Archive of Our Own

When Ilya wakes, it’s early in the morning and frigid outside.

After it was predicted that a snowstorm would swoop over the majority of Ottawa and cancel much of the area’s travel, practice of the Centaurs was cancelled. Shane was bummed out upon hearing the news— However, he couldn’t really whine about it because a snowstorm meant being kept inside with Ilya, which was something he wouldn’t trade for anything else.

Ilya was elated to have a day off where he could sleep in and get cozy with Shane. He was looking forward to one of these days where the snow would rush in, and all they could do was succumb to the elements and stay inside. As cliche as it seemed, he’d always wanted to spend a snowstorm with Shane.

Today happened to be that day.

Outside of their home, the wind whipped and whirled through the trees, hushing and whistling as snow pelted onto the windows and ground. Ilya didn’t want to get up from the bed to see just how much snow covered the area, but he knew it would be enough. Snow didn’t bother him much, not when he was used to Russia’s immense amount and their blizzards that would lash through for days.

Despite the heater being on, it was freezing in the house. Shane often ran hot when he slept, but he had a habit of drifting away from Ilya once he was deep in sleep. This morning was one of those mornings. Instead of Shane being latched onto him, sharing his body heat and keeping him warm; he gave Ilya his back and was cuddling into the blanket, hands curled and clenched in the comforter.

If Ilya wanted to gather some warmth, he would have to cuddle up against Shane, which wasn’t a problem at all. He still had most of the blanket, with the comforter riding low on Shane’s torso and giving Ilya most of his bare back. It made him almost sorry for Shane in a way because here he was taking up all of the blanket with the room being cold and a snowstorm whipping outside.

Shifting over, Ilya sidles into Shane. He fits his arms into Shane’s sides; one setting on his waist and the other snaking beneath his head. With a bit of jostling around, Shane huffs in his sleep. His back curls and his ass presses into Ilya’s hips as he stretches in his sleep before relaxing entirely, continuing on with his deep breaths.

Shane is warm here. His back is balmy against Ilya’s chest and his legs are cozy when they tangle with his own. He’s a direct contrast to the crisp air of the room, and Ilya presses into him to dig further into that heat.

It doesn’t help that when he tries to fall back to sleep, he can’t. He’s wide awake, facing the black scruff of Shane’s hair and listening to the wind of the snowstorm outside. From where he can see the windows, he studies the pale white of the morning from the seams of their black-out curtains, a feature Shane insisted they must have in their room. He listens to the soft snores Shane releases every so often and he melts into the dreaming twitches of his body.

He doesn’t know how long he lays there; thinking about nonsense, staring at the black-out curtains, and listening to Shane snore in his sleep. It’s not common for him to be awake this early— Does he know how early it is?

Ilya wrangles about, leaning up and peering up over Shane’s shoulder. He glances at his bedside table, squinting at the clock that says ten past seven. Okay, pretty early, then. Not that early in Shane’s standards, who literally wakes up at the asscrack of dawn to do his yoga or whatever.

When Ilya settles back down, Shane shifts. He hums in his sleep and turns around entirely, face lax with sleep with how he faces Ilya, throwing his entire body around to rest on Ilya’s side.

From here, Ilya can see how Shane is completely washed over by his dreams. His eyebrows twitch and his eyelids flit about as he sleeps, making a beautiful picture for Ilya to study— Distractingly so, because Ilya focuses so much on the ruffle of his hair and the smatter of his freckles that he doesn’t acknowledge the semi pressing into his hip.

It’s not like this is something new. There’s been many times where he’s woken up to Shane pressing himself into Ilya and grinding onto his thigh or something, and sometimes it’s been the opposite; with Ilya rolling his hips against Shane’s ass for some sort of relief. There’s also been the times where they’ve woken each other up with hand-jobs or blow-jobs, sometimes even Ilya fucking into Shane because he’s loose from the night before.

Besides, touching the other while they were asleep was something they kind of agreed on. Well, not explicitly, really. Shane may have just woke him up one morning with a blowjob and that’s what started it all after that. They both just sort of understood that they trust each other and it would be really pleasant to wake up with a hand to soothe them.

This is normal, if anything. Ilya can’t remember if there was a morning where they didn’t do something. They always do.

With Shane’s semi nudged against him, Ilya acknowledges that welcomed churn in his gut. Sooner or later, he’ll be sporting one himself. It also doesn’t help that Shane’s hand managed to land directly on his lower abdomen. Any lower and he would’ve settled right on his cock. Which isn’t that a thought; grinding into Shane’s sleep-limp hand and pumping him in the process, waking him up with a tender pleasure.

Shifting, Ilya leans over and travels a hand beneath the blanket. He crawls across the warmth of his torso until he meets the waistband of his sweatpants, and then instead of immediately breaching into the space he settles lower until he’s palming Shane gently in his hand. Back and forth does he rub Shane through his pants, glancing up to watch how his face begins to morph in his sleep.

It twists and pinches with how his hips softly writhe, nudging and shuffling against Ilya. Shane lets out this huff that parts his lips, and he twists to settle flat on his back. The position helps Ilya, because now he can lean on his elbow and continue to rub Shane without creating a tinge in his back.

Pressing the heel of his hand into Shane’s semi, he feels how he begins to harden, growing warm and steady beneath the thick fabric of his sweatpants. A lax whine slips from Shane’s lips, and that’s when Ilya knows he needs to get his hand in there.

He watches how Shane’s eyelids flutter and his eyebrows pinch, cheeks growing rosy despite the room being cold. The slight flush makes his freckles pop as usual, and even though Ilya has seen the sight countless of times, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get tired of it. He’s seen them in his dreams and in his reality and he’s forever grateful.

Cradling the length of Shane in his hand, he starts to lazily pump him. He’s already slick here, with his pre-come warm and sticky with how it seeps into the cracks of Ilya’s fist as he strokes Shane. That’s one of the things Ilya was always so fond of; the way Shane got so wet, even when he really wasn’t that hard. He’s always dribbling when he’s half-hard and when he’s entirely erect Ilya can only wonder where he gets it all from.

Even then, Shane happens to release a lot when he comes. So much that at some point Ilya thought he was squirting but no, that was just his come. Then that brought up the idea of actually getting Shane to squirt, which was an entire night in itself that Ilya would never be able to forget, simply because of how Shane sounded when he was coming— well, squirting.

He pauses to tug at Shane’s waistband, shifting it lower on his hips until his cock can spring out, hot and heady in the crisp air of the bedroom. Ilya is surprised Shane is still asleep with how he’s been wriggling around on this bed and tugging at the blanket, especially now with how he’s pulling at his clothes and stroking his dick.

He’s pushed aside the blanket, creating this little barrier around Shane’s groin just so he can watch as his cock springs out from the confines of his pants and glistens in the dim light peaking through the cracks of the curtains. Like always is Ilya transfixed by Shane’s dick, pumping it tenderly and watching how beads of pre-come dribble out from the head and catch onto his fist.

He’s so caught up on the sight that he doesn’t notice Shane waking up.

He wakes with a hum that stretches into a hushed groan, his legs spreading and stretching before his hips kick into Ilya’s hand just once.

“Having fun, baby?” Shane mumbles, startling Ilya for just a moment.

He faces Shane, continuing to stroke him while he studies his relaxed face. Shane’s eyes are droopy with sleep, with his eyebrows slightly pinched and his lips parted around soft breaths. In this moment, Ilya finds that Shane looks stunning with his mussed hair and puffy cheeks.

Shane is always pretty. He’s every single synonym possible for beautiful— all of the ones Ilya knows from that dictionary he has. If anything, Ilya finds that he has a hard time around Shane because he’s so handsome, big emotions and love and gushing hearts aside. He’s a stunning man and even if he just woke up from his slumber and he’s got sleep in the corners of his eyes it still doesn’t matter because he’s just so captivating.

Ilya can only nod, gazing into Shane’s eyes as he shifts closer into him and presses into his space.

Shane leans in, capturing him into a tender kiss. It’s barely a kiss and more a brush of lips with the way he breathes against Ilya’s lips, panting when he pumps him a bit rougher than the current slow pace he’s adopted. They don’t pull away, just continue to huff against each other, even when Shane decides to send his hand down Ilya’s body in search of his groin.

When he takes hold of him, he matches the pace Ilya is giving him. The graze of his hockey-worn callouses against his cock makes Ilya groan against Shane’s lips, and he makes no effort to hold back from jutting his hips and rolling into his hand.

“It’s snowing outside,” Shane hums against his lips, groaning when Ilya presses his thumb into the head of his dick. In return he twists his fist on the up-stroke and pulls a whine out of Ilya’s lips.

Ilya sets his forehead on Shane’s, focusing on keeping the steady pace on his cock and the pleasure Shane gives him, “We should stay in bed.”

