Chapter Text
The kitchen clock in the Ottawa house hummed with a faint, rhythmic tick that Shane had meant to fix three months ago, but right now, it was the loudest sound in the room.
Hayley Hollander-Rozanov sat on the edge of a breakfast stool, her sneakers dangling three inches above the hardwood, a glossy, heavy-cardstock photo book gripped tightly in her small hands. Her brow was knitted into a fierce, concentrated line that was a direct, genetic copy of Shane’s game-face before a playoff matchup against Toronto.
"They wore different suits," she whispered, her finger tracing the silver foil borders of the wedding album they’d smuggled down from the high shelf in Shane’s room. "But Daddy's tie is blue and Papa doesn't have one. And look at the cake, Leo. It has hockey sticks on it, but small ones."
Leo looked up from the living room rug, where he was currently attempting to loop a piece of red yarn around Anya’s thick, golden collar. Anya gave a heavy, long-suffering sigh, her tail giving two slow thumps against the floorboards before she rested her chin back on her paws. Leo’s face was flushed, his dark curls, a stark contrast to Hayley’s lighter, finer hair, flopping over his forehead as he tugged the knot secure.
"They did it in Ottawa," Leo said, his voice dropping into that serious, slightly raspy register he got when he was trying to sound like the older twin, even though Hayley had him by four minutes. "Papa told me. He said it was in the backyard and there were lots of people in fancy clothes who drank the bubbles that make you cough."
"But we weren't there," Hayley said. Her lower lip didn't just tremble; it set into a firm, stubborn pout that usually meant someone was about to get a timeout, or a second helping of dessert. She turned the page, the heavy paper crinkling under her fingers.
The photograph showed Shane and Ilya standing before a small wall of white roses, Ilya’s large hand cupping the back of Shane’s neck, their mouths pressed together in a way that always made Hayley say "ICKK" but today just made her chest feel tight and empty. "Why didn't they invite us, Leo? We live here. We are in the family."
"Because we weren't borned yet, dummy," Leo explained, abandoning the yarn to crawl over to the stool. He leaned his chin against his sister’s knee, staring up at the picture of their fathers. "You have to be borned to go to a party. Otherwise, you don't have chairs for your butt."
"We could have shared a chair," Hayley insisted. She closed the book with a loud, decisive slap that caused Anya’s ears to twitch. "It’s not fair. Papa always says a team stays together. If they are a team, and we are the rookies, we should have been on the bench."
Leo blinked, the logic penetrating his six-year-old brain with the force of a direct order from the coaching staff. He sat back on his heels, his fingers tapping against his thighs. "We can do it again."
"Do what?"
"The wedding," Leo said, his eyes widening with the sudden, chaotic inspiration he’d inherited straight from Ilya’s DNA. "We have the backyard. We have the grass. And I have the rings from the arcade that came out of the little plastic eggs."
Hayley’s entire posture shifted. The hurt vanished, replaced by the sharp, tactical focus of a coordinator managing a power play. She slid off the stool, her shoes hitting the floor with a solid thud. "We need candles. The ones from the porch that you twist the bottoms and they turn yellow. Daddy doesn't like real fire unless he’s watching the grill."
"And Anya is the linesman," Leo shouted, already scrambling back toward the retriever, who didn't move an inch but gave another low groan. "No, the... the guy who says 'you are married now.' The coach."
"The officiant," Hayley corrected, using the big word she’d heard their Aunt Rachel use during a story last week. "I will be the coach. You have to carry the rings on a pillow. Not a big pillow from the bed, the little one from the chair with the hockey pucks on it."
For the next forty-five minutes, the backyard became a construction zone of meticulous, six-year-old design. Hayley marched across the grass, her boots sinking slightly into the soft Ottawa earth, marking out the perimeter. The afternoon sun was beginning to dip, casting long, amber shadows across the cedar fencing, the air carrying that crisp, early-summer scent of blooming lilacs and fresh mulch.
She placed the plastic, battery-operated pillars in two parallel lines leading toward the old oak tree near the garden bed. One of the candles kept flickering because Leo had dropped it in the sandbox three weeks ago, but she wiped the casing with her sleeve until it shone.
Leo was in charge of logistics.
He emerged from the back door carrying the small, navy-blue throw pillow under one arm, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he carefully balanced two bright green, adjustable plastic rings on the center of the fabric. They were the cheap kind from the grocery store vending machines, the plastic seams slightly rough, but to Leo, they were heavy gold.
