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The betting pool starts like every dumb idea in the Centaurs’ locker room: too much adrenaline, too little adult supervision, and Ilya Rozanov standing in the middle of it like the smug bastard he was born to be. The air in the locker room was thick with the usual post-practice stench of sweat, damp gear, and cheap body spray. But today, it crackled with a different energy—the low, buzzing hum of male gossip taken to a competitive extreme. Someone flung a towel at the whiteboard, missed, laughed like a hyena. Someone else slammed a locker just to punctuate a point. It was silly, loud, and operating entirely on vibes and poor judgment.
“I’m telling you, it’s Bouchard,” one of the defenders said, holding his stick like a sermon prop. “That quiet, intense shit? That’s a front. Dude’s an animal. I’ve heard things.”
“Bullshit,” the backup goalie countered, slapping a palm against his thigh guard. “Quiet guys are vanilla. It’s the loud ones. Like Tremblay. All that swagger’s gotta translate.”
A snort came from the corner where Ilya was meticulously taping a new stick, his movements fluid and disinterested. “You are all children guessing at the stars. You know nothing.”
“Oh, and you do?” another player crowed, the question rising like a challenge.
Ilya didn’t look up, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “I know enough to know your guesses are shit.”
The debate had started innocuously enough—who had the best slapshot, the worst taste in music—before devolving, as locker room talks often did, into the profoundly juvenile. Someone, no one would ever admit who, had scrawled on the whiteboard by the showers: OFFICIAL POOL: WHO IN THE LEAGUE IS THE WILDEST IN BED? Below it were columns for names, odds, and, most damningly, “Evidence.”
It was meant to be a joke. A stupid, boys-will-be-boys bit of idiocy. Money was thrown into a helmet. Names were shouted. Arguments erupted. Ilya watched it all with detached amusement, occasionally tossing in a deliberately outrageous suggestion just to stir the pot.
“Put down Bouchard at nine-to-one,” one winger announced, scribbling furiously.
“Put Tremblay at five-to-one,” the backup goalie yelled, banging his helmet on a bench.
“Someone write down Hollander as a charity case,” a forward called, cackling. “He probably calls his mom if things get heavy.”
That made the whole room howl. Shane Hollander, team darling, league golden boy. Face like a soap prince, smile like he paid extra to have it insured. No one on the team ever saw him drunk. Hell, no one could picture him swearing or yelling unless he was chirping referees in perfect, polite French. So the idea of him as anyone’s idea of wild was comedy gold.
Ilya didn’t say anything. He just listened, watched, eyes bright with mischief.
Zane Boodram wandered in halfway through, sweat-soaked and grinning, and did a double take at the board. “This is the dumbest shit I’ve ever seen,” he said, then peered closer. “Put all my money on Tremblay. Motherfucker looks like he makes girlfriends sign NDAs after sex.”
Troy Barrett poked his head out of the showers, towel slung dangerously low. “Y’all seriously betting on this? Fucking degenerates.”
“Put Troy down,” someone yelled.
“Fuck off,” Troy shot back, but he tossed a fifty into the helmet anyway. “Fine. Put me down. My evidence? Ask your mom. Or Harris.”
The locker room erupted all over again. Ilya leaned back against the wall, lazily twirling tape around the stick blade, the perfect picture of superiority.
Then it devolved even further. A defender started taking actual notes on a clipboard. Players shouted secondhand stories that were definitely lies. Someone suggested turning it into a league-wide pool. Someone else suggested setting up categories: speed, stamina, kinks. The whole thing spiraled into a fever-dream bracket of horny speculation.
“Wait, wait,” the defender said, tapping the marker against his teeth. “We gotta make it legit. We need evidence.”
“Like… what kind?” the backup goalie demanded.
“I don’t know. Rumors. Anonymous tips. Whatever. We’ll set up a dropbox or some shit.”
“You mean like a literal box?” another forward asked, incredulous.
“Sure. Why the hell not?”
Ilya, ever the instigator, stretched his arms over his head and yawned. “Maybe you should ask wives and girlfriends to send testimonials. Very scientific.”
That got a roar of laughter. Someone else suggested handwriting analysis on fan letters. Another idiot brought up the idea of creating a league sex spreadsheet. It was a miracle no one sent an email to management asking for official endorsement.
In the end, the defenders took a shoebox, wrapped it in hockey tape, and slapped a label on it with a sharpie: WILD-IN-BED ANONYMOUS-INTEL. They cut a slit in the lid. They set it on the corner of the massage table. They told everyone who came through the locker room—players, trainers, beat reporters, visiting equipment managers—that if they had gossip, they could drop it in anonymously.
