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The hotel room door clicks shut and the sound may as well be a gunshot the way it rings through the silence. It’s a sound Shane has become intimately familiar with. It’s the sound of the world shrinking down to the four walls of a hotel room, the two of them, and the frantic, rapid beat of his own heart. Outside, there’s a city full of people, reporters, teammates, a life he’s supposed to be living. In here, there’s only the scent of Ilya’s cologne, the faint, clean smell of snow clinging to his coat, and the weight of his gaze.
Shane feels it on him like a physical touch as he shrugs off his own jacket, letting it fall over the back of a chair. He’s not usually like this. He’s deliberate. Measured. Shane Hollander is the captain, the golden boy, the guy who thinks three steps ahead on the ice and off it. But around Ilya Rozanov, his brain seems to have a sheet pulled over it. He functions in the orbit of Ilya. All that careful planning dissolves into a low, thrumming static, a current that pulls him inevitably closer.
Ilya is just standing there, by the door, watching him. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t taken off his coat. He’s just… watching. It’s a predatory look, but not in a way that scares Shane. He shrinks under the intense gaze.
“You look tired,” Shane says, because he feels like he should say something. His voice comes out a little rougher than he intends. He turns, leaning back against the desk, trying for a casualness he absolutely does not feel.
“Don’t start, Hollander.” Ilya sounds exasperated, but his mouth curves into a slow smile.
It’s a hidden invitation, a backward command, and a challenge all rolled into one. Shane pushes off the desk, the few steps between them feeling like a mile. He stops just in front of Ilya, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body, to see the dark flecks in his blue eyes.
The air between them crackles.
Ilya reaches out, his fingers cool against the side of Shane’s neck, thumb stroking the line of his jaw. It’s a proprietary touch, one that makes Shane’s breath catch. “Come here,” Ilya murmurs, his accent thick in the way that makes Shane weak in the knees and in the brain.
And then they’re kissing in the way they always do, a frantic, desperate collision. There’s no gentle build up, no sweet exploration. It’s a fight for dominance, a battle of teeth and tongues and bruised lips. Ilya tastes like menthol and smells faintly of cigarettes and Shane is fucking drunk on it already. His hands find Ilya’s hips, pulling him closer, trying to eliminate any last sliver of space between them. Ilya’s fingers slide into his hair, tightening with a sharp, delicious pain that makes Shane groan into his mouth.
Ilya smirks, shoves a thigh in between Shane’s legs, and smiles against his lips when he feels him grind down. For a second, Shane thinks that they’re going too fast. He wants to slow down, to feel Rozanov’s hands slide down his shoulders and his chest. But they don’t do that, it's not a part of their routine.
This is their routine. The stolen moments. The hurried, frantic makeout sessions that leave them dizzy and aching. A few times, a desperate hand has slipped into a waistband a clumsy, frantic handjob in the dim light of a hotel room or the back of an empty arena, once. Just a way to take the edge of expectations and frustration off. It’s been good, so fucking good, better than anything Shane has ever had, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough anymore, and that scares him. He doesn’t want to think about what ‘more’ would look like with Rozanov.
Tonight, something is different. Maybe it’s the privacy of the hotel room, the locked door a final, definitive barrier. Maybe it’s the way Ilya is kissing him a little slower, a little deeper, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of Shane’s mouth. Or maybe it’s just the liquid courage of desire, pooling hot and heavy in Shane’s gut.
He wants more. He wants to know what more is with Rozanov.
They’re still kissing as Shane’s hand slides from Ilya’s hip, down the hard muscle of his thigh. It’s a bold move for him. He pauses for a second, his heart hammering against his ribs, waiting for Ilya to question him, to laugh at him, to push him away. He doesn’t. Ilya deepens the kiss, his tongue stroking against Shane’s, a silent encouragement.
Emboldened, Shane lets his hand drift inward, until his palm is pressed flat against the hard, thick length of Ilya’s cock, still trapped behind the denim of his jeans.
Ilya shivers as he breaks their lips apart, pulling back just enough to look at Shane, his eyes wide dark and his brows furrowed. For a terrifying second, Shane thinks he’s made a horrible mistake. He’s crossed a line. He’s ruined it. He should've known, they only do this sometimes and tonight wasn’t-
But then Ilya lets out a shuddering breath, and his head falls back against the door with a soft thud. “Shane,” he breathes, looking at Shane through his dark lashes. His name sounds like a warning and a prayer on Rozanov’s lips. “Are you-”
Shane swallows hard, his throat tight. He can feel the heat of Ilya through the denim, the solid, undeniable proof of his arousal. Can feel the hardness of his cock and it's terrifying and exhilarating all at once. He keeps his hand where it is, a steady, grounding pressure.
“I want to-” Shane says, the words barely a whisper. He doesn’t know what he wants. He’s ashamed of the tremor in his voice, the way his confidence is leaking out of him. He’s not exactly a blushing virgin, but compared to Ilya… he knows Ilya has done things he could only imagine himself doing. The thought is a sour knot in his stomach, but he pushes it down. He trusts Ilya. He has to.
Ilya grips his face, pulling it up to force eye contact. “What? What is it you need, Hollander?”
Shane’s face burns as he tries to twist out of Rozanov’s hold. Ilya holds him in place, raising an eyebrow at him, willing him to get on with it. Shane sighs, settling into the hold, “I wanna try sucking you off.”
