Work Text:
Ilya swore the sunshine had a personal grudge against his spine.
The June heat clung to the rink’s parking lot, and the gaggle of twelve-year-olds in bright orange camp jerseys swarmed him with all the mercy of hornets. He braced himself against the boards, stretching his lower back with a wince, regretting every smug thought he’d had about the future when he’d been twenty-five and invincible.
“Coach Rozanov, are you dying?” little Ethan asked, visor crooked, cheeks flushed pink. The kid had freckles Ilya wanted to flick off one by one.
“Eventually,” Ilya groaned. “But not before I make you skate suicides until your legs fall off.”
“Coach Shane said we’re only doing passing drills today.”
Ilya narrowed his eyes. “Does Coach Shane look like he’s in charge?”
“Yes,” Ethan chirped, the single word buoyed by the chorus of nodding heads around him.
Ilya clutched dramatically at his heart. “Traitors. I hope you all get traded to Ottawa.”
A collective gasp. The kids recoiled as if he’d threatened their families. Ottawaphobia began at youth camp, apparently.
“Coach Rozanov, my dad says that if your back hurts you should swim,” another camper, Riley, piped up.
“My mom says yoga is good,” Ethan added, solemn now, trying to be helpful.
Ilya dropped to a crouch with a crackle of protesting knees and pointed a finger at the knot of kids. “My back hurts because I wrestled two hundred-pound Canadians for fifteen years. You think yoga fixes that? Only thing helps is vodka and homicide.”
The kids giggled nervously. From the far end of the rink, Hayden smacked his stick against the boards. “Roz, quit terrorizing my forwards.”
“They need terror,” Ilya barked back. “Make them strong. World is cruel.”
“Careful,” JJ drawled as he skated past, flipping a puck onto his stick blade, eyebrows doing the dance of perpetual shit-stirring. “Last time you talked about homicide in front of minors, the insurance guy called.”
Ilya straightened and rolled his shoulders, wincing when something popped. “I’m already on blacklist. One more incident and they send me back to Siberia.”
“Bold of you to assume they want you,” JJ said, grinning like a hyena.
“Bold of you to assume I don’t have shovel,” Ilya shot back, deadpan. “Keep talking, see what happen.”
JJ made a dramatic choking sound, clutching his throat. “Do you hear this, Hollander? Your husband is threatening me again.”
Shane, who had been corralling a trio of squabbling centers at the blue line, didn’t even look up. He raised a hand and waggled it between them like a referee separating toddlers. “You two need a time-out?”
Ilya huffed. “He start it.”
“You always say that,” JJ protested.
“Because is true.”
Shane skated over, cheeks flushed, hair damp under his helmet, smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. He slid a gloved hand over Ilya’s lower back, rubbing small circles like this was a normal thing to do in front of forty middle-schoolers and two assistant coaches. “How’s the spine?”
“Vengeful,” Ilya muttered. “Plotting mutiny.”
“Want my TENS unit tonight?” Shane teased, leaning in so only he could hear, voice dropping into that soft register that made Ilya’s chest go warm. “Or I can knead it out.”
“Keep talking like this, JJ will write fanfiction,” Ilya deadpanned, though he melted into the touch despite himself. “Kids watching. Be professional.”
Shane’s lips quirked. “Ilya, we’ve been married longer than half these campers have been alive. They already think we’re old.”
“Old people can still murder,” Ilya replied, louder, for the benefit of the kids who were itching to repeat whatever he said at home.
Hayden glided over with that loping gait that made him seem perpetually relaxed. “Clock’s ticking. You running the faceoff drill or not?”
Ilya groaned, straightened, and clapped his hands. “Fine. Faceoffs. Ethan, you cheat again, I feed you to moose.”
“Moose don’t eat people,” Riley whispered from the back of the line.
“Russian moose do,” Ilya said with a wink.
The drill unfolded with relative smoothness, aside from Ilya’s relentless chirps and JJ’s equally relentless attempts to trip him “accidentally.” Shane finally skated between them, capturing JJ by the elbow and steering him away. “Knock it off,” Shane said in his best dad voice. “You’re both almost fifty, act like it.”
“Forty-one,” JJ and Ilya said in unison, then glared at each other for the accidental solidarity.
