#top ilya rozanov

[funnyao3tags]

God Bless the Anon who brought this to my attention, amen hallelujah indeed!

If you're curious about the fic here it is

[brokenberries]

Headcannon: Ilya likes to look at himself fucking Shane.

The first time Ilya sees Shane, he thinks That man walking towards me is stunning. Fuck he's talking to me in English and I'm not ready. Quick! Think of something. He's turning away. "You will not be so nice when we beat you." Fuck. The second time Ilya sees Shane, he's gliding over the ice with impossible precision and Ilya thinks I'm in awe of him. He's beautiful and too far away. So he finds a way to look at him closer. He asks for a joint ad campaign. He finds his way into Shane's life for one more day.

Somehow this beautiful man, Shane Hollander, ends up in his bed and by some stroke of luck, he's on all fours, ass up in front of him. Ilya pushes into that tight wet heat and he cannot look away. He always spends precious time opening Shane so there is very little resistance. When he's inside, he can't feel much else, it's just Shane Shane Shane, everywhere, all around him, he's never felt this way with anyone. He feels complete and not cold. It feels too good, a fantasy that might dissolve like a mirage. And so he must bear witness to the reality of their union. He has to watch Shane twitch around him, writhe, moan, fall apart. He flips Shane around without pulling out and watches the lewd spectacle of him spinning on Ilya's cock. He spreads Shane's legs and watches his cock press deeper inside, watches Shane's back arch, hears him sob, watches his cum drip out.

Afterwards, Shane is a pile of limbs on the sheets. Ilya cleans him up. His gaze follows the damp towel as it travels along Shane's chest, his thighs, his softening cock, between his legs. He spends a little too long looking at Shane's puffy little hole, evidence of what they just did. He wipes over it gently and Shane keens, oversensitive. "Sorry," Ilya says, embarrassed for some inexplicable reason. If anyone has the right to be bashful, it's Shane. He's the one being so closely observed. But Shane says "No, no. I like it. I like looking at you too." He's babbling, half incoherent and fucked out. They're gazing at each other. You can't believe it's real either, Ilya thinks. You understand how precious this is. Shane tugs on his hand, it takes him a minute to understand that Shane wants him back inside. He thumbs at his rim before slowly inching in. He's loose, fluttering around Ilya's finger.

Ilya leaves them connected like that, gathers Shane close, he wants to meld into him but he can't, so he hangs on, for as long as he's allowed, to this tiny bubble of intimacy like an oasis in a vast, lonely desert where nothing lasts beyond a fleeting moment. Please don't disappear, he thinks, Please.

[lesbianalumni]

My baby, my baby, moy malysh ficlet by lesbianalumni - read it on AO3

Ilya teaches Shane how to smoke weed. He has no idea that he'll discover a new kink in the process.

Soon after their 30th birthdays, Shane convinces Ilya to give up cigarettes for good. He'd already been dwindling his habit, and admittedly only really liked it for the oral fixation aspect anyway, so it's not too hard a sell. As a compromise, Ilya takes up smoking weed on the weekends.

The substance makes Ilya calm and content: his eyes become little half moons and he eats multiple bags of baby carrots in one sitting, crunching away next to Shane on the couch.

To both of their surprises, Shane finds himself looking forward to his husband's stoner nights. He uses it as a time to introduce Ilya to the kids' media he'd missed: Disney and Pixar movies, Nickelodeon cartoons, PBS, Mister Rogers, Scooby Doo. Ilya becomes fixated on them and Shane provides extra commentary about his own childhood preferences, sometimes complete with photo evidence like him as Woody from Toy Story for Halloween or Yuna accompanying toddler Shane on the Dumbo ride at Disney World.

After a year of this, Shane decides to join Ilya on a total whim.

One night he simply thinks it might be fun to be high, and the curiosity somehow eclipses his fear of losing control in the altered state. Plus, Ilya is still at the top of his game — Shane figures that a single incidence of smoking isn't going to plummet his hockey career like he'd once assumed it would.

Ilya teaches him how to use the small, pink bong he keeps at the cottage. He lights the bowl and pulls the stem out for his husband, watching as Shane inhales then coughs. Ilya takes a few rips himself, then leads them back inside and presses play on Finding Nemo. Ilya gets so lost in his own high bliss and the budding relationship between Dory and Marlin that he almost doesn't notice how quiet Shane is being. For the first half hour of the movie, Shane is staring blankly at the screen, not reacting to jokes or important plot lines. Eventually he pulls out his phone and switches to staring at the smaller device with undivided attention.

When Ilya looks over at the phone screen, he sees that Shane just Googled "symptoms of allergic reaction." He watches his husband swipe through the results for a second, then Google "symptoms of anaphylactic shock."

"Malysh, are you okay?" Ilya asks, concerned.

Shane looks up at him through puffy, red eyes. "I'm worried I'm allergic to these carrots."

"You ate them yesterday, my love" Ilya smiles.

"But what if I developed an allergy? It's hard to swallow all of the sudden." Shane frowns and starts typing "can you become aller..." before Ilya takes the phone.

"Sweetheart, you are not allergic to carrots. Your mouth is feeling a little weird because you are high. Let's do some breaths together, yeah?" Ilya puts his fingers in Shane's hair, pushing it gently back around his temples. He kisses Shane on the cheek. He ignores a tiny flame in his lower abdomen at the sound of his own voice caring for Shane like this.

Shane nods and fills his lungs up, this time with simple oxygen. Ilya feels a weird sense of pride watching his husband's stomach rise and fall. "Make your exhale longer than the inhale," Ilya commands, and Shane does so. After a few breaths, Ilya overhears a serious line of dialogue as Marlin mourns the disappearance of his only son.

"I think this movie is too sad for us," Ilya says. "And it's too light in here. Come on, we are going to the bed."

Shane gets up and follows him through the house. Ilya closes all of the blinds in their bedroom and turns on the vintage lamp they'd found at a yard sale last year, which fills the room with a soft orange glow. He puts Shane's favorite classical music playlist on — soft piano covers of Beethoven and Vivaldi that soothe him — and he pats the bed for Shane to sit down. He grabs their largest hoodie (which just so happens to have Ilya's last name and number on the back) and throws it to his husband. Shane takes the cue to put it on.

Immediately, he can see Shane coming back into himself. Ilya smiles and grabs the hood of the sweatshirt, pulling it up so it engulfs Shane's head, earning him a soft smile that sends electricity through his spine. There is something... interesting about seeing Shane all bundled up and soft and needy.

"Better?" Ilya asks. He sits on the bed and runs a hand along Shane's back.

"Much," Shane nods.

"My poor baby," Ilya coos. "I didn't know you'd get so anxious."

A twinkle in Shane's eye tells Ilya that he is enjoying this kind of doting. "Being high is kind of scary," he says.

"I know, malysh," Ilya kisses him on the cheek. "What would be helpful?"

Shane shrugs. He leans over and rests his head on Ilya's shoulder. "I kind of want my whole body to be run through a spaghetti flattener machine thing," he says with a sigh.

Ilya chuckles. "Yeah, it can make your muscles feel weird."

"Mmhmm," Shane nods. "And I'm so hungry. Isn't that a thing too?"

"The munchies," Ilya smiles. "I have idea."

He stands up to leave and Shane whines — actually fucking whines — at the loss of contact.

"I will be right back, malysh."

"Hurryyyyyy."

Ilya sprints as fast as he can, grabbing a giant box of Reese's Puffs, a carton of vanilla ice cream, and two spoons.

"Oooooh," Shane smiles as Ilya puts the items on the duvet. "But wait." He lifts up one of the spoons and examines it. It's a perfectly normal utensil, one they'd picked out last year because Shane had grown sick of the cottage's previous set.

"Can we use the small spoons?" Shane asks through a slight pout.

Ilya laughs. God, he fucking loves this man. "Yeah, baby, we can," he runs back to the kitchen and swaps the utensils. He would run a marathon to the grocery store to get Shane whatever he needed right now. That thought definitely, certainly doesn't make his cock twitch.

"Thank you," Shane beams up at him. And, okay, fine, the reaction makes more blood flow down Ilya's body.

"This is the best when you are high," Ilya says, settling back into his spot on the bed. He demonstrates taking a small spoonful of ice cream, then dipping it into the cereal bag, coating it with the sugary puffs. He's about to bring the spoon to his own mouth when he makes eye contact with Shane.

He lifts the spoon to his husband instead. "Open," he commands. Shane obeys and licks it clean. "Good baby," Ilya tells him.

Their eyes meet. Shane looks as shocked as he is intrigued.

Ilya makes another spoonful. "More," he says, and Shane takes the spoon into his mouth again, this time using a bit of fanfare as he laps the metal clean.

Ilya can't help it. He puts his thumb in Shane's mouth and groans when his husband immediately sucks on it, lapping his thumb around. He lets out a low "fuuuck" and adjusts his pants.

Shane pulls away from Ilya's thumb, a small strain of saliva keeping them connected until it breaks. "Need you," he whispers.

"I know you do, baby," Ilya says.

He helps Shane lay back on the bed and kisses his neck, cheeks, and finally his lips. He slowly moves his tongue against Shane's and they both sigh together, their bodies settling into the familiar position on their pillows.

Shane is more pliant than normal, all soft and loose in Ilya's arms. He's not making any moves to take his own clothing off. Ilya likes the idea of being completely in charge, of taking care of Shane's every need before the boy even spots it coming.

He takes Shane's pajama pants and boxers off in one fell swoop, then positions himself between his husband's legs. He uses one hand to pull up Shane's shirt and the hoodie, exposing his taut abdomen for Ilya to lick until his mouth finds its way to Shane's cock. The other hand moves to Shane's balls and lightly cradles them.

"Ilya," Shane gasps. He moves his hips up in search of more.

"I know, baby," Ilya says just before putting his mouth around the head of Shane's cock. He licks a circle around it, lapping up the familiar taste. Shane whines a little too much for the simple action.

Ilya pulls his mouth off and uses one hand to pump Shane's saliva-coated dick lightly. "It feels different, yeah?" Ilya asks. "Is okay?"

Shane is looking at him with a tinge of helplessness. He nods. "I can feel it more intensely."

"Yes, exactly." Ilya places his other hand on Shane's hip. "Just relax. And we can stop if it's too much, malysh."

"Not too much," Shane shakes his head. "Keep going."

Ilya brings his mouth back down to another "Fuck, Ilya," and more pre-come leaking from Shane. He works his tongue up and down his husband's shaft and sucks each testicle into his mouth, one at a time, licking and savoring the weight of them on his tongue. He takes Shane's entire length into his throat and hums around it.

