Chapter Text
Shane Hollander’s townhouse in Westmount sat quiet on a tree-lined street, the kind of place that felt more like a home than a celebrity pad. It had a small backyard where he’d once helped the twins build a snow fort during a rare Montreal blizzard off-day, and a living room with a worn leather sectional that had seen too many late-night playoff watches. The walls held a few framed photos: one from the 2015 Campbell Bowl run, another of him and Hayden with Jade and Emma on their shoulders at the park two summers ago, both girls giggling in oversized Voyageurs jerseys. Tonight, in the fall of 2016, those photos felt distant. Everything felt distant.
The first whispers had started around noon. A single screenshot landed in the private NHL players-only group chat, the one they all pretended was just for memes and memes only: Ilya and Scott in a hotel hallway, Ilya’s hand low on Scott’s back, both laughing. Within minutes the chat exploded: “WTF is this”, “Is that Hunter?”, “Delete this shit before it gets out”, “Who sent this??”. By 2 p.m. more photos were circulating in DMs and side threads around the league, speculation and gossip running wild about what - or who - else Ilya might have been hiding. By 4 p.m., Shane had seen the notifications piling up during afternoon meetings and optional skate, each buzz a small electric shock. He had turned the ringer off, put the phone face-down on the bench, and finished practice on autopilot. He had told himself he would deal with it later. Later had become now.
He sat on the sectional, elbows braced on his knees, staring at the phone in his hands. The TV was on but muted: some replay of earlier highlights from a game he hadn’t played in. The only light came from the blue glow of the screen and the streetlamps outside, painting long shadows across the hardwood. His hands were shaking again. He pressed them flat against his thighs, counted his breaths: in for four, hold for four, out for six. He repeated the pattern until the tremor eased enough to open the thread.
The messages had kept coming even after he’d silenced everything. The first photo had been grainy but unmistakable: Ilya Rozanov, shirtless on rumpled white sheets, head thrown back in that low, reckless laugh Shane knew better than his own heartbeat. Scott Hunter straddling Ilya’s hips, one hand splayed possessively low on Ilya’s bare stomach, fingers dipping just beneath the waistband of boxers that clearly hadn’t stayed on. The metadata timestamp read February 14, 2016. Valentine’s Day. Eight months ago.
The second photo, sent minutes later: same room, same bed, daylight filtering through curtains. Ilya on his back, Scott’s head on his chest, both smiling like they had nowhere else to be. Timestamp: June 2015, right after the All-Star break.
And then the encrypted texts started arriving from an unknown number. Anonymous, disappearing messages: screenshots of a Greece vacation chain between Scott and Ilya from two weeks ago. Ilya texting Scott: Book the villa for August. Two weeks, just us. Scott’s reply: Already done. Can’t wait to have you all to myself. I'm tired of sharing you.
The last message was a video. Shane’s thumb hovered over it for a long moment before he pressed play. The footage was shaky at first, clearly taken from a hidden phone propped on a dresser. It showed Ilya’s bedroom in Boston. The one Shane had been to during the disastrous post tuna melt incident which had nearly derailed them. The same dark headboard and navy sheets. The same window with the crooked blind that always let in a sliver of streetlight. Ilya was on his back, shirtless, sweat-slicked, hands gripping Scott’s hips as Scott rode him hard and fast. The audio was muffled but unmistakable: Ilya’s low, broken groans, Scott’s sharp gasps, the rhythmic slap of skin on skin. Ilya’s head tipped back against the pillow, eyes half-closed in pleasure, cursing in both English and Russian. Scott leaned down, kissed him deep and filthy, and Ilya surged up into him with a sound Shane had only ever heard in the dark, in stolen moments, never like this. Then Ilya’s voice, hoarse and desperate, cut through the haze: “Work that ass on my cock… fuck, just like that… you feel so fucking good.” No condom. No barrier. Totally bare.
