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The thing about quantum particles is that no matter how much you learn about them, how much knowledge you collect about them, you still underestimate them. Inevitably, you will be staring at something you observe them doing, and think, no, there is no way. They will keep surprising you, moving beyond the limits of what you think them capable. Of what you think the universe is capable.
And just like this, despite knowing everything there is to know about Shane Mechanics, despite studying and observing him, devoting his life to understanding and loving him, Ilya still gets caught off guard. Badly, in disbelief, by the things Shane Hollander is capable of. He thinks, always, there is no fucking way, but there is, and he is so deeply outmatched.
He is reminded of this fact, painfully, this evening.
“Who the fuck are you?” Shane yells.
Ilya, sweaty from his late evening run, has just opened the door to his bedroom ready to greet his husband and piss him off by pressing his sweaty face all over Shane’s pedantically cleaned and ironed pyjama like a disgusting stamp of sensory hell. He stops in his tracks.
Shane is sitting on the bed, hand stretched out in a defensive gesture towards Ilya standing in the doorframe, eyes ripped open wide. He looks scared, scandalised, his other hand clasped tightly into the comforter covering his lower body.
This cannot be happening to Ilya. He should have known this fucking game he has been playing would come and bite him in the ass. Two weeks ago, while they were still lying contently in bed, Ilya decided that if Shane wants to get fucked so terribly meanly against his will again, he needs to ask for it. Beg for it. Say pretty pretty please. At the very least, Ilya wanted to torture him for a while and reap the fruits of his labour in the form of an angry, pissed, and desperately horny husband. It was fun. A challenge, but fun.
Ilya loves the little games Shane plays to get Ilya to heel, but has come to realise that he loves Shane’s offended incredulity when he doesn’t immediately come crawling to please his master just as much. But now, Ilya is reminded of who is dealing with. Of how serious Shane gets about his little mind games, his tests and his attempts to win the upper hand. Shane Hollander is sitting on their bed, acting like a scared little thing, like Ilya is an intruder coming to hurt him. Like Ilya will see his pretty eyes and pretty nose and pretty cheeks and freckles and force Shane down on the bed and take more than just some valuables. That’s so fucked up.
Fuck.
He wants it so bad. The shaky little hands on the covers, Shane’s miserably badly played fear, the glint in his eyes, so painfully obvious, sure he has got Ilya this time. Sure of his victory. That he will get what he wants without the indignity of asking for it.
Ilya closes his eyes, takes two deep breaths. He cannot give in here. Not this easily. He opens his eyes again, just in time to catch a triumphant little smile sliding off of Shane’s pretty features. No, he will not win, not today.
“Very funny. I know you hate the smell, Hollander. Relax, I will shower, yes?” He walks past his husband without a second glance. Shane has not yet put his arm down again, frozen in the air, clearly baffled by Ilya’s rejection. Ilya always indulges his husband. As soon as a little glimmer of a wish appears in his sweet little eyes, Ilya will see it, and he will make it come true. Like a little genie in a bottle, with infinite wishes just for Shane. A little spirit, always by his side, at his beck and call.
But there’s a creeping suspicion, in Ilya, that perhaps Shane likes to work for things, earn them, more than Ilya had previously understood. He needs to get to the bottom of this, immediately. With the possibility of Shane not being as pleasured as he could be on the line, Ilya is not going to fuck around. He needs to get it together, get off in under one minute in the shower like a loser, and then follow this red thread to its source.
Also, Shane didn’t ask nicely, yet, and Ilya has some stamina left to wait him out. Getting off on Shane having his claws out and scratching him viciously like he’s a cat toy fallen into disfavour definitely helps.
When he returns from the bathroom, Shane has turned off the bedside lamp already, a silent fuck you, Ilya, and turned over with his back to Ilya’s side of the bed. Well then. Ilya smiles, clumsily hobbling his way towards the bed, slipping under the blanket, pulling Shane in close while he pretends to already be asleep.
For the next three days, Shane paces. Like the darling little kitten he is, he’s busy plotting his next move, finding the next vase he wants to push off the shelf and pretend it was an accident. Ilya knows what he wants. Of course Ilya knows. But the payoff will be so much better if he pretends to be ignorant, he just has to make it through the woods of a little more disapproval. He so badly wants to see which other games and tests Shane is going to come up with. Also wants to hear Shane say it, out loud, to his face. The wait is exhilarating. Ilya is entirely aware that Shane is fixated. He wants it so bad, but he is so stubborn.
It’s midday, when it happens.
Ilya is draped over the couch like a fluid substance that got carelessly poured over it, cup of coffee in his hand. Keeping the mug right side up and drinking out of it without spilling is a true feat in this position, one he is quite proud of having perfected. Shane likes to reprimand him to sit up straight. But Ilya has been sitting like this, very coolly he would say, since middle school.
Unprompted, Shane drops an unused roll of duct tape on the coffee table in front of Ilya’s toes. It rolls in a half circle before tipping over, dramatically coming to a stop with a plonk.
Ah, there it is.
