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Ever since he was a child, Shane Hollander knew that he was destined for big things.
At first, it was hockey. The sport took over his life at the age of five, with Shane dedicating himself to the craft with a zeal unlike most other Kindergarteners.
He worked his way up through the youth leagues until he was sitting pretty with a full ride to Boston College waiting for him. Then it would be on to the NHL, and he would be set for life.
Until a blown-out knee during his sophomore year ripped that dream away and left Shane with a hung-up pair of skates and a bit of a limp.
Sure, it was devastating, but Shane could adapt.
His family’s business, Hollander Enterprises, contained a thriving Boston branch. Following his injury, Shane pivoted, a bit reluctantly, to focus on taking over the branch once he graduated with his degree in Business Administration. The transition had been easy, Yuna’s position as CEO strong and well-respected.
It wasn’t part of Shane’s original plan to end up running the Boston branch, but that’s how the cards were dealt and he was, for the most part, happy.
That was until two years had passed and the exposé was released.
A scandalous piece by the Boston Globe digging into Hollander Enterprise's finances revealed a history of tax fraud, embezzlement, and money laundering that spanned nearly a decade, long before Shane was even remotely involved in the business. He had no idea any of it was happening, but that argument didn’t hold any water within the eyes of the law - or the public, as cries for the company’s golden boy to don an orange jumpsuit immediately intensified.
Warrants, arrests, trials, and sentencing passed in an 18-month blur that Shane has a hard time remembering clearly to this day.
When Shane Hollander imagined the big things he was destined for, he certainly did not imagine that his fate included a five-year sentence at MCI Shirley. The cards had been dealt, and Shane was holding a dud.
-
Ever since he was a child, Ilya Rozanov knew that he was destined to end up like one of his parents.
Like his father, a miserable drunk who hurt everyone and everything that he was supposed to love; or like his mother, dead next to an empty bottle of pills.
He would leave it up to fate to deal the cards.
Ilya never had much luck with schooling, often found slacking off and doing the bare minimum required to just scrape by in his courses. He had a few friends, more like acquaintances, but very few people that he considered particularly close.
Svetlana Vetrova was the exception, his best friend since childhood and occasional fuck-buddy. She kept him sane when Moscow threatened to pull him all the way under, and for her he had always felt eternally grateful.
When Sveta decided to uproot her life and move to Boston in pursuit of a new life without the iron grip of her family name, Ilya was devastated. That is, until she suggested that Ilya join him.
There was nothing else Ilya could do but follow. As a 19-year-old immigrant in Boston with little transferable skills and even less money to his name, Ilya was limited in his opportunities. He spent his days changing trash bags at a local hockey rink and spent his nights studying English with Sveta.
After a year and some change of just scraping by, he was introduced to Anatoly, a friend of a friend of Sveta’s, and his life began to change. It started simply enough, selling pot to college kids around Boston for a meager cut–a little something extra to pad his pockets when the rink pay just made him enough to cover rent.
But things, as things tend to do, began to spiral.
Two years later, Ilya was one of the most prolific coke dealers this side of the Charles. He dabbled in other things, acid and shrooms and the like, but the real money was in those tiny baggies of cocaine that he peddled to Seaport finance bros and Brighton yuppies.
Ilya finally had an apartment that comprised more than a single room, a modest sports car, and a life that felt like his own.
He clutched too tightly to that life, though, and it slipped through his fingers like fine grains of sand. Or cocaine, he supposes.
And now, he is exactly where he belongs: three years into an eight-year sentence at MCI Shirley.
-
Prison is both exactly and not at all like Shane had expected.
MCI Shirley, a medium-security facility almost an hour outside of Boston, is nestled in a small town further west than he had ever ventured in the state. He supposes travel is travel, regardless of the circumstances.
Once he gets to know the space, he settles into a routine with almost-comforting efficiency. He works, he exercises, he eats, he reads, he picks up tuna packets at the commissary. He avoids the other inmates at all costs.
It’s fine. Not good–of course not. It’s prison, for god’s sake. But he makes do.
The other inmates had jumped at the chance to harass the soft newbie when Shane first arrived almost a whole month ago. More than a few men had leered at him in the halls, making crude remarks about whatever they felt like picking out at the moment. His appearance, his demeanor, his crimes (or lack thereof), etc.
He recalls the one instance that truly frightened him, just over a week into his sentence, when a man had cornered him in the recreation yard, just out of sight of the nearest CO. The man, some asshole named Dallas Kent, had run a dirty hand over Shane’s face and down his neck before landing a sharp slap to his cheek. The force had been enough to whip Shane’s head to the side and spring tears to his eyes.
Dallas had chuckled, a low, cruel laugh, and sneered a sick “I can think of a lot of ways that I’m going to enjoy making you cry.”
A sharp cough had sounded from behind Dallas, and both men craned their necks to look towards the culprit.
He had seen the man a handful of times to that point, and heard countless tales of his savagery from other inmates, though he had not yet addressed Shane directly. He had only ever watched, his sharp eyes laser-focused on Shane’s movements through the prison.
Shane remembers how Dallas had paled, then let Shane go without another word.
That was Shane’s first encounter with Ilya Rozanov.
He sees plenty of Ilya after that. They rarely speak, never beyond a few words, but Ilya is always there.
The harassment from other inmates, Kent included, has all but stopped. Shane still gets his fair share of looks and the occasional comment, but nothing close to as bold as what he had received during that first week. He’s had almost four weeks of relative peace.
He assumes that the other inmates have grown bored of him, considering he is, well, boring. He doesn’t fight, barely even talks to anyone else. He eats his meals alone and silently, eyes scanning the room for the conflict that never comes.
He works, he exercises, he eats, he reads.
He tries to understand Ilya Rozanov’s deal.
He tries not to let prison life pull him under.
It’s not perfect, or even good, but it’s enough.
-
His next close encounter with Ilya Rozanov occurs in the showers, after another month of living under the man’s watchful eye has come and gone.
Shane’s just entered the communal shower room and is beginning his perfunctory scrub-down when a tingle of awareness makes the hairs prickle on the back of his neck.
There, just to his right, is Ilya Rozanov.
He’s close–too close–and Shane feels a sudden surge of anxiety at the proximity. He’s heard the stories, of course he has, about what happens in prison. What happens in prison showers. And sure, he’s never felt truly afraid of Ilya, despite what others in the unit would want him to believe, but he knows better than to ever let his guard fully down. Every person in here must be capable of terrible things, right?
Ilya holds heavy eye contact for a moment, Shane waiting with bated breath for the inevitable strike, but it never comes.
Instead, Shane feels his anxiety morph into something a lot more concerning. Arousal pools low and heavy in his gut, his cock thickening in interest when he chances a brief reprieve from their staredown to take a glance at Ilya’s body.
He’s shredded, all bulging pecs and ridged abs and arms that could easily crush another man’s skull. His torso is littered with tattoos, most appearing to be done by fellow inmates. A cross etched into his left pec, a snarling bear head across his right. A Cyrillic word chiseled above Ilya’s collarbone. Seemingly-random designs along his ribs and over his shoulders. Shane’s mouth waters at the sight.
And then there’s his cock, Jesus Christ his cock, which is huge and uncut and perfect.
