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Shane Hollander doesn’t go to the clubs. He has never enjoyed them. Not during the unnamed hockey club he has given his years to, certainly not now in Ottawa Centaurs. There are certain exceptions to the facts, of course. One is when the golden retriever of a husband he has insists —which he rarely does, he would own and bankrupt all the clubs rather than to see his husband uncomfortable and pushing through a sensory overload—, and… Yes, that is basically it.
But tonight?
Tonight might be the second exception. The club the GM reserved just in case they… They ended the playoff series in four games. Just in case they won the Cup that night. For the second year in a row since Shane started to play for the Centaurs.
“Yes, baby!” He heard the roar from his husband behind him as he sipped his Moscow Mule. With a grin, Shane turned around to see his husband on top of the bar, his suit jacket fully unbuttoned and sticking to the wetness —either sweat or champagne, or both, on second thought, definitely both— on each side with all his toned torso open to public. He didn’t seem to care, but Shane felt an ugly jealousy rose in his chest as he heard his team and a few of the WAGs catcalling his husband. His husband, however, laughed and thrusted the Cup someone handed him up into the air. “Hollander, come up here!” Ilya looked down, his eyes immediately finding Shane. They always did.
Shane’s usual answer would be a mix of, no, fuck no, or a firm “Ilya!” but Shane had been drinking. Whole night actually. His system consisted of champagne, some oven-baked lentil chips, four —or five?— Moscow Mules so instead of pouting, Shane laughed which was answer enough. Ilya’s face suddenly broke wide open in realization and he extended a hand which Shane took immediately, thrusting himself up to the bar accompanied by woos, whistles and “Fuck yes, Holly!.”
“Your captains, ladies and gentlemen and everyone gorgeous in between!” Ilya shouted, thrusting the Cup again, this time with Shane’s hand on its one side.
Shane spared a moment to himself for his eyes really wander to his husband. Before they left the Arena, Ilya had taken his time to push his curls backwards from the sides with a spray, not wax simply because he knew how much of a texture issue it was to Shane. He had set the front curls free, letting them fall over and around his face to frame his clear cut cheekbones, plush lips and the eyes he lost himself in every single day. Especially when the corner of his husband’s eyes crickled as they were at the moment, simply because of how hard he’d been smiling.
“Любовь моя? My love?” Ilya asked softly in Russian, bewildered as he struggled to read the expression on Shane’s face.
With his free hand, Shane reached over to wrap it behind Ilya’s waist and reached up, kissing him. It wasn’t a regular locker room-safe kiss. No, it was a kiss they would share again the second they walked into their house later that night. The one where Shane would press Ilya backwards to the front door, and let his restraints go. His mouth would find Ilya’s, moans escaping them both, their tongues starting their usual, improv dance. It was a kiss of passion, need, and honestly, wilderness. Shane felt Ilya’s breath hitch as he immediately kissed back, and felt the tremble that started with his bottom lip, immediately tightening his hand around the cup. In less than a second, Ilya’s felt fell freely of the Cup, having forgotten it completely as it cupped Shane’s face, angling it as he pleased, taking full control of the kiss.
“Holy shit!” They heard Luca exclaim, and a second later, his shriek. “Get off me, Bood! I’m 23! I can watch my captains make ou—“
“Not this, kid. This is at least 25+.” They heard Wyatt next, and that earned an eye roll from Shane who finally broke the kiss. As Ilya’s head automatically fell forward to rest in the crook of his neck, he turned to Wyatt.
“Hazy, remind me… Who scored a hat trick tonight and who was the MVP?”
“…Roz and you— Holly I don’t like where this is going.” Wyatt grumbled.
“Well, then excuse me for devouring my husband!” Shane smirked, really feeling the effects of the countless drinks. Moscow Mules always snapped his restraints, in a way he had came to like.
“That was so hot…” Ilya mumbled in his ear, and reached to bite his earlobe before he pushed away, and clapped his hands, suddenly gasping as Rihanna’s Disturbia started, the bum-bum-be-dum-bum taking over the club. “What’s wrong with me?!” Ilya screamed at the bar.
“A lot!” Multiple teammates and back office screamed back.
“Why do I feel like this?” Ilya slapped his hand to his forehead dramatically, throwing his head back.
Okay, so that was Shane’s signal to get down. He gave the Cup to Bood first, leaning down before he jumped off.
“I’m going crazy now!”
“Fuck.” Shane laughed, coming to a stop next to Bood as Ilya started to dance, singing the lyrics. “I love him so much.”
