Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Exhibitionism, Dream Sex, Blow Jobs, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Top Ilya Rozanov, Bottom Shane Hollander, they are so in love it's sickening, the one where they win the stanley cup and ilya shows shane off, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Possessive Ilya Rozanov, Begging, Dirty Talk, Good Boy Shane Hollander, Spit Kink, despite the filth in the tags it gets sweet at points, i am not kidding they would burn the whole world down for each other, when you simply have to be fucked in front of your team to show off how much you love your husband, they are so proud of each other, POV Shane Hollander, Public Blow Jobs, Public Sex, except not really, devoted first husbands of hockey, Shane Hollander Has a Praise Kink, Light Feminization, Riding, Dom/sub Undertones

Language:

English

Series:

Part 4 of heated rivalry masterlist

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-14 Words: 7,147 Chapters: 1/1

take the crown, shut it down, 'bout to steal the show

Summary

Shane doesn't even have to look up to know that Ilya is grinning, a feral, vicious thing as he knots his fingers in Shane's hair and tugs, just hard enough for Shane to let out a whine. The dull ache reverberates down his nerves, as he opens his mouth and pants, sucking down lungful after lungful of Ilya's sweat and musk, salt straight from his skin as he noses at the hem of his shirt.

“Is good, we won,” Ilya murmurs, stroking his hand through Shane's hair. “Have been wanting to show—have been wanting to give prize.” He pauses, and Shane knows his next words are going to be a cruel gift, a dagger of lust straight between his ribs. “And Hollander has been eager to show off, yes? Three goals,”—he whistles, low and mocking as Shane shifts at his feet, his ears burning as Ilya cups the back of his head, scratching blunt nails over his scalp—“is like he needed to prove how bad he wants.”

OR: Ottawa wins the Stanley Cup. Everyone gets a reward.

Notes

i know this seems ooc, but i promise. it all makes sense in the end.

By the time Shane realizes what's happening, he's already on his knees, Ilya's hands in his hair. Like everyone else, he's in his base layers, sweat cooling on his skin, the echoes of their victory ringing in his ears. 

The locker room is quiet around the two of them, everyone hushed, the rink empty aside from the team. Somehow, none of them are rushing off to find their families, all of them caught in the web that Ilya has been weaving all season. 

Months of teasing, all to culminate in this. 

“Ottawa has won the Stanley Cup,” Ilya says, as Shane buries his burning face into the sweat-slick undershirt his husband is wearing. He's hard, a familiar, heavy weight in his navel, a syrupy, slow spill of need down his spine. He doesn't quite know how they've gotten here, but he's not fighting it. No, it's just as if his head is stuffed with cotton, high from the win, drifting out to that hazy place where only Ilya exists. “We had agreement, da?”

Months ago, at the beginning of the season, a tease, falling easily from Ilya’s mouth to the general hoots of their team: if we win the Cup, I will show you real devotion. 

Weeks ago, when they’d hit the playoffs and started winning, a gravelly promise, wrenched from some pit of sticky seduction and sharp-toothed greed, as the looks from their team began to turn considering: if we win the Cup, I will show you just how victorious Hollander can get. 

For a moment, no one moves, before something rustles and a quiet, wavering voice hums a faint uh-huh.  

Shane doesn't even have to look up to know that Ilya is grinning, a feral, vicious thing as he knots his fingers in Shane's hair and tugs, just hard enough for Shane to let out a whine. The dull ache reverberates down his nerves as he opens his mouth and pants, sucking down lungful after lungful of Ilya's sweat and musk, salt straight from his skin as he noses at the hem of his damp, thin shirt.

“Is good, we have won,” Ilya murmurs, stroking his hand through Shane's hair. “Have been wanting to show—have been wanting to give prize.” He pauses, and Shane knows his next words are going to be a cruel gift, a dagger of lust straight between his ribs. “And Hollander has been eager to show off, yes? Three goals,”—he whistles, low and mocking as Shane shifts at his feet, his ears burning as Ilya cups the back of his head, scratching blunt nails over his scalp—“is like he needed to prove how badly he wants.” 

Someone breathes out a quiet fuck, in the ensuing silence, and Ilya laughs. 

“Da, yes,” he says, a tinge of condescension in his voice as he neatly lays out his plan. “First, you will see our precious Hollander taken to pieces. Then, you will see him ruined as he always is in my bed.” His grip tightens in Shane's hair, and he peels his forehead off his stomach, grinning down at him. Mine, the glint of his teeth screams. Shane loves him always, but there is something uniquely devastating about seeing him like this, fanged and hungry, eager and ruinous. “Is okay, moya shlyukha,” he murmurs, as Shane begins to pant, heat simmering under his skin. He feels wild, all composure shredded beneath Ilya’s steady possession. “I will give you what you need.” 

