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Ilya watches.
Shane has not noticed him yet. Fuck, Ilya thinks—he probably did not even hear Ilya come in the front door. The bedroom is far enough away, and Ilya was quiet, and Anya is away on a doggie vacation with her grandparent Hollanders. And Shane is—lost in it.
There is a way he has described it before: like he gets swallowed up by his own pleasure, everything outside his body falling away; like his head is full of smoke. Mostly, Shane has said, he only gets like this with Ilya. But he looks it now. His eyes are screwed shut, his mouth hanging open, not even trying to muffle the sounds that punch their way out of him—little moans, groans, gasps and harsh, husky pants as he grinds his hips down against a pillow.
Ilya’s pillow, Ilya realizes with a jolt in his stomach, when he looks past Shane to his side of the bed and takes in the empty space. Fuck.
Ilya’s text announcing his return had gone unread. This must be why.
Ilya had come home tired, aching pleasantly from his night out, and wanting his husband. Wanting to fall into his big, safe arms, two days without them—the two days that Shane has been away on a brand trip—chafing at him like an inside-out sock. Now, he is much less tired, and wants much more.
Shane had gotten back from his trip while Ilya was still out. He must have showered, Ilya thinks; he has that pink-skinned warm-water glow to him, and the hair curling over his forehead is a little damp. His back is to the door, the three-quarters angle of his body tragically hiding most of his cock, but offering an unfathomably gorgeous view of his muscled ass and thighs; the pillow (Ilya’s pillow, Ilya’s fucking pillow) folded in half between them; his head alternating between bowed forward and reared back as he snaps his hips down and back and down again against it. His face, Ilya can see only in profile, but it is enough and so gorgeous, too: his folded-down brow, his open mouth, his scrunching nose, his freckled cheeks flushed a deeper cherry-red.
A pair of shorts—the tiny ones, three-inch inseam, the ones Shane always wears when he wants Ilya to look—lies either unworn or hastily-shed on his pillow.
“Fuck,” Shane pants, head dipping down again, overwhelmed. He goes from thrusting hard to grinding deep, needy circles against Ilya’s silk pillowcase, his lashes fluttering in heady focus. The motion is the same as when he sits back to grind on Ilya’s cock. “Oh, fuck. Ilya.“
Ilya just barely bites back a groan, reaching down to palm his cock through his jeans. His blood had rushed down so fast, when he came to the open door of the bedroom and saw Shane through it, that it made him dizzy; he’s still leaned against the doorframe, not all the way trusting his body to support its own weight without stumbling.
“Please,” Shane says, on the bed, his voice slipping up somewhere close to a whimper. “Fuck, Ilya. Please. Need you.”
Ilya should have mercy on him, maybe. Give him what he needs. He could announce himself easily; a clear of his throat, a knock on the wall, a murmur of Shane’s name, and he could be walking in and relieving Shane of his misery. But Shane’s misery is so beautiful.
The pillow hugged between Shane’s thick thighs; the heavy grinding of his thick ass. Ilya settles more comfortably in the doorway, hand still rubbing his dick. He thinks about undoing his fly to touch himself through his boxers, but he knows the zipper would alert Shane, so he contents himself with the rough drag of denim.
(Something deeper here stills Ilya in a way he can’t explain—because this feels illicit, somehow; very much like something he would have come home to before, anticipating an empty house and instead finding Shane, an unexpected cancellation for the Metros bringing him across the miles stretched between them. Something old and maybe a little melancholic is begging Ilya to drink in the sight of Shane in their bed for as long as he can.)
Even like this, even unaware, Shane is putting on a show. Although—Ilya wonders. How unaware? Ilya’s text was not read or replied to, but there is Shane’s phone, face down on the nightstand. Did he hear it buzz, when Ilya told him he was on his way home? Did he look out through the door he left open, before starting, thinking about how he was positioning himself; thinking of what Ilya would see if he came home to this?
Ilya watches, mouth thick with saliva, as Shane pauses grinding to sit back on his haunches, taking hold of himself—his pretty, pretty cock, the angry red head of it finally bobbing into view—and stroking sloppily. He groans like something desperate, something dying, tugging at his cock for several long seconds and rutting up to meet his own hand—and then, just as quickly, he wrenches it away to tangle in the blankets again; angles himself forward to resume thrusting along Ilya’s pillow. He does it gasping, pained, almost like—like Ilya had told him to stop.
Ilya almost ruins it then; almost calls him good out loud. But he keeps quiet. Keeps watching.
Shane is getting close. Ilya sees it in the particular arch of his back; in the way his thighs spread out as he bears down harder, thrusts getting wilder; in the way his words dribble off into nothing, even Ilya’s name dissolving into a chain of high, panting moans.
