Archive of Our Own

The crack of Shane’s palm against Ilya’s cheek echoes in the air, but instead of silence, a low, breathy laugh spills from Ilya’s lips. His head lolls to the side, dark blonde hair falling across his forehead, that infuriating grin stretched wide as a beautiful red mark blooms on his skin.

“Think that’s funny?” Shane’s voice is like a blade, cold and sharp, the complete opposite of his usual self.

Ilya’s shoulders shake with amusement. “Your slaps are cute,” he chokes out, voice strained from laughter. “You are going to kiss me next, or keep tapping my face like I am some bitch?”

Shane’s jaw tightens. He steps closer, boots scuffing the wooden floor, and grabs a fistful of that messy hair at the nape of Ilya’s neck. Shane yanks—hard and vindictively, forcing Ilya’s head up until their eyes lock. The laugh dies in Ilya’s throat, replaced by a low, sharp hiss of air between his teeth.

“You think you’re in control here?” Shane murmurs, thumb firmly pressing into the hinge of Ilya’s jaw. “You’re on your knees for me. Hands tied. I could do anything to you right now, and you couldn’t stop me.”

Ilya’s grin flickers for a second, but doesn’t vanish entirely. His eyes dance with something between defiance and anticipation.

“Then do it, Hollander. I am not scared of your fingers, fists, or these ties on my wrists.”

To prove his point, he settles further on his knees, his thighs spreading as he gets more comfortable in the position. His hands go lax against his back, the belt restraining him cool against the sweat on his skin.

Shane’s eyes darken at the sight of him like this. Very rarely does he get to enjoy Ilya like this, submitting to him and pliable. It has taken years of trust to get to this point, and Shane is grateful for every inch of it that Ilya gives him, allowing him to explore and open up like this, letting Shane take the reins.

Without warning, Shane shoves two thick fingers past Ilya’s lips, deep into his mouth, pressing down on his tongue until Ilya gags. Shivers run down Shane’s spine at the sound, something he doesn’t get to hear often from Ilya.

The sudden intrusion makes Ilya’s eyes water, his throat convulse. Shane holds his head steady, fingers sliding further in, feeling the wet heat of Ilya’s mouth, the scrape of teeth as Ilya tries to bite down.

“Go on. Bite me,” Shane whispers, his other hand still twisted in Ilya’s hair. “See what happens next.”

Ilya’s jaw aches, saliva pooling and spilling down his chin. He tries to glare, but the position is too humiliating, too degrading—the taste of Shane’s skin on his tongue, the pressure of those thick fingers pressing more toward his gag reflex. He can’t bite. Can’t even close his mouth fully. He is trapped, forced to suck and drool around the digits shoved inside him.

Shane smirks, seeing the fight drain from Ilya’s eyes, replaced by raw, primal need. He pushes deeper, until his knuckles press against Ilya’s lips, and holds there, curling his fingers down again. Ilya’s throat convulses, a guttural sound escaping him.

“There it is,” Shane says softly, almost tenderly. “There’s the good boy you hide behind all that fight.”

He pulls his fingers out slowly, dragging them over Ilya’s bottom lip, smearing saliva across his cheek and down to his neck.

Ilya gasps, chest heaving, tears streaking his cheeks lightly. His cock is hard, pressed painfully against his boxers, but he can’t hide it. Can’t deny the way his body betrays him. Can’t deny how much he loves this. Loves having Shane lose control and show him what he needs and wants.

Shane sees, of course. He always sees.

“Now,” Shane says, gripping Ilya’s jaw tighter, tilting his face up, “you’re going to learn what happens when you talk back.”

He releases Ilya’s hair, steps back, and unbuckles his belt with deliberate slowness. The metal clinks. Leather slides through loops. Ilya watches, heart hammering, bound and helpless, and for the first time that night, he doesn’t laugh. He holds back a whimper building in his chest, threatening to spill out. He doesn’t fucking whimper, that’s what Shane does. But he can’t help the feeling as it builds, sinking further into a lightheaded feeling of letting go.

