Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationship:

Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais/Shane Hollander

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais

Additional Tags:

shayjsunday, Shameless Smut, Bottom Shane Hollander, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Friends to Lovers

Language:

English

Series:

Part 8 of j.j.'s bisexual adventures

Collections:

anonymous

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-12 Words: 3,025 Chapters: 1/1

on celebrations and cheer

Summary

J.J. and Shane have just won the 2015 Stanley Cup. The energy is amazing, and J.J. loves his team, and he loves his captain. His capitaine.

Notes

my first entry for shayj sundays... i've actually sat on this since february but didn't really like it?? but the wonderful people in the syaj gc on twitter encouraged me to post so here i am ♡

i actually??? believe this was a request prompt but i can't remember who asked so . this is for you. hope you like it!

The thing about winning the cup was that it didn’t quite feel real until it did, and then it felt like too much all at once.

Shane had the cup over his head on the ice and he was screaming and J.J. was screaming beside him and the arena was so loud J.J. couldn’t hear his own voice, just felt it in his throat, and then the cup was passing and they were grabbing each other, Shane’s gloves still on and his helmet knocked sideways and J.J. lifting him half-off the ice because he could, because they’d just won, because Montreal had just won the Stanley Cup and Shane Hollander was their captain and J.J. had been his defensemen for five years and they had just—

“Onl’a eu,” J.J. said, into the side of Shane’s helmet.

“On l’a eu,” Shane said back, and his voice cracked on it.

That was the last quiet moment that lasted for approx six hours.

The locker room was chaos. Champagne everywhere, soaking into everything, J.J.’s eyes stinging with it. Someone has a speaker going. Gagnon was crying openly and not apologizing for it. Shane was doing interviews in the corner, still dripping, still in his gear, and J.J. kept finding his eyes across the room and Shane kept finding his back, and each time it was just a second, just a look, but it was there.

They ended up at a bar. Owner’s thing, team thing, the whole organism of a cup win carrying everyone along with it. J.J. has a drink in his hand that someone had given him and was on his second or third by the time he stopped counting. The bar was loud and warm and full of people whose faces he knew and the night had that specific quality of unreality that came after something enormous, like the world hadn’t caught up to what had just happened in it.

Shane was beside him at some point. J.J. didn't register the exact moment he’d appeared, just became aware of him there, shoulder to shoulder at the bar, both of them looking out at the room.

“Ça y est,” Shane whispered.

“Ça y est,” J.J. agreed.

Shane had changed out of his gear into a white shirt that was already slightly rumpled, collar open, and his hair was still damp from the shower and doing something unruly that J.J. did not examine. He looked… good. He looked the way people looked after they’d just done the thing they’d been working toward their whole lives. Loose. Open. Like something had been wound tight in him for years and had finally, finally, released.

They drank, they talked to people. Gagnon gave a toast that made everyone laugh and then cry and then laugh again. At some point the crowd thinned and the bar got quieter and J.J. and Shane were still there, still at the bar, and the night was getting late and J.J.’s head was warm and pleasant and Shane’s arm was pressed against his.

“You want to get us out of here?” Shane asked, smiling up at J.J..

Not really a loaded question. Just a.. normal one. They’d left parties together a hundred times.

“Oui,” J.J. said.

The street outside the bar was cool and quiet, a sharp contrast to the bar, and they walked without deciding where, the way they walked sometimes after road games in cities that weren’t their, just moving. Montreal was their city and it felt different tonight, like the city knew, like the air was different.

Shane was a little ahead of him. J.J. watched the back of his shoulders, the loose way he was walking, and thought about the glances they’d kept exchanging across the locker room, the bar, all night and maybe even all playoffs. He thought about years of this—of Shane, of being in his orbit, of evenings and hotels and buses and ice and the specific memorable comfortable frequency of the two of them together—and thought: Something feels different tonight.

Shane glanced back at him, eyes glittery and taking their seal-like quality. “My place is closer.”

“Okay,” J.J. said again.

Shane’s apartment was dark when they got in,and Shane didn’t turn on the overhead light, just the lamp by the couch, and the room was warm and low-lit and J.J. stood in the middle of it and felt the particular thrum of the air. Something buzzed over his arms, his legs, and J.J. wasn’t sure how much he could pin on the alcohol and the victory. Shane went to the kitchen. Came back with two glasses of water, handed one to J.J..

“Thanks,” J.J. whispered.

Shane drank his water. He set the glass down. He was close, closer than he really needed to be in the room where only the two of them were present, and J.J. was aware of it the way you were aware of a change in temperature.

He looked at J.J. for a moment. Just.. looked. Eyes glassy but bright, a smile tugging on his lips as if he noticed something funny, as if J.J. had made a great joke. J.J. wished he knew what was going through Shane’s head to make that expression, so that he could keep doing it so Shane could always smile like that.

J.J. looked back.

