Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Domestic Fluff, Shane babies Ilya at the cottage, Ilya's a little confused but he's got the spirit, Hand Feeding, Bathing/Washing, Misdiagnosed Cuteness Aggression, Biting, "baby" - "my baby", this isn't a sex thing at first but they do have sex at the end because it's them

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-17 Words: 12,534 Chapters: 1/1

My Baby

Summary

Shane loves his boyfriend so much he wants to eat him alive. Or baby the fuck out of him. After a night of thinly maintained self-restraint at the cottage, he thinks Ilya will probably be more open to the latter.

Notes

happy birthday julissa mwah mwah mwah ♡

Shane’s never transformed into a werewolf, but he thinks whatever the fuck’s going on inside of him is kinda like that. 

It’s all-consuming - warm and pulsing and painful in his chest as he stares at Ilya across the room, his boyfriend unknowingly churning some sort of previously untapped instinct deep inside him as he literally just sits there watching Underworld. 

Within the first day of their long weekend together, the urge has become undeniable. Unavoidable.

Shane can’t ignore this anymore. But instead of wanting to howl and run for the hills, he’s desperate to drag Ilya in. Instead of the desire to tear things limb from limb, he needs to get Ilya’s head pressed securely into his chest - needs to box him in, keep him safe - needs to do any small, ridiculous thing that might lead to his happiness.

The moon is full at the cottage, and if Shane doesn’t get to take care of his boyfriend to an unsettling degree, he’s going to rip off all his clothes and disappear into the woods forever.

And that kind of scares the shit out of him.

The rising sun does a lot for Shane’s nerves, but little for his yearning.

There’s a hunger in him, and it’s not for the bacon and chocolate chip pancakes he woke up early to make. It’s for the man that sits at the kitchen island, gleefully tending to his plate after many, many, many mornings of oatmeal and fruit together.

Shane watches him eat, but not in a creepy way. 

He doesn’t think so at least.

He’s making sure he’s got a very neutral face going, in fact, to deflect from the absolute storm brewing just beneath it. 

Last night, he talked himself down from confessing his cravings. But there’s nothing left in the self preservation tanks today. Shane needs to love up on this man. He needs to keep him close. Keep him safe. 

He’s never felt this way about anyone or anything in his whole stupid life, and he doesn’t even know what it is yet. Just that it’s here. Just that it’s not going away.

“I want something,” he says into the peaceful, sunlit kitchen, and Ilya immediately looks up from his plate, a noticeable spark of recognition flitting across his face.

They’ve been working on this lately. Well, Shane has. Telling people what he wants, especially when it’s self-indulgent. Submitting to the mortifying ordeal of expressing his needs. I want something, is what he says to Ilya. And Ilya recognizes it.

Probably because it usually comes before something to do with sex.

“Okay.”

Shane steadies himself, his weight leaned back against the sink, the island counter between them. “I want-...to take care of you.”

It feels like a big declaration. His heart is certainly racing like it is. Or like he’s just come off the ice. Or like he’s transforming into a werewolf.

“You do this already, malysh,” Ilya insists around a bite of bacon, but it’s not dismissive. “You take care of me. I take care of you.” He waves the piece between them, casually. “We take care of each other.”

Shane swallows, “Yeah…” because that’s true. “But…” He unfolds his arms and plants his hands behind him on the edge of the counter. An attempt to open himself when every other part is urging him to shut the fuck up. To shut this down. Not this time. He’s gonna get this out even if it kills him. “I wanna…like…baby you…”

From his seat, Ilya’s chewing comes to a slow pause. 

He watches him. Swallows. Analyzes. Shane can feel it sweep over him from head to toe. “‘Baby’…”

“Yeah.”

“What, with diaper,” he says more than asks.

And, “No.” God no. “No diaper. I mean-...” Wait… “Is that…what you want?”

“No.” Again, not dismissive. But also not budging. “Is not what I want.”

“Okay.” Good. Honestly, that thought didn’t even cross Shane’s mind in all the different roads it’s traveled down since yesterday. Adding yet another was about to short-circuit his brain. 

And…

“More, Shane.” Ilya’s set down his bacon where he keeps his gaze now, committing to whatever the fuck is trying to get worked out here. “I’m not understanding.”

To be fair, it’s a complicated conversation to be having at eight in the morning. Especially when Shane doesn’t even have a good grasp on it yet. But now that Ilya’s locked in, there’s a sense of security that works its way past the nerves. Strength.

Shane can do this.

“I think I’ve wanted it for a while... At least a little.” That much, he’s solid on. The feeling isn’t new - the intensity is. “Last night I was looking at you, and…I dunno… I just got this really, really big need to like…keep you safe?” he tries. “You know, comfortable. Happy.” 

Ilya listens to him carefully. Takes it in, unfairly pretty and willing in the golden morning light. “You feel this way now?”

And fuck… “Yeah,” Shane admits, his chest throbbing with it. “A lot.”

His confession is answered with a nod. With trailing eyes as Ilya thinks on this, and then looks at him again to ask it. “What does it make you want to do?”

That thing in Shane’s chest pulses, just like it did the entire time he stood over the stove making breakfast, imagining Ilya’s face when he came down to see - the sated smile as he indulged in the work Shane put in for him. And now he’s sitting here, his plate still half-full. And Shane’s fingers itch with it, the answer to what he wants to do very obvious to him. “Feed you.”

The silence that follows isn’t designed to make him uncomfortable, he doesn’t think. It’s just the natural flow of things - his boyfriend trying to decrypt his half-baked but fully felt desires.

“This is…a sex thing.”

It comes out as a statement, but Shane knows he’s actually asking him. “No. I don’t think so.” It makes sense to try and come to that conclusion though. “I just wanna…do shit for you. Take care of you.”

“Like a child.”

“Also no.” Maybe they aren’t on the same page as much as he thought. “You wouldn’t be like…a baby-baby,” he explains. “You’d just be my baby.” 

The words alone are enough to get that desire swirling in him again, so hard it’s almost painful. So intense that his chest lifts, his lungs filling with it. His baby…

He wants to rush over there. Wants to get Ilya pressed all up against him. Wants to feed him bacon and watch him smile because he’s happy and because he’s safe and because he’s Shane’s baby. Jesus Christ... 

It’ll be so easy to scare him off with this and he knows that. But he also recognizes that look of interest in Ilya’s eyes, like maybe he’s not totally opposed to being the center of attention. 

It’s just that he’s not saying anything. At all. And that’s enough to make Shane question things again. Because he’s been good with voicing what he wants lately, but maybe sometimes you can want too much, and, “Look, I don’t really get it either, okay? If it’s too fucked up, just forget I-”

The ceramic scrape of Ilya’s plate on the counter quickly puts an end to that, Shane tracking its push toward him with a little flip of excitement in his heart.

An offering.

A smile, small and open.

Oh.

“...really?”

As if he isn’t sending Shane’s heart straight off into the atmosphere, Ilya clicks his tongue, cheeky with his delivery. “What? Ohhh, my sexy boyfriend wants to feed me breakfast he made. What nightmare this is…”

A small laugh huffs from Shane’s nose, that feeling in his chest growing so large that he feels like he’s vibrating from the inside out. “Shut up…”

It’s knee-jerk. 

Hard to control, especially when he’s tasked with navigating the annoyingly winding roads of his own vulnerability as he rounds the counter. 

But when he comes to a stop in front of Ilya, when he’s finally close enough to touch, all he has to do is give into the desire that’s been building up in him.

Ilya meets his hug with one arm, the other trapped to his body as Shane wraps around him from the side. “If I did not know better, I would think you love me.”

This time, Shane’s laugh is honest, and it's pressed right into those sweet, pillow-flattened curls. “I do,” he murmurs into them too. “A lot.” 

He allows himself two kisses there, and then drops into the seat next to his boyfriend, pulling the plate back in front of them. His own is still completely untouched on the other side of the counter, but he’ll get to it later. There are much more important things to focus on now.

