Archive of Our Own

The collar wasn't soft. That was the first thing.

Shane had expected soft; he didn't know why. Maybe because everything Ilya did to him eventually turned soft and fuzzy in his memory, even when it wasn't. But the leather was firm at his throat and cool, and he could feel the exact weight of it, and that was—

That was good. That was, that was. Shane's frown came before he could stop it. I wish this were easier, to let go like this.

A collar was something new. Sure, he'd slipped into subspace plenty, that soft limbic haze where his eyes half-close, and Ilya steered him through it. Especially here at the cottage, were some days Ilya just guided him. Room to room, hand at the small of his back. And Shane willingly floated, warm and unmoored in the buzz between. This was only a step past that. Just a step. Pinning him down, a hand over his mouth—they already did those things. They were just naming it now, letting it spill deliberately into shape.

Once the collar clicked shut, Shane Hollander would go away. At least, the captaincy, the performance, the constant fucking need to hold it all inside of him, all surrendered. Ilya would hold it all, he would hold the lead for as long as he decided. 

Shane just had to let him take it.

"I'm ready." Shane rolled his shoulders. "I am. It's just—" I don't know how to do this. "I don't want to get it wrong."

Ilya dropped back against the couch cushions, slow and unhurried, his legs falling open in that relaxed way, like he owned whatever room he was sitting in. Shane's eyes tracked involuntarily to the low waist of his shorts. He didn't try to stop them.

"Shane." Ilya settled against the cushions, a soft curl at the corner of his mouth. "Is okay. You're mine, just listen to me, and you will do perfect." He patted his thigh.

Shane didn't think; he scrambled up off the floor. He could listen, he was good at listening.

He stretched out across Ilya's lap, face down, cheek against his thigh, and felt something in his chest unknot with an almost audible release. Whole. That was the only word, embarrassing and exact. Ilya's fingertips moved from his cheek down to his chest, then settled on his stomach and began to move in slow, wide circles, rubbing the fabric of his shirt back and forth across his skin, steady as a metronome.

"Such a good boy," Ilya murmured. "Want to let go, yes? You know how good I will make it for you."

A sound moved through Shane's throat, low and loose and completely unprompted, the kind of sound he had no language for. It cut through the room's stillness, through the soft wash of the lake coming in off the water through the open window. He nodded against Ilya's thigh.

The collar settled around his throat again. The leather, firm and cool. The buckle, the brief pressure of Ilya's thumb. And then the soft, final click of it fastening shut— a small sound, almost nothing.

Almost nothing, yet it rearranged him completely.

And like that, Shane was sinking. Sinking.

Shane sat on the floor by the counter because that was where Ilya had put him. Because good boys waited where they were told. His knees pressed into the wood, a  dull ache that got sharper every time he rocked back on his heels. He furrowed his brows, mouth rounding in a small, confused shape.

Above him, Ilya moved around the stove like this was any other afternoon. Whistling to himself, idle and low, the sound threading through the clink of a spoon against a pan. He didn’t look hurried, or like he was doing anything cruel.

Oh, but the aromas were cruel. Butter, garlic, cheese, rich and greasy and everywhere, crawling into Shane's nose, making his stomach do an eager lurch.

Fuck, what is even in that pan.

He squeezed his eyes shut until there were stars behind his lids. Drew in a breath, the smell punched straight through it.

Whatever it was, Shane would do his best to figure it out: the macros, the micros, all the little ratios that were just so important to him. His brain tried to grab numbers out of the air and couldn’t, and the failure made his heartbeat stutter. He could guess vaguely from the smell alone, cream, fat, salt. The glossy kind of calories that stick to arteries. Cholesterol, he thought stupidly, like it mattered in this moment.

If he eats this, it will mess up his training, and if his training is messed up, next season will be a disaster. A small keening sound slipped out of him, thin and humiliating, caught in the back of his mouth. He pressed his knees harder into the floor, like he could anchor himself through bone. Shane doesn't eat like this. The collar sat around his throat, firm and cool, the leather a constant, quiet pressure. The weight of it didn’t let him forget what he was supposed to be, what he had agreed to.

