Archive of Our Own

Standing in the bathroom at the MLH Awards in Vegas, Shane Hollander feels like a fucking dog.

There's been so much happening tonight— the awards, the press, his parents and teammates and other players, spending the night bundled in a tux and talking and being paraded around. And then, as always, there's Ilya Rozanov, crashing into it all and making Shane feel like a deer in the headlights. They're here, in a public bathroom, in their expensive award show tuxedos, inches apart. He feels like he's bursting at the seams. He's so fucking angry at Ilya for ignoring him, for spending literal months brushing him off and leaving him on read, and then having the nerve to be in his face like he's owed proximity; but he's also angry at himself, because the thought of Ilya walking away makes him ache.

Shane is trying to be an asshole when he tells Ilya to suck his dick, hand to god. He's trying to convey that he is in fact genuinely pissed off about all of this. He's spent the last several months being hurt, and confused, and angry. But Ilya, like he always does, turns it around— and as always, it fucking works, and Shane is still so pissed off, but now his cock is twitching in his dress pants as Ilya gets close enough for him to smell the cigarette smoke and champagne on him. His hand on his jaw makes his knees a little weak. But he stands firm, and he keeps eye contact as he asks, way more nicely than he should, for Ilya to suck his dick right here in the bathroom.

Of course, he doesn't do that.

Instead, he has a firm hand on the back of Shane's neck as he whispers about how he's going to make him wait. Maybe he'll do more than suck his dick, he says, and the words make a flash of heat ripple through Shane's body. He wants to tell Ilya to fuck off- he wants to get in his face and get angry again, tell him that he can't keep playing him like this after blowing him off for six months, that he has to earn getting Shane into another hotel room- but, right underneath that, he feels like his body is coming alive after hibernation. Shane wants, and he wants, and he fucking wants, and he remembers the smell of sweat and the warmth of a body on his and the press of a thick cock inside of him, and he feels a little like a caged animal. Something feral in him growls, snapping, and he feels a little like a dog sitting tense on the floor while someone dangles a treat in front of his nose.

But Ilya seems to feel it, too, his eyes dark and his pupils blown, and he looks so intense in the terrible low light of the bathroom. The energy between them is palpable, Shane's heart fluttering in his chest like a bird. He's pissed off that there are tears burning in his eyes, and he holds them in while he holds Ilya's gaze, as if daring him to say something about it. Everything in him aches fiercely. There's so many hours left in this night, and he's suddenly never been less enthusiastic about being here, which is saying something, considering this is never his ideal place to be anyway. He wishes the world would fall away; and if he were a different man in a different place, he might just beg Ilya to bend him over the sink right now, regardless of the fact that this is a public bathroom.

Blessedly, the night ends. It feels like a bit of a blur. Shane can't focus on anything else, utterly distracted. He was already getting a little useless at all of the small-talk as the night wore on and his social battery slowly drained, but the anticipation of what was waiting for him on the other side made it so much worse. By the time it wraps and he's allowed to leave, he feels prickly with anxiety and discomfort. He saw Ilya leave earlier, and he's spent the last half hour desperately wishing he followed.

Sitting on the bed in Ilya's hotel room, legs spread and face flushed, hand roaming over his own heated skin, he feels that hunger pulling at him like a hook through his stomach. Fever-pitched, snarling, making him ache. Every stroke of his own cock makes him shudder, Ilya's dark eyes on him making him feel both pinned down and like he's free-falling. He thinks, as Ilya moves to stand out of his chair, that he wants to crawl across the bed like an animal; he does, slow, purposeful, eyes lidded but pointedly looking as he meets him at the end and presses his face to the bulge in the other man's dress slacks, breathes in the scent of his cologne and sweat. He clings to his thighs and rubs his face against the fabric, and again he conjures an image of a snapping, hungry dog as Ilya quickly moves to free his cock from his pants.

In what feels like both hours and a matter of minutes, he's right where he wants to be, pressed into the mattress, gripping the sheets while Ilya drills into him. He's whining, high in the back of his throat, but he doesn't care how he sounds because it feels so fucking good, his eyes rolling back while he pants and whines and moans into the sheets. On all fours, mounted, taken, Ilya's sweat dripping onto his back. Feeding, fed, sated.

Things get weird for a while.

Somehow, they meet in the middle again. The all-star game is both a point of excitement and dread for Shane— he relishes the opportunity for competition, for getting to be on the ice with people he doesn't play with, but he also knows it means Ilya. Getting to be on the same team as him, which fills him with its own thrill, but also the gnawing ache of being in proximity to him again after their disastrous last… meeting? Hookup? He doesn't even know what the fuck to call it; it can't be as casual as a hookup, because he stayed over, because Ilya cooked for him, because they gasped each other's first names into their mouths, because Shane ran the fuck away like a kicked puppy. It makes his stomach twist itself into knots. All he can think about is his breakup with Rose, piled with the last conversation he had with Ilya, and it all makes him feel a little crazy.

He misses Rozanov. He misses Ilya. He wants to be in his space again; wants to kiss him, feel his hands on his body, smell his sweat, feel him inside of him. The last time they were together was an undeniable disaster, all thanks to him, but he wants more than anything to make it up. Seeing him at the bar of the hotel makes him fucking ache, heart stuttering rapidly in his chest, that hungry little dog inside of him licking its chops and snapping its teeth in anticipation.

He's wearing a stupid, garish shirt, the kind of thing that dads wear on beach vacations, and it looks so fucking silly— and it makes Shane want to press him against the bar top and kiss him until he's absolutely breathless. Instead, he manages to get through a conversation like a normal person, but the thought lingers in the back of his mind. Especially when Ilya lights up after Shane tells him about the stylist. He should be annoyed by it, because he explicitly asked not to be made fun of, but god, seeing a genuine smile across Ilya's face wipes every other emotion out of him. Later, at the pool, watching Ilya stand over him, dripping and grinning with his hands on his hips, Shane feels that hunger again. He spends the rest of the evening just looking at him, his insides twisting with want.

That night, in Ilya's hotel room, the tide shifts. The conversation they have is… difficult. But somehow, they come out of the other end holding each other, and when they kiss, there's a new feeling to it. Something deeper, more vibrant. Shane's shirt is wet with Ilya's tears, but their bodies are coming to life, and being in Ilya's lap feels natural. There's a sudden tone shift after a little while, and they go back to kissing— but this time it's much more heated, frenzied, closer to their usual fare. It's like the floodgates have opened, and after so many months apart, it's all coming back in a rush.

That hunger spikes in Shane. He feels rabid as they cling almost desperately to each other, Ilya licking into his mouth and making him whine in the back of his throat. His hips move, seemingly of their own accord, bucking against Ilya's lap as they kiss and pant and grope each other. He's reminded of how this is the way they were positioned the last time they did this, and there's a flare of fear, buried under the desire and the arousal. But Shane won't pull away this time. He's firm, grounded in his desire, and Ilya seems to be on the same page, if the way he's gripping Shane is anything to go by. It's a little electric.

"Let me fuck you." Ilya groans into his ear.

He just moans, unabashed and desperate, nodding frantically. "Yes," he pants against Ilya's cheek, "yes, please, fuck me, please."

Ilya grips his ass and squeezes, shifting their hips against each other seemingly just to make him squirm, and it works. His head spins, the rush of want overtaking everything else in him. Ilya captures his mouth in a kiss again, licking into it, making him feel dizzy. They paw at each other while they kiss, and it becomes a frantic race to start getting their clothes off. Finally, Ilya releases his mouth, and Shane scrambles out of his lap so he can undress properly. It's an almost comical flurry of the both of them rushing to undress, and Shane doesn't even bother to fold his clothes this time, stomach dancing, his cock already hard. Ilya's eyes go wide at the sight, and he licks his lips.

"Get on the bed," he says, his voice a low rumble. He sounds wrecked.

Shane doesn't even consider hesitating— he can't, and he crawls on all fours across the bed, making Ilya groan behind him. He flips onto his back, spreads himself out, and braces on his elbows, watching hungrily as Ilya slinks up the bed to slot their bodies together. The press of bare skin is electrifying, and Shane makes a breathy noise on contact, immediately pulling Ilya down for another filthy kiss. This time he licks into Ilya's mouth, and Ilya groans again as the kiss just turns into a wet slide of tongues and teeth and warm breath, filthy and slick. They're biting and licking more than kissing, and it makes something in Shane stir in satisfaction. It's uncoordinated and messy, primal, and it makes his fucking toes curl with arousal. Ilya starts kissing his jaw, his neck, his chest, biting and licking at his skin, and he feels like this has to be what it feels like to be high. He's panting, clinging to Ilya's shoulders, getting his hands in his hair and tangling his fingers with his curls, writhing. His cock is so hard, head slick with precum, and he feels wild with every hint of friction.

