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Ilya was blushing.
Russians do not do this.
Except they do, and he is.
On the jumbotron, and in front of God knows how many people watching on TV.
Shane Motherfucking Hollander was in the family box.
In the family box for the Ottawa Centaurs.
The Ottawa Centaurs that Ilya was the Captain of.
And he was wearing Ilya's name and number.
Ilya might be glitching. He wasn't sure. He hadn't moved, or breathed since the camera had panned to the WAGs and Bood made him look up. And then Shane, his private, reserved Шанечка, had stood up, turned around, and flashed Rozanov 81 across his back in a red and black custom jacket. Ilya could see enough of the box to know Shane was matching the wives and girlfriends.
The how and when Shane had even managed to secretly acquire a WAG jacket was a thread Ilya couldn't pick at right now. His sanity was already crumbling, and like hell was he going to let the dinosaur Scott Hunter win again because he was horny distracted.
Shane blew a kiss at the camera. And then, because clearly he'd been possessed by the ghost of one of Ilya's enemies, Shane winked. The cameraman mercifully decided to focus on something else and Ilya forced himself to turn around and breathe. He was a professional. He had a job to do. Shane would pay for this later, though, and Ilya could not wait.
But first, he had Game 1 to win.
~~~~~
Shane sat back down in one of the padded leather lounge chairs towards the back of the box. This was so surreal. Two days ago, he'd been playing against the team he was now representing. Two days ago, he'd also been Captain of the Voyageurs, and he hadn't yet had the crash out of the ages recorded and gone viral overnight. So, he was adapting.
For someone that struggled with the slightest changes to most of his carefully cultivated routines, he thinks he's actually coping quite well. Being fucked to within an inch of his life last night, and again this morning, probably hasn't hurt. He's got too many endorphins coursing through him to panic. But he also just doesn't want to. He wants to enjoy this. He's never gotten to watch one of Ilya's games as a fan, let alone as a partner. It felt right. The WAGs were amazing and welcoming, nothing at all like what Jackie described from her attempts with the Montreal cohort— surprising absolutely no one.
Cassie Boodram unceremoniously plopped down next to him in the other club chair and handed him a can of ginger ale. How did she even know that was his preferred drink? “This is so fun!" she said, "we've been trying to get Harris to join us for ages but he's always working!”
“I can't really say much on that,” Shane laughs. “I'm definitely going to be a worse WAG than Harris if you're taking attendance, but I'm glad to be here. I've never gotten to be Ilya's partner before at a game. And I don't even feel bad that I'm not playing. Because. You know. Fuck Montreal."
"Who are we fucking?" Caitlin Dysktra asks. She had wandered over from the bar with some fancy cocktail that was unnaturally blue. Shane and Cassie laughed "Shane's old team!" Cassie answered.
Caitlin made a noise of agreement and took a sip of her drink, “We need a new name for the group. WAGs is out. You and Harris aren't wives or girlfriends!”
“To be honest, I don't mind being a WAG. It doesn't offend me. Ilya's well aware I'm not a woman.” Shane smirks, because yeah…his man really enjoys his manhood.
“Ha! Don't we know it. Well I don't like it anymore. It's boring, but we can't use HABs,” Cassie says with a disgusted face.
“Uh no, definitely not. Fuck the Habs.” Shane agrees instantly.
The girls laugh and keep trying to come up with an inclusive acronym. Warmups are just about over so Shane takes out his phone and sends a dirty text to Ilya. Turnabout is fair play. Hopefully he reads it before the game. He plays better when he's all worked up, and he fucks him harder when its Shane's fault.
During the first intermission he's cornered again by the full WAG ensemble. He's never been around them all at once and it's marginally intimidating, but Shane knows these women. They've been texting for months, and they made him a jacket. Obviously they accept him. Its Lisa that speaks up “So we've got a replacement suggestion for WAGS. And it's not gonna be BHWAGs, Selena. That's terrible.”
Selena is married to Nick Chouinard, which makes her a saint— but not one with naming rights.
“Yeah...that's...certainly a choice,” is what Shane lands on, aiming for diplomacy and failing.
“Whatever. Kill a girl for trying to be inclusive," Selena fires back with a smile.