Ilya thinks he is going to watch Shane come from the doorway, until suddenly he realizes he wants to touch him so badly it aches. Until suddenly he realizes he hates the distance between them. He has been deprived of his beautiful husband and his beautiful orgasms for long enough, he decides.
“Having a good night?” Ilya calls into the room.
He only feels a little bad when Shane jumps, hips stuttering to a stop at the interruption.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” He says, turning to glare at Ilya over his shoulder. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough,” Ilya says with a shrug. He squeezes his cock one last time, then lets go, shrugging off his leather jacket as he finally steps all the way into the bedroom—Shane’s eyes tracking him all the while. Then, grinning in the way he knows shows all of his teeth: “Long enough to know I will be needing a fresh pillowcase tonight.”
“Fuck off,” Shane laughs, with a shivery thrust against the pillow. He’s come down a little, but he still looks so close. Ilya wonders how much it will take to tip him over.
He tilts his head; adds, “My needy shlyukha,” in a low voice and watches Shane’s hazy eyes pin again.
“Get the fuck over here,” Shane says, hot. Of course, Ilya is already halfway to him.
Ilya thinks about taking off his jeans, on his way, or his tank top, or somehow doing both, but he only manages to get the button above his zipper undone and then he is there, Shane’s warm body twisting towards him, and his hands are needed for more important things. The kiss Shane meets him in turns his stomach inside out; his tongue in Shane’s gasping, gaping mouth, Shane’s teeth in his chest, something wet and raw in them both demanding to be fed. All night, Ilya thinks, he has been starving for this. He climbs into bed still clothed, pressing Shane down off his pillow-saddle and pinning him to the mattress. He looks and looks and looks at him, feeling dizzy; and Shane squirms only a little, letting himself be looked at.
Here, finally, Ilya has the sight of Shane’s left hand and the ring matching his own that glints from its third finger, bright in the low light of their bedside lamps.
“My pretty husband,” Ilya murmurs. The words buzz on his tongue like champagne. “So fucking hot. You were trying to kill me, hmm? Putting on such a pretty show for me, humping my pillow?”
“It smelled like you,” Shane says huskily. His little moment of bravado is gone, all of him loose again; all pleasure, all smoke. He moans, pushing up until his cockhead catches on Ilya‘s waistband. “I missed you so fucking much.”
Ilya’s heart and cock spasm together. Now, he thinks, the pillow must smell like both of them: his shampoo, Shane’s sweat and precome. Maybe he will never wash it again.
Shane’s fingers dig into Ilya’s shoulderblades while Ilya bites down his pink, tender neck. “Fuck, Ilya. I need—need you inside me. Need you to fuck me. Please.”
“Not yet, malysh,” Ilya tells him gently, shaking his head. “I think you need something else, first.”
He shifts to the side, just enough to fit a hand between them and around Shane’s pretty, angry cock. It throbs against his palm, slick and hot and needing—then he starts to stroke, and Shane’s body jackknifes off the bed.
“Oh,” Shane gasps, his eyes rolling back. “Oh, fuck—Ilya, fuck—oh, my god—yeah, please—“
It is so, so much better, Ilya decides, to watch him from up close like this. To be able to track every little twitch across his beautiful flushed face, every drip of sweat that shines on his skin, every shade darker his blush becomes; to see and feel Shane’s cock disappear and reappear through the tight circle made by his knuckles, the plump head flushed a hungry purple, more beads of precome spilling from the slit with every wet pump of Ilya’s fist.
Ilya works Shane hard and fast, chasing the orgasm he can see curling on his tongue. On another night, he thinks he could come just from this: Shane’s cock heavy in his hand, Shane’s strong thigh between his legs.
“Oh, god,” Shane whimpers again, fingers tangling in Ilya’s curls until Ilya sees stars. “Fuck, baby, I’m gonna—“
He cuts himself off with a hitched, filthy sound, hips stilling, spilling over his stomach and chest and Ilya’s hand.
Ilya wrings him through every pulse; every twitch and spurt of cum a twist of his wrist, a press of his thumb. He massages Shane’s softening cock until Shane winces and hisses, “Fuck, fuck, stop, stop—“, hand on his shoulder easing him off. Ilya thinks about having Shane lick his fingers clean until his eyes alight on his discarded pillow, streaks of Shane’s pre already drying dark and sticky in its creases.
“Ugh,” says Shane mussily, watching Ilya wipe off on an unmarred patch of dark blue.
Ilya raises an eyebrow at him. “Ugh?” He mocks. “Is all your mess, solnyshko.”
Shane huffs. “Yeah, well. It was your fucking fault.”
Ilya shuffles back down to tweak his chin. “Mmh, you would have made a mess without me. Even bigger one, maybe.”
“Asshole,” Shane says.