The buckle clinks open, and Shane pulls the leather free in one smooth motion, the belt doubling in his fist. He cracks it once against his own thigh—a sharp, warning snap—and Ilya flinches involuntarily, surprise flickering through his wet eyes.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Ilya growls, but his voice cracks, betraying him, letting it be known that he is nothing but desperate.

Shane drops the belt to the floor and hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans. He pushes them down, along with his boxers, in one rough shove. His cock springs free—already half-hard, thick and angry, the head flushed dark. He strokes himself once, twice, watching Ilya’s gaze drop to it, then snap back up.

“Open your mouth,” Shane says, his voice flat and final.

Ilya’s jaw clenches. He shakes his head, but the motion is weak, almost a tremor. Shane steps closer, the tip of his cock brushing Ilya’s parted lips.

“I said open.”

For a long second, Ilya glares up at him, defiance burning. Then his lips fall open, just a fraction—invitation or surrender, it doesn’t matter. Shane takes it. He knows that Ilya knows his safe word; they have gone over it many times before starting this scene. Shane made sure Ilya knew it like the back of his hand. Wolfbird. If he can’t talk, it will be three taps to the thigh or any part of Shane’s body and that means stop. 

Shane pushes forward, not gently or slowly. The head slides past Ilya’s lips, past his teeth, and hits the back of his throat in one smooth thrust. Ilya’s eyes go wide, more tears spilling over, his nose pressed into the dark curls at Shane’s groin. He takes a deep breath, the heady scent of Shane causing precum to coat the front of his boxers even more. He gags, throat convulsing around the intrusion, but Shane holds him there, hands fisting in his hair again, keeping him pinned.

“Breathe through your nose again, just like that,” Shane grunts, pulling back just enough to let Ilya gasp, then thrusting forward again, deeper. “Take it. All of it. I know you can do this.”

Ilya’s hands strain against the belt behind his back, wrists burning lightly, but not too much. A beautiful kind of burn, one that will leave marks just for them to know about. Saliva floods his mouth, drips down his chin, and soaks into the collar of his shirt. He can’t think, can’t do anything but feel—the weight of Shane’s cock on his tongue, the thick pulse of blood against his palate, his musky scent, the ache in his jaw as he is used, mouth stretched wide, throat working helplessly.

Shane sets a rhythm. Hard, punishing thrusts that make Ilya’s nose bump his pelvis, then a slow drag out to let him choke on air, then back in before he can recover. Each push forces a wet, strangled sound from Ilya’s throat, a noise that is half protest, half desperate need. He is starving for it the longer it goes on. Desperate for Shane to keep using him, keep degrading him to nothing but a hole to fuck. Ilya would never do this with anyone else. He would never, ever, let anyone else do this to him. But Shane is different. He trusts Shane and trusts that it is okay to let go of control sometimes because he needs it.

“Look at you,” Shane says, voice rough. “So fucking pretty on your knees, choking on my cock. This is where you belong. Not running your mouth on the ice. Right.” Thrust. “Fucking.” Thrust. “Here.”

Ilya can’t answer. Can’t do anything but take it, tears and spit mixing, his own cock straining painfully against his boxers. He hates how good it feels—the humiliation, the helplessness, the raw dominance of Shane using his mouth like a toy.

Shane feels the shift: the moment Ilya stops fighting, the moment his throat relaxes, his tongue starts moving, starts sucking. Starts getting needier. Submission. A low groan escapes Shane’s lips. He pulls out completely, letting Ilya gasp, a string of saliva connecting his lips to the tip of Shane’s cock. Ilya chases forward, nuzzling into Shane’s thigh like a desperate puppy wanting a bone.

“You like it,” Shane says, not a question. “You fucking love it.”

Ilya licks his lips, tasting Shane and his own saliva. His grin returns, broken and wet, the need to push still hanging in the air.

“Prove it.”

Shane’s eyes glitter. He grabs Ilya by the hair again, yanks him forward, and shoves his cock back in—all the way, burying himself in Ilya’s throat. He wraps his free hand around the top of Ilya’s neck, his grip tight but not dangerous. He holds there, grinding, feeling Ilya’s throat spasm around him. Then he starts fucking his face in earnest, fast and brutal, the wet, sloppy sounds of Ilya’s throat filling the room.

