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The floor is digging into his knees, a hard, unyielding pressure that’s becoming increasingly more difficult to care about.
The room was quiet, save for the distant hum of the city below and the frantic, shallow pants escaping Shane’s lips. He was on his knees in the center of the fancy hotel room, folded towels cushioning them. A small, thoughtful mercy.
Ilya was a warm and heavy presence in front of him, crouched to be at Shane’s level. He had one hand resting on Shane’s chest, his fingers tracing idle, maddening patterns on the sweat slick skin of his sternum.
Shane felt like he was about to vibrate out of his own skin.
He’d tried to chalk it up to the usual post game adrenaline, the familiar and comforting ache of his body pushed to its limit, but the game had ended hours ago.
This was a specific, localized agony that had nothing to do with his bruised ribs or aching knees and everything to do with the amount of water he’d forced down his throat in the hours leading up to this. No matter how hard he tried to focus on anything else, he couldn’t ignore the low, deep throb that started low in his pelvis and radiated outward, a pressure that had been building steadily since the last period. He’d drunk all the water he could handle, even when he felt like he couldn’t take anymore, even when every swallow was a promise of this exact agony.
He’d been so, so good. In the shower after the game, he hadn’t even touched himself, hadn’t given in to the temptation to relieve just a little of the pressure, even though it hurt so badly.
He couldn’t remember the exact moment he’d decided tonight was the night for this, but he could make an educated guess. Two nights ago, he’d looked up the address for the Metros’ hotel, a simple curiosity. It meant nothing when he found out all luxury suites had wooden floors. Nothing at all.
He was lowkey about it when Ilya walked in, he kissed him hello the same way he always did, threaded his fingers through Ilya’s hair as he kissed the breath out of him. He probably could have gotten away with it, the ache was still there, but it was dull, manageable. But Rozanov had backed him into the wall, the force enough to jostle his bladder, and then he’d put a hand right on Shane’s lower stomach, and it was all over. Shane had whimpered so loud, plunging a hand down to still Ilya’s movements.
The pressure from Ilya’s hand had lightened, but he didn’t remove it. He’d brought his eyes up to meet Shane’s, a beautiful, deranged look in them. He’d dropped his gaze back down to Shane’s lower belly and gently thumbed at the sensitive skin there.
“Yeah?” he’d asked, all light and breathy.
“Yeah,” Shane had whispered back.
He’d removed his hand then, bringing both up to cup the sides of Shane’s head as he kissed him hard on the mouth. He’d left him with instructions to strip, and when he’d come back, there was a mountain of fluffy white towels in his arms. Shane had watched, goosebumps covering his skin, as Ilya spread them out for him. When he was finished, Shane went down like it was second nature. And that’s how he’d found himself here. Kneeling, slightly shivering, and needing to piss so fucking bad his vision was starting to swim.
A muscle in his thigh twitches as Ilya drags a hand down his chest and splays it over his ribs. It was subtle, especially because the room was a bit dark, and he hoped Ilya wouldn’t notice. But of course he did.
Ilya’s eyes dropped, and a low sound rumbled in his chest. Detestment? Amusement? Shane couldn’t tell.
“What is it?” Ilya murmurs, his voice a low rasp. He shifts, standing to his full height now, a move that makes Shane feel impossibly small. His hand goes to Shane’s jaw immediately, cupping it as Shane tilts his head up in silent supplication. He drags a thumb across Shane’s plump bottom lip, his eyebrows drawing together in a look of mock concern.
“You look uncomfortable,” he says, sliding his thumb into the warm heat of Shane’s mouth. He watches down the bridge of his nose, eyes narrowed to slits, as Shane immediately begins sucking on it, grateful for the silent anchor Ilya offers him.
He’d take anything to distract his mind from the painful pressure in his gut. Ilya lets the offense of not getting an answer go as he watches Shane suck at his finger, gentle and determined. He adds a second, just because he can and he likes getting his fingers in Shane’s mouth.
