Archive of Our Own

The best laid plans, he thought, were pretty goddamn useless if they didn’t actually get followed.

“I just don’t get it. I’d never fucking slack off during practice.”

“Shane. You know this is pretend, yes?”

Ilya resisted the urge to bury his head in his hands at Shane’s disgruntled, scathing look. It so clearly translated to: of course I do, asshole. Except Ilya wasn’t exactly convinced that Shane knew this on any level except the logical one.

Despite arguing mid-foreplay, Ilya didn’t flag. How could he, when Shane was gloriously half-naked and spread out before him? But even he could admit that this was one of their more ridiculous distractions.

“Look, if I’m gonna be your rookie, you need to at least make it believable,” Shane said.

“Okay, so what, I tell you to do extra bag skates for talking back to me instead of making you suck my cock?”

“I mean, when you put it like that, obviously it sounds stupid.”

Ilya really couldn’t control his groan, then, and he flopped forward in a completely un-sexy manner onto Shane’s bare thighs. With a cheek squished against a hard quad muscle, he muttered, “This is not working.”

“Come on, we barely tried.”

He tilted his face as Shane sat up on his elbows, the oversized, blank uniform falling loose around his collarbones. Ilya was wearing his usual jersey, emblazoned with the titled C, but they’d found an unprinted one for Shane since he’d joined Bood as alternate.

The logic was that it would help sell the fantasy – a mouthy rookie and his overbearing captain, determined to fuck some compliance into place.

If Ilya was being honest, the whole thing was an excuse to hear Shane begging his title over and over again. And since he’d married the biggest pervert on the planet, Shane had jumped in enthusiastically, eager to figure out the jerseys and the supposed storyline.

But Ilya should have known something like this would happen.

They were equals in every regard. Even during play-pretend, Shane wouldn’t believe it enough to let himself get sucked into the whirlpool of what was supposed to be hot, imbalanced desire.

“You have been arguing me since we started, Shane. It’s okay,” Ilya said, and moved to kiss the frown off Shane’s face. “How about you stay my A, and you don’t agree with my captain choices? So we fight about it and I make you agree?”

“But I do always agree with your choices. I help you make most of them.”

“…I know.”

“Sorry. I know that’s not that point, I’m sorry,” Shane said, and Ilya hummed, kissing him a little filthier.

“Don’t apologize. It is just not always so easy to get you out of that pretty little head. You’re my rassuditel'nyy mal'chik, hm?”

“Good…sensible boy?” Shane tried.

“Logical, yes. Good thing you went into hockey instead of acting.”

“I guess I never picked anything up from Rose while we were dating,” he asked, with one of his patented, silly little grins. Ilya wasted no time, playfully biting the meat of his shoulder with enough force to make Shane yelp.

“You know you are banned from saying her name in our bedroom,” Ilya replied, and slowly crept his hands under Shane’s jersey.

“I thought putting a ring on you would make you stop getting jealous,” Shane said, still grinning, and he laughed as Ilya tossed him onto his belly. Not that he was laughing for long, Ilya eating him out sloppily while he squeezed and slapped at his ass.

Later, when Shane was moaning and practically clawing the skin off Ilya’s back, he kept goading him, trying desperately to make Shane get the hint of what he wanted to hear.

“What do you say when I give it to you like this, huh?” Ilya panted, driving into him hard, dripping sweat.

“Fuck, thank you.”

“Thank you who?”

He wanted to hear one Captain, just once. But Shane was too far gone, eyes rolling into the back of his head and thighs trembling around Ilya’s waist.

“Ilya, thank you, Ilya,” he sobbed, and well. It wasn’t what he’d been gunning for, but it was still just as sweet to hear his name from Shane’s mouth now as it had been years ago. Still his favorite person, using his name to beg.

When he finally let Shane come, it was with a kiss.

“Sorry the roleplay thing didn’t work out,” his husband said later, when they were cleaned up and lazing in bed, naked and pressed ankle-to-shoulder. Ilya shoved his face further into the hot crook of Shane’s neck.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. We will try again. Or something else,” he murmured, and Shane gave a little noncommittal hum. His eyebrows were furrowed when Ilya glanced to check, but he’d leave Shane alone to the cogs of his brain.

Ilya wasn’t disappointed, not really. There was no possible way he could ever walk away from sex with Shane feeling disappointed. He’d just hoped that, if hockey was involved, it’d make everything more believable.

They never really got far in roleplay. They’d dabbled, over the years. Guest and bellboy, CEO and secretary, strangers meeting in a smoky bar. But then one of them would laugh too hard over a corny line, or they’d get distracted when hands started roaming, and that was that.

As if Shane could read his mind, he asked, “Are you, like, bummed over it?”

“I’m so bummed over hot sex with my husband.”

“Shut up, I’m serious.”

“No,” Ilya answered, “because there is nothing to be upset over. Maybe we just finally found something that doesn’t do it for us.”

Hm,” was all Shane replied with, once again. Ilya watched as his expression kind of glazed over, his brain probably skittering into some corner where it could analyze in peace.

Ilya loved that analytical brain. He’d kiss it if he could. It was like a beautiful, complicated little puzzle that constantly begged to be rearranged, and once the right fit was found, the reward was always an amazing one. Shane had never done anything by half-measures in his life.

   ☁︎˚☽

Unlike Ilya’s obnoxious neon orange Porsche, one of the only in his collection he hadn’t sold, his Ducati was a sleeker creature.

It was custom painted a gorgeous black cherry that glittered in the sunlight. He religiously went to the same car bay in Gatineau to ensure it stayed buffed and waxed. The thing was his pride and joy, after all, one of the last adrenaline indulgences that he dabbled in. He’d had dreams of owning a motorcycle since he was a boy in Russia, watching one of Andrei’s rare cool friends roar around on a vintage bike.

We call them coffins on wheels at the hospital, Lisa had cheerfully said once, when they’d all been chatting during one of Bood’s parties. Shane, of course, had looked horrified. It hadn’t helped Ilya’s case one bit.

Because his husband fucking hated the Ducati. He’d never been a fan of the idea in the first place, and when Ilya had (safely) done an emergency tip-out to avoid hitting the back of someone’s car on the highway, his general dislike turned into full disdain.

He was only mollified by the fact that, while Ilya was a thrill-seeker, he wasn’t stupid. He religiously wore a helmet and street-safe gear, even when he sweat his ass off under layers of thick leather. It was blood and flesh versus the exposed metal of other cars and unforgiving asphalt.

His body was already professionally abused; there was no way he was going to risk caving his skull in on a tree or getting third degree road rash.

And while Shane might hate the motorcycle, he still got glassy-eyed and red whenever Ilya zipped himself into his tight padded jacket and internally-armored pants. Would lick the sweat from Ilya’s body when he got back from long cruises, perfectly happy to indulge in the aesthetics and results.

He did this while pointedly brushing off the fact that Ilya had bought a second helmet in hopes that Shane would join one day.

I already don’t like that you own that thing. I’m not really interested in getting on there, too, Shane had said over and over. Which was fine. Ilya loved the solitude of a drive, wind whipping heavy in his face and the hot hum of the engine. Would it be better if his husband was sitting behind him, clutching his waist? Of course it would be.

It just wasn’t Shane’s style.

   ☁︎˚☽

Ilya systematically clicked all the soft lamps on around the living room, the hum of cicadas and sharp loon-calls floating in through the cracked windows. He loved keeping them open while they lounged at night, taken by the fresh, wild air that could only be found out at the cottage.

He was bone-tired in the most pleasant way. They’d been gone practically all day, hiking and kayaking, returned for an early dinner sat by the water. It’d somehow devolved into Ilya sucking Shane’s dick on the dock while the sun set.

He got cozy on the couch and threw something on the TV, Anya jumping up to find a place at his feet.

After a long while, he could hear the shower shut off, the tiny noises of Shane moving around. Ilya was growing increasingly sleepy, but he wanted to stay up and chat with his husband, cuddle a bit.

They’d needed their annual lakeside stay, badly. It was a bitter pill to get knocked out of the play-offs in the third round, frustratingly close to an ultimate win. Troy had been nursing a recovering ankle sprain, and Bood was out for two games with a nasty flu. Ilya and Shane were undoubtably the powerhouses, but nothing existed in a vacuum. Two of their most cohesive players were struggling or absent against the terrifying roster that Columbus had recently built.

Wyatt was a beauty, but still. It hadn’t been enough.

Ilya allowed Shane his space to sulk for a few days, not wanting to fight under the pressure of their close loss.

Shane had poured his sweat and blood into the season, determined to prove that his addition to the Centaurs was something to be feared. He’d spent years trying harder than anyone else to carve out space for himself in the NHL, and maybe it unmoored him, that his new teammates simply shuffled to make the space. 

You’re the only reason Montreal ever won three fucking Cups, you know that, Ilya whispered, the night before they’d left for the cottage, after he’d finally had enough of seeing Shane batter himself over it. So we had bad luck at the end. We’re together now, Hollander. They won’t be ready for us next season.

