Archive of Our Own

1.

It started, as most things did, with the Internet.

Shane Hollander was not one to take a stroll through the horrors of various death threats and slurs and sexual propositions that acted as the sturdy foundation of the World Wide Web. But sometimes, when he did not have Ilya to distract him like an energetic dog that needed a great deal of time and attention to thrive, he got a little bored.

The Metros didn’t have another game until the next evening, and the team was forbidden from doing anything that could jeopardize their chances at a win. So, Shane had called Ilya on the phone, then he’d read a book, then he’d bothered Hayden in the next room over, and then he’d done some yoga and taken a long shower afterwards. Now here he was, curled up in a hotel room in Florida at 8PM in the middle of the Stanley Cup Playoffs, and he was bored.

Without thinking much about it, he opened up a social media app he rarely used and scrolled through the pictures and videos posted by his teammates and other league players and some of his old buddies from high school. He commented a thumbs up emoticon on the trailer Rose posted for her upcoming movie, then some smiley faces on pictures of the kids that Jackie Pike had posted earlier that morning. He liked a couple other posts, then froze as he scrolled to a new video on his feed. 

Because it was Ilya. Posted on Ilya’s official account. Four minutes ago.

Shane didn’t check social media often so he was never sure what Ilya was posting on here, which made this a dumb stroke of luck that he happened to stumble upon this one so early. He’d only parted with Ilya two days prior after spending a salacious weekend together in Ottawa, and he wasn’t sure what Ilya could have been up to in less than 48 hours that was worth posting online. Ilya hadn’t even mentioned anything significant on their call earlier that day, only rambling about how the Centaurs were recording an interview soon where the team got to play with puppies and he was so excited for it that he couldn’t sleep. 

So Shane hit play on the video, then sat back and watched. 

The footage opened on Ilya, back facing the camera, standing beneath a power tower for pull-ups in his home gym in Ottawa. He wore nothing but a soft gray tank top and the tightest, tiniest workout shorts that have probably ever existed and that molded themselves to the obscene shape of his ass. In fact, his ass was spilling out of the bottom of the shorts, the hard, rounded edges of it too voluminous to be contained within the confines of a pair of shorts that were two sizes too small. 

“Asshole,” Shane breathed, but his grip on his phone was tight and his heart was racing. 

Ilya rubbed his hands together for a moment then jumped from the ground and wrapped both palms around the bar. He swung back and forth, once, then twice, before letting one arm drop to his side.

Shane’s heart stuttered. His cock twitched in his pajama pants. “Don’t you fucking do it.”

But Ilya did it. Every muscle in his body tightened, and he pulled himself up slowly with only one fucking arm, legs crossed at the ankles and his shoulders quaking. And then—

“Oh, fuck,” Ilya gritted out as he lowered himself down. He grunted, then pulled himself back up again. The noises were…holy shit. He sounded exactly like he did when he was inside of Shane, exactly like he did when he was fucking Shane stupid. 

A wave of dizziness crashed over Shane at how fast the blood rushed from his brain to his cock. He was hard in an instant, his pulse pounding in his groin and the pressure in his gut already uncomfortable and demanding. “Oh,” he choked, startling even himself with his sudden outburst in his otherwise silent room. 

Ilya dropped to the floor and cracked his neck, shaking out the tension that had gathered in his frame during those few reps. He stretched his arms over his head, wrapping one hand around the opposite wrist and pulling out the tightness in his shoulders. His muscles rippled beneath his skin, rolling and flexing as he worked himself loose. 

Then he pulled himself back up and repeated the same motions, grunting and sighing and making other heinous, filthy noises as he showed off for the world. “Fuuck me,” he gasped on the last rep, finally dropping back to the floor and bending over as he tried to catch his breath. 

Shane had ignored the throbbing of his cock for as long as he could before sliding his palm over the bulge in his pajama pants for a brief flash of relief. There was a tight pull in his belly at the touch, a shock of heat that pooled low in his gut, and he went cross-eyed at the sensation. 

Ilya, at last, turned towards the camera and sauntered towards it to retrieve the device. He leaned over his phone for several seconds as his eyes focused on the screen and he moved to end the video. He paused, stopping to tilt his head back just slightly and smile at the camera with only his top row of teeth and his pink, full lips. During these precious moments, the camera finally went into focus and revealed—

Shane shot straight up in bed, a hand slapping over his mouth. Horror enveloped him, and the noise that escaped into his palm was not human.

Because Ilya hovered a scant few inches away from his phone camera. Wearing a necklace made of hickies. Hickies that Shane had only left on him two nights ago, purple and green and yellow and mottled. When he’d worn Ilya’s jersey and ridden him hard and Ilya had smeared his come onto the tattoo Shane had gotten of his name on his thigh and then spit in his mouth. 

Shane had seen the hickies before Ilya had left, but he thought Ilya’s team would be the only people to see them. He had been secretly thrilled at the knowledge that they would rib Ilya about it, that they would know he was claimed. He could imagine how the conversation would go. 

What the fuck is on your neck, Rozy?

Love bites. From my lover. Ah, you probably are not familiar. Let me explain, Dillon. When mommy and daddy love each other very much—

Oh, fuck off. Bastard.

He could imagine Ilya’s grin in return, that same smile from the video that told whoever he was pointing it at that he knew exactly who the fuck he was. 

There was a stirring in Shane’s gut at the idea of Ilya announcing so boldly that he was claimed. This was a clear message even if no one else could read it, written in a language only the two of them knew. Maybe that had been Ilya’s intention all along. For Shane to see this and know that this was Ilya speaking directly to him, one word.

Yours.

Shane’s cock, hard where it laid against his thigh, throbbed painfully. His fingers twitched at his side, and he fought not to grab himself and relieve the pulsing ache, fought not to get himself off the image of Ilya’s hulking frame, to his confident smirk, and to the hickies Shane had sucked into his waiting skin. 

He couldn’t. They were in the middle of playoffs. If he touched himself, they might lose, they might—

“Oh, fuck,” Ilya moaned on the video again, which had started from the beginning while Shane wasn’t paying attention. 

A full-body shudder passed through Shane, and he squeezed his legs together tight. This was a horrible idea. It was stupid and illogical and—Jesus fuck, he couldn’t help himself. He glanced around his empty hotel room like there was someone here that would judge him for shoving his pajama pants down and jerking off to a video of his boyfriend. 

He finally got a hand around himself at the same moment that Ilya hauled himself up, chin over the bar, muscles bulging the same way that they did when Ilya was above him in bed, holding himself up and driving his cock deep inside of him. The same way that they did when he tossed Shane around a bit, pushing him into the mattress, shoving his knees into his chest, flipping him over and angling Shane how he pleased. 

Shane was big. He was strong. He was just as bulky and muscular as Ilya, if not more. But the idea that Ilya was someone to lean on, someone strong enough to hold him steady, hold him down when Shane felt untethered and adrift—

“Ah,” he cried out gently, the pace of his hand on his cock stuttering. His slit was already leaking, slicking himself up in that way Ilya said he loved. He spit into his palm anyways, and pretended it was the wet heat of Ilya’s mouth around him. He squeezed himself and imagined that it was Ilya hollowing his cheeks, taking Shane all the way to the hilt eagerly and expertly. His hips jerked off the mattress, his groin pulsing. “Oh, God.”

He thought of Ilya marking him with hickies just like Shane had marked him. He thought of the way he’d pin Shane face down on to bed, blanketing him with his weight and sinking his teeth into the sensitive skin just below Shane’s ear. Then again at the first knob of his spine at the base of his neck. And again, sucking at the sensitive, fleshy fat and muscle at his shoulder between his collarbone and his scapula. 

Shane groaned and rolled over onto his stomach. He rolled his hips into the mattress, movements stuttering at the dry friction on his leaking, throbbing cock. He reached a hand behind his head and dug his nails into the back of his neck just below his hairline, closing his eyes and pretending that Ilya was really there with his teeth against his skin, breaking his flesh, lapping at the salt of sweat that gathered there. 

He was humping the bed now, phone up to his face as the video played and played and played. The rough fabric was a delicious tug against his swollen cock, and every thrust punched a new, animalistic sound from his throat. He remembered that Hayden was just on the other side of the wall, and turned his head into his pillow. He clamped down on the fabric with his teeth to muffle his moans and whimpers. 

On the video, Ilya approached the camera, his necklace dangling over the phone like it did Shane’s chin when he fucked him deep, Shane’s knees pressed to his chest and Ilya ramming into him ruthlessly while telling him just how good he was, how tight and perfect, how he was made for Ilya to fuck. 

He must have looked deranged with his pajamas around his knees and his hips rutting desperately into the sheets. He wondered what Ilya would think if he saw him like this. Would he watch him? Would he touch him? Would he praise him? 

Da, just like that, Hollander. 

You cannot help yourself when you think of me, ah?

So good at putting on a show for me. 

Look at you. So filthy when you touch yourself. 

Shane glanced up at the video just in time to see Ilya smile at the camera and flash his necklace of hickies at the audience and, good fucking God, there was no way that was an accident—

Shane squeezed his eyes shut, and shoved a hand between his stomach and the bed, catching his release in his palm as to not dirty the sheets too awfully. He huffed in short, frantic bursts that fell into rhythm with the debilitating waves of his orgasm. Heat spilled down his spine and he jerked and spasmed as he came, hips twitching into the sheets until the overstimulation on his sensitive, spent cock was too much to bear. 

It was an age before his breathing finally slowed. His senses came back to him in fragments. The chill of the hotel air conditioner on his bare ass. The sticky pool of come drying in his palm. His vision clearing as he blinked away the dense fog. The distinct, musky smell of himself and the vestiges of his pleasure. And the video, still playing a loop on the phone in his hand. 

After he sobered up and stripped the sheets from the bed, it dawned on Shane that he should probably read at least a couple of the comments on this lewd, borderline pornographic content. His mother was a miracle worker, but he wasn’t sure even Yuna Hollander could rope together brand deals for a man whoring himself out on social media while covered in hickies. 

When he opened the comment section, it took only milliseconds for his blood pressure to skyrocket through the fucking roof. 

@rozanovfan2000: LOOK AT THAT HUNG SMILE UGGGHHH I KNOW IT’S FUCKING HUGE

@hattyrozanov: need him need him need him need him

@centaurs__81: holy fuck. im hard. I DON’T HAVE A DICK BUT I’M HARD.

@ninaohara: Hey, it’s been a while…I’m in Ottawa ;) Check your DMs <3

@violadunne: Wow. I was hoping you’d be in New York for playoffs this week…maybe I’ll see you next year?

@ilyasbabygrl: omfg not the runway models in the comments begging for a piece of that…i get it tho girls

@pookiehaas: WAIT??? THE HICKIES?????!!!!!! WHAT THE FUCK

@gettingpucked87: BRO IS THAT A NECKLACE OF HICKEYS?????

@boodsbestie: JESUS CHRIST MAN WAS SHE TRYING TO DRINK YOUR BLOOD?!?!?

@pennygrace640: ILYA ROZANOV YOU ARE A SLUUUTTTT

@jessebabieexx: you know…i bet they’re all from different girls 

reply to @jessebabieexx: 

@ruby_miller: omfg you’re so right

reply to @jessebabieexx: 

@lifeofbella: given his track record, i wouldn’t doubt it

reply to @jessebabieexx: 

@barbiegurl100: this is so on brand for him

Shane’s heart was racing. He refreshed the video and jumped back into the comments, a new wave of them loading to the top. The views jumped by tens of thousands, the comments multiplying by the hundreds. How many people were seeing this, were reading these filthy fucking lies and believing they were true? This was awful, this was unthinkable, those hickeys we’re not anyone else’s, they were his, they were—

His thoughts screeched to a sudden halt. The new comments were different than the first, not just speculative but knowing. 

@jessebabieexx: you know…i bet they’re all from different girls

reply to @jessebabieexx: 

@francescagraywinn: i believe it. rozy’s got a roster. i’d know bc i was on it ;)) it’s been a while tho :// @IlyaRozanov81 i miss you, hmu next time ur in philly <3 

reply to @jessebabieexx: 

@livingwithjoanna: You probably wouldn’t be far off LOL … he used to LMK everytime he was in Toronto. Those were some wild nights …. 

reply to @jessebabieexx: 

@puckluverjulia79: You’re definitely right. Back when I lived in Denver, Roz treated me real nice anytime the Raiders were in town. Better than most of these other MHL hoes treat me! XD 

reply to @jessebabieexx: 

@emilys_corner: LOL the Cens have been on the road for a while. Maybe he got one from a girl in every state. 

reply to @emilys_corner: 

@i_love_rozanov81: LMFAOOO

reply to @emilys_corner: 

@barrettsbae: instead of passport stamps, ilya fuckboy rozanov just keeps records of his travels through the hickeys he gets

reply to @barrettsbae: 

@rozyrozyrozy: OMG. THE FUCKBOY PASSPORT!

Shane was going to fucking throw up. His vision was swimming, clouded through with panic. He grasped at logic and reason, but they slipped through his fingers like sand until there was nothing left. The video had to fucking go. He couldn’t stomach this, couldn’t let one more single person watch it and think that Ilya belonged to anyone but him. 

He had Ilya’s contact pulled up on his phone, ready to hit the call button and ream him out for being so careless before demanding that he delete the video entirely. 

Then he stopped. Considered. 

These girls were laughing and joking about their time with Ilya in his comment section. Where he could see them. They certainly weren’t complaining or controlling or dwelling into bitterly envious territory. Would they have insisted that Ilya delete the video?

Was it different? Because they were girls? Because they were allowed to love and lust after Ilya publicly, proudly, brazenly? 

Shane thought of Svetlana, then. Suddenly, and dizzyingly. Whom he had yet to meet but knew so much about, who he knew had been a beacon of light in Ilya’s life where there had been nothing but darkness. Would she have found the humor in this back when she and Ilya had been…whatever they had been? Would she have called him up so they could read the comments out loud to each other and fall to pieces with laughter? 

Did he miss her lightness? Her laidback nonchalance compared to Shane’s strict, demanding exclusivity? Did he miss their wild exploits, her girlish laughter and soft curves? Did he just miss…girls? Did he feel bereft of the variety given to him by his trysts with so many beautiful, devoted women? 

No. No. It had only been mere weeks since Ilya had stressed to him how much he loved Shane’s boring nature, how fiercely opposed he was to Shane changing anything about himself at all. 

You are so boring. I like boring. I love boring. I want you to be boring forever.

“What are you doing, dude?” Shane asked himself out loud, scrubbing his hands down his face and shaking himself out like a factory reset. He was being fucking ridiculous. The comments meant nothing. He didn’t care that Ilya had a storied sexual past. He didn’t. And he didn’t care that these faceless strangers had been with him in ways that Shane never would, and he didn’t care that they all seemed to think they had any sort of claim over him, that they seemed to think they knew him—

Jesus. Jesus. He needed a fucking drink. A Xanax. A cigarette. He needed to go down to the hotel gym and run until he threw up. He settled for pulling the comforter over his head and taking deep, meditative breaths to prevent himself from hyperventilating so hard that he passed out. After a few minutes, his heart slowed to a supportable pace and exhaustion weighed him down into the mattress. 

In the end, he convinced himself it didn’t matter. This was nothing. A fluke. The comments would putter out in the next few hours and he would forget about them entirely come morning. 

He laid his phone face-down on the nightstand and willed himself to sleep but an uneasy, blooming ache pounded in his chest with each beat of his heart, and every time he closed his eyes, he saw Ilya’s hands trailing lovingly over skin that wasn’t his. 

2.

When Shane first read the words The Fuckboy Passport, he never could have known what would happen next. Maybe it was for the best, really, because if he wiped the continent of North America from the maps, he would be charged only with a crime of passion rather than one of premeditation. 

The phrase was trending on several different social media apps, and countless comments and stories of sexual exploits had been shared with the public. The girls were detailing where they were from and what explicit experiences they’d shared with Ilya Rozanov in shocking detail. The ringleader, whoever it was, had dedicated an entire account, TheFuckboyPassport81, to adding ‘stamps’ to a digital passport each time a new girl came forward with her story. These stamps were just the flags of whichever states, countries, or territories that Ilya had fucked them in. 

Shane had realized this was happening the following evening when he obsessively clicked back to the workout video Ilya had posted of his hickeys. He watched it six times straight through as he worked his hand furiously over his cock, then came so hard the edges of his vision had started fading out. When he’d cleaned himself up, he’d scrolled through the comments again, and found that there were dozens of replies to the top comment. 

