Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Jackie Pike, Hayden Pike, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Brad Hammersmith, Ryan Carmichael, Victor St. Simon, Connors (Heated Rivalry)

Additional Tags:

Porn With Some Plot, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Edging, Sexting, Phone Sex, Orgasm Denial, Sub Top Ilya Rozanov, Dom Bottom Shane Hollander, Masturbation, Sex Toys, Anal Beads, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Sexual Freak Shane Hollander, Freak4Freak Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Voyeurism, Kinda, does it count if it's ilya listening to shane jerk off, or ilya watching shane fuck himself, Multiple Orgasms, Sexual Overstimulation, Aftercare, Post-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Cum Slut Shane Hollander, Breeding Kink, Mean Dom Shane Hollander, maybe mean is a bit far but he's definitely a little cruel, in his own special shane way, no AI used fuck AI fuck it to death

Language:

English

Collections:

Sub Top Ilya Week

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-23 Words: 14,688 Chapters: 1/1

wish you were here right now, all of the things i'd do

Summary

Ilya smirks. "To make each other come?"

Still caged in by Ilya's arms, Shane squirms. "Yes. That."

"Yes, I am aware. Is one of my favourite parts."

"Well, uh, I was thinking," Shane shifts on his feet, blushing all pretty across his cheeks as he considers his words. "What if... you didn't... do that."

"Didn't call you?"

Shane looks aghast at the mere suggestion. "No! No, no, I mean, uh– what if you didn't... come?"

"For four days?"

At the end of the hockey season, Ilya is invited to Cliff's 4-day long bachelor party. He's not exactly looking forward to being away from Shane, but his husband keeps him going with unique, sinful ideas each day. There's just one simple problem – Ilya isn't allowed to come.

Written for Sub Top Ilya Week, Day 7 – Phone Sex and Sexting, Orgasm Control

Notes

no ai was used on this - all typos and grammatical errors are my own.

Marly's boyzz (Miami get fucking ready!! 9-12 July) 🔥‼️🎉🎉🍾

Cliff Marlow added Brad Hammersmith, Carmie (Ryan Carmichael), Victor St-Simon, Josh Connors, Roz (Ilya Rozanov), Timmyyy (Tim Ellison), Casey Ray, Benjamin Sainz, Rookie (Ossi Virtanen).

Cliff Marlow

Hello my gorgeous friends

As you know, I am getting married to the worlds most incredible beautiful amazing woman in two months

And so it it now time for us to get black out and eat good food and drive fast cars for four days straight

Carmie (Ryan Carmichael)

Is that the whole itinerary

Cliff Marlow

Uh yeah obv

Casey Ray

The time has come!!

Benjamin Sainz

Ohhh shit what's going on here

Rookie (Ossi Virtanen)

wait this is your bachelor party right

Victor St-Simon

Ossi are you actually slow

Wtf else would it be

Rookie (Ossi Virtanen)

two mins on the chat and i'm already being bullied 🫩

Benjamin Sainz

Leave my son alone!

Carmie (Ryan Carmichael)

Here we go

Cliff Marlow

Boys please, let's not embarrass ourselves

Not in front of the non-hockey people

It'd be pretty bad if the week ended with a harassment claim against the Bears from @Casey Ray or @Timmyyy (Tim Ellison)

Timmyyy (Tim Ellison)

Eh?

What's happening

Casey Ray

No need to worry about people embarrassing you Cliff, you embarrassed yourself enough on your birthday.

Casey Ray sent a video.

[Video description: Cliff is stood on top of a vast marble kitchen counter, dancing and singing along loudly and off-key to Nelly Furtado. At the chorus, Cliff jumps up and goes too high, his head knocking one of the hanging glass lights and sending it smashing into pieces on the counter. Behind the camera, Casey can be heard gasping, whilst the background echoes with the laughter of Cliff's teammates.]

Rookie (Ossi Virtanen)

damn

Josh Connors

AHH I FORGOT ABOUT THAT

Cliff Marlow

You're all uninvited

Carmie (Ryan Carmichael)

:(

Victor St-Simon

:(

Rookie (Ossi Virtanen)

:(

Brad Hammersmith

MIAMIIIIIII

LETS FUCKING GO

Cliff Marlow

Thank you Brad

Roz (Ilya Rozanov)

marly what is this

Brad Hammersmith

Oh my god

Victor St-Simon

Is this real

Am I hallucinating right now

Rookie (Ossi Virtanen)

jesus was seen

Roz (Ilya Rozanov)

yes papas home

everyone pls calm down

Brad Hammersmith

This is the greatest day of my life

Timmyyy (Tim Ellison)

Me too and I was never even on the Bears

Josh Connors

we missed you daddy

Roz (Ilya Rozanov)

of course

Cliff Marlow

I just told you guys that I'm planning four days of partying and you're more excited about Ilya being on the group-chat

Are you serious

Benjamin Sainz

Wait YOU'RE planning it?

I swear the whole point is that we do all of that

Cliff Marlow

Yeah, I love you all but there's no way I'm letting you take responsibility

Plus I know what I like doing, why wouldn't I plan it all myself?

Victor St-Simon

I respect it tbf

Carmie (Ryan Carmichael)

@Roz (Ilya Rozanov) how are you bro

Cliff Marlow

...

Roz (Ilya Rozanov)

i'm good thanks carmie

enjoying the summer

spending weeks with my beautiful husband and beautiful family and beautiful dog is making me think about retirement

Cliff Marlow

Good luck convincing Shane you can do that LOL

Josh Connors

wait @Cliff Marlow why hasn't Hollander been invited

Cliff Marlow

Erm

Victor St-Simon

Yeah not cool Marly

Brad Hammersmith

Why would he be invited?

Roz (Ilya Rozanov)

excuse me

Brad Hammersmith

Well like

You know how you don't invite the wives and stuff

Benjamin Sainz

SORRY?

Casey Ray

What?

Roz (Ilya Rozanov)

excuse me

Rookie (Ossi Virtanen)

what dat mean

Brad Hammersmith

NO NO NOT LIKE THAT

How do you unsend a fucking message

Rookie (Ossi Virtanen)

too late broski i screenshotted that shit

say goodbye to your career 😭✌️

Brad Hammersmith

@Roz (Ilya Rozanov) I did NOT mean Hollander's your wife

I meant it like how you never invite spouses or girlfriends or whatever

Also can we kick the rookie out I don't even understand what he's saying

Rookie (Ossi Virtanen)

nahh sorry smithy i'm here to stay

comedic relief

Roz (Ilya Rozanov)

it's okay brad i understand

also i agree with virtanen he's funny

Rookie (Ossi Virtanen)

#screenshotted

Roz (Ilya Rozanov)

anyway as much as i adore my husband, four days partying in miami is his idea of hell

which marly knows

Cliff Marlow

#vindication

Roz (Ilya Rozanov)

he can tell we're talking about him

Roz (Ilya Rozanov) sent a photo.

[Photo description: At the opposite end of the couch that Ilya's taken the photo from, Shane is curled into the corner, knees almost at his chin, dressed in a pair of running shorts, an old Bears t-shirt, and his glasses. He's turned towards the camera, eyebrows scrunched as he smiles confusedly.]

Timmyyy (Tim Ellison)

Aww

Victor St-Simon

Damn he's cute

Carmie (Ryan Carmichael)

You fr bagged Montreal's biggest hottie @Roz (Ilya Rozanov)

Rookie (Ossi Virtanen)

pause

Cliff Marlow

Yeah nvm guys I'm cancelling

---

Two weeks later, Ilya's stood in their vast walk-in closet, wondering what the hell to pack, and deeply questioning some of the clothes that he's bought over the years. Being on an MLH hockey team, Ilya's been to a fair few bachelor parties since being a rookie, but this one is different. He knows that this week means a lot to Cliff, and it means a lot to Ilya to be able to spend time with his old teammates. He misses them sometimes.

He bends to pick up a lurid blue shirt with several missing buttons, straightening up to hold it in front of himself and grimacing. Looking back on it, it really is a miracle that Ilya managed to pull so much when he was walking around looking like a living breathing ad for Grey Goose-induced bad decisions.

"How's the packing going?"

Ilya almost jumps three feet into the air. "Jesus!"

Spinning in place, and dropping the hideous shirt as he does, Ilya turns to meet the face of his husband, stood in the doorway and looking a little sheepish.

"Sorry," Shane says, "I didn't mean to scare you."

"How do you do that, moya myshka?" Ilya asks.

Watching Shane's brow furrow as he translates the words in his head is adorable. "Mouse?" Shane exclaims incredulously, as he does whenever Ilya calls him anything beyond his usual pet-names (sunshine, darling, sweetheart, dirty little slut, and so on).

"Mm, yes, my little mouse," Ilya says with a grin, "because you are so quiet."

"Shut up," Shane mutters, but Ilya can see him trying not to smile himself. Shane blinks, and looks around at the mess of their closet. "God, you really have a lot of clothes, huh?"

"These aren't all mine," Ilya says, trying to subtly step in front of a large pile of jeans.

Shane gives him a look.

"...Okay, they're mainly mine, yes, but I cannot help that I am fashion icon."

"Fashion icon with a shopping problem, clearly."

Ilya snorts. "When I am back I will go through it all. I think I forgot what most of these looked like, and now I have no idea what to bring with me."

Shane chews on his lip thoughtfully. "Surely you've been to loads of bachelor parties. What do you usually wear?"

Glancing away, Ilya reaches for the discarded neon shirt.

"I see," Shane says. His husband looks around at the overflowing shelves and hangers, picking out a couple of things for himself. "What about these? They're, like, kind of cool... right?"

Ilya stares at a pair of leather pants and a gold studded shirt that for some inexplicable reason has a zipper instead of buttons – a zipper that also only goes halfway up. He tries his best not to make a face, but based on the way that Shane flushes, he fails. "I don't think that's really the right vibe, lyumbimyy."