Like the way Ilya sinks back into the chair, watching as Shane takes his time with the knife and fork, methodically cutting the rest of his pancakes into bite-sized pieces.

“I knew there must be reason for breakfast…”

Despite the correct assumption, Shane finds it very difficult to ignore the underlying implications about their usual menu, his brow fixed as he spears a forkful. “Oatmeal is good.”

His defense receives no more than an unconvinced murmur, but Ilya is smiling. Warmly. Tracking the fork that travels between them with clear hesitation, before being offered without a word.

This shouldn’t feel so big. Shane’s body shouldn’t be going into overdrive, torn between wanting to guide the fork into his mouth and wanting to go run it off. Because Ilya takes the bite, but it’s awkward. Shane can feel it in the air between them, like neither of them really know what to do now.

He sets the fork down. 

Glances sideways as Ilya chews, before returning to the plate.

Isn’t sure what his next move should be. Another bite? Bacon? Is he, like…supposed to watch him eat? Should they pause and actually talk about it? He knows this is his idea, but…

“Your pancakes are lonely too, malysh.”

Shane snaps back up at that, eager to latch onto something. “I had some earlier,” he assures. “When I was making them.” Unless…that was Ilya trying to subtly hint that he’d rather Shane worry about his own breakfast.

Oh.

Maybe he’s not into this.

What feels like both a room away and claustrophobically close, Ilya’s gaze lands on the next neatly cut stack of pancakes waiting for him. Which…is a good sign?

Shane swallows, then lifts the fork back up with another offered bite, letting it hover too short between them because he’s in his head now. One of his least favorite places to be. Because nothing ever actually gets done in here, and right now his brain is making this way less fun, and-

Ilya gently wraps his hand around Shane’s wrist, guiding it up so he can bring the fork in close enough to bite with a corny little, “Ahhh…”

It’s supposed to be funny. It’s supposed to calm him down and make him laugh - god, Shane knows it is, but-

“Okay,” he huffs, his brain taking full control and scooting him away in the chair, ears growing hot. “Never mind. Pretend I never said anything-”

“Hey.” He only gets a step away before Ilya’s pulling him back in, murmuring through his mouthful. “Hey… Shane.”

The last thing he wants to do is follow it, except for all the little parts of him that do. He likes it here, unfortunately, in the space Ilya opens up for him between his legs. Ugh. 

“What happened…?” he asks, tilting his head to catch Shane’s gaze as he speaks up to him. “Mm?”

“Nothing,” Shane says, which is true. “I dunno. It was awkward.”

Ilya shrugs it off. Casual. Like he didn’t feel it at all, actually. “Is just food-”

“No. I know that.”

“I like it.”

Shane exhales. “I know - that’s why I made them.”

“No,” Ilya gathers their hands together. Really looks at him. “Being fed by you,” he clarifies. “I like it. Very much.”

The edge of the island is cool as Shane leans back into it in the small space, unable to fight the curiosity of a quick glance up. “...really? You’re not just saying that?” He should just accept the placency and move on, but his brain is still buzzing. “Because you’re not supposed to agree to shit just because you know I want it-”

“When do I do that?” Ilya counters, but it’s calm as ever. Like he’s not the least bit worried about laying out the truth. “Why would I not want you to take care of me? You are good cook. With a good heart.” He taps his pointer finger over Shane’s chest a couple times for good measure. “And I am still hungry, yes? Baby should not have to feed himself.”

And it’s crazy how even on the brink of mortification, Ilya still finds a way to get Shane’s heart fluttering against his rib cage, lost in the heat that floods back into it from the reassurance and the gentle tone and the phrasing - the deliberate ‘baby’ in that low, sweet voice. Whether meant to or not, it’s really doing a number on Shane’s doubts.

Without looking away, Ilya slides the plate closer before grabbing it and holding it up between them - a silent offering. Another try.

Shane stares down at it, and he’s pretty sure that if he was just a werewolf, he wouldn’t have to deal with all the subtle, intricate decisions that come with hand-feeding the love of his life.

But…

He takes the plate. 

Plucks up a piece of bacon. 

Bites off a small piece for himself first and Ilya loves that shit, his smile good and pleased as he opens his mouth for his turn.

In the sunlit kitchen, they chew peacefully, until the entire piece is gone. And maybe this isn’t as difficult as Shane’s brain was making it. Maybe all he needed was the solid declaration that Ilya is into this - verbally, of course, from his own mouth - but also from the way he eats with such contentment, his smile small and soft and everything that makes his chest full.

Shane offers him more bites of bacon and a forkful of pancakes and he wipes the stray syrup at the corner of Ilya’s grin with his thumb, bringing it to his own to suck it off.

“What do you wanna do today…?”

Ilya swallows, hands coming forward to tangle loosely in the front of Shane’s shirt as he sits. “Swim.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

They spent almost the entire day in the lake yesterday. If they weren’t eating or fucking or spiraling into primal ruin, they were swimming.

But, “Okay,” Shane agrees easily. “And maybe I can keep…you know…”

Ilya’s little affronted frown is unbearably cute. “Of course you will. Would be very mean to stop now.”

It’s enough to get Shane smiling, his body filling from head to toe with the delightful realization. He’s gonna get to do this all day, isn’t he? As long as he doesn't fuck it up somehow? “Go get changed,” he says, planting a kiss on Ilya’s forehead. “I’ll clean up.”

“Mm. Hurry.”

“Be patient.” 

There’s plenty of daylight ahead of them.

By the time Shane gets the kitchen back in order, changes into his swim shorts, and then makes his way outside, Ilya is already well into his half-assed application of sunscreen.

The urge to step in and take over touches down almost immediately, but unsurprisingly enough, it’s directly followed up by the desire to pause. To watch. Some things will always be true - and one of them is that Shane finds Ilya Rozanov endlessly interesting to look at. 

Sunlight washes over his skin even more beautifully than it did at breakfast - even prettier than the lake that sparkles just behind him. The tight muscles in his back flex and relax as he spreads sunblock into his arms, and Shane takes the second to appreciate each and every one of them - the broad span of his shoulders - the curve of his spine - how it narrows into a lower back that Shane finds just so impossibly cute for such a buff man. Ilya gets to work on his other arm, oblivious to the very close inspection that travels back up, coming to rest on the deep pink indentations still pressed into the top of his left shoulder.

Shane’s heart thuds. A tiny, leftover pulse of arousal works through him.

Ilya’s skin glows just as temptingly as it did last night in the moonlight. And this morning, he’s missing half of it with the sunscreen.

“I can do this,” is his immediate retaliation when the bottle gets lifted from him and Shane takes over. Like he forgot for a moment what they’re doing.

That’s okay. It’s still new. “I want to.” 

After being given the okay, Shane slathers the actual correct amount of sunblock over his boyfriend’s back, making sure to rub it in extra well. And Ilya lets him, mumbling something about how he already got back there.

He definitely didn’t.

Shane commits to a thorough job.

It’s nice, he realizes. He likes doing this - getting to touch up on Ilya, obviously, but more so getting to do this for him. He slides his slick hands up pretty shoulder blades… Works the sunscreen into the back of his neck, smiling when Ilya hangs his head and lets out a dramatic, happy groan… He maybe spends a little extra time there, before squeezing more from the bottle and rubbing it into the tops of his shoulders and-

A noise lifts from Ilya’s throat. Not exactly pained, but definitely aware.

Whoops.

Shane lets up on his left shoulder, very daintily rubbing the rest over the indents with the pads of his fingers. “Sorry… Didn’t realize I bit that hard…”

The change in pressure seems to be appreciated, even with the low, playful words that float out from his boyfriend at the memory. “Mm… You were like wild animal last night… Very intense.”

Jesus… “Sorry…” he hears himself say again.

“No.” A little head shake. “I love when you are like that. Insatiable.”

