Summary:

“H’rder,” Shane whines into his mouth, not even trying to interrupt the kiss but speaking pathetically muffled and slurred around Ilya’s tongue. Ilya knocks their foreheads together, smiles. “Nooooo Ilya, not before the game, Ilya,” he whines, a sweetly mocking imitation of Shane, “and now look at you, mhm? Why should I ever listen to your complaining, baby, when you’re gonna be such an easy, perfect slut for it anyways?” Or: Shane plays four-dimensional chess to get Ilya to fuck him even when he tells him no, for Shane-typical control freak reasons, in Shane-typical convoluted ways, with Shane-typical unawareness of this being a sex freak thing. Ilya provides, of course.