sports car

by hajinights

Summary:

When Shane mentioned that he would like to try weed, he expected Ilya to disregard it. Imagine his surprise when Ilya shows up a few weeks later in a fancy car with some surprises in the glove box.

Notes:

it took too long to finish this it's almost embarrassing
also, i archived the fic to make some corrections here and there with my beta reader (@iwabiceps on twitter!!! i owe you my life) hope you like it :)

This was ridiculous.

Shane had lost track of how long he had been waiting for Ilya to pick him up. It might’ve only been ten minutes since he had left the cottage, but to Shane it felt like an eternity.

He unlocked his phone again.

Only one minute had passed since the last time Shane checked the time.

Shane sighed loudly.

Why was he so nervous, anyway? Shane kept repeating the same question in his head. His gaze wandered down the only road in front of him, lined with an endless stretch of trees that marked the path to his cottage. 

He hadn’t seen Ilya in over two weeks. Fourteen days of different schedules where every time Ilya had a couple of days off, Shane had to prepare for a game, and vice versa. It was as if the NHL had conspired to keep Shane from getting fucked as soon as he could, a thought that made perfect sense when his sexual frustration peaked—just like it was doing in that moment—but one he quickly dismissed once he remembered that it was practically impossible, because no one, absolutely no one, knew that Shane was sleeping with Ilya.

Let alone that they had been doing it since they were eighteen.

Shane rubbed a hand over his jaw. 

They were finally going out. The thought alone made his stomach twist in that half-sick way he always got before seeing Ilya after too long without. It wasn’t even that they were going out in the usual sense—there would be no restaurants, no bars, no crowded places where they might risk being seen together. That wasn’t them. Couldn’t be them.

Not when everything about what they were doing was built on secrecy.

He exhaled slowly, watching the faint fog of his breath disappear into the chill air.

The night was quiet in that heavy way it only ever was this far from the city. No cars, no lights, just the faint hum of the wind moving through the trees and the occasional creak of the wooden porch under his sneakers. The kind of quiet that left too much room for thinking.

And Shane had been doing way too much of that lately.

His days were filled with missed calls, short replies, and the kind of exhaustion that came from pretending he didn’t care. They’d both been busy—different teams, sometimes even different timezones, endless flights, and hotel rooms that blurred together—but that didn’t make it easier. If anything, it only was a confirmation that they couldn’t be a thing. Not for now, at least.

When Ilya texted him two nights ago, saying, “I’ll come get you. Be ready around midnight,” Shane hadn’t even thought to ask where. He’d just said yes.

He looked down at his phone again, still nothing. The last message he’d sent was half an hour ago—something stupid like don’t be late. Ilya hadn’t replied, but Shane wasn’t surprised. He could picture him easily, that irritatingly calm face behind the wheel, driving one of his oh-so-many expensive sports cars through dark country roads like he had all the time in the world.

Shane shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Where the hell are you, man…

He didn’t even know what this was supposed to be. Ilya hadn’t said a word about where they were going, only that he wanted to take him somewhere. Shane had tried pressing him for details—half-joking, half-serious—but Ilya had just sent a single message: You will like it.

That was it.

You will like it. God, he hated how those four words could make something tight coil low in his stomach. Ilya knew exactly what he was doing. He always did.

It wasn’t only about the sex—well, not just that. It was about the silence that came after, the kind of silence that didn’t feel like pretending. When it was just them, it was easy to forget how impossible this thing between them really felt.

Somewhere along the way, it had stopped being just about the nights. Shane wasn’t sure when exactly it happened—when the touches that used to be sharp and desperate turned slow and tender. When Ilya started staying longer in his bed, tracing lazy circles over his ribs like he was memorizing something he didn’t want to lose. When Shane started looking for him in every crowd, counting the days until they could be alone, together, again.

They never said the words. They didn’t have to.

Ilya’s way of saying I love you came in the form of a sweet kiss on his forehead after a long, heated bout of passionate sex, or a hand on Shane’s neck when they were lying too close. It came in the sound of his voice when he said sweetheart—that soft drawl that didn’t belong to anyone else. Not anymore, at least. And Shane’s answer was always the same: a hand gripping Ilya’s shirt just a little too tight, a whispered stay when he knew Ilya couldn’t.

They both knew what it meant.

Ilya was his. And he belonged to Ilya.

And that was what made it so fucking hard.

Because it wasn’t casual anymore. Not after all these years. Not when every time Ilya touched him, it felt like something too real to name.

Shane closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling through his nose. 

He hated how easily his chest tightened just thinking about him. Two weeks without seeing Ilya, and it was like a muscle memory he couldn’t unlearn—the way his pulse picked up, the way his mind filled in the details he missed. The scent of Ilya’s cologne on his hoodie, the warmth of his laugh, the weight of his body pressed against his.

It was just a few days together. That was all. A few stolen days where they could be whoever they wanted, no cameras, no press, no pretending to be nothing more than opponents on the ice.

But God, Shane missed him.

He missed the way Ilya looked at him when no one else was watching. The way he said his name like it was something sacred, with his strong Russian accent. The way he smiled right before kissing him, that small, knowing tilt of his lips that always made Shane feel like he was falling, over and over again.

The kind of love that shouldn’t have existed between them, but did anyway.

A sound broke through the stillness, a distant hum, low and steady. Shane’s eyes snapped open.

The headlights carved two sharp beams through the trees, slicing the dark as the low growl of an engine reached him—too powerful to not be recognized. A bit loud for Shane’s own liking, though.

Shane felt the corners of his mouth lift despite himself, something warm blooming in his chest that had nothing to do with the cold night air.

When the car finally rolled into view, Shane had to laugh under his breath.

Of course.

It was the Nissan Skyline GT-R that Ilya had bought recently, maybe a few months ago. Midnight black, gleaming even under the weak porch light, its lines smooth and aggressive. The engine purred as if holding itself back, every inch of the car exuding quiet arrogance.

It screamed Ilya Rozanov.

“Show-off,” Shane muttered, though the warmth in his voice betrayed him.

He’d always thought cars like that were ridiculous. Too much horsepower for a guy who spent half his life on skates, plus, it was stupid to own so many cars when you only had one ass to sit on the seat upholstery. His own car was small, practical, and reliable. The kind you could drive through a snowstorm without worrying about scratching the paint. 

Expensive, yes, but not that expensive.

But Ilya? Ilya had this.

Shane could still hear him, clear as day—months ago, outside an arena parking lot, sunlight glinting off the chrome as Ilya leaned against the hood of the GT-R like he was posing for a damn commercial.

“You drive that sad little Toyota because it is efficient, yes?”

Shane had scoffed, crossing his arms. “It gets me where I need to go.”

“So does mine,” Ilya had said, flashing that slow, crooked grin that always hit harder than it should. “Just… faster. With style.”

“Yeah, and twice the gas money.”

“Money comes back. Thrill doesn’t.”

Ilya had said it with that teasing lilt, but something about it stuck with Shane. The way his eyes had softened right after, like he was saying something that wasn’t just about cars. Shane couldn’t bring himself to ask what he meant. In some way, he felt like he knew.

The man stepped out of the car.

The porch light caught him just right—gold and soft against the black leather of his jacket. It fit him perfectly, hugging his broad shoulders, the collar turned up just enough to make him look even more like trouble. The sleeves creased as he moved, his hands slipping casually into the pockets of his jeans, and for a moment, Shane forgot how to breathe.

Those jeans, dark and worn in all the right places, clung to his long legs and thick thighs like they were made for him. Around his throat, the thin glint of gold caught the light, a simple chain, nothing flashy, but it always drew the eye. Shane knew what that chain felt like when it brushed against his bare skin, cool and heavy.

Ilya’s hair was shorter than the last time he’d seen him, curling softly at the ends, the kind of style that looked effortless. It framed his face in a way that made his features sharper—those dark blond brows, the faint scruff along his jaw, the mouth that had undone Shane more times than he could count.

He looked so damn good.

Not in a red-carpet way, not in a model-perfect way, but in that raw, magnetic way that always knocked Shane off balance. Like he’d just walked out of a dream and had the nerve to look at him like that, like he already knew how much Shane wanted him.

Ilya shut the door behind him, the sound soft, deliberate. His eyes lifted, finding Shane’s instantly in the dim porch light, and the smirk that curved his mouth was all sharp edges and slow warmth.

“Standing out here all by yourself?”

His voice—low, accented, roughened by the road and distance—hit Shane like a physical thing. Even if he closed his eyes, he could still hear the grin in Ilya’s voice.

Shane swallowed, trying to pull himself together, but his body betrayed him first; his chest loosened, his shoulders dropped, and the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt. “Didn’t want to miss the show.”

Ilya’s grin widened, gold glinting again as he tilted his head.

“Then I’m glad I dressed for it.”

And God help him, Shane couldn’t even argue. He couldn’t stop staring at him.

Shane Hollander was fucked.

Ilya started toward him, slow at first. Each step ate away the distance between them until Shane could see the faint crease at the corner of Ilya’s eyes, the way his chest rose and fell just a bit faster than usual.

And then Ilya was there.

No warning, no hesitation—just a hand fisting in the front of Shane’s soft sweater, pulling him in until their mouths met with the force of every day they’d gone without this. The kiss was hard, almost desperate. Ilya’s mouth pressed against his like he was trying to make up for every day apart, teeth scraping, breath mixing in uneven bursts. Shane’s hands found Ilya’s jacket, clutching at the leather, pulling him closer even though there was no space left between them.

He could taste the cold night air on Ilya’s lips, the faint trace of mint and cigarettes, the heat beneath it all. Their noses bumped, a small, clumsy collision that neither of them cared enough to fix. It was a mess of need and memory, of too much wanting crammed into too little time.

Ilya made a low sound—half a groan, half a laugh—against his mouth, the kind of sound that hit Shane somewhere deep in his chest. Shane exhaled sharply, chasing that sound, tilting his head and kissing back harder until the tension finally broke, dissolving into something warmer.

“Relax, Hollander,” Ilya breathed against his mouth. “I’m not going anywhere.”

When they finally parted, just barely, their foreheads stayed pressed together. Their breaths came in short, uneven bursts, fogging the cold air between them.

Shane’s eyes stayed shut for a beat longer. His voice was rough when he finally spoke.

“I missed you.”

He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but it slipped out anyway—quiet, honest, and a little shaky. There was no point in hiding it, anyway. Ilya’s hand was still touching him, knuckles brushing against Shane’s collarbone. His thumb traced absent circles against the fabric as he breathed out a soft laugh.

“Yeah,” he murmured, accent thicker now, voice low enough to hum against Shane’s lips. “I know.”

Shane opened his eyes slowly, blinking up at him, still a little dazed. Ilya’s face was close enough that he could see the faint curve of a smile playing at his mouth.

He huffed a quiet laugh. “I think you forgot to say it back.”

For a second, Ilya just looked at him, his brows lifting like he was pretending to think it over. Then that familiar spark lit up his eyes, the kind of mischievous teasing that always made Shane want to kiss it right off him.

“No,” Ilya said finally, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Is good.”

Shane rolled his eyes, trying not to smile, but it was useless. “Asshole.”

He made a halfhearted move to step back, but Ilya caught him by the front of his hoodie again, tugging him right back in with an ease that made Shane’s breath catch.

“Da,” Ilya murmured, grin softening as he tilted his head. “But you like that.”

Before Shane could come up with a comeback, Ilya leaned in and kissed him again, nothing like the first one. This was slower and somehow gentler. His mouth moved against Shane’s with quiet intent, unhurried now that the urgency had been spent.

Shane’s hands found their way up to Ilya’s shoulders, feeling the warmth through the smooth leather. Ilya’s fingers had loosened their grip, sliding up instead—one hand cupping Shane’s jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth.

It was about savoring it—the way Shane sighed softly into him and the way Ilya’s breath hitched when Shane’s fingers slipped into the curls at the back of his neck.

When they finally broke apart, Ilya didn’t move away.

“I missed you, too, moya lyubov.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

Then Ilya leaned back just slightly, eyes scanning him from head to toe. His lips twitched.

“Look at you,” he said, voice low but touched with amusement. “You look like you were just shooting an ad for laundry detergent.”

Shane blinked. “What?”

Ilya gestured vaguely at him, grinning now, that teasing glint alive in his eyes. “This sweater—” he reached out and brushed his fingers against the sleeve, “—cashmere, no?”

Shane nodded.

“Perfect fit, no wrinkles. Pants all neat, clean shoes. You look like you just stepped out of one of those boring commercials. You know, with a golden retriever and sunshine.”

“Oh my god, shut up.”

“Did they also give you a fake wife and a family?”

Shane groaned, heat creeping up his neck. “You’re an asshole.” He repeated.

“I know,” Ilya didn’t even bother denying it; he was still grinning, head tilted. “A funny one, though, yes?”

Shane tried to glare, but it didn’t stick. The corner of his mouth betrayed him, tugging upward despite his best effort. “Not a chance. You look like the dictionary definition of a midlife crisis, and you’re judging me for being presentable?”

Ilya barked out a short laugh, loud and genuine, so him. “Midlife crisis? I’m not even twenty-six yet!”

“Exactly,” Shane said, crossing his arms, though the motion did little to hide his smile. “You drive that car like you’re compensating for something.”

That earned him a mock-wounded look and a hand pressed dramatically over Ilya’s heart. “That hurts me, Hollander. Deeply.”

Shane rolled his eyes, but the flush hadn’t faded. “You’ll survive.”

The grin softened. Ilya’s hand came up again, this time slower, fingers brushing along Shane’s jaw.

“Joking aside,” he said, thumb tracing the outline of his chin, “you look good. Really good.”

Shane’s breath caught, just a little.

“Yeah?” he managed, voice low, almost shy.

Ilya nodded, his gaze lingering on him like he couldn’t help it. “Better than I remembered.”

Something warm flickered between them again—the kind of warmth that didn’t need heat to burn.

Shane huffed a quiet laugh, trying to shake it off, but his lips curved anyway. “You’re only saying that because you missed me.”

Ilya smiled. “Maybe,” he murmured, hand moving to Shane’s jaw. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

The space between them felt unhurried. Shane blinked when Ilya finally stepped back, the sudden distance leaving the air feeling colder than it had been a moment ago.

“If we don’t leave yet, it’ll be late,” Ilya said. He jerked his head toward the car. “Let’s go.”

Shane found himself nodding as he followed. Gravel crunched beneath their shoes.

Still, Shane couldn’t help himself. “You know,” he started, glancing sideways at Ilya as they reached the car, “you never told me what we’re actually doing.”

Ilya didn’t look at him; he just opened the driver’s door and tossed a quick, amused look. “I didn’t?”

“No,” Shane said flatly, moving to the passenger side. “You said, and I quote, ‘I know a place,’ and then refused to elaborate for two days.”

Ilya’s grin widened, the one that always managed to toe the line between charming and infuriating. “And you said, ‘I don’t like surprises.’”

“Because I don’t,” Shane muttered, closing the door. The seat's leather was cold and smooth. “And yet here we are,” he added with a sarcastic tone that almost made Ilya chuckle.

The car’s cabin was sleek and low, the faint scent of Ilya’s cologne mingling with leather and something faintly metallic. When Shane settled into the seat, he felt the vibration of the engine.

Ilya slid into the driver’s seat with practiced ease. He looked entirely at home there—one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting casually on the gearshift. Truth be told, there was something that Shane had always found attractive, or at least since he realized he liked men (and more specifically, since he found out he liked this man), and it was when Ilya drove. There was something about it, the way he looked so immersed in it, so masculine and so hot. It was unfair on so many levels.

Shane buckled his seatbelt, eyeing him sideways. “So are you going to tell me where we’re going now, or do I have to guess all night?”