"Please," he gasps, "Please, please—"

"Shh, shh, you'll get it," Ilya soothes, running his hands down Shane's sides. "Fuck, you're wet."

Shane trembles and gasps as Ilya rubs circles on the slit of his leaking cock with his thumb, smearing the wetness. It feels so good, but it's not enough, and he throws his head back and makes what he can only describe as a truly pathetic noise— a low, watery whine at the back of his throat, animal, desperate. He's found fun in Ilya's teasing, but right now, he's so desperate he can't fucking see straight; it's been so long since they did this, since he had Ilya's hands on him, and he needs it, needs him, probably more than he ever has. He's bursting at the seams with it, skin electric with his need, and he's just panting and moaning into the air, bucking his hips and trying desperately to get what he wants.

"Humping the air like a dog." Ilya's voice is all gravel, and he looks utterly pleased as he says it.

It hits Shane like a fucking truck, and he makes a keening noise, cock twitching. He should be embarrassed or turned off by the comment, but it strikes a chord in him, makes him feel a little wild, a little seen, in a way that makes his body hot. It's in this moment that he thinks: I'll be a dog, if you want. The thought is sudden, but the vision is powerful, and he makes a strangled noise at the imagery of it. Sitting at Ilya's feet, wrapped around his leg, working his hips against it, whining, while Ilya pets his hair so sweetly and tells him how good he's being. His face flushes hot, and his cock pulses. No thoughts, no worries, just following his base instincts of chasing his pleasure with Ilya and being admired, rewarded for it. He's suddenly, viscerally, never wanted to be compared to an animal more in his entire life.

This seems to be the turning point for Ilya, and he stops his teasing to get to work. He's not terribly rough with Shane as he fingers him open, but he's not taking his time, either, clearly wanting to get to the same thing that Shane wants. They're united in the purpose of getting Shane fucked into the mattress, and he spends the whole time getting opened up writhing and making terrible noise on the bed beneath Ilya while he works. Ilya looks utterly focused, eyes dark and cheeks red, his pretty lips fixed into a little pout of concentration. He keeps his eyes on Shane, and this is one setting where he enjoys and tolerates the eye contact, making a point to move a little more, let his facial expressions be more open, performing a little and relishing the way it's clearly driving the other man up the wall. It gives him a little thrill, knowing that he can make Ilya look so hungry, that he turns him on so much.

Finally, when Ilya starts sinking into him, laid over his back with Shane's chest pressed to the mattress and his ass up, some of the noise in his head fades out to a quiet hum. God, he missed this— he makes a steady stream of noise as Ilya bottoms out, fists clenched in the sheets, and a sense of relief washes through him. That gnawing hunger slips away, and he feels satisfied, for the first time in what feels like a lifetime.

As they get adjusted, as Ilya picks up the pace and sets a rhythm that makes Shane start to see stars, he leans forward and places a firm hand on the back of his neck. He presses and holds, not painful, but it makes Shane's eyes fly open, something hot curling in his stomach. Ilya's hand is broad, warm, and the pressure feels secure, rather than scary, like he's being tethered there. A lifeline, a focus point. He makes an obscene noise. Ilya groans behind him, a sort of guttural sound, and it makes him shudder. He keeps his hand there, firm and unmoving, and Shane doesn't even consider shaking it off or changing position. This is right where he wants- where he needs- to be, pressed firmly to the mattress, claimed, taken. Fuck, he missed this.

When he goes to leave, Ilya says "Goodnight, Shane."

He goes back to his room and gets the best sleep he's had in fucking months.

+

Somehow, he finds himself standing in a pet store with Hayden, hands in his pockets while they stare at a wall of dog collars and accessories. Hayden thought it would be a good idea to get the kids a puppy— Shane had doubts that this was the best move, considering what a handful the kids already were, but it wasn't really his place to say, and Hayden wouldn't listen to him, anyway. So, he here he is, doing the duty of being a good friend and tagging along with him to pick out stuff so he can surprise the girls when they get back from their weekend at Jackie's parents' house. It is a sweet gesture, even if Shane thinks it'll end poorly. He can already see all of the exasperated texts, Hayden giving him long-suffering looks in the locker room and asking why he let him do this.

He can't remember what kind of dog it is, maybe a lab? Something like that. Hayden has a cart full of shit, and Shane has been a very good sport about following him around the store and offering opinions when asked. He's kind of fallen into his own head a little, as the trip has gone on, just more absentmindedly tagging behind Hayden. He doesn't seem to mind, and is likely just appreciative of having someone else there. Shane likes that about their friendship; Hayden doesn't get weird when Shane gets quiet.

"I don't know anything about these— which one do you like?"

Hayden speaking pulls Shane out of his head, and he looks up at the display, making himself focus on the present. He looks at the wall of collars, in different sizes and colors and materials, and just kind of lets his eyes skim over all of them. He's not really an expert, either, but he appreciates that his opinion apparently matters here. He zeroes in on a few, going between the brightly colored ones, and a smaller selection of what looks like leather.

"Kids might like the colors," he offers. "Maybe that blue one, with the flowers? The girls will think it's cute." He points to the one he's referencing.

Hayden snaps his fingers, nodding. "Oh dude, you're right. Looks like something they would pick. Good call, we'll just go with this one."

Shane looks at the display as Hayden grabs the one they picked, tossing it into the cart. He moves over a little, to the display of harnesses next to it, and starts examining them. Shane's eyes wander, and go back to the handful of dark leather collars on the wall. There are a few bigger ones, obviously made for bigger dogs, that could probably easily fit around a human neck. He stares at it, and feels the ghost of Ilya's hand on the back of his neck. He thinks about the pressure of it, the way it made him feel… safe. His face flushes, and he looks at the shitty linoleum floor, suddenly unable to look at the rack of collars. That's weird, right? (He knows it's not, not really— he's seen enough porn to know that a collar is pretty tame, all things considered). But it's the principle of the thing. It's the idea that he wants to wear one, that he finds the concept exciting, appealing.

But he feels embarrassed— he's standing here with his friend, shopping for puppy shit for his kids, and he's standing here and imagining wearing a collar for Ilya Rozanov in the middle of this pet store. He tears his eyes away from the floor, away from the collars, and forces himself to focus on the harnesses. Hayden finds one that matches the collar well enough, and because there just might be a merciful god listening to Shane, they move on out of that aisle. They head to the checkout, and as they're leaving the store, Shane thinks about it again.

He goes home and gets on the website. He can't face going into the store in person again; if some friendly cashier asks him about the dog he should be buying this for, he thinks he'll fucking die right there on the spot at the register. So, he takes the easy way out and orders one online, and pays for the express shipping. Because he's normal.

It arrives in three days. The package is waiting in his mail room when he gets home from practice, and he feels like the inconspicuous little box is staring right through him. No one's there to see him, but he grabs it like it's on fire and bolts to his apartment. He can't help but think of that night in the room next to Scott Hunter, Ilya's sarcastic "Is someone chasing you?" as he gets behind his door and locks it. This feels ridiculous. It is, a little bit, but that doesn't erase the embarrassment coursing through him, even though no one is here to see it. But it's fine, he's fine. He's a grown ass man.

He carefully goes through his after-practice routine. He sets the box on the dresser in his bedroom as he methodically strips out of his clothes and gets them into the hamper. He tries not to think about it sitting there as he showers. It sits in his brain anyway, buzzing, tugging at the corners of his thoughts. When he gets out of the shower and gets dressed, he stands in front of the dresser and stares at the box for nearly a whole minute before he finally opens the damn thing. It's so unassuming— a dark brown leather collar, no fancy embellishments. Simple, with a thick metal d-ring at the front for a tag. It looks like every other dog collar Shane's ever seen in his life. It burns a hole into him when he looks at it, anyway. He carefully picks it up and wrestles it off of the cardboard packaging.

Carefully, Shane unbuckles the collar. He reminds himself that he's home alone and no one is here to witness this and ridicule him for it— this is for him. With more confidence than he really feels, he slowly slides the collar around his neck. It seems to be the right size, and he has no trouble securing the buckle and closing it. As soon as he clasps it in place, he feels a warmth spread through his body. The collar is a little weighty, heavy against his neck but not smothering. He was worried it would feel oppressive or choking, but instead it feels…. comfortable. Safe. Shane blinks rapidly, startled at how utterly at ease he feels with it around his neck, pressing firmly against his skin. He sits on the edge of his bed, taking deep breaths. His face is warm. His body feels light, and that should maybe freak him out, but it doesn't.