A hand came down into his hair, fingers spread, rough and familiar, ruffling through it. Ilya scratched behind his ear with two knuckles, and Shane leaned into it before he could stop himself.

He blinked his eyes open.

Ilya was crouching now, close enough that Shane could smell him under the food—soap, clean skin, a sharp contrast. In Ilya’s hands was a metal dog bowl, heavy and shining, filled to the brim with pasta so pale and creamy it looked obscene. Beige noodles slick with sauce, cheese clinging in strings where it had been stirred, the surface glossy under the kitchen lights.

Shane sucked in a shaky breath and looked up. Ilya was watching him expectantly, head tipped a little, a wonky half-smile pulling at one corner of his mouth. He ruffled Shane’s hair again, softer this time, and patted his head.

“Is chicken alfredo,” Ilya said, like he was presenting something simple. Like he wasn’t aiming straight at Shane’s throat with it. On purpose.

He slid the bowl across the floor. The metal made a short scrape on the wood, then stopped right in front of Shane’s knees.

"Ah, ah, ah.” Ilya’s voice gentled, almost teasing. “Puppy is looking at the pasta like it will kill him.” His eyes flicked once to the collar, then back to Shane’s face. “Is not poison, promise.”

Shane’s gaze dropped to the noodles again. The sauce smelled so good it made his stomach cramp.

“But even if it was poison,” Ilya added, “you would eat it anyway.”

He settled onto the floor, one knee up, the other leg folded under him, elbow resting on the raised knee, his chin propped on his knuckles. He looked comfortable, like he could sit there for hours.

The calm in him made Shane’s insides shake harder. Of course, Ilya picked the messiest dish he could have picked. Of course, he picked something that he knew Shane would rather die than eat on any other occasion.

Shane’s eyes burned. He sniffled, quick and angry at himself for it, and squeezed his eyes shut again. Don’t. Don’t cry. Don’t be dramatic.

He forced his attention to the collar instead, the pressure at his throat, the cool leather, the small pulse beating beneath it. He imagined Ilya’s hand there. Imagined being held, imagined not having to decide. Not having to do the math, not having to be responsible for his own body for one goddamn second.

Good puppy, he tried to tell himself. Good puppy eats what he’s given.

His mouth went wet, and he lowered his head toward the bowl. The smell hit him full-force at that angle, hot cream and cheese and butter, and his throat tightened like it was going to refuse. He hovered there, breathing too fast, cheeks burning, the floor so hard beneath his knees.

“Shane,” Ilya said quietly, not sharp or warning. Just his name, enticing him.

Shane’s eyes squeezed tighter. His hands curled into fists at his sides. He bent down another inch, close enough that his lips almost brushed a noodle.

I can’t get it wrong. I can’t—

His lips closed around the first bite clumsily, noodles slipping against his tongue before he could trap them. The sauce hit like a flood, warm cream coating everything, cheese sticking to the roof of his mouth. Too much. Too slick. A strand broke free and landed across his chin, heavy with sauce, dripping slow onto the wood between his knuckles.

His cheeks burned. He could feel it there, cooling, tacky. Disgusting. But his stomach didn't care about being disgusting; it clenched hard, pulling the bite down his throat before he could spit it out. His tastebuds lit up like they'd been waiting years for this, greedy and alive, and his mouth watered so fast he choked on the second bite.

God, he was so bad for this. How could he enjoy this? It was disgusting. He must look a mess, noodles smeared across his lips, sauce streaking his chin. Shane let out a little desperate sob as a glob of sauce slid down, landing on his chest. He wanted to wipe it, but he couldn't.

He flicked his eyes up to Ilya instead.

Across from him, Ilya was shifting. His dilated pupils slowly dragged from Shane's face to the lingering mess. His free hand adjusted the front of his shorts, but the half-smile stayed soft, almost tender, like he was watching something holy unfold.

"Moy milyy mal’chik," Ilya murmured, voice low and warm, threading through the wet sounds of Shane eating. "Such a good puppy for me. Look at you."