The corner of Ilya’s mouth twitched. “What part of surprise did you not get, Shane?”

There it was, that teasing tone.

“I got the part where you refuse to communicate like a normal person,” Shane said, crossing his arms. “That part was crystal clear.”

Ilya hummed, pretending to think it over. “But normal is so boring. You’d rather I send you an itinerary next time?”

When did he even learn that word?

“I’d rather not be kidnapped, thanks.”

Ilya’s laugh was loud. He glanced at Shane briefly before starting the car. “Do you trust me?” he said simply.

“Unfortunately,” he muttered.

“Good boy,” Ilya replied, flashing him that quick, sideways grin before shifting gears.

“Fuck off.”

The tires crunched against the gravel as the car rolled forward, headlights cutting through the darkness once more. The trees blurred past them, tall shadows against the night sky.

For a while, neither spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, though—it was that familiar, steady kind that had always filled the space between them. Still, Shane’s mind wouldn’t quiet.

It wasn’t like Ilya to change things. For years, their stolen days had followed a rhythm—the same road leading to his cottage, a shared hotel room, the same quiet mornings, the same fragile peace they only ever found behind closed doors. And now, suddenly, Ilya had decided on something different. 

“I know a place.”

Shane wanted to scoff, but he didn’t. Stupid Rozanov.

Instead, he glanced at him again—at the set of his jaw, the way the dim dashboard light caught the curve of his smile.

Whatever this was, Ilya was not going to tell him anything.

And, somehow, that made Shane’s heart beat a little faster.

If Shane thought about it, it wasn’t that weird for Ilya to do something spontaneous. It was an Ilya-move, after all.

He always had this way of doing things—with no plan, no warning, no real explanation, just a spark of an idea and the sheer force of will to make it happen. Shane had learned that years ago, somewhere between all the arguments, the late-night phone calls, and the quiet confessions that slipped out when neither of them was supposed to be listening.

He could still picture it now, that one time when Ilya had decided, out of nowhere, that their off-season needed “something different.” Shane had just finished a brutal training session and was ready to do absolutely nothing for a week—maybe order takeout, maybe sleep, maybe exist in blissful silence for a while.

But of course, Ilya didn’t do silence like a normal person.

He’d shown up at Shane’s cottage after the older man invited him, arms full of snacks and an enormous box that took up half the doorway. He’d grinned like a man proud of his crime.

“Ilya,” Shane had said flatly, sweat still clinging to his neck, “why does it look like you just robbed a tech store?”

“Because I maybe did.”

“Not funny.”

“I bought it,” Ilya corrected, pushing past him with all the grace of a man who’d never learned the concept of boundaries. “Projector. For movies. We are making a home theater. I even brought popcorn.”

Shane had stared at him for a full three seconds, torn between disbelief and amusement. “You just decided that now?”

“Yes. I mean, not now; this morning,” Ilya said simply, setting down the box with a heavy thud. “What else are we supposed to do? You wanted to relax. I wanted to see movies. Perfect plan.”

Perfect plan, his ass.

Still, Shane had helped him set it up because, at that point, there was no stopping him. And maybe, just maybe, he’d wanted to see what would happen. And maybe, just maybe, Shane thought this was one of the cutest, most special things anyone had ever done for him.

They’d spent the rest of the evening in the living room surrounded by a mess of cables, manuals, and empty chip bags. Ilya had refused to read the instructions (“I am not weak,” he’d declared solemnly, which didn’t make sense at all to Shane but he didn’t say anything), which had led to forty minutes of trial and error and at least one incident involving the lights shorting out.

By the time the projector finally flickered to life against the blank wall, Shane had been ready to strangle him.

And yet—when the first movie started, something shifted.

The glow filled the room with a kind of quiet intimacy neither of them had planned for. They’d sat shoulder to shoulder on the couch, the bowl of popcorn balanced precariously between them, and just… existed. For hours. Just them, half-buzzed on cheap beer and ginger ale.

It became a weekend ritual—if “ritual” meant staying up until three in the morning, watching everything from The Godfather to Legally Blonde because Ilya had insisted “balance is important.”

At some point, they’d both downloaded Letterboxd, because of course they had. Ilya had remembered that one time a teammate of his mentioned it and since that day he had been wanting to try it with Shane. He had been delighted by the idea of rating movies like some sort of authority on film.

Shane had taken it seriously—way too seriously, in Ilya’s opinion, but just as expected. He’d written actual notes, little reviews full of thought-out opinions and structure, while Ilya had rated things with chaotic captions like “didn’t like the hats” or “explosions good, acting bad.” Shane thought it was dumb, so he gave an extended review about the animation of Smurfs: The Lost Village, while Ilya just typed “absolute cinema” and a cigarette emoji.

“You don’t know anything about movies,” Ilya had said one night, grinning smugly as he scrolled through Shane’s reviews.

Shane had nearly choked on his ginger ale. “Excuse me?”

“You are… what's the word?” Ilya squinted in thought. “Pretentious.”

“I am not pretentious,” Shane had said, indignant. “I just have taste.”

“Uh-huh,” Ilya said, still scrolling. “You gave Fast and Furious three stars.”

“It’s fine!” Shane argued. “It’s fun but—”

“Fine?” Ilya had looked at him like he’d just confessed to a crime. “It's a masterpiece! You have no soul.”

“Oh, please. This is coming from the guy who said The Lord of the Rings was better than Back to the Future.

Ilya had gasped, hand to his chest, mock offended. “Because it is.”

Shane had stared at him, equal parts horrified and amused. “You can’t actually believe that.”

“I can, and I do.”

“No. No, you’re just saying that to piss me off.”

“Maybe.”

He wanted to scoff. Of course he knew about movies. He was more of a cinephile than Ilya, everybody knew that.

Well, maybe that part wasn’t true. Maybe nothing he was telling himself was true, really.

But still. That didn’t give Ilya the right to say The Lord of the Rings was better than Back to the Future. 

The nerve of him!

It had turned into a full-blown debate that lasted hours—both of them sitting cross-legged on the couch, arguing about storytelling structure and cultural impact like their lives depended on it. At some point, the argument had devolved into laughter, and by the time the credits of Back to the Future rolled again, Ilya had fallen sideways, head resting against Shane’s shoulder.

Shane hadn’t moved for a long time. He hadn’t wanted to.

Now, in the dark of the car, the memory hit him with a kind of bittersweet clarity.

He could almost smell the faint buttery salt of the popcorn again, feel the warmth of Ilya’s shoulder pressed into his. He remembered the way Ilya’s laugh had filled the room—loud, full, so alive it made the walls seem too small to contain it. Very different from the way he laughed when he got interviewed after a game or when he made fun of Hayden. This type of laugh only belonged to Shane. It was nice to see that side of Ilya.

Shane smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth tugging up despite himself. He turned his head just slightly to look at Ilya now.

That same man who’d argued about time travel versus hobbits with equal passion. That same man who’d fallen asleep halfway through Kill Bill II and then claimed he was “just resting his eyes.” That same man who’d driven him insane and then, somehow, made him laugh until his chest hurt.

The same man he was so damn in love with.

Shane leaned his head back, watching the roadlights sweep across Ilya’s hands on the wheel.

He’d never admit it out loud, but these little moments—the ridiculous, spontaneous, almost domestic ones were the ones that stuck with him. They were the kind of memories that made his chest ache in that way he couldn’t quite define. Because for every heated touch and every whispered word in the dark, there was this quiet, mundane, almost normal. The kind of normal they’d never really get to have.

And that was what scared him most.

He could live without the chaos, the thrill, the stolen nights. But he didn’t know if he could live without this: the laughter, the comfort, the easy way Ilya filled every space he stepped into.

“You're staring at me.”

Shane froze, caught mid-thought like someone had just turned a spotlight on him.

He hadn’t realized how long he’d been looking.

The admission sent a flush crawling up the back of his neck before it spread to his cheeks. He shifted in his seat, eyes darting to the window as if the darkness outside could save him.

“I wasn’t,” he said quickly, too quickly. “Don’t be cocky.”

Ilya’s laugh filled the cabin.

“Sure.”

Shane could hear the grin in his voice without even looking at him.

“Eyes on the road,” Shane muttered, still facing the window, trying to sound unaffected. He wasn’t sure if he succeeded.

For a few heartbeats, the only sound was the soft hum of the tires against the asphalt, the steady rhythm of the turn signal clicking faintly as Ilya changed lanes. Then, without warning, he felt it—the light pressure of Ilya’s hand settling on his thigh.

Just a touch. Barely there.

But it was enough to make Shane’s breath catch.

Ilya’s fingers traced a slow, easy line along the fabric of his pants, a casual caress that somehow managed to feel both teasing and grounding at once. Shane swallowed hard, keeping his gaze stubbornly fixed on the passing blur of trees outside the window.

“Still thinking about this trip?” Ilya’s voice had softened, but the teasing edge was still there, curling around each word.

Shane exhaled sharply through his nose, too loud, and heard Ilya’s quiet chuckle immediately after.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Ilya murmured.

“Maybe I’m just thinking about how much of a pain in the ass you are,” Shane retorted, though it came out weaker than he wanted. “Have you thought about that?”

“I thought you like when I do stuff to your ass.”

“Oh my god, shut up!”

Ilya laughed in response, his thumb brushing small, slow circles against the inside of Shane’s knee. “If you keep thinking that hard,” he said lightly, “you’re gonna start losing brain cells, Shane.”

That earned him an incredulous look, finally.

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you.”

“From me?” Ilya looked over for just a second, eyes flashing in the dim light before turning back to the road. “I’m a genius. You should be careful, or maybe some of that will rub off on you.”

“Right,” Shane deadpanned, finally managing a faint smile.

Ilya’s hand lingered for a moment longer before he let it fall away, back to the gearshift, fingers flexing once like he’d left something behind.

He leaned his elbow against the window, pretending to be absorbed in the dark blur of scenery rushing past. The road stretched endlessly ahead, a dark ribbon of asphalt.

For a while, neither of them said anything.

Shane reached forward and turned on the radio. Ilya’s left hand rested lazily on the steering wheel, thumb tapping along to a rhythm only he could hear. Static filled the car for a second before settling into a soft hum of music, something low and nostalgic, a slow rock ballad from the early 2000s. Not too loud, not too quiet. Just there, like the rest of the night.

Ilya’s hand drummed once against the steering wheel, syncing instinctively to the beat.

Shane leaned back in his seat, letting the music wash over him. His eyes half-closed, his fingers idly traced the seam of his jeans as he hummed under his breath. It wasn’t really singing, just a small sound that slipped out naturally.

He caught Ilya glancing at him once—just once—but didn’t comment.

They drove like that for what felt to Shane like a long time. Ten, maybe twenty minutes, maybe more. Every now and then, Ilya would hum. It fit so easily into the song that Shane almost smiled.

It felt… normal.

If Shane hadn’t known better, he could’ve sworn they were just two friends on a late-night drive, nowhere to be, no history between them but laughter and music. But he did know better. And that was exactly what made it hurt—in that quiet, lingering way that didn’t fade. There was no room for them to be friends.

He turned his head slightly, catching the faint reflection of Ilya’s face in the window. The other man looked focused, relaxed. The lines around his eyes softened by the passing lights. He looked… happy, maybe. No, he definitely looked happy. Shane was very familiar with seeing him like that.

Shane wasn’t sure which was worse to admit—that it made him happy too, or that it scared him how much it did.

Then Ilya’s voice casually broke the calm.

“Need to stop soon.”

Shane blinked, pulled from his thoughts. “Stop?”

“The gas station is a few kilometers ahead,” Ilya said, glancing at the fuel gauge. “I’ll get us something.”

Shane nodded. “Sure.”

The radio played on as the scenery began to shift. The endless forest gave way to small signs of civilization—a billboard, a row of flickering streetlights, the faint orange glow of a 24-hour station ahead.

Ilya flicked on the blinker and guided the car toward the entrance of the gas station. Bright fluorescent lights washed over the windshield, making the interior glow suddenly. He eased the car beside the pump and shifted into park. He turned off the engine. 

Ilya finally lifted a hand to unbuckle his seatbelt. The latch gave a soft click, the belt sliding back with that muted hiss. Then turned his head toward Shane.

“Stay here,” he said gently.

Shane frowned. “I can help.”

“I know you can,” Ilya replied, his tone still easy but firmer now. He angled his body toward Shane, meeting his eyes. “But stay. I’ll handle it.”

Shane let out a quiet scoff. “Handle what? You’re just pumping gas.”

Ilya’s mouth curved slightly in a knowing smile. “Exactly,” he said. “No reason for both of us to get out.”

Shane sighed, leaning back in the seat. “Fine.”

Ilya nodded once, satisfied. “Good.” He opened the door and stepped out into the cold air. “And don’t go inside,” he said, adding quietly. “You never let me get snacks.”

Shane blinked, caught off guard by the softness of the tease. “Because you eat like shit!” he protested.

“You don’t have taste,” Ilya corrected.

Shane’s lips twitched, and he huffed out a reluctant, “If I have such terrible taste, how can you explain that I like you, asshole?”

“Miracle.”

Then he closed the door with a soft click before Shane could snap back, leaving him with a warm flush creeping up his neck and absolutely no chance of pretending Ilya was wrong.

Shane stayed in the car. 

Through the windshield, he watched Ilya move. He lifted the nozzle from the pump, moving with the same easy precision he applied to everything. Shane shouldn’t have found it attractive. He really shouldn’t have.

He rolled his eyes at himself and looked away, pretending to check his phone. No notifications. No distractions.

A few minutes passed before Ilya finished, putting the nozzle back with a soft click. Then, instead of coming straight back, he walked toward the convenience store attached to the station.

Shane tracked him with his gaze through the glass, because of course he did.

Inside, he lingered by the counter, exchanging a few words with the bored-looking cashier. He gestured once, paid, and then—Shane squinted—grabbed something small off one of the impulse racks near the register.

Great. Probably gum. Or candies. Because Ilya always bought candies for no reason.

It is not like Shane didn’t like candies. Candies were ok, sometimes. 

But when he finally stepped back outside, his hands were full—one holding a lighter and the other clutching two chocolate bars and a bottle of water.

He slid back into the car, the cold air following him for a second before the door shut again.

“Here,” he said casually, tossing one of the bars into Shane’s lap.

Shane looked down.

A Snickers. His favorite.

He blinked, caught off guard for a moment too long before covering it with a smirk. “You trying to bribe me?”

Ilya shrugged, pulling his seatbelt back on. “Maybe I just don’t want you getting cranky. You get mean when you’re hungry.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is very true.”

It was very true.

Shane opened the wrapper anyway, muttering something that sounded like asshole under his breath as he took a bite. He chewed in silence for a moment, glancing sideways at Ilya as he handed Shane the rest so he could buckle his seatbelt.

There was a lighter, too.

“What’s with the lighter?” Shane asked finally, his eyes narrowing a little.

Ilya looked at him, lips curving faintly. “What do you mean?” he asked, voice light, almost too casual, like he had no idea what Shane was talking about.

Shane gestured. “I thought you quit smoking.”

Ilya’s hand moved to the gearshift for a second, then back onto the wheel. He shifted the car smoothly out of the gas station, the tires crunching softly on the gravel. “Open the glove box,” he said casually.

Shane squinted at him, suspicion written all over his face. “What?”

“You heard me,” Ilya said, the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “Do it.”

Shane hesitated for a beat, brows furrowed, then slowly obeyed. The compartment clicked open, and his eyes immediately caught on a small metallic box nestled neatly inside.

“What’s this?” Shane asked, lifting it carefully, weighing it in his hand. 