By the end of the session, Ilya’s back screamed, his knees ached, and his heart thudded with the kind of satisfaction he only felt when he’d worn cocky kids down to sweat-slicked, grinning jelly. He leaned on his stick near the boards while Shane gathered the campers for the final pep talk, listening to his husband’s warm cadence glide over the noisy rink.
“Hydrate, stretch, don’t forget your shooting assignments,” Shane said, pointing at individual kids and calling them out by name, offering praise, gently chiding the ones who’d coasted. Ilya watched the way the kids beamed under that attention, the way Shane’s easy leadership filled the space. Pride curled in his belly, familiar and fierce.
When the campers finally dispersed, parents swarming like gulls, Ilya limped toward the locker room. JJ slung an arm over his shoulders and shook him. “You’re coming to the barbecue later, right?”
“No. I go home, lie down, think about my poor life choices.”
“It’s not even one,” JJ scoffed. “Live a little.”
“I lived enough,” Ilya muttered, but Shane was suddenly there, pressing a Gatorade into his hand and giving him that look, the one that said he knew every excuse before it escaped Ilya’s mouth. “We’re going to the barbecue,” Shane said firmly. “Hayden already promised ribs, you can’t bail.”
“I worry about my colon,” Ilya sighed.
“Your colon’s invincible,” Shane replied, smirking. “Come on. We’ll stretch when we get home.”
“Stretching just code for sex,” Ilya grumbled, but he let Shane tug him along.
The barbecue sprawled across Hayden’s backyard, a patched-up patch of grass littered with lawn chairs, coolers, and the detritus of small children wielding water guns like armaments. The smell of charred meat thickened the air. Ilya parked himself under the only sliver of shade cast by a drooping maple and watched the chaos.
“Your face is stuck in perma-glower,” Shane said, kneeling beside him to pop open a beer.
“This party has too many Canadians,” Ilya grunted. “They talk too much, apologize too much, say ‘eh’ like punctuation. Hurts my soul.”
“Oh yeah?” Shane leaned in, bumping shoulders. “What about the Americans?”
“Worse. They clap when plane land.”
Shane laughed, that easy, bright laugh that had hooked Ilya two decades earlier. “You’re in fine form today.”
“I blame sun,” Ilya muttered, though the corners of his mouth twitched. “You talk to your college nerds yet?”
“Speaking of,” a voice interjected. Ilya turned to see a tall man approaching, sandy hair, sunburned nose, wearing a polo like he’d been born in one. “Hollander, man, it’s been forever!”
Shane’s face lit. “Matt.” He stood, clapped the man into a hug that was more shoulder thump than anything, and turned. “Matt, this is my husband, Ilya.”
Ilya took one look at the guy, sized him up, and nodded curtly. “Polo Man,” he greeted.
Matt laughed nervously. “Uh, hi. Shane told me all about you.”
“Funny,” Ilya said, deadpan. “He tell me nothing about you. Probably for best.”
Shane squeezed his knee under the table, a reminder to play nice. Matt, oblivious, launched into college stories, all frat house nonsense and early hockey anecdotes, the kind of memory lane Ilya had heard a thousand times. He tuned out until his name came up.
“—remember that kegger senior year?” Matt was saying. “Man, you had girls lining up for you. What was her name? Melissa? Marisa?”
Shane winced. “It’s been two decades, Matt.”
“I still remember,” Matt insisted. “They all said you were the best lay on campus. Some of them wouldn’t shut up about how you topped like a champ.”
Ilya blinked. The filter between his brain and mouth shorted out. “Topped? You?”
Matt laughed. “Oh yeah. Our Shane here was the king of taking charge.”
Shane shrugged, cheeks a little pink, but not flustered. “College was…a time.”
Ilya hummed, filed it away, fought the twitch of something hot and sharp that lanced through his stomach. Jealousy? Curiosity? The idea of Shane, all lanky limbs and earnest eyes, flipping some coed on her back and fucking her mercilessly flashed unbidden. He took a long drag of his drink to chase it away.