Shane knows exactly what he means as the rest of the world fades away, his mouth dropping open expectantly as Ilya leans over him and spits. 

The warm glob of saliva hits the center of his tongue with the same accuracy Ilya displays on the ice; deadly and vicious. It shreds his composure just as elegantly; Shane can't hold back the moan that rises in response.

Holy shit, someone says, but it's quiet beneath the rushing thud of Shane's heart, the tidal wave of want that surges to the surface.

Ilya watches him for a long moment, his eyes dark with lust so expressive it feels filmy, agonizingly potent as need swirls under Shane's skin. 

He would do anything for this man, would let Ilya show him off, would even let him rend him down to nothing more than pulsing nerves of greed and wanton sluttiness. He almost doesn't understand how it took them so long to come to this point, not when Ilya's been murmuring about flaunting him as his trophy for years. 

“Good,” Ilya says, refusing to look away. “Swallow.” 

Obediently, trained well by his husband's firm hand, Shane swallows.

Oh my god, someone else mutters, but they aren't Ilya, so Shane doesn't care.

“He is good on his knees,” Ilya says, still watching him, the corner of his mouth quirking up. His eyes are dark with arousal, pride in the gleam of his canines, snarled desire in the flex of his jaw. “I understand, yes, why everyone asks questions. They say, ‘but Rozanov is sex god and Hollander is meh’,”—Shane can't even be upset at the insult; his mouth's watering too much, his dick so hard it's starting to hurt as he kneels before his husband, his entire team behind him, watching him—“Is not their fault that they do not know. That they do not see.” He lifts his gaze away, but Shane keeps staring at him with dark, wide eyes, the prickles of being scrutinized never disappearing as he shudders under the attention. “Is why I share him with you. Reward, da? For you, to see how well he can take it. For him,”—he glances back down at Shane and smirks—“Reward, too. He is whore for attention. My attention, yes, of course, but the team’s, too.” 

Shane whimpers, his hands curling up against his pants, the synthetic material cool beneath his fingers, despite the heat he knows he must be throwing off. He shifts even closer, uncaring as the concrete bites into his knees, coldness seeping through. He can’t care about anything other than Ilya; not when he looks like this—smug and pleased and predatory. 

Ilya smiles, his hand dropping away from Shane's head, his thumbs hooking into his waistband. 

“Is okay to be jealous,” he murmurs, a hint of a challenge in his voice, the same cocky edge that carried them to the Cup; a captain accustomed to winning. “I have perfect husband.” 

At his words, Shane can't stop himself from reaching, his hands steady until he presses his palms against Ilya's trim stomach, the svelte lines of his body on display as his trembling fingers peel his pants and underwear down his thighs. 

Jesus christ, someone says to a swell of mutterings, but all thoughts leave Shane's head as soon as Ilya's perfect cock emerges in front of him. 

He licks his lips, teeth sinking into the inside of his cheek to keep from begging. He knows it's coming, but that doesn't stop his greed to be ordered, as he sinks further into that gratifyingly dazed headspace. 

“Nyet,” Ilya says, as Shane shudders before him, before his hand curls under his chin and tugs him up to look at Ilya. He smirks, a king atop his throne, an empire ripe for the taking before him. His curls halo his head as if a crown, golden and beautiful; the person Shane loves the most. “Beg.”

“Please,” Shane whines immediately, all self-control shot. It’s almost humiliating how eager he is, how easily his dignity gets shoved aside when Ilya’s dick is involved—really, just whenever Ilya is involved. “Please, Ilya, please let me suck your cock. Let me,”—he flushes, so deep he wonders if the team can see the glow of his skin through his dark undershirt—“Let me show off for you. Let everyone see how much I want you. How much I need you.” He stares up at Ilya, culled down to nothing more than seething greed. He feels insane, wrecked upon the blade of his own desire, the want of his own pleasure. He can feel the pulse of heat slipping down his spine, the spit collecting in his mouth. He's hungry to be shown off, eager to please. There's nothing else in the world that matters other than making Ilya happy at this moment. “Please—fuck me, like the—the slut I am.” 

Holy shit, someone says. Fuck his face, Roz, another voice chimes. He looks good on his knees. Like he belongs there, a third voice adds. 

“Hm,” Ilya says, his eyes sparkling at Shane, his hand still on his chin, his thumb brushing under his bottom lip. He looks delighted and proud, the sight heady and soothing. “If you suck me well enough, then, yes, Hollander. I will fuck you like slut you are. I will show the team just how needy you are. Then maybe, they will have more understanding just why it is so exhausting being Captain of the team and owner of greedy slut.” 

Low laughter rises at his words, prickles of humiliation spilling down Shane's spine, a delicious edge to the lust that swirls inside him. He knows that even after they leave the rink, everyone on the team will have seen him ruined for his husband; it only makes him harder, his cock twitching in his pants. 