The puff of air from Shane’s mouth is humored. “‘Insatiable’…”

“Yes… Like…loud, horny coyote.”

And that’s-... Okay, well that can’t be accurate. Shane continues to rub, but can’t help but ask, “Not like…I dunno, maybe a wolf?” A werewolf, even.

Ilya turns then, ready for his front to be covered next. But Shane can’t tear his eyes away from the truly absurd number of bite marks left all up and down his chest - around his nipple - over his stomach - there’s just a glimpse of one that disappears into the front of his swim trunks too.

Okay, yeah. Maybe coyote is a more accurate description.

“Whatever…” he forces out, committing to covering every square inch of this man in sunscreen. “I didn’t hear you complaining.”

“Mm, definitely not.”

Shane finishes his job with both haste and accuracy. Contrary to what Ilya probably thinks of him, he doesn’t want to be horny right now. That’s not what this is. He wants to get in the water and play with his baby. So after one final sweep to double check his work, he deems Ilya sea-worthy, patting the strong curve of his hip.

“Alright, you’re free.”

As if he truly was shackled to his spot and was just released, Ilya quickly dips toward the lake, taking advantage of Shane’s decision before he changes his mind and calls him back in.

Shane’s not going to do that, of course. He’s too busy fighting off the intense urge to immediately follow after him, a small smile lifting the corner of his mouth as he watches his boyfriend flop into the water with all the grace of a grizzly bear.

It’s how he spends the majority of his own sunscreen time. Just watching. Humming a laugh as Ilya quickly sheds his grizzly bear weight to roll into his mermaid-acrobat tendencies.

He’s almost finished by the time said mermaid-acrobat breaks his record for holding his breath while submerged in a handstand. It’s Shane’s job to count, you see. To time him. To shout out the number of seconds he’s held it once Ilya resurfaces and squints over at him from the water.

Just short of a minute is honestly pretty impressive.

Ilya’s working for the full sixty seconds.

Shane turns to the sunscreen bottle, squeezing more into his palm and starting to rub it into his shoulders to the tune of yet another finished attempt.

“Did you see?” Ilya shouts from the water.

“Yeah baby, I saw,” he insists from dry land. And it doesn’t even register as anything until the word sinks in a second later. 

Because-…

Shane flicks his eyes up toward him, something warm and nervous fluttering in his chest as he tries to catch a response to that. 

He’s…never really been a pet-name guy. And Ilya knows that. And Ilya is looking at him from the water, chest heaving from holding his breath, smile widening as it must settle in him too and…

“How long…?”

Shane swallows, readjusting behind his sunglasses with what he hopes is a convincing nod. 

He has no fucking idea how long that was anymore. “Fifty six seconds.”

Yeah, that sounds good.

It’s certainly satisfying Ilya, who rubs a wet hand down the front of his face and then floats backward, both reaching out for him adorably. “Come…”

And really…who is Shane to resist?

The lake hasn’t had a chance to bake under the sun yet, so the water is a bit chilly. But Shane swims out to his grinning boyfriend without a problem, buoyed by the light, airy warmth that’s filled his lungs.

Baby…

Yeah baby, I saw…

“Race me,” Ilya insists more than proposes. And if his boyish excitement isn’t enough to convince, the fingers that prod annoyingly at Shane’s stomach beneath the water definitely are.

It’s a clean race. From the small rock by the shore to the big rock further out, then back. Shane has perfected his strategy over the years - has channeled out the exact path, number of breaths to take, and when. It’s no surprise to him when he makes it back to the small rock first, but the endorphins pump all the same because it’s them, victorious as Ilya pulls in a couple feet after him. Scowling. Curls drowned.

“You’re supposed to let baby win.”

Shane grins. “Says who?”

“Baby.”

Cute. But, “I said I was gonna take care of you - not lose my spine completely.” There’s obviously a huge difference.

It’s a stand-off, both parties holding their own as they struggle to regain waterlogged breath, feet planted firmly on the lakebed. 

And Ilya is staring. Looking all over Shane’s face like there’s a million different responses he can roll into - most, if not all, to display his pretend displeasure. Shane thinks maybe he should cut him off at the pass. But before he can, a sense of finality draws over his boyfriend’s expression. He’s made a decision.

“Fine,” he says. “Goodbye forever.”

And then he’s disappearing beneath the water’s surface in a dramatic display of bubbles and limp arms.

Shane’s body pushes to reach out for him automatically, because of course it does. But Ilya’s dramatics are too advanced. He gets all the way under and stays there. Deep. Like he’s tucked his legs to sit on the lakebed, criss cross apple sauce.

Oh for fuck’s sake.

Shane pulls in a steadying breath, resisting an eye roll in favor of reaching down to find his pouting boyfriend’s arms and hook under them, very easily scooping him back up and out of the water.

He expects the hair shake once Ilya emerges, already scrunching his face and squeezing his eyes shut against the onslaught of water droplets. What he doesn’t expect is Ilya’s legs to wrap around his waist under the surface. For him to cling, happily, making Shane hold him in the water after throwing his fit.

Jesus. “You’re fucking ridiculous,” he sighs, readjusting his embrace around Ilya’s back.

“You love me,” Ilya reminds him.

“I know…” is the only thing he can say to that. Because really that’s the whole fucking point of this, right? Shane loves his theatrical ass. He’d carry him around all day if he could do it without throwing his back out and getting benched before the season even begins.

Ilya knows this well too. He knew Shane would rescue him. Knew he would let him cling like a koala in the water. Knows he’ll kiss him now, wet and a little breathy through all his panting, the perfect break to slip in for the next attack. “And you cheat anyway.”

Shane’s eyes immediately open at that, something primal and defensive raring in his chest just as easily as the day he was born. 

Because whoa whoa whoa, what the fuck? “How did I cheat!”

“You know water better. Been swimming in this lake for years.”

“That’s not a thing.” Is it? “Don’t be a sore loser.”

“Or what, you will put me in time out?”

“Maybe.” Shane’s on board with that option. “That sounds like a great idea actually.”

“Mm, but then who will you baby…?” Ilya teases, pushing pushing pushing like his life isn’t very much in someone else’s hands at the moment. “Poor Shane, all alone with no one to-”

“Ilya, hold your breath-”

“-what?”

And with that, Shane kicks up his feet, successfully dunking them both into the lake. 

Conversation ended.

It’s no secret that tearing across the water and pretending to drown twice takes a lot out of a guy. 

After one more race (Shane wins again, but scoops Ilya up into his arms before he can fully submerge in protest), they find themselves back on dry land.

The day is shaping up to be hotter than expected. By the time Shane returns from inside with a bowl of chilled grapes, they’re both completely dry, the sun’s impact noticeable the second he steps back under it. 

As he walks, he watches his boyfriend reset the lawn chairs from where they were scattered the night before for their bonfire. And there’s that feeling again - light and airy but just so intense. So insistent. Like his body is pulling him forward until they crash together.

He needs Ilya back in his arms.

Shane’s heart clenches, his free hand reaching out to him. “Come here, baby.” That’s enough time apart.

It falls strangely from his mouth. An active choice, and yet plucking at his heart somewhat awkwardly.

Ilya tunes into it with nothing more than a fond little grin that follows him all the way over. He slips his hand into Shane’s, letting himself be maneuvered toward the loungers. “Why are you frowning?”

“I’m not,” Shane insists.

And he doesn’t miss the way it melts Ilya’s grin even more, “Mm…”

“‘Mm’...” He answers the quick, playful kiss that’s pressed to his lips before finally pulling him down onto the lounger so he can follow, making himself comfortable in his lap with the bowl. “What do you want for lunch?” he asks. “And we should think about dinner, I guess…”

Ilya looks up at him, one eye squinting shut against the bright sun. “Is like…ten in the morning, yes?”

“Yes?” His point? “It’s good to have a plan.”