It wasn’t official, which meant it was unstoppable.
Within hours, there were folded slips of paper stuffed into the box. Some were obvious jokes. Some written in suspiciously familiar handwriting. But some looked legitimate. Like someone had stayed up late thinking of the perfect phrasing. Rumors swirled. The locker room became the kind of place where dudes whispered like suburban moms over brunch mimosas. It was hilarious until it wasn’t.
Because a few days later, when the box had swollen with notes and the whiteboard was stacked with odds, one of the trainers got bored and tallied the entries.
The winner wasn’t Tremblay or Bouchard or any of the notorious edge-livers. The winner wasn’t even Ilya himself, though there was absolutely a vocal contingent arguing for him purely on principle. No.
The winner, by a landslide, was Shane Hollander.
The math wasn’t even close. It was a landslide. Almost every note mentioned him. Some were shrines to debauchery. The odds on the board flipped so fast the marker squeaked. Shane’s line dove from “charity case” to “heavy favorite” in minutes. Players cackled so hard they nearly cried. Someone took a picture of the board. Someone else threatened to blow it up and frame it.
Ilya didn’t laugh. He just smirked like he’d been gifted the best present imaginable.
Days later, after road games and flights and meetings, Shane finally discovered the betting pool. He’d been oblivious when it hit fever pitch, too focused on systems and tape to notice the whiteboard gossip engine thriving behind his back. If it weren’t for an assistant coach muttering something about “your boy causing riots,” he might have stayed in blissful ignorance.
Instead, he walked into the locker room early, duffel slung over his shoulder, hair damp from the hotel shower. He paused. The board was right there, updated in bold red marker. OFFICIAL POOL: WHO IN THE LEAGUE IS THE WILDEST IN BED? Under it, in all caps, SHANE HOLLANDER.
Subheadings exploded down the margin: BEST BOTTOM EYES. SWEETEST MOANS. DIRTY MOUTH SENT FROM GOD. Another scrawl read: “heard he can milk you dry without even touching himself ??? (source confidential).” Below that: “best boy in league, apparently loves being humiliated (???).” Someone else had drawn hearts around his name.
Shane went bloodless. Then hot. Then nauseous.
The shoebox sat on the counter, slit overflowing with folded notes. Curiosity killed him. He grabbed a handful, opened one, and read, in block capitals: “HOLY SHIT THAT BOY CAN RIDE. BOUNCES LIKE HIS LIFE DEPENDS ON IT.” Another note read, “Has the best bottom eyes in the whole fucking league. Looks up at you like he’s begging to be ruined.” Another: “GOLDEN BOY LOVES BEING ORDERED AROUND. BRAT IN PUBLIC, PERFECT SLUT IN PRIVATE.”
His stomach swooped. His ears burned. He skimmed one more: “Anonymous tip: Hollander loves getting his nipples played with. Whines like an angel. Ask around ;).” Below that, in a different handwriting: “He’ll suck your fingers just to hear you laugh.”
A note scribbled on glossy paper simply read: “Shane Hollander has a humiliation kink. Evidence: the noises he makes when you call him pretty while fucking his face.” Someone underlined humiliation kink three times. Someone else drew a little crown over his name and wrote SIR SIMPLOT in tiny letters.
“What the hell is this?” Shane muttered, voice strangled, fingers trembling.
“Ah,” Ilya said lazily from across the room. He lounged on a bench, still in gym shorts, arms stacked behind his head. “You found it.”
Shane spun. “Ilya. What the hell?”
Ilya’s grin widened. “Locker room science experiment. They voted. You won.”
“I didn’t sign up for this.”
“You do not get to control democracy, malysh.”
Shane slapped another note onto his pile. “‘He blushes when he cums’? ‘He moans like a slut’? Who—who even wrote these?”
Ilya shrugged. “Anonymous admirers. Maybe they watch us through keyholes. Maybe they are ghosts. Maybe they are walls of our bedroom, whispering secrets.”
Shane stared, horrified. “Stop making jokes! This is not funny! They think— they think I HAVE BOTTOM EYES!”
Ilya sat up, eyes gleaming. “They are correct.”
“Ilya.”
“Mmm. What is it they said? Best bottom eyes? I agree.”
Shane wanted the floor to open up. He wanted a meteor. His ears were flaming. “WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT MEAN?”
“It means when you look up at me with pupils blown and lips swollen, is impossible not to fuck you stupid.” Ilya stood, crossed the space with lazy confidence, plucked one note from Shane’s hand, and scanned it with interest. “Ah. This one mentions you coming untouched when I play with your nipples. Very observant, whoever wrote it.”