“Yes,” Ilya murmurs, his eyes dark. “Open your mouth, Shane Hollander.” 

Shane, as always, obeys. 

He lets his jaw drop, loose and sloppy, drool pooling under his tongue, spit collecting in the swell of his lips. His fingers tighten on Ilya's thighs, but he hasn't been given permission to touch, and the only thing that could ruin this is if he isn't good. He has to be good. 

Ilya hums and tilts Shane's head back. He can feel the shaggy ends of his helmet hair brushing across his shoulder as he lets his husband position him how he wants him. 

A filthy smirk spills across his face, and Shane knows exactly what's going to happen before it does; he sticks his tongue out further, eager as always for the lewd gifts Ilya gives. 

Ilya, once again, leans over and spits in his mouth. Shane's cock leaks, dripping enough that he knows if his pants weren't black, the stain would be obvious. He keeps Ilya's saliva right in the center of his tongue, refusing to let himself swallow as Ilya grins down at him, pleased and smug. 

“There,” Ilya says, over the faint groans from the crowd of bodies around them. Dizzying lust surges through Shane as he remembers that everyone's still here, watching eagerly. Everyone's seen him panting after his husband's spit like a fucking dog; it only makes him needier, harder, more desperate. “Wet enough, now.” 

Shane takes it for the permission he knows it is, and leans forward, catching the head of Ilya's cock with his mouth. His husband's hands sink into his hair, firm and guiding, and pulls him in, sliding his dick down his throat in one easy motion. 

The world outside of Ilya's cock blurs and fades. 

There's only the salt and heft of it in his throat, the blunt pressure as he eases in, inch by steady inch, carving its way into this soft, tight space Shane always holds for him. 

Shane lets his eyes flutter shut and relaxes into the tiny rocks that Ilya gives him, eagerly sucking. Voices slither around the edges, but his whole world has winnowed down to the sheer, exquisite pleasure of Ilya's dick in his mouth. 

He hums, dragging his tongue up the underside of his shaft, right over a thick vein, as Ilya's hips roll backwards, drool spilling from the corners of his mouth.

His whole body is alight with heat, the drug of Ilya, the high of a performance. Sparks skitter under his skin, his cock dripping in his pants, and he'd be worried about cumming in his pants too soon, except he knows that Ilya's not going to let it stop him. He'll be on display until Ilya is content, used until he's cumming dry, until Ilya has filled him up, until Ilya has decided, okay, show is over. 

It should scare him a little, how much he likes being owned. How much he wants to be directed and controlled, set to something, and told he must earn it. 

Except, this is Ilya. 

And he knows, as he opens his eyes and meets his husband's smoldering gaze, that he'll never hurt him.

“You are so good at this, no?” Ilya murmurs, as his hands curl tighter and he plunders Shane's mouth. The wet sounds that rise only fill Shane with more greed and eagerness, a decadent haze of desire that shivers at the edges, an agonizing blade of lust wrapping around his heart. “Made to be on your knees. Made to service. Made to make me feel good.” He lifts his head up, grinning at someone Shane can't see. “Is nice to have husband who knows his place, da?” 

Someone murmurs back an agreement, but Shane doesn't hear their exact words, too focused on swallowing down more of Ilya. 

He loses time to it, the ache of his jaw, the filthy sounds of Ilya's cock in his mouth, the occasional pulls on his hair as Ilya uses him as nothing more than a toy. It's easy to kneel and be taken, to hand over all control. His mouth is full of precum and drool, spit bubbling in the corners by the time Ilya drags him off his dick. 

Shane whines immediately, all thoughts of anything else lost to the ether, and the resulting breathless laughter that echoes from the room does nothing but add to the feeling that he needs Ilya. Now. 

Ilya tsks, his mouth curling up into a smug smile. “Is not very grateful,” he says slowly, sounding out each word as if he has all the time in the world. As if Shane isn't vibrating at his feet, desperate for more. “I have let you suck my dick for ages, and you still want more? What do you say?” 

“Thank you for letting me choke on your cock,” Shane murmurs, his voice shot and raspy with raw desire. In the background, someone hoots with delight, before they fall silent as Shane continues, “Please, Ilya, I've been—I've been good. Please fuck me. Please let me—” He bites his lip, tears of need beginning to pool in his eyes. He doesn't have words for how much he wants Ilya, how he always wants to have him snug inside him, filling him up until he's cockdrunk and brainless, until the only thing that exists is the heat of his body and the steady thrust of his hips. 

Ilya arches a brow, and Shane swallows, licking his lips. “Please,” he begs. “Fuck me like the whore I am.” 

For a moment, neither of them looks away from the other. Even here, in the haze of lust and want, Shane can see the careful consideration in Ilya's face, the gentle sort of check-in to be sure that this is something he actually wants and isn't just caught up in the moment. 

