motherfucker!

Ilya clicks his phone off and sets it on the nightstand. “Your dick is hard,” he says, like he’s just now noticing, and flicks it. The glance of his nail makes Shane whimper. “Funny how often this happens when you tell me to stop.”

Shane wants to argue, but he can’t. A small, mangled sound comes from his throat.

“Maybe you can’t tell the difference,” Ilya muses. His nail returns to drag up Shane’s dick from the root, light enough not to hurt until it meets the head. “We barely use this thing. Maybe you can’t even feel it anymore.” As if to test this theory, he digs in harder.

Shane might crack his teeth if he clenches them any harder but at least he succeeds in not opening his mouth to let any sound escape. 

“Pathetic little dick,” Ilya says, and flicks it one more time for good measure.

It’s not, Shane wants to insist. It’s not little at all and if it’s pathetic it’s only because Ilya has him so broken he doesn’t need to use it to cum anymore. And that’s not his fault. Ilya should like it; he made him this way.

Ilya holds his hand out and Shane gives him the dildo wordlessly. But he makes no move to put it away – his hand starts to travel back down again.

“You said we were done,” Shane says.

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Yes, well.”

He moves his wrist and then the dildo is parallel to Shane's dick, positioned so the deepest part of its curve meets the bottom of his stomach and its head pierces the air. The base brushes his balls. The head – Shane has to crane his neck to make sure he’s seeing this correctly – would meet his belly button, if it were flat. 

Shane looks up at Ilya with wide, wide eyes.

Ilya gives him a grin and shrugs. “I was curious.”

“Ilya,” Shane says. His throat constricts around it, makes it come out funny. “I get it. It’s fucking–it’s bigger than my dick. Okay. Can you please put it away now?”

“Anything is bigger than your dick,” Ilya replies, leaving the dildo to lie there on Shane's stomach while he turns to rummage through the nightstand. A bottle of lube emerges in his hand a moment later.

It’s like watching him pick up a scalpel. Shane would probably be less scared if he had. 

“It’s too big,” Shane tries. Not his first time using that line, but the first time he really believes it.

“You like big,” Ilya says simply. 

“Ilya–please, I’m serious. You know I can’t.” 

“Shut up,” Ilya says, and finally moves the dildo, though only to set it next to Shane’s hip. “Open your legs.”

Shane slides his soles over the mattress until his thighs are spread. “I’ll be good,” he offers, voice trembling. “So good, Ilya, I’ll do anything else, just–”

A hard smack to his inner thigh interrupts him. He shrieks and almost clamps his legs shut before he remembers where he is.

Another slap lands on each thigh, even harder this time, and Ilya lets the sensation linger for only a second before pressing two dry fingers to Shane’s hole.

“Stupid fucking whore,” he says under his breath.

Shane’s dick throbs. 

Ilya’s fingers press harder. There’s not a lot of give. It’s too dry, too thick, too everything. Ilya keeps increasing the pressure anyway. 

“Does it hurt?” he asks, still watching Shane’s hole instead of his face. He doesn’t sound especially interested in getting an answer.

It does, but Shane’s taken much worse. He says nothing. 

When the moment to respond has passed Ilya goes still and pulls away to grab the lube. Wait, we can do the fingers again, we can do anything else, he thinks, not that Ilya would care, not that Ilya would want to. 

“I’m scared,” Shane says instead. He may as well bare his neck, say you can bite here and be done with it. It doesn’t matter anyway. There’s no response but the click of a plastic cap opening.

The first finger is always easy for him; no fun there. It probes him for only a second before another pushes in. 

Shane’s spine goes rigid. His pulse hammers. “I could suck on it.” (Although, having gotten a better look at it, he’s really not sure that he could.)

A third finger. It burns. Ilya’s not trying to make Shane feel good, and probably doesn’t even want him to. He still does, but only because he’s a broken little thing.

Shane tries to think of anything else he can offer, anything at all – please don’t break me, please don’t ruin me. He comes up empty. 

“Open up for me,” Ilya says, annoyance bleeding into his tone so it sounds more like he’s talking to a defective product than a lover. His fingers spread as wide as they can inside Shane, and he keeps them that way as he pulls them out, tugging horribly on Shane’s rim. 

