Chapter Text
It had been Rose's idea, initially.
Shane hadn't wanted to but forty-five minutes crammed together in a bathroom with his friend fixing his hair, adjusting the shirt, hyping him up like it was game seven, had worn him down.
So here he was.
A tight, almost transparent, shirt clinging to his chest, pants hugging him in a way that made him hyperaware of his own body, standing in front of the mirror like he might bolt at any second.
“You look hot, Shane, don’t worry about it,” Rose said, kissing his cheek before he could dodge. The lipstick stain stayed. Deliberately.
He smiled, small and uneasy, fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt. Hot wasn't usually the goal. Invisible was.
From the other room, a voice called out for them to hurry up.
Rose rolled her eyes, grabbed her clutch, then turned back to Shane with a wicked grin. "I am sure that," she leaned in conspiratorially, "you will get some tonight."
Shane's face went immediately red. "Rose!"
She burst out laughing, visibly delighted by his reaction, and before he could protest again, she was gone, leaving him alone with his reflection and the rising knot of anxiety in his chest.
He stared at himself in the mirror.
She wasn't wrong. He did look... good. But knowing that didn't stop his pulse from rising and his stomach from twisting. He closed his eyes, inhaled slowly, tried to ground himself.
One breath. Two.
He didn't hear the door.
"Fuck, you will murder me, sweetheart."
The voice was low and thick with so much passion that made Shane's skin prickle.
His eyes flew open.
Ilya stood behind him, reflected in the mirror, jacket already on, gaze dark and hungry; the look alone made Shane's breath hitch.
"Ilya," he whispered, equal parts warning and plea.
Ilya didn’t answer. He stepped closer, until Shane could feel him, and then his hands were on Shane’s hips, gripping firmly, just on the right side of brutal. The kind of touch Ilya knew Shane loved, even when it made his knees weak.
“You dress like this,” Ilya murmured against his neck, lips brushing skin but not quite kissing yet. “For club?”
Shane swallowed and turned around to face him, “It was Rose’s idea.”
A soft laugh escaped his husband’s mouth. Then he kissed him, slow at first, right below the ear. Shane shivered at the sensation.
"Pretty," Ilya whispered, voice reverent and filthy all at once. “So fucking pretty.”
Shane’s eyes slid shut. His body relaxed into Ilya’s, muscles giving in the way they always did when he was with him. The scent of his husband, the weight of him, the familiar heat, it grounded him better than any breathing exercise ever could.
But then, Shane realised that Ilya's mouth lingered too long at his neck. "Ilya, stop." Shane said, breathless, trying his best to be convincing.
But obviously, Ilya didn't.
Instead, he continued to suck at the skin, hard enough to promise evidence, hands tightening on Shane’s waist like he wasn’t letting him go anywhere. Shane gasped, a sound he didn’t mean to make, and instinctively his arms slid around Ilya’s neck.
The kiss that followed was anything but gentle. It was deep, claiming, all heat and spit mingling. Shane melted into it, moaning before he forced himself to pull back.
They were both breathing hard.
“We are not going to make it to the club if you keep doing that,” Shane said, voice unsteady but amused.
Ilya’s forehead dropped against his, a grin ghosting over his lips. “I do not care.”
Shane laughed quietly, shaking his head. He slipped out of Ilya’s grip before he could be pulled back in, fingers brushing his wrist in a promise of later. “Come on. They are waiting.”
Ilya watched him go, eyes burning and pants too tight.
When Shane reached Rose and Svetlana, both women turned at the same time and immediately broke into matching grins. Wide. Knowing. Absolutely evil.
“Damn,” Rose said, eyes flicking pointedly to Shane’s neck. “Already?”
Shane groaned, mortified. “Can we—can we just leave? Please?”
Svetlana laughed, linking her arm through Rose’s. “Yes, yes. Before your husband eats you alive in hallway.”
The uber ride did absolutely nothing to help. Ilya, relaxed, chatted easily with Rose and Svetlana about some gossip Shane barely registered, because Ilya’s hand was on his thigh.
Not resting.
Gripping.
