Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Drink Spiking, Consensual drink spiking, Drug Use, Kink Negotiation, Explicit Consent, They love each other so much, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Shane Hollander, Top Ilya Rozanov, Aftercare, assisted urination, Autistic Shane Hollander, chapter two contains all of the above plus:, intoxication kink, Orgasm Edging, Somnophilia, Rimming, Felching, Piss kink

Language:

English

Series:

Part 7 of penalties

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-22 Completed: 2026-01-24 Words: 14,581 Chapters: 2/2

two minutes for illegal substitution

Summary

Shane never had a party phase. He's not fun.

Being convinced by his boyfriend to try out roofies in public was certainly not on his Bingo Card for the year.

Chapter 1: shane's pov

Chapter Notes

Thank you to knotwulf and gayglitterghoul for encouraging this idea. It's a little further outside of my comfort zone than the rest of this series but I ended up having so much fun writing this. Heed the tags.

Oh also: there is no emeto in this fic! I am slightly emetophobic so, despite the subject matter, this fic is safe from that! <3

Shane never had a party phase.

He doesn't really drink, he doesn't really socialise, and he definitely doesn't dance.

Ilya is pestering him about it. He straddles Shane's lap on the couch, his breath hot and damp across his boyfriend's face. "Shaaaaane," he whines, a few vodkas deep already. He's definitely playing up his level of drunkenness—Ilya has a higher alcohol tolerance than anyone Shane's ever met—but he's certainly not sober.

Shane's had one and a half hard seltzers and he's kind of over it already. He just wants to play video games and have a night in, is that too much to ask?

"The club is so boring without you there," Ilya continues, resting both forearms on Shane's shoulders and swaying from side to side like they're dancing together.

"I'm not very fun," Shane replies with a shrug, resting his hands on Ilya's waist because it's right there. Ilya is radiating heat like a furnace, vodka thrumming through his veins. "I don't really drink, and I have too much anxiety to dance while I'm sober."

"Yes, you are very boring," Ilya rumbles, his voice fond. He leans in and presses a kiss to the tip of Shane's nose.

Shane's eyebrows furrow. "If the club is boring, and I'm boring, how does mixing the two make anything other than boring?" he asks, reasonably.

"I could make you fun," Ilya says lightly, a sparkle in his eye as he meets Shane's. "I know a guy."

Shane eyes him warily. Not that he doesn't trust Ilya, because he absolutely does, but that was maybe the shadiest sentence he's ever heard. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"Don't you ever want to just lose control?" Ilya rumbles. His eyes twinkle with an unsaid I know you do. He cups the back of Shane's skull in one hand, his thumb rustling the hair above Shane's ear. "Forget everything, for a while."

"Ilya…"

"Shane," Ilya replies.

They look at each other, really look, quickly falling into an impromptu staring competition. Ilya's eyes look really pretty as the sun sets through the floor-to-ceiling window behind him. That's not the point. Focus.

Ilya is talking about drugging him, right? That's what this is. Taking Shane to a club and slipping something in his drink so he stops being such an awkward dweeb. Shane can't imagine wanting anything less than to be roofied at a club, actually. Why does Ilya want that? Surely it'd just make Shane even more of a burden on him. It doesn't make any sense.

Or maybe he's got this all wrong, and Ilya is talking about something totally innocuous. He can't always tell, but he hopes for his sake it's the latter.

Shane breaks first. He always breaks first.

"Please tell me what you mean," he whispers, squeezing lightly around Ilya's hips, "in plain English."

"I can get roofies," Ilya says, and there it is.

There's no universe in which that's a good idea. "Why?"

"Because I like to have control," Ilya murmurs, like it's obvious. He scratches his nails against Shane's scalp, adding, "and you like to give it up."

Shane splutters softly, the response in his head dying out by the time it reaches his lips.

"You don't have to agree now," Ilya says, climbing off of Shane and collapsing onto the couch beside him, reaching for his vodka. "Just think about it."

Shane doesn't stop thinking about it.

In the shower, in the locker room, in his bed before drifting off to sleep every night.

His phone becomes almost entirely dedicated to research.

What it feels like to be roofied
Active ingredients in Rohypnol
How long does Rohypnol stay in your system?
Admirals Nomads score
Can you die from being spiked?

He even makes a pros and cons list in his Notes app.

Pros: Ilya gets what he wants, I can lose control knowing I'm safe, Ilya will keep me safe, even if it's bad I won't remember it, he might want to have sex?

Cons: Loss of control (scary), someone might pap us, potential bad reaction to the drug, can't do it during hockey season, horrible recovery day, he might want to have sex?

It doesn't really help.

Ilya doesn't press him any further, even weeks later, which Shane is grateful for.

Except it means he'll have to be the one to bring it up again.

"Do you want to fuck me while I'm high?" Shane asks out of the blue, about a month after Ilya first brought it up.

Ilya's eyebrows crease briefly, before his face slowly splits into a wide smile.

"This is not me agreeing," Shane rushes to add. "I need more information."

Ilya nods slowly, eyeing Shane up and down. "Only if you want," he answers eventually.

"But you would like it?" Shane asks, "If I did want?"

"Yes." Ilya's response is immediate and blunt. He reaches out to tangle his fingers with Shane's. "I will not do anything you are uncomfortable with," he promises, squeezing Shane's hand, "but I would like that very much."

"What if we get spotted by the paparazzi and I'm so fucked up that I can't even walk?" Shane asks, biting his lip. That question is the one he keeps coming back to—the big hurdle that he can't get over in his head. "I don't think I could show my face in public after that."

Ilya groans softly, and Shane can't help but give him a look. "Sorry," Ilya shrugs, "is hot. We tell press you got spiked. I get to be hero."

"I don't know…" Shane whispers, "I'd be so embarrassed."

It's Ilya's turn to give Shane a look. A look that says you like to be embarrassed, idiot. He doesn't say that, though. He's quiet for a moment, reaching out to gently touch Shane's cheek. "You are worried about thing that might not happen. Probably won't. We will deal if it does, like we always do."

That's… weirdly comforting, actually.

"I like the idea," Shane says quietly, like he's afraid to admit it any louder. "It would be nice to get my brain to shut up for a while. I trust that you would look after me."

"I will not leave your side," Ilya promises.

They speak for hours, discussing every little worry Shane has. Ilya is either incredibly empathetic and understanding of Shane's concerns… or a master manipulator, working his magic.

Either way, it works.

Weirdly, the easiest part for Shane is consenting to sex while he's high. He trusts Ilya's judgement in the bedroom almost more than in their regular life, and he knows Ilya would never dream of hurting him.

There are a few small stipulations. One, that Ilya doesn't get drunk. Despite his incredible Russian tolerance, it's important to them both that one of them stays sober, and that person certainly won't be Shane. Two, that sex will only happen if Shane is obviously into it on the night. And three, he makes Ilya promise to tell him everything that happened afterwards, once he's lucid again. Ilya doesn't hesitate to agree to the terms.

He's not doing this to rape Shane, and Shane would never have agreed if he didn't believe that to his core. What Ilya likes is control, and what he likes even more is being given control. For Shane to willingly surrender potentially every one of his bodily functions to Ilya—that's the dream. For both of them, really.

Shane never thought it would manifest quite like this, but that's what's so perfect about their relationship. Ilya brings out a side of him that Shane would never have found on his own. He's almost excited.

He's less excited once he's standing in the middle of a packed, sweaty dancefloor, sipping a ginger ale like a lost schoolboy. Bodies bump and grind all around him as horrible, thumping dubstep pounds against his eardrums. The floor is covered in a thick layer of fog from an over-active smoke machine, making the flashing laser beams even more pronounced in the dark. One of the sweeping spotlights keeps hitting him right in the eye, and he really resonates with the deer in the road—frozen in place, absolutely powerless to change his fate.

Ilya is dancing up against him, face-to-face, his hands slung loose and casual across Shane's shoulders. A bottle of beer dangles from his easy grip.

Shane doesn't know when it's going to happen, just that hidden in Ilya's front pocket is a small, innocuous pill with the power to eliminate Shane's whole night in an instant. He didn't ask where Ilya got Rohypnol from—there are some things he doesn't need to know.

Ilya leans in to yell in Shane's ear. "You are so pretty. Dance with me."

Shane doesn't know how. His body is sculpted for hockey, for quick, precise ice skating, not… whatever is happening around them. He struggles to move in time to the music, bobbing his head awkwardly and only swaying when Ilya's arms force him to. Ilya would do better dancing with a wooden broom. He sips his ginger ale.

Ilya tips his chin up with a bent finger, pressing his lips to Shane's. Shane usually hates any form of PDA, but right now it's a better option than trying to dance. At least this, he knows how to do.

Ilya's tongue slides easily into Shane's waiting mouth like it belongs there, his kisses sloppy and wet and exactly the distraction Shane needs. Shane's ginger ale is trapped between them as Ilya's body presses closer, grinding up on him as the song transitions into something recognisable.

Pulling back with a gasp, Ilya exclaims excitedly, "I love this song!"

He necks the remainder of his beer, tipping the bottle upside down to drain the last of it. His lips tug into a smile around the glass, and he winks.

Shane follows suit, ever the obedient partner. His drink tastes the same as it always did—slightly warm from being grasped in his sweaty palm, and fizzy as it bubbles down his throat. He knows from his weeks of research that he'd be unlikely to taste it anyway.