He plucks one of the grapes from the bowl and holds it to Ilya’s lips, a pretty little pop of satisfaction bursting in him when it’s taken without fuss. 

One for himself next, both of them peacefully chewing as lunch options are pondered over. “Hm…” Maybe Ilya’s leaning into the dramatics again - making him wait. Maybe he’s actually giving this thought. There are options at the ready, but before they’re rattled off, he decides, “Sushi, maybe.”

And…

Shane’s smile drops. “Oh.”

“What?”

“I was just…hoping it was something I could make you.”

Ilya squints up at him. “You made breakfast.”

“And?”

“...and…I love you.”

That’s what he thought. “I love you too.” Without thinking, Shane pulls off his sunglasses and slips them over Ilya’s eyes instead, watching his face unscrunch in real time. Better. “We have stuff for salad,” he suggests. “And I think chicken and pasta. Or I can put an order in.”

“Red pasta? Or white.”

“What do you want?”

“Red.”

Of course he does. “Like, for dinner?” The nod he gets is so cute for absolutely no reason. Shane has to shove a grape into Ilya’s mouth about it. “What about lunch…”

“I don’t know.” He mumbles it through his bite. “I don’t know. Too many decisions, malysh - decide for me please.”

Shane supposes he’ll accept that. And not just because he likes how the hands on his hips have snuck back to wrap around his waist, holding him close. 

Brain now busy launching into possibilities to satisfy his boy, Shane absentmindedly dips into the bowl for another offering. But instead of being taken politely, this time Ilya tilts his head back, taking in the offending fruit. “They are bad for babies, yes?” he asks. 

It’s enough to pull Shane’s attention back to the present, frown falling into place. “What?”

“Grapes,” Ilya provides. “Very dangerous.” And then, “You want me to choke.”

It takes a second to register what’s being said. The implications. The struggle between literal and metaphorical apparently alive and well, not that Shane’s been locked in a lifelong battle with them himself or anything. 

Still. “Ilya, you understand you’re not an actual baby, right?”

“No, not for long when I choke to death.”

The pretend insult is just so ridiculous. His little eyebrow lift.

God, Shane loves him so bad. 

He huffs, but there’s no disguising the laugh it falls out on. To avoid further eyebrow furrow, he simply takes the very dangerous grape and bites it through the middle, eating his half so he can offer the other with a pointed, “Better?”

Behind Shane’s sunglasses, Ilya seems to assess - his dramatic ass - and then he’s letting him pop the fruit into his mouth with no more than a contented smile, a sight so common, and yet it’s driving Shane insane with the need to pull him in tight and never let go.

So that’s just what he does, treacherous grape bowl discarded beside them.

Shane is happy.

No, that’s an understatement.

Shane feels like he’s going to explode. Like the thing inside his chest is so, so pleased with him. Like every glimpse of Ilya’s satisfied smile and every touch of his warm skin and every second of time together is feeding it - growing it - filling it up until it's pressing against the slats of his rib cage, pulsing…pulsing…trying to get out.

Shane is captivated. Possessed.

He wants more.

And he knows that’s a problem.

It’s a late lunch. Apparently feeding someone a big breakfast and then grapes and then chopped up vegetables intended for a salad makes them not hungry for a full meal during Full Meal Time, but that last one isn’t Shane’s fault. Ilya is sitting next to him on the counter so sweetly, rambling about this and that as the veggies get chopped. He’s just so endearing. The thing in Shane’s chest howls - has him nodding along with whatever his baby’s saying with a calm “Mhm,” while popping stray slices of tomato and cucumber into his mouth. 

And of course Ilya eats them. Because he’ll eat anything. And he’s being very good for Shane today - a thought that dips just a bit too low in Shane’s belly for the situation, so of course he interrupts it with another slice of tomato.

It isn’t until late afternoon that they sit down on the shady patio with their grilled chicken salads, but it’s perfect. Except maybe for the fact that Shane’s letting Ilya feed himself for the first time today. Which even he can admit is a weird sentence as it rolls across his brain.

He’d obviously much rather be guiding the fork to his boyfriend’s mouth like he did during breakfast. But despite the fact that all his cravings have been received with open arms so far, Shane can’t shake how terrified he is of overdoing it - of annoying Ilya. Like…actually. 

So he sits and eats his own perfectly grilled slices of chicken and that thing in his chest growls, fingers itching as he watches the food disappear across from him without his help. But Ilya smiles. And comments on how good his grill job is while he knocks their feet together under the table. And maybe that’s enough to soothe the urge to launch himself forward so he can cut his chicken for him.

And it is. For the time being.

Except that when they’re done, Ilya starts clearing the plates for them. He carries them inside despite Shane’s protest and Shane finds himself right on his heels, heart thudding uncomfortably against the thick, neglected swell of desire as he watches Ilya rinse their plates off at the sink because it was just supposed to be a short break but now he’s losing it - the very specific way this day is supposed to go. He can feel it slipping through his fingers in a way that borderline panics him because what if once it's gone he can't get it back and-

“Stop,” he insists, grabbing the wet plate from Ilya and right away he knows it’s mean. He can hear it in his own voice. But the plan - his baby - “Just…” He uses his dry hand to urge Ilya in the other direction. “I got it, okay? You don’t have to do this.”

“You grilled. I can clean,” Ilya responds, and it’s very, very reasonable and acceptable for everyone except the urge trying to burst out of Shane’s chest like fucking Alien and-

“Stop.” 

The momentum between them shatters and drops to the floor at their feet. 

Disproportionate.

With a thudding pulse, Shane sets the plate down on the counter. Takes a second to steady himself, eyes closing before opening again to take in the careful look fixed across Ilya’s face.

Fuck.

“Sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong, just-…” A breath. Steadying. “Let me do this for us. Please.”

It’s déjà vu.

If the sun was a little lower and the kitchen smelled like maple syrup, Shane would think they’re right back at square one, Ilya watching him across the way with curious eyes, picking apart the moment for understanding. 

And Shane really, really doesn’t wanna fall all the way back to square one. 

So… “You can sit and watch if you want…” Like this afternoon with the vegetables. “And then after we can take a nap or something. Okay…?”

It’s crazy how quickly he can feel the structure returning as he speaks them through it. The physical parameters that had been set slide back into place, keeping all his insides from spilling out.

Ilya weighs his offer for a moment or two. And when his answer comes, it’s by closing the short space between them, planting a kiss to Shane’s mouth that grounds them to the floor. “Okay…” he murmurs softly, and it pours into all the crevices that were opening between the two of them, sealing them back up into solid footing. 

Structure.

Physical parameters.

And then he’s drifting away. Hopping up onto his spot on the counter. Long, muscly limbs at ease.

It’s a breath of relief. 

Shane lets it settle in his lungs before grabbing Ilya’s hand to smooch the ridge of his knuckles with another microscopic, “Sorry. Love you,” before he chickens out.

And then he picks up the plates and deals with them as intended. Rinses them off and taps his baby’s knees, waiting for him to pull his feet up onto the counter to make room for the dishwasher door to swing open.

So. That was something.

Neither of them are anywhere near nap-ready by the time the dishes and kitchen are cleaned up. But with his mind finally able to settle on the motions, Shane does find inspiration in the warm water and soap suds. 

“You could use a bath,” he notes as he wipes down the counter after helping Ilya’s swim-trunked self down from it. 

Perhaps it comes out a bit insulting, unintentionally of course. But as usual, his boyfriend chooses to take the playful route, “Oh…?” fingers tugging at the back of Shane’s shirt as he waits just behind him. “Am I a dirty boy, malysh…?”

A grin dances across Shane’s face, also as usual. And it stays as he drapes the towel over the faucet so he can turn in his hold, carding in thought through lake-wrecked curls. “Maybe I could wash your hair for you…”

It’s a suggestion that Ilya seems to enjoy the sound of, his eyes lighting in this particularly adorable way that makes Shane’s heart flutter.