@TheFuckboyPassport81: Hey divas! If you’ve hooked up with Rozy, send us a DM! We’re tryna see something…

@kieralowe32: Checking in from Texas ;))) Best fuck I ever had. My husband has banned the name Ilya Rozanov from the house LOL! 

@jen_kisses: Californian here! I can confirm that Ilya Rozanov is a certified munch. He knows how to use that mouth for something other than chirping!

@hockeylover6: From Russia. Met him in a club once. Made me come three times. Very good man.

@lanaflora: Add a stamp for Spain. He was celebrating a Stanley Cup win with the Raiders and he took me back to his hotel room. That dick is magic. 

@bunnybaeXXX: You’ll have to add three stamps for Florida. He showed me and my girls a very good night back in 2013. We still talk about it at brunch sometimes. Ugh, we miss you, Ilya. Come back to Florida! 

He’d lost track of how long he’d scrolled and scrolled through the endless comments, raunchy retellings of Ilya’s conquests and the public’s reaction to every sordid detail. His hands were slick with sweat as he scrolled, chest tight and lungs struggling to expand. He was so nauseous, the taste of bile strong in the back of his throat and his stomach fucking roiling. There was no greater hell than this, he was sure, and he was destined to spend eternity in it. 

Well, at least, that’s what he’d thought. 

Because then, the first video was posted.

It was late in the evening just hours after the Montreal Metros were eliminated from the playoffs. The video, posted to TheFuckboyPassport81, had gone viral within hours of being uploaded, and popped up on Shane’s feed not long after. Shane was curled up in the corner of the charter airport, waiting for the plane that would take the dejected Metros back to Montreal. His suitcases were already packed by his front door, and he would stop at his place only to grab them and toss them in the trunk of his car before jumping in the driver’s seat and hauling ass to Ottawa. To Ilya. To home.

Without thinking any further about the consequences of his actions, Shane clicked on the video. 

The caption read: 

@TheFuckboyPassport81: Submission from @coolgirlhannahmay - Many moons ago, Ilya Rozanov and I shared a torrid love affair. It was beautiful. Let me know if there’s a groupchat of scorned ex-lovers I can join. I’d love to share stories. Also, add a stamp for North Carolina <3

It was a shaky recording with laughing and snickering in the background, and the quality of the footage was grainy. Girls crowded around another girl’s phone recording the screen as she scrolled through her text messages with another person. The video was clearly ancient, and Shane could tell just by model of her smartphone that this video was probably ten years old.

The dutiful camerawoman drew the camera closer to the screen of the other girl’s phone, and that is when he realized he was looking at texts between this random girl and…Ilya.

No, no. Not texts. Sexts. 

The phone’s operating system was from years ago, the layout of the screen far different from what it looked like today. Shane squinted as he tried to make out some of the texts. He had to pause the video and zoom in to get a good look at any of it. 

UNKNOWN: 

I’ve always wanted to fuck a hockey player <3

ILYA ROZANOV: 

Well, now you can fuck the best ;)

ILYA ROZANOV:

Are you wet right now?

ILYA ROZANOV:

Want me to fuck your tight pussy? 

UNKNOWN: 

I’m dripping. It’s running down my thighs.

UNKNOWN: 

You’re so strong.

UNKNOWN:

I want you to hold me down while you fuck me.

UNKNOWN: 

Make me take it.

ILYA ROZANOV:

Fuck. I can do that, baby.

The messages blurred as the girl scrolled faster until they became muddled and unintelligible, but they went on for ages. Dozens of messages, likely detailing what they wanted to do to each other, how they were touching themselves, how hard they had orgasmed. 

And Shane—Shane’s chest hurt. 

He’d known just how promiscuous Ilya had been before the two of them had confessed how they really felt about each other. For years, Shane had been comfortable in the fact that Ilya had had many partners before him, but that he would be the last. Except there was a gaping chasm of envy between knowing these things and actually seeing them with his own eyes. Before, it was easy to pretend that these women didn’t exist. If he closed his eyes, they weren’t real, only a figment of his imagination that existed only to torment him in his darkest moments. 

But now they were real, plain as day on the screen of his phone, laughing and giggling at the evidence of Ilya begging to fuck them the way he begged to fuck Shane. The very idea of sharing that experience with anyone else made his skin crawl and the backs of his eyes prickle. He wanted to be Ilya’s in ways that no one else could ever understand. 

The only time he’d ever come close to this feeling, this monstrous thing inside of him that pulled him apart and stretched him too thin, was years back, when Ilya suggested that he could have a lavender marriage with Svetlana. Shane had nearly been sick on the couch while his toes were intertwined with Ilya’s. He’d nearly crawled over to Ilya’s side, pinned him down, and done…done something. Something drastic. Pulled Ilya’s hair and bared his throat to him. Bitten him. Begged him to love him forever, to never think of another girl, to never look at another girl so long as Shane was alive. 

Shane nearly swore when he caught himself at it again, that errant habit he had of subconsciously adding himself to Ilya’s…Ilya’s harem. 

I don’t want to hear about you with other girls, Ilya.

Ah, other girls? You are one of my girls, then?

Secretly, terribly, Shane liked the idea of being one of Ilya’s girls. That he could be good for him, be gentle for him, please him in all the ways he deserved. And that was the crux of it all, wasn’t it? That he couldn’t please Ilya the same way a girl could? That Shane wasn’t like these girls, not even in the slightest? He was sharp and jagged and a little mean and he had a hard time loving Ilya gently. How could he, when all he wanted to sink his teeth into Ilya’s throat, wanted to taste his blood and know he’d have a piece of Ilya inside him forever? 

The overhead speaker in their private terminal cut on, and Shane reluctantly tucked his phone back into his pocket. A collective groan echoed throughout the room when the staff announced that their flight had been cancelled due to bad weather. A twinge of frustration nettled deep in Shane’s chest, and he found it suddenly difficult to swallow. He had been relying on this flight to take him home to Ilya, to his hard kisses and his soothing touch. He was floating, floating, floating, and now he was being torn from the only thing outside of hockey that had ever proved to ground him. 

He typed out a quick, disappointed text.

JANE:

Flight cancelled. Bad weather. 

LILY:

Fuck. 

LILY:

I miss you so fucking much. 

JANE:

I’m sorry.

LILY: 

Is not your fault.

LILY:

I will be waiting here for you. 

LILY:

Please try to hurry.

JANE:

I will. I love you. 

LILY:

я всегда буду любить тебя, родной.

I will love you always, darling. 

Warmth buzzed in Shane’s veins, sweet contentment easing his doubts. The Metros stood, stretching out their tight limbs and gathering up their belongings to haul to the nearest hotel for the night until the staff could reschedule their flights. Shane was bone-tired and disappointed by the team’s loss and heavy with the weight of missing his boyfriend.

But he never stopped thinking about it, the words from the screen playing out in his head on an endless loop. Even as the team piled into the rental vans and pulled onto the road towards the hotel. 

“You good, man?” Hayden murmured, turning to look at Shane in the quiet dark of the last row. He spoke low enough that the others wouldn’t hear, though most of them

Shane’s reassuring smile was tight and false and didn’t fit right over his skin. “Just eager to get home.”

“I get it.” Hayden nodded, pulling his Airpods out of his bag and fitting one into his ear. He had been thoroughly fooled. “I can’t wait to see Jacks and the kids. Being away is tough.”  

Shane nodded and thinned his lips, then turned to stare out the window at passing traffic. Every time he blinked he saw the fucking video. Saw the sexts. His hands tightened into fists in his lap, blunt fingernails digging into his palm, and he stared at his white knuckles. 

Shane and Ilya, shockingly, had never truly sexted. Ilya sent some suggestive messages here and there, but, ultimately, sexting was a bit of a time-consuming task for two professional hockey players with constant practices, games, plane rides, and other team commitments. It was far easier to jerk off together on a video call, both of them climaxing quickly from the sight of each other’s blissed out facial expressions and bitten off curses. 

Did Ilya want to sext? Did he like it? Had he failed to ask Shane to do this with him because he thought Shane wouldn’t like it? What if he felt like he was missing out on the things that he used to do with girls?

Doubt crept back into his veins with its spindly, sticky legs. And he couldn’t manage to shake it, not through checking into his hotel room, not through the late night snack he fetched with Hayden at the corner store next to the hotel, not through his steaming hot shower, and not even through the blue whale documentary he’d flipped to on his room’s television. 

It was only when the documentary was over and the credits rolled on the screen that Shane bit his lip and snatched his phone up from his nightstand without thinking. He hesitated only for a half second, but he typed out his messages and hit send. 

This was so ridiculous. His blood was roaring between his ears. 

JANE:

Wish you were here.

JANE:

Missing your mouth.

JANE: 

Thinking of how good it feels around me.

LILY:

What?

Shane paused, mortified, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Was he doing this wrong? Was he fucking this up completely?

JANE:

Touching myself isn’t the same.

JANE:

Your tongue is better than my hands. 

It took only three seconds for the phone in Shane’s hand to start buzzing wildly with an incoming call from Ilya. 

“Fuck,” Shane hissed, debating whether or not he should decline it. But Ilya obviously knew Shane had his phone on his person and wouldn’t hesitate to call forty-two times until Shane decided to answer. He brought the phone to his ear. “Hello?” He answered hesitantly, but his voice cracked and he cleared his throat, embarrassed.

“What are these texts?” Ilya asked, forgoing a formal greeting. “Who was using your phone?”

“What? Jesus, Ilya.” Shane scrubbed a hand down his face. He was glad that Ilya couldn’t see how beet red it was. “It was just me. I sent them.” 

“You are sexting me now, Hollander?” Ilya sounded like he didn’t believe that for a second. He could practically picture his raised brows, the way they would push towards his hairline when he was particularly exasperated with Shane. “Since when? Is a bet? Do you owe somebody money? I will pay them for you, is okay.” 

“No, Ilya I…” Shane trailed off, lowering his head into his hand as if he could hide from the shame of it. Of course he couldn’t sext like his other girls did. He was too awkward, too rough around the edges. “I just wanted to try it.”

Ilya was relentless. “Why?” 

“What? I’m not allowed to want to sext my boyfriend?”

“You have never wanted to before.” Ilya paused, and it was an age before he spoke again. The silence was rife with doubt and insecurity emanating from them both. Shane could’ve taken a bite out of the quiet, as thick and viscous as it was. “You are bored with what we do?”

“No, no, Ilya, that’s not—” Shane scrambled for something, anything. He couldn’t tell Ilya the truth, that he was jealous and fearful and possessive, not after all he’d done to Ilya to prove that he had no reason to be jealous over Shane’s viral Powerade advertisement and his newfound title as Canada’s Community Boyfriend. “I miss you. I wanted to make you feel good. I thought you’d like it.” 

“That is all? You are sure?”

“Yes,” Shane breathed. “Just…upset. About the flight.” 

Ilya was silent for a moment. “Okey, okey. We will try again. Goodbye.”

Shane frowned. “Huh?”

But the line was already dead, and when he checked the screen of his phone, it was back to the thread of his pitiful attempt at sexting. He nearly swiped out of the app to save himself the shame, but then three dots appeared at the bottom of the screen. 

LILY:

What are you wearing?

JANE:

This is stupid.

JANE:

We don’t have to.

JANE: 

I’m sorry. 

LILY:

I hope you are wearing nothing. 

LILY:

So desperate you are already naked for me.

JANE:

Ilya, it’s fine.

JANE:

Seriously, we can pretend it didn’t happen. 

LILY:

Fine, I will go first.

LILY:

I am wearing boxers. 

LILY:

Getting them wet for you.

LILY:

[image attachment]

The picture Ilya attached was lit only by lamplight, capturing his legs splayed out against his comforter, his bare, muscular thighs filling out a pair of dark maroon boxers. His bulge was thick beneath the material, a damp spot already soaking through the fabric at the end of his long length. 

Shane whined in the back of his throat and shoved his pajama pants down his legs, freeing his aching cock. That was all he had worn to bed, and the frigid hotel room air chilled his damp, overheating bare skin. He swore quietly to himself when he saw how much his cock had already leaked, pre-come dribbling down his shaft towards his pelvic mound. 

He hadn’t realized just how different sexting would be from their normal phone sex. Over the phone, Shane was always too lost in sensation, too focused on the particular way Ilya’s jaw clenched as he staved off his orgasm to picture anything outside of himself in that moment. But, like this, he was forced to linger in the moment, to understand that he was making an object of himself, putting himself on display. 

It felt sluttier than spreading his legs and begging Ilya to bury himself in to the hilt. It was a burning ache low in his gut, a slow, incessant throb that he felt beneath every point of his skin. It sped itself up with the beat of his heart, pulsing in his stomach, at the base of his spine, behind his eyes, in his red, weeping cock. 

JANE:

Fuck.

JANE:

That’s so hot.

JANE:

Okay.

JANE:

You’re right. I’m naked. 

JANE:

I’m so hard. 

LILY:

Let me see.

JANE:

[image attachment]

LILY: 

Aw, it is crying for me.

JANE:

What the fuck.

LILY: 

I am just kidding. Haha.

LILY:

Touch yourself.

LILY: 

And do not come until I say is okay.

JANE:

Okay, fuck. I am.

JANE:

Feels so good.

JANE:

Wish it was your hand.

LILY: 

Fuck.

LILY:

What would you do if I was there?

Shane blinked. Was he supposed to list the events in chronological order? Would skipping over the boring parts end this too fast? He typed out a response then deleted it. Then he typed out another, shook his head, and deleted that one, too. Everything he thought of sounded ridiculous. Fuck, this was harder than he thought it would be. His phone buzzed while he was distracted and he jumped.

LILY:

Am I boring you, Hollander?

LILY: 

You have abandoned me? 

JANE: 

I don’t know what to say. 

JANE:

I’m not good at this.

JANE:

I’m sorry.

JANE:

I want to make you feel good.

LILY: 

No, you are doing so good for me.

LILY: 

My good boy. I will help.

LILY: 

If I was there I would make you get on your knees.

LILY:

I would not have to ask probably.

LILY: 

You are such a slut for my cock. 

JANE:

I am.

JANE:

Want it so bad.

LILY:

Fuck. I know. You would beg me to fuck your mouth.

LILY:

You would take it so deep.

LILY:

Choke on it until you cry.

JANE:

I would.

JANE:

I would let you use me.

JANE: 

Do whatever you want to me.

JANE:

But I’d like it, too. 

JANE:

Just wanna be good for you.

JANE:

Oh god

LILY:

Fuck, Hollander. 

LILY:

Do not come.

JANE:

Fuck i needf to please

LILY:

Christ.

LILY:

You’re so fucking easy.

LILY:

I am not done with you.

JANE:

What would u do

JANE:

please 

LILY:

You would be so impatient for me

LILY:

We would not even make it to the bedroom.

LILY:

I think you would want my cock so bad you would cry

JANE:

i would i cant help it

JANE: 

Just wantg to feel full of you please

LILY:

Holy shit

LILY: 

I would give you this.

LILY: 

I would have to bend you over the couch and use my spit to stretch you.

LILY:

I know you like when it hurts a little. 

JANE:

Yesd

JANE:

ilyaim going to come

LILY:

Do not fucking come.

JANE:

fuckn

JANE:

im so closwe 

JANE: 

fuck please

LILY:

Such a whore.

LILY:

Fuuckk I’m so hard

JANE:

just want to be fukced

JANE:

No one can fuck me likew you

LILY: 

God

LILY:

Feels so good Shane 

LILY:

You are so hot

LILY:

You would fuck yourself on my cock if I let you

LILY: 

Maybe I would makew you

LILY:

If you want it so bad you jhave to come take it

JANE:

no no please

JANE:

I ndeed it hard

JANE:

ive beenm good

JANE:

ilya please ffuck

LILY:

Fuck ok

LILY:

You are right you have been so good

LILY:

I would fuckm you hard until you are about to come

LILY:

I would make you turn around so I could come on your pretty face

LILY: 

Begging and beggingf for me to touch you while coveredc in my come

LILY:

fuckfk

JANE:

ilya i cant ohm y god

JANE:

im comign

JANE:

Imsorry

JANE:

sorry

When his phone rang, Shane’s hand was pressed over his eyes, fingers trembling as he breathed steadily through the final waves of the orgasm that had shot through him without warning. He shook his head like a dog to dislodge the muck from his thoughts, and then it took him several attempts to press the answer button with his unsteady fingers. “Ilya?”

“Why are you apologizing?” Ilya asked, breathless and heaving steadily into the phone. “You did not have fun?”

Shane frowned. “I came before you said I could.” 

“Hollander,” Ilya said, and Shane could tell he was smiling. “Is the point. I came, too. Was so hot. I love you so much.”