He glanced at a waiter walking past with a tray of cocktails heading for their original table including Moscow Mule he recognized and he signalled him, getting his drink. He took a sip off it, letting the high quality vodka and ginger ale coat his mouth as his body swayed to the rhythm.
“He’s surely a wildcard.” Bood grinned, singing along to the lyrics a little.
“He’s my wildcard.” Shane gloated proudly.
“…Better think twice!” Ilya yelled along with half the team. “Your train of thought will be altered! So if you must falter be wise…” He sang in almost full American accent, scary fluent, each word just falling off his tongue. “Your mind’s in disturbia! It’s like the darkness is the light! Disturbia!”
Shane blinked in awe, letting his eyes wander every inch of his husband’s body, cataloguing every movement, every single muscle twitch, every single syllable left him for later.
“He really knows the entire song, what the hell?!” Wiebe called from the back, his arm around his wife in one of the booths.
“This was playing in every club we went to for like three years straight.” Shane heard a voice he knew well from behind, and he took a big gulp of his drink, turning with a grin.
“Cliff—“ He started before he even fully turned, Cliff’s hand coming to pat his shoulder. “You made it!”
“Roz would be upset it I didn’t. Two cups, man! Back-to-back! How does it feel?”
“Fucking insane! Also? Ask me again when I’m not under influence.”
Cliff barked a laugh. “You bet!” His gaze drifted to Ilya still singing along while he danced, Shane following his gaze. “Shit, this brings out a lot of memories.”
Shane’s head suddenly snapped at him as his chest felt warm —too warm, too instantly.
“Oh?”
“I mean— You were still fuckbuddies, right?” Cliff chuckled, though a little nervously that time. “You know what, I’m gonna find Luca—“
“Marlow, don’t you fucking dare!” Shane grabbed his arm. “Talk.”
“Well— You know, memories!” Cliff blurted. “He was basically fucking his way through the club in this song, the beats are perfect for you know— Dance—“
“Really?” Shane licked his lips as he watched Ilya do a body roll, taking another big gulp of his drink to see it was more than halfway down already. He still felt warm. “Tell me, Marlow—“ He turned to Cliff but he simply wasn’t there. “Coward!” He called out towards Luca.
“Sue me!” Cliff called out from somewhere in that direction.
Making a mental reminder to check on Luca the next day, Shane turned to Ilya again, he saw his eyes on him. So instead, he glared right at his eyes which seemed to tick something off in Ilya before he instantly jumped down.
“мой помидор? My tomato? What is wrong? Everything okay?”
Shane nodded, his lips parted as his palm settled on Ilya’s naked peck.
“Sweetheart, you’re scaring me?” Ilya mumbling, blinking as he tried to figure out what was happening.
“Good.” Shane’s hand went down to stroke his defined abs, fingers curling around the lines.
Fuck it. Shane downed the rest of his drink, placing it on the bar and grabbed Ilya’s hand, taking him towards the dance floor as the song advanced.
“You like this song?” He reached to Ilya’s ear, making sure his words were clear enough.
“Yes?” Ilya screamed through the songx
“Good.” Shane grinned, pressing his body against Ilya, one hand settling on his shoulder, while he ran the other through his husband’s hair. It was better than his hands weirdly swaying around.
“Fuck…” Ilya groaned, his hands going down to settle on either side of Shane’s hips shamelessly, pressing his lower torso against him.
“Disturbia…” Shane mouthed at Ilya as he turned around, letting Ilya pull him closer, their bodies moving in accordance to the bridge of the song.
Then… Then. Fuck. Shane let out a moan, feeling Ilya’s teeth on his shoulder, then just above his collarbone, marking the spot of the hickeys before even starting to nibble, kiss and suck at it. His hand tightened in Ilya’s hair.
“Ilya…” He moaned out, his eyelids fluttering to a close as he let the sensations enwrap them both. In the safe space of their team. No paparazzi. Only the playful banter would be heard the following days. Shane allowed himself to truly relax then, letting out another moan, letting his free hand grab Ilya’s thigh.
“Car. Car, Ilya.”
“Now?”
“Now.” Shane turned to him with a smirk, pulling him into a needy, quick kiss as the song changed to Only Girl.
“Let’s go, Hollander. Let me make you feel like you’re the only man in the world.” Ilya basically growled in his ear, briefly sucking on the sensitive spot just behind his ear, humming to himself when Shane trembled in his arms in response. He snapped his fingers towards Bood without looking away, grinning when Stanley Cup found its way to them. “Then we come back and we dance more.”
