Archive of Our Own

Masochist

noun

a person who derives sexual gratification from their own pain or humiliation.

Brown eyes glisten, Shane’s face tilted up while he watches the elevator climb floors. He nears his destination - the penthouse suite stocked to the brim with alcohol and a view of the city skyline past floor-to-ceiling windows. It would be his third trip up here in the last month, having been called upon to keep the company of a hotel guest so important that he’d been contacted by them directly with no proxy - no middle man to plan his stay.

Rarely did he feel any joy in being a rent boy of sorts, selling his time - his body, mouth - to men with more money than they know what to do with. Often did he feel that pang of anticipation jolt up his spine when he thought of the heart-shaped lips he’d kissed a fruitful number of times in his few visits - curled in a slavic snarl. Seldom did he care for the holes burning in suit coat pockets, for the hands - pale ghosts of wedding rings on third fingers - taking their fill of him. Too many times had he laid in his bed at home - or in the bed of another - and remembered the Russian man’s touch along his sinewy skin as it dries tacky under a thin sheen of sweat.

The elevator dings. The doors open.

Shane runs his hands through his hair, brushes his choppy bangs back from his forehead so they lay disheveled. He undoes the top button of his dress shirt, pressed neat and ironed beneath his navy blue blazer. 

Overlapping voices fill his ears, the poignant smell of cigarette smoke and spilled alcohol somewhere fill his nostrils. His lips twitch downwards into a frown, shoulders tensing where he stands - checks the floor to ensure he’d punched the right button. A woman passes by the elevator, stumbling and giggling and spilling more of her drink. Shane cringes, eyes snapping to the few people beside the elevator doors. A couple stumbles in, he darts around them and enters the penthouse.

He pats his pockets down, fixes the waistband of his trousers despite not a single hair being out of place on his head. The music is loud, the people are louder. One woman’s eyes follow him as he passes by - linger on his ass. 

It isn't unlike being a gazelle prancing though a lion’s den - surrounded.

The mess of blond curls that he finally finds sits illuminated by a warm toned light feet away. Shane swallows, his stomach twisting and turning. The back of the man's head is as attractive as the rest of him, his knuckles pink while a cigarette dangles between the pointer and middle - thick, deft splitting Shane open just weeks ago. 

He rounds the couch, swerving around two women kissing against a pillar. Hands in hair, moans and giggles falling from soft lips. Men watching. Hungry lions.

A tall man - taller than either of them - stands from the couch and regards Shane with a raised eyebrow. Pale eyes lift from the conversation occupying him, they find Shane maybe it’s the slightest twitch in them that gives it away, but the tanned man almost wants to say there’s a familiarity there. The blond takes a drag of his cigarette, slow and deliberate - jaw flexing at the tendon that connects his mandible to his skull. He breathes the smoke out and the cloud curls around him and caresses his handsome face.

“Just on time. So punctual.”

Shane smiles. He can’t help it.

He shrugs, stuffing his hands into his pockets. The fabric of his trousers strains over his ass, his coat’s tail covers it. The tacking stitch long gone, just the smallest peek appears if he moves an inch too far.

“Come,” Rozanov says, snapping his fingers at Shane before patting at his thigh.

His face feels hot.

Their routine had come to be much more private than this. Shane, Rozanov, and a bottle of vodka shared between them in the night.

Whatever the paler man’s deal was - why he was Rozanov and seemingly had no first name to give out to the likes of Shane, why he didn’t speak often of his work, why a Russian man with all this money would be in a place like Montreal - was no business of Shane’s and that had been made abundantly clear to him their first meeting.

Ilya makes a face at him, eyebrows furrowed. Shane nods, swallows down his nerves, and walks over. He sits on Rozanov’s lap as directed, fingers twitching as he tries and fails to make sense of where to put them. The decision is made for him when the tall man from before hands him a glass with ice and a clear liquid in it. Rozanov continues his conversation as if there isn’t a two-hundred-twenty pound man balanced on his knee. 

The drink is vodka, of course. Shane takes a swig of it and tries not to scrunch his face up so much. His lips purse and he blinks a few times, throat burning - tears sting at his eyes. Rozanov pats once, twice at his hip and chuckles. It’s a warm sound, reverberating through his body and by proxy into Shane’s.

“Poor Shanya, he will never be used to taste. Hm?”

He shrugs, only to turn his gaze to Rozanov and see that the man isn’t even looking at him - addressing him. He’s talking to the girl seated next to him rather, speaking of Shane as if he’s some decoration - some pet. 

She’s gorgeous. Skin smooth and glossy, caramel-like. Her hair is tied up, unruly blonde curls tucked behind her ears. She has large, doll-like eyes and shiny lips tugged into a grin. There’s a familiarity between her and Rozanov that there isn’t between Shane and Rozanov - something much, much older. Mature.