Ilya’s eyes widen. He makes a choked sound, a cross between a gasp and a groan. His hips jerk forward, a helpless, instinctual movement that presses his cock more firmly against Shane’s palm. Shane’s cheeks burn, but he forces himself to continue, his voice dropping even lower, thick with a shyness he hates but can’t control. “Sorry I just um. I’ve never- I don’t really know what I’m doing.” He pauses, gathering his courage. “You don’t have to but, will you…will you teach me?”
There. He’s said it. He’s laid himself bare, exposed the raw, inexperienced nerve endings of his desire. He braces himself for mockery, for a condescending laugh. But it doesn’t come.
Ilya is silent for a long moment, his breathing ragged. Then, slowly, he lifts his head. His eyes are blazing a fire so intense it makes Shane sink into himself. There’s no mockery there. Rozanov looks almost amused, and there’s only a dark, hungry gleam that makes Shane’s blood run hot. He all too aware of how hard his cock is in his own pants. His eyes slide shut as Rozanov’s thumb rubs the side of his jaw.
“You’re sure?” Rozanov asks him. He seems hesitant and Shane opens his eyes because there’s no way. For the entire duration of their “arrangement” hesitant is probably the last word he would use to describe Rozanov. He brings his eyes up to Rozanov’s when Rozanov presses his thumb into Shane’s bottom lip.
”I don’t want to.. force you.” Rozanov’s voice is deep and a bit breathless, his eyes move back and forth as they search Shane’s face and Shane sags a bit in his grip as he nods.
“It's okay,” Shane whispers, like he’s in trouble. “I want it.”
He feels dizzy as he watches a shiver works its way through Rozanov's body.
“Fuck, yes, Hollander. I will teach you.”
The shame in Shane’s gut evaporates, replaced by a dizzying wave of anticipation. Ilya’s hands move from his face to his shoulders, pushing him back, just a step. His gaze is heavy, possessive, as he looks Shane up and down, like he’s a prize he’s just won.
“On your knees, captain,” Ilya says, the title a mocking and affectionate all at once.
Shane’s legs feel weak, but he obeys the command embarrassingly fast, sinking to the floor in one slow, fluid motion. Ilya’s hands slide from his shoulders back up to his cheeks as he descends and the trail they leave feels like a brand. His knees hurt a little from the hard carpet that is digging into his jeans. It hurts but it’s a welcome distraction, another point for his fuzzy mind to focus on. He looks up at Ilya from this new angle, and the sight sends a jolt straight to his own cock. Ilya towers over him, a dark, formidable silhouette against the dim light of the hotel room. He looks like a god, and Shane is at his altar, ready to worship.
Ilya watches him through his lashes, his chest rising and falling with each breath. He brings one hand up, tracing the line of Shane’s jaw with his thumb. “You look good like this,” he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction. “On your knees for me.”
Shane’s dick twitches in his pants. He should be offended, maybe. His pride should sting. But all he feels is a deep, resonant thrum of pleasure. He liked his. He likes the feeling of surrender, of being under Ilya’s scrutiny.
Ilya’s thumb moves from his jaw to his lips, pressing against the plush seam. Shane parts them instinctively, and Ilya slides his thumb inside, stroking over Shane’s tongue. It's invasive, and Shane moans around him, his eyes fluttering shut.
“Mm,” Ilya hums softly, “is going to be easy for you, hm?”
Shane’s face flushes a pretty shade of red. He tries making a face at Ilya, his brows furrowing in what he hopes is discontent. Ilya just pushes down harder.
“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya breathes out, “wider for me.”
Shane complies, his mouth falling open. Ilya adds his index finger, sliding it in alongside his thumb. He explores the wet heat of Shane’s mouth, his fingers tracing the ridges of the roof of his mouth, the slick surface of his teeth. It’s strange and incredibly arousing, a slow, deliberate mapping of his insides. Shane wants to feel him everywhere.
Ilya’s voice is a low rumble. “This is what I will feel,” he muses, “hot and wet. All for me.”
Shane can only whimper in response, his tongue curling around Ilya’s fingers, sucking lightly. He’s completely lost in it, in the feeling of Ilya’s fingers in his mouth, the taste of his skin, the low, hypnotic sound of his voice.
Ilya’s other hand moves to the button of his jeans, flicking it open with practiced ease. The sound of the zipper lowering is impossibly loud in the quiet room. Shane’s eyes fly open at the sound, his gaze locked on the slow, deliberate reveal of skin as Ilya pushes the denim down his hips. There’s no rush. There’s never a rush when Ilya is teaching him something new. It’s a lesson, and Ilya is a patient, thorough professor.
Shane is still on his knees, his mouth full of Ilya’s fingers, and it feels like his world has narrowed to this single point of contact. The carpet biting at his kneecaps, the restrictive denim of his own jeans pressing against his straining erection, the low, steady sound of Ilya’s breathing. It’s all background noise. The main event is the slow, methodical way Ilya is fucking his mouth with his fingers, a gentle, depraved prelude.
“You are beautiful like this, Hollander,” Ilya breathes, the words vibrating down his arm and into Shane’s mouth. “So eager. So willing to learn.”
Tears well up in Shane’s eyes and he doesn’t really know why. He’s so embarrassed and horny and he just wants to do a good job. He lets out a pitiful whine around the fingers in his mouth, a garbled “thank you”.
Ilya notices the tears immediately. He attempts to pulls his hand back slightly, but Shane’s hand comes up so fucking fast it startles Ilya just a bit. Shane’s eyes dart back and forth between Ilya’s. Those eyes that were just glassy and unfocused are sharp now and set intensely on his face. He can’t speak but Ilya knows what Shane’s asking him. Shane’s gag reflex flutters, a quick, panicked tightening, but Ilya’s other hand comes up to cup the back of his neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin there in a soothing, grounding rhythm.