Three orgasms and eight hours of sleep later, Shane was a different man, and they’d set off for vacation on a light note.

“What are you watching?” Shane asked, padding into the living room. His hair was still damp, skin flushed, and he looked so good that Ilya wanted to bite a chunk out of him.

“Some movie that Hazy said scared him as a teenager,” Ilya replied, lifting one arm so Shane could collapse beneath it. They shuffled as Shane wedged his broad body against Ilya’s, and Anya let out a disgruntled huff at being disturbed. Such was the extremely difficult life of a dog.

“Cool,” was all Shane said, seemingly content to squish his cheek against Ilya’s chest and watch in silence, eyes half-lidded. Ilya immediately started petting Shane’s head, scratching lightly at his scalp.

The film had a grainy quality to it, the mark of being taped during the late 1980s. It featured some man in a sleek car, pulling over to offer a ride to a shifty hitchhiker. A situation that obviously went south, as the hitchhiker threatened a knife to the driver’s throat.

“Stupid,” Shane mumbled. “Can you believe people used to do that all the time?”

“Hm?”

“Hitchhike. Or pick people up, either way. That’s, like, how most people got murdered or went missing in the ‘70s and ‘80s,” he responded. “And before you make fun of me, yes, I did learn that from a documentary I watched on a plane.”

“I would never make fun of you,” Ilya cooed, which earned him a pinch to the soft meat of his inner thigh. “If I saw you on the side of road in the ‘80s, I’d try to pick you up. Would you get in my car, lyubov?”

“I’d never be out there in the first place,” Shane said, flatly.

“Shane, you’re so boring. Answer for fun.”

“Okay. The answer is ‘hell no’.”

“You are a dirty, dirty liar. You would see me behind the wheel and think to yourself, who is that helpful, sexy man? And you’d let me give me a ride–”

“I wouldn’t.”

“You’d go, oh, thank you so much hot stranger, how can I ever repay you? And you would beg to go down on me–”

“You should be the one sucking my dick for trusting that you’re not a murderer.”

“Mm, no. You like sucking my cock even more than I like getting it sucked. How could I ever deny you that?” Ilya said, and laughed when Shane shoved him flat against the cushions, clambering on top. Anya jumped from the couch, trotting off to be left alone.

“Yeah, you’re so fucking burdened,” Shane said as he wrestled Ilya’s arms over his head and kissed him. It was mostly just a clacking of teeth for a moment, both of them smiling too hard to really accomplish anything.

“Very much so,” Ilya murmured, and they kissed aimlessly until Shane lost the energy to keep holding him in place. He just sort of gradually melted, until he was smothering Ilya with his body weight and mouthing at his neck.

Ilya wasn’t surprised when Shane fell asleep right there, and he rubbed his bare back in slow sweeps, watching the rest of the blood-soaked slasher with minuscule interest. He nodded off right before the credits, and he and Shane both came to in the small hours of the morning, stumbling hand-in-hand to bed.

They were in that hazy, half-conscious state, hardly bothering to peel back the covers before they collapsed.

“Would you really pick me up off the side of the road if we were strangers?” Shane mumbled, voice slurred with sleepiness, and Ilya’s brain was having trouble processing this question.

“Yes. Wouldn’t be able to help it,” Ilya replied, and Shane nodded, silhouette highlighted by the fat moon that was suspended over the lake, shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was nonsense talk, made evident by the fact that Shane fell back asleep the second his head hit the pillow, Ilya following right behind him.

   ☁︎˚☽

The next day was beautifully clear, the sky a shocking, cloudless blue. The temperature had dropped slightly, with weather alerts warning of storms in the coming evening.

Shane was, surprisingly, still asleep even after Ilya returned from walking along the lakeside with Anya. But then again, Ilya had risen much earlier than usual, jarred awake by a strange dream that he couldn’t quite remember.

He sipped his coffee as he wandered the house, and through the huge windows, his eyes caught on a familiar gleam.

It had taken begging on his hands and knees when asking if he could bring the Ducati with them. Shane had glared and sighed, but was eventually won over by Ilya’s pestering insistence. Really, it was the safest place he could ride – he couldn’t go too fast, because the backroads were uneven and wildlife constantly darted into the roadway.

He’d rented a trailer and strapped his bike to it, hauled up by their SUV. Ilya only considered it for a moment before setting his coffee mug in the sink and trotting up the few steps into the bedroom.

“Where are you going?” Shane asked as Ilya yanked on a compression shirt, voice rough from sleep. He was adorably rumpled, splayed on his belly and barely covered by the breezy linen top sheet. The morning sunlight highlighted the sweet, subtle arch of his back, and Ilya had half a mind to strip and hop back in bed.

“Really nice weather. I’m going for a ride,” Ilya said, bending one knee on the edge of the mattress so he could kiss Shane’s cheek. His skin had a bright red pillow crease in it, a sign that he’d slept well. Shane hummed and shifted, allowing Ilya’s lips to seamlessly fall upon his.

Unlike Shane, Ilya couldn’t care less about morning breath. He dutifully licked his way into Shane’s mouth, kissing him slow and tucking a lock of hair behind his ear.

“Please be careful,” Shane said, and Ilya pecked him once, twice.

“I will drive like you. Very slow and boring,” he replied, which earned him a half-hearted slap on the arm. Shane buried his head back into the pillow, and Ilya breezed outside into the warm summer air. It didn’t take him long to unstrap the Ducati from the trailer, and he slowly rolled it down the ramp onto the driveway.

Turning over the engine on a bike was a whole other beast compared to sports cars. His Porsche was powerful, purring loudly when he pushed it down the interstate or from a dead stop. But it was always slightly muted, his body separated from the complex inner workings.

A motorcycle had no such drawback. The moment he swung his leg over the leather seat, cranking the machine to life, it rumbled like a living creature. It was already warm from the sun, and after running, the heat from the engine block would be searing.

Ilya twisted around to grab his helmet from the back rest, something he’d had modded in case he did ever have a passenger. He buckled it tight before carefully balancing his weight. With a gear shift and hard twist of his wrist, the tires spun on gravel, and he rolled onto the winding road that passed by the cottage.

He coasted along the long stretch of asphalt that connected to Yuna and David’s cottage. Thick woodland surrounded it, interrupted by the occasional field and towering powerline. The rushing air took on a cool, biting quality as Ilya picked up speed, zipping beneath the dappled sunlight that filtered in through the treetops.

He rode aimlessly, looping this way and that, slowly tracing the backroads as the sun climbed higher in the sky. Eventually, a rumble in his stomach and an urge to be with his husband made him return home. The tiny itch beneath his skin had been scratched, and he wanted to bother Shane, who was surely up and fussing around by now. Maybe making an early lunch, maybe out stretching and doing yoga on the dock.

If he was doing yoga, he was probably still shirtless and wearing those tiny, thin mint-green shorts. Ilya shifted uncomfortably when his cock twitched, and maybe, maybe he broke the speed limits by a few digits. Something he usually ignored, but he was trying to be good and not test his luck.

He was glad he hadn’t as he pulled into the driveway. Shane was standing on the steps, feet bare and arms crossed as he watched Ilya park the Ducati and pop the kickstand.

“Am I in trouble?” Ilya asked as he took off his helmet, grinning. Shane’s face was contemplatively drawn, brows knitted together as he studied Ilya the same way he would a whiteboard with game stats.

“No. Just heard you coming down the road,” Shane replied, expression unchanging. His gaze raked slowly down Ilya’s body, back up, and then flickered over to the Ducati. He disappeared back into the house without another word.

Strange.

The rest of the day rolled along, and Shane’s quiet, contemplative mood didn’t change. He spoke when spoken to, peppering a couple comments here and there, but mostly he was just silent.

It didn’t unnerve Ilya. He knew how the energy around his husband shifted when he was upset about something, and there was no such grievance here. When the rain started in the late afternoon, Ilya set up in the kitchen, sautéing a healthy heap of veggies for some recipe Shane had wanted to try.

Shane, who was currently sat in the living room, staring out at the lake as it was turned angry and frothing from the battering rain. Thunder rumbled overhead, and Anya nervously shook in Shane’s embrace, burying her face beneath his armpit.

They ate dinner while watching a documentary on famed Olympics controversies, and when they fucked that night, it was slow and unhurried. Perfectly vanilla. Ilya elected to follow Shane’s lead when his husband crawled into his lap, paired with soft, roaming hands.

“What’s going on in that brain of yours?” Ilya asked later. The storms had died down, reduced to an almost inaudible drizzle.

“I don’t know yet,” Shane answered honestly, in the dark.

   ☁︎˚☽

Shane sometimes thought it funny that, aside from their career and being competitive assholes, he and Ilya were so fundamentally different. It was a classic representation of Type A and Type B, the exact clashing of personalities that should’ve never worked in a relationship. Shane approached most things in his life with a certain level of neuroticism and trepidation while Ilya barreled in head-first.

