Luca closed his eyes and let the fantasies unfold. He thought about Ilya, his lips wrapped around Luca’s cock, moving his head expertly. He thought of sucking Ilya’s cock in turn, taking him deep down his throat, while he jerked Shane & Troy off with both hands. Sometimes Troy made an appearance, but it was rare; usually it was Shane, Ilya, and LaPointe that were on his mind. Today seemed to be one of those days, because he also thought of Troy bending him over and fucking the absolute hell out of him while LaPointe, Ilya, and Shane all watched. That one in particular made his cock twitch against his palm and he moved harder and faster, his eyes squeezed shut and his head tossed back against the pillows. He felt his cock getting more slick, his balls feeling tight and heavy as he reached down with his free hand to grope them.
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chapter warnings: unprotected sex, oral sex (f & m receiving), road head, vaginal fingering
He fucked her on his tongue, lapping at her walls as she tossed her head back. All he could do was make her feel good, watching as she took every ounce of pleasure that he was giving to her. Her hands still remained firmly planted in his hair, her hips bucking forward for even more. He wanted to hold her down, to make her feel every last ounce of pleasure that he was willing to give, but he also knew better than to do that. Holding her down would mean that he wouldn’t be able to experience her fully, that he wouldn’t be able to watch as she truly unraveled. He couldn’t deprive himself or her of that, not even if he tried. To do that would be to commit the most grievous of sins, and he wasn’t about to go down that road. Although being with her did want to make him commit the worst sins imaginable, he would behave himself tonight. Tonight was about possibly creating a life together, a little piece of her and a little piece of himself. He wasn’t going to take that for granted.
His mouth moved over her, feverishly, kissing and sucking everywhere he could. Her fingers were like iron in his hair, holding on for dear life as he devoured her pussy. Her legs were trembling around his head, his mouth still working her and his fingers joining the mix. He started fingering her again, hard and deep, fucking her on them as his lips closed around her clit. She shuddered violently, her moans echoing in his ears. He smiled against her and swirled his tongue over her clit, sucking on it as his fingers curled against the spot inside of her. He added a third one, fucking into her at a rapid pace as her breathing began to pick up. His smile grew and he kept going, flicking his tongue against her clit as she arched her back and bucked her hips against him. It felt so good to make her feel good, to watch as the threads of her control began to fray. It was the most rewarding part of all of this for him, watching her reactions. He loved every minute of it.
Luca couldn’t respond, so he just whined instead. Ilya smirked at him and held even tighter to his hair, thrusting hard and deep into his mouth. Luca felt his nose brushing against Ilya’s skin, his throat & mouth full of Ilya’s massive length. Ilya held him down for a second before resuming his thrusts, Luca’s cheeks hollowing a little as Ilya kept going. Luca swallowed around him, closing his eyes before opening them to look up at Ilya. His eyes were blurry with tears, Ilya’s face fading into that blurriness as he blinked them away. Ilya’s grin widened, his hands still deep in his hair as his thrusts became a bit more violent. Tears streaked down Luca’s cheeks, his mouth watering as Ilya showed him absolutely no mercy. Shane added the second finger as he was instructed, causing Luca to moan and close his eyes against the movements. Shane curled his fingers against his prostate, causing him to moan louder and Ilya to become more brutal about his movements.
“Look at you,” Ilya said, forcing Luca down again and thrusting hard against the back of his throat. “Crying. What, is it too much?”
anyways... i blame @allstarrocks for this one. musing my way into a narrative about dogshane house breaking under the cut 😁 theres piss under there so beware
i think they work up to it. ilya sometimes has him piss outdoors, no real pattern to it. and if his brow seems to wrinkle whenever shane excuses himself to pee, then shane's probably just imagining it.
one time, when shane was on his knees for ilya, he got so lost that he didnt even recognize the cue from his body, not until a puddle formed underneath his feet. ilya had been sweet then, cleaned him softly, used the syrupy tone to reassure shane, telling him its okay if he's a little stupid and pisses himself. the gentle humiliation had been enough to make shanes headspin, and after a bath, ilya led him, still naked, to the lawn. made him piss out there with ilya watching, told him that this is where puppies are supposed to go.
the praise shane received afterwards made it all worth it, plus the benefit of not being sticky afterwards. he hasnt had an accident inside since.
ilya doesnt make him go outside everytime, and they dont really talk about it. shane uses the toliet like a normal person, except for when ilya yells his name across the house. "shane!" he'll call, slapping his thigh like shane really is a dog. "time to go outside!" and then he'll lean against the wall, smoking or on his phone, looking at shane just enough to confirm that he goes. shane still doesnt know what the point is, or why he even bothers to go on with it, but any attempts at protesting at just met with ilyas blank gaze, no room for any kind of argument.
shane pees on the grass every time, tucks his dick back into his pants. only sometimes now does ilya praise him.
sometimes shane catches himself waiting. he doesnt go use the bathroom right away when he needs too, because maybe ilya will let him outside. one time, ilya let him out and shane didnt even have to go. it was cold day and ilya had them both wait outside until he went, and sometimes shane thinks its even more embarrassing if its just a trickle.
this morning ilya had herded him away from the bathroom, guiding him down the stairs and outside, still barefoot and shirtless, damp grass blades between his toes. he went then, with ilya observing, but really watching. then ilya kissed him, told him he did good. they hung out in the living room today, shane didnt bother to get dressed, since ilya complained everytime shane tried to leave him and wouldnt listen to reason when shane said he could just go with him.
but shane isnt really complaining, not when ilya had let him come twice today, and there was something delicious about the contrast—ilya fully clothed and shane in just his boxer briefs, although he lost those after the last time he came, tucked now into ilyas side completely naked and sated, ilya's hand playing with the hair on the nape of his neck. its a pretty perfect day.
except shane has to pee. its midafternoon now and ilya only let him out once in the morning. with the possessive way ilya's been keeping him, shane thought he'd want him to go outside all day. but its getting uncomfortable and shane doesnt think its worth waiting longer.
"gonna go the bathroom," shane mutters as he stands up. ilya doesn't stop him.
only, something does stop him. the doors locked. shane tries the handle again, completely confused. are bathroom doors even supposed to lock from the outside? he pulls again. definetely locked.
he tries the other bathroom instead of the en suite and its the same thing.
"ilya?" shane calls out to him in the couch, shifting again as he stands. he really does need to go. "why are the bathrooms locked?"
ilya tilts his head. "what?"
