But instead of actually moving or getting mad, he lets out the sluttiest moan imaginable. He just stares at you with wide eyes, his face flushing, but he's not ashamed at all, and you can tell by the look in his eyes that he wants to beg you to do it again.

Burying your hand in Eddie's hair and just tugging as he kisses at the tip of your cock, forcing him down and holding him in place as his eyes tear up and he chokes on it, holding tightly onto your thighs so your dick stays nice and deep down his throat.

Using it as leverage to fuck into his mouth, holding his head there so you can use his throat like a fleshlight, and that thought only makes him harder underneath his jeans.

Using his hair to yank his head up, making him stare at himself in a mirror to watch how well you ruin him, bites and bruises littering his neck and shoulders as you drive your cock into him from behind after he decided to get a little too bratty with you.

OR.... maybe even using it to force him to make eye contact with Steve while you fuck him, having both of them wrapped around your finger. (Or dick, basically)

Taking a huge handful of his hair and shoving his head down on Steve's cock as you fuck him, filling him from both ends and making him sob around Steve each time you hit his prostate.

He hated that he had no idea who it was, that the guy was a blank face he'd never be able to put a name to. Ilya's mind conjured up a million stories, a million faces and personalities, trying to piece together a puzzle in the dark.

He imagined they'd met through one of the Metros, maybe a family member or a supportive friend, at a get-together or a holiday party. A conversation had likely been struck up relatively quickly, and undoubtedly dipped into flirtatious territory within minutes. No one could resist that (Y/N) (L/N) grin.

Each time he thought of the mysterious Canadian, he kissed (Y/N) harder, trying to replace the taste of that stranger. He held him tighter, closer, squeezed and touched every bit of skin to erase the foreign touch of another.

He fucked him hard and fast in possessive jealousy, slow and gentle in tender passion, looking him in the eyes when he wanted (Y/N) to remember him forever, and hiding his face when the betrayal reared its head in his heart.

Three days they'd spent together, unable to be apart for more than a few feet before their bodies were crashing together. They'd fucked in absolutely every sense of the word, on every possible space in (Y/N)'s home, in every position Ilya could think of.

He wanted (Y/N) to return to Montreal and not be able to move, breathe, think, or speak without remembering him first. 

He'd even shoved his own hoodie, the one drenched in Ilya's favorite cologne, into (Y/N)'s chest when he'd gone looking for something to wear to the airport, staking claim in a quiet, subtle manner.

He returned to Montreal completely marked by another, and Ilya hoped the little Canadian fool, whoever he was, had taken notice.

He grinned to himself as he thought about it and popped the microwave open when it gave a loud, obnoxious beep to signal that the popcorn finished.

He carefully took the bag out, hissing quietly under his breath when the steam nipped at his palms, and poured the popcorn into a much nicer bowl where they couldn't be burning their fingertips trying to grab the buttery snack.

Licking the melted butter off his fingers, Ilya picked up the bowl and headed into the livingroom, setting it down on the couch beside Svetlana and plopping on the opposite end.

"Что я пропустил?" ("What did I miss?") He asked, grabbing a handful and attempting to shove it all in his mouth, predictably having a few tumble down his shirt.

Svetlana kept her eyes dutifully locked on the television screen, twisting a curl around her finger and tucking her legs at her side. "Ничего. Это сложная игра для обеих команд." ("Nothing. It's a difficult game for both teams.") She murmured, reaching over to take some popcorn for herself.

"Mm." Ilya leaned back into the cushion, plucking the runaway kernels and popping them into his mouth. His eyes found (Y/N)'s jersey each time he appeared within camera view, pride swelling up in his chest. "Канада победит." ("Canada will win.")

"Почему ты так думаешь?" ("Why do you think that?") Svetlana's mouth curled into a teasing, knowing grin, and she looked away from the screen to arch a brow at him. Ilya ignored her, heat creeping up his neck. "А, потому что твой парень в команде?" ("Ah, because your boyfriend is on the team?")

"Он не мой парень." ("He's not my boyfriend.") Ilya huffed, roughly taking another handful of popcorn. This time, he kept his hand close to his chest, using his palm as a makeshift bowl as he plucked the kernels from it and plopped them in his mouth. "Он мой друг." ("He's my friend.")

Svetlana hummed, unconvinced. "Но ты хочешь, чтобы он был твоим парнем, верно?" ("But you want him to be your boyfriend, right?") Her head cocked to the side, and Ilya shot her a small, flustered glare. She rolled her eyes. "Да ладно тебе. Ты влюблена в него с тех пор, как встретила его." ("Come on. You've been in love with him since you met him.")

"No." Ilya mumured defiantly. Maybe not since the day they met. He'd been attracted to him, sure, but it hadn't been love. The love came later, crashing into him like a semi-truck and leaving him torn open on the pavement. "Я же тебе говорила. Он просто друг." ("I told you. He's just a friend.")

"Ilya," Svetlana sighed out his name like a tired mother, her head shaking lightly. "Ты больше ни с кем не флиртуешь. Ты не хочешь спать ни с кем. Даже со мной. Только с ним." ("You don't flirt with anyone else anymore. You don't want to sleep with anyone else. Not even me. Only him.")

"Я флиртую с людьми." ("I flirt with people.") Ilya pointed out lamely, his voice growing defeated because they both knew it was never really genuine flirting. Plus, there was no use trying to run from Svetlana's hawk-like eyes. Nothing ever got past her.

Svetlana ruffled up her light brown curls and took another popcorn kernel. In a breathy voice, as if she were giving up, she said, "Если ты не хочешь быть с ним, я его заберу. Он милый." ("If you don't want to be with him, I'll take him. He's cute.") 

"Нет. Ни за что." ("No. Absolutely not.")

Ilya scowled and threw some popcorn at her, his scowl developing into a small pout as she giggled and brushed the popcorn off her shirt. He slumped back into the soft cushion of his couch, sighing heavily.

"Он все равно меня не хочет. Ему нравятся американцы." ("He doesn't want me anyway. He likes Americans.")

"Он тебе это сказал?" ("Did he tell you that?") Ilya remained silent, his lips pursing. "Именно. Ты этого не знаешь." ("Exactly. You don't know that.")

Ilya's eyes dropped down to his lap, his tongue prodding lazily at a popcorn hull stuck between his teeth. "(Y/N)... Он говорит то, что думает. Если бы он хотел быть со мной, он бы уже спросил." ("He says what he thinks. If he wanted to be with me, he would have asked already.")

"Он, наверное, думает то же самое о тебе." (He probably thinks the same thing about you.)

Ilya swallowed, dislodging the hull from his teeth and picking up his forgotten beer bottle from the table to swallow everything down. He smacked his lips, considering her words. "Ты действительно так думаешь?" ("Do you really think so?) He asked quietly, shyly, his gaze tentatively lifting to look at her.

Svetlana smiled gently, nodding, and took a glance at the television. "Да, я... О, они сейчас забьют!" ("Yes, I... Oh, they're going to score now!")

Ilya's eyes darted back to the television screen, and he leaned forward, his breath catching in his chest as he watched Hollander take the puck and smack it directly at the goal. Ilya dug his teeth into his bottom lip, his eyes widening slightly.

The goalie for the Oregon Hawks was too slow to stop the puck from darting into the goal, and Ilya jumped up onto his feet with an ecstatic bellow.

"Да! Они победили!" ("Yes! They won!")

2015, Eugene, Oregon, Same Night

The Montreal Metros won the Stanley Cup.

The arena erupted with shrieks, cheers, and applause, and (Y/N) could only laugh in astonishment. He fumbled with his gloves, only managing to get one off before J.J. rammed into him, screeching his excitement in a mixture of English and Creole.

(Y/N) laughed wheezily, most of the air having been knocked out of him, and he swung his arms around the hockey player. 

They'd won. They'd won. (Y/N) (L/N) very first Stanley Cup... Holy shit. Holy shit!

During his time with the Boston Raiders, he'd always been close to winning, whether they got far in the division before being beaten or lost at the final game. The Stanley Cup had always felt just out of reach, close enough for his fingertips to brush it, but far enough to never grasp it.

