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Shane scores a buzzer beater on double-OT and the crowd—their crowd—goes fucking wild, over fifteen thousand of their people on their feet and roaring as one.
That’s the last thing Ilya remembers clearly for a while—the vivid image of Shane managing an insane burst of speed to shake loose the surrounding Houston players with some of the best edge work Ilya has ever seen, and then him putting the puck on the backhand and flicking it right over the Drillers’ goalie’s glove in the prettiest, nastiest goal Ilya’s seen.
Everything after that is pure chaos; a blur of fucking helmets flying and Ilya getting to Shane from the bench and pressing his lips to Shane’s in a bruising kiss that is nothing but the sudden, painful slam of their cracked lips against one another’s as the rest of the team keeps piling up on them, the blood rushing through him so loudly and so fast that he can’t even hear what anyone else is saying as he pulls back and leans his sweaty forehead on Shane’s.
He can’t hear anything, he can’t feel anything, he might be actually having a heart attack with the painful way his heart is beating double time and trying to escape his ribcage, but as he looks into Shane’s beautiful, dark eyes he swears he can hear him say I love you and he says it back, choking on the words.
The night goes by in blurs—one minute ecstatic people are flooding the ice; the next Shane’s getting the Conn Smythe from a tight-lipped Roger Crowell; then the team's taking turns skating laps with the Cup; then they are in the locker rooms, half undressed and pouring champagne over each other; next someone is pouring champagne out of the Cup and straight into Ilya’s waiting mouth and Shane’s hand is sweaty and sticky and as hot as a branding iron on the small of his bare back as the rest of the guys hoot and holler, the tips of Shane's fingers digging in, his thumb slipping under the band of Ilya’s underwear; then, they’re pub crawling with the fucking Cup (and the Keeper of the Cup, the same guy who’s been watching over it for the past thirty years and who is way too lively to be as old as he is) and what seems like the entirety of fucking Ottawa.
At some point Ilya catches the hour off a side glance at somebody’s smart watch and it’s five am and they’ve dragged the party back home and Shane is so fucking high off the win he doesn’t even seem to care about all the people in their space, doesn’t even grimace when an overgrown rookie knocks something or the other off a shelf while roughhousing and then starts drunkenly apologizing while calling him Mr. Hollander in the most pitiful voice.
It’s five am and he and his husband have won the Cup, together, and Shane’s hands have only gone stray to pick up trophies and hug his parents and then little else all night long, and Ilya craves that touch on his naked skin in a way that drills a hole in his gut. He craves not just his hands that are so fucking skilled and so fucking good, but everything else, every sliver of skin, every warm spot of his that he can put his fingers or his lips or his tongue or his cock to.
Then it’s six am and the crowd is finally starting to thin, most of the team either gone or passed out somewhere and Ilya’s been half-hard for so long that he can barely think so he can barely wait until Shane’s done leading a bleary-eyed and stumbling Luca Haas into one of their empty guest rooms and they’re one or two feet away from the closed door to push him against a wall in the deserted hallway and start mouthing at his neck.
“What if somebody sees us?” Shane protests, but he’s tilting his head, giving Ilya access to more salty skin.
“Scandalous,” Ilya murmurs, kissing up to Shane’s ear, taking a second to tug on the lobe with his teeth and smiling when Shane’s breath hitches, “A married couple kissing in their own house.”
“Oh, is kissing all you’re thinking of doing?” Shane asks, pretending to be coy as he buries a hand into Ilya’s hair. “Is that all you want?”
Ilya feels like a fucking dog in heat, ready to clamp his teeth on Shane's shoulder and fucking hump his thigh until he comes; ready to turn him around and fuck him right there in the hallway for anyone to see, cheek to the wall and knees shaking as Ilya mounts him like a fucking animal.
“Let me show you what I want,” Ilya replies, hoarse and drunk off something much stronger than the champagne and the vodka he had.
The way to their bedroom is fast only because Ilya has a one-track mind—he needs to be all over Shane, around him, inside him; Ilya wants too much to be happy with a quickie in a hallway and muted grunts. He needs time, he needs to worship every inch of him and every crevice, he needs to take Shane apart and to put him back together with so much of Ilya in him that it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins.