Please, Shane tries to make his face say without verbalizing it. Fuck me in front of the team—our team. Let them see how undone you make me, let them see how ruined I can be. Let them know how permanently I'm yours. 

He feels alight with need, a thick choking greed that's sliding under his skin, wrapping like weeds around his ribs. 

Watch what I can give my husband, he wants to say, glutted with love and feverish desire. Watch what I can take. Let me show you what it really means to be victorious. 

“Da,” Ilya says, after a long, swollen moment. “Am Captain for a reason, yes? I get the prettiest prizes.” He grins, all hesitation tucked away. “Good thing, then, that I get you.”

Time slips away as he rises to his feet, his clothes dropping from his body, as Ilya's hands sear across his skin, brands of devotion pressed in with every whorl of his fingertips. 

Goddamn, someone says. Jesus Christ, another voice murmurs. It's like we're not even here, a third mutters. 

Shane blinks, the world blurring, and then suddenly he's being turned, facing out to the smeared, tear-slick locker room, his hands settling on the bench, bent in half; the perfect height to get fucked. 

He gasps, his cheeks a bright scarlet, as the faceless, shadowy crowd murmurs around. For a moment, no one addresses him directly, before someone clears their throat, shutting up the rest of the mutters. 

You have a pretty cock, Hollzy, they murmur, and then it's open season. 

Lovely, someone spits out, a groan of appreciation in their tone. Needy, someone else says, and the murmurs of agreement do nothing but make him hotter, make his dick leak more, copious amounts of slick precum streaking across his stomach, dropping down his shaft. 

Look at Roz taking care of him—he really earned it, such slut for his husband, a show-off, all pile on from different people, their voices indistinct, driving him wild as he arches into Ilya’s hands, sinking deeper and deeper into that warm, undone place where nothing matters but pleasure.  

He's so desperate to get fucked, gorgeous, so good for Roz, more people add, getting rowdier. He can't see anything through his blurred eyes, just the feverish glint of mouths grinning and eyes dark, hands and bodies shifting in front of him, a captivated audience. 

Look at how greedy his hole is, cockdrunk slut, should always be ready to be fucked, keep him like this, perfect, gorgeous, whore, look at how badly he needs it; their words blend together into a blaze of desire, another layer of heat that sears into him. 

He's crying, from how badly he wants to get fucked, thin hiccuping sobs as Ilya gently opens him with steady determination. 

“You are my—” Ilya dissolves into Russian, too quickly for Shane to track the words that he's saying. It only adds to the feeling of a slow drip of arousal and need, that Ilya can't be bothered to let him understand; that he knows Shane will hear the devotion regardless. 

“Need you,” Shane sobs, his voice shot through with lust. “Ilya—Ilya, please. I'm ready, I deserve it, I've earned it—” 

“Selfish,” Ilya murmurs, bending low enough to press a kiss to the top of his spine. Behind him, Shane can feel him lining himself up, the teasing press of the head of his dick against his entrance. He arches back, angling as best he can, hoping Ilya will slide right in. “But you have earned it, moya shlyukha. Is greatest gift I can give, no?” He laughs, smug and pleased, as Shane whines, his mouth flopping open. “Well, second greatest, da? First greatest is winning you.” His hand on Shane's hip tightens, and he rocks forward, pushing in. “Moy lyubimyj, you are so tight—”

Shane can't hear anything outside of his desperate pants, the thrum of his heartbeat, the rush of blood as it pulses through his body, pooling in his drooling cock. 

He thinks he's gone insane, dazzling sparks of pleasure zipping up his spine, curling across his skin. He can't breathe, too caught up in the sensation of Ilya's dick as it drags along his walls, bullying its way in. 

He can hear excited chatter distantly, but all of his world has smoothed down to just the two of them, the relentless push, the unyielding grip of his hands as he bottoms out, his thick cock fully sheathed inside of him. 

Ilya groans, low and sweet, pressing another kiss to the back of his neck. “Is good that you know your place,” he rasps. “You should always be with me, sweetheart. Should take some of their ideas and keep you at my feet, leashed like a dog.” 

Shane moans, loud and unabashed, his cock twitching desperately as his fingers curl in tighter to the wood of the bench.

“You would like that, da?” Ilya continues. Shane doesn't even have to look to know that he's grinning vindictively, his mouth curved into the assured look he gets when he's ruining Shane. “Is okay, moya shlyukha, we all know that you are desperate for me, desperate to be split in two, desperate to whine and beg and pant just for the mere hint of being filled.” 

His nails bite into the skin of Shane's hip, deep marks he knows he'll carry for days. He rocks back against Ilya's thrusts, his head dropping down, sweat and spit mixing on his face as he gasps helplessly, pinned against the vibrant rush of pleasure. 