“Oh.” Sweet heat like molten honey oozed down Shane’s spine. The tension built from pent-up jealousy finally eased, and he melted into the pillows behind him, suddenly exhausted. “Okay. I really liked it. I want to do it again soon.”

“Mmmm,” Ilya hummed, and the sound was so familiar that Shane could practically see the way he pursed his lips, head tilting slightly to the side and eyes shooting up to the ceiling as he considered. “Is not possible. Because you will be here. With me. Very soon. We will not need to sext. I will just put you on your knees whenever I like.”

Shane pressed his fingers into his lips to keep from smiling too wide to himself, all alone in this hotel room. “You’re such an asshole.” 

“Ah, do not act like you would not love it.” Ilya sucked on his teeth. “Would be your idea, probably. I know you are such a slut like this for me.”

“I hate you,” Shane mumbled, throwing an arm over his eyes. 

Ilya tutted. “You love me. I know this, too.”

Shane tried to stop the words from spilling out, but he couldn’t help himself from asking. “You liked it though? The sexting?” 

Ilya sighed, big and dramatic. “Yes, Hollander. I liked sexting my hot boyfriend until I came so hard I almost died. You are being very silly.” 

“So, did you like it as much as…” Shane trailed off. He sounded so desperate, so pathetic. But he had to know. He couldn’t sleep if he didn’t know. “Was it good compared to, like, other people you’ve sexted?” 

Ilya hesitated. “What do you mean by this?” 

“Nothing,” Shane said, sobering up from his orgasm, wide awake and entirely too alert. “I’m exhausted. I should probably go to bed.” 

“Hollander—”

Shane cut him off. “Goodnight. I love you. See you tomorrow.” 

He ended the call and flopped back onto his pillows, trying his best to center himself as his heart thundered in his chest. Fuck. 

When he finally turned off all the lights and closed his eyes to get some rest, he didn’t sleep, didn’t dream, but the faint echoes of girlish laughter rang in his ears into the early hours of the morning. 

3.

Over the course of the following week, the videos multiplied at a rate that Shane’s nervous system could not tolerate. 

He thought it’d be better now that he was home, back in Ottawa with Ilya in his arms and in his bed. He thought his insecurities would be alleviated, that he’d realize just how ridiculous he’d been by spiraling over something so trivial when his boyfriend was so real and pliant next to him. 

If anything, having Ilya so close made it worse. His presence here at the cottage was a constant reminder that so many people had had him in ways that Shane never would, that he could only imagine, could only hope that Ilya didn’t learn for and had learned to be okay with living without. 

Shane tried to tell himself he was being ridiculous. He knew Ilya hated milk chocolate and that he loved dogs. He knew that Ilya sang in the shower and could sleep through any storm. He knew that Ilya was afraid of spiders and heights and being alone. Shane knew Ilya in ways that no one else had ever known him or ever would know him. This had to be enough, it had to overshadow the haunting knowledge that the girls Ilya had seduced so many years ago still thought of him fondly, still wanted him, still dreamed of him for how good he’d given himself to them. 

This was impossible. It was a torment. Shane spent every waking hour of the day watching the videos. Reading the long, exhaustive comments. When he wasn’t watching them or reading them, he was thinking about them. While making his breakfast smoothies, during his morning runs, in the shower, vacuuming the bedroom, and especially when Ilya’s hands were on him, drawing out every last moan, ever shuddered breath. 

But Shane was good at keeping secrets. He locked it all away where Ilya would never see, where he would never ever know the ways in which his past was eating Shane alive. And he was always too fucked out and sex drunk to notice the sharp way Shane stared up at him while Ilya was inside of him. Searching, worrying, afraid. 

Ilya said nothing about the videos. Maybe he hadn’t seen them at all. Maybe he had, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

Shane didn’t know which possibility was worse. But he kept his mouth shut and acted like nothing was wrong, speaking when spoken to, smiling when he was supposed to. He pretended valiantly that there weren’t parasites feasting on his brain, pretended that he didn’t replay each tormenting story from @TheFuckboyPassport81 in his head on a loop every time he closed his eyes to sleep.  

He sat at the kitchen table now, still sweaty from his run as he scrolled through the account. He chewed his overnight oats slowly as his eyes flitted across the screen and they tasted like ash in his mouth as he read the filthy recollections. Some of them were days old by this point, and he’d already read them a dozen times over. He could recite every word, mouthing them to himself over and over. 

Every few minutes he swiped back up to refresh the account so he didn’t miss anything. When he refreshed this time, a new post loaded and he gasped, inhaling a lungful of overnight oats and nearly choking to death on his breakfast. 

Once he’d finished coughing and spluttering, he sat in silence, breathing heavy and listening to make sure he didn’t wake Ilya upstairs. After a few moments, when he didn’t hear the fall of footsteps against the wooden floorboards, he opened up the post.

@raidersgurl4evs: Back in 2012, Ilya and I traded a puck for my bra. He left his number on the puck, and he tied me up when I asked. This was in Boston, obviously, so you guys can add another stamp ;) 

Shane pressed play on the attached video.

The main focus was a girl with dark hair and dark eyes, and her face was smattered with freckles. Her lips were pink and plush and pulled into a feline smile. She was…cute. Gorgeous, by all means. Her Cupid’s bow was wide, and her cheeks were plush and flushed and pretty. Did Ilya miss pretty girls? Did he miss their softness, their gentle words, their lithe frames with lean curves? Did he miss all of the things Shane didn’t have and couldn’t be? 

He ticked his jaw, mouth pulling down at the edges with frustration, and continued watching. 

The girl rolled her head against the pillow as she panned the shot from her own face over a couple feet to the corner of the bed where a man was tying her wrist to the bedpost. 

He was shirtless, and his back was towards the camera, but he had a tangled mass of honey-blonde curls and a smattering of moles decorating the skin of his shoulder blades and a golden chain resting at the base of his neck. 

Shane recognized him immediately. He was going to be fucking sick. He had to make sure there wasn’t enough time left on the footage for them to start fucking, and sighed in relief when he realized there were only a few seconds remaining. The video swung back to focus on the girl, who winked at the camera and then ended the recording. 

When it started back over, he focused on Ilya, trying his best to ignore the girl’s presence entirely. The video was so old, grainy and unfocused. Ilya was so young, barely even twenty years old. He and Shane had only been together a couple times by this point, and they hadn’t even fucked properly, if Shane was remembering correctly. Ilya hadn’t belonged to him yet. He was free to do as he pleased.

That didn’t mean Shane had to fucking like it. 

Ilya clearly did, though. Was this what he wanted? Did he want to tie Shane down and use him? Had he been suppressing his fantasies because he didn’t think Shane would want to do these things with Ilya? As if Shane wasn’t half-hard at the mere fucking idea of it.

But Ilya was brazen and bold and more confident in his sexuality than nearly anything else in his life outside of hockey. If he wanted Shane to try something new in bed, he wouldn’t hesitate to ask, would he? 

Shane had been so distracted he hadn’t heard Ilya puttering around in the bedroom until he was loping down the stairs with heavy feet like an oversized dog. 

Shane slammed his phone face down on the table and picked up his oats, shoveling a spoonful into his mouth. He was so nauseous that he nearly gagged, but he gave Ilya a tight smile as he ambled into the kitchen. 

“Ah, good morning, kotyonok.” Ilya leaned over as he passed and gave Shane a kiss to the crown of his head. He ruffled his hair then continued towards the back deck. “I am going for a run. When I am done, can we watch that movie with the puppies that Haasy told me about? What is the name?”

Shane grinned despite it all. “Air Bud?” 

“Yes!” Ilya snapped and pointed at Shane, a dopey smile stretching across his face. “That is the one. I wish the puppies were playing hockey, but I will take what I can get.” 

He was so cute, so endearing, that Shane had to curl his hand into a fist on top of the table, nails biting into his palm, to recenter himself. A debilitating wave of nausea nearly knocked him from his chair at the thought of Ilya, soft, charming, loving Ilya being known and claimed by anyone else. This was almost worse than the videos, than the illicit comments and retellings—the idea that anyone else might be at all familiar with the gentle iterations of himself he reserved for Shane. 

The oats rolled over in a thick clump in his stomach, sticky like mucus. He gave Ilya a small wave as he left for his run, then snatched his phone back up off the table to catch up on everything he’d missed during their short conversation. He lost track of time as he pored over the video, scrolling through the comments and refreshing hundreds of new ones every time he ran out. He hadn’t realized that an hour had passed until the back door swung open and startled him out of his trance. 

Ilya brought noise with him everywhere he went. Birds chirped and the door creaked on its hinges and a motorcycle revved somewhere down the road. His heavy breaths filled the kitchen, his arms resting atop his head as he filled his lungs with air. When he caught sight of Shane exactly where he had left him, he frowned. “You have not moved. What are you doing?” 

Like a liar, Shane quickly swiped over to his language learning app and turned his screen to show Ilya. “Practicing Russian.” 

Ilya brightened. “Yes? And what have you learned today, Shanya?”

Shane twisted his lips. “Kak vas zavut? Menya zavut Shane.”

“Ah, no. This is too easy.” Ilya pursed his lips and shook his head. He sat down in the chair next to Shane and grabbed his wrist, urging him up and towards his lap. “You can do better.”

Shane wrinkled his nose, but he let Ilya pull him on top of him, feet planted on the floor as he sank down and straddled his lap. “Ilya, you’re sweaty.” 

“Come on,” Ilya murmured. He looked up at Shane through his lashes, pleading. “Be a good boy for me.” 

Shane tilted slightly forward, the words going straight to his cock. The musk of Ilya’s sweat was an unlikely aphrodisiac, clouding his rational thought. His tongue was heavy in his mouth. “I…um…” 

Ilya ghosted his lips over the tip of Shane’s ear, and his warm breath fanned over Shane’s cheek. His hand drifted down the length of Shane’s spine to his ass, pushing him forward on his lap and exhaling at the friction against his cock, hard in his running shorts against his thigh.  “Pazhalusta, Shanya.”

“You’re distracting me,” Shane murmured. He was rocking slightly against him, back and forth, unable to stop now that he’d gotten a taste. “I—I can’t think.” 

Ilya pushed a thumb into Shane’s bottom lip, and sucked his earlobe into his mouth. His tongue was hot against Shane’s skin. “Day mnye poslushat tebya.”

Let me hear you. 

“U menya net slov, chtobi virazit voskhishcheniye,” Shane whispered, closing his eyes so he could focus. The bright cerulean blue of Ilya’s irises was too distracting. “Ti menya obezoruzhila.”

I have no words to express admiration. You have disarmed me. 

 Ilya’s lips parted. His breath caught. “Where did you learn that?” 

Shane was so fucking hard. He couldn’t think of anything else. “Googled it.” 

Ilya stared at him for a brief second, hard and intense, before grabbing Shane’s jaw in his hand to keep him in place as he surged up for a kiss.

Shane was ready, open and pliant, welcoming the slide of Ilya’s tongue against his own with a stuttered moan. He clutched at the neck of Ilya’s sweat-soaked shirt. The roll of his hips was more insistent now, angling himself forward so that his clothed cock dragged against Ilya’s stomach. He curled a hand into Ilya’s hair, twisting the strands around his fingers and pulling until Ilya’s cock twitched beneath him.

Ilya’s tongue was too far back into Shane’s mouth to speak, but a low growl in the back of his throat voiced his interest in these proceedings perfectly. And then Ilya’s hands were sliding beneath Shane’s ass to hold him steady as he pushed himself to his feet. He stumbled under the weight of his arousal, but Shane helped him out by wrapping his legs around Ilya’s waist. This also gave him enough leverage to grind himself against Ilya’s stomach, greedy and eager and making lust drunk little noises into Ilya’s hot mouth. 

“Shane.” Ilya grunted his name against Shane’s lips, then sucked the bottom one into his mouth. He released it on a choked breath and rammed his shoulder into the wall when Shane found the right angle to grind their clothes cocks against one another  “Like that, fuck, da, just like—oh, bozhe.”

Shane preened at the approval, rocking faster, humping Ilya’s abdomen. The friction was too good, almost too much. He could come just from this, from Ilya’s rough, ragged praise and rutting against him like a dog in heat. He was too disoriented from the pleasure to know where Ilya was taking him until he was dumped unceremoniously on top of the dresser in their bedroom. 

Ilya wasted no time ducking his head into Shane’s neck, kissing and licking and moaning onto his blazing skin. He wrenched Shane’s head to the side by his hair, rough and unforgiving and claiming in a way that blurred the edges of Shane’s vision. 

“The bed—” Shane gasped and slammed a hand down onto the wood at his side when Ilya cut him off by sucking at the sensitive skin between his collarbone and trapezius muscle. He keened, his head falling onto his shoulders and his eyes rolling back into his head.

“Too far,” Ilya bit off, trailing messy, open-mouthed kisses across Shane’s throat, his jaw, that left spots of saliva in their wake. “Can fuck you so deep like this, right here.” 

Shane was wet already, his cock leaking into his boxers. He hadn’t bothered to put a pair of pants on before stumbling into the kitchen for breakfast, and he shoved a hand between them to cover the evidence of his eager arousal now before Ilya saw just how desperate he was. 

“No, no, no.” Ilya smacked his hand out of the way and pressed down hard with an open palm on the outline of Shane’s cock through his boxers. He focused the weight of his touch on Shane’s sensitive tip, rubbing small, quick circles against him. “Do not hide how easy you are.” 

“Fuck,” Shane hissed, spine snapping straight. Every muscle in his body pulled taut, his jaw locking up as his mouth fell open on a soundless moan. He wanted Ilya to shove him face first on the mattress and take anything he pleased, wanted Ilya to push his knees so far apart that his groin burned and his muscles screamed at him to stop, he wanted, he wanted—

The video. 

No. He couldn’t. He felt the molten flush from even the possibility of asking this of Ilya bloom in his cheeks and pour down his throat, his chest. His mouth filled with saliva and it nearly choked him. His next breath was stuttered and uneven. He could have what that girl had been given, what he’d never had and wanted so desperately that he couldn’t form a single thought that wasn’t an incessant mantra of tie me up, tie me up, tie me up.

Ilya jerked him through his boxers, rough and demanding. He smirked knowingly when Shane’s cock twitched and pulsed beneath his hand. “You are thinking very loud, lychik. Keeping secrets from me?”

Shane swallowed. He couldn’t do this. “No.” 

Ilya gripped his jaw, forcing him to meet his eyes. “You have always been such a terrible liar.” 

“I’m not, it’s—it’s nothing.” Shane tried to distract him by surging forward for a kiss, but Ilya held him easily in place, squeezing harder.

Then he let go entirely, and stepped away. There was a devious glint in his eye. “Mmm. I think I will go take a shower now.” 

“Okay,” Shane said desperately, reaching for Ilya and wrapping insistent fingers around his thick bicep to keep him from leaving. “Okay. You won. Fuck. I’ll tell you.”

Ilya shrugged and shook his head, a gesture for Shane to get on with it. 

It was now or never. 

Shane yanked the top drawer of the dresser open and fumbled around inside for a moment before he found what he was looking for. Two pairs of neck ties folded up neatly in the corner. Before he could talk himself out of it, he balled the ties up in his fist and shoved them into Ilya’s hand. He chose not to speak, staring intently at a mole just to the right of the thick vein that ran along the length of Ilya’s arm. 

“What is this?” Ilya asked, tilting his head lower and looking up at Shane through his lashes to try and catch his avoidant eye. 

“I think…can you please…” Shane trailed off, so embarrassed. He was so used to taking anything that Ilya was willing to give, hoarding it all selfishly and doing the best he could with the gifts he was presented with. Rarely had he had to ask for something new, and tremors zipped up and down his spine with the fear of it. He was terrified Ilya would see right through him, would hear it in the click of Shane’s teeth and know exactly what he was doing. 

“You have to say it,” Ilya pushed. He always got like this when Shane was too ashamed to ask for what he wanted, something in him delighted by Shane’s nerves, by his naivety even after all these years. He tucked his face into Shane’s neck, dragging his tongue up the line of his throat, and humming in satisfaction at the taste. “Tell me what you want.” 

Shane had half a mind to let it go, to yank the ties out of Ilya’s hand and toss them aside before distracting him with his mouth on his cock. But he wanted it so badly he couldn’t fucking breathe. He listed to the side for a moment, suddenly dizzy with the idea of this, of being better for Ilya than those other girls, and his hand shot out to grab at Ilya’s arm to keep him upright. “I want you to tie me up,” he whispered, closing his eyes. 

“You—” Ilya cut himself off. “Hollander.” 

“Please.” Shane clutched at the waistband of Ilya’s running shorts and pressed his forehead to Ilya’s hard, unmoving chest. He lowered his voice, barely audible over their heavy, harmonized breaths. “Please, I—I need this.” 

