Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

February, 2020

The first time it happened, Shane didn't even realize it. He’s standing in the kitchen of Montreal apartment, staring blankly at the fridge like it’s betrayed him, his fingers tapped arrhythmically against the counter top. His new performance diet has left him with a headache buzzing behind his temples, and the sheer amount of options in front of him—pre-measured containers of quinoa, grilled salmon, sweet potatoes, rice—felt like calculus.

Ilya didn’t ask, just stepped behind him and pressed his chest flush against Shane’s back, and murmured, “Eat the salmon,” into the curve of his neck. His hands slid around Shane’s waist, thumbs hooked under the waistband of his sweats. Shane exhaled like he’d been underwater. He grabbed the salmon.

Later, sprawled across the couch with Shane’s legs draped over his lap, Ilya carded a hand through his hair and said, “You feel better now.” It wasn’t a question. Shane nodded anyway, and Ilya scratched against his scalp, pleased. "Good," Ilya whispered.

Shane didn’t move for a long moment, just breathed. The way his body only ever seemed to manage when Ilya was with him. The apartment felt safe around them. It was the kind of quiet that made it easy to let things slip through the cracks. And something did slip. A tiny, unconscious shift as Shane nuzzled his head a little deeper into Ilya’s hand. Ilya felt his heart swell with the way Shane softened under him, and a warm pride unfurled in his chest. He kept stroking through Shane’s hair, as if to say yes, this is yours, take it. And Shane let the last of the day drain out of him without a fight at all.

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The second time, Shane’s at Ilya’s Ottawa home, buzzed with restless energy after a game. His knee bounced under the kitchen table while Ilya cooked, the rhythmic chop of the knife did nothing to quiet the static in his head. Ilya paused mid-slice and set the knife down.

“Come here,” he said. Shane stood before he fully processed the command. Ilya tilted his chin toward the fridge. “Water.” Shane grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, the plastic cold in his palm. 

“Drink.”

Shane swallowed half of it in one go. The chill cut through the fog. He blinked, suddenly aware of Ilya’s heavy, approving gaze. A shiver ran down his spine.

“Better?” Shane nodded. Ilya reached out, rubbed a thumb over Shane’s bottom lip where a drop of water lingered. “Good.” The word settled something in Shane’s chest, warm and weighty.

It wasn’t until later, once Shane sprawled across Ilya’s lap on the couch with Ilya’s fingers tangled in his hair, that Shane realized how effortlessly he’d obeyed. No hesitation or second-guessing.

He turned his head, pressed his cheek against Ilya’s thigh. “You know,” Shane said, voice muffled, “I don’t even think about it anymore.” Ilya hummed, fingers stilling. Shane lifted his chin to meet his gaze. “When you tell me to do something. It’s just… automatic.”

Ilya’s expression softened in a way only Shane ever got to see. “Good,” he repeated, slower this time, like he tasted the word. His thumb traced the shell of Shane’s ear. “I see you like it.”

Shane exhaled and curled closer. “Yeah.” It was an admission. “It’s nice."

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March, 2020

The third time, Shane’s brain felt like a radio tuned to static. It was on post-game adrenaline, the clatter of locker room banter still fresh in his head, the nagging awareness of tomorrow’s conditioning drills all overlapping into white noise. He sat cross-legged on Ilya’s bed, absently kneading a stress ball with his left hand while his right tapped an erratic rhythm on his thigh.

Ilya watched him for exactly twelve seconds before closing his laptop with a click. The sound snapped Shane’s attention upward. “Off,” Ilya said, nodding toward Shane’s sweats. Shane blinked. “Now," as Ilya walked over to the bed.

The command made a home somewhere between his ribs and his groin. Shane hooked his thumbs under his waistband and underwear, and shoved the fabric down without hesitation, the cool air prickling against his bare skin.

Ilya’s palm pressed warm against the back of Shane’s neck, guiding him forward until his forehead rested against Ilya’s chest. “Breathe,” Ilya murmured, fingers carding through Shane’s hair. Shane inhaled slow and deep, the scent of Ilya’s sandalwood soap, the solid heat of him, the quietness of the position untangled something knotted in him.

“Good,” Ilya murmured, and Shane shivered at the praise. He exhaled, as Ilya’s fingers trailed down his spine. “Again.” Shane breathed in. Out. In. Out. His shoulders dropped incrementally.

“Better?” Ilya asked, his thumb traced circles over Shane’s hip. Shane nodded, cheek brushed against Ilya’s collarbone. He didn’t lift his head, didn’t want to, just nuzzled closer. Ilya’s chuckle vibrated through him. “Greedy,” he teased, but his hands tightened, pulling Shane flush against him. Shane sighed into the warmth.

They stayed like that until Shane’s breath evened out completely, until his fingers stopped twitching against Ilya’s ribs. When Ilya finally pulled back, Shane whined softly, chasing the contact. Ilya caught his chin, tilting his face up. “Look at me,” he ordered. Shane blinked up at him, pupils blown wide.

Ilya exhaled. “Fuck,” he breathed, thumb pressed against Shane’s bottom lip. “You’re perfect like this. So beautiful.” Shane flushed, but leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering shut. “No,” Ilya corrected gently, tapping his cheek. “Eyes on me, sweetheart.” Shane obeyed, gaze locked dutifully onto Ilya’s.

They stay like that for another heartbeat before Ilya leaned in and pressed a kiss to Shane’s forehead. “Good,” he murmured against his skin. Shane shuddered again.

Shane moved before he’d fully thought it through—one sharp shove against Ilya’s chest, the heel of his palm landed just below his collarbone with enough force to knock him flat onto his back. The bed dipped as Shane swung a leg over Ilya’s hips, and he sat bare-assed on top of him, knees pinning his thighs. Ilya’s breath punched out in a surprised oof, but his hands landed automatically on Shane’s waist, fingers splayed wide, holding more than restraining. Shane didn’t miss the way Ilya’s pupils blew black the second he looked up at him.

“What?” Shane challenged. He rocked forward and felt Ilya’s cock twitch against his ass, the fabric of Ilya’s sweatpants rough against his skin. “Thought you were in charge?”

Ilya’s grip tightened. “I know I am,” he said, slow, deliberate. His voice was hazy and smoke-thick, but his gaze was sharp. “You’re proving it.”

Shane rolled his eyes, but the flush creeping up his neck betrayed him. He braced his hands on Ilya’s chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt. “Bullshit. I’m pushing, and you love it.” He ground down again, relishing the way Ilya’s breath hitched. “Admit it.”

Ilya exhaled through his nose; the muscle in his jaw jumped. His hold on Shane’s hips held. “Maybe,” he conceded, voice dropping. “But you love obeying me more.”

Shane’s stomach swooped as he lowered his head. He opened his mouth—to argue, to tease, he wasn’t sure—but Ilya cut him off with a sudden, sharp slap to his thigh. The sound cracked through the room, sharp enough to make Shane jolt. “Eyes on me,” Ilya ordered, and Shane’s gaze snapped back without thought.

And fuck, that was the thing, wasn’t it? That Shane wanted to listen. Every command settled something restless in him, like sand sinking to the bottom of a jar.

Ilya saw it. Of course he did. His grin turned wolfish. “See?” He dragged his palms up Shane’s ribs, relishing the way Shane’s breath hitched. “You like being my good boy.”

Shane’s flush burned hotter. He rolled his hips again, just to feel Ilya’s hard cock twitch beneath him. “Maybe,” he admitted, breathless. “But you like this.” He ground forward, slow and winding and deliberate. “You like when I sit on you like this—” he spread his knees wider, and settled deeper against Ilya’s lap—“naked, displayed. Just for you.”

Ilya’s fingers dug into Shane’s bare, smooth thighs. “Fuck,” he groaned. “That’s right. You’re mine.”

Shane smirked as he leaned down until his lips brushed Ilya’s ear. “Then prove it.” 

Ilya didn’t have the word for it yet. This new, razor-edged playfulness Shane had draped over himself like a second skin lately. It wasn’t defiance—not quite. More like Shane had discovered a secret switch inside himself, one that made his eyes glitter with mischief whenever he flipped it, just to watch Ilya tense with the effort of not pinning him against the mattress immediately.

Ilya loved it, of course. This new edge to Shane that surfaced when he felt safe enough to push, only when the noise in his head quieted enough to let it out. He loved the way Shane’s smirk curled just before he challenged him, loved the deliberate drag of his hips when he tested Ilya’s patience with teasing, loved the way his breath hitched when Ilya finally snapped and took control. But most of all, he loved that Shane let go enough to allow this side out, eager and unfiltered.

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March, 2020

The fourth time happens with their foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling in the dim room. Shane traced idle patterns over Ilya’s collarbone, his voice barely above a whisper. “You know this is fucked up, right?”

Ilya huffed a laugh as his thumb brushed Shane’s freckles. “Which part?” His tone is light and teasing. "The part where I teased you all day, the part where I could not keep my hands off you once you started begging, or the part where I folded you in half and fucked you so good into the mattress you saw stars?"

Shane smacked Ilya’s shoulder. "Asshole," he muttered, but the corners of his mouth curled, betraying him. Ilya grinned, unrepentant, and Shane rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean," Shane continued, quieter now. "This whole... thing. The way I just—" He gestured vaguely between them, frustrated with his own inability to articulate it. "I don’t even think anymore. I just... do what you say."

Ilya cupped the curve of Shane’s jaw. "You still think," he corrected softly. "Just not in circles." Shane frowned, and Ilya sighed, shifting to prop himself up on one elbow. "Is not fucked up," Ilya assured. "Is trust. You trust me to tell you what you need. I trust you to tell me when it is too much." His fingers slid into Shane’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp, and Shane’s eyelids fluttered. "You like it. I like it. Where is the problem?"

Shane exhaled sharply, fingers tightening around Ilya’s wrist. "It’s just... weird, sometimes. How automatic it is for me." He hesitated, then admitted, quieter: "How good it feels."

Ilya’s grin turned predatory. "Ah. So the problem is…" he leaned in, breath hot against Shane’s ear. "You are embarrassed because you love being good for me."

Shane shoved him. "Fuck you," he muttered, without any heat. Ilya caught his wrist before he could pull away and tugged him closer until Shane was sprawled half on top of him, bodies pressed together from chest to thigh. Shane groaned, but didn’t resist. "You’re impossible."

It was about the praise. Shane realized this as Ilya’s fingers dragged through his hair, blunt nails scraping his scalp in that way that made his thoughts slow to syrup. The way Ilya murmured good against his temple, low and rough like gravel, like the praise was something precious. The way his chest tightened when Ilya’s thumb brushed the hinge of his jaw, approving.

