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Shane was drunk. He had been drunk when he had left the bar, which was a rare enough occurrence in and of itself, and now he was drunk in his own home, standing in his living room and dealing with the consequences of said drinking.
A person, to be specific. A guy, whose name he hadn’t even caught in the bar, who was staring at a framed photo of his wedding.
“Ah.” The guy was sporting — not quite a frown, but definitely not a smile either. “You were not joking about being married.”
His cheeks felt like they were on fire. Not for the first time, Shane wondered what the fuck he was doing. But he had talked about this with Ilya, he reminded himself. They were — experimenting. He had double-checked, and triple-checked, and Ilya had said the same thing, each time. If it is what you want.
No, but really, Shane had said back, the first time. What do you want?
More serious this time, Ilya had repeated, I want what you want.
Shane had searched his face for any hint of discomfort, untruth. But there had been none.
And now there was a stranger in his home, who had flirted with him at the bar and bought him a drink. Under the dim, hazy influence of the alcohol, Shane could admit that he had — looked. Quickly, before he’d dropped his eyes back to the countertop, because…well. The way his shirt stretched over his chest was obscene, sure, but the hungry look in his eyes had made his breath catch.
I’m married, he had said, quickly, but that hadn’t deterred his suitor, who had made a show of looking around before tilting his head and saying, I don’t see anyone else here.
That would have been the moment to say no. Instead, he had let himself look, again, his mind crackling like static on a radio station that was starting to break up as he hurtled down the path of no return.
It had been easier, in the dark, to pretend that he didn’t bear a striking resemblance to Ilya. Shane’s body had reacted accordingly. Of course it had.
It was a little harder to ignore, now that a picture of Ilya was quite literally staring them in the face.
“Yeah, uh.” He swallowed an apology, throat dry, and wished fervently that he’d thought to take the photo down beforehand. He didn’t want to apologize, because it wasn’t something he wanted to feel sorry about, but he could acknowledge that looking at a wedding picture of the guy you were about to hook up with was weird as hell.
“D’you still want — I mean —”
After another few agonizingly long seconds, the other man shrugged and turned back around. “You did say. Maybe I should feel flattered.” He smirked, and stepped closer. “You have a type.”
His stomach flipped.
“Shut up,” Shane retorted, and tore his eyes away from picture-Ilya. This was such a mindfuck. “Are we doing this or not?”
“Bossy,” the other man quipped, and then he was close enough to touch, close enough for Shane to feel the body heat emanating through his shirt. He leaned in. “I like that.”
Insanely, even the comment reminded him of Ilya. He was fucking — everywhere, signs of him stamped all over the house and this random guy no matter how much Shane tried not to think about him. It was starting to make him angry, on top of all the other emotions he was feeling. It was also starting to turn him on, like a Pavlovian response, a cycle of annoyance and desire that the thought of Ilya often inspired in him.
Right before their lips touched, he cleared his throat. “Maybe we…shouldn’t kiss.”
The other man raised an eyebrow. “No anything? Or just no kissing?”
Yes. No. Shane stared at him, and tried to rearrange his thoughts into something more rational. He liked kissing. For others, it may have come easy: a kiss on the cheek, a greeting, a celebration on ice. But to him, it had never been something he could offer, casually, without feeling like he was offering up a bit of himself too.
It was probably a bad idea. Not kissing though — just sex, without the intimacy, like it was transactional — felt like a worse one.
His brain hurt.
“I will stop,” the other man said, voice low. “If you say so.”
His heart was in his throat. Carefully, Shane swallowed it down, and said, voice small — “Don’t stop.”
He was leveled with a careful look. “Okay,” the other man decided, after a brief pause. “But no kissing?”
Shane wanted to kiss him. He knew what he wanted, this small, precious fluttering thing that was his to give. He couldn’t bring himself to say it.
Fuck this, Shane thought. This was his idea, goddammit. They had gotten this far already.
“Forget about it,” he muttered. “It was stupid. We should kiss.”
“We do not have to —”
Shane shook his head, and in an alcohol-induced flash of courage, pressed their mouths together. For a second, their lips were still, and he thought — that’s it, this was a mistake after all — and then a hand slid under his jaw and he felt a rush of guilt and relief that was so sickeningly strong he could have cried.
His first thought was that the other man tasted like vodka. Then, faintly, that he was a much better kisser than Shane was. Time stretched like molasses, sticky and slow, as they made out, slow at first, then faster, more eager. When teeth caught his lower lip and tugged — not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to sting — Shane let out a whimper, cock twitching in his pants.
