Chapter Text
Ilya makes him wait. Not long—just enough.
He finds him leaning back against the headboard, half propped up, his hands together in his lap, fingers restless. Obedient Shane had always been his weakness.
Seeing him like that, waiting, willing, makes his whole body burn. And still, there’s something sweet in his nervousness, in the way he bites his lip as if he doesn’t know what to do with all that anticipation. He was aroused, yes, but also nervous, expectant.
Shane turns his head the moment he hears the door. The wait has made him more anxious.
As he approaches the end of the bed, he says, in a low voice. “You’re such a good boy. Waiting for me just like I said.” Shane rolls his eyes on reflex, like he always does when Ilya uses that tone. This time, however, Ilya stops him. He tilts his head back just a little, serious, with that low, firm voice that only comes out in moments like this.
“Ni dié-lai tak.” Don’t do that.
Shane swallows and bites his lip harder. That does nothing but turn him on even more.
“Wait just like that. I’ll be right back.” Ilya disappears into the dressing room and comes back with two ties. How cliché, Shane thinks, but he couldn’t care less.
“I’m going to tie your hands” Ilya explains calmly. “Like always… but this time you won’t be able to get loose. Okay?”
Shane nods without thinking.
“Before that”— Ilya says, smiling— “safeword.”
Shane listens attentively.
—“If something is too much”— he continues.“If you want to stop.” Shane is never going to want to stop; he never wants anything to stop if it’s between him and Ilya.
Ilya smiles, amused by what just occurred to him. —“Tuna?” And he gives him one of those sexy crooked smiles, the ones Shane knows too well, the ones that always loosen something inside him.
Shane smiles back while rolling his eyes, because of course he would say that. Ilya raises his eyebrows, challenging him.
“Sorry” Shane says, searching for something better—. “Hey, I’ve got it… ginger.” This time the smile comes out full, proud, almost childish. Ilya laughs at his husband, warmly.
“Okay, Hollander. Ginger it is.” The sound of his laughter settles in Shane’s chest and loosens him just before Ilya closes the distance.
Shane barely has time to register the change when he feels his hands being guided above his head. The leather—or the fabric—tightens. Firm, but careful.
Trust.
Ilya stays there a second longer, as if giving him the chance to change his mind. Shane doesn’t. It takes all his willpower not to kiss him; this wasn’t going to be like always. Even so, he brushes his lips in a ghost of a kiss.
Deprived of sight, Shane feels everything else sharpen: Ilya’s breathing close by, his solid presence, the faint brush of his mouth and the suspended promise of what comes next. He trembles, completely given over, and the sigh that slips from him sounds dangerously like a moan. Almost a complaint.
He just wants him to keep going.
“I’m gonna make you feel good” he says, moving down Shane’s body, leaving slow kisses over his chest and belly. “I love how you just trust me.”
When he reaches his pelvis, Ilya looks up. There’s something feral in his eyes, a need that tightens his chest. The desire he feels for Shane scrambles his head, leaves him without a single clear thought. In that state, nothing else exists but him: his skin, his breathing, the way he gives himself without reservations.
He wraps his hand around his hard dick and sighs softly just above it, provoking an involuntary tremor in him. Then he spreads his legs and kneels between them, slowly stroking his thighs. “I’m gonna stroke you, but you need to tell me when you’re close. Do you understand, Shane?” Ilya says. “Yes?”
—Yes.
Ilya’s hand starts to move slowly, aware of every reaction. At first it lingers at the tip, caressing it gently, playing with Shane’s sensitivity and the precum that was already leaking. Always so fucking wet.
Shane holds his breath when he feels the hand slide all the way down to the base slow, teasing, repeating the motion over and over until a low, restrained moan slips from his throat.
“Good?” Ilya asks without looking at him, focused on every shudder.
“Very good,” Shane replies, his voice low, heavy with need.
Ilya keeps the rhythm but increases the pressure. Shane lifts his hips, searching for more contact, more friction, trying to set his own pace. But the hand stops abruptly.