Maybe Ilya hasn't done it yet, and genuinely just wants to dance to this song without drinks in their hands. Shane lets his boyfriend take the empty glass from him, sliding it—and his beer bottle—onto a nearby table.

"Please dance," Ilya begs, taking Shane's hands in his own and dragging him into some sort of motion.

Everything about this is foreign to Shane, but he really tries, letting Ilya guide him as his body moves with the music.

He's moving his hips, a little, finally, and then all the blood rushes out of his head. "Oh shit," he hears himself say, shifting his tight grip to Ilya's forearms as his feet stumble a little underneath him. He doesn't even think he was moving them, until he finds himself being propped up by Ilya's bulging biceps.

A strong arm wraps around his waist, hoisting him up, as Ilya tilts Shane's face up to meet his eyes. "You're a good boy," he hears Ilya say, though his boyfriend's face is blurry, like the fog machine has completely filled the room, obscuring most of the detail.

"I am," Shane slurs. His limbs feel heavy—it's like dragging his arm through molasses as he slides his hand up Ilya's chest to squeeze at his pec through the thin fabric of his tank. Ilya's nipple is hard beneath his fingers. His boyfriend is so hot, and Shane wants nothing more in this moment than for Ilya to slam him against a wall and fuck him hard. "Touch meeeeee," he hears himself whine. He didn't even know he was talking, but it sounds like he's saying all the right things. God, he's so fucking smart.

Ilya's big strong hand cups the back of his skull, and Shane melts into the touch, opening his mouth instantly as Ilya's lips touch his. Ilya's tongue slides into his mouth, licking nastily behind Shane's teeth. Shane wishes it was Ilya's fat cock, sliding in and devastating his throat.

He wishes Ilya was touching his cock.

It's too hard to ask. He breathed in too much fake smoke and now his brain is all fogged up. And his hand is far too busy squeezing Ilya's chest to make the treacherous journey all the way down to his own pants. Instead he just whines into Ilya's mouth, hoping he gets the message.

Ilya pulls away from his lips, pressing his forehead into Shane's. "We should get out of here."

Shane's never heard a better idea in his life.

Ilya takes a cautious step, still holding Shane firmly around the waist. Shane's legs don't move. "Come on, drunky," Ilya laughs, dragging him a little, "walk for me."

Shane watches Ilya's blurry mouth move, but the words don't reach his brain until what feels like a year later. He looks down, wondering just why his legs aren't cooperating. Ilya gave him an order. He frowns down at the floor, willing himself to move.

He takes one heavy step, and the crowd erupts into cheers. That's right, Shane thinks, I fucking did it. As he manages a second, achingly slow step, he notices bubbles start to float down around them in slow motion.

They're pretty, if a bit hazy. Shane's mouth exaggeratedly forms the word bub—bles, though he doesn't think any sound comes out.

He closes his eyes in what he thinks is just another routine blink. When he opens them again, they're standing outside. Well, standing is a strong word. Shane's cheek is resting heavily on Ilya's shoulder, and Ilya's hand is still tight on his waist. He's not sure his own legs are contributing much to the equation.

It should be cold, but Shane doesn't feel a chill. A car pulls up beside them, exhaust puffing white into the air.

"Thank you," Ilya's voice says beside him.

Shane's not sure what he did, but it would be impolite to not reply. "You're welcome." His voice sounds strange, like he's on 0.5 speed.

The car door opens, and Shane feels himself lift off the ground—he's floating? His head lolls backwards, and a loud, high-pitched sound rings out in his ears. He moans, louder, trying to drown out the noise.

"Shh, is okay," Ilya's voice cuts through the noise. Shane's world starts to rumble. He's on the edge of an active volcano, and the lava licks at his skin.

He wants his clothes off—it's too warm! What the hell are they doing visiting a volcano? His hands try to grab at the shirt on his chest, but don't get far before falling heavily back into his lap.

"Is he okay?" a voice says. That's not Ilya. Shane struggles to open his eyes, and only then realises that they've been closed. They flutter open for a moment, a flash of light, and fall closed again.

"I think that he got spiked," Ilya's warm, comforting voice answers back. "I will take care of him."

That's Shane's MAN, right there!

Shane finally manages to pry his eyes open. They're in the back of a car. Ilya is watching him intently.

"Hi," Shane manages, through a mouthful of soup.

Ilya smiles softly, "Hi, baby."

Shane's eyes scan the hot, fucking hot, incredibly fucking hot body of his boyfriend in the dark. He watches his own hand slide across the middle seat.

"You boys play hockey, don't you?" the driver asks conversationally.

"Noooooooo," Shane moans. He doesn't know why, but that feels like the correct answer. With a monumental effort, he manages to lift his hand and drop it on Ilya's thick thigh.

When Ilya speaks, his voice is firm and serious. "Listen, Ibrahim," he says, "I give you five hundred dollars—"

Shane watches sleepily as Ilya fishes his wallet out of his pocket. His hand creeps towards the centre of Ilya's lap.

"Do not talk to press about this. He will be very embarrassed."

Shane? Shane will be embarrassed? Why? He's normal. He's just… real sleepy right now. Sleepy and touchy. Ilya's cock is hard, and Shane feels his face tug into a smile.

"I don't need hush money," the driver laughs, and Shane thinks that this is a nice man. He wishes he knew his name. "The back of my car is a safe zone, I promise. You can't begin to imagine the wealth of secrets it holds."

"A tip," Ilya insists, leaning forward over Shane's hand to drop cash onto the empty front seat. "Thank you."

The car judders to a stop. "Do you need help getting him to the house?" the driver asks.

"No, thank you," Ilya replies, unstrapping the belt holding Shane in place.

Shane closes his eyes. He thinks he might be floating. It's nice. He can feel Ilya's warm body pressed to his side. They're floating together.

When he opens his eyes, he's in bed. His bed? He's not sure. What is his bed anyway? His head hurts.

Ilya crawls up over him from the base of the bed. "Fucking hell, Shane," he moans, squeezing Shane's cheeks with one hand, forcing his lips into a pout. "You are so fucked."

Shane's ears perk up. It's hard to make his mouth form words, but he does everything he can, furrowing his brow to try and force the correct neurons together. "Fuck… me…" he manages eventually. He feels his face tug into a grin when the words are out, floating in the air between them.

"Oh, I will," Ilya growls softly, brushing Shane's hair from his forehead with a gentle hand. "You are so perfect."

Something deep in Shane's chest flutters at the praise. He loves Ilya so much. And he wants his goddamn clothes off.

Ilya is still hovering above him, just watching him with those sparkling, lovey-dovey eyes.

"Need…" Shane manages. His dick's so hard in his pants that he might actually die if Ilya doesn't touch him soon. Everything in him is begging to reach out, but his arms and legs are like lead weights, forced down against the bed.

Ilya leans down to kiss Shane, finally, his hands fumbling to frantically undo Shane's belt.

Yesssss, good. Shane smiles into the kiss, pleased as punch until Ilya disappears for a moment. Shane's legs get hit with a rush of cold and he looks sluggishly down his body. Ilya is there, tugging his shoes off his feet so he can rip Shane's jeans all the way off. He straightens Shane's socks around his ankles before making his way back onto the bed, and Shane's heart tha-thumps in his chest.

Ilya forces Shane's heavy legs apart so he can settle between them. He curls a hand around Shane's dick, and Shane arches into the touch. It almost feels natural, like his body isn't made of stone as long as Ilya is touching his cock.

"Fuck, you're so good," Ilya groans, reaching out with his spare hand and returning with a bottle of lube. He stops touching Shane for a moment, making him whine desperately—a high-pitched, pained noise. "Is okay," Ilya promises, one hand moving back to Shane's cock as the other, wet and cold, slip-slides between his cheeks.

Shane hears himself moan brokenly as his body eagerly swallows up Ilya's finger. Mmm, yes, this is what he was made for. He blinks happily in Ilya's direction, and finds his boyfriend watching him like a hawk circling its next meal. That feels correct. Shane likes feeling like prey.

Ilya's finger slides in and out of Shane easily, crooked to brush against his prostate on every thrust. Shane's body already feels loose and open, and his slack mouth becomes home to a litany of noisy, near-constant moans. Ilya leans forward to kiss him as a second finger slips inside with the first.

"Yeaaaauugghhhhhh," Shane finds himself wailing against Ilya's lips. He thinks this part might usually hurt a bit, but he's never been so calm. His body accepts Ilya's fingers like they've always been a part of him, and he's just welcoming them home.

Shane's dick pulses happily in Ilya's hand. He's not stroking it, just holding onto it for him, and Shane feels squirmy in his core. He wants to wriggle, he wants to thrust back against Ilya's careful touch, forcing his boyfriend to go faster, harder, anything.

"You will take me so beautifully," Ilya rumbles, pressing his face into Shane's neck, which makes Shane gasp and arch into the touch.

Shane feels the stretch as another finger starts to prod at his rim, and he rolls his head on the pillow, his mouth falling open in a groan, which quickly transitions into a yawn. Come on, he wants to beg, but his tongue refuses to cooperate. He doesn't want to fall asleep before they get to the main event.

Ilya thankfully seems to have the same revelation. He slides three fingers in and out of Shane a few times before pulling out entirely. Shane whines.