Shane froze the frame. His pulse roared in his ears. The timestamp on the video metadata burned into his vision: one week after the night Ilya and Shane had finally agreed to be exclusive. One week after Ilya had looked him in the eye and said “only you from now on.” Ilya had never once let himself go like this with Shane. The sight of Ilya so open and unguarded, so taken by someone else, hit harder than any words could. And the bare skin, the absence of protection, the raw risk… Shane felt a cold wave of nausea roll through him. Ilya had lied to his face about exclusivity. Worse, he had potentially exposed Shane to anything Scott might have carried.
The humiliation crashed over him with breathtaking pace. Shane's hands shook so badly with shock that he almost dropped the phone. He pressed them flat against his thighs again, counted his breaths: in for four, hold for four, out for six. But the rhythm felt wrong - it was simultaneously too fast and too shallow. Shane's senses felt overwhelmed; the room was suddenly too bright, the streetlamp outside glared harshly through the blinds like a spotlight. The faint hum of the fridge and the heater suddenly felt too loud—a clanging, ringing staccato that scraped against his nerves and made it near impossible to quiet his mind and regain composure. Shane felt himself starting to shut down, the way he did when everything was too loud, too bright, all at once. TOO MUCH. He was desperate for the quiet to stop slipping into a sensory abyss. Just five minutes where the world stopped moving long enough for him to breathe and catch himself. Unfortunately, as Shane learned early in life, the world stops for no one. You either swim or you sink. And right now, it was all ice.
Shane wasn't naive - he had always known Ilya slept with other people. They’d never been exclusive—until last month, when Ilya finally said the words Shane had stopped expecting. Ilya had made that brutally clear from the very first night in Toronto in July 2010, pulling away every single time Shane tried to linger, every single time Shane whispered for him to stay. Shane had swallowed the hurt and told himself those other hookups were meaningless, faceless, just bodies in hotel rooms that didn’t matter. But these photos and the video destroyed every last fragile lie he had been clinging to. These were not quick, nameless fucks. These were lazy mornings and slow kisses that lingered. And the Greece trip was the final proof. Ilya had planned an entire romantic getaway with Scott while Shane stupidly waited for a yes that now appeared would never come to fruition. And in cruel irony, Scott got the version of Ilya Shane had spent six years quietly starving for.
The images were already trickling into private group chats. Shane’s phone had buzzed with cautious “you see this gay shit?” messages from a couple of Voyageurs teammates who didn’t know the full story but knew their captain had left optional skate looking like he’d taken a slapshot to the chest. He hadn’t answered any of them.
He hadn’t answered Ilya’s eleven frantic texts either. The latest one still glowed on the lock screen before he powered the phone off completely:
Shane. They’re old. Some are fake. Call me. Please. I swear on everything.
He had barely set the phone face-down on the coffee table when it vibrated again. This time it was a call, not a text. The screen lit up with Ilya’s name and a photo Shane had taken years ago in a Chicago hotel room: Ilya shirtless, smirking at the camera, hair mussed from sex. Shane stared at it until the vibration stopped. Thirty seconds later it started again. Same name. Same photo.
Shane’s thumb hovered over the decline button. Then he answered, because part of him still wanted to hear Ilya lie one more time — to see if it would sound any different.
“Shane—” Ilya’s voice was rough, breathless, like he’d been pacing. “Thank God. Why aren’t you answering? I’ve been—”
“Don’t,” Shane cut in, voice low and flat. “Don’t do the ‘thank God’ thing. Don’t pretend you’re worried. I saw the photos. I saw the messages. Greece. August. Two weeks. Just you and him. And the video. One week after you looked me in the eye and said ‘only you from now on.’ You didn’t use a condom. You fucked him bare and put me at risk. You lied to me. And now you’re calling like you can talk your way out of it again.”
