Chapter Text
The cottage smelled like pine resin and yesterday’s sex. Shane stretched his legs across the couch, toes nudging the coffee table where Ilya’s abandoned energy drink can sweat condensation onto the wood.
He’d found his glasses—thin, wire-framed, the ones Ilya called “unfair” with alarming frequency—inside its usual case, buried under a hockey magazine in the bedroom. Now they perched halfway down his nose as he squinted at his book, trying to ignore the weight of Ilya’s stare boring into his temple.
“You look...” Ilya announced from his place in the kitchen. He sported an apron he'd stolen from Shane's mother during their last visit, wearing it proudly over his bare chest and his black sweats. He eyes Shane up and down, bright eyes examining him, focusing on his glasses in particular. “You look like librarian."
Shane flipped a page without looking up. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” A breeze kicked through the open window, ruffling the hem of his shirt—one of Ilya’s, stolen years ago, fabric gone sheer at the shoulders. He could practically hear Ilya’s teeth click together.
"Hm, no. Not bad thing." Ilya shrugs and plops down on the couch, abandoning the breakfast he was making in favor of staring intently at his husband's side profile. It was unfair, really—how Shane looked so fucking pretty. Ilya would never get over it. "You are sexy librarian."
Shane exhales through his nose, trying to suppress a smile as he turns another page; Ilya catches the way his fingers tighten slightly around the book's spine. The glasses slip down his nose again—an unbearable tease—and Ilya can't help reaching out, tapping the frame back into place with a single finger. His touch lingers on the curve of Shane's jaw, thumb brushing the stubble there.
"Stop distracting me," Shane mutters, but the way his breath catches betrays him. In all honesty, he could barely process what he was reading the longer Ilya stared at him anyways. He finally glances up, locking eyes with Ilya over the rim of his glasses—and fuck, that shouldn't be so hot, but it is.
"But is so fun, Hollander." Ilya groans, his head flopping straight into Shane's lap where his book laid wide open. Shane can only scoff and run his hands gently through Ilya's curls as the Russian man grumbles, "You are so boring. Even after all these years."
"I'm not boring, I'm focused," Shane corrects him pointedly, the fondness and adoration still seeping into his exasperated voice. His hands continue to run through Ilya's hair, as if tempting him to stay right where he was on Shane's lap. "Unlike a certain someone who is choosing to abandon our breakfast."
Ilya lets out an exaggerated sigh, pressing his forehead against Shane's thigh. "Breakfast?" His fingers trail up Shane’s side, deliberately slow, slipping beneath the hem of that stolen shirt—his shirt—to trace the dip of Shane’s hip bone. "I am not so hungry for food anymore."
Shane’s fingers still in Ilya’s hair for half a second before resuming their idle path through the curls. "Yeah?" His voice is steady, but Ilya feels the way his thigh tenses under his cheek. "Then what exactly are you hungry for, Rozanov?"
The glasses—those fucking glasses, Ilya thinks—catch the morning light when Shane tilts his head down to look at him, lenses flashing like a challenge. Ilya’s grip tightens possessively on Shane’s hip, dragging him halfway off the couch cushions with one sharp tug.
Shane lets out a small, nearly imperceptible gasp. He sets the book down on their coffee table, his attention finally focused on the man in front of him. Shane's knees are planted on either side of Ilya's hips, settling his weight comfortably on Ilya's lap as he surges forward. His hands cup Ilya's cheek and the back of his neck, pulling him forward to engulf him in a hungry kiss. Shane was good at giving his husband exactly what he wanted.
Ilya groans deeply into Shane's mouth, fingers tightening their grip on Shane's waist as if he'd disappear if he let go for a second. The kiss starts off slow—teasing—but quickly escalates into something filthy and heavy with unrestrained desire. Their tongues slide together, hot and wet and urgent, and Shane lets out a soft noise when Ilya bites down on his bottom lip. Ilya loves that sound; he could listen to it all day if he was given the choice.
Shane pulls back slightly, breathless, but Ilya doesn't let him get far—his hand tangles in Shane's hair and drags him back in. The glasses are already fogging up from the heat between them, but Shane doesn't bother to take them off. Instead, he presses closer, slotting his hips against Ilya's and grinding down in slow, deliberate circles. The friction pulls a ragged groan from deep in Ilya's chest.
