Chapter Text
Ilya, by way of Svetlana and his own interests, knows more than his fair share about fashion. Certainly, he knows more than Shane, who still, after all these years, finds the same dull outfits making up most of his side of their closet.
Ilya loves him and all his deliciously boring, safe choices.
It’s not a hardship to admire Shane in bland t-shirts and jeans, in the same cut of a suit over and over again. Shane could wear anything—a tutu, a fursuit, a mishmash of rusty, clanking metal armor, goalie pads—and Ilya would be dizzyingly into him.
It would be almost embarrassing if he weren't exactly what Ilya wants. Always. To a degree that has been called psychologically damaging, and maybe a little codependent and scary for innocent bystanders.
Well, Ilya has always said that people are jealous of him for his own talents. But now that he and Shane are tied together, permanently? He can only imagine the wails of despair that left every hot-blooded person in North America when the news dropped, to say nothing of the rest of the world.
How bereft they all must be to know that it is he and Shane against them all.
Shane is his, in a dazzlingly beautiful way, love threaded through every motion, every sweet touch, every annoyed snap. Ilya has doubts about many things, but he doesn't doubt his love for Shane or Shane's love for him. How could he? If he were to unravel the bones that make him, every single one would be stamped with an ode to Shane Hollander. Shane has chosen him over hockey; he understands exactly the depth of his affection.
That, however, doesn't mean he isn't greedy.
Oh, he has Shane in all the ways he's always wanted and in some ways he hadn't dared hope for all those years before—it just doesn't stop him from wanting more.
He is a selfish, insatiable man. It's one of the backbones of his very nature; he wants, and he yearns, and he cossets, over and over and over again.
Shane plays the game of disapproval easily enough, with his furrowed brow and stern no's, but Ilya knows him well enough now; nothing makes him feel as dazzlingly euphoric as Ilya making sure he knows he is owned.
And Ilya knows too, it only works as well as it does because he truly is the one who sits and stays and pants after Shane as if a dog; he's only in control because Shane allows it.
Still. The illusion is heady, and there is nothing Ilya loves more than the whines for more Shane lets slip when Ilya is notched deep inside of his tight ass. When the grip on Shane's throat, the bruises of his fingers on his hips, the hickeys sucked into his skin aren't enough.
And nothing says possession more than a ring on the finger. Nothing says I love you, more than a gaudy statement piece. Nothing says, I want you more than life itself, than blowing irresponsible amounts of money on clothes and jewelry, simply for the dazzling sight of his husband gleaming in gems, in bespoke finery, all because Ilya would ask.
Which is how he finds himself in the habit of searching up luxury brands when Shane slips from their bed to go running with Anya each morning.
The noise Shane often makes when he slides back into bed, hair damp from his shower, and catches sight of the various pieces Ilya is looking at is always one of faint disbelief, a shocked-annoyed huff of people really spend money on this? that Ilya treasures every time he can drag it out of him.
Initially, Ilya had stuck with clothing, with brands that charge thousands for a sleek pair of trousers or hundreds for a single pair of sunglasses. He had liked imagining Shane annoyed in the clothes, had liked imagining how fussy he would get when stripping down, how precise he'd be in the folding and care of each piece. The thought of how strict he'd be about properly washing the fabric, about the exacting way he would shake it out to prevent creases; it had stirred Ilya's blood hotter than even he had anticipated.
Watching Shane disrobe for sex is one of Ilya's favorite things in the world, if only because he is deadly serious about how exacting he is. It’s his own little pre-fuck show, made all the hotter by the way he knows Shane won't even remember anything but the feeling of his cock inside of him and the heavy press of his hands at the end of the night. All that care, just to be made stupid by dick.
The way in which Shane can change from stern and deliberate to wet-eyed and begging wantonly in a moment, all because of Ilya's touch—
It's unbelievable.
And the thought of him getting even more finicky about taking care of his expensive clothes, only to be laid out with desire mere moments later, is—
Well, everyone should be jealous, that's all Ilya is saying.
But, despite his perusal of clothing and the distant thoughts of imagining Shane draped in sheer, low-cut silk button-downs and slacks that cost more than six months of their groceries, Ilya hasn't bought any of the clothes. There's just something about them that doesn't fit.
Ilya loves to spoil Shane. Loves it in a way that has been called concerning, given the way he is ready, willing, and able to spend more money irresponsibly than most people will see in their bank accounts ever.
He just doesn't want the pieces to be entirely useless. Oh, sure, there's a level of decadent deliciousness in the thought of buying clothes simply to strip Shane out of them, but he doesn't want Shane uncomfortable, doesn't want this itch to turn into an actual aggravation.
It's a fine line to walk, but it's one that he's dedicated his life to learning, and he's always thrilled to push it just a little bit, to earn another level of understanding.
In the end, though, his purchases are Shane's own fault.
“Oh,” he says, as he slides back into bed next to Ilya, his eyes fixed on Ilya's phone as he scrolls through designer sites, aimlessly searching. “That's pretty.”
Ilya's fingers stop, and the glittering necklace he'd been about to scroll by lingers on the screen.
“This?” he asks, tilting his head up to meet Shane's gaze.
Shane rolls his eyes. “Yes,” he says, as if it's expected of him, as if he's ever had a serious thought about jewelry—besides their rings—in his entire life. “I like the—” He wiggles his fingers, his cheeks lightly flushed. “I don't know, the sparkle of it? It's glittery.”
