Archive of Our Own

They're on Reddit again.

Shane snuggles comfortably back against Ilya's bare chest, his boyfriend's phone in his hand. He's tucked in the vee of Ilya's strong thighs, with a warm, hard, and patiently waiting cock rubbing lightly against his spine as Ilya shifts his weight behind him. It's 10am on a random Saturday morning in the off-season, and with no hockey dragging them out of bed, they would usually start the day with a sleepy, leisurely fuck. That certainly seemed to have been Ilya's plan for the morning, but Shane wants something different today—something he can't quite put his finger on.

Whenever one of them decides they want to try something a little freakier, a little further outside the norm—something other than Ilya simply pounding Shane into the mattress, the weight of his body behind his hand as he grinds Shane's face harshly into the sheets—they've turned back to Reddit.

It's slightly less aimless, nowadays. Since the first time, really. Shane knows what he wants, at least holistically—he just has to hone in on which new aspect to try.

They always use Ilya's phone, though Shane's learned by now the exact pattern of the Russian-labelled buttons he has to navigate through to swap the device back to English. He tried to learn—is still trying—but, much to his perfect grades in school frustration, isn't getting very far very fast. It turns out it's much harder to learn this stuff as an adult. And when he's horny and trying to find a specific type of porn, attempting to comprehend Cyrillic text is very low on his list of priorities.

Ilya has offered to leave it in English, permanently, but Shane will always flat-out deny him that. As much as Shane hates the expectations and additional pressure put on him as the token Asian poster boy of hockey; his heritage is important, and Ilya's just as much so. He would hate more than anything to see Ilya lose one of the last parts of Russia he carries with him, and he always diligently sets the language back when he's done.

They could just use Shane's phone, but—he'll admit it—he's a little paranoid. Celebrities are getting their accounts hacked into and having their nudes leaked left, right, and centre. It's weird—he doesn't really think of himself as a celebrity, per se, but from an outside perspective, that's exactly what he is.

Especially so since he and Ilya came out as a couple. The heat is often on them, and Shane has no desire for such a heat to trace back to this.

So his phone is extremely boring—mostly searches about hockey, YouTube videos about hockey, and texts about brand deals from his mom. The spiciest thing on there is definitely his text thread with Ilya, which isn't even too bad nowadays, considering they're almost always together. Ilya is still saved as Lily, all these years later, but the texts themselves do nothing to conceal her true identity.

If his texts with Ilya got leaked, it would be deeply embarrassing, but he could survive it. If his phone was linked to what he's doing now: typing the word piss into the Reddit search bar—he thinks he would actually spontaneously combust.

Does it matter that Ilya is intrinsically linked to him, and that if Ilya's phone got hacked or stolen, that would also implicate Shane? No, because he's compartmentalised that thought in a different section of his brain, actually, so he doesn't have to worry about that.

"Mmm," Ilya hums in Shane's ear, watching the screen over his shoulder, "today you want to be nasty." His hand reaches around Shane's waist to rest flat on his stomach muscles, sliding gently over the soft, ridged skin there.

Shane absently clicks into r/Piss, and is immediately looking at a solo close-up of a vagina. He scrolls past, and there's another one. And another. He growls softly, backing out and amending his search to gay piss.

Ilya's chuckle is warm and amused, his breath hot across Shane's cheek.

This is closer—the videos are often of multiple men, at least. Shane scrolls for a while, but nothing is clicking with him. He feels like he's seen it all before. Ilya's been touching him softly, his chin tucked over his shoulder as his fingers curl around Shane's bored, slightly waning boner. "This isn't what I want," Shane complains, leaning his head back onto Ilya's shoulder and looking to the ceiling in frustration. "What do I want?"

Ilya sniffs, rubbing Shane's cock. "You want me to tell you?" he asks. He's always happy to take back control of what they do, and he almost always has a fresh idea ready to go.

Shane was really hoping to work it out for himself. He sighs, flexing his hips into Ilya's grip as he switches the phone off and sets it aside. "Go ahead."