"Shane," Ilya's voice is deep, and so sexy. Shane watches Ilya's slippery hands struggle to unbutton his pants, and he can't help but smile. "Listen to me, I need answer, okay?" he says as he manages to push his jeans and underwear down enough for his huge, fat cock to flop out over the top. Shane wants to cheer. Ilya's hand touches his face, forcing Shane's gaze back to his eyes. "Do you want me to fuck you?"

Shane furrows his brow. Of course he does. What a stupid question.

"Please, try to answer," Ilya begs. "Do you want me to fuck you?"

Yes. Yes. Yes.

Ilya is still looking at him, his eyes pleading. Shane guesses he didn't manage to say any of that out loud.

He opens his jaw slowly. Closes it again. His tongue is thick and stupid behind his teeth. It's just one word. Ilya wants him to say one word.

"Yes," he manages, and Ilya's face instantly lights up, surging forward to drag Shane into a kiss.

Ilya's hand fumbles between them, and something cold and wet drips against Shane's aching cock. "You are perfect, so perfect, perfect boy," Ilya is mumbling as he gathers Shane's heavy legs up, folding him in half as he lines himself up to Shane's entrance.

I am, Shane wants to say. Whatever you need me to be.

Ilya sliding into him is like a dream. And if this is dreaming, Shane never wants to wake up. Ilya's cock is thicker and so much longer than his fingers, splitting Shane open deep into his guts in one smooth motion.

Shane thinks he might be panting, struggling to suck in a breath, but does he really need to breathe? How is that important when Ilya Rozanov is pulling his hips back and rocking forward in a slow, measured glide, so Shane feels every inch of the thick cock stretching his asshole open wide.

He wants Ilya to touch him, and by some kind of miracle, Ilya does. He's not sure if he managed to say the words, or if Ilya is just perfectly in tune with his body. Regardless, he gets what he wants. Ilya's hand is wet, and it curls tightly around Shane's shaft, stroking him in time with his slow thrusts.

It feels incredible, and he rocks his head back, moaning desperately. His stomach clenches every time Ilya's cock slides over his prostate, his body twitching and jerking beyond the bounds of Shane's control. He wants more.

His mouth forms into a yawn, and he blinks sleepily up at Ilya. "Ffff—faster," he forces out, "plea—"

Ilya is already nodding, his thrusts picking up speed. It's almost like he was waiting for Shane's permission or something, but that's silly. Ilya doesn't need that.

Shane doesn't get to dwell on it for long, as the sudden deep, hard pounding of Ilya's hips activates something animal in Shane's brain. He can hear himself moaning, whimpering, begging—though he thinks the last part might only be inside his head.

Ilya's necklace bounces against his chest as he moves, and Shane finds himself fixated on it, the way it glints in the soft lamplight.

"I'm gonna come," Ilya groans, and Shane's eyes flick to his face. Ilya is gone, his eyes glazed over, his jaw slack and panting. Shane feels a pride deep in his belly—he did that. "Fuck, Hollander, you have no idea—"

Ilya rocks down over Shane, landing heavy on one hand by his shoulder. His necklace dangles above Shane's slack mouth, just out of reach.

Shane moans deeply as Ilya's hand pumps his cock, hard, like he's begging for Shane to come with him. Orgasm feels further away than he thinks it usually does, like it's buried under layers of thick blankets. But Ilya is moaning brokenly, holding himself back until Shane gets there with him.

"Please, Hollander," Ilya practically sobs, wringing his hand tight around Shane's cock and sending sparks zipping up his spine, "come."

Shane isn't mentally prepared for it, but his body clearly is. Something instinctual forces him to obey Ilya's order, his core clenching as orgasm washes over him. Ilya follows behind immediately, and Shane laughs, bright and joyful, as he feels his insides and his outsides splattered with come.

That's the last thing he remembers before everything goes dark.

Shane groans as he opens his eyes, immediately squeezing them closed again as daylight burns into his retinas. He feels like he's been whacked over the head with a baseball bat.

A hand touches his arm gently—Ilya.

"Moya lyubov'," Ilya murmurs, "how do you feel?"

It takes Shane a few moments to remember how to speak. "Never felt worse," he moans softly, lifting an arm to cover his closed eyes, "why is the world so bright?"

Ilya huffs a small, sympathetic laugh. "I will close blinds," he says, and Shane hears the distinct soft whirring of the motor as the window coverings make their descent. The sound itches painfully at the back of his skull.

"Better?" Ilya asks, and Shane peeks out from his arm cave. Sure—technically—but Shane still has no desire to open his eyes.

"I want to be asleep," Shane whines.

Ilya's hands rest gently on Shane's shoulders and his soft voice rumbles, "Will you drink water? Please? Then you can sleep."

Now that he thinks about it, Shane's mouth does feel incredibly dry. Like his tongue is made of sandpaper. Water might help with the pounding in his head, too. "You got Tylenol?"

"Of course."

Shane lets Ilya carefully sit him up, his eyes still firmly closed. A glass is pressed into his hand. Ilya places two pills on Shane's tongue and helps him lift the water to his mouth. The pills are bitter, and Shane chugs and chugs until there's nothing left.

Ilya tucks him carefully back into bed, and the last thing Shane feels before falling back under is Ilya's fingers, gently brushing his hair back from his face.

Shane wakes up needing desperately to piss.

He blinks across at Ilya, who puts down the book he's reading in an instant.

"How do you feel?" Ilya asks softly, reaching across to touch Shane's cheek.

"About ten seconds from pissing the bed," Shane moans. There's a world, not too distant from this one, where that thought would be incredibly sexy to the both of them. The only problem being that Shane still feels like he needs to sleep for another eight hours, and he really doesn't want to do that in his own filth.

He tries to sit up, and Ilya is already out of bed, scrambling around to Shane's side to help him. His head pulses with an ache so deep that he feels like he might pass out anyway. Ilya loops Shane's arm over his shoulder and practically drags him to the bathroom.

Shane's already pushing down his sleep pants—Ilya must have dressed him last night, in soft, comfy sweats and one of Ilya's old, baggy shirts—as they approach the toilet.

Ilya takes Shane's cock in his free hand, aiming for him, for which Shane is eternally grateful as he releases his bladder with a deep groan. It feels so fucking good—almost orgasmic—the immediate rush of relief.

"Good boy," Ilya murmurs low in his ear, "let me take care of you."

They both watch as piss arcs out of the end of his cock and patters down into the water below. His stream is golden yellow and strong, filling the air with an acrid scent that Shane loves to hate and hates to love. It reminds him of Ilya.

Shane's cock twitches in Ilya's hand as the last of his stream tinkles against the bowl. Ilya shakes him off and tugs his pants back up.

"You want more Tylenol?" Ilya offers as they make their way back to the bedroom, "It has been long enough."

Shane's been asleep for at least four hours since the last dose? It barely feels like ten minutes have passed.

He trusts Ilya, and his head does still feel like he was hit by a truck, so he accepts.

There's already a full glass of water and two pills waiting on his nightstand. Ilya is perfect.

Shane doesn't even open his eyes, and Ilya is already asking, "How do you feel?" Shane groans softly, blinking up at him.

"What time is it?" he murmurs.

Ilya looks over at the clock on the nightstand. "Five. In the afternoon. Sunday."

Holy shit. Shane does some quick mental math. He must've been asleep for close to sixteen hours.

"How do you feel?" Ilya repeats, sliding down in the bed until he's lying alongside Shane, tucking up against his side.

"Less bad," Shane murmurs, a small chuckle on his lips. Sleeping for sixteen hours has some benefits. "Marginally. My head still hurts, but it's more manageable now."

"Take some pills," Ilya orders softly.

Shane sits up slowly, shuffling back to lean against the headboard. He moves slowly and carefully, trying his best not to aggravate the low-level headache any more than he needs to. Water and Tylenol are once again waiting for him beside the bed. Ilya sits up beside him, leaning in to bonk their shoulders together.

"Thank you," Shane says. He doesn't think he's said it enough.

After swallowing the medication, he turns back to Ilya, resting a hand on the other man's knee. "How was it?" he asks, meeting Ilya's waiting gaze.

"Incredible," Ilya says back immediately, like he's been waiting so patiently for the opportunity to answer that question.

"Then it was worth it."

Ilya pulls him in for a kiss at that, tongue-first, moaning softly down Shane's throat. His hand is warm and familiar against the back of Shane's neck.

When Ilya pulls back, he presses their foreheads together, looking up through his eyelashes to meet Shane's eyes. "I want to know what you remember."

Shane's been thinking about that ever since he woke up. A whole lot of darkness. "I remember being in the club, and you wanting me to dance to that one song, I don't remember what it's called."

Ilya leans back slightly, nodding.

"And then… we were in a car, I think. And I remember you… fingering me, at least a little bit."

"Not in the car," Ilya says with a small chuckle.

"No, no," Shane corrects, "I was lying down. I remember that I couldn't really move." He pauses, trying hard to pull any other memories back to the surface, "I think that's all I've got."

"Are you upset," Ilya asks, "that you can't remember?"

Shane considers it. In every small snippet he does remember, Ilya was right by his side, just like he promised he would be. Every time Shane has woken up since, Ilya has been right there, immediately in nurse mode, taking care of his every need. He can't imagine a world in which anything bad happened to him during the parts he can't remember, because Ilya is such a wonderful partner, and he knows his boyfriend would have gone to the ends of the Earth to protect him.

