London Boy (Tanna’s version)

The entire Boston roster piling behind Marly as he types, trying to decide what to say that could save them because their captain has been possessed by the spirit or a soviet military trainer with knife shoes and if they are forced to make double bagskates again they will either puke or die or both.

and even before that he’s constantly checking if his baby is okay and he’s sitting in that stairwell cuddling ilya’s jacket and he’s so desperate to hold ilya’s hand when he’s off his head on painkillers. he’s rereading old texts. he’s got his phone in his hand and he’s texting ilya when he’s literally just got off the ice after winning the cup again and that’s years before they’re even together. he’s inviting ilya to the cottage because he gets two weeks off a year and he wants to spend them both with his favourite person

we didn't even kiss

Shane, post-outing, is insatiable. He is cornering his husband in the equipment closet at the Cens arena, crowding him into the wall, “Jesus fucking Christ your cock in these sweatpants, baby, I need a taste,” sinking to his knees and swallowing Ilya’s dick before he’s even all the way hard (which lasts like half a second lol.)

Ilya and Shane walk into the locker room 10 minutes later, Ilya looking slightly dazed and flushed and Shane’s hair not fully back in place, the slightest smirk on his face.

Shane is drifting awake wrapped around Ilya like an octopus at 2 a.m., face nestled in the hollow of his throat, warm weight like a balm to his nervous system and Shane is so fucking happy and content he can’t help but stim a little bit, shivering and rubbing his face against Ilya’s neck and jaw, stubble sharp but in a good way, and rubbing his legs against Ilya’s like a little cricket and then he’s grinding against him, Ilya blinking awake to an armful of snuggly sleepy Shanya who needs to be full, please, Ilya, needs his cock so bad.

Shane is making a rule that they go home for lunch when they can because the chance to have Ilya alone for 45 minutes in the middle of the days is irresistible. Sometimes it’s stumbling through the door and quick, desperate handjobs on the couch, and once in a while when the team is just reviewing tape that morning, Shane will prep and plug himself, murmuring to Ilya on the way in the door that he “got ready for lunch a little early.” Ilya is painfully hard for four fucking hours, losing his train of thought every time he sees Shane shift the slightest bit in his seat, awkwardly carrying some papers and files in front of crotch to try to disguise what’s happening.

When they get home Ilya rims him until he’s crying and then fucks him through at least one more orgasm, maybe 2 and if they’re a couple minutes late coming back, well, traffic was bad, okay? Yes, Bood, the 1 p.m. on a Wednesday rush hour specifically in the three miles between their house and practice arena, no I’m fine I’m not limping, just tweaked my back at practice yesterday.