Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes Ilya Rozanov was slowly but surely losing his mind. He smiled at a passing freshman, making his way down the corridor — a perfectly amicable smile, nothing special, but she blushed up to her ears anyway, stuttering out a greeting. The old him would've turned on his heel — screw classes — given her a little up-down check-out, maybe leaned one hand against the wall to show off his bicep a bit. Have her eating out of the palm of his hand in twenty second flat — maximum. But that was the old him, so he kept walking. He was an RA this year, and with that came a new responsibility. He had always been a rake and a scoundrel but he had also been a loyal member of the university hockey team, now captain, and a damn good student to boot, and you would never hear him admit it — especially not within earshot of Marlow or Pike, heaven forbid, but he was honoured. Honoured that the faculty had looked at him and thought he could be a positive influence on frankly anybody. So there he was. First year of postgrad, no fucking any freshmen, especially not those in his res. Well, that had been the plan. Until he rocked up on the first day of orientation week and met — him. Ilya kept walking, shaking his head, as if that might physically exorcise the thoughts — nay, the visions — that plagued him day and night, every waking hour, for the last three weeks. Visions of big brown eyes, too-wide, darting around nervously at the overwhelming bustle of the first day. Visions of freckles dotted across a button nose, a tentative tilt of his lips as Ilya introduced himself, blooming into a proper smile as Ilya smoothly guided him into a quieter corner while pointing out his teammates and sharing their worst secrets. Visions of ugly hoodies and boring sneakers and a fucking sweater vest, once. Horny visions of a sweater vest, Bozhe moy. Would they send him back to Russia, he wondered, once they figured out he was insane? He hoped not. He liked it here. Objectively there was nothing to like about Montreal: it was cold as fuck; colder than Moscow, actually, which was impressive. He wasn't a huge fan of the food, either, and honestly the screaming ducks could go fuck themselves, as far as he was concerned. But still, he liked it here. Because Montreal had one thing Russia didn't have. Montreal had Shane Hollander. “Ilya!” Ilya looked up, pulled from his musings, to see Shane standing in the courtyard outside, almost on his tip toes as he waved at Ilya, as if there was a chance Ilya wouldn't see him. Ilya was going to be late for class if he stopped, but he changed direction anyway, heading to the freshman who had called his name. And fuck, Shane said his name right, too, every time — not the Ill-ee-yah bullshit he got from most; no, two syllables, with the stress on the end, and Ilya remembered Shane asking him, tentatively but determined, to tell him his name again when they first met, the way Shane watched his lips and mouthed along the second time like a diligent little student, making sure he got it right. Ilya was so fucked. “Shane,” he said as he approached, nodding — cool, calm, casual. Shane beamed. His haircut really was ridiculous, like something his mom chose in the eighth grade and he just never bothered changing — cute little bangs falling into his face, black hair gleaming in the sunlight. Ilya wanted to fuck him until he cried, and then maybe make him a tuna melt, or something. He didn't think there was an entry for this in the DSM-5. He would have to ask Svetlana. “Are you on your way to class?” Shane asked, and Ilya raised an eyebrow. “What gave me away?” he said, hitching his backpack higher onto his shoulder, and Shane blushed, high on his cheeks, the way he always did when Ilya teased him. “Shut up,” he said, but he was laughing, and Ilya couldn't help but grin in return. “What about you?” Ilya asked. He knew Shane was an economics major, but he minored in statistics — and the way he spoke about his first couple classes, Ilya wouldn't be surprised if he switched majors in his first year. Econ was on the other side of campus but if Shane had stats that morning, it would be on Ilya's way to his own office. He hadn't wanted to walk a crush to class since he was thirteen. “No, I'm done for today,” Shane said, smiling that smile he did when, Ilya was realizing, he was about to tell Ilya something he was really excited about. “I managed to register all my classes for Monday through Thursday, so I only have an 8am on a Friday. Isn't that neat?” In his first year Ilya had slept through registration and ended up with a 4pm Romantic lit tut every Friday. Shane must have been planning his schedule for ages. He probably had a spreadsheet. “Impressive, okay, okay, the student has become the master already,” Ilya said, mock- impressed, just to see Shane roll his eyes, flush with happiness despite himself. “What do you even need me for?” “No, well I —” Shane said, much too fast, eyes widening, “I mean, of course, I —” “Rozanov,” a nasally voice interrupted, and Ilya had to physically bite down on his molars as he watched a hand land on Shane's shoulder. Because ah, there it was. The only flaw Shane Hollander had. His fucking boyfriend. Evan Patterson. Senior, a year below Ilya, some snooty family friend of the Hollander's, apparently, which is how Shane knew him. All Ilya knew was that he had voted against Patterson joining the team two years ago; nothing personal, he just really wasn't very good on the ice. He always called Ilya Rozanov too, like they had some sort of esteemed rivalry. Before this year, Ilya couldn't really say he cared whether Patterson lived or died, though. He definitely had a preference now. “Evan,” Ilya said, voice flat. “What are you doing here?” Evan said, slipping his arm around Shane's shoulders, and there were many good, normal responses to that question, but as Ilya watched Shane's shoulders draw up to his ears a bit, Evan none the wiser, apparently, Ilya opted for none of those. “Shane was just telling me what he needed from me.” Evan's arm tightened, and Shane squeaked. “If my boyfriend needs anything, Rozanov, he can get it from me,” he grit out, and Ilya grinned, in a way that he knew showed off his canines. “Evan,” Shane said, voice sharp, getting a hand between himself and his boyfriend and shoving the other man off, finally. “Ilya is just being helpful, stop being a dick.” Evan stepped back, lifting his hands in the universal geez-what-did-I-do gesture, and Ilya wondered, for a moment, if he could get away with just one murder. Just a little one. “Anyway, you probably need to go,” Shane said, turning back to Ilya, and then he was fiddling with the strap of his backpack nervously. “Will I — uh, will we see you later? At the party?” The old Ilya would never have missed an opportunity for a good rager, and the traditional Welcome To The Semester Bash at Marlow's off-campus housing was just that. Girls, boys, booze, disco balls and buzzing speakers and questionable stains on every piece of soft furniture unlucky enough to exist in that godforsaken house. The old Ilya would have held court like the king he was. Ilya watched as Shane's lips turned up optimistically at the edges, his eyes big and bright under his lashes as he gazed up at Ilya, waiting for his response like it actually meant something. “Maybe,” he said, and given the way Shane smiled at him, then, he almost wished he meant it.

