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The flight from Ottawa to Boston takes roughly three and half hours.
By hour two, Ilya is antsy.
Shane can sense it in the way he’s drumming his leg with his fingers, foot bouncing off the floor at the same time and making the blanket thrown over them both jerk with his movements. He’s been pent up for the last hour or so, sighing and shifting in his seat or chewing on a hangnail. Shane’s been minding his own business, noise-cancelling ear buds in and the blanket pulled up over his chest to block out some of the chill from the air-con that always seems turned up a little too high.
The great thing about flying chartered is that they have the whole plane to themselves. The two of them and the rest of the Centaurs, of course. And the best part about it is that everyone’s free to get up and walk around as they please, lounge on the sofa at the far back of the jet, peek into the galley and snag some extra snacks. So Shane doesn’t know why his husband is still sat next to him making his obvious boredom his fucking problem.
When Ilya fidgets and slumps down into his seat for the upteenth time, spreading his legs and making the blanket slip down Shane’s lap, Shane cracks.
“What the hell are you so worked up about?” he growls, yanking his earbuds out and fixing him with a withering look.
He keeps his voice low unnecessarily; most of the team is sitting towards the front of the plane, and across the aisle Troy is watching a movie with Harris asleep on his shoulder. Still, he doesn’t feel like drawing attention to the fact that he’s about two seconds away from whooping his husband’s ass.
Ilya groans and sits up a little, eyes moving to Shane’s face from where they’ve been fixed to the back of the chair in front of him. He looks… uncomfortable. In pain, almost. The initial anger swimming up Shane’s chest now retreats a little, replaced with an inkling of concern. His husband’s not sick, or at least he wasn’t before they boarded in Ottawa, and he’s never been one to get queasy on flights, even after the whole emergency landing debacle the other year.
Shane doesn’t get an answer straight away, instead feels Ilya reach up under the blanket and find his hand, his wrist. He tugs, and Shane lets him guide the hand over to his side and into his lap and…
Oh.
His husband is rock hard.
“Ilya,” he hisses in confusion and, honestly, a little arousal, “what the fuck?”
Ilya’s eyes flutter a little at the feeling of Shane’s fingers pressing over his length in his sweats, holding his wrist like a vice and making it so he can’t pull away. A breathy sigh falls out of his mouth. “Fuck, I have been aching for hours,” he murmurs.
“Why the fuck are you hard right now?” Shane whisper-shouts back, his eyes flitting anxiously over to Troy and Harris across the aisle, who mercifully are none the wiser of what’s happening beneath the blanket.
“Thinking about you this morning,” Ilya says, biting his lip and pushing his hips up a little into Shane’s palm.
This morning. Right.
They’d had their alarms set early, the flight leaving in the morning and both of them wanting to make sure Anya was settled before they left for the airport. She’d have her usual dogsitter coming over in the afternoon, but Ilya hated having to leave her on her own for too long and always factored in some fuss-time in the mornings. So, they’d been set to wake up at six, but Shane had found himself rousing around fifteen minutes before. Pressed up against his husband, warm and cosy and sporting a pretty aggressive case of morning wood, he’d decided to make the most of it.
Ilya had woken up to Shane grinding against his thigh, hips rutting in desperate little jerks. He’d happily taken over and made Shane cum all over his fingers, licking them clean with a grin. The alarm had gone off shortly after, and Ilya had insisted he didn’t need the favour returned.
With the playoffs approaching, and the Cens looking set to go all the way this year, Shane’s admittedly been running a tight ship at home in preparation. Ilya, being the loving husband and dedicated captain that he is, has happily gone along with it, though not without some… unintended side effects. Their busy schedule combined with Shane’s reinvigorated focus on a performance-enhancing routine has meant a lot less time for other activities. Activities which, Ilya would argue, are just as good for the body as the cardio drills Shane has them both running through every day.
So, when the rare opportunity for sex had arisen and his husband had assured him he’d be fine abstaining, Shane should have fucking known better. Shit, even he’s been feeling pent up the past few weeks and he’s usually far better at controlling his sex drive, using the gym and hockey practice to work it out of his system. He should’ve known his husband would not be so restrained.
And now he’s rock solid and grinding Shane’s palm down onto the clothed head of his cock beneath the blanket, in the back row of the plane and surrounded by their teammates.