Shane's eyes stung harder. He tried to blink it back, but a tear slipped free anyway, cutting a clean track through the sauce on his cheek. I'm bad. This is bad. Don't look at me, I'm fucking disgusting. Failure. Failing, a fucking slob, captains don't—

But Ilya was looking at him like he was the only thing in the room worth seeing. Like the creamy streaks and the snot threatening at his nose and the way Shane's shirt clung damp to his chest were beautiful. Like he would lean forward and lick the pasta off his face with no hesitation.

"So precious."

Sauce bubbled at the corner of his mouth, warm and thick, and his whole body shuddered with how good it was, it was like his tastebuds were cranked to maximum, every nerve singing. His cock twitched in his shorts. Shane was crying in earnest now. Quiet, hiccuping sobs that made his shoulders shake, tears mixing with the mess on his face into something even filthier. But he barely registered it. Why would it matter? Ilya thought he was precious.

"Shh, solnyshko," Ilya cooed, soft as anything, leaning forward just enough to thumb the tears from Shane's eyes. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, wiping salt tracks away even as fresh ones fell. "So good, fuck. Crying for me? From how good it taste? My perfect boy."

Shane's sob caught on a swallow. He nodded, face burning, sauce dripping from his chin onto the bowl's rim. Ilya's thumb lingered, smearing a little cream across Shane's cheekbone, not fixing, making him even messier.

Because being messy was good, Shane thought, fractured and drowning. Being messy was good, and okay, and he still wants me.

The bowl scraped closer to empty. His stomach felt full for the first time in years—heavy, warm, uncontained. Shame twisted there with satisfaction, and he leaned into Ilya's hand again, messy, disgusting, and good.

Shane was exhausted. Bone-deep, the tired that made his limbs feel packed with sand, and the couch was cozy, but sleep wouldn't come.

How could it? His bladder was a screaming knot low in his belly, hot and insistent, the pressure building past uncomfortable into something clawing. At first, it had been easy to ignore; he was used to ignoring his body's signals for practices, for games, for the sake of his routine. Today, the routine was Ilya: every command followed to the letter. But now it was unbearable. A desperate throb that made sweat bead at his hairline, trickle cold down his temples.

He shifted against the couch, restless, the coarse fibers of the fabric rasping against his bare thighs like sandpaper. Too much. Ilya's hand was still in his hair, normally grounding, now overstimulating. He pulled away, just an inch, curling tighter into himself.

He paused, knees drawn up now, rocking faintly. 

How does this work? Dogs didn't just... get up and use the toilet. But dogs don't talk either, and Ilya said he could speak if he wanted to. Surely peeing in a toilet was allowed, it's not like they have any other option. His eyes flicked up to Ilya's face, fixed on the discovery channel documentary Shane had picked earlier, some low drone about deep-sea creatures that filled the room with white noise.

Shane bit his lip hard enough to taste copper. Puppies ask permission, he swallowed. "Ilya."

Ilya's gaze stayed on the screen, the blue flicker lighting the sharp lines of his jaw.

"Ilya," Shane tried again, louder, pawing at Ilya's thigh with one hand.

Ilya glanced down then, side-eyed, amused. He hooked an arm around Shane's shoulders and tugged him back against his chest, firm and unyielding. "Yes, moya lyubov?" said idly, like Shane was interrupting a nap.

"I need to..." Shane burrowed his forehead into Ilya's side, voice dropping to a mumble. "Needtopee."

Ilya went still above him. Not tense, just still, like a cat spotting a very cute mouse, like the air before a really bad joke lands.

"Sorry, Shane," he said, voice even, almost bored. "I don't speak puppy whine. Only English. Only Russian." A beat. "You will have to talk louder."

Shane groaned, frustration spiking hot through the pressure in his bladder. He shook his head back and forth against Ilya's ribs, the fabric of his shirt rough on Shane's cheek. His legs were starting to go numb now, thighs clenched so tight he could feel the tremor starting.

"I need to pee, you asshole." He lifted his head, hissing it out like the words burned.

Ilya's eyes raised slowly, his cheeks hollowed, like Shane's tone was something sour on his tongue. Then a small smile curled his lips. He snorted. "Okay."

Shane gripped Ilya's shorts, fabric bunching under his fingers. "So, please, take me to the toilet?"

