Archive of Our Own

"Shane, are you sure you don't want any more dip?"

"Hm?"

Ilya grins at his husband over the frankly too-large black granite counter. "Dip? I think there is maybe too much. Is not that surprising, given it was you that made–"

"Shut up, asshole," Shane mutters, fiddling with his fork as he considers his plate of a dinner that Ilya is incredibly proud of his husband for cooking up. "I'm probably okay."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, just put it in the fridge."

"Won't it go bad?" Ilya asks.

"No, it shouldn't if you cover it up," Shane pouts in that way that means he's displeased, and in that way that Ilya unfortunately finds remarkably hot. "But do it after, come on, I want to start watching. I've been looking forward to our evening all day."

Shane wanders off through to the living room (as much as someone can walk through the open-plan space that is the cottage), sitting down onto the couch with his plate on his lap with a small huff that is so cute Ilya rushes after him just so he can collapse beside him.

"If I'd have dropped that," Shane says when Ilya jostles their food, "You would've been in big trouble, Rozanov."

"Sorry, lyubov," he replies, placing a loud, wet kiss on Shane's cheek as apology.

"I still can't believe that you've never seen Fly Away Home," Shane says, reaching for the remote and switching on one of the cottage's three large televisions. "This used to be all I watched as a kid."

Ilya can imagine it pretty clearly. Over the years, Shane has told him many tales of how when he was a child he'd become obsessed with one particular thing, and nothing else. Yuna and David, too, take great joy in describing all the times that Shane would demand, night after night, to be read the same story, or day after day, to watch the same film.

"No, as you know lyubimyy, we did not have cinemas in Russia," Ilya teases.

"Oh my god, that was one time–"

"I mean, it wasn't great, yes, but we weren't living in the stone age–"

"It was an innocent mistake!"

Ilya pulls Shane closer to him by the shoulder, kissing him again – as much as Shane is complaining, Ilya can feel him trying not to smile, and it makes him grin just the same. "I know. It makes me laugh, though."

"Clearly," Shane grumbles.

Shane snuggles impossibly closer into Ilya's side as the opening credits begin, still somehow managing to balance his loaded bowl of various impeccable dishes he spent all evening making on his lap as they sit against one another like the lovesick husbands they are.

The novelty of this, Ilya thinks, will never really wear off. All of it, of course, simply being together in an abstract sense – being together and out and proud of it – but just the simple uniqueness of being here, with Shane, crowded together on one small cushion on a couch with space for ten, with no obligations or plans for the next three weeks.

They've only been at the cottage for two days, but it feels like their first. Day one, half of the day was spent travelling, which always puts them both in a bit of a mood and leaves them weary and eager to collapse into bed. This morning, after waking Ilya up with a lazy, loving blowjob, Shane broke the news that he had to be in meetings for most of the day (Ilya then worked out that the blowjob was probably intended to soften the slight – it did not). So really, they haven't had all that much time together.

But now, with Shane pressed so close it feels like he's trying to burrow into him, and the room bathed in the soft light of artfully placed lamps, and the music of the opening of Shane's favourite kids movie, none of that seems important to Ilya.

He's just gathering a large helping of the guacamole that Shane made way too much of onto a chip when his phone starts to buzz in his pocket. Ilya reaches down to get his phone as discreetly as he can, glancing round to see Shane completely engrossed already. Holding his phone at lap-level, Ilya feels a small smile forming when he sees his screen lit up with Marlow (bostons finest) pick up for littt time 🔥😏🍻. God, but Ilya was not the best at contact names when he was a rookie.

Ilya hasn't actually spoken to Cliff in a while... but sitting with Shane, and eating the dinner that Shane lovingly made, and watching the movie about runaway birds or something that Shane adores is far more important, so Ilya turns his phone off and places it on the coffee table in front of them.

The peace lasts about thirty seconds. This time, when Cliff calls, Ilya's phone (which is still on full brightness) lights up the dim space around them. Shane's eyes flit to the offending object quickly, before they're back on the television. Shane says nothing, because Ilya can already tell what he wants.

Placing his bowl on the low table, Ilya reaches to decline the call again. He really hopes that Cliff gets the hint after this... although Cliff Marlow has never really been one for getting the hint, Ilya recalls.

They must be at least five minutes into the film by now, and Ilya hasn't absorbed a second of it, which feels like something of a betrayal of super-fan, seven-year-old Shane who worshipped this movie. Ilya's just making to grab his food, salivating a little at just how good it looks, when he freezes in place, hand outstretched.

Because his phone is ringing again.

Shane, again, doesn't say anything, just clears his throat quietly.

"Sorry," Ilya huffs.

"That's okay," Shane replies softly, offering an understanding smile. "Maybe just tell him you're busy?"

"Yes," Ilya says, rushing to do what his husband has so earnestly suggested. "Yes."

As rapidly as he can, Ilya types out, i'm busy right now can i call you later?

But obviously, Cliff it way more focused on incessantly pressing the call button than reading his incoming notifications, because despite Ilya sending three more messages after that one – busy with shane btw, but i'll be free soon, and please stop calling me bro – his phone continues to buzz in his hand like an out of control cicada.

Shane frowns. "Is he okay?"

"Yes, probably," Ilya replies, "I just need to–" he jabs at the off button again, sitting on his phone like it can suppress it from being blown up by 'bostons finest'.

He is really quite stupid sometimes, Ilya thinks to himself, as, naturally, when his phone starts to ring in place again, the entire couch vibrates. Something that Shane definitely feels, based on the way he sighs.