Boring, boring, boring, you are so boring. He’d been hearing it for years.

What Shane knew now, what he hadn’t known back then, was how desperately Ilya needed a safe, warm place to curl up in. As it turned out, Shane’s arms were the perfect protective shield. And Shane needed someone to get him to calm the fuck down; Ilya was fantastically grounded, a pillar for Shane to cling to when the tide got too strong.

Shane liked to take his time thinking through things. He dug into the how and why, and grew irritated when questions didn’t have neat, logical answers.

Maybe he should have learned by now that his desires were anything but neat and logical. The gleam of the motorcycle kept catching his eye where it was parked out on the gravel, unmoving.

Ilya was watching Shane carefully the next morning, put on alert after Shane had spent the entire day prior being, frankly, fucking weird. Shane had known he was being weird even as it was happening, but he couldn’t make himself stop.

He was just mulling some things over, was all. Sleep had solidified the desire into something corporeal, and considering how closely he was being studied, Ilya surely noticed that Shane kept getting half-hard in his gym shorts.

He had to understand that Shane’s odd silence was definitely over a Sex Thing.

The cottage was where they famously got experimental with sex, since they were afforded weeks of no interruptions and complete access to each other. Which he guessed was their forever now, since they lived together. Still, he equated the lakeside to being a space where they could just test things out and see what happened.

The earth had a deep scent of petrichor, made stronger as it got toasted in the hot weather. Shane wiggled his toes in the damp grass as he loyally slapped another layer of sunblock on Ilya’s back.

“You are going to drown me in this stuff. Even toddlers do not get dunked like this,” Ilya said dryly, and Shane retaliated by squirting a cold glob right onto his spine.

“You’re like the poster child for skin cancer, asshole. I’ve never seen someone with as many beauty marks as you.”

“I survived for many years before this, I promise.”

“Okay, well, that was before you had me bothering you about it,” Shane said, and squinted at one of the bigger moles on his right shoulder blade. Had that changed shape?

“I like being bothered by you,” Ilya replied, moaning happily when Shane dug his fingers into the hard muscles of his shoulders. He turned to gather Shane in his arms, skin made sticky and cloying by the lotion.

“Are you feeling better today?” he asked, and Shane blinked at him.

“I didn’t feel bad yesterday.”

“Mm. Quiet, though.”

“Was just thinking,” he replied, and when Ilya raised his eyebrows, he concluded, “We’ll talk. In a bit. Swim time?”

“Swim time,” Ilya confirmed, and Anya barked from the dock after they leapt into the chilly water, splashing each other like kids. Shane left Ilya to do laps, and when he returned, Ilya wiggled the foam floaty he was paddling around with.

“Do you want to share pool noodle?” Ilya asked. “Well. Lake noodle.”

Shane slowly made his way through the water, and they were far out enough that their feet couldn’t grace the sandy floor. He draped his arms next to Ilya’s, and the poor noodle struggled to support their weight, drug beneath the surface but valiantly holding on. It helped to keep them from having to mindfully tread, at least.

Ilya looked so handsome, curls pushed away from his face. In the bright sunlight, his eyes were almost golden, flecked through with bits of green. He was staring at Shane so fondly, all his sharp edges eroded when they were together.

This was the best version of Ilya, the one he’d married.

“So. Um,” Shane started, slow, and Ilya was surely willing himself to be patient. “Do you remember a few months ago, when we tried the Captain-rookie roleplay thing?”

“Yes, of course. Did not go exactly to plan, I remember.”

“No, it definitely didn’t. But I dunno. I thought we could try again?” he asked. “Not that exact scenario. I was wondering if we could do something more, uh, involved?”

“Oh, we are going big time? I’m listening,” Ilya said, and reassured Shane with a kiss to his cheek. His cheek, which was fire-engine red and burning. Openly laying out his desires still felt awkward, but it wasn’t so much like pulling teeth as it used to be.

“Your motorcycle.”

And, God, it was like telling a dog its favorite word just to tease. Ilya’s breathing picked up automatically, and he kicked at the water, trying to shimmy closer over the stupid foam noodle.

“What about it?”

“I like when you wear all that riding gear shit. It’s hot. And I’m just guessing, maybe, the whole roleplay thing hasn’t worked yet because we didn’t go big or go home. You know? I’m just slow to get out of my fucking head,” Shane babbled, and sucked in a big breath. “Promise you won’t laugh.”

“I promise,” Ilya said quickly, and when Shane gave him a skeptical look, he tacked on, “At least not right now.”

“That stupid movie you were watching the other night…”

When he trailed off, Ilya rolled his tongue over his bottom lip, eyeing Shane like a starving man. Message received.

“I see where this is going, maybe.”

   ☁︎˚☽

All in all, it took them three days to work out the details, scarily and exactly precise. It was like a screenplay for a show that Shane had been invited to last minute, with the expectation that he’d assume leading role. There was a guide, but he’d still have to just go for it.

Full send, Ilya had said, tightening the bolts that secured the backrest to his Ducati.

Over those three days, they’d peppered in questions and suggestions. Was Shane out on his lonesome because his car had broken down? Had he gone for a walk to clear his mind and gotten lost?

Most importantly, when Ilya made his move, would Shane pretend he didn’t want it?

They’d played around like that before. Shane putting on a display of irritation that turned into denial, shoving Ilya away and telling him to knock it off. And Ilya would just barrel forward, teasing or mean, depending on the mood.

It had started small – blowing Shane while he was on the phone with Hayden, fingerfucking him while people stood outside the hotel door, unaware. Please stop, Shane would moan, even as he writhed. That was before anything had set parameters, and compared to what they’d get up to in later years, was extremely tame.

They had safe words now. Colors. It was as contained as something like seemingly withdrawing consent could be. They’d never meant to uncover it, but once it was out in the open, there had been no going back.

Ilya had openly worried about it, at times, what it meant for them. But Shane liked it, knowing that if he told Ilya to slow down, to stop when he was overstimulated, Ilya would just keep going. That if he begged for a break or said fuck, that hurts at a mean bite to his thighs or nipple, it would be ignored.

It was simple. Ilya loved to push and push at the limits of what Shane could handle, and Shane loved proving each time that he was more than willing to bend rather than snap.

Control, the pesky thing that had haunted Shane his entire life, was something that could be unburdened. Ilya had never minded picking up that slack.

   ☁︎˚☽

At this point, Shane was actually getting annoyed. Even a little nervous that he’d be left out there alone for real, that something happened, and that Ilya wasn’t coming for him. It didn’t help that he was swatting away gnats, or that he’d gotten sweaty from the constant movement.

Or that he had a plug shoved up his ass. One of the smaller ones, at least, but he couldn’t not notice it bumping against his prostate every now and again. It kept him suspended in his desire, almost half-hard, still a little hazy beneath his mounting irritation.

He checked his fitness watch, and saw that it had been over an hour since Ilya had banished him from the cottage. He’d spent the entire day edging Shane, waking him with an unfinished blowjob, slipping a hand down his shorts while they worked out, stretched him on his fingers in the shower.

Shane’s pleas to come were mostly for show – they both knew why he couldn’t.

When evening had encroached, Ilya summoned him to the bedroom, made Shane sit and watch him get dressed. On went the thick leather pants, his skin-tight rash guard, layered beneath his expensive riding jacket. He’d broken the no-shoes-in-the-house rule so Shane could watch him pull on a pair of heavy combat boots, the chunky soles making Ilya even taller than usual.

Shane had gotten visibly hard just at the sight of him, squirming in place. He looked so fucking hot, hot and dangerous.

A little like a stranger.

He’d been quiet as he maneuvered Shane to his hands and knees, all the leather on his body creaking as he moved. Shane had been dripping like a faucet as Ilya worked him back open again, sliding the plug inside and playing around with it until Shane had begged for him to stop.

Ilya had listened. Shane doubted it would be so easy to get him to listen later. He was hoping for that, at least.

Without touching him again, Ilya had corralled him out into the driveway, and Shane bit back a comment when he lit up a cigarette.

I’ll find you later, Ilya had said, leaning against the glinting Ducati as Shane backed away to the car. He should’ve looked like the caricature of a bad boy, something laughable, but Shane had felt dizzy. Go.

He’d watched as Shane drove away, smoke pillowing around his head, and Shane had followed the plan. He drove to the empty lot of a nearby provincial park and climbed into the backseat, replacing his sweatpants with obscenely short-shorts, pulled on a tight tank top.

And then he’d started walking along the winding, quiet backroads, desperate and sort of unmoored. Not even one car had passed him this entire time.

The sun was sinking low, and the moon was already showing its full, pale body in the darkening sky. The thick woodland surrounding him was slowly turning into something more ominous than majestic, shadows dampening the moss and underbrush.

Bugs were chirping and buzzing loudly, and Shane strained his ears. It was just a whole lot of nothing, aside from the sound of nature.

