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The first time Ilya offers to pay to fuck Hollander, it’s just a joke. It’s Ilya, pulling at Hollander’s pigtails like they’re kids on the playground and this is the only way Ilya knows to make the pretty boy with the pretty freckles look at him.
Ilya cannot help himself from teasing, not when he knows it works so well every time.
Predictably, Hollander scoffs, says, “Fuck you, I’m not a whore.” He’s rolling his eyes so hard Ilya thinks it might physically hurt.
He grins. “No? But you would make such a good one. Like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.”
Hollander rolls his eyes again, but Ilya sees the twitch of his mouth as he looks away, hiding the smile Ilya knows blooms across his face however reluctantly. Knows he finds Ilya charming despite himself. Knows he hates himself for it.
Ilya’s grin widens when Hollander remains silent, watching as he works his legs back into his slacks, getting ready to leave. Ilya wonders—distressingly often—if he wants to stay as much as Ilya wants him to stay. If, like Ilya, when he’s the one who has to walk out, he wouldn’t prefer to stay behind, to spend the whole night together in bed, just to sleep, to touch and be near. Nothing sexual about it.
More intimate, somehow.
“I pay a lot. Thousands,” he says, picking up the thread of conversation. “You look so good, so pretty, in heels and panties.” Ilya lets his gaze rake over Hollander’s form, eyes darkening at his flushed face and slightly glassy eyes. He’s thinking about it, Ilya knows, because while Hollander thinks of himself as a prude, as a vanilla kind of guy despite what they do together, Ilya knows the truth. Ilya knows Hollander for the slut he is, and this is not the first time Ilya has suggested a kink that Hollander has immediately balked at.
It’s his curiosity, he thinks, that damns Hollander every time. He can never leave well enough alone once Ilya has made a suggestion, is too competitive not to at least try, if only to look Ilya straight in the eyes as if to say, See? I’m not so boring after all.
Ilya fucking loves that about him.
(Ilya loves a lot things about him.)
Still, he hadn’t been quite serious this time when he announced he would like to fuck Hollander in sleek, red, fuck-me heels and a pair of delicate, lace panties. He obviously wouldn’t mind, but it wasn’t something he was asking for.
But then Hollander had blanched at him, all scandalised, pearl-clutching outrage, and Ilya couldn’t help but follow it up with, “I pay you for it, yes? Good money, too. Make you high-class call girl.”
Now, fully dressed and standing by the door of Ilya’s hotel room, Hollander shakes his head ruefully, fond, says, “You’re an asshole,” and leaves as quietly as he arrived.
A thief sneaking out into the night, carrying hand-shaped bruises on his hips and Ilya’s heart in his pocket.
**
The next time is months later.
They’re in Montreal, Hollander high off his win, and Ilya is frustrated, annoyed at himself, at his two goals to Hollander’s three, at the shitty refs who so clearly had been ruling in favour of the Voyagers the whole fucking night.
He’s angry and surly and more than a little mean when he orders Hollander to his knees. “Hands behind back,” he barks, too harsh and too loud but Hollander obeys anyway.
Sweet and pliant as he only ever is like this—when Hollander is the one who’s walked away with a win and Ilya is the loser of the two.
Ilya knows what he gets like when he’s like this, mind in a tailspin, frustrated and short-tempered. Knows his size and his aggression can be terrifying and dangerous, that his bite is far worse than his bark, but Hollander has never looked at Ilya and been scared.
Has never once looked at Ilya as if he’s afraid Ilya would truly hurt him. Knows that for all that he lets Ilya order him around, push him into different position and different kinks, Ilya has always made sure he’s safe, that he’s comfortable.
That he feels good.
He looks at Ilya like that now, hands obediently behind his back, mouth open and waiting. Waiting for Ilya to make him feel good.
The show of trust goes straight to Ilya’s cock, to the heat of desire pooling at his stomach just from the vision before him.
(To the hollowed out space in his chest where Ilya’s heart beats a staccato of I love you, I love you, I love you.)
Hollander is so sweet for him, so trusting, that Ilya feels the terrible beast inside of him soothed into a lazy calm.