Shane’s lungs seized. “That is private.”
Ilya hummed. “Apparently not.”
Shane clutched the papers, trying to force them into a crumpled ball. “I’m burning these. This is dumb.”
Ilya leaned close, voice dropping. “Is it? Or is the hottest thing you have ever heard?”
“Ilya.”
“Because if the whole league thinks you are wildest in bed, we cannot disappoint them.”
Shane’s cheeks lit up like lava. “What are you—”
“You gotta prove them right, malysh,” Ilya murmured, mouth grazing Shane’s ear. “Can’t leave them disappointed, can we?”
Shane made a helpless, wounded noise halfway between outrage and arousal. Ilya’s hand settled low on his spine, a pretend-comforting stroke that just made heat pool in Shane’s belly. “There’s nothing to prove.”
“You think this box fills itself with lies?” Ilya’s tone was mock thoughtful. “They say you have the best bottom eyes. The prettiest blush. The dirtiest mouth. The way you moan when I call you names. All these witnesses. You must deliver.”
Shane dropped his forehead against Ilya’s shoulder, groaning. “I hate you.”
“Liar.” Ilya’s fingers tugged the notes free, skimmed a few more with a satisfied grin. “Oho. This one says, ‘Hollander loves riding. Begged for it last road trip.’ That person has taste.”
Shane spluttered. “I hate everyone.”
Ilya kissed his cheek, deliberately soft. “Come home with me.”
“I have meetings,” Shane muttered weakly.
“Cancel them,” Ilya said mildly.
“You can’t just—”
“Come home.” It wasn’t even a question.
Shane opened his mouth to argue and immediately closed it, because the look in Ilya’s eyes was molten command. His skin prickled with anticipation. “Fine,” he said faintly. “But we’re burning that fucking box afterward.”
“Of course,” Ilya promised, utterly insincere.
They left the arena with Shane half hiding behind his cap, hoodie pulled as tight as the drawstrings allowed. The giddy awareness clung to his skin like static. In the parking garage elevator, Ilya cornered him, crowding him back against the mirrored wall. The flicker of fluorescent light bounced off Ilya’s eyes, made them look sharp and hungry.
“Still embarrassed?” Ilya murmured, dragging fingertips down Shane’s throat.
“Shut up,” Shane gritted out.
“Good.” Ilya scraped teeth over the curve of Shane’s jaw. “Stay embarrassed for me.”
“Fuck you.”
Ilya chuckled. “Soon.”
They barely made it through the penthouse door. The moment it clicked shut, Ilya pressed him against it, hands framing his face, mouth relentless. Shane melted, fingers twisting in Ilya’s shirt, kissing back with messy urgency. Ilya’s palm slid to the back of his neck, thumb stroking a calming rhythm while his mouth claimed and devoured. Their tongues stroked. Shane sighed into the kiss, body flooding with heat.
“You’re impossible,” he muttered when Ilya finally let him breathe.
“And yet you married me,” Ilya reminded, licking into his mouth again. “Which means you signed up for this.”
“For you? Yes. For the locker room gossip box? Fuck, no, you degenerates.”
Ilya chuckled like the distinction amused him more than it should have. “Take off your clothes.”
Shane hesitated, lips parted. “Here?”
“I’m not waiting,” Ilya said simply. “Strip. Want to see those famous bottom eyes while I undress you.”
Ilya’s dominance wrapped around him like silk. Shane’s knees actually weakened. He fumbled his hoodie off, tugged his t-shirt over his head, breath shallow. Ilya watched, expression fierce and amused, already unbuttoning his own shirt. When Shane hesitated at the waistband of his joggers, Ilya stepped in, fingers pushing the fabric down with ruthless precision. His palm cupped Shane’s cock through thin briefs, slow strokes that made Shane exhale shakily.
“Look at you,” Ilya murmured. “Our golden boy, trembling because the team found out he’s a slut.”
Shane’s breath hitched. “I am not—”
“You are.” Ilya slid his hand under the waistband, wrapped fingers around Shane’s half-hard length, stroked once. Shane groaned, eyes fluttering. “Tell me you’re mine.”
“You know I am.”
“I want to hear it.”
Shane swallowed. “I’m yours.”
“Louder.”
“I’m yours,” he whispered.
Ilya kissed him, savage and sweet. “Good boy.”
He dragged Shane to the bedroom, pushed him facedown on the mattress, and yanked his briefs off. Cool air splashed over Shane’s bare ass, making him shiver. Ilya’s gaze burned into him. “Knees under you,” he said quietly.