There are several types of Shane sighs – sighing in relief, like when they win a game in overtime; sighing in pleasure, like when Ilya hikes Shane's knees over his shoulders. The sigh Shane looses now, as Ilya's phone goes off again, is neither.

The sigh comes again as Shane pauses the film, and says, "Can't you just switch your phone off?"

Ilya worries his lower lip. "Uh... yes. But maybe I pick up, to make sure nothing is wrong?"

"If something were wrong you would've heard, Ilya," Shane replies. That's a Yuna Hollander piece of wisdom right there – bad news travels quickly. "I'm sure he's fine."

But even so... "I don't know. He didn't reply to my message."

"Yeah, because he's too busy calling you! Just, like, block him for the next hour or something."

In truth, Shane is almost definitely correct. Ilya gazes over his dinner, still untouched on the coffee table, the television, paused on a frame just as unfamiliar as all the ones that preceded it, and Shane, lips pursed in displeasure.

"Come on, Ilya," Shane pouts. "I've been looking forward to this since this morning."

And Ilya has too, but still... he has to check everything is fine.

So, avoiding Shane's gaze because he knows he won't be happy, Ilya reaches for his phone, and picks up.

"Roz!" Cliff's voice comes through immediately, so loud that Ilya has to drag his phone an inch away from his ear. "You took your fucking time, bro."

"Marly–"

"Dude, we are seriously missing you in Boston, man," Cliff slurs. In the background, the low beat of what Ilya knows well as shitty club music thuds, as Cliff goes on, "When are you going to come and party with us again?"

In his periphery, Ilya sees Shane scowl. I'm sorry, Ilya mouths to his husband, grimacing. Shane just pouts again.

"Marly, listen, I am–"

"Do you remember that night after we played Detroit, like, I don't know, maybe seven years ago? That was such a good time..."

"Ilya!" Shane hisses. "He's clearly fine, can't you hang up now?"

"Cliff," Ilya cuts in, interrupting Cliff's drunken rambling. "I am busy right now, can I call you back a bit later–"

"No, no Roz, I swear I was calling you for a reason!" yells Cliff. "I gotta tell you what happened to me a few nights ago!"

Shane abandons his own food next to Ilya's on the coffee table as he leans forward to address him, "Ilya, come on. We haven't had any time together all day, I'm sure you can talk to Marlow tomorrow. I spent all that time making us dinner, can't we just enjoy it and watch the film right now?"

Ilya would like nothing more, so he does as Shane suggests. "Look, Marly, I will call you later. Enjoy your night." With that, he places his phone on the side table beside him, with what he hopes is a look of confident assertion.

Shane smiles contentedly. Ilya grins back, glad to have reverted their evening to the original plan they had for it. Shane's telling the truth, Ilya knows, that he's been anticipating this ever since he broke the news to Ilya that he had to work all day, and Ilya's been looking forward to it too. It's not a normal day at the cottage, in his opinion, if they don't spend it overtly invading one another's personal space.

Shane's just about to press play, when, suddenly, he pauses in place.

Ilya turns slowly to see Shane looking beyond him. Looking beyond him to the side table, where Ilya's phone has started ringing again.

For about ten seconds, neither of them move, the only sound in the room the incessant buzz-buzz-buzz of Ilya's phone.

"Ilya," Shane murmurs.

"I'll just check that nothing's wrong–"

"Ilya don't," Shane whines. His look of unhappiness as he surveys their untouched food and the television is rapidly shifting to one of plain old frustration, and Ilya knows he's really risking it now...

But– "Just for a minute, lyubov, then I'll get rid of him."

"Rozanov, if you pick up that fucking phone–" Shane says warningly.

As quick as he would take the puck, Ilya grabs his phone. He briefly hears Shane groan out some words beside him, probably something akin to why the fuck did I marry you and make such a lovely dinner for you, but it's soon cut off by Cliff's still incredibly drunk voice as Ilya picks up.

"Ilyaaa!" Cliff drawls, still shouting to be heard above the thumping music.

"...Hey, Marly."

Next to him, Shane snorts coldly. "Fuck this," he mutters, before he switches the television off entirely, picking up their bowls and stalking back towards the kitchen.

"Shane–"

"If you want to talk to your friend so bad, Ilya," Shane says, not looking back as he discards their food on the stainless steel counter, "go ahead and talk to him. I really don't care."

Theres an unspoken end to that sentence – I really don't care... it's not like I spent all day in meetings, and then made this supper for you, and made this plan for us, and now you don't want it. Shane continues to wander off in the direction of the bedroom, and Ilya desperately wants to follow him.

"You okay, Roz?" Cliff asks.

"Yes it's just–" Ilya looks despondently at where Shane is disappearing into their bedroom. He'll do this sometimes, give Ilya privacy to speak to Sveta or Galina, but this is... pointedly not that. "Shane–"

"The old ball and chain, huh?" Cliff says, bursting into incredibly loud laughter. Ilya hears others, too, and wonders what exactly Cliff is wasting his time with.

Ilya's mouth opens and closes mutely for a few seconds. "What the fuck are you talking about?" It comes out a little more sharply than he intended, but Ilya can't really bring himself to care. Not right now, whilst Shane thinks he's ruined their night.

"You know," Cliff replies, "like... like when the wife is being–"

"The wife?" For a brief moment, Ilya is almost glad that Shane's gone, because if he'd overheard that, well... if there's one thing Shane hates more than anything else, even more than losing, it's being called the woman in their relationship.

"No, no, not like that," Cliff rushes to say, stumbling over his words, "the husband too, I guess, I'm an ally, man."