Ilya’s chest rose and fell faster beneath Shane’s temple, and he tried his best to suppress a shiver, but Shane felt it ricochet up Ilya’s spine and into his own. It took Ilya several seconds to gather his words. “Get on the bed.”

Shane’s heart launched into his throat. “Really?”

“You are not naked yet,” Ilya observed cooly. His white-knuckled grip on the ties gave him away. “You do not really want?” 

Shane pushed off the dresser and stripped at lightning speed, then scrambled onto the bed until he was settled back against the pillows. Above all else, he just wanted to be good. Like that girl, holding her arm up for Ilya obediently as he knotted her restraints. So, Shane lifted his arms up to the wooden slats of the bedframe, pressing his wrists against it right where he wanted Ilya to tie him down.

Ilya, who stood at the foot of the mattress, exhaled, loud and disbelieving. His head fell forward, hand flexing at his side. He rounded the bed and stared Shane in the eye intently before wrapping one of the ties around his wrist, trapping him there. He did the same with Shane’s other wrist, testing his work and clicking his tongue when he found that there was no give, no way for Shane to move even if he wanted to. 

Shane pulled at the ties himself, eyes nearly crossing at the burn of the fabric against his wrist. 

“What do you want me to do to you like this?” Ilya asked, eyes dark and glazed and over. His cock was tenting his shorts, big and needy, but he ignored it to stare down at Shane’s pliant, waiting figure. “When you cannot resist me?” 

There were so many answers to that question, too convoluted and revealing and sickeningly desperate. What did you do to that girl after you tied her down? Did you eat her out? Suck her tits? Fuck her? Bite bruises into her soft skin? Do to me what you did to her. Do more. Give me something no one else has had. 

“Anything,” Shane said instead. “Whatever you want. Do all of it.” 

“Hmm,” Ilya hummed. “Dangerous. I could keep you here forever. Make you come until you cry, until there’s nothing left. Maybe until you are begging me to let you go. I would say no, I think. Because you are too pretty like this. All mine.”

Shane was concerningly close to passing out. He was so lightheaded, every ounce of the blood in his body pulsing in his cock. He lifted his hips off the mattress, toes curling into the duvet. “Touch me. Ilya, please. You have to touch me.”

Ilya’s lip curled, but his pupils were blown wide as he watched Shane squirm. “Oh, I have to?” 

“I need it,” Shane whispered. It was humiliating to beg like this the way Ilya made him sometimes, but he couldn’t hide how fucking crazy it drove him. Pre-come dripped from his slit down his cock at his own delirious words. “I need you.”

Ilya’s eyes were heavy-lidded and his cheeks were ruddy. He crawled onto the bed on his knees between Shane’s legs, a predator stalking his prey. “I could leave you like this. Go to the store. Make lunch. Take a shower. Would be hot, yes? Knowing that you are here, that you are hard and wet and thinking of me. Maybe I would come back after hours and hours, and you would still be here, waiting for me to make you come. Then I would sit here like this,” Ilya said, sitting back on his heels to demonstrate. He gripped himself through his shorts and stroked his hard length. “And you would watch while I touched myself. Maybe come in your mouth if you are good enough.” 

The words were a fucking head rush, the sight of Ilya here in front of him, putting on a show. Shane’s vision crackled black with need. He shook his head, vehemently opposing. “Don’t. Please stop. I’m going to—fuck, I’m going to come.”

The rhythm of Ilya’s hand on his own cock faltered, and his jaw worked for a moment before he pulled himself back together. He inhaled deeply through his nose, eyes flicking down to where Shane’s cock bobbed and twitched against his stomach. “So fucking easy,” he said, lowering himself down onto his elbows, so close that his warm puffs of breath ghosted across Shane’s length. “Suprised you have not come in your uniform on the ice when other men are mean to you.”  

Shane’s eyes rolled back into his head. The pressure at the base of his spine was molten. He couldn’t form a single coherent thought or any intelligible response. 

“Ah, but no. Is just me that you want to talk to you like this. Like you are so pathetic and very slutty.” Ilya leaned in, ghosting the tips of his fingers over the underside of Shane’s cock, and grinning to himself at the way Shane hissed and bucked off the bed. “Maybe you did come in your jock one or two times when I checked you into the boards? Maybe every time I got a minor for cross-checking you? Or maybe when I called you a pussy that cannot connect a simple pass?”

Shane saw fucking stars. He writhed against the sheets, distraught pleas falling from his lips. 

“Just big and useless, ah?” Ilya lamented as he stared at Shane’s cock, pouting. He tilted his head in consideration as he lazily stroked loose fingers over Shane’s shaft, catching deliberately against the sensitive edge of his tip. “Can’t even fuck anything with it, hm? So big, though. Is a shame is only here to be hard and wet and pretty while I fill you up.” 

Shane whimpered, tossing his head back onto the pillows and thrusting his hips off the mattress as if that would convince Ilya to touch him with any more vigor. He tugged at his restraints, a swell of dizziness overtaking him when there was no give, no route to freedom. He was entirely at Ilya’s mercy. He was Ilya’s to do with as he pleased. 

The thought was so intoxicating that when Ilya took him in his mouth, swallowing him down to the hilt, they had a little bit of a problem.

Shane had not realized how much he would like this. He had not anticipated the heady delirium born from being tied down and taken, from his control and his freedom of choice being revoked. He had not expected how fiercely this would heat him up from the inside out until his blood was boiling, until his back was bowing off the bed and his strangled breath was caught in his throat. “Oh, oh, Ilya, I—”

He lifted a leg and pushed at Ilya’s shoulder with his foot to shove him off, but it was too late. The pressure at the bottom of his spine burst, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the onslaught of sensation that flooded him. It drowned him with its intensity, starbursts fracturing in multicolor explosions behind his eyelids. “Fuck,” he cried out weakly as his spend coated his stomach. He struggled against his restraints as he rode out each debilitating wave of his orgasm. 

The bedroom was silent for several seconds apart from the heavy rasp of Shane’s gasping breaths.

“Shane,” Ilya said, disbelieving.

“No,” Shane exhaled, disoriented. He was still twitching, muscles spasming. “I didn’t mean to…” 

Ilya’s arms gave out from beneath him, and his head landed atop Shane’s hip, his temple pressing into the V of his waist. He rutted once, twice into the mattress and exhaled a litany of swears against Shane’s skin. 

“I’m sorry,” Shane slurred. His head lolled to the side, and he looked down at the mess he’d made of himself. “I ruined it.” 

Ilya frowned, jerking his head back. “What? Shane, what are you talking about?”

“I know…” he trailed off, swallowing down his anger at himself. I know the girl in the video didn’t blow her fucking load the moment you started sucking her clit. “I know you still need to…let me—” He tried to sit up to touch him, to wrap his hand or his mouth around Ilya’s weeping cock, but he remembered too late that he was still restrained. He pulled against the ties, his lips tugging down at the edges in frustration. 

“Shh, moya lyubov, is okay,” Ilya said gently, tracing loving fingers from his temple down his cheek, his jaw, his throat, his chest, all the way down to the dip of his waist. He grabbed him there tightly, the perfect pressure that he knew Shane liked. 

“My thighs,” Shane said, desperate to make this good for him, to convince Ilya to keep touching him. “Use my thighs. To come.”

“Fuck.” Ilya’s grip on Shane’s waist spasmed, and he moaned into the skin at Shane’s hip.

“Please.” Shane tugged again at his restraints. He wanted to gather Ilya to him, tangle his hands into Ilya’s hair and yank on the strands until he moaned and begged him to pull harder. “Just, fuck—just use me.” 

Ilya’s eyes fluttered half shut for a moment, a shiver running up his spine that Shane felt through their singular point of connection. Then he pushed up onto his knees and shoved his running shorts down just far enough to free his hard, weeping cock. He stroked it once, hissing at the relief of touching himself. 

“Hurry,” Shane whined. He wanted to feel the bite of overstimulation at Ilya’s skin sliding against his while he was still coming down from his orgasm. 

Ilya gathered the pool of Shane’s come from his  stomach onto his fingertips and slathered it on the inside of Shane’s thighs. He stopped to stare at the tattoo there, dark and prominent still. Илья. Ilya. Last time, Ilya had rubbed his own come into it, possessive and claiming. Now, he dragged a single thumb across the letters, smearing it in Shane’s spend. “Mine,” he whispered, reverent, and almost all to himself. 

Shane nodded, dazed and all too eager. “Yours.”

He lifted Shane’s legs up by his ankles and tucked the backs of his calves against his shoulder, then wrapped an arm over the front of his knees to keep his thighs pressed firmly together. Then he pressed the head of his cock against the place where he’d just slathered Shane’s own come against his skin and slid inside. The tension bled from him at once, and he visibly struggled to keep his eyes open.

“Just like that,” Shane whispered encouragingly, squeezing his thighs together as tightly as he could. “So good, baby.” 

“You make them big like this just for me?” Ilya asked, rough and low and vicious. He squeezed the meat of Shane’s thigh, digging his fingers into the muscled flesh until it hurt. “All of that work, and really is only so I have something to hold when I come home and fuck you like this, hm?”

Shane was hysterical. “Yes, yes, it’s just for you. I just want—” He couldn’t speak suddenly, entranced by the way Ilya’s cock pushed through his thighs, thick and long and covered in Shane’s own pleasure. He wasn’t anywhere else, he wasn’t fucking anyone else like this. He was in the home they shared fucking Shane like he deserved. “Ilya. Oh God. You look so good fucking me like this. Harder, please. Harder.” 

“Fuck, Shane, I—” Ilya’s words tore off with a low grunt as he rolled his hips. He turned his head into Shane’s calf as he thrusted, and pressed a sloppy kiss to the skin he found there. The sound of his cock sliding between Shane’s thighs was wet and filthy and one of complete ownership. 

Shane rocked in time with Ilya’s hips as best he could, so fucking eager to see Ilya fall apart, to know he’d pleased him the same way that—

Ilya bit him, hard and sudden, teeth sinking into the soft flesh of his calf. 

The moan that tore from Shane’s throat was ravaged and wrecked and broken, and his back bowed off of the bed. The pain was a lightning bolt to his nervous system, lighting him up from the inside out. He couldn’t see, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. “Ilya. Ilya, fuck. I love you, I love you, I—”

And then Ilya’s grip tightened on Shane’s legs and he was coming, spurting over the front of Shane’s thighs, spilling down to his spent cock resting against his stomach. Each jolt of his hips slapping against Shane’s skin echoed throughout the room with his choked, frenzied moans. He gasped out sweet names and endearments in both English and Russian as he milked himself to the very last drop between Shane’s thighs, then he dropped Shane’s legs back to the bed and collapsed on top of him, shoulders heaving as he tried to catch his breath. “Oh, God. Fuck. Shanya.” 

“Ilya,” Shane murmured, still reeling, still floating a hundred feet off the fucking ground. 

As soon as Ilya had his wits about him, he reached clumsily for the neckties still trapping Shane to the bedpost and undid the knots. When he’d freed his arms, he brought Shane’s wrists, rubbed red and raw, to his mouth and kissed them over and over and over again. He nuzzled his nose against the burns. “If I got hurt when I was small, Mama used to say that her kisses were magic. She said that they made the hurt go away. She kissed the cuts on my knees when I learned how to ride a bicycle. Was gross, probably. But the kisses made it better a little.”

“Oh,” Shane choked. There was a lump in his throat the size of a hockey puck and it fucking hurt. He couldn’t see Ilya anymore, his vision too blurry with wobbling, unshed tears. He grabbed for Ilya with hasty hands, tugging him to him by the collar of his shirt. He didn’t care that they were both covered in come and that Ilya smelled a little like stale sweat—his heartbeat was a ravenous beast inside of him, and the weight of Ilya falling on top of him was a balm that eased the ache if only slightly. 

Ilya was so big, a hulking mass of muscle and flesh, but he went pliant and boneless on top of Shane, arms circling up to rest on his chest, hands sliding over his shoulders. “I love you,” Ilya murmured, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to Shane’s collarbone. 

“I love you,” Shane whispered into his hair, holding tight to his curls and the small of his back like he’d slip through his fingers if he wasn’t careful enough. He had meant what he’d said earlier. Sometimes he felt like this admission didn’t really capture the bulk of what he felt for Ilya. There were no words in English, nor in French, or even in the spotty bits of Russian he’d managed to learn. The only words he had felt paltry and dishonest, and he hated that they would have to suffice. “That was good for you?” 

Ilya hummed, contented, tightening his grip on Shane and nuzzling his nose further into his neck.

Shane, after a while, with his lips still pressed to the crown of Ilya’s head, felt the doubt creeping back in. He swallowed, trying his best to keep quiet, but he just couldn’t fucking help himself. “So, you liked it?”

Ilya pulled away slightly so he could look up at Shane, his brows drawn. “I always like what we do, Hollander. Why are you asking me this?” 

“If you ever—if you ever, y’know…want anything, all you have to do is ask me for it.” Shane stared at a place over Ilya’s shoulder, eyes unfocused. Ilya’s gaze was sometimes too intense to hold, too searching and too knowing. “If you ever want to try new things because you’re bored, then—”

“Shane,” Ilya interrupted suddenly. He grabbed Shane’s wrist and urged him to look at him, really look at him, but still continued even when Shane didn’t. “I am never bored of what we do. Only two weeks ago you wore panties for me and choked me. Is opposite of boring. Why do you think I am bored?” 

“I don’t, I just—” Shane’s eyes darted around the room for something to get him out of this hole he had dug himself into. Ilya could never ever figure out the real reason Shane had asked him for this, could never know how much of himself had already been eaten alive by his own jealousy. His gaze finally landed on the clock on the nightstand. He jumped to his feet, grabbing his discarded clothes from the floor and tugging them hastily back on. “I forgot, I was supposed to call Rose at noon. She’s probably—I think my phone is in the kitchen, I’ll just—”

“Shane,” Ilya repeated, startled, still half-naked and covered in a fine sheen of sweat. 

Shane grabbed the back of his own neck and pressed down hard to center himself. He offered Ilya a tight smile. “It won’t take very long, I think. I’ll make us lunch after, and we can watch Air Bud. Okay?”

He didn’t wait for Ilya’s answer before racing out the door and down the hall to the kitchen. He snatched his phone up with shaking hands and pulled up Rose’s contact information to make a call that absolutely had not been planned. 

“Shane?” Rose asked after answering on the second ring. “Everything alright? I thought you said we’d talk in a couple days.” 

Shane scrambled. She knew him too well, knew how unlikely he was to call her out of the blue when both of their schedules were so tricky. “Oh, I just—um, just checking in.” 

Rose was filming some television show in Vancouver, a story about young girls that survived a plane crash stranded deep in the wilderness. She promised to come visit once they’d wrapped the season, and had expressed an intense distaste for the woods. 

Shane thought maybe that would get her talking. Something to distract him from the endless, taunting turmoil in his head. “How’s the forest?”

“Oh my God. The bugs, Shane. The bugs.” Following this statement, Rose launched into a lengthy rant about each aspect of the great outdoors that she hated and resented and would never step back into once she left the great city of Vancouver. 

Shane closed his eyes as she rambled on, phone gripped tightly between his fingers, and willed his racing heart to slow before it beat right out of his chest. 

4.

Before, Shane had considered himself a sensible man. Reasonable and logical to a fault. He viewed most situations with detached interest to form fallible solutions, and this levelheaded approach is how he had survived so long in this life without falling to pieces. But the searing jealousy wrought by these strangers and their sordid stories had turned him into someone he didn’t recognize and couldn’t name, a sleepless and paranoid creature poisoned with a vindictive determination that was detrimental to his sanity. 

He spent his days secretly scrolling through @TheFuckboyPassport81, making up constant lies about reading the news or a book or a written play-by-play of the most recent playoff series. He was addicted. When his phone wasn’t in his hands—whether he was in the shower or out for a run or bent over the back of the couch with Ilya’s tongue in his ass—he was itching for another fix, afraid that a new update had been posted for the world to see and that he wouldn’t know until he checked his phone again. 

Most of the videos or stories included things that Shane and Ilya had already done, so there was no need for Shane to try and one-up those women in particular. There was a woman who bragged that Ilya had fucked her in the ass so hard she hadn’t walked straight for a week. Shane, while resisting the urge to convince Ilya drive into him so hard he couldn’t walk straight for two weeks, had rolled his eyes. Another story had surfaced of Ilya coming on a woman’s face; Ilya did that to Shane every fucking chance he got. So, aside from a deep, roaring jealousy over being only one of many to have his face painted in Ilya’s come, Shane couldn’t really do anything about that. Then there were the hickeys (been there), the light choking (done that), edging (intimately familiar), shower sex (yawn). 

