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The roar of the home crowd crashes over Shane, rattling through his ribs, but he barely notices.
Montreal leads by one, and Boston isn’t letting up, the spectators screaming as the players storm forward, relentless.
Shane Hollander should be focused– on the puck, on defensive positioning, on reading Ilya Rozanov the way he’s trained himself to do for years. Instead, every time their bodies collide along the boards, something darker coils low in his stomach.
Ilya is playing mean tonight. Collisions that make Shane’s teeth grind, and that infuriating smirk that flickers every time he skates past Shane like the game’s already his.
But Shane loves when Ilya gets like this. He can feel the way Ilya’s fire lights up the ice now, knowing it will burn differently later, just between them.
Shane finds the net again, and the crowd goes wild.
The Montreal Metros slam into Shane mid-ice, celebrating, but the latter’s pulse is elsewhere entirely. It’s racing ahead to the handshake line, to the quiet hallway outside the visiting locker room, to his hotel room. To what waits there, and who waits with it.
A whistle cuts through the noise. Shane pushes his mouthguard up with his tongue and glances across the ice. Ilya is staring, his jaw tight, shoulders stiff with frustration. Shane holds the gaze a moment too long before looking away, heart thudding.
Boston lost.
By the time Shane gets to his hotel room, showered and changed, adrenaline still buzzes under his skin, refusing to let him settle.
He checks the time. Ilya is late.
Normally, he wouldn’t really care. Ilya runs his own clock, Shane learned that early. But tonight the waiting stretches thin. Tonight, Shane has something special waiting. A little surprise he knows will throw Ilya off balance, even just a little.
His gaze drifts to the duffle bag slouched on the chair right in front of him. He moves closer, and lets his fingers skim over the zipper. The item inside presses faintly against the fabric. He imagines Ilya’s face when he sees it. He imagines Ilya entering, that cocky, untouchable smirk slipping, just a little. He imagines Ilya going quiet. The idea twists inside him, sinking warm and deep.
Shane sits on the edge of the bed, forearms braced on his knees. His pulse thuds in his ears. He pictures the door opening, Ilya stepping inside with that easy confidence, already in control, until he notices the shift in Shane, and sees what’s waiting. Until he understands.
He presses his palms together to keep from fidgeting.
Shane had bought a muzzle.
The decision still feels unreal.
He’d only meant to reorder lube. That was it. Browser open, cart half-filled, and mind elsewhere. Then the ad slid onto the screen. He almost scrolled past it. Almost.
But something made him stop. The photo showed black leather, sleek and severe. Structured. Restrained. And for one sharp second, he didn’t picture it on himself. Instead, he pictured it on Ilya.
Heat had bloomed through him so fast it startled him. Before he could talk himself out of it, before he could overthink it into nothing, he clicked add to cart.
The muzzle came in a discreet package– a double-grey box, unmarked except for Shane’s address. The black leather felt heavier than he expected, cool, and firm in his hands. It covered the lower half of the face, leaving the eyes and nose exposed. The straps wrapped around the head and over the crown, metal buckles catching the light when he tilted it. He’d run his thumb over the rivets, testing their strength.
It fit snug over the mouth and jaw, and would silence speech completely. The thought had made his breath hitch.
Shane rises from the bed and moves back to the bag. He unzips it just enough to slip his hand inside, his fingers brushing leather. Even through the dim light of the room, he can see it clearly in his mind– the way it would press against skin, the way it would force stillness. He imagines stepping close to Ilya, lifting it between them, and fastening the straps himself.
A shiver crawls up his spine as he swallows hard. Waiting has never felt like this before.
And then doubt creeps in. What if Ilya laughs? What if he tilts his head back and laughs like it’s a joke? Like Shane misunderstood everything?
What if he calls it stupid? What if he looks at Shane differently after that?
What if this is the thing that finally pushes him away?
Shane’s chest tightens. His thoughts spiral fast, every possible rejection playing out in full color. Ilya stepping back. Ilya shaking his head. Ilya walking out.
He doesn’t know how he’d recover from that. Surely, Ilya wouldn’t cut him off for something this small? Just for choosing something wrong?