“Is funny,” Ilya says. Shane has no idea how he sounds so in control, when the world has tilted so unbelievably out of focus, when all he can hear is the sound of him being fucked, the wet slap of Ilya's balls, the clap of their hips as he drives into him over and over again. “I always think it is amusing that you are listed as fastest in the league, no? Fastest to cum, maybe.”

“Ilya,” Shane manages. He's burning up under him, awash with so much need he thinks he might implode. “Ilya, Ilya, Ilya—”

“God, Hollander,” Ilya groans as he shifts, his dick abruptly hitting his prostate, white flashes of rapture rippling across Shane's skin. “Should be illegal for you to say anything other than my name—fuck, you are so—going to fucking cum, going to ruin you for everyone else, going to fill you and keep you and love you for the rest of our lives—” 

“Ilya,” Shane sobs, heat prickling at the base of his spine as he clenches down. Spots dance behind his closed lids, nothing but the vast stretch of euphoria rising. “Want it,” he whines, licking his lips, gasping for air. “Wanna feel you.” 

Ilya pants, leaning over him, caging him in as he settles into a dirty grind, his hips hitching as if the pleasure is so sweet he can't help himself. “I will show them what victory looks like,” he murmurs, debauched and low. “I will show them what it looks like to win.” 

“Yes,” Shane chants, rolling his hips as he feels Ilya's cock twitch, desperate to feel him cum, eager to be full. “Yes, yes, yes—” He thinks he might die here, a wall of buzzing nonsense rising, golden light spilling over him as Ilya thrusts into him once more and cums, before the haze of everything overtakes him. The world flashes white, and he's gone, drifting out to a sea of pleasure.

“…and then I wake up,” Shane confesses, his ears burning, his face buried in Ilya's neck as his husband strokes his palm down his spine. “It always ends the same, too. That I get to feel you cum, and then—” He shivers, hardly able to believe he's been brave enough to voice any of this. Fucking Ilya and his pleading eyes, and his smug, perfect face. “I wake up, and I feel so empty, and, holy shit, Ilya.” His voice fades to a low moan as his husband sneaks a hand further down, ghosting across his entrance, a slow, confident touch. 

“I am glad,” Ilya murmurs, his voice a low rumble, dark need unscoring it all. “You know that even in dreams you are mine.” He presses in carefully, a dry burn that Shane can't stop himself from arching into, desperate for all the ways in which Ilya touches him. “Is nice to know that you have taken lessons to heart.” 

Shane squirms, his cock rutting up against Ilya's hip, chasing the lazy pleasure that runs across his skin. He loves the summer days when they can lounge about, caring for nothing other than each other. “Wh-what lessons?” he manages, twisting his head to press kisses against his throat, aware that he sounds drunk on lust, bloated with longing. 

Ilya doesn't answer immediately, instead slipping two fingers into his mouth. Shane sucks instinctually, lathing his tongue over his knuckles, the taste of Ilya filling him. His cheeks burn at the noise, the slick slurp as he drools around his husband's fingers, but he refuses to stop, sinking into the familiar haze of want that nearly constantly simmers in his body whenever Ilya is near.

He gently scrapes his teeth over Ilya's skin, teasing bites as he presses down. Ilya hums, stroking across his tongue, before he inches them further back, a hint of real pressure as Shane's throat opens for the blunt width of them. 

“Slut lessons,” Ilya finally answers, pulling his fingers out ever so slowly. For a moment, he keeps them pressed to his lips, an odd, fractured mirror of the kisses they used to give each other over the phone. Shane almost wants to cry at the thought of how far they've come. Just hold on, he wants to go back and tell himself. You have no idea the happiness that's coming. 

Ilya finally pulls away, and Shane glances up far enough to catch the curve of a smile on his face as he continues talking, “You are performer, da? Good that your body knows you are most able to perform for me, moya shlyukha. Drives me crazy to know that in your dreams, you want nothing more than to make me happy.” 

“Not just in dreams,” Shane murmurs, shivering at the wet touch as Ilya presses his spit-slick fingers in, carefully opening him up. “I’d do anything for you.” 

“I know, sweetheart,” Ilya whispers back, a confession often spoken and yet no less beloved. It rolls through Shane, simmering across his body in heavy, warm strokes. “Is same for me.”

Shane can't not lift himself up and kiss him, drinking in the comforting feeling of his mouth set against his. He groans when Ilya shifts the two of them, casually tugging him over his hips, until Shane is sprawled out across his chest. 

“Love you,” he whispers, in between the soft press of lips, the gentle touch. “I can't believe—you're my everything.”

“Is love, moy lyubimyj,” Ilya says, pulling away to dust kisses across Shane's nose, over his cheeks, on his eyelids as his lashes flutter shut. “Is easy, with you. Easiest thing in the world, to love you.” 

Shane feels cracked wide open, split down the center with the care that Ilya has always given him. He almost wants to cry, as Ilya's lips press into the corners of his eyes, over the smudges of his freckles. He can't—won't—allow himself to imagine what life would be like without him, but he knows it could never be as good as this. 