The way’s still littered with kisses—to Shane’s knuckles, to the inside of his wrist—and with jumbled, half-formed sentences (want you, God, so much; I can’t wait; need you), and with Shane’s beautiful, gorgeous, perfect breathy peal of laughter when Ilya gets so fucking needy that he trips over his own feet before reaching their door and then lets out a creative curse in Russian.
As soon as the door’s closed behind them, they’re on each other like fucking magnets—Ilya’s mouth is on Shane’s neck, leaving bites and sucking bruises that will be there as reminders of tonight for days to come; one of Shane’s hands is on the back of Ilya’s head, pushing him down; and the other is on his back, raking his nails down his spine and stoking the fire low in his gut with the sting of it.
“You’re so perfect,” Ilya breathes into damp skin, between kisses to the base of Shane’s throat. “So beautiful, so good. Out there, scoring such a pretty goal, winning the Cup for us, winning for me. Wanted to knock you on the ice and suck your cock there.”
Shane moans, angles his hips up, presses the line hard of his cock against Ilya’s, and Ilya moves to Shane’s ear, bites on the lobe, nibbles on the shell, blows a soft puff of air on it and groans when Shane’s hips stutter against his own.
He murmurs, straight into Shane’s ear, “Wanted your sweaty cock in my mouth in that locker room, wanted the team to watch as I went on my knees for you on that filthy floor and choked on your cock. Wanted everyone to see how pretty you look when you come in my mouth.”
He can see it—he can see Shane in his stall, with his jock pulled down and Ilya on his knees in front of him, hands digging into his sweaty thighs as he takes him deep enough that he has to swallow around the head of his cock and Shane’s pubes tickle his nostrils as he breathes in his musk. He can see Shane’s hands tugging on his hair as he bobs his head up and down, and he can imagine putting a hand to his dick and coming all over himself as everyone watches him slobber all over Shane’s cock, bracketed by his strong thighs.
“Fuck,” Shane breathes, trembling and so wrecked already, and Ilya needs him so fucking much, it’s so fucking insane he can’t even imagine ever having wanted anyone else.
He pulls back from Shane and relishes the little mourning sound Shane makes deep in his throat, and the upset and bratty curl to his mouth and the mean turn of his eyes—God, Ilya loves it when he gets like this, when he looks at Ilya like Ilya should always give him everything he wants, like he should crawl after him on all fours all day long and be fucking grateful.
Ilya wants to. God, Ilya wants to be his fucking dog on a leash, it’s fucking insane.
He pushes Shane down on the bed and gets to undressing himself, no time and no patience for sexy teasing, just grabbing at fabric and tugging it all off, ripping some seams in his haste and not really giving a shit as the clothes fall wherever they will.
Shane watches with hooded eyes anyway—as if Ilya were still a spectacle for him, even after all this time—one hand lazily stroking his clothed erection, thumb trailing the head in little circles.
Ilya gets a knee on the bed and takes a second to look, to commit the image of Shane rumpled and flushed with alcohol and pride and fucking lust and waiting for him with a hand on his and eyes half-lidded with want to memory. He wants to take this to his fucking grave.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Shane says with his little lopsided smile that Ilya can’t even remember not loving, and he thinks he’s so funny with his little jab but all Ilya can think is yes.
“Maybe later,” he says and drops to crawl over Shane, first coming up to kiss that smile, to push his tongue over those lips and tug on the lower one, but then he’s coming back down to nose at the line of Shane’s clothed cock, resting his open mouth over the shape of its head and licking at Shane’s thumb when it comes within reach, sucking it into his mouth.
The only thing stopping him from losing himself to the sensation of the pad of Shane’s thumb sliding up his tongue and pressing down when he gets close to Ilya’s throat is Shane’s cock underneath, already getting the fabric of Shane’s fancy jeans wet.
He lets Shane’s thumb go with an obscenely wet noise and watches him go back to stroking himself lazily, getting Ilya’s spit all over that wet spot.
