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Shane drags his feet on his way from the car to Ilya’s front door. He knows what’s in store, and he is absolutely not prepared for all the bragging he is sure Ilya is about to do.
If it weren’t for the underlying sizzle of pure lust permanently settled in his belly, he would have come up with some excuse to cancel their plans tonight.
He takes a deep breath and rings the doorbell.
Once face to face with Ilya, Shane attempts to skip the gloating by diving straight into some heavy kissing. He channels every ounce of sexual tension built up in the past however many weeks since they’ve seen each other.
Ilya, of course, has no problem with Shane’s enthusiasm. He flicks Shane’s bag off his shoulder and pulls him in by the neck with both hands.
Shane’s hands grip Ilya’s waist as they take uncoordinated steps until they hit a wall.
“Mm, someone is eager to get into my jersey,” Ilya says this directly into Shane’s mouth.
Fuck. Shane should have known his attempts to shut Ilya up long enough to forget about their deal would not succeed.
“Come on. Off.” Ilya pulls at Shane’s drawstring and pushes at his shirt simultaneously. It’s not effective whatsoever. Shane is tempted to let him struggle for longer, but he’s not so sure procrastinating the inevitable will get him any more ready for it.
Maybe this is a rip-off-the-bandaid situation.
Shane shoves Ilya away in favour of stripping off his clothes efficiently. Once he’s in his underwear, he lifts his arms and says, “So, where is it?”
“Shit, if I had known you would be this eager I would have suggested this years ago.”
“Fuck you, I’m not eager. I just want to get it over with.”
Despite the smirk on Ilya’s face, Shane believes he’s withholding the smug attitude to the best of his ability as he guides Shane deeper into his home and to the primary bedroom.
When Ilya procures the jersey and holds it up for display, Shane’s jaw drops. “What the fuck is this?”
“I had it custom made.”
The offending garment is a chopped concoction of team logo, colours, and Ilya’s player number. It maybe, maybe, resembles Ilya’s Jersey. If Shane squints.
He grumbles nonsensically as he grabs the Jersey from Ilya and slides it over his head as he walks slowly to the full-length mirror in the corner of the room.
He looks at himself in horror. “I look so… I look like…”
With the softest, most infatuated tone Shane has ever heard from him, Ilya says, “You look like a fucking slut.”
Heat blooms in Shane’s stomach. His eyes shift up, watching their reflections as Ilya approaches him slowly and circles his arms around him.
They don’t embrace. Instead, Ilya traces his fingers along the fabric of the jersey’s sleeves. They lightly trail down Shane’s exposed forearms before wrapping around his torso at an excruciatingly slow pace.
Shane breathes in silence, wanting badly to chirp Ilya away from his body. But no words come to mind. Mostly because Ilya has not made any eye contact. His gaze remains downward, watching his own fingers as they grip Shane’s exposed midriff beneath the cropped hemline.
The worst part is he knows Shane is observing his reaction.
“You like it?” Ilya asks. His voice is rough with arousal, yet quiet in volume next to Shane’s ear.
“I guess it’s more important if you like it.” Shane shrugs.
That’s when Ilya’s eyes find Shane’s through the mirror.
“How could I not?”
Ilya’s hands on Shane’s exposed ribs make it incredibly obvious when Shane’s forced to take a deep breath. The heat builds up in his system; he almost sways back to lean on Ilya’s chest. Almost.
“My number one fan.” Ilya’s breath tickles his shoulder.
“Fuck, no!” Shane knocks Ilya’s arms off him and steps away from the mirror. “In your dreams, Rozanov.”
The distance between them grows, but Shane has nowhere to go other than the bed. He stands in front of it awkwardly, knowing for certain that if he sits down in nothing but this cropped jersey and underwear, Ilya would view it as an invitation.
Which, it is. Their whole plan for the night is to dress Shane up in something that would make Ilya’s ego go insane. But, as it always is with Shane, his brain loves to resist, resist, resist until the decisions are no longer his to make.
“Mm,” Ilya tilts his head in mock thinking. “I believe tonight we are making my dreams come true, no?”
“That’s not what I agreed to.”
“I think it is.”
“I agreed to wear it,” Shane says, brainstorming urgently for a loophole. “I don’t remember agreeing to letting you fuck me while I’m wearing it.”
Ilya’s chin drops a fraction, his eyebrows rise up slightly in a mix of shock and humour.
