Chapter Text
It was Svetlana’s fault, really. Or Rose’s. Actually, both. They were both to blame. Or maybe it was Shane’s fault for allowing them to even be there. They shouldn’t have been invited to the wedding. Not half an hour into knowing each other and they had already ruined Shane’s life.
It happened very quickly.
Shane was making the rounds, tending to his guests and holding court in the backyard. He made small talk with a group of Centaurs, his eyes subtly scanning the crowd for his boyfriend. No—husband. Ilya was his husband now.
The word still sent a jolt of electricity through his system. His eyes were still a little dry from the tears he’d shed at the altar, but the suit felt restrictive against a body that had yet to recover from being opened so thoroughly just a couple of hours before. He had scrubbed the sweat and lube from his skin, yet he couldn't stop the slow, persistent escape of what Ilya had left inside him. Each time he shifted his weight, he felt the internal slickness give way—a warm, eventual leak that reminded him he was still physically saturated by their morning session. It was an overwhelming, private messiness tucked neatly beneath the expensive fabric of his trousers.
Coach Wiebe was halfway through some anecdote when Shane caught himself wondering if he was still loose enough to have Ilya fuck him in the pantry or something ridiculous like that—quick, dirty, and married—but he forced the thought away. The thought circled back, of course, because it always did when it came to Ilya. Shane’s brain kept being hijacked by intrusive thoughts of a weight he already missed, and the adrenaline of sneaking around in the middle of their own party.
He checked that his jacket was buttoned, covering any visible evidence of his daydreaming, and hooked a finger under his tie to pull it loose. They should have hired tents and industrial AC. He was sweating through his wedding suit.
“Anyway, we shouldn’t keep you,” Wiebe said, sensible as ever, clapping him on the shoulder. The rest of the group offered their congratulations again, sending him off to the next cluster of guests. Shane pivoted, trying to breathe through thoughts of the smooth skin of Ilya’s cock against his tongue, when he saw them.
Rose and Svetlana were standing by a high-top table on the patio, champagne glasses in hand. They were both radiant, speaking animately to a very subdued Ilya Rozanov. The shy, cornered look on his husband’s face set off alarms, and Shane made a beeline for them. A dozen ridiculous ideas crossed his mind as to why Ilya looked like a ten-year-old getting a lecture, but as Shane reached them, he realized the topic was just hockey.
“Ah, finally,” Ilya said, turning toward Shane and hooking an arm loosely around his waist. He dropped his forehead dramatically onto Shane’s shoulder. “Tell them to go away, Shane. They are saying horrible things about me.”
“Liar,” Svetlana muttered in Russian.
“We’re not!” Rose piped in. “We’re just saying—”
“Say it to Coach,” Ilya groaned, straightening up, though his hand remained firm on the small of Shane’s back. “Hockey is work. I am at my wedding.”
“Say what to Coach?” J.J. asked, approaching from the side. “Want to share some Centaurs strategy, Rozanov?”
Ilya didn’t even answer; he just sighed and took a sip of his champagne. “Be nice, J.J.,” Shane told him fondly.
“Eh, I’m nice. But I’m out,” J.J. said, stepping in for a quick hug. “Got a flight to catch. Congrats again, Cap. Catch you later.”
“Thanks, man,” Shane said, ignoring the familiar sting that came with remembering the team he’d led to glory had shunned him. “Thanks for coming.”
J.J. offered Ilya a handshake—more than Shane had expected. “Congratulations, Rozanov,” he said, then pulled him slightly closer. “If you hurt him, I will personally ruin your life.”
As J.J. walked away, Rose and Svetlana scoffed in near-unison. “As if,” Rose said, rolling her eyes.
“Right? Shane has had Ilya on a leash since we were kids,” Svetlana added, exchanging a grin with Rose, who was apparently her new best friend. “He could be collared right now and we’d be none the wiser, da, Ilyunchik?”
“Mm,” Rose murmured behind her glass, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “He’d look good in one, too.”
Ilya scratched his nose, trying to play nonchalant. “I look good in anything,” he shrugged.
Shane looked at his neck, then. That long, strong neck—the one Shane had been obsessed with since their first workout after draft day. It was a neck built for the strain of the game, corded with muscle, yet it was the same skin Shane often bit down on, tasting salt and heat and sex. He knew the exact rhythm of Ilya’s pulse against his tongue; he knew how it felt to have that entire, violent life vibrating under his teeth.