“You like the sparkle,” Ilya repeats. He feels oddly breathless, his mind suddenly full of Shane draped in gems and gold, a beautiful thing to be treasured. Forget satin and silk, all Ilya can think of is the glitter of a choker against the soft skin of Shane's neck. He shifts, his cock thickening against his thigh, heat prickling under his skin. “You?”
Shane glares at him. “I can like things that aren't just hockey,” he says indignantly, crossing his arms. “I can contain multitudes." Ilya smirks and doesn't dodge the swat at his shoulder, his smirk turning knowing as Shane clutches at his bare skin and jostles him. “Oh, fuck off.”
“I wasn't saying you could not like the necklace,” Ilya murmurs, dropping his phone onto his bedside table and reaching out for him, dragging him closer into his arms. The bed is warm between them, their room a quiet sanctuary. Shane hasn't opened the curtains yet, and everything is painted in soft shades of gray, as if all of Ilya's dreams have come crawling out of his heart. He pulls Shane's right hand up from where it's curled between them, pressing a kiss to the back of his knuckles and lapping teasingly over the ridges of them, before he lifts his head back up. ”You haven't mentioned liking fancy jewelry before, moy lyubimyj. Forgive me for being startled.”
Shane harrumphs, his nose wrinkling, and Ilya doesn't try to stop his smile as it unfurls across his face. “What can I do to make it up to you, sweetheart?” he murmurs, smattering kisses across the underside of his jaw. “I do not want my husband to be so angry with me.”
Shane rolls his eyes. “I'm not angry with you,” he says, as he tilts his head back. Ilya listens to his wordless request and follows the line of his throat with his mouth, scraping his teeth over his soft skin. “Oh fuck, Ilya,” he murmurs, as Ilya digs his teeth into the slope of his neck, worrying at the muscle. He may not have the glittering jewelry to drape Shane in yet, but he can make his own sort of beautiful decorations. As if in agreement, Shane's hands slide up and tangle in Ilya’s hair, and Ilya hums at the gentle ache as his grip tightens with every slow suck.
Ilya presses a final sloppy kiss to the darkening mark and pulls back, meeting Shane's dazed eyes. He's hot under the collar, warmed through with devious intent and smoldering greed.
“You would look very pretty in gold,” Ilya murmurs, watching as Shane flushes and squirms, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. A familiar safety net to hide behind, one that fails to truly keep him quiet, not that Shane knows how loud he is, as his moans rattle up his throat. “Dazzling. Glorious. My pretty little treasure, kept safe and locked up, dripping in gems.”
Shane's eyes flash, a familiar bratty look in them, but Ilya swoops in and captures his mouth before he can complain about being kept, even though they both know it sets his blood aflame.
Shane kisses him back, licking into his mouth, sucking on his tongue, before he seems to remember himself and shoves back, panting. “I didn't say I wanted it for me, Rozanov,” he says, scrambling up the bed to push Ilya flat onto his back, swinging a thigh over his hips to settle over his lap. “I just said it was pretty.”
Ilya hums, shrugging. “Pretty jewelry for a pretty husband,” he says, his hands immediately sliding up under the soft navy shorts Shane's wearing; one of the only clothing pieces left from his Metros’ days. “You would look beautiful.”
Shane shivers, grinding down on instinct, their cocks dragging against one another. Even through the layers of clothes and the thin top sheet, it's decadently good, a familiar flashbang of heat sizzling between them.
But, even better is the hesitant headshake, which Ilya knows after all these years is nothing more than a wordless, convince me.
“Oh?” Ilya says, his voice low and coaxing, as if he is sweet-talking Anya to come back inside, an edge of I know what you need better than you do laced in the tone. “You do not think so? You do not think you would be the envy of everyone if you were draped in jewelry?” He pauses, lowering his voice to a rumble. “In golden chains I have picked out for you?”
Shane gasps, a soft, uncertain sound, nearly swallowed by the rhythm of his shifting hips, almost lost beneath the steady beat of Ilya’s breathing. He looks as though Ilya has wound his fingers straight through the meat of him, as if he has cupped his hands around his wet heart, another layer of protection from the vast, dangerous world.
“You would be glorious, moy lyubimyj,” Ilya murmurs, his fingers dancing up Shane's thighs, ghosting over the damp head of his cock, already leaking in his pants. “Everyone would be jealous that I have such a precious husband, would be jealous that of all the people there, I would be the only one allowed to touch.”
“Would you?” Shane asks, his eyes dark when Ilya meets them, his mouth parted as his tongue sweeps across his pink lips. “Touch me?”
Ilya grins, a slow, filthy unraveling of lust spilling across his face. “Moya shlyukha, I would not be able to keep my hands off of you,” he rasps, palming his dick, grinning at the faint squelch, the wet drag of his fingers. Shane bucks into his hand, his jaw dropping open, slack with need. Ilya's whole heart aches as he watches his husband sink into pleasure, hitching whimpers escaping from his throat. “You would be the star of the room, no? Every eye would be on you, thorns in their heart for all they cannot have.”
“You do,” Shane reminds him, as if it's needed, as if Ilya cannot feel it in each clench of his thighs, each wandering drag of his fingers, in the way his hips roll across Ilya's, involuntary, strangled whines rising from his mouth. “You always have.”
