Chapter Text
The club. Dim lights. Sweat, perfume, bass - all of it pressing in on him at once. Some random pop song blared through the speakers, piercing his ears.
He told himself he was fine, that this was exactly where he wanted to be. Then he saw Shane.
Not alone.
Smiling like nothing in the world was wrong. His hand on someone’s waist, head tilted close, smiling the way he used to.
Something twisted in Ilya’s chest. Not anger. Not jealousy. Something worse. He told himself it didn’t mean anything, that he didn’t care.
But there was a quiet, unbearable awareness that he had been replaced without even noticing.
It was the slow, sick realisation. If I'm not the only one he can look like that... A vulnerable thought entered his head. He couldn't bear it. Russians don't do that.
He reached for a drink; he couldn't deal with this shit sober. The alcohol slid down his throat, sharp and grounding, and with it came a familiar kind of resolve.
If he couldn’t have what he wanted, he’d take what was available.
He looked at Shane and the girl once more. He couldn't handle it. He acted before he could think better of it.
He can't do this to me.
He had to find a woman now, too, immediately. Hollander can't be better than him. He just can't.
He didn't want to admit it, but he was hurt. Even worse, jealous.
He thought what he had with Hollander was just fun, casual fuck here and there. Nothing that mattered too much. He would have denied that he meant anything to him.
And yet, here he was, attempting to fill a hole that wasn’t there - not in the way he needed it to be.
He quickly scanned the room, looking for a distraction, for proof that this doesn’t matter. He found his victim. She was there. Enjoying herself and dancing... Tempting him. For the perfect sin he intended to commit. He told himself it was nothing. Just noise. Just bodies. Just a club. He just wanted to have fun!
The girl was blonde, pretty, uncomplicated. A party! He approached her. She looked at him.
He closes the distance between them before he has time to think.
He didn’t even care about her name. She was... only a replacement. Just... what even was she to him?
She smiled, clearly enjoying the attention of a famous hockey player. He leaned in, letting the music and lust swallow whatever he was feeling.
But he still glanced at Shane. To see if he's watching. Although he made himself busy, Ilya's eyes kept wandering to the other side of the dance floor.
The idea both satisfied and disgusted him. Ilya could feel Shane looking at him, but he couldn't show that he cared.
He kissed the girl, hungrily, because it was easier than standing still with the ache in his chest. Because if he keeps moving, maybe he wouldn’t feel how badly he wants the wrong person.
And because admitting that would mean admitting he was already lost.
The strobe lights cut across the room. Ilya pulled back from her lips just for a moment, long enough to look at Shane. And he enjoyed it - slow, deliberate, a little cruel, while his hands traced her body. Like saying: it could be us, but you’re playin'.
Sadness and yearning flickered in Shane’s eyes. Ilya didn’t care. Lust mirrored lust, sharp and hot. Maybe a trace of jealousy, hiding in the press of his hands, the tilt of his body. Possessiveness? Definitely.
Ilya kept kissing her neck, biting her ear, moving in the rhythm of the music. He didn't care anymore, he just wanted a sweet release... A sharp, strong physical distraction from all the thoughts and the storm raging in his chest. He decided it's time to go.
Bodies pressed past him one last time as he slipped through the crowd, holding her hand like a lifeline, moving through the chaos without losing her. The bass throbbed in his skull, sweat dripping down his back, lights flickering across her hair. He didn’t know her name. It wasn't important. But the heat of the room, the movement, the noise - it was enough to pull him forward.
The elevator was quiet, compared to the chaos they left behind in the club. The small confined space amplified the awkwardness, the distance between them suddenly palpable. He smiled awkwardly at her. She did the same. Her perfume was sharp, sweet. He barely noticed. All he could think of was stupid Hollander.
The apartment door shut behind them, muffling the distant thump of the club. Silence. The air was too still, too intimate. It was nothing like the crowded, sweaty dance floor. No music to hide the thudding of his own chest.
He let the tension build, small touches, brushing hands, leaning closer. (They were slightly drunk, so that helped.) She smiled, leaning in. He kissed her briefly, hungrily, reflexively, tasting the warmth but not the connection. His mind kept flicking to Shane - the way he laughed and enjoyed his touch, the way he made Ilya feel like he belonged.