—
The funny thing about intoxication was how everything blurred except the one thing that you seemed to be able to focus on. The body —at least his— always ran hot upon intoxication; he felt everything, the small brushes of his husband’s fingertips on his arm, the uncoordinated stumps of his feet, every breath he took hitting his ears with a soft thump, thump… And he felt nothing at the same time. It was as if the world decided to mute itself if it wasn’t his husband. The loud music disappeared, the slam of the backdoor of the club that led to the private parking lot suddenly silent… Like the world and his body decided to create the perfect opportunity for him to be absolutely devoured by his husband in their very sensible car.
“Ilya…” Shane tightened his hand on Ilya’s, the Stanley Cup held tight in his other arm as Ilya stumbled to find his keys. “You’re taking too long.”
Ilya let out a huffed laugh in response. “Любовь моя. My love. Patie—“ His words were stolen from him in a second, his mouth suddenly preoccupied by soft lips tasting like ginger ale and vodka. He moaned into the kiss, letting his mind catch up to the reality of the situation.
Back-to-back Stanley Cup Champions. With his husband, and alternative, Shane Hollander. Who also happened to somehow have the same focused look on him he had the third period of the finals, face locked in with determination —only now, desire was apparent in every crease of his husband’s face.
Fuck, Ilya was the luckiest.
So he let himself be pushed against the side of the car, and let Shane drop his very needy, very desperate kisses on the corner of his mouth, making his way to his cheek, right onto his Adam’s apple until he settled on a spot he seemed to prefer, right on Ilya’s carotid artery.
Between his groans, and gasps, Ilya’s body recognized the signs long before his intoxicated mind did: the way Shane’s body loosened up, the small thud sound created from the contact of his head with his neck, the way kisses got a little wetter, supplied by the drool of his husband —he was seconds away from falling on his knees.
Fortunately for Shane who clearly didn’t give a fuck at the moment, his husband was personally invested in keeping them safe though there weren’t any real dangers. He knew how his husband’s mind worked, and thankfully, his body did too.
His hand fished out the car keys it was too uncoordinated to find just moments ago, the car beeping as Shane sucked a hickey on Ilya’s sensitive spot, Ilya’s body promptly deciding if he died right there, he would be happy. In his husband’s arms, being devoured by kisses, which would for sure soon turn out to be real efforts at cannibalism. His husband liked to bite, and he loved to display the bite marks proudly for all to see just as he would the following day during the parade and the media day.
“Fuck, Shane.” Ilya grabbed his husband’s waist and swung open the back door, grabbing the Cup from Shane and settling it securely between the front and the back seat and moved to get in after, but Shane straight up whined, shaking his head.
“No, no, no… I need you, Ilya.” He hummed.
“Yes, and you’ll be comfortable in the—“
“Ilya.” Shane cut him off, and finally looked up from his neck. His husband’s eyes had darkened with pupils shot wide, his lips parted with a bit of drool caught on his bottom lip, staring at him like Ilya was the only man in the fucking world.
Fuck.
Ilya gulped. Hard. “Yes?”
“I need to ride you.” Shane said stubbornly, earning a chuckle from Ilya, and a set of quick nods. Ilya threw himself to the driver’s seat, and reached under the seat to push it back as far as he could make it out to be, and grabbed Shane’s forearms, guiding him in to straddle him, slamming the door closed immediately after.
“Good?” He grinned at the disheveled sight of his husband.
“Bet-ter…” Shane purred, his hands already working to unbutton Ilya’s pants, and his own.
“Sweetheart, sweetheart—“ Ilya straight up laughed as he grabbed Shane’s wrists after he pushed his pants down and already frowning at how his weight on top of his husband didn’t allow him to pull Ilya’s pants down. “Here’s what’s going to happen. Are you listening?”
Shane looked up at him curiously, his eyes already clouded from the look Ilya recognized so well, all from Ilya deciding to take control.
“Good.” He continued, surprised by how much he had his composure after all the shots. Though… He saw Shane clearer than everyone, including his need. His husband had a whole day of decisions, and now… He needed to let go. “I bet you are still prepared from the equipment closet earlier, but I am not taking chances with love of my life.”
He reached to the compartment his right elbow rested on, and flicked it open, pulling out a lube packet. “Hold.” He held it up for Shane to free up his hand.
The little fucker leaned in and snapped it away with his teeth mid-grin. Fuck. Fuck.
Ilya forced himself to inhale a sharp breath, his fingers trembling with need as he pressed a button in the car to darken their windows for more privacy.