Ilya passes the cigarette to her. He downs the rest of his drink and hands the glass to Shane, who takes it in his free hand with an odd stare. 

“Большие, красивые глаза. Пустая голова. Go get me more, yes?”

Shane's eyebrows twitch. The girl beside Rozanov giggles, breathing smoke at them.

He narrows his eyes at Rozanov, who meets his gaze now. Any humor leaves his face once he sets icy, pale irises on the freckled man’s sour face. He snaps his fingers in Shane’s face, too close that he almost hits him with them.

“Do I say in fucking French? Go.”

Shane stands then, jaw set - molars gritting together in the back of his mouth. He walks over to the bar at the other side of the room - more people have filtered out of the penthouse, on to their own rooms. The bottle is open, the strong scent wafting up into his senses as he fills the glass again with it. He refills his own glass as well - because fuck you, he thinks to himself. As he’s nearing the couch where Rozanov is sitting again - eyes set and locked on him, seething behind that stony mask he wears around people - a bark of laughter leaves the tall man with oil dripping from his hair.

The blond takes the glass and watches Shane’s reaction to their brushing fingers while he sips behind the rim. The stuttered breath in his chest underneath the blazer. The way his left eye twitches - his mask slipping just barely. 

“Did I say you could have more? Did you even ask?” Rozanov asks, licking his heart-shaped lips free of the vodka.

Shane shrugs.

“Impôts.”

The girl grins, eyes sliding from Shane to Rozanov, who wears an expression laced with impatience.

“Should I say it in fucking Russian?” Shane adds, brave - throat warm with liquid courage.

The tall man barks out a laugh and kicks at Rozanov’s leg.

Pale eyes don’t leave brown - hard set.

“Funny one,” the man says. “You know how to pick ‘em.”

“Yes. I did not know high class whores made comedy,” Rozanov says, lips twitching into the slightest of smirks.

Shane bristles.

“Do you get paid to joke? Or do you get paid to suck my fucking cock?”

He doesn't do this. He doesn't do groups. He doesn't do shows.

He doesn't do this.

Shane shakes his head, fingertips turning white where he grips the glass in his hand so hard he wonders if it might break. If shards might cut into his palm.

“Marleau, maybe you would like turn, no?”

Ilya finally tears his gaze away and it lands on the man that had been laughing - Marleau. The girl who had been giggling behind her hand speaks up now, lips curling around the romantic language that leaves her mouth.

“Il est gêné. Tu as raconté une bonne blague.”

It takes Shane a moment to realize that it was him she was speaking to. He offers her a kind smile, really more of a twitch of his lips. Ilya glares at her. She glares back.

“What? I tell him you are not so bad, that you lose money tonight. Is why you are so crabby.”

He mutters something to her in Russian. Shane still stands there awkwardly, one hand clutching his glass and the other picking at the seam of his pant leg that rests against his thigh. 

When he shifts his eyes from their focus on the carpet underneath his shoes, Ilya is staring right at him again. There’s a hard set to his jaw, a dangerous glint in his eyes. Pale blue appraise him - analyze him from head to toe. Without a word at first, Ilya reaches into his pocket and pulls his wallet out. He takes out four bills - each one-hundred in value. Shane feels heat rise to his cheeks but he wills his eyes to stay on Ilya’s face - handsome slavic features keeping his focus from wandering about the room in shame at the obvious showcase of his purpose in being here. 

Ilya sets the bills on the coffee table he has one foot propped up on, then sets an empty glass over them to pin them to the cool surface. Then he’s pushing the table away from where his legs reach, the empty space in front of him being just right of Shane’s own feet. Ilya sips at his drink, glowers at Shane from behind the rim, and licks the liquid from his lips when he swallows. The air is tense, an unbidden command resting on the harsh pink that sits at the tip of Ilya’s tongue. 

Not unbidden for so long, unfortunately.

“I will pay in installments tonight. Three hundred and you sit pretty on your hands and knees until party is over.”

Shane’s eyes instantly sting - shame pricks behind them, rockets tears to paint them glassy. He swallows, thorns closing around the tendons cradling his neck. He speaks before he can stop himself, his voice not his own - too raspy as he croaks it out.

“Go fuck yourself.”

Svetlana bites at her knuckle to stop the laugh from escaping. Marleau whistles, wide eyes locked on Ilya.

Ilya’s cool smirk doesn’t falter even a bit. He sips from his glass again, shrugging one shoulder.

