married hollanov | 5.2k words | intercrural sex feat. hudson william's slutty little white shorts from the met gala after party | say thank you @soldieronbarnes | read on ao3.
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Ilya hums against his ear. His breath stirs the hairs at Shane’s temples, a soft, tingling little sensation that has Shane shivering as much as the ten hot points of pressure of Ilya’s fingers on either of his thighs, bare skin on bare skin. “What do we have here?”
Shane shifts lightly but he doesn’t have much room to move. Ilya’s chest is pressed up against his shoulder blades, his torso molded to the line of Shane’s spine, perfectly. The heat of his body is searing, making Shane dizzy; or maybe it’s the proximity and the way Ilya has trapped him between his body and the kitchen counter, using his presence, his weight, to pin Shane where he wants him.
Ilya’s fingers dip under the hem of Shane’s shorts, not even riding up the fabric—not that there is much to ride up anyway—just toying with it a little, running his knuckles over skin with a featherlight touch.
“Hm?” Ilya prompts, punctuating it with a gentle tug of Shane’s earlobe with his teeth.
Shane wets his lips and turns his head. “My stylist sent me new stuff to try.”
“Ah,” Ilya says. He hooks his chin over Shane’s shoulder then and trails his fingers along the hem, to the back of Shane’s leg, lifting the fabric there just a bit, barely enough to graze his knuckles just below Shane’s ass. “And where would you wear these to?”
His tone is casual, almost disinterested, but the trails of his fingers against Shane’s skin set him ablaze.
“Just…out,” Shane answers.
Ilya hums again, lower this time, closer to a growl. Goosebumps scatter across Shane’s skin.
“Mh-hmm,” Ilya says, in that tone of his that’s half disbelief, half mocking. “‘Just out’? Without underwear, too?” Shane feels his flush travel all the way from his ears to his chest. “And then what? Cause a multi-car pile up? Terrorize horny teenagers? Get a public indecency charge? You do like to make headlines.”
Shane wants to huff out a laugh but it comes out entirely breathy, on the verge of a moan, when Ilya pushes in even closer, his cock a hard, hot line against Shane’s ass.
“I can already see it,” Ilya continues and his lips brush Shane’s ear as he talks. His hands slide back around and over Shane’s quads, below the hem of the shorts, before drifting to the sensitive insides of his thighs, fingertips digging into muscle. “‘MHL star Shane Hollander causes series of accidents wearing slutty white satin shorts.’ ‘Scandalous: Canada’s golden boy Shane Hollander charged with public indecency.’”
Shane swallows a gasp but the shudder he can’t conceal. Ilya noses behind his ear, dipping his head down to mouth at his neck, and Shane is sure he can feel his pulse pounding against his lips. “Fuck off, they’re silk.”
“Oh, sorry. Silk shorts.” There’s a grin in his voice, and when he scrapes his teeth over Shane’s pulse point, the gasps slip out before Shane can catch them. “So you agree?”
“Agree?” It’s getting harder and harder to focus on words when Ilya is pushing, pushing, pushing him until the counter is pressing hard against Shane’s hipbones. Everywhere Ilya touches him leaves behind a pool of embers ready to ignite.
“Your silk shorts,” Ilya says, slowly, as if to make sure Shane understands him, “They are slutty.”
Shane scoffs, or at least he thinks he does. It comes out breathy. “They’re shorts,” he manages out as Ilya licks at the hinge of his jaw. His whole body jolts when Ilya slides his hand up under the inseam of the shorts, knuckles grazing Shane’s balls ever so lightly. “Fuck. I have worn shorts before.”
Ilya hums in agreement. “Yes. I know.” His hands come up to Shane’s hips to slide the tips of his fingers into the waistband of the shorts, firm and teasing and maddening and not nearly enough at all. “People have talked about you in shorts a lot. You have not seen because you are, how do you say, chronically offline.”
Shane grins at the tone in his voice. He covers Ilya’s hands with his own and pushes back against his hips, luxuriating in the delicious pressure of Ilya’s hard cock against him, pressing at the cleft of his ass where it belongs. Shane’s own dick is throbbing already, trapped between the shorts and just below the countertop. “Yeah? What did they say?”
“They said they never realized how hot you are until you married me.”
“Fuck off, that’s not what they said.”
Ilya’s fingertips dip deeper, grazing the crown of Shane’s dick just so, and Shane’s hips buck. He presses his grin against the back of Shane’s neck and pulls his hands out from under Shane’s. Strong fingers wrap around his wrists and Shane is glad for Ilya pushing at his back because he’s sure his knees would give out otherwise.
