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After seven years of what Shane still refuses to call being "lovers", four years of dating, and six months of marriage, Ilya Rozanov is pretty sure he has a well-mapped out idea of what turns his husband on.
From the little touches and words he can use to make Shane's breath pick up, to the bolder gestures and scenarios he constructs to get Shane to beg and fall apart, he's become something of an expert at making Shane Hollander come undone.
Ilya catalogues them all carefully and still searches for more whenever he gets the chance though.
Sometimes it barely takes anything at all, both of them frantic and reaching with little more than a look shared between them. Lucky to make it to a bedroom or nearest flat surface.
Today has played out much closer to the latter. They are barely in the cottage door before Ilya has Shane pressed back against it, luggage forgotten, mouth desperate against his husband's. It's been weeks of away games in their first season together on the Centaurs; too many nights of close quarters, little privacy, and early practice schedules, and Ilya is ready to crawl out of his own skin with the need to take Shane apart with no timeline or the courtesy of muffled sounds.
Now that he gets to spend most every day with this man, he's not sure how he ever survived going weeks, months, or years without him. Godspodi, marriage has turned him into something of a sap for his husband.
(Liar. He is a liar. His heart has always been hopelessly stuck.)
Thankfully, Shane seems just as undone by the recent weeks—it was his suggestion of skipping the All-Stars that has them taking this rare mid-season trip up from Ottawa—his hands grasp first at Ilya's shoulders, then his hips before fisting in his hair as he opens his mouth under Ilya's and swirls a heated tongue against Ilya's own.
It takes surprisingly little time for them to stumble blindly toward the bedroom. Ilya peeling Shane's clothes from his body and pushing him onto all fours on the bed. Shane moaning beautifully as Ilya proceeds to eat him out with relish before flipping him onto his back and pressing one then two lubed fingers into him to open him up.
However, it does take perhaps too much time for Ilya to realize he forgot to remove his own clothes somewhere along the way. By then though, he's too turned on to really care.
His husband, of course, has a different opinion.
Strong fingers tug listlessly at the hem of his shirt in the present, rucking the soft fabric up to smooth over Ilya's abs. "You're wearing too many clothes," Shane whines.
Ilya just hums and presses a hungry kiss to Shane's inner thigh, scissoring his fingers and continuing opening Shane up. Undressing means he has to stop doing this, which is something both Ilya and his rigid, aching dick are wholly uninterested in.
"Maybe I fuck you like this, huh?" he suggests heatedly and leans forward to capture a dark nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the hardened bud in a way that never fails to make Shane moan.
"Ilya—," Ilya's fingers skim his prostate, "—oh fuck—," Shane whimpers but then raises his head up to fix Ilya with a raised brow glare, "—that sweater is dry clean only."
Ilya can't help the burst of laughter that escapes his lips. Shane's eyebrow somehow raises even higher in response, and Ilya knows the argument is lost.
"Okay, okay kotenok," Ilya removes his fingers, momentarily distracted again by the way his husband's eyes flutter shut with a needy whine at the action. He presses another kiss to his chest, before standing up off the bed, "I can be good."
Shane's eyes snap open, and he raises up onto the backs of his forearms to watch Ilya walk to the nightstand where they've left a hand towel.
"Can you?" Shane replies, half-joke, half-challenge, eyes sparkling in a way that makes Ilya's pulse jump rapidly. Ilya cleans his hand on the towel before placing it back down.
"Da, for you," he says with a bold wink, although the words feel dangerous and electric leaving his tongue.
He steps back around to the foot of the bed, Shane's gaze still on him like a heated brand as he moves. Ilya regards him stubbornly in return, and when Shane shows no signs of giving back in, he decides that perhaps his husband deserves a bit of a show if he's not riled up enough to beg yet.
And pushing the limits of Shane's patience never failed to peak Ilya's interest either.
Moving leisurely, he holds Shane's gaze and brings his hands to the hem of his navy blue sweater, toying with the edges and waggling his eyebrows suggestively at Shane until the other man mutters a low, "asshole," that makes them both laugh. Ilya rewards the slip by removing the garment in one fluid motion.
