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Ilya Rozanov-Hollander woke up on the sixth anniversary of the day he told his husband he loved him for the first time, and thought: I want Shane to fuck me.

Shane, tucked under his arm and snoring softly into his armpit, warbled on unaware.

It wasn’t a new thought, exactly. There had certainly been times over their years together that Ilya had considered just how hot it would be to have Shane’s dick inside him. It was a very nice dick. It was as much Ilya’s as it was Shane’s at this point; in different sorts of ways, yes, but he was pretty sure he knew it better than Shane did. He had certainly made it come more times in the last six years than Shane had. Ilya loved how responsive it was, and how it jumped just from Ilya looking at it sometimes. He liked to go on his knees and look at it and breathe on it and talk to it, taking Shane apart before he even touched it.

(Now Ilya’s morning wood was getting more insistent.)

Anyway. Shane’s dick was a very nice dick. And Shane was very good at putting fingers inside of Ilya. He had very good hands too. Nice, large hands. Very good at hockey. Very good at stroking and coaxing and driving Ilya mad.

And yes, it was true that Ilya had never been fucked. Years ago, he hadn’t thought he’d ever be able to be that vulnerable, to trust someone that much, to let himself fall apart and be taken in that way. But… it had been six years since he broke apart in this man’s arms and sobbed out a love confession, and the Ilya of before would never have dreamed how completely he trusted him, or how freely he would give Shane his vulnerability.

Also, there was the flip side of the coin: Ilya had never been fucked, but Shane had also never fucked a man. His husband would make jokes now about how bad he had been at topping women, secure in his sexuality in a way that his younger self would be shocked at, but those were women. Ilya knew in a bone-deep way that if Shane fucked him, it would be entirely different. They were wired together in a white-hot feedback loop of pure sex. Ilya could not imagine a universe in which Shane put his naked dick inside Ilya’s amazing ass, listened to Ilya moan, and did not lose his fucking mind.

So. Ilya needed a plan. Operation Fuck Ilya Rozanov was a go.

(But first: he slid down Shane’s body to wake him up with a love-anniversary blowjob.)

First step of the plan: Get his body ready.

There was no way Ilya was going to do all the hard work of convincing Shane to fuck him, and then have his own body freak out and shut it down. He’d been training and molding this body for fifteen years at a professional level. Just because his asshole hadn’t previously been included in his training regimen, didn’t mean it didn’t have to listen to him as well.

He already knew some things about it. He knew it took two of Shane’s fingers well, and enjoyed some of their smaller toys. He knew it hadn’t liked the dildo they’d tried once – but dildos were stupid. They were hard silicone nonsense, and they didn’t feel, breathe, or move like dicks. But he did need to work on opening himself up more so that his body was used to accommodating something Shane’s size, and not just a couple fingers. After some thought, he ordered a few different sets of graduated vibrating butt plugs that were marketed as “anal trainers”. They already owned butt plugs, of course, but while Ilya thought that sharing a butt plug with Shane might be kind of hot, he knew that his husband most certainly would not.

(Shane opened the box when it arrived. He had only had a chance to see the branded outer packaging inside before Ilya snatched it away. “Planning a surprise?” he said, arching an eyebrow over his tea mug. Ilya waggled his eyebrows right back.)

Finding a time to literally fuck yourself was difficult when you were holed up in a cottage with your lover. Ilya considered asking Shane to walk Anya, but he didn’t want to end up on the other end of Shane’s big wet eyes imploring him to see a doctor because surely something must be wrong with him if he wasn’t up to walking Anya himself. And Shane’s longest workouts were in the morning, before all of Ilya’s braincells were online. Somehow sticking a butt plug in his ass didn’t seem like a before-breakfast sort of activity.

Luckily Yuna came to the rescue. A celebrated photographer who was doing a special Rolex photoshoot couldn’t make their scheduled shoot date, and needed to push it up a month.

“I’m sorry, boys,” she said, over their weekly lunch. “I know you don’t want to be interrupted at all while you’re up here. But her wife really needs this procedure, and if we don’t jump on this date, we’ll have to try to figure out some day during the season, and you know how tricky that can get.”

“It’s not a problem, Mom,” Shane said, passing Ilya the garlic bread. “It’s just one day, right? I’ll drive in to Ottawa early, and be back in time for a late dinner.”

“I will sleep until noon and eat pizza and ice cream for lunch,” Ilya said, and grinned when Shane rolled his eyes.

Six years ago, to lose a day from their cottage time would have been a tragedy. Now, it was an inconvenience, but only that. They had each other every day of the year. Ilya stole Shane’s hand and held it underneath the table, stroking their thumbs together.