“Okay,” Ilya murmurs, he leans down and presses a kiss to the tip of Shane’s nose. Another one to his forehead. “Okay, baby.”
It’s uncharacteristically tender and Shane doesn’t know what to do with himself. The pet name sends his head spinning and he slumps forward slightly, chasing the contact. Ilya kisses him one more time before returning to standing over Shane. He pets over Shane’s face with his free hand, keeping the other still as Shane sucked. He looks so focused, so set on something that Shane can’t figure out.
Shane sucks harder as Romanov’s fingers trace his brows and slide down to the bridge of his nose. Rozanov’s fingers curl in his mouth. Then, suddenly they’re pushing toward the back of his mouth and gently down his throat.
The muscles in Shane’s throat clench immediately and he gags, loud and wet. His eyes scrunch up as tears fall down his pretty face. The tears are mostly from the sudden intrusion, but also partly because he’s embarrassed. He wasn’t expecting to be an expert the first time, but he’d imagined it would be easier than this. Rozanov hadn’t even got his cock out yet. He tries to pull back slightly, to lessen the stretch, but Ilya’s free hand rests heavy on his jaw.
He tries to pull back slightly, to lessen the stretch, but Ilya’s free hand rests heavy on his jaw.
“Shh,” Ilya murmurs. “Relax your throat for me. Let me in.”
Shane’s throat spasms around Ilya’s fingers as he draws in a shaky breath through his nose. His tears have mixed in with the saliva pooling at his chin and he feels disgusting. But Ilya is looking at him like he wants to eat him.
He forces another breath through his nose, willing the tears away which somehow makes them fall harder. He manages a few more breaths and his throat slowly adjusts to the stretch.
He brings his wet eyes up to Ilya’s and Rozanov coos at him when he sees just how wet they are.
“Good boy,” he murmurs, “Just like that, you’re doing so good.”
The praise is spoken so softly, so possessively. The words land hard and bury themselves in the part of Shane’s brain that needed to hear it most. Ilya is proud of him. He’s struggling, but he’s still doing well. Shane sighs around the fingers, a sigh of relief. A contrast to the lewdness of the moment. Shane feels something inside him go loose, a tight knot of anxiety he hadn’t even realized was there unraveling. The frantic beating of his heart slows, settling into a deep, heavy thrum. The shame about his inexperience is still there, a faint echo in the back of his mind, but it’s distant now, muffled by a thick, warm blanket of submission. He doesn’t know how to do this, how to succeed, but it’s okay. Ilya understands. Ilya is going to teach him.
He’s not thinking anymore, just feeling. He’s taking exactly what Ilya is giving him, no more no less.
Ilya seems to sense the shift. He smiles, a slow, satisfied curve of his lips. He tilts his head, using his free hand to brush back the hair that’s fallen into Shane’s face. “You take it so fucking good, Hollander. Such a fast learner.”
He adds a third finger. The stretch is more noticeable now, an uncomfortable, full pressure. Shane’s jaw is beginning to ache, but it’s a good ache, a reminder of what he’s doing, what he’s allowing. He keeps his eyes locked on Ilya’s, trusting him completely.
“Now, we practice,” Ilya says, his voice has taken on an instructional tone that makes Shane’s cock leak. “Use your tongue. Show me how you will worship me with this mouth.”
He presses his fingers flat against Shane’s tongue, a silent command. Shane obeys, curling his tongue around the digits, licking the sensitive skin between them. He explores the knuckles, the nail beds, tasting salt and Ilya. It’s an act of devotion, and he pours every ounce of his burgeoning worship into it.
“Yes,” Ilya hisses, his hips rocking forward slightly, a helpless movement. “Just like that. The flat of your tongue… so good, baby. Now, suck.”
Shane hollows his cheeks, creating a tight, wet suction. He hears Ilya’s breath hitch, feels the fingers in his mouth twitch. It’s a powerful feeling, knowing he can elicit this reaction Rozanov. It’s usually the other way around, with Rozanov touching him and making him fall apart in ways he didn’t even know he could break. It’s nice to take on that role for once. He’s not the passive recipient anymore, he’s a student, and he’s earning his praise.
“Again,” Ilya commands. “Harder.”
Shane sucks again, harder this time, his cheeks pulling tight. A string of saliva escapes the corner of his mouth, trailing down his chin. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about anything but the dark, pleased look in Ilya’s eyes.
“Beautiful,” Ilya breathes, his gaze fixed on the mess he’s making of Shane’s mouth. “So fucking messy for me. I love it.” Shane’s eyes flutter, a deep red heat spreading down his chest.
Beautiful.
He feels like all sorts of things right now. Filthy, depraved, slutty, but beautiful is not one of them. It can’t be. Not when he has drool spilling past his lips and down the hard muscles of his chest. Not when his tears have blurred his vision so badly he can barely see Ilya standing above him. No, he doesn’t feel beautiful at all. But the look on Ilya’s face is so intense when he says the word, so sincere, he has almost no choice but to believe him.
Ilya pulls his fingers out, and Shane whines at the loss, his mouth feeling empty. His lips are swollen, slick with spit. He must look wrecked. He feels wrecked.
Ilya crouches down in front of him, bringing them eye to eye. It’s a disorienting change of perspective. He’s not looming over Shane anymore he’s with him, on his level. His gaze is intense, searching.