He could only be forgiving for so long though. He pressed his thumb down hard on Shane’s tongue, a clear instruction, before pulling his fingers out, leaving Shane wet and empty.
Shane let out a breath, light and shaky, trying to keep his head up and his eyes open as Ilya assessed him once more.
“You didn’t answer me,” Ilya said. A small, mean part of him flares when he sees Shane jump. There’s no reason he should feel any satisfaction seeing Shane unsettled, but the feeling is there regardless. Maybe it was because he knew Shane would do many things to be absolved of the crime of not being good.
There are many things Shane would do to be good.
The urge to prey on that, to twist that desperate need into something uniquely his, was a constant low thrum beneath his skin. He fought it often because it was never about breaking Shane for the sake of it. It’s always about taking Shane in a part that reveals layer by carefully constructed layer until the raw, honest core is exposed. It’s an art he likes to think he’s mastered.
He looks down at Shane, a quivering thing in front of him. It’s actually more like shaking, his thighs ripple and the muscles of his stomach roll and flex as he tries to stay upright and not bring his hands protectively over his crotch. Brave boy.
Ilya brings both hands up, one on either side of Shane’s head, applying the slightest amount of pressure, like he’s trying to gently squeeze the remaining nerves and apprehension right out of him. His pretty glassy eyes meet Ilya’s and they seem to glisten.
He’s so pretty.
It occurs to Ilya then, sudden and possessive that he really is the only one who gets to see Shane like this. He’s always known it, turns it over in his mind more often than he should, but something about it feels different now. Maybe it’s the way Shane is looking at him, eyes glassy and bright, lashes damp and impossibly soft. Like Ilya had hung up the sun, moon, and stars, even though he’s going to end the night dripping piss and it’s all going to be Ilya’s fault.
Shane trusts him.
Trusts Ilya to lead him to and through the dark desires of his mind and to bring him out on the other side, safe and absolved. It’s a sacred responsibility, one that nestles deep within Ilya and refuses to budge. He lets that feeling, that mix of power and profound affection, guide his next move.
Shane’s eyes track him, unfocused at the edges until he almost goes cross eyed as Ilya leans in, pressing a firm, soft kiss to Shane’s lips. He lingers just long enough to feel it, then steals another, and another, against those flushed pink lips. His hand stays steady at the side of Shane’s head, holding him there
Shane’s eyes are still closed when he pulls away. He lets out an amused huff as Shane leans forward, chasing after him. He holds him in place.
“Tell me. What’s wrong? What do you need?” He almost feels bad asking, especially because he can tell Shane is slipping fast. But not bad enough.
It’s such a simple question with an arguably more simple answer. But his Shane is not so simple.
Shane’s eyes flutter open for a moment, his lashes are dark where they kiss his freckled cheeks. He shakes his head slowly, like he's trying to clear it of fog.
“Nothing’s wrong. I’m okay,” he whispers, “m’fine.”
Ilya’s hands fall away from Shane’s face as he cocks his head. He hums, a low, disbelieving rumble in his chest. “Mm. No, you’re not.” He crouched back down, bringing himself eye level with Shane again, his gaze sharp and knowing.
“Something’s bothering you, I can see it. Where does it hurt, baby?” Ilya’s voice is so soft, so gentle, like he’s asking Shane what his favorite color is or what he wants to eat for dinner. Shane’s eyes close so tightly that he sees white, trying to resist the disarming waves of his voice.
A hand comes to the side of his face and he leans into it. His cheek squishes against the palm of Ilya’s hand and it takes all of Ilya’s power not to coo at him, despite the situation they are currently in. Instead, he settles for brushing a thumb against the flushed skin.
“You know you can tell me anything, hm?” Ilya’s voice is low and deep and so much closer now, “I just want to make you feel better.”
Shane’s eyes blink open, bleary and searching. The world seems to have narrowed to just the space between them. He blinks, held in place by the intense focus in Ilya’s eyes that promises safety just as much as his certain destruction.
