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The cabin is full of their friends. Troy and Harris have one guest room. Hayden and Jackie have the other, with their children ostensibly camped out in little tents in the backyard, though Ilya suspects that little Amber and maybe even Arthur will end up in sleeping bags on the floor of their parents' room instead.
It's nice. He's happy to have them here, even more thrilled with how happy it makes Shane. He teased Shane all week, grumpily suggesting that they shell out the money to rent their friends cabins some distance away. It was almost entirely an act — he loves having the people they care about in their space. Watching Hayden razz on Shane at the grill. Troy in the lake, splashing with the Pike twins while Harris sneakily takes pictures. The younger two Pike kids rolling around on the lawn with Anya. Ilya hanging out with Jackie, his favorite Pike.
Yeah. It's nice. Ilya is relaxed.
Shane is not.
Yes, he's happy, but he's spiraling. To the rest of their guests, even to his best friend Hayden, Shane probably looks fine — he has a good mask, for things like this.
But Ilya knows better. Ilya knows when his husband is overwhelmed, fraying at the edges, unraveling bit by bit. When the pressure to be perfect, in this case the perfect host, locks him into a state of extreme stress. He's laughing at Hayden's stupid jokes, but a second too late. He's nodding and smiling at the things the others say to him, but not engaging as he normally would. His anxiety when he turns to check on the kids for the third time in ten minutes can't quite be hidden.
The cabin is loud, and the property is full of laughter and voices. The scent of the food on the grill mixes with the water and pine needles thick in the air. But Shane isn't really present - he moves through it all on autopilot, gliding from person to person and place to place — offering drinks, refilling snack trays and bowls, gathering up abandoned dishes — but his movements are jerky, unmoored. He might look like the perfect host, but he's drowning in it, this need to make everything perfect.
It's hurting him, which Ilya finds unacceptable. Ilya knows how to make it stop. He knows several ways, actually, and the real question is whether Shane will take the easy way out, or force Ilya's hand.
His husband goes to brush past him, and Ilya catches his arm. "Hey."
"Hey," Shane looks over, startled but trying to hide it behind a smile. "I'm going to put new ice into the coolers."
"Troy can fill coolers." Ilya says. "Sit. Take a break."
"No, I'll do it," Shane leans in to kiss Ilya's cheek. "Do you remember if we ordered those extra beach towels? I'd like to have them out here, the kids might be chilly when they get out of the water."
"There are plenty of towels," Ilya knows this, because Shane had gotten out of bed last night to make sure, and to wash and dry the ones that had been used yesterday. "Shane," Ilya lowers his voice, because this is just for them. "Take a break. Sit here, have a beer. Go upstairs, take nap. Everyone's fine."
If someone is listening, it sounds like a concerned suggestion from one husband to another. Shane knows better. Shane has handed control of these things to Ilya, his dominant, and Ilya has given him an instruction. Ilya is saying I see you, I hear you, and this is how we are going to proceed. This is the easy way.
Shane meets Ilya's gaze, and Ilya can see him think it through. He's proud that Shane considers, even for a moment, taking the easy way; it's a testament to how far they've come in all aspects of their relationship. For a moment, he really thinks Shane will give in, let him take the burden for a couple of hours without any fuss, but then Amber and Arthur come running up to them.
"Uncle Shane, Uncle Ilya!" They crowd around Shane and Ilya's legs, with the usual disregard of tiny humans for the personal space of others. Shane pulls his arm from Ilya's grasp and crouches to their level. "Do you have bubbles?"
"You bet we have bubbles," Shane says warmly, "I'll bring them right out, okay?"
Elated, they run off to share the news with Jackie and Hayden.
And Shane, because he's Shane, because he's exhausted and overwhelmed and in no mindset to admit how much he wants someone else to take control, just for a bit, refuses to take the easy way. "I'm fine," he says to Ilya, chin jutting out. Defiant. Stupid. Beautiful. Saying 'no' in many words where one would have worked just as well. "I'm going to get the bubble machine for the kids." He slips away, but Ilya knows he's more than aware of Ilya's gaze on his back.
The hard way it is, then. Ilya knows what his husband thinks. He thinks that Ilya won't handle this while they have guests, and that by the time the guests are gone, he'll be able to talk his way out of consequences.
Having a houseful of guests, including children, does make Ilya's job harder, but Shane is about to find out that he can be as creative when it comes to discipline as he is when it comes to pleasure. Giving Shane a couple of minutes to play with the kids, he gathers up the things he will need and takes them upstairs. When he comes back down, Jackie's in the kitchen, refilling cups of juice. When she smiles at him, he smiles back.
"Thank you for letting us invade your space," she says as he comes around to stand beside her. "I know it's a lot to have all of us for more than a few hours, but it's so nice not to have to worry about anything. The kids are having an absolute blast."
