Work Text:
Club
Shane is already a little drunk when Kip starts talking about it.
Not drunk enough to be sloppy, never that, but loose enough that things slip past his defences and lodge themselves somewhere uncomfortable instead of bouncing off.
They’re crowded into a booth at the edge of the club, bass thrumming through the floor, lights cutting everyone into sharp colours. Ilya’s shoulder presses warm against Shane’s, familiar and grounding, until he gets up to grab drinks and the space beside Shane cools.
Scott’s leaning forward, elbows on the table, nodding along to whatever Kip’s saying, and Shane’s only half listening until Kip laughs and says, casual as anything, “Yeah, I mean, we switch it up. Keeps it hot.”
“Depends on the mood,” Scott adds. “Sometimes you wanna be the one holding everything together. Sometimes you wanna let go.”
Let go.
The words slide right under Shane’s ribs and stick there.
Kip’s already moved on, talking about some guy from Toronto, but Shane’s brain latches on like it always does, worrying at the phrase until it starts to itch. Let go of what, exactly. Control, maybe. Expectation. The role you’re good at. The role people think you want.
Shane’s always known what he wants. He likes being wanted, likes the clarity of it, the simplicity. With Ilya especially, it’s easy - effortless, even. Ilya takes up space. Ilya decides. Shane responds. It’s not a script so much as gravity.
It’s never felt stale.
But then Shane looks up and sees Ilya at the bar.
Someone tall has angled himself in close, one arm braced on the counter like he owns it, body turned deliberately toward Ilya’s. Shane can’t hear them over the music, but he can see the shape of the interaction easily enough: the man leaning in, saying something that makes Ilya’s mouth tilt.
The guy’s big. Bigger than Shane. Broad shoulders, confident stance, the kind of presence that reads dominant from across a room.
Shane’s chest tightens - not with jealousy, exactly. He trusts Ilya. That’s not the problem.
The problem is the way his brain starts filling in gaps he didn’t know were there.
What if Ilya likes that.
What if Ilya wants that.
What if Ilya wants to let go.
Shane shifts, restless, fingers tapping against his thigh. He tries to tell himself it’s nothing. People flirt with Ilya all the time. Ilya flirts back, harmless and bright, always comes home with Shane. End of story.
Except Shane’s brain doesn’t do end of story. It does what-ifs and maybes and quiet panic.
He thinks about being rigid. About how easy it’s been to fall into patterns. About how much he likes being held in place by Ilya’s certainty - and how that might look from the outside. How that might feel, if you were the one always taking the lead.
What if Ilya’s been bored.
What if he’s been craving something different and Shane’s just… missed it.
By the time Ilya comes back with drinks, sliding in beside him again, warm and solid and smiling, Shane’s already decided.
Home
Shane doesn’t announce it when they get home.
He just starts.
Ilya’s barely kicked off his shoes before Shane’s hands are on him, firmer than usual, pushing him back against the door.
Ilya blinks, surprised, breath hitching just a little as Shane crowds into his space.
“Shane?” he says, questioning, but there’s no alarm in it.
Shane kisses him hard instead of answering, teeth clicking, tongues tangling. He tells himself to commit. To be decisive. To take.
He presses Ilya back again, guiding him down the hallway, keeping a grip on his wrist like he’s seen in porn and locker room stories and things he’s never really wanted to emulate before. It feels… wrong, somehow. Not bad. Just unfamiliar, like writing with his non-dominant hand.
Ilya goes with it, though. Lets himself be maneuvered, stripped, laid back on the bed. There’s a moment - just a flicker - where his brows draw together, confusion flashing across his face, before it smooths out into something careful and attentive.
Shane doesn’t notice. He’s too busy trying to remember what he’s supposed to do.
He kisses Ilya’s mouth, then his throat, then lower, hands mapping territory he knows by heart but touching it differently, claiming instead of exploring. He tells himself this is what dominance feels like. That it’s just confidence, applied pressure.
But his heart’s racing too fast, and his thoughts are too loud.
Ilya’s beautiful laid out like this, hair mussed, skin flushed, eyes dark. He looks up at Shane with something like trust, and it makes Shane’s chest ache.
It’s barely noticeable, just a fraction of a second where his hands still, his breath catches, but Ilya feels it immediately. He looks up at Shane, eyes sharp and steady, and Shane hates how seen he feels.
“You okay?” Ilya asks, soft but direct.
Shane swallows. His palms are warm where they rest on Ilya’s thighs, thumbs pressing lightly into skin like he’s anchoring himself there. “Yeah. I just-” He exhales. “I want to. I just don’t want to… rush you.”
