Chapter Text
Ilya has always been a greedy man. Hunger lives inside him. He used to sate it with casual sex and expensive cars and screaming fans, but those things no longer fill him up. Over the years, his hunger has shifted, taken on the shape of Shane Hollander. That’s why a one-time hookup turned into a long-distance situationship, why that situationship eventually became a marriage. Now he has Shane beside him every day, wearing his colors and his ring, in his bed and on his line.
A better man would be satisfied. He is not that man.
On the nights he can’t sleep, Ilya creeps downstairs and watches interviews on his phone. Reporters shove microphones in Shane’s face and ask him probing questions about their marriage. One particularly bold asshole asks if there’s ever any tension in the locker room or the showers.
Shane smiles his bland, polite Canadian smile and says, “I don’t think anybody’s thinking about that. We’re out here to win games, and everybody’s focused on doing what we need to do to make that happen.”
His answer is so perfect. It makes Ilya want to go upstairs and cover him in teeth marks, high up on his neck where they’re sure to show on camera.
He doesn’t, of course. The press is always watching, and they have cups to win and a legacy to preserve and a point to make, so Ilya behaves himself. Grainy pap photos show them walking out of practice holding hands. Out on morning runs, their paces matching stride for stride. In tuxes at awards ceremonies, Ilya leaning in to kiss Shane’s freckled cheek.
It’s all very tasteful. Great PR. Roger Crowell should send them a gift basket. And every day Ilya grows hungrier. His fingers ache to grab onto something he can’t feel. He wants to stuff his mouth with it, to eat and eat until the empty place in his gut stops aching.
He can’t. He won’t. He will have to start smaller, take little bites. He can manage this hunger without destroying what they’ve built. He just has to push (always, he’s always pushing) for a little bit more.
Shane’s fingers brush Ilya’s as he takes the mug from him. Ilya always hooks two fingers in the top of the handle so there’s plenty of space for Shane to take it without burning his hand.
“You used the French press, didn’t you? And a hand delivery? You’re spoiling me.”
Ilya leans down to give him a quick peck on the lips before flopping down on the couch. “I want to go dancing with you.”
Shane looks out the window at the morning sun. “Little early in the day for that.”
“Not right now, Shane, for date night. I want to go out dancing.”
Shane stalls by taking a slow sip of the coffee. “Like… at a club, or…?”
“Yes, Shane. At a club. There is place downtown that looks good. It would be fun.”
“What’s the name of this place?”
Ilya grins and waggles his eyebrows at him. “Stallions.”
“Stallions,” Shane repeats flatly. Ilya nods. “Isn’t that a…” he trails off.
“What, you cannot say gay club?”
Shane suddenly finds the steam rising from his coffee very interesting. “Shut up.”
“We are married, Shane. I am your husband. Your gay husband. You can say gay club.”
“Fuck you,” he says, more out of habit than anything.
“No, no. Say ‘gay club.’ I need to know that you can say this.”
“Of course I can say it,” Shane says. He leans over to grab a coaster, slides it to the edge of the table and fusses with the mug until he’s got it perfectly in the center, an even ring of white tile all the way around. “It’s not about the kind of club. It’s just… I don’t really…”
Shane looks up at Ilya for help, but he just raises his eyebrows and doesn’t offer any. Shane makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “You know. Dance.”
Ilya grins. Something’s brewing in that evil little mind of his. He crawls across the couch on all fours, and it’s a lot like being stalked by a jungle cat. “Mm. Yes you do. This kind of club, this dancing, you are very good at it.”
Shane tries to wriggle away. He doesn’t make it far before his back hits the arm of the couch. Ilya advances, his arms caging him in, and he’s pinned. “Ilya…” he says. It comes out whinier than he was aiming for.
“Shane,” Ilya mocks. “Is just grinding, no? You know how to move your hips. You had, uh,” he pauses, shuffling through his mental vocabulary, “rehearsal, last night. Very good. You are expert.”
