Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Heated Rivalry (TV) RPF

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Hudson Williams, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov/Hudson Williams, Connor Storrie & Hudson Williams, Ilya Rozanov/Hudson Williams

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Hudson Williams, Ilya Rozanov, Connor Storrie

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s01e04 Rose (Heated Rivalry), BDSM, Sub Shane Hollander, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Puppy Play, Praise Kink, Humiliation Kink, Stripping, (not like a club just taking clothes off sexily), Voyeurism, Exhibitionism, Gags, Threesome, Cuckolding, holding on to reasonable bdsm etiquette by the tips of our fingernails, Nipple Play, Light Bondage, Anal Sex, Begging, Sexual Overstimulation, Aftercare

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of mirrorverse

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-24 Completed: 2026-02-19 Words: 17,416 Chapters: 10/10

idealism sits in prison (chivalry fell on its sword)

Summary

Shane and Ilya walk into the same club on the same night — but Shane’s there with gorgeous superstar actress Rose Landry, which complicates matters.

He’s also there with her co-star, gorgeous superstar actor Hudson Williams, and that complicates them even more.

Notes

hey so fair warning there are four fics planned so far in the series (which is to say that there will be more than four but I know what happens in four of them so far)

STRONG RECOMMENDATION to read the first fic in this series before this, it'll make a lot more sense that way

y'all are crazy, I love you, thankya for inspiring me

Chapter 1: Hudson

Chapter Notes

tw for this chapter: mentions of a couple kinks (spanking, temperature play, overstim) but not much detail on them yet ;)

(by the way, if there are any briefly mentioned scenes in this or the previous fic that you'd like to see written out in full, let me know! there are a couple I'm already considering writing as bonus stuff lol)

A surprising number of problems can be solved using sex. At least, that’s true so long as you’re Hudson Williams, and the problem at hand is named Shane Hollander.

Shane’s fucking easy, is the thing. Not that Hudson minds it – it makes him crazy to watch Shane bend over backwards to give him what he wants. Hudson pushes, and Shane goes where he puts him. Hudson asks, and Shane answers. He holds back, and Shane begs. 

And that’s all the more thrilling when Hudson compares it to the version of Shane everyone else gets, that perfect, polished, all-Canadian boy with a winning smile and a canned answer to every question. He’s the one who gets to take that boy home and break apart every piece of that persona, strip it all away until there’s nothing left but Shane himself, take away all responsibility and every burden that’s been placed on his shoulders.

He talks about that when they fuck, sometimes, about watching Shane on TV and on the ice and in commercials and imagining what he would do to him. That despite everything he’s done and will do, how incredible he is as an athlete and a person, this is what he wants – to be Hudson’s dumb puppy, told what to do and fucked like the slut he is. The words never seem to land right, though. They always lose the sharp edge of degradation that Hudson’s aiming for, and he just ends up sounding awed. 

Maybe that’s because he is. Shane gives so much of himself to Hudson, blindly trusting him with the most fragile parts of his soul from the day they met. With great power comes great responsibility or whatever, so Hudson’s got to do right by him.

Currently, that means he’s made it his mission to fix whatever went wrong with Shane’s Russian boyfriend. Ilya Rozanov, apparently, which only took two attempts to spell correctly while trying to Google him. For preliminary research, of course.

This so-called research isn’t too hard – it primarily involves watching a variety of hockey highlights, which beyond being vaguely attractive in their athleticism don’t really come to much, as well as some of Rozanov’s interviews, which are much more revealing. Hudson sees what Shane meant now, about the similarities between them. Rozanov’s a bitch, loud and cocky in the way Hudson can be too. It’s easy to imagine Shane under him, the same nasty words Hudson uses sneered instead in a Russian accent. Hudson jerks off to the thought, and refuses to be ashamed of it.

He also thinks about being the one under Rozanov, sometimes; how those big fucking hands might feel wrapped around his waist. That one does embarrass him, and he doesn’t mention it to Shane.

The next line of inquiry, of course, is the sex. It embarrasses Shane to talk about late-night activities in the cold light of day, but that’s only a bonus in Hudson’s eyes. He’s fucking cute with a pink flush under his dusting of freckles, eyes darting away until Hudson tells him to look at me, puppy, before I fucking make you.

Getting the information out of Shane takes a while, but Hudson enjoys the process – their shared nights off are spent exploring new kinks and interrogation tactics simultaneously. Spanking makes Shane too incoherent to speak, leaving him a mess of tears and achingly hard but too stupid remember English beyond Hudson’s name and the word “please”; temperature play gives him a panic attack unless he knows exactly what’s going to happen, which Hudson initially considered a bit of a shame before he gets to watch Shane struggle and cry and beg for mercy as he reveals a freezer-chilled plug from behind his back like a magic trick; overstimulation is a winner, though, leaving Shane lucid enough to talk but desperate enough to give anything to make Hudson stop touching his cock.

That’s how Hudson hears about it, the stories first about Rozanov and slipping into Ilya after Shane’s come three times. Shane’s first time, then his second, and all the ones after that until Hudson. He stammers through Las Vegas, in particular – Hudson makes a mental note to reenact that one, and is rewarded with a pretty puppy blush from Shane when he shares that.

But Hudson’s still missing something, the last piece of the puzzle – why Shane-and-Ilya can apparently never be real, despite the fact that they’re obviously in love with each other. He knows better now than to bring it up during sex, or immediately afterwards, but that’s about as far as Hudson’s sphere of expertise lies. 

He needs advice. He can’t afford to fuck this up, not with Shane, who’s given so much of himself so freely. 

And so, he seeks wisdom from the one and only Connor Storrie.

–

Connor’s accent, as it nearly always is, is all over the place. He insists on taking the most goddamn complicated roles that require full-body transformations and entirely new languages, with the result being that he’s now half-fluent in seven languages and can do upwards of twenty accents – more, if you get him drunk enough to be confident. Right now, he’s knee-deep in something that sounds Midwestern. He’s probably nailed down to a specific farming commune in Wisconsin, but Hudson doesn’t care enough to enquire further.

“To clarify, this is the same one you throat-fucked before mentioning limits, right?” Connor’s grown out his hair for the role, and it flops down into his face on Hudson’s computer screen. He considers punching it for a long moment, but the hassle of buying a new device in a city he still doesn’t really know outweighs the potential satisfaction.

“And I feel like shit about that, which you also know.” He does, too – Connor’s the one Hudson called the next morning after Shane went to practice, who talked him down from what would probably have been a drop and made him write lines as a punishment. Fucking lines, when Hudson had asked to be belted or edged, but he supposes Connor was right that there was no way in hell Hudson could find any enjoyment in being forced to alternate colours every word while also maintaining perfect handwriting. “I don’t want to fuck him up again, and that’s why I’m asking you for help.”

Connor’s silent for a long moment. “Sorry. It’s just– you really care about him. Not like you don’t normally care about people,” he hastily adds, pre-empting Hudson’s furious interjection, “but him in particular.”

“Yeah, I guess.” It comes out more petulant than Hudson would like. 

“Then why are you trying so hard to get him back with his ex?” Actually, maybe Hudson should break his computer. Throw it out the window, maybe, but with his luck it’d land just wrong and hit some poor innocent French Canadian.

“They aren’t exes, they haven’t even fucking dated. And he’s in love with this Rozanov guy, so I’m trying to do the right thing by getting their heads out of their asses and Rozanov’s dick into his.” Hudson’s angry now, and even he’s not entirely sure why. 

“Then make them talk to each other. Figure out how to get them in a room together, and have a conversation. Like adults, which you are.” That’s Connor, all right; his answer to every problem is more communication, and the part that pisses Hudson off is that he’s almost always right. “And– Hudson, talk to me if you need anything, okay?” 

“Thanks, Mom, I’m fine,” groans Hudson. “Believe it or not, I am an actual adult too.”

“Don’t sleep too late,” Connor teases, and Hudson slams the screen shut. God, he’s a pain, even if he is one of the hottest men Hudson’s ever met. Looks a bit like Rozanov, too, but that’s a bad line of thinking to go down.

Instead, Hudson refocuses. Get Rozanov and Shane in a room together? He can manage that, easy, and he knows exactly what he’s going to do.

Connor won’t like his methods, probably – but then, they aren’t for him to like.

Chapter End Notes

NEXT CHAPTER SHOULD BE COMING SOON I HOPE

Chapter 2: Shane

Chapter Notes

note that we have a chapter count now, folks! I'll be trying to update this twice a week (mondays and fridays my time is the plan) but no promises

Hudson’s up to some shit. Shane can tell, he’s not blind; Hudson’s been spending a suspicious amount of time texting, or calling his friend Connor, or staring vacantly into open space with an evil smile that makes Shane very nervous.

Briefly, Shane considers asking Connor. He’s met the guy a few times in passing, when he interrupted their Skype calls, and getting his number wouldn’t be much of a challenge. He almost certainly knows exactly what Hudson’s planning – but whether he’d tell Shane is a different question. Anyway, he can guess what the response would be already, thanks to the amount of time Hudson’s spent bitching about Connor. Something about communicating, and probably a recommendation to see a therapist. 

Shane’s already doing the latter, thank you very much, even if she isn’t particularly helpful since Shane refuses to tell her that he’s gay. It’s just not worth the risk, but he supposes he really can’t fault her if she can’t help with a problem she doesn’t know about.

Communicating with Hudson, too, is something he’s getting better at. They’ve probably spent more time talking about sex than having it at this point, and two weeks ago Hudson made Shane sit next to him and fill out a five-page kink spreadsheet. He’s pretty sure it was just an excuse to make him listen to Hudson explain a variety of sexual practices in excruciating detail, but he did it. And as a reward Hudson tied him to the bed and sucked his brain out through his dick, so it was all worth it in the end.

But bringing up something new – that’s uncharted territory. In their relationship, if it can even be called that, Hudson’s the leader. He calls the shots, he tells Shane what to do and how to do it, and Shane’s job is to listen and obey. It’s easy like that, and he doesn’t want to damage the fragile ecosystem of whatever this unnameable connection between them is. 

It’s creeping into his life, too, little by little; they go out to dinner with the X-Squad cast, bitch about managers over text, and have mind-blowing sex at least once a week. Shane’s even struck up a friendship with Rose Landry, Hudson’s co-star. She’s hilarious and beautiful and he loves hanging out with her, which means that the paparazzi are split on whether she’s dating Hudson or Shane. She finds it hilarious, especially the ones which insinuate that she’s an immoral temptress who’s leading them both on for her own wicked ends. 

They add fuel to the fire, too, with staged stunts like Hudson and Rose showing up to a Metros game in matching Hollander jerseys. The clip of them spinning around in unison to show Shane’s name across their backs goes viral, and Shane watches it for an unhealthily long time. It’s not like he’s dating Hudson, but there’s something about the gesture that feels real in a way nothing else has. Hockey players marry young, so Shane’s seen plenty of couples get together, watched WAGs flaunt their husbands’ jerseys with pride. He’d never thought he would get something like that – even the hotel rooms and pre-game meetups with Ilya were more than he could have hoped for.