“They said your super hot husband rubbed off on you,” Ilya murmurs against his ear. He flattens Shane’s palms against the countertop before he runs his fingers up Shane’s arms, over his biceps, to his shoulders, down his sides, leaving goosebumps in their wake and drawing another shudder out of Shane.
“Mh, yes, he did. Countless times.”
Ilya growls playfully and squeezes his pec, and Shane chokes on his chuckle when a thumb rubs over his nipple with precise pressure, sending jolt after jolt straight to his dick. Shane exhales shuddery as Ilya kisses a hot trailing line across his shoulders. One of his hands snakes down to Shane’s crotch, tips of his fingers dancing over the line of his straining cock until they find the head. Slowly, with a barely there touch, Ilya traces his thumb around the outline, and Shane tries to shift, chase the feeling, get more pressure. Ilya’s hips pin him harder against the counter and his finger disappears.
A whine crawls up Shane’s throat one second and morphs into a choked off moan the next when Ilya grabs a fistful of the shorts’ fabric, pulling it tight across Shane’s dick. His other hand worms under Shane’s tank, palming over his stomach, his sternum, his chest, rucking it up in the process.
Ilya moves his hand, the one sunk into the leg of his shorts, dragging the fabric over Shane’s cock. It’s a maddening tease, not nearly enough, nowhere close to what Shane wants, what he fucking needs, but his dick is leaking anyway, wetting the fabric, creating a different kind of friction, and Shane groans, head falling forward, hips trying to grind forward, back, just move, get—more.
“Do you really want to know what other people said about you and your slutty little shorts?” Ilya asks, his voice a low rumble that settles over Shane like a weighted blanket. “Or do you want to know,” he starts again—a bite just below the hinge of Shane’s jaw, a rough exhale, “what I told them I would do to you and your slutty little shorts? What I told them you would beg me to do?”
Shane’s breath catches in his throat. His heart pounds loudly in his ears, the heat of his own body and Ilya’s against his back suddenly almost unbearable. The words make his stomach clench and fingers press down hard against the countertop. He can’t help the whine that scrapes from his throat: at the words, at the way Ilya’s let go of the shorts and is now curling his fingers around the crown of Shane’s dick over the fabric, already soaked through.
It’s a fantasy Ilya loves to indulge him in, whenever he catches Shane in it. Half a fantasy, really, maybe, sometimes Shane isn’t sure how far Ilya really goes with his anonymous accounts, but right now it doesn’t matter. Right now, Shane wants to know what Ilya told the world about him, his slut of a husband, and that—it makes him burn, both with a sense of shame, and a hunger that is only ever sated, temporarily, by the satisfaction and pleasure Ilya grants him.
“Shane.” Ilya’s voice cuts cleanly through the haze in his head, punctuated by a slow, hard grind against his ass.
There are fingers at his face now, on his cheek, the line of his jaw, turning his head. Ilya’s dark gaze hits him like a freight train, always does, the bottomless desire in his eyes settling something deep inside Shane.
Ilya holds him steady as he leans in. He licks over Shane’s bottom lip and then into his mouth, deep, just once, and Shane might vibrate out of his skin or go deep under, the sensation of it making him dizzy. His lips are spit-slick, the air cool against the wetness, once Ilya withdraws, tipping Shane’s head back a little to catch his eyes again.
Shane makes a soft noise, from somewhere deep, when Ilya raises his eyebrows at him. “Tell me,” Shane says, or—slurs, maybe, whines. “What you told them.” He feels shivery despite the heat of his skin, the searing points of contact of Ilya’s fingers on his face. “About me.”
Ilya snaps the waistband of his shorts against Shane’s hip—a spark against the embers—and the sensation ripples through him. Shane feels boneless, his whole body nearly going limp against Ilya’s. Being held up so easily, so effortlessly like that, despite his own bulk, never fails to strike something deep inside him. There is something animalistic in it, the way Ilya could grab him, push him, pin him; how Shane can meet him beat for beat but chooses to yield more often than not; how sometimes, Ilya makes him feel like he truly can overpower him, force his submission, and how that makes Shane’s vision fuzzy around the edges and his head so empty he doesn’t even remember his own fucking name.
A slow, dangerous smile spreads over Ilya’s face. He leans in again for a kiss and this one is deep, sloppy; the kind of kiss that feels like Ilya wants to consume him—Shane would let him—while swallowing up the little, needy noises Shane can’t help but make in his throat.
