Chapter Text
There was something wrong with Ilya’s dick.
This was incredibly important, because his cock was probably one of his best qualities. It was a part of his body that he’d spent quite a lot of time familiarizing himself with, ever since his younger self realized how good it could make him feel. Really, it was kind of like his oldest, most steadfast friend, but in a way that didn’t make him sound lonely or pathetic.
All that was to say, he knew his anatomy very well. Like the back of his arm, or however that English saying went. (Though for Ilya, “like the back of his dick” may be more accurate.)
It was how he knew, when he didn’t feel even the stirrings of arousal for three whole days, that something was seriously messed up.
Maybe a few days without so much as a semi was normal for some people, but not Ilya. Even when he was sick or injured, he still indulged in the urge to at least rub one out before bed.
Because he loved sex. Sex with himself. Sex with beautiful women. Sex with handsome, off-limits men.
He loved the rush of chasing an orgasm. Loved discovering what sounds he could wring out of his partners with his body. Loved the taste of a cigarette while he basked in the afterglow.
He especially loved sex with Shane. Even before they became exclusive—before Ilya he had the privilege of calling Shane his sweetheart, his boyfriend, his husband—there was something about their nights together that did it for Ilya like nothing else.
Maybe it was the way that Shane got under Ilya’s skin. Challenged him, both on the ice and in bed. Shane gave as good as he got, and Ilya counted himself supremely lucky that their competitiveness often resulted in the best orgasms of his life.
So why the hell wasn’t the sight of his husband fresh out of the shower not enough to get him even a little hard?
“I think something is wrong with me,” he declared that night at dinner.
He wasn’t often one to bring up issues so freely—though marriage and living together had certainly made it harder to hide injuries and bad moods—but, considering the importance of the problem at hand, he was willing to make an exception.
Shane frowned at him over his food. “What do you mean?”
“I have not been hard in days.”
The slight tension in Shane’s shoulders immediately eased. “Fuck you. You had me all stressed there for a second.”
“This is serious,” Ilya said.
“We’ve been pretty busy,” Shane said. “And believe it or not, most people actually aren’t horny all the time.”
“Most people are not married to the world’s second sexiest hockey player.”
Shane snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Not even going to try to correct me?”
“No,” Shane said. “Because it’s true.”
Ilya, despite being the one to start the teasing, found his face heating. “Yes. Well. Surely you see now why this is a problem.”
“I really don’t,” Shane replied.
“In what world is mysterious change in sex drive not worrying?”
“Maybe you’re just getting old.”
Ilya scowled. “Thirty is not old.”
“We also have our first match in a few days,” Shane said. “I know this season’s going to be…different. Maybe you’re just stressed?”
“I should be the one asking you that,” Ilya said. “Must be hard, knowing I will be captain.”
“Trust me, I’m plenty used to you bossing me around.”
Ilya grinned. It was almost disarming, the way Shane could calm him down so easily. The way he could make him happy like no one else.
“You are probably right about the stress,” Ilya said. “You must have rubbed off on me.”
“I thought you liked it when I did that,” Shane teased.
Ilya gasped. “Shane Hollander making sex jokes? I never thought I would see the day.”
“I’ve told dirty jokes before,” Shane argued.
“Is news to me.” Ilya smirked and dropped a piece of salmon on the floor for Anya, which she eagerly gobbled up.
Shane, predictably, groaned. “How many times have I told you not to give her table food?”
Ilya tsked. “She is a princess and deserves it.”
Anya licked his fingers in what he decided to interpret as agreement.
“The people at the kennel are going to think she’s spoiled,” Shane said.
“It’s a dog hotel,” Ilya corrected. “How many times have I told you that?”
“Just because you say it doesn’t make it true.”
Ilya pouted. “You are no fun.”
“Yet you married me anyways.”
“I suppose you do have some good qualities,” Ilya said, ignoring Shane’s offended squawk of “some?!” and giving Anya another bite of meat. “But I will always be Anya’s favorite.”
Everything was fine. This was what Ilya told himself as he fumbled for the lube in the bedside table the following morning.
It was just his luck that the first time he woke up hard in days, Shane was off shooting an introductory video for the Centaurs with Harris. (He’d forbidden Ilya from attending, claiming he’d be a distraction. He was probably right, but that didn’t mean Ilya had to like it.)
Ilya was well-versed in the art of self-pleasure, though; so as much as he wished it could be his husband he was fucking, his fist was an acceptable alternative.
