you cannot finish.
“You will be okay. You will listen to me, and you will feel better, and after everything else we will talk. Okay?”
“I’ve never done this before,” he rushes out, as if having momentarily gained back his voice. “I’ve never needed it like—”
“Not for me, either,” Ilya assures. Another truth he will decide later if he can afford. He fits a thumb to the hinge of Hollander’s jaw. “We have been very stupid, I think.”
“Yeah,” he says, hoarse. He leans into the touch. “I didn’t think it could be like this,” Hollander whispers. “I thought—it was always just background noise, before.”
You broke me, is what Ilya hears. Which is comforting if only for the fact that Hollander had broken him long ago, and devastating in every other possible way.
“I know,” Ilya says again, his throat tight around the syllables. He wishes he could touch deeper than Hollander’s skin, could find the knots and untie him from the inside. Fix what he’s done. He exhales. “I know.”
Ilya lets go of his face, and it drops almost immediately back down to his shoulder. He seems to like it there, Ilya thinks, and the weight is nice. Steady.
“I missed you,” Hollander says, quiet as air, like every word is being pulled from somewhere behind his ribs.
Ilya’s cheek touches the top of his head, fingers slipping into his hair. “I missed you too.”
He can feel Hollander’s fists in the fabric of his shirt.
“Rozanov,” he repeats. “Roz—I think, I need—”
“It’s okay,” Ilya says. “You are safe here. I have you.”
His body is still too tight, too tense, his muscles hard underneath Ilya’s hands. He takes several deep breaths, mostly for Hollander but partly for himself too, and feels a little of his own nerves ease when Hollander leans into it, starts to mimic the deep pulls of his ribs.
Ilya glances around the room. “You will do something for me?”
“Yes,” he whispers.
He squeezes the back of Hollander’s neck once more and then drops his hand. “I want you to go to the cart by the window and make me a drink.”
“What, um.” He takes his weight slowly back onto his own feet again, blinking at Ilya’s chest, and then over at the window. “What do you want?”
“Vodka. With ice.”
He nods and steps slowly over to the cart, and Ilya leans back against the sofa and watches to make sure that he’s steady enough. It takes focus, he can tell—Hollander’s brow slightly furrowed, lips pursed as he chooses a glass and adds the ice and tips the bottle to fill, but he manages it without even a twitch in his hands. A good sign.
The bottle meets the glass tabletop of the drink cart again, clinking lightly as he sets it back down. He lifts the poured glass between his fingers and carries it back over to Ilya, and shivers all over when their fingers overlap as Ilya takes it in hand.
His own eyes don’t leave Hollander as he brings the glass up to his mouth and takes a long sip of it, and he likes the way it burns in his throat, all the way down to his stomach. A reminder of his own body, of all he can make useful to Hollander tonight. Just for tonight.
It’s a flimsy promise. It makes the vodka sour. Ilya lowers it again and holds out a hand.
“Mm. Very good. Come here.”
He sets the glass on the window sill, hooks two fingers into his dress shoes and drags the lounge chair a few feet into the bedroom, angling it to overlook the city. The glass isn’t floor to ceiling but it dips low enough that Hollander should still be able to see out, if he wants to.
He dutifully fetches the pillow from the sofa Ilya asks for, because they’re wider and plusher than the ones on the bed. Ilya sits down in the chair and situates the cushion between the spread of his legs, has Shane grab him one last thing from the bathroom before he settles on folded knees at Ilya’s feet.
The suede is soft in Ilya’s palm when he hands it over. He’d found it only this morning when he’d been looking for extra towels and left it on the shelf, the little satchel of fancy assorted brushes and polish that he likely wouldn’t have used on his own.
He doesn’t know if Hollander will like it or not. If the smell will be too strong or the texture too tacky or something else Ilya had failed to consider ahead of time.
But for now Ilya tucks it aside and beckons Hollander in closer, until his cheek, plush with color and dotted with the freckles Ilya likes, meets his inner thigh. Hollander lets out a long breath then, turning his face further into the heat of Ilya’s leg and letting his shoulders drop. Ilya slides a hand into his hair and watches him shiver again.