Ilya's ears are ringing with the percussive force of Shane's love. The faint gleam of sunshine slips around the edges of their blackout curtains, painting the outline of Shane's body in a hazy, dim gold. His face is shadowed with lust, shades of syrupy pleasure spilling across the edges of his mouth, the tremble of his lashes.
He is Aphrodite reborn, rising from the waves; a beauty so thrilling, Ilya's hands itch to paint him, for all that he has never painted before. To capture a mere hint of his person against the page is something beyond possibility, he thinks. Shane could never be painted as he is, could never have the whole of him rendered down to anything two-dimensional. He could spend years, and devote himself to just the curve of Shane’s mouth, to the shade of his eyes; a work that would never be complete, love creating a new depth for him to notice every day.
“Everywhere we go,” Ilya rumbles, fierce devotion bubbling in every word, “I would settle jewelry against your wrists, your fingers, your neck. I would put you in exquisite things, just to see them dull against your skin, moya zvezda. Everyone would know how precious you are to me. Everyone would know you are mine.”
Ilya can feel Shane’s cock twitch with every slow word whispered, can feel the spurt of precum that leaks at the possessive tone.
He reaches out and curls his fingers into Shane’s waistband, tugging his shorts down as Shane shifts enough for him to slide them off and toss them into the corner of the room.
“Ilya,” Shane whines, his lower lip caught between his teeth as he yanks the sheet out from between them. His eyes are low-lidded, his heavy gaze scorched through with wanting. “Please.”
Ilya kicks his own pants off, uncaring as they disappear beneath the mess of blankets at the foot of their bed, and grabs Shane instead, helping him settle back in his lap.
The brush of skin is almost unbearably good as Shane's cock drools steadily, precum weeping from the tip.
Ilya's whole gut clenches, hot and flashing, uncontainable desire unspooling. He's winded with pleasure, broken down by the sin of lust.
“Would you—” Shane starts, and then gasps, as Ilya wraps his hand around both of their dicks. He moans as Ilya's other hand scratches across his chest, thumbing across his nipple. As if in answer, both of Shane's hands settle on his shoulders as he leans back against the pillows, grinning up at Shane. He adores that he gets be so wonderfully smug underneath Shane; he deserves it—this is his husband. No one will ever see him beautifully undone like this. “Shit, Ilya, would you—oh, fuck—would you make sure everyone knows? That I'm, oh god, yours?”
For a second, Ilya cannot find the words. Here is his perfect, gorgeous, slutty little husband, cock weeping in his hand, stinging marks scored across his chest, old, purple bruises of Ilya’s mouth spaced out across the backs of his shoulders, and the notches of his spine; here he is, pleading for more. Whining to be owned, as if it is not Ilya's whole life to bend to his whims, to possess him with everything.
Asking, as if the answer could be anything other than yes.
“No one would doubt it,” Ilya promises, the words rolling off his tongue with deadly certainty. He keeps his pace on their cocks steady, despite how badly he wants to speed up, watching hunger grow in every line of Shane. “Would lay claim to you forever, lyubimyj. Would dress you in nothing more than sparkling, pretty jewelry and keep you next to me.” He inhales, meeting Shane's eyes and letting his next words pool in his mouth until they burn with the force of his desire. “Would keep you chained to me forever, sweetheart; a tether that could never be undone.”
Shane's gaze goes black with want, feral greed eclipsing all sense as he bucks into Ilya's hand.
The hot scorch of his dick, the wet pulse of his precum as it drips down his knuckles, paints his cock in sloppy need; heat splinters under Ilya's skin, sweat collecting at his temples as his eyes land on Shane's face, watching the fervent desire slacken his mouth.
He tightens his grip, a shallow, cruel smirk kicking up at the sight of Shane's pink lips wet with spit, drool bubbling in the corners as he whimpers for more. He pinches his nipple, just to hear him squeak, twisting until it throbs under his fingers, and Shane whines, a sweet yelp of hunger broken on his tongue.
His jaw aches. He wants to sink his teeth into Shane's throat, wants to burrow into his ribs and carve a space just for him. He wants to put his fingers in Shane's mouth, wants to feel the tart sugar rush of pain as his jaw snaps shut, the grind of teeth on bone.
“Should get you a collar,” Ilya snarls, watching Shane's damp face as it splits open with devastating want, the stark brilliance of it clear in the tacky trails of tears that spill from his eyes. He feels delirious as he speaks, wonders if the hunger he feels is the same that made people offer sacrifices to the ancient gods; he wonders what he would do to make sure that Shane can never look away from him. He does not have to wonder long—the answer is anything. “Should make you go to your knees, should show everyone how good you are for me, moya zvezda, no? Show them how easily I own you.”
Shane leans in closer, curving in as if Ilya’s the sun and he is nothing more than a new spring growth, soaking in the sunshine, leaves trembling on the wind; he is a flower blooming under the bright gleam of his devotion, supplication in the bend of his spine.
His face is close enough that Ilya can lick across his cheekbones, the taste of tears heady on his tongue. He imagines he can taste the greed that salts the drops, the sweet love that dissolves on his lips. He tastes like ethereal, radiant devoutness; like a prayer for possession whispered in the quiet of the night.