The knock on his door was quiet but sure, just after 10pm. Ilya was lying in bed, on top of the covers, shirtless, only in grey sweats, wondering if he should watch a movie or just give in and admit that he was only procrastinating until it was late enough that he didn't have the brain capacity to feel horrendously guilty about jerking off to mental images of Shane Hollander. Again. He expected Marlow, or Pike, or one of the other boys on the team, sent at their behest, to fetch the wayward son; drag him to the party against his will and better judgement. He considered just not answering, but — less likely but still possible, it could be a resident who needed help with something; a burst pipe or homesickness or something. Although he really doubted it: no one would really expect him to be sitting home and alone on a Friday night. Like a fucking loser. He yanked open the door, some scathing words on his tongue for whoever had been sent to fetch him, only to find — The very object of his yearning, in the flesh. “Uh,” Ilya said, like the very cool guy he was, but Shane didn’t look like he noticed. “Hello,” he breathed, instead, eyes flicking down to Ilya’s chest — once, very quickly, then back up to his face. Shane looked — almost alarmed. “Can I come in?” “Yes — yes, of course,” Ilya said, stepping back, watching as Shane shuffled inside. He toed off his shoes, and Ilya watched as Shane bent over to adjust them, lining them up neatly next to the haphazard pile of Ilya’s sneakers. “Are you okay?” Ilya asked, ducking his head a bit to try to get a look at Shane's face when he fiddled a moment too long. “Yes. No. I mean —” Shane muttered, standing up again, pulling his shoulders back. “Yes, but also, I need your help.” Ilya frowned, crossing his arms. Okay. Okay, he could do this. He could help. He was an RA, he was responsible and could think with something other than his dick — Shane had a problem, and Ilya could help. He should probably put a shirt on, shit. “Shit, sorry, let me put a shirt on —” he started, turning to his dresser, but Shane caught him by the shoulders before he made it very far. “No, just —” Shane said, then seemed to realize where his hands were all at once, yanking them from Ilya's bare skin like he was a hot potato. Ilya tried not to stare at the flush that raced up Shane's neck. “No, just — stand there.” Shane shoved his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans, and Ilya raised his eyebrows. “Okay,” he said, slowly, carefully. What the fuck was going on. Shane took a deep breath; seemed to steel himself. “I have a problem,” he said — declared, really, to the room. Ilya nodded, patiently, and it seemed to be the encouragement Shane needed. “Evan and I —” he started, and Ilya blinked twice, quickly, to avoid doing anything more obvious with his eyebrows. Shane didn't seem to notice. “We've actually only been together two months. I know he doesn't act like it, but — yeah, we got together over the summer. My family was at our summer cottage, his was as well… Same lake, you know how it is.” Ilya thought he definitely must've committed a great sin in his past life, because there was no other reason why he was suffering though Shane Hollander standing in the middle of his dorm room, dressed like he was on the way to the library instead of a house party, diligently telling Ilya every detail about his relationship with another man. “Sure, okay,” Ilya said, despite very much having no idea “how it is”. “And I didn't really date in school, to be honest,” Shane continued, “I was really focused on my academics. And hockey. And I didn't really party much. I tried, but I don't think I liked it. And dating… I didn't really understand how it was all supposed to work, so many rules,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Hmmm, yes,” Ilya said, and hoped it sounded sincere. Were there rules? Shit, he hadn't noticed. “Anyway, the bottom line, the real crux of the matter — Jesus Christ —” Shane muttered, looking up at the ceiling, and Ilya tried not to stare at the way his freckles looked against his blush, and then Shane said: “We've never kissed. Evan and I. I've never kissed him.” He blew out a harsh breath, making eye contact with Ilya again, and Ilya felt glued in place. “I've never kissed anyone.” Ilya stared at Shane. At those perfect lips twisting into a stoic little pout. Those perfect lips that have never kissed anybody. Nobody knows what Shane tastes like, Ilya thought, through the static of his brain. That's cool. That's chill. That's fine. “Huh,” he said, and Shane frowned. It was adorable. “This is your problem? That you have never kissed anyone?” “Yes!” Shane hissed, like it was obvious, and — okay, okay, we got this. This is fine. “This is easy problem to solve, Shane,” Ilya said. Then, even though it almost physically pained him: “Kiss your boyfriend.” Shane moaned, and Ilya tried not to internalize that sound. “What if I'm bad at it?!” “You are allowed to be bad at things the first time you do them, Shane,” Ilya said, but this just made Shane look at him like he shot his dog, so he tried a different tactic. “Listen, that man is not going to be noticing whether or not you are ‘good at it’”, he said, making air quotes with his fingers to emphasize how ridiculous this notion was. “He is going to be standing there thinking holy shit, I get to kiss Shane Hollander, I am the luckiest motherfucker in the world.” Ilya said it so plainly, so flippantly, before he could really think about it. Shane stared at him for a moment, his mouth dropped open, as if he wasn't sure what to say to that, and Ilya thought: oh shit. “And then you will see it is not so scary, and you will get some practice, and you will learn quickly like you do, and everything will be fine.” Ilya shrugged, chill. Cool. Calm. Good job, idiot. But then Shane took a deep breath, and Ilya would never be quite ready for what he said next. “Okay but what if you — teach me?” Shane asked, glancing up at Ilya through his eyelashes. “Help me practice?” And oh. Oooooh, this made sense, now. Ilya saw what was happening here. He had died, hit his head playing hockey, probably, his brains spilling out onto the ice at that very moment, while his soul was stuck — wherever this was. Heaven? No, definitely not. Because he was sure in heaven you weren't supposed to feel this — this — temptation. Ilya must've been quiet a moment too long, because Shane spoke again. “I just — I know you've been with so many girls, I've heard — stories,” Shane said, much too quick, the tips of his ears pink. “And you're not into guys, right, so it's… fine.” Ilya stared at him. He wanted to say “who told you I'm not into guys?” He wanted to say “who told you any stories at all?” He wanted to say “what about any of this is fine?” What he said, instead, was: “What?” “I just mean — it wouldn't be, like… cheating,” Shane said, devastatingly, his voice a bit quiet on the last word. “If I practiced with you.” He held his hands up suddenly, between them, a bit panicked, maybe. “If you're willing to look past the fact that I'm a… guy. You can close your eyes and imagine I'm a pretty girl.” He bit his lip, then: “I'll be quiet.” Ilya watched as he chewed on his own bottom lip, the flesh turning red and raw, and pictured it in a different context, one where Ilya was definitely, definitely not