It doesn’t take long to find themselves sitting on the floor in the master bathroom. The anticipation begins to set in as they wait…wait…wait for the large bathtub on the far wall to fill up, Ilya’s attention drawn to a particularly colorful bird that’s landed in the trees past the wall of windows.

Shane checks the temperature of the water methodically, flicking the droplets back into the tub all except for the last time, when he flicks them at Ilya’s face to get his attention. 

“Hey!” His boyfriend chuckles, immediately drawing back the arm he had raised in defense once he realizes it was a singular attack.

There are more important matters to tend to. “Not gonna get very clean with those on.”

His nod is followed down to the sun-dried swim trunks. Just as quickly volleyed back to Shane’s shorts. “You too.”

But that’s not what this is. “I’ll shower after.” 

“Oh…” Ilya’s working through it over there, not disappointed, just caught off guard that he’ll be the only one in the tub, probably. “You’re not-…?”

“I’m not.” He wasn’t planning on it, at least. “…is that okay?”

This is about Ilya. 

The whole day has been about Ilya.

And maybe it’s for that reason that the swim trunks come off so easily.

Shane stands to help Ilya into the bath, completely unnecessary, but a good jumping off point to be able to arrange him in the water with a quiet little, “Scoot back here… Like-… Yeah.”

Once his baby’s back is lounging securely against the end of the tub, he gets to work with the soap and a clean washcloth, lathering warm suds up and down Ilya’s arms.

He’ll admit it’s strange at first. There’s a sort of awkwardness in their movements - Ilya not knowing exactly how far to extend his arm for him - Shane maneuvering him with a touch that’s perhaps a bit too goal-oriented instead of soothing. But just like everything else that involves their bodies pulling into each other’s orbit, soon they strike a favorable balance. One that Shane prefers because it’s entirely driven by him, as Ilya seems to get with the program and go dead-limbed, allowing Shane to move him as he pleases.

And then it’s just peace.

The random squeak of skin against the bottom of the tub.

Water droplets and soothing scents and the hum of contentment that comes floating from his boyfriend as he closes his eyes, more than happy to be fussed over.

“Shane spa…” he murmurs cryptically.

But Shane catches on with a grin. “Should I go get the rest of the cucumber slices…?”

“Mm, yes... Perfect snack...”

“They’re for your eyes, Ilya.”

Ilya must hear the smile on his lips, because one dances across his too. “I know...”

Shane shakes his head fondly, working the warm washcloth over his chest in slow, easy circles. It leaves Ilya’s skin pink and soapy. Pretty. Shane works his way up to the indentations he left over his shoulder and for one split second, the image of leaning forward and sinking his teeth into him again flashes in front of his eyes.

Just as quickly as it comes, he pushes it down. Stuffs it back into his overflowing rib cage. Gently cleans over the bite and calls back to the last thing that came out of their mouths for the sake of keeping his head.

“You’re not actually hungry, are you?”

As if he’s just said the silliest thing, Ilya’s eyes open, brows furrowed with fond disbelief. “You’ve been feeding me all day, malysh. No, I’m not hungry.” Okay well, ‘all day’ is a bit of an exaggeration- “Maybe for kiss, yes.”

Whatever Shane’s brain was about to roll into gets snuffed out at that last bit. Maybe for kiss, yes. God, he loves him. 

Using the edge of the bathtub to balance, Shane looms over the water to meet the perfectly pursed lips waiting for him. As they kiss, he can hear the drips of water hitting the surface as Ilya pulls his hand out, firm but respectful fingertips coming to rest wetly against his cheek. Like he just can’t help but touch Shane. Much better than the whole hand.

Another kiss, quicker this time. And then Shane is pulling back, staying stretched over the tub to ask him quietly. “Gonna let me wash your face now…?”

He gets a sweet nod that makes his heart stutter. That he just has to answer with another quick smooch. And then Shane’s pulling back, rinsing off the washcloth in the water and draping it on the little hanger so he can pump some of Ilya’s face soap into his palm.

The smell is brighter than Shane’s, but he’s come to love it. Especially here. In his cottage. There’s something about smelling Ilya’s smells here that just drives him crazy with satisfaction, his smile difficult to tamp down as he lathers the soap in his hands and then forces himself to move forward and reach.

It’s a bit far. A weird angle. 

“Can you come here, baby?” he asks, and it’s feeling less and less weird each time. 

Ilya moves to him because of course he does. He’s good like that. Listens very well when Shane talks to him like this, he realizes with a curl of interest in his belly, but that’s not what this is. This is about cleaning the sunscreen off his face. The lake water. Everything that should be kind of gross, but just endears this man to him so much more, reminding him of how adorable he was clinging to him in the lake after being such a sore loser this morning. So Shane reaches out with both hands, carefully lathering the soap over his pretty, sun-kissed cheeks.

And Ilya’s facing him now. Because Shane told him to. Which means he’s just front and center. Watching Shane with those big, pretty, puppy-love filled eyes. And Shane maybe wants to do this forever. Wants to drag him into his arms with the water and the soap and everything and not let go. Eat him, something in the back of his brain suggests, and he guesses he still can’t rule out that this all might just be because he’s a werewolf, which is debatably less convenient than the other option.

The thought is interrupted by the wet pointer finger that taps square on his forehead, his boyfriend’s voice filling the bathroom again. “Thinking hard…”

Shane scrunches his face against the sudden wetness. Nudges the hand away with the back of his wrist and then gets back to work lathering the soap over the strong bridge of Ilya’s nose with the pads of his thumbs. “I just really love you, I think…”

The huff of amusement from his nostrils is unavoidable like this. “You ‘think’.”

And yeah. Shane’s not sure why he said it like that. “I know. I know I really love you.” He’s pretty obsessed with him, to be perfectly honest.

“I really love you too,” Ilya smiles.

And when Shane tells him, “Close your eyes, please,” he does, probably falling for the excuse that he doesn’t want to get soap in them as he washes across his forehead, and not for the real reason, which is if he keeps looking at him with those eyes, Shane is definitely going to eat him.

When he’s done with his face, he instructs Ilya to rinse it off, watching him cup big handfuls of water from the bath and splash them over the suds. 

Ilya saves them both a head shake, instead rubbing his palm down his face. And then he’s squinting over at Shane, with those sweet pink cheeks. Nice and clean. “Hair now please, malysh.”

What baby wants, baby gets.

There’s a second where the momentum hangs again, Shane debating the best way to wet his favorite curls on the fucking planet. Another image flashes across his eyes - a core memory - warm water and lavender bubbles and the huge, thick plastic Metros souvenir cup wielded by his mom, her hand coming to shield his eyes when he had refused to tip his head back far enough for her liking.

There’s no such cup in this cottage. Nor will there ever be. 

What he does have is the detachable showerhead that’s actually never come off the wall.

First time for everything, he guesses.

Shane settles back over the side of the tub to turn the water on low, testing the pressure against his own hand as it falls from the showerhead.

“I love when you concentrate so hard…”

He flicks his eyes up. Catches the scowl he most definitely has going on, judging by Ilya’s tease. “Just don’t wanna blast you to the other side of the cottage.”

“Mm… My Shane takes such good care of me…”

It’s a joke, he thinks. But it fills his lungs with an almost painful breath, his heart pounding. Jesus Christ… “I try,” he frowns. Then, trying very hard to get his face right, “Tip your head back.”

Ilya’s grin lingers a touch too long for Shane’s self control, those eyes taking in every inch of his face like he’s simply enamored with what he sees. But then he’s doing as asked - eyes closed - head tilted backward - neck elongated beautifully, clean pretty skin just begging to be broken.

Shane blinks. Swallows urgently, forcing himself up onto his knees with a hard breath so he can get to the task at hand.

Directing the water over Ilya’s hair is easier than he imagined it would be. And now he watches with honest wonder…loose curls flattening down…soft, creamy brown melting into dark chocolate…

Maybe he should get those cucumber slices after all.