They really should. It’s the perfect weather to do so. This entire day seems to be set up just so they can relax in bed. It’s not the first time they’ve done it, but either way Ilya wants to do it again. Over and over, of course. He wants to stay in bed with Shane forever, shoving all other responsibilities aside for the honored duty of making Shane feel good.

Shane twists to curl into Ilya, continuing to fist his cock and roll his hips into Ilya’s hand, “N—No, can’t do that,” He hisses into Ilya’s lips, huffing with how the pleasure rattles through.

Despite the wintry elements outside, they burn with a fire understated. If anything, the room doesn’t feel as cold anymore. It’s a hush on Ilya’s skin; a weak soothe for the molten crawl that he knows blends into Shane’s skin too. It’s a heat they share that can’t be dampened by anything, even by the snowstorm outside.

“Why?” Ilya groans when Shane quickens the pace, to which he then follows suit and pulls a moan from his husband’s lips.

He can’t help but to challenge Shane on this because he knows he’s right; they really should stay in bed. There’s not much for them to do anyways. They can’t go on a walk because there’s snow and sure, they might be able to work-out, but there’s much better ways they can achieve their cardio goals. Together, preferably.

With his hips rolling tenderly into Ilya’s hand, Shane begins to whine. It’s a sort of hushed little sound that’s only exclusive to when he’s freshly awake, with sleep still stuck in the corners of his eyes and drool caught on the corners of his lips. Ilya is obsessed with the sound, especially with how it builds low in his throat and bursts into a soft moan that kind of catches into his nose, making it filter all nasally and weak.

“‘Cause,” Shane pants, hand matching the speed of Ilya’s, “Need to do things today.”

Shaking his head, Ilya leans in to grab Shane’s bottom lip in a soft bite. He keeps him like that, embracing the huffs of breaths that whisper against his face and the moans that rattle from Shane’s chest. His gut churns wickedly, with his husband’s fist working expertly to tip him over.

Any longer and he’s going to come. He knows Shane is close too because of how he’s kicked his legs up, their muscles tense and taut from the approaching orgasm. His moans grow breathy and soon turn into gasps, and his hips begin to jut wildly against Ilya’s fist as he pumps his cock.

He’s seen this all before— Known this since he was young. This is a common picture for him. Well, it should be. He should be somewhat accustomed to how Shane’s body moves around his orgasm, but he never will be, it seems. Each time Ilya is always left dumbfounded by how Shane is rattled by pleasure, with his chest heaving and muscles tight from the fire that waves through him.

Except when the orgasm eats at Shane like those other times, Ilya can only slow down his erratic fist to a lazy pump and watch as his husband thrashes with his pleasure. Come spurts out onto his hand, coating itself into the cracks of his fingers and beneath his nails. Ilya wouldn’t have it any other way. He wants Shane all over him.

Shane groans as he rides the orgasm, his hips writhing and rolling about until the last of his come dribbles out. Then he’s resting his head in the angle of Ilya’s neck, panting and worn from his burst with how he begins to relieve Ilya too.

He can’t say anything, just glances down at Shane’s fist and watches how it strokes up and down haphazardly. His pre-come catches onto the light and glistens on Shane’s warm skin and Ilya is getting so close, his groin crawling tight and his bones growing lax with a heavy fever.

His head rocks back to the pillow and Shane falls with him, flattening down into his neck and huffing next to his ear, jostling with the motion of his arm as he goads Ilya along. Further and further he presses until he’s crying out with a moan and kicking his hips into Shane’s hand, body corded from the pleasure that rocks through him.

It’s warm and lazy when it crawls through, licking against his skin and washing him with a fire he’s embraced the same each time.

Shane continues to pump until he’s sensitive and twitching from his touch, and then he splays his sticky hand right over his lower stomach; where it was before when he was asleep. Usually by now, he would’ve gotten up to at least wipe his hand off or if anything, take a shower because he doesn’t like the “tackiness” that comes from post-sex sweat.

Ilya can’t see him from where he’s got his head tucked into his neck. He’s only met with the broad expanse of his back and the rest of his body thrown irregularly over his body.

“Shane?” Ilya hums, nudging at Shane with the shoulder he’s sleeping on.

Shane rumbles a half-hearted acknowledgement, body jolting when he throws a leg over Ilya’s. Ilya adjusts and sets an arm over Shane’s back, keeping a palm pressed against the space between his shoulder blades. His soiled hand lays lax over Shane’s, resting on top of his stomach.

“Want to get up?” Ilya rumbles, voice gently bouncing around the bedroom.

The only answer he receives is the whistle of wind behind the windows and a deep sigh from Shane as he settles slack against his side. Ilya lets his eyes fall shut and finds himself content with staying in bed.

❧

Ilya is met with Shane settled firm and steady on his hips when he wakes the second time this morning.

He’s got a hand pressed against Ilya’s chest, keeping him stable as he rocks against his hips softly. His other hand is behind him, clearly occupied with something else. The picture is so invigorating that when Ilya does wake, he doesn’t peep a word, just watches as Shane fingers himself on top of Ilya.

Shane isn’t looking at him— his eyes are pinched shut as his arm stretches behind him, fingering himself and seemingly preparing himself for Ilya’s cock. As Ilya studies him, he falls into the beauty of his face. He’s caught into the furrow of his eyebrows and the part of his lips that accompany gasps with each time he grazes his prostate.

He looks like he’s carved out of marble from this point of view. Maybe it’s how the dim light catches onto his relaxed muscles, or perhaps it’s just Shane and his perpetual state of radiance. Who knows because Ilya will never be able to figure it out for as long as he’s alive, and that’s that he’s married and living with the man.

At some point, Shane does open his eyes and glance at Ilya. He doesn’t startle or anything, just allows a sweet grin to stretch across his lips while he dips down and presses a thorough kiss onto Ilya’s own.

“Need help?” Ilya hums against Shane’s lips, reaching to lay a hand over the one fingering into Shane’s hole.

“Yeah” Shane pants and leans up to grab at the lube beside them. He pulls away from fingering himself and squirts a bit of the lube on Ilya’s fingers, the bottle sputtering slightly and making the two men giggle in the process.

Then Ilya is pressing Shane back down into his chest, keeping him tight in his embrace as he reaches behind and grazes the tight pinch of his hole with his pointer and middle finger. The skin is slick and slightly warm there, and when Ilya presses at the taut ring Shane pushes back against his fingers with a pant.

“What time is it?” Ilya asks, continuing to trace the rim of Shane.

Sighing, Shane brings a hand up to crawl into Ilya’s hair; “Nine,” He says, legs tightening around Ilya when he presses through the furl of his hole.

He focuses more on loosening Shane up than anything else. He brushes against his prostate a few times, drawing out tender moans and whimpers from Shane, who keeps his face pressed into Ilya with his lips softly suckling around his skin. His hips gyrate in demure twitches, doing everything they catch onto Ilya’s fingers and make them press deeper onto his prostate again and again.

It doesn’t take long for Shane to unlax before he gives entirely to Ilya’s fingers. Shane’s cock is pressed between the two of them and whenever he rolls his hips it brushes against Ilya’s, which doesn’t really help if he’s trying to keep himself from coming before he even enters Shane.

Pulling his fingers away, Shane releases a short whine before he’s sitting up to face Ilya.

“On your side?” Ilya asks, setting a hand on Shane’s thigh and squeezing the muscle there. He loves feeling the strength beneath his fingers. It gives him this sort of rush that burns through his bones, a sort of throttle of knowing that Shane has all this muscle on him. To put it plainly; it’s hot and he loves it a lot.

Nodding, Shane clambers off from Ilya to settle beside him on the bed. Then he settles on his side and gives him his back, with Ilya shifting close and pressing every inch of himself against Shane. He sneaks a leg through Shane’s to pry them open and when he catches onto the furrow of his asscheeks, he groans into the shoulder in front of him.

“Condom?” Ilya presses a kiss onto Shane’s shoulder before setting a hand on his hips and softly grinding into him, allowing his cock to slide through the space between his cheeks.

“No,” Shane sets his hand on Ilya’s, keeping it steady over his hips when he rocks back, “Want you raw, c’mon.”

The statement sets a coil of something sticky and warm in Ilya’s gut, and he’s quick to prepare himself for Shane. He scrambles for the bottle of lube around him— Where is it where is it where is it. When he does find it, he’s reckless in the amount of lube he puts on, some of the substance dribbling off onto the comforter.

Slicking himself up, he’s nudging his head against Shane, watching how his hips press back and welcoming the gooey sensation that blooms in his groin when he feels his hole pucker.

“Ilya, baby—” Shane pants, head rolling back so he can somewhat face him.