Shane casts another wary glance across the aisle, peeks up over the headrest of the chair in front to look down the length of the plane. Nobody’s paying them any mind. Still, all it would take is for someone to walk by on their way to the bathroom, maybe stop to chat, and they’d immediately put the pieces together. Even with the blanket – the shitty, thin airplane blanket that’s about as effective as a napkin – the outline of Shane’s hand over Ilya’s crotch and the movement of his husband’s hips would speak plain as day as to what’s happening underneath.
He looks back at Ilya, goes to tell him fuck no we are not doing this right now, but the words dry up in his throat at the sight of his husband’s face. Jaw lax, eyes dark and hungry, a look reserved only for dark hotel rooms or, more recently, the confines of their shared bedroom at the cottage. It’s a dangerous, dangerous look.
At the same moment, Ilya lifts his hips again, ever so slightly, and rubs himself in one long stroke against Shane’s palm. He all but moans, the sound caught between his teeth, and Shane can see how his other hand is white-knuckling the arm rest. Fucking hell.
Shane feels him guide his hand a little higher, and his fingers meet the soft hairs of Ilya’s lower stomach, just above his waistband. His abs are taut beneath the smooth skin, Shane can feel them clenching under the pads of his fingers. Ilya’s breath hitches a little at the contact.
It’s a terrible, horrible, disastrous idea. It’s wrong. So, so wrong. And yet Shane’s fingers twitch in Ilya’s grasp. They press against the lip of the elastic of his waistband. He hooks his index finger underneath it and pulls it out ever so slightly, then lets it snap back. Ilya’s hips jerk.
“Fuck,” he whispers, eyes shuttering.
Shane’s eyes are a little unfocused, half watching the pleasure play out across Ilya’s face and half staring beyond him, keeping tabs on the rest of the plane. When nobody moves, his fingers dip beneath his husband’s waistband again.
Ilya practically shoves Shane’s hand into his underwear. The angle and the blanket make it a little awkward to keep his grip on his wrist, so he lets go and allows Shane the freedom to pull back if he wants to. But he doesn’t. Ilya’s cock is leaking against his fingers, slick and wet, and Shane is nothing more than a dog salivating at the sound of a bell, because his hand is automatically encircling his husband’s length and squeezing. Old habits die hard and this one is over ten years in the making, so it really can’t be helped.
He doesn’t move any more than that, daren’t even attempt it. The movement would be too obvious, would give them away. So he just stays with his fingers around his husband’s cock, squeezing and fondling, feeling it throb in his grasp and leak pre-cum against his wrist. He grinds his palm down against the sensitive underside of the head and hears Ilya swear under his breath.
Down towards the front of the plane, Shane can hear Wyatt and Luca talking about comic books. Evan pipes up, something that sounds like a chirp. Bood laughs. Shane’s fingers cinch tighter and Ilya’s cock pulses.
“Shane,” his husband groans.
“Shut up.”
Ilya’s jaw is clenching and he’s grinding his teeth together so hard that Shane can practically hear them turning to dust. His chest is rising and falling heavily, pulse visibly thrumming in his throat. He's losing his composure, and Shane's losing his nerve.
“Alright, enough,” Shane spits out, pulling his hand back. "I'm not doing this here."
Ilya heaves a sigh at the loss, turns to look at him. A smirk slowly plays across his face. He can sense the waver in Shane’s voice, the way it falters over the words like it does when he’s not entirely convinced of his own thoughts.
“Fine,” Ilya says. “Not here, then.”
Shane hears the metal clink of the seatbelt being unbuckled, and then Ilya is standing up, pulling the hem of his hoodie down over the extremely obvious outline of his cock and sliding sideways out into the aisle. He gives Shane one last look, eyes dark and inviting, and then walks off towards the bathroom.
For fuck’s sake. He’s not going to follow him, he really isn’t. He’s not about to entertain his husband’s perverted idea of getting each other off in a plane bathroom. He’s going to put his headphones back in his ears and pull the blanket up to his chin, look out the window and pretend he didn’t just have his hand down his husband’s pants, that his stomach isn’t doing flips.
He gets up.
Nobody looks at him. Troy’s still got his eyes fixed on the TV screen, Harris is snoring. The rest of the cabin is still deep in conversation or catching up on some shut-eye of their own. Nobody notices him slip towards the back of the plane and push into the cramped bathroom, the light outside turning from green to red as the door slides closed behind him.
