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A dog greets Shane at the door.
Shane buffers, standing stock still as the dog barrels into him. Ilya had told him to just walk in, that he'd meet him by the door. They have the weekend to spend with each other, longer than they've had in ages, but still too short. The distance between Montreal and Boston has never felt so far.
But Ilya didn't tell him there would be a dog.
The dog jumps up to lick him, and Shane's hands fly up to block his face. It's a lab, Shane thinks, with long golden fur that Shane knows he'll find all over his clothes later.
"No, Cookie, down!" Ilya's voice echoes across the entryway, and he half-runs towards Shane and… Cookie. Ilya pulls the dog back by the collar until all four of its feet are on the ground.
"Cookie?" is all Shane asks, stepping back to put more space between himself and the creature.
"I didn't name her." Ilya gestures for Shane to take off his shoes, still holding the dog back. She wags her tail at Shane, wet tongue hanging out.
"Why do you have a dog?"
"She's not mine. Our equipment manager was talking about her usual pet sitter not being able to watch her this weekend, and I agreed to help."
"The whole weekend?" Shane's brow furrows. "You didn't tell me."
"You do not like dogs?" Ilya tilts his head, as if the concept of not liking dogs had never occurred to him. Shane feels a twist in his chest.
"No, no, I— I like dogs." Shane winces at how obvious the lie sounds. He attempts a smile.
"Sorry," Ilya says, a little more careful. "I should've asked you first, but I… got excited about having dog for the weekend. She's very sweet. You want to pet her?"
Shane doesn't want to pet her, but he's determined not to make a big deal about this. He can be chill. He doesn't see Ilya enough to waste the weekend being annoyed about a dog, so Shane lets her sniff his hand and gives her a couple head pats. Ilya lets go of Cookie's collar, and she trails behind him as they walk to the kitchen. Shane's very aware of every part of his hand that touched her.
There's food already on the counter. Chicken and rice and some kind of salad. Shane kisses Ilya on the cheek. Even now, he marvels a moment at how different it is. They don't have to rush into sex right away, pretend they don't really care. Instead, Shane can find a freshly cooked meal already aligned to his diet plan, even though he knows Ilya thinks he's too restrictive with it.
Shane washes his hands thoroughly, and sits down to eat. He tries to ignore the dog sitting right under their feet.
"She is very naughty," Ilya says, throwing her a piece of chicken. She gobbles it down without chewing. "Sweet girl, but has bad habits. I think she is spoiled at home."
"Are you supposed to be feeding her human food?"
"Is boring chicken. Barely human food at all. I should be looking up to see if your bird food is any good for dogs."
"Fuck you." Shane smiles, and he kicks at Ilya's feet. "You're eating it."
"Yes, because I am very good boyfriend."
Shane feels himself blush, and he looks down, smile turning shy. It's been nearly four months since the cottage, and it still feels so new. Sometimes, Shane catches himself grinning at his phone like a teenager with a crush whenever Ilya so much as reacts to his message with a heart.
His boyfriend.
After dinner, they clean up the dishes, which feels domestic enough to almost hurt, Shane squawking as Ilya flicks soap suds at him, Ilya squeezing Shane's ass as he moves to put a plate away.
They agree to start a movie, something that Shane thinks they won't finish, probably. Or well, he hopes. It's nice to meet for more than just sex, but Shane hasn't been fucked by Ilya in weeks. Video call really doesn't cut it.
Ilya passes him a ginger ale, sits down next to him, and Shane shifts to curl into him.
Two paws land in his lap.
Shane jerks back, jostles the can of ginger ale, some spilling down his arm and onto the couch. Onto his pants. Cookie doesn't pay this any mind. She almost seems like she's grinning as she wags her tail, front half balanced in his lap.
"No," Ilya commands, voice stern in a way Shane's never heard from him. "Down. Bad dog."
He pulls Cookie off by her collar again, then turns towards Shane.
"She has a lot of energy," Ilya says, apologetic. "She wants to play. I could put her in kennel, but she'll probably bark."
Shane shrugs, not knowing what to say.
"Maybe we go outside and throw ball for her. Once she's worn out she won't be so needing of attention."
"Attention seeking," Shane corrects.
"Yes, that. Is okay?" Ilya's face is careful, and Shane hates that. He hates that he put that there, that Shane's ruining this weekend just because he doesn't like dogs.
Ilya probably expected Shane to be sweet about it. Maybe he wanted cute pictures of his boyfriend with a dog. Maybe he thought Shane would let Cookie sit between them on the couch and lay her head in his lap, and they both could pet her soft fur while they watched the movie.