Instead of doing that, Shane finishes wetting his hair and then settles for a taste elsewhere, slotting his lips so firmly over Ilya’s that it seems to surprise him down there, his back straightening as he leans up into the kiss with a pleased hum.

It’d be very easy to deepen it. He caught him off guard, which means Shane could slip his tongue in and tease more out of him with barely any effort.

But he doesn’t wanna do that. That’s not what this is, he’s still pretty sure. He’s trying so hard for it not to be, despite how the overwhelming pulse in his rib cage is starting to rub up uncomfortably with the urge in his belly. 

Enough.

Focus.

Engage, he tells himself, settling back on his heels to turn the water off and grab at one of the bottles Ilya left on the bottom ledge.

He uncaps it. Tips it toward his waiting palm and Ilya’s eyes flutter open, not even saying a single thing as he reaches up to straighten the bottle before he can squeeze any out. And…

Shane watches, on pause, as Ilya reaches around to grab the other one on the ledge and switch them out in his hands for him.

Oh.

This one first.

Right.

“Thanks.”

Ilya just smiles peacefully, nodding and closing his eyes again, clearly ready to be doted over.

With the right bottle this time, Shane squeezes some shampoo into his palm and lathers it up, the sound slick and loud in the quiet bathroom. And when he reaches out to start massaging it into those wet curls, a sigh falls from Ilya’s nose that’s so comfortable and so pleased that Shane can’t help the smile that blooms from it.

“That feel good, baby…?”

He barely recognizes his own voice, but he doesn’t hate it - can definitely get behind the calm, devoted tone that smoothes it along.

Especially when Ilya hums, eyes still blissfully closed. “Better than hairdresser in Boston…”

Shane’s smile grows. Ego pumps just a bit. Not that it needs help doing that when he’s got the love of his life in his bath, in his cottage, letting him melt down all the muscles in his body with his hands.

He scratches his fingers over Ilya’s scalp and wants to swallow up his sweet little groan of pleasure. Lathers the shampoo into every single curl and feels Ilya's head growing heavier and heavier. Holds him up with one hand, tracing his fingertips in lazy circles at the base of his skull with the other.

And god…he just-...

“You’re so fucking cute…” Shane murmurs through his grin. Because he is. Because he always has been. Because Shane loves him so much that he feels sick with it most days, palpable relief flooding through him now as he gets to cherish each and every inch of him. “My baby…”

His heart flutters like fucking crazy. And when Ilya’s eyes open, they’re heavy but filled with just as much - single-minded devotion. Loyalty. 

Shane keeps him steady with both hands, and then leans down to kiss him, feeling it with his whole fucking chest.

When he sits back, Ilya’s eyes have closed again, but there’s a sweet satisfaction that’s taken over his face. One that Shane hopes he gets to see a lot more in the coming days. But for now…

“Gonna rinse this off,” he decides, grabbing the showerhead with one soapy hand while the other stays firmly holding his baby’s head up. “Then do you want the other one…? Or are you falling asleep…”

That seems to rouse the very drowsy boyfriend in his hand. Although his voice is good and groggy when he speaks. “Not sleeping…”

“No…?” Shane turns the water on and gets to work, tilting Ilya’s head back for him so the soap doesn’t run into his eyes. “Not even a little…?”

“Mm-mm…” A wet hand comes up to hang onto Shane’s wrist. “Wide awake…”

It doesn’t matter that that’s a lie. The yawn that follows has absolutely nothing to do with it. Shane’s willing to overlook it all when he’s got Ilya’s scrunchy little face blinking up at him when he turns the water off, waiting for more.

So more he gets.

The second soap is thicker. Shane observes it hit his palm with a tiny frown of surprise but follows Ilya’s suggestion of squeezing a little more.

And then he’s back to work. 

This one doesn’t lather as easily. He massages it into Ilya’s squeaky clean curls and eats up all the pleasant hums that pull from him, eyes long since fallen shut. Maybe they could do this every day. At least this weekend. Even if they don’t keep doing…whatever this other thing is…

Shane gives every inch of Ilya’s scalp once more loving scritch and then reaches for the faucet but-

“This one stays for a bit…”

“Oh.” He sets the showerhead down. Doesn’t know what to do with his hands. “Okay…”

They naturally find their way back to his boyfriend, rinsed clean enough now to simply hold his face. “You should just come in, I think…”

Shane smiles softly. “I’m not getting in the tub.”

“Mm…”

“I have all my clothes on, Ilya.”

This doesn’t seem like such a problem to him. “Easy to fix...”

“Shh,” Shane insists, although there isn’t a shred of real annoyance in it.

And soon, whatever magical clock Ilya has in his head is going off anyway, his nod to rinse his hair finally given. Shane takes extra special care with him, suddenly overly aware of the fact that their bath time is coming to an end. It inspires maybe an extra pass or two of the water. Just to make sure he gets everything. Wouldn’t want to miss any soap, right?

When he absolutely cannot stretch things out any longer without Ilya feeling like he’s been imprisoned in the quickly cooling bathtub, he helps him out - dries him off with his softest towel, pleased that he doesn’t even try to suggest doing it himself. The sun is high over the cottage, which means the porch is still in the shade, so he deposits his baby on a lounger to definitely not take a nap or anything.

And when Shane makes his way back into the bathroom to take his own shower, the space still smelling like Ilya’s face soap and shampoo, he definitely doesn’t touch himself or anything like that either.

So. That was something. Again.

Hours pass.

Maybe.

Logistically, probably not. But it’s time not spent popping his boyfriend’s personal space bubble to smithereens, so it feels like hours.

Freshly bathed and drenched in quiet fresh air, Ilya’s afternoon catnap runs long. He looks so peaceful on the first and second check-in that Shane swears to just leave him alone completely, not trusting himself in the slightest. Even if he simply sits out there, on his own lounger and everything, there’s no way he won’t succumb to temptation and get all up on Ilya eventually, ruining his nap. So inside he stays. Tidying up things that don’t really need to be tidied. Checking the weather for tomorrow, their last day together. He even preps dinner and it’s at a reasonable time this go-around.

But it takes hours.

Days.

So long, that eventually Shane has to move. He can’t not take action. The sun is starting to bleed into the horizon line behind the cottage, and there’s an ache in his belly. An insistent hunger in his soul. Desire, unavoidable and bold as he comes to a stop in front of Ilya’s stretched out, sleeping form.

His curls have dried loose, impossibly soft as Shane loops one around his finger and then fumbles the losing battle of not getting his whole hand in there, rubbing gently at his scalp until those eyes scrunch to flutter open.

“Hey baby… Dinner’s ready…”

There’s no room for a repeat of the lunch disaster. Shane makes sure of it. He plates the ‘red pasta’ in one large bowl - grabs one single fork - plants himself purposefully between Ilya’s open legs where he sits on the stool, leaning back against the counter in the close space.

Like breakfast.

But this time, there’s no hesitation.

Shane stabs noodles with the fork and guides them to Ilya’s mouth as they chat. About nothing. About his nap. About how good the sauce is because Shane added some cheese even though he didn’t want cheese because he knew Ilya would want cheese. 

And all at once, he has to wonder what he was so fucking bent about this morning. How he managed to make himself feel so weird with the pancakes. 

Because this shit is so easy it’s stupid. It’s literally effortless. Noodles on the fork - hold it out for Ilya, who takes it like a fucking prince, not a fussy bone in his body. Then a bite for himself, in the meantime enjoying all the extra parts like lazy hands tangled up in the front of his shirt, sweet hazel eyes blinking up at him like he’s hung the fucking moon just because he made red pasta with cheese in it. This could literally not be easier. 

Maybe he won’t have to eat Ilya after all.

When they’re finished, he cleans up the kitchen while Ilya disappears in the back of the cottage and Shane lets it go with an amount of chillness that vaguely perplexes him. It’s probably because he doesn’t need to follow him to the bathroom, he realizes. That would be ridiculous. Ilya’s a grown man - he doesn’t need Shane there to hold his dick for him while he takes a piss.

