Work Text:
Ilya was determined to not spontaneously combust inside of the restaurant. They had been running late for their reservation, and he had only caught the barest glimpse of what didn’t look like Shane’s usual glasses case before he had been ushered out the door.
He had forgotten about it entirely by the time they sat down, only to be painfully reminded when Shane gave up on squinting at the menu. Ilya glanced up from where he was studying the entrées, and nearly choked.
Shane had new glasses. They were squarer than his old ones, with chunkier black frames. Ilya had truly believed, up until that point, that there was nothing that could make his husband more attractive—he was already so perfect, what could possibly be improved?
But this. These. He looked like he had just stepped off the page of a magazine. Like there were hordes of photographers clamouring for his attention. Like he had come down from heaven to grace the earth with his presence. Ilya was instantly half-hard.
“Shane,” he attempted, even just one word shockingly difficult to get out, “you…?”
“Hm?” Shane looked up, distracted. “Oh, the glasses? Yeah, the bridge on the old ones was starting to bug me. Are they okay?” He brought a hand up to push them up his nose, self-conscious.
Ilya raised his eyebrows. “Okay? Yes. Yes, more than okay.”
Shane smiled softly, returning his attention to the menu, and Ilya felt like an idiot for sitting there, turned on beyond belief while his husband was just trying to have dinner.
But fuck, he looked good. Honestly, Ilya was surprised that Shane hadn’t seemed to notice him practically panting like a dog across the table. His cock twitched in his pants as he forced himself to look at the menu, blindly staring at the options.
By the time the waiter came back over, he hadn’t processed any of it.
“I’ll have the chicken,” Shane said, looking over to make eye contact with Ilya, who was positive that his face was doing something stupid. His eyes narrowed, probably questioning why Ilya looked like he had been struck dumb. “…He’ll have the Alfredo.” As he said it, he adjusted how his glasses were sitting, and the strained smile Ilya had managed to direct at the waiter collapsed immediately. Fuck. He could feel heat rising to his cheekbones, a searing line of redness across his face.
The waiter collected their menus with a nod, and Ilya looked down at the table. “You did not have to—I could have-“
There, his English failed him as Shane once more adjusted his glasses. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said, eyes wide and oblivious, “I thought you might be struggling to choose.”
Ilya had been struggling, but the interaction was embarrassing. He was a fully grown adult, with a husband and a dog and multiple houses. It was—humiliating. Even more humiliating, however, was how it didn’t fix his problem in the slightest—in fact, it was possible that he had gotten harder. He made a choked off noise in the back of his throat, barely holding back a whine as Shane raised one eyebrow.
He reached for the glass of water sitting in front of him, noticing the way his hands trembled as he took a sip. He couldn’t look away from Shane’s face, obsessed with the way the glasses highlighted his cheekbones and framed the gorgeous brown of his eyes. Not to mention his freckles—the glasses did nothing to hide them, and under the soft ambient lighting of the restaurant, Shane looked ethereal. Angelic.
It was at times like these that Ilya cursed the fact that English was his second language—when he wanted nothing more than to wax poetic about how utterly beautiful his husband was, but was stuck using what was possibly the least romantic language in the world. With the worst grammar rules.
He jumped as a plate was set in front of him, the waiter appearing out of nowhere. Shane gave him another look from across the table, widening his eyes and tilting his head just so in a clear question of what the fuck is wrong with you. It was true, it was very much unlike Ilya to be unaware of his surroundings. Unfortunately, the silent question was part of what was wrong with him—he bit back a whimper at the look, still hopelessly aroused at the sight of his husband.
“Ilya,” Shane said around a forkful of salad, “are you okay?”
“Yes,” Ilya lied, unconvincingly. “I am fine.” He took a bite of his pasta, which was surely excellent but tasted like nothingness in his mouth.
Shane quirked an eyebrow at him, but declined to comment. Unfortunately, it was enough that Ilya was lost once more, his next bite sliding off his fork back into the bowl.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose between three fingers as his cock throbbed again, insistent on making itself known.