He’s practically face to face with Ilya now, and his hands twitch where they’re folded behind his back, fingers curling and uncurling, like he’s holding himself in place by sheer will. He drops his gaze first, eyes slipping down to the towels beneath his knees, like looking at Ilya any longer might undo him completely.
His stomach had softened, gone slack under the low pull of Ilya’s voice, but he tries to gather himself again, tightening, bracing. It only makes the pressure more intense, more insistent, something that throbs and presses and won’t be ignored. His breath stutters out of him, thin and uneven, and he has to take one again, then once more. They’re shallow little inhales that never quite fill his lungs.
He’s trying to distract himself.
He knows the rules.
Here, with the door locked and the rest of the world sealed out, there are only Ilya’s rules. And the first one, always, is honesty.
“It hurts,” he admits, voice barely more than air, like the words themselves might betray him if they’re too loud.
“I know, baby. I know it hurts.” Ilya sighs, like it’s somehow hurting him too. He leans forward to press a kiss to the tip of Shane’s nose. It crinkles a little at the contact, like a bunny. It’s cute and it makes something protective coil in Ilya’s gut.
“You want to feel better?” Ilya’s voice is so gentle, so soft. His hands are tracing all over Shane’s face and it feels more disarming than any direct command.
Shane nods, a slight jerk of his head. As if he’s not allowed.
“Yeah,” he whispers as he nods absently. A shiver racks his body, doing nothing for the pressure in his bladder. His hands clench together, so tight it’s almost painful. “I- I wanna feel better.”
He exhales deeply when the words are out, like it took all of his strength to confess. He's teetering on the edge of a very dangerous precipice, and it’s the wind of Ilya’s will pushing him closer and closer to the fall.
Ilya uses his thumb and forefinger to take Shane’s chin gently, forcing his gaze to meet his own.
“Look at me,” he murmurs, soft and absolute. He's looking at Shane so intensely and Shane knows he can see through each and every one of his defenses. For a moment, it’s almost more overwhelming than the pressure in his stomach.
Ilya’s hands slide down from his cheeks, over the strong muscles of his chest and Shane watches as they go down. Ilya’s palms are warm and dry, a stark contrast to the thin sheen of sweat that covers Shane’s entire front. His hands keep dragging down, they pass over his hard, sensitive nipples, drags his nails over each one on purpose. Shane whines and Ilya rubs over them in apology, moving on when Shane starts to whimper and stick his chest out for more. They continue their slow, maddening journey down, pausing when they reach the hard plane of Shane's lower stomach. He doesn’t press, not yet. He lets them rest there, a warm, heavy cure to the ache.
He doesn’t say anything, but Shane knows he’s waiting for something. SOmething he can’t give.
Shane lets out a pitiful whimper.
"I can't tell you," Shane whispers, his voice a fragile, trembling thing. His gaze is fixed on a nondescript part of the carpet, unable to bring his eyes to Ilya’s. The shame of his want is a suffocating weight that sits heavy and ugly in his chest. "S’dirty. I can’t say it." The words tremble on their way out and they feel thick and vile on his tongue, a perfect descriptor for the squirming need coiling deep in his gut. A traitorous hot tear escapes his eye and he immediately drops his head, letting it hang in shame. He could feel it, the sick, thrilling pulse of want that was at war with his disgust. He wants it, and that’s probably the dirtiest part of all.
This is the part of himself he keeps locked away for a reason. It’s the part that craves to be broken down and used in ways that make his stomach clench with self loathing when he is alone in the light of day. But here, in the low light with Ilya, that part of him claws its way to the surface, and there’s no need to fight to keep it buried.
Ilya’s expression doesn’t change, but his eyes soften, melting from predatory to something that looks terrifyingly like understanding. He shifted his weight, a slow, deliberate movement, and the hand still pressed low on Shane’s stomach begins to move in a slow, soothing circle. "Dirty," he repeats, like he’s turning the word over. Examining it. “Maybe.” His voice a low, thoughtful murmur. “But hurting like this,especially when it doesn’t have to be this way, is dirty too.”