It takes hours though.

Maybe.

Logistically, probably not. But by the time he comes sauntering back into the living room, Shane arrives at the immediate conclusion that he’d wait a million hours more for this, eyes trailing over the hoodie Ilya’s stuffed himself into during his absence. Shane’s hoodie. From his closet.

Oh.

Shane’s heart clenches tragically. His mouth waters.

Fuck.

Fuck him.

“C’mere, baby…” He hopes it sounds more like a request and not the painful, dying need it is. “Come lay down with me.” Before he explodes.

However it’s interpreted, his boyfriend does just that, bringing his big, sweet self over to Shane and then collapsing onto the couch with a dramatic noise that’s so Ilya. 

Stretched out perpendicularly, he lays his head back on the pillow laid out specifically for him, his head heavy and perfect in Shane’s lap.

And maybe eating him isn’t completely off the table just yet.

“Do you like when I do that…?” Shane has to ask. “Call you that…?” He figures he should make sure. Since he never really checked in. It slipped out once at the water’s edge and then he just kind of kept doing it. Leaned in real hard. And it’s not like Ilya wasn’t grinning like a fool each time he did, it’s just-

“Call me what…?”

Oh. So he’s gonna be a pain. “Baby…” he reminds him.

But, “Mm…who’s baby.”

Shane smiles, his pulse skipping probably three hundred beats per minute. “My baby,” he confirms. And fuck, is his face warm. It’s never been warmer in here than it is now.

Ilya’s adorable ass isn’t helping. He looks up at Shane from his lap with those big, honest eyes and they’re sparkling. Playful. Serious somehow, too. “Yes,” he murmurs, lips curling in a grin that stops time. “Since I am your baby, after all.”

It’s way too much to handle.

Shane doesn’t have nearly as firm a grasp on this yet - what he’s supposed to do with the intense swoop of adoration and desire and hunger that roars through his chest when Ilya says shit like this - looks at him like this - like he wouldn’t really mind, maybe, if Shane took a little bite.

Jesus Christ.

“Come here,” he says, and this time it’s a demand. That painful, dying need. He grabs at Ilya’s shoulders and lugs him upward until he’s sat up a bit, still on his back but the side of his head pressed protectively against Shane’s heart.

Oh god. Fuck, he loves him so much.

He needs to take a second, and that’s just gonna have to be alright. Ilya’s gonna have to deal with the side of his face getting smushed into his chest. The hands dug into his curls - both of them. How Shane buries his groan in the ones that are left, not missing an opportunity to indulge in a deep breath while he’s here.

When the urge to unhinge his jaw subsides for the most part, he gives a little slack. But Ilya doesn’t go anywhere - thank god - he stays perfectly pressed against him, his hand coming up to rest against Shane’s stomach.

Perfect boy.

“I liked today…” he hears himself say. “So much…”

It isn’t until now that he realizes they’re rocking a little on the couch - gently - back and forth…back and forth…back and forth…

“Me too…” More movement. Warmth shifts as Ilya looks up at him in the very thin space. And there are those eyes again. Honest and vulnerable and Shane is so fucking in love with him it makes him sick. “You take very good care of me…”

The rocking stills. He’s not sure who does it. All he knows is the moment’s got him by the throat - by the guts - by everything that was gnashing its teeth inside him yesterday, and has been laid bare between them now.

You take very good care of me.

“Your heart is so fast…”

Shane swallows. Tries to make a joke even knowing there’s very real truth in it. “I’ve been on the brink of cardiac arrest all day.”

But Ilya rolls with it like there isn’t. Like Shane’s just being silly. “Nooo, don’t die. Who will feed me grapes and pasta?” And it’s somehow worse, the teasing doing nothing but make that thing inside his rib cage roar to life. “Who will give me my bath so nicely?”

And before he can even clock it himself, Shane is folding, catching Ilya’s chin with firm fingers to lift his face higher, perfectly in range as he leans down. “No one,” he murmurs, and it’s a promise. “No one, baby. You’re mine.”

The kiss he plants to Ilya’s lips is supposed to be controlled, and it is. At first. For like a second.

But then one of those familiar, insistent hands settles on the side of his face and keeps him pressed down tight and really what is Shane supposed to do? He’s been so good. All fucking day. Told himself that’s not what this is and it’s not - except for the parts that kind of are, like definitely, no matter what he tells himself - and ugh, fuck he needs to be on him-

Shane pulls his head up. Pulls himself away, panting already, trying to take in his boyfriend’s reaction to having his tongue down his throat under these conditions and-

“Why stop,” Ilya gets out, already reaching back up to pull him down and, “No stopping-” which is about as clear as it can fucking get so Shane doesn’t stop. 

He kisses him back. Keeps him desperately close, grabbing at his bicep and following down the smooth path of thick muscles under creamy cotton and fuck, that’s right. He’s wearing Shane’s hoodie.

A noise he doesn’t recognize falls out of Shane’s mouth and goes toppling into Ilya’s. And Ilya takes it. He’ll take anything Shane gives him, he’s realized over the stretch of the day - anything Shane feeds him. He just swallows it right down without complaint, opening for more.

Shane’s cock twitches in his shorts at the thought. The fire in his belly is quickly spreading into something unmanageable. But it fuels every touch - every movement - the possessive drag of his hand down Ilya’s side - the squeeze of his hip - pushing back up to slip under the front of his hoodie and Ilya’s skin is so warm. So tempting. Feels so delicious under his fingertips. If only he could-

A groan up into his mouth, fingers pulling at the fabric of his shirt. Shane kisses him and tastes every inch of his mouth, squeezing Ilya’s pec and then dragging his touch down past the elastic waistband of his shorts and-

“Oh…” The thrill that shoots through him as his fingers nudge over the bulge down there is insane, and it melts Shane’s voice into something borderline pitying. “Poor baby…”

Ilya hears it in a heartbeat. He must, with the way he blinks up at him with those blown pupils and those kissed-red lips and immediately leans into the play with his full chest. “It hurts…”

Shane believes him. Runs the tips of his fingers over Ilya’s trapped cock and hums. His boy is fucking hard. “Yeah…? I should take a look at it, huh…”

It gets him a nod. Because of course it does. Because Ilya will take anything Shane gives him. Which means when his shorts get eased down over his lap, exposing him, he doesn’t even complain when Shane presses an experimental tap over the head, watching the precum cling in a thick line before bringing it up for Ilya to see.

“This for me, baby…?”

In his lap, Ilya swallows. Cheeks flushed, but body patient. He nods. And it’s probably the cutest he’s ever looked in his fucking life. 

Time to ruin it.

Shane sucks the drop of precum from the tip of his finger and then spits into his hand, wasting no time bringing it down to wrap around Ilya’s cock in wet, generous strokes.

Immediately, Ilya’s hips are bucking - “Oh fuck, Shane…” - but he doesn’t let up. He could get him to cum like this no problem. He’s pretty sure, at least. That’s what happens when you tiptoe around something all day. When you pretend it isn’t a part of The Whole Thing but actually it is kinda part of The Whole Thing, even if you don’t know it yet, and it actually just ends up making you ten times more turned on and- “Shane-... Fuck-...”

The couch is groaning before he even realizes he’s moving, but he is. He’s pulling Ilya’s shorts up for a second. Helping him sit up - “Come here…” - until his huge perfect body is sitting firmly in his lap and Shane’s scooting to the edge of the couch, planting his feet wide and wrapping his arms around Ilya despite his boyfriend’s winded, “What are you-” and then with a heavy, bracing breath out, Shane’s lifting with his legs - rising to his feet - standing, arms coming to hoist underneath Ilya’s ass to keep him steady as he tightens his core.