Nodding in response, Ilya presses his cock through the tight rim of Shane until he’s breaching into his heat with a broad moan they both share. When he bottoms out, he’s panting over Shane’s lips and inhaling his breath.

Like always does Shane feel so blissful. The way he takes him is ravenous and unabashed in a way that he chooses not to acknowledge, like as if he’s ashamed of his own fervor. Ilya doesn’t see why he should, because just the thought of Shane running himself mad over having Ilya inside him is enough for him to short-circuit.

Either way, he stays there for a moment, keeping himself still behind Shane and focusing on his lips instead. They’re slightly chapped and graze against his own in the most insatiable way, one that makes his gut churns and he really needs to do something about it before he comes in Shane without even moving.

“You gonna move?” Shane hums against Ilya, dropping his forehead against his own and maintaining eye contact. The act warms him for a moment before he’s softly chuckling and pressing a kiss onto Shane’s skin.

Shane isn’t near-sighted, as demonstrated with his reading glasses. It always tickles Ilya a little when they get all close in the face and Shane is looking at him— Studying him, because he knows that Shane is probably seeing some sort of blur or whatever it is that far-sighted people see. He isn’t sure, he has perfect vision, fortunately.

“Yeah, I will, любовь,” He responds with a short huff and pulls away slightly to gain all of Shane’s face in his view. This way, he can see all of the expressions he’ll make.

He starts to roll his hips in a slow grind, one that rocks them steady in the bed. Shane immediately throws his head back on the pillows and allows a whine to draw out from his chest— something breathy and wild with how it filters out from his nose all nasally and sweet.

“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane sighs, gripping tight on his hand, “Feel so good,” He then says, rocking his hips in time with Ilya’s.

Ilya moves his arm to sling it around his shoulders, allowing himself to get closer to Shane while he glides through him. He doesn’t really pull all the way out and shove back in, just keeps snuggled in Shane’s ass and thrusts lazily into him. His muscles are still lax with rest and his eyes prickle with sleep around the edges, and he’s sure his hair is a sight to see.

While he fucks into Shane, all he can do is watch as he writhes around him. Shane’s hips twitch and roll back and forth, dancing along with the tender pace and capturing the pleasure between them. He watches how his face twists and morphs to give way to the sensation rolling through him, and by God, does he make a stunning picture.

Neither of them are going to last long. Ilya isn’t, that’s for sure. He’s groggy with sleep and unreasonably sensitive. It also doesn’t help that he might be a bit wired today, especially since he’d woken up early to fondle Shane and exchange hand-jobs with him. He’s not making it with an impressive time-score.

Shane doesn’t seem to be either. Quickly does he grow tender around the edges, squirming and jostling about like a sparkling live-wire. His breathy whines and whimpers fall down a steep and swift slope to ample moans and groans that rattle in Ilya’s ears. They sound like an entrancing warning to him, like a siren song mixed with the chatter of a rattle-snake’s tail.

“M’close, малыш,” Ilya pants, pressing his lips onto Shane’s chest and anywhere he can reach. He had to shift down a little to get a better angle into him, so he’s met with his armpit and nipple instead of his shoulder and neck.

“Me too, fuck, Ilya,” Shane curses before letting out another moan that has Ilya’s gut twisting cruelly.

Pressing his nose into the corner of Shane’s armpit, Ilya breathes in the scent of his sleep-addled sweat as he rocks into him; now heightened with an erratic and desperate fervor to capture that wicked coil.

Shane, who is used to many of Ilya’s odd antics, doesn’t say much over him shoving his nose into his armpit, and even splays a hand over the back of his head and thrusts him in deeper. It’s not like he could really say much anyways when he has something much bigger caught in his attention. Besides, it’s been understood between the two of them that they enjoy the smell of each other immensely. It’s hard to explain.

Ilya continues to rock into him, pulling away from his armpit to lock onto his nipple and suck. His groin curls with a beckoning fire and he knows with a few more thrusts he’s over with, especially with how his legs begin to tighten and his body grows heavy with that boiling river he welcomes each time.

“Ilya— Fuck, I’m gonna,” Shane gasps, his hips jostling erratically while he starts to tremble tenderly.

Ilya pulls away from his nipple to watch as Shane is overridden by his orgasm. His face pinches and flushes with a soft pink, with his lips parting around a gasp and then a wavering mewl that widens into a pitchy moan. He looks striking like this; his eyebrows drawn taut in the middle and his eyes glassy, catching onto his lashline and wetting his eyelashes. His freckles stand out like no other, the flush backdrop of his skin doing wonders for their tender dustings.

Continuing to rock into him, he thrusts with a much more inaccurate heat. Shane can only gasp and whine around him, doing anything to help soothe the sensitivity of his fresh orgasm.

“I know, shit— I know,” Ilya groans, biting down on his bottom lip and pistoning his hips against Shane until the coil in his groin grows and grows until he can’t keep it anymore.

When the pleasure gives way, he bottoms out with a moan and grips tight onto Shane, spilling into him and jutting his hips to get the most out of his orgasm. It throttles through him like a wave of molasses; sickeningly sweet and lazy while it glides down his bones and coats them in a sugary rush he’d beg to keep.

Panting, he drops his head on Shane’s chest and listens to the huffs he pushes out. Perhaps he truly was washed with molasses, because he’s sticking to Shane everywhere, their sweat mingling and keeping their skin locked tight and glued together.

He doesn’t know how long they lay there. At some point he thinks that maybe Shane drifted off again because his breaths settle into something tender and easy, like when he’s deep in sleep and dreaming of things Ilya wishes he could pry his brain open and see. Shane is warm beneath him, his skin tacky with the remnants of sex and molten with the heat that thrums beneath his skin. Ilya is obsessed with it.

Though Shane does prove him wrong and squirms for a moment, legs growing taut when he stretches and gasping when he moves too much and Ilya slips out of him because he’s gone soft now.

“We should get up,” Shane says, voice gravelly. He runs his nails across Ilya’s scalp, sending a placid chill down his spine from the caress.

Nuzzling into his skin, Ilya presses closer, “Don’t wanna.”

Then Shane lets out this sort of whine that builds in his throat, and it has Ilya shifting to face him. When he does, he’s met with the soft twist on his face; his lips are pulled into a frown just slightly with his bottom lip puckering out into a pout. It doesn’t help that he’s using his eyes to his advantage here, because they seem to capture every speck of light in this room and absorb it like a cruel set of black holes.

As Ilya says, Shane is very good at having eyes. He doesn’t know how to explain it, but the evidence is there. It might be because they’re the strongest feature of his face, but he’s not sure, because he’s seen people with huge eyes who never held the power that Shane wields. He’ll always fall victim to his eyes for as long as he breathes.

So he sits up, his back tinging as he stretches. Beside him, Shane still lays in bed, stark naked except for the blanket that’s made its way down to his calves. Ilya openly studies his body in the dim lighting of the bedroom, observing how the shadows fall on his skin and carve themselves around his muscles.

However, his crucial research doesn’t last long because Shane is then sitting up too, his shoulder brushing Ilya’s as he reaches up to run a hand through his hair and somewhat tame the wild scruff of his black hair. Then he’s settling on Ilya’s hair and trying to flatten the rabid protest of his curls, but Ilya knows only a shower will help at this point.

Shane glances at him for a moment and Ilya feels scrutinized beneath him. His skin grows warm and heavy with the blaze of his eyes on him, and he should be used to this— really, he should be. Except he isn’t, because for some reason he’ll never understand what makes him feel so small when Shane gazes at him for a moment. It’s necessarily in a bad way, just in a way that makes his gut curl and his chest flutter.

It makes him wonder if Shane feels the same when Ilya gazes at him. He must do, because he’ll avert his eyes and drop his head, turning all bashful and flushed rosy while he wrings his fingers in front of him. It makes for a cute picture; cherubic, even.

The tender moment is broken when Shane gets up, wavering for just a moment as he braces himself on the bedside table before stabilizing himself on his tender legs and walking over to the closed curtains of the bedroom. For a minute, Ilya wonders if Shane is going to open them while he’s naked as the day he’s born, but he doesn’t. Instead, Shane pops his head through the curtains and stays like that for a while before pulling away and keeping the curtains closed.

Usually he would open the curtains, often insisting to Ilya that there needed to be sun in the room. He was right, anyways, because most of the time it helped him on days where things felt a bit more tough and he deemed himself weaker to tackle them. The sun made him feel more real, if anything.

Shane turns and then he’s bending down to pick up some clothes on the floor. Ilya doesn’t get up from where he’s sitting cross-legged and slouched on the bed, he only continues to watch his husband as he flits about the room in nothing but his own skin.

When he’s done shuffling around, he’s opening the door to the bathroom and turning on the light. Immediately is the bedroom washed in luminance and now Ilya can see more of Shane. However, Shane doesn’t move from the doorframe, if anything he leans against it and glances at Ilya, gazing at him for a moment before a sweet curl sets on his lips.