"No," Shane answers, a smile tugging at his lips. "But please tell me everything I forgot."

Chapter End Notes

Aaaaaaaa, I'm so pleased with how this one came out!! Please let me know your thoughts; comments give me life.

I love everyone who reads this so much. Keep being freaky! <3

If you enjoyed this, check out chapter two for Ilya's POV, and then if you want even more consensual drugging and boys being in love, there's a spiritual successor here: two minutes for unsportsmanlike conduct.

Twitter: hollanovpseud

Chapter 2: ilya's pov

Chapter Summary

A few people in the comments of chapter one asked for the same fic from Ilya's perspective.

I am nothing if not a slave to the people, so this is that fic. Somehow it ended up twice as long. Literally don't look at me.

Chapter Notes

There are a few extra scenes, but it is what it says on the tin. The same fic remixed from Ilya's perspective. I hope you enjoy!

Ilya is buzzed. Certainly not drunk by any means—it takes a lot of alcohol to get him wasted, these days—but pleasantly intoxicated. His head wobbles slightly on his loose neck as he tries to focus on the TV. Shane's trying his best to get him into a new video game, bless him, but all the characters move too fast and it's giving Ilya a headache.

He needs a distraction, and fast.

And he's just tipsy enough that he might bring up something stupid. Something he's been thinking about for a while.

He pauses the game and discards his controller to the side with a soft sigh.

Shane looks over at him with those big doe-eyes, curious and slightly annoyed and yet absolutely willing to back down and let Ilya get what he wants. As is immediately proven when he drops his controller the second Ilya swings his leg over Shane's lap.

"Shaaaaane," he whines, his face hovering inches from his boyfriend's. Shane's eyes flick to his lips. "The club is so boring without you there," Ilya complains, hanging his arms heavy across Shane's shoulders, his body falling into a natural swaying motion.

The reason they're even drinking at home in the first place is because Shane refused to come out with him tonight, and Ilya's been begging him on-and-off all evening, hoping that the drunker Shane gets, the more likely he'll be to say yes.

But Shane is very slowly sipping a hard seltzer, and Ilya's tactics are getting him nowhere.

Doesn't mean he won't keep trying, though.

Shane sighs softly, "I'm not very fun," he replies, his shoulders lifting up in a cute little shrug. His hands slide up to Ilya's waist, settling in the slight indent there. He's testing out the waters to see if Ilya will bite—trading his hopes of going out for the promise of having sex in. Ilya doesn't react. "I don't really drink," Shane continues, "and I have too much anxiety to dance while I'm sober."

Shane's just handing him the opportunity on a silver platter. "Yes, you are very boring," Ilya says, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips like it always does when he ribs Shane. Ilya loves his boring boyfriend so much, and especially so when he looks all cute and grumpy like he does right now. He can't help but press a kiss to the tip of Shane's nose.

Shane's eyebrows crease, lost in thought for a moment. "If the club is boring, and I'm boring, how does mixing the two make anything other than boring?" he asks quietly.

The math isn't wrong, but what he's failing to realise is that Ilya is so goddamn in love with him that Shane's mere presence makes any situation more bearable.

Ilya doesn't say that. He can't have Shane thinking he's any more of a sap than his boyfriend clearly already does. Ilya has a reputation to maintain. And he's feeling just lightheaded enough to say something dumb, instead. "I could make you fun," he says, meeting Shane's eyes. "I know a guy."

Shane narrows his eyes at him, absolutely not on board with the idea one bit.

Well, that was to be expected. Ilya's vodka is behind him on the coffee table, and he wishes it was in his hand.

"What the fuck does that mean?" Shane snaps.

Ilya has to keep his cool. He's probably already lost the battle, but Shane is extremely moldable. He still has a chance. "Don't you ever want to just lose control?" he asks, smug in the knowledge that the answer is absolutely yes, all the time, please, right now? His hand curls around the base of Shane's skull, scritching softly at the nape of his neck while his thumb tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. "Forget everything, for a while."

"Ilya…" Shane's voice is wary, but not an outright denial.

"Shane," Ilya replies, steadfast.

Shane is staring at him, so Ilya stares back. His eyes are gorgeous—a deep, sensual brown that sparkles so pretty in the setting sun. They're perpetually moist, like he's on the edge of tears twenty-four seven. Ilya could get lost in them for hours.

Shane looks away first. He always looks away first. He's a good submissive.

"Please tell me what you mean," he whispers, his eyes flitting back to Ilya's face. He tightens his hands around Ilya's hips, "in plain English."

"I can get roofies," Ilya says easily. Sasha's in town right now visiting Sveta, and he'll definitely hook Ilya up. He'll probably also want to hook up with Ilya, but that kind of thing doesn't happen any more. Unless and until Ilya can convince Shane to get into cuckolding, anyway. That's a discussion for another day.

Shane's voice is strained as he asks, "Why?"

Easiest answer of the night. "Because I like to have control," Ilya murmurs, scratching his nails against Shane's scalp, internally delighted when the motion makes Shane's hard exterior melt a little. "And you like to give it up."

Shane splutters adorably, his face creasing into a frown. He knows he can't deny either of Ilya's claims.

That's enough for tonight, Ilya thinks. He's planted the seed, and knowing Shane as well as he does, he's aware it'll take a while before it grows. "You don't have to agree now," he says, rolling back onto the couch beside Shane and leaning over to grab his vodka. "Just think about it."

Ilya doesn't stop thinking about it.

In the shower, in the locker room, in his bed before drifting off to sleep every night.

And the excellent part is: he's pretty sure Shane's still thinking about it too.

He doesn't ever snoop on Shane's phone—he's not that kind of controlling, but about a week later, Shane says he wants to show Ilya something. Ilya comes up from behind him, wrapping his arms around Shane's waist and tucking his chin neatly over his boyfriend's shoulder to look at the phone in Shane's hand. What Shane shows him is just a silly little online article, gassing up Ilya's recent hockey win—adorable proud boyfriend stuff—but it's what he notices after that gives him a real glimmer of hope.

Shane always, always, navigates back to the main Google search page before quitting out of his internet browser. It's an autism thing, Ilya's pretty sure—just one of Shane's many quirks that he's extremely endeared by.

Ilya's not trying to spy; he's enjoying the impromptu cuddle. And it just so happens that he's still watching as Shane follows his little routine. As his boyfriend hits the bookmark for Google, it pops up right there, listed in his previous searches for all to see: What it feels like to be roofied.

Ilya's heart pounds harder in his chest. He's certain Shane can feel it against his shoulder blade.

Shane quickly swipes the Safari window closed and shoves his phone in his pocket. They don't talk about it. Ilya has to give him time.

Shane can have as much time as he needs, but Ilya realises that he is running out of it. Sasha is due to head back to France within the week, and Ilya still hasn't asked his old friend about getting him the goods. And without the goods, the plan is dead in the water.

He shoots a text to the group chat that he's been largely ignoring, asking if his friends want to go out for one last hoorah before Sasha leaves. Of course they do. And if Shane won't come to a club with him—yet?—Ilya will take the opportunity to get the three of them back together: Ilya, Sveta, and Sasha, to formulate a plan.

Speaking Russian in Canada has its benefits, and never moreso than when Ilya needs to have a private conversation on a public street. He pulls Sveta and Sasha off to the side of the path as they approach the club, and they both look at him curiously.

"Sasha," Ilya says quietly, meeting his friend's eyes in the orange light of the streetlamp. In Russian, he murmurs, "What is the likelihood you can get me roofies tonight?"

Sasha's eyes widen, and he looks Ilya up and down. "High," he replies, with the level of certainty Ilya was expecting, before adding: "Should I be worried?"

Sveta is eyeing Ilya warily, her brows scrunched.

"No," Ilya laughs them off. "It's a sex thing, Shane wants to try it." A little white lie never hurt anyone. "And you know what I'm like; I couldn't turn down the opportunity."

Sasha can't judge; Ilya's pretty sure his friend hasn't had sex sober since he was about sixteen. Thankfully, they don't actually judge him (much), once Ilya explains what he wants to do. They call him a pervert, which is not untrue, but both of them have been on the other end of his perversions many times, and he's never heard any complaints.

By the time he gets home, he's a thousand dollars poorer. He falls drunkenly into bed next to Shane with a huge smile on his face and a small baggie of pills in his pocket.

"Do you want to fuck me while I'm high?" Shane asks, bringing his hand up to his mouth to bite nervously at his nails.

The question is so out of the blue that it takes Ilya a moment to catch up. And then his mind drifts to the little baggie, tucked safely inside a pair of his socks that he knows Shane would never steal again because they made his feet itchy. Ilya can't help the way his face slowly splits into a wide smile. It's finally happening. It's been an agonising month, holding himself back from bringing up the topic before Shane is ready.

"This is not me agreeing," Shane adds in a rush, flustered. He's so cute; Ilya wants to eat him up. "I need more information."

The answer to his question is Yes, of course, obviously I want to fuck you while you're high, but Ilya knows for a fact that's not the answer Shane needs to hear right now. "Only if you want," Ilya answers after a short pause, meeting Shane's eyes with a soft smile. It's not a lie—Ilya has no intention to touch Shane in any way he doesn't want to be touched. He's a good dom like that.

"But you would like it?" Shane asks—a follow-up question! "If I did want?"

