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The moment the bedroom door shuts, Shane and Ilya crash together.
Shane’s a million miles off the earth, flying high after the best night of his life. It had been amazing and kind of unreal to finally kiss Ilya out in the open, all the people he cares about most watching. Everyone knew he was gay, and everyone knew he was in love with Ilya Rozanov, and the world hadn’t ended, and it was all, actually, for real, going to be okay.
So he drank champagne and he took off his Apple watch and he did not count calories or think about closing his macros and he kissed his husband in the daylight. They didn’t have chairs, or a pre-planned wedding playlist, or a caterer, and he had no idea what the flowers were (they’d had flowers, right? Probably? There must have been flowers?). But the important people, the ones whose opinions were actually worth giving a shit about, had all been there, and they’d smiled and laughed and even Hayden had been cool. Fuck the Montreal Metros. He had a new team, and he had his friends and family around him, and that was more than enough.
Still. By the end of the night, he was smiling at everyone through gritted teeth, about to vibrate out of his skin. Like, okay, so glad you could all be here, amazing night, very emotional, now can you please wrap it the fuck up and go home.
The last guests drove away a few minutes ago. Anya is asleep in her bed (which is where dogs are supposed to sleep, Ilya, that’s what they’re for), and the house is dark and quiet. They’re finally alone, and Shane can’t get close enough to his husband.
Holy shit. He has a husband.
Shane’s smiling so much he’s having a hard time kissing the aforementioned husband properly. His mouth’s all stretched out of shape, and he’s struggling to swallow down a laugh that keeps bubbling back up his throat.
Ilya, on the other hand, is definitely not laughing. He grips Shane’s face to hold him steady, and his hands are trembling. His mouth tastes like champagne when Shane licks into it, and he kisses back like he’s starving for it.
Shane pulls away just long enough to mutter, “thought they’d never leave.”
Ilya hums in agreement and chases after his lips. “Was so hard,” he says into his mouth.
Shane pulls back again and looks at him. “Wait, you were hard? When?”
“During ceremony,” Ilya says distractedly. His hands can’t decide what to do with themselves. He pulls Shane’s tie loose but doesn’t finish taking it off, gets two buttons of his shirt undone before he changes his mind and tugs impatiently at the fly of his pants instead. “Whole time. Vows, everything. Had to flip my dick up into my waistband like horny teenager. Maybe it will show in wedding pictures, we will see.”
Shane can’t help it. He laughs. “You were hard while we were saying our wedding vows?”
To his credit, Ilya seems to have zero shame about this. He nods and dives in to mouth at Shane’s throat. “Mmhmm.” He pushes his tuxedo jacket from his shoulders and drops it on the floor.
Whatever. That’s what dry cleaning is for.
“But—you were crying!”
“Mm, I know. Was crying and rock hard. The Russian spirit, it is very complex.”
He goes in for a kiss, but Shane breaks it off quickly. He can’t let this go. “I mean the crying I get, it was—it was a perfect wedding, but the…” Shane shakes his head. “What was it? You like the suit?”
“No, was not the suit.” Ilya pauses. “Okay, was partly the suit. But mostly it was just…fuck. Shane. We are married,” he says it in a rush of breath, like that explains everything.
It very much does not. Shane studies him, puzzled. “And that’s… a turn on?”
Ilya wags his head in a nod. He has Shane’s shirt unbuttoned now. He drops to his knees and presses kisses below his navel, splaying his hands over Shane’s ribs. He turns his eyes up to Shane and stares at him with so much devotion it scares him. “Yes. You are mine now. I am yours. Forever.”
Shane swallows. His throat feels dry all of a sudden. “Oh,” he says softly.
Holy shit, Shane gets to have this cock for the rest of his life.
Not that he, like, married Ilya for his cock. Ilya is his soul mate, the only person in the world who can match him. He gets Shane in a way nobody else ever has, like, just kind of understands things without Shane having to say, and he’s totally obnoxious, and almost as good as Shane at hockey, and being with Ilya, no matter where they are, is home.
But his cock is definitely a nice bonus.
He thinks about this while he’s sprawled on the bed between Ilya’s (thick, muscled, hairy, gorgeous) thighs, staring up at his cock. It is objectively a very nice cock, maybe even a perfect one, with a thick vein running up the underside and foreskin that peels back when he’s this hard to frame a deep red, slick head. Ilya is about to slick himself up so that hopefully, that cock can go inside him very soon.
“Let me,” Shane whispers. He goes to pump lube into his right hand, but Ilya grabs his wrist and stops him. Shane blinks.
“Use other hand,” Ilya says.