It was light, but it definitely contained something in the interior. He made sure to shake it a bit, gently.

Ilya didn’t answer right away. Instead. He gave Shane a sidelong glance, the smirk still there, the kind of look that made Shane’s pulse stutter.

“Open it,” Ilya said simply.

Shane raised an eyebrow, curiosity and caution warring in his chest. But he complied, sliding the lid open.

Inside, perfectly nestled against a velvet lining, was a single, meticulously rolled joint. Shane blinked at it, eyebrows climbing higher and higher.

“…You serious?” he asked. He sounded incredulous.

Ilya laughed, throwing his head back a little. “Yes. I’m serious.”

Shane stared at him, trying to process. “Wait… for real?”

Ilya’s grin widened, just the slightest teasing twist. “It has to do with this trip. Didn’t you say you wanted to try weed at least once?”

First of all, Shane had said that months ago. 

How did Ilya even remember? It wasn’t like it was a big deal, really. It happened while they were cooking, Shane standing at the stove, apron dusted with flour, sauce simmering and bubbling in the pan. The smell of garlic and tomatoes filled the luxurious kitchen of Ilya’s apartment, mixing with the faint sweetness of basil and the sharp tang of vinegar.

Ilya had been perched in the open kitchen window, one leg tucked up beneath him, the other dangling casually, a joint resting lightly between his fingers. Smoke curled lazily around him, drifting toward the ceiling and back out into the cool night air. It was a habit of his, to smoke like this. He knew Shane didn’t like the smell that much. His posture was effortless, completely relaxed, every movement casual, as if the world outside the window didn’t exist—except, of course, for Shane.

Shane had leaned over the sauce, stirring absentmindedly as he tried to keep it from sticking, eyes flicking toward Ilya every few seconds. There had been something about the way Ilya lounged there, head tilted slightly, smoke spiraling in slow loops, that made Shane’s curiosity bubble up.

“Ilya?”

“Mhm?”

He hadn’t looked back, missing the way Shane was biting his bottom lip as if doubting himself whether it was a good idea or not to even bring this up. There was no point in acting shy then, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Uh…” Shane had said, voice hesitant, low enough that only Ilya could hear. He glanced down at the pan, then back at Ilya, who was now looking at him with that curiosity. “How does it feel?”

The blond man could only tilt his head.

“What?”

“Getting high, I mean,” Shane had been quick to answer, cringing only slightly. “How does it feel?”

Ilya had looked at him through the haze, one brow raised, lips quirking into a slow smile. For a moment, his eyes were almost incredulous, as if he couldn’t quite believe Shane—Canada’s golden boy, the same guy who triple-checked recycling and lectured about eating vegetables—was actually asking him about drugs.

“Hmm,” he said finally, voice smooth, casual. “Like I’m way cooler than you.”

Shane had never regretted anything that fast.

He rolled his eyes. “Seriously.”

“Seriously,” Ilya had echoed, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. “Feels lighter. Funny, I guess. Is kind of relaxing, everything is slower.”

There was a frown between Shane’s eyebrows; he had stayed quiet for a few seconds before Ilya spoke again.

“Why? You wanna try next time, Hollander?”

Back in the day, Shane had said yes, almost on a whim, never thinking much of it. He certainly hadn’t expected Ilya to keep a mental note. 

And yet, here he was, grinning that same infuriating grin.

“I can’t believe you actually remembered it.”

Ilya laughed, low and teasing, and the sound brushed against Shane’s nerves. “Yes, I remembered. I always remember these things about you.”

Shane shook his head, trying to hide a smirk, but failing. “You can’t just keep things like this in your glove box for a surprise, you know?”

“I can and I did,” Ilya said, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Consider it a pre-surprise ritual. Whatever you want to call it.”

Shane swallowed, looking down at the joint again.

Ilya’s hand briefly brushed Shane’s thigh again, just a gentle, grounding touch. “Relax, yes? You don’t have to if you don’t want to. But if you do…” His smirk widened. “I’ll guide you.”

Shane let out a breath. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding it, the combination of nerves and anticipation making his chest ache in the best way. He closed the box, still blinking at it. “That doesn’t sound bad.”

Ilya laughed softly, just a little, that amused rumble Shane could feel in his ribs. “Of course it doesn’t. Everyone would kill for this moment, Hollander. Feel lucky.”

Shane rolled his eyes, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him. “Yeah, yeah. I’m sure my lungs are gonna love me for this.”

Ilya grinned. “Your lungs are overdramatic.”

“No, they’re not.”

“Yes, they are. They can survive little herbs.”

Shane’s grin ticked up at the corners. He leaned in, forearm braced casually on the frame of the car door. 

The car moved smoothly down the darkened road, headlights slicing through the quiet night.

“Alright,” he said finally. “Teach me.”

“Not here,” Ilya offered him a reassuring smile. “Patience, we’ll get there. I told you I knew a place.”

 

 

 

 

 

After what felt like more than an hour and a half, Ilya stopped the car.

Shane blinked through the windshield, taking in the scene slowly. Even though he’d been born in the province, he’d never been to this part of it before. The car was tucked into a small clearing, hidden among the trees. The road wasn’t old and because of the lack of tire marks and the quiet of the place, Shane could tell not many people came this way.

The unfamiliarity made him nervous, but he wasn’t going to say it out loud. He knew for sure Ilya would make fun of him, or at least tease him about it, anyway.

So instead, Shane pushed the door open. Cold air brushed against his cheeks, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and the crisp chill of high altitude. He stepped out, letting his shoes sink slightly into the soft earth.

And then he saw it.

The view stretched out before him, breathtaking in its simplicity. The city lay far below, a web of glittering lights pulsing softly against the darkness. Streets and avenues shimmered like tiny veins of gold, and Shane could make out the faint glimmer of the river winding lazily through the urban landscape. His eyes lifted past that, following the slope of the hills, and he found the sky above—a vast, clear expanse scattered with stars, the moon hanging bright and silver as if it had been waiting just for them.

His breath caught, just a tiny bit.

“Do you like the surprise?” Ilya’s voice broke through the silence, low and warm. Apparently, he had also gotten out of the car and was now standing a few steps behind him.

Shane turned to look at Ilya, still in shock, still trying to process the simple perfection of the scene. Ilya leaned casually against the car, arms crossed but posture relaxed. Shane’s chest felt tight, his skin prickling.

“Yes,” Shane said finally, his voice a whisper. He didn’t realize how much it took him to actually answer. “I love it. I mean, look at this, dude, it’s awesome.”

He gestured broadly toward the horizon, the city lights, the moon, the stars. And yet, it wasn’t just the view—it was here, with Ilya.

Shane had seen so many cities and countries, and so had Ilya. They were famous, after all, they could afford going wherever they wanted to. However, nothing could compare to this. Nothing compared to this moment. 

Ilya arched an eyebrow, lips curving into a slow, knowing smile. “Simple, right? But intimate. Quiet. I thought you’d like it.”

Shane swallowed, words caught somewhere between his throat and the wide-eyed awe in his chest. He felt like he could say anything here—or nothing—and it would be enough.

“I do,” Shane said finally, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “It’s perfect. Just us.”

Ilya stepped closer, his hand was brushing lightly against Shane’s back as if anchoring him in the moment. Shane’s gaze flicked to his face. He didn’t want to forget the way Ilya looked at him like he was the only person in the world, and nothing else mattered except the two of them and the privacy of that place.

“And now?” Shane asked, almost shyly, the edge of excitement still lurking beneath his words. “What do we do now?”

Ilya laughed softly. “Now we enjoy the view or something. I brought you here so we could relax, see the stars, and smoke the joint if you wanted.”

Shane’s chest tightened again, the sort of nervous thrill that only Ilya could inspire. He let himself breathe it in. Somewhere in the distance, a lone owl called, sharp and clear, and Shane realized he hadn’t been able to be outside without feeling eyes on him in years.

Curiosity spiked out of nowhere. He turned fully toward Ilya, eyes bright.

“How did you even find this place?”

Ilya shrugged, leaning a little closer. “I found it years ago, I just never thought of bringing you here.”

It was a lie. Truth be told, Ilya had thought of bringing Shane here since the first time he found it, which was kind of funny because finding it had been a mistake. Years ago, he was having a bad day, and all he could think of was doing something athletic to ease his mind. Ilya didn’t feel up to dealing with other people at the time, so he didn’t want to go to the team gym. He decided to go for a run instead. He had gotten lost, and then he found this place. There was something peaceful about it, the quietness, the distant lights of the city… He could only think of sharing this moment with Shane someday.

Ilya shifted slightly, settling more comfortably against the car and finally draping his arm over Shane’s shoulders. Shane stiffened for a moment, caught off guard by the warmth of his body so close, but then relaxed into it. He tilted his head, letting it rest near Ilya’s chest. He could hear the faint rhythm of his heartbeat, steady, familiar, grounding.

For a few minutes, they stayed like that, neither speaking, just breathing in the cold night air and letting the quiet stretch between them. Shane grabbed Ilya’s hand and let his fingers brush lazily against the blond’s knuckles. It was comforting. Simple. And, in a way, more intimate than anything they’d done in the flash of bright lights or noisy hotel rooms.

Finally, Shane exhaled, the breath forming a small cloud in the crisp air. “I needed this,” he admitted softly, almost to himself.

Ilya nudged Shane gently. “Yes?”

Shane looked up at him, his eyes bright with honesty. “Yeah. These past few weeks…” he hesitated, searching for the right words, “…I’ve missed you a lot, you know?” His voice was quiet and vulnerable, but clear. Honest.

Ilya’s chest tightened, a familiar ache that always hit when Shane let his guard down like that. He wanted to tell Shane exactly how he felt, wanted to shout it across the night sky, but instead he settled for brushing his thumb lightly against Shane’s hand. 

“I know,” he murmured, voice low. “I’ve been missing you too, Shane. Every day.”

Shane leaned slightly into him, the warmth of his arm a small anchor against the cold. 

“It’s… weird, you know?” he said after a beat. “Being here like this. Away from my team or my friends. I don’t know, maybe it sounds stupid but I feel like I can breathe.”

Ilya’s lips curved into a small smile. “That’s the point,” he said. “That you can relax.”

“Yeah, I know,” Shane replied, low. “I wish we could be like this more often. I hate that it feels like we can’t.”

Ilya’s hand moved to squeeze Shane’s shoulder gently. “You don’t have to think about it too much, yes? You are here now. We are here now. That’s enough.”

Shane nodded. Ilya was right, and he trusted him.

They stayed like that for a while, silent except for the occasional sound of distant night creatures and the faint rustle of the wind through the trees. Ilya’s thumb was tracing small, lazy circles against Shane’s arm now. 

Shane felt completely unguarded, completely present, completely in love with this man beside him.

Then, he spoke. Completely out of nowhere. “Are we allowed to smoke the joint?”

His question made Ilya laugh. Hard and loud.

“Don’t laugh, you idiot! It’s a serious question, you know.”

God, Ilya loved him so much.

“Yes, we are, Shane.”

Shane hummed. Ilya snorted.

“What?”

“Nothing, you always worry too much.”

Shane looked straight at him.

“God forbid a man worries about doing illegal activities, Mr. I-love-breaking-the-law.”

Ilya snorted again, shaking his head. “You know no one else is here, right? I do not think there is an owl out there that will report you to the league,” he joked.

“You’re not fucking funny,” Shane snapped, almost pouting. Actually, no, he was definitely pouting. Ilya raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying it. “It is not about being noticed, it’s about the principle.”

“Principle?” Ilya echoed, voice dripping amusement. “The only principle you follow is showing up on the ice on time and whining about my car choices.”

Shane huffed, glaring at him but failing miserably to hide his grin. “Because my car is more practical.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow. “And mine brought you here, didn’t it?”

Shane groaned, burying his face in his hands for a moment. “I won’t fall for this sort of rage bait about your car again.”

But he always did.

Ilya knew it, and Shane did too.

“Alright, you whined enough. Now, come on. Get inside the car before you start overthinking.”

Shane blinked, then looked toward the car, which felt so small, so enclosed, and yet somehow so safe with Ilya. His pulse picked up again, nervous anticipation buzzing low in his stomach. 

“Inside the car?”

“Yes,” Ilya said, voice low, coaxing, and Shane knew it was an order wrapped in teasing. “We light up the joint inside, stay warm, and avoid freezing our asses off while admiring the view. Deal?”

Shane let out a breath. “Fine,” he said. “But only because you asked nicely.”

Ilya’s grin widened. “Oh, I asked nicely?”

Shane rolled his eyes. “Well… yes. Nice-ish.”

“Good enough,” Ilya said before stepping around the car. Shane followed him, his steps careful as he swung the door open and slid in beside Ilya. The car was warm compared to the night air.

Ilya reached for the glove compartment, retrieving the metallic box with the joint inside. 

“Ready?” he asked, holding it almost teasingly.

“Yeah, I’m ready.”

“Good, good. Like I said, I will guide you through this, yes? Step by step.”

Shane leaned back against the seat, his heart still beating like he was mid-sprint. The feeling was so raw, every sensation somehow so fresh after all those years. “Alright,” he said softly. “Guide me.”

Ilya’s expression sharpened, the smirk that followed so annoyingly smug it made Shane want to kiss it off. “Let’s go in the back so we have more space.”

Shane obeyed, because what else was he supposed to do? The car only had two doors, one on each side, so they had to climb to get to the backseats. Shane did it first and Ilya followed like he’d done it hundred times, carrying that casual energy that made space feel smaller. Shane tried to ignore the raw heat of his jealousy.

“Let me show you first,” Ilya said. “Watch closely, sweetheart.”

Shane’s gaze never left him.

He watched as Ilya lifted the joint to his lips, lips that were full and slightly parted. There was something about his mouth that Shane always liked even when they first met, although he hadn’t known it. Maybe it was the shape, with that accentuated Cupid’s bow of his, or what those lips could do to him. Or both.

His own breath hitched, and he found himself leaning a little closer without thinking, drawn to the way Ilya’s eyes flicked up at him, sharp.

The lighter caught on the first flick, the flame illuminating the small space between them—faces dazzling in the faint light. Shane couldn’t stop watching his face, the way the light fell on it, haze-obscured and kind of beautiful.

Growing up, he’d always been told that he was a pretty boy. Some people really meant it, and others only called him that to piss him off, which worked most of the time much to Shane’s own mortification. The thing was, he knew he was attractive. He wasn’t the tallest player in the league, but he had a pretty face and his body didn’t look bad at all, quite the opposite, if you asked him.

But Ilya? Ilya was handsome. Handsome in a way that he had never seen before. And he had always been like that, Shane remembered. A few months after the first they hooked up, there were a lot of rumours about Ilya and his sexual life. He had always been seen with pretty women at parties and outside of them, heading out to the hotels, models getting inside of his expensive cars—not the one they were currently in, thank fucking God. 

People had always wanted him in one way or another, whether it was to spend a night with him or something more (which, to be fair, rarely happened). If he really thought about it, it was kind of funny, because all these people had always wished to be in Shane’s position even if they hadn’t realised it yet. But Shane understood them, he really did.

It was easy to feel drawn by him.

For a few seconds, Shane caught himself wondering how many times he had imagined this exact thing, being just with him—back when he first met Ilya, when Shane only knew a few things about him and one of them was that he looked… hot. Back when he had caught himself staring too long at his arms, his back, and his perfect ass in the showers where it all started.

He buried those thoughts when Ilya placed the joint between his own lips.

Shane watched the way Ilya slipped the lighter into the pocket of his leather jacket at the same time he inhaled steadily. The joint rotated between his fingers and then he took another hit. Ilya’s chest was puffing up, letting the smoke fill his lungs before it flattened again. A haze of smoke left his lips as he exhaled.