There's only one answer to that question, and it's out of Ilya's mouth faster than he can think: "Yes." It's probably a little too abrupt, and he quickly takes Shane's hand in his, going into damage control mode. "I will not do anything you are uncomfortable with," he promises, squeezing Shane's hand, "but I would like that very much."

Thankfully, Shane doesn't actually seem too fazed by the answer. Maybe he was already anticipating it. He probably was; he's smart like that. "What if we get spotted by the paparazzi and I'm so fucked up that I can't even walk?" Shane asks quietly, sucking his lip between his teeth. "I don't think I could show my face in public after that."

Ilya can't help the groan that the mental image drags from his throat. Photos on the front page of every shitty gossip magazine—Shane Hollander, hockey wunderkind and every brand's perfect golden child, stumbling out of a bar hanging off Ilya's arm like the gorgeous, fucked up prize he is. Shane raises an eyebrow at him. "Sorry," Ilya shrugs, tucking the image away in the back of his brain. "Is hot." He pauses for a moment before offering a real solution, "We tell press you got spiked. I get to be hero."

"I don't know…" Shane whispers, though he's already losing his edge, creeping closer and closer to accepting his fate. "I'd be so embarrassed."

As if you're not into that, Ilya thinks, but doesn't say. He's quiet for a moment, considering his next move. He cups Shane's cheek gently in one hand, running his thumb across the smattering of freckles high up on his cheekbone. "You are worried about thing that might not happen. Probably won't. We will deal if it does, like we always do," he says eventually.

Shane visibly relaxes.

"I like the idea," Shane whispers, like he's afraid to admit it any louder. "It would be nice to get my brain to shut up for a while. I trust that you would look after me."

Holy shit, that sounds like a yes. "I will not leave your side," Ilya promises.

It is a yes, though they spend the next several hours going over the details. Shane has a lot of anxiety, and he cares very deeply about what other people think about him. It's Ilya's job to ease his fears as much as he can. It's a careful balancing act—not being too pushy, but also showing clear enthusiasm that Shane has reached the conclusion that he has, all without accidentally affirming any of Shane's 750,000 worries.

Between them, they come up with a few rules. One, that Ilya doesn't get drunk. That's easy, because he was never going to. He's going to be on High Alert Shane Watch for the whole night, and he won't do anything unnecessary that might compromise Shane's safety. Well… beyond the obvious. The second rule is that Ilya will only fuck him if Shane is obviously into it on the night. Also a no-brainer for Ilya, because despite how the situation might look to an outsider, the use of this drug isn't to rape Shane, his wonderful, submissive, caring partner who he loves more than anything else in the world. It's to give them both something intangible that they crave. Shane also makes Ilya promise to tell him everything that happened the next day, once he's slept off the aftereffects.

Ilya can barely believe this is actually happening. While Ilya loves control, what he loves even more is being given control. For Shane to willingly surrender potentially every one of his bodily functions to him—that's the dream. For both of them, he thinks.

Shane really does look like a lost little lamb standing opposite Ilya in the club.

Partying comes so naturally to Ilya—throwing back shots, feeling the pounding bass thrumming through his chest, his shoes sticking to a floor covered in god-knows-what—that it always shocks him, the extent to how uncomfortable Shane is in this setting. His arms are slung across Shane's shoulders, in the hope that dancing against him will get Shane to move his frozen body even a little bit.

Tonight isn't about clubbing, and they both know it. Shane's just staring into space, waiting patiently for Ilya to slip him a little forget me pill, so he can lose track of the rest of this night. Ilya almost feels bad for dragging Shane out onto the dancefloor so soon. He can tell that Shane just wants to go home.

Ilya has a bottle of beer dangling against Shane's back, and that's the extent of the alcohol he'll consume tonight. Shane is drinking a tumbler of ginger ale.

At the bar, Ilya tried to talk him into doing a couple of shots to loosen up a bit, but Shane just shook his head. He wants to feel the moment the drug hits him, knowing for a fact that he's only had Canada Dry all night. Their dynamic makes it seem like Ilya is the pervert and Shane just gets dragged along for the ride, but his sweet, angelic boyfriend is secretly the freakiest person Ilya knows.

Ilya leans in closer to yell in Shane's ear over the thumping music. "You are so pretty. Dance with me."

Shane winces. Ilya can't help but be endeared watching his boyfriend struggle so much with such a simple task. Shane is so intelligent, and so nimble on the ice, it almost makes Ilya laugh out loud that he can't even sway his hips in time with the music. Ilya holds back his laugh—he doesn't need to make Shane feel any worse than he already does.

Ilya watches hungrily as Shane sips his ginger ale. The pill is burning a hole in his pocket, and Shane's glass is half empty.

He leans in to capture Shane's lips with his own, moving one of his hands to tip his boyfriend's chin up to meet him. It seems to sufficiently distract him from the unknowable horrors of the club.

Ilya's tongue slides easily into Shane's waiting mouth like it belongs there, his kisses sloppy and wet. He quickly moves his hand down to his jeans pocket, extracting the pill and dropping it into the ginger ale glass trapped between their bodies. His heart thumps double-time at the thrill. He presses closer to Shane, grinding up against him as they kiss, giving the Rohypnol a chance to dissolve into his fizzy drink.

The music shifts, transitioning into one of those recognisable, perfect-for-dancing-to clubbing songs that Ilya would never be able to name. Pulling back with a gasp, Ilya exclaims excitedly, "I love this song!"

He lifts his beer to his lips, tipping the bottle upside down to drain the last of its contents showily down his throat. His lips tug into a smile around the neck of the bottle, and he winks at Shane, hoping he gets the message.

There's a tiny tremor in Shane's hand as he lifts his own drink to his mouth, ever the obedient partner. He takes a sip, watching Ilya for guidance. Ilya raises his eyebrows ever-so-slightly, and Shane drains the rest of his glass. Good boy.

Ilya discards both of their vessels on a nearby table and grabs onto Shane's hands to pull his boyfriend up against him, dragging him into an unwilling motion as the bass pounds up through their chests from the sticky floor. And more importantly, to make sure he's got a firm handhold when the dizziness hits.

"Please dance," Ilya begs, and Shane genuinely seems like he's starting to try. Ilya doesn't beg often, and when he does, Shane knows he's serious. They move together awkwardly, and Ilya couldn't be happier.

As the song draws to a close, fading into something Ilya doesn't recognise, Shane stumbles against him.

"Oh shit," Shane mutters under his breath, and Ilya's heart soars. Shane slides his hands up to grip tightly around Ilya's thick forearms, holding himself up like an old lady grasping for dear life onto her walker.

Ilya's cock throbs in his underwear. He's not going to do anything that Shane doesn't want him to, but fuck, he's already turned on. The level of trust Shane has in him is so incredible; it makes him lightheaded with the power.

He slides one of his strong arms around Shane's waist, hoisting him up against his hip. He doesn't care that much about hockey, really—he sculpted his body for one thing: this exact moment, so he's physically prepared to carry Shane out of this club if he needs to. He tilts Shane's face up to meet his eyes with a crooked finger. "You're a good boy," he says firmly, making sure Shane understands every word.

"I am," Shane slurs, and Ilya wants to rip off his clothes and take him right here—in front of God and everybody. His eyes are locked on Shane's, watching them drift deliciously in and out of focus as Shane tries to meet his gaze.

Shane's hand presses against Ilya's abs, and Ilya can't help the shiver that travels up his spine—Shane is into it. The hand on his body moves agonisingly slowly, creeping up and up and up until it finally reaches Ilya's pec, squeezing him through the thin fabric of his tank, just like Ilya taught him to do all those years ago. Ilya's nipple is already hard beneath Shane's hand.

"Touch meeeeee," Shane begs, his voice thready, and Ilya would like nothing more.

He cups the back of Shane's skull in one big hand, and Shane all but melts against him, dropping his jaw breathily as soon as their lips meet. Ilya's tongue slides into his mouth, licking nastily behind Shane's teeth. He tastes like ginger ale and submission.

He wishes Shane was touching his cock.

Not here—he has to remind himself. Soon.

Shane whines into the kiss, and Ilya couldn't agree more.

Ilya pulls back slightly, pressing his forehead to Shane's. "We should get out of here," he moans, and Shane's eyes light up behind their drug-induced haze. Ilya is going to absolutely wreck him.

He takes a cautious step in the direction of the door, his arm tucked tightly around Shane's waist. Shane doesn't cooperate—can't cooperate—and Ilya's dick swells eagerly beneath his fly. "Come on, drunky," he laughs for the benefit of anyone within earshot, as he drags Shane a little way, "walk for me."

Shane's brow furrows, his unfocused eyes shifting from Ilya's face slowly down to the floor. Ilya's chest pounds, and not just because of the thrumming bass. Shane is trying. He's fighting against the insanely debilitating effects of the drug so that he can follow an order Ilya gave him. Ilya needs to suck in a deep breath, because if he's not careful he's going to come in his pants before the night's even started.

Shane takes one heavy step, and the crowd erupts into cheers. Ilya's head snaps up, but it's just the bubble machine, and a bunch of over-excited drunk people. He refocuses on Shane, who manages a whole second step before getting distracted by the bubbles floating down around them. Shane's mouth exaggeratedly and silently forms the word bub—bles, and Ilya wants to kiss him so badly.