"I think," Ilya rumbles, leaning to the side to grab last night's glass of water from the nightstand and pressing it into Shane's hands. He slides one hand back over Shane's stomach, using the other to subtly encourage Shane to lift the drink to his lips. "Today you will drink much water," he says, humming contentedly when Shane takes a deep pull.

"Okay?" Shane asks, confused.

Ilya just tilts the glass again, his fingertip pressed to the clear bottom until Shane gets the hint, gulping the rest of it down. It's lukewarm after sitting out all night, but at least they have high quality water here. It slides down his throat easily.

Ilya's next sentence is the bombshell that Shane was waiting for. "No restroom breaks."

"Oh," Shane murmurs, his gaze locking onto the empty tumbler. "Um, for how long?"

Ilya's grin is evident in his voice when he murmurs, "As long as it takes."

Shane's stomach does a nervous backflip.

"Close your eyes," Ilya instructs, taking the glass from him and placing it to the side. Shane does as he's told, and Ilya presses a kiss to the side of his head, "I trust that you have closed them."

"I have," Shane whispers, as he hears Ilya's hand scrabble about in the sheets beside them. The room is briefly filled with the soft sound of keyboard taps, and then it goes quiet again, for a little while. "Are you still there?" Shane asks after a period of quiet, as though Ilya's hard cock isn't pressed against his lower back, as though his breath isn't huffing across Shane's ear, as though his muscular arms aren't wrapped around Shane's body; enclosing him in, safe.

"Patience," Ilya murmurs, sliding one of his hands back to Shane's cock. It feels good, letting Ilya take control like this. All Shane has to do is follow a few instructions, and he's sure he'll get a big reward at the end if he's a good boy.

Shane nods, shifting one of his own hands to join Ilya's on his cock, moaning softly. Without the distraction of vision, he can focus more easily on how it feels—Ilya's touch, tightened by Shane's own grip, sends sparks of pleasure along every inch of his hard cock. Warmth spreads out through his core, setting his nerve endings alight.

"You can open your eyes," Ilya says eventually, and Shane blinks a few times against the bright morning light before he can focus on the screen held in front of his face. Ilya is paused at the start of a video from r/wetting.

"Oh," Shane whispers, which Ilya takes as his cue to press play. The video shows a close-up crotch-down shot of a guy in light grey sweatpants, both hands squeezing his cock through the material. His legs are pressed together as he bounces from foot to foot, his whole body trembling. Shane sucks in a shaky breath.

There's no sound, but he imagines that the guy is moaning brokenly, desperate for a relief that he refuses to give himself. He watches, enraptured, as the man lifts his hands from his cock, balling them into tight fists at his sides. His dick is tenting the joggers, a small wet patch already forming at the head.

Shane knows what's about to happen, but it still makes him gasp as the front of the sweats are rapidly flooded, piss soaking the fabric all the way down the guy's legs. There's a lot—he must've been holding it for a really long time—rivers of piss darkening and re-darkening the cotton as it all flows out of him, an unstoppable tidal wave.

And then it's over. The video loops back to the beginning.

"Fuck," Shane groans as Ilya puts the phone away. His cock pulses in Ilya's hand.

"Something like that," Ilya says, a smugness threaded through his words. He already knows Shane is on board.

"It'll take a while to get to that point," Shane says. He could probably piss, now, if he tried, but he's nowhere near desperate. He looks down at his cock in Ilya's hand, "Do I get to come, first?"

Ilya slides his hand, stroking Shane properly for the first time, and Shane moves his own quickly out of the way to let his boyfriend work. He arches back against Ilya's strong body, his head tipped back onto his shoulder as he groans. Ilya's hand is dry, but Shane doesn't mind a little discomfort with his pleasure, rocking himself up into Ilya's hold.

"Mm, thank you," Shane groans. He thinks about how this day is going to play out, how his belly is going to feel, bloated with gallons of water, how embarrassed he'll be when he makes a huge mess of an expensive pair of sweatpants. His cock twitches in Ilya's hand. "I'm close," he murmurs. It's not going to be the kind of frantic, panting, desperate release he usually gets, but as heat coils in his lower belly, he can see himself tipping gently over the edge, drooling come across his abs.