It is also, notably, not entirely soft. A fact that does nothing to help Shane’s own growing erection.
Fuck.
He can’t be getting fucking hard in a communal prison shower, for fuck’s sake.
Meeting Ilya’s gaze again, Shane is horrified to see a small smirk on Ilya’s lips as he raises a questioning eyebrow.
This needs to stop, immediately.
“Fuck off.” Shane murmurs out pathetically, tearing his eyes away to finish rinsing with lightning-fast efficiency so he can get the fuck out of there.
His body tenses, wound-tight with an iron noose of fear around his neck. Not only is he hard in the shower room, but he’s now just cussed out the most intimidating inmate in this place. He is certain he’s died and been reincarnated as the world’s biggest fucking idiot.
Without another word, he scrambles out of the space before Ilya can beat the shit out of him, and pointedly ignores the way his cock doesn’t fully soften until well into the afternoon.
-
Mercifully, he doesn’t see Ilya again until the next day at breakfast.
After entering the chow and gathering his tray just like he has every day for the past two months, Shane turns to scan the hall.
He is startled to see that his usual table, always empty, is occupied. An orange prison-issued work shirt strains against a rippling back, golden curls brushing against the collar.
The short walk over to the table is tentative, Shane mentally preparing for whatever shitstorm is about to go down. He really hopes it isn’t going to be a fight, though he probably deserves it after yesterday’s incident.
He sits down slowly across from Ilya, who doesn’t say a word to acknowledge Shane’s arrival.
They eat quietly, surrounded by the sound of their own chewing and the raucous chatter of other inmates and shouts from COs, occasionally punctuated by utensils scraping and trays clattering.
Crawling out of his own skin, Shane is the first to break the silence.
“Was your usual table taken?” He asks softly, praying that his tone comes across as light and nonconfrontational.
“I wanted change of scenery.” Ilya grumbles, barely pausing between bites of food to reply.
“Oh, okay.” Shane states, a bit lamely.
He’s wholly unsure of how else to continue the conservation, so he doesn’t. Ilya doesn’t speak again, not saying another word for the remainder of the meal.
When a CO calls for work duty, Ilya simply clears his tray and briskly walks off.
Shane has no idea what to make of it.
He still has no idea what to make of it when Ilya is there again at their next meal. And the meal after that.
It goes on for weeks, with never more than a few coarse words spoken between the men. Ilya has seemingly abandoned his usual mealtime crew in exchange for quiet, though surprisingly comfortable, meals with Shane.
Shane is still, by the way, wholly unsure what to make of it.
Then there are the gifts.
They start small, innocuous at first–almost innocent, if Shane didn’t know any better.
A few extra veggies slipped onto his dinner tray. A clean pair of socks slid sneakily into his hand.
Ilya doesn’t say anything about them, never saying much about anything at all, but Shane begins to notice more and more. It’s not just the gifts.
Ilya’s eyes linger a little longer, something unreadable in his gaze. Their hands begin to brush when they adjust their trays, something that feels like intention passing between them with each touch of their fingers.
Every moment, each growing heavier than the last, weighs Shane’s stomach down like lead in a combination of feelings that he is not too keen to address. Unfortunately, prison gives a person a bit too much time to think. He feels a permeating sense of fear and dread, not blind to the implications of another inmate’s attention.
He’s heard the comments, ranging in severity from passive quips of “pretty boy” to more direct insinuations of what happens to “men like him” in prison.
Because yes, the thought is frightening and a bit humiliating, but… None of the comments have landed in the way that Ilya makes him feel simply with his presence.
He feels an unwelcome, though not entirely unpleasant, lick of heat low in his gut when he thinks of Ilya in that way.
Ilya on top of him, driving into him with that unfairly massive and infuriatingly gorgeous cock, claiming him thoroughly from the inside out. Shane perched in Ilya’s lap, his own thighs bracketing Ilya’s bulging ones, bouncing up and down on that still infuriating, still gorgeous cock. Ilya in the shower that day, forcing Shane down onto his knees and fucking his face until they’re both spent and out of breath.
If he had more opportunities to jerk off, he knows that he would think of Ilya every single time.
The feelings are even more confusing when he thinks of Ilya as a person and not just as that stupid fucking cock.
He is massive and intimidating and Shane has been told repeatedly of his cruelty and brutality, but Shane just hasn’t seen it. He’s never seen Ilya so much as raise a fist at another person. He barely raises his voice above a rough whisper. For the most part, he keeps to himself, navigating the space with a silent command that invokes more fear than the most brazen men in this place. He’s seen Ilya stop fights merely with his presence. He’s never seen Ilya participate in one.
What Shane has seen more recently is a softer side of Ilya: his head buried in books when they get a chance to go to the library, him grunting with exertion when they have access to the workout yard. Him offering Shane tiny morsels of information about his life before this, often slipped into their fleeting conversations over meals. Those are few and far between, and Shane savors each one.
So maybe he harbors some… Affection, he supposes, for Ilya Rozanov. But nobody needs to know that.
Besides, who is he to look a gift horse in the mouth when that horse is offering him food, comfort, and a companion who seems to be keeping trouble far away from him.
He still just doesn’t know what it means.
-
Ilya Rozanov is halfway in love and thoroughly pissed off about it.
In his defense, which clearly isn’t much to go off of considering his defense landed him in this shithole, he really hadn’t meant for it to get this far.
He learned of Shane Hollander’s arrival to their little slice of heaven with the rest of the unit and found himself bristling at the disgusting tone that some of his fellow inmates had taken on when talking about the newcomer.
Christ, he hadn’t even met the man before some cosmic fuckery made him feel stupidly protective.
Then he had seen Shane, and known with startling clarity that he was done for.
He was just so pretty, with his wide eyes and timid demeanor and smattering of freckles.
The others were going to eat him alive, and there was no way in hell Ilya would allow that to happen.
So maybe he had to get a little hands-on in his approach.
It all started, as it almost always does, with Dallas fucking Kent.
“Fresh fish on the menu tonight, boys.” Kent had snickered over dinner on Hollander’s very first night, leering at the newbie from across the chow. “Give me a week and that tight ass is mine.”
Ilya can only recall one other time when he had seen red so vividly: he was 10 years old and had just watched his father backhand his mother so hard the impact of her body left a dent in the wall.
He sought out Kent the very next day, bashing his face in with enough force that his nose had bled. The perfect shade of crimson to match his rage.
The punch clearly hadn’t rewired his stupid brain, though, because just six days later Kent was cornering Hollander out in the rec yard, and Ilya was close to snapping.
All it had taken was a look, though, thank god.
For some reason he really didn’t want Hollander to see that side of him.
Now, months later, Ilya does his best to make Hollander feel safe, a ridiculous notion in a place like this.
Luckily, the reputation that Ilya has built over the past three years, bolstered by stupid fights and a bit of Russian je ne sais quoi, allows him to maintain a more peaceful demeanor while keeping stupid pricks away from what is rightfully his.
Not that Hollander is his, he’s not a fucking barbarian, but he figures that as long as the others think that Ilya has claimed the man, they’ll stay the fuck away.
Ilya’s folding laundry when Marlow corners him.
“Roz, what’s the deal with you and Hollander, huh? You hit that yet?”