Shane isn’t the one who makes moves. He waits, lets Ilya set the pace, and gives the orders: “Get on your knees,” or “let me show you how to do this good.” And Shane follows, he mirrors to learn.
But this– this is his.
The first time he’s brought something, and decided what he wants instead of waiting to be told. That vulnerability thrums under his skin, louder than the game ever did.
A knock at the door cuts through everything.
Shane startles, heart kicking hard against his ribs. He zips the bag closed and pushes it deeper into the shadows by the chair, like it might glow if he leaves it out. His palms feel damp as he crosses the room.
He pauses at the door, breath steadying, and peers through the peephole. Ilya stands there, shoulders loose, expression unreadable.
Shane unlocks the door.
“You’re late,” Shane says as he shuts the door behind him.
“I had a team to drag back together after tonight’s game,” Ilya replies with a shrug.
A slow, sly smile curves Shane’s mouth. “Really? I wonder why.”
Ilya shoots him a sharp glare, but it softens almost instantly, melting into something amused on those heart-shaped lips. He ducks his head, a low chuckle rumbling out of him.
“You barely beat us,” he says, glancing back up.
“Still beat you.” Satisfaction threads through Shane’s voice before he can hide it.
Ilya steps forward, closing the distance until Shane’s back brushes the wall. “Are we doing game debrief,” he asks, voice dipping, “or can we get to the part I came for?”
He stops inches away, eyes shining with mischief and heat. His hands slide to Shane’s hips and squeeze, firm and claiming.
Shane’s breath catches, but he tilts his head slightly. “What happens if I start a debrief?”
Ilya lets out a dry laugh. "I leave. You’re already boring enough. I don’t need any more of it.”
Shane’s smile falters, and he nervously bites his lower lip. Ilya notices immediately.
“Hollander,” Ilya says, narrowing his eyes. “You’re not actually about to talk hockey, are you?”
“Of course not, you idiot,” Shane replies, grinning this time.
Ilya presses a hand to his chest dramatically and exhales, “Don’t scare me like that.”
Shane hesitates, then says, “I have something that might make you leave anyway.”
That gets Ilya’s full attention. He studies Shane’s face, searching for the tell. When he finds nothing, he steps back and scans the room, as if the answer should glow in neon. Shane nudges his shoulder as he moves past him.
“Stop looking around like a fool. It’s not that obvious.”
He crosses to the chair, every step suddenly too loud in his own ears.
“I’m not in the mood for guessing, Hollander,” Ilya says. “Just tell me.”
Shane swallows. His mouth feels dry. “I’ll show you. But… don’t laugh. Okay?”
Ilya frowns. “I told you to stop scaring me.”
“Just say it,” Shane presses. “That you won’t laugh.”
Ilya rolls his eyes, exhaling hard. “Yes, ok. I won’t laugh.”
Shane unzips the bag. The sound seems louder than it should. He reaches inside and pulls the muzzle out slowly. The black leather catches the light, metal buckles glinting faintly.
Ilya steps closer immediately, his teasing expression vanishing. He takes it from Shane’s hands without asking. The latter's pulse kicks harder. Ilya turns it over, fingers tracing the straps, the rivets, the curve of the front panel. He studies it in silence, testing the leather between his thumb and forefinger. The room suddenly feels smaller.
After a long moment, Ilya murmurs, “Is for–”
“You,” Shane cuts in quickly. His heart pounds so hard he feels it in his throat. “It’s for you. I bought it. Just for you.”
Ilya’s gaze shifts slowly from the leather to Shane’s face. The air between them changes. The playful edge drops away, replaced by something heavier.
“Hollander,” Ilya says quietly, “is this a joke?”
“I told you not to laugh,” Shane’s voice comes out lower than he expects, rough with nerves. “Why would I joke about that? I saw it online and I thought it looked… hot. And–”
“And why would I wear this?” Ilya interrupts.
There it is.
The exact moment Shane has been bracing for. Heat drains from his face. His confidence collapses so fast it almost makes him dizzy. He looks away, eyes skimming uselessly across the room– the door, the bed, the window. Anywhere but Ilya.
