If the bellboy scene taught me anything, it's that hollanov are always down for some silly impromptu roleplay action. Shane reads a Buzzfeed listicle about Top Ten Fun Questions To Ask Your Partner that he stores away in his brain until one day he randomly asks Ilya If I was an animal, what animal would I be? and Ilya immediately answers Bunny. Itty bitty bunny rabbit who runs very very fast. And Shane huffs and kicks him because No, I mean like a serious answer, actually think about it. And Ilya grabs the foot that Shane tried to kick him with by the ankle and says I am serious. It is very serious matter. I would not lie about bunny Shane. And Shane's rolling his eyes but his mouth is twitching when he says What does that make you, then? A wolf? and Ilya slooowly grins his most devious grin before he rolls over and pounces on Shane, grappling him onto his back as he says, Oh, yes, yes I am big bad wolf and you are cute little bunny. And Shane is squirming and flushing in that way he always does when he tries to wriggle his way out from under Ilya and Ilya just holds him down harder, but then he's biting his lip and going lax because: Oh, Mr Wolf, what big teeth you have~ and Ilya's grin gets even bigger (and, okay, maybe it IS a little wolf-like) and he makes his voice go all deep and growly as he says: All the better to eat you with. And then he's attacking Shane's neck with great sucking kisses mixed in-between small sharp nips that make Shane giggle and thrash and yelp, ankles kicking against the mattress as he tries to wrestle Ilya off of him, but the big bad wolf has got the little rabbit in his jaws now and he's not letting go.
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imagine you are letting your boyfriend suck your dick while you're on the phone with your friend and then he tries to put his fingers in your mouth and when you slap his hand away, he slaps You in the face
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The second Ilya heard Shane's earnest Oh. I'm-i'm not sure you're, sposedto smoke here?? it was over for that boy. Ilya remembering that little stutter when he's shaking his water bottle in Shane's face like, ok Rules Boy, let's get you hydrated. You like it when someone tells you what's good for you, so, take this. Do you like the taste of my backwash? No no, you're not done yet, "More".
Ilya Rozanov greediest mfer alive symbolically spitting in the mouth of a sweaty breathless Shane and when he bows his head to hand back the bottle, Ilya's like, yeah this is for *your* own good actually, I'm gonna need to see that again.
I do think that if there were two shanes, ilya wouldnt be in for some sexy threesome. instead both shanes are each desperately trying to convince him that they're the real one. Ilya We Must Get Rid Of The Imposter
2.3k, E, Fem!Shane/Fem!Ilya, semi-public sex, mild cnc, written for @hollanovaweek
"Answer my question. Were you scared?"
She makes a face. "Of course I was."
"You don't trust me?"
"It's not about that," Jane says, rather than admit that she does. Lilya smirks at her like she said it anyways, then she pushes her knee between Jane's legs.
———
Lilya picks Jane up with a motorcycle. There's no way Jane's riding on that thing.
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i love the idea of shane asking ilya to play russian roulette in the first twenty four hours after their reunion when they are so adrenalined and turned on and awkwardly silent. & then getting mad in the afterglow of that when he discovers the gun wasn’t loaded like OH so who’s the liar now ilya??
....right so okay I really liked this idea and kind of wrote 1.2k words about it. thank you anon and also thank you @shanehollandered for informing me that the gun in this criminal minds still is the type of revolver used to play russian roulette. as if I wasn't already getting enough mileage out of that image as it was.
uh anyways I hope y'all enjoy. trigger warning this entire thing is about guns and contains some violent language around it.
--
When Ilya entered the room again, he was holding a gun.
That wasn’t strange, at least not until he sat down on the motel room’s second bed, his body parallel to Shane. Closer up, Shane could see the gun wasn’t the small, compact pistol Ilya had been carrying since he picked Shane up. This one was a revolver, small and more old fashioned.
Wordlessly, Ilya opened the cylinder, slipped a single bullet into it, and snapped it back into place.
