Archive of Our Own

꘎♡ one ♡꘎

Ilya felt his eyes flutter open, the sun shining through the blinds instantly warming his face. He stretched his arms over his head and let out a soft groan at the way the muscles in his body pulled. He heard clanking from downstairs and sighed.

It’s cleaning day. 

Ilya grabbed his phone from the nightstand and noticed that it was 7:08AM, which means Shane had to have been awake for at least an hour and a half. He placed it back down on the table and rubbed his hands over his face to try to wake himself up before getting up and walking into the bathroom.

While Ilya brushed his teeth, he tried to mentally prepare for how Shane might be when he walks downstairs. It can go one of two ways: Shane is freaking out because he can’t get the one speck of dirt off the stove, or he’s perfectly fine. Ilya knew either way he was just ready to see his husband, but he just didn’t want to say or do the wrong thing to set him off. 

Ilya rinsed off his toothbrush and left the bathroom to walk downstairs. The closer he got to the bottom, the louder the clinking of the dishes in the dishwasher got, with soft music playing in the background. Ilya knew the volume was quiet because Shane didn’t want to wake him up, and that made his heart feel so warm.

“Good morning, malysh,” Ilya said while walking behind Shane. He wrapped his hands around Shane’s waist and placed a gentle kiss to the side of his head. 

“Good morning, baby,” Shane replied while still handwashing one of Ilya’s water bottles. 

“What would you like me to help with?” Ilya asked, grabbing a towel to dry the water bottle once Shane finished washing it. 

“I was planning on doing laundry next, can you grab the clothes from our room and any of Anya’s blankets that need to be washed and meet me in there?”

“Of course.” Ilya grabbed Shane’s face gently and placed a soft kiss on his lips. “On it,” he whispered.

He caught a quick glimpse of Shane’s smile and couldn’t help but smile to himself as he made his way out of the kitchen and into the living room. He saw Anya laying on her little bed, and couldn’t help but to bend down in front of her to pet her. She didn’t get up, but she looked up at him and started wagging her tail at the attention. 

“My sweet прекрасная девочка,” he spoke to her fondly, gently scratching the spot behind her ear that she loves. “I’m so sorry my baby, I have to take this blanket before your papa yells at me,” he whispers while pulling it from under her. She lifts her head and lets out a huff as Ilya fully pulls it out, laying her head back down when he had it in his hands. He placed a kiss on her head before standing up and walking upstairs.

Ilya walked into their room and picked up his scattered clothes that he left in every spot besides the hamper. He knew the sight probably made Shane’s skin itch, and usually Shane would instinctually pick up after him, but the chaos of all of the recent Centaurs games made them fall behind.

Ilya walked into their shared closet and placed the dirty clothes that were piling in his arms into their hamper. He picked it up by the handles and made his way out, carefully walking downstairs. He noticed Shane wasn’t in the kitchen anymore, so he walked down the hall and stopped right outside of the laundry room, placing the hamper down next to the doorway. 

He was about to walk in and say something, but froze when he saw Shane. 

Shane was up on his toes, one arm stretched high as he was reaching to find something on the top shelf. The movement made his black t-shirt ride up– a shirt that must have gone through the dryer one too many times– exposing his tanned skin across his lower back and stomach. The fabric clung tight to his shoulders and chest, continuing to ride up further as Shane’s fingers grasped for what Ilya assumed was the detergent. 

His sweatpants sat low on his hips, the waistband of his boxers peeking out above them. Ilya couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

It was such a simple thing. All Shane was doing was chores, and wearing what was probably the first thing he found in the dresser to comfortably clean the house. But god, Ilya felt like his chest might crack open with how much he loved this man.

Ilya couldn’t stop staring at the curve of Shane’s spine, the way his shoulders flexed, the dimples in his lower back that Ilya loved to press his thumbs into. The casual, confident way Shane moved through their home, completely unaware of what he did to Ilya by simply existing.

This was his husband. His husband. And Ilya got to wake up to this every single day for the rest of his life. 

Shane made a small, frustrated sound when he couldn’t quite grab what he needed, the sound making something in Ilya’s chest pull so tight that it hurt. 

Ilya moved without thinking, crossing the small space in three strides. His hands found Shane’s waist, fingers spreading across the exposed skin of Shane’s stomach, and Shane let out a soft gasp. 

“Ilya–”

“Let me,” Ilya murmured, but he didn’t help to reach the detergent. Instead, he pulled Shane back against his chest, wrapping both arms around him fully, his palms flat against Shane’s stomach. Ilya pressed his face into the curve of Shane’s neck and breathed him in– the coffee he must have drank earlier, the faint smell of his body wash. 

“Baby, I need to–” Shane tried, but his voice was already softer, his body melting into Ilya’s.

“You are so beautiful,” Ilya said quietly, his lips brushing the shell of Shane’s ear. His hands moved slowly and reverently, one sliding up under the t-shirt to splay across Shane’s ribs, the other dipping just slightly beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. “Do you know that? Do you know what you do to me?”

“Ilya.” Shane’s voice was breathless, and Ilya could feel him shiver.

“I watch you do these things, and I cannot think.” Ilya turned Shane around in his arms, needing to see his face. Shane’s eyes went slightly wider, his lips parted slightly. Ilya cupped his face with both hands. “You reach for detergent, and I want to put you against this wall and–”

“Ilya,” Shane said again, but this time it was almost a laugh. Ilya could tell he was getting flustered. 

Ilya kissed him, slow and deep, pouring as much emotion as he could into it. Shane made a soft sound against his mouth, his hand coming up to grip Ilya’s shirt. When Ilya finally pulled back, Shane’s face was flushed and red, the color blooming across his cheeks and bleeding into the constellation of freckles across his nose and cheekbones. 

“Look at you,” Ilya whispered, thumbs stroking across the freckles he was so fucking obsessed with. “So pretty when you blush for me.”

The red deepened, spreading down to Shane’s neck, and he ducked his head with a breathless laugh. “Stop it.”

“Never.”

“Ilya, I’m serious,” Shane was smiling through his words, even as he tried to squirm out of Ilya’s hold. “We have things to do. You have things to do.” He pressed his palm flat against Ilya’s chest, pushing lightly. “Go put the laundry in the wash.”

Ilya caught his hand and brought it to his lips. “Make me.”

Shane’s eyes flashed with something that made Ilya’s stomach flip, but then he was pulling his hand back and pointing toward the hamper in the doorway. “Laundry. Now. Or I’m not making you lunch.”

“You are so mean, kotonok.”

“I’m busy.” But Shane was still blushing, still smiling. When Ilya finally, and reluctantly, stepped back to grab the hamper, Shane reached up on his toes again for the detergent. 

The shirt rode up again. The sweatpants slipped lower. 

Ilya closed his eyes and sighed before grabbing the hamper handles so hard his knuckles went white. 

This is going to be a long morning. 

꘎♡ two ♡꘎

“Do we have to go?” Ilya whined. 

Troy wanted to hold a team dinner at his house celebrating their recent win against the Metros, and all Ilya wanted to do was stay home, order takeout, and watch boring documentaries with his husband and his dog. 

“Ilya, for the thousandth time, yes we have to go. You’re literally the captain.” 

Ilya groaned at Shane’s response, still sitting on the couch next to Anya, who was sleeping peacefully on his lap.

“But look at your daughter, she will be so sad if we leave her all alone.”

Shane looked at him with fake annoyance, a small smile creeping up on his face. 

“Our daughter will be fine, go take her for a walk so we can get ready.” Shane’s voice echoed off the walls as he walked upstairs. 

Ilya sighed and gently shook Anya. “Come on, milashka, time to go for a walk.” Anya jumped off the couch at his words, stretching and wagging her tail. Ilya slipped on his shoes at the door and put Anya’s leash on, walking outside and closing the door behind him. They walked down the driveway and began navigating their familiar path down the street. 