Expectedly, Shane is completely losing his mind. He's writhing in the sheets, biting the skin on his own right hand for comfort.

"Good baby, doing so good for me," Ilya says when he briefly pulls his mouth away. He returns it and then uses one finger to begin opening Shane's hole.

Shane muffles his own gasp.

"I know, honey," Ilya coos. "Is okay. I've got you."

He goes so slowly, tracing his finger around and then covering it with his own saliva. Shane never needs coaching for this part anymore, not after years and years of perfecting it, but there is something impossibly hot about pretending like Ilya knows Shane's body better than Shane does.

"Push out a tiny bit, malysh," Ilya says gently. He feels Shane immediately open for him, and fills the tiny gap with the first few centimeters of his pointer finger. "Good, baby."

Shane whimpers and mumbles, "Need more." He moves his hip again, sinking on Ilya's finger.

"We need to go slow, sweetheart," Ilya tells him. "I don't want to hurt you."

Shane nods helplessly, holding eye contact as Ilya very slowly inches his finger in more. He licks up the bead of pre-come that leaks out. He crooks the finger a tiny bit and sends Shane to the next plane of existence.

"Taking it so good for me, baby," Ilya coos. He removes his fingers. "Hand me the lube from the table, okay? You need another before you're ready for me."

Shane quickly reaches for the bottle and passes it over. Ilya squirts enough on his first two fingers, then circles it around Shane, before slowly reentering him.

"God," Shane gasps.

"So sensitive," Ilya tells him. He presses on Shane's prostate. "Especially here."

Shane cries out in pleasure that seems like it's almost too much. Ilya slows down and scissors his fingers gently, opening his husband more.

"Need... need," Shane whines.

"I know, I know, baby," Ilya whispers. He pulls his fingers out and finally, finally, puts lube on his own cock and lets himself slowly push into Shane. It's almost too much — he's achingly hard from everything that led up to this, and the thrill of discovering a new side of their relationship neither of them have seen before.

"Always need to be so full, moy malysh," he says when his breath returns.

Shane nods and uses his fingers to pull Ilya closer, closer, impossibly close. Ilya feels him tighten around his cock, sees his breath start to grow shallow.

"Let it happen," he coaches. "Let yourself come, sweetheart. Your body needs to."

Right as he finishes speaking, Shane's cock pulses against Ilya's abdomen and releases long lines of come between them. Ilya follows soon after, filling Shane as he mutters completely unintelligible syllables that are something like yes, God, fuck, take it baby in his own head.

He lets himself fall onto Shane, their chests rising and falling together. He keeps his cock inside until it's completely flaccid, and even then Shane whines at the loss of it.

"My needy baby," Ilya smiles. He kisses Shane long and slow.

He slides off and then moves Shane's still pliant body so that he's completely engulfed in Ilya. "My baby, my baby, moy malysh," Ilya whispers, kissing Shane's neck and then his warm cheek.

From then on, Ilya buys enough weed for Shane to join him every time.

[stevieschrodinger]

Love Lost

Part One

Ilya is doing his absolute best. This is not how he wanted to meet Shane’s parents for the first time. This is not how he wanted them to find out about them being mated. His Alpha is pacing like a caged beast and the only thing holding Ilya together in this second is the fact that this is Shane’s mother and Shane would never forgive him if Ilya harmed her.

Yuna’s eyes are fire red, Ilya is aware enough to know his must be matching, rising to the obvious challenge, “how can I even trust it’s you,” she’s hissing in Ilya’s face. “He hates you.”

“Okay, come on now,” she lets herself be pulled away by David, Shane’s father.

A doctor hovers awkwardly, “we really need to let Shane’s mate in.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees instantly, words slightly slurred by his fully distended fangs, “let us listen to this guy.”

“But-” Yuna starts to protest again.

“The scent of a non mate, non familial Alpha, will instantly distress Shane in his current state, we will know immediately if this is Shane’s Alpha or not.”

Yuna’s eyes are brown again, and full of unshed tears when she finally turns back to Ilya, “I don’t understand why he would hide this from us. I don’t understand why he let you bite him there, if I find out you pressured him I swear to god-” her eyes bleed red again, David holding her by the upper arms.

Ilya is practically vibrating with the need to get to Shane, and he’s a small inconvenience away from going though Yuna Hollander if he has too. Familial Alpha or not.

So he ignores her completely and talks to the doctor man hovering nearby, “I am Shane’s mate, I am his Alpha, and I am telling you now, take me to him or I will start looking.”

The doctor doesn’t even bother to confirm with Yuna, even if she probably is still Shane’s Alpha on paper as far as medical records and all that stuff goes.

Ilya follows, aware that Yuna’s gaze is boring into the back of his head. Let them follow. Let them see. Ilya has had enough of reigning in his Alpha for other peoples benefit. He’s not an animal, he’s not a slave to his Alpha, but at the first sight of Shane, all higher brain function checks out. He was holding on by quite a fine thread; it snaps.

Shane has a room to himself, the lights are off, and the room is dim but for the sunlight finding it's way through the fluttering blinds. Shane is curled up tight in the hospital bed, one of the wide ones, for nesting. The metal rails on either side are helping to keep the pillows and blankets in a vaguely nest shape.

It scents a lot like another Omega, somehow familiar, but not Shane. David most likely, since Shane does not look in any fit state to build a nest. But Ilya’s brain dismisses the scent of another Omega. Not a threat; doesn’t matter.

Ilya strips his shirt and ditches it in the same moment as he works his shoes off by stepping on the heels. He drops his sweatpants too. He hears Yuna growl. He really doesn’t care.

Ilya slips over the barrier carefully, not wanting to hurt Shane. He looks small, so pale and delicate curled up in the bed. Shane never looks small, not like this. He looks like a broken bird. It makes Ilya’s throat tight, so see Shane’s face scrunched in discomfort. The moment Ilya settles, carefully working himself between Shane and the wall of the nest, Shane snuggles closer. It takes a minute of careful negotiation, mindful of the tube and wires coming off Shane, but Shane settles once he’s half on top of Ilya, mouth and nose pressed to Ilya’s scent gland. He doesn’t seem to wake through the movement, or at least, not fully. Ilya carefully adjusts the blankets, pulling them up over Shane’s bare back; the horrible gown thing only tied loosely in place at the neck.

The sickly scent of Shane and pain and blood permeates everything, wafting out with Shane’s movements.

Shane whimpers; Ilya responds with a soothing grumble.

There’s movement in Ilya’s peripheral vision, and instinctively he bares his fangs, hissing. The doctor from before lifts both hands, a peaceful gesture, “I’m checking that Shane’s okay, and then I’m leaving. This is best for Shane.”

Apparently those are the magic words, because although Ilya can’t settle, ready to move in defense of Shane if he has to, he lets the doctor work.

“He’s already stabilizing, we should give them some space.”

And Ilya watches as Shane’s parents, reluctantly on his Moms part, leave the room with the doctor.

Shane snuffles, trying to get closer, Ilya gives a comforting rumble, and tries not to let the worry for Shane eat him alive.

“What happened?” Shane’s voice is quiet, rough. A little slurred; he sounds exhausted. Ilya adjusts them, mindful of the needle Shane has in his arm, and the tube coming from it.

“You took a hit, went down,” Ilya answers, just as quiet.

“I don’t remember,” Shane’s voice is quiet where his mouth is pressed to Ilya’s skin.

“It...looked bad. How do you feel?”

“Thirsty. Head hurts.” Shane shifts again, unsettled, and Ilya wants to give him some water but he doesn’t know if he can. Lying here next to Shane, bathing in his scent, even if it is sickly, has done a lot to settle Ilya’s Alpha. He reaches for the call button, then makes sure Shane is decently covered, wrapping himself to keep scent and warmth close to Shane.

The nurse comes, turning off the call bell.

She moves quietly, like she knows how delicate Shane feels in Ilya’s arms. The lights are dimmed for comfort, in reverence to the nest, to protect Shane’s eyes and help with the pain in his head.

“Can he have water? And he is hurting.”

She nods, disappears for several minutes. When she comes back she has a tray, some water, a sippy cup. One of those stiff paper bowls. She puts it down on the wheeled table and brings it closer.

“Small sips,” she fills the cup and puts the lid on, “in case he vomits,” the bowl. Finally she picks up a syringe, fiddling with Shane’s drip tube thing, she injects something, “should help with the pain for a while.”

Ilya nods his thanks, and she slips out again.

Shane lifts his head, just enough, and one handed Ilya holds the spout of the cup to his lips; Shane sips, before lowering his head again.

Ilya has nothing now, but his thoughts, Shane’s soft breathing, and the quiet beep of the heart monitor.

Shane shifts, and Ilya senses he’s awake again. “How long have we been here?”

He sounds a lot clearer now, at least, Ilya consults the clock on the wall, “it is almost twenty four hours ago you took the hit.”

“Oh,” Shane shifts, and Ilya helps. He groans, but seems determined to sit up. He drinks the water Ilya gives him.

“Slow, careful. How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been hit by a bus,” Shane leans into Ilya’s side again, seeks out Ilya’s scent, breathing deep before he pulls back, “wait, crap,” Ilya can scent the panic rising in his scent, “my parents, you can’t-”

“I have met your parents Shane. They know I’m here. You needed me,” Ilya reaches up, sliding a hand up Shane’s bare back, he doesn’t scruff Shane, but he rests his hand there, a gentle touch, reassuring.

“How did...how did that go?”

It’s better to tell him, Ilya knows, but he wishes he could spare Shane. Wishes he could lie, “Yuna was...very angry.”

Shane closes his eyes, rubbing at his forehead, “she knows we’re mated.”

It isn’t a question, but Ilya, confirms it anyway, “they told her yes. They found the bite while you were unconscious.”

Shane’s scent churns, turns sickly, “because that’s not at all mortifying.” He shifts again, “oh God she’s going to be so upset.”

“She will understand, she loves you. She was only angry because she wanted to protect you.”

Shane turns, “was she angry with you? Was it bad?” Shane shifts again, face crumpling with disgust, “and why am I wet?”

“Moye solnyshko, posmotri na menya,” my sunshine, look at me. Shane does, he looks up at Ilya. But Ilya stalls, “maybe the doctor should explain-”

“No,” Shane stops him immediately, “whatever it is, I want to hear it from you. And then I need a shower.”

Ilya nods, swallowing, “you have two broken ribs, and some abdominal trauma. You have had a miscarriage.”