“Do you remember,” Ilya said. “When you asked if I would play Russian Roulette with you?”
Shane’s face burned at the memory of himself, younger and idiotic, begging Ilya to pretend to put his life in danger just because he thought it was hot. At the same time, his stomach twisted, acid suddenly burning at the back of his throat.
“I asked if you remembered,” Ilya prompted when Shane had been quiet for too long.
“Yes, I remember.”
“Well,” Ilya said. “We are playing now.”
Ilya pressed the revolver to his temple, and before Shane could protest, pulled the trigger. Shane flinched, but aside from the quiet clicking of the revolver, nothing happened. Ilya was still in front of him, breathing and unharmed, and he flipped the gun around to offer the handle to Shane.
“Your turn.”
“Ilya,” Shane said. “Please, come on.”
“It is just a game,” Ilya said, shaking the revolver impatiently in Shane’s direction. “Take the gun, Shane.”
“Fuck,” Shane breathed out, snatching the revolver. He wiped his sweat-slick palms on his thighs, then examined the weapon so he could properly fit his fingers around it.
He tried to mirror Ilya’s actions, pressing the mouth of the barrel to his right temple, but Ilya huffed and shook his head.
“No, no, lower,” Ilya said, already standing up. “Here.”
He grabbed Shane’s wrist, forcing the movement of his hand. He directed Shane to move the barrel a few centimeters down and pushed it forward so it was snug against Shane’s temple. Finally, he sat back down, crossing his arms.
“There. Now you will die and not just be paralyzed. Now go.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Shane snapped. “Why are we doing this?”
“Because I am bored and this shitty motel has no cards. Shoot the gun.”
A flare of anger ripped through Shane, enough to make him pull the trigger without thinking. He flinched when the barrel jumped against his skin and the mechanism of the revolver made a hollow clicking sound, but no bullet arrived to rip his head apart.
Ilya smirked, leaning forward with an open hand. Shane handed it off, shaking his head to try to clear the echoing sound in my own brain.
Ilya easily set the barrel to his own temple, pulled the trigger to nothing, and then handed the gun back to Shane.
“Three more turns.”
“We don’t have to do this,” Shane said as he flipped the revolver around in his hands.
“No, no, I think we do,” Ilya sat back, crossing his arms. “Do you know you can turn that gun to me anytime you want? I put my other gun in the car, I have nothing else. I cannot stop you.”
“I guess. But – “
“That plan would only work if the gun does go off, and if you are a good shot,” Ilya cut in. “If it doesn’t go off, or you don’t kill me, then I will kill you with my bare hands.”
Ilya tilted his head, his smile sharp.
“You see why this game is fun now, huh?”
“And…” Shane swallowed. “On your turn, would you try to shoot me?”
“Take your turn, Shane.”
Shane really should try to at least get out of this room. Maybe call for help. Maybe fight back in some meaningful way. But instead he lifted his hand again, fired the empty shot, obediently handed the gun back to Ilya.
Ilya finished his next turn, another uneventful, bullet-less firing. He glanced at the cylinder, then back at Shane, lifting his brows as he handed to him.
“Ah,” Ilya said. “Last turn and it is you. Bad luck.”
Shane swallowed, his mouth too dry and too wet all at once. He looked down at the revolver in his hands, his vision blurring a little bit, and then back up at Ilya. The other man was just watching him, leaned forward a little, mouth flat and eyes hard.
“You’re actually going to make me do this?” Shane asked, but Ilya was silent.
“Oh, fuck you,” Shane countinued, his words jumbled around the nervous salvia gathering in his mouth. “You could’ve killed me anytime you fucking wanted, and you can’t even do it now? You’re going to make me blow my own fucking brains out in this shitty motel?”
Ilya blinked, finally, the first sign of movement on his face since he’d given Shane the gun.
“I know what I could do to you,” Ilya said. “But I want to know if I married a coward.”
