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Shane likes knowing things. He likes a plan, he likes lists and routines, he likes goals and contingencies. Clear instructions. Correct terminology. Rules. Familiarity.
He likes knowing, for example, how to disarm the new security system when he lets himself in Ilya’s front door. Likes knowing where to put his boots and where to find the light switch. Likes knowing that Ilya will have stocked ginger ale for him. He likes knowing that the kitchen will smell like Mrs. Meyer’s lavender soap and Ilya’s bedroom will smell like Ilya, like expensive cologne and fresh laundry and the stuff he puts in his hair when he’s making an effort.
He does not like delayed planes, especially when nobody seems to have a solid idea of how long it’ll be delayed. Ilya’s still sitting at his gate, apparently, when he should’ve been in the air half an hour ago.
Shane drops his bag in the usual spot – makes sure he has one more clean pair of sweatpants for tomorrow, folds them and a t-shirt and sets them on the dresser – and then he cracks open his ginger ale and tries not to pace. He checks his watch one more time, reflexively, and tells himself to calm down. It’s fine. It’s not like the flight will be completely canceled, right?
Fuck.
He hates this, hates uncertainty, in a visceral way that feels like something crawling around under his skin. All his excitement about seeing Ilya was already bubbling up, reaching a fever pitch, and now it’s boiling over, like he’s hit his physical limit for how long he can go without kissing his boyfriend. And boyfriend is a stupid, insufficient word for what they are to each other, but it still makes him smile, settles something in chest.
He considers texting Ilya “I’m here,” but he knows the new security camera will have sent an alert when he let himself in, so that seems unnecessary. Instead, after a moment of consideration, he takes a picture of his can of ginger ale on the nightstand and says ‘thanks.’
He gets back a heart in return, and then:
cannot decide what I want to do to you first
Shane shivers. He hesitates, types out a text, deletes it, and re-types it:
Tonight I don’t care as long as you fuck me. Tomorrow… I have a plan.
of course you do ♥️
They’ve checked off a few of the items on that “things to try” list he started at the cottage – not enough, as far as Shane’s concerned, but a few.
He never really had many fantasies – which, in retrospect, maybe should’ve been a sign – but especially in the last few months, since he and Ilya made it official, he hasn’t been able to stop fantasizing. It’s like… he needed to know who would be there with him, before he could imagine what they might be doing. Because there’s nobody else he’d want to do some of these things with.
It’s not arrogant to say that Ilya’s the only person who’s ever been able to compete with him. And that’s part of it; he can’t imagine turning over control, submitting, to anybody he didn’t 100% trust and respect, both physically and mentally. He can’t imagine taking anyone else’s orders seriously. Can’t imagine allowing himself to be pinned by someone who couldn’t actually hold him down and pick him up.
But it also feels safe to ask for things now. Now that he knows they’re together, for real, officially – now that he knows they’re in this together – now that he can plan for the future without feeling greedy – it’s safe. Safer than he’s ever been with another person. And yes, Ilya’s always been good about making him feel safe, even from the first time, when Shane was so nervous he could barely think straight. But now that they’ve said it out loud, put a name to it, made a plan to continue it, Shane doesn’t have to worry anymore. He knows. And it’s like that was all the permission his brain needed to start thinking about sex all the time. It only keeps getting better, too, as they get to know each other. As they practice. Shane fucking loves being good at things, knowing exactly how to tease, knowing how Ilya likes to be sucked, knowing how to ride him…
Yeah. Shane has plans.
At least he has plenty of time to shower and get cleaned up. He already did the whole manscaping bit of that routine, and showered before he left, but – well. There are some things he’s not willing to do in a hotel when his teammate is on the other side of the door.
So he deals with all of that, and then he checks his phone again, trying to fight the crushing disappointment and the fresh wave of anxiety when there’s no ETA. He puts on boxer-briefs and a t-shirt, because he feels weird being naked in Ilya’s house without Ilya here.
Text me when you know anything? I’m going to try to sleep but I’ll keep the ringer on.
ok ♥️
He gets in Ilya’s bed and stares up at the ceiling, and his dick starts to fatten up immediately. It’s partly because he’s been waiting for this for weeks and he has a thoroughly conditioned response to being in Ilya’s bed these days. Just the scent is enough to get the vivid sense-memories rolling like a high-def porn reel in his head.
But it goes deeper than that. It scares him, sometimes, the way Ilya makes him feel. Not just emotionally – although yes, that, it’s terrifying to have your heart walking around completely separate from your body.