"Mm." Ilya hummed, low and thoughtful, lifting his hand from Shane's hair to drape it lazy behind him on the couch cushions. "I don't think so. Dogs cannot use the toilet, solnyshko. You will make a mess."

The refusal landed like a slap, but Ilya's voice stayed calm, like he was stating a fact about whales. Shane's breath hitched. The pressure crested, a sharp stab that made his hips twitch involuntarily

"Ilya."

"Shh." Ilya turned the volume up on the documentary with the remote, splashing and bird calling filled the room. His hand came back, cupping the back of Shane's neck over the collar, thumb stroking once, possessively. "Just relax."

Shane's vision blurred at the edges, sweat slicking his palms. He tried to pull away again, but Ilya's arm tightened, not hard, just enough to keep him there, pinned against his chest. Shane could have slipped out if he wanted to, he was strong enough, but he didn't.

The fullness was agonizing now, a hot coal low in his pelvis, every shift sending sparks of pain up his spine. His body betrayed him with a faint, involuntary clench— then a warning spurt, warm and shocking against his thigh. He gasped, freezing.

No. No no no.

"Ilya—" It came out as a whine, high and broken, unrecognizable. His hands scrabbled at Ilya's shorts, desperate. "I can't—it's—"

Ilya's gaze dropped fully to him now, pale eyes steady, unblinking, watching, waiting. The corner of his mouth twitched again. He pulled Shane fully onto his lap. "What is it, puppy? Use your words."

The second spurt hit harder, soaking through his boxers in a sudden, mortifying rush. Shane choked on a sob, thighs slamming together too late. Heat bloomed fast, warm at first, then chilling as it spread, dark fabric darkening further, the sharp smell hitting the air. It kept coming, uncontrollable now, piss flooding out in fits and starts, soaking Ilya's lap and then the couch cushion beneath him, dripping onto the floor in fat, shameful drops.

He was crying before it stopped, hot tears tracking down his face, shoulders shaking. The wet fabric clung cold to his skin, thighs slick, the puddle spreading under his knees. This wasn't happening, this wasn't happening right now.

Ilya didn't flinch. Didn't pull away. His hand stayed steady at Shane's neck, thumb brushing the tears now instead. "Ah, nesmyshlyonysh," he cooed, soft and pitying, like he was soothing a kicked dog. "Bad puppy. Making mess inside, you need training."

Shane shook his head, furious, humiliated, cock aching hard against the wet fabric despite—because of—it all. "You—you wouldn't let me go, you fucking asshole." he bit out, voice cracking wetly. "It's your—your fault."

Ilya chuckled, low and warm, the sound vibrating through Shane's back. He shifted, pulling Shane closer into the mess like it was nothing.

"Good puppies go outside, moya lyubov. Next time, you ask properly." His free hand slid down, palming Shane's cock through the soaked shorts. Shane bucked into it with a broken noise, tears still falling, body lit up electric.

"Shh," Ilya murmured against his temple, stroking slow, possessive. "I will make it good. Let me fix my bad puppy."

So fucking embarrassing. Shane wanted to disappear, melt through the floorboards, his face burning hotter than the mortification twisting low in his gut. He was such a bad puppy—wait, what— good boys don't piss themselves like untrained animals, leaking all of their, their boyfriend, their everything.

He went bright red.

"Shh, nesmyshlyonysh," Ilya murmured, voice dripping with that calm amusement that made Shane's stomach drop. His fingers hooked into the waistband of Shane's boxers, tugging them down, peeling the sodden cotton away from flushed skin.

A fresh bead of piss welled up at Shane's slit as the cool air hit him, glistening there with the sheen of precum already leaking steady. It dripped free, landing hot on Ilya's knuckles. "Look at this mess. Moy shchenok, bad puppy, hmm? Still leaking everywhere."

Shane whined high in his throat, mortified, cock twitching hard at the words—bad puppy. He was humiliated, body exposed and dripping, Ilya's lap wet because of him, but the shame only coiled tighter with the heat pooling in his belly, making him harder, needier. Fuck, why does that make it worse?

Ilya's thumb swiped over the slit, deliberate, collecting the bead of piss and smearing it down the length of Shane's cock in one firm stroke. The mix, warm urine and slick precum, made everything glide filthy smooth, Ilya's big hand wrapping around him tight, jerking slow at first, then building rhythm.