Then, finally, he heard it. The distant rumble of an engine. His pulse skyrocketed in his throat as the roar grew louder and louder behind him, and when a headlight illuminated the road, he turned around.

The Ducati was slowly approaching. Shane took a deep breath, and did something he’d never once considered doing in his fucking life. Walking backwards, he stuck his thumb out, hand trembling slightly.

The motorcycle idled and wove alongside him, the rider dropping a foot and letting it drag across the asphalt as he brought it to a halt. He was slow to take his helmet off, and then there was Ilya, his curls rumpled and face a little flushed. It was Ilya, but not Shane’s Ilya.

No, he wasn’t supposed to be the Ilya that Shane knew and loved. Not exactly a good samaritan, either.

His gaze crawled from Shane’s sensible running shoes all the way up to his blushing cheeks, and this was – not the way he’d grown used to Ilya looking at him. Ilya always got gooey in Shane’s presence, eyes bright with laughter, sometimes pinched with worry, hot when Shane turned him on.

This reminded him more of how Ilya looked across the ice at players that made the mistake of pinging his radar, the ones that might need to be handled with a vicious touch. He went flat and predatory, not unlike a shark circling in the water when it smelled blood.

The full weight of Ilya’s unreadable, hungry eyes on him made him shiver.

Shane automatically took a step away, and something like a smile ghosted its way onto Ilya’s mouth. But it was too sharp to be considered humorous.

“Are you okay?” he asked, cutting the engine. His voice was low and even. Trustworthy. “I do not usually see anyone walking around here.”

“I’m fine,” Shane answered, voice breaking a little, and he winced. Get it together. “Um. Thanks for stopping.”

“Sure,” Ilya agreed breezily, glancing down again to Shane’s bared thighs. “Boys as pretty as you shouldn’t walk alone at night.”

It was a seedy, stupid line, but Shane still felt something hot flip in his stomach. If someone dared to say that to him in real life, he’d tear them to shreds. But Ilya was dressed head-to-toe in leather, balancing the sleek body of the motorcycle effortlessly between his strong thighs and devouring Shane without words or touch.

The image he cut was striking.

Christ. They were doing this.

When Shane couldn’t come up with something fast enough, Ilya nudged, “Did you need a ride? Car break down, or something?”

Shane rolled his bottom lip beneath his teeth, and it took a second, but he shook his head.

“Yeah, uh, if you wouldn’t mind. My…boyfriend and I got into a fight. He kicked me out, so I’m walking. Home.”

God, and he really was a terrible actor, but Ilya didn’t seem deterred.  

“Boyfriend?” he asked, a pissy tone warping in. Ilya let the silence drag, and Shane shifted on his feet, uncomfortable. It was a long enough pause for him to second-guess himself. They’d agreed on that, right?

Shane’s horrible, horrible boyfriend, who’d abandoned him out on the roadside to prove a point. So far from reality that it was laughable. But he needed that massive gap of separation, something so utterly ridiculous that it was obvious play-pretend.

“What sort of boyfriend dumps his lover on the side of the road?” Ilya finally said, and raised his brows. “Especially looking like this.”

“…like what?” Shane asked, though he knew, crossing his arms. Ilya traced the way his pecs got pushed together at the low hem of his tank top. Shane’s cock kicked beneath his shorts, and he rubbed his legs together. It jostled the plug inside of him, and he swallowed a gasp at the dull throb of pleasure.

It wasn’t an action that went unnoticed.

“Lucky for you that I’m the one who stopped,” he replied, in lieu of humoring Shane’s rhetorical question. His shifted his hand over the gear shift, the leather of his glove creaking. “I’ll get you home safe. You can’t say that for every man who might have tried to get you into his car.”

The words were ominous, and Shane squeezed his arms tighter around himself.

“Yeah, well, I think I could handle it. I’m not exactly easy to kidnap,” he said.

Instead of responding, Ilya twisted to unstrap the second helmet from the backrest. He held it out for Shane to take, and when he didn’t immediately move, shook it a little like he once had a water bottle.

Shane stepped off the shoulder and into the road, and his sweaty palms squeaked against the slick surface of the helmet.

“Aren’t these things dangerous?” Shane asked, his eyes falling onto the motorcycle.

“Maybe a little, yes,” Ilya replied. “But fun. And trust me, I’m a very good driver.”

Shane almost laughed. In no world except this one would he ever trust someone who just pulled up to him and offered a ride. He turned the helmet over in his hands – it wasn’t a full-face one like Ilya’s, and Shane nervously wondered if that would make it worse for him if they did crash. Or was it better? He didn’t know shit about riding gear.

When Ilya had first gotten the bike, Shane had gone down a rabbit hole on Google, gorging himself on safety PSAs and nightmare crashes. Some of the injury pictures had made him sick.

But his trust in Ilya was stronger than his own predilection to steer clear of unnecessary risks. He steeled himself and said, “Can you just head in the direction of Mont-Tremblant? It’s like a twenty minute straight-shot down the main road.”

“Easy,” he replied. “Let’s get you back, hm?”

Shane shoved the helmet on his head, suddenly grateful it wouldn’t cover his face – he worried it would be claustrophobic, otherwise, a bubble of his own nervous breathing. His fingers fumbled to buckle it, and the second Ilya reached out, he stilled.

He was firm, sure when he threaded the strap through the buckle and tightened it beneath Shane’s jaw.

“Here you go. We need to keep that gorgeous face safe,” Ilya said, and Shane was burning.

“Uh, thanks,” he managed, and shuddered as Ilya’s fingertips ghosted down his throat. He thought of making a stilted, bad joke – coming on a little strong, aren’t we? – but Shane couldn’t find it in himself.

“No worries. Get on.”

Shane swung his leg over the bike, and automatically grabbed onto Ilya’s shoulder to steady himself. He’d barely gotten settled before Ilya cranked the thing back to life, and it rumbled beneath them, vibrating steadily.

Which wasn’t exactly helping the plug situation. Shane clenched his teeth against the swell of pleasure that licked up his spine. Oh, God, what was he going to do when they hit bumps?

Ilya reached behind himself and grabbed Shane’s arm, yanking it so that it settled around his waist. The command was clear, and any staged protest he could have made died on his lips when Ilya took off without warning. Shane just barely bit back an alarmed yell.

They hadn’t discussed this part, and Shane wasn’t sure why he was shocked that Ilya had no intentions of keeping it slow. The air immediately cut a stream around his face, and Shane clung to Ilya like a leech as they steadily picked up speed. His instructions at the house had been clear – never let go of him, lean into turns when he leaned, stay still.

Trees and postages flew by, and Shane’s heart was thudding a heavy, quick rhythm in his chest as Ilya navigated the winding roads with ease. It was an insane feeling to be moving so fast with no barriers, the wind chilly and sharp against his bare skin. He knew, logically, Ilya wasn’t breaking any speed limits, at least not by much, because he’d promised.

It still registered as insanely fast to Shane, and it was good.

Nerve-wracking, thrilling. Hot, to peek over Ilya’s shoulders and watch his gloved hand expertly adjusting the gear shift as they hit hills and curves, the wall of his body serving as a solid, warm point of contact.

As they rode under the navy sky, he realized he was fucking enjoying this. And that he was full-on hard. It would be impossible not to be; he’d been hard basically all day, except for when Ilya had given him moments of reprieve or when he’d spent his lonely hour walking. Each rocky portion of the road jostled the plug, and Shane was sure he was leaking into his shorts by now, staining them with no underwear to serve as a barrier.

Anticipation thrummed in his gut as Ilya cut onto the main route that led to the cottage, and he knew the speed limit ticked up here. He still wasn’t ready for the way the bike jumped as Ilya hit the throttle, and the Ducati revved, slingshotting down the flat, smooth stretch of highway.

“Fuck!” Shane shouted, but he was laughing, all the noise getting carried away by the booming rush of air that sluiced over them. He had Ilya in a death grip, leaning hard into his back, and Ilya abandoned the gearshift long enough to squeeze Shane’s hands where they were clasped over his stomach.

For a moment, several moments, Shane did feel like he was a stranger. To Ilya and to himself, breathlessly grinning at letting himself do something daring. He was only like this around Ilya, and had been since the first day they’d collided.

He knew this drive by heart, and so he knew that Ilya would be slowing before it even happened. He shifted the bike down a couple gears and easily swung onto the bumpy, private backroad that circled the lake. It would take so little time to get back home, if Ilya just kept following the loop. Shane could navigate this blind.

He purposefully tapped Ilya’s shoulder when they were less than five minutes out, and Ilya slowed, only putting a foot down once he had to weave the bike to keep balance. Shane swallowed hard, slipping his arms away and digging his fingers into his thighs.

His skin was cool to the touch from the ride, at odds with how hot his face felt as he shifted in his seat, trying to ignore that way his cock was tenting his shorts. He couldn’t. Fuck, there was a wet spot seeping through the thin fabric, a tell-tale sign of his pre-cum.

