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It was supposed to be just a quick visit.
Shane’s parents were out of town for the weekend—something about a reunion in Quebec City, old friends, too much wine.
It made sense, in a lazy, impulsive kind of way. The drive wasn’t long. The holidays were creeping closer. And somewhere between training sessions, grocery trips, and long hours in the cabin, Shane had muttered something like “we could stop by my childhood home” like it wasn’t a big deal, like it was just another address, like it didn’t carry the weight of a whole childhood packed neatly into drawers and corners.
And Ilya had said yes. Instantly. No hesitation. So now they were here.
Just the two of them.
The air still smelled like linen and lemon floor cleaner. Same hardwood floors, same soft clack of Shane’s shoes as he walked down the hall. Family pictures lined the walls: Shane with braces and a bad haircut; Shane holding up a peewee hockey trophy, beaming; Shane and his mom, hugging at the airport before he left for juniors.
Ilya had already commented on every single one.
"You're such a baby," he’d said, pausing to smirk at a photo of Shane at sixteen, cheeks flushed and eyes wide. “Still have this face. Just taller. More muscles. Less spikes on hair.”
Shane had rolled his eyes. He hadn’t even bothered trying to stop him. And now they were standing outside the door to his old bedroom. Shane hesitated for half a second—just a breath—before twisting the knob and pushing it open. The room was small. Smaller than he remembered. The kind of room that shrank over time, or maybe just compared to Ilya, who ducked his head slightly as he stepped in.
It was neat, painfully so. His mom must’ve kept it this way. The twin bed was made military-tight, navy blue comforter smoothed over perfectly tucked corners. Hockey pennants still hung from the walls—real ones now, added in recent years—but tucked beside them were older ones: peewee league banners, a poster of Sidney Crosby half-torn at the corner, and a framed photo of his high school team.
Shane stayed quiet, watching as Ilya stepped in, his hazel eyes scanning the space with something like amusement. Possession. Curiosity sharpened into something more feral—like he’d been given a key to Shane’s locked drawer and was taking his time sorting through everything inside.
He looked so big in here. Like he didn’t belong—like he shouldn't fit—and yet somehow he did.
Shane cleared his throat, rubbed the back of his neck. “So. Uh. This is it.”
Ilya turned in a slow circle, still grinning, like Shane had just handed him the keys to a secret he wasn’t supposed to know existed. He looked delighted.
Ilya made a low, pleased sound in his throat. “So much history. I’m honored.”
Then, like it was nothing, like he owned the place, he opened the closet.
“Ilya,” Shane said, a warning in his voice. Too late.
Ilya had already ducked his head inside, inspecting the row of clothes still hanging there like relics. Old flannel shirts. A couple of hoodies from when he was seventeen. A dusty letterman jacket.
“Oh my god” Ilya said, tugging the jacket off the hanger and holding it up. “Did you wear this to school dances?”
Shane groaned and pressed his fingers to his temple. “Why are you like this.”
“Oh my god,” Shane muttered. “Please stop.”
Ilya ignored him, crouching in front of the bottom drawer of his dresser like he was unearthing sacred ground. He tugged it open, exhaled like he’d hit gold. “Ah. Underwear.”
Shane stood up immediately. “I’m taking a shower.”
“Go,” Ilya said, waving a hand without looking. “Leave me with little Shane.”
Shane stopped halfway to the door. “What?”
Ilya looked over his shoulder, grinning like a wolf. “You in past tense. Little Shane. He live here, yes?”
“You’re insane.”
Ilya only smiled wider, eyes dancing. “Mmmmm.”
Shane’s ears were red now, burning.
“I’m going. Don’t break anything.”
He turned, hand on the doorframe—hesitated.
“…Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?”
Ilya’s head snapped up. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just watched Shane’s back. Then he moved slowly and deliberately, crossing the room in three steps. One hand slipped around Shane’s waist, the other cupped his jaw, fingers grazing his cheek. He didn’t say a word. He kissed him. Hot. Open. Possessive.
He pulled back, just barely, their mouths still brushing.
“No,” he murmured. “I will be going through your things.”
Shane blinked, dazed, lips parted. “…Right.”
Ilya kissed him once more, softer now, lazy and full of fond mockery.
“Go, krasivyy. I stay with your secrets.”
Shane exhaled sharply, pushed gently at Ilya’s chest. “You’re impossible.”