Shane’s brow scrunches in confusion. “But I’m right-handed.”
“I know you are right-handed,” Ilya says. He sounds hoarse. “I want—” he pauses. Wets his lips. His pupils are huge. “Want to feel your ring.”
A grin spreads across Shane’s face as it clicks. “You wanna feel my wedding ring, baby?”
Ilya whimpers. His throat bobs, and he nods quickly.
Shane bites his lip. He pumps lube onto his left palm and wraps Ilya in his fist. It feels a little weird, doing this with his left hand, and he wonders if he’s doing an okay job. Then Ilya looks down, and Shane does too, and they both watch how the light catches on Shane’s wedding band as his hand moves up and down Ilya’s flushed, straining cock.
“Fuck,” Shane whispers. He is… starting to see the appeal of this.
“Fuck,” Ilya moans in agreement. He rocks his hips, slowly fucking into Shane’s fist. “My Shane. Wearing my ring on his pretty hand. Will be even harder now to watch you maneuver your stick.”
Shane laughs. “Lucky for you we’ll be on the same team.”
Ilya shudders. He motions for Shane to come close, and when he does, Ilya clasps him by the back of his neck and drags him in for a kiss, slow and wet and filthy. A thread of spit stretches between their lips when he pulls back to look at Shane. Wow, those pupils. They’ve nearly swallowed the green of his eyes. “So I will have you everywhere,” Ilya says. “Same team. Same house. Same bed.”
Shane’s throat bobs. He nods. “Matching jerseys,” he whispers. “Matching rings.”
Ilya squeezes his eyes shut. His face tenses up the way it does when he’s trying not to come, and he breathes harshly through his nose for a few seconds. When he opens his eyes, he looks ravenous. “I need to fuck you.”
Shane swallows and nods. “Yeah, baby. You do.”
Shane goes to prep himself, which he should’ve done earlier, but they’re both a little drunk, and it’s been a really overwhelming night, so. Maybe they can still get some things out of order, even after all these years. He reaches between his legs, but Ilya smacks his hand away. “My job,” he growls.
Shane raises his hands up in surrender and laughs. He reclines on the bed with his legs splayed and lets Ilya get to work, gives him a lazy grin that says be my guest.
Ilya presses eager fingers into him. His hands are shaking again. He’s got two fingers pumping in and out of Shane, and he’s rubbing the knuckles of his ring finger over his rim.
Shane’s pretty sure he’s staring at the ring.
“You’re such a freak,” Shane huffs, grinning. He feels giddy, and maybe that’s not just the champagne.
Ilya whines. “You don’t understand,” he says. “You are not seeing what I am seeing. Pretty hole, opening up for me. All mine.”
Shane’s ears go hot. He throws his arm over his face. “Should we have put that in our wedding vows?” He mumbles. “Something about marrying my—” he clears his throat because he is a married man and he can talk dirty if he wants to and he is not gonna let his voice crack, “my hole?”
That gets him another whine. God, Ilya’s so fucking cute like this. “Da,” he says. He pulls his fingers out and wipes them on the sheets. “I get to have your hole, and you get exclusive rights to this dick.”
“Sounds like a—oh—a pretty good deal,” Shane stutters because the slick head of Ilya’s cock is pressing against his rim.
Ilya doesn’t press in. He waits, and Shane rocks his hips down and grunts in frustration. “Move your arm. Let me see beautiful face first.”
Shane takes a deep breath and lets his arm drop. He’s still bright red, and he stares up at the ceiling.
Ilya grips his jaw in one big hand and forces Shane to look at him. His lips are parted, his chest heaving. He looks like he’s run a marathon, and he’s not even inside him yet.
“There you are,” he says. “Pretty face. Beautiful freckles I married. My Shane.”
He thrusts in.
Shane’s back bows. His hands scrabble at the covers. Ilya doesn’t stop until his hips are flush against Shane’s ass, grinding deep and making his whole body spark like fireworks.
“Look at you,” Ilya moans. “My Shane. Mine.” His hand slides moves up from his jaw, his thumb pressing on his lower lip. “Pretty mouth made to suck my cock.”
He drags his hand over his throat, curls his fingers around it and squeezes just barely. Shane swallows to feel the pressure against his adam’s apple. Ilya’s next thrust makes him gasp, and there’s just that bit of resistance when he tries to pull in air that makes it sweetier. “Pretty throat, get to watch it stretch around my dick. Hold it while I fuck you.”
Ilya’s hand slides over his collarbone, splays wide in the valley between his pecs.
“Pretty tits. Cute, perky nipples.”