“Would you go to your knees?” Ilya asks, unable to help himself. Warmth crackles through his veins, buzzing at his nerves; nothing feels real as Shane slips impossibly closer, as Ilya readjusts mindlessly, their sweaty skin sticking. He hopes they will have to be peeled apart at the end of this all; hopes even more distantly that there will be no way to separate them. “Would you let them see?”
Shane sobs, his cock drooling as Ilya speeds up the pace of his hand, as he slides his other hand around to cup the back of Shane's nape. He digs his nails into the soft edges of his hairline, letting them into the tender bruises Ilya knows he has worried into his skin.
“I would,” Shane whines. His teeth catch on the corner of Ilya's mouth, drag across his jaw, his tongue wet and sloppy. Ilya hopes he bites for blood, would carry the scars of Shane's love proudly for the rest of his life, would turn so that every camera catches the imprint of his teeth. Love, he thinks wildly as he licks another tear from Shane's cheek, their mouths restless against one another's, is not a thing that should ever be hidden.
“Would, would, would—yours, Ilya, only ever yours—”
“Mine,” Ilya grinds back as an answer, a scythe of agonized desire in the single word. He's undone with heat and love, soaked through with pure hedonistic want.
Shane hiccups on a sob, the stutter of his cry split through with shrillness as he cums abruptly, soaking Ilya's hand and cock. Ilya inhales raggedly, the wet pump of his heart overwhelmingly full of smug pleasure as he works Shane over in firm strokes, listening to the pants of his breathing, chasing the high as they turn tight and sharp, overstimulated even as his hips thrust forward helplessly.
He's exactly how Ilya likes him, unraveled at the seams, caught in the waves of nothing more than feeling. He's consumed by the weight of the pleasure Ilya has plucked from him, by the heat of his hands and the teeth in his heart.
He's perfection made flesh, and he's all Ilya's.
“Wanna feel you,” Shane slurs, nuzzling into his cheek, his nose sliding across his skin, clumsy with the stuttering shocks of orgasm still sliding under his skin. His cock slides out of Ilya's grip, and he hisses into Ilya's mouth as his knuckles bump up against the softening heft of him, but he doesn't twitch away. Agony sloshes through Ilya's veins, thick and heavy with poisonously sweet desire. “Wanna—wanna see you, wanna have you.”
“You do,” Ilya murmurs, a vow and a refrain he will repeat for the rest of his life. He can feel his end sliding closer, the heavy weight of it pulling at his center. “You always have.”
Shane shifts, his teeth catching on the tip of Ilya's nose, a kiss smacking to the edge of his mouth, sloppy with love.
“You are so good for me,” Ilya whispers, unable to help himself as Shane slides one hand down, lacing their fingers together around Ilya's dick. The combined pressure dissolves the last of his barriers with ease as Ilya rocks into the weight of their hands, chasing his orgasm.
Pleasure builds in his molars, in the creak of his joints, the slick pump of their hands. It singes at the edges of his world, hungry and present, everlasting greed for more seeping through in every touch.
His heart is racing, his chest heaving. His eyes meet Shane's in the dim light of their bedroom, and all he can see is satisfaction in the wet curve of his smile, the damp tremble of his lashes.
“I love you,” Shane rasps, unlatching his heart with the same steadiness that has always undone Ilya. His brave husband. His beautifully kept treasure. His eternal north star. Ilya wonders if his mouth is permanently bruised with love, as he pushes forward to steal another kiss. He hopes it is; hopes that every kiss he presses against Shane’s skin is a permanent reminder.
He wants to be the only thing to ever hurt Shane; he never wants him to be alone in pain. He wants to protect him from all things that would scratch at his soft skin; he never wants him to ache without his fingers pressed to the bruise. He wants to be the only thing that Shane can have, wants to be the only thorn in his heart, wants to be the center of his world.
He wants him to be free and to choose him every day, to look and linger and want when Ilya is not beside him.
He is a monster built on the bones of love that Shane has given him, an acolyte to the ruination bestowed upon him with every ducked head, every sweet cry, every filthy kiss. He covets what he already has, eager to work his way into every crack, to wiggle his way into every soft spot.
“I love you,” Shane says again, and he sinks his perfect mouth of sharp teeth into the meat of Ilya's shoulder, as if he's heard the gluttonous agony surging in his mind, as if to remind him that he's just as monstrous with his desire, too.
It undoes him, the pain, the answer to his unasked plea. Heat incinerates his very being, a ferocious wave of decadence crashing through him as his cock twitches between their hands and he cums with a sharp exhale of Shane's name, the taste of love obvious with every letter spit from his mouth.
He gasps helplessly into the silky soft touch of Shane's hair, his teeth still sunk in his shoulder; he's not bleeding, he can tell, but the bruise will be lurid with the force of Shane's teeth, the indents traceable by finger, by tongue.
The thought makes him dizzy enough that another pulse spurts across their tangled hands, spilling between their bodies.
“Ye tebya lyublyu,” Ilya whispers as the white-hot ache of Shane’s teeth slides out from his skin. He settles against him easily, the weight of his body a familiar blanket that Ilya loves.
He languidly slides his hand down from Shane’s neck, tracing the length of his spine and back up. His mind is empty of everything but the touch of Shane, the warmth shared between them.
They cling to each other for a long moment, the haze of contentment bubbling up between them, thick and full. He has no other wants, at this moment, couldn't care less about anything other than Shane.
