Archive of Our Own

1.

Early August:

Their house is bustling, and Ilya can feel Shane's anxiety and discomfort like a second skin, like he painted glue over the back of his neck and it's slowly peeling away, obvious and constant. He keeps glancing at his husband, seeing his tight smiles and tense shoulders while he socializes with his "answering the media" face and straightens all the horizontal surfaces while he's making small talk and as he smushes the recycling down into the can to fit more bottles and cans inside. 

To be fair, the first hour or so had actually been completely pleasant, and this bonfire/ cookout had been Shane's idea. 

The entire team and the WAGs are over for a night of fun before their season home opener. Shane has been playing for the Centaurs for over a year now, and everything has been great. He's getting used to his new team, all their quirks and idiosyncrasies. He even really likes most of them. But seeing them a few days a week at work is a far cry from having thirty- odd people in your home. Your very particularly organized, calm, cozy, controlled home. Especially when the most you normally have is your own parents, maybe another couple, or the Pike entourage. 

Ilya is having a good time, even with his periphery snagging on Shane's aura of palpable anxiety now and then. Cassie has had her baby, who is with her sister for the evening, so she and Bood are here to relax and have a good time, sitting on bar stools by the kitchen, talking animatedly with Ilya over drinks. Troy and Harris are being loud as hell, entertaining the group playing with the yard games just outside. The rooks and defensemen are with them, as is Luca. 

Wyatt has engaged Shane in a discourse about superhero movies versus their respective comic arcs that Shane looks like he would very much like to escape. His eyes are glazing over, his shoulders up around his ears. He's picking at his cuticles. Ilya puts a finger up to pause in a story from the Boods. 

"One second; Shane," Ilya calls sharply. He practically jumps off the sofa with an apology to Hayes for the interruption. Ilya jerks his chin toward the deck. "Go start the grill." It's not a question. Shane nods and shoots him a grateful little look, and quickly disappears out the sliding door. 

He can feel Hazy and Lisa's disapproving eyes on him and ignores it while he finishes prepping the kebabs to take outside. Bood and Cassie finish their story with a curious air between them. 

Five minutes later, Shane reappears with a more natural smile and calmer set to his spine, and picks up the conversation exactly where it left off with Wyatt. Ilya smiles to himself and takes the food outside to grill, followed shortly by the rest of them as they continue to socialize. Shane immediately takes over the grill, as Ilya knew he would, leaving his husband to entertain while he does this routine task. Ilya presses several little kisses into Shane's temple and squeezes his nape before sitting nearby to talk with their friends and leave Shane in peace with a beer and his tongs. 

Eventually, after everyone has had tasty nibbles and plenty of beers and it's dark and some people have left to relieve their babysitters, they've coaxed the rest of group out to the firepit. Ilya and Shane settle with most of the core players and their partners around a roaring fire. 

Deek is telling the group about their trip to Bali over the summer and the hellatious flight back. Ilya is in one of the adirondacks, his long legs spooled out toward the circle of bricks. Shane is beside him, eyes on the fire. He hasn't moved in several minutes other than to smile thinly or nod when the group laughs or responds to the story. 

Ilya reaches out, nudges his elbow. Shane spooks slightly, takes his hand with a small smile, and pretends to relax into the chair. After a few moments, with Shane's fingers stimming imperceptibly in his hand, Ilya drains his beer. He squeezes Shane's fingers, getting him to look at him. 

"Take this, go get me another." He points to the empty house with his chin. Shane blinks at the empty bottle, gets up, and goes. 

It takes Ilya a second to realize the conversation has completely died. His mind is busy watching Shane go into the house, resisting the urge to follow him and kiss him breathless against the counter to calm him down. 

"Okay, what the fuck dude?" Wyatt breaks the silence. 

Ilya frowns at him. The rest of the group is looking at him strangely. "Me? What?" 

"D'you always boss him around like that?" 

Ilya's eyebrows crawl up his forehead, offended. Wyatt backtracks, a little. 

"I mean, earlier —" 

"Uh, Hazy—" Troy starts, but is ignored. 

"— you just told him to jump, he jumped. What the fuck?" 

Ilya watches him for a moment and holds up a finger when Troy starts to talk again. 

"Shane — ahm. He is… anxious? He is starting to have panic attack. I send him away, give him a task, he collects himself, he comes back better. Watch." 

"We make him nervous? After a whole year?" Luca asks quietly. Ilya softens. 

"Is not you. He likes you all. Tonight was his idea. He is just-- in his head, is too much sometimes. So I put something else there instead, and usually it helps." 

He winks at Troy who narrowly avoids shooting his beer out of his nose. 

The group settles. Barrett rolls his eyes so hard he nearly falls into the fire, which makes them laugh and breaks the tension. The conversation picks up again, quieter this time. Ilya watches the back door of the dim house. 

Two minutes later, Shane comes back, a beer in hand and a ginger ale for himself, looking better. He smiles much easier and hands Ilya his drink, and sits, letting Ilya keep his fingers in a loose hold. His brow furrows with nerves at everyone watching him, but the tightness around his mouth has cleared. Ilya tips the beer to his lips and side-eyes Wyatt with an arched eyebrow, who puts his hands up in silent apology. Bood knocks him off his seat with a well-placed boot, and after another round of giggles, the group goes back to their susurus of chatting. 

Later, after everyone is gone and they've cleaned up, and washed the bonfire off their skin while frotting a bit under the warm spray, and are curled together in bed, Shane will ask. Ilya will ply him with kisses, remind him that he is always watching out, and of how much he loves him. 

2.

October. 

It's Deek's birthday and the team are talking loudly in the showers after practice about plans to get him drunk off his tits before sending him home to Caitlin. 

Ilya and Shane are on one side of the showers, ostracized by the rest of the team for being "too offensively cute" despite Shane's adamant professionalism, especially in the locker or wet rooms. If it were up to Ilya they'd be sharing a shower head instead of side by side. Troy is the only other person on their shared wall, though he is two heads away. Ilya shouts over the group, making the tile room echo. 