Matt kept talking, but Ilya only half listened, jaw clenched. He hadn’t thought about Shane topping much because their entire relationship had been built on Ilya taking control, on Shane opening for him, begging for him, the sweetest, dirtiest sound. The idea of reversing it felt like flipping their entire axis, though—not unwelcome, apparently, because his pulse refused to calm.
When Matt finally wandered off to pester Hayden about the grill, Ilya sat in a humming silence, eyes fixed on Shane’s profile. Shane caught his stare, brow rising. “You good?”
“Fine,” Ilya lied. “Just thinking about colon.”
“You’re probably dehydrated,” Shane murmured, concern edging his voice. “Drink water.”
Ilya answered with a grunt, gaze sliding away. Shane watched him another beat, something soft and assessing in his eyes, then let it drop, moving to help Hayden distribute burgers.
The rest of the afternoon blurred, Ilya’s mood swinging between grouchy and distracted. When they finally escaped, the car ride home stretched quiet, the only sound the hum of the highway and the muted thump of tires. Shane drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Da.”
“Because you’ve been making serial killer eyes since the barbecue.”
“Is just face,” Ilya muttered, but the lie sat heavy. He chewed on it all the way home.
They showered off the day—Shane first, quick rinsing, then Ilya, longer, letting the hot water ease his back. He towel-dried, pulled on soft shorts, and found Shane in the kitchen, nursing a beer and staring out the window at their small yard. The sunset painted him gold.
Ilya leaned on the counter, arms crossed. “Something on your mind?” Shane asked without turning, voice gentle.
“Nyet.” The word crumbled before it left his mouth. He sighed, rubbed his neck. “That guy. Marcus? Tall one. Tragic goatee. Looks like he wrestle sad beaver.”
Shane chuckled. “You mean ‘Matt.’”
Ilya waved a dismissive hand. “Whatever. Point is—” He cleared his throat, trying to sound casual and failing spectacularly. “He say you were top in college.”
Shane’s shoulders rolled. “Yeah. Casual sex in college was pretty…vanilla, but I liked control sometimes.”
“You never mention.”
Shane glanced back, an amused curve on his mouth. “I think we’ve both been busy focusing on the sex we actually have.”
“True.” Ilya scratched his chin, eyes narrowed. “He looked like he want to fight me.”
“Matt?” Shane laughed. “He barely passed English Lit. Trust me, he wasn’t challenging your vocabulary.”
Ilya shrugged, pretending nonchalance. “He say girls mooned over you. That you were best top they had.”
Shane’s smirk deepened. He set the beer aside, closed the distance, caging Ilya against the kitchen counter with his arms on either side. “Is that what’s been stewing in there?”
“Maybe,” Ilya murmured, heart suddenly punching his ribs.
Shane kissed the corner of his mouth, lingering, lips soft. “And what do you think about it?”
“I—” The syllable caught, thick. Ilya frowned.
“Do you want to try it with me?” Shane’s voice dropped, warm breath skating over Ilya’s cheek. His hands slid down, thumbs brushing his jawline.
Ilya’s pulse spiked. “What?”
Shane didn’t back off. He kissed Ilya’s jaw, slow, open-mouthed, nuzzling his neck. “Bottoming,” he murmured against the skin. “Letting me fuck you.”
Ilya’s breath hitched, muscles tightening. “I don’t—”
Shane paused, pulled back enough to meet his eyes, brown irises steady. “We don’t have to if it’s uncomfortable for you. Just letting you know I’m open to it.”
The tenderness in his tone cracked something open. Ilya licked his lips, nodding once, hard. “Da.”
Desire flared in Shane’s expression, tempered by something reverent. He kissed him again, deeper, coaxing. “Okay,” he whispered against his mouth. “We’ll go slow.”
Hours later, the house quiet, the world shrunk to their bedroom, Ilya found himself sprawled on the bed, pillows stacked under his hips, muscles trembling as Shane knelt between his thighs. The bedside lamp cast a low amber glow, painting Shane’s shoulders with molten light. Ilya’s chest heaved. His heart battering the cage of his ribs felt almost louder than the little noises he couldn’t swallow.
Shane ran his palms down Ilya’s thighs, squeezing, soothing. “You’re gorgeous,” he murmured, leaning in to press a line of kisses from the back of Ilya’s knee up to the crease of his ass. “So strong.” His breath ghosted hot over sensitive skin.