Shane tries to tuck his pleased smile behind a glare. His cheeks heat, and he plants his palm on Ilya’s chest and shoves. Ilya doesn’t budge. “That’s different.”
“It really isn’t. Same movement. Maybe it’s easier, when you aren’t full of my—”
“It’s not just the dancing,” Shane protests. “There’s…” he fumbles for a way to say it that won’t sound stupid. What is it about nightclubs in general—it’s not a gay thing, they’re married, like Ilya said, he’s cool with that stuff now—that makes his skin crawl?
He thinks he knows. A memory crawls out from somewhere deep, unbidden. Standing lost in the middle of a churning crowd. Frozen, watching Ilya put his hands all over a pretty girl and making her eyes roll back in her head. Music hammering into his skull, red light searing his eyes. And Shane, unable to do anything about it, his feet anchored to the ground as his world crumbles to rubble around him.
He swallows. “Clubs aren’t really my thing.”
Ilya leans in and gives him a teasing kiss. “What if I promise I will make this fun for you?”
“I doubt that.”
“You don’t think I know how to get you having fun?” he murmurs. He kisses Shane again, this time nipping at his lower lip before he pulls away.
Shane catches himself leaning forward, chasing his lips, and forces himself to slump back against the arm of the couch. “We can have that kind of fun here.”
“Maybe I want to show you off.” Ilya’s fingers creep under the hem of his t-shirt, making him shiver. Shane half-heartedly swats at his hand, but Ilya ignores him. “It’s off season. I am married to number one hottest man in NHL. I want to go out and dance very close to him and let everyone see how good he is at moving his hips.”
Ilya swoops in to nip at the skin under Shane’s ear, and he groans. His eyes slip shut.
“I’ll think about it.”
Shane gives in, eventually. He puts up a valiant effort at first, and Ilya relishes teasing and needling and finally wearing him down. It’s important, sometimes, to hunt for his food. Sweeter when he rolls over and bares his throat at last.
Now, Ilya is purring with satisfaction as he looks at himself in the mirror.
The black leather vest has been waiting in the back of his closet for a long time. He’d bought it on a whim, seen it staring at him from the rack and felt that hunger gnawing at him with such force he hadn’t even checked the tag. Tonight will be the first time he’s actually worn it out.
He leaves his chest bare underneath it, pairs it with jeans slung so low the waistband of his underwear peeks out above them.
Shane will hate it. Shane will love it.
He skims his fingers over the lapel of the vest, traces the exposed ridges of his abs. He feels bigger in this slutty clubwear than he does in full hockey pads. This Ilya is huge, too big for Russia, fuck, too big even for Boston.
There’s more space, here in Ottawa. This life they’ve built together, can hold more of him than anywhere else he’s called home.
Maybe his team could see him dressed like this and still call him captain. Maybe not. They are good to him, but everyone has their limits.
Shane thuds down the stairs looking like he’s trying to impress a board room in his navy polo, pressed khakis and polished loafers, his hair neatly combed. He huffs and squares his shoulders. “Okay. I’m ready.”
Ilya looks up. He cocks an eyebrow. “Ready for what?”
“The club. Aren’t we still going?”
Ilya makes a show of looking him over, head to toe. “You are wearing this.”
Shane rolls his eyes. “Obviously.”
“Shane, we are going to gay club, not job interview for Microsoft.”
“Fuck you, this is nice! These pants were like $800.”
“Shane. Moy lyubimyy. You cannot wear khakis and polo to gay club.”
“Well I’m not wearing…” Shane jabs his hand at Ilya, encompassing the bare chest under his leather vest, the band of underwear visible above his low-rise jeans, “that.”
Ilya looks down at himself. He preens, shoulders rolling back to puff out his chest. “What, you are worried people at gay club will think you look gay?”
“Fuck off,” Shane says. His face scrunches as he glares at Ilya, a flush lighting up his freckles. “I’ll find something else,” he grumbles, and flees back up the stairs.