Shane turns his body away and moves as if he’s about to take the jersey off.
Ilya grabs his wrist, “You think I will allow you to take it off?”
“I think I gave you what you initially req-”
Without warning, Shane is airborne for a second before his body bounces onto the bed. Pillows topple around him and to the floor. He’s disoriented enough for Ilya to rotate him into a facedown position and pin his wrists together above his head.
Of course, Shane’s instinct is to wiggle, groan, and pull away.
Ilya’s instinct is to grip tighter, straddle him, and take what he wants. He pulls the waistband of Shane’s underwear down, the tension against his cheeks causes them to feel large and exposed.
Ilya groans, gripping the hem of the jersey and stretching it so it lays nice and flat, “Eighty one looks good on you.”
“Fuck off- unghh…”
Ilya’s hand flies down and smacks Shane’s ass, almost as if he was expecting the retort.
“Accept the compliment.” With one hand, Ilya shoves his pants low enough to pull out his cock. He guides his hardness between Shane’s cheeks, they both moan in relief.
“No.”
Smack.
It hurts so good. Shane savors it for a moment, calculating whether he wants the defiance to end with the foreplay, or to become the main event.
“I can’t wait to take it off,” Shane says this with a slight rotation of his head. He makes eye contact with Ilya with one eye that’s not buried into the bedding.
A tiny microscopic twitch on the corner of Ilya’s lips confirms that he’s recognizing Shane’s resistance for what it is. “I see,” he says calmly.
Shane gulps, feeling the adrenaline that floods his body whenever an unspoken understanding crosses between them.
“You do not like it as much as I do.”
The bed dips where Ilya walks his knees up and around Shane’s body. He feels a drag of precum that trails from his tailbone up to his spine right before Ilya sits directly on his ass. Ilya’s cock slides under the mesh material of the jersey with a few lazy thrusts. It’s filthy.
“That’s fine. Was me who won the bet, after all.”
Blinking, Shane struggles to connect the series of events that brought them here in the first place. His brain is starting to fog up. All he has a grasp on is the fact that Ilya’s full body weight is pinning him down. Even if his hands were let go, he wouldn’t be able to get away.
“Will be me who gets to enjoy this view.” Ilya lifts slightly and starts gyrating slowly against Shane’s entire backside. It seems like he’s having fun with it; none of the motions are coordinated and none of the areas are focused on for long enough.
Shane can’t stay still for too long, his ass arches up in search for some friction.
“Ah- ah- ah-” Ilya lifts out of reach.
Shane grumbles, “Touch me, asshole.”
Ilya tuts dramatically, “You insult my jersey and then you speak to me like this.”
A wrist manages to slip out of Ilya’s grasp. Shane plants his palm into the mattress and leverages against it to push his ass upwards. Ilya gets jostled backwards, Shane’s knees spread apart ever so slightly.
“Fuck, Hollander…”
“Touch me.”
Once Ilya is back on stable knees, he grabs an ass cheek in each hand and squeezes. Hard. Blunt nails digging into flesh.
“I prepped before you came. Touch me, please,” Shane begs.
“Tell me you like it.”
“What?”
“The jersey. Tell me you like it.”
Shane licks his lips and huffs in frustration. They’re still on this? He has long since resigned himself to the jersey and what he looks like in it. He can easily say whatever Ilya wishes to hear and proceed to begging for the railing that he so desperately wants.
But.
Something tickles the back of his mind. A small something that wants to know exactly what Ilya would do if Shane continued to resist past his usual point of concession.
“I’m indifferent,” he says simply.
Ilya doesn’t respond for a moment, he simply reaches for a pillow and places it underneath Shane’s pelvis. He leans forward, lining up their bodies together until his nose finds Shane’s ear. “Then only I get to enjoy this.”
Shane opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, fingers are being shoved along his tongue. He salivates instantly.
“You’ve made your choice,” Ilya says roughly.
He continues to grind into Shane, the shift from heavy breathing to breathy moans is very evident next to Shane’s ear.
“You do not get to cum until I’m done, understand?”
A moan around Ilya’s fingers is all Shane can manage, once again overwhelmed by the sheer weight pinning him down.
Ilya shifts his head down, dragging his forehead till it lands between Shane’s shoulder blades. “Look at that…”
His slick fingers leave Shane’s mouth and travel down to smear the saliva all over Shane’s asshole. Shane can feel Ilya rubbing the excess onto his cock, mixing it with the existing precum. When Ilya rubs their sensitive areas against each other once more, Shane moans in delight at the slippery feel.