Ilya’s mouth curves, something fond flickering across his face. “You’re not rushing,” he says. “You can ask.”
Shane nods, relief loosening something in his chest. “Can I?” he asks quietly. “Like this?”
“Yes,” Ilya says immediately, no hesitation. Then, because he always does, he adds, “And if you want to stop, we stop.”
That helps more than Shane wants to admit.
He leans down, kissing Ilya again, slower this time, letting himself feel instead of plan. His hands roam, familiar territory easing his nerves, until Ilya shifts beneath him, spreading his legs a little wider in an unmistakable invitation.
“Prep,” Ilya murmurs, almost amused. “Unless you want this end badly for both of us.”
Shane snorts despite himself and reaches for the lube on the nightstand. His hands shake just a bit as he coats his fingers, hyperaware again, but Ilya reaches out and stills his wrist.
“Easy,” he says. “I’ll tell you.”
Shane nods and presses a slick finger in slowly, watching Ilya’s face for every reaction. Ilya exhales, shoulders dropping as he relaxes into it, one hand coming down to guide Shane’s wrist, setting the pace.
“Good,” Ilya says softly. “Just like that.”
The praise makes Shane’s stomach flip.
He adds another finger when Ilya tells him to, moves when Ilya nudges him, waits when Ilya tightens and breathes through it. It’s intimate in a way that makes Shane’s chest ache, not dominant, not submissive, just connected.
“You’re doing fine,” Ilya murmurs, meeting Shane’s eyes. “You are with me?”
“Yeah,” Shane says, voice rough. “I’m with you.”
Shane lines himself up from between Ilya’s thighs, pushes in with a sharp breath, and Ilya gasps, back arching. The sound goes straight through Shane, sparks of pleasure and something like relief chasing each other down his spine.
Okay, he thinks. Okay.
He sets a rhythm, thrusts deep, hands braced on either side of Ilya’s shoulders. He tries to keep his face neutral, his movements sure. To be what he thinks he’s supposed to be.
But it’s work. Every thrust feels like a conscious choice instead of instinct. He’s hyperaware of everything - his angle, his grip, the way Ilya’s breath stutters when he hits right. He can’t let go of the thought that he’s doing this for Ilya, that this is a performance meant to prove something.
Ilya’s hands slide up his arms, fingers curling, not pulling him closer so much as… adjusting. His heels dig in, changing the angle minutely, and Shane groans despite himself.
“Like that,” Ilya murmurs, low and warm. “Yes. Good.”
The praise hits Shane harder than any command ever has.
He loses his rhythm for a second, stuttering, and Ilya takes the opportunity to roll his hips, meeting him there. The movement is smooth, confident, unmistakably guiding.
Shane swallows. He should stop it. Reassert himself. This is supposed to be-
But his body loosens instead, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. He lets Ilya set the pace, lets himself be pulled into it, and suddenly it’s easier. Better.
Ilya’s voice stays steady, murmuring encouragement, breathy praise, little adjustments that keep Shane right where he wants him. His hands slide down Shane’s back, nails scraping lightly, grounding him in sensation instead of thought.
Shane’s still adjusting - finding the rhythm, the angle - when Ilya’s hands slide from his back to his hips, grip firm and sure.
“Come here,” Ilya murmurs.
It doesn’t sound like a request.
Before Shane can overthink it, Ilya shifts, using leverage Shane forgets he has until it’s too late. He rolls them smoothly, strength controlled and practiced, until Shane’s back hits the mattress and Ilya’s straddling him, still connected, still taking him in.
Shane gasps, hands flying to Ilya’s waist. “Ilya-”
“I know,” Ilya says, breath warm as he leans down, forearms braced beside Shane’s head. His hips roll, slow and deliberate, drawing a sound out of Shane that he doesn’t bother trying to swallow. “Just-let me.”
The movement is different like this. Deeper. More controlled. Ilya sets the pace effortlessly, riding Shane with an ease that makes Shane’s head spin. Every roll of his hips is intentional, every shift designed to pull Shane exactly where he wants him.
Shane tries to thrust up instinctively, to regain some semblance of control, but Ilya’s hand presses flat to his chest, holding him down with gentle, undeniable pressure.
“Stay,” Ilya says quietly.
The word lands heavy.
Shane’s breath stutters, his body responding before his brain can catch up. He stills, hands curling into the sheets, and the tension he’d been carrying finally snaps.
