Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Episode: s01e06 The Cottage (Heated Rivalry), Canon Compliant, Spit Kink, Feminization, Squirting, Insecure Shane Hollander, Autistic Shane Hollander, Anxious Shane Hollander, Ilya using feminine language to refer to shane's dick, blowjob, Bottom Shane Hollander, Top Ilya Rozanov, shane's previous hookups were terrible, Domestic Bliss, Spit As Lube, Precum as Lube, Come as Lube

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-21 Words: 5,733 Chapters: 1/1

I get wet at the thought of you

Summary

""Is it weird to produce a lot of precum"

The cursor blinks impatiently for Shane to type enter. Finger hovering over the laptop keyboard. Eyes moving rapidly across the screen, heart rate ticking up. A deep breath and then he presses the allusive key."

or Shane's previous hookups have told him he gets "too wet" and he's doing everything he can to hold onto Ilya.

Notes

This was a silly thought that I turned into a slight character study (so sorry it's my favorite thing to do).

Please let me know if there are any things to fix!

I do not condone for AI to use my writings for learning purposes or any other purposes.

"Is it weird to produce a lot of precum"

The cursor blinks impatiently for Shane to type enter. Finger hovering over the laptop keyboard. Eyes moving rapidly across the screen, heart rate ticking up. A deep breath and then he presses the allusive key.

Thousands of results pop up instantaneously: ranging from Reddit forums to "legitimate" health websites to filthily titled porn videos. He scans the first three pages and finds inclusive answers. Some people find excessive amounts of precum hot while others find it annoying, an extra mess to clean up following sexual activity. The common result from "medical professionals" is that producing large quantities of pre-ejaculatory fluid is normal and varies heavily depending on the hydration and age of the individual. They advise to seek a medical professional if any specific concerns arise or changes in sexual function.

There has been a change in Shane's sexual functions; he hasn't wanted to have sex since his random hookup with the guy in Mexico.

He remembers that night vaguely, too drunk to keep all the details, but the one clear memory is that of his partner pulling his boxers down to find him leaking and immediately scrunching his nose. "You are so wet." He said, disdainfully. This had broken their momentum, Shane ready to apologize and awkwardly pull his pants back on and leave, but the guy simply rolled his eyes and licked at his tip. The comment repeated over and over in his head. You are so wet, you are so wet, you are so wet. Already having been on edge at hooking up in a dark alley in public, he had to revert to thinking of the one thing that could get him off instantly; Ilya Rozanov. Three short thrusts and he was coming into the guys mouth, thankful he had already gotten him off first. Escaping back into the crowded club to find his teammates, the mantra replayed like the itch of an ear worm in the back of his mind.

While dating Rose, his "issue" never really became one. Logically, he realizes this was due to the fact he had no sexual interest in her—women in general but his sweet Rose realized this before him—but at the time he found it strange. Why do I-uh-produce so much when I'm with men? He had thought to himself. Even that wasn't the right question. The right question was: Why do I produce so much when I'm thinking of him? Subconsciously his mind had drifted even all those years ago in Mexico to his archrival. The man who had convinced him to follow outside into the cover of night looked nothing like him yet had the same annoyingly handsome half smirk that Rozanov maintained when teasing Shane. Maybe that's what led him to engage in such risky activity. Public sex in Mexico. With a man. God he did some stupid things when he was younger but that was one he thanks whatever higher power exists that he didn't get caught doing.

Now he and Rozanov—Ilya—are dating? Still just fucking? There hasn't been a true discussion of what they are and the thought makes Shane's stomach churn. Everything is fragile, as if all it would take for their entire dynamic to collapse is one false start. Shane needs planning, preparation, research before he commits to something. Even in his mid-20s, he spends a large portion of his off ice-time preparing to be back on the ice. Shane Hollander does not like surprises; he likes order and familiarity.

Ilya agreeing to go with him to the cottage was a surprise.

His initial hesitance while Shane was sleepily drugged, just happy that he visited him in the hospital, was what he had anticipated, had expected. He had planned for Ilya to say no outright, had other arguments as to why he should join him, even just for a vacation away from his family in Russia, but Rozanov surprised him. Faint caresses of his fingers across his cheeks, a tight-lipped smile looking at him nervously. The words were clearly formed on the tip of his tongue but he pivoted, insisting maybe. Maybe he would come with Shane during their summer break. That was more than he hoped for.