“You are with me?” he asks, his voice softer now, almost gentle. His eyes move back and forth as he searches Shane’s eyes. Shane gathers all the strength he has to focus his eyes and give him a nod. He sways on his knees as Ilya drags a finger though the mess.
“Good,” Ilya says, bringing both hands up to frame Shane’s face.
His mouth crashes down on Shane’s, a hard, possessive press that’s more impact than kiss. It’s a claiming. Shane’s lips part on a gasp, a reflexive surrender, and Ilya is there to fill the space. It’s a kiss of consumption. Ilya’s tongue is a hot, wet force, delving deep, mapping the inside of Shane’s mouth with a thoroughness that makes his head spin.
Ilya's kissing him, devouring him. He’s licking over his teeth, stroking the roof of his mouth, coaxing Shane’s own tongue into a slow, dirty dance that’s less about rhythm and more about dominance. Shane can’t breathe, can’t think. He feels the scrape of Ilya’s stubble against his chin, a delicious, raw friction. He feels the hand fisted in his hair, holding him exactly where Ilya wants him, a silent command to stay, to take it.
It’s wet. Messy. Saliva slicks their chins, smears across their cheeks. There’s a low, obscene sound in the back of Shane’s throat, a needy whimper he can’t contain, and Ilya swallows the noise, swallows him whole. One of Shane’s hands finds Ilya’s crotch, cradling him through the layers of his clothing. He shifts, grinding his hips down,into the pressure and the hard line of his cock against Shane’s hand is a brutal, thrilling promise. The kiss deepens, becomes something even more primal. Ilya sucks on Shane’s tongue, a deep, pulling suction that makes Shane’s toes curl. It’s a filthy, intimate, and Shane’s body arches into it, a desperate plea for more.
Shane feels like he’s being unraveled, like every defense he’s ever built is being stripped away, layer by layer, by the relentless, invasive heat of Ilya’s mouth. He’s being marked, claimed from the inside out. When Ilya finally pulls back, it’s only by an inch, their lips still brushing, their breath mingling in the damp air. Shane is panting, his lips swollen and tingling, his face a mess of spit and tears he didn’t realize were falling. Ilya’s eyes are dark, fathomless pools of hunger, as he looks at Shane’s wrecked, debauched face. Like he’s admiring a masterpiece he just created.
“Okay?” Ilya rasps, his voice a low, possessive growl, before he dives back in for another taste.
Shane can only nod, his throat too tight to form words.
Ilya hums, a flicker of something like pride in his eyes. He slaps Shane’s cheek once before pulling his lips away with an obscene smack. He brings his wet fingers to Shane’s lips again, but this time, he doesn’t push them down his throat. Instead, he traces the line of Shane’s teeth, one by one. It’s a strange, devoted act. He taps a fingernail against a canine, then drags his thumb across the sharp edge of an incisor.
“So pretty,” Ilya murmurs, like he’s talking to himself. “So sharp. They will feel so good dragging against my skin.”
The thought sends a jolt of pure electricity through Shane’s system. He wants that. He wants to mark Ilya, to leave his teeth on him. He makes a noise in the back of his throat, leaning his head forward so his canine digs into Ilya’s thumb. He begs with his eyes.
“Later,” Ilya promises, seemingly reading his mind.
He stands up, resuming his position over Shane. He pushes his jeans and boxers down his thighs in one smooth motion, and his cock springs free. Shane’s breath catches in his throat. He’s seen it before, in glimpses, felt it through layers of clothing, but seeing it like this, hard and flushed and curving up towards Ilya’s stomach, is another thing entirely. It’s intimidating and beautiful.
Ilya wraps a hand around the base, stroking himself slowly. Shane’s eyes are drawn to the veins that snake around the pale skin of his hand. To the way his fingers shine with his saliva.
“Watch,” Ilya says. “Watch what you do to me.”
Shane watches, mesmerized. He watches the way Ilya’s thumb smears the bead of pre-come over the head, the way his fingers grip, the flex of the muscles in his forearm. It’s the most erotic thing he’s ever seen.
“Now,” Ilya says, his voice dropping back into that low, commanding register. “Open.”
Shane opens his mouth, wide and willing. This time, Ilya doesn’t hesitate. He pushes his fingers back in, deeper than before, and Shane feels the head of Ilya’s cock brush against his cheek. It’s a fleeting, teasing touch, and it makes him whimper. He pulls his head back so that Ilya’s fingers slide out. He’s getting impatient.
“Please,” he mumbles, voice absolutely wrecked, “want it now. Please.” He turns his head slightly, pressing a small kiss to the head of Ilya’s cock.
“Almost” Ilya soothes. “You have to be able to take it. All of me.” He pushes his fingers back into Shane’s mouth going deep. There’s a small amount of resistance when they reach the back of his throat, but Ilya waits for a beat before pushing the, even further. The resistance gives way and Ilya’s fingers softly slide down his throat. It’s the farthest Rozanov has gone and Shane feels dizzy. The gag reflex is stronger this time, an uncontrollable convulsion. Tears spring to his eyes immediately.
“Breathe, through your nose” Ilya instructs, his voice a steady anchor in the rising tide of panic. “Focus on my voice. I have you.”
Shane gasps for air through his nose, the action difficult with his mouth so full. Tears continue to spill over, tracking hot paths down his cheeks. He feels messy, degraded, and more turned on than he has ever been in his life.
Ilya groans at the sight, a low, guttural sound of pure, unadulterated arousal. “Fuck. Look at you. Crying for me. So pretty, Hollander.”