“Come join me?” He asks, and Ilya makes no fault of getting off the bed.

❧

Their time in the shower can only be cut into two time periods; the period where Ilya spent a good fifteen minutes teasing Shane and fingering the come out his ass before making him come on his fingers (to which Shane then returned the favor), and the other period was spent lathering each other up with soap and washing each other’s sweat down the drain.

When they get out of the shower, Shane legs quiver with a sensitivity that can only be pointed to previous events.

To put it plainly, it’s before breakfast and he’s already been wrung dry by Ilya. He doesn’t mind it one bit, considering they both have those moments where they wake up insatiable. Sometimes he’ll have days where he can’t keep himself off of Ilya, and vice versa for Ilya too. That’s just how they roll and it’s something he’s used too.

Maybe today might be one of those days. There’s nothing stopping them. That snowstorm the meteorologists were freaking out over has shown its face and proved its worth, which means there’s no way either of them are leaving the house any time soon. Clearly practice must be over, which means that they have the whole day to themselves and whatever (or whoever) they want to do.

Shane has his plans. After breakfast he’ll do his yoga and work-out routine and then he’ll crash with Ilya for a little while, maybe have sex again, who knows. Since practice is over he’ll watch over some games instead and read a few pages out of the new book Ilya got him. Just so he feels like he’s accomplished something today.

Drying himself off, Shane listens to the wind lap over the house. It’s a bit cold. He’s going to have to run the heater a bit more.

Ilya’s got his towel wrapped low around his waist, showing off most of his wet torso and the taper of his hips that point towards everything Shane is grateful for. He maybe gets a bit sidetracked watching Ilya brush his teeth, entranced by how the toothpaste foams at his lips and how his hand clenches around the stem of the brush.

He doesn’t pull his sights away when Ilya catches him through the mirror. If anything, he flits up to Ilya’s eyes and studies those for a while, making Ilya pause on brushing his teeth and then spit out the toothpaste in his mouth.

“What?” Ilya chides, swiping his tongue over his lips and catching the toothpaste around the corners.

“Nothing. Just love you, is all,” Shane says and turns back to drying himself off.

Unlike Ilya, Shane doesn’t like to walk around with a towel hanging low on his lips. He always feels like it’s going to fall off and then boom, there’s his junk for everyone to see. Well, not everyone, because Ilya is the only one here, and it’s not like the guys in the locker room haven’t seen Shane naked but still. He doesn’t like it. Makes him feel odd and weird and he’s trying to find excuses for it but they all don’t fit.

So he’ll just live through Ilya with this one and admire how the towel rides low against his body, catching onto the droplets that run down his warm skin.

“Shane, you keep on staring at me,” Ilya warbles, mouth full with toothpaste.

Shane fumbles with his underwear and glares at Ilya, “I can’t look at you?”

The scratchy sound of Ilya’s toothpaste answers for him and Shane stands pleased. He’ll continue to stare at his husband for as long as he wants, thank you very much. There’s just something about how his hair falls limp and curly with the dampness from the shower, and how his muscles seem to be a bit pumped today. Has he gone up on his reps or something? He looks slightly bigger and Shane wants to squeeze his biceps and test his hypothesis.

You know, for science or whatever.

It truly must be one of those days, because despite having three orgasms already, he’s still buzzing with something heady beneath his skin. He recognizes the state and embraces it openly, all while wondering if Ilya is currently feeling the same too, because if he is then their plans for today are already set in stone.

He’s got his pants on now and Ilya is gargling his mouthwash before spitting it into the basin of the sink and washing it away. Nothing about that should be attractive, but for some reason it is. He sounded like a fish blubbering in the water and yet Shane stands here in nothing but his underwear and pants like a fool, admiring him like Ilya’s the inventor of gargling mouthwash and oral hygiene.

Then he’s turning to face Shane, a soft lilt tugging in his lips as he takes in the devastated state of him.

He bares his teeth, parading his pearly whites in a stiff smile like he’s showing Shane just how clean he got his teeth to be. It should be funny, really, it should. Shane is supposed to laugh and call Ilya a goof or something, but he doesn’t. Instead he keeps his hoodie cradled close to him and gazes at him, warmth spreading beneath his skin and his groin churning with a familiar sensation.”

Ilya advances closer, crawling into Shane’s space and setting his hands onto his waist, “What is up with you? Hmm?” He says, jostling him softly and chuckling.

“Nothing. Just thinking,” Shane scrambles, gut curling when Ilya gropes his waist.

“You look like that when you are thinking?” He chirps, “I do not think so, любовь.”

Shane doesn’t need to ask what he looks like, because he already knows. He can feel the flush of his cheeks and how it rises to the tips of his ears. His eyelids lay heavy like they’ve been embedded with stones and he can’t help but to huff out his lips, not helping himself when he licks over his bottom lip when catching onto the glint in Ilya’s eyes.

“Yeah, I do,” He hums, setting a hand on Ilya’s bicep and squeezing. It does feel bigger. How about that?

Ilya doesn’t mind him blatantly groping his body, just continues to scan his face while Shane does everything to not look him dead in the face. “Umm, Coin for your thoughts?” He says, rolling Shane’s skin between his fingers.

“It's penny for your thoughts,” Shane corrects him, reveling in the small “ah” Ilya heaves out.

“Same thing, yes?” Ilya shifts, catching onto Shane’s eyes.

“No, not really, but sure,” He says, and does everything in his power to stifle the hard-on in his pants right now. He’s surprised he can even get it up right now considering he just got off in the shower. What is up with him today?

Ilya is then raising his eyebrows in that spunky way he does when he’s expecting something, and oh, right, pennies and coins and what not.

“I was just thinking—”

“—Yes, you do that a lot,” Ilya interrupts him.

Glaring at him, Shane scoffs and pulls away from where he was roaming his hands up and down Ilya’s arms, “Shut up, asshole. Penny for my thoughts, remember?” Who even uses a penny any more?

“Да, right. Very stupid, by the way. Who makes a cent coin?”

“I don’t know, Google is free baby, go look it up,” Shane tells him and then Ilya is peering at him, his lips stretching into a tender smile.

He surges closer into Shane’s space until he’s pressing a firm kiss on his lips, his mouth minty and stark against his lips. An alarm bell goes out in Shane’s brain because fuck, he didn’t brush his teeth and now he can really taste his morning breath on his tongue. Ilya doesn’t seem to mind, just continues to press kisses onto him until he pulls away with a huff through his nose.

“I have to brush my teeth,” He says, pulling away from Ilya and setting his eyes on the sink.

Ilya doesn’t budge. He stands as a barricade between Shane and the sink and sure, he could just barrel through Ilya like he’s done countless times when they’ve wrestled about or played against each other on the ice, but he’s feeling heavy and if he engages in any sort of roughhousing with Ilya he might come in his pants. Well, that’s what the wind says, anyways.

“Ilya! Move! I need to brush my teeth!” Shane exclaims, nudging Ilya off to the side but it doesn’t work because Ilya is snaking an arm around his waist and drawing him close.

“Nooo,” He whines, “You stole my coin. You scammed me,” He says with his bottom lip jutting out into a pout.

“What?” Shane sputters, facing Ilya who seems to be using the lights of the bathroom to his advantage, playing them like a fiddle and making his eyes sparkle like that orange cat from the Shrek movies Hayden plays for his kids when Jackie isn’t around. She says they’re inappropriate, which could be debatable, but they’re not his kids so he doesn’t bud in much.

“I give you coin for thoughts and you give nothing in return!” Ilya screeches, then he splays his hands over Shane’s waist and begins to pinch, crawling his fingers across his stomach and up his sides, “You are like naughty scammer,” He hums, merciless with how he tickles Shane.

“Fuck! Stop, you asshole!” He curses, writhing in Ilya’s hold and batting his arms away. It doesn’t help that when he does finally pry his arms away from his waist, his groin rumbles with a heady heat he can’t ignore. So instead, he swallows down on the sensation and hopes Ilya doesn’t notice.

It would be nice if he did, because then he would get Shane off, but Shane likes it like this. He likes sneaking around Ilya and hiding his arousal until it spills over and he can’t keep it in any longer, then causing Ilya to reprimand and humiliate him over hiding his hard-on like he’s embarrassed of it. Just the thought of it makes his groin churn again and he doesn’t even notice Ilya talking to him.

“Hello?” Ilya stretches, “Earth to Shane? Is Shane on different planet today?” He says, and Shane has to slap at a hand that threatens to wave in front of his face.

“Nope. Shane is on Earth today and he wants to brush his teeth,” Nudging at Ilya, he jostles him off to the side and settles in front of the sink.