Ilya walked Anya back to the house after about twenty minutes and let her back inside, making his way upstairs to get ready. Shane had already showered and started getting dressed– he was wearing tan pants with a blue button up shirt, the first two undone. 

“Shane, I don’t think we will be able to go,” Ilya said after spending seconds too long staring at his husband.

“Why not?”

“Because you look so good I just want to take your clothes off.”

Shane looked up at him with a slight blush on his cheeks and rolled his eyes. “Get in the shower, Rozanov. We have to go soon.”

Ilya walked over to Shane and grabbed his hands, pulling him closer and leaving multiple small kisses on his lips. “It’s Hollander-Rozanov,” he whispered before kissing the tip of Shane’s nose and walking into the bathroom. 

After what must have been the quickest shower of his life, Ilya walked out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, and walked to the closet to find something to wear. He could feel eyes boring into the back of his head, so he turned around to see Shane staring. Shane tried to look somewhere else, but Ilya already caught him. 

“Like what you see, malysh?”

“Shut up, get dressed.”

Ilya laughed at his words and picked out an outfit. He settled on black pants and a white t-shirt that fit him so tight, it was borderline see through. After he got dressed, he looked over and saw Shane staring. Again.

“I am starting to believe you might not want to go either.” Ilya teased, smirking at Shane.

“Well when you’re dressed like that, it makes it kind of hard.”

Ilya walked closer to Shane and put his hands on his waist. “Ah, well, the option is still there. I could text Troy and say something came up. My husband is not hungry for your food,” Ilya leaned in, his lips brushing Shane’s ear before continuing in a whisper, “he is hungry for my dick.” 

Shane pushed Ilya’s shoulder, attempting to create space, but the laugh that came out of him was music to Ilya’s ears. “No, dumbass, we’re still going.”

Ilya groaned as Shane pulled away, finding socks for the two of them and spraying on his cologne. Shane threw a pair of socks at Ilya and Ilya sat at the edge of the bed to put them on. They each grabbed specific shoes from the closet and held them in their hands to carry them downstairs, turning the lights off as they left the room.

“Can you give Anya her dinner?” Ilya asked as they neared the bottom of the steps. Shane hummed in response and walked in the direction of Anya’s food and her food bowls. Ilya noticed the water jug connected to her water bowl getting low, so he walked downstairs to the basement to grab a replacement and swapped out the old one for the new one. 

After they ensured Anya would be set for the next couple of hours, the two of them walked toward the door to put their shoes on. 

“Are you sure we can’t stay home,” Ilya tried one last time. Shane glared at him in response, his actions far louder than words. 

“Ugghhh, whatever. Just say you hate me.”

“Ilya, I don’t hate you. You’re so dramatic.”

“But I am dying.”

“You look fine to me.”

“Yeah, but my dick isn’t.”

Shane scoffed and started tying his shoes. Ilya began copying the action, finally accepting defeat that his husband wasn’t going to let up. Anya ran up to them, her tail wagging, and they said goodbye before Shane grabbed his keys off of the hook and they walked out of the door. 

The evening air was cool against Ilya's face as they made their way down the front steps. Shane beeped the car unlocked, and Ilya pulled open the passenger door with perhaps more force than necessary, dropping into the seat with an exaggerated sigh.

"You’re being ridiculous," Shane said as he slid into the driver's seat, but there was fondness in his voice that made Ilya's chest warm despite his protests.

"I am being honest," Ilya countered, buckling his seatbelt. "Troy will understand if we cancel. I overwork him at practice. He knows about exhaustion."

"We're not canceling." Shane started the car, and the dashboard lit up soft blue. "We haven't spent time with the team in weeks, and you promised you'd behave tonight."

"I never promised this."

"You literally did. Last Tuesday. After I made you—"

"Okay, okay," Ilya interrupted quickly, feeling his own face heat. "Fine. I promised."

Shane shot him a satisfied smile, adjusting the rearview mirror, and Ilya felt his resolve weakening already. How was he supposed to survive an entire dinner when just looking at Shane made him want to turn the car around and take him back inside?

The car rolled forward slightly as Shane shifted into reverse, and then–

Oh.

Oh no.

Shane's right arm came up, draping casually behind Ilya's headrest as he turned in his seat to look out the back window. His body twisted, shoulders rotating, and suddenly he was right there– close enough that Ilya could smell his cologne, could see the late afternoon light catching on the side of his face, could feel the warmth radiating from Shane's arm just inches from his shoulders.

It was such a simple thing. Such a normal, everyday thing. People backed out of driveways a thousand times a day doing exactly this.

But Ilya couldn't breathe.

Shane's focus was entirely on the driveway behind them, his eyes tracking their path, his expression calm and concentrated. Careful. Focused. The same way he looked when he was lining up a shot on the ice– that quiet competence that Ilya had fallen in love with a decade ago and somehow never stopped falling for.

The arm behind his headrest wasn't touching him. There was still space between Shane's forearm and Ilya's shoulders. But god, Ilya could feel it anyway– the weight of it, the presence of it, the casual intimacy of the gesture that Shane probably didn't even think about.

This was what husbands did. What partners did. What people who had built a life together did without thinking, because it was natural, because it was theirs.

Shane's fingers flexed slightly against the headrest, and Ilya's brain short-circuited.

He wanted to grab that arm and pull Shane closer. Wanted to turn his head and press his mouth to the inside of Shane's wrist. Wanted to forget about Troy's dinner entirely and find out if he could make Shane lose his composure right here in their driveway, in broad daylight, where any of their neighbors could see.

The car straightened out as Shane finished backing up, but he didn't move his arm right away. For three, four, five seconds, he stayed turned in his seat, arm still draped behind Ilya, checking one more time that the path was clear.

Ilya was going to die. He was going to actually die. Right here in the passenger seat of their car, because his husband was too beautiful and too oblivious and too perfect for Ilya's sanity to handle.

Finally– finally– Shane shifted back into drive and dropped his arm, both hands returning to the wheel as he pulled out onto the street.

Ilya must have made a sound. He didn't mean to, but he must have, because Shane glanced over at him with a small frown.

"You okay?"

"No," Ilya said honestly. His voice came out rougher than he intended.

Shane's frown deepened. "What's wrong? Do you feel sick? We can–"

"You," Ilya interrupted, and Shane's eyes widened slightly. "You are what is wrong."

"What did I–" Shane started, but then he seemed to catch something in Ilya's expression, and his cheeks flushed pink. "Ilya."

"You do the thing," Ilya continued, unable to stop himself now. "That thing with your arm when you back up, and you don't even know–"

"Oh my god." Shane's flush deepened to red, spreading down his neck. "Are you serious right now?"

"Very serious."

"I was just– it's how you're supposed to–" Shane sputtered, his hands tightening on the wheel. "It's driving, Ilya!"

"It is torture."

"You're insane."

"Turn around," Ilya said, reaching over to rest his hand on Shane's thigh. "We are going home. I will show you how insane I am."

Shane's breath hitched, but he shook his head firmly, even as the red in his cheeks betrayed him. "No. Absolutely not. We're going to dinner."

"Shane–"

"We're going to dinner," Shane repeated, his voice slightly strangled. "We're going to have a nice time with the team, and you're going to behave yourself."

Ilya squeezed his thigh. "What if I don't want to behave?"

"Then you don't get what you want when we get home," Shane shot back, and there was an edge to his voice now– that tone that made Ilya's stomach flip and his brain go fuzzy. "I mean it, Ilya. We're not turning around."

Ilya studied him for a long moment. Shane's jaw was set, his eyes fixed determinedly on the road, but his face was still flushed and Ilya could see the rapid flutter of his pulse in his throat.

He was affected. He was trying to hide it, trying to stay in control, but he was affected.

Ilya smiled slowly and leaned back in his seat, removing his hand from Shane's thigh. "Okay."

Shane shot him a suspicious look. "Okay?"

"Okay," Ilya repeated innocently. "We go to dinner. I behave."

"Why don't I believe you?"