Ilya checks the time on his phone again and groans. “Shane,” he calls up the stairs. “It has been forty minutes. What are you doing up there?”
There’s a delay before Shane’s voice floats down, delightfully flustered. “Just gimme a few more minutes!”
Ilya pushes off the couch and pads up the stairs. He’s almost to their bedroom when he hears Shane talking to someone. He pauses by the door with his head tilted and holds his breath to listen.
Another voice responds, tinny and too quiet to make out. Ilya spends a few more seconds trying to figure out their conversation.
He’s on the phone. Shane Hollander is so nervous about what to wear to a gay club that he has called someone to tell him what to wear. But who would he call?
Yuna? No, not for this. When it comes to his mother, Shane is still set on preserving the illusion that he has never had anything approaching a sexual thought in his life. He would not ask her what to wear to a gay club, where there will be dancing and alcohol and maybe even his husband will touch his ass.
So someone else. Not Hayden. Ilya almost snorts aloud at the thought. His Shane has a regrettable blind spot when it comes to Pike, but even he knows better than to ask that idiot anything about fashion.
Who would he ask? Who would he go to for advice on how to dress on his first night out having fun and being very gay with his handsome, fashionable, brilliant husband? Obviously the handsome and fashionable and brilliant husband is the right answer, but he hasn’t asked Ilya, so who—
His stomach swoops. No. He wouldn’t, right? She isn’t gay. What would she know? But she is very fashionable, no one will shut up about it, and she still likes to gossip with Shane like he is her cute little gay lapdog.
Something ugly rears up and claws at his gut, and he doesn’t know why his jaw aches until he realizes he’s biting down hard, grinding his back teeth. The sudden force of it catches him by surprise.
He rolls his shoulders and shakes it off, gets his hand on the doorknob and a grin on his face before he sweeps in for an ambush. “Who are you talking to?”
Shane jumps. As in he actually, literally jumps, his feet coming off the floor and his shoulders hiking up to his earlobes. He puts a hand up and hunches over the phone protectively. “No one!” he snaps, too quickly.
“You are on the phone,” Ilya says. He stalks towards Shane and chews the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. “Who are you talking to? I thought you were getting ready.”
“I—I am,” Shane says. He leans away when Ilya reaches for the phone. “I said gimme a few more minutes.”
“But I want to know who is on the phone,” Ilya persists.
“It’s—don’t worry about it!”
“Shane. Solnyshko. Tell me.”
Shane’s shoulders slump. He sighs and mumbles into the phone, “I’ll have to call you back.” He ends the call and shoves his phone guiltily into his pocket. “You’re gonna be an asshole about this.”
Ilya curls a hand around Shane’s back and clasps his side with the other, crowding into his space. “Noooo, I would never.”
Shane scrubs his face with his hand, ducks his head and admits, “I was talking to my stylist.”
Ilya freezes. He takes a deep breath as he tries to hold onto a straight face. “Your stylist.”
“I don’t know what the fuck to wear to something like this, Ilya, and that’s her job!”
Ilya cackles. He presses his face into Shane’s neck and laughs and laughs.
“I knew you’d be an asshole,” Shane grumbles.
“Ohhh, Shane. Shane, Shane, Shane. You are now very stylish, very famous hockey player. You go to press conferences and awards ceremonies. You do not go to gay clubs. It’s okay.” He kisses his cheek with a loud smack. “I have a gift for you.”
Shane blinks. “A gift?”
“Yes. I knew you would panic, moy solnyshko.” He slaps Shane’s cheek, and the smack rings out sharper than he intended. “I could have given it to you straight away, been nice, maybe. But this way is more fun for me.” Ilya walks over to the dresser and opens the drawer.
He pulls out the box that has been waiting there a week and presses it into Shane’s hands.
“What is this?” Shane asks.
“A gift for you. Open it.”