"Shut up! Where we going? I buy first round, then I got to take Shane home, we have early bedtime," he says, winking at his husband. Shane shakes his head and sticks it under the water to hide his blush (and his smile).

"I cant be out too late either guys, it's special sex night, y'know?" Deek laughs when they all boo or sneer and throw handfuls of water at him.  

"Why is special? Because is your birthday?" Ilya asks, genuinely confounded. 

"Gotta get that b-day B-J!" Bood whoops and the room dissolves into raucous laughter again. 

"What?" Ilya asks Shane. 

Shane looks like he would very much like to swirl straight down the drain.

"Sometimes women don't really like giving head. So... sometimes, guys only get blowies on their birthday, or like, special situations," he says quietly. 

"WHAT!" Ilya shouts, horrified. Shane buries his face in his hands but his belly shakes with strangled laughter. 

The rest of the guys are already laughing at Ilya's shocked face. "You only get blowjobs on your birthday?" He looks at the Straights, jaw hanging open. Most of them shrug and nod. 

"Yeah, anniversary, birthday, sometimes if I'm a very good boy," Hayes laughs, setting the group off again. Ilya stands there staring, mildly disgusted and pitying. 

"Don't," Shane hisses at him. 

"Is sad! Why is straight sex so lame," he says quietly, only to him. "Make babies,  that's all they have going for them. We can keep trying that, though. It will take, I'm sure," he lays a palm on Shane's lower stomach playfully, earning a quiet, mortified ohmygod as he's slapped away. 

"Gross," Barrett comments lightly, which makes Ilya laugh aloud. 

"Like you get a thousand blowjobs a year, Rozy," Deek scoffs. Ilya pretends to think. 

"Between the two of us, yes, probably. I will take a ticker thing home, we count, eh?" He mimes a tally counter with his fist and thumb, very serious- faced. "Is a science experiment. How many blowjobs this season. We will win." 

The room groans with loud complaints. Troy is laughing his ass off in the corner. Shane slaps his water off and leaves before the conversation devolves further, the tips of his ears pink.

"What you think, Barrett, eh? A thousand?" 

Troy shrugs. "Probably. At least a few hundred, yeah." 

"To completion?" One of the Straights asks, his voice almost shrill. Ilya screws his face up in thought again. 

"I mean, still several a week," Troy shrugs. 

Ilya nods sagely. "Most days, yes." 

"Aw, what the fuck!" Wyatt complains, which makes everyone dissolve into giggles again. 

When he comes out, Ilya notices that Shane is dressed and sitting in his Grumpy (or maybe his Thoughtful— they are often similar) position at his locker, his bag packed at his feet. He looks at Ilya like a pissy kitten and Ilya has to bite his lips to prevent himself from laughing. 

"Oh, moy kotenok."

"Shut it," Shane gripes, but a nervous little smile is playing at the corners of his mouth. Ilya quirks his lips back at him and dresses quickly. 

Thoughtful, then. He's not in Trouble, but he will probably be Hearing About It. 

They go home, and the whole way, Shane holds his hand and stares out the windshield, chewing his lip while he drives. Ilya cooks dinner while Shane puts their kits away and walks Anya. When he comes back, he pulls something out of his pocket and places it on the countertop in front of him. 

It's a tally ticker. 

Ilya stares at it, and then breaks out into one of his wide, silly smiles. 

"I knew I could count on you." 

"Well. I mean, now you'll be counting me. But yeah." 

"I count us both. You will have to factor so much cum into your diet," Ilya teases, pulling him close to kiss him. 

Shane scoffs. "I've been doing that for years." He gives Ilya a smug smile when he glances down to see if he's serious. 

(He is.)

By the end of the week, they have 13.

At New Year's, they have 167. 

Ilya would like to think that Shane is just being extra loving, but he knows full well that it's the competitiveness of the thing that is driving him. He actually wants to see if they can hit a thousand. 

In a season, not a year. 

By the end of February, they have 378. 

"We will probably make 500. Is not the cottage, moya dusha. We would have more there. We would hit 500 in two months," he teases. "You would live with my dick in your mouth at the cottage," Ilya says as he presses kisses into Shane's throat in the showers one night. They had booked an evening slot for practice at the rink and are (ostensibly) cleaning up before they head home. The place is totally empty. They are sharing a shower head. 

"I probably would." Shane looks down at said dick now, pulsing against his hip.

Ilya turns him and pins his chest easily to the wall under the spray. He trails two soapy fingers down Shane's spine and swirls them over his hole, teasing. 
"Hmm. But then your pretty hole would get jealous." Shane just nods, breathless in the steam swirling around them.

"Would you get on your knees, here, if I asked?" 

Shane hesitates. He glances toward the doorway and turns back under Ilya's weight. 

"We are alone. You already know this. I am captain, I have the spare barn keys. Outside door is locked, locker room door is locked. Yes?" He drops a kiss on Shane's pouty lower lip to bring him back to center. 

"If you asked?" 

"If I tell, hm?" His eyes flash. "Yes?" He chucks his knuckles under Shane's chin before closing his huge hand over his whole jaw.

Shane licks his lips and nods. Ilya gives him a slow, smug smile and kisses him again, using his grip on his chin to tip his head, turning it filthy. Shane turns into a noodle pressed between him and the wall, reassured of their privacy in such an otherwise public place. 

Just like their very first time, with Ilya stroking himself and trying to goad Shane into doing the same. 

"Go to your knees," Ilya says, low and commanding. "Open." 

Shane drops. He waits, hands in his lap, gently toying with his own dick, while Ilya pushes his hair out of his face. 

"Such a good boy," Ilya croons, smearing precum along Shane's lower lip. His tongue comes out and flickers against his tip, earning a growl before feeds Shane his dick. 

Two days later, Weib pulls Ilya aside as they come in. 