"the door to the bathroom. both of them are locked."
"that doesnt make any sense." ilya say, and he looks honest. shane cant tell sometimes though, when hes fucking with him. "theres nobody else here. why would they be locked?"
"I dont know. I cant open them"
"maybe the door is stuck. you try pulling harder?"
shane blinks. "its definitely locked."
"try again"
shane has to piss too bad to argue. so he goes and tries the bathrooms again, unsurprised to find no change. the pressure on his bladder is worse now and shane feels a little panicky with it. he goes back to ilya.
"you finished?" ilya asks
"no, i—"
"come here" ilya interrupts, spreading his legs wide for shane to land between them. shane winces at the thought of kneeling right now, rocks back on his heels. "come here."
shane obeys. squeezes his eyes shut tight as he gets into place, all of his focus going to not losing control. if he leaks even a little bit, ilya will notice. it'll land onto the floor.
ilya pulls out his cock. shane squirms where he is on the floor.
"ilya, i—"
"what? do you need something?" the tone is callous.
"i really have to piss" shane whispers.
"you just went"
shane starts to shake his head but ilya reaches out, grips his hair. "you dont want to suck my dick?"
"can you let me use the bathroom first?"
"sure." ilya leans back. "you can get up and go again if you really need it."
"the door's locked" shane says, feeling stupid, he doesnt know how much longer he can hold it.
"oh," ilya coos, reaching down to cup shane's chin. "is the handle too hard for my puppy?"
shane flushes, shakes his head.
"no? so you can go open right now?"
shane shakes his head again.
"tell me."
shane swallows, face hot and bladder pressing with an urgency shane hasnt ever felt before. "the door's too hard for me."
ilya coos again, like shanes said something especially cute. "think about confusing the toilet would be... you might think its full of drinking water."
shane goes to shake his head but ilya tightens his grip and forces him to nod.
"thats right. the bathroom is way too confusing for a puppy. you need to outside?" ilya pitches the last question up, like hes really talking to a dog. "you have to go potty?"
shane whines. he really really does. he nods his head now frantically. ilya tucks his dick back into his pants. shane goes to stand, but ilya shoves at his shoulders.
"down." like hes a bad dog.
he crawls after ilya, so full of piss that each move hurts. theyre almost to the door when shane realizes. hes not gonna make it.
there's no way. the urgency of need has caught up to him, and its only one more step before his control fumbles. piss streams onto the hardwood floor and shane cant stop it. his stomach drops.
"shane!" ilya turns around. "what are you doing?"
he sounds mad and shane feels sick. last time he had an accident ilya was sweet...
"we were five steps away from the door!"
shane finally gets control and stops himself. still piss left inside him but the need isnt so dire. he's in a puddle of it. and he feels, stupidly, that he might cry.
"you dont go there," ilya says, voice still firm. he reaches down and grabs shanes head, pulls it away. "stupid fucking dog."
with no warning, ilya pushes his face down and shane cant help his whine as his nose the floor. the aciditic smell of his own piss. all over his fucking face. shane feels disgusting.
ilya half lifts, half drags him outside. "you piss out here." he tells him, then he shuts the door again.
shane does piss again, releases the rest of his bladder into the grass and then waits there sticky and gross with pee all over, feeling a terrible mixture of shane and embarrassment. hes also hard.
ilya smirks a bit when he sees that. hes a little nicer now, but he still cleans shane off with the hose instead of in the bath like last time. shane still feels a little sticky and not fully clean when ilya lets him back inside.
the spot is cleaned up and shane tries not to feel embarrased by that. ilya was mad, but he seems cooled off, letting shane kneel between his legs again.
"silly puppy," ilya tells him, petting his hair. "got so confused trying to use bathrooms like a man that you pissed all over the floor. we wont let that happen again, yes?" he tugs at shanes hair until he's nodding. "good boy."
2.2k, E, Shane/Ilya, humiliation, roleplay, erectile dysfunction, slurs
"I'm sorry." Shane's voice is small, muffled because of how Ilya holds him.
"Sorry for what?"
"Sorry I can't get you hard." He sounds dazed, lips still fishlike where Ilya pushes them out. Rybka, Ilya could call him—if Ilya was being sweet.
———
Ilya's not going to get hard for Shane; he's not gay.
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Ilya hums appreciatively, relishing in the burn of the vodka as he raises the glass to his lips once again. “You want to put on show- want to play with our toy so badly you could not wait for me?” Ilya asks Shane over the rim of the tumbler. Shane doesn’t respond at first, but Ilya sees how his breath catches, fingers stalling for less than a split second in Luca’s mouth.
“He made a compelling argument.” Ilya smirks at the strain in Shane’s voice.
“Did he now?” Ilya laughs scornfully. “I must hear this, da? Tell me this ‘compelling argument'.”
There is a hunger that lives within Shane. An unbearable void that he carries within him. A darkness that resides in the deepest recesses of his being.
Most of the time it’s manageable, just a low thrum of longing in the pit of his stomach. Most days he can get on with his day-to-day activities without thinking about it too much. But that is only because every now and then, whenever he can truly get away, he gives in and lets the hunger gorge.
Or: Ilya runs into Shane Hollander in a sex club in London, deep in subspace and desperately in need of aftercare.
luca haas x the centaurs | one-shot | explicit | 3.8k.
warnings: anal sex, oral sex, humiliation, multiple partners, unprotected sex, use of puppy nickname, filming
Luca whined at the thought, but didn’t have much time to think about it before Troy was starting to thrust. Luca groaned and pushed back against him, Troy holding onto his hips for leverage. Luca wished that he could hold onto something, but he had nothing but the floor beneath him. He moaned as Troy started ramming into his prostate, his lashes fluttering as he felt the head of Troy’s cock in his most sensitive area. Troy apparently took his moans for the good ones that they were, his fingertips digging into Luca’s skin as Luca moaned hotly. Troy groaned behind him, his hips driving against Luca’s ass as Luca looked around. Everyone on the team was watching him closely, with lust still in their eyes. Ilya was filming, watching Luca over the top of his phone, smirking at him as he did so.
“You are a star, shchenok,” Ilya said. “We should put you on internet, yes? Let everyone see how much you love dick.”
Luca’s eyes widen in horror, moaning as Troy continued ramming into his prostate. “No…Don’t do that…”
“Shame,” Ilya said as he shook his head. “You would have promising career. Might make as much money doing this as being hockey player, yes?”