"Anya! Come on, line up!" Leo called, his voice echoing off the garage wall.
The dog trotted out, the red yarn still tied around her neck in a loose, clumsy bow. She took her position near the trunk of the oak tree, immediately sitting down and licking a stray blade of grass off her front paw.
"Perfect," Hayley whispered, surveying the yard. The candles were glowing faint yellow in the gathering twilight, a small, crooked runway of plastic light against the green. "Now we just wait for the car."
***
The black SUV pulled into the driveway with a smooth, familiar crunch of gravel. Inside, the air conditioning was still humming, fighting against the sticky heat of a late June afternoon after a grueling three-hour optional skate at the Centaurs' practice facility.
Shane killed the engine, but his hands remained wrapped around the leather of the steering wheel for three seconds longer than necessary. His shoulders were stiff, the muscles in his lower back aching from a sequence of heavy skating drills he’d insisted on finishing even after Troy Barrett had told him to go home and take a bath. His brain was still running the numbers, tracking the defensive rotations from their final scrimmage, calculating the recovery time for his left knee, checking the mental checklist of grocery items they needed for the weekend.
"Shane," a voice murmured from the passenger seat.
It was low, thick with that rough, gravelly Russian cadence that always felt like a physical weight pressing against Shane’s chest, grounding him before the anxiety could spiral into a full-blown roar.
Ilya reached across the center console. His hand was enormous, his knuckles calloused from years of gripping a stick and his palms rough, but the way he slid his fingers between Shane’s was incredibly gentle. He didn't squeeze hard; he just rested his palm against Shane’s, his thumb tracing the small, pale scar near Shane’s wrist.
"You are thinking again," Ilya said, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he leaned over, the scent of his sharp, cedarwood cologne and the faint tang of rink sweat filling Shane’s senses. "I can hear the little wheels in your head going clack-clack-clack. Stop it. We are home. No more hockey until tomorrow."
Shane let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding since the third period of their last game, his forehead dropping against Ilya’s broad shoulder for a brief, heavy second. "Troy's transition speed is off by half a second on the blue line, Ilya. If we don't fix the puck movement during the transition phase-"
"Barrett is old man," Ilya interrupted, his lips brushing against Shane’s temple, warm and blunt. "He needs to sleep. You need to sleep. Come, my high-strung Captain. Let's go see what our monsters have destroyed while we were gone."
Shane managed a small, tired smile, his fingers tightening around Ilya’s before he let go to open the door. The heat hit them the moment they stepped onto the driveway, thick, sweet Ottawa summer air, alive with the sound of distant lawnmowers and the hum of insects.
They walked up the side path together, their gear bags heavy over their shoulders. Shane was already checking his watch, 5:42 PM, which meant dinner needed to be on the table by 6:30 if they were going to keep Hayley’s bedtime routine from sliding past 8:00--.
Ilya suddenly stopped dead on the flagstones leading to the back gate.
"Shane," Ilya whispered, his voice losing its usual arrogant lilt, replaced by something soft and entirely uncovered. "Look."
Shane blinked, shifting his gear bag as he followed Ilya’s gaze through the slatted wood of the gate.
The backyard wasn't a mess of scattered toys or abandoned bicycles. It looked like a miniature, chaotic cathedral.
Two neat rows of flickering plastic candles lined the grass, their fake yellow flames glowing against the deepening purple of the sky. At the end of the runway, beneath the massive branches of the oak tree, stood Leo and Hayley.
Leo was wearing his favorite button-down shirt, the one with the tiny T-Rexes on it, but he had buttoned it completely wrong, the hem sitting crookedly across his jeans. Hayley was standing perfectly straight, holding a blue plastic folder from school against her chest like a shield.
Anya sat between them, her tail wagging once, a slow, rhythmic thump against the grass.
"What..." Shane started, his chest tightening. He was awestruck. "Wait, is this...?"
"Yes, sweetheart," Ilya said softly, his hand settling on the small of Shane’s back, his fingers pressing through the thin cotton of Shane’s polo shirt, warm and steady. "Look at them. They are waiting for us."
Ilya reached out and unlatched the gate. The wooden door swung open with a low creak, and the moment the soles of their sneakers hit the grass, Hayley cleared her throat, a loud, dramatic sound she’d clearly practiced.