Greedy, he thinks to himself, but without the bite of pleasure that comes with it when Hudson growls it at him the word just hurts. Shane wants more than he deserves, takes more than he should have. He had Ilya, in some small way, but then he just had to wish for more than he’s allowed. And for the smallest part of a second, breathing Ilya’s name and hearing his in return, he let himself imagine that before the world came crashing back down around him. Ilya isn’t his to keep; one day, he’ll marry a girl and have kids and a picture-perfect life, and Shane will be a distant memory that he can jerk off to once in a while.

He knows this, and yet he texts Ilya late at night anyway. A range of things, from I’m sorry to nice goal in the third to I woke up dreaming about your cock. There’s never any response, and every time he swears never to do it again. But he always does, and the wall of texts on his phone screen grows ever taller. And he never gives up hoping, reaching for his phone first thing in the morning to check for a message from Lily he already knows won’t be there. 

Shane Hollander doesn’t get to fall in love. He’d do well to remember that, before he lets his stupid, reckless heart ruin things with Hudson too.

–

Shane doesn’t realise it at the time, but the first clues of Hudson’s master plan are revealed when he tells Shane that they’re re-enacting his encounter with Ilya in Las Vegas that night. To be fair, Hudson’s text just reads we’re doing Vegas tonight, which drives Shane into a brief panic spiral as he considers the logistics of flying to and from Las Vegas in time to get to practice tomorrow. After thirty seconds of frantic typing and retyping from Shane, Hudson clarifies as in the part where Rozanov watched you jerk off. This doesn’t calm Shane much, but it at least gives him a more productive direction in which to focus his anxiety.

“You didn’t tell me much about this,” notes Hudson later that evening. They’re sitting next to each other on Shane’s couch, and Hudson’s acting as casually as if they were discussing what movie to watch. “Too much crying to talk much by that point. What happened?”

“He made– He made me take off my clothes. Then he sat in front of the bed and drank vodka while he watched me jerk off. Then he fucked me.” When he says it aloud, he can almost imagine that it happened to someone else. Put some distance between himself and the boy who touched himself and begged for his biggest rival to fuck him, regain whatever shreds of dignity might be salvageable. All of that will go out the window as soon as Hudson opens his mouth, but for now Shane clings to what little he can.

“You say that like you weren’t having fun. Tell me how it felt, to have him watching you like that.” Hudson’s voice has an undercurrent of heat now, and he’s dropped the nonchalant pretense. “Did you feel like a slut, puppy?”

“No,” Shane chokes out shakily. “No, I’m not–”

“Really? Because I’m pretty sure you looked like one. Or should I see for myself?” It’s a rhetorical question and they both know it. “Stand up and strip.”

Before his mind really registers the command, Shane’s on his feet and unbuttoning his shirt with shaking fingers. “Slower,” orders Hudson. “I asked you to strip for me, puppy, like the slut we both know you are. Make it good, or you won’t come for a week.”

For a moment, Shane freezes as the uncertainty and shame overwhelm him. He really and truly doesn’t know how to do this, so there’s no fucking way he’ll do it well, and that means he won’t be good. Before the panic fully sets in, though, he chokes out a plea for help. Something they’d talked about earlier, in the aftermath of a scene where he’d had a full-blown panic attack. “I don’t know how, sir,” he admits. “Teach me, please?”

Hudson’s head inclines slightly, an acknowledgement of Shane’s request, and he continues without missing a beat. “Of course, puppy. Acting like a desperate whore just comes so naturally to you, I forgot that no one ever taught you how to do it properly.” He stands up and moves into Shane’s personal space, undoing the buttons on Shane’s shirt one at a time. “Slowly, like this. Tease it, show off those pretty muscles for me. Then you turn around, and shake your ass for me while you take off your pants. Go ahead.”

The direct instructions help Shane force his body to obey Hudson’s commands, but they don’t make the shame go away. He turns, as Hudson told him to, and tries very hard not to think about what he must look like. Undoing his belt, he arches his back, and lets the slacks slide down his thighs as he shifts his hips from side to side. 

Behind him, Hudson lets out a low whistle and a murmur. “Fucking slut,” so quiet it’s almost as though he’s whispering it to himself. Tears prick at Shane’s eyes and blood roars in his ears, but he forces himself to follow through until he’s leaning down, trousers at his ankles.

Somehow, Hudson must have moved in absolute silence, because in an instant his hands are on Shane’s shoulders, pulling him up against Hudson’s chest. The hard line of Hudson’s cock presses against his ass through the thin fabric of Shane’s boxers, and Shane can’t help but rock back into the gesture.

“Made for this,” says Hudson straight into Shane’s ear. “Look at you. Maybe you’re not the most talented, but you’re so fucking pretty that it makes up for everything else.”

– 

Hudson has to guide Shane to the bedroom in the end – he’s too shaky on his feet to trust himself. He leans into the warmth of Hudson’s body as they walk, relishing the intimacy of the gesture. That is, until Hudson deposits him on the bed and settles into an armchair across from him, and the scene they’re about to play out hits Shane all over again.

“Take them off,” orders Hudson, gesturing vaguely at Shane. He’s got a ginger ale in hand, which admittedly isn’t as sexy as Ilya’s vodka, but the authoritative tone of his voice makes Shane’s cock twitch anyway. He scrambles to obey, tossing them to Hudson when he extends an arm for them. Then, Hudson brings the boxers to his face and takes a deep sniff, maintaining eye contact with Shane all the while. He’s helpless to do anything but watch, eyes wide and arousal pooling in his stomach.

“I can smell how wet you are from these, puppy.” Slowly, Hudson drops the boxers and takes a deep sip of his ginger ale. When Shane doesn’t move, he clicks his tongue. “Touch yourself. You’re so pretty, I wanna watch you put on a show for me.”

There’s a thump as Shane throws his head back against the headboard, wrapping a hand around his cock. A whimper rises from his throat as he twists his fist – he’s been hard for so long, and even his own hand feels like nearly too much. Then Hudson starts speaking, and it only gets worse.

“You’re blushing all the way down to your pretty nipples, puppy. I guess you must really like being watched, then. Could film you, maybe, and make you watch yourself again later; even better if I filmed us fucking, so you could see how beautiful you look taking my cock.” Hudson pauses, probably taking another sip of the ginger ale, and continues. “Maybe I should make him watch, huh? Maybe watching you getting fucked by me would make him realise how much he’s missing out on. Or do you want both of us at the same time? I dunno if we’d fit, puppy, but I guess we could try.”

The thought alone – of the all-consuming stretch, of the fullness, but most of all of having both Hudson and Ilya at the same time – makes Shane gasp. With his eyes shut, he can almost feel them inside him, but that too makes the emptiness of his body all the more devastating. “Fuck me, please,” he begs. “Please, I need to come, fuck me, sir, please–”

“I’m not done talking, puppy,” reprimands Hudson sharply. “Shut up or I’ll gag you with your boxers.” As if in response, a long, drawn-out whine slips from between Shane’s lips, and Hudson chuckles darkly. Footsteps approach the bed, and a strong hand pries his mouth open.

Shane could fight. He could force his mouth shut, or call out the word they’ve agreed, or even simply tell Hudson to stop, and he knows that Hudson would. This has gone far enough, nobody could fault him for calling a stop now.

Instead, he opens his mouth wider.

–

Later, wrapped in each others’ arms, Hudson brings it up again. “If I could make it happen, would you want it? The threesome, I mean,” he clarifies.

Shane can’t see any universe in which Ilya would agree to that, but God, the thought of it. And he trusts Hudson now, more than almost anyone in the world, so if there’s anyone he would let do this– 

“Yeah,” he whispers. “It’ll never happen, but yeah. I trust you.”

It’s just a fantasy, anyway. Something to talk about, fuck about, daydream about. It isn’t as though he’ll ever get to have that in real life.

Chapter End Notes

whoops my hand slipped and this became a touch longer than anticipated, my bad

anywayyyyyyy GUESS WHOSE POV WE GET NEXT CHAPTER? (hint: it's not shane or hudson!)

Chapter 3: Ilya

Chapter Notes

god this bitch FOUGHT me while I was writing his pov

tw for a short physical altercation near the end!

Moments after the team plane touches down in Montreal, Ilya feels his phone buzz in his pocket. He fishes it out to check the message; the instant he reads the sender’s name, though, it’s shoved back in his duffel forcefully. It’s Shane, of course it is, and Ilya refuses to let himself be dragged around at his beck and call. He’ll read the message in his own fucking time, or never at all. 

Even as he thinks it, he knows it isn’t true. As soon as they get to the hotel, he’ll open it, read it and scroll back through the list of messages he’s studiously ignored over the past month. The notifications are still on, for fuck’s sake, it’s pathetic. But the thought of missing a message is worse, and the week he turned them off was spent compulsively checking his phone at hourly intervals just in case something had come in until he finally gave up. At this point, he’ll take whatever attempts at self-control he can force from himself – don’t check them till you’re alone, don’t reply to him, don’t jerk off to them.

He’s broken the last rule twice now, but nobody else needs to know that.

But Ilya’s fucking tired, preparing to play a back-to-back immediately after a brutal overtime loss to Ottawa of all places, and the siren song of Shane’s body is desperately intoxicating. So, as he was always going to, Ilya caves; he wedges himself into a window seat on the bus as quickly as possible and flicks the message open. 

It’s simple, to-the-point: Tonight? 

Ilya could say yes. It would be so easy – they’ve got it down to a rhythm now, he could show up and fuck Shane and be back at his hotel in time to get a full night’s rest before flying home tomorrow. He knows how Shane likes it, too, fast and hard and with a little praise mixed in, so it would be easy to make it good for him too. 

But at the same time, it wouldn’t. The last time they saw each other, Shane fled the moment Ilya called him by his first name, leaving him reeling and confused until he put together the pieces of exactly what had upset Shane so much. He only got to hear his name on Shane’s lips once, whispered between hitching gasps, and he doesn’t know if he can pretend that going back to the way it was could ever be enough. He wants Shane too much already, and letting himself indulge further will only make things worse. 

Already, everything he sees reminds him of Shane. He can’t fuck without unconsciously comparing the person in his bed to Shane – from the way they look to the way they feel around his cock – and every single one has come up short. It’s gotten to the point that picking up doesn’t feel satisfying anymore, and most of Ilya’s nights are spent alone with his right hand. It never used to be like this, it isn’t supposed to be like this, and Ilya hates how what was supposed to be a casual hookup has spiralled out of his control.

Not that Shane seems to be having the same problem. The internet’s flooded with gossipy articles about Shane hanging out with the stars of some stupid American action movie, an admittedly gorgeous woman and a guy who looks freakishly like Shane but with a better haircut. Ilya can’t help but read them, even if his fist clenches at the photos of them wearing Shane’s jersey and with their arms around his shoulders. 

He can’t help but imagine what they might be doing behind closed doors. His last conversation with Shane, and Shane’s admittedly unconvincing assertion that he fucked girls, plays in his head; it makes him want to break a stick. Worse, the thought of Shane spread out in Hudson Williams’ bed, making sounds previously reserved only for Ilya’s ears; that mental image makes him want to break someone’s face. There’s no way he is, of course, Shane’s too anxious about getting caught to risk something so stupid – but even the possibility that someone else might touch Shane makes rage simmer inside Ilya.

Hypocritical, maybe, given Ilya’s been sleeping with women throughout the entire time he’s known Shane. But Ilya never claimed to be a good man, or even a rational one, and that sure as hell isn’t the case with regards to Shane Hollander.