“Are you not feeling well?” Shane blinked innocently at him, reaching over to press his wrist against Ilya’s forehead. “You look a little flushed.”
He leaned into Shane’s touch, pushing down the urge to latch his teeth around his wrist. No, Ilya wanted to scream, the problem is that you are looking unbearably sexy in public and it’s making me want to chew on you. Fuck dinner, take me home, and I’ll have you instead. But he couldn’t say that, because Shane would just respond with an exasperated expression and a dry “Really, Ilya? In the restaurant?”
So instead, he shook his head. “No, is fine. I am just… warm.” And hoped, desperately, that Shane wouldn’t notice his rapidly deteriorating English skills.
No such luck. Shane squinted, probably at the strength of his accent, sat back, and—fuck—reached up, probably unconsciously, to resettle his glasses again.
Ilya bit his tongue in the resulting attempt not to moan, and resolved to look at his husband as little as possible for the rest of their dinner.
He failed, of course, because Shane was irresistible and Ilya was but a little planet orbiting around the brilliance of the sun. The last time they were in Montreal, they had gone to the planetarium, and Ilya had spent ten minutes listening to the tour guide explain the earth’s orbit. There was the aphelion, the point of orbit where the earth was the farthest from the sun, and there was the perihelion—the closest point to the sun in orbit, which was precisely where Ilya was right now. Utterly consumed by the radiance that was his husband. Hopelessly, endlessly accelerating towards him, held back only by his momentum—or, in this case, a table.
A table he was very grateful for, honestly, because he was almost sure he would be veering into public indecency at this point. Ilya finished his pasta and set down his fork, finally daring to look up at Shane again.
Shane was already watching him, an analytical look on his face that was quickly replaced by a smile. “Do you want dessert?”
“Ah, no,” Ilya hesitated as he scrambled for an excuse that would get them out of there sooner, failed. “I’m… good.”
“I’m sure you are,” Shane said, pleasantly, and Ilya let out a heavy breath, suddenly suspicious. He watched Shane carefully as he flagged down their waiter, cataloguing the way he moved, too absorbed to notice he’d paid until he was being tugged gently out of the restaurant.
His thoughts dissolved as he stumbled after Shane, the feeling of his hand around his wrist burning as hot as a brand. Shane let go to push the door open and find his keys, but Ilya still trailed one step behind as if he was on a leash.
Shane led him to the passenger side, opening the door and gesturing him inside, before walking around to get in the driver’s seat. Ilya took advantage of the brief distraction to stare unabashedly at his husband. He’d managed to forget, somehow, about the devastating beauty that was Shane in his glasses.
Ilya watched as Shane settled himself into the car. He turned the key, then looked over at Ilya and clicked his tongue. “Seatbelt, baby.” He leaned over the console and half into Ilya’s lap, dragging the seatbelt across his torso. Ilya’s breath hitched, heat rushing through him at the sight. He was just starting to savour the contact when Shane sat up again, leaving him colder than before.
Shane slid his glasses off and back into their case, and Ilya took a full breath for the first time in what felt like hours as they pulled out of the parking lot. Ilya knew, logically, that it would only take fifteen minutes to get back to the house, but he was worked up and impatient.
He grumbled, bringing one arm up to rest between them, gripping at Shane’s shoulder. Shane took his right hand off the wheel and placed Ilya’s hand back in his lap.
“Ilya,” Shane said, mild and so, so calm, “I’m driving.”
Ilya ignored the warning, reaching over the centre console again to run his hand along Shane’s thigh.
“Ilya,” Shane repeated, sharper this time. He smacked Ilya’s hand away, not hard enough to hurt but enough to make a sharp crack. “Behave.”
Ilya whimpered. Shane finally looked away from the road—at him—and fixed him with a cool stare. “Stay.”
Ilya’s muscles locked up, keeping him in place, as what felt like all of the blood in his body rushed out of his head. His cock twitched against his jeans, straining upwards.
Satisfied, Shane focused on the road again.