But they have somewhere to be, and Ilya needs to be the one to get them out. Shane slumps suddenly against his side, a dead weight, his head lolling onto Ilya's shoulder. Fuck.

Ilya shifts a hand under the globes of Shane's ass, curling the other around his back to lift him off the ground. He hustles quickly through hoards of people, bursting out the door into the cold Canadian night with a huff of breath. He sets Shane's feet on the floor, still holding up his weight with one arm. He lifts a hand to Shane's chin, tilting his head up to ensure his airways are open. Shane's breath puffs lightly across his neck, a tiny bit of warmth in the frigid night.

He's just taking out his phone to call a Lyft when a female voice says, "Ilya Rozanov?" Not now, please. Not while he's got a passed-out Shane Hollander draped over his shoulder and a boner under his tight black jeans. Maybe Shane was right to be worried about this.

"Sorry," he says, barely glancing up at her as he orders his ride. A message pops up almost instantly from a driver named Ibrahim—Be there in 2 min. "Is not a good time."

"Is Shane okay?" the woman asks, not getting the hint. She doesn't seem especially drunk, her eyebrows furrowing as her gaze flicks cleanly between them. When did hockey fans get so familiar? Ilya has to take a deep breath in through his nose, the cold air chilling his lungs. She's concerned. Stop being a dick.

Shane is still breathing softly against his neck, and that's the only thing that matters to Ilya at this very moment. "I think he has been spiked," he explains, because he doesn't know what else to say. He looks out to the road, begging for Ibrahim to appear. "Please don't tell anyone."

"I won't," she says, and Ilya can't help but let out a relieved sigh. She doesn't seem like a duplicitous journalist or one of their crazier fans. He could be wrong, but he thinks he's safe.

"Thank you," he nods. "He will be okay. I will look after him." He notices their Lyft turning down the end of the street, glad for the excuse to leave the interaction. "That is my car," he says, already hoisting Shane up to carry him to the curbside. "It was nice to meet you." A little white lie never hurt anyone.

She stays where she is, watching as Ilya deposits Shane on the concrete.

Shane stirs when his feet hit the floor, and Ilya breathes a sigh of relief. Shane passing out on him is incredibly, mind-blowingly hot under usual circumstances, but Shane staying passed out for so long with Rohypnol running through his veins was always one of the bigger concerns in the back of Ilya's head. He was ready to redirect Ibrahim to the hospital, if necessary. Shane lifts his heavy head just as the car pulls up.

"Thank you," Ilya says into the open driver's side window.

Shane's voice is slurred as he murmurs, "You're welcome," in Ilya's ear. Ilya can't help the extremely fond smile from tugging at his lips. His boyfriend is so high, and Ilya did that to him.

He opens the car door with one hand, his eyes flicking between Shane and the seat. He's pretty sure Shane isn't able to get in of his own volition, so he does the next best thing—hooking his arms under Shane's knees and placing him into the back of the car like a little doll. Shane's head lolls back on his neck and he moans, embarrassingly loud in the cold night air, making Ilya's still-hard cock throb with need.

"Shh, is okay," Ilya soothes, climbing in after him. He looks back at the woman still standing by the door of the club. She doesn't have her phone out filming them or anything, thank god. He lifts his hand in a small wave, and gives her a thumbs up as the car starts to move.

Ilya's eyes immediately zero back in on Shane. He's scrabbling weakly at his shirt with his fingernails, before his hands fall heavily into his lap. It seems he wants his clothes off almost as much as Ilya does. Soon.

"Is he okay?" Ibrahim asks quietly, and Ilya looks up to meet his eyes in the rearview mirror.

"I think that he got spiked," he replies, turning his attention back to Shane, who seems to be fighting a losing battle against his eyelids. "I will take care of him."

Against all odds, Shane wins the fight, blinking blearily over at Ilya. "Hi," he manages to say, though it seems like a struggle.

Ilya smiles softly, pride swirling through his chest, "Hi, baby."

Shane casts his eyes down Ilya's body hungrily, and his hand starts to slide slowly across the middle seat. Spending a few minutes passed out on Ilya's shoulder hasn't done anything to dampen his over-active sex drive, it seems.

"You boys play hockey, don't you?" Ibrahim asks conversationally.

Before Ilya can say anything, Shane is moaning an answer. "Noooooooo," he says, and Ilya huffs a small laugh at him before turning his attention back to their driver. Shane's hand keeps moving, on a different frequency to his brain, lifting up and landing heavily on Ilya's thigh.

When Ilya speaks, his voice is firm and serious. "Listen, Ibrahim," he says, "I give you five hundred dollars—" He slides his wallet out of his pocket as Shane's hand reaches his crotch. "Do not talk to press about this. He will be very embarrassed."

He looks over at Shane, who is furrowing his brow slightly before his face tugs into a wide smile. His fingers squeeze Ilya's hard cock through his jeans.

"I don't need hush money," Ibrahim says with a laugh, shrugging Ilya off. "The back of my car is a safe zone, I promise. You can't begin to imagine the wealth of secrets it holds." Ilya really can't.

"A tip," Ilya insists, leaning forward over Shane's hand to drop the cash onto the empty front seat regardless. "Thank you."

They arrive soon after, and the car judders to a halt. "Do you need help getting him to the house?" Ibrahim offers kindly.

Ilya smiles. He doesn't think Ibrahim needs to be any closer to either of their boners, tonight. "No, thank you," he replies, unstrapping the belt holding Shane in place.

Shane closes his eyes as Ilya lifts him out of the car. He wedding-carries his boyfriend all the way to their front door, through the house, and into the bedroom. When he places Shane carefully in the centre of the bed, he can't help but think he looks like a sacrifice. Ilya has never wanted anything more.

Shane slowly blinks his eyes open, and Ilya is already crawling up the bed, his knees on either side of Shane's heavy, sluggish body, straddled over him. Finally, they're alone.

"Fucking hell, Shane," he moans. His voice is loud and desperate in the quiet room, finally free to speak without consciously monitoring himself. He squeezes Shane's cheeks with one hand, forcing his boyfriend's slack lips into a pout. "You are so fucked."

Shane looks like a dog with a bone, pleased as punch with himself. His eyes are big and wet, and Ilya's certain, if he could move his body, he'd be wagging his tail. He furrows his brow, his lips working silently to try to drag some words from the recesses of his drugged brain. "Fuck… me…" he manages eventually, his face tugging into a huge grin when the words are out, floating in the air between them.

Ilya's cock must be purple under his jeans—he's been so hard for so long. He didn't realise quite how much of this experience would essentially be edging for him—that's usually Shane's territory. "Oh, I will," he growls softly, brushing Shane's hair from his forehead with a gentle hand. He can't believe how lucky he is. "You are so perfect."

Ilya can't stop looking at him, the horny, glazed quality to his eyes, the way his eyebrows scrunch together every time he tries to speak, the fact that he isn't touching Ilya at all, because he can't, his body totally incapacitated. He's so desperately in love with this man, he doesn't know what to do with it. Shane has given him everything.

"Need…" Shane begs, the word dying out in his throat.

And yet he still wants more. Ilya leans down to kiss him, finally, his hands fumbling between their bodies to frantically undo Shane's belt. Why the fuck did Shane put a belt on for this? Ilya growls softly against his lips as he tugs the offending accessory open.

It pains him to stop kissing Shane's slack lips, but he has to crawl backwards to drag Shane's jeans and underwear down his legs, getting them tangled in his stupid Reeboks. Shane watches him as he rips the shoes off, followed quickly by the jeans, discarding them on the floor in a messy pile somewhere behind him.

He takes a moment to straighten Shane's socks—he doesn't want him to get cold, or overstimulated by the fabric being crooked, and not able to tell Ilya what the problem is. He wants this to be as good for Shane as he knows it will be for himself.

Ilya forces Shane's heavy legs apart so he can settle between them. He curls a hand around Shane's dick, and Shane arches into the touch, making Ilya gasp softly. The motion is so natural and fluid compared to the slow, sluggish way he's moved ever since Ilya slipped that pill in his drink. He just needed a hand on his cock, the little slut.

"Fuck, you're so good," Ilya groans, reaching out with his spare hand to grab the bottle of lube he left conveniently on the nightstand before they went out. He has to stop touching Shane for a moment to wrestle the bottle open, and his boyfriend lets out the most pained, desperate whine, like his whole entire world is ending. "Is okay," Ilya promises, one hand moving back to Shane's cock as the other, slick with lube, slides between his cheeks.

The sound Shane makes as Ilya's finger slips inside is music to Ilya's ears. It's not that Shane usually holds himself back—he's very vocal, in fact—but the drug seems to have broken the last barrier of Shane's inhibitions, and his cries aren't hampered by any tiny anxiety, any unsaid thought. He's just Shane. He's everything Ilya could have ever asked for.

Shane blinks happily up at Ilya, his face the picture of bliss. Ilya watches him back hungrily. He wants him so bad it's killing him, but he has to open Shane up carefully—he can't rush this.

Ilya's single finger slides in and out of Shane easily, and he crooks it to brush against Shane's prostate on every thrust, delighting in the gaspy little moans the motion drags from his throat. Shane's body already feels loose and open, and his slack mouth becomes home to a litany of noisy, near-constant moans. Ilya engages his core and leans forward to kiss Shane as he slides a second finger in alongside the first.

