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    Summary

    When Ilya answers, he’s greeted with a whimpered moan that goes straight to his head, leaving him reeling like he’s just thrown back another shot. His mouth drops open, the cigarette dangling stupidly from his lower lip for a second until he plucks it free with his other hand.

    Holy fuck. He must be dreaming. But the rough breaths filtering into his ear are too real, tethering him tightly to the moment.

    “Jane,” he murmurs, gleeful and shocked. “This is not like you.”

    *

    Or: after Shane confesses that he can struggle to get off if he's too stressed, Ilya suggests he should just call him next time. He doesn't think Shane would ever be desperate enough to go through with it.

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