He wants Ilya in this endless, savage, unmanageable way that goes so far beyond what he’s always thought of as sex. He wants to crawl inside Ilya’s ribcage and nest there, forever. Wants to sink his teeth in and never let go. It feels like every single molecule of his body is screaming out for his missing piece, which is such a melodramatic thought that he immediately scolds himself for it.
He’s still so agitated. He was so ready to get here and let go of the rest of the world. He can do that, sometimes, with Ilya: turn off the part of his brain that is always trying to be a good son, a good captain, a good friend, a good role model… he was expecting to be able to do that as soon as he walked in tonight, as soon as he got one of Ilya’s crushing bear-hugs, and instead – this. Anxiety. Not knowing.
There isn’t a shot in hell that he’ll be able to sleep yet. Well, there’s one more thing he can do, as far as preparation, to make sure he’s ready for Ilya. That’s a practical use of his time, right?
He grabs the lube from the drawer. Strips. Wriggles around, trying to get comfortable. It’s such a fucking awkward angle, trying to do this himself. He can never get his fingers deep enough, and he has to reach down in a way that does something funky to the shoulder muscle that’s been twinging. One finger isn’t enough, just strange and uncomfortable; two is a stretch, but not a satisfying one, not like this. It’s always so good when it’s two of Ilya’s fingers.
He turns on his side, slinging one knee up over a pillow, and that’s easier. He bites his lip, trying to spread his fingers. It’s still not like when Ilya does it. Ilya’s fingers curl in deep, strong, shoving in and touching and playing with Shane like –
Well. Like he’s something to be played with. Like Ilya owns him.
That thought sparks in his imagination, sending something molten through his spine. He rocks his hips, grinding into the pillow as he tries to scissor his fingers open. He huffs out a curse and tries to get his fingers deeper, but it’s not enough. He lets out an impatient grunt and pulls them out entirely instead, wriggling clumsily over until he can reach the drawer of the nightstand. He pulls out a vibrator. It’s not as thick as Shane’s favorite dildo – or Ilya – but it’s got a nice curve to it, easier to fuck himself with than his fingers.
He slicks it up and settles down again, half-sprawled on his side with his back to the door, and sinks the toy in, and it’s still not enough, but god, it feels so fucking good. He shifts and adjusts until he finds the right angle, rubbing with the rounded head of the vibrator more than he’s thrusting it in and out, but he doesn’t turn it on. This is about getting ready, not getting himself off; he can wait.
Ilya won’t be back for at least another couple hours, but Shane can’t help imagining what would happen if he walked in right now – Ilya came in and found him like this, naked in his bed. He knows how that would play out. Ilya would get that electric, thunderstruck look in his eyes that Shane loves so much: the one he gets when Shane manages to one-up him, either on the ice or in bed. Ilya’s always a little shocked about it – maybe because there are so few people who can ever one-up him. But it’s what they’ve always done, in every way, a constant back-and-forth of yeah, you’re good, bet I can beat it. There’s something particularly fun about being able to surprise Ilya when it comes to sex.
Ilya would grit out a low, “Fuck,” would drop his bag… he’d tell Shane to keep going as he stripped hastily, and he’d crawl up the bed to get a better look. He loves watching Shane open himself up, and anything that involves Shane being too eager to wait for him. Anything that counters Shane’s innocent, uptight image, really. Ilya loves getting to see him like this. Being the only one who gets to see him like this.
Shane turns the vibrator on. Just the lowest setting, but it hits him like a bolt of lightning, a bright sudden buzz against sensitive nerves, and he chokes on a curse as his dick twitches with a pulse of heat. He pulls the pillow closer, trying to rut against it even as he tries to arch his back and fuck himself on the toy.
He doesn’t usually use vibrators, at least not for prostate stimulation, because he’s almost too sensitive; the buzzing gets overwhelming fast, and tends to make him extra sensitive for hours afterward. But right now it’s exactly what he needs, because it’s almost enough to drown out the anxiety jittering under his skin.
Ilya would probably want to watch, at least for a moment. The way he watches makes Shane want to show off, to preen – to prove himself. But then he might tease, once he recovered enough from the shock of finding Shane like this. Might murmur filthy praise and egg him on in that steely-sweet rasp he only ever uses in the bedroom: “Oh, sweetheart. Were you so desperate for cock that you couldn’t even wait for me? Go on, then, let me see you. There you go, hump the pillow like a good boy.”
And then he would turn Shane onto his stomach, nudge his legs wider, maybe take the vibrator out of his hand… take over. Take control.
