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Shane doesn’t expect Ilya to be awake when he pushes through the apartment door, still laughing under his breath at something Rose said just before they parted outside the bar. The night clings to him, gin on his breath, perfume on his clothes, the faint touch of cigarette smoke from someone who walked past too close.
He doesn’t turn on the lights. He doesn’t need to, he can see Ilya on the couch by the blue glow of the TV, hunched deep into the cushions, one knee bent up, jaw set.
Ilya doesn’t look amused.
Shane’s laugh dies mid breath. “Hey,” he says, soft, tipsy, like a greeting meant for someone he adores.
Ilya’s eyes drag over him. “Good night out?” It’s not a question, not really. It’s a test. His voice is flat, not hostile. Worse. Indifferent.
Shane blinks, smile slipping crooked. “Yeah. I guess. Rose and I—”
“Rose,” Ilya echoes, like a word he wants to spit out. “Nice perfume.”
Shane swallows.
Oh.
Oh.
So we’re doing this.
He toes off his shoes, stumbling a little. Tipsy looseness makes everything shameless. He walks closer, hoping for a kiss, or even a scoff, or anything. Ilya just watches him approach like a cat considering whether or not to kill a mouse for sport.
When Shane gets close enough to touch, Ilya leans back, making space not because he wants distance, because he wants control over when Shane gets close.
“Strip,” Ilya says. “If you can manage it without falling.”
Mean. Clean. No buildup. The kind of meanness Shane asked for, but sharpened by jealousy. It shoots straight through him. His fingers go to the buttons of his shirt before he thinks about it.
Shane goes quiet and does as told. Shirt. Pants. Underwear. Folding them neatly into a pile. Only socks remain. He’s naked by the time he reaches the couch again, warm and flushed and loose with alcohol, erection already pushing up because being wanted, punished, looked at, does something to him nothing else can.
Ilya drags his eyes over him and hums, unimpressed. “You get drunk and naked very fast.”
Shane blushes. “I'm not drunk. Just… a little—”
“I smell alcohol,” Ilya says, nose wrinkling. “And Rose.”
Shane sways. “We were just talking.”
“I didn’t ask,” Ilya says.
Then, with no further ceremony, he unbuttons his pants and takes his cock out, lazily strocking himself, not because he’s impatient, but because he knows exactly how it looks and what it does to Shane.
“Kneel,” he says.
Shane drops like gravity was invented for this moment.
Ilya grips his jaw, tilts his face up. “Open.”
Shane opens. He doesn’t touch with his hands. He knows better. Tipsy or not, his body remembers rules faster than his brain.
Ilya slides into his mouth slow, sighing a sound that borders on relieved. “Better,” he murmurs. “At least you remember what you’re for.”
Shane whimpers, half drunk, half undone. Ilya curls a hand in his hair, guiding him with expertise, not tenderness. It’s efficient, jerking off using Shane’s throat as the mechanism. The head of Ilya's cock presses against Shane's tongue, thick and veined, filling his mouth with the salty tang of pre cum. Shane's lips stretch around the shaft as Ilya pushes deeper, inch by inch, until the tip nudges the back of his throat.
Shane gags softly, eyes watering, but he doesn't pull back. He hollows his cheeks, sucking with sloppy enthusiasm, his tongue swirling along the underside. The gin makes his head swim, turning the act into a hazy blur of need. He bobs his head, taking more, his throat relaxing just enough to let Ilya slide further.
Ilya clucks a soft, cold sound between his teeth. “Stop thinking,” he says. “You always think. Tonight, you listen.”
Grabbing Shane's hair, he sets the rhythm, shallow at first, thrusting in short, controlled strokes that make Shane's jaw ache, then deeper, forcing the full length past his lips until his nose brushes Ilya's pubic bone. Shane's hands fist at his sides, nails digging into his palms as he fights the urge to touch himself. Ilya's grip tightens in his hair, yanking him forward to hold him there, cock buried deep, cutting off Shane's air.
Shane's throat convulses around the intrusion, muscles squeezing in protest, but Ilya doesn't relent. “Breathe through your nose,” he orders, voice even, like he's correcting a minor error. Shane tries, inhaling raggedly, the scent of Ilya's skin, musk and faint soap, flooding his senses. Tears streak down his cheeks, mixing with the drool spilling from the corners of his mouth.