Shane’s hand flies to his stomach, clutching at the fabric of the horrible hospital gown, “what? No, no that can’t be. My last heat was in the summer. That, it can’t be right-”

“The doctor will talk to you, I am sorry solnyshko, it was already happening when you got to the hospital. There was nothing they could do.” Ilya swallows thickly, tries not to think about it too hard. It was very early; just a collection of cells, really. But, still, Ilya mourns it. His Alpha rumbles quietly in distress, and Shane automatically trills. Shane tries to comfort him.

“No, solnyshko,” Ilya shifts them both a little supporting Shane against his own body, “I am fine, you are hurt.”

Shane nods, staring at the bedding, blinking at nothing, “have you been dealing with everything, speaking to the doctors while I’ve been sleeping-”

“Yes. Yes once it was confirmed I am your Alpha, they changed your paperwork, they have not been speaking to your parents, and I think it has made Yuna even more angry with me but- I did not know what to do for the best- I am sorry. I would not let them put a catheter in, you are wet, but I did not think you would want tube while you slept.”

“No,” Shane’s scent is fearful, upset, sickly, angry, embarrassed, a hundred other things that make Ilya want to pull him close and fix it all. “No, you did the right thing, fucking catheter,” Shane shudders at the thought of it.

“I have been changing you, I did not let them touch you,” Ilya nuzzles at the short hairs at the back of Shane’s neck.

“Thank you. Thank you I really appreciate it. I...really want a shower.”

“This will hurt, solnyshko, maybe you should stay here, let me wash you and change the sheets-”

“No. No Ilya, I need to get out of this bed. I can’t face anyone like this.”

“Okay, okay, I understand.” And he does, he does understand Shane’s pride. Shane has been hiding his Omega status his entire life; forcing himself to be the strongest he can be, all day every day, it is all he knows. Asking Shane to remain in a nest, where people might see him, is not something Shane could tolerate; an Omega in his nest is the epitome of weakness to Shane. It is a visual representation, a reminder, of everything he hates.

It will be bad enough that he has already spent a day in one where people could see.

Ilya puts the side of the bed down, carefully climbing out so that Shane is not disturbed. Ilya moves the cushions and blankets of the nest, “did you build this?”

Ilya snorts, “of course not. I think David.”

“That makes sense, I thought it was really good.” Ilya tries to not be offended by Shane’s lack of faith in his nest building abilities. Also, it is true. Shane is a strong nest builder, on the rare occasions when he allows himself to build them, Ilya is not. Shane builds what are, probably, the best nests in the world. Not that Ilya is biased toward his perfect mate, but Shane takes on nest building the same way he takes on everything else; with a clear plan and proper preparation.

Shane, very tentatively, stands up, holding onto Ilya’s arms. The pad he had been lying on is wet with yellow urine and a smear of brown, dried blood. Ilya reaches and folds it over itself before Shane can see it. With Shane leaning on Ilya a little, he walks, slow, small steps, and together they make it to the bathroom, with Ilya’s free hand, he tugs along the metal pole contraption with the bag of fluids being fed into Shane’s arm.

The bathroom is clinical, hospital. A bright orange emergency pull chord dangles, there are grab rails everywhere. The shower is just in the corner, a plastic chair off to one side, the floor sloping down a little to a drain.

Ilya gets the water running before helping Shane out of his gown. Ilya has spent the last day in the same pair of boxers he came in wearing, so he simply slips them off.

Shane’s abs are a mess of purple and blue bruises. The darkest point at the bottom of his ribs on the right hand side. Shane makes a pained noise when he sees himself in the mirror. He stands as steam fills the small, clinical bathroom, his hand resting low on his stomach.

“Ilya,” he says, desperately. The tears come, then, “Ilya, a pup. Our pup. And it’s my fault, I didn’t know and now-”

Shane dissolves into choked sobs, tears streaming messily down his cheeks as Ilya, tentatively because of the injuries, holds Shane as best he can. Agony spikes in Shane’s scent. Crying must be pulling the bruises, the injury, the great heaving sobs must be hurting him; cracked ribs are very painful.

Ilya senses the moment Shane breaks, sinks into a feedback loop of grief and pain that feed on each other. Every sob spiking the pain that remembers the grief.

Ilya coos nothing noises in Shane’s ear. He tries not to be dragged under himself, into the grief of the loss of their pup. The scent of Shane’s utter devastation is strong, too strong in such a small space.

“Come, under the water,” Shane nods, and allows himself to be moved into the warmth. Ilya follows, moving the metal pole on it’s uneven wheels. He focuses on Shane, and Shane only. Finds that place where he can ignore himself and the turmoil that seems to be growing in his chest. He pushes it down; blocks it out. Shane, he focuses on his mate, only on his mate.

“Hurts,” Shane’s voice is broken, raw.

“I know. I know,” Ilya shushes, coos, rumbles comfort as best he can as Shane gets hold of one of those grabs rails, Still clinging to Ilya with his free hand.

They stand together under the flow of warm water, Ilya propping Shane up until, slowly, Shane’s tears run out. “Ilya,” he says, panicked again, scent confused by the steam and stream of hot water now. Ilya makes a noise to show he’s listening. “I need the bathroom.”

“To piss?” Shane nods, “just go. I do not care.” Shane makes a disconcerted noise, clearly unhappy, “you are suffering, I will not move you just for this, just go. It will wash with the water. It is not the first time you have wetted on me, and it will not be the last.”

“That’s different,” Shane protests weakly, but he gives in, Ilya senses the moment he relaxes, and Shane must be pissing on him, the way they’re pressed together, the way Shane’s soft cock is resting against Ilya’s thigh, the heat of it lost in amongst the warmth of the water already running down Ilya’s skin.

Shane hates his heats. Hates everything about wetting. Hates that his body betrays him so savagely every summer. Ilya has never cared; it is natural, normal part of the heat. It shows Shane’s fertility, his health, his Omega’s acceptance of his Alpha.

Shane lets Ilya shampoo his hair with the scentless soap that comes from the pump fixed on the wall. Ilya soaps his hands, and is the most careful he has ever been in his life as he runs soapy hands down Shane’s back, over his ass, and very gently washes away any remnants of dried blood from between his cheeks and across his hole.

Shane leans away, desperately gripping the safety rail as Ilya kneels to clean his shins and thighs. Shane’s legs are shaking; Ilya needs to get him out of here. Ilya doesn’t even touch Shane’s middle; the whole area looks a dark patch of agony. He soaps his hands one last time, giving Shane’s soft cock a very careful wash, swiping soap over his balls before letting the warm water rinse him clean.

“Okay,” Ilya turns off the water, grabbing a towel to hold gently around Shane’s hips, another one to rest over his shoulders. Ilya shivers, not caring that he’s naked and dripping. Once they get out of the bathroom, Shane immediately balks at the sight of the nest, so Ilya leads him to the armchair.

The noise Shane makes as Ilya lowers him into the seat will haunt Ilya. The quiet agony, the pained desperate exhale. Ilya gets two more towels, wrapping Shane’s legs and head so that he can sit and dry in his own warmth while Ilya quickly dries himself. Yuna brought a bag of Shane’s clothes, so Ilya slides on a pair of Shane’s boxers and sweatpants, keeping Shane’s favorite, softest sweatpants and jersey out for Shane to wear in a minute.

“What else have the doctors told you?” Shane’s voice is weak, hollow. He is staring at nothing.

“You had an x-ray and some scans. Two broken ribs, trauma, abdominal swelling. Nothing ruptured, no internal bleeding, just severe bruising. You will have to have another scan before we leave they...they need to make sure there is nothing left inside. They will do another scan, in about a week, once some of the swelling has gone down.”

Shane just nods, and closes his eyes.

It is unlike Shane to allow Ilya to do things like this for him. So Ilya knows it is bad. If it is pain, or...sadness. Whichever, Shane sits passively and allows Ilya to dry his hair, between his toes. Put socks and underwear and sweatpants on him. Get a tee shirt over his head and then, when he is ready, help him to stand so that it can all be pulled up at once. Ilya leaves everything low on Shane’s hips, so as too not press on anything too sore.

“Where are my mom and dad?”

“I can get the nurse to call them, now you are dressed, if you want? I should probably tell the doctor you are awake.”

Shane eyes the remains of the nest, but then just closes his eyes, defeated, “yes. Yes please.”

Ilya nods, and is glad to have something to do after a day spent in bed, “I will tidy a little first, solnyshko.”

Shane catches Ilya’s wrist and he moves past, throat working, eyes wet, “thank you.”

Ilya just nods. He understands. Thank you for everything, thank you for being my Alpha, thank you for standing guard, for dealing with the doctors and parents. Thank you for packing away the nest so no one sees, thank you.

Ilya puts the wet padding in the clinical waste, like the nurse showed him. He strips everything else; pillow cases and sheets and blankets go into the white laundry bag. Ilya stacks the horrible rubbery hospital pillows neatly on the horrible plastic mattress.

It is like the nest never was. He goes out to the desk down the hall; he tells them Shane is awake. He asks them to call Shane’s parents.

Yuna makes a strangled noise when she comes through the door, and Ilya doesn’t miss it. The split second she takes to glare at him, before she goes to Shane’s side.

“I’m okay mom,” but he makes it a lie, and starts crying again. David pulls up a chair for Yuna, one of those cheap plastic hospital things so she can sit next to Shane, and Ilya takes a step back, hovers around the back of the chair to give them space to sit close to Shane.

Yuna says something in rapid fire French, handing Shane a tissue from the box on the table.

“No,” Shane replies, “and no, speak in English, Ilya doesn’t understand.”

She speaks in French again, “mom, no,” Shane draws in a shaky breath, “I can’t- don’t ever say that to me again. Ilya is my mate.”

Ilya growls, moving closer to the back of the chair again, resting a hand on Shane’s shoulder, thumb pressing against the back of his neck. For a spit second, Yuna’s eyes meet Ilya’s, and for that split second, they are fire red.

“I don’t want to deal with this now, okay? But I love Ilya, we’ve been together since rookie season-”

Yuna draws in a very sharp breath at that.

“I know. I know okay. I should have told you sooner, but it just...there was never a time. Or it just never felt like it. And I am going to say this one time, and one time only,” despite how rough and tearful and washed out Shane’s voice is, there is steel threaded through what he says next, “Ilya bit me exactly where I asked him to. Me. Okay? No one made that choice for me.”

Ilya growls again, at the implication of what Yuna must have just said to her son. Shane’s hand comes up to rest on top of Ilya’s.

“It was entirely my choice to keep everything from you, do not blame Ilya for my choice.”

“But I don’t understand- you hate him-”

“Mom-”

But Ilya is growling again, and he doesn’t even try to bite it back, “Shane is hurt. He does not need to have this conversation now.”

