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"We're gonna be late," Shane moans, feeling the panic set in as brake lights ahead of them cast a soft red glow into the cab. "I can't be late to my first fucking shoot."
It's not his first shoot ever—he's had many deals with Calvin Klein in the past—but 'first' is relative. It's his first since the new hockey season started; his first since he renegotiated his pay package; his first that Ilya is tagging along to.
Ilya turns to face him, reaching across the middle seat of the car and taking Shane's hand comfortingly. "We are half hour early, and we are almost there," he points out, his thick Russian accent a calming balm on the sharp sting of Shane's anxiety.
Shane narrows his eyes at the traffic, squeezing Ilya's hand. It's fine. They're fine. He knows, logically, that they'll be there in plenty of time, but he was planning on being there earlier. On having time to stop for boba from the shop at the end of the street. On being able to introduce himself to the crew before the shoot. He doesn't appreciate when plans change beyond his control, or that he has no choice but to sit and wait out the delay, soothed only by the gentle rub of Ilya's thumb across the sweaty skin of his palm.
They arrive twenty minutes before the shoot is scheduled to start. Shane peels away from Ilya to introduce himself to a few people he doesn't recognise, and to say hello to everyone he does. It helps with the anxiety, if Shane acknowledges all the people who are going to be looking at him, directing him, judging him under the harsh studio lights. He never got his bubble tea, but that's probably a blessing in disguise—he's been working hard on his core recently, and doesn't want to put all that effort to waste by making himself bloated in his first ad campaign of the season.
Ilya sidles up to him as he finishes his round of niceties, curling his arm through Shane's in a way that can only mean he's planning something devious. He presses his lips in close to Shane's ear, his voice dripping with provocation as he murmurs, "We have fifteen minutes."
Shane's blood runs cold, then hot, then cold again. Absolutely not. Not in a million years. He steps away, placing a hand flat in the centre of Ilya's chest and pushing him backwards. "No," he says firmly, his eyes darting around the open studio space to check if anyone is looking at them. He doesn't want to face the fact that his cock twitches in his pants at the thought.
It shouldn't turn him on, the way that Ilya raises an amused, knowing eyebrow in his direction. "Okay," Ilya shrugs, his eyes full of mischief, "I will be in hallway if you need me."
With those words he turns on his heel, walking swiftly towards the entrance door. Shane watches him stride confidently away, his stomach roiling with confused, nervous arousal. Ilya doesn't even turn back to check if Shane is following as he leaves, his cocky assurance that Shane will evident in every step he takes.
He's a fucking menace, and he knows exactly what he's doing.
It's a terrible idea, and Shane shouldn't. For so many reasons, he shouldn't. But now that the thought is in his head, he can't stop thinking it—embarrassment and arousal swirling deliriously together behind his ribcage. He can feel his cock growing in his pants as he stands there, staring gormlessly at the closing door. He either needs to douse himself in freezing water immediately, or give in to temptation and chase Ilya down. What he certainly can't do is continue to stand petrified in the middle of this busy room with a rapidly growing boner threatening to tent his pants.
The longer he waits, the less time they have.
"Bastard," he groans under his breath, looking down to see his traitorous legs already walking in the direction of the hallway.
Ilya is leaning casually against the opposite wall with his hands deep in his pockets and a smirk tugging at his lips as Shane comes thundering through the door. He doesn't speak, just tilts his head to the left, pushing off the wall and heading further into the building.
Shane follows him pathetically into a single-stall W/C, checking the hall for any prying eyes as he closes the door behind them. "I hate you so fucking much," he groans locking the door with a satisfying thunk and turning to glare at Ilya's smug face. His glower deepens when Ilya's eyes trail down the length of his body, his eyebrows raising at the blatant bulge tenting Shane's pants.
"Mm, I do not think you do," Ilya says, a laugh threading through his voice as he crowds Shane against the wall beside the sink, pressing his lips to his boyfriend's neck just above the crisp line of his collar as his hands efficiently unbutton Shane's pants.
Shane grabs them just before Ilya can shove them down, extracting his phone from the pocket. He can feel Ilya watching him as he navigates to the Clock app, setting a timer for thirteen minutes, which will go off at 2:59PM. "Hurry up," he moans, placing his phone screen-up on the edge of the sink, the countdown blinking its descending numbers at them threateningly.