Silence on the other end. Then a sharp exhale. “That was… it was planned before. Before you asked about the cottage. It’s not—”
“Stop,” Shane said. His voice cracked like a whip, but underneath it was something colder. “Stop rewriting the timeline. Stop acting like the promise you made me meant nothing the second you were alone with him. You said ‘only you.’ You made me believe it. And seven days later you were inside him raw. Seven days. That’s not a slip. That’s a choice. You chose him. You chose to put me at risk. And you’re still choosing to lie about it.”
Ilya’s breathing hitched. “Shane, please. It’s not like that with him. It’s different. You and me—we’re—”
“Different how?” Shane’s voice rose, sharp and shaking with the kind of anger that burns clean. “Different because with him you don’t have to sneak around? You told me we couldn’t be more. You told me it was too dangerous. You told me Russia, your family, the league. You made me feel crazy for even asking. And the whole time you were giving him everything you said we couldn’t have. You made me doubt myself. You made me think I was asking too much. And now you’re doing it again. Stop. Just stop.”
Ilya’s voice was small, cracking. “I didn’t know how to say no to Russia. My family… they expect—”
“Don’t,” Shane said. His voice dropped to something lethal and quiet. “Don’t hide behind Russia or your family. You hid behind those things with me for six years. But you didn’t hide with him. You booked flights. You booked villas and made plans. You just didn’t make them with me." Shane added bitingly, "You're so selfish. It's one thing to put yourself at risk but...you didn't care about protecting me. I didn't ask to be exclusive, you did. And you insisted on having unprotected sex afterwards. It's been weeks!" Shane paused to catch his breath to stave off a panic attack, and continued, "After everything, Ilya. After all the years waiting for you and believing every word you said. I was such a fool to trust you.”
Silence stretched. When Ilya spoke again, his voice was barely audible. “I love you, Shane. You know that.”
Shane closed his eyes. The words landed like a punch he’d been waiting for and dreading at the same time. They used to feel like oxygen. Now they just tasted like smoke. “Do I? Because the version of love I got was goodbye at dawn and lies at midnight. The version Scott got was Greece in August.”
“Shane—”
“I’m done,” Shane said. His voice was quiet now, final. The anger had burned through everything else and left only ash. “Goodbye, Ilya.”
He hung up.
The phone stayed silent. No more calls or texts, just the hollow echo of his own heartbeat.
Then rage came over him like a boiling sea, all hot and all consuming. Shane wanted to throw the phone across the room and scream until he lost his voice. He wanted to drive to Boston and smash every window in Ilya’s house. But underneath the rage was something worse - a bone-deep exhaustion that made his limbs feel heavy and his eyes sting. The worst part was the small, treacherous voice in his head whispering to him that it was his fault, that he had been too patient and understanding. That he had such meager self-respect and was willing to take whatever scraps Ilya threw him.
Shane sat there in the dark, breathing heavy and allowing the wave of grief crash over him. For the first time he let himself feel the full weight of it - not just the betrayal, but the loss, as well. His hands shook so he pressed them flat against his thighs to stop the tremor. But it didn’t help. The room felt too bright and too loud, even though the TV was muted and the lights were off, every sound grated against his skin. The faint hum of the fridge, the distant car passing outside. He needed quiet and order - the six years with Ilya now seemed like a mirage - was any of it true? Did Shane ever mean anything other than a convenient fuck? The clanging in his mind was reaching a fever pitch.
Then came the strangest, quietest feeling underneath it all - quiet, understated relief. Not happiness or peace, but just the exhausted relief of finally letting go, of becoming indifferent to all the turmoil and ups and downs he had experienced over the last 6 years. Shane was done waiting for Ilya to make a decision and hoping for a tomorrow that evidently was never going to happen.
Shane was done being Ilya's dirty little secret.
The sound of a key turning in the lock came at 10:22 p.m. It was soft and familiar. No knock. Shane recognized it instantly. Hayden had had the spare key since the first night he crashed here two weeks ago. The door opened quietly. Then it clicked shut again.