For a moment, they indulge in quiet, gentle comfort, passing soft kisses back and forth, before Ilya sighs, and the kiss turns heated as he catches Shane's lip between his teeth and nips. 

“Oh, shit,” Shane murmurs, instinctively rocking against Ilya's stomach, his cock dripping across his torso, smearing slick precum everywhere. “Can you please fuck me now?” 

Ilya laughs, his mouth curling into a familiar smug grin. 

“Is nice to be loving,” he says, before he swipes two fingers through Shane's precum and reaches around the swell of his ass, pressing in; he's still wet enough from last night that he opens easily, letting Ilya slide in smoothly. “Is also nice, to fuck you like you need, yes?”

Shane moans, clenching down on the intrusion. “Y-yeah,” he mutters shakily as Ilya stretches him open,  the tips of his fingers just barely brushing his prostate. “It's—oh, god, you feel so good.” 

Ilya smirks, his other hand fumbling for the lube. “My pretty baby,” he croons, Shane rocking back on his fingers, his mouth rounding out a low whine of want. “Not enough to get fucked in real life, no—you are so hungry for me, you are getting fucked in dreams, yes? So needy, sweetheart.” 

“For you,” Shane pants. He's dizzy and eager as Ilya pulls his fingers out, before he taps the head of his cock against Shane's entrance, a tease as Shane tries to slide him inside. “Ilya, please—fucking, goddammit, fuck me.” 

“Mm, I do not know,” Ilya murmurs, grinning at him when Shane glares down at him, rocking back on the tip of his cock. “You have been fucked in dreams, yes? And you still are needy?” He shakes his head. “Do not want to spoil you.” 

“Yes, you do, you asshole,” Shane says, biting back a smile as Ilya smirks up at him, teasing clear in the lines of his face. “You fucking—you love to spoil me.” 

Ilya sighs, as though this is some secret and not one of the most obvious things ever. “Is crazy, how greedy you get,” he says. “Always wanting, always needing. Good thing I love to provide, yes?” 

“Yeah,” Shane says, his voice splintering on a moan as Ilya rocks in, a steady press, warmth sweeping across his skin. He tightens his grip on Ilya, settling more firmly in his lap. “Good thing—” He can't keep up with the thread of the conversation as Ilya bottoms out, the delicious stretch of him a welcome and familiar feeling. 

For a moment, all he can do is gasp and groan at the sensation, letting himself soak it in and simply take it, as Ilya starts up a filthy, slow rock. 

“You are perfect, moya shlyukha,” Ilya murmurs, as Shane closes his eyes and sighs with satisfaction, another low moan escaping his lips. Ilya's dick drags against his prostate, a decadent wave of frothy sparks rising with every steady press. “You know you belong to me, da? That your slutty body, your greed, your pleasure—is all mine.” 

“Yours,” Shane agrees, his eyes watering at how good he feels. He never wants to leave this hazy, filmy place, where the only thing that matters is how good he feels, how pleased Ilya is, how their bodies feel as he grinds down, taking everything Ilya can give him. “Always yours, holy shit, Ilya—”

“My gorgeous husband,” Ilya rumbles, his hand smoothing up Shane’s thigh, his thumb pressing into the fading bruises that decorate his hip, lovingly given over the course of the past week. He hums, and Shane’s sixth sense for Ilya’s menace prickles in faint warning, as he thrusts harder and croons, “My perfect, pretty princess.” 

Shane chokes on a gasp, heat shooting through his stomach, Ilya’s words settling like hot stones down his spine. He feels wild, desperate for more as he tenses his stomach and settles into a faster pace, the slap of his ass meeting Ilya’s hips loud over the sound of their panting.  

“Oh?” Ilya says, sounding so smug that Shane has to open his eyes to soak in the self-satisfied expression on his face. He’s stunning, spread out beneath Shane as if a painting, his skin dewy with sweat, his stomach soaked with Shane’s precum, his gaze dark with keen desire. Shane can’t believe the man is all his, as he stares down at him, taking in the gleam of his teeth, the crinkle of his eyes, the muss of his hair. “You like?” 

“Shut up,” Shane whines, his face flushed. He feels delirious with need, the world fading out around him, until it’s just the heady sensation of Ilya splitting him wide, the smug grin on his face as he reaches out to drag a finger across Shane’s leaking cock. 

He shouts, carnal need rising at the teasing touch. His vision blurs, tears spilling from his eyes, his chest heaving with want, his thighs burning as he rides Ilya as best he can, soaking in the ecstasy. 

“You are so wet,” Ilya says, sounding almost stunned. Shane’s dick twitches in response, drooling on his stomach, smearing precum between them. He can feel it leaking, dribbling across his skin, spreading down his thighs. “So good for me, sweetheart. You take my cock so well—you know this is what you are made for, no? Made for me, made perfect, my—oh, god, Hollander—my good girl.” 

