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The quiet of the cottage, Shane reflected as he moved through their kitchen, was dangerous.
Most of the time, it was a welcome respite. His second season with the Centaurs had ended a month ago with the Centaur's first Cup. They'd been close last year—they'd made it all the way to the finals, only to be knocked out by Minnesota in Game 6. Shane had retreated to the cottage with Ilya the week after, determined to win.
And win they did. The parade had even been fun. But Shane and Ilya were the first married couple in the NHL, and now they were the first to win the Cup together. There'd been a barrage of think pieces and interviews and appearances to take care of, piling on top of the season's exhaustion until Ilya had taken one look at Shane and called Farah to tell her they were done for the summer. They needed to relax, he'd stressed over the phone, batting away Shane's attempts to snatch the device back and assert that he was just fine, thank you.
Shane bit his lip at the memory, glancing down at the salad recipe on his phone to confirm he'd gathered the right ingredients in his distraction. Ilya hadn't been wrong. They'd arrived at the cottage a week ago, and all they'd done so far was soak their muscles in the hot tub and fuck. They'd even slept in today, and he'd been rewarded for staying in bed by his husband eating him out like it was Ilya's last meal.
He blushed. Being at the cottage wasn't the problem.
Him and Ilya had finally separated when Shane insisted that they needed to eat something other than a protein shake, and Ilya was now bothering Svetlana. That wasn't the problem either. Despite his initial trepidation, Shane and her were now good friends. (Ilya had been frustrated when he'd refused to meet her, at first. She is my oldest friend! I had dinner with stupid Hayden Pike, he'd insisted. The argument had ended with Shane yelling I hear 'I could marry Svetlana' each time you say her name and Ilya's shocked tears.)
The sound of their conversation drifted into the kitchen from the living room. He couldn't understand everything that was being said, but Shane's Russian was good enough to catch the big picture. Something about him and Ilya and kids.
This was the problem. Shane had been having a dream. A reckless, irresponsible dream, and it was haunting him even now, as he stood at the counter preparing the salad they'd be having with their lunch.
It started in New York. Their rookie had grown up there, and he'd been terrified the night before their first playoff game against the Admirals. So terrified, in fact, that he'd knocked on the door of Shane and Ilya's shared hotel room at midnight. The two of them had wordlessly agreed that Ilya should be the one to handle this, but Shane hadn't gone to bed. Ilya sat with their teammate in the hallway until 2 am, and Shane waited despite the disruption to his pregame routine, leaning against the headboard with his eyes closed and listening to the soft murmur of his husband's voice through the door.
That night, Shane dreamt of a baby with dark curls. The best of Ilya, and the best of him. It was a dream that felt impossibly distant.
The sound of goodbyes being said over the phone cut through his thoughts. Shane washed the cucumbers he'd pulled out and lined them up on the cutting board, hoping to get through them before Ilya came in to distract him.
Like a moth to a flame, Ilya padded in a few minutes later, ducking around Shane to steal a slice before retreating to lean against the side counter. There was a gleam in his eye Shane usually only saw when he was gearing up for a particularly inventive chirp.
Ilya stretched his legs out and sighed, "She doesn't understand that I'm trying."
"Trying to do what?" Shane asked warily.
He hummed. "Sveta is always telling me, 'Shame you two can't have children. They would be hockey superstars.'"
Shane glared. Ilya continued, undeterred, "No luck yet, I told her. But I know we have an obligation to hockey, so I will keep trying."
Shane's glare intensified. Ilya only laughed, spreading his hands in a classic Don't blame me; I'm just the messenger pose.
"She is right! They would be the best players in the league. Skills are genetic," he grinned.
Like being boring. Shane's breath caught. The memory of that night in New York rose up again. He could teach their kids to be hockey superstars, he was sure. He'd stayed on the ice with the rookies after practice ended for years, first with the Metros and now with the Centaurs, running through plays again and again until they found their stride. But they hadn't always needed Shane.
Shane's eyes wandered back to his husband. Ilya, though? Ilya would be a good father.
