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Shane isn’t in the living room when Ilya gets back from his lunch with Cliff.
He greets Anya first, crouching down (ignoring the ominous pop of his knees) to ruffle her well-maintained coat, flattening her floppy ears and running his hands up and down her wiggly body.
“Did you miss me, Moy shchenok?” He coos at her.
Only then does he look up from the entryway, finding the couch empty and the T.V. off. He had been hoping to find Shane curled up in the corner of the sofa, glasses on, reading one of his terrible books. Ilya would then have wiggled his way into his husband’s arms, squeezed between his chest and the pages of his novel. Shane would pretend to be annoyed, nose scrunching, causing his glasses to shift on his face before he would be distracted enough with New Boston Gossip that his book would be abandoned in favor of listening to Ilya’s theories about his former teammates.
Ilya continues his search in the kitchen, because the sight of Shane puttering around as he makes lunch, t-shirt stretched tight across his back and arms moving appealingly as he opens and closes cabinets was just as nice as the glasses-blanket-gossip fantasy.
Only the kitchen is just as empty as the livingroom, their dishes from breakfast lined up on the drying rack, now long dry.
Ilya frowns before heading upstairs to check the bedroom. Shane indulging in a mid-afternoon nap without Ilya there would be rare and mildly concerning, such a break in his routine would raise questions. However, this would lend Ilya the opportunity to wake his husband with a hand under his shirt or his mouth on his cock. Shane would twitch and sigh in his sleep, slowly coming to consciousness until his eyes would crack open, sleep-addled and wanton, the pleasure almost too much for his half-awake state. Ilya takes the stairs two at a time.
But the bedroom is just as empty as the two previous rooms.
Now frustrated and missing his husband, Ilya stomps back down the stairs, Anya trotting behind happily.
He’s about to give up and just text Shane when the sound of soft music makes him pause.
Ah. The gym.
Reinvigorated, he sprints down the stairs towards their basement gym, the soft music getting louder as he approaches.
Even better than the couch, kitchen, or bedroom fantasies combined; Shane’s tried and true relaxation yoga-meditation routine. Usually performed in a compression shirt that stretched across his pecs and a pair of workout shorts that fell around mid-thigh, tied together with the signature white crew socks because Shane refused to workout barefoot even though the only people who used their gym was himself and Ilya.
The workout room’s lights are dimmed, and Shane’s yoga playlist quietly echoes throughout the room. His mat is rolled out in the center of the room, accompanied by his water bottle and sweat rag, but Shane himself is nowhere to be found.
Ilya is about to file a missing persons report when the Sauna in the corner of the room catches his eye. Through the small glass window in the wooden slats, Ilya can make out his husband's flushed, serene face.
Of course. The sauna. Ilya grins and approaches.
Steam and lavender and sweat slap Ilya in the face when he flings the door open.
Shane, lounging across the bench, legs spread and tiny shorts stretched across his groin, skin flushed pink from his scalp to his toes. His cheeks are a lovely ruddy color underneath his freckles, damp above his upper lip and along his brow. Ilya watches, entranced, as a bead of sweat travels from his husband’s hairline, dancing across his cheek and pausing at the sharp hinge of his jaw before gravity takes over and the bead of moisture falls down his neck to his chest, flushed pink as the rest of his body, rising and falling in a slow rhythm, pecs plump with his pre-season bulk.
Shane cracks an eye open at the sudden rush of cold air and smiles, lazy and content.
“Hey,” he greets, slowly rising from his sprawl. “Sorry, I must have lost track of time.” There’s a sweaty ass print left behind on the bench.
Ilya watches, helpless, as Shane steps out of the wooden cubicle and shuts the little door behind him, goosebumps dancing across his skin from the change in atmosphere.
Ilya had regarded the recent installation of the Sauna with little interest. Shane was extremely excited about it, which of course endeared Ilya.
They tried it together last week, cramming their large bodies into the small space. Ilya lasted probably five minutes before he got bored and started pestering his husband, who had receded into a meditative state, hot air cooling his nerves and smoothing out the harsh line of his shoulders.