He felt rather than saw the other man’s mouth curve up into a smirk. “Oh, you like that,” he said, and snuck a hand under his ass as he mouthed his way down Shane’s jaw. Then there were teeth on his neck, too, gentle at first, then more insistent, and his mouth fell open, a broken moan leaving his lips before —
“Shit,” he hissed, and remembered who he was with. He shoved his head away. Their eyes met again. “No marks.”
The moment grew heavy with tension. “Right,” the other man said, jaw tightening. “Or else your husband will see.”
His gaze flickered to something behind him — the photo, Shane thought, with dismay — before coming back to rest on his face.
“I must not be distracting you enough,” he said, each word intentional, “if you are still thinking about him.”
Shane took in a shallow breath. He felt very aware, again, of his heart beating against his chest.
“Well,” he said weakly, “he’s very good.”
“Better than me?”
Shane’s lips parted, torn between the instinctive urge to retort back — of course, asshole — and the reality of the situation. Saying no wasn’t an option, but saying yes, his husband was better, and that was why he was hooking up with someone else, obviously, didn’t make him look very good either.
“Oh, I see.” The other man’s eyes darkened. “It is not a fair comparison, just kissing.”
Unceremoniously, he pushed Shane down onto the couch. They landed with a dull thud, and Shane’s legs parted naturally even as his breaths picked up. “I will fuck you,” he said, climbing over him, and a thrill of heat shot down Shane’s spine, “and you will tell me, when you are full of my cock and crying at how good it feels, who is better.”
“Fuck you,” Shane said, but his voice wavered. “You’re so full of yourself.”
“Yes,” the other man said simply, and shrugged his shirt off before tugging Shane’s pants down. “But I bet I can make you come so hard you forget his name.”
His muscles rippled as he lowered himself back down, and Shane felt his mouth go dry at the sight — his arms flexing to keep himself up, his mouth hovering right above Shane’s.
“You are very bad at pretending you do not want this,” he said, with a smug tilt to his mouth, like he knew what Shane was thinking. Then he leaned in, and then they were kissing again, which was good. It was more than good. This part, at least, Shane knew how to approach: how to part his lips, how to allow the wet glide of their mouths, against each other.
It didn’t take long for the kiss to turn dirty, a tongue sneaking into his mouth to suck on his upper lip. He brought his hands up to cup the other man’s jaw, bringing him in closer like they weren’t already pressed together from head to toe, mouth to mouth. A hand came up underneath his shirt, flat and solid against his chest, and he relished in its easy weight even as he leaned up into the kiss, desperately chasing the way the bitter aftertaste of liquor was starting to fade into something uniquely familiar.
By the time he felt a hand toying at the waistband of his underwear, he was already half-hard, rocking against the other man in short little thrusts. He wasn’t the only one — he could feel the other man growing hard through the fabric of his pants. On a particularly good thrust, their cocks brushed up against each other, and he let out a moan at the sweet, delicious friction. Their movements got sloppier, panting into each other’s mouths as they ground into each other.
“So eager,” the other man muttered against his lips, and then his hand brushed against Shane’s cock, a shock of relief after how long he had been waiting for it. His fingers curled loosely around the base and slid up leisurely, like they had all the time in the world. When he reached the tip, he paused, thumbing over it once. Twice.
Then he let go. Shane whined, high and desperate, before his hand flew to his mouth to prevent himself from making any more sounds like that.
His cock throbbed, lonely, untouched.
“Please,” Shane whispered.
“Please what?” The other man sat back and smirked, exactly like Ilya fucking would, and a rush of shame and arousal struck Shane like a physical blow.
He squeezed his eyes shut, cheeks on fire. He couldn’t bear, suddenly, to look at him.
Through his hands, and mortified at having to ask, he mumbled, “Please suck my dick.”
“Since you beg so nicely,” the other man crooned, and then there was a tongue, lapping at the head of his cock, and Shane couldn’t stop his hips from jerking upwards into that velvety, wet heat. He heard a hum, almost amused-sounding, as his hips were pressed back down into the couch, so that he couldn’t have moved them if he wanted to.
He tested his strength, trying to thrust upwards again. Nothing happened. He was pinned in place, legs open and trembling, a hand on each side of his hips like his body was territory to be marked. Subject to whatever the man on top of him wanted of him. There was nothing he could do but take it, a relentless, slick slide of pressure and heat that worked his cock over and over again.
