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    Summary

    “Feels good, right? Like the feel of your cock on mine, Rozanov?”

    Ilya’s pretty sure he’s lost the ability to breathe entirely, choking out: “You know I do,” because what else is there to fucking say? 

    Other than of course, the Shane Hollander constant of:

    “I have an idea.” Shane rocks back slightly, expression suddenly earnest. His hand continues its ministrations, so it takes Ilya a full half minute of seeking mental clarity before he can respond.

    “What?” He tries to make the question exasperated despite the swell of fondness in his chest at the little smile playing across Shane’s lips.

    “When you do cave and ask me -” Shane pauses with a little huff, “because you will! We should fuck bare.”

    And oh my god Ilya is actually going to die. He is actually going to fucking die in this cottage in Ottawa, Canada, and those weird wolf bird things are going to peck the flesh off of his body and his bones are going to slowly turn to dust when they’re through.

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