Ilya is perched on the lid of the toilet seat, sweats pulled down his thighs, stroking himself.
“Fuck you, that was too fucking risky,” Shane grits out. His dick is already a little firm from before, now growing at the sight of Ilya’s red and glistening cockhead poking out from his fist.
“Such a nasty mouth on you, husband,” Ilya purrs, standing up in the tight space and coming face to face with Shane, their chests practically touching. The bathroom’s a little bigger than standard airplanes would usually have, but it’s still a squeeze, especially with two 6-foot-plus, 200-pound hockey players crammed into it.
“I’m not going to fuck you in a plane bathroom,” Shane says, cheeks getting hot at the way Ilya’s cock rubs against the clothed swell of his crotch. “It’s… dirty.”
“Oh, yes, very dirty,” Ilya hums, leaning down so the words vibrate right against Shane’s ear. "Besides, I would be fucking you." His breath is hot and Shane tries to control the shiver of pleasure that courses through him when his husband kisses and licks directly into the shell of his ear. Such an asshole.
His lips travel south and he starts to suck and kiss at Shane’s neck, hand coming to his hip and digging his fingers in, pulling their bodies closer. Shane sets his jaw, shutting his eyes and pretending like he’s not affected, like he’s not tilting his head to the side a little and giving his husband better access. His breathing’s a little heavier now, whistling through his nose.
“Fuck, I have been thinking about you all morning, krasivyy,” Ilya growls against his throat, “I would have fucked your hand right there in that seat if you let me.”
Shane does his best, but the words and the feeling of them being spoken into the sensitive spot beneath his ear makes him fucking whimper. He feels his nipples hardening along with his dick, goosebumps rising on his skin. Ilya’s rubbing a thumb over his hip in circles, pushing his cock against Shane’s jeans, mouthing over his pulse point. He’s so fucked.
“We’d get caught,” he mumbles.
“They won’t catch us in here,” Ilya replies, “not if we are fast, hm?”
He pulls back and looks down at Shane, lips wet and eyes gleaming. He raises an eyebrow, a silent question.
“Fuck, just be quick,” Shane breathes.
His hands fly to his zipper just as Ilya’s mouth crashes into his in a messy, hot kiss. His tongue immediately slips past Shane’s open lips and claims him, sucks the startled moan right out his mouth and keeps going. Shane’s fingers fumble with the button on his jeans, popping it open and yanking the zipper down before shoving them midway down his thighs.
Ilya backs him up the short distance into the counter, hands sliding up his waist and under his shirt, his thumbs finding Shane’s nipples and swiping over them. He swallows another of his moans, sucking on his lip, aggressive and sloppy like he gets when he’s too horny to fucking think straight. Once Shane’s got his boxers down and his cock swings free, bobbing heavy between his legs, he finds Ilya’s and starts stroking him. The angle’s awkward between their bodies, but the silkiness of his husband’s length and the sound he makes when Shane touches him makes it worth it.
On the upstroke, Shane uses his thumb to press into his husband’s slit and smear his pre-cum all over the tip. Ilya breaks the kiss with a groan, head thumping against Shane’s shoulder. He bucks up and then bites down on the meaty part of Shane’s trap, and Shane’s body jolts with pleasure at the feeling.
They maybe have ten or even fifteen minutes, he guesses, before their teammates start wondering where they’ve disappeared to. Shane’s intent on making this quick, but his husband clearly has other ideas.
“Fuck, stop,” he hisses, stilling Shane’s rapid movements over his cock.
Shane’s eyebrows draw together in frustration. “You want to cum or not?”
“I want to fuck you,” Ilya says, his hand slipping down over Shane’s cock and between his legs, cupping his balls and sliding his index finger over his perineum with a wicked grin.
“And I want to avoid a fucking public indecency charge, Ilya.”
Ilya crooks his finger and traces it over the rim of Shane’s hole, making him jerk and bite back a gasp. “They will not hear us, not if you are good boy and be nice and quiet.”
Shane’s cock throbs.
“I know is hard,” his husband continues. “I know how good…,” he says, emphasising the word with a squeeze to Shane’s balls that has him whimpering, “...I make you feel. But you can do it, I believe in you sweetheart.”