He clears his throat. “Because…” His voice comes quieter now, honest. “I thought you’d find it hot too.”
Silence settles thick and suffocating, and Shane suddenly hears everything– the distant roar of traffic below, fans still spilling into the streets, celebrating Montreal’s win. The low hum of the hotel’s ventilation. The faint rustle of leather in Ilya’s hands. He watches Ilya’s face carefully, searching for the shift, the rejection, the laugh.
But there's nothing.
Regret creeps in, slow and vicious, and Shane thinks he should’ve just stuck to the lube.
Finally, Ilya’s lips curve– just slightly. It's not mockery, but not quite approval either.
“So,” he says slowly, “you planned this?”
“Yeah.” Shane forces himself to hold his gaze. His heart slams against his ribs. “I did.”
Ilya doesn’t answer right away. He keeps turning the muzzle in his hands, thoughtful. Shane hadn’t expected enthusiasm. He’d prepared for laughter. Maybe even for Ilya to walk out. But this quiet, unreadable calm twists worse than anything he imagined.
“Ilya, look–”
“Ok.”
The word hits like a slap. Shane blinks. “What?”
“I said ok, Shane,” Ilya lifts his eyes to him fully now, dark and decided. “Don’t make me say it a third time.”
For a second, Shane just stares at him. Then a disbelieving scoff slips out. Relief crashes through him so hard his knees feel weak.
“Okay,” he echoes simply.
Ilya presses the muzzle back into Shane’s hands before turning toward the bed like the choice costs him nothing.
He toes off his shoes as he walks, shrugs out of his jacket, and peels his shirt over his head in one smooth motion, fabric hitting the floor. He doesn’t look back. He just climbs onto the bed and settles against the pillows, propped up on his elbows, chest bare, and watching Shane with quiet expectation, waiting.
And Shane almost laughs. Ilya agreed, but in that infuriating way of his. With no guidance, no instructions. Just that look that says go on, then. Show me.
Fine. Shane moves. He joins him on the bed, strips his own shirt off, and shoves his joggers down his legs, then pauses long enough to fold them out of habit. He places them neatly at the end of the bed, his pulse hammering.
Then he crawls back over Ilya. He swings a knee over his hips and settles into his lap, thighs bracketing Ilya’s waist. He shifts his weight deliberately, pressing down just enough to feel Ilya under him. He's already hard.
Shane reaches for the muzzle. Ilya tilts his chin up without being asked, and their eyes lock. Ilya holds his stare, eyes dark and unwavering, a flicker of defiance still burning there, like he’s daring Shane to follow through.
But before fastening the muzzle, Shane leans in and steals a kiss. The kiss is slow at first, just a soft press of lips, testing. Ilya exhales against his mouth and deepens it instantly, lips parting. His hands come up to Shane’s hips, fingers digging in as his tongue slides into Shane’s mouth, hot and insistent. The kiss turns filthy fast. Wet, open, and hungry. Ilya kisses him like he means to take something back before it’s gone. He knows his mouth won’t be free much longer.
The thought makes Shane’s cock twitch. He pulls back first, breath uneven, lips swollen. He smiles down at Ilya, small, almost disbelieving.
He lifts the muzzle into place. “Pinch me if it’s too tight,” he murmurs.
For a split second, Ilya’s jaw tightens under his hands. Shane feels the flex of muscle beneath his fingers. That flash of resistance sparks in his eyes again before Ilya goes still. He lets Shane do it, and that surrender hits harder than the kiss did.
Shane guides the leather over Ilya’s mouth and jaw, adjusting it carefully. The inside presses against his lips, forcing them closed. The straps frame his cheeks, dragging over his temples. Shane’s fingers trace the shape of it as he works, brushing warm skin. Up close, he can feel Ilya’s breath against his palm.
“Don’t move,” Shane whispers.
His voice comes lower now, firmer. He gathers the straps behind Ilya’s head and threads them through the buckles. The leather creaks as he tightens it. Metal clicks into place– one strap, then another, then the one over the crown of his head. Each pull firms the fit, and presses the muzzle snug against his mouth.
