Chapter Text
ROBERT R: And with that, the Boston Raiders are the winners of the 2019 Stanley Cup! That game-winning goal by none other than Captain Ilya Rozanov himself was an absolute beaut– you can see it in Andersson’s face, not to mention the rest of the Admirals– a crushing defeat in the final round of playoffs.
CHAD F: I gotta say, Rob, going into this round, the Raiders really had a rough go of it. They lost the first two games to New York, a disappointing 3-1 and then a surprise shutout by the Admirals– but these last four games, they really picked up steam.
RR: 4-2, 3-1, then a Raiders shutout, and a final absolutely dominant 5-3– this has gotta be some of the Raiders’ best hockey ever.
CF: Absolutely. We’ve got Captain Ilya Rozanov here for an interview– Captain, congratulations on your third Cup! How does it feel to be the youngest captain ever to win three Stanley Cups?
ILYA R: *beep* amazing. I would describe for you but I am afraid it would make Scott Hunter cry, and he is already dehydrated geriatric. Would not be good for old bones.
CF: [laughter] You don’t change at all!
RR: We just gotta ask– the Raiders won four games in a row in an absolutely stunning show of force. The reason for such a dominant takeover has been a hot topic in the box, especially after your first two games against the Admirals– care to share your secret?
IR: [smirks] The NHL has many resources to help team bonding, yes? Is just up to the captain– me– to properly… use, and allow teammates to use. Very, very, highly recommended. Very good for teamwork, very good for… how you say… stress relief.
CF: Mysterious! Well, whatever you used, it clearly worked.
RR: We won’t keep you any longer– congratulations again, Captain. Go celebrate with your boys! For listeners at home, that was Raiders Captain Ilya Rozanov, three-time Stanley Cup champion. We’ll bring in Admirals Captain Scott Hunter in just a few moments– hang tight!
𖹭𖹭❤︎𖹭𖹭
It hadn’t been Ilya’s idea, actually.
He knew with an almost supernatural certainty that they would win the Cup. He knew it in the way he breathed and the thrum in his bones, and it seemed like the rest of the Raiders felt it too. They played harder, faster, crushing other players into the boards and springing after the puck within the same breath.
It’s usually taboo to think about post-win celebrations until you’ve actually had the win, but Ilya thinks about it, and thinks about it, and thinks about it. He wants Shane, of course, and he wants him in his bed with Ilya’s jersey and nothing else, big even on Shane’s bulky frame, legs spread and cunt leaking all over Ilya’s sheets. He wants to go out and celebrate with his boys, get absolutely shitfaced, maybe break a few tables while he’s at it. Probably both, maybe even at the same time.
He and Shane are coming down from a scene, curled around each other, when Shane brings it up. It’s the eve of their fourth game against the Admirals, and even Ilya is feeling the exhaustion– it manifests in only one round of sex instead of their usual three or four, because Ilya might be a knotheaded alpha, but his omega’s libido is off the fucking charts– Shane will probably use a vibrator or a dildo when he wakes up and then whine to Ilya that I’m so fucking empty, Ilyusha, you have time before warmups don’t you?
Shane laughs when he feels Ilya’s cock twitch against his inner thigh.
“I thought you were too tired for another round?” He teases gently, running his fingers through Ilya’s hair. Ilya grumbles, rolling them both over so Shane is trapped underneath two-hundred-something pounds of alpha muscle, dense and warm. His omega sighs, content, and Ilya buries his face into Shane’s scent gland and inhales.
Sweet, tangy citrus and the earthy scent of rain spread gently over Ilya’s palate, and he presses his nose deeper into Shane’s neck– Shane giggles at the pressure, wiggling like he’s trying to get away. Ilya growls and holds him tighter.
“Needy alpha,” Shane coos. Ilya can hear the grin in his voice. Yes, yes, yes. Just for his omega.
They stay cuddled together, warm and safe, just long enough for Shane to begin to drift off. Ilya knows he’ll want to clean up before they sleep, and probably change the sheets– the waterproof ones are still drying from the night before, and Ilya hadn’t been patient enough to get their other other set out of the closet, so Shane squirted liberally all over their nice Egyptian cotton ones. He’ll complain later that it’s Ilya’s fault, but Ilya wasn’t the one using his favorite vibrator to edge himself while waiting for his mate to come home, so it’s really a moot point. Ilya cannot possibly be held at fault for immediately pouncing on his mate, so sweet and pliant and writhing on the sheets as he held the rose toy flush to his pussy with one hand and reached for Ilya with the other.
