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One.
It starts with an accidental spillage of word vomit, a common occurrence for Shane, who has to take a second at times to filter his abrasiveness out for the sake of politeness in conversation.
It’s just before eleven; they’d been tucked into bed with Shane reading and Ilya scrolling on his phone when a sudden wave of arousal had hit Shane. He’d set his glasses and book aside and curled up into Ilya, who in turn wrapped an arm around him and tucked him close. Ilya had kept scrolling, laughing at videos made for the attention span of a goldfish, as Shane just enjoyed the proximity and let his cock fill against his husband’s thigh.
The feeling of Ilya’s plush yet strong chest beneath his ear, onyx strands overgrown and cascaded over the patches of curly, sandy hair surrounding puffy pink nipples, had distracted him from his hardening cock at first. Ilya smelled so good, like stale Tom Ford sprayed first thing in the morning and dried sweat underneath his armpits. Ilya had been neglecting the razor sitting in the shower collecting rust as of late, happy trail thicker than ever. The hair around his nipples that would catch the sunlight in the early hours of the morning, golden undertone of them shimmering in the rays.
Retirement suits Ilya. It’s Shane’s final season, having not been quite ready to say goodbye yet. And for good reason, he’s not lost too much speed in his own age yet. But it’s time, he figures. He’s thirty-six now, after all.
Ilya has gained weight in the two years of his retirement and house-husbandry. He cooks and cleans when Shane doesn’t, lifts heavy to maintain his muscle mass beneath the extra insulation. A scale will tell him that he’s two-seventy-nine; Shane doesn’t need to tell him anything because the guttural sounds he makes while Ilya pounds into him from behind speak volumes for him.
Ilya’s got a hand fisted in his hair, silky strands tangled between thick fingers where hair grows in thin patches on his knuckles. Shane’s mouth is propped open, face towards the headboard while he balances his upper body on his elbows and tanks the thrusts into him. He clutches the sheets beneath his hands, cock swinging uselessly between his thighs while Ilya fucks into him and yanks him back against the abuse by his hair. There’s tears prickling at persimmon-bark irises, voice climbing with each moan.
“Fuck, fuck!” Shane cries out, breathless, voice strained with the curvature of his neck.
“Taking it so pretty baby,” Ilya coos, voice warm as he comforts his husband.
He readjusts his grip and brings a hand down against the soft curve of Shane’s ass where it meets his outer thigh. Shane jolts, trembling as red screams beneath the surface of his skin, rushes to the sinew pink.
“Fat fucking ass looks so good split open on me,” Ilya groans, eyes trained on where he’s disappearing inside the other over and over.
It moves like water and Ilya stares, transfixed. He brings his hand down again to watch it ripple from the force of his blow.
Shane closes his eyes and pictures what he must look like, taking Ilya from behind like this. Ilya’s weight behind him, thickness around his middle juxtaposed to the rigidity of Shane’s ever-present strict routine. He’s put on a little weight as well, but kept himself mostly lean even in his age. Weight looks good on Ilya, it makes him look bigger. It makes him warmer to hold, softer to lay on. It makes him look stronger, more masculine.
It’s the masculinity and ruggedness that does it for Shane, he thinks. It has to be, because why else would he tumble over his words as he teeters closer to the edge? Why else would he feel Ilya’s stinging palm coming down on his ass again and picture Ilya’s burly figure yanking him back on his cock over and over and why else would he cry out something they’d never seriously considered past a joke or two as he came all over the sheets beneath him?
“Fuck, gonna - cumming, fuck, cumming Daddy, cumming Daddy-” he loses strength in his arms, slams his face down into the bed and gasps and shouts into the bed as he cums, muffling his traitorous mouth.
Ilya groans, hips stuttering for just a second out of pure shock, and lets go of Shane’s hair to let him curl into the bed. The freckled man hides his face in his arms, trying to catch his breath while Ilya keeps using him, not missing a beat.
The blond kicks Shane’s legs apart further by his knees and leans over him more, the soft of his stomach pressing at the small of Shane’s back. Shane shudders, eyes crossing a little as the heavy weight settles over him.
“So fucking dirty baby,” Ilya huffs, losing his composure with each push and pull inside of his lover. “Hiding that from me, hiding from Daddy.”
Shane moans into the mattress, toes curling. He rolls his ankles - one cracks a little - and they lift up off of the bed a little as the overstimulated pleasure begins to tense at his muscles. He feels like he wants to clamp his legs shut, knees gravitating towards each other slightly with each slam Ilya delivers. His husband’s large hands snake inside his thighs and yank them apart again, wider. The cold metal of his wedding ring on his left ring fingers makes Shane jump as it brushes over his heated skin.
“No, no, no,” Ilya tuts, voice dipped in that coo-like condescension that Shane loves - as if he’s sorry. “No more hiding, be a good boy for me Shane.”
Ilya almost never calls him Shane - the closest being Shanya and that’s even in front of their friends and family. It’s always pet names falling from Ilya’s lips: baby, honey, sunshine. Often in Russian.
So to hear his name so nonchalantly laced in what he could only describe as dominance, with his thighs forced apart and hole abused, had him melting pliant against the bed more and more until he felt like a doll at Ilya’s mercy. He hears the other speaking faintly behind him, admiring where they’re joined.
“Yeah, good boy,” a hand laces in his hair again.
Rather than tugging his head up, Ilya leans forward and presses the side of Shane’s face into the mattress more. His lips squish into a fucked little ‘o’ shape, hair cascaded over his exposed cheek. With his other hand, Ilya carefully brushes the locks of hair behind Shane’s ear to look at him. The touch is feather-light, a soft caress of the back of Ilya’s knuckles accenting the sweet gesture before his hand leaves completely and clamps down at his hips again.
Shane grasps at the sheets and cries out into them each time Ilya drives into him.
