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Shane needs a new best friend.
Okay, that’s not true. He loves Rose. She’s beautiful and wonderful and a million good things under the sun, but she’s also relentlessly persistent when it comes to getting Shane laid. A lot of people would kill for a friend who will stay up until all hours of the night as their wing-woman, but bars and clubs have just never been Shane’s scene.That, and he’s woefully unequipped for casual sex.
“You’ve just got to find the right guy, babe! Someone who hits all the right spots, if you know what I mean.” Rose winks, clicking her tongue and standing on her tip toes to place her hands on Shane’s shoulders.
She probably looks like a soccer mom giving her son a morally supportive half-time talk right now, chanting empty words of encouragement like ‘you’re doing amazing sweetie.’
“It doesn’t matter what spots he hits, Rose. I’m not good at casual. I need more than strangers can offer.”
“But what if you found a stranger who can offer that?” Rose challenges.
“What am I supposed to do? Hand out a questionnaire to every attractive man here that says: “Hi, are you willing to stay and take care of me for a while after you fuck me? If so, for how long? Don’t worry, it’s still casual! I won't get attached!”
“Okay fine, what if we just find you a quick blowjob in the bathroom then? Just something to take the edge off.”
Shane doesn’t even need to say anything for Rose to roll her eyes and concede. Shane is not a blowjob in a public bathroom kind of guy; well, maybe for a man he already likes–a stranger isn’t worth that level of filth to him though. He doesn't let himself get nearly drunk enough to resort to that.
Rose Huffs. “I just think-”
“Excuse me.” A deep, accented voice cuts off Rose’s next counter-argument. She and Shane both turn to appraise the interruption, and Shane almost gawks at the vision before him.
The man is a sight straight out of Shane’s mental vision-board of attractive features—tall, broad shoulders, piercing blue eyes, a full head of curly, dark blond hair, arms that look strong enough to throw all two-hundred pounds of Shane over their shoulder, the whole package.
Fuck.
Suddenly, a bathroom blowjob isn’t sounding so unappealing right about now. So much so that Shane himself would be the one to drop to his knee's on the filthy bathroom floor if this flawless specimen was the one on the receiving end.
“Sorry to interrupt, could I buy you a drink?”
Shane can practically feel Rose shaking out of her skin as she not so subtly slinks away from the bar with a devilish grin plastered on her face.
“I uh, this is already my second,” Shane says. “I don’t normally have more than two…”
Shane mentally slaps himself for being so rigid in his boundaries and prays this gorgeous man doesn't take his refusal as a flat-out rejection.
“Something else then?” The stranger asks, never missing a beat and not even looking vaguely disappointed or like he wants to push for Shane to loosen up.
“Oh- I would have a ginger ale?” Shane offers. He feels a little dizzy under the stranger's gaze—it's all confidence and just enough of knowing how attractive he is without it coming off as a case of undeserved inflated ego.
His disposition makes Shane weak in the knee's and he's grateful to be seated.
“Perfect.” The man winks, waving down the attention of the bartender and sliding into the stool on Shane’s left.
“I’m Ilya,” he smiles, offering his hand to Shane.
“Shane, it’s nice to meet you.”
☆
"Are you okay?" Ilya asks. There's a concerned crease folding between his eyes that makes Shane's shoulders tense.
The worry looks out of place on the surface of Ilya's cool and collected demeanor that Shane's come to learn over the past couple of hours. Well, he was cool at the bar, and calm and collected as he got Shane a ginger ale without scoffing and trying to convince him to have another drink. After that, Ilya was intense in the best way. Confident in his movements, his touch, and his control of Shane.
Shane shivers just thinking about it. He can still feel the heat of Ilya's fingers across his skin. But now, he needs them back but in a different way.
Fuck.
Shane's doing it again. Being too fucking much all the time—why can't sex ever just be enough on its own? This is exactly why he doesn't do casual.