Vase, meet kitten.
Well, frankly, this is a little bit more than Ilya expected. He liked the sweet little moans when he fucked Shane against his wishes the last time. When he held him down and made him take it. As a tender little act of love. This seems… different.
And Shane, poor sweet Shane, really shouldn’t be doing that. Not with Ilya as hungry and greedy for it as he is, now that this Pandora’s box had been opened by Shane’s freaky little mind games. Ilya likes to reminisce, too much probably, about the way Shane whimpered and cried while he was forced to bounce up an down on Ilya’s cock. The idea of pushing his husband, making him suffer, has surprisingly grown on him. This is not a person you hand a roll of duct tape. Especially not while looking this fuckable.
Shane’s arms are crossed. He is so adorably pissed that Ilya evilly, terribly, forced him to do this. This being communicating, at least sort of communicating, his wants. He’s so mad that his husband didn’t read every little wish off of his spoiled little eyes. Ilya wants to bend him over this coffee table and fuck him until he apologises for his attitude. It’s… new. The whole thing is turning him into a little bit of a monster. If Shane were any less of a sex freak begging for it, he might have had it in him to feel bad about it.
Alright then. Shane wants to play, he can fucking play. Ilya smiles, grabs the duct tape off the table and puts it next to himself on the couch. He says nothing. He goes back to sipping his coffee, raising his phone back up to emphasise his shift of attention.
Shane waits him out a bit, shifting his weight from foot to foot, but eventually resigns himself to the silence. He is unmoored, clearly, but nothing short of a month-long CIA-standard torture program could force a straightforward sexual request out of his mouth. Frankly, he might be able to take the waterboarding, even, with how fucking stubborn he is.
It takes another week.
“Where’s the tape?” Shane half yells, out of nowhere. Like he built up to it for a long time, forcing the words out now. Ilya, somehow, has managed to outlast him so far by sheer force of will and a criminal amount of furiously rubbing his dick raw in moments alone.
Shane is currently leaning back against Ilya’s chest on the couch, hugged tight in Ilya’s embrace, both their legs stretched out and toes playfully bumping against each other. It’s deeply satisfying to think about how much he must have tortured himself with this question, whether to ask it, and by extension, how bad he wanted it. Shane should always be thinking about how bad he wants Ilya to fuck him, especially if it’s embarrassing him. Embarrassment, towards Ilya about his own desires, looks beautiful on him. It’s soft and warm, face flushed, voice small and melodic.
“In your bedside drawer,” Ilya replies, not looking up from his book that he keeps open between his hands in front of Shane, for both of them to read.
“Oh,” Shane mumbles. Silence. Then, clipped: “Why the fuck would it be in my bedside drawer? That makes no sense.”
Oh, so they are talking about it. About the scenario Shane has been thinking up. At least when it comes to picking apart logical dimensions.
“Of course it does,” Ilya replies, gentle smile on his face. He tucks a stray strand of hair behind Shane’s ear, tender. He nuzzles in close, without taking his eyes off of the book in front of him. “It’s where a hopeful little slut would keep it.”
Shane freezes, full-body, like a good prey animal. Ilya huffs out a quiet laugh, flipping a page.
It tastes so sweet when it finally happens. Another three days later, in the dead of the night. Shane had been insufferable the past days. Difficult and snappy, unapproachable. He is in Ilya’s arms now, tugged in close, chest to chest, when his hands come to fist tightly in Ilya’s ugly worn-out sleep shirt.
“Please,” he mumbles wetly into Ilya’s chest. His mouth catches on the fabric, so the words find Ilya in the form of a wet little kiss.
“Alright, sweetheart,” Ilya whispers back, warm hand cradling Shane’s face safely against his chest. He falls asleep gently with a proud smile on his face.
He doesn’t make him wait long.
Ilya is on him, one night, before Shane can even process the dip of the mattress around him, alerting him to the presence of another person. Shane is a terribly light sleeper, nervous system always on alert even when he’s supposed to be resting. His startle reflex kicks in before Ilya has him fully pinned down, but the force pushing him off is surprisingly… weak. He can’t quite get his knees under himself with Ilya’s weight pushing down on him, so they just slide uselessly to the side with every attempt. Ilya gets a hand over Shane’s mouth quickly enough before he can make a significant sound. He grabs tight, pulling Shane’s head back towards his shoulder with the force.
He shushes Shane sweetly, his other hand coming to close around his eyes, like he’s throwing a blanket over a scared parrot’s cage. Except its already dark inside the room, and the comfort comes solely from Ilya’s skin on Shane’s, keeping his eyes from trying to dart around and squint until they hurt. There’s no need to hide who he is, Shane will see him. He has plans. Ilya pushes their cheeks together, side by side.
Shane, under him, tires himself out surprisingly quickly. He kicks over the sheets, bucks his hips, tries to shake his face free of Ilya’s hands. He has to be holding back on Ilya with the way it feels like picking up a small kitten rather than holding down a professional hockey player. Interesting.