“Errr...hi, sorry if I’m interrupting,” there is a nurse in the doorway, and the room smells thickly of Shane’s sadness and pain, and Yuna and Ilya, competing protective Alphas. David is doing his best to radiate calm, but it is not doing much in the soup of everyone else's scents. The nurse comes in with a tray; a cup of something hot and meaty smelling, a bottle containing a meal replacement drink; apple flavor. A carton of orange juice, and another carton of red jello. “The doctor has ordered clear fluids for this first meal, he wants your bladder full for the scan. And then hopefully he can okay you for discharge. These are painkillers.”

Shane takes the little pot and shots both pills dry. The nurse thanks him and retreats.

Shane goes for the hot drink first, but just holds it in his hands for warmth. “You should try and drink it honey.”

Yuna has apparently decided to take the route of simply ignoring Ilya’s existence completely.

“I will. Just so they can do the scan and I can get out of here.”

Yuna nods, “of course, you can ride home with us, and your room-”

“No,” Shane speaks quietly, “no. I’m going to the cottage with Ilya.”

“Shane, honey, you’ve just been through something traumatic, you’ve lost a pup-”

Shane’s scent spikes agony, Ilya is hissing at Yuna before he can stop himself, only Shane grabbing Ilya’s wrist keeps him moving any further around the chair. Yuna is on her feet, eyes red, glaring.

“Mom,” Shane says, but everyone ignores him, Ilya and Yuna fixed, staring each other down. “Mom!” he tries again, louder, and Yuna blinks her eyes clear, looking at her son. “I understand. I understand okay, that you’re worried, and that you’re used to being the one who takes care of me. I understand that you’re used to being my Alpha, and that you want to keep me safe. I understand all of those things. But I do not have the energy to manage you right now. How you’re feeling is your problem.”

Ilya exhales, takes a step back. He doesn’t think he’s ever been prouder of Shane than in that moment.

“I will take Shane to the cottage,” and since Yuna will be his mother in law, he offers an olive branch, “I can message you, updates. I will look after Shane.”

“If we call-”

“I will answer. Or call back as soon as I can, okay?”

“Okay.” She breathes out, scent finally leveling, “okay. I’m so sorry Shane, you’re right. I didn’t mean to make this any harder for you it’s, it’s just a lot. That’s not an excuse, it’s just…”

“I know. I know mom. I can...as soon as I feel up to it, we can talk about it.”

Ilya has no idea what there is to talk about, no amount of talking will remove Ilya’s bite from where it is hidden high up on the inside of Shane’s thigh. But if this is what Shane’s family needs to be okay, Ilya will go along with it, for Shane.

If it gets them out of here faster, Ilya will do anything.

Ilya sits on the hard plastic chair. There is a gap of two chairs, and then David, and then Yuna.

Even without the scent cloying the air of the hallways, Ilya can feel the animosity coming off Yuna. It wasn’t meant to be like this. Shane had a plan; he always has a plan. It’s one of the things Ilya loves about him so much, his many, many, boring plans. Ilya likes to ride the wave, take things as they come; Shane doesn’t get out of bed without plan A, B, and C.

They were going to start a charity, next year. Shane was going to become a free agent at the end of the season; he has a short list of acceptable teams he has already talked through with their agent. Their shared agent, another thing they still have to break to Yuna. She has no idea that Farah also manages Ilya.

Farah also likes a plan; Ilya has been informed of the teams that he could acceptably transfer to at the end of the season. They would be closer together; they would start being seen in public, and then, maybe, after another couple of seasons, Shane would shift his attention to the charity. To the hockey camps. He would retire from the league.

Ilya would put a bite on his neck, where everyone could see. They would think about pups. Shane would come out, publicly, as an Omega. He would shout that he has done all these things, all the achievements, all the trophies, and he’s done it as an Omega.

Ilya is, was, and will always be very supportive of this plan, it is a good plan. Especially the pups part; Ilya is certain that between them, he and Shane could breed a new generation of some sort of super Hockey player. He has joked, many times, about how Shane would need to produce enough boys for a team.

They had laughed about it. It does not feel funny now.

In the quiet dark of their bedroom, in the absolute sanctity of their nest, Shane had confessed that he had hoped that, one day, things would change. That Omega would be accepted. That he could light a fuse that would one day change how the league thinks about Omega.

But none of Shane’s plans matter. Not right in this moment, when Ilya has to sit on this hard plastic chair and wait to see what the doctor says about the scan Shane is enduring alone.

Ilya had assumed he could go in with Shane, but unfortunately, so had Yuna.

Shane had looked at them both, standing expectantly in the doorway, and completely circumvented the issue by declaring that he would go in alone.

Ilya does not blame him. Managing the expectations of territorial Alphas is probably not very high on Shane’s priorities right this second.

When the door opens, a nurse wheels Shane back to his room, and all three of them follow along like faithful little ducklings.

Part Three

[pov-rosie]

The water bottle cap (top) is the same color as Ilya’s black tee , and the bottle (bottom) is the same color as Shane’s white tee.

[ellestarcentaurs]

՞. .՞𐦯 Summary: Within the space of a hundred roaring sports cars, buzzing energy of a car show, with one Russian Audi owner he had actively sought out, Shane Hollander finds his favorite ride. Sports car.

՞. .՞𐦯 Tags and Themes: Sex on a car, pwnp, playful bickering, top!ilya, bottom!shane, rimming, p in p, brief cockwarming, traffic safety violations, mentions of alcohol, semi-public sex, mild exhibitionism

՞. .՞𐦯 Warnings: MINORS DNI. THIS WORK IS EXTREMELY NSFW. I will block anyone who interacts without an age on their bio, and i truly hope that is your REAL age.

՞. .՞𐦯 Word Count: 3.1k | find me.

divider credit - v6gue

Shane Hollander did not do well with loud noises. He wasn't big on clubs, and somehow, this was hell on earth for him. 

The engines roar to life, headlights flashing about every direction nearly giving him a stroke with all the lights, the noise, and the people. The thongs peering out from leather, flare pants, the shirtless men, the sweat, the smoke, perfume, and vape. Damn near suffocating and he has to truly concentrate to school his face into a cool façade. His stylist’s hard work into making him look as appropriate for a car show would be wasted if he didn't.

Not the tight turtleneck shirt that hugged every single one of his muscles, the black fabric lined with neon green vinyl traced over the hard ridges that gave a preview of the pelvic bone that jutted out so perfectly before transitioning to the low-slung leather pants that perfectly captures just how thick and powerful his thighs were, along with that goddamn ass. He'd be catching gazes if it wasn't for the fact that he was underdressed compared to the others, with their shiny sequin tops and bright neon clothes. 

What Shane Hollander did best, however, was being petty and mutinous. At least a specific Russian would agree. He tries not to quirk up a smile when he sees Ilya nearly catching flies in his mouth when he passes by his Audi. Some part of him was grateful to J.J. for finding him an excuse to come to this circus. 

He never cared for sports cars. He liked practical SUVs that had a lot of room for guests, groceries, and other occupants someone would deem boring.

But Shane wasn't being boring now, was he? 

“Didn't take you for wanting to upstage me,” J.J. nudges his captain, eyes scanning him with a waggle of brows while Shane musters a laugh that sounded convincingly sincere enough. 

“I paid good money for this,” he simply shrugs and leans against the bar, flagging the bartender. “Beer, please. Light,” 

He had practiced and planned this so many times—in the mirror, in small notes jotted in his journal, made-up scenarios that gave him some semblance of bravado and most importantly, bravery. He couldn't be too sure Ilya would up the ante and actually fuck a woman in front of him to prove a point.

He wanted Ilya Rozanov's attention after being ghosted for months, and he was going to do everything to get what he wanted.

“Gonna look around cap, wanna come with?” J.J asks through the music and lights blaring as Shane shakes his head, “You go on ahead, I'll join you later,” he jerks his head forward before receiving a firm pat on his shoulder. 

And just like that, he's alone. And out in the open. 

However, like a flame to a moth, someone slides their own glass of gin right beside him with a charming smile, “Shane Hollander, right?” she asks, sticking out a hand as he graciously accepts the offer and nods. “That's me,” 

He doesn't quite catch her name over the music, but he pretends he does as she starts trying to charm him, and by the corner of his eye he sees Ilya starts to linger and circle him like a goddamn shark. He bites back a grin. 

“So,” she flicks her hair behind her, gently trailing her finger on the bar top, creeping closer to Shane's space, “What are you here for?” 

“Shopping,” Shane smoothly lies.

“Shopping?” she raises her brow, impressed, mouth curling into a Cheshire grin, “There's a lot of impressive ones huh?” she motions around and Shane takes one good glance over and his eyes meet Ilya's. 

“Especially the owned ones,” he dryly says with a smug look on his face. And Ilya is finally closing in on them, and as if knowing better, the other girl leaves her number on a pre-written napkin like she had planned this exact maneuver before winking at Shane and walking away, giving room to the beast of a man in a silk button up with white tigers and toucans dotted about.

“What are you doing here, Hollander?” 

“Fuck, can I not just enjoy a peaceful night off without you being an asshole, Rozanov?” Shane immediately bites with more conviction which raises Ilya's brow. 

“Is valid question,” he taps on the bar top and hails just a thumb of vodka. “You buying?” 

“Probably yours,” Shane hides his smile through his stein. Ilya grits his teeth, “Like you could even drive mine, Hollander. Too strong, too powerful for boring man like you,” he bellows, eyes sharp and smoldering. 

And the implication isn't lost on Shane. “You don't know that,” Shane scoffs and rolls his eyes. 

“Want to test drive then?” Ilya slides the key fob towards the space between them. When his vodka arrives, Shane's hand darts to grab the glass and downs it all in one go. 

“You take me,” he says through a grimace. “If I like how it…drives, maybe I'll buy it from you when I steal that Stanley from under your nose,” he mumbles before walking off towards said car.

Ilya just cocks a brow up, amused. “Maybe I need to put a muzzle on you, Hollander,” 

He presses on the fob, headlights flashing. Shane readily enters the car, tight clothes rippling around his body and if he hadn't accosted Ilya to drive, he'd have one more drink. This man was encroaching on his space, his thing, and Ilya had decided he wasn't in a generous mood. 

“You don't fit in here,” he grumbles and starts the car as Shane just grins. “You gonna be all piss baby on me, Rozanov?” 

“You stand over bar like your clothes itchy. Hardly impressive,” Ilya enunciates, tone of exasperation not lost on his accent and he knows he has Shane back where he wants him.