But he was already leaving, trying not to smile too hard as he disappeared down the hall, his pulse drumming everywhere Ilya had touched him.
Ilya turned back toward the room, grinning to himself.
The drawer was still open. And there were so many more.
Shane stayed in the shower longer than necessary.
The water was hot, the kind that turned his skin pink. He stood under it until the steam fogged up the mirror, until the rush of it dulled everything—his heartbeat, his thoughts, the way his lips still tingled from Ilya’s kiss.
He’d kind of thought… maybe Ilya would follow him.
Maybe that grin would break and he’d change his mind, slam the bathroom door behind him, kiss Shane against the tile until the steam turned suffocating.
But he didn’t.
Shane dried off slowly, rubbing a towel over his hair until it stuck up in uneven tufts, skin flushed and warm. He stared at himself in the mirror, tried not to think too hard about the ache curling in his stomach. It wasn’t even disappointment, not really. Just—
God. Ilya was probably still going through his stuff.
He smiled a little, in spite of himself.
Because it was kind of cute.
He pulled on a clean t-shirt and sweats and padded barefoot down the hall, still toweling off his hair as he pushed the bedroom door open again.
“Ilya—”
And stopped dead.
Ilya was standing near the bed, holding something in his hands. Turning it over, curiously. Tilting his head like he wasn’t entirely sure what it was, but had several educated guesses.
It was the fucking dildo. Not in a drawer anymore. Not buried under a stack of socks and shame. Not hidden where Shane had put it years ago, clearly never well enough.
Just—
There.
Shane froze.
So did Ilya.
For a moment, neither of them said a thing.
Then Ilya’s brows lifted.
He held it between two fingers, turning it in the light like he was inspecting a wine glass. “So. It is pink.”
Shane’s stomach plummeted.
“You—put that away,” Shane said, stepping forward and then immediately back, like he couldn’t decide whether to snatch it or flee the scene entirely. “Stop. That’s—private. That’s mine.”
“Yes,” Ilya said, voice low, pleased. “I see this.”
Shane let out a helpless, high breath. “You’re not supposed to—God, why are you touching it?”
Ilya gave it a little bounce in his hand, examining it like it might tell him secrets. “Hmm. Little bit soft. Little bit small.”
“Oh my god.”
Shane covered his face with both hands, like if he couldn’t see Ilya, Ilya couldn’t see him. “I hate you.”
“No,” Ilya said softly, moving forward, all lazy confidence. “You are blushing.”
He was. Fully, absolutely, spectacularly red. His neck, his ears, even the strip of skin above his waistband. Like the warmth from the shower had never left—had just deepened now, spreading through him in slow, blooming waves of hot mortification.
Ilya stopped in front of him, close enough that Shane had to drop his hands to keep breathing. His throat worked as he swallowed.
Ilya held the toy between them. Tapped it gently against Shane’s stomach. “You used this?”
Shane flinched like it had burned him. “I—fuck. Ilya.”
A breathy chuckle. Ilya leaned in, breath ghosting over Shane’s temple. “How many times?”
Shane shoved at his chest. “Stop it.”
“Is okay,” Ilya whispered, voice like velvet over a bruise. “You were curious.”
“I was eighteen!”
“I know,” Ilya said, and he sounded so fucking pleased about that. “I like imagining.”
“Jesus Christ—”
“Shhh,” Ilya murmured, and leaned in to press a kiss just under Shane’s jaw. “You didn’t tell me color. You remember?”
“Obviously I remember,” Shane hissed, breath hitching when Ilya’s teeth scraped lightly over his neck.
He moved closer, chest brushing Shane’s, until Shane’s back hit the doorframe again. His hand was on Shane’s hip now, his mouth hovering just above Shane’s, not quite kissing him, just letting the weight of it linger there.
“You used it in this bed?” Ilya asked, voice low, almost conversational.
Shane closed his eyes. “Ilya—”
“Not an answer.”
“I’m not talking about this.”
“You are talking,” Ilya said, brushing his knuckles over Shane’s side. “Little bit. Red face. Very sexy.”
Shane exhaled through his teeth. “You’re the worst person alive.”
Ilya hummed, pleased.He leaned in again, slow, deliberate. His mouth brushed Shane’s ear. “What did you imagine?”
Shane didn’t speak. His breath came fast and shallow. Ilya dragged his other hand down from Shane’s waist, letting it settle low on his back. Lower still. Fingers slipping beneath the waistband of Shane’s sweats, grazing warm skin.