“So good for me, sweet little cunt taking me so well,” Ilya praises. “Daddy’s gonna fill you up, okay? You lay there and take it, good boy, fuck. Fuck, f-fuck.”
He loses rhythm, spills warm into Shane and coats the inside of him with white, keeps pumping into him as it starts to seep out around his cock. Milky white turns frothy at the friction even as he slows, stickying Shane’s cheeks and the backs of his thighs. He clenches when the blond goes to pull out, because Ilya tells him to.
“Squeeze hard, baby, no mess okay?”
Shane hides his face in his arms, keeping his ass clenched until Ilya returns with one dry and one wet, warm rag. He catches the cum that leaks out of Shane as he prompts him to push it out, watching the spillage with rapt attention and a valiantly twitching, spent cock. Once there’s none left to give, he wipes Shane’s thighs and ass carefully with the wet rag. When he comes back after rinsing them off and tossing them in the laundry basket, he flops down next to Shane, who still has his face buried in his folded arms.
Ilya kisses over Shane’s shoulders, lips pressing wet marks against the flushed skin there. He nuzzles the back of Shane’s head, hair tickling his nose. Weight settles over the freckled man and it doesn't take any time at all to realize that it’s Ilya laying over his back like he’s his own personal weighted blanket. He hums, content at the pressure.
“So…’Daddy’?”
“Shut up,” Shane groans.
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Two.
Ilya really takes it and runs with it after that. It’s unexpected, the next time it hits.
They’re cooking together. Ilya is prepping - cutting carrots and celery - as Shane pours a can of tomato paste into his concoction so far. They’re making bolognese, because Ilya loves pasta. The can of tomato sauce that Shane also has to add into the mixture is closer to Ilya than it is to himself, so he speaks with his back to Ilya.
“Can you hand me the tomato sauce?”
No answer.
“Babe, can you hand me the tomato sauce?”
Because maybe Ilya is so caught up in his dicing that he hadn’t heard.
No answer. The sound of the knife on the cutting board continues, the cracking of celery loud in the otherwise quiet kitchen. Shane glances over his shoulder at his husband, who’s dutifully committed to his task.
“Ilya?”
“Hm?” the blond replies, not looking back.
“Can you hand me the tomato sauce?”
Ilya rolls his eyes where he’s turned away, eyeing the can beside him.
“Is that how you ask me?”
You could hear a pin drop.
“I - what?”
Ilya sets the knife down and turns to look at Shane, crossing his arms as he rests his lower back against the countertop. Shane’s eyes, naturally, gravitate to the bulging thickness of his now crossed arms, the hair on them catching the sunlight. Ilya almost feels bad, it feels like psychological warfare sometimes.
“Is that how you ask me if you want something?”
Shane’s face twitches all over - first his eyebrows, then his nose (like a bunny’s), then his lips. A lightbulb seemingly goes off, his shoulders dropping.
“Can you please hand me the tomato sauce?”
Ilya smiles, bit of hair above his lip that he’d forgone shaving this morning stretching with the muscle.
“Good boy,” he says, handing the can over and watching Shane’s cheeks turn pink just before he turns around and adds the contents into the mixture.
The sauce sits and simmers for hours. They go to the gym and watch a movie together, then sit down to eat after cooking the pasta for it. Ilya has two servings and as Shane is boxing up the leftovers for the following day’s lunch, he calls out to his husband where he sits in the living room on his phone.
“Your turn to do the dishes,” he says, opening the fridge.
He hears Ilya grunt as he stands and laughs softly.
“You do the old guy grunt now.”
He closes the fridge just as Ilya walks into the kitchen. The blond stops in his tracks, mouth twitching into the faintest smile before he seemingly locks it away somewhere behind a facade of authority, feigning contempt.
“You’ve been disrespectful all night, you know?”
Shane makes a face, he’s sure. His eyebrow arches and he rolls his eyes before moving to walk around Ilya and flop down on the couch. A warm, firm palm with outstretched fingers stops him, pressed firm against his sternum.
“Don’t roll your fucking eyes at me, Shane,” he glowers, nudging the man back into the place he’d been standing.
Shane studies Ilya’s expression for a second, confused at the shift.
“You think you can order me around, disrespect me, roll your eyes at me? Is that any way to act?”
Shane swallows, column of his throat rippling. He isn't sure why, but he drops his gaze to the ground, face warm and eyes stinging. It doesn't last; Ilya’s finger curls underneath his chin and tilts his head back up and when their eyes meet after the gentle outreach, Shane understands the game. He trembles.
“I asked you a question,” Ilya says, jaw tense mostly likely to contain a grin as he watches the terseness leave his husband’s body, replaced instead by the shakes.
“I…no…”
“No what?”
Shane’s lips press into a line, it’s hard to maintain eye contact. It’s usually hard with anyone but Ilya, but now he’s staring into icy pale irises that await his next move and Ilya smells faintly of dried sweat from the gym and is he growing his mustache out a little?
“No…it’s not how I should act.”
Ilya nods slowly, finger still holding Shane’s heavy skull up by his chin. He waits, patient. Shane swallows.
“I’m sorry.”
The corner of Ilya’s mouth tilts up and he presses his thumb against the curve of Shane’s chin, puppets the movement of it while he speaks.
“‘I’m sorry Daddy’.”
Shane swallows down a whimper, because of course Ilya had latched onto that. He melts into the action, nostrils flaring as he breathes deep.
“I’m sorry Daddy,” he exhales, voice shaking only a little and he’s proud of that.
Ilya smiles. Something swells inside of Shane's chest, pride maybe. He pats Shane’s cheek, then turns and walks out of the kitchen.
“You can do the dishes tonight, to make it up to Daddy.”
Fucking asshole.
It’s sprinkled in after that. Shane doesn't forget his manners often, but if he does then Ilya is there to help him remember.
