Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Gilbert Comeau

Additional Tags:

Married Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Post-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Bratty Shane Hollander, Gilbert Comeau Being an Asshole, minor exhibitionism, love (i fear) is not a strong enough word for what they have, Married Sex, the only thing they love more than each other is being annoying, devoted first husbands of hockey, Light Dirty Talk, Everyone is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Biting, minor pain kink, Bottom Shane Hollander, Top Ilya Rozanov, bitchy Shane Hollander, let him be nasty to his former teammates!!

Language:

English

Series:

Part 40 of heated rivalry masterlist

Stats:

Published: 2026-09-27 Words: 7,022 Chapters: 1/1

there's nothing i can gain hearin' the words of a dead man

Summary

Shane's mouth is hot and wet against Ilya’s throat, as Ilya catches sight of the Metros spilling into their VIP section, the Friday evening after their first week of Montreal’s hockey camp, his teeth a dull, warm pressure, one hand curled across the nape of his neck, his fingers sunk into Ilya's curls.

Ilya, because at his heart he's an absolute bastard, smirks as soon as Pike clocks the two of them, watching a bevy of emotions spike across his face before they dissolve into something a little more resigned, a little bit hungry.

OR: Shane gets to be a slut in public, snap at the Comeau, and get lovingly fucked out of his mind. Ilya's pretty sure it's one of the best night they've ever had.

Notes

guys, like, this is soooo indulgent for me, because it's my birthday and i love you all, but this fic, hell yeah, this one's for ME.

The club is loud, when Ilya spots them, his brows arching high on his head, his arm curled around his husband's waist, pinky tucked under the edge of his Rose-approved slacks, the rest of his hand spread out wide across the soft skin of his hipbone, the svelte swell of his stomach. 

Shane is four drinks in and more than a little tipsy; the pleasantly dangerous kind, where he gets loose and showboaty, his hands warm and eager as they slip under Ilya's shirt, across his body, shameless in a way he never is sober. 

It's one of Ilya's favorite public versions of him, one he's fondly thought of as Shane letting himself revisit his messy years; not that his earliest years in the NHL could ever be classified as messy. 

But he lets himself get drunk and handsy in public, tucked away in the dark eaves of a private club during the off-season, with the rest of their team spread out throughout the room, their eyes lingering occasionally, the familiar weight welcome. Ilya always feels like a king these nights, with Shane sprawled across his lap, his back settled in against the arm of the chair, legs hooked over Ilya's spread ones, needy and desirous; for Ilya, it's just as intoxicating to have Shane like this as it is to be drunk, with his every want taken care of, a glass of his chosen mocktail settled in his hand. 

Ilya's real favorite part of these nights is how easily Shane falls into his need to show off. The Cens had quickly figured out just how slutty Canada's perfect golden boy was after a few visits, and Ilya was more than thrilled to find just how hot it made Shane to be shown off as if he’s Ilya's little wife, an extension of him, only existing to be pretty and safe, tucked within Ilya's arms. 

It feeds some darker part of Ilya too, the side of him that wants to rip up the world from its roots, that wants to take and take and take until there's nothing but barren land, all of his wants and needs tucked safe behind his own home's walls. 

He's greedier than he's ever even realized when he was younger; eager and bloodthirsty for a shade of worship Shane serves up on gilded platters when the mood strikes him; something Ilya has never voiced but Shane intuitively knows. 

He likes how it feels, to fall back into a cruel persona, to let his sharper urges loose. Shane is always pliant, eager to please in a beautiful and memorizing way, as if all of his thoughts aside from Ilya have fallen straight out of his head. 

Ilya doesn’t have words for how it feels to be allowed such a gift, to be trusted like he is by his husband and his team. He just knows he’s the luckiest man in the world to be given such a delicious treat; to be permitted to be a darker imprint of himself. 

Shane's mouth is hot and wet against Ilya’s throat, as Ilya catches sight of the Metros spilling into their VIP section, the Friday evening after their first week of Montreal’s hockey camp, his teeth a dull, warm pressure, one hand curled across the nape of his neck, his fingers sunk into Ilya's curls. 

Ilya, because at his heart he's an absolute bastard, smirks as soon as Pike clocks the two of them, watching a bevy of emotions spike across his face before they dissolve into something a little more resigned, a little bit hungry. 