Ilya was promptly kicked out of the sauna when he tried groping Shane, never to return because he simply didn’t see the appeal of sitting silently in a hot ass room when the two of them could be doing much more exciting things.
Until now.
Shane rolls his shoulders, bringing his arms up into a long, drawn out stretch that brings his gaze to the taught pull of his husband’s sweaty abs.
“Sorry, I wanted to have showered before you got home,” Shane grimaces at the tacky layer of sweat that seems to coat his whole body. “How was lunch with Cliff?”
Ilya shrugs. “Was boring. Boston is nothing without me.” Somehow finding words in the buzzy remnants of his brain. “You are so pink.”
Shane chuckles, glancing down at himself. “I must have fallen asleep.” He reaches down to adjust his shorts which are clinging to his skin in such a manner you would have thought he had taken a dip in the lake. God. “I need to drink something.”
Ilya follows like a dog to his owner as Shane climbs up the stairs, his sweat-soaked shorty shorts leaving little to the imagination.
“Where did you guys end up eating?
“Sushi place you said to try in Kanata. Was okay.”
Shane grabs a sugar free red gatorade from the fridge. The most boring fucking flavor. Ilya loves him so much.
Shane cracks the drink open, head tipping back as he swallows nearly half of it down in a single gulp, throat moving with the action. A bead of red liquid slips out, sliding along the long column of Shane’s throat and settling in the hollow of his clavicle. Ilya’s mouth goes dry.
“Really? My parents said it was great when they went.”
The waiter could have served Cliff a dead rat on a plate and it would not be relevant at this moment.
Breaking out of whatever trance the red Gatorade had put him in, Ilya sidles up behind Shane, Face burying in his sweaty hair and hands coming to rest at the small of his waist. His skin is slick and hot to the touch. Ilya breathes in deeply through his nose, savoring the smell of Shane's sweat and rosemary conditioner.
Shane cringes and pulls away. “Jesus, Ilya. I’m so gross right now.”
Ilya catches him by the waistband of his shorts before he gets too far, though, flipping them around so he can look at his husband’s pretty pink face.
He looks his fill- the flush high on his cheeks highlighting the constellation of freckles, wet, open mouth, brows furrowed in annoyance, lips stained red from the Gatorade, before he surges forward, taking advantage of the other man’s open mouth to lick into it.
Shane makes a high, pleasing sound in surprise before reciprocating, their tongues colliding wetly. Ilya’s hands travel from his waist up to his chest, the layer of sweat making the journey that much smoother. Ilya sucks at Shane’s salty upper lip.
He squeezes at the plump muscle there, obsessed with the way Shane fills out in the summer. During the season he becomes lean, pure muscle, which is obviously appealing to Ilya. But the softer edges and all around bigness he carries in the warmer months is particularly titillating. Less concerned about diet and strict workout regimens, Shane’s body settles into something more relaxed, and Ilya cares about seeing his husband relaxed and happy more than he could ever care about his hockey performance. Hockey had, somewhere along the way, become second to Shane, and it didn’t scare Ilya in the slightest.
Shane pulls back, their mouths separating with a wet pop, spit trailing between them.
“Seriously, I need a shower like, ten minutes ago.”
Ilya hums discontentedly. “No.”
“No?” Shane scoffs.
“I want to keep you like this.” One of the hands cupping his pec tails up to wrap around Shane’s neck, his pulse going crazy against Ilya’s thumb. “All pink and wet for me. We can shower after.”
Shane is fighting back a smile now, trying to not show how amenable he is to this change of plans. “After what, Rozanov?” he practically purrs, hand stroking up and down Ilya’s forearm.
“Ah. Do not be coy, Hollander.”
Ilya pulls back, grabbing Shane’s hand and walking backwards to lead him into the livingroom, the tiny shorts riding up in the middle as Shane follows, because of his ridiculously large thighs.
The light changes in the living room, golden rays catching on Shane’s white teeth as he smiles.
Ilya plants a hand in the middle of his chest, pushing his husband down onto the couch, the other man bouncing once, twice, as he lands on the down cushions.
Ilya efficiently removes his shirt, tossing it aside so he and Shane are similarly shirtless, before pouncing on the other man, pinning him down with two big hands on his biceps.