The smoke coiled around Shane’s face, brushing his cheeks. Shane leaned a little closer without permission. It wasn’t even the first time Ilya smoked weed in front of him, but despite this, he couldn’t help but stare.

There was something alluring about it. Maybe it was the way Ilya looked, sprawled, relaxed, but with that smirk sharpened into something that pinned Shane. Patient, like he was waiting for Shane to change his mind or something. The problem was, he looked good. Too good, maybe. 

His fingers curled against his thigh. It was kind of infuriating.

He watched the tiny flame dance against Ilya’s fingertips, the joint’s glow casting shadows across his face. Leather creaked as Ilya leaned forward, his gaze never leaving Shane’s.

“Here,” Ilya said, voice low, calm.

Then the joint hovered near his lips, the faint curve of his mouth pulling slightly as he inhaled one more time. Shane’s eyes traced the movement, memorizing it—the way his nostrils flared, the slow exhale of smoke.

The car felt smaller and the air heavier, each breath shared more than just oxygen. 

Ilya tapped the ash into the small metal box. “Your turn.”

Shane reached for the joint, and Ilya guided his hand lightly, their fingers brushing briefly. The contact was simple, but Shane felt the heat rush through him. Then, he brought it to his own lips.

“Relax,” Ilya murmured, voice low and a little breathless. “Inhale a little, okay?”

Shane nodded, determined. He copied the way Ilya held it, inhaled carefully and slowly and…

…immediately regretted it.

A sudden cough tore through him, and he coughed again, frantic, waving a hand in front of his face. “Oh god, oh god, I—ugh—why is it—ugh—that’s fucking disgusting.”

Ilya blinked, trying not to laugh, but failing completely. “Told you just a little. You—” He let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. “—you are fine. Just breathe.”

Shane coughed again, leaning forward, his forehead pressing against his knees, and then peeking up at Ilya with watery eyes. “I thought it was supposed to feel nice,” he wheezed.

“It will feel nice,” Ilya said, his lips twitching with amusement. “Let’s try something different.”

Shane blinked, suspicious. “Different how?”

Ilya grinned, leaning slightly closer. “Trust me.” 

Ilya placed the joint between his own lips instead. Shane watched as he took a slow drag from it, but he didn’t exhale. Instead, Ilya held it in his mouth for a beat. He reached out for Shane, fingers cradling his face like he was something delicate. Like he could break. He lifted his chin with his fingers, guiding his gaze upward.

Before Shane could say anything—or think about what he was doing—Ilya exhaled carefully, the smoke curling toward Shane’s mouth. Shane inhaled carefully, letting the smoke sit before exhaling. It was smoother this time. He blinked once, then twice. Then he coughed again.

“Oh—ugh—what—”

Ilya chuckled softly, steadying him. “Easy, easy.” 

They tried again, following the same previous steps: Ilya took a hit, got closer to his mouth and exhaled. His fingers lingered on Shane’s chin, holding him still, tilting his head just slightly so the smoke could drift in. Shane finally managed a shaky, awkward inhale.

He was fully aware that it wasn’t his coolest moment, but Ilya didn’t make fun of him. If anything, the only thing Shane noticed was the way Ilya’s eyes softened.

The smoke trailed upward as he exhaled, filling the small space between them. Shane felt the warmth of Ilya’s hand against his skin, like he refused to leave him, like stopping touching him was never an option. For a moment, Shane forgot to be embarrassed about coughing like an idiot. 

Ilya pulled back slightly, still smiling. “See? You just needed a little help.”

Shane scoffed, but there was no bite in it.

For a moment, they sat in silence, smoke curling lazily around them, the car smelling of something almost like home and almost like danger all at once. Shane wanted to say something—anything—but the words seemed to catch in his throat. So he just watched like he’d been doing, letting the air between them hum with the weight of unspoken things.

“You wanna try again?" Ilya asked, holding the joint out to him.

Shane stared at it, then nodded.

“Alright, let’s see it, Hollander.”

He took the joint off of Ilya’s hands. Shane felt more confident this time.

The first hit he took off the joint was a long one. He mimicked everything Ilya had shown him in the past few minutes, inhaling and exhaling, the smoke coming from his lips as Shane held it out above the small metallic box: pinched between two fingers, filter-side facing him, so all he had to do is lean forward again, take it between his lips, and inhale one more time. 

The smoke filled his lungs when he looked up, his eyes meeting Ilya’s—because they were already fixed on him, flitting upward from his mouth. Shane leaned back just like Ilya had been doing this whole time, funneling the smoke slowly out of the side of his mouth so it didn’t get in the blond man’s face. As if the car wasn’t already hazy with it. Ilya noticed his gesture.

“You’re a professional now, yes?” His words dripped with teasing.

“What can I say? I have a good teacher.” Shane was smiling, a mix of embarrassment and a bit of something else he couldn’t describe. 

“Is that so?”

“You could say that,” he murmured. “I think it’s already kicking in.”

“Yeah?” Ilya replied, cocking his head to the side. His tone was syrup-sweet and his lips were curving at the corner. “How does it feel?”

“Like I’m a feather, kind of. Wait. Does that make sense?” Shane mumbled.

Ilya laughed, softly and warm. “Yes, Hollander. You’re a feather now.”

“Shut up,” Shane replied almost instantly, but he was smiling.

They sat like that for a while, passing the joint between them and talking nonsense (about the league, their teammates, the really ugly car Hayden bought recently that Ilya found incredibly stupid, so stupid that Shane even agreed with him because it was, in fact, the ugliest car Shane had ever seen). The joint was burning slowly between passes, with Ilya occasionally tapping the ash into the metallic box.

This time, it was Ilya who was leaning over.

“My turn now, sweetheart.”

Shane reached out his hand toward him, waiting for Ilya to take the joint he was holding between his fingers.

“No, not like that.”

“Huh? What do you mean?” Shane asked.

“Put it on my lips,” the way Ilya replied was casual, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Ah, fuck.

Shane froze. He could feel his face heating, cheeks gone flushed and pink. He was suddenly very aware of the way Ilya’s mouth was parted just slightly, waiting for him to move, to follow his order.

He swallowed, trying to seem casual when he felt anything but. Ilya didn’t move as Shane brought the joint up to his mouth, his fingers brushing his chin as he lifted it towards his lips.

“Don't get shy on me, Hollander,” Ilya whispered. His mouth tipped into a grin, the kind that was enough to annoy Shane.

“As if, Rozanov.”

Mouth around the joint, Ilya took a breath in, deep.

Shane watched as the other man inhaled slowly, the smoke catching in his throat before it slipped from his mouth in a lazy stream, drifting upwards. The way Ilya had the audacity to do all of that without ever averting his gaze from Shane was making him feel dizzy in a way that didn’t have to do with the weed.

“Is much better this way.”

Shane could only snort as he cocked his head to the side.

“Yeah? What was the difference?”

There was a lazy smile lifting the corners of Ilya’s mouth up. “The way you looked at me, probably, yes.”

Shane felt Ilya’s fingers taking the joint off of his own. He flicked ash into the small metallic box, the tiny sound sharp in the silence of the car.

He swallowed hard before speaking, “And how’s that?”

Ilya took his time before replying to his question, despite Shane’s desperation for an answer. A couple more puffs back and forth; he kept bringing the joint to his mouth, smoke thick in the air. His eyelids started to feel heavy. It had been forever since the last time Ilya got high; he’d almost forgotten about that feeling, senses heightened until everything was pleasurable.

When he finally looked up, the air felt different. 

“You’ve always had this look, Shane…” he began to speak, his lips twitching into a crooked half-smile.

“What look?” Shane replied embarrassingly quickly.

Ilya gave it another hit. Exhaled to the side, carefully, as if he didn’t want the smoke to hit him in the face, which was kind of stupid, Shane thought, considering how Ilya was blowing the smoke into his mouth moments ago.

However, he watched him, transfixed. The orange ember flared again when Ilya inhaled, painting his features in molten light for a heartbeat before it faded back to shadow. He looked dangerous like that—half-hidden, half-soft. The kind of beauty that made your ribs ache.

“The one you’re giving me right now,” Ilya said at last, voice amused, a little rough from the smoke. He made a funny gesture while pointing at his face. “Like you’re trying not to want something.”

Shane’s stomach twisted. “That weed might be making you crazy if you’re imagining things already,” he managed, but even to his own ears, it sounded weak.

Ilya chuckled, quiet and deep. “Am I?”

Truth was, Shane did want something. He had never been good at hiding it, hiding how much he wanted Ilya. The distance and their secret relationship were the only things that had ever gotten in between what he wanted and what he could have. 

And Ilya—God, Ilya had always known. He carried that knowledge easily, like a secret weapon. He knew Shane. One look, one half-smile, and Shane’s resolve would start to come apart.

It wasn’t fair, the way Ilya could read him like an open book. The way he never pushed, never asked but offered all the same, wordlessly. For a while, especially at the beginning of their weird relationship (because Shane refused to call it “situationship”, despite how many times Ilya teased him about it), Shane told himself it was a habit. Just chemistry. Just a dangerous kind of understanding that had built itself between them over time. But every time Ilya’s eyes found his, Shane felt it reach deeper, pull tighter, like a thread that he couldn’t stop following.

There had never been a moment when Ilya wasn’t willing to give Shane exactly what he needed. So there was no point in lying because no matter what he could have said, Ilya would know better.

The blond man leaned back against the seat, one arm still hooked lazily over the driver seat, his eyes half-lidded, dragging over Shane’s face. 

“You always do that,” he said, voice a little rough. “You try hard to stay in control.”

Shane’s laugh was thin, nervous. “Someone has to.”

“Mhm, is that so?”

Ilya reached out again. His free hand brushed the inside of Shane’s wrist, fingers tracing the faint line of veins there, a touch so light it barely qualified as one.

“Maybe you don’t have to right now.”

Shane felt his mouth go dry, felt another image surfacing that shouldn’t be: the last time they were like this. He remembered it very clear, the way Ilya had undressed him, kissed every inch of his skin, held his wrists behind his back whispering against his ear I love when you lose control like this; and then, hands on him, fingers gripping harder on his waist as Ilya fucked him.

The memory drove him crazy.

“Ilya…” he said, aiming for breezy and casual but overshooting into nervousness.

“What?” Even if the word came out like a whisper, it was intended as a challenge.

Shane’s fingers twitched, unsure of what to say or what to do. Ilya’s hadn’t moved far; they hovered near Shane’s hand, close enough that their knuckles brushed when either of them breathed too deeply.

The smoke curled upward, soft and slow, dissolving into the car.

“I want another hit,” Shane murmured after a beat, his voice both warm and shaky.

If Ilya noticed his poor attempt at changing the topic, he didn’t mention it. Instead, he fought back a smile, holding the joint out for Shane. He reached for it, his movements not as uncertain as before and definitely more obedient, and Ilya guided his hand—steadying him by the wrist, his thumb brushing over the pulse point like an afterthought.

“Breathe in slowly,” Ilya said, eyes flicking from the joint to Shane’s lips.

Shane did as told, pressing it to his lips. One hit. The tip glowed amber as he drew in, the paper crackling faintly in the quiet. The smoke burned a little going down, hot and thick.

“Yeah, just like that.”

Ilya just watched, waiting for his turn. He didn’t even pretend to look away, too immersed in every little detail: Shane's lashes when he closed his eyes and took a hit off the joint, the way the smoke slipped out of his mouth; how he later licked his lips, leaving them glossy and so attractive. There was something almost cinematic about it—the haze, the quiet, the way Shane looked a little too good sitting there, haloed by thin wisps of smoke. He looked the most relaxed he’d seen himself in weeks. But how could he not be?

Shane coughed once, quietly, and laughed under his breath, breaking the silence.

“God,” he said, his voice rough, “that’s still stronger than I expected. I thought I was getting used to it.”

“After what? Five hits?”

“Alright, asshole, it’s my first time smoking, if you hadn’t noticed it yet. Thank you very much.”

Ilya’s smile was lazy. “Need more help, sweetheart?”

Shane nodded, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips. “If you insist.” He was proud of how steady his voice sounded. It was a miracle, really, considering the way Ilya started smiling at him. Fuck.

“Give it to me,” Ilya said.

Shane handed the joint over without hesitation, his fingers brushing Ilya’s. Ilya took it and brought it to his lips, mouth closing around the paper. One hit, then two.

The Ilya moved closer. Shane swallowed and adjusted his posture, trying to look as collected as he could, although it didn’t really help. His skin felt too tight, too hot. Then, Ilya’s fingers caught his chin and tilted it up.

His thumb dragged across Shane’s bottom lip, slowly, pressing just enough to open his mouth. Then he leaned in, exhaled, and smoke spilled from his mouth to Shane’s. Their warm, thick, shared breath turned the air between them hazy.

Shane’s mind went light as Ilya shotgunned the smoke into his mouth, burning sweet against his tongue, and all he could taste was Ilya—heat, closeness, and the dizzy rush of him filling every sense at once. It was kind of stupid to even think about it, but that closeness between them made him higher than the weed.

“Good?” The smoke escaped between the small gap between their mouths when Ilya spoke, their lips almost touching.

Shane opened his eyes to see how Ilya was watching him with that expression that he had never been able to decode.

“Yeah,” Shane managed to say.

“Do you need something? Water, maybe?”

“No,” he replied, hurriedly. Shane could definitely use some water right now, but the least thing he wanted was to put some space between them.

Shane’s jaw tensed, his gaze flicking down to Ilya’s mouth. His thoughts tangled somewhere between should I? and I need to. The hesitation lasted all of a heartbeat before it broke apart.

Fuck it.

He leaned in, closing the distance, fast and hard.

The first press of their mouths was sharp, breathless, like something they’d both been holding back too long. Shane’s hands found their way to Ilya’s sides, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket before sliding up, tracing familiar lines until they reached the back of his neck, tangling in the soft, golden curls there.

Ilya made a low sound, surprised, and then it deepened. His hands were on Shane in an instant, joint clumsily and quickly dropped in the metallic box now forgotten somewhere in between them both.

The kiss wasn’t careful this time. It was rougher, heavier, full of everything they hadn’t said and everything they wanted. Smoke still clung to their breaths, the taste of it laced between them, heady and warm.

Shane felt Ilya’s smile ghost against his mouth, a flash of amusement and affection, before it dissolved again into the heat of the moment. A silent I knew you wouldn’t last long that was never said. There was no need to, anyway.

Ilya’s thumb brushed along Shane’s chin, tracing the faint tremor there before pressing upward, coaxing his mouth open just a little more. It was a quiet request, one Shane answered instinctively. Ilya had always liked how willing Shane was. So obedient for him.

The kiss grew even messier, their tongues meeting in a sloppy, desperate way; their breaths hitching and mingling in the small car. Shane’s bottom lip was trapped between Ilya’s teeth, a sharp bite that made his chest tighten with need and anticipation. Ilya’s hands slid to Shane’s sides, cupping him firmly, thumbs brushing along the pulse points at his ribs and neck, grounding them both in the moment.

“Fuck,” Ilya moaned in between kisses, voice husky, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, desperate for more contact. 

Shane’s hands explored and traced shoulders, slid down arms, pressed across Ilya’s chest, gripping, holding, refusing to let go. And Ilya didn’t resist, he just let him.

Because that was what Ilya always did—let Shane take and take, take anything he wanted, offering himself completely without hesitation. It was in the way he leaned into Shane’s touch, in the subtle catch of his breath, the soft sighs that seemed to say I’m yours, go ahead. And Shane, feeling that trust, moved with more urgency, more need, guided by the knowledge that Ilya would meet him, would give him everything he dared to reach for.