The remaining minutes of the drive were torture. Ilya felt like he was going to vibrate out of his skin, the feeling of his clothes too much too much too much and yet simultaneously not enough. Never enough. Shane was silent and focused, driving with care and precision and not taking even one moment to look at Ilya. It was driving him insane.
Shane parked the car, got out, and walked around to open Ilya’s door. Ilya was being so good, staying so very still. He sat there like a statue while Shane reached over him again to undo his seatbelt, then hooked two fingers—under his cross, fuck—to pull him out of his seat. “Come.”
Ilya all but fell out of the car, fighting to keep up with the grip Shane had on him. The moments in between were blurry—he knew that somehow, they had ended up inside, standing in their living room, but couldn’t catch any details.
Shane whistled once—sharp, short—and Anya trotted into the room. He knelt down in front of her, ruffling her fur as she put her paws up on his shoulders, licking at his face.
“Down,” Shane commanded, looking at Anya, and Ilya’s knees hit the carpet.
Shane’s head twitched backwards the barest amount at the sound, but he stayed facing Anya. “Go lie down, girl. Go lie down. That’s a good girl.”
Shane stood up, finally turning to face Ilya. He lifted Ilya’s chin with three fingers, turning his head back and forth. Ilya felt himself leak precum into his jeans, allowing himself to whine at the back of his throat.
He stared up at his husband, silently begging. Shane smirked, and pushed his thumb into Ilya’s mouth. Ilya panted, jaw forced open, drooling around Shane’s hand.
“Poor thing,” Shane murmured, tone soft and sympathetic, “did you work yourself up?”
Ilya made a muffled noise around the fingers in his mouth, hips rutting up against nothing.
“That’s not an answer, puppy.”
Ilya’s hips bucked and he choked, folding himself almost in half as desire swept through him. All he could manage to get out was a strangled whine, tonguing softly at Shane’s thumb.
Abruptly, Shane pulled his hand away. “Use your words, puppy.”
“Yes. Da,” Ilya said, voice rough. “Can I-“
A mean smile spread over Shane’s face, cutting him off. “Beg.”
“Please, Shane. Please, I need it. Let me make it good for you, please.”
“Nyet,” Shane said, and it felt like a punch to the stomach. “You haven’t earned it. You weren’t very well behaved, earlier. Couldn’t even make it through one dinner.”
Ilya gaped up at him. “You knew? The whole time?”
The look Shane gave him was so condescending, it hurt. Ilya couldn’t help but lean towards him, searching for any kind of contact.
“You’re not subtle, puppy. It was written all over your face.” He hooked his fingers in Ilya’s chain again and tugged. “Come on. Up you get.”
Ilya listened, rising to his feet. Shane pushed him until the back of his knees hit the couch, forcing him to sit down. Still holding onto the cross around his throat, Shane settled into his lap.
Ilya barely had time to look up at him before Shane’s mouth was on his. The kiss was filthy, tongue and teeth and desire, and Ilya trembled as Shane ground his hips forward. He was hard, just as hard as Ilya, and some quiet—louder now, always louder around Shane—part of his brain purred at the idea of making his husband feel good.
He tentatively raised his hands to rest at Shane’s waist, encouraged by Shane moaning into his mouth. Ilya let himself lean into the kiss, licking into Shane’s mouth, breathing heavily.
Shane pulled back, lips wet and shiny. Ilya followed, held back by Shane’s palm against his chest.
“What do you want, puppy?” Shane asked, tugging on his necklace until his chin jerked up.
“I want-“ Ilya broke off, panting. “I want to fuck you. Please, Shane, let me fuck you.”
One corner of Shane’s lips twitched upwards. “That’s a good boy.”
Ilya moaned, thumping his head against Shane’s chest. He whined when Shane leaned back, sliding off of his lap.
“Easy,” Shane soothed, “can’t fuck me with all of my clothes on, can you?”
Ilya could certainly try. But in this moment he was too busy enjoying each new stretch of skin that was revealed. He sank farther into the couch, watching as Shane folded each discarded article meticulously.