His dick is starting to swell. It should be less surprising than it is, but he's been so focused on everything else about this experience that he forgot why he even did this in the first place— and then he remembers, letting out a soft noise as he conjures the feeling of being pressed down into the mattress by the back of his neck, Ilya's long, warm fingers holding him in place. His face gets hotter, and his dick even more rapidly comes to life, blood rushing to remind him about his exact feelings on the matter. He thinks about what Ilya would think if he saw this right now, and a truly embarrassing little whimper escapes him, his now fully hard cock twitching. He's wet, he can feel it; and so much for his clean underwear.

It's not really a question that he starts stripping right back out of his clothes. His skin is buzzing with his arousal as he works quickly to get naked again, panting a little into his quiet bedroom. Once he's shed everything, he scoots up to the top of the bed, and reaches into his bedside table to grab his bottle of lube. The dildo he keeps in there seems to tease him, and he flushes deeply as he mentally tells himself to save that for later. He doesn't want to finger himself right now— he just wants friction, something quick and easy to get this out of his system. There's a sense of desperation, of neediness, that's kind of overtaken him, and he doesn't have the patience to wait for his dildo. He works quickly to get a little lube on his hand, and the second he makes contact with his dick, his nostrils flare, a keening little moan slipping out of his slack mouth. It feels devastatingly good already, and he throws his head back against the headboard as he strokes himself. It's far too fast and easy to get lost in the rhythm, and he finds himself fully bucking up and fucking into his own fist, whining.

He feels the pressure of the collar on his neck. He imagines Ilya standing there, looming over him, watching with that intense gaze, and Shane gasps out a strangled noise as he's suddenly coming.

"Oh my god," he pants, "fuck, fuck, fuck, oh my god."

No one's here to listen, but he can't help but feel like the words are ripped out of him, and his eyes close as his thighs tremble with the force of his orgasm. He can feel what a terrible mess he's making; some of it lands on his chest, and he's smearing it all over himself with his hand as he strokes himself almost mindlessly through it. His hips are still bucking, and he pants, letting out a drawn-out whine as he starts to teeter into overstimulation. Despite the sensitivity, he continues like this for a few more moments, making breathy noises and utterly lost to the feeling.

Finally, when he stops, he lets out a deep, shuddering breath, and slowly opens his eyes. He did, in fact, make a spectacular mess of himself. It's been a while since he'd come that hard— no one had ever made him come that hard aside from Ilya. He's never been able to quite reach that level with himself. This is unprecedented, in more ways than one. His heart beats wildly in his chest, his cheeks flushed. He blinks stupidly, looking around his room, and flops down onto his back, fully boneless. Breathing heavily as he comes down, Shane stares up the the ceiling, trying to make his brain come back online a little. He feels a little sluggish, body tingling with the last vestiges of his orgasm. This kind of thing has never happened to him before, and he's not sure what to do with it.

What Shane does know, lying wide-eyed and breathless and covered in his own cum, is that he really, really likes wearing this collar. He has a brief, wild moment where he considers taking a picture and sending it to Ilya. He wonders what he would say— if he would like it, have something to say about it to rile Shane up even more, or if he would think it was weird, and have something shitty to say. Shane likes to think it's the former. He likes to imagine that if he did send a picture to Ilya, it would drive him insane. It might even drive Ilya to call him or Face Time him, his mouth stretched into that sharp grin he always wears when he's about to take Shane apart, his eyes gone all dark. Flushed, a little breathless, asking Shane to show him the whole picture, tell him how incredible he looks trussed up in his collar and slick with sweat and cum.

If he hadn't just literally came his fucking brains out, he might be tempted to jerk off a second time to that fantasy alone. But he's spent, and when he feels like he can move his limbs again, he slowly goes about getting himself cleaned up. When he finally takes the collar off, he swallows hard, holding it and just staring. He runs his thumbs over the leather, just feeling the material. He tucks it into his bedside drawer, and gets himself into a second shower. He touches his neck lightly as he washes under the spray again, humming softly, and smiles.

+

The collar burns a hole in Shane's drawer. He thinks about it every time he jerks off— and a couple of times, he wears it. He can't really describe the particular feeling that it gives him; it makes his body warm, light, makes his head a little fuzzy, which isn't exactly new, but up until this point, that's not something he'd experienced outside of fucking Ilya specifically. Shane's not really sure how to examine that, or where to start with unpacking it. Does he want to unpack it? That's the real question, here. Shane's spent the entire course of his… arrangement with Ilya trying to unpack things as little as possible.

But particularly since the All-Star game, there's been a shift, and it's much harder for Shane to compartmentalize this thing with Ilya. He has, at the very least, tried to acknowledge that whatever the fuck they're doing, it's long past just being a casual thing for sex. He feels a lot, and it kind of scares him, but there's way too much happening here that he simply can't ignore anymore. The dynamic between them has shifted. It feels… gentler, and yet much more intense, all at once.

They go to Boston. Shane ends up in Ilya's bed, pretending to be exasperated, but pulled like a magnet all the same. He does feel a spark of real annoyance when Ilya texts him, but even as he protests in his texts, he slips his shoes on and leaves the hotel anyway. When Ilya greets him at the door, Shane feels like he releases a breath he'd been holding, and Ilya pulls him into the house and barely has the door shut before he's claiming Shane's mouth, hot and urgent. His body hums with the contact, the taste, relaxing completely into the other man's body as they stand there in the entry and just grab at each other and kiss. They don't have a lot of time, so they go straight to the bedroom, and Shane's body is buzzing with anticipation, skin flushed and tingling with arousal and need, pure and raw. The way Ilya licks into his mouth makes his toes curl, and he clings to him, dizzy with want.

Shane isn't even undressed before he drops to his knees, pawing at the sweatpants slung low on Ilya's hips like a starved animal, face flushed.

"Fuck— needy, aren't you?" Ilya rasps.

He can't even protest that word— he is needy, and he can't find the capacity to be ashamed of it. He takes Ilya's cock into his mouth like he needs it to breathe, and when Ilya slides his hands into Shane's hair, he honest to god whimpers at the slide of his fingers through the strands, the light but firm grip he gets on it. Shane allows himself to get into the rhythm, a little lost to the pleasure of the act, savoring the silky hot feel of Ilya's hard cock in his mouth, the taste of his precum as he leaks onto his tongue. He breathes deep and his eyes close as that light, warm feeling starts to spread through his body. A sense of calm washes over him.

One of Ilya's hands gently goes lower, down the back of his head to settle on his neck, gripping, and Shane lets out what he would normally find to be a horrifically embarrassing noise, lashes fluttering. That pressure, the warmth, it makes him tingle, head swimming pleasantly. He moans unabashedly around Ilya's cock, hands coming up to grip his thighs.

"Fuck yes, Shane, just like that, fuck," Ilya purrs, giving his neck a squeeze. "So good for me, huh?"

Shane whimpers, feeling himself throb and leak in his pants, making an affirming noise around the cock he's still sucking. He pops off, breathless and mouth wet, and looks up at Ilya through his lashes. He feels… vulnerable, here, on his knees at this man's feet with a hand in his hair and one on his neck, lips smeared with saliva and precum, head swimming. But he also feels perfectly at home— like he could stay here like this forever. Comforted, safe.

"Look at you." Ilya's voice is soft, reverent. His eyes are dark but sparkling. "Oh sweetheart, don't you look pretty like that." He takes the hand in Shane's hair and brings it to his face, stroking at his cheekbone. "Fuck me, look at you. Wish we had more time, I need to fuck you properly." He swallows hard. "What do you want, hm?"

Shane blinks, trying to find his words, surprised that speech feels a little distant right now. He swallows, and leans into the hand cradling his cheek. His face is hot, and there's a swell in his chest at realizing Ilya called him sweetheart, that he's looking down at him like something precious.

"I… Please let me stay like this. Want you to come in my mouth."

Ilya lets out a sharp gasp, nodding. "Yes, okay. Fuck, alright."