thinking about girls as he finally got his mouth on him and Shane tried so, so hard to be quiet, to be a good boy, just for Ilya. And then Shane opened his pretty little mouth and sealed the deal. “You've just been so helpful and kind since I got here and I feel like you would… forgive me,” he said, almost a whisper, at the end, looking up at Ilya through his eyelashes, eyes big and wet. “If I was bad.” And oh, Ilya was a weak, weak man. Because Shane had clearly gotten the wrong advice from someone along the line. And as his RA, his mentor and guide in the first year of Shane's college career, he was meant to correct that. Steer his charge clear of such horrible, terrible ideas as asking their “straight” RA to teach them how to kiss behind their boyfriend's back. Say no, malysh, you really don't need to worry about this, your first kiss should be with someone you love and trust and really want to kiss. “Okay,” he said, instead, and thought that at least he wasn't going to be sent back to Russia. He was going to be sent straight to hell. “Oh — okay?” Shane asked, sounding almost — surprised? “Yes, Hollander, I will help you. I will kiss you. And you will pretend to be pretty girl for me, hmmm?” Ilya had meant it as a tease, his voice light and playful, trying to put Shane at ease a bit, but he wasn't quite ready for how Shane's breath hitched at the words, sudden and sharp. Ilya watched the flush run up Shane's neck; the way the other man's gaze flickered from the floor to Ilya's, Shane’s mouth dropping open as if to say something but coming up short, and Ilya felt the air pull tight between them, thrumming like a guitar string. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants; took one lazy step forward, closer to Shane, and watched as Shane took a small step back, his hand lifting to his mouth as he cleared his throat. Ilya smiled, razor-sharp. “Should we — sit down?” Shane asked, faux-casual, almost business-like, if not for the way he sounded almost breathless, and Ilya fought to stay standing where he was. “You think your first kiss is going to happen while you sit down?” Ilya asked, voice low, ducking his head to meet Shane's eyes, the other man looking studiously at the horrible grey carpet again. “I — I don't know,” Shane said, a little shaky, and Ilya shouldn't have liked that as much as he did. Ilya took a step forward, again, hands still in his pockets, then another, and Shane matched him perfectly, one small stumble back for every one of Ilya's advances, until Shane's back hit the wall, and Ilya stopped half a foot in front of him. “No, moy lyubimiy, your first kiss should never be while you sit down,” Ilya murmured, his tone mocking, testing, just — watching, for the reaction that would get him, and he grinned as Shane pressed the palms of his hands flat against the wall behind him. “No?” Shane asked, biting his lip, and Ilya itched to reach up and thumb that reddened skin from between Shane's teeth, take it between his own instead. He allowed himself to lean forward only an inch instead, his left hand reaching up to rest against the wall next to Shane's head. He shook his head, slowly, and Shane's eyes tracked the movement. “What does that mean?” Shane breathed, and it took Ilya a moment to understand what he meant, “Moy lyu — moy lyub-ee? Mee?” His accent was atrocious, barely coherent. Ilya grinned, “It means student. My good little student.” Shane's breath did that little hitch again and Ilya wondered if it would be too soon to just lean forward and bite him. “Can I touch you?” Ilya asked, instead, and Shane breathed out a yes, swaying forward slightly, but Ilya didn't take the invitation. Instead, he lifted his hand, the one not against the wall, and pressed it against Shane's sternum, pushing him flush against the wall firmly. Shane's back hit the wall again, and Ilya hadn't pushed very hard at all, but he felt the breath leave Shane's lungs in a whoosh. They stayed like that, a moment, Shane’s chest still and unmoving under Ilya’s palm, and Ilya saw the way his eyes glazed over just a bit. He leaned forward, his mouth so close it nearly brushed the shell of Shane’s ear, and he murmured, “Breathe for me, zaychik.” Ilya felt Shane suck air into his lungs, violent, sudden, all at once, a bit shaky, like he had been waiting for — something. It sounded almost painful. Ilya rewarded him by smoothing his palm up Shane’s chest, catching the fabric of his t-shirt on the way up, until his fingers met skin; hot, a little clammy, in the hollow of his throat. He let the pads of his fingers linger there, indulgently, running feather-light up the column of Shane’s neck, feeling the goosebumps break out on his nape as Ilya’s hard-earned hockey calluses grazed Shane’s silky-soft skin. His skincare routine was probably militant. Ilya leaned back a bit, just enough to make eye contact, and tried not to think too hard about how glassy Shane’s eyes had gone. “How is this?” Shane stuttered in a breath, his mouth dropping open, and Ilya felt him swallow, felt his throat click under his fingers. “Are you going to kiss me now?” Ilya should chastise him for not answering the question — checking in was important, and it was one of his own rules Ilya rarely broke. But Shane — well, Shane didn’t know, clearly, hardly knew anything about the dark want raging under Ilya’s skin, and there was never a person Ilya was more inclined to break any and all rules for. So instead, Ilya tilted his head. Wet his lips, and watched as Shane’s eyes tracked the movement. “What makes you think I am not doing that? “I know what a kiss is,” Shane said, almost petulant, so quick to anger, his eyes darting back up to meet Ilya’s. “It's —” he started, then seemed to catch himself; realize what he was about to say. “It’s — your lips,” he whispered, almost, his gaze dropping to — “Your mouth. On mine. A kiss.” He breathed the last two words and it sounded almost like a dream. Ilya ran his fingers up Shane’s throat; settled them on either side of his jaw, his fingertips flexing against Shane’s skin, pressing dimples into his cheeks. Shane held still, like a good boy. Ilya bit down on his molars, sucked a deep breath into his lungs and leaned forward to run his nose along the column of Shane’s throat once; just enough to center himself. “It’s a good thing you came to me, malysh,” he murmured against the fever-hot skin of Shane’s throat, his lips barely a brush of skin on skin on the way up. “You have so much to learn.” “O — oh?” Ilya felt more than heard the back of Shane’s head hit the wall, watched as the hand he could see clench against the off-white paint, almost as if Shane was holding back, his hands empty and useless and desperate but holding so, so still. Waiting. Good boy. “Hmmmm. A kiss isn't just a kiss, moy lyubimiy,” Ilya hummed, into his ear, burying his nose in Shane’s hair, and he felt the shiver go right through him. “A kiss is…” Ilya paused, closed his eyes, taking a moment. He felt Shane’s breath on his neck, small hot pants, and finally took a small step closer, allowed himself to give in to the pull, his chest brushing Shane’s t-shirt, finally, finally. “A kiss is an understanding, that you build, slowly, between your body, and another,” he husked, and Shane’s next exhale was audible, not quite a moan, not quite not, a helpless sound. “A kiss is