"Hey Roz, come here please?" Ilya frowns at him, angling his body to follow his coach into his office. Shane looks at him curiously, but goes to the locker room when Ilya waves him off with a blown kiss. 

"What's up, Weebz?" 

"So uh. I dont know how to say this so I'm just going to blurt it out, and you're going to say okay sorry and not get mad, and then go to practice, and not tell Shane, okay?"

Ilya looks even more apprehensive amd confused. "O-key?" He says, making it a two-sylable reply. 

"So um. The cameras and mics were rolling in the locker room Tuesday night, like they usually do overnight. Not the wet room, of course, but. Um. Some things still …. Got picked up." 

Ilya stills. "Ah." 

"Please don't tell Shane." Weib repeats, putting his face in his hands. 

Ilya snorts. "Is that what you worried about?" 

Weib throws his hands up. "Yes! It's the playoffs! We're doing amazing! He will flip!" Ilya makes a sound of agreement. 

"I will not tell Shane. Did you delete the audio?" 

"Oh, of course. But um," he stops himself just as Ilya turns to go. 

"Yes?" 

"Do you, um. No, sorry. That's inappropriate." 

Ilya arches a brow at him. "Ask. It will nag at you otherwise." 

"Jesus," Weib chews on his lip. "So um. Not much audio was caught, of course. Over the water and being in another room and all. But you can very clearly hear you tell Shane to 'get on his knees' rather forcefully. I guess I'm asking if you are always so… demanding? Should I be having a version of this conversation with Shane? After playoffs, of course." 

Ilya hums and tries not to laugh. "Ah, no, haha," he shifts his feet. "Is our... dynamic? He likes it. I assure you if you ask him, he will turn red like tomato and we will lose the Cup run. Do not." 

Weib deflates sharply. "Okay, thank you. I have no intention of asking anything like that ever again, apologies for being— nosey." 

"Trust me," Ilya says, shouldering his bag. "Between the two of us, Shane is not the one to worry about coming in one day with a sex injury," he laughs and exits, leaving Weib just as confused and slightly concerned as he was before their conversation. 

By late May, the tally counter is at 467. 

Shane is on his belly on their bed, languidly bobbing his head, taking his sweet time. "Fuck," Ilya sighs, reaching down to grab his hand, laying placidly over Ilya's hip. He pulls it up, holds it over his heart, and pets Shane's feathery- long hair with the other. 

"I don't think we're going to hit 500, moy lyubov." 

Shane scowls up at him, pulls off. "Why?" 

"How many are left?" 

"33," Shane answers immediately. Ilya smiles and tugs on his handful of hair. "32," he shrugs, licking at Ilya's weeping tip. 

"We have two weeks. San Fransisco Thursday, then finals." 

"We're gonna make it," Shane says it like it's a fact. He licks up Ilya's length and takes half of him back in his mouth. Ilya jolts, gasping. 

"Okay," he agrees. 

After winning the Cup, Ilya shows the team their tally counter. 503. Everyone complains; no one believes them, but they do buy Shane extra shots at the afterparty for putting up with "Roz's antics" (as if he werent the one driving it). 

3.

July

"So what are you guys gonna do with the rest of your summer?" Hunter asks, swirling his drink. He and Kip are having an unscheduled, casual lunch with Shane and Ilya, who are in New York for a photoshoot. They had decided to hit the Kingfisher for lunch before their afternoon flight home, and found the other two already there. 

"Probably just hide out at the cottage," Shane says tonelessly, looking at the menu and not really seeing it.

He is edging dangerously close to burnout. He had wanted to leave straight after their shoot was done, but Ilya talked him into a little shopping and lunch before their flight, and before they sequester themselves for the rest of the summer. He's exhausted after the last month running the summer camp and then two days of grueling campaign work for a sponsor he doesnt even care much for, but who wanted them both. His social battery is worse than zero. He doesnt want to eat, doesn't want to be at the Kingfisher talking to Scott and Kip Fucking Hunter. 

He wants to be in his own bed, preferably smushed under Ilya and Anya like an overwarm weighted blanket, with no expectations other than to exist for a while. 

"That will be nice," Kip comments. Shane snaps back into the present and hums, taking a drink of his ginger ale that has appeared. Ilya must have brought back from the bar for him. 

Ilya hooks an arm over his chair and nudges him. "You can have this, or this." He points out two things on the menu. Shane nods, not even looking at the choices, but he does notice the look Kip gives Scott. 

If it was anyone else, it would probably raise his hackles, but somehow Hunter doesnt have teeth anymore in Shane's view. He stopped being scary when he gave Shane and Ilya a reason to hope for their own future. 

Shane leans into Ilya's side and half- listens to them make small talk. 

"You guys ready to order?" Kyle asks, taking out a pad and pen. 

"I'll just have the club," Scott says. Kip gets the same, no tomatoes. 

"I will have the burger," Ilya says, and then: "Shane will have the salmon, no butter, and the Mediterranean salad as the side. Oil and vinegar dressing." He snaps the menu shut and beams up at Kyle. 

Shane manages to start a conversation about the weeks since Scott did his turn at the Irina Foundation and mostly keep up with it, despite wishing he was asleep on Ilya's shoulder in First Class on their way home. Ilya squeezes his knee under the table, quirking his lips at him now and then as they talk about the kids and their skills, who was promising and who they hope maybe finds another sport to try next year.  

"Yes, my favorite is catching the little crabs at the end of the day." Shane laughs at his husband's visual, remembering Ilya skating around pushing a goal, catching one tiny goalie at a time until he had six padded-up kids screeching with laughter riding along in his net. 

Their food arrives, and Ilya makes a grabby hand at Shane's plate, saying  "Give. Thank you." Kyle hands it to him with an arched brow. 

Scott looks at Shane, who makes no motion to take his plate as Ilya sets it down in front of himself and starts picking through the salad with a fork. Kip knees him and he straightens, picking up his sandwich. 