"Yeah, guess I'm not as much of a fashion icon as you are."

"That's okay, you can help me with other stuff." Ilya steps over piles of clothes to his suitcase, largely empty other than some clothes and swim trunks. "I have to bring swim stuff, because Miami, and I'm pretty sure Hammersmith has a yacht, so I was thinking–"

"Ilya, I swear if it's that fucking Speedo thing from our honeymoon–"

When he turns to Shane, holding the fucking Speedo thing, Ilya can't stop himself from laughing at Shane's expression.

"You cannot take that with you," Shane says, scowling in that way that makes him resemble a particularly frustrated kitten.

"Why not?" Ilya asks innocently. "I think it looks pretty good on me."

"It's dangerous," Shane insists. "Don't you remember what they... did... to me?"

Oh, Ilya remembers. Ilya remembers it well. When he had walked out of their villa in Ibiza, strutting past Shane on a sun lounger with no cares on the world, Shane had taken one look at him – or one look at his ass, specifically – and practically lost it, dragging Ilya back to their bedroom by the waistband of his indecently tight swim trunks, and rimming him until Ilya was sobbing into the pillow, begging Shane to let him come.

The memory now makes Ilya sigh contentedly. What a time. "I don't understand, Shane."

"Well, what if they make... someone else want to act like that?"

"Hm, I don't know, that might just be part of it," Ilya teases, waggling his eyebrows. "Is a bachelor party, after all."

Shane's eye twitches. "Give me that," he mutters, snatching the trunks out of Ilya's hand. "I'm hiding these from you, asshole."

"Ugh, fine," Ilya says, rolling his eyes as if it's a great loss to him. He turns back to the clothes rail, wondering if any of these items of clothing will save him from hours of being laughed at by the other guests. It's not looking too good for him.

Two arms reach around his waist, and he feels Shane's chin rest on his shoulder. "I'm going to miss you."

Ilya turns his head as much as he can, placing a kiss on the tip of Shane's nose. "I'll miss you too. But I don't think it's your thing, really."

"No, you're right," Shane says, unlatching himself from Ilya's back so he can move to stand in front of him. "It is, like, the opposite of what I would like to spend four days in the off season doing."

"And I will call every day," Ilya promises. "Just think of it like... like when we used to play for different teams. Was pretty good when we saw each other after being apart, right?"

Shane blushes. "That was good."

Ilya kisses him again, this time on his gorgeously soft lips, before considering his suitcase once more.

"...Ilya?"

"Hm?"

"I had, um... an idea."

Immediately, Ilya stiffens. Not in a bad way, just in a focused way. Because he knows what those words mean. Most of the time, an idea, in Shane's words, will be his input applied to hockey, some miracle thought that wins them the game. Sometimes, however, when Shane has an idea, he's come up with something exceedingly filthy for them to do to one another. The last idea Shane had ended up with them sprawled out on their bed, Ilya's whole hand buried wrist-deep inside Shane, and his husband reduced to drooled-out monosyllables.

Ilya turns slowly, snaking hands around Shane's middle to plant his hands possessively over the swell of his ass. "Tell me more, sweetheart," Ilya murmurs.

"Well, you know how when we're apart we usually call one another and that sort of thing?"

"What, to talk?"

"Uh, I mean, yes, but also to–"

Ilya smirks. "To make each other come?"

Still caged in by Ilya's arms, Shane squirms. "Yes. That."

Does Ilya know. Is the Pope Catholic? "Yes, I am aware. Is one of my favourite parts."

"Well, uh, I was thinking," Shane shifts on his feet, blushing all pretty across his cheeks as he considers his words. "What if... you didn't... do that."

"Didn't call you?"

Shane looks aghast at the mere suggestion. "No! No, no, I mean, uh– what if you didn't... come?"

"For four days?" Ilya squawks.

Call him spoiled, call him entitled, Ilya does not care. He and Shane could probably beat out most of the Canadian population in a competition for highest sex drive. If they didn't have annoying things to spend their time doing – like hockey, and seeing people, and eating, and breathing – he and Shane would likely be fucking all hours of the day, every day. The last time that Ilya went for a couple days without coming, it was when Shane had a shoot in Toronto, and it had been... not fun. Once, his husband edged him for two days straight (another Shane Hollander idea) and it was hell while it lasted. And that was two. Four?

Shane blanches and says, "It's not– if you don't like it you don't have to, obviously, but–"

"Are you punishing me for something?"

"No, baby, no I swear. It's meant to be, like, the opposite."

"Um..." Ilya frowns. "How?"

"Well, I was thinking, remember when we used to live apart? We'd go weeks without seeing each other, and when we did, wasn't it amazing?"

He's got a point there. Ilya wouldn't give up their current arrangement for the world, but he has to admit, the gratification of getting to make Shane come and getting Shane to make him come after almost a month in different cities was... enjoyable.

"And just think of how hard you'll come when you get home."

Another good point. Shane stands there, letting Ilya mull over the suggestion. The more Ilya considers it, the more interesting the idea becomes. He already knows, of course, that the sex they're inevitably going to have when Ilya's back from Miami will be fucking insane, but Shane's proposal adds an even more crazy layer to it. They'll be so pent up, and so desperate for one another.

There's just one thing making Ilya hesitate... "You keep saying you."

Shane looks a little quizzical. "Yeah?"

"Not us."

"Oh. Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, um, just– just you."

Ilya feels a small smile growing on his face at his husband's scheming. "I see."

"I really– I think it could be fun," Shane says, blush growing as his eyes go hazy in that way that Ilya knows means he's imagining things. Likely all of the situations and positions he's going to put Ilya in once he's back from Florida. "If you don't like the sound of it," Shane continues, "that's totally fine. I was just wondering if you maybe find it... appealing."

Ilya blinks slowly. "I might."

"Yeah?" Shane replies, the word eager and breathy.

"Yup," Ilya says, drawing the answer out and revelling in how the single word makes Shane's pupils visibly grow. "Four days."

"Just four days," Shane reassures him. "You can do that, baby. Right?"

"Hm..."

Shane steps closer, using all of the advantages of Ilya having a couple of inches on him, widening his eyes and looking up through his dark lashes. "Will you do it? For me?"

Shane is truly pulling out all the tools of persuasion that he can. Appealing to Ilya's competitive side by suggesting he might not be able to handle it; making those eyes at him that Ilya can never resist; and then, for the piece-de-resistance, Shane rests his head in the crook of Ilya's shoulder, and whispers into his neck, "Please?"

Which is how Ilya Rozanov willingly signs himself up to a four-day-long orgasm ban, all orchestrated by his husband. What can Ilya say, he is nothing if not a slave to Shane Hollander's desires.

---

On Thursday, Ilya wakes up obscenely early, shoving his charger and headphones into his Celine carry-on, and telling himself over and over that he loves Cliff Marlow and is excited to go to Miami, despite it still being dark outside. Shane wakes up when Ilya's zipping his suitcase, rolling over with an unhappy noise and fumbling for his phone to check the time.

"Why're you up so early?" Shane groans.

He leaves his bags at the bedroom door, making his way back over to their bed to lean down and give Shane a kiss. "Have to get my flight, solnyshko."

"Isn't it in, like," Shane yawns, "four hours?"

Ilya glances at his own phone. "Yes, so I should get going probably."

Shane blinks sleepily, and raises a brow. Ilya can tell Shane's itching to say something about the time, but he apparently gives up, as he just murmurs, "Okay, if you say so."

Ilya goes to pull away, and Shane grips at his wrist. "Don't wan' you to leave."

"I know, Shane," Ilya replies, trying to resist the very strong urge to climb back into bed and let Shane nuzzle into his side like he never left. "But is only four days. You have all your nice plans, and we'll talk every day."

The sound Shane makes is akin to an angry puppy. "Fine."

Shane insists on getting up with Ilya, despite the fact that he's still all sleepy and looks a bit like he doesn't know where he is, walking Ilya to the door ("Because I'm a gentleman, Ilya"), and carrying his suitcase and bag, all whilst dressed in just his fuzzy socks and briefs. Anya seems similarly affronted at being woken so early, and after Ilya gives her a farewell kiss to her nose, Shane hugs her to his side, saying disapprovingly, "Yes, Anya, he's leaving us. For Florida."

"I love you," Ilya says once they finally end up on the doorstep.

"Love you too," replies Shane, giving him a final kiss. "Let me know when you're boarding."

Marly's boyzz (Miami get fucking ready!! 8-12 July) 🔥‼️🎉🎉🍾

Cliff Marlow

Hope everyone is excited!!

Roz (Ilya Rozanov)

marly i'm going to kill you

Cliff Marlow

???

Victor St-Simon

Roz involve me

Never been so tired in my life

Miami is fucking boiling. Ilya knew to expect that obviously, but there is some fairly major difference between the breezy days of Ottawa, and the wall of damp heat that slams into him when the terminal's automatic doors open.

By the evening, though, it's cooler, and easier to handle.

Ilya also finds the heat is markedly nicer when he's had a tomahawk steak, a huge bowl of ice cream, and three shots of tequila.

It's now ten in the evening, and Ilya is contentedly full, and floating in that weird liminal space between complete exhaustion and being incredibly drunk, and sat around a fire pit at a luxury beach club, surrounded by empty glasses and a group of very excited men.

He is also, unfortunately, very horny.

Alcohol does that to him, and as Ilya considers his current predicament, he reckons that he probably should have thought of how many of the four days Shane has banned him from coming for he would spend drinking. The group are talking boisterously about something or other – Carmie's new girlfriend, maybe – and it's a good thing that Cliff called ahead to rent the place out, because it seems with every shot, each member of the group has lost more of their control over their volume.

"Dude, you did not say that to her," St-Simon yells, laughing so hard that Ilya's a little worried for his health.

"How was I supposed to know she'd react like that!"

