idfk

“M’having fun,” Shane says carelessly, winking at the hot bartender as he hands Shane his drink, just to piss Ilya off. 

Ilya grabs Shane’s wrist, the one happily gripping his gin and tonic, and rumbles warningly into his ear, “I don’t like the kind of fun you’re having.”

Shane rolls his eyes and looks back at his husband again. “What, the kind you used to have?”

Ilya twists Shane around sharply, his drink sloshing over the rim and onto his knuckles, the show of strength and power running hot through his chest. He pins him with a stern look. “You wanna say that to me again?”

Shane schools his arousal and pretends as if he is thoroughly unimpressed by the display. He takes a sip of his drink from the tiny straw, looks Ilya up and down, and says bluntly, “I said. The kind you used to have.”

He pushes past his husband with a check against his shoulder, leaving him gobsmacked and furious at the bar and pilfering through the crowd. He’s drunk enough to dance, and he’s dressed to do just that. He nurses his drink and sways his hips in the fray of sweaty bodies, feeling the music, the alcohol, the thrill of defying his husband thrumming in his veins. 

He doesn’t even realize it at first when there’s a weight at his back. But then there’s definitely a crotch against his ass, swaying with him, grinding onto him, but he knows how Ilya feels, how Ilya smells, and it’s not Ilya. 

He glances over his shoulder to see a hulk of a man. Dark hair, trimmed full beard, muscular and bulky. The stranger’s fingers find his hips, and he winks down at him—down at him because he must be 6’5” and built for it. Shane smirks to himself, and he looks toward the bar. 

Oh, he’s watching. Glaring. His fingers are tapping aggressively on the bar, his jaw grinding and shifting. 

Shane gives him 3…2…

He’s being hauled forward into much more familiar arms, nails scratching across his scalp as he shoves his face into Ilya’s neck. Shane inhales deeply, taking in the perfect scent of him to steady the spinning in his head from the sudden quick movement. Ilya’s left hand slides up Shane’s back, catching his shirt and lifting it all the way up to his armpits, scratching his fingers against the bare skin as well and definitely leaving marks. 

Flashing his ring, Shane realizes. He throbs in his restricting jeans. 

“Find something you like, jackass?” Ilya asks over Shane’s shoulder. “Not surprised. I have good taste.”

Shane can’t see the man, but he would guess that he’s somewhat disgruntled at being deprived of Shane’s body. He’s found that, most of the time he and Ilya do this, they genuinely are disappointed. It makes Shane feel wanted, desired, for his body, but in a vastly separate way than it is with hockey. His body is desired for pleasure, not suffering. Sexual victory, not athletic. It’s relieving and exhilarating. 

Shane takes a gratuitous drink from his cocktail over Ilya’s shoulder as his husband faces off with their poor victim. 

“He seemed to be doing just fine without you, asshole. Maybe he needs a bigger man,” the guy slices back at Ilya, and his husband scrapes against his spine. 

“Baby, what do you think? Do you need a bigger man?” Ilya asks snidely, nails dragging down his skin. 

“Maybe,” Shane answers casually, taking another sip of his drink. 

“You heard the man,” the deep voice says. 

“No, no, no, fucking meathead. You heard the man,” Ilya snaps back. “I have felt the man. Felt him, sucked him, fucked him until he was sobbing into our pillows. You want to see the cock I fuck him with? Compare it with your teeny tiny dick?” Shane snorts into his shoulder, and Ilya’s sharp nails burrow into his scalp, forcing him deeper into his neck. “You know, I fight men your size for a living. Big, two hundred and fifty pound brick walls like you. You want him, come and get him. He likes when he gets to be damsel in distress. Makes him hornier for me,” Ilya tells him, scratching his head like a dog, and it makes Shane want to rut and hump against his husband. 

“Yeah? You wanna fight?” The man asks, riled like a bull.

Shane sighs, growing more ravenous by the second as Ilya continues to claim him from this random stranger. He whispers in his ear, “Baby, I know you love when I lick your wounds, but I thought we had other plans tonight?”

“What did he say?” The man yells, defensive. 

He can hear Ilya’s sardonic tone perfectly through the booming music. “He said your dick felt small against his ass and he needs a real cock to split him open. So, decision made, I think. Try again next time.”

“Fucking whatever, man,” the guy spits, and from the chuckle Ilya lets out, he can tell the man has given up to shoot his shot elsewhere. 