And now, they'd won, and the 2014-2015 season was theirs.

The noise around him grew muffled, his eyes locked on the scoreboard. 3-4. It'd been a tight game, tight enough that (Y/N) had begun losing hope, until Shane fucking Hollander took aim, sending the puck flying across the ice in the blink of an eye. (Y/N) could hear his heartbeat in his ears, swore his heart was going to leap up to his throat. 

More and more bodies piled around him and J.J., arms extending to grab and hold their teammates as they hollered and cheered, screaming their excitement into the air. They whooped in their native tongues, their faces wet with sweat and happy tears.

All the practicing, all the games, all the travelling and being away from home paid off. They'd be returning home as winners.

They crowded around to watch Shane take the Stanley Cup trophy and hoist it up into the air with a loud, happy cry, and one of the cameras got up close, capturing the moment live.

(Y/N) laughed and leaned into Mitty to take some weight off his aching legs, panting like a dog as he watched Shane hand the trophy over to Hayden so he could skate around and show off the trophy for their fans to see. 

The families of the Metros were allowed on the ice, and everyone quickly dispersed to greet and celebrate with their loved ones. Fathers scooped up their small children and held them up in the air with joyful laughter, husbands and boyfriends kissed their partners, younger members were embraced and held by their weeping parents. 

(Y/N) took his helmet off and let it fall onto the ice, wriggling off the other glove and pushing himself forward toward his parents.

His mother smiled widely when she noticed him, and she quickly held up her phone to snap a few pictures. "Ah, God, it would have been mortifying if you'd lost."

She laughed, and (Y/N) took a heavy breath, watching her type away on her phone. It hardly phased him anymore, so all he chose to do was nod along.

"I told the ladies back home to turn on their TVs and everything. You'll be the talk of the town for a while." 

(Y/N) licked his lips, his eyes flickering between her and his father, who stood nearby watching the other families with a neutral, almost bored expression. "Are you happy?" He asked tentatively. Proud, he meant to say, but part of him wanted to soften the blows that'd undoubtedly come.

"Of course, we are!" His mother gasped, reaching out to swat at his arm playfully.

The first time she'd touched him since they landed in Oregon to watch the game. She'd been too busy on a call to even offer a side hug at the airport. Something about an anniversary dinner of a friends they'd be attending.

"Our son won a trophy on television! I mean, finally, after all this time, it's a little embarrassing, don't you think? Even that Russian boy won before you, honey."

"Ilya." (Y/N) scratched his forehead, keeping his lips curled upward in case he ended up within view of one of the cameras. He wondered if Ilya had been watching. "His name's Ilya Rozanov. You've met him. Multiple times."

"Yes, yes, him." His mother waved her hand around dismissively. "Come on, we need a picture together."

His father finally mustered a closed-mouth smile when he stepped closer and patted his back. "I'd hug you, but you're all sweaty, and I don't want to ruin this suit." He said, his voice raspy from his cigars, fingers adjusting the coat.

A pat was all he ever offered; child-rearing was a woman's job in his eyes, after all, and no man wanted his son to grow up soft by spoiling him with too much. Tough love was the name of the game. (Y/N) barely batted an eye at it anymore.

Once his mother snapped the photo, she ushered him toward reporters standing around waiting for one of the players to be available for an interview.

He plastered his signature grin on his face and took each question in stride, nodding and laughing at things he'd heard a million times before, until his mother looked satisfied with his air time and another Metro took his place. 

He turned back to gaze at the other Metros and their families, clapping along with the crowd and opening his arms to happily take the hug offered to him by Jackie before he helped her waddle off the ice.

She'd be due any day now with a little boy they wanted to name Arthur, and she looked ready to evict the little fellow. The twins followed, and Hayden stopped for a quick embrace, patting his back roughly and quickly so he could keep an eye on his girls. 

"(Y/N)!" Yuna greeted cheerfully, clapping her hands and hurrying over to him. She tossed her arms around him and pulled him in tightly, rubbing her hand over his back. "I can't believe it! Good job scoring those two points in the beginning, it really gave us the advantage!"

She pulled away with a wide smile and began rattling off everything she'd noticed, only stepping aside so David could embrace him as well with a gentler hug. He motioned toward his wife and gave (Y/N) a playful shake of his head as his hand came to rest affectionately over her back.

(Y/N) hoped his future relationship would be like theirs, full of love and support, and nothing like his parents' bleak marriage.

"Hey!" Shane skidded to a stop beside him and hesitantly raised his arms, his little smile hopeful. "Can we, uh.. hug?"

(Y/N) laughed and nodded, wrapping his arms around Shane's waist. It'd been nearly a whole month since the last time they touched, the last time they even roomed together.

It stung, just a bit, how swiftly Shane retracted his affection now that they were no longer hooking up, but he understood. Shane needed time to adjust to their new dynamic. 

"We're having dinner later," Shane told him quietly, his chin resting over his shoulder. "You want to join us?"

(Y/N) raised his gaze to glance around the ice, and found no sign of his parents anywhere. If he were still twenty-one, the realization would've crushed him, but he was older and knew better, so all he did was sigh. He leaned back, giving Shane a smile, and nodded.

"That'd be nice, yeah."

"Great. I.. uhm, I miss you." Shane told him, slipping his arms from around his neck and dipping his head. "Would you, uhm.. would you like to come by my place after we get back? I want to show you how the cottage I'm getting built is progressing." He smiled, fiddling with his fingers a little more anxiously than usual.

(Y/N) had nearly forgotten all about the cottage Shane was having built a couple of minutes away from his parents' house. It was in the lake country, from what he remembered, and Shane spoke about the floor plan to anyone who'd listen. It was cute, his excitement over his new place.

"Yeah, yeah, definitely."

"Cool." Shane perked up, his smile widening. "Great, uh, let's go get changed."

2015, Montreal, One Week After Stanley Cup

(Y/N) realized, as he drove to Shane's apartment complex, that he'd never been to Shane Hollander's place before. It'd always felt oddly off limits, a place nobody was allowed to go to because it was Captain Hollander's home, his private haven. While (Y/N) was certain Hayden had been over plenty of times, it just felt... weird to go.

Sure, he'd been inside the guy a couple of times, but he couldn't shake the feeling. It was oddly intimate, in a way, to be invited over.

He was pretty sure it was as innocent as Shane had made it out to be. He claimed he wanted to show him some photos of how the new place was coming along, brainstorm a few ideas for Hayden's upcoming birthday party that Shane had been unofficially put in charge of, and watch a few movies to pass the time.

Shane wasn't anything like Ilya, but he'd still been pretty bummed out over their brief arrangement falling through. Anyone was capable of anything if they were desperate enough, and (Y/N) worried he wouldn't be strong enough to deny those pretty dark eyes.

He pulled into the complex's parking, finding a spot fairly quickly and taking a moment to message Shane before his thumb naturally pressed the back button with the intention of checking his conversation with Ilya.

He stopped himself before he could tap on the unopened message, his nose crinkling with a wince. Ilya wanted him to fly down to Boston to celebrate, and (Y/N) knew that meant they'd end up doing something he wouldn't be able to take back.

Captain Loser Door's open. Lock it when you come in. :)

(Y/N)'s brows furrowed, a bit puzzled, but he sent a thumbs-up emoji in response and got out of his car. The elevator ride up to Shane's apartment left (Y/N) with a sense of deja vu washing over him, but he brushed it aside. Nothing would ever top that day, and the whirlwind of emotions it'd left him with.

He followed Shane's instruction, stepping inside the apartment and locking the door behind him. His mouth formed a confused smile, vaguely wondering if he was going to get murdered when he finally took note of the dim lighting and the quietness. Most of the lights were turned off, except for a couple of lamps he could see from his spot and the hanging kitchen light.

"Shane?" He tentatively called out. 

"In the dining room!"

I don't know where that is, but okay.

(Y/N) stuffed his phone in the pocket of his jacket and headed down the entry hall, gazing over the pictures Shane had up of the team, his family, and himself as a young boy, before he turned the corner. His eyes naturally gravitated toward the dining table lit up by candlesticks, and he froze at the sight in front of him.