"You cannot be serious, Carmie," Virtanen says, words slurred and eyes glazed from the long island iced tea that the newly-twenty-one-year-old insisted on ordering. "You're so– so fucking stupid."

The rookie is funny. A little like Haas, in how he looked like he might drop dead when Ilya introduced himself. A little unlike Luca, and more like a young Ilya, with how eager he was to show off his ID to the bartender and order one of the strongest things on the menu.

"Right," Carmie scoffs. "As if I'm going to take advice from you. Bro, you haven't even lost your virginity!"

"Excuse me–"

Ilya squirms in place. He remembers when he was a rookie, drinking whatever he could, acting like he was the king of the world – because what else would he be, after being the first overall draft pick – and fucking anyone that looked at him. He remembers when he took Shane's virginity. Or– some of his virginity, at least. Ilya was still the first to fuck him, a fact he will always hold near and dear to his heart. Shane had been so perfect for him, somehow both coy and desperate at the same time, standoffish and a total slut, letting Ilya fuck him like he hated him, and taking it all like a champ.

Even though Ilya had already had Shane on his knees for him by that point, that night was when he realised that Hollander was a true whore. The discovery had changed his life, both in a very shallow and a very fundamental way.

The sun has long since set, and Ilya finds himself suddenly grateful for the lack of light, because without even putting much thought into it, Ilya is hard.

Ilya nudges Cliff, sat beside him, who is watching the whole exchange with a tipsy grin. "I'm just going to the bathroom," Ilya says.

Cliff glances at him, replies, "Okay Roz," and goes back to his drink.

Ilya's only just out of earshot from the group when he's pulling up Shane's contact on his phone, and pressing the video call button. He can't actually go to the bathroom, because he's fairly sure that Connors is in there (Ilya has been tracking whereabouts everyone was since he started picturing Shane naked about twenty minutes ago), so he just rushes to find a darkened alcove set into the back wall of the club, far away from both his friends and the staff.

His phone only rings for about five seconds before Shane picks up.

"Hey," Shane says, his voice warm and a little sleepy. "I'm just getting ready for bed." As he speaks, Ilya can see Shane wandering around, his surroundings changing until he props up their phone on the sink in their bathroom. "How has your day been?"

"Mm, okay," Ilya replies, a little absentmindedly. He would be the first to admit, alcohol and horniness never make him the most well-spoken, and a phone call to his husband will only make things worse.

Shane, of course, knows of neither the alcohol nor the horniness, so he sounds a little concerned when he replies, "Only okay?"

"No, sorry," Ilya says, shaking his head to himself. "Ignore that. It has been good."

"Yeah?"

Shane keeps flitting in and out of the frame of the call, zipping this way and that around their colossal bathroom to complete his ninety-stage night-time routine, and although it's all very domestic and lovely, Ilya really wishes he would pause for a minute so he could get a real good look at him.

He only thinks that he was probably meant to say something when he hears, "...So what have you been up to?"

"Oh. Uh– well, we all met up, which was... chaotic. But is very cool to see everyone."

"Mhm?" Shane says, interested. He appears back in shot, and Ilya tries not to pass out as he drinks in the sight of Shane with damp hair, ink-black strands falling into his face, and his face covered in some product Ilya remembers banning from their home – he is all for skincare, but when Shane introduced his milk cleanser (which looked unfortunately similar to Shane's face once he's done blowing his husband) Ilya thought he was going insane.

"Ilya?"

"Sorry! Sorry, yes, um... and then we went and got lunch. And then we came here."

"Here?"

"Beach club."

Shane's voice is a little distant again when he says, "Oh, that sounds nice!" When he appears again, that god-forsaken cleanser is gone, but the imagine is still seared in Ilya's annoyingly aroused mind, and it only mutates from there... Shane covered in his cum, Shane on his knees, Shane lying on their bed with his head hanging over the edge, mouth open and waiting. In his pants, Ilya's cock twitches.

Speaking of cum– "Lyubov, I was thinking."

"You? Really?"

"Fuck off," Ilya snorts. "Um, yes, so I was thinking," he continues, averting his gaze from the screen so that he can't be distracted by Shane's face yet again, "the idea that you had, could we maybe–"

"Uh huh?"

Ilya makes the mistake of looking back down at his phone, and almost chokes. "Shane."

"...Yes?"

"What are you wearing?"

"My glasses?"

His glasses, indeed. Shane's skin is all dewy and glowing, sheening a little in the light from Shane's bedside lamp. Sat atop the bridge of his nose are those fucking glasses, and below that the bare expanse of Shane's clavicle and shoulders. It's all somehow more attractive than him with that cleanser on, and Ilya's pants are really starting to feel uncomfortably tight.

"Did you plan this?" Ilya says, choked-out.

The answer should be obvious when Shane gets super close to his phone, scrunches his nose up, and loudly says, "Huh?"

But Ilya doesn't quite believe him. Shane knows what the glasses do to him.

"What were you saying, Ilya?"

"Your idea, Shane, do we have to do it?"

Shane cocks his head. "Why?"

If Ilya truly wanted to stop, there are a hundred things he could say, and it would be over. It would not be the first time that something hasn't really worked for them, and it likely wouldn't be the last. He knows, logically, that at the first sign of true discomfort, Shane would call the whole thing off.

And yet.

"Because I'm really fucking turned-on."

A small sigh echoes from his phone speaker as Shane pouts. "Well, baby, I'm sorry to hear that."

"Y-you are?"

Shane hums, "Yes. Look, it's not my fault you can't control yourself."

At his words, Ilya fucking whimpers.

"Sweet boy," Shane croons. "I can hardly blame you. You just get all dumb and horny, don't you?"

Ilya nods silently.

"Do you really want to stop?" Shane asks, his voice firm.

He bites his lip, then slowly shakes his head. "No."

"That makes me very happy to hear, baby. I mean, you've not even been gone for twenty-four hours yet. It'd be pretty fucking pathetic if you gave up now, huh?"

"I guess so," Ilya breathes out.

"I think when you're drunk and desperate like this, though, you don't have the best self-control," Shane says, somehow reading his mind from over a thousand miles away. "Is that right?"

"Yeah, th-that's right."

"So you should probably go back to your friends."

It's not a suggestion.

"Okay," Ilya whispers.

"I hope the rest of your evening is good," Shane says softly, the words briefly interrupted by a weary noise and the sound of their sheets being tossed about in that way Shane does when he's finding a comfortable position to sleep in. "Will you text me goodnight?"

It's honestly remarkable, how quickly Shane's tone can change. Ilya, obviously, replies, "Of course."

"I love you."

"Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu. Sleep well."

"You too, baby," Shane murmurs. "You too."

---

On Friday, the plan is to sleep in, have a humongous lunch, and then go bar hopping. It's funny, in a way – both that Cliff's likes and dislikes have not changed one bit over the years, and that everything they're doing reminds Ilya of a life he left behind a while ago. In fact, Ilya's fairly sure he remembers a day with the eaxct same itinerary from the bachelor of one of the Boston veterans that was playing when he signed with the Bears, and when he mentions his suspicions to Cliff, the groom-to-be just grins guiltily.

"I like what I like, man, I can't help it!" Cliff explains over his beer.

They're at their third bar already, and although Ilya loves the company and the drinking and the fun, all he really wants to do is go back to the hotel and talk to Shane. And try to do anything that avoids jerking off... (Ilya had thought he would sleep off his horniness, and he did, but Shane's rule is still an ever-present thought in his mind, haunting him even when he's not thinking about it).

"What's it like going out in Ottawa?"

Connors' question jolts Ilya out of his thoughts, and he clears his throat as he considers his answer.

"Oh, is good. Very... different from Boston."

"Well, yeah obviously," St-Simon snorts. "One is the greatest city in the world and one is like, the retirement capital for Canadian politicians."

That makes Ilya feel a little affronted. Sure, he would never call Ottawa the world's liveliest city, but it's still his city. "It's not bad, though. There's a great bar the team go to a lot, and the houses there are fucking insane, so we spend a lot of time at each others' places."

"Oh my god, yeah," Virtanen cuts in. "It's my dream to be invited to one of Boodram's barbecues. Haas told me it's some of the best food he's ever had."

Hold on. "How do you know Luca?"

Virtanen smirks. "Secret."

Ilya files that away for later. For a while now, he and Troy have been theorising that all the MLH rookies have formed some sort of underground network, since they all seem to mysteriously be so friendly with one another (when Ilya told Shane of his conspiracy, Shane had laughed so hard he almost choked on his ginger ale).

"It's the Swiss and the Swedes, man," St-Simon intones, "they all know each other."

"I'm from Finland!"

"Oh sure you are."

Their bickering makes Ilya smile.

Connors snorts, and turns to Ilya again. "What's the clubbing like?"

Ah. Now this, Ilya can't embellish. "Not... great."

"Could've guessed that, Roz."

"But, you know, we don't really go to clubs, anyway."

"What? Seriously? You, Ilya Rozanov, don't go clubbing."

"No, I just– grew out of it a bit," Ilya mumbles. "...Plus, is not really Shane's thing."

Over the course of ten seconds, Ilya watches as a maniacal grin grows on Connors' face. His old Boston teammate makes an odd squeaking noise, goes to cover his mouth, and then appears to think better of it, throwing his head back just as he bursts into hysterical laughter. "You cannot be fucking serious!"

"What?" Ilya asks, chuckling bemusedly.

"You're–" St-Simon says, laughing too, "you're fucking whipped, man."

"Yes. Duh. He's my husband."

"But, I mean– we played with you for years, Roz, you lived in those clubs."

Ilya sighs sagely. "Yes, well. I am reformed man now."

"Damn, Hollander," Connors marvels. "He really turned a hoe into a housewife."

And like he's present in the room with them, Ilya's phone buzzes in his pocket, and when he checks his notifications, he can't help his own secret smile.