“You are cold?” Ilya murmurs.
“No,” Shane rasps, breath hot on the material of Ilya’s slacks. “Not cold. Just. Feels good.”
His eyes have closed. Ilya drags a thumb along the curve of his lashline. “You are comfortable?”
“Mhm.”
This is new for them entirely, but so is having time. Ilya had known—Hollander would argue this, probably—that he’d known about Hollander from the beginning. He wouldn’t have, if they hadn’t started seeing each other in private like this. To the rest of the world, and to Ilya, even, before they’d met, Hollander seems untouchable. And maybe if Ilya were ranked less or if Hollander had decided not to give into his bullshit then Ilya would never have found out, and both of them would be fine.
Even still, it was something that was relatively known, Ilya thinks, but not spoken about. Sex is one thing. It’s biology, genetics, whatever the fuck it is getting involved that makes things complicated; that makes Ilya unable to ignore the way he feels Hollander like a pulse when they’re in the same room. The same city, even. And if it’d just been him feeling it, he could have handled it. Probably.
But he can’t run from it anymore. After this weekend, when they’re both more steady, they’ll figure the rest out. For tonight, he can take his time.
When Hollander’s head grows heavy against his thigh, Ilya tugs just slightly at his hair until his eyes flutter open. When he has Hollander’s attention, he reaches over and grabs the shoes he’d brought over to the chair with him.
“I want you to clean them for me,” Ilya says. “They are very expensive. Good material. Do you want to feel?”
Hollander nods. Ilya leans his elbows on his knees and puts their faces close together now that Hollander’s sitting up, one of his hands spread wide to balance his shoes on top of them, the other reaching for Hollander’s wrist to bring his fingertips to the leather.
They’re nice dress shoes, the ones that Ilya likes to wear to events like these. A timeless black, the texture of the leather visible, the toe narrowed into a square at the tip. He doesn’t make a habit of cleaning them since he doesn’t wear them all that often, but he’d had them on most of the day today, and there are a few fresh scuffs near the sides, at the heel.
Ilya guides Hollander’s knuckles across one of the spots unmarked by any dirt, back and forth in the way he’s seen Hollander to do his own arm sometimes before.
“Is nice, yes?”
Hollander nods again, his cheek falling to Ilya’s knee. “Soft.”
“Yes. Soft,” Ilya agrees. “I want to keep them nice and soft and clean. I trust you to do this for me because you are so careful, so neat with your things. I have seen.”
There’s the slightest of noises from Hollander’s throat, his body relaxed but his mind still fighting against him. Ilya covers one of his hands with his own, curves it firm around the shoe until Hollander is holding them in his lap. He taps on one with his knuckle and reaches for the polish kit.
“I want you to clean them for me very well, Hollander. I will sit here with you and have my drink. Do not rush. We have time.”
With the kit unlaced and laid out on the floor in front of Hollander, Ilya picks up the vodka from the window sill and sits back in the chair again. The ice is still cold against his palm, beads of water clinging to his skin where it sweats off the glass. Ilya takes another sip and scratches idly behind Shane’s ear with his nails while he watches him work.
Typically, Hollander loves a challenge. He likes to work for it, to prove Ilya wrong, likes to smirk about it when Ilya gasps and says something like fuck, Hollander, you are going to ruin me like that had maybe been the whole entire point.
Tonight he seems to be okay with lower stakes. Ilya had been nervous about the shoes—ready for Hollander to swing a glare at him and demand something more difficult. But he does not do this, and Ilya finds himself viciously relieved. He loves the challenge as much as Hollander does, but he isn’t sure he could have given him that tonight. Maybe he’s losing his touch, Ilya muses to himself as he downs another swallow of the vodka.
He focuses on Hollander because that’s much easier to do. His head is tilted so sharply toward his lap that Ilya can’t see his face, but he can picture the look of concentration there. It’s the same one as when Ilya had asked him to ride him. It’s the same one as when Hollander folds his clothes.
And it’s—it’s overwhelming, how the thought finds him in the chest, his fingers slipping on the glass: that Hollander is treating something of Ilya’s with the same care and respect as his own belongings.
