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At Shane and Ilya’s wedding, Cliff had joked in his toast about the Raiders’ “dark season,” 2016 and early 2017. He talked about Ilya’s hair-trigger temper, the snapping at harmless fun, the bag skates when the team had especially pissed him off. They had, Cliff said, attributed it to the disappearance of Montreal Jane from Ilya’s life. Most of them had also assumed that Ilya was jealous of Shane and Rose’s relationship, having witnessed his reaction when the news broke. Their theories were further confirmed when Ilya returned from All-Stars in high spirits, presumably due to the news of Shane and Rose’s breakup.
“We were fuckin’ idiots,” Cliff said.
Contrary to what the media showed, Ilya is not aggressive with his team. He pushes them, and he can get fucking scary during a pregame speech, but more than anything, he’s supportive, attentive, and good to his teammates. The only time that ever changed was during the dark season.
Shane was thrilled when Ilya finally put aside his one-sided feud with Rose and let her into his life. Rose had been patient and understanding, and the payoff has brought even more joy into Shane’s life. Rose and Ilya riff off each other so easily, sometimes lovingly ganging up on Shane to tease him, and have the same taste in music and vodka and expensive scents. It means the world to Shane that two of the people he loves most in the world have connected, just like he knows Ilya adores his bond with Svetlana.
But Ilya is, and always will be, fiercely possessive of Shane. Though they’re past the point where Ilya immediately pulls Shane onto his lap whenever someone mentions his relationship with Rose, past him sucking dark hickeys above the line of his collar before Shane has dinner with her, that thrum of ownership will always be there.
When Rose is named as a recipient of an award honoring twenty years as a film actress, she asks Shane to accompany her to the ceremony and present the award. Shane is, at first, petrified, but he cares about Rose and is proud enough of her to say yes. As the plus one himself, he can’t bring Ilya, a fact that has his husband pouting on the couch when he gets ready to leave.
“I shouldn’t be home late,” Shane says, fiddling with his necklace again so the charm sits squarely in the middle of his sternum. “I’m going to sneak out after Rose’s award.”
Ilya doesn’t acknowledge him, mouth set in a firm line as he flicks through channels on the TV. Shane has that buzzy thrill running through him, the one that comes when they play a game like this. He leans over the back of the couch and presses a lingering, soft kiss to Ilya’s cheek. Ilya leans into it, barely perceptible, but enough for Shane to recognize it as a tiny break from their roles to give Shane the affection he needs.
“I love you,” Shane says.
“Have fun with Rose,” Ilya says dryly.
—
Rose Landry Updates @roselandrynews
Rose Landry on the American Screen Awards red carpet with Shane Hollander.
sadiee @rozanova
oh god has anyone checked on ilyamrs. marleau @raiderette2481
rose girl…you’re in dangerhan @hannahhollanderrr
and when shane can’t walk straight at the next cens game
—
Shane knows Ilya saw the pictures. He would have had to go out of his way not to. They are, of course, harmless, but it’s still dozens of shots of him and Rose holding hands, Rose wrapped in his arms, Rose laughing as Shane fixes her collar. It feeds right into the possessive side of Ilya, the side that will be rearing its head tonight.
He’s only just shut the door when he’s pushed up against it. A thigh slots immediately between his legs, strong hands finding his wrists and pinning them above his head. “Oh, fuck,” he gasps, breathless and hard in a split second.
Ilya’s eyes are so dark that Shane can’t help but squirm, moaning a little when the movement grinds his cock on the muscle of Ilya’s thigh. He is entirely surrounded by Ilya, trapped between him and the door, the heat of his body threatening to burn him alive.
“What?” Ilya asks, a sharp, mocking edge to the tone. “Are you worked up from putting your hands all over Rose Landry?”
Shane shakes his head, gasping again when Ilya shoves his thigh upwards. “N- no,” he says. “You. For you.”
Ilya hums, as if unconvinced. “Really?” he says. “You weren’t being a little slut? Cozying up with your ex-girlfriend for the cameras?” Shane tries to lift on his toes to get away from the near overwhelming sensation from sitting astride Ilya’s thigh, but Ilya just raises his leg to meet him.
“Ilya,” he whimpers.
“I think you forget, solnyshko,” Ilya says. He pushes Shane’s hands up further above his head, allowing him to lean in even closer. Shane can practically count his shimmering gold eyelashes.
“Forget what?” he asks, more than a little shakily.
Ilya’s tongue traces over Shane’s top lip, so slow and with a touch so light that it makes Shane shiver. “Forget who you belong to,” he murmurs.