Ilya nuzzled his cheek, kissed the corner of his lips. “Tell me.” his hand slipped down the front of Shane’s sweats with no hesitation, no rush. His grip was firm, possessive, slow. Just enough to make Shane gasp, his whole body jolting like he’d been caught off guard.
Shane’s head dropped back against the doorframe, lips parted, breath hitching as Ilya worked his hand with maddening patience. Not hard. Not fast. Just there.
“You should tell me,” Ilya murmured, his voice a near-purr. “What you used to think about. Before me.”
Shane made a strangled noise in the back of his throat.
“Ilya—”
“Tell me,” Ilya said again, now pressing soft, rhythmic kisses along Shane’s neck, hand never stopping, never speeding up. “What did you imagine?”
Shane’s fingers were curled tight around the edge of the doorframe, knuckles white.
“I—” He shook his head a little. “I don’t know. Stuff.”
Ilya laughed under his breath. A warm, mean sound. “Stuff,” he repeated. “You are shy now? When you are so hard in my hand?”
Shane groaned. Actually groaned. His face was flushed deep, eyes squeezed shut.
“Ilya, please—”
Ilya’s grip tightened, just enough to make him gasp.
Shane’s breath was wrecked.
“I—I used to think about…” he started, then faltered, groaning softly as Ilya’s hand moved again, just a little firmer now. “About what it’d feel like. With…with the real thing.”
Then Ilya moved, bringing his body flush with Shane’s, pressing in so close that Shane could feel everything. The full heat of him. The hardness in his jeans, obvious and heavy, right against Shane’s thigh.
“Oh?” Ilya said, voice gone even lower now, thick with that smug heat. “Real thing. You mean me, yes?”
Shane didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His breath hitched, mouth parting as Ilya kissed his jaw, then his cheekbone, then the corner of his mouth like he was marking territory in slow increments.
“Tell me,” Ilya murmured again, his voice dragging low over Shane’s skin. “Real thing. What did you think it would feel like?”
Shane was flushed, panting, neck exposed where he’d tilted his head back against the wall, like he was trying to keep some part of himself from unraveling.
“I don’t know,” he said again, but it sounded thinner this time. Less defensive. More like a plea. “I—I’d never—”
“I know,” Ilya said. He kissed the side of Shane’s throat. Bit it gently.
His hand was still moving, slow and sure. Shane was trembling beneath it now. Ilya pressed him harder into the wall, hips shifting forward until there was no space left between them.
And Shane felt it. All of it.
The hard line of Ilya’s cock against his hip, thick and heavy through the denim. Unmistakable. Hot.
Shane’s breath caught again—sharp and high.
Ilya’s mouth brushed his ear. “You feel that?”
Shane made a sound in his throat.
“This is what you were imagining?” Ilya asked. His voice was rough now. “You were on this bed, holding your toy, thinking about someone making you feel full?”
Shane clenched his jaw. He could barely think. He was so red now he probably looked feverish. Ilya smiled against his skin.
“Real thing is better, yes?”
Shane didn’t move. His breathing was wrecked. His skin was flushed all over. Ilya had him pinned, had his hand down his pants, had him trembling—needing—and still.
Still.
Shane’s lashes fluttered, then lifted, and he looked Ilya dead in the eye. He was blushing down to his chest, mouth swollen, eyes dark with heat—and still, somehow, he managed a little smirk. Because if he gave Ilya the satisfaction right now, he’d have won. And Shane Hollander did not lose that easy. Not even like this. Not even when his whole body was begging for it.
So he said, sweet as sin: “No. I prefer the dildo.”
Ilya pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes darkened—amusement and disbelief, hunger and challenge all flashing across his face at once. Shane stared back at him, jaw tight, defiant only because he didn’t know what else to do with how much he was feeling.
And Ilya?
Ilya laughed.
Low. Deep. Dangerous.
“…It has been long time since you use it.”
Shane blinked. “What—?”
Ilya tilted his head, eyes sharp. “You hide it. Drawer was dusty. Bottom. You did not touch for years, da?”
Shane opened his mouth, but Ilya didn’t give him the chance.
“I don’t think,” he continued, lips brushing Shane’s cheek now, “you remember enough to compare.”
Shane’s breath hitched.