Wet sounds filled the room, obscene and slick, every pump dragging a desperate noise from Shane's chest.

He humped into it helplessly, hips jerking erratically, thighs trembling where they bracketed Ilya's. "Ilya—fuck—" It came out wrecked, half-sob, face burying into the crook of his own arm to hide the tears streaking fresh, the flush crawling up his neck.

Ilya laughed again, and the noise went straight to Shane's dick. He grabbed Shane's arm, tugging it down firm but gentle, forcing his face into view: his red-rimmed eyes, tear tracks shining, lips swollen and parted on ragged breaths. "No hiding, puppy. Let me see my messy boy, so pretty when you cry."

Shane's whine pitched higher, cock throbbing in Ilya's grip, the praise twisting the knife of shame deeper even as his balls drew tight.

Ilya's hand sped up, relentless, the piss and precum lube turning everything slippery and hot, thumb circling the head on every upstroke to wring another bead free. Shane bucked hard, spine arching, a choked "please" slipping out before he could stop it.

"Come for me, baby." Ilya cooed, breath hot against Shane's ear. "Show me how you like being bad."

Shane shattered, orgasm ripping through him brutal and white-hot, cum spilling thick over Ilya's fist in messy pulses, mixing with the remnants of piss still leaking from his slit. He sobbed through it, body shaking, cock jerking empty as Ilya milked him slow, drawing out every last twitch.

Ilya lifted his hand to his mouth without breaking eye contact, tongue flicking out to lick a broad stripe through the cum and urine pooled in his palm. He hummed in approval, sucking his fingers clean one by one, eyes dark and hungry on Shane's wrecked face.

"God puppy," he murmured, thumbing a tear from Shane's cheek. "Your little mess tastes perfect."

The cottage kitchen smelled of lemon cleaner. Shane hovered in the doorway, nibbling the edge of his thumbnail, the soft post-shower warmth still clinging to his skin like a second layer. His hair hung damp against his temples, and his bare feet padded silently on the wood floors Ilya had spent hours polishing that afternoon—first the couch cushions scrubbed to death after Shane's accident, then the pillows hauled outside to dry in the evening air.

The work had been meticulous: rags, enzyme spray, vacuum humming low while Shane watched from the corner, collared and useless, a nervous heat twisting in his chest every time Ilya glanced his way.

He shouldn't have to do that, he didn't usually do it. Shane preferred taking care of the complicated domestic tasks. He had his way, and his way was right, and Ilya wasn't very good at taking instructions. But it felt good, letting him. Shane would let him clean every inch of his cottage if Ilya wanted to. Except for his laundry. Laundry was different, that was a line he wouldn't let blur. Too sacred.

Shane was sleepy now, heavy-limbed, trailing after Ilya into the darkening kitchen like a shadow. The windows showed black lake and pine silhouettes, the only light the warm under-cabinet glow picking out Ilya's sweatpants slung low on his hips, no boxers, the outline faint but unmistakable. 

Ilya leaned lazily against the counter, hips cocked, pulling a glass from the drying rack and filling it slow from the pitcher. He took a sip, deliberate, eyes fixed down on Shane with that sparkling predatory glint, like he was winding up for something stupid, something designed to make Shane react.

"Mm," Ilya hummed, casual as anything, setting the glass down with a soft clink. "I think I need to pee."

Oh God.

Shane blinked, brain slow to catch up. "Ok, and? Go to the bathroom then."

Ilya tilted his head, one blond brow arching slowly. "Aw, why do I have to use the toilet?" His voice dropped playfully, teasing the edge of something darker. "You got to pee on the couch."

"That's—" Shane's cheeks went hot, the memory flashing vividly behind his eyelids. "That's because—"

"Because?" Ilya prompted, leaning forward just an inch, glass turning lazy in his hand. His eyes never left Shane's face.

Because he's a dog, a puppy, and Ilya said he wasn't allowed to use a toilet.

"Hey, fuck you! You forced me to—" Shane's voice pitched in frustration, hands curling at his sides. "Don't. Ilya."