Here, in this quiet room, the absence was deafening. Possession, defensive lust, collided with longing he couldn’t name. He let her pull him toward the bed, but he didn’t let himself linger. He couldn’t. Nothing she did could replicate what Shane and he had, and the reminder gnawed at him with every touch.
He still needed that sweet release. To make him forget, at least for a moment, what he couldn’t touch, what he couldn’t have, what burned inside him.
He just did it, mechanically, without much feeling or passion. Not like Shane. With Shane, it was like fire in his veins. He couldn’t hold back - the second he saw him, he had to have him. Desire sharp and raw, impossible to ignore. But with her… it was just to feel something. Just a motion, a distraction. To forget, for a moment, the one he couldn’t have.
The realisation was too painful. Even if he reached the climax he wanted, it didn’t matter. At all.
He couldn't help but keep noticing details that reminded him of Shane: wrong laugh, wrong hands, wrong energy... None of that familiar teasing of theirs. No little breaths nor moans, his energy, his body... it simply felt wrong.
Ilya pulled away for a moment, heart hammering. He realised... the only thing he could think of was how none of it felt like him. Shane. He was expecting a familiar face, his warm brown eyes, playful smile and his adorable freckles, but the reality hit him hard...
There was nothing that made his chest ache the right way. That wasn't even his sweet ass cheeks! (Yes, he really loved those. Yes, he noticed.)
He pulled back, heart pounding, mind spinning. None of it was him. None of it mattered.
Even though it was meaningless, Ilya couldn't stop. He leaned into her, hands moving on autopilot, but his mind kept slipping - Shane’s name almost escaped before he caught it. Sherry froze mid-kiss, brow furrowed, and he realised too late that even in motion, he couldn’t escape who he really wanted.
"Shane?" she frowned. "It's Sherry for you, mister!" she laughed.
"Ohh... sorry.. Sher..." he said distractedly and just continued kissing her.
Of course, some remnants of Shane lingered. Traces he couldn’t erase.
Ilya couldn’t stop himself from saying Shane’s name.
Eyes don’t lie, chico. But neither do lips - and certainly not Ilya’s subconscious.
He pounded into her, but it felt so wrong. He couldn't get Shane off his mind.
"Sh-Shane", he whispered mid-kiss again.
“Hey! I’m not Shane!” Sherry shoved him lightly, voice sharp now. “Would you stop calling me some guy’s name so we can actually-”
“I… I can’t,” Ilya muttered, pulling out and turning his face into the pillow. “This… this was a mistake.”
Sherry froze, then rolled her eyes, shaking her head. “I knew it. I knew you were like this. All of you… just a bunch of jerks!”
Before he could say anything else, she stormed off, tugging on her clothes. Ilya stayed on the bed, chest heaving, mind spinning - and he hated himself for how relieved he felt when she left.
He felt relieved - psychologically, but physically, he was still tense and excited. He was stuck in that unbearable plateau: aroused and desperate for release, yet unable to find the satisfaction he craved. The tension needed an outlet, and he knew exactly how he’d try to resolve it. He decided to take a shower.
The shower ran hot, steam curling around him, water pounding down tense muscles.
His right hand began stroking his huge cock, left hand forcefully grabbing his left ass cheek. His back muscles tensing, as he propped himself up the wall, mimicking the way he did it with Shane. Droplets ran down his skin, bouncing off his necklace, catching the light. Moans slipped past his lips before he even realised, low and ragged, mixing with the sound of the shower. Shane flashed before his eyes. Shane, Shane, Shane.
He put his left hand on the shower wall, his right hand picking up the pace of stroking. Almost like with Shane - pinning him, holding him, forcing him into heat and friction. Only now it was just him, alone, chasing shadows, chasing what he couldn’t have.
His right hand built up pace, gripping tighter, hips rolling into the motion, mind flicking between Shane’s laugh, his teasing smirk, the curve of his body. His Shane. The obsession, the want, the ache - all of it.
He shuddered, gasped, heartbeat went crazy. Water flow intensified the feeling. Fingers clenched, ass cheeks clenching. The release came sudden, violent, water washing away his cum, but not the longing, not the desire, not the ache that still burned.
Hollander...
Even as his body relaxed, even as the water carried away the evidence, the hunger didn’t fade. And when his breath hitched, when the muscles in his back trembled against the wall, one thought lingered - messy, raw, entirely telling: Shane…