Knees under him, chest pressed to the mattress, ass up and vulnerable, Shane felt the humiliation burn through him in high-voltage waves. Ilya took his time, kneeling behind him, big hands bracketing his hips. From the corner of his eye, Shane could see Ilya’s grin—full of sharp teeth and ridiculous pride.
“Look at this,” Ilya drawled, rubbing his thumbs along the curve of Shane’s ass. “Best bottom eyes in league. Best bottom everything.” His English always went to hell when he was cocky, and right now he sounded like a villain in a badly translated movie. “Let's test theory. How many times can I make you scream before you forget your own name?”
Shane screwed his eyes shut, ears burning red-hot. “Fuck off.”
“This is fucking on,” Ilya replied smartly, laughing to himself. “You are fucking on my cock. Team voted. Democracy wins.”
“Fuck off,” Shane insisted, hiding his face in the sheets.
“You talk very big for a boy shaking like a leaf,” Ilya smirked. “Want me to kiss it better?”
Shane made a low appreciating noise when Ilya’s mouth descended, kisses pressed along his spine. Ilya worshipped every inch with maddening patience—warm tongue tracing downwards, open-mouthed sugar-sweet, taking his time, making sure Shane felt cherished even while being humiliated. The first press of Ilya’s lips to the dip of his tailbone had Shane melting, whole body loosening. Then Ilya’s tongue dipped lower.
He didn’t tease. Ilya spread his cheeks and licked a slow, possessive stripe over Shane’s hole, groaning deep in his chest like he’d just been served dessert. Shane gasped, hips bucking involuntarily, hands clawing the covers. His embarrassment spiked—he always turned into mush when Ilya rimmed him, and Ilya knew it. He tongue-fucked him lazily, long laps and little nudges against his rim until Shane breathed in broken gasps, moaning for real.
“Ungh—Il—Ilya—”
“Mmm, yes, sing,” Ilya purred against him. “Let the whole building hear. Let them all know how voted champion of fucking sounds.”
“I hate you,” Shane whimpered, though it lost all bite when Ilya’s tongue thrust deeper.
“Liar. You love when I eat ass,” Ilya said in the most condescending, pleased tone, and Shane thought he might combust.
He rode Shane’s reactions, licking slow, pressing wet kisses, sucking greedily. He slid two fingers in alongside his mouth, curled them, rubbing Shane’s prostate from inside while his tongue toyed with the rim. Shane’s body trembled with pleasure, sharp shocks shooting up his spine.
“Fuck, Ilya—ohgod—”
“You have best bottom eyes because you roll them up like stupid little angel,” Ilya murmured. “Your pupils go huge and you make these little slut sounds. ‘Aah, aah,’” he mimicked in a ridiculous falsetto.
Shane choked on a laugh, hating how hot it made him. “You’re an asshole.”
“Mmm, delicious asshole,” Ilya said, licking deeper. “Shut up and let me finish my meal.”
He ate Shane out until Shane was a wreck, face flushed, palms sweaty, thighs trembling. Only when Shane started twitching with too much sensation did Ilya pull back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like a cat satisfied with cream.
“You’re disgusting,” Shane muttered weakly.
“You are tasty,” Ilya corrected. “Up.” He slapped Shane’s ass lightly. “Need you higher.”
Shane shifted, getting his knees under him again, chest still pressed down. Ilya slicked his fingers, slid them in one at a time, scissoring, twisting, curling until Shane was loose enough to take him. By the time Ilya lined up his cock, Shane was gasping into the sheets, eyes unfocused.
Ilya pushed in slow, deliberate, forcing Shane to feel every inch. “Look at that,” he groaned. “Look at this pussy taking me. Goddamn, you’re tight.”
Shane bit the sheets to smother the noise clawing up his throat. Ilya rolled his hips, nestling deep, groaning like he’d come home. He stayed there for a moment, all the way in, cock pulsing inside Shane, hand spreading over the back of his neck in something almost tender. Then he started moving.
He fucked slow, deep strokes, dragging his cock nearly all the way out and sliding back in with agonizing leisure. Shane’s body sang with sensation. Every nerve ending fired when Ilya bottomed out. He moaned helplessly, eyes rolling, face glazed with heat. Ilya watched, predatory-sweet.
“They don’t see this, do they?” Ilya asked, hips slamming forward to emphasize each word. “They don’t see what you look like getting stuffed full like this.”
Shane shook his head frantically, teeth clenched.
“No? They should.” Ilya grinned. “You’d give biggest show. Would prove every note in box. ‘Best bottom eyes’? Absolutely.” He smacked Shane’s ass. “Show me those eyes. Lift your head.”