"Yeaaaauugghhhhhh," Shane wails against Ilya's lips. He takes Ilya's fingers so easily, like the drug has frozen his whole body but relaxed him exactly where it matters. Maybe it has.

Shane's dick pulses happily in Ilya's hand. He's not stroking it, really, distracted by the way Shane's body twitches and jerks as he rubs his prostate, the way he can only seem to move in service of more sex. Shane squirms, his hips shifting minutely up into Ilya's loose grip.

"You will take me so beautifully," Ilya rumbles, pressing his face heavily into Shane's neck, kissing open-mouthed and sloppy against the soft skin there. Shane gasps and arches perfectly into the touch, his clothed chest pressing up against Ilya's. The fact that he's only half naked, and Ilya still fully clothed, sends a nasty thrill down Ilya's spine.

Ilya shifts a third finger to join the first two, prodding gently at Shane's soft little pucker, seeking entrance.

Shane rolls his head on the pillow, his mouth falling open in a groan, and then a yawn. When he opens his eyes again, he looks at Ilya longingly—pleading—though no words come out of his mouth.

Shit, yeah. He needs to pick up the pace before Shane passes out on him again. Shane did tell him beforehand that he's okay with Ilya finishing if Shane does conk out—something he acknowledged might happen—but Ilya doesn't necessarily want it to come to that. He wants Shane to get something out of this, too, even if he won't remember in the morning.

Three fingers slide into Shane easily, his cute little rim stretching out around them. Ilya's never seen him this loose on comparatively so little preparation. Shane's hole is begging for him, and Ilya's fingers pump in all the way to the root, the rest of his hand pressing up hungrily between his cheeks.

When he eventually pulls out, satisfied that Shane can take him, Shane whines.

"Shane," Ilya groans, his voice croaking as he struggles to unbutton his pants with slippery, lube-covered hands. He looks up at Shane's face, but Shane's eyes are trained on his crotch. "Listen to me, I need answer, okay?" he says as he manages to push his jeans and underwear down enough for his achingly hard cock to flop out over the top. Ilya lifts a hand to Shane's chin, forcing his gaze back to his eyes. "Do you want me to fuck you?"

He doesn't need to get Shane's consent right now—Shane gave him that unequivocally before they headed out for the night—but he wants it. He wants more than anything for Shane, so fucked in the head by a drug that Ilya gave him, to tell Ilya that he still wants him. That Ilya isn't a monster for wanting this—for doing this to him. Ilya doesn't often need reassurance, but he craves it right now, deep in his soul.

Shane furrows his brow, and Ilya's heart sinks. If Shane can't answer him, Ilya's not sure in his heart that he can continue with this, despite how desperately he wants it. His thumb slides over Shane's jaw, petting the soft skin there.

"Please, try to answer," Ilya begs. "Do you want me to fuck you?"

Shane isn't saying anything, just staring up at him with dazed, half-lidded eyes. Ilya is fucked in the head, no wonder Sasha and Sveta gave him such judgemental looks when he brought up the idea. He's a predator, and Shane is completely helpless right now. It breaks his heart, a little.

Shane agreed, sure, but how much of that was him trying to be a good submissive, trying to please Ilya. Ilya often comes on too strong, he knows this. It wasn't fair to ask Shane to do this—it's too much.

Shane's jaw opens slowly, closes again. Ilya watches his face, barely blinking.

"Yes."

Oh, thank fuck.

That single word is the best thing Ilya's heard all year, and he surges forward to drag Shane into a kiss.

He grabs the bottle of lube from the bedsheets, drizzling it messily over his cock. "You are perfect, so perfect, perfect boy," Ilya rambles quietly as he lifts Shane's heavy legs up, folding him in half so he can line himself up to Shane's entrance.

Sliding into him is like a dream. Shane's asshole was loose around Ilya's fingers but it's tight around his cock, squeezing him perfectly all the way down his thick, long shaft as Ilya buries himself in one smooth motion.

Shane's breath comes out in quick, short bursts as Ilya is finally, finally, able to slide slowly in and out of his gorgeous, perfect hole. Ilya's pretty sure his cock has been hard for hours at this point, and burying himself in Shane's tight little ass sends the pleasure he's been aching for flooding through his core. Made all the more intense by Shane's one sweet little word, affirming that he wants it.

He can't leave Shane hanging now, after all that, and quickly curls his lube-covered hand around Shane's hard cock, stroking him in time with his slow thrusts.

It feels incredible, and they both moan in tandem, a high, reedy sound from Shane, while Ilya's drags straight out of his chest, deep and bassy.

Shane is twitching and jerking under him, and Ilya's never seen a more beautiful sight. His mouth forms into a yawn, and he blinks sleepily up at Ilya. "Ffff—faster," he says, the words clearly taking a great mental toll on him, "plea—"

Ilya is already nodding, his thrusts picking up speed. It's almost like he was waiting for Shane's permission, subconsciously. Further confirmation that Shane wants it. It's okay.

He doesn't hesitate any more, holding one of Shane's legs up with one hand, the other still curled around his boyfriend's cock. He takes him like he's supposed to—the deep, hard pounding that activates something animal in Shane's brain. Shane's mouth falls open—a moaning, whimpering mess of a man under Ilya's care. He's so beautiful, and Ilya can't look away.

His necklace bounces against his chest as Ilya's thrusts get harder, and Shane clenches around him, rocketing him towards the edge.

"I'm gonna come," Ilya groans, and Shane's eyes flick up to meet his. He can feel his orgasm boiling up inside of him, filling up his whole body with the aching, desperate need for release. He pushes Shane's loose shirt up to his chest with his free hand, his eyes roving across the sweaty planes of his skin. Ilya's jaw is slack, panting like a dog, silently begging Shane to be there with him. "Fuck, Hollander, you have no idea—"

Ilya rocks down over Shane, landing heavy on one hand by his shoulder. His necklace dangles just above Shane's slack mouth.

He doesn't get like this—he's conscientious, usually. He likes for them to come together, but if they don't, he always gets Shane there first. The fact that he's already balancing on the precipice makes him uneasy, and he pumps Shane's cock hard and fast, digging his thumb into his slit in the way that makes Shane go wild.

Shane moans deeply, but he doesn't seem as far gone as Ilya needs him to be. Ilya's body is trembling with how bad he needs to come, using every method he's ever heard of to hold himself back while still slamming his cock deep into Shane's guts.

"Please, Hollander," Ilya practically sobs, wringing his hand tight around Shane's cock. He has one final idea, the kind of thing that would never work if they hadn't put so much time and effort into training Shane's body and mind for the command: "Come."

It works, thank fuck, and Shane falls apart gorgeously as his cock paints his quivering stomach in stripes of white. Ilya is right there with him, burying himself deep inside Shane's body and letting himself trip over the edge, his shoulders shaking as his cock pulses over and over, soaking Shane from the inside.

Shane laughs, a bright and joyful sound that he hasn't made all night, before falling silent.

Ilya lifts his head from where it had fallen slack, and he realises with a start that Shane has completely blacked out. It's not the first time it's ever happened to them, but with the drug still running rampant through his system, Ilya will have to keep an even closer eye on Shane than usual. He looks so peaceful, his eyes closed, his breath shallow. Ilya's cock twitches, still stuffed up in Shane's slack body.

He leans down over his boyfriend, listening to his soft, natural breathing as he presses his fingers to the pulse point just beneath his ear. He seems okay, from what Ilya can tell, just already in the sleeping-off-the-drug stage of the night.

A tiny, nasty part of Ilya wishes he had let Shane pass out before Ilya came, because the idea of ruining this sweet, sleeping angel makes Ilya's blood run hot. Yet another idea for another day.

He pulls out slowly, watching Shane's face for any signs of discomfort. He doesn't find any, just blissful ignorance. His cock is followed by a veritable gush of come, oozing easily out of Shane's slack hole.

He really shouldn't, but Ilya has never been especially good at self control. He pushes Shane's lifeless legs up out of the way and buries his face in his boyfriend's dark, musky crack. His tongue laps greedily at his own come, licking and sucking it out of Shane's unknowing body. It makes him feel high, lost in filthy, self-serving pleasure to clean Shane up this way.

The fact that Shane doesn't move an inch only makes it hotter.

He swallows down every drop he can get of his own come. The bitterness mixed with the chemical nastiness of lube isn't pleasant, but he's not doing it for the taste. He's doing it for the thrill.

Ilya thinks for a moment, about what he's going to say when Shane asks him later to tell him all about it. He could lie, and say he just cleaned up Shane with a cloth, like a normal, doting boyfriend, but he doesn't think that's the answer that Shane would want to hear.

He looks up, past Shane's spent cock, to the sticky puddle covering his abs. Well, if he's already gone this far…

Shane's come tastes much cleaner than his as Ilya licks a wide stripe up through the mess on his belly. Combined with Shane's sweat, the mixture is intoxicating, making Ilya's dick ache for round two. Not now. Maybe one day.

He presses a kiss to Shane's belly once he's lapped up every last drop of his come. Murmuring a quiet, "YA ochen' tebya lyublyu, moy prekrasnyy angel."

He sits back on his heels on the bed, surveying his work.

If Shane looked like a sacrifice before they started, Ilya doesn't even know what to think now.