Shane lets out a quiet moan and turns the vibration up a notch, and then he has to immediately turn it down again, gasping. It’s too much, too good, and he’s not sure when he got so close, but he’s painfully hard.
God, Shane wants him. He wants the stretch, the heat of him, Ilya’s weight on top of his body, wants the soaring, swooping knowledge that whatever happens next, it’s out of Shane’s control, and all he has to do is surrender. He wants hands, pressure, intensity, heat. That’s the thing he misses most. He can call Ilya, hear his voice murmuring filth, and he can fuck himself with a toy, but nothing can replicate the the overwhelming all-consuming sensory intensity of being held down.
Maybe Ilya wouldn’t pause to watch. Maybe he wouldn’t give orders. Maybe he’d just… take.
And that mental image almost sends Shane over the edge, so abruptly he can barely hold back. With one last strangled curse, he turns the vibrator off and tosses it away, squeezing the base of his dick to stave off his orgasm, rolling onto his back. He pants for breath and tries not to think about Ilya pinning him down and fucking him open until he sobs. He’s not particularly successful, but he tries.
He needs to get out of Ilya’s bed before he loses his mind. He needs a change of scenery. He needs to clean the toy, and then he’ll go… walk laps around the kitchen island, maybe. It’s one of the few features of this house that they’ve never fucked on or around, because ew. Anywhere else is going to remind Shane of one time or another.
Fuck.
Just a few more hours. He can make it that long.
For all that Shane tries to calm down before he gets back in bed, his body is still thrumming with pent-up energy. It hasn’t gone anywhere. When he does sleep, it’s the restless, inconsistent sleep that blurs the lines between reality and dreaming – and the dreams themselves are gloriously, vividly filthy. He wakes up fucking his fist, at one point, on the very edge of his first wet dream in years, and it’s fucking torturous to pull himself back from that edge…but Shane is nothing if not disciplined.
He keeps getting fragments of dreams that feel real, imagining Ilya opening the door, but then he wakes up again. So when Ilya does get back, he thinks it’s another dream, at first. It’s the warmth that tips him off. There’s nothing quite like the tickle of hair and the heat of bare skin on Shane’s back.
A thick arm snakes around his middle, wrapping him up. Shane twists around to squint at him in the darkness. He can’t see much, but it’s enough.
“You’re here,” he slurs.
“I am here,” Ilya murmurs. He snuggles closer and presses his mouth to the back of Shane’s neck, kissing him where he’s ticklish, nosing at the sensitive skin. Shane lets out a happy hum of encouragement. He can feel the gust of air when Ilya says, “I’m sorry I’m so late. Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”
Shane frowns, processing that at about half his usual speed. “Thought you were gonna fuck me?”
“It can wait. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Don’ wanna wait,” Shane says bluntly. And then, a little more coy, “Got myself ready for you.”
“You… what?”
Shane is so sleepy and discombobulated that he doesn’t want to move much, but he arches his back, pressing closer, and feels where Ilya’s half-hard in his boxers. Ilya pulls away again, but doesn’t go far; his fingertips trail down under Shane’s waistband, a too-light ghost of a touch, before he brushes slick, tender skin. Even that teasing friction sends a ripple of heat through Shane’s belly.
“See?” he murmurs, trying not to sound too smug about it.
“Fuck,” Ilya breathes, and then presses in, and holy shit, his hands always feel so good, his knuckles drag just right, and Shane needs him now. “Did you use a toy, or your fingers?”
Shane swallows a whimper and grunts, “Toy.”
“Get these off,” Ilya whispers, tugging at the elastic of Shane’s boxer-briefs, and Shane shoves them down clumsily, already so hard it’s getting uncomfortable. “Why are you even wearing those? Did you put them back on when you were done fucking yourself?”
“Shut up,” Shane says, scowling at Ilya, who’s rummaging for a condom and can’t see it. “I had to go get a glass of water, I dunno.” He rolls onto his stomach, absurdly aware of the hot line of his dick under his stomach. He hides his face in his arms, biting his lip, arching his back, and when Ilya finally pumps two fingers in, crooked just right, he lets out a desperately slutty little moan.
“So you wanted to protect my poor innocent fridge from the sight of your dick, is that it?” Ilya says conversationally.
Shane grits his teeth and spits, “Ilya, I swear to god.”
“Yes, I know, you have been very patient,” Ilya says, condescending as hell, but the way his fingertips are rubbing in little circles makes it hard to draw a breath to bitch about it. “You waited for me? You didn’t let yourself come?”