He shoves his fingers deeper, a deliberate, testing pressure. Shane gags again, his body lurching forward. He can’t distinguish between the saliva and tears at this point. He can feel snot starting to trickle from his nose. It’s humiliating. It’s glorious.
“Again,” Ilya says, his voice tight with pleasure. Shane can see through blurry eyes how Romanov’s cock is red and hard against his thigh. He’s getting off on this. “Take it again.”
He pulls back, then pushes in, setting a slow, shallow rhythm, fucking Shane’s throat with his fingers. He watches with glazed eyes as his fingers slide in and out of Hollander’s throat. Each thrust forces a choked sound from Shane’s chest, each retreat allows him a gasp of air. He’s floating, adrift on a sea of sensation. The burn in his throat, the ache in his knees, the throbbing in his own cock, the steady, reassuring presence of Ilya’s voice.
Ilya is watching him, his eyes dark and hungry, drinking in every tear, every choked gasp, every moment of Shane’s surrender. He loves this. Shane can see it in the tense line of his shoulders, in the way his own breathing has grown ragged. He loves the control, loves the teaching, loves the way Shane falls apart so beautifully for him.
“You are doing so well,” Ilya praises, his voice rough. “So perfect for me. I think you are ready for the real thing.”
He pulls his fingers out of Shane’s mouth, leaving him empty and gasping. Shane’s face is a mess of saliva and tears, his face a wreck. He looks up at Ilya, his vision blurry, his cheeks flushed, and waits for his next command. He would wait forever.
”Messy boy,” Ilya says softly as he looks down at him. His expression a mixture of raw lust and something softer, something that looks terrifyingly like affection. He reaches down, his thumb gently wiping away the tear track on Shane’s cheek, smearing the moisture into his skin. It’s not a tender gesture, not really. It’s possessive. A mark. He's claiming the mess.
“Look at you,” Ilya murmurs, his voice low and rough, devoid of any softness now. It’s pure observation, a statement of fact. “Wrecked. And I haven’t even put my cock in your mouth yet.”
The words are a slap of reality, sharp and electrifying. Shane is struck with a brief sense of deep shame. It’s contrasted immediately by his own cock, still trapped and aching, giving a painful throb. He has to admit that he is past the point of shame. All that’s left is an animalistic need to please, to be used, to fulfill the purpose Ilya is carving out for him. He lets out a whine, grinding his hips into the floor.
Ilya steps closer, his legs bracketing Shane’s shoulders. The head of his cock, flushed and leaking, bumps against Shane’s swollen bottom lip. It’s a silent question, a final point of no return. Shane doesn’t hesitate. He leans forward, chasing the contact, and opens his mouth.
Ilya doesn’t thrust in immediately. He just rests the weight of his cock on Shane’s tongue, letting him feel the heat, the solid, undeniable reality of it. “Taste it,” he commands. “Make me feel good.”
Shane obeys. He sighs as the weight of Ilya’s cock settles against his tongue. He explores the sensitive underside, the ridge of the head, the salty, bitter taste of his pre-come. It’s intoxicating. He laps at it like a man dying of thirst, his hands coming up to rest on Ilya’s thighs, clinging to him for balance.
“Good,” Ilya grunts, his hand coming to rest on the back of Shane’s head, his fingers tangling in his hair. It’s almost caress but it’s more like a grip, a promise of control. “Now, show me what you’ve learned.”
He pushes in slowly, giving Shane time to adjust. Shane’s hands tighten on Ilya's thighs, his nails digging into the flesh. The stretch is immense, a burning, full sensation that steals his breath. He focuses on his breathing, just as Ilya taught him, his nostrils flaring as he takes in air. He feels the head of Ilya’s cock press against the back of his throat, and his body tenses, the familiar panic rising. Ilya’s thumb is stroking the hinge of Shane’s jaw, a slow, rhythmic pressure that feels more like a command than a caress. He’s not saying anything, and the silence is its own kind of instruction.
Shane’s eyes are watering. He can feel the sting, the heat of it pricking at his lashes as he struggles to keep his throat open, to take what Ilya is giving him. It’s a slow, deliberate push, a test of endurance and trust. Ilya’s cock is heavy on his tongue, a solid, unyielding presence that fills him completely.
Ilya shifts. One hand slides from Shane’s hair, and for a heart-stopping second, Shane feels the loss of that it and a sharp pang of panic travels up his spine. But then Ilya’s fingers are tracing the line of his jaw again, his knuckles brushing against the sensitive skin of Shane’s neck. His touch is impossibly gentle. “Shh,” Ilya murmurs, the sound a low vibration that Shane feels more than hears. “Easy, baby. Easy.”
His fingers find the damp strands of hair clinging to Shane’s temple. He brushes them back, tucking the hair behind Shane’s ear with a care that feels so gentle, so at odds with the way his cock is lodged deep in Shane’s throat. The gesture is so tender it makes Shane’s chest ache.
Shane gags again, a reflexive, helpless spasm. His body is trying to reject the intrusion, but Ilya’s hand is firm on the back of his head, holding him in place. He doesn’t pull back. He doesn’t let up. He just waits, his other hand stroking Shane’s hair, a soothing, repetitive motion.
“Breathe,” Ilya says again, his voice a soft anchor in the storm of Shane’s sensation. “Just breathe. I have you.”.