Ilya’s mouth looks as wet and swollen as Shane’s feels once he withdraws. It enticing enough to make Shane lean in again, kiss him again, lick and bite at his lips, Ilya’s hand still on his face, and his tongue meets Shane’s, pushes it back between Shane’s teeth, kissing and sucking and biting at him until Shane is moaning with each breath.
Shane is panting by the time Ilya pulls back. He smirks when Shane makes a frustrated sound, trying to chase his mouth, and says, “Let’s not get sidetracked, yes?”
Ilya lets go of his face and uses his other hand to tip Shane’s head back against his shoulder, fingers drifting softly over his forehead, his hair, before he cups Shane’s chin briefly, runs a thumb over his bottom lip. His palm slides down then, over Shane’s exposed throat, soft pressure to his Adam's apple, to the base, and Shane’s knees almost give out.
Teasing fingers dance down the line of his body, grazing at the skin where it meets the waistband of his shorts. Ilya leans his own cheek against Shane’s and it would be sweet if it wasn’t for his hand sliding deeper to scrape blunt nails over the fabric over Shane’s now desperately aching dick. It tears a keen from his throat and another dribble of precome from his cock. Shane doesn’t need to see to know the front of his shorts is utterly soaked.
“Where were we?” Ilya asks conversationally, almost, but Shane hears the slight hitch in his voice. Ilya’s hips sway a little, moving them both just so, two magnets, one motion. “Ah, yes. Me telling all the people thirsting over you on the internet what a slut you are for me.”
Ilya says it so sweetly and Shane can feel his lips moving against his jaw and his fingers are still lightly dragging up and down Shane’s dick and he’s so close and not close at all and Ilya is toying with him.
Ilya’s low hum runs through Shane’s body like an earthquake. “I said I wouldn’t even wait to get you to bed. How I would get on my knees and suck you through your little shorts until your dick was hard and leaking and straining. I told them how you would moan so prettily for me, how you would make these beautiful, breathless little noises, and how flushed you would look. How pink your cheeks would be. Your freckles…” For a moment, Ilya’s hand leaves its spot at the base of his neck to draw his fingers over Shane’s cheek, across the bridge of his nose, before returning to settle heavily at the hollow of his throat. “And all these people that were reading, they asked for more.”
Shane feels his pulse stutter and his flush, impossibly, deepen.
“So then I told them how I would get you on the bed and how you would spread your legs for me,” he murmurs against the side of Shane’s face. His hand leaves his dick—Shane whines at the loss—and moves down to the inside of his thigh. His fingers tease at the inseam before they dig into the muscle, pushing, pushing, pushing until Shane clumsily spreads his legs a little. Blunt nails bite into his skin, leaving tingling imprints for sure, maybe enough to bruise.
Shane’s legs tremble. He turns his head a little on Ilya’s shoulder and Ilya licks at the corner of his mouth.
“Said your slutty little shorts would be bunched around your thighs and stretch tight over your dick,” Ilya continues. He hooks his chin over Shane’s shoulder as he idly brushes his knuckles along the inseam of the shorts. It’s a slow and teasing touch, one designed to drive Shane out of his mind, feeling like moving to strike a match but not hard enough to ignite it.
Shane hears himself make a truly ridiculous sound: something needy, from deep within his body, a noise straight out of porn.
“Told them how you would already be begging for my cock.” Ilya pushes his hand up and under the hem of the shorts. It’s a tight fit: between Shane’s dick, Ilya’s fingers and the hard stretch of the shorts the touch creates pressure. Enough so that Shane can feel his own pulse where Ilya’s fingers are dragging along a vein in his cock; enough to make Shane’s hip buck again. Another obscene sound crawls up his throat.
“W-what else?” There’s a tremor in Shane’s voice. He’s not even sure he really gets the words out fully articulated, stuck halfway between his tongue and vocal chords. A shudder runs through him when Ilya presses his thumb into his pulse point and Shane’s heartbeat cracks like thunder underneath.
Ilya sucks wet, messy kisses up the line of his neck and to his jaw. “They asked if I’d give it to you and I said that I could not ever deny you my dick.”
Shane mewls. Which he would be embarrassed about if he had the wherewithal to care about it but Ilya is pulling his hand back out of his shorts, and Shane’s cock is a throbbing, aching mess, and Ilya is doing nothing about it.
