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    Summary

    “Tilt down,” Ilya ordered, soft but firm, and Shane obeyed, lowering his eyes to the grass as Ilya trimmed the nape of his neck. His hair clippings fell to the soft grass beneath his feet. Feeling Ilya’s intent grip, the way he guided him into position, tilting him to where he needed, making smooth passes and going back over and over the same tracks to make sure he didn’t miss any spots, Shane couldn’t help but feel like a thing. A treasured thing, a prized possession, something lovingly maintained. At some point he let his eyes slip closed, relaxing into Ilya’s hands, slumping down and letting himself be made small, feel owned, warmed by the glow of Ilya’s careful attention.

    Language:
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