“Don’t.”
The word is soft but firm, leaving no room for argument. The hand on his hip keeps him still while Shane whines in frustration. Ilya waits a second longer than necessary before moving again. This time the rhythm is different—faster, more deliberate. The tension thickens, heavier and more intense. he start to caressing his balls and the precum begins to come out wetting him even more, you can only hear the wet sound of ilya jerking him off. The control is absolute. Shane feels the pressure build, how each second stretches out, leaving him right on the edge.
Ilya doesn’t talk much. He doesn’t want to get distracted. All of his attention is on Shane: on every micro-expression, every broken breath, every barely contained moan, every involuntary movement of his body. He knows him so well he doesn’t even need him to say it; if Shane didn’t ask him to stop, Ilya would know exactly when to do it. He recognizes the precise moment when his husband is about to lose control.
And also—and maybe above all—because he enjoys watching him like this. Watching Shane get worked up, watching him give himself over completely, watching him let Ilya take care of everything, trusting him without reservations.
Shane’s moans grow more frantic.
“Stop, stop, stop,” he manages to say, almost out of air and Ilya lets go immediately.
Shane goes completely still the moment Ilya stops. With his eyes blindfolded, the darkness becomes overwhelming; not seeing anything makes everything else feel too much. The air burns in his lungs as he lets out a long, shaky exhale, as if only now he remembers how to breathe. He curls his fingers into the sheets, clinging to the texture, searching for something to anchor him while his body is still vibrating, traitorous, on the edge of something that never quite happened. He tries to bring the intensity down, the sensation still humming under his skin. His hands tense in the sheets as he counts his breaths—one, two, three—trying to ground himself in anything that isn’t that unbearable feeling of being right there… but no. His pulse is racing, his entire body on high alert, suspended in that uncomfortable space between control and total loss.
He tries to calm himself by listening to his own breathing, feeling each rapid heartbeat, each second that passes without knowing exactly what Ilya will do next. The blindfold takes away his control, leaves him exposed, and that unravels him more than he wants to admit. He’s suspended in that instant that’s uncomfortable and delicious at the same time: acutely aware of his body, his desire, how close he was… and of the fact that he’s still completely in Ilya’s hands.
Ilya leans down to leave slow kisses along his thighs, then calmly kisses his abs, sucking just enough to leave a red mark, stealing his breath. He gently pinches his nipples, making Shane arch without meaning to, deliberately stretching the moment out.
shane thinks he doesn’t going to hold and at the same time he doesn’t want it to stop. He wants Ilya to see him lose control. He wants him to hold him there, right on the edge.
That’s when Ilya touches him again—just when Shane thinks it might be over. Barely. It’s no longer a firm movement. It’s a touch so slow it hurts.
“No, no, Ilya,” Shane murmurs, throwing his head back, desperate and miserable.
Ilya smiles, even though Shane can’t see it.
“You can,” Ilya replies, with a calm that burns. “Just a little more. You don’t want to be a bad boy for me, moya lyubov?”
Shane lets out a sound that’s more than a complaint and takes a deep breath, trying to pull himself together, trying not to cross that point of no return. The tension becomes thick, almost unbearable. Shane’s body responds on its own, against his will. His pelvis starts to tense, an unmistakable sign that he’s truly right on the edge. And there—definitively—Ilya stops. Shane’s dick lies hard against his stomach.
Ilya finally strips completely and moves over Shane, settling on his chest. The weight of his body anchors him to the mattress. With slow, deliberate movements, he removes the tie from his eyes and waits, patient, for him to adjust to the light.
Shane’s head is still wrapped in the haze of the almost-orgasm. It’s hard for him to focus again, to organize the sensations. Luckily, there isn’t much light: it’s already night, and only a distant lamp illuminates the room. Even so, before he can fully react, Ilya grips his chin firmly, forcing him to look at him.
