December's Musings

shane is perhaps hyperaware of cliff marleau’s presence tonight, but only in the way that ilya hasn’t gotten to see him in such a long time. it’s a reunion of sorts. so vibes are up. his husband’s happy and that makes shane happy, his slightly swimming brain latching onto the endorphins that spike around marleau like they’re his own.

it’s why his body reacts the way it does when one moment, things are footloose and fancy free, and then the next, there’s this solid, hulking weight settling behind him, not touching but unmistakably there. it’s marleau’s deep voice. marleau’s woodsy cologne. marleau’s heat, hovering just shy of shane’s back as he leans over his shoulder to shout something at ilya.

it’s loud as fuck in here, the bass sitting low in shane’s chest, so he really does mean shout. but ilya leans in a bit to catch his words. seamlessly. they’ve done this so many times, shane assumes, finding each other in clubs after inevitably splitting up. and that’s fine. that’s good. ilya’s laughing and he’s happy and that makes shane happy. and then the crowd moves.

it’s light - a ripple effect as a group of girls make their way through the sea of bodies - but it’s just enough, that adrenaline spiking with a top-off of sweet endorphins as suddenly, marleau’s body sinks in to press all along shane’s back.

it’s nothing. an accident. and yet shane’s heart suddenly bunny-kicks in his chest, the light squeeze of him caught between ilya and marleau’s chests sending a pulse of satisfied heat through his core. because neither of them are moving away. there’s a natural sway to them that comes from being in a crowd of bodies, but the extra space must’ve never freed up behind marleau after the girls passed. and all of the sudden shane’s brain and dick register that he’s stuck. that he’s squished, by firm muscles, from all sides.

he’s been in this position before. on a dance floor like this. rose kissing him, miles’s lips not so secretly brushing against the back of his neck. it’s not a new position, but tonight is nothing like that. right now, there’s nothing remotely sexual even happening. it’s just ilya talking to his friend. just having a moment. casual and circumstantial and yet shane’s skin is on fire. his muscles are screaming with relief, the beautiful satisfaction of the deep pressure surrounding him making his brain swim down deep.

ilya shouts something back to marleau with a devastatingly handsome smile. it gets both hands reaching over shane’s shoulders to give ilya’s a friendly rub and it’s too loud to catch. all shane knows is they’re both laughing now. they’re like boys again - a revisit to their clubrat days and they’re just as smooth and sexy but they’re mature now. stable. and shane is ilya’s, those big hands on his hips now that marleau’s snug against his back. there’s no room to actually dance and shane’s finding he couldn’t be happier about that, pulse thick and thundering in his ears as another wave presses in, marleau’s touch dropping back to clamp over shane’s deltoids as he’s forced to press forward again - so fucking tightly into him this time that shane stumbles that last half a step into ilya’s chest and fuck.

shane’s eyes flutter closed. hands fall to clutch into the back of ilya’s tank top. his dick jumps in his jeans as the heady pressure squeezing around him tightens. neither of the men seem to care that marleau’s all up on shane and maybe that’s normal. maybe that’s just the way the club scene is. you get cozy and flush against your best friend’s partner and no one bats an eye because it doesn’t mean anything. it’s just a spacing issue.

maybe shane’s the freak.

because he’s trying not to, but he can feel himself getting hard. he can hear all that teasing that poured from his husband’s lips after he admitted to hypothetically wanting this around that fire pit. the pressure. the trap. with this man specifically.

marleau leans his head back for a second and his warm breath fans against the nape of shane’s neck and suddenly, like a demon has possessed him, it’s taking everything in shane’s power not to back his ass up into marleau’s lap. to grind against him a little. just to see. god, he’s drunk. he needs ilya to take him home and fuck him. he needs to stay right here and live out his days crushed between these two sweaty bodies, their colognes mixing into this insane aroma that gets in shane’s head and makes him wanna do something crazy.

he just needs to recenter. steady his pulse. enjoy the pressure without equating it to something filthy, like he can usually do so well, but for some reason is struggling hard as hell with right now.

shane rests his chin over ilya’s shoulder with a hum. closes his eyes. remembers himself and where he is and opens them back up, making eye contact with a twink who’s watching him with what can only be described as biblical proportions of envy.