"Anyway, camp was great this year, I always appreciate the invite," Scott says. They watch Ilya pick out pieces of shredded pickled beets and eat them while he talks, mostly complaining playfully about the few usual retired players who hadn't come to work at the camp this year within earshot of Kyle, because Eric had been one of them who pulled out. 

Kyle rolls his eyes at him and goes back to cleaning tables. 

Once all the beets had been picked out, Ilya hands Shane his plate and kisses the side of his head, and dives into his greasy burger with obvious relish. 

Kip knees Scott again, his eyes fixed on Shane, who is smiling shyly down at his plate. He drizzles vinegar and oil on it, and starts eating. 

Kip and Scott share a pleased glance, unnoticed by the other couple, and finish their meal. The conversation eventually drifts to the annoyance that has become La Guardia during the TSA layoffs, and how long the process of their flight home will be this afternoon versus just renting a car and driving. They slump into a cab after their goodbyes, promising to see one another next time the Centaurs play New York. 

4.

Late August

"What are you wearing, krasivyy?" Ilya calls from the bathroom. He has on only underwear so far, curls haywire from Shane's desperate fingers clutching them moments ago, and is currently brushing the taste of cum off his teeth and tongue. 

Shane is quiet for a long stretch. Long enough that Ilya spits and goes looking for him. He is in their closet, Anya at his feet, staring hopelessly at their clothes. 

"I have no idea. What are you wearing?" 

Ilya thinks for about fifteen seconds and pulls a shirt and a pair of lightweight trousers off their hangers. "You wear this, you won't get too hot. And the pretty choker, from the commercial thing. I wear this," he pulls slacks and the mesh top Shane loves on him off two more hangers with a wink and goes into their bedroom to change. 

Shane sighs at the choices; a pretty, very soft, creamy-beige tank top and slacks that he knows hug his ass. Once dressed, he has to admit he looks pretty fucking hot. Not next to Ilya, he thinks, until Ilya nearly sends them into round 2 with fervent, posessive kisses once he comes out and sees him. 

They take an Uber to the club, where the rest of the Centaurs, fresh off their season home opener-- a win-- have already dotted their VIP area with several glasses and a handful of partially-emptied pitchers among them. Several of the guys sit around with drinks, watching their WAGs dance a short distance away while they talk. 

"Eyyy! Finally!" Bood yells, getting all attention on them. "Jesus, you two— thank god you're both already taken. I think you ah, got a little something—" he mimes at the corner of his mouth and Ilya gives him a wide, toothy grin.  

"Nice try, I brushed my teeth." 

The Straights all groan at them and shove glasses into their hands. Shane nurses his beer, tucked into Ilya's side for a bit while they yap. Eventually, Ilya is lured out to smoke and turns to Shane. 

"You stay here, I will be right back," he shouts over the boom of the music. It's rattling Shane's ribcage and he shakes his head. 

"No, I'll come. It's loud!" He yells back. Ilya raises his eyebrows but takes his hand and leads them out a propped-open side door to the alley. 

It's much quieter outside, and Shane takes a deep breath. It's also unfortunately smells like smoke, but he will take the trade- off. He has grown to like the smell because of Ilya, just not the health impacts.

Ilya, Hazy, Deek, Bood, and the rookies are in a circle, lighting cigarettes. Shane stays leaning against the cool brick wall just behind Ilya, their shoes touching, watching his attractive husband do the only thing he does that Shane actually hates. 

So why the fuck is it so hot? The contradiction annoys him. 

Ilya feels his eyes on him and turns with a smile, checking in. He leans back and kisses Shane's cheek. 

"That's not tobacco," Shane says intelligently as he pulls away. Ilya shakes his head, lips quirked, taking another drag.

"No. Deek packed them. You want to try? I will keep an eye on you," he says. 

And of course he will; Shane knows he won't get an arm's length away from Ilya all night no matter what he imbibes. He doesnt say no immediately, which gives Ilya pause. He lofts a brow at him, and Shane looks at the joint. 

He kind of wants to.

"I've never—. Smoked. Anything." He says, stupidly. Ilya already knows that. 

Ilya hums. "Shotgun," he says, which Shane doesnt understand immediately. "I inhale, I blow the smoke into your mouth, you inhale second. Less coughing." Ilya takes a deep drag and taps Shane's lower lip with his thumb, keeping his head pushed back against the bricks. His wide hand is on the side of Shane's neck, his thumb at the tip of his chin, pinning him with no effort at all. Shane opens his mouth, Ilya leans in, and blows the smoke in. He inhales reflexively, then splutters into a coughing fit. 

"Oh shit, are we gonna meet High Hollzy?!" Deek says excitedly. 

"I'm trying," Ilya says wryly. "One more?" He asks Shane, because he will always ask, and Shane nods, putting his chin back in Ilya's palm once he's done coughing. 

He does better this time, watching Ilya take the drag and then put his mouth close. Shane opens his mouth like he's accepting Ilya's tongue instead of the air from his lungs. 

Ilya gives him his tongue anyway, which helps with the coughing, because Shane can't do anything but exhale through his nose with Ilya pinning him to the bricks with a hand on his throat and his body pressing in naturally.  

"Jesus," one of the guys comments, shocked laughter in his voice, and Shane turns his face away to gasp for fresh air. Ilya finishes the cigarette then, watching him. He hooks a finger in Shane's belt loop to keep him close. 

By the time they are filing back inside, Shane feels light, like he's being gently towed along by Ilya through clouds instead of a crowded club with thumping music and over- warm bodies pressing all around him. 

The music is still too loud, but it's easier now to focus on his husband, who hasn't let go of him for a second. Everything outside of touch seems like it's happening through water, instead of singing along his nerve endings. 