"You are our friends. You are welcome here any time."
"I knew you'd say that, too. Thanks anyway, and do me a favor, let us help a little more, hm? Dishes, laundry, cooking — every time I turn around to look for something to do, it's already done."
Ilya is reminded again that Jackie is his favorite Pike. "That is all Shane," he says, fond despite his exasperation. "I am going to drag him upstairs, to rest. An hour, maybe. Do you need anything?"
"Oh, I'm glad. He looks tired, and he would never admit it," she glances out the window to where everyone else is. "In fact, I think you should take the whole afternoon. I'll put dinner together."
"Thank you." He leans in, kisses her cheek, and then goes to fetch his husband.
Shane is crouched beside the bubble machine, demonstrating its finer points to Amber and Arthur. Every time the machine whirs, bubbles float into the air, making the children shriek with delight. He steps close and rests a hand on Shane's shoulder. "I need your help with something inside," he murmurs, low enough that only Shane can hear.
Shane doesn't even glance up. "In a minute," he answers. It's breezy, dismissive — the tone and words of a brat who thinks his butt is safe. "I told the twins I'd blow up the new inflatables before they get back in the water."
"Someone else will help them." Ilya tightens his grip slightly and leans down, lips brushing Shane's ear. "Ne zastavlyayte menya schitat'," he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. Shane stiffens.
For a heartbeat, Shane hesitates, torn between defiance and nerves. But he hasn't let Ilya get to three in a while, and the last time he did, Ilya made enough of an impression to make him pause. Just as Ilya is about to say 'one', he stands, ruffles Arthur's hair, and says, "Be right back, guys. Uncle Ilya needs me for something."
Ilya guides him inside with a hand at the small of his back, ready to prevent any attempt at escape. "Upstairs," he orders as the door closes behind them.
Shane's eyes dart to where Jackie is humming at the sink, and then back to Ilya. "We have guests," he hisses.
"Shane, honey, you know we don't want to be treated like guests. We're family," Jackie says soothingly, "and I'm handling dinner. Go, rest."
Taking advantage of Shane's flustered state, Ilya uses his hand on his husband's back to move him out of the kitchen and up the stairs, to their bedroom, and then into the bathroom, closing doors behind himself as they go. Inside the bathroom, he flips on the exhaust fan and turns on the shower to mask any noise they will make.
"Come here," Ilya orders, walking around Shane to sit down on the closed lid of the toilet.
"We have guests!" Shane balks, shaking his head, eyes darting toward the door. "You wouldn't...you can't!"
"You are getting spanked," Ilya says, voice barely loud enough to be heard over the fan and water. "Then you will nap. Idi syuda, moy soplyak."
"Ilya, someone will hear!" Shane takes a step backwards, putting his back against the door. "You don't need to...I'll rest. I'll rest."
"You will rest," Ilya agrees, "With hot, sore popka. Come here."
He can see Shane swallow hard, but his husband does not move.
"Your spanking will be quiet. They will not hear," Ilya promises quietly, though he considers that promise and tilts his head, "You, I think, might not be so quiet. I know you will not be so quiet if I must come get you."
Shane shakes his head, but Ilya sees the moment he realizes he's trapped. By their rules and dynamic, yes, but also by his own exhaustion and his need for this. Slowly, he pushes off the door and walks to Ilya, though his pout and his big brown eyes are begging for a different outcome. Once he's standing within reach, Ilya wastes no time, not wanting to give him a chance to work himself back into rebellion. One hard tug sends Shane's sweatpants to his ankles, and then he slips his fingers into the waistband of his boxer briefs and peels them down, over his butt and past his knees.
When he reaches up to guide his husband over his knees, Shane lets himself be moved with only a sad sigh. Ilya allows himself a moment to run an affectionate hand from the small of his husband's back, over his round cheeks and down to his muscular thigh before reaching for the implement on the counter. He takes a moment to fold the charging cord to a usable length, careful to ensure the ends are safely enclosed inside his grasp.
He's done his research, and even carefully tested the makeshift implement on his own thigh; it will sting like hell but make almost no sound. He was not kidding when he told Shane that anything their friends might hear would be the sounds his naughty husband will make.
"Don't yell, moy lyubimyy," Ilya murmurs, and brings it down for the first time, a measured stroke across the center of Shane's butt.
The soft crack of the cord is well muffled by the fan and shower, barely audible even in the small space. Shane's gasp, however, is sharp with surprise and pain, and he jerks forward, fingers scrabbling against the floor tiles. "Ilya!" he whines, "what was that?"
"I improvised," Ilya says casually, observing with some satisfaction that the cord has already raised a thin pink line, similar to what he might have expected from a cane or switch. With a flick of his wrist, the second stripe lands just below the first, and Shane's breath hitches, a bitten-off sound escaping his clenched teeth.
