Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

Gen, M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike & Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike/Jackie Pike, Shane Hollander & Jackie Pike

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Jackie Pike, Hayden Pike

Additional Tags:

hydrogen bomb ilya rozanov vs. coughing baby hayden pike, the girls (jackie & shane) are scheming, Bets & Wagers, Crying, Begging, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, my jackie & shane best friendism agenda strikes again, ilya has a one man mission and it's to drain shane dry, his other (not so) secret mission is to ruin hayden's life, Alternate Universe - College/University, they are so in love it's sickening, Teasing, Top Ilya Rozanov, Bottom Shane Hollander, mostly porn what plot/porn without plot, Hand Jobs, shane brats out a little bit, Dirty Talk, Anal Fingering, blink and you miss it breeding kink, Possessive Ilya Rozanov, Established Relationship, Good Boy Shane Hollander

Language:

English

Series:

Part 7 of heated rivalry masterlist

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-28 Words: 11,143 Chapters: 1/1

all you suckers just wanna be me

Summary

“And the both of you just assumed that, what? Jackie and I would just play along? Did either of us even factor into this stupid thing, outside of making us cum?” Shane asks, crossing his arms. He looks annoyed, one of Ilya's favorite emotions to see painted across his face. “Or was this all about your giant fucking ego?”

Ilya smirks, and Shane groans, throwing a pillow at his face. “Don't even fucking start.”

“Me?” Ilya says, buzzed and happy, thrilled to be irritating Shane as always. “Ego is not the only thing giant about me.”

OR: Hayden & Ilya make a bet. Shane (and Jackie) win.

Notes

The bet had started with Hayden fucking Pike chirping away in his ear, buzzing like a mosquito. 

“It’s okay if you don’t want to,” he'd said, a smarmy, stupid grin on his face. In the dim light of the usual Friday night party Cliff is throwing, he looked even dumber than usual with strobing lights flickering across his brow. “I know that you're probably one and done.” 

Ilya had arched a brow at him, completely unimpressed, even as a familiar need to prove him wrong began to grow in his chest. Fuck Hayden Pike and all he thinks he knows; Ilya is fantastic at making Shane cum. “Did not know you thought about our orgasms like that, Pike,” he'd murmured back, smirking at his sudden scowl, deliberately including himself in the equation; he knows all too well how much Pike likes Shane. “Is kind to be concerned, but you do not have to worry when we beat you.” 

Hayden had glared, his hands flexing around his red solo cup. “You're not gonna be saying that tomorrow,“ he'd muttered, and turned around, stalking back towards Jackie, who was watching them both with narrowed eyes, his glove of orgasmic competition thrown to the ground between the two of them. 

Currently, though Ilya can't hide his annoyance at the mere concept of it coming from Pike, the results are too enticing for him to argue; Shane, spread across his sheets, his face set into a faint scowl, even though Ilya can see the quirk of interest in his brow. 

“And the both of you just assumed that, what? Jackie and I would just play along? Did either of us even factor into this stupid thing, outside of making us cum?” Shane asks, crossing his arms. He looks annoyed, one of Ilya's favorite emotions to see painted across his face. “Or was this all about your giant fucking ego?” 

Ilya smirks, and Shane groans, throwing a pillow at his face. “Don't even fucking start.” 

“Me?” Ilya says, buzzed and happy, thrilled to be irritating Shane as always. “Ego is not the only thing giant about me.” 

Shane groans, tilting his head back, and Ilya is abruptly distracted by the lines of his throat in the dim moonlight streaming in through his window. 

Shane is always gorgeous, but in the pale light, he's exceptionally beautiful. 

Silver pools in the hollow of his throat, kissing across his cheekbones, dusting his freckles. His shirt is soft and worn, stolen from Ilya’s closet a year ago, sleeves pushed up to just under his elbow, the shift of his forearm clear as he leans back on his hands, his legs kicked out in front of him.

“What?” he asks, tilting his head. He has a faint smile hovering around his mouth, curling at the corners. He looks soft and wonderful and pleased, and Ilya wants Shane in all the ways he can possibly have him, but he never wants him more than he does in these quiet moments, when he can just look at him.

“You are very pretty,” Ilya says, honest and truthful, and smiles when Shane looks away, pink blooming across his cheeks. “I am thinking about how lucky I am. To have you. To know you.” 

Shane shakes his head, like he always does when Ilya compliments him, shy and dizzy with any crumb of praise. He is so strange, his boyfriend. So unused to kind words despite how easily he earns them. 

It makes Ilya smug and furious, an odd cocktail of emotion roiling in his stomach. 

“Is true,” Ilya says, reaching out to curl his hand around Shane's ankle, smoothing his thumb across the wiry hair and knobby ankle bone, his fingers folding snug around his achilles tendon. “You are a gift, Shane Hollander.” He tugs, smiling as Shane sighs and slumps down, sprawling out across his sheets as Ilya drags him further down the bed. “My favorite.” 

Shane hums, his shirt rucking up as Ilya pulls, until the planes of his stomach are on display, the edge of his nipples peeking out from under the hem of his shirt. Ilya's mouth waters as he leans down, ghosting a breath across his stomach, pressing soft kisses over the edges of his ribs. 

Shane's hand reaches, settling on Ilya's head, winding through his curls. “You're my favorite,” he breathes out, as if it's some secret, and not something he carries proudly every day. Ilya has always felt treasured by him, has always gotten that swooping feeling of desire and care whenever Shane looks his way. 

Ilya presses another kiss to the curve of ribs before he catches the meat of his pec in his teeth, biting as gently as he can stand. 

Shane groans, low and rough, already sounding reedy with want, and Ilya grins against his skin. He pulls back enough to admire the faint splotch that's appearing before his boyfriend gently tugs at his hair, urging him upwards. 

Ilya, because he is feeling so pleased with himself, doesn't make him beg for once. He settles his arms on each side of Shane's head, his body blanketing his, before he drops his head down and captures his mouth.

Shane kisses like the first snowfall of winter; tentative and faint, whispers of pressure, before desire clogs his throat and he becomes greedy, a storm of need, his hands pulling on Ilya's hair, his mouth opening on a low whine. 

Ilya lets himself explore, licking across the roof of his mouth, biting into the soft swell of his lips. He grins into the kiss, inhaling when Shane pulls him down further, as if he means to swallow him whole. 

His body settles firmly onto Shane's, and he can feel the hot press of his cock, even through both their pants, a line of heat nudging against his. He grinds down, breathing in Shane's moan as they pant into each other's mouths, spit slick and needy. 

He likes the way it feels, the lazy thrum of want, the slow stretch of a heady rush across his skin. It settles like sun-warmed river rocks in his stomach, a cairn built to pleasure rising up from the muck of life. He is never more himself than when he is settled into his skin like this, confident and happy; Shane spread out beneath him as if a feast. 

“I am going to ruin you,” Ilya murmurs, velvet longing crushed in his voice. He rolls his hips, leaning down to brush a kiss across Shane's cheek, a shallow vow sworn against his skin. “Are you going to be good and cry tonight, moy lyubimyj?” 

Shane nods, tiny hitching pants leaking from his throat. 

“Gonna be good,” he promises, his hands sliding down Ilya's head to scratch across his shoulder, a delicate sting as his nails dig in. So eager already, and they haven't even started, Ilya notes smugly. “I want…” he trails off, rocking slowly against him, and Ilya arches a brow, pulling back to look at him. 