You told him to do this, Ilya reminds himself stiffly. He is following directions. That’s all.
Still. Hollander takes the better part of an hour making sure they’re perfect when Ilya is certain he could have done it just as well in ten minutes. Maybe because this is important to him too. Maybe because it’s for Ilya.
“All done?” Ilya asks, reaching over to put the glass aside and then leaning forward over Hollander. “Show me.”
He widens his legs and pulls Hollander back between them, until his shoulders are held between Ilya’s knees. The top of his head touches Ilya’s sternum when he leans down over Hollander to examine the shoes that Hollander holds up in front of him for Ilya’s inspection.
They are beautiful. Shiny, spotless, like he’s pulled them right from a magazine. But Ilya is more appreciative of the hands holding them, the rough spots on Hollander’s knuckles where the brush had scuffed him, the shiny, slick spot of oil on his cuticle. Evidence.
Gingerly, Ilya lifts the shoes from Hollander’s open palms, careful not to ruin them with his own fingerprints, and takes a long moment to openly admire them. He hums and nods, feeling Hollander’s eyes on him while he gently sets them out of the way again.
“You did so well with them,” Ilya praises. He turns his attention back to Hollander, whose head has reclined back onto Ilya’s thigh. “You take such good care of your things, Shane.”
It is a test, though not a malicious one. Earlier, when he’d said Shane, Hollander’s body had snapped to attention. Now, his lashes flutter against speckled cheeks, muscles lax and trusting. His hands rest open on his thighs as if waiting for the next thing Ilya fills them with.
“Thank you,” he murmurs.
Ilya lets his own hands cover Shane’s shoulders, not pressing as hard as he could probably take, but just enough to gauge the lingering tension, how much further he needs to push. When he makes a low noise in his throat Ilya leans down further, slips his hands down Shane’s arms and puts his mouth against the side of his bare, elongated neck to feel it with his lips.
Staying low, Ilya reaches sideways to grab the glass of vodka again. He brings it to his own mouth, takes a slow sip while Shane watches, and then lowers it to hold the part that his tongue had just touched up to Shane’s lips too.
The glass presses into plush pink, turning white underneath the pressure. He gets the fleeting pleasure of Shane’s eyes on him for a moment when he purses them, flicks his own tongue against Ilya’s imprint, then obediently tilts his head back to swallow a shallow mouthful of the liquor. Ilya lets him have only the one and takes it away. This isn’t about getting him drunk.
Cupping underneath his chin, Ilya settles him in between his knees again and tilts his head back even further, until they’re looking at each other upside down. He bends to kiss Shane that way, wet and slow and deep with the vodka staining their tongues, for long enough that his neck goes slack in Ilya’s hold; long enough that he doesn’t even notice Ilya scooping out a ball of ice from the glass he’d set aside again.
He peels the heat of his mouth away from Shane’s and immediately replaces the warmth with the chill of the ice. It’s dripping already between his fingers, running down his knuckles. Shane shivers all over, tense for a moment before he shudders back into something soft and trusting again. Ilya rubs the ball of ice around the slick curve of his mouth, watches it open for him further, watches him take it inside and onto his tongue.
“I take care of my things too,” Ilya murmurs, rough and low.
Shane’s eyes blink open again, words slurred around the ice and Ilya’s fingers. “You—you do?”
“Mm. Yes.” Ilya spreads two fingers, watches Shane catch the half-melted ball of ice against the roof of his mouth so that he can spread him open wide enough to be obscene, wide enough that spit trails the same path on Ilya’s hand that the water had taken before. “I take care of you, do I not?”
“Fuck,” Shane whispers when Ilya takes the ice out again, rubbing it back around his trembling lips. “Ilya.”
It lands somewhere right in the center of Ilya’s chest; the first time he’s ever heard it that way before. He’d said Shane first, yes, but he hadn’t expected Shane to do the same. He can’t be certain if it’s intentional or not. Isn’t sure which way would be better.
Can’t think about it now.
“Yes?” Ilya confirms, cocking a brow.