Ilya clenches his jaw and turns to face his friend (though he’s questioning that designation at this moment).
“Nobody is hitting anything, pervert. I am only keeping him safe.” He states with a huff, and Marlow only laughs.
“So you’re just playing Daddy with the pretty boy without getting anything out of the deal?”
Ilya hates the way his blood warms at the word Daddy. God, he’s sick.
“I am not getting nothing. He is, like, I don’t know, my friend.” It sounds just as pathetic to Marlow as it does to his own ears, if the guffaw of laughter he gets in response is any indication.
“Right, totally.” Marlow laughs, “So you wouldn’t mind if I tried to hit that? I’ve been feeling real lonely these days.”
Ilya is going to kill Cliff Marlow. And then maybe himself. He might have to bomb Marlow’s childhood home, too, for ever housing such a fucking bastard.
His fists clench and unclench rapidly at his sides, eyes squeezed shut in a sad attempt to stave off the fury bubbling up inside of him.
“Marlow, if you lay a single fucking finger on him, I will rip your hands off and feed them to you.”
His voice is thick, simmering low with threats that he will not hesitate to make good on. He is suddenly the perfect picture of barbarism, exactly the image that he has curated in his time here.
Marlow, ever the dumbass, only laughs harder.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought, Roz. Can tell you feel real friendly about ol’ Hollzy.”
Ilya can only splutter in Marlow’s stupid, smug face, at a loss for words for once in his life.
“Wow this pretty boy works you up, brother. Hope you figure that shit out soon. Like, as soon as possible, preferably.”
What the fuck is his life?
Here he is, living every stereotype of trying to secure his prison boyfriend by giving him little gifts and protecting him from bad guys. It’s like they’re six years old on the playground, not locked up in fucking prison for committing fucking crimes.
So he’s pissed off, in love, and folding laundry in prison.
The American Dream come true.
-
The news of Shane’s bunk change comes unexpectedly.
One second, Shane is lounging in his bed, book in hand, trying to distract himself from the reality of his life over the past five months. The next second, Officer Grady is telling him that Warden Crowell has approved a cell change, effective immediately.
Without another moment to process, Shane and his meager belongings are being escorted across the wing to his new home.
His new home, which currently houses an entirely-too-smug Ilya Rozanov splayed out on the bunk.
“Oh.” Shane breathes softly when he realizes what is happening here.
“Thank you, Kip.” Ilya states, and Shane watches the guard bristle at the informal address.
“Whatever, Rozanov.” He answers dismissively. “Don’t kill him in his sleep or whatever.”
Ilya laughs at that, rich and genuine. It’s the first time Shane has heard that sound out of him. If he weren’t so confused, he’d think about how badly he wants to hear it over and over again.
“I would not dream of it. Please remind Officer Scott Hunter that you are too good for him whenever you get the chance.”
Shane knows that Ilya has some influence or whatever around here, but this banter is strange. He can’t imagine developing such casual relationships with the people tasked with their incarceration.
But that’s just Ilya.
Ilya, his new roommate.
Ilya, who he already has enough complicated feelings about without this forced proximity.
Shane is well and truly fucked.
-
Ilya is still basking in his successful roommate acquisition when the man finally speaks.
“When did they tell you you would be bunking with me?” Shane asks, a bit tentative.
Ilya smiles, all teeth, and makes a sound of mock consideration.
All it had taken was a teeny-tiny bribe from the outside for Warden Crowell, that corrupt son-of-a-bitch, to allow Shane to be transferred to Ilya’s bunk.
“Eh, they tell me nothing. It was my idea.”
The finality of the words settles between them, and Ilya watches a myriad of emotions cross Shane’s face. Ilya’s bravado falters just a bit as fear and trepidation appear to prevail, because sure, he didn’t know if Shane would be thrilled about the change, but this feels wrong.
Still, he keeps pushing.
“I have grown tired of watching, Hollander. Tired of waiting.”
He takes a step towards the trembling boy and watches with a combination of rapt curiosity and pure hunger as Shane’s Adam's apple bobs against the force of a harsh swallow.
To his utter surprise, Shane takes a shuddering breath and slowly sinks to his knees. He stares up at Ilya with those big, shiny eyes and a wobbling lower lip, and-
Huh?
Confusion courses through Ilya at their new position, the overwhelming sense that he’s doing something wrong taking over in full force. Shane continues to stare up at him, a plea in his eyes, and Ilya struggles to find the right words to understand what the hell is going on.
“I-“ Ilya begins, a bit lamely, his remaining confidence practically falling out of his ass and onto the floor below them. The floor that Shane Hollander is currently kneeling on. “Hollander, what are you doing?”
Shane doesn’t break eye contact, despite the way his body clearly fights it, and forces another ragged inhale.
“I’ve never- I’m scared.” He states softly in a voice that Ilya would have deemed pathetic if he wasn’t so hopelessly besotted by the other man. Ilya is horrified to see tears beginning to crest over the base of Shane’s lashline, creating an iridescent track down the freckled cheek. “Please just be gentle?”
It’s supposed to be a statement, though the end tilts up like a question, and oh-
Ilya thinks he understands.
The realization crashes over him in a horrifying wave.
Shane thinks Ilya is about to fuck him.
Does Ilya want to fuck Shane?
Of course he does, more than anything, but not like this.
Shane thinks Ilya is about to rape him.
Bile rises in his throat, though he is able to force down the sour taste of vomit. Before he can stop it, his head is shaking rapidly from side to side, a desperate dissent that he hopes will clear the air of whatever fucking misconception is happening here.
“Hollander.” He starts, hating the rough edge to his voice. He steps even closer, dropping down to one knee in order to run a hand along Shane’s flushed cheek. He softens his tone, offering a gentle “Shane.”
The name feels foreign to his tongue, which has never once wrapped around that combination of letters before. It must be a shock to Shane as well, as his eyes widen a fraction. Clearly against his better judgement, Shane relaxes, some of the tension easing from his body.
Still, he shakes, his whole body shuddering under Ilya’s touch and the sudden intensity of his stare. He makes a small, involuntary sound, almost a whimper, and Ilya’s neurons fire in a dizzying cacophony of guilt and horniness.
“I know, Ilya.” Shane’s pronunciation of his name is somehow perfect, because of course it is, and Ilya smiles despite himself and despite the shitshow situation that they’re in. “It’s okay, I get it. I just…”
Shane trails off, and another devastating tear slips free. “I know it’s going to hurt and I’m scared. Will you go easy on me?”
There’s hope in his voice, almost trusting, which Ilya clearly has done nothing to deserve.
This whole time, he’s been trying to court Shane like a fucking loser without realizing that he has done nothing but terrify him. He thinks of the gifts–the snacks, the clothing, the sitting at his table in the chow hall–and is sick with the clarity that they had come across as predatory, like Ilya had been staking his claim on the man.
Sure, he wants to stake his claim on Shane, but not out of force or coercion or fear. He’s not a feral dog pissing on Shane to mark his territory.
Though it could be hot, he'll put a pin in that.
He just wanted Shane to like him.
What a pathetic, miserable notion.
Shane would never want him, not like that. Ilya knows who he is, what his reputation would call him. The Soviet big bad wolf, the Russian Hellhound, an unstoppable force of muscle and gnashing teeth and no mercy. Maybe he is a feral dog, and feral dogs don’t get sweet, timid boyfriends like Shane Hollander.