“Yes?” he says, watching the flutter of his lashes as Shane opens his eyes. “You only have to ask, Hollander.” 

Shane sighs, sweet and beautiful, more pink spilling across his face as he squirms under him. “Please,” he says, already sliding to space, that one that Ilya loves to nudge him into with careful, gentle pushes, though sometimes with a violent thrust, sending him spinning so beautifully. “Please make me cum.” 

Ilya blinks at the forthrightness of his words. Normally, he has to get Shane desperate and aching, eager to spill for the words to rise to his tongue. Normally, it's a game of pressure, of finding the spots Ilya can press down on, his fingers tight on Shane's hips. 

Tonight, though, his boyfriend is eager. 

A filthy smile curves across his face as Ilya grinds down. 

“Da,” he says, as Shane hiccups on a moan, his voice stretched and whiny, syrupy desire soaked through. “Do not worry, sweetheart. You will be asking for me to stop by the time the night is through.” He hums, cocking his head, grinning when Shane rocks against him, more breathy sounds spilling from his throat. “Is gamble, if I will listen.” 

“Shit,” Shane hisses. His eyes glint in the moonlight, a self-satisfied expression curling across his face, one that Ilya thinks will make him wonder at a later time, when Shane is not quite so needy, as his hands tug at Ilya's shirt, sliding across his skin. “You all talk tonight, Rozanov, or are you going to let Hayden beat you?”

For a second, Ilya is so stunned he cannot think, his mouth dropping open as he stares down at his boyfriend. 

Shane grins at him, sly provocation in the gleam of his teeth. He never looks better than when he is being an asshole, Ilya thinks fondly, and he does it so well. Everyone thinks they know Mr. Nice Guy, Shane Hollander, and none of them know the sharp sting of his mouth. “Cat got your tongue?” 

“Oh,” Ilya says, before he pushes himself up, sliding out of Shane's grip, ignoring the way he groans. He tugs his shirt off and gestures for Shane to do the same, undoing the button on his jeans but refusing to push them down, watching eagerly as Shane strips, folding his clothes even as he tosses them down on the ground. “If honor was not on the line, Hollander, your ass would be red enough to see from space.” 

Shane flutters his lashes, innocence painted across his brow, as if he’s not the instigator. “I thought you liked a challenge,” he murmurs, licking his lips as he wiggles out of his jeans but keeps his briefs on. 

Ilya doesn't comment immediately, letting his eyes drag down to the growing damp spot, Shane's precum soaking through the gray fabric. He holds his gaze there as Shane leans back down, spread out across his sheets, pink rising to his cheeks. 

“You are not a challenge,” he finally says, smirking when Shane whines faintly. Heat stirs in his stomach, his cock hard in his pants. He thinks he might ruin both their lives tonight, and what a glorious way to go. “You are easy.” 

“Fuck off,” Shane says, but they both know Ilya is telling the truth; Shane is deliciously easy for him. Ilya could back him into a corner and have him whining for his cock in under three minutes; has, in fact, to the general disgust of their friends. 

Ilya, personally, thinks they could all stand to be a little more grateful. It is not just anyone he would let see Shane undone. 

He tsks, reaching out to stroke a finger down Shane's clothed cock. “You should be nicer, moya shlyukha,” he warns as Shane arches into the touch. “We are only done when I say, or if you say magic word.” 

“Not gonna,” Shane pants out immediately. Ilya hums, shrugging, and fits his thumb directly over the head of Shane's dick, pressing in against his dripping slit, grinning when the fabric immediately darkens, Shane's teeth clicking as he snaps his mouth shut around a whine. “Asshole.” 

“You are in mood tonight,” Ilya says, delighted, even as cogs begin to turn in his head. He has seen Shane like this before; it is the same greed he gets when he wants to win. Abruptly, he has a sneaking suspicion that Shane is a bigger part of this whole bet thing than he is supposed to be. “I think you are needy, Hollander, no? Needy for cock, for kisses, for ruin.” 

“N-no,” Shane stutters, as Ilya squeezes tight around his dick. “I'm not—I'm—holy shit.” 

“Mmhmm,” Ilya murmurs. Heat crackles across his skin, greed slithering up his spine. He is going to wreck Shane tonight, going to pull orgasm after orgasm from him until he begs for mercy. “You are lucky I am so kind.” 

Shane laughs, even as his face screws up, his mouth slack, his tongue sweeping across his lips. “Kind isn't—oh god—the word I'd use right now.” 

“But I am going to let you cum,” Ilya says, fluttering his lashes as he starts up an unforgiving pace, watching as he drags Shane's sodden briefs up and down his cock. The noise of it is quiet, but still there, a faint squelch as he pumps Shane's dick. 

It makes him dizzy to see how wet Shane gets for him, how soaked he becomes as he becomes increasingly turned on. His cock is throbbing in his pants, hard enough that it almost hurts as he shifts forward, settling in between Shane's legs in a smooth motion. 

“Please,” Shane begs, already hoarse with lust. Ilya can nearly taste the desperation in his voice. “Please—” 

“I have already said you can cum,” Ilya says, watching the ripple of muscles across Shane's stomach, the way his thighs shift and brace against the bed. “Do not worry, Hollander. Even if you think you cannot, I will make you.” 

“Shit,” Shane pants, his head tipping back, his fingers curling into the sheets. “Holy shit, Ilya—” 

“I know,” Ilya croons, ducking down to lick at one of Shane's nipples, before pressing a kiss against his sternum. He can taste the salt of his skin, the flavor wholly and uniquely him. He bites down hard, listening to Shane cry out, pulling back to admire the imprint of his mouth. It looks like it will linger for days, Ilya thinks, darkly amused. He cannot wait to point it out in the locker room and watch him blush. “You are going to be good, yes? My sweet boy, who listens so well.” 

“Yeah,” Shane agrees, even though he has been nothing but a brat tonight, already, and they have barely scratched the surface. “Yes—Ilya, Ilya, please—” 

“Cum, Hollander,” Ilya orders, and ducks down to mouth at the sopping tip of his dick, grinning when Shane lets out a strangled yowl of disbelief and cums, soaking his underwear even more. 

The familiar taste of him spills through the fabric as Ilya laps at him, ignoring the way Shane's hands cannot decide if they want him closer or further as they slide across his skin. He knows just how to push Shane, how to notch him right into the razor edge of perfect and just too much. 

He pulls back, licking his lips, admiring the dark, wet spot that's spreading out as Shane's cock twitches in his briefs. 

“That is one,” he says, stroking Shane's dick still; he's half-hard, despite having just cum, and growing harder with every second. “I am hoping for many more.” 

Shane rocks into his touch, his lashes fluttering shut as Ilya glances up the lines of his body. He's gorgeous; limbs slack with pleasure, spit smeared across his plush, panting mouth. His whole body trembles, caught on a wave of desire, his cock still hard beneath Ilya's hand. 

Ilya sneaks his hand down Shane's waistband, curling his fingers over his hot, leaking dick, grinning at the gasp Shane lets out, all of his limbs locking up at the brief touch. 

“Oh, my sweet boy,” he coos, watching eagerly as Shane's face screws up, his eyes flying open, glossy and wet. He already looks halfway to ruination, strung out on pleasure and lust, desire curling across his skin. “How pretty you look when you cry.” 

“‘m not crying,” Shane slurs, and Ilya can't stop himself from leaning up to kiss the lie from his wet, open mouth, breathing in the same air. Shane hums, licking his lips, his tongue catching on Ilya’s teeth. “God,” he groans, undulating his hips. “You feel—shit, Ilya.” 