"Do you want to dance with me, pretty boy?" Ilya asks against his temple, and Shane doesnt want to let him go, so he allows himself to be led to the dance floor. Most of the team and their WAGs are here, and Ilya presses into the center of them. He brings Shane along his front, draping his long arms over Shane's shoulders straight out, his elbows on Shane's thick traps. Shane naturally plants his hands on Ilya's hips and moves with him, wanting very much to kiss his very hot husband in this very hot club. 

Ilya must see it on his face, because his sexy, crooked smile appears and he presses his lips to Shane's, holding his chin to keep him close. It feels amazing; all his nerve endings are begging for more contact, particularly skin. He pets Ilya's basically naked front and makes a noise of complaint in his throat, which is drowned out by the noise of the club. Ilya turns, pressing his back to Shane's front, keeping one of his hands so he doesn't drift away and planting it on his abs. Someone puts a shot in Shane's other hand— Harris, as he's passing more to the others— and Shane downs it, wanting both his hands back on Ilya as quickly as possible. 

"When did you learn to fucking twerk," he laughs. 

"That fucking guy," Ilya supplies, pointing at Troy, who cracks up and does his best attempt. Then everyone is laughing and doing a mostly very bad job at twerking, and Shane is not coordinated enough for this, but he's laughing too, and that's a win. 

Ilya is clearly having a blast, out with his favorite people, his favorite person out in public by his side, touching and dancing and being silly. He is cheering Shane on and dancing very close with him as he attempts to cut loose and stop fucking thinking for once. Someone brings another tray of shots, and everyone is given one. Shane and Ilya knock them back together, then Ilya is kissing him, holding his face to deepen it while bodies writhe around them to the beat. 

The WAGs arrive, bringing more beers with them. Someone presses a full glass into Shane's hand. Ilya is behind him now, a thick arm curled around his front to keep him close while they bounce to the music. He doesnt want to be holding this glass, so he drains it quickly. The song changes, the lights go from pulsing greens and blues to purples and pinks. He turns in Ilya's arms and drives his forehead into his neck, unable to look at how unbearably hot his husband is under these lights for very long. Not without doing something about it.  

A moment later, Shane looks at his empty glass sadly, forgetting he already chugged it to he could dry hump Ilya in fucking public easier. He flushes at himself and looks up to see Ilya watching him with his stupid heart eyes. 

"You want another?" Ilya shouts. Shane nods, letting Ilya take his glass. "You want to go sit? Or come with me?" 

Shane just shakes his head. Ilya squints at him. "You are crossfaded, sweetheart. You've never done this. You have to stay with someone!" 

That makes sense. "Okay," Shane nods, looking around. Ilya grabs Troy by the elbow with his free hand. 

"Barrett, watch him! If he fucking moves off this spot I'll lay your ass out on the ice next practice, yes?" 

Troy waves him off, tugging Shane into his and Harris' bubble. "Stop being so fucking over- protective, Roz," he shouts. "We got him, he'll be fine." 

Except the second Ilya disappears into the press of bodies, Troy and Harris start making out. Shane, unmoored, drifts with the current of the dancefloor. 

Ilya worms his way to the bar and orders a beer and a ginger ale. He should probably get Shane water, but he can do that later. Definitely before bed. With an electrolyte packet and some advil, he mentally amends. He takes the glasses with a thank you and turns to go back to the group. 

"Barrett what the fuck!" He yells, straightening to look through the pulse of the crowd for where Shane has wandered. Troy pulls himself away from Harris' mouth and curses. 

Thankfully, Shane didnt go far. He is only a few feet away behind a couple bodies, but someone has decided to try and dance with him in Ilya's absence. Shane's face is a funny swirl of distressed and confused as he sways too slowly for the music, looking around for his party. The guy trying to get his attention is utterly failing, which only slightly quells Ilya's surge of possessiveness. 

"Shane," he snaps, and his husband lights up at the sight of him. Ilya shoves both of their drinks into one hand and hooks his fingers under the collar necklace around Shane's throat, hauling him close like it's a choke chain. "Do I need to put you on a fucking leash, moy muzh? Hm?" 

"Whoa, dude," Troy thumps Ilya on the arm, shocked. "Dial it back. He's fine!"  

Ilya ignores him, staring into Shane's eyes. His pupils expand, overtaking the pretty brown. A shiver bolts down Shane's spine. "Fuck, yes," he says, almost too quiet to hear. 

"Okaaaay, nevermind," Harris laughs aloud, pulling a gaping Troy back into his arms to keep dancing. "Leave these freaks to themselves."

5.

December

Ilya is pouting. 

The Pikes are over for dinner at the cottage, but they didnt bring the kids. Which means he has to endure hours of Hayden without the sweet balm that is getting to play with four small, criminally insane children. 

Shane is steadily ignoring him, but every now and then he smiles or laughs and Ilya forgets he's annoyed. Eventually he gets bored and entertains himself by taking Jackie to the sofa, gossiping about the Montreal WAGs. 

"So then Christy realized he was cheating, so of course she left him, but we kept her in the group chat because she's like, in-sane, and she's been telling us all about his stupid fear of those ice spiders in Star Wars, which is just objectively hilarious," Jackie yaps. Ilya doesnt know what the fuck ice spiders are but he looks it up on his phone and dissolves into giggles at Dav's expense. 

"Fuck that guy," he agrees. "You want another?" He gestures to her empty drink. 

"Oh, sure!" She hands him her glass and Ilya goes to refill it. He hip- checks Shane in the kitchen as he passes and earns a playful swat on the ass for it. 

"So—" 

"Please don't," Shane interrupts Hayden. Ilya arches a brow and puts the pitcher of sangria back in the fridge. 

"Talk," he says, a smile playing at his mouth. Shane is already turning red. Curiously, so is Hayden. Ilya glances between them patiently. 

"Take this to Jackie," Ilya tells Shane, handing her glass to him. He scurries  away to the living room. Ilya smiles wider at Hayden's indignant frown as Hayden throws a hand up after Shane. 