"I have no idea what you mean."

Shane narrowed his eyes but turned his attention back to the road, and Ilya let his smile widen.

Fine. They would go to dinner. They would be good guests. They would eat Troy's food and play with the puppies and make polite conversation.

But Ilya was going to make Shane suffer for this.

Every casual touch would linger just a second too long. Every look would carry weight. Every word would have a double meaning that only Shane would catch. Ilya would be the picture of perfect behavior on the surface, but underneath, he would make sure Shane felt every single moment of the want that had been building between them.

And when they finally got home– when Shane's control finally cracked the way Ilya knew it would– it would be so, so worth it.

Shane glanced over at him again, and Ilya kept his expression perfectly innocent.

"What are you thinking about?" Shane asked warily.

"Dinner," Ilya said sweetly. "I am thinking about how much I am looking forward to dinner."

Shane didn't look convinced, but he didn't push. He just shook his head and turned up the radio, and Ilya settled in for the drive, already planning his revenge.

It was going to be a very long evening.

For Shane, anyway.

꘎♡ three ♡꘎

Shane and Ilya walked through the automatic doors at Whole Foods, the chaos of a Sunday instantly hitting them. 

“Okay, so we need to actually follow the grocery list,” Shane said, glancing over at Ilya.

“Why are you looking at me like that? We always follow the grocery list.”

“No, I follow the grocery list. You end up putting an excess amount of unhealthy snacks into the cart.” 

Ilya gasped dramatically in response, stopping in his tracks and clutching his chest. “Are you seriously accusing me of this right now? I can’t believe it.”

Shane stopped pushing the cart and turned to look at him, letting out a short laugh. “Ilya, please. Can we just try to stay on track?” 

"Fine," Ilya said, falling into step beside him. "But I make no promises."

They navigated through the crowded aisles, Shane steering them toward the dairy section first. He pulled out his phone, squinting at the list he'd typed up that morning.

"Greek yogurt," Shane muttered, scanning the refrigerated shelves. He picked up one container, turned it over to read the label, then set it back down. Picked up another. Compared the two.

"They're the same," Ilya pointed out.

"This one has less sugar," Shane said, placing the second container in the cart with a satisfied nod.

Ilya rolled his eyes fondly but said nothing. This was just how Shane was– careful, deliberate. It was one of the things that had drawn Ilya to him in the first place, even if it did make grocery shopping take twice as long.

They moved through the store methodically. In the pasta aisle, Shane debated between two brands of penne for a full minute before selecting one. In the canned goods section, he checked the sodium content on three different types of tomato sauce.

"You know," Ilya said as Shane examined a can of chickpeas, "we could be done by now if you just grabbed things."

"We could also end up with terrible groceries if I just grabbed things," Shane countered, not looking up from the label he was reading.

Ilya opened his mouth to argue, then caught sight of the small furrow between Shane's eyebrows as he concentrated on the nutritional information. Something warm flickered in his chest. He cleared his throat. "Fair point."

They found themselves walking down one of the snack aisles, Shane obviously looking for the healthy snacks on his list, while Ilya tried to sneak a pack of chocolate chip cookies into the cart. When he dropped it in, Shane glared at him. 

“Are you serious right now, Ilya?”

“What?” Ilya asked, pretending to be dumbfounded. 

“I saw you put the cookies into the cart.” Shane replied.

“What cookies?” Ilya looked down and saw where he had lodged them between a box of pasta and the yogurt. “What? How did that get in there? Shane, are you going to break your diet?”

Shane couldn’t help but laugh at Ilya’s efforts to defend himself. He shook his head and slowly started pushing the cart. “Fine. We’ll get these, but that’s it,” he said with a stern tone, but his voice held some amusement to it, accompanying the smile on his face. 

Finally, they made their way to the produce section. The Sunday crowd was thick here, people jostling for position around the bins of vegetables and fruit. Shane maneuvered the cart to the side and approached the avocados with the same focus he'd brought to everything else.

Ilya hung back, leaning against the cart handle, content to watch.

Shane picked up an avocado, cradling it in his palm. His thumb pressed gently against the skin, testing the give. Not satisfied, he set it back and selected another. This time, his face did something that made Ilya's breath catch– his nose scrunched up slightly, his eyes narrowing in concentration as he examined the fruit from every angle. His bottom lip caught between his teeth as he pressed his thumb against it again, considering.

Fuck, Ilya thought.

This expression was typical of Shane. He always showed his thoughts on his face, and he was clearly trying to figure out if this avocado would go bad the next day. But there was something about the intensity of Shane's focus, the way he gave his complete attention to this simple task, that sent heat curling low in Ilya's stomach.

Shane set that avocado in the cart and moved to the tomatoes. He picked up one, turned it over in his hands, checking for soft spots. His brow furrowed again, that same concentrated expression settling over his features. The lip bite came back, more pronounced this time as he weighed the tomato in his palm.

Ilya shifted his weight, suddenly very aware of how warm the store felt.

"What do you think?" Shane asked, glancing over his shoulder. "These look good?"

"Uh," Ilya said eloquently. Shane was still holding the tomato, still had that focused look on his face, and Ilya's brain had apparently decided to stop functioning. "Yeah. Good."

Shane's eyes narrowed slightly– not in suspicion, but in that way that meant he was thinking hard about something. He turned back to the display, selecting another tomato and comparing the two. His face scrunched up again as he studied them, and fuck, when had that become so attractive?

"You okay?" Shane asked, not looking away from the tomatoes.

"Fine," Ilya managed. "Just... you are very serious about tomatoes."

"They're for the pasta sauce I’m making tonight," Shane said, as if that explained everything. He finally selected four tomatoes, placing them carefully in a produce bag. "I want to make sure they're ripe enough."

He moved on to bell peppers next, and Ilya wondered if it was possible to be jealous of vegetables. Shane picked up a red pepper, examined it with that same intense focus. His fingers traced over the pepper's surface, checking for blemishes, and Ilya had to look away for a moment. 

This was ridiculous. They were grocery shopping. Shane was just being his normal, careful self. There was no reason for Ilya to be this affected by watching his husband select produce. There was no reason he should be getting hard right now. 

Except Shane had moved on to the cucumbers now, and he was biting his lip again as he compared two of them, and Ilya was definitely affected. “Blyat,” Ilya said under his breath. Why would he bite his lip like that at a cucumber of all things, he thought. 

"Ilya?"

"Hm?" Ilya's eyes snapped up to Shane's face.

"I asked if you wanted anything specific for salads this week." Shane was looking at him now, one eyebrow raised, a cucumber still in his hand.

"Whatever you want," Ilya said, his voice coming out rougher than intended.

Shane's expression shifted, something knowing flickering in his eyes. "Whatever I want?"

"You're the one who's so particular about it," Ilya said, aiming for casual and probably missing by a mile.

Shane hummed, turning back to the cucumbers, but there was a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth now. He selected two, his movements perhaps a touch more deliberate than necessary, his face scrunching up in exaggerated concentration. He ran a finger down the side of the cucumber slowly. It was agonizing. 

He knows, Ilya realized. He absolutely knows what he's doing to me.

Shane placed the cucumbers in the cart with careful precision, then moved to the leafy greens. He took his time sorting through the containers of spring mix, lifting each one to examine it from underneath, checking the expiration dates. His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip– a gesture that was absolutely not necessary for selecting salad greens– and Ilya felt heat crawl up the back of his neck.

"You know," Shane said conversationally, not looking up from the arugula he was now inspecting, "I think we should get some of those cherry tomatoes too. The ones on the vine." He turned the container over in his hands slowly, deliberately, his face still doing that scrunched-up thing. "They're better for roasting."

"Sure," Ilya managed. His mouth felt dry.

"You seem distracted." Shane glanced at him, all innocence except for the glint in his eyes. "Everything okay?"

"Fine. Just– it's hot in here."