Shane

Yum.

Shane sent a photo.

[Photo description: Taken from above, capturing their Carrara marble countertop, one of Shane's favourite kintsugi plates which he imported from Kyoto last month, and what is presumably his lunch – a seeded bagel cut in half, filled with avocado, feta, arugala, and pumpkin seeds.]

Ilya

looks delicious!!

Shane

I know you're out with everyone right now so you probably can't chat, but it feels weird not being able to tell you what I'm doing from the other room.

So I'm going to send you updates from my day :)

Ilya

i would love nothing more

"Who're you texting?"

"Dude, look at that face. It's gotta be Hollander."

"Whipped, bro, whipped."

Ilya shoots them all fuck off expressions, but there's no real heat to it – it's not like he's ashamed of how Shane makes him feel, if he's whipped he's whipped. Ilya refuses to be embarrassed by how in love he is, even when his love manifests itself by finding Shane's choice of bagel fillings to be adorable. Hoe to housewife, indeed. Hoe to housewife and proud!

After that, Shane goes offline for a little while, which is hardly surprising. Weekends don't really exist in the Hollander world, and the same goes for weekdays in the off-season. When they had discussed how Shane was going to fill his time in the four days Ilya was gone ("So I don't lie around like a sea slug all day feeling sorry for myself", in Shane's words – not that his husband could ever be remotely sea-slug-like) the first idea Shane had come up with was admin. God, but Shane is a slut for admin. When Ilya's out of the house, Shane will go full Yuna mode, completing all sorts of activities and tasks that Ilya had never been aware of in the first place. There's no doubt, in Ilya's mind, that that is what Shane is up to right now.

About forty minutes later, one bar further along, his phone buzzes again.

Shane

Your daughter misses you a lot.

Shane sent a photo.

[Photo description: Anya lies in a patch of sunlight on what Ilya recognises to be the dock of the cottage. The image looks like it's been taken just as Shane called her name, so Anya appears a little miffed about having been disturbed, her head raised at an odd angle and eyes half-shut.]

She requests you bring her back a toy from Florida.

Ilya

she looks like she's requesting to be rehomed

Shane

Don't say things like that you evil man!

What if she had read that message?

Ilya

pls don't tell her i said that

Shane

Too late mwahaha

Shane's messages make Ilya laugh, which, of course, the guys react to like it's some groundbreaking phenomenon. Cliff, now four beers deep, leans over Ilya's shoulder to take a peek at his phone, making a funny squealing noise when he catches sight of the photo of Anya.

Ilya only has to wait ten minutes or so until Shane's back on his phone again.

Shane

I think I'm getting better

Shane sent a photo.

[Photo description: Similarly to the image of Shane's lunch, a photo from above of a cup of coffee. Shane has added steamed milk, and has tried his best at forming a little foamed-milk heart, something that he's set his mind to improving at recently.]

Ilya

oooh definitely

Ilya sent a photo.

[Photo description: A very hastily taken image of their beer-pong setup.]

Shane

Nice!

Ilya reads the message in Shane's voice, that tone he adopts when he's trying his best to be earnestly enthusiastic about something that's his worst nightmare, and failing terribly.

"Now I understand why you never had your own bachelor," Hammersmith slurs, "you'd just be texting Hollander the whole time."

"And?" Ilya asks, raising a brow.

"How does it work when there's two guys?" Virtanen says quietly.

Cliff snorts. "How does what work?"

"The bachelor parties," Virtanen replies loudly. "Not anything like– dude, get your mind out of the– the gutter."

"Cliff can't talk anyway," interjects Hammersmith. "He did once ask me that."

"Ask you what?"

"Smithy, you promised not to tell Roz!" Cliff complains.

Ilya smirks. "You seriously made him promise to never tell me that you don't understand how gay sex works?"

"I was worried it might be homophobic," Cliff mumbles. "Anyway, I do know how gay sex works–"

At this, Sainz and Carmie both look up from where they've been discussing the soccer game that's showing on the bar televisions. "Sorry?" Carmie asks, looking deeply confused.

"–I just didn't get how missionary–"

Ilya almost chokes on his drink. "Cliff."

"No, it was just, I didn't know if it was possible."

"Cliff."

"It's a good question, to be fair," Sainz says.

Carmie snorts. "No it's not," he hisses.

"How would you know–"

"Alright, alright," Ilya interrupts. "Lets not get ourselves kicked out of the bar."

"They couldn't kick us out, that'd be homophobic," Virtnanen murmurs.

"Of course it is possible," Ilya intones. The fact that they are now on bar number six is becoming increasingly apparent in how he finds himself explaining the ins and outs (no pun intended) of gay sex. "Some things make is easier, though, like pillow under the hips, or if someone is very flexible–"

Cliff snorts, and mutters, "Here we go."

"–and Shane is very flexible."

At Ilya's smug words, Hammersmith does actually choke on his beer. "Oh, Jesus," he rasps, coughing and laughing at the same time.

Ilya thinks that it's probably about time for him to exit this conversation, before he starts waxing lyrical about Shane's flexibility in a way that his husband would certainly not appreciate were he here. And perhaps he should attempt to sober up somewhat. After all, it is – Ilya realises as he checks his phone – only two-thirty in the afternoon. "I'm going to get some water, anyone want anything?"

He's off before he can even hear their answers, because checking the time also reveals Shane has texted him again: all he can see without unlocking his phone, though, is that Shane sent a series of photos, captioned Tried out some new yoga poses, I think they went well.

Stood at the bar, Ilya rushes to open the messages.

And– fuck. Fuck.

Shane

Tried out some new yoga poses, I think they went well.

Camel pose

Shane sent a photo.

[Photo description: Shane, in some elaborate yoga pose, captured in a way that suggests he set his phone up against the wall. Shane is kneeling, his calves resting on the floor, his back curved all the day so that his hands have come to rest behind him, gripping at his own ankles.]

Shane looks incredibly relaxed. He is also, incidentally, stretched in a pose that pushes his chest to the sky, emphasising his deeply impressive pecs. And because Ilya's a little drunk, and missing his husband like they're on different continents, and because said husband has sent him a photo that makes his tits look impeccable, Ilya's brain goes haywire. So before he can get too distracted by the memories of the last time he was so turned-on that he pushed together Shane's tits and fucked them, Ilya scrolls down.

Shane

This one is crow pose

Shane sent a photo.

[Photo description: With his phone similarly at floor-level, Shane has taken another image of himself in an elaborate yoga pose. His lower half is curled up, knees pressed to his chest, but it's his upper half that's the most impressive part of the photo. In the dimmed light of the gym, Shane biceps shine and bulge as he lifts himself, supporting his entire body weight on his arms.]

Ilya's jaw drops. His gaze flits over the image, utterly unsure of where to look – whether at Shane's ass, stretching out his shorts and making them ride up his thighs; or his straining arms, taking his weight; or where, at the edge of the photo, Ilya can just make out a sliver of Shane's expression, which is one of collected calm.

Ever so slowly, Ilya reaches down to readjust himself, glad to be stood at the bar where no one can see.

Ilya

shane

fucking hell

Shane

??

The animal theme wasn't intentional haha

Ilya

that is not

shane

please

Shane

Are you okay?

Ilya

you are being mean

Shane

I would never.

I haven't even shown you all of them yet, baby

Ilya

oh fuck

Shane

This one is puppy pose, but I modified it a bit to add some strain on my knees.

Ilya waits with bated breath. When Shane sends evidence, Ilya feels, a little absurdly, like he may be about to drop dead in a random bar in Miami.

Shane

Shane sent a photo.

[Photo description: Shane is positioned belly-down on his yoga mat, supporting himself on his knees, chest, and head, his back curved in a cruelly deep arch. His calves are drawn-up, braced on the backs of his thighs so that Shane's weight rests on his knees and his stance is widened, pushing his ass further upwards. In contrast to the previous two, this photo Shane has taken in the mirror, phone held in one hand next to his face. His eyes are heavy-lidded, looking into the reflection of the lens like he can read Ilya's mind.]

Ilya's definitely going to die. Every single part of it is perfectly curated, producing an image that is filthy in it's sensuality – Shane has literally captured himself in one of his favourite positions, face down, ass up. Ilya knows that if he were there, stood behind Shane, the view would be even more devastating: Shane's arms would be tensed, triceps bracing himself against the ground; his ass, too fat for the slutty shorts that Shane intentionally buys a size too small, would cast the rest of his body in obscene proportions, waist appearing tiny compared to his hips. And, if Ilya were there, Shane would shift his head so he could look back at Ilya as he ordered Ilya to fuck him.

He's so hard that he sways in place.

Ilya

dhjjbc

Shane

Erm

Ilya

fuvkkk

shne

Shane

Yes?

Ilya

you can't do this to me

Shane

Do what?

I'm literally just doing yoga Ilya, that cannot have made you react like this.

That'd be pretty pathetic you know

Ilya

mm yeah talk dirty to me

Shane

Jesus

You're like a dog

Just a horny mutt, huh

Ilya

oh fucj shane

it's not my fault

you did this to me

Shane

Don't be rude Ilya

In the music-filled space of the bar, Ilya fucking whimpers. He doesn't know what possessed Ilya of a few days ago to agree to this. It feels like some form of modern-day torture.

Ilya

m not

please i need to go jerk off so bad pls let me come

Shane

I never said you couldn't jerk off

Ilya

yeah but

Shane

You know what I want

Ilya

you sent me photos like that though

pls im so hard

Shane

Mmm yum

And then Shane goes offline.

Ilya feels a little like he he does when he's getting edged, and he hasn't even touched himself.

"You good, man?"

"Fuck!"

Ilya spins to see St-Simon looking at him strangely. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you," he says, his words slurred. "But you've just been stood here for like, ten minutes. Everything okay?"

"Yes," Ilya replies, a little choked-out. "Yes, fine. Sorry I got... distracted."

