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    Summary

    "You ever wonder," Ilya began, voice rougher than usual, like gravel dragged through snow, "how wrong people can be about you?"

    Shane smirked, leaning back into the couch, but the joke died in his throat when Ilya's gaze cut sideways, dark and unreadable. "Like what?" Shane prodded, swirling his whiskey. He expected another one of Ilya's teasing deflections, the kind that usually ended with them tangled in sheets, laughing. But Ilya exhaled hard through his nose, fingers flexing like he was gripping a stick before a face-off.

    "Like assuming things about me the first time I got fucked," Ilya said, the words abrupt, jagged.

    ---

    Or Ilya finally decided to bottom for Shane

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