Archive of Our Own

Shane would be a liar if he didn't admit that playing with Ilya is a long-held dream come true. Circumstances aside for how that happened, he gets to spend more time with the love of his life, his husband, his everything. It's strange and wonderful and they still get hockey.

However, Shane vastly underestimated what would change when it came to a full-time life with Ilya.

Pros:

1. Ilya in the morning as the sun filters through the windows and catches the gold in his curly hair.

2. No one has to run to the car because traffic is getting bad and they need to return to their respective cities on time.

3. Mindblowing sex.

4. Shane leaning on Ilya's shoulder while they watch TV on their couch.

5. Anya.

6. Ilya smiling so wide like he can't believe that Shane is home with him and leaning over to kiss him.

7. Ilya all the time.

Cons:

1. Ilya's runs never start at the time he tells Shane they will.

2. Ilya drives Shane's Range Rover like one of his old sports cars AND IT CANNOT TURN LIKE THAT.

3. Come stained boxers tend to get lost in the sofa for a week.

4. The refrigerator isn't properly organized.

5. Anya scratching on the bedroom door early in the morning for someone to take her out.

6. The frequency of Bood's BBQs.

7. Ilya all the time.

That last con sounds so bad when it's listed so plainly.

Shane loves and adores Ilya. He loves that he wakes up to Ilya pawing at him, cock pressed against his ass, sweet kisses and teeth scraping on the side of his neck. He loves Ilya handing him a tuna melt with a ginger ale when food gets to be too difficult to manage. He loves the pet names and casual touches.

But Jesus fucking Christ, Shane is going to scream if he has to scrub the toothpaste off the faucet one more time.

Not just that—he's going to crawl out of his skin if he sees food in the sink trap for more than a day. And don't even get him started about the way Ilya captains. It's not bad! It's different and overwhelming and fuck if that doesn't make Shane's chest tight. But it's all fine because he's with Ilya.

Unfortunately, delulu is not the solulu, much to Shane's dismay.

It all comes crashing down with shoes. Fucking shoes.

It's an off day and they're coming in from walking Anya around the neighborhood. Autumn hasn't quiet taken a hold of Ottawa beyond the changing leaves, so it's unusually hot, making Shane feel stickier than he wants. He also got stuck with the poop bag for two blocks longer than he wanted to and it's a stinkier-than-usual kind of poop.

He told Ilya to stop feeding Anya table scraps. Ilya had the audacity to laugh and wave him off.

Shane is so ready for a shower. So, so ready. Everything scrapes against his skin and smells awful and the sun is too bright and the house isn't cool enough and—

"Fuck!" Shane curses as he trips over Ilya's sneakers, losing his balance and needing to grab the wall to steady himself. Shane stares at the sprawl on the floor of the three pairs of running shoes Ilya cycles through and the day-to-day sneakers they both wear. Nothing is in the rack. NOTHING.

He takes the offending shoe and chucks it down the hall. "FUCK!" he yells. He picks up another shoe and throws it, not giving a shit about where it lands or if it strikes anything. He can't stop himself, stuck in this cycle, even when Ilya pops his head out from around the corner.

"Shane?" he asks in deep concern. Shane just wordlessly shrieks in response, taking yet another sneaker to pitch down the hall. Ilya dodges it and the rest of the projectiles with ease. It doesn't take long for Shane to run out of offending objects to throw but the unexpected rage is refusing to leave his body.

It's too much, too fast, and too big for him.

He sinks to the floor, drawing his knees up to his chest, covering his face with his arms, and squeezing his eyes shut. Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop.

"Solnyshka," comes a voice from a far off place. Shane curls even harder into a little ball.

"Moya lyubov," the voice coaxes with a gentle touch on his shoulder. It's both painful and a balm that makes all of his nerves light up; too good and too terrible to comprehend. He whimpers as the touch trails down his bicep, over his wrist, lingering on the place where his ring sits on his finger.

Fuck. He needs to say something. He really needs to say something but it's all stuck in his throat.

"Shane, baby." Ilya brushes his lips on the top of Shane's head and rubs his thumb over the wedding band. "I'm here. Let me help."

How?

Ilya pulls the tight ball of Shane into his arms and crushes him with all of his considerable strength. It dislodges some of the 'too much' feeling that's engulfing Shane and lets him start to swim to the surface. He turns to Ilya, blinking up like a baby deer or something, focusing on the bright eyes, the cut of his cheekbones, the fan of his long eyelashes. This is a face he knows and loves. He deserves to be kissed and Shane wants to be the one to do it.

Shane peeks up from his hiding spot and cranes his neck to press his lips onto Ilya's own.