It was humiliating, and he liked it all the more for that.

There was no smooth way to get back to his feet, having to fold his leg awkwardly up and sidle off. He was a little unsteady, trying to acclimate to everything being still, moving quick to take the helmet off and plunk it on the backrest.

“Here?” Ilya asked, loud to be heard over the engine. He copied Shane, tucking his helmet beneath his arm.

“Yeah, it’s close enough,” Shane replied, maybe not as loud, preoccupied with trying to readjust his shorts as if he could conceal anything. He felt like he was buzzing, some mixture of adrenaline, dogged need and anxious anticipation all merging into one feeling.

If Ilya was playing a good guy, he’d just smile and wave before racing off.

If Ilya was playing a good guy, maybe he’d coo in concern and ensure that Shane got to the front door safely, and leave him untouched.

The engine cut and died down with a sputter. Shane kept his body awkwardly angled away, eyes fluttering shut as he collected himself enough to try and handle this.

“Something you don’t want me to see, pretty boy?”

“Don’t call me that,” Shane snapped, feeling a little like he was 19 again and being goaded on the ice. You look pretty, Ilya had said, to tease and flirt, while Shane had just thought he was being made fun of.

“Why? It’s just the truth. A pretty boy on my pretty bike.”

There was a long, weighty pause, before Ilya continued, “Aren’t you going to say thank you?”

The words grew a barbed edge, as if to say, well? I’m waiting. Ilya’s smoky accent, when he dropped his tone, always made Shane light up with arousal.

“Thanks,” Shane said, and took a grounding breath. “I can walk the rest of the way, so…thank you, seriously. For the ride.”

Shane braved a couple steps, just to test the limits. He felt like an animal that wasn’t sure if it should run when presented with an opened cage, the freedom suspicious with how easily it was obtained.

“Where are you going without thanking me the way you know I want?” Ilya asked. His voice was frigid, now. Unreadable.

He jerked to a stop. Boots crunched over gravel, and then Ilya was at his back, hot and insistent. His heart was hammering in his chest as Ilya oh-so softly slid a hand around his hip, and he tried to hide how he startled.

“I went out of my way to drop you off. The least you could do is give me a kiss, baby.”

When Shane swallowed, it was with a dry click. It was a gross thing to say. It was – was he gross? He didn’t know, head spinning as Ilya crawled his gloved fingers beneath his shirt, the leather slick and warm against his skin.

“I can’t. I have a boyfriend.”

It came out stilted and unsure. Ilya scoffed, and said right into his ear, “So? I saw the way you fucking looked at me. It’s one-and-done. You give me what I want, I make you feel good, and you never see me again. Like it never happened.”

“You’re a psycho,” he breathed.

Suddenly, his world spun on a dime as Ilya twisted him around, not even giving him a chance to orient himself before a pair of lips were smashing against his. It was uncoordinated, tongue-first, shoving into his gasping mouth. His hands flew up and fisted themselves into Ilya’s jacket, because any normal person would shove him away. Would have run for the fucking hills already, if they’d been naïve enough to accept a ride from a man who looked like he wanted to devour them.

But Shane’s blood was Ilya’s blood, his body was Ilya’s body, effortlessly tuned together. He pulled Ilya closer instead of pushing him away, and Ilya grinned into the sloppy kiss, like he’d anticipated it.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he said, dragging his lips across Shane’s jaw. He brought both his hands down hard on Shane’s ass, yanking him closer. “I knew you wanted this. One look at you and I could tell you were a slut, hm?”

The word wasn’t said lovingly like it usually was. Ilya spat it out. My impatient slut, my pretty slut, he would sometimes coo, awed when Shane did something particularly cock-hungry.

Shane didn’t think. He just shoved, hard enough to knock Ilya back a few steps. He didn’t miss the brief look of surprise that flickered through Ilya’s expression, before they both seemed to remember this was part of it.

“Fuck off,” Shane hissed, and tried to suppress a giddy, stupid smile as Ilya lunged. He had the better sense to wrestle this time as Ilya tried to kiss him, but he didn’t put an ounce of actual strength into it. They both knew he could easily wrangle Ilya if he tried, evidenced by their regular play-fights, when Shane got Ilya in tight holds until he tapped.

Thankfully, there was nowhere else he’d rather be. He allowed Ilya to bully him backwards, until he was bumping up against the bike.

“Don’t be so shy,” Ilya said, his big hand grabbing Shane’s jaw while the other shot down to paw at his crotch. It wasn’t a gentle touch, either, just this side of too rough, and Shane practically choked on his next inhale as Ilya clamped down on his cock.

“I have a boyfriend,” Shane said again, almost proud of the reedy, thin quality his voice took on. Ilya just squeezed his jaw harder, and Shane couldn’t help moaning as a leather-clad thigh shoved between his legs, replaced that mean hand.

The evidence of his arousal was obvious beneath his tiny shorts, and with hard muscle offering him friction, it became impossible to ignore. Shane rolled his hips into the pressure automatically, seeking that sharp relief.

It was the only point of pleasure, really. Ilya’s grip was getting uncomfortable, and the throttle was digging into the small of his back, hot metal brushing his calves. The warm breeze coming off the lake carried with it a heavy, earthen quality, mingling with the scent of cigarettes that clung to Ilya’s clothes.

“Mm, yes. The same boyfriend who kicked you out and left you alone on the road?” Ilya replied, and his pinky pressed into the rabbiting throb of Shane’s carotid. “I don’t think he cares what happens to you.”

“Stop it.”

“Maybe he’ll change his mind once he tries to say sorry and finds you full of another man’s cum. Think he’d care then?”

Shane was going to pass out, maybe. He was so turned on that it hurt.

“You can’t,” he said. “You can’t touch me.”

“Then what am I doing right now? Come on, shlyukha, say thank you that I’m wasting my time on you.”

The translation in his brain was automatic now. Slut. That heady word again. He yanked Shane higher up his thigh, shoved him back, did it again and again until he was basically forcing Shane to ride it. Shane keened, the friction on his cock unbearable as the plug shifted around inside of him.

“I – I’m not–”

“Stupid already?”

“Stop,” he pleaded, because Jesus, he was about to come. It wasn’t his fault, he felt so overwhelmed, delirious from getting edged all day and suddenly being handed everything he wanted. Ilya kept him still with a hand to his abdomen.

He pressed a quick smooch to his cheek, and whispered in his ear, “Color?”

“Green, I’m green,” Shane rushed to reply, and Ilya didn’t acknowledge the tiny hiccup. He just kissed him, and it didn’t feel like he was kissing his Ilya. Which maybe made no fucking sense, but Ilya was being gross with it in a way that he never was, like he was putting on a show. It was uncoordinated and too wet, sucking on Shane’s tongue, and it should have turned him off.

Instead, it made him feel like an object to mess around with. Like he wasn’t worth the effort of coordination and finesse. All he had to do was be an open mouth.

“Get on your knees,” Ilya said, roughly.

He wobbled, but managed to not sink until Ilya forced him down, folding onto the road and unable to tear his gaze away from Ilya’s face. Haloed by the reverberating glow of the headlight, with dusk stretching wide on the horizon, he looked massive and unfamiliar. The asphalt ripped at the thin skin of Shane’s knees, but he could barely feel it, all of his nerves singing Ilya, Ilya, Ilya.

“How well does your boyfriend have you trained?”

The question was like a blow to the head. He swayed forward, pressing his face into the crease of Ilya’s leg. The smell of leather was so distinct, here, blocking off the natural scent of his body.

“You need it bad,” Ilya said, and a note of awe cut through the mocking tone. “Answer my question. Does he fuck that throat? Do you choke on it? No puke, I hope.”

“That’s so gross,” Shane whined, all while nuzzling closer to Ilya’s crotch. The pants were so thick that they concealed his erection more than gym shorts or loose jeans might, but Shane could feel the bulge against his cheek.

And then there was a hand in his hair, yanking hard and forcing his face up. He gasped, and the moment his lips parted, two fingers were shoving past them. The fabric tasted earthy, masculine. There wasn’t any other way to put it.

Shane’s ability to deep-throat had been hard-won, and he was proud of it. He’d put in the hours by hanging his head upside down off mattresses and letting Ilya puppeteer him into relaxing, easing his way deep. It hadn’t come to him naturally, but there was nothing in this world that couldn’t be accomplished once Shane set his mind to it.

But he was still just human, at the end of the day. Ilya jamming fingers down his throat with no warning made him gag, however slight, a soft retching noise filling the space between them.

“Oh,” Ilya crooned, “Is he small? Would make sense. An idiot with a tiny dick, kicking a hot piece like you out of the car.”

Shane could feel the burn ravish his cheeks as he dutifully swallowed around Ilya’s gloved fingers, fighting back another gag as his lashes fluttered. When Ilya pulled away, all he could get out was, “Please.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Ilya let Shane drop, and he mouthed at Ilya’s working hands as they popped the steel button of his riding pants and pulled the zipper. He was lightheaded, so fucking aroused, enduring the scrape of asphalt just so he could shift and sit back on his heels. It forced the plug deeper inside of him, seeking out the constant, searing pressure.