“Up.” He ordered and watched Shane roll his eyes unwillingly, but finally lifted his ass high enough for Ilya to thrust his pants and underwear all the way down to under his knee to allow him the freedom of movement.
“Good boy.” He cradled Shane’s neck, his thumb rubbing on his Adam’s apple. “Remember your signals?” Ilya reached out, dropping a kiss on his husband’s collarbone, working on unbuttoning a few buttons on his shirt —just enough to give him the freedom to grope his pecks as he wished. He snapped his fingers, a signal for Shane to drop the packet in his hand. He did. Immediately. Obediently. Happily. Fuck.
“Green, yellow, red.” Shane blurted impatiently as his hands decided to take initiative and explore their way up and down Ilya’s torso, pushing the already unbuttoned shirt out of the way in a fake annoyance.
“You’re going to be so good for me, sweetheart, aren’t you?” Ilya hummed as he tore the packet open. “Shane, sweeetheart, look at me.”
Shane’s eyes automatically locked onto his, just as Ilya coated his fingers and pushed two in carefully. The reaction was so immediate, that it caused Ilya to jump a little. Shane moaned loud as his the tip of his fingers brushed against his prostate, the remaining bits of his control disappearing as a veil of clouds seemed to be whipping Shane away into the space he loved so much.
That moment, Ilya knew. Neither of them were going back inside. Not that he was intending to in the first place.
“Hello, sweetheart…” Ilya cooed as Shane’s head plopped down to settle into the crook of his neck, immediately continuing the creation of his artwork.
“Hi…” Shane whispered in his ear, his voice soft, and unguarded.
His. This man was his. This man who for years held himself in hostile spaces and still led a fucked up team to three victories. This man who had chosen to love and fall for him all throughout their careers. This man who one day decided Ilya deserved to be his sanctuary of comfort and provide him with a level of trust unmatched anywhere else. This man was the love of his life, and his husband. This man carried his last name along with his own like the best award he’s ever gotten. Fuck, Hollander-Rozanov.
Ilya pushed his fingers further, twisting and pumping them with ease. He was right. Shane was still prepared, but it never hurt to be more. Plus, he could already feel the last of his own restraint slipping as well. He could see the light peeking in through the mental door in his mind, his safe place he went to just as Shane went to his.
If Shane’s space was full of fuzzy clouds that dulled his senses of everything unrelated to Ilya, Ilya’s space sharpened everything. He could feel everything at all times, he clocked and locked every single gasp, moan, and movement his husband would do in real time, and his body decided to give him more of it without having the need to consult his mind.
It was his favorite play to watch unfold.
Ilya reached up to Shane’s back with his free hand, placing it firmly on his lower back. He didn’t apply pressure, but he never did. Shane’s body understood the gesture automatically. Stay. Let me. Let go.
“Please…” He mumbled into Ilya’s ear while starting to nibble at another spot right in the crook, just above his collarbone between his own moans and purrs.
“I know, I know, sweetheart.” Ilya shushed him softly, pressing his fingers against his prostate fully, moving them faster. “Don’t worry.” He added when Shane almost immediately grow restless, his painfully hard cock leaking some of its pre-cum as much as it could trapped between their naked bodies. “You will come on my cock after all.”
“Il-ya…” Shane whined silently, the Russian version of his husband’s name escaping his lips. “Ilya…” He breathed shakily upon Ilya twitching against him in response. “Green, fucking green, please, please, fuck me raw—“
“Okay, okay, solnyshko.” Ilya promised, tilting his head aside to he could kiss the side of Shane’s hair in comfort as he pulled his fingers out, grabbing a napkin from the same compartment before grabbing the rest of the packet, pouring over his twitching cock which seemed to result in a bead of pre-cum of his own travelling down.
With a deep, exhalerating sigh, Ilya grabbed Shane’s hips and lifted him up easily, Shane’s hands leaving his torso at once, instead holding onto his shoulders. Ilya winced at the pressure on his right, the pain of his stretched ligaments vibrating under his shoulder brace, but refused to stop. Mercifully, Shane seemed to have clocked in the wince, and moved his hand down to his bicep instead, earning a quick smile from his husband.
“I have you,” Ilya promised, tilting his head up to pull Shane down enough for a kiss as he lowered him onto himself. At once, Ilya gasped at the familiarity of Shane, at the tightness and the warmth that shocked him almost every time. It was perfect. It was always so perfect. He felt Shane stretch around him —at once, their grunts, groans, moans and gasps mixed in the small space that was their very luxurious, very safe, very sensible fucking car.
What a way to un-boring the car, Ilya thought by himself halfway through a grin.