Shane sobs, debauched need thrumming through him.

He feels insane, caught and pinned down, even though ostensibly he’s freer than normal as he rides Ilya. Lust spins under his skin, splintering into a decadence he feels ill-equipped to deal with as Ilya drags another knuckle across his cock. 

“You are so loud, sweetheart,” Ilya murmurs delightedly. “So needy. You would do anything for me, no? Would beg and cry and mewl for taste? Would let me open you up, curl my fingers in, show the whole world how well my husband can take it, how good you are for me?” 

Shane can’t even voice words. He’s burning up in the atmosphere, ascending to heights that only Ilya can lead him to. Sugar-sweet pleasure shivers up his fingers, spreading through his body. He’s nothing more than grasping, frantic hands; desperation made flesh. Wanton longing tinges his every motion, his every shift as he grabs at Ilya, frantic for more touches. 

“Sweet girl,” Ilya croons, grabbing his hips and twisting, caging him in as Shane wails. Somehow, he never leaves him, his dick a heavy brand inside as Shane writhes beneath him, flayed to the bone with cockdrunken lust. Shane can’t stop himself from turning his head to press a kiss to Ilya’s arm as he braces himself over him. He drags his tongue across his sweaty skin, grinning when Ilya swears faintly, before he continues, lewd words dripping easily from his mouth, “Would have you every day, would make you mine, would keep and stay and own until nothing but I am left. You are soaked, Hollander. Split wide on my cock, no? Just like you deserve.” 

“Ilya,” Shane whimpers, the precursor to an orgasm fizzing through him. He feels strung through with passion, filled with burning need. He doesn’t understand how he’s even capable of anything other than whining for his dick, how his mouth is still moving, words still slipping from his throat. 

Ilya grins down at him, his face set into a mask of greed, hunger suffused in every motion as he fucks Shane harder, the filthy sound of his balls, his hips, his cock sliding deeper. He leans down, and Shane’s mouth is open without him even thinking about it, tongue out, hoping Ilya will know what he wants. 

“Naughty,” Ilya says breathlessly, even as he smirks, his eyes alight with wantonness. Shane can read the lines of delight in his face easily, the familiar avarice that curls across his gleaming teeth, hides in the flicker of his tongue. “Do not worry, moya shlyukha. I will give you your gifts.” 

Shane whines as Ilya bends down and spits in his mouth, drinking in the heat that flashes across Ilya’s face as he watches him moan in satisfaction, before Ilya captures his lips and sucks his tongue into his mouth. His teeth bite in, sharp and greedy against his lips, their teeth clacking, pinpricks of pain that only add to the wildness burning inside. 

He’s nothing more than raw nerves, the wet sloppiness of greed, the rising tide of pleasure as it suffuses him. He can do nothing more than pant and beg and whine and take it, as Ilya drives into him, nailing his prostate with every heavy thrust. 

“Will you cum for me, Hollander?” Ilya whispers, pulling back to breathe against his mouth as if he can see Shane’s impending orgasm. He wouldn’t be surprised, given how tightly he’s clutching at Ilya, squeezing around his cock, but it’s always another shock of delight to his system to be known so easily. “Is that what you want, princess?” 

“Yes,” Shane sobs, his whole body shuddering with need. Princess rolls around in his mind with dizzying lasciviousness, sparking in his ribs, thrilling and illicit. He thinks he might be losing his mind, thinks that Ilya has fucked him so well he has nothing left but agonizing drag of his dick, a space permanently carved out for his husband. He has nothing left but filthy, awful wants and dreams of being fucked to pieces forever, of being caught in their drugging love, of his world dissolving into nothing more than his husband, of being split wide for eternity. “Please, please, Ilya—please—” 

“So easy,” Ilya murmurs, and reaches down, curling a hand around Shane’s cock. 

The firm, exacting pressure ends him. 

Pleasure detonates like a bomb in his navel, as Shane immolates on the feeling of Ilya’s fingers dragging down his shaft, his thumb smoothing over his slit. His whole body flashes hot, with nearly unbearable gratification slicing down his spine, cutting him down to the quick. He can feel his mouth flopping wide, Ilya’s tongue licking across his teeth as the world shimmers with glorious decadence, everything but satiation fizzling out. 

“—so good for me,” Ilya’s murmuring, by the time he returns to his body, shattered beyond belief. “So perfect for me, moy lyubimyj. Would spend forever inside you, da? Would keep you here with me—” He groans, Russian spilling from behind his teeth as Shane clenches around him, still dazed from his orgasm. “Oh, fuck, oh, fuck—” 

Shane inhales sharply as Ilya thrusts in once more and cums, warmth filling him, a flash of heat trickling down his spine as his cock twitches in response, eager and desperate as always, despite how hard he just came. 