"Okay," Ilya says simply, and lifts his hand away from Shane's cock.

"Wait—" Shane whimpers as cold air wraps with a shock around his exposed dick, pulling him back from the edge, "what?"

"Get up," Ilya murmurs, shoving Shane's shoulder until he complies, tumbling out of bed with his bare cock bobbing sadly out in front of his body. "Find your sweatpants."

Shane's body goes cold. Ilya's not serious.

"I don't get to come?" he whispers. His legs tremble beneath him like a newborn deer as he stumbles to the closet. "That's not fair." He roots through piles of clothes, looking for something like the ones in the video, and drags out a pair of pale grey, $700 Canada Goose lounge pants.

He re-enters the bedroom with pants in hand, and Ilya just raises an eyebrow—put them on, then. Ilya himself is still lounging in bed, stroking his cock leisurely. His hand is shiny with lube that he didn't have the decency to use on Shane.

"You're so cruel," Shane moans, stepping each foot into the offending pants and dragging them up his legs. His cock twitches unhappily as the soft fabric slides across it, and he shoots a glare in Ilya's direction. Looking down, it's almost comical—the way his cock is so clearly outlined, poking out desperately into the front of the sweats, just begging to be touched again.

He complains, but deep down he trusts that Ilya knows what he's doing, and it'll be exactly what Shane needs, in the end. That doesn't mean he isn't going to bitch about it in the moment, though.

Ilya's movements are slow and intentional as he clambers out of bed. Shane sucks in a sharp breath as the long, sleek lines of his body come into focus, lit softly by the mid-morning sun streaming through their floor-to-ceiling windows. He will never stop being in awe of the absolutely perfect, gorgeous, deity of a man he chose to spend the rest of his life with.

Ilya steps up before him, naked as the day he was born, his shiny wet cock standing proud between them. "You do not know what is good for you," he rumbles, pressing his sticky, lube-covered hand against Shane's chest, forcing the older man to step back until he hits the window, a shiver running through his body as the cold glass presses against his back.

He presses his forearm to the window beside Shane's head, breathing hot and heavy against his face as he crowds Shane against the glass. His hand lifts from Shane's chest with a squelch, leaving behind a gooey handprint that makes Shane's skin crawl.

"You will not come," Ilya says calmly, "until I say you can." Shane gulps softly. "Do you understand me?"

Shane nods. Fear spikes through his head, but his body is already getting on board with the plan. Heat coils in his lower belly—a heat he has a feeling Ilya will keep simmering all day.

"Good boy," Ilya smiles wickedly, leaning in to capture Shane's lips in a messy, breathy kiss. His tongue forces its way into Shane's slack mouth, taking whatever he needs from him as Shane starts to hear the telltale wet shck, shck of Ilya's hand beating his cock.

Shane's heart is pounding against his chest as the distinctive sounds of sex fill the air around them.

Ilya doesn't hold back, moaning loud and nasty into Shane's open mouth, forcing his head back against the glass. His hand occasionally bumps into Shane's dick as he jacks himself, which only makes Shane want it more—zingy little shivers shooting up his spine.

"Fuck," Ilya groans, pressing their foreheads together as he looks down into the space between their bodies, "uuunghh."

So far, Shane hasn't done a single thing with his hands, just letting them hang limp at his sides as Ilya puppets him around like a doll, but now that Ilya is getting close, he lifts them up to rest against his boyfriend's tight little waist, squeezing lightly. It's a small gesture, but one that hopefully conveys all the messy and jumbled thoughts in Shane's head—thank you, I trust you, I love this, you look so hot, I love you.

Ilya's eyes flick up to meet Shane's, a brief moment of connection before he falls apart with a strangled moan, painting thick ropes of come across the lump in the front of Shane's sweatpants, like he's glazing a cinnamon bun that he's not allowed to eat.

"Fuck, that's hot," Shane laughs incredulously, his cock pulsing as he captures Ilya's lips of his own accord, his hands sliding up to tangle in Ilya's soft curls.