They were tangled together in the aftermath, skin still tacky with sweat and their combined cum, the bedroom air thick with sex and shared breath. Shane swallowed, his throat dry. “It’s—” He stopped, frustrated. The words lodged somewhere behind his sternum.

Ilya didn’t push. Just tightened his arm around Shane’s waist, waiting.

Shane exhaled, forehead pressing harder into Ilya’s collarbone like he could imprint the words directly into his skin. "When you say ‘good’ like that. It just does something to me." The admission feels too big for the quiet.

Ilya’s fingers still in Shane’s hair. "Mm,” he murmured in acknowledgement, warm as a palm against the small of Shane’s back. He waited. Shane gritted his teeth.

"It’s fucking...Pavlovian, Ilya," Shane grumbled, half-embarrassed, into the sweat-damp hollow of Ilya’s throat. "I hear you say it and my brain just…" He made a vague, frustrated gesture with his free hand. "Shuts off. Like you flipped a switch."

Ilya’s laughter rumbled through his chest, reverberating against Shane’s cheek where it was still pressed to his skin. "Ah, Pavlov," he repeated, rolling the word around like a marble on his tongue. His fingers resumed their slow pull through Shane’s hair. "I get it now."

The sheets rustled as Shane rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. Ilya’s fingers traced idle patterns over his ribs.

Shane turned to study Ilya’s face in the dim light. "We should talk about this," he said, the words deliberate in a way that made Ilya’s eyebrow twitch upward.

The first thing Ilya did was laugh—not at Shane, never at Shane, but with that low, rumbling amusement that meant he was considering something, examining it from all angles. His fingers didn’t stop moving as he moved to trace the ridge of Shane’s hipbone where the sheet had slipped down. “You want to talk,” he mused, he pushed his thumb hard enough to leave a fleeting pale mark from the pressure. “After years of this, now you want words?”

Shane worried at the sheets, twisting the fabric as he met Ilya’s gaze head-on. "Yeah," he said, voice steady in a way that belied the flush crept up his neck. "I want words. Because this—" He gestured between them. "It’s not just happening anymore. You... do it on purpose. You can tell I like it so you do it. But I need to know if you’re—" He swallowed, the words sticking. "If you’re really okay with that."

Ilya's fingers stilled against Shane’s skin. The room was quiet except for Shane’s breathing, the long, steady kind he did when he was trying to control something. Ilya turned his head on the pillow, and studied the sharp line of Shane’s profile in the dim light. "You think I would do this if I saw you were uncomfortable?" His voice was softer than Shane expected, almost curious.

Shane sighed, fingers tightened against the sheets. "That's not what I mean," he muttered, gaze fixed on the ceiling like it held answers. "I know you'd stop. That's not—" His throat worked around the words. "It's the opposite. I don't want you to stop. That's the problem. And it's terrifying."

Ilya's fingers traced the dip of Shane's waist, slow and deliberate. "Explain."

Shane rolled onto his side, facing Ilya fully. The dim light caught the furrow between his brows. "It's like... when you tell me to drink water, or steady my breathing, or—" His voice dropped. "Get naked, I don't hesitate. My body just does it. And it feels good, Ilya. Like scratching an itch I didn't know I had." His fingers inched toward Ilya's wrist, then stilled. "But what if that’s the fucked up part? What if I'm…" Shane swallowed. "What if I'm broken because of this?"

"You are not broken," Ilya said, voice low and resolute. "You are mine." His thumb brushed the jut of Shane's hipbone. "And if my guidance helps you, if it feels good, then we keep doing it. I love doing this for you. I like the way it feels, too." He paused. "Unless you want to stop."

"I don't." Shane’s admission hung between them. "I never want to stop."

Ilya exhaled sharply shoulders loosening. "Good," he murmured, and Shane shivered at the word, automatic. Ilya noticed. "That one was on purpose. I always want you to feel this way. Like you're on top of the world. Like nothing can hurt you when you’re with me."

Shane swallowed hard and pressed his forehead against Ilya's shoulder. "It's just... a lot sometimes." His fingers curled around Ilya's wrist. "The way my brain shuts off when you tell me what to do. I want it, so bad."

Ilya hummed, fingers tracing idle patterns over Shane's spine. "Is this what bothers you?" His voice was softer now, probing. "That you want it?"

Shane hesitated. "Not exactly." His thumb rubbed against the pulse point of Ilya's wrist, counting beats. "It's more like... I'm scared I'll stop noticing my limits. That I won't say no even if I should, because I’ll be lost in feeling so good giving into you."

Ilya understood now. Not just the mechanics of it—the way Shane’s breath hitched when he said good, the way his muscles loosened under direct commands—but the why now. The way Shane’s need for structure wasn’t just about obedience; it was about quieting the noise in his head, the relentless loop of what if, what’s next, am I enough that hockey and fame and life kept dialing up. "You think I would let you fall that far?" he asked.

Shane wasn't scared of Ilya, he was scared of himself.

Of the way his pulse spiked when Ilya's voice dropped that particular octave, how his muscles unlocked before his brain processed the command. The worst part wasn't the obedience; it was the relief that flooded him afterward, like he stepped out of a hurricane into still air. It meant he would always seek it, lean into it. Hunger for it. Shane pressed his forehead harder against Ilya's shoulder, breathing in the scent of his skin.

"I know you'd catch me," Shane admitted into the hollow of Ilya's collarbone. His fingers twisted in the sheets. "That's not—" He swallowed. "What if I'm so far gone I don't even realize I'm falling?"

Ilya's hand stilled on the back of Shane's neck. He pulled back just enough to see Ilya's face—the furrow between his brows, the way the line of his mouth softened.

Ilya’s thumb pressed under Shane’s chin and tilted his face up until their eyes met. “Remember when we first talked about all this, when I fucked you on your table in front of the windows, for everyone to see,” he said, voice low and strong.

Shane blushed as the memory surfaced like a ripple in still water.

Shane remembered the cold press of wood against his bare back, the weight of Ilya’s hips as they pinned him down, the sting of his own fingers gripping the table’s edge too tight. But sharper than any of that was the moment his brain had flickered out like a blown fuse, the world narrowed to the gravel-glow of Ilya’s voice and the heat of his hands. He hadn’t even realized he even drifted that far away until Ilya brought him back.

The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken things. Shane’s fingers squeezed Ilya’s wrist where he still held it, grounding himself in the steady pulse beneath his fingertips.

"You stopped," Shane murmured, voice rough. "Back then. Even when we hadn’t talked about everything yet. You knew."

Ilya watched Shane's eyelashes flutter against his cheekbones. That was the tell. The way Shane's breath went shallow before his thoughts did, the slight delay between command and comprehension, how his pupils dilated. It wasn't subspace. It was something quieter, more dangerous. A disconnect so seamless Shane didn't even notice it happening until he was back.

"Look at me, sweetheart." Ilya's voice cut through the fog, sharp enough to make Shane startle. His thumb pressed against the hinge of Shane's jaw. "Not there. Here." Shane blinked slowly, his gaze refocused on Ilya's face with visible effort. "Good," Ilya murmured, softer now, thumb stroking the line of Shane's cheekbone. "Stay with me." And Shane did as he was told.

Ilya’s fingers traced the curve of Shane’s ear. “I never think I know better than you,” he murmured. “Only that I know you.”

Shane bit his lip. He didn’t pull away, but his fingers tightened against Ilya’s ribs, pressing hard enough for his nails to leave fleeting crescents in his skin. “That’s bullshit,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it—just the raw scrape of vulnerability. “You always know what to do.”

“No,” Ilya corrected. “I simply know what you need. There is a difference.” He thumbed Shane’s earlobe, rubbing it soothingly, softly. “You think I just say whatever? That each command is random, not thought out or considered?” A pause, deliberate. “You tell me. Without words. To me,you are always very loud, because I listen to everything you don’t say.”

Shane exhaled and went boneless against him. His forehead dropped to Ilya’s shoulder, lips brushing skin still damp from sweat. “Fuck,” he muttered, muffled against Ilya’s collarbone. “I love you so much.”

Ilya’s splayed palm slid up Shane’s spine, fingers tracing each vertebra with deliberate pressure. “Mm. I know.” His thumb dug into the tense muscle at the nape of Shane’s neck, and kneaded gently until Shane groaned. “Я тебя люблю.”

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April, 2020

The shift happened gradually, then all at once.

The ice beneath Ilya’s skates vibrated with the force of Shane’s missed backhand—his fourth of the night. Across the rink, Shane’s shoulders hunched slightly under his pads, his breath visible in short, sharp bursts. The Metros were up by two, but Shane’s eyes had that glazed, distant look Ilya knew too well.

The whistle blew to end the period, and Ilya didn’t hesitate. He caught Shane’s jersey sleeve as they skated past each other toward their benches. To the cameras, it looked like casual chirping between rivals-turned-friends. But his fingers dug into the fabric just above Shane’s wrist guard, and his voice dropped to that particular register Shane’s body recognized before his brain did. 

"Дыши," Ilya ordered. The command was barely audible over the crowd, but Shane’s chest heaved in a sudden, deep inhale. His gaze snapped to Ilya’s, pupils dilated.

The contact was brief. Shane's breath hitched audibly as Ilya pulled him back, their skates scraping against the ice in near-perfect unison. The arena noise faded into a dull roar, muffled as if underwater, and for a heartbeat, it was just them: Shane's pulse thrumming under Ilya's grip, the sharp tang of sweat and ice between them, the way Shane's body instinctively leaned into the touch before he caught himself.

"Хороший," Ilya murmured. His thumb pressed into the divot of Shane's wrist, just above the cuff of his glove. "I know you can play better than this."

Shane exhaled sharply, the tension in his shoulders unraveled like a snapped cord. The arena noise rushed back in—jeering fans, skates carving ice, sticks clashing—but it all felt distant now. He blinked, his vision clearing as his pulse steadied, and for the first time in two periods, his head was quiet.

Hayden's skates scraped against the ice as he coasted to a stop beside them, his grin sharp enough to cut glass. "You two planning a fucking tea party or what?" he drawled, voice pitched loud for the cameras, but his eyes—dark and knowing—flicked between them. His stick tapped Shane's shin guard, a silent you good?

Shane's exhale fogged in the cold air, shoulders loosened as Ilya's grip lingered for half a second longer before dropping away. "Was giving Rozanov tips for improving his shitty form, " Shane shot back, louder, the lie smooth as fresh ice. He knocked his glove against Hayden's elbow, a silent thanks.