Welcome home, alpha, Shane had gasped, and really, Ilya cannot be held liable for what he did next.
With a groan, he leverages himself up to fetch a damp cloth to clean themselves up with. When Shane whines, he presses a soothing kiss to his forehead and smooths his knuckles gently over his freckles. Shane purrs, pressing into the touch, and Ilya’s chest aches so fiercely with love and adoration that he can’t help but grin, wide and silly.
He convinces Shane to sit up and move over just enough that Ilya can strip the sheets and replace them, laying his omega down carefully once he’s done.
Ilya cleans them up quickly, soft swipes of cloth over Shane’s swollen cunt and sticky thighs, and drops the towel into the laundry basket before tucking them both underneath the blankets again: Shane’s back pressed to Ilya’s chest, and Ilya’s arms wrapped possessively around Shane’s stomach and chest, cupping his full pecs and slowly thumbing over his nipples. He doesn’t bother with clothing– Shane likes the feeling of cool sheets on his skin, and Ilya likes the feeling of as much of Shane pressed against him as possible.
“Thank you,” Shane mumbles, tilting his head further when Ilya goes to press his face into Shane’s scent gland. Their bond pulses with warmth, sweet and slow as honey.
They lie there long enough for Ilya to drift into sleep– he’s right on the verge of it, actually, when Shane says, “When the Raiders win the Cup, can I help you celebrate?”
Ilya blinks sleepily. “Do not jinx it,” he says automatically, and gives a little oomph when Shane drives his elbow back into Ilya’s ribs.
“Don’t be a dick. I know you’ve been thinking about it.”
“Is bad luck, solnyshko.” Shane huffs, and Ilya can practically hear his eye roll.
Ilya grins against Shane’s neck, pressing a kiss to his scent gland before Shane can get too annoyed and elbow him again.
They settle. Ilya waits for Shane to talk– he so rarely asks this directly for what he wants. Even after five years together, Shane still has trouble vocalizing his wants and needs outside of sex– Ilya’s trying his best to encourage it as much as possible. At large, that just means shutting up to give Shane time to work out what he wants to say.
“I want to help the Raiders celebrate,” Shane repeats eventually.
Ilya nuzzles into his neck. “I can put paperwork in tomorrow,” he offers, because that’s what happened last time– you submit a request to the Department of Player Safety, and after some basic checks, they send over a confirmation email and a date– but Shane shakes his head.
“No, I…” he squirms a little. Ilya squeezes him just that much tighter, and his omega settles. “I wanted… as your mate. I want to tell them you’re my mate. And then they could maybe come here? To our home?”
Suddenly Ilya is wide fucking awake. He turns Shane over, pressing their foreheads together and staring cross-eyed into his mate’s wide, brown eyes.
“You want–” he starts, something warm and bright bubbling in his chest, “You are– you are okay with this? You are sure?”
Shane flushes. “Yes. Yeah. I mean, it’s been, like– we’ve been seeing each other for five years, and you’ve been my mate for a year now– and they’re so important to you–”
Ilya simply has to kiss him immediately. Shane yelps a little, hands flying up to grasp Ilya’s biceps as Ilya licks into his mouth with almost feral desperation.
“Yes, yes,” Ilya pants when he finally pulls away. He can’t bear to be more than a centimeter apart, so his words are spilling directly into Shane’s mouth. He presses another kiss to his lips, then two, before pressing forward again to crush Shane into his arms and let Shane suckle on his scent gland.
“Yes, moya lyubov, we can tell them. We will host the best fucking party, and it will be amazing, and I will kiss you as three-time Stanley Cup winner and the luckiest alpha alive because I get to be your mate–”
Shane laughs, pressing a kiss to Ilya’s neck.
“I was also thinking,” he says, sly, and Ilya doesn’t understand at first–
Until Shane brings one of Ilya’s hands, fingers entwined, to press against his bare pussy. Ilya’s fingers sink into the wet heat of his folds, brushing against his clit, and Ilya shakes.