“No.”
“Oh, good boy,” Ilya tells him. Shane’s never done drugs, but he can’t imagine cocaine feeling any better than the hoarse, heated way Ilya’s voice purrs those two words; it sweeps over him in a feverish, heady thrill, and then when Ilya curls his fingers again, Shane whimpers, grinding down. He’s leaking into the mattress, and he’s almost too sensitive, and it takes an effort to focus on the words when Ilya says, “Are you hard for me already, sweetheart?”
Shane almost laughs out loud, because – Jesus, fuck, he really has no idea, does he?
“More like I’m still hard,” he admits. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
“Were you close?”
“So close.” He pants wetly against the sheet, grabbing at the pillow over his head, because he needs to hold onto something or he’ll fall apart. “So close, fuck. M’not gonna last, you gotta –”
“Do you ever?” Ilya teases.
Rude.
Shane sucks in a breath so say something indignant, but then Ilya’s fingers slide free for a moment before he adds a third. Shane’s voice breaks, and he lets out a strangled, needy moan that doesn’t sound anything like English. Ilya bends over him to kiss his way up Shane’s back – Shane feels the cool graze of the crucifix just before the warmth of his lips, and both send shivers cascading down his spine, send goosebumps down the back of his neck, distracting him momentarily from the steady throb of his pulse between his legs and the friction of Ilya’s fingers.
“I love how worked up you get for me,” Ilya whispers. “So eager.”
Shane lets out a helpless whine and tries to lift his hips off the bed, because the drag of damp fabric on the oversensitive head of his cock is too fucking much.
Then Ilya twists his knuckles just right, rubbing the tender spot that makes him feel like he might burst, and he can’t help it; he thrusts against the bed desperately, because too fucking much is better than nothing, and he’s not sure he could stop his hips from bucking even if he was inclined to try.
“Fuck!” he says, but it’s more sob than word. “Ilya, I can’t – please? Please. Quit teasing and get your fucking cock in me before I lose my mind.”
“Stay just like this,” Ilya murmurs, palming his ass before he pulls away, and Shane wants to cry at the loss of his fingers. He can’t stop moving: rutting, grinding, clumsy and mindless.
Ilya positions himself over Shane, and there’s that cool metal kissing his spine again, just before the heat of Ilya’s bare skin is blanketing him all over, and it’s exactly what Shane needed, fuck, there’s nothing else like this. Ilya’s six feet of fuck-off muscle and smooth skin, and he fits at Shane’s back like he was made to fit there, and even before Shane feels the head of his cock nudging up against his ass, it’s heaven.
But then he starts to press in, shifting so he can get the leverage, and it’s –
“Holy shit,” Shane gasps, clawing at the pillow, drowning in sensation: the scorching heat, the burning stretch, the sheer intrusiveness of it, like he’s being split open… they’ve been doing this for so many years, and it still takes his breath away every fucking time. By the time Ilya’s pressed flush to his ass, Shane’s shaking so hard he’s glad Ilya’s pinning him down, because he’s worried he might shake apart otherwise.
“Is good?” Ilya asks, swiveling his hips.
It feels like he’s massaging Shane from the inside; good doesn’t even begin to cover how it feels. Shane lets out a few pathetic whimpers and tries to bury his face in the pillow.
“No, let me hear you,” Ilya orders, and one big hand curls insistently around Shane’s jaw, forcing his face to the side. He stretches forward so that he can lean over Shane’s shoulder and get at his mouth, biting away the next whine and taking a lush taste with his tongue. Ilya shifts, adjusts, and the new angle shoves the head of his cock up against something that feels like fireworks in Shane’s gut; his punched-out moan comes from deep in his chest, and his vision sparks at the edges.
“That’s better,” Ilya purrs. Shane tries to cant his hips up, press back into the next thrust, but Ilya says, “Don’t need to do anything else, sweetheart, just lay there and moan for it.”
It takes a split-second to process the words, but once he does, the heat flares like wildfire. Something about the permission is driving him wild – the permission to stop trying, stop talking, stop doing anything. Stop worrying about how he looks. Whether he’s doing something wrong. Whether his face is doing the right things.
All he has to do is trust Ilya to move and adjust and fuck into his body however he wants. No thinking; only sensation.
He gasps out a sharp little, “Oh.”
“Fuck,” Ilya grunts. His next thrust is so deep Shane swears he can feel it in his throat. “Missed this. Missed you. So perfect for me, lyubimyy, like you were made for this.” Shane can’t breathe, and it’s only half because Ilya’s weight is almost crushing him. “Like you were made to take my cock.”