Shane forces a shaky inhale through his nose, the air burning in his lungs. The urge to fight it is overwhelming, but Ilya’s touch is a grounding weight, a silent promise that he won’t let him drown. He can feel the tension in his own shoulders, the strain in his neck, and then, slowly, it begins to ebb.
Ilya must feel it too. He presses in a fraction deeper, a slow, inexorable slide that steals the air from Shane’s lungs. His fingers are still tangled in Shane’s hair, his thumb stroking the soft skin behind his ear. The contrast is dizzying—the brutal intimacy of the act, the almost reverent way Ilya is touching him.
“Look at you,” Ilya whispers, his voice thick with something that sounds like awe. “So good for me. So beautiful like this.”
Shane can’t answer. He can only close his eyes and surrender, letting the tears track silently down his cheeks as Ilya’s fingers tighten in his hair, holding him right where he wants him.
“Easy,” Ilya’s voice cuts through the haze again. “Relax. Let me in. You know how.”
And he does. He sinks into that quiet, floaty space Ilya showed him, letting the sensations wash over him without resistance. He feels his throat muscles loosen, and Ilya slides deeper, the glide smooth and relentless. He doesn’t stop until his nose is pressed against the coarse hair at Ilya’s base, until he’s taken all of it.
The feeling is overwhelming. Fullness. Pressure. The lack of air. It should be terrifying, but it’s not. It’s a kind of baptism, a drowning that feels like being born. He’s completely at Ilya’s mercy, and the knowledge is a heady, powerful drug.
Ilya holds him there for a long moment, letting him get used to the feeling. Shane can feel the pulsing of the thick vein in his cock, a steady, reassuring rhythm against his tongue. His own eyes are watering again, his lungs starting to burn for air, but he doesn’t pull back. He waits for Ilya’s permission.
Finally, Ilya pulls out, just enough to let Shane gasp in a ragged breath. The air feels cold in his raw throat. Before he can take another, Ilya pushes back in, setting a slow, shallow rhythm.
“Look at me,” Ilya commands.
Shane forces his eyes upward, locking his gaze with Ilya’s. The look on Ilya’s face is one of intense concentration, of pure, unadulterated pleasure. His lips are parted, his breath coming in harsh pants. His eyes are dark, fixed on Shane’s mouth, on the way his cock disappears between his lips.
The small amount of control he was exerting earlier snaps. Shane senses it in the air, in the tension in Ilya’s thighs beneath Shane’s hands. The slow, deep slide becomes a rhythm, a steady, rocking pulse. Ilya’s fingers, which had been stroking, now curl into a fist in Shane’s hair, a firm anchor. The first real thrust force Shane’s eyes open. It’s deeper this time, faster, and his body rebels. A choked sound escapes him, wet and broken, and saliva floods his mouth, dripping from the corners of his lips. It’s messy, obscene, and he can’t stop it.
Ilya doesn’t stop either. He sets a pace, a relentless, hypnotic rhythm of retreat and advance. Each time he pushes back in, Shane’s throat constricts, a desperate, futile attempt to accommodate. His fingers dig into the hard muscle of Ilya’s thighs, nails biting into the flesh. He’s holding on for dear life because the world is starting to tilt at the edges. The dizziness is a slow creep, a gray haze blurring his vision. He can feel the tears now, not just stinging but flowing freely, hot tracks on his cold cheeks. The come from pure, overwhelming sensation. His jaw aches, his throat is raw, and every nerve ending is alight. It’s too much, and he undoubtedly wants more.
Through the blur of tears, he looks up. Ilya is watching him, his head slightly tilted, his lips parted. His expression is one of utter, drunk fascination. He looks like a man discovering a new continent, a new world of sensation, and it’s all written on Shane’s face. “You are a mess,” Ilya breathes, his voice rough, wrecked with pleasure. He punctuates the words with a sharp thrust that makes Shane gag, a deep, guttural sound. “Look at you. So fucking beautiful.”
Shane can only moan in response, a helpless, desperate noise that’s lost around the flesh filling his mouth. Drool slicks his chin, his chest, making the skin feel cool and exposed. He’s being taken apart, piece by piece, and Ilya is the one holding the blueprint. Ilya’s hips move faster, the rhythm becoming erratic, losing its polished edge. He’s chasing his own end now, and the sight of him losing control, of the composed, untouchable Ilya Rozanov coming undone because of him, is what finally shatters Shane. He feels a pulse deep in his own groin, a desperate, aching need, and he pushes his head forward, taking more, wanting to be the one to break him completely.
“Shane,” Ilya gasps, his grip tightening almost painfully. “Shane, look at me.”
Forcing his eyes open through the haze of tears and oxygen deprivation is probably the hardest thing he’s ever done. He meets Ilya’s gaze, and what he sees there sends a final, powerful jolt through him. It’s depraved, it’s debauched, it’s pure, unadulterated lust, and it’s all for him. Ilya’s eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide, drinking in the sight of Shane on his knees, ruined and weeping and utterly his.
“Your mouth is perfect,” Ilya grits out, his thrusts becoming a little deeper, a little harder. “Made for this. Made for me.”
He picks up the pace, his hips rocking in a steady rhythm. Each thrust pushes a choked sound from Shane’s chest, each retreat allows him a desperate gasp for air. Saliva is pooling in his mouth, dripping from his lips, slicking Ilya’s cock and his own chin. It’s messy, depraved, and utterly perfect.
Ilya’s grip in his hair tightens, holding him in place as he fucks his mouth in earnest. There’s no gentleness now, only a raw, primal need. Shane is just a vessel, a hole to be used, and he revels in it. He feels Ilya’s cock hitting the back of his throat with every thrust, the sensation no longer painful but a dull, throbbing ache that only adds to his arousal.