“My slutty omega,” he moans, pressing their mouths together in a sloppy kiss. “Once wasn’t enough for you? Your slutty pussy isn’t ruined enough? You want them again, you want them to fuck you raw in our home?”
He can feel Shane getting wet, warmth seeping out from his hole to slick up their fingers, and Shane whimpers.
“Yeah,” he breathes, hips pressing forward to grind against their knuckles. “I– I want them again, baby– mmmm, I– I keep thinking about it– it was so fucking hot, the way you watched me take them– I was so fucking full–”
“Anything you want,” Ilya growls, letting Shane rut against his hand. He brings down the other to press three fingers into his omega’s hole, reveling in his shaky moans. “Anything, moya gryaznaya malen'kaya shlyushka, anything you want.”
Shane ends up cumming all over the sheets again, hiccuping sobs in time with the press of Ilya’s fingers against his sweet spot. He passes out almost immediately, and Ilya gets himself off by rutting into the crease of Shane’s hip, gasping as he cums all over Shane’s stomach and the ridge of his hip bone.
He lies there, panting, and wonders how he got this fucking lucky.
What Shane wants, Shane will get. Ilya will make sure of it.
𖹭𖹭❤︎𖹭𖹭
“Listen up, chucklefucks!” Ilya roars as soon as they’ve popped open the last champagne bottle. If he doesn’t do this quickly, he’ll be liable to lose them to alcohol, and he needs to make this work for Shane. His cock throbs heavily in his jock, and he has to struggle not to adjust himself. It's useless, anyway– his trousers are fully tented. No amount of fixing could hide his bulge, short of hiding it behind another six or ten layers of clothing.
Most of the Raiders have stripped their jerseys and tossed them who knows where, leaning against each other and reeking of victory and alpha sweat. It’s a particularly strong combination, but Ilya knows Shane gets unbelievably wet whenever Ilya comes straight home without showering, pressing his face into Ilya’s armpits and crotch with shaky whines, so he figures it’s a good touch.
“Okay, boys, excellent fucking job!” The room roars around him, bottles of champagne hoisted messily into the air and spilling over the sides. Marleau claps him on the shoulder and shakes him. On his other side, Carmichael grabs Connors and knocks their heads together, grinning madly.
“I have surprise planned for everyone, and I guarantee,” Ilya grins, flashing his teeth, “that everyone will like it. Do not shower– just change out of your gear, get your shit together and get to my house in one hour, or you will lose out forever. Get going!” He punctuates the announcement by slamming his locker closed, and the room explodes with cheers.
It’s not the first time he’s done this– in fact, it’s become something of a tradition. Every single Cup win, Ilya rents out the entire VIP section of a club and lets them go wild. They don’t usually meet at Ilya’s house first, but he figures they’re too amped up to question it.
And even if they do, he’s more than sure they’ll stop giving a shit about a stupid fucking club the moment they see his Shanya.
𖹭𖹭❤︎𖹭𖹭
Shane double and triple-checks that everything’s in place before forcing himself to take a deep breath and get a glass of water. It does nothing to still his shaking hands, but it does calm him down a little, so he’ll take what he can get.
Thirty minutes ago, he watched Ilya hoist the Stanley Cup through their living room TV and cried, grinning so wide his face nearly split open. He’s so fucking proud of his mate, and tonight, they’ll finally be able to tell his teammates– Shane knows Ilya has wanted to tell them for so long, and it’s really just been Shane’s anxiety holding them back. Ilya reassures him that he’s okay with waiting until Shane is ready, but Shane can see the toll it takes on him.
Now, though, officially mated for over a year, Shane is finally ready.
The front door clicks open. Shane darts from the kitchen to the foyer and throws himself at Ilya before Ilya can even get his shoes off, smiling as Ilya wraps his arms around Shane’s waist and presses exaggerated kisses all over his face and neck.
Ilya’s dressed in Shane’s favorite Boston hoodie and gym shorts, soft, comfortable things that Shane loves rubbing his face into during heats and in early mornings. Shane’s wearing something similar– Ilya’s old hoodie, sans the shorts. The hem of it rides up his thighs when he reaches up to wrap his arms around Ilya’s neck and press a kiss to his cheek.
“You did it!” Shane laughs, playfully nipping at Ilya’s scent gland and giggling when Ilya trembles.