Shane stops sucking to nod. Ilya could swim in his pupils. “Yes. You do. You take care of me.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m… I'm your…” Shane starts, distracted as his lips purse against the almost-gone ball of ice, the same way he chases Ilya’s lips. Ilya shoves it past his teeth, lets him swallow the rest of it down.
“My what?”
His head rolls, turns on Ilya’s knee so he can look at him properly again. His fingers are warm against Ilya’s ankle, holding on like an anchor. “Your—your boy?”
“My boy,” Ilya exhales, spanning his cold, spit-kissed fingers out over Shane’s throat, thumbing at his pulse. “My good boy, Shane.”
There are three other pieces of ice in the glass. It’s a test of his patience to get through them all but Ilya knows the longer he draws this out the more Shane will get out of it, that he won’t be satisfied if Ilya doesn’t pull him from his own head, give him something to focus on.
The bottom half of Shane’s jaw is smeared wet by the time there’s one remaining, the paths of Ilya’s fingers leaving translucent evidence behind. It glistens in the low light, disappearing all the way back into his hair, down his neck, in the divot at the base of his throat and over his chest.
“You were made for the ice,” Ilya tells him earnestly when he picks up the last one, touching it to the fever-heat of Shane’s cheek. “But you were made also for this, I think,” he says, and then he sinks his fingers deep inside of Shane’s searching mouth again.
He’s gone now, Ilya knows, with some sense of relief. He does not underestimate his own ignorance nor his privilege; he and Hollander have been fucking for years now. Ilya had guessed certain things he thought were true, yes, but the only time he ever had confirmation of Shane’s status was today, in the bathroom at the awards. Shane keeps this part of himself hidden, locked away just as tightly as Ilya does. Desperate not to be defined or controlled by it.
That same part of Ilya had been worried that maybe it wouldn’t work. He would get Shane here and have made all of these promises, and then in the moment, maybe he wouldn’t be able to get Shane to give him this last piece. It doesn’t matter if they’re compatible on a stupid fucking scale. If he’d wanted to, Shane could have told him to fuck off. He has needs, but he’s not at the mercy of them. He could have left Ilya alone in this hotel room tonight, like he probably should have.
But he hadn’t. He’s here, and Ilya hasn’t fucked it up yet, and now that Shane has let go completely, maybe he can too.
He pulls Shane into his lap with firm words and gentle hands, his hot skin against Ilya’s clothes. He needs them gone. Needs hands on Shane without anything in between anymore. Ilya drags him close with a hand around his waist, thighs folded on either side of his hips in the chair, and then stands to walk them the few feet to the mattress.
He gets Shane on his stomach, rids him of his boxers and finds the lube, leans over to press his chest against Shane’s back while he traces slick digits around the tight entrance of his body. He presses a kiss to Shane’s shoulder blade at one, sinks his teeth in at two. At three, with Shane close to falling apart on the sheets beneath him, Ilya takes his fingers away.
Slowly so he doesn’t get dizzy, Ilya turns him back over and pulls until Shane is sitting upright at the edge of the mattress, swaying into Ilya’s orbit. His head drops forward against Ilya’s stomach, and Ilya grabs both of his wrists and lifts them, presses them to his own chest so that Shane can feel his body heat. They work open the remaining buttons together, Shane’s fingers uncharacteristically shaky and Ilya’s unnaturally still, balanced in a new way.
As soon as the shirt falls from his shoulders Shane is pushing into his stomach, lips sliding clumsily across his abs and his navel, through the hair trailing down into his pants. Ilya reaches for the button and zipper of his slacks and undoes them, lets Shane press his face there too.
Minutes later, Ilya tangles his fingers into his hair and pulls him away, the fabric of his boxers completely slick through with Shane’s spit, the head of his cock peeking out of the band at the top from how desperately his face had pushed against the material. He whines at the loss, dazed and needy, and Ilya bends in half to kiss him flat onto his back while he shoves his pants and ruined boxers the rest of the way off.
He grabs the nearest condom, rips it open and rolls it onto himself. He’s hard enough that it aches, thinks maybe he has been since his fingers were in Shane’s mouth earlier, and Shane is no better. Ilya runs a knuckle up the underside of his cock just to watch the way it jumps and makes him shiver, just to appreciate the way his excitement drools into a mess at his hip as he says Ilya’s name.