He checks Shane's breathing again before making his way into the ensuite, shedding his jeans and underwear on the way. He leaves the door open, and keeps one eye on the bed as he fills the sink with warm, soapy water. His tongue is probably not the best method for cleaning Shane up, in reality.

Ilya takes a warm, damp washcloth back to the bed, slinging a towel over his shoulder on the way out of the bathroom. He loves this part—the unglamorous, unsexy part where he lifts Shane's legs and wipes down his ass like a baby. Shane gets squirmy and uncomfortable whenever Ilya does it when he's awake, preferring to go away and wash himself, but Ilya needs it, this time especially, and he's glad Shane can't back out in embarrassment.

Doing this for Shane helps him feel less like the monster he's sometimes so afraid he truly is.

He pushes the cloth a little way into Shane's ass on the tip of his finger, and Shane whines softly above him. It seems he's transitioned from blackout into dead-to-the-world sleep. Ilya smiles fondly, watching his nose scrunch up at the uncomfortable wetness happening somewhere outside of his field of consciousness.

He carefully wipes over Shane's dick and his exposed belly with the cloth. Shane is so loose and floppy when Ilya lifts his arms to drag his sweaty shirt the rest of the way off—nothing like how he's been all night; a dead weight against Ilya's side. Ilya wipes down Shane's armpits, chuckling softly under his breath when Shane tries to squirm away.

Ilya dries him off with the towel, shifting him gently to a slightly cleaner part of the bed. He rummages through their closet, finding a pair of soft, comfy sweats and one of his own old, baggy shirts. Exactly Shane's comfort wardrobe.

He dresses him quickly, concerned about Shane getting cold, and drags the dirty blanket out from underneath his body, discarding it on the floor. He'll deal with that later. Grabbing a fresh blanket from the closet, Ilya tucks Shane into bed, tilting his head up to make sure his airways aren't obstructed. He looks so peaceful.

Once Shane is sorted, Ilya can half turn his attention back on himself, cleaning himself up with a new cloth and dressing in a similarly cozy outfit to the one he put Shane in. He slides into bed beside him, glad that Shane has started snoring softly. Ilya doesn't think he's going to sleep especially deeply, worrying in the back of his head that Shane's okay all night, but he does need to sleep. If Shane's snoring, then he's breathing, and that's enough for Ilya to tuck up against his side and close his eyes.

When he wakes the next morning, Shane is still out for the count. Ilya potters around the bedroom, picking up all the discarded clothes and dirty blanket and chucking them in the washing machine. He makes himself breakfast and eats it in bed, and puts a big glass of water and two Tylenol on Shane's nightstand for when he wakes up.

It's a huge relief when Shane stirs for the first time.

He groans as he opens his eyes, immediately squeezing them closed again, and Ilya reaches across to touch his arm gently.

"Moya lyubov'," Ilya murmurs, glad Shane is finally awake. He knew he would take a long time to sleep off the drug, but it's been eating at Ilya's insides all morning, waiting for something from him. "How do you feel?"

It takes Shane a few moments to answer. "Never felt worse," he moans softly, lifting an arm to cover his closed eyes, and Ilya can't help but smile fondly. "Why is the world so bright?" he complains, his voice dry and croaky.

Ilya huffs a small, sympathetic laugh. "I will close blinds," he says, pressing the button on the remote by the bed. He looks back at Shane hiding under his arm like a kid scared by a movie—mostly just glad that his boyfriend can move his limbs now. "Better?" he asks, and Shane peeks out for a moment before covering his eyes again.

"I want to be asleep," he whines.

He must feel awful—worse than Ilya has any way of comprehending. Ilya moves his hands to rest gently on Shane's shoulders, "Will you drink water? Please?" he begs softly. "Then you can sleep."

Shane pauses for a moment, and Ilya is worried for a second that he's passed out until he murmurs, "You got Tylenol?"

"Of course."

Shane lets Ilya carefully sit him up, his eyes still firmly closed. Ilya presses the glass into his hand, steadying it with his own—Shane really doesn't need to spill water all over the bed before he goes back to sleep—and places two pills on Shane's outstretched tongue. He helps him lift the water to his mouth. Shane must be dying of thirst, because he chugs and chugs until there's nothing left.

Ilya would offer to get him another glass, but Shane is snuggling back into the sheets, already drifting off. Ilya tucks him in, gently brushing a lock of his hair off of his forehead.

He replenishes the water and pills, and settles back into bed beside Shane for another agonising wait.

The next time Shane wakes up, he seems panicked. Ilya puts his book down in an instant, not even bothering to mark his page. "How do you feel?" he asks quietly, reaching across to touch Shane's cheek.

"About ten seconds from pissing the bed," Shane moans. Ilya bites back a groan. Not now.

Shane tries to sit up, and Ilya scrambles around to Shane's side of the bed to help him. While Ilya would be nothing but delighted by Shane pissing the bed, his top priority right now is what Shane wants, which seems to be a single-minded focus to get to the bathroom. Ilya loops Shane's arm over his shoulder and practically drags him into the ensuite.

Shane is pushing down his sleep pants with his free hand as they approach the toilet—fuck, he's desperate.

Ilya takes Shane's cock in his hand without needing to be asked, aiming it into the bowl. The groan Shane lets out as he releases his bladder makes Ilya's cock twitch hopefully where it's pressed up against Shane's hip. He resists the urge to run his fingers through the warm, thick stream.

"Good boy," Ilya murmurs low and hot in his ear, his voice coming out the wrong side of horny, "let me take care of you."

They both watch as piss arcs out of the end of Shane's cock and patters down into the water below. His stream is golden yellow and strong—he's been holding it for hours, and it fills the air with an acrid scent that Ilya loves so much. He loves everything about Shane but especially this—his ability to be so vulnerable as to share his piss with Ilya.

It's one of the first things they did together that was truly kinky, which, in some roundabout way, probably led directly to this moment. They've come a long way, but Ilya will never not be turned on by the patter of Shane's piss against the toilet bowl or the shower drain or Ilya's chest.

Shane's cock twitches in his hand—he can sense Ilya's horny energy, even if he's not there himself—as the last of his stream tinkles into the bowl. Ilya shakes him off and tugs his pants back up.

"You want more Tylenol?" Ilya offers as they make their way back to the bedroom, "It has been long enough."

It's only been three and a half hours, technically, but a little white lie never hurt anyone. Shane is clearly still in so much pain, squinting against the light and moaning softly into the ether.

He accepts.

The third time Shane wakes, Ilya happens to already be watching him. He's done other things with his day—a workout beside the bed, reading some of his book, checking his phone for paparazzi shots from last night—but a lot of the time, he's just been watching the gentle rise and fall of Shane's chest. "How do you feel?" he asks, sensing the shift in Shane before he even opens his eyes.

Shane groans softly, blinking up at him. "What time is it?" he murmurs.

Ilya looks over at the clock on the nightstand. "Five. In the afternoon. Sunday." Shane doesn't answer, just cutely scrunches up his forehead. "How do you feel?" Ilya repeats, sliding down in the bed until he's lying alongside Shane, tucking up against his side.

"Less bad," Shane murmurs, a small chuckle on his lips. "Marginally. My head still hurts, but it's more manageable now."

"Take some pills," Ilya orders softly.

Shane sits up slowly, shuffling back to lean against the headboard. Of course, during his sleep, Ilya also restocked him with water and Tylenol. Ilya sits up beside him, leaning in to bonk their shoulders together.

"Thank you," Shane says, gracious, as though Ilya isn't the one who put him in this situation.

He takes his medication and turns back to his boyfriend, resting a heavy hand on Ilya's knee. "How was it?" he asks, his eyes sparkling with hope.

"Incredible," Ilya says back immediately. That word doesn't even come close to fully describing it.

"Then it was worth it," Shane says definitively.

Ilya pulls him in for a kiss at that, tongue-first, moaning softly down Shane's throat. His hand slides up around the back of Shane's neck, holding him close as their lips move together. He's so in love. He can't believe he got this lucky.

When Ilya pulls back, he presses their foreheads together, looking up through his eyelashes to meet Shane's eyes. "I want to know what you remember."

Shane nods, casting his eyes to the side. "I remember being in the club, and you wanting me to dance to that one song, I don't remember what it's called."

Ilya leans back slightly, nodding—that was pre-drug.

"And then… we were in a car, I think." Ilya's eyes widen slightly. He knew there would be big blackouts, but somehow he didn't expect Shane to lose the whole rest of the club. "And I remember you… fingering me, at least a little bit."

"Not in the car," Ilya jokes with a small chuckle.

"No, no," Shane corrects himself quickly, "I was lying down. I remember that I couldn't really move." He pauses, squeezing his eyes closed to help him remember, "I think that's all I've got."

"Are you upset," Ilya asks, "that you can't remember?"

Shane's quiet for a while, lost in thought. Ilya lets him have his moment. It's okay if he is; Ilya will do whatever he can to make it better again.

"No," Shane answers, a smile tugging at his lips, and Ilya can't help but be relieved. "But please tell me everything I forgot."

Chapter End Notes

Desperately hoping that people like this. I had a lot of fun reimagining this fic through Ilya's eyes. I don't think I'm going to make a habit of this kind of thing, but we'll see what the response is! <3 I appreciate you reading!

If you enjoyed this, and want even more consensual drugging and boys being in love, there's a spiritual successor here: two minutes for unsportsmanlike conduct.

Twitter: hollanovpseud