It's a summer night, the stars are out, things are peaceful. The window is cracked so that the perfect amount of lake sound wooshes softly through the room. Shane is sat half up against the headboard, texting with Rose in LA, where it's only just past seven PM and she's apparently getting ready for dinner.
"Rose says the director of this new movie is difficult," Shane mutters. "Like, a genius. Apparently. But weird."
"Hmm," Ilya grunts. He's doing the same thing he's been doing for twenty minutes: Watching a playlist of his favorite dog-centric Youtuber and pretending that his eyes aren't trying to droop closed every few minutes.
"Did I tell you what it's about?"
"Something about eating people," Ilya mutters, blinking owlishly.
"Yeah, like, she plays this character who was born to be slaughtered--in this universe, I guess they're growing people specifically to be food--"
"Hollander," Ilya mutters. "I don't want to dream about this."
"Right. Yeah." Shane scoots down the bed, turns on his side until he and Ilya are face-to-face--or would be, without the impediment of Ilya's phone. He quickly locks it and slides it underneath the pillow. He purses his lips and Shane slips closer under the blankets until they touch from chest to knee, and he busses a soft kiss to Ilya's mouth, and they both sigh.
"Say someone you knew had a leg amputated," Shane says, and watches Ilya's chest deflate in defeat. "No, c'mon, thought experiment. Yes and."
"I hate Rose Landry," Ilya announces, rolling halfway onto his back, finger and thumb pressed to his eyes. "I cannot believe she taught you this fucking Yes And shit."
"You haven't complained before."
"Oh, I wonder why!" Ilya is waking up by the second, eyes flashing impishly. "Yes AND, I am taking your virginity again. Yes AND, I am a sexy coach and you are my naughty rookie."
"Okay," Shane scoffs, kicking away. "Anyway. Someone you know has a leg amputated and they're going to cook it. Would you try some?"
"Fuck no," Ilya says. "No, Shane, that's how people get fucking prion--is this how you say in English?"
"People get fucking prions this way, Shane. No cure for prion. Eats your brain and you fucking die. My brain is fucked enough."
"Aw." Shane reaches out, runs his fingers through Ilya's hair. "Nah. Big beautiful brain, eh? You know what prions are."
"Of course I know what prions are, Shane, I grew up in Europe in the 90s."
"Sure. Lots of cannibalism back then?"
"I will bite you." Ilya rolls forward onto Shane's stomach and chest, pinning him inelegantly with his own bodyweight and listening to Shane's squawk, half delight and half incredulity. He digs his chin into Shane's neck, says, "Nyam-nyam-nyam," just to be obnoxious and then shuffles down to mouth over Shane's nipple, ghosting a canine over.
"Okay, so, maybe it's grown in a lab," Shane mumbles, long fingers burrowing deep against Ilya's scalp, massaging. "Totally ethical, never came from a real person, no prions. Would you try it?"
Ilya rises with a pop, lips shiny, Shane's nipple swelled and wet. "This is insane conversation."
Shane pulls the hair at the crown of Ilya's head and pouts, "Yes and."
"No Shane, I do not want to know how human tastes."
Shane smirks and rolls his eyes around the room. "I mean, in that case, I guess you don't need me--"
He moves before Ilya fully anticipates it, which means he's halfway across the bed before Ilya can grab out. Shane feels his hand land on his calf, skitter, and grab his ankle instead. He yanks, not entirely gently, and Shane sprawls with his foot trapped in Ilya's grip near the head of the bed and his chin dug into the opposite corner of the mattress. Ilya moves quickly, mounts Shane's thighs and pulls both arms behind him, grasps them in a single hand while laughing and pushing the other hand between Shane's shoulder blades. A spike of adrenaline and natural, instinctive fear pulses deliciously down his spine as he tries to move his limbs and finds that he can't.
"Oh, lyubimyy," Ilya sighs, in that way he has that turns the endearment into something dangerous. Something that signals to Shane that he might have fucked up a little. "You want to be tasted? You play your silly little game to tell me you want to be eaten? Mm. Maybe ask for what you fucking want."
Shane bucks. It drives his ass directly up into Ilya's dick, which he is punished for with a resounding smack to the thickest part of his thigh and Ilya's hips driving forward, pinning him more firmly. Hot and huge against Shane's crease. He thrusts.
"Slut," Ilya says. "I'll fucking eat you alive. Where do I start? The ham?" He shoves a hand under the waistband of Shane's boxers, takes one cheek in his bruising grip.
"Oh my God," Shane says, half at the feeling and half at the absurdity of his ass being called a ham.
Ilya tugs at the waistband of his boxers again. "Off."
Shane wiggles balefully. "You're on top of me."
Ilya seems to consider this for a moment, then very carefully says, "I get up, you take them off. Nothing else, da?"
"Da," Shane breathes. After another airless moment, Ilya rises and crawls backwards until Shane can free his own legs. Shane stands, knees vaguely gelatinous, and watches Ilya sit back on his heels. Watches Ilya watch him, as he hooks his thumbs into his boxers and lets a smile curve onto his mouth and pushes them down past the bulk of his thighs. They hit the floor, and Shane's half-hard cock hangs heavily between his legs. He puts one knee back on the bed, watches Ilya's muscles shift as he begins to accomodate for Shane's presence back on the bed, and then launches himself through the bedroom door.
Ilya's yell is predatory, and Shane feels the fear zing up his spine again even as he laughs. He sprints past the den, grabs a throw pillow as he goes and tosses it over his shoulder. The almighty bang he hears a second later tells him that Ilya jumps straight over it. When he reaches the kitchen, he puts the counter between himself and Ilya and chances a look back.
He is pure fury, flushed from the sprint, hair like the mane of a rampant lion. Shane feints left, watches Ilya begin to dodge in that direction, and then reverses course and dodges for the recessed portion of the great room.
He's thinking to climb onto the sofa and then vault back over the half wall to the kitchen, and from there run down the stairs, but Ilya sees the plan in his eyes. He vaults over the half wall himself, lands on the sofa and yanks Shane towards himself with a ferocity that unsits the lamp from the side table and sends it falling into the carpet.
"Did it break?" Shane yelps, even as he's manhandled onto his front. "Is there glass?"
"No," Ilya says, hand hard against the side of his face. "Put your fucking head down."
Shane relaxes into the submission, because he has no real choice--most of Ilya's weight is on the side of his face and his knees are trapped under his hips. Head down, ass up.
"The fuck do you think you're doing?" Ilya snarls, and lifts his hand only to spit on Shane's cheek and put it back in place. "Brave bunny, huh? Wanted to be chased? That what you wanted?"
"Want to be fucking caught?" Ilya's still going, weighing Shane down, hooking a thumb into his sweatpants and letting his cock out. He rubs it into the small of Shane's back, smearing against his skin. He leans down to speak into Shane's ear. "You're trapped, little bunny. You're going to be eaten."
He puts his teeth against Shane's shoulder, opens his mouth and bites down. Hard. Pain shoots up Shane's neck, white-hot, and he screams.
In the morning, there is a bruise. Massive, purple and splotched in the pattern of his husband's teeth. Ilya sees it, jerks off about it in the shower while Shane stands in front of him against the wall, hands braced above his head, back muscles bunching. Then Ilya kisses it, licks it and murmurs, "Okay, so. Maybe one little taste."
Shane throws his head back and laughs.
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