In hindsight, he's not sure where the next idea comes from. Usually he would just drape his clothes across the nearest surface or chair. Maybe it's because Shane is watching him so intently, skin aglow in the soft yellow light from the bedside lamp and the last rays of orange sun filtering through the windows, but suddenly, Ilya is reminded of the first time they ever did this.
Roles reversed; Shane meticulously folding his clothes while Ilya watched and tried to convince himself he wasn't charmed and falling hard.
Slowly, gaze never leaving his partner, Ilya folds the sweater neatly and sets it on the chair next to him. Shane's eyes darken; Ilya can practically see his pulse jump against the skin of his neck and feels a wave of heat rush through him in response.
Interesting.
His undershirt follows in a similar methodical manner. Then his right sock. Then the left. Shane's lips part in a breathy pant.
"Good," Shane whispers, voice low. Ilya feels his dick twitch at the tone and swallows thickly at the jolt of heat that runs down his spine. Shane tracks the motion with his eyes, pupils somehow more lust-blown than before.
Also interesting. Khristos. Ilya's hands fumble to undo the button on his jeans and tug the fabric down his thighs.
"Fuck," Shane's voice is thin, cheeks flushed. Ilya feels almost light-headed from the sight as he briefly drops the other man's gaze in order to fold the pants properly.
There's a faint rustling of sheets, and Ilya barely has time to place the trousers onto the chair before he's being pressed into the window by the firm lines of his husband's body, Shane's hands possessive as they grip Ilya's hips and roll them into Shane's in a dirty grind. "Fuck, Ilya," Shane murmurs, breath short and hot against his skin, "Why is that so fucking hot?"
Ilya sincerely hopes the question is rhetorical because he's spending a considerable amount of energy right now just remaining upright, knees dangerously liquid at the sudden turn of events. He shouldn't be surprised really. He's been flirting with ways to get Shane to press him into walls for years.
And yet each time, it catches him off guard—breath stolen, pulse pounding—when he finally gets Shane's tightly held control to snap.
Shane doesn't wait for a reply thankfully, and instead leans in to bite a burning path starting at Ilya's shoulder and moving up his neck, mouth sucking and licking at the thin skin beneath his ear until Ilya is panting lightly. Shane's lips close over the fleshy lobe, teeth biting down gently, before pausing to whisper, "Khoroshiy mal'chik."
And oh god, Ilya should have thought this through better. The words slam into his chest and burn through his veins. His head drops back against the glass with an audible thud, and it's impossible to hold back the moan that tumbles from his throat. Distantly, he feels Shane slide a thigh between both of his and shift to hold more of his weight because it would appear Ilya's legs are no longer with the program. He's sure he'll feel more embarrassed by that later once he's not so blindingly turned on. For now, he just whines and clutches desperately at his husband's back.
"Holy shit," Shane groans incredulously, and Ilya is inclined to agree with the sentiment. He had no idea this was here to be discovered either. Shane presses an almost frantic line of kisses across his exposed jaw and then pulls back, hands framing Ilya's face and forcing his head back down to look at him.
"Ilya—" Shane's eyes are wide, pupils huge as they take in whatever wrecked expression Ilya knows has taken over his features, thumbs stroking his lips in wonder. "—Fuck—" he sighs heatedly, "—is this something you want?"
Ilya's body decides words are useless here, erection grinding down on Shane's supporting thigh with purpose and lips parting to suck one of his husband's thumbs into his mouth before his brain fully catches up enough to give a consenting nod.
He's pretty sure his brain is too fried to remember how to speak either language anyway at the moment. Still struggling to process this latent discovery without flying apart promptly.
"Oh my god," Shane moans, wrenching his thumb from between Ilya's lips and replacing it with his tongue in a messy kiss. "Bed. Now," he breathes with they part, and then Ilya is whining at the sudden loss of his husband's warmth before finding himself manhandled by his partner's firm hands away from the window and toward the mattress.