Ilya pulls back just enough for Shane to gasp, then shoves in again, harder this time, hips snapping forward. The wet, obscene sounds of Shane's mouth working his cock fill the room, echoing off the walls under the TV's glow. Shane's cock throbs untouched, leaking pre cum onto the floor, his body trembling with the effort to please.
“Look at me,” Ilya says, and when Shane obeys, eyes glassy and pleading, Ilya’s mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something hungrier. He watches Shane's face contort, lips swollen, cheeks flushed, as he fucks his mouth with precise, unrelenting strokes. “That's it. Take it like you mean it. Show me you're sorry for wasting our night on her.”
Jealousy laces his words, making each thrust a punishment. Shane moans around the cock in his throat, the vibration drawing a low hiss from Ilya. He picks up the pace, using Shane's hair like a handle, pulling him onto his dick with force. Shane's gag reflex kicks in again, throat spasming, but he pushes through, desperate for approval, for the cold edge of Ilya's control to sharpen into something like possession.
Ilya shifts suddenly, releasing Shane's hair. Before Shane can catch his breath, Ilya hooks one leg over Shane's shoulder, his calf pressing against the back of Shane's neck. The position pins Shane in place, Ilya's thigh muscle flexing as he leverages his body to drive deeper. Shane's head is trapped, unable to pull away, his mouth a tight, wet sheath for Ilya's relentless pounding.
“Stay down,” Ilya growls, his free hand bracing on the couch arm as he rocks his hips. The leg hook forces Shane's throat open wider, Ilya's cock slamming in with brutal efficiency, straight down, no mercy, the head battering Shane's throat. Shane chokes, spit bubbling at his lips, his body arching instinctively against the hold. But Ilya's leg keeps him locked, calf digging into his skin, controlling every inch of the invasion.
Shane's vision blurs, lungs burning, but the humiliation surges through him like fire, tipsy, exposed, used. His own cock twitches, aching for friction he won't get. Ilya watches him struggle, eyes dark with that jealous hunger. “You like this, don't you? Getting your throat fucked. Better than flirting with Rose.”
The words sting, but they make Shane's submission deepen. He relaxes his jaw as best he can, letting Ilya use him, the thrusts growing erratic. Ilya's breath hitches, the first crack in his composure. He grinds deep one last time, leg tightening to hold Shane flush, cock pulsing as he unloads, hot spurts of cum flooding Shane's throat, forcing him to swallow or drown.
Shane gulps it down, convulsing, until Ilya finally eases back, his leg dropping away. Shane collapses forward, coughing, strings of saliva connecting his lips to Ilya's softening cock. His face is a mess, red, wet, ruined, and his erection strains painfully, untouched.
Ilya tucks himself away with pretend casual indifference, zipping up as if the intensity never happened. Shane blinks up at him, disoriented, voice hoarse. “W–wait—”
Ilya’s brow lifts. “You have something to say, Hollander?”
Shane sways up to his feet, flushed from tipsy subspace and the raw ache in his throat. “Don’t I get a reward?” His voice is shredded. “I was good. I took it. I—please—I want to come.”
Ilya laughs. Not loud. Just a tiny scoff that cuts deep. “You want a lot of things tonight,” he says, stepping close enough to tilt Shane’s chin up with two fingers, thumb brushing the bruised swell of his lips. “Go out with Rose. Want to come. Anything else you want?”
Shane flushes scarlet, cock leaking, brain empty. “I—Ilya—”
“What?” Ilya says, bored. “Can’t speak now? You were very chatty with Rose.”
Shane whimpers. That should not make him harder, but it absolutely does.
Ilya pats his cheek once. “Stay.”
He leaves the room. Shane’s breath wavers, body humming with unspent need. A second later, Ilya returns, bottle of lube in hand and tosses it onto the couch so it bounces once and settles next to Shane’s thigh.
“Get on the couch,” Ilya says, voice smooth as leather. “Face down. Show me how you open for me.”
Shane’s knees buckle as he climbs onto the cushions, cheeks burning with humiliation and desire, ass up, thighs shaking, fingers fumbling for the lube.
“Good,” Ilya says from behind him, arms crossed, watching. “Now hurry. Before I change my mind.”