He, Rose, Sveta, and Jackie had spent a pleasant afternoon once getting, as Sveta had put it, white girl wasted, and talked about the clear attraction Pike holds in his heart for Shane. Four bottles of wine in and all of them had agreed: it was, unfortunately, a little hot to think of Pike getting to look but not touch. Shane had been unsurprised at the topic of conversation, listening through a pursed mouth on the drive home as Ilya, Sveta, and Rose had spilled their thoughts, but Ilya had known the truth; Shane had been hungry as soon as the girls had slipped off to their bedroom, his fingers searching and greedy, shameful desire painted across his beautiful face. 

As it is, Ilya is unsurprised when Pike's eyes linger, though—because of course they do, because they always have—caught on the spread of Shane before him. He would challenge anyone to see how Shane looks, splayed out and flushed with the slow-burning simmer of pleasure and sweet tinge of haziness that he gets whenever they play these games in public, and not stare. But, Ilya doesn't even hesitate as he slides his arms further around Shane's waist to cup his half-hard dick, grinning at the rush of wanton lushness that spills through him as Shane's whole body shakes under the touch, his teeth nipping at his skin.

Shane groans into his collarbone, the noise vibrating through him as Ilya feels him harden underneath his fingers. 

“Sweetheart,” Ilya murmurs, sliding his hand over the curve of his thigh, as Shane arches into his touch, panting into his throat. He doesn't stop tracking the few Metros he can see: Pike, Boiziau, Comeau, Drapeau, Miitka, and Andropov. There are others, newer ones, but he doesn't care about them the same way he cares about them. Despite Shane’s professed apathy, Ilya knows his husband better than anyone in the world; he knows how, years later, the departure from the Metros still stings. He also knows he would not use departure, would use angrier, crueler words, but that's him. “We have some company.” 

Shane sighs, dragging his nose up the line of his throat to catch the edge of his earlobe in his teeth, nipping once, before he releases it, his face still mostly buried into Ilya's skin. Across the room, he watches Miitka laugh at something Comeau says, and fights the urge to bare his teeth when Pike meets his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly aware that Ilya will not be chill about any of this. 

“Is it Mom and Dad?” he asks, a tremor of tension sliding through his body, until Ilya half-laughs and shakes his head. He can't even imagine Yuna or David in a club past ten pm, mainly because Shane had gotten his love of routines from both of them, and he knows just how dearly they cherish their personal time Friday nights—dinner from a favorite restaurant, a round of their never ending gin rummy game, and two glasses of whatever wine Ilya's brought them most recently—never mind that they're in Montreal currently and not in Ottawa. Shane slumps further into him, and Ilya can feel a soft kiss pressed against his pulse point. “Then I don't care,” he rasps. “I trust you, baby.”

As always, the trust Shane gives him never fails to stir his baser urges, and Ilya slides his hand back over his cock, meeting Drapeau's eyes. 

“Let me handle it, then,” Ilya says, smirking at Drapeau fully stops halfway towards their alcove, staring at them with wide eyes; it catches the rest of their actual teammates' attention, and Ilya can see heads turning towards them, the lightning bolt of shock and hot want that spreads between them. He squeezes Shane's dick, listening to him whimper, catching Wyatt and Zane clocking the Metros out of the corner of his eyes, vindication sliding through his veins at the immediate irritation painted across their faces. “Make yourself feel good, moya shlyukha.” 

Shane gasps wetly in his ear and spreads his legs a touch wider, hungry for a filthier and firmer pressure, before his mouth returns to Ilya's throat, eager and desperate for something he won't be getting until they return home. 

He curls his arm around Shane’s waist, tilting him further into his lap; he'll put on a show with Shane's blanket permission, but he won't expose them, won't let the potential weight of their eyes linger in Shane's consciousness tomorrow morning. 

He knows the exact angle to tip his sweet husband to, too, well accustomed to their best positions; Rose and Sveta had been exceptionally helpful for their practice sessions one week in the thick of summer after they had gotten married, when Shane had been just as loose, even with less alcohol in him, flooded with the ease that always came with their summers together. It had been an incredible night, with Rose tucked into Svetlana's lap, both of them calling out filthier and filthier ideas as Shane got redder and redder but still complied, eager to be good.

Ilya shakes himself out of his memories and drags his fingers over the heft of Shane, lightening the touch until Shane's canting his hips up towards his hand and whining into his ear. 

“Please,” he warbles, sugar-spun sweetness and greed infused in his tone. He sounds drunk on pleasure, a slur to his words that hits that nexus of blurry hunger that sits in the pit of Ilya's navel. “Ilya, I want more—please.”

“Be good,” Ilya murmurs, and settles his palm over the head of his cock, the beginning of dampness spilling through his pants. It makes Ilya want to swallow him whole, makes him want to crawl down his throat. He's never been so consumed with lust, never so infused with desire as when he sees Shane; hungry and aching for all of it. 