"Is it?" Shane set down the arugula and reached for a bundle of asparagus. He held it up, examining the tips with intense focus, his brow furrowing in that way that made Ilya want to push him up against the produce display and kiss that expression right off his face. "I think the temperature feels pretty normal to me."

Ilya shifted his weight, crossing his arms over his chest. "Maybe I'm coming down with something."

"Mm." Shane's lips quirked up at the corners. He was definitely biting back a smile now. "That must be it."

He moved on to the mushrooms, and Ilya briefly considered just walking away, going to wait by the checkout lanes like a normal person who wasn't being slowly driven insane by his husband’s grocery shopping habits. But he stayed rooted to the spot, watching as Shane picked up a container of cremini mushrooms and– of course– opened it to inspect them individually.

Shane's fingers were careful as he turned each mushroom over, checking for blemishes. His face scrunched up again, and he opened his mouth a little bit before taking his bottom lip between his teeth.

"Jesus Christ," Ilya muttered under his breath.

"What was that?" Shane asked, looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes that were absolutely not innocent at all.

"Nothing. Just– do you really need to inspect every single mushroom?"

"Well, I want to make sure they're good quality." Shane held up one mushroom, examining it with exaggerated care, his face a mask of concentration. "See, this one has a little bruise on the cap. We don't want that, do we?"

The way he said "we" made Ilya's stomach flip. Shane was still looking at him, still holding that damn mushroom, and there was a challenge in his expression now. A playfulness that said he knew exactly what he was doing and was enjoying every second of it.

"You're doing this on purpose," Ilya said, his voice low.

"Doing what?" Shane asked, all innocence. He set the rejected mushroom aside and selected another, bringing it close to his face to examine it. His lip caught between his teeth again. It was excessive at this point. "I'm just shopping."

"Shane–"

"Yes?" Shane looked at him then, really looked at him, and there was heat in his gaze that matched what Ilya was feeling. He was still holding the mushroom, still had that focused expression on his face, but now he was maintaining eye contact, and it felt like a dare.

Ilya swallowed hard. "We should finish shopping."

"I agree." Shane's smile was slow and knowing. He placed the approved mushrooms in the cart, then consulted his phone. "Let's see... we still need onions. And garlic." He glanced up at Ilya through his lashes. "I'll need to make sure I pick good ones. It might take a while."

Fuck, Ilya thought. It was going to be a long shopping trip.

꘎♡ four ♡꘎

Ilya and Shane were standing in the kitchen with grocery bags scattered across the kitchen counter as they unpacked. Ilya had survived the rest of the shopping trip– barely– and was now determined to focus on something normal and domestic and decidedly unsexy: making dinner.

"Okay, so I'll start on the chicken," Ilya said, pulling out the cutting board. "You're doing your sauce thing?"

“Yes, baby."

They fell into an easy rhythm, moving around each other with the practiced comfort of people who'd shared a kitchen countless times before. Ilya seasoned the chicken while Shane washed herbs, and for a few minutes, everything was peaceful. Normal.

Then Ilya reached for the jar of minced garlic.

He twisted the lid. Nothing. He adjusted his grip, braced the jar against his hip, and tried again. The lid didn't budge even a fraction of an inch.

"Come on," he muttered, wrapping his shirt around the lid for better grip. He put his whole body into it this time, his hand slipping as he wrenched at it. Still nothing. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Need help?" Shane asked, glancing over from where he was chopping parsley.

"No, I've got it." Ilya tried one more time, his face heating with effort and frustration. The lid remained stubbornly, impossibly sealed. He stared at it for a moment, then sighed. "Okay, fine. This jar is broken."

"Broken," Shane repeated, amusement clear in his voice as he set down his knife and wiped his hands on a towel.

"It's defective. The seal is too tight or something." Ilya held out the jar with a scowl.

Shane crossed to him and took it, and Ilya watched as he adjusted his grip– nothing fancy, just his hand wrapping around the lid with easy confidence. There was barely a pause before Ilya heard the soft pop of the seal breaking. Just like that. Effortless.

"There you go," Shane said, handing it back like he hadn't just opened something Ilya had been fighting with for a solid minute.

Ilya stared at the now-open jar, then at Shane. "How did you– I was trying to open that for–"

"I know." Shane's smile was infuriatingly smug as he returned to his cutting board. "I could hear you grunting from over here."

"I wasn't grunting."

"You were definitely grunting."

Ilya wanted to argue, but he was too distracted by the casual display of strength, the easy competence. Shane had just... done it. No struggle, no effort. Like it was nothing. Ilya had put his entire body into trying to open that jar, had felt the strain in his forearms and wrists, and Shane had just– pop. Done.

He looked down at the jar in his hands, then back at Shane, who had already moved on like opening impossibly sealed jars was just a regular Sunday activity. The contrast was doing something to Ilya's brain. Something that made his pulse quicken and his thoughts scatter.

Focus, he told himself firmly. You're making dinner. Normal, everyday dinner.

He tried. He really did. He turned back to his cutting board, picked up his knife, and attempted to concentrate on butterflying the chicken breasts. But his attention kept drifting across the kitchen to where Shane was working.

Shane had moved on to mincing the raw garlic, his knife work precise and efficient. The rhythmic sound of the blade against the cutting board should have been soothing, but instead Ilya found himself mesmerized by the controlled movements, the easy confidence in every motion. Shane scraped the garlic into a bowl with the jarred contents, added the chopped herbs, then reached for the olive oil without even looking, his hand finding it immediately like he had the entire kitchen mapped in his mind.

He didn't measure– just poured with the confidence of someone who'd made this a hundred times, eyeing the amount before adding red wine vinegar, a pinch of red pepper flakes, and salt. 

Ilya realized he'd stopped cutting entirely. His knife was resting against the cutting board, his hands idle, while he just... watched.

"You're staring," Shane said without looking up, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Ilya's face heated. "I'm not staring. I'm just–" He scrambled for an excuse. "Making sure you don't put too much salt in. You always put too much salt in."

"I do not." Shane looked up then, eyebrows raised. "And you're definitely staring."

"Well, maybe if you weren't taking up half the counter space–"

"I'm using exactly one cutting board and one bowl." Shane gestured at his compact workspace, then at Ilya's sprawling mess of chicken, seasonings, and abandoned utensils. "You, on the other hand..."

"That's different. Chicken is complicated."

"Uh-huh." Shane's smile was knowing as he returned to his sauce, lifting the spoon to taste. He considered for a moment, his expression thoughtful, then reached for the salt grinder without even looking, like his hands knew exactly where everything was.

Ilya's heart did something complicated in his chest. It was such a simple thing– making a sauce– but the capability Shane displayed, the way he moved through the kitchen like he owned it, the easy confidence in every gesture. And the way he twisted his hands around the salt grinder looked like–

"Needs more acid," Shane murmured to himself, cutting off Ilya’s thoughts while he added another splash of vinegar. He mixed again, tasted again, then nodded in satisfaction. "Okay, that's good."

Ilya tried to look away, tried to focus on his own task, but his eyes kept tracking back. Shane was washing his hands now, water running over his forearms, and Ilya found himself staring at the flex of muscle, the capable strength in those hands that had opened the jar so easily.

Get it together, Ilya thought desperately. It's just cooking. People cook every day. This is not sexy.

Except it was. The competence was sexy. The casual strength was sexy. The way Shane moved through tasks with such easy confidence, like nothing could challenge him, like he had everything under control– that was extremely sexy.

"How's the chicken coming?" Shane asked, and there was definitely amusement in his voice now.

Ilya looked down at his cutting board. The chicken breast was half-butterflied, abandoned several minutes ago. "It's... coming."

"I can see that." Shane leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching him with barely concealed entertainment. "Need any help? I'm pretty good with a knife."

"I'm fine," Ilya said, picking up his knife with renewed determination. He was not going to be distracted by his husband anymore. He was an adult. He could handle this.

