"So," hissed Hastur, "time to go, Crowley."
"I think there's something you ought to know," said Crowley, stalling for time.
"And that is?" smiled Hastur.
His senses come back to him slowly. He hears the low hum of the brown noise machine Shane insisted they needed, that Ilya now cannot sleep without. The room is perfectly cool, and Ilya’s snuggled down beneath his favorite blanket. And best of all, Shane is tucked up close behind him, warm and heavy, one arm draped across Ilya's waist, soft breaths stirring the hair at the nape of Ilya's neck. Through half-lidded eyes, Ilya sees gray-blue light just beginning to filter through the curtains. The suitcases they abandoned earlier that night cast lumpy shadows on the floor. Early is all his brain supplies before he starts to drift off again.
But then he feels what woke him.
Behind him, Shane’s hips are twitching, and the hot, hard length of him is pressed against Ilya’s ass. Ilya’s not totally surprised. Their energy after a win often results in a fast, hard fuck. But tonight they’d been too tired from the roadie to do more than exchange a few soft kisses around their yawns before sleep claimed them both. Except now Ilya’s awake. And even though his limbs are heavy and his eyes are like sandpaper, he’s struck by the thought that Shane is here, right here, sleep-warm and restless and needing him.
Ilya still has days when he feels like pinching himself. He’s just had one of those days, actually, what with the win and the team celebration that followed, and Shane. Always, always Shane. First, a blur of speed on the ice, later a steady presence by his side. It’s more than Ilya ever dreamed he’d have. So why shouldn’t he let himself have it?
Ilya turns under Shane’s arm to face him. The light is too dim to see much, but Ilya has gazed at Shane’s freckles enough to map them even in total darkness. He runs his thumb over them now, the lightest touch, and follows his thumb with his mouth. His mind clears enough to register the soft whimpers escaping between Shane's parted lips. Ilya wonders what Shane is dreaming about to get him like this, so hard and needy even in his sleep.
Gently, Ilya slips a knee between Shane’s thighs, puts a firm hand on Shane’s lower back to guide his thrusts, kissing kissing kissing over his freckles as he moves Shane where he wants him. Maybe it’s the kisses, or the movement of his hips, but Shane wakes with a slurred, “Wassit?” as his eyes flutter open.
“Shh, sweetheart,” Ilya whispers between kisses. “It’s ok. I’ve got you.” Ilya reaches down to cup his hand around Shane’s straining cock. Shane’s mouth drops open, and his hips fuck down into the firm pressure of Ilya’s palm.
“Oh, oh, Ilya,” Shane groans, voice low and gravelly from sleep.
Ilya wiggles his eyebrows and teases, “Hmmm, malysh, were you dreaming of this? Of me?” Ilya moves his hand away to press his own cock right up against Shane’s.
Shane whines as he speeds up the thrust of his hips. He pulls Ilya in for a kiss, hungry and sloppy and perfect.
Ilya could finish this here, just let Shane rut against him until he comes. He lets the thought drift away. Shane would hate the mess, and Ilya has a plan. So he takes control of the kiss, cradling Shane’s head and coaxing him onto his back. The movement rocks Ilya’s hips down against Shane’s, and he lets out a needy whimper.
“I know, I know, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you. Just relax, ok?” Ilya says, pressing a kiss to Shane’s heart before moving lower.
“Yeah,” Shane sighs, “ok, Ilya.” His eyes drift shut.
In the pale gray light and the hush of the room, Ilya feels like he might be dreaming. All he knows is Shane: his smell, his heat, his taste. He breathes in deep as he noses over soft cotton, feeling Shane's cock twitch and jerk beneath him. He runs his tongue over the wet spot on the front of Shane’s boxers. Just a taste, but enough for a soft moan to slip from Ilya's throat. Shane often wants Ilya to rush this part, to skip right to the point when Ilya takes him deep in his throat. And when Shane is groaning and arching his hips up toward Ilya’s mouth and gasping out, “please, Ilya, need it, need you,” well, it’s not always easy to resist. But with Shane like this, all loose-limbed and hazy, Ilya lingers, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the covered length of Shane’s cock.
“Mmhm, s’good. Love you, baby,” Shane mumbles, carding clumsy fingers through Ilya’s hair.
“Shane,” Ilya groans, the cotton barrier between them suddenly unbearable. He tugs Shane’s boxers down enough to get a palm full of Shane’s ass and a loose fist around his cock. Ilya’s lips chase his thumb again, this time brushing across where Shane is wet and leaking at the tip. Shane gasps and spreads his thighs in invitation, but Ilya keeps things simple, all gentle licks of his tongue and the easy press of his lips. Soon, it’s more than Shane can stand. His hand grabs Ilya’s in a hard squeeze, like words are beyond him. Still, Ilya knows what Shane needs, can almost hear Shane begging, more, more, Ilya, please.
Shane’s moaning with every breath when Ilya finally takes him fully into his mouth. Ilya works him over slowly with long, hard sucks that are loud in the stillness of the room. It lights Shane up, draws out tight ah, ah, ahs that nearly make Ilya lose his rhythm. But Shane's thighs are tense and trembling, and Ilya knows it won’t be long now.
The room is bright enough for Ilya to see Shane biting at his lower lip, his free hand clenched in the sheets, his eyes soft and wide and fixed on Ilya. Their eyes meet as Ilya swallows Shane down again, and Shane’s tossing his head and groaning out, “Ilya, oh fuck, thank you, thank you.” He sounds more awake than he has all night as he spills down Ilya’s throat.
Ilya keeps his mouth on Shane’s cock and shoves a hand into his own boxers, giving a few desperate tugs before he comes over his fist with a groan. Shane’s still catching his breath when Ilya brings his messy hand to Shane’s lips and whispers, “Time to clean up, malysh.” Shane’s mouth opens at once, dragging his tongue over Ilya’s fingers and palm.
“There you go." Ilya brushes his clean hand over Shane's cheek. “So good for me.”
Shane lets out a contented hum as his eyes flutter shut. "Love you, Ilya."
Later, they'll wake up again, tangled around each other in the brightness of the morning. Ilya will pull Shane closer, and Shane will smile and bury his face in Ilya’s chest. “So,” Ilya will say, pressing a kiss into his hair, “tell me about this dream of yours.”
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I’m back with more overstimulated Shane thoughts because they won’t leave me alone.
Maybe it’s a rare day when their schedules coincide and there’s nothing to do but be together. They still get up early anyway, don’t want to waste a minute together. At first it’s a typical morning: wake up, workout, shower, where they trade mutual blowjobs because they just can’t help it, need a little something to take the edge off. But then Ilya’s running his fingers over Shane’s softening cock and saying, “How many could you give me, do you think?” and Shane’s heart drops into his stomach. He knows Ilya will have a number in mind, and if he shoots too low it won't be good for him. So he stutters out, “I, uh, f-five. I can do five.” Five feels like a good number. Respectable. He’s never done five.
But then Ilya says, “hmm…I think we try for six.”
“Six?” Shane’s tongue feels too big for his mouth.
“Yes, Shane. Six.” His eyes are a challenge.
“Ok, Ilya,” and then Ilya’s patting his cheek and saying “my good boy,” and that’s, yeah. That’s good.
So Ilya helps Shane out of the shower and dries them both off because Shane’s already feeling a little fuzzy, clingy.
Ilya: My fetish is saying some incredibly stupid shit and watching Shane speedrun the five stages of grief as he realizes with horror that he still wants me to fuck him.
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