"Texting someone?"

"No. Did you want something?"

"It was Hollander, right?"

Ilya's eye twitches. "No, it wasn't. Fuck off, man. How would you know?"

"Hm, maybe because when I walked up to you, you locked your phone like it had– I don't know, the nuclear codes or something on it. And," St-Simon looks down pointedly., "because I can't really think of anyone else whose messages would make you react like that."

"Oh my god– fuck off, get the fuck away from me right now or I'll–"

---

On Saturday, they spend all day lying around on a yacht, sailing their way to Biscayne Bay and then fucking about on jet-skis back in Miami. It's the most like an American teenager with more money than sense that Ilya has ever felt like, and the most like a rookie for the Boston Bears that Ilya has felt like in a long time. At the end of the day, he's sun-soaked and hungry and tired in that way that only comes from some very long, very fun few hours.

When they finally make it back to the hotel, Cliff reminds them all that they only have forty minutes before they have to leave for dinner, so to make sure they get ready now.

Ilya, of course, does no such thing. Instead, he makes his way back to his suite, flops down on the bed, and video calls Shane.

"Hello, solnyshko," Ilya sighs happily as soon as he's met with the sight of Shane.

"Ilya!" Shane exclaims, equally as dreamily. "I'm with–"

"Oh, Rozano-ov!"

Ilya grins as Jackie appears in frame, looming towards the phone and making Shane sputter when her hair gets in his face. "Is that my favourite WAG I see?" Ilya asks.

"You know it is," Jackie croons, as at the same time Shane mutters, "I thought I was your favourite WAG."

Jackie snorts.

"Have you had a nice evening?" Ilya asks.

"Obviously," answers Jackie. "How could anyone not have a nice evening in a house like this? With a man like this?" she says, leaning her head on Shane's shoulder and making Shane beam. "Your husband is a really good cook, Ilya. He makes a mean spread of canapés."

"He does love his canapés."

Shane leans over to make his face more visible. "Jackie is a very good mixologist, too."

"Really?"

Jackie nods seriously. "I make a mean aperol spritz."

Ah. That explains the slight flush on both their faces, then. And the way they're so elated to talk to Ilya. And the way that Shane is staring at him, gazing at where Ilya's hair is still slightly damp from the sea, and where his shirt is unbuttoned down to his pecs. Ilya stops his staring before it can get too out of hand, because there has been an unfortunate number of times that the Pikes have seen too much, he doesn't want to add to the long list by making bedroom eyes at Shane with Jackie on the call.

"Did you abandon your husband for the night?" Ilya asks. "I wouldn't blame you if you had–"

"Oh shut up, you asshole," comes a loud, very distinctly Hayden Pike voice from beyond the phone.

"He's here," Shane says, looking across the room. "Trying to teach Anya a new trick. I think it's going– Hayd, watch it with the treats. The last time she went to the vet, they told us she was being given too many."

"And whose fault was that?" Hayden chimes in knowingly.

Ilya flushes. "It's not my fault she has such adorable begging face. What are you teaching her to do?"

"Play dead. I saw this video of a labrador on facebook–"

"Send that to me, Pike."

"I did! You would know, if you ever checked your messages–"

"I do check them, just for important people."

"Oh my god, I can't believe–"

"You are both such children," Jackie interrupts. So distracted by bickering with Hayden, Ilya didn't even notice her leave the frame, and now she comes wandering back in, two more fully-loaded wine glasses gripped in her hands.

It's a rare occurrence that Shane drinks – one of those things he has to be coaxed into by a select few people (Jackie Pike being one of them) – and Ilya wishes he were there... because tipsy Shane is so adorable. Tipsy Shane is also, like Ilya, completely insatiable. There have been a couple of notable times when Shane's had one too many beers at Bood's, and has crawled into Ilya's lap and begged to be taken home.

"Are you going out later?" Shane asks, taking a glass from Jackie and grinning his thanks.

"Yes, I am. Carmie booked some insane place for dinner at the top of a skyscraper. I think we're leaving in–" Ilya glances up at the time and jolts. "Twenty minutes. Okay."

"Do you have to go?"

"Hmm, depends," he says. "Usually I would stay on phone with you, but I don't know how much the Pikes want to see me showering."

In the background, Hayden groans.

"Well," Jackie slurs, "I wouldn't necessarily be opposed–"

"Jackie!"

"–but you probably should go get ready."

"Ah, yes I will," Ilya replies, rolling off his bed with a sigh. "Lyubimyy, before I go, I think maybe I missed a call from you earlier?"

Shane chokes on his wine. "Oh," he says. "Yes, I uh, left you a couple of voicemails. I didn't– it wasn't anything important."

Despite already being pink from the alcohol, Shane is blushing further, and Ilya raises a suspicious brow. "Should I listen to them, then?"

"Um–" Shane bites his lower lip, "if you want to."

Right.

"Right. Okay," Ilya watches Shane's eyelashes flutter as he looks at Ilya and then looks away. "Well, it is very nice to talk to you all. You both, I mean."

"Fuck off, Rozanov," Hayden yells.

"Have a lovely night, baby," Shane says quietly. "Love you."

"Awww!"

"I love you too, Shane."

Even when he hangs up, that warm, fuzzy feeling remains, and Ilya's aware he's smiling a bit like a maniac wandering around his room deciding what to wear for dinner. He's stood in the bathroom shirtless, searching for his conditioner, when he remembers Shane's bashful admission of the voicemails.

A couple, Shane had mentioned.

Ilya sees five.

He clicks play on the first one as he continues to look through his bag.

"...Hey, baby," Shane's voice rings out from his phone. "Sorry if I disturbed you, I was just calling to say I hope you have a nice day with the others, and to remind you to wear sunscreen. Jackie and Hayd are coming over for dinner, but maybe if you get a moment we could chat later? I love you."

It's so domestic and caring that Ilya feels his face scrunch up with the wave of love he feels for his husband. Finding his conditioner with a small feeling of victory, he goes to turn on the shower, absentmindedly brushing his hand under the water as he presses play on the next voicemail that Shane left him.

"Sorry for calling again, I was hoping we could talk because I'm just doing some chores and I finished my audiobook earlier, but then I remembered you're on a boat, so maybe you don't have any signal?" There's some background noise of cutlery being put back in a drawer and plates being stacked. "...I mean I could text you, obviously, but I'm so used to just yelling stuff out and you hearing it, I just wanted to hear your voice. Anyway, don't let me distract you from your day, you should– oh, Anya's here, hey sweetie!" Shane coos, voice going all sappy and high-pitched. "You want to say anything to Papa? Anya? Oh, sorry babe, she's gone into the garden."

Ilya laughs under his breath. Poor Anya. He'll have to do some serious grovelling when he gets back to earn her undying love and affection back. Maybe he can bring her back some Miami-themed treats or something.

The third voicemail, when Ilya starts playing it, is a bit different.

There's some rustling sounds, and the microphone is a bit muffled when Shane says, "Ilya-a, I miss you so bad." Again, more background noises, like Shane's adjusting his clothes. "I finished all of the chores, and I'm bo-ored. If only you were here to give me something to do." Shane sighs. "Oh well. Love you."

Ilya strips himself of his final clothes as he selects the next voicemail. Inexplicably, he has the distinct feeling that he should be anticipating something.

"...I-Ilya," Shane gasps. "I miss you– fuck, miss you so much. Wish you were here, baby, miss you talking to me, miss you–" Shane pants, "you touching me. Want you here so bad, nghh–"

Vaguely, Ilya notices that the hand holding his phone is trembling. He knows, of course, what Shane was doing – he'd know those choked-out words and small sounds of pleasure anywhere, but it's the clandestine way Ilya can picture it all but can't actually see it that has blood rushing south, his cock twitching against his thigh as he hardens. The shower's still running behind him, fogging up the bathroom and making Ilya's thumb slip against his phone screen when he goes to turn the device back on again.

The last voicemail is the longest.

It starts with no words, just heavy, muffled breathing, and a distinct, wet sound. Then, a long, drawn-out groan.

"Fuck, Ilya, need you so bad," Shane whines, his tone desperate and guttural. "Need you–" he cuts himself off with a moan, the schlick-schlick-schlick in the background getting quicker. "I can't– oh fu-uck– can't get it right without you, don't know how to–"

Ilya can see it all in his mind. Shane, writhing around on their bed as he jerks himself off, incapable of doing it exactly how he likes, because the way he likes it is how Ilya does it. Maybe he's naked, covered in sweat, the sheets sticking to him. Or maybe he's still fully clothed, with only his sweatpants pulled down to free his cock, too horny to even bother taking any clothes off.

"Want you to do it," Shane slurs, "want you here so badly." He whimpers, and suddenly his voice is closer, like he rolled onto his belly to get closer to his phone. "I w-want you in my mouth, would suck you so good if you were here, baby, please–" Shane begs, as Ilya imagines him rutting against the bed, or grinding into a pillow. "Please, please want you in my mouth, want you in my– in my h-hole, Ilya fuck 'm so empty!"

The opposite hand to the one Ilya's white-knuckling his phone with starts to crawl traitorously downward, automatically beginning to stroke his achingly hard cock as he listens to Shane squirm, and whine, and beg to be fucked. It makes Ilya hiss, because of course, this is the first time in a long time that he's gone more than a day without having his dick touched, spoiled as he's become, and he's already so hard and dripping.

"...when you're back," Shane goes on, "want to, want to fuck you so good, baby, g'myself all ready for you, you won't even need to open me up– I'm gonna– nghhh," Shane moans, high-pitched and needy, "gonna come, gonna come, gonna–"

Then the voicemail ends.

And Ilya, in the marble-clad hotel bathroom, fucking sobs.

The clarity hits him like a train, when Shane's voice disappears, of what he's doing, and he rips his hand off his leaking cock with a heavy groan.

