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It is an ordinary Sunday at the cottage during the off-season. Shane sips black coffee and picks at smoked salmon, his attention anchored to an article on his phone. Across from him sits Ilya, casually shoving a chocolate croissant into his mouth. The domestic scene is framed by the morning sun glistening off the surface of the lake.
So far, so ordinary.
But Shane knows by now that nothing in his life stays ordinary for long with Ilya in it.
"Let’s get married!" the Russian exclaims out of the blue.
Shane almost drops his phone; he isn’t sure if it’s because he is startled or because of the words themselves. For the last two years, they have made this cottage their summer ritual. And while they have said the most romantic things to each other, marriage has never come up. Shane nearly chokes on his salmon, his face flushing a deep heat.
"What?"
"Let’s make it super official!"
Shane sets down his coffee and looks at him. Ilya is beaming with a radiance Shane has never seen before. As Ilya leans forward, a few blond curls fall over his forehead, obscuring his eyebrows, his grin widening with every inch he leans in.
"Come on, what you say?" he asks, his striking eyes seemingly sparking. This time, Shane actually does drop his phone as Ilya reaches across to seize both of his hands.
Staring into Ilya’s expectant gaze, Shane realizes it is his turn to speak. But since his brain refuses to provide anything intelligent, he simply repeats himself. "What?"
"Ah, you heard me," Ilya says, releasing Shane’s hands to lean back. He crosses his legs and, with a casual wave of his left hand, brushes the loose curls back into place. They both know Shane loves that move. If he wasn't undeniably, uncontrollably in love with him already, Shane would fall for him right there on the spot.
"You wouldn't have to take my name," Ilya continues. "And I think I keep mine, too. Is just... connected to me," he shrugs. "Is simply who I am. Also, Ilya Hollander sounds stupid, yes?"
As he rambles on about the aesthetic horrors of hyphenating their last names, Shane realizes he is serious. There is no "craziness" to it. They have known each other for what felt like forever; they have a history that has weathered everything to become a romance. They live together. They even have a dog. It just hasn't occurred to Shane until now that the concept of marriage means anything to Ilya Rozanov.
Ilya’s grin widens into something that looks borderline insane. Shane knows immediately that he is about to do something completely unhinged.
Ilya reaches out, dips his fingertips into the bowl of guacamole on the table, and deliberately smears it across his own shirt.
"Oh no..." he smirks. "I think I must take this off. I’m so sorry, darling, you know I always make mess."
He begins to slowly unbutton his shirt. Shane picks up his fork and tries to refocus on his salmon, pretending to be unbothered even as he tracks the shirt sliding off Ilya’s shoulders out of the corner of his eye. Shane closes his eyes, chewing slowly, trying to block out the mounting mental images of Ilya Rozanov sweating and whimpering under his touch. He lets out a shaky sigh.
"Oh, I think I got some on my pants, too," Ilya adds. Shane hates him for being so childish, so stupid, and so handsome all at once. He suppresses a smile, though a bit of salmon falls back onto his plate. He hears the soft sound of fabric brushing over skin and hitting the floor.
Shane opens his eyes.
Ilya stands up and prowls around the table until he is standing directly behind Shane. His presence is electric. Ilya leans down until his warm breath fans across the back of Shane’s neck. He lingers there for a few agonizing moments until Shane finally reaches his limit and drops his fork again.
"Please."
"Please what?"
"Please touch me, Ilya."
Ilya’s left hand strokes Shane’s shoulder, trailing down to his chest, soon joined by his right. He grips the hem of Shane’s shirt and pulls it over his head.
"Stand up," Ilya murmurs. Shane obeys instantly. "Good boy."
Ilya unbuckles Shane’s belt, kicking the discarded pants aside as they hit the floor. He runs his fingertips up and down Shane’s back, caressing the skin until it feels like they are melting into one another. Finally, Ilya leans in. As their lips brushed, a knot of heat coiled in Shane’s stomach. He presses himself against Ilya, demanding more.
Ilya pushes Shane back slightly before letting his tongue slip into his mouth again. Shane’s eyelids flicker uncontrollably as a hot, wet mess forms between their lips. As Ilya continues to kiss and caress Shane everywhere with his warm fingertips, Shane can’t help but let out a low moan. Wanting more, Shane presses himself against Ilya, more desperate this time, hooking his arms behind Ilya’s neck to pull him closer.
