Chapter Text
Ilya’s mind was a storm of raw, jagged survival instincts. Every second Shane wasn’t in his arms was a second the world felt like it was ending. When he’d finally dragged Shane into the bedroom and stripped them both, he hadn't just been making love; he was claiming, anchoring, and desperate to prove that the terrifying piece of paper was nothing but a lie.
He looked up at Shane—his beautiful, fierce husband—and saw the tremors still racking his frame. It broke something inside Ilya. He needed to break the silence, to break the doubt, to drown out the memory of the prank with the only thing that mattered.
He mounted him, and as he drove down into Shane, the friction sparked a wildfire in his veins. But it was the sound of Shane’s voice—commanding, needy, *his*—that sent him spiraling.
"Say it," Shane had demanded.
Ilya couldn't help himself. As he surged into him, the rhythm becoming a frantic, rhythmic collision of skin, the words tore out of his throat in his native tongue.
*"Ya tebya lyublyu, Shanya. Ya tak tebya lyublyu!"*
He repeated it like a prayer, like a frantic confession, his voice cracking with the strain. *I love you, Shanya. I love you so much.*
He bowed his head, his teeth grazing over Shane’s chest. When his mouth found Shane’s nipple, he didn't hold back. He sucked hard, a guttural, hungry sound vibrating in his throat, his teeth scraping the sensitive skin with enough force to pull a bead of blood to the surface. It was a mark of ownership, an act of pure, unadulterated need. He wanted to leave a trail, to make sure Shane felt every bit of the fire burning through him.
He was losing his mind. Shane was controlling the pace, pulling his hair, jerking his hips, keeping him balanced on a wire of sensation that felt like it would snap at any moment. Every time Ilya neared the edge, Shane would shift, grinding them together until Ilya was sobbing, his vision blurring, his body arching in a desperate, broken plea.
"Please, *pozhaluysta*, Shanya... please," Ilya wept, his face wet with tears that he was too far gone to be ashamed of. His body was singing with overstimulation, his nerves screaming under the weight of Shane’s touch. "I can’t... it's too much..."
But Shane wouldn't let him finish. He was cruel in the best, most beautiful way, demanding he say the words again, forcing him to witness their bond through the rhythm of their hips.
When Shane finally relented, when he allowed them to tumble over the precipice together, Ilya felt his entire world shatter and reform around the man beneath him. He screamed into the empty air of the room, his voice hoarse, his soul pouring out in a flood of Russian promises and ragged, sobbing gasps.
The release was violent and absolute. As they collapsed, Ilya buried his face into the crook of Shane’s neck, his breath hitching in his chest, his hands trembling as he clung to the solid, warm reality of his husband. He had been terrified, but now, holding Shane, he knew there was no force in the world—prank, paper, or lie—that could touch them. He was home.