Hayden stepped inside. His cheeks were flushed. His eyes were glassy. His movements were loose. He carried a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, and a cardboard box tucked under one arm. It was the last of his things, the final load he’d been promising to bring over since the divorce finalized two weeks ago. The rest of his belongings were already scattered around Shane’s guest room and the basement storage. In one hand he held a bottle of Crown Royal by the neck.
Shane stared. Hayden had been crashing here since the papers were finalized. First on the couch. Then in the guest room once it became clear Jackie wasn’t coming back and the house needed to be sold. Tonight was the last trip. The move-in was official.
“Last load,” Hayden said. His voice was rough from whiskey already. “Everything else is here now. I’m officially homeless except for your couch and that spare room.” He laughed. The sound was short and tired. “Jackie’s moved on and there is no chance of reconciliation. Even if there was, the spark’s been gone for years. We were just co-parents at the end…and I think she’s seeing someone.”
Shane stepped aside to let him in. He closed the door behind him. “You okay?”
Hayden set the box down in the entryway. He dropped the duffel next to it. He ran a hand through his curls. “Not really. But I’m here. That’s something.” He looked at Shane properly then. He really looked. His expression shifted. “You look worse than me. What happened?”
Shane let out a hollow laugh that cracked in the middle. He reached for the phone on the coffee table. He thumbed it awake. He slid it across to Hayden without a word.
Hayden picked it up. He scrolled through the thread. His face went very still as he saw each photo and screenshot. Then the video. Hayden’s thumb paused over the play button for a second before he pressed it. The muffled audio filled the quiet room. Ilya’s groans. Scott’s gasps. The rhythmic slap of skin. Then Ilya’s voice, hoarse and desperate, filled the room: “Work that ass on my cock… fuck, just like that… you feel so fucking good.”
Hayden froze the frame. His jaw tightened. He looked up at Shane. His eyes were dark with anger and protectiveness. “Rozanov. Of fucking course it’s Rozanov. That arrogant prick. And he’s like that with him? Jesus, Shane.”
Shane nodded once. His throat felt tight. “Yeah.”
Hayden set the phone down carefully. He looked like he wanted to smash it but didn’t. “How long?”
“Since 2010. Like I told you when you first moved in here. But this is worse. He was planning going to Greece with Scott during the summer while dodging my cottage invite. I got scraps and Scott got everything. Everything.”
Hayden’s hand clenched into a fist on the couch. “I never liked that asshole. Never trusted him. He's self-centered and all he has ever done since we met is mess with you. Seeing this makes me want to fly to Boston and put him through a wall. I think...I think we need a drink.”
Shane pulled two lowball glasses from the cabinet. They were the heavy crystal ones the front office had given him when he was named captain in 2014. He poured three fingers of Crown into each. No ice. They didn’t need anything softening the burn tonight. They moved to Shane’s sectional. The silence between them was heavy, but not awkward.
Shane swallowed. “Hayden… it was him. Ilya. For years. And I let it happen.”
Hayden reached out and grabbed Shane’s arm. “Don’t say that. That asshole led you on.” Shane’s pulse kicked up.
They kept drinking. Fourth Round, Fifth Round. Six rounds later and all inhibitions gone, their shoulders stayed pressed together now. Hayden’s hand had dropped from the back of the couch to rest lightly on Shane’s thigh. It was warm and steady. Not pushing. Shane didn’t move it away. The touch felt like an anchor.
The room was quiet except for the sound of their synchronized breathing. Hayden’s thumb started slow circles on Shane’s thigh while staring at Shane’s mouth. He inched closer. Shane turned his head. Their faces were inches apart. The air between them felt charged and electric.
Hayden stammered, “Uh Shane, I need to tell you something else—”
Shane already knew.
Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe he just couldn’t stand the silence anymore.
Shane leaned over and planted a gentle, soft kiss on Hayden.
