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    Summary

    “Tell me you want more, Shane,” Ilya grunted, forcing his hips to move faster, forcing the head of his cock to meet Shane’s prostate harder, quicker. “In Russian. Like you learnt.”

    Shane didn’t speak for a second, swallowing on the air he was only just managing to take in. He opened his mouth, head so dizzy that he was losing all grasp on English words, never mind Russian, but for Ilya, he would do anything, so he used all of his strength to find that Russian word and let it sit on the tip of his tongue.

    “Bolshe, Ilya,” Shane whimpered, and Ilya groaned, throwing his head back and thrusting harder, pulling harder on Shane’s hair. “Fuck. Bolshe. More, Ilya.”

    Through clouded vision, Ilya could see the end. He could feel it. But he wanted Shane to say those words on a loop so he could forget the gruffness of the men who had fed him the same poison before.

    “Bolshe,” thrust. “Bolshe, bolshe, bolshe. Give me more, Ilya.”

     

    OR, ilya has a difficult relationship with the concept of giving more because of his upbringing, and he wants to help himself realise that giving more isn't always a bad thing.

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