waiting, feeling… breathing them in, imagining what it will be like to taste them,” Ilya murmured, and he felt the tension under his fingers, where he was still holding Shane’s face, not like he was trying to move away, or even into it; just like he was a bit unsteady, and Ilya was all that was holding him fast. “A kiss is anticipation,” Ilya whispered against the shell of his ear, and he felt the answering shiver go right through Shane, trembling under his fingertips. “Ilya.” That was a moan, that time, or a whine, maybe, high and thin and dangerous, and Ilya tightened his grip on Shane’s jaw, just enough. “Good boys wait, Shane,” he said, sharp, maybe sharper than he intended, and Shane made a noise like he had been stung. Ilya felt it like a physical ache. “And then, when they have waited just long enough,” Ilya said, softly, patiently, pulling back far enough that he could see Shane’s eyes again, clouded and a bit wet, but close enough that he could feel Shane’s wet breaths on his lips, “when it becomes too much to bear for both of you, the thought of waiting even a second longer —” Ilya leaned in, leaned in far enough that his lips brushed Shane’s, barely, just barely, with his next words, the contact like a static shock. “Do you think you have waited long enough, moy lyubimiy?” “Please.” Shane’s response was a wish on the wind, swallowed greedily by Ilya’s mouth. And oh, for a boy so worried that he would be bad, that he would be anything other than breathtaking, he bloomed so beautifully under Ilya’s attention, mouth soft and pliant for Ilya’s tongue. He tasted like ginger ale and mint toothpaste and Ilya wanted to drink him down like a man parched. Ilya ran his tongue along the roof of Shane’s mouth, and Shane keened, his hands flying up from his sides, finally, landing on Ilya’s bare chest, short sharp nails curling against his pecs, trying to find purchase, find an anchor. Ilya pulled away, a moment, to give them both space to breathe, but Shane chased his mouth, swayed forward like a magnet, and Ilya planted his hand on Shane’s chest again, pushed him back against the wall, but this time he followed, plastering his body against Shane’s, chest to thigh, and he licked into Shane’s mouth again, merciless, now, demanding. Shane did not deny him. It was wet and unsophisticated and Shane had no technique but Ilya was drowning in him, in his soft begging sounds, his greedy tongue, his half-breath half-sobs under the pressure of Ilya’s body weight. “Shane, Shane,” he breathed, between wet presses of their mouths, and then he bit down on Shane’s bottom lip, pressed his thigh between Shane’s, against the undeniable hardness there, and Shane threw his head back against the wall. The thud echoed through the drywall, and Ilya acted instantly. “Shit — shit, solnyshko, are you okay?” he asked, pulling Shane towards him and away from the wall, his hand reaching behind Shane’s head to feel for contusions, but Shane’s eyelids fluttered, once, twice — and then he was looking at Ilya with a startling clarity, eyes wide. “Oh — oh fuck,” he said, pulling away, and in his shock, Ilya let him. Shane backed up two steps, then another, towards the door, eyes still too-wide, too-clear. “Thank — thank you!” he said, too neatly, too politely, too loudly, all of a sudden, in Ilya’s room. “This has been uh — very educational, I appreciate it, thank you!” Ilya stared at him. Shane bent over, grabbed his shoes, and yanked open the door, practically running into the corridor in socked feet. The door slammed shut behind him like a death knell. Ilya stared at it for a moment longer, then stepped to the wall, the one he had pressed Shane Hollander against but twenty seconds earlier, and pressed his own back to it, sliding down until he was sitting on the ugly grey carpet, knees against his chest. He leaned his head forward, then threw it back, felt the thud in his skull. Fuck.

Chapter End Notes

Can you hear me cackling into the wind? I have the other two chapters outlined and considered just waiting to post this all together but somehow it feels like it should be broken up? Is it the angst? I don't know. If anyone here remembers the time it took me ten years to finish a fic, no you don't.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

I really cannot stress enough how unhinged this smut is for a college AU. Just as I know nothing about Canadian universities, so do I know nothing about ice hockey. If you read this and think there's no WAY they didn't get caught in the locker room, just know I have never played a single team sport. I can really only promise to provide quality pornography, the rest you must forgive. See the end of the chapter for more notes Svetlana found him knee-deep in his third glass of vodka two hours later. “Ilyushka,” she said, but she sounded like she wanted to laugh. Ilya couldn't really tell. He was sitting at the bar, forehead pressed against the wood. It was sticky. He deserved it. “Hmmm,” he hummed, or maybe moaned, in acknowledgment. He heard her sigh; settle onto the bar stool next to him. A second later, the sound of a glass being set down in front of her. Sveta never waited very long for a drink. “Shouldn't you be at Marlow's disgusting party?” she asked, which, between the two of them, was as good as asking after his wellbeing. “Hmmm. Yes. But I tried to turn over a new leaf, I tried to be a better man, and the universe decided to punish me, and now my life is over.” Svetlana snorted into her drink. So unladylike. Ilya would tell her that, if he wasn't too busy trying to remember how many teaspoons of water you needed to drown. “Shane Hollander is hardly the universe.” Ilya turned his head, pressed his cheek against the bar, so he could make indignant eye contact. “Who said this is about him.” She rolled her eyes. “You think I am stupid? I hear via my little birds: pretty fresher, smiles so sweet. Moves into your res and oh, who will take care of him but you,” she pouted, faux-sympathetic. “You think you are so complicated and mysterious but you are not.” “Fuck you,” he said, which was as good as a signed confession. Fuck. “You know he's the best hockey player in his class, by far. I heard he was NHL material but he didn't like the locker rooms.” She said it like it was a good thing. “He will center you soon, I think.” Ilya stared at her. “Are you really talking to me about fucking hockey right now.” Sveta raised an eyebrow, immaculate. “Well what else is there to say?” “I kissed him, Sveta.” “And? What? Was it terrible?” He wanted to say it was brilliant. It changed my life. Instead, he said: “He has a boyfriend. He freaked out.” Svetlana sighed, and she downed the rest of her drink in one swallow, setting the glass down on the bar daintily. “Speaking of, I have a date, I have to go,” she said, and Ilya noticed the glitter on her eyelids. “But you will figure this out, Ilyushka. You are a good man, you know this,” she continued, making pointed eye contact, not letting him weasel away from that one. Ilya nodded, small, and she grinned, satisfied, and suddenly very very evil. “But you also know how to be bad, yes? And there is nothing wrong with that. You are young and beautiful and horny.” She stood, made to leave, but turned at the last moment. “And so is Shane Hollander. I think he could use someone teaching him how to be bad, too, hmm?”