“Oh fuck off!” 

“Yes, yes, barely even looking at pretty girl when she speaks,” he groans, throwing his head back in a mocking gesture and the Audi roars to life, people parting when he turns his high beams. Thankfully there were more prolific faces than two hockey players in this lot. In this space, nobody gave a shit. 

“You are bad at this,” Ilya grins and Shane shoots him a scathing glare. 

“You say that but you couldn't even stand seeing me talk to another person,” 

“Do not flatter yourself, Hollander,” 

“God, do you ever stop being an asshole?” 

Ilya gives Shane a sideward glance with a raised brow and an infuriating look that says, ‘What do you think?’ and Shane knows the controlled grip he had on the situation had slipped from his grasp the moment this asshole started running his mouth.

He sneers, adjusting himself while Ilya continues to drive through the desert of Arizona. 

“...I definitely could drive a powerful vehicle,” 

“That is your excuse for comeback, Hollander?” 

“Shut up,” Shane exasperatedly groans as he sees Ilya grin while relaxing his legs, now casually spread. 

“Prove it then,” Ilya glances sideways at him, one hand on the wheel, the other relaxed on the console between them. “Surprise me with what you could actually do, Hollander,” 

And Shane never backs down from a challenge. Especially one doled out by Ilya Rozanov. 

Tugging the seatbelt to the farthest it could stretch to, Shane hoists his knees with one on the leather seat and the other on the floor of the car, he looks up at the Russian once he lowers his torso across the center console, making sure he doesn't bump against the gearshift or press against the emergency break buttons. 

Fuck Audi R8s and their button-filled consoles. So fucking impractical. 

Ilya's breath hitches, russet eyes looking up at him managing to capture his very breath, occasionally illuminated by the streetlights they pass through, freckles visible against the backdrop of flushed skin now more than ever, and Ilya has to keep in mind he couldn't destroy or injure such precious cargo.

Which was a hard endeavor when Shane noses against his crotch, pretty eyes fluttering shut with a content hum.

“You're so much harder than I am, asshole,” Shane sounds so pleased with himself, a small victory for him as he mouths at Ilya's clothed cock. His tongue passes over the coarse fabric tented up against Ilya's cock, the Russian groaning as he grips the wheel with both hands. Shane lifts his hand on Ilya's bulge, palming the hard, cramped space stuffed into his boxers with a devious little chuckle.

“Hollander.” Ilya scolds, “Suck my cock properly,”

“Say it nicely,” Shane goads, purposely prolonging Ilya's torment, receiving a biting glare from the other man. 

Shane relishes the frustrated look Ilya has on his face, still fondling the spot where his balls would be, and occasionally stroking the faint outline of Ilya's hardness through layers of clothing—two layers that Ilya immediately decides is two too many. 

Shane gives a firm yet shallow bite on Ilya's thigh, close to his crotch, drawing a hiss from Ilya. “Shane,” he says through grit teeth, warning heard all over his tone and bunches jet black strands of hair into his other hand.

“Suck me properly, like good boy you are, please,” Ilya commands even when giving into his whims, and that does Shane in. 

Making quick work of his button, zipper, and boxers, Ilya's cock throbs the moment it hits the cool air of the A/C from the car, ruddy head damn near purple as Shane gives him a tentative lick to the head before peppering open mouthed kisses all over his shaft, groaning around the sheer heat of Ilya's cock. 

Ilya rolls his shoulders, relaxing his taut and wound up body as he glances down and slows the car to a legal and reasonable pace, more enjoying the show beneath him than the powerful rumble of the engine. 

“Such a pretty boy,” he whispers, hand moving from Shane's hair to his cheeks spattered with freckles as he gently caresses the skin beneath his eyes while his cock obscures his mouth. 

Shane preens, pretty russet eyes sparkling with mischief and something lighter as he stabilizes his grip on Ilya's member, slowly engulfing his hot, leaking rod and sheathing it inside the warm cavern of his mouth, pulling a delightful groan from Ilya. “Fuck! Just like that, so fucking warm,” 

His tip nestles against the back of Shane's throat, prodding and stretching against the warm cavern of his mouth and he stops him from moving, keeping him in place with a firm hand on the back of Shane's head. "Keep still." he lowly says, voice vibrating throughout his body. 

"Let me pull over, yes? Too dangerous if you continue," he cards through his hair gently, contrast to his demanding touch as Ilya pushes harder against the gas pedal, breaching the speed limit with a confidence at a lack of radar guns around such a desolate area. 

Shane obediently stays still, closing his eyes again, blissed out while taking in the musk that permeated from Ilya, his huge, warm member a predictably comforting weight in his mouth, nose tickling the patch of hair that ran up to his belly button. 

Before he could completely drift off, his bravado nearly drained from his body, Ilya stops the car by the dark edge and clearing of a cliff. Not too close, but if he turned off the headlights, they were invisible.

"Okay," Ilya unlatches his seatbelt, buckle nearly hitting Shane, "Continue," 

A groan is deliciously torn from Ilya as Shane hollows his cheeks, suctioning when he briefly pulls off Ilya's cock, spitting down his tip, watching it trickle down to his base before jerking the length once, twice, looking up at him, eyes shimmering even in the dark. 

"So pretty," Ilya languidly mumbles before Shane takes him back in, moaning around his girth as Ilya sighs and tucks an arm behind his head, carding Shane's hair with his free one. "You showed up expecting this, yes?" 

Shane doesn't respond, too busy suckling down and hollowing his cheeks around Ilya, eyes fluttering shut, hands grasping for stability before a strong hand grabs his jaw, stopping him unceremoniously and slipping him off Ilya's cock.

"Answer me." 

"...Yes," Shane breathlessly say, lips glossy and glistening. Ilya presses a gentle thumb on his lower lip, inching towards Shane closer with a breathy sigh. 

"Mhm, thought so," Ilya whispers. "You're so pretty today. Is that for me?" 

Shane swallows, now melting within his attention, gently trying to close the space between them but Ilya pulls away just a shy slightly. "Is it?" 

"It is," it leaves him in a silken, soft breath. 

Ilya closes the space between them, free hand tucking his erect cock back in his boxers before fully devouring Shane, tongue tangling in a hot, slick tandem. Their lips latch against each other, teeth scraping on plump, plush skin, a moan and groan ringing through the cramped space of the car like a symphony. 

It was exactly what Shane needed and then some. 

"Get out," Ilya belows as Shane blinks in surprise, watching the Russian scramble to get out the car, hands finding themselves on the hood as he waits and pins him with a smoldering gaze. 

Shane hastily leaves the passenger's seat, shutting the door and slowly approaching Ilya who holds his hand out and pushes Shane against the hood of the Audi, back flat against the warm metal. "We're doing it out here?" 

"People wouldn't see. You know we won't fit inside,"

"If you got a bigger car–" 

"I'm not boring Hollander," Ilya cuts him off with a grin. 

"You're such a pain in the ass," 

"You like that," 

He palms Shane's bulge, drawing a sharp hiss from him, back arching in tandem with the thrust of his hips. "Fuck..." 

Popping off his buttons, Ilya tugs his pants down, brows rising near his neckline as Shane blushes. "I– It would be visible if I wore underwear," he helplessly pleads his case. 

"All I'm hearing is that you just showed up naked around other people," the sound reverberates from Ilya like a growl, immediately pressing Shane's legs to his chest, licking a stripe from the rim of his hole to his perineum. "What if I hadn't approached you, Hollander? Who would find you like this?" Ilya manages through a tense jaw.

"Nobody!" Shane protests and throws his head back when Ilya spits on his hole.

"Wrong," 

Ilya slurps at Shane's hole, slobbering over the tight and taut ring right below the cold desert moon, gripping the plush flesh of his ass with a bruising intensity. He peers over to see Shane clutching his mouth to not make any noises but it's a futile endeavor.

Not with how fucking loud Ilya was eating him out, absolutely not. The slurping, the wet squelching of fingers breaching his puckered rim–all too loud. Just the way Ilya liked his Shane.

Pulling off him, Shane trembles as he reaches out for Ilya, panting while he watches the Russian tug down his boxers, holding his cock while spitting on his length, rubbing a good helping of slick before pressing two fingers against Shane's hole.

"Relax. Relax," 

"We're outside!" he protests through grit teeth, trying not to moan so loud when Ilya massages his entrance with the head of his cock. 

"I cannor fuck you like this, Hollander. It will hurt you," he begs, pressing a gentle kiss on the sensitive junction of Shane's jaw. "Breathe for me," 

Shane tries to melt into Ilya's words, letting his low, accented rumble pull him out of his own head, pretty eyes shining up at Ilya who lets out a breathless chuckle, pressing his lips against Shane's in a shallower kiss. 

He manages to finally breach Shane's tight rim, guided by a finger before slowly bottoming in. "Good boy," Ilya praises as Shane further goes pliant within his touch.

He moves, shallow strokes at first, barely scraping past the parts that truly scratched the itch Shane had felt for months on end. 

As the pace picks up, the squelching of precum and spit quietly makes itself known once Ilya pummels into Shane in earnest, clasping a hand over Shane's mouth for his own sake. 

If it were up to Ilya, the cliffs would echo just how good Shane Hollander really sounded.

The tight ring of muscle ripples and squeezes around Ilya's girth, his hips speeding up, thighs slapping against ass as he grits his teeth and holds the exposed skin of Shane's thigh in a brusing grip.

"So, so, good for me," he groans, throwing his head back, "So dirty. No underwear, and now being fucked on my car!" he snarls. 

"Ilya!" Shane gasps out breathlessly, reaching for his cock, desperately tugging before being stopped, wrist slammed down against the hood. "No, not yet," Ilya bellows. 

"A–Asshole! I'm going to cum Ilya," Shane whines. 

Ilya shakes his head, slamming harder into Shane he starts seeing stars. 

"Give me thirty more seconds," 

A noncommittal groan escapes Shane, arms wrapping around his neck as the car shakes and jostles underneath them, Ilya's hands shifting to anchor Shane's hips, jaw tight and near painful before pulling out and tugging up Shane's top.

He presses their cocks together, wrapping his hands around them as Shane smacks a hand over his mouth, soft, heady whimpers spilling through his skin as Ilya starts jerking them both off.

"Cum for me, Hollander," he commands as Shane immediately spurts out thick ropes of white, sticky against his quivering stomach, followed by Ilya's scorching hot load as he claims Shane's lips while he wrings out the last vestiges of pleasure on his overheated skin.

Breathing comes shallowly, their foreheads connected as Ilya eases his grip on their cocks. "Wait here, I'll grab some tissue," he mumbles.