He falls back onto the sheets with a slight bounce—Shane back on him instantly with a fervent moan that Ilya is helpless to mimic as the other man proceeds to suck bruising kisses down his chest and across his stomach until he meets the waistband of Ilya's tented boxers. Hands come up to grasp the elastic, and Ilya watches Shane notice the damp arousal leaked into the dark fabric with feverish eyes and lean in to mouth at Ilya's tip through the material.
"Blyat—Shane—," his first language finds him again with a throaty groan.
Then Shane is moving again, tugging the fabric over Ilya's hips and tossing it unseeing over his shoulder, sending a frenzied wave of heat coursing through Ilya's veins at the uncharacteristic display. Which is then compounded dizzyingly with the shock of live current that shoots from his right ankle to leaking dick when Shane wraps his hand around it and tugs Ilya across the mattress with ease to position him better.
Ilya moans loudly into the air between them. "Oh—fuck—malysh—," English rejoins his lexicon and mixes frantically with the Russian.
Until Shane drops to his knees between Ilya's thighs and traces biting marks against the skin from the inside of Ilya's knee to the base of his neglected cock, and Ilya nearly forgets both again in favor of panting out a high-pitched whine.
Shane mouths up Ilya's length, tonguing briefly at the head in a dirty move that has Ilya seeing stars before shifting abruptly to chart a path down Ilya's other inner thigh and leaving Ilya stunned from the insane departure.
"Shane," Ilya practically growls from the frustration. His husband ignores him in favor of sucking a bruising mark to Ilya's skin that draws a moan from his lips even as it does nothing to ease the aching tension in his dick.
Hoping to remedy the neglect, Ilya raises onto one arm and threads the other hand through Shane's silky hair in order to direct him with a firm tug.
Only to find his wrists suddenly pinned to the mattress beside him by Shane's hands in a move so fast, Ilya barely has any time to keep up with the shock of heat roiling through him, rendering him dizzy and moaning.
Shane looks up at him then, gaze liquid, and grounds out low and even, "I thought you said you'd behave yourself?" Ilya hears himself let out an answering whimper and feels his cock throb painfully at the tone. Through a haze of lust, he watches a small burst of pre-come join the mess he's steadily making against his stomach.
Shane's eyes track the motion as well, moaning in response and dropping to pepper several greedy open-mouthed kisses to Ilya's skin before pulling back and looking at Ilya once again.
"Color Ilya," Shane demands with a gentle squeeze to his wrists, eyes searching.
Ilya's head drops back between his shoulder blades with a needy moan. They came up with this system ages ago for a reason—although right now Ilya wishes his husband could read his mind rather than Ilya somehow wrestling his lust-addled brain back into some semblance of organized thought.
"Green," he manages to pant out, wrenching his head back up to meet Shane's eyes with a molten stare, "so fucking green, moya lyubov."
Shane grins and leans back down. "Khoroshiy," the syllables are breathed out hot and heated against the sensitive skin of Ilya's cock, and Ilya feels his thoughts scatter again in submission.
Then, without breaking eye contact, Shane leans down and takes him into his mouth in one fluid motion, and Ilya submits himself to the wet hot heat of his husband's mouth.
Shane's head bobs expertly along Ilya's length, tongue flattening along the underside of his cock and taking him deep into his throat before rising up to swirl a teasing lick along his tip. All the while never releasing his hands from their firm grip on Ilya's wrists. Ilya is lost to the motion, eyes fluttering shut of their own accord against the blazing heat coursing along his skin, curling his toes and sending his shoulders slumping down to the mattress as his husband brings him to the brink with blinding precision.
He's right on the edge almost before he notices.
"Shane, lyubimyy—," his warning comes out hoarse and thready. Shane moans around him, and Ilya almost can't keep his hips from thrusting up as the sound vibrates through him, "—oh fuck—" Somehow he manages to keep his hips still with the errant thought that Shane hadn't told him he could move them.
Only for that internal scattered recognition of obedience to slam into him violently a moment later and send him hurtling toward the edge faster, heat coiling low in his gut.