Thumb pressing into the inside of his leg in slow, deliberate movements that made Shane’s brain short-circuit. Every time Shane shifted, Ilya’s fingers tightened, possessive, suggestive. Shane stared out the window, cheeks burning, pulse racing, doing his absolute best not to react while Ilya carried on a perfectly normal conversation like he wasn’t driving his husband insane. By the time they pulled up to the club, Shane’s nerves were already shot.
Inside, the lights were low, music vibrating through the floor. Shane felt it immediately, the way heads turned, the subtle pauses, the looks. Recognition came fast. So did the weight of it.
Even married, even with everyone knowing, it didn’t stop people from staring. From judging. From whispering.
His shoulders tensed.
Before he could spiral, a familiar arm slipped around his waist. Ilya didn’t say anything. Just pulled him in close and guided him forward, body warm and solid behind him, like a shield.
He relaxed immediately.
They reached their team who came with their partners, clustered in their booth.
It took approximately two seconds for them to notice Shane's new... neck accessory.
“Damn, Shane,” Troy said, laughing, “you got into a fight with a vampire?” Wyatt grinned openly, “Those are fresh.”
Shane wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. He could feel the heat in his face, he knew he was bright red.
Next to him, Ilya looked absolutely delighted. His hand tightened at Shane’s waist, fingers digging in just enough to promise bruises later. Shane swallowed, mortified and painfully aware of what that meant.
The teasing continued, light and affectionate, but overwhelming all the same. When everyone finally migrated toward the dance floor, Shane stayed behind, nursing his drink and trying to breathe.
After some time, Rose caught his eye, pleading. Shane shook his head gently before looking at his husband who was having his fun with the team's wags.
Before the guilt could fully set in, three familiar bodies dropped into the seats beside him.
Boodram. Wyatt. Dykstra.
All wearing identical, shit-eating grins.
“Well,” Bood said, slinging an arm over the back of the couch, “this looks like the face of a man who needs rescuing.”
Wyatt leaned in, “Or encouragement.”
Dykstra smirked, “Or alcohol.”
Shane looked at them with clear apprehension. Bood’s grin widened immediately.
“How about,” Bood started, “one little drinking game?”
“No,” Shane replied at once, already shaking his head.
Wyatt’s smile turned sharp, “Aw, scared?” Dykstra leaned closer, eyes gleaming. “Didn’t take you for someone who backs down from a challenge.”
Shane knew exactly what they were doing.
And he hated that it worked.
An hour later, he was on the dance floor.
Somehow.
Music pounding through his chest, Svetlana on one side of him, Rose on the other, all three of them laughing too loud. Shane was drunk, not gone, not reckless, but loose enough that the anxiety dulled around the edges. Still aware of the looks, still conscious of the space, but not frozen by it.
He was actually dancing.
Then two strong familiar hands gripped his waist from behind. Everything in him softened instantly.
Shane leaned back without thinking, body fitting into his husband’s like muscle memory. The music swallowed his laugh as he started to move, slow and deliberate, grinding back, his ass pressing firmly against Ilya’s front in a way that was anything but subtle.
Ilya sucked in a sharp breath.
He spun Shane around effortlessly, hands still locked at his waist, mouth close to his ear as he murmured, voice dark and dangerous, “Don’t start something you can’t finish, sweetheart.”
Shane giggled, bold and drunk, fingers curling into Ilya’s shirt. “When have I ever not finished?”
That was all it took.
Ilya’s expression snapped into something final. Decisive. He grabbed Shane’s hand, lifted it, and announced over the music, “We are leaving.”
There were groans. Laughter. Svetlana snorted loudly, “Honestly? They stayed longer than I expected.”
Shane barely had time to process it before he was being guided out, the cool night air hitting his flushed skin. A uber car appeared almost instantly, and they were inside before Shane’s heart had even slowed.
Inside, the partition was rolled up.
Ilya leaned in close, lips brushing Shane’s ear as the car pulled away. “If partition was down,” he murmured softly, “I would ask driver to put it up.”
Shane swallowed. “Why?”
“Because,” Ilya continued, voice low and filthy, “I would not want him to see me fuck my husband in backseat.”
Heat flooded Shane instantly, curling low in his stomach, spreading everywhere.
Ilya’s mouth found his neck again, this time with no patience left in it. His kisses were rough, open-mouthed, lingering just long enough to make Shane gasp before moving again, lower, higher, everywhere there was already evidence. Shane was dimly aware that there probably wasn’t an inch of skin left to mark, but Ilya didn’t seem inclined to stop.