He occupies himself with, well, brushing his teeth. It’s not that technical to describe. There’s nothing difficult about brushing his teeth except for the distractions that follow; Ilya Rozanov-Hollander and his damned towel that he’s decided he doesn’t want to keep on his body anymore.

When he catches his eyes in the mirror, it's not without the picture of his bare body. Ilya has forgotten the sweet glimmer in his eyes for something much more thrilling, because of course he understands that he can move slowly with getting his clothes on if it means it’ll get Shane off. A part of Shane wonders if Ilya has already read his mind; if Ilya already knows that he’s craving for more.

Spitting his toothpaste into the basin, he focuses on flossing and then on the mouthwash but then when he’s spitting out the mouthwash Ilya is behind him, his hoodie in hand.

“You’re forgetting your shirt?” He says, peering at Shane.

Shane grabs it— In spirit, anyways, because Ilya pulls the hoodie away before he can get his hands on it.

“Ah!” Ilya gasps, clutching the hoodie close to his chest, “You must pay up, no?”

“Ilya, seriously—”

“—No, I want to know what’s on your mind,” He huffs, “I was promised a thought.”

“For a coin. Not a hoodie,” Shane retorts and then snatches the hoodie when Ilya’s hand falls lax.

He puts the hoodie on, and when he gets his head through the hole he’s met with the distraught expression of Ilya. He gapes at him with pinched eyebrows and those eyes again. He really does look like that cat.

Then Ilya starts begging and, okay, Shane’s a weak man here. He can deal with Ilya and his googly eyes and his pouty lips but this is where he draws the line. Ilya knows it too. He knows how to get his voice in that perfect state of breathy and whiny, all so that when he begs Shane for whatever it may be, he sounds a pinch bit pathetic and everything seems to flow much smoother.

And all Shane can do is fall victim to it. A begging Ilya is his worst weakness and it happens to be used against him quite a lot.

“Okay! Fine!” He pants, and Ilya shuts up with a pleased smile. What an asshole.

Okay. What was he thinking about again? It must’ve been interesting enough if Ilya’s badgering him about it— Something that would’ve shown up on his face like any other loud thought he has, because for some reason he was blessed with a transparent face.

Ilya watches him as he jogs his memory.

“Oh,” Shane huffs, because really, Oh.

“Well?”

Besides him thinking about how hot Ilya was doing something so mundane as brushing his teeth, Shane was also thinking about how having three orgasms before breakfast may have been his personal best. Maybe their personal best? He doesn’t know about Ilya, considering the history that Shane chooses to not acknowledge, but either way he’s sure he’s never come more than twice before having some breakfast.

It’s not like he hasn’t come countless times before. There were nights where Ilya had drained five out of him, which left him feeling wrung out and raw the following day. There were others where Shane was able to bring Ilya about until they both lost count, and at some point he's pretty sure one of them got to eight, but that might have been throughout the day instead of in the span of one session.

However, before breakfast? Shane’s not sure he’s done that yet. He’s surprised he hasn’t since they’re always getting up to something.

“Oh, I was just thinking about how three orgasms before breakfast might be a personal best,” He shrugs, and then he’s met with the distraught expression plastered over Ilya’s face.

“You— You’re—” Ilya sputters, mouthing gaping like a fish out of water.

It's not the first time he’s stumbled Ilya before. They do it to each other, if anything. While Ilya might be notorious for making Shane scramble and grow flustered from his comments, sometimes Shane says things that happen to be a bit out of pocket for Ilya. He’ll freeze dead in place and gape at him just like he’s doing now, gobsmacked over something Shane just said.

And sure, Shane gets it. Sometimes he does say things on purpose to make Ilya flustered. However, this time, he’s not messing around. Ilya wanted to know what lights were on upstairs, and he got his answer. Besides, Shane doesn’t really understand the fuss around his answer anyways.

Three orgasms before breakfast truly might be a personal best. What else can he say?

“What? You asked!” He exclaimed, cheesing when Ilya’s shoulders drop and he throws a hand over his face.

Ilya lets out this sort of guttural groan that doesn’t ease Shane at all. He’s still got that raging hard-on and talking about the last three orgasms he had is making him buzzy.

“You can’t just say that, солнечно,” Ilya whines, setting his hands on Shane once more, this time on his hips. His fingers dip and press into his skin, and Shane’s gut curls with the touch.

“Why?” He hums, feigning his clueless behavior, “I’ve never come so much before eating breakfast. It’s just an observation.” He says, a goofy smile breaking out on his face when Ilya studies him for a moment and then lets out an exasperated sigh.

“Sure, whatever,” Ilya grumbles, shifting his hands so that his fingers crawl into the band of Shane’s sweatpants. He doesn’t push any further, just keeps them hooked on the band, fingers brushing against his skin. The touch makes Shane’s skin light up with a fury only exclusive to bushfires.

Then they’re staring at each other, and it seems like the bathroom around them kind of disappears. Neither lean in, just stay put where they are, gazing into each other’s eyes with something left unsaid; yet something they both understand.

If Shane has it right; Ilya is thinking about how many times he can get him to come today, just from that confession alone. He can feel the weight of the bet sitting on his tongue, and he knows that between the two of them, it’s just a matter of who says it first.

Because of course they’re going to be competitive in everything, including the amount of orgasms they can bring each other to in a day. It’s something they’ve done before, though it was only simplified to a night instead a whole day. Now they have from now on until twelve at night to let the pleasure wash over them and hope that there will never be enough to satiate their hunger.

The thought of this bet is… thrilling, to say the least. He knows he can handle a lot of orgasms, and he knows Ilya can too, but he doesn’t know what he can handle throughout an entire day. They’ve had their days where “free-use” (a term Ilya informed him about when Shane talked to him about it, not knowing that was what it was called) was a mutual agreement, but they both settled on a limit on how many orgasms they would wring out.

Now, this is free reign. This is a matter of testing the limits and pushing how far their bodies can go. They do it in everything else. They get thrown and slammed against the boards and they’re always battered with some sort of bruising. Their bodies are used to being throttled around and yet Shane thrums at the possibility of being tossed around in a much different manner.

Ilya raises his eyebrows, and all of Shane’s thoughts are confirmed in an instant.

❧

Their mutual agreement is fun at first.

Around the edges, it’s playfully aggressive, with their hands rough and wild in how they handle each other and coax out orgasms out of one another. All that matters is testing the limits of their bodies and finding out just how long they can last.

After they’d both agreed to the bet— well, an experiment, more than anything— Shane insisted on having breakfast before they got up to anything else. Ilya was quick to shove a granola bar in his mouth and deem that an adequate breakfast, then he watched Shane like a hawk while he made his yoghurt bowl.

Ilya was miserable at hiding his excitement. He lingered around Shane and kept a keen eye even as he ate, and then he perked up like a dog when he got up to wash his bowl and set it back in the cabinets. Shane was insistent on prolonging this process, only because he enjoyed Ilya hovering around him with his arousal blatantly wafting off of him. He loved watching him squirm and wring his hands, waiting for when Shane finally dried his hands off and faced him.

When he did, Ilya was quick to pounce on him and begin… Whatever this was.

Then Ilya took him over the couch, making him come for the fourth time. For Ilya, it was also his fourth, which made Shane wonder if this was a mutual personal record or a bet on who could achieve the most orgasms in a day. Who knows. They’ve settled on something ambiguous and it doesn’t really matter because it feels good and they’re having fun.

After that they had to take a small break because refractory periods do exist and if they tried to go back to back they would just flail with sensitivity. Not that it would necessarily be a problem, but Shane had an inkling that by the end of the day they would both be itching out of their skins with sensitivity; it would be best to not start early.

Their small break only lasts ten minutes before they back on each other, with Shane’s mouth full of Ilya and his finger’s in his hole because yes, they’re going to make each other come whichever way possible. Ilya proposed the idea anyways, ushering Shane the lube and telling him to finger him, and what else could he say? Of course he was going to finger his husband.

That moment on the couch placed Ilya with his fifth orgasm, and Shane still on his fourth.

Now, Ilya currently has Shane pressed against the frigid windows, the cold seeping through the threads of his shirt and settling on his skin as he keeps his head set on the surface beneath him. His pants have been pulled down to his ankles now, and Ilya finds himself occupied with Shane’s hole, licking and swiping his tongue over his rim while he fingers him relentlessly.

He doesn’t even know how they got to the window— Something about trying to get up to take this to the bedroom, and then Ilya flattened him here instead.

A part of him squirms over the fact that Ilya’s got him against the window right now, and the possibility of someone seeing licks across his skin like a molten fire. He knows that there’s no one out, especially during this snowstorm, but it’s a constant voice in the back of his mind he can’t seem to shake. He allows it to egg him, goading with how he burns from the humiliation of it.