“Look at you, sweetheart,” he says, reaching out to cup Hollander’s pretty face with one hand, nostrils flaring at how much of his hand spans across that sweet face. Ilya has always enjoyed the size advantage he has over Hollander, has lorded it over him time and again. He is both taller and broader, and sometimes, when he’s fucked Hollander stupid enough, Ilya will drape himself across Hollander on the bed, smile at how he completely blankets him and call him kitten.
Hollander, of course, hates it.
“Are you going to be my good boy tonight, hm?” Ilya asks. He pulls his hand back enough to trace his thumb against that open mouth. Presses down on his bottom lip and then his tongue, Hollander taking it like a champ. “I asked you a question. Answer me.”
Hollander nods dazedly, eyes fluttering as Ilya pulls away entirely. His mouth chases his thumb for a second, lips forming into a pretty pout—so fucking charming, Ilya wants to lick it away—but he knows better than to disobey Ilya when he’s given an order. “Yes,” he croaks out. “I’ll be good, Ilya.”
Ilya closes his eyes. Breathes in deeply. Wants Hollander to call him that always. Wants to use his name in return.
Instead, he says, “That’s my good boy.” He’s already shirtless, and Hollander is beautifully naked before him, and as he starts working on the buckle of his belt, he tells Hollander how this night is going to go.
“Tonight, because you are such good boy, we are going to celebrate your hat-trick.”
Hollander blinks, eyes tearing away from where Ilya is pulling his cock out of his briefs. His eyes meets Ilya’s. “Okay,” he says, swallowing hard when Ilya starts stroking his cock languidly. “How—how are we going to do that?”
Ilya smirks. “You are going to come for me. Once for each time you score. And then for my goals too.”
“Ilya!” Hollander protests. “I can’t—five times in one night is insane, I—”
“Did you not say,” Ilya cuts him off sharply, “that you would be good?”
Hollander shuts his mouth, licks his lips. “Yes,” he whispers, and looks so utterly helpless, so resigned to the fate Ilya has bestowed upon him that Ilya has to kiss him, falls to his knees before him and draws him into a fierce kiss.
It’s hungry and brutal, nothing delicate about it, and still, still, Hollander keeps his hands locked tight behind his back like a good boy.
Ilya is so turned on he has to grip the base of his cock to keep from coming then and there. God, the things this man does to him.
He breaks the kiss, takes in the string of spit between them and the wrecked look on Hollander’s face. Fuck, but Ilya wants to spend the rest of his life putting that look on his face.
(But that’s a dangerous, dangerous thought.)
“Will be okay,” he rasps out. “You can give me five. Have done before.”
Hollander laughs weakly at that. “We were younger then. Just teenagers. I don’t know if I can—”
“You will,” Ilya says, nosing up Hollander’s cheek to his temple, pressing kisses along the way. He probably can’t. He’ll be too sore to feel anything but pain at a fifth orgasm.
But three? Maybe even four? Yeah, those Ilya will wring out of him, and Hollander will beg him for each one.
“Will give you incentive.” And that’s a word Hollander has taught him, when Ilya lets him pretend at control and he wants Ilya to be good, to be sweet. Nice.
Hollander hums in question, tilting his head to the side to let Ilya kiss his way back down to his neck, stopping to steal a kiss to the corner of his mouth before he sets his lips to the hollow of his throat, sucking a bruise into the skin that Hollander is going to bitch at him about for weeks on end.
A bruise he’ll have to make up a lie to his friends and teammates about, because it will be visible and impossible to hide.
“Ilya,” he protests, but Ilya can’t make himself pull away, not when Hollander tastes so sweet, not when Ilya wants to mark him for the world to see. Wants everyone to know just what Shane Hollander allows Ilya Rozanov to do to him. “You said something about incentive,” Hollander reminds him.
Ilya smirks against his throat. Nips the sensitive skin gently with his teeth before he pulls back to look at his handiwork.
Perfect.
“Yes,” he agrees. “I give incentive. For every time you come, I give you tip. A thousand dollars for every time.”
Hollander stares at him in disbelief. “Oh, fuck off!” he says, as if he thinks this is a joke. Just Ilya being an asshole like always.