The air stilled after they separated. A moment of silence passed, then Shane spoke first. His voice was rough from whiskey and everything else. “I’ve felt it too...the lines between us have been blurry, ever since our rookie season. The way I’d look forward to seeing you after a break in the schedule. Or, the way I’d feel calmer when you were on the ice with me. The way I’d catch myself staring sometimes and then look away like I’d been caught. I told myself it was just best-friend stuff, especially after you and Jackie got together, but it was more. It’s always been more.”
Hayden’s hand rubbed circles on Shane’s thigh. “I know. I felt it. Every extra shift I took so you could rest. Every late-night talk in the hotel when everyone else was asleep. Every time I made sure you had coffee before morning skate because I knew you hated the stuff in the room. I never crossed the line because I didn’t want to lose you. But I wanted to. I still do.”
Hayden’s voice dropped lower and rougher as he continued. “I’ve wanted this for years, Shane. Not just tonight. Not just because everything else is falling apart. I’ve wanted it since… I don’t even know when it started. Maybe the first time we roomed together on the road in 2011 and you fell asleep on the couch with your head on my shoulder. Or maybe earlier. I kept telling myself it was nothing. Just admiration. Just friendship. But it wasn’t nothing. I’ve questioned it for a long time, whether I was bi or straight. Whether I was just lying to myself because it was easier and I didn't want to let anyone down or ruin my marriage. Jackie knew something was off. She never said it outright, but apparently she felt it. The way I’d come home and talk about you more than anyone else. The way I’d get quiet when your name came up in conversation.”
Shane’s breath caught. He turned his hand over. He laced their fingers together. “I’ve questioned it too,” he admitted. “Not with you specifically. Not at first. But after Ilya… after years of hiding who I was, I started wondering if I’d ever let myself want someone who wasn’t dangerous. Someone who was safe...who was already right here. I think I’ve been in denial about it for years. The way I’d start counting down the days until the next season, until the next road trip. Or, the way I’d feel calmer when you were on the ice with me. The way I’d catch myself staring sometimes and then look away like I’d been caught.”
Hayden’s thumb brushed over Shane’s knuckles. The motion was slow and deliberate. “We’ve had blurred lines for years. I never crossed them because I didn’t want to risk breaking our friendship and messing up both our lives. But I'd be lying to myself if I said that there were no sparks because...I felt them, Shane. Every time.”
Shane nodded. His throat felt tight. “I felt it too. I just didn’t know what to do with it. I was so tangled up in Ilya that I couldn’t see anything else. But tonight… tonight I see it.”
Hayden leaned in first. The kiss was soft. It was testing, and almost careful, searching for acceptance. Whiskey-sweet lips brushed once, twice, then stayed. Shane made a small, broken sound in the back of his throat and opened for him. The kiss deepened slowly. Hands moved to jaws, necks, hair. It wasn’t frantic. It was careful and reverent. Like they were both afraid the moment might vanish if they moved too fast.
They kissed on the sectional for what felt like hours. Slow. Exploratory. Hayden’s mouth trailed to Shane’s throat. He sucked gently at the pulse point until Shane’s breath hitched. Shane’s fingers slipped under Hayden’s hoodie. He traced the familiar ridges of muscle and old scars from blocked shots and checks. Clothes stayed on at first. Neither of them wanted to rush past the simple intimacy of touch. Of finally acknowledging what had always hummed between them.
Eventually Hayden pulled back just far enough to speak. His forehead rested against Shane’s. “Tell me if you want to stop. Anytime. I’m not him. I won’t take pieces of you if you’re not ready to give them.”
Shane cupped Hayden’s face. His thumb brushed over stubble. “I don’t want to stop. I want to feel something good. Something real. Something that doesn’t leave me waiting.”
Hayden kissed him again. Deeper this time. Slower still. Then he stood. He offered his hand. Shane took it. They walked down the short hallway to the bedroom together. Fingers laced.
The room was dark except for the streetlight glow filtering through the half-closed blinds. No overhead lights. No lamps. Just enough illumination to see outlines and shadows, the way Hayden’s eyes caught the light when he looked at Shane like he was something precious and fragile and starving.