Mean. Controlled. Jealous. Perfect.
Shane fumbles with the bottle, alcohol warm fingers slipping a little on the cap. It makes Ilya huff out a sound, half annoyance, half something Shane can only dream of earning.
“Clumsy,” Ilya murmurs. “You drink and turn into baby deer.”
Shane would laugh if he wasn’t struggling to breathe. He slicks his fingers generously, the cool gel warming quickly against his skin, and reaches back, face pressed into the cushion, cheeks spreading wide to expose his hole. The first finger breaches him with a slick pop, drawing a sharp inhale from deep in his chest. He's still loose from the earlier morning fuck, muscles yielding easily, but the intrusion reignites every nerve, making his ass clench greedily around the finger.
Ilya steps closer, looming like a shadow over Shane's trembling form. “Look at you,” he says, voice laced with that cutting indifference. “Did Rose see you like this? Hm? Spread open, fingering your own ass like desperate slut?”
Shane shakes his head frantically, the motion muffled against the couch. “N–no—god—no, Ilya—” His voice cracks, the denial fueling the fire in his gut as he twists his finger deeper, curling it to brush his prostate. A jolt shoots through him, cock jerking against the fabric below, leaving another wet streak.
“Good,” Ilya says, the word clipped and possessive. “She doesn’t deserve the show. This is mine.”
Shane moans into the cushion, the sound raw and needy, as he adds a second finger. He scissors them apart, stretching himself with rough, insistent pumps, the lube squelching obscenely with each thrust. His thighs shake, ass lifting higher instinctively, presenting himself like an offering. The burn edges into pleasure, his hole fluttering around the invasion, hungry for more despite the humiliation twisting in his chest.
Ilya watches every movement, arms still crossed, his gaze heavy and unyielding. “Deeper,” he commands, tone flat but brooking no argument. “Fuck yourself like you mean it. Show me how bad you need my cock after wasting time on her.”
Shane whimpers, obeying without hesitation. He drives three fingers in now, the stretch bordering on too much, his knuckles grazing the sensitive rim as he pistons them in and out. Sweat beads on his skin, mixing with the remnants of drool from earlier, his body a slick, heaving mess. Each plunge hits that spot inside him, sending sparks up his spine, his cock throbbing untouched, balls drawing tight with the denied release.
“You make a mess everywhere,” Ilya observes, eyes flicking to the damp spot growing on the couch. “Mouth full of my cum, ass leaking lube, dick dripping. Pathetic.” His words slice through the haze, making Shane's hole spasm around his fingers, the shame amplifying the ache.
Shane whines high in his throat, fingers moving faster, slick sounds filling the air alongside his ragged breaths. He's close already, teetering on the edge from the exposure alone, but he knows better than to tip over without permission.
“That’s enough,” Ilya says abruptly, stepping fully between Shane’s knees. He grabs Shane’s wrist in a vice grip, yanking the fingers free with a wet noise. Shane whimpers at the sudden emptiness, his hole clenching on nothing, open and twitching.
Before Shane can collapse forward, Ilya manhandles him roughly, one hand clamping under his hip, the other shoving his thigh wider to splay him open on the cushions. Shane's body yields like putty, loving the rough treatment, the way he's positioned like a toy for Ilya's use.
Ilya opens his pants again, shoving them down just enough to free his cock, already rigid and flushed from the sight of Shane's desperation. He doesn't bother stroking it; the jealousy simmers hot in his veins, keeping him primed. Pre cum beads at the tip, glistening under the TV's blue light. Still wet with Shane's saliva
“Hold yourself open,” he orders, voice a low rumble of command.
Shane's hands move immediately, fingers digging into his own cheeks to pull them apart, exposing his slick, prepared hole fully. Face down, naked, flushed from head to toe, his cock hangs heavy and leaking between his legs, no dignity left, just raw, aching want.
Ilya lines up without preamble, the blunt head of his cock pressing against Shane's entrance. He pushes in with one sharp, unrelenting slide of his hips, breaching the ring of muscle in a single, burning thrust. Shane chokes out a moan, the sound muffled into the couch as his ass swallows Ilya's length, inch by thick inch, until he's seated to the hilt.