Ilya is not joking. Hollander must read the truth of it on his face, because his eyes narrow, that look on his face that means, Bet.
Yes, Ilya thinks, and smirks. “Think you can get five-thousand tip?” he taunts.
He laughs, pleasantly surprised when Hollander looks at him defiantly, arms still behind his back, head tilted proudly as he says, “I think I’ll do so good you’ll pay double.”
And because cheek like that deserves a reward, Ilya goes about giving him his first orgasm of the night.
By the time Hollander has fallen into an exhausted sleep on his bed, tear tracks marring his lovely face, Ilya has managed to wring out five orgasms out of him after all.
He knows the last two had not been as pleasant as the first three, but his Shane is stubborn, and Ilya had been helpless in the face of Hollander’s determination. His decision to win no matter what.
Ilya strokes a gentle hand through Hollander’s sweat-soaked hair. “You did good, my love,” he whispers in Russian, secure in the knowledge that Shane is asleep and cannot hear. That he doesn’t understand Russian. Leaning down, he presses a soft kiss to slack lips, to his freckled nose, and wishes he didn’t have to go. That Hollander would let him stay if he asked.
But Ilya is already late, will already have questions to field about where he’s been, and if he doesn’t leave now, he’ll be fined for missing curfew.
He allows himself another look at Shane’s sleeping form, immediately closes his eyes in regret, and then leaves as silently as he can.
The next day, he transfers ten thousand dollars to Hollander’s account.
**
The last time Ilya offers to pay for sex, it is years later, there is an ocean of history between them, and Hollander is Shane is Ilya’s husband is the love of his life.
They’ve been married for two years, have been out even longer, have a shared Cup between them and Ilya has never once doubted his husband’s loyalty to him. His love or his devotion.
Ilya knows Shane would never stray, that his little slut is a slut for one person only.
Still, Shane is so fucking pretty, so fucking irresistible, and Ilya is not the only one to think so.
Usually, it’s not much of a problem. Shane is so intensely private, he rarely shares glimpses of himself or his life with Ilya. That is Ilya’s job; he’s the one who blasts their life all over Instagram for the world to see. The one who shares pictures of his husband looking sexy, looking pretty, looking like an absolute dork. Ilya very much likes to show off his husband, to tell the world, You can look, but I’ll fucking kill you if you touch.
When they go out with the team, Shane is usually plastered next to Ilya, right where Ilya wants him, where Ilya can keep him in his orbit with a hand low on his back, an arm across his shoulder, Shane in his lap. They love each other, and while it had taken Shane a painstakingly long time to be anywhere close to comfortable with PDA, they were finally there. Finally at that place where Ilya can pull him into a kiss wherever they are, and instead of flinching away, looking around fearfully to see if anyone saw, Shane will now melt into it, meld into Ilya until they’re not so much Shane and Ilya as they are ShaneandIlya.
Two beings made into one.
It pisses him the fuck off, then, whenever some wannabe alpha male tries to chat up his obviously married husband. Like now, like the asshole leaning into Shane’s space from where he’s waiting for their next order at the bar. Bood is with him, and normally any of their teammates would be enough of a deterrent when some guy thinks they can pull Shane Hollander, hockey wonder extraordinaire.
Shane Hollander, who is famously married to another hockey player. To Ilya. And this fucker is just not. taking. the. hint.
Ilya watches as Shane shakes his head at whatever the man is telling him, looking uncomfortable, shoulders bending inwards to make himself small, taking a step back as he turns to leave. He’s obviously rejecting him, but the guy isn’t giving up, and Bood’s hands are full of drinks now, can’t do anything as the man reaches out towards where Shane has left himself open and—
Ilya catches the hand by the wrist before it can touch Shane’s ass. He squeezes hard, smile ugly and full of teeth as he growls at the pathetic whimpering mess before him. “You ever touch my husband, and I will kill you. Understand?”
The guy is forced down onto his knees by Ilya’s forceful grip, but he’s not alone, three friends rushing to his defence, and Ilya can hear Troy at his back, Dillon and Dykstra making up the rear, and this is about to be a fucking shit show, and they’re going to be on the evening news and—
“Ilya,” Shane says. It’s so quiet Ilya barely hears it through the rush of fury coursing through his veins. He feels a hand on top of his where he’s still clamping down on the asshole in front of him. Looks down to see fingers he’d recognise anywhere. “Ilya,” Shane says again, and this time Ilya turns to look at him.
