Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike, Shane Hollander & Original Character(s)

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, Hayden Pike, David Hollander, Original Characters

Additional Tags:

Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, he can’t cope with it, Sad Shane Hollander, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, But he is scared Russian man, feelings so scary, avoidant attachment style is so much easier, until now, Possessive Ilya Rozanov, Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Jealous Shane Hollander, Insecure Shane Hollander, Autistic Shane Hollander, me too, Anxious Shane Hollander, The spiral that never stops spiralling, I can’t tag, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Queer Themes, A Journey, I will hold your hand, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sex Positive, No bottom was harmed through this Hoe Phase, Edit: tops are being emotionally tortured but they are safe and sound, You could say that:, Shane Hollander Walks Ilya Rozanov Like A Dog, He just didn't notice it, Shane Hollander/others obviously

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-12 Completed: 2026-02-09 Words: 26,658 Chapters: 13/13

Shane Hollander goes Casual (so cool and unbothered)

Summary

Shane Hollander is tired of wanting someone he cannot have, and he’s dying as he waits for someone who will not stay. Someone who doesn’t want to stay, not when there are so many others waiting for him. Fun of another variety, Shane left a treat amongst many.

It’s humiliating. It’s distracting. And it feels like shit.

He wishes he could erase his feelings, move on as easily. In an effort to gain back control over the ‘situation’ that has become his romantic attraction to a notorious player, Shane attempts at imitating Ilya Rozanov’s methods until he perfects them and becomes as good as keeping it light and casual as his rival.

 

Or Shane tries to Hoe Phase himself into a self discovery journey to choke and kill his feelings for Ilya Rozanov. Ilya is not the only who suffers from it, but he sure feels like he’s being choked and killed.

___
Story ends after chapter 6 but I keep writing bonus because the hyper fixation doesn’t end.

Chapter 1: It’s just pathetic

Chapter Summary

After a game in Boston, and a flight, back in Montreal in the late evening, Hollander gets an idea of what his rival does of his Saturday night.

Chapter Notes

Dedicating this to that one person that bookmarked it "not the best written but jealous Ilya so we'll make do" you are not welcome to New Canon™️

Shane Hollander is a man of permanence and pragmatism. Real. He likes it when things are tangible, controllable, and manageable. He grew up perfecting the art of controlling himself and developed a discipline so strict and tight that he scares other athletes with his dedication.

He is Shane Hollander, who plays by the book and straight on his skates. Live, breathe, hockey, Shane. Every movement on the ice comes with memories he has carved into his muscles and the control he has written into his cells. 

Off the ice, he tries to be much the same, because it’s easier, it’s better, and this sinking feeling that life throws at him gets quieter when everything is under wraps. He likes things quiet, clean, and organized. Boring. 

He shouldn’t like trouble, ephemeral sensations and non-substantial attachments. He shouldn’t want fleeting meetings and dangerous liaisons, a sword of Damocles over his head with a mouth to speak. He shouldn’t need, too much like air, an unstable presence in his life. Someone who plays him like an instrument, who lives in constant opposition to Shane’s rules and order.

But, to his dismay and shock and misery, Shane Hollander is the victim of the opposites attract rule. He wants, he wants so badly, and he’s unruly and dumb and really, really, weak for Ilya Rozanov and all the trouble the Russian brings into his life.

He likes it. He likes it when Ilya Rozanov texts him in the middle of the night to ask if he used his stupid didlo today after weeks without talking, or when he sends little inappropriate comments all through some of Shane’s games in the middle of the season. He even likes the unprompted dick pics, and he likes to pretend they don’t make his mouth feel empty. 

He likes it when Ilya faces him off with a smirk, and a chirp making half-veiled references to their activities outside the rink. Calling him ‘pretty boy’ with the same drawl he uses to kiss it into Shane’s mouth, asking if he’ll do good, and simply teasing Shane’s fighting spirit like a mating call.

He likes being in the rink with Rozanov, rarely does he play as good, as hard, as consumingly as he does with anyone else but the Russian nightmare. Rozanov has this power, he brings out everything out of Shane. 

The good, the sport, the best. 

The bad, the secret, the quilt, the fear, the worst. 

Shane Hollander likes his rival. Likes him too much, he realized one night after the Russian left his hotel room and all Shane wished was to follow. To be a part of his house, his home. Shane wanted more time, he wanted it to the point it hurt. He didn’t cry, but his reflection was blurry when he looked at it.

And the next day, Rozanov was making headlines for being seen making out passionately with the coach’s niece. Pictures attached, hands on hips and tongues in mouths. Shane guesses Ilya has a thing for coaches’ relatives. 

A taste for the thrill, things that are locked under unspoken rules. Like Shane. 

Listen, the Canadian knows, alright, that this arrangement of theirs is nothing exclusive. He knows Ilya is notoriously known as a bit of a player. 

They fuck because it’s hot, because Shane realized he liked boys while Ilya Rozanov was wrapping his lips around a cigarette and that horror followed him under a shower jet and Rozanov decided to give Shane a taste of actually good sex. Because Ilya likes risks, a bit like a gambler, and fucking Hollander was certainly some hot and forbidden fantasy.

That’s what Shane is. A hot forbidden thing that Ilya indulges in every now and then, before moving on to another craving. The most fun Shane can be is naked and prohibited. 

He knows exactly what he is to Rozanov. He knew it from the start, and truly it was fine. Sure, he felt a bit like a cheap whore putting his clothes back sometimes, but he kept coming back. Behind the shame, this was just as much of an indulgence to Shane. 

He gets in, and for however long Ilya has him, Shane can be wild. He can go limb and stupid and think with his dick, he can be pathetic and whiny and feel too much without his heart locked in his throat. And yes, the whole rivalry-to-bed thing certainly could be sexy, but what Shane likes is the way Ilya understands every effort Shane puts into his body, and he treats it with care. 

He doesn’t damage Shane, he is caring. He asks, he checks in with every shift of positions, every moan that echoes too loud. Ilya is good to him, Shane is never afraid that Ilya is going to humiliate him by telling everyone about the tears in Shane’s eyes when he begs. There is trust, so much of it. 

Shane trusts Rozanov with a part of him he has never been strong enough to show anyone. The whiny, needy, very attracted to guys part. The ass-fucked and loose part. The dumb on sex part. It started because Ilya was risking as much as Shane in their stupid game, some kind of agreement to not ruin the fun as well as each other’s lives. 

But, without the Canadian noticing, it got out of his hands. 

Trust comes with expectations, with vulnerability. Little confessions that Shane was too slow to catch before they got out of him. Emotions that used that trust as a foundation. 

He expects Ilya to sneak into his room after a game, he expects an answer when he texts and he dies a little when he doesn’t get one. He trusts Ilya with bits and pieces of him, but most of what Ilya tells him — cigarette in hand, or a drink at his lips — it’s stuff Shane could have found out on the internet. 

Okay, maybe not the thing about the coach’s son or the size of his dick, but not important stuff. And yet, Shane knows Ilya’s favourite food, both Russian and American, and his favourite colour, and his favourite sponsorship, and all his stats. And every little bit, he keeps them like treasures even when it’s nothing. When it’s off-handedly given to him for the sake of not making post-nut clarity too awkward. 

He’s sure everyone of Roz’s other semi-regular hookups got the same list as him. Ilya doesn’t do vulnerable and needy, that's Shane’s stupid shit.

Just like Shane is the one who’s staying chaste and untouched between their ephemeral moments. He doesn’t have to, he could get fucked, run through like a roadway tunnel and Rozanov would just need him to stay tight enough to be enjoyable. 

But he doesn’t because Shane likes comfort. Shane is boring and content in his routine, and he takes breaks every six months by getting railed by his rival. Because Roz scratches an itch, because he's the only dick Shane has liked so far and it’s too convenient. And maybe because Shane is a little bit in love and maybe he likes the idea of only needing Ilya to be satisfied.

Or maybe he doesn’t. He certainly doesn’t after, when he has been satisfied but he leaves empty. When he knows someone will hear that Russian accent whispering filth in their ear in the following hours, that he’ll never leave an empty space when he goes away. Not like the one Ilya leaves behind him.

He’s felt like this for a long time. Maybe after the first time, when Ilya left the loft and definitely after the silence and Soshi. He felt like absolute shit, like a tool that served its ugly purpose and that was no longer useful or any fun. 

Ass virgin no longer worth the chase. 

Ilya changed his mind, yeah, Shane was still good to get laid and still forbidden enough to be worth the trouble, but he made it clear — and Shane got that message so it must be crystal clear even — that this was just sex. Cuddles are only fun for a minute, then it’s over. 

Shane still feels like shit. And he definitely has a thing for embarrassing himself, coming back again and again even when it makes him sick with shame. He’s pathetic. He’s stupid. Waiting like a good faithful bitch until the next time he can serve his purpose. 

He stares at the picture of Ilya and the coach’s daughter. 

Alone in his bed, with his glasses on and a book. In pyjamas on a rare Saturday off. Rozanov is surrounded by people, he’s living the fast life and having fun. He’s not dying, wishing someone would fill an empty spot in his bed, he doesn’t dream of brown eyes the way Shane dreams of blue. He doesn’t care, he enjoys it without guilt. 

And Shane wishes it were him. He wishes he could kiss girls, or just a girl, and dance with her, and feel the spark like he does with the Russian. Like Rozanov is interchangeable with anyone else. 

He wishes he were fun and carefree, wishes sex were currency and thrills without the mix of hidden disgust and repression. Taboo. To be kept quiet. 

He wishes his heart wouldn’t hurt, wouldn't feel the sting of betrayal over vows and promises that don’t exist. He wishes he could forget all the ways his body pointlessly tries to be a perfect fit for someone who’s not bound to one shape, one person. 

Shane Hollander wants to be casual about this, and he likes to mimic the way people act. That way, he’s sure he is doing it right. So when he lands in LA tomorrow for some ad and a guest appearance on a sponsored show, he promises himself he’ll do as Ilya does. Open an app and occupy his time casually. 

Fight fire with fire, or whatever. Shane isn’t sure what he is trying to prove. That he doesn’t need to wait for Rozanov? That he doesn’t only need him? That he can be normal, casual and fun too? That he can treat Ilya amongst one of many too? 

He doesn’t know. He just hopes he’ll stop feeling sick watching that picture. Or maybe Ilya will be sick too. And then that way, what Shane feels will be okay. 

He doesn’t know. He still tries it.

Chapter End Notes

Shane, love, you’re not made for the streets.

Chapter 2: It’s not Rozanov

Chapter Summary

Shane Hollander works on his new resolution fast and efficiently, and if he is a little nervous, he hopes the new guy won’t mind it. Ilya never did, he found it sweet.

Chapter Notes

LA is hot. Or maybe Shane is stressing out, sweating anxiety from his pores. It’s probably both and he’s kind of praying he doesn’t smell too bad. Or too strong. And he hopes he’s not too stiff or too awkward, because he had to put a little too much effort into finding a time window for this in his schedule, and he really doesn’t want to waste it because he’s being too neurotic about it.

It being Grindr. 

LA’s side of the app was like a potluck that’s overflowing. Lots of men, lots of furry assholes, or smooth ones that must have been done professionally. And happy trails with cocks of different sizes put on display. People are crazy, in Shane’s opinion. But that means he didn’t have to show his face.

He showed, but not like his dick or ass. He worked for an hour on taking a picture he likes of himself from different angles. No face and too much skin for a proper Canadian prude. Which he guesses he is not. He hopes so. 

What's nice about celebrity town, as well as its large amount of queer men — he can say queer the right way because, he likes dicks and he is queer so he can say it and it’s just fine — is that there are a lot of closeted industry people that want their preferences to be kept deadly quiet too.

It is fucking sad, yes. Love is love and sex is sex and who cares if everyone is in for it, okay. Yes. But, the world cares a lot and Shane really likes his career and he likes not risking it too badly just because he’s into dudes. 

He’s into dudes. It didn’t even occur to him to install a normal dating app.

He’ll freak out about that later. He is kind of busy right now, parking into a mansion’s garage while a masculine silhouette walks to him. 

“Mister Hockey!” The guy greets, extending his hand for a handshake as firm and casual as Shane’s experience a million times working in sports. That was familiar. 

“Noam, right? I didn’t enter the wrong garage?” Shane makes a half-ass attempt at a joke to call his nerves, and the guy smiles at him like he's a baby deer stumbling on its little legs.

Shane is relatively the same height as him actually, and they're both fit. The man's biceps are tight under the hem of his shirt. Like Shane's, and he has freckles too. 

But he's tanner, with wide black hair that is being unkept in a deliberate way. And his lashes are long, and his lips are a muted shade of pink. He's very attractive, and his abs are too. 

He is probably looking too intensely at the guy. A singer, a pop singer who was amused by Shane's lack of musical knowledge. 

“Nah, you good, mate,” he answers the Canadian, letting go of Shane's hand to put a hand on the athlete's shoulder. His thumb presses in, and Shane's throat feels dry. “You’re hotter in real life, you know. What kind of skincare do you use? Your skin looks great.”.

Shane almost wants to laugh, and he does snort despite himself. What kind of question is that?

Rozanov is more into asking if Shane got hard after winning a goal by using Ilya's own trick on the Boston goalie. Or if Shane is wet already, if he fingered himself before the game to make it easier for the Russian.

Sometimes he asks if Shane is thirsty, if he wants a snack. Sometimes he asks if Shane can walk to the shower, if he needs anything.

“I use a real long list of very unsexy stuff,” Shane answers sheepishly. “It's Korean and Japanese skin care. But bone broth, and…uhm, broth isn't very sexy…but alimentation is very important.”

He has the image of fermented bones in his mind and now he feels like a troll. 

Noam doesn't seem repulsed. He pinched Shane's cheeks, testing the elastic texture of his skin.

“Mhm, I don’t know. This looks very sexy.” His palm is warm in Shane's cheek. It's like when Rosanov lingers on his skin after pushing Shane into a flat surface. “I kinda want to lick it.”

The sexual undertone is unmistakable. But Shane doesn't know what to say, and all the propositions that come to mind don't feel playful, more like a little awkward.

“Okay, I am very bad at this,” he admits, resting his hand over the one on his cheek. Noam doesn’t have Rozanov’s skin texture. Ilya’s hands are rough, knuckles rounded with scar tissue from having it out on the rink. “I am trying to get better.”

“At sex?” Noam asks with an eyebrow raise. That, Shane is familiar with. He’s being made fun of, lightheartedly.

“No, I think I am okay. More than decent at sex,” he still answers straightforwardly as ever. He needs to be understood. He needs this guy to know what is going on too. “It’s the whole flirting and sexy teasing stuff, I am…I am really bad at it. I never catch the clues, it’s too hard.”

“Okay. So you need it to be explicit. That’s cool,” the singer smiles, like he finds Shane funny. “I am really glad you are here. I am very horny. You’re very hot. I hope I get to fuck your ass soon because I watched edits of you doing warm-ups thirty minutes ago and it looked like a very juicy, very tempting ass.”

Ah. It’s. Well, explicit and clear, for sure.

The Canadian swallows, heart speeding up as he digests the words. Shane likes being desired, and he likes knowing it. “See, now, I get it,” he laughs breathlessly.

“Okay! Nice.” Noam winks at him, and Shane might have a type. He likes it, which makes Rozanov not so special anymore. The new guy catches Shane’s wrist. “Come on, let’s get naked and steamy.”

Shane follows, and it’s not so scary anymore. It might actually be fun, and not some twisted way to punish or torture himself. “Can I shower here? I hate being sweaty in my clothes.” 

“Sure, man,” Noam nods as they enter the living room of that giant house. It’s a giant living room. Lots of natural light, and the design is nice, mostly it’s the transition from the living room to the kitchen that’s done neatly and the isolation is great too. There is no echo despite the size of the room. 

He wants to ask about the house.

“Can I call you babe or whatever when we fuck? Like, I know it’s not romance, but I like a little sweetness in bed,” the American asks, taking his shoes off on a rack. Shane is quick to follow after him. 

“Yeah, that’s nice,” the hockey player agrees. He did like it when Ilya would say sweet things to him. Like calling him pretty, good, sweet, and praising his body. Shane wants to keep that. “I don’t talk much, it gets fuzzy up there, so you will have to talk me through it. Is it okay?”

“Babe, I am a dom,” Noam says with a tone that screams confidence.

“Dom,” Shane repeats the word, tasting it. “I am not into chains and whips.”

“It’s more of a state of mind, leather comes after,” the singer corrects and the Canadian nods. He’ll research that. Ask more questions. But later. Now, Noam is putting his hands on Shane’s waist. “We keep it light and breezy, simple. I make you feel good and you make me feel good, nothing complicated.”

Shane Hollander knows that part, as he is being gently pinned to the nearest wall. It's the part when he can feel himself go stupid, fuzzy and all quiet as a warm breath hits his skin. 

“I…” he murmurs, closing his eyes when Noam’s hands climb up his body to cup his cheeks. 

“Stop thinking, I am going to kiss you now, yes?” He waits until Shane gives a little nod, his mouth falling apart to welcome foreign lips on him. He feels clumsy, he feels awkward, but it’s good. It’s easy to let Noam’s tongue into his mouth the same way he lets Ilya possess him with kisses. 

It’s not Rozanov. 

“Yeah, okay,” Shane breathes out when they break apart, eyes falling on the singer’s lips, and more importantly the little decoration hiding behind them. “That…I never kissed someone with a tongue piercing before.” 