"Fuck, you're so hot when you are flustered," Ilya growls, kissing Shane's lips with enough force to bonk his head back into the wall behind him, pushing his own jeans down over his skinny hips as Shane mirrors the motion, cold air rushing his legs as his pants drop to pool around his ankles. Both of them groan into the kiss as their bare cocks touch, sparking electricity between them.
"If you get come on my clothes I will never fucking forgive you," Shane hisses against Ilya's lips, tugging his own shirt up to avoid the precome he knows is already dribbling from the tip of his cock. His neatly ironed shirt will end up rumpled, but of the two options, that's the infinitely better one.
Ilya presses his forehead into Shane's shoulder as his hips rock steadily, grinding their cocks between them. "I want to fuck you," he groans, his breath hot against the cotton of Shane's shirt.
"Are you crazy?" Shane shakes his head incredulously, taking the heft of both of their cocks in one of his hands, the added friction making him shudder. There's no way in hell Ilya is both prepping and fucking him in—he looks at the clock—just under twelve minutes.
"Turn around," Ilya insists, shuffling backwards, his ankles tangled in denim.
Shane whines at the loss of contact, keeping his own hand curled around his dick. It doesn't matter if Ilya isn't back in the studio in twelve minutes time—Ilya doesn't even need to be at this shoot at all—but Shane will get off and then make himself presentable and then go and film his contractually obligated commercial. "Ilya, you cannot fuck me right now," he says firmly, like he's reprimanding a naughty animal. "Later, okay?"
Ilya reaches back towards Shane's crotch, and for the briefest of moments, Shane thinks he's dropped it.
Until his hands curl tight around Shane's hips, forcefully turning him towards the wall.
"Yellow," Shane says resolutely, though he doesn't resist the motion, letting Ilya spin his body around and pressing his forearm to the wall, resting his head against it. "I need to be back in there in eleven and a half minutes," he breathes, feeling Ilya press up against his back, his cock nestled against the crack of Shane's ass, "you literally cannot fuck me in that time."
"I know," Ilya murmurs, his breath ruffling the hair at the nape of Shane's neck as he presses a kiss just above the collar of Shane's dress shirt. "Trust me?" he asks quietly as he pulls back, leaving Shane's body cold and wanting. Shane hears him spit a couple of times into his hand. "I will not hurt you."
"Just hurry up," Shane begs, trying and failing not to glance down at the timer, wringing his palm desperately around the head of his cock and smearing precome down the length of his shaft, sending filthy pleasure signals zipping through his core.
Taking that for the permission it is, Ilya's body closes in on Shane's again, his hard, damp cock pressing insistently into the tight space between Shane's closed thighs. He groans deeply—loud enough that anyone walking by could hear—pushing in until he meets the fleshy resistance of Shane's hanging balls.
"Shh," Shane hisses, then, "fuck." The harsh friction is perfect as Ilya pulls back out, as he pushes in again. It's nowhere near the same sensation as actually being fucked, but it seems to trigger the same happy chemicals in Shane's brain, making his cock pulse in his hand.
"Is okay? Is green?" Ilya whispers, his hands sliding under Shane's shirt, crinkling it further as he pushes it up his chest, each hand taking a palmful of pec, squeezing down harshly around them.
Shane presses his face harder into the skin of his forearm, sucking in a ragged breath as the friction on his nipples makes him blurt precome into his hand. "D-don't mark my chest," he begs, rocking his hips back against Ilya's driving thrusts, "but yes. Green."
"Good boy," Ilya murmurs, gentling his touch—flattening his palms and rubbing them over Shane's erect nipples as his cock drags through the tight space between Shane's thighs.
Shane can't help but think that Ilya's dick must be chafing, sliding against Shane's hairy legs with nothing more than spit as lube and a dream, but he doesn't seem like he's in the mood to complain, his breath coming out in short, hot gasps against the back of Shane's neck.
"How did I let myself get here," Shane murmurs incredulously, reaching down to lift his balls out of the way, allowing Ilya's long cock to slide all the way through, the tip poking out the other side. He dangles his fingers there, letting the head of Ilya's dick paint his fingertips with precome. "Shoulda run when you started jerking off in the showers."
Ilya huffs a laugh into Shane's neck, groaning every time the head of his cock kisses Shane's fingers. "Mm, you would be so much happier without me."