Shane’s breath stutters. He can’t look at him.
“And you’re hurting,” Ilya continues, quieter now. “Right now.”
A small, pitiful nod. Enough to send a few strands of hair slipping loose, falling into his face, giving him something to hide behind.
It doesn’t last because Ilya’s hand lifts, brushing the hair back behind one of his ears. His fingers linger for a second at Shane’s temple before he leans and presses a kiss to Shane’s cheek, since he’s there.
“So tell me, my love.” His voice is so gentle, almost patronizingly. It was the voice he used when Shane was truly lost, when his mind was a fragile, fractured thing and Ilya needed to handle him with the utmost care to ensure he broke in just the right way. "You wanna feel better, don't you?” he murmurs, “You want this to stop. It's such a simple thing to fix, so easy."
He shakes his head frantically, like he’s only just caught up to what’s being asked of him. What’s being offered. Panic flickers through him.
"No, not like this. Please. Don't make me." His voice is wet and thick, deep like he’s about to cry. His hands came up to push weakly at Ilya’s chest, a feeble attempt at resistance that’s really just a plea for Ilya to make it okay.
This is their dance. Their ritual. Every fiber of his being, the part that was Shane Hollander: the good son, the respected athlete, the pinnacle of discipline and peak performance, screamed that this was wrong, disgusting. It was a litany of failure in his head. Good people don’t want this. Clean people don’t do this. This is sick.
But the other part, the part that only existed in these rooms with Ilya, the part that was desperate to be seen and wanted and used, was thrumming with a sick, electric anticipation. By fighting, by pushing, by saying no, he could soothe that outer layer of himself. He could tell it, See? I tried to stop it. I didn’t want this. He made me. It was a flimsy lie, one he was telling it to himself for goodness sake, but it was the only way he could satisfy that portion of himself that needed to be broken down and built back up again. The performance of resistance was the key that unlocked the pleasure of his surrender.
Ilya reaches out, his hand flat and warm as he presses it low on Shane’s stomach, right over the source of the ache. “If you don’t tell me,” his hand presses down firmer now, just the slightest bit, a gentle, inescapable pressure. Shane’s breath hitches as he chokes on a plea for Rozanov to stop, “I’ll have to find out on my own.”
The hand pushes down. Hard.
Maybe it’s because he’d been so caught up in watching Ilya, the way his lips moved as he spoke, the way his eyes trailed over Shane's body, that he was taken by surprise.
He doesn't have enough time to harden the lower muscles of his abdomen and when Ilya pushes down, a gush of hot liquid escapes him, soaking into the towels he’s perched on. It isn’t much, just a quick, humiliating spurt, but the sound it makes, a soft pat against the towel, may as well be a gunshot in the quiet room.
Shane’s whole body jerks as if he’d been electrocuted, nearly folding in on himself. A strangled, guttural sound tears from his throat, something between a gasp and a sob. His eyes shoot down, locking onto the small, dark patch that had seeped through his briefs.
Evidence. Proof. He’d just fucking pissed himself.
The shame was immediate and suffocating, a tidal wave of heat that washes over him, making his face burn and his skin prickle with mortification.
His gaze is torn away from the damning wet spot, drawn upward by an invisible force. Ilya is already looking at him, his eyes dark and intense, burning with a look so probing, so possessive, it made Shane’s breath catch in his chest. It’s a look of reverence. So misplaced for what they are currently doing, but Ilya doesn't think a day will come where he isn’t in awe of Shane in one way or another.
Ilya’s gaze drops from Shane’s wide, glassy eyes to the small, damp stain between his knees. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face, a predator’s smile of deep, unadulterated satisfaction. “Ah,” he hums softly, the sound a mixture of genuine surprise and dark, triumphant pleasure. “So that’s what it was, hm?”
Shane lets out a wounded noise, a high pitched whimper of pure humiliation. He’s been found out.