“Is half of what you make usually anyways,” he reminds Shane, then turns to his company. “If he does not, then night will go like this: he will leave, sad to have no Ilya tonight, and find rich old man to fuck him for the night. Three pumps and no orgasm for him. Yes, малыш?”

Shane doesn’t blink, hoping the shameful tears at his wet eyes will dry if he keeps his eyes open for as long as possible. If he blinks, one will fall. If he blinks, Ilya will have that much more cannon fodder.

“And then, he will still not pay as much as me. Yes? Three thousand for tonight. Four, maybe, if you behave for me.”

Shane’s hand twitches as he considers dumping his drink onto Ilya’s lap, or his still lit cigarette, or his striking face - carved by gentle hands in clouds and gifted to humanity.

Instead, in spite, he glances at the bills on the table.

Three pairs of eyes on him just in this corner of the room. Others, maybe, in his periphery that he can’t see - that he hopes he doesn’t see at all. Shame eats away at him from the inside, searing-hot in his chest and the pit of his stomach that sinks deeper and deeper into the hole he wishes would open up and swallow him into the ground. Into Hell.

His eyes slide from the bills back to Ilya. He blinks, eyebrows furrowed. 

Ilya, in a show of genuine amusement, chuckles and pulls his wallet out yet again. He extracts another hundred, lets it join the bills on the coffee table, then settles back into the couch. Shane downs his vodka, tries not to cringe so much at the bitter heat sliding down his throat. He sets the glass down right next to where Ilya’s elbow rests on the arm of the couch, completely bypassing the coffee table with careful deliberation. He shrugs off his blazer coat, keeps his eyes locked on Ilya’s while he folds it and tosses it onto the empty seat of the couch by Ilya's leg. 

Shane lowers himself to his knees carefully, bracing his caps for the soft impact and turning to face Marleau, who sits on the opposite leg of the L-shaped couch. The man watches him with an incredulous expression, clearly thrown off at his obedience. Shane sets his jaw and bends at the waist, palms pressed flat into the carpet beneath him. He studies the speckled pattern of the threaded carpet now below him, bangs hanging from his forehead. His cheeks are warm, the blush no doubt rising to the tips of his ears. But here, he can at least let the mortification well up in his eyes and - if he’s lucky that no one notices such a detail - fall to the carpet.

Conversations continue. 

A few minutes in, as Shane readjusts where the carpet is now digging into his palms and leaving impressions of its pattern, a weight settles firm against his lower back. He stiffens, doesn't look, doesn’t make a sound. He doesn't have to in order to know.

Ilya is leaning back against the couch, fingertip tracing the rim of his glass as Svetlana speaks to him in their native language of her recent trip to Spain. He crosses one ankle over the other where his heels rest against Shane’s lower back, right over where his dress shirt is just barely untucked from his waistband. The man had tensed at the contact initially, then willed himself to maintain what little control he had over his body and his expression. The battle was a sight to see - endearing. 

The party dies down. Goers filter out slowly, some say their goodbyes, most don’t. Shane’s eyes are still locked on the carpet beneath him as Marleau bids Ilya a good bye. Another fifteen minutes pass, Svetlana takes her leave and leaves a press of her wine colored lipstick on Ilya's cheek. He’s sure he’s somewhere far off by now, hearing fuzzy as his name falls muffled three, four times in concession. 

Ilya’s hand threads through his hair, nudges his head back slightly. Shane’s eyes snap back into focus - three-hundred-thirty-seven dots, he’d counted in the pattern below him. The grip in his coarse hair, noir black and choppy, makes him hiss through his teeth. The room is empty save for the two of them. Ilya’s lips are beside his ear, he smells like cigarette smoke.

“Up.”

Shane shoves himself away from the floor, sits on his knees a moment while he examines his pink palms. He was down there for an hour maybe, the weight of Ilya’s feet on his back an unfortunately grounding sensation. He stands, cheeks warm as he looks to where Ilya picks Shane’s glass up - now full again - and hands it to him. Shane stares at it, breathing picking up in his chest.

“Fine, be difficult. You will not want after I’m done with you,” he scolds, setting the glass back down. 

The blond sits on the couch again, tapping an unlit cigarette that dangles from between his fingers against his bottom lip. He watches Shane with a gaze reminiscent of rapt, lids low and irises greedy over the freckled man’s tanned form.

“You can take four hundred and go. If you want.”

Shane’s eyes slide to the money sitting for him on the coffee table. He keeps his gaze on it while Ilya continues.

“Go let some man with wife at home fuck you for five minutes for maybe four hundred more. Yay, you pay rent. Or,” he flicks the spark wheel, watches a flame light, doesn't light the cigarette yet. “You stay and I make a deal.”

Shane sniffles once, remnants of his humiliation stuck to his throat like bile.