Ilya's grin had softened slightly, but he was waiting patiently for Shane to respond to his joke, his smile fond and slightly crooked.
Svetlana was only joking, Shane argued to himself. Besides, rookies weren't children, not really, despite the chirps thrown at them.
Shane took in Ilya's broad shoulders. His large, steady hands. He knew he was staring.
He kept staring anyway. Look at him. He'd be so good with them, Shane's traitorous brain whispered. Don't you want that? Don't you want to give him that?
He did. He tugged the collar of his t-shirt away from his neck and swallowed. Once, then again, when the heat in his abdomen refused to abate. The cottage was air-conditioned, and he was only wearing a t-shirt and shorts, but sweat was starting to pool at the small of his back.
Fuck, I want him to put one in me.
Shane opened his mouth, then closed it. Ilya raised an eyebrow.
"Never mind." Shane gritted out, turning back to the cutting board. He couldn't look at the other man anymore, not when this overwhelming feeling was crashing over him all at once. Ilya's eyes were burning a hole in his back. The cucumber slices were coming out a little uneven. Shane tightened his grip on the knife.
It was optimistic to believe that Ilya would drop it. Arms wrapped around him from behind, and Ilya eased the knife out of his hand. He pressed a kiss to the nape of Shane's neck.
They'd talked about children, of course, but only in the abstract, because they'd agreed on waiting to have kids until they were closer to retirement. It was the sensible thing to do—win another Cup for Ottawa, buy a vacation home somewhere warm, and take some time to finally enjoy being them, out and married, before adding kids to the mix. But Shane wanted, and Ilya knew how to read the lines of Shane's want.
"Sveta is not the only one thinking about children," Ilya guessed, and Shane nodded. He squeezed his eyes shut as he did so, feeling exposed even though the way their position made it impossible for Ilya to see his face.
"Tell me," Ilya said softly. "Do you not want to wait anymore? It will be difficult, with us travelling for games, but we have help. We will make it work."
"No, it's a good plan. I want to stick to it," Shane insisted. It wasn't a lie. He'd had enough of their plans being upended for a lifetime.
He turned, bringing Ilya's hands to his waist, and watched as Ilya's hands slipped under his shirt to rub soothing circles on his skin. Shane inhaled. "But we could try for one," he offered, voice strained.
He was glad that the other man had broken eye contact, Ilya's chin tipping down to follow the movement of their hands. It was easier to confess this to Ilya's hair.
Ilya's grip tightened. Shane blinked, and Ilya had one hand on Shane's jaw, forcing him to make eye contact. There was something sharp in his smile.
"Ah," Ilya grinned. "You were slicing that," he said, nodding towards the cucumber, "like you were imagining it was me." Ilya cut Shane off before he could scoff.
"But I was being cruel, wasn't I?" He cooed, pushing the lunch ingredients to the side and crowding Shane further into the counter. "Talking about putting our children in hockey camp while I haven't even knocked you up yet."
He gripped the backside of Shane's thighs, encouraging him to wrap his legs around Ilya. Ilya pressed a line of wet kisses to his throat, his mouth coming to rest by his ear. His voice dropped to a teasing whisper.
"Let's go upstairs, solnyshko. Let me give my pretty husband the baby he's begging for."
"Yeah," Shane choked out. His hips ground against the other man almost instinctively, the world rapidly narrowing down to Ilya, Ilya, Ilya. "Yeah, give it to me. Wanna—wanna have your baby."
Ilya's answering grin was filthy.
Upstairs, Shane's world tilted backwards, and he flailed, aiming a kick to Ilya's side as the other man dropped him unceremoniously onto the bed. Ilya, infuriatingly, caught Shane's foot by the ankle. He dropped a kiss onto the bone before grasping the other ankle and pulling Shane's legs apart so he could slide in between them.