Across the room, Pike shifts out from the crowd of Metros, Boiziau lingering at his heels as they make their way over to Troy and Harris, clearly avoiding Ilya's heavy, knowing gaze. 

The rest of them flock together, and Ilya can tell by the glint in their eyes that there's nothing but trouble brewing in their veins. 

Did they see Shane's face? He's fairly certain they did not, not with his sweet boy so reluctant to be pulled from his skin. 

Surely they cannot be so stupid as to think that he would blatantly cheat on his perfect husband? Surely, they cannot think that he would be so obvious as to do it in front of their shared team? None of the Centaurs are hiding; all are obvious. Surely, they cannot think none of them would not tell Shane if he were.

But he already knows that they're idiots; they gave Shane away. Ran him out, really. He thinks they cannot be dumber than that. And yet, as Comeau saunters across the room, a flinty smirk on his face, he knows: they're going to prove him wrong, yet again.

“Rozanov,” Comeau drawls, as he settles into the chair across from him, clearly the chosen sacrificial lamb. In his lap, Shane stiffens for a beat before all the tension unwinds from his spine. Ilya can feel his sudden smile against his throat, and feels his mouth curl into an answering, bloodthirsty one as Comeau clears his throat. “I see you've gotten bored with Hollander already.” 

Ilya arches a brow, fighting the urge to laugh as Shane nips at his skin, and Comeau scoffs. “I mean, I knew he was an idiot for dick, but this is just… this is sad. I mean, like, he has to know, right?” 

“Oh, yes,” Ilya says agreeably. He's almost interested to see how this will play out, Shane pliant in his arms, clearly listening for all that he's sinking his teeth into his throat every so often. He does know how much Shane like the vibrations of his voice against his mouth. “I tell him. I say, Hollander, I would like to go out to the club and find myself a pretty boy. Do you mind?” He shrugs, unsurprised as Shane’s cock twitches under his palm. His precious little slut, the sweetest boy of all—he knows the truth; there are none as pretty as him. “He says, no, of course not. He never minds.” 

Comeau blinks, his mouth slack with ugly shock. 

Ilya lets his other brow drift up, a faint smirk unfurling across his face. "You are… surprised?"

"I mean," Comeau starts, staring at him. Ilya isn't surprised that his eyes keep drifting lower, clearly eager to see what he's doing to Shane, despite not knowing that it's Shane in his lap. He has a feeling that if the Metros found out that it is Shane in his lap, they'd all be gathered around, slavering to see him, jealous that they don't get to touch. Selfish idiots. As if Ilya would ever let them see. He would only let his favorites watch, and none of them measure up—none of them are even in the race. He could kill them for the audacity, another black mark against all of them. "I didn't expect—what the fuck?"

Ilya hums, fluttering his lashes. "Do not project your communication issues onto my marriage," he says loftily, biting back a groan as Shane grinds into his hand, leaking even more. His sweet wife, so eager to hear him rip other men to shreds. "What Shane and I have is more than you can even comprehend."

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Comeau asks, anger roaring back into the lines of his face. "You're fucking disgusting." He laughs, sharp and blistering. "Like this is what Hollander deserves, for throwing away his team for you. You keeping him on a leash just to see how much he'll give you too? He put out for the whole fucking team when you win? A pet for you to keep on the side as you keep fucking the rest of the goddamn whores of the world? Fucking—"

Ilya's opening his mouth, white-hot anger licking up his spine—because it's all fun and games until Comeau opens his fucking mouth, too daring by far, and Ilya would love a reason to introduce his teeth to the floor—when Shane slides a hand over his lips and twists, neatly turning so that Comeau can meet his eyes.

"It's not my problem that you're a pathetic excuse for a right wing anymore," Shane says succinctly as Comeau freezes, his mouth dropping open. Around the room, Ilya can see the other Metros gaping, the faint smirks from Zane and Wyatt, the slumped shoulders of Pike as Harris grins over at them. "So maybe don't make it your problem that my husband and I get a little hot and heavy at a club." He wrinkles his nose. "I mean, Jesus, Gil, c'mon. Isn't it a little bit embarrassing that you're still trying to get up my ass?" He pats Ilya on the cheek before dropping his arm, and Ilya can't help the way his hand spasms around his cock, as if there's a live wire running down his arm. Shane doesn't even sound affected, the bastard, as he arches a brow and stage whispers, "I promise, I'm plenty satisfied."

"Hollander," Ilya says, helplessly, so turned on, he's dizzy. He presses his mouth to the edge of his jaw, scraping his teeth across the skin. "You're killing me."