“Oh,” he breathes, realization hitting him all at once. “Oh.”
Ilya, still riding him, smiles down at him - soft, fond, a little smug. “There you are,” he says.
He keeps moving, slow and relentless, using his body to guide Shane instead of force him. Shane feels wrecked by it, by the contrast of Ilya being the one on top while still opening himself, still giving and taking control at the same time.
Shane’s thoughts finally quiet, replaced by sensation and the steady weight of Ilya over him. This - this is familiar. This is right.
He lets his hands roam up Ilya’s back, grounding himself in the feel of him, trusting the way Ilya’s rhythm never falters.
“Better?” Ilya asks softly, already knowing the answer.
Shane nods, throat tight. “Yeah,” he manages. “So much better.”
Shane realizes he’s no longer leading at all.
And the relief of it is dizzying.
From Ilya’s perspective, the shift is obvious the second Shane stops trying so hard.
He’d been surprised at first - Shane coming on strong, all sharp edges and deliberate movements. Not unwelcome, never unwelcome, but wrong in a way that made something in Ilya’s chest tighten. Shane didn’t wear dominance comfortably, it sat on him like borrowed clothes.
So Ilya adapted. He always does. When it comes to Shane, he is ready to moulded into anything to fit.
The moment Shane softened, really softened, letting himself respond instead of direct, Ilya felt it like a click into place. Shane’s breathing evened out, his movements smoothed, his eyes went unfocused in that familiar way that meant he was finally here.
Ilya smiled at him, small and fond, and tightened his grip just enough to remind Shane who was holding him together.
Shane comes undone fast after that.
With Ilya moving above him, guiding him, murmuring steady encouragement, the noise in Shane’s head finally quiets. He can feel everything. The drag of skin, the heat, the way Ilya’s body opens for him and pulls him in at the same time.
It’s intense in a way Shane’s used to, grounding and consuming. This is what he likes. This is what works.
When he finally comes, it’s with Ilya’s name on his tongue and his forehead pressed into Ilya’s shoulder, shaking.
They stay like that for a while afterward, breathing together, the room warm and quiet around them.
Eventually, Shane shifts, embarrassment creeping in now that the adrenaline’s gone. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice muffled. “I just-”
Ilya cups his face, thumb brushing under his eye. “Hey,” he says gently. “Talk to me.”
Shane swallows. “I thought… at the club,” he says finally. “When you were getting drinks. I thought maybe you wanted something different.”
Ilya lifts his head. “Different how?”
Shane shrugs, embarrassed. “That guy. He was-” He trails off. “He looked like someone you might want to… let go with.”
Ilya frowns. Not angry. Just confused.
“That guy?” he says.
“Yeah.”
Ilya lets out a short breath, almost a laugh. “I barely noticed him.”
Shane turns his head, searching his face. “You didn’t?”
“No,” Ilya says, firm, like it’s obvious. He shifts his weight, settling more comfortably on Shane’s chest. “You got quiet, when I came back. That’s what I noticed.”
Something in Shane’s chest loosens.
“I like when you stop thinking,” Ilya adds, a little awkward now, like he’s not sure how to phrase it. “Like before. When you just… let me handle it.”
Shane’s throat tightens. “You do?”
Ilya nods. “Yeah. I like doing that.” He hesitates, then says, more bluntly, “I like being the one who gets you there.”
Shane huffs a breath, half laugh, half something else. “You mean-”
“When you go all soft,” Ilya says, cutting in, ears a little pink. “When you’re a mess. I like that it’s me.”
He shifts again, presses his forehead briefly to Shane’s shoulder like he needs the contact. “You don’t have to try so hard,” he mutters. “I don’t want you pretending.”
Shane reaches up, fingers curling at the back of Ilya’s neck. “Okay,” he says quietly. “I won’t.”
Ilya exhales, tension easing out of him. “Good,” he says. Then, almost shyly, “I like you best like this.”
Shane smiles, eyes closing, and lets himself sink into the weight of him.
Ilya exhales, forehead resting against Shane’s, and says quietly, like he’s still testing the words,
“Ya tak sil’no tebya lyublyu - i teper’ ya znayu, chto s etim delat’.”
Shane blinks, then breaks into a slow, stunned smile.
“Hey,” he says softly, almost laughing, “I know that one. I’m really happy you finally figured out what to do about how much you love me.” He nudges their noses together. “I love you more.”
Ilya hums, amused, lips already brushing Shane’s.
“Mmh. Not possible.”
They kiss, easy and unguarded, both of them smiling into it.