Undressing Shane is slower than taking his own clothes off—Ilya thinks of it as slowly unwrapping a present, each second of delayed satisfaction making that tight ball of want grow more and more dense. He also enjoys the sweet way Shane smiles at him when he takes the time to fold his jeans and shirt and ball the socks up before placing them in the hamper.
The underwear stays, clinging to the meat of Shane’s thighs and darkened and wet with precome.
Ilya crawls back between Shane’s legs and puts his mouth back on Shane’s cock, over wet, clinging cloth. He drops open mouthed kisses up the length of it and tongues at the head, lapping up the salty taste of Shane’s precome over the fabric.
When Shane’s hands find his hair and start petting it, Ilya looks up at Shane through his eyelashes and sucks on the head through the boxers, one hand coming up to cup Shane’s balls.
He looks up at his husband as he digs the tip of his tongue into the slit, hard.
“Fuck,” Shane gasps and shuts his eyes tightly as his hips jerk off the bed. “Fuck, Ilya, fuck.”
Ilya smirks and goes back up to kiss Shane’s open mouth and his cheek and his eyelids, and then he’s finally taking Shane’s underwear off. When Shane’s eyes flutter open and finally focus back on him, Ilya takes the boxers in one hand and buries his nose in them, taking a deep breath as he locks eyes with Shane, before throwing them off the bed.
“Perv,” Shane mumbles, with such fondness that Ilya has to go back between his legs and take the head of his cock between his lips, hollowing his cheeks and running his tongue up the underside.
Shane’s thighs tremble under him and Ilya runs a soothing hand over them as he takes Shane as deep as he can possibly go, letting his jaw go slack and opening up his throat so he can reach the base of Shane’s cock and swallow, breathing through his nose.
Shane’s hand tightens on his hair in a spasm and Ilya hums in approval. He doesn’t always like this, but Jesus he wants it so bad today, and Shane knows him so good and so well that he doesn’t need any other sign to tighten his hold again—this time on purpose, and when Ilya moans like a whore again Shane starts guiding Ilya’s head, fucking Ilya’s face.
Ilya’s eyes roll back as he feels Shane’s rhythm fasten, using his mouth like a fleshlight.
Shane’s hips stutter and Ilya knows he’s about to come so he makes little encouraging noises that have Shane’s fingers flexing around the base of his skull, and the pace of his thrusting becomes punishing, deep enough that it’d make a lesser man gag—Ilya just hums, trying not to hump the bed like a beast.
“I’m gonna—” Shane’s warning cuts off with a moan of pleasure when Ilya starts humming again, and then Shane’s coming down his throat, his hand holding Ilya down against his pubes, and Ilya’s brain buzzes between his ears, all white noise and static as he swallows Shane’s come and inhales the musk of his groin.
He loses himself to the white noise, floating in that space while he suckles on Shane’s softening cock until Shane starts hissing and giving his cheek insistent little pats and Ilya finally allows Shane’s cock to slip out of his mouth.
“Let me—” Shane makes to reach for him, but Ilya pushes him back down, straddling his thighs.
“I have plans,” Ilya tells him, giving his aching red cock a single base to top stroke.
Shane licks at his lips as he looks at the motion and in a breathy voice he says, “Oh yeah? Want to let me in on them?”
Ilya lets out a thoughtful hum before he gets off his knees to murmur in Shane’s ear, “You will ride my face until you are hard again and when you are ready I will fuck you until you come on my cock.”
Shane’s breathing stutters and he lets out a soft sigh.
“Oh yeah, I will ride you?”
“Mhm,” Ilya noses at the shell of Shane’s ear. “You will sit on my face and fuck yourself on my tongue. Is a treat for that pretty goal.”
Shane sighs again, and Ilya feels him nodding more than sees him, and he drags his teeth down the shell of Shane’s ear so he can hear it again.
He pulls back and looks Shane—his husband—in the eye, and for a moment they just stay there, pulled into the gravitational orbit of each other’s gaze, smiling like fools, sticky from sweat.
The burning fire in his gut can really only be matched by the weight of his heart, heavy with all the love he feels for Shane.