While the soft, two ply, lavander scented sheets pad across Shane's stomach, he sighs and blinks up at Ilya, the moon somehow still able to show his constellation of freckles. "You're insane, you know that?" 

"Me? You were the one who showed up without underwear." Ilya immediately protests and chucks the soiled tissue across the edge of the cliff.

"Anyway, you failed test drive. I am not selling you my car," he chuckles as Shane groans, tugging his shirt down before standing shakily. 

"You do know that car is so impractical,"

"Is sexy. I don't care," Ilya opens the door for him. "But...If you wanted to fuck me in car, maybe I'll get one GMC," Ilya offers him a boyish, cocky grin.

"High ceilings, very huge space,"

"In your dreams, Rozanov,"

"I will dream of it, Hollander,"

[mayhemrea]

i want this like a cigarette (can we drag it out and never quit?)

—

Rating: Explicit

Hollanov: Soft Dom Ilya Rozanov and Sub Shane Hollander

Tags: Fuck Machines, Spitroasting (not a threesome), Feels

(AO3 is Down, so here is the latest work I wrote and published 2 days ago)

—

This was a completely impulsive and terrible idea. Who in their right mind would buy a very obvious sex machine?

Shane Hollander, apparently.

At first, he said it was for convenience. Using his dildo and jacking off tires his wrists out very fast, and riding it would also give him muscle cramps the next day. Those cramps and aches are not ideal for an athlete who needs to be in top shape, especially not the captain of the Montreal Voyageurs.

Logically speaking, having a fuck machine that would fuck him in any setting he would like, with any dildo he preferred, without having to do so much as move, sounded like a dream. But then he realized it could easily be seen by anyone who walked into his place in Montreal.

Namely, Hayden.

He did not want Hayden, J.J., or anyone else from the team to walk into his bedroom and find the machine, so he moved it to Le Plateau-Mont-Royal, his “sex condo”.

Shane hates his past self for ever purchasing that fuck machine, because he was now, in the bedroom of his sex condo, with Ilya, who was looking at the fuck machine with great fascination and intrigue.

He was looking at the contraption up and down, at the remote it was attached to, and the connector, where the dildo is usually mounted.

Shane shuffled nervously by the doorway. He was already shirtless and half-hard in his briefs. If Ilya would just be so kind as to stop looking at and touching the machine, and instead, touch him, Shane would be ever so grateful.

“Can we stop looking at the machine? I thought we were here to fuck!” Shane calls.

He was already so pent up that he wanted to get this over with. He was already prepped. They only had so much time together, and he wanted to make the most out of it. Ilya is getting distracted by the machine that Shane forgot to hide, which was not part of the plan at all!

“My, I thought you were boring, Hollander. All this time, you were hiding this.” Ilya turns to him with a mischievous grin. “Naughty boy, how many times did you use this? Does it make you feel as good as I do? Where’s the dildo?”

Shane flushes at the nickname, his cock throbbing.

“L-Look, asshole, can’t we just have sex? Let’s talk about that thing later!”

Ilya tilts his head, his piercing, icy blue eyes looking back at the machine and back at Shane.

Shane recognized that look, he does not like that look. It calls for bad ideas. What they’re doing is already a bad idea, but Ilya Rozanov just wants to add to the bad ideas they already did, now, did he?

“How about no?” Ilya rubs his chin in thought.

“Rozanov!” Shane hisses.

Ilya strides towards him, grabbing him by the chin. It wasn’t rough, but it was firm. Shane submits to his authority almost immediately, eyes looking straight at Ilya.

“We see each other few times a year and only do missionary or doggy style, sometimes with mild bondage. Becomes very boring really fast. Let’s make this a little more exciting?” Ilya gestures to the machine. “Me, watching you get fucked by that? Until you cry, begging for me?”

Shane gulps, biting his lip. The idea sounded so enticing, and the wilder side of Shane’s brain is screaming at him to say yes, for Ilya to watch him fall apart without needing to touch him at all.

This was such a bad idea.

“Fuck.” Shane cusses, looking away. His cock was straining through his briefs, pre was already leaking out of his slit—he could feel it. He was so wet. “Fine!” He says, walking away from Ilya to one of the dressers' drawers. Inside it was a pile of dildos, but he took one very particular dildo.

The toy was blue, much shorter than Ilya’s cock, but it was thick and ribbed. He had been meaning to try it out a few weeks prior, but with how tightly jampacked his schedule was, he couldn’t find the time to do so.

Behind him, Ilya whistles, impressed at the number of toys Shane had kept in the place.

“I thought you only had one toy. You have plenty! And it was all just hidden here the entire time?” Ilya snickers. “Should not have asked what color, you have entire rainbow in that drawer.”

“You fucking asshole!” Shane snaps, shutting the drawer harshly.

“Now, now, Hollander. You know I don’t mean that… Maybe…” Ilya drawls the last bit, making Shane bristle.

He pulls Shane into another kiss, calming him down almost immediately. Shane’s mouth opens up for Ilya’s tongue, wet and messy, teeth clashing against one another. Ilya’s hands wander and grope around his body, chest, hips, and thighs. Shane whines to the kiss as Ilya explores his mouth, almost dropping the toy in his hand.

They pull apart, and Ilya proceeds to press as many kisses as he can to Shane’s face. Specifically, his freckles. Shane giggles, wrapping his arms around Ilya as he lifts him by his thighs to the king-sized bed in the middle of the bedroom.

Ilya lays him down so gently in the middle of the bed, peppering even more kisses on his freckled cheeks. Shane’s face scrunches at the feeling. This scene was far too domestic for Shane’s liking, far too real, but he’ll take it.

“Ah… krasivyy…” Ilya whispers to him.

“What?” Shane opens his eyes.

“Nothing.” Ilya stands up from the bed to get the fuck machine from the corner of the room.

Shane backs up to the headboard, watching as Ilya sets the machine by the edge of the bed and adjusts it.

“Do you even know how to use that?” Shane asks him, eyebrow raised.

“Fuck machine is fuck machine, ‘course I do.” Ilya shrugs, reaching out his hand for Shane’s dildo, which he gave. “When was the last time you used this? Is this clean?”

“I haven’t used it yet, but it’s clean. All my toys are cleaned before they’re stored away.” Shane replies. Ilya takes one good look at the toy again before attaching it to the connecting shaft.

“Convenient. Like storing utensils in a drawer.” Ilya actually has the gall to look impressed.

Shane snorts, slightly ticked but amused. “Shut up,” he says.

Only to find himself squeaking in surprise as Ilya pulls him by his legs to the edge of the bed.

“Rozanov!”

“Hollander!” Ilya mocks, hooking his fingers by the waistband of his briefs and pulling them off of him. Shane couldn’t help but be stunned as Ilya immediately took a quick sniff of his briefs that were stained with pre.

Shane practically moans at that. That was the hottest thing he’s ever seen Ilya do, but also the strangest by far.

Ilya drops his briefs on the floor. “Where is the lube?”

Shane points at the plastic bottle on top of the dresser. Ilya takes it and squeezes a generous amount of lube on the dildo.

“Is this enough?” Ilya asks.

“It’s perfect,” Shane tells him.

“Of course. Everything I do is perfect.”

Shane rolls his eyes, turning around to crawl on the bed and line his ass up with the machine, ignoring Ilya’s surprised choke.

“I didn’t even tell you to do that, you just did it.” Ilya groans, and from what Shane could see from the corner of his vision, Ilya’s cock is also straining through his joggers.

“It’s called muscle memory.” Shane jokes, his breath shuddering and eyes fluttering a little as the tip of the dildo enters his prepped hole.

“How long have you been using this?” Ilya was genuinely curious about the answer.

Shane thinks about it. “I lost count. I bought this during the summer.”

“We could have had steamy phone sex instead of dry sexting?” Ilya gasps in mock surprise.

“Do you want to see me get fucked by the machine or not, Rozanov?” Shane glares at him.

“Kotenok is getting hissy. It’s alright, you’ll be fed soon.” Ilya chuckles, reaching for the remote.

“I swear, Rozano— Ah! Asshole!” Shane whimpers, his head resting on the bed. Ilya skipped the first few settings and jumped straight to medium.

Shane had to will himself not to move as much from the sudden thrusts of the machine.

The back and forth of the piston was not giving him any room to do so much as take a deep breath. The ridges were hitting the right places, teasing his walls a normal cock can never do.

“Fuck, Hollander!” Ilya moans, watching the toy pound inside Shane mercilessly. He takes his cock out from the confines of his joggers, jacking off with one hand to the sight of Shane experiencing such sweet torture.

He was shuddering and mewling at each thrust. His breath matched the pace. Shane looked so beautiful that way. But then he decides to arch his back, a little more than usual, showing the flexibility he’d earned from all his years of yoga.

Ilya’s mouth dropped—everything about Hollander is just completely divine. “Fuck,” he hisses, his fist tightening around the base of his cock to stop himself from coming just by the sight of Shane.

He looks at the remote in his other hand, twisting the dial to speed the machine up even more.

Shane yelps, trying to get away from the machine, only to be stopped by Ilya, who dropped the remote to grab him by the hips.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Ilya chuckles.

Shane comes untouched.

“You— Hah… Asshole!” Shane’s eyes were rolling to the back of his head, tears already leaking out of his eyes from the pleasure. From this new position, the dildo was hitting his prostate dead-on.

Ilya grins, even though Shane couldn’t see it, he could feel it, and even hear it from the tone of his voice. “Is asshole the only word you know? That’s all you call me.”

Shane does not reply— he whines. His feet were kicking by the foot of the bed, but it won’t help him from the onslaught of thrusts from the machine, especially with Ilya keeping him in place.

“Ahh!” Shane practically mewls after getting used to the faster pace. His arms were no longer supporting him. He’s halfway through lying down completely flat on the bed. His cock was staining the bedsheets with his release.

“Blyat.” Ilya cusses, letting go of his cock and Shane, so he could remove and shimmy out of his joggers to join the man on the bed.

“Huh?” Shane weakly lifts his head, drool leaking out of his mouth, eyes half-lidded and teary. He got momentarily distracted by the dip in the mattress, but he relaxed even more once he realized Ilya was going to be with him.

Shane looks utterly and completely fucked out.

Ilya’s cock twitches at the sight.

“Ohhh… krasivaya shlyushka.” Ilya mutters, positioning himself right in front of Shane, getting a full front view of the man. He holds Shane’s face, ever so gently, caressing his freckled cheeks.

Shane was blissed out, unable to focus on anything but the pleasure at all. He was crying from pleasure, nothing coherent coming out of his mouth. His cock was getting hard once again.

