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Shane found the motorcycle in the middle of an otherwise very pleasant Saturday.
He woke up next to his husband at exactly 6:52. Savouring the eight minutes before his alarm, he breathed in the smell of Ilya’s body wash and nuzzled his face into his chest. Only when the shrill ring of his alarm shattered the peace did he finally extricate himself from the covers. Ilya, still asleep but noticing the loss, whined and reached for him. Years of training his reflexes on the ice let him dodge the hands trying to pull him back into the warmth. Sometimes he cursed his hockey career.
Breakfast was a poached egg with spinach and blueberries and a side of granary toast (it was a weekend after all). When Ilya finally dragged himself downstairs there was a mug of coffee waiting for him. He savoured the taste and the perfect temperature, timed exactly to his arrival in the kitchen. Their well honed domestic bliss still mystified him.
They spent the morning at opposite ends of the sofa, socked feet resting comfortably against each other. Ilya scrolled his social media and replied to messages while Shane watched his usual hockey highlights and made notes on moves to mention to Wiebe at practice. Even on a weekend this peaceful he could not turn off the NHL side of his brain. At least until Ilya crawled up the cushions towards him, resting his head in his lap and mouthing at the exposed strip of flesh where his shirt had ridden up.
It wasn’t until he opened the fridge and realised his ginger ale supply was running dangerously low that he opened the garage door. As he turned the knob and pushed it open he heard the slap of bare feet scrambling towards him. Too late. His eyes were instantly locked on a silhouette leaning against the wall. Two wheels, handlebars, a leather seat, a gas tank and a transmission, all familiar and entirely out of place between the fuse box and the stack of boxes they had yet to take to the tip.
He had just opened his mouth when a strong body collided with his, both stumbling further into the room. The pair started to speak at the same time -
“What the fuck is that?” / “I can explain-”
Shane whirled on his husband and raised an accusatory finger to his chest.
“You’re joking. This is a joke. I know you haven’t bought a motorcycle without telling me, because that would be insane and you know I would have a heart attack.”
Sheepish eyes looked back at him. His husband’s usual tall and confident stance was replaced by something much meeker - slumped shoulders and the cowed posture of a dog who had been scolded for eating the leftovers.
“Shane, it is not a big deal. It's just a bike, I have ridden them before, and I was thinking we could take it out together. It's romantic!” Shane shook his head in disbelief.
“You want me to go on that? I don’t even want you sat on it!” Ilya pouted. Honest to god pouted, sticking out his lower lip and widening his eyes so they looked almost tearful. Shane had to look away to keep any resolve he may have had.
“We could get you a sidecar. Little goggles too. It would be cute, I think.” Shane turned on his heel and stormed back into the house, ginger ale forgotten. Ilya trailed behind him, his footsteps quickening to keep up.
“You can’t be serious. You play professional hockey! Do you not spend enough time risking your life by getting beaten up?”
“Usually I am doing the beating. And we don’t have to fight anymore in hockey. The Centaurs are too good, too busy scoring goals.” Usually Shane would preen under the praise for their team. Not today, when his peaceful weekend has been trampled by his husband’s desire for adrenaline and passion for giving Shane an embolism.
“Not the point. These things are so dangerous, baby. What if you get hit by a car? Or a bus? Or run off the road, or hit a moose?” Shane wrung his hands and Ilya gently led him to the couch. At least if he passed out, there would be less distance to fall.
“Shane. I love you. I will not die in a motorcycle accident. Please, trust me on this,” His husband shakes his head and gives him an impassioned glare.
“I love you too. And I don't care if you think it's boring because so many people die in motorcycle accidents. Like, hundreds. Or thousands? Somewhere in between.”
“You are boring. It’s cute.”
“Poor planning on your part then. You married me even though I’m boring, and now you’re stuck with a boring husband who won’t go out on your death trap.”
“You are boring, and we are married. Boring is not bad. I like being boring with you,” Shane huffed and shoved Ilya’s shoulder.
“I’m not boring! I have lots of hobbies! I play in the NHL! How is that boring?” Ilya shrugged.
“Name one hobby you have that is not hockey.”
Shane flipped him off in response, “I do yoga. That’s a hobby.”
“Fine. Now name fifty more,” Shane’s curse was cut off by a firm hand on the back of his neck pulling his lips into a kiss.
Ilya cupped the back of his head, moving their lips together until Shane’s frown was wiped clean and he couldn't help but grin.