Ilya snorted, skating backward with effortless grace as he flicked his stick toward Hayden. "Should be you taking notes from Hollander," he shot back, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Maybe learn how to keep your stick on the ice longer than three seconds."

Hayden's "Fuck you, Rozanov!" carried across the ice like a challenge, his grin flashed white under the arena lights as he shoved off toward the Metros' bench. The crowd roared, mistaking it for the usual rivalry banter. No one noticed Shane's glove twitched toward Ilya before catching himself, or how Ilya's smirk didn't quite reach his eyes as he tracked Hayden's retreating form.

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May, 2020

Shane noticed how the cadence of Ilya’s voice alone untangled the knots in his chest before he even registered he even had them. It wasn’t the words so much as the texture of them—the rough certainty layered under every command, or the way his English or Russian vowels curled like fists around Shane’s scattered thoughts and held them still.

It wasn’t conscious, this Pavlovian response. Shane didn’t decide to react to Ilya’s voice like a lifeline; his body had simply learned, over time, that when Ilya spoke like that—low and firm, edges sharpened by a hint of warning—he could relax.

And god, Shane craved that feeling.

Shane woke to the familiar weight of Ilya’s arm draped heavy across his ribs, the heat of his breath against the back of Shane’s neck and Ilya's hardness pressed snugly against his ass. Outside, Ottawa’s wind rattled the windows, but under the blankets, skin to skin, they might as well have been the only two people on earth. Shane pressed back into the solid wall of Ilya’s chest, and felt the arm around him tighten in response.

“Mmm,” Ilya muttered into his hair, voice firm and gruff with sleep. His palm slid down Shane’s stomach, broad and warm, settling just below his navel with deliberate pressure. “You're awake.”

Shane blinked awake fully, the pressure of Ilya’s hand grounding him into the present more effectively than any alarm clock. "Were you waiting for me or something?" he murmured as his head tilted just enough to catch the curve of Ilya’s smirk against his shoulder.

Ilya woke with Shane’s scent tangled in his sheets, in his lungs, the warm press of him still curled against Ilya like he’d been molded there. The want was immediate, not just the sharp, physical need to taste the salt at Shane’s throat or bite the softness of his inner thigh, but the deeper, hungrier pull to own the space between Shane’s breaths.

Ilya’s fingers ran across Shane’s stomach. "Not waiting," he said, lips brushing Shane’s spine. "Deciding." His palm slid lower, fingertips catching the waistband of Shane’s briefs. "How much I want to ruin you before breakfast."

Shane laughed, the sound muffled against the pillow. "Needy this morning, I see," he said, but his hips arched back into Ilya's grip eagerly. "What have you decided to do with me?"

Ilya’s fingers stilled against Shane’s waistband, his breath molten against the curve of Shane’s ear. "I want to taste you," Ilya murmured, voice gruff with sleep and desire. "Not just—" His teeth dragged lightly over Shane’s earlobe, nibbling teasingly. "Not just fucking you open with my tongue. I want to lick you apart slow. Everywhere." His fingers splayed wide against Shane’s abs. "Until you forget you are anything but mine."

Shane twisted in Ilya's arms until they were face-to-face, close enough to count the flecks of gold in Ilya's eyes. "Everywhere," Ilya repeated, gravelly. 

Shane's fingers curled into Ilya's bicep, nails dragging lightly through the fine hair dusting his skin. "You could've woken me," he said, voice still sleep-laden. The morning light that filtered through the curtains caught the sharp planes of Ilya's face. The shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his eyelashes darkened the hollows beneath his eyes. Shane traced the curve of Ilya's bottom lip with his thumb.

Ilya caught Shane's wrist, pressing a slow kiss to the pulse point. "I like watching you sleep," he admitted, lips brushing skin. "Your face goes soft." His free hand slid down Shane's side, palm skated over the slight dip of his waist. "And I like deciding how to ruin you when you wake up."

Shane's thumb stilled. Words sat heavy on his tongue, unspoken but palpable, the kind of admission that could tilt the axis of their world if voiced. He swallowed once, twice, then let it out in a rush of breath. "You don’t have to wake me up, you know." His fingers curled tighter into Ilya’s bicep, anchoring himself. "To use me. Or taste me. You can just do it."

Ilya went utterly still beside him. The arm around Shane’s ribs tensed, fingers digging into flesh hard enough to leave marks. "Что?" The word came out rough, fractured at the edges, like Ilya’s throat had closed around it.

Ilya's breath stuttered like a dying engine, fingers twitched against Shane's skin. The morning light felt suddenly too bright, the silence between them too heavy. He could count Shane's eyelashes from this distance—each one a dark, elegant curve—but the words hanging between them made his pulse hammer in his throat.

"You mean—" Ilya's voice cracked. "You would let me—" He ran one splayed hand to settle on Shane’s hips. "Touch you. While you sleep."

Shane didn't flinch. His thumb traced the arch of Ilya's cheekbone, steady. "Yeah," he murmured, simple as breathing. "If you wanted to."

The words hung between them, sharp and glittered like a blade turned edge-up. Ilya's mind blanked—static fizzing behind his eyes—before it crashed back into focus with dizzying clarity. His grip on Shane's wrist tightened, his pulse thundered under Shane's fingertips. "Shane," he rasped, voice scraped raw. "Do you understand what you're asking?"

Shane exhaled and pressed his forehead against Ilya's collarbone. "Yeah, I understand," he said, fingers tightened around Ilya's arm. "I told you before I like when you use me, use me whenever, however, you feel like it. You think I'd offer if I wasn't sure?" His thumb brushed the stubble along Ilya's jaw. "I’d like to wake up with you inside me. I like knowing you wanted me so much you couldn't wait. It's not—" His throat worked around the words. "It's not different just because I'm asleep."

Ilya's breath ghosted unevenly against Shane's temple. "Sleep is different," he said. "You cannot—" His teeth clicked together. "You cannot tell me to stop if something feels wrong. I could accidentally hurt you before you wake up. And I never want to hurt you."

Shane had imagined this exact conversation more times than he'd admit. They had talked about free use in theory before, but this was Shane giving blanket consent. It was different.

"I know," Shane said, voice steady despite the way his pulse fluttered under Ilya's fingertips. "That's the point." He shifted until their foreheads touched, close enough to share breath. "I’m yours because I want to be. You know I trust you with everything about me. I know you'd stop if you could see that I needed it." His thumb brushed the hinge of Ilya's jaw. "Because you'd know. Somehow. You always do."

“Fuck,” Ilya hissed, voice wrecked. “You cannot say these things to me.” His forehead pressed harder onto Shane’s, their noses brushing. “I will lose my mind.”

Shane grinned, his thumb still traced the line of Ilya’s jaw. “Too late,” he teased, leaning in until their mouths were a hair’s width apart. “It’s clear you already have.”

Ilya made a sound halfway between a growl and a groan, his fingers moving to twist in Shane’s hair and yank. “You are trying to kill me,” he accused, teeth scraping Shane’s bowed throat. “This is murder. You are murderer, Shane.”

Shane’s laugh dissolved into a gasp as Ilya’s bite sharpened. “You’d survive,” he managed, hips grinding against Ilya’s thigh. “You’re stubborn like that.”

Ilya released his throat with a final nip, pulling back just enough to glare at him. “Do not test me,” he warned, though the flush creeping up his neck undermined the threat. “I will tie you to this bed and not let you cum for a week.”

“Do you promise,” Shane murmured, rolling his hips deliberately against Ilya. The choked groan Ilya made was worth the immediate retaliation—Ilya flipping them in one smooth motion, pinning Shane’s wrists above his head with ease.

Shane was in one of his moods, Ilya noticed.

Shane’s breath hitched as Ilya’s grip tightened around his wrists, pressing Shane deeper into the mattress. The morning light caught the sharp angles of Ilya’s face—the furrow between his brows, the way his lips parted slightly as he exhaled, like he was steadying himself.

"You are impossible," Ilya muttered hoarsely. Shane’s pulse fluttered wild and insistent. "You know that? Impossible."

Shane arched beneath him, just enough to feel the answering hardness of Ilya’s body. "Yeah?" he challenged, voice dropping to a whisper. "What are you going to do about it?"

"Oh," Ilya murmured against Shane’s throat, his voice thick with something between amusement and disbelief. His teeth skimmed the curve of Shane’s collarbone, not biting—not yet—just tracing the shape of his surrender. "So that’s how this will be."

Shane didn’t fight the grip on his wrists and instead pressed up into it, whining when Ilya’s knee slid between his thighs, nestling against his own hard dick. "You’re the one who started it," he muttered, but the protest lacked its usual edge—his voice was already slipping into that hazy, half-focused cadence Ilya loved.

"No," Ilya corrected, voice low and deliberate. "You started it. With your—" His teeth grazed Shane’s earlobe. "—suggestions." The word came out raw, edged with something dark and hungry. "You cannot say these things to me and expect me to act...sane."

Shane chuckled against Ilya’s collarbone. "I never said I wanted you to act sane," he murmured, hips rocking against Ilya’s knee. "You know I like it when you’re a menace."

Ilya growled low in his throat, his free hand sliding down Shane’s ribs to grip his hip. "You say this," he muttered, breath hot against Shane’s ear, "but you forget who holds the power here." His teeth scraped the shell of Shane’s ear, just shy of painful. "Who decides when you cum. Who decides how you cum."

Shane shuddered, arching further into the pressure of Ilya’s thigh between his legs. "Yeah?" he challenged, voice already breathless. "Then decide, Rozanov. What are you going to do with me? How will you use what’s yours?"

Ilya’s growl vibrated against Shane’s throat before he moved—sudden, possessive, a predator closing the final inch between them. He bit into the tendon of Shane’s neck just as his knee shoved Shane’s thighs apart even more, the dual sensation punching a ragged noise from Shane’s chest. "Mine," Ilya snarled, the word mangled by the press of his lips against Shane’s pulse. His grip on Shane’s wrists tightened to the edge of pain. "Every fucking part of you. Every breath. Every—" His free hand slid between them, fingers flexing against Shane’s stomach like he was mapping the terrain before conquest. "—sound you make."

Ilya licked deep into Shane’s mouth—no preamble, no hesitation—just the sudden, slick heat of his tongue thrusting past Shane’s lips, stealing the breath from his lungs and any smartass remark from his tongue. Shane groaned, his hips jerking involuntarily against Ilya’s thigh, and fuck, yes, this was what he’d been chasing—the raw, unfiltered possession of Ilya kissing him like he was mapping the inside of Shane’s mouth, just to prove he could. Because it belonged to him.