"No, yeah, I'm fine. All good. Thanks for uh, yeah, just thanks." Shane crosses his arms over his chest, suddenly feeling exposed. He has no idea where Ilya tossed his t-shirt when they came stumbling into the bedroom and he's not going to make a scene of becoming fully dressed when Ilya's on his way out anyway. Shane can surely last thirty more seconds in this rampant discomfort and ward off his crash until the door clicks shut behind Ilya.
"Shane." Ilya says his name like he's chastising him, like he doesn't believe Shane for a second. He says it like he knows Shane, almost chilling. "You do not seem okay. Did I do something wrong? Or, did I hurt you?"
Of course that's where Ilya's mind goes. Shane's so out of touch from casual hookups that he can't even make it through the post-sex pillow talk without deflating right in front of Ilya and making him think that he is the one who has done something wrong.
"No, of course not. You didn't do anything wrong, it was great, really. You were great." Shane almost has to laugh at how poorly he's convincing Ilya.
His pathetic assurance wouldn't fool anyone, and although most men in Ilya's position would pretend to believe it so that they could escape the tail end of this awkward encounter, Ilya just looks concerned.
The annoying thing is that the sex was great. It was fucking mind-blowing, actually, and that's exactly why Shane can't stand his brain sometimes. He just got his back blown out by the hottest man he's ever seen and yet he's about to ruin the memory for both of them by making things weird. What really does Shane in is that Ilya has already been more caring and attentive than the average casual hookup would be. He offered no complaints when Shane clung to him after they'd both come for the second time, barely moving an inch and keeping himself pressed inside of Shane longest enough that he can almost guarantee it had become uncomfortable for Ilya. When they were done, Ilya retrieved a warm, damp cloth from Shane's bathroom to clean them both up until they showered. Ilya had kissed seemingly every bite and bruise that he left behind on Shane's skin. Whether that was a gesture of good faith to heal them or simply a reminder of everywhere that Ilya had been, Shane's not sure.
Ilya took care of Shane more than most would expect from a stranger, and because of that Shane is left craving more—feeling touch starved even when he's just been handled all night long.
"You are not acting like someone who had a good time.” Ilya pauses. “You will not offend me, you know? But I am worried you are regretting this." His voice is lined with an unfamiliar concern.
"Fuck, Ilya no, it's not– it's nothing to do with you, okay? My brain just does this annoying thing after sex sometimes. It's really not a big deal. You can go, seriously."
"Annoying thing? Like how?" Ilya’s head shakes ever so slightly as he studies Shane’s face, trying to figure out what Shane isn’t saying aloud. Ilya rests his hands on Shane's dresser, leaning back and apparently making himself comfortable until Shane explains himself.
"It's hard to explain…" Shane worries his bottom lip between his teeth and he traces the grooves that Ilya's own bite has left behind. He runs his tongue over the near broken skin, fending off a sudden urge to find a mirror and catalogue every mark he begged Ilya to leave behind.
"Try," Ilya insists, nodding in encouragement.
Shane knows that it's stupid of him to keep picking at the issue. If he opens his mouth again, he's going to tear the wound open like a snagged piece of skin beneath a cuticle, when he knows he should just cover the knick, open the door, and force Ilya away because he needs something that Ilya can’t give him.
Shane's mouth starts moving before he can stop himself– in his mind flashes an image of blood gushing from the wound he failed to constrict.
"It's like…”
It's like something is scraping at the inside of my skull. Like I've lost all control and my tether to the Earth has been cut. My knees feel weak like they'll collapse if I try to move myself and it feels like I'm too much for even myself. It feels like if someone doesn't wrap their arms around me and squeeze as tight as they can that pieces of me will break away until there's nothing left.
Shane squeezes his eyes shut. Maybe he should talk to someone about this.
"I just feel really empty or something. It's like the sex is this big rush of a high and then when it's over I crash down. The only thing that really helps is being physically close to someone after." Shane won't look at Ilya as he tries to explain the tedious inner workings of his mind. It's only a fraction of the truth, but now isn't the time and a one-night-stand isn't the person to unravel all of that to.
It shouldn't be embarrassing to talk about your shameful hang-ups after you've had a man's dick up your ass for the better part of an evening, but it is when it's a guy you've picked up at a bar. Shane knows that, and yet, Ilya's good-natured concern is making him forget every common courtesy he's learned about casual sex.