“Roz, bro, you fucking loser! What, decided to spend the night jerking off instead of having some real fun?!” Marlow's arm landed heavy on Ilya's shoulders, nearly knocking him off-balance — he was so hungover, how was he going to survive without his sunglasses for the entirety of this practice — but he was grateful. If Cliff was calling him a loser and man-handling him, it meant he didn't suspect anything, not really. “Fuck off, Marley, you smell like ass,” Ilya groused, and Marlow's laugh boomed through the locker room, almost immediately followed by groans and whimpers from the rest of team, each one as hungover as the next. Why did they have Saturday morning training? Who ever thought this was a good idea? Ilya shoved his duffel into his locker, and started pulling on his gear. No, this was good, actually, he thought, as he squinted against the fluorescent lights. This was what he needed. Something to take his mind off things. Because after Svetlana's little pep talk, last night, he had really sat with it, really mulled the situation over. And somewhere into his second bottle, he had figured out that, actually, it was going to be fine. He had a plan, even. He was just going to avoid Shane Hollander until the day he died. Easy. Ilya shuffled out behind his team; stepped out onto the ice, felt the familiar grip of his blades cutting into the surface, took a deep breath, and looked up. And nearly fell on his fucking face. Because in the middle of the rink — at center ice, stick in hand, chewing on his mouth guard — stood Shane Hollander. “Listen up, degenerates!” coach called from the boards, and Ilya saw several guys wince. “This is Shane, he's joining the team as of today, make him feel welcome. No funny business.” There was a round of aaaw’s, some muttering but all in good fun, the boys rounding up to clap Shane on the back or shake his hand in introduction. He took it in stride, a bit quiet but smiling that small tentative smile Ilya had been so proud to win the first day. “Hollzy! Welcome bud!” That was Pike, louder than the rest, beaming as he punched Shane in the shoulder. Shane's smile grew just a bit for Hayden, and Ilya did not feel anything about that at all. Hayden skated back round to Ilya, and Ilya caught him by the arm. “You know Shane?” He tried not to sound any kind of way — judging by Marlow's raised eyebrow, hovering nearby, he didn't quite succeed, but Hayden had never been as perceptive. “Yeah he was at Marley's last night! We played beer pong and he kicked my ass. He's actually really funny.” Ilya hummed in answer. So Shane had gone to Marlow's party after all. Shane had left Ilya's room, after Ilya had kissed him, and gone to Marlow's party anyway. Okay. Okay, so so much for the plan, because Ilya was not going to be able to avoid Shane Hollander. Shane Hollander was in his res. Shane Hollander was on his hockey team. Shane Hollander was haunting his dreams. Ilya wanted to go home and cry into a bowl of Cheerios, but his mama didn't raise no quitter, so instead he pulled himself to his full height, called the team to attention, and then — Looked Hollander in the eye, for the first time since he had fled Ilya's bedroom, and said: “Bag skates. All of you. Go.”

Ilya stayed late after practice. The whole morning had been hell. The guys had moaned and groaned and swore at their captain, and yes they were hungover but maybe he was also being a bit unfair, a bit harder than usual, doling out punishment that only he himself really deserved. They had all had a time of it. Except one person. Shane — Shane had skated his ass off. Every new challenge Ilya had thrown his way — most valid, some a little petty — Shane had taken it in his stride, meeting Ilya's gaze steadily, answering with one single nod, out-performing every player on the ice like he wasn't even trying. Svetlana was right. He was magnificent. Ilya made a shot at the empty goalie net, and the puck hit the frame with a jarring clang. Ilya sighed, and dragged himself to the showers. There would be no saving today, clearly. It was only once he rounded the corner to the lockers, clean and fresh, sipping on a luke- warm Coke from the vending machine that he realized he was not the only player left in the gym. Shane was sitting on the bench running down the center of the room, in an ugly blue hoodie, tying the shoelaces on his New Balances. It was obvious he had been fiddling with the laces for a while. Ilya looked at him; turned to his locker without a word. If he flexed his biceps just a bit more than usual, standing shirtless in only a towel in front of Shane Hollander, no one had to know. “I need to talk to you,” Shane said quietly, but it echoed through the empty locker room. It was Saturday afternoon; the showers would be deserted for the rest of the weekend at least. “Talk, Hollander,” Ilya said, dismissively, not looking at him. Shane cleared his throat, once, then, louder: “Can I suck you off?” Ilya choked on his Coke. When he got his breath back, he could do little more than stare at Shane; choke out a what. Shane took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders. “You did me a massive favour yesterday and I really appreciate it. Afterwards, I was able to — well, it was very successful. Thank you.” Very successful. Ilya felt like he was in the Twilight Zone. Is this what normal conversations sounded like now? “So I hate to ask you for another favour after you've already been so generous but I want to — blow him,” Shane said, decisively. “I want to suck his cock. But I don't know how.” “So you want me — to —” Ilya said, slowly, feeling a bit underwater. Shane flushed high on his cheeks, his eyes flicking to the floor, then back to Ilya's, determined. “Let me suck your cock. Please.” Ilya laughed, once, a short bark of a sound that was less amusement and more absolute incredulity. There was no way he could agree to this. He would never recover: emotionally, physically, morally. He would have to hand in his student ID and wipe all evidence of his existence from the internet and buy a one-way ticket to Siberia — cash. He turned, slowly, sauntered over to where Shane Hollander was still sitting like a lost duckling on the bench in the center of the room; watched him closely, saw the way he struggled to hold eye contact, his gaze dropping to the ugly tiled floor every so often as his mouth dropped open and closed, like he was trying to figure out what to say. Ilya stopped in front of him, ready to tell him exactly where to get off, and Shane lifted his big, wet eyes to meet Ilya's. “Get on your knees,” Ilya said, instead. Shane dropped like a stone; one moment he was sitting in front of Ilya, trying to ruin his life, the next he was kneeling at Ilya's feet, back straight and palms on his thighs, looking up at Ilya through his eyelashes — Trying to ruin his life. “What do you know about giving head?” Ilya asked, doing his best to keep his voice even. Shane flushed high on his cheeks. “Nothing — I mean, I guess just what I've seen on porn.” “Hmmm, okay, forget that, yes? Porn is for… it's all about making it pretty, but a blowjob — a real, good one — it is not pretty, yes?” Shane bit his lip, but he didn't say anything. “It is actually very simple, anything in sex: cock,” Ilya paused, pointed to his own groin, then — “wet hole,” he said, resting his thumb on Shane's bottom lip, tugging it free from his teeth. “Understand?” He thought for a second maybe he had gone too far, that he was feeling too mean for this and Shane would get uncomfortable and get up and walk out and never talk to Ilya again for calling him a wet hole but — Shane's pupils blew wide, his eyes glassy, and he nodded. “Words, solnyshko,” Ilya growled, and maybe that wasn't fair, he hadn't told Shane that rule, but — “Yes, I understand,” Shane breathed. “Good,” Ilya said, and he reached down, placed one hand on Shane's head; ran his fingers through his fringe and settled with his palm cradling the back of Shane’s