Shane stood by the dining table in a complete black suit and tie, his lips pulled up into a nervous half-smile and his cheeks dusted with a soft pink.

Aside from the flickering candlesticks, the table was set with plates of food and a bottle of champagne, along with two already filled cups. The aroma of food reached him, mouth-watering and delicious and homemade.

(Y/N) lingered, swaying in place. "I think I'm underdressed."

Shane laughed sheepishly. "Is it too much? I knew it was too much." He looked down at himself, his cheeks growing redder by the second. "I thought- I don't know. I thought it'd be.. nice."

(Y/N) chuckled and approached, his steps slow as he soaked everything in. It felt very... romantic, certainly not a casual dinner two friends would be having.

He tugged his jacket from his shoulders, wiggling his phone out so it wouldn't slip out, and draped his jacket over his arm. He looked over the plates on the table, unable to contain his growing smile.

"What's all this, Hollander? You trying to seduce me?" (Y/N) tilted his head, his gaze teasing, yet he quelled his excitement. Shane could be a bit of an oddball at times, so (Y/N) prepared himself for a sweet and platonic explanation. "I have to say it's working."

Shane's eyes brightened with something akin to victory. "Not seduction, but.. I'm.. uhm.. I'm.." He took a deep breath and straightened his back, his head tilting away from (Y/N) and his eyes bouncing around the room. "I haven't been in a relationship since high school, either, and I.. miss it, too. I really like you, (Y/N), and I.. I wanted to know if you'd.. want to have a first date with me?"

(Y/N) rolled his lips into his mouth and inhaled through his nose, his eyes annoyingly prickling with incoming tears. He laughed, brushing his fingers over his forehead. 

First date.

He'd never been asked out on a first date before, aside from certain fans who'd scream it at the top of their lungs or post about it on the internet.

His last first date had been back in high school, and it'd consisted of going to the movie theater and silently holding hands in the dark with a girl whose last name he couldn't remember anymore.

But now, Shane Hollander wanted to date him, and he'd pulled out all the stops to make it happen.

Shane finally looked at him, his face softening with anticipation, and it was when it hit (Y/N) that it was all real, and not a figment of his imagination. 

"Okay." (Y/N) breathed out, nodding quickly. Yes, yes, yes, hell yes. "I'd love to, Shane."

Shane's face lit up with a big smile, and he turned to face the table. "Okay. Okay, uhm, there are three courses: roasted golden beet salad with goat cheese and candied walnuts as the appetizer, red wine braised short ribs as the main course, and chocolate chip brownies with vanilla ice cream for dessert. I thought I'd cheat on my diet for the occasion."

(Y/N) set his jacket over the armrest of the closest chair and placed his phone on the table, his fingers curling around the base of Shane's tie to drag him closer and kiss him. Shane kissed him back immediately, shivering as if he'd been really needing to feel his mouth, and clutched at his shoulders. He deepened the kiss by tilting his head, his tongue brushing against (Y/N)'s before he suddenly jerked back.

"Dinner first. I worked too hard on the food just for it to go cold." He rushed out, leaning in to kiss his cheek tenderly, slightly apologetically. (Y/N) snorted. "I went with the highest reviewed food blog, so everything should taste pretty good."

"You googled romantic dinner ideas, didn't you?"

Shane shrugged lightly, his lips forming a coy smile. "Maybe."

(Y/N) laughed and pecked Shane's lips one more time before he took a seat, scooting his chair forward and waiting for Shane to take a seat across from him so he could dig in. The salad was earthy and mildly sweet, balanced by the cheese that had a saltier taste. He hummed approvingly, and Shane gave a little exhale of relief. 

They chatted, primarily about the big win and how excited everyone in Montreal had been when they returned home. The airport had been crowded with fans chanting cheers and holding up celebratory signs, and the internet hadn't been any less chaotic with the YouTube videos people made and the posts talking in detail about how thrilled they were.

(Y/N) had started considering making a few social media profiles, seeing as how many new ones were on the rise, like Instagram. It'd be a decent way to connect with fans and keep them updated on his life.

By the time (Y/N) started on the ribs, he noticed Shane primarily poked and prodded at his food, taking small bites and mostly drinking from his glass cup. He furrowed his brows and licked his lips, parting them to bring it up, but then he noticed the little looks Shane sent him.

Ah. He wants to get fucked tonight. (Y/N) chuckled to himself and got himself a big cut of the ribs. He'd need all the energy he could get, then.

"The cottage is almost done." Shane piped up, leaning his arms forward on the dinner table. "Did I tell you I'm having another building on the property built? It'll be a small ice rink I can use during the offseason, so I won't have to drive so far to practice. I'll have my own well, too. I hear it can help with bills, and it'll be environmentally friendlier. It'll have a lot of ceiling-to-floor windows to get as much natural light as-"

Shane suddenly stopped his little ramble and cleared his throat, grabbing his cup and taking another sip. He looked embarrassed. "Probably isn't what people do on first dates, is it?" He chuckled nervously. "Sorry, uh-"

"No, no," (Y/N) smiled encouragingly. "First dates are all about getting to know each other, Shane. Tell me about your cottage and the well."

It took him a moment, his eyes flickering across (Y/N)'s face for any sign of displeasure, before he launched back into the ramble about some of the architectural choices he made and how they were beneficial while (Y/N) finished his braised ribs and cleaned his mouth with a napkin.

Shane continued the ramble while they cleaned up the plates and loaded them into the dishwasher, delving into the floorplan and how he wanted to decorate the place.

All that real estate and architectural magazines he'd gotten into over the years had really paid off for him.

"-and I'm looking forward to seeing the first snowfall in the cottage. With all the windows and the lake right there, it's going to be beautiful." Shane said, starting the dishwasher, and (Y/N) couldn't help but envision them in five years, which was quite the leap for a first date, but he couldn't help it.

He saw the vision clearly: Shane talking about the latest thing he'd grown obsessed with, likely related to hockey or real estate in some way, while they shuffled around the cottage doing different domestic things like sweeping or cleaning his beloved tall glass windows or maybe fluffing up the pillows before bedtime.

Something was missing, though. Maybe a pet. He thought of Ilya briefly, being there with them, and promptly dismissed the idea. Shane would sooner die than let Ilya anywhere near his property.

(Y/N) moved, stopping Shane from getting the brownies and ice cream by wrapping his arms around him from behind and kissing the side of his neck. "Dessert can wait. I want to eat you first." He cooed and heard Shane sharply inhale. "I'm going to go wash my mouth, yeah? Where's your bathroom?" 

Shane pointed it out, color creeping up his neck. "There should be a spare toothbrush and toothpaste in the cabinet."

"Alright." (Y/N) nodded, peeling himself away from Shane. "And don't you dare take your clothes off yet." 

When (Y/N) returned from the bathroom with a clean mouth and breath that didn't smell like food, he found Shane in the same exact spot he'd left him, and laughed softly. He beckoned him closer, kissing him gently, and tilted his head. "Where's the bedroom?"

Shane took his hand, lacing their fingers before he guided the way through his penthouse to the master bedroom. He released (Y/N)'s hand so he could place one over (Y/N)'s bicep and the other at his neck, pulling him in for a kiss.

It started off sweet, gentle, reminding themselves of what the other felt like, and slowly grew needier, more desperate.

The tie went first, followed by the coat. Shane gasped quietly when (Y/N) grabbed a handful of his ass through his pants, an airy laugh tumbling from his lips. "I don't usually have sex on the first date." He said playfully, despite his fingers tugging impatiently at (Y/N)'s shirt. 

"A little too late for that, don't you think?" (Y/N) chuckled, tugging his shirt over his head and tossing it aside. 

Shane leaned in, kissing him and pressing their foreheads together, his hands ghosting over (Y/N)'s shoulders. He smiled meekly, his eyes vibrant with hope and glee. "(Y/N) (L/N)," He began quietly, giggling softly. "Will you be my... my boyfriend?" The word rolled off his tongue awkwardly, as if he'd never said it before.