“Sweetheart.” He hummed, his hands suddenly stilling much to Shane’s protests.
“Ilya, please, please, I can’t— I need all— I need—“ He whimpered, his words choosing chaos.
“Take what you want. Come on, sweetheart. Take what you need.” Ilya placed one hand on his nape, keeping the other firmly planted on his husband’s waist. His.
And oh, his ever obedient, submissive, and honestly brat of a husband suddenly dropped his weight on Ilya, taking him in to the base with a soft scream that he muffled by his teething making full contact with Ilya’s throat.
Ilya fucking growled in response, as pain mixed with pleasure to create the beautiful tapestry that was unfolding in front of him in real time. His husband.
His husband who picked up his pace immediately like there would be no tomorrow. His husband who twitched against him, oh, leaking steadily onto Ilya’s stomach. His husband who was riding him, lifting his hips up a few inches at a time before dropping himself down as the full embodiment of need, lust, desperation and desire.
Ilya was fucked. He was so thoroughly and irreversibly fucked. Not that he wasn’t before this. Not that he knew he wasn’t fucked the first time he watched his husband fold his clothes fifteen fucking years ago in a poorly lit hotel room. He was so fucked because he knew he wasn’t going to last a bit. But he also knew, neither was his husband who was nearing his orgasm already —his thighs trembled, his breath grew ragged, and his core tightened. The telltale signs of Shane Hollander.
“Stop.” He ordered firmly, Shane coming to a full and complete stop automatically as he started to whine loudly, trying to form sentences but frustration clearly having stolen all of his impressive vocabulary. “Good boy. You’re doing so good for me, love.” Ilya’s hand grabbed a handful of Shane’s hair, softly jerking his head up so he could stare at his cloudy eyes and the unguarded smile. “You know this, yes? You fucked yourself so beautifully, but you know why we stop?”
Shane nodded quickly between his whimpers, slamming his lips against Ilya’s as he breathed his way down the edge. He wasn’t given the permisson to come in any way, and he wouldn’t until his husband uttered his permisison.
“Color?” He whispered into Shane’s ear, letting his head plop onto his neck again.
“Green, please…” Shane begged, inhaling sharply.
“Then answer.” Ilya angled his head again, so that Shane would rest his cheek against his shoulder.
“We—“ His husband breathed shakily. “I— Fuck!” He squirmed in his arms, his brain too scattered.
“Sweetheart.” Ilya cradled his chin, staring into his eyes patiently. “Talk to me. Slowly. Why did we stop?”
Shane breathed slowly, his deep dark brown eyes locking onto Ilya’s, which seemed to ground Shane long enough —just enough.
“Because I wasn’t allowed to come just yet…” He finally mumbled, his focus slipping again.
“Good.” He hummed and grabbed his hips with both hands this time, splayed out, his thumbs pressing into the dips of his hips as he started to both move Shane and himself, finally angling himself to brush against his prostate with each stroke. Losing himself with each cry, each moan, each stroke, Ilya held his husband close and finally felt his head lose its footing, slipping further down until he was nothing more than the bodily sensations. His forehead pressed against Shane’s chest, their fumes of their sweat surrounding the car.
“Fuck, fuck…” Ilya gasped, growling. “With me, okay, sweetheart?”
“Yes, yes— Yes, please—“ His husband howled, looking up at him desperately like he was the only one worth his attention in that world. “Ilya—“
“Now.” Ilya hissed when Shane squeezed himself around him, letting his orgasm not only build, but fucking explode at the same time as his husband. Who, meanwhile, had fallen completely limb in his arms, breathing heavily. Letting him settle, Ilya let his hands reposition, one drawing slow circles on his back, while the other rubbed up and down his bicep.
“Я люблю тебя, любовь моя. I love you, my love.” Ilya whispered finally when sensation returned to his hands enough for him to reach for the wet wipes from the same compartment and clean Shane up as much as he could.
“I love you, Ilya…” Shane mumbled, his eyes fully closing.
“Rest.” He hummed, bringing his hand up to the back of Shane’s head, his thumb rubbing against the knot on his nape.
They weren’t going back. No. Not that Ilya ever intended to. Seeing his husband in his most vulnerable state, post-float was all his. So he waited. He waited until Shane fully passed out in his arms, Ilya still warm buried deep in him. When he did, Ilya ignited the engine, reaching out for the wheel from each side. He would take them home, stay in him until he could leave with minimal whimpers, help his husband drink something, take a bath, and they could curl up in bed, with Stanley Cup by their side.