Ilya tsks, smirking down at him as he leans back on his heels. “I feel like shit?” he teases as he drags his fingers down his shaft. He can feel precum pearling at the tip of his cock, catching it with the rough whorls of his fingertips. 

Shane arches beneath him, his whole body shivering. “You, fuck, you know what I meant,” he whines. “You feel fucking good—more, please, please—” 

“Already so greedy,” Ilya says wonderingly, as he speeds up his hand. He reaches out with his other hand and begins to peel down Shane's underwear slowly, watching eagerly with every new inch revealed. Shane’s legs deserve monuments built to them; Ilya can hardly wait to feel them wrapped around his waist. “So selfish. I like this very much.” 

“Make me cum,” Shane begs, as if that's not what Ilya is already working towards. This is one of Ilya's favorite versions of Shane, where he sinks so sweetly into nothing more than hazy desperation. Normally, it takes longer, but tonight, Shane is the gift that keeps on giving. 

In the pit of Ilya's stomach, hot want surges; it's inexplicable how badly he wants Shane, when Shane is already spread out before him. The whole world is his for the taking, and yet all he wants is more and more and more. 

Shane’s underwear slips free from the weight of his body, and he squirms, kicking it down his legs until Ilya grabs it and tugs it off. He whines again, words half-caught in his throat, half-spit from his teeth; a slurring bombardment of pleading. 

“I have not seen you like this before,” Ilya says as he pulses his grip twice around Shane’s cock, grinning at the loud squeak he lets out. “Not so early in the night,” he clarifies, a tinge of condescension in his voice. “I am used to you being slut later, when I have fucked all the brain out of you, nothing but sex and dick filling you up.” He laughs when Shane gurgles on another garbled word, his mouth wide, spit collecting in the corners as he pants. “You are prettiest whore I’ve ever seen, Hollander.” 

“Only yours,” Shane manages to eke out, around his moans. His cock twitches in Ilya’s hand, hot and hard, drooling precum. It always amazes Ilya how little they need lube when he’s letting Shane fuck his fist; so wet he could be a girl. “Only, fuck, yours, Ilya.” 

Heat swirls in his stomach as he watches Shane writhe underneath him, caught in the unrelenting surge of pleasure. His legs are spread wide, his hips hitching into the slick slide of Ilya’s palm against his shaft. Ilya drags his other hand up the soft skin of his inner thigh, drawing tiny swirls across the thick muscle before he follows the shining trail of precum down Shane’s balls, fondling them for a moment, before he lets his attention drop down to Shane’s clenching hole. 

He pulls his hand back and reaches up, sliding two fingers in Shane’s mouth. 

“Get them wet,” he orders, even as Shane tries to gag on them, eager and desperate, his tongue curling around his knuckles. He can feel Shane trembling underneath him, the impending signs of another orgasm corkscrewing through him. 

It’s a favorite of his, how easy his Shane is for him. How simple it can be to make him cum, how pleasure melts down his spine, makes him hazy and eager, no longer concerned with being palatable. 

“Are you going to cum again, Hollander?” he teases, as Shane’s rocking speeds up, his moans getting louder. His teeth scrape down Ilya’s skin, nipping at the tips before Ilya hooks them over Shane’s bottom row, his thumb settling under his chin so he can drag his face however he wants—which is always just to see his lust-filled eyes. “Is a shame you think you need hockey; all you need is my cock, no? Would keep you happy every day, to fuck you open, to make you mine.” 

He leans over Shane more, pressing a kiss to the spit-wet corner of his mouth, another one to the width of his tongue as he licks across Ilya’s knuckles; he steals the air from his lips before he pulls back, inhaling the damp taste of him. 

“Shane,” he murmurs, meeting Shane’s gaze once more. He can see the need painted in the swirling brown of his eyes, the lust spiraling through the core of him. “Cum for me again, moya shlyukha.” 

Shane hiccups as he breathes in and then exhales with a wail, cum spilling from the head of his cock, splattering across his knuckles and over his stomach, pooling into his navel. Ilya strokes him through it, listening to the way he keens, his dick throbbing in his pants, pressing his fingers into the back of Shane’s teeth, testing the pressure of the ridge of his canines. He pulls back, dragging them down his own chest, pinching his nipples and shivering at the feeling of Shane’s spit on his skin. He can feel his own precum pooling against his skin, hot and slick under his boxers, lust corkscrewing up through his whole body.

Shane pants, his face screwing up, his eyes watering as he twitches into and then out of Ilya’s firm grip, seemingly unable to decide what he wants. Ilya refuses to relent, dragging his palm across his hot shaft, listening to the squelch with a half-smirk. 

“Take your jeans off,” Shane whines when he’s caught his breath again, still shuddering under Ilya’s touch. He gasps, his throat clicking as he swallows, the sound loud and hot, reminiscent of all the times Ilya’s fucked his mouth. “I wanna—wanna see you. Wanna feel you.”

“Mm,” Ilya says, clicking his tongue. He tilts his head, arching a brow. “Maybe.” 

“Maybe?” Shane squawks, sounding half-feral with want. He grits his teeth, glaring at Ilya as Ilya smirks down at him, endlessly entertained. “C’mon, Ilya, please.” 

“Beg again,” Ilya says, his cum-slick hand dropping low to smooth his fingers down to the base of Shane’s dick, before he gently rolls his balls in his wet palm, listening to the way Shane’s breathing picks up. He waits, letting Shane jolt with every touch, before he tsks, meeting his watery gaze. “Is not begging, I am hearing. Is only whiny, filthy sounds from needy boy.” 

“Fuck you,” Shane spits out, before he looks horrified as Ilya begins to draw away. “No,” he cries out, sitting up immediately, Ilya’s mouth watering at the shift of his stomach, the flex of his muscles. “I’m—fuck, I—please, I didn’t mean it—please keep touching me.” 

“You are being brat,” Ilya murmurs, half-delighted. He loves it when Shane acts out, loves being the person trusted to break him down, but they have plans tonight; even Shane at his worst will not prevent Ilya from besting Pike. Still, he starts up a tally, in the back of his mind, for every time Shane needs to be corrected at some point. The thought is so delicious he shivers, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip, before he refocuses. “Still, this is not begging.” 

“Please,” Shane says, his hands clasping together as he twists, rising up on his knees. He blinks at Ilya, doe-eyed and pleading, a familiar coy pout slipping across his face. “Please, Ilya, I’ll be good. I promise. I’ll listen.” 

“Why?” Ilya asks, refusing to reach back out, a smirk playing around the corners of his mouth. Oh, but he loves to torture Shane. Watching him squirm is one of the best gifts he can ever receive. “Is there something you want?”  

Shane nods, licking his lips, his gaze darting down to Ilya’s cock. 

Ilya tsks again. He slinks around Shane, letting his body drag against his stomach, but refusing to touch him more. 

Shane behaves, for once, not touching without permission, but the longing in his eyes as Ilya settles in against the mountain of pillows at the headboard is nothing short of scorching. 

“Well?” Ilya says, smirking at him. “What do you want?” 

“Please,” Shane says immediately, creeping closer as Ilya hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. “Please, Ilya, fucking—please, let me suck your cock. Let me—I wanna choke on it. I don't—” He exhales shakily, looking ruined on his own lust. His hands are still clasped together as he sinks back on his heels, staring at the line of Ilya’s dick unblinkingly. “I wanna feel you in my mouth. Wanna taste you. Please, please let me suck your dick.” 