He made it approximately thirty seconds before his attention drifted again. Shane had moved to the stove, heating oil in a pan with that same easy confidence. He didn't hover over it or check the temperature obsessively– just set it to heat and trusted his timing, his instincts.

"You know," Shane said conversationally, not looking at Ilya, "you've been working on that same chicken breast for about ten minutes now."

"I'm being thorough."

"You're distracted." Shane glanced over his shoulder, and his smile was wicked. "Something on your mind?"

Yes, Ilya thought. You. Your hands. The way you opened that jar like it was nothing. The way you move through this kitchen like everything is easy for you.

Out loud, he said, "No. I'm just– I'm focused."

"Right." Shane turned back to the stove, and Ilya could hear the smile in his voice. "Very focused. I can tell."

Ilya tried to prove him wrong. He really did. He finished butterflying the chicken, seasoned it properly, got it ready for the pan. But the whole time, he was hyperaware of Shane moving around the kitchen, holding onto the memory of that jar lid popping open with barely any effort.

His hands were shaking slightly as he carried the chicken to the stove. Shane noticed, of course.

"You okay?" Shane asked, and there was genuine concern under the teasing now.

Ilya set the chicken down carefully. "I'm fine."

"You seem a little..." Shane trailed off, studying him. "Tense."

Tense was one word for it. Wound up was another. Completely undone by watching you be competent in the kitchen was probably the most accurate, but Ilya wasn't about to admit that. He walked over to the sink and scrubbed his hands and arms to ensure the raw chicken wasn’t on his skin. 

Shane stepped closer, and Ilya's breath caught. "Is this about the jar?"

"No," Ilya said too quickly.

"Because I didn't mean to–" Shane paused, and something shifted in his expression. Understanding dawned, followed by that playful heat that Ilya was becoming very familiar with. "Oh."

"Don't," Ilya warned. He used the small towel to dry his skin. 

"Don't what?" Shane's smile was innocent, but his eyes weren't. "I'm just trying to understand why you're so distracted."

"I'm not distracted."

"You've been staring at me for the past fifteen minutes."

"I have not–"

"You have." Shane was definitely enjoying this now. "And I'm trying to figure out why. Is it because I opened the jar?" He took another step closer. "Because I didn't struggle with it like you did?"

Ilya's jaw clenched. "Shane–"

"It's just a jar, Ilya." But Shane's voice had dropped lower, and he was close enough now that Ilya could feel the warmth radiating from him. "Just a simple jar that you couldn't open and I could. Nothing to get worked up about."

That did it. Ilya didn't make a conscious decision to move– his body just acted. He closed the distance between them in three strides, crowding Shane back against the counter. His hands found Shane's hips, and he leaned in close, breathing in the scent of herbs and Shane's shampoo.

"Ilya–" Shane gasped, but Ilya cut him off by pressing closer, his mouth finding the spot just below Shane's ear.

"You opened that jar like it was nothing," Ilya said against his skin, his voice rough. "I was fighting with it for a full minute, putting everything I had into it, and you just–" He broke off, his hands tightening on Shane's hips. "You didn't even try. You just did it."

Shane's breath hitched, and Ilya felt a surge of satisfaction. He began to mouth at the soft skin on Shane’s neck, but then Shane's hands came up to his chest, not pushing him away exactly, but creating just enough space between them.

"Patience," Shane said, and his voice was rough but amused. "Dinner first."

"Dinner can wait."

"The chicken will dry out." Shane's lips quirked up at the corners, and there was that playful challenge in his eyes again. "And I just made this sauce. It would be a shame to waste it."

Ilya groaned, dropping his forehead to Shane's shoulder. "You're killing me."

"I know." Shane's hand came up to card through Ilya's hair, a gentle, affectionate gesture that somehow made everything worse. "But you're the one who wanted to cook at home tonight."

"I'm regretting that decision."

"I'm not." Shane pressed a quick kiss to his temple, then gently extracted himself from Ilya's grip. "Come on. Help me finish cooking, and then..." He let the sentence hang, loaded with promise.

"Then what?" Ilya asked, even though he knew he was playing into Shane's hands.

Shane's smile was slow and devastating. "Let’s just see how patient you can be."

Ilya took a deep breath, trying to collect himself. His heart was still racing, his skin still felt too warm, and Shane was looking at him with that knowing expression that said he was perfectly aware of the effect he was having.

"Fine," Ilya said finally. "But for the record, you opening that jar was completely unfair."

Shane's smile was wicked. "I'll try to be less competent next time."

"Please don't," Ilya muttered, and Shane's laugh was warm and knowing as they returned to their respective stations.

Ilya picked up his knife, determined to actually finish preparing dinner this time. But he could feel Shane's eyes on him, could sense the amusement and heat radiating from across the kitchen, and he knew– absolutely knew– that Shane was going to make him wait as long as possible.

It was going to be a long dinner.

꘎♡ five ♡꘎

The afterparty was already packed by the time they arrived, the low hum of conversation and laughter filling the dimly lit space. It wasn't a club– just a rented event space with warm amber lighting, a bar along one wall, and clusters of high-top tables scattered throughout. But what it lacked in energy, it made up for in sheer number of bodies. The MLH awards always drew a crowd, and it seemed like everyone who'd attended the ceremony had crammed themselves into this one room.

"Jesus," Shane muttered as they stepped inside, his eyes scanning the sea of people. "I didn't think it would be this crowded."

"Open bar," Ilya said, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the noise. "And free food. Of course everyone's here."

They'd barely made it three steps into the room before they were swallowed by the press of people. Industry colleagues, fellow presenters, sponsors– everyone mingling in tight clusters that made navigation difficult. Someone brushed past Ilya's shoulder, and he had to sidestep to avoid colliding with a group laughing loudly near the entrance.

"We should find Troy and the others," Shane said, craning his neck to look over the crowd. He'd already snagged a drink from a passing server– something clear in a plastic cup with a lime wedge. "I think I saw them near the–"

He was cut off as a group of people pushed between them, and suddenly there was a wall of bodies separating Ilya from Shane. Ilya caught a glimpse of Shane's startled expression before the crowd shifted again.

Then he felt it– Shane's hand finding his, fingers threading through Ilya's with sure, deliberate pressure.

Ilya's breath caught. He looked down at their joined hands, then up at Shane, who had somehow navigated back to his side. Shane's expression was almost sheepish, like he was embarrassed by the gesture, but his grip was firm and steady.

"Don't want to lose you," Shane said simply.

Ilya's heart did something complicated in his chest. It was such a small thing– holding hands to stay together in a crowd. Except Shane didn't do this. Not in public, not at work events, not around colleagues and industry people who knew them. Shane was private about their relationship in professional settings, careful about boundaries, always conscious of how they presented themselves.

And yet here he was, holding Ilya's hand in a room full of people they worked with.

Ilya felt warmth spreading through his chest. 

"Come on," Shane said, tugging him forward. "I think I see an opening near the bar."

They started moving through the crowd, Shane leading the way with Ilya's hand clasped firmly in his. It should have been awkward– navigating a packed room while holding hands like teenagers– but somehow it wasn't. Shane moved with purpose, finding gaps in the crowd, murmuring "excuse me" and "sorry" as they squeezed past clusters of people.

Ilya watched the back of Shane's head, the set of his shoulders, the way he held his drink carefully to avoid spilling it as they moved. And then Shane lifted the cup to his mouth, and Ilya saw him catch the straw between his teeth.

It was an unconscious gesture, the kind of nervous habit Shane had when he was anxious or overwhelmed. He wasn't drinking– just holding the straw in his mouth, chewing on it slightly as he scanned the crowd. His jaw worked around the plastic, and Ilya could see the small indentations his teeth were leaving in the straw.

Not now, Ilya told himself firmly. You're at a work event.

But he couldn't look away. There was something about it– the anxious energy, the unconscious movement, the way Shane's lips wrapped around the straw. Combined with the warmth of Shane's hand in his, the significance of Shane initiating contact in public, the press of bodies around them...