They stay that way for a few moments as Ilya catches his breath. "Very good," Ilya murmurs eventually, pulling back and giving Shane a couple of light slaps to the cheek, "follow me."

Ilya doesn't bother to dress himself before he leaves the bedroom, his perky, tightly muscled ass a beacon for Shane to follow as he scrambles after him.

In the hallway on the way to the kitchen, Shane catches sight of himself in the full-length mirror and stops in his tracks. He looks debauched. His hair is still sleep-scruffy, and his eyes have a glazed, faraway look to them. His cock strains, hard and untouched under already ruined sweatpants, and the sticky lube on his chest is a glossy smear which, almost, from the right angle, looks like Ilya came across his chest, too.

Ilya pauses in the doorway at the end of the hall, looking back at Shane over his shoulder. "Yes," he drawls, "you look like slut. Come on."

Ilya's just placing down a large glass of water when Shane meets him in the kitchen. Right, the water. Shane had almost forgotten that's where this whole thing started.

"Drink it. All. Now." Ilya's voice is firm and commanding, nodding his head towards the drink. His eyes flicker to Shane's crotch for the briefest of moments, and a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

Shane's a good boy, and he does as he's told. It takes a few tries, pausing for breath in between each gulp as the frigid tap water chills his esophagus, but he gets it down, triumphantly placing the glass upside down on the kitchen island like he just did a shot.

"Hm," Ilya hums, taking the glass back and refilling it. "Again."

Shane's stomach roils as he eyes the glass. One glass was a lot of water in one go, but manageable. He already feels like he's going to struggle to get a second down. Ilya is looking at him with a steely gaze, waiting. Shane picks up the water with a trembling hand, taking a much more conservative sip.

"You can sip next glass," Ilya shakes his head, narrowing his eyes at Shane. "Drink this one."

Shane sighs. His cock doesn't get any less hard.

The water is still cold, going down, but by taking in so much so quickly, Shane almost feels like he's acclimating to it. His stomach growls, and he presses a hand to it, closing his eyes. Halfway through, he has to take a break. He puts the drink down and leans both hands on the kitchen island, folding his body into a 90 degree bend with a groan. "Ilya," he whispers, dropping his head between his arms so he's looking right at his cock jutting out from between his legs.

"You are still hard, yes?" Ilya points out.

Shane lets out a loud, petulant moan, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Drink your water, Shane."

The use of his first name in this context, while not uncommon anymore, still makes Shane's heart race. And it means Ilya is serious. He straightens up, rubbing his midsection with one hand as he forces down the remainder of the water.

It's horrible. He feels instantly bloated, and he can literally hear all the liquid gurgling about inside him as his body struggles to accept the onslaught.

Ilya holds a hand out for the glass, which Shane reluctantly passes back to him.

"We can watch television," Ilya offers as he fills the glass for a third time. He doesn't hand it to Shane, and even takes a sip of it himself, before grabbing onto Shane's hand to drag him to the TV room.

Ilya places the glass on the coffee table and plops onto the couch, patting the space next to him. Shane groans at the thought of sitting right now. "Lie down," Ilya offers, "it will feel better."

"I feel awful," Shane moans, though he follows Ilya's advice, wincing and cursing under his breath as he tries to lie down without aggravating his insides too much. He rests his head on Ilya's bare thigh, looking pleadingly up at the man who did this to him.

Being horizontal does make the ache slightly more bearable, actually.

Until Ilya places a firm hand on Shane's stomach, that is.

"Don't," Shane winces, his body tensing as Ilya starts to massage him there.

"Don't what?" Ilya rumbles, clicking buttons on the TV remote until some nature documentary graces the screen. He thumbs the volume down to almost nothing. "It is not your choice, what I do." His eyes are locked on the screen, but his hand has other ideas, sliding from Shane's belly down to the waistband of his sweatpants. "Do you remember my rule?"

Shane closes his eyes as he sucks in a shaky breath. He sure does. "I'm not allowed to come without permission," he whispers, as Ilya tucks the waistband down below his tight, aching balls.