Shane sets the box on their bed, slides off the lid and carefully settles the open box inside it. Only then does he pull out what’s inside. He holds the black silk button-down out in front of him. The fabric is whisper-thin, showing the pinks of his fingertips grasping it on the other side. Shane’s face stays neutral as he scans it in silence.
“This is kind of like that white one I have,” he says at last. “The one you like so much.”
Shane likes it too. He holds himself a little straighter when he wears that shirt. “Yes,” Ilya says, “But black is sexier.”
“And this one has buttons,” Shane adds.
“So that when you try to button it up to your neck, I can come behind you and undo half of them.”
Shane shakes his head and laughs. The tips of his ears have gone slightly pink. “I like it,” he says. He pinches a bit of the shirt and rubs it between his thumb and forefinger. “Nice fabric.”
“Only the best for you.”
That hungry ache inside him dies down when Shane lets Ilya dress him. The joy of undressing him is as sweet as always, but the way Shane lets Ilya move him around like a doll, sliding silk over his broad shoulders and smoothing down his collar is a new kind of pleasure. Just as Ilya predicted, Shane tries to button the shirt all the way up. Ilya swats his hand away. Shane’s throat bobs as Ilya thumbs open the top few buttons, leaving the shirt hanging open to expose the curve of his pretty tits.
The jeans he lets Shane put on himself. He sits on the edge of the bed, leaning back on his hands and enjoying the show as Shane curses and wriggles and fights with the rigid denim.
“Are you sure these’ll fit?”
“Oh, they will fit.” As if there was any chance Ilya wouldn’t know the precise breadth of Shane’s waist, his hips, his ass. When Shane finally gets them buttoned, Ilya pushes himself off the bed and grabs a shoe box he’d tucked in the closet.
“You bought me shoes too?”
“Yes. Sit on the bed,” Ilya says.
He kneels at Shane’s feet and sets the shoebox in his lap like an offering. Inside are a new pair of sleek black ankle boots. Shane runs his fingers over the supple calfskin and holds the shoe up. “Huh.”
“This is all you have to say? ‘Huh’?”
“They’re nice,” Shane says slowly. “I just… don’t have anything like these.”
Of course you don’t, Ilya thinks. These are not part of the Shane Hollander uniform. He takes the left shoe from him. “You will look good.”
Shane fidgets. Ilya can feel him trying to hold something back. He waits, and Shane blurts out, “Not gonna be super comfortable, going out dancing in brand new shoes.”
“I knew you will say this too.” He holds the shoe up so Shane can look inside.
“Are those my insoles?”
Ilya nods. “And I wore them, a little bit. Same size feet, so they are broken for you.”
Shane’s mouth quirks up in a smile. “Broken in,” he corrects. He nudges Ilya’s knee with his toe. “You thought of everything, huh?”
Ilya shrugs carelessly. He loves Shane so much he feels like he might die from it. “I did not want to listen to you complain all night.”
“Right. You would’ve had a terrible time.” Shane grins.
“Give me your foot,” Ilya says quickly. He grasps Shane’s foot by the ankle and draws it into his lap. He can feel the strong tendons and fine bones shifting under his hand through the sock.
Left first, just like he always laces his skates. He rubs small circles into the arch before easing it into the boot. By the time his heel slides into place, Ilya’s half hard. He puts the other boot on with the same care, leans in and kisses Shane’s knee when he’s done.
“So pretty.”
Shane’s hand shakes when he combs it through Ilya’s curls. He shifts on the bed and splays his knees wide. Ilya’s not the only one enjoying this. “You could—”
“No,” Ilya says. He climbs to his feet. “Stand up.”
Shane huffs in disappointment, but he obeys. Ilya fishes one last item from the snowy tissue in the gift box.
“Finishing touch,” he murmurs, and holds up a delicate gold chain. He skims his hands over Shane’s throat. Goosebumps chase after his fingers as he fastens the clasp.
Ilya circles his husband, drinking him in. One pearl sits in the hollow of his throat. His dusky nipples peek out from behind a veil of black silk, the hard lines of his torso on display. His black jeans are cut close, hugging his strong thighs and the perfect curve of his ass.