"Shane—," he hears himself moan loudly, although whether it's in warning or supplication this time he has no idea, "—I—I'm—," his voice gives out in a pitched whine.
Suddenly, he's ripped back from the ledge; Shane pulling off him with a wet pop, a firm hand squeezing the base of his cock tightly.
"Fuck!" he screams, back arching, sheets clenched so tightly beneath him that he's not sure he isn't ripping them as his orgasm recedes.
Shane presses a light kiss to his hip bone in seeming apology, and Ilya's breath slows down in whimpers and pants. "Good," Shane says above him, hands giving what Ilya assumes is meant to be an encouraging press to his wrists before continuing, voice hoarse from use but devastatingly controlled, "You're not allowed to come just yet."
Ilya is going to die. He's sure this is how it's going to happen. Cause of death? Folding his clothes in front of his husband. He'd laugh at the absurdity except Shane is now placing exacting kisses up his stomach and across his chest that demand Ilya moan lowly in response to instead.
Firm but gentle hands cup his jaw, and Ilya forces his eyes to blink open and meet Shane's burning gaze.
"Still okay?" Soft fingertips caress Ilya's cheek, brown-eyes scanning for any discomfort in Ilya's features.
God Ilya loves him, he'd give him anything he wants.
Swallowing thickly to coat his dry throat and reorient his fuzzy thoughts, he brings a shaky hand up to clutch at one of Shane's wrists, thumb soothing his skin, "Da, lyubimyy." Shane smiles shyly and presses a heated kiss to his lips before pulling back, the air charged once more between them.
"Khoroshiy mal'chik," he whispers, and the exalting sound pulls another groan from deep within Ilya's still-heaving chest. He watches, frozen in place, as Shane raises up and straddles him in one swift motion, ass sliding purposefully along Ilya's throbbing dick before continuing, "Because I want to ride you."
"Fuck, Shane." Ilya grits his teeth, hands moving to grip urgently at Shane's thighs—the whiplash of words and actions pulling him violently to the edge once more. "I am not sure I can—" He loses the end of the sentence to an involuntary moan, balls tightening.
He's pretty sure he's going to come from words alone if Shane's not careful; which he's never done before, but feels pretty fucking unavoidable given the way Shane is wielding them at the moment.
The building pressure at the base of his spine is cut off abruptly again by another tight squeeze at base of his dick and a distracting pinch to his chest. Ilya only barely bites back a scream this time, fingertips digging hard into Shane's skin.
His husband moans prettily above him at the sensation and leans down to press an open-mouthed kiss to his lips, teeth grazing Ilya's bottom lip when he pulls back with a firm, "I think you can," and releases his grip from Ilya's cock.
Ilya whimpers audibly at the statement, half-relief, half-frustration. Sitting up again to fix him with an intense stare, Shane continues with a confident smirk, "You can be good for me, yeah?"
A small part of Ilya isn't sure he's gonna survive Shane discovering this about him. He nods his head anyway. Shane's grin turns cocky and almost feral as he presses the bottle of lube into Ilya's hand.
"Good. Make sure I'm ready," he commands with a nod, voice low, a heavy palm pressing firmly against Ilya's sternum. Ilya nearly drops the bottle in his rush to comply.
On second thought, Ilya can't believe they've gone so long without discovering this. He presses two now slicked fingers against his husband's entrance and watches Shane's eyes flutter shut as he presses them in slowly. The familiar, heady sensation settles beneath his ribs—warm pride and steady heat at being trusted to give Shane exactly what he needs.
So closely similar to this new dizzying need to be good at letting Shane take whatever he wants. Two sides of the same coin really, if he's honest.
Ilya exactly where he wanted to be no matter which side Shane chose to give to him.
In no time at all Shane is panting above him, already half-prepped from earlier, face flushed and cock leaking beautifully as he reaches back to push at Ilya's wrist. Ilya obeys the silent command and feels the playing field level out slightly when Shane whines, high and needy, at the loss.