“Can you hand me the remote?”
“What? I don’t speak this language.”
Shane will roll his eyes, which will earn him a lashing on its own.
“Can you please hand me the remote?”
To top it off, a thank you Daddy is encouraged, because Ilya is more than happy to help Shane with his manners. But it can only go on for so long before he starts to wonder how purposeful it is to forget them.
Shane is rushing one morning because they’re late for brunch with his parents. He’s half dressed, sliding squeaking hangers back and forth in the closet and huffing and puffing angrily.
“Ilya? Have you seen my blue button up my mom got me? I can’t fucking find it.”
Ilya appears in the closet doorway, arms crossed and leaning against the frame.
“Just wear another one моя любовь, she has seen you in it many times already.”
Shane groans and rubs his hands over his face, irritated that his anguish and frustration isn’t being taken seriously more than he is about the fucking shirt itself. But that’s not exactly digestible to anyone else, the anger seeping through his pores, so he just takes a deep breath to calm down instead of snapping. Ilya watches him, his husband’s shackles raised. He steps inside and glances up at the clothing options, flips through them until he finds Shane's little Polo bear shirt he’d gotten him four Christmases ago.
“Wear this, little Polo bear misses you.”
Shane scoffs, runs his hands through his hair.
“I don’t want to wear that, I want to wear my fucking button up and I can’t find it, which makes no fucking sense because I-”
“Shane, you will not speak to me like this.”
And Shane stills, eyebrows frowning and relaxing because he studies Ilya’s face and suddenly feels the desire to cower and shrink. The man is still holding the shirt, a calm but stern expression on his handsome features. His mustache is growing in thicker now, a little patch of hair at his chin beginning to bloom as well. Shane blinks, snaps his eyes back up to make eye contact not because he wants to, but because he should.
“I just…I’m sorry, okay? I just want my shirt.”
“Okay, and we are already late. We will look for your shirt when we get home, yes? Your Polo bear shirt will work for now. Arms up.”
Shane blushes bright red, the color travels down his neck and naked collarbone.
“I can dress myself-” he starts, moving to snatch the shirt.
Ilya tugs it out of reach.
“Arms up. One, two-”
Shane’s so caught off guard at the tactics being deployed on him that he obeys before Ilya reaches three, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t vocal about it.
“You and this - fucking - Daddy thing, I swear to god-”
Ilya bunches the shirt up and slides it over Shane’s head, tucks his arms into it. He pulls the fabric down over his angrily muttering husband, pats his tummy right over where the snazzy bear sits. His hand comes up and he snatches up Shane’s jaw so quick it leaves the darker haired man dizzy, head tilted back with the angle of the grip so that the tendons in his neck strain. He swallows, it goes down harshly.
“Watch your fucking mouth when you speak to me, you understand?”
Shane’s fists clench at his sides, seeking comfort at the fabric of his shorts. He whimpers softly, gaze dropping to Ilya’s lips, to the hair sitting just above the heart shape.
“You don’t fucking cuss at me unless it’s while I’m fucking your brains out. You throw your little tantrums and think I will not correct you? Cuss at me again and see what happens. What do you say?”
Shane hates how quickly his cock starts to fill in his shorts. Except he doesn’t really hate it.
“M’sorry Daddy,” he whispers, toes curling in his socks, seeking the comfort of the cold floor beneath them.
Ilya nods once, shifting his gaze back and forth between Shane’s eyes, then releases him. He pets Shane’s hair down, leans close and kisses his forehead in a gentle peck that has the foggy-brained man leaning closer for more when he pulls away.
They go to brunch. Shane doesn’t question it the next few times Ilya lays out his outfits for him, nor does he protest as Ilya wordlessly demands to dress him in them. In fact, it feels nice. Calloused fingertips brushing his skin as Ilya slides the fabric up his thighs. Teasing tickles at his sides and armpits as Ilya tugs his shirt - often the Polo bear one - on. A forehead kiss as a consolation prize for when he’s good.
Shane starts to look forward to not having to make the mundane decision of what to wear.
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Three.
They’re having steak and vegetables tonight. The food is ready - the steak Ilya’s work, the vegetables Shane’s. Ilya has Shane set the table for them and the freckled man only thinks once before nodding and walking to do it, shaking in anticipation because Ilya had used his actual name to ask him - they’d be playing tonight then.
“Sit, Shane,” Ilya says as he nears the table with both of their plates.
Shane obeys. Sometimes he misses the pet names in time like these, but they often make a reappearance once they start getting sexual and they’re always there outside of these play times.
Ilya sets his plate down first beside Shane - there’s two big pieces of steak on it next to the mound of vegetables. Ilya hit a new PR at the gym this week, earning another few pounds on the scale due to the increased muscle mass. His footsteps are heavy, his body soft enough when relaxed that Shane has taken a liking to falling asleep on top of him lately.
The blond sets down Shane’s plate and rather than sitting down and digging into his own food, he picks up the fork and stabs Shane’s slab of steak, then begins cutting into it with the steak knife. He pauses just as he’s about to slice off the first piece, doesn't look at Shane as he speaks.
“You need Daddy to cut your steak up for you baby?”
Shane shudders, looking up and admiring the softness behind Ilya’s chin at this angle. He answers, hushed at first, but then he clears his throat so Ilya can hear him.
“Yes, please Daddy.”
The man smiles, then carries on with his task. Shane almost wants to take it back, because not only is he more than capable of cutting his own steak - he’d done it thousands of times before for fuck’s sake - but also because the longer Ilya stands to do this for him, the colder his own food gets. But Shane doesn’t stop him, too entranced in the flexing of Ilya’s forearms as he maneuvers the tools and the content, comfortable expression on Ilya’s face.
It hits him then. Ilya likes taking care of him.