“Tonight, you let me do whatever to you. Fuck you, hit you,” he snaps his fingers at Shane, finally grabbing his attention. “Burn you.”

Brown eyes - still far away - settle on the end of the unlit cigarette. Ilya watches the miniscule movement, leans back further against the couch and parts his legs just that much more.

“I do what I want, if you take it all with no whining,” he pauses, recontemplates, rephrases, “Okay, only little whining, then I will pay your rent, pay your bills, whatever. You can be good yes?”

Shane swallows, eyebrows furrowing as he takes in the information. His throat feels dry when he speaks, the non-use of it evident.

“For the month?”

“For many months. For as long as I want. Long time, probably. I have more money than I need.”

Shane narrows his eyes at Ilya, who just watches him, bored. Something flickers behind blue eyes.

“Why?”

The man rolls his eyes, waves Shane off dismissively.

“Go then, go find-”

“I’m just asking why. Why would you want to do that? What, you want - you want a sugar baby, or something?”

Ilya shrugs, eyes raking down over Shane’s body - standing with his arms at his sides like some awkwardly formed statue - to avoid his all-too-earnest gaze. 

“You are good fuck. Tight ass, good mouth, so…so desperate to please.”

Ilya makes a sound in the back of his throat, appreciative.

“Last time, you hump my leg like poor, pathetic, horny little puppy. Beg to cum, beg me to pet you, slap you.”

Shane’s eyes drop to the carpet, crimson crowding the patches of freckles on his cheekbones. The blush reaches the tips of his ears.

“I like this. But I hate condoms. So, you will not sell yourself. I will give you plenty, you bend over and I fuck you raw, cum inside you.”

The offer is put into plain terms and it didn’t sound all that terrible, quite honestly. Rarely did he feel any excitement in visiting clients, but Ilya had been different. From their very first meeting, Shane was entranced by all six feet of the slavic beauty, and all nine inches of his cock put to expert use. Shane hardly came in his excursions usually, but it was hard not to when Ilya had fucked him so many times in so many hours that first night together that he was sure he’d lost a few braincells. They lived somewhere in the bedsheets of that hotel room now.

What did sound terrible, was the threat behind the promise. The ownership.

“You’ve only been in town twice in the last month.”

“Do you not listen? Only rocks in your skull or what? I said I will pay your bills. So I am not in town often. I am busy man.”

Shane swallows, shifts his weight to his other foot and clutches at his pant legs to soothe his nerves. He feels like a scolded child. Ilya watches him with careful calculated eyes, then barks out a laugh, incredulous.

“Oh, poor little whore misses my cock that much? Hm?”

Shane scoffs, snatches up his blazer from where he’d set it and quickly rounds the couch to make his way to the door. As he passes the arm of the couch, he’s made dreadfully aware of the power dynamics at play as he’s yanked by the waistband of his pants onto the couch and over Ilya’s lap. He falls on his back, shoulder blades digging into the thick muscle of the Russian's thighs. The yelp he’d released upon the contact devolves into a groan of irritation as a firm palm comes to press at his sternum, pinning him there.

Without thinking - just as Ilya’s lips part to speak - he smacks him open-handed across the cheek.

It stuns the other man, but the pressure at his chest doesn’t let up. Ilya’s eye twitches. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and muttering something to himself in Russian before steeling his expression again. His grip flies up to Shane’s jaw, blunt nails digging into the soft meat of his cheeks. He jostles his head, shaking him until Shane’s vision blurs slightly.

“Неблагодарный маленький кусок дерьма. Four thousand a month and you take what I give you, or I will find a bitch who wants it more.”

Shane’s lips are etched into a pout against his will, he parts them to speak and Ilya shoves his thumb into the new opening to shut him up before he can start. He’s all too confident that Shane won’t bite him - and Shane doesn’t. Things could end very badly for him, he’d need to play it cautious for now.

“Or,” he presses more of his thumb into the cavern of Shane’s mouth, dragging the pad of it along the jagged heads of the freckled man’s molars. “Go back down to hotel bar and hope next pig to pick you up at least pays six-hundred, if you are lucky.”

Shane swallows, his tongue tensing at the movement and mouth closing around the digit exploring him. 

“He will rut into you like panting dog,” Ilya makes a crude mimicry of the sound, face hardening back its handsome stoicism as if he’d flipped a switch. “So you go bend over for next ugly, old man. Is this what you like?”

Shane closes his jaw slightly, catching Ilya’s thumb between his molars and pressing down just barely - a threat. Ilya chuckles low, amused.