"What are you– how do you even know that word?"

"What, ally? I dunno, Roz, just learned it I guess. Means I'm supportive and all that, right? Oh, happy pride month by the way!"

Ilya blinks. "It's August."

"Shit, my bad!" Cliff yells. Ilya winces. "I just mean– oh more shots, dude you read my mind. What are they? Vodka? Oh my fuck, Roz it's like you're here in spirit– oh my god, in spirit! Like, because it's vodka!"

"How are you even this drunk so early?"

"I don't know, bro," Cliff says, "I'm just like that."

Distantly, Ilya wonders if he's lost all comprehension of the English language. Either that, or Cliff is simply making zero fucking sense. "Did you actually have anything important to tell me?"

"I mean, I'd say me just calling to say hello is pretty important–"

Ilya pinches the bridge of his nose. "Marly. Please."

"Right, right, okay. So, basically, you remember that girl I used to have a sort of friends with benefits thing with? Laura?"

Ilya has no idea who Cliff is talking about.

"Uh... yes, yeah I remember her."

"So I was out a couple nights ago, with Connors and some of his buddies. Did you know Connie is married now?"

"Yes, I was at–"

"The wedding! Fuck, my bad again, forgot about that."

Holy hell. How much exactly has Cliff drunk? "The point, Marly, please get to it."

"Okay, yeah, so I was out a few nights ago and we ran into..."

A small sound from the edge of the open-plan living room has Ilya whipping his head around. Shane is standing there, in the doorway, staring right back at Ilya. His eyes are dark, and his expression largely unreadable, but Ilya knows pissed off Shane when he sees him, and Shane is evidently rather pissed off right now.

"...and she was just stood at the bar like nothing's wrong, like she didn't say all that shit to me last time," Cliff's voice continues on. Ilya doesn't give a flying fuck.

"Uh huh," he replies, utterly uncaring and unaware of what it is his friend is saying.

Because Shane is walking back over now. He wanders through the space like Ilya's not even there, ambivalent expression twisting into one of annoyance when his lovely brown eyes catch on their still-full bowls abandoned on the counter.

Cliff is still talking, obviously, going on and on about someone Ilya has no recollection of, but none of that's important right now, not when Shane comes to a stop right before him. Shane sits on one of the other large couches, right at the end so he's facing Ilya, but pointedly not sat beside him. The absence, even when Shane's just a couple feet away, stings. His husband's hair is mussed, his face flushed a pretty pink, and Ilya wants to reach over and devour him.

"...like do you remember all that stuff she did? Roz?"

Ilya blinks. "Sorry?"

"When we saw her that one time," Cliff supplies.

"Oh. Uh... no, I don't remember."

As he watches Ilya reply to Cliff, Shane's look of displeasure deepens. But it's not just frustration – that's there, of course, but there's something more, too.

Shane's got a certain look in his eye. A scheming look.

And Ilya knows he's screwed.

Shane doesn't do anything at first. He just perches there and watches, cocking his head subtly every time that Ilya responds to Cliff. Ilya really should hang up, now that Shane's made his irritation so evident, but Cliff is in his element now, describing, at length, some event that apparently Ilya was there for.

"...dude, it was insane, she was so angry for some reason, I don't even know why..."

Ilya bluffs his way through it all. "Oh, really?"

"Yes, and so I was like..."

"No way."

"Roz, I seriously cannot believe you don't remember this, it was so crazy..."

"Mm, yeah."

There's some sort of game going on here, Ilya can tell. It's in the way he's answering Cliff, the way Shane's watching him, the way he's not hanging up. But Ilya still can't tell what it is, just like he can't tell if he even wants to know what it is.

It goes on like that until Cliff catches him off guard, when he says, "...yeah, she kicked me in the nuts and called me a slur."

Ilya's attention is drawn away. "Wait, what? What are you talking about?"

This, Shane does not like. Ilya can tell, because when he looks back at him, Shane's lips are pursed, his gaze saying something like fine, you asked for it.

And Ilya knows he is really screwed.

Slowly, silently, Shane's fingers go to the barely frayed hem of the old Raiders t-shirt he's wearing. For a bit, he just toys with it, rubbing the softened material between his fingertips, as all the while, he goes on staring at Ilya.

"...it hurt so fucking bad..."

"Oh no, that's... bad."

In one smooth motion, Shane takes his top off, revealing miles upon miles of bare skin that Ilya longs to lean over and lick. There's a slight sheen of sweat gleaming on Shane's pecs, making his chest shine in the low light. Vaguely, Ilya wonders how it got there.

What are you doing? Ilya mouths to Shane, as Cliff continues to speak.

"Nothing," Shane murmurs.

Which would be a laughable response anyway, but the truth of Shane's statement is really put to the test when his hands go to his waistband.

"...so I told her..." Cliff drones on, unaware.

It takes some shimmying and twisting on Shane's part, but Shane knows full well that Ilya's gagging for it anyway, so he stalls a bit, pulling his sweatpants down to mid-gloriously-built-thigh, then a little further, then a little further. When Shane is sat in nothing but his briefs, Ilya mutes the call.

"Shane," he says, the question silent.

"Ilya," his husband replies mockingly.

"Is this... what is this?"

"I told you," Shane says slowly. "Nothing."

"You are bad liar, you know."

Shane rolls his eyes. "Whatever, Ilya. I thought you wanted to talk to Marlow, hm? So you should probably talk."

He nods in the direction of Ilya's phone, from which Cliff's drunk voice is ringing out: "Roz? You there?"