Ilya hums, stroking his fingers across his own hip bones. “I do not know if you want enou—”

“I’ll do anything,” Shane chokes out, cutting him off, his whole face screwing up into agony. He looks almost pathetic, needy and whiny, his cheeks tacky with tears that slide every so often out of the corners of his eyes. He sniffs, pressing his lips together. “I want to taste you,” he mutters. “I wanna—I—I need it, I need to get—I want—please, Ilya, I want you to ruin my fucking life.” He swallows hard, meeting Ilya’s gaze. “Make me forget everything but you.” 

Ilya thinks Shane’s never been hotter than when he sheds his uptight dignity. 

“Ah,” he murmurs, before he yanks his jeans and underwear off in one fluid motion. He grins at the sharp inhale Shane lets out at the sight of his cock, preening every so slightly. “Okay.” 

For a second, Shane doesn’t move, and Ilya thinks he’ll have to repeat himself, before he blurs into motion, lunging forward as if sucking his cock is the only thing giving him life. 

He doesn’t bother to play around; he simply unhinges his jaw and swallows, engulfing Ilya’s cock in wet, steamy heat. 

“Holy shit,” Ilya manages, his hands flying to Shane’s hair, as he sinks another inch into his throat. “Suka blyat, Hollander. You are so—” Shane hums around his dick, hollowing his mouth out and dragging his tongue up the underside of it, tracing over a vein as Ilya’s eyes roll back in his head. 

Pleasure swells in his veins, golden and ethereal. He curls his fingers tighter against Shane’s head, tugging on the soft black hairs, guiding him into a steady rhythm. One of Shane’s hands slides up his chest, tweaking his nipple, scratching over his ribs, palming at the muscle, as the other curls around the base of Ilya’s cock. 

“Fuck,” Ilya breathes out, shifting his legs wider so that Shane can fit better between them, only to groan in disbelief when he realizes Shane’s grinding into the bed, eager with unquenchable greed, chasing his own pleasure in tandem with giving. He laughs, breathless wonder, a voracious surge of want rushing through him. “You are unreal, Hollander,” he murmurs. “So eager to cum, you cannot wait, no? Just humping the bed. Like puppy, da? Yippy little thing, always wanting my attention. Always crying to be fucked, to be pinned down and bred, no?” 

Shane chokes, his throat rippling around Ilya’s cock, and he moans, tugging harder on Shane’s hair. “Should keep you here,” he says, sharp with an almost rotten need to keep Shane to himself, to keep him in his bed, to use him for sex and love, to wring everything but unrelenting pleasure from his body. “Should never let you leave. Will come home to you every day, will teach you that nothing matters more than my cock.” 

He laughs again, his lips curling up as Shane blinks at him, dazed and fucked out, his eyes glossy, precum smeared across his lips as he pulls back to press a kiss to the head of his cock, licking across his slit. 

“You are more than halfway there, no?” he says fondly, watching as Shane pants, hot air washing over his shaft, before he bends down and licks across his own fingers. He drops even lower, following the trails of drool and precum to suck one of Ilya’s balls into his mouth gently as his eyes flutter shut. 

“Oh, fuck,” Ilya groans. Shane sucks harder, toeing the edge of too much, before he pulls back to worry a kiss into the crease of Ilya’s thigh, his hand on Ilya’s dick starting up a steady pace. “You are so desperate, Hollander. Would think you are not getting fucked regularly, if I did not know better.” 

“Want you,” Shane manages to whine, pressing hot kisses up and down Ilya’s shaft, his tongue darting out every so often to drag across his cock. It feels criminally good; the light presses in between the firm stroke of his hand. Shane’s other hand digs into the curve of Ilya’s waist, as if he needs to hold on. “Wanna keep you forever.” 

Ilya’s heart clenches, even as his dick twitches, more precum drooling from the tip. He wants to chew Shane up, wants to tuck him under his tongue, keep him in the chambers of his heart. He can’t even explain how dizzying the desire is, how consuming the urge to rend himself down as nothing more than a vessel for Shane to live in. 

He would do anything for this man. 

“You can,” Ilya murmurs. “Keep me forever.” He meets Shane’s glazed-over eyes, smiling at him as he drags his hands through his hair. “After all, I am planning to keep you.” 

Shane moans, ducking down to suckle at the tip of Ilya’s cock. Ilya watches as his hips speed up, as he rubs his dick into Ilya’s sheets harder, a puddle growing underneath him. He feels like a king, entertained by the finest of concubines, by the cream of the crop; Shane, he knows, was born to perform. In all aspects of his life. 

“You are my good boy, yes?” Ilya says, spiked desire clawing up his throat, wrapping around his ribs. “Make me cum, moya shlyukha, and you can cum, too.” 

He hardly gets the words out before Shane is swallowing him down again, thick, wet noises spilling from his throat. Ilya can’t help himself, rocking into the space he has bullied his way into; the tight, soaked heat of Shane’s mouth, of his tongue. 

Shane, as always, takes it. 

He lets his mouth slacken, lets Ilya mold his throat into nothing more than another cocksleeve for him to fuck. He moans, nearly constantly, as Ilya fucks into him, drool sliding everywhere, smearing across Ilya’s hips, matting the trail of his hair. 

“Fuck,” Ilya rumbles, warmth rising under his skin, a buzzing thrumming in his fingertips. Release is close; on the horizon as he rockets towards it, the thrum of hedonistic rapture in every pulse of his heart, every pump of his hips. “Would say this is the best hole I have ever had, Hollander, if I had not had your ass.” 

Shane whines, a throaty, clicking noise as he swallows, squeezing the head of Ilya’s cock in his larynx as he gags, tears spilling from his eyes. The sight of him crying and the quick, slick pressure of hot, velvet walls drags the orgasm from the pit of Ilya’s navel; a warm smothering of carnal indulgence. He nearly passes out from the rush of it, from how decadently the pleasure spills down his spine, how good it feels as it curls across his skin, as Shane swallows every milky drop without hesitation, pulling up just enough to taste it as Ilya cums across his tongue. 

“Good boy,” Ilya croons, unclenching his hands from Shane’s hair. His cock twitches as Shane licks at the tip, teetering just on the edge of overstimulation. He is not like Shane; he does not care for the sensation, but he lets Shane have his moment before he gently urges him off, eyeing the puddle under Shane’s hips. 

“Did you cum?” he asks, as Shane nuzzles against his thigh, his warm breath washing over his dick. 

Shane flushes, somehow darkening even more, but nods, shuddering when Ilya swears softly, overcome, as always, by how easily Shane slides out to orgasm in his hands, or just by being around him. 

It’s a heady and dangerous sort of thought that Shane is so sensitive, because it makes Ilya want to ruin him, makes him want to drag Shane out to an ocean of decadent pleasure that overtakes everything else.

Half the time, he isn’t joking when he whispers his own selfish wants into Shane’s ear, when he’s murmuring about keeping him tucked away for eternity, safe and warm in bed. 

It’s a strange desire, mixed with the constant urge to show Shane off, to go to his knees in public, to show the world how well in hand he has Shane and Shane has him. 

“Will—I want—” Shane starts and then cuts himself off, chewing on his bottom lip. Ilya sinks a hand in his hair, unsure if it’s the haze of orgasm clinging to his tongue or the blur of uncertainty over asking that’s keeping him quiet. “I—I feel—I want more,” he settles on, tilting his head back to meet Ilya’s eyes as he stays red, the blush creeping across his collarbones, down his chest. “Can you—is—” 

Ilya grins at him, heat stirring back to life in his stomach; though it truly hadn’t even banked, an almost nonstop livewire of want always running through his body around Shane. “I have not fucked you yet, sweetheart,” he murmurs, carding a hand through his hair. “Night would not be complete without it.” 

