I like the idea of steddie trying on each other's clothes as a fun surprise or a sexy thing and them being like, "ugh, ew. No."
Steve shows up to band practice in black skinny jeans, eye liner, a black leather jacket, and one of Eddie's band shirts. Eddie's eyes go huge but not in a good way. He can't help the way his nose scrunches up in distaste. "Please go put on a polo and a puffer jacket this is not my boyfriend."
Eddie tries to dress nicely for some event, maybe a work thing for Steve, but instead of doing it his own way, he just raids Steve's closet. He's wearing a white button up under a beige sweater, light wash jeans, and his hair in a slick bun. Steve immediately pulls a face like he wants to be sick and makes Eddie at least take off the sweater and undo some buttons so at least he can roll up the sleeves and show off his tattoos.
They love each other exactly as they are and don't want the other to change for them at all.
They both get horny if the other borrows Robin's clothes, though, which is why they are both banned from her closet.
a selection of photos taken by other people from their first year of marriage:
towards the end of their wedding reception, sun setting, looking rumpled and tired, Ilya kissing Shane's palm while Shane is very seriously talking to Scott Hunter
the two of them with a fan, taken at the dog park, Ilya holding Anya and Shane with one arm around his husband's shoulder and the other trying to prevent Anya from licking the fan's face
Shane Hollander sitting on the Centaurs bench with blood on his face, mouth wide open, Ilya Rozanov gripping his chin and glaring at the gap where Shane's bottom canine used to be
Ilya Rozanov with his fist in the air after a goal, a smear of red in the corner of his mouth
sitting next to each other at team tape review, heads bent together, Ilya's hand on Shane's thigh, Shane's hands sketching out a play in the air
Ilya Rozanov leaning against his car in the airport arrivals line, a coffee in one hand and a forest-green smoothie in the other
Shane Hollander giving his husband the middle finger after losing the shot accuracy competition at ASG by half a second
piggyback racing across the yard with a Pike twin each clinging to their necks
Ilya Rozanov, outraged, with a face full of snow, as his husband doubles over with laughter
wearing identical blank expressions the seventeenth time a journalist asks about their "off-ice chemistry"
Shane Hollander throwing his head back and cackling in a booth at a random dive bar in a random city, Ilya Rozanov grinning into his drink
asleep on the team bus after game 5 of the conference finals, Ilya curled into Shane's shoulder
It starts, like many things do, because Ilya is curious. Even after all these years, there are still things about Shane that make Ilya curious. It's just that he's seen how it affects Shane, being on his knees for Ilya, just holding Ilya’s cock in his mouth. His shoulders unclench and his face relaxes and he goes still, and any other time Ilya’s cock is out, Shane is never still. And so Ilya is curious. Where does Shane’s mind go when he floats away like that? What does it feel like? Ilya wants to know.
So, ok, Ilya decides they’ll try it. He doesn’t explain all of his reasoning to Shane. He doesn’t have to, really. Ilya knows Shane will give him anything he wants. And sure enough, when Ilya tells him what they’re going to do, he blushes and hauls Ilya in for a kiss, breathes out “fuck, Ilya,” in the space between their mouths, and that’s good enough for Ilya.
So they clean up from dinner, and Shane goes about setting up for them. He won’t let Ilya do anything, tells him, “Just let me. I know what we need.” So Ilya just sits on the sofa and waits, and watches Shane. Shane, who moves around the apartment with single-minded focus. Dishwasher on. Lights dim. Thermostat up. Cushion placed at Ilya’s feet, not for Shane this time, but for Ilya. He demands Ilya’s clothes, gets him stripped to just his boxers, then does the same for himself. He flicks the TV on to a hockey documentary he’s been wanting to watch. And then he turns to Ilya with a grin.
“Ready!” He’s bouncing on his feet a little, and Ilya can’t stop the warm chuckle that escapes from him.
“Excited, kotok?” And Shane rolls his eyes and says, “You should be excited,” but in truth, Ilya feels a bit nervous. He wants this to work. He’s seen how this can be like an off button for Shane’s brain, and there are some days he needs that too. Shane must sense some of what Ilya’s thinking because he says, “It’s going to be so good. I promise,” and places a soft kiss on Ilya’s forehead. Ilya slaps his hands on his thighs, stands up, and says, “Ok, do your worst, Hollander,” and Shane just laughs.
Ilya gets settled on his knees, already grateful for the cushion beneath him. The season’s barely started, but it’s already been brutal, and Ilya’s body is a patchwork of bruises, some fresh and some fading. As he goes to his knees, he thinks about Shane’s promise and the stress of the season and how good it would feel to not think for a while. He hopes Shane is right.