“You like it?” Noam hums, more like an affirmation than anything else. His timber is deep, his kisses are light on Shane’s skin when he plays with the loop of the Canadians belt. 

“Fuck, yeah,” the half-Asian man confesses, and knees hit the ground while Shane’s blood sings in anticipation, wondering what it will feel like. A blowjob, one like no other. Maybe it will mark him, the way Ilya’s cocky grin and gold medal marked him. “Oh fuck…”

It’s good, it’s so good. 

Warm and wet and the small metal beat drawing patterns and catching on sensitive veins along the way is amazing. It’s good like Ilya’s tongue tricks, but with an unfamiliar edge that sends Shane’s skin buzzing. 

His hands are lost in hair with looser curls than he’s used to, darker and ruffer, and it’s good when dark brown eyes look back at him. He hopes he dreams of it. 

“Bedroom?” He asks in between moans, not sure how long he can last before he shoots and loses the use of his knees. 

They kiss on the way there, peeling off clothes, and Shane resists the urge to pick them up to at least put them in a pile. Noam isn’t Ilya, he hasn’t seen Shane on his first hookup being neurotic about it. He would think it’s weird. 

So Shane keeps kissing him, eyes closed as he pretends not feel ghost sensations in the places Noam doesn’t touch. Even the one he does. He ignores the voice in his head that still thinks when he should be quiet, that voice that notices the difference in the voice that commands in just a word. 

“Suck.” Shane does, and he likes the state of skin where it’s warmest. The taste is great, it’s amazing. It gets him going and he can’t waste time comparing the differences. 

He just needs to make it good. And he does. He finds himself on his stomach, ass lifted toward the sky, and sweet words whispered on his back. “God, look at you, who could resist this, baby?”

“Fuck, come on,” Shane whines, fingers deep in him and yet still too empty. Please Rozanov, he almost says. But he bites it back. “I need this.” 

There is a chuckle that’s stranger, hands that don’t match the shapes he is used to but fuck it feels good when Noam sinks into him, a guttural moan escaping him. 

“Shane, fuck, you’re amazing.” And Shane Hollander does feel amazing, and it lasts. He doesn’t feel like he’s being ripped apart when he puts on his clothes. 

It’s good. Even when he wonders if Ilya always feels like this when he leaves, and that part hurts, Shane can walk away with some pride. He gets back in his car, ass sore and a singer waving at him near the stairs leading up. 

He might come back to this part of LA next time he’s in town. Hit him up, à la Rozanov. Shane would perfect the move, like he did the hat trick.

Chapter End Notes

Having sex with a stranger to prove to yourself you can forget your man (you’re comparing them the entire time)

Chapter 3: It’s easier

Chapter Summary

Shane Hollander won his game against Boston. He rewards himself by falling into familiar arms, certain that his new found experiences and acquaintances will let this be easier. Fun, without all the complications he makes up in his head about it.

Chapter Notes

Hudson Williams whimpering mid interview, I remember

After Noam in LA, Shane Hollander got more confident about this thing he was trying out. Casual sex. He still refers to it as a thing, abstract and shameless, because it’s easier to deal with in his head. It’s still hard, to him at least, to look at the reality that this might be his life now. 

He knows he has virtually zero chance of falling into bed with a girl tomorrow and settling down, at least not happily. Not willingly. Not if he can help it. 

It’s sad. For him, at least. He wanted it, kinda. He wants a family, kids. Not like Hayden, okay. It’s just too many kids and the fact that his friend didn’t get sniped after the first two is ludicrous in Shane’s opinion. But he’s those kids’ uncle, and the godfather of two, so he shuts the fuck up about his opinion. 

All that to say, he’s fucked. Goodbye to having his first kid before his thirtieth birthday and living a normal hockey player’s life. Shane Hollander likes men and he has to deal with it.

Hide it. It’s not as painful as he thought when he first made peace with his preferences. It might be something to do with the fact he’s not alone. He’s not the only one carrying it like a secret, with reluctance and resentment. 

A few of his hookups are like him, gay and stuck in an industry inked in heteronormativity. Alec, the New York actor, or Callum from Pittsburgh’s American football team, are like him. And they fuck, then they complain about their stupid dicks loving dicks so much and they laugh a bit and it hurts a little less. 

The other guys Shane sees — it’s not like there are many, okay. He is busy and he needs them to be on the low and tight on secrets too, so with Noam, there’s like only three more — they have the possibly of women, they just don’t want to forget or ignore the other options.

Neat. Shane is jealous. And he is a little mad at himself because he didn’t count Ilya amongst the not-entirely-gay guys. Like he’s special. And he’s not supposed to be anymore.

But it’s hard, it’s really hard to forget about Ilya Rozanov when the Russian blond is all over him, fucking him into his hotelroom’s mattress. “Fuck, Roz…” 

Shane whimpers and moans, unable to control himself as his rival works on top of him, with Shane’s calves on his shoulders and his forehead pressed against the Canadian's. It’s been months since they saw each other last, six maybe, since Shane decided to stop feeling all those inappropriate wants. But he missed this.

He never quite trusts his hookups like he trusts Ilya. And now that he is back in those strong, asshole arms, with a win under his belt and his ass being pounded into with bitterness for it, Shane remembers what was so important to quit and find elsewhere.

The fire, the heat, the fuzzy and eerie quiet of his brain that shuts down with the sole mission to be good, to do as Ilya pleases, to follow Rozanov’s voice like the sailors used to follow the stars. 

“Hollander, so good for me, Hollander!” The Boston captain grunts before smashing their lips together, swallowing Shane’s cries. He can only soak in the praise as it’s fucked into him, the bed rocking with it. Ilya pulls away, looking down where they are joined. “Fuck. Taking it so well, so pretty on my cock. Look at you, you love it.”

There is something like wonder behind the heat and filth of him, but Shane is so far gone he can’t think about it. His brain can’t process anything that’s not Rozanov, Rozanov, Rozanov, Rozanov. And that cock inside him.

“Yeah, oh yeah…please, please… I..” he lets out in a string of incoherent sounds. He’s on fire, he’s dying and he’s okay with that. It’s fine, dying like this is so, so okay. 

The Russian laughs above him, mouthing at Shane’s knee, then dipping for his collar. “So dumb. Just a dumb little boy for my cock,” he grumbles against the brunette’s skin. 

He moves, bringing his forehead back against Shane’s. And the latter wants to cry when Rozanov slows down. He claws on skin, but Ilya is law here. “Is okay?”

What? Nothing is okay, he wants more. 

“Yes, Rozanov! Please don’t stop, please, I’ll be good,” Shane begs, unable to feel shame over it. His hips chase after Ilya, pleading and demanding all at once. “Come on, give it to me. I won!”

It’s whiny to his own ears, but Rozanov likes it, dick pulsing with appreciation before his hips finally snap back to the right rhythm. Athletes are the best fucks, they can perform better.

“Okay, you are good, I keep going…fuck, such a perfect ass, feels so good around me, мой прекрасный победитель,” Ilya praises and Shane sighs blissfully as he meets him thrust for thrust. “Did you feel good, stealing my puck to score?” 

Montreal won 3-2, with a winning goal from Shane who sped his way into Boston’s first line on their progress toward the Montreal goalie, and swooped the puck out of Ilya’s grasp to bring the game on the other side of the ice in the following seconds. Highlight material and all that.

“Yeah, I…I was fast, you…couldn’t catch up…was, oh god, there!” Shane shouts as Rozanov grips his thighs aggressively and the angle gives way straight to Shane’s prostate.

“Impressive, yes, coach and team must be so proud,” the blond groans, hitting the marks again and again. Shane is pretty sure he’s drooling. “But I caught you, now.”

“Yeah,” he agrees without thinking. “I let you.”

He has let Ilya do many, many things to him. He would do them all again, he’s stupidly weak and sappy like that. There is nothing sappy or sweet in the way Ilya looks at him. It’s pure hunger, raw and unfiltered. Shane feels devoured.

“You like it when I catch you,” he asserts, and Hollander is scared he will leave a mark on his thighs. He be if he could think about it. “You need it.”

“Yeah, fuck, yes,” he says instead, utterly fucked over in the head and so close to the edge his brain is frying up. “Need you. Please, I am…oh fuck!”

Shane’s eyes roll back in his head as he feels his orgasm shake over him. “Yes, Hollander, yes! Fucking come on my cock, yes. Fuck!” Rozanov snarls with pride as the Metros’ captain comes untouched, his come hitting his chest with the way he’s been folded. 

“So sexy, so hot, Hollander…fuck,” Ilya sighs while Shane spasms all over him, hole fluttering from overstimulation while the other man chases his orgasm. “I keep going?”

“Yes, whatever you want, Roz…” Shane slurs, gripping the blond’s forearms for dear life. His breaths come short as Rozanov pounds into him like a storm, his mouth falling open as he comes in turn, filling the condom he’s got on. 

“God, Hollander,” he shudders as he collapses on top of Shane, face-first into the brunette’s cooling sperm. Vile. “You kill me.”

“Uh-huh,” Shane answers, words a little too hard. 

It’s over. The stray thought almost escapes him, his mind slow and liquid with sex, bliss and Ilya’s sweat. But he remembers, in a way that he learned over the past months, to not to linger and make it awkward or romantic. So avoid tense silence, the best is motion. 

“I’ll go shower, you can go next, ’k?” he tells Ilya, catching the Russian’s hair to pry him off his sticky chest, and pulling himself away. Rozanov’s arms circle around him, in almost an embrace, but Shane doesn’t let it get that far. He’s out of bed on shaky legs, and Ilya is snorting softly. “Fuck off.”

“Is my win tonight, Hollander. Should fuck you like that before the game, you’d look like baby deer on skates.” Ilya laughs, wiping his cheek on a pillow. Ugh. That’s Shane’s gay awakening. Fucking disgusting. 

What is wrong with him? 

“I’ll kick you with my stick next time,” he retorts, walking into the washroom, ridiculously small for a guy like him. And it will be even worse for Ilya and his stupidly large ass.

“Fool play? Shane Hollander? Never.” He hears as he turns on the shower jet, squirming at the cold before it turns warm. He lets the sex go down the drain, ignores the fluttering of his martyrized hole. Alec, a switch, gave him a balm to ease the soreness, it works great. He’ll apply it once Rozanov is gone. 

He gets rid of the Russian scent and smell, even rinsing the taste from his mouth. And when he steps out his skin is red, scrubbed and Shane is grateful for the steam on the mirror that hides his displeased grimace.

It’s different than with the other guys. Maybe because Shane usually pulls up to their places, and he gets out. No one gets kicked out. It’s probably the Canadian in him, too polite to tell Ilya to get up and go. 

But, Rozanov never had any problem making Shane understand when it’s time to leave. He could use the same tricks, an early flight that requires immediate sleep would be the easiest. 

He turns back the bedroom with that in mind, only to find Rozanov frowning at Shane’s phone, which is lighting up on the bedside table. 

“Atty is sending you peach emojis with water drips,” the Russian reads for him and Shane goes red in the face. “You got a naughty girlfriend?”

There is a raised eyebrow, doubtful and slow. Like the thought is from a gibberish language. 

“Nah, Lily,” Shane snaps back, a little annoyed that Rozanov doesn’t believe Shane could land a girl. He can’t, but fuck him anyway. “Matty’s a dude. Mathew. He’s just teasing ‘cause I play in his city next weekend. ” 

No need to lie about the gender to the blond, his ass is still pulsing from nine inch of Russian dick fucking him open. At least, Matty is a reasonable size. A bit shorter than Shane.

Mathew from Dallas is a politician, who’s a bit of an asshole but he always tries to make Shane come first and he wore Shane’s jersey the first time they fucked after Shane humiliated Dallas. 

“Oh. You…are seeing him?” 

Ilya’s voice is strangely quiet. 

“Yeah, but nothing serious,” he explains, a bit put out by the way Ilya’s face closes. It reminds him of Soshi. Of his first MPV award. “It works a bit like you and me, I come to Boston and we fuck, and I go to Dallas and Mathew does his part.”

Knowing he isn’t the other man in some sort of committed relationship doesn’t seem to light up Ilya’s mood. For a long moment he is quietly frowning, and Shane thinks he might have a hard time catching up to the fact that Shane is not the prudest prude to ever spread his legs like a slut.

He can be fun and casual and not complicated too. 

“Oh, oh. I see,” he says after a while, and a sharp smile takes over his face. “Shane Hollander got a guy in every city, now, yeah?”

Shane Hollander got red cheeks and he can’t hide his discomfort as Ilya’s eyes pierce through him like bullet holes. 

“Not every city,” he corrects awkwardly, words strangled over his attempt to stop himself from squirming away from those eyes. “Just some.” 

“A lot?” Shane isn’t sure what he is looking for on the blonde’s face. But it’s not pretty. 

“I don’t know what you’d call a lot, Rozanov.” He shrugs, because it’s Ilya Rozanov and Shane’s five dudes are a very short list next to his. “I am pretty sure you actually have more than one girl in every city.”

“Sure.” Ilya ignores the remark. He doesn’t gloat about it. It’s strange. Ilya never misses a chance to remind Shane how hot and desired he is. Instead, he studies Shane like he’s a math problem. “They’re good to you…your men?”

A small smile breaks on Hollander’s face, endeared. He wouldn’t call Ilya a friend but they have a long history and he likes to know Ilya does care about him and his well-being.

“Yeah, we have fun.” 

“Hand-free fun?” The grin is cocky, but a little off.

“I wish.” Shane rolls his eyes, walking toward his pile of clothes. Pants folded and shirt draped over a chair. “I guess I have to give them five or six years to know my body like you do.”

“Did it on the first try,” Ilya reminds him. “You’re easy for me.”

“Right, I guess you're just a natural at it, then,” Shane swallows, hating the way his own body agrees that Rozanov is more. Shane gives him more than he does the others. “They'd better catch up.” 

“I am still there. I can do it.” 

Shane refuses to look at him, he might just ask him to stay or whatever. Something stupid. Probably. 

“True.” He sighs, putting his shirt on and tossing the jeans in his suitcase. “I should go to bed. The checkout is early.”

Leave. Shower, take your time, but it’s time to pack it up. The message is clear. Shane thinks it is, he hopes. He hopes Ilya doesn’t get it and stays. 

But that has never happened. It just will not happen.

“Mhm. I’ll go.” Rozanov nods, and he doesn’t bother going for a shower before he starts putting his clothes back on. “Have fun in Dallas, Hollander.”

“Thanks, Roz.” He barely has time to process it that the Russian is already out of the door. And he’s alone in his hotel room with a pillow full of his sperm. 

And he might be sick again. That’s why he feels so cold.

Chapter End Notes

Slavic man experiences a taste of his own medicine and discovers the concept of jealousy. Tastes like American vodka.

Autistic wasian object of said jealousy just wanted to look cool and totally casual, now he is sad.

Chapter 4: It’s important

Chapter Summary

Shane Hollander is not getting close to getting a second Stanley Cup back-to-back for nothing. He’s a dedicated man, he research every field he wants to conquer. He’s very organized about it.

Chapter Notes

Shane Hollander likes playing on the west side, especially when he gets to crush a town and push it further into the game and toward the Stanley Cup, whose name is calling him like a beacon. 

He’s feeling good about this. The team is fired up; they all burn with the chance to make it to the top back-to-back. And for Shane’s career as a captain, two cup rings dated one year apart might as well make him a living legend. 

He loves his game, of course, he wants it. With the hunger of Eve and her forbidden fruit. And he knows they can make it. They have good chemistry this year, and everyone is still riding the high of last season's win. They work well even on the bad days. 

Shane is confident. He likes it, as a sensation. It’s a sweet rumble in his chest that purrs and curls with affirmations. It’s a sweet feeling, it guards his lungs from the breathlessness of his anxiety. 

“Look at you, you’re glowing.” He is cut off from his reflections as he steps out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist. Noam is putting his socks back on, shirtless and sitting on Shane’s rented bed. “Is it me or the win?”

“We will say it’s a bit of both,” Shane concedes, looking for his boxers around the room. “I wouldn’t want you to think you came here for nothing.”

San Jose is not a state away from Hollywood, obviously, but Noam did make the trip here just to get into Shane’s bed and try a few stuff they had talked about doing next time Shane could come around LA for a few days. He is grateful for it.

It was fun. And educational in a less sexy way. But, Shane is on a journey. He’s doing research now that he’s getting the hang of this whole closeted-but-not-a-shame casual lifestyle.  

“Where’s your ass balm?” Noam teases him as Shane puts his pants back on. He comes behind him, ruffling wet hair for the fun of it and Shane pushes him away half-heartedly.

“I don’t like applying it when I am still damp,” he still answers honestly. It earns him an amused smile. Noam finds it entertaining to witness the ways the Canadian brains work at times. 

“Whatever suits you, mate.” He shrugs before walking toward Shane’s luggage. Shane follows, needing to retrieve his laptop from his designated space next to his spare jerseys. “You got an energy bar? I am starving.”

“Yeah, there.” Hollander tosses it behind him, always having proteins in handy in case he misses a mark at an unprompted time. He pulls out the laptop next, then the glasses and he hears Noam laughing with his mouth full.

“Updating the Google Doc?” He is fighting a mocking smirk when Shane turns back to him and sits on the bed to work. Noam finds it a good idea to do the same, nestling himself against the athlete while stuffing his face with gross cardboard-tasting proteins.