He can hear the Russian when it’s this close to his ear and he knows it’s a swear word, but his body’s too busy working overtime now to translate it, more focused on the arms that fly around his shoulders as he carries Ilya toward the bedroom with tense, overdriven muscles and this sense of wild, pulse-racing pride because this is his baby. This is fucking baby right here.

The mattress lets them know exactly how heavy two full grown athletes are when he collapses them both onto it, damn near dumping Ilya first but following in after, hot on his heels.

It’s the first time he’s seen his face since hauling him across the cottage and it’s like Ilya doesn’t know if he should be shocked or confused or horny so he drives full speed through all of them, his brows etched together as he takes in Shane above him with a very serious, “Oh my god.” 

And maybe Shane’s muscles are gonna hate him tomorrow, but right now his ego is absolutely sky high - absolutely pumped up. He catches his breath and sucks at the hinge of Ilya’s jaw and he doesn’t mean to bite, but it’s just a graze. An accident. One that doesn’t have Ilya pushing him off or anything, but he knows he should focus on the task at hand instead, making his way back down his boyfriend’s body so he can tug his shorts off and get that cock in his mouth.

Because he’s still just so, so hard. Ilya. And so is Shane, but more than that there’s this ache in him, hunger swirling so hard his guts clench with it.

“Mm,” he grunts, pulling off of Ilya’s cock and nodding toward the nightstand, lips spitty. “Hand me that, would you baby?”

The near-desperate hold in his hair takes a break as his request is answered, the lube bottle that clearly never made its way back into the drawer last night being handed to him without a word. Because of course it is. Because Ilya’s so good.

Shane grabs it from him, “Thank you,” and then swallows him back down, clicking open the cap at the same time.

He’s good at multitasking. 

It doesn’t take long to get himself ready but that’s because it’s a race. It has to be. He can feel how wound up he’s gotten Ilya, so hot up there that he has to pull Shane’s hoodie off and toss it over the side of the bed - how quickly his hips are starting to pitch up, hands not so much guiding Shane’s head as he sucks him off, as they are grounding himself - keeping himself from flying off the handle. So it’s a race. Shane has to get himself ready before his baby fucking loses it and there’s something about that too. Something he can’t even begin to figure out yet.

Later.

When he’s not spitting on Ilya’s cock. When he’s not pulling himself up and crawling into his lap and loving how Ilya can’t tear his eyes away from him, pouring all over his body - all over the arch of his spine and stretch of his torso as Shane leans back to bring himself just over his cock, reaching back to help it glide through the hot, slick squeeze of his cheeks but not inside. Not yet. “You want it…?” he asks down to him.

Ilya’s hands are already grabbing at his ass. Kneading it. Trying to guide himself inside. “Yes…” he huffs.

And all that does is make Shane grin. “Yeah? You want it so bad, don't you baby...”

“Yes, malysh - fuck-... Please…”

He knew it was coming. It’s all he wanted to hear. So with that, Shane lifts onto his thighs a bit, determined to watch the ruin on his boyfriend’s face as he slowly sinks down onto every inch of his cock.

And ruin, it is. 

Ilya’s chest expands as his lungs fill with a rush of air - eyes roll to the back of his head, which tips back into the pillow he’s been using when he sleeps in Shane’s bed, and the thing inside Shane’s chest fucking growls. 

He drops down to crowd into his space and digs his knees deep in the mattress, starting up a rock of his hips that’s got them both moaning loudly.

“Shane…” Gasped into his mouth - across his temple as he slips over to suck at Ilya’s jaw again. 

Shane boxes Ilya’s head in on the pillow with his arms, open mouth dragging down the span of his delicious throat as all sorts of pleasure points detonate in his body, his hips working to keep filling himself over and over again with that thick fucking cock. “Been so good…” he hears himself babble into his neck, “All day… Good for me all day, baby - weren't you…”

He’s got no idea where it’s coming from. If it’s even him that’s saying it. But it feels good and he feels good and Ilya feels good - it sounds like it at least. More than good, if they’re being honest.

He grabs at Shane’s hips and helps him fuck down onto his cock faster and deeper and that thing in Shane’s chest is fucking frothing at the mouth. Insatiable. Pulsing as he finds Ilya’s in his pretty little neck and licks over it, feeling it throb against his tongue, just asking for Shane’s teeth to clamp down over it.

“Shane-...” He can feel his voice in his mouth - feel it in his teeth, buzzing and tempting as he gives into the urge and sinks them into his skin so, so shallowly fuck yes, “Jesus Christ, sweetheart you’re going to kill me…”

But would that be so bad?

Would it be so insane?

Ilya’s body is already stamped with bite marks from last night so what’s one more? Here. Right where his sweet little pulse pounds for him. His baby. His.

“Ilya,” he damn near groans and he’s riding him so fast. Frantic, almost. Dripping with determination and desire and thirst and, “Fuck, baby…” and then Ilya’s coming - without warning - long, strong arms pulling him in even tighter as he fills Shane up with stuttering hips.

“Shit-...” Panting. Pained almost. Broken Russian. A half-hearted apology for coming inside of him without warning while it's still happening but Shane doesn’t care to hear it. He’s exploding from the inside out, rib cage full and pulsing and bursting because yes-

“Fuck yeah, baby - give it to me-...”

Ilya fills him up with ragged, panting moans and Shane cums so hard his vision blacks out at the edges, nothing to do but hang on. But his baby’s got him - his baby drags his head down and gets it good and tucked into his chest. Safe. His.

Hours pass.

Maybe.

Logistically, probably not. But Shane is wrapped up in this sated, glowing heat that feels golden in a way he can’t explain. Like…the color. Somehow. If you can feel colors. It’s definitely gold though. Shimmery. 

And when Ilya speaks, the murmur of it rumbles under Shane’s ear in the most comforting way. “So glad is not a sex thing…”

Just enough of his brain has come back online for Shane to smile, the vision of their conversation this morning flashing over his eyes for one doomed, hilarious moment. He has to huff out a laugh. “Shut up…”

He comes to realize later that he’s still kind of right about that. They both do. Once they’re cleaned up and the sheets are swapped out and Shane has inevitably found a snack to pop into Ilya’s mouth bit by bit in the dim kitchen lights, they return to bed.

Shane’s stretched out on his back, serene and sated, the ceiling fan on the perfect setting and his baby in his arms.

He pulls gently at the curls he took care of today. Listens to the satisfying noises of Ilya’s stomach digesting, filled with food Shane fed him. And he realizes, not so surprisingly, one thing.

Yes, whatever just happened in here was great. They’re kind of prone to finding themselves in the throes of crazy sex that should most likely be dissected later. But more than that, Shane just fucking loved today. All the rest of it. He loved taking care of Ilya. Playing with him. Keeping him fed and happy and doted over. There was no way to miss it. He honestly believes Ilya felt exactly how loved by Shane he is today. And god…that’s the fucking game-winner isn’t it?

The biting thing, he’ll work out eventually. He’s not worried about it. He won’t actually eat Ilya. 

Unless…

“Hey… What would you do if I was a werewolf...?”

He’s not entirely sure Ilya's even awake. 

But then comes the quiet, slightly annoyed “...what?” drifting up from his chest in the darkness. It’s only momentary, though. Long enough for his brain to wrap around the question. Then, much more conversationally, “You're nice werewolf…?”

Shane considers this. “I dunno.” Other people never really factored into the scenario. “But I’m nice to you.”

“Hm… Okay.” 

He can’t help but smile, watching Ilya’s head ride the wave of his breathy chuckle. “‘Okay’...?”

The shrug he gets is so whatever. “You are nice to me…” Like this really isn’t something he’s worried about now that he’s got all the hypothetical information. “Is late now, malysh… Why are you asking this…”

Shane’s heart flutters just a bit. 

His hand drops from Ilya’s curls to his neck, thumb rubbing thoughtfully over the shallow indentations circling his pulse point. 

He smiles. “Nothing, baby… Don’t worry about it.”

After all, his baby needs his rest.