Shane’s face went soft in that sweet, open way that Ilya loved.

Fuck, but Ilya loved this man. He was getting him to fuck him if it was the last thing he did.

Four days later, Ilya had the second-largest butt plug in the set in his ass, and was a sweaty overstimulated mess who had come two times already in a marathon sex session that would have been much less exhausting when he was twenty-two. He’d waited until after lunch to get things going, spending the morning with Anya, because this really didn’t feel like a morning sort of activity, but his afternoon had been spent in bed.

Vibrations did change things, he’d discovered. As did pretending it was Shane’s dick inside him, and begging the (absent) Shane to fuck him harder, and thinking about how fucking hot it was going to be to have Shane’s cum inside him. He knew that Shane found the mess kind of gross (though he loved the intimacy of fucking raw), but Ilya loved the bits of sex that were a little disgusting. (One time he’d persuaded Shane to not shower after practice, and fucking him while he smelled like that unholy mixture of sweat and funk – when he smelled like hockey – was so incredibly fucking hot Ilya had nearly whited out.) The idea of Shane’s cum in his ass, filling him up, leaking out afterwards… he whined and turned the vibration up again, throwing his free arm across his eyes.

The front door slammed. “Ilya, I’m home!”

Ilya seized. He had maybe one minute while Shane took his shoes off and put his bag on the hook. Possibly two, if Shane went into the living room first.

Wincing, he eased the plug out as fast as humanly possible, and for lack of a better option, chucked it under the bed. The other plugs followed it. He was holding the lube bottle when Shane walked in.

“Oh,” Shane said, looking momentarily surprised, before his tongue darted out to his lips. “I’m not enough for you anymore, Rozanov?”

“You’re home early,” Ilya managed. His dick was still achingly hard.

Shane dropped to his knees on the bed, and crawled up it, looming over him. “Well,” he said, touching foreheads, “I had a pressing reason to be a very good and cooperative model today.”

“Yeah?” Ilya said, watching the curve of Shane’s grin.

“There’s a very hot man in my bed,” Shane said, brushing their noses together, “and he’s naked and hard and looks like sin.”

“This is the title of my album,” Ilya told him, and then Shane was kissing him.

Five minutes later, Shane had stripped with practiced efficiency and was kissing Ilya's dick, when he made a surprised sound.

“What?” It came out breathy. Ilya’s self-control was fraying.

Shane didn’t answer. He brushed a finger over Ilya’s hole instead, and Ilya arched off the bed with a sound he hadn’t heard himself make before.

“You’re wet,” Shane said. His voice was uneven, rough.

“I was holding the lube when you walked in,” Ilya said, trying for fondly annoyed, but still having trouble with breathing.

Shane pressed a fingertip just inside, and Ilya – okay, it was a whimper. He was allowed to whimper. Russia could fuck off. Besides, he’d heard the way it made Shane’s breath shudder.

Shane moved the fingertip slightly. “You were fingering yourself?”

“Fuck, Shane.”

Shane looked up at him through his eyelashes. Ilya knew he did that on purpose, the fucker. “I didn’t know you did that when you were by yourself.”

Ilya thought about his next move. It was really hard to think about the plan when you were this fucked out. He’d prepped a bit beforehand, but not enough that he was one hundred percent confident about trying to get Shane to fuck him right then. If Shane got the smallest amount of shit on his dick, Ilya would never have the smallest prayer of ever ever being fucked again. (Shane lived in blissful ignorance of the few times where there had been perhaps tiny little issues on his end. Ilya figured that when you played with asses, sometimes shit happened, and it was nothing a shower didn’t fix; but Shane’s anxiety didn’t need to know.)

However, there was one very good option available.

“Sometimes,” Ilya said. He licked his bottom lip. “I have this fantasy.”

Shane’s finger slipped all the way in, and Ilya rewarded him with another groan. “What fantasy," Shane said, and his voice was hoarse.

Ilya met his eyes square on. “Come on my hole and put it in me.”

Shane’s brain went offline. Ilya saw it happen. Fuuuuuuuuck, that was hot.

The thing was, that Ilya was hornier than Shane. He’d jump that man’s bones three times a day, seven days a week, if hockey didn’t get in the way and limit them to more reasonable numbers. He still privately thought that the five months he went without sex before he came to the cottage the first time were one of the most romantic things he had ever done.