Sometimes, he worries that the force of his greed is overwhelming, that his clear and obvious intoxicating obsession is something he should pull back from.
But Shane has never once asked for less—has, in fact, only ever asked for more—and it's hard to imagine not feeling so much when Shane is his whole life.
He's not empty without Shane at his side, so much as a ghost, a shadow of a person. He misses him when he's not next to him, even sometimes when he is.
It's hard to contain his desire when they had taken so much time to arrive at their now, when there are years of missed opportunities and cratered longing. People who complain about their codependency simply don't understand that it's to make up for an agony that will never go away.
Their beginnings are pockmarked with deadly desperation and gritted, shamed teeth, with deeply dug graves of should have and wished for marking each stolen moment. The bones of sorrow make up their earliest encounters, sharp pangs of regret lining their veins. People who tell them to take more space from one another don't get that they've had all the space in the world; that they've already sacrificed enough.
“Hey,” Shane mumbles, dragging Ilya from his thoughts. He presses a kiss over the ache of his bite, Ilya's stomach swooping as if he had just confessed his love for him for the first time. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Ilya murmurs, flattening his palm against the small of his back. “Bath?”
Shane nods, but makes no move to get up, somehow sprawling out even more, winding in even closer. His breathing steadies, gentle puffs against Ilya’s neck, and Ilya knows that if they don't move now, their whole day will go to the dogs.
As tempting as it is to stay, to linger, to let the filth of their desire cling to them, he also knows that Shane will fuss for at least twenty-four hours if they lose the day.
“Come, lyubimyj,” Ilya whispers, nudging his face into Shane's. “You want to be clean, yes?”
“I don't want to move,” Shane mutters. He sounds worn out, with pleasant exhaustion in his voice, and sparks of pride ignite in Ilya's chest. He has done his due diligence clearly. “What if we just stay here forever?”
Ilya can’t help himself; he laughs, a soft, gentle noise that echoes the susurrus of wind rustling through winter-brittle reeds, a sound he only ever finds himself making around Shane.
“Don't be a dick,” Shane says, but the admonishment is poorly done; Ilya can hear the smile in his voice.
“You are so cute, Hollander,” Ilya says, nuzzling in to brush a kiss across every part of his face and head he can reach. He doesn’t stop until Shane's squirming in his arms, the edges of his pleased little smile clear even as he twists away from Ilya's mouth. “If we lose the day, you will not be happy, sweetheart, and I have sworn to keep you content.” He smacks a big kiss against the tip of his pinkening ear. “You are your own worst enemy, no?”
Shane sighs. “I think this is where someone would make a joke about marrying the wrong person,” he says, before he pushes himself up and meets Ilya's eyes. “But that would make me a liar, so I'm not going to.”
Ilya's heart dissolves into a puddle, and he can't stop himself from surging up, wrapping his arms around Shane's hips, and licking into his mouth.
He swallows down the warble of surprise, his fingers clenching down on his skin. He wants to bury himself inside of Shane, wants Shane to crawl inside of his ribs. Any moment spent apart is a moment wasted, a broken chain in the rhythm of his life.
“I love you more than life itself,” he rasps, pulling back just enough to breathe his words into Shane's mouth. “More than anything, moy lyubimyj.”
“Good,” Shane whispers back, nudging his nose forward so it drags against Ilya's. “It'd be a little embarrassing if I were the only one hopelessly in love here.”
“Never,” Ilya vows, and twists their bodies, his feet thumping against the wood as Shane yelps and nearly slides out of his grip before wrapping his legs around his waist. “Bath?”
“Put me down,” Shane shrills, even as he makes no move to scramble down. Ilya doesn't even try to hide his fond smile as Shane clings tighter as he rises, easily adjusting to Shane's weight. “Fucking—you're impossible, Ilya.”
“Mm, talk dirty to me more,” Ilya says, grinning when Shane grumbles under his breath as he steps into their ensuite. He glances around, unsurprised to find Shane's damp towel slung over the firmly established dirty hook, and snags it, tossing it over the edge of his side of the sprawling bathroom counter.
He sets Shane down carefully, ignoring his quiet mutters about getting the already used towel even dirtier, and swoops in to steal another kiss.
Shane coaxes his mouth open, sighing into the press of their lips and the slick touch of Ilya's tongue as if it's granted him relief, melting forward against Ilya.
They kiss until Ilya's mouth is buzzing, his lips swollen, his hair mussed from Shane's fingers tangling in his curls.
“Bath,” he says, when they part. English feels wretched in his mouth after the sweet taste of Shane. “You still want?”
“Uh-huh,” Shane murmurs, leaning back and hissing at the touch of his shoulders against the cool mirror. “Can we do epsom and eucalyptus?”
Ilya scoffs, his mouth curling into an exaggerated frown as he steps over to their clawfoot tub and twists the dial. “You think I have forgotten your post-fuck rituals already, Hollander? My brain has not leaked out of my ears yet, sweetheart.”
Shane rolls his eyes. “Sometimes I like to switch things up,” he says, like the liar he is. Shane only likes spontaneity spoonfed to him in bed, when he's clutched tight in Ilya's hands, the safest he will ever be; when spontaneity means nothing more than a slick unspooling of pleasure. “What if I was feeling lemon today?”
