Adult Content Warning
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Summary
Shane pulls back slightly, breathless, but Ilya doesn't let him get far—his hand tangles in Shane's hair and drags him back in. The glasses are already fogging up from the heat between them, but Shane doesn't bother to take them off. Instead, he presses closer, slotting his hips against Ilya's and grinding down in slow, deliberate circles. The friction pulls a ragged groan from deep in Ilya's chest.
"Fuck," Ilya rasps, voice wrecked already. His lips are swollen and slick, pupils blown wide as he stares up at Shane—glasses fogged, cheeks flushed, lips parted. "You are—" He swallows hard, hands sliding up Shane's back under his shirt, fingers brushing over the familiar scars there. "You are unfair, lyubimyy."
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or: 5 times Ilya loses his mind over Shane's glasses and the 1 time the tables turn.