But if Ilya was hornier, Shane was freakier. It wasn’t even a question. His husband had fallen to his knees and attacked Ilya’s dick with his mouth about sixteen seconds after the first time he kissed a man. Everything new that came into their bedroom, every new kink, every flagrantly hot idea, came courtesy of Shane’s little sideways smile and “so I was reading about this thing…”

Ilya felt more than a little smug to have turned the tables. He clenched around Shane’s finger. “Hollander, did I break you?”

“Fuck,” Shane said, sounding winded already. Ilya bumped his dick affectionately with his knee. “Fuck.”

“Come here,” Ilya said. This wasn’t going to take long, which was a good thing, because Ilya had edged himself pretty close to the precipice already, and that look on Shane’s face right now – astonished and turned-on and love-drunk – was not helping matters. “Fuck my face.”

Shane blinked at him, his finger still slowly working inside, but then he was pulling it out and scrambling up Ilya’s body. “You sure?”

This wasn’t a normal position for them; if anyone was on their back on the bed getting their face fucked, it was usually Shane, who loved it. But Ilya wanted him with a fierce hunger that made his mouth water. “Give me your dick, Shane. It’s mine.”

Shane’s mouth turned up at the edges. “Photoshoots really do it for you, huh?” he said, but he was feeding his dick past Ilya’s lips, his free hand gripping the headboard for balance.

They did. Ilya didn’t mind the photoshoots, not really. The world could look at his Shane, at his breathtaking beauty and the perfection of his body and even his glorious freckles. (Now that he was out, it was oddly as if the Internet had decided that this made him fair game for even more sexualized commentary; people actively lusted for him all over social media, which meant that Ilya kept a very distant distance from it.) They could look, but his Shane came home to him. His Shane took those pictures, and then Ilya took him apart.

Today Ilya was not going for a gentle pace. This was not a lazy Sunday morning where he edged Shane three times until Shane was a sobbing mess in his arms. Today he wanted Shane’s cum in his ass, and he wanted it now.

Shane’s breathing was harsh above him, little bitten-off sounds escaping his lips. Ilya knew if he could look, he’d see that Shane’s fingers were white-knuckled where they clenched on the headboard. His other hand had threaded into Ilya’s hair, pulling hard enough to sting.

Ilya put both hands on his ass and squeezed, urging him forward, urging him to take what was his.

Shane swore in French, but he was far enough gone to forget his usual worries about choking Ilya, far enough gone to accept the instruction and take over the rhythm. Ilya focused on relaxing his throat and taking what he was given, his fingers on Shane’s ass digging in hard enough to bruise. Shane loved it that way. Tomorrow he would have finger bruises on his ass, and he would smile his little private smile when he moved and felt them, and Ilya would look at them and feel something hot and primal stir underneath his ribs.

Ilya dug his fingers in and met Shane’s eyes. He listened to the obscene noises of his own throat, to Shane’s harsh, sobbing breaths. He felt Shane’s hard dick pumping out of his mouth, tasted Shane’s familiar earthiness. It was a feast, and Ilya was starving.

Shane threw his head back. “Oh fuck. Ilya.”

Ilya never wanted to stop hearing his name in Shane’s mouth. It was a prayer. It was filth.

But Shane’s hips were stuttering, and Ilya spoke fluent Shane. He dug his fingers in hard one more time, then released them and tapped Shane’s hip.

Shane pulled out. His hand came up to stroke Ilya’s cheek with the back of his knuckles. “Yeah?”

Ilya looked up at him and slowly smiled. “Put your cum in me, Shane.” His voice was wrecked. Shane did that.

Shane swore again, this time in Russian, which made Ilya’s dick jump. “You…”

“Me,” Ilya agreed, and smiled wider.

Shane muttered something Ilya couldn’t quite hear, and surged down the bed. “You,” he said, shoving Ilya’s knee up, “are a fucking menace.”

Ilya grabbed his knee and held it, exposing himself with ready abandon. In years past it wouldn’t have been this easy; he never would have thought that he would be lying here, happily baring his asshole, asking someone to come on it. Well, people grow. And the way his husband looked, staring down at him, wetting his lips with his tongue… Ilya was growing right now.

“Come on,” he said, his voice still gravel. “Touch yourself. Make me dirty, Hollander.”

Shane’s eyes snapped up at him, dark and hooded.

And then Shane dropped between Ilya’s legs, and without even a warning, spread his cheeks and licked across his hole, and Ilya was arching up with a shout.

He knew Shane’s mouth was good. It had always been good. Even on that long-ago first night, when Shane dropped to his knees after sixteen seconds, his mouth had been unpracticed and unskilled, but oh so eager, oh so hungry, that Ilya had nearly come apart in no time. It was as if the secret to saving the universe was hidden in Ilya’s dick, and Shane Hollander was determined to be the big fucking hero who found it.