Shane laughs and Ilya’s heart sings.
“You did this on purpose, yes?”
Ilya trails his mouth along Shane’s sweaty neck, relishing in the salty taste.
Shane hums contentedly. “What?” He murmurs.
“Made sure you were all sweaty and shirtless in your little shorts when I got home,” His mouth moves from his neck to his chest, tonguing the tantalizingly wet crease where the swell of Shane’s tit ends and his ribs begin. “you are so cruel to me, Shanya”
Shane moans unabashedly and arches up into Ilya’s mouth, making Ilya hide his chuckle in the other man’s skin.
“Oh shut the fuck up.” Shane grumbles, which only makes Ilya laugh more. Shane kicks his heel into Ilya’s calf in retaliation, making him yelp.
Ilya growls, grabbing a fistful of Shane’s hair and pulling, hard. The other man half moans- half scoffs, mouth falling open.
They wrestle for a couple minutes, Ilya relishing in the way his husband's damp skin slides against his own. Shane hooks two fingers in Ilya’s mouth, jerking him around. Ilya dodges another swipe at the side of his face, finding purchase in the waistband of Shane’s shorts, pulling them down slightly in the tussle.
Ilya drinks in the sight of his lover’s flushed, laughing face. He glances down briefly, then pauses, brain completely buffering.
Shane’s shorts have ridden down appealingly, showing the vee cut of his abdomen and the plush side of his butcheek.
But instead of the usual view of Shane’s lovely boring grey boxer briefs, a thick black strap cuts across the expanse of his lower abdomen. Ilya’s hand instinctually comes down to toy with the fabric, barely noticing when the fingers that previously had a vice grip on his molars fall away.
“Shane.”
Shane makes a small humiliated sound high in the back of his throat.
Ilya dares to pull the shorts further down, finding a second black strap that branches off from the first, no doubt continuing around to cup the underside of Shane’s ass and taint, confirming his original suspicion. Ilya has never been so envious of a piece of fabric.
“Shane.” He says again, this time glancing back up to look at his husband, only to find the hand that had previously resided in Ilya’s mouth is now covering Ilya’s favorite precious face that has the best expressions. “Why are you wearing a jock strap.”
Shane grumbles. “It’s for the sauna, okay? I hate the feeling of sweaty underwear sticking to my ass.”
Ilya pries Shane’s hand from his face, revealing flushed cheeks and wet eyes, his fat bottom lip caught between his teeth.
“Shane.” He says a third time. Maybe he’s lost all ability of speech. “You don’t like the feeling of sweaty underwear. So instead of getting in naked. Like normal person. You wear slutty jock under slutty little shorts?”
Shane frowns. “It feels weird just sitting there naked.”
“Towel.”
His nose scrunches adorably. “Sitting in a sweaty towel is ten times worse than sweaty underwear.” Sometimes his husband's brain still amazes him. “The shorts are moisture wicking.” God.
“You have workshopped this?”
Shane flushes impossibly further. “I really like the sauna.”
“Wow.” Is all Ilya can muster. The fingers toying with the strap slide under the fabric. He watches Shane’s face as he pulls the elastic strap back as far as it will go, lingering there before letting go, the fabric meeting skin in a sharp slap. Shane’s mouth falls open, a broken gasp tumbling out. Ilya has never been so turned on in his life.
He leans over to fumble in the coffee table drawer, hand wrapping around the familiar lube bottle they keep here for emergencies.
Sitting back and tucking the bottle in the cushions for later, he takes in the full image spread out before him. Shane’s face is flushed beautifully, and though most of the sweat has dried by now, moisture sticks persistently in places like the hollow of his throat and the underside of his pecs. Eyes trailing down further, it only gets better because the shorts are pulled down on one side, revealing the black strap sitting high on Shane’s hipbone. Ilya quickly reaches down to make both sides even, pulling the shorts down on the other side and wrapping two fingers around the strap, pulling it up to match the other one. Shane’s legs are spread to fit Ilya’s big body between them, shorts pulled taught and displaying the hard print underneath.
Ilya palms his husband’s cock, cooing. “So hard for me. I should take a picture.”
Then he remembers he can do that now. They even have a password-secure folder in their shared icloud.