He starts thrusting at an even pace, rubbing ruthlessly at Shane’s hole, but not making any attempts at going in. Shane moans, his body tenses and twitches uselessly.
“All fucking mine. I knew I could cum like this. Seeing you in my colours.”
The consequence of Ilya’s assault becomes clear, Shane’s cock is systematically pressed into the pillow over and over again. He starts moving with it intentionally, searching for a firmer grip on his cock.
“What did I say, huh?” Ilya adjusts himself to prioritize pinning Shane’s hips down. His cock is even more so trapped, with no chance at finding friction.
Ilya’s thrusts speed up, his grumbles are now incoherent, the air in the room buzzes with energy.
Shane feels light headed with want. He wants to feel overpowered. Wants to let go. Wants Ilya to take what he wants from his body.
He wonders briefly if he can cum like this, no friction on his cock and no prostate stimulation. Maybe if they went at it for long enough…
“Fuck, fuck, fuck… Hollander…” Hot ropes of cum land all over Shane’s back.
“Mhhh…” Shane attempts to respond.
Ilya pants heavily, maneuvering to relieve some of the pressure he’d been placing on Shane’s joints. Shane adjusts his limbs into a more neutral position but remains laying on his front.
“Best use of a jersey I have ever seen,” Ilya says dreamily, massaging gently around where his cum puddled. Shane can feel him watching as it drips slowly down the sides of his ass cheeks, but doesn't disrupt its path. He wonders how sexy it could possibly look, if it’s causing Ilya to stop and admire.
The silence is broken when Ilya finally asks, “Can I take a picture?”
“What? No.”
“Just one. Just a keepsake.”
“A keepsake? Of your cum on my ass? You freak.”
“Oh yes. I am freak. Big freak. Lots of freak happening right now…” Ilya thrusts forward lazily, his softened dick squelches into the wet mess.
If he was any harder right now, he’d risk accidentally slipping into Shane’s ignored hole.
Which, maybe Shane wouldn’t be so opposed to that if Ilya’s chatter wasn’t clearing up his mind to think about more pressing matters like cleaning up all that cum off his skin before it dries.
“No, definitely not. Now, get off.”
Ilya groans, leaning forward and draping himself across Shane’s back again.
Seems to be a new favourite position of his.
He digs his teeth into Shane’s shoulder briefly before nosing at his ear. His next attempt to get what he wants comes out as a whisper, “Shane, your ass looks like my territory. I cannot forget the look of it.”
Shane hesitates.
“Please. I will use your phone. No one will see it.”
“Then what’s the point?”
“The point is I will know it exists,” Ilya says this like it’s obvious.
After a whole lot of mental gymnastics, Shane agrees. Ilya wipes his hands on a nearby towel before handling Shane's phone.
“Say cheese…”
“Why would I say cheese? My face isn’t in it.” Shane turns his head as far as it can go.
Ilya is staring dreamily at the screen, moving the phone left, right, up and down in search for the best angle.
“My face isn’t in it, right?” Shane insists.
“Yes, yes. No face. Fine.”
“Fine? I have to convince you of this?”
Ilya shrugs, “Your face is also my territory.”
Shane frowns and looks away, burying his entire head under a mountain of pillows. His muffled voice says, “Just do it.”
When he hears the shutter sounds a few times, he calls it quits and lifts himself up. After a quick rinse in the shower, he dives back into the bed and picks up his phone to assess the damage. Ilya hooks his chin over his shoulder.
The thumbnails are filthy.
Before Shane even taps one open, he comes to the realization that he has just participated in the creation of porn. He opens one full body shot. It’s strange to see himself from behind and in someone else’s clothing, but…
Heat stirs in his belly at the sight of himself from an outside perspective. Is this how Ilya sees him all the time? Every time they fuck?
He swipes, checking out variations of the same scene. His ass is up and open, propped by the pillow. His skin is glistening with cum spread everywhere due to Ilya’s animalistic behaviour. By the top of the frame, his head is cut off but it’s clear that his neck is reddened from exertion and covered in a layer of sweat.
His brain wants to categorize it as gross but he hasn’t yet had an orgasm, so he’s not really thinking with his brain.
“You like?” Ilya whispers, wrapping his arms around Shane’s torso.
