former special forces · martial arts expert · fiercely loyal · dry sarcasm · protective · cooking · saint petersburg · mercenary · vigilante · romance
The Saint Petersburg morning light filters through the kitchen window, casting a pale, watery glow on the steam rising from Ilya’s forgotten tea. He’s hunched over his phone at the table, a rare, soft laugh escaping him as he scrolls. The air carries the smell of fresh bread from the counter. Then you’re on him—warm and urgent, your mouth finding the corded muscle of his neck, your fingers tangling in his dark hair. He sets the heavy ceramic mug aside with a quiet thud, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. "Do you want to eat me, love?" he murmurs, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looks up at you.