"Fuck," Ilya rasps, voice wrecked already. His lips are swollen and slick, pupils blown wide as he stares up at Shane—glasses fogged, cheeks flushed, lips parted. "You are—" He swallows hard, hands sliding up Shane's back under his shirt, fingers brushing over the familiar scars there. "You are unfair, lyubimyy." The petname slips from his parted lips like second nature.
Shane grins, thumb brushing over Ilya's sharp cheekbone, his own breathing uneven. "Me?" His hips roll again, slow and deliberate, just to watch Ilya's brows furrow. "You're the one who—" His words hitch when his hands roam Ilya’s sides, glancing down and sputtering in amusement— "Oh my god." A laugh bursts out of him, sudden and bright, shoulders shaking. "You're—" He gestures wildly at Ilya's outfit—the apron still tied around his neck, the ridiculous frilled hem riding high on his bare thighs where Shane's knees bracket them. "Are you seriously still wearing—"
Ilya blinks, then looks down at himself. The apron is hopelessly askew, the strings digging into his neck where Shane had yanked him closer by the collar. "Yes," he says, completely unrepentant, and drags Shane back down by the hips, their mouths crashing together again. "Problem?"
Shane laughs into the kiss, fingers tangling in Ilya's hair as he pulls back just enough to murmur, "You're ridiculous." But he's already reaching for the apron strings, tugging them loose with one hand while the other slides up Ilya's bare chest. The fabric pools between them. It doesn't lay unattended for long as Shane reaches for it, folding it neatly before laying it on the coffee table along with his abandoned book. Ilya's heart hammers at the familiar habit of his husband, the corners of his lips quirking up in unfiltered affection.
"Any more complaints?" Ilya murmurs against Shane's throat, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the line of his jaw. His hands slide down to grip Shane's ass, dragging him impossibly closer, until Shane's breath hitches against his temple. The glasses—still perched precariously on Shane's nose—catch the sunlight when he tips his head back, and Ilya groans at the sight, biting down on the soft skin behind his ear.
Shane's fingers tighten in Ilya's hair, pulling just enough to make him hiss. "Only that you're—" He breaks off with a gasp when Ilya rolls his hips up sharply, the sudden friction stealing his words. The glasses slip further down his nose, fogged beyond repair now, and Ilya finally plucks them off with a triumphant grin, tossing them onto the apron on the table. "You're impossible," Shane finishes weakly, but the way he arches into Ilya's touch betrays him.
Ilya grins, all sharp teeth and wicked promise, as he flips them over in one smooth motion—Shane's back hits the couch cushions with a soft thud, Ilya's body caging him in. "Impossible?" He nips at Shane's bottom lip, hands sliding under his shirt again, fingertips tracing the familiar roadmap of scars and muscle. "Or just very good at—" His voice drops to a rough whisper, lips brushing Shane's ear— "getting under your skin?"
Shane shivers, hands roaming down Ilya's back to grip his hips, guiding him into another slow grind that makes them both groan. The cottage is quiet except for their ragged breathing and the creak of the expensive couch, the air thick with primal need. "Both," Shane admits, breathless, and drags Ilya down into another kiss, teeth and tongues and heat. "Definitely both."
"Not my fault," Ilya supplies, lifting his head to look down at Shane. His eyes take in the freckles that are highlighted by Shane's flushed cheeks, the way Shane's lips are swollen and red from being kissed and bitten; more importantly, his heart skips a beat at the needy look in Shane's already teary eyes. Blood rushes to Ilya's hardening cock quicker than the way he skates on the ice. "You look at me like this and expect me to behave?" His thumb instinctively slides into Shane's mouth, relishing in the whine he receives in return. "Now that is impossible, lyubimyy."
Shane's hips jerk as Ilya leans back down, pressing open-mouthed kisses down his stomach—slow, torturous, teasing—until he noses at the waistband of Shane's sweatpants. He lets his breath ghost over the damp fabric, delighting in the way Shane tenses beneath him, fingers twisting in his hair. "Fuck, Ilya—" Shane's voice cracks when Ilya finally pulls his sweats down just enough to mouth at the length of him through his briefs, hot and wet and obscene. The fabric darkens with saliva, clinging to Shane's cock as Ilya works him over with lips and tongue alone, refusing to give him what he really wants. Not yet.