His husband is pale, but he offers Ilya a shaky smile. “Let’s go home.”
Ilya knows that if the motherfucker in his grip had managed to lay a hand on his husband, Shane himself would have been the first person to lay him out. Because Shane does not actually need Ilya to protect him.
Ilya wants to, though. Never wants Shane to be in a position where he needs to defend himself ever again. Not when Ilya has made himself a shield between his husband and the world, and anyone who wants to take a shot at Shane has to go through Ilya first.
He looks down at the man still whimpering at the floor, at the three men pushing and shoving at his teammates and decides it isn’t worth getting in trouble with the league or the law if Shane is asking him to let it go.
So he does.
“Never come near us again,” he tells the man as he roughly shoves his arm away from his grip.
The man scrambles to his feet, slipping once on one of the drinks that spilled in the altercation, and then he’s in Ilya’s face. “Fuck you, man,” he snarls out even as he’s being dragged away by his friends, because while they’re almost of a height, Ilya has about fifty pounds of muscle on him.
They all know who’d win that fight.
“It’s not worth it, Jake,” he hears one of the man’s friends say. “Let’s just go somewhere else. Lots of other tail out there.”
He watches to make sure they leave the bar before turning back to his team, sneaking a hand around Shane’s waist and pulling him close to him. “Well,” he says, all faux cheer. “How exciting.”
Troy shakes his head, exasperated, and Bood ignores him entirely, turning to Shane instead. “Take your husband home, Hollzy,” he orders. He shoots Ilya a grim look. “Preferably before someone puts up a video online.”
Ilya winces at that. Glances at Shane, because Shane has never enjoyed his life being made a spectacle, but his husband looks oddly calm.
“Thanks, guys,” Shane says, and then they’re making their goodbyes.
They’re silent in the cab ride home, but Shane still lets Ilya hold his hand, so he takes it for the win that it is. He’s composing a lengthy apology in his mind for when they get home, knows Shane didn’t need him to make a scene and that he could have handled that asshole himself, but before Ilya can point out his many—excellent—reasons for interfering, Shane is dragging him inside the house by the hand, barely waiting for the door to close before he’s drawing Ilya down into a filthy, fierce kiss.
Ilya gets with the program real fucking fast. His hands find familiar purchase on Shane’s hips, drawing him flush against him. He smiles against Shane’s mouth to find him already hard. “Sweetheart—”
“Shut up,” Shane breathes out, kissing him hungrily. “That was so fucking hot, baby, I’m so fucking turned on.”
“Yeah? You like when I get mean?”
“Like it so much, Ilya. Love you so much. Fuck, I thought you were gonna kill him just for wanting to touch me.”
“Would have,” Ilya says, the words rumbling out of his chest as Shane struggles to pull his jacket over Ilya’s biceps. He grins at the little whoop of triumph Shane lets out when he finally get’s the jacket off, and then Ilya is reaching for his husband again, hands grabbing at his ass and lifting him straight off the floor.
Shane laughs breathlessly, feet making their way around Ilya’s waist as he carries them up the stairs and into the bedroom. It takes longer than he wants, with more than one crash against a wall and Shane giggling at the ridiculousness of it all between a flurry of kisses and eager groping, but then finally, finally, Ilya is laying his husband down on the bed.
Can step back and look at the wonder he calls his own.
He feels himself soften, loses some of that urgency as he gets rid of his shirt and pants and waits until Shane is equally naked. He grabs at an ankle, thinks if the mood from just a minute ago still lingered, he would have pulled hard, so that Shane was at the edge of the bed and Ilya could just push in where Shane must still be loose from their earlier lovemaking, celebrating their latest win before they went out to meet with the rest of the team.
Now, he strokes his thumb reverently over the skin, marvelling at the softness. He lifts the foot, bending to place gentle kisses along the path of his thumb, climbing higher until he reaches the inside of his knee, smiling when Shane laughs, ticklish.