Ilya is exactly where he belongs, locked away from the outside world to be beaten down for years until he will likely die here, probably shanked by another inmate once he finally pushes too far. Shane is nowhere near where he belongs. He belongs outside in the world, free to live and grow and fall in love with someone who has the chance to give him a normal life.
A horrific thought crosses Ilya’s mind. Maybe he should do this disgusting, unspeakable act just to ensure that Shane will stop looking at him like this, like he is someone who could possibly be trusted despite every fucked up thing that he’s ever done.
But he won’t, because how could he? He would sooner wrap a bedsheet around his neck than lay a finger on Shane that isn’t expressly asked for.
He realizes, belatedly, that he’s already done that, and he rips the hand on Shane’s cheek away as if his face were a hot stove. He half expects to see a sickening imprint of his hand branded into the skin.
“Shane-” He croaks again, heart breaking in real time. How could he have let this happen? Let this perfect boy believe that he would hurt him like this, violate him like this? “Do you think I am going to fuck you?”
It is, once again, the wrong thing to say, because for some reason Shane’s face falls even further.
“Oh, I-” He splutters briefly for a moment, cheeks somehow an even deeper pink, “-I, yeah, I thought so, I guess.”
It’s not a rejection, not outright.
The fear appears to have dulled into something more akin to confusion, an adorable pull at Shane’s forehead pinching his eyebrows together.
What the fuck is going on?
“Shane, I-” He lets out a frustrated huff, English words suddenly escaping him, “I did not bring you here to fuck you. I brought you here because I, bozhe moy, because I like you, okay? Fuck.”
It’s clumsy and stilted and sounds so fucking stupid coming out of his mouth.
Shane doesn’t seem to mind, though, as a shy smile slowly spreads across his face.
“Really?” He asks, and if Ilya wasn’t mostly in love with the man already, Shane fucking giggles.
Ilya groans, but there’s no heat behind it, a hopeful smile forming on his own lips.
“Yes, Hollander, I have stupid fucking crush on you like I am teenager. I am so glad this is funny to you.”
Shane laughs harder at that, and they finally stand up together.
“I really thought you were about to fuck me.” Shane exhales, and though it is soft Ilya doesn’t miss the hint of petulance lacing his tone.
“Hollander, I have no idea what you are trying to say right now. You were just kneeling on the floor fucking crying. Did you want me to fuck you?”
Shane bites his lip and looks away, and Ilya thinks he knows the answer to his own question. He’s smug with it, suddenly high on nothing but shy smiles and freckles.
“Well, yes.” Shane whispers, no longer laughing. “I kind of definitely like you too.”
And yeah, Ilya would take this feeling over a hit of any drug or even a sip of crisp Russian vodka any day.
“You should not like me, Shane.” Ilya states, tamping his glee down into something more solemn. “Don’t you know that I am dangerous and terrible and every other thing that you have probably heard about me?”
Shane’s face is contemplative, teeth still chewing that plush lower lip, and Ilya is frozen to the spot.
“I don’t know that side of you at all. All I know is that you’ve been nothing but good to me since I got here. It doesn’t really make any fucking sense, but I’ve learned to trust my instincts over the past few months.”
Ilya thinks he could run directly through the concrete cell wall if Shane asked, he’s so full of adrenaline and something else that feels a lot like true love or whatever the fuck Bella and that dog were on about.
Maybe they can be their own Beauty and the Beast.
Or no, he’s thinking of Twilight.
Fuck, anyways.
He pushes into Shane’s space, finally trusting himself to touch the man again.
He takes Shane’s hand, bringing it up to rest against his chest directly over his beating heart, over the tattoo of an Orthodox cross that he had gotten to replace his mother’s chain.
“Shane, I-”
Their moment is interrupted by a loud groan sounding from the cell next door.
“Jesus Christ, can you pussies fucking kiss or something? I’m getting bored over here.” It’s Cliff Marlow’s voice, accompanied by his cellmate’s laughter. Ilya is going to kill them both.
Shane, his sweet Shane, blushes the deepest mauve Ilya has ever seen, suddenly using both hands to hide his face in embarrassment.
“Fuck off, Marly.” Ilya calls, clenching his jaw. “You perverts just want to listen to me fuck my pretty boyfriend.”
Raucous laughter ricochets from the other side of the wall, and Ilya turns back towards Shane with a chuckle and a shake of his head.
Confusion and an uncharacteristic swirl of anxiety hit when he is faced with Shane’s strange, guarded expression.
“Oh,” Ilya breathes softly, stepping closer to take Shane’s hand, “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I did not mean to embarrass you. They are assholes but harmless, I promise.”
The pet name slips out a little too easily, though it barely looks like it registered, as Shane just shakes his head as if to clear it.
“No, I’m not, uh-” He stumbles over his words, which would be terribly endearing if Ilya wasn’t in a constant state of fear that he’s royally fucking all of this up. “I just, uh- Your boyfriend?”
Shit, yeah, Ilya never actually asked, did he?
“I should have probably asked you this, eh?” Ilya asks, sheepishly wringing his free hand at his side.
He braces for the refusal, the imminent rejection.
Instead, Shane squeezes their interlocked fingers even tighter.
“So ask me then.” Shane states. His voice is clearer, which gives Ilya a small flicker of hope.
He is helpless to do anything other than clear his throat and ask- “Shane Hollander, Inmate 141024” He starts, the sudden seriousness in his voice causing a soft puff of laughter to leave Shane, “Will you please be my boyfriend?”
Shane’s smile is wide and uninhibited, the first real smile that Ilya has seen from him since he arrived here, as he nods enthusiastically.
“I would love to be your boyfriend, Ilya Rozanov, Inmate 122181.”
A cheer sounds from the neighboring cell, and both men groan in tandem.
“Hey, Hollander!” Cliff shouts, and Shane takes a step towards the shared wall.
“Um, yeah?” He calls back, raising his voice just slightly.
“Thanks for saying yes, man. Connors owes me a pack of ramen because I bet him you’d be Rozy’s before six months.”
Ilya makes an affronted sound, hand smacking over his own heart.
“Marlow, you motherfucker! You bet on my Shanya and I?”
Shane laughs softly again, and it is slowly (very quickly) becoming Ilya’s favorite sound in the world.
A moment of realization hits when Ilya thinks back to the laundry room conversation.
Hope you figure that shit out soon. Like, as soon as possible, preferably.
Jesus Christ.
“Marly, that ticking under your bunk is not a clock.”
The sound of a throat clearing from the hallway brings their laughter to a screeching halt, as Kip stands there looking thoroughly unamused (but definitely a little bit amused).
“Rozanov, what have I told you about threatening other inmates?” He sighs, and Ilya can only smirk sheepishly.
“My apologies, Officer Grady, will not happen again.”
Kip grumbles out something that sounds a lot like this fucking job, then shakes his head. Taking a quick look around the hallway, Kip steps closer to their cell.
“Look, I probably shouldn’t say this, but I’m rooting for you guys.” He turns to address Shane directly. “If this guy keeps his big mouth shut and stops threatening people.” He finishes, gesturing towards Ilya with his thumb.