“Are you enjoying yourself, malysh?” Ilya asks him, knowing Shane won’t respond.

“Haahhh~” Shane warbles, eyes going cross eyed. He was completely gone.

Normally, Ilya would let it be, let Shane relish in his near overstimulation, but this was new, and he wanted to know how Shane was feeling, or if he were truly comfortable at all. Shane might know, but Ilya doesn’t.

“That’s not an answer, Hollander.” Ilya tightens his grip on Shane’s face, hoping it would snap him out of it, even for just a moment. “Are you enjoying yourself?” He repeats himself.

Shane’s eyes focus on him, gaining more lucidity.

“Are you?”

“Ah! Yes… I feel so…” Shane unfocuses for a second, but snaps back again once Ilya shakes him gently. “I feel so good!” Shane moans the last part. His entire upper body weight was on Ilya by that point.

“How does it feel? What about it makes you feel good?” Ilya smiles.

“The ridges— Hah… The ridges make all the diff…” Shane’s eyebrows scrunch. “...make all the difference.” He sighs.

Ilya hums, brushing his fingers through Shane’s sweaty hair. “Yeah?”

“Yeahhh~” Shane giggles.

“Do you want it faster, moy dorogoy?” Ilya drags the tip of his pointer finger around Shane’s face, his nose, his eyelids, forehead, and cheeks.

“Nooo, I like it like this.” Shane replies, but then opens his eyes to stare directly at Ilya’s cock.

“What are you looking at, Hollander?” Ilya asks him, noticing Shane has stopped.

Shane looks up at him. “Can I suck your cock, pleaseeee?” He slurs through his drool.

Ilya chuckles. Of course, once a cockslut, always a cockslut. Even when they’d do their normal escapades—or sexcapades—Shane would always drop down to his knees to give Ilya the best head he could ever receive.

“Is that a no?” Shane pouts.

“Wait,” Ilya tells him.

Ilya moves himself back against the headboard, one hand leaving Shane’s face to get a pillow. He places it under Shane’s chest for more comfort before spreading his legs, giving Shane full access to his cock.

“Hehe… Finally.” Shane grins before diving to mouth and deepthroat Ilya’s cock.

“Fuck!” Ilya throws his head back, hitting the headboard. Good thing it was padded, otherwise, Ilya might’ve rung his bell from the force alone. “Fuck, Hollander!”

Clearly, Shane Hollander was having the time of his life. While the machine was still fucking him from behind, he looked like he was eating the most delicious meal he ever tasted, except that meal is Ilya Rozanov’s cock.

Shane’s cheeks hollowed out at every suck. His eyes were completely white from how far they’ve rolled back. He was swallowing Ilya whole without so much as gagging, as he had done the last few times he’s done this.

Ilya thinks that Shane must have practiced. He had to bite his lip from the mental image of Shane practicing, deepthroating his many dildos alone at night to get this good during the Summer season.

Ilya could feel the head of his cock hitting the back of Shane’s throat at each gulp, the pistoning motion of the fuck machine aiding Shane with his rhythm.

Shane came a second time when Ilya subconsciously thrusted into Shane’s throat. Ilya’s eyelids fluttered at the vibrations from Shane’s moans after.

He could tell from the way Shane swayed his hips and how his hands were clenching the bedsheets tightly that he was already getting overstimulated. His moans were becoming painful whimpers. Ilya can also tell from the pressure in his groin that he’s not going to last any longer either.

“Shit! I’m so close!”

His hands move from Shane’s face to his hair, pushing Shane down on cock. Shane relinquished his control to Ilya immediately.

Gluck. Gluck. Gluck.

That lewd sound that’s coming out of Shane’s mouth was scandalous and unreal. Ilya tightens his hold on Shane’s hair— it was close to painful, but Shane didn’t care. He swallowed deep and hard.

Ilya screws his eyes shut as he finally releases inside Shane, who swallows all his come in one go without complaint.

Shane whimpers when Ilya pulls him off from the still moving fuck machine, it’s noise barely noticeable from how loud their ears were ringing. Ilya will get to closing it sometime later, as for now, all his focus befalls on Shane who is showing signs of dropping.

He wraps his arms around Shane, moving the man to a much more comfortable position. He’s sat on top of Ilya’s lap, head cushioned by Ilya’s bear chest, being lulled by Ilya’s unintelligible whispers in Russian. His arms were now wrapped around Ilya as well.

“You did so well, malysh. So good. So pretty…” Shane would sniffle and tear up at times, but each tear is carefully wiped away by Ilya almost immediately after each one would fall, followed by a comforting kiss on the crown of his head.

Ilya sighs, relaxed after months of being so pent up.

Here, in this room, he stays himself, in the comfort of Shane’s company. The small building that Shane had bought, their escape, their secret, from the outside world, where they are able to be their most vulnerable selves.

Looking down at Shane, who was already close dozing off on his chest, all of Ilya’s worries wash away.

When Shane blinks his eyes open to look up at Ilya, so tired, so adorable, he puckers his lips at Ilya.

“Give me kiss!” Shane demands, so brattily, so spoiled.

Ilya would not have it any other way.

He snorts, pressing a few pecks on Shane’s head before giving Shane one right on the lips.

In Ilya’s head, the words are repeating over and over.

Ya tebya lyublyu.

In Shane’s head, the words are repeating over and over.

Je t'aime. Aishiteru.

In their one shared language, the words are repeating over and over.

I love you.

But that is left unsaid.

They are each other’s most dangerous desire. They are the drug that gets the other going.

They both want each other, but what they wish to say is better off left unsaid.

Well…

At least for now.

[hallowedmoss]

Jealous (Jealous, Jealous Boy)

Ilya Rozanov x Shane Hollander

Heated Rivalry Fic

Jealous, Possessive Ilya Rozanov x Shane Hollander

Also Posted on my Ao3 HallowedMoss

18+ Mature

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The roar of the Bell Centre had finally died down to a distant hum in Shane Hollander’s ears as he sat on the wooden bench in the visiting locker room, elbows on his knees, freckled shoulders hunched under the harsh fluorescent lights. Montreal had taken the game 3-2 in a grind that left everyone bruised and pissed off. Shane’s body ached in that familiar, bone-deep way only a rivalry match could deliver. Every collision along the boards had carried extra weight tonight, especially the ones from Boston’s number 81.

Ilya Rozanov.

Shane peeled off his jersey slowly, the fabric sticking to sweat-slick skin marked with fresh purple blooms across his ribs and collarbone. He could still feel the ghost of Ilya’s shoulder driving him into the glass in the second period — the impact rattling his teeth, the heat of Ilya’s breath against his ear through the cage of his helmet. “Keep up, Hollander,” the Russian had growled, voice low enough that only Shane heard it. The words had sent an unwelcome spark straight down Shane’s spine, the same unwelcome spark that had haunted him for years.

He was the captain of the Montreal Voyageurs. Disciplined. Focused. The golden boy with the spotless reputation, the polite Canadian who followed every rule except one. The one that kept dragging him back to the cocky, infuriating Russian who played like he owned the ice and smiled like he owned everything else.

Shane’s phone buzzed inside his bag. He ignored the chatter of his teammates stripping down and showering around him. When the room finally emptied, he pulled it out.

Le Trou Noir. Rue Sainte-Catherine. One hour. Don’t make me wait, Solnyshko. Or I’ll come find you myself.

Typical Ilya. No greeting. No question. Just a command wrapped in that teasing, possessive edge that made Shane’s stomach tighten with equal parts dread and anticipation. He should delete the message. He should go back to the team hotel, ice his bruises, review game tape like the responsible leader he was supposed to be. Instead, he stood, muscles protesting, and headed for the shower.

Hot water pounded against his skin, tracing the map of contusions Ilya had left on him. Shane closed his eyes and let his mind wander for once — to the way Ilya’s eyes had locked on his during that faceoff, dark and challenging. To the way their rivalry had long ago stopped being just about hockey.

Ilya’s POV

Ilya Rozanov leaned back in the shadowed booth at Le Trou Noir, long legs stretched under the table, a glass of whiskey dangling from his fingers. The bar was loud enough to swallow secrets but dim enough to keep them hidden. Perfect for two captains who weren’t supposed to be anywhere near each other off the ice.

He wore a tight black shirt that hugged the thick muscle earned from years of pro hockey — broad shoulders, powerful arms covered in ink, including the bear tattoo that marked his Russian pride. His dark hair was still slightly damp from the post-game shower, and the cut on his lower lip from a blocked shot throbbed faintly. He didn’t care. The pain was nothing compared to the burn that had been building in his chest all night.

Seeing Shane smile — even that small, polite curve of lips — at one of Montreal’s rookies during a faceoff had lit something ugly inside him. The kid had leaned in, said something that made Shane’s shoulders relax for half a second. No one else got to do that. Not when Ilya had spent years learning every micro-expression on that freckled face. Not when Shane Hollander was the only person who could make Ilya feel both invincible and completely unmoored.

The door opened and there he was. Shane stepped inside, scanning the room with that careful, almost wary gaze. He wore dark jeans and a simple gray Henley that did little to hide the definition of his arms or the way the fabric clung to the bruises Ilya had put there. His light brown hair was neatly combed, freckles standing out against skin still flushed from the game and the shower. Perfect. Always so fucking perfect.

Ilya’s grip on the glass tightened until his knuckles whitened. Mine.

Shane slid into the booth across from him, nodding once like this was a business meeting. “You played dirty tonight,” he said, voice low and even, that slight Canadian lilt making the words sound almost too polite for the heat simmering between them.

Ilya’s mouth curved into a sharp grin. “And you still got hard when I pinned you against the boards. Don’t pretend, Hollander. I felt how much you liked it.”

Shane’s ears turned pink, but he didn’t look away. That was one of the things Ilya loved and hated most — Shane’s inability to fully hide once the mask slipped. “It was a physical game. Nothing more.”

“Liar.” Ilya took a slow sip of whiskey, eyes never leaving Shane’s. “You’ve been mine since the first time I had you in that hotel room years ago. You just refuse to admit how deep it goes.”

They ordered more drinks. Surface talk at first — referee complaints, chirps about each other’s stats, the usual rivalry banter that felt like foreplay. But Ilya’s attention kept drifting to the bar counter.

A tall, dark-haired man in a fitted button-down had zeroed in on Shane the moment he stood up to grab the next round. The stranger moved with easy confidence, sliding up beside Shane as he waited for the bartender.

Shane’s POV

“Shane Hollander, right?” the man said, voice smooth and appreciative. “Hell of a game tonight. That assist in the second period was beautiful. You make it look effortless.”