“It is kind of hot, actually.”
Ilya’s hand trails Shane’s lower torso slowly, aiming for his growing hardness. “Ready for your turn?”
In Shane’s bedroom, Ilya separates their lips with a loud smooch and reaches for Shane’s phone on the bedside table.
“No,” is all Shane says as he shoos Ilya’s hand away and opens a drawer. He pulls out an old phone that he’d spent a good amount of time factory resetting.
“You have two phones now?”
“It’s an old one. Not connected to the Internet or anything. It’s safer than keeping any pictures on my phone. I’ve already transferred the ones from last time.”
Shane unlocks the phone and opens the photos app, showing Ilya an empty photos app save for a few thumbnails.
He remembers, in that moment, that Ilya hasn’t had access to the photos like he has. That he might feel a certain way seeing them for the first time in months.
“Give.”
Ilya busies himself with the photos for a while, zooming in and out as he admires them. Shane allows himself to watch him for a moment, toying with the idea that Ilya finds him attractive on more than just an urgent get-your-skin-on-mine-as-fast-as-possible level.
Once he gets bored of the silence, Shane crawls deeper into the bed and positions himself on his knees. He pats down the cropped jersey he’s wearing, ensuring the Raiders logo is visibly centered.
He licks his lips, slightly nervous but more so emboldened by this game they’re playing. “You can keep staring at a tiny two dimensional rendering of me, or you can have the real thing.”
Ilya looks up, eyebrows raised in surprise upon hearing the seductive tone laced through Shane’s words.
“Oh, is my number one fan trying to get my attention?”
A shiver runs through Shane’s body. He blinks slowly, conscious of the hair raising on his arms. He’s not in the mood to play hard to get this time, he wants to try something new. He eyes his phone, still in Ilya’s hand. “Maybe.”
Ilya hums lightly, shifting on the bed so that they face each other with a decent distance between them. “And what would you like to do with that attention?”
“I want to see how you see me. What seeing me in your jersey does to you.”
“Oh, I can do that and more…” Ilya centres the phone, “Can I include your face this time? Please?”
Something about the quiet, straight forward request stops Shane from instinctively denying it.
“Seeing you in my jersey is only mind blowing because it is you. Shane Hollander, in my colours. I want to capture that, if you will let me.”
He maintains eye contact as he does a quick cost-benefit analysis of the risk to be taken by digitising his entire identifiable body in Ilya’s salaciously cropped jersey.
A nod is all it takes for Ilya’s face to morph into unfiltered desire, his focus shifting onto the viewfinder.
Shane feels more nervous playing a role that involves direct flirtation than when he’s baiting Ilya into a pseudo fight that may or may not result in some rough manhandling.
In reality, the latter doesn’t feel like a role at all.
He pushes through the nervousness, dragging his fingers suggestively up his thighs. Digging his knees into the mattress to emphasize the wide stance.
“I hope you’re enjoying this, because it’s never happening again,” Shane says with zero threat in his tone. Just to counteract the vulnerability in the air.
“You cannot imagine how much I’m enjoying this, Hollander… fuck,” Ilya sighs, alternating between landscape and portrait shots.
“I’m serious, this is never happening again,” Shane exhales to calm his body. He closes his eyes and rolls his head from one side to the other, seeking a relief in the stretch of his back muscles. One hand slides between his legs as the other travels up his chest and underneath the jersey.
“I highly doubt that, considering you have a whole burner phone now.”
Touché.
Shane’s hands continue to explore his own body in small, incremental movements. He’s got both hands in his hair when Ilya groans longingly, “God, you are so fucking fit.”
“You think?” Shane smiles, lowering his arms to flex his biceps.
“Mm. Your arms are nice too, but your abs… have I ever told you how much I want to worship them.”
“These old things?” Shane flexes his six pack and angles his torso so that the bedside lamp shines a spotlight on all the bumps and grooves of his muscles.
Ilya crawls closer.
Shane allows it until his nose caresses Shane’s continuously flexed abdomen.
“If I’d known a crop top would do this to you, I would have agreed a long time ago.” It’s a half tease, half admission.
A purr rumbles from the back of Ilya’s throat. “Is not the crop top. Is you.”
A beat passes in silence as Shane absorbs Ilya’s honesty.
His nose continues to outline every muscle group in a zigzag pattern.