He does not look like a man who belongs to the NHL. This Shane Hollander is not for the press or his fans or fucking Rolex. Even those oh-so enlightened Pride Month campaigns all over social media would never dress him like this.
Ilya can already see him under the lights of the club: head tipped back, lips pink and kiss-swollen, skin glistening with sweat. No one will be half as pretty. Every man there will want what’s his, and they’ll see Ilya pressed close, Ilya’s hands on his body, and they’ll know. Shane is his and his alone.
The first thing Shane notices is the fucking sign.
A shirtless cowboy astride a bucking bronco, twirling a lasso over his head. Below it, the word STALLIONS in kitschy country western letters, all of it blinking at him in lurid neon.
“You’re kidding.”
Ilya’s mouth curls into a grin. His eyes are bright as he slowly shakes his head.
Shane groans and lets his head thump back against the headrest. He stares up at the roof of the car and reminds himself how much he loves his husband. “Fuck me,” he groans.
Ilya’s already unbuckling his seatbelt and wriggling out of the car, eager as a puppy. “Maybe later.”
The inside of Stallions makes no sense.
The dance floor is all modern, the sound system pumping out booming techno while a rainbow lightshow flashes overhead. A swarm of bodies bumps and grinds to the bone-rattling beat. Shane can almost smell the mix of cheap cologne, spilled drinks and vape juice from here.
But over by the bar, it’s a tacky cowboy explosion. A mounted longhorn head stares glassy-eyed from the wall to his left. The bar stools have saddles instead of seats. Behind the bar are pin-ups of buff men wearing chaps and little else, oiled up muscles rippling as they wink salaciously at the camera.
Shane looks away quickly before he remembers he doesn’t have to. There’s no reason to avert his eyes from rippling muscles and leather-clad bulges. He makes himself keep his eyes up, scans the whole room despite the prickle at the back of his neck.
He can look anywhere he wants here.
His eyes trace back, inevitably, to Ilya. His huge torso, his biceps bare in that ridiculous, tacky, insanely sexy leather motorcycle vest. The trail of dark blond hair tiptoeing down into his low-slung jeans. Shane’s in no hurry to stop looking.
Eventually he makes it to Ilya’s face, and the way Ilya’s beaming at him makes him dizzy. His smile splits his face in two, his eyes warm and alive and happier than Shane has seen him in—too long, honestly. Way too long.
“You look good,” Shane says softly.
Ilya cups his hand to his ear. “What?”
Shane clears his throat and makes himself speak up, his voice struggling against the blare of the speakers. “I said you look good.”
Shane doesn’t miss the way he puffs up, his shoulders pulling back and his chest expanding. He gives Shane a smacking kiss on the cheek. “Ah. Yes, always I look good. But you are prettier.”
“Yeah? Thought I’d mix it up. I dunno about this new stylist.”
Ilya runs his thumb down the gaping placket of his shirt. “He is very talented. You should keep him, full time.” He inclines his head towards the bar. “Ginger ale?”
Shane starts to nod when a new song bellows out onto the dance floor, accompanied by a loud whoop from the crowd. Right. The plan is to go out there and do… whatever the people packing the dance floor are doing. Fuck. He might need a little help with that.
He shakes his head. “No, uh. It’s off season.”
Ilya clutches his chest and pretends to stagger on his feet. He grabs onto the lip of the bar to stay upright. “Shane Hollander is drinking tonight?”
Shane grins despite himself. He shoves Ilya. “Shut up. Get me a—”
“No, no.” Ilya shakes his head. “I pick. You sit.”
Shane looks down at the saddle mounted on wrought iron that passes for a stool and tries to picture himself climbing up, his legs dangling beside the stirrups. “I’m good with standing.”
Ilya laughs and heads to the bar.