Instead, Shane's angry. He doesn't want to be, he's been trying so hard to be chill about it. But his arm is sticky from the ginger ale, and there's a small wet spot on his pants where it spilled, and Ilya's not even offering him a change of clothes, he's just putting on his slides and grabbing a pack of brightly colored tennis balls.
They don't see each other enough for this. They spend too much time apart for Shane to have to worry about this dog and her needs on Shane's only weekend with his boyfriend.
"You coming outside with us?" Ilya asks.
"Fine." Shane says, not hiding his anger well anymore.
His hands are shoved deep into his pockets as he stands out in Ilya's backyard. It's a nice day at least, sunny with a gentle breeze, but that doesn't do anything to improve Shane's mood.
He expects Ilya to apologize again, and then Shane can wave it away, say it doesn't really matter, tell him that he's just being stupid. And Ilya will say he's not being stupid, and that he has every right to be upset, and then Shane can be magnanimous and forgiving, and tell Ilya that it's okay, that he loves him even if he makes a dumb choice like pet sitting a dog on the one weekend he can see his long distance boyfriend.
Only Ilya doesn't apologize again. If anything, Shane would say that he looks at him with something like amusement, so all Shane can do is cross his arms over his chest and avoid his eyes. He huffs as Ilya throws the green tennis ball for Cookie, who runs at top speed to try and catch it as soon as he says fetch.
"She's actually pretty well-trained," Ilya remarks as they both watch Cookie snag the ball from the grass. "She won't go for the ball unless I say 'fetch'. Stacey, the equipment manager, she says her sons play catch all the time, and they had to make sure Cookie didn't run for the ball when it was not her turn."
"Okay," Shane says, clipped.
Ilya doesn't catch the hint, or maybe he just ignores it. "She's very good with the ball, yes?"
"I guess."
Ilya looks over at Shane again, eyes running over his stiff posture. "You can sit down if you want. I have yard chair."
He shrugs, but Ilya gives him a long look that he can't really parse, so he acquiesces. Angles the chair towards where Ilya stands with the ball and watches.
Ilya doesn't say anything else to Shane, just throws the ball for Cookie. A rhythm builds as she bounds across the lawn on each command to fetch, Ilya scratching behind her ears every time she returns to plop the slobbery tennis ball into his hand, whispering good girl, very good girl to her. He's effusive with the praise, and Shane thinks it's a bit overdone for just catching a ball. Every dog can do that; it's not very impressive.
Shane watches this go on with a mounting annoyance, knee bouncing in the chair, arms still folded over his chest. Ilya doesn't even look at him, keeps his focus on Cookie. Shane sighs.
Finally, Ilya turns back towards him. "You seem bored."
No shit, Shane thinks. He makes a face.
"Restless too, though." Ilya tosses the ball from one hand to the next, fakes a throw for Cookie, whose head whips around before she realizes. Idiot. She turns back to him with her tail still wagging. "You should stand up and play with us."
"I don't want to touch that ball." Shane says. "It's all wet with her spit."
Ilya gives him another look, this one firm enough to make Shane squirm. It's unwarranted, Shane doesn't know what he did to deserve it, but it rattles through his brain anyways. "Get a new one then. A different color."
Shane doesn't argue that Cookie would slobber on the new ball just the same; Ilya's stern tone invites no argument. Shane gets up and picks a bright red tennis ball. He tries not to sulk too much on his way to Ilya, suddenly feeling sheepish at how childish he's being.
"Fetch," Ilya says, throwing the ball again for Cookie. She bounds away with just as much speed as before.
He holds out his hand to Shane.
"What?"
"Give me the ball."
Shane shakes his head, confused, but he hands it over.
"You trust me?" Ilya asks, once, easy. Shane nods without even thinking. Ilya throws the ball. Shane watches as it flies in an arc across the yard. Cookie isn't even back yet. "Prinesi myach."
Shane doesn't recognize the Russian. Just looks at Ilya.
"Go on," Ilya says, like Shane's stupid for still standing there. "Go get it."
"What?"
"Go get me the ball. Myach."
"I don't understand…" Shane's cheeks warm, from both the tone Ilya's using and the implication behind it. He wants him to, what? Fetch the ball?
Ilya just raises his eyebrows, and Shane—with something simmering in his belly—starts walking across the yard. At least the red is easy to pick out on the grass.
"You can go faster than that, Hollander!" Ilya yells, and Shane shifts to a sort of half-jog. When he's got the ball, he readies to throw it back to him, but his arm only makes halfway up before Ilya's shaking his head. "Bring it all the way back, Shane."