“Don’t make fun of me.” Shane is blushing. True be told, the Google Doc might be a little too much but it’s very important to him. He does research. On himself, on sex, on things. Kinks, or whatever you call the things that are a little quirky and odd and get you going during sex.

It’s Noam’s fault for introducing the concept of Dom in Shane’s life. Because he had to look it up. Then he had to look up Sub, BDSM, the etiquette, the subgenres, the notion of kink, the subgenre of those, and the different categories. 

That’s when the Google Doc was born, a dictionary on sex for Shane Hollander. But then, Shane decided to search into his sex. Sex life. He made lists of what was intriguing, what he unknowingly tried and liked, and what he wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. He had neat categories too. He has a list of what he wants to try. 

It’s very organized.

“I won’t.” The singer lets his head fall on Shane’s shoulder to peek at the screen “Sex nerd.”

“Fuck off,” Shane groans and pinches his thigh. “Don’t act like this doesn’t benefit you.”

“True,” the American snorts, catching a clap left on the bed. “So what’s the review on tonight’s activities, Mister Hollander?”

“I like letting you control my orgasm. I came hard, like really hard,” Shane admits, tipping it on the screen into the list of things he wants to incorporate into his sexual life on the regular. “And the nipple claps? Right?” Noam nods next to him, clapping one of them in front of Shane’s face.

He pinches Hollander’s nose with it. Shane pretends to ignore him, even when a smile creeps on his face.

“That’s nice, I like the sting but I wouldn’t do it all the time,” he explains while he takes it out of his nose. “My nipples are really sore, I don’t want that all the time.”

Gently, Noam presses a hand on Shane’s chest to massage it. It doesn’t really help but the sentiment is appreciated. “The gag? You didn’t like it, right?”

The ball gag is on the nightstand, drool already dried with how little use it served. No, Shane did not like it. It was going on the list of things he tried and wouldn’t do again.

“No.” He shakes his head, trying to understand himself. “I do have…oral fixation? That's the word?”

“Yeah.”

“Well I have that, it’s more than just having something in my mouth.” It’s texture, occupation. Noam wouldn’t get it, he doesn't take as much pleasure as Shane from giving orals. “It’s having something to do. I don’t mind gagging, like sucking a cock is great because there is something to do. The gag just felt restrictive in an annoying way.”

The singer hums, but his eyes are roaming on Shane’s lists. “Oh, you got spit roasted? You naughty boy!”

“I said I didn’t mind being gagged,” Shane reminds him with a punch on his abdomen. “It was with my New York guy. He brought a friend.”

“Was it hot?” Noam pries. 

“Yeah,” the hockey player concedes after taking a moment to think. It’s on the same list as the claps. “But it felt a bit like leading a game, with how hard it gets working around everyone to find a position that works for three people at once. Lots of coordination required.”

Noam nods, clearly not listening to keep the fantasy going on in his head. “What’s the grey?” On the screen, next to a list of names, some texts are in another colour. Shane is a man of structure.

“Things I want to try, I try to assign them a partner who might be into it too.”

“What a long list you gave me.” He is gloating. It’s not Shane’s fault that he loves that stupid tongue piercing. And he is most comfortable with Noam about experiences since the singer worked in adult clubs before he got famous. “I am flattered.”

Ilya Rozanov doesn’t figure anywhere on the list. Because Shane knows — in himself, in dark corners he doesn’t want to touch — what he wants from Rozanov. 

He hears the crisps of a plastic wrap being crushed. Noam finished the energy bar. It’s time for goodbyes. “Okay, I am good to go. Thanks for letting me be part of your research.”

“I am the one who is thankful,” Shane laughs as he watches the singer put on his shoes.

“Oh wait.” The other man stops when he’s done lacing his sneaker. “Before you win your second cup, you got the Vegas award thingy right?”

God, this guy knows nothing about hockey. It was the most annoying thing about him, but Shane can’t complain, he might have listened to only one song of his tops, maybe.

“Yes.”

“Did you know we share a lot of brands?” 

“Yes,” he answers. They both have contracts with energy drinks, and a few fashion brands. “What?”

“I could get one to invite me,” he suggests. “To Vegas."

“Oh.” A smile breaks on the Canadian’s face. It could be nice to have him there. Shane finds him funny, he’d even go so far as to say they’re good friends. And awards are so boring. “You want to watch me win awards?”

He might have one person in the assembly who won’t laugh at Shane’s uptightness in his suit and make fun of him whether he wins or loses. Noam doesn’t know shit about okay trophies. And Shane doesn’t know shit about, uhm, whatever prices singers get.

“And fuck you about it?” There is a suggestive wink as the pop star walks to the door. Shane falls back into the bed. 

He watches him go, but he doesn’t answer. 

Ilya Rozanov would be there, in Vegas. It’s been a bit of a habit now, a ritual that follows the path of their games against one another. They smile for the cameras, they get their prices after betting on it, and they deal with the results in the winner’s hotel room. 

They ignore each other for the entire night until a phone buzzes with an address and a time stamp. Shane can’t talk to anyone about the heat curling his spine all night long, he has to hide the glances he steals.

With Noam, it’s not like he could sneak off snickering and holding hands, of course. But, Shane could look at him in a crowded room and smile. He could say they’re friends and people would think better of him for it.

And with Noam, he’s sure his night wouldn’t go sour. He’d have his fun and when the time comes to leave, when clothes are back on, he wouldn’t feel like an ocean drift separates him from his own heart. 

Still, there is a voice, coming from the stupid organ, that screams with horror at the thought of missing a moment with Rozanov when they have so little of those already. Shane has to roll around and bury his face in a pillow, choking out the thought because he and the Russian don’t actually have anything.

He doesn’t understand why his feelings haven’t learned that lesson already, it’s been years. He should get it together already.

Chapter End Notes

The only thing he cannot rationalize and order is how down bad he is. No amount of research will help him prepare for the fire Ilya Rozanov set into him.

And nothing is going to save Ilya Rozanov from dealing with the burn he’s about to feel next chapter. (his pov)

Update: working on that 5th chapter guys, Ilya is being killed and chokes as promised in the summary. The angst tag is loving its best life.

Chapter 5: It’s over now

Chapter Summary

Alone in a bathroom in Vegas again, Ioya Rozanov tries to deal with the reality he might have fumble the love of his life. Or whatever Amercians call it. He’s loosing his sweetheart.

Chapter Notes

I will make it next year

Ilya stares at the text like it’s a blood spat on pristine snow. Boston was kicked out of the playoffs a month ago, or so, and Ilya had waited all night. He drank his loss, he whined and complained with his team, they took turns blaming the ref, then each other. Ilya made a speech, half of it in Russian under the warrior cheers of his teammates.

He waited through it all. For a chirp, like last year, like every year when one of them makes it further into the playoffs than the other’s team. A quip about losers, gloating, and bickering over the game. 

He waited for Shane to tell him in detail how they lost, because Shane somehow could explain hockey to him — a professional player with a coach who chats Ilya’s ear off after every game — and Ilya found himself unable not take notes on Hollander’s remarks. 

He googles all the words, he takes the feedback and he goes to his coach with them, and those notes come back to training camp every time. Ilya loves it, the way Hollander pushes Ilya to be better. To play better, just to keep up with the Canadian. 

The pretty boy is not like Ilya. Hockey isn’t a job, it’s air. Ilya likes to watch him breathe, something about the way his awkward broad shoulders drop when hockey is brought into the conversation. It’s safe, for him. 

Rozanov thinks Hollander deserves a little safety in their whole thing.

He also thinks he deserves to get a fucking reply to his fucking texts. He grinds his teeth together, sitting on the toilet lid in one of the venue’s bathrooms while he tries to get his nerves under control, away from prying eyes. And Shane Hollander. 

It’s just Hollander. He’s made Hollander cry in bed like a baby, for fuck’ sake, he can’t be scared of him. But, it doesn’t feel like the same person. Ilya shuts off his phone, to soothe himself away from the proof he’s failing. Failing everywhere. 

He’s out of the game, he’s definitely not making MPV tonight, and his father is going to die. His father is going to die, soon. So Ilya picks up phone call after phone call and he swallows the weight of his responsibilities while he gives and gives to people who hate him. 

All he’s left with is a dying dad, an unfinished season and so much tension on his body he feels like he weighs a building when he skates. It’s not even fun, playing. It’s not fun, not like this. 

Ilya is supposed to have one thing, just for him. It’s supposed to be Shane Hollander. 

All his stress and his fears, and all his problems, he’s supposed to forget them when Shane blushes for him. When those freckles stand out over the pinkish colour, and his nose crunches up like an upset little kitten, Hollander is supposed to make Ilay’s brain melt and his body ache for bruised lips and a dotted chest. And the curl of a spine and curves of an ass Ilya has been obsessed with since 2013. Lies, it’s been longer than that. 

Ilya can’t remember the last time he slept with a man that wasn’t Shane. He remembers why he stopped, though. He can’t compare women to Shane, they’re too different. The way he is with them, them with him, and Shane, it’s not even the same world. But men, men he could compare. And they all fell short. 

Shane is too good, with his big brown eyes looking up at Ilya with this fucking pout that shoots into every nerve of the Russian’s body. He’s always so good for Ilya. Even when he bitches and complains, when he snarks and bites back at the blond’s every chirp, he will be good the second Ilya gets his hands on his beautiful body. 

He bets Shane’s men feel lucky with this beauty dropping on his knees for them. Effortlessly, they receive Shane Hollander’s perfection. He gives it to them. But Ilya, he had it first.

He had it first. 

Hollander wanted him first. 

It’s been months since he read that godawful text from Dallas Matthew. Who’s like Ilya and fucks Shane good, they have fun together. But he can’t do it like Ilya does, making Shane’s eyes roll back into his skull as he comes just for Ilya on his cock. 

Because Shane wanted him before everyone else. His body knows Ilya gives it the best. That’s why, even after the Canadian had found himself a man in most cities, he still comes to Ilya, he still texts Ilya about his games, and makes jokes about Scott Hunter with him. He still needs Ilya. 

Or maybe he doesn’t anymore. 

Maybe his men, from other cities, maybe they give him more than Ilya allows himself to give. Maybe they make him laugh, and he comes for them, whispering their first names so sweet. Maybe they touch Shane better now, maybe they all learned to have Shane fall apart for them, and now the old model, the first guy can be replaced. 

There will be a new Boston guy. Maybe there’s one already, Rozanov doesn’t know. He’s too scared to ask. He doesn’t want to know, he doesn’t want Shane to think he’s weird for asking about his other hookups. 

He doesn’t like thinking about Shane having someone else. 

Because what happens when he finds one of them better than the rest? When one starts taking over his mind the way Shane does Ilya’s? And if that man wants Hollander too, if he is capable of protecting Shane’s career, if he has nothing to risk in loving him? 

Shane will be gone. He’ll leave Ilya for good. 

And what does Rozanov have if he can’t even have Shane Hollander to look forward to? Will tonight be the last time? Will there even be a tonight? With the way Shane isn’t answering, Ilya doesn’t know.

“блядь.” He curses under his breath. He needs to get back on his seat, smile when the camera is pointed at him, and pray. 

He will just send his room number, and if Shane comes, Ilya will have his answer. And if he doesn’t. He’ll know too. That’s over. He’s not needed. 

Fuck, he’s going to be sick.

He stands up abruptly to stop himself from throwing up on his lap, and he makes his way back to the seats, the golden atmosphere crawling on his skin. He sits down next to Cliff, adjusting his tie.

“You good, Roz?” His teammate and friend asks when he sees the tightness in the Russian’s body.

“Stomach bug won’t win.” Ilya makes up a lie, forcing a grin. “I kill it with vodka.”

“You’re such a cliche.” Marlow rolls his eyes, patting his friend’s thigh and Ilya keeps it at that. He stares at the stage, burning through it as this year’s rookies take charge of the announcements.

He knows exactly where Hollander is. Three rows below with the rest of the Metros, in a midnight blue suit that fits him too well for the Russian’s health. Shane loves blue, the colour is soothing to him. He always fidgets with the sheets when they’re blue.

He’s been amazing this year, Ilya loved watching him on the ice. It was killing him, because Shane was visibly more at ease in his own skin, his smiles were almost genuine and the energy in him less rigid. Rozanov had wondered what gave his rival this ease. 

He had hated the answer, but he had been begrudgingly happy. Conflicting feelings, as always. He hated to know Shane was slipping away, that there were others, that he wasn’t the only dirty desire. But he couldn’t help but feel a little proud in the way Shane was finally facing himself in the mirror.

He is happy for Shane. He is happy when they call his name for MPV and the captain of the Metros stands up to grab his prize. Ilya’s heart squeezes with pride. Fuck, that’s the face of the NHL, and Ilya has kissed him a hundred times. 

“Thank you for this trophy, honestly I couldn’t be half the player I am without my teammates with me on the ice.” Shane starts and Ilya rolls his eyes with exaggeration. So boring, predictable. “And the opposing players challenging me to kick their asses.”

Here you go. Mister Comedian. 

“Of course, my manager and her assistant are also to be thanked, all the way in Ottawa. Love you, Mom and Dad.” Back to boring. Ilya is still smiling. At least one of them has proud, healthy parents. “And my friends outside the rink too, one of them even came here tonight, and I am very grateful for you, Noam.”

The camera points toward a guy. It’s a pop star. Ilya heard his songs hundreds of times in the lockers, on the radio, and at parties. Svetlana wants to see him in concert this year. He’s smiling at Shane, with a wink and blowing a kiss while people clap before the camera goes back to Hollander.

He looks happy. With a real smile. He looks at his trophy, Ilya can barely see anything anymore. “I’ll put this one next to my second Stanley Cup ring, I think. Go Metros!”

Boos and cheers shot at once, the Montreal team louder than anyone else. Ilya’s head is playing the singer’s face in a loop. The puzzle piece has fallen on his lap, but he refuses to look at it. He denies, denies, until they’re in the reception and he’s got a drink in his hand, a room away from Hollander and his friend. 

They’re fucking. Noam is one of them, the men. The ones that tasted what Ilya thirsts over days and nights, who touched where Ilya first laid his hands on. Who mapped what Ilya thought he had conquered for himself. 

Noam has his hands on Hollander all night long. A pull on his biceps to bring him close, an arm carelessly draped over his shoulders, a hand between his shoulder blades. Silent little claims Ilya couldn’t afford, couldn’t even dream of. All Ilya has is behind closed doors.

Had. All Ilya had. 

He is not a fool, he can understand simple messages. Or the lack of response to them, more specifically. Hollander doesn’t answer, Hollander doesn’t bring up Vegas, because he found a replacement. Someone who’s probably less of a mess than him, who doesn’t feel like sin, and who’s just more fun. Less of a headache. 

It was bound to happen. 

Ilya feels like he’s dying. He can hear little pieces of him shatter on the floor one by one, his heart in his throat. Because he’s in love, he loves all he had of Shane Hollander, but in trying to keep his heart from jumping at Shane’s feet, he lost Shane entirely. 

He’s on the rooftop before he knows it. Looking down at Las Vegas with bile in his throat. He’s scrolling on his phone, torturing himself with research on the American singer. Pretty singer, charming guy, tattooed, and with piercings. A tongue piercing. Fuck, he bets Shane loves that. Ilya likes it. 

He should get his tongue pierced. Maybe Hollander will try him again. 

“You got a lighter?” Someone asks. Ilya looks up. 

The stupid hot singer is looking back at him. 

Chapter End Notes

He’s going to crash out so bad.

Chapter 6: It’s always been you

Chapter Summary

Facing the person that stole Shane’s smiles and nights from Ilya, who touched what Ilya’s heart longs for, he can’t help but break.

Chapter Notes

Overwhelming support on this fic. That's why you all get treats and a story written in 3days. I am audhd with a deep knowledge of queerness (I am bi and I studied lit, art and sociology). I am a dopamine fueled machine. Thank you heated babes.

Ilya stares at the face of the stranger for what feels like an eternity. He is a beautiful man, the Russian isn't blind. He can see what Shane sees in him, but that's not why he is staring. He can't look away because Shane kisses that face, with his plump lips and his eager tongue. 

The blond can perfectly imagine how Hollander would kiss that man, with his eyes squeezed shut and the hunger of an animal starved for days. Wild, consuming, and so deliciously sweet. 

He can’t stop staring into the man’s eyes, because they’ve also seen what Shane looks like under his clothes. They saw the asymmetric patches of freckles on his shoulders, the sparse hair on his pelvis, the pink color of his asshole, and the dimples at the end of his back. 

His sorrow turned venomous in his mouth, a desperate kind of anger meant to hide bleeding wounds from a predator, it burns. If he were a beast, with fangs and claws, it’d jump on the singer and lodge its teeth in the throat and rip it off in a frenzy to protect something that's not his.

But he's not a beast. He attacks with the wits of men. With words. 

“I fuck him too.” 

Noam’s eyes open wide, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. “Whoa. That's an opening,” he laughs nervously. He blinks, looking at Ilya incredulously. Like he’s crazy. “The fuck are you on about, dude?”

“Hollander.” Ilya feels insane. No one knows about this and he lets it out, he grunts it behind his teeth but his mouth won’t shut up. “I fuck him too. I don't know why he brought you here because he's supposed to have sex with me tonight.”