A collar.
The word took root in Shane’s mind, unbidden and absolute. He looked at Ilya—this powerhouse of a man, a world-class talent with a temper like a storm and a will of iron—and imagined a band of leather or heavy silk buckled tight against that throat.
The thought hit like a physical blow. It was one thing to share a ring; it was another to imagine the crude, beautiful display of total claim. To see Ilya Rozanov, the man the world couldn't catch, standing there in a bespoke burgundy suit, physically marked as Shane’s. To know that underneath the poise and the hockey fame, there was a tether that only Shane held.
It was intoxicating. It was a dizzying rush of heat that made the backyard air feel suddenly thin. Shane’s hand, held softly by his husband’s, twitched with the sudden, frantic urge to reach up and wrap his fingers around Ilya’s throat—not to hurt, but to measure. To feel the circumference of his devotion.
Ilya shifted, sensing the change in the air, his eyes darting to Shane with a flicker of confusion that quickly melted into something dark and knowing. He didn't pull away. He leaned into Shane’s hair and inhaled deeply.
For the rest of the party, Shane was a ghost in his own skin. He moved through the crowds, shook hands, and laughed at jokes he didn't hear. His social graces were on autopilot, a hollow performance of the Perfect Posterboy act.
In truth, his focus was narrowed down to a single point of obsession. Every time he looked across the patio and saw Ilya speaking to a guest, all he saw was the line of that throat. Every time Ilya laughed, Shane imagined the vibration of it trapped beneath a collar. The sheer scale of Ilya’s strength only made the fantasy more overwhelming—the idea of all that power, all that talent, willingly brought to heel by a single look from Shane.
He didn't want the cake. He didn't want the toasts. He just wanted the door to lock behind them so he could turn the hypothetical into a heavy, leather-bound reality.
The guest bathroom upstairs was empty, and Shane shut himself in it not three hours into the party. He splashed cold water on his face and the back of his neck, the droplets feeling like ice against his scorched skin. He shoved his jacket and tie onto the counter and leaned back against the sink, gripping the marble until his knuckles turned white, trying to clear his mind with breathing exercises.
He felt feverish. Drunk, even, although he hadn’t finished a single glass of champagne. He was sweating terribly, the pale blue of his shirt displaying his pitiful state of mind—the light fabric was unforgiving, damp patches already threatening to darken the armpits and back. To everyone else, it likely looked like the summer heat had simply caught up to his high metabolism. Silver linings, Shane supposed. Better to be a sweaty slob than to have his friends and family know exactly what was fueling this heatwave.
It was beyond inappropriate. He wasn’t a hormone-drenched teenager. And they’d had plenty of sex that morning. It wasn't like he was going two weeks without Ilya, as they often did during the season. Yet, he was aching in his pants, his body thrumming and hypersensitive, absolutely dying to have his naked husband bend him over and—
Two rapid taps sounded at the door. Shane knew that rhythm in his marrow.
“It’s open,” Shane said, his voice cracking on the last syllable. God, he was pathetic.
Ilya walked into the bathroom and locked the door behind him. He had already discarded his own jacket, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal strong forearms. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, exposing a constellation of moles against tanned skin and the pulse on his neck.
“Are you not well, sweetheart?” Ilya asked, his voice low and rich. He stepped forward, reaching a hand out to cup Shane’s cheek, but Shane flinched back.
“Don’t,” Shane bit out.
Ilya’s eyebrows shot up, his hand hovering in mid-air. “No?”
“I—I just—” Shane struggled for air, his heart hammering against his ribs. “If you touch me right now, Ilya, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop. I won't be able to go back out there.”
The alarmed expression on Ilya’s face melted, shifting into a sideways grin. “Ah.”
He didn't move away. Instead, he tucked his hands into his pockets and straightened his posture, a move that made his chest broaden and, to Shane’s absolute despair, made him look impossibly larger in the small space.
“I see,” Ilya murmured, his Russian accent thickening the way it always did when he was focused. “You are, ah... riled up?”
Shane exhaled shakily, feeling his face burn with a fresh wave of shame. “You could say that, yeah,” he admitted, his eyes fixed stubbornly on Ilya’s neck.