But then Shane's hands are pushing Ilya's up and over his head, both wrists crossed and held in place within Shane's left palm in a reminder of their matched strength, and Ilya releases any notion of having the upper hand in this, vision blurring from the fresh wave of lust that rushes through him. Shane drags his free hand down the exposed underside of Ilya's right arm before threading his fingers in Ilya's hair with a firm tug to tilt his head back and claim his mouth in a searing kiss.
"Vedi sebya prilichno, da?" Shane murmurs when they break apart on a gasp of air, squeezing Ilya's wrists meaningfully.
Ilya whines against Shane's lips in response and regrets every single phrase he's ever used like this on Shane. Of course his brilliant husband would learn them perfectly, rendering Ilya helpless and doomed when turned on him.
With a satisfied hum, Shane rewards Ilya with a quick dirty press of lips and tongue before he releases Ilya's wrists and sits up. Ilya for his part bites the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes blood, but somehow manages to behave and keep his hands in place under his husband's heated gaze.
"Khoroshiy," Shane praises, eyes hooded, face and neck flushed a lovely shade of red. Slowly, he traces a fiery path down Ilya's skin with one hand, pausing to squeeze lightly at his pec while his other hand grabs the discarded lube on the bed beside them and clicks it open. Ilya fails at holding back a moan from escaping his lips when Shane reaches behind him to slick Ilya's length, lust blown pupils never once leaving Ilya's face.
Then Shane lifts his hips, lining Ilya up with his hole before starting to sink slowly down onto him. Ilya feels white-hot heat spread through him, control razor thin, mind scrambling for some mundane distraction to keep from shattering too soon. Offside rules spring randomly to mind before he loses the train of thought promptly, eyes rolling back of their own volition as Shane finally bottoms out on top of him with an indecent moan.
Ilya does his best to give Shane a moment to adjust, chest-heaving, blood pounding in his ears. Above him, Shane grinds his hips down slightly with a mewling whine. Ilya's hands twitch against the bedding, and he fights the wild urge to start begging. Shane's hands shift to rest on Ilya's shoulder to steady himself and his husband moves his hips in a tentative rock that has small explosions of light dancing behind Ilya's eyelids.
Ilya feels himself lose control over his own tongue in a frenzied onslaught of heat that slams through him.
"Fuck—Shane—please," the words escape his lips in a staggered rush, voice strained and needy, eyes flying open to meet his partner's. It's a mistake; Shane is stunning above him, mouth parted in bliss, lamplight dancing across his skin. For one delirious moment, Shane does nothing, dark eyes fevered as they take in Ilya undone beneath him, Ilya almost on the brink of beginning to beg in earnest before Shane lifts his hips and slams back down onto him.
Ilya shouts something that sounds vaguely similar to Shane's name around the violent moan being pulled simultaneously from his chest, and Shane sets a furious pace, rising and falling back with a rhythmic slap against Ilya's hips that wrenches punched-out groans from both of them in time with the motion.
Shane's breath builds in steady moans and whines, and Ilya's entire body burns from the effort of holding still—the sheer determination coursing through him to behave as Shane rides him mixing wantonly with the tight physical heat of Shane's body and amplifying the burning need sweeping through him with each roll of Shane's hips.
Ilya is unsure which sensation will break him faster. Shane's knees slip against the sheets, and he shifts slightly, taking Ilya somehow even deeper with a sinful groan.
"Fuck, Ilya!" Shane's hands scramble for purchase on Ilya's chest,"—so fucking good for me—" Ilya moans helplessly back, thoughts hazy and wild, and loses the battle to stay completely still, hips jerking upwards in an involuntary thrust that nudges Shane's prostate and has him keening and falling forward to grip Ilya's arms almost painfully.
"Shit," the word elongates lewdly as Shane moans around it, "yeah. Do that again," Ilya's hips twitch in automatic compliance, drawing another obscene groan from them both, before Shane grits out, "Wanna come on just your cock."
And fuck, Ilya loses the plot briefly as he bites his lip and tries not to come immediately.
His husband is going to fucking ruin him, he thinks, dazed and spinning out behind squeezed-shut eyelids. A sharp tug to his hair, followed by a steady press of lips to his jaw brings him back, eyes fluttering open to meet Shane's.