“Flatter me later,” Ilya grunted, though his voice lacked bite, rough-edged with anticipation.
Shane chuckled, low and fond. “Can’t help it.” He slicked his fingers with lube, the cool shine catching the light, then pressed his fingertips to Ilya’s entrance. “Breathe for me.”
Ilya forced his muscles to loosen, exhaled slowly as Shane traced circles over the tight ring, teasing, patient. Heat flooded him, a coil of arousal thickening at the base of his spine. He’d been fucked before, long ago, in wild, reckless nights that blurred together, but never with the man who knew every notch of his armor. That difference sent shivers crawling over his skin.
Shane slid one finger in, slow, a steady push that stretched without burning. “There you go,” he whispered. “So tight.” He thrust shallowly, letting Ilya adjust, watching his face. Ilya bit down on a groan, fists clenching in the duvet.
“More,” he rasped, because patience had never been his strong suit.
Shane smirked, added a second finger, twisting, angling until he brushed that spot. “Fuck,” Ilya snarled, back arching. Lightning bolted through him, the touch on his prostate sending sparks down his thighs.
“There it is,” Shane crooned, rubbing small circles. “Feels good, huh?”
Ilya nodded, breathing uneven. “Da. Again.”
Shane obeyed, fingers scissoring, tapping that gland with a maddening rhythm until Ilya’s control frayed. “Nngh—Shane,” he groaned, hips rocking back, chasing more of that pressure. His cock drooled against his stomach, throbbing untouched.
“You’re doing so well,” Shane praised, voice dropping into that intoxicating husk. “Opening up so beautifully for me.” He leaned over, mouthing along Ilya’s spine, tongue tracing vertebrae as his fingers sank deeper. “Look at you. Taking me so good.”
“Mmnn,” Ilya growled, thrusting back, eyes rolling. His whole body hummed, nerves alight. The slick stretch hit the sweet border between pleasure and intensity, the slow burn he’d always inflicted on Shane now turned inward. “Need you.”
“You’ll get me,” Shane promised, sliding a third finger in. The stretch stung, but the way Shane curled against his prostate erased the bite, turned it into molten heat. “Relax,” Shane coaxed, and Ilya fought the instinct to clench, forcing himself to melt, to trust.
Moans spilled, low and guttural. “Aaah—fuck. Shane.” He bit his lip, dove into the sensation, let it drown him. Shane’s fingers pumped, lube-slicked, relentless, milking his prostate with deliberate strokes that had his thighs shaking.
The overstimulation crept up, a crescendo. “God, Ilya, you’re squeezing me,” Shane groaned, pumping faster. “Feel how your body wants it?”
“Give me cock,” Ilya snarled, the rasp of desperation cracking his voice. “Now.”
Shane withdrew, trailing his lubed fingers over Ilya’s ass, spreading him, admiring. “You ready?”
“Do it,” Ilya gritted, head dropping to the pillow.
Shane rolled on a condom with shaking hands, slicked himself generously, and lined up. He pressed the blunt head against Ilya’s entrance, pausing. “Breathe with me,” he murmured, hand stroking up Ilya’s spine. “I’ve got you.”
Ilya inhaled, exhaled, and if his heart felt like it might claw out of his chest, he ignored it. Shane pushed, slow and steady, the stretch wider, deeper, filling him in a way fingers couldn’t. Ilya’s mouth fell open in a silent gasp, eyes squeezing shut. “Fuck,” he groaned. “Oh—”
“Easy,” Shane whispered, voice shaking. “So tight, baby. You feel incredible.” He sank another inch, face flushed, sweat beading at his temples. “Let me know if it’s too much.”
“I kill you if you stop,” Ilya growled, though the tremor in his tone gave away the intensity. He forced himself to unclench, to ride the burn into pleasure. When Shane bottomed out, hips flush, Ilya groaned deep and raw. Being filled, stretched to the hilt, the weight of Shane inside him—it yanked at something deep, primitive.
Shane leaned over, chest pressed to I
lya’s back, kissing along the curve of his shoulders, breath hot, whispering against his ear. “You feel so fucking good around me,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “Taking me so perfectly. That’s it, baby, squeeze me.”