“Oh,” Shane chokes out. His eyes close for half a second, so overwhelmed by Ilya’s touch and burning stare, and then hands move to his shoulders and push. The moment his knees touch the floor, Ilya steps closer, crowding him up against the door. Shane’s even more penned in like this and it should put him on edge, but he just raises what he knows to be a doe eyed stare to Ilya.
Ilya looks down at him like he’s deciding what to do, then slides his hands into Shane’s hair and pulls his face forward. Shane is buried into Ilya’s crotch, held in place against the thick line of his cock as Ilya rolls his hips forward. He clutches to Ilya’s legs and eagerly soaks him in. It’s hard, near impossible, to breathe like this, but he doesn’t care. “Do you know how it feels,” Ilya starts, rolling his hips again, “to see my husband like that? The press was calling it a ‘reunion,’ malysh. Rose Landry and Shane Hollander, together again.”
Hands suddenly tighten their hold and yank Shane’s head back, forcing his neck to crane so he can see Ilya. “Like you didn’t have me here waiting for you,” he says. There’s a dark thread in his voice, something so dangerous and possessive that matches the glint in his eye.
“Was just- just friendly,” Shane rasps. The pressure on his throat makes it harder to speak. “I was there to support her. It was nothing, you know that.”
“Do I?” Ilya asks.
Shane reaches, a bit frantically, for the waistband of Ilya’s sweats. “Stop,” Ilya says, and releases his hair. “Jacket off. Hands above your head.”
It’s difficult shrugging off and folding his suit jacket in the tight space, but he manages it and lifts his hands. Ilya binds his wrists with a necktie produced from God knows where and pushes them against the wall. “Stay,” he says, and tugs his sweats down. His very hard cock springs free, hitting Shane’s lips and chin. He takes hold of himself and intentionally smacks his cock against Shane’s cheek, smearing precum over his cheekbones before bumping the head against his lips. Shane is all too happy to open his mouth and let Ilya push in.
Ilya wastes no time in fucking deep down Shane’s throat. Shane gags around the sudden intrusion, but Ilya doesn’t stop or slow down. They both know Shane can take it. Truthfully, he loves it. Getting his face fucked silences everything in his brain and puts himself safely in Ilya’s hands.
Ilya fucks his face ruthlessly, groaning when Shane chokes and splutters, saliva dripping down his chin and into his lap. “Fuck, Hollander,” he murmurs. “Such a good slut for me.” He withdraws just enough to let Shane gasp in a shaking breath, then drives back in to the hilt. Shane’s hands instinctively jerk forward and Ilya pins him back down hard, smacking at Shane’s cheek with his free hand.
Struggling as he is, Shane looks up at Ilya. He knows he must make a filthy fucking sight, tears streaming down his face, chin wet with spit, mouth stuffed with Ilya’s cock. Sure enough, Ilya hisses and pulls out, squeezing himself at the base.
Shane heaves for breath, wiping at his chin with his still bound hands. Ilya slaps him, once and not hard, but enough to make Shane keen. “Good boy,” he says. “That’s where you belong, malysh. Covered in your spit and choking on my cock. Not showing off for the cameras with Rose.” He slides his leg back between Shane’s, smiling in satisfaction when Shane cries out and scrambles to grab at his leg for balance. “I should just make you get off like this,” he muses. “Grind on my leg until you cum in your pretty clothes.”
Shane’s nodding, barely comprehending a thing Ilya is saying but knowing that the press of his shin on his cock is sending sparks up his spine. “Ilya,” he whines.
Ilya sticks two fingers in Shane’s mouth. “Again.”
“Oh, God. Ilya.”
Ilya lets himself work up for another minute or so, sucking his fingers and grinding messily on his leg. It still amazes him how, even after all this time, Ilya can take him apart so effortlessly. It’s been more than a decade since Shane dropped to his knees in a Nashville hotel room, but he’ll still go down there without hesitation whenever Ilya says the word.
“Stop,” Ilya says again, then tugs at the tie around Shane’s wrists until he’s standing and kisses him hard. “Let’s go.”
In the bedroom, Ilya frees Shane’s hands, then ambles back to lean next to the window. “Clothes off,” he instructs. Shane’s hands tremble as he takes off his shirt, silky, expensive material slipping over his fingers. Ilya watches him hungrily. His hand moves loosely over his cock, like too tight of a grip will set him off.
As soon as he’s naked, Ilya backs Shane up until he falls onto the bed. He doesn’t miss a beat in crawling on top of him, grabbing his wrists again as he goes to hold him down. Shane pushes against him a little, more to provoke him than to really struggle. He likes what comes next.
Sure enough, Ilya doubles down, keeping him firmly in place. It feels like his entire bodyweight is focused on Shane’s wrists. “Why are you trying to get away, huh?” he purrs. “You don’t know your place?”