they need to leave. before shane does something stupid. before he ruins a friendship that’s been in the works for over a decade because he’s drunk and horny and can’t control himself.

shane lifts his head to brush his lips against ilya’s ear, but before he can ask, something happens behind them. whatever it is, it’s got marleau’s lap pressing up flush against his ass and god, it sends this buzzy pleasure through him so, so deeply and the noise escapes shane before he can reel it in. before he can act like he’s normal and not very obviously so fucking turned on between them.

he can feel ilya’s chest rumble. hear the smirk that’s dancing across his lips as he noses his way over to shane’s ear instead.

obviously, the most profound moment of ilya "lost in the sauce" rozanov is at the cottage. post-iloveyous, post-shanewakesilyaupinthemiddleofthenighttoplanthenextdecadeoftheirlivestogether. it's that moment when they're tangled up together in the soft sunlight, rain pitter-pattering on the wide glass windows, shane looking back at ilya so sweetly asking "this is real right" with his big, strong hand gripping at ilya's curls. and i think we can all agree that moment is the first moment they don't use condoms so ilya is trying to answer--to give shane the verbal confirmation he needs--but his entire body is buzzing with sensation at how warm, tight, soft, close shane feels like this. his mind is just drowning in loud tingling pleasure, his body also. all of him honed in on shane, shane, shane. he couldn't think of anything else if he tried. all he can do is nuzzle his nose into shane's pit, smear kisses over his ribs, lap helplessly at shane's nipple, and watch shane beneath him. watch his pretty face as his freckles bunch up, as his big brown eyes water with pleasure, as his cheeks get ruddy and his brows pinch then relax as his beautiful boy sinks into the sensation. and when they're both done, ilya stays tight to shane's back, just stroking up and down the thick muscle of his lover's thigh, kissing at his ribs, enjoying the afterglow. enjoying it the way he's wanted to for so long, with nothing between them and no need to wash away his longing by showering as fast as possible.

maybe not that first summer but after a year or two ilya manages to convince shane to smoke a blunt with him. and shane is terrible at it; he complains that the smoke burns his lungs and he coughs violently and chokes on each inhale, barely taking any in. so, of course, ilya takes over. presses his mouth, damp and hot and full of smoke, to shane's and pushes his tongue past shane's lips. and that's how shane gets high, breathing in the smoke ilya traps behind his teeth. they smoke out on the dock, at sunset. shane says he feels nothing and ilya just hums, says "sure, hollander" and pokes shane's flushed cheeks, laughs at shane's wide pupils, lounges back against the wooden dock with a wicked quirk to his smart mouth. and he feels it. in his limbs, that heavy warm floaty buzzy feeling that makes him kinda feel like sleeping and kinda feel like bursting into a fit of childish giggles. it takes about ten minutes for shane's body to loosen, for him to turn to ilya with heavy, hazy eyes and then crawl over top of ilya, pushing him down into the dock to kiss him all sloppy and demanding and hot. and ilya's had sex high before, made out high before, but suddenly his heart is frantic. shane is heavy in his lap, shirtless and drenched in orange-gold light, freckles stark over his cheeks and shoulders. he's beautiful, his brown eyes turned amber in the sunset, his pouty mouth swollen and dragging heated kiss after heated kiss from ilya's lips. and ilya's heart is pounding, so fucking loud in his ears, he can feel the hectic thumping of it in his throat, in his chest, banging on his ribcage. actually, he's so violently turned on and the adrenaline is pumping so fast he feels sick and he wrenches away with a gasp and feels lightheaded and has to hold off shane who is pouting and whining for more kisses. all the blood in ilya's body has travelled to his dick and all that's left in his brain is a druggy haze of lust and cotton. this is the first time ilya rozanov ever freaks the fuck out on weed -- because his high brain got so turned on he nearly forgot to breathe between kisses. he has to lie flat on the dock breathing in through his mouth and out his nose for twenty minutes before he can get up and go inside.