"Okay," Ilya mutters, long and drawn-out and deeply confused. He unmutes his phone, saying, "Sorry, Marly, I just got... distracted."

"No problem!" Cliff answers boisterously. At least Ilya can rely on Cliff having enough drinks in him to have no clue of what's happening.

And for a little while, Ilya's capable of keeping some semblance of being a normal, functioning, not-watching-his-almost-naked-husband person as he continues oohing and aahing along to whatever the hell Cliff is talking about now. That is, until Shane decides that tonight is the night to torture Ilya completely, as when Ilya briefly stares off out of the window wondering how to respond to something he really does not care about, Shane takes the opportunity to get naked. Fully.

Leisurely, like he's simply absentmindedly exploring, Shane's shifting fingertips crawl down his torso. He skates lazy touches across his pecs, the top of his infuriatingly defined abs. When he pinches one of his nipples, Shane sucks in a breath, and Ilya almost topples off the couch because of how far forward he's leaning.

"...I mean, what do you think of all that?"

Cliff's question jolts Ilya back into place, and he scowls as he realises he has no way of knowing how to respond. So, to be on the safe side, he just goes for, "Mad."

"Right!"

Ilya breathes a sigh of relief. Maybe this means Cliff's story is coming to an end, and Ilya can focus less on that, and more on fucking Shane into the couch.

But in a way that Ilya thinks proves the universe is just pranking him, Cliff goes on, "So, anyway, all of that is kinda irrelevant, what I was trying to tell you is..."

Unfortunately for Ilya, and for Ilya's very weak resolve, Shane gets hard whenever his tits are played with, and tonight is clearly no difference. The sight of Shane's gorgeous cock, half-hard against his thigh and already drooling precum, makes Ilya's mouth water, and briefly consider throwing his phone out the window.

When Shane reaches further down, Ilya groans, so loudly that Shane fixes him with a sharp look.

"Bro, you good?" Cliff calls.

"Oh– uh... yes," Ilya frantically looks around the room to try and come up with some idea of how to reply, "just I, uh," his gaze lands on the kitchen– "stepped on a fork."

Immediately, Ilya grimaces. Not his best work.

"Jeez, be careful!"

A low, breathy laugh comes from his right, and when Ilya looks back, Shane's got a hand wrapped around his cock, lazily stroking himself to full hardness. Ilya mutes the call quicker than he can say holy fuck my husband is so hot.

"Shane," Ilya asks again, "what is this? You are torturing me?"

"I wouldn't call it that," Shane says softly, as all the while his hand continues to slowly move. "I'm just... taking care of myself. Please, don't let me distract you."

"Distract– what do you want? You want me to touch you?"

Shane pouts as he appears to mull over the question. "Hm... no, I don't think so."

"What?"

"I don't want to get in the way of what is clearly a very important phone call, baby," Shane says, words dripping with condescension. Oh god, Ilya is fucked. "Just go ahead. Don't mind me."

So even though it makes him want to get on his knees and cry, Ilya does what he's told. The only thing that could make this worse for him right now, he reckons, is disobeying.

"Sorry, Marly," he hurries to say as he unsilences the call. "I just had to go take care of something real quick. Anya was whining to be let out."

Now there's a good one. Evident in how Cliff goes, "Oh, how is she? It's been too long since I've seen Anya. It's been too long since I've seen you, Roz! Can we get together soon?"

And so it starts again.

"Uh... I don't know. When I'll be in Boston next, I mean," Ilya replies, the words all a little spaced apart as he watches Shane.

" You don't need to be in Boston! I'll come and see you, man, where are..."

Shane is biting his lip, but every so often his brow will furrow, and his eyelashes will flutter, and his hand will speed up, and he'll gasp. It's how Ilya knows that Shane's feeling good, and it's what makes Ilya want to jump his bones.

But Shane said no. Or, more specifically, Shane said don't mind me.

Don't mind me, when his breathing picks up and his body stiffens in the telltale way that Ilya knows means he's trying not to come.

Don't mind me, even when Shane releases his own cock from his grip, fingers gleaming with precum, not being able to suppress his whimper when his cock hits his belly with a small wet sound.

Don't mind me, even when Shane shifts. When Shane plants one foot on the ground and lifts his other leg up to place his foot on the couch cushion, opening his stance and spreading his legs wide, showing Ilya everything, showing Ilya where... where–

Where the tight rim of his hole shines with lube.

Ilya is so frantic in his rush to hang up on Cliff, elaborate stories and requests be damned, that he thinks nothing could stop him. Nothing except for–

"No."

It's quiet, because Shane is likely completely aware of not wanting to be heard.

Ilya, in his desperation, is not.

"No?"

"...huh? What was that?" Cliff slurs.

Ilya looks at Shane, then down at his phone, held in his lap in preparation to hang up, then back at Shane. All Shane does is incline his head.

Slowly, Ilya lifts his phone back up to his ear. "Sorry, I was reading a message."

"What did it say?"

"Uh, nothing interesting."

Ilya waits for Cliff to move on, to continue his drunken rambling, before he whispers, "What do you want me to do?"

"I thought I was clear," Shane murmurs. "I think you should continue talking to your friend. Since that's your priority."

As he speaks, one of Shane's beautiful, traitorous, wandering hands caresses the inside of his own thigh, moving higher, higher, higher. When his fingertips brush against the slightly swollen rim of his hole, Shane finally moans, and Ilya... Ilya feels like he might be on another plane of existence.

"But–"

"Go on, Ilya."