He presses an open-mouthed kiss to Shane’s jaw and Shane is fucking melting.
Shane’s fingers find a grip in Ilya’s curls and he pulls him down into another bruising kiss, and he can feel Ilya’s smirk beneath his lips. He feels his husband’s hands come to the backs of his thighs, scooping him up like it’s nothing and setting him down roughly on the bathroom counter with a thump. He just hopes Troy has the movie turned up loud.
The metal sink is cool against his skin and the tap digs into his tailbone, making him wince, but it doesn’t stop him from throwing his legs around his husband’s waist and dragging him closer. Ilya’s hands rub up and down the tops of his thighs, dipping between them but avoiding exactly where Shane needs them the most. He can feel his cock dripping, pre-cum sliding down his length already.
“Don’t cum yet,” Ilya mutters against his lips, and Shane’s about to retort something like how the fuck can I cum if you won’t fucking touch me, but then his husband pulls back and takes his aching cock in hand, leaning down and swallowing him to the base.
Shane nearly bites off his tongue with the way he clamps his lips together, a desperate attempt to stop himself crying out. His back arches and his head thunks against the mirror behind him, hands scrabbling at Ilya’s shoulders, his neck, his hair. Something to hold onto so he doesn’t fly right off the sink counter and onto the dirty bathroom floor when his husband pulls back up, vacuum sealed around his cock, and then slides all the way back down.
Heat rushes into his lower stomach, hairs standing on end. The feeling of Ilya’s tongue pressed flat against his underside as he sucks him off is euphoric, and Shane does his best to swallow down his loudest moans, just little whines and breathy whimpers falling between his lips. He’s still all too aware of how thin the partition of the bathroom door is, how their teammates are sitting mere metres away while he’s getting sucked within an inch of his life.
Ilya works him over, hollowing his cheeks and using his tongue to play with the sensitive part just below the head. Obscene, wet sounds bounce off the walls of the bathroom, mixed in with the low, satisfied rumbles he's making. He does his best to look up at Shane through his lashes as he sucks him off, and Shane twitches and tenses when they meet eyes.
“I’m close, Ilya, shit,” he pants, but Ilya keeps going, his fingers kneading the meaty part of Shane’s inner thighs like he’s goading him on.
His husband knows him too well, knows the limits of his body and his signals better than himself, so it’s only when Shane’s stomach muscles start clenching erratically and his thighs start to quake that he actually pulls off, a trail of spit connecting his swollen lips and Shane’s glistening, red tip.
“Come here,” he growls, tugging at Shane’s waist and making him slide off the counter.
Shane’s knees nearly fucking buckle as his feet hit the floor, but his husband has him in a strong grip, manhandling him and turning him around. Bracing himself against the counter, Shane looks up and is greeted by his reflection, flushed and wrecked. From behind him, he can see Ilya smirking in the mirror, pressing up against his ass and rocking into him.
“You will watch yourself,” Ilya hums, leaning over Shane’s back and speaking right in his ear. “I want you to see how much of a slut you are.”
Shane can’t look at himself when he moans softly at the words. He’s too fucking horny and too embarrassed that being called a slut turns him on so much. It’s true, he knows it is, because only a slut would get off on the idea of their husband fucking them in a plane bathroom and the possibility of being caught. Still, it’s too much, and Shane lets his eyelids sag a little so he doesn’t have to see the way his face reddens and his eyebrows pull together in arousal.
Ilya grinds up behind him one more time, his cock slipping between Shane’s cheeks and making him bite down on his lip. Then, Shane watches him in the mirror as he reaches into his hoodie pocket where it’s rucked up his chest, and pulls out a small packet of lube and a condom.
“You’re unbelievable,” Shane at least has the sense to scoff at him. “You were planning this?”
Ilya grins as he rips open the packet and squeezes lube onto his fingers. “I had some hope that you would go along with it,” he says. “And now look at you.”
Shane sees his arm disappear and has to stifle a moan when he feels Ilya’s fingers delve between his cheeks and find his hole. He doesn’t waste time teasing, just slides two straight inside, and Shane’s cock pulses, dribbling pre-cum all over the floor between his feet.