But if Shane’s mouth on his dick was incredible, Shane’s tongue on – in! – his hole was indescribable. It was heaven and hell. It was everything.

Ilya couldn’t remember any words in any language. Except – “Please,” he ground out. “Please.”

Shane ignored him. And why was that hot too? Shane fucked him with his tongue, and ever so often brushed fingers across his dick, never enough to give him the release his body longed for. Ilya reached down with the hand that wasn’t holding his knee up, grabbing Shane’s hair, holding him close.

But he didn’t want to come, not yet, not until Shane’s cum was in him. “Shane,” he said, pulling back on his hair. “Shane.”

Shane pulled back and sat up on his knees. His dick looked hard enough to hurt, bobbing untouched. “You want it?”

Ilya said, “Give it to me.”

Shane put a hand on his dick, shuddering once, his eyes dropping shut. He was so beautiful like this. In their bed, drunk on lust, all Ilya’s, only Ilya’s.

Ilya curved the leg he wasn’t holding up, digging his heel into Shane’s ass, pulling him closer. “Look at me,” he said. He wanted Shane’s gaze. He wanted to watch him fall apart.

Shane’s eyes fluttered open, as his hand started moving on his dick. He was so gone already, this wouldn’t take long. This wasn’t a night for slow.

“So beautiful,” Ilya said, his voice in that register that was only Shane’s. “So good for me. Faster.”

Shane’s mouth fell open, but his eyes stayed on Ilya’s, obedient. His hand moved faster. His other hand was on Ilya, keeping him spread.

My husband. Mine. Mine.

“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane gasped, the words more exhale than voiced.

Ilya held his eyes. “Now. Come for me.”

He felt Shane’s cum hit his hole, wet and filthy.

Shane’s head went back as he worked himself through his orgasm, more spurts landing.

Ilya felt undone and high. His dick throbbed, but it was secondary to the insane rush of his pulse in his ears and the energy surging through his body.

And then Shane’s hand fell away from his dick, and instead of taking a moment to recover, his head snapped back up. He met Ilya’s eyes again for a moment, his gaze intense, and then he was looking down, his mouth falling open at the sight.

“Please,” Ilya said, knowing exactly what he sounded like, wanting to sound that way.

His husband swore, and then –

Then his fingers were at Ilya’s hole, and pushing inside – pushing something wet inside – pushing Shane’s cum inside –

Shane’s cum was inside him.

Ilya made a soft broken sound.

“Okay?” Shane said, immediately.

“Don’t stop.”

Shane didn’t stop. One finger became two. He fucked his cum into Ilya’s body and brushed Ilya’s prostate, and Ilya made noises he didn’t recognize, and let Shane hear them because even though they were a little embarrassing, Shane loved them, and then Shane was touching his dick, and it was too much, it was perfect, it was everything, and Ilya cried out, and he was coming, he was coming, and Shane’s fingers fucked him through it, and Ilya loved him.

Afterwards, Shane kissed his forehead, and said, “That was new.” There was a laugh somewhere deep in his throat.

Ilya growled. “Be quiet.” He pulled him close and buried his face in Shane’s shoulder. He felt fucked-out, peaceful. “I am napping now.”

“You can’t nap,” Shane said, his voice a rumble against Ilya’s cheek. “It’s nearly bedtime. You’ll sleep shitty.”

Ilya nipped him for that. “Don’t care. Twenty minutes. You killed me, Hollander.”

“You’re filthy.”

“Then clean me. I’m sleeping.”

Shane sighed, but he pulled himself out of Ilya’s arms (substituting a pillow for his shoulder when Ilya whined) and headed for the bathroom.

Ilya closed his eyes and drifted away, a smile on his face.

Thirty minutes later, he pulled on boxers and wandered out to the kitchen. Shane was warming dinner on the stove, humming something under his breath.

Ilya came up behind him, wrapping his arms around Shane’s waist and snugging his chin on Shane’s shoulder.

“So,” Shane said, opening the cupboard to grab plates. “Vibrating butt plugs, huh?”

Ilya froze.

Shane’s chest shivered with suppressed laughter. “If you’re going to hide things under the bed, turn off the vibration first.”

“I –” Ilya really couldn’t think of what he was going to say.

Shane set the plates down and turned in his arms. “Hey.” His eyes were amused but gentle. “It’s okay. I like them too.”

“I want you to fuck me,” Ilya blurted out.

Well. Fuck. Good job, Rozanov. You had this whole elaborate plan, and then you fucked it up. Great work.