“Open your mouth.”
Shane obeys without thinking, without arguing, letting himself be guided. Ilya brings his pelvis closer to his face and fuck his mouth at first with calculated slowness, letting Shane feel every second, every inch of anticipation. Shane perceives Ilya’s absolute control setting the pace, deciding how much and when. “Relax your throat.”
He does. He takes him all the way down.
Ilya starts fucking his mouth with a steady rhythm, all the way in. Shane can do nothing but stay there, mouth open, holding him, taking him. Ilya mutters a curse under his breath, slowing the pace. It’s torture even for him, but he doesn’t stop. He loves using Shane’s mouth like this; there’s something in the way he gives himself, in the way he trusts, that turns him on even more.
“So good for me,” he pants. “Posmotri na sebya. Look at you. Made for my cock”
He pats Shane’s cheek and says “stay,” leaving his cock right there, unmoving, for a few delicious seconds. “Blyat. Fuck, Shane.” Then he pulls out completely. Shane was running out of air, so the relief of being able to breathe comes immediately. There’s no sensation he likes more than all of Ilya’s cock inside him, choking him, taking him completely.
There’s saliva all over his chin, spilling from his mouth. Ilya grabs his dick and starts rubbing it against Shane’s lips. “You love this dick so much, huh?” Shane smiles, completely dazed and glassy-eyed, and nods faintly.
“Mmjm, all mine.” Ilya smiles back.
“Yes. All yours. Such a slut for it. Love having your mouth full.”
In response, Shane opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue—a silent but clear gesture, asking for more, urging him on. The obedience is open, deliberate. Ilya doesn’t hesitate. He slides back in, this time only halfway, setting the limit with precision, letting the attention and pleasure concentrate on the head of his cock. Shane takes advantage of it and plays with his tongue, using those movements he knows affect Ilya, the ones that make him lose his breath.
The moan that slips from Ilya is louder, less restrained. “fuuckk”
Shane smiles. His eyes shine in that particular way—defiant and submissive at the same time—as if inviting him to continue, to take him where they both know they want to go. Ilya pants, his voice breaks, and as a final act of dominance he decides to push all the way down Shane’s throat, chasing his own pleasure. Shane responds with a muffled moan around his dick, blinking heavily, doing nothing but staying still and obedient, following every order.
The wet sound of Ilya’s cock fills the room, setting a thick, insistent rhythm.
God. Shane is being so obedient that it finally shatters what little control Ilya has left. The way he gives himself over, the way he trusts, the way he stays there without resistance, awakens a different need in him: the need to reward him for being so good. Ilya pants, almost losing control in that moment. He has to bite his lip not to do it, not to cross the line just yet—and pulls back.
Shane jerks away suddenly, pulling him out of his mouth with a plaintive moan, thick with frustration. Ilya takes a deep, steady breath, still shaking from how close he came to losing control. He forces himself to calm down. To keep a cool head.
Without a second thought, he puts him back into position—after sliding the tie back over his eyes. Taking away his sight is almost a reflex by now. Then he straightens and moves to the side of the bed.
“Now. Get on all fours.”
Shane obeys without a word. The movement is immediate—even with his hands bound, he manages it with ease, lifting his ass eagerly. Ilya positions himself behind him and takes a moment. He runs his open palm down Shane’s back, slow, possessive. He leans in to kiss the dimples at the small of his back—the ones he loves so much—as if they were a weak spot. His hands roam over his balls, squeezing with intention, and he leaves wet, open kisses on both cheeks, marking his territory.
He pulls away only long enough to grab the lube from the drawer. When he settles back behind Shane, he does so with deliberate calm. He presses a finger there and starts to open him with infinite patience, drawing slow movements, testing his body’s response before pushing in gently, all the way to the depth into his hole.
Shane’s moan is loud when he feels the cold lube on Ilya’s fingers, the contrast against the heat of his body. Too much. Oh God. He’s not going to last long like this.