Even here, under the harsh fluorescent light of the bathroom, that neck was all Shane could see. Strong, thick, and currently bare except for the golden cross. He could almost feel the weight of the collar he’d imagined earlier—the way the leather would bite into that skin when Ilya strained against it. He should have been mortified, but they had seen each other in much more compromising positions; right now, the only thing that mattered was the overwhelming, intoxicating pull of the man standing two feet away.
Ilya seemed amused. “Yuna thinks you’re having panic attack,” he said, unable to hide the glint in his eyes. “She said I should come find you. She will,” he took his hands out of his pockets to air-quote, “discreetly ask the guests to allow you a moment.”
“Oh,” Shane said, finally dragging his gaze from Ilya’s throat to his face. “Well, then... then we...”
“Mm, I think... twenty minutes, maybe?” Ilya tilted his head boyishly, impossibly endearing, and grinned at his husband. “Yes?”
“Fuck yes,” Shane mumbled, already lurching forward, mouth-first, into Ilya’s throat. “Need you,” he groaned, planting open, desperate kisses on Ilya’s warm skin—over his Adam’s apple, along the ridge of his jaw. “Need you so much.”
Ilya’s hand found Shane's jaw, firm and grounding, tilting his face upward before diving in for a kiss. He was maddeningly composed, forcing Shane’s frantic need into a quieter, deeper submission. Their mouths found each other in an open, slow kiss. Ilya’s tongue was cold—likely from the champagne—and Shane felt his mind fracturing as he sucked on it, the temperature contrast sending fresh jolts of heat straight to his core.
Shane moaned into his husband’s mouth, his hips bucking forward in a mindless search for friction. His hands scrambled over Ilya’s hips, waist, and ribs, sliding up his chest until they finally found the neck he’d been obsessing over. He pressed Ilya hard against the door, using his own weight to pin him, before pulling back just enough to look his fill.
It struck Shane as odd how large his own hands looked against that skin—how suddenly fragile Ilya’s throat seemed beneath his strong fingers. He could break that neck. He kissed it instead, a reverent, bruising pressure, pushing his thumbs softly against the sides to feel the pulse hammering wildly beneath the surface.
“You are thinking about it, aren’t you?” Ilya whispered, his breath hitching. Shane could do little but nod and stare, his lower body moving of its own accord, desperate to be closer. “You want to put me in a collar?”
Shane had just enough presence of mind to let go of Ilya’s neck, sliding his hands down to his husband's chest as he locked eyes with him. “Is that bad?” he asked quietly, his voice thick with a want he couldn't hide. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“It’s not bad, moya lyubov,” Ilya assured him, but his hands were already at Shane’s trousers, unbuttoning his pants with practiced speed. His eyes were turning glassy, the cool composure finally beginning to crack. “But Anya’s won’t fit me, and we only have eighteen minutes now. Maybe seventeen.”
Ilya’s hands slid over the curve of Shane’s ass, his fingers finding the seam of him with ease. The fabric was already damp, the warm, internal leak coating Ilya’s fingertips instantly.
“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya breathed, his eyes widening at the sheer amount of evidence Shane was carrying.
“Yeah, alright,” Shane mumbled, lunging for his mouth again. “Need you now. Ilya, please. Right now.”
It was a mercy, really, that Shane was gay. If it had been Rose he was dying for, he would have crushed her under his weight, the desperate way he was pinning Ilya against the door with his entire body. Ilya took it well, of course; he was built like a fortress, broader and denser than Shane, and he simply cradled Shane’s head and kissed him fiercely while his other hand worked at his opening.
“You’re still so wet,” Ilya mumbled against Shane’s lips, his voice dropping into that rough, gravelly register. “Still a little open for me, Shane. You’re so good. Always so good for me.”
A zing of pure, sharp pleasure almost made Shane’s knees buckle. “In,” he pleaded, unable to stop his mouth from wandering, kissing every inch of Ilya’s face and jaw he could reach. “In, please.”
Ilya went in with two fingers easily. Shane’s body accommodated him perfectly, a testament to how thoroughly he’d been claimed that morning. A low, guttural noise—something Shane secretly thought of as "groaning in Russian"—escaped Ilya’s lips. He didn't waste time. He pushed Shane off him just enough to turn him around, bracing Shane’s hands against the cool marble of the vanity.
The large, spotless mirror reflected the carnage of the last few minutes. God, Shane was a mess. His hair was a disaster, his skin was flushed a violent pink, and his lips were swollen, glistening and wet. His shirt was crumpled, and his pants were bunched around his knees.