skull. Shane's eyelids fluttered at the feeling of fingers carding through his hair, and he reminded Ilya, idly, a bit of a cat. “Hmmm,” Ilya hummed, the thumb from his other hand slipping into the tight space between the towel and his own skin teasingly. “Get what you want, then.” Shane's eyelids fluttered open again, and he wasted no time, clever fingers reaching up to pull Ilya's towel from his hips, now that he had permission. Ilya's cock sprang free; slapped his stomach, hard just at the prospect of what he was about to do with the beautiful boy at his feet. Shane stared, eyes wide; licked his lips, once, then looked back up at Ilya, waiting for instruction, hands still buried in Ilya’s wet towel. “Touch it,” Ilya said, “Get used to how it feels, the size, the weight.” Shane let out a stuttering breath, and he was so close Ilya felt it on the underside of his cock, making him twitch against his own stomach. Shane bit his lip at that, and finally, finally reached up: with both hands, wrapping his fingers tentatively around Ilya's shaft. Ilya fought not to groan at the contact. He was no stranger to the feeling of a hand on his cock; hell, it'd become commonplace, almost perfunctory, in recent years. Yet the feeling of Shane's fingers on him, trailing curiously down to his base, tightening just so, experimentally — “Good,” Ilya grit out, and Shane's eyes flicked up to meet his, from where they had been fixed, focused, on his cock. “Now, give it a kiss. A taste. Just the head,” Ilya husked, “See how you like it. The feel in your mouth. Take your time.” Shane nodded, almost absently, and sat forward on his knees a bit, bringing his mouth to Ilya's cock. The first touch of Shane's tongue on Ilya's cock had his fingers tightening against Shane's skull reflexively, and Shane peeked up at him from under his eyelashes, curious, watching, as he dropped his jaw slightly, and gave the head of Ilya's cock an open-mouthed kiss, spit-slick and indulgent. Ilya sucked in a breath, and forced himself to relax. “Good. Just — get used to it. Go as slow as you need, malysh,” he murmured, and Shane ran his tongue exploratively along the perimeter of Ilya's tip in answer. Then he seemed to settle into it, feeding a couple inches into his own mouth slowly, feeling the fullness, sliding his tongue along the underside, sucking Ilya in wetly — And the sight of Shane on his knees, both hands wrapped around Ilya's cock, gently suckling on it, eyelashes brushing his cheekbones, like he was in no hurry, like he could do this all day — Ilya thought that he had been wrong earlier, that he should take back his own words, because this was very good and very, very pretty. “Good, good,” he husked, and Shane seemed to remember he was there, eyelids fluttering open. “While you are there, at the tip, you can move your tongue; point it, press just under —” Ilya cut himself off with a groan, as Shane did as instructed, flicking his tongue against the sensitive spot just under the head of Ilya's cock, then again, for good measure. “Good, good — save that one, as a surprise,” Ilya panted, pointedly not saying stop that before I come in your mouth like a fucking teenager. Ilya thought maybe he saw the corner of Shane's mouth tick up, but he couldn't really tell, not with the way the other man's lips were stretched around his cock. And then Shane seemed to decide he was getting the hang of this; twisting one hand slightly as he leaned forward a bit, bobbed his head a bit on Ilya's cock, taking just an inch more and pulling back. Ilya brushed his thumb encouragingly against Shane's scalp, and watched as Shane did it again, getting more confident, taking more of Ilya into his hot wet mouth; sweet, eager Shane, eyelashes fanning so prettily across his freckles, cheeks hollowed, working so diligently to swallow Ilya's cock — He hit the back of Shane's throat and Shane choked, throat spasming. Ilya's fingers tightened in his hair, yanking him back, other hand flying up to grip the base of his own cock tightly, mercilessly. Shane coughed, once; and swallowed thickly. He didn't wipe the spit from his lips, painting his mouth in gloss. “Sorry, sorry, was it —” he asked, quickly, quietly, looking up at Ilya in that way that made his heart feel a bit funny. “No, no, it's — good,” Ilya said, his voice gravel. “Too good, that's why,” he explained, loosening his fingers in Shane's hair and sliding them across his forehead soothingly, carding them back through the silky-soft strands, and Shane's shoulders relaxed again. “Be careful, moy lyubimiy. Do not take too much.” Shane licked his lips, staring at Ilya's angry red cock inches from his face, then flicked his gaze up to meet Ilya's. “Teach me to take it all,” he said, quietly. “Solnyshko —” Shane cut him off, and Ilya wondered if this was the first time he could remember Shane doing that. “It's a skill, right? A skill I can learn. I won't learn unless you teach me. Please.” Ilya swallowed. He was right, it was a skill, of course. One Shane could learn from extremely detailed Reddit threads, on his own with a dildo, or better yet, with his fucking boyfriend. Ilya should not do this. “If you want to stop, and you can't tell me, you tap my thigh,” he said, demonstrating with his own hand, and Shane nodded. “Yes? Words,” Ilya said, and Shane shuffled forward a bit, said yes like a prayer. “Good boy,” Ilya husked, and he saw the shiver go right through Shane. He tightened his fingers in Shane's hair, took his cock in hand, and tapped it against Shane's chin. Shane's mouth dropped open, and Ilya fed him his cock, slowly, carefully, stopping just before the point he knew would be too much, just before where Shane's gag reflex would kick in. “Do you feel it, malysh, at the back of your mouth?” Ilya murmured, holding it there for a moment, and pulling back out completely. Shane panted a breath; nodded, fingers curling against the fabric of his own pants, resting on his own thighs again. “Hmmm? Answer,” Ilya said, and Shane hurried to comply. “Yeah, yeah — it's — it feels — big,” Shane breathed, and Ilya watched his throat work. “I know kotik,” Ilya husked, running his fist along the length of his own cock once, unable to resist, the slide slick with Shane's spit. Shane's eyes tracked the movement, transfixed. “But that is just in your head, yes? Just an instinct, your brain telling you you cannot swallow this, telling you not to choke. But that is not what you want, yes?” Shane shook his head, eyes wide and glassy. “Words, Shane,” Ilya said, sternly. “No, no, I — I want to swallow your cock. I want to choke on it. Please,” Ilya's fingers tightened in Shane's hair, and he thought it must hurt, a little bit, but Shane did not protest. “Then you must focus on your breathing,” Ilya said, “I will guide you, hold your head still, you do not have to do anything. Just focus on your breathing. When I press forward, and you feel me against the opening to your throat —” Shane's mouth dropped open, just a bit, as if imagining it, and Ilya could not resist. He let go of his own cock, pressed two fingers against Shane's bottom lip; slid them forward into his mouth, across his tongue, coming to rest with the tips at the soft back of Shane's mouth, a mimicry of his words. “When you feel me here, pressing forward, do not tense. Do not fight it. Instead, you do the natural thing,” he said, inching his fingers forward, then back, getting Shane used to the sensation of something tickling at his tonsils. “Take a deep breath, because you will not be able to breathe when I am inside your throat. Maybe you can, sometimes — but don't try. If you can't, you will panic, you will tense. So don't try; plan not to breathe, and take a deep breath first,” Ilya explained, and he watched Shane's chest expand as he followed his instruction, sucking in air. “And then when you feel me press, you swallow,” Ilya said, pressing his fingers forward gently but surely. The entrance of Shane's throat was warm and