“That’s it,” Ilya says, voice quiet and cruel, hips grinding once to bury himself deeper. “Finally something useful from you tonight. Taking my cock like the hole you are.”
Shane shakes violently, eyes squeezing shut as the fullness overwhelms him, stretching him wide, pressing against every sensitive wall. Ilya's cock throbs inside, hot and unyielding, and Shane's body clenches around it instinctively, milking the intrusion.
Ilya doesn't move at first, just stays buried balls deep, hands gripping Shane’s hips with bruising force, fingers digging into the flesh like he's marking territory. The stillness is torture, letting Shane feel every vein, every pulse, the way his own prostate grinds against the shaft.
Then he starts to fuck him. No gentle buildup, no whispered endearments,just deep, piston sharp thrusts that jolt Shane's body forward on the cushions with each snap of Ilya's hips. His cock drags out almost to the tip before slamming back in, the slap of skin on skin echoing loudly, mingling with the wet glide of lube.
Shane’s voice breaks apart into fragmented cries. “Fuck—oh fuck—fuck—” His ass burns with the relentless pace, pleasure coiling tight in his gut as Ilya's balls smack against his taint.
“I know,” Ilya says, not breathless at all, control ironclad even as he pounds into him. “You always get loud when there’s an audience. Hoping someone hears how easy you open up?”
Shane’s head jerks up, eyes wide with shock. “There’s—there’s no—”
“Rose could have come upstairs,” Ilya interrupts, thrusting harder to punctuate the words, his cock spearing deep enough to make Shane's vision white out. “Maybe you would have liked that. Letting her see you bent over, ass stuffed full of me.”
Shane’s brain short circuits, the jealousy laced taunt hitting like a spark to dry wood. He shakes his head fast, cheeks flaming hotter than the friction building inside him, cock aching so hard it borders on pain, trapped and rubbing against the couch with every brutal drive. “No—Ilya—fucking hell—no—just you—just want you—”
Ilya groans low in his throat, the sound raw and telling, the first fracture in his composed facade. He leans forward, chest pressing against Shane's back, mouth hovering near his ear as he adjusts his angle to hit that spot dead on with the next thrust.
“Then act like it,” he growls, breath hot against Shane's skin. His free hand snakes up, grabbing Shane’s arms and yanking them behind his back in a swift motion, pinning both wrists at the small of his back with one unyielding grip. The position arches Shane's spine, forcing his ass higher, taking every inch deeper as Ilya resumes the punishing rhythm faster, harder, no mercy.
Shane cries out sharply, thighs shaking uncontrollably, body arching beneath the assault. Ilya's cock pistons in and out, stretching his rim raw, the head battering his prostate with precision that borders on vicious. Pre cum slicks Shane's length, smearing across the couch as it's dragged along, the friction maddening but not enough.
“Ilya,” Shane gasps, voice wrecked and pleading, “please—please, I’m gonna—”
“No,” Ilya says immediately, sharply, like swatting away an unwelcome touch, slowing his thrusts just enough to tease, grinding deep instead. “You don’t get to come yet. Not until I say.”
Shane moans like it physically hurts, the denial twisting the pleasure into something exquisite and agonizing. His hole flutters around Ilya's cock, desperate, as the man resumes his pace, snapping hips forward with controlled fury.
“You want a reward,” Ilya says, voice steady amid the obscene sounds of flesh meeting flesh, his cock plunging relentlessly. “Then earn it. Beg like you mean it.”
“I am,” Shane begs, words tumbling out in a sob. “I—fuck—Ilya, I’m trying—please, use me, fuck me harder, I’m yours—I’m trying,”
“You’re whining,” Ilya corrects coolly, releasing Shane's wrists only to tangle his hand in his hair instead. He yanks Shane's head up off the couch with a firm pull, forcing his neck to arch, allowing choked moans and gasps to spill freely into the room. The new angle lets Ilya drive even deeper, his cock reshaping Shane's insides with each brutal shove.
“Say it,” Ilya demands, breath hitching slightly now, hips stuttering for the first time. “Say who you want. Who owns you.”
“You,” Shane sobs, tears pricking his eyes from the intensity, body slamming back to meet each thrust. “You, just you, fuck—Ilya, please—own me, fill me—”
Something in Ilya’s expression fractures, cracks almost breaks under the raw plea. He thrusts hard enough that Shane thinks he might split apart, cock swelling thicker inside him, the rhythm turning erratic.