As soon as a single kiss is placed on his skin, Shane shakes his head and banishes Ilya to the edge of the bed.
Ilya deals with this by getting comfortable and placing the phone front and center between them.
Lowering himself onto his ass, Shane slides his briefs off and opens his legs. His hands resume their wandering. As the silence extends between them his touch becomes less teasing and more sensual. Instead of tantalisingly outlining his muscles, he starts gripping tighter.
Fingers curl inward to leave scratch marks on his skin.
Palms drag on and off his hardness as it lays against his lower belly.
Tongue continues to lick his lips. At first, out of nervousness, and eventually out of hunger.
The next time they lock eyes, Shane directs a sharp gaze to the forgotten phone. All he has to do is whisper, “Pick it up,” before Ilya is scrambling to obey.
As the night progresses, the camera roll on Shane’s phone starts to fill up. There are close ups, and faraway shots. Some blurry due to Ilya’s attempts to multitask. Some questionable in nature, revealing insights into exactly which parts of Shane’s body Ilya is fond of.
There’s a bias towards legs, abs, and face.
Entirely too many closeups of his freckles.
Of course, every now and then there are dozens of duplicates as Ilya’s finger just spams the shutter button. Behaving as if he cannot get enough of every second that Shane chooses to show off for him. It’s a heavy dose of confidence boost that shoots through Shane’s bloodstream and propels him to perform even more.
Digitally, the wealth of evidence consists of endless solo photos of Shane in various positions.
Jersey on. Jersey haphazardly shoved. Jersey off.
Then, parts of Ilya join him in the frame.
A hand curled around the underside of Shane’s thigh, holding his leg open and capturing the look on Shane’s face when he feels the tip of Ilya’s cock against his rim for the first time that night.
A knee shoved between two thick thighs, eager to press up against a hard member. To please it. To give it a stable anchor to grind against.
A finger on Shane’s lip, holding it open, allowing cum to dribble out of his mouth slowly after forbidding him from swallowing.
When Shane gets to review these later, it entices him just how much a slight perspective shift could reignite the attraction he feels towards Ilya.
The photos are so explicit, so erotic, they elicit a vivid auditory memory when viewing them. Ragged breaths, stretched out moans, the slapping of skin on skin contact. They transport Shane into the memories where time ceases to exist for moments at a time and subsequently speeds up in a fast forward momentum until the next momentous snippet.
Ilya opens his door and watches curiously as Shane walks in with one hand held awkwardly behind him.
“I have something for you.” Shane doesn’t beat around the bush.
“A gift?”
“Uh no? Not a gift. Just… something.”
“Hmm, sounds like a gift to me.”
The mysterious object appears between them as Shane shoves it into Ilya’s chest. He catches it before Shane lets go and moves towards Ilya’s living room quickly. Ilya follows him step for step, so Shane has to watch in embarrassment as he explores the mystery.
The box is small but not light. Ilya turns it around, looking for the front of the packaging to help him identify what’s inside.
“A polaroid camera?”
Shane nods jerkily.
“Oh, we are high school girls, now? This is so exciting. Are we going on field trip? Let me guess, shopping spree?”
A throw pillow flies into Ilya’s head.
He laughs, scratching at the tape to unpackage it as he walks over to join Shane on the couch. “No, this is great, I love it. Can’t wait to… go shopping and take pictures of all our new outfits.”
“Fuck you. It’s for taking pictures without outfits.”
Ilya’s expression blanks, his mind surely screeching to a halt. It settles the nerves in Shane quite a bit. He wasn’t sure if the whole taking pictures thing was just a one time fantasy for Ilya, or if he would like to keep exploring it like Shane has been fantasizing nonstop in between their meetups.
Then, Ilya doubles his efforts into getting the camera into his hands and investigating how to turn the thing on. Of course, batteries are not included so Ilya leaves for a moment to find some.
To speed up the process, Shane picks up the box and pulls out a small packet. It houses ten polaroid sheets ready to be used. He has already placed them in the compartment by the time Ilya is back.
They finick with it for a second before a green LED indicates readiness, and Ilya wastes no time before angling it towards Shane and surprising him with the first shot.
“Hey!” Shane protests a little too late. The flash wasn’t that blinding, but he covers his eyes regardless.
“Have you ever seen your freckles this close?” Ilya muses. The camera spits the photo out slowly.
“My freckles? They can’t be that visible.”