His hands slid down from Ilya’s hair, fingertips tracing the slope of his neck before tangling in the hem of the t-shirt beneath the leather jacket he was still wearing, much to Shane’s disapproval, pulling him impossibly close. Whenever Ilya leaned back just slightly, Shane followed, tethered to him by desire, murmuring quietly, pleading whines that only made Ilya’s smirk deepen.

Ilya was getting eager. Maybe it was the way Shane’s lips slightly parted; a thin, wet thread of saliva stretched between them, catching Ilya’s attention. Shane, aware of it, parted his lips a little more and ran his tongue over his bottom lip, drawing the string taut before it broke, a quiet, almost shy gesture that made Ilya’s dick twitch in his briefs.

Shane pressed himself into every inch of Ilya, chasing his lips with a desperate whine that slipped from his throat without shame. But Ilya leaned just slightly aside, and Shane’s lips landed instead on his cheek.

It was awkward. Shane froze for a moment, heat rushing to his ears, flustered and embarrassed. Ilya, on the other hand, couldn’t hide the quiet chuckle that tugged at his lips, eyes glinting with amusement at Shane’s unguarded reaction.

“You’re so desperate,” Ilya murmured in his ear and Shane felt the need to roll his eyes, even if the other man couldn’t see him. “Relax.”

Shane let out a small, whiny sound, half-protest, half… something Shane didn’t even know, because Ilya moved faster than he could react. His hands slid down to Shane’s thighs, fingers grazing lightly, caressing up and down in slow strokes. He made sure to avoid moving any higher than that, keeping the teasing tension tight.

Shane’s breath hitched, heat pooling low in his stomach, heart hammering. The touch was soft, intimate, and overwhelming all at once, making him squirm slightly in his seat.

“We have all night,” Ilya said again, then he pressed a warm kiss where his jaw and ear connected. “Be patient.”

“Easy for you to say that,” Shane’s breath stuttered.

“Oh, believe me, it is hard.”

Shane swallowed. The words seared through his chest despite the innuendo, but the sensation was nothing compared to the firm, purposeful pressure of Ilya’s hand sliding up his thighs and settling at his waist.

“Ilya…” Shane’s voice came out low and shaky, barely more than a whisper but full of longing.

“Yes?”

Slowly, Ilya dragged his lips down Shane’s jaw until he reached the curve of his neck. His pulse throbbed beneath Ilya’s lips. A chill rolled down his spine.

His gasp devolved into a shudder as Ilya licked up his throat, tongue hot and lazy (that was how Shane knew he was really high, because Ilya was always sloppy when he smoked weed), traveling up his skin at the same time his fingers dug deeper into his hips.

“Talk to me, Shane.”

“I can’t—”

“Yeah, you can,” he kissed his skin again, interrupting whatever Shane was going to say.

But he fucking couldn’t. The sensation of Ilya’s mouth on his skin was enough to leave goosebumps on his neck, on his body; and had his back arching off the seat, legs awkwardly spreading on the leather. 

Ilya, as always, pressed deeper. “Tell me what you need,” he slurred against his neck. He exhaled all the air through his nose, passing the tip of it along the length of Shane's throat. “Say it and I’ll give it to you.”

“I want you closer,” Shane whined.

His own hands searched for anything to hold onto, fingers twitching. He found Ilya’s shoulders and then instinctively threaded into the strands of his hair, tugging lightly as if the pulls could somehow draw them nearer. 

Ilya groaned against his neck. The sound made Shane shiver, made his stomach twist with want. His head was spinning, eyes closed as Ilya sucked a mark near his collarbone that made Shane choke on a moan, hips stuttering forward. He felt so hot, so overwhelmed, and Ilya was everywhere, kissing, touching, biting.

“I need you so much.”

Ilya pressed harder into Shane’s waist, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his soft sweater with a slow slide. Ilya’s fingers were cold against the overheated skin.

“I know, moya lyubov,” his hands were spanning around his waist, pulling Shane onto his lap. “I got you,” Ilya muttered against his throat, dragging his lips across the heated skin of Shane’s neck. 

They were so close that Shane could feel his dick through the fabric of his pants. Ilya was big, not that this was a surprise at this point of their relationship, but now that Shane was sitting on it—feeling it grow under his thighs—he was just realizing he’s never felt Ilya getting hard other than with his mouth or hand.

Shane swallowed hard, trying to catch his breath. He was flushed and already wrecked, hands weakly grabbing onto the jacket.

“Take it off, please,” his voice came in a whisper, fingers not-so-gently trying to push the jacket off of Ilya’s shoulders. 

Ilya didn’t reply. He managed to nod once before he pulled away just enough to look into Shane’s eyes. His lips were parted, kiss-swollen—soft, flushed, and glistening faintly from where Ilya’s mouth had been on them. They looked almost tender despite the heat between them, the kind of plush that made it impossible not to stare. Ilya almost leaned back again to catch them. He did not, of course, but only because he was finally taking the jacket off.

“Better?” Ilya asked, voice low and teasing, after he practically threw the piece of clothing to the front of the car.

Shane nodded. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Better.”

His eyes roamed over Ilya, greedy even though they were heavy-lidded and red with his high. Shane had never felt quite like this, with the blush on his cheeks deepening and accentuating those dark freckles. 

“Look at you,” Ilya said, softly.  

His hand came to the back of Shane’s sweater to skim up his spine; the sudden touch left Shane’s skin tingling.

“So beautiful like this,” Ilya’s fingers were tracing back up his spine until they were wrapping around the nape of his neck. He pulled Shane’s face gently down to his and said, with his lips almost touching, “Do you know what else I like?”

Shane was breathless when he asked, “What?”

To no one’s surprise, Ilya didn’t reply right away—too busy sliding his hand to the front of Shane’s body, palming over his chest, fingers then grazing his pecs before trailing down his toned stomach. 

The answer came seconds later, while his mouth found the curve of Shane’s neck once again. “Those freckles.”

The sincerity of his voice made Shane’s heart ache.

“What about them?”

He tilted his head, offering up more of his throat like some kind of prayer, urging Ilya to take. To devour. To mark him up a little bit more. 

“As if you don’t know,” he murmured, voice warm and honeyed, but thick with arousal.

“But I wanna hear you say it.”

“Yeah?” Ilya huffed out something like a chuckle, tilting his head to kiss along Shane’s jaw, lips pressing softly along the sharp line. “Is that so?”

Shane only nodded, carefully wrapping his arms around his neck, as if he didn’t want Ilya to go. As if Ilya ever thought of doing so.

“Yeah,” he licked his own lips; the feeling of Ilya’s pressing down on his neck left him a bit breathless.

“Mhm,” Ilya’s fingers slid up and down Shane’s hips, his nails digging in just enough to leave a faint little crescent in his skin, enough for Shane to lose a little bit more of his dizzy mind. “How do we ask, Shane?”

“Huh?” Shane's confusion was cute, Ilya decided. He could feel him starting to squirm.

"Manners," Ilya repeated, his voice coming out in a low, seductive purr, full of that confidence that drove him wild. "Have you forgotten how to ask for things?"

Shane didn’t want to think about manners right now. In fact, he didn’t want to think at all. 

However—

“Please.” His voice was soft, almost broken. It came out of his mouth like a whisper, one that made Ilya groan instantly.

“Say it again.”

“Please,” Shane repeated with his heart hammering in his chest. His gaze dropped, eyes fixed on Ilya’s mouth. “Please, Ilya, say it.”

Shane unlocked him, like always, twisting a key into his chest that opened him and made him desperate to give him whatever he wanted. He would always give Shane everything he needed. 

Today was not an exception. “I love them,” Ilya said, breathing hard through his nose and exhaling through his mouth. “Loved them since I first saw you.”

Then, their mouths finally reunited. This kiss was deeper, turning hungry in seconds. Shane cradled his face as he felt Ilya squeezing his waist with both hands, then pulling him down against him, just once, so Shane’s weight pressed down on the hard shape of his cock. It made the dark-haired man shudder.

Ilya’s hands slid lower, down his back, cupping the curve of his ass with a firm squeeze that made Shane’s breath hitch against his mouth. His body arched instinctively, pressing closer.

“I want more,” Shane begged.

“I know, sweetheart. You know I’ll give it to you.”

Shane was the first to pull away, breath ragged as he fumbled with the hem of his sweater, fingers trembling with urgency. He dragged the fabric upward, over his chest, over his head, tossing it somewhere into the front seat without looking. He did the same with the white t-shirt he was wearing under it. His skin flushed with heat, chest rising and falling too fast.

“Then hurry up,” Shane said under his breath.

Ilya didn’t waste a second. As soon as Shane’s t-shirt hit the seat, he was already gripping his own shirt’s collar, yanking it up in one smooth motion. The muscles of his stomach tightened as he stripped it off, the dim light coming from outside catching on the lines of his torso. The t-shirt quickly disappeared somewhere next to Shane’s.

His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip. “Look so fucking good right now,” Ilya said. 

Shane couldn’t even find the words. He just wanted more. Needed more. He wanted Ilya everywhere—his hands, his mouth, his voice. He wanted to feel him, taste him, drown in him. He was greedy for it, desperate, and Ilya felt so good he thought it might drive him out of his mind.

That, however, didn’t go unnoticed by Ilya. “What?” Shane registered just in time how the corners of Ilya’s mouth curved upward in a crooked smile. “Feeling eager already?”

“Oh my God,” Shane managed to reply, sounding annoyed, but there was no bite. He was trembling, actually, squeezing his eyes shut for a second. “I can literally feel your dick throbbing against my ass, you know? You’re not better than me.”

“Yeah? And how does that feel?” Ilya said, voice low with awe and taunt in equal measure, savoring Shane’s desperation. “Does it get your dick all wet?”

Shane’s eyes squeezed shut, his mouth falling open around a helpless cry. “Fuck you, Rozanov.”

“Soon.”

Before Shane could even reply, Ilya kissed him hard. The kiss was sloppy, but even that wasn’t enough, either; even when their tongues were knotting together and their cocks straining harder up against each other, Shane was still dying for more.

He hated it. Hated how desperate he was for it, hated how much his body craved Ilya, how it had been like that since the moment they met. Hated how responsive he was, how everything in him screamed for contact as it being Ilya’s was the most natural thing. Or maybe Shane hated how much he actually loved it.

That was why he didn’t answer, because Shane was far too absorbed in the sensation to do anything else. Ilya’s voice sounded distant, almost unreal, a “touch me” that might have sounded like a plea, but Shane knew better. It had been an order, clear enough that his hands moved instantly, automatically, as if they’d been trained with a single purpose: to please him.

In the end, maybe that was what it was about.

Ilya knew it too. His hands squeezed Shane’s ass once more—encouraging him, inviting him, guiding him to grind onto him—and the simple motion was enough to pull a whimper from Shane’s mouth.

The sound was high, broken, and Ilya swallowed it with another kiss.

Shane’s body moved on instinct, chasing the friction. Their mouths parted suddenly, and Ilya’s lips found Shane’s jaw in a matter of seconds, where skin and mouth became the perfect canvas for a line of kisses he painted all the way down to his neck. He tasted the trail of the flushed skin beneath his lips; it felt like a claim, a reminder of how thoroughly Shane belonged to him.

His hips searched for more, it was never enough. Ilya felt so solid beneath him; warm skin, slightly sun-kissed for the time of year, dotted with moles that begged for Shane’s attention. Broad shoulders, a strong chest.

“Ilya,” Shane exhaled, his voice barely a broken whisper.

“Tell me what you want,” Ilya had repeated, his hands caressing Shane’s body, palms warm as they skimmed over his stomach and up along his ribs. “You can have whatever you ask for.”

One of Ilya’s hands settled on the curve of Shane’s ass as they moved down, guiding him harder, while the other held onto his hip. It was possessive in a way that burned straight through him, heat spreading under his skin. 

Shane sobbed out his name, every syllable breaking. “I want to blow you.”

The grin on Ilya’s face sharpened immediately.

“You have such a way with words, Hollander.”

Their breaths stuttered more with each slow roll of their hips. Shane tried to find something clever to say back, he really tried, but words died in his throat when Ilya shifted his hips just enough to send the thought straight out of his head.

He had never been this hard– although the thought alone almost made him laugh because it always felt like that with Ilya—but this feeling was brand new. The fabric of his jeans dragged almost painfully on his erection, making it even more difficult to control himself.

A whine slipped out, high and breathy, and his cheeks flushed hot.

“Oh, there it is,” Ilya murmured, like Shane’s reaction was a reward Ilya had been waiting for. “Those sounds you make when you stop pretending.”

“I’m perfectly calm,” Shane managed, though it came out thin and not even remotely convincing.

“You are so terrible at hiding things,” Ilya whispered against his lips, pausing just long enough to press his forehead to Shane’s. “Especially when you want me.”

Shane shook his head, words failing. All he could do was grind down against Ilya, chasing that friction like it might undo him. His breath hitched, his voice barely a whisper. “Please.”

Ilya stilled, not pulling away, just holding him there, like he wanted to savor the moment. “Please what?” he asked, nipping at Shane’s mouth, not giving him space to answer, swallowing the whine that broke free instead.

Shane gasped, the words slipping out before he could fight them off. “Please… Ilya, let me suck you off.”

Fuck.

Ilya’s exhale came sharp, satisfied, his hands sliding lower as if claiming every inch of Shane’s surrender. “That’s it,” he said, voice roughened by something hungry and pleased. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

Relief washed through Shane the moment he saw Ilya’s hand drop to his belt. Watching Ilya unfasten the belt himself made something inside him unclench so sharply he let out a shaky exhale against Ilya’s jaw.

Shane’s breath stuttered against his skin, the way his whole body softened in his lap for half a second before tension snapped right back in. And, because he noticed, Ilya slowed his movements. Where fingers were once moving quickly to remove the belt, they were now moving much slower.

Painfully so.

“Look at you,” Ilya murmured, his tone pure amusement as his fingers drifted to the buckle again. He tugged the belt just enough that the leather whispered through the loop… then stopped. Did nothing else.

Shane nearly groaned. “Ilya—”

“Mmh?” Ilya tilted his head, expression far too innocent for the way his hand resumed its unhurried path, dragging the belt free a fraction of an inch at a time. “Something wrong?”

“You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Obviously.” Ilya’s smile sharpened as he met Shane’s eyes. His fingers stroked the belt like he had all the time in the damn world, like they weren’t in a cramped car with Shane perched on his lap and seconds away from falling apart. “You get so twitchy when you’re impatient.”

“Ilya,” Shane warned, though his voice betrayed him.

Ilya’s grin deepened. “Mhm, I love that. You are so easy to wind up.”

“I’m going to lose my mind,” Shane muttered.

“That’s the plan,” Ilya said, finally sliding the belt all the way free with a smooth pull that felt like the end of a long tease. He held Shane’s gaze the whole time, savoring the moment maybe a little too much, compared to Shane’s own impatience. “And you’re doing so well.”

“I swear to god, If you don’t—”

For once, Ilya didn’t stretch it out. His hand settled on Shane’s hip, firm, grounding. “Do me a favor,” he said.

Shane blinked, thrown off. “What?” It came out clipped from irritation and want tangled together.

Ilya nodded toward the small metal box wedged where he had placed it earlier. “Pass me the joint.”

Shane stared at him. “What? Seriously? You want to smoke right now?”

Ilya raised a brow. “You heard me.”

Still buzzing, still throbbing with need, Shane reached behind him, fingers shaky as he grabbed the box where Ilya had left it. He pressed it into his waiting hand, watching as Ilya plucked the half-burned joint from inside with easy familiarity.