"Close like cuddling?" Ilya tries his best to pluck a meaning from Shane's slew of words.
"Yeah, or– I mean I guess it's more like fully laying on top of me? Basically crushing me… to be honest. And I know it's fucking weird okay? I don't understand it either and guys always think it's annoying, even if we're dating and they aren't just expecting to leave right after we fuck."
"You are not weird for wanting this," Ilya states plainly. He looks like he means it too, which is really fucking with Shane's already flimsy mental state.
Shane rambles as he tugs on the waistband of his boxers that suddenly feel too tight, like the elastic is going to brand his skin where it digs against his hips. "I am, I really am, but thank you.” Shane huffs a laugh at himself for thinking he could have this, that Ilya could give this to him. “And yeah. Thanks again. You probably want to go now, so."
"Lay down," Ilya says simply as he nods towards the bed.
"What?" Shane sputters.
"On your back, lay down." Ilya instructs again. He pulls his t-shirt back off, walking over to Shane's bed and gesturing at the ruffled sheets for Shane to get into position.
"Ilya, what are you–"
Ilya cuts off Shane with a wave of his hand. "I will crush you, yeah?"
"You really don't have to–"
"Shane."
"Fuck, okay…" Shane will never admit to the somersaults his stomach starts tumbling through when he realizes that Ilya's offer is a genuine one. It's so aggressively straightforward of both of them to break the unwritten laws of casual like this. Shane has always known he can't do what casual asks of him without trembling beneath the weight of its informality.
And yet, he allowed Ilya to infiltrate his better judgment and take him home tonight. Shane can only bear so much of the responsibility for that though, because it's Ilya who approached him looking like sex on a stick. Ilya who kept his hand on the small of Shane's back the entire time they spoke. Ilya who brushed his knuckles so sweetly across the freckles on Shane's cheeks as he waxed to Shane about how pretty they are.
What was Shane supposed to do with all of that other than offer himself up on a silver platter?
For fucks sake, Ilya even offered up settling for exchanging phone numbers if Shane wasn't up for going home together tonight.
That was the final nail in the coffin.
A painfully attractive man who doesn't just respect boundaries, but who encourages them and whose interest isn't exclusive to a quick, sure thing.
Okay, maybe it is Shane's fault. He could've taken Ilya's phone number and drawn this whole thing out. Maybe, if he'd been patient, Shane could have manipulated this meeting into something more than casual. That ship has sailed though, and he's fairly certain that there is some unwritten rule out there that makes it impossible to be anything more than casual with someone you take home at a bar, right?
Shane blinks back to reality and climbs onto his bed, suddenly feeling more bare and vulnerable than when Ilya has tossed him onto the mattress earlier in the night.
Vulnerable is the word, Shane realizes, that ties this all together.
He needs touch after being vulnerable. After letting someone in to see the most intimate parts of himself, after letting someone touch him, and hold him, and fuck him until his mind goes blank.
Shane basked in the loss of control when the sound of Ilya's skin slapping against his own shrouded the room. He preened under Ilya's wanton gaze and whined beneath the rough grip of fingers in his hair, around his wrists, digging into his thighs. And as soon as Ilya's body was peeled back from his own, Shane was desperate for another touch, a reminder, a promise that his body is real and worthy of attention for more than just pleasure.
Ilya waits until Shane stops wiggling into place and is lying still, stretched out in the center of the mattress, before he climbs in after him.
The first press of Ilya's body settling on top of Shane forces a stuttering breath out of him that dissolves into the quiet air around them.
The weight is glorious and undoing. Ilya wastes no time easing himself down until Shane is well and truly trapped beneath him. After the night they've shared, Ilya's obviously well aware of Shane's ability to bear the bulk of him, and he uses that knowledge impeccably.
Ilya tucks his face into the crook of Shane's neck and lets the rest of his body slot seamlessly into place against Shane's. Their chests and stomachs are pressed together down to their hips, where Ilya hooks one of his legs up and allows his other to sink between Shane's thighs and avoid their knees knocking together.