So Shane does. He feels fucking crazy, he doesn't know what the point of this is, and it's embarrassing how easily he's listening. He should have just told Ilya he was mad about the dog—even though he's pretty sure Ilya knows that, and this is his weird way of dealing with it.
Shane hands the ball over to Ilya, and Ilya tuts, a disappointed sound. He looks down at his watch.
"You are so slow," he says, "Watch how fast Cookie can do it."
He throws the green ball for Cookie, sets her off with another fetch. The ball travels far—farther than Shane's did, and Cookie tries to run fast enough to catch it in the air. She doesn't quite manage it but picks it off the ground seconds later before running back.
Ilya bends down to take the ball from her. He pets along the entire length of her body, and she wags her tail so hard her entire self vibrates. "Wow, great job, Cookie. You are so good at that. Almost got that ball before it even hit the ground."
Something burns in Shane's chest as he watches Ilya shower Cookie in praise. When Ilya stands up, Shane straightens. His eyes drop towards the ball.
Ilya smirks, repeats that same Russian word from before, and throws it. Shane's running before it's left his hand. Shane doesn't think about what he's doing. If he did, it'd be too much.
He doesn't catch the ball mid air, but he does swoop it off the ground right after it falls. He keeps the same pace as he runs back towards Ilya, heart beating fast in his chest.
This time, Ilya smiles as he takes the ball. "Khorosho."
Shane's face flushes. "What does that mean?"
Ilya doesn't answer him. Shane's planning to learn Russian, he's said as much, but he hasn't had time for it yet.
Ilya tells Cookie to fetch, and then throws the ball for Shane again, saying that same word: Myach.
Shane doesn't hesitate this time. Takes off after it. The image of Ilya reacting to Cookie lingers. It was more than just a smile and a single word. Maybe if Shane caught it in the air…
The running this time feels almost instinctual, and Shane's trying too hard to have room to overthink. He almost catches it, the ball just barely slipping past the ends of his fingers. He scoops it up fast though, almost beats Cookie (and she had a head start).
This time, Ilya doesn't say anything. The second Shane gives him the ball, he throws it again. "Myach."
When Shane returns—nowhere close to catching it in the air that time—he doesn't wait to see what Ilya says. Instead, he asks, "What does that word mean?"
Ilya only raises an eyebrow. "What do you think it means?"
Shane doesn't answer that. It's embarrassing. He knows it means fetch. "Why are you saying it in Russian?"
"So Cookie doesn't get confused. Cookie doesn't know Russian."
"I don't know Russian either."
"Ah, but you are learning. Cookie didn't know English when Stacey first got her. She had to train her."
Shane shifts on his feet. "Is that what you're doing? Training me?"
"Da." Ilya throws the ball again. "Myach."
This time Shane catches the ball. When he returns with it, Ilya ruffles his hair, almost like he's petting him. "Khorosho. Ochen' khorosho."
He says a few other words, but Shane's too dazed by the petting to pick up on the sounds. He doesn't know what Ilya's saying, but the tone is nice. The same syrupy praise he used on Cookie. It's condescending, and a little degrading, and Shane has no idea what the words mean, but he leans into Ilya's touch anyways. Practically beams when Ilya gives him a quick kiss on the lips.
"I did good?" Shane asks.
Ilya presses a finger to his lips. "Shh. Tebe ne nuzhno govorit'."
"I don't know what that means," Shane pushes. He's off kilter, unsure what's happening. His dick is hard in his shorts.
Ilya shushes him again, more forcefully. "Tikho."
Shane assumes he's supposed to shut up, so he does and he's rewarded with another head pat and a soft, "khorosho."
He hopes that word means good.
Shane stays silent on the next two fetches, preening under Ilya's simple praise. This time, when Ilya throws the ball, Shane starts to run before it even leaves Ilya’s hand.
"Nel'zya!" Ilya says, and Shane doesn't know the meaning, but the tone means no and stop, so he does. Freezes in place. He doesn't know what he did wrong, but he can feel the mistake in his stomach, and he watches Ilya warily. Ilya holds his gaze, face hard—not unsimilar to how he looked at Cookie when she jumped up on the couch. When Ilya speaks, he enunciates the word carefully, "Myach."
Oh. Right.
Shane takes off for the ball, needing an extra second to find it since he didn't see where it landed. Ilya's disappointment stays in his mind, but at least he knows what he did wrong. He's not supposed to run after the ball until Ilya tells him to, like Cookie. He just has a different word.