“Fuck, don’t give him any ideas,” Dykstra said. “You’re gonna get me hard again just thinking about it.”
"And you can’t,” Shane tilts his head, pouts mockingly at Luca, “can you?”
Shane simply stares while Luca flounders, the rookie’s eyes damp and hazy as he gapes at them uncertainly. He manages a stuttered, “C-can’t what?”
There’s an edge of malice to the smooth curve of Shane’s smirk as his eyes grow darker. He replies, “Can’t help yourself, kid. But we can,” Shane adds, shifting to stand behind Ilya and hook his chin over his shoulder. “Can’t we, Ilya?”
part 3 of all my perversions, 3.6k, E, Shane/Ilya, D/s, sex tapes, humiliation
Shane: Why is there another video on my flash drive?
Lily: I was wondering when u would find that
Lily: U can watch it but don't touch urself
———
Shane finds another video.
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chapter warnings: oral sex (f receiving), unprotected sex, not much else!
Once the sandwiches were eaten and she finished her coffee, Ilya was on her. She was still fully naked from the night before, with him wearing a Raiders shirt and black jeans. Her hands fisted through that shirt as he kissed her, as he explored her mouth with his tongue. She moaned into his mouth, kissing him hotly and whining when he drew back to take his shirt off. Her hands roamed his bare chest, taking in every muscle, every ridge. His mouth was on hers again, rolling them so that she was on top of him. She giggled, grinding down against him, her pussy already getting wet. He moaned against her mouth, his hands reaching up to grope her breasts. She moaned and he pinched her nipples between his fingers, her own moving down to work on the fly of his jeans. She smiled against his lips, her hand dipping inside of his jeans as he groaned. Her hand wrapped around his cock and he pushed her off, moving off the bed to remove his jeans & underwear before pulling her to the edge of the bed as she giggled. He knelt in front of her, opening her legs and moaning at the sight of her cunt.
star pupil
explicit, 9k
luca/shane, luca/ilya, & obv ilya/shane
#winner's room, proxyfucking of sorts, dubious consent as per the league mandated gay sex, “meet your heroes: fuck them, even!”
Years ago, Luca watched Hollander take to the ice, helmet off, hair sweat-slick and pushed back,face brimming with exhaustion, as he hoisted the Cup over his head. Now his fingers are skirting the elastic waistband of Luca’s pants, two hooking in so that his nails press against the sensitive skin of Luca’s groin, right by his pubes. The tiny space between his ribs and stomach twists sickly and needy at once. He wants Hollander to touch him so bad at that moment he can’t think of anything else. He wants Hollander’s fingers curling around his hips, his cock, his shoulders, so that the next time Luca sees that gif of Hollander’s victory lap in 2016, he can compare how he holds the Cup to how he maneuvers Luca’s body.
warnings: oral sex in a pool (m receiving, of course), frotting, anal fingering, anal sex, dry sex, pool sex
Luca nodded and gathered himself, before going down. As he did before, he was careful not to get water in his mouth or up his nose as he took Shane in, sucking him down into his throat. Luca moaned around him, holding himself there for a moment before he started bobbing his head. He paid special attention to his tip every time he brought his head up, playing with it, his tongue swirling it and pressing against his slit. Shane thrust upward, forcing Luca to take him back down his throat as Luca started working him again. He moved his head up and down, playing with his tip, swallowing him down his throat. He felt so grateful now, as always, that he didn’t have a gag reflex. He thought it might be disastrous if he started choking right then; it could also be dangerous. He moaned around him, moving faster, harder, taking him deep into his throat as he felt Shane twitch inside of his mouth. A few more movements and it was all over, with Shane cumming down his throat as Luca let out a soft whine. He swallowed and came back up, where Ilya was smirking and Luca was blushing fiercely.
“Good boy,” Ilya said, patting Luca’s shoulder. “You did such good job. You deserve to be rewarded.”
“You are young,” Ilya starts, immediately having to wave a hand to silence Luca as the rookie opens his mouth to protest. “You are young, you are in new place, you are lashing out.”
Luca glares at him, but finally seems to be following Ilya’s cues and remaining silent.
“You are not wrong.” Ilya allows, lifting a single shoulder in a shrug. “I am captain of team, not your life. But rookie,” Ilya leans in, head tilting down to meet Luca’s eyes, “if you do not get your act together, you will not even have a team. Is this what you want?”
RATED T | WORDCOUNT 6K | TW: Shootings, home invasions, vomiting, hospitals, outings, homophobia
or…hollanov get outed because of a home invasion, and the shooting isn’t even the worst part of ilya’s year! i wrote this in a fugue state so if u see any mistakes….no u dont <3
The officer sitting across from Shane looks far from sympathetic. It might worry him, if he wasn't so busy staring at the flecks of maroon currently buried beneath his fingernails.
"Why were you at Rozanov's apartment, Mr. Hollander?"
Shane blinks. "What?"
"Why," The officer repeats, leaning forward, "Were you at his apartment? You have to admit, it's pretty strange to—"
"We're together." Shane interrupts, tone flat. It doesn't make his stomach churn to say it out loud. It doesn't make him want to shrink into the uncomfortable plastic chair he's sitting in. "We had a three-day stretch with no games, so I was staying with him."
The officer bristles. He has a nametag, but Shane has no interest in reading it. He seems, overall, unconvinced. Shane supposes if he was a cop who was clearly awful at his job and stuck on the night shift, he'd probably be just as miserable.
"Okay," He sighs, "Let's start again. Tell us what happened, from the beginning."
It's a waste of time. Shane is making bad decisions, right now, this much he knows; he's talking to cops in a tiny detainment room in the hospital, with no lawyer, without his mom, without his agent. None of this is smart. He's outed himself to about a thousand people over the past three hours, and none of it fucking matters, because Ilya could have died.
Shane looks back at the dried blood on his hands. It's staining his t-shirt, too, and his sweatpants. No-one has offered him a change of clothes or even a towelette to clean his hands. It's evidence, says the little voice in the back of his head that sounds like Rose's true crime podcasts, if Ilya dies, they'll need it as evidence.
If Ilya dies, it might be all he has left of him. His blood, on his hands. Shane is struck by a vision of himself in forty years, old and alone and still covered in the blood he couldn't bring himself to wash off.
"Mr. Hollander," The officer prompts. Shane resists the urge to roll his eyes. "From the beginning again, please."