His husband is a liar, Ilya decides. This feels like a punishment. There is not one single part of him that doubts this was intentional, that Shane was planning (probably from the moment he woke up this morning) to get back into bed later, and jerk off... all whilst recording it, only to send it directly to Ilya.

This whole ordeal is likely one big Shane Hollander test – Shane is aware, obviously, that Ilya's thousands of miles away. That, hypothetically, Ilya could make himself come right here, right now, and never tell Shane about it. But just as well that Shane knows Ilya could, he also knows that Ilya won't.

Because, ultimately, Ilya lives to please his husband. Lives to worship the ground he walks on, and love him and feed him and kiss him and fuck him to his heart's content. And Shane ordered him not to come, so he won't. Even when Shane picks up the phone wearing glasses; even when Shane sends him lewd photos of him arching his back and sticking his ass in the air.

Even when Shane records himself fucking his own fist, sloppy and wet and desperate, and waits for Ilya to listen, just so he can deny him all over again.

Ilya won't.

Marly's boyzz (Miami get fucking ready!! 9-12 July) 🔥‼️🎉🎉🍾

Cliff

Roz wya

Benjamin Sainz

Is he still in his room?

Cliff

@Roz (Ilya Rozanov) helloooooo??

---

On Sunday, Shane is unusually silent. After somehow showering, getting dressed, and rushing downstairs in seven minutes last night, Ilya had texted Shane his anguish, which Shane had naturally replied to with no small amount of condescending sympathy, and the typical, good night baby, I love you. But since then, Shane hasn't been online once, and Ilya finds himself checking his phone periodically all day, getting his hopes up and sighing when he sees no messages.

Ilya, naturally, knows that Shane is okay, because he may or may not have the tendency to shamelessly check his husbands location every other hour, and he can see that Shane's spending his day downtown, flitting between cafes and shops. The only Shane-like notifications he receives for much of the day are from their doorbell app, which shows him Shane leaving (tragically, the view from behind of Shane's glorious ass is reduced to just some low-quality pixels) and returning, dressed in a pair of tight shorts and a flowy collared shirt, carrying several bags from various stores.

They spent most of the day driving around ludicrously fast and ludicrously expensive cars, which Ilya is certain Shane won't approve of when he hears how many new types of car Ilya wants to buy for himself.

It's in the post-afternoon, pre-evening lull, when they're all lounging by the pool, that Shane finally breaks his silence.

Shane

Have you had a nice day?

:)

Ilya

he speaks!

or no

he texts!!

Shane

Oh here we go...

Ilya

did you forget to charge your phone last night?

used up all your battery sending me filthy recordings of yourself?

Shane

No.

I've just been pretty busy today.

Ilya

sure...

i have had busy day too

driving many cars you would not like

Shane

Hm yes, I saw a video of you on Marly's instagram

That's why I didn't text by the way, because I didn't want you looking at your phone and driving.

Ilya

you are such a liar

i know it was because you were distracted shopping all day

Shane

Um

Ilya

i looked at your location

and doorbell footage

Shane

Freak.

Ilya

what were you shopping for anyway?

Shane

Many, many things

Rose is filming some new crime thriller show about an hour away so she came and spent the day with me.

Ilya

ohh nice

"...Roz?"

"Hm?"

When Ilya looks up, Cliff, sprawled out on the sun lounger next to him, smirks. "Do you want a drink?"

"Ah, yes," he replies, looking to Cliff, then back at his phone, then Cliff again. "I'll have whatever you are having."

"Bro, do I look like I work here?" Cliff asks, raising his brows and pointedly gesturing towards where a slightly-bemused looking server is stood at the foot of Ilya's lounger.

Ilya flushes. "Oh, sorry. I will have whatever he is having, please."

Once their order's been taken, Cliff turns to him with an amused expression. "Distracted much?"

"No," Ilya huffs.

"Right..." mutters Cliff. "Are you texting Shane?"

Ilya glances sideways at him. "Maybe."

"Oh, well, send him my love."

Ilya can think of about a hundred things Shane would rather be sent than the affections of Cliff Marlow of all people, but he nods at Cliff's suggestion anyway, and opens his messages again. But when he sees that he's missed a photo from Shane, he frowns.

Shane

Do you want to see what I bought?

Shane sent a photo.

[Photo description: Taken from above, a small, well-made, pale purple cardboard box rests on what Ilya recognises as their bedsheets, beside a similarly coloured, bigger velvet pouch, tied with a bright blue ribbon. On both the bag and the box, embossed in gold cursive, are the words Caldo e Carina.]

Ilya?

Baby?

Okay guess not then

The name on the items sounds vaguely familiar to Ilya, and when he looks it up, the result makes him still. Caldo e Carina – luxury erotic items and tailored lingerie, Ottawa, Canada.

Ilya

no shane

i want to see

please

Shane

Hm, alright

Call me.

He's never shot to his feet faster. "I'm going to my room."

Cliff sounds confused when he remarks, "But– your drink–"

"You can have it!"

Ilya

give me two mins

in the elevator

Shane

But I've already waited so long :(

Shane has been waiting a long time? Shane? How about Ilya, who hasn't been allowed to come for four days, and who is married to a man who insists on making the task that much more impossible, he wants to remark. He doesn't, though, because he knows Shane probably would not appreciate his attitude.

The door to his room has barely slammed behind him when he's video calling Shane.

"Shane," Ilya gasps out, collapsing in an armchair. "Show me. Please."

On screen, Shane raises a sculpted brow. "Really? That's how you want to say hello?"

"Sorry, sorry. I– hello, moya lyubov, light of my life, king of my heart and best hockey player in the world."

Shane purses his lips. "Better."

"What did you–" Ilya tries his best not to sound too eager. "What did you buy?"

There's some rustling noises as Shane repositions his phone. Propping it up on their bed's footboard, Shane shuffles backwards on his knees, until he's revealed to Ilya in full, shirtless – completely naked, in fact, save for a pair of white briefs. Once Shane's content with the angle, his happiness clear in the satisfied quirk of his brows, he reaches out of the frame to place the purple box and bag in between his spread thighs.

"Can you guess what it is?"

Ilya blushes. "I, ah, already looked up the store."

"Cheat," Shane murmurs.

"Sex toys and lingerie, huh? That's pretty bold for you, sweetheart. You went and bought yourself a pretty pair of panties or something?"

Shane snorts. "Not this time, unluckily for you. I didn't even go in, I– you know that's not really my strength, or– well, anyway, Rose went in to buy lingerie for herself, and she... bought me some gifts."

He doesn't quite know how he feels about Rose Landry buying his husband a sex toy, but he doesn't say anything.

With deft fingers, Shane undoes the ribbon wrapped around the petite box. God, even the way his hands brush over the silky ribbon is hot – Ilya feels that familiar stirring of heat low in his gut, and Shane hasn't even done anything yet. He has the distinct sense that he is in for another Shane Hollander test.

"I think you'll like these," Shane says quietly as he opens the box. Ilya catches a glimpse of white before Shane's reaching in, withdrawing with a pair of long, translucent, topped-with-lace stockings grasped in his hand. "Hm?"

Ilya breathes. "Can you p-put them on?"

"What's the magic word?" Shane purrs, saccharine and condescending.

"Please."

Shane shifts backwards on the bed, his long, muscled legs stretched out in front of him. Methodically, like he's putting on his skates, and not a pair of socks which look like they could ruin Ilya's life, Shane pulls each stocking up his calves and knees. When he's done, he widens his stance, letting Ilya look his fill.

The somewhat see-through material clings to his calves, emphasising his insane muscles. Shane's thighs, built and fucking massive, hardly fit the stockings, making the lace at the top dig into the plush skin, his thighs bulging out the top, leaving an imprint of the lace on his skin. Ilya's mouth begins to water.

"Well?" Shane murmurs. He's a figure of opposites – his buff frame crammed into the stockings, a vast hockey player body versus the delicate lace and fabric. His slightly bashful expression, the way he looks down in a coy manner, versus his heavy breathing and the steadily growing damp patch at the front of his briefs.

Ilya, meanwhile, feels a bit like his heart might be about to stop beating.

"Ilyusha?"

Fuck.

"They're–" he manages to get out, choked, "they're n-nice."

"Nice?"

"No I mean, more than– tak krasivo, malysh, so fucking pretty."

Shane smiles. "Mm, that's what I wanted to hear."

"Uh huh," Ilya says dumbly. Over the past few days, he's become used to being forced to ignore how hard he is. It's feeling gradually more impossible as Shane continues to speak.

"Bet you wish you were here, right baby?" Shane asks, leaning towards the camera. "I certainly wish you were here. Spent a long time thinking about what I'd do to you."

"Yeah?" Ilya says, because he can apparently only speak in monosyllables now.

Shane hums thoughtfully. "Want to kiss you, obviously. I'd want to suck your cock, miss your cock so bad, Ilya... or maybe I'd ask you to eat me out, you'd like that wouldn't you?" His pretty doe eyes are all heavy-lidded now, glazed over with lust. "Then you'd fuck me, right? I know you always want to fuck me, baby, I want it too. Maybe I'd just spread my legs, or bend over for you... though– I guess you could fuck my thighs, if you want. Would you like that? Fuck my big thighs, make my new stockings all messy with your cum?"

There's a big possibility that Shane has been possessed by an incubus – that's the only explanation Ilya can think of for the absolute filth dripping off his tongue.

"Do you want to see what else I got?" Shane asks brightly, like he didn't just explain his wish for Ilya to ruin his stockings.

"Shane–"

"I'm guessing that's a yes."

"She picked out two," Shane says, like he's chatting about the weather, as he unties the velvet bag. "I'm excited to play with them when you're home." He reaches in and takes out a sleek glass dildo, which is, frankly, absolutely beautiful, blown in shades of blue and green. "This is probably more for ornamental purposes, but I think the colours look nice against my skin, don't you?"