Shane heaves. He sounds ugly. “You’re hurting me. You’re gonna hurt me,” he pleads, crying now. “You won’t be able to fuck me if I get torn, Ilya. Please.” 

Ilya pushes four fingers into him. The only way Shane can convince himself he isn’t torn wide open yet is that he’s pretty sure that his fiancé wouldn’t do that to him.

“Have you ever considered,” Ilya says – his breathing labored, which can only mean he’s getting off on this even more than usual, because it’s stunning how little physical exertion it requires of him to ruin Shane forever – “that I like hurting you more than I like to fuck you?”

Shane doesn’t even have the chance to gasp at that because Ilya’s fingers curl together to drag across his prostate so hard he pisses a little onto his stomach and groans, his body contorting.

Ilya looks away and curls his lip in a show of disgust, like he can’t even stand to look at Shane while he does this to him. “Look at you. You think this is what I want to fuck?”

“No,” Shane says. He really doesn’t think that, not right now. He takes a trembling breath. “No, and I’m really really sorry, I fucking swear.” 

“Sorry for what?” Ilya pulls his fingers out and all the air leaves Shane’s lungs. 

“Oh my god–please, Ilya, please, I don’t know,” Shane warbles, watching Ilya pick up the toy again. “I’m sorry for–for asking you to fuck me, and that I was being rude, and I’ll be so good, I promise. Just please don’t.”

“You will be good by taking what I give you,” Ilya says, matter-of-fact, and starts to pour lube onto the dildo.

“Fuck,” Shane whispers. His head swims, and he can’t, he can’t look anymore. He lets his head fall back onto the pillow. “Fuck. Oh my god.” 

The head presses against his hole.

“Wow,” Ilya says. He doesn’t sound bored anymore. “This will really fuck you up.” 

Shane’s cock twitches weakly. “Please,” he breathes, but it’s so quiet that Ilya probably doesn’t even have to ignore him not to hear it. Either way – he pushes the toy forward.

There’s almost no give at first. Shane can feel the movement shift to rough corkscrew motions, like Ilya is trying to drill him open. The head feels impossibly big. There’s no way, Shane thinks, that it’s really going to go in. He almost finds comfort in that for a second until Ilya starts to apply more pressure.

The tip slips in and Shane goes taut, his body trying to reject the impossible intrusion. 

“I am not going to stop, so you better fucking relax,” Ilya says. 

Shane tries. It must work. The tip digs in deeper, and the stretch goes from aching to unbearable in a split second. 

“Wait, please, holy fuck,” Shane begs. His fingers dig into the sheets and twist helplessly. Sweat trickles down his neck.

“Fuck,” Ilya says, voice strained as if it’s his own dick splitting Shane open, and pushes again with a twist of his wrist.

An inch or two more goes in and it burns like nothing Shane has ever felt before, not their first time when Ilya opened him up so carefully and not even when they spent an hour getting Shane loose enough to take Ilya's fist. Ilya doesn’t let up, doesn’t give him a chance to breathe, just keeps pushing, twisting the toy until its head is pointed upwards and then letting it go straight in. 

Ilya pauses, finally, then pulls back a bit, and Shane feels the rim of his hole tug outward. It’s worse than when it pushes in. “There,” Ilya says. “The head is in.”

He tugs again, harder, until Shane finds his breath and sobs. “How does it feel, Shane?”

“Hurts,” Shane moans, the syllable cracking in two. “Oh god. Please.”

“Fuck,” Ilya says. He starts to push in again, which almost feels merciful now. “Your hole is so red,” he tells Shane, tracing a finger over it with his free hand so the skin there burns even more. (Shane tells himself if there were as much blood as he's imagining Ilya would stop, would have to stop.) “Maybe you will only be able to take toys like this after, hm? Everything else will be too small, slip right out.” 

Shane can’t speak so he shakes his head: no no no. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that Ilya keeps forcing it inside, that just from the position of Ilya’s arm Shane can tell he’s only taken a fraction of the length.

Then the head starts to drag over his prostate, and he loses control of his body entirely. 

Piss spurts over his stomach immediately, and he arches his back and writhes so violently that it floods down his thigh and over his sides. His knuckles go white where he’s still clutching the sheets. Ilya says something, but he can’t hear it. 