Ilya holds up his hands in surrender. “Yes, yes, am done. No more threatening.”
He wraps an arm around Shane, pulling him in closer than he’s ever held the other man before and secretly reveling in the warm press of Shane’s body against his own. “Unless somebody fucks with moy milyy mal'chik.”
Kip only sighs, smiling lightly–albeit a bit begrudgingly–at the affection before turning and walking down the hall.
Once Kip has returned to his post and Marlow is blessedly quiet, Ilya is left alone, or as alone as he’ll get in this place, with his boyfriend.
God, just thinking the word makes him giddy.
“My sweet Shane,” Ilya murmurs, turning so that his arms can fully wrap around the other man, “I am going to take such good care of you.”
The words, pressed into the hair at the side of Shane’s head, come out huskier than Ilya had originally intended.
Shane shudders against him, a muffled whimper escaping his lips.
“Ilya.” He whines softly, hips pressing forward into Ilya’s. From this angle, Ilya can perfectly feel the outline of Shane’s hardening cock through the loose material of their pants.
“What is it, baby?” And god, the indulgent tone of his voice is so sickeningly-sweet and unfamiliar, but it feels so right when directed at his Shane. “Tell me what you need.”
“Need you.”
The insistent press of Shane’s bulge against Ilya’s own erection is dizzying, the first stimulation to his cock from something other than his own hand in years nearly causing him to cum right there on the spot.
He moans lasciviously, shifting his head to nose at the softness of Shane’s neck.
“Mmm, my needy baby. Going to be so greedy for me now, aren’t you?” He sucks gently at Shane’s throat, careful not to leave any lasting marks. Shane tilts his head to expose more of the smooth skin, breathy sounds floating from his lips.
“Going to need my cock all the time. Not going to be able to sleep until I stuff you full of my cum every night, huh?”
He reaches between their bodies to cup Shane’s crotch, wrapping a hand around the shape of his cock and using the glide of the fabric to ease his strokes along the length. Shane bucks helplessly into Ilya’s hand, his whimpers growing in volume towards a dangerously audible level.
Suddenly anxious about every inmate in the unit hearing Shane’s perfect moans, which are for Ilya and Ilya alone, he presses the hand not stroking Shane’s cock over his mouth.
It’s a bold move, and it is rewarded handsomely, because Shane melts under the touch. Head tipping backwards, Shane begins rutting desperately into Ilya’s hand, his panting breaths dampening the skin of Ilya’s palm with every exhale.
Ilya needs to fucking devour him.
Moving them backwards as quickly as possible without sending their tangled bodies careening to the stone floor, Ilya lays Shane out on the bottom bunk. He brackets his body on top of Shane’s, one knee planted in between his spread legs.
“More, Ilya.” Shane gasps out, and Ilya’s responding groan is guttural.
“You’ll need to be quiet.” He murmurs, stroking a tender hand over Shane’s jaw and across his cheek. “Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”
Shane looks up at him with those big, trusting eyes and Ilya feels a combination of power and devotion bloom in his chest.
“Need you to help me, Ilya.” He whispers beseechingly and Ilya knows with shocking clarity that he would do anything for this man if he keeps looking at him like this. Ilya would kill for him, would probably die for him, too. So he can definitely do this.
He can definitely bring a hand back up to Shane’s mouth and press, pushing his head down into the thin pillow below. Ilya finds himself embarrassingly close to cumming again when Shane’s eyes roll back, body shifting down so that he can press his bulge into Ilya’s thigh.
“Oh, baby,” Ilya purrs, “You love this, don’t you? You want me to hold you down and take what’s mine?”
Shane moans into Ilya’s grip, hips rocking desperately against his leg. Ilya registers that he’s trying to speak, so he loosens his grip enough for Shane to gasp out a frantic “Yours, Ilya. Please.”
Despite the filthy implication of the words, the declaration has Ilya preening. He realizes, finally, that he hasn’t claimed Shane in the way he’s thought about most over the past months.
Leaning down, he removes his hand completely to capture Shane’s lips in a frantic kiss. They’re both clearly out of practice and desperately horny, mouths barely closing between kisses. Their tongues glide together messily, teeth clacking into each other repeatedly as a result of the forceful movements.
Ilya doesn’t care. It’s the best kiss he’s ever had. Made even better by the way Shane keeps making those little fucking sounds into Ilya’s open mouth, sweet and uninhibited.
He slides his knee forward another inch, allowing Shane enough purchase to rock steadily into the muscle there.
They keep at it for another few minutes, wet lips smacking together while their bodies writhe in tandem.
There’s no rush, Ilya thinks giddily, I will have him here with me for years.
It’s a fucked up thought, but he doesn’t care–he’s had worse about the man below him.
All he cares about is his Shane, lying so prettily beneath him practically begging to be fucked. Who is Ilya to deny his boy what he needs?
He pulls away from Shane’s mouth to sit back on his haunches, earning himself a huffed sound of displeasure. Shane’s pout is quickly replaced by wide eyes and a wider jaw, though, when Ilya pulls his shirt up over his head. He watches Shane’s pupils dilate in real time as he takes in the sight of Ilya looming over him, all rippling muscles and unfettered desire.
“Take a picture, lyubov, it will last longer.” He says with a smirk, and Shane responds with an eye-roll and a smack to the stomach that echoes through their tiny room.
They stare at each other, eyes wide, before bursting into a fit of giggles.
Ilya leans back down, still smiling, and kisses his way back into Shane’s mouth.
-
Yes, Shane already knew that Ilya was shredded and gorgeous.
He had seen it all in the shower that day, with the image promptly burning itself into the back of his eyeballs.
He had never gotten the chance, however, to truly appreciate and admire the, quite frankly, absurd body that Ilya hides under the lumpy DOC uniform. He immediately promises himself that he will never miss an opportunity to admire him ever again.
The tattoos are even better up close, not because of their quality, but because they tell such a distinct story of Ilya. With Ilya’s lips pressed against his own, Shane can’t see the ink, but he uses his hands to map out their path across the planes of Ilya’s torso, reveling in the feeling of Ilya’s muscles jumping under his tender touch.
As he grinds his cock against Ilya’s thigh, Shane reaches up to close his hands around Ilya’s shoulders and grip at the skin there.
“More.” He whimpers again, the ability to form coherent sentences overridden by the desperate want that burns at his core and spreads down to the tips of his toes.
"You still have not told me what you want, sweetheart.” Ilya responds, his tone edging on the right side of condescension. “Is my baby all cockdumb already? I’ve barely even touched you, kotenok.”
Shane whines, high and long, the sound luckily lodged deep enough in his own throat to remain mostly quiet. He’s so hard he fears that his dick might explode. He just needs Ilya to do something. Fucking anything.
"Touch me, please. Here, need you to touch me here, Ilya.” He manages to pant out, proud of his gooey brain for putting together almost a full sentence, while dragging Ilya’s hand down over the straining bulge in his pants.
Ilya clearly feels the same, because he lets out a soft, cooing noise and presses a kiss to Shane’s nose.
“Look at you using your words, such a good boy, baby.” The praise, combined with the hand that finally slips under the waistband of Shane’s pants and briefs to wrap around his aching cock, has Shane reeling. He can’t stop the soft cries leaving his lips as Ilya begins to stroke him, writhing under Ilya’s tight grip and the press of his body.