"My life would be easier," Shane hisses back, checking up on the clock once more—eight minutes left. He really would like some wiggle-room to clean up and make himself into a person again before he has to be on camera basically naked in front of a room full of people. For a commercial which will be seen by millions more. His cock throbs, and he squeezes his balls firmly before spitting into his own hand, sliding it back over his aching dick.
"It is so hot that you let me do this," Ilya murmurs, pinching one of Shane's nipples firmly, "you are such a good boy for me, da?"
"Da," Shane replies, delighting in the thrill that zips up his spine as he lets the simple Russian word roll off his tongue. "Trakhni menya, pozhaluysta," he groans—fuck me, please. His pronunciation is sloppy but it has the desired effect, causing Ilya to grunt against his neck, sliding his hands down to grip tight around Shane's hips, desperately dragging his body over Ilya's cock.
"Fuuuuck," Ilya moans, his voice shuddery and wrecked, "did they teach you that in Russian school?"
Not quite—there's a lot more I would like to buy three apples, and a lot less desperately begging for sex at Shane's twice-weekly Russian language sessions with eighty year old Agnessa. Ilya is the only one teaching Shane how to spout absolute filth in his mother tongue, and he knows it.
"Shut up," Shane laughs softly, his face flushing as he gathers precome from his slit, jerking himself faster. He can feel the beginning of his orgasm thrumming in his lower belly. "C'mon," he begs, squeezing his legs tighter around Ilya's pumping cock, "please."
"So needy," Ilya teases, as though there's not a literal clock ticking down beside them, telling them to hurry up and get on with it. His thrusts do get faster, though, his sharp hipbones slamming against the meat of Shane's ass, rippling his flesh with every frantic shove. "Do you think they will know?" he rumbles, his voice low and nasty in Shane's ear.
Shane can't help the shiver that travels down his spine at Ilya's words. "Stop it," he begs, his cock pulsing at the thought.
"Stop what?" Ilya asks innocently, dragging his nails across the skin of Shane's pelvis, drawing trails of fire that he knows will burn throughout the whole shoot, hidden underneath a brand new pair of Calvin Kleins. "We are both gone for," Ilya pauses, and he must be looking at the clock. Shane looks too—four minutes left. "Nine minutes, so far. And then you go back to studio, all rumpled and sweaty. What else will they think?"
"I fucking hate you," Shane moans, arching back against Ilya's body, leaning his head on his boyfriend's firm shoulder as a shudder runs through him, his hand wringing tight around the head of his cock, "I'm never bringing you to one of these again."
Ilya turns his head, licking a filthy stripe up the exposed column of Shane's neck as their bodies grind together, the air in the small room growing warmer and more cloying as they both work up a sweat. "You will come for me?" Ilya asks, his words vibrating through Shane's stretched-out skin, "Nasty boy."
Shane has to shove his free hand against his mouth to muffle his deep groan, squeezing his eyes shut as he gives himself over to Ilya. His thighs tremble underneath him—and around Ilya's cock—as his body jerks and twitches in his boyfriend's hold. He feels lightheaded with it, all of his blood rushing south as his dick pulses, spurting rope after rope of come across the pristine white wall. "Fuck, ohhhhhh, fuck," he moans into the back of his hand, his teeth grazing harshly over his skin as his body goes slack against Ilya's.
"That's my good boy," Ilya murmurs, not so much rocking his hips any more as grinding them, their bodies pressed tightly together. "Shall I come now? Or wait 'til last minute?" he teases. "Last minute is more fun, but…"
Shane groans, blinking back to reality. He lifts his head to see that there are only two minutes left on the clock. "Now," he begs, leaning forward against the wall with both hands—smearing even more come that he'll have to somehow clean up in his remaining minute. He rolls his hips in exactly the way he would if Ilya's dick was really buried in his ass, clenching his thighs and sighing in the dreamy, fucked-out way that always gets his boyfriend going.
It's even chafing Shane, now, the constant rubbing between his thighs—spit-lube long since dried up—but Ilya seems too fuck-drunk to care. He groans as his hands tighten around Shane's hips, freezing them both in place as his cock jerks, the head pulsing thick, sticky come into the tight space behind Shane's balls.
Shane barely even lets him enjoy it, reaching for a wad of toilet paper as soon as Ilya lets out the breath he's been holding. There's less than a minute left on the clock, and there's no time to waste with frivolities such as letting Ilya come down slowly. It's Ilya's fault he's in this mess in the first place.