“Anyway,” Lisa continues, “We thought about just being The Partners. But that sounds like a $2 law firm. So we came up with Spouses and Partners. SAPs. That way its neutral for anyone's preferred gender, and any relationship status. So what do you think Shane? Are we the SAPs?”
Shane is so touched. These women make it seem so obvious that they'd just rebrand to include him and anyone else that may come along. Like its a given, like he deserves that kind of consideration. His own team didn't even let him be himself, let alone make space for his partner like this.
It takes him no thought at all to say “Yes. We're a bunch of SAPs now. But you do realize, come September…Ilya will technically be one too.”
The women all look at each other, silently conversing before Cassie nods. “Yeah about that. We decided since you were here first, we're keeping you. Once a SAP always a SAP. Ilya can find his own group.”
Shane can already imagine the whining his melodramatic Russian will do when he hears this. Oh well. These are my girls, Shane thinks. And it's all thanks to Ilya anyway; he's only got himself to blame.
The game is a tight one, and Shane can already tell this is going to be a long series. Hayes is standing on his head in the net tonight. By midway through the third, the Admirals have only managed 1 goal to Ottawa's 2, despite out shooting them 2-1.He makes a mental note to tell Ilya that Scott is favoring his right side, and their goalie is leaning too heavily on his glove side for saves. The Cens are looking good so far, but they lack depth on center, and their best D men are rookies. Playoff hockey is a different beast, and the veteran team in New York has the advantage of experience.
Shane had quickly realized that the WAGs are not as interested in hockey analysis as he is; most people aren't, players included. Shane contents himself with a beer and his own thoughts for most of the game. He chats during intermissions, but old habits die hard and he is locked in during each period.
It's nice though— he's surrounded by people that love his person. That don't ask if there were any nice men in Montreal, or question his life choices because he gets a little flustered watching Ilya run Scott Hunter into the boards. The girls just let him exist, as Shane, Ilya's partner. He doesn't have to be ‘on’ around them, and that's an unusual feeling for him. It's one he didn't know he was missing.
He's been in their group chat since the fanmail video leaked, and Ilya thought he could benefit from seeing that they have support. It was one of the best things Ilya's ever suggested. Outside of Hayden and Jackie, and then Rose, Shane's never had much of a friend group. He's always been too focused, too driven, probably too talented, definitely too particular, for most people to tolerate. But no one here makes it seem hard.
When they were planning the WAG jackets for this year, Cassie had initially suggested a retro windbreaker style, but Shane thought he might actually die if that stiff, loud nylon came anywhere near him. They didn't make him feel crazy or difficult about it, they just pivoted. Smoothing his hand down the butter soft leather sleeve, Shane thinks his sensory issues might've also saved their style. The F1 racing inspired leather jackets are a definite upgrade from the shiny red fiasco he'd first seen.
The jackets are mostly black with red and white racing stripes down the sleeves. On the right arm is “their” player's number. The front has a horizontal strip of white and is embossed with CENTAURS across it. Shane's also has a C on the chest. Across the back, the player's last name is in bold red block print embroidery with the team logo beneath. The jacket is gorgeous and soft, but what's really doing it for Shane is the Rozanov of it all.
It's an obvious show of belonging— there's no denying who has a hold on him with Ilya's name and number wrapped around his body. After all these years of trying so hard to keep themselves separate to the public, it feels powerful to brand himself with his fiancé's name. To claim and be claimed. He knows Ilya will be feral at the sight of it. Possessive bastard
Shane grins. Just thinking about Ilya is getting him a little too excited, so he focuses back in on the last minutes of the game. It ends soon enough with Ottawa's first Round 2 win. Secretly, Shane thinks it's a long shot that they make it out of this round, but he's so proud of how far they've come since Ilya joined 2 seasons ago. And weirder things have happened. Playoff hockey is wild. He follows the girls down to the family waiting area outside the locker room. Ilya is already there waiting for him. Unshowered, game day bag unzipped and overflowing with the crumpled remains of his suit.
“We in a hurry for something baby? You didn't even shower,” Shane questions. He knows. He bites his lip. Stares up at Ilya with the look he knows Ilya can't resist.