Shane makes it back, receives a minimal amount of praise, and then Ilya sends him off again. They settle into a rhythm and Shane lets his mind drift, focusing only on Ilya and the ball. No longer worried about how he's supposed to feel about the dog or how to act with Ilya when he's upset. All he does is feel.
The ground beneath his feet. The ball in his grip. Ilya's hands carding through his hair as he whispers khorosho again, or once molodetz—when Shane caught the ball exceptionally fast.
His gut twists when he sees Ilya praise Cookie more for doing the same thing, but Shane keeps running every time Ilya orders him to, back and forth in search of Ilya's measured out praise, each soft word making him crave another.
Eventually, Shane grows tired, legs aching, lungs heaving, but Ilya keeps throwing the ball, saying myach. So Shane does. He pushes through the exhaustion even after Cookie's stopped, laying at Ilya's feet with her tongue hanging out. When Ilya throws the ball again and Shane has to run, he thinks Cookie's expression seems rather smug.
Wouldn't you like to be me right now? she asks from her place on the grass, nose nearly touching Ilya's foot.
"Ilya," Shane tries, after handing him the ball back for the umpteenth time. "I don't—"
"Tikho," Ilya cuts him off. Shane knows that word must mean 'shut up', and he listens. Even as he feels the stitch in his side, breathing heavily as he stands in front of Ilya. Shane thinks Ilya throws the ball further the next time on purpose.
Finally, after a few more throws, Ilya pockets the ball. He praises Shane more thoroughly now, still in Russian, using far too many words for Shane to pick out their sounds, so Shane lets them wash over him. Shane soaks up the attention, a cat in a warm patch of sun.
Cookie still sits next to Ilya, looking up at them.
"Sidet'." The word cuts through at the end of Ilya's praise—a command, but Shane doesn't know what he's supposed to do. He searches Ilya's face for a hint.
Ilya sighs, says something else, tone disparaging. He repeats the word again, more forceful, and points down towards the ground. "Sidet'."
Shane drops to his knees in front of Ilya. It’s not an unfamiliar position, although it's more awkward here on the grass. He sits with his ass on his heels, staring up at Ilya. He doesn't know where to put his hands, and his face must be bright red—both from exertion and embarrassment. He won't speak, doesn't want Ilya to have to tell him to be quiet again.
Ilya runs his hand through Shane's hair, petting him as if he's actually a dog, even scratching under his chin. Shane glows again under the praise, the Russian Ilya coos meaningless to him.
"Chto mne s toboy delat'?" Ilya says, a soft question. The not-knowing is starting to bother Shane, leaving him itchy and off-balance. Shifting slightly, he looks at Cookie. Closer to him now that they're both on the ground, she blinks passively, unfazed by Shane's new position.
Ilya pulls his hand from Shane’s hair, and Shane, after all the running, finally understands. Ilya always knows how to get him like this, taking him from being annoyed but not willing to voice it, to panting at his feet. Shane finds himself hollowed out, ready to be remade into however Ilya wants him.
He leans forward, towards Ilya's crotch. He feels a little brainless already, and it's not like he does much else on his knees except suck Ilya off, but Ilya steps back with a firm, but not unkind, "nel'zya"
Shane knows Ilya's said that word before, but he doesn't remember what it means. He pauses though, mouth still hanging open. An amused expression plays across Ilya's face, and he speaks again. This time the tone is condescending enough to make Shane flush.
"Zhdat'," Ilya says, holding out a hand as he backs away from Shane. Shane thinks he means stay or maybe wait, and so he stays there, on his knees, while Ilya walks away from him back into the house.
Cookie stays in the yard with Shane, wagging her tail as she looks at him. Suddenly unmoored without Ilya, Shane holds out his hand for her. She wastes no time in standing, entire body shaking as she lets him pet her.
Shane forgot that she licked, and he winces when her tongue finds his face, but he doesn't want to move from the spot on his knees or tell her off in case Ilya comes back. Shane's supposed to stay and not talk. He knows that much. And… if Ilya's treating him like a dog, then maybe he isn't supposed to be petting Cookie at all. Maybe he and Cookie are supposed to be on the same level, just waiting here for Ilya to get back. To tell them what to do next.
A shrill whistle interrupts Shane's thoughts and both him and Cookie look up to find Ilya at the sliding door with two fingers in his mouth. Shane didn't know he knew how to whistle so loud.