So he sits quietly with his hands in his lap while Ilya finishes up, then takes the fork and knife from him as Ilya sits down finally and begins eating his own meal. He licks his lips as Ilya stuffs the first bite of vegetables into his mouth, toes curling in his socks underneath the table.
“Thank you Daddy,” he says, because Ilya had really driven home how important manners are, after all.
Pleased, Ilya smiles and swallows the bite before speaking. He sets his fork down and reaches over, combs his fingers through Shane’s hair and ruffles the mess of onyx lovingly. Shane’s lids feel heavy in an instant; he almost isn’t even hungry (for food) anymore.
“You’re welcome baby.”
Then he returns to eating like it’s easy.
Shane blinks a few times, looks down at his plate and wills himself to eat and stop thinking about how he’s clenching so pathetically around nothing. He crosses his ankles underneath the table and his chair, chews at his bottom lip as he stabs a piece of cut meat and just looks at it for a second. All he can think about is Ilya bending him over the table and fucking him until he’s a puddle of cum and tears.
“Eat your food, Shane,” Ilya says next to him, not looking at him as he shovels pieces of steak into his mouth as he cuts them.
Shane nods, popping the steak into his mouth and chewing lazily. He’s eating slower than usual, distracted. Ilya is nearly done with his own plate already and when he looks over, Shane is just barely halfway through. The blond swallows a bite, then scoots his chair back a bit and spreads his thighs.
“Come here,” he says, setting the utensils down and wiping his mouth with a napkin.
Shane whips his head over and panics; had he done something wrong?
“No, I’m sorry, it’s good, I just-”
“Not in trouble baby, c’mere.”
Shane’s sure he has a buffering symbol rotating over his forehead. He swallows nervously, then watches Ilya pat at his deliciously thick thigh twice in encouragement. Shane stands, then turns and carefully lowers himself to sit over the firm, supple muscle. The chair creaks beneath their combined weight, Ilya’s hand clamps down on his hips when he tries to stand back up, pinning him there.
“It’s gonna-”
“Not going to break, shh,” Ilya coos as he reaches and slides Shane’s plate over to them.
He picks up the man’s fork, stabs a piece of cooling steak, and swirls it around in the slightly bloody juice puddle around it. Shane watches as he lifts the piece to his mouth, waiting patiently for compliance. Ilya’s other hand is clasping his side, thumb brushing sweet circles over the soft collection of fat at Shane’s side.
“Come on baby,” Ilya hums, patting the top of his husband’s ass in care.
Shane drags his teeth over his bottom lip, then parts his mouth and lets Ilya feed him the piece.
“Goooood boy,” Ilya murmurs, smiling wide as he watches Shane chew. “Thought you were going to make me do the airplane thing.”
Shane furrows his eyebrows at him, breaking the scene minutely to jab Ilya’s soft chest with his shoulder. The other chuckles as he brings another piece up to Shane’s lips.
“Mmm, yes, you’re a little too old for that, no?”
Shane opens his mouth to reply and Ilya guides the food into his mouth instead, pacifying him. He feeds Shane the remainder of his steak, then polishes off the vegetables while he makes a crack about how Shane gets a reward for finishing them.
And he does.
A few days later, Shane is truly punished for the first time since they started this little game.
He’s sitting on the couch with his legs up on Ilya’s lap, scrolling on his phone. Ilya’s watching some reality TV show with squawking women and vapid men, somehow entertained. He’s got his thick arms over the back of the couch, wingspan so wide that his hand is up by Shane’s face.
It comes out of nowhere as the episode ends.
“You are spending too much time with that lately,” Ilya says so casually that Shane almost misses it as he finishes sending a text to Rose.
“Hm?” he responds, not looking up.
Ilya scoffs and that’s what catches Shane’s attention.
“Nose in your phone all the time, no wonder you have so much attitude.”
Shane’s eyebrows furrow.
“What the hell are you talking-”
Ilya’s head whips to the side towards him and he reaches with his outstretched arm to grab Shane’s phone and pluck it from his hands. Shane is so dumbfounded by the suddenness that he doesn’t fully react physically, just stares.
“Rotting your brain, you know,” Ilya says, pocketing the phone.
Shane’s toes curl in their signature way; one of Ilya’s hands comes to close around the width of the appendages, thumb caressing the top of his foot. It’s so casually sweet that it makes Shane’s head spin.
“What the fuck?”
Ilya furrows his eyebrows, lips pursing and jaw tensing.
“Who are you cussing at?”
His voice is dropped now and something reverberates throughout Shane’s body.
Oh, he thinks, we’re playing.
Something defiant swells inside him.
“You,” he fires back, putting emphasis on the word.
Ilya’s eyebrows shoot up and he looks amused for a second before he nods and carefully wraps his hands around Shane’s ankles. He eases them off of him so that Shane is sitting up with his feet on the ground. The sudden coolness travels down his spine and he wonders if Ilya will use his hand or his belt this time.
“You can say sorry now, or you can stand up and we can go take care of this.”
Shane’s lips twitch into a smile. His ass hurt for days after the last time he’d talked back to Ilya; he fucking loved it.
“Fuck you.”
Ilya eyes him, face unchanging - as if he’d expected that answer, anticipated it. He stands with a grunt, cracks his knuckles. Shane trembles, looks up at the mass of husband towering over him from underneath his eyelashes. Ilya gestures for Shane to stand and when he does, he has him follow down the hallway towards the bedroom. They cross the threshold and Ilya turns to walk into the bathroom, Shane follows with a cloud of wonder over his head. He watches Ilya dig around underneath the sink for a while before he produces a bar of soap, unused and still in its packaging. Silently, the blond starts to unwrap the bar.
So that’s what he’d come through the door with in the bag yesterday, huh.
“I’m not putting that in my mouth,” Shane says immediately, cringing at just how whiny he sounds.