Shane holds the dildo up to hand as if to compare the colours, incidentally revealing the fairly substantial length of it, showing it off to Ilya like it's some new journal and not a toy he intends for Ilya to fuck him open with.

Ilya is so hard he feels dizzy. As quickly and subtly as he can, he reaches down to push his swim trunks down his thighs, freeing his cock and biting back a moan as he does.

"Pretty," he rasps.

"Pretty? Is that all you can say?"

"It is pretty," Ilya quips. "And I'm trying my best Shane, I'm so–"

"So what?"

"So– fuck– so turned on," he admits.

Shane bites his lip. "Show me." It's not even phrased as a question, because he knows Ilya will do it either way.

Ilya shifts his phone, lifts it above himself to that it's angled downward towards where he's so desperate and aching for it.

"Fuck, baby," Shane whispers. "You look so good. It's so red, so– fuck, so wet, you're just that pent up I guess, right?"

"You guess?"

"Tone, Ilya," Shane snaps.

Ilya pants, open-mouthed, with the effort to not start jerking off. "Shane, lyubimyy, you said you have t-two, you– is there another?"

"Oh, good boy–"

"Yebat."

"–you're right, you wanna see it?"

"Please," he begs. "Please."

But instead of reaching into the bag like Ilya expects, Shane's hands go to the waistband of his briefs. Slowly, teasingly slowly, Shane pushes his briefs down his legs, over those sinful stockings, until he removes them completely, folding them up neatly and placing them on the bed. For as much as he mocked Ilya, Shane's own cock is equally as hard, slapping up against his stomach with a thunk, pearls of precum beading at the tip.

"I reckon this one is my favourite of the three," Shane says.

Then, he rolls onto his front, getting his knees under him and pushing his ass up, arching his back – exactly like that yoga pose. Puppy pose, Ilya remembers, because how could he fucking forget.

Shane shifts on his knees, and the lamp light catches on his upper thighs, where the crease where leg meets ass is shiny and wet. Ah fuck.

He reaches back with one hand and grips at his own ass, the flesh spilling out from between his fingers and he spreads himself open for Ilya's desperate gaze. And there, nestled between Shane's cheeks, is the base of a brand new, bright pink plug.

"You–" Ilya struggles to get out, "you planned this?"

This time, Shane doesn't even pretend at being coy. "Well, obviously."

"How long?"

"Put it in," Shane pants, "m-maybe forty minutes ago? It's so– so deep."

Ilya blinks. "Deep?"

"Mmnngh," is the reply he gets. "Wanna see, baby?"

Ilya's cock twitches in the air, precum dripping all sticky down his shaft. "Yeah. Yeah please, Shane, w-wanna."

With his other hand, Shane hooks his fingers around the plug, fingers sheening with lube that's leaked out from around the base. He moans brokenly when he pulls, and Ilya's jaw drops when instead of coming out easily, Shane pulls at the toy to reveal half a sphere, the rest of the bead disappearing into his hungry hole where it must be attached to others.

"Fu-uck–" Shane whines as he continues to tug at the base of the toy, until the bead comes free with a wet squelch.

"Shane," Ilya whispers, near-silently, reverently. "How– how many?"

"Seven," Shane groans out.

"Seven."

"Uhhuh," Shane slurs. "Need it, Ilya, can't help that 'm so greedy."

On instinct, Ilya's hand shoots out to grip painfully at the base of his cock. It makes him hiss, but he has to, has no other choice if he wants to make it through the final day of Shane's wicked trial.

As he focusing on breathing through the sudden rush of ohfuckgonnacome, Shane keeps playing with the toy, whining like a bitch in heat on the call. When Ilya's finally composed enough to look again, Shane's teasing his hole with the second bead, this one larger than the first by at least a half, his rim spasming around the mid-point of the sphere as he writhes around on his belly.

The second bead comes free with another lewd sound, and a deep, guttural moan from Shane. He turns his head as much as he can, looking back at the camera as he begins to pull again, saying, "You can touch yourself."

"I– no, Shane..." Ilya trails off as he becomes entranced by the spectacle before him, where Shane's got the third bead halfway out of himself, only for his fingers to slip on the lube he's slathered all over the toy, and the ball gets sucked back inside by his insatiable hole. "No, I can't, I'll come."

"It wasn't a suggestion, Ilya," Shane snarls, tone impossibly domineering despite presenting like a bitch and fucking himself on call.

Ilya whimpers at the task ahead of him – to jerk off whilst watching Shane stuff himself and somehow not come – and he only whimpers more when he wraps his fingers around his cock, gathering the precum that's gathered at the tip and spreading it over the rest.

"Yeah, j-just like that," Shane breathes, finally tugging the third bead free. The rest of them hang out of him like some obscene tail, and if Ilya brings his phone closer to his face, he can almost see the lurid pink of another bead teasing Shane's clenching and unclenching rim.

They're both being unabashedly loud – Shane, deep groans of satisfaction, and Ilya's high noises of slightly agonised pleasure as he fights not to come. The fourth bead of Shane's depraved toy is smaller again, and leaves his hole with a pop and a silvery stream of lube. Shane's hands are still occupied, one gripping the toy, and the other keeping himself spread wide, but he's started rutting against the bed, one of the stockings getting dragged down to the knee as he grinds into the sheets and then back against the beads.

"Shane," Ilya mewls, "Shane, I think 'm gonna–"

"Don't you fucking dare."

"B-But–" Ilya can't help himself, hips jolting upwards as he strokes his cock, "I can't–"

"I don't care," Shane spits. "Don't. Come."

So Ilya keeps going, even when the touch of his hand becomes far too much, even when it aches because he wants to come so bad but every part of him is screaming at him that he shouldn't.

Shane's drooling on the bed, eyes half rolled back as he pulls the toy whichever way pleases him. The fifth bead is the biggest yet, obscenely, overly large, and it makes Shane's breath stutter as he's stretched so far. His grip on the toy is unrelenting, and his hole yawns wide as he slowly pulls the sphere free. When Shane's rim finally gives, the final two beads come too, three in total all at once, and Shane cries out, his entire body shuddering.

He hurls the beads across the bed, his hole clenching uselessly, gaping and convulsing around nothing as he collapses on his front, rubbing himself against the sheets like a teenager.

"Ily-aa," he slurs, "I'm gonna– hnghhh, fuck, gonna come–"

Ilya sobs, because he can't think to do anything but cry, the sight before him so lewd, the ache in his balls so strong, the need within him to be good so overwhelming.

"Ilya, Ilya, Ilya!" Shane cries, and he's still chanting like that when he comes. Ilya can't see his cock spurting across their bed, but he can definitely imagine it well enough, and the telltale tensing and relaxing of Shane's fucked-loose hole tells him that it's a good fucking orgasm.

He makes a tight circle at the base of his cock with his fingers again, because if there's one thing that will always make Ilya come, it's the sight of Shane coming.

"Did'y come?" Shane asks eventually, his voice raspy and slow.

"No," Ilya chokes out.

"Goo' boy."

And just like that Ilya feels close to the edge all over again. He makes a small, anguished sound - Shane isn't even trying to make things worse for him now, it's just that everything Shane does is so fucking hot, god, at this point, Shane breathing could make him come.

"Only one more day now, baby," Shane says, words of comfort muffled as he rolls onto his back, sitting up with a grunt to reach for his phone.

"One more day," Ilya echoes, more for himself than anyone else.

"You've been so good for me."

Ilya takes the words to heart, steadily loosening his grip around his cock and releasing a moan of displeasure as he does – fuck, do his balls ache. Genuinely, he cannot remember the last time he went this long without coming... it must have been in that nebulous, liminal period where they were together, but apart, Ilya in Ottawa and Shane in Montreal, but Ilya's been spoiled since then, he's become so used to having Shane there everyday that not orgasming for half a week has him reduced to a pathetic, whiny mess. 

"When you're home Ilya," Shane says into the phone as he holds it about an inch from his face, "it's going to be amazing. I'm so excited to see you."

I can't wait to pump you full of my cum, Ilya thinks, but his tongue is still too heavy in his mouth to do anything other than grunt in agreement. Gradually, things are coming to him in pieces now (things beyond how much his cock hurts), like his abandoned drink by the pool, his abandoned friend by the pool. That they have one last, big dinner tonight that he really cannot be late for. 

"I need to get ready for dinner," Ilya eventually says, making absolutely no move to get up from his armchair. 

"I should go feed Anya," Shane replies, also frozen in place. "She's probably thinking I'm going insane up here."

Ilya chuckles. "Oh, definitely. Shouting, Ilya, Ilya, Ilya," he mimics, in a high, breathy falsetto. "Yelling for someone who isn't here."

"Shut up, asshole," Shane mutters, lacking any heat whatsoever.

They lie there in silence until Shane eventually says, "Did you... that wasn't too much, was it? I don't want this to be too intense for you." 

"Bit late for that," Ilya jokes, but when Shane blanches he rushes to backtrack. "Was definitely not too much, solnyshko. It was probably one of the hottest things you've ever done." Ilya sighs. "Can you believe that you used to refuse sending me a dick pic?"

Shane snorts. "No. I was such a prude."

"Mm, no. Prude in person, but freak with me." Ilya laughs. "Lady in the streets but a freak in the bed."

"Alright, that's enough of that."

"...Ya tebya lyublyu."

"Love you, too, Ilya. I can't wait to see you tomorrow."

---

On Monday, Ilya pulls into their driveway, and feels a bit like he could cry. 

He could have probably been a bit more sad when the bachelor trip came to an end – most of the guys had been lamenting about their half-week of freedom and drinks being over, and Ilya had practically skipped off to the airport, eager to get on his flight to Ottawa and get back to his husband. Oh well. Cliff knows what the trip meant to him, just as he knows what Shane means to him. 