Holy shit, Shane thinks dizzily, and he tries to get out a warning: “Ilya, I’m –”
– but the white-out of his orgasm knocks the oxygen from his lungs and knocks every stray thought from his head, and he’s drawn up tight like a bowstring, every muscle locked up, like he stuck a fork in a socket.
Time passes — he couldn’t say how much of it. When he comes to, Ilya is smearing an open-mouthed kiss up Shane’s shoulder, tonguing the salty skin.
“I missed you,” Ilya whispers.
Shane tries to say “Me too,” but it sounds more like a whine. Then Ilya shifts his weight to kiss another part of Shane’s neck, and the movement makes him aware of the mess under his stomach. He squirms. “Ugh, wet spot, just –” He wriggles, grumbles, until Ilya finally gets with the program and helps him roll onto his side and scoot back.
Shane’s muscles don’t want to obey him. He’s all weak and shivery, like one of those newborn kittens staggering around and faceplanting, and he feels so fuck-drunk and delirious that he almost giggles at the mental image.
Ilya is about to pull away when Shane grabs his wrist, holding on tight to keep him where he is, and even that tiny shift makes him gulp in a breath. He’s so completely drained, dazed, all that twitchy energy drained away and replaced by leaden exhaustion. But he’s still so full, and he can feel how hard Ilya still is…
“Don’ stop,” he slurs, eyelids fluttering shut.
“You are half-asleep,” Ilya points out softly. “Mostly asleep. Almost entirely asleep. I can wait. Or… I can go jerk off in bathroom, is fine.”
If Shane could cross his arms and stomp his foot right now, he would, but he’s too lazy.
“Don’ do that,” he mumbles. “Don’ care if I fall ‘sleep.”
“Huh,” Ilya gasps, cock twitching, and Shane hums encouragement, squeezing around him. “Fuck.”
“Jus’… use me,” Shane murmurs, barely audible.
Ilya wraps his arm tighter around Shane, flattening a palm over his chest and thumbing at a pebbled nipple. His voice is thick and gravelly when he asks, “This is what you want?”
God, yes, Shane thinks muzzily. Forever.
“Mmmm,” he groans.
Ilya’s barely thrusting; he’s just sort of… rocking into him, working his hips enough to feel the friction without ever really pulling out. And Shane never wants Ilya to pull out – can’t imagine what it would feel like, not when he’s so fucking full. Like Ilya carved out a place for himself, deep inside. He’s fat and thick and alive, blood-hot, and Shane never wants it to end.
Shane doesn’t have to do a damn thing. Ilya doesn’t expect him to. So he lets himself drift, limbs floppy, head empty. He might be drooling from the corner of his slack mouth.
He’s not asleep, and not fully awake, either; he might be asleep if he wasn’t so oversensitive. But it feels like his insides are more tender than they should be, something in his belly swollen to the point of being rubbed-raw, but not… unpleasant? Pretty much the opposite. Just on the pleasurable side of raw-nerve pain. Arousal glowing like an ember.
Ilya is whispering something under his breath, and it takes Shane a moment to parse the words: “For me. Just for me.”
Shane makes a soft, broken sound that must be close enough to agreement, and Ilya’s breath catches. Ilya’s been trying to keep his pace slow and steady, trying to control himself, and for the most part it’s working — but he’s been waiting for this reunion as long as Shane has, and he’s starting to lose control, rhythm stuttering. He grinds in deeper, using his arm to brace Shane against his body, holding him like a straitjacket.
“You’re being so good for me,” Ilya whispers. As if Shane could be anything else, when his muscles are lax and useless. “So sweet, taking every inch. You love this. Is all you want, yes? Nothing else in your pretty head.” Shane can’t even get enough oxygen in his lungs to moan. He hauls in a ragged gulp of air, mouth open like he’s a goldfish out of water, but Ilya shushes him and adds, “You don’t need to say a thing, I can feel how much you love this.”
Sure enough, Shane’s body speaks for him: a shudder down his spine, a painful clench around Ilya’s cock. He chokes on a sob that feels like relief as much as pleasure.
“Fuck,” Ilya groans, with a thrust that sends pleasure splintering up Shane’s spine like electricity.
That molten heat inside Shane has been swelling, and suddenly he’s afraid he’ll burst with it. But he’s so far past the point of being able to speak, or to squirm away. He just lets it happen, lets Ilya grind into him and clutch him close, driving him closer to immolation with every drag of friction.