“Wanna bet?” Ilya says as he shakes the film paper in the air in hopes of it revealing Shane sooner.
A slight uneasiness appears in Shane’s stomach. He’d purchased the Polaroid camera in the hopes that they can do more of the fun, exciting, illicit activities they’d started doing in previous hookups.
But Ilya’s fascination with Shane’s face and freckles has him wondering if he’s truly enjoying himself or mocking Shane in some sort of new way.
Shane shifts uneasily in his seat, attempting to come up with just the right segue.
“We’ve got ten sheets. Use them wisely.”
This statement successfully activates Ilya’s one track mind. He grabs Shane along with their supplies and shoves him to the bedroom and straight to bed.
He doesn’t hesitate before enthusiastically executing a textbook blowjob which doesn’t last very long; Ilya provides no pause or slowed pacing even when Shane warns him. He swallows Shane’s load like it’s his only source of protein for the day.
When Shane attempts to reciprocate, Ilya shoos him away and says, “You know, I thought with my challenge to you, that you would score hat trick today.”
Shane’s face pales. He had forgotten all about their deal. He shakes his head aggressively as he looks away and attempts to dissuade Ilya despite the man occupying himself with the Polaroid camera and pretending not to listen.
Ilya snaps a candid photo of Shane laying lazily on his back yet arguing endlessly. “You can’t be making deals like that. You can’t try to affect my actual gameplay.”
Ilya’s smile widens. “Oh, I can’t?” The photo slides onto Ilya’s palm, he places it to the side gently.
“It’s not ethical. Or something.” Shane shrugs, only half believing his own words.
The goading continues on. “Did not realize you had it in you to score a Texan hat trick.”
He goes into denial mode real quick. “Uh- no! Nope.”
“So it was not Shane Hollander who scored a hat trick before the second period was over?”
Shane shakes his head. “Was it?. You sure you’re not confusing me with another player?”
“It was not Shane Hollander, most dedicated hockey player of all time, who was not satisfied with this hat trick and decided he needed to score a fourth goal despite his team already being in the lead?”
Shane bites his lip, newly buzzing on the inside with the same excitement he felt upon the ending of today’s game.
“My mistake. Must’ve been someone else.” Ilya moves to get off the bed, explaining casually, “I must go find that man. I owe him celebratory orgasms.”
“Okay, fine!” Shane blocks Ilya’s path to prevent him from exiting the bed. “I mean, did you see that? You’d think you guys would have learned your lesson but you left their slot wide open!”
“Mm, no. There is no ‘you guys’, I was off the ice. Trust me, they will be hearing from me during next practice.”
He picks up the developed photo and holds it up for them to admire. Ilya strokes himself half heartedly as they do so, distracting Shane enough that he loses track of the argument.
“You know the rules. One orgasm for every goal.”
Ilya rounds on Shane, tosses a leg over his shoulder, and dives tongue first into Shane’s asshole. He fingers him endlessly until a second orgasm takes over.
When the next click of a photo rings through the air, Shane lifts his face from the mountain of pillows he had buried himself under and frowns.
“You gonna keep sneaking up on me like that?”
“Of course. I am trying new techniques with each orgasm. I must capture and compare results.”
“Capture and compare this!” Shane gathers up whatever energy he has left and knocks Ilya’s balance enough to hook a leg over him and pin him down.
“Mmm,” Ilya hums playfully as he repositions the camera and watches Shane through the tiny viewfinder.
“You’re going to make me confiscate that thing,” Shane says half heartedly as he leans down and reacquaints himself with Ilya’s happy trail.
He takes a deep breath, feeling grounded. His body is already pliant and comfortable after two back to back orgasms, but the need to reciprocate the service is ever strong.
The now familiar click of the shutter indicates another moment captured. Shane’s nose is buried by the base of Ilya’s shaft. His mouth hangs slightly open, tongue sneaking out to investigate Ilya’s balls with small kitten licks.
He looks directly into the lens and gathers up every ounce of confidence he has ever fostered and winks.
There’s a simple click before Ilya empties his hands and indulges in the moment.
“Da, Hollander…” Ilya’s fingers slide into Shane’s hair, not guiding but following along. Another set of fingers caress his cheek, thumb sliding up against Shane’s lips as his tongue works its way up, up, up and around the head of his cock.
Shane takes a peak upwards, watching as Ilya’s head falls back, accepting the pleasure Shane is so eager to give him.