Ilya makes a low, muffled sound when Shane gives the final strap a measured tug. The vibration travels straight through the leather and into Shane’s fingers. Fuck.
He runs his thumb slowly along the front panel, feeling the shape of Ilya’s mouth trapped beneath it. “You good?” he asks softly.
Ilya answers with another muffled hum, his eyes half-lidded.
Shane reaches for the collar next. He wraps the thick leather around Ilya’s neck, pulling it closed, fingers brushing over his pulse point. He fastens it tight, but not enough to choke. Then he slides two fingers underneath to check the space. Ilya’s throat works against the leather. Even with his mouth covered, he can’t hide the way his cheeks lift slightly, the faint curve beneath the muzzle giving him away. He likes it.
The realization spreads through Shane, hot and heady. He leans back slightly, taking him in properly now. Leather framing his face, buckles gleaming faintly, collar snug at his throat. His eyes are filled with heat and frustration, and something dangerously close to need.
Pride swells low in Shane's gut. His hands drift from Ilya’s neck down over his bare shoulders. He traces the line of muscle there, then drags his palms down over his chest, fingers spreading wide, feeling the firm plane of him, the steady rise and fall beneath his touch.
Ilya kept his pants on. Shane hooks his fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and tugs, dragging them down. He watches Ilya’s face as he does it. The latter lifts his hips immediately, compliant without hesitation. The fabric slides over his thighs, down his legs, off completely. Shane tosses them aside without looking.
Their eyes stay locked the entire time. Not once does Ilya look away. And now he can’t speak.
Shane leans in closer, lowering his mouth to the side of Ilya’s neck. He presses an open-mouthed kiss there, feeling every subtle shiver beneath his lips. He traces a path downward– over the collarbones, across warm skin, along the firm line of Ilya’s torso, lingering at every curve until he reaches his lower stomach.
He shifts lower, settling between Ilya’s legs, and letting the weight of his body press lightly into him. Shane kisses the inside of his thighs, drawing out the tension. Ilya shivers under his touch, hips twitching involuntarily.
Shane's lips brush over the thin fabric of Ilya’s underwear, teasing the hard length beneath. He had left it on purpose, stretching the anticipation, letting need build slow and deliberate.
Ilya is already painfully hard, straining against the fabric. Shane tilts his head, teeth grazing the tip, and takes more of him into his mouth with firm, measured pressure. His tongue drags along the underside, coaxing each involuntary jolt from Ilya’s body.
Ilya twists slightly, pressing closer, hips lifting, hands clenching Shane’s shoulders. Shane pulls back just enough to hook his fingers into the waistband of Ilya’s briefs, yanking them down in one smooth motion. Without hesitation, he dives back in, taking him fully, nose brushing the thick, curly hair at the base, mouth slick and warm.
Shane gags lightly as Ilya nudges him deeper, but he doesn’t pull away. His eyes water, saliva sliding freely down his chin and pooling at the base. He wraps his arms around Ilya’s thighs, holding him steady and keeping him grounded, while his head moves in rhythmic bobs.
Ilya’s hands are tangled in his hair, guiding and tugging. Shane feels every pulse, every throb, thick and hot, filling his mouth. He hollows his cheeks with each lift, and swallows when Ilya’s tip brushes the back of his throat. Ilya moans, muffled by the leather, hips jerking with each motion.
Shane slips back just enough to free himself from Ilya's grip, letting his mouth release Ilya's cock with a wet pop. Ilya whines, frustrated at the sudden loss, muffled and raw beneath the muzzle.
“Your hands stay there,” Shane commands, pressing Ilya’s wrists firmly to the mattress.
Ilya makes a sound to protest, but Shane glares at him, refusing to look away until Ilya softens under his hands. Only then does Shane wrap one hand around Ilya’s cock, stroking it with deliberate pressure, while his mouth takes just the tip again. He swirls his tongue around it, tasting the pre-cum glistening there, and Ilya shudders, hips twitching helplessly.