"Comfortable?" Ilya asks, once he's fully settled and morphed into a motionless, weighted blanket that pins Shane to the mattress.
"Yeah," Shane replies a little breathlessly. It's not the easiest position to speak in, with a presumably two-hundred-thirty-pound man atop his body restricting the rise and fall of his chest.
Still, comfortable doesn't even begin to describe what this feels like to Shane. Never mind the bounds on his lungs' functionality, Shane feels like he can finally fucking breath for the first time since Ilya pulled out of him.
The crushing weight of Ilya's frame cradles this desperate, servile piece of Shane's mind that so wretchedly craves to be swallowed whole by the care of a man. He covets this facet of intimacy more than the actual sex most times. It's a little humiliating to admit as much, even to himself—the fact that he'd managed to share this need with Ilya is remarkable. The sex had been fucking incredible though, and Shane had known that meant the freefall that derived of it would have been devastating.
Ilya so graciously disrupted the ruin that had already begun splitting Shane's mind in two when he settled on top of him. The mattress is dipping graciously beneath the full, dead weight of them both, cradling the backside of Shane while Ilya consumes the front and steadily fizzles out the burn of every live-wired nerve under Shane's skin.
Every careful, deep breath that Ilya takes kneads a complementary one out of Shane, only his own are shallow and woven together with hitched, shuddering sighs of pleasure.
It's not easy to explain why being crushed like this rivals the delicious feeling of Ilya's fingers massaging his prostate as he opened Shane up. It's impossible, actually, and maybe the better statement is that the pressure of Ilya's body on top of him makes everything they did better.
It's giving Shane a chance to sit with his obnoxiously loud mind and actually reconnect his body with the pleasure he received—almost like without this moment, his night with Ilya would escape him and feel like it never existed.
And Shane wants the memories. He really wants them, in a way that feels far more imperative than any other night he's spent with a man.
If Ilya thinks that Shane is fucking mad, he keeps that thought to himself—doesn't let it muster even a shadow of tension in his body for Shane to pick up on and pull away from.
Not that Shane could move if he wanted to.
Standing toe to toe, on equal footing, Shane could easily match Ilya's physicality, if he wanted to. But he didn't want that when Ilya was shoving him against the wall on their frantic dash to Shane's bedroom, or when Ilya was pinning his wrists above his head while he fucked him, and he certainly doesn't want that now.
"You are doing okay down there?" Ilya's deep voice cuts through the silence of the room.
"Hm," Shane confirms weakly. Ilya chuckles quietly in response to what was hardly an answer at all, and the vibration from his subtle laughter pulses beneath Shane's skin.
Ilya's lips twitch against the side of Shane's neck, kissing the warm skin sweetly a few times as he takes a few deep, sturdy breaths of Shane in through his nose. Part of Shane almost thinks he's about to try for a second round—or third round, technically. Shane would probably let him—because the sex was incredible—so long as Ilya would be willing to restart the clock on this part once they've finished. After a few more kisses down the slope of Shane's shoulder though, Ilya stills again and settles contentedly back into the static embrace.
For a moment, Shane lets himself believe that Ilya's enjoying this as much as he is, that it's as much for him as it is for Shane. The notion allows him to exist free of guilt for a few inhales, free of guilt and free of the ever-present fear that he'll never find someone wanting and willing to do this for him forever.
Shane's digging his own grave by basking in the crushing glow of Ilya's weight only for it to be gone by morning, shedding the skin of Shane's peculiar request and seeking out a less intense, more regulated counterpart for its next conquest.
☆
Ilya isn't completely inept when it comes to aftercare, it's just that most people he hooks up with aren't really looking for it, not like this. The only time it comes into play is with the few people who have made it onto his return roster over the years.
What he's doing right now is definitely a first. Really though, how was he meant to up and leave when Shane's big, brown, doe-eyes were anxiously bouncing around the room as he described his desire to be flattened like a cardboard box?
