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    Summary

    'Fuck, Shanya,' Ilya groans, eyes fixed on his fingers disappearing into Shane’s mouth. Shane whines, muffled, at the nickname and squeezes his wrist. 'You make me crazy, you’re so—fuck—so perfect, my Shane.'

    How crazy, Shane wonders, his brain two steps behind his body as he releases Ilya’s fingers with a gasp and brings his hand to his cheek. Ilya clutches his hip and thumbs the corner of his mouth. His thrusts are getting more erratic as he pounds his hips into the backs of Shane’s thighs and Shane realizes wildly that it’s now or never. Now or Shane will lose his chance to slap a Hail Mary shot to the goal of quieting the understimulation plaguing him.

    'Hit me.'

    or - Shane needs something. Ilya is happy to give

    Language:
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