Standing behind him, Ilya was a study in controlled power. He gently kicked one of Shane’s legs further apart to broaden his stance. He rested one heavy hand on the small of Shane’s back, rucking up the shirt, and returned his fingers to the slick heat he’d just been exploring.
Shane moaned, his head dropping as he canted his hips back, chasing the sensation. “Just fuck me,” he mumbled stupidly, his brain entirely gone. “Don’t need prep, just... do it.”
“No, my love,” Ilya replied. He was looking down at where they joined, his mouth slightly slack, his own breath coming in ragged hitches. “You’re too tight. I will hurt you. Let me—”
“I want it,” Shane interrupted, his voice steadier than he felt.
Ilya looked up then, locking eyes with Shane’s reflection in the mirror. He was trying to be the composed one, the anchor in the storm, but his face betrayed him. His pupils were blown wide, and his jaw was set so hard the muscles were jumping. He was dying for it, too.
Shane decided to bring out the big guns. He leaned into the mirror, arching his back and schooling his face into the specific, vulnerable expression that always made Ilya’s resolve crumble. He let out a soft, broken whine.
“Now, baby. Please.”
Ilya’s grip on his hip tightened enough to bruise. The Posterboy was gone, replaced by a man begging to be taken, and Ilya Rozanov had never been good at saying no to Shane. He let out a sharp, hissed breath through his nose, his hand moving to unbuckle his belt. He pulled it out of the loops with a snap, and dropped it to the ground.
“Thirteen minutes,” Ilya growled, his eyes dark with a sudden, violent intent as he stepped flush against Shane’s back. “Don't make a sound, Shane. Not a single sound.”
“You better shut me up, then,” Shane said, a small, reckless smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before he bit it down.
Ilya’s bewildered expression lasted only a heartbeat. He reached for a drawer near Shane’s left hand, yanking it open to find a small bottle of lube. He slicked himself up faster than he had in years, then tossed the bottle aside; it hit the wall then the floor with a clack, forgotten. Shane was breathing in ragged, shallow bursts. He adjusted his grip on the marble, shifting his hips back to keep his own erection from brushing against the cold stone—though at this point, he had been so hard, for so long, any contact would be a mercy.
“Tell me to stop,” Ilya commanded, lining himself up at Shane’s entrance. He stared at Shane’s reflection in the mirror, his gaze heavy and demanding. “Yes?”
Instead of answering out loud, Shane reached behind him and grabbed Ilya’s clean hand. He pulled it forward, clamping it firmly over his own mouth. Ilya's wedding ring was cold against his lips. He looked Ilya in the eye through the glass and put up his index finger against his husband’s knuckles. He wouldn’t make a sound. He would let Ilya hold him still.
Ilya looked like he was about to burst. He leaned forward, draped over Shane’s back until they were chest-to-back, heart-to-heart. He kept his hand clamped over Shane’s mouth, a living muzzle, and used the other to guide himself inside.
Shane’s eyes instantly watered as Ilya slid in. It was too tight for comfort, but exactly right for his need—a stretching, overwhelming fullness that felt like being put back together. He immediately broke his promise; a strangled, needy sound tore from his throat, dying against the meat of Ilya’s palm.
“Shhhhh. Are you okay?” Ilya whispered, his own voice cracking with the strain. He buried his face in the crook of Shane’s neck, his lips grazing the shell of his ear. He was in to the hilt, his body trembling with the effort of staying still for just one second. “Are you hurting?”
Shane shook his head frantically against Ilya’s hand, his eyes squeezed shut. He didn’t want gentle and he didn’t want careful. He wanted to be consumed. He canted his hips back, his fingers digging into the marble, silently begging Ilya to move before the sheer intensity of the sensation made him pass out right there on the bathroom floor.
Ilya’s free hand came to rest beside Shane’s, supporting his weight on the counter, while the other remained a firm, heavy seal over Shane's mouth. He began fucking him earnestly then—harsh, punishing thrusts that used every inch of the height and leverage he had over Shane. It was a good thing his grip on Shane’s face was so relentless, because Shane was anything but silent. The pace was brutal, driving him nearly to a scream that died against a calloused hand. It was maddening, how this man always knew exactly how much force Shane needed to finally feel grounded.