“Ilya—”
“Told them how you would be so impatient with me while I was getting us both ready. How I wouldn’t even let you take off your slutty shorts.” Ilya shifts behind him and grinds his own erection against Shane’s ass. “How I would fuck your hole through your shorts first. Not much, of course, just a little, just the tip.”
“Fuck,” Shane moans. He pushes back against him, trembling at the sensation of Ilya’s dick pressing into the cleft of his ass through his shorts. It’s too much and not enough all at the same time. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“Get you all worked up until all you could say is ‘please, please, Ilya, please’,” Ilya says and fuck, Shane is dangerously close to just repeating that plea.
Ilya licks a stripe across Shane’s jawline. The hand at his throat skims down and back under his top, all the way back up to his chest, while the other palms at the inside of his thigh, close to Shane’s groin, his balls. Lazily, he rubs a thumb over Shane’s nipple and the rough drag of it is striking, hard-wired to his dick that pulses out another string of precome.
It occurs to Shane’s pleasure-hazy brain that that’s exactly what Ilya wants, what he’s waiting for: to hear Shane beg, for real.
He lolls his head on Ilya’s shoulder—it’s easier than to lift it, he doesn’t even know if he could, gooey as he feels—and looks at him. His lips, at first, because they’re in his eyeline: they’re swollen, shiny, reddened from Shane’s five o’clock shadow, and Shane strains for a kiss. Ilya, luckily, indulges him, and there’s a hand back at Shane’s neck, gently curling at his throat, below his jaw, to tip his head just so, and Shane’s entire body goes boneless.
Ilya laughs softly against his lips as he shifts a little to catch Shane’s weight, strong body catching him, holding him, and it’s so fucking hot, Shane is so fucking hot—
“Ilya.” He pants into Ilya’s open mouth. “Please.”
Ilya drags his tongue across Shane’s upper lip. “M-hm, just like that,” he says against Shane’s mouth, pressing a sloppy kiss to it. “So sweet, so perfect. My Shane.”
Shane groans. His palms slide over the countertop, squeaking, and he flexes his fingers, resisting the urge to lift his hands.
“Good boy,” Ilya whispers against his ear and, oh, Shane feels dizzy.
Below his shirt, Ilya flattens his palm to Shane’s skin and slides it from his chest down to his stomach, while his other hand returns to Shane’s dick to cup it through the shorts. The press of hot skin through wet fabric makes Shane realize how utterly drenched he is. That does make him lift his head off Ilya’s shoulder to look down at himself and—
He makes another obscene noise at the sight. The shorts are nearly translucent with wetness. The head of his dick is poking out from where the rest of it is covered by Ilya’s hand, shimmering through in a startling red, and that, too, is obscene. Shane’s entire body heaves with his breaths.
Ilya’s fingers slide over the head of his cock; it makes Shane whimper from how much he needs to come. But Ilya withdraws his hand again because there’s barely anything that he loves more than teasing Shane until he’s incoherent.
“And when you’ve begged me like that,” Ilya starts again as he slides his hands up over Shane’s ribs, pressing, pushing against them at each shuddering inhale. “Begged me and begged me, of course I could not deny you. And you know what they said?”
Shane shakes his head. “Tell me,” he says; mouths, really, barely making a sound.
“They said I was too easy. That they would hold out, wait, make you work for it. But you know what I think? I think they all couldn’t deny you either. They would all be so easy for you. So eager to give you what you want.”
Shane drops his head back against Ilya’s shoulder as shudder after shudder wrack him; gasping moan after gasping moan pulled from his lungs. He feels so close to the edge and so far away from it at the same time. His body is a live wire under Ilya’s hands and all Ilya does is ramp up the charge.
Or maybe it’s Ilya who’s the live wire, sending shock after shock after shock through Shane’s body, galvanizing him until he is helpless but to do whatever it is Ilya wants.
“I said I would turn you over, chest down and ass up, your favourite position, giving it all up for me.”
Shane groans low, guttural and pushes back against Ilya again. The heat of his cock against Shane’s ass is tantalizing, promising, and Shane wants.
“Told them I’d fuck you.” The way Ilya says fuck runs through Shane like a hot knife through butter. “Would pull aside your shorts and make you take it like that. Fuck you and fuck you and fuck you.”
Shane curses and squirms. It doesn’t matter that what Ilya’s saying is practically impossible, he doesn’t care, because the mere idea sparks red-hot want in his gut. Ilya’s hands have slid down, one cupping his hip and the other is at his ass, fingers questing along the inseam to his twitching hole.