He thought about the last time they had sex as he stroked himself. The way he’d reduced Shane to a begging mess on his fingers, and then fucked him until he cried.
He bit his lip and sped up the movement of his hand. Fuck, Shane had looked so good. And the sounds he’d made…
Ilya felt the beginning of a familiar tightening in his gut. His release was so close he could taste it, and fuck, he wanted to come.
And yet, for some reason, he couldn’t.
He tried everything that usually got him over the edge. He focused his touch on the head of his dick. Brought his other hand down to massage his balls, then up to squeeze his nipples. He thought even harder about Shane, and the way he stuttered out Ilya’s name when he came.
Nothing worked.
Ilya wasn’t a quitter, but even he eventually had to admit defeat. If he kept this up, he’d probably end up with rug burn—hand burn?—on his dick.
He groaned and let his arm thunk down on the mattress at his side. What the fuck was wrong with him?
Maybe it was just a fluke. Yes, maybe his body knew there were much better places to come than in his own fist. Namely, in or on his husband.
They had practice in the afternoon, and playing hockey together—even, it turned out, on the same team—was almost always a surefire way to get Shane hot and bothered. (He may have been the one to accuse Ilya of being nervous about the start of the season, but Ilya knew he was similarly stressed, just in that quiet, intense Shane way.)
Plan in place, Ilya tucked himself back into his boxers. He couldn’t wait for tonight.
“Oh, fuck,” Shane moaned. “Yeah, right there.”
“Yeah?” Ilya panted. “You going to come for me?”
Shane looked at Ilya over his bare shoulder. “Why don’t you fucking make me?”
Even now, panting and shoving himself back to meet Ilya’s thrusts, Shane still managed to be a brat. Ilya loved him so much it hurt.
He was also never one to back down from a challenge, especially if it was issued by the man who’d spent the majority of their relationship as his rival.
He pressed his hand down between Shane’s shoulders to hold him steady as he slammed his hips forward. He needed to wring as many of those pleased groans out of his husband as humanly possible until he came all over the sheets. He needed to, as Shane so eloquently put it, fucking make him.
Shane’s hand was working quickly between his legs, and it seemed like every stroke had him clenching harder around Ilya’s dick.
“Shit,” Shane said. “Shit, I’m—”
His words tapered off into a broken moan as he shook through his orgasm, Ilya unwavering in his movements. The feeling of Shane spasming around him was indescribable, and would usually have Ilya following him over the edge almost immediately.
Except…
Ilya grit his teeth and clung to Shane’s hip with the hand not on his back. He tried to narrow his awareness down to the way Shane felt. The stuttered gasps he let out in time with Ilya’s thrusts.
Was Shane wondering why he hadn’t come yet? Or did he think Ilya was rather impressively holding himself back to keep fucking Shane through the aftershocks?
“Fuck,” Shane panted. “Come on.”
Ah. So it was the former. Unfortunate.
He wanted to give Shane what he wanted. He wanted to come. He wanted- He wanted—
“Fuck.” This time, Shane’s curse wasn’t one of pleasure. “I can’t—It’s too much—”
“Bad too much?” Ilya asked, slowing his hips. “Or good?”
“Bad,” Shane said. “Sorry.”
Ilya stilled and pressed a kiss to Shane’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” he said as he pulled out.
“Here,” Shane said, maneuvering onto his back and doing an awkward shuffle to avoid laying in his release. “Finish on me.”
“Yeah?” Ilya said, bringing his hand to his cock. “Want me to make a mess of you?”
Shane nodded. “I want it.”
He looked so good, laying there all dazed and content and fucked out. Ilya didn’t even have to imagine what he’d look like with Ilya’s cum on his chest; he’d eagerly committed the image to memory each time he’d had the privilege of seeing it.
He wanted to cover Shane in himself. He needed it, almost as badly as he needed to finally, finally find his release.
Yet once again, it was like there was some sort of block. Some sort of invisible hurdle keeping him from finishing. Holding him back.
Shane’s brow was starting to furrow. He seemed…concerned, and that was the exact opposite of how Ilya wanted him to look after fucking his brains out.
“Hey,” Shane said carefully. “Is everything okay?”
Ilya sighed and let go of his dick. His erection was already starting to flag, and it was beyond embarrassing.
“Ilya?”
Ilya shuffled back and around until he could sit on the side of the bed, angling his body away from Shane’s view. He couldn’t bring himself to meet his husband’s surely concerned gaze, and looking down meant watching his dick literally shrivel before his eyes. He settled on staring at the wall.