He sets a steady rhythm, feeling Ilya pulse and throb in his palm. Ilya lifts his hands instinctively, only to press them back against the mattress, fingers digging into the sheets as Shane matches every precise motion with his mouth and hand.
Shane savors every muffled, helpless sound. Each whine drives him hotter, each pulse of Ilya’s cock fueling his own aching length, straining against his briefs and pressing against the mattress. The sensation is sharp, intoxicating, addictive.
Shane glances up with glazed eyes, silently asking am I doing this right?
Ilya nods as a silent affirmation. Shane stretches his lips some more, tongue flat against the veined underside. His vision goes hazy and his jaw aches, an unbidden whine rising beyond the wet gurgle of his throat.
Ilya’s cock is always a challenge, nine inches threatening to tear him, often pushing Shane to his limit. He gazes down at Shane’s fucked-out face, hot desire gleaming in his eyes. By now, Ilya would quirk an eyebrow, skim a thumb over the stretch of his lips, ever so soft and delicate in his touch, praising him, my beautiful cockslut.
When Ilya starts chasing release with short, halting thrusts against Shane’s mouth and hand, Shane pulls back all at once. A frustrated sound escapes the leather, and Shane catches the metal hoop at the center of the collar, tugging firmly as a reminder of control.
“Patience, Rozanov. Not yet,” he says, voice low and hoarse.
Shane straddles Ilya’s lap again, catching that sharp glare, chest rising and falling with measured breath. He leans toward the bedside table, sliding open the drawer with the lube. Grabbing the bottle, he twists the cap off, cold gel slicking over his fingers as he coats Ilya’s index and middle digits generously.
The bottle clatters against the bed as Shane pulls his own briefs down, already damp with pre-cum. His hard dick presses against his stomach, finally free of the constricting fabric. Shane exhales, letting the tension in his hips ease as his body shivers at the release.
“Ready?” Shane murmurs, more to himself than to Ilya. He takes Ilya’s wrist, guiding it gently behind him. Ilya presses his free hand to Shane’s ass, spreading him open as slick fingers start teasing his entrance. Shane lets out a shaky breath, heat pooling low as Ilya circles his hole with careful, deliberate patience– just like Shane had teased Ilya before. Shane whines.
“Enough,” he huffs after a few seconds, gripping Ilya’s shoulders, tension coiling between them. “Put them in.”
Ilya slides a first finger inside him, and Shane gasps, brows knitting, lips parted, his body clenching around the intrusion. He freezes briefly, letting the sensation wash over him, then beggins to move his hips slowly. Ilya takes the cue, sliding in and out leisurely at first, then faster, before easing a second finger inside.
He works Shane open, scissoring his fingers, and Shane rides his hand, moaning, pressing his chest and neck against Ilya with every subtle thrust. Ilya fights the urge to flip him over. Instead, he digs into Shane’s ass, holding him firm, keeping him exposed, vulnerable under his touch.
Shane lifts his head, gasping as Ilya curls his fingers inside him just right, brushing his prostate.
“Holy shit, Rozanov, fuck– keep doing that,” Shane groans, arching into the touch. Ilya obeys, dragging his fingers with precision, coaxing every moan from him.
Shane moves in sync, hips bouncing with Ilya’s fingers. After a few thrusts, he pins Ilya’s wrist, pulling his digits free with a slick, wet sound. His body jolts slightly, thighs quivering as he locks eyes with Ilya.
Ilya’s gaze burns hotter than Shane has ever felt. A small, satisfied smile curves Shane’s lips, lost in the haze of how undone he is. Shane reaches for the lube again, coating Ilya’s thick, hard cock in a slick layer. A muffled sound vibrates through the muzzle, and Shane can’t help but imagine it’s the jolt of contrast– the cool gel against burning, sensitive skin that has him reacting like this.
“Sorry,” Shane murmurs, knowing he doesn’t mean it.
He jerks Ilya a few times, spreading the lube thoroughly, and massages the last traces along his entrance. Then he grips Ilya’s rock-hard cock, pressing it to his hole, testing the stretch with slow, deliberate pressure before sinking down inch by inch.