He shoves Shane’s knees over his forearms, presses his palms flat to the mattress, leans down to kiss him until he’s folded in half. He nips at Shane’s jaw, moves up to his ear, tells him to wrap his arms around Ilya’s shoulders tight. And then they’re moving again.
“I want to fuck you here,” Ilya says when Shane’s back is pressed against the wall of the partition. “Will you let me?”
Words seem to have evaporated, but Shane answers in other ways. His face pinches up like he might come at the thought alone, cock kicking between their stomachs, and he nods so fast Ilya has to keep him from hitting his head. When Ilya doesn’t immediately start fucking him, he whines again.
“You will have to be my hands, malysh,” Ilya presses into his cheek, tightening his grip underneath Shane’s ass in warning, keeping him spread open and slick and waiting. “Go on. Show me where you need me.”
His weight feels good in Ilya’s hands. Solid, heavy, enough to keep him constantly reminded of the depth of what he’s carrying.
Slightly delayed, Ilya spreads kisses along his neck until Shane processes what’s being asked of him. One of his hands unwinds from Ilya’s shoulder to reach down between them, his forehead sweat-sticky against Ilya’s cheek as his fingers grip at Ilya’s cock, another noise bitten off as he arches his spine from the wall and tucks him between his bent, spread legs.
It’s separate so much as it is the same—Ilya can feel how hard he is, how much he wants to just fuck up into the heat of Shane’s body until he comes, but there’s another feeling that takes precedence, an all-over hum of pinpoint awareness. But it’s easy this time. He knows this body like he does his own, can trust in that if nothing else. It’s control that doesn’t come with doubt, confidence that isn’t laced with fear.
His eyes, heavy and half-lidded, settle on Shane’s face and hold as the head of his cock presses up between Shane’s fingers and against his body. Ilya holds himself still, lets Shane earn it the way Ilya knows he likes. He murmurs encouragement through a few fumbling attempts, praises him accordingly when Ilya finally notches right up against his entrance and slowly slips into the slide and pulse of Shane’s body.
“There you go. Good job, moy umnik,” he sighs when Shane keens. He tilts his head to the side, pushes their mouths together so he can taste the gasp on Shane’s breath when he gives a shallow thrust.
He widens his feet, holds his weight as evenly as he can, presses Shane between the wall and his body like he can shield him from the rest of the world that way. Gravity is fucking different this way, not like when they fuck face to face or even with Shane on his knees. Every inch of Ilya’s cock bullies itself into the willingness of Shane’s body, unignorable and distinct, punching the breath from Shane’s lungs and priming Ilya’s instincts into something even sharper, softer, whatever he has to be. Right now, it feels like what he was born to fucking be.
He sinks in, finally, to the hilt, and says, “I want you to come for me.”
He doesn’t know where it comes from. Hadn’t been a logical thought before it’d left his mouth. But Ilya grips the spread of his ass with both hands, tilts his hips enough that he can pull out and fuck back into Shane hard and rough and claiming, and Shane’s mouth falls open, eyes rolling back, a flush spreading from his cheeks to his chest as he shudders and obeys.
The cup, Ilya thinks, is fucking nothing compared to this.
“Good boy,” Ilya says with a voice he hasn’t heard himself use before. He presses their foreheads together. “Good fucking boy, Shane.”
Shane loves to be fucked after an orgasm. Ilya knows this already. The sensitivity makes his brain quiet, and the pain nipping at his heels makes him a little bit of a slut. Ilya feels like he’s vibrating in his skin, mouth pulled into a shameless, panting grin as he sucks Shane’s tongue into his mouth again.
Still, he isn’t sure that he can use that word for Shane tonight. Not when he’s so willing and open, not when he’s too filthy to be anything other than something completely pure. Primal. Private. Just and only for Ilya.