Me. He’s supposed to be with me tonight. He hives, breathes hot, and muscles tighten with this desperation that makes him claw and cling to what little he has left of Hollander.

Meanwhile, the paramour seems to regain composure. “Is there a schedule I wasn’t aware of?” He is being arrogant, Ilya knows the tone.

“Of course. It's Hollander,” he snaps back, wanting to prove himself. Baring his teeth.

“Right.” The other man is not impressed, he crosses his arms. He doesn’t believe him. His eyes turn viscous, displeased with the primal barks that escape Ilya. “How come you're not on the list, then?”

“List?” 

The word tastes wrong in his mouth. There shouldn’t be a list in the first place, only Ilya. In the same way, there is only Hollander that matters.

“Of course, we’re talking about Shane,” the singer paraphrases him, baiting him on. Shane, he calls him Shane. Ilya’s lungs hurt like he’s drowning. “He’s got a sex spreadsheet, featuring the name of every partner and all he does with them, all he wants to try. The list next to my name is very long. Longer than the other guys, probably because my dick’s better. But I swear I didn’t see Ilya Rozanov anywhere on it.”

He didn’t make it to the list. “I was here before all of you,” he grumbles, voice quiet. “Go away. I was here first, those nights are for me.”

When the planets align, for a few hours, Shane Hollander is his. And Ilya tries to imprint himself in his bones as best as he can, and he can’t let this stranger take it away without a fight.

“Shane didn’t mention it, or you for that matter, when I asked if I could come here to fuck him as a reward.” Ilya fidgets with his nose, listening but unable to look at the thief. Flashes, behind every blink. 

He sees Hollander welcoming the singer the way he used to welcome Ilya. No, he’s probably sweeter to this man. He hates his want for Ilya. 

“Now, I know he’s got a threesome on the scoring board, but it feels unlikely he forgot to mention it. So check your schedule again.” 

“Is not funny.” Ilya grabs onto the rooftops’railing to prevent his legs from giving up under him. If he could make his brain stop picturing Hollander’s glossy eyes, if only. “Is not a fucking game. Nobody is laughing.”

“I think he’s trying to politely let you down, mate.”

“Shut up,” the hockey player pleads, voice weak. He shakes his head. Deny. Wrong, it’s wrong. It has to be wrong. “You do not know him, he would not. He is probably stressing over the entire situation, he’s like baby bird caught in fight or flight. He is in freeze mod. He hates unsaid things, makes him anxious.”

“Listen, I know our boy likes things direct, but—” 

Ilya’s fist hits the railing with force. It hurts him more than it hurts the metal bar. “He isn’t yours, you’re not special.”

“And you are?” The challenge is clear, Ilya knows, taunts are his specialty. And still, he jumps straight into it.

“Yes,” he affirms even when he doesn’t believe it. Maybe saying it out loud will make it true. He doesn’t care, he’s beyond rational thinking. “You wouldn’t know him if he didn’t know me.”

And doesn’t that hurt more than anything? Having something so precious slipping from his hands into another’s?

“I don’t understand why you’re so set on this, man.” Noam makes a face, throwing his hands up like Ilya is being absurd. It’s ridiculous, who would want Shane for themselves? “Aren’t you, like, a ladies’ man? Can you go out there and chat up a girl if you want to fuck so bad? I am not a big hockey dude—”

Ah. 

“So you and Shane would never work,” the Russian interrupts, shoulders falling with shaking relief. It’s Shane Hollander, the sport is his everything. Ilya, he always understands Shane and his hockey-centered mind. When Shane fumbles about his losses, picks apart his wins, until Ilya manages to make him forget words. 

This man doesn’t. Ilya does. He does. It has to matter. 

“It’s just sex,” Noam clarifies and it still rips Ilya from the inside out but at least it’s not love. It’s not as deep as Ilya’s bound to Shane’s every whim. “We’re buds, but he’s not the love of my life or anything. It’s casual.”

“It’s not.” Ilya murmurs, remembering a day when he was still convinced it could have been anything else but this intense fire. “Just sex. It’s not. For me, it's important.”

“Oh.” It’s almost soft. The shift has Ilya looking at him with curiosity. “Does he know that?”

“No.” He shakes his head. He never shows, it’s too dangerous. What if Shane doesn’t feel the same? What if it makes things more impossible than they are already? What if Shane feels the same? How could Ilya deny it, how could he hide his heart if he lets it jump to Hollander with every glance? “That’s why you are here. He doesn’t know. He wouldn’t hurt me like that if he did. He’s a good man.”

He’s the loveliest. He’s neurotic, he’s a sore loser, he’s an impeccable player, he’s the most awkward person on earth and the most competitive man Ilya has ever met since his reflection. He’s sweet, he’s soft, so beautiful. 

“Fucking gay drama.” The singer sighs as it costs him money. He runs a hand over his face, and Ilya doesn’t know what he’ll do. “Okay, I have a deal for you, lover boy Rozanov. You give me a lighter, and I give you his room number. He left already. ” he pauses, carefully, like Ilya is a bomb. “I am supposed to meet him in a few.”

To fuck. It’s left unsaid. But he can picture it, the flush on Shane’s cheeks as he walks to the lobby, the thrill of being naughty and sexy. But the Russian doesn’t explode.

“You won’t.”

“No.” Ilya nods like he had any said in that. He’s glad, he’s sick. He hopes Shane won’t hate him for ruining his night. “He’s been weirdly tense all night. I thought it was because he was in a hurry to get to the fun part, but clearly it was about you. I can’t let him hurt himself like that, as a friend.”

Ilya’s gaze is lethal. He can’t help it. This man doesn’t worship Shane enough for Ilya to forgive his hands on the other player’s perfect body. “You look like you’ll throw yourself or me off that balcony if I make a single step inside.” 

He just might. His entire body is shaking with need, the need to find Hollander and kneel at his feet to bargain. To confess his ugly feelings in a last attempt to have something to take with him if this is truly the end. 

He slips his lighter into the singer’s hand, then he is gone. Words play in his head, sentences he wants to tell Shane, like prose, but they are all in Russian. His English isn’t good enough to say everything, to convince him to keep Ilya. 

He’s lost, fighting his tongue, and before long, he’s in front of room 1306. He knocks, and he pretends his heart isn’t pounding against his ribs. He should get checked. 

“Rozanov?”

Shane. Beautiful Shane Hollander, just a few feet away from him. He looks confused, he looks soft like silk. His pretty brow is frowning at Ilya and he loves him. He loves him. 

He has his hands on Hollander’s cheeks before he can think, and their lips crash together like the sea hits the shore. He almost breaks the kiss, whimpering with relief when Shane’s body melts into him with familiarity, he’s like a wounded domesticated beast getting petted by its owner after so long. 

The door clicks shut behind them while Ilya presses him against the nearest wall. Yes, yes, just like that. It’s meant to be this way. 

Their tongues meet for the thousandth time, exploring what they know, losing themselves in the heat shared by their mouth and Ilya can only think of him. Shane, Shane, beautiful Shane. 

“Roz—” Shane speaks, but Ilya kisses him quiet. Still, his hands push on the blond’s shoulders until their lips part. “Rozanov, we can’t. I am waiting for someone else.” 

It’s like Ilya turned into a large rusted vase, he’s been standing under the rain for years and years, and slowly water rose inside him. He doesn’t overflow, he’s already at the brink and Shane’s rejection isn’t the final drop. It’s a kick. It shatters the rusted material, gutting him until he floods the ground around him. 

“No, please, do not make me leave. Please.” Ilya doesn’t realise his shaking, he doesn’t acknowledge that Shane’s sweet face is blurred as he speaks. “Please, Hollander, do not leave me. Please.” 

He’s crying. Wet ugly tears, and has to hide. He falls to his knees, and his arms wrap themself around Shane as he pleads for mercy. 

“I do anything, anything you want. I be better. I can learn new tricks, I will. For you, anything. You want tongue piercing? I go get it tomorrow. I can get others too. Anything. Please, I can still make you feel good—”

He chokes on his own sob, hiding his face against the Canadian’s thighs. “Tell me what to do so you keep me? No replacement, please, I can do it. I won’t ask for anything more. I—”

“Rozanov, what are you talking about?” Shane’s hands rest on top of his head, knotted in his hair, trying to pull him out of his legs but Ilya will be buried here. It’s where he belongs.

“You’re leaving me.” He mumbles against the skin, the hard muscles under his lips so familiar. How many kisses did he leave here? Too many to count. “You’re letting me go.”

But Ilya can’t be that merciful.

“I can’t do this, I am sorry.” Shane’s voice is shaking, raw like a held-back scream. “Rozanov, please.”

He tries to kick Ilya off him, but like a panicked creature, Ilya holds on harder. 

“No, no. Stay, stay.” He trembles with the force of his demand, feeling mad with pure unfiltered despair. He pleads, he begs, he bargains. “I promise I will be good. I am sorry, I don’t know what I did but I am sorry. I am too much, I am complicated but please. It hurts. I am begging. Don’t ignore me. Keep my body, keep using me, I need it.”

He’ll give whatever Shane will take, he’ll become whatever Shane wants. He just wants to be kept, he just wants to stay under his fingertips. There, Ilya can feel his heart. 

“This is insane.” Shane is whispering, and under Ilya’s grip, he’s shivering. When the Russian looks up at him, his beautiful eyes are filled with unshed tears. Ilya is a monster for the pain on this pretty face. “I am trying here, Ilya, but it’s hurting me too.”

A cruel, godless monster. “I am sorry, no, I don’t want to.” He would never, never. Hurting Shane is the high of sins. “You should only feel good.”

He means it, so much so that it hurts him in his lungs.

“Don’t say things like that.” Shane shakes his head violently, and soon, he’s sinking to the ground. Ilya catches him, of course, he does. He eases him on the floor, settles himself between his thighs. “Don’t. Fuck. That’s why this can’t work. I can’t be casual with you. You drive me fucking crazy.”

But his arms wrap themselves around Ilya’s shoulders, nails clawing on his expensive suit. The blond doesn’t miss his chance, clinging just as hard, nose hurried in a dotted neck.

“Me too, me too.” He speaks as he kisses him there. “Is your fault. You give your beautiful smile to others, and I go crazy. It’s mine, Shane, it’s mine.”

He’s squeezing Hollander so tightly he is afraid the Canadian’s bones might break. He is almost certain they do when Shane lets out a wounded cry.

“You don’t mean that,” he accuses. “Why do you say that? Don’t make fun of me. You’re being mean.” 

Ilya pulls back, letting go only to cup Shane’s pretty face again. Softer, gentler this time. His thumbs brush the tears that fall from the brunette’s lashes. 

“Beautiful Shane, no cry. Sweetheart, don't cry.” He kisses him on each cheek, tearing whimpers from Shane’s throat. “I am sorry.”

Bruised lips wobble with emotions. “I like you, Ilya. I like you so much.” Fucking puppy eyes stare into his soul, the broken pout ripping out his heart. It’s more than what Ilya deserves, it’s so horrible for Shane. “Do you…”

“I can’t say it.” Ilya murmurs, going down for a kiss only for Shane to try and fight him, like a kitten scratching to free himself. Rejected, flying the scenes. Ilya holds down. “No, no, wait. I…Russia, Shane, I need to go back home, Shane.”

The Canadian stops moving, letting Ilya guide him back against him. They rock together, soothing both of them. “I have my father, he’s sick. Someone has to give him a funeral. It’s me. He dies, I should be in Russia now, but I am here. He dies, and I am here. But I have to go back. I can’t go back if I have you.” 

Я люблю тебя. Я люблю тебя. Я люблю тебя.

Ya lyublyu tebya. Ya lyublyu tebya. Ya lyublyu tebya.

“I am so sorry about your father,” Shane swallows his sobs, giving Ilya a gentle kiss.

“I can’t lose you,” the Boston player confesses, forehead against forehead. “You’re my good thing. Don’t let me lose you.”

“Ilya…” He feels more than he sees Shane’s head shaking. Refusing. “I can’t.”

“Please.” Even if it’s a lie, he needs Shane to let him pretend. 

“What do you want? You want me to wait patiently for our games while you occupy yourself with other women again just because you’re a mess? I won’t.” It’s almost a shout, it’s a scream nonetheless and Shane bites with it. Then he falls back, his face twisted in remorse. “Sorry, fuck, that was so mean. I am sorry.”

Ilya doesn’t care. 

“No other.” He promises. That’s the only promise he can make. “I won’t do others. Not if it hurts you, you’re the most important. It’s you, always you. Do you understand?”

Я люблю тебя. Я люблю тебя. Я люблю тебя.

Ya lyublyu tebya. Ya lyublyu tebya. Ya lyublyu tebya.

“We will figure it out, yes? Please, wait for me.” He demands, balancing on a rope about to snap. 

“Okay.” Shane lets out softly without missing a beat. 

Ilya goes boneless, melting over Shane until they’re an undistinguishable pile on the floor. “Okay?” He can’t believe it.

“Okay.” Shane is kind enough to repeat. 

Ilya is smart enough to be grateful. “Thank you.”

For a long moment, they hold each other. Waiting for their embrace to pull them back into shape, pieces lost in a mix being painfully put together again. It’s a tender thing, however. Ilya wants it to last forever.

Then a particular notification sound from one particular application echoes from Shane’s nightstand.

“I should delete this, right?” He quips with embarrassment under Ilya’s suffocating embrace.

“Please, I will die.” He means it, he’s not letting his Shane slip away again. “You won’t need it anymore. I am here now.”

“Good,” Shane sighs with a kiss on his temple. “I like you here. I like you.”

One day, Ilya will be brave enough to say it back. It will be the middle of the night, and Shane will be perfect, and Ilya will be so in love and so loved he won’t be able to keep it to himself.

Я люблю тебя. Ya lyublyu tebya.

Chapter End Notes

They make out through the all stars game together. The conversation on the phone still happens.

Noam starts dating Rose Landry, and while Shane is filming an ad in LA they meet for coffee with Noam and they become super good friends.

Ilya turns off the radio when Noam’s songs play on the way to the cottage. He never gets his lighter back but it’s okay he barely smokes anymore.

Ilya never suggests to marry Svetlana because Shane can get his roster back on any minute now. He’s the it girl of gay world.

Chapter 7: [a bonus] It’s just a Goggle Doc

Chapter Summary

This year’s Stanley Cup champions and hockey’s favorite couple are still under the influence on their wild celebrations when a sore subject from the past is brought up into the conversation.

Chapter Notes

Ilya went to therapy and he’s on his meds, fear not.

The Stanley Cup is shining on their kitchen counter. And Ilya is pretty sure he’s still drunk from the celebrations because he is feeling way too good for the litres of alcohol he poisoned himself with. They partied like the night would never end, the entire town with them it seems. 

He can’t remember half of it. He’s lost a shoe and his shirt somewhere during the night and he’s got CAPTAIN ASS written on his cheek — if he’s actually looking correctly at his reflection on their toilet’s mirror, but he’s not entirely sure — and he’s pretty certain he’s got a tattoo on the back of his neck. 

Tomorrow, his husband and him will be on their way to their cottage, deep in the forest, hidden from everyone, and where Ilya will have to nurse his hangover for the next few days and try to regret last evening. He won’t, nothing can tear down the high of holding the Cup again.

We can’t all be Shane Hollander, with almost a fist full of championship rings. 

Fuck. His husband, fuck. Ilya fucking scored with that one, and he is ever so grateful he got his hands on Hollander first and was able to call dibs on it because fuck. What a beast. What a legend. Ilya, in begrudging and painfully honest admission, had married the best player this game ever had. 

His sweetheart had run this game like a battlefield, charging in like a rocket and teeth grinding on his mouthpiece. It’s been their season, both of them working like a well-oiled machine, two bodies for one mind. But Shane had been something else on Ottawa’s rink yesterday afternoon. 

He scored that winning goal by batting the puck over the sticks of LA's defense, with Haas receiving it on the other side only to give it back to Shane from between said defense’s skates before it went straight to the net’s top corner. 

Downright insolent with his shot accuracy and speed. He had the nerve to grin at the goalie, and Ilya had thrown himself on him as the horn reminded the arena that his husband was the hottest fucker to ever to touch the ice. 

Now, when Ilya steps out of the downstairs restroom, his winner is on their couch in nothing but his wedding ring and whitey tidies that make his thighs look sinful gigantic, and his cock in need of saving. But Shane is busy slowly blinking at the ceiling and Ilya doesn’t want to interrupt him.

“Babe.” Shane does the honour of starting the conversation. “Why does my belly hurt?”

Ilya yawns before he answers, not forgetting to take an appreciative look at his beloved’s sculptured body. He notices something new nesting on Shane’s belly button, and he can’t hide his wonder as he hurries to his husband’s side.

“You have a piercing!” He giggles because that’s such a ridiculous thing. Good little Canadian boy Shane Hollander, the responsible boring drinker and driver, got fucked up enough to make regrettable impulsive alterations to his body. 

At least it wasn’t the tattoo of a dick or something. It’s a little shiny jewel, probably not a real diamond because it’s way too bright under the dimmed living room’s light, but it’s shaped like a heart and Ilya is sound of mind enough not to kiss an infection on it. It’s a close call.

“What?” Shane is less delighted, flexing his abdomen to glare down at his belly button like it betrayed him before falling back against the cushion. “I am never drinking Moscow Mules again.”