Every instinct, every shred of his training and self control screams at him to scramble away, to kick and fight and close his legs, to hide the damning evidence of his failure, but Ilya is an immovable force, his hands pin Shane in place, his body a cage of muscle and bone that Shane both hates and craves.
Ilya tsks at him, shaking his head slowly, squeezing hard at his hip. "You can’t leave now. You’re not done yet, hm?" He leans down, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that was somehow more terrifying than a shout. His hand is still resting on Shane’s lower belly and he rubs gentle circles over the muscles. It’s meant to soothe, but any contact with that part of Shane’s body feels like bricks being laid.
“Don’t,” Shane chokes out, a hand moving up to push weakly at Ilya’s wrist. Another piece of their dance. This is his penance, a performance that allowed him to have the tiniest piece of what he truly wants.
“Don’t what?” Ilya asks softly. He doesn’t move his hand, he lets it rest there, an insistent reminder. “Touch you? ” He leaned closer, his lips brushing against the shell of Shane’s ear. “Because that’s not what this feels like.”
Shane shudders, a full body tremor that has nothing to do with temperature. He’s trapped. Trapped by Ilya’s body, by his own desire, by the unbearable pressure that’s demanding release. “Please,” he whispers, the word a broken plea.
“I can’t,” he gasps, his eyes squeeze shut hard enough to ache, like if he blocks out the sight of Ilya, if he refuses to see, he can stop this from becoming real.
He just can’t watch. He can’t see Ilya’s face while he does this.
His hands pushed harder, a desperate, futile effort to gain space, to break the spell. It doesn’t work and it was never going to. They both know it.
His body was thrumming with a sick, electric anticipation, his cock giving a traitorous twitch against the wet fabric of his briefs.
He can’t see Ilya’s face while it happens, can’t reconcile that steady, knowing gaze with what he’s being pushed toward. His hands press harder this time, palms flattening against Ilya’s chest, trying to create space where there isn’t any.
Ilya laughs, a low, dark sound that seems to vibrate through Shane’s entire body. “You can fight it all you want, my love. It only makes it better when you break.” His hand on Shane’s stomach moves in harder, maddening circles. “ And you will break,” he continues, “you know you will.” He sounds so certain.
“I don’t know why you do this to yourself,” he adds, almost thoughtful. “Give me what I want.”
A pause.
“Give yourself what you want.”
“I can’t-” Shane chokes, he slumps forward and ends up pressed against Ilya, face turned into the solid warmth of his chest. It's the only place he can hide.
“I shouldn’t,” he whispers into the skin, “I can’t.”
“But I want you to” Ilya's voice drops as he kisses the top of Shane’s head. It’s taken on that gentle, coaxing tone that always undoes him. "It's just for me,” Ilya murmurs. “Look at me, Shane.”
Shane shakes his head, trying to bury himself further into Ilya’s chest. He can’t.
He won’t.
“I said, look at me.” The voice was still soft, but there’s steel under it now. An order that could not be disobeyed. Ilya’s free hand moved from his hip to his hair, his fingers tangling in the strands and gripping firmly, balancing perfectly on the edge of pain and pleasure. He pulled, just enough to make Shane’s head lift, to force him to meet his gaze.
Shane’s eyes flutter open, swimming with tears. The world is a blurry mess, but Ilya’s face is sharp, clear, and beautiful. His eyes are burning holes into him, seeing every thought, every fear. The pressure in his gut was a living thing now, hot and coiled, clawing at his insides, demanding to be let out. It was a mind numbing thrum, eclipsing every other sense. The shame, the fear, the memory of the game, it’s all faded into a dull roar behind the deafening, internal scream of his own body. He was worn down to nothing but this single, agonizing need.
“That’s it,” Ilya whispers, his thumb stroking Shane’s jaw. “Right here. Only me. Only you.”
Shane nods absently, his eyes darting in between Ilya’s like he’s trying to make out if any of this is real. He’s so worn down and everything feels like it’s too much. It was so hard to think, so hard to fight, when Ilya was looking at him like that. Like he was something precious, even while he was coaxing him into something filthy.