“Pretty little thing, it’s all good,” he coos, rocking the two of them side to side in a gesture of quite frankly unsettling comfort. He keeps going until he can sense Shane going still under him. A real still, not just a tense still with muscles tight and awaiting an opening to jump and escape. A surrendering one, for now.
He lets his hands slowly fall off Shane’s face, ready to grip him again should he try anything. Shane just flops face down into the mattress, whining pitifully. Ilya settles above him, arms caging Shane in, bodyweight pressing him down. His nuzzles his nose into the back of Shane’s neck, breathing him in.
He blindly reaches for the bedside table, hand patting around the relative darkness of the room. He flicks the bedside lamp on, a soft, warm yellow glow filling the room. Before he can move his hand down to the drawer, something catches his eye. Something that doesn’t belong there. On the table, shrouded in the faint light of the dim lamp, is a framed picture of Shane and Rose. Hugging, noses touching.
“What is this?” He asks, grip tightening on the back of Shane’s neck. It’s not in character. He needs to know that this is not what he thinks this is, or Shane will not leave this room in one piece. Shane’s face turns a little white at the look in Ilya’s eyes, shrinking in on himself. It’s not going to save him.
“Tell me.” It comes out sharp, vicious. His fingers dig into the side of Shane’s neck. He must be getting dizzy. Shane whimpers, long and pitiful. His hands clench into the bedsheets, once, twice. Bracing. Then:
“My wife,” he whispers.
Shane’s eyes trace Ilya’s face. What he sees must be satisfactory. A small smile plays along the corners of his mouth then, triumphantly: hook, line and sinker.
Everything comes back to bite Ilya in the fucking ass. Every stupid little game he plays, he gets paid back thousandfold by Shane. And he is never prepared for the things Shane Hollander is capable of thinking up. Ilya feels himself disintegrating into at least a million pieces, that find their way back together, but shape a different Ilya. An Ilya with much less mercy for Shane Hollander. An Ilya who is even less afraid of his own desires, because he could never outmatch Shane with them.
It’s — really, it’s sick. It’s like Shane sees and understands the deepest, most shameful parts of him. Ilya’s jealousy of Rose Landry has been burnt into his very atoms. It was so painful, back then, when Shane left him, heart cracked open, gone off to hold someone else’s hand. The worst thing is that Ilya knew that he was it for Shane. At the very least sexually. No one would ever be able to make him moan and whine and cry and beg like Ilya did. Make him desperate for it, like Ilya did. Make him forget who he is besides a warm body getting fucked into a bed, stuffed full of all the pleasure he can fit.
So, he thought about it back then, in moments of weakness. He thought about how Rose often would be on long trips for her acting jobs. Which Ilya would know because he would follow Shane. Online, and sometimes offline. After he had him in his mouth once, like a favourite chew toy, he would have never been able to let him go. Rose would be gone, and Shane would know Ilya is following him. Shane senses Ilya’s presence the way hand-held metal sensors spot coins buried at the beach, deeply hidden in the sand. Ilya could hide behind an entire forest of trees around the cottage and Shane would still know he is coming. And Shane would miss him. Would need him, still. So he would leave the door open. Unlocked, maybe even slightly cracked open. Just for Ilya. And Ilya, by god, would fuck him so good in these stolen days, make him remember, force promises out of him that they both know he wouldn’t keep.
It’s more than the nauseating, burning feeling of jealousy now that they are married and Ilya collected all the little hidden truths of Shane’s inner life. Now, it’s so much worse. It’s knowing with certainty that Shane would have wanted him and needed him and yearned for him desperately. That he would’ve sat in his bed a night, thinking of Ilya. Of Ilya’s cock. Every time he would fuck his wife. He would’ve had a pretty woman spread out under him, warm and tight and sweet, and he would’ve closed his eyes and thought about Ilya inside of him, instead. Wished he would be bent over the arm of his couch again, face pushed in the cushions, getting fucked with Ilya’s big cock until he begs him to stop because he doesn’t have anywhere left to put the pleasure.
Shane, apparently, knows all of this. Has sniffed it out. And Shane, for better or for worse, is not afraid of hurt parts. Someone else might notice Ilya’s jealousy, his lasting insecurities about Rose, about Shane leaving him for someone else, and avoid it. Careful not to step on Ilya’s emotional eggshells. Not Shane. He does not feel guilty for his relationship with Rose, or if he does, he doesn’t let it drive him to look away from these sides of Ilya. Instead, he pokes and prods at these cancerous growths, unafraid. Like he wants Ilya to be as wholly loved as he himself is. As if there is nothing truly scary or off-putting or shameful inside of Ilya.
It is an unbelievable thing, to be loved like this. Ilya finds himself at a crossroads: he will either cry and sob and thank Shane and beg him to love Ilya for eternity. Or he will accept this gift, live out his fantasy, and give Shane what he so desperately wants in the process. And then he will cry and sob and beg and thank Shane, after.
It’s an easy decision, to put the warm feelings mostly to the side, for now. So he tugs Shane’s head to the side by his hair, grip tight, and slaps Shane on his upturned cheek, hard, before he can think too much about it. Shane gasps. At least this time the slap doesn’t make him come immediately. It’s a bit of a shame, really.