When Ilya pushes his cock back into Shane's mouth, it's deliberate, almost… tender. Shane's eyes flutter closed, and he gets lost in the rhythm once more, moaning softly. It's not long before it tilts back into a more desperate exchange, and Shane's brain is buzzing as Ilya starts earnestly fucking his mouth. He's panting above him, groaning, and Shane is soaked and throbbing in his underwear, face warm, head swimming. The world narrows down to this— his knees on the floor, the slide of Ilya's hard cock against his tongue, the precum and spit slicking his mouth and leaking from the corners, the hands holding his head and moving it at the right pace, the right depth, to make Ilya swear in Russian and growl out his moans. His eyes water, his knees protest; it doesn't matter, because Ilya's hands are so sure in his hair and on his neck, he's filling Shane's mouth so completely, he sounds so perfect as he swears and pants and moans.

"Fuck, Shane—"

That's all the warning he gets before he feels Ilya's balls tighten against his chin, and then his mouth is flooded. His eyes flutter and he groans, gripping Ilya's thighs tight as he forces his throat to relax, as he swallows eagerly around the spasming cock on his tongue. His head rushes, and they're both just making noise in tandem as Ilya holds Shane in place and comes down his throat.

When Ilya pulls out, Shane gasps, and his eyes open, vision a little blurred. Ilya looks so beautiful, flushed and panting above him, and his eyes are fierce as he pulls Shane up off the floor roughly. He kisses him like he's starving for it, and Shane groans into his mouth and lets himself be pulled flush against the other man's chest, feeling him still panting with the aftershocks of his orgasm and their breathless kissing. Ilya's hands roam Shane's body as he licks into his mouth, squeezing and gripping, digging his fingers in, and it makes his head spin more. He drops his kisses down Shane's jaw, to his neck, nipping at the skin and making rumbly little noises, and Shane just clings to him and whines. They move, and Ilya pushes him onto his back, on the bed, and makes quick work of getting right on top of him and shoving the waistband of his pants and briefs down.

When his hand touches his cock, Shane keens, digging his nails into Ilya's shoulders. He's so fucking hard it hurts, he's so wet that it's obscene— Ilya gasps a little at the feeling, knowing what sucking him off has done to him. He strokes eagerly and firmly, and Shane's back arches up against his chest. He feels like each breath is punched out of him.

"Oh, fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, Ilya please, please please—" he begs, not even knowing what the fuck he's begging for, but knowing he's getting it.

"Mmm, that's it, that's it, come on," Ilya growls. "Fuck, you're so fucking wet, you going to come for me?"

He can't really speak, because that's all it takes for him to come— he lets out a strangled, throaty near yell as it all slams into him at once, his thighs trembling as he spills over Ilya's fist and onto his own stomach and chest. Ilya groans, and Shane gets lost, going somewhere else for a moment as his orgasm rips through his body. If he's making more noise, he's not really aware of it. He's not really aware of anything, except the white-hot pulse of pleasure in his body, the way he feels warm and light and tingling all over. He's fully liberated from everything else aside from this for a moment, and when he comes back, he blinks rapidly, vision blurred from squeezing his eyes shut so tight.

Ilya is hovering above him, grinning wolfishly, the way he does after he beats Shane on the ice. His eyes are bright and pretty in the mid-afternoon light. Shane just studies him as he comes back into his body all the way. Ilya leans down and captures his mouth in a kiss, and he opens for it with ease, sighing happily against his mouth and the brush of his tongue.

When Shane leaves Ilya's apartment to get to the hotel before they leave for game prep, he's thinking about the collar at home in his nightstand. He's thinking about Ilya's sure hands on his neck, the comforting weight of being held in place by someone that wants him there. Being good. He wrestles his thoughts into submission as they head into the guest locker room in Boston, fighting his unruly dick and praying he's not abnormally flushed when he's putting his gear on. J.J. starts talking to him about some party he went to recently, and he forces himself to focus and smile and nod appropriately, turning his brain away from the light, warm feeling of being held down.

Shane is back in Montreal by the time Ilya calls him. He's been worried sick and trying not to be, ever since he found out that he didn't go to Nashville with the rest of his team. He's been staring at the last, unanswered text he sent with a churning stomach, trying to keep his thoughts away from imaging the worst-case scenario.

Earlier, in an effort to put his brain somewhere else, he'd taken the collar out of his drawer, and worn it while he jerked off. It had been… cathartic. It made his brain floaty and happy in a way that allowed him to escape from the clutches of his anxiety, if only for a while. Now, sitting on his bed reading, he was still anxious, but he still felt some of the last vestiges of that comfort, and it wasn't as overwhelming.

The Face Time call lights up his screen, and he scrambles to put his book down and answer. The relief that washes through him at the sight of Ilya's face makes him warm, and he sighs quietly, but happily. He feels bad when Ilya tells him that his father is dead— he knows they didn't gave a good relationship, and that's kind of underselling it. But it has to be hard, losing a parent; even one that you don't get along with. Shane can't really imagine what he's feeling right now. He reassures Ilya that he can talk to him, because he can; because he wants them to do that, for each other. He wants to know everything that Ilya wants to tell him, even if it's hard or it's sad. He remembers holding onto him in his hotel room in Tampa while he cried, and he wishes that he was able to give that comfort now.

Of course, Ilya deflects. He doesn't really say much about how he's doing— he's much more interested in Shane's glasses. He blushes a little when he realizes he'd forgotten to take them off, that Ilya didn't know about them and has never seen them before. It's too easy to fall into step when Ilya tells him to take his clothes off. He can't really deny the way his body reacts to this man, even in a situation like this, and he all too happily complies.

"Ah, what is that?" Ilya asks as Shane is moving the phone back to face himself after stripping.

He furrows his eyebrows. "What's what?"

"On the bed, next to you."

Oh, fuck. The collar. The collar is sitting on Shane's bed next to his hip, because he hadn't put it back in the drawer earlier when he'd finished. Ilya must have caught a glimpse of it on camera when Shane was moving his phone around. His face goes hot, and his stomach drops.

"Oh, uh, it's nothing, don't worry about it."

Ilya's mouth curves into a sharp grin. "Shane… Is not nothing. Let me see it."

His mouth goes a little dry. He's still getting used to hearing Ilya say his first name. And he does it in that voice of his— low and rumbly, made to go straight to Shane's poor dick.

It works.

"You— don't make fun of me," he says as he grabs it off the bed, holding it to the side. "Please. I, um. Fuck. Here."

He holds it up to the camera, and there's not really any denying it, then. For the first few seconds, he's internally asking himself why the fuck he did this, but then Ilya's face blooms into something beautiful; his eyes go wide and dark, his grin almost predatory, like when he spots an opening on the ice to fuck someone's game up. Shane knows that look. It's the one Ilya turns on him when he's about to take him the fuck apart. Unabashedly hungry, eager. It makes Shane's stomach swoop in a much better way, and he suddenly wonders why he didn't show him sooner, because this reaction is all the confirmation he needs that this was the best fucking idea he's ever had.

"When did you buy this?" Ilya's voice is a little ragged.

"Um. A while ago. Not— not that long, but uh, a little while ago."

"You have worn it before?"

He's still blushing furiously, but the look in Ilya's eyes is keeping the anxiety from coming back. He swallows a little hard, and nods.

"Yes," he breathes. "A couple times."

Ilya swears in Russian. "Good god. Put it on for me, Hollander."

Shane doesn't even speak. His stomach lurches, in a good way— that snappy little dog inside of him howls, jaws snapping, licking its chops. He sets the phone down so he can use both of his hands, and makes quick work of putting it on. As soon as it's buckled into place, he feels that warmth spread through his body. He takes a deep breath before picking the phone back up to show Ilya.

Ilya says something in Russian again, under his breath. His eyes are dark and wide. Shane swallows, just allowing him to look. He feels, somehow, even more naked, despite the fact that he's literally not wearing anything besides the collar. And his glasses. He tucks that little bit of information away for later, amused by the fact that Ilya is really into them.

"How does it feel?" His voice is scraped a little raw.

A thrill goes through Shane. He loves that he makes Ilya feel this way. He loves seeing that hungry look on his face, hearing the way his voice drops when he wants him. Knows that if he were here, he wouldn't be able to keep his hands off of Shane's body, touching him in all of his favorite places.

"Feels good," Shane says, voice soft. "Makes me feel… calm. It's nice." He trails a hand across his chest, fingertips gently grazing his heated skin.

"Fuck. It looks good on you." Ilya licks his lips, and Shane triumphs internally.