Shane’s breath catches, body tightening reflexively around Ilya. Two fingers aren't enough to stretch him out, but Shane is impatient, and Ilya can't prep him the way he usually does with his mouth.
The stretch burns sharper than usual, but nothing Shane Hollander can’t endure. Ilya inhales, and Shane feels the air shifting– vanishing for a charged second, leaving only raw, carnal tension pressing them together.
Ilya’s hand snakes up Shane’s ass to the base of his ribcage. When he tugs, the motion draws a rough, ragged yelp from Shane before Ilya thrusts upward.
Shane’s hole clenches instinctively as Ilya slides deep into him, thick and pulsing, every inch scorching his tight walls. He wants to scream, but only a broken, strained moan escapes. He pants, shudders, nods– though he doesn’t know at what. But that doesn't matter. Nothing matters except the burning stretch, and how completely Ilya fills him.
Beneath him, Ilya lets out low, throaty vibrations behind the leather, fingers clutching Shane’s strong thighs like his life depends on it. Every dig sends sparks through Shane's skin, and he freezes for a heartbeat, every nerve alive with sensation. He feels utterly reshaped, stretched and aching, dizzy from the intensity.
When Shane glances down, Ilya’s gaze is predatory, almost ferocious. His hazel eyes glint with danger, pupils wide, rimmed red, and corners wet with frustrated tears. The sight makes Shane whimper, body taut under the intensity. He spreads his legs wider, knees digging into the mattress. He pushes back, and arches into the cock filling him, muscles braced and ready.
“Fuck me, Rozanov,” Shane says. “Fuck me hard. Please.”
Ilya inhales sharply and shifts beneath him, holding Shane open, heels digging into the mattress. Each measured thrust teases Shane’s tight walls, hips moving with relentless precision. Shane’s moans spill freely, loud and ragged, the careful restraint of his usual self gone entirely. Tonight he’s raw, untethered, and riding every sensation to its peak.
One hand braces against the headboard as the other presses into Ilya’s chest. The tension coils between them like a living thing, pulling them higher with each motion.
The room fills with slick smacks and wet, obscene sounds: Shane’s cries, Ilya’s suppressed exhalations, the relentless rhythm of skin slapping. The urgent noises Ilya can barely hold behind the leather reverberate in Shane’s chest, sending tremors down his spine, making him arch harder, needing more.
Ilya drives into him relentlessly. Every thrust robs Shane of breath, pushing the air from his lungs. Both of them tilt their heads back, eyes rolling, overwhelmed by the intensity.
Shane leans forward, lips brushing against Ilya’s ear, gasping, “Fuck… that’s it, Rozanov… that’s all you’re good for tonight, hm?”
He then grips the metal hoop at Ilya’s collar, locking eyes with him, dominating. A low, guttural growl rumbles from Ilya as Shane tugs him closer.
“Shit… having sex with the captain of the team you just lost to a few hours ago– ” Shane pants, light-headed from the pace, “–with a fucking muzzle on… makes me wonder what your team would think, Captain.”
The words hit Ilya like a spark to tinder. Normally, his patience runs thin with everyone– quick to grow frustrated, and quick to pull back. But not with Shane.
Shane is the only one he doesn't mind being patient for. The only one for whom he slows down, who earns his control, who he can tease, and guide without snapping. But hearing those exact words, over his own relentless thrusts, over the restraint and the heat of the muzzle, over Shane bossing him around… Ilya’s patience snaps.
The air in the room shifts. Ilya’s chest hitches, every nerve alight with fire. One second Shane is straddling him, hips rocking, moaning into the heat between them. The next, a hand grips Shane’s wrist, and another presses against his upper back. He’s pitched forward, face down against the mattress, ass up and his spine arching with a nervous shiver snaking down.
The tip of Ilya’s cock breaches him as Shane inhales sharply, nearly choking on the sensation. Ilya drives deeper and harder than ever. Every thrust in this position fills Shane to the brim, searing heat radiating through his pelvis, the edges of the room softening as tears gather in his eyes that he stubbornly blinks away.
