Work Text:
In Shane’s defense, he didn’t mean to eavesdrop. All he wanted was to finish this essay, maybe take a nap in his very comfortable bed after.
It’s just that, objectively speaking, Ilya’s friends were loud as fuck.
“How can you hate bottoming?” Troy’s voice rings out, clear as ever through the thin wall separating Shane from Ilya’s room. “Dude, having a dick in your ass is like, top three experiences of all time.”
Shane bites back a groan. He could have sworn those idiots were talking about the new blockbuster movie that came out last week just a couple minutes ago. How the fuck did their conversation even end up here?
“Is not like I hate it,” he hears Ilya huff. He can almost imagine the downward curve of Ilya’s pink lips, the pout-like shape to it, the bulge of his annoyingly shapely biceps as he crosses his arms… yeah, okay. That’s not a helpful train of thought. “It just never felt good for me. Guys would always just shove their cock in and call it a day.”
“Seriously?” That’s Wyatt’s voice now, chiming in incredulously. “Rozy, what kind of barbarians have you been hooking up with?”
“Hot ones,” Ilya defends. “Anyway, it’s not their fault. I was the one who told them I liked it hard and rough.”
"Okay, but there's a difference between being rough and being, like, a shitty partner," Troy says. "Prep is important, Roz, come on. You can't just—shit, did they even use lube?"
There’s a pause. Shane finds himself straining his ears, holding his breath. Then, quietly, Ilya answers: “…Well, maybe. Sometimes."
"Sometimes?!" Wyatt yelps. "Bro, you could have gotten injured! I don’t even go here, but even I know you should be stretching out your hole first. You know, to get relaxed. Use your fingers or—"
"I know how sex works," Ilya cuts off sharply, and there's a flush in his voice now, embarrassment coloring his tone in a way that Shane’s never heard before. It makes him feel weirdly, irrationally jealous, maybe, that Shane only gets to see a very specific kind of Ilya. Roommate Ilya, who does his dishes and comes back from clubs at ungodly hours of the night and always seems to hold Shane at a distance. Definitely not Embarrassed Ilya, or Talk-About-Sex Ilya. “Can we stop talking about my fucking hole now?”
Jesus fucking Christ. Maybe Shane should have gone out with Hayden earlier after all.
“Dude…” That’s Troy again, and there’s genuine sadness in the way he says that single word, like he’s honest-to-god upset that his best bro isn’t getting optimal dick-in-ass action. God, Ilya has such weird fucking friends. “I mean, I don’t wanna force or shame you or whatever, but you’re kind of missing out. And, okay, maybe I'm biased, but bottoming for Harris always felt like a religious experience, y’know?”
Shane doesn’t need to be in the same room as them to know Ilya’s rolling his eyes right now. “Of course I know that,” Ilya replies, except it’s snarky, almost like he’s sulking. “I just… I don’t like it. Being on the bottom, I mean. I was always just waiting for it to be over. It feels a lot better being on top.”
Wyatt says something in return, something to do with vulnerability issues or whatever the fuck, but Shane doesn’t quite hear it. He can feel the start of heat flooding into his cheeks. His laptop is still open in front of him, his essay assignment long-forgotten and half-finished, the words blurring into meaningless lines on a page.
And, okay. He knows about Ilya’s reputation on campus. He lives with the guy; he knows that Ilya sleeps around, that he openly hooks up with girls and guys both, that he takes the label slut in stride—which is admirable, really. It’s just… it’s so different from how Shane is, who never felt the need to flaunt around like that, his own sexuality an open secret, something neither confirmed or denied except to, like, three other people. Namely Hayden and JJ, because they’re Shane’s closest friends, and Rose, because she was the one who told him. Not exactly Shane’s proudest moment, but he’s gotten leagues better at admitting to himself that, yeah. He’s definitely, unquestionably, unchangingly gay.
Admittedly, it’s kind of hard to deny his raging homosexuality when he has Ilya fucking Rozanov for a roommate.
Because Roommate Ilya means that Shane has seen Ilya shirtless in the mornings, shuffling out of his room with sleep-rumpled curls and fading hickeys decorating his ridiculously plush chest. Roommate Ilya means that Shane knows exactly what Ilya looks like coming back from the gym, flushed and sweaty, his usual tank top clinging to every ridge of muscle. And, unfortunately, Roommate Ilya also means that Shane’s heard Ilya stumbling into their dorm way past midnight, a guy or girl hanging off his arm, their muffled moans and slick-hot kisses and breathless laughs echoing through the thin walls. Shane would have to put on his noise-cancelling headphones on those kinds of nights, trying his best not to think about what was happening on the other side of his bedroom door, or what Ilya would look like with his gorgeous face scrunched in open pleasure.
But, whatever. It’s not like Shane’s a lovestruck teenager with a crush. He has eyes! Ilya Rozanov is just, objectively, very attractive.
And apparently, Ilya Rozanov has also never had anyone decent enough to prep him before fucking him. Which is certainly… something.
Don’t think about it, Shane tells himself, clenching his jaw. Don’t think about it, it’s not your business, don’t think about it, I swear to fucking god—
Nope. Too late. He’s thinking about it.
Technically speaking, he knows that Ilya’s the more experienced one out of the two of them. Still, that doesn’t change the fact that Shane’s slept around too; sure, it was only a few times, and he’s always preferred being on the bottom, but at least he knows what works and what doesn’t, how to prep and how to make someone’s eyes roll to the back of their head in sheer pleasure. He could be the one to show Ilya just how good it feels.
The thought lodges itself in Shane’s brain like a splinter.
Before he could spiral even more than he already has, going down a rabbit hole of images of Ilya sprawled on his bed with glassy eyes and naked limbs and blush-stained cheeks, Troy’s voice brings Shane back to the conversation happening on the other side of the wall. Which, somehow, is still on the topic of Ilya getting fucked. Seriously, has Shane mentioned that Ilya’s got really weird friends yet?
“Dude, you should just ask someone who’s, you know, actually decent to show you the wonders of having your ass filled,” Troy says, and Shane feels his entire body tense. Not only from the awful image of someone else on top of Ilya—inside him—but also, could they hear his own thoughts or something? And then Troy adds: “Hey, how about Fabian?”
Oh, hell no. Ilya asks, “Fabian’s a top?”
“Fabian’s an amazing top,” Troy replies. “I mean, Harris is obviously miles better and the literal love of my life, but Fabian always goes for the hot, muscular guys because he likes seeing them reduced to an embarrassed, squirming mess. But he’s super careful and kind about it too.”
Shane hears Wyatt snort. “And you would know this because…?”
“Uh.” A long, drawn-out pause. “Okay, fine. We hooked up once during our sophomore year. But only once! And that was way before Harris.”
Ilya hums. Then, to Shane’s absolute horror, he says, “Fabian is very pretty.”
“Hell yeah!” Wyatt exclaims, and Shane kind of wants to sock him in the throat. “Fabian would so be down for it, I think I have his number, hold on—“
No! Shane wants to scream, maybe shake Ilya by his very broad shoulders. Shane could treat Ilya way better, god, he just needs to let his stupid hot roommate know that somehow—
“Wait, shit, I just remembered,” Troy cuts in. "Doesn't Fabian have that thing going on with Ryan Price right now?”
“Oh. Right.” There’s a bit of shuffling around, and Shane shuts his laptop off and places it back on his desk. He’s definitely not gonna have his essay done today. There’s nothing but silence for a beat, and Shane finds himself pressing his ear closer to the wall, until Wyatt eventually says, “Okay, well. You could always just ask Marlow, Roz.”
Ilya barks out a laugh. “Marly? Hayes, Marly is straight.”
“Yeah, but he’s Marlow. The guy would probably kill someone if you asked him to. He’d definitely be down to fuck you. You know, kind of like a bro thing.”
What the actual fuck, Shane thinks fleetingly, just as Troy gasps and says, “Oh, dude! What about your roommate?”
Shane freezes.
“What, Hollander?” Ilya asks. Shane hates that he can’t read Ilya’s tone. “What about him?”
“Isn’t he gay?” Then, Troy rushes to add: “I mean, I don’t want to assume! It’s just that—you know. He dated Rose Landry.”
“Okay…” Ilya drawls. Every muscle in Shane’s body feels locked in place. “So?”
“So, every single one of Rose’s exes turned out to be gay.”