"Good," Shane says, and rocks back, shameless. "You're still here, Comeau?" Ilya snaps his head up, scowling, but Shane's not finished. "Ilya and I aren't looking for a third. Maybe move the fuck on?"

Ilya shudders at the saccharine venom in his tone. He's sure that the Metros got a version of Shane that was condensed into politeness even in his anger. He's sure that they never got the precious bitchy one-liners that Ilya gets every day, that he fucking treasures. Shane only ever chirps people he likes on the ice, an honor that Ilya's been carrying for as long as they've known each other.

This isn't chirping, though; this is Shane being a petty, vindictive bastard, and Ilya's pretty sure he's never been harder, watching the way Comeau's whole face pales at Shane's words, some barb laced underneath that Ilya isn't privy to, before he shoves himself up out of the chair and stumbles over to a still gaping Miitka.

"Jesus Christ," Shane mutters, twisting back to look at him. His eyes are dark, arousal still potent in the shining obsidian glaze of them. "Can we go back to the hotel now? I want you to fuck me until I forget who the hell Comeau is."

Ilya nods, and pushes them up, keeping Shane facing him, so that he can smatter a series of wet kisses across his face, dropping them over his nose and cheeks and eyelids as Shane hums in contentment.

"You're ridiculous," he murmurs, when Ilya pulls back, even as his eyes turn wet and glossy with sin. Ilya could never tire of looking at him, watching the way he interacts with the world. He thinks, sometimes, that people are right, that there is a serious amount of codependency between them.

But he doesn't care—why would he? Shane is perfection made flesh; frankly, Ilya's already annoyed at how much he has to share him with the world.

"It's never ridiculous to love you, lyubimyj," Ilya murmurs, and soaks in the look of warm adoration that spills down Shane's face. "You are ready?"

Shane nods, but reaches up, curling his fingers around his jaw, to tug him into a filthy kiss. Ilya groans into his mouth, the slick touch of his tongue, the faint hint of pure Shane that he can taste underneath the tang of a Moscow mule. Shane whines, his grip turning harder as Ilya licks across the roof of his mouth, shuddering in his arms.

"Okay?" he murmurs, when they've parted just enough to breathe. He licks his lips, his mouth curving into a scythe, when he catches Shane's lips as well; it's not that he ever forgets how much Shane wants him, it's just always an extra point of pleasure when he lets himself get so needy in public, when he trusts that Ilya will guide him. His cock twitches in his pants as he pulls back a tad to catch the blatant stares from the Metros. Shane Hollander has been mine before he was ever yours, he wants to crow, but he knows that really, instead of listening to Ilya pick a fight, Shane wants to be taken home and fucked right, even as he teases, "Point proven, Hollander, or would you like me to fuck you in front of them? Given them a real show?"

Shane whines again, but shakes his head. "They don't deserve it," he says, nose wrinkling, eyes glassy. He presses his lips together and carefully looks up at him, his gaze glinting behind his eyelashes, coyness suffused in every line of him. "So take me home, Ilyusha."

Ilya has to close his eyes as thick, unrelenting greed crackles up his spine. Some days, he can hardly believe that this is his life; out and proud, Shane a beacon of sin on his arms, his quiet, good boy tendencies on heady display for an adoring public.

He's sure that if everyone knew what a fucking slut he was behind the doors, his legions of fans would only grow.

But no, this version of Shane is one that Ilya is trusted with, one that he's kept safe behind hotel doors, and warm on his knees in their respective homes. This is a version of Shane that Shane has slowly come to terms with, one that he'd let slip free every so often when they were still in the mess of an undefined relationship, but now shines brightly.

"Of course, sweetheart," Ilya says, his voice thick with lust and the heavy weight of love. "Let's go."

They don't bother doing much other than waving at their teammates scattered around the room, Ilya shameless as he slides a proprietary hand into the back pocket of Shane's pants, clearly groping him.

Shane only sighs, and leans in closer, tucking himself under his arm as his hand sneaks around Ilya's waist, his fingers curling into the belt loop on his side.

The thrum of the music only grows as they make their way down the stairs, pulsing and vibrant, before they step out the private exit, spilling out into Montreal's warm summer night. The clang of the door slamming shut, the heavy bass vibrating through brick; it's a relief to step away from the club, to let the fresh air sluice over them. He can tell that Shane feels the same as he sighs contentedly, his mouth curling into a smile. They're mostly quiet as they walk the two blocks to their hotel, happiness fusing them together.