"Do you ever let him boss you around? Or do you like, have to be this alpha- macho dickhead all the fucking time?" 

Ilya's eyebrows crawl up his forehead. "What?" 

Hayden huffs, picking at the label on his beer. "You always boss him around. And — now, to be fair, I dont think he meant to— but he said something once about. God. Always being the— bottom." Hayden cringes as he says it, which delights ilya. He bites his lips to stifle a laugh. 

"Oh, did he?" 

"Fuck off, that can't be normal, right? Like, most guys take turns?" 

Ilya schools his face and shrugs, taking a sip of his drink. "Why are you not asking Shane?" 

Hayden scoffs. "You know he won't talk about sex. The second he realized what he said he turned red and shut up." 

Ilya hums, stoppering a heinous laugh. "Actually, I find that he talks about sex almost constantly—"

"Also, if you're the asshole here, I'm going to confront you about the way you're treating my best friend." 

"Hmm," he hums thoughtfully. "Maybe you're right. Is not fair." Shane comes back in then, still pink around the ears and scowling at Hayden. "Shane, lyubimyy. I think you should top tonight." 

Shane freezes. Very slowly, he looks over. "What?" He says, voice strangled. 

"You heard me. I want to bottom tonight." 

He tries not to laugh at how quickly Shane spirals into Bratty; his whole face scrunches with confusion and disgust. "No you fucking don't." 

Ilya shrugs a shoulder, takes a sip of his drink, carefully nonchalant. "I do." It's like Hayden isnt even there, though he is watching their volleying back and forth like a tennis match, his mouth hanging open. 

And oh no. He's overplayed his hand. Shane crumples from Bratty Bravado  almost instantly into Anxious and Afraid. He turns vaguely green. His chin wobbles. 

"Please dont make me," he whispers, fingers drumming against one another, down by his thigh. 

"Hmm. Your friend seems to think I take advantage of you. So maybe we should take turns?"

"Hayden what the fuck!" 

Jackie calls from the living room: "Oh god, what's he done now?" Hayden looks like he would most love to walk all the way home, right now. Or maybe into the lake.

"He is meddling in our sex life!" Ilya shouts. She groans from the couch.

But Ilya can't keep it up in the face of Shane's wet eyes. "Oh, no, sweetheart, come here. I would never," he croons, folding Shane into his chest. "I'm sorry, my love," he says into the side of his head in Russian. 

"Why did you ask?" Shane mumbles, stumbling through the blocky words. Ilya plants a hand on the back of his neck and squeezes, reassuring. 

"Hayden was being an asshole. Or he's concerned about yours, I'm not sure which is worse," Ilya switches back to English. "He should mind his own business, hmm?" He tips Shane's face up with a hand on his chin. "You are exactly where you want to be, yes?" 

Shane smiles at him, drying up. He sniffs. "Yes." 

"Good. Tell your dumb friend to keep his stupid heteronormative opinions to himself, while I go entertain his wife and he entertains mine." He flips Hayden off behind Shane's back. 

That earns a laugh, which releases the clamp over Ilya's heart. 

"Who taught you that word?" 

"Harris," Ilya shrugs. Shane rolls his eyes and nods. 

He kisses the side of Shane's head and leaves the kitchen to go back to yapping with Jackie. Hayden is now bright red instead of Shane, which he finds to be a personal success. 

A few hours later, after dinner and some much lighter banter, the Pikes are loaded into an uber and sent home, with a promise to call them for babysitting duty soon. 

They clean up, not that there is much to do. Ilya tends to clean while he goes, especially if he wants to do something else when whatever boring task ahead of him is done (like socializing with Hayden Pike, fifteenth best player in Montreal, when what comes after sending them home and after cleaning up is hopefully taking Shane to bed). In this instance, he is eager to put Shane's earlier worries to rest. 

"Let's shower," he suggests, petting down Shane's spine and pulling him close. Shane hums into a kiss, nodding. Ilya slaps his ass to get him moving, and sets the dishwasher on a delay cycle before following him up to their bedroom. 

"I am sorry if that embarassed you. But I'm getting kind of tired of being questioned all the fucking time," Ilya says quietly, pressing kisses into Shane's shoulders as they stand under the spray for a moment. 

"Who's questioning you?" He frowns, pulling back to see Ilya's face. 

"Everyone," he shrugs. "The team, our friends, Weib, now fucking Hayden—" 

"Hayden counts as a friend," Shane admonishes, squeezing Ilya's side. "I didnt know all that," he says. "Weib?!" 

Ilya grunts, trailing his mouth up Shane's shoulder to his throat, laying his head there. "Not important. Is none of their business," he says, and wants to leave it there. 

"Of course," Shane agrees. Ilya can feel the words trapped in his chest, velcroed as he is to Shane's entire front.

"What?" 

"You just um. Worried me, a little. In the kitchen. Surprised me, obviously. But then I was worried you weren't… satisfied, I guess." 

Ilya pulls back sharply to glare at him. "Not satisfied?" 

Shane laughs, seeing the glint in Ilya's eye for what it is. "I mean. For a second. Like, literally a second. And then—" 

"I'll show you how satisfying you are, moy lyubov. Out!" He turns the water off and pushes a laughing Shane toward the door. 

"On your front," he demands as they crawl onto the bed, and Shane huffs as he obeys, dropping his towel on the bed so they hopefully wont have to strip the sheets, after. Ilya drapes himself over his back, stretching up to kiss his mouth before he moves down his body, pressing kisses along the way. 

"I am going to eat this perfect ass, until you come for me, kotenok. And then I'm going to fuck you until you cry. Until your balls and your brain are empty. Yes?" He bites a cheek and growls when Shane flexes the muscle with a gasp. 

"Fuck! Yes, please," he pants into the pillow under his face. 

Ilya gets to work. He stuffs a pillow under Shane's hips, plants both hands on Shane's ass and spreads him, fingertips digging in as he laves his tongue down his crack and over his hole. He swirls it over the whorl of muscle, spreading spit. He lets go of one side and wraps his hand around the whole root of Shane's cock and balls, gripping him firmly. 