With the hand not feeling Shane up through his pants, Ilya reaches in his back pocket for his phone.
“Ilya-” Shane begins to protest.
“Shh. Is just for me, malysh” Ilya says, placating the man under him.
Shane looks at him a moment, phone positioned above him, ready to snap the photo, and nods. Ilya internally fist pumps.
He snaps one picture, Shane looking put-out, browns furrowed. Then Ilya squeezes his length through his shorts, making Shane’s face go slack and mouth fall open in a moan. He takes the second photo.
Ilya grins and tosses his phone to the floor, relishing in his husband’s grumpy-horny face.
“That feels like cheating.” He complains.
Ilya simply shrugs, smug as anything, but leans down to press an appeasing kiss to his man’s pouty mouth.
Then he sits back and pulls the shorts down. Not completely, only halfway down his legs, so they cut into the meat of his thighs, fabric stretched taught between his spread legs.
The soft triangle of black material barely covers Shane’s hard cock, straining to break free of its confinement.
Ilya tuts at it, hand stroking Shane’s thigh soothingly. “Poor guy.” The hand on his thigh slides up and under the strap. “Want me to take this off, baby?”
Shane, biting his lip, nods.
“Hmm. Too bad, I have perfect access to your pretty ass like this.” As if demonstrating, Ilya strokes two fingers up and down the crack of Shane’s ass, brushing his hole with each pass.
“What do you want, Shanya?”
He grabs the couch lube and coats two fingers before returning them to Shane’s ass.
Shane sighs. “Anything.”
Ilya tuts, hand continuing its ministrations, pressing lightly around, but never quite in. “Want me to fuck you in your panties? Make you come and get them all dirty?”
Shane keens, chin jutting into his chest as he watches Ilya play with his ass. “Yes. That.”
Always eager to please, Ilya obliges, working one digit into Shane’s hot hole, fucking it in and out slowly, exploratively. Shane rolls his hips as Ilya moves the digit in and out, seeking more, always.
Ilya continues like that, two, then three fingers, past when he knows Shane is ready for more, until the man under him is writhing with want.
“C’mon, baby.” Shane groans.
Ilya chuckles. “Do you need something?” He teases even as he sits back to wriggle out of his jeans, a puff of air coming out of his mouth as his hard cock is released.
Shane's hand comes up nearly instinctually to give Ilya’s dick a little hey there jerk, as if greeting an old friend.
“Fuck, Shane.” He stops his husband's hand on his dick, already dangerously close.
Shane obligingly pulls away, instead reaching behind his head to blindly grasp at one of the couch cushions, tossing it up to Ilya.
Ilya smiles, hand coming around to the backs of Shane’s thighs, lifting them up to place the pillow underneath his ass.
Shane wriggles underneath him, settling into place, legs still trapped in his shorts and jock coming to wrap around Ilya’s back.
Once satisfied with their position, Shane looks up at Ilya, expression anticipatory and beatific. “C’mere.” He beckons.
Ilya obliges happily, and when he leans down to kiss Shane, his abdomen presses Shane’s trapped legs to his chest.
Ilya shudders at the feeling of Shane’s hard cock still trapped in the jock against his abdomen and the stretched fabric of his shorts against his nipples.
Ilya broke away from Shane’s mouth to glance down between him, grasping his cock and lining it up before pressing in.
Shane moans wetly against Ilya’s face.
Ilya stars moving, shallow thrusts in and out. There is something very arousing about Shane being technically clothed, cock hidden away but Ilya still having access to his ass. Fuck. He isn’t sure how long he can last like this.
Ilya’s mouth trails down to Shane’s neck, inhaling the musty smell of sweat that sticks to him. Moving down further, chasing the scent, he pushes Shane’s arm out of the way to lave his tongue up the crook of his armpit, nuzzling his nose in the coarse hair there. Sometimes he wishes Shane was less strict about keeping his pubes and happy trail so maintained. If he wanted to fuck something hairless he wouldn’t be with another grown man.
Shane moans unabashedly, arm coming back down to grasp at Ilya’s curls, effectively trapping Ilya between his sweaty bicep.