He reaches over to pinch one of them, making Shane jolt. He digs his thumbnail in meanly, and Shane hisses through his teeth.
“Fuck. Get so tight when I hurt you,” Ilya mutters. He is tight, and Ilya’s cock feels enormous, the head bumping his prostate on every inward roll of his hips. He gives Shane’s pec one last squeeze and drags his hand lower, petting the ridges of his abs.
“You know these are spies for me? Your abs flex when you are about to come. Every time.” His hand goes lower, traces the vein running up the underside of his cock. A pearl of precome wells at the slit.
“And this cock,” he groans. “So big. So fat and needy. Love to suck it. Healthy boy, perfect diet makes your come taste like candy. Leaks like faucet, bounces so pretty when you ride me, swings when I fuck you from behind. Big, beautiful cock. Too bad is just for show.”
Shane huffs and rolls his hips into the next thrust. “Shut up and fuck me,” he gasps.
“I am fucking you.”
“Harder,” Shane grits out. He hooks his ankles around Ilya’s back and tries to pull him in, and when that’s not enough he grips a fistful of his curls and yanks, urging him on.
Ilya’s eyes go pleading and shiny as he searches Shane’s face for approval. He snaps his hips in deep, sending shockwaves of pleasure through every inch of him. “Like that? Is what you need, malysh?”
The cockiness is gone. There’s a pleading whine to his words, like he has to please Shane just right. Needs it.
Shane’s head falls back. He gasps, eyes squeezing shut. “Yeah, baby. Yeah. Like that.”
“Want to make you feel good,” Ilya babbles, breathless.
“Always, always make me feel good,” Shane says. He forces his eyes back open, and the look on Ilya’s face makes Shane want to fight the whole world to keep him safe.
Shane swallows. He has a theory. What if he just… “Forever, yeah? Gonna make me feel good forever?”
Ilya’s eyes snap wide. He lets out a high, whistling keen, then crumples down on top of Shane, face tucked into the crook of his neck. Theory correct. “Shane,” Ilya whines into his throat. “Say it. Tell me who I am.”
“You’re mine,” Shane says.
“Your what?”
Oh. “My—my husband.”
Ilya makes a wounded sound. His hips hitch, thrusts fast and desperate and sloppy. Fuck, Ilya’s stroke game’s always been impeccable, perfect rhythm usually, but tonight he’s all out of sorts, humping in little jackrabbit thrusts like it’s his first time getting his dick wet. It makes Shane feel crazy.
“Again,” he begs. “Say it again.”
“My husband.” Shane grips his back. He can feel Ilya’s lats shifting under his hand as he fucks into him. He turns his head, nose landing in Ilya’s sweaty curls, and presses the words into his ear. “My husband. You’re my husband.”
Every time he says it, Ilya moans, high, desperate sounds like he’s the one getting railed, like that word husband is a jolt straight to his prostate. He keens and ruts. The mattress squeaks. The headboard bangs the wall.
Shane can’t believe it. He’s fucking wrecked. Ilya Rozanov, the NHL’s greatest fuckboy, is whining and panting like a dog, losing his mind at the mere reminder that Shane locked him down.
Shane manages to let go of his back and fumbles clumsily until he finds Ilya’s hand. He drags it up to his mouth, buries the other hand in Ilya’s curls and tugs until Ilya’s forced to pull his head back and look at him. Ilya has to blink a few times before his eyes can focus. His face is sweaty and red, his lips parted in a little “o” of surprise as he fucks and fucks.
Shane makes sure he’s looking. He opens his mouth wide and takes the ring finger of Ilya’s right hand into his mouth, sucks it all the way down so he can curl his tongue around his wedding ring.
Ilya’s mouth falls open. He lets out a choked moan. His hips stutter, and Shane’s insides flood with sudden warmth.
Neither of them move for a second. The only sound is Ilya's ragged panting.
Shane curls up into a half squat and looks down at where Ilya is still buried inside him.
“Did you just—”
“Shut up,” Ilya says quickly.
Shane flops back onto the pillow and stares up at the ceiling, wheezing with laughter. “Oh my God.”
Ilya snarls and pulls out. He dives down, grips Shane’s thighs hard and hauls him up with his legs thrown over his shoulders. Shane barely gets a chance to process what’s happening before Ilya’s got his face buried between his cheeks, tongue shoving into his slick, messy hole.
“Ilya,” Shane chokes out. His hands flounder, and one of them eventually finds Ilya’s hair and holds on.
The wet, slurping sounds are fucking filthy. Ilya fucks his tongue into him, curling and sucking, eating his come out of him. Shane’s eyes roll back, and his toes curl. “Oh fuck,” he gasps.