Ilya moves Shane’s pretty head, lifting his upper body just enough to slip under it and rest his husband on his lap. He doesn’t waste much time before using a hand to roam over his man’s body, from firm pecs to the hard place of his stomach until the edge of the tiny hole where he used to hold his mother. 

“It’s very hot, don’t worry,” the Russian promises, entirely lost to Shane’s brown eyes. His other hand is making a mess of Shane’s drying hair, scraping his scalp to witness the happy sigh that comes with the stimulation.

Such a sensitive man. So many buttons to touch, tease, scratch. Ilya rejoices in playing Shane’s body the way musicians treat their instruments, with dedication and thorough learning turned second nature. 

“Yeah, piercings are hot,” Shane mumbles, turning his head to brush his nose against Ilya’s crotch. 

The blond never made the comment, but at times, Shane treats his privates like kids do plush toys, and it’s ridiculously endearing, a tad weird, and you’ll never hear Ilya complain about it. 

And he would let himself melt over Shane’s quirks and mechanics, but there is an annoying little voice that took Shane’s innocent and drunk comment and made a particularly annoying observation. 

Ilya does not have piercings. 

“Did you know some people get piercing loops on their tits so people can pull on them during sex? The body stretches and the pain gets them going or something.” His little nerd of a husband informs him, talking toward Ilya’s dick. 

“How do you know that?” 

Over their years together they have tried lots of things in bed, Shane carefully studying everything that mildly interests him before bringing them up to Ilya over dinner and daring to be surprised every time Ilya has to interrupt the meal to deal with his hard-on.

Ilya is pretty much up for anything Shane wants in bed. His purpose in life is to satisfy Shane in every aspect of their lives. Sex, marriage, ice, family. Shane wants, Shane gets in a ridiculously short delay if Ilya can help it.

“BDSM research notes. It’s in my spreadsheet,” Shane slurs in the comfort of his emotional support genitals, eyes barely blinking as he drifts. He’s melting, like a sweet buttery thing.

Ilya is rigid, like a pillar. He’s a rigid body lost at war, haunted by the horror of one conversation with a leech he can’t get rid of to this day. “The sex document? With all your…flings?”

Flings is a word. Ilya wants to say ‘fucking bastards that touched what doesn’t belong to them because Ilya was a stuck and scared idiot’. But flings is shorter and a little less aggressive. 

“I am not supposed to bring it up, I don’t want to make my husband mad,” his sweetheart murmurs from the space between sleep and reality. He looks incredibly soft, while said husband's eyes are dry with intensity. “But it was very well made, you know. It was color-coded.” 

Sometimes, Ilya is taken by the urge to crawl into Shane’s soul. He wants to press, crush their bodies together in the hopes they spontaneously sink into one another and can’t ever be pulled apart. It’s one of those times. 

Usually, he’d deal with the urge by shoving his cock far up Shane’s ass until his little toes curl and his claws rip open Ilya’s back and forearms as he comes. But, even if sex is a topic, it isn’t the tone. 

He settled for a kiss on the side of the prettiest face on earth. 

“Did you ever show your husband the spreadsheet?” He knows the answer, obviously, but he wants to know why. What Shane thinks of him, what Shane has to hide. 

He’s torturing himself a little but he wants to know everything about his beautiful man. Even the part that makes something deep in his bones burn with regret and envy. 

“No, I don’t want him to be jealous and sad,” the other man explains with a soft frown, turning his head away before his face softens. “He’s a jealous man.”

“Yeah?” Yeah. He denies and denies it, but those brown eyes are his. It’s primal, this claim he has. He feels a little embarrassed about it, because Shane is the only one he’s ever felt this for, but then again. He’s only ever loved Shane.

The entire time.

“Oh, Ilya! It’s you!” Shane exclaims with surprise, raising a hand to slap it against his husband's cheek. Ouch. “I am really drunk.”

“I know,” Ilya smiles, taking his hand off Shane’s belly to press their wedding rings together over his cheek. “Show me.”

“My liver?” His beloved blinks with confusion and concern. 

“No, Shane,” the Russian sighs, the shadow of a laugh in his voice. “The Google document. I want to see it.”

“You won’t like it.” Shane shakes his head, but Ilya is serious. He stands up and Shane grabs onto his clothes and almost falls off the couch. His husband catches him.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide this from me, it’s not bad,” he argues, maybe too drunk to remember that he’s a very emotional person and he can put his money where his mouth is when it comes to Shane. He’s crazy over this man. “Those experiences, they are part of you, yes? Like my experiences.”

Ilya was a whore, and he prides himself on being progressive and fair. He can’t be mad at Shane for having other people while he was fucking his childhood trauma and Hollander-shaped complications into half of the East Coast’s female population.

“Well, yes,” Shane agrees with a grimace as Ilya leaves him to pick up his MacBook, which he left on a shelf. “I mean, it mostly started because I wanted to prove I could totally get over you, but that didn’t work so I changed angles.”

The Canadian groans when Ilya smiles with gloating pride. “I am unforgettable.” 

He has Shane woven into his bone marrow.

“I know.” The pretty man rolls his eyes, clearly endeared. “You were keeping my heart hostage.”

That’s dramatic, Ilya loves it. He puts the laptop on Shane's lap before pressing his hand over Shane’s heartbeat. Mine. He pats it, then sits down. Hollander lets him be weird. 

“It was nice, though. To have sex without feeling like I was going to choke every time it was over.” Ilya feels like crying suddenly, and he will say it’s the alcohol. Shane kisses his shoulder. “I realised it wasn’t so scary to be gay when you weren’t putting your heart on the line, but sex was still a little scary. So I did some research.”

“Okay.” He knows his husband. He can imagine Shane doing hours of research, taking notes on a little pad before sighing and opening a virgin document. He might have stretched, popping his spine just right, and dived in with abandon. 

“Then, I experimented.” That part might be a little hard on Ilya. But he must remember that ultimately, Shane is wearing a ring with ROZANOV engraved inside it. “If it matters so much, I will show you, but I don’t want you to be mad.”

“Sweetheart, I am sad this wasn’t me, but I can’t be mad at you for trying stuff out.” It would be ridiculous, unfair, petty, and ugly things Ilya doesn't want to be. But he’s just a man, and he’s not perfect. 

Thankfully, Shane knows that. “Okay,” he decides. He turns, looking very serious. “I love you. So please don’t force yourself if it makes you feel bad. We won a fucking Stanley Cup, baby, don’t get high and low on me.”

Ilya nods, a promise, and then he hides his face into Shane’s neck while his husband opens his laptop and goes searching for his Sex Google Doc, and it’s more pages than Ilya thought there would be.

There are charts, multiples, with very detailed stuff. Sensations, tools, expectations. Describing what interested Shane, the practical and impractical advantages. And reviews.

“Did you do all that? Jesus fuck.” Ilya swallows, wondering, imagining Shane in all sorts of positions. Ropes, toys, restraints, painted, covered in cum that’s not Ilya’s. He feels like an unexciting cuck. “Fuck. That’s— You tried all of that?”

“No.” Ilya is thanking god, irrationally, then Shane scrolls, circling the arrow around three long lists. “Just the one in these three columns. The rest is just research and planning.”

It’s still a lot of stuff. Stuff he didn’t like, stuff he found nice, stuff he loved. Piercings were mentioned. The edge of his vision is shaking, terrible English words dancing on the screen. He scrolls down. 

“That’s their names?” He points at a list. The list Ilya wasn’t featured on. Only six regulars, one hookup in Tampa with no name. 

“You can try to find those guys, Ilya. They’re innocent men, they didn’t know about you.” Shane warns him, covering the list with his hand as if it will rip the image from Ilya’s head. 

“They don’t look innocent with what you let them do to you.” He grinds his teeth toward Noam’s name, at the top of the list. With so much text next to it. “I fucking hate this fucker. Fuck, what do you mean he made you wear panties before I did!? Shane!”

He turns to his husband with visceral jealousy, heart beating like a drum. Shane is red as a tomato, and Ilya bet he looked as adorable in lace little panties for Noam. 

“I was trying stuff, Ilya,” he defends himself, voice all pitched as he snaps the laptop shut over Ilya’s fingers.

“But you’re my Jane!” The Russian protests. “I named girl you! This—” He tries to open up the MacBook again but Shane is on his feet, taking it with him.

“Okay, enough sex spreadsheet for you.” He points a finger full of warning at Ilya. “Sir, you are my husband.” 

He shows off his wedding ring to Ilya like he didn’t place it there himself. “It’s been years, babe. I am your husband. I wear your ring and I am pretty sure you got my number tattooed on you neck right now.”

“I do?”

“On your neck.” Shane points at it. And Ilya finally acknowledges the dull ache there, and a little cellophane protection over a small bruise at his nape. “I saw it when you got the laptop. It’s pretty hot.”

Shane is looking intense, even if he is wobbling on his legs with the vodka and the ginger beer. They will probably fuck about it in the following days. And the days after. 

For now, they couldn’t and Ilya was grumbling. “I bet you’d think that after Dallas Matthew and his jersey.”

Ilya had him wear his jersey, parading around the house like a puck bunny eager to bounce on his cock. The Canadian had been a brat, the Russian loved every moment of it. Ilya had meant to return the favour, but now he wasn’t sure it would have the same spark.

“It’s different when it’s you,” Shane murmurs like he can read his husband’s mind. Many sports commentators and critics will tell you he does. “Ilya.”

“Sorry, I just—” He shakes his head, he was being dumb. He promised not to get upset and here he was, pouting. “I am just wondering why I am not in the list. We still were fucking.”

They didn’t really stop, ever. He knows. Shane can’t quit him, he can’t quit Shane. Very stubborn magnets. And Ilya knows he was special to Shane, that Shane didn’t put him on that list because they don’t matter but Ilya does.

And yet.

“Why did you never bring all you wanted to try to me? I mean I know it wasn’t easy but you always say you trusted me with your life even when you weren’t sure your heart was safe,” he brings his concerns, he is brave. He communicates, like his new therapist says. 

Shane sighs, taking in a breath. “What if you thought I was weird? Uhm? What if you weren’t into it or if you were into things I wasn’t? What if you didn’t talk to me anymore?” 

He rushes back to Ilya’s side, draping himself over his husband. The Canadian is welcomed with open and greedy arms. “I was scared. And I was trying things with people that were safe to lose. People I didn’t want a future with. And it was fun, but it wasn’t you.”

Ilya nods, digesting the words. 

“I have a spreadsheet about you. Only you,” Shane softly confesses in the curve of his neck while Ilya presses on a plastic texture between Shane’s shoulders. He pauses. Frozen. “I can send you the link, if you want. But it’s very long.”

“Fuck.” He curses. “I am sorry, Shane, but we won’t be kayaking for the next few days.” He is going to rail his husband until the sheets shift in textures with the sheer amount of sperm. “And we won’t be visiting your parents either.”

“I can live with that.” Shane smiles against his skin. “Ilya, do I have eighty-one tattooed on my back?”

It’s going to be a long summer for Shane’s asshole.

Chapter End Notes

Ilya can now express his jealousy by tapping that ass until it bruises and that’s growth yk. Shane is going to arrive to the charity camp with shaky fucking legs.

(GUYS NOTICE THE CROTCH SAFE SPACE SHANE ADDITION BC IT MATTERS TO ME IT'S ONE OF MY FAVOURITE THINGS ABOUT THEIR NON SEXUAL DOM/SUB INTIMACY IN THE SHOWWWWWW)

Chapter 8: [a bonus] It’s Cliff Marlow

Chapter Summary

All-Stars Games are an occasional for players to make a dream team, for friendships to bloom outside of the rink and for old friends to reunite. And for some, it’s an occasion to catch a glimpse of what truly goes on between Ottawa’s star players.

Chapter Notes

Outside PoV is fun.

Cliff Marlow is one of Boston’s top players, and he’s a season or two away from retirement, preferring to call it quits before his body gives out. He knows that, his team does as well, and the public is aware that his last moments on the ice are approaching. He’s not surprised to be invited to the All-Star Games in Pittsburgh. 

It’s no surprise either when he sees the two faces of the sport strolling into the hotel’s lobby with two suitcases and their gear bags thrown over their shoulders. Because of course Hollander and Rozanov would be there. 

They’re all the rage on the hockey side of the internet, and every other month the rest of the population catches up to the hype because of a red carpet appearance next to their celebrity friends, and Marlow’s feed is bombarded by thirst content of one or the two. 

It’s also a given that Hollander would be wearing the C of his team, the fans yearning for it after he took over Ottawa earlier this season while Ilya was out for a wrist injury. People remember who carried the old Metros to victory three times, and they want to see it again. 

No, Marlow is not surprised they are here. 

He’s just mildly in shock that they are together. Like together. In love. Which is crazy, he knows, because he saw that video of Ilya with his tongue down Shane’s throat like everyone else. The Raiders had it in a loop, trying to make sense of this. Their shit talker playboy of a former captain, in a relationship with Shane Hollander. 

Marlow is half-certain Roz took his virginity and Hollander imprinted on him so hard that Ilya was trapped in it. But the question remains, how did Roz find himself in a situation where he got to take Hollander’s virginity? 

Okay, the Canadian likes dudes and Rozanov is hot. And sure, of course, that fucker wouldn’t limit himself to deflouring only girls. Especially when it’s Shane Hollander, who despite being gay and married still has Cliff’s girlfriend taking particularly appreciative looks at his publicity spots.

It’s just. Okay, maybe they fucked. But, it’s like trying to reconcile the North and South poles. Match up the sun and the moon, night and day. 

Roz was a live fast, die hard type of dude. A city boy with a new girl on his arm for every outing, cars made to meet god and a freezer stuffed with more alcohol than food. He’s aggressive, mean, arrogant and any affection you feel for him is purely a side effect of his charisma. 

Hollander is the definition of a Canadian. Don’t get him wrong, Hollander is a great dude, he’s got former teammates of the guy on his team and they can’t say a single bad thing about him other than the fact he likes Ilya Rozanov’s dick. 

But that’s the thing, he’s as clean of a player as hockey got and except for their incredible skills, Cliff doesn’t understand what caught these two into a marriage. Let alone a solid one. 

Still, when Ilya waves at him and opens his arms for an embrace, the Raider goes in easily. “Still playing? How’s the back from carrying Boston without me?”

“Fuck you,” the man groans while pushing his old friend off. “You won’t have another win until I hang off the skates, asshole.”

“So next year?” The Russian grins. Tho, Marlow supposed that fucker is Canadian now. Got a passport alongside the ring. 

The original Canadian butts into their conversation at that moment, picking Ilya’s side with a stern expression that holds virtually no heat whatsoever. 

“You are the worst,” he scolds his husband, because they are married, and Ilya’s grin only widens even as Hollander turns to Marlow. “Sorry about him, but I am sure you know he’s a horrible winner.”

“Yes, so very horrible.” Rozanov cackles, wrapping an arm around the Asian-man’s waist before nudging his nose against a freckled cheek until the corner of Hollander’s lips lifts up in a terribly gooey smile. “Those lips aren’t very convincing, lyubimyy.”

“Fuck you,” he laughs while he pushes Roz’s face away. “You are insufferable.”

He is, Marlow agrees. Rozanov is a lot, he loves getting on people’s nerves and he knows how to bite down on what hurts. But, this weird display of peacock dancing is not something Cliff has ever seen from him. 

The couple isn’t very media-friendly, they mostly appear in the background of the Centaurs’ social media pages. In the rare moment when a kiss on the shoulder or any sign of affection is on display, the internet has it trending. Most of their appearances are separate or grouped with the rest of their teammates. 

Marlow never got a real glimpse of them other than chitchats with Ilya at events while Hollander and his mother were going around marketing and Roz was hiding.

Here, the Ottawa Captain is in pure display. He could hold a sign with the words ‘pay attention to me’ in neon pink and it would be more subtle than the hand he wraps around Hollander’s wrist to keep him close. 

Like Cliff’s step kid, Marcus, who pulled on his classmates’ ponytails last week and admitted to his mom he did it because he thought she was so cool with her glitter shoes.

The difference is that Ilya is married to the guy with the cool shoes — it’s a brand deal. He watches as Ilya devours every inch of Hollander with his eyes, while the other man either ignores him or doesn’t notice in favour of checking his watch.

“We should get to our room and eat, I have team practice at four and you have it at three, and we haven’t had lunch yet.” The brunette takes hold of his luggage, then Ilya’s, and makes his way to the elevator.

“See you on the ice, Marly.” Roz waves at him before trailing after Hollander to hurriedly open the elevator’s door for his husband. He preens when Shane thanks him. “Did you want to go out for lunch or do we get room service?”

“I think room service is a good idea, babe, there’s a burger on the menu I think you’d like and their chicken salad has great reviews for me,” Hollander suggested with arguments and Ilya nods in agreement before he’s even done talking. The couple walks into the elevator and Cliff Marlow watches as the Canadian grabs onto Roz’s belt buckle. “And this way we can stay naked longer.”

It’s not particularly loud, it’s not particularly quiet, but Hollander doesn’t seem to care. But Marlow is a gossip and there’s an assistant coach who holds the door open as he joins the couple inside.

“I like your way of thinking.” Marlow is unable to tune out Roz’s delight. But he can look away from the hungry expression on his face. “Such a shame we’re playing against each other, we’d make a good team.”

Ahaha. Funny. The Raider vividly remembers those fuckers running circles over them last time he played against Ottawa, and the fire they took online about being nothing without Roz had been something. As if Boston didn’t have to fight against fucking telepaths. 