Shane’s eyes widened.

“I mean,” Ilya said. “Fuck. I didn’t mean to just say it like that.”

Shane – hadn’t pulled away. His face hadn’t frozen or shut down, going blank like it did when he was uncomfortable or overstimulated. He just looked – a little confused.

“Like – you want me to put my dick in you?” The words were hesitant, almost unbelieving.

It was hard to be this up-front, with lust temporarily fed and them both momentarily sober. But Ilya raised his chin and met Shane’s eyes. “So much.”

Then, belatedly, he added, “If you want. I understand if you don’t. I didn’t mean to say it like that, I had a plan…”

Shane’s head tilted a little to one side. “You had a plan.”

“Yes,” Ilya said.

“You had a plan to seduce your husband to fuck you.”

Being the object of Shane’s focused attention like this was incredibly hot, while at the same time also making something in Ilya want to squirm away. Nine years of not naming his desires, of hiding the full extent of what he wanted from this man, were still in his bones.

But there had been six years since then, six wonderful years. And Ilya wasn’t afraid any more. He trusted Shane to catch him, to care for him, to love him no matter what. They’d been together through injury and health, secrecy and public exposure, defeat and victory. They’d fallen asleep together and woken up together. They’d won a Cup together, and kissed in the locker room in front of their heckling team. He knew what Shane looked like when he brushed his teeth, when he needed a snuggle instead of sex, when he was monologuing about hockey statistics from the 1970s. He knew Shane, his Shane, as no other human being in the world ever had or ever would.

And Shane knew him. He knew Ilya’s moods, Ilya’s insecurities, and the way Ilya deflected with humor. He knew when Ilya wanted to be pushed, when Ilya needed to be pushed, and when to stop pushing. He knew the soft vulnerable underbelly that Ilya had hid for so long, and he cherished it. He pressed a kiss to Ilya’s skin – his shoulder, his ribs, his chin – every morning when his alarm went off too fucking early and he went to work out. He fed Ilya zoodles and snuck blended vegetables into pasta sauce and nagged about his cigarettes and told him to put on sunscreen, and Ilya grumbled but they both knew he actually didn’t mind, that being taken care of was something Ilya couldn’t often ask for but meant so much.

Ilya was safe and loved in Shane’s arms. He opened his mouth and said, “Yes.”

“Well,” Shane said, and his hand squeezed Ilya’s hip. “I’m not any good at it. But the way you fell apart when I put my cum in you, it’ll still probably be hot for you.”

Ilya kissed him for that, sharp and fierce. “Oh god, Hollander,” he said against Shane’s lips, “it will be so fucking hot. You will murder me.”

Shane’s huffs of laughter tickled. “Yeah?”

“My husband’s dick is going to be in my ass,” Ilya said, aware that he was grinning far too widely. He leaned back slightly and pumped a fist into the air. “Everyone, he said yes!”

Shane was grinning too. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You married me,” Ilya said, smugly. “You’re stuck with me.”

“Never said I didn’t want to be.”

“Also,” Ilya added, realizing he had let an earlier comment pass, “you’re not going to be bad at it. You’re going to be amazing.”

“Rose would disagree,” Shane said wryly, turning back to the stove and starting to plate their dinner.

Ilya scoffed. “Rose Landry has not been fucking you for fifteen years. You have not been in my ass before. I promise, this is completely different.”

“Okay,” Shane said, not sounding convinced. “I’ll try my best.”

Ilya grinned. New angle. “You know how competitive I am?”

Shane handed him his plate. His eyes looked wary. “Yes?”

“I am about to get very competitive about making my husband love fucking me.”

Shane shook his head, smiling. “You really want this, don’t you?”

The humor fell away. It was essential for Shane to understand. “I really do. There’s been – no one else. And you – you never.” It’s hard to say the words, even though he’d thought them so many times recently, touching himself and feeling the hot possessiveness roll over him. “I want it. I want you, every way possible. I want to know how it feels when you fuck me.” He swallowed. “I want to know how it feels when you come inside me.”

Shane’s smile was gone now. His lips had parted, his eyes dark.

Ilya set his plate on the kitchen island, and kissed him.

They had to re-warm their dinner. Ilya’s knees hurt a little from the kitchen floor; he wasn’t twenty anymore. But watching Shane’s face, fond and amused and happy, Ilya wasn’t sorry in the least.

It was a Tuesday. A random Tuesday in August, and Ilya Rozanov-Hollander was going to get fucked today.