Ilya slides his hands into Shane’s boxer shorts and hauls them down. Shane’s heat brushes against Ilya’s stomach, making the Russian huff in excitement. He begins rubbing himself against Shane while pulling him into a messy, passionate kiss. Their breathing grows heavy, and Shane feels as if his knees are about to buckle. As if reading his mind, Ilya suddenly hoists Shane onto the table, sending a few dishes crashing to the floor with loud bangs and the sound of splintering ceramic.
Ilya feels Shane flinch. He knows Shane is thinking about the mess they are making.
"I clean up later," Ilya promises, his voice hoarse as he tries to keep Shane’s focus on the present. It seems to work; Shane relaxes under his touch again.
Ilya trails hot, wet kisses up and down Shane’s neck and chest, his hands roaming everywhere, only coming up for air to whisper how good he looks.
"God, you’re so hot."
Shane’s cheeks flush deep red; partly from the compliment, but mostly from the way Ilya says it: a raspy, low whisper. The cold wood beneath Shane’s back makes him feel even more exposed. He is entirely at Ilya's mercy now, and he loves every second of it.
"What do you want, moy lyubvi?"
"You. All over me."
Ilya grins. "How about we start with a blowjob, yes?"
"Yes! Just do something already, I’m dying over here!"
Ilya’s hot tongue licks its way down Shane’s body until he reaches the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. It feels as if Shane has lost all control of his own limbs. He arches against Ilya’s touch, begging for more. This is truly the only time he lets himself go-the only time he is completely free.
Ilya licks the lenght of Shane’s erection and Shane can’t help the twitching of his cock. He wraps an arm over his face, but Ilya clicks his tongue at that movement.
"Ah no, look at it.“
Shane pushes up on his forearms and looks down at Ilya with relaxed eyelids, mouth open just a little to make room for all the huffs and moans to escape.
Ilya digs his fingers into Shanes tighs, spreads his legs open a little more and dips down again, finally sucking his cock. Shane wriggles a little, overwhelmed by the hot and wet sensation, but Ilyas hands keep him in place. He takes his time, bobbing his head slowly up and down, sucking his cheecks hin, creating tension, but slowly and steady.
Shane groans at the sight of it. Ilya is being extra-sloppy, making trails of warm spit run down Shane’s balls down to his hole. Ilya presses his thumb softly against it. Shane squirms and Ilya comes up for air.
"Sorry, I cannot wait. Blowjob is cut short, oke?“
Shane nods.
Ilya takes the coconut oil from the table, opens it and sticks two fingers inside. He scrapes out a gracious amont, warms it with his palms and then lubes his fingers up.
He presses Shane down onto the table, hovering over him for a moment, taking in the beautiful man in front of him.
"I’m going in now, yes?“
"Jesus Fuck, yes!!!“
Ilya chuckles.
"Will fuck you with my fingers first. Make you ready for me.“
The tip of his finger brushes against Shane's entrance, making him gasp. Ilya works him open right there on the table, stretching and curling just so to make Shane see stars. It is slow, deliberate torture, and Shane never wants it to end. He is rocking back onto Ilya's hand, clutching at his shoulders, babbling nonsense that is mostly Ilya's name.
Ilya slowly removes his fingers. Then, he lines himself up and slowly, but precisely, presses the head of his cock into Shane who moans loudly. Their eyes meet.
"Is ok?“
"More than okay. More, please!“
Ilya slides inside fully and begins to move. The sound of their bodies meeting is a wet, rhythmic slap that echoes in the quiet of the cottage, accompanied by their panting breaths. Ilya's hands are braced on either side of Shane's head on the table, his arms locked, the muscles in his shoulders and biceps burning with the effort of holding himself up, trying to control the force of his movements to the best of his ability.
Shane's legs are wrapped around Ilya's waist, his heels digging into Ilya's back, urging him to go deeper, faster. His head is thrown back, the long, graceful line of his throat exposed, a thin coat of sweat making his skin gleam in the golden light. His eyes are squeezed shut, his lips parted, and a series of breathy moans are falling from them with every sharp snap of Ilya's hips.
"God, Ilya, please."
Ilya obliges. He shifts, changing the angle just so, and Shane's body bows off the table. "There!" Shane gasps, "fuck, right there!"
He's beautiful like this, Ilya thinks, so wild, unarmed. Not the composed captain, not the media-friendly golden boy, not the polite canadian boy from the neighboorhood, but just Shane. His Shane. Completely and utterly his.