“Good,” Ilya snarls, voice rough with possession. “Now come for me. Show me you're mine.”
He doesn't touch Shane’s cock, doesn't offer any relief beyond the pounding. But it's enough, the humiliation, the jealousy fueled dominance, the way Ilya's body claims him utterly. Shane comes untouched, body seizing in violent shudders, ass clamping down like a vice as he spills across the couch cushions in thick ropes, a broken sob tearing from his throat with no grace or control.
Ilya fucks him through the orgasm, two more savage thrusts that milk every drop from Shane, before burying himself to the root and coming with a harsh exhale against the back of Shane’s neck. His cock pulses hotly, flooding Shane's ass with cum, hips grinding to push it deeper, hands locked tight on Shane's hips like anchors.
Silence hits them both at once, broken only by their heaving breaths.
Shane slumps fully, panting into the sweat damp fabric, body limp and spent.
Ilya stays inside him for a long moment, too long for it to be just mean, the intimacy lingering in the quiet hold. Then he pulls out slowly, careful despite the edge in his demeanor, the wet slide accompanied by a trickle of cum leaking from Shane's used hole. Shane hears the zipper go up, the soft rustle of fabric, as Ilya composes himself once more.
Ilya exhales slowly, the tension bleeding from his shoulders as he watches Shane melt into the couch, body limp and glistening with sweat. The blue glow from the TV casts soft shadows over them, turning the moment intimate, almost fragile. He reaches down, fingers tracing lightly along Shane's spine, not gripping, just touching, a silent apology woven into the gentleness.
"Hey," Ilya murmurs, voice stripped of its earlier edge, warm now like the rum lingering on Shane's breath. He slides a hand under Shane's shoulder, easing him up and over onto his back with careful strength. Shane's eyes flutter open, hazy and trusting, a small, sated smile tugging at his swollen lips.
Ilya settles beside him, pulling Shane into his lap without a word, legs tangling as he cradles him close. One arm wraps around Shane's waist, the other cupping his face, thumb brushing away a stray tear track. "You did so good," he whispers, leaning in to press a soft kiss to Shane's forehead, then his temple, lingering there as if breathing him in. The scent of gin and sweat mixes with Ilya's own clean sharpness, grounding them both.
Shane sighs, nuzzling into the touch, his body heavy and pliant. "Ilya..." It's barely a word, more a plea for reassurance, and Ilya answers with another kiss, this one to his mouth, slow and deep, tongues brushing lazily without the earlier demand. No rush, just the taste of each other, Ilya's hand stroking through Shane's damp hair.
"Shh, I've got you, Moy Solnyshko" Ilya says against his lips, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. His eyes, usually sharp with control, soften now, filled with something tender and unguarded. He shifts, grabbing a throw blanket from the armrest and draping it over them both, tucking it around Shane's bare skin to chase away the chill. With his free hand, he reaches for a water bottle on the side table, always prepared, even in the haze of jealousy, and holds it to Shane's mouth. "Drink. Slowly."
Shane obeys, sipping as Ilya tips the bottle, cool liquid soothing his raw throat. A few drops spill, and Ilya chuckles softly, wiping them away with his thumb before kissing the corner of Shane's mouth. "Messy drunk boy," he teases, but there's no bite, only affection. He sets the bottle aside and gathers a warm cloth from the nearby bathroom, quick, efficient, dabbing gently at the sticky remnants on Shane's thighs and stomach, cleaning the evidence of their intensity with reverent care.
Once he's done, Ilya pulls Shane closer, their foreheads touching. He peppers more kisses along Shane's jaw, his neck, down to the pulse point still fluttering wildly.
"You're mine, you know that? All of you." The words are a balm, possessive but sweet, erasing the taunts from before. Shane nods, arms wrapping around Ilya's neck, and Ilya holds him tighter, rocking them slightly in a rhythm that's all comfort now.
They stay like that, wrapped in the quiet hum of the TV, Ilya's fingers tracing idle patterns on Shane's back until his breathing evens out, sleep tugging at the edges. "Rest," Ilya whispers, one last kiss pressed to Shane's eyelids.
"I got you. Always.”