Shane isn’t fucked out like he sometimes gets after he comes, but he is warm and loose and happy, smiling uncomplicatedly down at Ilya in the settled glow of his climax. Ilya feels wound too tight in comparison, the tangled ache of hunger sitting hot in his bones and thick in his throat. He sidles closer, rocking a little against Shane’s thigh as he does, and Shane scratches gentle nails down his bicep.
“I mean—I saw you,” Shane says, softly. “I’d just been planning to wait—get myself ready for you, but wait until you got home—but then I saw what you posted. You looked so fucking good.”
It clicks slowly, Shane’s meaning. Ilya had given into the urge to preen, a little, when he was still out at Monk’s with the others, and posted an instagram story; a selfie in the bathroom mirror, his jacket slipped down intentionally to show the loon on his shoulder, the visible half of his face pouting at the camera with the caption: my lover come home to me :(. He and Shane generally do not share much of their relationship with the public—but it makes Ilya feel warm and fuzzy, sometimes, that he is able to want Shane openly now; that he can miss him and let the whole world know. It warms him even more to know that Shane had seen him and wanted him so badly he couldn’t wait.
“I am glad you saw,” he murmurs, voice dropping low. “Was for you.”
Shane raises his eyebrows a little, bemused. His voice is still soft when he speaks. “I know it was.”
He’s watching Ilya’s mouth, and his chin is tilted up, begging for a kiss, so Ilya leans down to give it to him. They kiss for a while, slow and hot; tongues stretching and lapping between them, lips parting and meeting with soft wet sounds, teeth sinking in and biting until more soft sounds come out. Ilya, dizzy with longing and still so hard, finds himself thinking of how much he’s missed this, these past two days—how impossible it feels that he and Shane used to go months without this—which must be why, when he pulls back, he tells Shane:
“Maybe this is Rose Landry’s fault.”
Shane snorts, hard enough to rock Ilya where he’s come to settle more solidly against his side. He is beautifully flushed, again or maybe still, his lips glossy and swollen and red. “What—Rose? How is this Rose’s fault?”
Ilya pouts. “She recommended you for stupid brand deal. Stupid skincare campaign.”
Shane tilts his head, playing demure. “You really want to talk about Rose while I’m naked?”
He is such a terrible tease, Ilya’s husband. There is so, so much of his beautiful skin on display, softly-furred arms and strong legs and faint treasure trail, his chest and stomach still splattered white—and all of it is Ilya’s. All of him is Ilya’s.
“No,” Ilya sighs. “I do not ever want to talk about your boring ex-girlfriend. She has taken you from me one too many times.”
Shane smiles, entirely too satisfied. “You were her plus-one to her last Red Carpet, Ilya.”
Ilya leans down to shut him up with another kiss, smiling into it when Shane’s lips immediately chase his. “Shh, no. No Rose Landry here. Only very sexy husbands Shane and Ilya.”
“You’re a dork,” Shane mutters between kisses.
“This is different. Not four-letter D-word I am used to hearing my husband call me.”
“I can call you a dick, too, if you want.”
Ilya hums, circling his hips—an exaggeration of seduction, sanding down the sharp edges of his body’s need. It is maybe a little unusual that he still isn’t more undressed, especially after this long without seeing Shane—but he is enjoying this, too. The wait; the lingering; the slow crawl towards what they both want, now that they have the time to draw out the in-between.
“I like it when you are mean to me,” he says, dropping his voice down to a purr.
“I know,” Shane says, smiling. “Pervert.”
Ilya twists to catch his hand, kissing it. Then he noses up to kiss his ring.
He starts to shimmy himself down the bed with Shane still watching him, kissing his way slowly down Shane’s body as he goes. He stops at each splatter of cum and presses his tongue to them; moans low at the taste; sucks at the skin until it’s shining, wet, clean. Just how his love likes.
“Yeah,” Shane murmurs, his eyes glassy and warm.
Ilya suckles a little at the soft head of Shane’s cock when he gets to it, pulling a startled “Mmf, fuck—“ out of Shane’s chest as his head tosses back. Then he moves lower, to Shane’s thighs, pressing them apart with his hands and sinking his teeth into the tender inner flesh of the left one. He keeps himself there, cheeks hollowing, long enough to make a bruise, his stomach swooping when Shane curses and presses his thigh more firmly to Ilya’s mouth. When he finally detaches himself, a string of spit briefly links him to the new mark before it snaps back against his chin.
Shane squirms against the bed, gaze gone dark again. “I still need you to fuck me,” he says.
Ilya lifts his head to grin. “You think I only came down here for the view?”
Shane’s huff of laughter trails off into a moan when Ilya reaches down to rub the pad of his thumb over his hole, and Ilya spares a moment to think of how lucky he is before he sets to devouring him.