Nothing good can come of this line of thinking, Ilya knows. He has to cut this off while he still can, before he’s in so deep that nothing could pull him out.

Resolutely, he turns his phone off, then leans against the window as Montreal rolls by. 

He hates this fucking city.

–

The game is shit. Ilya’s heart isn’t in it, and the boys can tell – he makes a halfhearted attempt at a rallying speech during the second intermission, more to appease their coach than anything else, but the third period probably goes worse than the first two. In the end, they only lose by a goal, but 1-0 still means a shutout loss and that’s fucking galling.

Shane doesn’t look at him. Even when they face off against each other, Shane’s gaze slides away from Ilya’s face and back down to the ice. Ilya doesn’t bother talking to him, and tries to take solace in the fact that Shane played worse than he did. It doesn’t work.

Ilya plays his role as captain to the best of his ability. Cheers up the rookies, sits through Coach’s scathing critique of their play, grits his teeth and endures the media scrum that seems fixated on asking questions as loudly as possible at exactly the same time. It doesn’t help that Ilya’s still shit at deciphering accented English, so most of what the Quebecois interviewers say turns into a garbled mess in the pea-soup that used to be his brain. 

Maybe that’s what makes him stupid enough to go clubbing, grab Marleau as the team bus deposits them outside the hotel and tell him I am going out, do not let the rookies die until I come back. Marleau wears an A for a reason, anyway – what’s the point in that if Ilya can’t rely on him to step up once in a while?

Even if that’s just so he can get laid. A man has needs, and Ilya thinks it’s pretty reasonable to not want to spend the night dreaming bitterly about his ex after losing to him in a televised sports game. He needs a girl, with bright eyes and a brighter smile, maybe with cute freckles that he can brush his lips over while he fucks her, like how he used to with–

No. No freckles, then. But a girl nonetheless, one pretty enough to make the rest of the world fade away. And despite the fact that the club he’s found is all pulsing lights and loud music designed to chase coherent thought out at the door, Ilya still cuts a striking enough figure that heads turn as he walks in; men, women, looking at him like they want him. Yeah, finding a girl isn’t going to be a challenge.

Ilya moves through the crowd, angling towards the bar. His English improves when he’s had a drink, he finds – lowers inhibitions just enough that the words come a little easier. Besides, he really does just want a drink right now.

The bartender’s busy flirting with a girl, and Ilya’s attention drifts as he waits. A group of young women giggling together, which piques his interest until he looks a little closer and infers that they are lesbians; three men choking down shots with no regard for their livers; a boring conversation between a young couple about movie stars until one says holy shit, is that Rose Landry and the other replies oh my God, Hudson Williams is over there and fuck his drink, Ilya abandons his attempt to get the bartender’s attention and scans the room like he’s searching for the puck during a board battle.

He spots them quickly, but not quickly enough. Rose is sitting in a booth, and for half a second Ilya thinks Hudson is next to her, until the guy’s face turns and his dark hair shifts enough to reveal the profile of Shane Hollander’s face. He’s laughing, and Rose puts a hand on his shoulder, and Ilya wants to break her arm. Storm over, throw Shane across his shoulder, and lock him in a room where nobody else can ever touch him again. 

But there’s one member of that trio he’s left out, and Ilya realises his mistake as he feels a tap on his shoulder and turns to see Hudson Williams grinning at him. He looks so much like Shane that for a moment Ilya’s heart stops beating – the curve of his smile, the deep brown of his eyes, the way his hair falls across his forehead. Stupidly, the thing that snaps Ilya out of his trance is the lack of freckles. Shane’s cheeks are always dusted with them, winter or summer, but Hudson’s face is smooth and unblemished to an almost human degree.

“Hudson Williams,” acknowledges Ilya, when it becomes clear that Hudson has no intention of making the first move.

“Ilya Rozanov,” replies Hudson in the same cadence. “Come talk to me, Ilya Rozanov. Shane’s told me so much about you.”

–

Hudson drags Ilya into a deserted corner of the club, which is impressive given how full it had seemed at first glance. Ilya’s honestly not sure why he’s following him – sheer curiosity, maybe, or a desire to get him alone long enough to interrogate him about his intentions towards Shane. For that matter, he can’t imagine why Hudson’s talking to him either. He might be buff, but Ilya could beat him up, easily, and he can’t imagine Shane would ask him to fight Ilya anyway. 

Even so, he’s definitely not expecting Hudson to abruptly halt, turn to face Ilya, and ask, “Do you want to watch me fuck Shane?”

“What?” This has to be some practical joke, it’s so far out of left field that either Ilya’s missing some English nuance or Hudson Williams has a death wish or both. “What do you mean, fuck him?”

“I mean, I’m going to put my cock in his ass tonight, and I’m a really nice guy so I thought I’d let you watch.” Hudson’s grinning, and it makes Ilya want to put a fist through his perfect white teeth. “I know you like to watch, and maybe if you’re good you can have his hole once I’m done ruining it. If I’m feeling nice.”

“You think I want to see that. Hollander getting fucked.” Ilya feigns incredulity, grasping at straws for anything he could say to maintain plausible deniability. How much did Shane tell this stupid actor? He’s going to fuck things up both for himself and for Ilya, ruin their lives and careers and–

“I bought vodka special for you, if you want.” Hudson seems unconcerned about Ilya’s panicked reaction. “You don’t have to say yes. It doesn’t matter that much to me, Shane’s the one who likes being watched. It makes him act like even more of a slut.”

Before he can really register what he’s doing, Ilya’s got Hudson pressed against the wall with a forearm across the other man’s throat. “You do not fucking call him that. Say it again and I’ll kill you.” He means it, too. How dare someone like this lay their hands on Shane, and talk about him behind his back like this? Did he say things like this to his friends, laugh about getting famous hockey player Shane Hollander on his knees? If this bastard is the reason Shane’s sexuality gets leaked, Ilya can and will call a hit on him if he isn’t close enough to do the deed himself. Goddamn fucking–

“He likes it,” chokes Hudson, and that, too, is so unexpected that Ilya just– lets go. Airway unobstructed, Hudson seems to regain his confidence. “You don’t know? He gets off on it, the shame. It makes him blush all the way down to his nipples, especially when you make him beg, and he gets so shy, it’s adorable. You sure you don’t want to watch?”

Fuck. Images play in Ilya’s mind, of Shane loose and pliant under his hands or squirming and flushed red, whimpering while Ilya calls him a slut, my pretty slut, so beautiful for me, and he’s starting to think he’ll die if he doesn’t get to see that. And he thinks about watching Shane under Hudson’s hands, two boys who look almost the same, and he can’t deny the twin sparks of jealousy and arousal within him.

“I will come,” Ilya replies, and his voice sounds foreign to his own ears. “I want to watch.”

“Great.” Hudson smiles, sharklike. “We’re going to have a lot of fun tonight, Ilya Rozanov.”

Chapter End Notes

:D might try to edit through this chapter one more time later, but I wanted to get it out today because I SWORE I would post monday and friday this week lol

Chapter 4: Hudson

Chapter Notes

shorter chapter today, sorryyyyyy but I swear the fun part is coming soon

Hudson Williams is a genius.

Maybe not academically, to be fair; the one-two punch of an ADHD diagnosis and a firm conviction from early childhood that he knew exactly what he was going to do in the future – be a famous actor, a career requiring absolutely zero understanding of calculus – meant he didn’t spend much of his childhood stressing about schoolwork. But he’s got skills in other areas, and the fact that he’s currently playing Ilya Rozanov like a fiddle is testament to that.

It took effort to get to this point, to be clear. First he had to scope out every nightclub in Montreal, determine which was both close enough to the Raiders’ hotel and classy enough that Rozanov would go there, which meant a lot of nights out with Rose getting inordinately drunk at a variety of establishments. Then he had to figure out how to get Rozanov there in the first place, crafting the perfect message for Shane to send that would be just suggestive enough without coming across so desperate as to look pathetic.

Shane’s definitely going to get to that point, of course, but that can wait until a little later in the evening.

Then there were contingency plans and risk management – Rose knows just enough to keep her mouth shut, and Hudson loves her for it; Shane’s terrified and excited in equal measure, and Hudson just has to keep it that way; if Rozanov didn’t show up, Hudson was prepared to send him a photo of Shane’s hole with a message detailing exactly what he was missing out on. 

It was a good message too, and he’s a bit sad he won’t get to use it. Maybe some other time, if Rozanov ever loses sight of how lucky he is to have Shane. Just a little cuckolding, to remind him how fucking perfect he is, and the number of people would kill to be the person Shane loves.

But in the end, really, Rozanov was fucking easy. Stomping into the club like he owned the place, then frozen in shock the second he saw Hudson. Like he was scared of Hudson, or at the very least intimidated. And just like his boyfriend, he followed where Hudson led like he’d had him on a leash. It was almost cute, the way he tried to deny wanting to watch Shane and Hudson; he looked like a teenager caught watching porn, desperately insisting that no, Dad, it just came up when I opened the computer, I was trying to close the link I swear except in a Russian accent.

The protectiveness was – not unexpected, given the level of possessiveness implied by Shane’s descriptions of their activities, but honestly reassuring. If Hudson’s going to leave Shane in Rozanov’s hands, it’s good to know the guy can be trusted to protect him. And Rozanov’s hands on Hudson’s body didn’t feel half bad either, but that’s not the point of the exercise. This is about Shane, and getting him back together with his dumbfuck boyfriend, and Hudson’s got to keep his eyes on the prize.

Speaking of which. “Shane and I have to stay here for another half hour. Can I trust you to entertain yourself?”

Rozanov’s nostrils flare with irritation, but he nods tightly. “Then what?” 

“I’ll text you the address. Probably we’ll go to mine, it’s closer to this club.” And all the fun sex toys are at my place, Hudson doesn’t add. That one, at least, he wants to keep a surprise.

“Fine.” 

–

The smirk on Hudson’s face as he saunters back to their table probably tells Shane all he needs to know, because he does a double-take as his eyes widen in astonishment. “He said yes?” Shane asks incredulously, before he remembers that they are very much in a public place and lowers his voice. “He’s been ignoring my texts for weeks, what the hell did you tell him?”

“Exactly what we talked about, puppy.” Hudson flicks him on the tip of his nose. “Offered him the chance to watch you getting fucked, and maybe my sloppy seconds if he keeps his hands to himself till I say. Anyone would be stupid to turn that down, and you already know he likes watching you. It’ll be just like Vegas, you’ll be fine.”

Shane flushes and glances away at the praise. “I guess,” he allows, but something still seems off.

“What’s wrong?” When Shane doesn’t answer, Hudson lets his voice sharpen. “Cut the bullshit, puppy. Tell me what’s wrong, or this whole thing’s off.”

“No,” barks Shane, so forcefully that Hudson’s concerns are mostly assuaged right off the bat. “It’s just– He didn’t kiss me.”

“Ever?” Hudson’s astounded, but at the same time it makes sense. Maybe that’s why Shane chases Hudson’s lips like he’s starved of them, begs for a kiss more desperately than for permission to come. He can’t imagine what it must have been like for someone with both Shane’s submissive instincts and tactile nature to have that withheld from him. If they weren’t in public, he’d kiss Shane now, over and over till both their lips were swollen. 