Any part of Ilya that had thought the desire to be a little peculiar, died on the fringe of his mind the moment he felt Shane's body go lax beneath his weight. Listening to Shane breathe out the same breathy little sighs that Ilya coaxed from him with a hand around his cock is dangerously satisfying. He wishes he could see into Shane's mind right now, to feel what his body is receiving by lying there pliantly beneath every last pound of Ilya.
As time passes easily around them, Ilya, to his own surprise, finds himself wondering if there is more that Shane needs but isn't asking for. Is there more to his desire, to his need for this physically intimate care? And, does he want it from Ilya right now?
It feels intrusive to ask, but foolishly, Ilya is finding that he has his own needs now. He needs to know what makes Shane feel good, feel safe, and feel cared for.
☆
At some point, Shane lifts his heavy arms and wraps them around Ilya's back. His hands trace the strong ridges and divots of muscle sheathed in soft, warm skin. When he kneads his fingers into the bulk just beneath Ilya's shoulders, Shane chastises himself for waiting so long to add this point of contact. The additional pressure he receives from pulling Ilya down against him has his own eyes feeling heavy and his lips permanently parted in a small 'o'.
Shane quickly becomes needy with his grip, and now he's pulling at Ilya, begging him silently to be closer, to be heavier, to quench this rampant thirst that's burning in his throat.
"Do you want more?" Ilya asks.
"More?" Shane's ear perks up at the question– the offer. Shane's fairly certain that he wants more than what either of their bodies are physically capable of.
"More than just crushing? You have not showered, I can help clean you up?" Ilya pushes up on his elbows, as much as he can manage with Shane's iron grip on his back.
"Oh. You don't have to do that," Shane mutters. He shakes his head, foolishly denying Ilya's offer because he's certain that a shower is just code for wrapping things up so he can get the hell out of here. Shane doesn't want to move; he'd rather keep Ilya here and will their bodies to fuse into one.
"I know, Shane. I am offering."
And what an offer it is. For Ilya to touch every inch of Shane's body once more as steam curls around them and clings to their skin. With his eyes closed Shane can picture the spattering sound of the shower's spray keeping Ilya's touch warm against his skin.
"But why?" Shane’s brain short circuits.
"It is good for you, yes? You need it," Ilya says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. He's so patient with Shane's hesitancy to accept everything he craves. It's maddening—the stark difference between Ilya's gentle gaze and the dark, filthy look in his eye when Shane was dropping to his knee's six-feet past the threshold of his home.
"I don't… It's not a need, I'm not going to die without it." Shane argues weakly. He doesn't know that for certain, and even though hes lived this long without his needs ever killing him, he's also never been fucked as thoroughly as he was tonight, if he was being completely honest with himself. The threatening drop had never seemed so severe before.
"That is test for whether or not you deserve something? Dying if you do not have?" Ilya lifts his brows incredulously, Shane can feel the movement against his neck even without eyes set on Ilya's face.
"Ilya, seriously you don't need to do this, I know it's not normal. You came here to hookup, not to dote on me like I'm your dying spouse or something."
Ilya ignores the argument, shaking his head lightly. "If I wanted to leave, I would. Let me take care of you."
"I-"
"Stop," Ilya asserts.
Shane's mouth snaps shut and his brewing argument dies on the tip of his tongue.
"I am going to crush you for five more minutes and then I am taking you to the shower to clean you up, okay?"
***
Shane isn't sure what he expects of the shower, but Ilya seems intent on going above and beyond whatever Shane's mind could've conjured up.
Ilya carries Shane into the bathroom and sets him down gently on the counter before turning the shower on and letting the water heat up.
Ilya stands with his hand under the spray, letting the water cascade over his palm until he's happy with the temperature. Once satisfied, he casually strips out of his briefs and turns to Shane, fully on display.
Shane feels his cheeks burn. It's silly. An hour ago, Shane had Ilya's dick down his throat and the only flush on his cheeks at that point came from choking on the nine inches of cock abusing his soft-pallet. Seeing Ilya like this, mostly soft and entirely unbothered by Shane's gaze, it curates something warm and fuzzy in Shane's stomach. It’s not like it was before. This was not what they both agreed to when leaving the bar, but they couldn’t go back, not now. Not ever, Shane secretly hoped.