"Cookie!" Ilya yells, slapping his knee as he says it. Cookie leaves Shane without a parting glance, bounds over to Ilya. Shane imagines for a moment that Ilya's gonna do the same thing to Shane—yell his name in a command across the yard, but he doesn't. He lets Cookie back into the house. Shuts the door again behind them.
Shane waits there. Each second grates against him, and he shifts again on his knees. His legs already ache from all the running he did today—his workout routine's completely fucked. He keeps his eyes trained to the sliding door, hoping to catch movement behind the glass.
He's waited for Ilya like this before. At the cottage, Ilya told Shane to wait, ready for him, on the bed, and Shane did it. Ass up in the cool air, face pressed into the pillows. After, when the two of them were curled together in bed, worn out and sticky, Shane asked Ilya after how long he'd left him there. Ilya laughed.
"What do you think?"
"I don't know, like, twenty minutes?"
He laughed louder then, buried himself into the crook of Shane's neck to hide his face, but Shane could still feel his smile pressed against his skin. "More like six, Hollander. You are so impatient."
"You're lying," Shane said, face heating up.
"I'm not," Ilya said. "But you wouldn't know if I was. Next time I'll make you wait thirty. You'll tell me it was five hours."
Shane doesn't want to wait thirty minutes right now. He doesn't know if he can handle thirty more seconds. He misses Ilya, and his cock has been half-hard since he started running, and the waiting has brought it the rest of the way there. The grass is scratchy, and the stupid dog already got to go inside.
And he doesn't even know what he's waiting for.
Eventually, the door slides open. Ilya stands there, shirtless now, and he looks at Shane somewhat coolly, before slapping his thigh and calling out his name. "Shane!"
Just like Cookie.
He whistles too, to drive it home. Shane scrambles to his feet, then starts over thinking it, wondering if maybe Ilya wanted him to crawl on all-fours. Like a dog would. He hesitates for only a second before Ilya repeats himself.
"Shane," more forceful this time. "Ko mne."
Shane runs, fast enough that he almost forgets to slow down, nearly barreling into Ilya. It's easier already, now that Ilya's back.
Ilya laughs, amused, and runs a hand through Shane's hair. "Glupen'kiy shchenochek. Tak rad menya videt', da?"
Shane only knows one of those words, and it's fucking da, but he nods his head stupidly to agree all the same. The world already turns to syrup as Shane nuzzles into Ilya's hand. He wants Ilya to bring him inside, to bring him to bed and touch him. He doesn't know how to ask for that though, not when he's not allowed to talk.
Ilya pushes at Shane's shoulders, repeats the word from earlier, "Sidet'" and so Shane goes back down to his knees. Then Ilya walks inside, clicks his tongue and gestures for Shane to follow.
Now Shane knows he's supposed to crawl, and so he does. It's less awkward than he'd have imagined it, but just as embarrassing. Ilya doesn't look behind to make sure Shane's there, trusts him to listen, and that feels good too.
They end up in the living room. Ilya sits on the couch and spreads open his legs, and Shane doesn't need instruction to plant himself between them, kneeling on the floor. He waits there as Ilya fumbles with the remote to turn the TV on. Russian comes out of the speakers.
Shane knows it's not for him.
He wants Ilya to touch him, so he leans his head against his thigh and looks up at him. Ilya smiles and speaks again in that falsely sweet tone. Shane whines in response.
Ilya could be saying anything right now. Could be calling him dumb or calling him beautiful. Shane doesn't know, and when Ilya starts to pet him, he doesn't care anymore. Just closes his eyes.
Ilya shifts at some point, jostling Shane's head off him. Shane straightens back up and watches Ilya, whose eyes have drifted up to the television. The carpet is more comfortable than the grass, but Shane adjusts his legs anyways, sitting a little lower now.
He'd never really considered the life of a dog before—he's never owned one or even wanted to, so why would he? But so much of what a dog must do is wait. Wait for their owner to come home. Wait to eat. Wait to piss.
Wait to be paid attention to.
Ilya's watching the screen more than Shane. Shane never turns his head to look at it, prefers to see Ilya, body lighting up again each time he looks down at him.
The worst part is that Shane can see that Ilya is hard in his pants. If he could talk right now, he'd tell Ilya to get on with it, to let him help, to fuck him; but like this, all Shane can do is nuzzle deeper into Ilya as he absentmindedly pets him. Shane's own cock woefully neglected, leaking into his boxers.
Ilya laughs at some joke from the TV, and Shane can't take it anymore. He presses his face into Ilya's crotch, inhales deeply. Ilya encourages him, speaking in that murmuring tone, like he's a puppy doing something particularly cute. Shane licks at him through his sweatpants. He feels insane, more desperate than he's ever been. Remembering how he stood with his arms crossed in the yard feels like a hundred years ago—Ilya's made him into something unrecognizable.