Shane seriously didn’t take Troy Barrett to be such a gossip. “Wow, okay,” he hears Wyatt say. “How do you even keep track of that?”
“Hey, Harris tells me these things. He’s very observant.”
“I don’t think Hollander swings that way,” Ilya muses. There’s a surge of guilt that comes with snooping into what’s clearly a private conversation, but… well. Ilya and his friends talk like they’ve never heard the concept of an inside voice, so Shane really can’t be blamed. “He’s just… reserved. Plus—“ Ilya lowers his voice, but the walls in their dorm are basically cardboard, so Shane stills hear him all the same. “He always looks at me weird whenever I bring a guy over. Like he’s, I don’t know, disgusted or something.”
What.
Shane balks. He’s never—what the hell is Ilya talking about?
“Aw, bro, that sucks.” He can almost hear the frown in Troy’s voice. It’s a testament to Shane’s self-control that he doesn’t barge into Ilya’s room right now and go, I’m not homophobic, you idiots, I’m fucking gay. “But maybe we shouldn’t jump to conclusions? Maybe he’s just mad because you didn’t, like, tell him beforehand.”
“I always tell him when I’m bringing someone over, I’m not that big of an asshole,” Ilya argues, which is true. Shane appreciates it really. Even though, on a few occasions, he would get the notification—something along the lines of getting laid 2nite or simply 👅💦🚪🏃🏻‼️ when Ilya’s feeling particularly articulate—just five minutes before Ilya comes stumbling into their dorm, someone’s hand shoved blatantly down his pants and the other gripping his honey-colored curls. “And Hollander says he’s fine with it! He has these headphones he wears to block out any noise.”
“Huh. Weird.” Wyatt sounds thoughtful now. “And is it only when you bring a guy over? Maybe he’s just annoyed that you keep hooking up with people in what’s supposed to be your shared dorm.”
“Well…” Ilya trails off, shifting, and Shane catches the resounding creak of his bedsprings. He tries to mentally go through every interaction he’s had with Ilya. He does remember running into Ilya a few times the morning after a hookup, often with a messy-haired, bashful stranger trailing behind him, and Shane would always just give a tight nod of acknowledgement and disappear into his own room. He thought he was being polite! He didn’t realize it came across as…
“I’m not sure, actually,” Ilya says eventually. “Hollander is just… kind of hard to read. He won’t even look at me long enough for me to read whatever’s going on across his face.”
I can’t look at you because you’re infuriatingly gorgeous!!! Shane wants to defend.
“Okay, well,” he hears Troy say. “Going back to the issue at hand. We’ll just ask Marlow to fuck you. There, easy.”
Ilya groans. “Barrett, has anyone told you that you’re fucking crazy?” he asks. Inwardly, Shane agrees.
“Come on, Rozy,” Troy wheedles. “Marlow would be good for you. He’s your friend, he’s single, and he’s not weird about sex. It’s a win-win.”
“Why are you both so concerned over whether or not I fucking bottom? Do you idiots not have other shit going on in your lives?”
“Not really,” Wyatt adds cheerfully, at the same time Troy says, “Hey, we’re just looking out for your sexual well-being.”
Sexual well-being, my fucking ass, Shane thinks sourly. His left eye might be twitching. He seriously needed Troy to shut up five minutes ago.
Logically, he knows he shouldn’t care this much. Ilya’s slept with a whole bunch of people before, and Shane’s always been able to keep that strange, prickly feeling in his chest whenever he’s reminded of that under wraps. But somehow, just the image of it, of Ilya and Cliff fucking Marlow tangled up in bed, Cliff on top and pinning Ilya with his weight, his hands on Ilya’s stupidly beautiful body, making Ilya gasp and moan and tremble—
Yeah, no. Not happening. Absolutely not.
Before Shane can even process what he’s doing, before he can take a step back and think about taking a breather, he's already flinging himself off his bed. The blanket, which had been draped carefully over his lap, slips to the floor in a crumpled heap. He doesn't care. His chair scrapes against the floor as he stumbles past it, and he's tearing his door open before his brain can catch up with his body.
Ilya's door is literally right next to his. Two steps. That's all it takes. Shane raises his fist and knocks, his heart pounding so loudly he's sure they can hear it on the other side.
"Hey, Ilya?"
Immediately, the voices inside go quiet.
”Shit, is that Hollander?” he hears Wyatt whisper, except it’s not a whisper at all. “I thought he went out, Rozy!”
”Shh!” Troy says, very uselessly. “Do you think he heard us?”
God, these fucking idiots.
“Both of you, shut up,” Ilya grumbles quietly, before calling out, “Shane? You can come in.”
Shane pushes the door open.
He’s only ever seen Ilya’s room in passing, through cracks of a barely-open door, and he doesn’t want to make it weird by taking his sweet time to look around now. But his eyes still land on Ilya almost immediately; he’s seated against his headboard in a plain white shirt and grey sweats, a navy blue pillow on his lap. Briefly, Shane thinks: God, I wish I were that pillow. Which is then swiftly replaced by, what the fuck is wrong with me.
He tears his gaze away, only to meet Troy’s eyes from where he’s perched on Ilya’s desk chair, expression resembling something vaguely sheepish. From the foot of Ilya’s bed, Wyatt gives him a small wave.
Shane clears his throat. He’s suddenly hyperaware of how stupid this is. "Um, hi. I just…" He trails off, scrambling for a believable excuse. Think, think, think— "I was thinking of ordering out for dinner tonight. We don't really have much groceries left." He shrugs, leaning against Ilya’s doorframe, hoping he looks casual enough. Is his face as sweaty as it feels? God, he hopes not. "Ilya, do you want anything?"
Ilya blinks, surprised. “Oh.” He tilts his head. "What do you plan to order?"
"Uh, from that Thai place down the block. Is that cool with you?"
"Sure,” Ilya hums, nodding. Then he winks—actually winks, what the hell—and says, "You can order my usual."
Like he's confident enough that Shane remembers. Unfortunately, Shane does.
"Cool. Okay." He shifts on his feet, trying to think of any way to get Troy and Wyatt out of the room and out of their dorm so they can stop talking about Cliff Marlow fucking Ilya right up his perfect butt. He comes up blank. "Um, hi, Barrett. Hayes."
“Hello.”
“Hey.”
Okay. This is officially the most awkward conversation Shane’s ever had the inconvenience of experiencing. “Uh, anyways. That’s all I wanted to say, so. I won’t bother you guys anymore. I’ll just—“ He jerks a thumb behind him, already backing out of the room. “—go. Order food. Yeah.”
”Thanks, Hollander,” Ilya calls out, just as Shane closes the door and leans against it, blowing out a long, shaky breath.
From inside, after a blissful second of silence, Troy says: “Roz, I don’t think he’s homophobic.”
“Bozhe moy, is that seriously what you got from that conversation, Barrett?”
“Hey, why didn’t he offer to order food for me and Troy?”
”Because you both fucking suck, Hazy. Okay, come on, get up, get out. You’ve both been here long enough.”
And, well. That’s Shane’s cue to finally get moving and take the two steps back to his room.
***
The pad thai Shane orders is fucking delicious, as it usually is.
They don’t usually eat meals together—what with their conflicting class schedules, Ilya’s penchant for staying out late, and Shane’s preference to hole himself up in his room after a tiring day of socializing. Still, the few times they do eat together are actually quite nice. Even though Ilya always makes these wanton noises whenever he takes a bite out of something he finds especially delicious.
Like right now. Shane watches in despair as Ilya bites into a sauce-covered spring roll, moaning so lewdly that Shane has to discreetly adjust himself in his sweats.
But, besides his roommate’s very untimely little groans, dinner remains mostly quiet. Ilya's scrolling through his phone—the occasional sound of some viral song playing through his speaker whenever he swipes on a video—and Shane's trying to scroll through his, except his eyes keep drifting to the smudge of sauce on the corner of Ilya's lip. Unbiddenly, he thinks about how much he wants to crawl into Ilya's lap, how much he wants to lick that droplet of sauce away before licking into Ilya’s mouth. Then he thinks about how that’s a completely unhinged thought to have about his roommate, and then he thinks about it again anyway.
He's so distracted by the heart-like shape of Ilya’s lips that he doesn't notice Ilya putting his phone face-down, pinning him with a leveled stare.