Ilya pants under the leather, raspy and eager. His hands squeeze Shane’s full ass, spreading him open even more, sweaty palms sliding against his skin. Each deliberate grind sends Shane’s nerves spiraling higher, his body jolting, fully consumed.
Shane bites into the pillow, voice breaking with every punishing stroke. His upper body lays flat against the mattress, held down by Ilya’s strong hand at the base of his neck, holding him perfectly in place. Shane claws at the sheets like they’re a lifeline, lips bitten raw, tasting iron and sweat as Ilya fucks into him.
Pinned flat by Ilya, Shane claws at the sheets like they’re a lifeline, tasting iron and sweat, lips bitten raw. Ilya plunges deeper, molding him perfectly to his cock, and Shane’s head spins, his vision blurring.
Every additional inch of Ilya's cock overwhelms him, his mind an endless litany of too much 's. He feels stretched past reason, barely able to breathe– and he doesn’t care that his moans are desperate, pathetic even, or that his voice cracks under the strain. He feels like he’s on the brink of collapse.
“Ilya, wait,” Shane wheezes. “It’s too much... I didn't mean–”
Ilya leans over him, pressing heat to heat, and tilts his head slightly. His eyes are dark and predatory, tracking every breath, every twitch in Shane's face. His curls are damp with sweat, clinging onto his forehead, and warmth radiates through the leather on his face. Every detail of his screams desire and danger, and Shane’s stomach twists in delicious panic.
Shane doesn’t question why the heat flooding his veins feels so intoxicating, nor why his cheeks sting with shame. Ilya is close to madness, and it both terrifies and excites him.
Ilya loops a hand around Shane’s hips, fingers finding his rock-hard dick, slick with pre leaking down the shaft. A tense beat passes, before Ilya drags his thumb along the tip, sending a spark of pleasure through Shane’s belly that makes him whine and tremble, his blood half-iced, half-lava in his veins. Each stroke sends tremors of helpless pleasure down his body, and Ilya lets out a deep, low, muffled chuckle.
“Fuck you, Rozanov,” Shane mumbles, pressing his face into the pillow, hiding from Ilya’s feral, hungry gaze, but unable to resist the way it consumes him entirely.
Ilya lifts himself slightly, thrusting even harder, rearranging Shane from the inside out. Shane chokes on his own spit, the mind-numbing fullness making his eyes roll back, his inner walls clenching around Ilya's cock. The latter lets out a deep, throaty rumble behind the muzzle, like he’s tasting heaven itself. His grip on Shane’s ass and hips borders on bruising.
Every motion drives Shane to new heights. Each flutter and clench of his hole draws a mumbled, guttural response from Ilya. Shane shudders uncontrollably at the feral, relentless rhythm, every nerve ignited.
“Holy shit– don’t stop, Ilya… Please, don’t stop,” Shane nearly cries, voice cracking, body wracked with sensation as Ilya hits his prostate with brutal precision.
Warmth spreads through him like wildfire. Ilya grips Shane’s cock again, rubbing his palm over the tip. He drags Shane’s slick down the shaft, and coats him thoroughly. His moans behind the leather grow deeper, louder, and his hands on Shane's hips are leaving the latter entirely at his mercy.
Ilya pulls back nearly fully, leaving only the tip pressed inside. Shane arches instinctively, before Ilya snaps forward again, hard.
He does it again. And again. And again. Each thrust tears another choked sob from Shane. Heat blooms in his belly, spreading outward as his body clenches helplessly, spasms rolling through him. His legs twitch uncontrollably whenever Ilya drives to the hilt, the depth so overwhelming it borders on frightening.
Shane feels impossibly full– so full it climbs higher, settling into a hollow ache at the back of his throat, as though Ilya is lodged impossibly deep inside him, forcing every broken whine and groan from his mouth, whether he intends to make the sound or not.
“Wanna– oh, God– wanna see you when you come,” Shane pants, voice breaking. “Let me see you…”
Ilya doesn’t hesitate. He flips Shane onto his back in one swift motion, sweaty chest pressing into his. Shane lands breathless, legs folded over Ilya’s shoulders, and he drives back into him without pausing.