Ilya pressed closer, pinning him against the doorframe again. “So. Maybe we test this. Yes?”
Shane’s pulse stuttered.
He leaned back just enough to look at him. That same smile. Sharp. Unforgiving. Loving in the most dangerous way.
“On the bed, Hollander.” Shane didn’t move. His throat worked. Ilya’s grip on his hip tightened, fingers digging in. “Or desk,” Ilya added, glancing at it like he was doing mental measurements.
Shane flushed even deeper.
“Ilya—”
“I let you choose,” he said simply.
Shane stared at him for a moment longer—heartbeat thudding, lips parted, still catching his breath like he’d run a mile.
Then he moved.
He turned and climbed onto the bed without a word.
The mattress dipped under his weight, that too-small twin creaking softly. He sat with his back to the wall, legs bent awkwardly, hands hovering uselessly in his lap like he wasn’t sure where to put them. His eyes flicked back to Ilya, wide, nervous, wanting.
“Where is it?” Ilya asked.
Shane blinked. “What?”
“Lube.” Ilya’s voice was unhurried, but his eyes were very clear. “If you want real thing, I need it.”
Shane’s face went scarlet all over again.
“Top drawer,” he muttered, and then immediately buried his face in his hands like he could disappear into the bedding. Ilya laughed under his breath. He stood, crossed to the nightstand, and pulled the drawer open without hesitation. Shane could hear the moment he found it—the soft clink of the bottle hitting wood.
His body knew what was coming.
And it wanted it. Badly.
But what terrified him—what thrilled him—was how much more Ilya was going to take. He heard Ilya shift closer. Felt the bed move. Felt his fingers—slick now—press gently against him. Shane sucked in a breath, hips twitching.
Oh, god.
He turned his head into the pillow, flushed and helpless. Because it felt good. Way too good. And Ilya was going slow on purpose. His voice, when he spoke, was low and rough, dangerous.
“You are already shaking,” he murmured.
Shane let out a weak breath, barely keeping still.
Ilya kissed the inside of his thigh, wet and slow.
“You said toy was better,” he added, voice pure mockery now. “But I am only using fingers.”
Shane made a broken noise, hands clenching the sheets. He was already so close. His whole body was pulsing with it—heat curling down his spine, pressure building sharp and unbearable in his gut. His head was foggy with it.
He heard the lube again. The slick sound. A different rhythm now. He turned his head just slightly, breathing hard. And saw Ilya—leaning forward, one knee on the bed, holding the toy in his hand.
Shane’s stomach dropped. Heat punched through him all over again.
Ilya was coating it thoroughly, slow and methodical, like he was prepping a weapon. Shane whimpered—actually whimpered—and Ilya’s eyes snapped to him instantly.
That same focused, devastating calm. Like he could watch Shane come undone for hours and not blink.
“Ilya—” Shane started, breathless, but Ilya was already moving.
He leaned in, braced one hand against the bed, and brought the toy down between them.
“Since you miss it so much,” he said, voice rough and almost tender. “We try again. Together.”
Shane’s hands clenched the blanket.
He felt the tip, slick and cool, press against him—And then in. cold. Slow. Unforgiving. Smooth. His head dropped back hard against the pillow. It felt better than he remembered. Way better.
Too much.
Too deep, too good—because Ilya wasn’t just shoving it in mindlessly. He was watching Shane. Reading him. Knowing exactly how far to go, how slow to twist his wrist, how much pressure to add. He wasn’t doing this like Shane had ever done it to himself.
Shane let out a high, shaking moan.
“Oh my god—”
He was already a mess. Writhing. Back arching. Hands fisted in the sheets like he was trying to ground himself. Every nerve in his body lit up, every breath dragged out like it hurt to hold it.
He cracked his eyes open—And Ilya was staring.
Not smiling. Not smirking. Just watching him. Like he was starving.
Then, soft. Almost admiring:
“When you blush,” Ilya murmured, “you turn same color as your toy.”
Shane made a sound that wasn’t even a word. And Ilya smiled. The toy moved inside him. Ilya was picking up the pace. Shane could barely breathe. He was shaking, one hand fisted tight in the sheets, the other helplessly gripping Ilya’s wrist, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to stop him or drag him in deeper.
And then Ilya leaned down.
Close enough for his mouth to brush Shane’s ear. His breath was hot. His voice—rough. Hungry.
“I think about this,” he said. “Long time.”