Ilya drops his duffel and kicks off his shoes in the same motion before swinging Shane into his arms, bridal style, and pressing heavy kisses to Shane’s mouth. Shane laughs, clinging tighter around Ilya’s neck, and nuzzles into his chest.
They stumble to the living room, where Ilya drops Shane onto the couch before crawling over him on his hands and knees. “Solnyshko,” Ilya purrs, “are you ready? They will be here soon.”
Shane doesn’t get a chance to answer. When Ilya sneaks his fingers under the hem of Shane’s hoodie and meets something that is decidedly not boxer material, he freezes, attention snapping down to Shane’s crotch.
Oh, well. Shane supposed it couldn’t stay a surprise for that long.
Shane wiggles out of the hoodie, folding it haphazardly before placing it on their coffee table. He just barely suppresses a laugh when Ilya’s pupils dilate in real time, and his mouth opens on a ragged inhale. When Shane stretches himself out, splaying one hand over his chest and another framing his cunt, Ilya shudders.
“Solnyshko,” Ilya moans, taking him in.
The night after Shane agreed to tell the Raiders, he immediately banned Ilya from planning anything except getting the Raiders into their home. Ilya pouted and whined and chased him around the house, begging to know what Shane had planned– don’t you love me, Shanya, why would you deprive me of this– before Shane sucked him off twice and let him knot his mouth in exchange for Ilya’s obedience.
When Ilya left for warm-ups that day, thighs still shaking, Shane began planning.
Because it is a celebration, he organized catering and coolers full of alcohol, cleaned and reorganized their minibar, stocked the fridge full of sodas and other non-alcoholic options just in case, and ordered more cushions and chairs for the living room and dining area. He cleaned the outdoor grill, ordered a few lawn chairs, and set up lighting outside with string lights and warm lamps. He made sure they had enough ingredients to make substitutes for anything anyone could possibly need, as well as various snacks.
With the traditional party elements organized, he turned to the more personal preparation.
The first thing he did was call Rose, and with her help, he was able to find, design, and express order three things.
First– a custom set of lingerie. Shane, sprawled under Ilya, arches his back and revels in the choked-off little breaths Ilya can’t keep in, eyes wide and beautiful blue irises nearly swallowed by his pupils.
Black silk with gold lace floral trim stretches under his pecs to cup them and lift them up, giving him the slightest bit of cleavage and bounce. It stretches up in thin straps to cross just before and wrap smoothly around his neck. Matching panties sit low on his hips. He knows Ilya likes his pubic hair, so he left it untrimmed, showing just barely through the silk. The crotch of the panties is already damp– even just thinking about what’s going to happen tonight makes him squirm and press his thighs together.
Second– a new leather collar. The one he wore his first time with the Raiders is technically property of the NHL, and the ones he wears around Ilya are too sentimental and worn for something like this.
This new one, already fastened around his throat, is three centimeters thick with another band wrapping around the middle, holding gold studs and a large gold ring in place at the center of his throat. It’s simple but high quality. Shane grins when Ilya touches the collar with shaking fingers, rubbing the seam between skin and leather with reverent pressure.
Third…
Ilya whines pathetically as Shane pushes him away just a little, just enough to reach for the little box placed on the coffee table. He presses it into Ilya’s hands.
This one had been the most expensive purchase, but also the one Shane was the most excited about. He’d struggled with the design for days before finally deciding and sending it to a goldsmith only a week before the final game. He’d been worried it might not come in time, but just last night, he’d opened their mailbox to find it tucked neatly behind various envelopes and flyers. He’d need to leave that goldsmith an excellent review, and maybe a generous tip or two.
“Open it, Ilyusha,” he coaxes sweetly, and Ilya sits back on his heels, stunned, when he pulls out Shane’s final item. Shane sits up, bringing one hand up to rest on Ilya’s knee and swipe his thumb over the skin.
“Shane, bozhe moy.”
Shane smiles softly, his free hand coming up to press against the empty ring of his collar. “Put it on me, alpha.”
It’s heavy and gleaming, a solid gold pendant of the letter R. Ilya’s name in Cyrillic is engraved down the stem of it and inked in stark black. Ilya traces it with shaking fingers, every single letter, and Shane laughs with helpless affection as Ilya crawls into Shane’s lap and draws him into a kiss.