"Good boy," Ilya smiles, bringing his hand up to his mouth to get it nice and wet, still not looking down at Shane. He takes a long breath in through his nose as he moves his hand to Shane's lap, wrapping around his straining cock.

"Fuck," Shane gasps, twitching into the touch he's been craving for so long as Ilya starts to slowly stroke his dick. His stomach still aches, but it's like his arousal takes precedence again, his body at war with itself over which need is more important. He moans Ilya's name as he feels the telltale tug of orgasm starting to coil at the base of his dick. His nerve endings are all buzzing, he feels his hips trembling, and his ears start to ring. Fuck, he's going to—

Ilya clears his throat, lifting his hand clear off of Shane, and Shane bucks upwards, trying to chase the touch.

"I have one rule, Hollander," Ilya snaps, pushing Shane harshly back onto the couch by slapping down against his full stomach.

"I didn't—" Shane pants, wincing in pain and shame. He feels water well up in his tear ducts—it's true, he didn't, but only because Ilya is diligent and didn't allow him to. Shane had lost all semblance of self control in the moment.

"Sit up," Ilya demands, and Shane miserably complies, his cock poking him in the stomach as he hunches over himself, trying to breathe through the pain. Ilya points towards the water. "Drink."

"I can't," Shane begs, and Ilya growls, deep and fierce and real. Shane reaches out, picking up the glass before looking sideways at Ilya. "I really don't think I can," he whispers.

"You can sip," Ilya reminds him, his voice controlled. He watches, waiting, for Shane to do just that.

Shane takes the world's smallest sip.

"Don't piss me off, Hollander," Ilya warns.

It's easy for Ilya to sit there barking instructions, when he's not the one hunched over and whimpering in pain like a kicked puppy. Shane takes a normal sip, sucking a measured breath in through his nose. He feels like he's going to explode.

It's not even that he needs to piss, yet. It takes time, he thinks, to make it through his system. All the water is doing right now is bloating his stomach and making him want to cry.

"Do you know what I want, Hollander?" Ilya murmurs, placing a comforting hand on Shane's back, rubbing up and down his spine.

Shane's pretty sure the answer is to watch me in a bunch of pain, and then laugh as I piss my pants, but he shakes his head.

"What I want," Ilya drawls, "is for you to be desperate to piss, and begging to come." Shane looks over at him, and they lock eyes. "I want you to cry, because you do not know which will happen first."

Shane sucks in a breath.

"Will you piss yourself?" Ilya asks, "Or come untouched in your pants?"

"Fucking hell, Ilya," Shane breathes, leaning against the backrest of the couch, glass still in hand.

"Do you like it? My plan?" Ilya smiles, a twinkle in his eye.

Shane can't deny that he does. "Yes," he moans softly, his dick twitching in his lap, "fuck, that's so hot, Ilya." He meets Ilya's eyes nervously, "But I really don't think I can drink more, right now." He puts the glass down on the table, "I don't think it's in my bladder, yet. It's not sexy; it's just making me feel horrible."

Ilya leans in, cupping Shane's face in one of his big hands. "Okay," he says, "thank you for telling me." His eyes flick to the glass, "Will you drink more when you feel better?"

Shane smiles. He doesn't think it especially likely that he's going to feel better, as such—the ache is just going to move to another part of his body—but he agrees. "Of course," he promises, and Ilya kisses him gently.

"Do you want to suck my dick?" Ilya offers, and Shane can't help but snort a laugh. "While you wait."

It's no secret that Shane loves sucking dick, but it will never not be funny to him every time Ilya reframes that ostensible chore as something fun and casual for Shane to do, as though Ilya will get nothing out of it in return.

"Yeah," Shane rolls his eyes, still chuckling softly. Maybe it'll take his mind off of everything else going on with his body, for a while. Ilya first helps him to stand, pulling Shane's sweatpants up to cover his cock again as he does, and then helps him to his knees, holding him with firm and steady hands as Shane hesitantly lowers himself to the floor. His body aches, his dick aches, and he's pretty sure his throat is about to ache, too.

