Archive of Our Own ^beta

The air in their bedroom was cool, the only sound the faint hum of the city beyond the windows and the ragged pull of Shane’s own breath. He was on his back, knees drawn up and spread, the sheets a rumpled nest beneath him. One hand was braced on his lower belly, the other was busy between his legs.

Two fingers were already buried inside himself, slick with lube, working in a slow, deliberate rhythm. His cock lay hard and leaking against his stomach, untouched. A rule. His rule. Because Ilya liked it when he came without being touched, when the pleasure was drawn solely from the stretch and fill inside him, a testament to control and desperation all at once. It was stupid, so fucking stupid that he was here doing this, thinking of Ilya when Ilya was going to be here in an hour.

But he couldn’t help it. He was too desperate.

And he couldn’t stop thinking. Not since Vegas.

The memory was a brand. The dim light of the penthouse, Ilya staring at him, peeling his desire layer by layer, a glass loose in his hand. And his voice, low and rough and sounding so casual yet his eyes stayed intent on Shane: “I want to watch you.”

Just that. Nothing more. It had unraveled something in Shane, a thread he hadn’t even known was pulled taut. And now every time he did this, fingers struggling to go as deep as Ilya’s, he imagined it. Ilya’s intense, hazel eyes molten into something dark, fixed on the obscene stretch of his hole around his own fingers, watching him open himself up for a cock that wasn’t there.

“Fuck,” Shane whispered into the quiet room, his hips giving a helpless little jerk. He was thinking about the way Ilya’s gaze sometimes dropped to his mouth, heavy-lidded and possessive. He imagined that gaze now, tracing the sweat-slick line of his throat, the heave of his chest, the desperate clench of his own fingers.

He whined, the sound high and thin in the stillness. Ilya liked it when he whined. He arched his back, pushing his ass down onto his hand, driving his fingers deeper. Ilya liked that, too–the arch, the presentation, the shameless offering of his body. Even though Ilya wasn’t here, Shane wanted to be good. He wanted to be perfect for a phantom audience of one.

“Ilya,” he moaned, the name a prayer and a curse. He scissored his fingers, the burn a bright, beautiful pain. He was so tight. Ilya could open him up with just a few lazy, confident strokes, could make him loose and pliant and begging. Shane could never manage it himself; his own fingers felt clumsy, ineffective. But he kept going, because Ilya liked it. He liked Shane’s struggle, his frustration, the way his breath hitched when he couldn’t quite get the angle right.

A third finger. He pressed the tip against his entrance, breath held. It was too much, too soon. A sharp, stinging resistance. He bore down, teeth gritted, a choked sound escaping him. Ilya likes it. 

Ilya likes it when you take it. 

When you’re good. The mantra looped in his head, syncing with the frantic beat of his heart. He pushed, and the finger slipped past the ring of muscle with a soft, wet sound. A full-body shudder wracked him. He was so full, stretched to a burning, delicious ache. His untouched cock gave a violent twitch, a pearl of pre-cum welling and dripping onto his stomach.

Ilya was all he could think about. The phantom pressure of Ilya’s larger, stronger body covering his. The ghost of Ilya’s lips on his shoulder. The rasp of Ilya’s voice in his ear, telling him how pretty he looked, how well he was taking it. Shane’s movements grew more frantic, less rhythmic, chasing a peak that felt miles away. The stretch was incredible, overwhelming, but it wasn’t enough. Not without him.

His resolve frayed. His hand, the one splayed on his belly, twitched. His hips canted upwards, seeking friction. It was too difficult. He couldn’t come like this, not tonight, not with the need coiling so tight in his gut it was painful. Just a touch. Just one stroke. He could be quick, quiet. Ilya would never know.

His fingers stilled inside himself. His other hand drifted from his belly, trembling, towards his aching cock. His fingertips were a breath away from making contact, from breaking his own stupid, sacred rule.

“Don’t.”

The voice was a low, calm thunderclap in the silent room.

Shane froze. Every muscle locked. His blood turned to ice, then to fire. He knew that voice. He knew the subtle accent curling around the single syllable.

(If Shane could think he’d realize there’s only one other person with the key to their apartment. But that part of his mind had shut down with the desperation for release.)