“Maybe you do. You snap at me, try to bite-” he hooks his thumb in the meat of Shane’s cheek, tugging him by the corner of his mouth and watching the tanned man’s face burn. “-maybe you are just like filthy fucking mutt. Poor little bitch in heat.”

Shane’s eyes burn with unshed tears. He bends his legs at his knees, face hot and stomach in knots and cock embarrassingly hard in his pants. The position leaves none of it up to imagination, top of his ass pressed into Ilya’s thigh where the man has them spread. The hand not currently rooting around in Shane’s mouth but instead still pressing at his chest slowly glides down, fingertips digging into the fabric of his shirt and scoring lines over Shane’s stomach through it. Long, dark eyelashes flutter closed at the sensation as he tilts his head back, exposing his throat. 

Ilya smirks down at him, dipping his index finger into a space between two buttons down the front of the man’s button up. He grazes the warm skin there, Shane’s body reacting to the tickle by lurching inwards towards the couch. Ilya slides more of his thumb into the man’s mouth, replacing it all together instead with two of his fingers. Plump, pink lips close around the digits. He presses the pads of his fingers against the wet muscle twitching at the attention, two knuckles deep already. They caress the base of Shane’s tongue slowly, matching the motion of his hand petting taut abs up and down, slow and deliberate.

“Mm, not puppy. Kitty maybe. So sweet now that your pathetic fucking cock is hard, hm?”

Some of the fight returns to Shane and when he goes to dig his teeth once again into Ilya’s fingers, the blond slides them further into his once-pliant mouth and chokes him on them. Shane coughs around the abuse, throat spasming and rejecting the treatment. Ilya yanks his fingers free quickly and listens to the man rasp, stomach lurching underneath the press of his other hand, still-present.

“Fuck you,” he spits out.

Ilya tuts at him, taping his still wet fingers against Shane’s lips condescendingly.

“If you hate so much, why is this-” his hand finally leaves Shane’s chest in favor of cupping the hard bulge in his pants, wet spot seeping into his palm. “-so fucking wet?”

Ilya wipes the saliva coating his fingers over Shane’s flushed cheek, then grabs him by the collar of his shirt and yanks him to sit up. The force of the pull yanks another embarrassing sound from Shane. They’re nose to nose now, pale eyes boring into his - all humor drained.

“The rest of the night, you take what I give you. If you can last, I will keep my promise. If you bitch and whine like you are now, I send you away and you never see me again. Yes or no? Pick fast, I’m getting bored.”

Shane swallows, throat bobbing with the action. He finds himself nodding, throat still sore from coughing and hard cock still enclosed in warmth from Ilya’s palm covering it over his pants. 

Ilya nods once - curt. He pulls all contact of his hands from Shane, directing him to stand.

“Take your clothes off.”

Shane obeys, head fuzzy. The money Ilya had taunted him with earlier sits underneath the empty glass still on the coffee table. Down to his boxers, he digs his thumbs underneath the waistband and looks to Ilya, whose eyes snap up from raking over all six feet of sinew and muscle. He snaps his fingers, makes a face at him as if to ask ‘what the fuck are you waiting for?’

Shane peels his boxers off, leaves his socks on - he’s allowed to.

Ilya looks over his form, head cocked to the side and lids low. It feels almost clinical, like he’s inspecting him - cataloguing every curve and mark and filing it away somewhere in the recesses of his mind. Shane shrinks underneath the gaze - so far their meetings hadn’t been like this. They’d been less drawn out, Ilya should be inside of him for the third time by this point. Instead, he was sitting there and examining Shane’s form like he was some piece of artwork and Ilya a critic.

Shane watches him pull a cigarette from his pack, light it in his closed fists, then take a drag of it while his eyes find flushed freckles finally. He snaps his fingers, points to the empty space between his spread knees. The man obeys, walking over and roping to his knees obediently, fire still burning hot and shameful behind his doe-like eyes. He sits on his heels, palms resting on his knees while he gathers saliva underneath his tongue in preparation to have Ilya throat-fuck him.

What the other does, instead, is worse.

“Pretty ashtray,” he mutters, free hand coming to cup two fingers under Shane’s chin, tilting it upwards.

Shane’s eyebrows furrow, his lips part to speak. Ilya surprises him by cracking him across the mouth with the back of his hand, cool metal of one thick ring on his index finger landing particularly harshly against the corner of his mouth. Shane, shocked at the sudden switch, blinks back a tear before turning his head back to face Ilya where it had snapped to the side. A warm droplet slides down his cheek anyways, Ilya’s thumb is gentle as he wipes it away.

“Open.”

Shane obeys. Crimson mixes with his saliva, coating a few of his teeth where he’d been hit in a thin layer that’s more red than it is pink. Ilya’s thumb glides over the shade, wipes his teeth clean again. 