“No, just then. But– we didn’t see each other much, every few months at the most, and it– felt bad, I guess? Like, I was messed up for a couple weeks, my shot accuracy really tanked.” Shane sounds more concerned about his hockey ability than anything else, which seems about right. “I mean, it got better before the next season started, but I don’t want that to happen again.”

“That’s called subdrop, Shane.” They’ve talked about this several times now, Hudson using bullet-point lists provided by Connor to walk Shane through what he can only describe as BDSM 101. Safewords, drops, communication, checklists. All boring shit Hudson usually hates, but realising just how little Shane knew about kink despite his clear affinity for it meant it was vital. And Hudson’s job right now is to take care of Shane, even if Shane isn’t his to keep, which means that he had to teach him. “You scened, and he didn’t take care of you properly, so you dropped.”

“Oh.” Shane’s quiet for a moment. “I don’t think he knew. That he was hurting me, I mean. I don’t think he knows about any of this.”

Probably not, Hudson thinks to himself. Who gives a fuck if he’s got a nine-inch cock? I’d take better care of you than he ever could. Out loud, he says, “That’s why I’m here today. I know this shit, I’ll make sure that you don’t get hurt.”

“And him?” Shane’s voice is quiet, but insistent, and his eyes are locked on Hudson’s. It’s like looking into a mirror, if Hudson had freckles and a shitty haircut. “You’ll take care of him, too?”

That’s not a concern Hudson was expecting at all, and he’s thrown for a second. He wants to tell Shane no, I don’t give a damn about him and honestly he should die in a hole because I don’t get what you see in him or why would I take care of him, he’s the one who’s going to take you away from me or simply he’s a big boy, he can take care of himself. But Shane’s right, and domdrop is a real thing, and Shane’s in love with Ilya Rozanov so that means Hudson has to look out for him too, whether he wants to or not.

“Yeah, sweetheart, I’ll take care of him.” Hudson swallows the bile threatening to rise in his throat, and changes the subject swiftly. “Now come dance with me, I want him as jealous as possible before we get to the action.”

If Hudson’s going to leave Shane in Rozanov’s hands, he might as well enjoy his time with Shane while he can. That means grinding on Shane showily while Shane laughs and fake-pushes him away – for plausible deniability and the ability to assert that it was all in good fun, just boys being boys – and, more importantly, forcing Rozanov to watch from across the room, knuckles whitening as he grips his glass tighter and tighter. Hudson grins at him, and Rozanov stares daggers back.

Not that he has any right to be pissed. There’s every chance this is Hudson’s last night with Shane in his arms, and – assuming Rozanov doesn’t do anything stupid – he’ll get to have Shane for the rest of his life. 

Lucky bastard.

Chapter End Notes

THE FUN BEGINS NEXT CHAPTER I SWEAR! check back friday and I should have something for ya

Chapter 5: Shane

Chapter Notes

early chapter because I was productive this week! :D no chapter on friday sadly but I was v excited to get this one out (if I am horrifically productive, mayyyyybe something on saturday but no promises)

tws: internalised bigotry against polyamory, light canon-typical (as in hockey-typical rather than hr-typical) misogyny

Ilya’s dancing with a girl.

It’s hypocritical of Shane to be bothered by it, maybe, given that Hudson’s currently got an arm slung across his shoulders and is whispering dirty things into his ear, but that doesn’t change the fact that it does. Maybe it’s that when he danced with Hudson earlier, they’d had to be careful, laughing and joking so nobody would think it was serious in the slightest. Ilya, however, gets to dance with girls like he means it, and nobody gives it a single thought.

At the same time, it’s equally likely that Shane’s just a jealous bastard who wants more than he deserves to have. Either way, the outcome is the same, a green-eyed monster writhing in the pit of Shane’s stomach.

Ilya’s got his mouth on her ear now, and she throws her head back in ecstasy. Probably showing off more than anything; Shane’s pretty sure that someone sucking on your earlobe doesn’t feel that good, but he can’t help but wish it was him instead. Every time he sees shit like this – which is far more often than he’d like, given various media outlets’ affinities for posting “candid” club photos of him grinding on an array of attractive women – it hurts, a sharp reminder that no matter how good he might be, the fact that he isn’t a girl means they can’t ever have something real.

“Jealous?” Hudson murmurs. He knows Shane too well now, apparently, given he seems to have developed telepathic abilities. “Honestly, puppy, that’s kind of selfish of you. Let her have a good time while she can, she’s not the one he’ll be fucking tonight.” 

Shane swallows hard, and tries to ignore his cock starting to press insistently at the zipper of his pants. “Jesus, asshole, we’re in public–”

“Asshole?” Hudson’s jaw drops in mock-astonishment, but his tightening grip on Shane’s shoulder indicates that he is at least a little irritated. “Not sure that’s what you call me, puppy. Unless you want me to punish you in front of Rozanov too, which I guess I can. I thought you’d want to be good for me with him watching, but–”

“Sorry,” interrupts Shane. “Sorry, sir.” He drops his gaze to the floor, exposing his neck as best he can given the circumstances. Then he glances back up at Hudson through his eyelashes, making his best attempt at a doe-eyed plea for forgiveness.

There’s a beat of tense silence before Hudson relents. “You’re lucky I’m so good to you, puppy. I mean, look at you. So fucking greedy, you want me and your boytoy at the same time.” He leans closer, whispering directly into Shane’s ear. “Desperate slut. You’d take any cock you could get, wouldn’t you? God, puppy, you might as well try to be grateful when I give you what you want.”

Even as Shane’s breath hitches at the words, he turns his face away. They hit a little too close to home – he knows he’s a lot of work, and even though he rationally knows Hudson doesn’t mind the threesome, the implication that it’s because Shane’s such a whore he’d take it from anyone still stings.

Hudson, as ever, has sharper eyes than Shane gives him credit for. “Colour, Shane.” His tone is sharp, brooking no argument.

“Yellow,” admits Shane quietly. “It was good, it’s just– the last part, when you–”

“Right, shit, yeah.” Hudson squeezes Shane’s hand gently, before his apologetic tone shifts back into cruelty. “I forgot, it’s only ever been for me, isn’t it? I’m the only one who gets to see you like that, ‘cause I’m the one who taught you to be such a good slut. But tonight you’ll show him what you learned, won’t you? Gonna let him know just how much of a whore you are, how well you take cock; trust me, he’ll never be stupid enough to turn you down again.”

Arousal and shame wash over Shane, and he tips his head back to enjoy the rush of heat through his body. It’s almost enough to erase the lingering voice in the back of his mind. Almost.

Because the thing is, Shane is greedy. He’s always been, wanting more than he deserved to have, pushing to win and win and win and get whatever it is he’s set his sights on. That’s what makes him a good hockey player. But it doesn’t work nearly so well when he wants things he can’t have.

Hockey and Ilya, for example. It was – is – fucking selfish of him, to risk throwing away something so many people would kill to have just to get his rocks off. Hockey, and everything that comes with it, should by all rights be more than Shane could ever desire. But because he’s greedy, he wants Ilya too. And he hates himself for it, but he’s been fighting the desire since the summer before his rookie season and it’s showing no signs of waning.

And now, worse even, he wants Hudson. Not instead of Ilya, but in addition to, and there’s no court in the world that could justify it as anything other than gluttony. Maybe Ilya’s a case of true love, hearts colliding, the power of the red threads Shane’s Japanese grandma used to tell him about. But Hudson, who Shane’s only known for a few short weeks, is something else. An unknown factor, intoxicating and dangerous like the cigarettes Shane wishes Ilya didn’t smoke. Addictive, probably, settling into Shane’s life and growing roots so deep that he couldn’t ever leave without taking part of Shane too.

Not that it’s his fault, any of it. It’s Shane’s, for wanting more than he could ever have, for not knowing how to give up something he wants, for having a heart so fickle as to be given away twice. 

But he can’t say any of this to Hudson, and so he presses his face into Hudson’s shoulder. The warmth of his body drives all thoughts from Shane’s mind, and just for a moment, the inside of his head is quiet.

A soft laugh from above him, and Hudson speaks. “Time to go, puppy. Let’s get this show on the road.”

–

When he first follows Hudson into the hotel room, Ilya’s face is dark with something contained tightly within him. He looks like an action movie KGB agent, sent on a kill mission and ready to do anything necessary to achieve success. To Shane, perched uneasily on the bed where Hudson left him, it’s equal parts sexy and intimidating. But then, Shane’s learned by now that he finds intimidating things sexy.

Hudson also left a pair of cuffs – nice ones, leather-lined and with release buttons easily accessible on each side – on the nightstand, and Shane watches as Ilya’s gaze is drawn to it. “You want to tie him to bed?” he asks Hudson doubtfully. “Is because you fuck so bad, you are afraid he will try to run away to me.”

Hudson’s grin only widens, and he strolls over to pick them up by the chain. “Kind of the opposite, Rozanov. For you.” He tosses them towards Ilya, who catches them instinctively. “I mean, you were so fucking desperate back at the club that you couldn’t wait half an hour to grind your dick on something, I dunno if I can trust you to keep your hands to yourself.”

It’s a long statement, but Ilya’s English is more than good enough to parse it if the way his eyes flash in irritation is any indicator. “You want me to handcuff myself. While you fuck Sh– him.”

“Yeah,” agrees Hudson breezily. “And if I’m feeling nice, maybe I’ll make him hold off so he gets to come with you inside him. Nine inch cock and all that, it’s got to feel good. And if it’s as big as you say, you probably won’t find him loose at all. So, nothing to complain about. Right, Rozanov?”

While he speaks, Ilya’s been fiddling with the cuffs and figuring out how they work. “I could just press button, make them release.” He demonstrates the gesture, and the lock clicks open in his hand. “Why do you think I will listen to you?”

There’s a long silence, and all Shane can hear is breathing. It’s loud, with the three of them in the room, Ilya and Hudson squaring up against each other while Shane’s helpless to do anything but watch. He feels like a favoured toy being fought over by two angry dogs – except, he thinks hysterically, he’s the puppy in this situation.

Finally, Hudson breaks the silence. “Didn’t think you were a quitter, Rozanov.” He saunters over slowly, inserting himself further into Ilya’s personal space with every step, and reaches to pluck the handcuffs from his grip. “I mean, it’s not a hard challenge, but if you think you can’t do it– It’s okay, we don’t have to, but I didn’t take you for a fucking pussy.”

The cuffs are back in Ilya’s hands in a flash, and for the smallest part of a second Shane genuinely thinks he’s going to hit Hudson. But he relents, weighing them up in his hands. “Okay, Hudson Williams,” he allows. “We can play your game. But if I win, I get whatever I want.” There’s a loaded emphasis on whatever, the implication of a threat or a challenge of his own. 

Even so, no matter what it is Ilya has in mind, Shane can take it. To get to feel Ilya’s hands on Shane’s body, his name in Ilya’s mouth, and maybe even Ilya’s cock inside him – there’s nothing Shane wouldn’t do. But Ilya smiles at him then, sharklike, and a pang of fear hits Shane all the same.

Under Hudson’s guidance, Ilya settles in an armchair at the side of the room. It’s fancy and ornate, with some complicated design at the top, but the most important part is that there’s a set of holes just wide enough to fit the cuffs through; Shane and Hudson worked that out through trial and error through some memorable evenings. Now, Hudson guides Ilya’s hands through the cuffs and clicks the locks shut, and for no reason at all there’s an intimacy to the gesture that makes it feel special. 