“You trashy little bitch,” Ilya mutters, the hand on his back sliding down to force itself beneath the bands of his jeans and underwear and grope at his ass, likely unnoticed by the pulsing throng of the dance floor. “Worthless fucking slut. You need to be taught a lesson I think,” Ilya threatens. 

“Oh, do I?” Shane slurs, slurping the dregs of his drink through the straw loudly in Ilya’s ear, his best attempt at nonchalance, but his cunt is pounding in his briefs. 

“Yes, you do,” Ilya says strictly, a single finger working between his cheeks and feeling the wetness from his cunt already sliding down to his asshole. He pets over the clenching ring temptingly, biting down on Shane’s earlobe to hear him gasp. “Get back to the booth. I’ll follow so no one else touches you, since you’re flagging so hard to be fucked by every cock in this place.”

Shane moans at the words, the touch, and nods into Ilya’s neck. “Yes, sir.”

The trek to the booth is short even despite Shane’s drunken stumbling, their VIP table set back above the dance floor behind a velvet rope, a half-drunk bottle of champagne on ice adorning the table from before Shane started to dance. Ilya pours another glass, and Shane holds his hand out. 

Ilya withdraws his hand, tutting at Shane. “Not for you. No more alcohol for whores who cheat on their husbands,” he says passively, sipping from the flute with raised brows. 

“Wasn't cheating,” Shane mumbles, slumping back against the booth. 

“Had a dick between your cheeks. Sounds like cheating to me.”

“Barely felt it. Jeans are so fucking tight,” Shane complains, his tone edging toward bitchy and complaining now that his adrenaline is starting to crash and he just feels sloppily intoxicated. 

“Then let me help you, huh?” Ilya says, immediately unbuttoning Shane’s pants and unzipping the fly. 

Shane looks up at him, slightly panicked. “Ilya.”

“What?” Ilya shoots back, unconcerned. “Relax. You could ride my cock and they would say nothing with the tips I give these people.” 

He houses the rest of his drink and pulls Shane into him. “Do me a favor? Spot the guy who you cheated on me with.”

“I didn’t…”

“Fucking do it.”

Shane sighs, his head lulling onto Ilya’s shoulder as he searches for him. “There,” he nods. “By the DJ booth. On the right.”

“Mmm,” Ilya hums. “Keep looking at him,” he instructs as his hand shifts. 

“I don't want to,” he fights back. 

“Did not ask you. Do it,” he commands coldly. Then there are fingers reaching into his briefs, and Shane chokes off a moan. 

“Fuck, Ilya. What are you—”

“Look at him.”

“I am, what are—oh fuck,” he whines, his eyelids drooping as two fingers circle his clit unabashedly in the raucous club. “Ilya, I—”

“Shut up. Don’t talk back to me, just take my fingers. Whores have nothing interesting to say, especially when they are being used,” he bites. 

Shane nod's vigorously, his hips rolling of their own accord as the fingers start to descend. He whimpers as he juts his hips out further, and a finger traces the slit of his wet cunt. 

“Why are you so fucking soaked while you look at him, шлюха?” Ilya accuses, sliding a slick finger back up to his clit and circling it tantalizingly as Shane grinds forward. 

“M’not. Just for you, sir,” Shane assures, his voice shaky and desperate already. He gets this way whenever Ilya seeks to claim him in public. It doesn’t happen this thoroughly in public often, but when it does, it takes next to nothing for Shane to crumble into pieces. 

Ilya hums, unconvinced at his answer. A finger glides into the slickness of his cunt so easily that it makes him blush, his mouth falling open in a moan. 

“Close your fucking mouth,” Ilya orders. “You look so fucking pathetic and hungry, someone is going to stick a cock in it before you can even tell them no. Do you want that?”

Shane whines. “Just yours.”

“Yeah? Is that why you were two seconds from hitting your knees for that dick on the dance floor? What’s he doing now, Shane? Tell me.”

Shane whimpers as a second finger slips in next to the first, fucking him shallowly. “H-he’s dancing. Dancing up on someone else.”

“Hotter than you?”

“Maybe?”

“Yes or no,” he instructs, thrusting his fingers and crooking them as well as he can within the confines of his briefs. “Don’t be fucking modest. Sluts aren’t modest. They whore themselves out any chance they get.”