Ilya grinned, slow and wonky, eyes raking down the gleaming floors like he was appreciating his own handiwork. "Your floors are so clean and shiny now." His free hand drifted to the waistband of his sweats, fingers toying there. "All that work..."

"Ilya." Shane's heart kicked hard, anxiety spiking sharp through the post-shower haze. "Don't you dare. The wood grain—you're going to ruin it—"

Ilya slipped his dick out.

It was casual, unhurried. Heavy and half-hard already, hanging there in his loose grip like a dare, the head flushed pink against the low kitchen light. No urgency, just there, Ily'as thumb circling the slit once, teasing, like he was weighing the idea.

Shane's brain short-circuited. No, fuck, the floors, Ilya's work, the cottage they both loved like an extension of themself, hours of scrubbing now threatened by this. A good puppy fixes it. A good puppy catches it. Can't let it ruin—

Shane darted forward on the hardwood and stuffed Ilya's cock into his mouth in one desperate shove, lips sealing tight around the head, his tongue flat and ready. To catch it, swallow it, like a good puppy.

Ilya's eyes widened, his mouth let out a low whistle, and he gripped the cabinets tightly. His head fell back in a bark of laughter, startled, bursting out loud enough to echo off the cabinets. "Shane—fuck—" But the surprise melted fast into something darker, hungrier, his pupils blowing wide as Shane hollowed his cheeks, sucking earnest and pathetic, throat working preemptively around nothing.

Protect the floor. Please, please, please.

Ilya's laugh cut off into a groan, hips twitching forward instinctively. His free hand fisted into Shane's damp hair, anchoring him as he gagged quietly. "Nesmyshlyonysh, you are really this hungry— fucking slut." he rasped, "You think... this saves the floor?"

Shane whined around him—desperate, devoted, eyes watering as he bobbed deeper, nose brushing Ilya's pubes. Yes. Yes. For you. The logic held no cracks down here, on his knees, mouth full and useful. He had been naughty and caused a mess earlier; this was his to fix.

"So good," he murmured, starting to rock his hips against Shane's tongue."So fucking mine." The playfulness was gone, burned out by the sheer, rewired obedience of him.

It worked, Shane thought dimly, floating on the edges of subspace again, Ilya's cock stretching his jaw, tears pricking from the effort. Floor safe. Good boy. 

The morning air cracked open through the cottage door, fresh and sharp, warm against Shane's breath as it rushed in. He was on his hands and knees behind Ilya, crawling after him onto the porch, gravel already biting rough into his palms through the first few steps.

"Ilya—" It burst out of him before he could stop it, voice cracking small against the open air. His eyes darted to the driveway, empty but exposed, leading straight to the road where any early fisherman, any neighbor could roll by and see. Captain of the Montreal Voyageurs. On all fours. With his dick hanging out of his boxers.  "Not in the driveway, please."

Ilya stopped in the grass. The weak sunrise slanted across his bare chest, catching the blond stubble on his jaw, making his pale eyes gleam almost silver. He looked down at Shane, crouched there, shivering, mud already flecking his knees, and reached out. Fingers curled under Shane's chin, tilting it up, thumb digging into the racing pulse at his jaw.

"Good puppies don't speak." A pause, letting the words sink in like cold water. His thumb stroked once. "You go now. Or you hold it all day."

Shane whined, low and animal, the sound pulling from somewhere deep and unselfconscious.

No. He glanced at the driveway again, heart hammering. Here?

"Here," Ilya said, voice roughened at the edges, fisting the collar to shove Shane deeper onto his knees and elbows. Shane's face hovered inches from the dirt, breath heaving, ass presented. His vision was reduced to the blades of grass in front of him, and he tried to count them, tried to distract himself from how good this felt.

Ilya's palm cracked down once, sting blooming hot across his cheek, then soothed over it in wide, possessive circles. "Show me. Go like good puppy. Let me see."

And Shane doesn't really consciously do it, it's as if the relief and permission sank in before logic. His bladder unclenched and piss arched out in a stream, splashing back onto his own thighs. He felt so warm, so dirty. The patter was loud, obscene against the quiet morning, acrid steam rising to mix with dew and pine. His cock jerked untouched through it, leaking precum that mixed with the last drops dribbling from his slit, thighs slick and trembling.