“Смотри на меня,” Ilya commanded. “Look at me, Hollander.”
Shane forced his eyes open, locking them with Ilya’s in the mirror. He saw the sweat on Ilya’s brow, the blown-out darkness of his pupils, and the sheer, unadulterated possession in his gaze.
“Is this what you wanted, my love?” Ilya asked, his breath hitching in time with the rhythmic, wet thud of their bodies. “Look at you. My husband. So beautiful for me. You love it when I fuck you like this, yes?”
Shane nodded as enthusiastically as their locked positions allowed. He could feel his orgasm building, a white-hot pressure coiled tight in his gut, begging for the release he’d been craving for hours. He tapped Ilya’s hand once, and it instantly dropped away. Shane gasped for air, his lungs burning; his nose wasn't giving him enough oxygen to keep up with his heart rate.
“Yeah,” he choked out, the word nearly lost under the sound of Ilya’s thighs hitting his. “So good. Ilya, please...”
“Don’t come,” Ilya warned. His voice had lost its sweetness, replaced by the iron authority he usually reserved for the ice. He shifted his grip, both hands moving from the sink to Shane’s hips, his fingers bruising the pale skin.
Shane whimpered, his head falling forward as Ilya began to drive into him with even more intent, hitting that specific, deep spot that made Shane’s vision go blurry. He wanted to come so badly it was a physical ache, but he was a good husband—he wanted to obey. He tried to pull his focus away from the friction, looking instead at the way the pale blue fabric of his trousers was bunched around his ankles, anything to distract from the way Ilya was filling him so completely it felt like they were the only two people left in the world.
“Stay with me,” Ilya growled, his hands anchoring Shane’s hips as he increased the pace, his own composure finally, mercifully, beginning to shatter. “Hold it for me. Just a little longer.”
Within a moment, Ilya’s face scrunched in a frown as he climaxed, emptying himself into Shane with a few slower, deep thrusts. Shane felt the warmth filling him—it felt like home, grounding, and he reveled in it.
Not two seconds later, Ilya pulled out suddenly and turned Shane around so quickly his vision went black for a beat. Before Shane could gather his bearings, Ilya had three fingers back inside him and Shane’s cock in his mouth.
“Oh God, Ilya,” Shane moaned, his head dropping back, mouth slack. He braced himself with one hand on the marble vanity, the other going instinctively to the back of Ilya’s head. Shane’s fingers tangled in his curls and he held on tight—maybe too tight—but he was too far gone to care.
Ilya took him deep at once, and the sensation was too much. It took a pathetically small amount of time—just a few seconds of a wet, hot mouth around him—before Shane’s orgasm hit like a bomb going off. He was vaguely aware of the noise he made, a sharp, broken sound that echoed off the bathroom tiles, but his mind was focused entirely on the sensation of emptying into Ilya’s throat. He saw white; his body felt like it was floating.
Before he could even open his eyes, Ilya was on him, his mouth meeting Shane's in a hungry, open kiss as he repeated, over and over, “Mine, you're mine.” Shane’s arms were tingling, but he managed to wrap them around his husband, kissing him luxuriously—less frantic now, but with the kind of bone-deep want that made them feel like rookies again, desperate and starving for each other.
As their breathing leveled out, reason began to filter back in. Shane looked around the room, heard the faraway noises of the party still happening, and cringed.
“Oh my God,” he mumbled into Ilya’s hair. “What have I done?”
He felt Ilya’s laugh before he heard it. “You are a very horny man,” Ilya chuckled, pulling back just enough to grin. “But in your defense, I hear I would look very good with collar on my neck.”
Shane groaned as the memory of the patio came rushing back. He had forgotten about it, but now it came back with full force. His eyes dropped to Ilya’s throat. “You so would.”
Ilya’s smile was playful, his eyes bright and infatuated. “Later,” he said, giving Shane one last loving kiss before stepping back. “We have to clean up and change quickly. I think twenty minutes are up.”
When they stepped back outside, another ten minutes later, dressed in fresh, crisp linen—pretending they had planned a second outfit for the reception all along—it was Rose and Svetlana who made Shane want to crawl out of his skin. Again.
Grinning like a little wolf, Rose pulled Shane closer to them and pretended to fix his hair. “So, Shane,” she asked, her voice low and dripping with mock sympathy, “how was your panic attack?”