"Okay, uh. There was some noise, I woke up. It's not, like, weird for Ilya to be up in the night, he has trouble sleeping, sometimes. I figured maybe he, like, fucking fell, or something, I don't know. Tripped, maybe. It was like a, I don't know, a crashing sound?"
Shane swallows. His voice is still hoarse, throat stripped raw from crying and yelling and more fucking crying. Another added humiliation to the pile, the pictures he knows people took of him in the emergency room, tears and snot congealing on his face, blood staining his hands. He takes a deep breath, and continues.
"I got out of bed and went downstairs— It's like a duplex, kind of, but more open-plan. The kitchen is downstairs, and it's, y'know, I heard more noise, but it sounded like arguing. I saw Ilya, and I saw the fucking asshole, y'know, in a fucking ski mask. He was holding a gun and I guess he freaked when he saw me 'cause he fucking— Um. Fuck, sorry."
Shane can see it, almost as if it were happening right in front of him, right there in the hospital. Ilya, shirtless and dishevelled and standing a few feet away from this strange person invading their bubble. The light of the refridgerator hitting the dark metal of the gun, and Shane's mouth moving— Did he say something? What did he say? It doesn't matter, now. The shot rang out, and Shane was grabbing one of the few sticks Ilya keeps mounted on a shelf in the entryway because it impresses the puck bunnies and hitting the guy over the head with it.
A standard skull with no helmet usually doesn't fare so well against a Shane Hollander slapshot. This guy was still blinking the last time Shane saw him, which means he got off lucky.
"Yeah, uh. So, y'know, he got spooked and the gun went off and Ilya, um, he kind of, like, held onto the counter for a minute? Like, he has this really nice, um, marble kitchen island. It's Italian, or something, he had it imported. He wants to, like, move it with him when he— It doesn't matter. Uh, then he went down. Like, to the floor. And I knocked the guy out with one of his exhibition sticks. and called 911."
The officer nods, face carefully blank. "You seem to know a lot about Mr. Rozanov's property."
Shane wants to laugh. He can't hold it in, the breathless half-sigh of disbelief that bubbles up in response to this fucking cop's inability to hear what Shane is telling him. If he'd have known that outing himself would be this fucking hard, he might not have been so careful. He might have let Ilya put his name down as his official next of kin.
"Yes, fuck, I know a lot about Ilya's fucking apartment," Shane snaps, "Jesus fucking Christ. I spend half my free fucking time there."
The officer opens his mouth, brows furrowed, and for a brief, hysterical moment, Shane thinks he might have to endure being scolded by this dumb fucking American cop.
Luckily, or unluckily, the door opens before any words can leave his mouth, and another cop appears. She gestures for the officer to leave, and he does, without a word to Shane. Which is fine. He doesn't need an explanation. He doesn't need medical attention, or an update on his boyfriend, or for literally anyone to believe the secret he's been keeping so tenderly and so carefully for the past decade of his life.
He stews on this while the cops talk outside, the unjustness of it all, the blood on his shirt, the way Ilya was shaking. It was blood loss, Shane thinks, and not fear. Ilya is so rarely scared of anything, except the call of a loon on a balmy summer night and the concept of ending his life like his mother did. Did it ever occur to him that someone else would try to end it instead?
Shane thinks of the split-second before the intruder realised he was there, meeting Ilya's eyes over the counter, the ocean blue and his pinpoint pupils. And then the intruder muttering something, panicked, and the shot.
It's not like he's never seen or heard a gun go off before. Shane spent most of his childhood either on the ice or in the woods. He didn't hunt with his dad and his friends because he was busy skating, not out of any ethical or moral dispute. Maybe if he thought on it hard enough it would have turned his stomach, but he just didn't give it any thought. They had hunting rifles at the cottage he grew up in. He knows the feeling of cold metal warmed by his skin recoiling after a shot.
Ilya hadn't looked like a frightened deer. His jaw was tense, gaze set, staring down this faceless man and his stupid American weapon. Daring him to leave or shoot. Russian roulette, of a kind, because only one of them knew how many bullets were in the chamber.
The wastepaper basket is close enough that Shane manages to snag it with two fingers and drag it closer before he vomits up his remaining stomach contents.
———————————————————————————
[ TRANSCRIPT - 911 BOSTON DISPATCH - 15/02/2018 01:34:56 AM ]
DISPATCH: 911, what's your emergency?
CALLER: Um, my boyfriend, he's— He's bleeding really bad, he's been shot, and… God, I don't—
DISPATCH: Okay, sir, is he breathing?
CALLER: Yeah, yeah, he's breathing. He's… Fuck, Ilya, open your eyes. You need to stay awake, okay? It's all okay, I got you, I—
DISPATCH: Sir, where is the injury?
CALLER: Um, like, his hip? Near his hip? I don't— Sorry, baby, sorry, I just— I'm putting pressure on it, is that…
DISPATCH: That's exactly right, sir. If there are any towels near, gauze, or clean clothes, I need you to put them over the wound and press down as hard as you can. Okay?
CALLER: Yeah, yeah, I have— We're in the kitchen, I have, like, towels. There's a lot of blood, there's— Is that, I mean, fuck—
[SLIGHT CLATTERING; MUMBLING]
DISPATCH: Is there someone else at the scene? Are you in immediate danger?
CALLER: No, no. I mean, yeah, there's— Um, a guy broke into my boyfriend's apartment and he's, he shot him. But I knocked him out.
DISPATCH: Alright, sir, I'm dispatching police along with the ambulance. Can you confirm your address, please?
CALLER: Yeah, uh, it's [REDACTED - REDACTED - REDACTED] and the door code is [REDACTED]. Fuck. You can't die, okay? I don't care if it's fucking boring to say that, you need to—
DISPATCH: Is the patient still breathing?
CALLER: Uh-huh.
DISPATCH: What's your name, sir?
CALLER: Uh, Shane. Fuck, sorry.
DISPATCH: That's okay, Shane, you're doing great. I need you to take some deep breaths for me, but keep pressure on those towels.
CALLER [TEARFUL]: I don't want to hurt him. Ilya, can you— Hi, baby, fuck. God. It's okay, it's okay, you're okay. You need to keep your eyes open, asshole.
DISPATCH: I know, but it's better to hurt him a little now and keep him alive in the long run. I promise it's the right thing to do.
CALLER: I think he's passing out, fuck, what do I— Ilya. Wake the fuck up. Shit. You keep a stick out here but we need the salts, huh? I know, baby, I'm sorry. I need to keep my hand there, okay?
DISPATCH: Sir, are there drugs on the premises?