"Okay, be honest," Ilya starts. "How much did you hear?"
Shane tears his gaze away guiltily. "Huh?"
"Earlier. Before you came into my room." Ilya takes another bite out of his meal. When he swallows, Shane finds himself wanting to follow the sound all the way down Ilya’s throat. "You must have heard something, right?"
”Um. No. I don't know what you're talking about."
Ilya remains unimpressed. His eyebrow lifts slightly, and Shane wants to kind of blow himself up because what the hell, how does Ilya look hot even with a piece of bean sprout still stuck to his lip? He doesn't know if Ilya notices what he’s staring at, but Shane watches in real-time as Ilya's pink tongue darts out to catch the vegetable before it disappears into his mouth.
"Hollander. Shane. Come on. We both know the walls in this place suck. How much did you hear?"
Oh god. Shane should lie. He really should—both for Ilya’s sake and his own—except he’s known to be an absolutely notorious liar and Ilya’s looking at him with that perceptive glint in his blue-green eyes that has Shane sweating through his underwear. Maybe he could try deflecting? No, that’s just as bad. His brain spins through a dozen different excuses, each one worse than the last, until finally he makes up his mind and the first thing that comes out of his mouth is:
”I’m not homophobic.”
Ilya frowns. “Uh, what?”
Okay, that was a horrible way to start. ”It’s just—I heard you mention earlier, about how you think I look at you weird whenever you bring a guy over,” Shane sighs, pushing the last bits of his pad thai around on his plate. “And, yeah, it’s kind of awkward whenever I run into you the morning after. But I don’t—I’m not, like, disgusted by it or anything. I’m actually… um. I’m actually gay.”
”Oh.” Ilya’s eyes widen, before his face splits into a dazzingly sincere grin. “Oh! Shane, that’s great.”
“Thanks? I guess?”
”I’m bisexual, too,” Ilya adds, like he’s sharing a fun fact, and Shane thinks his smile looks very pretty when he says it.
”Yeah, I figured.” Despite himself, he feels his lips twitch. “But thank you for telling me.”
Ilya merely shrugs, taking the last bite out of his food. “I like being bisexual. Like, everyone’s hot to me, you know?” He reaches for his glass of water, taking a sip, then letting it down with a sigh. “Though I can’t believe fucking Barrett was right about his Rose Landry theory.”
Inwardly, Shane grimaces. “Ugh, don’t remind me. Rose’s luck in dating is even worse than mine.”
“Oh? Are you looking for a boyfriend, Shane Hollander?”
Shane’s face grows warm almost instantly.
“I—that’s not what I—“ He falters, gesturing vaguely with his chopsticks, except he nearly pokes his own damn eye out. “I mean, I’m not, like, actively looking. Not when—“ Not when the only person I want is sitting right in front of me, he thinks, doesn’t say. “Not when I’m… busy. And no one else has really, um, caught my attention.”
Horrifically, Ilya looks amused by Shane’s floundering, which just makes the flush on Shane’s cheeks burn even hotter. “Okay,” he says easily, raising a brow. “You do not have to explain yourself to me, Shane.”
This is awful. Shane needs to get some semblance of control back before his body decides to spontaneously combust from overheating. He needs to say something, anything, to stop Ilya from looking at him like that.
So, before he can think twice about it, he blurts out: "I, uh, I actually heard more than just that, though."
Ilya's smile drops, replaced by faint perplexity. "What?"
"You know…” Shane waves a vague hand, clearing his throat. "You asked me to be honest. So. I kind of heard a bit more from your conversation.”
He watches as Ilya's expression flickers—confusion, then dawning realization, then something that looks a lot like panic—before he schools his expression into something more neutral. "...Is this about them trying to find someone to fuck me?” Ilya asks. “Shane, if you wanted to find some big, strong top for yourself instead of a boyfriend, you could always just say so.”
“What?! No! I mean, yes, I heard that too, but I meant—“ Shane bites his lip, wondering how to best say this next part. “I meant what you guys were talking about before that.”
“…Ah.” And then, to Shane’s misplaced delight, Ilya starts blushing. Blushing! A deep, gorgeous pink that spreads across his cheeks and to the tips of his ears. Ilya lets out a long, pained groan, burying his face in his hands.
"Oh my fucking god," he says, his voice muffled. "I'm going to kill those two. And then myself."
"Hey, no." Shane tries to reach out, then thinks better of it, letting his hand drop back to the table. "Look, I’m sorry. I swear I didn't mean to eavesdrop or anything. It's just… um." He hesitates. "Did none of your hook-ups ever prep you? Seriously?"
"We really do not have to talk about this, Hollander."
"Like, I hate to say this, but Troy was right. You obviously deserve better than that. And I was thinking about how, maybe, I could—"
Shane freezes, shutting himself up instantly. There’s literally no way he could finish that sentence without sounding like some kind of perv. But Ilya’s head has lifted now, his eyes narrowed, staring at Shane curiously.
"You could... what?"
Shane can feel another mortified flush creeping up his neck, but he’s in too deep now. Anyway, if Ilya reacts badly, Shane could always just walk into incoming traffic or jump out a window or something. No biggie.
So he pushes through.
“I could do it,” he says. “I could fuck you. Properly.”
For a moment, Ilya just stares at him, mouth dropping open. It really is a very pretty mouth. Which Shane definitely shouldn’t be thinking about when his own face feels like it’s been set aflame.
”Okay—wow,” Ilya huffs. His expression is unreadable, and Shane briefly wonders if he just massively fucked up. “Hollander, you don’t need to joke about this, you know. You don’t owe me anything because you overheard my sex stories.”
”I’m not joking!” Shane insists. “I want to do it.”
”You want to fuck me? Me?”
“Well—I mean, look at you!”
That seems to catch Ilya by surprise, but only for a second, before his face lights up with a pleased grin. “Shane Hollander wants to fuck me,” he repeats, saying it slowly, his gorgeous Russian accent curling around the words. “The same guy who avoids eye contact with me every morning.”
“I was trying to respect your personal space.”
”By not looking at me?”
“By not being weird about how attractive you are!” Shane’s voice goes up an octave on that last syllable, and he immediately wants to crawl under the table and die. “You know what, I’m just gonna stop talking now.”
Ilya’s grin only widens. He tilts his head, assessing Shane with a look that makes Shane’s stomach flip. “So, let me get this straight—“ Ironic, considering both of them aren’t—“you heard me talking about my sad, miserable bottoming experiences, and your first instinct was to volunteer yourself as tribute?”
”Okay, was that a Hunger Games reference?”
”No, and you’re changing the subject.”
Shane keeps his mouth clamped shut.
“Hollander,” Ilya drawls, lips curved into something infuriatingly knowing. “Have you always wanted to fuck me?”
No, he wants to deny. But then, all of a sudden, Shane thinks about Ilya coming out of their bathroom in nothing but a skimpy towel wrapped around his hips, thinks about the lines of Ilya’s body when he lounges on their couch. He thinks about the hotter days when Ilya would walk around their dorm in tight little shorts that should honestly be banned, all that skin and muscle on display, thinks about all the times Ilya came home with someone else and brought them to his bed, and he swallows.
He must have gone quiet for too long, or maybe Ilya’s read something on his face, because Ilya leans back against his chair, studying him.
“If you’re being serious about this,” Ilya starts slowly, “then… I wouldn’t mind. I think it’d be hot.”
Shane gapes. “Wait, really? You don’t think I’m… weird? For saying this?”
“Why would I think you’re weird? You’re hot, I’m hot, so obviously our sex would be hot too. Might be fun, actually,” Ilya adds, before his gaze drops, landing on Shane’s lap and travelling up Shane’s body like molten lava before meeting his eyes again. “I wonder what Shane Hollander would be like in bed.”
Shane’s mouth feels so dry. He’s dizzy all over, like his body can’t decide whether all his blood should be rushing to his face or down to his dick. Okay, they’re really doing this.
“You’ll just have to find out, won’t you?”
“Maybe I will,” Ilya replies coyly, shooting him a quick wink. “How about this weekend?”
”Um.” Shane’s brain screeches to a stop. This weekend? That’s still—that’s two whole days away! “Wait. You don’t wanna do it tonight?”
“Shane,” Ilya laughs. “Trust me, you don’t want to be anywhere near my asshole after all the spring rolls I’ve just had.”