He fucks Shane hard enough to feel it in his teeth, depth over speed. They breathe against each other’s mouths when the kissing stops, cross-eyed just to keep looking at each other; Ilya’s eyes on Shane’s, Shane’s on Ilya’s mouth, his jaw, the singularly focused wrinkle between his brows. He touches it with his fingers while Ilya fucks him, smooths it with his thumb, sweeps it across the line of Ilya’s lashes and then down onto his tongue for Ilya to suck and bite.
When the face to face gets to be too much, Shane’s eyes wet and his mouth quivering, his arms slide around Ilya’s shoulders again, his face in Ilya’s neck. Ilya keeps one hand underneath him and the other makes its way up his spine until it reaches the back of his head. The bend of his legs is slick over Ilya’s straining forearms. He punches his hips up into Shane a handful of times more, and then takes two steps back to the bed.
He used to be somewhat offended that Hollander couldn’t look him in the eye for very long when they did this. And maybe it had been a little bit of what he thought at first—the shame, the secrecy, the fact that if he was looking straight at something he couldn’t pretend it wasn’t there when Ilya had so badly wanted to be seen—but Ilya knows now that isn’t the case. If anything, when Shane has to look away, it means he’s feeling it even more.
So Ilya pulls out of him and lays him on the bed, his own muscles buzzing with newfound energy now that he isn’t using so much of his strength to hold Shane up. He follows Shane down to the mattress, kisses him again, turns him onto his front and pulls a pillow underneath his hips so that one thrust of Ilya’s puts his cock right back between the hot, lube-slick swells of his ass. He does it a few more times indulgently before Shane makes a noise and reaches back, evidently under the impression that Ilya wants him to do as he had earlier and guide him inside.
He grabs Shane’s wrist before he can and folds his arm, presses it against his lower back to watch the curve of his spine arch further.
“I’ve got it, malysh. Relax now.” Ilya bends to nip at the back of his ear. “All you have to do is take it.”
Shane moans, low and shaky as Ilya presses his cock down with his hand and sinks inside of him again. It makes Ilya shiver this time with how good it feels, how much sensation floods back in now that he isn’t so aware of keeping balance and staying upright. His body clutches at Ilya like a vice, and he presses a groan against the back of Shane’s neck when they’re flush together again.
The hand Ilya has pinned to his back between them wriggles its fingers, and Ilya huffs a pleased, giddy laugh as he slides his digits into the gaps between Shane’s and squeezes while he starts to rock his hips. His other one grips Shane’s hip, pets over his hair, slips around to hook two fingers back into his wet mouth. He’s angry with himself that they hadn't done this sooner, but he knows they wouldn’t have—that he wouldn’t have been ready for it. Not yet.
Heat builds low in his belly, the strain of his muscles second to the way Shane moves underneath him. He wants to make Shane come again first. It’s dangerous, the way that Ilya wants to press Shane so far down into himself that Ilya is the only way back up again. He shouldn’t want it.
He does.
He plants his knees, refuses to give up his grip on Shane’s hand as he presses it into the mattress beside his hip and blankets his body properly. He can get even deeper this way, can punch at Shane’s prostate until he’s loud enough for a noise complaint.
Ilya shoves the skin of his forearm against Shane’s mouth, says, “Bite.”
Shane does. Teeth and all as Ilya chases him down onto his elbow, a few inches lower and he’d have Shane in a headlock. The thought makes him dizzy as Shane muffles loud moans into his arm, spit spilling out the corners as he tongues at Ilya’s skin like he likes the taste.
“You will tell me when you’re close,” Ilya breathes, rolling their hips together. “You will ask me.”
Shane whines his displeasure at having to talk, but Ilya has already made up his mind. He breaks the suction of Shane’s swollen mouth against his arm and grips him by the jaw, pushing until Shane’s lips are spread and open.
“Yes,” he demands in response, fucking Shane harder now. “It has been too long since I’ve heard your voice now. Give it to me again, sweetheart. Let me hear.”
On the first try, it comes out nothing more than a broken hitch of a sob. Ilya shushes him, turns his face to lick into his mouth and urge him to try again.
“Ple—please,” he rasps, hiccupping as Ilya thrusts hard into him again. “Please, Ilya. I—I need—”
“What?” Ilya presses. He noses up the side of Shane’s neck, feels his pulse flutter underneath his palm. “What do you need, hm?”