“Stop trying to distract me. You’re an asshole,” he pushed up from the couch, “and I’m not getting on that bike.”
A frightening thought hit him with the force of a semi truck crushing a cyclist astride a two-wheeled death trap. It was not the first horrible idea he had that day and it certainly would not be the last. He whipped out his phone to text the only person who would both know the answer and tell him the truth.
shane:
hi sveta. does ilya have a motorcycle license?
svetlana:
he's ridden one many times in russia
shane:
that’s a no then ?
svetlana:
kidding. yes he has a license. Guessing you found the bike
Shane sent back a heart and an eye roll emoji.
***
There was a stack of paper in Ilya’s hands. He slid them across the table to Shane, who shot him a bemused look.
“Are you bringing required reading now?” Ignoring the comment Ilya tapped the first line. It took Shane a moment to realise what was in front of him. “Are these news articles?”
The answering grin is wide and self satisfied.
“Yes. Articles on how safe motorcycles are. Look here,” he pointed to a line he had highlighted in neon yellow, “34% of all motorcycle riders involved in crashes were speeding.”
“You speed all the time. With the money you spend paying speeding tickets you could buy ten bikes - which you should not do!” His husband caught on quickly.
“But look. 25% of people who died riding motorcycles did not have a license. Or they were speeding, or drunk, or old. I am none of those things,” Shane’s answering look was withering. He had a death grip on his glass and the stony face of a man who would not want to have this conversation today, or tomorrow, or ever if he could help it.
“I get what you’re trying to do. But this shit is dangerous. Have you seen what a motorcycle crash looks like? Because I have!” Shane paused and Ilya sighed.
Instead of assuming his usual position curled up to Ilya’s side, Shane had spent the previous night propped up against the headboard watching compilations of motorcycle accidents, police bodycam footage, and old and outdated episodes of Traffic Cops. Even Ilya’s most dedicated and distracting ministrations couldn’t drag Shane away from the carnival of misery he was glued to. Which was frustrating considering Shane had his glasses on and his face screwed up in a grimace that Ilya could not help but find devastatingly attractive. But walking his fingers up Shane’s leg to the waist of his joggers only led to his hand being batted away.
“Let me show you something.” He pulled him up from the sofa and they walked to the garage. Frigidly cold, the stone floor and lack of heating trapped the autumn chill. Shane shivered, icy tendrils seeping into his socked feet.
Leaning against the wall was the bike, shiny and gunmetal grey with a dark leather seat. Shane supposed he hadn’t really looked at it yet - his response earlier was too fast for him to really take in the sight.
“I’ve seen the bike. That’s what started this whole thing,” Ilya shook his head and bent down to pull out a box. Its contents were unfamiliar. Ripples of dark material crushed by a large helmet that Ilya placed reverently on the ground. He slipped on a leather jacket and gloves, held up pants with armoured pockets and reinforcements at vulnerable junctures. Next to the helmet sat a pair of sturdy boots. Shane wrung his hands in front of him and tried desperately to banish images of Ilya in the trousers, knowing how they would cup his ass and slice through Shane’s final thread of resistance. Worse, he recognised those trousers. And that jacket. The same ones he had saved to a folder and shown to Ilya between clips of traffic accidents.
“I did think about this, Shane. I bought the gear you suggested, not just the bike. I don’t want to - become human minced meat.” Ilya was sure he has fucked this up even more as Shane’s dark eyes seemed to bulge out of his skull.
“What the fuck? Do you think that’s helping?” Ilya frantically shook his head, his palms outstretched like he was approaching a skittish deer.
“No, fuck, sorry. I mean I didn’t buy this recklessly. I did think about being safe. I didn’t want to - scare you, freak you out. I printed those facts!” His mournful tone forced a laugh from Shane, who crossed the space between them.
“Okay. I see that. I know you’re not stupid, or reckless. I just - there’s so much that can go wrong. I don’t want to lose you. Not on the back of some stupid fucking bike that you didn’t need to be on.” He was closer now. Almost within touching distance. Ilya could reach out and tug him into his arms, cling to his strong solid form and forget this ever happened. Only Shane’s voice hitched with a familiar sound.
“I spent so long not having you, not properly, not out in the open. And now people know about us and it’s fucking awesome. But you nearly died once in a plane crash and I don’t want to tempt fate and riding around on a death machine seems like a pretty solid way to tempt fate into ringing your bell!” Rapid breathing, flushed skin, hands that shook until Shane tamped down on his panic and seemed to suck the fear back inside himself. Filling up the cavities of his body with anxiety that practically vibrates out of him. Ilya can’t hold back.