Then Shane’s hands were on him again, and Ilya made a happy rumbling noise deep in his throat. “Puppy, you have to take your clothes off too,” Shane whispered, stroking one hand through his hair. Ilya’s hips twitched, and he fumbled to unbuckle his belt.
“Good boy,” Shane cooed, once Ilya had managed to get himself naked. “So obedient.”
Ilya sucked in a breath, suddenly unable to bear not touching Shane. He flopped on top of him, pushing him down to lie on the couch, rutting against the crease between his thigh and hip, grinding their cocks together. “Please, moya lyubov. Need you.”
Shane huffed, catching hold of one of Ilya’s hands and bringing it down. Ilya groaned at the feeling of the cool metal of a plug sitting neatly in Shane’s ass, a sharp spike of arousal shooting through him.
He must’ve put it in before they left—stretched himself open, brought his new glasses on purpose—and if Ilya wasn’t nearly out of his mind, he’d almost be annoyed at how easily his husband could read him.
“Go on, puppy. Take what you need.” It was quiet, but edged with a command Ilya couldn’t refuse. He slid the plug gently out of Shane, unable to help himself from slipping two fingers into his—wet, fuck, so wet—hole to check if he was ready.
Shane stroked one hand up his back, across his shoulder blades. “It’s okay, puppy. I can take it.”
Ilya’s cock throbbed as he pushed the tip inside Shane, arousal rushing up his spine, consuming him. He couldn’t help but slam forward, gratified at Shane’s loud moan and the sudden arch of his back. He thrust into the tight, wet heat, leaning to nip at Shane’s jaw.
Shane tangled his fingers in Ilya’s chain and dragged him in for a biting kiss, arching up to meet each of Ilya’s thrusts. Ilya moaned against Shane’s mouth, pleasure sweeping quick-hot-sharp through his entire body.
“Shane,” he grunted, “I can’t—fuck, you feel so good.”
Shane smirked up at him. “Wait, puppy. Don’t you want to be good for me?”
He did. He pushed his own need down, down, focusing on fucking Shane like he deserved. Heat crawled up his spine, licking its way through him.
Shane gasped beneath him, raking lines down his back with his nails. Ilya whined, overcome.
No, no, no. He needed to be good. He needed to make Shane feel good. He needed-
Shane laced one hand in the curls at the back of Ilya’s neck and dragged his head down until his mouth rested against Shane’s collarbone.
“S’okay, puppy. Go on,” he urged, and Ilya was gone. He sank his teeth into Shane, vision whiting out as he came.
He thrust a few more times, ears ringing, barely registering the feeling of Shane’s cum splattering up his stomach.
Ilya collapsed against Shane, who let out a startled “oof” as the air was knocked out of him by Ilya’s weight. Shane pressed gentle kisses to the top of Ilya’s head, carding one hand through his hair. Slowly, the rest of his senses returned to him.
“Hi, baby,” Shane murmured, “back with me?”
Ilya groaned. He felt like he had been run over by a truck. He nuzzled deeper into Shane’s neck, nibbling softly at his skin. “Yes. Thank you.”
Shane laughed, worming his way out from under Ilya. He winced softly as he sat up, and Ilya hissed as he slid out, concerned.
“Did I hurt you?” He ran his thumb along the imprint of his teeth that now marked Shane’s collarbone.
“No, baby, it’s fine. It was hot.” Shane smiled up at him. “I liked it.”
“You,” Ilya said, coming back to himself fully, “are such an asshole.”
Shane blinked up at him with the same expression he’d used earlier—eyes wide and innocent, body language radiating who, me?
Ilya moved to sit up fully, too, gesturing broadly at Shane’s face, his clothes, the room. “Those fucking glasses. That entire fucking dinner? You set me up.”
Shane’s expression didn’t display even the tiniest hint of shame—on the contrary, he looked almost proud. “Payback for the phone call with Hayden.”
“Hollander,” Ilya groaned, unable to help himself, “that was four years ago.”
Shane just shrugged.