Shane sighs, his whole body going boneless. “Right,” he says, drifting back into a lighter sort of haze, no longer quite as deep. 

Ilya tugs lightly but pointedly, and lets his hands slide down Shane’s body as he wiggles his way upwards at Ilya’s unspoken command. He’s slightly damp with sweat, flushed and beautiful, his cock somehow still partially hard, though Ilya can’t be too surprised by it. Shane’s insatiable appetite for pleasure is something that he’s intimately familiar with. 

“Hi,” Shane mutters when he’s level with Ilya’s face, a faint smile on his face as Ilya silently mouths hi back. “Gimme kiss.” 

Ilya doesn’t even want to try to play coy; he immediately leans in, caught in the endless delight of being able to kiss Shane Hollander. For a second, the press of their lips remains innocent before Shane sucks Ilya’s tongue into his mouth, a groan rising from his throat. 

Kindling catches across Ilya’s skin as he shifts, flipping them so that he’s hovering over Shane, before he drags his mouth away, sucking bruises and hickeys into his skin as he makes his way down. 

He makes sure to suck another burgundy mouth imprint over Shane’s heart, and then again on the edge of his ribs, forever fascinated by the way Shane’s whole body jolts at the touch of his teeth. 

Precum and cum smear across his stomach, and Ilya takes his time cleaning him up, listening to the slick sounds of his tongue over Shane’s skin and the damp noises of Shane panting. It simmers together into an orchestra of want, a symphony of lust; noises he will be chasing for the rest of his life. 

He avoids Shane’s cock altogether, grinning as it twitches back to life under his careful ministrations, and stroking slowly up and down Shane’s thighs, light, teasing touches; the kind that drive Shane wild. 

“Please,’ Shane gasps out, squirming. He’s sweating again, his lips split wide as he sucks in air, his tongue pink against the dark hollow of his mouth. “Please touch me.” 

Ilya grins at him and blows a raspberry on his stomach, smirking smugly when Shane barks a laugh, looking immediately annoyed and no less turned on. “I am touching you,” Ilya says, scooching lower so that his mouth is only inches from the tip of Shane’s dick. He meets Shane’s eyes and flutters his lashes, lowering his voice to a scandalized sort of whisper. “Is not enough?” 

Shane shivers under his gaze, an almost tangible greed rising to line his face, to sink into his body. 

“No,” he whispers, sounding drugged on yearning, split down to the atom with need. Avarice seeps from his pores, sharp and potent. “It’s not enough.” 

Ilya can’t help the hurt noise that rises from his throat at the honesty that’s painted across Shane’s face, the raw want that’s clear.  

“Look at you,” Ilya breathes out, licking his lips. “You have cum three times, and still, you have not had enough. You are a needy, slutty mess, no? Still need to be fucked brainless, da? Still need to be emptied of anything other than cockdrunk need.” 

Shane whines, and Ilya continues, still staring at his dark eyes. “Would put you on display, moya shlyukha. Would let the whole world see how good you are for me on your knees, spread out on your back. How sweetly you cry and moan for my cock, how hard you need to be fucked to turn your vibrant brain off.” He sighs, pressing a kiss against the curve of Shane's hip. “Should get you on tape, no? Should capture how beautiful you look when you cry.” 

As if to prove his point, another tear slips from the corner of his eye, glistening in the dim light.

”Ilya,” Shane murmurs, but Ilya knows that tone well. It's the for posterity's sake, I should disagree, but I'm too turned on to know how to do that voice; one that thrums through Ilya's body, a song he can sing without hesitation; Shane's pleasure, an instrument he can play blindfolded. 

“Shane,” Ilya whispers back mockingly. “I am going to make you cum again.” 

Shane hisses, but doesn't breathe a word of protest as Ilya kisses down his stomach, pressing one right on the head of his cock, his slit already drooling again, precum sliding across his damp skin. It’s a slower drip, for sure, but still there, a gorgeous display of need. 

Ilya drags his lips over the shaft, inhaling the familiar smell of Shane’s pine bodywash and musk; the heavy scent of salt and cum, pleasure drizzling down his spine at how clearly Shane wants him as his cock twitches again beneath his touch. 

It feels almost cruel to drag it out, but Ilya wants him crying for real, wants him overcome so deeply he’s whining again, before he sucks him down. He peppers kisses across his hips, worrying a matching hickey into his thigh to mirror his, wide enough that he hopes it peeks out, visible from under the edge of his boxers. 

“Please,” Shane pleads, after minutes of Ilya teasing him, spit shining in the moonlight as markers for his mouth. “Please, Ilya, suck my cock.” Ilya hums, ducking down to press another kiss to the base of his cock, to the skin of his balls, gently sinking his teeth into the jut of his hip, the muscle of his thigh; he can’t contain how greedy he is for Shane, how much he wants to own and use and cosset. 

He could remain between Shane’s legs for the rest of his life, and he knows it still would not be enough. He could tuck Shane into his ribs, could warm him with his own blood, and still, somehow, he would miss him; would ache for his face and his laughter and the annoyed expression he shoots him, when he’s trying to pretend he can’t stand Ilya’s ass. 

“Ilya,” Shane whines, his name taffy-sweet and breathless, the edge of tears in his voice. Heat rushes through him, shivering across his skin at the sharp greed that’s soaked through. “Ilya—I’m being, I’m being good. I’m being—I’m listening, okay? I’m—please, please—” 

Ilya hums, his lips returning to the head of Shane’s dick as he looks up the length of his body, meeting Shane’s wet-eyed stare with a grin. Shane groans, his hips shifting, rolling in an attempt to get any friction on his skin. 

He sniffles, his mouth parting on another moan, and Ilya catches the gleaming line of tear tracks on his face, before he ducks his head and sucks the tip of Shane’s cock into his mouth. 

Shane’s hands fly to Ilya’s hair, his thighs and stomach trembling underneath him as Ilya steadily works his mouth down the length of him. The familiar bitter taste of him rolls through his mouth, coating his throat as he swallows, listening as Shane curls in and sobs through the pleasure of it. 

“Fuck,” Shane gasps. “Holy shit, Ilya—Ilya, oh my god, your mouth feels so—” His whole voice wavers, sharp lust cutting through, a want to cum that Ilya can hear. So needy, his Shane. So hungry once he’s had a taste of pleasure, so debauched and ruined by the touch of Ilya’s hands, by the press of his mouth. A wave of heat laps at his bones when he thinks about how undone Shane allows himself to be when he’s cupped by Ilya’s palms. 

The stern seriousness of Shane Hollander rolls away, replaced by a depraved, beguiling creature built on a seething cupidity and grasping, greedy hands. Nothing has ever been as irresistible to Ilya as Shane, undone by arousal. 

He bobs his head down again, fluttering his tongue over the heft of his cock, lapping at the tip of his dick as he makes eye contact with Shane, watching the dizzyingly clear crush of arousal dance in his eyes.

The weight of him across his tongue sends want rushing across his skin. He lets his mouth open wider, drool spilling down his shaft as he hollows his mouth and sucks, easily gliding up and down. His hands drift across Shane’s body, touching everything he can; his chest, his balls, the curve of his hip, the meat of his thigh. His perfect, beautiful Shane. 