Shane stays suspended in that state for he doesn’t know how long. He feels aware only of the burning pain, the horrible pressure dragging endlessly against his prostate, and the way he pisses on himself in short, hard bursts until he’s empty and his cock can do nothing but drip and jerk helplessly against his abs.

His head swims. It takes him a while to come back to awareness, to feel how rigidly he’s contorted himself, to notice that Ilya is speaking again. 

“Fuck, Hollander,” he hears.

He makes a noise that resembles Ilya’s name. 

“Is almost all the way in,” Ilya tells him. “I knew you would take it.”

“No,” Shane gasps. He starts to push up onto his elbows, and his arms feel weak and wobbly but he forgets about it immediately when he sees what Ilya is looking at. His stomach –

“Oh god,” Shane says, collapsing onto his back again. 

Ilya laughs. “Can you feel it?” 

A hand encircles one of Shane’s and drags it up his side, through the remnants of piss covering his skin, to land on his lower stomach. And yes, Shane can feel it: there’s a bulge protruding through the skin there. Ilya has forced the dildo so far up into him that he’s speared on it. Shane imagines what must be happening inside of him to make any of this physically possible and starts to feel like the room is spinning. 

“Take it out,” he says. His voice sounds very small. 

he loves his mementos and presents and is COMMITTED to them. scrapbooking. matching jackets. little pills with hidden motivational messages~*~ his love language is gifts and neck smooches and stalking geno. relevant right now are some anecdotes i sent a friend earlier this year for dorky sid gifts fic fodder:

1. Crosby's constant thoughtfulness would be impressive from anyone, much less someone of his stature.

"Sid always texts me happy birthday, he's always asking me like, how's Russia?" Evgeni Malkin said. "We talk and message all summer. He asks me how my skates are. He knows, like, everything. He follows my Instagram, I think (laughs)."

In addition to having a handle on those little details, Crosby is constantly providing those around him with memories and mementos. If the team is on the road and goes, say, sightseeing or to a sporting event and takes a group photo, Crosby will later send a framed copy to everyone.

When Ron Hextall and Brian Burke watched their first Penguins game in person, Crosby is the one who approached head equipment manager Dana Heinze and asked for two used game pucks to give to the new GM and president of hockey ops. 

After the Penguins won in 2009, Crosby had jackets made for the three players on the team who had scored a Cup-clinching goal in Game 7: Talbot (Pittsburgh), Ruslan Fedotenko (Tampa Bay) and Mike Rupp (New Jersey).

"They were blue jackets with gold buttons, and each one had a patch on it that said 'GWG Game 7,'" Talbot said. "At one of our first team meals the next season, he presented us with the jackets and did a big ceremony with the music and stuff. We had a private room in the restaurant. I still have the jacket."

-The Consummate Teammate, Captain and Ambassador, Feb 2021

2. Merz: My first interaction with Sid was when we were on the bench, guys were talking about a teammate, and the first thing this 15-year-old says is, “Hey, guys. Let’s keep everything positive. Don’t talk about your teammates that way.”

Salcido: When we were getting ready for nationals, he found these little pills that you could put a hidden message inside. They unscrewed, and inside was a tiny scroll. He gave one to every teammate. … He had everyone fill one out. He didn’t tell anyone what to write, but he made it known that we all knew what the goal was: winning nationals. So we wrote on our scrolls, rolled them up and put them in the pill thing. We kept them with us everywhere we went.

-‘Is this real?’: Stories of Sidney Crosby’s year at a Minnesota prep school, May 2020

3. On “Butterfly Boy” Jonathan Pitre:

Though the Senators are his team, Sidney Crosby has always been Jonny’s favourite player. After the TSN documentary airs, Tina gets a call from the Penguins. Sid needs Jonny’s measurements. He wants to have a suit made for him by his personal tailor, Domenico Vacca.

“It’s the kindest, sweetest gesture,” Tina says. “Sid heard that Jonny went to a lot of games, so he wants him to look like he’s one of the guys.”

“I want him to feel like a pro,” Crosby says. “Here’s a guy who is going through something so painful, and his first thought is always, ‘How can I help others?’ When I was young, I’d watch on TV the players coming to the rink in their suits. That was a cool part of being an NHL player. I want him to feel that, to make it as real as possible for him.”