“We should hang something here,” he said absently. “It looks very sad like this.”
He was sure he personally looked a thousand times more pathetic than the plain blue paint, but he didn’t particularly feel like talking about his shortcomings at the moment.
“Your mother must know art people,” he continued. “I will text her while you shower.”
“Hold on,” Shane said. “Are we seriously not going to talk about this?”
“What is there to say? Is stress, like you said.”
He heard the bed creak behind him, and then Shane was making room for himself at Ilya’s side, their thighs gently touching.
“We’re gonna win tomorrow night,” Shane said. “And the flight will be fine.”
Ilya honestly hadn’t given much thought to the travel aspect of an away game; and if he wasn’t so overwhelmed by the barely-repressed embarrassment and confusion over his clearly broken dick, he probably would have been a bit nervous about the air travel.
Maybe he actually had been worrying about it, but subconsciously. That made sense. His body was counting down the minutes until he was airborne, so it didn’t have the bandwidth to allow him an orgasm, too—never mind that he’d been able to come ahead of flights other times since the accident.
“Promise to hold my hand?” Ilya said, only half joking.
Shane took Ilya’s hand and squeezed. “Promise.”
In a perfect world, their first game of the season would’ve also been the home opener. It would also, in Ilya’s fantasy, be against the Voyageurs, so that he could have a semi-sanctioned opportunity to beat the shit out of the assholes who made Shane’s last months with them a living hell. (Pike had a pass—for now.)
Instead, they had to fly to Dallas, which was far away enough that only their most insane fans (and any lunatics who decided to relocate from Canada to Texas of all places) showed up. Ilya still got to punch a homophobe in the face, but it was nowhere near as rewarding as he imagined knocking Comeau’s teeth out would be.
Some Dallas fans also had some not-so-kind things to say about him and Shane, which made it all the more satisfying when both of them scored in the final period. Ilya couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so high off a win.
The team was out celebrating at a bar, and even Shane had agreed to a few rounds of shots. Small miracles.
Ilya liked how much more carefree Shane seemed around the Centaurs. He knew they were both lucky to have such a supportive team in a traditionally non-supportive sport, and he was glad to see how well Shane seemed to be meshing with the other guys.
Admittedly, his slightly drunk brain wanted Shane all to himself right now, and he was getting tired of sharing.
There was something nostalgic about the idea of hooking up in a hotel room, even if it lacked the thrill of sneaking around. Everyone knew the two of them would be together; they also had a pretty good idea of what they’d be getting up to.
“My room is right next to yours,” Wyatt said to both of them when they announced they were leaving. “Mind wrapping it up before the rest of us get back?”
Ilya looked at Shane with a grin. “You hear that? Hazy wants you to keep it down.”
“Fuck off,” Shane said. “You’re the loud one, not me.”
His scowl was undercut by a very pretty blush crawling across his cheeks.
“Don’t worry,” Ilya said, wrapping an arm around Shane’s back and pulling him against his side. “I will find a way to keep him quiet.”
Wyatt made a show of gagging. “TMI, dude.”
Ilya just grinned. “I would not worry about us if I were you. Bigger…what is the saying? Fish to fry.”
Wyatt looked at Ilya with suspicion. “What do you mean?”
“Harris has his own room on your other side.”
The dawning look of pure horror on Wyatt’s face was absolutely priceless. Ilya cackled as he dragged Shane out of the bar by the hand, still thrilled to be able to do such a thing in public. Teasing Wyatt was just a bonus.
They’d barely closed the door behind them before Ilya was crowding Shane against the wall and crushing their lips together. Shane groaned and threaded his fingers through Ilya’s hair, tugging him forward as though there was any space left between them.
Ilya eventually broke the kiss to bring his attention to Shane’s neck. He mouthed and nipped at the skin, wishing not for the first time that he could leave a mark. Shane would probably consider a visible hickey grounds for divorce, though, so Ilya stuck to open-mouthed kisses that made Shane moan all the same.
He brought his thigh between Shane’s legs to give him something to press against, grinning into Shane’s throat at the feeling of how hard he already was. He wanted Shane in his mouth so badly it hurt.
He greedily catalogued Shane’s needy sigh when he pulled back.
“Do not whine,” Ilya said. “We are just going to the bed. Then I will give you what you want.”
“Yeah?” Shane said. His pupils were blown wide, and he was looking at Ilya like he held the secrets of the universe. Ilya couldn’t wait to take him apart.