He was the kind of guy who only drank at fancy events, who never smoked, who never took any kind of drugs, who never ate junk food, who kept up a routine that he rarely switched up, who had flings once or twice a year.

Shane never flirted with anyone, never approached anyone unless they approached him first, and now, for the first time, he'd given oral to a guy.

Given oral to (Y/N) fucking (L/N), of all dudes. (Y/N) clenched his jaw. God, I'm a prick. What the hell was I thinking?

He wouldn't consider himself the worst guy to have a first with, and it wasn't like it was his first time helping someone learn what they liked sexually, but there were a million better dudes around with the appropriate wisdom to help Shane take his first baby steps into the queer world.

Plus, (Y/N) knew what he wanted, knew what he was looking for, and it definitely wasn't adding another person to his hectic little love life. 

Shane had sounded so soft and meek, and he'd looked at him with so much needy desire that he'd been leaning in to kiss him before he realized what he was doing. And by the time alarm bells rang in his head, urging him to retreat, Shane had put his hand over his crotch and (Y/N) was a goner.

(Y/N) craned his head to peer down at Shane and pressed his lips together, slowly sliding his hips to the side to begin creeping out of bed. It'd be easier to brush everything off as a fling while they weren't actively cuddling.

Shane made a little noise of protest in the back of his throat and shifted, dragging himself further against him until (Y/N) felt his morning wood against his lower hip. Shane sighed sleepily and nuzzled his cheek against (Y/N)'s collarbone, a little drool dribbling out onto (Y/N)'s skin.

(Y/N) dropped his head back onto the pillow and let out a soft, defeated sigh, deciding this was probably his karma for leaving Ilya in his penthouse without explanation.

He lifted his arm and pressed his palm along Shane's back, running it over his smooth, warm skin until he felt Shane shiver and begin to stir. He grunted quietly, his legs dragging over (Y/N)'s and incoherent mumbling leaving his mouth.

"Shane," (Y/N) murmured, smiling at the way Shane's face scrunched up and how he squinted through the blearyness of his vision. "Morning."

"Morning."

Shane smiled back, sleepy and slightly disoriented, blinking a few times while he adjusted to the light of morning brightening the room. (Y/N)'s hand paused over Shane's spine when he felt Shane lightly rut into his hip, a shaky moan slipping past his lips before he caught himself and flushed. He blinked his vision into focus, though his eyes remained half-lidded with drowsiness.

Shane leaned forward to kiss (Y/N)'s jaw. "Sorry... Can.. Can I.."

(Y/N) ran his hand down his back, the sheets shifting and rustling when he dipped it beneath them to squeeze the soft flesh of one of Shane's ass cheeks. Shane chuckled, his head dropping bashfully, and he began his clumsy, sleepy rutting again.

(Y/N) was used to it; Ilya almost always awoke with morning wood that needed tending to before the day could officially start.

Though he assumed the dry rubbing hardly felt as relieving as it should've been, so he hooked his other hand around Shane's knee and pulled him until he was completely on top of him. Shane planted his hands on either side of (Y/N)'s head and pushed himself up, gazing down at him questioningly.

(Y/N) reached between them, lining up their cocks and using the pre dribbling down their shafts to help with the glide as he began jerking them off.

Shane's mouth parted with a little gasp. "Oh, shit."

(Y/N)'s lips stretched into a grin, and he raised the hand that'd been massaging Shane's ass, bringing his index finger to Shane's bottom lip. Shane opened his mouth wider and, needier than (Y/N) had been expecting, began suckling on his finger like it was a popsicle. (Y/N) blinked up at him in fascination through his growing pleasure, pleasantly startled by the erotic, muffled noises that left Shane's mouth. 

Pulling his finger away with a pop, (Y/N) sat up and reached behind Shane, sliding the slick finger between his cheeks and savoring the hitched moan that ripped from his throat when he prodded lightly at his entrance.

Shane's hands grabbed onto his shoulders, squeezing at first before one cupped the back of (Y/N)'s head and pushed it forward to lock lips with him. 

Shane's hips jerked forward when (Y/N) pushed at his entrance, breaking the kiss to tilt his head back and pant into the air. Predictably, he lasted very little, a sharp curse hissing out and thighs trembling as he spurted over their laps and covered (Y/N)'s abdomen.

"Shit," He breathed out. "Sorry, I couldn't-"

"You think you have another one in you?"

"I- Fuck," Shane whined, falling forward when (Y/N)'s finger finally popped inside. His hips bucked back, taking him to the knuckle. "Maybe- yes- God, I- I really want to- to ride you." He revealed through pants, his chin propping over (Y/N)'s shoulder. (Y/N) felt himself twitch with interest.

"I don't have condoms on me, baby," (Y/N) told him apologetically, slowly thrusting his finger in and out. He thought it'd be a decent enough deterrent with Ilya; he hadn't thought to consider Shane of all people would need some. He pecked the nape of his neck. "And I don't know how loud you'll get, either."

"That's-" Shane sighed out a moan and leaned back, beginning to grind his hips in a hopeless attempt at taking him in deeper. "-a little egotistical, don't you think?"

"You're a virgin, Shane," (Y/N) reminded him with a little chuckle. "You don't know how loud you'll get, and this is a hotel room. Fancy, but not soundproof. Someone could hear."

That managed to crack through Shane's haze, and he swallowed, faintly nodding. "In Montreal? Your- Your place is closer to the airport."

No, (Y/N), you can't. Not again. This is 2010 all over again.

He had to let him down gently, not in the middle of fingering him. "Depends," (Y/N) answered lamely, nearly cringing at himself. He slid his finger out gently and muffled Shane's disappointed sigh with a kiss. "Your parents will probably want to see you, Shane. We'll, uhm.. we'll figure something out, yeah?"

"Okay." Shane kissed the corner of his mouth and looked down between them. "Do you want me to suck you off?"

(Y/N) swiped his tongue over his lips, contemplating it before he shook his head. "I've got a better idea." 

Mindfully, he toppled Shane over onto his back and moved onto his knees, returning Shane's puzzled look with a grin as he raised Shane's legs to press them together. He put them over his shoulder and slid his throbbing cock between Shane's soft, plush thighs, a shudder exhale leaving his lips. Realization flickered over Shane's eyes, and he watched, hypnotized, as (Y/N) began thrusting.

He smeared come over Shane's thighs, leaving glistening streaks behind, and watched Shane's eyes jump between studying his face and focusing on how the tip of his cock disappeared and reappeared from between his thighs. He could feel Shane's thighs tremble, the subtle squeeze when he pressed them together tighter, and let his head drop with a shaky exhale.

With a few more thrusts, (Y/N) came undone, covering Shane's flexing stomach and parts of his chest in pearly white.  "Sorry," He breathed out, dropping Shane's legs and falling back onto the mattress with a small bounce. "Made a mess of you."

Shane propped himself up on his elbows and peered down at himself, his cheeks turning a deeper red. "That was hot." He said quietly, his mouth curling up into a wide grin.

(Y/N) vaguely wondered if he was creating a monster or unleashing one, but he told himself, whichever one it was, he was simply helping Shane get the experience needed for the next guy. He had to nip whatever was festering between them in the bud before it could grow out of control like it had with Ilya. 

(Y/N) dug his teeth into his inner cheek, his eyes following Shane as he got up from the bed and used tissues to clean himself off as best as possible. He most certainly could not start something with Ilya's biggest rival.. with his biggest insecurity. (Y/N) swallowed, his mind spinning and legs wobbly when he stood. 

Shane gave him that closed-mouth yet earnest smile, visibly dazed. "We should shower." He said, leaning in to kiss along his collarbone gently, sweetly. "We've got two hours before we need to start heading to the airport. We can have breakfast here and catch up with some of the guys? Rozanov will probably want to see you before we go."

"Right, yeah." Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me. "Go get the water started. I'll, uh.. clean myself up a bit here."