He moves, adjusting the angle of his phone, and Shane sees that he's taken his cock out. It's hard, flushed at the tip. God, he's beautiful, muscles shifting under his skin as he moves and adjusts. His big hand wraps around himself, and he hisses through his teeth as he strokes. He looks at Shane the whole time, brows heavy and eyes dark, his face a little flushed. Shane's own cock is hard, already leaking a little. Shane lets out a little sigh as he continues to grope his chest, cupping his right pec before pinching the nipple, biting his lip. He feels safe, but he feels a little powerful, in the face of Ilya's obvious desire.

"What do you think about? When you wear it?"

"You." It's so easy to say, he doesn't even hesitate. "Your hands, holding me. Keeping me where you want me. Where you need me."

Ilya lets out a gasp. Shane's hand finally trails down his stomach, to his cock. He lightly teases it with his fingers, feels himself leak more at the sensation. He watches Ilya pump his own cock a little faster, and finally wraps his own hand around himself. He moans at the pressure, and at the first slide of his hand. It feels electric. They don't speak, just stroking themselves in tandem and breathing, gasping and moaning into the quiet of their rooms. Shane's face is hot, but he feels less anxious and more… proud. Preening, like he's presenting something for Ilya. In a way, he is. The thought thrills him. Ilya's eyes are glued to him, and Shane can feel his desire through the screen, through the countless thousands of miles that separate them.

"I want to fuck you in it." Ilya says, voice gruff.

And god, if that isn't exactly what Shane needs to hear. He moans and strokes himself a little faster, twitching in his hand. He wants it so badly; he's struck by a feeling of unfairness, knowing Ilya is so far from him, that they both want and even need each other in this moment, and they can't have it. But Shane thinks about it, and he whines a little as he strokes himself, imagining Ilya filling him and fucking him while the pressure of the collar encases his neck.

"When you get back," Shane gasps, "you can. I want you to. I— I think about it all the time."

Ilya damn near growls. "Fuck, Shane."

"I want it so bad." He sounds completely wrecked, but he doesn't care. His whole body burns with desire. "I want you inside me, fuck." His head drops back a little as he strokes himself a little harder, a little faster.

"You feel so fucking good, cannot wait to fuck you again," Ilya groans. "You will look so pretty for me, getting fucked by me while you wear that." He moans, low and long. "Fuck, Shane, I'm close."

"Please come for me." His voice is ragged, his tone almost pleading. He wants to see it so bad. It claws at him; his desire to see Ilya lose control, to come to the sight of Shane like this. "Please, I wanna see it. Show me."

The tone comes across more demanding at the end, but that really seems to work for Ilya, and he lets out a sharp noise as he starts coming.

"Oh fuck, Shane," he gasps, working his cock furiously. He moans loudly as he comes all over his fist, some of it landing on his stomach.

Shane watches, enraptured, as Ilya falls apart on the other side of the screen. He looks stunning like this, every time, and he can never get enough of it. He feels his own pleasure build, a hot wave in his body, and he moans, hand flying over his cock while he watches Ilya's face. His mouth is dropped open, but he never takes his gaze off of Shane, and it makes his toes curl. It takes less than a minute for Shane's orgasm to catch up to him, and he gasps, thrusting up into his fist.

"I'm, fuck, fuck—"

He moans loudly, and forces himself to keep his eyes open so he can look right at Ilya as he starts coming, hips lifting off the bed a little. Ilya watches him, rapt, and it makes Shane's whole body feel alight, his orgasm pulsing hot and intense through his body. It feels so fucking good— the collar weighted on his neck, Ilya's eyes on him through the phone, the way Ilya had said his name when he came. He feels like he's on the ceiling.

He's breathless, his stomach a mess, as his body finally relaxes a little. His head feels a little light, but it's a good kind, and he's got a tiny smile on his face as he catches his breath and allows the warm waves of his orgasm to roll through his body. He feels boneless, his bed so soft against his body, and he lets out a sigh.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Hollander," Ilya finally says after a moment. "I think you're trying to kill me."

He huffs out a laugh. "You look pretty alive to me. Maybe I need to work harder."

Ilya's eyes narrow a little, and the corners of his lips turn up in a little grin. "Mmm, maybe you do."

His stomach flutters. He smiles, a little bashfully. This experience confirms his deepest desire with this purchase— Ilya is obviously crazy for it. He preens, a flood of pleasure washing through him at the knowledge. He feels… happy. Content.

"Did you… really buy it for me?" Ilya asks. His voice is a little softer. He looks genuinely invested in the answer, and it makes Shane's stomach flutter. He leans in closer to the camera, face intense but eager.

"Uh, yeah." He feels a little shy now, but he makes himself be honest. "I um…" He bites his lip, looks down bashfully at his hands. "I liked the way you uh, put your hand on my neck sometimes when you fuck me. Thought it felt… nice. And I was helping Hayden buy stuff for the puppy he got the kids, and I saw the collars, and I just kinda… thought it would feel good. And it does."

He looks up at the screen through his lashes, and Ilya is smiling— it's a small thing, but it's pretty, and genuine. His eyes are bright. It makes Shane flush, a rush of pleasure coursing through him.

"Is very good look on you." He licks his lips, and just clearly looks Shane over. "I cannot wait to see it in person."

Shane feels like he could start glowing. He can't really keep the smile from his face.

"Me too."

+

Their plans get pretty massively derailed when Shane goes down on the ice. Once all of the panic abates, and he's more aware, he's pissed that Cliff fucking Marlow ruined his night with Ilya. He'd been waiting for what felt like a year for their chance to get together again, to have him in his arms, against his skin— for him to see the collar in person and press Shane firmly into the mattress while fucking him stupid. Now he's trussed up in a hospital bed, concussed and bruised and sulky about it.

Ilya comes to see him, and through the loosened inhibitions of the drugs and the head injury, Shane can't contain himself when he walks through the door to his room, filled with so much overwhelming affection that he's glad he's firmly planted on the hospital bed. Ilya looks tense, withdrawn; he softens a little, as he gets his hands on Shane, which makes him feel like it might just be a little worth it that he got his shit rocked. Ilya is so gentle with him, fingers soft and warm, and Shane has a vague thought in his head along the lines of "I know why dogs stay glued to their owner's feet". He leans into the touch, feels a wash of relief when Ilya takes his hand.

He doesn't really feel the anxiety he probably should when he asks Ilya to come to his cottage. He doesn't even feel that anxious when Ilya says "maybe", because it's not no, and that's more than enough for him right now. The mere possibility that he's even seriously considering it makes Shane's insides light up, and he feels so light. He beams, unable to school his expression. He wants this so badly, and he prays to whatever god is listening that Ilya will tell him yes. Shane wants to take this man home— he wants to squirrel him away to his special, private place, to touch him freely, to kiss him and taste him and bask in his presence. He wants to spend long nights by the fire, followed by longer nights tangled in his king-sized bed swallowing each others' pleasure greedily. He wants to sit in his collar, on his bed, and let Ilya take him apart with his teeth for it.

At his parents' house, he recovers. He thinks about Ilya the whole time. He watches the playoff games with his parents, of course. Boston isn't making it into the final rounds. They banter about it via text, Shane enjoying getting to turn the teasing on Ilya after being the subject of all the jokes for a while due to his injury. He's also a little privately upset that his own team didn't make it; but at least he doesn't have to sit it out while they do go, so he tries not to linger on that particular strain of jealousy. Next year, he vows.

"Good for Scott Hunter," Yuna says on the couch during the final game, and Shane is confused. "I think this is his year. New York is gonna win."

Shane's a little skeptical— but he can't deny that Scott has been playing like a bit of a beast. He's not sure what's gotten into the other man, after being in a pretty obvious slump for a while. Maybe he was just fucking tired of losing, which is a feeling Shane can fully grasp. He was surprised when New York made it to the final game, but he can't say he hasn't been enjoying watching them come up. They're a pretty strong team, when they've got their shit together. Something has shifted, and it's clearly working for them. Shane and Ilya text back and forth as the game goes on, making commentary to each other. Natural, easy; Ilya keeps calling Scott a dinosaur, and Shane thinks it's very funny that he loves to pick on him so much.

New York wins. Maybe his mom is a damn witch.

Ilya and Shane are talking about the game when it happens. He watches in utter confusion and disbelief when Scott finds a man from the stands and gets him onto the ice. He doesn't recognize the man, and he doesn't know Scott personally enough to even guess who he is. He's exchanging confused texts with Ilya when he—

Oh. Oh. Scott Hunter is standing there on the ice, on live television, kissing a man like he's starving for it. They're clinging to each other, as close as they can possibly get, and Shane feels dizzy. He knows it's not his head. His heart is in his throat, his stomach in his fucking feet. His phone buzzes, and he stands up off the couch like his ass is on fire, rounding the corner.

