mean dom ilya + ruined orgasm <3
ilya's hand is heavy on the back of shane's head. shane has his eyes closed against a pillow—ilya's, because it's the smell of his shampoo in shane's nose—and his mouth open over it, saliva dripping viscous and unheeded from his lower lip onto the sodden pillowcase. he doesn't have it in him to worry how ilya will react to a wet pillow when it's time for them to sleep. if he'll punish shane for it. he's too busy worrying how ilya is intending to punish him now. his hips are working in a way that is more reward than reprimand—brutal and brisk, punching himself deep inside shane, never once missing his sweet spot—which doesn't make sense after shane failed at the task ilya set him earlier. ilya is, for the most part, fair. and when he isn't, he doesn't err on the side of generosity.
it's tangling the signals in shane's body, confusing him. over everything there is mind-numbing pleasure. shane's orgasm is a gargantuan wave he's been watching approach, in awe, for minutes on end. ilya is doing what he does to shane when he wants shane incoherent, lost to anything that isn't ilya's cock inside him, and shane is getting there. he's almost useless. but under everything there is trepidation. anticipation. the flighty distrust of a prey creature being shown grace from a hunter. shane knows there is another shoe, hovering. he can see its shadow over him. but the anxiety over this future pain is grappling chaotically with the relentless relief of his current pleasure. in the end the present moment wins out by just a little.
"you are close to coming, shlyukha? hmm?" ilya's open palm curls into a fist within shane's hair. the pull and sting adds to the riot of sensation in shane's body. "you are whining like a dog in heat. fucking desperate. you need to stain the bed? you need to make it dirty for me? tell me."
"y-es," shane says. he sounds drunk. he feels it. if ilya ordered him to his feet he'd be swaying into the furniture.
"my sweet slut. don't know anything when I fuck you this good. ah? all you know is how to take it." ilya bottoms out, vicious, and shane yells into the bedding. ilya says, "tell me when you're coming." shane doesn't answer. can't. his head jerks back sharply in ilya's grip. "hollander."
"yes—yes," shane says. he's losing his sense of things now. there is only pleasure, rising and rising. "I'm—I think I'm—now, now, coming n—"
shane's vision floods with tears. his jaw drops in silent agony. his cock jerks and releases come onto the sheets below him, and his hole clenches down around nothing, nothing, nothing—because ilya pulled out. all the way out. just when shane needed him most.
his sobs sound calamitous, even to his own ears, even as he continues coming, not a single part of ilya on a single part of him. it feels wrong being rocked by an orgasm while being so completely untouched. it feels like his body is attacking itself, helpless after ilya set it off, helpless until it does what nature programmed it to do. spread his seed. dirty the bed.
"there, lyubimyy." ilya's voice, filtering through the fog shrouding shane's brain. shane whimpers piteously. done spending himself, he puts his forehead on his knuckles and heaves with his sobs. a touch registers on his hips, and then over his stomach, and then ilya's whole body is blanketing itself over shane's and shane is crying even harder. he'd needed it so much. "shhh, shhh," ilya says into his ear. "it's okay, lyubimyy—I know, I know. but this is what you wanted, isn't it? you didn't want to come on my cock earlier, so I let you come without it."
shane releases a broken sound into ilya's arm, understanding. it's a cruel interpretation of what happened. ilya had driven three orgasms from shane's body before even fucking him, and while fucking him had told shane to come again, but only from his cock. shane can give more to ilya than to anyone else in the world, but there's a limit to everything, and his body had hit its own. ilya didn't want to hear his excuses, after. if you really wanted to you would have done it, schenok.
so shane doesn't repeat them now. instead he says, "yes, sir" in russian. then, "thank you" in english, before the tear tracks have even dried on his face. ilya hums, satisfied.
"anything for you, moy lyubov," he says, and kisses him sweet.
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