"Ilya," Shane gasps, arching off the couch when Ilya finally—finally—licks a stripe up the length of him, the damp cotton dragging deliciously against his skin. He fists a hand in Ilya's hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan, but Ilya doesn't stop. Instead, he pulls Shane's briefs down just enough to free his cock, wasting no time before swallowing him down to the hilt. Shane's thighs tremble on either side of Ilya's head, his heels digging into the small of Ilya's back as he struggles not to thrust up into the wet heat of his mouth. "Jesus—fuck—"
Ilya hums around him, the vibration drawing a punched-out moan from Shane's lips as he tips his head back against the armrest, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the cushions. He watches through half-lidded eyes as Ilya pulls off with a filthy pop, lips slick and swollen, before diving back in with renewed fervor. The sight alone is enough to make Shane's stomach coil tight, heat pooling low in his gut—but then Ilya does that thing with his tongue, tracing it along the ridges of Shane’s overly sensitive tip, and Shane's vision whites out for a second, his grip on reality slipping as pleasure coils tighter and tighter, threatening to snap. "Ilya, I—I'm gonna cum—" His warning is near useless, cut off by his own broken moan as Ilya swallows him down again, refusing to let up even as Shane spills down his throat with a broken cry of his husband's name, his entire body shuddering with the force of it.
When Shane comes back to himself—chest heaving, limbs heavy—Ilya is already crawling back up his body, leaving a trail of kisses along his sternum before pressing their lips together in a filthy, open-mouthed kiss. Shane can taste himself on Ilya's tongue, bitter and familiar, and he groans into the kiss, hands sliding down to grip Ilya's hips. "Fucking—" He breaks off with a breathless laugh, shaking his head. "Asshole." But he's already reaching for the waistband of Ilya's sweats, fingers curling into the fabric to drag him closer. "Your turn."
Ilya lets out a low groan when Shane finally wraps a hand around him, his cock heavy and straining against his palm. His hips jerk into the touch, chasing the friction as Shane strokes him slowly, deliberately, his thumb swiping over the head with every upstroke. "Fuck," Ilya grits out, forehead dropping to Shane's shoulder as pleasure sparks down his spine. "Shane—"
"Yeah?" Shane murmurs, pressing a kiss to Ilya's temple as he picks up the pace, twisting his wrist just the way he knows Ilya likes. "What do you want, Rozanov?" His voice is teasing, but his touch is anything but, firm and sure as he works Ilya over, his grip tightening just enough to make Ilya's breath hitch. "Tell me."
Ilya growls against Shane's neck, teeth scraping over the sensitive skin there as he rocks into Shane's fist, his hips stuttering. "You," he rasps, hands gripping Shane's waist hard enough to bruise. "Want you—fuck—" His words dissolve into a broken moan when Shane thumbs over the head of his cock again, his hips jerking forward instinctively. "Inside—now—"
Shane laughs breathlessly, but his free hand is already reaching for the lube they'd left on the coffee table last night, fingers slicking up quickly before pressing inside himself with practiced ease. Ilya watches, transfixed, as Shane works himself open, his breath coming in ragged pants against Shane's shoulder. "Impatient," Shane teases, but his voice cracks when he crooks his fingers just right, his body arching off the couch with a gasp. "Fuck—Ilya—"
"Enough," Ilya snarls, pulling Shane's fingers away and replacing them with his own, thrusting into the tight heat of him with a groan. "Need you. Now." He lines himself up in one smooth motion, sinking into Shane with a single, sharp thrust that punches the air from both their lungs. Shane's legs wrap around Ilya's waist instinctively, pulling him deeper as they both moan, their bodies slotting together like they were made for each other. "Fuck—yes—" Ilya's hips jerk forward involuntarily, his cock twitching inside Shane as pleasure rips through him, sharp and sweet. "Perfect—you're perfect, lyubimyy—"
Shane gasps as Ilya bottoms out, his fingers digging into the rippling muscles of Ilya's back as his husband begins to move, slow and deep, each thrust dragging against that spot inside him that makes his toes curl. "Harder," Shane demands breathlessly, arching up to meet each snap of Ilya's hips. He reaches up to tangle his fingers in Ilya's hair, dragging him down into a messy, open-mouthed kiss. "I know you can—fucking hell—do better than that, Rozanov—"
That was certainly one way to get Ilya going.
