Chapter Text
It all started on Valentine's Day.
Which, like all Valentine’s Days since they’d gone public, was a spectacle Shane pretended to hate. He often complained about all the unnecessary products sold on this day because Ilya loved to then buy him those same unnecessary products so Shane could scold him. It was a banter ritual they enjoyed thoroughly. Rose found it hilarious and Svetlana found it cute and Shane… Shane just loved every time Ilya would be giddy to give him something that guaranteed Shane’s cute (in Ilya’s opinion) angry expression and adorable (again, in Ilya’s opinion) pout.
So yes, Shane liked to complain about the pink bows and balloons adorning the many shops on Valentine’s Day, so it wasn’t out of form when he made comments about the many scandalous bras and panties that were being shown off in a boutique window.
“It doesn’t even work, that one doesn’t even have a crotch,” Shane murmured under his breath, cheeks pink. Ilya just laughed at him, wrapping a solid arm around his waist and pulling him close against his side. The familiar scent of Ilya’s cologne and the cold, clean winter air filled Shane’s senses.
“Women love to show off for their men,” Ilya shrugged, already eyeing a gigantic teddy bear in the next window over–a bear Shane had very loudly called a waste of money just moments before. “Get all sexy in panties and bra and seduce them.”
Ilya had then turned them a corner, and Shane didn’t even complain about going in the opposite direction of the cafe he wanted to visit. No, he was too busy thinking about what Ilya had said.
Show off. Sexy. Seduce.
He could do that, right? Ilya had been with women before him; he’d probably like it too if Shane did those things, considering he already loved Shane. A warm, tentative hope bubbled in his chest. Yeah, he could show off and be sexy and seduce his husband.
–
He can’t do it. He can’t do any of it.
Months later, the memory of that conversation felt like ash in his mouth. It was their five-year anniversary in one week, and Shane had wanted to do something special. After the whole magic pussy for 24 hours thing–which Ilya liked to teasingly call ‘The Peach Situation’–it was blindingly obvious his husband enjoyed that specific part of him. Yes, he knew Ilya loved his cock and balls as well; he had spent enough hours choking on it and making Shane cry for him to stop. But there was something about the wetness and nonexistent refractory period of a magic pussy that got his husband going feral and gave Shane the most dizzying, bone-melting orgasms of his life.
So, Shane had created an anonymous Etsy account and had been messaging a witch, posing as a crazy fan who wanted to ruin Shane Hollander’s anniversary by giving him a pussy for 2 days. No, he was not going to reveal that he, Shane Hollander, wanted a pussy for himself. There had been enough leaks about him, he wasn’t about to add “loves getting his magic vagina fucked” to the list.
After that was set, he had spent weeks looking for the best panties and bra, the perfect color, the right texture. He had taken his measurements after Ilya was asleep, had it all delivered when Ilya was out at practice, and was currently trying it on after sending his husband on a mandatory friend date with Svetlana.
The article he’d read said white for virginity kink, but it looked so… strange on him. Too bright, too shiny against his hockey-player skin, which was tanned and littered with pale scars and moles.
The article had suggested satin and lace but the lace scratched at his sides and the satin straps dug into his broad shoulders. It was bothering his skin, felt wrong, sticking in places that made him want to peel it off, loose in places that made it feel like he was a child trying on his parent’s clothing.
Sure, once he got the pussy, the panties would fit better–the space where his cock and balls currently struggled to exist wouldn’t be a problem–but the bra made him look… stupid. Comically stupid. Shane covered his soft, muscular chest with his hands as he stared into their full-length mirror before looking back down at the open website on his phone.
The woman in the ad was smiling–probably because she was paid for it–but still, she looked so happy, confident, sexy. Everything that Shane didn’t feel. The bra fit the gentle curves of her chest. The panties hugged her hips like a second skin, not biting into the flesh or cutting weirdly around the waist. She looked… mesmerizing. Seductive. Everything Ilya had seen women look like. Everything Shane Hollander could never look.
He knew Ilya found him cute, pretty, hot. But Shane was too awkward to be mesmerizing, too direct to be sexy, too shy and blunt to be seductive. And apparently, it wasn’t just his mind because even his body was betraying him now.
Stupid. He felt so fucking stupid. Shane wiped angrily at his eyes, he looked like a child playing dress-up as it was, he didn’t want to cry like one, too.
But he had spent so long finding the perfect set that could somewhat fit his masculine frame, that could maybe, magically, make him look feminine and enticing for their special day.