"I'm coming to the cottage."

It hits him like a wall. It hits him like Marlow on the fucking ice mere weeks ago, slamming into his body with force, knocking the breath from his lungs and whatever words he was going to say right out of his mouth. He freezes. Ilya is coming to the cottage. He's coming. He wants to stay, with Shane, in his favorite place on earth. Maybe there is a merciful god out there somewhere in the aether, listening to Shane Hollander's flimsy, painkiller-high prayers. He gapes a little stupidly for a moment, trying to find his words.

Everything else fades away. He wants to cry, he wants to scream, he wants to run around his parents' house like an overexcited child. He wants to go into the front yard and scream into the open air that Ilya fucking Rozanov is coming to his cottage, to be alone with him, to kiss him and hold him and fuck him and share his space. The little dog that's taken residence in his brain howls triumphantly, eager and writhing and primed.

What a fucking night.

+

It feels a little unreal, to be writhing underneath Ilya on the bed in his cottage. He looks so beautiful, haloed by the light beaming in through the windows, a wide and unapologetic smile on his face, as he holds Shane playfully down by his wrists and kisses his neck. Shane doesn't think he's ever seen him look like this; he can really only imagine what his own face looks like right now. His body feels so light, like someone lifted a literal weight off of his shoulders. He feels like he could float up to the ceiling if Ilya lets him go, untethered and buoyed by the sheer force of his happiness.

They kiss, eager and hungry and needy. They can't stop touching each other, gripping and clutching like they're going to disappear if they break contact. Shane is so fucking turned on that he can barely think past his dick, but he's also so happy and relieved and excited that he feels like he's going to explode. He's in a beautiful haze, and he's here, alone, with Ilya, in his private, sacred space. Ilya's mouth on him is hot and perfect, sending sparks down Shane's spine with every press against his skin. They're both hard, mindlessly and subtly rutting against each other as they kiss.

"Clothes off," Ilya rumbles in Shane's ear, tugging at his shirt. "I need you naked now."

They do finally break contact, both of them tearing off their clothes in a frenzy. Shane doesn't even think about folding anything— he's too desperate, his body alight with his arousal. They're not speaking, just breathing heavily as they strip as quickly as possible. When they're finally naked, they meet in the middle again, Ilya practically tackling Shane to the bed, gripping him tightly. Shane lights up, flush with happiness and need, and relishes in the skin to skin contact, shuddering at the feeling of Ilya's naked body against his own again.

The sex they have is desperate, starving. Ilya doesn't even manage to properly fuck Shane, the both of them far too worked up and eager for release to be patient enough for the effort. But they're both so clearly aching for it that it still hits just as hard, and when they come just from frantically frotting their cocks together, it's explosive, both of them digging their fingers into each other and making obscene noises like Ilya was buried inside Shane rather than just sliding against him. They collapse onto the bed, sweaty and panting and covered in each others' cum, and Shane's never been fucking happier.

Later, in the evening, a few days after they've properly settled in, they're sitting together on the couch, the sun setting on the lake and casting soft orange light through the windows. Shane is laying across the couch, head on Ilya's chest, practically draped across him just because he can be there, and Ilya is stroking his hair, his arms, just idly touching him. He hears the steady thrum of Ilya's pulse under his ear, and it comforts him. He genuinely can't remember the last time he felt so thoroughly relaxed. He feels so utterly content. They're not really speaking; just enjoying each others' presence in a way that they never really get to. There's no flights to catch, no games to play, nowhere to be but here, with each other.

There's something new here, between them. The night before, Ilya had told Shane that he loves him, and it felt like the world tilted on its axis, in the right direction. Everything felt right, surer than it's been in a long time. Shane feels like he's just been soaking it in, allowing the feeling to permeate every cell of his body. Ilya loves him. He loves Ilya. They told each other, cried in each other's arms about it. Ilya, his Ilya, who came to the cottage with him because he loves him, sitting here on his couch and holding him close and petting his hair and making him feel safer and happier than he ever has in his life. He's more than content to just sit with that, still in complete awe of it.

It's Ilya who breaks the silence. He looks down at Shane, and takes his hand that isn't already touching him, gently placing fingers under his chin to turn his gaze up. It works, and Shane adjusts a little, turning his eyes up to meet Ilya's.

"I want to see the collar." His tone is firm, confident.

Shane shivers a little. "Yes," he breathes, "yeah, of course."

They stand, and Ilya takes Shane's hand, leading him back to the bedroom, a mirror of how they walked through the place when they first arrived, Shane taking him to his bed for the first time. Shane immediately goes to his suitcase in the corner— everything had mostly been unpacked, but he'd left the collar in its little pocket, waiting for the right time. He unzips it and pulls it out, a rush of anticipation coursing through his body. He feels his cheeks flush. He's not… nervous, not really; but he feels a fluttering in his stomach like he gets sometimes before a face-off, or when he's trying to score a goal before the end of a period. The adrenaline of knowing that something exciting is waiting for him on the other side of a moment. He grips the collar tightly for a moment, squeezing it in his hands, before he takes a breath and turns around to present it to Ilya.

They step toward each other, and Ilya looks at the collar in Shane's hands, lips parted slightly as he just kind of stares at it for a moment. He reaches out and touches it, swiping a finger across the leather to feel the texture. He looks up at Shane, and his eyes have gone a little dark.

"I want to put it on you," he says, and his voice is soft, but so sure.

Shane feels his stomach swoop violently, and he nods, need rushing through his body. "Yes, please. Fuck yes."

Ilya grins. "Take off your clothes."

It's effortless to get into motion. Shane sets the collar on the bed and starts stripping. Ilya sits on the end of the bed and just watches him. He makes a decision, then, to make a show of it. He goes much slower than he initially planned to, pushing aside his frantic desire for something slower, hotter. He stands in front of Ilya and keeps his eyes on him as he slowly starts removing clothes. There's not many layers, but he drags it out the best he can, being purposeful in the way he reveals different parts of his skin. He runs his hands indulgently over himself as he strips, flashing back to that night in Vegas a lifetime ago, putting on a show for Ilya in his penthouse suite. There's a distinct charge in the air, and Ilya looks intense as he watches Shane, hands on his knees and his legs open. He's hard, and the bulge in his shorts makes Shane's mouth water.

Then he's standing there, fully naked, his own cock hard against his stomach. Ilya tilts his head, as if he's considering something, very obviously raking his eyes over Shane's body, taking him in like he's studying him; like he hasn't been taking in his fill of Shane's naked body at every opportunity for the last several days. It thrills Shane. He licks his lips, thinks of a dog licking its chops.

"Come here."

As if pulled by some outside force, Shane moves closer, until he's standing right between Ilya's knees, looking down at him. Ilya looks up, a small, sharp grin on his mouth.

"On your knees for me." His voice is low, rough.

Shane sinks to his knees. That light, warm feeling spreads through his body, making his head swim a little. He looks up at Ilya, hands resting on his thighs, just waiting. Anticipation thrums through his body, and his cock pulses, already wet. Ilya reaches down and grabs Shane's chin; not rough, but firm enough to keep him in place, and tilts his head a little, like he's inspecting him. His eyes are gleaming. Shane feels tethered to the spot by the hand on his chin, Ilya's warm fingers on his face.

After a moment, Ilya releases Shane's chin, but he stays right where he is. Ilya grabs the collar off the bed, and turns it around in his hands a little, getting a better look at it. Shane's cock throbs, body hot. His mouth goes a little dry in anticipation, and Ilya must see something on his face, because he smiles.

"Look at you," he says, almost disbelieving. "You would do anything I tell you right now, wouldn't you?"

Shane swallows. God, he would— he would put himself into any position, do any embarrassing or insane thing Ilya asked, and he wouldn't fucking hesitate, either. He nods, finding it hard to find the words.

Ilya chuckles. "Fuck." He whispers it, shaking his head a little. "Let's get this on first, hm?"

He unclasps the collar. Shane's body hums, and he feels like he's on the precipice of something as Ilya reaches toward him with it. The leather touches his neck, and he lets out a sigh, tension already bleeding out of him. Ilya is silent as he gets it into place, and as soon as it's buckled, Shane feels a wash of what feels like relief flood through his body. His eyes close for a moment, and he takes a deep, shuddering breath. He feels like if the collar was taken off right now, he'd float up and through the ceiling, somewhere into the atmosphere.