Ilya’s vision blurs. His lungs burn. Every thrust pushes him closer to the edge of passing out, and every withdrawal gives him just enough air to stay conscious. He is drowning in sensation, in the taste of precum, in the scrape of Shane’s nails on his scalp, in the sound of Shane’s ragged breathing and broken moans above him.

“Gonna come down your throat,” Shane growls, pace quickening. “Swallow it all, or I’ll make you clean it off me.”

Ilya can’t nod, can’t speak. He just moans, the sound high and desperate, and that is enough. Shane’s hips stutter, his body tenses, and with a guttural groan, he empties himself into Ilya’s mouth—hot, thick, pulsing.

Ilya chokes, swallows, chokes again, but he keeps his lips sealed, taking every drop as Shane’s cock twitches and softens against his tongue, his throat still working as he swallows greedily.

Shane pulls out slowly, watching Ilya’s throat bob as he swallows the last of it. Ilya’s mouth hangs open, tongue out, lips swollen and red. His eyes are glassy, unfocused, but there is a ghost of a smirk still haunting his face.

“Good boy,” Shane whispers tenderly. “Color?”

“Bright fucking green,” Ilya sighs.

Shane steps back and gives Ilya a moment to breathe. Ilya remains on his knees, chest heaving, belt-burned wrists forgotten, a single tear cutting a clean path through the mess on his cheek. He is so desperate to come, his cock long forgotten, threatening to spill. He nearly did just by the pure force of Shane fucking his throat.

Shane crouches in front of him, grabs his chin, and turns his face side to side, inspecting the damage.“You’re a mess, Rozanov.”

“Your mess,” Ilya rasps, voice shot, but the grin finally breaks through, cracked and filthy.

Shane’s lips twitch. He stands, walks behind Ilya, and grabs the belt binding his wrists. With one sharp tug, he loosens the knot, then pulls Ilya to his feet by the back of his hair.

“Now,” Shane says, pushing him toward the wall, “bend over. I’m not done with you.”

Ilya laughs—hoarse, wrecked, but real—and presses his palms against the cold surface of the wall, arching his back in silent invitation.

Shane steps up behind him, the floorboards creaking under his feet. He doesn’t touch Ilya right away—just stands there, letting the silence stretch, letting Ilya feel the heat of his body without contact. Ilya’s breath comes in ragged pants, his palms flat against the wall, fingers splayed. The leather belt burns on his wrists throb, but he doesn’t lower his arms.

“You’re shaking,” Shane observes, his voice low.

“I’m cold,” Ilya bites out, but the tremor in his voice says otherwise. He is beyond turned on, so much so that he can’t contain it. It vibrates out of him. The soaked front of his shirt doesn’t help; the air conditioning nips at the wet fabric coated in his own saliva.

Shane’s hand lands on Ilya’s hip, fingers digging into the bone through his boxers. He drags them down the curve of Ilya’s round, firm ass, then back up, hooking into the waistband. In one rough motion, he yanks Ilya’s boxers down to his knees. The cold air hits Ilya’s exposed skin, and he hisses, back arching deeper, pressing his ass out in a silent plea.

“Eager now?” Shane murmurs in a mocking tone, palm sliding over the swell of Ilya’s cheek. He squeezes, hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises, then spreads him open with his thumbs. Ilya’s hole is pink and tight, fluttering under the exposure. Shane spits directly onto it—a thick, wet glob that slides down the cleft.

Ilya shudders. “Fucking classy.”

“Shut up. You’re still prepped from before we started this. But I will make sure you’re ready to go.” Shane rubs the spit in with his thumb, the moisture mixing with the lube still present and ready in Ilya’s hole, pressing the tip against the ring of muscle. Ilya’s breath hitches, and he pushes forward just a fraction, breaching the entrance. The resistance is immediate, but not harsh, the tight heat gripping Shane’s thumb like a vise. Ilya’s knuckles go white against the wall.

“More,” Ilya gasps, then bites his lip as if he hadn’t meant to say it.