Mud puddled beneath him, soaking his knees deeper; the contrast of steaming relief against the feeling of Ilya's eyes boring into him was obscene. A whine tore from his throat, high and broken, as the pressure finally eased.

"Takoy horoshiy," Ilya breathed, So good, Russian thick, his hand never leaving Shane's hip, fingers digging bruises, anchoring him through the shakes. "Perfect."

Shane was still trembling, thighs slick with pee, when Ilya's hand left his hip. There was a rustle of fabric as Ilya tugged his shorts low. And Shane felt the heat of him, thick and blunt, dragging along his cleft. Ilya didn't rush. He fished a small bottle of lube out of his back pocket, the cool gel drizzled along Shane's crack, followed immediately by Ilya's fingers, one thick finger circling his rim teasingly before pressing in.

Shane groaned and pushed back greedily, his face sinking into the wet mud as Ilya crooked it inside him. And he didn't even care how filthy it was, lying in a puddle of his piss, in the dirt, his owner knuckle-deep inside of him.

Ilya's thrusts become ruthless, nudging Shane's prostate on every drag until his vision whited at the edges and slick sounds filled the air. "Ready for me, solnyshko? Ready to take this cock like good puppy?"

"No—feels bad, in—in the mud." Shane gasped, the word half-lost in grass. Ilya's cockhead replaced them, blunt pressure yielding to girth, breaching inch by burning inch with the lube easing every slide.

Shane's breath punched out in a sob as Ilya bottomed out, hips flush, buried throbbing deep. It was too much and perfect all at once, Ilya's pulse echoing inside him. It was too much and perfect all at once. And Shane needed more; he needed to be devoured by him.

Ilya held there, one hand banding Shane's waist to pin him steady, the other yanking the collar taut to arch his neck back. Shane's cheek pressed cold into the wet grass, his mouth open on silent whimpers, the world narrowing to the feel of Ilya's heat splitting him open.

Suddenly, Shane heard the soft humming of an engine coming up the road. He froze. "Wait—wait. Ilya."

And then, the rhythm began: long, deliberate drags out that left Shane clenching empty and aching, followed by sharp snaps back in.

"Please don't—please stop—"

But Ilya doesn't stop. He pistons his hips faster, brutal, his balls slapping heavy and slick against Shane's taint, lube and precum dribbling down his thighs. Shane's cock swung heavy beneath him, untouched but leaking ropes of precum into the grass as his tip scrapes against it. And he should care, he should be terrified of the car that was probably passing now. Probably slowing down in shock to stare at Shane being brutalized in his driveway.

“Fuck oh Fuck Ilya—s good, mn— please” he groaned. And he slumped against the grass, because nothing mattered except for Ilya. Ilya, Ilya. His thoughts were filled with him. Ilya and the slap of skin on skin, Ilya's teeth grazing his nape before biting down, the hot swipe of Ilya's tongue.

"Mine," Ilya rasped, Russian spilling filthy between thrusts. "Moy shchenok shlyukha. Fucking take it all." The pace turned punishing, Shane's elbows sinking further into mud, grass blades catching in his teeth as he barked moans into the earth.

The pressure snapped without warning, Shane came shattering, cum spurting thick arcs onto the grass below, his hole clamping vise-tight around Ilya's length. Ilya groaned ragged—"Da, yes"—his thrusts stuttering erratically before he ground deep one final time, flooding hot and pulsing inside, spilling until it leaked back slick around his base.

They sagged together into the mud, Shane face-down with Ilya's weight blanketing him heavy and warm.

The shower was hot enough to sting.

Shane knelt on the tile with his eyes closed, hands loose in his lap, the collar finally unbuckled and set on the shelf above the soap—but its ghost remained, a phantom pressure at his throat that Shane kept reaching for without thinking. The steam was thick, curling heavy, and the shower head beat down on his shoulders like a slow, hypnotizing drum. His whole body felt wrung out, tender, like something that had been taken apart carefully and put back slightly different.

Good, some soft, boneless part of him thought. Good different.