And then Shane stepped forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t shy. There was no preamble about it, no lead-up (or maybe there was, and J.J. just missed it by a mile) just Shane’s hand on the side of J.J.’s face and his mouth on J.J.’s mouth, warm and certain, and J.J.’s hand went to his waist immediately, automatically, and he kissed back with fervor.

Shane tasted like champagne and something underneath that was just him, warm and specific, and J.J. pulled him closer by the waist and felt Shane make a small whine into the kiss that went through J.J.’s nerves like a current. His other hand came up the J.J.’s chest, gripping his shirt, and they stayed like that for a long moment, just kissing, unhurried but deep, the warm low light of the apartment and the quiet city outside and nothing else.

But then Shane pulled back. He looked at J.J. again. His eyes were dark and his mouth was a little swollen and his expression was the clear-eyes decided one, the one that meant he’d already thought this through.

J.J. looked back at him. “Yeah,” he whispered, which answered a question Shane hadn’t asked but they both already understood.

Shane pulled him by the shirt as they ambled up the stairs towards his bedroom.

They got the shirts off fast. Shane’s hands on J.J.’s chest, J.J.’s hands on Shane’s waist, and then J.J. got his hands in Shane’s damp hair and kissed him like he had nowhere else to be and Shane whined again, the small wanting on, and pressed forward so their hips would meet. J.J. walked him back toward the bed without breaking the kiss and Shane went, and then they were on his and Shane was under him and J.J. pulled back to look at him.

The low light from the hall. Shane below him, shirt gone, hair wrecked, looking up at J.J. with dark eyes and an expression that was open in a way Shane’s face didn’t usually get to be open. It landed somewhere in J.J.’s chest with a warm squeeze and something softer than that.

He kissed Shane’s jaw. His throat. Felt Shane’s head tip back and his hands come to J.J.’s shoulders and grip. He worked his way down and felt Shane’s breathing change under him, the specific unsteadyness of it, and thought: five years. Five years of J.J. and Shane, and they were always there, right there, and this had been too, probably, and they just hadn’t—

Shane pulled him back up by the shoulder and kissed him again, hungrier this time, and J.J. felt the urgency and matched it. They moved against each other and the friction was immediate and perfect and Shane made a sound that was not quiet at all, a low moan into J.J.’s mouth that went straight to J.J.’s cock. His hips rolled up instinctively, chasing it, and J.J. pressed down to meet him and they found a rhythm and stayed there, grinding slow and deliberate, Shane’s hands everywhere and J.J.’s face in his neck.

“Merde,” J.J. murmured, into his throat.

Shane laughed, breathless, and pulled at J.J.’s belt.

They got the rest of their clothes off with the fumbling efficiency of two people who were a little more than tipsy and wanted this so bad and were not interested in anything getting in the way of it. Shane’s hands were warm and sure and it occurred to J.J.: he has done this before. This is not his first time doing this. He filed that information with the turnabout heated clarity of someone who might forget but was very glad to know it.

He got his hand around Shane’s cock and felt him thick and hard and felt Shane’s sharp inhale and thought: Good, there, yes.

Shane had a hand on J.J. in return and J.J.’s hips rocked forward without his permission and they worked each other for a while in the warm dark, both of them making sounds that weren’t stifled at all, urgent and unguarded, and J.J. thought distantly: we won the cup tonight. We won the cup and now we are here and this is—

Shane stopped him with a hand on his wrist. He looked up at J.J. with his blown-out pupils and pink lips and said, plainly: “I want—” and gestured, vague but clear.

J.J. looked at him. “Yeah?”

“Oui,” Shane said. Definitive.

J.J. kissed him again, hard, and Shane made a muffled urgent sound and reached past him to the nightstand.

He came back with lube and a condom and set them on the mattress, staring (not quite smiling, but clearly happy) at J.J. with a bashful expression. J.J. smiled back, feeling particularly pleased with himself. Shane lay back on one of the thirty-something pillows on his bed and J.J. took the lube and got his hand on Shane’s thigh and pushed it gently aside and Shane let him, easy, and J.J. though: okay, okay he’s done this. He knows where this is going. Good.

J.J. took his time. He went slow, watching Shane’s face, starting with just the one finger and then two, working Shane’s rim careful and patiently. Shane’s expression moved through focused and then past it into something softer and more desperate, his jaw tight, his head tilting back against the pillow. It was perhaps the most gorgeous sight J.J. had ever seen, better than anything or anyone before. Shane was quiet about it at first, managing it, and then J.J. found the right angle and Shane made a sounds that was the opposite of quiet and pushed his hips down, meeting J.J.’s fingers.

“Là,” J.J. whispered.

“oui,” Shane breathed, “there, don’t—”

J.J. stayed there. He watched Shane’s chest rise and fall, the flush spreading down from his ears to his throat to his pebbled nipple, which J.J. would have reached out and rubbed his thumb over had his hands not already been occupied. Shane’s hands went from loose in the sheets and then gripping, having stopped managing his sounds entirely. They were coming out as small and continuous and helpless mewls and J.J. was so hard it was genuinely difficult to concentrate on anything except the look on Shane’s face, which was open and wanting and completely unguarded in a was J.J. had never really seen on him before.