CALLER: Drugs, what— No, fuck, no, we're, uh, we're hockey players. Smelling salts, they… It's just a hockey thing.
DISPATCH: Alright, Shane, help is near. I want you to stay on the line with me until the EMTs are in your line of sight, okay?
CALLER: Okay.
[INDISTINCT MUMBLING]
CALLER: It's not Valentines day anymore, idiot, it's past midnight— Ilya. Hey. I know, I'm sorry, I know it hurts, I just— Oh, thank fuck, I think that’s them— Yeah, hi—
———————————————————————————
Eventually, they clear him of all suspicion. The phrasing of it almost makes Shane laugh, because they'd actually thought that he would try and kill Ilya Rozanov. That he couldn't handle playing against him, he couldn't handle the rivalry, he couldn't possibly handle loving him.
It's only then that Shane realises he's alone, in Boston, with no clue who to call. Maybe he should have expected that his mom would make the decision for him.
"We're on our way," She says, as soon as Shane picks up the phone. It's on 23% charge, and he doesn't have a charger with him. He doesn't have anything with him, except Ilya's necklace, stuffed in the pocket of his blood-stained sweats. The EMTS had cut it off him. "Shane, baby, what hospital are you at?"
"Boston General."
"Are you okay? Are you hurt?"
"No."
"Okay, sweetheart. Who are you with?"
Shane blinks. Maybe it's the safety of his mom's voice, or maybe it's the shock of the evening and the adrenaline wearing thin, but his vision is starting to tunnel.
"Ilya's in surgery," Shane says, which might answer her question. Probably not, by the noise of discontent she makes.
"Who are you with? Is anyone with you?"
He blinks again, tries to will himself to stay in the present moment. "No. No, mom, I'm in Boston."
It's only Ilya. He's the only person I want to see. He's the only person I know in Boston, because we're so fucking good at keeping our secret. It's still so new. It's still so fragile. Who else could know? Who could he introduce me to?
"His coach is on the way, I think," Shane says, "I think he's his emergency contact."
On the other end of the line, his mom makes a noise.
"What?"
"It's— I'm his emergenct contact," She says, and the line crackles slightly. He can hear his dad say something in the background, but it's muffled, the sound of the road and the car humming over him, "He didn't tell you?"
"No?"
"I suggested it, after that hit in LA. You were so scared, and… Well. He said it would make sense, with the charity, and all his family being in Russia. No-one would think twice, not really, because…"
She keeps talking, her voice a steady, comforting ebb-and-flow on the other end of the line, but Shane tunes it out. Ilya had changed his emergency contact from his coach to Shane's mother. He'd written the words Yuna Hollander on that stupid fucking form.
And why wouldn't he tell him? His mom had sounded confused, when she asked. But Shane knows. Ilya didn't tell him because he would have freaked out, called it reckless, told him to change it back. He would have made him remove his one link to Shane, would have taken away the only reason Shane is even allowed in the fucking hospital right now.
The guilt is heavy, and buries deep in Shane's unsettled stomach. All the hiding, the stupid, convoluted plans and expectations of keeping each other secret until they retire, it all feels so ridiculous. Anything can happen, didn't he know that, before? If Ilya hadn't been shot in a home invasion, they could've been in a car accident together. Shane's plane could have crashed on the way home from Boston. And then what?
It doesn't bear thinking about. His mom is still talking.
"Are you close?" Shane interrupts, feeling all of twelve years old again. He feels so fucking small, a far cry from the 200lb hockey player who bodied an intruder with a slapshot to the skull.
"Yeah, sweetheart. Twenty minutes, tops. Your dad is driving, we got on the first flight."
Twenty minutes. He can do twenty minutes.
———————————————————————————
A very kind nurse checks him over and gives him a clean bill of health, which Shane had expected; the guy had barely managed to land a hit on him before he was on the ground. Shane knows what they're going to say, but he approaches the nurse's station anyway.
"Is there—"
"Mr. Hollander," The head nurse, Diane, levels him with a stern look. "I cannot tell you anything about Mr. Rozanov's status at this time."
"I know, but—"
"No buts. I can only release medical information to family members."
It's not unkind, but it stings nonetheless. He is Ilya's family, why is that so hard to believe? Why does he feel like he's repeatedly slamming his head against a brick fucking wall? Surely Diane can see the words Yuna Hollander as his next of kin, surely she can put two and two together—
"Shane!"
He's not sure why he turns; Shane doesn't recognise the voice calling his name, but still, his body moves like a marionette, going where he's called. As soon as he moves, a short string of flashes bounce off the white walls of the ER.
"Shane, can you tell us why you were at Rozanov's apartment?"
Oh. Oh, it's a journalist. Maybe journalist is too generous of a title to give to this fucking sleazeball, this asshole who would interrupt the goings-on of a fucking hospital to get, what? A picture of Shane in fucking blood-stained sweatpants? A picture of him crying, and dishevelled, with flecks of blood still sticking stubbornly to his neck and his chin?
He's had enough violence for one night. The urge to lunge forward and rip the camera from the man's hands, smash it into his head and leave them both shattered on the ugly linoleum floor is strong. But the hospital's security guards are strnoger, and they leap into action, manhandling him out of the door as he continues to yell questions in Shane's direction.
———————————————————————————
OFFICIAL STATEMENT ON CAPTAIN ILYA ROZANOV - BOSTON BEARS
@NHLBears | 15th Febrary 2018 | by Jason Lasso, Head of Communications
THE BOSTON BEARS ARE SADDENED to confirm that our captain Ilya Rozanov, #81, was hospitalised in the early hours of this morning following a break-in at his home. The intruder has been apprehended and is being held on suspicion of breaking and entering; attempted murder.
The Bears organisation would like to extend their deepest thanks to Boston's emergency services for their swift and skilled actions, and ask that the fans and media grant the Rozanov family privacy during this difficult time.
More information will be provided as the case progresses. In the meantime, the Bears encourage any fans looking to help to make a donation to captain Rozanov's charity, The Irina Foundation. Information on donations can be found at TheIrinaFoundation.org/donations/how-to-donat…
Alternate captain Cliff Marlow will take on the captaincy in Rozanov's absence. For more information on roster changes see NHL.com/bears/roster/18-19-season-updates-a…
This is an ongoing story. Refresh your browser for updates. Press and media requests: NHL.com/bears/press-and-media-reque…
———————————————————————————
Shane often finds himself overwhelmed with gratitude for his mom, but this might just take the cake. Yuna Hollander hits Boston General like a fucking hurricane, and Shane know he’s safe in the eye of the storm.