“Touch yourself,” Ilya commands, his voice strained. “I want to see you come with my cock in your throat.”
It’s an order Shane is desperate to obey. He fumbles with the button of his own jeans, his hands clumsy with need. He shoves them down just enough, freeing his own erection. He’s so hard it hurts. The head is already slick with precome. He wraps a hand around himself, the touch a relief.
He strokes himself in time with Ilya’s thrusts, his grip tight, his movements frantic. He’s embarrassingly close already, teetering on the edge. The combination of Ilya’s cock in his mouth, the taste of him, the sound of his voice, the feeling of being so completely owned is too much.
“Look at me when you come,” Ilya demands.
Shane forces his eyes open, his vision blurry with tears. He looks up at Ilya, at the dark, possessive hunger in his eyes, and lets go. His orgasm crashes over him, a blinding, overwhelming wave of pleasure. He cries out around Ilya’s cock, the sound muffled and choked. His come spills over his hand, hot and sticky.
The feeling of Shane coming, the vibrations of his moan around his cock, is enough to push Ilya over the edge. He thrusts in deep, one last time, and holds himself there as he comes, pouring himself down Shane’s throat. Shane swallows instinctively, his throat working to take it all, the taste bitter and perfect.
For a long moment, they’re both still, the only sound in the room their ragged breathing. Then, slowly, Ilya pulls out. The world rushes back in a dizzying wave. The pressure is gone, and Shane is gasping, dragging ragged, wet breaths into his abused throat. He stays on his knees for a moment, head bowed, his body trembling with the aftershocks. Spit and tears and cum are cooling on his face, a sticky, shameful mask. His jaw feels unhinged. He feels empty, hollowed out in the best possible way.
He looks up at Ilya, who is looking down at him with an expression that’s almost unreadable. It’s not softness, not affection. It’s something darker, more primal. Satisfaction. Possession.
Ilya reaches down, grabbing Shane by the arm and hauling him to his feet. His legs are shaky, and he stumbles, falling against Ilya’s chest. Ilya’s arms come around him, holding him up. Hands run up and down his spine and he breathes hard, trying to dispel the wave of dizziness.
“Lesson over,” Ilya says, his voice a low and playful rumble against Shane’s ear. “You passed.”
The words hangs in the air between them, thick with finality. A stamp of approval on a performance Shane didn’t know he was auditioning for. His body is still trembling from the force of his orgasm, his legs feeling like they might give out at any second. He’s a mess, his face sticky with tears and saliva, his hand covered in his own come, his throat a raw, throbbing reminder of what he’s just done.
Ilya holds him up, his grip an unyielding band of steel around Shane’s arms. He buries his face in the crook of Shane’s neck, his own breathing harsh and uneven. Shane can feel the frantic beat of Ilya’s heart against his own chest, a wild thing that’s only now beginning to slow. He’s not holding Shane out of affection. He’s grounding himself. Using Shane’s body to come back to himself.
Shane just stands there, limp and pliant in his arms. He feels used, in every sense of the word. He feels debased and degraded, and a dark, sick part of him thrills in it. He wanted this. He asked for it. And now, he’s bearing the consequences. The quiet, the aftermath, is almost harder than the act itself.
Finally, Ilya pulls back, just enough to look at him. His eyes are no longer blazing with that predatory hunger. They’re dark, hooded, and assessing. He looks at Shane’s face, at the tear tracks and swollen lips, and his expression doesn’t change. It’s a look of ownership, of quiet satisfaction, like a man admiring a well-worn piece of leather.
“You are disgusting,” Ilya says, his voice flat, devoid of any emotion. He wipes a smear of cum from Shane’s cheek. “Beautiful.”
It’s delivered with the same detached observation he’d use to comment on the weather. And it sends a fresh jolt of arousal through Shane’s already spent body. He is disgusting. He’s on his knees in a hotel room, covered in his own tears and another man’s come, and he’s never felt more alive.
Ilya lets go of him, and Shane sways on his feet, his knees protesting. Ilya doesn’t offer to help him. He just watches, his arms crossed over his chest, as Shane stumbles over to the edge of the bed and sinks down onto the mattress. The bed is still made, the crisp white sheets a stark contrast to the filth coating Shane’s skin.
He feels a sudden, overwhelming urge to clean himself up, to wash away the evidence of his surrender. He starts to get up, to head for the bathroom, but Ilya’s voice stops him.
“Where are you going?”
Shane freezes, his hand on the edge of the mattress. “To… to clean up.” He stands there, in the middle of the room, feeling the cooling mess on his face and the yawning emptiness inside him. He feels used, and the worst part is the sick, thrilling part of him that wants to be used again. His brain is already thinking of the next time Ilya will decide to break him, just so he can feel the exquisite agony of being put back together. Or left in pieces. When it comes to Ilya, they often feel the exact same way.
“No,” Ilya says. It’s a single word, but it carries the weight of a command. He walks over to the mini-fridge, pulling out a bottle of water. He twists the cap off and takes a long drink, his throat working. Then he walks back over to Shane, holding out the bottle.
“Drink.”
Shane takes it, his fingers brushing against Ilya’s. The touch is electric. He unscrews the cap and drinks, the cool water a soothing balm on his raw throat. He drinks half the bottle before stopping, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
Ilya takes the bottle from him and sets it on the nightstand. He’s still fully dressed from the waist up, his shirt still perfectly pressed, a stark contrast to Shane’s disheveled state. He looks down at Shane, his gaze sweeping over him, from his messy hair to his exposed, softening cock.