“Ah! Fuck.” Shane pushes back and whines when Ilya withdraws his fingers again. “Ilya, c’mon.”
Ilya tsks at him. “You said to tell you, not show you.”
Shane huffs in frustration. “Rozanov.” He means it to sound like a warning. It comes out like a plea.
Shane feels him grin where he’s pressing his face against the side of Shane’s neck. Ilya’s fingers trace the spot where Shane’s ass meets his thigh, a lazy back and forth that draws another frustrated noise from him. He presses a kiss to Shane’s ear. The soft rustle of clothes and a quiet hiss from Ilya tell him that Ilya’s shoved his own pants and underwear down. His cock feels hot and heavy against the regretfully still clothed cleft of Shane’s ass.
“Always so impatient.” Ilya’s hand curls at Shane’s hip, the other at his own cock. “Don’t worry, Hollander, I will show you what I would do in reality.”
Shane’s retort dies on his tongue when Ilya squeezes his dick up the inseam of Shane’s shorts, bumping the head against his hole: a tease so tantalizing that whatever Shane has meant to say comes out garbled.
“Always so needy,” Ilya adds. There’s a different quality to his voice now: it’s lower, rougher, coloured by his own desire. He brushes the tip of his cock over Shane’s hole. There’s a splash of wetness as Ilya spurts precome, and all the air rushes out of Shane’s lungs on a moan.
Shane is pretty sure he can feel his pulse in his dick. “Always need you,” he pants. Distantly, he feels his own precome slide down his leg; the fabric of his shorts soaked all the way through, not absorbing the wetness any longer. He screws his eyes shut. “Please. Ilya, need you, please—”
Ilya’s answering moan may be one of the hottest things Shane’s ever heard.
“Fuck, Shane,” he groans. One of his hands pushes Shane’s legs back together while he gropes around for the drawer that has the lube. His cock slips out from under Shane’s shorts and it’s a loss Shane can’t help but whine at.
Ilya shushes him as he slicks himself up, the wet sounds echoing loudly in Shane’s ears, his body poised and waiting. And then Ilya’s guiding his cock between Shane’s thighs, hips pushing and pushing and pushing until Shane’s hips are pinned firmly against the counter. Shane squeezes his legs tighter and shudders out another moan when he feels Ilya’s dick throb between them.
“Yeah, like that, Shane, fuck—” Ilya’s mouth drags over his ear and his hands are everywhere: on his hips, his chest, his stomach, at his neck, in his hair, anywhere they can reach and grab and leave burning marks that pull whine after whimper from Shane.
Each thrust nudges the tip of Ilya’s cock against Shane’s balls and each time, it feels like cinders against his skin, white-hot and blistering. He’s constantly making sounds now, an endless stream of little noises that just fall from his mouth, egged on by the heavy pants and low groans that Ilya presses into his shoulders, his neck, his ears.
Ilya’s hands grip the counter next to Shane’s hips and he changes his pace from fast, shallow snaps to slow, deep thrusts. The sound is dulled by the fabric between their skin but even that is hot in a way that burns Shane up from inside. He drops his chin to his chest, vaguely aware that his mouth is open too, and a moan falls from it as if it’s being ripped out. The drag of Ilya’s cock between his thighs is spine-meltingly hot. Shane feels reduced to that single sensation.
“Ah, fuck, Jesus Christ.” Shane arches on a particularly hard thrust that grinds his hip bones against the edge of the counter and slams the head of Ilya’s cock against his sac just so. The insides of his thighs feel drenched.
Ilya’s breath is hot on his neck, open mouth dragging across the knob of his spine where Shane’s tipped his head forward, moaning aborted little things, Shane’s name, and his pace turns erratic, uncoordinated.
“Yeah, Ilya, c’mon, c’mon, I need—need to—” He needs so much. Shane turns his head, seeking, seeking, seeking, and presses his thighs together even tighter. He feels more than he hears Ilya groan in response and then their open mouths are catching against each other, with Ilya’s breath hot on Shane’s tongue.
Ilya pauses without breaking apart and gets a hand down between them, around his own cock, to drag the head from the cleft of Shane’s ass across his taint. The shorts, Shane thinks a little wildly, are undeniably ruined.
A low growl sends goosebumps scattering across Shane’s whole body, and then Ilya’s hand is between his shoulder blades, pushing him down onto the kitchen counter, pinning him, while his free hand stays just above Shane’s hip, gripping firmly enough to surely leave bruises, and Shane feels his head grow fuzzy.