When he opens his eyes, Ilya is looking at him like… like he's something precious. His lips are parted, eyes wide, a pretty, soft flush on his cheeks. He reaches out again and brushes his fingers against the underside of Shane's chin, and he leans into it, tilting his face up.

Shane wants and wants and wants and fucking wants, and now, after years of agony, he's getting it. This feels different, sacred— his body is humming, his head swimming with nothing but this moment, every point of contact with Ilya's body, his knees against the floor, the weight of the collar on his neck, the intensity of Ilya's gaze. He feels like he's been waiting for this for maybe his whole life; it swallows him, eats him alive, makes him feel ravenous. He wants to devour Ilya and be devoured in return. He licks his lips, and Ilya grins, bright and sharp. Ilya moves his hand, slips his thumb across Shane's lips, and he doesn't need to be told or indicated in any way to take the digit into his mouth, sucking it. Ilya takes in a sharp breath and slowly moves his thumb against Shane's tongue, pressing into it and thrusting it in and out of his mouth.

His cock is leaking, but he keeps his focus on Ilya's thumb. After a moment, he slides it out with a wet pop, and he adjusts, lifting his hips off the bed enough to get his shorts down so he can free his cock. It's hard and flushed, bobbing in front of Shane's face, and he makes a soft little sound in his throat. Wordlessly, Ilya grabs his cock and feeds it into Shane's mouth, and his eyes flutter closed, a throaty, content moan slipping out of him as the hard, hot flesh slides against his tongue.

"There you go," Ilya coos, "since you want something in your mouth, huh?"

He pets at Shane's hair, fingers tangling in the strands at the back, and Shane groans as he gets to work, laving his tongue across the underside of Ilya's cock as he sucks. He tastes so fucking good, every time, and he easily loses himself in it, the rhythm coming so easily to him. He lets it get a little messy, saliva pooling in his mouth and making obscene sounds as he works, Ilya gasping above him. He does this for a little while, and then he slides off to give little kisses and kitten licks, nosing down to Ilya's balls. He licks the seam of his sac, takes one into his mouth and rolls it against his tongue, making Ilya tighten his fingers in his hair and groan. Ilya moves, puts his cock back into Shane's mouth and starts fucking it, breathing heavily. Shane relaxes his jaw and allows himself to be used, head in the clouds. Ilya is panting and groaning, and Shane is lost in the slide of his cock against his tongue, the taste of his skin and precum, the scent of his sweat.

He swears in Russian, pulling out, and rests his cock against Shane's lips. He opens his eyes and takes in Ilya's face, flushed, his eyes dark and wild, as he pants into the quiet air of the bedroom. His cock throbs against Shane's mouth, and it makes him leak. He presses a soft kiss to it, looking up at Ilya and watching his face.

"On the bed," Ilya growls.

Before Shane can really move, Ilya grabs him, hauling him up off the floor bodily. It thrills him, and he allows himself to be manhandled into place as Ilya pushes him face-forward onto the bed. He bounces on the mattress, and looks over his shoulder, silently asking where he should go.

"On your stomach, like that. Ass up for me. Get up top and rest on the pillows if you need." He sounds fucking wrecked.

Shane wordlessly does as he's told, crawling up the bed until his torso is settled against some of the pillows. He grabs one and tucks it under his hips, and grabs another to tuck under his chin. He looks back over his shoulder to see Ilya taking his clothes off, and when he's naked, he reaches into the bedside table to grab the lube, tossing it onto the bed. Shane settles back into place, spreading his legs a little, and feels the mattress dip as Ilya finally joins him on the bed. He settles in behind him, and Shane lets out a pleased sigh as he starts running his hands over his body— starting at the top, from his shoulders, down his back, before taking handfuls of his ass cheeks and squeezing, then down the backs of his legs, like he's cataloguing him.

He reaches back up and hooks his fingers into the collar, giving it a gentle tug. Shane's eyes, which had drifted closed to enjoy being groped, fly open, and he honest to god fucking whimpers at the feeling of it pressing into his neck as it's pulled.

"Oh," he gasps, sounding a little strangled. His cock pulses against the pillow under his hips.

"What a pretty noise," Ilya teases. "There will be more of that tonight. I like the sound of it."

Shane shudders at that promise. His whole body feels like it's on fire, a little, in the best way possible. He's light and heavy all at once, floating in space while remaining pinned to the bed by the feeling of the collar on his neck and the heat of Ilya's body as he looms over his back. he lets go of the collar and clearly moves down the bed. There's some movement as he adjusts position, the mattress dipping and moving, and he settles. Shane swallows, anticipation rushing through his body, making him feel on edge in the very best way possible.

Ilya grips his ass cheeks, spreads them apart. Shane moans, face flushing hot at how exposed it is, relishing in it a little. His cock throbs. He waits for the sound of the lube bottle, thrills in the anticipation of Ilya's perfect fingers touching him and opening him up.

Instead, he feels the warm, wet slide of Ilya's fucking tongue across his hole, and he lets out a little squeak. His cock throbs again, and he feels himself leak against the pillow. Ilya makes a satisfied little noise, and then he goes for it, lapping against Shane's hole with broad, firm strokes of his tongue. He licks at him eagerly, and when he gets the tip of his tongue inside of Shane, he arches, pushing back into it, clawing at the sheets beneath him.

"Oh fuck, oh my god," he moans out, the words sounding punched out of him.

Ilya alternates between those broad strokes, flicks of his tongue, and plunging the tip of it into him, and it makes Shane feel crazy. He's making more noise now than he has all night, wordless sounds just sort of pouring out of him while Ilya eats him out relentlessly. Ilya is clearly enjoying this just as much as he is, moaning loudly behind him as he works, and it makes Shane's cock pulse and leak steadily against his stomach, and the pillow under his hips has got to be a goner, after this. Maybe he could come from this— but he doesn't want to, not this time. He wants Ilya's cock inside of him so bad it aches. That little dog inside of him paces, prowling, drooling and snarling. Aching for what it wants.

"Fuck me." It comes out almost like a growl, surprising him a little. "Fuck me, please, Ilya, I need it so fucking bad."

Ilya makes a rumbling noise, and pulls his mouth away. "Awful bossy, Hollander." His voice is like gravel, raw with his own desire, and Shane knows he's not really all that fussed about being bossed around right now.

Shane hears the cap of the lube bottle, and then, blessedly, Ilya is pressing two fingers into him at once. They both groan as he breaches him, Shane opening up a little easier after Ilya's ministrations with his tongue, and he feels relieved as he's filled a little. Ilya gets right to work, crooking his fingers at just the right angle to brush Shane's prostate and make him moan, hot pleasure dancing through his body like a spark. He's being efficient, but he makes sure to hit all the right spots to wring more pleasure out of Shane, keeping him wet and eager and moaning into the mattress. He's pushing back on his fingers by the time Ilya adds a third one, and he feels a little delirious with his need.

"Get your fucking cock in me, for the love of god," Shane grits out.

Ilya chuckles. "Now when did you get so demanding, Shane? Did not know that dogs were so mouthy."

Shane flushes, full body, and he lets out a wild little noise. He feels himself leak more. He can hardly be embarrassed about it— he's so lost in the haze of his arousal that he doesn't even give a fuck that he would, in any normal circumstance, be very embarrassed about this. He's far past that, at this point.

"Ah, I thought so." Ilya sounds so fucking smug, the bastard. "Turn over."

He does as he's told, and when met with Ilya's gaze, he flushes again, body hot. He fights the urge to cover his face, pushing through that thin layer of embarrassment and tossing it aside. Ilya looks just as hungry as Shane feels, despite his teasing, and it gives him renewed vigor. He doesn't let himself break eye contact, and grabs his own thighs, spreading his legs and putting himself obscenely on display. Ilya visibly swallows.

"Jesus Christ," he says, voice ragged. He swears in Russian, harsh and low.

He moves lightning fast to grab the lube and slick his cock, and he lets out a sort of growl as he grabs Shane and lines himself up. They both moan as he pushes in, and Shane tilts his head back, exposing his throat and letting his eyes close. Finally, Ilya sinks into him, and his body eagerly accepts, satisfaction lighting up his nerve endings as he's properly filled. When Ilya bottoms out, they just stay there like that for a moment. Shane opens his eyes to see Ilya above him, looking a little strained. He feels utterly pleased at the sight, knowing it's taking all of his strength not to come right this second, triumphing at the fact that he's the one that does this to Ilya Rozanov.