Scott Hunter blew that entirely out of the water when he clumsily tugged his boyfriend onto the ice and proceeded to openly declare his interest in men by kissing said man there in front of hundreds of thousands of viewers. Shane's phone blowing up with dozens of messages from "Lily" as he and his parents watched, jaws dropped, while Scott openly poured his heart out on live television.

Lily: Can you believe this?

Lily: Never thought that Scott liked dick

Lily: Jane respond

Lily: Please

Lily: Maybe things are different

Then Shane's phone rang with the caller being the one person he wanted to share this revelation with and just as he's preparing to ramble questions off to him, Ilya surprises him again.

"I'm coming to the cottage." Definitively. As if there was no room for argument or doubt. They were to spend two whole weeks together, entirely alone, in a secluded area with only their inability to properly communicate apprehending them.

He closes his laptop, grabs his bags (three properly packed suitcases), gets in his Jeep Cherokee and drives to the airport.

Ilya would be waiting for him. That was a fact.

***

"Car is so boring, like you." Shane huffs annoyed at Rozanov's immediate commentary.

"Jeeps are practical. Compatible with good snow tires." Scanning the parking lot before he pulls out, he taps his fingers against the wheel. Once clear, he reverses out of his spot and follows traffic to the proper exit towards the Cottage. Rozanov man spreads in the passenger seat, black basketball shorts riding high on his muscular thighs. Desire licks through Shane, crossing his stomach and up his chest. There would be plenty of time for everything he wants to do, they have two full weeks. The cars honking at him to change lanes pulls his focus back.

Ilya tsks. "Compatible. Unlike you and Rose Landry?" Head tilted to the side, he stares at Shane's face, waiting for a reaction. Beyond a quick jaw clench, Shane doesn't react. He promptly changes the subject.

"Were you recognized by anyone?" Ilya looks back out the passenger window, sunglasses reflecting light off onto the dash.

"No, no one knows I'm here."

"That's good."

Then silence. Their ride has become awkward, stilted. Neither knows how to continue the conversation so they remain amicably quiet, only the soft levels of the radio station providing any noise. A faint scent of airport hits Shane as he inhales, trying to calm himself. Underneath there's an earthy scent; Ilya's cologne. One he's worn for years. He remembers burying his nose in Ilya's neck, nipping gently at the skin there while licking at the alcohol taste. Left a horrible aftertaste, Ilya would lick it back out of his mouth without compliant.

Shane would bury his nose back into his skin and beg. He would nose along Ilya's thighs, work his way up to his crotch and mouth along the lines of him. He would present himself bare, heart on his sleeve, and work himself open so Ilya wouldn't have to lift a finger. He would do anything so Ilya chose him.

"Is this it?" The rumble of his voice snaps Shane out of his momentary spiral. He looks up to see he's managed to drive them—safely somehow—to his cottage, white and blue tulips blooming in the plots outside the front door. A quick nod and they're sliding out of the cab, firmly closing the doors.

"Can carry my own bag," Ilya protests as Shane grabs his duffel from him.

"How are your ribs?" Shane retorts, hiking the luggage higher up his shoulder while grabbing his own bag. Gravel of the driveway crunching beneath their feet as he leads them to the door.

"Better than concussed head," Ilya mumbles under his breath, just loud enough for Shane to catch every word. The heat radiating off of his body feels like one of those lamps reptile owners use to keep their snakes and lizards alive; consistent feeling right against Shane's upper back. Naturally his instinct is to lean back, to let the sensation provide him comfort. Maybe Ilya would grab his hips, bring him flush to his front, grind their bodies together and growl lowly in his ear.

Or maybe he would tense, step backwards away and the awkwardness would be too thick to even slice with a knife. Something unpleasant settles in the pit of his stomach, sharp claws sinking, digging. Almost as if he can feel himself being torn apart from the inside.

Resolutely he slots his key into the lock and pushes open the door. Ilya follows closely behind, falling into step beside him as they toe their shoes off. "This is big for cottage, no?"

"I had it custom built." He shrugs, shouldering off Ilya's bag against the entry hall. "An architect made a rough mock-up of the elements I wanted and we worked from there."