Shane turned his face to the side, cheek plush against the sheets, lashes damp. His eyes were half-lidded, blown black, the perfect picture of wrecked bliss. Ilya’s breath caught. “There,” he groaned. “There. That’s the look. Fuck, malysh, you make me crazy.”
The humiliation mixed with heat until Shane was dizzy. “This is so fucking embarrassing,” he whispered, voice breaking.
“Then stop getting prettier every time you blush,” Ilya shot back, thrusting deeper. “Christ.”
Shane’s thighs shook. His cock dribbled pre-come onto the sheets, untouched, leaking freely as Ilya hammered that sweet spot again and again. Shane moaned high and lewd, nothing like the neat public persona he carried. Here, he was a symphony of raw need, desperate keening, breathless pleas.
“Ilya—ohgod—”
“Yes, say my name,” Ilya urged. “Say who is fucking you.”
“Ilya,” Shane gasped. “Captain, fuck.”
Ilya’s eyes went feral. He pounded harder, each thrust purposeful, relentless, his hand gripping Shane’s throat lightly to tilt his head just so. He leaned down, biting Shane’s shoulder, whispering filthy things in his ear. “You like being humiliated? Like them whispering about how pretty you look getting split open? You want the whole league to imagine what you sound like for me?”
“N-no,” Shane sobbed, the denial ruined by the way he clenched around Ilya’s cock.
“You lie,” Ilya said with dark amusement. “You’re clenching so fucking tight. Goddamn, you’re a pervert.”
Shane whimpered, his blush creeping down his back. He couldn’t hide. He didn’t want to. He wanted to be ruined. “Please,” he pleaded, not even sure what he was asking for.
Ilya eased out carefully, pulled Shane upright by the shoulders. Shane swayed, pupils blown, chest heaving. Ilya turned him around, sat at the edge of the bed, and tugged him into his lap.
“Ride,” Ilya ordered, guiding Shane down onto his cock. “Face me.”
Shane shuddered as the thick head breached him again. He sank slowly, knees spread wide, palms resting on Ilya’s shoulders. Ilya watched him, that dangerous wicked grin in place. “Yes, good boy. Show me what those gossip idiots are writing about.”
Shane bounced experimentally, face flushed. The angle shifted, cock rubbing against his prostate with every move. He gasped, nails digging into Ilya’s skin. Ilya’s hands clamped onto his waist, steady and encouraging. Shane found a rhythm—down fast, up slow—each drop making his eyes cross a little more.
“What will the league say if they see you like this, hmm?” Ilya taunted. “Their golden boy bouncing on his captain’s cock, eyes rolled back, being fucked dumb.”
Shane moaned, a sweet broken “Ahhh,” that turned into an outright “Uhhhnnn.” His head tipped back, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. The humiliation made him electric. His cock twitched, leaking down his stomach.
“Look at you,” Ilya crooned. “You were supposed to be shy. Instead you’re riding me like you need it to live.”
Shane’s cheeks went crimson. He tried to glare but his eyes were blurred with pleasure. “Shut up.”
“Never,” Ilya said smugly. “Move faster.”
Shane obliged, bouncing harder, letting himself go boneless against Ilya’s hold. He moaned in a high, keening wail, pretty and shameless. Ilya bent forward, teeth scraping his collarbone, sucking marks along his throat. “They should see you like this,” he whispered. “Would settle bets forever.”
“No,” Shane breathed. “I—”
Ilya’s hand slid up to his chest, fingers teasing his nipples. Shane trembled. Ilya pinched both buds, nails scratching lightly. The sensation shot straight to Shane’s cock. His eyes rolled, crossed, his back arches automatically, hips stuttering.
“Tell me what you want to be done to you,” Ilya commanded, fingers pinching harder.
Shane moaned, voice caught between a whine and a plea. “Yes… yes please wanna—wanna be told what to do—like—like a good boy.”
Ilya’s grin turned wicked. “You want them to watch?”
Shane squealed, hips seizing. “N-No… That’s—”
Ilya felt him clench, delicious tight flutter around his cock, and chuckled darkly. “You’re a fucking pervert,” he told him fondly.
Shane couldn’t speak. He rode harder, teeth sunk into his own lip, eyes glassy. Ilya spanked his ass, just once, and then lifted him off, turning him around so he faced away, back against Ilya’s chest, still impaled. Shane arched, body bowed, breath jagged. Ilya’s hands wandered—one on his throat, one pinching those sensitive nipples again, fingernails scraping.
Shane lost coherency. Every nerve lit up when Ilya scratched his nipples. He moaned a filthy, unrestrained sound, head falling back onto Ilya’s shoulder. His cock bobbed untouched, dripping cum down his belly. His thighs trembled as he kept riding, face wrecked.