Hayden backed Shane toward the bed without hurry. He peeled Shane’s T-shirt off slowly, kissing every inch of skin as it was revealed: collarbone, the dip between pectorals, the faint white scar from a high stick in juniors. Shane shivered under the attention. His hands slid up Hayden’s sides to push the hoodie over his head. He traced the familiar lines of Hayden’s body: the broad shoulders, the defined abs, the constellation of faint bruises from recent games. They had seen each other naked in locker rooms hundreds of times. But this was different. Intentional. Wanted.
They fell onto the bed in a tangle of limbs. Skin finally met skin. Hayden’s weight was grounding. It was solid. It was real. Shane arched up into every touch. Hayden’s mouth was on his chest. His tongue circled a nipple until Shane gasped. Fingers trailed down his stomach. They slipped under the waistband of his boxers to palm him slowly. Shane’s hips bucked involuntarily. A low moan escaped.
Hayden’s hands were shaking now too. Not from nerves. From the weight of everything they had both carried for years. From the sudden, terrifying freedom of finally touching what they had only ever looked at.
Shane pushed Hayden back against the pillows. “Let me first.”
Hayden’s breath hitched. He watched Shane with wide, dark eyes as Shane tugged his boxers down and off.
Hayden’s cock sprang free. Thick. Long. Heavy. Curved slightly toward his stomach. The head was flushed dark and glistening. Shane’s breath caught. He stared for a second, taking in the size, the heat, the way it throbbed under his gaze.
“Fuck,” Shane whispered. “You’re huge.”
Hayden groaned. His head tipped back against the headboard. “Shane…”
Shane didn’t wait. He leaned down. He licked a slow, broad stripe from base to tip. Tasting salt and skin and Hayden. Hayden’s hips jerked. A low curse escaped. Shane wrapped his hand around the base. It was so thick that his fingers barely met. He took the head into his mouth. His tongue swirled around the slit. He hollowed his cheeks and slid down further. The thickness stretched his jaw. The weight filled his mouth. He moaned around it. The vibration made Hayden’s hips buck again.
Shane pulled back slowly. His tongue dragged along the underside. Then he sank down again, deeper this time, until the head bumped the back of his throat. He gagged softly and his eyes watered, but he didn’t stop. He wanted it. Wanted to feel Hayden fill his mouth. Wanted to taste him. Wanted to make Hayden lose control the way he never had with anyone else.
Hayden’s breathing grew ragged. “Shane… fuck… your mouth. So good. So fucking good.”
Shane hummed in response. He bobbed his head faster. His hand grabbed around the base and stroked what his mouth couldn’t reach. Hayden’s thighs trembled under him. Shane pulled off with a wet pop. He licked down the shaft. He sucked one heavy ball into his mouth. He rolled it gently while stroking Hayden’s cock with his hand, increasing speed and tempo. Hayden’s fingers tightened in Shane’s hair.
“Shane - shit - I'm gonna come if you keep-”
Shane looked up at him. His eyes were dark and hungry. “Do it. Come in my mouth. I want it.”
Hayden groaned. His hips stuttered. Shane took him back in and sucked deep and fast, until Hayden’s cock pulsed and he came hard. Spilling down Shane’s throat. Shane swallowed every drop, milking him through it until Hayden was shaking. Oversensitive. Hayden caught his breath and tugged Shane up for a messy, desperate kiss.
Hayden’s voice was wrecked, and slightly nervous. “Your turn. I don't really have experience but-”
Shane shook his head. “Not yet...I want you inside me, now. No condom.”
Hayden groaned. His forehead dropped to Shane’s shoulder. “Shane… are you sure?”
A sane version of him would’ve asked about tests, about timelines. Shane wasn’t sane tonight. He wanted closeness so badly it drowned out consequences. “I’m sure. I trust you. I want to feel you. All of you. Please...no barriers. No lies. Just us.”