Ilya stares back at him, the muscle in his jaw tensing. His pupils are dilating and Shane is giddy. “Yes. We are. We are leaving now. Hi WAGs. Bye WAGs. We will celebrate tomorrow at Kingfisher with Dinosaur. Shane is very tired tonight. Need to put him to bed. Tell team tab is on me.” The girls laugh knowingly. Ilya's hand is gripping Shane's upper arm as he hustles him out of Madison Square Garden and into a waiting black car.
The drive couldn't have taken longer than twenty minutes, but it feels like it's been hours. Ilya hasn't said a word, but his hand has been traveling higher and higher on Shane's thigh as if daring him to react. This is a weird little game they're playing, but Shane is determined not to break first, for once. As much as Ilya teases about how desperate and quick Shane is, he's not much better. Right now the flush in Ilya’s cheeks and the way he's purposefully avoiding any eye contact tells Shane everything he's not saying.
They're back in their room before Ilya says a single word. “Jacket.”
“Oh this?” Shane teases. “Do you like it?” He spins so Ilya is staring at his own last name. And Shane's ass. And if he put on his tightest black jeans specifically for this, well, that's his little secret.
“Hollander, you have killed me. I am dead.” Ilya sighs. He sounds like he's run a marathon. "Get on your knees. I want you to suck my dick.”
“No.” Shane turns his head to face him and arches a brow, but doesn't move an inch.
This isn't their usual dynamic, but this isn't a usual night for them either. And Shane's learning he quite likes changing the rules up. “If you want me to get on my knees on this questionable hotel carpet and suck your dick, you're going to have to ask me nicer than that,” Shane taunts him.
“Please—” Ilya begins. Smirking as he leans into this role reversal. Shane cuts him off with a searing kiss but before Ilya can take control he breaks it off and pushes him, two hands on his chest into the shower.
“If you think I am letting you put your dick anywhere inside of me tonight, when you haven't even showered post-game, I will divorce you.” He's laughing, but he's also serious. He has standards.
"So mean to me, малыш! Not even married and already threatening divorce!" Ilya strips out of his post game clothes and walks into the luxurious shower. Shane has half a mind to join him, but he settles himself on the counter opposite the glass enclosure instead.
“You do not want to join?” Ilya says, already impressively hard and Shane has to blink to stop himself from following the water trailing down his body.
“Mm I thought about it. But. It's my big night and I want to watch.” Shane can feel his face heating up, but he's so into this the embarrassment is secondary.
“How is this your big night? I won game!”
“Yes, and I will congratulate you…later. But I made my WAG debut. I think thats bigger. You win lots of games. This was my first time.”
Even through the cloud of steam, Shane can see Ilya's pupils are blown wide. He watches as Ilya takes more of the body wash and soaps up his chest, trailing his hand lower. It's so reminiscent of that day in the locker room, Shane is a little off kilter. Ilya had touched himself then too, and changed their entire lives, forever.
“First time, you say? I hope they were, uh, gentle with you.” Ilya licks the corner of his lip as he finally grips his own length and begins slowly stroking, twisting his wrist over the head on every upstroke, just like Shane does it for him.
Somehow despite Ilya being the one on display, despite Shane having asked for this, demanded this, he's still not in control. Shane realizes this as he actually physically drools on himself, just from watching Ilya jerk himself off. He'll never win this game, but he thinks he likes losing, when its as good as this.
Ilya doesn't prolong the show, sensing that Shane's accepting defeat. He rinses himself and gets out of the shower to dry off, but Shane is on him instantly. The bathroom is humid and slightly steamy and Shane is in leather but he doesn't seem to even notice as he kisses Ilya like he needs it to breathe.
Ilya grabs him by the waist and parts Shane's lips with his tongue. Shane lets him in immediately and Ilya loves this, loves him. He nips Shane's plush bottom lip and continues kissing his way down Shane's neck under the collar of the jacket. Shane falls to his knees before Ilya had even thought of asking again. He's being taken into that perfect mouth before he can register it.
Shane loves sucking cock. Well, he loves sucking this cock. He loves the weight of it on his tongue. The smooth feel of the warm skin in his mouth. He loves the way Ilya smells like himself, but more, right here where Shane's nose is pressed into his trimmed pubes. He loves the challenge of breathing with his throat full. He loves how the world condenses down to nothing but saltywetwarm. He loves how empowered he feels when Ilya's knees go weak and his composure breaks. When its Shane's name he's shouting as he comes. Just from his mouth.