Shane shivered. Hard. His entire body arched under the sound of it.
Ilya kissed his temple, then just below it. Lips hot against burning skin. A slow drag of breath down Shane’s jaw.
“You remember?” Ilya whispered. “When you told me. You had toy?”
Shane gasped. His hips twitched up against Ilya’s hand, helpless.
“I thought about it after,” Ilya murmured. “So much. Could not stop.” Another push in. Smooth. Precise. Cruel.
“I thought about—how you may have looked. On your back. Legs open. Hand shaking. Trying to push it in slow. Mouth open, making your little sounds like now.”
Shane whimpered, eyes fluttering, too wrecked to speak.
“I think maybe you bit your hand,” Ilya continued, voice lower now, darker. “Scared someone hear. But still do it. Still fuck yourself like you were ready.” Shane turned his face into the pillow, trying to smother the noise he made.
Ilya didn’t stop.
“I jerked off to it, you know?” he said, conversational and filthy. “In hotel. Shower. Plane. Didn’t matter. Every time I saw you on ice. Too clean. Too perfect. I think, under this? You’re pink and open. Just like this.”
The toy twisted again—just enough.
Shane cried out.
“Thought about using it on you,” Ilya growled. “Thought about this. Holding your hips down. Watching you take it.”
Shane’s whole body trembled. He was so close. Every nerve screamed with it.
“Ilya—fuck, I’m gonna—”
But Ilya was already pulling back just enough to slide a strong hand under his thigh, grip locking down tight.
“No.”
Firm. Flat. Like a verdict. Shane choked on a sob, every muscle in his body going tight with the restraint.
“I didn’t say come,” Ilya breathed against his neck.
Shane was already shaking. His whole body was one raw, twitching nerve—thighs trembling, chest heaving, sweat slicking down his neck and under his knees. He was strung tight, stretched open around the toy, held down by nothing but Ilya’s hand and voice and presence.
He couldn’t even speak. He could barely breathe. Then Ilya moved. Shifted up the bed, slow, unhurried, purposeful—dragging the toy with him in that same devastating rhythm, every thrust slow and deep, pushing Shane higher, closer, nowhere safe.
Shane barely registered the change in position—not until Ilya’s mouth touched his chest.
Just a kiss.
Then another.
Then—lips brushing one of his nipples.
Soft. Warm. There.
Shane gasped. Twitched.
Ilya hummed. Not surprised. Just pleased.
“Mmm. Zdes’ tozhe,” he murmured against Shane’s skin. “You are sensitive here too.”
His tongue flicked out, slow and wet, circling. Shane whimpered—a high, broken noise that made Ilya smile.
“I know this,” Ilya said, dragging his teeth gently along the edge. He licked again. Softer now. Then sucked. Shane’s hips bucked. He couldn’t stop them.
“But these…” Ilya whispered, switching sides, mouthing at the other nipple, “…these are not pink.”
Shane let out a strangled, confused sound—like he didn’t understand the words, like the language itself had stopped working. Ilya didn’t stop. He was focused. Obsessed.
“I like this,” he said, voice dropping low, hot. “Down there? You are so soft. So wet. So pink. But here…”
He swirled his tongue again, kissed gently, then scraped his teeth over the darker nub.
“Here, you are brown. Like your eyes.” His hand slipped up, fingers rolling one nipple between his thumb and forefinger while his mouth worked the other.
“Perfect little chest,” Ilya murmured. “Sensitive little tits. Didn’t know you could come like this.”
Shane broke.
He came with a sob—just a ragged, wrecked sound torn straight from his chest. His back arched, legs kicking uselessly as he came so hard it almost hurt. The toy still pulsing inside him, his whole body on fire, pushed past the edge without permission, without warning—He couldn’t even speak.
He collapsed into the sheets, heart hammering, slick with sweat, jaw slack, body twitching from the aftershocks. He didn’t even realize Ilya had stilled. Not until that voice—low, calm, and too fucking close to his ear—cut through the haze:
“So you prefer the dildo?”
Shane didn’t lift his head. Didn’t move a muscle. Just gave the smallest little nod. Lips parted. Breath catching.
“…Uh-huh,” he mumbled. “Yup.”
His voice was barely there. A raspy, ruined taunt. He didn’t even see Ilya’s face.
But he felt the shift in the room. The silence. The weight of it.
He was flipped.