Shane breathes out shallowly, attempting to cool himself off. “No. He’s…kind of twinky, I think. Not as cute. Or big,” he swallows thickly as Ilya’s thumb works at his clit. 

“Do you think he bends over as easy as you?” Ilya asks, mouthing against his ear as his fingers fuck deeper into his cunt. 

Shane keens as a third finger teases at his pussy entrance. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you fucking do,” Ilya sneers, his cunt stretching around the tip of his third finger. “Because the answer is always no. No one bends over as easy as you. You would take every cock on Earth if they told you that you were pretty, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” Shane pants, rocking down onto Ilya’s hand. 

“Pull down your pants. Down to your knees,” Ilya commands. 

“Ilya—”

“Again, I didn’t fucking ask. I’ll cover you with my coat. Go.”

Shane groans, lifting his ass and shimmying his bottoms down as Ilya pulls his jacket over his lap with one hand, surveying the amount of attention on them. Even if there is nothing to indicate if there isn’t anyone looking, he doesn’t immediately see eyes. 

Shane peels them down to his knees, and Ilya hums in his ear. 

“Good boy,” he rasps out, his wrist clearly having better access as all three fingers begin to fuck him. 

“Oh, god…” Shane sighs out, his legs struggling against the tight denim to spread himself wider. “So fucking full. Stretching me so good, sir.”

“Keep your eyes open. Keep looking at him.”

“I will. I—fuck, Ilya he’s looking!”

“Good,” Ilya growls. “Don’t fucking look away. You feel my fingers in your cunt while you look at him.”

Shane whimpers, nodding and staring right at the man. He looks both hungry and pissed off over the shoulder of the shorter man, and Shane’s mouth wants to drop open again at how fucking hot it all feels. That’s when he feels Ilya’s wedding ring slam up against the stretched hole of his pussy, and he lets out an excessive moan that is immediately swallowed by the bass. 

“What’s that baby? Tell me.”

“I just fucking love you,” Shane groans. “My fucking husband. Fuck, you’re so fucking hot. Fuck me so good. Keep fucking me, please.”

“My fucking husband,” Ilya grits out through his teeth. “You gonna come on my fingers, baby? Squirt all over your husband while you stare at that stupid fucking oaf out there wishing you were squeezing around his tiny cock?”

“Yes,” Shane squeaks out. “Yes, please, can I come, sir?” He begs, his thighs shaking and his pussy streaming around his fingers beneath the coat and making a mess on the vinyl fabric. 

“Who’s your husband, baby?”

“You are, sir,” he whines shakily. 

“Whose fingers make you leak like this, huh?”

Shane’s voice crack as he responds, “Yours, sir. My fucking husband’s fingers.”

“And who is going to fuck so many orgasms from you tonight that you can’t walk or skate right tomorrow? Going to ring you so fucking dry you might make us lose the game, huh? Who?”

“You, sir,” he sobs out, eyes still locked with the man now thrusting against the back of the shorter man, whose head is draped back onto his pec and just taking it. The man’s teeth look gritted, his eyes fuming, his fingers blanched with the grip on the other man’s hips. It sends a surge of heat through Shane’s body, and he begs again, “Please, sir, can I come? Can I show him how you make me come?”

“Yes,” Ilya replies simply. 

It hits him immediately, the warmth and blistering heat radiating from his clit and throbbing throughout his body and he battles to keep his orgasmic noises to a minimum, his cunt pulsing around the three fingers buried inside him as Ilya’s thumb continues to stimulate his now highly sensitive nub between his slick lips. 

“Such a naughty fucking slut,” Ilya croons in his ear, rubbing his soaked fingers up and down the length of his drenched folds and slapping against him sharply as Shane twitches with overstimulation. “Everyone in this fucking club just watched you get fingerfucked and come all over my hand. Needed everyone to know what a dumb fucking whore you are for me?”

“Yes, sir,” Shane admits readily in his post-orgasmic haze, any fight in him thoroughly drained. 

“Dress like a whore, get fucked like a whore, right?”

“Right.”

Ilya’s nose grazes up his jaw, the side of his face. “I’m going to take you home and rip your pussy open on my cock. Then I’m going to hold you down and fuck your little asshole raw, like that man was trying to do. Fuck you until you bleed, maybe. Then lick you clean, like a good fucking husband. You want that, my little cockwhore?”

“Yes,” Shane gasps. “All of it.”