He crosses his arms. Ilya doesn’t respond, doesn't even look at him as he disposes of the plastic and turns the sink on. He runs the soap underneath the water until it’s slick and nearly sliding out of his hands, then shuts the faucet off and steps over to stand by the toilet. Shane’s feet are cemented to the floor by the doorway, eyes tracking Ilya’s movements, waiting.
“Spanking you does not work, because you like it. Come sit.”
Shane shakes his head because it’s all he can manage.
“Shane. One-”
“I’m not letting you put fucking soap in my mouth.”
“Watch your fucking mouth. Two-”
“No, it’s gonna taste gross, and it’s probably not safe to-”
“If I get to three, we are not playing this game anymore.”
Shane’s breath hitches. His lips twitch into a frown, forehead aching from how tense his furrowed eyebrows are. He huffs, waits, thinks of calling Ilya’s bluff. They both know he has his word, his gesture. Tears prickle at his eyes.
“Come on, Shane. Only three minutes, then I have a treat for you, hm?”
Shane’s toes curl. He huffs, blinks the tears back. Ilya opens his mouth to finish his count and Shane darts forward before he can, stiffly taking a seat on the closed toilet lid. Ilya smiles at him and butterflies beat at the inside of his tummy when the man’s thumb comes to guide his bottom lip open.
The bar is thinner than the usual bar, a miniature version of whatever brand maybe. He cringes when the first taste of it touches his tongue, blooming chemically over his tastebuds and making him yank back to sputter. Ilya’s hand finds the back of his head and guides him forward with great patience.
“Three minutes, two if you can be good boy, okay?” he offers, because he’s a sucker for his bratty husband and can’t bear to make him suffer the taste for a whole three minutes, despite his threats.
Shane huffs through his nostrils, letting Ilya guide the slippery bar back in past his quivering lips. He gags at the taste, reminds himself not to swallow. Was it safe, even, if he did? Surely it had to be; Ilya wouldn't let anything bad happen to him.
“Good boy, time starts now,” Ilya coos once half of the bar sits inside Shane's mouth.
Shane closes his eyes and gags every few seconds, sensitive to the unnatural taste. Ilya times him with his phone, steps closer and tilts Shane’s head back by a gentle grasp on his hair. He sets Shane’s chin on the top of his stomach, pats his cheek gently to get him to open his eyes and look up at him.
“Let me see those pretty brown eyes, good boy, yes,” he encourages, watching Shane’s expression go slack, eyes go hazy. “So pretty.”
He pets Shane’s hair to comfort him even as humiliated tears start to flow. They glide down Shane’s cheekbones and into his short sideburns, wetting the hair there. Shane looks up at him with shame in his glossy eyes and Ilya wipes them away as they leave the corners of his eyes with his thumb, making the freckled man’s skin tacky and pink.
“Daddy wipes your tears,” he hums, “Daddy loves you.”
Shane shudders, eyelids twitching and threatening to close. He keeps them open, because Ilya wants them open.
“You are sorry for talking back?”
Shane nods as best as he’s able and the movement has the soap bar moving, making him gag as the suds spill towards the back of his throat. He coughs and Ilya presses his thumb against the exposed edge of the bar to keep it in place.
“You are sorry for cussing at me?”
Shane nods again, more feverish as the ache in his neck starts to settle and combine with the irritation of the taste.
“Say it.”
Shane cries softly, squeezing his eyes shut and his shoulders wrack with sobs.
“Crying because you’re so, so sorry?” Ilya asks, voice still gentle, still baiting.
Shane nods again, digging his teeth a bit into the soft layer of the soap so he can speak without it slipping out. His apology comes out garbled with tears and spit and shame, just like how Ilya likes it - if his hardened cock is any proof of it.
“I’m s-sor-ry Dad-dy,” he hiccups.
Ilya pets his hair, scratches gently at his scalp.
The timer on his phone goes off and Ilya silences it, then tugs his shirt over his head. Shane leans back as to not pin the fabric with his chin, watches warm-toned skin take up his vision as Ilya undresses.
“Arms up,” Ilya taps at his shoulders.
Shane obeys, teeth still bitten into the bar to hold it in place and tears slowly drying on his cheeks. Ilya undresses him and guides him to stand. They step into the shower together and Ilya guards Shane’s eyes with a hand over his forehead like a visor as he turns the water on. He blocks the sudden rain with his body, waits for it to warm up before guiding Shane to his knees on the tile floor.
“Did so good for me baby, you're my good boy.”
Shane shudders at the praise, palms on his knees and face tilted up towards Ilya. His husband looks massive at this angle, imposing and masculine and strong and powerful. Shane lets his gaze flit over every inch of skin and every patch of hair. Ilya pets at his scalp, plays with the strands of black as he lets the freckled man get his fill.
“Wanna put that mouth to better use, hm? Wanna wash me?”
Shane’s toes curl.
He spends the next half hour gripping Ilya’s thighs for balance and dragging the exposed end of the soap bar over his lover’s body with his mouth. He pays special attention to his groin and Ilya lets him. He nuzzles his husband’s balls, the weight of Ilya’s hard cock heavy where it rests on his cheek as he oh so dutifully stuffs his face between his thighs. Ilya plays with his hair while he works, eventually tugging him back enough to pull the bar from his mouth and toss it aside. The blond steps behind him and holds his jaw open while the shower water rinses the last bit of soap from the cavern.
Ilya rinses his body free of the suds, then slides his cock into Shane's pliant mouth and lets him suck him down as eagerly as he can manage with his brains mushy.
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Four.
There's a fine line in what about his behavior constitutes a punishment (a spanking or belting, which he hardly considers punishment) and a punishment (the soap fiasco).
Shane tries his best to not get punished again.
He thinks he’s got it down to a science, but he ends up being wrong.
“Come here,” Ilya commands of him, arms crossed as he stands in one corner of the living room.