He’d been grinning all day. Not on purpose. He’d just been sitting at the breakfast table, drinking one of Shane’s awful smoothies, and he couldn’t stop grinning. (He’d been following Shane’s diet for two days, not even complaining about it. Shane had offered, blushing, to help him prep, but Ilya had delighted in pointing out that he had been topping Shane for fifteen years, and living with him for two, so he was well aware of Shane’s routine after all these years. Shane had turned a lovely shade of pink.)

“You’re doing it again,” Shane had said, flatly. “The grinning.”

“Problem?” Ilya had said, slurping his smoothie the way that always made Shane wince.

And now it was late afternoon, and Ilya had followed the appropriate steps in the bathroom persuading his body that it wanted to be as pleasant and pristine and holy as Shane Hollander’s body, and it was time.

He flopped into bed next to Shane and flung a leg over him, nosing into his armpit. He considered announcing that his asshole was clean now, but he thought that might backfire on him. He kissed Shane’s ribs instead.

“Any second thoughts?” Shane asked.

Ilya bit him. Not hard, but hard enough that Shane jumped.

“Asshole,” Shane said, and shoved him over on his back, leaning down to kiss him. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. Ilya met his energy, a hand tightly grasping the back of Shane’s neck, the other the back of his thigh.

Shane pulled back. “You stop me if you need to.” His face was earnest. God, Ilya loved him. “I mean it. I mean it, Ilya.”

Ilya brushed his fingers over Shane’s freckles. “I think what I will be saying is Harder, please.”

Shane flushed. Russian always turned him on in bed.

“It’s us,” Ilya said, softly, his fingers moving to thread into Shane’s hair. “It will be good.”

Shane shut his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. He looked determined, like it was late in the third period and they were down by a goal and it was time for Shane Motherfucking Hollander to remind the world who he was. "Okay.”

And then Shane was sliding down his body, pressing a drive-by kiss to Ilya’s dick, and pushing his knees apart.

Ilya spread his legs happily. It occurred to him that he wished he could see this. Fuck, how hot would it be to see Shane fingering him, to see the moment Shane pushed inside? His dick jumped at the idea of getting a mirror or a camera involved. Maybe next time, he told it.

Shane asked, “Do you want me to suck your dick first?”

Ilya grinned. “No. Would be too good.”

“Jesus,” Shane said, sounding exasperated. “That was what the first round was for, to take the edge off. You are the fucking horniest person I have ever met.”

“Only for you, Hollander,” Ilya said – and it was flirting, but also not.

They’d had a first round an hour ago, trying to make sure they’d last for the actual fucking, but Ilya already felt high on arousal, floating somewhere above his body waiting for Shane to put a fucking finger in him already. He was literally going to die before this was over.

Shane huffed, but then he flopped to his stomach, pulled Ilya’s cheeks apart, and licked against Ilya’s hole.

“Fuck,” Ilya gasped. His hips came off the bed, rocking his ass into Shane’s face.

Shane popped up, glaring at him, and shoved one of his knees up. “Hold it.”

“Fuck,” Ilya said again, his dick very interested in Captain Shane making an appearance. He held the knee.

Shane went back down. One of his hands still held Ilya open, but with Ilya helping with his knee, he now had an arm free. It went over Ilya’s hips, pinning him down.

And fuck, but that was hot. Ilya tried bucking his hips, but Shane was strong and held him in place. Shane’s mouth descended again, and Ilya couldn’t move, he couldn’t escape it. He could only obediently hold his knee, and listen to his own rasping breaths and the little moans that tore themselves out from behind his teeth.

Then Shane’s tongue stopped licking and started pushing in, and Ilya saw stars.

He always forgot how good this was, until Shane was doing it. He knew how much he liked taking Shane apart this way, and he hoped Shane liked it just as much. He consciously didn’t hold back any noise, any groan, any gasp; Shane’s drove him crazy and made him feel like a god of sex, so it was only fair to return the favor.

It was almost a disappointment after a couple of minutes when he had to stop him. “Shane. Too much. Fingers.”

“Could make you come just like this,” Shane said, propping his chin on Ilya’s hipbone. Ilya’s dick was very interested in the proximity. “Just from my tongue.”

“Yes,” Ilya said. “Fingers now.”

“So bossy,” Shane said, thoughtfully. Ilya’s neck prickled at the tone. Shane met his eyes. “But you’re not in charge tonight, are you?”

Ilya swallowed.

Now, there were definitely times where Shane was in charge despite being the one getting fucked, and they both knew that bottoming had nothing to do with who was taking the lead. Ilya could definitely still be in charge tonight. He’d actually been expecting to need to be, to guide Shane and give him the reassuring security blanket of following Ilya’s lead.