“Is like you were made for my cock,” Ilya whispers again, so quiet he might as well be talking to himself. “Made to be fucked.”
One more perfectly-angled thrust – and then it’s too much, and Shane’s just gone. All that heat inside him expands like a supernova. It’s one pulse after another, fucking endless, squeezing him tight and wringing him out.
He can’t get enough air in his lungs; his ears are ringing. Beyond that, he can hear Ilya’s strangled cry as he buries himself in Shane one more time, an urgent, desperate jerk like he wants to fuse their bodies together.
Shane doesn’t even bother trying to stay awake. He’s vaguely, distantly aware of Ilya pulling out, the momentary discomfort of it, but then he just… floats.
He’s fine. Ilya’s got him.
Shane likes knowing things. He likes precision. Correct terminology. Neat bullet points on a list.
He likes it when he can find a nice, tidy label for the things they do together. Makes it easier to be precise and clear, if he can put names to the things he wants. Makes it easier to ask at all, if he knows that there are words – if he knows that this is a Thing People Do, and not just Shane being weird. And usually, when there’s a name for a thing, there are also guidelines for doing it safely. When he wanted to be gagged, for example; he’s not sure he would’ve independently come up with the idea of holding a bell to use as a nonverbal safeword. Thank you for that, internet.
Sometimes he finds those words after the fact, and that’s fine too. He just likes having them. It helps him… file it away, for later. Organize the contents of his imagination.
He’s not sure what to call that – what they did last night. Other than the prostate milking. Google gave that one up pretty quickly.
“Power exchange” is appropriate, but it isn’t specific enough. That’s an umbrella term for so many other things, like cuffs and gags and every time Ilya pins him down. Somnophilia doesn’t quite fit, does it? He wasn’t actually asleep, the state of consciousness wasn’t the turn-on, he just gave Ilya permission to continue even if he fell asleep. Objectification doesn’t seem right, either; Shane never wanted to be a thing, exactly.
Maybe there isn’t a word for it – for when you can forget everything that makes you who you are, forget control, forget hockey and responsibilities, forget everything except the idea that your body was put on earth for another person to fuck… when you’re nothing more than a raw mess of nerve endings that isn’t expected to do anything but feel – all while knowing that the person still sees you as their greatest competition in the world, and knowing that they’ll still respect you in the morning.
That feeling might be too big for words. It sure as fuck feels too big for Shane’s chest.
“Too early for research,” Ilya croaks, one arm emerging from a tangle of blankets like a kraken tentacle from the sea, dragging Shane down. “Mmm, keep glasses on.”
Shane doesn’t bother resisting, just deposits the phone on the nightstand and snuggles closer to Ilya. “Trying to figure out if that was, like, a thing,” he mumbles, tilting his head back so Ilya can kiss the side of his neck, because he knows better than to kiss Shane on the mouth before he’s brushed his teeth.
“A thing?”
“Last night. Like, a kink? With a name.”
“You like this – giving up control. We knew this.” Ilya pulls back, propping himself up on one elbow to smile tenderly down at him. “Is good to turn off that big annoying brain sometimes.” The morning sun is a golden halo in his tangled curls. He scans Shane’s face curiously and asks, “Was okay?”
“God, yes,” Shane says. He stammers for a second. Still doesn’t have the words. “It was just more intense than usual.”
“Yes, I have never seen you like that,” Ilya murmurs. “That… out of it.” Shane blushes, angling his face away from Ilya’s gaze, but Ilya curls a hand around his jaw and strokes gently with a thumb as he tilts Shane’s chin back where he wants it. “Was good. I liked it.”
“Thanks for taking care of me,” Shane says weakly. “And letting me be – be like that. If that makes sense.”
“Yes. Makes perfect sense.” Ilya smiles, eyes sparkling.
Shane swallows and straightens up, tracing the pronounced curve of Ilya’s upper lip with a thumb, gaze tracking it as he thinks. The words are crowding his throat now, to the point that he can’t get any of them out.
Ilya’s voice is low but fierce when he says, “Thank you for trusting me.”
Yeah. That might be the simplest word for it: trust. He trusts Ilya to love him even when he’s not trying. Shane nods.
“Is there such a thing as a trust kink?” Ilya wonders out loud. He plants a smacking kiss on Shane’s cheek before scooting away. “You Google while I brush teeth.”
Shane barks out a laugh and wipes at his wet lashes. He clears his throat and mutters, “Teamwork.”
“Keep glasses on!”