“You like being my good boy, hm? Like being so good for your Ilya?”
God, it’s like Ilya’s voice is directly wired to his cock and to the pleasure centers of his brain, each word sending zaps of arousal through every nerve in his body.
“Yes, yes,” He gasps, hips bucking wildly against Ilya’s grasp, “Wanna be good for you.”
Ilya’s smile is toothy and broad as he pulls away from his position pressing sloppy kisses into Shane’s neck to admire the way his face twists in pleasure with each brush of Ilya’s hand. Shane feels his eyebrows scrunch, physically unable to peel his eyes open. His breath leaves him in soft, gasping pants as he tumbles closer to the edge with each pass of Ilya’s skilled fist.
“Gonna make you cum like this.” Ilya grunts out, eyes wild. “Then maybe again on my fingers before I even get my cock in that little hole. Think you could give me three tonight, baby?”
Shane has never cum three times in one night before, but he is suddenly desperate to try. After all, Ilya is asking him, and Shane is helpless to deny anything that Ilya wants if it means he’ll keep touching him like this. He wants so badly to be good, to make Ilya proud so that he’ll keep him and maybe give Shane mind-bending pleasure like this again.
He’s anxious, though, unsure of his ability to accomplish such a daunting task. What if he can’t? What if he isn’t good enough? What if-
“Shane.” Ilya whispers, voice firm with a hint of softness around the edges. “What is it, sweetheart? Where did you go?”
Oops.
Leave it to Shane to let his traitorous mind take them both out of the hottest moment of Shane’s life.
“Oh, I-” He starts, voice meek. “I don’t know if I can cum three times, I’m sorry.”
His face burns, shame at the confession and at the way his voice breaks a little on the apology crawling up his throat.
Ilya doesn’t look angry or disappointed, though, he just looks… A little amused, maybe?
“Moya lyubov, is just talking dirty. I do not want any sorries, okay? If you can cum, cum. If you cannot, who cares? Though I will make it my goal to have you cumming twenty times in one hour if it is what you want.”
Shane giggles lightly, the tension and suffocating anxiety dissipating in an instant. “Twenty times in one hour doesn’t sound healthy, Ilya.”
Ilya waves a hand dismissively, rolling his eyes at Shane’s pointed tone.
“Bah, is prison. Who gives a shit about healthy?” He gripes, before pressing a chaste kiss to Shane’s forehead. The gesture really shouldn’t feel as sexy as it does. “Let’s get back to talking about making you cum, yes?”
Ilya quickly helps Shane shed his own shirt before a hand moves back down to his waistband, this time pulling the fabric of his pants and briefs down so that Shane can shuffle them over his knees and off of his body.
He kisses his way down Shane’s body, paying extra attention to the sensitive skin at the base of his neck and to the hardened peaks of his nipples, tightened by the cool air of the cell and by Ilya’s skilled tongue. He sucks one nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the bud before allowing his teeth to graze the taut skin. Shane’s panting breaths grow longer, transforming into languid moans that flow into their room like spilled honey. Ilya’s mouth is merciless, alternating between licks, nibbles, and tight suction that leaves Shane writhing underneath this mass of man.
Once the skin is sufficiently slick and reddened, Ilya continues his journey down Shane’s abdomen until he is face-level with Shane’s cock, hard and angry-red where it juts out from between his hipbones.
Shane grips the sheets below his back with one hand, moaning preemptively in anticipation, his free hand tangling in Ilya’s mussed curls. To his surprise, Ilya bypasses his cock entirely to latch onto the sensitive skin besides Shane’s hipbone. He sucks tightly, teeth digging lightly into the skin. Shane realizes that it’s going to leave a mark, and the thought has his back arching off of the bed.
He wants Ilya to mark him everywhere, consequences be damned. He wants to feel owned in a way that no one has ever owned him before. His heart, mind, and body belong to the man above him, and Shane has never felt more free.
“Yes-” He gasps out as Ilya moves his head to suck a twin bruise into Shane’s opposite hip, “Mark me, Ilya. Wanna be yours.”
Ilya grins, but does not dislodge his teeth, the corners of his lips simply shifting up against the skin. Once satisfied with his handiwork, he pulls away and wipes at his slick lips with the back of one hand.
“You are mine, aren’t you? My pretty baby to play with however I want.” He hums thoughtfully, before leaning down to lick a long stripe up the underside of Shane’s cock.
The stimulation is instantly all consuming, Shane scrambling for purchase against anything he can get his hands on, fistfuls of golden curls weaving through his fingers. Ilya doesn’t give him a second to catch his breath, immediately sucking Shane into his mouth and bobbing his head with animalistic fervor. It takes a few passes for Ilya to work Shane into his throat, the head catching at the tight opening with increasingly insistent presses. He doesn’t gag, though, and doesn’t falter in his pace. Ilya is clearly a man on a mission, that mission being to drive Shane fucking insane as quickly as possible.
The hand not supporting the base of Shane’s cock slides down between his legs, finding his tight entrance with laser efficiency. That first touch to his neglected hole does Shane in instantly.
With a final cry, Shane bucks his hips up and spills into Ilya’s mouth, cum spurting out of him in an endless wave. Ilya stabilizes himself with a hand to Shane’s hip and takes it all down his throat, swallowing indulgently while pulling off with a soft pop.
“Oh, sweetheart,” He groans, voice thick as it emerges from his overused throat, “So good when you let go for me. Did that feel good, baby?”
Shane doesn’t understand how Ilya can maintain his composure so easily, his gentle coaxing so effortlessly-suave and controlled despite just sucking Shane off like there had been a gun to his head.
Meanwhile, Shane is panting like he’s just run a marathon, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes and threatening to spill over.
“So good, Ilya, fuck. So so good.” He babbles, scrubbing the crook of his elbow over his face to clear away the daze.
“Good, because that’s just the fucking beginning.” Ilya grunts, before pressing a quick kiss to Shane’s mouth and diving back down to his position at the bottom of the bed.
Shane isn’t given another moment to collect himself before Ilya is pushing his legs up until his knees nearly kiss his temples. The sudden exposure is intimate and heady, and Shane feels arousal beginning to stir in his gut again with lightning speed.
Ilya wastes no time getting his talented mouth on Shane’s hole, alternating between wide, flat licks and gentle sucking. It feels like Ilya is making out with his hole, leaving sloppy kisses that fill the air with soft squelches punctuated by Ilya’s satisfied grunts and Shane’s keening moans.
They remain like that until Shane is nearly out of his mind with pleasure and desperation. He yanks hard at Ilya’s hair, urging him back up to finally meet his mouth in a fiery kiss. Shane pays no mind to the fact that Ilya’s mouth was just closely acquainted with his asshole, instead savoring the heady taste of Ilya’s swollen, spit-slick lips.
“-Ilya” Shane gasps out once he’s able to wrench himself away from the insistent press of Ilya’s mouth against his own, “Need your cock, please.”
“What, my mouth is not enough for this greedy little hole? Needs to be stuffed full, too?” Shane feels like he’s floating somewhere outside of his body, maybe not even on this planet anymore. Never in his wildest fantasies, or in his best hookups (those few rushed blowjobs not really setting a high standard), could he begin to fathom pleasure like this–and they haven’t even fucked yet.