He shifts his hips forward until Ilya's cock slips from between his thighs, immediately shoving the tissue up between his legs before come starts to drip down into the pants pooled at his ankles.
This was such a bad idea—there isn't time. Shane runs the tap, rinsing his hands off in the cold water and dragging one of them frantically over his dick and between his legs, wincing as his icy hand brushes against his sensitive balls.
"Shh, calm," Ilya murmurs, encouraging Shane to shuffle in front of the sink. He wets another wad of paper, dropping to his knees behind Shane and using a gentle hand to encourage him to spread his legs as much as he can in his cotton shackles, so that Ilya can wipe him down properly.
"The wall," Shane moans, trying to grab more toilet paper, but Ilya stops him with a gentle hand, pressing a kiss against one of Shane's butt cheeks as the timer rings out, far too loud in the small room. Shane fumbles with wet hands to disable the sound as Ilya dries him off, tugging Shane's underwear and pants back into place around his hips.
"I will clean," Ilya promises, rising to his feet and picking up Shane's phone to dry it against his own shirt before slipping it into Shane's pocket. "Go get pretty for commercial."
Shane takes a deep, shuddery breath as he looks at himself in the mirror, tucking his shirt back into his smart dress pants and trying unsuccessfully to flatten down all the new wrinkles with his hands. Thank god for hair and makeup, he thinks desperately, his eyes scanning over his blotchy red face. He looks freshly fucked, his eyes glassy and his mouth hanging slightly slack.
Get it together.
He nods, turning to press a quick kiss to Ilya's lips. "Are you gonna put your dick away before I open the door?" he whispers, and Ilya shakes his head with a soft chuckle, pushing on Shane's shoulder.
"Go," he says emphatically, shoving Shane towards the door. "I will be there soon."
Shane goes. He slips out through a crack in the door, catching a glimpse of Ilya's cheeky smile as he closes it behind him, listening for the distinct thud of the lock clunking into place before hightailing it back into the studio.
He sits heavily into the hair and makeup chair, his watch reading exactly 3:00PM as he does so. There's a bright smear of come across the dark fabric of the watch strap that he hadn't noticed as he was getting redressed, and Shane rubs desperately over it with his thumb. His heart pounds in his chest as he watches his makeup artist approach in the mirror, smiling broadly. When the stain doesn't budge, Shane quickly rips the watch from his wrist, shoving it into his pants pocket and forcing a smile back.
When Shane strips in his little dressing room to change into his heavily branded boxers and modesty robe, he feels a dull ache on the inside of his thighs. When he looks closer, he realises to his horror that the skin is rubbed near raw—reddened and angry under his gentle touch. If he's feeling like this, he can't even imagine what Ilya's cock feels like right now.
Serves him right, he thinks with a smug smile, tugging the boxers up around his hips, relieved that the length of the fabric covers his red-tinted skin.
The shoot goes okay, all things considered. Ilya is leaning against the wall opposite the studio set-up, cast in near darkness compared to the bright white lights burning into Shane's retinas. Shane does his silly little walks, his silly little poses, listens intently to each of the director's notes. He patently ignores Ilya's smug smile beaming at him from behind the camera operator as he does his best not to wince and ruin the take every time his inner thighs burn. It's fine.
When the director says, "That's a wrap," and Shane is finally free, Ilya follows him like a lost puppy to his dressing room. He doesn't try to do anything more than kiss Shane softly behind the closed door, a gentle hand smoothing over his shoulder.
"How's your dick?" Shane murmurs, smiling smugly when Ilya winces at his words. He's allowed to keep the boxers, so he tugs his pants on over them, shoving his old underwear into the pocket.
"Awful," Ilya laughs, watching Shane swap out his robe for his shirt. "Do you hurt too? I'm sorry. I should have brought lube." He actually sounds almost contrite.
"Maybe you shouldn't be a sex pest," Shane points out, buttoning his shirt with a fond smile. As much as he postures, it was incredibly hot. And he'd probably let Ilya do it again. There's not much Ilya wants that he'd say no to, in reality. Shane leans in to kiss him this time, curling his hand around the back of Ilya's neck.
"I will make it up to you," Ilya smiles against his lips. "Whatever you want."
There's only one thing Shane wants right now. What he's been craving all afternoon. "Bubble tea?" he asks, cocking his head in the direction of the door.
Ilya curls his hand around Shane's. "Absolutely."