“C’mere,” Shane says, and Ilya looks up to see his husband making grabby hands at him.
Well, how is anyone supposed to resist that?
Ilya lowers Shane’s knee gently before crawling over him, resting his weight on his forearms as he stares down at his husband.
Shane is smiling up at him, so tender and so loving Ilya could cry for it. Used to think that this was something he would never have, and never with the one he wanted. Never with Shane.
He remembers all the times they were sleeping together and Ilya had wished to stay or for Shane not to go.
Now he doesn’t have to wish anymore.
“Hi,” Shane whispers, leans up to give him a kitten kiss, teasing, and then melts back against the pillows, letting Ilya settle his weight on him, gently, as he follows him down for more kisses.
“You’re okay?” Ilya asks, because he has to know.
“Yes. You kept me safe.” The smile Shane gives him is blinding, and Ilya has to kiss him again. The night could have ended far worse in so many different ways, but today he has done good, he thinks.
Shane reaches up to stroke his hands through Ilya’s hair, winding his arms around his neck before he pulls Ilya completely down on him, taking the brunt of his weight. Ilya knows he is too heavy for him to lay like that for long, but for a few seconds, he enjoys the feeling of hiding his husband away from the world.
Hiding him away from anything that would hurt him.
Soon enough, he can hear Shane’s breath stuttering, and he moves to the side, pulling Shane with him so they can cuddle comfortably. Shane sighs against him, content.
For a while, they just lie together, hands idly roaming over whatever skin they can reach, trading lazy kisses and words of sweet nothings between them.
If this is the rest of what Ilya’s life looks life, he will die a very happy man.
“That man tonight,” Shane says suddenly, and pulls back to look at Ilya. “He said—” Shane bites his lip, hesitant.
“What?” Ilya demands. “What he say?”
Shane shifts his gaze away, looking shy of all things. “He said I looked prettier in real life, and that if I was interested, he would pay me for a blowjob.”
Before Ilya can fly into a rage at that, Shane takes his face between his hands and busses a kiss to his mouth. “Obviously, I couldn’t give a shit about that guy and I told him hell no, but, do you remember when we were younger? When you…?”
And ah, yes, Ilya sees where this is going. “When I pay you for orgasm?” he asks slyly.
“Yes,” Shane whispers. “When I got the notification that you’d transferred me that money, I was so pissed. It seemed so degrading. Like I really was just a whore to you.”
“Shane, sweetheart—”
Shane puts a finger against his lips to quiet him, smiling gently as he says, “But then I saw the sum. Ten thousand dollars. What kind of whore is worth that?” He gives a little laugh, incredulous. “I said I’d be so good for you that you’d pay double, and you did.”
“You’re always good for me,” Ilya says, because it’s true, and it’s important that Shane knows.
Shane hums his agreement. Steals another kiss, and for a second they get sidetracked by that, soft, gentle kisses that could go on for forever. For an eternity and a half. Ilya never wants it to end.
“I think I knew then,” Shane says finally. “No one sane would spend that much on just a hook up. I think that’s when it really hit me that whatever was between us, it wasn’t casual or transactional. It was something real. I just had to wait for my heart to catch up.”
“I’m happy it did. Should pay you now, keep you in love with me always. Pay for all your orgasms—”
Ilya barks out a laugh when Shane hits him upside the head, calling him an asshole as he turns his back to him. He makes as if to leave the bed, and Ilya immediately worms his arms around him, dragging him back against his chest and trapping Shane’s feet between his own.
“I’m kidding! Just kidding!”
“You’re not funny, Rozanov.”
Ilya hides a smile against Shane’s nape. “Little bit funny,” he insists, and knows that even if he can’t see it, his husband is rolling his eyes with prejudice.
They fall asleep like that, the two of them entwined, exactly where they want to be.
**
In the morning, Ilya asks Shane if he remembers he once offered to pay for Shane to dress up in high heels and panties and would his lovely husband be at all interested in indulging him?
Shane looks at him from over the rim of his morning coffee, eyes narrowing as if he’s lining up for a face off. “What would you be willing to pay?” he asks.
And, Well then, Ilya thinks, and starts negotiating.