The kiss broke with a wet sound, Shane panting against Ilya’s lips, their foreheads pressed together. Ilya’s thumb traced slow circles over Shane’s pulse point. Shane exhaled sharply, his hips still pressing needily against Ilya’s thigh.

Ilya didn’t rush. That was the first thing Shane noticed, the slowness of his hands skimming Shane’s ribs, the way his lips traced the hollow of Shane’s throat like he was memorizing the shape of his surrender. Ilya finally moved his hand off Shane's wrists to trail down his body.

"Боже мой, you taste so good," Ilya murmured, voice thrumming with something deeper than hunger. His tongue dragged a long wet stripe along Shane’s collarbone, pausing to scrape teeth over the faint bruise left from last night’s bite. "Here, like salt. Sleep." His breath hitched as Shane squirmed. "Mine."

Shane laughed breathlessly. "Yeah? What else?" His hips rolled up instinctively, chasing heat and friction. "Gonna tell me what I taste like everywhere?"

Ilya growled low, fingers digging into Shane’s hips to still him. "Терпение," he warned, his voice already wrecked. His tongue swiped over the dip of Shane’s sternum, slow and deliberate. "Here—warm. Like sweat and sunlight." His teeth grazed Shane’s nipple before latching onto suck, wrenching a sharp gasp from his lungs. "Here—sharp and needy. Like you’re holding your breath."

Shane writhed beneath him, heat pooling low in his stomach. "Fuck—" His voice cracked when Ilya’s tongue flicked over his other nipple, teasing it to hardness. "You’re—god—you’re seriously doing this."

Ilya hummed against Shane’s ribs, his lips trailing lower. "You said everywhere," he murmured, fingers hooking into the waistband of Shane’s briefs. "Did you not mean it?" The fabric slid down Shane’s thighs, exposing his already leaking cock to the morning air and Ilya’s dark, hungry gaze.

Shane's fingers twitched, suddenly remembering they were free. He lifted them slowly, deliberately, threading them into the thick curls at the base of Ilya's skull. The strands were softer than they looked, damp with sweat where they curled against his neck. Ilya made a low noise against Shane's belly, pausing mid-lick as if Shane's touch had short-circuited him.

Ilya grunted when Shane's fingers tightened in his hair and for a moment, he went utterly still. Then he turned his head and caught Shane's wrist again, dragging the pad of Shane's thumb toward his mouth. His tongue swiped once, broad and warm, along the calloused ridge of Shane's palm before his teeth grazed the fleshy base.

"Here," Ilya murmured against his skin. His tongue traced the deep lines of Shane's palm, mapping each crease with slow, wet strokes. "Bitter. Like soap and—" His teeth nipped the fleshy base of Shane's palm, drawing a sharp inhale from Shane. "Hockey tape."

Shane exhaled a shaky laugh. "That's disgusting," he muttered, but his hips thrust involuntarily when Ilya sucked two fingers without warning. The heat was sudden, overwhelming as Ilya's tongue pressed between Shane's knuckles while his teeth scraped lightly over the joints.

Ilya slipped off with a wet pop, lips glistening. "No," he corrected, dragging Shane's fingers down to press against his own throat, where his pulse hammered wild and insistent beneath. "I love it." His teeth grazed Shane's ring finger. "This—" Another lick, slower. "This is perfect."

Shane's breath stuttered as Ilya turned his hand over, exposing the delicate skin of his inner wrist. The first touch of Ilya's tongue there was electric and Shane's fingers spasmed against Ilya's jaw. "Shit—"

Ilya hummed, kissing the frantic pulse point. "Here," he murmured, voice thick with possession. His tongue dragged a slow line up to Shane's palm, stopping to swirl over the calloused heel. "Tastes like...adrenaline." His teeth nibbled the meat of Shane's thumb. "Like victory."

Shane chuckled, fingers twisting in Ilya's curls. "That makes zero sense—"

Ilya sucked Shane's middle finger into his mouth without warning, his tongue swirling around the pad. Shane's hips jerked off the bed with a punched-out moan. "Jesus, Ilya—"

Ilya’s mouth slid lower, his lips brushing the sharp jut of Shane’s hipbone before trailing down the taut muscle of his thigh. Avoiding where Shane wanted Ilya's mouth the most. His fingers pressed into the flesh there, spreading his strong thighs Shane wider as he exhaled warm against the sensitive skin.

"Here—" Ilya said, lips grazing the tender inner crease of his hip. Shane shuddered, fingers clutching the sheets. "—like sweat, and want." His tongue left a broad stripe upward, pausing to suckle at the faint bruise forming where Shane’s thigh met his hip. "And here—" Another bite, sharper. "Like desperation."

Shane choked out a laugh. "Fuck you. You’re such a liar," he rasped as Ilya pressed into the hollows behind his knees. "I don’t—ah—taste like anything there."

Ilya hummed against his skin, the vibration racing up Shane’s spine. "You taste like everything," he corrected, lips dragging lower. "Including stubbornness." His tongue flicked against the delicate skin behind Shane’s knee, wrenching a startled gasp. "And…" A slow lick up the taut line of Shane’s calf. "Something sweet."

Shane scoffed. "Come on." His toes curled as Ilya’s teeth scraped his ankle. "You’re making shit up now."

Ilya paused at Shane's ankles, kissing the bone there—one breath, two—before leaning back on his heels. His gaze slid up Shane’s body like a physical touch, lingering on Shane’s flushed skin, his peaked nipples, his heaving chest.

Ilya exhaled through his nose and took in the sight of Shane splayed across the sheets, his parted lips, the sharp rise and fall of his chest. Ilya dragged his knuckles down Shane’s thigh, watching the muscle twitch beneath his touch. "You look like a full course meal," he murmured, gruff with want. "Laid out just for me."

Shane bit his lip, fingers tightening in the sheets before he forced them to relax. "Yeah?" He lifted his chin, baring his throat in a way that made Ilya’s mouth water.

"Yes." Ilya traced the curve of Shane’s knee. "Every part of you is something to savor." His fingers skimmed higher, just shy of Shane’s aching dick. "These strong thighs are thick enough to bite." He leaned down, scraping his teeth over the sensitive skin. "Your stomach tight and smooth when you arch into me." He pressed his palm flat against Shane’s abdomen, feeling the taut muscles jump beneath his touch. "Your throat…" His fingers curled around Shane’s jaw, tipping his head back. "A beautiful canvas for marking."

Shane swallowed hard, pulse fluttering under Ilya’s grip. "You’re ridiculous," he muttered, but the way his hips shifted betrayed his interest.

Ilya nuzzled into the coarse hair of Shane’s crotch, his nose brushing the sensitive junction where thigh met hip. Shane's fingers tensed in the sheets as Ilya exhaled against him, the puff of air making him shiver.

"You're shaking," Ilya mused, lips brushing Shane's inner thigh. His palm pressed flat against Shane's toned stomach, anchoring him.

Shane swallowed. "Yeah, well." His voice cracked when Ilya's thumb traced idle circles on his hipbone. "You're taking your time."

Ilya hummed, dragging his nose through the wiry hair before pressing a kiss just below Shane's navel. "You offered me everything," he said. "Why should I rush?"

Shane's fingers inched toward Ilya's hair but stopped. "Thought you'd be... I don't know." He squirmed. "More feral about it."

Ilya stilled. He lifted his head just enough to meet Shane's gaze. "You want me to be feral?" His grip tightened on Shane's hips. "Or do you want me to take what's mine properly? The way your perfect body deserves."

The distinction shouldn't have made Shane's breath catch, but it did—the way Ilya's voice roughened around "properly," like there was a proper ritual to this, like each touch was a deliberate claim.

Shane swallowed. "I want—" His hips lurched when Ilya exhaled hot and close against him. "Fuck. I just want you."

Ilya's mouth was a brand against Shane's skin as he trailed lower, tongue tracing the sensitive dip where thigh met groin. Shane gasped, anticipation coiling tight in his gut. Then Ilya's lips brushed the tight, delicate skin of his ballsack and Shane swore his vision whited out for a second.

"Jesus fuck—" Shane groaned, hips jumping off the mattress as Ilya's warm mouth enveloped his sack completely, tongue pressing flat against the underside. The sensation was overwhelming, wet heat and the faint scrape of stubble and that was so, so good. 

Shane's moan punched out of him as Ilya's tongue rolled deliciously under the weight of his swollen balls as he suckled, the heat of his mouth almost unbearable. His thighs trembled violently, but Ilya's broad hands pressed down harder on his thighs, thumbs digging into the tense muscles to keep them spread wide.

Ilya exhaled sharply through his nose before releasing Shane’s wet balls, the sack plopping out heavy and shining. Then he dragged his tongue up the length of Shane’s rigid cock in one slow stripe, pausing to swirl around the flushed, leaking head, delighting in tasting the precum beaded there. 

Shane's breath caught as Ilya pulled back just enough to murmur, "You taste like salted honey here," against the slick head of his cock. The words curled warm in the air between them, absurd and tender all at once.

Shane’s toes curled as Ilya pulled back, his breath ghosting across Shane’s crotch. The word—honey—hung preposterously between them, and Shane couldn’t help the giggle that escaped him.

Shane's laughter turned into a gasp as Ilya's teeth grazed the inside of his thigh—sharp enough to sting but not enough to break skin. The duality of it, the way Ilya could shift between tenderness and possession in a single breath, never failed to undo him.

Shane's fingers wound deep into Ilya's hair, tugging enough to make him groan. "Okay, now I know you're lying," Shane gasped, voice wrecked. "There's no way I taste like—" His breath hitched as Ilya's tongue flicked against his slit. "Honey."

Ilya's tongue pressed flat against the underside of Shane’s cock, dragging upward with deliberate, torturous slowness. He paused just beneath the head, breath hot against saliva-slicked skin. "You don’t believe me?" Ilya murmured, lips brushing the swollen tip. His thumbs dug into the crease of Shane’s hips, holding him down as he licked methodically around the head to collect beads of precum on his tongue. Slowly moving up Shane to say, "Taste yourself."

Shane let Ilya lick into his mouth, the slick heat of his tongue pressing past Shane's lips with possessive familiarity. The taste of himself—salt and musk and something faintly sweet—flooded his senses, intoxicating in its intimacy. He groaned into the kiss, fingers tightening in Ilya's hair as the other man deepened it, his free hand sliding up Shane's ribs to thumb at a pebbled nipple.