The moment Ilya managed to wedge his pants and briefs far enough down to free his cock, Shane was on it, suckling aimlessly on the shaft and working his way up to the leaking head. Of all the men alive, Shane really had picked the one with a perfect dick. Thick and heavy and uncut; a little musky, now, having been trapped under leather for hours.

It made him feel high. Shane moaned as he got his lips wrapped around it, the tang of sweat and pre-cum blooming on his tongue.

“All that bitching, and you’re drooling on it. I told you that it would be good,” Ilya said, and something in the back of Shane’s brain said, you’re supposed to put up more of a fight.

He popped off Ilya’s cock, and glanced up at him, breathed, “Fuck you, asshole. I’m just – I’m just doing this so you shut up and let me go home.”

It sounded pathetic, even to him.

“You think this is all I want from you?” he replied, and before Shane could even parse out a retort to that, Ilya lifted a hand to his mouth. Shane’s cock twitched as Ilya bit his crooked teeth into leather, yanking the glove off from the index finger and spitting it to the ground. The other one got the same treatment, baring his hands.

“Put your knees on them. I’m feeling nice,” Ilya said, and Shane took the reprieve for what it was, grabbing the discarded gloves and shoving them beneath the raw skin of his folded legs. Ilya slipped his hands back into Shane’s hair and tightened his fingers into fists. It lit up his scalp with a white-hot sting.

“The nicest I’ll be, I think,” he tacked on, and then Shane was getting shoved onto his dick, sputtering around the sudden intrusion. He was a seasoned pro by now, when it came to going down on Ilya, and he knew he could control himself if he wanted. It was second-nature for Shane to relax into it, open his throat.

He swallowed hard, on purpose. Choked, spit gargling as Ilya drove deep inside, letting the noise be loud and violent and nasty. Ilya’s fingers flexed, and he shuddered, the only sign he was affected.

“We’ll make it fit,” he said, and it was all the warning Shane got before Ilya drug backwards and kicked his hips again, and again. He didn’t pull his punches, didn’t let Shane warm up like he usually did, fucking his throat with short, vicious thrusts. It was a messy affair, one that Shane struggled through, trying to keep up.

He should have focused on breathing and relaxing. Breathe and relax, let it happen, he’d been face-fucked a million times before. Instead, he whined, the sound cut off and choppy from the way Ilya was forcing his way in. Shane let himself be sloppy in a way that, frankly, he never had. He’d always been so focused on being the best, doing it right.

This was just an allowance. His brain was disconnecting from his body.

“Hold it, shlyukha,” Ilya panted, grinding flush to Shane’s face. His nose pressed into Ilya’s wiry pubes, and he was so pungent here, in a way that made his head swim. Shane tried to work out a moan, but there was no oxygen. He just sort of gagged, instead, swallowing desperately around the intrusion of Ilya’s cock. It was lodged in his airway – there was no nicer way to put it.

Shane clawed at Ilya’s thighs as he ran out of breath in his lungs, the tears in his eyes finally dripping over his lash line as his body instinctively started to struggle. But Ilya didn’t let up, groaning as Shane’s throat constricted wildly around his cock.

Right when he thought he’d have to slap Ilya to tap out, he was getting pulled off, and Shane dragged in a ragged gasp of air. Thick drool connected his lips to the head of Ilya’s cock, falling in strands down to his chin. Shane knew he had to look a mess, sweaty and red and a little snotty, but Ilya was panting like he was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.

“You have a good mouth,” he complimented, and Shane whined when he forced his leg between his thighs. He pressed his foot to Shane’s erection, and the relief of that sweet pressure got him woozy. “Come on, hump it. Make yourself feel nice.”

“No,” Shane said, softly, even as he did exactly what he was told. He could have wept at how stupidly good it felt to rub his cock against the steel-toed boot.

“No? But you’re doing it anyway. You’re a funny guy.”

Ilya got Shane back onto his cock, and he didn’t bother with much movement this time. He just bottomed out, muttering a curse as Shane let him in perhaps a little too easily. He held him tight, depriving him of air, as Shane rutted his hips desperately against his foot. It followed a fucked-up little pattern; Ilya backed off only when Shane started to really fight, gave him a few seconds to breathe before bullying his way back in.

Shane got a little fuzzier. A little bit more distant, like he was floating away on the tide and waving goodbye to his life raft. It was a familiar feeling, and with Ilya, it didn’t scare him. This was the only time he could ever get his mind to hush – who could have blamed him, that he’d spent years returning to Ilya in desperation?

There was no one he trusted like this, no one else in the world.

His tears felt a little more purposeful as he choked around Ilya’s cock, and Shane realized he was going to come. He was going to come just from riding Ilya’s foot, and a strangled, sharp noise scraped up his throat with nowhere to go.

“Oh, good fucking boy, that’s it,” Ilya said when he realized what was happening, as Shane dug his fingers into the heavy swell of his husband’s ass to try and ground himself. With a harsh tug on Shane’s hair, he ripped him off his cock right as Shane’s orgasm swelled. That pleasure, combined with the intoxicating relief of being able to breathe, nearly had him blacking out.

“Fuck, oh fuck,” he babbled, grinding wildly against Ilya’s boot as he came into his shorts. His hole clenched around the plug, and Shane probably would have crumpled onto the road if Ilya hadn’t been holding him up.

It was delicious, finally getting that release after an agonizing day of waiting, and waiting some more. His brain was practically leaking out of his ears, mercifully silent and liquid as Shane gasped his way through every pulse.

And then it was quiet, save for the lonely cry of loons across the lake, their mingled panting, crickets and cicadas humming away into the darkening night.

“Wow.”

The word fell between them like a stone, and Shane turned his blurry gaze up to Ilya’s face, which was incredibly hard to read. It wasn’t quite awe – it was too pitying for that. Slowly, he brought his hands together and gave a few short, loud claps. Shane flinched at each one like it was a gunshot.

“All it took was a foot, huh? You really must not be getting fucked at home,” Ilya said. “Wow, wow, that was pathetic. But very hot.”

Ilya’s gaze held a degree of assessment, burning over Shane’s hazy expression. He stroked himself a few times, Shane’s spit going tacky on his cock, before he took a sharp inhale.

“Color.”

Shane took a second to process the word, and shut his eyes, knowing what came next. They’d discussed it at length, but it was hard to remember right now, when he wasn’t exactly attached to his body. But fuck, did he want it.

“Green.”

Ilya didn’t hesitate, hauling Shane to his feet with a firm grip beneath his armpits, and then he was being twisted around. His limbs felt like jelly, and he didn’t fight it, letting Ilya manipulate him as he saw fit.

“I give you a ride, I make you come. You’ve had such a good night,” Ilya purred. “So what do I get?”

I just choked on your dick. What do you mean, what do you get? Shane thought, but it didn’t connect with his mouth. In any other circumstance, he’d be furious at this lack of motor control, but like this, he loved it. Being blurry at the edges.

“What, you get some real dick down your throat and suddenly you can’t talk? Come on, pretty boy, speak,” he egged, and that lit Shane up enough to force a response.

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, fuck me.”

Shane gasped as Ilya gave a hard shove between his shoulder blades, nearly sending him tipping over the Ducati. A hand on his hip kept him from falling, but Shane’s arm moved on reflex, fist flying back and connecting to Ilya’s ribs.

He’d just meant to swat at him, because he was frankly too boneless for anything else, but Shane was…well. Shane wasn’t built like a tank for nothing.

Ilya let out a loud, pained grunt as the blow landed, and before Shane could panic over his misstep, he was getting shoved again. Ilya grabbed his head and pushed, forcing it down as he got a punishing grasp on the offending arm.

“Jesus, those muscles aren’t for show, huh?” he said, sounding none too pleased. Shane whined as his face got constrained against the curve of the Ducati’s steel cylinder, and the metal was warm against his cheek. Ilya wasn’t feeling nice enough to let him rest on the seat, apparently.

“God,” he whispered as Ilya ripped down his shorts, and kicked Shane’s legs apart.

“Oh. What’s this?”

The humiliating burn wasn’t exactly faked, because Shane was withering with vulnerability. There wasn’t a neighbor for miles, but it didn’t change the fact that he was bent over and spread open in the middle of a goddamn road. A private one, sure, but it was too exposed for total comfort.

And what did it say about Shane that he loved it?

Ilya gathered Shane’s wrists at the small of his back in one hand, freeing up his other to mess with the plug. Shane let out a loud, broken noise as he pulled it out a couple inches without warning and jammed it back in, driving it right into his sensitive prostate. He felt like a raw nerve, already one orgasm deep after anticipating it for hours.