Shane feels none of his earlier jealousy, watching them together. In one sense, Hudson looks so much like him that it might as well be a mirror of himself – in another, he’s just desperately, wretchedly turned on by the sight.

His work complete, Hudson turns back to Shane, angulating his body to give Ilya a good view. They’re well across the room, over by the window where Shane’s seated near the door, which means there’s plenty of distance to travel when Hudson instructs Shane to get over here.

Shane knows what’s coming, he knows, but he gets to his feet anyway, and it’s no surprise at all when Hudson’s reprimand comes. “I didn’t fucking say you could stand, puppy.”

And Ilya’s watching, eyes trained laser-sharp on Shane, but Hudson’s got his gaze levelled at Shane like he already knows what Shane’s going to do, as though it’s a foregone conclusion that Shane will be good for him as he always is. 

So, shakily and inelegantly, Shane drops to his knees, and then his hands. Blood roars in his ears and he knows he looks like a fucking idiot, but he forces himself to move. First one hand, then a leg, and over and over he continues to crawl till he rests at Hudson’s feet. He doesn’t dare to look up at Ilya’s face.

“Good boy,” says Hudson indulgently, stroking a hand through Shane’s hair. “Now get up and strip.” Shane’s halfway to his feet, already reaching for the buttons on his shirt, when he continues.

“Make it good, puppy, we’ve got a guest watching.”

Chapter End Notes

lord almighty I am so excited for next chapter y'all have no idea

Chapter 6: Ilya

Chapter Notes

unbetaed unedited unread idk what this is y'all

this was not the plan. none of this was the plan. I was not supposed to write 2.5k today. and yet.

will probably come back and edit (maybe tomorrow), but I wanted to get the chapter up asap so y'all could read it

Ilya Rozanov, contrary to popular belief, is not an impulsive man. 

The media like to paint him as such, of course. To them he’s a lean, mean, Russian machine who hits hard and chirps harder; the kind of player you wouldn’t want to meet on the ice, because you never know what he’ll do next, or what he’ll say. He just acts as he pleases, and the world shapes itself around his desires.

That isn’t the reality, but it’s much more fun than the truth, so Ilya lets it slide. He plays into it when he addresses the media, and makes his game just a little more physical – to give the fans what they want, and so he can see the faces of opposing teams’ fans when he checks their star players into the boards. It’s gratifying, to say the least. 

Really, though, Ilya runs on routine. Not to the extent Shane does, but he eats the same chicken and pasta every evening before a game and sticks to set plays when Coach calls them. He practices hard, does the drills his trainer sets, lets his agent run his life for him. He’s no more exciting than any other hockey player, and the only thing interesting about him is the illusion he creates.

The exception to the rule, as it always is, is Shane Hollander. Ilya didn’t plan for him, never does – when he’s around Shane, he finds his body moving before his mind does, like the knowledge of how to behave around Shane Hollander is engraved as deeply in him as the urge to blink when dust enters his eyes. Reflex, it’s called in English – something controlled by a part of the body older than the brain, an animal instinct hard-wired into humans through millenia of evolution. 

So Ilya’s helpless to do anything but obey when his body decides to offer his League-mandated rival a bottle of water, when his hand reaches down to stroke his cock as they make eye contact, when his feet take step after ill-advised step towards Shane’s hotel room. And by then, he’s in so deep that it isn’t worth fighting anymore. Even his absences – not texting back, avoiding Shane’s gaze – don’t feel like choices he makes. He just does, with no understanding of how or why.

Hudson Williams, on the other hand, is something else entirely.

With him, Ilya moves not because his body can’t help it, but because he wants to so badly that any other choice is inconceivable. He presses his arm against Hudson’s throat because he wants to feel him struggle; he agrees to watch him fuck Shane because he wants to know the things they do together; he makes direct eye contact with Hudson because he wants to piss him off. And all the while, he knows he could walk away, drop his gaze and end the conversation there, but he doesn’t because he wants to. 

All this to say that Ilya’s painfully aware that he is currently handcuffed in a chair and watching Hudson Williams kiss the man he’s in love with because he wants to be there, and it’s galling. He knows that he’s been played, and he knows that it’s worked, and he knows the only thing keeping him in these cuffs is the fact that he wants to be here.

But it’s worth it, God is it worth it, to see the colour Shane’s face turns when Hudson orders him to crawl. He’s impossibly beautiful, flushed with shame and hiding his face like he thinks it’ll make the position he’s in any less embarrassing. Ilya’s struck, suddenly, with the image of what it might look like to have Shane crawl naked, cock hanging heavy between his legs. But it’s dirtier, somehow, to see him do this fully dressed – so close to the version of himself presented to the outside world, but at the same time so far away. 

Then Hudson tells Shane to strip, and despite himself Ilya feels his hands jerk instinctively for his cock. It’s fucking insanity, to expect him to watch Shane act like this without touching himself, and Ilya curses as the cuffs hold his hands back. He tugs again, experimentally, and the chain rattles. Hudson glances over and smirks, and Ilya wants to tear him limb from limb.

“Look at your boy, puppy.” His voice is low – he’s got the same Canadian accent as Shane, but deeper and with an undercurrent of self-assured confidence. Shane pauses, halfway through unbuttoning his shirt, and forces his eyes up to somewhere around Ilya’s jaw. “He wants to fuck you so badly, but he can’t. ‘Cause he was a fucking idiot and and didn’t text you back, so I get to have you, and he has to watch.”

“Fuck off.” Ilya spits the words out with as much venom as he can muster. 

“Jealous?” Hudson crooks a finger, and Shane comes to him. He rearranges their positions, till Shane’s standing right in front of Ilya with Hudson at his back, and reaches up Shane’s chest to pluck at his nipple. Shane shudders, whimpering high in his throat, and Ilya swears violently – in Russian or English, he can’t tell anymore. “Look at you, sitting in my chair and watching me do whatever I want to your boy, it’s fucking pathetic. Is it because you don’t know how to hurt him the way he likes?”

Hudson punctuates the statement by twisting Shane’s nipple again, and this time the cry is full-throated as Shane curls in on himself. “Please,” he gasps, even as he makes no move to protect himself, and Ilya can’t stop himself from intervening.

“Stop,” he barks, and Hudson looks up. He’s not afraid, not like Ilya wants him to be, but he does release his grip, and meets Ilya’s gaze with something like concern in his eyes. “He asked you to stop, asshole.”

The harsh bark of Hudson’s laughter is so unexpected that Ilya freezes for a moment. “Ilya, Ilya, Ilya.” His tone is condescending, nearly mocking, and if this is the approach that he takes to hurting Shane beyond what he wants then Ilya’s prepared to kill him for it. He might go to jail, but it’d be worth it to make sure he never harms Shane again. “He wasn’t begging me to stop, were you, puppy?”

“No.” Shane’s response hangs in the air, until Hudson’s hand creeps over his chest again and brushes gently over his nipple. “Fuck, no, sir, I– I wanted more.” Sir, he says, and Ilya tugs against the cuffs once again. He wants to hear that directed at him, Shane begging him for what he wants, trusting Ilya to give him what he needs. But right now, Hudson Williams is sir, and an ugly jealousy rises inside Ilya at the thought.

Hudson’s hands are still moving, roving over the planes of Shane’s chest like he knows them by heart, but his eyes are locked on Ilya’s. “Tell him why you wanted more, Shane.” His tone is casual, offhand, like he’s checking their coffee orders.

“Because–” Shane’s voice cracks, but he grits his teeth and pushes through. “Because I’m a slut, and I like it.”

“Good fucking boy,” murmurs Hudson in something that sounds like adoration. He twists Shane’s nipple so hard he screams, and Ilya can do nothing but watch. 

–

Watching Hudson and Shane together is disorientating. From across the room, they look so much alike – identical dark hair and muscular builds – that Ilya can almost imagine there’s two of Shane there, apart from the fact that Hudson acts nothing like Shane. 

There’s a dominance inherent to Hudson Williams that’s a lot like the type Ilya fakes. The easy confidence of someone who gets what he wants with a smile and a wink, who can look you in the eye and expect you to behave. Ilya fucking hates him, and he wants nothing more than to wipe that smile off his pretty-boy face with a punch.

He’s fucking Shane now – not hard the way Ilya likes, but slow and languid and face-to-face, like he’s got nowhere else to be, and he’s doing it raw. His hips roll with the motion, and Shane cries out in harmony. Ilya watches hungrily, and tries to ignore the fact that his cock is pressed right up against the zipper of his pants. 

It fucking hurts, though, and it’s pissing him off. Hudson must notice, because his hips still. He ignores Shane’s plaintive whine and addresses Ilya. “Is something bothering you, Rozanov?” 

“My fucking– my cock,” Ilya bites out in frustration. “I would adjust, except you cuffed my hands.”

“Oh!” replies Hudson, voice bright with an excitement that Ilya’s already learned spells trouble. “I can help with that.” Then, with no warning at all, he pulls out of Shane – who cries out plaintively at the loss – and strides over to Ilya, cock standing proud against his stomach. “Can I touch your dick?”

“What?” Ilya must have missed something, probably some stupid Canadian social cue he has no hope of understanding. Hudson’s still standing in front of him, stark naked but showing no signs of embarrassment, and Shane’s on the bed making hurt little sounds that tear at Ilya’s heartstrings. “What the fuck is happening?”

“I’ll unzip your pants for you.” Hudson speaks like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Your hands are cuffed, so you can’t, and I’m being nice. The sooner you give me an answer, the sooner I can fill Shane up again. He hates being empty.”

“Fine.” Ilya’s pants really are getting uncomfortable, and part of him is curious to see if Hudson will even do it. “Whatever, yes, you can touch my dick.”

And– Hudson does, reaching down to unzip Ilya’s pants and pull his cock free. In a different scenario, one where Ilya’s hands weren’t bound above his head, he might feel powerful. As it stands, though, he just feels embarrassed, hissing at the first touch of Hudson’s hand against him. He’s so fucking hard, just from watching, and it’s humiliating.

Finally, his cock springs free, and Ilya sighs with relief. It doesn’t feel great, given that nobody’s touching him, but the lack of painful pressure is better than nothing. Hudson snorts, and all of a sudden Ilya’s pissed again. “Bigger than yours,” he observes, staring pointedly at Hudson’s cock.

Hudson doesn’t seem fazed, irritatingly. “Sure. You don’t need nine inches to make someone else feel good, though.”

“Are you sure? Or do you just tell yourself that to feel better at night?” Now Ilya’s got something to hold over Hudson’s head, and he intends to make full use of it. “It’s okay, not your fault I fuck better than you.”

There’s a glint in Hudson’s eye now, and Ilya braces for a comeback that never comes. Instead, he turns his attention back to Shane as he slides back inside him. God, Ilya wishes that were him. He tries to content himself with the knowledge that he’s won the round – at least, until Hudson speaks again.

“Tell me, puppy, which of us is a better fuck?” Hudson’s pace increases incrementally, hips kicking harder little by little as he speeds up. All the while, his voice remains level. “Because he’s bigger, I know he’s bigger, but I’m not sure he can nail your prostate every time.” His last words are punctuated by vicious thrusts, and Shane reacts like he’s had the air punched out of him. He’s crying, Ilya thinks – there’s a shine on his cheeks that wasn’t there before – and that sends a jolt of heat through his body.