He tolerates the taste. Because he's not a liar. But it's a flavor that's distinctly Ilya. And he could never find it disgusting to have part of Ilya inside himself. He never feels more desirable, more confident, more vital than when he's submitting like this. It took him a long time to call it that, to accept this part of himself.
Ilya's never made him feel anything less than amazing for it, but Shane had his own internal issues to fight through. He had to figure it out on his own. He's not weak for being submissive. He actually never feels more powerful. With Ilya's hands planted firmly in his hair, he lets himself be used to give his beautiful man whatever pleasure he wants. He's the only one that gets to do this. The only one that has what Ilya craves, needs.
Ilya fucks Shane's throat rough and hard, like they both like it, on nights like this. Shane is drooling all over and his eyes are watering as he watches Ilya shatter above him and come with a desperate cry. Like he always does, he swallows every bit of Ilya's release. And like he always does, Ilya hauls him up and kisses him, thrusting his tongue into Shane's mouth immediately, tasting himself on Shane's tongue.
Shane is possibly harder than he's ever been in his entire life. Ilya doesn't bother with clothing as he manhandles Shane onto the giant bed, pulling off boots and socks, and wrestling with the zipper of those god damned sinful jeans. He finally succeeds in getting Shane's pants and underwear off and the cold air hits his rock hard cock, making him jolt at the sensation.
“You are bad, Шанечка. You surprise me before game with your special jacket and your camera kisses. And your dirty text. Who taught you sexting? You do not think you will distract me? Do you want the fossil to beat me?” Ilya flips Shane over, ass up, ROZANOV on full display across his shoulders. Ilya could come just from the view.
They don't usually play like this, but Shane is feeling feisty lately, and Ilya loves it. Wants to indulge the carefree, wild side of his love. “I think you need punishment for this naughty surprise. Make me hard before warmups and then I have to play whole game knowing you are wearing my name.”
“I only wanted to surprise you,” Shane tries, his throat is sore and his voice is wrecked from eearlier. He turns to look up at Ilya, but even those big brown bottom eyes aren't going to fool Ilya tonight.
“No. You want me to get all wound up because you think I'm hot when I play angry.” Ilya laughs, because after all these years, they really don't have any secrets. Ilya smooths his hands over Shane's ass cheeks, grabbing a handful and waiting for a cue. Shane just hums and pushes his ass higher. Consent.
Ilya brings one hand down in a hard slap. Shane grunts into the pillow and Ilya watches as the skin turns bright pink. He probably shouldn't find that so hot. “That it Rozanov? Not much of a punishment. I take harder hits in practice with the campers”
Oh, so Bratty Shane it is. Well, Ilya can handle that. He slaps the other cheek with a loud crack. Shane moans. He spanks Shane several times until both cheeks are bright red and warm. Shane twitches when he rubs the sensitive skin. And then he leans in and bites. Hard enough to leave the imprint for days. Mine.
Shane had been humping the mattress, and comes with a scream when Ilya's teeth sink in to his tender flesh. Fuck. That's new. Ilya is fully hard— has been since he flipped Shane over and saw his own name staring back at him. Some kind of caveman instinct awakened in him to mark and claim what's his. And Shane gets off on it? My God, his man is perfect.
He stuffs a pillow under Shane's hips and grabs the lube. Leaves the jacket on. He warms the lube a bit and circles Shane's rim. He'll be sensitive after coming so recently, but Shane loves the sweet torture of being fucked oversensitive. Slowly, because time is theirs now, Ilya enters him with one finger. He fucks in and out of him slow enough to make Shane start wiggling with impatience. “Settle дорогой. I have you. Stay with me.” Shane is already floating. The combination of pleasurepain sending him there immediately. Ilya will take care of him, he can float.
Ilya decides to take pity on his gorgeous man, and adds a second finger. He scissors his fingers until Shane is ready for a third. Ilya watches as Shane's hungry hole swallows up his fingers. He brushes his prostate every couple of strokes until Shane is a whimpering mess, trying to fuck himself back onto Ilya's hand.
Ilya removes his fingers and Shane whines at the sudden empty feeling. “Shhh. I know.” He loves how much Shane loves being full. Ilya wishes he could stay inside him forever, connected so closely. He marvels at how easy it is for Shane to share his body, to let Ilya become part of himself. He lubes up his cock and lays down on the bed. Shane moves to straddle him but Ilya tuts.