Ilya grins, a flash of something wild crossing his eyes. "Mr. Real Estate would have custom built cottage hidden away. Secret place for filthy sex?" His hands settle on Shane's waist, burning him through his shirt. Huffing, Shane escapes his hold and walks towards his kitchen.

"It's not a "sex cottage" Ilya." Continuing into the open kitchen design, he gives a brief tour. "The kitchen is here, fridge should be stocked for two weeks worth but I can run into town if we desperately need anything," he bumps his hip against the marbled counter. "Oh! I have my own well, fresh water and all that."

It should be unnerving how Ilya simply watches him from a distance, only inching forward ever so slightly while Shane prattles on about the various amenities he can provide. His face remains blank as he follows Shane into the living room.

"Here's the living room," Shane cringes at stating the obvious, "Uh I have some video games and a small collection of DVDs." He turns abruptly to find Ilya directly to his left. "Oh- when did you get so close—" voice cutting off as Ilya kisses him.

Nothing gentle about the way Ilya consumes him: mouth open, tongue entering Shane's mouth, teeth biting at his bottom lip. It's filthy, hungry. They haven't seen one another properly in over a month and for Shane, it's been far longer since he's been touched like this. Moaning softly at the teeth nipping along his lip. He takes his hands into Ilya's hair and tugs, just the right amount of pressure he knows the other man prefers. A growl and he's toppling them onto the couch, Shane grinding lazily while on top of Ilya.

"Oh- we should uh—Ilya we should talk first," he's gasping out as canines graze the pulse point of his neck. Another sharp pain blooms as he bites hard, leaving a mark.

"We talk later." Ilya thrusts his hips up, catching perfectly against Shane, causing him to shudder. "Now we make up for lost time." Hands running down Shane's back, over his ass, gripping his thighs and squeezing. They're dry humping on his couch—though for Shane it's definitely turned into some form of wet humping—as if they're horny teenagers who can't do more than neck and cum in their pants.

"Ilya." Moving backwards he forces the other man to meet his eyes. Fuck. Ilya's pupils are blown so wide, the hazel has practically disappeared entirely. Mouth red, hair a mess. He looks properly fucked out and they haven't even fucked yet.

God he missed him.

"Let's slow down," a huff, "just a bit. I haven't… um it's been a while."

Ilya thrusts up again, gripping hard on Shane's hips. "Me too, now can we please—"

"Huh?" Shane pauses.

"Huh what? I said me too, now please touch me—"

"You too? It's been months."

"Yes Hollander, which means I'm very ready to fuck you now—"

He stops talking when Shane brushes a stray curl off his forehead, gently. It's intimate, borderline too much so.

"Can I ask for something? And you can't give me shit for it." He stabs lightly at Ilya's chest with his pointer finger while holding his gaze. Ilya sighs dramatically.

"I guess, I guess."

"For these two weeks, can we tell each other the truth. Don't have to bare our souls and all that but just—" he pauses. "There isn't a need to hide here, we're tucked safely away." His eyes are unwavering, being braver than Ilya ever found himself capable of.

"Will do my best, to try." He swallows and traces his hand up Shane's neck to his cheek. Eyes fluttering closed, he leans his head into Ilya's palm. "For you."

Ilya slides his thumb along Shane's bottom lip and pushes gently inside. "Now will you please put your hand on my dick." Shane sucks his thumb, bobbing his head once, twice, while moving his free hand down towards Ilya's bulge. He rubs along it, feeling Ilya grind against him, before stopping.

"What," Ilya's annoyed expression shouldn't be so cute and yet, "what now?"

Shane grabs him by the hand and tugs him up off the couch. "I need you to fuck me and we aren't doing that here on the couch. Yet." Playfully he smacks Ilya on the ass and begins walking up the short stairs to the main floor, walking down the hall before turning back. "You coming?"

He speeds up as he hears a growl and heavy footsteps directly behind him when entering his bedroom. Toppling them forward onto the bed, Ilya kisses down Shane's jaw, his neck, his collarbones that peek out of his blue linen button-up. "Need this off now." He tugs at the shirt roughly.