Shane is panting under Ilya, so turned on that he’s struggling to speak. It’s like his entire brain has been clouded over with need. “I’m sorry,” he says.
“Mm, if you were really sorry, you would not be such a brat,” Ilya says. He licks a wide stripe up Shane’s throat, then bites under the curve of his jaw. “Don’t move.”
Shane is left laid out on the bed, still so hard and already leaking, feeling his pulse pound at the spot where Ilya bit him. He hears Ilya rummaging in their closet, then Ilya is binding him properly in leather cuffs, connecting his hands with a short link of chain and locking him to the headboard. A satiny blindfold is lowered over his eyes, and he feels the bed dip on either side of his ankles. Ilya is straddling him, but still up on his knees, placing himself above Shane.
“God, Hollander,” he says. “So beautiful. All mine to use.”
“Yours,” Shane agrees.
Hands rest on his chest, then move slowly downward. “I should keep you like this,” Ilya says. “I don’t want anyone else to touch you. Or look at you. You need to be far away from all of them and right here with me, where I can take what is mine.” Shane has to ball his hands into his fists to keep from squirming. He wants now, more than the fun of riling Ilya up, to be good.
“Or maybe I’ll film this,” Ilya says. Shane jumps at the feeling of Ilya’s mouth on his chest, just over his heart. “I’ll make a video of you moaning and begging for it like a whore and send that to the press,” Ilya says, lips brushing Shane’s body as he speaks. “Show them how desperate you are for my cock. Not for her.” His lips seal over the skin, sucking hard, undoubtedly leaving a hickey. Shane arches up into Ilya’s mouth, his own lips panted as he moans at the feeling. Ilya releases him with a pop, then immediately latches onto the hollow of Shane’s throat and repeats his actions.
Shane lies still under Ilya as Ilya takes his time decorating him with hickeys and bite marks; his neck, his shoulders, his chest, even the soft skin of his sides. Hands force his legs apart, and Shane cries out when Ilya sucks hard on the inside of his thigh. “We’re going to get you a tattoo, malysh,” Ilya says. “These will fade. I want my name right here.” He reaches up and taps the mark at the center of Shane’s throat. “Right where everyone can see it.”
Shane’s going to come. He’s going to come, untouched, just from a few hickeys and Ilya’s near feral desire to mark his property—to mark him.
Attuned as they are, Ilya must feel him tense up, because he pulls away and wraps a hand at the base of Shane’s cock, the same way he grabbed himself to hold off. “No,” he says. “Not yet. I just started with you.”
“I’m sorry,” Shane says. He sounds drunk. He feels it.
Ilya hums in sympathy and presses a featherlight kiss to the head of Shane’s cock. “Oh, sweetheart, it’s okay,” he says. “You can’t help how needy you are.”
There’s a pause while they both make sure Shane is safely away from the edge. Then, Ilya spits, a glob of saliva sliding down Shane’s cock. “Oh, my God,” Shane whimpers. “Il-”
Three fingers plunge into his mouth right as Ilya wraps his lips around his dick. Shane tries to throw his head back, but fingers hook down over his lower teeth, holding him firmly in place.
Ilya’s going at it, bobbing his head and taking Shane deeper on every pass. Shane’s crying in full now and only barely holding himself back from thrusting upwards down Ilya’s throat. He thinks he’s saying Ilya’s name, a desperate, mindless rambling, but it’s incomprehensible around the fingers.
The heat in his stomach is rising again. He feels so sensitive, like a touch of Ilya’s finger anywhere on his body will break him open. “Ilya,” he slurs, and then his mouth is gone. Shane is amazed he doesn’t scream, fingernails biting into his own palm as he clenches his hands.
“Good boy,” Ilya soothes. “Good, Shane.”
Shane is heaving for breath now, heart thumping like he’s fresh off the ice. He is not going to survive Ilya fingering him open. At the thought, Shane instinctively plants his feet on the mattress and lets his knees fall to the side, giving Ilya access to prep him.
But Ilya chuckles. A hand, slicked with lube, strokes Shane’s dick a few times. “Cute,” he murmurs. That’s the only warning Shane gets before Ilya is sitting on his cock.
“Fuck!” he says on a strangled breath. “Oh, fuck! Fuck. Ilya, you-”
Ilya grabs his jaw and leans in, mouth an inch from his ear. “If you want to get your dick wet so badly, I’ll do it for you,” he says lowly. “Not Rose Landry. Me.” Then with a nip at Shane’s earlobe, he braces himself with both hands on Shane’s chest and starts to ride him.
Shane can feel Ilya’s ridiculous ass rocking in his lap, feel the press of his thighs at his waist, hear him huffing for breath as he takes what he wants, but it’s driving him mad being blindfolded. “Ilya,” he whines. “I want to see you. Please. Please, take it off. Please. I need it.”