Shane’s lips trembled, parting on a silent sob. The words were stuck, thick and heavy in his throat, coated in years of denial and self-loathing. But Ilya’s gaze was relentless, a warm, steady weight that gave him permission to drown. A single tear escaped, tracking a hot path down his cheek.
“I-” he starts, his voice cracking. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, another tear falls. He has to say it. He can’t hold it anymore. The pressure is so much and he’s so, so tired.
“I have to pee.”
He shakes as he says it, a violent, full body tremor, and fat, hot tears roll down his cheeks. The admission breaks an internal dam, and the shame that floods him is just as powerful as the relief he’d been denied. He’d expected some kind of instant absolution, but it doesn’t come. He just felt hollowed out and exposed, a raw nerve ending quivering in the open air.
Ilya, however, was radiant with satisfaction. A slow, brilliant smile spread across his face, pure, unadulterated triumph. He squeezed both of Shane’s cheeks, lowering his head to press kisses all over his face. His cheek, his temple, the corner of his eye, the bridge of his nose.
“There he is,” he murmurs against his skin, his voice thick with approval. “My good boy. That’s it, solnyshko. That’s all I wanted to hear.” His hands were everywhere, stroking his hair, rubbing his back, squeezing the nape of his neck. It’s grounding and it covers Shane in a blanket of approval that was almost more overwhelming than the shame. Shane’s eyes slipped closed, letting the praise wash over him, letting Ilya hold the pieces of him together.
Ilya’s thumb brushes beneath his eye, catching the dampness there, a quiet, wordless cue.
“I’m going to push again,” he says softly. “Don’t fight me this time.”
Shane couldn’t form the words. He stared, his breath coming in ragged, hitching pants, his body a taut, trembling bowstring pulled to its breaking point. His eyebrows knit together, not in confusion, but in a desperate, final plea for mercy he knew wouldn’t come.
“Okay?” Ilya asks.
“Okay,” Shane answers back. His hands are shaking and he clenches them. This is it, there’s nowhere to run or hide.
His eyes stayed locked with Ilya’s as Ilya’s hand on his stomach pressed down again. It’s a slow, deliberate application of weight, a deep, unrelenting force that sinks directly into his core, right over his screaming bladder. For a single moment of pure agony, every muscle in Shane’s body seizes, locked in a final, desperate attempt for control.
It’s useless.
It starts slow, a single, searing trickle of heat escapes him, a tiny betrayal that blooms against the sensitive skin behind his balls. A gasp tears from his throat and his hips twitch forward, like he can catch it. Like he can take it back.
He feels paralyzed.
He lets out tiny, strangled moans while he watches, utterly mesmerized, as the grey cotton of his boxers slowly darken. A slow, creeping wet spot unfurls from the front of the fabric to the entire thing. The wet cloth clings to him, outlining the shape of him in a way that is so obscene but he’s powerless to do anything else but stare.
“Shit, baby..that's it. Let it out for me, мед.” Ilya sounds incredulous as he keeps the pressure steady. Like he’s watching something much more awe inspiring than a grown man pissing himself. Shane couldn't answer. He watches mesmerized, the flow increases as he loosens up his muscles bit by bit. The stream becomes a torrent, a steady, unstoppable flow. He can feel the heat tracing paths down his inner thighs, a molten river that brands his skin. The scent of it filled his senses, sharp and acrid and undeniably his.
The pleasure crests in a wave so immense it breaks him. It feels His head lolls back on his shoulders, his eyes slamming shut as he finally tears his gaze away from the hypnotic sight between his legs. A long, broken moan rips from his chest, loud and pretty as he rides it out.
Unending, guttural moans spill from his lips as he empties itself, his hips rolling in a slow, mindless rhythm, humping the air as the pleasure washed over him in relentless waves. His back arches beautifully, a taut bow of pure sensation, every nerve ending firing at once. He’s so gone, lost in the feeling, a vessel for the exquisite, humiliating relief that Ilya had wrung from him.