He goes slow, leaving time between strokes for Shane to gasp, groan, whine, wiggle, and kick. By the sixth stroke, Shane's thighs are trembling, and his aborted noises are threatening to spill out. Ilya pauses, resting the cord across Shane's back as he leans down. "I always enjoy hearing your sweet sounds. But I do not think you wish to be noisy today. Do you need something to help?" he asks, voice low and steady.
Shane, holding himself tense, starts to shake his head, but then slumps across Ilya's knees. "Yes, sir," he whimpers. "Or, we could be done?"
"We are not done. We will be done when I am sure you will remember not to give me 'no' when I am taking care of you." It is only a little bit of a reach to open a nearby drawer for a clean washcloth, and Ilya uses his other arm to make sure Shane doesn't tip off his lap while he's rummaging. He rolls the terry square up and holds it where Shane can take it from him with shaky fingers.
Once Shane has reluctantly put the makeshift gag into his mouth, Ilya picks his cord back up. He resumes with slow, methodical precision. Dissatisfied with the way the cord threatens to wrap around to places he isn't targeting, he shortens the length just enough to be very sure it will only land exactly where he intends it to, allowing him to cover his target with a carefully orchestrated design of thin pink welts.
Shane's muffled whimpers and yelps fill the spaces between the rhythmic hiss of the cord. One of his hands closes in a death grip on Ilya's ankle. The other flies back, stopping just short of covering his butt. Ilya takes that hand in his, pinning it safely out of the way. Ilya goes on until Shane's breathing starts to hitch, and he stops bracing for each impact — just reacting to each stroke afterward. Both are signs that he is very close to where he needs to be.
With that in mind, Ilya pauses again. "Do you say no to me, lyubimyy?"
Since he is essentially gagged, Ilya accepts when Shane gives a hard shake of his head.
"In future, you will do as I say, da?" Shane nods urgently and squeezes Ilya's hand for good measure. Ilya catches the shine of tears on his face. "Good," he squeezes back. "Almost done, hang on."
Shane doesn't need much more. Just that little bit of push so he will give in, let go, have a good cry. His butt is already well-marked, and Ilya is afraid that laying a second welt on top of any of the ones he's already created will break skin or bruise badly. But, lower, Shane's thighs and the underside of his butt cheeks are still untouched. It will not hurt, either, for his husband to have a little reminder of their discussion when he sits through dinner, and Ilya tells him he cannot help clean up afterward.
Making sure he has a good grip on his naughty husband, sure he will squirm, he brings the cord down on one thigh, and then the other. Shane's distressed cry is clear even through the washcloth, and Ilya finds the way he kicks and cries delightful. But — he doesn't want to leave marks anywhere someone might see them, if Shane dons shorts or swim trunks instead of his joggers. So he only has enough space to land one more set of stripes on each thigh, which he does.
It's enough. It's just enough. He drops the cord on the floor with a clatter. Shane has collapsed as well, body shaking with suppressed sobs. But, thankfully, Shane is a quiet crier. Ilya helps him stand and then stands himself. He gently tugs the washcloth free and uses the dry edges to wipe the tears from Shane's face as carefully as he can.
"Finished, sweetheart, all done," he soothes, wrapping Shane up in as tight a hug as he can. "You took that well. So well, my good boy."
"I'm sorry," Shane cries quietly. "I just need everything to be good. For everyone to be happy!"
"Everyone is good. And happy," Ilya says firmly. "Except you. You are overwhelmed. You are going to let me help, and your friends."
"Yes, sir!" The tears have mostly stopped; he's all sniffles and snuggles now.
"Good. This is good, Shane. You are good." Ilya rubs a hand up and down his back, pressing a kiss to his hair. "Jackie is making dinner. You and I will nap, then have nice dinner with our friends. You will let Troy and Harris clean up after. You can watch movie with the kids. Da?"
Shane nods against his chest, fingers gripping the fabric of Ilya's shirt.
"Good." Ilya murmurs, then nudges Shane's left foot gently with his own. "Step out, lyubimyy." Shane complies with a soft sniffle, lifting one foot at a time so that Ilya can peel his sweatpants and boxers off. He folds them neatly over the edge of the sink before scooping Shane into his arms properly and carrying him out to their bed.
He deposits Shane face-first onto the cool sheets, pausing to stroke his hand over the welts, feather-light, before kicking off his own shoes and climbing in alongside him. He tugs the blankets up over them both. Shane curls into him immediately, pressing his face into the crook of Ilya's neck with a sigh that's equal parts exhaustion and relief.
Outside, the laughter of their friends drifts up through the closed windows, mingling with the rustle of branches and the distant splash of the lake. It makes a warm, pleasant soundtrack for the inside, where there's only the steady sound of Shane's breathing slowing, deepening, as he finally — finally — lets go.