wet around his fingertips, and then Shane swallowed, and Ilya's fingers slipped deeper all at once. He hissed at the sensation, a short, sharp intake of air, and pulled back. Shane gasped on air, his lips spit-slick and his pupils blown, and he gazed up at Ilya like he was all he could focus on. “Yes?” Ilya asked. “Please,” Shane breathed. “What do you do if you want me to stop?” Ilya asked, and Shane answered so sweetly. “Tap your thigh,” he breathed, quickly, but clearly. “Good boy.” Ilya reached down, took his cock in hand, and Shane's mouth dropped open immediately. Ilya felt Shane try to lean forward, and he tightened his grip on Shane's hair, rested his cockhead against Shane's bottom lip, tapped it there wetly once, twice. “Still. Concentrate.” Shane stilled immediately, eyes locked on Ilya. Ilya pushed forward with his hips, slowly, his cock dragging along Shane’s tongue, filling his mouth until Ilya felt that familiar resistance on his tip. He pulled back a fraction. “Breathe,” he said, and pushed forward again. Shane breathed, swallowed, and Ilya nearly blacked out. He had only slipped in a further inch or two, but the sensation of Shane's throat gripping his cock was mind-bending. Ilya pulled back, the tip of his cock resting heavy on Shane's tongue, and Shane blinked up at him, eyes hazy. He whined, soft and high, and Ilya got the message. Again. The next slide was no less overwhelming, but Ilya tried to focus, steady his breaths and focus on the rhythm — making sure Shane got a breath between every stroke, that he didn't overwhelm him, go too fast; that he gave Shane enough chance to tap out if he needed to, but he was slowly losing his mind, his good sense, his own breath leaving him in wet gasps as he fucked Shane's throat, slipping a little deeper every time, every spasm of Shane's fever-hot flesh around his cock threatening to send him over the edge. All the while, Shane kept his eyes on him. There were tears gathering on his lashes, spilling over in thin rivulets down the side of his face as Ilya picked up the pace, jostled him a bit, but Shane's hands stayed clenched tight in the fabric of his own pants. Ilya pressed forward, felt the slide ease, and suddenly he bottomed out, Shane's nose pressed against the skin of his pelvis, and his pace stuttered. He reached down one hand, ran his fingers across the length of Shane's throat; felt the bulge of his cock under Shane's skin, and Ilya threw his head back, saw white. “Fuck, Bozhe moy, I'm going to come, Shane I'm going to fucking come —” Shane swallowed once, twice; choked on the third, and Ilya came so hard it almost hurt. The first shot was straight down Shane's throat; he had enough sense to pull back for the rest, but couldn't quite bring himself to leave the warmth of Shane's mouth, coming onto his tongue in waves. Shane swallowed diligently, between stuttered intakes of air, only choking again once, a dribble of come escaping the corner of his mouth. Ilya pulled back and took himself in hand; shot the last two strands over Shane's swollen bottom lip. Shane, for his part, gulped down two greedy lungfuls of air, then reached up, swiped the sticky strands off his chin with his index finger, and stuck it in his mouth. Ilya lifted a hand, the one not on his cock, and gripped Shane's jaw. “Open your mouth,” he grit out, and Shane did, no questions asked, eyes glazed, sticking his tongue out for Ilya's inspection. And all Ilya wanted to do was lean down and lick into that pink mouth, taste the remnants of his own cum coating Shane's tongue in a translucent film and know that he had marked him, physically, yes, but also in the way that he would always be the first person to have done this to Shane. Know that Shane was going to taste him for the rest of the day, think about Ilya's cock down his throat every time he felt a scratch or tickle in his esophagus. But — He could not kiss Shane. That was not what Shane had come to him for, and he had no right to ask for it. Not again. “Good boy,” he said, and he dropped his hand, taking two steps back. Shane looked at him for a second, eyes cloudy, the only sound in the empty locker room their harsh intakes of breath, and then his eyebrows drew together, his gaze dropping to the ugly tile floor. Ilya felt that feeling in his chest, again, a physical pang that almost had him stepping forward again, but then Shane reached out, taking Ilya's discarded towel in hand, and wiped his face with it, tentatively. He stood, and handed the towel back to Ilya, a bit shakily. Shane didn't look at him. Ilya thought his knees must hurt. “Thank you,” he said, quietly, politely, and turned on his heel, walking quietly out of the locker room, one hand clutched to his chest. And then he was gone. Ilya leaned his head against his locker, and wondered how much that plane ticket to Siberia cost this time of year.

Chapter End Notes

Cackling into the wind Pt 2 (The Remix) Guys I literally never know where it's going to go with these two, one moment my draft is just [insert blowjob here idk] and the next moment Ilya’s skull-fucking Shane in a public bathroom. Honestly there were points where I was just thinking to myself is this allowed?? Like am I really allowed to put these words in this order and then put it on the internet?? Anyways pray for them they're both so dumb.

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

Sorry for the delay guys, I actually had to do my job the last two weeks. Trust me no one is more upset about it than I am. Also please check the updated tags because — Jesus Christ they do whatever they like, I’m just the messenger, okay. See the end of the chapter for more notes Ilya didn't see Shane for the rest of the weekend. Or Monday morning, in the shared dining hall for breakfast. Or Tuesday, or Wednesday, or Thursday, even though they had hockey on Wednesday, but Coach just said Shane had a prior engagement and moved on. Shane didn't seem like the type to flake on anything, no matter how trivial, so it was entirely possible — probable, even — that he really did have something else on. Ilya couldn't stop the sinking feeling in his chest, though. By Friday, he had graduated from incessant worry to a self-deprecating inner monologue that sounded something like what makes you think what happened between you even matters to him at all, Rozanov, he's probably just busy with his actual boyfriend, as he should be, do you really think he's avoiding breakfast and classes and hockey just because he's upset about you, he probably hasn't given you a second — “Are you even listening to me?!” Ilya started; looked down at the blonde standing quite close to him, actually, red solo cup in hand. “What?” he said, flat, and she let out an indignant sound. “Fuck you!” she snapped, turning on her heel and stomping away, and Ilya watched her go, trying to find it in himself to care. “Roooz, what's going on, man,” Marlow chuckled, slinging an arm over his shoulder, having crept up on Ilya in his stupor. It was his party, of course, and he always was a gracious host, working the room like a pro, everywhere at once, but Ilya usually heard him coming a mile away. “That's the third prospect you've watched walk tonight, buddy.” “Ah, you paying close attention, Marley? Watching my ass or what?” Ilya chirped, but his heart wasn't in it, and to Marlow's credit, he seemed to notice. “Alright, stallion, debrief in the kitchen,” Marlow muttered, clapping his shoulder once. Ilya saw him tilt his head at Pike; the other man across the room, and Hayden nodded, making his way over to them. They had managed to convince Ilya to actually show up tonight, hoots and hollers across the courtyard at his acquiescence, and he wondered if they were regretting it now. “It's fine, Marley, really, you do not have to —” “Bullshit!” Marlow crowed, steering Ilya easily, “A buddy in need is a —” Ilya never got to hear what a buddy in need was, however, because they were cut off by none other than Evan