“Please–” The words are strained, like Hudson’s fucking them right out of Shane’s body. “Sir, I can’t– fuck, I can’t–”

“Tell me,” orders Hudson, his calm facade finally starting to crack. “Say it, puppy. We all know the answer, you just have to tell me.” He braces a hand under Shane’s thigh and lifts one leg onto his shoulder, and Shane’s groans raise in pitch and volume. Despite himself, Ilya leans forward in the chair to get a better view. He’s rapt, eyes locked on them, unwilling to miss even a moment of the action.

“Fuck, fuck, okay, you, you fuck me better, please–” Shane’s definitely crying now, the words interspersed with sobs. “It’s better, it’s better, I’m sorry, Ilya, I–” 

For a moment, Ilya feels a long way away from his body. Nothing around him feels real, Shane’s assertion that he fucks me better than you ringing in his ears over and over. Heat rises in his body, rage and frustration and something deep and sick and wrong that nonetheless makes his cock harder mixing together into a cocktail of sensations. Hudson’s smiling, smug motherfucker, and he’s saying something, but Ilya can’t hear anything over the swirl of thoughts in his mind, the loudest of which is that he’s so fucking hard he thinks he’ll die if he doesn’t come.

But then Hudson’s groaning and collapsing on top of Shane, and Ilya snaps back into reality. Shane’s still whimpering, whispering little pleas that never fully form into requests, and he looks so desperate that Ilya can tell what’s happening even without seeing for himself. “You did not let him come.” Stating the obvious, maybe, but the question of why is inherent within it. “He was good for you.” He reaches for the buttons on the cuffs, unlocking them as he rises to his feet to make his way over. 

“Thought you’d want that for yourself,” replies Hudson muzzily, slowly pushing himself back up to his elbows. He smiles sleazily at Ilya, and an English expression comes to mind – the cat that got the cream. So self-assured and pleased with himself, like everything tonight has played out exactly how he wanted, and Ilya’s struck by the savage desire to wreck his plans in any way he can. “You were good for me too.”

“Mm, yes. I am supposed to get reward, right?” Ilya brushes his hand through Shane’s fringe – it’s damp with sweat, and Shane pushes gently into the gesture like he’s desperate for any touch he could possibly get. But a plan’s forming in his mind now, so he continues. “But I do not want to fuck him tonight.”

“What?” Shane’s gaze turns from hazy to focused in an instant, and Ilya’s taken aback by the sheer intensity of it. Like this, his dark eyes brimming with tears, he looks like a painting that should be hung in a museum. Fragile and beautiful, held in Ilya’s hands like a bird that he could crush at any moment. Ilya feels so fucking powerful, like this, knowing that he’s got Shane hanging on his every word, and his hands reach instinctively for Shane’s hips, to guide his cock in where he knows it belongs. Their bodies know each other so well, and it would be as easy as breathing.

But he fights the instinct, because there’s something he wants more now. A control he doesn’t yet have, but one he wants so fucking badly that he fights his body’s every instinct for it. He turns slowly, and treasures the open-mouthed shock on Hudson’s face as he speaks.

“I want to fuck you.”

Chapter End Notes

geez louise your comments fuel me beyond the limits of human understanding, keep em coming PLEASE

Chapter 7: Hudson

Chapter Notes

not super happy w this at the moment but wanted to get it out for you guys! :)

Hudson’s frozen. Everything was going to plan, or at least it had seemed that way – until Ilya Rozanov decided to throw a wrench in it. There’s an article Hudson read the first half of, back when he was planning this scene, and it comes to mind.

Threesomes are complicated, primarily because there are more stakeholders involved than in a typical sexual encounter. When three people with different needs and desires agree to scene together, more negotiation is required to iron out the metaphorical kinks and prevent breakdowns in communication, and even then miscommunications frequently occur. In these situations, the most important thing is to remember that you are a team, and to work together to resolve the problem.

Hudson got bored and stopped reading after that part, which was apparently a tactical mistake. But he couldn’t have guessed that Rozanov would pull this shit – not necessarily destroying the scene, in itself, but wrecking Hudson’s flow. And now there’s no easy way out of it, not with Rozanov in his face demanding to fuck him and Shane desperate to come and probably thinking that Rozanov doesn’t want him at all.

“What is wrong, Hudson Williams? Are you scared?” Rozanov’s eyes are wide with fake innocence. “Is okay, if you are. I just did not think you would be a fucking pussy.”

If Shane weren’t here, and Rozanov weren’t a professional athlete for whom punching people makes up a solid chunk of his day job, Hudson would hit him. It isn’t pleasant, to have his own words thrown back in his face, even though on some level he probably deserves it. “Someone needs to take care of Shane.” 

“I thought it was your job.” Rozanov takes a step forward, and Hudson hates himself for instinctively retreating a pace too. “He was good for you, yes? So you make him come. Right now he is your slut, anyway.” At the words, Shane inhales sharply, but doesn’t safeword. 

“How the fuck am I supposed to do that?” Neither of their voices are raised, and Rozanov isn’t even touching him, but Hudson still feels like he’s got his back against a wall. Helpless, desperate to find a way out but aware that Rozanov could reach out and pin him down if he wanted to. “I’ve already come, idiot.”

“Yes, is true. Will make you sensitive for me.” Rozanov smiles, with his teeth, and he looks dangerous. “But you have a mouth too, I thought? You talk a lot, might be better fuck with something to shut you up. Unless you are not good enough to make him come like that.”  

“Ilya.” Shane’s voice is fucked, probably from all his crying earlier. “Ilya, please. I need to come.” More tears bead at the corners of his eyes, and Hudson watches in real time as Ilya’s entire presence shifts when he turns to address Shane. It’s like a different person is in the room, someone kind and understanding and not entirely hell-bent on fucking Hudson to death.

“I know. Soon, okay?” His tone is so soft and fond – he’s never addressed Hudson like that, and despite himself Hudson wants to hear it. “You were so good, you earned it. I would like to fuck you, I promise, but like this you can watch. You haven’t seen him get fucked, right? You don’t want to see it?”

Hudson doesn’t appreciate being talked about like he isn’t even in the room, but he holds his tongue as Shane considers this. “You’re not mad at me,” Shane clarifies, glancing swiftly at Ilya and then away again.

“No.” Ilya answers immediately, with certainty. “Not at you. Him, little bit. So I will fuck him because of it. But you were good, very pretty for me to watch, yes? Thank you for letting me see.”

It’s tender, so fucking sweet, and watching it happen like he isn’t even in the room is tearing Hudson apart. He’s never had something like this, despite the fact that he’s had many more romantic partners than Shane. It just doesn’t work out for him, whether it ends because of a direct fuckup on his part or one of them ending it before he has the chance to. And the people he’s watching aren’t making it any easier; Shane, who Hudson can barely stand to give up as it is, and Ilya, who is wildly attractive in his own right but also looks heart-achingly like someone Hudson wishes he could have.

His eyes aren’t filled with tears right now – they definitely aren’t, there’s no reason why they might be – but if they were, his blurry vision might just be able to mistake the two people before him for an image of an entirely different couple. One that never really existed, and probably never should, but that Hudson can’t help but long for anyway.

That’s a bad line of thinking to go down, though, so Hudson clears his throat savagely and speaks. “Thought you were going to fuck me, Rozanov.” His voice comes out clear and confident, a little bored. It’s a good thing he’s a professional actor. 

Ilya presses a hand to Shane’s cheek and winks before he addresses Hudson. “Oh, now you want me. You think you can take it?”

“I’ve had bigger.” Not strictly true – he’s had the same, but he met the guy on Grindr so it was almost certainly an overestimate. 

“And you can make Shane feel good too? I don’t want you to get sloppy with him just because you are drunk on my cock.” Rozanov strokes his cock slowly, maintaining eye contact with Hudson all the while. Hudson can’t help but glance down to watch, and when he looks back up Ilya’s smile has morphed fully into a shit-eating grin. 

“Fucking try me, Rozanov.” Hudson’s pretty sure he can take whatever this asshole throws at him. Judging by the way Shane’s eyes widen at the words, though, that may not strictly be true.

“Okay,” answers Rozanov, with that Russian lilt to his voice, and a spark of traitorous excitement lights inside Hudson.

–

“You still think you fuck better than me?” Rozanov’s pounding into Hudson from behind, over and over so rhythmically that Hudson’s half-convinced he must have a metronome hidden somewhere. It’s an unfair question to ask, when Hudson’s currently occupied with a mouthful of Shane’s dick and is therefore fully incapable of answering. Beyond the physical limitations, his head feels like it’s full of cotton wool too – it’s been way too long since he bottomed, and that’s apparently made him particularly sensitive. 

He tries to manage a non-committal hum, but even that is difficult with Rozanov pounding into him so hard that it’s forcing Shane’s cock deeper into his throat. He gags, and Rozanov laughs and fucks into him harder. From above him, Shane gasps and digs his fingers into Hudson’s hair, so at least someone’s having a good time. Again, Hudson chokes. It’s an ugly sound, harsh and not sexy at all, and tears spring to his eyes reflexively. He’s at least got the wherewithal to keep his teeth clear of Shane, but beyond that he can feel control slipping away as he begins to cry.

It’s embarrassing, to look this pathetic in front of Shane. Hudson knows that’s idiotic – he’s done worse to Shane, made him cry and beg and bark, and he doesn’t think any less of Shane for it – but he’s past the point of rationality, with Rozanov and Shane filling him from both ends and teetering on the verge of overstimulation from his earlier orgasm. The only thing in his head now is that he looks like a slut, and both Shane and Rozanov are here to see it. He would hide, if he could, but right now he needs his hands to brace them against Shane’s body. A strangled sob rises from his chest, and the tears flow more freely.

Suddenly, Shane speaks. “Ilya, stop.” And Ilya obeys, even if he hisses through his teeth as he does. Even without moving, he feels so fucking big inside Hudson that it’s impossible to ignore. Then Shane pulls out of Hudson’s mouth, tipping his head up so their eyes meet. “Colour, Hudson.” 

There’s an uncertainty in Shane’s gaze – whether that’s simple concern for Hudson or anxiety at being thrust into a dom-adjacent position Hudson isn’t sure – but it steadies at Hudson’s reply of “Green.” His voice is wrecked, as he’d anticipated, but there’s enough certainty in it that Shane lets it slide.

“You look so fucking hot, Hudson,” he whispers, and Hudson’s face heats. “It’s so–”

“Can I please keep fucking him?” Ilya interrupts. His grip on Hudson’s hips has tightened to bruising. “If you two are finished doing traffic police roleplay or whatever the fuck.”

“Called a safeword, Rozanov.” Hudson forces himself to speak, even though it feels like rubbing sandpaper over the inside of his throat. “Good for checking in, making sure everyone’s okay. Red, stop; yellow, slow down; green, good. Works better than just ‘stop’, for stuff like this.”

“Stuff like this. So you are green now, which means I can go,” Rozanov muses, before he adjusts his grip on Hudson’s waist and thrusts, nailing his prostate. Without Shane’s cock to muffle him, the noise Hudson makes is obscene – a pornographic wail that peters off into whimpers as he frantically tries to adjust to the pace. “And if you say stop, I should not listen until you say ‘red’. Would be fun, maybe, if I make you take it until you’re begging for no more, please, stop, but I don’t have to listen.”