To bridge Ilya’s refractory period, a vibrator makes an appearance. Ilya uses it to keep Shane near the edge of his third orgasm for an extended period of time, only letting him topple over when begging turns into incoherent wailing.
The next capture focuses on Shane’s tear stricken face, frown and all, as he looks deliciously spaced out.
The one after that, Shane isn’t even aware of it happening. He’s lying completely flat on his front, cock nudged between his legs like a fifth limb. It’s clear enough, even through the hazy quality of the polaroid, that his cock is red, swollen, and worked beyond its limits.
“What if I want to take one of you?” Shane’s voice is quiet, but so is the ambiance of the late night hour.
Ilya stares back, torn. “But there are only four left…”
Even this tiny comment charges Shane’s ego because Ilya already has so many pictures of Shane sprawled all over his bed. And yet, the idea of not using every single remaining sheet solely on Shane in more or less the same position is making him hesitate.
“Both of us.” Ilya compromises. “Think I can take selfie with this thing?”
Laughing, Shane lets Ilya rearrange their limbs so that a selfie of Ilya’s torso includes Shane’s limp, useless cock in the corner. Ilya smiles, looking arrogant as fuck, as he takes the photo.
The machine buzzes lightly as it spits out the new photo. Shane’s eyes start to droop, he doesn’t know if he will make it through the thirty seconds it takes for the film to develop.
He must have fallen asleep because when his eyes open again, Ilya is drying his hair and walking around the room looking for clean clothes.
“Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean to sleep…” Shane mumbles.
“No, is okay, was just a few minutes.”
He limps out of bed, every single inch of his body aching despite having laid on his back most of the evening. He is both stiff and wobbling like jello as he steps into the washroom to clean up.
Back in the bedroom, he finds Ilya with a stack of polaroid pictures in his hands. It unsettles Shane slightly when he realizes the photos are so much more exposed now than they would have been on his phone. He wants to reach for them and hide them in the depths of his pockets. Maybe even sew the fabric permanently shut so there’s no chance of them falling out on his way home.
Luckily, Ilya hands them over without being prompted. Shane holds them awkwardly and stands alone in the room as Ilya runs off without a word.
When he’s back, there’s a large envelope in his hands. “Unless you want to share with your cab driver, you might want this.”
Shane takes it gratefully, “Thanks.”
The envelope is ripped up along one edge, like it was previously opened in a rush without a letter opener or even scissors. But the flap is still intact, it secures the pictures inside well enough. Shane confirms there aren’t any labels of identifiable information on the brown material.
It’ll do for now.
Shane walks into the hotel room with the infamous envelope full of dozens of photos. It's starting to rip at the seams. A problem which Shane tried to solve with some masking tape, but even that has started to wear down with how much he’s moving it around every time he travels with it.
He protects this envelope better than his fucking passport, keeping it close to his body at all times.
Ilya greets him with a look on his face he’s never seen before and a gray shopping bag in his hand.
“What’s this?” Shane asks curiously. Ilya lifts it up so that the Michaels logo is front and center. This confuses Shane more, not less.
“If you carry that envelope onto a plane one more time, it will fall apart.” Ilya explains as he pulls out the largest item. “Is scrapbook. For your polaroids.”
“A scrapbook? This is your solution?”
Ilya tilts his head, “You don’t like it?”
“It’s so obvious, anyone who sees it might open it looking for something salacious. This is the opposite of secrecy.”
“Is a solution to keep everything organized. Never said anything about secrecy.”
He hands it over to Shane before sticking his hand back inside and pulling out a heaping stack of… stickers?
They come in all sorts of shapes and sizes, the plastic packaging slipping and sliding too easily, some fall to the ground.
“You made fun of me for the polaroid camera and now you want us to do arts and crafts together?”
“Exactly.” There is no shame whatsoever on Ilya’s face as he nods. “Look at the stickers.” Ilya says, fanning out all the sheets.
Shane takes a deep breath and tries to reframe his thinking. If Ilya is so excited to show him, then perhaps it might be a fun idea? He sees a variety of shapes, colours, even some three dimensional ones. Each sticker sheet is themed in some way, geared towards different ages or target audiences.
It looks like Ilya bought out the whole isle.
“You can give each picture a rating.” Ilya points to a large set of numbers, scales, stars and check marks.
Shane blinks. Of course, Ilya has him completely figured out, because there is nothing Shane loves more than a rating system.