A raw groan tore from Ilya’s throat. Every thrust rolled through him, heavy and deliberate, the shaft gliding over his prostate in a way that made his vision spark. “Shane—ngh—don’t stop.”
“Not stopping,” Shane gasped, pulling out almost completely before driving back in, rocking his hips with the consistency of a piston. His hands slid forward, fingers strong on Ilya’s hips, anchoring them both. “You’re being so good for me.”
Those words hit and detonated. Praise from Shane always melted him, but hearing it like this, when Ilya was the one spread and trembling and taking—it seared.
Shane thrust harder, faster, grunting with each push, the sound low and gritty. He reached under, wrapped his slick fingers around Ilya’s cock and stroked, thumb twisting over the head. “Look at you, dripping for me,” he whispered against Ilya’s ear. “Such a good boy.”
Ilya’s eyes rolled, a choked cry ripping out of him. “Fuck—Shane—nnn—”
“Yeah, moan for me,” Shane coaxed, jerking him in time with the pounding thrusts. “Let me hear how good you feel taking my cock.”
He collapsed on his elbows, back arching, the new angle letting Shane ram even deeper, smashing against his prostate incessantly. The overstimulation washed over him, pleasure cresting like a wave ready to break. “Can’t—ah—fuck—”
“You can,” Shane growled, slamming in, grinding, hand milking his cock. “You can take it. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”
Ilya keened, biting his lip until he tasted copper. Sweat dripped down his temple. The pressure in his belly coiled, hot and insistent. “I’m gonna—”
“That’s it,” Shane rasped, accelerating, chasing his own release too, hips pistoning mercilessly. “Come for me, sweet boy.”
The command shattered him. Ilya’s orgasm tore through him with a violent jolt, his body bowing, muscles locking. “AAHH—Shane!” he cried, cum spurting over Shane’s fist, splattering the sheets. His hole fluttered around Shane’s cock, clenching involuntarily.
Shane cursed, thrusting raggedly, the tightness squeezing him, and then he froze, buried deep, groaning into Ilya’s shoulder as he came. His hips stuttered, warmth flooding through, condom catching the spill. He collapsed forward, chest pressed to Ilya’s back, breath sawing.
They stayed like that, panting, shaking, skin melding with sweat. Ilya let his face fall into the pillow, spent, heart hammering. Shane kissed the nape of his neck, soft, reverent. “You okay?”
Ilya hummed, still floating. “Da.” His voice sounded wrecked. “Very okay.”
Shane carefully pulled out, discarded the condom, and returned with a warm cloth, wiping away the mess gently. He pressed tender kisses along Ilya’s spine, fingertips kneading the tense muscles. “You were incredible.”
“Mmnh.” Ilya rolled onto his side, eyes heavy but bright. He cupped Shane’s jaw, dragging him into a slow, languid kiss. “Next time, less teasing.”
Shane grinned. “You liked it.”
“I tolerated,” Ilya replied, though the soft warmth in his gaze betrayed him. He pulled Shane close, nose nuzzling his hair. “My ass feels like truck ran over it.”
“We’ll take it easy tomorrow,” Shane murmured, curling around him.
“Liar,” Ilya whispered, but there was no heat in it. He drifted off wrapped in Shane’s arms, body humming with aftershocks, mind stunned at how right it felt.
Morning arrived with all the mercy of a slap. Ilya groaned as sunlight stabbed through the curtains. He shifted, tried to sit up, and immediately regretted it. His lower back barked, hips aching deeply. “Ohhh, пиздец,” he hissed, clutching his spine.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, attempted to stand, and promptly crumpled to the floor, landing on his knees. “Cherenov’s balls,” he cursed, glaring at the hardwood.
From the doorway, a chuckle floated. Shane leaned against the frame, coffee mug in hand, hair mussed, smirk smug. “Poor baby,” he drawled. “Want me to help you?”
Ilya shot him a baleful glare, though the edges softened when Shane’s eyes twinkled. “Shut up,” he snarled, trying to push himself up only to wince. “I’m never letting you fuck me again.”
Shane’s smirk widened, the picture of satisfied delight. “Sure you aren’t.”
Both of them knew that was a lie.