"Attention on the deck!" Hayley called out, mixing up her words from Leo’s rescue-hero cartoons. "The grooms are here. Walk down the middle, please. Do not step on the candles because they are hot fire, except they aren't, but pretend."
Shane felt his face go warm, his eyes darting from the crooked line of plastic pillars to his daughter’s fierce, serious expression. His introverted nature immediately made him look toward the surrounding fences, checking to see if the neighbors were watching, his shoulder blades tightening with the old, familiar instinct to hide, to keep the private parts of his life contained within four walls.
But then Ilya’s hand slid lower, his fingers hooking into the front pocket of Shane’s jeans, pulling their hips close enough that Shane could feel the solid, unbothered heat of him.
"We walk," Ilya murmured, his eyes fixed on the twins, a massive, proud smile spreading across his face, his white teeth catching the twilight. "Come on, Hollander. Don't be chicken. I already said yes to you once."
They dropped their heavy hockey bags onto the patio stones, the nylon fabric scraping against the concrete, and stepped into the center of the candlelit path. Shane walked with his hands tight around Ilya's, his shoulders slightly rounded, his heart doing that erratic, unsteady dance it always did when he was confronted with something he hadn't planned for.
Every step felt incredibly deliberate. The grass was cool against the soles of his shoes, the fake candles casting tiny, dancing shadows across the denim of Ilya’s jeans as they moved toward the tree.
When they reached the edge of the root system, Hayley stepped forward, her blue folder held open. Shane glanced down and realized she had drawn a picture of the four of them on the first page, everyone with wildly oversized yellow hair and hockey sticks for arms.
"You are here because you didn't invite us to the first one," Hayley announced, her voice stern as she looked up at her fathers. She reached out and patted Ilya’s knee. "And that was a bad choice. But we forgive you because you are good at making waffles."
Ilya let out a short, barking laugh, his chest rumbled against Shane’s shoulder. "Is fair point. The waffles are delicious."
"Papa, shh," Leo hissed from the side. He was holding the navy pillow with both hands, his fingers white from how hard he was squeezing the fabric to keep the plastic arcade rings from sliding off. "The coach is talking."
"Sorry, Leo," Ilya murmured, his voice dropping into that private, affectionate register he used when he was completely undone by his kids. He reached over and subtly adjusted the collar of Leo’s crooked shirt, his large thumb brushing against the boy’s cheek.
Hayley cleared her throat again, her eyes scanning her blue folder. "Dearly... beloveds. We are gathered here to make Daddy and Papa married again, so we can see it. Daddy, do you promise to love Papa even when he leaves his smelly hockey socks on the floor?"
Shane looked at Ilya. In the dim light of the yard, with the neon hum of the city faint in the distance, Ilya’s face looked softer than it ever did. The cocky, predatory look that terrified defensemen across the league was completely gone, replaced by a deep, glassy devotion that made Shane’s breath hitch in his throat.
"I do," Shane said, his voice thick, the words coming out small and earnest. "I promise."
"And Papa," Hayley continued, turning her sharp gaze to Ilya. "Do you promise to love Daddy even when he makes us clean our rooms three times and doesn't let us have cookies and ice cream before dinner?"
"I promise," Ilya said instantly, his accent thick and heavy in the quiet yard. He didn't look at Hayley; his eyes were locked onto Shane’s, blue and intense and completely unblinking. "I promise to love him when he is bossy, when he is quiet, and when he is making the little lists in his notebook. Every day."
Shane shifted his weight, his fingers twitching inside his pockets. The sheer volume of love in the yard felt overwhelming, a heavy, sweet pressure that made his throat ache. He spent so much of his life trying to control the world around him, structuring his days, counting his calories, analyzing his shifts, because the alternative felt like falling through space. But looking at Ilya, with their children standing between them in the grass, Shane realized he didn't mind falling, as long as Ilya’s arms were there to catch him.
"The rings," Hayley commanded.
Leo marched forward, his steps slow and ceremonial, his tongue sticking out again. He stopped right between them and hoisted the pillow toward Shane.
"Take the green one, Daddy," Leo whispered loudly. "It fits better."
Shane reached down, his fingers brushing against Leo’s small, warm hand as he lifted the cheap green plastic ring from the fabric. The plastic was light and slightly flexible, a ridiculous contrast to the platinum band already sitting on his left hand, but as he took Ilya’s massive hand in his, his fingers were trembling.