"Oh, god— Ilya," Shane sighs, spreading his legs a bit wider in his prone position. He isnt exactly afraid to move under Ilya's grip, but he wants to be good and get his reward all the same. He tips his hips up, pushing back carefully. 

Ilya eats him like it's his job, like Shane's ass is his last meal and there's nowhere he'd rather be. He adds pressure with the flat of his tongue, lapping, laving, swirling. Shane gasps as he angles and drives his tongue in, sucking on his rim, then wriggles a long finger in beside his tongue, his fingertip swirling a firm, slow circle around his prostate.

Ilya moans into him, the vibration spreading goosebumps all over Shane's skin. He shivers, pushing back. Ilya tugs on his cock, giving him a counterpoint, something to drive forward into against all the softness behind him. Ilya pulls back and abruptly bites at the tender crease where cheek meets corded thigh and Shane gasps, flinching into it. 

"Cl-close," Shane pants, not quite embarrassed at how quickly Ilya has managed to work him over. Not when he's doing it so intentionally. 

He spills over Ilya's knuckles a few seconds later, shuddering back to get his tongue deeper; greedy, whining. Desperate.

He is still contracting with waves from his orgasm when Ilya straddles his thighs and slides his slick cock in to the root. The sudden fullness shocks him, and Shane scrabbles weakly at the sheets, a squeal squeezing up out of his throat. 

"Oh, fuck!" 

Ilya doesnt give him a moment to catch his breath; he starts fucking immediately, single-minded and rough with it.

He presses Shane down into the mattress, one hand firmly on the back of his neck, and nudges one of Shane's knees up to slightly twist Shane's prone form so that Ilya is straddling his left outstretched leg, his planted knee preventing Shane from putting his right leg down straight by the other. The position is intense, the depth and stretch of his rim incredible. Shane gasps like he can't quite fill his lungs. His exhale is a steady groan of satisfaction bursting out in hiccups as Ilya sets to fucking him with a brutal pace. 

He hadn't even gone soft yet, still half-hard and oversensitive, rubbing on the soiled pillowcase, sandwiched under his thigh. His cock is dribbling, being milked from the inside as his prostate is abused. Every slam forward knocks a strangled grunt out of Shane's throat, and he can't clamp it behind his teeth no matter how he tries. Eventually he stops pushing back and goes limp, letting the noises happen, dimly aware that the noises are what's driving Ilya mad with want. 

He is gritting out sweet nothings in Russian, curling his fingers hard enough to bruise over Shane's hips and then back to his shoulders and into his hair, unable to decide on which grip he likes better. He settles for one hand clamped over the back of Shane's neck, fingers in his hair, pressing him down, and the other yanking his hip up with each snap forward. 

It isnt long at all before Shane is shaking like a leaf, coming on the pillow again untouched, with a pathetic bleat, begging Ilya to fill him up, to come in him, to make a mess of him. 

"You love taking my cock, don't you? Made for it, werent you?" He says, hammering against Shane's ass, all his  muscles lax and spent. Shane nods under him, breaths hiccuping in his chest. Ilya pulls almost entirely out and forces himself to stop. Shane instantly ruts back, whining. 

"Nooo, Ilya—" 

"Answer me," Ilya settles, gripping his face. 

Shane whines high in his throat, his head bobbing in Ilya's grasp. "Yes!" He chokes. "Yes, I love it. Made for your cock— please!" 

Ilya growls and flips him, yanking both of Shane's legs up to hook over one shoulder. He slides back in, deep, and Shane's cock pulses with a blurt of clear-ish cum. 

"Oh god," Shane breathes, his eyes rolling back a bit. 

"One more, moya dusha. One more, then I will fill you up. Hm? You want me to plug it all up inside you?" 

"I ca- I can't, please, just—" 

"No, no can't. You will, because I told you to. And you're a good boy for me, yes? You are exactly where you want to be? Hm? Under me? Doing what you're told? Having me make your beautiful body do what I want of it?" 

Shane nods, tears streaming down the sides of his face. His eyes are loose in his head, unseeing, his hands splayed out in the muddle of pillows by his head. 

Ilya rolls his hips, dragging the flare of his cockhead over Shane's swollen prostate. He keens under him, high and tight, wildly overstimulated but still wanting more. Ilya can feel his muscles spasming, trying hard to come again. He wraps his hand around Shane's cock, giving it a smooth tug. He is soaked, leaking an almost- constant flow now. 

"You are so wet, lyubimyy. This one might be dry," Ilya comments, fisting him harder. Shane chokes as he tightens his grip and slams his hips in. 

"Oh, there, almost— please!" He begs, arching beautifully. 

Ilya keeps the angle, the tightness of his fist, but it's still not enough. Ilya is dying, needs to come so bad he's nearly delirious with it, but he wants to bring one more out of his husband. 

On a whim, he lets go of Shane's dick and folds him in half, grabs his face, angling it up to meet him, hand curled over his entire jaw. "Open your mouth," he commands, and Shane drops it open without hesitation. 

"You are mine?" Shane nods, grunts escaping him as he's fucked. "You want me to show you how I know?" 

Shane nods again, whining. His hands clutch at the pillow under his head, seeking anything. 

Ilya leans up and spits in his mouth. "Swallow." 

Shane does, his eyes rolling up, back arching as he comes dry between them, his ass clamping down around Ilya like a vice as his abs clench and tremble, legs shaking. He's incoherent now, begging for Ilya's cum, eyes brimming with fresh tears as Ilya rears up and slams in, emptying himself into Shane with a loud moan of relief. 

"Fuck," Ilya pants, his chest heaving. He slides carefully out of Shane's abused hole and thumbs over his puffy rim, making him clench with the tickle of it. Shane groans pitifully below him, swatting at his hand. Ilya huffs a laugh and kisses his shoulders. "You want a plug? Or is too much?" 