His body goes limp, a boneless slump of utter surrender as the pressure that had been torturing him for hours finally, finally relents. He lets out a shaky moan as the last little dribbles leave him. It’s insane to say, but he already misses the feeling of such a large release.
He slumps forward, his body giving out all at once, every overworked muscle that had been holding him upright has finally snapped. For a split second it feels like he’s going to hit the ground but then there’s warmth. Solid. Unyielding.
Ilya.
His arms come around Shane immediately, pulling him and anchoring him before he can fall any further. The hold is tight, almost crushing, and Shane melts into it without resistance, his weight going heavy, pliant.Ilya’s arms come up, wrapping around his sides and squeezing him tight.
“Good fucking boy, baby,” Ilya breathes, against his ear. The praise is salt in his wounded pride but a balm at the same time. Shane whines.
“That was a lot, hm? You feel better?”
Shane squeezes his eyes shut, nodding into the crease of Ilya’s neck and shoulder. He trembles, soaked in the aftermath.
He is empty. He is shattered. He is Ilya’s.
His mind is a blank, buzzing space as reality starts to creep back in around the edges.
He’d pissed himself. On his knees. While Ilya watched.
A small, broken sound slips out of him as it settles.
He whimpers, burying himself deeper into Ilya, pressing in like he can disappear there, like if he just stays close enough he won’t have to face any of it.
One of Ilya’s hands comes up to the back of his neck, squeezing tightly, before pulling Shane up from his neck. He holds his gaze for a long, stretched moment, letting the silence hang thick and heavy in the air, letting Shane feel the full, crushing weight of his own surrender.
Then, slowly, deliberately, Ilya leans in. He kisses Shane’s mouth, Shane’s damp, tear streaked cheek, right over a freckle. It’s all shockingly tender, a benediction, a seal of ownership pressed into his skin.
“Are you okay?” Ilya murmurs against his temple, his voice a low, intimate rumble that vibrated straight through Shane’s bones. “All done?”
Shane can only manage a weak nod in return.
That never flies with Ilya though. Ilya grabs his jaw, shaking it lightly.
“Mhm.. m’okay. All done.” Shane breathes out.
Ilya hums, satisfied.
He feels boneless, wrung out, his mind a blank, buzzing space. His body is still humming, a strange mix of post release lethargy and a very faint simmering, residual arousal.
“Shower?” Ilya asks, his hand moving again, smoothing over Shane’s face, brushing stray damp strands back from his forehead.
“Please,” he whispers.
“Okay, baby,” Ilya agrees. His has voice softened back into that gentle, coaxing tone that made Shane’s stomach clench. He stands up, his movement fluid and graceful, and looks down at the mess they’d made. The towels are soaked.
He looks from the towels to Shane, who is still kneeling, looking up at him with wide, trusting, wrecked eyes. “Come on,” he commands, his voice quiet but firm.
Shane’s limbs feel like lead, but he obeys, pushing himself up on trembling legs. He sways slightly, his balance off, immediately reaching a hand out and Ilya meets him halfway. He’s a mess, standing there in his soaked briefs, his skin flushed and clammy.
Ilya’s gaze is proprietary, a slow, possessive sweep from his disheveled hair down to his trembling legs. “Look at this mess” he said, with a deep, thick satisfaction that makes Shane’s skin tingle. He steps closer, his body hot which is a stark contrast to the cooling dampness on Shane’s skin. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of Shane’s briefs, tugging slightly. “Let’s get you out of these.”
He peels the wet fabric down Shane’s legs slowly, carefully, letting it drop to the floor with a soft, wet plop. Shane shivers as the cool air hits his overheated skin, the sensation is electrifying. He’s completely naked now, exposed in every sense of the word.
Ilya tugs on his hand and goes easily,
The bathroom was all white tile and chrome, bright and sterile after the dim, intimate space of the main room. Ilya turned on the shower, the sound of the spray a sudden, sharp roar.
He guides Shane under the spray, the warm water instantly soothing his sensitive skin. Shane stands under the spray, his head bowed, letting the water wash over him. He feels dazed and disconnected.