Shane sighs, cheeks wet and eyes closed. “You. I just need you.”
Ilya slips a hand over his mouth.
“Come.”
The bed shakes with it when Shane follows orders for a second time. He drools hot against Ilya’s palm as Ilya keeps fucking him, right where he needs it, how he needs it, right every single time because what he needs is Ilya.
His legs kick, shoulders trembling as he tries to scream and can’t, because Ilya knows that too, somehow, even if Shane has never let himself get that lost in it before. He’s always careful, always hyper aware of where they are, who could be listening. But Ilya’s the only one on this whole fucking floor tonight, and he’s still selfish. He wants every noise for himself, each quake of Shane’s body for his eyes only. He needs it.
When Ilya’s fucked him all the way through it, he carefully takes his hand off of Shane’s mouth, untangles the grip of their fingers so that he can run a palm down the back of his head and rub at the muscles. Comfort and a warning all at once; we’re not done yet.
He pushes his mouth against Shane’s to make up for the emptiness as he slips out of him and rolls him onto his back again, limbs loose and malleable under Ilya’s direction. There’s spit on his mouth when they part, lips stinging as Ilya moves up his body and kneels over his chest, condom stripped off and a tight fist working over his cock above Shane’s slack, sweaty face.
“You want it?” Ilya asks, looking down at him. “You want my come?”
It’s a cheap line, but it works. Shane’s mouth drops open wide, his tongue out for the taking. Ilya leans down and spits onto it, then shoves Shane’s lips together so he’ll swallow as he moans.
“I asked you a question. Skazhi mne.”
Shane sobs as his free hand slips down to his neck again, not tight enough to restrict, just to hold. His face is a dark pink and he’s wearing Ilya’s spit on his lips, and, with everything else fucked out of him, he’s looking Ilya directly in the eye.
“I want your come,” he slurs, laying a hand over Ilya’s on his throat, trying to hold his fingers. “Please. Ilya. Je le veux tellement. Je suis à toi, Ilya.”
The shift in languages is sharp and so sweet it knocks the air from Ilya’s lungs, the cornered, disciplined edges of Ilya’s Russian and the cascade of Shane’s French. They’re both hiding things from each other, but Ilya’s never felt more split open, more laid bare.
Shane’s mouth drops open for him again, and Ilya can’t hold himself back this time. He curses and presses a thumb into Shane’s chin to hold him there as he starts to come, cock jerking in his fist, spitting white all across his mouth, a little of his neck, the stars dotted along his flushed cheekbones.
Ilya folds himself over him, touches it with his fingers, smears it with his grip, turning Shane’s face this way and that, in awe of the power he’s been given as Shane’s soft tongue cleans it from his digits. Eyes closed, content, he hums, letting Ilya press his lips all across his face while he holds onto his wrist. An anchor.
“Good boy,” he tells Shane in Russian, in English, in whatever language is closest, over and over and over again until it seems to seep like honey into his veins.
The buzz underneath Ilya’s skin has dulled into a low hum, his body lax and sated and satisfyingly sore as he eases himself down beside Shane on the mattress. He will not want to be dirty for long, but Ilya thinks he can get away with this for another few minutes first, with just appreciating. Admiring. A little longer of Shane & Ilya before they’re Hollander and Rozanov again.
He tucks his face into the curve of Shane’s shoulder, his wrist still a willing captive held up to his mouth, and closes his eyes. The words follow him with each swipe of Shane’s tongue, clinging and unfamiliar: je suis à toi, Ilya.
Just another few minutes. Then Ilya will give it up.
+
For the first time since all of this started, Ilya is the one to urge them up from the bed to wash off. Ilya would tease him about it, but neither of them are really in that sort of mood.
He spends the shower with Hollander’s weight leaned against him, letting Ilya wash his hair and his face, wipe the sweat from his body and chase the soap away with the hot water. It’s only toward the end of it that he begins to come back to himself a little, that he reaches for the body wash before Ilya can put it back on the shelf, that he flicks his eyes tentatively back up to Ilya’s face in silent question.