He let Ilya lead him over to one of the beds—apparently, two queens was a nonstarter when it came to room assignments here in the state where, if Ilya wasn’t mistaken, everything was supposed to be big—and helped strip his clothes off. Ilya watched with fondness as Shane folded each layer; at this point, the ritual was basically foreplay.
Ilya barely had the patience to get his own shirt off, and Shane gave him a disapproving huff when he threw it on the floor to deal with later. Ilya was too intoxicated by the sight of his finally naked husband to care.
He guided Shane to lay against the pillows and spread his legs so that Ilya could settle himself between them. Shane groaned with each nip and squeeze of his chest, his breath hitching when Ilya finally reached the apex of his thighs.
He wasted no time in taking Shane into his mouth. His husband was already hard and leaking, and he let out the prettiest sounds when Ilya relaxed his throat to take him deeper.
He didn’t think he’d ever get bored of sucking Shane off. No matter how many times he did it, it still gave him that same thrill. His own body was thrumming with arousal at the sight of Shane falling apart above him, and it would probably only take a stroke or two to have him in a similar state. Usually, that was.
Because what if it wasn’t just stress about the game? What if that block was still there? What if he couldn’t even get it up?
He knew he could never fully understand the way Shane’s brain worked, but he was fairly confident that his husband would find some way to twist this on himself if he couldn’t get Ilya off. And if there was something worse than not coming, it was making Shane feel bad.
So at the last second, instead of letting Shane come down his throat, Ilya pulled off. He stroked Shane quickly, and it didn’t take long for his husband to tip over the edge. Ilya closed his eyes and, as a treat, stuck his tongue out, catching Shane’s release on his face.
“Holy fuck,” Shane breathed. “That’s so hot.”
Ilya made a show of licking his lips and swallowing, and then carefully blinked his eyes open. Shane looked like a fucking painting, all wide-eyed and breathless.
“Stay there,” Ilya said. “I will go wash my face.”
Shane nodded, seeming dazed, and Ilya pressed a kiss to his thigh before standing and making his way into the bathroom. Shane wasn’t wrong; he did look hot like this.
He felt his cock twitch, but he still stayed mostly soft. It was all the remaining proof he needed to know he was making the right choice.
“There is cum in my hair,” he said loudly. “I am going to rinse it in the shower.”
He hated lying to Shane, but it was really an insignificant fib in the grand scheme of things. Hell, maybe there was cum in Ilya’s hair—it wasn’t like he’d checked.
He knew Shane wasn’t hypocritical enough to question Ilya when it came to cleanliness—god help anyone who tried to get between Shane and the shower after he worked out—and he took his silence as approval. (Would he approve, if he knew Ilya’s real motivations? Would he let Ilya cling to a shred of dignity, or would he make him expose himself and all of his new, horrible inadequacies?)
Ilya was careful to spend just the right amount of time in the shower; too long, and Shane would think he was getting himself off. Too short, and he couldn’t use the excuse he had prepared for when he returned to the bedroom and Shane inevitably asked for his turn to give Ilya head.
Even knowing what was coming, it still hurt to turn Shane down.
“Hazy will be back soon,” Ilya said as he rummaged through his bag for a clean pair of boxers. “Hearing us would be bad for team spirit.”
“We could figure something out,” Shane said.
Ilya shook his head. “Do not worry about it. I am already satisfied from making you come.”
It wasn’t even necessarily untrue; if it was between him or Shane having an orgasm, he’d always pick his husband.
“Is it me?” Shane asked after a moment of heavy silence. “Did I do something?”
“No,” Ilya said quickly. “No, of course not.”
God, this was exactly what he’d wanted to avoid.
“Then what is it?” Shane said.
Ilya sighed. “I think I am tired.”
That, at least, wasn’t far from the truth. His exhaustion just went back much further than the last few hours.
Shane’s expression softened, and he held out his arm in invitation. Ilya eagerly curled himself under it, laying his head on Shane’s chest.
“Your hair’s all wet,” Shane complained.
“At least it’s water,” Ilya said.
“You’re disgusting.”
Ilya grinned and nestled closer. He knew Shane would want to go brush his teeth soon, but he let himself luxuriate in the warmth of his husband’s body while he could.
They both flinched at a loud knock on their door.
“We’re back!” Wyatt called obnoxiously. “Stop whatever you’re doing, please!”
“Fuck you!” Ilya yelled back.
“Shh,” Shane said. “You’re gonna get us kicked out of the hotel.”
“Me?” Ilya said. “He is the one shouting like an animal!”
“I heard that!”