Shane nodded, pecking his cheek, and walked toward the bathroom, leaving him to scramble to search for his phone amongst his pile of clothes on the floor. Maybe it'd be more helpful to begin folding them like Shane instead of tossing them aside mindlessly. He picked up his pants and patted the pockets, finding his wallet first and then his phone.

Crybaby Room number is 1410.

Crybaby (Y/NNNN)

Crybaby Hello?

Crybaby ??

(Y/N) stared at the messages, his breathing shallow. God, what a clusterfuck. He'd been too desperate to sleep with someone other than Ilya to really think about the aftermath of what hooking up with Shane Hollander meant. Five whole years of Ilya and Shane clashing, and (Y/N) had spent four of those years joining Ilya in his chaos.

(Y/N) Sorry! Didn't see these.

(Y/N) considered telling him the truth, considered coming clean and laying it all out on the table. He'd hooked up with Shane, and there was no taking it back.

He typed out the message and then erased it. He typed it out again, in different wording, and erased that one, too, because the only thing that flashed in his mind was the heartbreak on Ilya's face at the thought of being replaced.

"Hey, water's good!" Shane's voice called from the bathroom.

"Coming!"

(Y/N) I fell asleep. Had too much to drink. Maybe next time!

(Y/N) tossed his phone aside and ran a frustrated hand over his face, swallowing down the guilt over lying to Ilya again, before he made his way into the bathroom.

The shower was large enough to comfortably fit them, and the warm water felt heavenly on (Y/N)'s muscles. Shane rubbed the lemongrass-scented soap over his hands and gently ran them over (Y/N)'s shoulders down to his chest and stomach.

"I can clean myself, you know," (Y/N) said teasingly, and Shane shrugged, leaning in to kiss him. 

It took little to no time for Shane to end up with his back pressed to the white tile wall, his leg hitched around (Y/N)'s hip with one hand grasping the back of his neck while the other groped and explored his back.

Their makeout was messy and intense, tongues sliding across each other and teeth occasionally lightly grazing, bodies pressing tight to each other and leaving no room for space between them. 

Shane was a good kisser, a little on the clumsier side, but (Y/N) doubted he made out with people frequently enough to learn finesse. What made him a good kisser was how needily he did it, how hungrily it came across, as if he were worried they'd never see each other again and he needed to make the most of it. It made (Y/N)'s stomach flutter.

Ilya kissed like he wanted to consume you. Shane kissed like he wanted to be consumed.

"(Y/N)," Shane moaned against his mouth, one of (Y/N)'s hands squeezing his ass until there was a vibrant red mark left behind. His head tilted back, resting against the wall as he panted through swollen lips. "Fuck me."

(Y/N) nipped at his jawline. "Later."

"Now." If Shane meant to sound demanding, he failed by a mile, because he sounded more whiny than anything else. "The shower will cover the noise. Don't make me wait. I'm your captain."

"You're in no position to pull rank, Hollander." (Y/N) laughed. "The offseason starts today, anyway. You've got no power 'til we start training, honey."

Shane groaned impudently, his head rolling forward so he could nuzzle against (Y/N)'s cheek. (Y/N) hummed, tilting his head to pepper sweet kisses along his temple. Shane was like a cat in heat, pressing against him and nuzzling, whining into his ears with borderline begs.

It was pitiful. It was attractive. It was tempting.

"I'll give you what you want in Montreal," (Y/N) decided, nodding mostly to himself. They'd hook up, Shane would get the idea out of his system, (Y/N) would redirect him toward someone else, and Ilya would never have to know. Yeah.. yeah, that sounded good. "We'll do whatever you want, Shane."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

After a few long minutes where they wrapped their slick hands around each other and stroked each other to completion, they parted to finally finish their shower, washing each other's bodies and exchanging kisses in between.

(Y/N) stepped out of the shower first, patting himself dry while Shane washed and rinsed his hair. His eyes watched Shane's blurry figure through the sliding door, his mouth curving into a small smile. 

It was messy and hardly helped his situation, but being wanted so desperately by Shane felt... almost rewarding.

The feeling died when they headed down to the hotel's restaurant for breakfast, and (Y/N) spotted Ilya seated with St. Simons and a handful of other guys at one table, scarfing down breakfast and chatting loudly.

(Y/N) briefly considered turning around and getting breakfast brought up to their room, but he took a deep breath and followed Shane through the restaurant toward the table that Scott Hunter and Carter Vaughan were at.

"Hey!" Carter greeted happily, cheeks full of scrambled eggs that he quickly chewed and swallowed down with his orange juice. Smacking his lips, he asked, "What'd you guys think of the award show yesterday? Personally, I don't think Harrington deserved Coach of the Year. I hear the guy's a total douchebag."

"Everyone knows he's got connections," (Y/N) said, scooping up the lamented menu and looking over the breakfast options. Omelet, breakfast burritos, buttermilk pancakes, Belgium waffles. He gave a little hum, twisting his lips in consideration. "God, he reeks of tobacco and alcohol, too. Pretty sure he's always drunk at games."

Carter shook his head and stuffed the last of his scrambled eggs into his mouth, chewing quickly so he could add, "No wonder his wife left him."

"Maybe that's why he drinks so much. You never know what someone's going through." Scott, ever the sweetheart, piped in with a small shrug. Carter and (Y/N) exchanged a look across the table, and Scott rolled his eyes. "What about you, Hollander? Fun night?"

Shane, who'd been wholly concentrated on searching for something he could actually eat on the menu with his godforsaken diet, jerked up and frowned at him.

"What?" He asked breathlessly, confused, and spared (Y/N) a glance. Scott's brows twitched, threatening to furrow. "What, uh, what do you mean?"

"Bro," Carter took another gulp of his juice. (Y/N) pretended not to notice Scott staring at him. "You and Rozanov had to present an award together, remember? Must've been agonizing."

"Oh, uh, yeah, I guess. Dude's a dick."

(Y/N) set the menu down, his eyes flickering to meet Scott's and then falling back down onto the table. He heard the breath Scott took in, heavy and long like an exasperated father's, and rolled his lips into his mouth.

Yeah, he deserved a reaction like that.

(Y/N) slipped his hand into the pocket of his jacket when his phone buzzed, taking another peek at Scott while doing so.

Crybaby Come.

If (Y/N) had the ability to teleport anywhere in the world, he'd drop himself in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean and sink to the very bottom.

Crybaby I ordered your food already.

"Well," (Y/N) sucked his teeth and stood up, shooting them a smile as he pushed his chair in and stuffed his phone back into his pocket. "I'll see you guys around, yeah?"

Shane blinked up at him. "Where are you going?"

"Off to see his favorite dick, of course." Carter threw his head back with a cackle, and Scott snickered at the irony over the rim of his coffee cup. Shane gave a very forced laugh, and (Y/N)'s cheeks warmed. "But, seriously, you should go tend to your child. He's been glaring at us since you sat down."

Scratching the bridge of his nose with his middle finger to subtly flick them off, (Y/N) playfully rolled his eyes at Carter's continued laughter and walked through the restaurant toward Ilya's table, where he had a seat reserved right beside him. He sat down, stealing a piece of hash brown from Ilya's plate and popping it in his mouth.

"Aw, how sweet that Papa and Dad are getting along after the divorce." St. Simons cooed mockingly, his mouth stretching into a teasing grin.

(Y/N) chuckled, wiping away the grease from the hash brown with a napkin and crumbling it up before he threw it across the table at him. "Well, I'm glad Roz has full custody. I don't even have to pay child support."

"Ouch." Carmichael laughed.

"Deadbeat." Kane accused lightheartedly.

"How do you feel?" Ilya asked, setting his arm over the backrest of (Y/N)'s chair and brushing the back of his shoulder with his thumb. "You.. do not look hungover."

Fuck. Right.

"I took a painkiller when I woke up," (Y/N) explained, offering him a little smile. "I've been up since six, honestly."

"Mm, was it Hollander? He looks like he wakes up at five in the morning to go jogging." St. Simons said through a mouthful of omelet, giving a light shake of his head. "Does he do yoga in the room with you?" He barked out a laugh. "What a fuckin' weirdo, that one."