“Another,” Shane ground out.

J.J. gave him another. Felt Shane’s thighs tremble slightly, felt the way his body opened and adjusted, and worked him slow and thorough until Shane’s hand came to his wrist again, not directing, just holding on, his breathing gone completely ragged.

“Okay,” Shane managed, “I’m okay, I’m prepped—you can—”

J.J. pressed a soft kiss to the inside of Shane’s knee as he pushed Shane’s legs apart wider, feeling Shane inhale Sharply above him. He reached for the condom and rolled his own and got the lube and Shane was watching him do it all with dark blown-out eyes and an expression that was hungry and impatient and trying to look like neither of those things, and J.J. almost laughed.

“T'inquiète,” J.J. said.

“I’m not worried,” Shane muttered, which was obviously true and obviously not the point.

J.J. lined his cock up and pushed in slow.

Shane’s head went back almost immediately, J.J. was worried he’d might have his head on the headboard if not for the mountain of pillows in between. His mouth opened and the groan that was pulled out of him was low and and long and completely involuntary, and J.J. felt it in his chest and stilled, buried halfway, watching Shane’s face work through the stretch of it. Shane’s hands had come to grab J.J.;s hips, not pulling, just holding, his knuckles white.

J.J. waited. He watched Shane breathe. In, out, the deliberate controlled exhale of it, managing sensations and then the tension in Shane’s hands eased slightly and J.J. pushed the rest of the way in until he felt his hips meet Shane’s thighs and Shane made another sound, quieter and more internal, something that was mostly just feeling.

He stilled again. Shane’s chest was heaving and his eyes were shut tight and beyond the haze of the buzz and his thrumming veins and being taken aback by the whole thing, J.J. watched Shane and thought again: five years.

Shane opened his eyes. He looked up at J.J. and his expression was wrecked and warm and specific in a way J.J. didn’t think a word existed for it yet.

“Fuck me,” Shane gritted out. Low, a little rough. “Please.”

J.J. did.

He started slow, long unhurried stroked, feeling the drag and heat of it, and Shane’s grunt-moans came back immediately, breathless and unguarded, his hips tilting up to meet J.J. with a neediness that was doing things to J.J.’s ability to stay slow. He kept the pace anyway. He wanted to feel all of it, to relish this. He wanted to watch Shane;s face through all of it, they way it kept changing, the control long gone, just Shane, open and wanting and flushed and gorgeous beneath him

Shane’s hand came up to J.J.’s jaw. He pulled him down into a kiss that was messy and urgent and not particularly coordinated and J.J. kissed back and felt Shane moan into his mouth and the sound went through him like a current.

“Harder,” Shane groaned against his mouth.

J.J. gave him harder.

Shane made a sound that wasn’t a word. His head dropped back against the pillow and his hands found J.J.’s back and his nails dragged with a delicious sting and J.J. thought: I am not going to fucking last, this catastrophically good, Shane Hollander is catastrophically good and I can’t beleive I have let this sneak by for so long—

He got a hand between them and wrapped it around Shane’s cock and Shane’s whole body arched, his chest almost coming up to meet J.J.’s chin.

“Câlice,” Shane choked out.

“Oui,” J.J. said, and moved, and worked Shane’s cock until he felt him start to shake.

It built fast after that. Shane was chasing it, his hips moving up to meet J.J. with increasing desperation, his sounds gone completely ungoverned, and J.J. had his face in Shane’s throat and was moving and thinking nothing at all, just the heat and the friction and the specific electricity of Shane beneath him, and then Shane went taut all over and said J.J.’s name in a voice like something breaking open and came all over J.J.’s fist and J.J. felt it and followed him over the edge with Shane’s thighs trembling hot against him.

He stayed there for a moment, his chest heaving.

Shane’s hands were loose on his back. His own breathing was ragged and slowing, and all of a sudden, the room was very quiet.

J.J. listed his head. Shane was looking at the ceiling with the particular expression of someone who just had a religious experience and was still processing the theological implications. J.J. looked at that expression and felt something move thoughhis chest that was warm and specific and not small at all.

He shifted off of Shane carefully, and found his way to Shane’s ensuite to grab him a hand towel, handing it over gently. Shane took it without meeting his eyes, which was extremely Shane, and J.J. lay back beside him and looked at the ceiling too.

After a while Shane said: “On l'a eu.”

J.J. turned his head. Shane was still looking at the ceiling, the small private thing at the corner of his mouth.

“On l'a eu,” J.J. agreed.

Neither of them said much of anything else. Shane's shoulder was warm against his. Outside, Montreal was celebrating, and J.J. lay there in the low-lit dark and thought: six years on his team. Five years knowing this person. And tonight they’d won the stanley cup and come back here and done this, and Shane’s shoulder was pressed against his and the room was quiet and warm.

He thought: tomorrow is tomorrow's problem.

He thought: I’m not going anywhere.

He stayed.