"God," Shane whined when they broke apart, his lips shiny and tingling. "I think you're right, that's—" He swallowed, pulse jumping under Ilya's fingers where they now cradled his jaw. "Weirdly good."

Ilya's lips curled against Shane's, smug. "I told you." His thumb stroked the hinge of Shane's jaw, possessive even in the lightness of the touch. "Мой милый."

Shane knew what Ilya had said without having to ask. His Russian lessons had been going well—slowly, stubbornly, with more muttered curses than actual vocabulary—but enough that Мой милый didn’t send him scrambling for his phone to translate anymore. Enough that the way Ilya’s voice softened around the words, like they were something fragile and precious, made Shane’s chest pang.

"Я твоя сладкая," Shane murmured, thumb brushing Ilya's lips. His Russian was still clumsy, the accent all wrong, but Ilya’s breath hitched anyway. "Я твой."

Ilya's grip tightened around Shane's face. The Russian words—Я твой—hung between them like a physical touch, raw and tender in their simplicity. Shane had said it before, in English, a hundred times, or more. But hearing it in Ilya's own language, with Shane's clumsy accent and the way his lips shaped the vowels too softly, it unraveled something in Ilya's chest.

"Say it again," Ilya demanded, voice rough. His thumb pressed against Shane's lower lip, tracing the shape of the words he wanted.

Shane exhaled shakily, his fingers sliding into Ilya's hair. "Я твой, Илья," he repeated, slower this time, leaning into the weight of Ilya's hold. His gaze never wavered from Ilya's face. "Всегда."

Ilya's other hand trembled against Shane's ribs from the sheer impossibility of stopping. Every inch of Shane burned under his touch, each gasp and twitch was a fresh addiction. He pressed his lips to Shane's sternum, tasting love and the faint metallic tang of his own earlier bite marks.

Ilya's hands slid down to Shane's trembling thighs, pausing to dig his thumbs into the sensitive creases where muscle met hipbone. Shane moaned, but before he could form words, Ilya gripped the backs of his knees and pushed them upward. The motion folded Shane nearly in half, his knees pressing toward his own shoulders as Ilya lowered and settled heavily between his thighs, his stomach flush against the mattress.

"Oh my god!" Shane's fingers scrabbled at the sheets when Ilya's hot breath ghosted over his exposed hole, the sudden vulnerability wringing a shaky laugh from his throat. "You could've warned me."

Ilya's thumbs pressed into the crease of his thighs, holding Shane open. "Warn you?" Ilya murmured against the sensitive skin just below his balls. His tongue flicked out, tasting the salt-slick sweat there. "You and I both know it's more fun when you don't know what’s coming."

Ilya inhaled sharply through his nose, grip tightening reflexively around Shane’s thighs as he took in the sight: Shane spread obscenely open, still flushed and slightly loose from the night before, his rim clenching under Ilya’s scrutiny. "Still soft," Ilya murmured, dragging a thumb around the entrance without touching it directly, watching Shane’s muscles jump. "You remember how many times I had you last night?"

Shane’s breath stuttered, toes curling against Ilya’s shoulders. "Three," he managed, voice ragged. "Four if you count—fuck—" His hips jerked when Ilya exhaled hot against him.

"If I count what?" Ilya prompted, lips brushed the back of Shane’s thigh. His thumb circled again, closer this time, just skirting where Shane wanted it most.

"When you—" Shane swallowed hard. "When you made me hump your leg." His cheeks burned with the admission, but the memory sent heat pooling low in his stomach.

Ilya pulled back just enough to catch Shane’s gaze, his thumbs still pressing into the soft flesh of Shane’s thighs. "I didn’t make you do anything," he corrected, voice rough but deliberate. His fingers flexed against Shane’s skin, grounding him even as his words unraveled Shane’s defenses. "You choose it. Every time."

Shane’s breath came in shallow gasps. "Stop talking about it and just—" His words dissolved into a sharp inhale as Ilya’s tongue swiped a broad, wet stripe from the base of his ass to the bottom of his swollen balls. The sensation was electric and Shane’s back arched off the mattress with a choked-off groan.

Ilya pulled back, lips glistening, and Shane shuddered violently at the loss of contact. His hands adjusted the pillows, knuckles whitening as Ilya’s breath ghosted over his oversensitive hole. "You know what you taste like here?" Ilya murmured against Shane flushed skin.

Shake shook his head at that question, breathless laughter catching in his throat. "I swear to god—" His words broke off into a whine as Ilya's tongue pressed flat against him again. The sensation was overwhelming and Shane's thighs trembled violently where they were spread wide over Ilya's shoulders.

"Maple syrup," Ilya said against Shane's overheated skin, and Shane felt his grin briefly before his tongue dragged another slow, wet stripe upward. Shane squirmed, his thighs trying not to clamp reflexively around Ilya's head. "Here—" Another lick, deeper this time, the flat of his tongue pressing insistently against Shane's rim. "Maple syrup, musk, and...home."

Shane didn't know why but his eyes were starting to get misty. The warmth of Ilya's tongue pressing against him with the cool air brushing his damp skin. The poetry of it all hit him suddenly. Ilya tasting him everywhere, mapping him like territory and worship all at once, declaring ridiculous, tender truths against his skin.

"Shit," Shane managed, voice cracking as Ilya's nose nudged against his perineum, inhaling deeply like he was committing Shane's scent to memory. The intimacy of it made Shane flush.

Ilya’s tongue pressed in deep without warning, flattening against Shane’s tight rim before curling inward in one slick twist that had Shane’s back arching off the mattress. “Oh, oh—” Shane gasped as Ilya hummed against him, the vibration ricocheting up his spine like live wire.

“Fuck, right th-ere,” Shane begged, voice cracking when Ilya’s tongue circled his rim with agonizing precision before spearing back in, hot and wet and relentless. The room filled with the obscene slick sounds of it, and Shane felt how Ilya’s breath hitched between each thrust like he was the one being wrecked.

Shane tried—and failed—to lift his hips enough to shift Ilya’s focus upward. “Ilya,” he begged, voice ragged with want, “Come here.” His thighs trembled when Ilya’s grip tightened, holding him firmly in place.

Ilya hummed against Shane’s skin, the vibration making Shane shiver. “No,” he murmured, lips brushing Shane’s inner thigh. His breath was hot against oversensitive skin. “Stay.” His tongue traced the crease where thigh met ass. “I’m not done with you yet.”

“Ilya,” Shane groaned, hips arching instinctively toward Ilya’s mouth anyway. 

“See?” Ilya chuckled, pressing a kiss to the back of Shane’s thigh. “You don’t want me to stop.” 

Shane swallowed hard, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “Oh, fuck you,” he muttered, but it lacked anger. His fingers itched to grab Ilya’s hair and pull.

Ilya rose, dragging his tongue one last slow stroke up Shane’s trembling thigh before settling between his legs. Shane gasped as Ilya’s weight pressed him deeper into the mattress, their bodies aligning chest-to-chest again. The shift from vulnerability to proximity made Shane’s skin prickle, hyperaware of how Ilya’s damp lips and chin brushed his jawline as he leaned in.

Shane couldn't care less right now. The moment Ilya's face hovered inches from his, lips wet with spit and sweat and him, Shane's hands shot up to grip that ridiculous jawline and yanked him down into a messy, biting kiss. Their teeth clacked, Ilya's surprised grunt swallowed by Shane's insistance as he licked into his mouth to reclaim the taste of himself lingering there.

Shane broke the kiss with a gasp, his fingers twisting in the waistband of Ilya's stupid fucking underwear. Which was still on, somehow, despite everything. And yanked hard enough to make the elastic snap against Ilya's hips. "Why the hell," he panted, nipping at Ilya's lower lip, "are you still wearing these?"

Ilya chuckled, the bastard, catching Shane's wrists and pinning them to the mattress beside him in one smooth motion. His thumbs pressed into Shane's pulse points, grounding and restraining all at once. "Because," he murmured, lips brushing the shell of Shane's ear. "You're pretty when you're desperate."

Shane growled—actually growled—and thrashed against him, the friction maddening through the thin fabric.

"Talk to me," Ilya said, releasing one wrist to trace Shane's collarbone. "What do you want?"

Shane's breath hitched as Ilya's fingers trailed down his chest, agonizingly slow, skirting every place he needed to be touched. "Ilya," he gritted out, hips bucking uselessly. "You know what I want."

Ilya did know—he had memorized every hitch of breath, every twitch of muscle, every silent plea written in the arch of Shane’s spine—but he waited anyway, fingers tracing Shane’s ribs while his hips pressed down to keep him pinned. “I do,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of Shane’s ear. “Tell me anyway.”

Shane gripped the sheets, his body trembling with the effort of holding himself back. He swallowed hard, throat working around words that felt too big, too raw, too much—but he forced them anyway, breathless and wrecked but clear. "Ilya," he whined, the name breaking on the second syllable. "Please. I need—"

Ilya stilled instantly, his grip on Shane's wrists loosening but not letting go. His gaze sharpened, scanning Shane's face with laser focus. "Need what?" His voice was rough but controlled, the way it always was when Shane teetered on the edge like this. “Tell me.”

Shane exhaled shakily, his hips twitching involuntarily. "You," he managed, voice cracking. "Just—you. Inside me. Now." The words tumbled out in a rush, heat flooding his cheeks even as his body arched toward Ilya's. "I need you to fuck me."

Ilya just smiled, leaning closer until his lips brushed Shane's. "Good," he whispered into the space between them.

Shane's whole body quivered. Fuck that Pavlovian response. Fuck the way his stomach swooped and his pulse jumped, like Ilya had flipped some switch in his nervous system. He didn't even think about reacting anymore; his body just did, conditioned by months of this exact pattern: command, compliance, praise.

Ilya's grip loosened around Shane's wrists. "Roll over."

Shane exhaled sharply, gripping the sheets, but he didn’t move. Instead, he tilted his chin up just enough to meet Ilya’s gaze—steadier than he felt. "I want to look at you," he said, the words raw at the edges.

Ilya’s fingers curled around Shane's cheek and nodded once. "Да," he murmured, rough with want but unwavering. His thumb traced Shane's lovely freckles. "Anything for you."

Ilya rolled off the bed with effortless grace. Shane watched through half-lidded eyes as he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear—finally—and shoved them down in one rough motion. The sight of him standing there, fully exposed, made Shane's mouth water. The dim light caught the sweat-slick planes of his abdomen, the trimmed thatch of dark curls between his legs, the way his rigid cock curved heavily against his stomach.