He slid the plastic ring over Ilya’s pinky finger, because it wouldn't fit past the first knuckle of his ring finger.
"There," Shane whispered.
Ilya smiled, his thumb rubbing against the back of Shane’s hand before he reached down and picked up the second ring. His large, scarred fingers looked clumsy against the tiny piece of plastic, but he handled it with a strange, reverent care as he slid it onto Shane’s finger, pushing it all the way to the base until it sat right against his real wedding band.
"Now you are married," Hayley declared, closing her folder with a definitive nod. "You may kiss Daddy!"
"Oh, thank you for permission," Ilya muttered.
Before Shane could even react, Ilya’s arms were around him. It wasn't the polite, structured hug they gave each other in front of the cameras after a regular-season win. Ilya gathered Shane up against his chest with a sudden, violent hunger, his face burying into the crook of Shane’s neck, his broad shoulders shielding Shane from the rest of the world.
Shane let out a low, ragged sound, his arms wrapping around Ilya’s waist, his fingers digging into the fabric of Ilya’s shirt as he inhaled the familiar, grounding scent of him.
"Moya lyubov," Ilya whispered against his skin, his breath hot and ragged. "My Shane. Look what we made."
Shane looked over Ilya’s shoulder. Leo and Hayley were currently cheering, Leo jumping up and down on the grass while Hayley tried to get Anya to stand on her hind legs to celebrate. The plastic candles flickered on, their cheap, yellow light illuminating the small, perfect kingdom they’d built from nothing.
It was perfect..
***
By 9:30 PM, the house was finally silent.
The twins had been scrubbed clean of the backyard dirt, their crooked clothes replaced by matching flannel pajamas, and Shane had spent twenty minutes checking their covers, ensuring Hayley’s stuffed bear was positioned exactly at the head of her bed and Leo’s water bottle was within arm's reach.
Now, the bedroom door was shut, locking out the rest of the world.
The master bedroom was dark, lit only by the silver wash of the moon coming through the large bay windows that overlooked the quiet street. The air was cool, the AC hummed creating a rhythmic whistle that Shane usually hated but tonight barely noticed.
Ilya was already standing by the edge of the bed, his clothes discarded on the floor, his massive back a map of muscle and old hockey scars in the moonlight. He was removing the towel from around his hips, his breathing sounding exceptionally loud in the quiet room.
Shane stood near the dresser, his fingers tracing the edge of the green plastic arcade ring he’d set down next to his watch. His chest still felt tight, but it wasn't the anxious tightness from the rink, it was a heavy, sweet ache that had been building since he stood under the oak tree.
"Shane," Ilya said. He didn't move toward him yet. He just stood there, his large body dark against the window, his eyes catching the silver light. "Come here."
Shane didn't hesitate. He walked across the hardwood floor, his bare feet silent against the wood, until he was standing close enough to feel the heat radiating off Ilya’s skin.
He reached out, his hands flattening against Ilya’s chest. The contrast was immediate, Shane’s fingers were cool from the bathroom tile, while Ilya’s skin was a furnace, his heart thudding a steady, heavy rhythm against Shane’s palms. Shane closed his eyes, leaning forward until his forehead rested against Ilya’s sternum, his lungs filling with the pure, unadulterated scent of his husband.
"My brain won't shut up," Shane whispered, the confession tearing out of him, raw and small. "I keep thinking about how fast they’re growing. I keep thinking about how... how we almost didn't have this. If we stayed in the closet. If we never told anyone."
Ilya’s hands came up, large and heavy, wrapping around Shane’s jaw. He tilted Shane’s head back, forcing him to look up into his face. Ilya’s expression wasn't playful now, it was fierce, almost feral in its intensity, his grip firm enough to ground Shane completely, to stop the spin of his mind.
"But we did," Ilya growled, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that shook Shane to his core. "We are here, Hollander. Look at me. You are in our room. Our kids are asleep down the hall. I am your husband. You are mine. Stop looking back."
Shane’s lips parted, a small gasp escaping him as Ilya stepped closer, crowding him until Shane’s calves hit the edge of the mattress. Ilya’s weight was immense, solid and unyielding, and Shane let out a shaky breath as he collapsed backward onto the sheets, pulling Ilya down on top of him.
The physical contact was an instant eraser. The moment Ilya’s heavy chest pressed down against his, pinning him into the mattress, the chatter in Shane’s head simply stopped. There was no transition speed to calculate, no routine to maintain, there was only the crushing, beautiful weight of Ilya Rozanov.