He squints for a moment in the light when Ilya obliges, but almost needs to shut his eyes again from the sight. Miles of golden muscle stretch before him, massive thighs straddling his waist, a sheen of sweat covering his body. Ilya’s mouth is pink and swollen and his face is dusted a matching shade. His eyes gleam with arousal and pure power, and he squeezes Shane’s chest when his gaze meets Shane. Unused to this as he is, he rides Shane like he was born to do it. The steady bounce of his ass works Shane’s cock so well, and he fucking winks.
“Feel so fucking good, solnyshko,” he says. “So deep.” His eyes shut for a moment, clearly more affected from his own actions than he wants to let on.
“I love you,” Shane says, unprompted. Ilya smiles, and drops to his elbows to kiss him.
“I love you, too,” he says. “You like watching me ride your cock?”
Shane nods like he’s on a string. He doesn’t think he could fully explain just how much he likes it. Ilya is sex personified, sexy and confident even in this position that’s so new to him. When he adjusts, bracing himself with his hands stretched back to rest on Shane’s thighs, and starts to bounce properly on his dick, Shane does give in and close his eyes. Tears streak down his face into his hair. Ilya is so fucking beautiful, and he feels so fucking good, and-
Ilya slaps him and rests a hand on his throat. “You wanted to watch,” he says, voice gone hoarse. “Watch.”
Shane opens his eyes. Ilya’s moved again, one hand back on Shane’s chest, the other stroking himself. “Who do you belong to?” he asks.
“To you,” Shane rasps.
Ilya hits him again and fits a hand under his jaw. “To who?”
Shane is reveling in this, in the feeling of falling headfirst into the game and being enveloped in his husband. He wants this forever. He can never go back to a time before Ilya climbed on top of him and rode his dick.
“To Ilya,” he sobs. “Ilya Rozanov. Ilya Rozanov owns me.”
Ilya swears and dives down to kiss Shane so hard that it borders on violence. Shane eagerly opens his mouth, letting Ilya fuck his tongue into its depths. “Damn fucking right,” Ilya growls. “And don’t you ever fucking forget it.”
“Close,” Shane gasps. “Close, Ilya-”
“No,” Ilya says. “Me first. Open.”
Shane immediately obeys, tongue lolling out of his mouth. Ilya has a tight grip on himself now, staring down at Shane with unbridled desire as he strokes himself. “Fuck,” he grits out. “God, Shane. Oh-” He comes with a shout, spurting over Shane’s face from hairline to chin, angling himself so the lion’s share makes it onto Shane’s tongue. Shane doesn’t dare move, taking every drop that he’s given.
“Perfect for me,” Ilya says. “Swallow.” Shane does. He’s not going to last much longer, and hopes Ilya can read it in his expression.
And of course he does. Even as he shakes in overstimulation, he plants his hands on Shane’s chest and rides him hard into the mattress. “Give it to me,” he says. “Fill me up, Shane. Give me what belongs to me.”
“Ilya,” Shane cries, and then he’s spilling into Ilya, cuffs digging into his wrists as he writhes under him, and he’s out.
He wakes in Ilya’s arms, a soft hand stroking his back. “Hi, solnyshko,” Ilya says. “You are back?”
Shane nods and snuggles further into his embrace. “That was so fucking good,” he says. “Rode me like a champ.”
“Mm, you know me,” Ilya says, passing Shane a glass of water and watching to make sure he drinks a good amount. “Can’t let you be better.”
Shane barks out a laugh and rests his chin on Ilya’s chest so he can look up at him. “You’re not there yet,” he says. “Maybe one day.”
Ilya’s mouth twists, pretending that he isn’t smiling, and he kisses Shane’s forehead. “I’ll just have to keep practicing.”
—
“Are we good?” Shane calls.
“Yes,” Ilya says. “Just me.”
Shane hurries out of the showers to his stall, hopping on one foot to get his underwear on. He is so completely covered in Ilya’s handiwork that he couldn’t bear to let the team see it. They’re used to the marks, but this…Ilya went crazy. Shane can’t pretend he cares, but this would just be too much.
“I think you look pretty,” Ilya says.
“Shut up,” Shane says, scrambling to grab his sweatshirt.
“Hey, Cap, did you-?” Bood’s too close for Shane to duck behind Ilya before the door opens, and Shane’s face goes up in flames when Bood’s eyebrows go into his hairline.
“Rose’s event,” Ilya says, far too proud of himself. Bood’s laugh is so loud that it echoes off the walls, and Ilya’s still giggling as he protectively bundles Shane into his arms.
“You are so fucking lucky I love you,” Shane says.
Ilya kisses the top of his head. “The luckiest.”