Shane could feel his heartbeat hammering in his temples, his wrists, the hollow of his throat. He felt his own hand, somehow still steady as he lifted it to his temple, his police academy training kicking in despite everything. His eyes scanned the room with its yellow, water-stained ceiling, the scratchy bedsheets, the boxy TV. Ilya sitting in front of him, his wrinkled henley shirt and dark jeans and blank expression.
These would be the last things Shane would ever see. He had never missed a shot, not once, not even when he was learning. He would not miss now.
He kept his eyes open as he pulled the trigger. It jumped against his finger, the machinery grinding. No bullet came.
Ilya got up, easily snatching the revolver from Shane’s hand before he could try again.
“This is old gun. My grandfather’s. Piece of shit,” Ilya said. “This one part always jams. See? I even have it marked.”
He popped open the cylinder and turned the gun enough for Shane to see more clearly. Shane could see there was a small groove carved into the metal, right next to the chamber that contained the single bullet.
“You knew it wouldn’t go off,” Shane said.
“Yes.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Shane snapped. He stood quickly, wiping his wet hands on his shirt. “Giving me all this shit for lying to you and then you do this bullshit? What the hell is that?”
“Are you that eager to die?” Ilya snorted, standing up as well. “You should not have told me, now I have no choice but to let you live.”
Shane was about to snap at him again and curse him out in a way that was probably not smart, since Ilya was still holding the gun and could easily reload the bullet into a chamber that actually worked.
Before he could, Ilya caught him, grabbing Shane by the chin. He squeezed his fingers around Shane’s cheeks, pulling his face closer to his own.
“Shane,” he said. “You would do anything for me.”
“Well – “
“That was not a question.”
Ilya dropped his hand, tucking the jammed gun back into his waistband.
Everyone has their corny fic trope they will never not love, and for me it’s mafia/organized crime AUs. So, consider.
A summer night in Manitoba. Shane fighting sleep from the driver’s seat of his patrol car, four hours left on his shift.
Nights like this are dangerous because they allow his mind to wander back to a time when he wasn’t always a small-town cop, writing parking tickets and getting the short end of the stick with his patrol times. In another lifetime he was one of the youngest members of the RCMP, back before the lifetime blacklist and demotion down to the lowest possible rung of police work with no hope of ever rising up again.
A car zips by, the first in hours. Barely anyone drives on this back-end, one-way road this late, not even teenagers looking for trouble. Shane ignores half the cars that pass through, but this one has a trifecta of infractions: no plates, double the speed limit, dead right tail light.
Shane sighs and turns on the flashing lights, pulling away from his patrol spot on the shoulder. The car pulls over immediately, obediently. Shane is relieved; the last thing he wants to do at 3 in the morning is start a pursuit.
He gets out of his car, flashlight in one hand, wanders over to the driver’s side door prepared to see a stoned teenager or a night shift construction worker woozy from lack of sleep.
Instead, Shane freezes, his fingers going so limp he nearly drops his flashlight.
The man sitting in the driver’s seat should not be here. He should be miles away, at his home base in Montreal, not driving a piece of shit beater in the middle of nowhere.
And Shane should not be here with him, because as far as Ilya Rozanov knows, Shane Hollander’s body burned up in a car fire four years ago.
Ilya blinks at Shane, narrowing his eyes. It’s dark, even with the flashing light spilling behind them and the tiny light in Shane’s hand. If he gets through this quickly, maybe Ilya won’t even get a good look at his face.
“Can I help you, Officer?” Ilya asks, tapping the steering wheel once, twice, with his pointer finger. Hearing his voice sends twin lines of heat and ice down Shane’s spine.
“Sorry, ah,” Shane clears his throat. “You have…you were going a little fast.”
“I am not from around here.”
“Right, well, just don’t do it again,” Shane says. “Um, and get that tail light fixed. Have a good night.”
He turns on his heel, forcing his legs to move fast despite the fact they feel wobbly. He just needs to get to his car and it’ll be fine.
He hears the door of the other car open behind him, heavy boots settling on the ground.