Ilya hooks his thumbs into his cheeks and spreads him wide so he can press deeper, nose digging into the sensitive spot behind his balls and making Shane’s hips fly off the bed. He gets a snarl in response, and Ilya shifts his hands and slams his hips back down, pinning him in place. Then his hands are back, spreading, squeezing, giving himself the space he needs to eat into Shane.
“I—Il—Ilya—oh god, oh god, gonna come,” Shane pants. Ilya hums in encouragement, and Shane can feel the vibrations everywhere, and Ilya’s tongue plunges deep and curls and that’s it, he’s done, he’s coming all over himself with a wail.
Ilya barely lets him rest. Apparently his own come wasn’t enough because he surges up and licks Shane’s abs while they’re still jumping from his orgasm. His tongue drags over his skin, lapping up sweat and come and moaning like he’s never tasted anything better.
Shane does not squeak. He makes a—a noise, and okay it’s pretty high-pitched, but it’s not a squeak. It’s just that he’s overstimulated, and Ilya’s not stopping, and he chases after Shane no matter how he tries to squirm away.
“Hey—hey, hey, gimme a second, I—” Shane tries to close his shaking legs, pushes weakly at Ilya’s shoulders because oh my god it’s too much.
Ilya growls at him. He grabs him by the hips and pins him down, slurps Shane’s soft cock into his mouth and sucks it clean.
“Ilya!” Shane shouts. He tries to buck, but Ilya’s grip is like iron. His head thrashes on the pillow. Tears spring to his eyes, and it’s so much it fucking hurts, and he is so so glad Ilya knows him well enough to ignore him. He can push and fight and sob and Ilya, his perfect, insatiable husband, knows better than to stop.
The pain does something for him, always does, and he can feel his overworked dick twitching and trying to get hard again in Ilya’s mouth. Ilya hums in pleasure around him and suckles at the head, and it’s so much Shane sees spots.
He pulls off, and Shane has just enough time to sob in relief before Ilya sucks one of his balls into his mouth. Shane grunts and slaps at Ilya’s bicep, trying to get him to let up. “Wait—I can’t—gimme a—”
Ilya ignores him, goes on lapping at his balls, his eyes unfocused. “My Shane. Taste so good. You can give me another, hm?”
“No, no, I can’t—”
Ilya shushes him. He presses two fingers beneath his balls and rubs firm circles. Shane jolts, his cock starting to fill again impossibly.
“Ah, there he is,” Ilya whispers. He drags his tongue up the underside, flicks over the slit. “Knew he would listen to me.”
“Shiiit—Ilya—” Shane grips his hair in both hands and tugs hard enough to sting. His back arches, but his hips stay where they are, trapped under Ilya’s forearm.
Ilya wraps his right hand around Shane’s cock and starts to jerk him off in a merciless grip, quick, short pumps that are way too much and so fucking good.
“Want you to come on it,” Ilya says.
Shane’s having a hard time processing words right now. Most of his brainpower’s busy trying to remember how to breathe. “‘It’?”
“My wedding ring,” Ilya whispers.
Shane’s eyes roll back. His balls draw up, and he can feel it, his orgasm not so much building as being torn out of him without his permission. He’s making some kind of weird, nasally noise and clenching his jaw. Ilya’s grip goes even tighter, just on the right side of too much, and Shane can feel the slick metal pressing into the underside of his shaft. He tries to kick and his cock pulses so hard it fucking hurts as his second orgasm tears through him.
Ilya dives in to suck on the pulsing vein on the underside, cups his hand over Shane’s erupting tip so it gets all over his fingers.
His fingers. Right hand, the Russian way, and Ilya flexes his fingers so they can both see the streaks of white dripping all over black and gold metal. He brings his hand up to his mouth, and Shane stares at the wet pink curl of his tongue as he drags it over the ring, lapping up every drop of Shane’s come.
Shane watches until he gets dizzy. He has to close his eyes for a second and focus on breathing. He’s not asleep, exactly, but he’s not, like, fully there either. He can still see his come dripping from Ilya’s wedding ring on the backs of his eyelids.
By the time he manages to stuff his consciousness mostly back into his body, Ilya’s still between his legs. He’s entertaining himself by kissing his hipbones, petting his thighs and cooing at him in Russian Shane’s too far gone to even try to translate.
Shane tests his voice. His lungs hurt for some reason, but yeah, he can talk. Kind of. “Fuck. That was intense. We—”
Ilya flips him over.