Ilya lit it again, and he did it as if he had all the time in the world. He took a hit off the joint, letting the smoke slip out of his mouth a few seconds later. While doing so, his free hand slid up Shane’s thigh, his skin warm under his fingertips.

“Well?” Ilya had the audacity to ask after giving the joint another hit, smoke curling from his lips. “What are you waiting for? Suck my cock.”

And because Shane was who he was, his first instinct—the only thing he could do right now, really—was to groan.

“Fucking finally.”

Then he moved. A little bit too fast, too eager, too desperate to hide it. Ilya didn’t miss that either; the corner of his mouth lifted around the joint, amusement flickering in his eyes as Shane shifted off his lap and onto the floor between his legs.

The backseat was narrow, cramped, but it didn’t matter. Shane made it work, knees pressing awkwardly against the floorboard, hands bracing on Ilya’s thighs as he tried to get closer. He could feel Ilya watching him, calm as anything.

“Eager,” Ilya murmured, tapping ash in the metal box without taking his eyes off him. “Figures.”

Shane swallowed hard. “You told me to—”

“I did,” Ilya cut in, voice low and smooth. “Did not say I would make it easy.”

It was only then that Shane realized Ilya hadn’t pushed his pants any further down. The belt was undone, the button unfastened, but everything else was untouched, like he was waiting for Shane to do it himself. Like he wanted to see him do it.

Ilya leaned back, one arm draped casually along the seat behind him, the other bringing the joint back to his lips. He inhaled slowly, eyes fixed on Shane the whole time.

“C’mon,” he said, exhaling smoke in a warm haze that drifted over Shane’s shoulders. “Thought you wanted this so badly.”

Shane bit the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound out of frustration, out of want, out of the unbearable ache twisting beneath his ribs. Ilya’s relaxed sprawl made things worse, made the anticipation hotter and sharper.

With shaking fingers, Shane reached for the waistband, tugging it down inch by inch. He noticed very soon that Ilya wasn’t going to help. He didn’t move at all.

“You look good down there,” Ilya said, biting down on his lip until it stung. He pulled back just enough to look at him, the little, almost unnoticeable frown that threatened to appear between Shane’s eyebrows.

“Shut up,” Shane spat back instantly as he finally got Ilya’s pants low enough. His hands paused on his thighs, grip tight, trying to steady himself.

“Better this way, right?” he said almost softly, like praise. “Now, finish what you started.”

Shane’s hands trembled, fingers twitching as if they wanted to grab and rip Ilya’s boxers down right now. His whole body was coiled so tight it felt like it might snap.

“Fuck—shit, Ilya, come on!” he hissed, frustration bleeding into his words.

Ilya chuckled low, mocking, his breath coming out like a loud sigh. “What? Can’t even take my underwear off?” Ilya said, voice teasing. “Take it easy. Maybe you’re moving too fast."

Shane groaned, dragging a hand down his face, but his other hand kept twitching toward the waistband. “I can’t. I’m—fuck, Ilya, I’m gonna lose it if you don’t—”

“Shh,” Ilya interrupted, tilting Shane’s chin up with one finger, holding him in place and leaving the box forgotten to his side. “Not so fast. Enjoy it. Slow down.”

Slowing down was probably the last thing Shane wanted to do, but he always obeyed, always wanted to do what Ilya told him. His gaze was on the Russian man when he leaned forward, pressing a tentative kiss to the curve of Ilya’s knee. His hands hovered just above, fingers digging subconsciously with almost enough pressure to bruise. 

Ilya’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly. His eyes darkened, fixed on Shane, tracing every careful movement. There was a slow, steady weight in the way he watched, like he was memorizing every flutter of Shane’s lips as he moved upward along the inside of Ilya’s thigh.

“Careful,” Ilya’s voice was almost a warning. “Don’t rush.”

Shane’s pulse raced, frustration and desire tangled together, but he obeyed—or tried to—letting his mouth hover just above where Ilya’s gaze lingered, pressing light, lingering kisses and gentle nibbles.

His hand drifted upward, tracing along the smooth line of Ilya’s thigh until he found the waistband of his briefs. Shane’s fingers lingered there, hesitating just long enough to feel the visible curve beneath the fabric.  

He pressed kisses and soft nips to the sensitive skin along Ilya’s thigh, savoring the way Ilya’s body reacted, how every subtle hitch of his breath sent shivers down Shane’s spine.

Ilya’s eyes never left him, dark and intent, tracing Shane’s motions like he was hypnotized by them. 

Shane’s hands hesitated over the waistband, breath catching in his throat.

“Shy now?” Ilya teased him, smoke escaping his mouth as he spoke. He left the joint inside of the metallic box for the last time.

“Thought you wanted slow?” Shane pressed his lips harder against the inside of Ilya’s thigh to hide his smile. Ilya noticed it, but didn’t say anything.

However, Shane gave in.

Both his hands stayed at each side of Ilya’s thighs as he leaned in, mouthing at the outline of his cock through his underwear. Shane swore he heard Ilya cursing some words in Russian as his tongue lapped where the tip of his dick was.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” Ilya hummed.

It might’ve been the impatience of his voice that made Shane finally let his fingers tug down the waistband of the black briefs enough to get his cock out. Heavy, flushed, precum leaking over the tip.

Ilya took himself in his hand, fingers wrapped around the base of his cock. Shane let his eyes wander, catching the happy trail and following it back down to find his fist. 

Ilya was so hot, so hard, throbbing in his hand before he tapped his cock against Shane’s lips, smearing precum across the bottom lip.

“Open up.”

Shane parted his lips obediently, tongue darting out, letting Ilya run the tip over it.

“Now take it,” Ilya instructed, pressing down, and Shane closed his lips around him, hollowing his cheeks as he took him in. He was always so obedient.

Ilya watched him, gaze dark and heavy-lidded, as Shane replaced Ilya’s hands for his own. His fingers closed around the base of his cock. Slick heat radiated against his palm, his eyes never leaving Ilya as he rounded the flushed tip of his dick with his tongue.

“Fuck,” Ilya groaned, shifting against the seat. 

He fisted a handful of Shane’s hair, pushing the silken black strands back to get a view of those brown doe eyes. Ilya released a low sound, pleased, almost a hum, when his hand slid through his hair one more time.

The wet sound of Shane’s mouth filled the quiet of the car. He moved slowly, dragging the edge of his tongue over the slit and further down, trying his best to look at Ilya as he ran his tongue over his balls. Shane loved doing this. Loved blowjobs, loved the way Ilya reacted every single time.

Ilya groaned, head tipping back against the car seat. His legs spread wider, giving Shane more room. As if I needed it, Shane thought when he noticed the movement.

Ilya’s hand was still absently playing in Shane’s hair. He also muttered something in Russian as Shane took one of his balls into his mouth, giving it the slightest suck before doing the same for the other. 

His fingers held Ilya’s dick upright, dragging his tongue across salty skin. It drew a noise from Ilya that curled deep in his throat. His breath stuttered as Shane tightened his grip, gliding his palm back and forth, dragging the precum all the way down to the base of his dick, and then back up. Shane could feel the blood pulsing in his veins, more of it rushing in with each stroke, making him even stiffer.

There was a hand in the back of his head, pressing but not forcing, just holding, as if Ilya needed to ground himself. Maybe that was it, Shane thought, as he looked up. 

The image was obscene and filthy, almost impossible for Shane to look away from.

Ilya’s head was still tipped back against the headrest, throat exposed, breath dragging in and out in uneven pulls. His chest rose sharply with each inhale, fell with each shuddering exhale, the movement making the small orthodox crucifix he wore sway with every breath. A light layer of sweat shone on Ilya’s skin, not enough to drip, but enough to make him look fever-warm. A bead of it clung to the sharp line of his collarbone, slipping slowly down the slope of his chest.

Shane’s gaze dragged a little bit lower. The bear tattoo on Ilya’s left pec shifted with every breath, the ink rising and falling with the flex of muscle beneath as Shane took him deeper down his throat. The muscles across his stomach tightened and loosened in small, involuntary pulses, like his body couldn’t decide between tension and surrender.

Shane reached out without thinking.

His fingertips skimmed over Ilya’s ribs, then the warm plane of his torso. Heat radiated off him and it felt too much, almost burning. Shane felt the way the skin jumped beneath his touch, the faint tremor that ran through Ilya like he was trying not to react but failing anyway.

Ilya’s eyes cracked open, dark and blown-out, finding Shane instantly.

“Feels good?” Shane whispered after pulling off.

Ilya exhaled hard—a sharp, shaky sound punched straight from his lungs. His hand slid up Shane’s arm, fingers curling around his bicep as if grounding himself.

“Too good,” Ilya rasped, voice rough. His fingers tightened in Shane’s hair, guiding him back down, urging him to keep moving. “Want to see you gag on it.”

The words sent another pulse of heat down Shane’s spine as he returned his lips to the flushed tip. He moaned around it, sloppy and wet, jerking the rest of him with eager and clumsy strokes. Spit ran down over his knuckles but none of them seemed to care.

Shane loved the sensation, always had. There was something about blowing Ilya that he was never able to explain. The way he grew bigger in his mouth, twitching when his tongue pressed on that sensitive vein. He loved feeling full of Ilya.

But what he loved the most, maybe, was seeing Ilya falling apart, losing the control he always tried to have.

Shane’s face was flushed and his lips swollen red when he flicked his tongue out, licking at the head in short, needy strokes before sucking it back in. He pressed messy kisses down the length, moving his head slowly up and down along Ilya’s cock. A shuddered breath escaped him as Shane maintained eye contact, he was trying his best to rub his tongue along the sensitive underside, tracing the prominent vein there as he stroked with his hand what he couldn’t fit in his mouth.

Which was to say, there was a lot that his mouth couldn’t fit. Yet.

“Deeper, Hollander. You can take it.”

His fingers tangled in Shane’s jet-black strands and pushed his head down his cock, forcing his mouth wide as he slid his thick cock farther. Shane’s eyes watered as the tip pushed in, pressing past the first ring of muscle in his throat as he forced down the urge to gag around it. There was so much of it.

Tears pooled in his eyes but Ilya didn’t stop, not until Shane’s lips were snugged around the base of his shaft. 

“Relax your throat for me, relax—there we go,” Ilya groaned, hips jerking and his voice shattered into a rough croon. “So fucking good for me.”

The praise landed sharp in Shane’s chest, making his own cock throb painfully in his pants.

The deepest Shane took him, the sloppier Ilya got. His hands reached down to feel Shane’s throat, a hiss leaving him when he felt the bulge of his cock against his sweaty, warm palms. Tears continued to build in Shane’s eyes and fell swiftly, picking up at the point of his chin to mix with the saliva that was hanging there.

His jaw ached from holding it open, Ilya’s cock sliding in and out of his mouth in slow and precise movements but he didn’t want to stop. No matter how much his body screamed against it, his own desire to satisfy Ilya fought back. Shane closed his eyes as Ilya sped up a little, brows furrowed. 

Ilya’s pace picked up, the precise movements turning into a sharp, demanding rhythm that punched the air from Shane’s lungs with every thrust. The hand on Shane’s throat tightened, Ilya’s thumb pressing into the frantic pulse point as he felt himself slide in and out. He was chasing his own pleasure now, using Shane’s mouth, and the thought made Shane’s head spin.

“Look at me,” Ilya commanded, his voice a low growl.

Shane forced his eyelids open, vision blurry with tears. Ilya was a mess of sharp lines and flushed skin above him, his lips parted, his chest heaving. The wet, obscene sounds filled the car, the choked-off sounds Shane was making, the slick noise of Ilya’s cock driving into his throat. 

He pulled back suddenly, leaving Shane gasping, strings of spit and pre-cum connecting his swollen lips to the head of Ilya’s cock. Shane coughed, but before he could catch his breath, Ilya was pushing back in, deeper this time, forcing a choked gag from him.

“Take it,” Ilya ordered, his voice ragged. He held Shane’s head in place, his hips grinding in a slow circle, pressing his cock impossibly deeper. “Take all of it.”

Shane’s body went lax, surrendering completely. He let Ilya use him, let him fuck his throat in hard, deep strokes that made his vision swim. The tears flowed freely now, mixing with the drool that slicked his chin and dripped onto Ilya’s thighs. It was nasty, but it was just like he wanted. It was filthy and degrading and so fucking good he could barely stand it.

Ilya’s movements grew erratic, his rhythm breaking. He was close, Shane could notice it. His grip on his hair became almost painful, his hips stuttering as Ilya chased his release.

“Gonna cum,” he warned, his voice strained. “Fuck, Shane—”

Shane pulled off again, gasping for air, his lips slick and red. His fingers clutched around the base of Ilya’s cock, stroking it up and down in fast movements. 

“I want it,” Shane panted, his body suddenly tense. He wanted more of it. Wanted Ilya to keep talking to him in that rough, breathless and fucked-out tone, to order him around. “I want it, Ilya, please—”

“Fuck, that’s it,” Ilya groaned, the praise strained, roughened by the effort of holding himself back. “Going to come all over your pretty face—”

But Shane was waiting, mouth wide open, so wrecked by wanting it almost hurt to look at him.

His cheeks were flushed a deep red, heat blooming high across his cheekbones, spreading down to the line of his jaw. The low light in the car made the color even more vivid, highlighting the faint traces of tears that left thin, shining tracks down his cheeks, catching against the scattered freckles dusting his skin. Those freckles stood out even darker with how his face burned, a constellation across flushed skin.

His mouth was parted, lips swollen from how hard he was trying to keep still, to hold himself together. His tongue darted out unconsciously, the smallest flick, like he couldn’t stop responding to Ilya even for a second.

Shane’s eyes lifted, glassy and wide, pupils blown so far the brown was only a thin ring. He looked desperate and beautiful.

Ilya’s breath stalled. The sight of Shane like that — cheeks burning, freckles stark, faint tear-shine on his skin, mouth open with helpless want hit him so hard.

“Fuck, Shane.”

Hot, thick pulses of his release shot straight to his tongue, some of it covering his plump, swollen lips. Shane swallowed eagerly as he took everything that Ilya gave him. 

Shane slumped forward, his forehead resting against Ilya’s sweat-slick thigh, his body trembling. His throat was raw, his lips were bruised, and his jaw ached like he’d been punched. But he couldn’t be more horny.

He felt Ilya’s hand gently stroke his hair, a stark contrast to the brutal grip from moments before.

“Come here,” Ilya murmured, his voice hoarse. He pulled Shane up, manhandling him until he was straddling his lap.

For someone who just had an orgasm, Ilya moved with surprising speed and intensity, his mouth on Shane’s instantly, a messy, possessive kiss that tasted of salt and sex and him. He licked the tears and spit from Shane’s chin, his tongue claiming every last drop.

“You did so good, moya lyubov,” Ilya murmured against his lips, the words brushing warm and soft. His hands smoothed over Shane’s back, grounding him. “So perfect for me.”

Shane didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until Ilya drew him close, and then everything in him just… loosened. His forehead dropped to Ilya’s shoulder, chest still fluttering with the aftershocks.

Ilya gave him space to breathe before beginning to leave kisses on his cheeks, his throat, even the tips of his ears. He kissed all of Shane in slow succession, like he was trying to soothe every part of his body.

After a few moments, Ilya began claiming his lips once more, ramping up the intensity, as Shane began to frantically grind his still aching cock into Ilya’s thigh. 

He met Ilya’s intensity with his own, pouring every ounce of his desperate need into the kiss. His hands, which had been braced on Ilya’s shoulders, slid up to tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, holding him close. Ilya’s hands were just as busy if not more, one splayed wide against the small of Shane’s back, pressing their bodies together until there was no space left between them, while the other traced the sharp line of Shane’s jaw.