“Touch—yourself,” Ilya pants above him. The hand between Shane’s shoulder blades slides up and over his shoulder, a thumb stroking firmly across his skin, with still enough pressure to pin Shane to the surface.
Shane’s hand flies to his cock. The sound he makes at the touch is ridiculously obscene. He doesn’t have room to shove his hand down the shorts with the waistband trapped between the counter and his abdomen, but his dick still jumps in his grip. When he feels how wet the shorts are for himself, it punches all the air out of him. Is there even a singly dry spot on them at this point? The thought makes him feel a little insane.
His dick throbs in his hand, hot and aching, and Shane whines high in his throat when he wraps his hand around it as much as he can on a downwards drag.
Shane looks over his shoulder and sees the glazed look on Ilya’s face, the black of his eyes, the flush high on his cheeks, looking, for all its worth, as if he’s on an entirely different plane of existence. Shane did that. Shane did that. It punches another moan out of him.
Ilya catches him looking. It feels like the dark of his eyes is swallowing him up and Shane wants to sink into it. He twists a little and Ilya goes, drapes his own body over Shane’s back, linking his fingers with Shane’s on the countertop and using his free hand to card over Shane’s hair. He presses an open-mouthed kiss to his cheek.
There’s barely a rhythm to what he’s doing anymore. Ilya’s rutting against him blindly, wildly, chasing his orgasm, his cock a hard, hot line between Shane’s thighs, twitching and throbbing and driving Shane further out of his mind than he already is.
Shane feels his own dick leak against his hand.
“Told them,” Ilya says between breathless gasps, “that you’re perfect for me.”
Shane’s fingers go tight around his dick, around Ilya’s fingers in his hand.
“You’re perfect for me, Shane.”
There’s static in Shane’s head, white spots dancing in his vision, and he’s so wholly surrounded by and surrendered to Ilya that his entire body locks tight, something deep inside snapping, unspooling so suddenly it makes his head spin.
“‘lya,” he slurs, more a sound than a name. “Y’re perfect for me, too.”
Ilya comes with a curse and Shane’s name on his lips, and Shane feels it, the hot splash of come through the soaked fabric of his shorts, smearing between his legs, under the hem, into his skin, and it’s enough to tip him over and into his orgasm.
It feels like it’s being torn from him, leaving him gasping for breaths that feel like they’re not coming. He shudders and shakes through it as streak upon streak of come spills from his dick, surely soaking the shorts beyond saving. Shane sucks in air once the peak passes but tremors keep running through him. Ilya’s body is still blanketing his. The touch feels like too much and not enough, and Shane wishes there weren’t clothes between them now.
Ilya is pressing soft, sweet kisses to the side of his face, gentling his fingers over his forehead, his hair, so achingly tender. He’s breathing heavily and each heave of his lungs presses Shane more firmly against the countertop.
“I could tell them whatever,” Ilya murmurs. He sounds fucked out and Shane’s lips curl a little. A kiss to the corner of his mouth makes his eyes flutter shut. “Nothing I say compares to reality.”
Shane hums quietly, happily, and they stay like this for a moment, glad for it because he’s certain his legs would give out under him if he tried to move now.
Then, Ilya hoists himself up and pulls Shane with him, and walks them to the bathroom draped across Shane’s backside. The insides of Shane’s thighs are slippery.
Turns out, there are dry spots on the shorts but they are few and small, and he’s going to have to keep them just to throw them out.
“What a waste,” Ilya says mournfully as he peels the shorts off Shane’s legs and drops them in the garbage.
“You wasted them,” Shane points out. His mind is starting to return to him.
Ilya sniffs. “Is your fault. You wore them and you went commando. What else was I supposed to do?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Shane muses. He probes at his thighs and shudders at the tender feeling. “Take them off?”
Ilya snorts inelegantly as he pads over to him and grabs Shane’s wrist. He turns it over to lick at his fingers, gathering the mixture of precome, come and lube sticking to his skin on his tongue. Shane groans softly.
“Would you have let me?” Ilya asks after releasing Shane’s finger from his mouth with an obscene pop.
When Shane doesn’t respond right away while his cheeks flush again, Ilya smirks at him before herding him into the shower. He raises his eyebrows and pulls Shane against him by the hips, and finally, Shane gets his skin on skin contact.
“Yes?” Ilya prompts. He grins shit-eatingly, knowing the answer full well.
Shane drops his head on his shoulder. “No,” he grumbles, and then basks in the warmth of Ilya’s laughter, his skin and his care.