He probably isn’t serious, but the thought makes Hudson groan anyway. He’s keenly aware that Rozanov is stronger than him, could hold him down and make him take it. Hudson doesn’t get very many opportunities to feel small, and even fewer where his partner can genuinely overpower him. Sure, ropes and restraints are great, but there’s something about fighting against another person’s hands that hits differently. So, fuck it. “Fine. But if I call red, you fucking stop.”

There’s a moment of silence, and a vicious satisfaction as Hudson realises he’s thrown Ilya for a loop. Even if he is on his hands and knees and stuffed full of cock, he’s got the upper hand here – he knows more about kink than Rozanov does, and he’s more confident in it too. But, of course, that doesn’t last long. “Okay, pretty boy. I will remember, later, when I make you beg. Now stop being so fucking lazy and suck Shane’s cock.”

The contrast between Shane’s and Ilya’s approaches is so great that Hudson feels like he might be on an acid trip. Shane cradles Hudson’s face in his hands as he sucks Shane’s cock, soothes his tears and whispers that he looks beautiful; Rozanov slams his hips into him like he’s got something to prove, leans forward and bites a bruise into Hudson’s shoulder, calls him a whore with a grudging respect. Despite all the context pointing to the contrary, for this short moment, Hudson feels wanted, and he loves it.

It’s fucking perfect, and the only negative is the knowledge that he’ll have to return to Earth soon enough.

Chapter End Notes

work is picking up so there may not be any more bonus early chapters, but I pinky promise that there'll be something for ya on friday!

Chapter 8: Shane

Chapter Notes

hey so turns out that writing a threesome is very difficult when all involved parties use the same pronouns. whoda thunk.

anyway enjoy!

tw: light con-non-con (someone says no without safewording, the other party continues while acknowledging that they would stop if safewords were used)

Hudson Williams is a beautiful man, and there is perhaps no person in the world better situated to appreciate that than Shane Hollander.

For all intents and purposes, Hudson is simply a better-looking Shane – muscles sculpted with form in mind rather than function, hair kept long and well-styled as contrasted against Shane’s utilitarian cut. He’s handsome, in every sense of the word, so Shane can’t blame people for throwing themselves at him every chance they get. And Hudson carries himself like he knows it, too, walks into rooms with the understanding that every person there wants to sleep with him.

That’s how he got Shane, after all.

He’s perfectly put together in every red-carpet appearance, smiling wide and winking at the camera because he knows it loves him. There’s a spark in his eyes as he looks down the lens, like there’s some shared secret that only he and the machine’s inner workings could ever know. Hudson Williams is an open book and an intoxicating mystery, friendly and open but drawing you further in at every step. He knows he does it, too, but somehow when it’s him you can’t bring yourself to care. He’s simply beautiful; handsome and cute and sexy whenever the occasion calls for it but always, always unrelentingly beautiful.

Shane’s never seen him look more beautiful than he does now.

His face is a mess of sweat and saliva as he chokes on Shane’s cock, reddening with exertion and lack of oxygen. It’s not the best blowjob he’s ever given Shane, but the way he looks – helpless, suffering, and desperate for more – more than makes up for that. Besides, Shane’s intimately familiar with the experience of being fucked by Ilya Rozanov, and he’s impressed that Hudson can manage as well as he is while contending with that too. 

Ilya, too, looks glorious. His bare shoulders shine with a sheen of sweat that gives him an unearthly glow in a lamp’s dim light. He looks like a god, powerful and omnipotent, and it’s hard to imagine that ten minutes ago he was handcuffed to a chair watching Hudson fuck Shane. Control looks good on him, even if the barely-concealed frustration from earlier had its own appeal too.

Despite himself, Shane’s abs clench as he gets closer, feeling himself approach the peak of his pleasure. “Close,” he grunts, hoping at least to give Hudson a heads-up. “Fuck, gonna come, God–”

“On his face,” Ilya interrupts. Shane meets his gaze, and Ilya looks right back, immovable. “I want to see you come on his face, Shane, so do it.”

And, well – Hudson’s got one hand curled into a shaky thumbs-up and Ilya’s staring daggers at Shane like he does when they meet in face-offs, so Shane forces himself to pull out from the plush heat of Hudson’s mouth and replace it with the much-less-satisfying drag of his hand. But it’s worth it for the moment of eye contact between them before Hudson shuts his eyes, the crooked smile Hudson somehow musters up and his murmur of “Come for me, puppy, you fucking earned it.”

So Shane does, gasping and panting in a register that’s altogether too high-pitched for his liking, but his come stripes Hudson’s face down his perfect cheekbones and his mouth, and now this is the most beautiful Shane’s ever seen him, ruined and flushed and still with that gleam in his eye that tells Shane he likes this, he’s fine, he wants more.

“Flip,” orders Ilya, and the gravel in his voice is the only indication that he’s at all effective. “Turn over, Hudson Williams, I want to see my boy’s come on your face.” Hudson, still breathing shakily, doesn’t react quickly enough for Ilya’s tastes. 

In a moment, Ilya’s pulled out – Hudson cries out, and Shane’s heart breaks for him – and reaches under Hudson to turn him over, manhandling him with ease until his back’s flat on the mattress. Then he shoves back in unceremoniously, resuming the punishing pace from before and leaving Hudson scrambling to keep up. “Looks pretty, but so messy. You look like a slut, Hudson Williams, in front of Shane, too. Maybe he should help you clean up, yes?”

Shane, brain still fuzzy from the orgasm, doesn’t parse half the words until his name is mentioned. “What?” he asks muzzily.

“Clean his face.” Ilya enunciates the words slowly. Then he considers, for a moment, and elaborates. “With your mouth.”

But that’s– that’s filthy, they’ve never– Shane’s mind races as he tries to parse this new request, fit it in with everything he knows about himself and Ilya and the mysterious incorporeal thing that is Shane-and-Ilya; enough of this must show on his face, because Ilya interrupts his train of thought once again. “Colour, Shane.”

And that’s a much easier question to answer, so the word “green” slips out before Shane can even really think about it. It’s not about whether he wants to, it’s Ilya’s job to want things right now – the question is whether this is something Shane can give, and he knows the answer to that is yes. Doesn’t make it any less humiliating, though.

“I like your traffic police roleplay, Hudson Williams,” Ilya muses, and runs a gentle finger through the come on Hudson’s cheek. Then he raises it to Shane’s lips, and it really isn’t a choice at all for Shane’s lips to open and let Ilya feed him Hudson’s come, even as Hudson shakes and cries and falls apart between them.  

–

Ilya’s a machine. Shane’s always been aware of that, but seeing it from the outside gives him a whole new perspective. He’s fucking into Hudson, over and over, showing no signs of tiring even as Hudson comes, shaking all over, for the second time tonight.

“Will hurt more now, yes?” Ilya’s leaning over Hudson, foreheads barely an inch apart. Illogically, Shane wants them to kiss – it makes no sense, of course, since he should want them to be looking at him instead of each other, and the prospect of them together should make him jealous more than anything else – just so he can watch the curve of Ilya’s jaw as his tongue slides into Hudson’s mouth, the flutter of Hudson’s eyelashes as he takes it. Or, in another context, Hudson’s hands cupping Ilya’s face like something fragile, Ilya tipping his head up to meet him. Chaste or filthy, rushed or slow and languid, Shane’s wildly unhelpful brain conjures a million scenarios in which he could watch the two of them together. Greedy, again, but seeing Ilya and Hudson fuck in real life before his eyes isn’t making the fantasies go away any faster.

“”I– I’m fine.” The words are laughably unconvincing, forced through gritted teeth as Hudson moves to cover his face, stifling a whimper as Ilya adjusts the angle of his hips. “Fuck, Rozanov.”

“I want to see you,” complains Ilya, and on anyone else it might sound petulant but in his voice it just sounds like a threat. “Move your fucking hands so I can watch you cry because of my cock.”

And Hudson does, but then he yells as Ilya fucks into him again and his hands dart back towards his mouth to muffle the noise. Before he can think, Shane’s moving – his hands reach out to catch Hudson by the wrists, holding them in place even as Hudson struggles. “You’re good,” he murmurs, stroking his thumb gently along Hudson’s hands. “He’s close, it’s just a bit more.”

But then tears start to fall from Hudson’s eyes, and he can’t wipe them away, can’t fight, can do nothing but take what Ilya chooses to give. “Please, I can’t, Rozanov— Ilya— Ilya, please, stop,” he begs, and he sounds further gone than Shane’s ever heard him, choking words out between groans and twisting helplessly away.

At stop, though, Ilya hesitates. His hands pull away from Hudson instinctively, and he looks uncertain for the first time. His gaze meets Shane’s, and it’s almost like they’re on the ice – Ilya’s passing him the puck, because he trusts that Shane’s in the right position at the right time to know what to do with it.

“He can take it.” When he speaks, Shane deliberately ignores Hudson and directly addresses Ilya. “He knows his colour, you’ll stop if he says red. But he’s tough, he’ll be good.”

Hudson blinks his eyes open, and looks at Shane with something like betrayal in his eyes. But there’s pride there too, and something else besides, warm and fond and heartbroken all at once. “Fuck, fuck, fuck you both, I can’t–”

“You can,” growls Ilya. “You can stop, if you want, but you will not because you are a fucking slut, yes? You brought me here, told me to watch you fuck Shane, but really I know you just wanted my cock in your ass. Maybe you are better fuck than me, I don’t know, but right now you are mine.” His English is slipping, grammar and diction dissolving as he gets closer to coming, and there’s a feral quality to his gaze that would scare Shane if he didn’t find it so mind-numbingly hot.

As he gets closer, Ilya thrusts impossibly harder, and Hudson starts crying in earnest – he’s somehow half-hard, but you wouldn’t know it from the look on his face. It’s scrunched up with pain and effort, scarlet and tear-streaked and beautiful, always beautiful. It only relaxes ever so slightly when Ilya grunts and comes, shuddering as his hips still and he spills inside Hudson. But then, Ilya speaks again. “He is still hard, Shane. Would be rude to leave him like this, yes?”

Shane’s never come three times in a night before, but he imagines it would be insane. “Colour,” he murmurs to Hudson, who despite near incoherence manages to gasp out a green. “He can take it,” he affirms, and Ilya grins as he replaces his cock with his fingers.

Like this, Ilya has as much control as he wants, can push as hard or as soft as he likes or simply press insistently against Hudson’s prostate while he sucks Hudson’s cock into his mouth. And Shane’s job is to hold him still, Hudson’s back pressed against his chest, wrists still tightly encircled in Shane’s grip. It doesn’t make his cock hard, not like he thinks it would for the other two, but there’s a peace to it, a warm comfort in the knowledge that he’s making this easier for Hudson. And Hudson, as always, is beautiful, but Shane’s also so incredibly grateful that Hudson trusts him enough to show him this, let Shane be in the room while he cracks himself open and breaks down into his component parts.  

The orgasm, when it comes, is a bit sad – Hudson barely comes at all, and if not for the twitching and his broken yell Shane’s not sure he’d be able to tell that they’re done. But he does, and they can tell, so as soon as the shaking subsides Ilya slides his hand out of Hudson with an uncharacteristic gentleness. Hudson’s still crying, great racking sobs like a six-year-old, and when Shane releases his hands he turns to grasp frantically in Ilya’s direction.