“Well…” And Ilya really shouldn’t have said that, because now Shane’s thinking about it. He thinks about what it would be like if he bent Ilya over their dining table right now—spring rolls be damned—pinning him down by his trim waist, his hips. He thinks about what it would be like if he got close enough to see what Ilya’s hole would look like, thinks about spreading Ilya open with his thumbs, watching the way his rim would clench and flutter, how it might tighten at the first touch of Shane’s touch. He thinks about what sounds Ilya might make—if he’d be into it, or if he’d be embarrassed, yet still pushing back into Shane’s mouth like he doesn’t even realize it. Shane’s dick is alarmingly interested in this line of thinking.
Of course, he doesn’t say any of this, because he’s not that crazy, but Ilya gasps at him like he sees right through Shane anyway. “Hollander,” he chides, like he’s scandalized. “What kind of nasty thoughts are you thinking?”
“Nothing!” Shane splutters. “Just—shut up, Rozanov. Okay, so. This weekend, then.”
“Mhm.”
“And when you say weekend, do you mean Saturday or Sunday?”
The teasing grin on Ilya’s face is back. Shane desperately wants to fuck that attitude out of him. “Someone seems eager.”
“I’m just making sure we’re on the same page.”
“Fine,” Ilya hums. His eyes gleam in interest, turning dark under the kitchen light. “Saturday, 9 p.m.”
“Okay. Cool.” Shane’s brain is already adding the event to his Google Calendar—Saturday, 9 PM, Fuck Ilya Rozanov—and he has to physically stop himself from reaching for his phone. “I’ll… be there.”
“Yes, well.” Under the table, Ilya nudges his bare foot against Shane’s sock-covered ankle, shooting him a playful smile. “I would hope so. We live together.”
Christ, this guy. Shane needs him so fucking bad.
***
He spends the next two days thinking about… well. About Ilya’s hole.
There’s really no classy way to put it. It’s akin to psychological warfare almost, the way the thought has burrowed into Shane's brain like a parasite. He'll be in the library, or in his economics class, or in his own bed, and each time, every single thought he has leads to thinking about what Ilya would look like face-down, ass-up on his bedsheets, pliant and undone for him. He'll think about the curve of Ilya's spine, the dip of his lower back, the plushness of his glutes, and Shane ends up getting absolutely nothing productive done by the end of the day.
He's gotten the unfortunate luck of having a 6:30 to 8:30 p.m. Saturday class this semester, which he’s mostly gotten used to; it's a quiet time, the campus is mostly empty, and he can get in and out without dealing with crowds. But tonight, Shane’s misfortune strikes again as his professor decides to go twenty minutes overtime, all because he'll be on leave next week and apparently wants to cram in one more topic.
Shane thinks he might lose his mind.
He’s tense in his seat. His foot taps an increasingly frantic rhythm against the floor—which results in several dirty looks from his seatmate—and he watches as the clock ticks from 8:35 to 8:40 to 8:45, all while his prof drones on about corporate tax structures and their implications on multinational mergers. Honestly, Shane’s not really sure. His brain must have clocked out twenty minutes ago, because all he can think of is Ilya, who must be back in their dorm by now. He wonders if Ilya’s already had dinner, if he’s taken a shower. He wonders what Ilya’s wearing, or if he’s already naked, waiting for Shane. He wonders, briefly, if Ilya’s even home, but then quickly shuts that train of thought down because he knows Ilya would never be that cruel.
8:45 becomes 8:50, and his professor finally dismisses them with a cheerful, "Enjoy your weekend, everyone!"
Yeah, Shane definitely plans to enjoy his weekend. He’s out of his seat before the words have fully left the professor's mouth.
He takes every shortcut he knows, cutting through the quad and practically speed-walking across the parking lot. When he reaches his dorm, he climbs the stairs two at a time, until he's heaving and breathless, shoving the front door open and kicking off his shoes as he stumbles inside.
The first thing he hears is a groan. It’s soft, a little drawn out, and it’s coming from Ilya’s room.
Shane's heart hammers so loud he thinks he feels it in his fucking throat. He drops his bag in the hallway and walks toward Ilya’s door—it's cracked open, just slightly—and pushes it open.
And there, slumped naked against the headboard, is Ilya.
His hair is slightly damp, a little darker than usual, meaning he must have just taken a shower. His legs are spread, his hard cock resting against his stomach, and his hands are trailing lazily over his own chest, fingers brushing over his nipples before sliding down his torso. There's splotches of pink on his cheeks and down his neck, and Shane takes it all in—this ridiculously gorgeous man with his golden skin and star-scattered moles and lean muscle—and gets rock-hard in record-time.
Ilya raises a brow, tilting his head toward the digital clock on his nightstand. 9:03.
"Hi,” he greets easily, like he doesn’t look like something straight out of Shane’s wet dreams. “You’re late.”
Shane swallows, still trying to catch his breath. "Class went overtime. My prof wouldn't shut up about—" He gestures vaguely, eyes drawn to Ilya’s flushed dick like a fucking magnet. "—tax structures or whatever. I don't even know."
"Uh-huh." Ilya's lips curve into a languid smile. He lets his hand drift lower, fingers just barely brushing between his inner thighs. "I was starting to think you'd—ah—changed your mind."
"Never." Shane's voice comes out rougher than he intended. He's standing at the foot of Ilya's bed now, looking down at him. "I definitely wouldn’t change my mind about this.”
"Good.” Imperceptibly, Ilya spreads his legs even wider. “Now come here."
Shane is on him in seconds.
“Fuck,” he breathes out, his eyes raving all over Ilya’s body. He doesn’t even know where to look first. “You’re so hot.”
”You’re not so bad yourself,” Ilya teases. His hands find Shane’s shoulders, and Shane can feel the heat of him even through the fabric of his clothes. “Come on, Hollander. I thought you were gonna fuck me, hm?”
“Oh, I plan to ruin you, Rozanov.”
Ilya grins, pleased. “I’d like to see you try.”
”Alright.” They’re so close. Shane can see the way Ilya’s pupils have blown wide, the way there’s barely any of that blue-green color left. “Watch me.”
And then he’s surging forward, Ilya meeting him halfway, and their lips come crashing together.
It’s messy at first, wet and sloppy and frenzied, and Shane can feel Ilya’s hands on the back of his neck, fingers curling into the strands of hair there. He feels Ilya trying to push up, trying to push his tongue into Shane’s mouth and claim the kiss for himself, but Shane won’t let him. His palms find Ilya’s shoulders, pinning him roughly against the mattress, and his clothed knee pushes into Ilya’s naked crotch, rutting against him through the fabric of his jeans. Ilya’s answering gasp is sharp and sweet, his hips bucking up in surprise, and Shane uses the opening to slide his tongue inside, licking into the warmth of Ilya’s mouth.
He feels Ilya's hands tightening in his hair, pressing his body impossibly closer, and Shane takes that as his sign to deepen the kiss further. He tilts his head, angling for better access, and he swallows the soft sound that spills from Ilya's throat. Teeth scrape against lips, and their tongues slide together in a rhythm that's all heat and hunger and want. Shane can’t even think anymore. His entire world has narrowed down to this: to the sensation of Ilya’s mouth, the warmth of Ilya’s tongue, the feeling of Ilya’s chest arched into his hold.
But Shane is greedy, and he wants to hear more of Ilya’s sounds, wants to know what gets him worked up, so he keeps his knee pressed and grinding languidly against Ilya’s cock, the weight of his balls against the rough denim. He’s rewarded when Ilya starts squirming beneath him, groaning muffedly into Shane’s lips, and Shane drinks in every breathless sound, swallowing it down and savoring the taste of him.
It’s only when he feels the wet slide of drool start to leak from the corner of Ilya’s lips does he pull away, but only enough to chase it. His tongue follows the line of it down Ilya’s chin, and Shane laps it back up before pushing it back into Ilya’s mouth. It’s filthy, and it should be gross, but Ilya is pliant and warm and moaning so prettily from under him, and Shane knows he’s exactly right where he wants to be.
Unfortunately though, he’s just a mere human being, and he needs to breathe before the lack of oxygen gets to his brain and he fucking dies, which would be horrible considering he hasn’t even gotten near Ilya’s ass yet. He breaks the kiss reluctantly, panting—except pulling away means getting a proper look at ilya, which makes all the air leave Shane’s lungs anyway.