"They didn't give you a change of clothes?" She asks, horrified and holding Shane by the shoulders. Her eyes rake over the dried blood on his shirt, cataloguing every fleck of deep red. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and she's wearing one of his dad's McGill sweaters and a pair of crisp blue jeans. He doesn't want to get blood on her clothes, so Shane shrugs gently out of her grip.
"I don't know," He shrugs; his head feels like it's full of cotton wool. "The cops…"
Her eyebrows shoot up.
"Shane. Did you talk to the police?"
Shane nods. "Yeah, they thought I…"
"Without a lawyer?"
Now that his mom is saying it out loud, well, yeah. He should have had a lawyer. They should have offered him some kind of help, he thinks, but the police in America aren't known for being gracious and understanding, especially to people who aren't white.
He shakes his head.
"Sweetheart," His mom says, and suddenly Shane feels like his heart is breaking. Everything collapses in on itself, all at once; the fear, the anxiety, the panic, the deep, deep sadness. The guilt. The knowledge that, when all of the dust settles, everyone will know.
He isn't sure how it happens, but Shane blinks and his eyes are wet, his cheeks are wet, and his face is buried in his mom's shoulder.
"Oh, honey," She sighs, her hand resting gently on the back of his head, "Shaney. It'll be okay, honey, I promise."
Shane wants to let his mother's comfort wash over him, but all he can think about is how Ilya will never get the same privilige.
The next two hours consist of watching her handle things that Shane had only managed to stumble into. She dresses down the two officers who had interviewed him, demanding any footage of audio recordings be sent to his legal teams and making it clear that she'll be submitting a formal complaint to their superiors. She talks to the doctors and nurses, she gets Shane a change of clothes and somewhere private to sit and stew, she even calls Ilya's fucking coach.
"Yes, I work with him on the Foundation," She says, tone clipped and so professional that Shane is almost convinced, despite obviously knowing the truth of the matter, "Well, it's a sensitive matter right now, and I…"
The conversation descends into hockey talk, phrases like I wouldn't want to step on any agency toes and we'll know more when he's out of surgery, this is just a courtesy call, so Shane lets his head drop back against the plush couch of the VIP waiting room.
American hospitals are a trip.
The room, which his mom had managed to arrange within half an hour of getting there, is bathed in low-light from strategically placed lamps on the walls. There are a few luxurious couches, a wide coffee table with some magazines and art books, and a mini-fridge stocked with water and juice.
He can't sleep, but Shane does close his eyes, and tries to take some deep breaths. He knows he should be concerned about his career, about Ilya's career, about the entire world knowing he's gay when he could only admit it to himself a matter of months ago. But Shane just can't bring himself to worry about anything but Ilya.
The EMTs said the shot wasn't too bad, it didn't hit any bone or arteries, it didn't look like the bullet had gotten stuck or lost in the expanse of Ilya's body. The surgery is mostly just a precaution, checking for any further internal damage and making sure that his muscles and ligaments are intact.
I understand that you can't take any calls right now. I just wanted to express how happy I am that you're okay, and let you know that I'm here when you want to talk strategy. I've spoken briefly with Yuna, but wanted to keep you in the loop.
No word from the Voyageurs just yet, but considering how your coming out went, I don't have high hopes of a positive reception. I'll be keeping an eye on press and reporting, and we're doing our best to get any pictures of you in the emergency room taken down.
Take care,
Farah
———————————————————————————
It's all over social media, because of course it is.
Shane didn't expect anything less, not really, but now the sun is up, and his phone is fully charged, and Ilya is safe and well and sleeping. It all feels scarily real, in the light of day. He cycles between the same four apps: Twitter, Instagram, TikTok, and the scarily silent Voyageurs groupchat.
The first three are full of conspiracy theories that, yes, Shane had tried to kill his rival. Shane took a deal with Moscow to eliminate Ilya after consistently poor national tournament showings. Or Shane was the victim, lured to Ilya's apartment and forced to wrestle the gun from his hands. These disgust him, but they leave their careers salvageable.
Then the 911 call leaks, which blows any thoughts of salvageable or workable out of the water.
Ilya is a few inches away from him, sleeping peacefully in a well-outfitted hospital bed. He doesn't look grey, or even sick; just tired, deep circles beneath his eyes, a large graze starting to purple beneath the skin of his cheek where he hit the tiled kitchen floor. It's only under the layers of hospital blankets that they'll find any evidence of injury, aside from the thin cannula beneath his nose pumping oxygen, the matching wire in his wrist administering pain medication.
The call had leaked, initially, through TMZ, if he can even really call it a leak— Apparently, 911 calls are public record in America, and anyone good enough at lying or with enough money to bargain can get their hands on them.
He knows that no good can come from listening to it, but the curiosity is almost overwhelming. Shane was horrified to realise, initially, that he can't actually remember what he said on the call. He can't even remember the dispatcher's voice; Only how small Ilya had looked, curled on his kitchen floor, blood on his hands. The deep, piercing guilt he'd felt when he'd pressed down on the wound and Ilya had made a small, wounded noise.
Shane swallows, puts on earbud in, and presses play.
It's an instant punch in the gut. The dispatcher, calm and cool, and the immediate hollowed-out panic in his own voice. He almost doesn't recognise himself, breathing heavily, with Ilya's mumbles in the background. The first words he says are my boyfriend. And then, a little later, Ilya, baby, open your eyes.
Boyfriend, Ilya, baby. Shane signed his own death certificate, except, he didn't. He was doing what he had to do to keep Ilya alive, to keep him comforted. His boyfriend, the man he loves. Shane couldn't let him lay there bleeding and say It's okay, coworker, I'll hold you at arm's length until the ambulance arrives.
The Ilya on the call makes a wheezing, raspy sound at the same that Ilya in the flesh clamps his fingers down around Shane's wrist.
Shane startles so hard he loses an earbud, his phone clattering to the ground in his attempts to pause the recording.
"Oh, fuck," He spits, but he can't suppress the grin that splits his features. Ilya, awake, and smiling at him mischievously, sleep-soft around the edges. "Asshole. You scared the shit out of me."
"Me? Asshole?" Ilya's voice is only slightly hoarse around the edges; no worse off than Shane was after his police interview. "I scare you?"