Not to mention the fact that he’s on a tiny bunk in his prison cell with his prison boyfriend, who is currently circling Shane’s hole with a finger slicked only with his spit.
For a delirious moment, Shane wants to thank his mother for committing twenty-four counts of major financial crimes and giving him this opportunity, but he would really like to avoid thinking about his mom when aforementioned prison boyfriend is pressing that same finger into Shane.
Ilya opens Shane diligently, no longer taking his time to play around with his body. The need is palpable between them, the air thick with arousal and desperation.
One finger becomes two, which promptly begin to hammer Shane’s prostate with an unrelenting pressure that has Shane’s eyes rolling back in his head. Words leave him completely, not that he had many left in his brain anyways, rendering him only able to babble incoherently. With just three more thrusts of Ilya’s fingers, Shane cums again.
It’s less powerful than his first orgasm, just a few spurts of cum dribbling pathetically from the tip of his cock. The feeling, though, is overwhelming.
He cries out, overstimulation quickly taking over as Ilya begins to scissor his fingers and spread Shane open.
He needs Ilya to stop. He needs Ilya to never stop. He needs less and also more and also everything.
He needs Ilya to finally put his cock inside of him.
“Ready.” Shane cries, feeling like a ventriloquist dummy impaled on two thick fingers. He’s surprised the word doesn’t come out in Russian.
Ilya makes a soft tsking sound, shaking his head.
“Lyubimyy, I am very big and I do not want to hurt you.”
Shane groans, a petulant sound of dissent.
“Just put it in me, fucking cocky bastard.”
Ilya barks out a laugh of surprise, shoulders shaking and eyes dancing with mischief for a fleeting moment before transforming into a blaze of fire.
“Oh, sweetheart, you think you are so tough, hm? Okay, I will show you how I fuck brave, stupid little boys like you.”
And oh, fuck.
Shane shudders at the newfound tone to Ilya’s voice, stern and condescending and the sound that will haunt every one of Shane’s wet dreams for the rest of his life.
Without another word, Ilya flips Shane onto his stomach, startling an oof out of his parted lips. He wrenches Shane’s hips up, gripping the skin tight enough to bruise. Shane feels the hot, hard length of Ilya pressed up against his crack and yeah, it feels fucking huge.
A gulp nearly lodges itself in his throat, pressing into his Adam’s apple as he swallows hard.
“Ilya-” He whimpers, suddenly feeling like he’d maybe gotten a bit too big for his britches, but Ilya only laughs cruelly.
“What is it, baby?” He coos with faux sympathy, the hand running over Shane’s side feeling more like a brand than a comfort. “Is my stupid little cockslut not feeling so brave anymore?”
“I’m sorry, I’m scared.” He whimpers, and feels Ilya freeze behind him, the warmth of his body suddenly gone.
Humming in confusion, Shane cranks his neck to one side in order to look behind him, and is shocked to find Ilya kneeling half-off the foot of the bed, face pale and eyes widened in horror.
“Ilya?” He asks softly, but Ilya barely seems to hear him. It’s as if the air has been sucked out of the room in an instant, and Shane has no idea why.
-
I’m scared.
The words ricochet around Ilya’s head, drowning out every other sound in the room.
I’m scared. I’m scared.
His Shane is scared of him.
Even worse, he’s right to be scared of him.
Ilya has done nothing but scare him for the months that they’d known each other, to the point where Shane had gotten down on his knees and said those same words to him barely an hour ago, eyes big and wet and frightened.
I’m scared.
And what had Ilya done? Exactly what he always does. Hurt him. Threatened to hurt him. Taken his first time bottoming for another man and bastardized it into some cruel caricature.
What the fuck is wrong with him?
He should have kissed his silly, brave boy slowly, opened him up gently until he was stretched enough to take Ilya’s cock, offered gentle praise for how good he was being and how beautiful he looked.
Instead, he had stopped at two fingers because Shane made one stupid little comment, then threw him onto his stomach while degrading him.
Ilya wants to vomit. And then maybe die.
He registers his name being repeated, growing in urgency and volume, and maybe Ilya should do something about that before they cause a scene.
If nothing else, he can do that right.
“Hollander, enough.” He snaps, and immediately cringes at the harsh tone of his voice.
He feels even worse when Shane’s face falls, tears filling his pretty eyes.
Ilya blurts out a long string of Russian profanity, scrubbing a hand over his face.
“Fuck, Shane. I’m sorry. I-” He is horrified to feel his voice get stuck, words suddenly cut off by a distinctive tightness in his throat. “Fuck.”
The tears come hot and fast, and he only registers Shane blinking at him in confusion before his head collapses forward into his hands.
“I’m sorry.” Ilya gasps out. “I’m so sorry.”
Shane wastes no time gathering Ilya into his arms, rubbing soothing hands up and down the expanse of his back. He traces the tattoo on Ilya’s shoulder, the clusters of moles near his shoulderblades, the raised skin along his spine.
After a few minutes of torture, Ilya feels his chest beginning to cease its spasming, his breath coming a bit more steadily.
Shane stirs, pulling away and reaching forward to tip Ilya’s head up. When their eyes meet, Ilya doesn’t see the horror or anger that he’s expecting. Instead, Shane gazes on Ilya’s face with concern and pleading confusion.
“Ilya, what was that?” He asks without judgement. “What happened, baby?”
It’s nearly enough to undo him all over again.
He hasn’t been anyone’s baby in a long time.
“You are scared of me.” He says softly, and Shane releases a punched-out, incredulous laugh.
“I never said that, Ilya. I said I was scared, because I was. I was scared because it’s going to hurt when you fuck me. But I also know that it’s going to feel so good, that you’re going to take care of me. I trust you to take care of me, Ilya.”
Ilya scoffs, eyes moving to the side to avoid Shane’s.
“You tell me before, too, that you are scared. Before you know that I love you, you kneel at my feet and tell me to “go easy” because you are scared. Because I am monster that you should be afraid of because all I do is hurt people.”
He nearly misses the way that Shane’s breath has caught in his throat, leaving his body unnervingly still.
He nearly misses the widening of his eyes, the slight gape of his lips.
But he doesn’t miss it–he sees it, but he doesn’t know what it means.
Shane is quick to clarify.
“You love me?” He asks, and Ilya is incapable of lying to him.
“Da.” He whispers. “Yes.”
Shane smiles, hopeful and the brightest thing Ilya has ever seen.
“Then don’t fuck me like you have something to prove, Ilya. Fuck me like you love me.”
Shane doesn’t say it back, not exactly, but Ilya still feels it. He feels it in the way Shane holds him. He feels it in the way Shane reclines against the pillows and spreads his legs. He feels it in the way Shane takes his own cock in hand and begs Ilya to fuck him. He feels it when he finally pushes forward and breaches Shane’s tight hole, carving out a space for himself that no one else will ever fill–he’ll make sure of that.
When he bottoms out, it feels like coming home.
Shane is tight and hot around Ilya as he forces himself to remain still.
Shane whimpers and squirms against the insistent press of Ilya inside of him, his sounds of discomfort slowly morphing into the ones of pleasure that Ilya has been anxiously awaiting.