"You okay back there?" Shane called over his shoulder, and Ilya realized he'd slowed down, creating resistance.

"Fine," Ilya managed. "Just– lots of people."

Shane glanced back, and his expression softened with concern. "Yeah, it's a lot. We can leave early if you want. I know these things can be–"

"No, it's fine." Ilya squeezed Shane's hand without thinking. "I'm good."

They finally broke through to a slightly less crowded area near the bar, and Shane turned to face him, still holding his hand. The straw was still caught between his teeth, and he seemed to realize it suddenly, pulling it out with a self-conscious laugh.

"Sorry, I–" He gestured vaguely with the cup. "Crowds make me nervous."

"I know," Ilya said, and his voice came out rougher than he intended.

Shane's eyes narrowed slightly, studying him. His thumb rubbed a small circle against Ilya's palm—another unconscious gesture, probably meant to be soothing. "Are you sure you're okay? You seem–"

"I'm fine." Ilya was very aware of Shane's hand still in his, of the way they were standing close enough that he could smell Shane's cologne, of the fact that they were in public and Shane was touching him like this was the most natural thing in the world.

"Ilya." Shane stepped closer, his voice dropping lower. "What's going on?"

How was he supposed to explain this? That watching Shane chew anxiously on a straw while holding his hand in a crowded room full of colleagues was turning him on? That the fact Shane had initiated this– Shane, who was always so careful about PDA in professional settings– made him feel the arousal build in his stomach?

Shane's lips quirked up at the corners, and Ilya realized with a sinking feeling that Shane was starting to understand. He always noticed. 

"Is this about me holding your hand?" Shane asked, and there was amusement in his voice now, mixed with something warmer.

"No."

"Because I can let go if it's making you uncomfortable–"

"Don't." The word came out sharper than Ilya intended, and Shane's smile widened.

"Okay." Shane lifted his cup, and Ilya watched with a mixture of dread and fascination as Shane caught the straw between his teeth again, this time very deliberately. His eyes never left Ilya's face. "So not the hand-holding then."

Ilya's jaw clenched. "You're doing this on purpose."

"Doing what?" Shane asked around the straw, all innocence. "I'm just anxious. Crowds, you know." But his thumb was still tracing those small circles on Ilya's palm, and his expression was far too knowing.

"Shane–"

"We should find the others," Shane said, finally releasing the straw. But he didn't let go of Ilya's hand. If anything, he stepped closer, using the crowd as an excuse to press into Ilya's space. "Unless you want to stay here for a bit? Take a breather?"

Ilya could feel the warmth of Shane's body, could see the playful challenge in his eyes. Around them, people laughed and talked, completely oblivious to the tension crackling between them. Shane was doing this here, in public, at a work event, and he knew exactly what effect it was having.

"You're killing me," Ilya said quietly.

Shane's smile was soft and devastating. "I know." He squeezed Ilya's hand once, then tugged him forward. "Come on. Let's find everyone. And try not to get too distracted."

They'd barely made it ten feet before Shane brought his drink back up, catching the straw between his lips. This time, though, he didn't just hold it there. Ilya watched, transfixed, as Shane's tongue pushed the straw forward slightly, then drew it back in. Out, then in. A slow, unconscious rhythm as he scanned the crowd, his jaw working around the plastic.

Focus, Ilya told himself desperately. You're looking for Troy. That's all. Just find Troy and have a normal conversation like a normal person.

But Shane's tongue flicked against the tip of the straw, and Ilya's thoughts scattered completely.

"There," Shane said suddenly, nodding toward a cluster of people near the far wall. "I see Troy."

He pulled Ilya forward, weaving through the crowd with that same confident navigation, the straw still caught between his teeth. Ilya could see the way Shane's lips wrapped around it, the small movements of his tongue, the flex of his jaw. It was maddening.

"Troy!" Shane called out as they approached, finally releasing the straw to wave. "Hey!"

Troy turned, his face breaking into a grin. "There you guys are! I was wondering if you'd make it."

"Wouldn't miss it," Shane said, and Ilya was impressed by how normal he sounded. Meanwhile, Ilya was trying to remember how to form words.

"Great presentation tonight," Troy said, clapping Shane on the shoulder.

"Thanks, man. It was a team effort." Shane lifted his drink again, and Ilya watched with a sinking feeling as the straw found its way back between Shane's teeth. Shane's eyes flicked to Ilya for just a second– knowing, amused– before returning to Troy.

"How about you, Ilya?" Troy asked. "You good? You seem a little..."

"Fine," Ilya managed. "Just– warm. Lots of people."

Shane made a small sound of agreement around his straw, his tongue pushing it forward again in that same slow, deliberate motion. Except now Ilya was certain it was deliberate. Shane's thumb rubbed another circle against his palm, and when Ilya glanced at him, Shane's expression was perfectly innocent.

"Yeah, it's packed," Troy said, oblivious. "But hey, free drinks, right?"

Shane hummed in agreement, drawing the straw deeper into his mouth before releasing it with a soft pop. Ilya's grip on Shane's hand tightened involuntarily.

Troy launched into a story about someone from the networking session, and Ilya took the opportunity to lean in close to Shane, his lips nearly brushing Shane's ear.

"Stop doing that with your tongue," he whispered, low and urgent.

Shane's mouth curved around the straw, and Ilya felt more than heard the quiet laugh that escaped him. Shane turned his head just slightly, enough that his breath ghosted against Ilya's cheek when he responded.

"Doing what?" Shane murmured, all false innocence.

"You know exactly what."

"I'm just drinking." Shane pulled back to look at him, eyes bright with amusement, and very deliberately caught the straw between his teeth again. His tongue flicked against the tip. "Can't help it if I'm thirsty."

Ilya's jaw clenched. "You're doing this on purpose."

"Am I?" Shane's thumb traced another slow circle against Ilya's palm, and his smile was absolutely wicked. "Prove it."

"–right, Ilya?" Troy's voice cut through, and Ilya's head snapped back toward him.

"Sorry, what?"

"I was saying the open bar is dangerous. You guys staying long?"

"Depends," Shane said smoothly, finally releasing the straw to take an actual sip. When he lowered the cup, his lips were wet, and Ilya wanted to die. "We might head out soon. It's been a long day."

His eyes met Ilya's, full of promise and challenge.

"Yeah," Ilya managed. "Long day."

Shane's smile widened, and the straw found its way back between his teeth.

꘎♡ + one ♡꘎

“I’m so tired,” Shane groaned into Ilya’s chest. 

They just got back from babysitting Hayden’s kids, and every ounce of energy in their body has been completely exerted. It’s late and they’re lying together comfortably on their couch, but Shane hasn’t even started his night time routine yet. Ilya knows that if he skips it, he’s going to regret it in the morning.

“I know sweetheart, me too. But we should get ready for bed soon.” Shane groaned even louder at his words. 

“We can just get changed and sleep.” Shane replied, nuzzling his head into Ilya’s neck. Ilya bent his neck to smell Shane’s hair, lingering shampoo from this morning flooding his senses, and placed a soft kiss to the top of his head. 

“You will regret that in the morning,” Ilya said with a smile. 

“No I won’t. I’ll be fine.”

“Shane, come on. Let’s get up.” Ilya began sitting up, taking Shane’s body with him. Shane fake whined, but complied and got up from his spot on Ilya. He put his hand out, and Ilya grabbed it to stand up with him. 

The two held hands as they made their way upstairs, navigating the familiar steps to their bedroom.

“Do you want to shower, malysh?” Ilya asked, grabbing them fresh boxers from the closet to change into for the night. 

“I think I’ll just do my skincare, I’m too tired to hold myself up in the shower right now.” Ilya walked over to Shane and gave him a soft kiss, handing him the black shorts he had picked for him. 

“That’s okay, I’m going to get into the shower then.” Shane nodded and Ilya turned toward the bathroom, already pulling his shirt over his head. He fully undressed and placed it into a pile in the corner of the bathroom, making a mental note to put it in their hamper so Shane doesn’t have a heart attack.