He forced his eyes back open. The sight alone made his stomach tighten, a heady rush of pleasure coursing through him. That mouth, red and wet and stretched around his cock, and those curls, so much like — fuck —
There was no acknowledgement of Shane’s aborted attempts at thrusting upwards, or the way he was forcing his hips down like it was nothing, hands splayed possessively over his stomach, his thighs. Shane gave up on trying to be quiet and gasped, little wet sounds muffled by his hand that sounded as embarrassing as they felt. He was so hard it was making him lightheaded, dizzy from how much he wanted to come, from how close he was.
The other man pulled off for a second. “None of this,” he said, tapping Shane’s hand. “I want to hear all your pretty sounds when you come for me.”
Shane glared at him, eyes wet. “Asshole,” he said reflexively.
But he let the other man wrap his hand around his own and bring it away from his mouth. He let him lace their fingers together, too, a different kind of tenderness that felt too big for the moment they were in. He blinked furiously, willing away any tears that had started to gather.
Sensing the shift in his mood, the other man squeezed his hand before settling back down, pressing a gentle kiss to his inner thigh before nosing his way back to his cock.
“So needy,” he murmured teasingly, but his voice was warm. His breath ghosted over his cock. “Does your husband get you this wet?”
The moment burst. “What the fuck?”
But the other man just laughed softly before swallowing him back down, and any other curses Shane had for him melted into a drawn-out moan as he tipped his head back, feeling the familiar burn in his core that meant he was about to come. He gripped his hand, hard. His other hand, useless by his side, tightened into a fist.
“Close,” he whispered, and got a hum in response. When he did nothing but double down, hollowing his cheeks and sucking him in harder, deeper, Shane tugged at his curls desperately. “Please, I’m gonna come.”
Another hum. Shane watched as those shoulders moved up and down, almost like he was shrugging. He felt his tongue curl in a way that should have been illegal — wonderful, exquisite torture. Then he looked up at him. Their eyes met, and Shane’s stomach clenched at the naked desire he saw in them.
“Fuck,” he hissed, as he came, and shivered as the other man swallowed it all. His limbs went lax, pleasure making him feel warm and dizzy. They were still looking at each other, and Shane could see streaks of his own come on the side of the other man’s mouth. “Fuck,” he repeated, and had to close his eyes for a second, overwhelmed by the sight of it all.
Eventually, pleasure warred with oversensitivity. After a few more seconds passed and he still hadn’t pulled off of his cock completely, he reached out to touch the other man’s face.
“Hey,” he gasped. “I already came.”
The other man kissed the tip of his cock, a parting gift, before licking his lips obnoxiously and leering at him.
“Mm, I can see that,” he said. “Pretty fast too. Been a while with your husband or what?”
Shane groaned. “Oh my god,” he said. “I can’t do this right now.” Still, when the other man lowered himself down onto the couch, he circled one of his arms with his free hand and turned into him, tugging them closer together.
“Just curious.” He had brought one of his hands up to wipe at his mouth. “Good enough for you? Still remember his name?”
His other hand was still holding Shane’s. He squeezed it softly, in contrast to his words, and Shane squeezed back.
Shane sucked his lower lip into his mouth. “Not bad,” he said eventually, and had to bite back a laugh at the way the other man’s eyebrows shot up.
“Not bad?” He said incredulously. He looked pointedly back down at his cock. “That was the fastest you have ever come, probably.”
“Not true,” Shane protested, but he was sure his cheeks were bright red.
“I think I would know,” the other man said. Slowly, deliberately, he pushed his own pants down and tossed them away. Shane watched his cock spring out, already hard, and even though he’d just come, another curl of heat swelled in his gut.
But the clothes.
Pick your pants up off the ground, he wanted to say, only for the words to get stuck in his throat. Ilya knew how much it bothered him, but this man — a stranger — wouldn’t. He bit the inside of his cheek, annoyed, but decided to let it go.
The other man’s eyes glimmered in amusement, and Shane realized he was being watched. The alcohol was starting to wear off, not that he’d had that much to begin with.
He frowned. “You did that on purpose.”
The other man’s lips twitched, like he was holding back a smile. “Did what?”
Shane narrowed his eyes. “You fucker. Pick your clothes up.”
“Ah, it bothers you?” The other man crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Maybe ask your husband to do it when he comes home.”
Shane smiled, despite himself. Then an idea struck him.
“He never listens to me when I ask him,” he said, which was blatantly false. “Please?”
He watched the ensuing conflict play out on the other man’s face with delight. Then he lowered his eyelashes and batted them. “If you do it, I might even consider leaving him for you.”
“You would leave your husband,” the other man said flatly, “if I pick clothes up from the floor.”
“I said I’ll consider it.”
They stared at each other for a long moment. Then Shane cracked a smile, and Ilya did too, scoffing as he lifted himself off the couch. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, while grabbing the clothes off the floor. “You cannot make me jealous of myself.”