“Cheating on your little wife?” Ilya snaps.
“I’m not —“ Shane starts, but is quickly quieted by another slap, harder this time. Ilya reminds himself that he had this idea. He picked a picture. He went to print the picture. He went to buy a pretty frame for it, and he put it on his nightstand fully knowing Ilya keeps duct tape in it too. Looking all pathetic now will not save him from what he has willingly brought onto himself.
“Don’t blame it on me. You left the front door open after I followed you all day. I didn’t even want to do anything to you, but you just had to invite me inside. Need it so bad, no?”
It’s hot. It’s intoxicating. This is a game for Ilya, specifically designed in the lab of Shane’s mind. It must be Shane’s version of a thank you, or payback, for last time. But he wonders, just for a bit. How much of it is actually just Ilya’s fantasy. He thinks about it: Shane in Rose’s bed, when they were dating, thinking of Ilya. Shane alone at home, Rose gone somewhere, wishing and praying that Ilya would just appear and make it all better. Come and fix him. God, Shane could have fucked himself on his fingers, bent all the way over, moaning and gasping loudly in front of the door maybe, or the windows, hoping so irrationally that it would be a siren call luring Ilya in. To save him, and to put him out of his misery.
Speaking of —
“I bet,” he draws his hand down to Shane’s lower back, “you’re wet,” he adds, triumphantly, when his fingers touch lube in between Shane’s cheeks. Predictably. Shane is the most beautiful creature on this godforsaken earth. “Got all nice and ready for me and still pretend I’m forcing you?”
“Rozanov,” Shane whines, and oh, they are really doing this, then. He is not just an intruder, they are Shane and Ilya, still. How does Shane always know Ilya so deeply, right down to his rotten core? How much does he observe Ilya? Has he figured out ways to lurk in the shadows of their house just as much as Ilya did? Shane is the sweetest little thing, the most caring, the most brilliant. The most loving. Ilya presses a gentle kiss to Shane’s cheek, a married kiss. He feels Shane’s nose twitch, probably because it tickles, which makes him look like an adorable little bunny. He places another one on the tip of Shane’s little bunny nose.
Then, he slaps Shane again, right on the meatiest part of his cheek. He pretends he hears a terrified whimper rather than a wanton moan. It works for him either way.
“You know better,” he hums, fingers stroking over Shane’s burning hot skin. It’s not a comforting touch, this time. Shane blinks up at him. His eyes trace over Ilya’s features, reading him. He understands then, easily.
“Ilya,” he whispers, tiny smile fighting its way on and off his face in milliseconds.
It’s addicting, the feeling of being in sync. They never talk about it. But they will respond to each others’ plays, blindly, yet still knowingly. It’s the feeling of catching that pass coming entirely unannounced out of left field without any struggle, catching it safely and beautifully, no matter how weird the angle and off the timing. It’s the feeling of passing the puck back and forth between them, no words, completely aligned in the moment and towards the same goal. Understood, seen, known, and loved.
He rewards Shane with licking a broad stripe up his hot cheek, then chomps his teeth a little into the fat under Shane’s cheekbone.
“That’s right, Shane. No need to pretend we aren’t… intimately familiar, yes? Don’t worry, this time I will not let you run away after saying it.”
He really, truly, gets to do this. The excitement, and little bit of nausea, an old friend from that time, cleaves him down the middle like an apple split into two with a dull knife. All that he had wanted, back then, in his worst moments, is crawling out of his cells and his pores and engulfs him, and he feels monstrous, really. It’s good, and its freeing. To not have to hide. To form it into something pleasurable, a gift for him, and a gift for Shane.
He settles his weight more heavily onto Shane.
“Come on, try. Try to run away like last time.”
Shane’s attempt is pathetic. Ilya wants to call him out on it, the way he hasn’t really put up a fight with all his big muscles since they started, but then he notices the tremors in Shane’s limbs and torso. Shane is terrible at pretending, but even the best actor out there couldn’t fake the constant, low-level shaking of entirely exhausted muscles. Not like this. Not good enough to fool a professional athlete.
Then, it comes to him, in hot flashes that heat and cool his body in rapid, alternating waves: Shane had spent the better part of the day gone somewhere. He smells of shower gel, his hair still a little wet although he usually only showers in the morning — or after a workout. His sweet little darling Shane must have tired himself out for hours in the gym. Or running around somewhere. He must have noticed Ilya’s plans for tonight — or possibly even manipulated Ilya into thinking he is freely choosing tonight, really, right now he wouldn’t put it past Shane — and tired himself out so he physically wouldn’t be a match for Ilya. So he really, truly wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing to fight him off.
It’s so insanely, terribly, horribly fucked up, and he is sure Shane does not even know. Simply thought to himself that it would make more sense for their scenario. That it would make it more fun for both of them.