"That's my favorite shirt asshole, stop." Shane unbuttons the top two buttons with efficiency but slows down when he realizes Ilya is watching him, fixating on where his fingers are moving. The next button is released achingly slow. It's a heady feeling, Ilya wanting him like this. Shane is used to being desired—his "Hottest Man in the NHL" title metaphorically flashing behind him in bright blue neon letters—but with Ilya it's something beyond that. There is desire then there is a sharp, direct pull in the gut. The whisper of them that ghosts across the back of a neck. The tingling sensation at the tip of toes that provides a numb, peaceful feeling.

Many claims of his attractiveness have felt superficial, false. Weak cries of attention or quotable moments for fifteen minutes of fame. Rose's desire had been real, he understood that much, but properly molded itself into a safer territory of friendly fondness instead. As if she viewed him like a bunny—her words—rather than a potential partner. His previous hookups, names of two men he can't remember, were attracted but only to the face value of Shane Hollander. They only wanted him for his body, his looks. Lust, nothing beyond.

Ilya's desire doesn't suffocate, doesn't feel artificial. Ilya's desire for Shane reminds him of discovering his love for hockey; barely four years old and clumsily skating across a thinly iced over pond to the left of the Hollander's backyard. Tiny gloved hands holding a much too large stick, chasing a little puck across the ice, red chubby cheeks highlighting his red snow jacket. Ilya's desire felt like discovering what love is meant to be.

"Shane." A huff of impatience draws him back in, upper body swaying forward to follow the low rumble of Ilya's voice. "Take your shirt off. Please."

Manners weren't uncommon for Ilya Rozanov; though he maintains an asshole persona in the league, he's truthfully pleasant to the general public. Politeness during their hookups was a rare occurrence, only happening when both were too deep pleasure to snipe at one another as foreplay.

Ilya's tone sends a shiver down Shane's spine. Uncoordinated, he shoves his shirt off his shoulders and again pauses to consider his next step. I need to fold that so it won't be overly wrinkled, his hand moving to gather the fabric back up. A hand on his wrist stops him before promptly tugging him down onto the bed.

"Hollander we don't have time for your neurotic routine." Neurotic? Shane wonders if he picked that word up in the New York Times as Ilya places open mouthed kisses down the lean line of his neck, nipping at his collarbones. One particularly deep bite has his hips jolting, rocking against nothing to relieve pressure.

Oh no. He can feel it starting, his underwear dampening faster than he anticipated. Ilya glides his palm up Shane's thigh, over his hip bone and towards the button of his fly. Panicked, Shane begins spiraling. Wait, we have to slow down. If he notices how wet I am he'll be disgusted. He might stop or worse… leave. A too fast shake of his head. No. He wouldn't leave but he might be turned off. Slow him down Shane, come on Plan A.

"Wait—" Ilya's frustrated glare meets Shane's.

"What now Shane? Do you not want this?" He phrases the question as a concern for consent but the thinly veiled truth was that he needed Shane to say yes, I want this with you. They had made a promise to try their best and be honest after all. His blown pupils bore into Shane's, making him squirm.

"Yes," Shane quickly says. "I want this, but I want to blow you first."

"Hmm but I want to touch you first."

"Ilya please, let me blow you." It's bordering desperation but Shane can't bring himself to care in the moment. Focusing on Ilya's pleasure will allow him to subtly fix his mess and no one will ever have to know that he's a freak. Ilya's face remains blank but his eyes flit from one side of Shane's face to the other.

"Why don't you want me to touch your dick? What's wrong? Touched you in Boston but here isn't okay?"

Shane squirms ever so slightly at his words. Not enough for the average person to recognize as discomfort but Ilya's true skill is perception. He takes Shane's hand and pulls him onto his lap.

"Shane," moving his head to meet his eyes. "What's wrong?"

Air thick with the newly formed tension. "Nothing is wrong, can't I just want to get you off first?" Attempting a light tone, to clear the air, but Ilya remains firm and presses him further.

"You won't let me touch your dick." Shane tries to interrupt but Ilya places his other hand over his mouth. "You won't. Something is wrong and I want to know how to fix. Please talk to me. We made deal remember?" Shane nods his head once. He did ask for them to be honest with one another, it's not fair to not uphold his end of the agreement. "Now I remove my hand and you tell me." Shane nods again.