“Come, sit on me,” he murmurs, and Shane is startled into chuckling, but follows Ilya’s tugging as he lies down, turning his back on Ilya and moving to straddle Ilya’s chest.
“Tap my thigh twice if you need me to move,” Shane tells him, turning his head around to look back at him, so earnest that Ilya wants to eat him alive.
I can’t imagine anything better than dying with your ass on my face, he thinks, but he doesn’t say it because Shane still gets an upset little divot between his brows when Ilya jokes about his death.
“Yes, yes, tap twice. Come,” he urges instead, taking handfuls of Shane’s ass and spreading his cheeks so he can look at Shane’s hole.
“I thought this was my treat,” Shane says, eyebrow raised, but he’s scooting backwards carefully, and then he’s finally—finally—sitting on Ilya’s face.
Ilya laps at Shane’s hole, getting it wet and messy with the flat of his tongue and then doing little circling motions that have Shane sighing on top of him, his thighs trembling under Ilya’s hands.
He gets lost in it for a while—just mindlessly eating Shane out with broad strokes of his tongue, and then getting Shane’s hole to loosen up with little poking thrusts of his tip that become bolder the more Shane relaxes and the more his hole gives, until Ilya’s thrusting deep in there and flexing, with Shane rocking back to meet his thrusts, riding his tongue and letting out desperate little moans that have Ilya gripping the base of his cock so he won’t blow his load all over himself before he gets to fuck Shane.
“Ilya, Ilya, fuck, your tongue,” Shane pushes his back on Ilya as he says this and Ilya’s world is reduced to his tongue in Shane and Shane’s scent all around him, the heat of his thighs of him, the weight of his body anchoring him.
Shane starts tensing above him, and as much as Ilya would love to have him come undone on his tongue, he has a plan so he stops and squeezes Shane’s thigh, and Shane gets off him with shaky legs, and Ilya gets to see the flush creeping up all way from his chest to his cheeks, and the redness of the tips of his ears.
Ilya chases Shane to kiss him—filthy and open mouthed, so Shane can taste himself on Ilya’s tongue.
“Get on your hands and knees, Hollander,” Ilya says after they part, lips still brushing Shane’s, and Shane nods at him with glassy, half-masted eyes and gets on his knees for Ilya.
Ilya makes quick work of grabbing lube from their bedside table and slicking up his own, neglected cock.
“Come on, fuck me already,” Shane groans pushing back onto Ilya and looking at him from over his shoulder. “Sometimes this century would be—ah, fuck.”
Ilya buries himself to the hilt in Shane in one deep thrust, and Shane melts, dropping onto his forearms.
“Bossy,” Ilya tuts, and starts fucking Shane in earnest, deep and fast and hitting Shane's prostate on every other thrust, one hand on his back, and the other on Shane’s hip.
Shane is soft and pliant and he takes Ilya’s cock so well, so sweetly, and Ilya grits his teeth and mentally counts to five because seeing his dick disappearing into Shane’s wet, abused hole as he tries to stifle his breathless little ah ah ahs against a pillow is almost enough to send him over the edge.
Shane tries to get his hand on his cock, but Ilya stops him by slapping his ass and growling, “Didn’t say you could touch yourself, Hollander.”
Shane whimpers, and he pushes back forcefully to meet Ilya’s thrusting.
“Then fucking touch me, you assho—ah,” Shane’s sarcasm melts into a breathy moan as Ilya starts rubbing his thumb on the tender spot behind his balls.
“Yes?”
“Fuck you, fuck, fuck, I fucking love you,” Shane babbles, and Ilya’s inches closer to coming than he’s been all night at those words in Shane’s wrecked voice.
“I love you too,” he breathes, hips stuttering where they meet Shane’s ass. “So fucking much. You have no idea, Shane, you have no idea, I love you so much, fuck—”
He bends down to press kisses to Shane’s sweat-slick back and keeps muttering, “God, I love you, so much, want to live inside you, fuck.”
He’s close, too close, so he gets a hand on Shane’s cock and starts stroking.
“Come for me, Hollander,” he urges as his thrusts start becoming erratic, and then in Russian, he adds, “Come on my cock, my love.”