Shane chuckled, the sound bitter and choked in the quiet room. Why did he even bother? It wasn’t like Ilya cared how he looked. Shane could wear a garbage bag and Ilya would get hard for him. But that was the thing–Ilya didn’t care how he looked because there was nothing about Shane to look at in that way. He didn’t tease Ilya with his body or seduce him with his face or even pose for him in something hot and skimpy like Ilya did for him. His husband only cared about getting him out of his stupid, boring clothes so he could get to his body and worship him.
But Shane wanted Ilya to look. He wanted to be sexy for Ilya, to be… more than just pretty and cute and adorable.
It was so… so incredibly stupid. He was wearing this stupid bra and these stupid panties because his husband loved him for more than his body. This was all so fucking stupid, and Shane was fucking crying. God, this was embarrassing–
There was a soft creak from the hallway.
Shane turned, his heart lurching into his throat, to see Ilya standing frozen in their bedroom doorway, his jacket still on. His blue eyes were wide, taking in the scene: Shane, standing half-naked in ill-fitting white lace, face blotchy with tears.
No. No no no.
No, fuck no, this was not happening.
Shane moved on pure panic, lunging for the bed to hide under the sheet, but he stubbed his toe hard against the bedpost because he was so fucking uncoordinated on anything that wasn’t ice. A sharp gasp of pain escaped him and then Ilya was moving, crossing the room in two long strides.
“Hey, hey, Shane, baby,” Ilya’s voice was soft, but Shane wasn’t hearing it. He was trying to drown himself in the duvet, but he couldn’t because he was just so big and muscular and… and he loved his body on the ice, he did, but it wasn’t helping now, and he hated that he couldn’t contort himself into the shapes he wanted, into the vision Ilya deserved. “Shane, listen to me. Please don’t hide from me.”
Shane was crying, he realized. Properly crying, shoulders shaking, ugly, hiccupping sobs wrenching out of him. He was spiraling and worrying his amazing husband all because he couldn’t look beautiful in lingerie that he hadn’t even thought of wearing until a few months ago. It was all so stupid.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out, the words muffled by the fabric. “I’m so sorry, I’m so stupid.”
The bed dipped as Ilya sat on the edge. Shane felt a large, warm hand settle on the curve of his shoulder over the sheet. “You are not stupid,” Ilya said, his voice low and firm. “You are my Shane. Can you look at me?”
Shane shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut tighter. He felt a gentle tug on the sheet, not pulling it away, just a request. “Please, zaichik. Let me see your face.”
The pet name, spoken in that tender tone Ilya reserved only for their most vulnerable moments, unraveled something in Shane’s chest. He slowly, reluctantly, let the sheet fall from his head but no further. He kept his eyes downcast, hands clenched in his lap over the horrible satin.
Ilya’s fingers were suddenly under his chin, warm and calloused, tilting his face up. Shane had no choice but to meet his gaze. Ilya’s eyes were searching, soft with concern but also burning with an intensity that made Shane’s breath hitch.
“There you are,” Ilya murmured. His thumb brushed away a tear tracking down Shane’s cheek. “My pretty boy.”
Shane shook his head violently, fresh tears welling. “Don’t,” he whispered, the word cracking.
Ilya’s grip on his chin firmed, not enough to hurt, but enough to hold him steady. “No,” Ilya said, his voice leaving no room for argument. “You are never allowed to deny that. You look the prettiest. The most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”
Shane wanted to believe those words so desperately it was a physical ache. A sob broke from him.
“I wanted… I wanted to be sexy for you. Like those women. On Valentine’s Day. You said… you said they show off.” The words tumbled out between hiccups. “But I look so stupid. And ugly. This is all… wrong on me.”
Ilya’s expression shifted then. The tender concern was still there but it was edged now with something hotter, darker. A possessiveness that always made Shane’s stomach flip. His hand moved from Shane’s chin to sink into his hair, fisting gently but firmly at the roots, holding his head still.
“Listen to me,” Ilya said, his voice dropping into that gravelly register that went straight to Shane’s core. “You are sexy. You are so fucking sexy it drives me out of my mind every single day. Your body is a fucking masterpiece. I see you in your boring sweats and I get hard. I see you chewing your lip while you read and I want to bend you over the couch. I see the way your muscles move when you stretch and I have to walk away or I’ll take you right there.” He leaned closer, his breath ghosting over Shane’s lips. “You are stunning, Shane. You have no idea what you do to me.”