i think their wedding night they are too drunk and delirious with joy to manage anything more than a sloppy, messy, grinding makeout in bed after everyone leaves. they're both coming in their pants and showering afterwards together and kissing some more and then falling asleep in a heap of tangled limbs. their honeymoon, however, is full of ridiculous, ilya "lost in the sauce" rozanov sex moments. the most notable being after a night out at some club. shane had been just so fucking sweet and hot and joyful all night. dark hair styled nicely, big arms on display in the tight little sheer black t-shirt ilya buys him to wear out to the club, his fingers tucked into ilya's waistband most of the night, just a little possessive and a little clingy. but ilya just has such a nice night. he does shots with a drag queen and meets fun, attractive, queer people. he dances in public with his husband under pulsing neon lights and kisses shane in the corner underneath the speakers throbbing ear-splitting club music. he feels a little trashy and a lot young and infinitely in love with his husband who mostly just bobs his head awkwardly to the music and holds ilya's hand with a besotted look on his handsome face. and when they get in the uber back to the hotel at 4 in the morning shane doesn't even flinch when ilya plasters himself to his side, kisses all over his neck, gropes his chest in the backseat. and when they're finally in the hotel room and stripped naked there's glitter on shane's skin from brushing up against the other bodies on the dancefloor and he's sweaty and he smells a little musky and a little like alcohol and ilya just loves him. loves his husband for coming out with him to a club and indulging everything ilya wanted all night even if he was nervous. loves his husband for the way he'd just had eyes for ilya all night, not even noticing anyone else looking at him, dark eyes never straying from ilya. and they go into the bathroom to shower the night off their bodies but ilya gets distracted looking at shane in the mirror, looking at him standing there all naked and glorious in the soft yellow light, and he can't help but drop to his knees behind shane and pry apart his asscheeks and bury himself there, tongue lapping, pressing, smearing, sliding over shane's hole. and he sucks kisses into the skin, pushes his tongue in, drools over his own chin as he presses his face in deeper. eats shane out for so long that his neck cramps and his knees hurt but he's entirely lost in it. moaning and groaning and whimpering when shane pushes his hips back, when shane reaches back to grab his hair and hold him closer, when shane curses and pleads and whines for more. ilya isn't even thinking of fucking shane--he is enjoying this too much. at some point he started jerking himself off tho and he comes like that, tongue buried in his husband, moaning loudly and dripping saliva down his chin.

ilya has been injured for a week, on IR, out of commission. he's miserable about it. not just because of the hockey--not just bc he is captain and feels like a sack of shit for abandoning his team, to which shane had said "baby, it sucks but it's good it happened now and not later in the season. you'll be back on the ice in time to make sure we still make it to the playoffs"--but also because his injury has prevented him from doing much with his husband. shane has been on a roadie and ilya has been with yuna and david, being dotted on, which is a bit overkill -- it's just a sprained groin not even a severe sprain, the doctor had said it was only grade two and he'd been fine in a few weeks. but before that he hadn't been allowed to do much either -- nothing at all in the bedroom -- and he is miserable. when shane gets back he picks ilya up from his parent's place and anya too and they all go home to their quiet ottawa place. anya runs off to her favourite corner of the yard to reacquaint herself with her favourite pile of dirt in the bushes and shane fusses over ilya on the couch. ilya is NOT sulking at all, not at all bitching and whining like a child. he's just saying that he doesn't need all this fuss hollander, it's fine, please just come here and let me blow you at least. and shane--who is currently been bumped from A to C--is trying to be responsible and telling his husband "no, you will not go on your knees and strain your groin further just to suck me off" and ilya groans and says "okay, i will lie flat and you can sit on my face, do all the work yourself" and, well, shane's dick is a little interested in that. but no, he shakes his head. so ilya pulls out the big guns, he pouts, flutters his thick lashes, looks up at shane with his eyes all pleading and says "i miss you" and shane groans, rubs a hand over his face and stomps away. ilya thinks his tactic has failed but then shane is coming back, dropping lube onto the couch then climbing behind ilya, dragging ilya back to lean his back against shane's chest. and ilya is confused by this turn of events but says nothing as shane kisses at his throat, runs a featherlight touch up and down the ladder of his ribs, the other hand massaging ilya's thick thigh muscle, careful of where ilya's muscle tore. and shane does this for ages, just kissing at ilya's neck, biting at the juncture where his neck meets his shoulder, scratching blunt nails over ilya's sides and rubbing his thumb over ilya's nipple. ilya is hard as fuck and wants to squirm away but shane holds him tighter and sucks a bruise into the soft skin behind his ear. eventually he's pushing down ilya's pants and briefs and slicking his hand with lube and slowly, torturously, meanly, stroking ilya's cock in lazy drags. his palm and fingers applying the faintest amount of pressure, dragging over ilya's cock lazily, like he has all the time in the world. and ilya can't fucking do anything about it. shane has one leg clamped over ilya's knee to keep him from moving and has his other hand wrapped firm around ilya's hip. he keeps kissing wet and messy and biting at ilya's throat. keeps stroking just on this side of too little. he maybe spends half an hour like that, nosing at ilya's jawline, murmuring softly to him saying "baby, baby, shh, just like this" and ilya is going fuzzy at the edges. forgetting all about being annoyed abt being on IR, forgetting all about feeling lazy and useless. "let me take care of you, you do so much, work so hard," shane sighs "just enjoy it" and ilya, strangely, does. the world's slowest, lightest, sweetest handjob reducing him to a puddle of goo melted between shane's thighs. when ilya eventually comes it's with a soft whimper and then shane is cleaning up his tummy and kissing his forehead and making him a nice meal and getting him an icepack for his groin.