Stupid, stupid little thing. Doesn’t he know? That Ilya is insane and entirely unreasonable about him? That he will make him cum until there is nothing left of Shane but a mess of limbs and moans and please, please, Ilya, I can’t take it anymore?
He deserves a chance. A chance to escape his fate. A totally honest and fair chance, which Ilya will graciously give him. Ilya sits up, scoots down to sit on the back of Shane’s legs, around the backs of his knees. He puts his full weight there. He locks his calves under Shane’s, and settles his hands on Shane’s hips, loosely. His torso and hips are unobstructed now, because Ilya is so, so kind. He would never force Shane to do anything he doesn’t want to do, of course not.
“Crawl,” he instructs, hands playing with the layer of relaxed muscle and fat on Shane’s hips and ass.
Shane whimpers under him, not even making a real effort.
“Try harder, baby, come on, I’m being so nice. Maybe you will make it, no?”
Shane digs his elbows into the mattress and presses upwards, trying to pull himself out from under Ilya’s weight. He tries for real, this time. Not because he’s scared. His brows are furrowed, like he’s experimenting. Focused. He tries different angles for getting his knees under himself. Tries to kick Ilya, fails miserably. He tries to pull himself forward, and can’t even keep up the strain for more than two seconds. He doesn’t move an inch.
“Mhm, don’t really want to leave, do you?” Ilya purrs, hands coming to play more meanly with the soft parts around Shane’s hips. More like a butcher testing the meat, now.
Shane shakes his head, no, no, switches tactics, tries to turn his torso around to hit Ilya, hurt him, push him off. Ilya graciously accepts a couple hits and pushes, barely feeling them, really, before he grabs both of Shane’s wrists and pins them to his lower back. There is some more wiggling, under him, and he can sense the wave of realisation wash through Shane after it had creeped up on him, slowly. He really, truly, absolutely, cannot get away. And Ilya is not even trying. Then it comes, a beautiful, gut-wrenching, drawn-out little whimper that he tries to stifle into the mattress under him. Ilya hears it, of course. Smiles to himself. In all their play over the years Shane must have always had the safety of knowing that if he really wanted to, he could get out. Could run. Could hurt Ilya and have a fair fight. Now, it’s different.
Ilya is so fucking hard. Shane must be too, where his hips rut into the mattress in a way that is probably supposed to be subtle. He breathes in, out, in again. Lets the scenario swallow him up. Shane is married. Shane wants him, desperately. Shane doesn’t know whats good for him. Shane needs him, but needs Ilya to make him take it, accept it. Needs to be shown that Ilya is the only one who can take care of him.
“Done pretending you don’t want it, baby?” He purrs, hands massaging into Shane’s back like he’s property. He is. Shane mumbles something into the mattress. It doesn’t matter, really.
Ilya bends over Shane towards the nightstand, hand coming to hover next to the picture of Shane and Rose. He wanted to flip it down, but no, no. Let her watch.
His hands trails down to the drawer, pulling it open. Shane notices the sound, basically perking up his little ears, and whimpers, excitedly. Then he digs his face further into the mattress. Trying to burrow for shelter. Ilya pets his head, gently, like he does to Anya when she hears fireworks and gets scared.
The duct tape is still there, of course. It must have burned a hole through Shane the past days, knowing its there, and pretending not to know at the same time.
“Oh!” Ilya gasps excitedly, pretending to be surprised at his discovery. Shane burrows his head deeper into the mattress.
“This is so cute, really. Bought this just for me? Knowing I would come for you?”
He spins the roll of tape in his free hand, humming, playfully looking for the starting point.
“Can’t run anyways, baby. But you still want me to use it, mhm? Just because you like it? Stood in the store thinking about me tying you up like I am some evil home intruder? I can be that for you, baby.”
He nods Shane’s head up and down with his hand. Of course he is a home intruder. But it’s more fun to blame Shane for all of it. Pretend like Ilya wouldn’t do all of this if Shane didn’t want it.
“Good boy. You just need to ask, and I will give you anything.”
He sits up, considering, taking his time, little mhm, mhm, mhm sounds coming from his throat. Shane is getting nervous under him. Good.
“Ilya, you can’t, please!” He argues, weakly. It’s terribly cute how bad he is at pretending. Just like their first time at the cottage, where he suddenly pretended to be a bellboy, saying all his lines with totally mismatched excitement and glee.
Ilya ignores him. He takes his weight off of him, and flips Shane around. As expected, he has given up to the point where he just lets himself be flipped over. He sees his hard, straining dick under his sleep shorts at the same time Ilya does, and flushes deeply. Ilya chuckles, pressing a hand over it meanly.
“No need to be shy, I already know what gets you hard.”
Shane, in an attempt to distract the attention, raises both his hands, wrists together, and offers them to Ilya with a submissive little look from under his lashes.
Ilya grinds his hand harder onto Shane’s dick, huffing. Shane is so fucking cute.
“Nice try.” He slaps the hands away, and rips down Shane’s shorts and underwear in one go. His cock is hard, and wet, pooling fluid all around the head.