Shane offered his standard polite smile — the one he used for fans, media, sponsors. The one that kept his image clean. “Thanks. It was a team effort.”

The man — Marc, he introduced himself — was attractive in a polished, lawyerly way. No wedding ring. Easy smile. He leaned against the bar, eyes tracing the line of Shane’s shoulders, lingering on the faint scatter of freckles visible at the open collar of his Henley. “You’re even better looking in person. Those freckles are killer. You single, Captain? Or does someone have the privilege of waiting for you after games like that?”

Shane stiffened, the question landing like a puck to the chest. Single. As if it were that simple. As if there wasn’t a volatile, possessive Russian watching from the booth who made Shane’s carefully ordered life feel both thrilling and terrifying. “It’s… complicated.”

Marc chuckled, stepping a fraction closer. “Complicated can be fun. Let me buy you a drink and you can tell me about it.”

Before Shane could formulate a gentle exit — he was good at those, practiced from years of deflecting attention while keeping his secret locked tight — a heavy, familiar presence materialized at his side.

Ilya’s hand settled on the small of Shane’s back, fingers pressing firmly through the thin fabric. Not a casual touch. A claim.

“Complicated,” Ilya repeated, his voice a low rumble wrapped in that thick Russian accent that always thickened when he was agitated. “Very fucking complicated. He’s with me tonight.”

Marc turned, eyebrows rising as he recognized Ilya. “Rozanov. Didn’t realize you two were friendly off the ice.”

“We’re not friendly,” Ilya said, flashing a smile that showed too many teeth. His hand slid lower, gripping Shane’s hip with unmistakable ownership, fingers digging in just enough to make Shane’s breath catch. “He belongs to me. Go find someone else to waste your cheap lines on, lawyer. No one talks to him like that. No one looks at him like that. Understand?”

The possessiveness in Ilya’s tone was dark, edged with something raw and volatile. Shane felt heat flood his face — embarrassment at the public display, anger at being spoken for, and underneath it all, a treacherous curl of arousal low in his belly. This was the side of Ilya that scared him a little. The side that watched Shane like he was something precious and breakable that no one else was allowed to touch.

“Ilya,” Shane warned quietly, voice tight. “Not here.”

But Ilya wasn’t backing down. His dark eyes bored into Marc with predatory intensity. “He doesn’t need your compliments. He needs my hands on him. My mouth. My cock reminding him exactly who he comes apart for. Walk away before I decide to make this clearer.”

Marc raised his hands in surrender, muttering “No offense, man” before retreating into the crowd. The bar noise rushed back in, but the air between Shane and Ilya felt charged, thicker than the humidity after a hard skate.

Ilya’s POV

The jealousy burned like acid in Ilya’s veins. Seeing another man lean into Shane’s space, make him smile that small genuine curve, ask if he was single — it cracked open the carefully maintained cage Ilya kept around his feelings. For years they had told themselves it was just hate-fucking, just blowing off steam from the rivalry that defined both their careers. Shane the disciplined golden boy, Ilya the brash bad-boy Russian who partied hard and chirped harder.

But it had never been simple. Not since the first stolen night when Shane had looked at him with those wide, anxious eyes and let Ilya take him apart.

No one else got to see the cracks in Shane’s armor. No one else got to hear the soft sounds he made when he finally let go. Shane Hollander was his — the only person who could match him on the ice and undo him off it.

Ilya crowded Shane against the bar, thigh pressing between his legs, feeling the growing hardness there. “You let him flirt with you,” he growled against Shane’s ear, breath hot. “Laughed at his stupid joke. Smiled at him. You know what that does to me, Solnyshko? It makes me want to mark every inch of this perfect body until no one dares look twice.”

Shane’s hands came up to Ilya’s chest, gripping the black shirt. Not pushing away. Holding on. “It was nothing. Just talk.”

“Nothing?” Ilya’s hand slipped under the hem of Shane’s Henley, fingers tracing the fresh bruise on his ribs with possessive reverence. “Everything about you is mine. Your smiles. Your bruises. The way you fall apart when I’m inside you. Say it.”

Shane’s breath hitched, blue eyes darkening with conflict and want. “Hotel. Now. Before this gets worse.”

Shane’s POV

They barely made it inside the anonymous chain hotel room before Ilya was on him.

The door had scarcely clicked shut when strong hands shoved Shane against the wall, mouth crashing down in a bruising, demanding kiss. There was nothing soft or tentative. Ilya kissed like he played — all power, aggression, and raw talent. His tongue pushed past Shane’s lips, claiming, while one thick thigh wedged between Shane’s legs, grinding up against the obvious bulge in his jeans.

“You’re mine,” Ilya muttered between fierce kisses, teeth nipping at Shane’s lower lip hard enough to sting. “No one else gets to make you laugh. No one else gets to see you like this — flushed and hard and ready to beg.”

Shane gasped, hands fisting in Ilya’s dark hair, pulling him closer despite the voice in his head screaming about risks and reputations. The possessiveness terrified him and thrilled him in equal measure. On the ice, Shane was the one who maintained control, who followed routines and protocols to manage his anxiety. With Ilya, he could let go — submit to the chaos and feel the weight of expectation lift for a few stolen hours.

Ilya’s mouth moved to his neck, sucking a dark mark just above the collar of his shirt where it would be hidden but still visible to anyone who looked closely enough. “Gonna cover you in my marks tonight,” he promised, voice rough. “So every time you look in the mirror, you remember who you belong to.”

Clothes came off in a frantic rush. Ilya stripped Shane with efficient, hungry hands, tossing the Henley aside to reveal the map of bruises and freckles across pale skin. He paused for a moment, eyes darkening as he took in the sight — Shane’s lean, powerful hockey body, marked by their shared violence on the ice and now ready for something more intimate.

“Beautiful,” Ilya murmured, almost reverently, before the softness vanished. He pushed Shane onto the king-sized bed, crawling over him like a man starved. His mouth mapped every bruise, tongue tracing purple blooms before sucking new, darker claims over them. Shane arched, a broken sound escaping as Ilya’s teeth grazed a sensitive nipple.

“Look at you,” Ilya said, pinning Shane’s wrists above his head with one large hand. The other wrapped loosely around Shane’s throat — not choking, just enough firm pressure to assert dominance, thumb stroking the racing pulse. “So fucking perfect. All this control you carry. All these rules you follow. And still you spread for me every time I want you.”

Shane’s cock leaked against his stomach, hips bucking up helplessly. The weight of Ilya’s body, the scent of sweat and whiskey and hockey gear that still clung faintly to his skin — it was overwhelming in the best way. “Ilya… please.”

“Please what, Captain?” Ilya’s accent thickened, eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction. “Use your words. Tell me who owns this body. Who makes you forget every fucking rule.”

“You,” Shane gasped, the admission tearing out of him. “I’m yours. Only yours. Fuck — please, I need you.”

The confession seemed to snap the last thread of Ilya’s restraint. He released Shane’s wrists only to flip him onto his stomach, yanking his hips up so Shane was on his knees, face pressed into the pillow. The prep was thorough but urgent — thick fingers slick with lube stretching him open while Ilya’s mouth left a trail of bites down his spine, murmuring filthy Russian mixed with English.

“Ty moy. No one else touches what’s mine. No one else hears these sounds.”

When Ilya finally pushed inside in one deep, relentless thrust, Shane cried out, the burn and fullness stealing his breath. The stretch was intense, bordering on too much, but exactly what he craved after the adrenaline of the game. Ilya didn’t give him time to adjust fully — he set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping forward, one hand fisted in Shane’s hair to pull his head back.

“Say it again,” Ilya growled with every thrust, the slap of skin loud in the room. “Tell me you’re mine while I fuck you.”

“Yours — fuck, Ilya, harder — I’m yours.”

The pace turned brutal. Ilya’s free hand reached around to stroke Shane’s cock in time with his thrusts, squeezing just right. Shane came first with a shattered moan, spilling over Ilya’s fist and the sheets, body shaking under the onslaught as waves of pleasure crashed through him.

Ilya followed moments later, burying himself to the hilt with a guttural groan, teeth sinking into the meat of Shane’s shoulder as he came deep inside him. The bite was hard enough to leave another mark — a dark, possessive brand.

They collapsed together, breathing ragged, bodies slick with sweat. For several long minutes, the only sound was their harsh panting and the distant hum of the city outside.

Aftermath

Shane lay on his back eventually, staring at the ceiling, feeling the sticky warmth between his thighs and the deep ache in his muscles. The possessiveness that had felt intoxicating during the heat of the moment now sat heavy in his chest, mixing with the familiar anxiety that always followed these encounters. He turned his head.

Ilya was watching him with those intense dark eyes, the cocky smirk absent. In its place was something raw and unguarded — obsession edged with vulnerability.

“You scared me a little tonight,” Shane admitted quietly, voice hoarse. “The way you spoke to that guy… the things you said.”

Ilya’s jaw tightened. He reached out and traced a finger over one of the fresh bite marks on Shane’s shoulder. “He wanted you. I saw it in his eyes. Everyone wants you, Hollander. The perfect captain. The boy next door with the freckles and the work ethic. They see the image. I see you — the real you, the one who lets me wreck him and thanks me for it. And it makes me fucking crazy thinking someone else could take even a piece of that.”

Shane swallowed, feeling the weight of Ilya’s words. His own neurodivergent need for order and routine clashed violently with the chaos Ilya brought. Yet he couldn’t deny the pull. With Ilya, the constant pressure to be perfect eased. He could surrender control and still feel safe — or at least, safe enough.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Shane said, reaching up to touch Ilya’s face, thumb brushing the cut on his lip. “But this jealousy… it’s getting stronger. Darker. What if it breaks us?”

Ilya caught his hand and pressed a surprisingly gentle kiss to the palm. “Then let it break us. Because pretending this is still just rivalry is killing me slower than any hit on the ice. You’re under my skin, Solnyshko. In my blood. I don’t know how to want you any other way than completely.”

The confession hung heavy between them. Shane felt the danger of their secret life — the league’s scrutiny, his own carefully cultivated image, the fear of what would happen if it all came crashing down. And beneath the fear, the undeniable thrill of being wanted so fiercely, so obsessively.

Ilya pulled him closer, wrapping powerful arms around Shane’s waist like a cage of muscle and need. “Sleep. Tomorrow we go back to pretending on the ice. But tonight you’re still mine. Every bruise. Every sound. Every breath.”

Shane closed his eyes, body sore and sated, mind spinning with the realization that their heated rivalry had long since crossed into something far more dangerous.