“That boyfriend doesn’t deserve you. How long have you had this in? You were going to let him fuck you easy tonight?” Ilya asked, and he sounded winded, the edge worn out of his tone at the sight of Shane’s trembling thighs.

“I – I wanted…” Shane trailed off. Words were too hard right now. He rolled his forehead over the cylinder, and tried to imagine it. Putting a plug in, hoping for reconciliation, hoping for a loving touch, only to get kicked out of a car and left like litter.

“You wanted to come. Wanted your ass to be treated right, I’m sure,” Something saccharine leaked into Ilya’s voice. “See, it was meant to be me. I can make pretty boys come hands-free on my cock. And you’re going to let me give you that, aren’t you?”

And insanely, Shane was inclined to agree.

“It’s too much,” he said, even as he arched harder, jolts of pleasure-pain zapping up his spine as Ilya continued to play with the plug. “I can’t, I can’t.”

“Mm, I think that’s a lie. If you’re slutty enough to come all over my boot, you can definitely do it again when I fuck you.”

“Please,” Shane begged, and he wasn’t sure if it was a please, fuck me or a please, stop. “Please, I can’t.”

Ilya replied by twisting the toy free of Shane’s body. He let out a dry sob as it was replaced with two mean, unhesitating fingers, crooking hard. His cock, which had never flagged completely, started to slowly work back to full hardness as Ilya roughly massaged his prostate.

“You’re still tight, but you’re wet enough,” Ilya said, as if he was casually commenting on the weather. When the fingers left him empty, Shane tried to readjust himself, yanking at the grip Ilya still had on his wrists. It was putting an uncomfortable strain in his muscles, and honestly, not his smartest moment. He anticipated a cruel tug for the action, but instead Ilya gentled, releasing him.

Shane’s heart beat wildly in his chest as Ilya gently ran his fingertips up his forearms, working Shane’s arms upward so he was well and truly draped over the bike. Ilya’s body was a heavy, smothering weight against Shane’s back, and he pressed a kiss to his sweaty nape, the crown of his head, his shoulder.

The soft treatment gave him whiplash, but he sank into it anyway, unconsciously rolling his hips back into the hot line of Ilya’s erection. It was bare against his ass, hard and leaking.

“There you go,” Ilya whispered into his ear. “Relax, malysh.” And then a string of Russian. It took Shane’s sluggish brain a few seconds to parse through the words.

Хотеть. Want. Порвался. Rip?

I don’t want you to tear.

“Wait–” he started, and then Ilya was slamming home inside his ass, hard enough that the motorcycle rocked dangerously.

A shout broke its way out of Shane, more shock than anything, because he’d been stretched all day for this. Still, Ilya was a lot to handle, because he was always a lot to handle. The pressure was immense, his body having no choice but to make room, and it felt like Ilya was rearranging his stomach.

Shane writhed, hips jerking as frantically as the cage of Ilya’s arms would allow. His body didn’t know if it wanted to lean into or run away from the sensation.

“Fuck,” Ilya hissed, and kissed the corner of Shane’s panting, wet mouth.

“Green,” Shane said, voice barely there at all, answering the question before it could be asked. But it was enough. Ilya leaned up, threading his fingers through Shane’s hair and clutching.

“Look at you,” Ilya said, rubbing a hand over Shane’s lower back, across his thigh, before he cracked his palm off his ass. It stung like hell, and Shane’s cock gave a traitorous kick at the snap of pain. “God, you’re hot. I knew you could take it.”

Shane’s mouth closed, opened again, trying to form words. But then Ilya started moving, and it wasn’t the usual soft ease that he afforded Shane, testing the waters to make sure he was comfortable before he got mean. He immediately started thrusting, hard and brutal, like Shane was just there to get him off. Which, yeah, he guessed he was.

“Come on, put your back into it,” he ordered, yanking Shane’s head back, forcing his spine into a deeper dip. The sight got a ragged, approving moan from Ilya. “There you go, fuck, you feel good.”

Shane’s hands balled up into fists, noises getting punched out of him in harsh, staccato bursts. It was overwhelming, almost too good, because the thing about Ilya’s cock was that he didn’t really have to aim. If Shane was put into a smart position, his prostate wouldn’t go untouched, and getting it from the back always made him leak like a faucet.

Ilya slapped his ass again, twice in hard succession, and then dug his fingers into the meat of Shane’s thick thigh.

“Get your leg up,” he said, and Shane let out a questioning noise. His brain wasn’t online, but he still tried to readjust anyway, helplessly attempting to follow Ilya’s command. “Ah, it’s okay. My cock made you a little dumb, hm? Up, get your leg up on the bike.”

Shane loosened one shaking leg, and Ilya pushed against the back of his thigh, helping Shane get his knee up on the seat of the bike. It split him open wider, and changed the angle just enough that the next pump of Ilya’s hips had his vision greying out.

“Oh my God, oh my God, fuck, fuck me,” Shane sobbed, flailing to get a grip at the crook of his own knee, anything to ground him. The sound of skin slapping against skin was disgustingly loud as Ilya pounded into him, layered over their grunts and whines. Shane felt like nothing more than his need, abdomen clenching hard as the pleasure swelled into something that sort of scared him.

Ilya changed the rhythm, then, slowing but not easing up. He tilted his hips, and when his thrusts got heavier, pointed, it was torture.

“Jesus Christ, you really are tight,” he said. His thumb slid to Shane’s hole, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head when it dug at his swollen rim, a cruel suggestion that it could pop inside. “Think you could take a finger with my cock? One, two? My whole fist?”

“Please,” was all he could manage, not sure what he was asking for. When Ilya released his hair, Shane hung his head between his shoulders, and he would have melted into nothing if the Ducati wasn’t giving him something solid to brace with. Language had escaped him, and he just ended up stuttering as Ilya bruised a tight hold on his waist, punching the almost-words right out of him.

If he was any sort of clear-headed, he would have been humiliated at his attempts to speak, at the way he’d lost all ability to be a rational, working person.

“Oh, you love it. You love me in your guts, don’t you?” Ilya panted, and Shane could only moan. A hand clamped around the back of his neck, iron-tight. “Answer me, you greedy slut. How do you feel?”

And Shane was – he was gone. There was about ten seconds separating this moment and his next orgasm, balls pulling up tight, no moment of relief against the pleasure that Ilya’s cock was wrenching out of him.

“Ilya,” he wailed, because he couldn’t think, he could barely breathe. He needed the comfort of his person as the next wave threatened to shatter him to pieces. “Please, please, I’m gonna – fuck, I’m gonna come, oh my God, Ilya, make me come.”

The hand at his nape scrabbled around to the front of his neck, and Ilya clutched his throat, just tight enough to feel like a manacle. He hunched forward, burying his face into Shane’s hair as he somehow picked up the pace, jackhammering viciously at this point.

“That’s my good boy, there you go,” he snarled, and it felt like a kiss. “Go on, make a mess, come on this fucking cock.”

Shane’s body, as it always would, obeyed. He went silent for a moment as he locked up tight, pinpricked down to the sensation of his cock jerking wildly as he came. And came, and came, a blank slate.

He couldn’t hear the wet squelching of lube or the messy cracks of Ilya’s hips meeting his ass, not over the loud, wild pitch of his moaning. Pain bloomed distantly in his shoulder as Ilya bit down, muffling his own resounding cries into Shane’s skin.

Ilya’s thrusts got choppy and short, and then he buried in without moving, cruel when he finally touched Shane’s cock. He gave it a few rough jerks, slick from his cum, and it hurt to have his orgasm prolonged like this. But it hurt so amazingly, in a way that made Shane want to cry, raw and sensitive and very much alive.

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya groaned, grinding as deep as could manage. Shane could vaguely feel the heat of his release, filling him up. “I love you, I love you so much.”

It was the sweetest admission, and Shane clasped a hand over Ilya’s, where it was still gripping his throat. Ilya turned his palm outward and tangled their fingers together as he frantically scattered kisses over the side of Shane’s face.

For a stretching minute, neither of them moved. Shane probably couldn’t even if he tried, lashes fluttering as he fought the urge to collapse into a heap. At some point, their breathing had synced up, Ilya’s chest rising and falling heavily against his back in perfect tandem. He was touching him, then, firm and grounding – ran his fingers through his damp hair, smoothed them over Shane’s shaking, broad shoulders.

“I’m pulling out now, sweetheart,” Ilya murmured, and Shane could have wept at hearing the term of endearment slip back into his vocabulary. Shane had banned it from the scene, because sweetheart belonged to real, tangible spaces alone. It belonged to his Ilya. He winced as his cock slipped free, and went pliantly as Ilya gathered him into his arms.

At some point, night had fallen, complete and still. The halo of the Ducati’s headlight and the silvery wash from the full moon didn’t seem as eerie now, in this warm place Shane had crashed into.

“Do you want the plug back in, Shane?” Ilya asked, gently. “Or you want me to clean you up really quick? It’s the only thing you need to tell me right now.”