“What do I do?” Ilya whispers frantically, and answering fuck man, I’m not usually on this side of the table wouldn’t be helpful, so Shane goes with what he knows Hudson would do for him.

“Hold him.” Dubiously, Ilya arranges them so Hudson’s cradled in his arms, still sobbing, and looks back to Shane for approval. Shane nods, as encouragingly as he can manage, and tries to formulate an explanation of aftercare  “Yeah, like that. It’s like– after a workout, you have to cool down or you get hurt, right? Except your brain gets hurt instead, if you come back to real life too fast. I’m just gonna get some stuff to clean up, I’ll be back in a second.”

“Okay,” replies Ilya, and tightens his grip on Hudson protectively. “I will not hurt him.”

And it should be laughable, for him to say that after pushing Hudson so hard, breaking him down and taking him apart, but Shane trusts Ilya, and he knows it to be true.

Chapter End Notes

HOME STRETCH NOW!

next chapter: ilya rozanov discovers aftercare! waow

Chapter 9: Ilya

Chapter Notes

IT IS FINISHED :D

please enjoy

Hudson Williams is a lot less irritating when he isn’t talking. Like right now – all Ilya’s getting out of him are quiet whimpers, muffled because he’s wedged his face into the crook of Ilya’s neck. Shane’s gone downstairs, and Ilya can hear him rattling around in the kitchen; now, it’s just Ilya and Hudson, and two hours ago Ilya would probably be using this opportunity to throw Hudson out of a window.

Instead, he slides a hand over the back of Hudson’s neck and into his hair, rubbing with his thumb at the base of Hudson’s scalp. He’s only an inch or two shorter than Ilya, but here in his lap Hudson Williams feels small, vulnerable, precious. 

It only takes a minute or so for Hudson to quiet, pulling his head back and sitting back. He blinks hard, and fumbles for the nightstand to get a tissue to blow his nose and wipe his face. When he first speaks, it’s muffled and so bizarre that Ilya’s half-convinced he misheard.

“Kiss him.” At Ilya’s confusion, he elaborates. “You gotta kiss him, when he gets back. Otherwise it’ll fuck him up.”

“Okay,” Ilya replies, because he’s got no idea what else to say. Then he’s immediately occupied once again, as Hudson tries and fails to stand up.

“You don’t need to cuddle me, ’m fine,” he mumbles, despite the fact that he’s still swaying back and forth slightly and the push he’d levelled against Ilya was less forceful than Svetlana’s. A lot less, actually – Sveta’s vicious when she wants to be.

“Mm, no.” Ilya wraps his arms back around Hudson, pulling them flush once again – Hudson comes easily, and Ilya tries not to enjoy the thrill of power manhandling him brings. “Shane told me is important, cooldown to make sure you do not get sad.”

“Since when do you give a fuck if I’m sad?” Hudson’s incredulous words are, again, undercut by the fact that he’s making no moves whatsoever to free himself from Ilya’s grip. “Thought you, like, wanted to kill me.”

“Yes, am still considering options,” allows Ilya. “But you matter to Shane, and he matters to me, so will leave you alone for now. Plus if I make you sad he will probably hate me, and maybe kill me.” And, he doesn’t want to say, he simply doesn’t want to hurt Hudson. Attributing Ilya’s treatment of Hudson to Shane’s fondness for him is easy, maybe, but it isn’t entirely accurate. Watching Hudson give himself over to Ilya, say no stop please while giving Ilya permission to keep hurting him – it did something to Ilya.

It’s not simply that Hudson was good for him and deserves to be repaid for it, but also that he trusted Ilya to be kind to him with no prior guarantees but Shane’s testimony. And Ilya’s not a good man, he’s never been one, a hundred hockey players and his entire extended family can testify to that, but Hudson and Shane make him want to be. 

“He wouldn’t, though.” Hudson’s voice is tinged with bitterness now, and Ilya worries this has something to do with the brain getting hurt Shane warned him of. “Don’t think there’s anything you could do to make him hate you. You’re fucking lucky, you know that?’

“Yes,” Ilya replies, trying to keep his tone measured and defuse the situation. “But I do not think he would be okay with me killing you.”

Hudson pauses for a moment before he huffs out a laugh. “You really don’t get it, then? You could do anything to him, and he’d still come crawling back for more.”

“Don’t talk about him like that.” Ilya’s trying not to be mad, he is, but it’s not fair to speak about Shane that way. “He’s tough, makes his own choices. Is not like I am the only thing in his life. He has hockey, and friends like Hayden Pike.” Regardless of Ilya’s personal feelings on the matter of Hayden Pike, it is an undisputed fact that Hayden and Shane are friends, and really the combination of Ilya’s distaste for him and the continued friendship just prove Ilya’s point.

“That’s not my point.” Hudson’s tone’s getting heated now, frustration building. “You’re the only one who knows he’s gay. You’re the only one he’s ever had. And he’s in love with you, so no matter how bad you fuck up, he’s going to keep coming back.”

He’s in love with you. The words ring in Ilya’s head, even as he distantly recognises them to be true. Hudson wouldn’t lie about this – he wouldn’t say it unless he really, truly believed it. But even so, Ilya’s not sure everything he’s said is correct. “He has you.”

“Not like that matters. He wants you, God knows why. So take him, and be good to him, and for fuck’s sake don’t screw it up again.” Hudson’s face is wet against Ilya’s skin, and Ilya’s grip tightens on him. “Don’t make this harder, okay, I’m trying to do the right thing. For him, not for you.”

“You think he does not want you?” Ilya can’t even try to hide his incredulity. “He lets you– I have never seen him like this. Never. He trusts you more than me.” It’s not easy to admit, but it’s true. “We have known each other since rookies, and I still did not know he wanted–” he gestures wildly at the surroundings, trying to encapsulate everything that’s happened over the course of the evening – “this. Was because of you that he knows now.”

“Don’t fucking try to make me feel better about it,” Hudson spits out. “Do you even fucking want him at all? Because you have him, congratulations, I hope you’re grateful. He’s yours.”

Something in the wild fury of his voice gives Ilya pause, makes him hesitate before biting back with a chirp. “Is your brain hurt? Like, no cooldown making you upset. Shane said might happen.”

“I don’t– fuck, maybe.” Hudson slumps, defeated. “I’m not kidding, though. He is in love with you. I wouldn’t have tried to get you back together if he wasn’t.”

“Okay,” replies Ilya. He’s not sure what else to say, to be honest – he doesn’t know how to be in love, how to give Shane what he needs, how to be a good boyfriend to his arch-rival. Some of that must show on his face, because Hudson softens.

“You’re not a bad guy. I was worried, you know? But you aren’t as bad as I thought.” 

“Nice of you to say,” replies Ilya in a deadpan, and watches as Hudson fights a smile.

–

It isn’t long before Shane returns with a variety of snacks – and, predictably, a ginger ale for himself – and, unfortunately, not long after that before Ilya has to go. He does truly have a plane to catch, an early morning flight back to Boston to prepare for their next homestand. 

Still, Ilya stops at the door as Hudson’s words from earlier in the evening play in his mind – you have to kiss him, he wants you to, it’ll fuck him up otherwise – and with them, the knowledge that he’s hurt Shane before. There’s no way Shane wasn’t speaking from experience, and Ilya’s almost certain he remembers exactly which one. Never mind that they were still stupid kids, or that he didn’t mean to, the point still stands that Shane was hurting, and Ilya didn’t fix it.

So he pauses, takes a step back, and turns to Shane. He telegraphs his gestures clearly, leaving more than enough time for Shane and his hockey reflexes to pull away, but Shane stays where he is. And, for his own peace of mind more than anything, he speaks. “Can I kiss you?”

In lieu of an answer, Shane pushes forward and closes the gap on his own. It makes Ilya’s breath catch – Shane has been many things, in all the time Ilya’s known him, but assertive has never been on the list. But Shane’s kissing him now, close-mouthed and chaste, and it’s tender, and sweet, and makes Ilya want nothing more than to pull his shirt off and drag Shane back to bed so they can kiss some more. It’s tempting, God it’s tempting, but Ilya does have a plane to catch, and so he restrains himself and pulls back.

Shane smiles at him, and the difference is already palpable. There’s a spark in his eyes and a relaxed set to his shoulders, like something within him has eased now that they’ve kissed. “One more, for luck?”

Ilya doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to say no to Shane, so he gives him what he wants. Another kiss, this one briefer than the last, a quick press of lips. It’s worth it to feel Shane smile against him, anyway, and watch the flash of teeth as they grin at each other.

But there’s one more thing that doesn’t yet feel complete, and Ilya’s eyes flick to Hudson leaning against the wall of the doorway and watching. And there’s a million reasons that could explain what Ilya does next – that Hudson looks lonely, that he’s been so good that Ilya wants to reward him in one way or another, that he’s simply so fucking beautiful that Ilya can’t hold himself back – but the fact of the matter is that Ilya slides a hand into Hudson’s hair and kisses him. 

It’s hard, a little vicious, and Hudson gives as good as he gets, pushing back into the gesture and biting at Ilya’s lower lip until he gasps in pain and retaliates by pulling Hudson’s hair until he relents. And then it’s gentle, which is maybe worse, because for the smallest part of a second they’re simply kissing, like lovers or boyfriends or husbands, and just for that tiny, fragile moment, it feels like it means something. Over and above wanting to fuck Hudson, or take him down a peg, or get his revenge for stealing Shane; it feels like they’re kissing because they want to, because Ilya likes Hudson and Hudson likes Ilya, and that’s a dangerous thought. Maybe it wouldn’t be, if it were simply this fleeting moment, but Ilya knows somewhere deep inside him that this is just the tip of the iceberg, a surface-level glimpse of something that’s been growing deep beneath since the first time his eyes met Hudson’s across the bar in the club.

Then they retreat, eyes meeting for a long moment, and all of a sudden Ilya’s terrified. Because this is uncharted territory; he isn’t supposed to like Hudson, or even tolerate him, and he definitely isn’t supposed to want him in any way beyond the physical at the absolute most. It was a mistake, maybe, an error in judgement that didn’t pan out the way that he wanted it to, but as far as Ilya’s concerned the bigger problem is that he can’t bring himself to regret it at all. 

So he turns and leaves, closing the door behind him. He doesn’t dare to look at Shane’s face, or wait long enough to hear what Hudson could say.

He breaks into a run as he heads down the corridor. Not that that’s any help – Ilya can put as much distance between himself and Hudson as he wants, but the problem here lies firmly within his own brain, which is going to be much harder to escape.

Whatever. He’s sure as hell going to try.

Chapter End Notes

SORRY ABOUT THE ENDING!!!! first chapter of the next fic should be up on friday, in addition I will be trying to edit through this fic simultaneously because I have the very bad habit of writing as I post :(

I'll make a new chapter here to let y'all know when the next fic is out, but in the meantime here's its summary to tide you over till friday...

In the aftermath of his nightclub encounter with Shane, Ilya Rozanov wants nothing more than to run away from his problems. As far as he’s concerned, that means going out, getting drunk, and doing things he really, really shouldn’t.

Connor Storrie fits firmly into that last category.

Chapter 10

Hi! Just a note that the first chapter of the next fic in this series has been posted! Check it out now if you like :)