Ilya doesn't bother removing his hand from Shane's ass as he murmurs about historic traffic patterns around the street their hotel is on, his voice soft even as his eyes are bright, clearly trying to stave off desperation from his tone.

The desire hums in Ilya's chest as Shane carefully leads them up to their room, the click of the latch loud between them as he steps back towards the bed, a grin growing at the sight of Shane spinning to rest his shoulders against the penthouse door.

"Well?" Ilya murmurs, spreading his arms wide. "I think there was a bossy order from your mouth earlier, sweetheart. Cat got your tongue now?"

Shane groans, his hands sneaking down to palm at his dick, freezing as Ilya clicks his tongue. He grins, a dark slash of avarice curving across his mouth. "Now, did I say you could do that, kotik?"

Shane shudders under his words, his hand dropping back to his side. "Fuck," he breathes, head lolling against the wooden door. He looks like sin personified in the dark shadows of their suite. "Please."

"Please what?" Ilya asks, tilting his head like he doesn't know exactly what Shane wants. He stalks forward, lethal grace in every smooth step. "Please fuck me like the needy slut I am? Please take me to pieces because I'm a whore? Please let me suck your dick?"

Shane whines, shivering, his hands flexing against the wood, the golden ring glittering on his left hand, drawing the eye even in the dim lights of the room.

"Please," Shane manages, looking up at him from beneath his eyelashes. "Whatever you want, baby." He blinks, guileless desire thick in his gaze, strong enough that Ilya can see the damp pool of tears in his waterline. "Just touch me."

Ilya grins, reaching out to swipe the pad of his thumb over the corner of his eye, the filth softening into something a little sweeter as Shane nuzzles against the edge of his thumb, his lashes drifting over the whorl of his finger.

"More," his husband whimpers, catching his bottom lip between his teeth. "Please, Ilya, fuck—I want you so goddamn badly. Seeing you, listening to you talk to Comeau like that—" He shudders again, the door rattling in its frame at the shift of his shoulders. "Fuck, I wanted you to fuck me right there. Show all of them what they couldn't have. How I'm yours and yours alone."

"You are mine," Ilya rumbles, dragging his fingers down to curl under Shane's chin, lifting his face up to properly catch his eyes. "You couldn't be anyone else's, could you sweetheart?" Shane shakes his head, but it's not enough. "Tell me. Again."

"Yours," Shane whines, sweet and low, need dripping from his mouth, his desperation smeared in the corners of his mouth, the dark burgundy indents of his teeth set into his bottom lip. Ilya smooth the tip of his finger over them, the thrum of arousal growing more and more potent in his veins. "'m—I've always been yours, Ilya. Always. Even when I didn't know—all of me has been yours."

Shards of hunger pierce straight through Ilya's heart, all his avarice set free to cling to Shane. Shane, who's utter perfection, draped in the thin, sheer blue top that's Ilya knows deliberately matches to his eye color. His husband is so brilliant with his claims, with his need to make it clear; they own each other and they owe the world nothing.

"Sweetheart," Ilya croons, dropping his hand to undo the buttons as Shane stares up at him, his mouth parted, his doe-eyes out in full effect. "Again."

Shane shudders under his command, his lashes fluttering for a beat, before some piece of him releases, and all of him settles.

"I've always been yours," Shane murmurs, a little tick of smugness in his tone. "I saw a video of you on ice and I wanted, and I knew—no one would ever compare. No one could compare. It's always been you, Ilya Rozanov. My first in all the ways it counts. My only in just as many. You're the only person I've ever wanted, baby. You're the only man for me." His mouth curls into something devious and delighted, predatory intent unsheathed for all that he's playing at being a coy, soft, little thing for Ilya. "My husband. My forever."

Heat churns in Ilya's stomach, electric pleasure skittering through his marrow, golden pools of hunger clinging to his bones.

Shane Hollander, menace of the ice. The relentless king of the rink. Ilya's own heart and soul, dazzlingly beloved.

He wants to devour him, wants to rend them both down to pulp and gore, wants to demolish him with the aching force of his love. He wants to spend an eternity measuring the wrinkles that grow with each smile that comes easier, wants to count the love in every ridge of his teeth as Shane tosses his head back and laughs. He wants to crawl in between his ribs and feast on his heart, wants to bite the curve of his shoulder and swallow down flesh.

It should be impossible to carry so much love, to hold so much desire. He should be immolated on the force of his own greed, but, like always, Shane keeps him safe, protects him from the worst the world has to offer simply by existing.