At least, with the NHL and the public choice to put the couple against each other for old time's sake, Cliff might have a chance to get one win against Hollander this year, even if he’ll have to share it with the Centaurs’ captain. 

“You know I’ll have to win to reestablish my honour, yes? I’ll annihilate you, motherfucker.” The aggressive tone has Marlow looking back at them, and the poor assistant coach trying to drag his, and probably the main coach’s bag, into the cabin.

“I am sure you’ll try, mama.” Ilya flirts, nibbling at Hollander’s eyebrow. “Kakoy vrednyy tigr.”

His hands find his husband’s waist and Marlow has to admit that whatever or not he understands or ever finds out how this came to be, his old friend is very much happily married to his Montreal girl. She got broader shoulders than Cliff expected.

“Mama?” Hollander frowns, not catching the pass Ilya sends for once, until the puck drops. “Oh! I get it. That’s lame.”

“You love me,” Roz muses as the elevator finally frees Marlow from whatever this is. And the endeared smile the Raider catches of the former-Metro doesn't deny it.

“Yes, that's why I’ll still kiss you after you lose.” It manages to sound like a threat despite the heart eyes .

Marlow finds himself pretty glad no one cares about his relationship, he couldn’t imagine having to hide this much improbable love for as long as they did. 

He’s glad they can be gross in public, however disturbing it is. He also wishes to look this happy when he marries his girl. 

Chapter End Notes

You know that poor assistant coach almost choke on the sexual tension in that elevator. Pray for him.

* such a mean tiger (the Russian)

Chapter 9: [a bonus] It’s definitely kinky

Chapter Summary

Shane Hollander has been married long enough to know his husband will try anything Shane’s libido desires, but he thinks this one idea might become one of his favourites.

Chapter Notes

Shane ‘son of THE planner’ Hollander and his freak spirit teaming up to drool over Rozanov’s dick? Yes, of course. He’s a meticulous exhibitionist for his man.

Shane made plans for this. No one is surprised, and certainly not himself because plans are great. And it’s not like this one is risky, it’s just a setting to put in place and a good wording to work on. And he’s done this before, multiple times with more than satisfying results. 

He half-wonders if Ilya recognized the patterns Shane was setting, making them eat at the counter, face to face, instead of next to each other, after insisting on cooking with Ilya tonight. He likes to feel on equal ground when he wants to negotiate a sex thing. 

Negotiate is a big word, it’s mostly him doing the talking and the explaining while Ilya’s movements slow down and his pupils dilate until he starts slowly making his way to Shane’s side to lick his neck. 

As Shane said, satisfying results all the way. 

But tonight’s subject is a little more complex to put into work, and a little bit of an escalation from the usual additions of leather, toys and a variety of costumes, or badly acted role plays. 

It’s not Shane asking to be sensory-deprived, reduced to a hole for an entire night. It’s not even asking Ilya to let Shane warm his cock for a day, a night and wake the brunette with his thrusts. It’s not trying to stretch Shane as wide as he can get, or stuff a set of bids into his dick. All that is done behind multiple sets of doors and a gate, in a house just for them and only for Ilya’s eyes.

But, he thinks Ilya might like it. He weighed the pros and cons, worked out an idea of execution for this, well, experiment. Experience. It’s no play or scenes or whatever, though the safe word ‘Smoothie’ would be needed if it turns out Shane is about to bite more than he can chew. 

He certainly can chew a lot more than his husband right now, in the quiet setting of dinner while a reality show plays in the background. Ilya is inhaling his rice and shrimps like he’s been starving for days. But, he’s got a good grip on his chopsticks, so Shane will hold back from scolding him. 

“We have a joint event with Hunter’s non-profit next week, did you choose a suit yet or do you want me to help you with that?” He brings up the matter, innocently stuffing his mouth with shrimp. 

He watches his husband swallow a serving worth of food in one go before he sets down the chopsticks to wipe his mouth. He has rice at the corner of his lips, and Shane loves him so much.

“I bought a new one, it’s red. You’ll like it, my butt looks great in it.” Ilya smiles, winking at him in that unbearably sexy way of his. And Shane bites his tongue to hold back a dizzy smile.

He always found Ilya attractive, of course, since the first time they met. Ilya was hot as a young adult, and he’s hot now at thirty-one. Just, more. It’s a little hard on Shane, just how oppressively feral he feels over this man who's wearing his ring finger and his number on the neck. 

His face, caught in wrinkles, smile lines, and body hair year-round, makes Shane go crazy. He’s bigger, less tight on the shoulders, and overall, Ilya looks content. Settled. Sometimes, looking at Ilya feels like watching a sunset on the lake’s edge. It’s lazy, sensual, and comforting, it’s beautiful in a way that aches pleasantly in the bones.

“Your butt is always great to me, baby,” Shane affirms, looking up and down at the love of his life. Ilya grins widely. “I appreciate it every day.”

Shane attempts to go back to his food, but the blond knows him well, his wrists are caught and his gaze is held. He looks curious, expectant.

“And I appreciate your butt even more, tiger.” He sends back the compliment, rubbing soft circles on Hollander’s pulse. “What is it?”

“I looked at the guest lists, which I suppose you did not.” Shane can’t look him in the eyes, it’s a bit too much, but he can feel the disappointment in the unhappy sigh his husband lets out. The brunette isn’t talking as sexy as hoped.

He’d make up for that, hopefully, but he needed to prepare Ilya with care.

Hunter’s project is meant to support the queer community in professional sports, and while it’s very focused on the youth, its most vocal supporters are older players who felt empowered by Scott’s bravery. It’s one of the reasons the Foundation was participating. But, some of those guests, they’ve seen him very naked to put it simply.  

“It’s a lot of queer men who came out of the closet over the years,” Shane swallows, making wide eyes at Ilya. He gets wide eyes back, their telepathic bond not as perfect outside the ring. “I know some of them, Ilya.”

It’s a subtle, undeniable change. A twitch of his jaw and a scruff of his nose, displeased. Ilya has a terrible poker face, it took a minute for Shane to catch all the tells but by now, he has them all memorized. 

“Ah.” The line of the Captain’s shoulders grows rigid, like cement drying on the spot. “Shane.”

He can hear a dozen sentences behind his name. Possessive snarls and quips, irrational fear that Shane might want to spend the night sharing his company with them, and maybe, because Shane was clearly setting something up, maybe Ilya is scared the brunette might bring up his old flings into a conversation about their sex life.

He is. Just not in whatever horrifying scenarios playing behind Ilya’s eyes.

“Wait,” I warn him before he pops a blood vessel imagining things. I bring his wedding band to my lips, pressing my cheek into his scarred knuckles. “They don’t really matter to me, but I have been thinking about trying something with you—”

He tries to yank his hand back. 

“It’s not a threesome, I promise,” Shane soothes, laughing at the immediate effect it has on Ilya. “You’ll like it, I think. It’s a toy.”

“A toy.” He repeats. And now, his eyes are sparkling, which means he’s interested. That means he wants to give Shane everything he wants. 

God. Sometimes the power rushes into the center’s head, watching how Ilya Rozanov bends to his every whim with the same ease Shane finds in giving him the reins in bed. His blond was born to make Shane happy, and he could only hope he was giving at least a fraction of that joy back.

“Just, let me…” he trails off, leaving his seat to go to his office where he hid the box behind his boring hockey books. His library is the safest hiding spot when it comes to Shane’s English-repulsed and book-denier husband.

He goes back to the kitchen to find an impatient Ilya waiting at the foot of the stairs with the same expression as their dog, who is sitting by his ankles. “So?” 

He stops at the foot of the stairs, right in front of his man. “Well, that goes in my ass,” he starts, pulling a slick black plug with a heart-shaped jewelled base from behind his back. “It matches my stupid piercing.”

He holds it in front of Ilya’s face, and he delights in watching desire burn and soak his husband’s face all at once. He is proud of himself, even if his cheeks are red and his eyes are flying over blond curls to escape a gaze that demands to be answered.

“This goes in your hand,” he continues, taking a strong Russian hand in his to slip a remote control. He smiles as Ilya closes his hand on it, his pupils are wide and heated. They make Shane breathe slowly, his lungs taking in the sensation of being desired. “You can tuck it in your suit’s pocket.”

Lids close over those heated eyes, nostrils flare up. “Fuck.”

Shane is greedy, he wants to see his husband shatter. He runs a hand up his man’s broad chest, sneaking it to his jaw. Ilya’s face betrays him, red on his cheeks. So beautiful.

“Just imagine it, yes?” Shane prompts, his own voice flushed and full of want. He wets his lips, his eyes on Ilya’s. Fuck. “I walk around with this all night. My ass stretched and full, ready for the real thing whenever you want—”

He yelps when his husband's free hand locks itself on his waist, pulling him flush against the hard length trapped in his sweats. Shane’s mouth stays open too long, words weightless in the empty cavity. 

“Go on,” the blond encourages, taking the plug from Shane’s hand. 

“I’ll… I’ll be sensitive, I’ll be dying to get fucked, but you’ll be the only one to know what I want. The only one who can give it to me,” he draws out his words with difficulty, his hips moving in slow and needy movements against Ilya’s cock. The image of walking around in public just waiting to be bent over by Rozanov is flooding his veins with lust. “And if you think I get distracted, forget what I truly need, you remind me.”

Ilya growls, pressing the remote and pushing the plug under Shane’s balls from over his jeans. The brunette can’t prevent the needy sound that escapes him. 

“That’s a lot of power to give one guy in a room full of people who’ve heard you moan before,” Ilya warns him.

Shane knows, knows how possessive and impulsive his Captain can be. He knows Ilya likes to show off, to remind people that Shane married him, chose him, and he loves to remind people that Shane can’t get enough of him. Carnally, emotionally, desperately.

But Shane loves it. 

“Maybe they'll notice,” he suggests, hiding his face in Ilya’s neck as the low vibration of the toy sends shivers up and down his spine. “They’ll know how much of a slut I am for my husband’s cock.”

And he is, they’ve barely started and he’s drooling.

“You’re buttering me up, sweetheart?” Ilya asks, voice rough and full of pride. Shane can only nod, honest.

“Is it working?”

“I was done for the second you brought out the plug,” the blond purrs into Shane’s ear, licking the lobe. Their dog is rubbing herself on their legs, and Shane has half a mind to find it weird. “I think we should test your toy. So you’re prepared for next week. We wouldn’t want people noticing anything suspicious.” 

“Sounds smart,” he croaks before he’s being lifted up, plug digging into the flesh of his ass while Ilya carries him up the stairs. “No, Anya, you can’t come with us to the bedroom, girl.”

Ilya laughs, manoeuvres them inside their bedroom with a soft apology to the pet that whines behind it. Shane feels bad, until Ilya throws him on the bed and jumps behind him to seal their mouth together.

It’s tongue on tongue, heat on heat. It’s wet and long, and Shane’s eyes roll up behind his closed eyelids. Kissing Ilya is like drinking fire, with the taste of their dinner on his tongue and the eerie sensation of being consumed with his need.

Spit connects them still when they pull apart, and Ilya spreads it on the brunette’s skin with his tongue, flat and needy.

“How did you come up with the idea? Porn? Reddit threads? Or did  you have a sweet dream about getting your pretty ass pounded in front of an entire crowd and this is the closest thing to public indecency my prefect slut will allow himself?”

“Just want to always be full of you,” Shane admits while his shirt is being pulled up and thrown away without a care. “It’s the next best thing.”

Ilya moans, shamelessly and loud before going down on Shane’s chest. “Fuck. I love you.”

“I love you too, oh god, Ilya.” Lips close around his nipple and Shane is gone, a healing piercing flickering the bud as if to prove Ilya always does it better than anyone else ever could, ever will. 

Shane always knew it. It stopped being scary a long time ago.

Chapter End Notes

Ilya is pushing those buttons every time at attractive openly queer man looks at Shane a second to long. They have a quickie before, during and after.

Also that grey suit with the slutty glasses Hudson was wearing, that’s going to be that suit for Shane now. Idc. My brain can’t process the footage.

Chapter 10: [a bonus] it’s breathtaking

Chapter Summary

Ilya and Shane make good of their idea from last week. Ilya is in love every moment of their game, so much so even his lust says I love you.

Chapter Notes

Guys listen i got stomach flu and i keep passing out from the lack of fluids bc I keep throwing it up so i did my best. Also Noam is there.

New York, what the dreams are made of. Or something like that, Ilya isn’t sure and he doesn’t care to check if he’s correct. He is busy, dressed to the nines, with a little hockey stick pin symbolising his foundation attached to his custom-made suit. 

He’s avoiding well-meaning vultures who want to feel close to him by hearing him tell the tragic story behind his charity's name, and in exchange for reviving the old wound, they throw money at him and the people who need it more. 

Any other event, other day, he’d bite his tongue and give a one-line commentary, and maybe to some that seems less hungry for gossip and more so looking for closure, he’ll throw them a bone and tell them about how beautiful his mother was. But tonight isn’t the night.

Ilya can’t focus on socialite courtesy, his husband is sucking up all his attention in his custom Armani suit, and the barely recombed mess Ilya had made of his hair in the privacy of their hotel room. Shane looks like he’s floating, high the way people are on weed, and the blond’s inside curl with heated pride to be the source of that peaceful face. 

And he aches to watch it twist in pleasure again, desperate like he was promised. But for now, he contents himself with Shane’s breathtaking beauty while he’s doing the talking for the both of them. 

Ilya sips his champagne while Shane chats up some football players about the cities they overlap, hotels and monuments, and places to see. Wives hang to his every word, and Ilya feels them follow his hand when he brushes a strand behind Shane’s ear. 

“Thank you.” his beloved turns to give him a blissful smile.

“Of course,” he says easily, because taking care of Shane and noticing every detail of him is the easiest thing Ilya has ever been allowed to do. He lets his lips meet his husband’s temple. “You want drink, moya dusha? Champagne, cider? I think Scott said ginger ale would be at the bar for you.”

“Then that, yes, thank you,” Shane murmurs and leaves a kiss as delicate as a butterfly’s wing on Ilya’s cheek before he goes.

He’s grinning all the way, looking back at his pretty Canadian now and then, with an euphoria that hasn’t died in the years they’ve been together now. Years. And now, out in the open, Ilya still feels a rush of liquid joy burn into his bloodstream every time he can reach for Shane where eyes can see.

Maybe Shane feels something similar, maybe that’s why he was so eager to let Ilya show him off tonight. Show what he looks like when he’s fucked good and thoroughly with all the love a man can have for another.

“Roz!” A voice calls, and Ilya curses the sky. It’s divine punishment for all the skins he got under, that’s why he can’t escape this fucker and annihilate him out of his life. “Come on, man, at least pretend I don’t affect you anymore.”

“I told you, dickhead, you’re not my type. Leave me alone.” He slaps Noam’s hand away when the singer tries to rest it on his shoulder. The pop star rolls his eyes at him. 

God, Ilya hates him. 

“Dude, I am engaged,” Noam reminds him, his eyes searching for Rose Landry in the crowd. “You’re invited to the damn wedding, too.”

Yes, they’ve received the invitation. It’s courtesy, after all, Ilya had let Shane invite Rose and her boy toy to their wedding. They were friends. Noam had not made a single move on Shane since that night in Vegas, and except for chirps made to boil Ilya’s blood, he rarely references his time with the brunette. 

“Lucky me, a whole event about seeing you,” he sighs, turning his eyes away from the singer and directing them to the barman. “Ginger ale, please.”

“Listen, we had this conversation already,” Noam says, grabbing a cocktail when it's placed before him. “My girl imprinted on your boy, and vice-versa. Friendship at the first hockey gossip sess’, and now they’re besties for life. I know it’s hard for you to see better than you so often, but I promise I barely remember what Shane looks like naked. My girl looks better anyway.”

Ilya would not punch him. Rose Landry and her mediocre fiancé were very generous benefactors of the foundation and it’d look bad if Ilya were to throw his glass at his least favorite cash cow.

“Now don’t lie, no one forgets that kind of sight,” he grunts, and his eyes search for his clothed husband. He’s not with the football guys anymore. He slips a hand in his pocket, feeling the remote. “She is beautiful. She could do better than you.”

Knowing Shane as a little heart-shaped diamond peaking out of his ass under his pretty suit pants is really doing it for Ilya. And he’s impressed by Shane’s composure, except for the blissful look and a few hungry eyes, he’s been keeping composure. 

To be fair, Ilya hasn’t played with his remote since they got out of their Uber. He’s playing nice. For now.

“I’ll have you now I am on the running for sexiest man alive.” Noam retorts somewhere next to him. But Ilya’s eyes finally catch on to his beautiful man, there by the balcony's door. 

“Should I be impressed? My husband has been the sexiest man in the NHL every other year, now,” he brags but his eyebrow frowns. Shane is facing away, talking to some guy who looks fascinated by whatever Ilya’s boring husband is saying. Or simply really focused on his lips. “Who is that?”

“Don’t know.” Noam leans forward, positioning like a devil on Ilya’s shoulder as they both watch the guy hungrily bite his lip at Shane. “But, looks like this one didn’t forget what Shane looks like naked.”

“Fucking hell,” Ilya curses, and his thumb presses down on a random setting. He sees Shane back straighten, and he wonders if his husband let out a sound. Shane looks around, eyes searching for the source of his trouble, and Ilya thanks the barman before leaving with the drink.