"Ilya…," Shane's gaze is fucked out but searching, hand moving from his hair to hold his cheek in a firm, grounding grip. Hips slowing to a near halt to wait for Ilya to respond.
Ilya bites back a moan at the loss of friction and tries to pull himself from the lust-filled haze so that Shane will start start moving again.
"Da, Yes," he manages to mutter hoarsely, nudging his hips up purposefully and forcing a surprised whine from Shane's kiss-swollen lips. He turns his face to press a kiss to the palm of Shane's hand and watches his husband's features settle into a soft smile. Ilya adores him.
He's more than happy to be ruined.
Shane leans in and soothes Ilya's bitten lip between both of his and mercifully begins to move again. Ilya groans in relief and thrusts his hips up in tandem and lets the heat overtake him once more.
Time moves in flashes of pleasure and drawn out sighs after that. Ilya adjusts his legs and hips for more leverage, and Shane's movement becomes punctuated by increasingly desperate moans as Ilya's dick catches his prostate with each pass.
Ilya's world narrows, contracts into just the vision of Shane writhing above him, the feeling of sloppy kisses on skin and lips until they are both too far gone to do more than pant into the sticky air between then.
Sweat dripping between Shane's pecs. Ilya's hands longing to trace the path with his fingertips but twisting dutifully into the sheets above his head instead.
Then Shane is gasping out, "Fuck, I'm close," as his hips stutter, fingernails digging into the flesh of Ilya's bicep and forehead dropping against Ilya's with a soft thud. Ilya is sucking in a sharp breath that ends on a wrecked moan in response, so fucking lost he can't do anything else as he continues to fuck mindlessly up into Shane and tries not to fly apart.
Shane grinds back against him with a breathy groan and presses frantic kisses everywhere he can reach: Ilya's open mouth, his cheek, his forehead. Before whispering,
"Good boy," Shane's voice is raspy and wrecked. The words register like a benediction, heated devotion that burns through Ilya's chest before dragging frantically down his spine. And suddenly, Ilya is right there, suspended and burning up, nothing but an unending pinpoint of coiled heat and electricity and Shane. Then finally, finally,
"Come for me, Ilya."
A scream rips from his throat, a relentless pull of heat floods through him, and Ilya obeys, flying over the edge and spilling into Shane in a blinding release.
He's pretty sure he comes so hard he blacks out for a moment: pulse rushing in his ears, hips bucking wildly up as he rides the aftershocks. Dimly, he registers Shane go taut above him and follow with a shout of his own, release streaking Ilya's stomach and chest before Shane collapses on top of him.
Ilya loses track of himself slightly in the aftermath, world fading in and out, mind struggling to process anything beyond it's own bliss.
Slowly his senses return in little moments: soothing hands against his skin, Shane releasing his arms and pressing soft kisses into his sweat-soaked forehead as they both struggle to catch their breath. Russian endearments whispered into the thick sex-drenched air between them, a soft moan pulled from both of them when Ilya softens and slips from Shane's body. A loss of comforting heat as Shane rolls off him, replaced shortly by a warm, wet towel as his husband tenderly cleans his oversensitive skin. Eyes refocusing slowly on Shane's body when he moves to toss the cloth into the hamper and return the bed.
Shane nudging Ilya gently onto his side so that he can pull the comforter up and over him, a loving kiss pressed against his shoulder as his husband settles behind him and curls an arm around his waist. Ilya smiling into the pillow and threading his hand loosely with Shane's against his stomach, eyes heavy and drooping.
The space between moments gets more pronounced after that, and Ilya assumes they must both fall asleep at some point because when he comes to again the late afternoon light has given way to winter evening black, the only light now coming from the bedside table lamp.
Ilya sighs contentedly and flips over onto his back to find Shane already awake, head propped up against his bent arm as he watches Ilya with soft eyes. Ilya feels a usual rush of fondness at the sight.
"Hello," he murmurs, smiling sleepily up at his husband.