Ilya's strong hand on Shane’s head pushes him harder against Ilya's dick, and he doesn't stop talking, mouth pouring out words Shane has no hope of translating. Frustration pings at Shane—he could be saying anything. He could be commenting on the television. Or maybe calling Shane beautiful.
Calling Shane a pathetic slut.
Shane will never know, so he keeps working at Ilya through his pants, but he can't get himself around him like this. If he used his hands, he could pull him out, but he knows better.
Whining, Shane moves up to mouth at Ilya's waistband, looking up at him with what he hopes are pleading eyes. It's almost mortifying, but Shane needs it. He tugs at the band of his pants with his teeth.
Ilya doesn't even look at him. He pushes Shane back, says, "nel'zya."
Shane's heard that word more than once today, but he can't remember what it means, and he doesn't care. Ilya releases his hold, and Shane's surging back into him, biting at Ilya's pants again. He needs this so much, if only he could tell Ilya how much he needs it.
"Nel'zya," Ilya repeats again, firmer, pulls Shane back by his hair. He says something else, a longer sentence. Shane doesn't know any of the words, but the tone says Shane made a mistake. Ilya reaches out and grips Shane roughly by the chin. "Plokhoy shchenok."
Shane looks away. A keening sort of noise comes out of his throat before he can stop it. Ilya shushes him.
"Tikho," he snaps. Shane shuts up.
Ilya stands up, leaving Shane bereft there on the floor, without Ilya's legs to stabilize him. Shane's underwear is probably soaked with how steadily his cock is dripping. He tilts to follow Ilya's movement, drawn like a magnet.
"Zhdat'," Ilya commands, hand out again. Stay, Shane remembers.
He'll learn this.
Ilya leaves the room. Shane's chin is slightly tacky from the spit he drooled, but he doesn't wipe it off. His hands have never felt more useless than they do now, resting atop his thighs. Shane's head spins as he waits, the world a blur, his body empty until Ilya returns.
When Ilya's back, he sits in the same place, nods approvingly at Shane. He reaches out to ruffle his hair.
"Khorosho," he says. And Shane preens.
He's so busy drinking in the praise he fails to notice that Ilya's holding anything until he clips it around his neck. Shane startles, tries to look down at it, but it's too high up to see. His hands fly up to tug at the new, slightly scratchy, material.
A dog collar.
Shane doesn't know where Ilya got it, he doesn't even know what it looks like. Did Ilya have an extra? Did he take it off Cookie? Shane's head hurts, thinking the most he has since Ilya led him inside.
Speaking calmly, Ilya guides Shane's hands back down, petting the collar himself. Shane relaxes again, shuddering at the feel of Ilya's large hands running the edge of the fabric. He imagines what he looks like to Ilya right now—eyes probably wide and dopey, the collar wrapped around his neck showing exactly what he is.
Ilya's stupid puppy.
"Khochesh' vkusnyashky?" Ilya asks, emphasizing the last word, like it's important, like maybe Shane should remember it. Shane tries to hold onto the consonants. "Vkusnyashky dlya moyevo shchenka?"
Ilya waits, and so Shane nods, agreeing to whatever he asked him. Ilya grins, and Shane knows that he answered correctly when Ilya finally pulls his cock out of his pants.
Shane tilts forward, mouth falling open, unable to stop himself, but Ilya clicks his tongue. "Zhdat'."
Shane waits.
Ilya releases him with a simple da, and Shane's grateful to not have a new word to keep track of. Already, Ilya's previous commands are slipping away. How could Shane remember Russian right now? All he can think of is Ilya's weight on his tongue… and the collar around his neck.
Shane's sloppier than he normally is. He blames it on the fact that he's not using his hands at all, but it's more than that. He's drooling on Ilya's cock, less sucking him off, and more mouthing at it. There's no finesse at all. He's like a puppy with a toy, slobbering and messy.
It should be more embarrassing than it is, but Shane can't bring himself to feel that way. The collar has locked all those emotions out. This is his role now. Ilya's puppy.
In Shane's mind, the collar is black with a silver plate that signifies who he belongs to. If found, call Ilya Rozanov. Maybe Shane's name wouldn't be on there at all.
When Ilya's about to come, he pulls Shane back and places the tip of his cock on the swell of Shane's lip. He jerks himself the rest of the way, and Shane catches his release in his mouth, holds it there on his tongue for Ilya to look at. Waits.