Hayden slicked himself with lube from the drawer. Then he pressed against Shane’s entrance. He pushed in slowly. Bare. The stretch burned in the best way. Shane’s breath hitched. His legs wrapped around Hayden’s waist. His heels dug in. Hayden bottomed out with a low, broken groan. His hips stuttered at the feel of Shane hot and tight around him with nothing between them.
“You feel –” Hayden’s voice cracked. “God, Shane, you feel so damn good. So tight and warm - fucking perfect. Are you..is this good for you?”
Shane’s nails dug into Hayden’s back. “Move, please. Fuck me like you’ve wanted this as long as I have. Make me feel good, Hayden.”
Hayden did.
It started slow. Deep, rolling thrusts dragged against every nerve. Shane wrapped his legs around Hayden’s waist. His heels dug into Hayden’s ass. He urged him deeper. Harder. The pace built quickly. It was desperate. It was hungry. The bed creaked loudly under them. Hayden’s hand found Shane’s cock again and he started working Shane over, stroking in perfect, frantic rhythm with his hips. Every thrust pulled broken, needy sounds from Shane’s throat: moans, curses, Hayden’s name like a plea.
Hayden’s rhythm faltered for a second. His forehead dropped to Shane’s shoulder. His voice came out rough, cracked, barely above a whisper against Shane’s skin.
“I’ve thought about this… about you… so many times. Even when I was with her. Especially the last few months. I’d close my eyes and see your face instead. Your mouth. Your hands. Your body under me. I hated myself for it. I hated how much I wanted it. I’d fuck her and think of you and feel like the worst person alive. But I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop wanting you.”
Shane’s breath hitched – not from the thrust, but from the words. They landed like a confession ripped open. His hands tightened on Hayden’s back. His nails dug in harder. He didn’t pull away. He just held on.
Hayden’s hips snapped forward again, deeper, harder, like he was trying to bury the guilt inside the pleasure.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped. “I’m so fucking sorry. But I’m here now. And I don’t want to stop. I don’t want to pretend anymore.”
Shane’s voice broke. “Then don’t. Don’t stop. Don’t pretend. Just… give it to me. All of it. Everything you’ve been holding back. Don't think about anything else”
Hayden groaned against Shane’s neck. His thrusts turned frantic, needy, possessive, almost punishing — like he was trying to fuck away years of silence and shame. Shane met every one. His hips rolled up. He took Hayden deeper. Their bodies slapped together - sweat slicked skin, ragged breathing, broken, increasingly loud moans.
Shane’s nails raked down Hayden’s back, hard enough to leave red lines. He pulled him closer. Deeper. “Hayden – fuck – harder. Please. Give it to me harder until I forget everything else.”
Hayden’s rhythm lost all control. He fucked Shane like he was claiming something he’d been denied for too long. Shane shattered first. He clenched tight around Hayden and came hard across his stomach with Hayden’s name torn from his lungs in a raw, shuddering cry. Shane's vision whited out at the edges as he gave himself over to pleasure. The sight and sound and pulse of it pushed Hayden over the edge as he buried himself deep inside Shane in one final thrust and a guttural groan. His hips stuttered as he filled up Shane, his body shaking with the force of release that felt too many years overdue.
They collapsed together, sweaty and trembling. Ragged breathing could be heard in an otherwise quiet room. Hayden stayed inside for a long moment. He kissed Shane desperately: temple, cheekbones, corner of his mouth. Tender now but still hungry. Still needy. Like he couldn’t get enough even after coming undone.
Shane traced shaky fingers down Hayden’s back. His voice was wrecked but steady. Suddenly self-conscious, he blushed. “I didn’t know it could feel like that.”
Hayden pressed his forehead to Shane’s and traced a finger along Shane's shoulder. His voice was hoarse. “I didn't either. And this is new to me but..I don't think I can let go...I’m not letting go now." Hayden looked at Shane with earnest eyes. "Can I show you?”