The water was hot and perfect, exactly what Ilya needed after chasing around energetic kids all evening. He let it run over his shoulders, washing away the exhaustion and sticky remnants of juice boxes and goldfish crackers. Through the frosted glass of the shower door, he could see Shane’s blurred figure moving around the bathroom, could hear the familiar sounds of his routine– the medicine cabinet opening, bottles being set on the counter, the tap running. 

It was domestic and comfortable, the beautiful intimacy of spending years and years together. Ilya smiled to himself as he rinsed the shampoo from his hair, thinking about how Shane insisted on doing his skincare even though he was dead tired. Ilya knew Shane would have wanted to do this despite saying otherwise. It was one of those things that was a part of his daily routine that Ilya knew he would not want to break. 

When Ilya finally turned off the water and stepped out, reaching for his towel, he was still smiling. He dried off quickly, wrapping the towel around his waist, and ran another through his hair. 

Then he looked up.

Shane was at the sink, bent slightly forward, his hands cupped under the running water. His face was covered in white foam– a thick, creamy cleanser that he was working into his skin with careful circular motions. The foam was dense and opaque, clinging to his cheeks, forehead and jaw. It gathered at the corners of his mouth, dripped slowly down toward his chin.

Ilya froze.

Shane’s eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted as he concentrated on the task. His fingers moved methodically across his face, and more white foam appeared, building up in peaks and valleys across his skin. It looked exactly like–

Ilya’s mouth went dry. 

Shane leaned forward, cupping water in his hands and bringing it to his face. The foam began to slide, and Shane’s lips closed as he splashed more water onto his face, then opening it to breathe, the white cleanser running over his bottom lip, down his chin, dripping onto the counter. 

His mouth was open enough to see the pink of his tongue, the mixture of water and cleanser still sliding down his face. 

Fuck.

Ilya’s grip tightened on the towel at his waist. He should look away. He should– but he couldn’t. He was transfixed, watching Shane do his completely normal routine, watching Shane’s throat work as he bent lower to splash more water. 

Ilya has watched Shane do this a thousand times and yet–

Shane straightened, reaching blindly for the hand towel on the counter, his eyes still closed, water dripping from his lashes. When he pressed the towel to his face, a small sound escaped him– just a soft exhale of relief. 

Ilya was moving before he’d made the conscious decision to do so. 

He crossed the bathroom in two steps, his hand catching Shane’s wrist just as Shane lowered the towel from his face. Shane’s eyes flew open, startled, meeting Ilya’s in the mirror. 

“Ilya–”

“Don’t move,” Ilya said, his voice coming out rougher than he’d intended. Shane turned around and Ilya stepped closer, crowding into Shane’s space, and Shane’s back pressed against the counter. His eyes were wide, confused, but there was something else there too– awareness maybe. Recognition. 

Ilya’s free hand came up to Shane’s jaw, his thumb brushing away a streak of remaining cleanser at the corner of Shane’s mouth. Shane’s lips parted further, and Ilya felt the sharp intake of a breath. 

“Do you have any idea,” Ilya murmured, his voice low and deliberate, “what you looked like just now?”

Shane blinked. “I– what?”

“With that all over your face.” Ilya’s thumb traced Shane’s bottom lip, and Shane’s breath hitched. “Your mouth open like that, the cleanser dripping down your chin.”

Understanding dawned in Shane’s eyes, followed immediately by a flush that spread across his cheeks. “Ilya–”

“You looked so good,” Ilya continued, leaning in closer, his lips nearly brushing Shane’s ear. “So fucking good with your mouth open, all that mess on your face. Made me think of other ways I could make you look like that.”

“Ilya,” Shane breathed, and his voice had gone shaky. His hands came up to grip Ilya’s waist, fingers digging in through the towel. 

“Made me think about filling your mouth,” Ilya said, his voice dropping even lower. “Watching you take it. Watching it drip down just like that.”

Shane made a sound– half gasp, half moan– and his head tipped back against the mirror. His chest was rising and falling rapidly now, his pupils blown wide.

“You like that, don’t you?” Ilya asked, even though Shane’s reaction had already given him the answer. His hand slid from Shane’s jaw to the back of his neck, fingers threading through the short hair there. “You like thinking about me using that pretty mouth?”

“Yes,” Shane managed, and the words came out desperate. His hips shifted forward, seeking friction, and Ilya could feel the evidence of Shane’s arousal pressing against his thigh.

Ilya smiled, slow and satisfied. “Good,” he murmured, and pressed a kiss just below Shane’s ear. “Because I’m going to.”

He pulled back just enough to meet Shane’s eyes, saw the want there, the need, the way Shane was already completely undone just from words. 

“Bedroom,” Ilya said. “Now.”

Shane nodded, wordless, and let Ilya take his hand and pull him toward the door that connected to their bedroom. 

The bedroom was dim, only the soft glow from the bathroom spilling through the doorway. Ilya barely had time to register it before Shane was on him, hands sliding up his chest, mouth finding his in a kiss that was all heat and desperation.

Ilya kissed him back hard, one hand tangling in Shane’s hair, the other gripping his hip. Shane made a needy sound against his mouth, and Ilya felt the towel at his waist loosen, then fall away completely. Shane’s hands were everywhere– his shoulders, his chest, sliding down his stomach– and when Shane’s fingers wrapped around his cock, Ilya groaned into the kiss. 

“Fuck, Shane–”

“Let me,” Shane breathed against his lips, already sinking to his knees. “Please let me, baby.”

Ilya’s hands tightened in Shane’s hair, not pulling, just holding. “Yeah,” he managed. “Go ahead.”

Shane looked up at him, and the sight alone nearly undid Ilya– Shane on his knees, still in just his boxers, his lips already parted, his eyes dark with want. Then Shane leaned forward, and Ilya’s head fell back as Shane’s mouth closed around him.

“Fuck,” Ilya breathed. Shane’s mouth was perfect, taking him with an enthusiasm that made Ilya’s knees weak. Shane’s hands gripped Ilya’s thighs, steadying himself as he worked, and the sounds he was making– small, pleased hums– were obscene.

“So good,” Ilya murmured, his fingers threading through Shane’s hair. “You’re so fucking good at this.”

Shane moaned around him, the vibration sending pleasure shooting up Ilya’s spine. He took Ilya deeper, his throat relaxing, and Ilya had to brace one hand against the wall to keep himself upright. 

“Perfect,” Ilya said, his voice rough. “You’re perfect, Shane. You look so good like this.”

Shane’s eyes fluttered up to meet his, and the sight– Shane looking up at him with his mouth full, his cheeks flushed, completely focused on Ilya’s pleasure– was almost too much. Shane pulled back slightly, his tongue working along the underside, then took him deep again, and Ilya’s hips jerked forward involuntarily. 

“Shit, sorry–”

But Shane just made an encouraging sound, his hands tightening on Ilya’s thighs, urging him on. He wanted it. Wanted Ilya to use his mouth, wanted to be good for him.

“So fucking incredible,” Ilya repeated, his hand guiding Shane’s movements now, setting a rhythm. “Taking me so well. Love your mouth, love how needy you are.”

Shane whimpered, and Ilya could see the way his hips shifted, seeking friction even though there was nothing there. He was getting off on this, on being praised, on being used, and that knowledge sent heat flooding through Ilya’s body. 

The pressure was building fast, too fast. Shane’s mouth was relentless, perfect, and Ilya could feel himself getting close. But he didn’t want to finish like this. Not yet. 

“Shane,” Ilya said, his voice strained. “Shane, stop–”

Shane pulled off immediately, looking up with concern. “Did I–”

“No,” Ilya said quickly, pulling Shane to his feet. “No, you were perfect. Too perfect. I want–” He kissed Shane hard, tasting himself on Shane’s lips. “I want to be inside you.”