Ilya didn't waste time. His mouth crashed against Shane’s, a messy, greedy kiss that tasted of the water they’d shared downstairs and the deep, lingering hunger of years of marriage. His tongue pushed past Shane’s lips, hot and demanding, and Shane whined into his mouth, his arms locking around Ilya’s neck, pulling him down until there was absolutely no space left between them.
"Shane," Ilya groaned against his lips, his hand sliding down Shane’s side, his rough palm bunching the towel, ripping it off Shane in one tug. "God, you are so beautiful in this light. My Captain. My Shane."
Ilya shifted, his knee forcing Shane’s legs apart, settling his heavy thigh between Shane’s hips. Shane arched his back instinctively, his skin shivering as the cool air of the fan hit his bare thighs, but then Ilya was there, his hands mapping the curve of Shane’s ribs, his thumb pressing hard into the dip of his hip bone.
"Look at me," Ilya commanded, his voice dropping into a thick, breathless Russian register as he reached between their bodies. "Open your eyes, Shane. I want to see you."
Shane opened his eyes, his vision slightly blurred, his breath coming in short, jagged gasps. Ilya was staring down at him, his pupils completely blown, his jaw tight with the effort of holding back. In the moonlight, the silver band on Ilya’s finger glinted, a solid line of metal against Shane’s skin.
The bedroom was quiet, the harsh glare of the arena lights replaced by the soft, amber glow of the bedside lamp. There was no rush here. On the ice, every second was calculated, a frantic scramble of momentum and force. But behind closed doors, Ilya moved with a heavy, unhurried deliberation that always managed to strip Shane of his rigid composure layer by layer.
Ilya shifted, his large frame looming over Shane as he fully settled between his knees. His gaze was intense, completely fixed on Shane’s face as he reached for the tube of strawberyy lube on the nightstand.
He didn't immediately reach down. Instead, Ilya warmed the slick gel between his palms, his eyes never leaving Shane's. When his hands finally made contact, it wasn't to rush ahead, he leaned down, his mouth finding the sensitive junction where Shane's neck met his shoulder, pressing a soft, lingering kiss there while his slick hand wrapped around Shane's length. He stroked him with a long, slow, grounding pressure, letting Shane get used to the friction, acclimating him to the heat of his touch.
Shane let out a low breath, his fingers instantly tangling in the sheets. "Ilya..."
Instead of answering, Ilya slid down the mattress, his heavy thighs framing Shane’s hips. He didn't just dive into oral, he started with soft, teasing presses of his lips against the inside of Shane’s thighs, making Shane’s breath hitch at the contrast of Ilya’s stubble against his skin.
When Ilya finally leaned over him, taking the head of Shane's cock into his mouth, it was with an agonizingly slow, swirling motion of his tongue.
Shane arched slightly, a quiet gasp escaping his lips. Ilya took his time, sliding his mouth down, drawing Shane in deeper with a steady, rhythmic suction that had Shane’s hands immediately grasped onto Ilya's thick hair.
Ilya’s hand anchored on Shane’s hip, holding him steady as he used his tongue and the warm, wet slide of his mouth to completely undo Shane's defenses. He moved with a lazy, deliberate pace, swallowing Shane's soft, breathless groans, letting the tension build in Shane's lower stomach until Shane was trembling, his hips twitching up instinctively, begging for a faster rhythm.
But Ilya knew exactly when to pivot. He pulled back slowly, leaving Shane slick and aching, gasping for air against the pillows.
"Not yet," Ilya whispered, a faint, knowing smirk touching his lips as he shifted back up.
Ilya poured more lube into his palm, the cool gel quickly warming against his skin. He brought his hand down, his thumb first smoothing over Shane’s entrance, easing the tight muscle into relaxing under the heavy, warm pressure. Only when Shane let out a long, shuddering sigh did Ilya press his index finger inside.
The stretch was immediate, and Ilya let Shane adjust to the fullness, his other hand smoothing over Shane's flat stomach, pressing down gently to help him breathe through the sensation.
"Breathe, Shane. Just breathe for me."
Once Shane’s tracking slowed and his body softened, Ilya began to move his finger in a slow, hooking motion, mapping out the internal contours, finding the exact spots that made Shane’s toes curl into the mattress. He didn't rush. He added a second finger, then a third, the blunt pressure stretching Shane wider, a sharp, needy ache blooming deep in Shane's belly.