Somehow, Shane's words come out entirely unaffected. Entirely unaffected, even as he continues to indolently play with his hole. Shane's facade of being unfeeling, however, is broken when he plunges two fingers into himself, curling them upwards, his back arching off the couch pillows.

The give of Shane's pretty hole is so easy, too easy, and that's when Ilya realises. "Oh my fucking god." That's what Shane disappeared off into their in a huff bedroom to do. To fuck himself open so he could come back in here and finger himself right in front of Ilya, all whilst Ilya can't do anything.

"...what was that? Sorry, man, I think my volume was down or something, you just went all quiet."

Ilya considers whether telling Cliff to fuck off and die will irrevocably ruin their friendship.

"Oh," he says. Shane is unfazed, fingers still moving, his head lolling back with pleasure. "Don't worry about it."

"So anyway, how have you been?"

"Ah, you know," Ilya replies distantly. "Enjoying summer."

"You know where you'd probably really enjoy the summer? Fucking Boston, bro!"

"Yes. Probably."

Shane's truly going at it now. Ilya blinks, and the number of fingers that Shane's using to fuck himself changes from two to three, his rim going all taut and puffy at the stretch. There's no lube in Shane's hand – not yet, at least – but Shane must have worked a fucking pint into himself in private, because as he gets more and more open, his fingers withdraw shiny with lube that's already inside.

It makes for an obscene squelching noise, that causes Ilya's cock to twitch in his pants, and oh– Ilya is hard. Ilya is so fucking hard, it's a marvel he hasn't passed out, what with how all of the blood in his body seems to have migrated to his cock.

"Keep talking, baby," Shane murmurs, and Ilya doesn't even think to do anything but obey.

On the call, Cliff goes on oblivious, "We really should make a plan. I haven't seen Shane for a while, either, how is he?"

How is Shane, indeed.

"He's... good."

This isn't entirely new to them, one of them getting themself off whilst the other just has to stare. In fact, it's one of Ilya's favourite ways to tease his husband when he gets too mouthy – to entice Shane to kneel at his feet, head rested on Ilya's thigh, as he makes Shane watch him jerk off, calling him a needy cockslut the whole time. But the other part, the Cliff-Marlow-being-on-the-phone-right-now part, that is thrillingly new.

Shane's been largely silent until now. But when his three fingers curve upwards, hitting that delicious angle that he loves so much, Shane finally stops biting his plush lower lip, a wrecked, loud moan leaving him.

They both still. Waiting.

"Man, that's good," Cliff says, and Ilya sighs, relieved. "How was the move to– bro, are you getting another drink? Can you grab me one?"

Shane eases his fingers out with a lewd, wet sound and a quiet mewl at the loss. In their absence, Shane's hole clenches around nothing needfully, fucking winking at Ilya. Ilya sways in place with how hard the sight makes him. 

With the same pace that he's applied to all of Ilya's torment – so far slower than he would usually do anything – Shane stands. He makes his way over to the coffee table and reaches into one of the drawers that Ilya is sure they've stashed lube in, and the move makes him bend down at the waist, practically shoving his perfect ass into Ilya's face which really feels a little unnecessary, but Ilya knows is likely amusing his husband to no end.

Ilya watches, entranced, as Shane comes and stands before him, widening his legs so that Shane can plant himself between them, a vision of sex looming above him.

Mute the fucking call, Shane mouths.

"Uh, Marly, give me one second, Anya is needing me again," Ilya rushes to explain, pressing the button again that will leave them with some semblance of privacy.

Shane's lip quirks in approval. "I'm going to ride you now."

Ilya thinks he died and gone to heaven. Or, some Shane Hollander version of heaven, where Ilya's idea of an eternal paradise is to be used like a tool for pleasure by his beautiful husband.

"Okay," Ilya says, which is a pretty pathetic thing to say but really all he can think of. "I should hang up–"

"No."

"I don't– you don't want me to–"

"You really upset me earlier, Ilya," Shane whines.

"I'm sorry–"

Shane's eyes darken. With his pupils blown so wide and sweat beading on his cheekbones, he looks like lust personified. "I'm not finished," he says sharply. "See I was ready to have such a nice time with you. I'd planned it all out, we'd have our food and watch a film, and then at the end of the night, I'd drag you to our bedroom and let you fuck me. But you decided that talking to Marlow is more important."

"Shane, I'm sorry," Ilya begs. "I can still fuck you, please let me fuck you. I'll carry you to bed right now–"

"No, Ilya. This is what you get for ruining our evening. So I'm going to ride you, because I've been waiting for this all day... and you are going to stay on the phone, since that is clearly what you value."

Ilya feels his mouth drop open. Shane's mind, and the power of it, truly should be studied.

He has known for years, of course, that this is a thing for Shane. He'd never actually want to be caught, but it's the risk, the rush of it – the threat that maybe, just maybe someone could see or hear just how feral they get for one another. Shane's barely-concealed fantasy has reared its head a few times before: when he steals Ilya away to blow him in the bathroom at a Centaurs party; when he entices Ilya into rimming him until his legs shake, body supported against the tiles of the empty locker room showers.

But this is, by far, the most outlandish thing that Shane's ever suggested.

For a moment, Shane drops the sultry tone. "Is that okay?"

"Shane," Ilya says like a prayer. "Shane."

"...Yes?"

"That's the hottest fucking idea you've ever had."

Shane blinks. "Oh. Well, good." When he nexts speaks, his voice is rough, "Because I want to come twice tonight, and for that I need my favourite toy."

Well now that's just cruel. Shane knows what the toy talk does to Ilya – and right now, it's making him feel like he might ruin his pants.