Shane’s lips twitch a little, because fuck yeah, he’s gonna spank me until I cum all over his thighs again. So he hesitates, and for good measure he even stamps his foot like that of an angry bunny rabbit. He can see Ilya’s steely facade wobble, the mannerism surely too adorable to just ignore completely.
“One-”
Shane hurries over, practically vibrating with anticipation. He's half hard already.
Ilya’s hand is warm when it comes down against the back of his neck and squeezes. Shane’s eyes threaten to cross but he reins himself in. His husband has grown his mustache and goatee in fully now, keeping it neatly trimmed. The sandy brown hair is tinted red in the right light and almost curls over his upper lip, but he trims the ends and keeps it from obstructing the romantic shape of his upper lip. The beard burn it leaves between Shane’s thighs and along the sensitive valley of his ass is worth the irritation when it has the freckled man crying into the mattress at the overstimulation.
Ilya nudges him into the corner. Shane’s face falls.
“Ten minutes.”
He tucks Shane further into the corner until his shoulders touch the walls just before where they converge. He turns his head to look over his shoulder at Ilya, watches the other’s hand come to grip his jaw and guide it forward into the walls again.
“You look at the wall, nothing else. You shut up and you think about why you keep fucking testing me.”
Shane trembles, jaw twitching. He presses his lips into a line, nerves alight with shame. Who does Ilya think he is by putting Shane Hollander - nearly retired Sidney Crosby of his generation and grown ass man - in the corner?
“I’m not staying here.”
“You are.”
There’s no room for debate. He doesn't even have to threaten their game like he had that time with the soap - the implication is plenty.
Ilya walks off and sits on the couch. Shane hears the TV turn on as Ilya fiddles with the timer on his phone.
“Ten minutes, starting now.”
It’s fucking mortifying. He’s standing in the corner on time out while Ilya watches TV less than ten feet away, draped casually over the couch.
Shane glances over his shoulder to see Ilya lounging with his feet up on the coffee table. He isn’t even looking at his husband in the corner when he speaks.
“Two minutes in and you’re already trying to add more time?”
Shane huffs, whipping his head to face forward again. A minute later, he opens his big mouth after stewing in the injustice.
“You didn’t explain the rules to me, about the added time.”
“Now you know.”
“That’s not fair, I-”
“You want more time?”
Shane snaps his jaw shut and thumps his head against the wall, seething. His toes curl in his socks, fists clenching at his sides.
Another minute goes by and he’s still not even halfway through.
“This is stupid, I-”
“Shane. Shut up.”
He whimpers, yet keeps going. Why? He wonders.
“I’m a grown ass man-”
“Fifteen minutes."
“What?” he turns away from the corner fully, Ilya is watching him with a set jaw and hardened eyes. “No!”
Ilya stands up from the couch so quickly that Shane backs into the corner on instinct, butterflies beating at his insides. Ilya stomps over and grabs his wrist, yanks him away from the walls and spins him around. The grip switches to his hair and holds him in place, Ilya’s cologne invading his senses - dumbing him down.
“You turn around again, and you will fucking regret it. Twenty minutes."
He turns to walk away and Shane can’t help but poke the bull. Maybe it’s the shame that coexists with the intense arousal he feels, the front of his shorts sport a dime-sized wet spot and behind the wall of fabric, his hard cock soaks the front of his boxers. He tugs at them miserably, thumping his head against the wall again and muttering to himself.
“Shut up Shane,” Ilya warns, flopping back down onto the couch.
Curiosity killed the cat.
He’s thirteen minutes in, hard and leaking and letting humiliated tears slide down his cheeks silently. He hiccups once, then covers his mouth with a cupped hand to muffle any other pathetic sounds. Ilya stands from the couch and walks over, arms crossed as he leans his body against the wall beside Shane. Pale eyes watch him, both of them counting down the seconds. The attention makes Shane shrink, growing irate. He turns his face away to hide his crying, teeth gritting together.
“Shane.”
He huffs and swipes at his cheeks angrily with the heel of his palm.
“Stop fucking looking at me,” he sobs, voice cracking.
A warm hand grasps at his shoulder, thumb digging into the meat of the muscle there in an attempt to comfort him. He shrugs out of it and shoves his body away from the wall, quickly heading down the nearby hallway. Heavy footsteps follow him, grab his wrist before he makes it to the bedroom where he most likely would have slammed the door shut to hide away behind.
He whips his body around and yanks at the grip, sniffling as more tears start flowing. Ilya watches him with careful eyes and holds him there until Shane accidentally meets his gaze.
“Want your word?” Ilya asks softly.
Shane stills, blinks through the tears so he can make out the genuine concern on his husband’s face. The cool metal of the ring on his thick finger presses into Shane’s skin and grounds him enough to clear the shame clouds. The rainstorm dissipates, replaced instead by the desire behind it.
Ilya isn’t actually mad at him.
He sniffles, then answers his lover’s question in the form of dropping to sit on his ass in the hallway. Ilya’s eyebrows furrow in confusion for all of two seconds before he catches on and tugs at Shane's wrist.
“Time’s not up, Shane.”
Shane just stares at him with glassy eyes and tear-stained freckles. Ilya shrugs, slipping on that mask of indifference again as he firms his grip and starts walking down the hallway back to the corner, dragging Shane in tow. Shane’s ass glides all too easily along the wood floor, no traction stopping him. He tries to dig his heels into the wood to halt the dragging, to no avail. He swats at Ilya’s hand half-heartedly, chewing at his bottom lip to contain the giddy feeling rising in his chest.
Ilya hauls him back to the corner and yanks him up by his bicep so that he’s sitting on his knees. He’s shoved closer into the intersection of the walls this time, knees pressed to the baseboard moulding. Ilya steps behind him, feet on either side of his hips to cage him in. There’s hands in his hair, holding his head facing forward and letting the back of his skull rest against his husband’s groin. Shane melts into the other’s body behind him, lets his eyes slip shut and rides out the rest of his time with his lover’s fingers scratching gently at his scalp - because he’s a sucker.