"Ngghh. T' msssh," Shane says into the pillows. 

"Okay. You stay, I go run a bath and bring a rag." Shane hums, unable to do much else. Ilya presses kisses over his cheek and to the corner of his mouth before drawing away completely. 

Distantly, Shane hears water start and smells the oils and salts he likes being added. Abruptly, he feels a warm cloth wiping at him, gentle hands rolling him and wiping again. He is picked up, and then surrounded by incredible warmth. There is a heart beating steadily under his ear, gentle hands on his back, Ilya's voice in his ear, murmuring sweet nonsense in his mother tongue. Shane drifts back to himself slowly, a deep yawn making Ilya aware that he's aware again. Present. 

"Mm, welcome back, sweetheart. How do you feel?" 

Shane presses a kiss to the pec under his cheek and hums. "Z'xactly where I wanna be." 

1+

May

Shane sighs wryly and puts his book down when his phone starts buzzing against his leg. 

Ilya had gone to a season-ending after- party at the bar. Shane had gone home after about an hour, too tired and overstimulated to continue enjoying himself, but not wanting to bring Ilya's joy down with him. Ilya was supposed to be taking an Uber home, and hadn't ordered one yet according to their shared app account. 

His phone is lit up with a photo of Wyatt Hayes' face. 

"How's it going Hazy?" Shane asks, already expecting something outrageous. 

"Hey man! Uh, its good, uhm. Everything is okay—" Shane is already climbing out of bed, rolling his eyes with a smile. 

"I'll come get him." 

Wyatt sighs. "Oh thank god, okay. Thank you. And sorry! He will not get in the uber we called for him. He said, and I quote, 'only my beautiful husband can drive me around,' and then he did like... I dunno, 3 more shots?" 

Shane pinches his tear ducts with a thumb and forefinger, trying not to laugh. "Okay, I can be there in fifteen. Just dont let him run off." 

"You got it, boss." He hangs up, grateful that he had put on sweats and a shirt after cleaning up instead of pajamas. Shane pulls his socks on, finds his shoes, then searches for his wallet and remembers his hoodie is in the wash after a coffee spill this morning. He ends up tugging Ilya's numbered Cens hoodie on as he walks out the door.

He drives to the bar, wondering what on earth Ilya is up to by now. A very drunk and effervescently happy Ilya is often a complete menace. 

When he parks, can already hear the Centaurs making an uproar from the parking lot. It's a Wednesday, for Christ's sake. The team is probably more than half the headcount in the whole bar; it's a small place. 

He goes in and immediately spots Ilya surrounded by Bood and Hayes and Barrett, who are trying to get him to do water shots by getting him to tell the difference between cheap vodka. He does two and then looks at them like they are trying to poison him. 

"Is not vodka!" He yells with exaggerated horror, making them all giggle and shout no! "Poison!" 

Yep.

"It's just water!" Bood exclaims, laughing his ass off. 

"Rozanov," Shane says, appearing near his elbow. Ilya squints at him and frowns. 

"I am not interested, blurry, pretty man. I am married," he wiggles his left hand at Shane and flounces away in a huff. 

"Ilya! I am your husband," he laughs, following him. The rest of the group does too, laughing hysterically.

Shane shows him his phone. "See? And here's Anya?" His lockscreen is a photo of Ilya holding their dog in the sunset at the cottage. Ilya turns his nose up. 

"You stole off instagram," he accuses as he makes to escape again between the bar and Hayes' side. 

Wyatt, ever the goalie, throws an arm out and stops him. Ilya glares at him like a man betrayed.

"Ilya, I am wearing your hoodie, look," he plucks the fabric, showing him the back. Ilya scowls.

"No, is fake. Etsy!" 

Shane looks around at their team, baffled. "Jesus christ, how much did he drink?"

"Uhhh, no telling, honestly," Bood answers. The rest of them glance between each other, shrugging. 

Deek says, "I've been pouring my shots in him most of the night, so…" 

Ah. There it is. 

Shane sighs and looks back at Ilya, who has managed to migrate to the dance floor and is dancing very loosely with the WAGs. He pinches his lips together against a laugh and nods, as if preparing himself for battle. 

The rest of the team watches in awe as Shane sets his shoulders, puts a Very Serious face on, dips into the crowd, and goes up to Roz. 

"Oh shit," Bood says, when Shane grabs him by the glinting chainlink collar around his neck and pulls their faces together, and says something sternly, through his teeth. Ilya blinks at him, surprised, and then his face crumples like a piece of paper. 

The team glances around at one another as Shane turns and walks sharply away, and Ilya nearly trips over his own feet to follow him, eventually hooking his fingers in Shane's back pocket after an attempt at holding his hand is swatted away. 

Rozanov is pouting now, which none of them have ever seen. Troy definitely takes a photo and puts it immediately in the group chat. Ilya tries to tug Shane to a stop once more, but Shane turns around, drops a shoulder, simply picks his husband up in a fireman carry, and walks to the door. 

Shane marches straight out, with Ilya complaining loudly over his shoulder and cupping his ass with his un-trapped hand as he bounces along. This earns him a sharp spank of his own that elicits a yelp. 

They can't hear from the doorway, but Shane sets him on his feet, pushes Ilya into the side of the car with a hand flat on his chest. He steps in close, says something that has their combative, Top Dog Captain biting his lips and bobblehead nodding, fucking blushing and wide-eyed, before he allows himself to be shoved into the passenger seat. Shane puts a water bottle in his hands and can be heard saying drink so sternly it makes Haas fidget. 

Shane turns around with a big smile and waves at his teammates as he closes the car door on Ilya. "Thanks guys! See ya friday!" 

The team waves back, stunned. 

"Well, shit," Troy laughs. "No one accuses Ilya of being the bossy one anymore, right?" 

"Right," everyone scoffs, as they head back inside.