Reheated Mania

Five minutes ago, standing on the wrong side of a hotel room door and going over the play in his mind, it had seemed like a reasonable solution.  Ilya stops extracting Shane’s heart through his lips one bloody strand at a time, and everybody still gets their rocks off.  It’s perfect, right?

Obviously not, but he had to try something.  A voice in his head, one he might envision as a tiny Captain Hollander perched on his right shoulder, says, You could try fucking ending it, and he tells it to stick to the realm of possibility.  No kissing, no feelings, risk mitigated.  Win-win. (Idiot, shoulder Hollander says, and Shane ignores him.)

shane calling ilya captain (insp) while getting railed and called a good boy

more ilya hole, more fingers or a tongue but what i really want is some reversal where ilya soft doms from the bottom and they realize it’s a perfect semi-annual addition to their beautifully full sex life

ilya coming on shane’s face, can be in the shower but tongue needs to be out

shane dirty talks in russian… maybe an entire russian exchange where ilya tells him what to do in russian to test his language comprehension but in the spirit of the “is my special day, hollander, i want to watch”

they have rough loud sex in a hotel room (maybe even pissed off sex after a bad game and power struggle as shane adjusts to not being a captain) on a road trip and it makes things weird at team breakfast the following morning… and hazy is scarred for life

very quick short ficlet for my luna on ilya’s birthday <3

Ilya doesn’t know where Shane is. He just opened his eyes, on the morning of his 35th birthday, and his husband is not in bed next to him. What a terrible start to the day.

He puts a hand out to Shane’s side and the sheets are cold to the touch. Ilya gets up, scratching at the hair on his belly and straightening his pyjama pants as pads out of the room in search of his husband.

It’s quiet. Too quiet. Shane talks to himself a lot, he’s never really quiet when he’s in the comfort of his own home (which Ilya loves so much). When Ilya is down the final step, he hears the scratching of Anya’s nails on the hardwood floor and then Shane very quietly trying to shoo her away.

“Anya, shhh, stop, go away.”

Anya apparently gets the hint because she comes prancing around the corner from the kitchen and past Ilya to the living room to play with her favourite toy. Ilya tiptoes towards the kitchen, peering around the wall to see a sight that has him blinking a few times in confusion and awe.

Shane Hollander—his husband (if you didn’t know), all time best hockey player to ever exist (according to Ilya), three time winner of NHL’s sexiest player (should have been four times)—is standing with his back to Ilya, at the stove, cooking pancakes, and he’s naked.

Not, like completely naked, that’s not what makes Ilya confused, he’s wearing an apron and a chefs hat. He’s also wearing his favourite white tube socks that go high up his calves that Ilya calls his lingerie teasingly.

Ilya is staring at Shane’s ass and his open back apron and longer hair peeking from the bottom of the chef hat and socked feet and he thinks he falls in love a little bit more which he wasn’t aware was possible.

“Happy birthday to me.” Ilya says as he rounds the corner fully and stands and stares openly at Shane.

Shane startles a little and turns around holding a spatula in the air. The front of his apron has a shirtless cartoon women’s body on it with big tits and pink bikini bottoms. Ilya covers his mouth with one hand hiding his smile.

“You’re awake!” Shane exclaims.

“I am, and you’re… cooking?” Ilya says with his hand holding his chin and his smile lingering.

Shane turns around to turn off the stove and Ilya looks at his ass again. He turns back around with a plate pilled with pancakes and a whipped cream can in one hand.

“Happy Birthday!”

Ilya chuckles and walks closer to him and leans over the pancake plate between them and gives Shane a sweet peck on the lips. “Thank you, moya lyubov'”

Shane’s smile is big and cheesey and he’s a little flushed from the heat of the stove. He’s so perfect. Ilya loves him so much.

He shakes the whipped cream bottle a bit and goes to squeeze it on pancakes but it kind of does a mini explosion from the tip of the can. Little dollops of whipped cream end up across Shane’s neck and chin.

“Oh my god.”

Ilya laughs and grabs the pancake plate and whipped cream can and places them on the counter. He’s still laughing when he grabs Shane by the hips.

“I can clean it, here,” he leans forward and licks a long thick line up the column of Shane’s neck and he feels his breath hitch in his throat. “All clean.” He whispers against his sticky skin.

He pulls back to look at Shane’s face and glances up at the chef hat realising it says Kiss the chef. He snorts.

“Kiss the chef, huh? Not lick the chef?”

Shane swallows and grabs at Ilya’s biceps, running his thumbs softly over his skin. “It’s your birthday, it can be whatever you want it to be.”

Ilya smiles cocky and big.

word count: 778 words

rating: gen

did you hear? my recs are open!

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“Hudson, you with us buddy?"

When Hudson opens his eyes, everything is a blur. The cloudy sky above is muddled, the grey misting into the dark treeline as half-hearted raindrops sprinkle down. He blinks, the floating blobs in his vision slowly attaching themselves to bodies, eventually making out the faces of Jacob and Connor staring down at him.

“God, are you okay? I am so sorry, I told you-“ Connor starts, his face pale, eyes wide and glistening. Was Connor crying? Why was Connor crying?

Jacob shushes him, and when he turns to Hudson his voice is calm. “Hudson, how many fingers am I holding up?”

Hudson squints, letting the hand Jacob is holding up slowly sharpen into focus. “4?” And, because he’s an asshole, he snaps a grin, holding up both hands, folding his fingers so just his middle fingers stick up. “How many am I holding?"

Tension releases from the air like a popped balloon. Jacob’s brow relaxes, and Connor lets out a relieved laugh. They sit back on their heels, and it’s not until then that Hudson finally registers the abrasive edge of the cottage's deck steps along his spine.

He swallows, his tongue feeling like soft fruit inside his mouth. “What happened?”