Ilya let go, then dipped down to kiss Shane, open-mouthed and slow. They lost themselves in the motion for a few minutes, tongues sliding against each other lazily. Ilya rocked their hips together steadily while he licked into Shane's mouth, drawing tiny whimpers from the man below them and swallowing them down. Shane had been half-hard since Ilya called him his pretty husband in the kitchen, but Ilya was relentless, biting down on Shane's bottom lip and then sweeping his tongue across the spot to soothe the burn. He only grew harder now, encouraged by the slick slide of Ilya's mouth against his, the heat building between them.
Ilya's hand came down to squeeze him through his sweats, and Shane's head fell back onto the pillow with a groan. The rush of oxygen made him lightheaded, like Ilya was the only thing keeping him tethered to the Earth, and Shane felt his hands flying up to grasp Ilya's shoulders against his will. Then, Ilya leaned towards the bedside drawer that held their lube, and Shane let him go so that he could reach for it, watching Ilya move with half-lidded eyes. He lifted up obediently for the pillow slid under his hips and then again when Ilya brought a second one over to lift Shane's hips high.
They'd fucked earlier, but Ilya poured out a generous amount of lube anyway, snapping the bottle shut with a click and tossing it into the sheets. He pressed a finger in, withdrawing it quickly and pushing it in alongside another when Shane rocked back and gasped for more. He stroked them over Shane's prostate, twisting and spreading him open. Shane moaned raggedly, bracing his feet on the bed and fucking back into Ilya's fingers, desperate to have them deeper even though he could feel the ridge of Ilya's knuckles.
"Good, yes? Not too sore?" Ilya checked.
Always so sweet. "I'm good, yeah," he nodded.
"Better position too, da? With your hips up like this? You'll keep all my cum inside."
"Fuck you."
"No, no," Ilya murmured sweetly, eyes fixed on where his fingers were sliding in and out of Shane's hole. "I'm going to fuck you. Maybe they do not teach you this in shitty Canadian schools, but this is how babies are made."
"Maybe I should find a Canadian who'll actually hurry up and fuck me," Shane snarled, relief coursing through his veins when Ilya withdrew his fingers abruptly.
But Ilya only dipped down, eyes dark, and sank his teeth into Shane's pec. The pain sent sparks up Shane's spine; the frisson of pleasure-pain running through him making him arch into Ilya's mouth. The sensation grew sharper when Ilya drew back to glare at him.
"Slut," he spat. There was a nearly faded bruise from their last game on Shane's thigh, and Ilya lowered his mouth again to the tender spot in its center, digging his teeth in to watch Shane cry out. Then, he turned Shane over, pinning his upper body to the bed while hiking his hips back into the air.
Ilya's thumb dug into the hinge of Shane's jaw, another finger curling over Shane's cheekbone, before they flattened out and he pushed Shane's face into the sheets by the palm.
It was an infuriating reminder that Svetlana was right. Ilya was one of the only people who could move him around like this, like Shane wasn't two hundred pounds of bone-breaking muscle. Their kid would be an absolute menace on the ice.
"Stop talking," Ilya said calmly, "and take what I give you. Stress is bad for the baby."
Ilya snapped his hips forward before Shane could retort, sinking deep into him. His thrusts were brutal in this position, glancing off Shane's prostate and fucking deep into the core of him. Shane's cock strained uselessly between his thighs. He resisted the urge to touch himself, wanting to be good for Ilya, wanting to fucking take it like he'd been ordered. Ilya was talking above him, filthy sentences about how Ilya was going to breed him, going to keep him fat and happy in their sheets, but the words rolled over him like waves. Shane was panting, open-mouthed, from where he was pressed against the sheets, dragging in their combined scents on every inhale.
These smell nice. Shane thought dumbly. I'm going to cum.
Ilya's hand wrapped around the base of his cock before he could form another thought, and he thrust into it fruitlessly. Then, he whined, head lifting up to protest. Ilya shushed him, thumbing away the tears rolling down Shane's face from being denied.
"You'll cum when I do, sweetheart," he explained. "I want to make sure it takes."
"That's—" an old wives' tale, Shane wanted to say, but Ilya was moving again, and the words came out as another whine.