Shane watches him lean over to talk to the bartender with his elbows folded on the bartop. He looks good in the locker room too, tall and confident, the team rallied around him. When Shane first realized this was his life now, getting a front row seat to Ilya in captain mode before every game, he got a lot more grateful about wearing a cup.
The swagger Ilya has here isn’t quite the same. He’s still larger than life, but he radiates a different kind of energy. He laughs loud enough to boom over the music at something the bartender says. He flashes his teeth in easy smiles, his gestures bigger, looser, freer.
It’s nice, seeing him happy like this. Shane’s not sure why his throat’s so tight.
Ilya returns with two tall glasses of something bubbly and light, a lime wedge bobbing amid the ice. Shane takes a sip, and the familiar flavor surprises him. It almost tastes like ginger ale.
“What is this?”
Ilya smiles proudly. “Moscow Mule. Vodka, lime, ginger beer. I think it is American drink, but. Good name. You like?”
Shane grins. Now that he thinks about it, he can taste the vodka underneath the bite of the ginger. “Yeah. Not too bad.”
The noise of a nightclub is on a different frequency than the noise of an arena.
It’s not that a packed stadium is quieter. Of course it’s loud, but it’s a loud he knows. The roar of a crowd’s as familiar to him as his own heartbeat. The pounding music is all wrong, a beat he doesn’t know. There are eyes crawling all over him, and he feels smaller without his skates and pads. He might as well be naked in this flimsy shirt and tight jeans.
It all makes him a little stupid. He can’t remember how to hold himself and he’s probably standing weird and everything he does is off balance, not quite right.
He knows who he is on the ice. In places like this, he’s not so sure.
“Shane.”
It should be impossible for Ilya’s voice to carry over the music, he’s not even loud, but Shane’s ears are tuned in to him over everything else. Ilya steps close, and the bulk of his body blocks out enough of the flashing lights that Shane can see again. The smell of Ilya’s cologne, the nice one he always wears when they go out, rises up over the tang of alcohol and strangers’ sweat.
Ilya cups his chin in his hand and forces Shane’s head up so their eyes meet. He doesn’t give Shane a choice. There’s no escaping when Shane’s got his eyes locked on Ilya. He has to stay right here.
Ilya holds his gaze like that. Waits. Makes Shane squirm until he’s satisfied. Only when Shane’s become a throbbing nerve in the open air does he finally lean in and give him what he wants.
It’s just breath at first. Ilya exhaling warm and damp against his skin, his mouth a whisper away. Shane whines and strains against the hold Ilya’s got on his jaw. Ilya doesn’t let him move, but he presses their mouths together. He kisses Shane so slow. His fingers spread out so he can span the whole width of Shane’s jaw. He fits his thumb to the hinge of it and presses, hard enough that Shane has to open his mouth. Ilya licks inside like he might spend all night mapping the taste of him.
And it’s—it’s getting to Shane. Ilya’s always known how to kiss him. Sometimes he pins Shane to the wall and takes his mouth like it’s one more way to fuck him. Sometimes his kisses are snarling, vicious, both of them high on adrenaline after a game and so keyed up they’re shaking with it.
Tonight, he’s kissing him like Shane’s his favorite toy. His mouth curls into a twisted little smile, fuck, Shane knows that smile. It’s wicked and teasing and a little bit mean in a way that makes his cock jump. He eases past Shane’s defenses, works him up slow and lazy with swipes of his tongue and teasing nips of his teeth. Shane’s pulse throbs, and he sucks the taste of ginger and vodka from Ilya’s tongue. He’s forgotten all about not knowing what to do with his hands. They belong on Ilya. Running up Ilya’s sides, palming Ilya’s hips, sliding over the thick muscles of Ilya’s back. His kisses have him hungry, stirring up that part of him that’s needy and soft-bellied. But just when Shane tries to lean closer for more, more, Ilya pulls back. He leans away so that their lips barely brush. Shane whines as he chases his lips, and Ilya laughs at him, low and cruel.
Shivering, delicious dread rolls down his spine. Ilya’s gonna make him beg for it.