Ilya pulls away from where he’s licking into him, though still pistoning his fingers and crooking them over his prostate continuously until Shane can’t help but to writhe his hips.

“Five for me,” Ilya says, pressing a kiss onto Shane’s asscheek, “You’re losing, Hollander,” He then chirps, his smile evident in his tone.

The use of his last name tugs cruelly at his groin, and Shane can’t help but moan in response. It reminds him of when they refused to say each other’s first names, often spurring each other on with their respective last names in bed or anywhere else. It doesn’t help that Ilya is hitting his prostate over and over, all while neglecting his cock and letting him dribble onto the wooden floorboards instead.

He can’t help any of this, really. He’s a sucker for competition and he knows Ilya is too. It’s how they got here in the first place, because their need to succeed happened to overlap and that’s what drove them straight into each other, creating a sickeningly stunning collision.

“N—No,” He whines, squishing his flushed cheek against the cool of the window, “Not losing, you are.”

Ilya hums after that, seeming to be unconvinced as he continues to thrust into Shane, rocking his fingers through. Shane isn’t going to last much longer, he knows it. That curl in his gut burns with a sharp edge and it’s beginning to bleed beneath his skin and any longer, he’ll be seeing it flash behind his eyes like a religious reckoning.

He can hear his own panting, erratic and washed in his ears along with the impudent squelch of Ilya’s fingers plunging through him. It all feels so overwhelmingly good and he’s insatiable with it, he needs more, so much more.

Then a strike cracks in between them, and that's when Shane realizes Ilya just smacked him before the pain bursts through his skin, rattling through his hips and crawling up his spine with a cruel fire. It leaves his skin burning in a brazen flush he can’t control, and that’s all it takes for his body to pull taut and his voice to crackle from his lips.

“Oh fuck, Ilya,” He whimpers feebly, shoving his forehead onto the window and squeezing his eyes shut. His orgasm washes through with a merciless wave, soft around the edges from being wrung out earlier in the day. Even though this is his fifth so far, it still feels so strong, rendering his muscles catatonic in its presence.

With his fingers slowly sliding out of his ass, Ilya sets back on his haunches and rubs a hand over the cheek he struck, callouses catching onto the insulted skin and soothing it with their rough kiss.

Ilya lets Shane lean against the window for a moment before tugging his pants back up and rising in the process, soon snaking his arms around his waist and pulling him close into his embrace from behind.

Shane’s legs wobble beneath him, and he really needs to sit down before he collapses on the floor, or somehow finds himself kneeling in front of Ilya with his dick in his mouth again. That wouldn’t be a terrible thing, but Shane doesn’t know if he wants to deliberately give himself sore knees because he knelt on their floorboards.

They stand there in silence for a minute, with Shane settling himself down against Ilya. As he looks out the window in front of them, he watches how the snow flurries twirl and rush through the wind, enveloping their large backyard into a white haze. If he squints he can even see the dark shadows of the trees bending against the wind.

Against the window is the line of the snow, already rising halfway. He’s sure that if he and Ilya went out right now the snow would probably gather up past their knees. They would probably shrivel up from the cold, too. Knowing Ilya, he would definitely run out there with hardly any clothes on and claim the Canadian winter is nothing to a man born in Russia, who crawls through mounds of snow and lashes of storms for fun.

Whatever, he’s just bluffing, anyways. He’s never actually done it, so Shane won’t give him that credit until he sees it happen.

Catching his attention is the smudge of his face oils against the window and a bit of condensation from where his breath huffed against it and clashed with the cold. He cringes and then glances down at their feet, where his puddle of come settles on the floor.

Ilya seems to notice his scrutiny, because he glances down from where he’s got his head hooked over his shoulder,

“I’ll clean it,” He rumbles, squeezing Shane’s waist, “Wait for me in bed?”

Shane turns to face him, “Sending me away already?”

“No, милашка,” Ilya hums, “Never.”

After a bit more teasing, Shane is shoved away by Ilya and he makes his way to the bedroom. While he undresses, he listens to Ilya move about in the kitchen, obviously creating a ruckus in the cleaning cabinet and pulling the disinfectant and window cleaner. The menial act makes Shane’s heart warm while he slips beneath the covers, skin sensitive and flushed against the soft comforters of their bed.

He was supposed to do his yoga today, he realizes. Working out is out of the picture now because he’s doing some of that already, and he’ll continue to for the rest of the day until they both tap out— but that isn’t the topic here. The thing is that he hasn’t done his yoga and it’s rare for him to skip it but here he is anyway. Perhaps Ilya will give him some time to do his yoga, or will he keep him trapped in bed unless for necessities?

When Ilya comes crawling back, he smells of soap, slightly of bleach, and mostly of his musk. Shane watches as he takes off his clothes, flinging them in the dirty basket instead of folding them and setting them inside gently. As much as Shane gets ticked off by the act, he can’t help but to melt a little over the differences between him and Ilya.

Then he’s slinking into bed, snuggling up close beside Shane and splaying a palm over his bare stomach. It doesn’t take much time before their cuddling turns into sex again.

They try out new positions— well, not new, just not common in their relationship because they’ve done just about every position under the sun at this point (exaggeration). Ilya rocks into him fast, rough, slow, deliberate, all at the whim of Shane who pleads and pleads for more.

It’s frenzied. They’re kissing and groping every inch of skin they can reach and they’re both eager to draw out the most for each other. They’ve had moments like these; where they grew restless with their want and couldn’t keep it in any longer, letting it boil over and present as a brazen hunger instead.

Their five turns into six, and then their seven catches up to an eight. By the time they reach double digits, it’s after lunch and they’ve had their cat-nap and sure, they're still feeling insatiable but they’re also so raw and buzzing with sensitivity that just a graze along their skin is enough to make them come dry.

At the mention of that, Shane doesn’t come as much as he did earlier in the day. When Ilya gets him off, he ends up only dribbling a little bit while he whimpers and whines around weak moans. The same can be said for Ilya; who doesn’t push much into him anymore. It also becomes increasingly harder to, well, become hard. Soon, their breaks move from five minutes, to ten, and then fifteen before they stretch into half an hour.

However, they just don’t stop. It’s not like they haven’t had time to be excessive in their need for each other. They go to the cottage each summer and have marathon sex there, and when they’re home they still continue to wring each other dry. That behavior hasn’t changed, only been accompanied with the factor that nothing is stopping them.

Sensitivity isn’t stopping them, neither is pain. Even when Shane can’t take Ilya anymore because he’s too raw and chafed, they opt to some thigh fucking and Ilya pumping him in the process. They don’t really talk much either, just pant and whine against each other’s lips because words don’t have to be said anyways; they can understand what’s left unsaid.

When the evening comes around, they take a long break to have dinner, which even then, they don’t talk much. They just kind of respond in grunts and slurred sentences and touches and that pretty much makes up their impermanent vocabulary for the moment. There’s nothing odd behind it, they’re just too worn out to even talk right now.

They also might be wondering what even spurred this whole bet on in the first place, because while it was fun at first, it’s also rattling their bodies mad.

At some point Shane ends up fucking Ilya. It’s not often that he does because one: Shane is more comfortable receiving and two: Ilya is more comfortable giving. However, their preferences don’t really show face here because when they climb back into bed Ilya is suggesting the idea accompanied with the familiar wandering hands and Shane can’t help but to be overrun by the plea.

Which places him here, in between Ilya’s legs and slowly rocking into him. There’s no point in rushing like earlier because sooner or later, they’re going to come and it’s probably going to be a blank so all that matters is the pleasure that will be burning through them.

Panting against Ilya’s lips, Shane winces with every tinge of his hips. He hopes this snowstorm hails on for a week, because he doesn’t know how he’ll end up at practice.

“I should’ve done yoga,” He groans, thrusting deliberately into Ilya.

Ilya’s hands splay across his back, gripping and tugging at his skin. He gasps and whines with each roll into him, his legs coming around to tangle about Shane’s hips.

Shane knows he’s letting out some interesting sounds too. He’s so sensitive and sore that each brush through Ilya rattles through his skin like the sparks of a live wire. He can’t help but to whimper and groan just like Ilya, and he knows from an outsider’s perspective he might sound utterly debauched.

Those hands on his back crawl up to his hair, tugging onto the strands and digging nails across his scalp. Ilya continues to whine along with him, arching into each thrust with a pinched face and a flush steady on his cheeks.

It continues like that for a while longer before Shane is coming with a pant, slipping out of Ilya and flopping beside him. With his head shoved into the crook of his husband’s neck, he pumps him vigorously until he gets off with a shout that settles into a feeble sob.