"That's right, lyubimyj," Ilya murmurs, undoing the last button and lifting his hand up to slide his thumb into Shane's mouth, pressing right into the soft, wet heat. Suction starts up, Shane keeping his gaze fixed on him even as he bobs his head forward, soaking his finger in spit. His clever tongue laves over his skin, a thin moan leaking out from between his lips. "I'm yours just as much as you're mine."

Shane's lashes flutter and Ilya grins, a bright, sharp-toothed flare of want.

"Now, sweetheart," he says, using his other hand to deftly undo the button on Shane's pants. "Get naked and on the bed."

Shane doesn't hesitate. He darts around Ilya with a wild, rictus grin, pleased beyond imagining to be getting what he wants. Ilya leans against the door he'd crowded Shane into, watching with a faint smile as his husband strips down, still carefully folding his clothes despite the clear thrum of need that's infusing him.

It's a delight to see him so happy, to let himself feel the same. To not hide; Ilya had known it was exhausting to cling to shadows—he'd known enough to want out, but he'd never been able to imagine the ocean of triumph that awaited them both in the sunshine.

To be here, now, in this needlessly expensive hotel room, watching his gorgeously tipsy husband fold his boxers just so, before clambering on the bed—he wouldn't change a thing.

"Ilya," Shane whines, sprawling out across the bed shamelessly, his cock hard and drooling on his stomach. "Will you fuck me now?"

Ilya grins, pushing off the door and tugging his shirt off in one smooth motion, grinning at the sight of Shane's widening eyes, the glitter of arousal potently clear in his gaze. "Yes, lyubimyj," he murmurs, love so thick he can taste it suffusing the air. "I'll fuck you now."

Shane grins at him, wiggling happily against the bed. "Love you, baby," he murmurs, as Ilya yanks off his pants. "Gimme kiss."

Ilya's helpless to obey as Shane scrambles forward, rising up onto his knees and pursing his lips; it's messy between them, both of them smiling too hard for it to be anything other than the spit-slick glide of lips and teeth. Shane tangles his fingers in Ilya's hair and tugs, evidently trusting Ilya to catch and slowly lower him to the mattress as he drifts backwards against the pillows until Ilya is settled between his legs.

Ilya lets his weight press into Shane, pulling back far enough to drink in the blissful smile on his face.

"Hi, sweetheart," he murmurs, dotting kisses down his jaw and throat. "You happy?"

Shane hums, scratching across Ilya's scalp. "Yeah," he whispers, as if it's a secret, and not something obvious these days. Still, pride wells up within Ilya; he can only hope that Shane will always be so brave as to admit his feelings. "Always happy with you."

Ilya can't not kiss him again, surging up to suck his tongue into his mouth, licking across his teeth as Shane ruts against him, whining faintly. It's so fucking easy to be everything for Shane, for Shane to be everything for him; Ilya can't imagine how fucking horrific his life would be without him—he, frankly, just point blank refuses to think about it.

Ilya pulls back, grinning down at him. "You had things to say in the club, yes?" he asks, sliding a hand down Shane's chest, across his waist. "Things about me fucking all thoughts out of your pretty, little head?"

"If you can," Shane says, smirking at him, his eyes glinting with the challenge. He pouts, fluttering his lashes, faux-concern smearing his lips into a frown. "I don't want you getting in over your head, baby."

Ilya grins at him, the vestiges of a snarl curving across his face. "Oh, sweetheart," he says, sliding down his body, biting kisses into his pink skin. Shane is going to be marred by dawn, the indents of Ilya's love sunk straight in, as close to gnawing on his bones as he can get. "You're asking for it tonight, huh?"

He peeks up at Shane, swallowing down a smile when he finds him grinning up at the ceiling, delight soaked into every line of his body. It's a miracle, how much fucking fun he has with Shane, how easy the joy comes. For years, sex was a way to keep afloat, to let his body drift and his mind be distracted; moments of pleasure to distract from the shards of hurt. Even with Shane, there had been these glancing, tense moments; times that he now can see the mirrored hurt between them, the depth of pain they shared.

But these days, sex is nothing more than love stitched between them, another tangled string to tie their hearts together. He's having fun, even in the depravity, even in the more serious scenes; it's awkward and stupid and silly and he gets to do it for the rest of his life. He gets to look at Shane's bratty little face and fuck the attitude out of him, and he gets to make love to him, and he gets to beg and plead for another chance to fuck him, to annoy him until he gives in and lets Ilya blow him in bathrooms, in closets, in the locker room.

He gets to be nasty and mean and filthy with it; all his rawness revealed.

What a fucking joy to have. What a fucking honor.