Shane whimpered, the raw, unfiltered hunger in Ilya’s words cutting through the fog of his doubts. He believed him–in that moment, with Ilya’s eyes blazing into his, he had no choice but to believe him.
But then Ilya’s gaze drifted down, over the sheet still pooled around Shane’s shoulders, covering everything below his neck. “Can I see?” he asked, his voice rough.
Panic spiked again, cold and sharp. “No,” Shane breathed, his hands flying to clutch the fabric. “It’s… it’s bad. It’s ugly.”
“Shane,” Ilya said patiently, his hand still a comforting weight in his hair. “Do you trust me?”
“You know I do.”
“Do you trust me to never lie to you? To never lie to you about this?”
Shane swallowed hard, then gave a tiny, jerky nod.
“Then let me see.”
With trembling fingers, Shane loosened his grip on the sheet. Ilya didn’t yank it away; he slowly, carefully, drew it down, exposing Shane fully: the white lace bra sitting awkwardly on his pectorals, the cups gaping and empty; the matching panties cutting into his hips, the fabric straining and bunching in all the wrong places.
Shane flinched, waiting for the laugh, the awkward pause, the well-meaning but ultimately pitying reassurance.
It didn’t come.
Ilya just looked. His eyes traveled slowly, meticulously, from Shane’s shoulders down to his thighs. His expression was unreadable for a long, terrifying second. Then he reached out and hooked a finger under the strap of the bra, pulling it away from Shane’s skin before letting it snap back lightly.
“This,” Ilya stated calmly, “is a piece of shit.”
Shane blinked. “What?”
“This is not your fault,” Ilya continued, his tone shifting into something more neutral. “This bra is not meant for your beautiful, strong chest.” His hand smoothed over Shane’s pec, his thumb rubbing over a nipple through the lace. “It is made for a different shape. A different body. These panties…” He plucked at the waistband biting into Shane’s hip. “They are not made for your hips, for your ass.”
His hand slid around to squeeze Shane’s butt, firm and familiar. “How can you judge yourself in clothing that is not made for your body? That is made for someone completely different? It is like you trying to wear my skates and saying your feet are ugly. It is not… logical.”
Ilya didn’t look at his husband just yet but he knew his words were working. When Shane spiraled like this, sweet words or meaningless reassurances sometimes just washed over him. He needed something practical, something logical that he could work with. A wave of adoration washed over Ilya but he didn’t let himself smile. He didn’t want Shane to mistake his affection for a mock.
“I wanted to surprise you,” Shane whispered miserably. “For our anniversary.”
“And you have,” Ilya said, his lips curving into a small smile, finally looking up at his husband’s beautiful brown eyes. “This is a wonderful surprise. The thought is the sexiest thing you have ever done.” He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Shane’s shoulder. “We can still make it a surprise. You did not ruin anything.”
“But there’s no time,” Shane argued weakly. “It’s next week.”
Ilya’s hands went to the clasp of the bra at Shane’s back. With a deft flick, it came undone. He peeled the irritating lace away and tossed it aside without a second glance. Then he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of the panties. “Lift up,” he instructed softly.
Shane did, and the horrible satin was slid down his legs and discarded onto the floor with the bra. Immediately, Shane felt better. Exposed, but in his own skin again.
Ilya sat back, drinking in the sight of him naked and flushed. “Rose will be in town tomorrow,” he said matter-of-factly. “You will go with her to a boutique. A good one. You will get custom-made lingerie. Get whatever you want–straps, lace, silk, leather, I do not care–because I will love everything that is made for this body.” His hands spanned Shane’s waist, possessive and sure.
The idea was terrifying and thrilling.
“What if… what if I look horrible in everything there, too?” Shane whispered, looking down at the discarded satin that would have looked good on anyone. If that amazing set didn’t work on him, was there even a chance of anything else working?
Ilya’s face hardened again. He took Shane’s face between his hands, palms against his jawline, thumbs stroking his cheekbones. “No one,” he said slowly, each word deliberate, “is allowed to talk about my husband like this. Not even you. I have the prettiest, sexiest husband on this planet.”
A hot blush spread across Shane’s face and down his neck.
A slow, wicked smirk spread across Ilya’s lips. His voice dropped to a husky murmur, meant only for the space between them. “Or maybe… I have the prettiest, sexiest wife.”