They’re never doing this again. Sure, it was fun at first, but now they’re hurting and everything's so sensitive and buzzing with an electricity they can’t handle. Screw being competitive, it can truly be a pain in the ass sometimes. Literally

“Can’t go any more, любовь,” Ilya groans, throwing an arm over his eyes and sighing deep.

“Me too, baby,” Shane mumbles, and presses his nose deeper into Ilya’s neck. The smell of his cologne has been overridden by the musk of his skin and sweat, and as much as Shane should be displeased by it, he can’t help but to hum into the scent and run his tongue along the salt of the surface.

They lay there for almost an hour, drifting in and out of sleep. Shane keeps himself thrown haphazardly over Ilya, chest fluttering over the arm that stretches around his back and keeps him close. Despite cuddling here with Ilya, he doesn’t ever fall into a state of deep sleep because all he can think of is how sticky his skin feels.

That’s how it goes until Ilya’s hand roams once again, and he’s nudging at Shane for a kiss.

Shane doesn’t know who advances the kiss, really. He just knows that sooner or later tongue was involved, and their simple pecks were tossed in the trash. They groan into each other’s mouths, panting and huffing from the closure with hands that travel and grip onto any available surface.

They shouldn’t need more after everything they’ve gotten up to today. Shane thought that Ilya would be done after he asked Shane to fuck him, but that seems to prove otherwise, because soon he’s turning Shane flat on his stomach and crowding over his back, pressing and sucking his lips onto his skin.

Shane’s skin is buzzing. He could jolt right out of it if he could. He feels fuzzy, like his nerves have been sawed off at the ends by a blunt knife, and now they fray and spread in whichever direction possible. He’s so sore and sensitive that just the bed brushing against his hips is enough for him to whine into his pillow, gyrating his hips before Ilya can even get his hands on him.

Ilya doesn’t waste time getting into him. There’s no point in fingering him because he’s so loose from everything else that after a couple rounds Ilya was able to just slip in and continue to ride them closer to that center of pleasure.

When Ilya does thrust into him, he’s swift in how he immediately slumps over him and crowds Shane into the bed. Ilya grabs onto his hands and sets them above his head, setting them there and using them as a point of balance to distribute his force into. The act makes Shane whimper, lips parting around a wavering whine that grows into a moan with each roll of Ilya’s hips.

In his ear, Ilya huffs and hisses, gripping onto his hands tightly and whining in the process. Usually Ilya is loud and unabashed with the noises he makes, like early before when they were in their first rounds and brazen with hunger, but tonight he’s been reduced to nothing but fragile mewling.

A curse slips from his lips when Ilya presses in deeper, continuing to rock through and nudge against his prostate. The sharp jolts of pleasure make his bones spark with a wild frenzy, and Shane knows it’s not long before he’s coming dry again because he doesn’t have anymore to give.

Ilya seems to be the same way. His hips shift from controlled thrusts to erratic writhing, and Shane knows he’s on his way too when he bites onto his shoulder and lets out a whiny groan that builds in his nose and spreads the sound with a nasally tone.

The jostling around makes Shane’s cock rub against the sheets of the bed, and he struggles in canting his hips to catch onto Ilya and then onto the bed. He doesn't know which one he wants more. Amongst it all the burn in his gut boils rapidly, fueled by his heightened sensitivity and desperate need.

“Shane,” Ilya draws out, pressing his teeth into the flesh of his shoulder.

Shane can feel Ilya growing taut behind him, with the whine in his ears and the stilling hips telling him everything he needs to know. Ilya’s hips twitch with how he presses them flush against his ass, groaning into his skin as he comes.

Then he’s slipping out of Shane and lying down beside him, nudging and shoving at him until he’s laying on his back.

Ilya grabs a hold of his cock and begins to pump it slowly. The drag of his hands and their rough callouses feel like fire on his skin and Shane can’t help but to squirm, his hips writhing and legs flailing with how he throws an arm over his head and cries out with crackled moans and whimpers.

Shane’s groin tightens and churns with his orgasm, and he croons into Ilya for a sense of closure before it finally rattles through him relentlessly and wild in its fury.

With his face smushed into Ilya’s shoulder, he cries out on his skin, thrashing with the pleasure that wafts over his body. It renders him warm and sticky with a flush, and for a second he feels like he could pass out.

Ilya continues to stroke him until he’s bucking his hips and swatting his hand away, gasping from the oversensitivity crawling through his spine.

When he climbs down from the high, he’s huffing on Ilya and pressing a kiss onto his skin.

“We’re never doing that again,” He pants, shifting to set his head on Ilya’s chest.

Ilya sets a hand over him, rubbing his skin while he hums, “Да. Very good but terrible idea,” He grumbles, his accent slightly thicker from fatigue.

They lay there for a moment before Ilya is shifting around. It makes Shane kind of slip off into the bed, and maybe that was Ilya’s plan because he crowds over him and faces him with heavy eyes.

Shane notices that he’s got tear-streaks on his cheeks because at some point he must have started crying. He knows he’s got his own tears caught in his eyes, but seeing them on Ilya sends a strike of worry through his chest. It makes him sit up slightly, advancing into Ilya’s space as he reaches up to wipe at the tracks left behind.

Ilya catches onto his hand, deflecting him and bringing his palm to his lips instead. There, he places a gentle kiss in the center, all whilst keeping his eyes on Shane.

Shane latches onto his necklace. He drags his hand away from Ilya and reaches to fiddle with it, straightening the necklace from where the clasp fell at the front, and then hooking his finger in the wedding band strung through the chain before running his thumb across the face of his mother’s cross.

“I don’t want to shower,” He says, and he can’t believe he’s saying that, but either way he swallows and glances up at Ilya, “Walking seems impossible right now.”

Ilya sighs and leans in to press his forehead against Shane’s, “Okay, well my dick is going to fall off,” He groans and draws out a chuckle from Shane, who coos at him mockingly.

They lay there silent for a moment before Ilya hums and then he’s surging to press a tender kiss on Shane’s lips. It makes his chest cave in with a warm sensation, and his toes curl from the intensity running through it. He knows it’s not a kiss like the last one, where it turned into something unruly and then they were back to fucking again. This one is more like a sweet embrace or a thank you even.

Ilya pulls away and stares at Shane before laying back down, throwing an arm behind his head as he lounges back into the pillows. Shane is quick to enter his space and settle back on Ilya, shoving his nose in the crook of his neck and taking up the smell of his skin.

And that’s when Shane wonders. How many orgasms did they truly have? He knows they broke double digits at some point, but after that he may have blacked out and consumed the pleasure instead. Maybe it was when things were starting to get real, and their light-hearted bet became something heavy and sore on their bodies.

Which, okay, they really did that. They really spent the whole day caught in each other and having so much sex they ran each other ragged. The thought makes his stomach churn just a little bit, arousal threatening to creep up again. Well, not entirely arousal, but more of just awe than anything else.

“How many times did we…?” He calls out, curiosity waning through his voice.

Ilya hums and caresses his back, smacking his lips before replying, “Don’t know. We went over ten?”

Shane then sighs, “At least we broke double digits.”

He waits for Ilya to reply, but the silence stretches too long and the shifting of his chest has settled into something much slower and relaxed, which means that Ilya fell asleep on him. Or beneath him. However it goes.

Shane is proved right when he hears a soft snore rumble through Ilya.

❧

Practice comes around a week later after the snowstorm.

The locker-room is extra rowdy today, especially since their last practice was postponed, and now everyone has much more to say. Even when Ilya and Shane walk in with their bags in tow, does the room not quieten or even chirp them about the usual things; their relationship and them being lovebirds or whatever.

The guys mean no harm, Shane knows this. They support him and Ilya, and they’re also somewhat stoked to have Shane on the team, even though they try to hide it. When he first joined the team, he worried if he would have to tone it down with Ilya, and for a while he did, keeping a boundary on everything.

That was until Wyatt spoke up one day, and asked why they don’t do anything if they’re a couple. It was an odd question, and for a minute Shane felt genuinely insulted by it, but then he sort of understood where he was coming from.

Troy often slinks away right before practice starts to meet up with Harris, and when he comes back, he’s always a bit flushed or sometimes even debauched. Shane makes a point not to notice, but sometimes he can’t help but not too. Troy and Harris aren’t exactly experts at keeping their hands off each other, but it’s not like they’re pushing each other against walls and making out in front of anyone.

Not that he and Ilya do that. It’s just that Wyatt ended up pointing out that Troy and Harris are more touchy than they are, and he was wondering if it was just their sort of dynamic or something else. The team already knows how intense Ilya can be when it comes to his passion, and with Shane around, it makes sense why they would question why he’s not showing that side of him.

To make matters worse, Ilya ended up confronting him and telling him the team couldn’t care less if they did the same stuff Troy and Harris did. Sure, they would have a bit of fun with it all, but they wouldn't act like a gaggle of assholes.