“It’s perfect,” Ilya manages between kisses. “God, omega, it’s so fucking perfect– you’re so perfect, I love you, ya tebya lyublyu, ya tebya lyublyu, ya tebya lyublyu.” He punctuates each declaration with a kiss, slowly lowering them down until Shane’s lying back on the couch and Ilya straddles his thighs. He sits up just enough to fix the pendant onto Shane’s collar before pressing another kiss to Shane’s mouth.
Their mating bond throbs with something bright and aching, so much and so warm that Shane shudders under it. Ilya pets up and down his sides with calloused hands, and Shane can’t do anything other than tangle his fingers in the collar of Ilya’s hoodie and keep him close.
As Ilya kisses him, the pendant shifts, heavy and warm. Shane can feel it pulling a little on the collar, and it’s just strong enough to replicate the feeling of Ilya tugging on Shane’s neck as he pulls him into a kiss, onto his cock, using him like a fleshlight, and just the memory of it makes Shane moan a little into Ilya’s mouth.
“My beautiful boy, are you already wet?” Ilya mumbles between kisses. “Just from getting my name on you?” Shane whines, hands fisted in Ilya’s hoodie. “Yes,” he gasps, lifting his chin so Ilya can start pressing his mouth to his jaw and down his neck. “Yes, yes, yes.”
Ilya laves his neck and chest with kisses, sucking wetly on his nipples and only letting up once Shane chokes on a cry, back arching and pussy throbbing. He presses kisses down Shane’s ribs and stomach, shuffles back enough to prop Shane’s thighs over his shoulders, and nuzzles into the silk covering his wet cunt.
Shane’s shaking hands come up to tangle into Ilya’s curls. Ilya has one hand petting at Shane’s belly, the other smoothing up and down Shane’s thigh. He presses one kiss to Shane’s cunt, then another, and looks up at Shane through his lashes, pleading, until Shane gasps out a shaky please and Ilya pulls the panties aside with his teeth.
As soon as his folds are exposed, Ilya dips his tongue into Shane’s wet warmth and sucks. Shane shrieks, back arching off the couch and surely pulling too hard at Ilya’s hair, but Ilya just moans into Shane’s cunt and continues eating him out, licking feverishly at his clit and his entrance and fucking his tongue in and out of his hole, pinning Shane’s hips to the couch and ignoring Shane’s increasingly frantic cries.
That’s how the Raiders find them when they finally walk in– Shane, legs spread over Ilya’s shoulders and crying out as he cums, tears wetting his cheeks, and Ilya with his face buried in Shane’s pussy, chin and mouth dripping in Shane’s slick.
The whole house reeks of aroused omega. They can smell Shane’s slick, they can see his tear-stained red face, the way he trembles with the aftershocks of his orgasm.
Ilya withdraws from Shane’s cunt, chest heaving, and sits up slowly.
He takes in the Raiders, surveying their shocked expressions, and catalogues each and every one as they realize just who is lying there on the couch.
“Holy shit,” Marleau says. “You–”
“Yes, yes, surpri-ise,” Ilya sings, grinning widely. The hand he had on Shane’s hip comes up to slap meanly over Shane’s clit, and Shane squeals, shaking. He’s still so sensitive, and he can’t take his eyes off the Raiders– they’re watching him, they’re watching him, they’re watching him. Oh, god.
Ilya’s hand comes back wet with Shane’s slick and his own spit. He brings his hand up to his mouth and slowly, performatively, licks it off.
“Oh my god,” Carmichael says. He sounds faint. He’s not the only one. Shane can count at least five of Ilya’s teammates who are equally shocked, eyes darting from his red face to his weeping cunt and the hand Ilya has on his thigh.
“You remember Shane Hollander, yes?” Ilya smirks. Everyone’s eyes snap back to him. Even in the face of such extreme shock, he’s so effortlessly charismatic– Shane’s stomach squirms, just a little.
Ilya's fingers dip back into his hole, scissoring just deep enough to make his breath hitch. Thick and calloused, scraping so beautifully against his inner walls and his labia, Shane can't help but twitch, desperately trying to get Ilya's fingers deeper, harsher, anything to get relief, and whimpers when Ilya ignores him, facing the Raiders with a sly grin.