Shane hooks his fingers through the hoop at Ilya’s collar, holding him close, barely an inch between their faces. Shane's climax is coiling, tight and urgent. He slides a hand between them, wrapping it around his leaking dick, stroking in sync with Ilya’s thrusts.
“Come inside me… wanna feel it. Wanna feel you,” he chokes out, voice splintering. “Come on, Rozanov… give it to me–”
Shane clenches around him, and Ilya makes a broken sound behind the leather, fingers tangling in Shane’s hair, tugging hard. Shane feels his face burning. He knows he’s blushing up to his ears, down to his chest, sweat and tears caught in his lashes. Now that the angle is slightly different, Ilya is hitting Shane's sweet spot effortlessly, pounding into him with heavy, deep strokes that make Shane see stars.
Shane is trying to breathe through his nose to keep his voice down, but he’s not getting enough air. The instant his mouth opens for a desperate gasp, Ilya’s free hand pinches his nipple, and Shane wails, a rush of pain and pleasure colliding like a slap to the senses.
Pulse hammering, scalp stinging, Shane squeezes his eyes shut, but Ilya grabs his face, holding him still, eyes dark and consuming. And Shane has never seen anything so fucking sexy. Ilya Rozanov on top of him, buried balls deep, his torso slick with sweat, and a muzzle silencing him. His flushed face burns with heat, veins standing out on his temples, golden curls plastered to his forehead and clinging with sweat. This view alone is enough to send Shane over the edge.
"Fuck– Roz'nov– I'm coming!"
Shane’s thighs quiver, abdomen tight, and every nerve alight as he comes, shuddering around Ilya’s cock, heat and tension rushing through him. Ilya needs nothing more. One final set of thrusts, deep and unrelenting, and he stills, pulsing and spilling inside Shane.
Ilya collapses into the crook of Shane’s neck, out of breath. Shane reaches up, fingers careful but swift, and unfastens the buckles at the back of his head. He loosens the collar next, then gently peels the leather away from Ilya’s face, setting it aside.
Ilya’s face is red, hair damp, and his lips slightly swollen. Shane pushes his curls back, and offers a breathless, teasing smile. “How was it?”
Still trying to catch his breath, Ilya exhales shakily, “You killed me, Hollander. I’m dead," he says, voice low and ragged.
He lingers a moment in Shane’s arms before sliding out of him. Shane's hole gapes, and Ilya’s come oozes down his crack, pooling on the sheets beneath him.
Rolling onto his side, Shane reaches for a water bottle on the nightstand and hands it to Ilya, who grabs it gratefully, chugging half of it in one go. He then passes it back to Shane, who takes a few sips, savoring the cool relief.
“Whoo!” Ilya lets out as a contented smile tugs at the corners. He stretches slightly, letting the tension in his muscles ease, eyes half-lidded with that post-heat haze.
“This was so fucking hot,” Shane admits, voice low, still trembling slightly as his own adrenaline finally ebbs.
Ilya’s gaze drifts to the ceiling for a moment before he tilts his head, letting it roll lazily to the side, and meeting Shane’s eyes again. There’s a glint of mischief in his exhaustion.
“Didn’t know you were into kinky stuff, Hollander,” he says, voice teasing despite how winded he is.
Shane scoffs, though his lips twitch in a grin. “I’m not! I told you I saw it on an ad.”
“Mhm,” Ilya hums, clearly unconvinced. “Next time is gonna be what, whips and chains?”
“No. Fuck off,” Shane says as he shifts closer, still basking in the warmth and scent of Ilya pressed against him.
They stay like that for a long while, bodies tangled and slick, breathing finally slowing into something steady and shared. The sheets lie twisted beneath them, carrying the heat and salt of what they’ve done.
The room feels smaller somehow, softer, wrapped in the quiet aftermath of sweat and tangled limbs. Whatever sharp edges were there before- teasing, rivalry, control, they've all melted into something slow and intimate, and Shane lets himself sink into it, content to stay exactly where he is.