Brave is not a word Shane readily considers himself to be. Organized, focused, determined are better adjectives in his own view of himself. When he was little, his mom and him had gone to the grocery store and he walked beside the grocery cart for the first time in his life. What age he was, he couldn't remember, but he does remember is holding onto the cold metal rods that composed the buggy portion of the cart. At one point his mom was made a sharp left turn down an aisle and accidentally smacked Shane right into the end-cap display. Blinking, he looked up at her with shiny eyes and a wobbly bottom lip. "Oh Shane baby I am so sorry," Yuna exclaimed while scooping him up in her arms. "Such a brave boy, hit your head and no tears. My brave boy." Her words stopped him from letting any tears fall, forehead stinging and chubby little hands clenched so tightly into fists, he left indentations on his palms.

Shane's never felt that brave again. Not when joining Juniors. Not when being drafted. He may have come the closest when Ilya Rozanov propositioned him in the showers and proceeded to wheedle his way into Shane's life. Almost.

In this moment, he will have to hold that bravery. Not sure whether to grab it firmly or simply let it rest on his palms. Steeling himself, he straightens his back.

"I don't want you touching me until I can-um-get rid of some of my precum."

"What?" A pure question, no judgment or disgust, simply confusion.

"At times, as I've been told—," he swallows, "I'm too wet. Too much excitement leads to a lot of precum. I would just like too—"

"Who the fuck told you this?" Fumes practically leaving his ears. Growling, Ilya grabs Shane's hips and grinds upwards. "Too "wet", what the fuck is that?"

Shane's hips stutter at how rough Ilya is dragging their erections against one another. "Uh, uh, it just—"

"No listen." Shane's mouth snaps shut. "You produce a lot of precum because you are into this right?" He nods. "It's sexy. You get wet like a girl, can just slide my hand into your shorts and you're dripping." A short whimper before another rough grind. "Being wet means you find this hot, which means I find it hot. Makes you the perfect little slut, all for me."

He can't contain his whimper as Ilya angles their hips just right and every nerve ending in his dick is graciously ignited. Shane's panting, gripping at Ilya's shoulders and holding on with the little strength he has left. The wet stain on the front of his boxers is surely covering the majority of his crotch, every rough glide Ilya provides moves the head of his dick through his mess. Fuck it really is like a girl getting wet. Shane thinks.

"Ilya-fuck please."

A nip at his jaw. "What sweetheart? Ask for what you want. Can't fuck you unless you ask nicely." Rough fingers slide down his back, up under his shirt, tracing the vertebrae of his spine.

Shane gasps, the callousness of the touch sending a shiver through him. "Ilya please, fuck me. Take me apart." He thrusts up once, hips stuttering as he folds in closer. "I need you. I need you to touch me, fuck me."

Ilya growls, hand moving to Shane's hair, tugging his head backwards so he can suck dark marks into his neck. Slipping his hand further down, he dips it below his waistband and wraps his hand around his leaking cock.

"God Shane," he leans back and just watches as he takes him out of his boxers, watching the leaking head slide in and out of his fist. Precum sliding between his knuckles, speeding the process up. Shane grunting and biting out choked out noises, losing himself in how Ilya's hot hands feel around his painful erection: head a deep purple, wet as a pussy and thrusting his hips chasing the feeling.

"Just like girl, so wet." Ilya's voice rumbles against Shane's perineurium. Too far gone to argue with him, he simply nods his head a few times and continues moving. "Can't even argue with me? So desperate for it?" His tone has taken a cruel edge, mean smirk stretched thin against one side of his mouth. "Like a bitch in heat. You don't even need me to fuck you, so sensitive. Maybe better if you cum before, so I can use it to open you up." Ilya thrusts upwards against Shane's ass and that's all it takes.

"I'm-fuck-Ilya-'m cumming." He slurs, head rolling to watch his dick spurt rope after rope of thick white cum over Ilya's hand, his still covered chest, Shane's own naked chest, Shane's chin. It's the most he's ever cum before, including the times where Ilya has fucked him so deeply, so roughly into a mattress he's blacked out from the feeling. Messy as it cools on his skin, pooling in the blonde's hand. Ilya removes said hand from Shane's softening dick, bringing the substance to Shane's mouth.

"Spit f or me. Spit on top of your cum. Will use to open you up Shane so make sure it's a lot."