Ilya alternates between small circles around his rim and using his other finger to press into Shane’s hole… He’s so horny, he’s already feeling loose, easily opening up for Ilya.
“Oh fuck, Ilya, I’m going to come,” he pants. “I’m ready. Just put it in, please.”
“You can take one more finger, sweetheart.”
And he does. Shane accepts the three fingers, his body tensing just slightly before giving in completely. That seems to be enough for both of them; neither can wait much longer. Ilya pushes one last time, precise, searching for Shane’s prostate, drawing another moan from him before pulling his fingers out.
Ilya’s hands return to Shane’s hips, firm, and he flips him decisively onto his back. Shane is dragged to the edge of the bed while Ilya remains standing.
Oh, hell yes.
Shane can’t see anything, but he doesn’t need to. He knows exactly what comes next. He feels Ilya settling his legs over his shoulders. Shane smiles, slow and satisfied, while Ilya pulls his bound hands back, above his head, leaving him completely open.
He’s aware of how he must look now—open, exposed, offered. But he’s Ilya’s. That’s the only thing that matters.
Shane loved being like this because he didn’t have to do anything except accept his husband’s big, thick cock sliding inside him. That’s why he wanted to try this so badly. He isn’t doing anything he doesn’t want to do. This is the ideal situation for Shane—and Ilya knows it.
Ilya rubs his dick against Shane’s hole, teasing him without fully committing. He takes his time. He watches every reaction, every tremor, every uneven breath.
“You love this so much, huh,” he murmurs in his deep voice, his Russian accent becoming even more pronounced in moments like this—and that absolutely destroys Shane.
“My dick in your ass, filling you completely. You’re such a cockslut Shane. Just for me. Yes?”
“Yes. Your slut. Only you. Always.” By this point, Shane could barely process what he was saying. The words came out broken, choked by his own breathing, by saliva, by the desperation vibrating in his chest.
His mind was no longer following a coherent line. It drifted, scattered, reduced to a single insistent need: to be fucked and filled.
That’s all Ilya needs. He stops playing and uses one hand to rub the head of his cock against Shane’s hole, making both of them moan in anticipation, and with the other hand he braces himself on Shane’s thigh and starts to push in slowly, torturing himself just as much as Shane. He feels Shane’s hole stretch, and even though he prepared him, he still is always so tight. Ilya uses the leverage he has from standing to pick up his pace quickly, folding in on Shane a little bit.
“Oh fuck… you are always so perfect,” Ilya murmurs, his voice breaking. “You did so well today, Shane. Following everything I told you. Such a good boy for me.”
He starts to move with force, slow at first, marking every thrust as if he wants to carve it into Shane’s body. He takes his time, wanting to feel him around his cock all the way down, enjoying how his hole takes him without reservation.
Shane pants, his breathing uneven, and answers between gasps. “I’d do anything for you… I love you so much.”
Ilya thrusts harder. The moan he pulls from Shane is louder, more desperate.
“I love your dick so much,” he manages to add. “Thank you for this.”
“Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu” Ilya answers, a crooked smile on his face.
Shane does nothing but stay there, taking everything, lost in the constant sensation of Ilya’s dick against his prostate—a pressure that never lets up and keeps him right on the edge.
Ilya picks up the pace. His hands grip Shane’s hips so tightly that his body starts to slide toward the edge of the bed. Shane can no longer control his moans; they tear out of his chest, his throat. The idea of being heard only turns him on more. He waited all day for this. And now he has it. His reward for being good.
“Yes, moya lyubov,” Ilya says. “Take it all. It’s all for you.”
The rhythm becomes relentless. Ilya looks wild over him, fucking into Shane in earnest, completely given over to the movement, to the need, to Shane. Each thrust is more urgent than the last.
Shane’s arms tremble behind his head, his whole body tightening, uncontrolled breathing and searching for release. Ilya notices; he knows he’s close too. He drops one hand, grabs Shane’s dick, and starts jerking him off, syncing the movement with his thrusts, taking him exactly where he wants him while chasing his own release.