Ilya’s phone timer goes off at some point and Shane is distantly aware that he’s being guided to stand. Then he’s hauled up into Ilya’s arms, thighs strangling his lover’s hips as they head into the bathroom. The blond runs a bath for them, peels his shirt off.
“Arms up,” he prompts, poking at the soft of Shane’s tummy to get him to nearly double over to guard it, giddy smile pressed into the warmth of Ilya’s neck.
He undresses Shane, then guides him into the bathtub and climbs in behind him. He washes Shane with a gentle pass of the shower sponge over his chest, the freckled man’s head tipped back against his shoulder. Shane is half asleep when Ilya’s hand dips underneath the towers of bubbles and the water, calloused palm grazing over the sensitive inside of his thighs. He gasps quietly and turns his head, pressing his nose into Ilya’s neck and muffling his whines and whimpers there.
He tries to clamp his legs shut, but Ilya forces them back open and glides his palm over Shane's balls, rolling them gently under the guise of making sure he’s clean. He wraps a hand around Shane’s dick and strokes him slowly, pressing his free forearm against his chest and pinning him in place when he squirms. Shane huffs and whines so pretty into his neck, hips twitching up into the sensation.
“Nooo,” he fusses, not a lick of conviction in his complaint. “Can’t - can’t touch me there, Daddy, please.”
“Feel good?”
Shane moans in response, eyelashes fluttering and tickling Ilya’s jugular.
“Can’t - not…can’t touch me, I’ve never - never done this.”
Ilya groans at the words, moving his hand faster and listening to his husband’s breathing stutter.
“Gonna make you feel good baby, belongs to Daddy.”
He squeezes the base of his husband’s dick, then strokes him at the tip in quick pulses of his fist. Shane babbles incoherently until he tenses up, leg kicking out of the water and sending frothy bubbles flying as he cums with a shout.
They clean up and drain the tub. Ilya wraps Shane in one towel around his waist, one around his shoulders. He lays him down in the bed and massages lotion over him while he struggles to not fall asleep, mumbling about wanting to make sure Daddy cums too. Ilya kisses his hair, pins him to the bed while he rubs his hard cock between his thighs and ass until he’s spilling over the soft, stretchmark littered skin.
Ilya wipes him down and tucks him close, whispering about how lucky he is that he gets to sleep in Daddy’s bed tonight.
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+One
Ilya returns from his run faster than Shane would have anticipated.
He isn’t much of a cardio guy these days, opting instead for heavy lifting and getting most of his cardio during sex. The blond steps into their shared home and closes the door, carefully because Shane doesn't like it when he just lets it swing closed. He heads into the bedroom to shower, sure that Shane is either also in the bedroom or outside somewhere if he isn’t in the living room. Their bedroom door is open and he hears Shane before he sees him, creeps closer to the threshold until he can see him.
He’s got his shirt tucked up underneath his chin, pretty cinnamon nipples hardened, goosebumps littering every inch of skin exposed. He’s thrusting up into his fist, head tossed back against the pillows while he muffles any too-loud sounds with a bitten lip. Ilya’ grins, leans against the doorway and watches Shane’s toes curl, fist pumping over the tip of his cock as he starts getting close.
Before that tipping point comes, he knocks at the doorframe and watches Shane quickly shoot up from laying on his back, hands flying to the sheets at his sides. The second he lays eyes on Ilya, the confused and shocked expression on his face dissipates. His face is red instantly at being caught, knees drawing up to his chest a bit.
“Fuck, you scared me.”
Ilya grins, then pushes away from the doorway and walks into the room. Shane must assume that he’s joining him, musty and sweaty from his run. Fuck yeah, Shane thinks as he shucks off his shirt and leans back again. But instead, Ilya sits on the edge of the bed beside Shane’s ankles and waits patiently for the freckled man to sit up, confusion written over his boyishly handsome features.
“Poor baby,” Shane melts at the nickname, knees knocking and body shrinking on instinct. “Cannot even touch yourself right. Need Daddy to teach you?”
Shane shudders, finds himself nodding before his brain catches up fully. Ilya pats his lap and Shane all but scrambles into position, moving to straddle his husband. But Ilya redirects him; he guides him to sit facing away so that his soft chest and stomach press into the plane of Shane’s back. Hands graze over his thighs, fingertips tracing little patterns into the soft skin there. He grinds his hips back a little, enveloped in the drying scent of sweat and musk.
“Dirty boy, touching yourself without asking me first,” Ilya taunts, pinching at Shane’s thigh and reveling in the yelp it earns. “You weren’t even doing it right.”
He grazes the back of his knuckles over the wet tip of Shane’s cock, flushed head glistening with smeared precum he’d used to fuck his fist.
“M’sorry,” he whines on instinct, watching Ilya’s hand like a hawk, wishful at the prospect of being touched.
“Sorry for what?”
“Sorry for touching myself, m’sorry. Wasn’t - wasn’t doing it right,” he mutters, turning his head to look over his shoulder and nuzzle the tip of his nose against Ilya’s. “Need Daddy to teach me, please Daddy, please.”
Ilya’s eye twitches and he snakes an arm around Shane’s middle, crushing him against his chest and capturing his lips in a kiss. It’s awkward with the angle they’re sitting at, but he manages it while he licks into his husband’s mouth and cups the soft flesh between his legs in his hand. Shane gasps when Ilya rolls his balls gently, already near orgasm from touching himself. Ilya swallows down the desperation the sound emits and kisses him wet, parting with a smack every so often just to press their wet mouths right back together.