Shane drops to his knees, and even with the shift, Ilya still feels pinned down by him. Quicker than Ilya can blink, Shane has his jeans unbuttoned. Shane glances up at him and says, "You should probably keep talking to him. We don't want him thinking anything... out of the ordinary is happening."

Ilya nods dumbly, and doesn't move. It's not his fault; he's far too transfixed by the sight of Shane mouthing at the bulge in his briefs.

"Now, Ilya."

"Right, right," Ilya mutters. Then louder, "Sorry, Cliff. Anya is acting very weird today."

"Don't apologise Ilya, it's all good!" Cliff's back to yelling again, and Ilya reckons he must have had one drink (or four) in the time that Shane was explaining his wicked plan.

Ilya squirms as Shane pulls his briefs down to mid-thigh, not bothering with the rest of his clothes. That's so fucking hot within itself – the idea that Shane doesn't care about any other part of him – and it makes his cock twitch in the air.

"She's not sick or anything is she? Cuz I'll come over there right now and I'lll..." Cliff slurs, "I'll give her some, like, dog medicine or something. You know I love that dog, man."

Shane licks his lips, and leans in to place a perfunctory kiss to the dripping tip of Ilya's cock. Ilya has to bite his knuckle to stop himself from groaning into the mic of his phone, removing his hand to gasp a response, "No, she's okay."

He has to fight back another sound when Shane pulls back, reaching for the lube and squeezing a healthy dollop onto his fingers.

"Good, good," Cliff goes on, "I miss her though."

Ilya opens his mouth to respond, just as Shane chooses the exact moment to slather his entire achingly hard cock with lube. "She misses you too– fuck!"

"Fuck, fuck," Ilya pants under his breath, as Shane looks up at him through his dark eyelashes. He's not even jerking him off, for god's sake, just preparing his toy, but Ilya is so turned on, has been turned on since Shane waltzed back in here with a prepped hole and a (filthy) dream, he feels like he could come any second.

"...Roz? Are you good? What was that?"

"Nothing," Ilya wheezes.

Shane stands, only to then swing his legs over Ilya's thighs, straddling his lap – a rightful king on his throne. He hovers there teasingly, his stretched and swollen hole just out of reach, while Ilya's cock twitches, unable to stop his hips from jolting up in desperation.

"Okay, bro, whatever you say."

When Shane reaches beneath himself, Ilya has to hold his breath to keep from moaning. Shane grips at Ilya's cock to position it right, the leaking head just pressing at his rim in an obscene kiss. And then he begins to sink down.

"So, how–" Ilya attempts, "How are–"

He's incapable of getting out the words, let alone a full sentence. Not when he's so distracted by the all-encompassing feeling of Shane's hole stretching to fit him, and the warm, wet heat engulfing his cock. When he bottoms out, Shane throws his head back, releasing a low groan of pleasure and relief.

"...you sure you're alright? You sound a bit– like, winded, or something."

"Fi–" Ilya clears his throat. "Fine!"

"Right. Well, if you say so."

In his lap, Shane circles his ass, a full-body shudder travelling up him when Ilya brushes his prostate. He braces his hands on Ilya's shoulders, and then, ever so gradually, he raises his hips – up, up, up, until just the head of Ilya's cock remains nestled in that impeccable warmth.

And then, in a way that somehow manages to catch Ilya off guard, Shane slams back down, burying Ilya's cock all the way inside in one go and gasping at the delicious friction. Shane does it again... and then again, and again, and again – an agonisingly slow rise and a brutal fall, until he's bouncing in Ilya's lap without abandon, trying his best to be quiet, but still releasing small, hungry little sounds that make Ilya impossibly harder.

"...Ilya? You there?"

Ilya doesn't think he could reply if he wanted to.

He mutes the call again, revelling in how Shane notices, and lets his mouth fall open as soon as Cliff's out of earshot.

"Oh my god, Ilya," Shane gasps, rising and falling like Ilya's just a toy to him. "It's so– ngh, fuck– so good."

"Uh huh?" Ilya asks, fuck-dumb.

"Yeah," his husband pants, "yeah, you're so fucking perfect for me. Being so– so well behaved."

Ilya knows he's pushing it, but the view of Shane above him is just too amazing, he can't resist reaching up with a trembling hand to tweak one of Shane's nipples. They both moan, Ilya even louder at the way Shane's hole tightens around him hungrily. It's only a second later, though, that Shane slaps his hand away.

"Maybe you've– fuck– forgotten, baby," Shane snarls, "but this is meant to be a punishment. You don't get to touch. You only get to look... and try to be quiet."

With that, Shane reaches a finger out to where Ilya's phone is held loosely in his hand, pressing the unmute button and smirking.

"...you there? Il–ya? Maybe the signal is shot or something..."

For the first time this whole night, Ilya feels grateful for Cliff Marlow.

"Yes! Sorry, bad–" Ilya has to bite his lip when Shane shifts the angle, leaning backwards to make Ilya's shaft press right against his prostate, and spasming around his cock, "bad connection, I think."

"Ah, no problem! You out of the city or something?"

Shane's fucking himself on Ilya's cock desperately, glorious thighs and defined abs working in tandem as he brings his hips up only to drop all the way back down. Sweat runs in silvery rivulets down his torso, mixing up with the pool of milky precum on Shane's belly, sticking to his abs in lewd, pearly strings from the drooling tip of his cock.

"Ilya," Shane gasps under his breath. "Ilya–"

"Is– is good?" Ilya begs to be told.

Shane goes to respond only to be cut off by Cliff's booming voice. "Is what good?"