“You talk when I tell you,” he muses, rubbing the saliva mixture over Shane’s bottom lip like a pretty gloss. “Stick your tongue out.”

Shane hesitates for just a second, then decides against snapping his jaw closed around Ilya’s thumb and instead lets his tongue lull from his open mouth. The top of it rests on his bottom lip, pink muscle twitching and wet. The Russian slides the pad of his tongue up into the man’s mouth, humming in thought. He takes a drag from his cigarette and speaks around the smoke that curls over his jaw when he exhales.

“Need to ash this. You can whine, cry, whatever. Do not move, you fuck it up then I will just try again. Nod.”

Shane’s eye twitches, gaze sliding to the head of ash that sits precariously at the end of Ilya’s cigarette. Ilya’s hand leaves his chin and the first thought that springs Shane into action is that he is to expect another backhand. He nods quickly, still tasting copper from the last one.

Except Ilya just reaches for his empty glass and chuckles.

“Refill,” he says curtly.

He hands Shane the glass and watches him stand on shaky legs before walking over to the mini bar to pour more of the clear liquid into the glass. He walks back over, face warm as he finds Ilya’s eyes scouring every inch of sinew on his broad form. Their fingers brush when he takes the glass, Shane clutches his fist and feels something warm settle in his chest at the bit of contact before he kneels once again.

He lets his jaw fall open, tongue back in place - jutting out just a bit more to give Ilya more real estate.

The blond smirks at him, nodding as he takes a long puff of the stick. He leans forward and hovers the tip of his cigarette over Shane’s wet tongue, taps the end and sends the head of peppery ash tumbling onto it. Immediately, he presses the rim of the glass to Shane’s lips and guides his head back, watching the alcohol slide into his mouth. It dribbles down his chin just a bit. Neither of them pay it mind, eyes cloaked on each other. 

Ilya makes an appreciative noise in his throat, taking a sip from the glass once Shane swallows the mixture of vodka and ash. The tanner man coughs, throat coated in the hot ash and scratchy as he hacks into the crook of his elbow with teary eyes. There’s a moment where he’s allowed to collect himself, then Ilya is speaking again.

“Open.”

Shane obeys, eyes rimmed red where they watch heart-shaped lips curl around the tip of the thing and drag. He breathes it out. 

“Don’t fucking move.”

He leans in close, the tips of their noses almost kissing, and presses the lit end of his cigarette onto the twitching, pink muscle. The moisture dulls some of the burn, he’d sure somewhere in the back of his mind. But in the front?

He flinches. Ilya sets the glass down with an impatient grunt and a clink. He grips Shane’s jaw, digs his fingernails into the freckled flesh and holds him still while he digs the ash into the back of his tongue just before where it dips into his throat. Shane whimpers, squeezes his eyes shut. It’s over with when the burning sensation lightens up and Ilya tosses the discarded thing into an ashtray beside him.

“One fucking instruction, you can’t follow. I should shove it down your fucking throat.”

Shane shakes his head, trembling where he sits on his heels. Ilya scoffs at him, smacks his cheek twice to get his pretty wet eyes open again. When their gazes meet, he takes a deep breath, lets condescension dip into his voice.

“Бедный маленький плакса. Do you remember, last time I fuck you, you ask me to hold gun?”

Shane nods, eyebrows twitching upwards as he nudges his face into Ilya’s palm more. The blond lets him, lets his grip loosen so Shane can rub his flushed, sodden face into the grasp of his abuser. His tongue stings, a dull prick that rubs against the roof of his mouth - along the ridges of his soft palate. He seeks the warmth of Ilya’s hand despite it.

Ilya reaches behind himself, digs his hand between his back and the back of the couch, and pulls a pistol from his waistband. Semi-automatic, sleek black all over, boxy in appearance compared to the romantic shape of the revolvers often used in the old Westerns. Shane swallows, throat bobbing and blistering mark on his tongue contracting. Ilya cocks the slide and the sharp, clicking sound of it is too loud in Shane’s ears.

Something heavy settles in his stomach. He tenses, but doesn’t let his eyes leave the gun. He knows himself too well - knows his expression gives away what he hopes isn’t coming.

“You will hold it. Up on the couch, face the back.”

Ilya stands, disappears behind the wall separating the room where the bed is positioned. Shane takes a deep breath and kneels on the couch, facing the back of it as directed. He rests his palms on the top of it, eyes trained on the floor. There’s a drawer that opens where Ilya is, then rooting around, then closing. His eyes slide to the elevator, he blinks and a tear falls down his cheek. 