Ilya's already hard, and he uses his thumb to push his dick towards Shane's open mouth with a smirk. Shane's not sure what, exactly, got him there, this time. It's possible that the perpetually pathetic, needy state that Shane is in right now has been low-level doing it for Ilya all day, and he just needed to wait out the refractory period.

Shane takes his cock between his lips, moaning as he does. Ilya has that musky, unwashed morning scent to him, and Shane goes absolutely feral for it every time.

"Mmm," Ilya sighs happily, reclining further into the couch as one of his hands rests firmly on the back of Shane's head. "Good boy, you know what you are good for."

The words send a thrill through Shane's core as he starts to suck messily around Ilya's cock, getting it as wet and slobbery as he can. It's true—he is good for this. And good at it, if the way Ilya immediately rolls his hips up into Shane's mouth is anything to go by. Ilya's cock fills his mouth, and then some, so Shane brings his hand up to stroke at the base while he works.

Ilya grunts, his nails digging into Shane's scalp as Shane closes his lips around the head, working his tongue into Ilya's slit. "Let me fuck your throat," Ilya says after a few minutes—it's worded like a demand, but Ilya's tone of voice makes it feel more like a beg.

Shane pulls off, panting, his own dick oozing precome into the inside of his sweatpants at the thought. He smiles up at Ilya before turning to grab the glass and chugging a third of the water with a pained groan. "Thirsty work," he teases, putting the glass back, and then, looking down at Ilya's dick—"Of course."

"Ya tebya lyublyu," Ilya murmurs, and Shane has heard that little piece of Russian enough to know exactly what it means.

"I love you, t—" Shane manages, the rest of his sentence interrupted as Ilya drags his head back down. He sucks in a deep breath through his nose, flicking his eyes up to Ilya's with a small nod.

Ilya's hands feel huge around Shane's head, muffling Shane's hearing as he forces his boyfriend down his dick.

Shane does his best to relax as Ilya's thick cock dips into his throat, cutting off his airway. This isn't the best angle for deepthroating, but he'll do what he can—letting his mouth fall slack as Ilya manipulates his head, treating Shane like a giant fleshlight. His own cock pulses with need as Ilya uses him, twitching in his pants for just a modicum of friction.

Ilya is groaning above him, muffled, and grunting an endless string of phrases in Russian that Shane couldn't possibly hope to understand.

Shane's cock twitches once more, in just the right way, and he frantically taps Ilya's thigh.

Ilya pulls him off immediately, using his thumb to swipe spittle from around Shane's slack, panting mouth, but that's the least of Shane's problems.

"Fuck, Ilya," he gasps, his voice hoarse. His body is flooded with heat as his cock twitches uncontrollably in his pants, "I'm s-sorry, I—I think I might come."

"Hold it," Ilya demands, his voice firm. "Don't you dare."

Shane's whole body is trembling, his hands squeezed tight around his thighs as he tries to get a hold of himself. His heart is pounding and he can hear the blood rushing through his ears. He can't do it. He doesn't know how to stop it, the unbelievable pressure tugging from the base of his dick.

Ilya prides himself—and Shane, to an extent—with his ability to make Shane come untouched, but all the practice they put in seems to be coming back to bite them in the ass.

"Shane," Ilya warns, his voice low, "don't."

With a firm exhale, Shane tries to push all the need from his body. It's not his turn. It's not his time. Ilya has plans for him which he will ruin if he lets himself succumb. He is strong. He can push through this.

"Good boy," Ilya murmurs, before Shane even knows in himself that he's managed to get past it. A gentle hand touches his cheek, strokes over his freckles, "You did it."

"I did?" Shane whispers, looking down to see himself still straining the fabric—the only mess in his lap being the one Ilya left for him earlier. "I did." He feels lightheaded. "I need a drink," he adds, just as quietly.

But Ilya hears him. He reaches behind Shane to grab the glass, pressing it into Shane's hands. Shane glances up as he swallows, and the look on Ilya's face is so goddamn proud. Proud, and fond, and Shane feels extremely special to be on the receiving end of it.

"I think I need to piss, now," Shane mutters with a soft wince as he feels his bladder twinge. "You're a menace."

"My plan is working," Ilya grins, "just as I planned."