"Da," Ilya says eventually, nodding. Shane ducks his head as he obediently swallows. Then he whines and shuffles close to Ilya. He's so turned on, hazy with wanting. His cock hurts.
Ilya's voice takes on a cooing tone as he wraps his hand around Shane's cheek. Shane imagines what kind of filth he must be saying. Does my poor puppy want to come? Do you need a treat? Shane nods, and Ilya laughs, the sound mean, and Shane wonders, distantly, what he just agreed with.
Ilya slips his thumb into Shane's mouth, and Shane whines again around it.
He wants Ilya to touch him, to let him up onto the couch, to keep speaking Russian words that Shane doesn't know as he opens him up with his fingers, to fuck him hard while Shane moans nonsense in response.
Instead, Ilya slides his foot under Shane's cock. He turns his attention back to the screen, but he keeps his hands on Shane, thumb pressing on his tongue, other hand petting his hair. Shane freezes, the pressure of Ilya's foot already immeasurably good, but it's not what he wants. He begs, a high, long sound.
"Davai." Ilya says, rocking his foot up into Shane. "U tebya yest' vso neobkhodimoye."
Shane rocks his hips once, experimentally, humping against Ilya's foot, and Ilya responds with praise, khorosho and molodetz and words Shane can’t pick out, all dripping with Ilya's sweet tone. So he keeps moving, the pleasure building quicker than he would have thought possible from just doing this, debasing himself on Ilya's foot.
He comes in a stuttering gasp, vision whiting out with it. Shuddering, he keeps grinding through it, until it hurts, then collapses forward onto Ilya's thigh, boneless. Shane doesn't even try to listen to Ilya's Russian as Ilya hauls him up onto the couch, repositioning them both until Shane lies on top of him. He undresses him, peeling Shane free of his shirt and his sticky pants, leaving him only in the collar.
Shane's out of it. Lost somewhere where all he can do is feel, the world moving like molasses. He doesn't even mind the come still clinging to his skin, Ilya reaching down to play with it, smearing it into his thighs.
Shane settles here, on top of Ilya, and time oozes by. Ilya's hands travel across his whole body in soothing pets, and he sinks into it.
He doesn't quite fall asleep, but it's close. Shane's brain comes online about the same time his dick does. The TV is black when Shane blinks back, finds himself resting on Ilya's chest. Ilya's scrolling on his phone with one hand, his other squeezing Shane's ass cheeks like a stress toy. Shane's hard again.
Now that he's noticed, the feeling's encompassing. He makes a noise, high-pitched and needy, still not wanting to talk and break this, and he pushes his hips forward, pressing his cock into Ilya's thigh.
Ilya puts his phone down.
"You're back," he says, and Shane tries not to look too disappointed at the English. Ilya notices anyway, and grins. "Ah, ponyal. Moy malen'kiy shchenok vse yeshcho zdes'."
Shane nods, trying to get Ilya to keep going, keep talking to him like this. He wants Ilya to fuck him, but he doesn't know how to tell him that. He whines again.
But Ilya can read his mind, or maybe he just knows that Shane always wants Ilya to fuck him, because Ilya retrieves a bottle of lube from the couch cushions. He pours it right down Shane's crack, and Shane huffs at the temperature, but he relaxes when Ilya rubs at his rim. It feels good, it always feels so good.
Shane sighs, breathes in Ilya as he teases, stretching him slowly. Ilya's not in a rush and for once Shane agrees with him. He wants to draw this moment out forever, and while he wants Ilya inside him, he's still too sleepy to really be desperate.
Ilya whispers something soothing in Russian as he presses into Shane's prostate, talented fingers knowing just how to make Shane's dick leak. Shane squirms around him, wiggling to get friction on his cock. Ilya tuts, and shifts his leg so he can't rut against it, and Shane makes a pathetic noise at the loss of contact.
Ilya plays with his hole until Shane's shaking from it. By the time, Ilya guides Shane up to sit on his cock, Shane does feel desperate, his hole clenching back on nothing as Ilya tells him "zhdat'", keeping him hovering there, thighs trembling until Ilya releases him with a nod of his head.
Shane sinks down, crying out as Ilya fills him. Mindless in the best possible way, Shane tries to set a rhythm as he rolls his hips, but he can't get it right, still fuzzy in the head, legs aching from both the running and being on his knees. He can't speak to ask Ilya to take over, so he slows his hips and looks at Ilya, begging. Bounces once. Whines a plea.