Ilya steps in behind him, closing the glass door and shutting out the world. His hands come to rest on his hips and he presses wet kisses to Shane’s shoulder blades and the base of his neck.
“Lean on me,” Ilya says lowly into his ear, his voice cutting through the sound of the water.
Shane lets his weight sag back immediately, his head resting on Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya’s arms come around him, holding him tightly. One hand splays across his chest, over his heart, while the other moves down, gently raking across the skin of his lower abdomen.
“You were so good for me,” Ilya whispers, his lips brushing against Shane’s neck. “You’re beautiful when you let go. Do you know how beautiful you are?”
Shane shakes his dumbly. He does know, because Ilya tells him all the time, but he likes hearing Ilya say it. Sue him.
“I’ll have to show you sometime then,” Ilya hums.
He dislodges himself from Shane’s back, grabbing Shane’s usual soap which he must have taken out of his bag. Probably before they even began, and began to wash him, his movements slow and gentle, almost reverent.
He lathers his hands and runs them over Shane’s shoulders, his arms, his chest, between his legs. Cleaning every inch of him with a care that was at odds with the way he’d just taken him apart. He washes the sweat and tears from Shane’s face, his touch impossibly tender. He tilts Shane’s head back under the spray to rinse his hair, his fingers massaging his scalp in slow, soothing circles.
Shane let himself be cared for, let himself be handled. He tries to be helpful where he can but he enjoys being pliant and malleable, a doll in Ilya’s hands.
When they’re both clean, Ilya turns off the water, plunging the room into a sudden, echoing silence. He grabbed a huge, fluffy bath sheet and wrapped it around Shane’s shoulders, rubbing his back and arms until his skin was warm and dry. He guided him out of the tub, his hand firm on the small of his back.
He leads Shane back into the main room. The soaked towels are still on the floor, a wet reminder of what had transpired. Shane’s eyes flick towards them and a fresh, small wave of mortification washes over him. He looks back to Ilya, his face flushed.
Ilya simply squeezes his hip.
I’ve got it” he says, his voice quiet but firm. He pushes Shane gently towards the bed.
“Lie down. On your stomach.”
Shane obeys without question, sinking into the soft, clean sheets of bed. They’re cool on his skin and he practically melts into the mattress. He is exhausted, every muscle in his body aches in the most satisfying way. He rests his cheek on his folded arms, his eyes already drifting closed.
They open again when he feels the bed dip as Ilya climbs in beside him. A moment later, the cool, soothing scent of almonds fills the air as Ilya began to massage lotion into his shoulders.
His hands are strong, and his knowing fingers find every knot, every sore spot, working them into submission. He worked his way down Shane’s back, his touch firm and sure. He kneads the muscles of his ass, his thumbs brushing teasingly over the sensitive skin, making Shane shiver.
By the time Ilya finally moves to his thighs, Shane is half asleep, floating in a blissful, pain free haze. The gentle, rhythmic pressure of Ilya’s hands has lulled him into a deep, dreamless state. He feels Ilya’s lips press a soft kiss to the back of his knee, then another to his calf.
“Ilya,” he slurs as he tries to lift his head. His voice is thick with sleep.
“Shhh,” Ilya whispered, his hands still moving, now massaging his feet. “I’m right here. We’ll talk in the morning.”
Shane wants to say more, to thank him, to tell him… something. But the words don’t come. His body is too heavy, his mind too quiet. He feels the blanket being pulled up over them and Ilya settles beside him, a warm weight against his back. An arm wraps around his waist, pulling him closer, and a soft kiss is pressed to the nape of his neck.
The kiss lingers, or maybe it doesn’t, maybe Shane only imagines it, the ghost of it settling warm against his skin.
Ilya’s breath evens out behind him, steady and close, and Shane lets himself sink into it, into the quiet rhythm, into the certainty of being held.
The last thing he’s aware of is the weight of that arm around his waist, immovable before even that slips gently out of reach.