But Shane was warming lube between his fingers, his eyes not leaving Ilya’s, and the question hung in the air.

Ilya dropped his knee, letting it come down, and spread his legs. A wordless answer.

Shane brushed a fingertip across Ilya’s hole, gently but firmly, making Ilya catch his lip between his teeth.

Then he pushed a finger inside Ilya, and pressed a kiss to the side of Ilya’s dick. “Good boy.”

“Shane.” His voice was unrecognizable. “I will come if you do that.”

Shane moved his finger. It felt like he was deliberately avoiding Ilya’s prostate, which was probably a good thing. “No. You won’t. You’re going to be good for me. You’re going to hold it until I get inside you.”

Ilya couldn’t remember words anymore, in any languages.

Shane looked like a sweaty god between his legs, panting slightly. Ilya could tell that he wasn’t the only one struggling here. The finger inside him thrust a few more times, and then there was a second one joining it. It was a lot, just on the edge of too fast (after all this time, Shane often could open for him quickly, but Ilya was still new at this), but Ilya welcomed it.

“Look at you,” Shane said. “Taking my fingers so well. So good for me.” He spread his fingers, and Ilya felt a moan surface that felt like it came from the bottom of his stomach.

He lost track of time, his world narrowed to Shane’s fingers and to controlling the pulsing need of his body to come. The only thing that mattered was Shane, Shane, Shane. The sound that Shane’s fingers made as they squelched in and out of his body, obscene. The vision that Shane made, sweaty and intent, focused on his work like he was on the ice. The faint smell of Shane’s cologne, the scent that meant home. The feeling of Shane’s fingers stretching him, never pausing, never relenting, simply convincing his body that this was right, this was more than right, this was everything he wanted. The taste of his own moans and whimpers, free and unrestrained, almost as loud as Shane usually was.

And then Shane added a third finger, and Ilya’s hips did jerk up again. “Fuck,” he half-gasped, half-shouted.

“Relax,” Shane said, petting his hip with his free hand, pushing him back down. “Let me in.” His voice sounded as wrecked as Ilya felt, little more than a rasp. “You’re doing so good. Just this one, then you can have my dick. You can do it.”

Ilya was a professional athlete. His body obeyed him. It could do this. He focused, willing his body to relax. Let it happen. This is right. We want this.

Gradually, Shane’s fingers felt less overwhelming. Gradually, Shane began to move them. Gradually, Shane stretched him, and now he couldn’t avoid brushing Ilya’s prostate sometimes, and Ilya sobbed out a breath, and his dick ached to be touched, and now he understood where Shane went when he got to this point, and why he would start begging for Ilya’s dick, just flat-out begging for Ilya to fuck him already.

Ilya wasn’t going to do that. But he could bear down. He could fuck himself onto Shane’s fingers. He could. So he did.

“Fuck,” Shane said, breathless.

And then Shane’s fingers were pulling out, Ilya sucking in a breath at the empty feeling they left behind.

And then Ilya felt pressure at his hole, and he met Shane’s eyes.

Shane smiled at him. Strained and fuck-drunk, his eyes glazed. But smiling. “Last chance to call it off.”

Ilya wanted to kiss him. Ilya wanted to throw him down and fuck him. Ilya wanted to never leave this bed.

“Shane,” Ilya said. “Fuck me.”

Shane did it slowly. Just the head at first, letting him adjust. Then slowly, tortuously, inch by inch, waiting each time. Ilya realized after a couple of pauses that he was watching Ilya’s fingers on the sheets, waiting until they released their clench. Probably also listening to his breathing; he could hear the way it stuttered in his chest.

Shane was so big. So hot and unyielding, his dick rearranging Ilya’s insides.

Shane was so gentle. One hand on Ilya’s thigh, helping to pull them together, the other bracing his weight on the bed.

And then Shane was seated, and they were joined, Shane’s hipbones against the insides of Ilya’s thighs.

“Ilya,” Shane said, and waited until Ilya dragged his eyes up to meet them. He knew he must look destroyed, debauched, utterly surrendered. Maybe ten years ago he would have felt humiliated. But Shane’s face was only a mixture of fondness and heat, and Ilya swallowed hard. “I’m inside you.”

Ilya hadn’t thought he had any more words left in him, but he managed, “Fuck.”

It was true. At long last. Fifteen years after he knocked and Shane answered, fifteen years after he kissed the love of his life for the first time, fifteen years after they tumbled into bed together and started learning about each other’s bodies – fifteen years later, and his husband was inside him, and Ilya was safe, Ilya was home, Ilya was loved.