Ilya walks back over before he can make up his mind. He presses one knee into the couch cushion behind where Shane kneels, kicks the man’s legs open wider and presses a hand between his shoulder blades to bend him over the back of the couch just slightly. He hinges at the waist, cock having gone soft after getting lost in his head. Ilya’s hand threads through his hair, a firm but otherwise careful grip. Shane’s back is warm with Ilya's clothed chest pressing over it, free hand coming around to wave the gun - finger dangerously close to the trigger - before him dramatically.

“Want to hold it? Hm?” he asks, breath warm, vodka and tobacco scented where it fans over Shane’s ear. 

He brings the barrel of the gun to Shane’s temple, just barely grazes him with the contact it takes to brush a thick lock of onyx hair behind Shane’s ear. He twitches, a tear tickling his cheek as it slides over his freckles. Ilya coos in his ear, presses a kiss over it.

“So scared,” he whispers, gliding the tip of his tongue over the shell of the man’s ear. “Safety is on. Be good for me and maybe I take it off for you right as you cum.”

The barrel is cold as it slides down over the column Shane’s neck, dragging with it tacky sweat that stinks of the spritz of cologne Shane had concentrated there before he showed up in this Hell. The path Ilya takes the gun traces over the ridges of Shane’s ribs, dips into the dimples just above his ass where his spine curves and leaves an imprint when Ilya digs the weapon into one. The sound of lube uncapped - a sound all too familiar to the both of them - fills the air.

Shane swallows. His throat tastes like the burnt flesh at the base of his tongue. Ilya drips lube thick onto the square barrel of the gun and the dim light they’re shrouded in catches the glisten on the black metal it provides. He slides it between Shane’s ass,  spreads it around over the surface area of the gun and watches Shane’s body flinch violent when the sight - the littlest protruding piece of metal adorned with a red dot - catches on his rim. A sob leaves him finally and Ilya grins, incisors sharp and teasing.

“You can speak now.”

“Please-” Shane croaks out, eyes shut so tight he sees stars.

He presses the barrel against Shane.

“Beg for it.”

Shane drops his chin to his chest, hair swaying and covering his face in a curtain as he shakes his head.

“Beg for it,” Ilya warns. “Don’t pretend you are so shy. You’re fucking leaking all over this couch.”

And he is. His cock is hard, twitching and red at the tip and smearing precum over the fabric of the couch.

“Beg me to fuck you with it.”

Shane feels the insistence at his asshole, takes a deep breath that shudders upon entry into his lungs. Cool air rushes into his lungs as the sight pops past his rim first.

“Ple-please. Please, Roz - fuck - Rozanov.”

Ilya presses his forehead to Shane’s sweaty shoulder, watches where his gun will soon disappear.

“Please-” Shane sobs openly now, ugly and wet and guttural in his throat. “Please fuck - fuck me with it.”

His breath catches when Ilya presses the barrel into him, shape not very compatible with his rim but digging its way in none-the-less. He attempts to swallow down a cry, lips falling open on it as it escapes from his throat regardless. The gun presses into him slow, Ilya’s hand coming to press at his back between his shoulder blades and bend him over just enough to part his ass more. They both gasp in unison when the first inch of the barrel sinks into Shane, warm skin flushed pink and goosebumps haunting the surface of it.

“See? It fits. Is not as big as my cock, you can take it,” Ilya laughs, almost incredulous, as if he hadn’t expected to have the barrel of his gun buried in an escort’s ass tonight.

Shane is shaking his head. Ilya presses forward with his grip, pad of his index finger pressed over the magazine release just above where the trigger sits. His ring - thick and bulky, gothic in aesthetic - glistens with lube. He pushes more of the weapon into Shane until the curve of the frame housing the trigger presses against his rim. The man bent over the back of the couch releases something akin to a sigh of relief, forehead dropping to his forearm and a breathy sigh leaving his lips.

Ilya pulls the intrusion back, watches Shane’s ass clench around it greedily. The sight catches at his rim and it’s a natural guide to be able to guestimate the edge of the barrel, so Ilya plunges it back in and listens to the whine it drives out of the other. The sound is higher-pitched than he’s used to hearing, keening and wet where it’s caught in his throat. Shane’s thighs shake and part where his knees dig into the cushion below him, making an allowance for more comfort while Ilya fucks him with the gun.

The pace is slow - deliberate - that Ilya sets. He watches Shane’s ass take the barrel, lube spreading over the irritation that settles into his skin tone between his ass. Pink, raw around the stretch. Ilya gathers spit from underneath his tongue and spits down to where the gun meets the ring of muscle, groans out a curse to himself. He angles his wrist just enough downward to warrant the broken gasp that he drags from the deepest depths of Shane’s lungs on the outward pull.