“You are not,” Ilya says, leaning over to flick on their diffuser. Immediately, the soothing scent of its clean, bright scent begins to fill the bathroom, the hiss of air undetectable beneath the rumble of water. “You do not like the lemon we have, malysh. You think it smells stale and rotten, like overripe, sour fruit.”
He glances over his shoulder, grinning broadly when Shane's eyes snap from his ass up to his face, his cheeks bright pink.
“See something you like?” Ilya croons, beaming as Shane goes impossibly pinker, his eyes wide as if he's been caught committing a crime, instead of just checking out his lawfully wedded partner.
He turns back to the tub, pretending that it isn't lighting him up inside to perform for his sex-addled, gorgeous husband. He slowly nudges the stopper into position, fiddling with it for far longer than he needs to as steam wreathes his face from the heat wafting off the water.
He pauses, glancing up for the jar of Epsom salt Shane keeps fully stocked on their little shelf next to the tub, and drops into a sluttier arch as he reaches, grinning at the faint noise of gutpunched arousal Shane makes.
Undeniably, this is one of his favorite games to play with Shane, as he nudges him slowly into finally taking what he wants.
All that repression had to go somewhere, he likes to joke, even when it makes Shane flush in embarrassment. It's unbelievably hot, though, the way the mere sight of him can dry out Shane's mouth, can make him eager enough to break his own personal rules. There’s nothing that feels as good as Shane worked up beyond words, whining for more with every desperate touch. Some of his favorite memories are when they get too frantic to fuck, too impatient to do much more than rut against one another, cum smearing between them. It's always a heady reminder of just how gone on one another they are, how nothing in Ilya's life is as fulfilling as his relationship with Shane.
“You're a tease,” Shane mutters as Ilya carefully pours in two cups of the salt. He sounds vaguely pleased and irritated by it, as if struck by the knowledge that Ilya is going to annoy him for the rest of his life.
Ilya hums, eyeing the water levels, before he sets the little jar back on the shelf and turns to look at Shane. “A tease means no follow-through, no?” he says, tilting his head. “I always follow through, do I not, lyubimyj?”
Shane blinks at him, a glassy-eyed expression on his face. “Yeah,” he murmurs after a beat, the mirror fogging up behind him, until all Ilya can see are the smudges of their bodies. “You do, baby. You always follow through.”
Ilya forces himself to stay across the room, despite how badly he wants to glut himself on Shane, despite how much he wants to spread him out across the cool floor tiles and rub his face against the soft and tender places, despite how he wants to set his teeth into the pulse of him just to feel an echo of his heart in his gums.
“You are very pretty, sweetheart,” Ilya coos, watching as Shane shifts on the counter, his face alight with wanting. “So good for me, malysh.”
“Yeah?” Shane asks, shy and sweet, trembling as Ilya draws himself up and saunters across the room. He can tell the tub is nearly to the level it should be, the thunder of water loud as it bounces off the walls.
“Yes,” Ilya says, and scoops Shane off the counter, grinning at his yelp. “You are always so good for me. The best husband in the world, yes? It’s why everyone on the team is jealous.”
Shane groans, burying his nose in the crook of Ilya’s neck. “They are not,” he admonishes, shaking his head as Ilya hefts him higher around his waist and contemplates the chances of him killing them both by accident if he tries to enter the tub like this. He’s pretty sure the odds are high, but he doesn’t really want to let Shane go, now that he has him back in his arms. “And—put me down, what are you, crazy? We’ll slip and drown, asshole.”
“But what a way to go,” Ilya teases, making kissy noises at him even as he detangles from his arms enough to glare at him. “The two of us, in a bath…”
“We are not making this a sex thing,” Shane says sternly, his brows drawing together. He accepts Ilya’s offered hand as he steps into the tub, hissing faintly at the temperature, before he twists the dial, and the flow of water halts. “Stop it. Your seduction has no place here.”
“Ack,” Ilya says, clutching at his heart. He doesn't even try to hide his stupid little grin. “Hollander, you wound me. You are my husband, and I cannot even seduce you?”
Shane shakes his head primly, his hair drifting around his face, and Ilya leans forward to grab a claw clip from the small stash he keeps on one of the hand-painted ceramic dishes that someone—the rookies, collectively, he thinks—had given them as a housewarming gift.
He spins without prompting, the water sloshing around his legs, and Ilya makes quick work of his hair, gathering it into a messy twist perched atop his head.
He sighs when Shane spins back around, beaming when his cheeks go pink again at the obvious lovesickness in his voice.
“You getting in, Romeo?” Shane asks, ducking his head. Ilya wants to gnaw on his cheekbones—wants to squeeze his cheeks until he pops. “Or are you just going to stand there and watch me take a bath?”
Ilya tsks, stepping in behind him and sinking into the water in one fluid motion. “You say this as if you would not like it,” he points out, tugging Shane down into his arms and sighing in relief when he goes easily, slipping back into his rightful place. The heat of the water feels incredible against his skin, waves of warmth soaking into his worn-out muscles. “You know you are a little show off, sweetheart. Nothing makes you happier than being able to perform.”
“For you,” Shane says, a smug tone threaded through the words, as if he has somehow bested Ilya's logic. Ilya hums an agreement as he continues, “And, I guess, on the ice. But that's not a performance, I'm just good at hockey.”