Shane nudges him, with his knee, a careful check-in, and Ilya meets his eyes, beaming widely at him—completely out of place in the setting Shane's been trying to build, but he knows it doesn't matter. All that matters is them.

Love you, Shane mouths, his eyes crinkling up with the force of his smile, before he wrangles it back into a terrible pout. "C'mon," he whines, his mouth twitching. "I thought you were gonna fuck me."

Ilya grins up at him, keeping eye contact and bends down to bite over the meat of his chest. Shane whimpers at the feeling, arching into his teeth, his hands fluttering against his head. His hair is already sticking to his forehead, tacky with sweat. He looks gorgeous in the moonlight spilling in through the windows, all sleek lines of power, broad muscled shoulders, the heft of his biceps evident as he tenses at the feeling, his mouth curling into a tiny smile, before he snuffs it out, hiding it behind his pout.

"Again," he demands, when Ilya releases him, his skin flooding with color, the deep indent of his teeth crooked across his pectoral. "Do that again."

Ilya presses a kiss to the center of the mark, the skin red and damp with spit. "Manners," he reminds, his hand sneaking lower to pet across Shane's hips, neatly avoiding his drooling cock. He's honestly impressed that Shane hasn't cum yet; he never would've thought his precious little painslut could hold off for so long. Not after how eager he was to get back to their bed. "I thought you wanted me to fuck you. Or do you want me to just bite you over and over again, until you're nothing but teeth marks?"

Shane huffs, wrinkling his nose when Ilya glances up at him. "I don't know why you can't do both," he grumbles, and yelps when Ilya slaps his thigh, the clap of skin ringing through the air. He settles, quicker than Ilya is expecting, his eyes low-lidded. "Please fuck me," he murmurs, reaching over to grab the lube from their bedside table. Ilya can see the tremble of his fingers in the dim light, pride washing through him. "I've been good."

Ilya snorts, but snags the bottle, shifting further down the bed easily, dropping a kiss every so often, especially over the few freckles that dot across his torso.

"If this is you being good, I do not think you understand what good means," he says, the snick of the lube cap muffled under Shane's breathing. "Mm, you were good in the club, yes," he adds, before Shane can argue. "But you have been nothing but a spoiled little bratty princess here."

Shane groans, wiggling against the bed again, eagerness clear. He subsides when Ilya slaps at his thigh again, right over the pink from before, before he strokes across the skin, just firm enough so it doesn't tickle. He doesn't say anything, and when Ilya glances up, he's just watching, a pleased look on his face, a hazy look in his eyes.

Ilya smiles up at him, coating his fingers in lube, and smooths over his soft rim, still a little bit loose from their fucking before the club. It's easy enough for him to slip inside with one, Ilya shuddering at the soft, wet heat of him, only to bite at Shane's knee when he rolls his hips impatiently, clearly eager for more.

"You will take what I give you and nothing else," he murmurs into Shane's skin, even as he caves a little and slips another finger in. He feels almost entranced as he watches his fingers slide deeper inside, as he listens to the slick noise of them opening Shane up. "There we go, solnyshko, hm? Just needed a little bit of settling."

Shane hums, his head lolling back against the pillows as Ilya strokes across his prostate. "Feels good," he mumbles, glossy-eyed. It's one of Ilya's favorite things in the world, how easily Shane's brattiness collapses as soon as he gets Ilya inside him. It doesn't even have to be his ass; Ilya's slid fingers into his mouth and had all his attitude undone in the literal palm of his hand. "Thank you, baby."

Ilya doesn't bother responding, instead pressing more kisses across Shane's skin, getting closer and closer to his dick as he shudders under the onslaught of pleasure. Ilya's own cock is throbbing, hard enough for it to keep his own hunger present, despite how easily he slides into focusing on Shane.

He has no idea how long they're caught in the familiar motions, as Ilya opens him up even wider, working his way up to three fingers, teasing him with the pressure of a fourth, but it's long enough that the moon has slipped down towards the horizon and Shane is close to sobbing, the slant of moonshine staining the tear tracks on his face silver.

"Okay, lyubimyj," Ilya coos, pulling back to smooth a hand over Shane's thighs. He grins at the tacky fingerprints he leaves as he lifts Shane's shaking legs, folding him easily into a familiar position. "Okay. I will fuck you now, yes? You cry so prettily for me, malysh. I love you."

Shane sniffles, tears dripping from his lashes as he purses his lips, and Ilya laughs, unable to help it, as he bends down and brushes slow, drugging kisses over Shane's sweet mouth. It almost comes as a surprise, when he slides in to Shane's puffy hole, despite being the one to make it happen. The glide is unreal, as he bottoms out, all slick heat and tight pressure, gorgeous mewls dripping from Shane's tongue.