He will never get tired of touching him. 

“Ohmygod,” Shane manages after minutes of him gasping and moaning, thrashing under Ilya’s exacting touch. His cheeks are bright pink, sweat lining his brow, his hands tight in Ilya's hair, even as he exerts no pressure, content to be guided to orgasm by Ilya's deft hands. “Ohmygod, Ilya—I’m gonna—you make me so—I’m fucking ruined—I love you so fucking much—” He rocks forward, his hips thrusting, only to moan when Ilya pins him down, both warm palms settling on his hipbones. He squeezes tightly enough that he hopes Shane carries the imprints of his hands tomorrow, a dark purple imprint of his lust. “Holy shit, Rozanov—” 

Ilya inhales on a backstroke and then swallows him down entirely, tightening his throat around Shane's cock. 

Shane chokes on air and cums, flooding Ilya’s esophagus as he slowly pulls off, grazing his teeth carefully over Shane’s twitching dick, just to listen to him wail. 

“Mm,” he murmurs, as he lets Shane's cock slip from his mouth, spit connecting to his tip, before he swoops back in to lick at the slit, cum dribbling across his tongue. “That's four, moya zvezda.” He laps at Shane's softening dick. “I am thinking, maybe three more?” 

Shane wheezes, his nails scratching over Ilya's scalp, his thighs trembling, his whole body coated in sweat and cum and spit, glossy-eyed want in his eyes. “Whatever you want,” he manages dazedly, his mouth slick with spit. “I can’t even think.” 

Ilya laughs to himself, still pressing kisses against the head of his dick. “Still have yet to fuck you,” he says, his breath ghosting across the base of Shane’s cock as he shimmies lower to suck another dark bruise into his shaking legs, imprinted into the soft give of him, the curve of his ass. “Three more, yes.” 

“You’re trying to kill me,” Shane mutters, but grins as he talks, clearly unconcerned. “You’re not going to be able to fuck me out of commission, Rozanov.” 

Ilya laughs, pulling himself upwards to buss a kiss across Shane’s cheek, settling himself carefully over his body. Sometimes, even though Shane likes the sensitivity that comes with cumming, it’s too much for them to touch in the immediate aftermath. But tonight, Shane only tugs him in closer, a hazy grin on his face as he purses his lips, asking for more. 

“Is a good plan,” Ilya admits, stealing another kiss from Shane. “But no, I cannot. You are insatiable, Hollander. So whiny and needy, for cock. And, ah, there is no need—you are star player in bed, no? Wet and wanting, da? Eager to cum always.” He smirks at Shane’s annoyed face but telling silence, and bites at his scrunched up nose, overcome with sharp, stinging joy. “Is my burden to bear, yes. So hard to fuck Shane Hollander, I tell people. He is so overcome with greed, so eager to be cockslut.”

Shane shoves at him weakly, rolling his eyes even as he tentatively starts to rock against Ilya, his cock still soft against Ilya’s hip. 

“I am not,” Shane grumbles. “I just—I like you, okay? Sorry that it makes me fucking horny.” 

Ilya snorts. “So Canadian,” he murmurs. “Apologizing for the stupidest things.” 

“It’s not stupid—” 

“You are apologizing for liking my dick,” Ilya points out dryly. “We are boyfriends, no? Have been for years. I think it is stupid.” 

Shane frowns at him, but doesn’t disagree, and Ilya fights back an idiotic grin at the notion. For a moment, they’re quiet, breathing each other in. It’s another thing Ilya likes the most about fucking Shane, about dating him; that the desire and love can mix, that there can be a push-pull of anything between them. He has never had a relationship so perfect, and he hopes he never has to go without. 

“Will you fuck me now?” Shane asks, dragging Ilya out of his nonsensical babbling thoughts, fluttering his lashes when Ilya glances at him. He rolls his hips, the wet tip of his cock dragging against Ilya’s skin, a sly grin lighting up his face. “Or were you all talk? Is Hayds gonna win?” 

Ilya hisses, adding another tally to the column in the back of his mind. “What happened to my sweet boy?” he asks, scraping his teeth over Shane’s collarbone as he shifts down, one hand sliding up to grab at the lube he always has under his pillow, despite Shane’s complaints. “Is not very nice of you, to be so demanding.” 

“You like it when I demand,” Shane murmurs, meeting his eyes. “That’s what you’re always asking for, right? Proper verbalization.” 

“Proper verbalization,” Ilya repeats, grinning wildly as he warms the lube in his hands. “Yes, of course.” 

“I’m just saying,” Shane mutters, rolling his eyes. “You’re the one who always wants me to beg or ask.” Ilya raises an eyebrow at his tone, and Shane shrugs, a coy smile playing around the corner of his mouth. “What?” 

Ilya hums, shaking his head. “Dangerous game, you are playing, Hollander,” he says, his mouth twitching when Shane nods a little too eagerly. “Is easy to see why you are in hockey, no? You like the rush.” 

Shane squirms underneath him, a tinge of bashfulness streaking across his face. “You’re not just for the rush,” he breathes, like Ilya doesn’t know. It touches some dark part of him, warms some hollow, cold room, that Shane still wants him to know desperately that he is loved. “We’re more than that.” 

“I know,” Ilya murmurs, dropping a kiss on his sternum. “Shane, do not worry, I know.” 

Shane blinks at him, glassy-eyed and flushed, as beautiful as always. “Good,” he says, his mouth curling up into a soft smile before it shifts back into a wanton scythe, sloppy greed painting his face. “Please, fuck me open, now, okay? It’s stupid how badly I want us to crush Hayden.” 

Ilya laughs, loud and unabashed, his hand dropping down to circle Shane’s rim. “I do not think we will have a real challenge with Pike,” he says, as he coaxes Shane’s legs up, watching the shift of his ass, the bob of his dick against his stomach. 

His hole flutters underneath the pads of his fingers, desperate and eager to be filled. “Is amazing anyone thinks you are anything other than cockhungry slut,” Ilya murmurs as he slowly slides one finger in, shuddering at the clench of Shane’s hot walls. He’s unsure how he’s even talking, so full of hunger and need that he feels dizzy with it. “You are ridiculous person, Hollander; so eager to be split wide on my dick, so ready to be taken for nothing more than pleasure, da?” 

He glances up, taking in the gape of Shane’s mouth as he tips his head back against the pillows, the lines of his neck silvery in the moonlight, sweat glistening in the hollow of his throat. His arms have hooked themselves around his own legs; his desperation bleeding through. 

“Once, here,” Ilya says, tightening his grip on the back of Shane’s thigh as he slots another finger in next to the first. He stretches Shane open with firm touches before he pushes his fingers further into his tight channel and brushes against his prostate, smirking darkly at the hissed moan. “I think yes, and then twice on my cock.” 

“Do it, then,” Shane mutters, the challenge heard easily despite the lewd sounds of Ilya’s fingers opening him up and the rush of blood in Ilya’s head. “Make me cum.” 

Ilya doesn’t hesitate, dragging his hand off Shane’s thigh and curling it around his still-mostly soft cock. 

Shane whimpers at the contact before he rocks into it, his eyes dark when Ilya finally meets them again. He looks wolfish with desire, bound to the failing constraints of his own body’s pleasure. He’s nothing more than honest want, raw need, a sharp, aching obsession; glutted on love and orgasms and still demanding more. 

Ilya loves him more than he can even comprehend. 