“So good for me Shane, fuck, I am so lucky,” Ilya breathes, stretching him on his fingers as he strokes up and down the length of his back, pushing his shirt up and kneading the dimples above his ass. Shane presses his forehead to the mirror, breath coming in hot puffs that fog up the glass. The sensation of Ilya opening him up, stroking those long, thick fingers against his walls, it’s nothing new, but the context of it here, now, makes Shane’s legs wobble.
“Can’t believe– ah– I’m letting you fuck me in a plane bathroom,” Shane stutters out, finding it somewhere in him to be snarky despite his husband knuckle-deep in his ass and drawing circles over his prostate.
Ilya meets his eyes in the mirror with a vicious smile. “You would let me bend you over the boards and fuck you on the ice, wouldn’t you? Slut.”
He adds another finger and curls them all at the same time, and Shane’s eyes roll back in his head as he smothers a moan into his fist. It doesn’t have to be true, the fantasy of it alone is enough to get his stomach spasming.
“So desperate for my cock, you would let everyone see wouldn’t you?” Ilya continues, thrusting his fingers in and out rhythmically as Shane clenches around them. “Let them see how good you take it, so desperate.”
Shane’s fingers dig into the cheap plastic counter, feeling it give under his weight. The glass of the mirror is no longer cool against his skin, just warm and moist from where he’s sweating against it and fucking back onto Ilya’s fingers as best he can in the limited space.
“What happened,” he pants, “to being quick?”
Ilya’s free hand comes down and pinches the meat of his ass cheek, scolding. Shane jumps a little and feels his husband’s fingers slip out, and he tries not to whine.
“What happened to not fucking in the bathroom?” Ilya retorts, rolling on the condom and slicking himself up as he positions his body in the gap between Shane’s ass and the wall. He holds him by the hip as he guides his cock forward, burying himself in all the way to the base. The whole time, his eyes are on Shane’s face in the mirror.
Shane goes cross-eyed. It helps, because he can’t bear to watch the way his face contorts in ecstasy as Ilya fills him up, fingers digging into his hipbone and hissing out a litany of Russian swears. He can feel Ilya’s hips right up against his ass, the bathroom not really equipped for Shane to be bent in half at the waist and taking his husband’s cock. There’s just enough leeway for Ilya to pull back halfway and thrust back in, the skin of their thighs slapping together.
It’s too noisy, it’s too obvious. Shane’s whimpering through his fingers and Ilya’s grunting with each dirty thrust, and everyone is going to know. They should stop, get dressed, go sit back down like nothing happened.
Instead, Ilya fists his fingers into Shane’s hair and tugs on his scalp, forcing his back to arch further and lift his chin up to look at himself in the mirror. At the same time, he pushes all the way inside and hits his prostate.
“Mmf– fuck, fuck!”
Shane clamps down so hard on Ilya’s cock that he feels it pulse inside of him.
“Watch me,” Ilya commands through gritted teeth, huffing as he fucks into Shane shallow and fast. “And be quiet.”
With the hot, roiling pleasure in his gut and the sharp sting of his husband’s grip on his hair, Shane’s body is teetering on the edge already. His cock is angry and red and dripping all over the floor, but with one hand occupied holding on to the counter and the other muffling his own shameless noises, he can’t do anything about it. And when Ilya thrusts in again and hits his prostate, then stays buried there and grinds up against it with a leisurely roll of his hips, Shane can feel the wave of his orgasm cresting.
Ilya must be able to as well, because his hand drops from Shane’s head and wraps around him, squeezing him at the base like a vice.
“No cumming until I say so,” he murmurs, and Shane nearly sobs, barely holding it together.
The sounds of their bodies meeting over and over again is, at least Shane vaguely hopes, drowned out a little by the incessant rumbling white noise of the plane. They’re both too far gone to care either way, chasing release with stilted groans and pants. Shane’s hips are caught between wanting to fuck back onto Ilya’s cock and fuck forward into the tight grip of his fist, and so he ends up somewhere in the middle, muscles quivering with the strain of holding back his orgasm and the pleasure of his husband fucking into him like he can't get deep enough.
He’s watching Ilya in the mirror, doing as he’s told. He’s watching the way his hips rock and disappear behind the swell of Shane's hips and ass, the way the veins in his arms pop and his muscles tense and ripple, the way he sets his jaw, the way his lips purse as he exhales in aggressive huffs, getting close. Shane’s mesmerised, watching his husband work to take him apart. He looks fucking incredible.