"Love you," Shane slurs, breathless devotion clear in his tone. "My Ilya."

"Yours," Ilya echoes, and begins to move.

It's overwhelmingly good, static buzzing in his mind, the white-hot clench of Shane around his cock. There's nothing but the heavy blanket of pleasure swamping him, the dull ache of his worn out muscles, falling into familiar motions.

Shane won't stop gasping and whining, rubbing up against his stomach as if a cat in heat, seeking his own friction. Precum spills down his shaft, when Ilya glances down, beads of white dribbling from his slit with every whine.

"So good," Shane whimpers, meeting Ilya's gaze. He looks dazed with lush hedonism, overtaken with the steady unwinding of hunger. He looks like he's been eager for so long that he doesn't even know what to do with himself as they meander towards release. "Wanna—fuck—wanna do this forever. Wanna love you forever, wanna get fucked by you forever—" He groans as Ilya grinds forward, sloppy and wet, debauched with love. "'m yours forever," he whispers, his eyes glassy with tears. "'S all I ever wanted."

"All I ever wanted, too, sweetheart," Ilya manages to grit out, overcome by the sheer riptide of adoration in Shane's eyes. "It's you. It's always been you."

Heat thrums in the pit of Ilya's stomach, a slow unearthing of an orgasm. It feels like he's been tucked away, safe in Shane's big heart; warm and cozy and loved. Here is everything he's every chased after; his husband, their blissful, peaceful, entwined existences, their scorching hot sex life.

Waves of decadence begin to build in his body, creeping up through his limbs as he leans down to kiss Shane again. It's messy, more of them just breathing in the other than any actual kissing happening, but Ilya loves it all the more for its uselessness.

"'M close," Shane murmurs into the spit slick cavern of his mouth. "So close, oh, fuck, Ilya—right there—"

Ilya rolls his hips forward, the threads of an orgasm begin to bind together as pleasure scores down his spine. "Gonna cum for me, lyubimyj?" he asks, smiling as Shane's dazed little hum of agreement. "Come on, sweetheart," he continues, leaning down to capture Shane's bottom lip between his teeth, nipping at his plush pout. "Be my good boy and—"

He doesn't even have to finish his sentence as Shane warbles out his orgasm, cum blurting out between them, soaking both of their stomachs. Ilya groans at the sensation and fucks him harder, shuddering as he clenches down, somehow impossibly tighter.

"Fuck," he manages, the glitchy whine of imminent satiation clicking in his throat. "Oh my god—"

Bliss rips through his body, the world whiting out aside from the dazed look of satisfaction in Shane's eyes. Ilya thrusts forward twice more, his whole body shuddering as he fills Shane up with cum, ecstasy flooding him. For a moment, they're caught in stillness; the sheer overwhelm of pleasure soaked through both their bodies, before Ilya tips forward, completely smothering Shane with his body.

The room is quiet, aside from their panting for another long, swollen beat, as Ilya tries to figure out how to be a person again, and not just a mass of buzzy endorphins. It's hard coming back to earth after such all encompassing pleasure, but he's an old hat at it, at this point. He has to be, otherwise neither of them would ever get anything done.

Eventually, Shane wriggles beneath him, a thin, reedy note of displeasure leaking from his mouth.

"I know," Ilya murmurs, pushing himself up carefully, just enough to glance down between them. They're both coated in Shane's rapidly cooling release, tacky white streaks smeared across their skin. He carefully pulls out, leaning back down to kiss the hiss of displeasure out of Shane's mouth. "I know," he repeats, and forces himself up, despite the way he wants to cling to Shane and never let him go. "Rinse in the shower and then a bath. You'll feel better after, yes?"

"I'm coming," Shane grumbles as Ilya rolls off the bed, before he rubs at his eyes, yawning. "Go get the water started."

Ilya beams at him, stupidly in love. "My husband," he proclaims to the dark and empty room. "So needy."

"Fuck off," Shane mutters, but it's undercut by the smile on his face and the way he tilts his head up for another kiss. "Asshole."

"Mm, yes," Ilya admits, swooping back in for another kiss. "But I think you like this."

Shane grins at him, beautiful and sated and so fucking content that Ilya could weep. "Yeah," he says closing his eyes. Ilya knows he's going to bitch about it, when he has to shake him out of his drowsy little cat nap. He can't fucking wait to hear his mean little comments when he's too sleepy for the rest of his life. "I absolutely do."