Their eyes meet while Ilya walks up to the brunette, and a cruel smile paints on the blond’s face when he sees the struggle on Shane’s face. Always so sensitive. The muscles of his throat are tight, his jaw locked. 

“Ilya,” he says and it’s edging on pathetic. 

“Here, pretty boy.” Rozanov hands him his drink, and proceeds to grab him by his chin. Shane’s eyes are pleading, shining in that way that speaks too good and not enough all at once. Breathtaking. “Are you okay? Is this man bothering you?”

“I am okay,” Shane whispers, closing his eyes to ask for a kiss. Ilya delivers, lingering more than it’s appropriate in front of company. “This is Andrew Smith, he used to play Center Field for Philadelphia."

“Okay,” he answers.

“Eto beysbol, Ilyusha.” Shane laughs, Ilya pushes on another setting, and lets his husband’s head fall on his shoulder to hide the pleased crease of his brows. Over Shane’s hair, he seizes the baseball guy.

He’s not looking at Ilya, his eyes are on Shane’s ass. “Don’t look at someone’s husband like that, is very rude,” the blond calls out and snarls when the guy’s face morphs toward mortification.

“I am sorry, it’s just…I…we…” 

Shane pinches his side when Ilya changes the setting again. “Ilya.”

“He’s beautiful. No one more sexy and handsome, yes. I know.” He nods solemnly, watching the fling grumble in real time. “Fuck off, now.”

The man runs away, and Ilya settles his hands on Shane’s lower back. “The nerve of some people, uh? Being so horny in public.”

Shane doesn’t look at him as he takes large gulps of his drink, sweat running down his throat.

“You’re doing great. You can barely tell you’re being fucked right now. How hard is it to be quiet?” It’s hard for Ilya when Shane’s gaze finally turns to him. His lip is trembling as he bites into it, cheeks flushing and lashes pleading for some mercy while he tries his very best to control his breathing. 

“Look at you,” he whispers in utter awe. His hands cup those freckled cheeks with gentle care. “Fuck, Shane. Ty sobirayesh’sya plakat’?”

“Fuck you.” The Center groans, but it sounds like a muffled moan, and the Captain swallows down one of his own.

There are few things in the world Ilya loves more than watching Shane melt into his pleasure, he loves to watch and he loves to know Shane wants him to stop looking and start taking every time. 

“I know you want to,” he teases, brushing freckles. “Can you wait?” 

Shane’s face twists, conflicted between playing the game a little longer, facing the challenge and holding on, and simply giving himself up to Ilya. The kind of expression that makes Ilya’s cock pulse inside his pants. “I…I..”

“Roz! Holly!” It’s cruel of Ilya to smile at the despair and panic on Shane’s face when Scott Hunter and his husband approach them. He’s quick to scold his expression but Ilya can tell. “There you are.”

“Hello, Hunter.” Rozanov takes the hand offered to him, before bringing his friend into a hug. Scott is much better as a retired philanthropist. “How’s the family?”

“Everyone’s fine, last I checked.” Skip slips under his arms after he’s done exchanging pleasantries with Shane, then the retired player turns to the brunette. “Hello Shane, how are you?”

Scott is soft on Shane. Shane is always more respectful than Ilya to older players, now the retired ones, and they tend to bask in being admired and known by the best hockey player in the world. Ilya remembers holding his ribs, cackling as Shane was talking shit about the fossils. But, well, he’d never betray his bitch of a husband. 

“Great, we are great,” Shane nods tightly before adjusting his tie. “Hm, I’d stay longer but I have to go...toilet.”

He hands his drink to Ilya, who bottoms it because he’s certain Shane is not coming back for it. His husband disappears while the brownish liquid runs down Ilya’s throat in an unpleasant fizz. He truly prefers Coke, but anything for his beloved.

“He’s good?” Hunter asks, looking as Shane disappears toward the men’s bathroom.

Ilya couldn’t possibly tell him Shane was stretched around a plug vibrating against his prostate, cum stuffed inside him, and he was losing himself in his filthy need for another load. Shane would never forgive him.

“Just saw old lover and he’s flustered because they never forget him.” He twists the truth, making a displeased face as he remembers the stares. He saw a few of those high-profile buddies in person over the years, of course, three more precisely. 

Noam, that New York actor that Ilya used to like but now shits on, and now fuck ass Smith Whatever. All unpleasant experiences.

“How many famous guys did he…” Skip doesn’t finish his sentence as Scott judges him in the ribs. 

“I don’t know, too many for me,” he spats, not quite angry at Shane’s experience. More so greedy. Needy. God, he hates being jealous but Shane consumes him to his bones. “I am a hypocrite.”

He waits a few minutes, chatting with the couple for some more time before he allows himself to leave and go look for his poor husband. He waves at Hunter as he leaves, and enters the restroom slowly, like entering a lion’s den. A tiger, in his case.

“Shane.” He calls, not loud, looking at the few locked doors. Nothing. He can’t hear anything over some mediation podcast music. He pulls out his phone, instructing Shane to open the door. 

A minute later, a lock turns, but no one gets out. Ilya walks up to the last door, slowly, in case it’s a slow fucking stranger, but when his hand rests on the handle and he pulls slightly, he finds his Shane.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he coos at the tortured form of his great love. Shane curled on himself, a hand over his clothed cock and his legs spread over the lid, looking at Ilya over his lashes. His eyes are filled with tears and fire.

Rozanov locks the door behind them, taking a step forward before Shane’s hands latch onto his thighs and bring him close. A nose buries itself into the hard line of his cock, cheek flat on it. Shane breathes it like fresh air.

“Ilya, fuck,” he whines as a large hand rests on top of his pretty head, dumb with lust. “Please.”

“We slow down? We leave?” Ilya asks, assessing how much Shane can take before the game sours. But Shane shakes his head, pushing himself harder against the blond’s erection. 

“Let me suck you off,” he demands. “Please, fuck.”

“Lots of gay men out there, lyubimyy,” Ilya reminds him, scratching his scalp. “They’ll see it. Hungry sluts have a certain look.”

But it’s over already. Whatever Shane wants, Ilya can’t ever deny, let alone when it’s offering him the pleasure of this perfect mouth.

“Please,” Shane whispers, looking up at him with those eyes.

They’d leave right after, Ilya wouldn’t be able to endure a minute more with the barrier of clothes between them. “I am all yours,” he gives in, and Shane dares to look grateful. 

He bites down on his hand as lips wrap themselves around his head with expertise. Shane had studied his pleasure like nothing else, knowing Ilya like no one else, in such a way that even the filthiest of acts speaks his love. 

Ilya is the grateful one. Always. 

Chapter End Notes

*my soul (soulmate)
*it’s baseball, ilyusha
*are you going to cry?
Have to go nap so Shane’s cheeks are not getting slapped today. Sorry (no you’re not) Shane’s pink asshole deserves me at the top of my game. I hope you still like the soft dom hiding the service top here.

Maybe I’ll write wag Ilya hitting that. Who knows.
He’d killed it as a wag.

Chapter 11: [a bonus 1/2] It’s a varsity jacket

Chapter Summary

At 34, Ilya Rozanov shifts from center ice to standing by the side of the rink while his husband, who never smoke a day in his life or eat at McDonald’s for breakfast, keeps on his skates. But Ilya assures you, he can still keep up with his freak outside the arena.

Chapter Notes

Two parter bc somehow I can’t write mindless smut without context? Wtf is wrong with me

Ilya Rozanov is thirty-four, and he is not a hockey player anymore. His joints ache, age on his bones, and wrinkles are marking his face now. Smile lines are denting into his face, and sometimes he traces them in the mirror the way one would battle scars. Because he fought for them, to grow old and happy. He outgrew the ice rink and his ribs bruising against the boards.

He’s retired. He hung up the skates, untapped his stick, and his number is retired into the hall of fame as one of the best players in his generation. One of them.

Over the last few years, many of those who started at the eve of twenty-ten have said their goodbyes to the puck, many are to be remembered in those hockey books Shane loves so much. Ilya is already being approached by companies waiting for his memoir. But everyone knows, he knows, that the king sitting in that hall of fame is still working on the ice.

He’ll do it until his body gives out. And Ilya will be there to catch him.

“Mister Rozanov! Mister Rozanov!” The press shouts at him as he moves around the arena, passing the journalists’ spot for interviews.

None of the Centaurs is out of the lockers and the former captain is unfortunate enough to catch the vultures’ eyes.

“What does it feel to see your team qualify for the season’s finals without you? What are your thoughts on your husband’s leadership? Has your retirement changed things in your relationship?” The questions come all at once from different voices, cameras turning to him and microphones shoved to his face.

Ilya rolls his eyes, hard, as more noise deafens him. It’s not the first game is spent in the stands, supporting Ottawa and its gorgeous captain on a home game, and he had hoped the novelity would have died down.

He should have known, and perhaps it would have helped if he were a less involved spectator. Today was a hard-won game against the Raiders, to qualify for the Stanley Cup finals off all things, of course, Ilya was going to be under fire. Especially with the sheer amount of animalistic screams he let out from his seat in the family box.

The ref sucked, okay. And the Raiders’ defense was playing dirty as shit. And Haas was being the perfect student from the Hollander-Rozanov school, never missing Shane’s assists and baiting his adversaries. Ilya couldn’t possibly stay quietly seated.

“I am not paid to deal with you anymore,” he reminds the press, waving them off before attempting to walk away toward the damn locker room. “I am happy for the team, and I think everyone should always do what Hollander says.”

His husband runs this team the way he does their household, with genuine care and military discipline. And Ilya thinks it’s extremely attractive of him. He’d like to make the best of it before Shane and him fly off to Tampa tomorrow night for the finals.

“What about your life outside the rink?” Someone blatantly asks.

“You mean private life, yes?” Ilya runs to glare at the reporters before opening the door toward the hallway. “It’s private. Fuck off.”

He slips inside to find an aging head of familiar blond hair and a stupid smile wrapped in a tracksuit. Hazy in all his coach glory, retired from the sport two years earlier and still rocking the black and red.

“They’ve never interrogated me like that after I hung up the chest plates,” the former goalie jokes, wrapping an arm over Ilya’s shoulder before guiding him toward the team.

“Well you’re not me,” Ilya chirps with his typical asshole grin, who has long ceased to work on his seasoned teammates. They all know he’s full of shit, and they all remember lengthy monologues made by a drunk Ilya praising each and every single one of them. “and Lisa certainly isn’t Shane Hollander.”

Five Stanley Cups, a whole fist of rings. A legacy so impressive that the public refuses to compare upcoming players to his game, and all podcasts busying themselves ranking players and analysing stats have all decided to put Ilya’s husband in a category of his own. ‘Forgetting Shane Hollander’ they say, ‘Beside Hollander’ they sigh, ‘Of course, that excludes Hollander’ and Ilya laughs.

He loves Lisa, really. But Hazy can’t possibly understand what it’s like to be married to hockey royalty while standing behind the plexiglass.

“Ilya!” He hears as the coach and him peak inside the locker room, players in various states of dress. To the former captain's delight, Shane is still shirtless.

His belly button piercing winks at Rozanov before Hollander comes up to him for an embrace. Ilya goes willingly, wrapping his arms around Shane’s hardened body.

“There you are, sweetheart,” he mumbles into the crook of Shane’s neck, breathing in the dampness of his shower and the fresh soap. His hand crawls up the length of his husband’s back, stopping over the number nestled between his shoulders. “You played well, you and Haas did good with the rookie.”

Said rookie, named Sam Sanderson and an obvious Rozanov fanboy, blushes bright pink as he puts on his shirt.

“Thanks, fuck, I think I am starting to get used to looking for Lucas and not you,” Shane pouts, pulling away to cup Ilya’s cheeks before leaving a peck on his lips.

Ilya Rozanov wouldn’t lie and say he doesn’t miss leading the power play with Shane. He won’t lie and say he didn’t sit on the stand, watching Haas follow Shane across the ice, and didn’t think he could have done things better. No one reads Shane’s game like Ilya does, because he knows Shane like no one does.

But, and it leaves a little pinch of envy in his heart, Lucas Haas has been nothing short of the best this season, working himself to feel the gap left by Ilya’s retirement and managing to adapt to the new rookie’s game at the same time.

No one expected the team to go so far into the playoffs with the change of leadership and Ilya’s replacement. But they did, and the former captain is a little breathless with pride.

He thinks Shane feels much the same, turning to Haas with a grin. “He’s winning MPV this year, hopefully.”

Ilya hides his own smile in Shane’s hair. God, and to think for years he and Shane had the monopole on those awards. They are old. It doesn’t feel like a tragedy.

“Thanks, Cap.” Lucas scratches the back of his neck with embarrassment while the team cheers him on. “That means a lot.”

“Don’t thank me,” Shane warns him, leaving Ilya’s arm to go put on an unfortunate shirt. “In two seasons or so you are getting that C and all the headaches that come with it.”

Ilya cackles while Haas goes pale with Shane’s faith in him. Ilya takes mercy on the poor man, grabbing him by the shoulders. “Cheer up, boy, you are made for this. You learned everything we could teach you and you keep improving anyway. You’re going to lead this team to many, many playoffs.”

“Stop, stop it,” the young man whines while Shane slips away with Wyatt to deal with the press. Lucas puts a hand over his chest, breaths speeding up. “I am having heart palpitations.”

Ilya pats his cheek.

“We will watch you from home like proud parents, with our actual children.” Because they would have one, at least, before the start of next season. Ilya is working on it. “We will come see you win your first cup as Captain.”

He spends the following minutes trying to reassure the kid, who’s not much of a kid anymore, that he shouldn’t doubt he would be one of the sport’s greats. He is already.

By the time he’s done, Shane is back, looking drained by the media attention. “Let’s go,” Ilya says, grabbing his husband’s stuff and aiming for the door.

“Cap! You’re not staying to celebrate?” The rookie asks, arms around their goalie.

Shane shakes his head, to the disappointment of his team. “I am old, Sandy boy, I’ll postpone the partying to next week after we win our fucking Cup.”

At least that got out a fuse roaring and cheering. “And my WAG is feeling lonely. Gotta cheer my biggest fan up.”

“Happy wife, happy life, is that it, Cap?” Wyatt winks at Shane while Ilya drags him toward the exit. It’s something he’s told Ilya a million times when he cut back on parties to go spend the evenings with his anti-social husband.

“Fuck you, Hazy.” Ilya flips him off with a laugh. “Hope you fuck your wife half as good as I am gonna fuck my man tonight.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Roz!” He hears as Shane slaps him on the back of the head and Lucas promises that this is something he will never do as Captain.

In the parking lot, Ilya’s hand finds home in Shane’s back pocket, while they breathe in the air. It’s almost summer. That makes Ilya smile.

“Nice jacket you got on, by the way,” Shane whispers into the loud, cheerful night. “Where did you get one?”

Ilya is wearing a black varsity jacket, the red lettering of Shane’s last name bold and bright on the back over the number Ilya already has tattooed on his nape.

“Standard WAG tradition is customised exclusive merch,” Ilya explains, pulling off Shane to twirl on himself and show off what sweet arm candy he makes. “Yuna got it for me.”

“You wear it well,” Shane compliments, his eyes racking all over Ilya. “It’s a good look on you, being my cheerleader.”

“Oh, I know you are into it, sweetheart, don’t worry I still read our Google doc,” Ilya teases, faking a bite in front of Shane's face before pushing his husband against their car.

He clicks his tongue piercing against his teeth when Shane swallows forcefully, heat coming to his cheeks. “What do you say we go home and I turn Ottawa’s big strong captain into my cock sleeve?”

“Fucking kiss me,” Shane wails and Ilya is quick to shut him up with his tongue.

Chapter End Notes

Wag Ilya would be on social media as the biggest Hollander fan page but I can’t and won’t write a social media fic.

Chapter 12: [a bonus 2/2] A sweet future

Chapter Summary

Shane is happiest with his husband's hands on him, and most importantly, with his husband happy.

Chapter Notes

Emotional smut. Because that's hollanov.

There is no one that gets Shane Hollander going quite like his husband. No one that fires him up, drives him mad, stupid, and pushes him forward the way Ilya does. His husband is a challenge Shane can never refuse, in his career and in their private life, he is unable to resist the pull.

He wants to be the best, needs to be the best, in everything he sets his mind to. Hockey has his name written in bold letters over its history and Shane, for all it’s fucked and tainted on some pages, is proud. But fuck if he doesn’t feel overcome with pride every time Ilya’s eyes fall on him with so much need it feels like thirst from desert regions.

It’s in the way he’s held, like he’s gemstones made of flesh, both strong and precious, something to hold tight against the chest and feel blessed to possess. It’s in the way those eyes land on him, ravage him without touches or words, simply memorizing him again and again, a drag path on the mind.

It’s unforgettable, it’s unbearable. Shane finds himself helpless, grasping on smooth skin and muscles wounded with restrain, aching for a kiss. Sometimes he thinks Ilya might actually be one of those vampires from those movies Rose likes to reference in their texts, shiny and with a beauty made to lure in their prey.

It seems to be the only way to explain Shane’s inability to resist, his need to succumb to those triumphant smirks and those tempting pink lips. Because he’s just a man and Ilya is made of magic and beauty.

Or maybe, simply, probably, Shane and Ilya were born to match like puzzle pieces, meeting in a perfect fit no one else can compete with, custom-made to belong together. And the intensity of being whole and united hasn’t worn off since Tampa. Room 1410.