Shane didn’t even want to think about attempting to broach the orgy situation. On top of the fact that even asking Ilya about it would set him on fire with mortification, the thought of anyone else touching Ilya in front of him upset him so fiercely that he had to lay down for half an hour and wait for the brutal waves of nausea to subside. 

Worse were the ways in which Shane could never offer himself to Ilya, the physical limitations of his pathetic existence that prevented him from giving Ilya anything he could ever ask for. Shane didn’t have a pussy for Ilya to eat, or tits for him to squeeze and suck. He didn’t know how to apply makeup to beg Ilya to ruin, and he didn’t have hair long enough for Ilya to wrap it around his fist like a rope and pull. 

He’d thought he’d run out of options to satisfy this monster inside of him that kept him awake at all hours of the night, that bled him dry during the day so thoroughly that he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe around the knowledge that he was just another one of Ilya’s girls. What was stopping Ilya from growing bored of him, from thinking back with simmering regret on the days where beautiful women gave him anything he wanted and he let them? Yes, it had only been a scant few weeks since Ilya had emphasized to Shane just how much he wanted him to be boring, but in the face of all of these stories, this proof that Ilya’s life had been anything but boring, it was hard to hold on to the belief that that could be true. 

As he scrolled through @TheFuckboyPassport81’s account, squeezing his eyes shut with the stark discomfort of reading something that he wished he could bleach from his brain, he jumped back up to the top and refreshed the page one final time before vowing to put his phone down and do something actually productive. 

Then he saw it. A new video. Posted eleven minutes earlier. 

@TheFuckboyPassport81: Submitted by @therealclairebrown - It’s been a long time since Ilya Rozanov showed me the best fuck of my life. Men, take notes. No one’s doing it like him. This was in Vancouver, by the way.

This video, unlike the others, and to Shane’s abject horror, technically classified as pornography. 

The video centered a woman splayed out on the sheets, the shot cutting off just below her collarbones. The room she was in was dark, lit only by warm lamplight that washed her in a soft glow.

She handed her phone off to the person on top of her, smiling prettily up at the camera with perfect teeth and painted red lips. Her inky black hair was splayed out across the pillows, and she was absolutely covered in freckles. Her shoulders and chest were more freckle than skin, even trailing all the way down to her—

Oh. Those were her breasts.

Shane could appreciate the fact that they were probably good breasts. Great breasts, even. But he didn’t have enough experience with breasts to say for certain, and Ilya sure seemed to like them given the way that he hummed encouragingly behind the camera. They were shining and slick with something like oil or lube. She was pushing them together with her own two hands, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth and sighing in the back of her throat in a way that made it sound as if she was purring. 

“No,” Shane whispered to himself as he realized what was about to happen. Without thinking, he dropped his phone in his lap so he wouldn’t have to see, and put his hand over his mouth to keep his disgusted groan from falling free. He held his breath, eyes darting towards the open door down the hall where Ilya was inside playing video games as if he could read Shane’s mind and knew exactly what he was up to out here.

The sound of machine guns and animated shouting continued floating from the room and down the hall towards him, so he swallowed and focused his attention back onto the video. He clutched at the couch cushion with his free hand to keep himself upright, eyes wide and horrified as he watched these repulsive events play out in front of him. 

He saw the tip first, purple and slick with pre-come as the camera lowered to include it in the frame. Behind the camera, a deep, satisfied exhale crackled in the microphone. As familiar as it was horrifying. 

Ilya had one hand on his cock to keep it in place as he slid between her tits. It was Ilya’s hand, without a doubt, with that trio of moles between his thumb and his forefinger. And that was his raspy groan echoing from behind the camera, too—the one that Shane would know as well as his own voice after all of the years of doing anything he could to hear it.

Those groans grew louder as he began to rock into her chest in earnest, his cock squelching filthily against the lube that was smeared onto her skin. Shane had half a mind to cover his ears, or turn the volume down at least, but he couldn’t miss a single revolting second of it. The particular way she jostled with every thrust was so fucking obscene it was almost impossible to look at, but Shane couldn’t tear his attention away to save his own fucking life. 

The girl’s eyes flicked up from where she’d been staring at Ilya’s cock sliding between her tits, and she met his gaze behind the camera. “You can come on me. Come on, it’ll be hot.” 

Shane clenched his teeth so hard he accidentally bit down on the inside of his cheek, and the iron tang of blood coated his mouth. He did not want to see that, he didn’t want to see it, he did not want to see her freckles splattered in Ilya’s come, didn’t want to see her raven black hair spotted with pearls of Ilya’s pleasure, this was was torture, he was torturing himself—

Ilya hummed, low and throaty, and the rhythm of his thrusts grew sloppy and uneven. His quiet moans increased in frequency, and the girl opened her mouth and stuck her tongue out for him, and then—and then the video was over, looping back to play from the beginning.  

Shane exhaled, not having realized he’d been holding his breath for the past minute. His ears were ringing and his head was full of cotton. He let the video play again, refusing to blink until it had ended. Then again. And then a fourth time for good measure, until he’d memorized every second, until his cock was throbbing in his sweatpants. 

This was a problem, probably, that he was creating such a close relationship between jealousy and need inside his brain. He needed to be more studious about this, more detached, but he couldn’t help imagining himself in her place. Sprawled out on the bed, back arched, begging Ilya to come on his face as Ilya used him how he wanted. But there was something missing in the picture he’d created, and his brows drew together as he stared at the video, at the liquid jiggle of her breasts as Ilya slid so easily between them.

A pang of inadequacy resounded in Shane’s chest, and he curled up tighter on the couch, clutching his phone closer to his face. 

Did Ilya miss fucking someone with tits? Did he like the way they moved as he thrust into these women so hard they slid up the mattress and screamed? When he was with Shane, burying his cock deep inside of him, did he secretly wish that he looked different, a little more like them? 

Shane was about to write it off as another fucking thing these girls could do that he couldn’t, but he paused. Then he glanced down at his chest, at the outline of it through his shirt. He considered it for a moment, squinting his eyes at the bulging muscles. There was no denying that he was well-endowed. He trained very hard for these results, altered his eating habits and curated a rigorous exercise regimen to bulk up as big as possible. He’d thought the only advantages to this dedication were his strength on the ice and living a long, healthy, life. 

But…what if…

After stopping to listen and catching the noises of Ilya’s video game still playing in the other room, he quickly tore his shirt off and pushed at his pectorals like he’d seen that girl do in the video. 

He stared at his own chest for several seconds, jaw working as he pictured Ilya’s cock sliding into the space between his muscles just as it had the fatty flesh of that woman’s breasts. He imagined the warm splash of Ilya’s come on his chin, how Ilya would moan for him and tell him how good he was, how perfect, better than anyone else could ever be. 

Shane was achingly hard and bitterly jealous and he wasn’t thinking straight, and maybe all of these wretched things combined were the reason he shot up from the couch and speed-walked down the hall towards the office. 

Ilya didn’t hear him at first, with his headset blasting the noise of machine guns and agonized screaming into his ears. “No, you are a pussy,” Ilya said into the microphone, then rolled his eyes at the response he received in return. “Uh, is not what your mother said last night, loser.”

Shane cleared his throat and stepped into the room, trying to ground himself with the feeling of the plush carpet giving way beneath his socked feet. 

Ilya noticed the movement out of the corner of his eye, and the game in front of him ceased to exist when he finally spotted Shane. He turned off the monitor and took the headset off, curls mussed, grinning up at Shane as he approached. “Shanya. I have missed you.” 

Shane swallowed, flexing his fingers and trying to muster up the courage to do what he wanted. “I was fifty feet away.”

“Ah, fifty feet too many.” Ilya clutched at his chest as if wounded and lolled his head on his shoulder. He blinked up at Shane through blonde lashes as Shane moved to stand between his knees. “Come here. I want a kiss.” 

“Okay,” Shane said, and dropped to his knees on the carpet between Ilya’s legs.

“Shane,” Ilya said, strained. His eyes went as wide as saucers. “What are you doing?”

“Kissing you,” Shane said on an exhale, wrestling Ilya’s shorts and underwear down to his knees. He licked a stripe up the inside of Ilya’s thigh and groaned at the salty taste of his skin. He wanted to bury his face between Ilya’s legs and suffocate there. 

Ilya’s hips jerked off of the chair. “I am not—Shane, I’m—“

“It’s okay,” Shane insisted. He pressed sloppy kisses to Ilya’s thighs, so turned on by his own desperate messiness that it felt like he was underwater, unable to think or hear or see or breathe. “Wanna feel you get hard. I’ll keep you warm. Please.”

“Fuck. Fuck, okay.” He stroked himself once and then slid down further into the chair to make the angle easier for Shane. He had his bottom lip pulled between his teeth, white and bloodless as he bit down on it to keep from making a sound.

Shane took Ilya’s soft cock between his lips. His mouth watered at the prospect of feeling him stiffen up against his tongue, and he was going fucking dumb at the idea of the impact he had on Ilya. His eager hands slid up the tops of Ilya’s thighs and jumped beneath his shirt, tweaking his nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. Satisfaction, hot and thick like blood, pulsed through him at Ilya’s strangled moan, at the filthy swears falling uncontrollably from his heart-shaped lips. 

Ilya gritted his teeth, head falling back onto the headrest behind him. His entire body jolted when Shane moaned around his cock, and he gripped the armrests so tightly they creaked. “Oh, God, Hollander, shit. Feels—fuck, feels so good. Love your mouth. Blyat, is like it is made for me, so perfect, da, da, just like….just like—”

Shane scratched blunt nails down Ilya’s chest as he babbled and hardened in Shane’s mouth, and he soaked up every drop of Ilya’s drunken incoherence, intoxicating himself in turn. He hollowed his cheeks, pulling on and off his cock slowly, suckling at his tip and then diving back in for more. He made it wetter than he normally did, letting saliva drip carelessly out of the corners of his mouth until he was drooling on Ilya’s cock. Until Ilya was soaked with Shane’s spit and his own pre-come. 

“Look at you,” Ilya murmured through gasping breaths when Shane pulled off with a loud pop, his lips connected to Ilya’s tip with a thick string of saliva. He caught the moisture from the corner of Shane’s mouth with his thumb and smeared it across his swollen lips. “Such a fucking mess.”

“Ilya, I want to…I want to try something,” Shane murmured, heart hammering at just the thought of it. He was so terrible at asking for what he wanted that this awkward stammering wasn’t out of character enough for Ilya to figure out his demented angle. 

Ilya brushed the bangs off of Shane’s forehead, then gripped his chin between commanding fingers. “Anything. Anything you want, zaychik. Tell me.” 

“It’s…it’s….” Shane huffed, then pressed his palms to the space between his armpits and pushed his pectoral muscles in towards each other to create a tunnel in the center of his chest. Ready and waiting for Ilya to use, to fuck. “You can fuck my…you can....” His face was on fucking fire. He couldn’t say it, could hardly meet Ilya’s eyes. He arched his back towards him to make a point of it, begging without words for Ilya to understand him. “Just…please.” 

Ilya stared, mouth open, hand frozen in the space between them where he’d been about to touch Shane. “You…” He started, but couldn’t finish.

“Ilya,” Shane whined, delirious with need. This would be the balm for his throbbing jealousy, for the ache of not being enough. If only Ilya would move. 

“You have to say it,” Ilya ordered, hard and demanding. He was breathing heavily in and out of his nose, jaw clenched up tight. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want…” Shane swallowed and closed his eyes. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I want you to fuck my…my tits.” 

Ilya’s eyes drooped, his gaze falling to Shane’s pliant, waiting chest. 

“We—we can do it, I think,” Shane said, abandoning every last shred of his dignity with the way his voice verged on the edge of an impatient whine. “I’ll make it good for you, I just want…”

 I want to be the best you’ve ever had. Unrivaled. Undoubtedly. I never want you to question why you chose me when you had your pick of hundreds, of thousands. When beautiful, experienced men and women would kill to have you back in their beds. 

A muscle in Ilya’s cheek jumped, and he didn’t blink once as he stared down at Shane. “My baby,” he said softly. “You are getting so good at asking for what you want. I am very proud of you.”

Shane’s vision whited out. The pet name, the praise. He swayed, lilting forward towards Ilya as he was sucked into his gravitational pull. “I made it wet for you,” he murmured, and his cock pulsed in his shorts at his own filthy words. He was going to die. He was really going to die. “It’ll be easy, come on, please, just—” 

Ilya lined his tip up with the lower curve of Shane’s pectoral, pressing slowly against the valley Shane had made for him. “This is what you are out there thinking about, ah? Pretending to read your little book, but really you are thinking of all the ways I could fuck you.”

Shane couldn’t tell him the truth, he couldn’t, not when this felt so good, so right, when he was giving Ilya exactly what those other girls had but better, filthier, wetter and more determined—

Ilya grabbed Shane’s chin in that way he did, dominant and firm. As grounding as it was distracting. “Answer me.”

“Yes,” Shane said, his submission automatic and uncontrollable, though he’d omitted a very critical detail. “I can’t stop. It’s all I think about. Even when we’re on the ice. Sometimes, when we’re up against the boards, I think…I think—” He stuttered when Ilya pushed up into his chest, his spit-soaked cock pressed tightly to Shane’s sternum between flesh and muscle. “I think about you fucking me against the glass. Where everyone can see.”

Ilya slid back out, then in again, gaze flying between Shane’s face and the place at his chest where the tip of his cock pushed out above Shane’s pecs. His brows drew together, and his abdominal muscles rippled beneath his shirt in concentration. “So everyone knows you are my good boy, ah? That I am taking you to bed and showing you who you fucking belong to?” 

Shane was seeing double. He could barely stay upright. He thought he might’ve been nodding in response to Ilya’s words, but he couldn’t know for sure.

“Mmm,” Ilya hummed, lips pressed tightly together and his jaw working. He began to thrust in earnest, hips pushing up off the desk chair to slide slickly against him. “So warm. Soft. Fucking made for me, Hollander. Every inch of you was made for me to fuck.”

That phrase made Shane’s stomach swoop. Made for me. “I was made for you,” he said, because the bolt of possessive need that overtook him was too staggering to ignore. “Just me. No one else.”

Ilya moaned at that, a loud, choked off thing he couldn’t seem to suppress. 

Shane lifted himself up on his knees and lowered back down, angling himself so he caught Ilya’s swollen tip against his bulging pectorals. He felt droplets of his own pre-come roll down his cock to his taint. “Ilya. Say it. Please.” 

“Just you, Shanya, just you. Forever.” Ilya reached out and tweaked Shane’s sensitive nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger before pinching down hard. He exhaled harshly at the way Shane’s hips jerked against nothing, searching for friction. “Look how needy you are. So happy to be used. Imagine if everyone knew how much of a slut their hero Shane Hollander is.” 

“Stop,” Shane said, but he fucking loved it. He pushed his chest together to narrow the space Ilya had to rut against. 

Ilya hissed, baring his throat as his head fell back on his shoulders. “So fucking tight. Shit.”

The noises were so wet, squelching and filthy and so goddamned obscene. Shane’s mouth was open, and he went cross-eyed as he tried to look down at the way Ilya’s cock slid so easily against his chest.

“Fuck,” Ilya choked out, twisting his fingers hard into Shane’s hair. “Do not—do not make that fucking face.”

Shane was so fucking aroused. He squeezed his thighs together tight, desperately trying to relieve the aching pressure in his cock. “Sorry. Feels s’good, Ilya. Love this. Love you.” 

Ilya’s grip on his hair tightened. 

“Harder,” Shane slurred through thick saliva when the pain shot straight down to his cock. “Please pull harder.” 

Ilya tightened his grip and pulled, hard at the root, shaking his own head slowly as he thrust against his chest. “You are not real. My beautiful boy. So perfect for me.” 

Shane whined. The pressure in his groin was mounting, a hot pulse that grew more insistent with every vulgar word that fell from Ilya’s mouth. He was out of his fucking mind, seconds away from asking Ilya to let him rut against his leg like a dog in heat. 

“Come on my face,” Shane begged. “I want it, I want to taste it.” And then he opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out just like the girl in the video did, tipping his head back and waiting for Ilya to give him what he’d asked for. His eyelids were heavy with lust, but he fought against the pull, too eager to watch Ilya fall apart above him. 