A jolt of pure, undiluted shock and heat and dizzying thrill coursed through Shane. His breath caught. “I–I’m not–”
Ilya didn’t let him finish. He pulled Shane close against his chest, one arm wrapping tightly around his waist. His lips brushed the shell of Shane’s ear as he whispered, “My pretty wife should shop for pretty clothes. He should wear them and show off for his husband.”
Shane was melting, heat pooling low in his belly, his earlier misery completely overtaken by the raw need coiling inside him. He felt dizzy with the strangeness of it–the word ‘wife’ echoing in his head–and with how intensely it turned him on.
Ilya’s other hand slid down from his face, over his chest and stomach, lower… His fingers brushed against Shane’s hardening cock where it lay against his thigh. Ilya looked down between them, then back up into Shane’s wide eyes, his own gaze dark with promise.
“Will Ilya’s pretty wife,” he breathed, the words a hot caress against Shane’s skin, “let him suck his cock?”
A broken moan was Shane’s only answer as he was pushed gently back onto the bed, Ilya following him down, mouth already seeking his, hands already mapping his body.
It wasn’t long before Shane was reduced to tears again, though this time the matters were a lot less dire and a lot more… pleasantly torturous. After all, it was not Ilya’s fault his husband, no, his wife looked so pretty when crying and begging for Ilya to please stop I can’t come anymore.
It was not an easy conversation with Rose but she had known him long enough to not judge or laugh when he recalled the gist of what had happened. They sat at her kitchen island, mugs of coffee steaming between them, the morning light filtering through her windows. Shane kept his voice low, his eyes fixed on a scratch on her marble countertop as he mumbled about Valentine’s Day, about wanting to surprise Ilya, about the lingerie disaster. He left out the word “wife” but he told her about the custom order, about wanting something that fit him.
Rose listened, her expression neutral, until he finished. Then she smiled in the way that has always made Shane feel seen and normal, and nodded. “Okay. I know a place. They’re discreet. Let’s go.”
The boutique was nothing like the garish Valentine’s pop-up shops. It was tucked away on a quiet street, the interior all soft lighting, dark wood and velvet curtains. A woman named Elara with a measuring tape around her neck and kind eyes greeted them. Rose gave her a look, a subtle nod, and Elara’s professionalism didn’t waver for a second. She asked Shane what he was looking for.
“Something… for a man,” Shane said, the words feeling clumsy. “But not… masculine. Feminine. But made for… my body.”
Elara didn’t blink. “Of course. Let’s take some measurements and discuss fabrics and styles.”
The measuring tape was cool against his skin but it didn’t feel invasive. Elara noted his shoulder width, the broad taper of his chest, the powerful line of his thighs, his waist-to-hip ratio–all that he had done before but now the purpose wasn’t his body fitting the existing measurements and finding the closest match, it was the garments made for him and only him.
She asked about textures. Shane admitted the lace had irritated him. She suggested silk charmeuse, satin-backed crepe, soft mesh. She showed him designs: a chemise with thin straps and a plunging neckline meant to drape over a flat chest; high-waisted briefs designed to accentuate the curve of a masculine ass; a garter belt with wider bands to sit comfortably on muscular thighs.
“We can do a basque,” Elara suggested, holding up a sketch. “It will give structure here,” she gestured to his torso, “and create a very flattering silhouette. We can line it with silk so it feels soft.”
Shane looked at Rose. She gave him an encouraging smile. “It’s your show, Hollander.”
He thought about it before smiling privately. “I don’t want to hide my stomach.”
Ilya had a fascination for playing with his belly and Shane couldn’t be cruel enough to hide it away.
Elara nodded, making notes.
He ordered more than he had thought of previously and even added a silk robe, sheer and white, because the idea of Ilya peeling it off him made his pulse skip. The delivery was set for the evening before their anniversary and Shane left the shop feeling a lot more easy in his skin.
A week later, the box arrived. It was, for the lack of a better word, substantial. Shane waited until Ilya was distracted–forced to sit through a documentary about deep-sea fish Shane knew he’d hate–before hauling it into their bedroom and locking the door. His heart hammered against his ribs.
He opened the box. Nestled in tissue paper was the lingerie, white like pearls but not shining or stark like the set was before. It didn’t look garish or cheap. It looked expensive, elegant. Made for him.