“You are going to cum with my fingers in your ass, and my hand on your cock,” Ilya murmurs. “You are going to let it burn you from the inside out, da? You will let me pull you to pieces, split you down the center with nothing more than pleasure, yes? And when you have cum, sweetheart, you will say thank you.” Shane blinks at him, bleary-eyed, and Ilya tsks, sliding a third finger in and relishing in Shane’s hitched breath. “We will practice now, yes? Say thank you, Hollander.” 

“Thank you,” Shane manages after another moment of nothing but the wet schlick of Ilya’s hands on his dick, the squelch of his fingers as he opens him wider. “Th-thank you, Ilya.” 

“Again,” Ilya orders. “Why?” 

“Fucking—thank you,” Shane mumbles, his tongue licking across his lips as he starts to pant. “Thank you for letting me cum.” 

“How many times?” 

“I don’t know—”

Ilya tsks again, smirking. “And you say I am greedy hog on the ice. If only team could see you now, no? If only they could see how badly you need to be fucked, how good you are for me, how pretty you are when I make you cry.” 

Shane bites back a whine, his jaw flexing under Ilya’s eagle-eyed gaze, his cock hard in Ilya’s hand, leaking across his stomach, far less than earlier, but still wet enough that it drives Ilya a little crazy. 

“Is five,” Ilya murmurs after another beat of the two of them drinking in each other; satisfaction sings in Ilya’s veins as Shane chokes on another moan, his eyes wide. “Or, will be five.” 

“Ohmygod,” Shane warbles, somehow shocked despite it all. “You’re—I am a fucking slut.” 

Ilya grins at him. “I know,” he says easily, as he angles his wrist and nails Shane’s prostate. Burning arousal builds in his stomach, thick and heady as he watches Shane fall to pieces under him, his eyes wet and mouth wide. “Is one of my favorite things about you.” 

“Ilya,” Shane says, wildly, his hands scrabbling for purchase in the sheets. “Ilya, I’m gonna—you’re gonna make me—please, let me cum.” 

“Yes,” Ilya says, and leans up, capturing Shane’s wide, panting mouth in a shitty, perfect kiss as Shane whimpers into his mouth, his whole body tensing once before he collapses back onto the pillows.

“Thank you,” he manages, after a beat of loud breathing. Ilya can see a flush working its way across his face, a crinkle of faintly pleased humiliation in the shift of his mouth. “Thank you for letting me cum.”  

Ilya hums, swiping a finger across Shane’s stomach, through the puddle of cum, and pops it into his mouth. It tastes as it always does: bitter and salty, the undeniable flavor of Shane suffusing it all the way through. 

“Gross,” Shane breathes out, even as his face crinkles up into a faint smile. “You’re so nasty.” 

Ilya shrugs, patting his thighs. “You love me,” he murmurs as he guides Shane up and over, twisting him so that he’s on his hands and knees, sinking back down into a filthy haze. He’s hard enough it hurts, throbbing and red, precum smearing across his skin. “I am only trying to keep up with you.” 

Shane snorts, but doesn’t argue, breathing heavily as Ilya lines himself up. “I want it,” he whispers, his rim fluttering around the tip of Ilya’s cock, warm and welcoming. “C’mon, fuck me, Ilya. Make me fucking take it.” 

Ilya sighs, smoothing his hands down Shane’s back, over his shoulders, before he leans in to mouth at the notches of his spine. 

“You are so demanding, sweetheart,” he whispers into his skin. “I love you.” 

Shane whines, his voice cracking, the threads that connect them as gloriously tangled as ever. “Love you, too.” 

The last bit of hesitation splinters away, and Ilya slides in, groaning at the slick feeling of Shane around him. His ass is tight as always, lewd moans rising from Shane’s mouth as he fucks into him, driving directly into his prostate. He has no time to waste; he must fuck love into him, must make him know how much Ilya hungers for him with every beat of his heart. 

“Oh fuck,” Shane chokes out, his head hanging, his arms trembling. “Holy fucking shit, Ilya.” 

“Is nice, no?” Ilya murmurs. “You know your place here, da? Only made to get fucked, sweetheart. Made to take and take my cock, made to be nothing but prized possession, prettiest whore of them all.” He rocks backwards, the wet squelch of his cock sending shivers down his spine, before he thrusts forward, setting up a steady rhythm as Shane pants underneath him. 

Ilya sets a hand between his shoulder blades and pushes, ever so gently, smirking as Shane sinks lower, his back settling into a curve Ilya dreams of every night. 

“You look beautiful,” Ilya says, lust ricocheting through his body at dizzying speeds. He feels insane, cut to the quick with the need to ruin Shane, with the urge to see nothing but bloodied want splayed out across his face, a sharp want to bite and rend and tear the two of them down to nothing more than instinct and arousal; heat and pleasure. “You are so good for me, moya shlyukha. Even when you are whining and bitching to be fucked, I know you are still so good; sink to your knees so easily.” He inhales, his thumb rubbing down the spine of Shane. He wants to fit his hand around his heart, wants to reach into his ribcage and curl his fingers around the soft, thumping meat of him, wants to hold Shane in the palm of his hand and keep him safe forever. “Is not your fault, you are so needy, I know, sweetheart. You are made to be fucked, made to be ruined. Is my greatest pleasure, to take you apart.” 

“You’re gonna make me cum,” Shane blurts out, his voice muffled, before he turns his head, meeting Ilya’s eyes as best he can, even as tears and hair and sweat get in the way. Ilya stares at him, drinking in the sight of him red-faced and wrecked, crying for his dick; utter perfection. “You’re gonna—and don’t fucking stop, I promise I’ll—if I need to—but don’t, just keep fucking, ohmygod, Ilya—” 

Ilya fucks him through it, can feel the shake of his body, the splatter of his cum across the sheets. He listens to Shane, and doesn’t stop, driving into the hot clutch of his hole, arousal skittering down his spine as Shane clenches down even tighter somehow, everything fading out to nothing more than the slick slide of pleasure. 

Time slides away from him, caught in the rhythm of fucking, on the way Shane squeezes his cock, how he presses back against him, seeking out more. Shane’s sobbing now, half-strangled whines rising from his throat, a delicate ode to the agony of being pinned down and fucked properly, just like he always needs. 

Still, Ilya keeps on, sweat rolling across his chest, beading at his hairline. He feels near invincible as he buries himself in Shane’s channel, as he clenches his hand around his hip, as he makes Shane lie there and take it. 

He feels caught in the teeth of a monstrous love, pinned flat and flayed open by desire; all his soft insides on bright, bloody display. If love is a harpoon dragging him through the ocean, he hopes he remains caught in its barbed tongue forever. 

He never wants to leave this place; never wants to do anything other than soak in the panting cries of Shane, always wants to feel the hot snatch of his tight ass, to spill his emotions and his cock into Shane Hollander. 

Greed rises in his body; a heavy weight of decadent agony splinters across his nerves. Sharp want fizzes on his tongue, buzzing filters up his nerves, muted as they are to anything but the feeling of Shane beneath him. 

“You’re gonna make me cum again,” Shane wails, his voice breaking, desire and lust shot straight through. “Holy—Ilya, Ilya, Ilya—” 

Shane squeezes so tightly, Ilya is gone; spilling into him, filling him with cum. Lightning buzzes through him as he tips his head back, hardly able to comprehend the sheer explosion of his orgasm. It sears across his nerves, a sharp relief, a tender, swollen implosion. 

For a moment, all he can taste is blood and joy, before it fades back into reality. 