Ilya is, for lack of better word, a mess. His lips are swollen now, slick with spit and red enough to match the deep, gorgeous flush painted on his cheeks. His eyes have gone hazy, and his chest is heaving, his golden curls splayed out against his navy pillow like a halo.
He looks like an angel. A disheveled, beautiful, indecent angel, who Shane wants to fuck so hard and so good that his dick leaves an imprint inside Ilya’s walls and—yeah, okay. Shane needs to stop before the metaphor gets weird.
“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya breathes out, tipping his head back as his eyes flutter shut. “Are you trying to eat me alive?”
Yes, Shane thinks, doesn't say. He kind of wants to bite into Ilya’s exposed throat.
“All I’ve done is kiss you,” he says instead, and he can’t stop the words from coming out a little smug.
”Yes, well.” Ilya spares him another glance, huffing. “Who knew you were such a good kisser.”
”Mhm.” Shane allows himself to grin. “My mouth is good for other things too, you know.”
Ilya’s brows shoot up. For a second, he just stares, like he’s reassessing Shane entirely. Then he lets out a shocked laugh, a bright, breathless sound, and Shane watches as his gaze turns hungry, his tongue darting out to wet his swollen lips.
“Bozhe moy, Hollander,” Ilya says roughly. “Take off your fucking clothes already.”
Shane is happy to comply. He tugs his shirt off first, tossing it somewhere across the room—he doesn't care where, he can find it later. His jeans are next, though he almost trips trying to shuck them off, stumbling off the bed and catching himself on the edge of the mattress with a clumsy grunt. Ilya kindly doesn’t point him out on it, though Shane can tell he’s trying to hold back his smile.
And then Shane’s left in just his boxers, on Ilya Rozanov’s bed, with Ilya Rozanov sprawled out and naked under him, and it’s all starting to feel very, very real.
Ilya’s gaze roams across his body appreciatively, making heat coil tight inside his core, his skin prickling with anticipation. Shane forces himself to meet Ilya’s eyes, trying for a brave face despite the nervous flutter in his chest.
”Like what you see?” he asks.
”Very,” Ilya answers, without hesitation.
He reaches for Shane again, tugging him back down, and Shane goes willingly. He presses another kiss to Ilya’s lips—once, twice, then a third time, simply because he just can’t resist—and it’s softer this time, sweeter, a brief moment of gentleness before everything else.
Then, as much as Shane loves Ilya’s hands on him, he gets a better idea. He tugs Ilya’s wrists away from his shoulders, pinning them by Ilya’s head. Ilya shoots him a questioning look, but he doesn’t fight it, letting Shane do as he wants. God, who knew Ilya could be so easy?
Dipping down, Shane begins pressing a trail of kisses down Ilya’s neck. He can feel Ilya’s pulse fluttering beneath his mouth, and Shane takes his time there—nipping and sucking until he knows he’s leaving marks. Pink and red blooms across Ilya’s skin, a constellation of Shane’s making. He imagines Ilya meeting his friends tomorrow, or the day after, how the hickeys would show beautifully on Ilya’s throat. He imagines Ilya telling them—maybe Troy and Wyatt, who, Shane realizes, he should probably thank for leading him here—and letting them know Shane did this.
Yeah, Shane thinks, take that, Marlow.
He moves lower, pausing to bite gently at Ilya’s collarbone. Then, before he can second-guess himself, he tugs Ilya’s wrists a little higher, holding him down more securely, until his mouth finds the hollow of Ilya’s armpit.
”Shane,” Ilya gasps, jolting, “What—?”
“You smell so good,” Shane admits through a groan, lightheaded as he brings a hand down to Ilya’s bicep, raising it higher and keeping his grip there. Shamelessly, he buries his face into Ilya’s underarm, pressing his nose into the warm skin and the soft patch of hair. And, as nice as Ilya’s soap smells, Shane almost wishes Ilya wasn’t so clean right now. He wants to know what Ilya would smell like after a long day at the gym, sweat and skin and all-consuming musk. Shane’s useless dick twitches in his boxers.
Fuck, he wants to taste him.
So he does, licking a fat stripe up Ilya’s armpit, following it up with several open-mouthed kisses. He can feel Ilya beginning to writhe from under him, his hips jerking uselessly as all these stuttering moans slip from his lips, and it’s so hot, so Shane licks again, then another time for good measure, swirling his tongue into the dip. Except, just then, Ilya makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a squeak.
Shane pauses. He pulls away slowly, squinting down. “What was that,” he says, and it’s not a question.
Ilya blinks up at him, all faux-innocence despite the incredibly biteable pink flush on his cheeks. “What was what?”
”That sound. Did you just squeak?”
“Of course not.” But Ilya’s voice comes out strained.
Shane can’t help the grin spreading across his face. “Holy shit, are you ticklish, Rozanov?”
”I’m not—“ Ilya starts to lie, but he must have forgotten the mere fact that Shane’s literally pinning his entire body weight against Ilya’s, and that he still has a firm grip on Ilya’s raised arm. Shane leans down, nipping playfully against Ilya’s other underarm, letting his mouth skate feather-light over the skin, and is immediately rewarded with a choked giggle. “Hollander!”
“Oh my god.” Shane is positively delighted by this discovery. “Ilya, you’re gonna kill me. That’s so fucking cute.”
”I’d be cuter if you started touching my dick,” Ilya grouses, glaring weakly, but he’s still blushing, so it instantly loses all its effect. “You’re lucky I didn’t sock you in the face just now.”
Shane just shrugs, smiling sheepishly. ”Eh. I could dodge it.”
“Christ,” Ilya groans, kneeing him lightly in the ribs in retaliation. “Just get on with it, fuck.”
Laughing, Shane finally moves away. He likes this, teasing Ilya, but he’s also been hard for the last twenty minutes and he desperately needs to get to Ilya’s hole now. Still, he can’t help himself from lingering on Ilya’s nipples, pinching and flicking at the rosy buds until Ilya’s throwing his head back with a whimper. Shane files that reaction away for next time. That is, if there’s a next time.
He continues his path downward, kissing the many moles scattered across Ilya’s toned stomach. His hands find Ilya’s waist, and he’s momentarily distracted by how much of Ilya’s skin he can cover with his palms. Ilya’s definitely no dainty little thing; he’s big and strong and built like a Greek god, but Shane’s always had pretty large hands. And seeing them wrapped around Ilya’s sides, thumbs brushing against his hipbones, makes something feral unfurl in his chest.
Shane trails his mouth lower, brushing his tongue along the lines of Ilya’s, quite frankly, ludicrously toned abs, never breaking eye contact as he dips into Ilya’s belly button. Ilya’s hips buck in response, a sharp Russian curse tearing from his throat that makes Shane silently grin against his skin. He bites gently at Ilya’s v-line, the cut of muscle pointing down like an arrow towards his dick, and Ilya’s whole body shudders.
“Okay,” Shane says, and it surprises him when his voice comes out normal, like he isn’t actively buzzing out of his skin from the fact he gets to touch Ilya’s butt. “I want you to turn around now.”
Ilya must be getting impatient, or perhaps he's just as worked up as Shane, because he does so without question. He maneuvers himself until he's on his stomach, the curve of his spine dipping low, and Shane helps guide a thick pillow under his hips, positioning him just right.
And then Shane is met with the sight of Ilya's bare ass.
Shane can’t even fathom how no one’s ever worshipped all this before. All those hook-ups who got to see Ilya’s beautifully delectable body, naked and laid out on the sheets, and none of them had taken their time with him? Because Ilya’s ass really is perfect, all round and smooth and oh-so-plush, practically begging to be touched and bitten and spanked. Moving closer, Shane nudges Ilya’s thighs a little further apart, and Ilya lets him, spreading his knees until Shane can just barely make out the dusky-pink shade of his hole.
His hands trail upwards, finally landing on Ilya’s cheeks. Shane can’t stop himself from squeezing, fondling the soft flesh, watching it turn a rosy color under his fingertips. He pinches gently, just to see the way it reddens, and Ilya’s hips twitch in response.
”Shane,” Ilya groans, already breathless, but there’s an itch under Shane’s skin that he needs to scratch.
So he asks: ”How many people have you bottomed for before?”
Ilya turns his head, confused. “Huh?”