He looked at the time. 11:45 PM. At exactly midnight, the curse would take effect. He had been precise with the witch. He’d made sure the panties were designed to accommodate his new anatomy, not his old. It had been awkward to explain to Elara without outright saying he was going to magically acquire a pussy but she’d taken it in stride, simply adjusting the pattern.
He stripped naked, the air cool on his skin. He laid the pieces out on the bed and waited, watching the clock on his phone.
11:59.
His mouth went dry.
12:00.
A gasp punched out of Shane and his knees buckled. He caught himself on the edge of the vanity, gripping the cool wood until his knuckles turned white. It wasn’t pain, not exactly. It was a profound, unsettling rearrangement. A deep, internal numbness, like a limb falling asleep but originating from his very core. He could feel tissues shifting, nerves rewiring themselves, a strange, warm-cold tingle spreading through his pelvis. He breathed heavily through his nose, forehead pressed against the mirror, waiting for the sensation to subside. It was more intense than the first time, maybe because he was awake and anticipating it.
Ten minutes later, the feeling faded into a dull, full ache, a heavy awareness between his legs. Shakily, he stood up. He looked down.
The absence was the first thing he noticed. The familiar weight and shape of his cock and balls were gone. In their place was a smooth, vulnerable plane of skin, dipping into a thatch of dark, curly hair.
He turned slowly to face the full-length mirror.
There it was. A pussy. His pussy. The outer lips were fuller than he remembered from the first curse, a deep brownish-pink, swollen with newness. He reached a trembling hand down, his fingers brushing the curly hair. He hesitated, then hooked his thumbs on either side and gently parted the lips.
He bit his lip, a sharp thrill shooting up his spine. His clit was there, a fat, pinkish-brown pearl, already peeking out from its hood. It looked sensitive. It felt sensitive. Everything felt hyper-aware in a way he wasn’t used to feeling.
Shane pressed a tentative finger against his clit and moaned, the sound sharp and loud in the quiet room. A jolt of pure, electric pleasure sparked from that single point. He watched, mesmerized, as slickness began to well from the new, hidden opening within the inner lips, coating them until they shone under the light of the vanity.
He was wet. He was so wet, just from touching himself like this.
He didn’t realize how much he was whining, soft, desperate little sounds, until a heavy fist banged against the bedroom door.
“Shane? Kotik, what are you doing in there?” Ilya’s voice was muffled but thick with playful suspicion. Then, a moment later, after another high-pitched whine escaped Shane’s throat, the banging came again, more insistent. “Are you having fun alone?!” Ilya called, faux-outraged. “That’s not fair! How can you not let me watch? Please, let me watch, baby!”
Shane’s breath hitched. His husband was aware of the custom lingerie, excited for it even, but he had no idea about the curse Shane had bought for their anniversary fun. The secret of it, combined with the dizzying sensations coursing through him, was intoxicating. He really wanted to feel Ilya’s tongue lapping at his new, engorged clit, to feel those clever fingers exploring his slick, tight heat. But he had a plan. He had to wait.
“N-no,” he called back, his voice shaky. He was so close. The tension was coiling unbearably low in his belly. He deserved one orgasm, didn’t he? It wasn’t like he couldn’t come again quickly. The thought made his new cunt pulse.
He sank to his knees on the plush rug before the vanity, facing the mirror. He spread his legs wide, the cool air a shock against his overheated skin. With one hand, he parted his lips again, holding himself open. The reflection was obscene, beautiful, seductive. He could see the pink inner flesh clearly now, glistening and wet. He whined, high and needy, as he brought his other hand back to his clit and rubbed it in fast, tight circles.
“Fuck, Shane, it’s our anniversary!” Ilya’s voice was a growl through the door, followed by another bang. “Don’t torture me like this, baby, please! What have I done to deserve this?!”
Ilya’s voice, the frustration in it, the desire, was the final push. Shane’s leg jerked, his back arched, and a silent scream tore through him as his orgasm crashed over him. It was different–sharper, deeper, radiating out from his cunt in waves that made his toes curl and his vision whiten at the edges. He watched, breathless, as a fresh gush of slick spilled out of him, pooling on the rug beneath his knees.
He slumped forward, panting, forehead resting against the cool glass of the mirror. He was boneless, sated, and utterly soaked. Ilya would love this surprise, wouldn’t he?
“Please, I’m dying here! At least let me clean you up!” Ilya’s plea was half-genuine, half-teasing, completely desperate.
Oh, Shane was sure Ilya would love this surprise.