Shane ends up with his face shoved into the pillow and his ass in the air. He tries to get his muscles to cooperate, pushes up with his shaky biceps and cranes his neck to look back at Ilya. “Jesus, Ilya, what the fuck?”
Ilya looks crazed. His eyes are wide and glassy, his hair a mass of frizz sticking out in all directions, his face flushed scarlet. He curls himself over Shane’s back and fumbles until the head of his cock is nudging at his rim.
“Please, sweetheart,” he whispers. He sounds near tears. “Need you again.”
He’s trembling with it. His chest expands and collapses in quick, shallow breaths.
Fuck, Shane loves him like this. Falling apart. Desperate. Lost.
Shane takes a deep breath. He shifts so he can curl his fists into the pillow and hang on, looks ahead of himself and sets his jaw. He’s glad Ilya’s behind him where he can’t see the little grin on his face. “Yeah? Need to fuck your husband again?”
Ilya’s head collapses, forehead pressed to Shane’s sweaty back. He makes a broken sound that’s grasping for an “mm-hmm.”
Shane bites the inside of his cheek to hide his laughter. “Okay, baby, yeah. You can have me.”
“Thank you,” Ilya pants and slides in. Fuck, it’s a lot. He’s already sore from the first round—definitely gonna be feeling it tomorrow. But no pain no gain, Hollander, so he rolls his hips back into Ilya’s thrust and shivers at the way it makes him moan.
Ilya mouths at his shoulder as he fucks him, panting damp and humid against his skin. He anchors himself with one hand gripping Shane’s hip while the other skitters along his ribs and twitches over his pec. He’s still desperate, crazed, but now that he’s come once he’s back to fucking like a stallion, deep, rolling thrusts that milk Shane’s prostate.
Shane reaches back with one hand to grab the reins, tugs on Ilya’s sweaty curls. “Gonna bust in five seconds like last time?” he pants.
“Shane,” Ilya whines. “You are so mean. I make you come twice, and still you are mean to me.”
Shane grins. He clenches around Ilya just to make him moan, but it backfires, makes Ilya feel fucking huge and has stars bursting behind his eyes. His head drops down between his shoulders, and he has to take a minute to breathe before he can talk again.
“You like it,” he rasps. “You—yeah, baby, right there—love it when I’m mean to you.”
“I do, fuck, I do. My mean, pretty husband.”
Shane grins and spreads his legs wide, bucks back into Ilya’s thrusts. His cock hangs between his thighs, soft and utterly spent. There’s no way he’s getting hard again, but that doesn’t mean—
He moans when Ilya’s next thrust grinds his cock hard over his prostate. “Just like that,” he pants. “You wanna—shit—wanna have this hole forever? Better show me you know how to treat it, baby.”
Ilya bites down on his earlobe and groans. “Yes. Yes. I will always give my husband what he wants.”
Yeah. Of course he can. It’s not easy to get him to come like this, not after he’s shot his load twice, but Ilya can do it. Fuck, Ilya can do anything.
“I can, I can do it,” Ilya moans.
Oh. He must have said that out loud.
Ilya grabs him by the hips and jerks him up, tipping his hips so he can pound in deeper. “Say it again,” he whispers in his ear.
This time, Shane knows exactly what he means. “My husband. Always gives me what I need. My perfect fucking husband.”
And Shane gets it, fuck, he gets it. No one’s taking this away from them. He’s been looking over his shoulder since he was nineteen years old, and Ilya’s been looking with him, and they’ve both had their teeth clenched and their fists balled up tight against the truth that this could never, ever last.
It didn’t all work out perfectly. Shane lost a lot of shit that, it turns out, never meant very much at all. Ilya lost things too, things he’ll never get back. But they never lost each other, and it’s so fucking cheesy and he’d maybe never be able to say it out loud, but that’s the only thing that matters.
Ilya’s hand slides over his, and their fingers lace together. Shane’s holding onto the pillow, and Ilya’s holding onto him, and the wedding ring is between the two of them like a beating heart, and Shane thinks about that as he shouts and shakes apart.
Ilya comes moments after, trembling all over with his face buried in the back of Shane’s neck and tears soaking into his hair.
Shane collapses with his face shoved into the pillow so he can hardly breathe, his face split in a stupid grin he can’t bite back. He reaches back and pats Ilya absently, turns his head so he can mutter, “good job. Good fucking job. I love you.”
Ilya says it back to him several times, Russian and English all tangled up together, but Shane’s heard those words enough to figure it out. He’s hiccuping and sniffling and getting Shane all tear-streaked and snotty. God, he’s such a big baby. He’s Shane’s baby.
Shane bites his lip around his smile. Nah. He’s his husband.