“Shane,” he said, the one word that would never leave him, even when he forgot all others. He raised himself on one elbow and pulled Shane down to him, the kiss desperate and claiming. “Shane.”

Shane kissed him for a minute, then pulled back and rested their foreheads together. “I’m going to fuck you now,” he said, and grinned Ilya’s grin right back in his face.

Ilya fell off his elbow and collapsed into the pillows, and Shane began to move.

It was indescribable. It was overwhelming and consuming and primal. Shane kept adjusting, trying to find the perfect angle, moving himself and Ilya like they were elements of a hockey play he was workshopping, driving himself into Ilya’s body with intent and focus.

Ilya lost himself in the spiral of yes-husband-dick-claimed-mine-yours-forever-us-fuck-Shane-Shane-Shane.

And then Shane found the angle.

Ilya shouted.

Shane’s hand tightened on Ilya’s thigh, and Shane made a sound of victory, and then Shane was pounding into him, hard and fast and perfect, hitting that angle on every stroke, and Ilya was going to die, right here right now right like this. There was going to be a news article about Ilya Rozanov dying in a sex accident, and nobody was going to be surprised.

“Shane,” he said, like a prayer, like it was all that was holy.

“Ilya,” Shane said, and didn’t stop.

Ilya was only a body, only feeling, only sweat and heat and desire. Thrust after thrust, and he was pushing back to meet them, their bodies coming together in a prehistoric dance.

Ilya was so proud of Shane, his hair-trigger boy, fucking him so good. He was probably reciting all the Cup winners in order, to keep himself going.

Oh fuck. Ilya was going to have to come first, wasn’t he. Usually it was Shane, Ilya prided himself on it, but Shane would probably feel bad if he did this time. And Ilya wasn’t going to let Shane feel bad tonight. He was going to give him this, that he took Ilya apart so well that Ilya came first.

Ilya reached his hand down and wrapped it around his dick. He was so hard, and had been hard for so long, and Shane was fucking him so well. It wouldn’t take much.

Shane slapped his hand away.

Ilya yelped. He still didn’t have words, but that wasn’t fair.

Shane leaned half-over him, grabbing his chin to force eye contact. “On my dick or not at all,” he growled, his eyes manic, driving even harder –

And Ilya –

He was coming, his back arching off the bed, his dick spurting onto his stomach, Shane in him, Shane above him, Shane all around him.

And Shane swore in Russian, and Ilya felt him come, heat spreading deep inside him.

After that Ilya whited out.

When Ilya surfaced back to consciousness, Shane was just finishing wiping him down with a wet washcloth.

“We should change the sheets,” Shane said. “These are disgusting.”

“Come here,” Ilya said, muzzily.

Shane snuggled in next to him, Ilya’s arm curling around his shoulders, holding him close.

They lay in silence together for a minute or two. Ilya’s heartbeat was slowly returning to normal.

“When I said you would be amazing at it,” Ilya said, finally, “I didn’t realize you were going to be like that.”

“Good?” Shane said. Ilya could feel the grin against his armpit.

“You fucking know it was good.”

Shane pressed a kiss to his skin. “You said you knew my routine already. Well, I know how I like to be fucked, and how you make it good. I learned from the sex god himself.”

“Was my ass better than women?”

“Fuck off,” Shane said, swatting him hard.

Ilya held him close. He could feel the slow leak of Shane’s cum from his body. He knew Shane found it gross, but it was one of the hottest things Ilya had ever experienced.

“Thank you,” he said, kissing Shane’s hair.

Thank you for understanding me. Thank you for stepping outside your comfort zone to make this happen for me. Thank you for taking care of me. Thank you for fucking me. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for being an unhinged freak who turns out to be a natural at pretty much every fucking sex act. Thank you for being mine.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Shane said, snuggling closer, throwing one leg over him. “That was a lot of work, but it was fucking incredible.”

Ilya tried. He really tried. But – “I told you.”

Shane sighed.

“I’m glad,” Ilya said, softer. “I really wanted it to be good for you too.”

Shane traced something on Ilya’s chest. “Next time,” he said, as Ilya’s heartbeat picked up, “I want you to ride me.”

Ilya forgot words again for a minute. “Oh?”

Shane raised his head, mischief sparkling in his eyes. “Yes,” he said, and kissed him, dirty and perfect.

His Shane was in his arms, Shane’s cum was in his ass, and Ilya was exactly where he wanted to be.

Ilya kissed him back, blissed-out and well-fucked and happy beyond belief.

As always, he had the very best plans.