Easily. One strong arm under his hips, the other across his shoulder. Shane let out a shocked, breathless sound as Ilya rolled him onto his stomach like he weighed nothing. His body jolted—sprawled, pliant, spread.
Shane barely had time to register the movement.
One second the toy was still inside him and the next it was gone, tossed aside with a sharp, careless flick of Ilya’s hand. Shane made a broken sound. Too empty. Too full. His body jolted at the sudden absence, then ached for what replaced it almost immediately.
Ilya was behind him now.
Close.
Huge.
One hand on the back of his neck, the other steadying his hip, and in a single, blinding thrust—
He pushed inside.
Fully.
Hard.
Shane screamed.
Not a word. Not even a curse. Just a shattered, high, broken sound that came straight from his chest as Ilya’s cock drove into him, deep, deeper than the toy ever reached, thicker, hotter, realer—The stretch was devastating.
And Ilya didn’t give him time to adjust.
Didn’t give him time to breathe.
He started moving.
Hard. Brutal. Fast.
Slamming into him again and again, hips snapping forward, cock hitting every nerve Shane didn’t know he had, dragging moans from his throat that didn’t even sound human anymore.
His face pressed into the sheets. His hands clawed at the mattress. His body took it—every inch, every brutal thrust—and still—
Still—
He felt his cock get rock hard agian.
It was impossible. He’d just come. He was done. But the feeling—the heat—the stretch—it was so much better. Ilya reached forward, grabbed him by the shoulder, yanked him back onto his cock with every thrust, like he was just using him now—like this was what Shane had been made for.
“You feel that, zaychik?” Ilya growled, breath ragged at his ear. He slammed in harder. The sound of it obscene. Wet. Skin on skin. Shane was sobbing now. Not from pain. From pleasure. Tears slid down his face, hot and sudden, soaking into the pillow as his body jerked beneath Ilya’s grip.
“Ah—ah—ah—” It was the only sound he could make. High-pitched, helpless, punched out of him with every thrust.
And then—
Ilya’s fingers slid under him again.
Pinched his nipple. Rolled it between his fingers.
Shane screamed again.
His whole body snapped—arching into it, hips rolling helplessly back into every thrust even as they trembled, even as he sobbed.
“Still think dildo is better?” Ilya snarled, mouth at his ear, thrusting harder now, so deep Shane could feel it in his chest. “Still think plastic toy fucks you like this?”
Shane shook his head—or tried to. His arms had given out. His legs were shaking, every muscle twitching, locking up. But he still didn’t say it. Still didn’t give Ilya the win. Just choked out another high, breathless sound—like he was on the edge of another orgasm and couldn’t stop it even if he tried.
“Say it,” Ilya hissed, fucking him so deep now it was unbearable. “Say it, Hollander. Say I’m better.”
Shane cried harder.
His voice cracked.
But he didn’t break.
Shane couldn’t think.
Could barely see.
His whole body was sweat-slick, shaking, overstimulated past any limit he thought he had. The toy had been nothing compared to this—nothing—and Ilya hadn’t stopped since the moment he’d started.
And then—
Strong hands slid under him again. One at his waist, the other at his ribs—
And Shane yelped as Ilya hauled him up.
Not onto his knees.
Off the bed.
His legs were dangling now, trembling, feet barely brushing the mattress. He was holding himself up with his forearms, folded into the sheets, ass in the air, back arched, neck slick with sweat—
And Ilya was still inside him.
Still deep.
Still fucking him.
Hard.
Shane sobbed.
“Ah—ah—ah—fuck—”
The new angle was devastating. Ilya’s cock hit deeper now, harder, every thrust jolting through his spine like a current. His arms shook with the effort to hold himself up, his legs long past giving out, dangling uselessly, open, exposed.
And Ilya?
He didn’t stop.
He just grunted behind him—deep, satisfied—and fucked into him harder.
“Go on,” he said, voice rough and thick with breath. “Tell me truth, Hollander.”
“Please—” Shane choked, not even sure what he was begging for anymore. “I can’t—Ilya, I can’t—”
“Yes you can,” Ilya snapped, holding him up like he weighed nothing.
Shane screamed—full voice, full body, his orgasm building again, ripping through him. He cracked. Completely.
“Yours is better!” he sobbed. “*Yours is better, I’m sorry—*I’m sorry, please—”
Ilya growled—low and pleased, animal-deep.