"Really bad," Shane admits, and finds he isn't just talking about his wrist-grabbing. He leaves his phone and earbud abandoned on the floor, and instead shuffles the uncomfortable chair closer to the bed. Ilya keeps his hand wrapped around Shane's wrist, his touch warm and grounding as he settles beside him. "Don't ever go that again."
"It's okay," Shane confirms. He tries to smile confidently, but he can feel the expression wavering on his cheeks. Ilya is fine, physically, as fine as anyone can be with a bullet hole in them. "The doctor was telling my mom that they can discharge you tomorrow, as long as you have someone to go home with."
"Mm." Ilya narrows his eyes as he thinks this over. "I will have to hire sexy nurse, hm? For sponge baths?"
"You can shower like a normal person."
"Ah, are you offering?"
"We can go to the cottage," Shane offers, and tries to sound like he hasn't had this plan prepared since the words release him tomorrow were uttered by his doctor. "You'll be out for the rest of the season, probably, which is fine. It's February, so you have time to recover before pre-season. And your physio and stuff, we can get that transferred to a hospital closer in Ottawa, or even have, like, someone come to the cottage. And—"
"Hollander. Shane. Breathe, sweetheart."
Shane isn't quite sure how to confidently breathe on his own, yet. He can feel his face flushing with the combined embarrassment of just assuming that Ilya would want to recover with him at the cottage and the physical exertion of saying so many words with such little breath.
Instead of addressing any of this, he pulls Ilya's hand into his own and presses his lips lightly to his grazed knuckles.
"Sorry," Shane mutters against the broken skin, "You probably want to stay in Boston, and get, like, actual care from—"
"No, no. I want to go to the cottage. Is nice, quiet. And you are very good nurse, I think."
"But?" Shane asks, because he can sense it; the apprehension. Something is making Ilya hesitate. He lays Ilya's palm flat against his cheek, warm in his own hands.
"Sweetheart, season is over for me, I think," Ilya says, gentle, like Shane is the one laying injured in a hospital bed, "But not you."
For a second, the words don't land. Shane squints down at him, confused, before he remembers. Yes, technically, Shane should be in Montreal tonight. He has a game. He has a roadie coming up along the East coast.
He's shaking his head before the thought is even finished forming. "No, I don't— I'm not even thinking about hockey right now, Ilya. I'm not… That's not important. You're important."
Shane doesn't miss the way Ilya's eyes widen slightly, but it's so fast and he recovers so quickly that he doesn't have time to decipher whether or not it was disbelief, or worse.
"Hollander, you cannot say things like this when I am on drugs," Ilya moans, overdramatic and whiny. Still, it makes Shane smile. Everything about him makes Shane smile. "Is too romantic. Everyone will see that we are in love."
The smile drops from Shane's face immediately.
"Um," He says, because he doesn't know what else he can say. Ilya was kidding, obviously; he has no reason to believe that anyone knows anything more than what they've told people. It wouldn't be out of the ordinary for Shane to visit him in the hospital, not when they own a charity together, not when they have such a storied history.
How can he tell Ilya that he's ruined his life? You'll never go home because of me. The entire world knows our secret because I couldn't keep it together on the phone.
"You are mad," Ilya guesses, after a few seconds of Shane struggling with silence, "Because I put Yuna down as my emergency call."
"What? No. No, no, baby, I'm not fucking mad. Jesus, thank God you did, I mean… They wouldn't tell me anything. When we got here, they just— They acted like it didn't matter. Even when I told them, they wouldn't—"
For the hundredth time in the past 24-hours, Shane realises he's crying again, tears wetting his cheeks and pooling in the cupped palm of Ilya's hand.
"Fuck," He sniffs, "Sorry. I shouldn't be the one crying. I'm so fucking sorry, Ilya."
"Sorry?" Ilya frowns. There's a hint of apprehension in his tone, like somehow he already knows how badly Shane has fucked up. "Why?"
"Everyone knows. About us. I'm so fucking sorry, I just—"
"Shane, sweetheart, slow down, please."
"I…" For the first time since this entire fucking ordeal started, the words actually catch in Shane's throat. And isn't that ironic? The only person he can't seem to say it outright to is the only person who knew the whole time, and loved him through it anyway. "Um. The 911 call leaked, and I called you my boyfriend. And said your name. And, there are, I mean, I guess some people got pictures of me in the ER when you were in surgery, so… Yeah. Everyone knows."
Ilya is quiet for a few long, stretching seconds, and Shane is willing to bet that if he were the one hooked up to the heart monitor, it'd be just one, long beep. A flatline, his mind offers the term out of nowhere, making him cringe.
"Okay," Ilya says, after a few more seconds of silence. There's something unreadable in his expression, flat and calm like the cottage lake in the morning. "But you are okay? He didn't… You are not hurt?"
Shane frowns. "What? No, no, he didn't— He didn't even touch me."
Just like that, Ilya's expression resolves itself. He still seems shaken, but that's to be expected. This could have massive fucking consequences for him, for his visa, for the Russia of it all. As far as Shane knows, Ilya's agent and his manager are both Russian, and based in Moscow. This news breaking could, and likely will, change Ilya's entire life.
"Shane," Ilya says, and pulls him in closer. Shane goes willingly, draping himself over the bedrail and ignoring the uncomfortable press of the metal into his ribs. It's more important right now to settle his head on Ilya's chest, as well as he possibly can, and listen to his steady heartbeat. "I am okay, you are okay. The rest is very fucking scary, yes, but… I think, maybe not as scary as random guy trying to shoot you?"
He can hear the smile in Ilya's voice, so Shane lets himself huff out a breathy laugh. If you'd asked him a few months ago, he might have had a different answer, but it turns out that getting outed isn't actually as scary as a man in your home with a gun.
Maybe he'll feel differently again, when they're forced to re-enter the real world and aren't insulated by the lingering fear of losing each other and the too-bright hospital room. But right now Ilya's hand is warm and heavy on the crown of Shane's head, his heartbeat strong and steady in his chest.
"We'll figure it out." Shane agrees, with more conviction that he actually feels.
Following the recent news and police activity surrounding your alleged homosexual activity, you have been found in breach of your contract with Shadow Ice Representation (par. 34, sec. C4, Morality Clause For All Representatives).
While we have enjoyed our work together, myself and Leonora are no longer able to represent you as a client. In recognition of the situation you were put in, you will not be required to pay over the 2.5% earnings cap and your contract with us is now considered void.