He fucks the pistol back into him quicker than before, reveling in the way it punches a moan out from Shane. Shane, who hides his face in his folded elbow, bent over the couch with Ilya abusing him like this. Shane, who takes the five inches of cool metal - quickly warming inside of him with help of his searing-hot insides - with less tears now. Shane, whose desperate need to be filled out-weighed any shame or fear previously running ice cold in his veins. Ilya cards his free hand into Shane’s hair and grips at the coarse strands, tugging his head up from his arm so that the sounds he made weren't muffled.

“Fuck,” Shane whimpers out, lips bitten red in his shame. 

“Sick little pervert,” Ilya jostles his head around, knocking whatever lives inside of Shane’s head around - figuring it couldn’t be brains unless they were melted by lust by now. “Look at you, so fucking pathetic for something in your greedy ass. Fuck yourself on it.”

Shane obeys with minimal hesitation, so far gone in his own brain - foggy with arousal and humiliation and an intoxicating blend of them - that he can only think to buck his hips back against the assault. Ilya laughs at him. Shane’s cock twitches, precum leaking down the curve of the tip of his cock to the underside. Pressure builds behind his abdomen wall, muscles tensing. 

Ilya senses it before Shane does; he presses Shane’s head down over the back of the couch by the nape of his neck and watches Shane go to town on himself. 

He’s shouting sobbing moans into the air, rolling his hips back against the barrel of the gun like it was the thickest, longest toy he’d ever shoved in his ass. Like it was hitting the perfect angle inside of him, driving him crazy, fucking him braindead. His knuckles are white where he grips at the back of the couch, vein popping at his temple above his eyebrow and a line of drool falling from his bottom lip that hangs open. Ilya watches him tense, a spasm wracking through his broad form and hips jerking back against the gun.

Ilya clicks the safety off. It’s an unmistakable sound. He presses the pad of his finger around the trigger, watches Shane sob into the air while he shoots thick ropes of white over the back of the couch and pleads so pretty while he continues to debase himself.

“Ple-please! Fu-uck, fuck, Roz-Ro-Rozan-n-nov, please. Ple-he-please!”

Ilya is uncharacteristically gentle as he pulls the gun free and clicks the safety back on, then tosses it aside. He lines up behind Shane, thighs pressed to thighs, and pulls a condom from his wallet. He slides it over his cock, slides himself between Shane’s ass for a few strokes, then slides into him with no resistance while Shane crumples against the couch.

He whimpers while Ilya fucks him like this, one thick arm wound around his neck and holding him upright. Heart-shaped lips pressed to his ear, Ilya spits for filth at him. The slavic accent curls around what’s left of his brain. He registers the fullness inside of him and how warm - throbbing much like a heart-beat - it is. 

“Crybaby,” Ilya coos at him, voice condescending - patronizing. “Should dry your eyes with my cock, hm? Or maybe fuck your throat, give you something to cry about? You would like, you would fucking love it.”

Ilya’s hand comes to cup over his forehead, guiding his head back to rest on his clothes shoulder. Shane’s eyes focus on what he can make out of the ceiling, of the ornate and modern chandelier a foot away to his left. With his head tilted back this way, throat open and lips parted, he can’t help the pathetic sounds that escape him and fill the air in the room. 

“Always fucking crying, whining about something. Poor, brainless whore thinks he can talk back to me. Is okay, you will learn. Plenty of time to teach you. Fuck you with my gun, maybe let everyone have turns hm? You could make such pretty ashtray for everyone, pretty community fuckhole.”

Shane shakes his head, though his cock twitches - betrays him. 

“No? Why no? You want my cock only yes? You want to be my ashtray. My fuckpet.”

“Yours,” Shane mutters, nodding.

Ilya groans into his ear, bends them over the back of the couch again, thrusts growing sloppy. 

“Yes, mine. Mine to use, to fuck, to put my fucking cigarettes out on, to fucking piss in if I want. I pay you, you do it all for me.”

“Please-”

“Say it.”

Ilya’s hips stutter.

“Your-yours! Yours, ple-fuck me, please. Your asht-t-tray. Pretty - pretty toy. I want it, I want it!”

Ilya bites down at the junction of Shane’s shoulder meeting his neck, muscle thick and warm there. He groans, squeezing his eyes shut and riding out his orgasm while he fills the condom and listens to Shane moan whiny below him. He collects his breath, unlatches from the indents he’d made in Shane’s skin and rubs his nose over the hinge of Shane's jaw. Both hands come to wrap around Shane’s middle, lips pausing over his ear and twitching into a lazy grin.

Five thousand a month for something so complete and all-encompassing like owning Shane was pennies to him and they’d been burning a hole in his pockets lately.