Shane’s breath hitched. “Yes,” he said immediately. “Yes, please–”

Ilya walked Shane backward toward the bed, their mouths still connected, hands roaming. When the back of Shane’s knees hit the mattress, Ilya eased him down, following him onto the bed. Shane’s boxers came off quickly, tossed somewhere across the room, and then they were both naked, skin against skin. 

Ilya pulled back to look at Shane properly– sprawled beneath him, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his cock hard and leaking against his stomach, his face flushed. The freckles across his cheeks stood out against his flushed skin, scattered like constellations. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Ilya murmured, tracing the line of freckles on his face with his fingertips. “So fucking beautiful, Shane.”

Shane’s breath caught. “Ilya–”

“No,” Ilya said softly, leaning down to press a kiss to one of the freckles on Shane’s temple. “Let me tell you.” Another kiss to the other side of his face. “Let me show you.”

He reached for the nightstand, fumbling for the lube and condom, and Shane’s hands came up to help, shaking slightly. 

“We don’t need a condom,” Shane sighed.

“What?”

“I want to feel you,” Shane replied, breathing heavily.

“Are you sure? I know you don’t like the mess.” 

“I’m sure. Please.”

Ilya nodded and kissed Shane softly on the lips. He grabbed the lube and slicked his fingers, pressing one against Shane’s entrance, watching Shane’s face as he pushed inside. 

Shane’s eyes fluttered closed, his mouth falling open on a soft gasp. “More,” he breathed. “I can take more.”

Ilya added a second finger, working Shane open slowly, carefully. “So perfect,” he murmured, watching the way Shane’s body accepted him. “So good for me, malysh.”

“Baby,” Shane gasped, his hips rocking down onto Ilya’s fingers. “Please, I’m ready. I need–”

Ilya withdrew his fingers and applied a generous amount of lube to his cock. He positioned himself at Shane’s entrance, one hand braced beside Shane’s head, the other guiding himself in.

The first press inside made them both groan. Shane’s hands came up to grip Ilya’s shoulders, his legs wrapping around Ilya’s waist, pulling him closer. 

“Fuck,” Shane breathed as Ilya sank deeper. “Fuck, you feel so good–”

“You feel good,” Ilya corrected, bottoming out and pausing to let Shane adjust. “You feel so tight, so perfect for me.”

He started to move, slow and deep, and Shane’s head fell back against the pillow, exposing the long line of his throat. Ilya leaned down to kiss it, mouthing wet movements down his neck. He moved up and began kissing the freckles on Shane’s face again. 

“Love these,” Ilya breathed against Shane’s skin. “Love every single one.” He kissed another freckle, then another. “Could map them all out. Could spend hours just looking at you.”

“You’re–” Shane gasped as Ilya hit a particularly good angle. “You’re so–”

“No,” Ilya said, pulling back to look at Shane’s face. “This is about you. About how beautiful you are. How perfect.”

Shane’s eyes were glassy, his pupils blown wide. “But you–”

“Shh.” Ilya kissed him passionately, his hips maintaining their steady rhythm. “Let me worship you, let me tell you how good you are.”

He shifted his angle slightly, and Shane cried out, his back arching off the bed. “There,” Shane gasped. “Right there–”

“Here?” Ilya thrusted again, hitting that spot deliberately, and Shane’s hands scratched at his back, nails digging in. “You look so beautiful like this, taking me so well. Every little thing you do is perfect.”

“Ilya,” Shane whimpered, and there were tears gathering at the corners of his eyes– not from pain, but from overwhelming sensation. “I’m– it’s so much.”

“I know,” Ilya soothed, kissing the tears away. “I know, baby. But you’re doing so good for me.”

He could feel Shane getting close, could see it in the way his body tensed, the way his breathing became erratic. Ilya reached between them, wrapping his hand around Shane’s cock, and Shane nearly sobbed. 

“Cum for me,” Ilya murmured. “Want to feel you cum. Want to see how beautiful you look.”

Shane’s orgasm hit him hard, his whole body going rigid, his mouth falling open on a silent cry. Ilya watched every second of it– the way Shane’s face went slack with pleasure, the way his freckles stood out even more against his flushed skin, the way his eyes squeezed shut and then opened again, finding Ilya’s. 

“Perfect,” Ilya breathed. “So fucking perfect.”

But he wasn’t done. He was still hard, still moving, and Shane was oversensitive now, gasping with every thrust. 

“Can you–” Ilya started, and Shane nodded before he could finish.

“Yes,” Shane said. “Use me. Whatever you want.”

Ilya pulled out carefully, helping Shane roll over onto his hands and knees. From this angle, Shane looked even more devastating– the long line of his back, the curve of his ass, the dimples at the base of his spine that Ilya had always loved. 

He pressed back inside, and Shane moaned at the sensitivity, his arms nearly giving out. Ilya’s hands came to his hips, steadying him, and he set a harder pace now, chasing his own release. 

“So fucking pretty,” Ilya said, his one hand sliding up Shane’s spine. “Love your back, love these–” his thumb pressed into one of the dimples, and Shane shuddered. “Love everything about you.”

The pleasure was building fast now, coiling tight in Ilya’s gut. Shane was pushing back to meet his thrusts, small, desperate whimpers signaling his oversensitivity. The sounds were pushing Ilya closer to the edge.

“Gonna–” Ilya managed, swallowing before he continued. “Shane, I’m–”

“Yes,” Shane gasped. “Please, Ilya. I want to feel you–”

Ilya pulled out at the last second, his hand moving in two strokes around his cock before he came hard across Shane’s lower back. The first stripe landed directly in Shane’s back dimples, white against his skin, and the sight of it– Shane marked as his– made Ilya’s orgasm intensify, pleasure rolling through him in waves. 

He painted Shane’s back with it, watching it pool at his lower back, the rest dripping down his spine. He stayed there for a moment, both of them breathing hard.

Then, Ilya dragged two fingers through the mess on Shane’s back, gathering the cum from his back dimples. He brought his fingers to his mouth, sliding them past his lips, tasting the salt and musk on his tongue. He held it there, careful not to swallow it. 

“Come here,” He murmured, voice muffled.

He pulled Shane up carefully, guiding him so his back was pressed against Ilya’s chest. Shane’s head fell back against Ilya’s shoulder, and Ilya turned Shane’s face toward him with his clean hand, their mouths meeting in a deep, filthy kiss.

Ilya pushed the cum into Shane’s mouth with his tongue, sharing it between them, and Shane moaned, his hand coming up to grip the back of Ilya’s neck. The taste passed between them, intimate and obscene, and when they finally broke apart, both swallowing, Shane was trembling. 

“Fuck,” Shane whispered. “Ilya–”

“I know,” Ilya breathed, pressing a kiss to Shane’s temple. “Stay here.”

Ilya pulled out of Shane slowly, carefully guiding him back down to the bed. He went to the bathroom and got a warm washcloth, cleaning Shane gently. He wiped away the mess on his back, between his legs, and pressed soft kisses to his body as he worked. 

When Shane was clean, Ilya looked at the sheets– definitely too dirty to sleep on, at least for Shane’s liking. “Come on,” he said softly, guiding Shane to his feet. “Let’s change these.”

They worked together in comfortable silence, stripping the bed and replacing the sheets with fresh ones from their closet. Shane was still a little unsteady on his feet, and Ilya put a hand on his waist to help steady him. Once the bed was made, they both climbed in, and Shane was immediately curled into Ilya’s side, his head on Ilya’s chest. 

Ilya wrapped his arms around Shane, holding him close, one hand stroking through his hair. Shane’s breathing was already evening out, his body going heavy and relaxed. 

“I love you,” Shane murmured against Ilya’s chest. “So much.”

“I love you too,” Ilya said, kissing the top of his head. “My perfect, beautiful Shane.”

Ilya could feel Shane smile against his chest, his eyelashes fluttering against his skin as they closed. “Not perfect.”

“To me you are,” Ilya said simply, and held Shane tighter as they both finally let their exhaustion take them and went to sleep.