“Aw, baby. Really? So desperate already? Like it so much when I come and make you remember what you’re really made for?” He coos, petting one finger over Shane’s cock. Then, he flicks a finger against the tip, meanly. Shane twitches, gasps. “Let’s get that out of the way then, mhm?”
Shane looks like he is about to cry. Perfect. Ilya takes the tape, and rips off a generous piece. When his hands come down to press Shane’s dick fully against his lower belly, some fight returns to Shane. He must realise he’s not going to like what Ilya is about to do. Or like it too much and be embarrassed about it for weeks. He kicks his feet against the mattress, a tiny attempt at fleeing, that Ilya puts an end to by bringing his hand down hard on Shane’s twitching thigh.
Shane subdued, for now, Ilya tapes the strip horizontally over Shane’s belly and cock. Shane whines, eyes widened in horror as he watches. He’s adorable, pretending the fear and humiliation doesn’t get him off despite the futile twitching under the tape. He rips off another strip, eyes darting form Shane’s embarrassingly hard cock to his flushed face, eyes tearing up in overwhelm.
“Noooooooo—“ Shane whines, hand weakly trying to interfere with Ilya’s hard work. It’s cute, like play fighting with a pet, so he lets it slide and simply bats the hand away, shushing Shane sweetly.
“It’s to help you, no? Would be embarrassing if you came too quick by rubbing yourself into the mattress. And you need a reminder for what’s really important, don’t you think? Aren’t I thoughtful?”
Shane nods, dazed.
“Say Thank you, Ilya,” he smiles as he tapes the next piece over Shane’s cock. Only the tip is peeking out now, cock covered down to the base, stuck to his lower belly. It must feel incredibly weird. Ilya wonders how the tape coming off will feel. He groans. Lucky for Shane, he is already waxed smooth.
“I don’t,” Shane starts again. So Ilya hits him again. This time, the positioning is more advantageous for him, and it must really hurt. A single tear falls from Shane’s eye. He’s so fucking beautiful. Ilya has kept it in so long, since the last time he hit him, and it has been eating him from the inside out. The realisation how much Shane likes it, and how much it embarrasses him to like it.
“Thank you, Ilya,” Shane whispers, gaze down between his legs, watching his twitching cock. He closes his eyes, turns his head away, defeated.
He is rewarded with a kiss to his forehead. It’s a married kiss again, but Ilya thinks its fitting — if he had come for Shane, in that alternate timeline, he would’ve treated him like the love of his life too. Like a slut all the same, but they are never mutually exclusive with Shane. Intricately linked, even.
Ilya wraps up his little project with two vertical stripes left and right of Shane’s cock, to keep the sides secured longer from peeling off. With how Shane’s cock is twitching and swelling and getting wet, it’s needed.
“Arms on your sides, baby,” he orders, gently coaxing. He helps Shane, who is clearly already lost pretty far away, arranging his noodly arms down straight on his side. He doesn’t fight it at all, and Ilya is struck down momentarily by the thought of Shane letting him into his marital bed with Rose this willingly. This needily. Weeks ago, he was primed for a freaky home intruder role play. But this is entirely different. The thought that undoes him is this: in the whole world, at any point in time, in any alternate universe, is there even any version of Shane that would ever fight him off? A Shane that would not desire him, need him, love him, desperately?
Ilya lowers his head into the crook of Shane’s neck. Laves some kisses there. His dick is so hard, and he is so in love, and he is so outmatched and overwhelmed by Shane’s affection. He needs to give it all to him, everything he deserves. He takes a couple of breaths, then takes the roll of tape and wraps it around the entire circumference of Shane’s body, not unlike mummifying a pharaoh, except he only wraps the tape on the height of Shane’s wrists a couple of times, and again just above his elbows. When he is finished, there is little range of autonomous motion left for Shane’s upper body. Especially not with his muscles tired out like that.
The feeling must register in Shane’s head slowly, because he starts wriggling around like a garden worm about to be eaten by a bird. Ilya watches, amused. It’s more like he’s testing the feeling, really, making sure that it holds. Soon, he settles back into stillness, little smile appearing on his face.
“Niceeee,” he hums, and the tone reminds Ilya warmly of a drugged out Shane with a concussion, whispering little secrets to him. He huffs a little laugh, hand cupping Shane’s cheek, thumb stroking over the flat of skin beside his nose. Shane nuzzles into it, unaware he’s pushing his soft flesh into the claws of a very hungry predator.
Ilya lets his other hand wander down slowly, until his fingertips graze the tip of Shane’s cock. Shane gasps sweetly into the safe cup of Ilya’s hand.
It’s so much better, now, all tidied up and out of the way. He doesn’t need it. Never knew how to use it. He only needs Ilya, inside of him. Ilya touching it and taking it in his throat. He needs to be reminded that he gains nothing from sticking his dick anywhere. It’s not made for that. It’s much better like this, looking more like a —
“Pretty clit,” Ilya moans.
Shane fully burrows his face into Ilya’s hand, hips twitching up. He gasps wetly, mouthing against the sensitive skin on Ilya’s palm. He whines little noises of denial into Ilya’s hand in between little kisses.