Ilya just winks at Shane and approaches him where he's sitting next to the sink. He helps Shane to his feet and then pulls down Shane's own underwear. Ilya presses a kiss to Shane's stomach as he crouches down to help him step out of the briefs. He wraps a large hand gently around each of Shane's ankles and helps him to lift either foot one at a time so he can pull the garment away.
When he guides Shane into the shower, Ilya situates him beneath the falling water, neglecting his own comfort to allow Shane's body to to be washed and warmed.
Ilya reaches for the shampoo first, but Shane stops him with a hum.
"S'not hair wash night," he says with a peaceful smile.
"Хорошо, милый," Ilya answers with hushed Russian words that Shane has no hope of understanding. "Close your eyes for me," Ilya instructs.
When Shane obliges, Ilya lets water pool in his hands and wets Shane's face, swiping excess water away from his eyelids.
Shane could fucking cry. Really, this would be the best place to do it. Maybe Ilya won't notice the tears blend into the mix of water streaming down Shane's cheeks.
Ilya grabs Shane's face wash, squeezing a dollop into his palm and coating his hands before smoothing it across Shane's face. His thumbs caressing Shane's cheeks to cleanse his skin feels safe. Shane feels held and wanted and seen in ways he couldn't fathom before tonight.
Ilya takes a fresh wash cloth that Shane must have missed him grabbing and soaks it, lathering it up with Shane's body wash before bringing it to his chest. He massages the soap over Shane's pecs, pushing and pulling around the thick muscle until his skin is dusted pink beneath the layer of suds.
Shane feels his mind float away. His eyes fall shut and suddenly there's no weight to him at all. His feet are pooled in the trough of the shower water, pressed against the hard linoleum of the shower floor, and that's the only thing keeping him from believing that he's levitating.
Ilya's palm that's cloaked in the washcloth is the only thing tethering Shane to reality. It drifts across his chest, dipping into the valley of his collarbones and peaks of his shoulders. When Ilya begins a descent down Shane's left arm, Shane automatically raises his arm to help, his body working without his permission.
Ilya tuts, bringing his spare hand up to hold the weight of the limb at Shane's elbow.
"You don't need to lift a muscle," Ilya whispers.
Ilya holds Shane's arm still for a moment, like he's waiting for Shane to relax completely and let his arm go fully lax into the support of Ilya’s hold.
They carry on like this: Ilya handling Shane, adjusting his stance, and lifting his arms to clean every last inch of his skin. He holds Shane's hands like they're made of porcelain as he scrubs gently between each of his fingers.
Ilya's touching Shane like he might fucking shatter. It's a profound contrast from how their night began, all hot and heavy touches, rough hands forcing Shane into the mattress with long fingers around the back of his neck, fucking Shane breathless all of sixty minutes from the first words they shared.
When Ilya kisses the knuckles on Shane's left hand before so fucking gently placing his arm back at his side, Shane finally starts to believe that Ilya is enjoying this part of the night as well—that he's not merely appeasing Shane's vulnerable desires but is actively fostering them.
The problem with that is Shane's never going to be able to exist without this now, without someone who will fuck him senseless and then get on his knees on the shower floor and run a warm cloth over every inch of skin, every bite and bruise, every hair on Shane's body until he feels brand new again.
☆
Despite Ilya's focus being primarily on Shane's comfort and pleasure, he's reached a point of self-indulgence by the time he sinks to his knees and starts washing below Shane's waist.
Ilya is a few inches taller, but aside from that, he and Shane are very physically comparable. It's one of the first things that drew him to Shane in the first place. He loves strong men, the kind of guys who could shrug Ilya off of them without breaking a sweat but who relinquish that strength at the hands of Ilya's own.
He loves everything about it.
The weight of Shane's legs when they were draped over his shoulders, the grip strength of his fingers twisted and tugging on Ilya's curls, the rippling muscles in his arched back as he let Ilya fuck him from behind. Shane was Ilya's perfect fucking fantasy, so it's true that no world exists where Ilya could have denied Shane's request when it seemed like their night together had been coming to a close.