Ilya worked the slickness into him with a patient, circular rhythm, sliding his fingers in and out in a simulation of what was to come, listening closely to the cadence of Shane's breathing to gauge his readiness.
"Ilya, please," Shane finally gasped, his head rolling back against the pillow, his usual control completely disintegrating under a touch that was almost painfully thorough. "Now. Please."
"Shh, moy nuzhdayushchiysya mal'chik," Ilya whispered, his teeth grazing the line of Shane’s throat, making Shane shudder violently. "I have you. Always."
Only when Ilya was entirely certain Shane was completely soft, opened up, and slick enough to take him did he withdraw his fingers. The sudden emptiness made Shane whine, a wordless protest that was quickly cut short as the heavy, blunt head of Ilya’s length pressed firmly against his entrance.
Ilya paused, locking his large hands onto Shane’s hips, holding him steady. He looked down, ensuring Shane was looking right back at him, completely present in the quiet intimacy of the room, before he sank in, one long, agonizingly slow push that filled Shane completely, stretching him until he felt like he was entirely made of friction, warmth, and love.
Ilya remained completely still for a long, heavy moment, buried deep within Shane’s body. He didn't move his hips, he simply let his full weight rest against Shane. Shane’s chest heaved, his breaths coming in shallow, ragged gasps as his internal walls stretched to their absolute limit around Ilya's shaft.
"Stay still," Ilya murmured, his voice a low, rough rumble against the side of Shane’s neck. He didn't want Shane to tense up. He pressed a warm, slow kiss to the pulse point pulsing wildly under Shane's skin, his large hand sliding down to cover Shane's wet stomach, applying a steady, grounding pressure. "Just let it settle, Shane. Let me in."
Shane let out a long, trembling sigh, his body slowly accepting. The initial sharp sting of the stretch began to dissolve, replaced by a deep, throbbing fullness that filled his pelvis completely. He could feel the exact shape of Ilya inside him, the hot, rigid length of his cock pressed tightly against his prostate.
When Shane finally relaxed his hips into the mattress, his internal muscles closed snugly around the base of Ilya's shaft, sealing them together with a soft, wet squelch of excess lubricant.
Only when Ilya felt that softening did he begin to move.
He didn't thrust wildly. Instead, he pulled back with an agonizing slowness, sliding his shaft nearly all the way out.
Shane gasped aloud at the sudden loss of friction, his hips involuntarily hitching upward to chase the warmth. Ilya caught the movement, his iron grip tightening on Shane’s hip bones to anchor him down before he pushed back in.
This thrust was deliberate and deep, a slow, heavy slide that dragged the slick skin of Ilya’s cock against Shane’s sensitive internal walls. The friction generated a thick, wet heat between them, the sound of their lubricated skin sliding together filling the quiet bedroom. Shane’s eyes closed tightly, a low, guttural groan tearing from his throat as Ilya’s head rubbed directly over his prostate again.
"I love our kids," Ilya said softly, his breathing beginning to quicken, the air hitching in his chest. He pulled out slowly once more, then slid back in, finding a steady, rhythmic pace that focused entirely on depth and contact rather than speed.
Shane forced his eyes open, his vision slightly blurred with tears of overstimulation. He looked up into Ilya’s face, seeing the fierce, intense concentration in the set of Ilya's jaw, the flush of heat creeping up his thick neck. Every time Ilya pushed forward, the base of his pelvis clapped firmly against Shane’s ass, a heavy, fleshy sound that punctuated the rhythm. "Our kids.."
With every slow, deliberate stroke, the friction built. The mixture of pre-cum, saliva, and lube became a warm fluid that coated Shane's insides, making each thrust smoother, wetter, and louder. Shane’s fingers dragged through Ilya’s sweat-damp hair, pulling him down, needing the physical weight of Ilya’s chest pressing flat against his own to ground him through the rising tide of pleasure.
"Ilya... it's too much," Shane whimpered, his head thrashing against the pillow as Ilya hit the same sensitive spot three times in a row, each stroke sending a white-hot jolt of pleasure straight to his groin. His own cock, slick with pre-cum, was twitching against his lower abdomen with every thrust, completely hard and leaking fluid without even being touched.
"You can take it, Shane," Ilya grunted, his pace quickening just a fraction as his own control began to fray. The slow, intense friction was wearing him down, the tight, wet heat of Shane’s body squeezing his shaft with every single slide. "Take all of it."