Ilya growls against Shane's lips, gripping his hips tighter as he fucks into him harder, faster, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the cabin. "Cheeky," he grits out, biting down on Shane's collarbone as Shane's nails rake down his back, leaving angry red marks in their wake. "You want—fuck—you want me to wreck you, Hollander?" His thrusts turn punishing, each one driving Shane further into the couch, the armrest digging into his spine as Ilya takes him apart piece by piece. "Then take it—take everything I give you like the good boy you are."
Shane cries out as Ilya fucks him through his second orgasm, his body tightening around Ilya's cock as pleasure crashes over him in waves, leaving him trembling and gasping. Ilya follows him over the edge with a broken groan, burying himself deep as he spills inside Shane, his hips stuttering as he rides out his climax. They collapse in a tangled heap, sweat-slick and sated, Ilya's forehead pressed against Shane's as they struggle to catch their breath. "Fuck," Shane laughs weakly, fingers carding through Ilya's damp curls. "Breakfast is definitely cold now."
Ilya huffs a laugh against Shane's collarbone, pressing lazy kisses along the flushed skin there. "Is okay," he murmurs, voice rough with exhaustion. He lifts his head just enough to grin down at Shane, his eyes soft with adoration despite the teasing lilt to his words. "Was worth it." He punctuates the statement with a slow, lingering kiss, his lips gentle against Shane's swollen ones.
Shane hums contentedly into the kiss, his hands tracing idle patterns along Ilya's spine as they shift into a more comfortable position, the couch creaking beneath them. "You're insane," he murmurs against Ilya's lips, but there's no bite to his words—just warmth, and affection, and the unspoken I love you that lingers between them like a heartbeat.
Ilya just smiles—soft and private, the way he only ever does for Shane—and steals another kiss, slow and sweet, before settling against him with a sigh. The morning sun spills across their entwined limbs, painting the scene in gold, and for a moment, there's nowhere else either of them would rather be.
And then Shane shifts slightly—just enough to remind them both of the mess between his thighs—and Ilya sighs, pressing his forehead against Shane's collarbone. "You want me to wipe you down?" he murmurs, though the way his lips brush against Shane's skin makes it sound like anything but a suggestion.
Shane hums absently, fingers still tracing lazy patterns along Ilya's spine, but he doesn't argue when Ilya finally pulls away—slowly, reluctantly—to fetch a clean towel from the bathroom. The cottage floor is cool beneath his bare feet, the air crisp and fresh against his sweat-slick skin, and he takes a moment to just breathe, to savor the quiet contentment that settles over him like a second skin.
When he returns, towel in hand, Shane is exactly where he left him—sprawled across the couch, boneless and sated, the morning light catching in his dark hair like a halo. Ilya can't resist the urge to reach for those ridiculous glasses—still sitting innocently on the coffee table—and slide them back onto Shane's face with a smirk. "There," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the tip of Shane's nose. "Now you look like sexy librarian again."
"Shut the fuck up." Shame scrunches his nose in the way that makes Ilya melt before the previously disposed apron is being thrown into his face. Shane gives him a pointed look; the smirk beginning to spread on his lips contradicts his seriousness. "Go back to making breakfast before we starve."
Ilya presses another kiss to Shane's forehead, lingering longer than necessary as he gently cleans them both before pulling Shane's discarded shirt back over his shoulders. The fabric drapes perfectly over Shane's frame, loose enough to expose the freckles scattered across his collarbones—freckles Ilya has kissed a thousand times and will kiss a thousand more.
The scent of pancakes slowly fills the cottage as Shane—glasses still perched on his nose—settles against Ilya's side at the kitchen island, his fingers finding the Russian's bare waist beneath the apron strings. Ilya flips a pancake one-handed, the other arm slung possessively around Shane's shoulders, and when syrup drips onto Shane's thumb, Ilya catches his wrist without hesitation, licking it clean with a slow, deliberate swipe of his tongue. The way Shane flushes—despite everything—still thrills him.
Outside, the lake glitters under the morning sun, the world carrying on as if it didn't just tilt on its axis beneath their touch. But here, in the quiet of their kitchen with sticky fingers and tangled legs, nothing else exists—just this. Just them.