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“Sunshine,” he says, placing a soft kiss against Shane’s collarbone.
The man in question snorts, his eyes fluttering shut at Ilya’s lips, dragging across the freckled skin of his throat before settling at his pulse point. He hopes against hope that his body doesn't give him away right now. Doesn't tell Ilya just how fast his heart is beating. It's a futile thought that dissipates almost instantly; his body has never bothered to listen to him when it comes to any Ilya Rozanov-shaped matter of the heart.
“Hmm… no,” Shane replies and lets his right hand rest against Ilya’s curls.
His fingers are loose in his hair, so unlike the harshness Ilya had been on the receiving end of only half an hour earlier.
He can feel Ilya smile against him. Can practically hear him thinking too, for that matter.
“Honeypie?” he tries.
Shane laughs; loud and free and unguarded. Ilya wishes he could bottle that sound up. Keep it in his pocket at all time, somewhere close to his chest.
“Absolutely not,” Shane says.
Ilya is nipping at his jawline by now, dangerously close to the junction of his jaw and jugular; that one place that always makes Shane shiver.
“My love?” he says before he gently bites down, teeth just about grazing skin.
Ilya loves spending time there — not just because of the way Shane reacts but because of the two moles there that look like tiny bitemarks.
Like little Xs on a map showing Ilya just where to strike for gold. Where the real treasure is. He loves every inch of Shane but that one has a special place in his heart.
Sometimes he wishes he could live there, buried beneath his skin and close to his heart.
Sometimes he thinks even that isn’t close enough.
Shane thinks for a second.
“Maybe,” he sighs and Ilya knows he’s only being agreeable because of where Ilya’s lips had just been.
Ilya hums against his skin, keeps moving until he’s breathing against his neck, peppering kisses up towards his ear.
He loves moments like this. Moments where Shane allows himself to be soft and open.
Allows himself to laugh without reservation, exist without limit.
Sometimes he thinks he might be addicted to it. Addicted to being the one who gets to see beyond the mask. Who gets to unravel him and have him when he shines the brightest.
“Sweetheart?” he whispers and hears Shane’s breath hitch.
It’s barely there, well hidden as most parts of Shane are; but Ilya is always paying attention and it’s hard to miss the way Shane’s cheeks turn a pretty pink at the words as well.
He leans back from where he’s half-straddling Shane on the bed and grins.
“Really? Sweetheart?” he asks, eyebrow raised and grin widening by each passing second.
Shane purses his lips, shakes his head as he looks away in embarrassment. He doesn’t say anything.
“Oh, come on! Don’t be like that!” Ilya pleads, leaning down and pulling Shane back to face him with two fingers on his chin.
He gives a little laugh as Shane still refuses to meet his gaze.
“I’m going to murder you,” Shane mutters against his lips but the effect of the threat is ruined by the blush that still colours his cheeks and the way he avoids Ilya’s eyes.
Ilya sighs, moves closer until he can leave a kiss on his cheek and turn to his ear to whisper:
“But who’s gonna call you sweetheart then?”
He’s not surprised when two seconds later he finds himself sprawled on the floor.
Yeah, he thinks. He deserved that.