(Y/N)'s jaw ticked. "He's my captain, dickhead. Watch yourself."

"Whoa." Kane chuckled, yet his brows furrowed. He took a sip of his lemonade, his eyes flickering toward Ilya. St. Simons raised his hands in mock surrender. "It's the offseason, (Y/N). We're all friends here, not rivals. Besides, come on, he's been making shit miserable for the Raiders since he joined them. You hated him for years."

"I never hated Hollander." (Y/N) felt exhausted having to repeat himself. "He's made me frustrated, maybe, but I don't have a reason to hate him. He doesn't cheat, he doesn't go out of his way to be an asshole-" (Y/N) shot Ilya a sideways glance. Ilya smiled at him innocently. "-and... he's a nice guy. His diet is horrendous, though, oh, my god."

And like that, the tension that'd been threatening to build vanished, and the table cracked up with laughter. 

Kane grinned. "What? He's got you eating carrots and lettuce every day?" 

"No, the torture is only self-inflicted, thankfully, but I get hungry watching him eat. No dairy, no sugar, nothing spicy, nothing that is high in fiber, absolutely no junk food or alcohol. It's like, buddy, you're denying yourself the best life has to offer. He's thinking of cutting carbs from his diet. Carbs!" (Y/N) shook his head rapidly. "I swear I'm going to start forcefeeding him bread and pasta if he does that."

Carmichael chuckled. "Take him to an Olive Garden and strap him to a chair."

"Maybe I will."

(Y/N) offered the waitress a smile when she came by with a plate of freshly done buttermilk pancakes with syrup and strawberry slices on top and a glass of coke. His knee tilted, bumping and rubbing against Ilya's leg gently, in a silent form of thanks.

"I'm another salad away from shoving a cheeseburger from McDonald's or Burger King down his throat."

"Glad you are.. having fun with Hollander." Ilya said neutrally, removing his arm from the back of his chair so he could cross his arms over his chest. He was faintly pouting.

"Don't get jealous, honeybear." (Y/N) bumped his fist against Ilya's thigh gently, his gaze reassuring. Ilya exhaled through his nose, the corners of his mouth lifting at the mocking petname. "You're more fun, anyway. I promise."

2014, Montreal, Four Days After NHL Awards

It'd been the laziest of lazy days, and (Y/N) wouldn't have it any other way.

He'd gone to his apartment complex's gym in the morning with the intention of being productive, and then promptly decided he had no interest in doing anything remotely taxing when it was his time off after getting a few reps in.

He abandoned the protein smoothie for a vanilla milkshake and slurped on it while watching the newest Lego movie that'd come out a couple of months prior.

He had a list of things he wanted to do for the day: order takeout, take a bath with a bath bomb someone had gifted him for Christmas, take a long nap. His lips curled around the straw, pleased.

It wasn't often he had alone tim-

His phone buzzed.

(Y/N)'s head rolled back with a quiet groan and he set his cup aside on the coffee table to pick up his phone. It wouldn't be too late to put it on airplane mode and ignore the outside world for a little while. He licked his sticky lips and opened the message.

Captain Loser I'm in the area. Can I come over?

(Y/N) stood up from the couch, scooping the cup in his hand and walking to the kitchen to dump it in the trash can. He chewed on his bottom lip for a bit, considering his options.

Shane was polite enough that he'd take the answer no with grace, because he was most certainly wanting to pop by for a booty call, but (Y/N).. could use the stress reliever.

(Y/N) Sure.

Captain Loser Okay.

Captain Loser I'll be there in five :)

(Y/N) set his phone on the counter and took a breath, reminding himself not to allow it to manifest into something bigger. He knew plenty of people he'd only hooked up with once and never again, and it'd always happened without a hitch.

He was certain he could do it with Shane, and perhaps entertain himself by playing matchmaker, though he still wasn't sure what Shane's type was. 

He wasn't sure if the guy even liked women.

Was Shane Hollander.. gay?

He never spoke of women, never agreed to the blind dates Pike tried setting him up on, never flirted with women the handful of times he agreed to go to a bar or club, and he always looked way out of his depth when he was approached by pretty girls.

Then again, he was ​​​​​​pretty introverted. (Y/N) could help him with that.

(Y/N) checked around his apartment, ensuring everything looked decent, and by the time he returned to the livingroom to pick another movie, there were three hard knocks at his door.

When he swung the door open, he found Shane standing there with his hands in his pockets and his head turned to peer down the hallway almost nervously.

"Hey," He greeted, stepping inside and stopping to glance down at his sneakers. "Should I take off my shoes?"

(Y/N) shrugged. "If you want."

Shane placed his hand against the wall to balance himself and slid each shoe from his foot, neatly setting the pair down by the door before he dusted his hands off on his pants. He turned to face him, watching him shut the door and turn the lock expectantly.

"I saw you did another commercial for Rolex," (Y/N) mentioned, leaning in and letting Shane close the distance for a quick peck. Shane notably relaxed. "You sounded like you were being held at gunpoint."

"I keep telling everyone I'm a horrible actor, and nobody believes me," Shane grunted, his shoulders slumping in a mixture of embarrassment and exasperation.

"Shocking, considering you're so humble."

Shane rolled his eyes, his lips forming a smile, and he lightly slapped (Y/N)'s elbow as they headed further into the apartment. "Hockey and acting are two very different things, okay? And besides, I've never seen you act in a commercial. You do interviews, magazine shoots, and pose for billboards... in underwear."

"Ah."

(Y/N) smirked and sharply turned, stepping in Shane's way with a soft, mischievous giggle.

"You saw the Calvin Klein billboard, then? What'd you think? I think I showed off the product extremely well, and most of the internet agrees." He took a small step forward, leaning in so their faces were inches away. "I bet you printed out a picture and have it hidden under your bed like it's a playboy magazine."

Shane flushed. Bingo. "Fuck off, I do not."

"Do you kiss it every night before you go to bed? Or is it too sticky and gross to-"

(Y/N) laughed and dodged when Shane playfully lunged for him with the intent to push him, their laughter echoing in the apartment as they began a game of chase around the livingroom and kitchen.

(Y/N) weaved around his furniture expertly, using the seats and tables to create obstacles between them. Shane kept his eyes locked on him as it was a match, and he was the puck.

(Y/N) bolted, and Shane swiftly followed, using his socks to his advantage to slide when he turned, though he ended up stumbling regardless and gave an irritated huff.

(Y/N) snickered and slipped into his bedroom, spinning around with the expectation that Shane would be a little further behind, only to yelp in surprise when the captain was right behind him.

With a victorious laugh, Shane shoved him down onto the bed and straddled his hips, grinning down at him. "I win." He chirped through light pants, chuckling at (Y/N)'s eyeroll. Competitive asshole.

They stayed like that for a moment, catching their breath and letting out the last of their giggles. Shane lowered his body to rest atop (Y/N)'s, and he leaned in, pressing his mouth over his in a chaste kiss.

One kiss led to another, and then to another, and by the fourth kiss, their mouths were parting and their hands were impatiently tugging at clothes.

Shane leaned back, peeling his jacket off and tugging his shirt over his head before he got up to slide the joggers and boxers down his legs. (Y/N) sat up and swiftly stripped his clothes, pleased to feel bare skin when Shane quickly climbed back onto his lap and settled over his thighs.

Shane kissed him hard, licking into his mouth and sucking on his tongue with a lot of eagerness and not quite enough thought.

"Tell me you have condoms." Shane wrapped his arms around him. 

(Y/N) laughed and grabbed at his thighs, hoisting him up against his chest. Shane flinched, his grip around him tightening and his mouth opening to protest before (Y/N) dumped him on the bed with a chuckle.

He bounced and puffed out his cheeks at him, but made no further complaints or demands as he soaked (Y/N) in while he rifled through his nightstand drawer.

(Y/N) reached down to pat the side of his knee. "Turn."

Shane followed the order immediately, rolling onto his stomach and peering over his shoulder to watch. (Y/N) yanked on Shane's legs until he was at the edge of the bed, and then sank to his knees.