For a moment, neither of them moves, both of them just panting as they stare at each other. Shane can’t even remember the last time he came so hard he couldn’t hear for a beat, and shudders, goosebumps rising. 

“You have killed me,” Ilya finally breathes out, his lashes fluttering as Shane clenches down on him, unable to stop another pulse of greediness. “Sweetheart, you have ruined me.” 

“I could say the same for you,” Shane shoots back, a faint whine rising as Ilya gently pulls out, flopping over to the side. Shane debates for a moment, evaluating how filthy he feels versus how badly he wants to cling to Ilya, and lets his neediness win out, rolling over to press a kiss to Ilya’s chest, nuzzling into his sticky skin as his arm curves around him. 

They breathe together, syncing up easily as contentment settles into Shane’s body. 

“I did not know you—” Ilya starts, sounding almost dazed. He pauses, and Shane tilts his head back, meeting Ilya’s fond gaze. “Princess.” 

Shane shudders, a blush rising to his cheeks. He feels unbearably shy, all of a sudden, caught in a storm of lust and bashfulness. 

“Uh, I didn’t either,” he finally settles on, biting at his lip. “But I—yeah. Only—only here though, okay?” 

Ilya squints at him for a moment before he looks delighted. “Why? Will it make you hard, sweetheart?” 

Shane squirms, heat pooling in his navel, despite how exhausted he feels. “Oh, fuck off,” he says, which he knows is too much of an actual answer when Ilya grins at him. “Ilya, do not start calling me princess in public.” 

Ilya shrugs, swatting at him lightly when Shane bites at his chest. “Ow, Hollander. Fine, yes,”—he rolls his eyes, looking completely put out as Shane smiles at him, feeling delirious with joy—“No princess in public.” His hand sneaks up into Shane’s hair, tugging once. “But will make a return here, da? Cannot let my sweet girl go without her needy hole being filled.” 

Shane wheezes, arousal crackling under his skin. “You can’t—Ilya, what the fuck,” he manages, choking on his spit. He feels split wide, tender spots of longing on full display, a heady sort of lechery seething under his skin. Ilya smirks, looking pleased, and Shane groans, rolling out of his arms. “Just for that, I’m showering alone,” he threatens as he pushes himself up and heads for the shower, even though he knows it won’t matter in a moment as Ilya bounds after him, throwing himself at his back. 

“You would never,” Ilya says, low and smug as Shane leads the two of them in, the lights snapping on. They look like a filthy mess in the mirror, slick with cum and spit, dark splotches spreading across both of their bodies. Shane presses a finger to the marks on his hips and grins, before catching sight of how pleased Ilya looks and rolling his eyes. “Without me?” 

Shane snorts. “Do you mean to sound like a fuckboy or does that just come naturally to you?” 

“Is all natural,” Ilya says, biting at his ear, ignoring the way Shane bats at him. He’s already bruised enough; he doesn’t need his ear to be chewed on. Ilya’s imprints across his body are unmistakable. “And you like it.” 

Shane sighs, but turns, sliding his arms around Ilya’s waist and glancing at him. He knows that there’s a stupidly sappy expression on his face as he stares at his husband, but he can’t care as Ilya meets his eyes with an equally soppy look. 

“Love you,” Shane murmurs, ghosting a kiss across his lips. “God help me, but I do like it.” 

Ilya preens for a moment before he softens again and presses a careful kiss to Shane’s forehead. 

“Is easy,” he repeats, an echo from earlier; their thread that has always carried them through. Even when everything was falling apart, the love was always there, unmistakably and devastatingly present. “Loving you.” 

“Yeah,” Shane says, agreement thrumming through him. He inhales, shaking his head, discomfort slithering up his spine as he realizes just how sticky he is; how he can feel Ilya’s cum leaking out from his ass. “C’mon, Rozanov. Let’s hit the showers.” 

“I do always like to get you dirty again,” Ilya muses, laughing as Shane huffs. “What? Is true.” 

“Alright, Romeo,” Shane mutters, even as he fights back a smile, turning the shower on. “With poetry like that, it’s no wonder you’re a hit with everyone.” 

Ilya shrugs, smiling at him. “Only matters if it is a hit with you,” he says simply, his eyes crinkling up. “Why say anything else but to impress you?” 

Shane can’t help but kiss him again, warm, easy love filling him. He hopes Ilya can taste the adoration straight from his mouth, can feel the devotion that burns eternal in his chest. 

“Yeah,” he says, when he pulls back, meeting Ilya’s happy, delighted gaze. He can’t even believe this is his perfect, wonderful life, that he gets to love and hold and care for this man for the rest of eternity. He smiles, bussing another kiss across Ilya’s lips, and lets affection fill his veins, buoying him up until there’s nothing but tenderness left inside; the easiest thing in the world when he’s looking at Ilya. “I love you, too.”