They didn’t stop. It was like the floodgates were opened and they were consumed not only with lust for one another but the urgent need to banish the pain and sorrow of their mutual disappointments away.
Hayden rolled them so Shane was on top. He was semi hard and quickly grew hard inside of Shane again. Cum leaking out around his cock. Shane rode him hard and deep, like he had to prove something to himself, chasing the overstimulation and the wet, lewd slide of Hayden’s release inside him. Hayden’s hands gripped Shane’s hips possessively, pulling him down and meeting him with loud, thumping noises. Thumbs stroking over the sensitive skin where they joined. Shane leaned down. He kissed him deep and messy. Tasting whiskey and sweat and Hayden. He moaned against Hayden's mouth, “Please, again. I want again. I want more, give it to me Hayden.”
Hayden flipped them and pinned Shane to the mattress. Like a man possessed, Hayden fucked into him with long, punishing strokes. The wet sound of his cum inside Shane was obscene and perfect. Shane’s legs wrapped around Hayden’s waist, digging his heels deep while urging Hayden to fuck him harder, deeper. “Don’t stop,” Shane gasped. “Don’t you dare stop. I need it. I need you. Fuck, please make me feel good, I need to feel good.”
Hayden groaned. Low and wrecked. “I’m not stopping, baby. Not until you’re shaking. Not until you can’t think about anything else.”
They shifted again—Shane on his knees, Hayden behind him. Hayden’s hands gripped hard at Shane’s hips, guiding him through a brutal rhythm: deep and slow, then fast and rough, then deep again. Shane’s forehead dropped to the mattress. His mouth opened on soundless cries, his body rocking forward with every snap of Hayden’s hips.
Hayden leaned over him, chest to back, lips at Shane’s ear. “You feel so good. So tight, baby. So fucking perfect. You’re mine, Shane. Say it.”
“Yours,” Shane gasped. His voice broke. “Fuck… I’m yours. Don’t stop—please don’t ever stop.”
Hayden looked down. Sweat slicked them both; Shane’s back arched and shuddered under him. Hayden covered him with his body and drove into him harder, the sound of his hips meeting Shane’s ass turning loud and relentless. Shane came untouched, eyes rolling back, body shaking—sobbing Hayden’s name into the sheets.
Hayden followed with the same brutal urgency, losing control and spilling deep inside Shane with a low, torn groan. He collapsed over Shane’s back, both of them trembling in the dark, the worst of the ache finally dulled by heat and exhaustion.
They lay there panting - tangled and sticky - for what felt like forever but was only minutes, until Hayden softened and slipped out. Heat spilled after him.
Hayden rolled Shane onto his back and kissed him slow and filthy, then slid down his body. He spread Shane’s thighs, licked a broad stripe up the inside, then lower—tongue circling Shane’s hole, tasting himself and Shane at once.
Shane jerked, caught by surprise - embarrassed and wrecked, and still wanton with it. “Hayden—fuck—yes—”
Hayden ate him like he’d been starving, tongue pushing deep while his mouth worked insistently at the rim. His fingers spread Shane open to get closer, and the noises he made were hungry and shameless. Shane’s hands fisted in the sheets; his head thrashed. As skilled as Ilya could be, this was filthy in a way Shane hadn’t known he needed—something rougher, more desperate, more real.
“Don’t stop,” Shane pleaded, voice breaking. “Please don’t stop. I need it. I… I need you.”
Hayden didn’t stop until Shane was hard again, shaking and begging. Then he slid back inside - still slick- and this time he fucked Shane slow and deep through the oversensitivity until Shane cried out into another orgasm, clenching so hard it dragged Hayden over the edge one last time.
They collapsed, exhausted and spent. Hayden pulled Shane into his arms, kissing his temple, his jaw, his mouth. “You okay?”
Shane nodded against his chest. His voice was wrecked. “Better than okay. I needed this. I needed you.”
Hayden held him tighter. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good.”