Shane feels like he's able to finish the glass, this time, so he does. It helps him cool off a little after coming so close to orgasm.

Ilya wraps his hand around his cock, watching Shane put the glass back on the table. "Close your eyes, Hollander," he instructs, "I will come on your face."

It's so easy, giving himself over to Ilya. Without a shred of hesitation, Shane lets his eyes flutter closed, his mouth falling slack without having to be asked.

"You look so pretty," Ilya murmurs, as the soft sound of skin-on-skin fills the air.

Naturally, Ilya doesn't warn him when he's about to come, but Shane is so attuned to every subtle noise his boyfriend makes that he knows exactly when it's going to happen, regardless. He doesn't even flinch as his tongue and chin get painted in sticky white.

When Shane blinks his eyes open, showily swallowing everything that landed in his mouth, Ilya adds: "Prettier now."

Shane resists the urge to wipe his face.

"Come here," Ilya instructs, patting his lap.

As he starts to stand, Shane's body crunches in on itself. "Ohh, fuck," he whispers, a hand flying to his lower belly as he feels piss slosh around in his bladder. Ilya's eyes are laser focused on Shane's crotch, but Shane takes a deep, steadying breath through his nose, and lets it out as a gentle sigh. "It's okay," he breathes, more to himself than Ilya, "I'm in control."

"You are," Ilya rumbles. Those two words alone contain so much pride and admiration that Shane thinks he could burst with it. Ilya holds out his hands to help Shane clamber carefully into his lap.

"It's starting to hurt, now," Shane says with a pained little chuckle, as a small glob of come dripping from his chin to splatter on his chest makes him flinch.

"Which part?" Ilya asks, sliding his hand around the back of Shane's neck to drag them closer together. The movement makes Shane's bladder ache.

"Bladder hurts," Shane answers, his stomach involuntarily clenching, which just makes it worse, "dick is in remission."

Ilya laughs softly, "I will fix that. I want both to hurt you."

Sadist, Shane thinks, as Ilya tightens his grip around the back of his boyfriend's neck and starts to lick his own come from Shane's face with broad, wet swipes of his tongue. Naturally, the move goes straight to his dick and he shudders—masochist.

"Where do you want me to be, when it happens?" Shane asks quietly.

"Wherever you are," Ilya replies, somewhat cryptically. He meets Shane's eyes, "It will be accident."

"I think it might happen soon," Shane murmurs, rubbing his belly. His body is clenching against the piss trying to force its way out, and he doesn't know how much longer he can hold this level of defense. "Can I… walk around?" he asks, leaning in to peck Ilya on the lips. "I don't know if that will make it better or worse, but I feel like I need to move."

Ilya smirks, nodding his head once. He watches as Shane carefully slides back out of his lap, every tiny movement pre-planned to add as little pressure to his bladder as possible.

It's agony, really.

Shane doesn't offer Ilya a hand to help him stand up—he knows he'll lose control immediately if he exerts force like that. So instead he just turns and slowly, carefully, starts to walk to the kitchen.

The floor is tiled there, so it just makes sense.

Ilya is right behind, only stopping once he reaches the kitchen doorway. Shane looks back to see Ilya leaning sideways against the doorframe, wholly unashamed in his nakedness. He raises an eyebrow, but Ilya just makes a vague spinning motion with his hand. "Walk. Do your thing."

So Shane does. He walks a few laps of the kitchen island, gently massaging his aching lower belly as he goes. It feels like it's helping, at first, until it suddenly very much isn't.

He stops in his tracks, frozen completely still like a deer caught in headlights.

Ilya is with him in an instant—two long strides and he's standing in front of Shane, his face the picture of anticipation.

Shane squeezes his eyes shut, every part of his body trembling as the overwhelming sense of desperation hits him. "Ilya," he begs softly, reaching blindly forward. Ilya is there, taking both of Shane's hands and squeezing them tight.

"You have permission," Ilya says, "to come."

Shane feels his brow furrow in confusion—that's definitely not priority numero uno in his head right now, but… good to know?