“Maybe you will be as good as me, one day,” Ilya says loftily, grinning at the strangled noise Shane makes in his throat, the gentle thud of his elbow against his ribs. “It’s very hard being the best.”
“I’ll show you the best,” Shane says grumpily, even as he leans back against Ilya’s chest. He sighs, tipping his head back as Ilya glances down.
“What?” Ilya says, indulgent fondness thick in his mouth. He can see the set of Shane's mouth, the faint downturn of his lips. “Don't pout, solnyshko,” he murmurs, reaching a damp finger up to trace the curve. “It makes me want to do terrible things to you.”
Shane blinks at him, and Ilya would believe he has no idea what he looks like if it weren't for the flutter of smug satisfaction in the tremble of his lashes.
“You will kill me dead, Hollander,” Ilya warns, dragging his fingertips up Shane's face, over his constellations of freckles. “Here lies Ilya Rozanov, the world's best hockey—”
“Second best,” Shane says, and Ilya gasps, loud and obnoxious, watching eagerly as Shane's mouth twitches.
“I cannot even go in peace,” he says, delighted and content and full of so much impossible lightness he feels like he could float. He wants to go back in time and find his seventeen-year-old self and say the pain will all be worth it in the end, wants to say, one day you'll wake up and want to live, wants to say you have so much love awaiting you, you won't even know what to do. His seventeen-year-old self would punch him, square on the mouth for daring to speak such things, he's sure, but he knows he would keep those words locked up in his heart, throughout the years. “You are such trouble, Hollander.”
Shane sniffs pointedly. “It's what my husband likes,” he says, twisting back around even as Ilya catches the grin on his face. He sighs, and Ilya can feel him relaxing as he winds a hand around his chest, keeping him secured.
“Well, who could not?” Ilya murmurs and lets himself sink into the heat of the bath, the weight of Shane in his arms, the smell of eucalyptus filling the room; most of the outside world is distant and easily tossed aside.
Not all of it, though.
Lingering in the background, Ilya can still hear the gentle curve of Shane’s voice around the words, that’s pretty, and resolves to make it a reality.
He would do anything for his Shane; to dress him in beautiful jewelry pieces would be nothing more than a genuine fucking delight.
The issue then becomes: he must find the perfect necklace.
As the weeks pass, he conducts actual research and then pretends to scroll past potentials in bed, cataloging Shane's reactions.
He doesn't like any of the heavier, flashier pieces and is drawn to the more delicate, flimsy ones. He has little to no excited reactions to silver, platinum, or white gold, but always lets his eyes linger on the true gold pieces. He likes the glitter of specific stones, likes the sheen of pearls. Despite his claims, Ilya is unsurprised; Shane has always been drawn to the more expensive things in life, despite having little to no drive to go out and get them for himself.
He's fussy, even when he pretends he doesn't care. Ilya can always tell the ones he's disapproving of, simply by the way his eyebrows furrow, before they try to smooth out. He thinks he’s so stoic, his Shane. He has no idea how easily his emotions bleed across his face, how blunt his attention is.
Of course, Ilya has spent well over a decade learning the way his face moves, tracking the minute shifts, the obvious ones. Shane is also unmasked with him, unwilling to truly hide, something that Ilya treasures every single day.
It makes his whole heart clench when he thinks on it too hard, makes his vision blurry, when he thinks back to their first meeting, to the way he had searched Shane's face for malice and been stunned to find none.
How sweet you have always been, he sometimes whispers, when he is sunk deep in Shane, looking at his pink face, looking at the unyielding adoration that radiates from him. Could just eat you up.
Please, Shane always begs in return, and Ilya has always made good on his promise, glutting himself on the offering before him.
Ilya sighs longingly, glancing back at his phone. He already wishes Shane were home, but he's only just left.
He unlocks his phone, reopening his browser and typing in Edwardian jewelry, the closest thing to what he's been looking for, and the kind of pieces that Shane seems most drawn to.
He likes the pieces that drape across his collarbones, the delicate, thin chains that drip with opulence. He seems exceptionally intrigued by a tighter fit, too; chokers always keep his attention for a beat longer than almost anything else.
Ilya just hasn't found the right one yet. He'll know it when he sees it, just like he always has for all of Shane's gifts, but until then, he's been locked into scrolling, mindlessly opening new tabs, and trying different searches.
He's not quite sure how he's landed on the site he's found, by the time something catches his eye. Gilded Grace, High End Boutique Jewelry, the top of the webpage reads, and Ilya tilts his head as the shimmering jewelry spills across the page.
It's easily the closest he's ever gotten, and he's more eager than he expects as he starts to scroll, not bothering to filter anything. He doesn't want to accidentally miss it if it's here.
The piece catches his eye halfway down the page.
The necklace is delicate, spiderweb-thin gold spun into a gentle net of glittering opulence that spills down across collarbones and over the back of the model's shoulders from a thick, heavier-looking chain that wraps around their neck. The net can detach! The description reads when Ilya clicks into it, with a neat set of instructions for how to keep the carcanet on but remove the dangling, delicate, gauzy chains. Pearls and emeralds shimmer at the cross-sections of the meshed gold, sparkling dots of color, but the element that draws Ilya's eye the most is the thin gold loops that sit evenly spaced, delicately fastened to the heavy chain. There's one on each side, four in total, an odd extraneous piece to the jewelry that Ilya eyes for a long moment.