He gently spread him apart, spitting down on his hole and slowly, deliberately teasingly, dragged his tongue over it. Shane shuddered, a gasp getting knocked out of his chest.

"Relax," (Y/N) called, taking the bottle of lube from the drawer and rolling it between his hands to warm it up a little. "Breathe, alright?"

Squirting a decent amount on his fingers and over Shane's entrance, he gingerly rubbed over it with his fingerpad, watching the shivers and shudders that had Shane's shoulders jerking.

He pushed one finger in down to the knuckle, knowing Shane could take it, and slowly moved it back and forth. Shane's head dropped onto the mattress, and his soft, quiet moans grew louder when he added a second finger. 

(Y/N) leaned in, nipping at the soft mound of flesh of Shane's ass, and chuckled when Shane's hips jerked forward. He continued thrusting his fingers, curling and sissorcing them until Shane's thighs were trembling and his voice had grown tight with impatience.

(Y/N) stood up, noting the sharp inhale Shane took. He patted Shane's thigh. "Let me sit." 

Despite his confusion, Shane moved out of the way, and (Y/N) climbed into bed, resting his back against the headboard and beckoning Shane closer.

Shane blinked with realization, and he crawled onto (Y/N)'s lap again, straddling him and hovering over his twitching, untouched cock. He took another little breath, and (Y/N) rubbed his palms over Shane's sides.

"You can decide how much you can take, and how you want it to go, okay?"

(Y/N) kissed his collarbone and reached over, ripping the wrapper of a condom and rolling it on. He gripped himself at the base and nodded to Shane, one hand holding his hip to help guide him. Shane gasped softly when the tip pressed against his slick entrance, and he swallowed, taking another breath to calm himself. 

"Hey," (Y/N) cooed. "Breathe. Relax. Don't focus on your nerves."

"I'm- I'm not nervous."

"It's alright to be nervous, Shane. I'll take care of you, okay? You'll be fine." 

Shane stared at him for a few passing seconds before leaning in to kiss him, his arms wrapping tightly around him, and slowly, tentatively, he sank down. He broke the kiss with a long, low groan, his eyes squeezing shut and nose scrunching up with a mixture of pleasure and discomfort.

(Y/N) inhaled deeply, the squeeze leaving his mind blank, before he forced himself to focus and began murmuring gentle praises.

"Jesus." Shane breathed out, taking him inch by inch at a steady pace. (Y/N) squeezed his hip in an attempt to steady himself. "Fuck- Mmm, shit."

Shane cursed sharply when he reached the base, his chest heaving with pants and glazed eyes opening to peer at (Y/N)'s face. His palms slid down to press over (Y/N)'s chest, and he adjusted himself slightly on his lap, his mouth falling open in a heavy moan. (Y/N) peppered his face and throat with wet kisses while Shane got used to the new, intrusive yet pleasurable feeling.

"I'm-" His eyes shut briefly. "I'm glad it's with you."

(Y/N)'s chest warmed, and he quickly shoved the feeling away. "Come on, baby. You said you wanted to ride me, so ride me."

Shane's cheeks turned a deep red. "I, uhm... I don't know how, exactly." He admitted sheepishly, and (Y/N) laughed.

"It's okay, I'll teach you."

With (Y/N)'s softly uttered instructions, Shane began swaying his hips in a grind, and when (Y/N)'s hands firmly groped his ass and guided him, he moved up an inch or two, and then sank back down.

His rhythm was unsteady, clumsy with inexperience, but he eventually found a pace that had moans and curses ripping from his throat, and (Y/N)'s head light. The discomfort on his face evaporated into pure pleasure and he threw his head back as he took on a quicker pace.

Shane looked beautiful with the gentle sunlight pouring in, highlighting his warm skin, the hair that stuck to his sweaty forehead and temples, soft yet strong thighs that trembled with exertion and pleasure, and his flushed, bobbing, weeping cock that slapped against his abdomen every so often.

(Y/N) dug his teeth into his bottom lip and thrusted upward to meet Shane halfway, a half-laugh, half-moan leaving his lips when Shane yelped and fell forward onto his chest. (Y/N) wrapped an arm around him, keeping him pressed tight against his chest, and planted his feet on the mattress before he began thrusting upwards.

"Oh, fuck, fuck." Shane whined, his hands tightly grasping (Y/N)'s forearms and face burying into his neck to muffle the flow of noises that left him.

Shane's body threatened to slide forward when he abruptly released, but (Y/N)'s hold kept him still. Shane's blunt nails dug into the skin of his arms, his hips jerking and spasming with his high, his cock continuing to spurt and spurt with every thrust and shock of pleasure that shot up his spine.

He went limp eventually, nuzzling tiredly into (Y/N)'s shoulder, his lips parted in silent moans.

(Y/N) rolled them over, pinning Shane to the mattress, and shoving himself as deeply as possible when his high crashed into him out of some primal instinct.

Shane's back gave a weak, tired arch, and he slumped back on the mattress, his arms falling at his sides and legs slumping open. (Y/N) had half a mind to slip out, earning a soft grunt, and collapse beside him instead of on top.

While his body felt heavy with exhaustion, he sat up, peeling the soiled condom off and tossing it into the trash can by the nightstand. He gave a breathy chuckle and turned his head toward Shane.

"You alive?"

"Mm."

"You can stay the night if you want," (Y/N) offered, taking in the little tremors in Shane's body and his half-lidded expression. "I'll run a bath and- and order some food. Sound good?"

"Mhm." Shane nodded drowsily. "Next time," He exhaled, his head lolling to the side to smile feebly. "I'll bring an overnight bag."

you’d lie with him on that thin mattress, his legs tangled with yours, the fan rattling above you, and you’d ask without really asking, “you ever think about marriage?”

and he’d go quiet

but it wasn't cold, it was quiet in that way he did when he was trying to think without being seen. he’d kiss your shoulder, breathe a soft “let’s not rush it,” and roll onto his side.

with that, the conversation was over, and you never pushed.

but you remembered every time.

because you were the one who always pictured the future too clearly. the shared last name, the house with white paint, the kid who looked just like him but had your stubbornness.

the life that felt so close you could touch it, you told yourself you had time.

but your early thirties came fast-- faster than rent hikes and birthdays and the slow ache in your knees. you both built careers, stability, a home that wasn’t temporary anymore. the mattress got replaced, the furniture now matched, the life you once imagined now existed, piece by piece.

except for one.

he still flinched at the word marriage.

you tried to be patient. god, you tried so hard. you’d bring it up gently, like laying a fragile thing on the table. “hey.. have you given any more thought to us getting married someday?”

and there it was again-- that silence. the way he’d look down at his hands, twist the ring he didn’t wear, chew his lip until it paled.“i’m just.. not ready.”

he’d say it like an apology, like something was wrong with him, not with the two of you. and you’d cup his cheek and tell him it was okay, that you weren’t going anywhere. because you weren’t. you never even thought of it.

but now you’re both mid-thirties.

and it’s starting to hurt.

not in the sharp, dramatic way heartbreak is written about. no-- it’s quieter. a bruise that’s grown over the years until you can’t remember what it felt like not to have it.

you watch your friends get married, start families, move into phases of life you’ve been ready for since the day you realized he was the one you wanted to grow old with.

you tell yourself it’s not a race.

but sometimes, when he comes home late and kicks his shoes off and greets you with that tired smile you love so much, you feel this ache rise in your chest. because you want more with him, because you’ve always wanted more with him.

and he loves you, you know he does. he shows it in a hundred ways-- coffee in your matching couple mug every morning, his hand seeking yours under blankets, the way he looks at you like you're still the same person he fell for all those years ago.

he just can’t say yes to the one thing you’ve been quietly hoping for, and you don’t know how to tell him the truth-- that the waiting is starting to make you feel unwanted, like he wants a future with you, just not the one you’ve been holding onto.

and on a rainy sunday, when you’re both on the couch, wrapped in a shared blanket, and he’s leaning against you, half-asleep, something in you snaps, softly, like a thread finally giving way.