They kissed like they were trying to memorize the shape of each other’s mouths, a slide of tongues that was somehow more obscene than the act from moments before. Ilya pulled back just enough to look at Shane’s mouth, red and glistening, before diving back in, a low groan vibrating in his chest. 

Shane’s hips rolled, grinding pressure against Ilya’s lap, seeking friction for the ache that was building into an unbearable throb. He was so hard it hurt.

Ilya’s hand slid from Shane’s back down to his ass, gripping the firm muscle through his jeans and pulling him even closer, guiding his movements. The kiss broke for a second, their foreheads resting together as they panted for air.

“Fuck, I need you,” Ilya rasped, his voice thick with a desire that seemed to shake him to his core. 

His fingers moved with purpose, finding the button of Shane’s jeans and popping it open. Shane shuddered, his head falling back to expose the long line of his throat. Ilya took the invitation and let his mouth latch onto the sweat-slick skin there, sucking a dark mark into existence as his hand slipped beneath the waistband of Shane’s boxers. 

He didn’t wrap his fingers around him, not yet. Instead, Ilya just let his palm rest against the hot, hard length of Shane, letting him feel the weight of his touch.

“Don’t tease,” Shane almost begged.

Ilya lifted his head, his eyes glinting with amusement. 

“Not teasing. I’m appreciating.” 

He leaned in, capturing Shane’s mouth in a deep kiss that was all tongue and possessive heat. Shane, of course, melted into it, a desperate sound caught in his throat as he tried to rock his hips into Ilya’s palm, but Ilya’s other hand held his hip in a firm grip, stilling his movements.

When he pulled back, Shane was panting, his lips slick and swollen. “Ilya… please,” he whispered, the words ragged.

“Please what?” Ilya’s thumb stroked idly over the damp cotton of Shane’s boxers, tracing the outline of his tip. “Please this?” He applied a fraction more pressure, and Shane’s whole body jerked. “Or please this?” He leaned down and bit down gently on Shane’s collarbone, a sharp little sting that made Shane gasp. “Be more specific. My head’s still a little… fuzzy, yes?”

The lie was so blatant, so Ilya, that a frustrated laugh almost escaped Shane. 

“You know what I mean,” Shane gritted out, trying to thrust again, only to be stopped by that infuriatingly strong grip.

“I do not think I do,” Ilya made a clicking noise with his tongue. He had the audacity to sound almost annoyed.

“Do you want me to spell it out?”

Ilya leaned in again, not for a kiss, but to press his cheek against Shane’s, his lips right next to his ear. His breath was warm, smelling of sex and weed. “I need you to say it.”

“Please,” Shane started, his voice almost a whisper. “I want you to touch my dick. Please.”

“Much better.”

Ilya finally curled his fingers around Shane’s shaft, giving one slow pump from base to tip. Shane cried out, his head falling back against the headrest. Ilya used his thumb to swipe over the leaking tip, spreading the wetness around in slow circles.

“Fuck! That—fuck— just like that,” Shane babbled, his hands scrabbling for purchase on Ilya’s shoulders, his nails digging in. “Don’t stop, please, please.”

Ilya never wanted to stop. The rhythm he set was steady but the strokes were slow, designed to draw out every last drop of Shane’s desperation. He stole another kiss, swallowing Shane’s needy whimpers, his tongue fucking into his mouth with the same lazy pace as his hand. 

“You look so good like this,” Ilya whispered against his lips, his voice husky. “All fucked out and begging for it. Just for me.”

He punctuated the words with a twist of his wrist on the upstroke that made Shane’s vision white out. “Ilya, I’m gonna—”

“No,” Ilya said instantly, his hand stopping, releasing him completely. 

The loss was so sudden, so visceral, that Shane almost shouted in frustration. Ilya just shushed him with a soft kiss. 

“Not yet, moya lyubov. Not until I’m inside you.” He nudged Shane’s nose with his own, his eyes dark and serious now. “Lube, Shane. Now.”

Shane didn’t even hesitate. “Where did you put it?”

“Glove box,” Ilya breathed against his neck.

Shane scrambled to obey, his movements a bit clumsy. He was sure that, if it wasn’t for the fact both of them were hard as a rock, Ilya would be making fun of him. Shane swung one leg over the blond man, his knee knocking against the car interior, and twisted his body to face the front. He had to brace one hand on the passenger seat and hike his other knee up onto the center console to get the leverage he needed, his back and ass presented directly to Ilya’s line of sight.

The position was awkward, exposed. He knew Ilya was watching him, knew his gaze was fixed on the way his jeans were now loose and low on his hips, the dark material of his boxers peeking out from his open fly. He could feel the heat of Ilya’s stare like a physical touch as he fumbled with the glove box latch. 

It popped open with a stiff click, and a few papers and a manual fell out onto the floor. Shane ignored them, his heart hammering against his ribs as he rummaged through the clutter.

His fingers brushed against a cool, smooth tube and he grabbed it. He was acutely aware of every sound Ilya made behind him—the rustle of his own clothes, the sharp inhale, the low, appreciative Russian curse. 

Shane felt like he was on display, like every inch of him was for Ilya’s eyes only, and the thought sent a dizzying rush of arousal straight to his cock, making it twitch against the fabric of his boxers.

Finally, he pushed himself upright, the small bottle clutched in his hand. Shane turned his flushed face back slowly, his eyes dark and wild as he met Ilya’s hungry gaze. He held the lube out like an offering.

Ilya took the small bottle from Shane’s hand and placed it on the seat beside him. “Stay just like that,” he commanded.

Shane’s heart was pounding against his ribs. He was still twisted, half-kneeling, laid out at an angle over the center console and the passenger seat, his body an open invitation in the cramped backseat. 

Ilya’s hands came to rest on his hips, holding him in place. Then, he leaned forward, and Shane felt the first press of his lips against the curve of his ass, right over the denim. It was a soft kiss that followed another, and another, and another,   each one trailing a path of heat across his skin as Ilya’s fingers hooked into the waistband of Shane’s jeans and boxers, tugging them down in one smooth motion. The cool air hit Shane’s skin, and he shivered, completely exposed. 

“Is this okay?” Ilya murmured against him, the words a deep vibration that Shane felt more than heard.

Shane could only manage a choked nod, he pressed his forehead against the cool leather of the passenger seat. “Yes,” he said, the word a desperate puff of air. “God, yes, Ilya.”

Ilya didn’t give him time to feel self-conscious. His hands gripped the bare flesh of his ass, spreading him open, and then Shane felt the first, shocking touch of Ilya’s tongue against his hole.

“Fuck!” A raw, broken sound tore from Shane’s throat. 

It was slow at first, a wet flick. Ilya licked around the tight ring of muscle, teasing, tasting, his breath hot against Shane's entrance. He flattened his tongue and licked a broad, sloppy stripe over him, and Shane’s composure shattered. 

He became a mess of whines and whimpers in a matter of seconds, his fingers clawing at the passenger seat as Ilya ate him out with a hungry, single-minded focus. He was messy and loud as he fucked his tongue into Shane, alternating between stiff thrusts and wide, languid licks that left him shaking.

Shane was rutting against the seat now, a mindless, desperate search for friction, his cock leaking steadily onto the leather. He hoped Ilya wouldn’t mind it.

Just when Shane thought he couldn’t take any more, Ilya pulled back slightly. He cried out at the loss, but the sound was cut short as Shane felt the cool, wet drizzle of lube over his hole. 

“Jesus! You could’ve at least warned me!” Shane complained as he heard the click of the bottle cap, the slick sound of Ilya coating his fingers.

“Ahhhh, and miss these reactions? No, no,” Ilya said, and Shane didn’t even have to look back to know that he was smirking.

The blond man’s hand returned to his hip, holding him steady. 

“I’m gonna get you ready for me,” Ilya muttered against his skin. “Gonna open you up, get you all wet and loose so I can fuck you proper, yes?” He pressed the tip of one slick finger against Shane’s entrance, not pushing in, just letting him feel the pressure. “Is that okay? Can I make you ready for my cock?”

A broken whine was Shane’s only answer. He pushed his hips back, a silent plea for more, but Ilya held him firm. Unlike Shane, he seemed like he was happy to take his time. He wanted to savor this, to take Shane apart piece by piece.

Slowly and torturously, Ilya pressed that single slick finger inside. 

They hadn’t been together in a while, enough for Shane to feel a slight stretch that was immediately eclipsed by a jolt of pleasure that made his toes curl. Ilya didn’t move, just let him adjust, his lips pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to the curve of Shane’s ass. He was murmuring something, in Russian, that vibrated against Shane’s skin.

“…takoy krasivyy… moy prekrasnyy mal’chik…”

Shane’s hazy brain managed to catch the words. So pretty… my beautiful boy. The praise, spoken in Ilya’s native tongue, was so intimate that it made his chest ache. He felt overwhelmed, cherished, and still, it wasn’t enough. He needed more.

“Another,” Shane gasped, his voice cracking. “Please, another finger. I can take it.”

Ilya chuckled, smug and sweet. “I know you can take it.” 

He slowly withdrew his finger, leaving Shane feeling achingly empty, before pushing back in with two. The stretch was more intense this time, a satisfying burn that had Shane’s eyes rolling back in his head. 

And then Ilya did something that made him see stars. He spat a warm, filthy splash of saliva right over his stretched hole, adding to the slick mess of lube.

The sound was borderline nasty, but it was also the hottest thing Shane had ever felt. Ilya scissored his fingers, spreading him even more open. He was rocking back, meeting each thrust of Ilya’s fingers, chasing the pleasure that was coiling tight in his gut.

“More,” he begged, his voice a high, needy whine. “Please, Ilya, more, I need—”

He didn’t even know what he was saying, just mumbling words, lost in the haze of being so thoroughly opened. 

“Patience, Shane.”

“Pozhaluysta.”

Please.

The effect was instantaneous.

Ilya froze. His entire body went rigid behind him, and a sharp, pained hiss escaped his lips. It was the sound of a man pushed to his absolute limit. Shane had heard that sound before, but never like this.

“Fuck,” Ilya gritted out, his voice strained. 

He pulled his fingers free and Shane cried out at the sudden emptiness, but it was only for a second. Ilya returned with three, pressing them in deep and hard.

“You don’t get to say that,” Ilya growled, his hips jerking involuntarily, his own cock aching. “Not when you are like this. You do not get to speak Russian like that and beg.”

He fucked his fingers into Shane with a new intensity, crooking just right to nail his prostate with every thrust. White-hot pleasure shot up Shane’s spine, and he sobbed, his forehead banging lightly against the seat.

“Okay?” Ilya hummed, pressing deeper. “Does that feel nice, Shane?”

“So good,” Shane babbled, his words slurring together. He was fucking himself back on Ilya’s hand now, shameless, taking everything he was given. “Feels so fucking good, don’t stop, please don’t stop—”

A low, breathy laugh escaped Ilya’s lips. “Look at you,” he murmured, his voice laced with amusement. “So desperate for it. Fucking yourself on my fingers like a little slut.”

Heat flooded Shane’s cheeks, a wave of mortification and arousal so potent it made his head spin. “Fuck off,” he moaned, but the words were nothing but a weak protest lost between his gasps and whimpers.

Ilya chuckled, and twisted his fingers, making Shane cry out. “Yeah,” he breathed, leaning down to bite the fleshy part of his ass. “Like I said. My slut.”

The words, so filthy and so true, shattered the last of Shane’s restraint. All he could manage was a weak scrunch of his nose before a groan cut him off. His legs spasmed when Ilya scissored his fingers inside him, stretching him out.

“Yes,” he gasped, his voice a wrecked, desperate thing. “Yes, I—I am. Only yours. Your slut.”

The fast rhythm of Ilya’s fingers against his prostate was pushing him closer, the heat building until his vision started to swim. Shane squeezed his eyes shut.

“Ilya, I’m gonna—fuck, I’m close,” he whimpered, the words sounded like a warning.

And just like that, it stopped. Ilya’s fingers stilled inside him, but he didn’t pull out. The pressure, the movement, the rhythm, though—it was all gone. The knot in Shane’s stomach, which had been about to snap, slowly started to fade away.

“No, no, no,” Shane cried out, his breath hitching.

He tried to fuck himself back on Ilya’s hand, to create the friction he so desperately needed, but Ilya’s other hand clamped down on his hip like a vice, holding him completely still. 

“Please, Ilya, please don’t stop, I was so close, I need it—”

“Patience, Shane,” Ilya’s voice was a low, calm rumble against his back, a stark contrast to the storm raging inside Shane. He leaned in, his lips brushing the curve of his ass one more time. “I told you. Patience.”

The words were a cruel reminder that broke something in Shane. He wanted to scream, to fight, to beg. But a small, obedient part of him, the part that belonged to Ilya, won out. 

Shane forced himself to still, his entire body trembling with the effort. He dragged air in through his nose, the cool air a stark contrast to the fire burning under his skin. He held it for a second, then let it out in a shuddering, ragged exhale.

His body was a traitor, though, for the way his ass clenched and fluttered around Ilya’s fingers. Shane felt hollowed out, a vessel waiting to be filled, and the need for it was a physical ache. 

Ilya felt it too, of course he did. The power of having Shane like this, so needy and pliant, was a heady drug, but the need to be inside him was stronger.

“Alright,” Ilya breathed. “Alright, moya lyubov. I’ve got you.”

He slowly, carefully, withdrew his fingers. His thighs ached from tensing up so much, but it was nothing compared to the restless, pulsing heat still deep in his stomach. Shane whimpered at the sudden emptiness, his hole twitching around nothing, every nerve still buzzing like it was begging for more.

“Turn around,” Ilya commanded. “Ride my cock.”

Shane’s limbs felt like lead as he clumsily maneuvered himself in the cramped space. He swung his leg back over Ilya’s lap, his knees settling on either side of Ilya’s powerful thighs. He took a good look at Ilya, and the sight stole the air from his lungs.

Ilya was leaning back against the seat, his legs spread wide in a stance of pure, masculine invitation. His hard cock pressed against his stomach—it was flushed a dark, angry red, the head swollen and glistening with a bead of pre-cum that slid slowly down the shaft. It looked painfully hard, a testament to how much he wanted this, how much Ilya wanted Shane.

Shane hovered over him, his hands braced on Ilya’s shoulders. He didn’t move, didn’t try to sink down. He waited for Ilya to take control.

As if he was reading his mind, Ilya’s hand came up to cup the back of his neck, pulling him down for a kiss that made Shane’s pulse spike. He gasped softly into the kiss, and Ilya took advantage of that, pressing closer, lips moving with more intent. 

His other hand, slick with lube, wrapped around his own cock, stroking it slowly once, twice, coating himself. Then he let go and took Shane’s hip in a firm grip.

“Look at me,” Ilya ordered.

Shane’s eyes met Ilya's gaze full of need. He looked down, watching as the other man guided his cock, positioning the thick head against Shane’s hole, wet from the mess of precum. Ilya hummed, looking smug, still grinding against him, keeping Shane in the same position.

“Easy,” Ilya murmured, his thumb stroking circles on Shane’s skin. “Slow. I want you to feel every inch.”

And then he began to pull him down. The head of his cock pressed inside him properly this time, and Shane exhaled hard through his nose. His mouth fell open; the stretch stung It made his eyes water a little, but underneath the burn of Ilya’s cock popping past the tight ring of muscle, there was something else. It made Shane feel dizzy, his head full of lust. Full of something that had his body trembling harder, his toes curling.

It had been too long. Days, weeks, an eternity since they’d last been like this, and his body had forgotten the sheer, overwhelming size of him.

“You’re taking me so well,” Ilya murmured, his lips finding Shane’s shoulder and kissing it softly. “Open a little bit more for me. That’s it.”