“Plug, please,” he sighed. Ilya wedged the plug out from where he’d stuffed it beneath his waistband, which made Shane laugh, light and airy. It sounded disembodied, like it was coming from someone else, his ears stuffed with cotton.

“You’re feeling good,” Ilya said, and it wasn’t a question, but Shane nodded anyway. He sipped a kiss from Shane’s swollen lips, and then tugged him closer, placing Shane’s head on his shoulder. “Spread your legs, solnyshko. I’ll be very careful.”

Shane did as he was told, and he bit back a wounded noise as Ilya spread him and pushed the plug back in, shuffled the shorts up Shane’s thighs. He felt like layers of himself had been scraped off, reducing him to his most base instincts. There was only Ilya’s hands, the heat of him, the scent of cigarettes and sweat and his fading cologne atop leather.

Shane didn’t protest as Ilya all but staged him on the bike, keeping his limbs steady as Shane fought to straddle it. He collapsed against Ilya the moment he seated himself in front, and hugged tight as he kicked the engine into gear. He moved at a glacial pace as he drove them the short distance home. Shane didn’t try to muffle his hisses, because Ilya was trying his best, but the bike still bumped and vibrated.

By the time they slid into the driveway, Shane had broken into a sweat, but he was still far, far down. His lower back throbbed, and he allowed Ilya to basically pluck him from the Ducati, handling his weight like it was nothing as Shane leaned into him.

Anya was a smart, smart girl, pacing at their feet when the front door swung open, but she seemed to sense the mood. She let out one whine, not her typical series of excited barks, and Ilya lovingly ruffled the silken fur of her head.

“Good girl, being quiet,” he praised, and then he kissed Shane’s temple. He didn’t ask Shane to make a decision, instead made it for him, picking him up and carrying him up the small staircase into the bedroom. He didn’t immediately throw Shane into the shower, which he’d appreciate later; the steam would probably make him nauseous.

What came then was the grounded handling, and Shane floated sleepily, soft noises escaping every so often as Ilya undressed him, worked the plug out, cleaned him. And then he collapsed atop Shane, using all of his body weight to squish him into the mattress. There wasn’t a part of their now-naked bodies that wasn’t touching, and Shane slung his arms around Ilya’s shoulders, content and blurry.

“Idti spat',” Ilya said, tucking a lock of hair behind Shane’s ear. Go to sleep.

Just for a little while, Shane wanted to reply, but he didn’t have the energy. He just did what he did best right now, and listened.

   ☁︎˚☽

Shane floated into consciousness to the sound of Ilya muttering in Russian, Anya’s nails scrabbling against the hardwood, and he blinked sluggishly. At some point, Ilya had rolled off of him, but he was still tucked snug against Shane. He turned his head to see Ilya petting Anya, who had pathetically plopped her muzzle at the edge of the bed.

“No, prinséssa, not on the bed right now. Let Shane sleep,” he soothed quietly, and Shane smiled, squirming onto his side so he could rest his cheek on Ilya’s chest. He felt more cobbled together, more like a real human with functional brain cells.

Still impossibly liquid and exhausted, but real.

“She can get up.”

His voice sounded rusty, a door with an unoiled hinge, and he cleared his throat. It was a little sore, the way it got after Ilya had used it thoroughly. Ilya dropped a kiss atop his head, and all it took was one pat of permission before Anya was jumping up to join them. She circled for a minute before flopping dramatically over their legs, kicking Ilya in the calf and using Shane’s knee as a pillow.

“I’ve been telling her for an hour now that she had to stay put. She thought I killed you, was very worried,” Ilya said, and Shane hummed. It didn’t surprise him that Ilya had remained awake; he always forced himself to, if they got into something particularly intense. He’d said before that he didn’t want to be asleep if Shane slipped into a bad feeling.

“What time is it?”

“Maybe like, 10? You were out for a couple hours.”

“That’s not so bad,” Shane stated, and he idly toyed with Ilya’s necklace, Irina’s cross and his wedding ring clinking together. Ilya stayed silent, clearly satisfied to let Shane do whatever he wanted, transitioning from fussing with his chain to twisting his index finger in his curls. The AC kicked on, filling the room with a humming white noise.

And then Shane’s stomach announced its presence, growling loudly, and Ilya started laughing hard.

“Oh my God, shut the fuck up,” he snapped, burying his grin into Ilya’s neck.

“No, no, I understand,” Ilya said. “I have been dying of hunger, Hollander, but I couldn’t abandon you for a snack.”

Shane grumbled as he sat up, clutching his lower back when it twinged.

“Jesus, your dick is gonna make me slip a disc one day,” he complained, and Ilya smooched his shoulder.

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he replied. “I will get you Advil.”

“’Kay, thanks. I’m just going to take a beat. I’ll meet you in the kitchen?”

When Ilya frowned, Shane kissed him, slow and sweet. He wasn’t shocked when Ilya leaned into it with a hint of desperate enthusiasm, like he’d been eagerly anticipating Shane’s lips on his.

“Nothing’s wrong, I promise. I only need a minute, okay? I love you.”

“I love you, too. You get five minutes, but then I’m breaking the door down.”

Anya let out a weary sigh as they moved, and Shane shuffled into the en-suite, scaling the light dimmer just enough that the room was cast into a warm glow. He adored Ilya’s clinginess after scenes, because it was necessary, driven by their want to live inside of each other’s skin. To reassure Shane, and himself, that all was well.

But Shane appreciated a bubble of quiet, able to piss and put cream on his ass in peace. Ilya would hang off his shoulder for all these activities if Shane let him, but he needed a moment alone to re-align himself.

He felt fucking amazing, and he stared in the bathroom mirror for a second, satiated and flushed. He scraped his bangs back with an elastic band and quickly washed his face, unable to commit to a full shower at the moment. Ilya had done well enough in wiping him that he didn’t feel the urge to scrub his skin raw.

Plus, he couldn’t take too long. He absolutely believed that Ilya would barrel his stupid, huge body right through the door if Shane didn’t return to him in a timely manner.

“I put leftover pasta in the microwave. You want something else?” Ilya asked when Shane padded into the kitchen, wearing a stained pair of sweatpants. His curls were a wreck, and he was scratching through the dark hair on his abdomen, gym shorts riding low on his hips.

Shane didn’t understand how it was physically possible, but his cock gave a weak twitch at the sight of his husband. Horrible.

“No, that’s cool,” Shane said, because he didn’t feel like parsing through what was in their fridge to make a decision. They sat at the bar, and he got his own fork even as Ilya whined that they could share. It was a purely tactical move, because Ilya would try to stuff spaghetti noodles down his throat even if Shane complained that he was full.

“So,” Ilya started, hooking his ankle around Shane’s. “Was good?”

“Yeah, obviously,” Shane huffed with a laugh, and Ilya looked soft, but serious.

“What parts? Anything you don’t want again?”

“It was perfect, Ilya, I mean that. Thank you for, like, hearing my idea and making it happen,” he said. There hadn’t been a single moment where he doubted his husband ability to steer the scene. Ilya, understandably, tended to fret after treating Shane so roughly. So he asked, “What about you? Are you okay?”

Ilya was quiet long enough that it prompted Shane to run his fingers through his hair, leaning over to tilt Ilya’s face toward him. He kissed him, once, twice.

“I maybe need some time before we do anything big again,” Ilya said, finally. He sounded unsure in his admittance. “It took me a while to work myself up before I came to get you. Was a couple times where, I don’t know, I was worried I was being too hard on you. That you didn’t really want it.”

“Baby, that’s what the colors are for,” Shane said, dropping the pet name strategically into the sentence, because it always made Ilya go a little flushed. “Did you want to yellow? Because if you did, and you didn’t use it, I kind of need you to tell me the truth.”

“Mm. No. It was fucking hot, but I had to take some guesses. I think I just need to be sweet on you for a few days, probably.”

“That’s totally fine. Great, even. My ass would appreciate it,” he said, and grinned to make sure Ilya knew it was light-hearted, kissed him again when he cracked a smile.

“I can offer my ass for tomorrow,” Ilya said, and Shane laughed right into his mouth.

“Very subtle way to say you want me to eat you out.”

“I am known for being a very subtle guy.”

Shane propped his cheek up on his fist, watching with a stupid amount of fondness as his husband finished hosing the rest of the spaghetti. He left Ilya in the kitchen so he could let Anya out, the floodlight above the patio clicking on as she bounded out into the night, zipping down near the water to snuffle around.

Shane stretched his arms over his head before he stuffed his hands into his pockets, a wave of sleepiness crashing over him. He wondered if every year in their marriage would be like this. Fierce, loving, a touch intense.

He really, really hoped so. He couldn’t imagine a life with Ilya would go any other way.

“Hey,” Ilya said, poking his head out as he cracked open the sliding glass door. “If weather is good tomorrow, and your asshole doesn’t hurt, want to go on a ride?”

Directing his smile over his shoulder, Shane said, “Fuck it. Why not?”