A menace on the ice, hockey's favorite bad boy, reduced to this, all at Shane's mercy. This is what he loves about this; their push and pull, the way they almost seamlessly pass control to each other, their never-ending dance of giving and taking. Shane submits to Ilya— gladly, willingly, with happiness and pleasure, allowing him to push and take control of his body— but he makes him work for it, takes just as much back, always wrestling a little and making it a challenge. Shane makes Ilya work, and they both get rewarded for it, and it lights his blood on fire. Here, now, in this room, Ilya might as well be wearing a fucking collar too, the way he's looking at Shane like he's the only thing holding him in place.

He finally starts moving, and it makes Shane gasp. He reaches up, grips Ilya's forearms as he starts pumping his hips, setting a steady pace that's not overly fast, but still makes sparks travel down his spine, lighting him up. Ilya lowers himself down after a moment, crashing their mouths together, and Shane licks into the kiss immediately, using teeth and tongue. Ilya gives back the energy, and their kiss is more biting and licking than kissing, and it makes heat pool in his stomach, toes curling. He claws at Ilya's shoulders as they ravage each other's mouths, panting against each other.

"You feel so fucking good," Ilya grunts as he steadily fucks into Shane. His eyes are a little wild. "Feels like you were fucking made for me."

Shane lets out a garbled moan. He couldn't agree more, but he's finding it much harder to grasp language now that Ilya is fucking him, his head swimming with sensation and the pulsing refrain of more, more, harder, please that he can't even bring himself to vocalize. He's so fucking wet, stomach smeared with his precum. His whole body is pulsing; need, arousal, Ilya fucking into him, all of it amalgamating in him like a full-body heartbeat. He makes himself keep his eyes open and on Ilya while he fucks him, staring at his face and all of the expressions he's making, soaking it in.

He wants to stretch the moment out into eternity. If he had his way, they would stay here like this, in his bed in the cottage, fucking and kissing and breathing each other's air like there's nothing else in the world they need. Ilya's so beautiful above him, flushed and sweating and looking like he wants to swallow Shane as he fucks him.

A sudden image possesses him, and he gasps. Ilya's eyes widen, and Shane gets into motion, flipping Ilya over expertly. He looks genuinely shocked, gaping a little, trying to figure out what the fuck is happening. But Shane doesn't give him too much time to question it or get pulled out of the moment— he adjusts, sinks back down onto Ilya's cock as he brackets his hips with his thighs, and Ilya's face blooms into this beautiful look.

"Oh, fuck, yes," he moans, grabbing Shane's hips and squeezing.

He leans forward a little, bracing his hands on Ilya's chest, gripping his (incredible, god he loves them) tits and squeezing as he gets to work, moving his hips and bouncing. It's so much deeper this way, and Shane lets out a truly filthy moan as he sets a rhythm and starts his ride, grinding down every time his ass meets Ilya's pelvis. It feels so fucking good, and he's making even more noise now, but so is Ilya, the both of them filling the room with their gasps and moans and grunts alongside the obscene wet slide of Ilya's cock as Shane works himself on it. It's so good so fast, and Shane would give the world to have this go on for hours, but his body is burning with the need to chase his pleasure, and he gives into the instinct, feeling ravenous.

"Fuuuck," he bites out, keeping himself bottomed out and grinding hard on Ilya's cock. "You feel so fucking good, Ilya, fuck."

"Don't you fucking stop." Ilya's voice is a growl. "Want you to come like this, fuck."

"I'm going to," he pants, "fuck, Ilya, gonna come on your fucking cock—" He cuts himself off with a moan, pleasure licking hot waves up his spine.

He's getting alarmingly close fast, but Ilya looks like he's not faring any better at all, digging his fingers into Shane's hips hard enough to bruise. He looks utterly fucking wrecked, the blue of his eyes swallowed by his pupils, mouth open in a perfect, pretty o shape as he moans and shakes under Shane. He bucks his hips up, meeting Shane's thrust, and they both moan, making punched out noises nearly in tandem. Ilya moves, reaching up, and then he's tugging on the ring at the front of Shane's collar, pulling him close. He just looks at him, gaze piercing and heated, and a wave rolls through Shane, making him bodily shudder.

The pressure of the collar being pulled makes his body flood with heat. His eyes widen, and he feels his orgasm starting to crest. His rhythm falters, and he gasps, trying to remain coherent enough to reach his climax.

"Come on," Ilya growls. "Come for me, Shane, come on my fucking cock."

Shane howls as his body obeys, eyes going wide. It rushes into him, and he digs his nails into Ilya's chest as his whole body spasms with his orgasm, ribbons of come landing on the both of them as he clenches. His breath is coming out in punched-out gasps. Ilya damn near growls, and while Shane is still helpless to the orgasm wringing his body out, he flips them over again, driving his cock relentlessly into him. Shane clings to him a little helplessly, his body on fucking fire.

"Fuck, Shane, I'm coming, fuck, fuck—"

"Give it to me," Shane gasps, strangled. "Please, please, I want it, give it to me Ilya, come on."

That's what tips him over the edge, and Ilya curls in on himself a little over Shane as he lets out a loud gasp, hips stuttering as he starts coming. Shane feels him spilling hot inside of him, and whines, arching up a little. He's so fucking sensitive, he's so full, Ilya is everywhere around him, pinning him in place against the mattress as he empties himself.

He collapses onto Shane as he finally finishes, and they just lie tangled together, panting as they catch their breath. They're both sweaty and covered in cum. Shane feels light, boneless underneath the warm, reassuring pressure of Ilya's weight on top of him. Ilya does eventually pull out after a minute, both of them hissing a little with oversensitivity, and then he tries to roll off of Shane, but he pulls him back down.

"No, stay here," he says, and his voice is softer now, a little hoarse. "Feels nice."

Ilya hums, and doesn't object, settling on top of him. Shane hugs him close, buries his nose against his curls and inhales the scent of his hair. His weight feels so comforting, pressing him down in a way that soothes him, and helps ease the feeling that he might float away. He still feels a little hazy, light and warm, his thoughts a slow crawl. He can't really focus on much outside of his immediate sensory bubble, but that's fine, he thinks. Ilya is here, on top of him, holding him in place and keeping him safe.

He drifts like this for a little while, and Ilya runs his hands all over his body— gentle but firm, massaging his skin and slowly making him come fully back into himself. He blinks, and moves a little, slow and unhurried, nuzzling against Ilya and content to just let himself be touched.

"Moya lyubov," Ilya says gently after a little while, "we should get cleaned up."

Shane's face scrunches. He's boneless and dead fucking tired, now that his orgasm has finished wringing him out and he's relaxed into the bed. He wants to go to sleep like this, but he also knows that he'll be pissed as all hell if he wakes up sticky and crusty. He sighs dramatically.

"Okay, fine. Take me away, prince charming."

Ilya laughs. "Let me help you out of this."

He'd kind of forgotten he was wearing the collar, but he nods. They adjust, sitting up, and Ilya makes quick work of unbuckling it and sliding it off Shane's neck. He sets it on the nightstand, and leans back in to press a soft kiss to Shane's neck where it was just sitting. He hums happily, and Ilya gives him a sweet, earnest smile.

"Okay, into the bathroom." He nudges at Shane.

They get up and get cleaned up. When Shane finishes in the bathroom, he walks out to see Ilya finish putting a new blanket on the bed. The other one definitely has cum on it, along with the pillow that Shane had been using to prop himself up. They'll have to do laundry tomorrow. For now, though, Shane sinks into the bed with a long, happy sigh. Ilya crawls in next to him, and immediately pulls him close against his chest. He feels warm, safe, and on the verge of passing out.

"Thank you," Ilya says quietly, into the darkness.

"Hm?" Shane is right on the edge of sleep, and he doesn't even open his eyes, feeling heavy. "For wha?"

"For sharing with me. For bringing me here. For being… good dog." His voice is soft, but oh so smug.

Shane flushes, and his eyes open. He turns a little in Ilya's arms, and he can only partially see him in the darkness through the weak moonlight coming in through the windows. He's grinning, Shane can tell. It should irritate him, but he feels a rush of affection, instead.

"Thank you for making me feel safe." It comes out a little mumbled; he's so fucking tired. he wants to say more, but it's hard.

Ilya makes a soft noise, and kisses Shane's shoulder sweetly. "Of course."

"I love you," Shane says, not quite slurring his words, but close enough.

"I love you." His voice is gruff, but sweet.

They'll talk about this more— but for now, Shane is falling asleep in the arms of the man he loves, and that's enough. He feels safe. He feels seen, cradled gently.

The dog in him preens.