Ilya cums, sheathed inside Shane to the hilt and right up against his prostate. He milks himself in the tight heat of Shane’s ass, hand still wrapped around Shane’s dick and denying him release in the process. It’s for the best that he’s wearing a condom, Shane thinks, because the feeling of his husband spilling deep inside him, hot and thick, would probably make both his heads explode.
Sweating and shaking, shoulders heaving with breath, he pulls Shane upright whilst still inside him. He crowds him closer to the sink, chest to back. Shane lets the weight of his head fall back on his husband’s shoulder, turns to breathe in the mixture of musk and cologne at his neck. And then Ilya finally starts to stroke his cock.
Shane lets out a garbled sound, swallowing his own tongue as Ilya jerks him off in rough, quick motions. It’s so slick and messy, Ilya’s hand just gliding over his skin with the mixture of lube and pre-cum.
“Cum for me,” Ilya breathes in his ear, and Shane lets go.
His body bows in on itself as he cums over Ilya’s fingers and into the metal airplane sink. And Ilya doesn’t stop, forcing out wave after wave of it. Shane’s eyes screw up, his mouth slack as he shudders against Ilya’s chest, orgasm so strong he goes dizzy.
“That’s it,” Ilya murmurs against his temple between kisses, “just like that.”
Somewhere in between Shane coming down from his high (can't get much higher than forty-thousand feet up, but it sure feels like it), Ilya slips out of him and pulls off the condom, tying and dumping it in the bin by the sink. He feels their bodies separate, Ilya manoeuvring out from behind him and pulling his sweats back up his thighs, his hoodie back down.
Shane waits for the feeling to return to his legs before attempting to move, peeling himself away from the counter and slumping back against the opposite wall. Ilya watches him do so and laughs, breathless.
“You are part of the mile high club now, how do you feel?”
“Like I’m going to fucking pass out,” Shane says, a little woozy. Is having an orgasm this high up healthy? “And like everyone definitely fucking heard that.”
Ilya reaches down and helps him back into his underwear and his jeans, pressing a kiss to his forehead once he’s done. “They are probably all asleep. Troy definitely will not stay awake for that movie.”
Sweaty and lightheaded, Shane flicks the tap on to cold and grimaces at the sight of his cum swirling down the drain before wetting his palms and dabbing his forehead and neck. He pulls a couple of tissues out the holder and pats the moisture away, offering another handful to his husband, who takes them and wipes his fingers clean.
“They better be, because I don’t feel like transferring teams again any time soon.”
They straighten themselves up, smooth themselves out. They share another kiss, deep and languid, indulgent. Shane sends Ilya out first.
“Knock twice if anyone is looking, ‘cause I’ll flush myself down this toilet.”
Ilya rolls his eyes and then flips the lock, sliding the door open and stepping back out into the cabin. Shane waits. His ears strain for any sign of jeering or laughing or, god forbid, sounds of disgust. Nothing. No knock, either, so that’s something.
He waits for another few minutes, running the tap again and washing his hands. Swiping up the mess on the floor with a tissue, binning it, then washing his hands again. Once a suitable amount of time has passed, he musters up the courage to exit the bathroom.
Their teammates are almost exactly as they left them. From this far back, Shane can see a few screens playing movies, the guys watching them slouching back with their headphones in. A couple guys down the far end are talking quietly, voices drowned out by the engine noise. As Shane pads back down the aisle, he sees Troy’s head come into view, resting atop Harris’, both of them asleep.
Shane slides back into the row with Ilya. “You sure nobody saw us both leave?”
“Oh my God, Hollander,” Ilya says, the way he used to when they were both teenagers and he still called Shane ‘boring’ for the fun of it. “It’s fine, uspakoysya.” Relax.
“Fuck,” Shane chuckles shakily, running a hand through his hair, the reality of what they just did washing over him.
“Yes,” his husband says, hand coming to rest on his thigh, thumb drawing lazy circles on his knee. “We did.”
“You fucking owe me, you know that, right?”
Ilya laughs. “I fuck you like that and now I owe you?”
Shane elbows him in the ribs, then feels bad and picks up the hand on his leg and brings it to his lips, kissing Ilya’s knuckles. “Next time you get hard on a flight, go jerk off like a normal person.”
“And let you miss out on all that fun? I would never.”