The complaints are weak, almost purringly content, because Shane must be so at ease — knowing that he can’t do anything about it relieves him of his need to keep up appearances, the need to know if he is supposed to like this or not. If he is allowed to. Ilya will do what he wants with him, anyways, so he doesn’t need to think too hard about it. Just has to feel the pleasure of it.
“No? Not a pretty clit?” Ilya smiles, possessed. He rubs two fingers up and down over the exposed underside of Shane’s tip, faster and harder now. It’s gorgeous, how Shane twitches and whines and shakes his head and can’t do anything about it at all.
Ilya is painfully reminded that his own dick is neglected in his pants. He tends to forget, with the entire buffet of Shane laid out in complete surrender in front of him. Still, he needs to get inside, Shane, now, before he turns genuinely homicidal. He rips off Shane’s pants entirely, throwing them off the bed. Shane, who would probably reprimand Ilya about crumpled clothes on the floor even if his legs were getting sawed off that very second, doesn’t even notice this time. Ilya manhandles both of Shane’s legs apart, puts them over his own hips, then pulls Shane’s hips up a little towards his own.
He has three fingers inside of Shane before another thought can form in his brain. It’s wet, it’s warm, it’s welcoming, and pushing his fingers in all at once even if it’s a little much, and a little mean, is like taking candy from a baby.
Shane is clearly miffed about the lack of Ilya-hand next to his face now, so his brows furrow. Ilya will fix this, soon, he promises. Shane won’t have a single thought left in his pretty little brain when he starts, really starts.
He pushes his fingers deeply into Shane, rubbing insistently over his prostate. Shane’s hips roll into his hand in a continuous wave. Ilya’s fingers on the tip of Shane’s cock speed up again, tracing down the sides of the head with every stroke. Just like rubbing a good girl’s pretty clit.
The squelching noises from Ilya’s fingers in Shane’s hole are not helping Ilya’s state of mind. He is going to fuck this man to pieces, so he can never ever go back to fucking his needy cock into a sweet woman who is way too nice to him. He will fuck Shane until he never gets it up for a woman again, for anyone again, really. Because he knows it’s not just a man he needs, but Ilya. He will make sure that Shane never comes again without Ilya doing it for him, because it won’t feel good enough. He will make him feel so much, and come so hard, and come so much, that his tolerance for pleasure will rise so high he will need Ilya again, like this, to ever get off again. So that he will beg for Ilya to sneak into his marital bed at night, again and again and again, to hold him down and fuck him like he needs to be fucked and save him from his suffering. So he will apologise to him for ever thinking he could live without Ilya. Could love someone other than Ilya.
He was right, before. Shane would let him in, let him do whatever he wanted, in every universe. Would love it, love him, in every universe.
It’s not a fully conscious decision to rip his fingers out and push his cock inside of Shane’s wet hole. Most of it feels like coming in and out of rational consciousness, really, his only focus on Shane’s pretty face, flushed, eyes almost all the way closed with how deep down he is. He pushes all the way inside, watches Shane’s mouth open in a silent moan while he drapes himself over the length of his body, both hands coming to cradle his head.
The feeling of being inside of Shane is, as always, all-consuming. Were he a lesser man, he would rut into Shane uselessly every time they had sex, would let go of his self-restraint and chase pleasure within his husband. Would lose his mind fully and fuck him like an animal. But he is not. He tucks all of it aside, and focuses his attention on Shane. Given how sweetly Shane set this up for him he could probably cut himself some slack — but he doesn’t want to. Is there even a purpose to fucking Shane, to loving Shane, that could ever be larger than proving himself worthy of Shane?
Shane is too far gone to fully notice the return of his beloved hand for the gesture of care and attentiveness it is, but Ilya gives it back to him nonetheless. Shane nuzzles into it again on instinct, breathing wet little gasps into it. Ilya’s other hand wraps around Shane’s throat, quite gently, squeezing just enough on the sides to make Shane a little more cotton-y in the head, to reassure that he has him.
He groans on the first thrust inside of Shane, unable to stop and drag it out any more than he already did. No one Ilya fucked in his life has ever felt as welcoming as Shane does. Like he was just waiting for him all day. Like he was shaped by some higher force for the specific purpose of being a good, grateful home for Ilya’s cock. His lips find Shane’s ear, licking over the shell of it, then inside of it in a wet kiss. Shane twitches adorably, whining.
“See, your pussy is so perfect, so good for me, so much better than your wife’s,” Ilya moans next to Shane’s ear. He only hears a long, drawn out whine in response, one that’s probably supposed to be offended, signal disagreement, but it just sounds desperate for more.
“See how good you take it? How much you fucking love it? Need it?” He laughs, elated, not unkind. Smiles into the side of Shane’s neck. Raises his head to face Shane, blushing and pleading under him, small tear tracks running down the sides of his face. He’s rocking up and down with Ilya’s thrusts, mean and harsh now, unable to do any twisting or other adjustment he might usually do to alleviate the sensation. His hands curl helplessly at his sides.