At the silent suggestion that Cliff may have overheard, Shane tightens like a vice, his nails digging into Ilya's shoulders as he grips at him furiously. God, but Ilya has married a slut... and he wouldn't have it any other way. And anyway, it's not as if the whole situation doesn't send something of a rush through him, too.

"Your uh, your night?"

"Oh, it's incredible Roz, you can't tell me you don't miss going out in Boston, dude. I know Ottawa isn't the same..."

Taking the opportunity of Cliff talking again, Shane whispers in Ilya's ear, "So good, such a perfect toy, baby."

Around him, Shane's hole spasms greedily, and Ilya stares like he's under a spell as Shane's cock jerks against his stomach. It's a reaction Ilya knows all too well, just as well as he knows that it means Shane is about to come.

Shane bites his lip erratically, but eventually he's incapable of staying silent, as close to coming as he is. He removes one of his hands from where it's been grasping at Ilya's shoulder, bringing it up to his own chest to play with his tits, and the touch makes him moan.

"...Ilya? Are you outside or something, man?"

Shane is steadily losing his impeccable rhythm, his hips moving all stilted and desperate as he races towards release. On a particular slam down, Ilya's cock reaches impossibly deeper, and Shane fucking whines, slumping onto Ilya's shoulder and mewling into the ear opposite to the one his phone is held at. 

"Yes, yes, we– I am outside. Birds are– nghh– crazy out here, you know?"

"Birds? What time is it up there? You're in Ottawa, right?"

"I don't fucking know–" Ilya's cut off by Shane gripping at his jaw hard. The message is clear, and it would make Ilya laugh if he didn't feel like he was going to die: that Shane can still tell him off for his tone, even whilst bouncing on his cock like an insatiable slut.

"Sure, bro tell me about it," Cliff laughs uncertainly. "You've got some crazy background noises going on right now."

Ilya has to bite down on his own fingers to stifle a sob at a particularly cruel roll of Shane's hips. "Oh– oh yeah?"

"...Yeah. Where's, um– where did you say Shane is, again?"

Shane moans loud, and comes right there in Ilya's lap.

He doesn't even wait for his cock to stop spurting, jerking against his belly, to press his lips right to the shell of Ilya's ear and murmur, "You can hang up now."

Ilya's never, ever followed an order so quickly. Fuck Cliff Marlow, and fuck phone calls.

All that Ilya cares about is right here, shuddering atop him and clenching around his cock. Pearlescent ropes of cum decorate Shane's torso all the way up to his collar, and Ilya makes the most of his position pinned beneath him to lick them up. The press of his tongue to Shane's hot, cum-sticky skin makes Shane whimper, his hole convulsing like it never wants to be empty.

It's honestly a wonder that Ilya himself hasn't come yet – god knows this is one of the hottest things he's ever experienced. His cock fucking aches, still buried inside his wicked husband.

"That was," Ilya pants, "fucking insane."

Shane leans forward to kiss Ilya, a sloppy mess of tongue and teeth and spit and the salty tang of Shane's cum. When he pulls back he laughs to himself, giggly and trembling from his orgasm, and the vibrations of it make Ilya groan through his teeth.

"Don't act dumb, baby," Shane says. And it's then that Ilya realises Shane isn't laughing because of how good he feels; he's laughing at Ilya thinking they're finished... because of course, "I said I wanted to come twice tonight."

Shane lifts himself off of Ilya's cock, making them both moan. He shifts his limbs, massive thighs moving this way and that until he's straddling Ilya in reverse, so that Ilya's left facing Shane's sweat-shiny back and breathtaking ass.

"So," Shane continues, craning his neck to make partial eye contact with Ilya, "you're only halfway there."

And then he sits back down, taking Ilya's cock completely to the root, and like he never took a break at all, begins to roll his hips once more.

"Holy fuck," Ilya groans, "Shane, fuck–"

All of Ilya's senses feel overloaded at once - the feeling of his t-shirt, which Shane didn't bother taking off in his greed to get to Ilya's cock, clinging to his skin, rubbing against him with every move of Shane's hips; the sounds, now that Shane is letting himself be as loud as he wants, their choked-out moans and the wet squelching of Shane fucking himself on Ilya's cock.

And, of course, the sight. Ilya thinks he could lose his mind just from this view. The shifting of Shane's defined back, his muscles cut in elegant shapes by the dim light. His thighs, the thighs that Ilya would worship, has worshipped, tensing and relaxing with every bounce. And his ass – plump and tigered with stretch marks, rippling with the force every time Shane fucks down.

"Hnghh, it's so– so good, Ilya–"

"Yeah?" Ilya gasps desperately. This is what he solely seeks out when Shane gets like this – the affirmation that he's fucking Shane well.

"Uhh," is all Shane manages to get out, but Ilya's been doing this for long enough to know that it's a yes.

Ilya thinks he could be driven crazy by this. Shane's hole is swollen, clenching and twitching as it stretches obscenely wide around Ilya's cock, and god, Ilya might come from the sight alone. He wishes there were two of him– no three of him, so he could be fucking Shane and rimming Shane and kissing Shane all at the same time.

"You know Ilya," Shane pants, his head lolling back to come to rest on Ilya's shoulder so he can breathe into his ear, "you're always– oh my god– always making fun of me, calling me a whore." Shane lifts himself up so just the head of Ilya's cock remains in his hot, wet hole before bucking his hips so that Ilya's plunged all the way back in. "But I think you're just as much as much a whore, a-a dirty, needy whore just like me."

Ilya whimpers. "Huh?"