“You did well,” Ilya says, his voice still flat, but there’s a note of something else in it now. A grudging respect, maybe. “For a first time.”
Shane’s cheeks burn. The shame he thought he’d banished comes rushing back, a hot, suffocating wave. He knows he was clumsy, that he probably used his teeth too much, that his rhythm was off. He was a desperate, fumbling amateur, and Ilya was a patient, indulgent teacher.
“I’m sorry if I-” he starts, but Ilya cuts him off.
“Do not apologize,” he says, “I liked it.”
He reaches out, his fingers tracing the line of Shane’s jaw. His touch is surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to his harsh words. “You have a lot to learn. But you are a good student. You listen very well, surprisingly.”
Shane huffs as he leans into the touch, a silent plea for more. He craves Ilya’s approval, his praise, his touch. It’s a dangerous addiction, one he knows he’ll never be able to shake.
Ilya’s thumb drifts down, stroking over Shane’s bottom lip, which is still swollen and tender. “Your mouth is ruined,” he murmurs, a flicker of something dark in his eyes that quickly gets reigned in.
He leans down, his face inches from Shane’s. He presses his lips to Shane’s in a kiss that feels too soft for what just happened. Too innocent for the way he’s just been tainted.
“I can hear you thinking,” Rozanov murmurs, “what is it?”
Shane’s mind is a blank, a white noise of static and sensation. He can’t form a coherent thought. All he can do is feel. “Nothing,” he whispers, “I- I’m dirty.” Rozanov laughs, airy and clipped.
“Yes, you just sucked my dick. Very messy process, hm?” He pushes himself up from Shane’s level and disappears into the bathroom. He returns with a damp washcloth, kneeling down in front of Shane.
“You know,” he mumbles, “would be much easier if you got up.” But Ilya doesn’t rush him, doesn’t make him stand.
That, somehow, is worse.
Shane stays where he is, skin hypersensitive, as Ilya runs the cloth across his face. The room smells warm and lived-in and wrong in a way that’s going to haunt him later. He can feel everything, air moving across his mouth, the ache settling low in his jaw, the faint tremor in his hands he hasn’t been able to stop yet. His body hasn’t caught up with the fact that the moment is already ending.
The scrape of the cloth against his skin is almost too loud in the quiet that’s fallen between them. He brushes against Shane’s nose and lips with care, slow like he’s buying time, like he’s choosing this exact shape of his goodbye. When he touches Shane again it’s different, cooler, controlled, the gentleness of someone restoring order after damage has been done.
Shane closes his eyes.
He lets himself be cleaned, lets the evidence be erased piece by piece. The towel is rough but it’s cancelled out by Ilya’s gentleness. The contrast makes his breath hitch despite himself. He hates that his body still reacts, that it doesn’t know how to tell the difference between tenderness and dismissal. He keeps his hands at his sides, fingers curled into the sheets, and focuses on not reaching for Ilya’s wrist, not giving himself away in that small, devastating way.
“There,” Ilya murmurs, low and calm.
The word lands heavier than it should.
Shane opens his eyes just in time for Ilya’s hand to slide up, thumb brushing along his jaw. The touch is brief but intimate, grounding and destabilizing all at once. Then Ilya kisses him soft, and closed mouth, a kiss that carries none of the hunger from before. It’s a closing gesture. A seal.
Shane leans into it without meaning to.
The moment breaks immediately. Ilya pulls back, already stepping away, already reassembling himself into something composed and untouchable. Shane watches him dress with a strange, hollow focus, noticing stupid details the way he threads his belt back on, the way he buttons his pants, the way his shoulders settle once his shirt is readjusted. Like armor snapping into place.
Ilya squares his shoulders, straightening where he stands.
“I have to go,” Ilya says, “get some rest okay?” Shane almost laughs at the ridiculousness of it. Rest feels like a language he no longer speaks. He nods at Ilya, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Goodnight, Rozanov.”
“Goodnight, Hollander.”
The door clicks shut behind him.
The sound is quiet. Final enough to echo.
Shane stays where he is long after, staring at nothing, the absence of Ilya pressing down on the room until it feels larger and colder than it should. There’s no reason for him to feel the way he does, this is how it always goes afterall.
Eventually, the chill seeps in, and he forces himself to move. The bathroom light is harsh, unforgiving. He turns on the shower and steps under the spray, sighing as hot water hits skin that still feels too exposed, too aware.
He scrubs himself slowly, deliberately, like if he takes his time he can rinse away more than just the physical remnants. The water beats down on him, steam fogging the mirror, blurring his reflection into something unrecognizable. He presses his forehead to the tile and lets the heat burn the thoughts quiet for a moment.
And then, traitorously, the truth slips in.
He hadn’t wanted Ilya to leave.
Not like that. Not with efficiency and a kiss that meant this is all, see you next time you decide to want to have a new sexual experience with me. Shane sighs, scrubbing his hands over his face. Some reckless, foolish part of him had wanted the aftermath to stretch, to sit in the quiet together, to share space without needing to prove anything. To be chosen in a way that didn’t evaporate the second it was over.
One of these days, he thinks, the realization settling heavy in his chest, he’s going to want more than what Ilya is willing to give. Maybe he already does.
The water keeps running. Shane lets it, standing there until his skin is pink and tender and the room is thick with steam, because stepping out means facing the silence and the fact that he already misses someone who was never planning to stay.