Ilya’s face twisted in tight, focused control as he wrapped a loose hand around himself and brought his cock to Shane’s mouth, tapping twice on his tongue like he fucking owned him. He stroked himself twice, hard and fast, and then shuddered and swore. Pearly stripes of come splattered across Shane’s face, on his tongue, on his freckled cheeks, in his eyelashes even. His blunt nails dug into Shane’s scalp as he jerked into his own palm, milking every last drop from himself to mark Shane in this indecent brand. 

Shane let go of his own chest, hands shooting out to grab at Ilya’s knees to keep his balance so he didn’t fall over. He was normally too embarrassed to talk Ilya through it, but his inhibitions were non-existent as he watched Ilya fall apart, as his salty come dripped down to the corner of Shane’s lips and his tongue darted out for a taste. “Just like that, Ilya. So good for me, baby. So pretty like this.” 

Ilya passed a shaking hand over his face, blinking several times to come back to himself. His lips parted on a soft exhale when he saw the mess he’d made of Shane’s face. He leaned forward then, as if to touch him, but his gaze fell south and he froze. He stared down at the front of Shane’s sweatpants, at the blooming come-stain spreading slowly across the fabric. “You already…” He trailed off, mystified.

“Oh,” Shane murmured, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. He glanced blearily down at himself, not having realized he had already climaxed. Maybe that’s why he felt so light, why he was trudging through his thick thoughts with leaden feet. He felt it now, the moisture chilling his softening cock. “M’sorry. Couldn’t help it.” 

Ilya blinked, confused, pupils still wide and unseeing. “You are sorry?” 

“Too fast,” Shane said, frowning. He couldn’t quite make sense of it, couldn’t figure out when exactly he’d climaxed. Had it been when Ilya pulled his hair? Or when he’d decorated Shane’s face in ropes of come? Maybe when he’d tapped his dick to Shane’s tongue and looked down at him with his mouth open on a silent moan, as if he were something holy to be worshipped and revered. He blinked up at Ilya slowly, fighting to shove through the sticky fog. “I’m sorry. Wanted to ride you.”

“Shane,” Ilya said sharply, tugging his head back by his hair. “Stop apologizing.” 

“Okay. Sorry.” Shane resigned himself to being a terrible person, to an eternity of damnation. He had to know if he was better, if he had won. Ilya’s come was clumping in his eyelashes and this was still all he could think about. “Have you ever…have you done that before?” 

Ilya’s eyes were searching, and he spoke slowly. “Not with a man.” 

“But with a woman?” Shane egged, breathing fast through his nose. 

Ilya swallowed, then nodded. His laser attention was focused solely on Shane’s face, clearly cataloguing his every micro expression for an explanation for this sudden interrogation. 

There was a thick lump in Shane’s throat that made it impossible to speak. His vision blurred, and he realized too late that his eyes were welling. “Was I…did I…” He just wanted to be better than them, to know that what he could give Ilya was enough, that it was what he wanted when he could have anyone or anything in the world. 

“Did you what?” Ilya asked, unbearably soft. 

Shane couldn’t do this. He couldn’t look at Ilya through the mortification clouding his vision, could hardly hear him past the roaring between his ears. “I’m covered in come,” Shane said staunchly, using Ilya’s knees to brace himself and push back to his feet. He wobbled on numb, bloodless legs, but moved out of the way when Ilya reached out to steady him. “I have to shower.” 

“Shanya—” Ilya tried, grabbing for his wrist and making a wounded noise when Shane dodged him. 

“I have to shower,” Shane repeated, scrubbing a hand down his face in frustration before realizing with a wince that he’d just smeared the come all over himself like it was fucking moisturizer. “I’m sticky.”

Ilya let him go, hand still stretched out in the space between them, lips tugging down at the edges in dejection. 

Shane couldn’t look at him a moment longer. He fled the room on shaky legs, bolting for the bathroom across the hall and locking himself inside. “Fuck,” he whispered to himself so Ilya wouldn’t hear, leaning over to press his sweaty forehead to the chilly marble counter. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Can’t you be normal for fucking once?” 

It took several minutes of deep breathing to reel himself in from the edge before he could take a step back to look at himself in the mirror. Ilya’s come had crusted revoltingly on his face. His hair was sticking up in all directions from where Ilya had yanked it, and his cheeks were flushed with the last vestiges of his orgasm. His own sweatpants were stained dark with the evidence of his own pathetic inability to control himself. He looked thoroughly debauched, taken apart to his very foundations and put haphazardly back together. For a moment, he was proud. Proud to be so implicitly known, to have been made to feel so good, so loved. 

A sickening, dizzying thought struck him, and his small smile fell like a stone from his face.

Had the others done this, too? Looked at themselves in the mirror and admired how beautiful they were painted in Ilya’s come? Had they stroked soft fingers along the hickeys on their breasts? Had they stared at their tangled hair and felt the ghost of Ilya’s fingers tugging at the roots? Did they notice that same, soft reminiscent glow after being washed in his attention? His adoration? His passion, his reverence, his love—

He tore himself from his morbid thoughts and yanked the shower curtain back so he could twist the faucet all the way to boiling. When the bathroom billowed with steam so thick he could hardly see, he stepped beneath the water and watched as it turned his skin a deep, patchy vermillion. He stood under the scorching spray, hoping it burned off every ounce of doubt and resentment that had burrowed beneath his skin and settled in his bones. He stayed there until the water ran cold. 

5.

Shane, at this point, had spiraled into an obsession that was no longer within his realm of control. He couldn’t stop thinking about it, couldn’t stop checking TheFuckboyPassport81 for new videos each night and working himself up with fervid jealousy to the point of hyperventilation each time another girl detailed her passionate, filthy rendezvous with Ilya Rozanov. But this didn’t stop him from watching the videos until the negative of the footage was imprinted on the backs of his eyelids. 

He had tasted the flavor of jealousy in brief snatches when Ilya offhandedly mentioned other hookups or someone else noted how much of a ladies’ man he was. It was only a few weeks ago, as he put his mouth to Shane’s stretched, waiting entrance that he’d lamented on his time with women, eating them out and fucking them just like he did Shane, and Shane’s stomach tightened with abject discomfort. 

This was not that. This was…this was a nightmare. 

Shane stared, unmoving, at the new square that had popped up on TheFuckboyPassport81, a video that had been posted while he was asleep. He couldn’t tell what the video entailed just from the unmoving preview, and he was having a hard time bringing himself to click on it. He already felt like he was dying with this unending ache in his chest, thus lacking insufficiency gnawing at him day and night. What if this was just another thing he couldn’t do? Something he’d never be able to give Ilya? Or what if it was? What if it was something he was capable of, and it was the only thing that he could think of until he did whatever she’d done but better? He couldn’t decide which was worse in this sick, hedonistic ritual of pleasure and pain and venomous competition that congealed his blood with every new dose. 

In the end, Shane had to watch the video. There was no other option. He would never sleep again if he didn’t. He would spend his days wondering if there was a girl out there that Ilya thought of fondly, one that had made him moan louder, made him come faster, made him so hazy with want that he’d considered professing his love for her right then and there. 

Ilya was in the shower, water running in the bathroom upstairs, so Shane clicked on the video and turned the volume down slightly. The caption was short and sweet.

@TheFuckboyPassport81: Submitted by @KissesByJocelyn - In a supply closet at the Raiders practice clinics that my ex-boyfriend was attending. Sorry, Mason </3 Oh, and add a stamp for Quebec, XOXO.

It started with the footage of a girl, alone, under the soft light of a single-bulb in a dark supply closet. Her dark hair was tied up in a knot, and her light makeup left her constellation of freckles on display. Behind her were shelves full of cleaning solutions and supplies, and for a moment, Shane was confused. Because where was—

She opened her mouth in a pleased little ‘o’ and angled the phone down to reveal the man kneeling in front of her. He had pushed her dress up to her stomach, and his head was tucked low between her legs, bobbing rapidly as he ate her out with fervor. Her free hand was tucked into his shining curls, and when she tugged on them, he moaned. 

That moan was as familiar to Shane as his own face staring back at him in the mirror, and the sound of it sent his heart plummeting into his fucking stomach. 

“Da, da, like that,” Ilya murmured, exactly the way he did when he was with Shane, before diving back into her cunt. His hands slid up under the soft cotton of her dress, and the outline of his fingers was visible beneath the fabric as he cupped her breasts and kneaded them gently. 

This was unthinkable and wrong and abhorrent and so fucking devastating that a hard lump in his throat blocked his airways, and he had to massage at the skin above it to lessen the hurt even marginally. He couldn’t even really see the screen anymore, his eyes too blurry with emotion 

She smiled at the camera just before he pulled a strangled gasp from her throat. Her eyes began to flutter shut, and the video went blurry before it ended. Then it jumped back to the beginning, and the noises on repeat were too much to bear. 

Shane turned his phone off immediately, tossing it to the other side of the couch and pressing his hand hard into his mouth. He was going to be fucking sick. But he had to watch if he was going to be better than her, than all of them. With a groan, he crawled to the cushion where he’d thrown his phone and turned the video back on, watching it play again and again and again. 

And he didn’t stop thinking about it for the next thirty-six hours, the video repeating on a loop inside of his brain. He watched it whenever he could sneak away. On the back porch, in the bathroom with the shower cut on so Ilya wouldn’t hear, curled up alone in bed after claiming his head hurt and he was heading to sleep early. Her moans, her obscene expressions, his praise. 

It was still there, a blaring neon light inside his head even as he and Ilya made their way through the social circuit in the lush ballroom at the Fairmont Chateau Laurier the next night. 

The annual charity gala hosted by the Irina Foundation was a long, tedious affair of shaking hands and exchanging empty platitudes that encouraged the uber wealthy to spare a couple bucks out of their billions for a good cause.  Normally, Shane endured all of this with a brave face and a bright, genuine smile. Tonight, he did so with a tremor in his hands and a plug up his ass. 

The two of them jumped from conversation to conversation with donors, players, MHL officials, and other foundation members. They laughed when they were supposed to, nodded solemnly when prompted, and absolutely did not touch each other for even a second. Two feet apart at all times was the rule they’d set for themselves. 

Which was particularly troubling for Shane, considering that the plug inside of him jammed up against his prostate every time he moved, and there were times when he thought he might not last, when he thought he might have to excuse himself to wash the come out of his suit pants and hope no one saw what he’d done. 

The roiling heat in his gut simmered all night, and he was failing spectacularly at acting as if everything was fine. When he skipped out on the fancy dinner that they’d had catered for the attendees, Ilya frowned and leaned over with a question in his stare. “You will not eat?”

“Not feeling well,” Shane lied through gritted teeth, the back of his shirt soaked through with sweat. His thighs were pressed tight together, hands curled together on the tabletop with white knuckles.

“Still?” Ilya asked with concern. He glanced around at the attendees around them and swallowed his worry down where they wouldn’t see, where they wouldn’t guess that the two of them spent their nights tangled so close together that most people wouldn’t be able to tell where one of them started and the other ended. His brows drew together in displeasure, his lips pursing.

Shane imagined those lips around his cock. He imagined them wrapped around that girl’s clit. “It’s fine.”

Ilya narrowed his eyes, but he couldn’t hound Shane for answers in front of such a large audience. Instead, he quietly dug into his meal, glancing up at Shane every so often and shaking his head minutely when he still couldn’t get a read on him. 

Several people walked the stage to give their speeches, and Shane and Ilya’s was saved for the very last. Shane had never been so overstimulated in his life, with the stage lights blaring down on him, as boiling and radiant as the sun. Sweat dripped from his temple to his jawline, from the nape of his neck into his collar. The microphone squealed when he tried to speak into it, and the audience laughed awkwardly at his misstep. 

Shane prided himself on making it all the way to the very moment they returned to their table before bowing to his searing need. “Rozanov, can I speak with you for a moment?” He asked, glad when no one looked up from their conversations at his sudden outburst. He cleared his throat. “In the hall.” 

Ilya only stared at him. “They are bringing out cake, Hollander.”

“Now,” Shane stressed, widening his eyes and jerking his head towards the door. 

Ilya tilted his head in the same manner that a dog would, but he followed Shane regardless. 

Shane led them into the lobby, then to the right where a small hallway housed half a dozen meeting rooms, the bathrooms, and a spare few supply closets. He had scoped the place out briefly before the event had begun, while Ilya was distracted signing autographs for the catering staff, and figured out exactly where they’d need to go. 

He was so turned on he was going to pass out. There was a distinct possibility that he was walking off-balance, that he looked like a fucking drunkard leading Ilya through the hallways of this hotel. He found a closet labelled STAFF ONLY, sagging in relief when he tested the knob and the door swung open. 

“You are trying to murder me, Hollander?” Ilya asked, peering around the empty hallway to see if they were still alone.

Shane shoved him inside without answering and ducked in behind him. It was dark enough that he could hardly see Ilya’s face, with only the strip of light shining in through the bottom of the door slightly illuminating his features. 

Ilya looked predatory like this, bathed in shadow, irises winking and pupils dilating as they adjusted to the dark. “What are we—”

Shane cut him off, catching his mouth in a bruising kiss, easing his lips apart with his tongue and eliciting a sudden, shocked groan from somewhere deep in Ilya’s throat. Ilya tasted like the fruity cocktail he’d been sipping on all night, like cherries and pineapples and orange liquor and Shane wanted to get drunk off of him. “Fuck,” Shane managed to say against Ilya’s lips. “Wanted to do this all night. You look so fucking good in a suit.” 

Ilya grabbed him hard, holding the sides of his face between his hands so he could slide his tongue in deeper. Then his touch slid to his throat, his shoulders, his biceps. He moaned into Shane’s mouth, the sound identical to the one from the video. 

Shane saw red. He couldn’t wait any longer. He kissed anywhere he could reach, wet, messy things pressed to Ilya’s jaw, his cheek, his temple? The space between his eyes. He tugged at Ilya’s pants until he’d worked the belt free, then yanked the zipper down and wrestled to free Ilya’s already hard cock from his tight briefs. 

The sound Ilya made would haunt Shane’s dreams forever, startled and heavy and wanting even when he knew he shouldn’t be. “Hollander, what are you—”

Shane turned against the wall, pressing his cheek against the paint and arching his back. He unbuckled his dress pants, shaking hands working at the zipper, frantic and eager. “Please, Ilya, I need this, I need you, please—”

“Shane,” Ilya choked out, but a rough hand still wrapped around Shane’s bicep where it bulged against the seam of his suit jacket. “We are—there are people.” 

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I can be quiet. I promise.” The anticipation was shredding him to pieces. “I put in a plug. Before we left. So you can just—just fuck me. Okay?” 

“You have not even felt sick, hm?” Ilya crowded Shane against the wall like he just couldn’t fucking help himself, burying his nose into the nape of Shane’s neck and inhaling the scent of him. His erection pressed to the cleft of Shane’s ass, hard and insistent and taunting. “Was a lie. Sitting there all innocent, pretending you are not feeling good. But actually, you are all stretched out, dripping in your pants like a whore. Just thinking of bending over for me and begging me to fuck you so hard that you can taste me. Is that it?” 

“Ilya,” Shane pleaded, arching his back. The girl in the video hadn’t been this hysterical and demanding, but there were some things he just couldn’t control. His thighs were quivering, and he was throbbing. “Please just—I’ll do anything, I’ll make it so good, I’ll be the best, I’ll—”

His begging was cut short when Ilya pinched the base of the plug inside of him and eased it out, humming in satisfaction at the sight of Shane so ready for him.

The sensation of emptiness was too staggering to bear. Shane clenched around nothing, whining in the back of his throat. His hand shot behind him, searching and desperate, until he finally found Ilya’s hard, twitching cock, eagerly trying to line it up with his swollen, gaping entrance.

“Ah, ah,” Ilya chastised, swatting Shane’s hand away. His kiss above the first knob of Shane’s spine was hot and jolting. “Be patient.”

Shane nearly fell backwards into his touch. “I can’t. Ilya, I can’t.” 

“Mmm.” He heard Ilya spit into his hand, heard the wet slide of his palm against his shaft as he slicked himself up. “You will have to be quiet. Do you think you can do that, malysh?” 

“Yes,” Shane said without hesitation. He was sweating. He felt a little bit like he was about to have a heart attack. “I promise. I can be good.” 

“I don’t know,” Ilya murmured, trailing a hand up Shane’s dress shirt, fingers ghosting across his hip. He drew his touch up further, up his abdomen all the way to his chest, squeezing Shane’s pec in his hand before tweaking his nipple. He made a knowing, pleased sound when Shane whimpered. “You are always so loud. Moaning like a porn star.”

“I’m not—” Shane protested, though he knew it was fruitless. “I don’t.” 

“You do.” Ilya pressed his palm flat to Shane’s abdomen and pulled him into him until Shane’s back was molded to his front. The head of his cock pushed between his ass cheeks, the tip already wet with his pleasure. “Now be still and take my cock like a good boy.”