A soft, helpless sound slipped out of Shane’s throat before he could catch it.
Ilya groaned against his skin, one hand sliding up to fist gently in Shane’s hair, tilting his head back just enough to whisper, voice thick and wrecked, “The moment I saw you tonight in hose clothes—” He broke off, his voice filled with tension. “I wanted to get you alone. Undress you. Show you how pretty you are.”
Shane’s face burned hotter, alcohol and praise mixing into something dizzying. He pulled Ilya into a kiss that was anything but shy, mouth open, messy, desperate. Their breaths tangled, foreheads bumping, tongues fighting for dominance, the world shrinking to the heat between them.
Ilya shifted, and suddenly Shane was straddling his lap, hands braced on his shoulders as he moved without thinking, rolling his hips in time with the car’s motion. Ilya’s hands roamed his sides, his back, gripping like he needed the contact to breathe.
“Quiet,” Ilya murmured against Shane’s mouth, teeth grazing his lower lip. “Partition is up but we don’t want the driver to eavesdrop, da?”
Shane knew he should listen.
But he didn’t.
Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the way Ilya looked at him, hungry, undone, utterly his. Shane dipped his head to Ilya’s neck, kissing, biting lightly, moving against him with no restraint left.
His hands quickly find Ilya’s fly and pull it down before sliding one hand inside his boxer, touching his husband’s hard dick and started stroking him.
Ilya sucked in a sharp breath, hands tightening, a warning and a promise all at once.
Shane, leaving his husband’s neck with almost as many hickeys as him, went back to kiss him hungrily as he was fastening his movements on Ilya’s dick.
Ilya’s hands roamed on his back before plunging into the back of his pants, grabbing Shane’s butt from below his underwear and his finger was about to find his hole.
But the car slowed.
Braked.
Stopped.
And reality crashed back in like cold water.
They froze, foreheads pressed together, both breathing hard, hearts racing. For a second, neither of them moved.
Then Ilya huffed a quiet laugh, brushing his thumb across Shane’s flushed cheek. “Home,” he said softly.
When they climbed out, the driver avoided their eyes, music thumping far louder than any normal ride. Shane’s stomach twisted with guilt. He fumbled for his wallet and handed over a tip far bigger than necessary.
“Thank you,” he said quickly, voice still a little breathless.
The driver accepted it, an embarrassed smile plastered on his face. Then the cab pulled away.
Shane hoped the driver wouldn't say anything to the medias.
But he didn't dwell much on it as Ilya grabbed him again, pushing him inside their home.
The second the door closed behind them, Ilya pinned him against the wall and his mouth crashed into his. The kiss was all heat and impatience, the kind that stole breath and left no room for thought. Ilya gripped him with the same brutal certainty as earlier, fingers digging in like he had been holding back all night.
Shane moaned, helpless and unashamed, body melting into it.
“Fuck,” Ilya muttered against his mouth, voice rough.
Then Shane wasn’t on his feet anymore. Ilya lifted him effortlessly, Shane’s laugh dissolving into another broken sound as he clung to him, heart racing, head spinning.
Ilya tossed him onto the couch, not careless but decisive, looming over him with that same dark, hungry look Shane had felt burn into him all night.
Suddenly, Ilya’s hands slide up Shane’s sides, thumbs brushing skin under his shirt, and Shane’s whole body reacts like it’s been waiting for permission.
Clothes are removed piece by piece. Each touch feels intentional. Surprisingly, Ilya takes his time, like he is memorising Shane all over again, like this isn’t just want.
The rest of the night blurs into heat, possession, whispered words and the kind of intimacy that leaves no room for doubt.
When they finally collapse together, tangled and spent, the city is still glowing outside like nothing important has happened.
But something has.
Ilya traces lazy patterns on Shane’s shoulder, grounding, possessive in the gentlest way. Shane’s eyes slide shut, body heavy, satisfied, safe.
When he woke the next morning, his body felt boneless and pleasantly sore. His skin was blooming with hickeys and bruises like evidence of a night that hadn’t held back.
Shane smiled into the pillow, entirely unbothered.