Ilya groans at the pressure of his husband's strong arm keeping him in place, speeding up the grind of his cock inside Shane’s ass.
Suddenly, a loud ripping sound breaks through the chorus of moans and the slapping of skin.
Shane gasps. “Oh, fuck.”
Ilya pries his face from Shane’s armpit to glance down between them, thrusts slowing down.
Shane’s shorty workout shorts have ripped clean down the side, effectively freeing one of his massive thighs. There are red creases indented into his skin wear the fabric has cut in, Shane obviously having been struggling against them to spread his legs further than the shorts would allow.
Ilya suddenly feels dangerously close to coming.
Not ready for this to be over, Ilya pulls out, Shane making a little broken sound at the loss.
He pats Shane’s side, “Get on your stomach.”
Shane immediately complies, settling his groin on the pillow that had previously supported his ass.
Ilya’s mouth goes dry at the sight before him. The black straps of the jock hug the underside of Shane’s ass beautifully, highlighting the fullness of his cheeks. From this angle he can see the underside of the crotch piece cupping his balls.
Ilya hastily pulls the tattered remains of Shane’s workout shorts off his legs. He allows a couple moments of mourning. That had been Ilya’s favorite pair.
He recovers quickly, however, grabbing two handfuls of Shane’s cheeks, appreciating the swell of skin between his fingers.
Shane moans, arching into the touch. “Are you gonna make me come?”
Ilya spread his cheeks apart and Shane’s hole winks at him prettily. “Maybe.”
Shane groans. He pushes his hips back against Ilya’s palms as if that could magically make a cock appear in his ass.
Ilya brings his palm down to slap Shane’s asscheek, hard.
Shane groans into the couch cushions. “Fuck, Ilya.”
Ilya watches in fascination as a red handprint quickly blooms there. “Do you need it, Shanya?”
“Yes, god. Please.”
Ilya hums. Then, because Shane is so sweet for him, he lines his cock up with his lover’s hole and presses in, before quickly setting a deep, punishing pace.
He can immediately tell this angle is better, not only in the way Shane is gasping with very thrust, scrabbling for purchase on the arm of the couch, but also because now Ilya can watch the recoil of Shane’s ass every time he fucks into him, highlighted by the tight straps of the jock cutting into the meat of his waist and thighs.
“Are you close?” Ilya asks, because he can feel his own orgasm building, and he needs to make good on his promise to make Shane come in his panties.
“Yes, fuck.” Shane pants.
Ilya lifts Shane up by his hips, changing the angle and fucking harder and deeper into him.
Shane practically cries out, and a couple seconds later, Ilya watches as his back tenses up, spine going rigid as his husband comes untouched.
Ilya follows behind soon after, thrusting erratically around Shane’s clenched hole, spilling into him.
Ilya catches his breath for a couple moments before pulling out. Shane makes a sad little punched out sound, and Ilya places a sweet kiss to the back of his neck.
Ilya hops off the couch, groaning as he stretches his legs. He finds his phone strewn on the ground and picks it up, flicking through the photos he took.
Shane looks perfect in them, of course. Skin flushed and sweaty, straps of his jock cutting into the meat of his abdomen as if he was wearing a thong. He particularly likes the one where Shane’s face is scrunched up into a pretty pout, regarding the camera with a glare. He would set it as his lockscreen if he thought his husband would let him.
A yelp from the couch breaks him out of his reverie.
“Ilya, get me a rag right now!”
“What?”
“Your fucking cum is dripping out of my ass, get a rag before we stain the couch my mother bought us.”
Ilya cackles as he scrambles to the bathroom.
Later, after the panic has subsided, Ilya admires his husband standing in their livingroom, naked except the soiled jockstrap, as he forlornly holds his tattered shorts to the light.
“Dang it Ilya, I liked these.”
“Poor boy.” Ilya coos. “How will we come up with the money to buy you more booty shorts?”
Shane glares. “They’re not booty shorts.”
Ilya tsks. “Then why does your booty look so good in them?” He punctuates this with a smack to the aforementioned butt.
Shane laughs, “Maybe my booty looks good in everything.”
As Ilya watches his husband retreat to their bedroom, he can’t help but agree.