“Tell me,” Ilya murmured, his accent thick, words barely held together. “Tell me how you want me to use you.”
Shane’s voice came out a slurred whisper. “Bad… need you to—ah—tell me—oh fuck—tell me what to do, Captain.”
Ilya’s entire body jolted at the title. His thrusts snapped up into him, pushing him down with more force. “Gospodi,” Ilya muttered, sounding possessed. “You’re going to kill me.”
He flipped Shane forward, pushed him onto all fours, ass up again. With one hard thrust he slammed in to the base. Shane yelped, eyes crossing as his spine arched. “Ilya!”
“Shh,” Ilya purred, leaning over him, breath hot in his ear. “They say you have the best bottom eyes.” He snapped his hips, pounding deep. “But I don’t like sharing what’s mine. So they can go figure out who else has one, because this view is fucking exclusive.”
He fucked him harder, pounding Shane into the mattress. Shane screamed into the sheets, voice breaking into raw, high moans that echoed off the walls. “Unghhh Ilya!”
“Yes. That’s me,” Ilya growled. “You’re taking my cock. Good boy.”
The praise washed over Shane, turning his bones to jelly. He moaned louder, head tossing from side to side. Ilya leaned down, lips smearing along his ear. “Do you think I don’t notice you wearing my jerseys more lately?”
Shane tensed, a stutter of panic glinting amidst the pleasure. “N-no,” he whimpered, hands clutching the sheets tighter.
Ilya raised an eyebrow Shane couldn’t see but felt anyway in the curve of that mocking voice. “Hmm?”
Shane turned his head, cheek pressed into the mattress, eyes fluttering with overload. He forced the words out, breathless, “W-want you to see—Ahh!”
“See what?” Ilya demanded, driving in harder, relentless.
Shane sobbed, teetering on the edge. “So you know—I’m yours.”
Ilya almost lost it right there. The words punched a hole in his controlled facade. “Fuck,” he breathed, nearly whimpering himself. His hips stuttered, but he caught his rhythm, slamming in even deeper. “And I’m yours too, aren’t I?”
Shane’s body rebelled, clenching hard. “Yes,” he gasped. “All mine.”
“All yours,” Ilya echoed breathlessly.
“All mine,” Shane repeated. He was a mess, drooling on the sheets, eyes rolling exquisitely.
Ilya groaned, fucking him viciously. “Say it again.”
“All mine,” Shane cried, voice cracking. “Mine. Mine. My captain.”
The title came without thinking, borderline sacreligious. “Captain,” Shane moaned, pleading, ruined. “Please—Captain—”
Ilya lost his mind. He slammed into Shane so hard the bed rattled. “Little brat,” he growled. “You’re gonna take everything I give you.”
He reached around, pinched Shane’s nipple again, scratched cruelly. Shane’s whole body convulsed. “Ohgod—ohfuck—”
“You gonna come for me?” Ilya demanded, fucking him mercilessly.
“Yes—yes—”
“Then come from my cock. Don’t touch yourself. Show me why they wrote all those notes, malysh.”
Shane’s moan shot up into a crystalline whine. His cock spurted untouched, cum striping the sheets, dripping down his stomach, while his body shook from head to toe. He came hard, eyes crossed, mouth open in a silent scream that broke into a sob. The orgasm ripped through him like a lightning strike. He clenched around Ilya’s cock in tight, rhythmic spasms, milking him.
“Such a good boy,” Ilya groaned, fucking him through it. “Milking me like that. Gonna—fuck—”
Ilya’s thrusts turned erratic, breath ragged. He slammed deep one final time and shattered, spilling inside, cock pulsing. He held on to Shane’s hips, nails digging in, panting curses in Russian and English alike. “Take it,” he snarled, voice gone raw. “Take my cum. Keep it, you greedy little slut.”
Shane whined, oversensitive but blissed out. His body drooped, arms shaking. Ilya stayed buried inside, catching his breath, hand smoothing over Shane’s back in a sweet, grounding touch that offset the filth.
Then, because he was Ilya, he eased out slowly, stared at the cum leaking from Shane’s twitching hole, and grinned like the devil. He rubbed the swollen head of his cock against Shane’s fluttering rim, smearing cum over the puffy muscle. “Look at this. It’s winking at me,” he said smugly.
“Fuck,” Shane moaned, hips rolling involuntarily.
Ilya used his cockhead to spread the mess, painting the rim, pushing semen back inside with deliberate little thrusts. Shane’s lips parted. He made a tiny, unconscious puckering motion like he wanted more.