He was floating. And not the panicked, grasping kind of floating where his thoughts spun too fast to catch, the other kind. The rare kind. The kind where the sentence formed slow and full and real, rising up through the warm fog of his mind without any noise attached to it.

I want to stay here forever.

The thought arrived so simply it startled him. He turned it over, examined it from all angles the way he usually examined threats, waiting for the anxiety to spike, for his brain to immediately begin dismantling it with but the season and but the cameras and but what would. Nothing came. Just the shower steam, and Ilya's hands, working a washcloth in slow circles across his shoulders.

Ilya washed him like there was nothing more important in the world than the patch of skin currently under his hands. The soap cut through the heavy, layered smell of sex and mud and piss and sweat and outside that still clung to Shane's skin. Shane watched the water run brown-gray over the drain and felt nothing about it except a drowsy animal satisfaction.

Ilya's cloth moved down his spine. Shane's eyes slid shut.

The season starts in six weeks.

There it was. He'd known it was coming, the intrusion; his brain could only stay quiet so long before it started laying the groundwork for the next disaster. Six weeks, and then the ice again, and the cameras, and two different cities with two different timelines that never quite synced up properly, and Shane would be Captain Hollander again in every way that counted. Shoulders back, diet logged, tight smile, eight hours sleep, no room for...

This, he thought, and the word ached. No room for this.

He didn't want to think about it. He pressed his forehead into Ilya's hip instead, a clumsy, instinctive nuzzle, nose dragging against the wet skin there, and Ilya's hand left the washcloth and found his hair without missing a beat. Fingers spreading through it, slow and grounding.

I wonder, Shane thought hazily, cheek resting warm against Ilya's thigh now, water drumming his back, if I could let a little of it go. Even out there. Not this—this is only his, this is only ever his—but some of it... He turned this idea over too, slowly, like handling something fragile.

The control he'd spent his entire life maintaining with both fists. The strange, creeping realization, arriving now, here on his knees, wrung soft, that he'd never really had it. That the schedule and the macros and the captaincy were just names he'd given to the anxiety, to make it feel like choice.

That Ilya hadn't taken control from him. Maybe he'd just shown him that he was never holding it in the first place. Terrifying. That's terrifying, but it's okay, because it's him.

His lips brushed Ilya's hip, then lower, following heat and instinct, his exhausted brain incapable of anything more calculated than closer. His mouth found the soft skin of Ilya's inner thigh and mouthed there, warm and unfocused, until Ilya exhaled, long, slow, and his cock began to thicken against Shane's cheek. Shane turned toward it the way a plant turned toward a window. Just because. Just because it was warm and near and Ilya.

He licked up the length of him, a slow drag of tongue, barely technique, just to taste, and felt Ilya's hand tighten in his hair.

"Shane."

Shane opened his mouth and took him in.

There was no performance here, no angling for a reaction. Just his mouth soft and full and present, the weight of Ilya on his tongue, the steam pressing thick around them both. Ilya let him set the pace, which meant the pace was glacial, and somehow that was the most undone Shane had felt all day.

I'd like to be here forever, he thought again, eyes closed, water sheeting down his back. I'd like to stay exactly here.

Ilya came quietly, his hips stuttering forward one, then twice, his fingers tightening against Shane's skull as he spilled warm across Shane's tongue and cheek and lips. Shane swallowed what he caught and let the rest streak down his chin, too tired and too gone to chase it, just resting his open mouth against the head while Ilya shuddered through it.

Shane's eyes stayed closed when he felt the warmth. It was so gradual, like a blanket settling over him one edge at a time.

The piss came warm and steady, streaming down over his upturned face, running through his lashes, tracing every ridge of his lips, pooling in the hollow of his collarbone before the shower washed it clean again. But it wasn't dirty, he was clean, he was cleanest covered in mud and just this. Steam rose sharper, salt, acrid and human and Ilya, and Shane breathed it in with his whole chest.

There was only the warmth.

He was precious and safe, and warm.

His forehead dropped against Ilya's hip again, eyes still closed, as the shower rinsed it away and the warmth faded into the general steam. Ilya's hand found his hair one more time, slow, fond, fingers dragging from root to tip.

Six weeks, Shane thought distantly, from somewhere very far below the surface.

He pressed closer and didn't answer it.