“You mentioned that no one’s ever prepped you properly,” Shane answers, thumbs tracing circles on Ilya’s cheeks, dipping in between the cleft to tease, feeling how Ilya twitches slightly beneath his touch. “How many people was that?”
“I don’t know.” Ilya’s brow furrows, like he’s genuinely counting in his head. Or maybe because Shane is currently teasing his asscrack. “Like, five? Four? I don’t usually bottom, Hollander, you know this.”
“Yeah.” What a shame, Shane thinks, for those four or five nameless, faceless people, who didn’t know how good they had it with Ilya, how grateful they should have been that Ilya was willing to be fucked by them. There’s a wave of anger there, knowing that these people treated Ilya worse than he deserved, but it’s quickly replaced by the dizzying feeling of Shane being the first to show Ilya how good it can be, how he’ll be the one to unravel Ilya, until Ilya’s begging for cock, trembling and on the verge of tears. It’s obscene, really, how much Shane wants to bury his face in between those cheeks.
Leaning in, he presses an open-mouthed kiss to the swell of Ilya’s right cheek, then another, and another. He does the same to the other side, before biting down hard enough to leave a mark, and Ilya’s whole body jerks in his hold.
”What—“ Ilya’s breath hitches, before he turns just enough to shoot Shane an incredulous look. “Did you just bite my fucking ass?”
“Mhm.” Shane hums against his skin, soothing the reddening mark with his tongue. “You’ve got a problem with that?”
“No,” Ilya huffs. “But I thought you’d be eating me out in another way.” He wiggles his hips like he’s trying to make a point, voice bordering on petulant, but he arches further into Shane’s mouth all the same. Shane has to tamper down his grin.
”I’ll get there,” he assures, nuzzling into the cleft of Ilya’s ass, brushing against the sensitive skin, letting his breath ghost over Ilya’s entrance. “But let me take my time with you, hm?”
He’s not sure what protest Ilya would have said next, because the next thing he does is move lower, nipping at the sensitive skin where it meets Ilya’s inner thighs, watching as color blooms under his mouth. All the while, his hands never stop touching. He squeezes and pets and kneads, until Ilya is positively squirming beneath him, his ass pushing back and nearly bumping into Shane’s chin. Not that Shane would complain.
”Hollander,” Ilya whines—actually whines, oh wow. “Fuck, stop teasing.”
“Are you gonna beg for it, Rozanov?” Shane asks, pulling away to trace his finger over Ilya’s cleft, close enough for it to feel sensitive, but too far away from where Ilya wants him most. “You want my mouth on your hole that bad?”
Ilya lets out another frustrated sound, high and desperate, and Shane almost wants to tease him even more for how whiny he sounds, when suddenly, Ilya’s pulling himself up onto his knees. His chest stays flat against the mattress, but his hands reach back, fingers spreading his cheeks apart.
”Come on, Shane,” Ilya says, breathless, looking back at him through half-lidded eyes. “You want me, don’t you?”
Shane stares, stunned. Holy fucking shit.
The first thing he notices is the color.
Ilya’s hole really is pink, and it’s almost cute, honestly, all pretty and exposed and twitching in nothing but open air. The second thing he notices is how tight it looks, so impossibly tight that Shane can’t imagine anything fitting in there—but dear god, he’s certainly going to try. He wants to taste it, to press his tongue inside, wants to feel it clench around his fingers. He wants to see what it’d look like if it’s stretched wide against his cock, and the thought of it is so arousing that Shane nearly keels over, his own dick hard and aching between his legs.
But he doesn’t, because Ilya’s puckered little rim is right in front of him, displayed like a feast for Shane’s own taking.
“Fuck,” Shane groans, hands spreading Ilya impossibly wider. “I’m gonna take such good care of you, baby, just wait.”
Driven by a sudden hunger that feels bottomless, he drops all teasing pretenses and finally, finally leans in, licking a fat, wet stripe from the base of Ilya's balls all the way up to his hole. The action has Ilya choking on a moan, his hips twitching instinctively, and Shane doesn't stop. He laps at the tight ring of muscle, leaving little kitten-licks to open it up slowly, savoring the taste of skin and the way it flutters under his tongue.
Ilya's hips start to writhe, his thighs trembling, so Shane grips him by the hips, holding him nice and steady. He swirls his tongue around the pucker, teasing the sensitive skin, and Ilya lets out a sound that's half-moan, half-whimper, muffling it into his pillow.
"Oh, Shane," Ilya gasps, his voice cracking, before it dissolves into a string of Russian.
Shane simply hums against him, the vibration making Ilya shudder. He nips lightly at the rim, then soothes it with his tongue, and he does it again, and again, until Ilya's knees nearly give out. Shane's so deep inside that his nose brushes against the fine hairs, and he breathes in the scent of Ilya, clean and warm and absolutely intoxicating. He thinks about how he could suffocate here, buried between Ilya's cheeks, and die a happy man.
Then, he bullies his tongue inside.
Ilya fucking squeaks, another sound that makes Shane hide a triumphant smile, and it turns into a broken moan as Shane works his tongue in, fucking into Ilya’s hole, feeling the way it gives way and stretches for him. The sensation of it, paired with all the wrecked sounds Ilya’s making, is so overwhelming that Shane's cock strains against his boxers, begging to be inside the heat of Ilya’s walls.
But there’s time for that later. So Shane keeps eating Ilya out in fervor, lapping and thrusting and experimentally circling his tongue, until Ilya is a trembling, desperate mess above him.
"Shane, fuck, please—" Ilya keeps squirming, like he can’t decide if he wants to push back or pull away, so Shane makes the decision for him by tightening his hold on Ilya’s hips, fingers digging hard enough to leave bruises. "Don’t stop—I need more—"
“Yeah?” Shane asks, just to be a little shit. “What do you need, baby?”
Ilya groans, though whether it’s from annoyance or arousal, Shane isn’t too sure. “Fuck, Shane, your fingers,” he says, the muscles of his back rippling as he arches into Shane’s hand. “I need your fingers.”
Shane hums, but he doesn’t move. He feels a little wicked, and he wants to break Ilya, just a bit, so he keeps his thumb stroking over the swell of Ilya’s ass, enough to keep him on edge. “But you’re not asking nicely enough, Ilya,” he chides lightly. “You can use that pretty mouth to beg, can’t you?”
Ilya’s head twists back, his eyes sharp and almost offended. “You’re kidding.”
”I’m definitely not.” Shane raises an expectant brow. “What, you don’t want it?”
Ilya stares, mouth slightly agape, like he can’t decide whether to strangle Shane or jump his bones. But Shane just flicks a finger against Ilya’s slick-spit hole, a quick, teasing tap, and Ilya’s resolve crumbles.
”Fuck, please,” he chokes out. “Please, Shane, I need your fingers. I need you to open me up.”
Shane’s cock gives another twitch. “See, was that so hard?”
He spots the bottle of lube conveniently left atop Ilya's nightstand, right next to his phone charger. He reaches for it, making quick work of drizzling a generous amount over his fingers, warming it, because he knows firsthand how uncomfortable cold lube feels.
"Okay," he says, his voice low. "I'm going to start with one. Tell me if anything hurts.”
Ilya nods, face buried in his pillow. So Shane presses his index finger against Ilya's rim, and even after all that tongue, Ilya is still so damn tight. He pushes in slowly, carefully, watching the way Ilya's hole gives way. The feeling of it is addicting, and Shane can feel himself growing an obsession in real-time.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You’re so pretty like this, baby.”
Ilya answers with a muffled moan as Shane's finger sinks deeper. Spreading him wider, Shane presses his thumb against Ilya’s perineum, and he works his finger in and out, watching with rapt attention as Ilya stretches around him. He can feel it growing puffier with each thrust, the rim turning red and swollen, and the sight of it makes Shane feel positively crazy. Shit, he thinks his mouth might be watering.
His free hand fumbles with his boxers, finally pushing them down and freeing his aching dick. He strokes himself a few times to take the edge off, before returning his attention to Ilya.
"Another one," Shane says, more to himself. He pushes in another digit, watching for any sign of discomfort, but Ilya’s face is crunched in undeniable pleasure as he lets out another whine.
Shane curls his fingers, searching, and when he finds Ilya's prostate, he knows it immediately. Ilya's back arches into an impossibly sharp dip, a shamelessly loud moan tearing straight from his throat as his entire body flushes, pink spreading from his shoulders and down his back.
