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    Summary

    “Ah, yes, you have a hard time stopping yourself from trying to fuck yourself on my cock when you sit on my lap.” Ilya says, lightly brushing back the hair strands that had fallen across Shane’s face. The strands have gotten long enough to brush his cheeks and cover small glimpses of his freckles. That won’t do. His hair smells so good, like sweet meadow flowers in the rain, like the sweetest, softest thing in the world. 

    “Not my fault you’re always so hard whenever I sit on your lap,” Shane says, as if he’s actively resisting and wouldn’t do whatever Ilya told him as if their wants and desires were one and the same. As if Shane doesn’t instinctively open his open to suck on Ilya’s large fingers – he could never take more than three fingers – whenever Ilya moves to caress his jaw, his mouth already preparing saliva for Ilya to use.

    *
    Or, Shane and Ilya audition to be background characters in a romance show. But they get too lovey-dovey while filming that fans start noticing.

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