Ilya was staring at Shane, too. Like he couldn't decide whether to devour him whole or memorize every freckle, every minutia of movement. That gaze burned as he reached for the lube perched on the nightstand. Shane watched his every movement, as Ilya returned and knelt between his still-spread legs. The mattress dipped under his weight, shifting Shane closer.

Shane bit his lip as Ilya’s fingers traced his rim, already slick with spit, and pressed in with no resistance at all. “Still open for me,” Ilya murmured, the words curling warm against the back of Shane’s thigh. His fingers pressed in and  Shane’s hips jerked, his body remembering the delicious stretch from hours earlier.

Ilya's breath shortened as he slicked himself with lube, the glide of his hand almost too much after holding back for so long. His cock ached, and Shane's gaze locked onto it with a hunger that mirrored Ilya's own. He folded Shane's legs to his chest, lining himself up against Shane's winking hole. The first press inward was slow, just enough to make Shane's gasp. "Ебать," Ilya grit out, hips rolling forward in tiny increments.

Shane's breath punched out of him as Ilya breached him in one slow push—the stretch just shy of too much—and bottomed out. He clawed at Ilya's shoulders, heels digging into the mattress to arch up into it, chasing that impossible pressure. "Shit, oh my god." His voice cracked, toes curling against Ilya's thighs.

Ilya loved watching Shane as he was inside him. The way his lips parted around silent gasps, the flutter of his eyelashes against flushed cheeks, the furrow between his brows that smoothed out only when Ilya pressed into him right to the hilt. Right now, Shane's expression was pure wrecked devotion, his fingers digging into Ilya's shoulders as if he might float away otherwise.

Ilya was so deep inside Shane, their bodies pressed together, sweat-slick and trembling. He could feel the way Shane’s pulse thrummed against him where their skin touched, erratic and wild. “Look at me,” Ilya said, voice rough but steady, his grip tightening around Shane’s hips to still his restless shifting. “Look at me when you take me.”

Shane’s lashes fluttered as he forced his gaze to meet Ilya’s. His pupils were already blown wide, lips parted around shallow gasps, and Ilya watched his throat work as he swallowed hard. “There you are,” Ilya murmured, rolling his hips in a slow, deliberate grind that made Shane groan. “I have you.”

Shane his hips bucked instinctively, chasing the pressure. “Ilya.” His voice was raw with want, and Ilya saw the way his muscles trembled.

Ilya pressed his forehead against Shane’s, their breath mingling in the scant space between them. “Breathe,” he murmured. “Just like that—yes. Exactly how I like you. Good boy.” His voice was low, and each word helped heal Shane exactly where he needed it most.

Shane exhaled shakily, fingers flexing against Ilya’s shoulders. “You feel—fuck—” His voice broke as Ilya ground his hips, slow slow torturous, the drag of him inside Shane maddeningly perfect. “You're so deep.”

Ilya hummed, the sound vibrating through Shane’s chest where they were pressed together. “Yes” he said, lips brushing Shane’s temple. “And you take me so well.” His thumb traced Shane’s hipbone, possessive and tender all at once. “Every time.”

Shane arched into the praise like a flower blooming toward the sun. “Ilya—”

“Shh.” Ilya pressed a kiss to the corner of Shane’s mouth, his hips stilling just long enough to make Shane whine. “I have you.” His voice was soft, the way it only was during these moments—when the world narrowed down to just the two of them, sweat-slick and shaking. “Tell me how you want it.”

Shane’s fingers tightened in Ilya’s hair, tugging enough to make him groan. “Hard,” he gasped, his voice ragged at the edges. “But—but slow. I... want to feel all of it. I want it to last.”

Ilya pressed his forehead against Shane’s as he began to move, just as Shane had asked, slow and hard and deep, each drag of his hips making Shane’s breath stutter. “Like this?” Ilya asked, lips brushing Shane’s with each word. His voice was rough, stripped raw with the effort of holding back.

Shane's fingers tightened as Ilya's hips rolled against his, each thrust a deliberate press that had his toes curling. "God." He choked out, the words fracturing as Ilya's thick cock dragged against that bundle of nerves inside him with torturous precision.

Ilya slid his lips from Shane’s lips down to his throat. “You feel so perfect,” he murmured, voice roughened at the edges. His hips rolled in another thrust, the motion measured enough to make Shane’s fingers dig into his shoulders.

Shane's entire body shuddered, Ilya’s cock pressing against that spot inside him over and over. The slow drag had Shane's muscles clenching helplessly around him, his breaths coming in short, punched-out gasps.

"I love..." Ilya managed against the shell of Shane's ear, lips brushing the sensitive skin there. His voice was low, rough with restraint but impossibly tender. "How tight you are for me, how perfectly you take me." His thumb traced Shane's hipbone, grounding and possessive. "You're doing so well. Such a good boy."

Shane whimpered. The praise settled somewhere deep in his chest, warm and syrupy, making his stomach flip.  Shane's gaze flickered away and Ilya caught it instantly. His grip tightened on Shane, his thrusts slowing to an almost unbearable tease. "Hey," he said, fingertips pressing into Shane's skin until Shane's eyes snapped back to his. "None of that." He thrust forward again.. "You stay with me. Right here."

Shane swallowed as he forced himself to focus on Ilya's face. The way his dark brows furrowed with concentration, the sweat beading along his temple, the way his lips parted around each ragged exhale. "Sorry," he breathed. "Just—overwhelmed. It's a lot."

Ilya’s lips brushed sweat-damp skin as his hips rolled in another slow, devastating thrust. His fingers flexed against Shane's waist. "Don't apologize for this. Never for this." The words were rough but tender, his breath hot against Shane's cheek. "You're here with me. That's all I want."

Shane's fingers trembled where they clutched at Ilya's shoulders, his body arching into the relentless drag of Ilya inside him. "It's—" His voice cracked as Ilya's cock pressed against that perfect spot again. "Too much."

"No," Ilya corrected. "You can take it. You are taking it, so well." His thumb traced the jut of Shane's hipbone.

Shane whimpered. "My god—"

"I know," Ilya said, kissing the damp hollow of Shane’s throat. His hips rocked a  relentless rhythm, each thrust calculated to wring another broken sound from Shane’s lips. "I know how good it feels when you let go." He sucked at the pulse point of Shane’s neck. . "When you stop thinking and just feel."

Ilya pulled back just enough to watch Shane’s face— the way his lips parted around each ragged exhale. He pressed his forehead to Shane’s again, their noses brushing. “I am going to fuck you,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “until you forget your own name.” His hips rolled in a slow, punishing grind, the drag of his cock inside Shane. “Until you can’t think of anything but how you are mine.”

Shane’s fingers dug into Ilya’s shoulders. “Yes—”

“I am going to take you apart,” Ilya continued, “piece by piece until you are crying on my cock.” His hand slid down Shane’s chest, brushing a hardened nipple.

“Shit, Ilya—”

Ilya pressed closer, his breath hot against Shane’s ear. “I will make you come untouched,” he murmured, the words rough but tender. “Just from my cock inside you.” His hips rolled in another slow, deep thrust. “You can do that for me, yes?”

Shane whimpered. “I—I don’t know—”

“You do.” Ilya’s lips brushed Shane’s temple, his voice low and steady. “You hold onto me, and I will take care of you.” 

Shane’s breath hitched as Ilya’s hips rolled  another deliberate thrust, the drag of him inside Shane maddeningly slow. “Ilya—” he begged, the word breaking as Ilya’s cock pressed against that perfect spot again.

Shane's arms tightened around Ilya's torso, fingers pressing into the sweat-slick muscles of his back as Ilya braced himself above him. The shift in angle drove Ilya deeper, and Shane gasped, nails biting into skin as if he could fuse them together through sheer force.

Shane's nails dragged down Ilya's back. Ilya hissed at the sting through his teeth, his hips stuttering mid-thrust before pressing impossibly deeper. "You want me closer?" Ilya panted, his breath hot and uneven. One hand slid beneath the small of Shane's back, arching him up into the next slow roll of his hips. "Then take what you need, Мой маленький котёнок."

Shane's breath hitched from the Russian endearment. Мой маленький котёнок. My little kitten. Shane couldn't stop the full-body shiver that followed. He knew exactly what it meant, had spent enough nights curled against Ilya's chest, drowsy and pliant, while Ilya murmured nonsense into his hair. But hearing it now, with Ilya's sweat-slick skin flush against his and that rough, tender voice promising to ruin him? Fuck.

"Really?" Shane rasped, lips curling into a breathless smile. His fingers tightened in Ilya's hair, tugging just enough to make him groan.

Ilya pressed deeper, luxuriously and deliberate, his hips rolling a rhythm that was less like fucking and more like worship. Ilya traced Shane’s jawline, tipping his chin up until their gazes locked. “You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmured. “So tight for me. So perfect.” The words settled into Shane’s bones, warm and syrupy, and he arched into them as much as the touch.

Ilya's thumb brushed the curve of Shane's lower lip, pressing gently. "Open," he said, and Shane parted his lips.

Ilya licked into Shane's mouth, tasting the soft gasp that escaped him. Their tongues slid together in a lazy, wet tangle, messy and unhurried, the kind of kiss that made Shane's toes curl. When Ilya finally pulled back, Shane chased his lips instinctively, and Ilya cradled his face, holding him still. "Stay open for me," he murmured.

Ilya exhaled sharply through his nose as Shane obeyed without hesitation, his tongue resting just past his parted lips—pink and wet and waiting. The sight sent a jolt of heat straight to Ilya’s groin. Fuck. Shane’s eyelashes fluttered, his breath uneven, but he didn’t move, didn’t close his mouth, didn’t even swallow. Just held himself open, trusting Ilya to take what he wanted.

The sight unraveled something primal in Ilya’s chest. He traced Shane’s jaw with his thumb, slow and reverent, before murmuring, "Keep it just like that." Shane’s breath hitched but he didn’t move, didn’t even swallow, eyelashes fluttering as he held himself open. Trusting. Waiting.

Ilya held Shane's face as he pushed his thumb into Shane's wet mouth, pressing down on his tongue with deliberate weight. Shane's lips stretched around the intrusion, his breath hitching through his nose, but he didn't pull away, didn't even twitch. Just held himself open, his tongue twitching reflexively against the pad of Ilya's thumb.