"I'm gonna piss," Shane whispers, his face blooming red as he tries desperately to hold it back. He wants to cover his crotch, to squeeze his dick like the guy in the video, but Ilya's hold on his hands is firm—he wants to watch every second.

"I know," Ilya replies, dropping gracelessly to his knees, which makes Shane snap his eyes open. He leans in, mouthing wet and hot around the shape of Shane's dick. "And come."

"Stop it," Shane whines, his composure cracking, "I'm gonna piss on you."

Ilya's mouth curves into a smile around Shane's dick, and he finds the head to suckle on through the grey fabric.

Shane winces as the need for an orgasm that he's been denied all day rears its head once more, swirling oh-so painfully together with the need to piss—a full assault on his core.

"Ilya—" is all the warning he can give before the dam breaks, and piss starts to burble from his slit against Ilya's lips.

Ilya does pull back, but only by inches as his eyes lock onto the rapidly growing wet patch spreading across Shane's lap. "Fuck," he whispers, reverent.

Shane, for his part, can't see much, but he can certainly feel the way the fabric gets tacky as his piss soaks into the fibers, sticking it against his legs. He can feel his piss winding down the back of his legs, dripping out the bottom of his sweats to puddle around his feet. And most importantly, he can see Ilya's face, which looks beyond blissed out, his eyes half-lidded and his breathing shallow and ragged. He's not even hard, he's just basking in the moment that Shane gave him complete, perfect control of his body.

Shane, on the other hand, still very much is hard. Watching Ilya's face, their hands clasped together, Shane feels his flow come to an abrupt stop. He doesn't feel empty, yet, so he's caught completely off-guard when his body crunches, his nails digging into Ilya's hands.

"Fuck, I—I'm coming, I think," he gasps as his dick jumps against the inside of the soaked-through fabric.

Ilya's breath is hot and heavy across his cock, and he squeezes Shane's hands just as hard in return, watching intently as Shane's body twitches and convulses.

"Ohhhhhhh, god," Shane moans, his knees wobbling as hours of edging come to a dramatic close, and he comes untouched—thick, sticky semen spurting against the inside of his sweatpants, dripping back down the length of his dick when it has nowhere else to go. He lets his knees give way beneath him, falling to the floor alongside Ilya and landing in his own filthy wet patch.

"You are so gorgeous, moya lyubov'," Ilya whispers, and the man has tears in his eyes. "Thank you." He pulls Shane in, not to kiss him passionately, but instead to hold his boyfriend in a firm embrace, hiding his damp face in the crook of Shane's neck.

He doesn't want to break Ilya's immersion, but Shane can't help but point out, "I think I'm pissing again."

Ilya pulls back from the hug with a joyous laugh, his hands immediately finding their way to Shane's lap. He presses into the wet fabric, turning Shane's piss stream into a little fountain. It's hotter than Shane would expect it to be.

What's even hotter than that, is Ilya taking his wet fingers and shoving them unceremoniously into Shane's slack mouth. Shane moans around them, feeling drool and piss dribble from the corner of his lips.

"Perfect," Ilya murmurs, extracting his fingers to kiss Shane as the last of his piss finally drains out of him.

Shane collapses against Ilya's chest, suddenly bone-tired, all of his energy washed out of him along with his piss.

He hears Ilya murmur something quiet along the lines of, "Is okay, sleep now."

Shane opens his eyes and he's in the bath, and Ilya is gently scrubbing his chest with a soapy sponge.

"Shh, sleepy," Ilya whispers, and as if his boyfriend became a hypnotist overnight, Shane is out cold again.

The next time he wakes, he's in bed. Ilya is curled up against his back, scrolling on his phone. "Morning?" he croaks, though it's dark outside.

Ilya laughs softly, kissing Shane's hair. "Bedtime," he whispers. "For me as well."

Shane squints up at Ilya's dim phone screen. It takes a brief moment for him to comprehend that all the text on his screen is still in English, and then he snatches the device out of Ilya's hand.

"Hey—" Ilya protests weakly, though he doesn't try to take it back as Shane's sleepy thumbs navigate through menus.

Settings > General > Language and Region > Русский

That's better.