In the girl’s video, Ilya was only eating her out. That was probably as far as they’d dared to go when they were so close to the oblivious public that ambled on just outside the door. Maybe a reciprocated blowjob in return for the way he devoured her, but that was it. It had to be. Shane had convinced himself it was. Because he needed this, needed to have more than she had been given, than any of them had ever had with Ilya. 

Shane went boneless the second Ilya slid inside of him, slumping against the wall. His fingers grasped weakly for something to hold on to, but his eyes were rolled so far back into his head that he couldn’t see. His thoughts were muddled, melted, unusable. “S’good,” he slurred, digging his temple into the wall and gritting his teeth to suppress his moan when the head of Ilya’s cock bumped up against his swollen, sensitive prostate. “Yes, just like…just…” 

“God,” Ilya choked out, pressing his mouth hard to the space just above Shane’s suit jacket. He nipped with his teeth like he wanted to bite, but he knew he couldn’t leave a mark where it had not been before they’d disappeared, where everyone would see once they returned. No matter how much he wanted to.

No matter how much Shane wanted to beg him to. 

“Harder,” Shane breathed, forcing the two syllables out between the muffled, agonized grunts into the palm of his own hand. He tried to force more words out, but his thoughts were syrupy and sticky and impossible to wade through, and Ilya’s cock rammed into his sensitive, abused prostate over and over and over. “Nggh—”

“My cock has made you dumb, Hollander?” Ilya taunted, slamming into him, holding his hips in place so he could angle himself just right, exactly how he knew Shane liked to take it. “Cannot even speak?”

Shane’s knees gave out, and Ilya had to wrap an arm around his stomach to keep him upright. His thighs were vibrating, his release so fucking close he could taste it. His tiny cries punctuated each of Ilya’s thrusts. “Ah, ah, ah.” 

Ilya wrapped a hand around Shane’s mouth, pressing down hard and muffling the lurid sounds. “You have to be quiet,” Ilya hissed into his ear.

“Can’t help it,” Shane whined, the words garbled against Ilya’s skin. 

“You are such a slut.” Ilya’s breath was hot against his cheek, heavy and heady. “So fucking loud when you need me.”

Shane was out of his fucking mind, his head swimming. “Was she loud, too?”

The rhythm of Ilya’s hips slamming into Shane’s ass faltered before halting to a stop altogether. 

“No, no, no,” Shane whispered, devastated by the monumental loss. He was clenching around Ilya’s motionless cock, dizzy for release, for Ilya to continue his relentless assault on his prostate. He reached a hand back to grab at Ilya’s waist, then tried to fuck himself back on Ilya’s cock, but there wasn’t enough room between the wall and Ilya to garner enough leverage and his chest was heaving and he needed, he needed— “Move, please move, I have to—” 

Ilya snaked an arm around Shane’s waist, stilling his hips. “Who?”

“What?” Shane’s brain was full of fog. What was Ilya doing? What could be more important than this?

“You asked if she was loud.” Ilya’s voice was tight. “Who are you talking about?” 

Panic crawled up Shane’s spine. “No one. I was just talking. It was…it was dirty talk, it was—”

Ilya pressed him further into the wall, the prophetic rock and a hard place Shane had heard so much about. “Do not lie.”

The ringing in Shane’s ears was impossible to think around. Shame and guilt clogged his throat. “Don’t make me say it. I can’t.”

Ilya threaded his fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and tugged his head back. His mouth rested against the shell of Shane’s ear. “You will tell me.”

“Okay. Okay.” The words left him in a staggering rush, blending together into a single incomprehensible sentence that was almost impossible for even himself to follow. “You didn’t say anything, so I was sure you didn’t know, and I didn’t want to tell you, okay? It’s not a big deal, but I keep seeing—it’s everywhere, and I…I…it’s awful, Ilya, and it’s all I can think about, but I can’t—

“Shane,” Ilya interrupted, placing a heavy, grounding hand on the back of his neck and squeezing. “Breathe.”

Shane sucked in a deep, stuttered breath that sounded so intolerably childish. “I’m sorry.”

Ilya made an exasperated noise. “For what?” 

“The videos,” Shane whispered, closing his eyes.  

Ilya was silent for a moment. “Videos…?”

“Girls.” Shane had to find a way to explain himself in complete sentences without burning up on the spot. “They’re posting, um, old videos. Of you. And them. And, I—I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it. I just wanted…I wanted to do what they did. With you.” 

Ilya exhaled, loud and sudden, and Shane realized with a vivid horror that he had seen the videos, too.

“I’m sorry,” Shane said again, his voice barely even audible. He’d never look Ilya in the eyes again, too mortified by his own spiral of obsession now laid bare for Ilya to see in all its ragged ugliness. 

Ilya pulled out of him, suddenly and swiftly, and before Shane could voice his severe displeasure, Ilya was pushing the plug back inside of him with quick, wordless efficiency. 

Shane whipped around, grabbing at any part of Ilya he could reach. He had been so full, so close to what he had needed to sate the demon inside of him. Maybe he didn’t even need to one-up this girl, he could just settle the score and make it even. He tried to drop to his knees, but Ilya grabbed his elbows in a bruising grip and kept him upright. “No, it’s okay,” Shane insisted. “I’ll blow you. I’ll make it good, alright? We can forget about it, we’ll pretend it never happened, and I’ll—”

Ilya silenced him with a hard, brutal kiss that left Shane crumbling to pieces when he finally pulled away. Suddenly, he was twisting Shane’s arm around and pressing something cool and metallic into his palm. “Go wait in the car.”

“What?” Shane asked thickly, blinking down at the car key in his hand. 

“The car, Shane,” Ilya clarified. He straightened his cuffs and smoothed down his suit jacket where it had wrinkled from being pressed into Shane’s back. He was trying to act unphased, but spots of red burned high on his cheeks, and his breaths were shallow and quick. “Maybe you are unfamiliar. Is black, shiny, expensive. Also, is outside in the parking lot right where we left it. You remember, yes?” 

The blood beneath Shane’s skin boiled. He was so aroused and also so incredibly angry. He had half a mind to pin Ilya to the wall and rut against him until he reached his orgasm. It wouldn’t take very long, probably. The thought alone made him sway on his feet. “You fucking asshole. Yes, I remember.”

Ilya tucked Shane back into his pants and buckled his belt, pausing to flex his hand when Shane hissed and pushed up onto his toes at the brief contact. Then he put his own cock away and patted Shane’s cheek. Like an asshole. “Very good. Now do as I said.” 

Shane’s eyes fluttered shut at the command, so stern and straightforward. His legs burned with the urge to give in, to follow Ilya’s every word as if it were holy text. Shane didn’t think he had an addictive personality, but there was something too alluring in the way his limbs went numb and his mind went blank when Ilya gave him an order to follow. When the disquiet of making a choice was lifted from him, and all he had to do was laid out in front of him, simply and explicitly. He should want to refuse him. He should want to tell Ilya to fuck off. 

What he really wanted was to be good, to follow instructions, to let himself be more malleable than any of the rest of them had ever been. 

When he opened his eyes, Ilya was gone. So, in the pursuit of being good, of being the best, Shane did as he was told. 

+1. 

The stars were bright above the silent city and the car was silent save for the low purr of the engine beneath them. Neither of them had spoken for ten minutes, waiting for the other to pull the trigger. 

Shane didn’t know what excuse Ilya had given the other attendees at the gala, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care. He was leaking into his underwear. The plug was jammed into his prostate, and his skin was burning up. Every time the car hit a pothole, sparks shot through his gut and he made a horrible sound in the back of his throat that was deafening in the quiet between them.  

He checked the dashboard clock for the twelfth time in the last ten minutes. They still had fifteen minutes until they’d arrive back at the cottage. Fifteen minutes that he wasn’t sure he’d last with the way he was being so violently jostled in his seat through the winding, twisted backroads of rural Ottawa.

“You are just not going to tell me?” Ilya asked suddenly, finally breaking the silence. 

Shane hesitated. “I don’t want to.” 

“That is not an option.” Ilya’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. “You have been watching the videos those women are posting of me online?” 

“I didn’t know that you had seen them,” Shane admitted, wringing his hands in his lap.

Ilya scoffed. “Of course I have seen them. It does not matter to me. Answer the question.” 

“Yes,” Shane breathed, so fucking ashamed that he thought it might burn him alive. “I have.” 

Ilya made a noise in the back of his throat. “Which ones?”

There was no turning back now. He might as well come clean. “All of them.” 

“And you did not tell me? Why?” 

“I didn’t think it…” Shane trailed off with a guttural moan when Ilya hit the gas and he was tossed back further into his seat, altering the angle of the plug inside of him. “I just thought—”

Ilya gestured for him to continue. “You thought…”

Shane kneaded his thighs with his palms to ground himself when what we really wanted to do was wrap a hand around his cock and the other around Ilya’s. “You wouldn’t have let me try the things you did with those girls if I’d told you what I was doing.” 

“This is why you have been acting so…” Ilya shook his head. He didn’t take his eyes off of the road. “All of these new things we have tried. That you asked me to do. You did not really want them?” 

“No, I did, I really did. God, Ilya. You really want me to spell it out for you? I came in my pants like a teenager when you fucked my chest. I just—” Shane searched desperately for an explanation that wouldn’t make him sound like he needed to locked up in a fucking psych ward. “I needed to…to win.” 

The silence that blanketed them was brutal.

“You needed to win,” Ilya said finally, simply, repeating his statement back to him as if Shane did not already know how delusional and deranged he sounded. 

“I was so fucking…I was so jealous.” Shane scrubbed a hand down his face. “I thought if I could do what they did for you, if I could do it better, then…fuck. I don’t know. I don’t know. I thought it would fix it.”

“Fix what?” Ilya asked, forcing Shane to spell it all out for him, letter by letter. 

Shane couldn’t look at him. He stared out the front windshield, unblinking. “I feel so…crazy,” he whispered. “I feel crazy, Ilya. Like I want—”

“Like you want what?” Ilya asked, voice tight and demanding. 

Shane’s mouth filled with saliva. “I can’t. It’s so bad.”

Ilya inhaled sharply through his nose. “Say it.”

The truth crawled up his throat, ugly and awful. “Like I want them to…to die. Anyone you’ve ever fucked. Every man and woman and whoever else. So no one knows what it’s like to have you but me.” 

Ilya swore in Russian, low and frantic. The car veered to the left slightly before he grasped the wheel tighter and found the center of their lane. He shook his head, incredulous. The moon shone through the windows, bright and unmarred by city lights out so deep in the country. The luminescence fractured across Ilya’s face, sharpening his features, angling his jaw and his nose, crystalizing his blue eyes into translucent arctic ice. 

“Ilya,” Shane whimpered, his cheek pressed into the cool leather of the headrest. “You look—you look so…pretty.”

“I am driving,” Ilya said tersely, but he palmed himself over his dress pants to ease the pressure, leaving one hand on the wheel. 

That was Shane’s last straw. He unbuckled his belt and unzipped his dress pants, shoving a hand down into his briefs. He had to grab himself hard at the base of his shaft to stop the mounting pressure in his gut from overflowing. “F-fuck.” 

Ilya swore, something fast and low in Russian that was unintelligible. The engine roared as he stepped on the gas. They were flying down these empty country roads, curving and twisting their way home. “Shane. Stop.” 

“I can’t,” Shane whined. He squeezed his thighs together, clenching to mold himself to the shape of the plug, and he melted, boneless, into his seat at the blinding sensation of fullness. 

“We are almost home,” Ilya gritted out between clenched teeth. His eyes darted over towards Shane’s lap, then jumped back to the road. “You can wait.” 

“Pull over,” Shane begged. His head was on backwards and he didn’t think he’d ever manage to get it on right again. He rubbed a thumb over the wet tip of his cock and keened at the zap of electricity that shot right through him. “Please pull over.”

The steering wheel creaked with the force of Ilya’s grip. “I am not fucking you on the side of the road, Hollander.” 

Shane imagined it for a second, cock throbbing at just the idea. The picture shattered inside his mind after only a moment, and his head whipped towards Ilya. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Have you fucked anyone else on the side of the road?” 

“Shane—”

Another awful thought slithered up his spine, whispering in his ear like the devil. He glanced down at Ilya’s lap, at the obvious outline of his hard cock through his dress pants. “Has anyone else sucked you off while you were driving?” 

The noise Ilya made wasn’t human. “You are not going to—”

“I’d be better,” Shane interrupted. The frenzied, frantic words fell from his lips before he could stop them. “I know what you like. I’d make it so good, make you come so fast, you know I would, so I could just—” He unbuckled his seatbelt and leaned over. He nuzzled his face into Ilya’s thighs, inhaling deeply and sighing in staggering relief when his senses were calmed by Ilya’s warm musk tangled up with his woodsy cologne. He mouthed over the thick cotton, lapping at his bulge, letting his saliva soak into the fabric. 

Ilya’s hips rocked up into his mouth, and his hand shot deep into his hair. “Are you—” He started, but cut himself off with a guttural groan when Shane lapped at the head of his hard cock with his tongue through his clothes. 

Shane yanked Ilya’s shirt out from where it had been tucked into his pants, and tugged it up his stomach. He pressed hot, openmouthed kisses to his abdomen, and dragged the tip of his nose through his soft happy trail. He smelled so good and Shane was so fucking delirious, and he moaned pornographically against Ilya, feeling the vibrations of it reverberate back into his face. 

Ilya hissed. “Hollander.” 

“Tell me I’m good,” Shane begged. He’d been holding the words in for so long now, each time he’d propositioned Ilya to secretly recreate the videos he’d seen. He couldn’t stop them now, as he spoke them against Ilya’s skin. “Tell me I’m better.” 

The car was silent save for Ilya’s ragged, heavy breaths and the whiny little sounds Shane couldn’t help but make on the tail end of every exhale. 

“Please,” Shane said, pressing his temple hard into Ilya’s hip like he could fuse them together through his will alone. He hadn’t noticed just how close they’d come to the roads that led down to their street, given that his face had been shoved so suffocatingly Ilya’s crotch and all.

So it was a shock to the system when Ilya squealed into the gravel driveway of the cottage only seconds later. He pulled into the garage that he must have had the foresight to open up when they were down the road and Shane was babbling nonsense, then he put the car in park and turned it off. With a skillful quickness, he yanked Shane off of his lap by his hair, then twisted to snatch his jaw in his unforgiving grasp. 

Shane melted into the seat, eyes fluttering shut as he welcomed the slight pain. All he’d wanted all night was Ilya’s healing touch to cool his skin, to relieve the lonely ache living inside him born of this all-consuming envy and insecurity. His seatbelt was already unbuckled, so he grabbed the shoulder of the passenger seat and tried to leverage himself up over the center console into Ilya’s lap, but Ilya held him in place. 

Wrong, wrong, wrong, this wasn't right, he was all stretched out and Ilya still wasn’t inside him, he couldn’t—

“Show me these videos you have been watching,” Ilya said, stern. 

Panic curdled in Shane’s stomach. He wanted to make Ilya feel good. He didn’t want to think about all the other girls, didn’t want to see their faces as Ilya pleasured them, didn’t want to remember there was a world where Ilya could grow bored of Shane and their secrets, of the versions of themselves they had to hide when Ilya had the choice to be free. He set his jaw. “I don’t want to look at them again.” 

“Oh, really?” Ilya asked, quiet and so very sure of himself. “How many times have you already watched them?”

Shane didn’t answer, his cheeks aflame. He would never live this down, not for as long as he lived. 

Ilya hummed, pleased. He sounded calm, but his grip on Shane’s jaw tightened, and his irises were thin slivers, swallowed by his blown black pupils. “Mmm. My perverted lover. I bet those girls would love to know that Shane Hollander was watching them get fucked, ah?”

“Ilya, stop,” Shane begged, so fucking humiliated. This was awful. He was going to die. “I wasn’t…I wasn’t watching them.” 

Ilya considered this, gaze darting back and forth between Shane’s eyes. They were so close, his breath fanning deliciously over Shane’s cheekbones. “So you did not notice, then?”

Shane frowned, confused. “Notice what?” 

“You did not see what all of these girls look like?” Ilya asked, shaking his head in exasperation. He looked at Shane as if he were the most ridiculous man in the world.

Shane was beginning to think he might very well be. “What?”

“Look at your videos, Hollander.” Ilya gestured to his phone and crossed his arms. “I will wait.”