And then slowed.
Not all the way. Not soft.
But enough that each thrust now rolled deep, deliberate, slow enough to make Shane feel every inch.
And then—
He pulled out, just far enough to flip Shane over, moving him like a doll, like he was nothing, like he belonged to him. Shane collapsed onto his back, blinking through wet lashes, skin flushed and shining, body still twitching—
And Ilya looked down at him like he was a miracle.
“Krasivyy,” Ilya whispered, brushing hair off his sweat-damp forehead. “So beautiful like this.”
Shane whimpered.
“Look at you,” Ilya murmured, voice suddenly low, tender, but no less in control. He spread Shane’s thighs apart, settling between them. “Open for me. So good. Took all of it.”
Shane’s legs were shaking. His arms had given out. But he couldn’t stop looking up at him, couldn’t stop feeling how full he was.
Ilya didn’t fuck him hard anymore. Not now. Now, he held Shane in his lap—cradled him, really, his strong arms locked around Shane’s waist as Shane straddled him, thighs spread, knees barely able to hold their shape around Ilya’s hips.
He was trembling.
He couldn’t stop.
Shane’s head was buried in the crook of Ilya’s neck, his arms looped tight around his shoulders, fingers digging in, clinging like he needed to anchor himself. His whole body was flushed, soaked, oversensitive to every movement, every kiss, every soft breath that ghosted against his skin.
But it still felt so good.
God, it felt so good to be like this—wide open, used, full, safe.
His cock was soft now, spent, but his body kept twitching, jerking with every slow roll of Ilya’s hips. His toes curled with every thrust. His mouth stayed open in little breathy sounds that made Ilya smile.
Shane was a mess—flushed red, tear-streaked, boneless in his arms.
But he was smiling, too.
“There you are,” Ilya whispered, brushing his lips along Shane’s jaw, slow and soft. “So good now, hmm?”
Shane nodded against his shoulder, breath hitching. His heart felt full. His body was still shaking.
And then—With a low, shuddering breath, Ilya pushed in deep one last time—And came. Inside him. Holding him there.
Pressing his face into Shane’s neck, mouthing soft, broken words in Russian as he emptied himself, his hands still stroking Shane’s back, still whispering his name like it was the only thing that mattered.
Shane gasped.
Felt it. All of it.
Heat blooming inside him. Full. Claimed. Safe.
He stayed in Ilya’s lap long after the last thrust, after the last breathless moan, after Ilya had stilled. They didn’t move for a long time. Shane stayed curled in Ilya’s lap, limbs heavy, body flushed and loose, his head tucked beneath Ilya’s chin. He could feel Ilya’s heartbeat, steady and slow, and it was grounding. The heat between them. The weight of Ilya’s arms still wrapped around him.
His own breath had steadied—but his eyes were still wet.
And Ilya noticed.
He shifted, leaned back just a little, and gently took Shane’s face in both hands.
Shane let him.
Ilya’s palms were warm, a little rough, thumbs dragging slowly beneath Shane’s eyes, wiping the tears he hadn’t even realized were still there.
“Moy sladkiy,” Ilya murmured. “Too much?”
Shane smiled, soft and hazy.
“No,” he whispered. “It was perfect.”
Ilya kissed his cheek. Then the other. And just like that, Shane was smiling for real—even though his body still ached in every good, ruined place. He leaned in, nose brushing Ilya’s, voice low, teasing again now, back in familiar territory.
“So… should we bring the toy home with us?”
Ilya blinked. His expression went immediately flat.
“…No,” he said.
Shane snorted, incredulous. “What? Why not?”
“I have decided,” Ilya said, prim and absolute, “that I do not like it.”
Shane laughed, resting his forehead against Ilya’s. “You can’t be jealous of a piece of plastic.”
“I am not jealous,” Ilya replied—much too fast—before sliding his arms tighter around Shane’s waist and burying his face in the crook of his neck. Shane laughed again—soft and breathless. God, he felt good. His body still buzzed from everything they’d done—from the way Ilya had held him down, made him beg, taken every inch of him like it was his right. But now, with Ilya’s face hidden in his neck, arms tight around his back, he just felt...
Happy.
Fully, deeply happy.
He closed his eyes, wrapped his arms around Ilya’s shoulders, and smiled into his skin.
“Okay,” he whispered. “No toy. Just you.”
And he meant it.
Every word.