Ilya hears him, and with a growl, he flips them both over. It's a miracle they both stay on the couch. Ilya presses Shane down hard into the cushions, then slips two fingers under the collar—Shane almost forgot it was there. Ilya tugs once, just to make Shane gasp, hips jerking in time. Then Ilya fucks him.
He pounds into him hard enough to make Shane grunt on each thrust. The shift in pace is overwhelming, and Shane grabs on to Ilya's shoulders, digging his nails in to offset it. He can feel Ilya in his gut, rearranging him. Ilya's hips slapping against him sound deliciously dirty.
Shane breaks. "Ilya."
He tries to cover the word with a moan, but Ilya heard him. He hisses a command—tikho—that Shane can't recall the meaning of, and shoves two fingers into Shane's mouth. Shane drools around them, still feeling every part of Ilya's dumb puppy, thankful for something to do with his mouth instead of fucking up again.
When Shane comes for the second time that night, shaking and sobbing, it's with Ilya in his mouth and Ilya inside him and Ilya surrounding him. The collar around his neck shows what he is. Shane lies there, dazed and sated, as Ilya keeps fucking into him, until not long later he's coming too, filling Shane up.
Shane arrives back in his body sooner this time, the dried come from the first round starting to feel awful. Though he doesn't want to get up yet, or be the first one to end this. Ilya keeps talking to him in Russian, molodetz again. Shane thinks that means he did good.
Ilya kisses Shane's forehead, pulls them both up into a somewhat sitting position, Shane still leaning heavily on Ilya. He inhales, takes in the scent of sweat and sex lingering on Ilya's skin.
"Very good puppy," Ilya says, and Shane shudders at hearing the praise in English. Ilya plays with the edge of Shane's collar.
"I did good?" Shane asks, voice cracking embarrassingly.
"Perfect. Quick learner too." Ilya kisses him again, then straightens Shane out, holding him up by the shoulders so he's no longer lying on Ilya. "Come. We need to get you clean."
Ilya wraps Shane up in a blanket, and Shane follows after him, stumbling a little as he remembers how to walk.
On the way to the bathroom, Ilya stops by Cookie's kennel and unlocks it. Her eyes blink sleepily, but her tail swings back and forth as Ilya scratches her.
"Thank you for waiting so quietly, Cookie," Ilya says. Shane smiles slightly, watching them, endeared by the serious way Ilya thanked her, the way he kisses the top of her head in goodbye before they walk away.
She is kind of cute, Shane decides. But he still doesn't really like her.
Shane stays silent as Ilya turns on the shower, not knowing what to say or how to act now that it's over. Ilya steps in front of him, and it's easy to look up at him, leaning into the hand he places on his neck. On the collar.
"I should take this off," Ilya whispers. He slips his fingers under the edge of it, rubs the skin beneath almost reverently.
"Oh." Shane blinks, tries to find his words again. "I, I forgot I was wearing it," he lies.
Ilya hums, moves his fingers towards the clasp. "You like?"
Shane shrugs. "It's a little scratchy."
"Good to know, but not really what I meant."
Shane looks down. "Uh, yeah, I like it. Where'd you get it?"
"I bought it." Ilya still hasn't taken it off. "I went a bit, uh, overboard when I agreed to take Cookie. Bought her a lot of toys and things."
"Of course you did."
"I know you hate Cookie." Ilya smiles as he says it, like they're sharing a joke.
"I don't hate her."
"Ah, just jealous then."
"Shut up."
"You want to be my only dog," Ilya whispers, the corner of his mouth turned up, and Shane flushes deep.
"I— I don't—" He stammers. "I didn't know I wanted that. I just, I like—"
"Shhh." Ilya leans in, kisses Shane once, soft. "It's okay. I know what you like. I'll take this off, and we can talk more in the shower if you want. Or we can wait. Is okay."
Shane exhales as he unclasps the collar, and sets it down on the counter. It's blue.
He can't take his eyes off it, he should've thought enough to look in the mirror when they entered the bathroom, see what he looked like wearing it.
Ilya pulls him away, into the shower and under the water, and Shane decides that he doesn't want to talk now. They will later, and Shane'll try to muddle through how it felt and what he liked, Ilya pulling every embarrassing admission out of him. Shane will confess to wanting to do it again, ask for a softer collar, and then try and convince Ilya to tell him all the things he was saying in Russian earlier, even though they both know he doesn't really want to know.
But for now, he just smiles at Ilya, comforted by the knowledge that Ilya already knows all this. Everything that Shane's going to say, he's already aware of.
You want to be my only dog.