“Much better slut than your wife, too,” he coos, petting through Shane’s hair affectionately.
He moves one hand down to the tip of Shane’s cock. It’s so wet, covered in fluids just like a girl’s clit would be after Ilya really gets his cock in her. Not that Shane needs the touch, but Ilya wants him to come like a girl, for him. Shane is gone entirely now, just a long ongoing whimpering moan coming out of him, pitch wobbly from the thrusts pushing his body around.
“Aren’t you grateful? That I know what you are, what you need, even when you don’t?” He purrs, hands trembling where he rubs the tip of Shane’s cock, which is all gone, all useless, pretty and wet just for him, like it always should be. “Aren’t you grateful that I know you need to be the wife, not have one?”
Shane, under him, scrunches his face like he’s in pain, rolling a little from side to side until Ilya holds him still. Pushes his legs up more, to go deeper, better, right into Shane’s g-spot. He’s whimpering like a confused, overwhelmed little dog under him.
“Pretty wife, good wife,” Ilya moans, watching Shane fall into an orgasm without even trying to hold it back, just letting it happen with no resistance, body entirely slack, drenching Ilya’s fingers in cum. He’s perfect and the most beautiful thing in the world. His mouth is opening and closing in wonder, like he’s amazed, fascinated, by the view from where he is right now.
Ilya gives him a second, because he is so damn pretty, because that is his wife, and he will always remember that when Ilya fucks him this good. Then, he slams his hips back into Shane. It will be quick, really, so he doesn’t hold back. Shane gasps under him, hips weakly moving around under Ilya’ weight. It’s fine, he can’t really go anywhere.
“Finally remember where you belong?” Ilya moans, fingers scooping up the cum from next to Shane’s cock. He brings his fingers up to Shane’s mouth, pushes them in without resistance because his mouth just hangs open in that ongoing gasp anyways, smears the cum around on his gums and the insides of his cheeks. Shane’s tongue weakly and absent-mindedly laps at Ilya’s fingers, but he forgets about it every couple of seconds. Like he is slipping in and out of self-awareness, entirely lost in just feeling.
Ilya keeps his fingers hooked in Shane’s mouth, watching his teeth, his tongue, the back of his throat. Home, really. He pushes a messy kiss on Shane’s held-open mouth. It’s filthy, and full of spit, and then he spits into it on purpose, too, and then it’s just his tongue lapping at the back of Shane’s teeth, and against Shane’s tongue in the seconds where he remembers he has one. Pretty, pretty, fucking slutty wife.
“Say you’re sorry, mhm?” He mumbles straight into Shane’s mouth, hips fucking and fucking and fucking into Shane like he can somehow transfer his own soul into Shane’s body. “Say you’re sorry you forgot.”
He shakes Shane’s face a little, because he needs it, needs Shane to tell him he knows, that there is no one else. That this is it. That he will never forget again. That he feels, just like Ilya, that there can never be anyone else coming close to this.
Shane, magically, senses the need in Ilya’s grip. Senses with the last of his firing braincells that this is the climax of his little game. He sucks Ilya’s finger in his mouth, consciously, taking them in to the knuckle. He scrapes his teeth over the skin on his way back off of them, places a kiss on the wet fingertips. It all still tastes like cum.
“M’sorry,” he says, quietly, looking at Ilya from below his lashes. He doesn’t make himself small. It’s not spoken with guilt. It’s only a fact, a truth spoken softly between them. A salvation, still, for Ilya. “Only you, always,” he adds, then, pushing his cheek against Ilyas cum and spit stained fingers, rubbing the wetness all over his cheek. Like he purposefully bathes himself in the scent of their sex. Like he marks himself, willingly.
Ilya, without any conscious thought in response, comes. He pushes Shane’s legs up farther, to go deeper inside him, push his cum deeper. It’s all he knows right now, cares for right now. His cum as deep as possible inside Shane.
“Gonna get you pregnant,” he mumbles, pushing his hips forward like he can somehow go even deeper inside of Shane by sheer force of will.
Shane, under him, snorts weakly. His eyes don’t even fully open yet. He’s still floating, happy, like a stretched out cat in a sunspot.
“Can’t get me pregnant, idiot,” he says, voice a bit shaky.
“Says who,” Ilya grunts back, dismayed. “Will get my pretty wife pregnant. So she remembers.” He sees Shane’s hand twitch like he wants to hit him, but can’t, with his arms useless like this. God, Shane can’t even hit him like this. Can’t do anything at all. Should get pregnant, now.
Ilya keeps Shane’s legs up, cock still buried inside of him, going soft. He bends down to play gently but insistently with Shane’s nipples, then grabbing the entire meat of his pec.
Shane frowns, twitches away from the touch. Tries to tug himself out of his restraints.
“And where are you trying to go, hm? She’s gone the whole weekend, I know,” Ilya smiles, looking down at Shane’s pretty face, first shocked, then splitting open with a filthy smile, while Ilya’s hands still paw at his chest. “I even brought my toothbrush, baby.”