Shane reluctantly picked up his phone from the center console and navigated towards the page that he’d searched for so many times that he could find it with his eyes closed. He swiped through each video, breathing through the revulsion that pulsed through him at the image of Ilya touching anyone that wasn’t him. His throat burned. “I don’t get it. You fucked them like you fuck me. That’s the whole fucking problem, Ilya. I don’t want to watch this anymore, please don’t make me—”

Ilya snatched his wrist to keep it in place when he moved to put the phone down. “No. Fuck. You are so gay. Look at the girls, Shane. What do they look like?” 

Shane swallowed. He hadn’t stopped to look at any of the girls, really, aside from how he’d studied their pleasure and their reactions to Ilya’s ministrations. His eyes darted from the phone to Ilya and back. He scrolled slowly, cataloguing each girl’s features and comparing them to the next. They were nearly indistinguishable, so similar that it was almost uncanny. Raven black hair with bangs flopping softly onto their foreheads. Dark brown eyes. Wide cupid’s bows and thick pink lips. Faces smattered with freckles. 

They all looked like him.

“Oh,” he said on an exhale as the realization struck him so suddenly it was blinding. 

Ilya loosened his grip on Shane's wrist. He trailed his touch up Shane’s arm to his shoulder, across his collarbone to the base of his throat where his pulse raced furiously. “Even when I was fucking these girls, I was wishing they were you. Sometimes, so many times, I had to stop myself from saying your name while I was inside of them. I called one of them Jane, once, and she slapped me for it. Was an accident. Bad manners. She was not wrong to hit me.”

Shane was buzzing a thousand feet off the ground. He was drunk off of Ilya’s ghosting touch, the tracing of his fingertips over the line of his throat. Anything he could have possibly said was stuck deep inside of him where he couldn’t reach it. All he could do was try and fail to catch his breath. 

“You think any of them mattered to me?” You think I cared?” Ilya huffed. “You want to know something I have not done with any of those girls, Shane? I have not loved them. I have never loved anyone. Not anyone but you.”

Shane’s vision was blurry with moisture. He stared at the bright fluorescent garage lights in an attempt to dull the prickling burn behind his eyes. “I love you so much that it hurts sometimes. I want you all to myself. I want to lock you up in this house and never let you go. It feels so stupid.” 

“Poor baby,” Ilya cooed, finally dragging his touch up Shane’s jaw, cupping it in his large, calloused palm. His thumb pushed against Shane’s bottom lip, a silent order.

Shane opened up on instinct, taking Ilya’s finger into his mouth and closing his lips around it. He hollowed out his cheeks and sucked, lapping up the addicting salty taste of his skin. He was blanketed in a vibrating warmth, grateful to have something filling him, to have the beat of Ilya’s pulse against his tongue. 

“So fucking jealous,” Ilya murmured, eyes sparkling. “A little monster going behind my back to try and be sluttier than all those girls.” 

“Ilya.” Shane’s voice was weak, muffled around Ilya’s thumb. He closed his eyes tight against the mortification. “Don’t.” 

“You have not been sleeping, then?” Ilya asked, pressing down on Shane’s tongue before pulling his finger out and smearing Shane’s saliva across his lips, down his chin. “Too busy finding new ways to beg for my cock? Was all you were thinking about, I bet.” 

“I couldn’t stop,” Shane said, unable to meet Ilya’s intense gaze. “I tried.”

“So competitive.” Ilya tutted, sucking on his teeth. He slid his hand down to the base of Shane’s throat and squeezed just a little. “Always have to be my best, ah? Is that what you want? To be my best girl?” 

“Yes. Fuck.” Shane grabbed Ilya’s wrist, wrapping his fingers tightly against him. If he didn’t ease the pressure on Shane’s throat, he was going to come in his fucking pants and then this would all be over and he will have lost. “Please fuck me. Please. I’ve been waiting all night.” 

Ilya exhaled sharply through his nose. He jerked his head suddenly towards the windshield. “Get on the hood.” 

Shane blinked, groggy and dazed. “Huh?”

“You said you wanted something that none of those girls got.” A muscle in Ilya’s jaw twitched. His pupils were dilated so wide that they’d swallowed every millimeter of blue. “I have never fucked any of them on top of my car.”

Shane’s vision whited out. Time slowed. Or, maybe it sped up. He couldn’t fucking tell. But there was cotton in his head and Ilya’s words threw him entirely off-kilter. “Oh.”

Ilya clicked his tongue, impatient. “Now, Hollander.”

Shane scrambled out of the car, slamming the door shut behind him in his hurry to do as he had been told. He rounded towards the front of the car and he shucked his suit jacket off, then tugged his pants and briefs down to his ankles before kicking them to the side. He wanted this so badly that he was shaking, his teeth chattering. He balled his hands into fists and dug his nails into his palms to try and hide just how fucking frantic he was, then he swallowed and stared at the hulking beast in front of him. 

Ilya’s car was a black Bugatti Chiron, sleek and low to the ground, almost feline in shape and in its quiet purr. The metal of it was cool against his skin when he laid down against the hood. He had never felt so dirty in all his years, lying half-naked on the hood of such an expensive car as he waited to get fucked within an inch of his life. 

The driver’s door opened and then slammed shut, rattling the car’s skeleton and jostling Shane as he waited against it. 

Ilya took his time swaggering to the where Shane lay, slowly removing articles of clothing and tossing them to ground in heaps as if they didn’t cost thousands of dollars. He unbuttoned his dress shirt, but left it on, giving Shane a decent view of his sculpted abdomen, of his plush chest and nipples that Shane would have given up anything to wrap his mouth around right at that very moment. 

“Legs up,” Ilya ordered, coming to a stop between Shane’s bent knees. The pulse in his throat was jackrabbiting like mad, and his skin was flushed red. 

Shane did as he was told, hoisting his legs up one at a time so his ankles rested atop Ilya’s shoulders on either side of his head. He was flexible, but this position was a stretch, and the muscles that ran along the backs of his legs and thighs burned deliciously. “Please,” he said simply, head thumping back against the metal. 

Ilya had grabbed a spare packet of lube from the glovebox, and he brought it to his mouth to hold between his lips as he unbuckled his belt and shoved his pants halfway down his thighs. When he’d freed himself from his briefs, he tore the lube open with his teeth before drizzling the contents onto his red, twitching cock. He tilted his head, staring at Shane through half-lidded eyes. A muscle in his cheek jumped, and his jawline sharpened as he grit his teeth against it. His praise was quiet and devout. “Look at you. My pretty Jane. My sweet girl. My only girl.”

Those three words were a bolt of lightning in his veins, gasoline poured over a lit match, a volcanic explosion incinerating him on the spot. He didn’t know what exactly had possessed him, but when Ilya pulled the plug back out of him, he moaned so loudly that he clapped a hand over his own mouth in shock. 

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya said, tossing the plug onto the toolbench next to the car without taking his gaze off of Shane’s gaping hole. “You sound like a fucking prostitute.” 

Shane’s request was almost nonsensical for how quickly and eagerly he spoke it. “Say it again.” 

“My only girl.” Ilya circled Shane’s rim with the head of cock, slicking it up with lube. “My Jane.” 

Shane jerked away from the touch. “Shit. Oh, God. Don’t tease. Please just—”

Ilya cut him off and pushed into him slowly. His jaw fell open on a silent moan, and his eyes were stuck on the place where his own cock was disappearing inside of him. “You look so good like this,” he forced out as he slid in all the way to the hilt. He stood still like that for a moment, flushed pink from his temple to the base of his throat, covered in sweat, breathing like he’d just finished running a race.

Light fractured on the inside of Shane’s eyelids every time he blinked. The incessant throb of his cock was so painful that he gritted his teeth against it. “Like how?”

“Like you would let me do whatever I wanted to you.” Ilya slid back out, then rammed back inside, swearing at how tightly Shane clenched down onto him in response, just how loudly he cried out. “Like you would spread your legs for me before I even asked.” 

Shane nodded, his cheeks on fire. The slide of Ilya’s cock inside of him was so delicious that he couldn’t fucking see straight, and Ilya’s words echoed in his ears, reverberating off of his skull. He remembered a few weeks ago, when he’d shown Ilya his tattoo and Ilya had spit in his mouth. The wave of dizziness that crashed over him was so stark that his eyes watered and his stomach swooped. He hadn’t even realized he’d already opened his mouth in offering, wordlessly begging Ilya to know what he needed.

Ilya’s eyes widened and his lips parted and his gaze flitted over every part of Shane’s body as if convincing himself this was real, that he was here, that this wasn’t a figment of his imagination. “God, Hollander,” he murmured, followed by a low litany of Russian swearing. “Fucking shit.” Then he leaned down between Shane’s legs, the angle pushing him inside of Shane so deep that he was pressed right up against his prostate, the pressure unmoving and ceaseless. He ignored the way Shane thrashed beneath him as he grabbed his jaw in his hand to force his mouth open wider and let the saliva he’d gathered on his tongue drip slowly onto Shane’s. 

Shane closed his mouth around it and swallowed, his eyes rolling into the back of his head with satisfaction. Every inch of him was ablaze. He thought he’d melt right through the fucking floor as Ilya rocked back into him with a renewed vigor. 

“You think I fucked any of them like this?” Ilya murmured into Shane’s ear, lips ghosting against his cheek. “I give it to you hard, make you take it like a good boy. No one takes it like you do, no one else begged for more even when it hurt.”

Shane’s bare skin caught against the sleek metal of the car’s hood, tugging and squeaking with every rock of Ilya’s hips into his own. He was so fucking full that he couldn’t breathe around it. “Stop,” Shane said suddenly, arching up and huffing out harsh, painful breaths. “Stopstopstop.” 

Ilya halted, hissing through gritted teeth and digging his blunt nails into Shane’s calf. “What—fuck, what is it?”

“M’gonna come.” Shane squeezed his eyes shut and squirmed, trying to change the angle so Ilya wasn’t hitting his prostate head-on. “Please, just—I need…give me a second.” 

“Hmm,” Ilya said, then grunted and shuddered when Shane clenched around him. “While we wait, we can make a list. What else have I never done with a girl? I have never made a girl come ten times in a row. You would be so good at that.” 

“I can’t,” Shane said on a low whimper. 

Ilya nodded, digging his hands into Shane’s thighs. He slowly started to fuck back into him again, easing Shane into the motions. “Oh, you can. We would be quick, too. You come in five seconds every time.”

“It would hurt.”

“Is the point, Hollander.” 

The thought of the overstimulating pain, coupled with the head of Ilya’s cock currently bearing down ruthlessly on his prostate was a sensory overload. He pressed a hand over his eyes, because if he looked at Ilya, beautiful Ilya with his golden curls and golden skin and golden pendant laying in the hollow of his throat, he would come on the fucking spot. 

“Ah, ah,” Ilya smacked his hand away. Whatever he saw in Shane’s eyes made him groan. “You will look at me when I fuck you, malysh. So you know exactly who you belong to.” 

The sting of the slap and his filthy fucking words were an aphrodisiac. Shane keened. The heat in his gut was reaching a precipice, his muscles tensing and his teeth clenching in anticipation. “Don’t want it to be over. Please. I love you.” 

Ilya’s thrusts slowed, bordering on lazy if not for the tension pulling every inch of him taut against Shane. He was just as close to the edge, postponing the inevitable even when every movement, every drag of bare skin against bare skin threatened to send him tumbling over. He reached down and pressed a firm hand to Shane’s gut, just above his pelvis. “I feel my cock inside you, right where it belongs.”

Shane was sure it wasn’t true, but his eyes rolled into the back of his head regardless.

“You were made to take me, made for me to fuck.” He kept his hand where it was to keep Shane from sliding and rolled his hips faster, slamming into him with relentless force. “No one else knows how to fuck you right. And no one else can take my cock like you. You beg for it like you need it to live. No one else has ever done this.”

“I’m going…” Shane tried to shape his mouth around the words, but the pressure was overbearing, splitting him in half, fracturing him into pieces. With each of Ilya’s thrusts, the lights in the room grew brighter, their breaths turning into raspy little growls. He couldn’t even lift a hand to get it around his twitching, dripping cock to stop himself from coming. “I…” 

“What will it take for you to believe me, ah?” Ilya asked, gasping and folding over on top of Shane when his hole fluttered around his cock. He was trembling all over, his words slurred and delirious. “Boyfriend is not—not enough, I think. What…fuck, what will it take? You need to be my husband? Is that, oh, is that it?”

Shane came so hard his back bowed off the hood of the car, spine nearly snapping in half with the sudden force of it. Wave after wave of boiling warmth zipped up his spine and back down again as he spurted against his own stomach and chest. He thought his face might have been wet, and he thought a ragged sob might have escaped from his aching throat, but he was too far away to ever fucking know for sure.

Distantly, he knew Ilya was coming, too. Knew it in the way Ilya collapsed on top of him and swore, knew it in the way Ilya’s cock twitched inside of him, and how he was filled suddenly with a liquid warmth that seeped out from between his hole and Ilya’s cock. He felt it in the way that Ilya cried out against his skin as his muscles spasmed and jerked as he rode out each swell of his orgasm until he finally went limp on top of him. 

Shane was still twitching when he could finally speak again. He dug a hand into Ilya’s thick curls to ground himself. “Holy fuck.”

“Yes,” Ilya agreed simply between heaving gasps. He buried his face into Shane’s throat, mouthing lazily at Shane’s racing pulse.

“I can’t go again,” Shane said weakly. He didn’t think he’d ever move again. “You fucking killed me.”

“Is what you asked for. Do not blame me.” Ilya struggled to push himself up to his elbows to observe the ruin they’d left in their wake. “We have made a mess of my car, Hollander.” 

Shane thought of Ilya driving around in front of the whole world and God in a car covered in their combined spend had his softened cock twitching with interest. He was an animal. “I don’t think you should wash it off. Ever.” 

“Disgusting pervert.” Ilya smacked his chest, then winced at the smear of come that streaked across his palm. He glared at Shane like a vicious kitten for laughing at his misfortune, then slid out from inside of him and hauled him up on unsteady legs. He stared at him for a moment. “Was good? Is what you wanted?” 

Guilt twinged just inside Shane’s ribcage. He nodded and brought Ilya’s hand to his face to cup his cheek. He turned his head to the side so he could press a slow kiss to Ilya’s palm. “More than what I wanted. You’re so good to me. Thank you.” 

“You will not watch these videos anymore?” Ilya asked, and he sounded so terribly young. Like he was afraid he’d messed up, and he was only just now putting a voice to his fear. “I am sorry you had to see them. I would be upset, too.” 

A small smile twitched at the corner of Shane’s mouth. He thought Ilya might raze the entire continent to the ground if Shane had dozens of sex tapes suddenly unleashed upon the world. He would never say that, however. Instead, he settled for pulling Ilya into him and pressing a gentle kiss to his soft mouth. He teased his lips open with his tongue, slow and steady and patient. He had so much love inside of him that he wasn’t sure how he’d manage to fit it all without bursting at the seams. “I’m sorry for watching them. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I won’t watch them again.” 

Ilya melted into him, and they stood there quietly, swaying in each other’s embrace for so long that Shane’s legs turned to jelly. But he didn’t care, he didn’t care, he didn’t care. He’d stay here for the rest of his life if he could, with Ilya’s come dripping down his legs and his hands in Ilya’s hair and Ilya’s mouth on his. 

Eventually, after Ilya dragged Shane, numb and drowsy and sore and sated, into the shower and scrubbed him clean, the two of them climbed into bed. They found each other under the covers, limbs twining together into an inexplicable knot. Shane’s cheek rested against Ilya’s collarbone, and Ilya’s lips found their place against the crown of Shane’s head, nuzzling into his hair and purring in contentment. 

“I would do everything with you,” Ilya murmured, hugging Shane to him so tight that he felt the dull ache of it in his bones. His voice was raspy with impending sleep, but that didn’t make it any less sure, any less unwavering. “We have forever to do it all.”

Shane burrowed into Ilya’s throat. He wanted to bite him. He wanted to crawl inside of him. “I love you so much,” he whispered into Ilya’s skin.

“I love you,” Ilya said back. “More than you will ever know. More than anyone has ever loved anyone in the world, probably. No one else will ever matter to me. You know this, yes? Tell me you do.” 

After weeks of suffocating, the weight atop Shane’s chest finally lifted. Shane and Ilya would have it all, and they would have it together. They had all the time in the world left to figure it out. He’d start his research tomorrow and they’d work their way down the list of new, sexual exploits. Maybe Shane would let Ilya fuck him in every city, state, territory, parish, county, and country that was stamped in the Fuckboy Passport. 

That sounded like a perfect place to start. 

“Yes, Ilya. I do.” 

Shane smiled to himself, tucked himself tighter into Ilya’s embrace, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.