Ilya’s new omega was unbelievable. Granted, when he’d placed the ad he’d mostly been thinking about the practically of there being no single omegas in the whole county. It was what you were supposed to do and he’d built the farm and the house and the start of a fortune on his own and marriage was the next step. The moment Shane had stepped off that train though, shoulders hunched and cheeks red, his world had turned on its axis. He was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen or smelled, shy and quiet but strong too, with an intelligence that was undeniable.

And now he was the literal picture of a blushing bride. Or groom he supposed. He’d never been with anyone who wasn’t a working girl, not since his youth messing around with Svetlana during ruts anyway, and was fascinated. Shane melted under him, obviously inexperienced but tentatively trying to reciprocate Ilya’s kisses, moaning so sweetly when he ran his arms up his side, rested them with a squeeze on his perfect waist, his strong hips.

He stared, fascinated and a little intimidated when Ilya undressed. He refused to make eye contact, blushing so hard when he wiggled his pants off that Ilya almost felt bad removing Shane’s shirt as well (evidently he’d been expecting Ilya could just leave it on to protect his modesty or some nonsense), would have maybe apologized if Ilya hadn’t been able to clearly smell the spike in his nervous excitement.

He squeaked, there was no other word for it, when Ilya bent his head to eat him out, protesting that it was “dirty” so earnestly that Ilya decided to humor him and save that for another day. They’d only just met this morning and there was plenty of time to help his omega learn all the ways he could feel good. Besides, there was so much slick from his clearly understimulated glands there really wasn’t any practical need for it.

He presented shyly, arching his hips up and spreading his legs slightly, inviting, with a flush that spread all the way to his chest. Ilya made short work of knotting his pretty little bride, spurred on by the flustered panting and moans and the wetness that gathered in Shane’s eyes as he pushed back against him desperately.

Poor little thing, he’d probably never had anyone to help him with all this slick, didn’t know what to do about it. Shane came once, wailing and frantic with it before Ilya had even finished knotting him, and came again when Ilya formalized their mating with a bite, deep and pretty, set high up on his neck where it would be easily visible over any shirt collar.

God he hope it took well. Maybe he should slide his teeth in a few times over the next week just to be sure. Some bites healed clean, a subtle, pale flash of a mark where teeth had once been, something you had to look for. Others were badly done, ragged and messy. Some were clean and proper but healed hard, the skin around the bite a permanent rosy red-pink of healing skin, the marks standing out livid and raised and unmistakable. He’d never had strong thoughts about bite mark styles before but now he was suddenly quite interested in the idea of his omegas mark being clear and obvious, something that easily caught the eye. Yes, he’d definitely re-do the bite a few times to encourage that.