Shane moans into his mouth, squirming and rolling his hips in his lap. He gives him a little warning tap at the tip of his cock, swallows that sound too when he earns it. Shane pants into the cavern of his mouth when they part, his hair tickling the ridge of Ilya’s eyebrow at the angle their heads are at. He reaches up and brushes the strand behind Shane’s ear, tucks it there and caresses over his lover’s eyebrow with his thumb. Shane gets so easy for the gentle touches, especially when they play like this.
He scoots them back so that he has his back leaned against the headboard, legs spread and Shane sat between them still facing away. The freckled man scoots down a bit at his guidance, head tipped back on Ilya’s shoulder comfortably while he cups the back of his knees. Ilya grabs the lube from the nightstand and pops open the cap, kisses Shane’s hair in little pecks while he wets his fingers and speaks into the mess of noir.
“Anyone touch you here yet baby?” he asks, setting the bottle aside and dropping his hand between Shane’s thighs.
He taps the ring of muscle nestled between his cheeks and it sends a jolt throughout Shane’s body. He shakes his head, digging his fingernails into his hamstrings.
“No one touch you here? Still a virgin for Daddy right?”
“No one, no one Daddy.”
Ilya hums in approval, kisses the crown of Shane’s head where a few grays have started to sprout.
“Good boy. Cause this,” he taps the spot again, slick fingers smearing lube over it. “Belongs to who?”
“You,” Shane breathes immediately, well-trained by now. “Yours, only yours.”
“So smart, my smart boy,” he coos, muffled by messy strands of hair. “Only Daddy’s allowed in here. Only Daddy gets to take that from you.”
He pushes one finger in, steady and unhurried. Shane cranes his neck back, hair falling back from his eyes and away from his forehead. He twitches, ankle rolling. He fingers Shane open lazily, talks him through how he’s feeling as if he’s too dumb to know it himself. And fuck, does Shane feel not only dumb, but small.
“No one else could even handle you,” Ilya notes almost conversationally, pulling his hand back and adding a second finger with a gentle bullying inside. “Only I know how to deal with your bratty fucking ass.”
Shane cries out, turns his head to press his closed eyes into Ilya’s neck. It’s tacky with dried sweat, Shane inhales him deeply.
“Daddy knows best, hm? Can’t hear you, Shane.”
He threatens him by retracting his fingers and suddenly Shane has plenty to say between his pathetic noises.
“Daddy knows be-best, Daddy, fuck, please Daddy, don’t - don’t stop.”
His knees shake violently when Ilya plunges his fingers back in, curling them each time he slides them to just their first knuckle. Shane is babbling into his neck, begging so pretty.
“Please, need you Daddy. Need you, need your cock, need Daddy’s cock. Fuck me, take - take my virginity, please, Daddy,” he cries, tears wetting the column of the blond’s neck. “Show me? Show me how - fuck - how b-big boys get fucked, please!”
And fuck, if Shane doesn’t make a compelling case.
He pulls his fingers free and manhandles Shane onto his back, pins him by his neck while he yanks his shirt off. He doesn’t even have the will to stand up from the bed and dispose of his shorts completely, instead leaving them around his thighs as he slicks up his cock with lube. Shane still has his hands at the backs of his knees; Ilya replaces them with his own hands, folding the other man in half until his knees touch his nipples. Even in his age, Shane has kept up with the yoga.
He teases Shane’s rim, presses his leaking tip to it and jerks his cock against the twitching muscle. It’s warm, clenching around nothing and a few shades darker than the rest of his skin, but glistening with lube and as greedy as ever. He’s spent the better part of two decades at this point buried in this part of Shane and not once had it gotten old.
“Not gonna wear a condom, gotta make sure you can take it all. You can take it all, yes baby?”
Shane nods, lips propped open and eyes lidded while he watches Ilya’s forearm flex with the movements. He almost forgets to reply verbally, and if he had, Ilya wouldn’t have minded. He was too lost in his own desire, too.
“Can take it all, gonna take it all, please, please Daddy, fuck me, fuck m-m-”
Ilya slides in with practice, not stopping until their hips are pressed flushed together. The position is reminiscent of their first time all those years ago - Shane’s legs in the air, head propped up against the pillows as he watches Ilya fuck into him over and over. The blond delivers, leaning his weight on Shane’s thighs and driving into him without mercy, tearing open his poor virgin hole. And Shane is moaning like a fucking pornstar, drunk on it.
“Oh f-fuck,” he moans, the sound stuttering in his throat.
Ilya watches his face while he fucks him, watches pink overtake his freckles while his eyelashes flutter as he struggles to keep his eyes open. He keeps up his pace, watches the muscle behind Shane’s thighs tense the closer he gets to the edge. His toes curl and Ilya grins, kissing the socked bottom of his husband’s foot in a sweet display of care while he obliterates his guts.
Shane’s crying by the time he cums, tears flowing freely and dripping down into his sideburns at his temples. He tenses up hard, clamps down on Ilya’s cock so tight that it sends the blond into his own orgasm. It rips through him but he keeps his dumbstruck gaze on Shane, who’s still sobbing - from the overwhelm of emotions. Ilya fills him with milky white, pulling out only once Shane starts wincing with each thrust.
Wordlessly, he lowers the freckled man’s legs to the bed and straddles his thinner chest, strokes his cum-wet cock over the man’s tear-soaked cheeks. Shane blinks up at him and smiles softly, lips trembling as he comes down from his high.
“Need Daddy to wipe your tears, hm?”
Shane nods with a whimper. Ilya smears the tip of his cock underneath the pockets of Shane’s eyes, smearing cum and lube and the wet of the saline around messy. His dick gives a valiant twitch, then starts to soften in his hand the longer he wipes above his lover’s freckles. Shane nuzzles into the action, closing his eyes and catching his breath.
“Love you baby, Daddy loves you, it’s okay, Daddy’s got you,” he mutters breathlessly as he cuddles Shane close after laying down beside him.