Which brings them here, with Shane standing beside Ilya. Their cubicles just so happened to be neighbors and Shane wonders if Ilya had a part in that as the team captain or something. He has an inkling that he might have convinced Coach Wiebe.

The buzz of the locker-room filters as a blur through his ears, and all he’s thinking about is putting his left skate on before his right and also the events last week.

Even now, a week later, he can’t believe they did that. He and Ilya often got up to some marathon sex, especially when they had their honeymoon and trying to get them out of the hotel suite was like trying to tug teeth out of a cement jaw. It wasn’t something they did often, but when the opportunity came around, they went all out. Which is evident by the fact that they happened to share a bit over ten orgasms together.

He can’t remember if it ever ended up being thirteen maybe fifteen. He’s not sure. It can’t be possible to have that many orgasms, right? Maybe he really did black out and they only made it to ten, and he’s got his facts mixed up.

He’s lacing up his right skate when someone cackles loudly in the locker-room, brash enough to cut him out of his flow and perk his head up.

It’s Zane, who seems to be talking animatedly with the other guys in the room. Shane can’t help but to listen in.

When he catches onto the conversation, his stomach flutters with a coil that has him grinning just slightly. Is Ilya even aware of what they’re talking about? Usually he’s always budding in and oftentimes he’s the one steering the topics around.

See, when you’re in a locker-room with a bunch of people like the guys making up the Centaurs, you’re bound to hear something that might be a bit weird. Not in an out of pocket way or some sort of demeaning manner, but sometimes these guys genuinely say weird things. Sometimes Shane has to control himself, because these conversations can be so stupidly weird that he could just lose composure right there.

They mean well. They don’t talk about sexualising stuff or the other foul things that Shane would hear in the Metros’ locker-room, where they would fling around slurs and insults like it was concession tickets.

These guys just have a liking towards odd conversations, that’s all.

Which explains why they’ve settled on the topic of sex. It happens a lot. If there were to be a diagram of least to most weird topics talked about in the room, Shane would place this at the very bottom because honestly, it’s just sex and it’s not like they’re talking about their wives in a discriminating way.

Shane wonders if these guys could read minds or if it’s just a coincidence, because they seem to be talking about how many times they’ve came?

Evan says that he and his wife were able to get up to three, which, okay, didn’t need to know that, but now Shane’s in too deep and he can’t get the chatter of the guys out of his ears. He doesn’t need to know how far they’ve gone.

They kind of just continue. Someone says they got up to six one time, and the guys reply with weak hazes.

In an effort to get his mind straight, Shane stands from the bench and turns to give his back to the locker-room. He knows he could just tape his stick sitting down, but standing up like this seems much better, and beside him Ilya is on his phone squinting at something, so Shane can peer at him when he feels like.

Which is what he does. He bounces back and forth between taping his stick and sneaking glances at Ilya, whose face is illuminated by the screen of his phone. Based on the way the light shifts, Shane guesses (he’s correct, by the way) Ilya is playing a game.

At some point, he pauses entirely and just studies Ilya. Runs along the slope of his nose and the soft curl of his top lip. He catches onto how his eyelash fan out, and how his eyebrows pinch just slightly. With his stick and tape in hand, Shane finds Ilya to be incredibly beautiful at this moment.

It doesn’t help that he turns off his phone and sets it on the shelf of his cubicle, turning to face Shane with a soft lilt to his lips.

“See something you like?” He quips, wiggling his eyebrows in that infuriating manner that only pertains to him.

Shane scoffs and rolls his eyes, focusing on his stick and tape instead.

Beside him, Ilya shuffles closer and closer until he’s leaning into Shane’s space and catching his lips, pressing a soft kiss into them with a tender hum.

Around them, the locker-room goes quiet. Literally, it does. Shane notices it before Ilya does, and he pulls away to glance behind his shoulder. When he does, he’s met with the cheeky smiles of his team-mates, all who share the same glint in their eyes.

Ilya continues to kiss his cheek, and then he’s nibbling on his earlobe before pulling away to face Shane.

Something is about to happen. He doesn’t know what exactly, but he knows. Shane feels it in his blood. Someone in this room has something up their sleeve.

“Hey cap!” Zane calls out from his side of the room, and Ilya perks up immediately to acknowledge his team.

Shane watches as he nods his head in reply. Why is the room so silent? Weren’t they just rattling off about sex and asking each other how many times they come in a night? What happened to their odd conversation? Why has all of the attention turned towards them?

“How many times have you…” He says, and then angles his head as some sort of hint.

Shane can’t believe he’s asking Ilya this right now. Ilya is practically incapable of keeping certain aspects of their relationship private, and upon being asked, he’ll go on and on until someone (Shane) has to stop him.

“Have I…? Bood, what are you talking about?” Ilya shakes his head, squinting at Zane and the rest of the team.

“Ilya,” Shane huffs, and Ilya glances at him.

“You know what they are talking about?” He asks, crossing his arms over his chest and Shane’s in a predicament here because now he’s faced with multiple problems; Ilya’s arms bulging beneath his compression shirt, the impending doom creeping up, and now the team’s attention on him rather than Ilya and Zane.

Someone snickers, and fuck, there’s no way out of this, is there?

“No?” Shane swallows, struggling to keep Ilya’s eyes. “I have no idea.”

Ilya hums a “really?” before turning his attention towards the guys once again, “What do you mean, Zane?”

“He’s asking how many times you’ve come in a day,” Evan blurts out, and someone else lets out a wheeze before cackling brash and loudly into the locker-room.

Fuck, there it is. Shane wipes a hand over his face and tries to distract himself with his stick and tape because he knows Ilya is going to drop a bomb on these guys.

He knows he is, because Ilya giggles beside him and nudges into his side, whispering low beneath his breath, “Should I tell them, малыш?”

Shane faces him, conflicted and very much looking forward to starting practice now, “No. Ilya. I swear to God.”

Ilya’s elbow digs into his side and he can’t help but to squirm, fumbling where he stands in place and settling into his husband’s space, where he then wraps an arm around his shoulders and draws him in tight.

“C’mon Roz, tell us!”

“Yeah, you fucker! You can’t hide this forever buddy!” Seriously, fuck Wyatt and his smart mouth.

Then Ilya is humming, eyes flitted up the ceiling like he’s really pondering this. Shane wriggles in his hold before slipping out from his arm, and he glances down with a pout before facing the team once again.

“Well, since you ask so nicely, Hazy,” He’s really about to tell them, isn’t he?

Suddenly everyone in this room has decided to turn their attention towards Ilya, and why wouldn't they? He’s their captain and he’s speaking so it’s best to listen up, even if he’s about to share with them the ten (or thirteen) times he’s come in a day in extreme detail.

Shane realises that if he wants to keep an inch of his sanity, he’s going to have to do it himself. It’s unlike him, sure, but now they’ve both been thrown down this hole and Ilya will only dig them deeper because he finds fascination in talking about the ways he’s driven mad by Shane.

He can’t believe he’s doing this.

“Ten,” Shane says, short and dignified. He feels Ilya still beside him, and he’s drilling his eyes into the carpet of the room in an effort to avoid Ilya’s.

Someone coughs, and then; “What?” Zane pants out, eyebrows pinched and his eyes shot wide.

Eyes on the carpet. Eyes on the carpet. Ilya’s eyes are burning on the side of his face, and Shane will only get out of this if he’s clear and concise with it. Then that’s it, no more questions.

Swallowing, he pushes down the curl swirling in his gut, “I um, we’ve gone ten times. Or so.”

“Or so?” Ilya quips beside him, and Shane fails in his effort of not meeting his eyes.

He has this glint in them that Shane knows so well, and for a minute it seems like it could just be them in the locker-room— alone, preferably.

“Hey, wait— Before you guys devour each other— Ten times?” Wyatt squawks, knuckles pale around his stick.

When Ilya turns to face the other’s, it almost looks like he has to peel his eyes off of Shane.

“No, he’s lying. Around thirteen, maybe?” He says with a goading grin, nudging at Shane with his elbow.

“Thirteen?” Wyatt screeches again, this time rising from the bench to set his hands on his head in awe.

“Holy fuck, Hazy. There’s levels to this shit,” Zane gasps. It would be extremely beneficial to everyone if he just kept his mouth shut now.

“Yeah, Zane, you know, me and Shane we—”

“—Ilya. Please.” Shane interrupts him with a hand gripping tight on his shoulder.

After that, the team makes sure to nag on Shane and Ilya for a good two weeks before their next source of wild information comes around. Ilya revels in it and Shane doesn’t know what to think of it. A part of him wants to hide what should be private, and the other part of him wants everyone to know exactly what he and Ilya get up to.

Either way, Shane is never doing a bet like that again. Or whatever it was, anyways.