"There we go," Shane preens, pressing into that sweet spot again. "That's it. God, you feel insane, Rozanov.”
Ilya's hips buck, and Shane realizes, through another surge of sheer horniness, that Ilya is grinding his cock into the pillow beneath him, leaving an absolute mess on the pillowcase. He wonders if Ilya’s starting to feel overstimulated, though judging from all the stuttering gasps and breathless whines Ilya’s letting out, Shane guesses he might be.
"Shane," Ilya chokes out. "Fuck, wait, I can't—"
“Yes, you can,” Shane insists, his fingers working inside him, pressing against Ilya’s prostate with each trust. “You’re doing so good, look at you. Has anyone done this for you before? Played with your prostate like this?”
Shane knows the answer, but it still somehow surprises him when Ilya shakes his head in a silent no. God, all these people are missing out. But at the same time, Shane almost wishes no one would ever even think of looking at Ilya again, because only he should be allowed to see Ilya like this, to touch him and tease him and hear all the lovely sounds spilling from Ilya’s bitten lips.
He starts massaging Ilya's prostate in earnest, watching the way Ilya's body responds. His hips stutter, fingers clawing the sheets, and all his moans sound so filthy that Shane’s thankful it’s only the two of them in this dorm, entirely captivated by the way Ilya is falling apart beneath him.
And Shane doesn’t let up, honestly having way too much fun reducing Ilya to a squirming mess. He knows how overwhelming this can feel from experience, so he presses and circles and teases his prostate until Ilya is practically babbling—half in English, half in Russian, a jumbled mess of pleas and curses that Shane doesn't understand, but still finds incredibly fucking hot. He leaves little kisses and bites on Ilya's asscheeks too, just because he can.
"Fuck, Hollander," Ilya gasps, his hole clenching in protest as Shane twists his fingers deeper, until he’s buried up to his knuckles. "Seriously, it’s—it's too much."
"Too much?" Shane repeats, almost amused. "Weren't you begging for my fingers just a few minutes ago? Begging me to open you up?"
"Yes, but—" Ilya's voice cracks, and he’s staring at Shane with these pleading, fucked-out eyes that only makes Shane want to ravish him whole. "I'm so close—Shane, pull out—"
"But you feel so good around me," Shane replies, even as one hand goes down to palm at his dick. "How can I pull out when you're sucking me in like this?"
Ilya lets out a desperate, keening sound. “Fuck, ‘m gonna cum—“
“Then cum, Ilya.” Shane leaves a kiss to Ilya's lower back, his fingers still working inside him. "I’m not stopping at just one.”
Shane curls his fingers one more time, and Ilya's whole body locks up, a sharp, shattered moan ripping from his throat as he comes undone. Shane can't really see it, what with Ilya's cock squished between the pillow and his hips, but he can feel it in the way Ilya tightens impossibly around his digits, in the way his whole body trembles, until Ilya’s knees give out and he collapses into the mattress with a wrecked sob.
Slowly, Shane finally pulls his fingers out—and nearly fucking blacks out at the state he’s left Ilya’s hole in.
It’s stretched noticeably wider than before, slick and puffy and thoroughly used. It's even starting to gape, just a little, the rim flushed a deep, rosy red, and Shane can see the way it clenches around nothing, like it's already missing the feeling of being filled. Christ, what an image that is. It’s definitely gonna plague Shane’s wet dreams for the rest of his life, he’s sure of it.
He lets Ilya catch his breath. He catches his own too, because god knows Shane needs air after all that.
And then, he takes in the marks he's left behind on Ilya’s skin. Bite marks on Ilya's asscheeks and finger-shaped impressions on his hips, darkening into shades of red and purple. And still, Shane wants to sink his teeth down on Ilya's glutes and never let go, wants to leave his mark everywhere so that everyone else knows to stay away.
He's still so sickeningly hard, cock throbbing and leaking against his stomach. He squeezes it, once, just to keep himself from coming at the sight of Ilya's wrecked hole alone.
It's with that thought that Ilya stirs, finally coming back to himself. Clumsily, he reaches down, pulling the pillow out from under his hips, and grimaces at the mess he's made on the ruined pillowcase. Shane catches a glimpse of it—streaked with Ilya's come, wet and glistening—and has the insane thought of stealing it away when Ilya isn’t looking, of keeping it like some kind of trophy.
"Oh, yuck," Ilya says, his voice still rough, and he tosses the pillow onto the floor, before he rolls onto his side, glancing back at Shane with a dazed, disbelieving look. Then he laughs shakily and says, "Christ, Shane. I think you've killed me."
Shane grins, feeling awfully pleased. “Bet none of your hook-ups ever made you feel like that.”
Ilya rolls his eyes, but he looks… shy, almost. “Not worth making a bet when we both know it’s true,” he huffs, and the pleased feeling in Shane’s chest grows.
Still, Shane doesn’t want this to end just yet. Also, he’s still very, very hard. And he definitely doesn’t plan to leave this room without knowing what it feels like to fuck Ilya stupid on his cock.
He clears his throat, nudging Ilya with his knee. "Think you could go another round?"
Ilya's eyes shine, a slow, coy grin spreading across his face. "What do you have in mind?"
Shane merely holds a hand up, making a circular motion with his index finger, and Ilya gets the hint, turning over until he’s flat on his back. Shane drinks in the sight of him—of Ilya’s mussed curls and pink-stained cheeks, of the cum still glistening on his stomach and dripping down into his happy trail—and feels himself go dumbstruck.
”Okay,” he manages to get out, dazed. “I’m going to fuck you now.”
Breath catching, Ilya swallows, throat bobbing, and then he brings his knees to his chest, spreading himself open. Shane is briefly, quite impressed by Ilya's flexibility, and he wonders if he could fold Ilya even more, bend him until he's completely exposed and helpless.
"Then what are you waiting for?" Ilya asks, breathless.
Shane pauses, his hand hovering over Ilya's thigh. "Do you have a condom?"
"First drawer on my nightstand."
Reaching over, Shane pulls the drawer open, rummaging through its contents until his fingers close around a foil packet. He pulls it out, tearing it open with his teeth, and rolls it over his aching dick in quick, clumsy need.
Ilya's eyes are on him the whole time, dark and hungry, his gaze fixed on Shane's cock. "Shit," he says, a soft, shaky laugh escaping him. "You're so big."
Shane's lips curve into a grin. He leans down, pressing a kiss to Ilya's knee, his hands finding the back of Ilya's thighs. "Don't worry," he promises against his skin. "I'll make it fit."
“Fuck, Hollander.”
Unable to wait anymore, Shane lines himself up, the head of his cock pressing against Ilya's slick, stretched hole. He pushes in slowly, just breaching past the rim, and they both let out matching groans—Shane's low and guttural, Ilya's high and breathless.
"Oh, fuck," Shane gasps, his forehead dropping to Ilya's shoulder. Ilya is so tight, so, so absurdly tight, and Shane has to stop himself from coming right then and there. He attempts to breathe through it—in for three, out for three, Jesus, Hollander, you will not cum in five seconds flat—hands trembling against the back of Ilya's thighs.
"Okay?" he asks, voice rough.
Ilya nods, his face rosy with exertion, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow. "Yes, just—keep going."
Shane complies, pushing in deeper, inch by inch, and the feeling is overwhelming. He's completely, wholeheartedly addicted to it: the heat, the tightness, the way Ilya's body is making space for him.
"You feel so good," Shane can’t help but groan out, planting a kiss on Ilya's knee. "Taking me in so well, fuck, Ilya."
He thrusts in a bit more, just over halfway, and Ilya's back suddenly arches, a wrecked groan tearing from his throat. "Oh god,” he whines, chest heaving. “Shane, I feel so full.”
"So pretty like this, Rozanov." Shane can feel practically everything, every pulse and clench of Ilya wrapped around him, tight and perfect, all for him, only for him, if Shane could have his way. “You were just made to take my cock, weren’t you?”
Ilya moans, tipping his head back, and Shane just keeps pushing in, folding Ilya's legs up until his knees are nearly touching his shoulders, until Ilya is completely splayed out, utterly impaled on Shane's cock. Shane finally bottoms out, his hips flush against Ilya's ass, and he has to pause, to breathe, to keep himself from ending this too soon.