It looks like it’s deliberate, almost as if waiting for something to be connected. Ilya squints at the pictures and wonders if he could fit a finger through it, if it's been made to be used almost as if a lead clip.
Heat sits in his stomach as he stares at the loop of gold. He can hardly handle just imagining what Shane would look like draped in it, the exquisite mesh laid across his neck, over his collarbones, over his shoulders. How gentle Ilya would be forced to be as he hooked a finger in and directed.
It only adds to the pit of hunger. Shane, caught and collared at his feet, both of them knowing that despite the ownership settled around his neck, it's only his true obedience that will get him what he wants. Resist too much, and the delicate collar will snap.
He drops his hand to his dick, sighing at the touch. Fuck, he wishes Shane were home. The only thing that could make this better would be if he could see him. Or if he were on his knees, warming Ilya's cock like the good boy he tries so hard to be.
The thought of being able to glance between the hideously expensive necklace—twenty-three thousand dollars!—and Shane's teary-eyed face makes him groan. God, he loves him.
Ilya scrolls down to the description and gets intrigued immediately as he reads, Frequently Bought With: Golden Lyam, Emerald and Pearl.
He clicks on it, his heart thrumming wildly in his chest as he waits for the picture to load.
He bites his lip as it fills his screen; it's a wide braid of golden, nearly gossamer, individual chains looping over themselves, studded with matching pearls and emeralds. It's an odd length, he notes as he clicks through the images. Long enough to dangle low, with an odd filigreed loop at one end and a thin clasp at the other that looks as though it nearly won't fit over the width of the loop.
He tilts his head, still scrolling through the pictures. It could double as another choker necklace if it were to wrap around Shane's neck twice, with another wide loop of the braided chain that would sit low on his chest, but he doesn't understand why it would ever be bought with the first one. It's beautiful work, but aside from the emeralds and pearls, it's not—
The final picture loads, and all of the blood in Ilya's head reroutes to his dick.
Oh. Oh.
It's not another goddamn necklace. It's a fucking leash.
Ilya nearly blacks out as he tugs his cock out, fisting it easily. The slide of his palm is a dry drag, an almost burn, but he's too desperate to scramble for lube, instead spitting into his hand and groaning at the touch.
Heartstopping ideas fill his mind.
Shane, bent over in front of him, the necklace on, the leash a careful pressure against his throat as Ilya tugs him further back on his cock. Shane, dazzlingly beautiful, his face red, his eyes teary, spread out across their sheets, only wearing the collar, his leash dragging at his side, a reminder of just how quickly he can be brought to heel. Shane, forced to hold the leash in his mouth delicately, drool sliding down the golden chain, making a mess as he whines around his expensive, precious mouthful for more.
Shane, glittering and aroused. Shane, with that familiar look of dazed pleasure in his eyes. Shane, wearing jewelry that he would normally scoff at, all because Ilya asked.
Shane and his perpetual need to make Ilya happy.
“Fuck,” Ilya breathes out, pleasure skittering down his spine. His phone slips out of his suddenly nerveless fingers, sliding across their sheets. The thought of it is almost too much somehow, exacerbated by how annoyed Shane would be if he were to know how much money this would cost.
He wouldn't turn it away, though, Ilya knows. His cheeks would heat, and he'd bluster and bitch at the price, but he'd wear it, and his eyes would get that smug gleam they get when Ilya spoils him, and he'd grow impossibly, beautifully pliant in Ilya's hands, kneeling at Ilya's feet—
Desire sings in his veins at the mere thought. Heat races through his body, seeping into the hollow parts of him, filling him with warmth.
He's undone with greed, hot with imagining the expression on Shane's face if he were to get cum on the delicate piece, with imagining the way his face would go from pleasure-soaked to irritated. He can imagine it down to the exact expression of indignation.
It's nearly as enticing as his earlier thoughts; he’s consumed with love for Shane, with hunger for every piece of him.
He groans at the thought of Shane leashed, at the expression in his eyes. Would he wear the necklace out? Ilya can hardly even handle the thought of it; Shane collared in public, the feeling of watching his throat bob and knowing that it’s his claim made public by the gold chain around his neck.
Dizzying hunger rises in his veins as his hand speeds up. A lightning bolt of want has struck through the core of him, leaving him brutally undone; it would almost be shameful how fast he is reaching his peak, if it weren't for the fact that Shane is the hottest person alive, the most beautiful husband the world has ever been lucky enough to behold.
And Ilya gets to keep him.
It's that thought that undoes him, that sends him writhing through the devastating whirlpool of pleasure, heat crackling up his spine. Cum splatters across the bedsheets, spills down his tight fist, his whole body alight with satiation as he comes down.
He pants, wiping his hand across the sheets and snagging his phone.
It's an easy decision in the end, even after scrolling through their other options. Nothing sparks nearly anything as ferocious in him, though there are some other necklaces and earrings that he bookmarks for later, if this first one goes over well. Heat rolls through him at the thought of glittering diamonds peeking out from Shane's ears, but he shoves the hunger back. What he's found is enough; more than enough.
He grins helplessly up at the ceiling, delighted beyond comparison that this—this sweet, utter perfection—is his life, before he shakes himself out of his daydreaming.
He has more important things to do today than linger in his own filth: a purchase to make, sheets to clean, and a husband to surprise.