He grabbed Shane’s hand and pulled him into an embrace. He had a sinking feeling that this was less about the bike and more about a deeper, uglier gash. One that with time could grow putrid and infected.
“You won’t lose me. I am not going anywhere. I am here, with you, in our house, for as long as you will have me.”
From his familiar spot in Ilya’s arms, Shane let out a shaky sigh and nodded.
“Forever, then. That’s cool.”
They stayed there for a long time. What felt like hours was probably only minutes, but Ilya remained a solid presence for Shane to anchor onto. Sometimes living in his mind felt like drowning. The way a pit of panic opened in his stomach and seeped into his skin. Like the buzzing of a live wire all over his flesh. Cold sweat, shaking limbs, and a familiar rush of fear that he had never truly forgotten since he heard that a plane had made an emergency landing with Canada’s worst hockey team on board.
Shane Hollander had become accustomed to panic, and to wanting. For many years they went hand in hand. Panic at wanting. Wanting until he panicked. The knowledge that he couldn’t have what he wanted. The certainty that he was going to want it anyway. Years of hiding: he had not forgotten the sharp sour taste of fucking up the one thing he craved more than anything - being with Ilya Rozanov.
When Ilya had first pressed their lips together, Shane’s panic had faded to the quiet buzz of a mosquito - easy to swat away until it came back with a vengeance. The fear of discovery, the discovery itself, being exposed and vulnerable on the world stage. Now, in their garage, under their roof, where Ilya’s tasteless sports car and evil motorcycle sat next to Shane’s highly practical jeep, Shane felt that thread of fear being unpicked from his fabric.
“I have come very close to losing you, Shane Hollander. I do not plan to repeat it.” Russian-accented words of reassurance dragged him back to the present.
“I will sell the bike. It's kind of ugly and it takes up a lot of space in here.” It was neither of those things, and Shane knew it. But the relief was tainted by another more pressing thought, an image that has not left his mind since Ilya held up the gloves and jacket and stupid motorcycle pants.
Shane squirmed. His face was flushed, feverish, like they were still hiding and he’d been caught staring at Ilya by an eagle eyed observer. Ilya furrowed his brow and fixed his husband with a penetrating gaze.
“You don’t have to do that. I’m not - I’m not telling you to do that,” Ah. There it was again, the blush across his cheeks. The way he shrugged casually, too casually, suspicious from a man who had emerged from the womb highly strung. What a tense baby he must have been. Ilya’s suspicions mounted.
“Ohhhhh. I see. You don’t hate the bike,” Ilya crowded Shane against the leather seat, “you like it.” Shane scoffed and stubbornly refused eye contact. His husband gripped his chin in two fingers and tilted his head up - forcing Shane to meet his eyes. A sweet blush rose to his cheeks and Ilya swept a thumb over the freckles there.
“You do, you like it! You think it’s sexy. Why don’t you just admit it?”
“Fuck off, no I don’t. It’s dangerous. It’s too fast, and you are barely safe behind the wheel of a car let alone on-” Ilya cut him off with a searing kiss.
All objections to the bike faded as he moaned against Ilya’s lips, pressing closer, seeking more contact, more pressure, more heat. Ilya grinned as he licked his way into Shane’s mouth and pressed in. Hands tugged on blonde curls and fingers scratched scalp until Ilya joined him in a chorus of groans. He wrapped his hands around Shane’s muscly thighs, hoisting him up to sit on the bike’s leather seat where it leant against the garage wall.
Finished with Ilya’s hair, Shane dropped his hands to the collar of the stiff leather jacket his husband had slipped on. He curled his fingers into the fabric and relished in the smell and the stubborn lack of give as he dragged his husband closer to suck at the sharp angle of his jaw. Seeing him decked out in the leathers Shane agonised over had opened a possessive pit in his stomach where the roiling heat took over from any motorcycle-induced anxiety. All he wanted was to drape Ilya in fabrics and items he had chosen, show everyone who he belonged to and who he came home to and who kept him safe and protected. His cock was stiff and sore and throbbing at the sight of Ilya’s tough hockey playing hands encased in black leather gloves.
Ilya pulled back for a moment, pressed their foreheads together. Heavy breathing broke the stillness of the cottage.
“Let’s go to bed. It is too cold in this garage for what I want to do to you.” Shane shook his head, keened, moaned, stubbornly refusing to move as he nipped at Ilya’s throat with his teeth.