Later, after Ilya had changed their sheets again and they'd finally finished their lunch, Shane allowed his husband to pull him back to bed. Ilya lay half-reclined next to him, propped up on one elbow while the opposite hand traced lazy shapes on Shane's stomach.
The late afternoon light filtering in through the cottage window made everything seem warm and slow, and it took Shane a moment to register what Ilya was saying to him.
"Do you wish I could get you pregnant?" Ilya asked. His tone was mild, but that didn't mean much. Ilya was always good at hiding when something was bothering him.
"No," Shane answered truthfully. He didn't think he'd take being pregnant well, frankly. "I don't care about having biological children. It's more..." he trailed off.
"I will love them, you know," Ilya said, his voice low and serious. "If they are adopted, they will be different from us. I will love them even if they do not care about hockey or they do not look like me. They will still be rodnoy."
Rodnoy. A relative. My own. Dear. Shane caught Ilya's hand in his own, squeezing it.
"Yeah," he smiled and felt Ilya relax against him. "I know. They'll still be ours."
"I will be their favorite parent, I think," Ilya mused. "I will buy them Lamborghinis for their 16th birthday, and you will not let them go for a drive to celebrate until they finish boring French homework."
Shane stared resolutely at the ceiling. He said nothing.
"I will not buy them Lamborghinis," Ilya backtracked. "I will buy them Land Rovers. With extra safety features."
Shane huffed out a laugh, but his eyes stung with stubborn tears. He sat up, then raked his fingers through his hair.
"They're going to ask you for permission either way. I won't know what to do with them," he blurted out. It felt less childish than asking, Do you think I'll be a good dad? But the thread caught, and the questions unfurled.
"Why?"
There's something wrong with me, and when they're old enough, they'll realize it too. How are they going to talk to me about their problems once they're teenagers? I ditched my own graduation dance because I couldn't handle the crowd and I haven't gotten much better since. He settled on, "I won't be as good as talking to them, probably."
"You will be a good dad," Ilya argued, eyebrows drawing together.
Ilya wouldn't let him be a bad parent, Shane knew. And Shane would study—had already started studying, parenting books carefully tucked out of view on his Kindle. But there was a world of difference between good enough and Ilya's effortless ease.
"Not as good as you."
The furrow between Ilya's eyebrows deepened. "Why would I be better?" he said. "You remember my father, da? Is that better..." He gestured toward himself helplessly, casting around for the word.
"Role model?" Shane suggested quietly.
"Yes, role model. You think I am not scared of ending up like him?" Ilya demanded. Shane squirmed, an uneasy feeling tugging at his chest. "And what if our child is like you? What if I am too loud and they need someone quiet? Like Arthur?"
Shane hesitated, caught off-guard. The last time they'd babysat the Pike children, Arthur had tugged on Shane's leg while the other three were busy demanding Ilya's attention. He'd led Shane to the blocks in his bedroom, and the two had stacked them together for an hour, the same sequence over and over, working mostly in silence. That had seemed like the easier task at the time.
Ilya cut him off before he could protest further. He straddled Shane, strong thighs coming down against Shane's sides and caging him in, pressing their foreheads together insistently.
"They will love you, like I love you. I promise you this, lyubimyy."
Shane exhaled and went still under the weight, eyes fluttering shut. "Okay," he whispered. Ilya tsked.
"My husband, always worrying. I worked hard to get you this relaxed."
Those words drew Shane's attention back to the slight ache in his hips from being fucked twice in the span of a few hours, and he rolled his eyes, struggling against Ilya's hold.
Ilya held firm. "Maybe we need to try for twins. You can handle two, I think."
When Shane finally dozed off, exhausted, there were no twins in his dream. He wasn't even sure he was dreaming at first. The scene was a familiar one. There was the lake outside the cottage, frozen over completely. There was Ilya, golden-haired and laughing on the shore. There was his dark-haired baby, suddenly older and scowling, arms crossed in their puffy coat. Shane reached out without thinking and unraveled their scarf.
That scarf was itchy, he knew. The vision blurred. Shane sunk further, the haze wrapping around him like memory.