The sight of their immense house looming over him as he parks his car is so familiar it makes him feel all fluffy inside. 

When Shane comes to the doorstep, Anya held at his feet by her collar, Ilya does actually let a stray tear roll down his cheek. 

"Missed you so much," Shane says into the skin of Ilya's neck when he envelops him in a massive hug. 

"Mm, but I am back now, lyubimyy." Ilya kneels down, and promptly gets smothered with dog tongue. "Ah, my daughter! Will you forgive me for leaving you so long?"

"I don't know," Shane says, backing them into the house, Ilya instinctively following. "I'm not sure that it's her you should be worried about. Maybe I won't forgive you for leaving me all alone."

"Oh?" Ilya purrs as the door slams behind them. His bags are all still in the car, but none of that matter right now. Anya trots off into their office, like she can sense the inevitable, and Ilya steps closer to Shane, burying his lips in his hear. "And how can I make it up to you, malysh?"

Shane pouts. "I don't know. There's not really anything I can think of..."

"Really?" Ilya asks, cock already hardening at the scheming, lustful look in Shane's eye.

"No," says Shane succinctly. "Anyway, I was just going to work out, so I'll just go downstairs–"

Ilya grabs him by the waist before he can even take a step. "Get over here," he growls, manhandling his husband who really can't be manhandled but lets Ilya steer him around like a puppet because it makes him wet, until they're up against the back of the couch. 

He claims his lips in a filthy kiss, seeking to devour him until Shane is moaning impatiently, grinding his erection against Ilya's thigh. Ilya spins him, pushing him down at the small of his back and marvelling at how Shane goes, until he's bent over the back of the couch, ass practically pressed against Ilya's cock – which, naturally, is hard as fucking steel. 

"Wanna suck your cock," Shane whines against the fabric of the couch. 

"Can't, lyubov, I'll come. Need to be inside you–"

"You will be, in my mouth–"

Ilya grinds against Shane's perky ass. "In your hole, malysh, need it so bad–"

"Clearly," Shane sighs, like he's bored. Like this is all some inconvenience to him. "Just get it over and done with, if you're so impatient."

And– oh. Ilya hadn't quite considered how he would act if the role that Shane has adopted over the last few days would continue when he got home... but he finds he doesn't mind it.

"Fuck, Shane, 'm sorry I just need to come so–"

"Jesus, Ilya, this is pathetic," Shane says. "Just stick it in," he spits, his aloof tone entirely at odds with the way his back is arched, his ass pushing back insatiably against Ilya's cock. 

"Uh huh, yeah, I'll–" Ilya unzips his jeans, shoving them and his boxers down to mid-thigh, breath hitching as he does. Shane, of course, is wearing those slutty yoga shorts, and Ilya takes great joy in pulling them down, and even greater joy in seeing that Shane is bare underneath. "No panties, malysh? Acting like a slut because your husband is–"

"Shut the fuck up," Shane snaps, reminding him of who exactly is in charge here. "I didn't do it because I'm a slut, I did it because I know you're a fucking horny mutt who can't control himself. You'd probably try and fuck me through a pair of panties right now, what with how restless you're being."

Shane cranes his neck to look back at Ilya, his eyes dark. "Didn't trust you to be able to take off my underwear, and didn't trust you to be able to stretch me out the way you like, because I guessed you'd just want to shove your cock in me. Suppose I was right, hm?"

Ilya places possessive hands on Shane's cheeks, spreading him and seeing the proof of Shane's words – he has already prepped, rim sticky with lube and winking open in anticipation. Any other time, Ilya would be upset, but now... he's grateful. Shane knows what he needs, knows that the languid time that Ilya usually spends prepping him can be sacrificed to allow Ilya to come, since he's been so good. 

"Now, come on Ilya," Shane croons. "You've waited this long... aren't you gonna fuck me?"

He needs no further encouragement. Ilya buries himself in Shane in one long thrust, watching in awe as Shane's rim stretches so wide to accept him so easily. They both release twin moans of relief, and immediately it's too much too much too much. 

Shane is so hot around him, tight and wet with lube, hole clenching on Ilya's cock as if to say he can never leave again. Ilya draws back all the way, until just his tip is notched at Shane's entrance, before ramming back in, brushing against Shane's prostate and making his husband keen with satisfaction. 

"That's– shit," Shane pants, "that's good, baby, you fuck me so good, always have, always–"

He cuts himself off with a groan, tightening around Ilya as he tweaks one of his own nipples. Shane starts to go at it, flicking and rubbing his tits, making his hole spasm around Ilya's cock.

"Shane, Shane, it's too much–"

"More, more, more–"

Ilya's really fucking him now, in a way that would be mean if it didn't feel like Shane was the one being cruel to him. Shane hooks his head over his own shoulder to look at Ilya with greedy eyes, and Ilya's immediately kissing him, muffling his whines and sobs into Shane's mouth. 

"I'm, Shane, I'm–"

Shane widens his stance, manages to get Ilya's cock impossibly deeper, and when Ilya looks down to see all of himself buried within him, he feels–

He feels like–

Oh, fucking hell.

"Shane! I'm gonna come, g'nna, fuck, fuck, fuck–"

He stills his hips when he's impossibly deep, pelvis flush against Shane's ass, and grinds somehow deeper, feeling his cock twitch and splurt cum inside his husband. 

It is everything he has been waiting for since he left four days ago.

It's ecstasy. It's agony. 

It is, Ilya is sure, what the Saints must have felt when visited by God, and it is almost poetic – that Ilya has found a version of the divine himself: here, coming inside Shane Hollander's ass.

"Ilya," Shane sighs. Not a sigh of pleasure. A sigh of disappointment. "Ilya," he repeats, clenching softly around his still-sensitive cock. "Are you serious? You make it what, five thrusts? And you're coming already?"

"Uh, b-but Shane, I wasn't allowed–"

"Do you seriously think I care? It's my turn now. You've gotta make me come, or... or I'll go and find my toy. Maybe it can do a better job than you."

"Okay, okay, I can, just– give me few minutes, I will–"

"No!" Shane orders, throwing his head back in displeasure. "No, I want it now!"

"I can't."

Shane glances back at him. "Colour?"

He doesn't even need to think before he's answering, "Green, of course, but Shane it's too much–"

"Ilya Rozanov," Shane snarls. "You will make me come right now, or so help you god, you will not be coming near me with your cock for the next week! Do you want that? I showed you what toys got yesterday, I'll be fine, but I don't know about you, you're such a horny, stupid dog; what will you do?"

Maybe he is a Saint, Ilya wonders. He's a Saint, and this is his martyrdom. Or Shane is the Saint, and he the willing worshipper. Either that, or he's genuinely in heaven right now. 

"No, I d-don't want that," Ilya sobs, whining through his teeth when he draws back to thrust back in, dragging his oversensitive cock through his own still-warm cum. "I'll f-fuck you, Shane, 'm sorry–"

"Don't apologise," Shane coos, and the contrast is jarring, so mean to so kind in seconds. "I know how fuck-dumb you get, baby, it's okay."

Ilya keeps rolling his hips, clenching his eyes shut at the overstimulation, and the opening them again, because he really doesn't want to miss his current view of Shane's hole, puffy and swollen with cum dribbling out of it, stretching taut every time Ilya fucks back in. 

"I like it like this," Shane continues, words slurring with pleasure. "It's so– s'good, Ilya, fucking deep–"

Ilya collapses forward, grateful for the strength of their couch and the strength of his husband. Sweaty skin sticks to even sweatier skin, Ilya's chest pressed against Shane's heaving back, and he mouths at Shane's neck, nipping the skin and then smoothing it with his tongue as he keeps humping forward. He really is like a dog, fucking just to fuck, to breed–

"Fuck!" Ilya cries at the thought.

"S'good," Shane is still murmuring, largely to himself now, lost in his own world of cum and cock. Until– "Y'gonna fill me up, baby?" he asks, like he's telepathic. "Pump me full of your cum?"

Shane starts rolling his hips back, ass meeting Ilya's groin thrust-for-thrust until Ilya hits the perfect angle, Shane clamping down like a vice and keening into the air.

"Nghh," moans Shane, "hah, hah, hah, fuck Ilya just like that, want it–"

"Please," Ilya whines. Begging for what, he doesn't know. "Please, please, please."

"Harder," Shane demands, "harder!"

Demands it over and over until Ilya's slamming into him, his own aching, sensitive cock forgotten as Shane's hole convulses greedily. 

And then Shane is coming, clenching down on him and Shane is sobbing with pleasure and his hole is clenching down on him and Ilya–

"Sha–nghh–Shane, fu–" he gasps, "fuck, gonna–"

Shane, still lost in the throes of his own orgasm, just jolts his ass backwards, and slurs, "Mmnn, wan' it, fill me up, baby, fucking breed me–"

This time, Ilya loses vision in one eye, he comes so hard. His hips grind forward of their own accord, animal-like in how his cock seeks to go deeper, making sure he pumps his cum as far into Shane as he can, so that it takes. (This new kink of theirs will be discussed in detail at some point soon... but not now).

Ilya pulls out slowly, but Shane still squirms and whines like the loss causes him physical pain. They're both still catching their breath, legs trembling and eyes fluttering, incapable of words after such mind-blowing sex. But they still have their routines, for when they both go silent like this, brain's broken and remade by how good they just fucked one another. 

First, Ilya presses a soft kiss to the centre of Shane's back, keeping his lips there for a second to long as if he could absorb the shiver that runs of Shane's spine. 

Then, Ilya, forever a slave to his own filthy, indulgent instincts, will spread Shane open one last time, staring greedily at where two loads leak out of Shane's twitching hole, unable to close fully after how rough and deep Ilya gave it to him. 

And now, Ilya will slump down against Shane's back once more, and Shane will take his weight because Ilya has been so good and Ilya has been away from home. And Shane will turn to him, and whisper, "I love you."