Ilya didn’t stop, he kept pulling and pulling, guiding Shane down his cock inch by agonising inch. Shane’s hands stilled on his shoulders, knuckles white and nails digging crescent moon shapes into his shoulders. He could feel everything, from every thick vein to the ridge of Ilya’s shaft as it slid into him.

The feeling of being so completely, utterly full was indescribable. Contrary to Ilya, Shane hadn’t had many previous experiences but he knew he wouldn’t trade this for anything. Nothing could compare, anyway. It may sound stupid, Shane thought, but all of this—sleeping with Ilya, having him this way—felt like coming home. This is where both of them belonged.

“Breathe for me, Shane,” Ilya reminded him, his voice strained with the effort of holding back, of being so gentle when every instinct screamed at him to slam up, to bury himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.

Shane tried, he really did, but his breath was coming in short, sharp pants. He felt lightheaded, his vision blurring at the edges. Ilya waited, pausing, buried only a little deeper, his cock straining against the tight resistance of Shane's body. 

Finally, with a last, brutal push from Ilya’s hand on his hip, he was all the way in. Shane’s ass was against Ilya’s lap, and he could feel Ilya’s balls pressed against him. He was buried to the hilt.

“That’s it,” Ilya kissed his flushed skin one more time. His own voice sounded weak, but neither of them commented on it. “You’re doing so good.”

Shane dropped his forehead to Ilya’s shoulder, his breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps. “Fuck,” he groaned, breathing just as hard as Ilya was. 

He felt Ilya’s hand move from his hip to his ass, gripping the flesh possessively, while his other hand stroked up and down his spine, comforting him.

“Is okay?” Ilya asked, his voice softer now, laced with a genuine concern that made Shane’s heart ache.

He managed a weak nod, his face still buried in Ilya’s neck. The Russian shifted slightly, an experimental roll of his hips, and the movement made him feel too full, split wide, pinned down by Ilya’s hands on his hips.

Then, Ilya rocked his hips again, barely pulling out before easing forward. It wasn’t a real rhythm, but the reaction came immediately. “You feel—fuck, Ilya, you feel perfect.”

“Yeah?” Ilya teased, he left another kiss on his skin. His fingers dug deeper on Shane’s hips. “Right there?”

Shane nodded breathlessly.

As if he wanted to prove himself, Ilya did it again and Shane swore he saw stars. His body, which had been trembling with the effort of holding still, began to move on its own in an unhurried rhythm that sought more of that incredible friction. Shane lifted his hips slightly, then sank back down, the drag of Ilya’s cock inside him sending sparks of pleasure skittering along his nerves.

He rode Ilya slowly. In all these years they had been hooking up together, Shane didn’t remember a time where they did it this way. They were usually fast, hurried; clothes discarded as soon as they stepped in whatever room they had chosen to fuck in. They never had time, not really, not more than a few hours before leaving, so it wasn’t like they could slow down, take it easy, and enjoy the deep, rolling waves of pure pleasure.

That was mainly the reason why Shane was taking his time, despite how much he needed more from Ilya. He let out a sound that sounded like a sob, his body arching involuntarily, clenching around his cock.

Ilya’s hands were everywhere, gripping the flesh of Shane’s ass with so much force that could leave a bruise, which probably was going to piss Shane off later but neither of them seemed to care. He pulled the cheeks apart only to push them back together as Shane sank down to the hilt. His gaze was a physical thing, a weight of pure lust and something far more terrifying. He looked at Shane like he was the only thing in the universe that mattered, the only thing that had ever mattered.

And maybe that was the only right thing.

“Look at you,” Ilya rasped, his words tumbling into a broken moan that spilled out before he could stop it. “Riding me like you were made for it. Taking my cock so deep.”

Shane’s answer was to do it again, a little faster this time. The car was filled with the sounds of their bodies colliding—the wet slap of skin on skin, their ragged breaths, the low groans that were wrenched from their chests. 

Shane leaned in, capturing Ilya’s mouth in a kiss that was all tongue and teeth and desperation, his hands still clinging to Ilya’s shoulders as he rode him. He licked his way into Ilya’s mouth, tasting him. He sucked on Ilya’s tongue, pulling it into his own mouth, a filthy act that made Ilya groan and buck his hips up, driving his cock even deeper. Shane gasped into his mouth, breaking the kiss for a second to breathe, his lips swollen and glistening.

“Again,” Shane demanded, his voice a rough command. “Kiss me like that again.”

Ilya did, his mouth crashing back down on Shane’s. He licked at the seam of his lips, then delved inside, exploring every corner of his mouth. He licked the roof of his mouth, the sharp edge of his teeth, his own tongue tangling with Shane’s in a slick, intimate dance. It was so wet, so dirty, and so incredibly nasty.

Shane picked up the pace, his movements becoming more fluid, more confident now. He was no longer just sinking down; he was rolling his hips, grinding his ass in circles, Ilya’s cock hitting that spot deep inside him that made his entire body light up. The pressure was building again, that familiar coil of heat tightening in his gut.

“You feel so good inside me,” Shane panted, his forehead resting against Ilya’s. “So deep. I can feel you everywhere.”

“Yeah?” Ilya’s hands slid up his back, pulling him closer, his chest pressed against Shane’s. He wrapped his arms around his waist, holding Shane in a tight embrace as he continued to ride him. “You like that? You like being full of my cock?”

“God, yes,” Shane whined, his head falling back. The change in angle made Ilya’s cock press directly against his prostate, and a strangled cry escaped his lips. “Right there, Ilya, fuck, fuck, fuck—”

Ilya held him steady, his own hips beginning to thrust up in a slow, powerful rhythm that met Shane’s downward movements. His sobs tapered into breathless whimpers, punctuated by sharp, high noises every time Ilya rocked forward just enough to press against him.

Shane moaned, the sound erotic and broken as he pushed down harder, chasing that faint grind. Under him, Ilya wasn’t doing much better, exhaling through his nose with his jaw tight, as if fighting to keep steady when Shane started rocking his hips in earnest.

“Touch yourself,” Ilya commanded, his voice a low growl against his ear. “I want to see you cum like this. I want to feel you cum on my cock.”

Shane didn’t hesitate. He fumbled between their bodies, his hand wrapping around his own neglected cock. It was leaking steadily, the head slick with pre-cum. He gave it a tight squeeze, his hips stuttering at the sensation of Ilya inside him and his own hand on his dick.

“Look at me,” Ilya ordered him again, his voice firm and slightly desperate.

Shane forced his eyes open, blurry with pleasure. He met Ilya’s gaze, and what he saw there undid him completely. It was that same raw, unguarded desire, but now it was mixed with a fierce love.

A soft whimper escaped his lips as he shifted, the muscles in his thighs were protesting. His knees ached, too, but he ignored it all. Sweat slicked Shane’s skin and he could feel the heat radiating from Ilya, their bodies tangled together in a rhythm that was tender.

Ilya’s hands roamed over Shane’s back, his touch gentle as he muttered, “You’re doing so good,” he murmured against Shane’s ear.

“I love you,” Shane whispered against Ilya’s mouth, his voice trembling. “I—I love you so much.”

Ilya’s response was a soft groan, his hands tightening on his hips now as he guided him, their movements becoming more deliberate and sloppy.

“I love you too,” he breathed, his eyes never leaving Shane’s. “Always.”

The words hung in the air between them, a sacred vow uttered in the eye of the storm. The rolling rhythm of Shane’s hips began to falter, becoming more erratic and sloppy.

“Ilya,” he breathed, the name a prayer and a curse. 

His hand, still wrapped around his own cock, had stilled, the pleasure too overwhelming, too all-consuming to coordinate any movement beyond the agitated rocking of his body. 

“I—I can’t—” he moaned, words stumbling out of his mouth.

“Just feel,” Ilya groaned, his voice coated with lust. His hands, which had been holding Shane, were now gripping his hips with bruising force, his fingers digging into the sweat-slicked flesh. “Feel me, feel how much I want you.”

And Shane could. He could feel it in the way Ilya’s cock throbbed inside him, a thick and heavy presence that seemed to pulse with his own heartbeat. He could feel it in the desperate way Ilya’s hips were pushing upwards, meeting his downward grinds with growing urgency.

The slow and powerful thrusts were breaking apart, devolving into something primal and raw.

“Please,” Shane whined, the sound torn from his throat. He didn’t know what he was begging for. For release? For it never to end? For Ilya to fuck him so hard he forgot his own name? “Ilya, please, I—I need, I need—”

“I know,” Ilya panted, his forehead pressed against Shane’s, their sweat mingling, their breaths blending into one. “I know, sweetheart. I feel it too—”

Their words were devolving into nonsense. They were no longer speaking in sentences. 

Shane dropped his head to the crook of Ilya’s neck, his mouth open against the damp skin of his throat. He could feel the beat of Ilya’s pulse against his lips.

“Say it again,” Shane demanded in a whiny voice, muffled by the other man’s skin. “Tell me.”

Ilya felt too dazed to understand. “What?”

“That you love me,” another whine slipped out of his mouth.

“I love you,” Ilya grunted immediately, his hips snapping up faster, harder. “I love you so much. Mine. Always mine.”

“Yours,” Shane sobbed, the word a broken sound.

The coil in Shane’s gut was winding tighter, so tight it was painful. It was a pressure building in his lower stomach, his balls close to bursting. He was so close he could even taste it. 

Every thrust pushed him closer and closer to the edge, every drag of Ilya’s cock against his prostate was a fresh jolt of electricity that made his entire body convulse.

He was mindless, lost to everything but the feeling of being filled, being claimed, being fucked. His own cock was forgotten now as his hands moved to Ilya’s shoulders, leaving it trapped between their bodies, leaking a steady stream of pre-cum that slicked their stomachs. It was nasty and filthy, but Shane needed more. He needed something to push him over.

With a groan that seemed to come from the depths of his throat, Ilya braced his heels, digging them into the floor of the car. The shift was immediate. With his feet planted, Ilya unleashed a new tempo, a punishing, relentless pace that stole the air from both of their lungs.

“Fuck, Shane,” he muttered, voice wrecked.

His hips pistoned upwards, driving his cock into Shane with a force that was almost violent in its intensity. The slow, deep fucking was over, turning into pure, primal claiming.

The sound of their bodies slapping together filled the car, a wet clap of skin on skin that was almost pornographic. It was the sound of Ilya’s balls, heavy and tight with need, smacking against the curve of Shane’s ass with every powerful thrust.

“Ah—! Fuck, Ilya!” Shane cried out, his body arching, chest meeting Ilya’s.

He was being fucked in earnest now, his body nothing more than a vessel for Ilya’s pleasure, which pleased Shane in turn. He loved being used like that. The new angle was devastating, the depth incredible. Ilya was hitting that spot inside him with every single thrust that had him seeing stars behind his eyelids. 

“Is this what you wanted?” Ilya snarled, his voice dark. His eyes were locked on Shane’s, watching every flicker of pleasure and twitch of his muscles. He was drinking him in, consuming him. “Is this what you needed? You needed me to fuck you? To take you like this?”

“Yes!” Shane screamed, the word ripped from him. “Yes—Yes, like that. Don’t stop—please, God—!”

He was babbling again. He could feel the orgasm building, a tidal wave gathering strength, a roaring in his ears that drowned out everything else. It started in his toes, a tingling numbness that was creeping up his legs, tightening his thighs. His balls drew up, hard and aching, and his cock, trapped between them, throbbed with need.

“I’m gonna—I’m gonna cum,” he sobbed, the words catching in his throat.

“Cum for me,” Ilya commanded, his voice rough and his own climax getting close, too. “Let me feel it. Cum all over my cock.”

The words were the final push. The permission, the demand, it was all Shane needed. A strangled cry tore from his throat as his orgasm slammed into him, his inner walls clenching around Ilya’s cock, and then his whole body seized. His back bowed into an arc, head thrown back.

His cock erupted, spurting thick and hot ropes of cum between their stomachs, making it sticky and obscene. Shane was shaking as he felt the slick mess spreading across their skin. 

Through the haze of his own orgasm, he felt Ilya’s rhythm falter, his thrusts becoming erratic and sloppy. He heard a choked-off groan, and then Ilya was burying himself deep, with one last, powerful thrust.

“Shane,”  Ilya gasped, his voice breaking as he came.

He felt it as a flood of heat, a sudden, deep warmth that bloomed inside him as Ilya emptied himself. Ilya’s body went rigid, his muscles locking as he pulsed, his cock throbbing with his release. It was incredibly intimate the way Shane was being filled so completely, and it sent a fresh, smaller wave of pleasure through his already spent body.

For a long moment, they were silent. The only sounds were their ragged, desperate gasps for air and the intense hammering of their hearts. Then, slowly, their bodies relaxed, the tension finally draining out of them.

Ilya’s arms were wrapped around Shane, holding him close. His chest rose and fell beneath Shane’s cheek which was now pressed against it. Shane could feel his heart gradually slowing, matching the lazy, contented pace of his own.

Then, a low, rumbling chuckle vibrated through Ilya’s chest, stirring the damp hair on Shane's head.

“Well,” Ilya said, his voice a hoarse, happy wreck. “That was something.”

Shane let out a weak, breathy laugh. “Something?” he mumbled into his skin. “I think this car will reek of sex and weed forever.”

“Good,” Ilya shifted slightly, the movement making them both groan as their bodies protested. He pressed a soft kiss to Shane’s temple. “We should definitely smoke weed together more often.”

“Yeah, no,” Shane lifted his head just enough to glare at him, exhausted and amused.

Ilya just grinned, that lazy, satisfied grin that made Shane’s stomach do a little flip. “What? I’m just saying. Was good sex.”

“Shut up,” Shane sighed but he was smiling.

He leaned in for a kiss, and Ilya met him halfway. It was tender, and impossibly sweet, completely different from the desperate way they were kissing moments ago. There was no urgency in this one, no race to a finish line.

When they finally parted, they rested their foreheads together, sharing the same small pocket of air.

“Okay,” Ilya murmured, his voice soft as he playfully palmed Shane’s ass a few times. “Time to clean. Hold still.” He eased his hands to Shane’s hips, his touch gentler now. “Lift up for me, just a little. Slowly.”

Shane braced his hands on Ilya’s shoulders, his muscles screaming in protest as he carefully lifted himself. The feeling of Ilya sliding out of him was strange, a sudden emptiness that felt like a loss. A slick wetness followed, and Shane felt a bit disgusting, but he didn’t say anything.

“You did so good,” Ilya said, his thumb stroking Shane’s hip bone. He guided Shane to the seat next to him.

Shane watched as Ilya moved and grabbed a tissue from the glove box. He watched as Ilya balled it up and gently began to clean Shane’s stomach. The touch was caring, wiping away the evidence of his orgasm; eyes focused on his task. He did the same with his own.

“There we go,” Ilya murmured, tossing the tissue into the cupholder on the door. He leaned in and kissed Shane’s lips, then his cheek and finally his forehead. “All clean.”

Shane hummed, happier now. He snuggled closer to Ilya’s side, tucking himself under his arm. The backseat was cramped and uncomfortable, his knees were aching and he was pretty sure he’d have a crick in his neck tomorrow, but Shane wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.

Ilya pressed another kiss to his hair, then pulled back just enough to look down at him, a mischievous glint back in his eyes. He gestured at the general area of Shane’s stomach, which was now clean.

“You know,” he said, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “If I knew getting you high would make you so horny, I would have done it ages ago.”

“Fuck you!”

 

Notes:

thank you for the comments! i've seen some of you talking abt the fic on tiktok and it makes me so happy every time lol thank you so much. my twitter is @hajinights if you wanna know more about my other wips and stuff, see ya!