He began to turn his head, a hot wave of mortification crashing over him, but the voice came again, closer now, from the doorway.

“Don’t move.” It was a command, soft but absolute. “Do not touch yourself. Keep your hand right there.”

Shane whimpered. He obeyed, his hand hovering a torturous millimeter above his cock. He could feel the heat of a presence below him now, could hear the quiet shift of fabric. Ilya. How long had he been there? How much had he seen? The shame was molten, but beneath it, a terrifying, exhilarating current of pure relief surged. He’s here.

“You were doing so well, solnyshko,” Ilya murmured. His footsteps were silent on the carpet, but Shane felt him move around the side of the bed. He didn’t touch, but his shadow fell over Shane, blocking the light from the bedside lamp. Shane could see him in his periphery, a tall, solid form dressed in soft sweatpants and a thin t-shirt. His arms were crossed, his expression unreadable. “You were so good for me. Why did you stop?”

“I… I couldn’t…” Shane’s voice was a ragged scrape. He was painfully exposed, fingers still buried inside himself, his desire laid bare. “It was too hard.”

“I know,” Ilya said, his tone almost conversational. He uncrossed his arms and came to stand beside the bed, looking down at Shane’s wrecked form. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. They traveled from Shane’s flushed face, down his trembling chest, to his untouched, weeping cock and to where his own fingers disappeared into his body. 

“I know it is hard. That is the point. Look at you. You are so beautiful like this. So desperate. You were thinking of me, yes?”

Shane could only nod, a tear escaping the corner of his eye and trailing into his hairline.

“Say it.”

“I was thinking of you,” Shane gasped. “Always you. Since… since Vegas. When you said… you wanted to watch.”

A slow, predatory smile touched Ilya’s lips. “And I am watching now. Are you going to be good for me? Now that I am really here?”

“Yes,” Shane breathed. “Yes, Ilya. Please.”

“Please what?” Ilya prompted. He still hadn’t touched him. His hands were clenched at his sides, knuckles white.

“Please, I… I want to be good.”

Ilya’s smile softened, just a fraction. “Beautiful,” he said, and the words went through Shane like a shock, melting his bones. “You are already being so good. Now, move your fingers. Slowly. Just like you were before I came in. Show me how you open yourself for me.”

Shane obeyed, his movements now shaky with renewed awareness. He dragged his fingers almost all the way out, then pushed them back in, a slow, filthy glide. He moaned, louder now, wanting to entice Ilya, wanting to show off how nicely he was following Ilya’s command.

“Good,” Ilya praised, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. “So good. See how you glisten? Made for me. Made to take my cock.” He finally moved, sinking to his knees beside the bed. He was at eye level with Shane’s hips. His breath ghosted over Shane’s inner thigh, hot and close. Shane jerked. “Shhh. Be still. Just feel.”

Ilya leaned in closer. Shane could feel the heat radiating from his body, could smell his clean, familiar scent. He hovered there, his face inches from Shane’s straining cock, from his working hand. He didn’t touch, but his proximity was its own kind of torture.

“Add another finger,” Ilya commanded softly.

Shane’s eyes flew open wide. “I… I can’t. It’s too much.”

“You can,” Ilya said, his voice a velvet-wrapped stone. “For me, you can. My good boy can take it. Show me.”

With a sob, Shane pressed a fourth finger against his overstretched entrance. It was a brutal stretch, a burning ache that bordered on pain. He cried out, his back bowing off the bed.

“That’s it,” Ilya coaxed, his breath now fanning over Shane’s balls. “Just breathe through it. Take it for me. You are doing so perfectly. My perfect, greedy boy.”

The praise was a balm and a brand. Shane pushed, and the fourth finger slid in alongside the others. The fullness was immense, overwhelming. He felt stuffed, split open on his own hand. He panted, tears flowing freely now.

Ilya’s lips were so close. Shane could almost feel them. “You look so full,” Ilya whispered, his voice thick with awe and desire. “I wish you could see it. My beautiful Shane, wrecking himself on his own hand, thinking of me.” He leaned infinitesimally closer, his lips a hair’s breadth from the head of Shane’s cock. “Now, come for me.”