“Ah. No. Turn around. Let me see who owns you while you fuck yourself on my cock.”
Shane complies immediately and lifts his hips to angle himself onto Ilya. Ilya guides him down with a hand on his hip until Shane's ass meets his pelvis. Ilya needs a minute or he's going to come and ruin everything. “Look at you. Wearing my name. Filled with my cock. You're mine Шанечка. No one else gets to have you like this.”
Shane's legs are shaking with the effort of staying still as they both adjust. He braces his hands on the bed by Ilya's hips and arches his back so his jacket practically hits Ilya in the face. He starts fucking himself down onto Ilya's cock, guided by the bruising grip on his hips. Ilya raises Shane up until his dick almost slips entirely out, and then slams him back down and guides him to grind his hips in tortuous circles. A dance they've been coreographing together for a decade.
“Only you. Baby, I belong to you. Own me, I want everyone to know,” Shane is rambling. Ilya reaches up and grabs the headboard as Shane rides him into oblivion. Eventually, Ilya can tell Shane is getting close, and suddenly the idea of not being able to see him is too much. Ilya grabs him by the waist and rolls them until Shane is under him.
His big brown eyes are full of light, staring back at Ilya like he hung the moon. Ilya pushes back inside the only body that's ever felt it was made for him. He leans down closer to Shane and says “you own me too” as he fucks him at a bruising pace.
Shane wraps his legs around Ilya's back and flips them yet again so he's back on top but Ilya can see his face this time. Shane keeps the same pace Ilya had started, fucking himself harderdeeperfaster. Ilya's determined not to come first but he can feel the pressure building as his balls tighten and his whole body tenses. Shane's cock is so red and wet it looks painful. Ilya knows what he needs, though, so he pulls Shane down with a hand on the back of his neck.
“Gonna come inside you малыш. Make you full,” he says as he bites down on Shane's pec and sucks a bruise into it. He brings a hand up to tease his other nipple. He swirls his tongue around it before latching his mouth around it and biting hard enough to make Shane yelp. Ilya loves Shane's body, he's smaller than Ilya, but only just, his muscles are carved, evidence of his discipline and strength. He loves how responsive Shane is, and he's learned all the things that drive his man wild.
So he knows how much he loves when Ilya plays with his chest. He moves his mouth to Shane's other side and as he clamps down in a hard suck, he feels Shane coming untouched. He explodes on his chest and paints his abs, with Ilya buried deep inside him and lavishing attention on his sensitive tits.
The sudden tightness around his own dick is too much and Ilya is spilling inside of Shane, driving his hips up and fucking into him, nailing his overstimulated prostate and coating him inside with his release. Another claim. Shane is shaking and swearing as he collapses onto his chest in a sweaty boneless pile. Shane twitches through a wave of aftershocks as he comes down from what Ilya thinks might've just been his third orgasm tonight. Ilya calms him with a hand gently stroking through his hair. He rolls them so they're on their sides as he slips out of Shane, soothing his grimace at the emptiness with a deep kiss.
Shane leans into the kiss, and they lay there idly tasting each other until Shane gets up to go clean himself. Ilya lays there another minute. Eventually, he'll go join Shane in the shower. Rub lotion into the still reddened skin of his ass, where Ilya's handprint and bitemark stand out like tattoos. Maybe he'll get on his knees this time and eat Shane out until he cries. Get him all dirty again and then clean him back off once he's too fucked out to move.
Later, they'll stand side by side at the counter going through the mundane routines of getting ready for bed. Shane will steal his joggers, and Ilya will begrudgingly put on underwear. They'll climb under the covers and Shane will curl around him like a koala. Their legs will be tangled together and Shane's freezing cold feet will leach the warmth that Ilya always radiates. His nose will be tickled by Shane's hair and his arm will go numb from the weight of Shane's head. They'll fall asleep knowing they don't have to say good-bye in the morning.
If Ilya could've only known they'd end up here, he would have been so much braver, so much sooner. He'll never waste a moment of what they have now.
He grabs his phone off the nightstand and sees a text notification:
Lady Bood: you're welcome 😈
Ilya laughs and shuts the phone back down and climbs out of bed. He loves his team. He can't wait for Shane to love them too.