Ilya lets his cheek rest against Shane's hip as he washes Shane's thighs and calves with the same regard as his arms. He turns Shane one hundred eighty degrees until the shower head pours down Shane's chest, and he's standing ass-to-face with Ilya's gaze.
Shane sighs and whimpers as Ilya drags the cloth between his cheeks, spreading Shane open and thoroughly smoothing the body wash into every crevice and over each hidden freckle he discovers on his journey. He's gentle around Shane's rim, draping the cloth over his own thigh at one point and rinsing his fingers of the scented body wash to clean his red, sensitive hole with the soft pads of his fingers in place of the rough scratch of the rag.
Shane whines when Ilya teases a finger inside. Even as the one giving the care, Ilya feels the rampant vulnerability floating in the cloud of steam around their naked bodies. He tenderly massages Shane's walls with his single finger, seeking nothing but perfection in his efforts to hold Shane through the after that he finds so disorienting.
He isn't trying to start anything, only offering a slow, tender reminder to Shane that he's deserving of more than the fast and hard side of intimacy.
Ilya washes Shane's cock last. With slow, smooth strokes and rapt attention to every easily missed crease. Shane has filled out just slightly by the time Ilya's satisfied with his work, and if it weren't for the slight nod of Shane's head when Ilya asks if he's ready to be moved, Ilya would have assumed Shane had fallen asleep standing.
He guides Shane out of the shower and holds open the white bathrobe hung on the back of the door to help Shane step into it, tying it securely shut before nodding, satisfied with his work.
Ilya could do this everyday for the rest of his life—caring for Shane sort of feels like exactly what he was put on this earth to do.
☆
Shane must blackout after they leave the shower. He has a fuzzy memory of Ilya kissing his cheek and telling him to stay put, seated on the edge of the counter once more while Ilya hastily washes his own body with far less patience. He remembers Ilya confirming that all of Shane's skincare products are in the right order before snapping open the first plastic cap. Shane closed his eyes to receive the cool touch of the serum and the next thing he knows he's back in bed. There's a clean pair of briefs gently hugging his hips, a head of blond curls beneath his chin, and the full, heavenly weight of Ilya's body is carving him into the mattress once more.
☆
"Would you stay?" Shane asks quietly. He keeps his eyes pinched shut so that he doesn't have to see the rejection spill from Ilya's lips.
They're back in his bed, Ilya crushing Shane again and overwhelming every last one of his senses.
"You would have to pay me to leave, Shane," Ilya mumbles into the crook of Shane's neck.
It's probably silly for Shane to be surprised by the answer at this point in their night together, but he is. He is because no one has ever made him feel like he deserves to be stayed with.
"Thank you, I know this is weird and not at all how–"
"Shane," Ilya chastises with little to no bite in his tone. "You do not listen very well, hm? Only when you're being fucked?" Ilya playfully bites Shane's shoulder, shaking his head with a huff. "Here is what is going to happen, okay? You are going to turn on your side so I can hold you while we sleep and not be scared of actually suffocating you. We will wake up and I will fuck you again however you'd like, then I am going to take you for breakfast and you're going to tell me everything about you, enough for me to write a book, or maybe two. And then, I will bring you back home, maybe fuck you again if you will let me, and you will give me your phone number and let me kiss you against your door. Finally, I will text you the details of our second date. Yes?"
"You're– you can't be serious." Shane asks, voice cracking and giving off every ounce of emotion it fails to conceal.
"I know, it is not how I expected my casual hook-up tonight to go either. But here we are. You have trapped me on top of you and I think we are probably stuck together now."
When he's turned on his side and llya's arms are looped around him without a care in the world for the fact that they'll fall asleep beneath Shane's body weight, Shane feels a single tear drip down his cheek and soak into the cotton of his pillowcase.
He feels real and alive and lit as bright as the moon creeping in through his blinds.
Ilya crushed his fear of never knowing what it's like to be kept.