Shane’s rhythm faltered. “Ilya… I can’t… not like this…”

“You can,” Ilya insisted, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You will. Do not touch your cock. Just move your fingers. Think of my eyes on you. Think of my cock replacing your hand. Think of how badly I want to be inside you, filling this perfect, tight heat. Come for me, kotik. Be a good boy and come.”

The words, spoken with such tender possession, shattered the last of Shane’s control. His hips bucked wildly, his fingers curling inside him, rubbing over that perfect, devastating spot. The orgasm tore through him with a violence that stole his breath. It was a dry, wrenching convulsion, his cock jerking against his stomach, pulsing out nothing but a few weak drops as his channel clamped rhythmically around his own fingers. He cried out, a broken, wordless sound, his body seizing as waves of intense, almost painful pleasure rolled through him.

Before the last tremor had even subsided, Ilya was moving. He gently took Shane’s wrist and guided his hand away, pulling his slick fingers free with a soft, wet sound. Shane whined at the sudden emptiness, oversensitive and boneless.

“Shhh, I have you,” Ilya murmured, his voice now all warmth and honey. In one smooth motion, he shed his sweatpants and was there, covering Shane’s body with his own, slotting himself between Shane’s splayed thighs. The broad, blunt head of his cock pressed against Shane’s used, fluttering entrance. “My good, good boy. You were incredible. So beautiful. Let me take care of you now.”

He pushed in, not with the brutal force Shane sometimes craved, but with a slow, relentless pressure that stole the air from Shane’s lungs all over again. He was so much bigger than four fingers. The stretch was exquisite, a fullness that reached deep into Shane’s core. Shane whimpered, his oversensitive nerves screaming at the invasion.

“I know, solnyshko,” Ilya soothed, sinking to the hilt and stilling, letting Shane adjust. He blanketed Shane completely, his weight a delicious anchor. He nuzzled into Shane’s neck, littering the sweat-damp skin with soft kisses. “You took it so well. You are so good for me. Just relax. Let me feel you.”

He began to move, a gentle, rolling rhythm that was more about connection than frenzy. His thrusts were deep and languid, each one brushing Shane’s prostate with devastating accuracy. Shane was a live wire of sensation, every nerve ending singing. He wrapped his legs around Ilya’s waist, holding him close, burying his face in Ilya’s shoulder.

“That’s it,” Ilya whispered against his ear, his own breath starting to come faster. “Hold me. Take every inch. You are mine, Shane. My beautiful, perfect husband. My good boy.”

The words washed over Shane, soothing the last edges of shame, leaving only a deep, glowing warmth. He was floating, tethered only by the points where their bodies joined. He felt cherished, owned, adored. Each tender thrust, each whispered endearment, filled a space in him that had nothing to do with physical need.

Ilya’s movements became less controlled, his hips snapping with more urgency. “Going to fill you up,” he grunted, his voice rough at the edges. “Make sure you remember who you belong to. Who makes you feel this good.”

Shane just nodded, clinging to him, lost in the sensation of being so thoroughly claimed. He could feel the tension coiling in Ilya’s body, the telltale tightening of his muscles.

With a final, deep drive, Ilya stilled, burying himself as deep as he could go. A hot, pulsing rush flooded Shane’s insides, the intimate heat of it drawing a soft, satisfied sigh from his lips. He felt full, complete, marked.

Ilya collapsed on top of him, breathing heavily, his weight a comforting blanket. For a long moment, they just lay there, connected, hearts hammering against each other’s chests.

Slowly, carefully, Ilya pulled out and gathered Shane into his arms, rolling them to their sides. He pulled the rumpled sheets over them and began a slow, thorough cataloging of Shane’s face with kisses–his forehead, his damp eyelids, the tip of his nose, each corner of his mouth.

“You,” he said between kisses, “are amazing. I love you so much. My brave, shameless, perfect man.”

Shane, boneless and drifting, managed a tired smile. He nuzzled into Ilya’s chest, the clean scent of him now mixed with the musk of sex. “Love you,” he mumbled, his words slurred with impending sleep. The last thing he felt was Ilya’s fingers carding gently through his hair, and the last thing he heard was his husband’s voice, a soft rumble in the dark.

“Sleep now, my good boy. I have you.”