That’s how they end up sitting on the floor, endless stickers lined up between them. The polaroids sit in a salacious pile to the side. There are some humble photos in the midst, but mostly the collection screams nudity, nudity, nudity.
There are a few that stand out, simply because Shane had printed their original digital photos. He picks one up, feeling strangely nostalgic about the first time he wore Ilya’s number. “So maybe next time… you wear my Jersey.”
“Hollander, you do not have to convince me. I’ve been waiting for the day you ask.” Ilya says this so casually, as if they have all the time in the world together to execute these fantasies.
He’s already claiming a scrapbook sheet, finicking with the placement of some photos.
Shane spots two polaroid pictures of himself sleeping soundly in Ilya’s bed. The sheets are covering his lover half, so it’s not an explicit photo whatsoever. He recognizes it as the first time they played with the polaroid camera. Shane doesn’t remember using up all the sheets that day.
He picks one up, turning it around for Ilya to see, “I’m not even naked here.”
Ilya looks over, barely reacting to the photo presented to him.
Shane picks up the second one, holding the two next to each other to showcase just how innocent and similar they are. “I mean, you used up two photos of me just sleeping.”
“Yes. I like looking at your face. The sky is blue.” Ilya shrugs and moves onto grabbing the glue and sticking another photo down on the page in front of him.
Shane doesn’t move on as fast. He blinks, processing the information he’s receiving. The sky is, in fact, not blue. Most days, the sky appears blue. Sure. But it can also appear pink, purple, white, grey, red, orange…
He shakes his thoughts, setting out to create a chronological storyboard of that day, starting with the closeup of his face in the living room, all the way to the four orgasms Ilya forced out of him.
Jesus fucking Christ.
He looks more and more wrecked as they progress. And, frankly speaking, he’s not sure he remembers their order.
Once he’s satisfied with his page, he looks around the room, observing the mess they’ve already created. Scraps of paper, sticker backing sheets, and cheap glue sticks litter the floor.
Ilya is meticulously framing three photos next to each other, all of them involving Shane sprawled on a bed in one form or another. They’re each from a different hookup, given by the inconsistent bedframes and side tables in the background.
Looking a little closer, Shane notices something absurd. He grabs Ilya’s hand and lifts it up in the air. “What’s this?”
Ilya looks at his own empty hand, confused.
“Did you buy glitter?” Shane asks incredulously.
“No, Hollander, I did not buy glitter.”
Ilya’s glitter covered hand flexes between them. He rubs his thumb across the tips of his fingers.
“I bought glitter covered washi tape. Is what the professionals recommend.”
“The professionals recommend buying cheap glitter covered washi tape that falls apart when you touch it?” Shane scoffs.
“You cannot put price on joy, Shane. Glitter brings me joy, accept it.”
“Making a mess of a hotel room when we don’t have access to a vacuum brings me the opposite of joy.”
Ilya uncrosses his legs and shifts up onto his knees. He observes his own hands for a moment, rubbing his palms together and looking over at Shane mischievously.
Shane eyes him wearily. “What are you doing?”
“Glitter should bring everyone joy.”
“Rozanov.”
Ilya’s hand reaches for Shane’s face at record speed.
“Roz-” Shane does react fast enough to swat it away, but it turns out to be decoy as Ilya’s other messy hand lands on its target. His thumb rubs circles directly on the apex of Shane’s cheek.
“You didn’t,” Shane accuses with a gigantic smile on his face.
“I made you pretty.” Ilya smiles back.
Shane looks around frantically, needing a method of revenge. He spots a sticker sheet near his knee, grabs it quickly and places a sticker on the center of Ilya’s forehead.
“That better be A+ sticker for how well I rock your world.”
Shane bites back a smile and says with an even tone, “It’s a one star rating. I’ve been here for an hour and you haven’t even kissed me yet.”
Ilya’s eyes widen, accepting the challenge in silence. He leaps towards Shane and locks their lips together in a fierce kiss. They move their limbs this way and that, rearranging themselves so that Shane is flat on the floor and Ilya is showering kisses along his glitter-covered freckles.
When hands start roaming, and shirts are fully off, Shane mumbles, “Two stars…”
From that point on, the mess is forgotten and the joy is fully embraced. Ilya worships Shane’s body until he receives a five star rating and pauses everything to pull out the polaroid camera and snap a photo of what exactly he had done to earn it.