Maybe that’s why being separated, ripped apart by their choices, used to hurt like open-heart surgery without a competent anaesthesiologist. Maybe that’s why Shane never managed to forget him for a single moment, why he needs him so badly, why his life only feels right when those pink lips meet his.

“I love you so much, Ilyusha,” Shane groans as he nips at his husband’s lip, licking his teeth and diving tongue first when Ilya’s mouth falls open with a hungry sigh.

Hands gripping the back of Shane’s thighs, as skin-breaking as the brunette’s grasp on blond curls, Ilya stumbles into their house with the same energy he used to carry home their Stanley Cup. And Shane moans, because he knows Ilya would trade any wins of his career for an eternity of holding Shane in his arms.

“He loves me, yes? My good husband loves me,” Ilya purrs as pushes Shane against the wall leading up to their stairs, pressing himself against the hockey player’s hard on.

He’s mean with it, and Shane can’t help the noises that escape him. He can barely think as pleasure and pain flashes through.

Ilya laughs, not cruel but certainly not innocent. He licks the edge of Shane’s jaw, hums against his pulse like the Canadian is something to be savoured mindfully. “You’re my big strong provider, now, working so hard to pay the bills and feed the dog, and all the babies I want to have, yeah?”

He nips at the sensitive skin of the athlete’s neck, stealing a whimper out of him. “Tell me. I am a kept man, Hollander?”

“Yeah, yes, Ilya,” Shane agrees without thinking, slipping under whatever fantasy would keep his husband close to him, hips rocking lazily into Shane’s burning body. “Whatever you want. I’ll give you anything— touch me, please.”

It’s been weeks, two at least, since Shane got the chance to properly bask in Ilya’s touch and attention. Weeks since the last time he gave up his mind with absolute trust to the owner of his heart. Shane was done for before he was even touched. He’s been ruined from the moment he offered his hand to Ilya Rozanov and his lit up cigarette.

His only comfort is to know the blond fell too. He looks at Shane with drunk eyes, not a drop of ethanol in him. Like Shane is pure fuel to the fire in his soul.

It makes the brunette shiver as Rozanov adjusts his grip and takes him upstairs, ignoring the dog desperate to follow them. But poor Anya gets a look, then Shane is put to the ground. Only to allow Ilya the pleasure of pulling off his shirt.

Shane explores the revealed skin in a matter of seconds, tracing the mounds and the valleys of the body freed from performance. Ilya is raw, moving and shifting, evolving outside restrictions and discipline. Shane is trembling, shivering like an autumn leaf at his husband’s perfect body and the softening line of tension in them.

He touches, of course, squeezing where he can and rubbing the heel of his hands on every surface. He kisses, lunging lips first, on the plain of his throat, sucking. He could leave marks wherever he wishes now, professional decency out the window now that Ilya wears his name like a collar and lead he puts on himself.

“Sports cars? Designer clothes? A new puppy?” Ilya asks, trying to leave a print of his hands on the meat of Shane’s ass while he’s being smashed against their bedroom door.

Shane pulls himself away from the taste of cologne to come and stare at his favourite shade of blue. Veiled with lust, overwhelmed with the need for skin to skin, and glistening with a spark Shane recognises as sweet eternal love.

He cradles sharp cheekbones into his calloused hands. “Whatever makes you happy. I want you to be happy.” It sounds more like devotion than a horny confession.

Ilya blinks, fluttering away menacing tears. “I am happy,” he promises, turning his head to kiss into Shane’s palm. “You make me happy.”

Pride. The greatest achievement of Shane’s life, it is. He is a good husband, he makes the person he loves happy. Fuck. Shane is going to ride this man until his body gives out.

“That’s good,” he sobs, twisting the doorknob and hushing them inside fast enough to close the door on their sweet dog. He bounces on his blond like a wildcat, nails on scalp and mouth salivating. “Fuck, Ilya.”

It’s sloppy at best, Shane cannot stop moaning as his clothes are being peeled off, draped over a comforter. Ilya licks him up and down, guiding him to the bed until his lips are around Shane’s nipple.

His fucking tongue teases, flickering light and soft. Then harder, a metal weight dragging over the sensitive bud. “Fuck, oh motherfucker! Ilya…”

It’s torture, it’s too slow. He drags it on and Shane grabs and squirms until he is flat on his back, panting with his cock leaking on his stomach while Ilya humps the space under his ball.

“My good husband, you’ll keep me happy, yes?” Ilya whispers into his ear. And Shane nods, brain quiet but heart still loud. “You’ll give it to me then.”

“What? What do you want?”

“My first baby.” He kisses the brunette cheeks as delicate as a snowflake. Shane feels wrecked beyond any possible repair. “Wouldn’t I be great as a dad? You tell me all the time. Prove it and give me a baby to care for.”

It is typical of Ilya, to slow the heat of the moment to negotiate his hopes. Shane doesn’t mind, no. His body is suffocating, assaulted by the vision of Ilya with a child on his hips. Shane’s child. Both of them wear the number 24, his little family.

Coming home from an away game to kids toys scattered across the living room, maybe cries and maybe laughs. Kid’s snacks on his shelves, cartoons on his TV, and his husband.

“You would.” Shane is breathless. He is dying. “You’d be so great to our kids, they’ll love you so much.”

Ilya laughs softly, delighted at Shane’s reaction. Relieved maybe, like there was a chance Shane might not want to give Ilya the future they dreamed off for an eternity.

They meet for another kiss, moving across the bed until Ilya’s hand finds the lubricant. Then Shane is facing the mattress, his back drowned in kisses while fingers slowly play between his asscheeks.

“Pretty eye candy, staying at home taking care of your kids,” Ilya speaks against his shoulder blades. He moans when Shane fucks hi self back on his long, slick fingers. “What have you done to me, beloved?”

“Domesticated you,” Shane answers swiftly, fighting for his breaths. He licks his lips. “You let me.”

“I am easy for you,” the blond easily admits. “Fuck, Shane you’re so good like this, your hungry ass loosening up to take my cock.”

Shane feels good, great. He’s hungry, he’s melting, empty. “Please, oh god…I…” His tongue is heavy in his mouth, but he’s been trained to ask for what he wants. “Let me suck you off, just a bit, please.”

“You’re…” Unbelievable, insatiable. Desperate. Yes but Ilya loves it, Shane knows. He shifts, aligning his hips to Shane’s face, brown eyes staring at the angry shade of his tip. “Go on. Take what you need, it’s yours.”

Shane flips them around, acting fast. Ilya falls on the mattress with a sound, and breaks into a shout, moaning for the whole house, when Shane doesn’t give him a second before he’s on his cock.

He’s given up on technique, licking and sucks without a proper rhythm. He just wants to taste, to take his pleasure in tracing the length with his tongue. The salty taste of skin kept warm all day long. The weight of flesh, the pulse of blood.

“Shane, oh gospid…” Ilya reverts back to Russian, and Shane knows to pull off. Drool leaks around his mouth, threads dripping from his chin. Ilya watches in a daze. “Satisfied?”

“No.” The hockey player saddles over his former captain, staring him down without any real thought in his mind. “Yes?”

“Fuck, you destroy me,” Ilya whines, hands on strong thighs as Shane takes the still damp cock in hand and aligns it to his hole. “Hol…oh fuck.”

Shane eases himself down, breathing as his body takes his husband in. Ilya’s face is red, flushed from his roots,to his neck, veins fighting to break skin.

“It’s like seahorses,” Shane whispers as he bottoms out.

“What?” Ilya is confused.

“I am the one getting fucked but you’re going to carry my babies,” he explains, circling his hips to watch Ilya's mouth fall open. “Seahorses.”

“Oh my god, Hollander!” His husband groans, and ruins Shane's plans by flipping them around and burying himself into the brunette's ass with a snap of his hips. “I'll take such good care of your babies, I promise. Give me.”

He's rocking into Shane with abandon, lips everywhere and hands leaving their shape on his thighs.

Shane can only fight for air, sounds being fucked out of him, eyes rolling back as Ilya drills pleasure into him like a madman.

“So beautiful, Shane,” the former captain praises. “I'll make you a daddy, buy them little skates with your money.”

“Ilya!”

“Tell me you want it, tell me you want a family with me,” he demands, daring Shane to deny him.

He would never. “You– always…yes.”

He feels his pleasure curling around his spine, a hand coming to his neck to press on his airways. His mouth falls open and Ilya spits in it.

“I love you.” Ilya gasps before smashing their lips together.

Shane is in fucking heaven. He comes shaking. Fucking hand free, to Ilya's pleasure. Thick ropes of come spurt out of him, his ass tightening around Ilya like a vice.

He watches, vision blurred, as his husband pulls back to watch where they connect. In, out, in, out.

Shane is bordering on too much when Ilya folds around him, teeth digging into a freckled neck before spilling with a lewd whimper.

He falls, limp, grounding Shane with his weight. Slowly, then come back over the water, coming down from the high with lazy ease.

“I’ll look up IVF tomorrow?” Shane asks, hand lost in curls.

“I don't mind adopting either. Little Japanese kid with freckles.” Ilya mumbles in his neck. “We’ll get them a little jersey.”

“Okay. Yeah, we'll do that.”

Heaven. He thinks. This is heaven, even when he's getting sticky with drying sperm.

Chapter End Notes

Stay at home dad Ilya is where it's at

Chapter 13: [a bonus] It’s not always easy

Chapter Summary

At 35, Ilya Rozanov is finally discovering the joy of being a parent. Of a newborn. While his husband is out and about being a legend. It’s not always easy, but he wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Chapter Notes

The morning sun is kind on Ilya's household. The dog is basking in the light and the heat from her spot on the couch, as uninterested as Ilya is by the cartoon butterflies singing a lullaby on TV.

He won't turn it off. Even when the song haunts his nightmares at times, he still hums it from his spot in the kitchen, working a spoon into chicken pieces marinating in the curry sauce.

He hears a joyful coo, a flap of little hands and the jiggle of the bouncing chair next to the sofa, Anya keenly watching the little creature enjoying TV.

Iriney is a big fan of the butterfly cartoon. Ilya approves, appreciating the 2D handwork of the kid’s program. It's better than the generic 3D in his old man's opinion.

He's thirty-five.

His son is a one-month-old Canadian-Mongolian little boy adopted at birth, after Shane and he got paired up with a young girl unable to raise the child by the agency Ilya’s husband and his mother-in-law meticulously chose.

He's all new in Ilya Rozanov’s life. Ilya is all new to him as well.

It’s not easy, newborns. Iriney is a small little thing and Ilya has never been more afraid than the first time he took that damped little red bean of a boy in his arms.

He's never been more in love either, to his shock. Ilya thought the world would forever revolve around Shane for him, and he imagined loving his children – hell, he was agonizing with the need for a baby. But nothing could have prepared him for the gravitational shift that came from holding a crying red-faced potato for the first time.

He felt like opening his ribcage and hiding the little boy behind his protective bones, tucking him close to his heart. He still feels like that when it's three in the morning and the baby needs his bottle.

Truly, Ilya is exhausted to the bone, especially with Shane wrapped up in the playoffs. He’s one man to take care of the little things on most nights. But summer is coming, and his pointlessly guilty husband has made many promises to pamper Ilya until the bags under his eyes ease.

Ilya truly doesn't resent Shane for being so far from them. He’s the one who wanted that kid home with him, to keep him busy and content, to satisfy this urge to care and provide for a little thing able to carry all his love.

He rests the wooden spoon on the counter, pushes the pan out of the heated stove, and makes his way to his baby boy.

He’s not even three apples tall, unable to hold his own head alone and his hands are the smallest little thing Ilya has ever seen.

Objectively, he isn't the prettiest of babies. With a patch of hair at the top and a bald crown all over, he looked like those ducks with the puffy feather topping, all in black jet hair. His cheeks are too fat for his face, and he seems to drool all the time.

But to Ilya, and Shane most definitely, Iriney is god’s perfect angel. He could have three eyes and a second set of arms and Ilya wouldn't change his mind.

“Are you sleeping, son?” Ilya whispers to the little thing, undoing the seatbelt to sneak his arm against the chubby and tender body of his baby. Securing the head, he brings his son close to his chest to bring him to bed. He knows there is little chance Iriney makes a full night, but he can’t do much here.

He’s enslaved to that capricious babe’s schedule. He doesn’t mind, even as drool runs down his best attempt at looking good for his husband. “Don't you know Daddy is coming soon?”

Papa Ilya knows. He’s been agonizing over it in the few moments he is allowed to himself, and he wants them with his husband. His perfect beautiful man who’s dedicated every goal of the month to their baby to the point the press is sick of it.

It’s been ten days of missing Shane’s comforting kiss on his temple, the scent hidden at the base of his neck and the vision of him holding their child. They're teaming up to change diapers, making their son’s laugh into a competition, freaking out together over being responsible for a whole other person.

He tries not to think about sex when he puts his baby down in his crib in the bedroom facing theirs. Since Iriney’s first night at home, the few days Shane has been in town, the only mess their sheets have seen is baby milking burbs and a variety of oil, rash cream and powder, on top of their own neglected hygiene.

Not from lack of wanting, even half-dead with sleep deprivation, Ilya’s dick is very receptive to the sensation of Shane’s plump ass pressed into him. But, a newborn is very demanding, and the boy seems to feel when his parents’ attention drifts from him to each other.

Ilya can only comfort himself in being able to hug Shane’s body in the hours between feedings, kiss him after getting pissed on by his own son, and watch him take back the lead on child-care to give Ilya a break from his full-time job.

And god, Shane looks good with the little bean against his broad chest.

“I love your daddy,” Ilya sighs to the baby, bopping his nose gently before taking the baby monitor and hooking it to his belt. “Can’t you let me have him for one whole hour?”

He has made an effort. He traded his comfy sweatpants and dirty shirt, in which he’s been sleeping for the last thirty-hours when his son allows it, for a pair of dark pants and a clean ironed shirt. Which currently has a wet spot on it.

It’s ridiculous, he knows, but he wants Shane to think he’s incredibly sexy as a dad the same way Ilya’s soul shoots for the stars every time Hollander gets all super loving dad on him. Even if they don’t actually fuck, the idea of it eases up the restlessness in Ilya’s exhausted body and mind.

Since their wedding, they’ve never gone so long without sex, and he knows it’s normal for new parents but, Ilya has a husband who’s famous and beloved, with a million fans and very attractive men chasing after him despite the wedding ring on his finger. Ilya smells like rash cream, clean and dirty diapers and baby wipes, he currently doesn’t have a single shirt without a stain on it and he barely sleeps.

He wants to feel sexy because right now, he’s having a hard time remembering what life was like a month ago but he remembers being fairly confident he was hot shit. He wants Shane to remember it, to think to himself he’s so lucky to have Ilya as his baby’s father, and to be so happy to be his husband.

And it would be so great to have Hollander touch his dick, god.

“Ilya!” The front door swings open as Ilya comes down the stairs. The drag of a suitcase follows the silhouette of the most perfect Canadian on earth with a delighted grin and unfairly perfect skin.

Ilya Rozanov is smiling brightly as he slushes his husband. “Baby is sleeping, sweetheart,” he explains, hurrying to close the space between them. Arms wide open, he welcomes home his very first love. Not the only one anymore. “Come here.”

He buries himself into Shane, breathing him in like a dog, leaving a trail of kisses all the way to his plush lips that Ilya eagerly kisses to clench his ever-growing thirst.

“Ilya,” Shane repeats more quietly this time around, their noses brushing to kiss while their lips are busy speaking. “You made curry for lunch?”

“I thought you might be hungry,” he shrugs, not willing to explain that this might be shit because Ilya had to take many breaks to fuss over their demanding new roommate.

“God, baby,” Shane still gasps with amazement, because he always listens when Ilya laments his attempts at cooking himself a proper meal during their FaceTime. He tries his very best to support Ilya as much as he can and make him feel thoroughly appreciated. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Ilya mumbles, fighting sudden waves of longing and wanting and gratefulness to whoever lets him love this man. Because Shane Hollander was custom-made to be exactly what Ilya needs in life.

“Sorry,” he mutters when he feels quiet tears trail down his cheeks.

“Nothing to be sorry for, you perfect man,” Shane promises him, slowly moving them to the sofa. He never lets go of Ilya and the blond is very grateful. “What’s wrong?”

“You look very good right now and I am so thankful,” Ilya mumbles because it’s true. Shane looks like a million bucks in his shitty airport clothes and his sweater looks very comfy and his freckles look so good with the summer’s sun finally heating up his cheeks. And Ilya loves those warm cheeks and warm hands and being touched by someone who’s not a newborn. “Sorry, baby is making me…full of emotions. I missed you.”

“Okay, I missed you too.” Shane brushes his hair back. “We’re going to eat, then you’ll take a bath and no matter what Iriney does, I got it covered. You sleep tight, you take a break.”

“But I want to be with you,” Ilya complains, melting under the gentle touch.

“Then I’ll set up the travel crib in our room,” Shane compromises to Ilya’s delight. “We will get each other off in the bath with the baby monitor turned on while we ignore the shame of being horny parents, then we will cuddle with the baby until he needs me to step up.”

“You are so good at making plans,” the retired player sighs with endless admiration and an amused smile at his husband's on-the-fly logistics. Perfect.

“God, I hope this one doesn’t go off the rails.”

it might.

Chapter End Notes

Once that kid gets full nights of sleep no one his stopping this team of parents