We wish you the best in your future endeavours and request that any further communication be made through our legal team: [email protected]
Best wishes for your recovery,
Vasily & Leonora,
Shadow Ice Representation
—
[ The translation isn't perfect but I did my best. Show this to your mother, and see what she says.
Sveta ]
———————————————————————————
The doctor is more than happy to dischage Ilya into Shane's care. Ilya is less enthused.
"You need to play, Shane."
"I don't want to play!"
"I do. I wish I could fucking play."
"Oh," Shane scoffs, rolling his eyes, "Please. You'll be back on the ice by June, we both know it. Just let me take care of you until then."
Ilya's oceanwater eyes search Shane's face, but Shane has no clue what for. He's being as open and honest as he can be, feels flayed raw, exposed and vulnerable. Ilya is maybe the only person on earth who can pull this kind of honest from him.
Only, right now, it seems like it's not enough.
"You feel guilty?" Ilya asks, eventually, but it sounds more like a demand. "You think you owe me this? I can't play, you can't play?"
It's bad form to yell at your boyfriend when he's in a hospital bed; even in Shane's limited experience, he knows this. But he can't help the incredulous bark of a laugh that leaves him when he actually processes Ilya's words.
"No, you asshole! I want to take care of you because I fucking love you, Jesus. I'm not— I'm not trying to work off some fucking debt until I can play again. I don't want to be on the ice without you."
Ilya stares at him for a second, slack-jawed, before snapping his mouth shut. And, fuck, his eyes are watery, and Shane—
"I'm sorry," He says, immediately, "I didn't… I don't want to fight. Or yell. I just want you to be okay. I want to help you get there. Okay?"
He knows, deep down, that Ilya is right. Not about feeling obligated, or anything like that, but he does have to play. His contract has nothing in it about what to do when your secret boyfriend gets shot in front of you. He knows that his mom called the front office that morning, spoke to multiple Voyageurs reps about damage control and police presence and rumours.
She hasn't told him the full extent of what they talked about yet, but her jaw was tight when she left the tiny conference room she'd been borrowing from the hospital, and she wouldn't quite meet his eyes.
It's not important. He's the best player in the fucking league. If Montreal doesn't want him because he's fucking a man, or because he wants to take care of the man he loves after he almost fucking died, he'll find another team. Shane doesn't quite believe it, yet, but he hopes that if he repeats it enough it'll start to sound true.
"Please," Shane adds, when Ilya stays quiet. "Just… I'll stay with you in Boston, if you don't want the cottage, I only suggested that because of the privacy."
"The cottage is not the issue," Ilya sniffs, which sends a wave of unexpected relief over Shane. He knows that Ilya loves it there, so much so that it only took two weeks to cement it into Shane's mind as their place. It's nice to hear it from him, though. "This is your nightmare, Shane. I do not want to be the reason it gets worse. I can look after myself until the season is over."
"This was my nightmare," Shane admits, sitting down on the edge of the thin mattress. Ilya reaches out immediately, tangling their hands together. "But then, I mean— I watched you get shot, Ilya. I was so fucking scared. All I could think about was if… If the worst happened, and no-one knew, and I would… It would kill me, too. I didn't even think about hockey. I was only thinking about you. Hockey doesn't fucking matter."
Ilya raises an eyebrow, drawing a wet laugh from Shane.
"Okay, hockey matters," He concedes, tightening his grip around Ilya's broad, strong hands. "It matters a whole fucking lot. But you matter more. Okay? If it's a choice between playing the rest of the season and making sure you're okay, helping you get to whatever okay is, then it's not a fucking choice. It's you. We'll figure the rest out."
Ilya's nose twitches in the way it does when he's trying not to cry; a movement that Shane is thrilled to notice, and that makes him want to lurch forward and kiss him until he forgets what crying even is.
He shouldn't, though, while his abdomen is still tender. That can wait. They have all of spring, and summer, too. An unprecedented amount of time in the palm of their hands, if Ilya will only hold his hand out for it.
"Okay," He says, after a few more seconds of silence. His voice is thick and shaky, pale eyelashes darkened and clumped together from unshed tears, "Fuck, Hollander. You are romantic hero now, da? My knight in ugly Voyageurs jersey?"
Shane rolls his eyes, but when the doctor comes back with Yuna in tow, Ilya signs all the discharge papers presented to him.
——————————————
tag list: @wannabetonthat @ilyasmole @sofa-king-lame @hollanovscuckchair hope yall enjoyed part one <3 more angst to come hehe
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Shane asks, “Remember his first practice with the team last year, before leaving to finish his season back home? When Hayes kept calling him ‘toothache’ because of how sweet he was?”
Ilya groans, shakes his head. “No, no, Shanya- that Luca is gone. That Luca was kidnapped by aliens-”
“Abducted.”
“- the moment he stepped off plane in Switzerland. Rookie we have now is some sort of… hell spawn.”
chapter warnings: unprotected vaginal sex, oral sex (f & m receiving), face sitting, vaginal fingering, protected anal sex, anal fingering
Grinning, she shifted until her pussy was hovering just above his face. He looked at it, at how wet she was, at how beautiful & perfect her pussy was. There was so much he wanted in this world, but nothing he wanted more than to pull her down and devour her. He needed to do it, needed it more than he needed air. He grabbed her and pulled her down, until she was crushing his face. She moaned as he began to run his tongue through her cunt, her body moving above him as she glided against his mouth. He echoed her moan, fucking her on his tongue as he held her against his face. He could barely breathe, but he fucking loved it. If this was the way he was going to go, then it would be the best death he could ever wish for. No worries of growing old, of forgetting like his father, just dying in pure bliss like he always wanted. It was everything he could wish for, everything he could ever want, right here. How could he not want that? How could he not need that?
“God, Ilya,” she breathed, grinding against him and moaning. “Your mouth always feels so fucking good.”
He said something in Russian, but he didn’t even know what he was saying. She seemed to respond to that well, getting more wet against his face as he kept going. It felt so good, making her feel like this. There was nothing that she couldn’t do that would ever make him think differently; not a single thing in this world. God, he loved her so much. He needed her so much. He needed to die, breathing her in and basking in her. There was nothing that would ever make him want differently. As his mouth worked over her, as he made her feel good again & again, bringing her to the brink of orgasm with his tongue, he knew he was in this forever. Her, Shane, they were all he needed and he was so happy he had them both. The next hurdle would be to tell Shane he loved him, and he wanted him to know. Soon. Maybe at the cottage, he would tell him. Maybe that would be the perfect time.