“Good boy,” Ilya praised, tapping his hole gently. “So greedy.”
Shane collapsed onto the mattress, boneless. Ilya smirked, wiped sweat from his forehead, and then pulled him up for another round—because of course he did.
“Ride me again,” Ilya demanded, pulling Shane onto his lap once more.
Shane made a strangled noise. “Ilya, I can’t—”
“Yes you can. They voted. You must represent.”
“Fuck the voting—”
“Ride me,” Ilya insisted, voice soft but unyielding.
Shane whimpered, but obeyed. He straddled Ilya, facing him again, lowered himself onto the thick cock. His thighs burned. His hole was sensitive, raw nerve endings sparking. As soon as he sank down, he groaned, head lolling.
“Look at you,” Ilya cooed. “You’re perfect. Blown-out hole, glassy eyes, drool on your chin. My good boy.”
Shane shook, moaning through the simmering overstimulation. He bounced slow, each rise and fall punctuated by a breathy “ah.” Ilya watched his face, enthralled, and then crooked a finger. “Come here. Open.”
Shane obeyed on instinct. He leaned in, lips parted. Ilya sucked his own fingers into his mouth, then pulled them free and pressed them to Shane’s lips. Shane opened eagerly, sucking them down, moaning. Ilya chuckled.
“Such a slut,” he teased. “Sucking my fingers while you bounce on my cock.”
Shane groaned, cheeks burning. “Fuck.”
Ilya withdrew his fingers, replaced them with his tongue. “Suck,” he ordered.
Shane moaned into it, lips wrapping around Ilya’s tongue, sucking shamelessly while riding him. His eyes half-closed, lashes trembling. The humiliation and tenderness collided until he was floating, lost in subspace, loyal and pliant.
Eventually Ilya flipped him around so Shane’s back pressed against his chest, both of them watching his cock disappear into Shane from different angles. They had a mirror across the room—a mistake when Shane’s mind spiraled—but Ilya caught his chin, forced him to watch.
“Look,” Ilya whispered. “Golden boy getting fucked dumb.”
Shane moaned, spine arching. Ilya’s hands bracketed his chest, fingers tweaking his nipples again. Shane cried out, the sound raw and erotic, hips jerking.
“You’re mine,” Ilya murmured. “All of you. Nobody else gets this.”
Shane nodded frantically. “Yours. Yours.”
“Say it.”
“I’m yours. All yours. Your good boy.”
“Fuck, yes,” Ilya breathed. “My good boy.”
There was violence in the way Ilya handled him, but balanced with breathtaking gentleness. Every time Shane got too overwhelmed, Ilya kissed his shoulder, soothed him. Every time Shane begged for more, Ilya gave it ruthlessly. It lasted forever, a carousel of positions—Shane riding, Ilya lifting him, turning him, flipping him back onto his hands and knees, dragging him to the edge of the bed to milk him again.
By the time Ilya finally came again—deep inside, another thick creampie dripping out—Shane was beyond words, soft and trembling, breath little hiccups.
Ilya’s palm smoothed over Shane’s spine in long, steady passes, coaxing him back down from that blurry edge. Shane was limp, strings cut, every muscle slack with satisfaction. When Ilya eased him onto his back, his thighs fell open without resistance. Ilya licked his lips, then ducked down, sucking the head of Shane’s softened cock into his mouth, coaxing the last tremors out until Shane’s hips gave a weak spasm and another dribble slicked his abs. “Can’t waste,” Ilya murmured around him. “Captain must collect every drop.” He stroked Shane’s perineum with skilled fingers, milking his prostate from outside until Shane gasped, a soft yelp of overstimulation. Warmth glazed his expression. Ilya watched the haze settle over him and smiled, proud and tender.
When the tremors faded, he flopped beside him, tangled their limbs, and pressed his lips to Shane’s sweaty temple. “You okay, malysh?”
Shane tipped his head, eyes dazed but joyous. “Mm. Good,” he whispered.
Ilya nuzzled him, deliberately gentle now. He kissed the flushed cheeks he’d spent the last hour humiliating. “Good. Stay with me. Note say we cuddle like idiots now after come. I make you cuddle like idiot.”
Shane let out a breathy laugh, the sound soft and wrecked. “Your English is so bad.”
“Is perfect,” Ilya insisted, pulling him closer. “Cuddle like idiot is official term. In book of sex democracy.”
“There’s no book.”
“There is now. I write it.” Ilya traced a finger over Shane’s damp eyebrow. “Chapter one: how to make golden boy moan like slut. Chapter two: how to make him blush for three hours. Chapter three: cuddle like idiot.”