Shane immediately complies, automatically opening his mouth and spitting what he held into Ilya's hand. A tutting noise draws his attention up to his lover's face. "Can do better than that Hollander, seen you drool like a whore over my cock." The filth of his language sends a cold shiver of arousal through him. He holds Ilya's gaze, moving his tongue upanddownupanddownupanddown to generate saliva. To the point he's dripping with it; slight puddles of drool escape the edges of his mouth, inching down down down towards his chin and down his jaw. Again he spits, albeit with less finesse, into Ilya's palm.

"That's a good boy. Wet for me everywhere aren't you? Your pretty little dickhead," Shane's sensitive dick jumping at the mention, "Your eager mouth. So ready for my cock aren't you. Come here sweetheart." No warmth or intimacy from the pet name; simply pure direction and command.

He slides down the bed—a complete mess now—and lies on his back, dick still out against his boxers. Leaning down, Ilya kisses along his hip bones as he helps Shane slide them off, folding them twice and placing them carefully on the floor out of the way. A bite at the taught skin of his right hip bone, then another to his left and his dick is fully hard, leaking shorter spurts of precum against his bellybutton. Pleasure thrums through his veins, hands moving to Ilya's hair as the blonde man moves his way back up Shane's body to his nipples. A cheeky nip at the right then the left, leaving behind red teeth marks—Ilya's claim on him.

"'Lya please," Shane slurs. "Need you in me, f'ck me please." Saccharine, drenched in need. Ilya has no choice but to comply. He quickly shucks his own shirt off, thrown mindlessly behind him and pushes his underwear down past his meaty thighs. Gently pushing Shane onto his stomach.

"Suck me, get me wet so I don't hurt you." Guiding Shane's head towards his dick—throbbing and pulsing a fair amount of precum on it's own—his eyes roll back as the darker haired man takes the first few inches. Ilya anticipated him maybe taking a few licks, a strip up the underside but once again the man before him surprises him with how brave he can be. Shane laid himself bare before Ilya, told him of his insecurities and prepared himself in case Ilya rejected him. His strange, strong man. The only man Ilya wants to be with; though he can't tell him that. Not yet.

He will soon. Very soon.

Shane pulls off to lap at the precum along the head, much like a kitten lapping at milk. Ilya steels his jaw to prevent shooting off too soon, the heat of Shane's mouth combined with his enthusiasm for Ilya's dick being too much, feeling too good. He adjusts his grip on Shane's head and feeds him his cock. Pliant and willing, Shane opens his jaw as far as he can and just feels. Ilya simply takes. Fucking deeply, rough, into Shane's open throat. Light gagging noises are heard every few thrusts but he feels no pinch to his thigh. My perfect little slut, so happy to be fucked by me. Ilya thinks to himself.

Bending forward, Ilya spits into his hand and rubs his fingers along his palm, ensuring they're well lubricated before grazing along the cleft of Shane's ass. The man on the bed jolts slightly before relaxing and angling his hips, presenting himself to Ilya. He curses under his breath and lightly pushes his pointer finger into Shane. Tight, just the right amount. Keeping pace with the thrusts of his hips, Ilya fucks slowly into him. Once he feels it's enough, he slides his middle in along with his ring. Short aborted thrusts of Shane's hips are aiming for the bed spread.

"Stop. You cum again when I am deep inside you and only then." Shane stills immediately.

Ilya's worked his ring finger inside, scissoring and opening Shane up. The man in question is shaking, drooling at being stuffed from both ends which leads Ilya to assume he's ready.

"Want my cock now? You've made me all wet, like you. Like how your pretty little clit gets when I touch you." Shane chokes off a gasp at the feminine language Ilya uses. Not in a derogatory way, more so exploratory. Testing the water for sharks before fully dipping your toes in.

Shane loves it. Every last bit. He could probably cum just from Ilya's dirty talk but that would disappoint them both if he came too early.