Shane groans and comes all over Ilya’s fist, and it only takes Ilya a couple of thrusts before he’s following and coming deep inside Shane.
He takes his cock out as it's spurting the last of its release and he watches his come drip out of Shane's gaping hole.
He slaps his softening cock against it and fucks the dripping come back in with the head of his cock—and then he keeps fucking him shallowly with the tip of his softening cock until he's too oversensitive to keep that up, so he switches it up and starts lazily fucking Shane with two of his fingers, slick with his come.
Underneath him Shane’s eyes are shut but the skin under them is wet with tears, and he's grabbing fistfuls of their duvet as he chants a string of fuck fuck fucks that go straight to Ilya’s spent dick.
“Maybe I can keep you like this, full of my come.”
Shane's cursing grows more frantic, and he thrashes, first away from Ilya and then against him, like his brain is so fried he can’t really tell what he wants or which way is which. It’s so hot that Ilya wishes he could fuck him like this again, for hours until Shane started crying on his cock.
“Would you like it? To wear a plug so you can be full of my come all the time, everywhere?”
“Shut up. God, Ilya, fuck, fuck.” He thrashes again, and his eyelids flutter.
“I think you would, sweetheart.” Ilya says it like he’s discussing the weather forecast, nonchalant, but he's so aroused he feels it everywhere, skin on fire. “I think you would like me to fuck you full every day. Would get you hard to have my come keeping you warm and full all day in front of everyone.”
Shane cries out and he lets go of the duvet to still Ilya's hand as his face scrunches and then goes slack, mouth soft and open in a perfect o against a pillow that’s stained with tears and spit; he starts shuddering, thighs shaking and twitching until he finally stills, and then his knees finally give out on him and he crumples on the bed in a mess of come, sweat and tears.
Ilya’s dick gives a valiant, interested twitch at the image and he gives it a tug with the hand that’s messy with his seed.
Later.
He bends down to bite one of Shane’s ass cheeks—hard enough to leave indentations and a bruise—and when Shane cries out, he soothes the bite with a reverent, lingering kiss that turns into a series of kisses up his hips and up his spine and shoulders and culminating on his sweet, slack mouth.
“Ya tebya lyublyu,” he breathes, against them, consumed by the swelling in his heart.
Shane is mindless and boneless, a jittery mess, but he still dutifully tries to string the words back, eyes hazy as they focus on his.
Ilya just smiles and drops a last lingering kiss to Shane’s forehead, heart painfully squeezed by his ribs, trying to beat right out of his chest so it can go live inside Shane’s instead, next to Shane’s heart. Where it belongs.
The clean up is almost ritualistic: feather light touches of warm, wet towel against Shane’s sensitive skin, and then a barrage of Ilya’s kisses in its wake. Slow, careful, adoring.
At some point during this ritual Shane comes back to himself, turning around with some difficulty and lying on his back. He blinks up at the ceiling and starts chuckling, covering his face with both hands.
Ilya makes a questioning sound as he throws the towel on the floor—being careful to avoid the carpet, because Shane will kill him if it stains.
“God, do you think anyone heard?” The words are only half intelligible under his hands.
“I hope so,” he says, smirking and self-satisfied, and breaks out into laughter when Shane whacks him with a pillow.
“Oh my God, fuck you!” Shane’s also laughing, but he sits up to keep whacking Ilya with the pillow.
Ilya just takes the abuse for a while, laughing too hard to fight back.
After a while, Shane stops hitting him, and instead starts tugging at any part of him he can reach so they can both lie back in bed, curled up and facing each other like two parentheses.
Shane winces and says, “The bed’s one huge wet spot, gross.”
Ilya chuckles in reply, holding Shane’s hand.
They just—look at each other, for a while, and Ilya watches as Shane’s lids slowly grow heavier with sleep over time, watches him fight it so he can keep his eyes on Ilya, but at some point he loses the battle and drifts into sleep, breathing growing smoother, mouth parted.
Ilya’s own lids start growing heavier after some time, and right in that golden slice of time between wakefulness and sleep his last coherent thought is him wishing he could bottle this moment up, preserve it forever.