“Come on, Hollander. Now you can come,” he demands softly, sweetly. “Come for me. Yes.”
Shane answers with desperate moans. A few more strokes and Shane comes, completely losing himself. The sight, the reaction, the way Shane fully gives in is enough for Ilya to come too, spilling inside him, unable to hold back any longer.
For Shane, that moment arrives like a silent wave.
He feels his body give in before his mind can catch up. The pleasure dissolves into something broader, heavier; a dense calm that settles over his shoulders and loosens his legs. Sounds grow distant, muffled, as if coming from another room. He blinks, but it’s hard to focus. Everything slows down—warm, soft, blurred. There are no clear thoughts, just a vague, comforting certainty: he doesn’t have to hold anything anymore. He can let go.
And then there’s nothing left but ragged breathing.
Ilya carefully lowers Shane’s legs from his shoulders and settles them at his sides. He moves gently, readjusts him on the bed, unties his wrists, and kisses the reddened skin where there had been tension before. He notices the change immediately: the way Shane’s body goes heavy, the unfocused look in his eyes, the delayed response to every touch. Shane is slipping into subspace, floating, far away. Ilya recognizes the signs without effort.
“Hey…” he says softly, leaning in. “I got you.”
Shane blinks slowly when Ilya removes the blindfold. The light is soft, but even so Ilya makes sure it isn’t too much. He runs his fingers over Shane’s forehead, brushing away sweat-damp hair, and waits. He doesn’t rush anything.
He doesn’t expect an answer. He gets up and goes to the bathroom; comes back with a clean, cool cloth. He uses it carefully, practical and gentle, cleaning him with calm, familiar movements. Shane shivers slightly at the contact but doesn’t pull away. Ilya murmurs low, steady words—more rhythm than meaning. Shane’s wrists are marked, red. Ilya takes them one by one, with almost reverent delicacy, and keeps kissing him slowly. First one. Then the other. Long, unhurried kisses.
“That’s it… easy. You’re okay.”
He cleans what needs cleaning and applies cream to the reddened areas where he knows it’ll ache later. Shane sighs, his body loosening even more, fully sinking into that soft, safe state where there are no demands.
He helps him into comfortable clothes when he notices his body starting to cool. Then he settles him better on the mattress and pulls the sheet up to his chest, making sure he’s contained, safe.
He lays an open hand on Shane’s chest, slow and steady, following his breathing until it starts to even out. One. Two. Deeper. More regular.
He kisses his jaw first, then his temple, his shoulder. Short kisses, repeated, constant. Presence.
Ilya gets up once more, just long enough to take care of what’s left undone. When he comes back, the air is no longer charged; it’s quiet, domestic. He slips into bed with Shane and draws him close slowly, careful not to overstimulate him. He wraps him in a firm arm and starts stroking his back with slow, repetitive movements, matching his breathing until it evens out.
“You did so good,” he says now, his voice soft and steady. “I’m so proud of you. You listened, you trusted me… and you let go. That’s not easy.”
Shane swallows. Barely nods. His hands search for something solid and find Ilya’s shirt, gripping it like an anchor.
“You’re safe,” Ilya continues. “There’s nothing else you need to do. I’m here. I’ve got you.”
He kisses his forehead. Then his cheeks. Then his forehead again. Shane lets out a long sigh, as if only now he can truly rest. He nestles closer, pressing his face against Ilya’s chest.
Ilya doesn’t move. He keeps stroking him, counting breaths, letting the world return slowly.
Shane shifts slightly, seeking contact, and rests his face against Ilya’s neck. Ilya doesn’t move. He just holds him, anchors him.
“Nothing else you need to do,” he whispers. “Just rest. I’m here.”
He kisses his forehead once more.
And Shane, exhausted but at peace, lets himself rest, knowing that when he wakes up, the love of his life will always be there for him.