Summary:

"Bozhe moi," Ilya muttered, his grip tightening on Shane's thighs. The words spilled out, unfiltered, a raw observation torn from somewhere deep behind his ribs. "Look at you. You are like... like a king. No," He shook his head, his eyes dark with reverence. "A knight does not fuck his king. He worships." He thrust up to meet Shane's next downward stroke, emphasizing his point, drawing a broken cry from them both. "This," Ilya gasped, his composure shredding. "This is what it is. A knight, worshipping his king. And you, ty moy korol… You are my king." or the one where ilya is a menace, shane is a "mouse," and things get a lot less clinical very quickly