“do you actually.. see us getting married?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. you feel him stiffen against you, you feel his breath catch, his fingers curl slightly, his heartbeat pick up where his back touches your chest.

he’s silent for too long, long enough that you already know the answer, “i don’t.. know,” he finally says, voice shaking. “i love you. i want you. i want us. i just.. [name], marriage scares me.”

you swallow hard, “scares you more than losing me?” the words slip out before you can stop them, he turns toward you instantly, eyes wide, hurt blooming there like something sharp and real.

“don’t say that,” he whispers. “please don’t say that. i’m not going anywhere.”

“but you’re not moving forward, either,” you tell him, voice breaking in a way you haven’t let it in years. “i’ve been waiting for so long. i don’t want to keep waiting forever.”

he looks at you as if he’s realizing for the first time that your patience hasn’t been infinite. that your heart, steady as it is, has limits too. his voice is small when he finally speaks.

“i never meant to make you feel like you weren’t enough.”

“you didn’t,” you say quietly. “i just.. want you to choose me. fully. not someday, not eventually, now.” silence stretches between you again, familiar, but heavier than ever.

he reaches for your hand with trembling fingers, gripping it tight. you feel his breath stumble, the way he leans into you like he’s afraid you’ll pull away.

“i don’t know how to not be scared,” he whispers. “but.. maybe i can learn, if you’re willing to try with me.”

and it’s not a yes.

but it’s the first time he hasn’t run from the conversation, the first time he hasn’t shut down or changed the subject or hidden inside his silence, it’s the first time he’s reached back.

and for now, for this fragile moment, it's enough to make you hold on. maybe just a while longer. because you couldn't see a future without him in it.

...

the night is perfect in a way that almost feels suspicious-- like the universe finally decided to give you two a break.

his birthday dinner is everything he loves, dim lights, soft jazz, food way too fancy for either of you to pronounce correctly. he laughs the whole night, the kind of laugh that scrunches his nose and makes him glow.

he holds your hand across the table, thumb brushing over your knuckles like it’s instinct, like second nature.

and for the first time in months, you feel.. hopeful.

like maybe things really are shifting, maybe his quiet promise, that he would try, actually meant something.

because tonight, he’s warm. open in ways he hasn’t been in a long time. he leans into your side on the walk towards the car, fingers hooked into your arm, humming under his breath as if the world isn’t slowly widening the crack between you.

you convince yourself, he’s ready. and maybe that was your mistake. you convince yourself so deeply that you don’t hear the faint warning your heart tries to give.

when you walk through the front door, he kicks off his dress shoe, grumbling softly about how much his feet hurt, but he’s smiling, he was happy. he turns to say something--

and freezes.

because you’re on one knee.

the small velvet box is open, the ring catching the hallway light, a giant diamond that took you months to save for. something beautiful, something worthy of him.

your voice trembles when you speak.

“i love you. i want to spend the rest of my life with you. i thought.. maybe now.. you’d be ready.”

for a heartbeat, he just stares.

his face doesn’t soften, instead, it goes blank, and your heart drops to the pits of your stomach when you see it-- cold. a wall slams down so fast you swear you hear it.

he inhales sharply, eyes flicking to the ring as if it’s something offensive, something dangerous. "you did this tonight?” he finally says, voice flat. “my birthday?”

you swallow. “i thought it would make you happy.” he steps back. actually takes a step back from you. like distance will help him breathe.

“i told you,” he says slowly, “i don’t want to get married.” your heart stops, the ring in your hand suddenly feels heavy, stupid, humiliating. “i-- i thought you were trying,” you whisper.

he lifts his chin, expression hardening into something unrecognizable. “trying doesn’t mean changing who i am or what i want.”

you blink, breath catching in your throat. “i’m not asking you to change. i’m asking you to choose.”

“and i have,” he snaps. “i don’t. want. marriage. i don’t want the title, the expectations, the legal ties. i’m happy with things the way they are.”

his voice sharpens.

“and if you can’t deal with that..” he gestures vaguely toward the door, dismissive in a way that feels like a slap, “you can leave.”

the silence after that hits harder than the words.

because it isn’t hesitation this time, it isn’t fear, or overwhelm, or uncertainty. it’s final. his final decision

he looks at you like he already knows what happens next, and he doesn’t flinch, doesn't apologize. your throat burns. your voice comes out small, cracked. “after everything.. that’s it? that’s all i get?”

he folds his arms, eyes cold even though you’re pretty sure he hates hurting you. but he’s choosing his comfort over your heartbreak, and he won’t pretend otherwise.

“i’m not going to marry you,” he says again, slower this time, like he wants the words to land. “if that’s a deal-breaker.. then yeah. maybe this is where we stop.”

the ring catches the light again as your hand trembles.

you look at him and realize this moment is the answer you’ve been avoiding for years. he loves you, but not in the way you need to be loved, and for the first time, the truth hits,

you can’t wait anymore.

your voice comes out barely audible. “okay.” his expression flicker-- just for a second. guilt? fear? regret? you can’t tell, so you close the ring box, stand up slowly.

and the distance between you feels bigger than it ever has.

“i’ll pack my things,” you say quietly, because this isn’t a fight. it’s an ending. he doesn’t stop you, doesn’t try to reach for you.

he just watches with that same cold, braced expression, like he expected this, like he prepared for it.

and as you walk past him, heart breaking in a way you didn’t think was possible at this age, you hear the faintest whisper behind you, so soft you almost miss it.

“i’m sorry.”

but it’s too late.

you loved him enough to wait, he loved you enough to let you go, and neither of you won tonight.

...

the first week without you feels strange.

not devastating, but wrong in a way he can’t name. your toothbrush is gone, your shoes by the door are gone, the apartment feels bigger, emptier, every sound echoing just a little too long.

he keeps telling himself this is what he wanted, he said the words, he set the boundary.

so why does he keep turning toward the door at 6:14 PM like he’s waiting for your keys to jingle? why does he keep reaching for his phone when something funny happens, only to remember he has no one to send it to?

it’s small things at first.

he buys groceries and realizes he doesn’t know what brand of coffee he likes-- he only ever bought yours because he always said he'd “drink whatever.”

he watches a movie and catches himself glancing at the empty cushion beside him, waiting for your commentary.

he wakes up at 2 AM, rolls to his side, and meets cold sheets instead of your body heat.

he tells himself he’s fine, but the lie cracks every day.

it’s when he’s out walking that it finally hits him.

a couple passes by-- young, wedding rings glinting under sunlight, their daughter skipping between them, holding both their hands. the dad swings the girl up, the mom laughs, and they look so natural, so belonging it sickens him to the core, thinking of what could've been his future-- their future.

something twists in his chest sharply enough to stop him mid-step, he stares a moment too long, because he remembers when you used to point those scenes out, smiling softly, saying, “that’s gonna be us one day, watch.”

he always brushed it off, but he heard you, he always heard you.

and now, standing alone on a crowded street, he realizes something he had never let himself think, he never doubted growing old with you, he just thought he had endless time to get comfortable with the idea.

time you couldn’t keep giving.

another day, he’s at the cafe you two always went to on sundays, he orders out of habit, “two americanos, one black, one with oat milk--” he cuts himself off and the barista pauses, he clears his throat and forces a smile, “just one.”

he sits alone at the table you always shared-- because some part of him still believes you'll walk in late, apologizing, kissing his hair, but the seat across from him stays empty.

families chatter around him, a couple at the next table argues over wedding invitations, another couple is taking engagement photos near the window.

he clamps his jaw shut, because suddenly the world feels painfully full of everything he said he didn’t want.

everything he shut the door on.

everything he never thought he’d have to live without you to understand.

late one night, he finds himself scrolling through old pictures-- your arm around his shoulder, both of you smiling like you hadn’t learned how to break each other yet.

his fingers hover over your name, his pride tells him not to, but oh, his heart aches, his chest tightens, and for the first time, he whispers into the empty room. “i miss you.”

the words unravel him, because they’re true, he misses your presence, your laugh, your steadiness, your toothbrush next to his, your mug on the counter, your warmth filling the spaces he didn’t know were cold