Shane buried his face in Ilya’s neck, smiling against his skin. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you are mine,” Ilya murmured, voice dropping to something tender and raw. “My champion.”
They lay there, tangled and sticky, until the room cooled and their breathing evened out. The world outside felt far away, silly and small. Here, it was just them: Ilya’s heartbeat under Shane’s ear, his fingers carding through Shane’s hair, his quiet, satisfied hum vibrating through his chest.
Eventually, Ilya stirred. “Shower,” he said, not a question.
Shane groaned. “Can’t move.”
“I carry you.”
“You will not.”
Ilya sat up, scooped him up bridal-style despite Shane’s weak protests, and carried him to the bathroom. He set him down gently, turned on the water, and guided him under the spray. He washed him with the same focused care he gave his hockey gear—meticulous, thorough, reverent. He soaped every inch, rinsed him clean, kissed the water from his shoulders.
Shane leaned into him, boneless and pliant. “I hate you,” he mumbled again, but it sounded like I love you.
Ilya heard it anyway. “I know,” he said softly, and kissed his forehead.
After, wrapped in towels, Ilya made them scrambled eggs and toast, feeding Shane bites between sips of orange juice. Shane ate slowly, drowsy, watching Ilya’s face in the dim kitchen light. The smugness had melted into something quieter, something fond and permanent.
“You’re wearing my jersey tomorrow, aren’t you?” Shane asked, already knowing the answer.
Ilya’s grin returned, sharp and bright. “Of course. Must show trophy.”
Shane sighed, but it was all affection. “They’re never gonna let us live this down.”
“Good,” Ilya said. “Let them talk. They talk because they are jealous.”
“Of what? My alleged bottom eyes?”
“Of everything,” Ilya said simply. He reached across the table, thumb stroking Shane’s knuckles. “Of this.”
Shane’s throat tightened. He looked down at their joined hands, then back up. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Me too.”
Ilya stood, pulled him up, and led him back to bed. He tucked him in, curled around him, nose buried in Shane’s hair. “Sleep, malysh,” he murmured. “Tomorrow we scandalize them more.”
Shane was already half-asleep. “Promise?”
“Always.”
Morning came like a splash of cold water. Shane woke to find Ilya gone and panicked for a second until his phone buzzed—a photo from Troy. Ilya was already at the rink, strutting across the ice in Shane’s home jersey, number and name blaring across his back, grin wide enough to split his face. Shane groaned into his pillow.
By the time he reached the locker room, Ilya was a menace. He’d traded his own kit for Shane’s game-worn jersey, sleeves shoved up, wearing it like a trophy. He was skating lazy circles during warmups with the cockiest smile known to mankind. The entire team glowered.
A teammate on the bench muttered without looking up, “Get lost, Rozanov.”
Another groaned, “Fuck marriage, man. I am never getting married.”
Troy yelled from the tunnel, “Fuck! Stop smiling! You’re creeping me out!”
Ilya only skated closer, grin widening. “Yes, fuckers, my husband has the best bottom eyes in the whole league! Deal with it!”
Half the team groaned. Bood skated past, stick tapping the ice. “Jesus Christ, he needs to be locked up,” he muttered, though his smirk betrayed how entertained he was.
Shane trudged in, face on fire, hoodie up. The locker room erupted into catcalls. Someone waved the now ripped off shoebox. Someone else pretended to fan themselves. Shane flipped double birds, cheeks scarlet. Ilya swooped in, still in Shane’s jersey, and stole a kiss right in front of everyone.
The teammate closest to them threw his hands up. “Seriously. In front of me?”
Ilya bared his teeth. “My pretty boy needs cheering. He is champion of sex and democracy.”
“Fuck off,” Shane muttered, but he leaned into the kiss, eyes bright, embarrassment mingling with helpless affection. When he pulled away, he glared at the room. “Pool’s over. Burn it.”
“No promises,” Troy sing-songed.
Ilya slung an arm around Shane’s shoulders like a proud cat displaying his trophy. “Ignore them. You are legend now.”
Shane groaned into his palms. “You’re insufferable.”
Ilya pressed his forehead to Shane’s. “But I am yours. Remember?”
Shane’s blush softened. He let out one resigned, fond breath. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Unfortunately.”
“Fortunately,” Ilya corrected with boyish glee.
The team groaned in unison. Someone muttered about transferring. Someone else threatened to call HR. Ilya just beamed, parading Shane’s jersey like a banner, while Shane hid behind his hands, smiling in spite of himself.
Fuck those stupid betting pools. He has the best husband in the whole fucking universe.