"You like the idea that–" Shane cuts himself off to cry out directly into Ilya's ear on an especially brutal thrust, "the idea that someone could hear us, just like I do, hm?"

A full-body shudder runs through him. "N-no, I don't–"

Shane tightens up, almost cruel in how much it makes Ilya groan. "Don't lie," he snaps. "Fucking me while you're on the phone with someone... fucking me in front of all of these big windows."

It makes Ilya's eyes snap to the vast panes of glass that make up the cottage's walls. Now the sun's fully set, their reflection is illuminated in full, and they make a filthy tableau, bronzed and sweaty skin shining as Shane moves atop Ilya insatiably.

"You love it, don't you," Shane goes on, "the idea that someone could see us right now. See me using you like the perfect toy that you are."

"Uh huh, yeah– oh fuck, Shane– yeah, love it," Ilya whines. "Shane, lyubov, gonna come 'm gonna–"

"Say it," Shane orders.

"What?" he asks dumbly.

"Say, I love that someone could see you using me like a toy, Shane."

Ilya moans brokenly, so loudly the sound echoes around the room. "I love that s-someone could see you using me like," Ilya sobs, his balls tightening and cock aching with how close he is to coming, "like a toy, Shane–"

"Yeah you do," Shane gasps out. "Fucking slut."

Ilya makes a noise he would hardly recognise as human, wailing some garbled version of, "Fuck, fuck, Shane 'm coming, oh my– yebat–"

Shane stills, Ilya's cock buried deep, his husband mewling happily at the feeling of Ilya's cum filling him up.

"Shane, Shane, Shane," is all Ilya can say, reduced to repeating the name like a prayer, squirming in place as his cock twitches and spurts inside Shane.

And all Ilya can do is continue to writhe and whimper when Shane starts to move again. Not his erratic bouncing, not like before, just rolling his hips gracefully, grinding down on Ilya's cock, even as Ilya protests underneath him.

"Lyumbimyy, please, I can't–"

Shane doesn't stop, not even for a second. "Need to come, Ilya, need to–"

"Please," Ilya whines, "Please, please."

It's loud and hot and wet and messy, where the lube and cum pumped into Shane's hole are being fucked into a frothy mess, where their overheated skin is sticking together, where the precum dripping from Shane's cock runs down into Ilya's lap. Shane collapses back against Ilya's chest with a guttural moan, grinding his hips in a stilted way as he rushes towards his orgasm.

Ilya thrashes and sobs, the all-surrounding warmth of Shane's hole too much after he's just come. "Shane, it's– please–"

"Fu-uck Ilya, you're so– so deep."

Shane's leaning all the way back, supporting himself entirely on Ilya's front as his ass jolts back and forth, and Ilya knows exactly what Shane needs to be pushed over the edge.

He snakes a hand around to sneak it between Shane's cock and his stomach, placing his palm over Shane's lower abdomen, and pushing down hard.

"Il-hngh-Ilya, oh fuck!" Shane wails, writhing in Ilya's lap.

Ilya savours the sensation of Shane's cum dripping down onto his fingers, and Shane's hole clamping down rhythmically around him. It's one of his favourites, after all.

Shane slumps sideways, moving his limbs around sluggishly until he's laying across Ilya's thighs on his front. He breathes softly into the couch cushion, making small, broken-off sounds as his legs continue to tremble.

For a while, neither of them speak, the only thing breaking the silence their equally as strained panting.

Once he's regained feeling in his extremities, Ilya brings a hand to Shane's ass cheek, shamelessly groping the plush skin there... because Ilya may have been fucked all dumb, but not so dumb that he can't enjoy one of his favourite spectacles on earth – his cum oozing out of Shane's puffy, well-fucked hole. Shane unconsciously clenches and relaxes, more sticky whiteness leaking out, his rim gaping open under Ilya's lustful gaze.

"G't down here," Shane slurs into the cushion, wrapping a needy hand around Ilya's forearm.

It takes even more awkward limb manoeuvring, which makes them both giggle like teenagers, but soon enough Ilya's curled up beside Shane, both of them nestled within the overly large cushions of their couch. They're so close that Ilya can feel the hot dampness of Shane's breath on his cheeks, and Ilya can't help the way his eyes flutter shut when Shane shifts a hand up to stroke Ilya's hair.

"You're so good, Ilya," Shane whispers, fingers moving soothingly through Ilya's sweat-damp curls. "So good."

Ilya makes a low, contented noise in the back of his throat, nuzzling into Shane's touch.

"Thank you," murmurs Shane, pressing a soft, gentle kiss to Ilya's lips, "Thank you," then the tip of his nose, "Thank you, baby" then his forehead and cheekbones and chin.

If Ilya were a cat, he'd be purring. Like a cat (or more like Anya, really) Ilya rolls onto his back, hoping it will earn him some Hollander kisses on his neck or chest or belly, and he's shifting in place as–

"Ow!" Ilya yelps, "What the– chto takoye?"

Shane raises his head. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm–" Ilya wriggles around, reaching beneath his back to find– "This stupid fucking phone!"

Shane snorts, burying his head in the crook of Ilya's shoulder to stifle his laughter.

"I need to– to burn it! To throw it into the lake!" he cries.

"Don't be silly–"

"I will, solnyshko, I swear," Ilya promises, turning his head to press his lips to Shane's hair. "No more disturbances."

Shane blinks, his brown eyes large and loving. "Really?"

"Really. As long as you promise–"

"No more working?" Shane guesses.

"No more working," Ilya vows. "Just us."

"Just us."