His hand aches as he pries it off of Shane's hip, the other one sliding up his spine as he gently shifts backwards, both of them hissing at the sensation.

Shane wobbles on his knees, as if he’s going to collapse, and Ilya shifts forward, dragging him to the side and rolling him so that he’s on his back, out of the mess of their fucking. 

Damp spots are everywhere; Ilya knows that there’s a sheet change in his near future, but for now, he lets himself topple forward, half on Shane and half on the bed.

They're quiet, catching their breath, all of Ilya vibrating with a glorious stretch of decadence, flying high on his orgasm. 

“Jesus Christ,” Shane mutters once they’ve stopped breathing so heavily. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to walk tomorrow.” 

Ilya snorts, his mouth twitching, and they’re both lost to laughter, joy and contentment so thick between them he can nearly taste it.

***

“Holy shit,” Jackie says as soon as Shane slides in across the seat from her at the coffee shop the next morning. His ass is sore. His legs are sore. He's pretty sure he has at least six bite marks on his torso and at least one on his inner thigh. “I did not expect it to work so well.” 

“I don't even know how I'm walking,” Shane murmurs, setting his head down on the table. He lifts his head up high enough to eye her, squinting uncertainly. “You seem fine.” 

Jackie smirks at him, something coy and pleased in the curl of her mouth. Her hair shifts over her shoulder, and Shane can suddenly see the dark bruise of a hickey peeking out from her collar, before he tears his gaze away. “You're gonna have to ask nicer than that to get me outta my clothes, Hollander.”

Shane groans, letting his head thunk onto the table. “How the fuck did I let you talk me into this?” 

“Because our boyfriends are idiots who can't go more than one second without thinking about each other and we're both sick of it,” Jackie says, smugly pleased as she reaches out and scratches across his scalp, her nails the perfect pressure. Shane feels like he's melting as she drags her fingers through his hair. “And for all you like to play at loveable virgin, everyone who saw you at the Christmas party last year—” 

“We agreed to never mention that again,” Shane says into the table as forbiddingly as he can, even though he knows he's as threatening as a wet kitten on a good day. Definitely not today, when he looks fucking wrecked. “And Jesus Christ, I don't think I'll survive if you manage to goad them into this again.” 

Jackie tsks, sounding smug. “Poor baby,” she coos mockingly. “Someone got fucked too well last night.” 

Shane lifts his head up, shooting a grin her way, even as he flushes. “Yeah, I did," he says, gleeful and pleased as she hoots in laughter. He shakes his head, laughing with her. “I can't believe they fucking fell for it.” 

***

pike (DO NOT ANSWER)
10:38 am

pike: four. beat that, rozanov.

ilya: each?

pike: no???? collectively it was five. 

ilya: i am double sad for jackie now. why is she with loser like you?

pike: you're stalling bc you can't win, huh?

ilya: seven. shane alone. nine combined. 

pike: fuck off, liar

ilya: is not my problem if you do not know how to treat women right. next time, i can demonstrate how to take care of jackie. i promise she will like :) shane says he will not be jealous :D

pike: FUCK OFF ROZANOV

10:52 am

pike: fr. 7 times? you swear on shane?

ilya: i swear on shane. i am man of many talents. 

pike: what the fuck

ilya: is okay to be jealous of shane

pike: IM NOT JEALOUS OF SHANE

ilya: my mistake. is okay to be jealous of me, for having shane. 

ilya: and for being better at hockey.

pike: im NOT jealous of YOU being BETTER AT HOCKEY??? motherfucker, you are so annoying. choke on a puck and die, rozanov. 

ilya: am proud you are admitting you are jealous of me for having shane. first step to overcome is always hardest. 

pike: I AM NOT. STOP TELLING PEOPLE THAT I AM. 

ilya: hm. is not what jackie says. 

pike: STOP HANGING OUT WITH JACKIE

ilya: but how will she know what she is missing out on?

pike: i fucking hate you

ilya: would say mutual, but i do not think about you enough to hate

pike: i *really* fucking hate you

11:31 am

pike: …SEVEN ???

ilya: ;) 

***

Ilya grins, setting his phone down and tipping his head back to accept the kiss Shane presses to his mouth as he settles in next to him on the couch with a faint wince. Ilya waits patiently as he curls up next to him, before Shane sighs, tipping his head onto Ilya’s shoulder.

For a moment, they’re both quiet. Shane carefully hands over the coffee he's been fiddling with in the silence; the cardboard sleeve is warm from his hands, but Ilya can tell that the liquid is nothing more than cool. Shane, as usual, probably ordered their two usual drinks, forgetting that he was not with him as normal. 

No, Ilya had been banished for Jackie; something altogether very suspicious. He twists the lid of the cup, thinking over everything he suspects, before he clears his throat. 

“You know, moya shlyukha, you do not have to make up silly bets with Jackie to get me to ruin you,” Ilya says, keeping his gaze on the television, eyes tracking the way Shane’s whole face freezes in the dull reflection as he sets the cup to the side. “I would do it any time, with no reason.” 

Shane’s mouth flops open before he snaps it shut. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he settles on, his voice sliding up as it always does when he lies. A surge of fondness rises in Ilya’s breastbone, that he can know Shane so well. “What—what bet? You’re the one who had one with Hayden.” 

Ilya hums, but doesn't hide the curl of his mouth. “Oh,” he says, winking when he glances down at Shane's bright red face. “Right, yes. My mistake, moy lyubimyj.” 

Shane stares up at him, his freckles disappearing beneath his blush. “There—there wasn’t a bet,” he says, the lie painted across his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Ilya blinks at him, pasting an entirely unconvincing look of agreement on his face. “Yes, of course,” he murmurs. “My mistake, no?” Shane squirms next to him, chewing on his bottom lip, and Ilya can’t help himself, as he leans in to press another kiss to his skin. “You would not bet on who could orgasm more, no? You would never instigate—” 

“Good vocab,” Shane whispers, even as his eyes dart uncertainly across his face. 

“—a bet on such matters, because you are a good boy, da?” Shane shifts again next to him, and Ilya smirks. “Or…” 

“Or?” Shane echoes, soft and quiet, a plaintive, wanting tone slipping through. 

“Or,” Ilya says, letting his voice get hoarser, rougher with desire. “You are needy slut, Shane Hollander. You think only with cock, and only of getting fucked, and you are greedy.” Shane whines, thin and reedy, and Ilya lets his smirk turn darker, a knowing thread underpinning the want on his face. “Is so exhausting keeping up with you,” he murmurs, winking when Shane flushes even darker, red sweeping across his cheeks. “Good thing, I like. Is like an extra workout, no? Good to make you ache.” He lowers his mouth to murmur directly into his ear. “To make you feel it.” 

“Ilya,” Shane groans, already reaching for him, and Ilya grins as he hauls Shane into his lap, his fingers unerringly finding the bruises already pressed into his skin. “Ilya, please.” 

“That’s it, moy lyubimyj,” Ilya croons, dropping kisses across his skin as Shane’s hands tangle in his hair. “Take what you need.” 

“You,” Shane whispers into his mouth, feverish and greedy. “I need you.” 

Ilya lets victory fill him; joy and love, and his all-encompassing greed that will never fade. 

“Is good thing, then,” he murmurs, as Shane presses kisses all over his face; the promise sliding from his throat easily. He will swear it in front of others one day, will vow and swear and pledge to the world that Shane is his, but for now, it is theirs and theirs alone; “That I will never leave.”