“Shane has very generously volunteered to help us celebrate our win,” he purrs. “You know him from the Department of Player Safety, but as of one year ago, he is also my mate.” Someone gasps, and a good few of the others sound like they've shuffled away. Shane can't bring himself to look; he's too busy trying to keep his hips still. Ilya wants to show him off, wants to use him like a toy while he talks to his teammates, and Shane wants to be good.
In polite society, it's absolutely frowned upon for an alpha to touch another's mate without permission, especially as explicitly as the Raiders did to Shane. It's a good thing neither Ilya nor Shane can be counted among polite society. Ilya gets off on watching other people use Shane like a toy, gets off on the knowledge that everyone can touch him but it's Ilya’s bite on his mating gland and Ilya’s knot in his cunt. Shane gets off on being used like an object, on the degradation and praise heaped upon him as he squirms and writhes on cock. It’s what makes them so incredibly compatible, and what makes them so willing to invite other people into their bed.
“Cap, we didn't,” Marleau starts, his scent hesitant and wary, and Ilya twists his fingers cruelly inside Shane, making him stutter out a breathy cry, and effectively cutting Marleau off.
“Yes, you didn't know,” he says dismissively. “And now you do.” He surveys the Raiders, unblinking. “That was on purpose. We both enjoy sharing, yes? And so this celebration that Shane offers is both for us,” He sweeps his free hand around the room, “and for my Shanya. Because we won the Cup, and my Shanya wants to help us celebrate. So he offers himself, because it is very hot for both of us, seeing him pumped full of big alpha cock. We invite you here, yes? Do not waste it.”
The Raiders are silent. The only sound is Ilya’s fingers lazily gliding in and out of Shane’s messy cunt, gleaming and slick, and Shane’s quiet little whimpers.
He can see hesitation and lust warring on their features, tradition versus temptation. Even through the distraction of Ilya’s fingers, he can tell they're wavering, on the verge of tipping, and he doesn't mind begging to give them that final push.
“Didn't it feel good last time?” He gasps, playing it up just a little bit for his own benefit. The little hitch in his breath isn't even intentional– Ilya reads him perfectly, and dips his fingers in to press against his sweet spot at the perfect time. His toes curl and his eyes roll back into his head. “Ah, ah– Ilya– mngh,” he moans, fighting to bring his attention back to the Raiders.
They're right there, on the edge. Just one more push.
He spreads his legs further over Ilya’s broad shoulders to bare his leaking pussy, and pushes out his scent. Aroused, needy, desperate omega, sweet and citrus, and Shane can see Marleau's pupils bloom in real time as he catches a whiff of it. Like a chain reaction, the Raiders lurch forward.
Ilya grins.
“Well?” He arches a brow, and pulls his fingers out. Shane only has a moment to mourn before Ilya drags Shane’s legs up and over his head, twisting them so his hip is propped over the back of the couch and his legs dangle over the edge, spread obscenely wide, and pussy leaking slick liberally over the couch cushions.
He's placed at the perfect position for fucking. Nothing more than a fleshlight, a toy to breed and discard, just legs and a hole, at the perfect height for the Raiders to line up and have their way with him, splitting open his slutty pussy with their cocks and filling him with thick, hot cum, so much until his belly swells and he can’t move without it spilling down his thighs.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, if someone doesn't fuck him soon he might actually die. He's worked himself up all week, edging himself over and over to thoughts of it, and he can smell it, he can smell how aroused they are, he can smell how much they want it, how much they want him, so why aren't they touching him, why aren't they doing anything?
“Please,” he moans, bringing up a hand to spread his folds. “Please, please, please, I need it, please, please– ohhhhh, god, thank you, thank you–”
Someone finally, finally, snaps. A thick cock presses roughly against his clit, rubbing and rubbing and finally slipping deep into his cunt.
Shane wails, tossing his head back over the edge of the couch. His head hangs upside down, eyes filling with grateful tears as someone finally begins fucking his pussy, and that desperate ache inside him finally dissipates.
“Good job, Marleau,” Ilya says above him, and Shane shudders with it. His alpha's hand comes to press against his throat, holding him still as Marleau fucks his messy, slutty, swollen pussy, and Shane’s eyes roll back into his head.
This is only the beginning, and he can't help but smile as he loses himself in the sensation.