Ilya's thumb pressed deeper into Shane's mouth, the rough pad dragging against his tongue with deliberate weight. "It's okay," Ilya murmured, voice low and steady, fingertips tracing the hinge of Shane's jaw. "You can suck." The words were barely out before Shane's lips closed around him instinctively, his tongue working in slow, wet strokes. The sound that punched out of Ilya's chest was half groan, half laugh. "Mmm, that's it. Just like that."

Shane’s lips stretched around Ilya’s thumb, tongue working in slow, deliberate strokes as Ilya fucked into him with the same unhurried rhythm, deep, steady thrusts that pressed the breath from Shane’s lungs in punched-out gasps. His fingers clutched at Ilya’s shoulders, nails biting into sweat-slick skin, but Ilya didn’t flinch. Instead, he curled his thumb against Shane’s tongue, pressing down just enough to make Shane’s throat flutter around a muffled whine.

Shane's vision blurred, his breath stuttered as Ilya's cock dragged against that perfect spot inside him again. The pleasure was thick and warm, pooling low in his stomach, radiating outward until his fingers trembled where they clutched at Ilya's back. His mouth fell slack around Ilya's thumb, a thin trail of spit slipping past his chin as his eyelashes fluttered helplessly.

Shane cried out when Ilya's cock dragged against that perfect spot inside him again. "Ilya… I can’t— I can’t think… everything’s— it’s all just you.” His voice cracked, fingers scrambling against Ilya as his body spasmed.

His legs began to quiver the longer Ilya held him there, his body reacting with a kind of reverent panic, overwhelmed by the intensity of being so completely surrounded.

Ilya watched Shane come undone with delight. The trembling in his legs, the way Shane's eyes lost focus, the way his voice cracked. And instead of softening, Ilya’s smile turned slow and unbearably smug. “Can’t think, hm?” Ilya murmured, voice warm with affection and mischief. “You fall apart too easily for me.” Shane’s breath hitched, and Ilya’s grin deepened. “You're shaking, losing your words, clinging to me like I’m the only thing holding you together.” His tone was teasing, but threaded with awe. “You’re beautiful when you unravel. Completely gone for me.” Then, softer, slipping past the teasing without warning: “And I love you for it. I love you so much.” He leaned closer, eyes bright. “Come on, sweetheart. Fall a little more. I’m right here.”

Ilya felt the exact moment Shane's breath hitched differently, that fractured gasp where pleasure tipped into something sharper, almost panicked. He knew that sound. Knew the way Shane's fingers dug into his shoulders like he was clinging to a cliff edge, knew the way his pupils dilated just a fraction too wide, like the pleasure was something he needed to escape rather than sink into.

"Look at me," Ilya murmured, slowing his hips but not stopping, keeping the pressure steady where Shane needed it most. His thumb brushed the spit-slick curve of Shane's lower lip. "Eyes here, котёнок."

Shane's lashes fluttered, his throat working around a swallow. "I can't—it's too—"

"You can," Ilya corrected softly, rolling his hips in a slow, deliberate grind that made Shane's toes curl. "You are. Look at you. Taking me so perfectly." He traced the shell of Shane's ear with his fingertips, grounding him.

Shane’s breath stuttered, his hips jerking helplessly as Ilya’s cock dragged against that spot again—the one that made his vision blur at the edges, his fingers clawing at the sheets like he might dissolve into the mattress otherwise. “Ilya—fuck—” His voice cracked, raw and wrecked, the syllables fracturing under the weight of sensation. "I don't deserve—"

"You do," Ilya growled against Shane's lips, pressing their foreheads together so hard it almost hurt. His hips rolled in a slow, relentless grind, each thrust pressing Shane deeper into the mattress. "You deserve every second of this." Shane's breath hitched. "Look at me when I tell you," he ordered, voice rough but achingly tender. "Look at me and believe it."

Shane's lashes fluttered, his pupils blown wide as he forced his gaze to focus on Ilya's face, the sweat beading at his temples, the way his lips parted around each ragged exhale. "I—" His voice cracked, hips jerking as Ilya's cock dragged against that perfect spot again.

"I know," Ilya murmured, fingers tracing the frantic pulse at Shane's throat. "I know how loud it gets in here." He pressed a kiss to Shane's furrowed brow. "But right now? There's only my voice." His thumb brushed the tear clinging to Shane's lashes. "And I say you deserve to feel everything."

Shane whimpered, his body trembling beneath Ilya's as pleasure coiled tight in his stomach. "Too much—"

"Not enough," Ilya corrected, rolling his hips in a slow, devastating grind that made Shane's breath hitch. "Look at me when you cum." His voice dropped lower, rougher. "Let me see it."

Shane's fingers scrambled against Ilya's shoulders, his thighs shaking as the pressure built. "I can't—"

"You can." Ilya's palm cradled Shane's jaw, forcing their gazes to lock. "You are." His thumb brushed the damp corner of Shane's eye.

Shane's thighs trembled even harder, his breath coming in short, punched-out gasps as pleasure coiled tight and molten in his stomach. He could feel it, that tipping point just out of reach, where the world narrowed to nothing but Ilya's body and voice and the slow, devastating drag of his cock inside him. But his fingers still dug into Ilya's shoulders like he might float away otherwise.

Shane’s breath came in fractured gasps, his body taut as a bowstring beneath Ilya’s relentless rhythm. Every nerve felt raw, every sensation magnified:nhe drag of Ilya’s cock inside him, the sweat-slick press of their chests, the way Ilya’s thumb still traced his jaw with possessive tenderness. But the louder his body screamed for release, the more Shane’s mind recoiled, as if pleasure this consuming was something to be feared rather than surrendered to.

"Shane." Ilya's voice cut through the haze, grounding him instantly. His thumb brushed the tear clinging to Shane's lashes. "Look at me. Even if your mind goes far away, even if it feels too much and pulls you under and you can’t hear anything else—" His hips rolled in a slow, devastating thrust that made Shane's breath hitch. "I will stay right here with you." The words were rough but impossibly tender, each syllable pressed into Shane's skin like a brand. "I will wait for you. I will find you. Always."

Shane's fingers dug into Ilya's shoulders, his thighs trembling as the pleasure coiled tighter. "Ilya—" His voice cracked, the syllables fracturing under the weight of sensation.

"I know," Ilya murmured, pressing their foreheads together. His breath was hot against Shane's lips. "I know how it feels when you let go." His thumb traced the frantic pulse at Shane's throat. “I’m so close, too. I’ll fill the space with warmth no matter where you go. I’ll fill you with every bit of warmth I have.”

Shane whimpered, his body arching into the next slow, relentless thrust. "Fuck—" The word shattered into a gasp as Ilya's cock dragged against that perfect spot again. Shane threw his head back.

Ilya could tell this was working. He could feel it in the way Shane’s body trembled beneath him, the way his breaths came in fractured gasps, the way his fingers clung to Ilya’s shoulders like he might dissolve otherwise. He slowed his hips just enough to make Shane whine, the sound muffled around Ilya’s thumb still pressing against his tongue. "You can let go," Ilya murmured, voice rough but achingly tender. His thumb dragged along Shane’s lower lip, smearing wetness as Shane’s breath hitched. "Let go for me."

Shane came with a broken sob, his body arching off the sheets as pleasure erupted through him in relentless waves. Not just an orgasm, but something deeper, something that tore through every nerve and left him trembling in its wake. His vision whited out at the edges, his fingers scrabbling against Ilya’s shoulders as if he might dissolve without the anchor of his touch. "Ilya—fuck—" His voice shattered, raw and wrecked, the syllables fracturing under the weight of sensation. Shane's lips began to quiver at the intensity.

Ilya didn’t stop. His hips rolled in slow, deliberate thrusts, dragging Shane through the aftershocks until his thighs quivered and his breath came in punched-out gasps. "There you are," Ilya murmured, voice rough with restraint but impossibly tender. His thumb brushed Shane’s lashes. "Just like that. Let me see it." His fingers traced the frantic pulse at Shane’s throat, grounding him even as pleasure threatened to pull him under. "Fuck—I'm going to cum for you."

Shane's pulsing asshole sent Ilya off the deep end. He only had to thrust a few more times before his hips stuttered and he was filling Shane up with a groan that sounded like it had been dragged from the depths of his chest. His fingers tightened on Shane's hips, blunt nails pressing into sweat-slick skin as he held himself deep, grinding through the aftershocks. "Fuck," he gasped. "Shane—"

Shane's fingers dug into the flexing muscle of Ilya's ass before his own orgasm had even finished wracking through him, gripping hard, pulling him impossibly deeper as his thighs trembled with the aftershocks. The sensation of Ilya's cock pulsing inside him, thick and hot, dragged another punched-out whine from Shane's throat.

Shane didn't realize he was actively crying until Ilya's thumb brushed the wetness streaking his temples. The tears weren't from pain or even overwhelming pleasure, but from something deeper, a release that cracked his ribs open and left him gasping. Ilya's warmth filled him in more ways than one; the physical heat of his cum, yes, but also the weight of his body pinning Shane down, the rasp of his voice murmuring nonsense against Shane's sweat-damp skin.

Ilya's voice was a low, relentless murmur against Shane's damp skin, words half-lost in the panting heat between them even as Shane's hearing narrowed to the rush of blood in his ears, his body arching like a bowstring beneath Ilya's weight. He couldn't parse syllables anymore, just the steady rumble of Ilya's chest vibrating against his own, the calloused press of fingers tracing his collarbones like Ilya was mapping the aftermath of an earthquake.

"You're shaking," Ilya observed, not smug but awed, his palm flattening over Shane's sternum like he could quiet the frantic rabbit-kick of his heart. His hips still rolled in shallow, absent movements, both of them oversensitive but unwilling to separate yet. "You feel that? How hard are you shaking for me?"

Shane's lips parted around a soundless gasp, his fingers spasming against Ilya's ass. He couldn't speak, not when his throat felt this raw, not when his thoughts were still liquid heat pooling behind his eyelids.

Ilya didn't need an answer. He kissed the damp hollow of Shane's throat, tasting salt and the faint metallic tang of exertion. "I know," he rasped, lips brushing the words into Shane's pulse. "I know, котёнок. You don't have to say anything." His thumb swept over Shane's lower lip, smearing wetness. "Just breathe."

With all the strength he had left, Ilya rolled them onto their sides, still buried deep inside Shane, their sweat-slick bodies pressed impossibly closer in the new position. Shane made a soft, punched-out noise at the shift, his fingers scratching against Ilya's sides.