"Hi," Shane's answering smile is one of Ilya's favorites, lines crinkling around his eyes.
Ilya shifts to adjust the pillow behind his head and feels the muscles in his arms and abs twinge in protest, used and tired from what might have been the hottest thing to happen between them recently. Khristos. His mind helpfully supplies selected memories from earlier, and Ilya drags his hand down his face with a low groan,
"Fuck Shane. I am dead." He lets his hand drop to rest on his chest and turns his head toward his husband once more, moaning dramatically, "You have killed me, moya lyubov."
Shane giggles at his antics before pausing abruptly, eyes shifting around the room and teeth moving to worry his bottom lip at whatever thought has just occurred to him. Ilya watches his cheeks redden and tries to hold back the surge of affection that demands he kiss him right this second.
"Was that…okay?" Shane finally asks, hand picking nervously at the comforter between them, and Ilya finds himself unable to hold back an incredulous snort. Only Shane would fuck him to near oblivion in commanding Russian and then become tongue-tied about it in English after. Ilya loves him so much it should be embarrassing.
Ilya is the happiest he's ever been.
"Okay?" he reaches out and tugs at his husband's torso and arm until Shane sighs and lets Ilya pull him flush against his side, one leg thrown over Ilya's thigh, "Shane, lyubimyy, that was so hot I am never going to be able to fold our laundry without getting hard again." Ilya soothes his hand down Shane's back, "Was more than okay."
Shane laughs, relaxing and burying his face in Ilya's chest, "Oh my god, I can't believe I found it hot to watch you fold your clothes."
Ilya presses his lips to Shane's hair, unable to resist the urge to tease, "I can, you are very boring. Makes sense boring things would turn you on."
"Fuck off." Shane bats at his chest lightly, before tilting his head up to fix him with a soft stare, "I love you."
Ilya smiles—he'll never get tired of hearing that—and leans down to brush a soft kiss against his husband's lips before replying, "Ya tebya lyublyu, moya stiral'naya mashina."
Shane's brow furrows, "What's that?"
"Nyet, you must guess," Ilya sends Shane a cheeky wink and settles back once more against the pillows. "Is important for learning."
Shane drops his head back down with a groan. "But I'm tired, Ilya," he whines, nuzzling into Ilya's neck, "be good and just tell me."
Ilya's dick gives a half-hearted twitch at the phrasing. He feels Shane's lips form a small smirk against his skin.
"Blyat. Shane this is not fair. Using this knowledge for such dastardly purposes."
"Who taught you that word?" Shane's voice is playful, one hand tracing a teasing trail down Ilya's stomach to stroke along his cock lightly.
"Bood has word of the day app," Ilya carries on around a small moan, "New vocabulary is important my washing machine."
"Oh fuck you," Shane snaps back with no heat, releasing Ilya with an exasperated groan and rolling away to stand from the bed, "I need to shower now." Ilya laughs and allows himself to lazily admire his husband's body as Shane pads over naked to the en-suite door before turning around, arms crossed and eyes sparkling, to continue speaking, "Maybe you should do something useful like unpack or start the laundry."
A small jolt courses down his spine at the word, and fuck, Ilya had only been half-serious about finding the household chore more arousing now. Across the room, Shane's bratty smirk and lifted chin only serves to send more heat rushing through his veins.
"Oh I see, you have become evil," Ilya drops his voice low and watches Shane's lips part and his cock give a small twitch. Ilya grins knowingly, "Too much power gone to your head."
Shane bites his lip, "Maybe," his voice is breathy, eyes flitting down the length of Ilya's body before meeting his gaze again heatedly.
"What are you going to do about it?" he quips, eyebrow arched. And then his husband turns and darts into the bathroom.
Ilya is out of bed and chasing behind him with a heated curse, grabbing a laughing Shane around the waist and pulling him under the shower spray to be pressed against the tile with a heated kiss.
They don't unpack until the next morning. Neither one of them ever do look at folding laundry the same way again. In fact, Ilya finds himself adding it to his mental list of things most likely to make Shane pin him to the floor.
He uses that knowledge judiciously of course.