He kisses Ilya's lips, soft and sweet, then his jaw, his neck, anywhere he can reach. Ilya's hands find Shane's shoulders, gripping tight.
"Okay," Ilya says, blowing out a breath. "Okay, I'm ready. Move. Thrust into me. I want it rough."
Shane's eyes go dark. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Ilya's grin is sharp, wicked. "Fuck me, Hollander."
Shane doesn't need to be told twice.
He pulls out carefully, almost all the way, before slamming right back in, right to the hilt. The action makes Ilya’s breath catch, a sharp, ruined sound scrapping up his throat and slipping past his lips, and Shane does it again. And again. And again.
"Fuck—" Ilya gasps, his head thrown back, his hands digging into Shane’s biceps. "Bozhe moy, Shane—“
"Hm?" Shane's voice is so low he barely recognizes it, his hips already finding a rhythm. "This what you wanted, baby? Wanted me to fuck you like this?"
Ilya nods shakily, letting out another pretty moan as he body curves up into Shane's thrusts. He's gone completely boneless beneath Shane, pliable and open, and the sight of it is almost too much. Ilya, who's always so confident, always so cocky, reduced to this—a trembling, desperate mess, completely under Shane's mercy, his dick flopping uselessly between their stomachs each time Shane slams back in.
He picks up the pace, angling his hips to hit Ilya's prostate with every thrust, until Ilya’s eyes are rolling back, his mouth falling open, and the sounds he makes are positively filthy, loud and debauched and bordering on pornographic. Shane’s pretty sure the whole floor can hear them at this point, but he can't bring himself to care. It makes him feel insanely possessive, actually, knowing that anyone within earshot will know exactly who Ilya belongs to tonight.
"Look at you," he sighs, his hand finding Ilya's chin, tilting his face up. "So fucking good like this. So easy for me, taking my cock so well."
Ilya whines, his hips jerking, and Shane leans down to kiss him, sloppy and desperate, swallowing his sounds. His free hand finds Ilya's chest, thumb brushing over his nipple, and Ilya whimpers from the sensitivity, instinctively twisting away.
"Too much?" Shane asks, even as he keeps thrusting.
Ilya shakes his head frantically. "No—don't you dare fucking stop, Hollander."
Shane grins, pinching his nipple, rolling the perked bud between his fingers, then dipping down to lick at the other one. Ilya cries out, trembling all over, but he doesn't pull away. He just lies there and takes it, so damn good for Shane.
"Ilya, I’m close," Shane warns, barely holding on. He fucks Ilya harder, faster, making sure Ilya isn’t far behind. He loses himself in the heat and the tightness, until the room is filled with the wet slap of skin, the creak of the bed, the litany of punched-out sounds and curses slipping uncontrollably from their lips.
"Shane," Ilya moans. "Feels so sensitive—‘m gonna cum again—"
"Go ahead, baby," Shane breathes out. "Go on, come on my cock."
He feels Ilya’s entire body go taut against him, before a raw cry rips from Ilya’s throat as he comes untouched, his release spilling hot and messy across his stomach and over his chest, painting the skin in white stripes. The feeling of him clenching around Shane is enough to send Shane over the edge, and he follows with a drawn-out groan, burying himself deep as he spills into the condom.
And then he’s slumping forward, right into Ilya’s waiting arms.
For a long moment, Shane doesn't move. He just lays there, making a home for himself in the crook of Ilya’s neck, not even caring about the mess of Ilya's cum plastered against his own stomach. Ilya's legs finally slide down with a soft, shuddering sigh, and they just lie there, limbs tangled together, breathing in sync.
Shane has no idea how long they stay like that, either for five heartbeats or five hundred, he’s not sure—time has lost all meaning. He can feel himself softening inside Ilya, the condom growing tacky and uncomfortable, and eventually the feeling becomes too gross even for his post-orgasm haze.
"Okay," he murmurs, pulling back reluctantly. "I need to—" He gestures vaguely at the condom.
Ilya watches him with dazed, glassy eyes that are slowly clearing up, a lazy smile forming on his lips. Shane pulls out slowly, watching in fascination as Ilya's hole, now properly wide open, twitches instinctively at the loss, clenching around nothing. And Shane must somehow still be depraved, because that alone is enough to send a fresh wave of heat through his veins. He can't help but think about what it would be like to fuck Ilya raw, to fill him with his come and watch it drip out of his hole. What it would be like to eat his own come out of Ilya's ass, until Ilya's squealing and begging him to stop.
He's pulled out of his thoughts when Ilya knees him lightly, a soft, sinful smile on his face. "Hi," Ilya says, and his voice is so rough and so wrecked and he looks so, so pretty.
"Hey to you, too." Then, because Shane truly can't help himself: "So... how was it?"
Ilya stares at him with wide, disbelieving eyes, a laugh bubbling out of him. "What, you want me to leave a review?" He stretches like a large cat, his body curving languidly, and it makes Shane want to do something crazy like pounce on him and eat him up all over again. "Fine. It was five stars, Hollander. Ten out of ten. You fucked me so good I think I'm still seeing spots in the corners of my vision."
Shane grins. He never understood the saying over the moon, but he thinks this must be what it feels like, like he’s floating somewhere above his body, weightless and utterly thrilled. "Good. I aim to please."
Ilya's grin softens into something almost fond. "Oh, you definitely pleased."
Shane’s unable to resist pressing a kiss to Ilya’s curls. “Okay,” he says, pulling away. “I’ll go grab something to clean you up.”
Ilya hums, too tired to argue. Shane rolls off the bed, grabbing a towel from the bathroom and wetting it with warm water. He returns to Ilya's side, gently wiping the cooling mess from his stomach, his chest, the crease of his hips. Ilya watches him through half-lidded eyes, an almost sleepy smile on his face.
"You don't have to do this," he says. “Most of the guys I bottomed for usually just left, or passed out immediately.”
Something hot and angry instinctively flashes through Shane's chest, but just as quickly, he forces it down. This moment is too good to let the mention of those assholes ruin it.
"Yeah, well." Shane shrugs, wiping away the last of the mess. "I think we've already established that those guys sucked." He stands, tossing the towel into the hamper. “I'll get you some water, too. Stay put."
”Not like I can move!” Ilya calls out, and Shane just rolls his eyes.
He pads to the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with cold water. He makes a beeline for his room too, just to throw on a shirt and a clean pair of boxers. When he returns, Ilya has shifted onto his side, still very much naked. His arm is tucked under a pillow—a clean one, not the same ruined, cum-streaked pillow from earlier—and he looks devastatingly beautiful in the dim light.
Shane tries very hard to ignore the fluttery feeling in his chest. Fuck, he thought he’d be over this now that he’s gotten the thrill of fucking Ilya. "Here,” he says, handing him the glass, and Ilya takes it, their fingers brushing.
"Thanks." Ilya drinks. Shane watches his throat move as he swallows. When he's done, he sets the glass on the nightstand and looks up at Shane.
"Come sit," Ilya says, patting the space beside him. Shane obeys, his back to the wall, and Ilya tilts his head at him. “So.”
”So,” Shane repeats, suddenly feeling nervous.
"That was hot, right?" Ilya asks casually, even though Shane can tell he’s watching out for his reaction.
Shane swallows. "Definitely."
"And we both liked it?"
Shane huffs a laugh, shaking his head. "Duh."
Ilya's lips twitch into a small smile. "And, maybe..." He pauses, hesitating. "Maybe, we could do it again?"
Shane's eyes go wide. Shit, he must have saved a whole damn country in his past life to be blessed like this. "Wait—you're serious? Really? You mean that?"
"Well, obviously, Hollander." Ilya rolls his eyes, but there's no heat in it. "That was like, mind-boggling, life-changing sex. We should definitely be doing that more." He winks playfully. "You know, for our sexual well-being."
Shane's face splits into a grin, bright and genuine and maybe a bit maniacal. "Yeah?" He leans in, his voice dropping into something teasing. "What, you want me to fuck you raw next time?"
Ilya hums. "Maybe we can do that, one day." He shoots Shane a pointed look, his eyes glinting. "But next time, I want to fuck you."
Oh, okay. Shane will definitely never complain about the thin walls in their dorm again. He’ll probably have to send Troy and Wyatt gift baskets once this is all over.
“Deal,” he says, and Ilya grins.