Shane’s smile widened. “Take this, too,” he said, and pulled his shirt off. Ilya tsked, annoyed, but he took it and placed it with the rest of their clothes, off to the side.
The couch dipped a little as Ilya settled back down on top of him. Shane looked up at him, and felt a surge of fondness that threatened to take his breath away. “Thank you.”
Ilya rolled his eyes. “Yes, of course, if I left them there you would have been distracted for the rest of the night.” He nudged at Shane’s nose. “You still want to pretend?”
Shane thought about it, but the answer was obvious. “Not really,” he said, and felt a metaphorical weight come off of his chest. “It was hot and all, but I also felt…really confused. And conflicted sometimes. Like when you were chirping at, uh, yourself, I guess — I kind of just wanted to tell you to fuck off. But you were also you, so it didn’t really make any sense.”
He gave Ilya a sheepish grin. “I guess what I’m trying to say is I don’t think I want anyone but my husband fucking me.”
Ilya, who had been listening seriously, broke out into a smile at that last sentence. “Oh, what a terrible burden,” he said, “to be the only person who gets to fuck Shane Hollander, my pretty husband who loves me so much he cannot even pretend otherwise.”
“Don’t start,” Shane shook his head, but he was still smiling. “I should have known you would say something like that.”
“It is a horrible problem to have.” Ilya could not have sounded more smug. Eyes glinting, he said, “Now let me fuck you the proper way, like a husband should.”
They moved to their bedroom, since there was no real reason not to. Originally, Shane had been worried about all of his and Ilya’s things making the scenario hard to imagine. Ilya’s clothes, for one. His books on the nightstand. Their rings, which they had both taken off earlier, to make the whole thing more realistic. And, of course, all of their pictures.
The rings were back on now. Thank God.
“I can’t believe I forgot about that photo,” Shane said, into a pillow.
Ilya, who had one finger in him already and was adding a second, snorted. Shane sighed, feeling a slow crawl of pleasure up his spine at the stretch. It would take a while for him to get hard again, but Ilya hadn’t seemed to mind, content so far to work his hole open with his fingers like his own pleasure wasn’t even a concern.
“What kind of husband am I?” He’d asked, smoothing a hand over the curve of Shane’s ass. “I will give you another first.”
That had made Shane groan. He wasn’t sure if he could, this soon after, but if there was anyone that he trusted more than himself, it was Ilya. Sometimes, it felt like he could do anything, if only Ilya asked him to.
“It is a good photo,” Ilya said, in response to him. He spat into his other hand and — stroked himself, presumably. Shane couldn’t see, but the sound was unmistakable. “We should ask your mother for more copies.”
“More?” Shane’s next exhale was half-laugh, half-moan, as Ilya scissored his fingers inside of him. He was purposefully avoiding that spot, fingers dragging shallowly along his inner walls, and the sensation was starting to shift from good to not enough. “Where would we even put them?”
“I have some ideas,” Ilya said. Slowly, he tucked in another finger, and Shane turned his head to the side, sucking in a breath through his teeth as it went in. Shit. “I am thinking phone case.”
Oh. That was actually very sweet.
“And locker room.”
There it was. Shane swatted behind him, blindly, and Ilya laughed, taking his hand and kissing it. “Imagine a big banner, life-sized,” he said with glee, “next to your locker, or maybe at the entrance, so everyone can be blessed with this picture of us —”
“God, you’re so ridiculous,” Shane said, torn between arching back into his hands and rutting forward into the bed. “Where do you even get these ideas from?”
Somehow, his cock was filling out steadily against his leg. It could have been embarrassing that even this conversation, which was objectively terrible dirty talk, was doing it for him, but he decided not to worry too much about it. His husband was talking about showing off their marriage, even if it was with a completely unreasonable life-sized banner. It was normal to find that sexy. Probably.
Also, Ilya had three fingers inside of him, and he was working them, pumping them in and out like he was playing an instrument of some sort. He was grunting, too, and Shane pictured him palming his cock, hard and angry and thick. Imagined how it would feel. The burn. The stretch.
His mouth watered. He turned his head to the side and tried to take a deep breath. His tongue felt thick in his mouth. “Ilya,” he said.
“Everyone must know we are married,” Ilya said, sounding considerably less composed than he was before. He hooked his fingers, knowing exactly what spot to target, and Shane swore, fingers curling against the sheets. Once, twice, a deliberate rhythm that matched the sound of his breaths, harsh, quick, like they were being punched out of him.