Shane pulls his thumb out and grabs Ilya’s hips, positioning himself. His cock is rock hard again, the head slick with pre-cum. He lines it up, notching against Ilya’s entrance, and holds there.

“Beg.”

Ilya’s laugh is brittle. “Go fuck yourself, Hollander.” His accent is thick, shaking with arousal.

Shane answers by slamming forward in one brutal thrust, sheathing himself completely. He knows Ilya can take this. He knows Ilya is more than ready for him.

Ilya screams—a raw, broken sound—his body bowing, nails scraping down the plaster as he tries to find purchase. Shane doesn’t give him time to adjust. He pulls back and drives in again, harder, the wet slap of skin filling the room.

Ilya’s legs tremble, threatening to give out, but Shane’s grip on his hips holds him up. Shane wraps his other arm around Ilya’s middle, keeping him in place. Each thrust punches the air from Ilya’s lungs, drives him into the wall, the cold surface rough against his cheek. His cock, trapped against the smooth wall and his thigh, rubs against him with every movement, a painful, grinding pleasure.

“Look at you,” Shane grunts, pace increasing, each stroke deeper than the last. “Taking it like a whore. Is this what you wanted? When you ran your mouth to me on the ice, is this what you were begging for? Hoping for?”

Ilya can’t answer. His mouth hangs open, drool and tears mixing on his chin as he nods over and over. The only sounds he can make are low, guttural moans that match the rhythm of Shane’s thrusts.

Shane’s hand snakes around Ilya’s hip, finding his trapped cock, and wraps his fingers around the shaft. Ilya is already leaking, tip slick and swollen. Shane strokes him in time with his thrusts, rough and fast, no finesse, just friction.

“I am going to feel this for week,” Ilya manages in broken English, voice wrecked.

“Good.” Shane bites down on Ilya’s shoulder, sucking the skin with abandon, hard enough to leave a deep mark, and keeps fucking him.

The dual sensations—the sharp pain of teeth, the stretch of being filled, the calloused grip on his cock—push Ilya toward the edge. He tries to hold back, to deny Shane the satisfaction, but his body has other ideas. His thighs quiver, his balls draw up tight, and with a choked cry, he comes without warning—hot and thick, spilling over Shane’s fingers and splattering against the wall.

“Blyat—Hollander—holy—mmmmn—”

“What a good fucking boy,” Shane grits out. “Fuck, Rozanov.”

Shane doesn’t stop. He fucks Ilya through his orgasm, overstimulating him, drawing out the aftershocks until Ilya is whimpering, oversensitive, sagging against the wall. Only then does Shane pull out, jerk himself twice, and come across Ilya’s lower back—streaks of white dripping down the cleft of his ass.

He stands there, breathing heavily, watching Ilya slump. Then he grabs a handful of Ilya’s hair, pulls his head back, and leans down to lick the sweat from the back of his neck, inhaling the musky scent he can never get enough of. Ilya’s body convulses at the contact, a full-body shudder.

Shane steps away, pulling up his jeans, leaving Ilya bent over against the wall, trembling, marked, and utterly wrecked. The only sound left is Ilya’s ragged breathing.

“Clean yourself up, slut,” Shane says as he comes back a moment later, tossing a warm washcloth at Ilya. “We’ve got a flight in two hours.”

“Don’t fucking remind me. How am I going to sit for five hours like this?”

“Oh, quiet. You’ve done worse to me right before a game. A flight you can rest on is nothing.”

“...Is still sitting for five hours, Hollander. I am not used to being slut like you. You are good at this, yes?” Ilya motions his hand between the two of them as he smirks, wiping off his stomach.

Shane rolls his eyes, grabs the washcloth from him, and continues cleaning his back. “I think you’ll survive. You are strong, and I believe in you. Besides, you asked for it to be this rough.”

“Ah, is lie, liar told you that.”

“No, you did. I’ll pull up the texts right now—”

“No, no, no. No—” Ilya swats at Shane’s phone as he scrolls through it, the two of them laughing as it falls onto the bed. They crash down together, tangling in the covers.

“At least bring ice pack, please.”

“Fine, you baby. I will."