At first, Ilya feels a bit unsure. He loves Shane’s cock in his mouth, of course, but he can’t help feeling that he should be doing something. He’s so aware of the weight of Shane’s cock on his tongue, and shouldn’t Ilya be sucking him down, or bobbing his head? (No, Shane had said at dinner, cheeks pink, I want this to last) And Shane’s thighs are right there, so close they brush his ears, and isn’t Ilya supposed to be gripping them, guiding Shane deeper into his throat? (No, you’ll keep your hands still, too). And Ilya can hear the murmur of the talking heads on the documentary and the soft hum of the dishwasher, but he doesn't hear Shane groaning, oh, oh, fuck, yeah baby, just like that, so the whole thing feels a bit pointless.
But then Shane spreads his thighs a bit more, and Ilya sinks down a bit lower, gets his nose pressed right up against Shane’s belly. And Shane is mostly soft, but he lets out a sigh and a “so good, Ilya,” and, ok, that is nice. And then Shane does something Ilya doesn’t expect. Two fingers tap Ilya’s chin, look at me, so their eyes are locked when Shane says, “Please, Sir, may I touch your hair?” and oh, fucking hell, Ilya might die right here. They’ve tried our sir once or twice, and every time Ilya’s brain short-circuits. It’s the way Shane says it, a little breathless and eager. It’s the way it makes Ilya feel, trusted and powerful. And Shane is looking at him now with so much love in his eyes and waiting so patiently for an answer, fuck.
Ilya nods as best he can in this position, and Shane says “Thank you, Sir,” and Ilya groans and sinks down down down as Shane’s hands find his hair. And then it’s all gentle tugs on his curls and Shane’s strong fingers running over his scalp, and someone is moaning, and oh, that’s me, Ilya realizes. Ilya spreads his knees a little wider, sinks into his body a little more, and that earns him a, “That’s right, Sir. Get comfortable."
Jesus, Shane is going to kill him.
They stay that way for a while, Shane’s lovely fingers in his hair and Shane’s perfect cock in his mouth. Shane’s hard now but seemingly in no hurry, just keeping his hands tangled in Ilya’s hair and saying, “Love your mouth, Sir,” and “Sir, you’re taking me so good,” and Ilya is…he’s not floating, not like Shane gets, but his mind is calm in its own way. It’s just that somehow Shane has crowded out everything else. Or narrowed it down, maybe, made it seem small and insignificant compared to Shane’s strong hands and thick thighs and big cock.
And then Shane says, “Sir?” and gives Ilya’s hair a little tug, like maybe he’s been asking for a while, and all Ilya can do is give a questioning groan, taking Shane out of his mouth to answer is unfathomable, and Shane asks, “Sir, can I fuck your mouth, please?” And suddenly Ilya has never wanted anything more in his life. He moans, long and low, and his own hips fuck up like he’s the one asking, and Shane just says “Oh, thank you, Sir, thank you,” before he tightens his hands in Ilya’s hair and starts to move.
Ilya feels delirious. He knows he’s drooling, but he can’t stop it. He’s hard, he thinks, but it’s difficult to tell when his whole body feels like a circuit of pleasure stemming from the point where his mouth meets Shane’s cock. Every time Shane fucks in deep, he says, “Thank you, Sir,” and every time Ilya answers with a whine. When Shane pulls back, Ilya can taste the pre-cum on his tongue, and his own cock leaks in response. Shane’s pace is steady, and his body is strong and solid, and Ilya’s mind is blank but for Shane Shane Shane.
“Sir, oh, oh, it’s so good. I think I’m—you’re gonna make me come,” Shane gasps out, and Ilya wants that, desperately. “Please, please, Sir, can I come?” And it’s almost too much, Shane begging like this and calling him sir while he’s holding Ilya’s head tight and fucking deep into his throat. He feels so powerless. He feels so powerful.
Ilya isn’t sure what noise he makes to signal his permission, but Shane, perfect Shane who understands everything, knows a yes for a yes. He fucks his hips up one last time as he shudders and shakes and spills. Ilya’s shaking too, and he can’t stop it. He feels like he’s might fly apart into thousands of pieces, but then Shane says, “Sir, let me—” and strong arms are hauling Ilya up and settling him on the couch, and Ilya’s got a lap full of Shane, Shane who is saying “Want to make you come, Sir, can I?” and Ilya nods, he thinks, but mostly he keeps his eyes fixed on Shane, Shane who unraveled him completely, Shane who will put him back together. And then Shane’s warm hand is wrapped around Ilya’s cock, and Shane is saying, “Please, please, Sir, give me your cum. Please, can I have it? I need it, I need it so much,” and Ilya, who can deny Shane nothing, gives him what he needs.
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