“Officer,” Ilya calls behind him.
He keeps walking, but the feet behind him are walking, too, faster.
Shane makes it to the squad car, grabs the door handle like a lifeline, but before he can get it open, a heavy body is pinning him down.
“Too slow,” Ilya says behind him, pulling his hand away from the door handle so he could hold Shane’s arms behind his back.
“Sir,” Shane whispers. Tears prick at his eyes, the animal fear rising in his body. “Please just…go back to your car.”
“But I wanted to tell you something, Officer,” Ilya says. “It’s very funny. Do you want to hear it?”
Shane hears Ilya unclip something from his belt, feels cool metal press into his side. Ilya leans in so close he can feel his breath along the shell of his ear.
“You look just like my dead husband.”
Shane’s body goes limp, the memories rushing back to him at once.
He used to be very, very good at his job. So good he was once entrusted to lead an undercover sting of one of the country’s most deeply rooted bratva families. He was meant to find all he could on the family’s young and newly minted pakhan, find a weakness in the newly shaken power structure. He had succeeded more than anyone could imagine, including himself.
But he was not meant to get attached. And in that aspect he had failed horribly.
Ilya’s lips press to his neck, over his jumping pulse point.
“Did you think I would not find you, Зайчик?”
Shane has not heard that name in four years, and it undoes him.
“Ilya,” he whispers, the less scrap of self preservation leaving his body. “Please.”
He doesn’t know what he’s even asking for. To not die? To die quickly and painlessly?
Ilya tugs on his arm. It’s pathetic, really, the way Shane peels away easily from the car and collapses into Ilya’s waiting body. The barrel of the gun is still stuck between his ribs, but he knows he would move even without it.
“Come on,” Ilya says, nodding towards the beater. Shane can see now how obvious this whole thing was, a series of petty traffic infractions laid out of him like he’s a rat in a trap. A bunny hopping blindly to the wolves.
“At least tell me where you’re taking me,” Shane says. He doesn’t know where he finds the strength to say it, to make any request at all. Ilya looks at him like Shane has asked the color of the sky.
“You do not know?” he asks. “I am taking you home.”
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I just think, based on the way Ilya had his hand down his pants for the entirety of the Boston conversation, that after he and Shane are settled in their relationship his relaxation always includes somewhat inappropriate Shane touching. They're watching a movie with Shane resting on his chest? Ilya's hand is on his bare ass, fingers playing along the crease where his butt becomes his thigh, occasionally lifting the cheek and letting it go just to feel it jiggle. Shane's on the couch reading? Ilya's crawling between his legs and resting his head in the crease of his thigh. Shane's cuddled up with his back against Ilya's chest? Ilya's hand is resting on that man's cock. It's not necessarily sexual, it's not consciously possessive (although it is subconsciously possessive in that Shane's body is his to touch in whatever way he wants), that's just how he's most comfortable.
Meanwhile, Shane Oral Fixation Hollander always has some part of Ilya in his mouth. So they're cuddled up, Ilya's right hand on Shane's ass, the left one in his mouth and it's become so normal that neither one of them gives it a second thought. There's definitely a time or two where they accidentally do it around other people, like they're watching a scary movie with the Pikes and don't realise that Shane's had two of Ilya's fingers in his mouth for the past ten minutes until Hyden catches it out of the corner of his eye and goes "dude, what the fuck??" or they're heading back with the Cens after a series of away games and they're cuddled up on the plane, both half asleep, when Ilya's hand just makes its way down Shane's pants to rest in the crease of his groin and when Troy says "Roz, you'll be home in like two hours, can't that wait?" neither one of them realises what he's even referring to.
just had a thought so disgustingly sappy i had to open my period app to check if i am about to ovulate. i am not. there is no excuse. i'm sacrificing all my hard earned cynicism credibility for this... imagine a hollanov toddler getting mad and calling her papa ilya "rozanov" because that's what her daddy shane does when he's mad
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