Shane’s breathing was still ragged, his eyelids fluttering like moth wings against the dim light of the bedroom. Ilya watched him carefully, tracing the damp curve of his cheekbone with his thumb. "I'm here," he murmured, shifting just enough to press a kiss to Shane’s temple. The movement made Shane gasp, oversensitive, overwhelmed, but Ilya didn’t pull out. Not yet. "I’m right here. You’re safe."

Shane’s breath hitched unevenly, his fingers twitching against Ilya’s ribs like he was trying to grasp something intangible. His pupils were blown wide, gaze fixed on the ceiling but seeing nothing—lost somewhere between pleasure and the quiet panic that sometimes followed. Ilya knew this stillness. Knew the way Shane’s throat worked around silent words, the way his lashes fluttered like he was fighting to surface.

Ilya’s fingers traced paths down Shane’s body, his touch feather-light, mapping the aftermath like he was memorizing the way Shane’s ribs expanded with each shuddering breath. "Так красиво," he murmured, lips brushing the shell of Shane’s ear as his palm settled over the frantic rabbit-kick of his heart. "My perfect boy." The words were thick, dripping with a warmth that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the way Shane’s eyelashes fluttered at the praise. "My Shane."

Shane’s throat worked around a soundless swallow, his fingers flexing against Ilya’s hip where they’d landed when Ilya rolled them onto their sides. He was still trembling, still wordless, but his gaze flickered toward Ilya’s face—seeking, grounding.

"Listen to me," Ilya instructed, shifting just enough to press a kiss to Shane’s damp forehead. The movement made Shane’s breath hitch. Instead, he cradled Shane’s jaw, thumb brushing the hinge where tension lingered. "You did amazing for me." His voice roughened, slipping into Russian without thought. "Ты тоже всегда даришь мне такое хорошее чувство."

Shane blinked slowly, something in his expression softening at the familiar cadence of Russian. Ilya knew that look, knew the way Shane melted into the sound of his native language, how it curled around him like a blanket.

Ilya’s fingers carded through Shane’s sweat-damp hair, his touch slow and soft. "Ты так хорошо для меня," he murmured, the Russian words curling warm around Shane’s silence. His palm cradled Shane’s cheek, thumb brushing the drying tear tracks there. The praise settled into Shane’s bones like sunlight, and he leaned into it, his breath hitching as Ilya’s other hand traced the trembling line of his thigh.

Shane’s lashes fluttered, his lips parting around a soundless exhale as Ilya’s fingers mapped the aftermath. The flush spread across his chest as well as Shane's own sticky release. The goosebumps rising along his arms, the way his pulse still raced under Ilya’s fingertips.

Shane's breath came in slow, uneven drags against Ilya's collarbone, his body limp and pliant where it curled into Ilya's chest. Into safety. His fingers twitched occasionally against Ilya's ribs as if some part of him needed to confirm Ilya was still there.

Ilya didn't rush him. He traced the damp line of Shane's neck. "Я здесь," he murmured, lips pressed to Shane's temple. "Я не отпущу тебя. Никогда."

Shane made a soft noise. Not quite words, but something that vibrated against Ilya's skin. Ilya smiled into his hair. Shane slowly raised his head and his glassy eyes saw past Ilya.

Ilya knew that look all too well. But instead of pulling him back with commands, Ilya just watched. Let himself drown in the details. The way Shane’s lower lip trembled, the sweat-damp strands of hair clinging to his forehead, the faint tremors still wracking his thighs. The grazes of Shane's hands as he tries to make sense of this feeling. He was beautiful like this. And not just in the physical ache of pleasure, but in the raw vulnerability of surrender.

Shane's breath was still uneven, his lashes stuck together each time he blinked. Ilya traced the curve of his cheekbone with his thumb, while he watched Shane's pupils dilated at the touch. Like even this small pressure was enough to ground him. "Я тебя люблю," Ilya murmured, voice rough with something that wasn't just exertion. His fingers skimmed the hinge of Shane's jaw, down the column of his throat, mapping the aftermath with tactile devotion. "Я никогда не думал, что смогу любить так сильно." The words cracked halfway through, thick with emotion that surprised even him.

Shane's gaze landed on Ilya's face with the slow, drifting focus of a man surfacing from deep water. His pupils were still blown wide, lips parted around unspoken words, but something shifted when their eyes locked. As if Shane was seeing him for the first time all over again. Ilya's breath stuttered. He'd witnessed Shane unravel a thousand times, but this—the quiet awe in his expression, the way his fingers twitched against Ilya's ribs as if itching to trace the lines of his face—this was new.

The wetness on Ilya’s cheek startled him. He had tasted the sweat still cooling on his skin, but this something warmer and saltier. He blinked, and another tear slipped free, tracing the same path down his nose and cheek. Since when had he started crying? Ilya's throat tightening as he stared down at Shane, whose glassy eyes were still fixed on his soul.

Ilya blinked again, another tear escaping down his cheekbone. He huffed a self-deprecating laugh, as he swiped at it with the back of his wrist. "Посмотри на меня," he murmured, voice thick with amusement and something softer, heavier. "Я даже не знаю, почему я плачу." His thumb brushed Shane’s cheekbone, tracing the same path his own tears had taken.

Ilya didn't wipe the tears away. He let them fall.

How could words capture this? The way Shane's pulse fluttered under his fingertips, the heat of their still-connected bodies, the quiet devastation in Shane's blown-wide pupils staring up at him like Ilya had hung the moon.

All Ilya thought was: God, look at him… my beautiful Shane. How is it possible that I get to be the one you fall apart for? How did I become the person you trust with all of this? I love you so much it hurts. It’s too big for my chest. You're the love of my life, the center of my universe. I’m so lucky… so impossibly lucky. I never want to stop holding you. I never want to stop loving you. You're my home. My heart.

"Я буду любить тебя в каждой жизни," Ilya whispered out, the Russian vowels curling around Shane's soul. Ilya's voice cracked on the last word from the impossibility of containing this feeling inside his chest. Ilya thought for a moment. "Чёрт. Наверное, я любил тебя во всех наших прошлых жизнях." The words slipped out as Ilya sniffed to clear his nose.

The slight smile that curled Shane's lips was barely there. It was just a flicker at the corners of his mouth. But Ilya saw it. And saw the way Shane's chin dipped in an almost imperceptible nod, his eyelashes fluttering up at Ilya. And Ilya completely broke. Shane couldn’t possibly understand the Russian Ilya murmured, not fully. His vocabulary was still patchy, and he'd only half-remembered phrases and, of course, hockey chirps. And yet. Shane's body responded like he understood everything. Like his soul had translated the words before his brain could catch up.

Ilya didn't wipe the tears away. He let them trace hot paths down his cheeks, let them drip onto Shane's collarbone where they pooled in the hollow of his throat like sacred offerings. His arms tightened around Shane. The weight of what they'd shared, what Shane had given him, settled heavy and warm in his chest, pressing against his ribs until breathing became secondary to holding.

Time stretched and compressed in strange ways afterward, only measured only by the rise and fall of Shane's chest against his own. Then Shane's fingers twitched against Ilya's ribs, with purpose this time. His palm flattened against Ilya's side, sliding up to trace the knobs of his spine with feather-light touches that made Ilya shiver.

"Hey," Shane murmured roughly as his fingertips brushed the nape of Ilya's neck.

Shane's fingertips stilled against Ilya's neck when he registered the dampness beneath his fingers. Ilya had been crying. Shane's stomach twisted at the sight. Shane had seen tears from Ilya many times. But never trembling with quiet emotion, staring at Shane like he'd just witnessed something sacred.

"Hey," Shane repeated softly. He wiped his thumb beneath Ilya's eye, catching a fresh tear. "What's—" His throat clicked around the words. "Did I hurt you?"

Ilya shook his head sharply, pressing their foreheads together with a rough exhale. His eyelashes were wet. "No. Never." His hands cradled Shane's face. "You were perfect."

Shane blinked slowly, his fingers curling tighter against Ilya's skin, as if needing to protect him. "Then what happened?"

Words felt too small for what lived inside Ilya for Shane. Something cracked him open whenever Shane looked at him like this. He pressed his forehead against Shane’s, breathing him in. "I don’t know," he admitted, voice rough. "I was just...looking at you." His inhaled deeply. "And I couldn’t hold it in anymore."

"Hold what?" His voice was raw with exhaustion, but his touch was steady.

"Everything."

Shane traced Ilya's tears down his cheeks. "Everything?" he repeated, soft as snowfall.

"Everything," Ilya confirmed. "How much I love you. How much I—" His throat worked around the weight of it. "You don't even know." His fingers curled tighter against Shane's back.

Shane kissed his collarbone, damp with sweat and tears. "I love you too. I could feel you the whole time. I knew I wasn't alone. I know you were talking to me."

Ilya’s fingers stilled against Shane’s jaw. "Shane," he murmured, voice roughened by emotion. His palm cradled Shane’s cheek, tilting his face up gently. "Did you understand? What all I said?" The question was soft, almost hesitant, as if Ilya wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.

"Yes and no," Shane murmured, his voice still rough at the edges. He pressed his palm flat against Ilya's chest, right over the frantic thump of his heart. "I heard you. But—" His fingers flexed against warm skin. "Not in the way you think." He swallowed, eyes flickering down to where their bodies still tangled together. "I didn't know every single word. Just pieces here and there. I know the way your voice gets. Your tone. Your inflections."

"But you understood," Ilya said softly. It wasn't a question.

Shane nodded. "I understood the feeling of it." His thumb brushed the damp hollow of Ilya's throat. "I knew what you were saying to me. Just not...the exact words." He tilted his head, blinking up at Ilya with a quiet, knowing look. "You forget...I've been listening to you for years now too."

Ilya's fingers tightened in Shane's hair. "Ты—" His voice broke. He tried again. "Ты всегда знаешь."

Shane smiled wide this time. "Yeah," he murmured. "I do."

The silence hung between them, the kind that didn’t need words. Ilya’s cock was still nestled deep inside Shane, softening now but no less present, no less his. Shane shifted slightly, wincing at the oversensitivity, but didn’t pull away. Instead, he pressed closer. Ilya’s arms tightened around him instinctively. He felt Shane’s heartbeat where their chests touched. Which were steady now, slower, syncing with his own. Shane’s breath warmed his collarbone. Ilya pressed his lips to Shane’s damp forehead, inhaling the scent of their love.

The morning light crept in and casted golden stripes across the room. Shane knew they couldn't stay in bed all day, life had its demands. But here, tangled together, none of that mattered. 

Maybe they’d stay in bed just a little longer.