“Fuck, Ilya, so fucking big.” He whines, rhythmically clenching his hole like it’s his goal to drive Ilya fucking insane. “So full of you, fuck.”
“You’re okay, baby, you can take it.” He soothes, pressing soft kisses to every inch of Shane’s face, careful to avoid moving his hips too much. "So beautiful like this, sweetheart. Taking my cock so well."
It feels like eternity and one second before Shane finally whines out “Please move, ‘m ready.”
Ilya wastes no time pulling back and thrusting back into Shane, setting a steady, gentle pace that has them panting into each other’s mouths.
“Harder, want it rough.” Shane whines, and Ilya has to freeze and recalibrate to avoid cumming inside of Shane on the spot.
Once certain he isn’t going to explode prematurely, he picks up the pace of his hips, pistoning into Shane fast enough that his balls slap against the top of his ass. The sounds are obscene, the slick squelch of where their bodies are connected, the smack of his balls, the moans slipping free from their lips. He looks down at the spot where his cock disappears into Shane, noting how the bruises he’d sucked into Shane’s hipbones peek out from where his thighs press into his abdomen. It’s a filthy sight, so heady that Ilya feels possessed when he begins fucking into Shane even harder, sliding a hand up to wrap around the front of Shane’s throat.
“You’re fucking mine.” He grunts out, squeezing at the sides just enough to impede blood flow a little bit. He wants Shane delirious on his cock, so out of his head that he can only think about the feeling of Ilya filling him over and over again.
His action has its intended effect, Shane whimpering loudly, squeezed-shut eyes leaking tears as he cycles through a litany of moans and cries of Ilya’s name.
“Tell me how it feels, baby. How does this big fucking cock feel?” He loosens his grip on Shane’s neck enough for him to take in a gasping breath, eyes flying open to reveal the hazy fog covering them.
“Feels s’good,” Shane whines, words a bit slurred, “Fucking me so good, Ilya.”
Ilya throws his head back with a moan, pace faltering for just a second before he regains his composure.
“Fuck, Shane, this perfect fucking hole. Was fucking made for me, wasn’t it?”
Shane cries out again, hand flying down to stroke his cock a few times.
“Yes, yes.” The words spill out of his mouth on the tail end of a moan. “Made for you, Ilya. Only for you.”
“That’s fucking right, baby. You like being mine? You like belonging to your Ilya?”
Shane is a sobbing mess, and Ilya feels like he’s flying.
He’s getting close again, almost ready to pump Shane full of his cum. First, he wants the man falling apart below him. Before he can utter another word, though, Shane keeps going. Clearly emboldened, he begins spitting filth out of his perfect, pretty mouth.
-
“Like when you’re possessive, when you claim me and make me- fuck- make me yours.”
Ilya’s responding grunt is animalistic, teeth bared as he releases a groan.
“You want me to claim you, baby? I should fill this perfect hole with my cum and mark you from the inside.” He grits out, hips never ceasing their relentless drive into Shane’s pliant body. “Everyone will know who you belong to, da? No one will ever fucking look at you again. You’re all mine, isn’t that right?”
“Yes.” Shane sobs, emphatic and desperate. “Yours, Ilya. All yours.”
They’re being too loud and they both know it, yet neither man makes any move to quiet themselves. It’s too overwhelming, too perfect, and Shane isn’t going to last much longer anyways.
“Close, Ilya.” He whimpers, hole clenching rhythmically around Ilya’s cock as it bullies his prostate with maddening precision.
“Fucking cum for me, Shane.” He grits, tightening his grip on Shane’s throat enough to have the edges of his vision turn fuzzy against the assault. “Cum all over my cock. Give it to me baby, I want it. Want you to let everyone know who fucks you like this.”
Shane won’t need to touch his leaking cock again at this rate, Ilya’s filthy words pushing him closer and closer.
The deal is sealed when Ilya grits out a final “Tell me baby, who’s the only one who can make you feel this good?”
“Ilya!” Shane gasps out, his orgasm washing over him in a crashing wave, so powerful despite the two others that Ilya has wrung out of him tonight. His cock jerks, still slapping against his stomach as it pumps a final few ropes of cum onto his heaving chest.
Tacky strands stretch and snap rhythmically between the head of his cock and the skin of his abdomen with each thrust. Through the force of Shane’s orgasm, Ilya’s pace never falters as he pushes himself closer to his own release.
“Please, Ilya,” Shane begs, voice strained from overuse and overstimulation, “Cum in me, please, please.”
He has never heard himself this wanton, this slutty, and his cock twitches with the impossible threat to harden again at his own audible desperation. “Need your cum, baby.” He whines, and Ilya is done for.
With a long groan, Ilya’s hips stutter as he pushes as deep as possible one final time before pulsing deep in Shane’s core.
He knows it may be his imagination, but Shane swears he can feel each individual spurt of Ilya’s cum as it paints his insides.
He can feel it in his fucking stomach.
“Fucking Christ.” Ilya finally groans before pulling Shane back up to his chest and depositing them sideways on the small mattress. They both take a moment to catch their breath, panting into the now-quiet space. Ilya stirs behind him, placing a quick kiss to the sweaty hair at the back of Shane’s head before slowly pulling his softened cock from Shane’s sore hole. Shane whimpers lightly at the wet drag, and Ilya soothes him with a soft shushing.
“Let me clean you up, baby.” He whispers, sitting up and sliding off the foot of the bed. He grabs his discarded briefs and uses them to wipe away the cum sticking to Shane’s abs. It’s an objectively gross action, but Shane’s heart still stutters at the casual romance of it.
“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Ilya asks, and Shane realizes that he’s been silently staring at Ilya since they finished.
A lazy smile spreads over his face. He’s perfect.
-
The shift in the unit’s dynamic is dizzying in its immediacy. A
s if there has been a ripple in the cosmos (or as if word from last night’s captive audience has rapidly spread among the prison that Shane is Ilya’s, which is the more likely scenario, though much less romantic), the other inmates cease their prodding at Shane the very next day.
There are countless eyes on the pair as they enter the chow hall for breakfast, despite the scene not outwardly appearing any different than it had for the past months.
Shane makes eye contact with Dallas Kent, whose usual leering gaze has been replaced with a mask of indifference.
The fear of Ilya clearly runs deep.
Shane knows that he should probably feel uncomfortable being paraded around like Ilya’s prized property, but that lick of shame never comes. Instead, he feels something that he never expected to experience while locked up.
He feels settled. Content, even.
He also feels a little smug.
Instead of shrinking away from eyes pretending not to catalog the pair’s every move, he preens under their attention. It’s a powerful rush, knowing that he has tamed the Russian Hellhound and earned himself the world’s most loyal guard dog in the process.
At his side, Ilya’s eyes scan the room with an icy edge, daring anyone to say a word against either of them. Shane can practically see his pupils sharpen,, the surge of his claws from his knuckles, the hackles raise on the back of his neck.
An involuntary shudder runs up his spine at the mental image, and Ilya, the perceptive bastard, immediately runs his knuckles over the back of Shane’s hand.
“Everything okay, lyubimyy?” He murmurs with a tilt of his head towards Shane, tone gentle despite the tension radiating off of his body.
Shane nods, smiling openly now, and he means it when he says “Everything is perfect, Ilya.”