Ilya lifts Shane off him—lips shiny with cum and spit, eyes glassy with desire—and maneuvers him onto his back. His legs automatically sliding open so Ilya can slot himself between, where he belongs. He crowds in, a few quick slides of his hand over his dick to ensure it's wet enough. Shane squirms, the waiting taking too long. His dick remains hard, wet, throbbing on his abs. What if Ilya decides now it's too much? What if now that he can get a good look at how wet I actually am he's disgusted? What if—

Dry, chapped lips meet his, tongue cheekily asking permission for entrance into his mouth. He pants as Ilya covers his body, grinding his dick against Ilya's stomach. A clanking of their teeth fills the relative silence of the room. Ilya pulls away but only to nose downwards along Shane's jaw.

"Stop thinking, can hear you from over here."

"No you can't Ilya, that's physically impossible."

"Da I can. You are so loud when you think. Worried about stupid things other men have said that don't matter." Shane can't refute that assertion; Ilya always has read him the best. "Now, let me fuck you and make you squirt like beautiful woman."

Before Shane can protest to the implication that he would be "squirting", Ilya's finally sliding into him. Slow, each inch feeling like a full ten, Shane drops his head backwards on to the pillow. He tries to make noise but just can't, everything feels fuzzy and blurred. Slipping further and further into the feeling of goodyesfuckmesogood, his voice abandons him. Instead he slides his hand into the back of Ilya's hair, tugs him forward and reconnects their lips.

Ilya's hips are flush with Shane's as the two lazily make-out. He waits a few seconds, then a few more, before pulling out halfway and thrusting back in, hard. Shane gasps into his mouth and tugs at his hair. The pace Ilya begins is brutal; fast and deep thrusts that scrape along Shane's prostate with every motion. He can already feel his orgasm approaching embarrassingly fast but half their night has been spent engaged in heated foreplay. Two quick bites to Ilya's lower lip and he's dropping his head again.

"Ilya-fuck-notgoingtolast-fuck fuck fuck." He's babbling, barely lucid. Just cockdrunk and fucked dumb. Ilya grunts, increasing his pace and angling his hips further downwards, searching for the exact spot he needs. He knows he's found it when the darker haired man's back arches, short nails digging roughly into his shoulders.

"Ilya fuck," suddenly much more aware of his surroundings, "what is-what's happening? Fuck it feels weird." Ilya kisses the underside of Shane's jaw, comforting him as this new sensation rises.

"Let it out sweetheart, cum for me. Just let go and feel. Dig into me and let the pleasure take over." Shane has no control over his body; just letting Ilya ruthlessly pound into this spot in him that's shooting stars behind his eyes. A few more well placed thrusts and fuck.

Shane's dick throbs a deep purple between them as he cums, ropes hitting his chin for a second time that evening. Even though he came earlier, he's producing even more. Like milking a bull. He's not sure how long he cums for, just that Ilya keeps fucking him through it all. Once he finishes, he expects Ilya to stop but no, the man simply speeds up.

"I can't, I can't take it—"

"You can, you can fucking take it."

Shane could and he did. He took Ilya's continued assault on his prostate with a slack jaw and tears in his eyes. And then something amazing happened.

His dick started gushing a clear fluid; squirt? No it couldn't be but it wasn't yellow like piss. Shane watches helplessly as his body continues without his brain, releasing whatever fluids to prove Ilya right. Ilya bites down on his right shoulder and cums, hips pressing flush against Shane's ass.

They're both shaking coming down from the strongest orgasms of their lives. Sex has never felt this good for Shane, he can only hope it's the same for Ilya. Covered in sweat, spit and cum, Ilya slowly pulls out of Shane, rubbing gently at his hips to soothe some of the ache. He gathers his discarded shirt from the floor and swipes their mess off of Shane's stomach then his own. Balling the shirt up, he throws it over the side of the bed.

"Ilya that's gross." Shane's nose crinkles at the thought of the substances drying on their clothes, how gross they'll feel in the morning.

"We can shower tomorrow, make sure to get all the hard to reach places." Shane lightly smacks Ilya's shoulder as they slide under the covers. Tomorrow they would need to talk further about what they were to one another. Tomorrow would be the time for the hard conversation.

Tonight, with Ilya's arm wrapped around his middle, Shane can sleep knowing that he isn't a freak to the one person who matters most to him. That Ilya will accept his flaws, will accept him, neurotic tendencies and all.

And Shane will do the same for Ilya. He's not sure where they stand at this exact moment but there's no way he's letting Ilya leave without a fight. They can figure this out, will figure this out. They're meant for one another.

He knows it.