“Pretty sure everyone already knows we’re married,” Shane panted. His cock was hard again, bobbing up against his stomach with every thrust of Ilya’s fingers, and the next time they twisted inside of him he whimpered. “Fuck, Ilya. I’m ready.”
Suddenly, he was empty, his hole spasming around Ilya’s fingers as they withdrew. Then there was nothing at all, and he couldn’t help the hurt noise that came out of his throat at the loss.
“Turn over,” Ilya said, voice rough, and Shane scrambled to obey.
“Yeah, put it in me, fuck,” he said, voice thin and desperate, like he had been waiting hours, because he had, he had been so good, and getting his dick sucked was one thing, but nothing could ever beat Ilya’s cock inside of him, like he was made to be fucked, to take it, to make it fit. “Like that, please —”
They both groaned when Ilya bottomed out. He was so big, still, even after all that preparation and stretching, and Shane shuddered at the intrusion even as he tried to press closer, to erase every last ounce of distance between the two of them. When Ilya’s cock throbbed inside of him, and he felt it — in his stomach, his chest, his throat — he whined, yanking Ilya’s head down and shoving their mouths together.
“Fuck me,” he breathed, into Ilya’s mouth, pulling back and knowing what he would see — the same mix of hunger and overwhelming devotion that devastated them both.
The look in Ilya’s eyes was a little wild. “Yes, everyone knows,” he said, fucking him in earnest, and Shane had to cast around for the context, dazed and a little cock-drunk. What did everyone know, again?
Ilya’s mouth twisted. “You belong to me. Only me.”
Everyone already knows we’re married.
“Oh, fuck,” Shane said, as he remembered. “Yeah,” he gasped, feeling he was being split open, and Ilya inhaled sharply, putting a hand on his chest.
“My husband,” Ilya said forcefully, and fuck, that was hot. “Sexiest player in the league, second-best player —”
“Fuck you,” Shane moaned, but his cock jerked against his stomach.
“Married to me,” Ilya continued. He mouthed at Shane’s pec, and then bit down, hard enough to leave a mark. “My husband.”
He snuck a hand down. “No one else has ever had you like this,” he gritted out, stroking Shane’s cock with quick, brutal efficiency. It wouldn’t take long. Already, Shane was trembling. “And they never will.”
It was too much. It was perfect.
“Mine,” Ilya growled, other hand pressing down hard on his chest, over where his heart was, and Shane’s mouth fell open, stomach tensing as he came. Ilya worked him through it with a greedy expression, mouth parted slightly as he watched him, eyes dark and intense, like nothing else mattered in the world.
“It’s yours,” Shane said, deliriously, when he could think again. He took Ilya’s hand into his own. Their rings made a small sound when they clicked together, left hand over right hand over his heart. He wanted to give it to him, but he already had. It wasn’t enough. He wanted, if only it were possible, for Ilya to sink his hands in, to scoop his heart out to the surface and cradle it in his hands. “Me. This. All of this. All yours.”
Ilya made a face like he was wounded and came, hips stuttering against Shane’s. “Мой муж,” he whispered, tortured, like the words were being pulled out of the deepest parts of his soul.
Shane cupped his face in his hands. “No one else,” he promised. “Not tonight. Not ever.”
Ilya sighed, a deep, shuddering breath. Then he kissed his ring, voice raw, and said, “I would marry you every day.”
A terrible and great swell of emotion rose up in Shane’s chest.
“I would too,” he whispered. “I love you. I’m so lucky.”
“Yes, I love you too,” Ilya said, voice small. He pressed his face into his chest for a few more heartbreakingly tender seconds. Then he smiled. “So no more talk of leaving your husband, please.”
“You started it,” Shane said, but he was smiling, too, and Ilya nosed his way up to his mouth, sweet, close-mouthed kisses that made his stomach flutter. “Saying all that stuff about yourself, and how long it must’ve been, and —”
He was cut off with another kiss, deeper this time, and he indulged Ilya, letting him shut him up.
“You liked it,” Ilya pointed out, and Shane sighed, exasperated but fond.
“Yeah,” he admitted begrudgingly. “I did. But only because it was you. And anyway, now we know I like it way better when you’re just…you.”
Ilya preened like Shane had just told him he was the best hockey player in the world. “That is why we need this banner, you see,” he said, smugly, “to tell everyone I fuck you so well you had to tell me how much you love me, how I am the best, how nobody else could make you come so fast, so much —”
“I changed my mind,” Shane groaned, when it looked like Ilya could keep going for another five or ten self-compliments. “You’re terrible.”
Ilya grinned, wide and beautiful. “The worst,” he agreed, and who was Shane to deny him, when he was smiling as happily as that?