This is familiar. This is normal. This is Shane pressing one kiss after another on Ilya's lips. This is Shane clutching Ilya's shoulders with all of his might because being apart is too much; utterly too much to stay away.

Ilya moans.

And that's the breakthrough, holy shit. He goes from soft to rock hard in a matter of seconds—almost faster than the first time he saw Ilya showering. Shane immediately opens his mouth and devours his husband, nearly drawing blood trying to bite on Ilya's lip.

"Fuck," Ilya groans, absolutely responsive to Shane's ministrations, clutching the back of his neck to keep him close. Everything is hot and wet and desperate, and Shane still can't talk but he can press himself into Ilya and grind up. He needs that cock, right fucking now.

His hands shake as he snakes his hands under Ilya's shirt, seeking out the heat and touch of his skin. Shane may have ripped some seams in his desperation to get to Ilya and simply does not give a fuck.

More, Ilya, more, more, more.

Bolshe, Ilyusha, bloshe, bloshe, bloshe, bolshe, Ilyushenka, bloshe.

He tries to dig his fingers into Ilya's pocket to get the travel packet of lube out but Ilya has beaten him to it. It's not like them to be silent when they're fucking but whatever mood Shane is going through has affected Ilya and rendered him mute. It's fine. Shane learned to read Ilya a long time ago.

He knows that when Ilya sucks his breath like that, he wants Shane to drag his nails through the hair of his thighs to cup his balls. He knows when Ilya's eyes flutter close, he needs to lean in and suck hard at the pulse on his neck. Shane knows what Ilya wants and needs.

Touch me, fuck me, drive me crazy.

Shane pulls Ilya's fingers towards his ass and is awarded with the dirty, rough press of two fingers in his hole. Fuck, yes, that's the pleasure and pain he was looking for earlier. His nerves are still alight, but it's the right kind now. Ilya is nailing his prostate and fucking milking him for all he's got. Shane fucks back on those delightful fingers, needing the drag and burn.

Ilya nips at Shane's ear lobe before taking out his fingers to replace it with his cock.

Shit.

Fuck.

Yes, yes, yes.

Shane gasps as Ilya thrusts up without giving him time to breath. It's good, it's perfect, and it's so fucking needed. He moves his hips, fucking down on Ilya's lap, riding with every bit of strength and agility he has. He's obsessed, he's in love, he wants Ilya's cock to spear him open, fuck him in front of everyone. He's owned and he owns Ilya. This cock is his, this man is his, and he wants to show off.

Ilya's mouth breathing should not be this hot but it's open in this O of ectasy as Shane rides him hard and fast. Shane is dragging these desperate little noises out of Ilya with his body. His man, always so put together, fucking panting for it like a dog. Shane loves him so fucking much.

His orgasm comes fast and hard, painting white up Ilya's abs while his toes curl. Ilya curses and Shane swears he hears his name before Ilya empties himself into Shane.

They're panting as they come down from fucking on the floor; Shane collapsed as a pile of limbs on Ilya while Ilya keeps him on his lap.

"Feeling better?" Ilya asks as their breathing starts to even out and his cock slips out soft and spent.

"Yeah," Shane confirms, voice raspy and low. He clears his throat. "I don't know what happened."

"Lots of things have changed. It's been, what, six months since the video?" Ilya says, slotting his hand on Shane's jaw, scritching lightly at his scalp while his thumb caressing Shane's freckles in tandem.

"Seriously?" It doesn't feel real with the lifetimes the two of them have lived since March. But when Shane thinks about it, he realizes how right Ilya is.

"Seriously. And we haven't spent all our time together before that. A summer or three, yes, but not six months." He leans in for a quick kiss and Shane sighs contentedly. Ilya pulls back and smiles. "You lived a boring life before I came around."

"Oh fuck you Rozy," Shane retorts, words coming out in staccato.

"You know it," Ilya teases. He turns serious after a moment. "You have routines at home, right? Me and Anya, we changed that without you getting used to it. It's overwhelming."

"But I want you here," Shane mumbles, feeling embarrassed by the whole thing. He had a meltdown like a fucking toddler, and here's Ilya taking care of him like it's his job.

"I know you do. I know you want us here, together, always. But you can tell me when it's all too much. We're a team, you and me," Ilya reassures his husband, pressing kisses all over Shane's face.

"You sure?" he asks, quiet and scraped raw.

"Always Hollander. Always." Ilya leans in, pressing his forehead to Shane's, hooking a hand behind Shane's neck, grounding them both. Shane lets his eyes slide shut and accepts Ilya's steady presence, basking in his love, freely given.

Always.