Ilya began to angle his hips differently, grinding his pelvis down hard against Shane’s with each deep push. The friction shifted, rubbing intensely against the front wall of Shane's rectum. Shane’s breathing turned into a series of broken, high-pitched cries, his back arching off the bed as his prostate was repeatedly, heavily massaged by the solid drive of Ilya's cock. The intense internal pressure was rolling over his nervous system, building a heavy, throbbing ache in his balls that signaled the absolute edge of a climax.
Ilya felt the sudden, tight spasms of Shane’s internal muscles clamping down hard around his cock, the undeniable sign that Shane was about to cum.
Without breaking the rhythm of his hips, Ilya reached down between them. His large, heavy hand wrapped securely around the base of Shane's cock, his thumb smearing the accumulated pre-cum over the sensitive head. He began to stroke Shane in perfect sync with his thrusts, one hard, sliding squeeze upward as his hips drove deep into Shane's body.
The dual stimulation was overwhelming. Every time Ilya’s hand slid up Shane's shaft, his cock drove deep internally, trapping Shane in a vice of intense physical friction. Shane’s voice broke completely, a loud, shattered sob escaping his lips as his toes curled tight into the sheets.
"Ilya—now, please, I'm coming—"
Ilya didn't stop. He gave three more heavy, bruising thrusts, his hand moving with a merciless, tight friction against Shane’s length. On the third stroke, Shane’s body went completely rigid. His hips locked upward as thick, white streams of cum erupted from his cock, spurting across his own stomach and up toward his chest. His hole clenched Ilya’s cock in a sequence of violent, uncontrollable contractions, milking the length of him.
Hearing Shane’s shattered cry and feeling the intense, crushing pulse of Shane's body around him completely broke Ilya's restraint. He drove his hips forward one last time, burying himself to the absolute hilt, his balls pressing hard against Shane’s ass.
He stiffened, his lower back arching as a deep, guttural growl ripped from his chest. With a violent throb, Ilya came inside him, pulsing thick, hot spurts of cum deep into Shane, filling him up as his grip on Shane's hips turned tightened.
They stayed locked together as the orgasms tore through them, the only sound in the room the heavy, desperate gasps for air and the wet, sliding friction of their bodies slowing to an absolute stop.
The room was quiet again, save for the frantic, fading sound of their breathing.
The AC continued to hum, its steady whistle a familiar comfort now. Ilya flopped on his side after cleaning him and Shane, his large arm wrapped around Shane’s waist, pulling Shane’s back flush against his chest. He was tracing slow, lazy circles on Shane’s stomach with his thumb, his chin resting on the top of Shane’s damp head.
Shane lay perfectly still, his muscles feeling like warm jelly, the anxious thoughts that usually crowded his brain completely washed away by the exhaustion and the pure, physical peace of the moment.
He looked down at his hand, where the cheap green plastic ring still sat, slightly warped from the heat of his skin.
"We have to put the candles back on the porch tomorrow," Shane murmured, his voice sleepy and thick. "The batteries will die if they stay on all night."
Ilya let out a low, amused huff against Shane’s hair. "Tomorrow, captain. Tomorrow we worry about batteries. Tonight, we are newly married men."
Shane smiled in the dark, his hand sliding down to cover Ilya’s, their fingers locking together, the plastic ring clicking softly against Ilya’s wedding band.
"Yeah," Shane whispered, closing his eyes as the weight of Ilya’s arm pulled him deeper into the mattress. "Newly married."
The silver moonlight shifted across the bed, casting long, familiar shadows over the sheets as Shane’s breathing finally stabilized. Ilya’s nose nudged against the sensitive skin right behind Shane’s ear, inhaling deeply, his broad chest rising and falling against Shane’s shoulder blades.
The heavy, weight of Ilya's arm around Shane's waist was a permanent anchor, his thumb still tracing lazy, rhythmic ovals over Shane’s hip bone.
Shane stared down at his own hand, watching the way the silver moonlight caught the ridge of the ridiculous green plastic arcade ring. The edges were slightly rough against his skin, but he hadn't taken it off.
"Hayley was so serious," Shane murmured into the quiet room, his voice a low, raspy velvet. "Did you see her face when she was checking that folder? She looked exactly like she does when she’s trying to figure out if she can convince us that brushing her teeth is optional."