Ilya quirked an eyebrow, “You want me to fuck you here? You want me to take you apart on a dangerous motorcycle that is too fast and not as safe as a boring jeep?” His answer came as Shane dragged him closer with his legs to press his covered cock against Ilya’s stomach.
“Does that answer your question? Now fuck me on this bike before I make you sell it.” He needed no further instructions. He went to tug off the gloves, only for a hand to shoot out and wrap around his wrist. Shane’s eyes were dark with lust as he shook his head.
“Gloves on,” he whispered and Ilya is sure he won’t be able to come back from this. The fabric of the universe has been torn in two and he will never be able to remove these gloves, not if Shane keeps looking at him so pleadingly with that little smirk.
“Should have known,” Ilya acquiesced quickly and scrabbled to undo Shane’s zipper. Shane tugged his shirt over his head and cast it to the floor, where it was quickly joined by Ilya’s, who took a moment to admire his husband’s broad chest and pressed a sloppy, open mouthed kiss to each pec before trailing his lips further down.
The wait was less than a minute but it was agonising as Shane felt Ilya tug his cock free. He cried out at the cool leather on such sensitive skin. Ilya took him into his mouth, hot and wet and perfectly formed for Shane’s pleasure. He worked his lips and tongue along the shaft, finding veins and marking each moan on the mental map he had spent the last decade drafting. It was a comprehensive guide to getting off Shane Hollander, but he was a dedicated cartographer and always pleased to find new territory to discover. He charted it now as he felt Shane buck his hips when a leather-gloved hand cupped his balls - stroking, caressing, squeezing gently but with enough force to melt Shane’s spine. Ilya swirled his tongue around the tip. He had many pleasures in this life, but pushing Shane to the edge and dragging him back kicking and screaming would always keep the top spot.
Shane let out a string of curses punctuated by breathy moans of Ilya’s name. Ilya smiled around the heavy weight on his tongue. He allowed Shane’s member to slip further into his throat, feeling himself take it deeper. Took it like he was made for this. He was certain that he was. It didn’t take long for Shane’s bucking to speed up as the hot pool in his stomach flooded his whole body. Ilya worked his cock thoroughly, pulling off and swallowing him deeper.
“Fuck, Ilya, like that,” Shane’s fingers found their way to curly hair, tugging at the coils as his balls tightened and he shot hot and fast down Ilya’s throat. He swallowed wantonly, pulling off with a faint pop and smirking up at Shane’s wrecked expression.
He tapped Shane’s thigh in warning and stood to help him down from the bike onto shaking legs. His husband’s arms gripped his shoulders, for a steadying force and to pull him close as he rode out the aftershocks of a shattering orgasm. Ilya lowered his head to mouth along Shane’s neck, sucking and licking and taking a carnal pleasure in leaving bites and bruises in his wake. A thrill shot through his nerves at the knowledge that he could mark Shane as his with no consequences aside from a beleaguered sigh from his husband; no threats to their secret, no chance of exposing their relationship when their cards were already laid out on the table. No need to keep his passions constrained to the skin covered by a t-shirt.
In front of him Shane mewled and cupped Ilya’s face to pull their lips together. He was sloppy with want when he bit at Ilya’s lip. Frenetic hands raked down Ilya’s back and he took a moment to sign contentedly at how Shane was comfortable enough to give up control and take his pleasure. They had come a long way from illicit hookups in hotel rooms between games. From texting pseudonyms and hoping no one overheard their hushed conversations. Now Ilya could take his husband apart in the comfort of their shared home.
Shane had always been an enthusiastic partner: even in his early and uncertain days he made up for a lack of experience with a passion for bringing Ilya to the edge and shoving him off.
His reminiscence was interrupted by an impatient moan.
“You gonna fuck me or what?”
“So eloquent Hollander,” A tug on his hair and he laughed into Shane’s neck, “turn around.”
Shane scrambled to obey. He rested his forearms on the seat, pressed his face into the leather. A thrill ran through him when he thought of Ilya’s muscled thighs in the same place, gripping the seat as he picked up speed. Another sinful groan slipped past his lips.
Ilya tutted and spread Shane’s legs. He licked a long stripe over his hole to see Shane squirm and push his hips back to seek even more contact. Ilya dove in like a starved man. Shane’s hole twitched at the contact and Ilya gripped his hips tight enough to leave bruises. His tongue darted at the rim, hot and wet, before he plunged into Shane and took his fill. Shane squirming, Shane groaning, reaching for the closest buoy he could grab - the handlebars of the bike. His knuckles white with the strength of his grip.