Ilya dips his head, pressing his mouth to the hollow of Shane's throat. He can feel the frantic pounding of Shane's pulse against his lips, a rapid, drumming beat that mirrors the pounding of his own heart.
"You feel so good," Ilya murmurs, the words muffled against Shane's skin. "So tight, so perfect. Made for me."
Shane looks wrecked. His hair is a mess, sticking to his forehead in damp strands. His cheeks are flushed a deep red, and there's a desperate, pleading look in his eyes that Ilya just knows so so well by now.
"Ilya," Shane breathes, the name more a prayer than anything else, "Ilya, more…"
Ilya seals his mouth over Shane's. It's a messy, desperate kiss, all teeth and tongue, a clash of wills and wants. He drives into Shane, harder, faster, chasing the release that's coiling tight in his gut.
Shane meets him thrust for thrust, his hips rising to meet Ilya's. He's clutching at Ilya's shoulders, his fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises, but Ilya doesn't care.
He wants them. Wants the marks, the proof of this, of them.
It’s like nothing outside of them exists in this moment. To the slick heat of Shane's body, the sounds of their pleasure, the overwhelming, all-consuming feeling of being completely and utterly lost in someone else. It's terrifying and exhilarating at the same time, a scary and beautiful freefall, a skydive that Ilya never wants to end.
He can feel Shane getting close, can feel the tension in his body growing bigger and tighter, slowly reaching his breaking point. His moans are getting higher, more desperate, and he's chanting Ilya's name.
"Ilya, Ilya, Ilya…"
It's the sweetest sound Ilya has ever heard and it almost pushes him over the edge.
"Look at me," Ilya commands, his voice rough, ragged. "Eyes on me, Shane. I want to see you."
Shane's eyes flutter open, and the look in them is so trusting, so vulnerable, it almost breaks Ilya.
"I love you," Ilya says, and the words are so easy now. Its the truest thing he's ever said. „Marry me, Shane Hollander.“
"I love you too," Shane whispers, and then he's suddenly coming, his body arching, a cry tearing from his throat as he spills between them, hot and wet, coating his stomach and chest with his release. His eyes are locked on Ilya's, and in that moment, as the pleasure overtakes him, he sees something shift in their depths. A decision. A choice.
"Yes," Shane gasps, the word a ragged, breathy exultation. "Of course I’m saying yes."
The words send Ilya over the edge. He buries his face in Shane's neck, a hoarse cry tearing from his throat as he follows Shane over, the world dissolving into a white-hot blaze of pleasure. He spills into Shane, a deep, pulsing release that leaves him trembling, boneless.
He collapses onto Shane, his full weight pressing him into the hard wood of the table, but Shane doesn't complain. He just wraps his arms around Ilya's back, holding him close, his hands stroking up and down Ilya's spine in a soothing, repetitive gesture.
They lie there for a long time, a tangle of limbs and ragged breaths. The sun has dipped lower now, casting long shadows across the room, bathing them in a soft, golden glow.
Ilya lifts his head, bracing himself on his elbows so he can look down at Shane. His face is soft, relaxed, a small, contented smile playing on his lips. His eyes are closed, but he opens them when he feels Ilya's gaze on him.
The look in them is enough to make Ilya's breath catch. It's full of so much love, so much happiness, it's almost painful to behold.
"You meant it," Ilya says, and it's not a question.
Shane's smile widens, a genuine, happy sight. A thing of beauty. "Of course," he says, his voice soft. "I want to marry you, Ilya. I want to build a life with you. I want everything."
Ilya feels a lump form in his throat, a wave of emotion so overwhelming it almost sweeps him away. He leans down, pressing a soft, gentle kiss to Shane's lips, a stark contrast to the desperate, hungry ones from before.
This one is a promise.
"I give you everything," Ilya whispers against his mouth. "Everything I am, everything I have. Is for you."
Shane's arms tighten around him, and he tucks his face into the crook of Ilya's neck. "I know," he murmurs, his breath warm against Ilya's skin.
They lie there in the rays of sunlight that come in through the window, wrapped in each other's arms. The solid, unshakeable foundation of their future laid out on the polished wood of their kitchen table, a sacred space now, christened with sweat and cum and their love that had defied all odds.
And as Ilya holds his fiancé in his arms, he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he's finally found a home.