Ilya chuckled, a deep, gravelly vibration that rattled directly into Shane’s spine. He shifted closer, pulling Shane back until there wasn't a millimeter of space between them, his thighs caging Shane’s from behind.
"She has your face, Hollander," Ilya said, his Russian accent thick and sleepy against Shane’s neck. "The little line right between the eyebrows. When you look at video from the first period and you see someone make stupid turnover. She looks exactly like that at the T-Rex shirt on Leo."
"Leo buttoned it completely wrong," Shane said, a small, helpless smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He rolled over inside Ilya’s embrace, his joints loose and warm, until he was facing his husband.
He reached up, his fingers automatically finding the short, damp hairs at the back of Ilya’s neck. "He had the third button in the fifth hole. He looked like a tiny, chaotic breeze had just blown through his closet."
"Because he is our boy," Ilya said proudly, his blue eyes flashing with that bright, unbothered warmth in the dim light. He leaned down, pressing a heavy, lingering kiss to Shane’s nose. "He is like his papa, he does not care about buttons. He cares about the rings. He told me in kitchen today that he was keeping them in his special sock drawer so Anya would not eat them. He takes care of business, Shane. Like his papa."
Shane let out a soft huff of a laugh, his chest expanding with a warmth that felt completely detached from his usual tightly wound anxiety. Usually, his brain would be running a script for the next day, 6:30 AM wake-up, oats with precisely measured berries, checking the twins' backpacks for school forms, verifying the ice times. But right now, looking at the soft curve of Ilya’s mouth, the mental lists just felt... small.
"They were really upset they weren't at the first one," Shane whispered, his thumb tracing the sharp line of Ilya’s jawline. "When Hayley said we should have been on the bench... it made my chest ache a little. I think sometimes I get so focused on making sure everything is perfect for them, making sure the routines don't break, making sure they feel safe, that I forget how much they just want to be IN it with us."
Ilya’s expression softened, the playful smirk vanishing, replaced by that fierce, unwavering devotion that always made Shane feel completely seen. Ilya reached down, his large, scarred hand wrapping around Shane's, squeezing until their wedding bands pressed together.
"They are in it, Shane," Ilya said softly, his voice dropping into a rough, earnest register. "Look at this house. Look at the lawn full of plastic garbage that we are going to trip over tomorrow morning. They know who we are. They know Daddy and Papa love each other so much it makes a giant mess in the yard. They don't need first wedding. They have this one."
Shane leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Ilya’s chin, breathing in the scent of his skin, warm, familiar, and grounded. "Leo told me he wants to play center. He told me he’s going to be better than both of us because he can skate backwards faster than Hayley."
"He lies," Ilya rumbled, his chest shaking with amusement. "Hayley skates like a little rocket. She has the... how you say? The stride. Very clean. Like you. Leo skates like he is fighting the ice, but he wins the fight because he is stubborn."
"He gets that from you, too," Shane muttered affectionately, shifting his leg to hook over Ilya’s thigh, seeking that solid friction that kept his mind quiet.
"Is good mix," Ilya murmured, his lips traveling down to Shane’s jaw, biting softly at the skin until Shane let out a tiny, contented sigh. "One high-strung perfectionist center, one beautiful, genius Russian center. The twins have no chance, Hollander. They are going to be hockey royalty. Harris is already asking me if he can sign them for junior media day."
"If Harris touches them before they're twelve, I’m going to use his good camera for puck reflection drills," Shane threatened weakly, though the image of Harris trying to organize a six-year-old Leo for a professional headshot made his chest bubble with amusement.
"He is terrified of you anyway," Ilya whispered against Shane’s lips, his large hand sliding down to cup the back of Shane's thigh, lifting it slightly to bring their hips into a familiar, heavy alignment. "Everyone is terrified of the Captain. Except me. I know you are just a soft man who lets his kids marry him off in the grass."
"Shut up, Rozanov," Shane breathed, but he didn't pull back. He met Ilya’s mouth in a slow, deep, comfortable kiss, one that didn't have the frantic edge of the roof or the desperate hunger of an hour ago, but tasted completely of their life together. A life that was loud, slightly disorganized, entirely out in the open, and completely theirs.
In the quiet hallway outside their door, they heard the faint, heavy thump-thump of Anya’s tail against the floorboards as she shifted positions, keeping guard over the house, while downstairs, the plastic candles continued to glow yellow against the dark Ottawa grass..