“Do you want more?” Even in his haze Shane managed an eyeroll. Ilya grinned and returned to his task. He ate and ate and licked and with a practiced ease he drew louder and louder moans from Shane, music to his ears. Shane’s strong legs shook with want and Ilya knew he was close, reaching up to grab his sensitive spent cock and wrap his fingers around the heat and move his hand up and down, up and down, as precum coated his gloved fingers and Shane bucked his hips back towards Ilya.
“Holy shit, Ilya!” His husband finished with a jerk, reaching his peak and crying out, shooting ropes of cum across the bike and Ilya’s glove. He kept his hold on Shane’s cock as he rode out the aftershocks of a second orgasm that ran through his body.
“Fuck, baby,” Ilya breathed raggedly and pressed his face into the small of Shane’s back. Running his hand over flushed skin, he pulled himself up and manhandled Shane until they faced one another. The task was not an easy one - Shane was six feet, two hundred pounds of pure muscle and completely boneless in the wake of his climax. He dropped his head to rest against Ilya’s shoulder, hearing his quickened pulse and grinning against sweaty skin. His cock was sensitive and he flinched in the cold air. Ilya continued his ministrations, and moved a hand to run through Shane’s dark hair, mussed with sex and damp with sweat.
“So I can keep the bike?” Shane shoved him but there was no heat in the gesture.
“If you keep doing that, I’ll think about it.” Ilya’s megawatt grin could melt an ice rink. Shane could only shake his head, too cloudy with sex to regret his acquiescence, and drag his husband through the house to the shower.
“Don’t make me change my mind. If you die on that bike I’ll kill you,” there was no heat in his words. Only the satisfied, blissful home of a thoroughly fucked man who had averted his husband’s death wish for at least another day. When Ilya threw his soiled gloves and jacket to the ground Shane was happy to kick them across the floor and pull his husband under the hot shower spray.
***
The morning broke cool and bright. From his spot burrowed under the covers, Ilya could hear the sound of a blender in the kitchen, his signal that Shane was awake and concocting something hideous and green for their breakfast. With a fond roll of his eyes he emerged from his cocoon. Shoving on pyjamas and padding down the stairs, he dropped a pat to Anya’s head and wrapped his arms around Shane’s waist to take up his rightful place burrowed in the juncture between his head and shoulder.
“Morning,” he mumbled into the quiet room.
“Closer to afternoon, but I’ll let you have it. You’re very old and it would be cruel to get you up otherwise.” Ilya’s indignant noise was muffled as Shane flicked the blender on again. Green liquid foamed within it and Ilya looked longingly at the fridge where he knew a plate of leftover Chinese takeout was waiting.
“You think I’m old? Think I can’t keep up?” Shane shrugged and pulled out of his embrace, moving to the microwave to pull out a steaming box of chow mein. Ilya was sure he fell in love all over again. He fell even harder at the reproachful look Shane gave his meal over the rim of his smoothie glass. “Breakfast of champions,” he winked. Shane rolled his eyes and pressed a kiss to his lips. He tasted of green juice and minty toothpaste, and Ilya would be content to never eat again if he could just live off this forever.
His eyes caught on a package resting by the kitchen island. Shane pointedly ignored it and focused on indulging Anya with scratches.
Ilya grabbed it and tore the bag open eagerly, tossing the packaging onto the floor before he paused to scoop it back up at Shane’s indignant look. Inside he felt cool leather and tugged out a jacket and gloves, similar in style to his own but in a dark navy blue. Flashing a questioning look at Shane who shrugged but couldn’t clamp down on his grin.
“Thought I might join you some time. If you go slow and stick to the speed limit and-” His smile only grew as Ilya lunged at him, dragging him off the stool and pulling him to the sofa where he threw an arm around his shoulders, tugging him into his side, nodding all the while. Shane could feel him smile against his shoulder.
“You are full of surprises Hollander. I will accept your offer. We ride at noon!”
Shane laughed, a clear sound that rang out in the stillness of Sunday morning. Pressing his body into Ilya’s, he cupped his husband’s cheeks and grinned against his lips.
“I still need a helmet, and pants, and we really need to check the weather just in case-”
“No more talking. Now I will fuck you on the couch and later we will ride my motorcycle into the sunset. It will be very romantic and you will forget you were even worried. And then I will fuck you on the bike, and in the garage, and another one on the bike. Just in case you start worrying again.”