Ilya has not been washed by someone else since he was a child, but he gives in easily. The outside world is waiting but within the glass walls of the shower it is warm and hazy, and Hollander’s hands are gentle when they spread out over his shoulders, when they scrub into his hair. Ilya tilts his chin to his chest and watches soap circle the drain.
It is quiet when the water cuts off, quiet as they step into towels and clothes again. There are wrapped toothbrushes in the drawer underneath the sink, and Ilya passes Hollander one and keeps the other for himself, taking turns spitting foamy spearmint underneath the tap.
Back out in the suite, Hollander idles between the bathroom and the bed, his eyes straying toward the armchair, the window, Ilya’s dress shoes. He twists the hem of his borrowed shirt between his fingers.
“Thank you,” he says faintly. “I, um. I’m feeling much better now, I can probably—”
“No,” Ilya says, momentarily struck by the panic that seizes his chest. He blinks, his own eyes just as wide as Hollander’s. “I mean. I thought you would stay.”
Hollander shuffles on his feet, the room quiet enough with the AC off that Ilya can hear his throat click when he swallows. He looks at his feet. Ilya looks at the fresh underlayer of cold sheets.
“Stay. Please.”
“I have to get up early,” Hollander warns, but he takes one step closer.
“Set an alarm,” Ilya says.
Another step. “It’s probably a bad idea.”
“It cannot be worse than the usual ones.”
At that, one corner of Hollander’s mouth lifts, only a little. Ilya traces it with his eyes. His fingers twitch. Hollander moves forward again.
When he’s only inches away Ilya reaches out and grabs his wrist, and Hollander finds whatever permission he’d needed to drop his head back against Ilya’s collarbone with a sigh.
“Is this going to make everything worse?”
“Maybe,” Ilya confesses over Hollander’s shoulder. “But. It was… good, yes?”
He huffs a breathy laugh, warm across Ilya’s skin. His hair is still wet when Ilya’s fingertips brush against it. “Yeah. It was good.”
“So. Stay.”
Something in Ilya’s tone gives way, and Hollander pulls his head up, Ilya’s hand falling from his neck as he looks up at him. The two syllables are enough to give him away evidently, and Ilya’s own words ring in his ears from earlier this afternoon, incriminating himself. Maybe I need too, yes?
Hollander seems to remember them at the same time. He searches Ilya’s face for a moment, brows pulling together, before reaching down to grab Ilya’s wrist and move them toward the bed.
The vibrating, the hum, the rattle of fear at the thought of him leaving, it all goes quiet when they’re finally underneath the sheets, legs tangled enough that Hollander can’t go without him noticing. Ilya is clutching his shirt too tightly, but he can’t make himself let go.
“Thank you,” Shane whispers, so softly it feels like a punch. Like a slam to the boards. Ilya squeezes his eyes closed when Hollander’s lips press to the center of his forehead. “Thank you, Ilya.”
He wants to run. He wants a cigarette. He wants to ask Hollander to repeat whatever he’d said to him earlier, his secret words that Ilya hasn’t earned the privilege of uncovering the meaning of yet.
“Sleep,” he says instead, nothing but rasp, a coward.
Hollander presses one last kiss to the top of his chest and tells him, “Yes, Ilya.”
Like pressing on a bruise. Like he knows Ilya needs to hear it. Something stubborn in the repetition, something achingly vulnerable in the surrender. A command of his own.
He can’t be certain whose he’s following anymore when he closes his eyes and tucks Hollander into his chest, but his breath comes a little easier with the confirmation. Hollander is staying. He’s not furious with Ilya. Ilya hadn’t taken it too far, hadn’t gotten it wrong.
We’ll talk later, they’d said, but when Hollander’s alarm goes off hours later Ilya pretends to be sleeping, pretends he does not feel the hand that Hollander uses to push the hair back from his face, the little sigh he gives before he goes.
Later, when Ilya is packing for his own flight out, he saves the shoes for last. Slips them gingerly on top and between other soft things that won’t scuff them, won’t scratch the memory.
He zips up the suitcase, and he thinks about next time the whole flight home.