Patterson himself. Ilya wondered if Marlow would take it as a bad sign if he puked on Evan's sensible shoes. “Rozanov,” Evan said, sneered really, and Ilya had always thought “sneer” was one of those exaggerated English words that no real person ever did, but apparently he was wrong. Ilya nodded, not saying anything, but this only seemed to rile Evan up further, the other man looking down his nose at him, despite being three inches shorter. “I see you're striking out tonight,” Evan said, and Ilya wondered why the fuck everyone was watching him so closely. “Only interested in seducing men who are already taken, then?” To Marlow's credit, he didn’t say anything, a solid presence at Ilya's side, dwarfing Evan's frame. But Ilya knew he had questions. Ilya was many things, Marlow as well, but they had always drawn the line at cheating. Not for any moral reason, of course. Just too messy. Not worth it. Shane had been worth it. “Well you won. Good job,” Evan huffed, when neither said anything, and when that didn't seem to land quite as hard as he wanted — “Keep the fucker. Would never fucking put out anyway, and he's not good for much else,” he spat, making to turn away, his grand exit, except Ilya grabbed him by the front of his Henley and planted his fist in Evan's face. Marlow pulled him off the other man before he could do much damage, but Ilya still felt a small sick thrill of satisfaction at the sight of the blood running down Evan's face. It was the most alive he had felt all week. “Say anything about him again, say one more word, I fucking dare you, see what happens —” Ilya growled, words lost in the crowd as Marlow pulled him back into the kitchen. “You're a fucking psycho! I'm going to sue! See if I don't!” Evan yelled back, shrilly, and then the kitchen door slammed shut between them. Marlow turned to look at him, eyebrows in his hairline, and Ilya turned; kicked the leg of an unsuspecting chair, and sat down in it heavily, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. A beat of silence, then the sound of the kitchen door opening and swinging shut, and someone taking a seat next to him. “Heeeeey bud, what happened there,” Hayden said from beside him, and Ilya knew he must look really fucked up, because Hayden only ever called him bud to his face when he thought Ilya might swan dive from a nearby balcony. Ilya considered lying. He considered telling them he had no idea what Evan was on about, that he must be on those fancy pills the rich kids take so they get better grades. He considered telling them he had kissed Evan's boyfriend, sure, but it was all just a bit of fun and now the poor kid was obsessed with him. He considered telling them he was actually a changeling and he doesn't know why he was so unlucky as to choose such a fucked up life to hijack. In the end, Ilya decided he was tired of lying. “I am in love,” he said, plainly, to his shoes. “Oh!” Hayden said, and he sounded — pleasantly surprised. “Well that's — that's good!” he said, then paused. Then less enthusiastically — “For a normal person, anyway.” “I did not say it was — urgh, how do you say, vzaimno —” Ilya sat back in his chair heavily, gesturing ineffectually, and Pike chimed in — “Requited? Reciprocated?” Ilya nodded. “Yes. That.” “Wait, hold up —” Marlow said, and Ilya always resented how much quicker on the uptake he was. “Isn't that dweeb dating Hollzy?” “Was, I think,” Ilya muttered, wiping his hands down his face. “Fuck. I kissed him. Now his boyfriend dumped him. Fuck.” Marlow whistled, low, but Hayden held up a hand. “Wait — wait. You kissed him? Shane? Did he — he wanted it, right?” “Yes, of course, Jesus, Pike — he asked for it,” Ilya said, quick, quicker than he had time to think about. Hayden squinted at him. “He asked you to kiss him but it's unrequited?” “Urgh, yes, listen — he asked me as a favour, he just wanted someone to — to practice with, okay, stop laughing Marley —” Ilya kicked at his friend, who dodged easily, having way too much fun all of sudden, while Hayden looked like he was getting a headache. “Okay can we just —” Pike said, glaring at Marlow, who calmed down, sheepish. “We are talking about Shane, right? Shane Shane? Shane Hollander? The guy who looks at you like you hung the moon and the stars even when you make us do bag skates until we puke? The guy that asked when you were going to show up to Cliff's party every twenty seconds like you're his life support? You're not sure if that Shane Hollander is into you?” Ilya sat, tried to process that, then — “When was he at the party?” “What? Last week?” Hayden said, “Early, he left like just before 10, things hadn't even gotten started, we were just hanging playing beer pong in the kitchen like I said —” “He didn't smell like beer.” He didn't taste like beer, Ilya didn't say. “Yeah he fucking whipped my ass, that motherfucker has insane hand-eye coordination — listen, that's not the point,” Hayden sighed, waving a hand. “So you kissed, it was one time, intentions were unclear, I think if you just talk about it —” “Hmmm, well — not one time, exactly. Second time he asked to suck my cock.” “He —” Hayden said, stopped, stared at him, and Ilya thought he could see the short circuits behind his eyes. Then he stood, threw his hands in the air. “Sweet baby Jesus Christ, I can't — Clifford, I can't do this, you handle this, fuck sakes, like am I actually insane what is going on —” The kitchen door slammed shut behind him, and Ilya smiled, just a little, despite himself. “You need to stop trying to break Hayden, dude, I really kinda like him,” Marlow muttered, taking Hayden's vacated seat, and Ilya felt a little sorry. “We are both fools in love,” Ilya said, and Marlow laughed, patting him on the back. “Yeah, yeah I guess we are. Some more than others though.” Ilya swallowed, still watching the kitchen door. “You really think —” he started, and Marlow, bless him, got it. “Yeah. I mean — kissing practice? C’mon bro,” he said, and Ilya snorted, because — okay, yeah, fine. Fair enough. “What's next, spin the bottle? Seven minutes in heaven?” Ilya released a breath, half-sigh, half-laugh, and then the kitchen door burst open, banging against the wall loud enough that both Ilya and Marlow jumped. “Hayden said you were in here,” Shane said, by way of greeting, and Ilya couldn't quite decide if he was going to put a puck in Pike's teeth the next morning or kiss him on the mouth. “Shane, listen —” Shane took three determined steps to his side; grabbed Ilya by the wrist and then turned to Marlow. “Room. A private one. Now.” “Uh, yeah, okay — just on the first floor, down the hall, third on the right —” Marlow replied, looking a bit shell-shocked, but Shane just nodded and started pulling Ilya in that direction. And Ilya went. It turned out the first floor, down the hall, third on the right was someone’s bedroom — presumably Marley's. Ilya surveyed the room; hockey posters on the walls, navy blue sheets on the queen bed, streetlights filtering through the slatted blinds. Ilya heard the door snick shut behind him, and turned to face Shane, who was leaning against the door, palms pressed against the wood in that way he did the night Ilya first kissed him. They stared at each other for a moment, and then they spoke, all at once. “I'm sorry I am the reason your boyfriend broke up with —” “Can you kiss me again I think I need more practice —” All at once, again, they stopped. “What?” Ilya asked, sure his ears were betraying him, that he was having a stroke, because there was no way, after all that, Shane Hollander was asking him to — “I was just wondering if you could kiss me again, maybe. For practice, of course. It's just — I've tried it now, what I've learnt, and you're a very good teacher, of course, but he doesn't seem very happy with me. With what I'm doing. So I thought we could… practice… some more…” Ilya was not sure what his face was doing, but it must've been something, because Shane trailed off, shifting where he stood — more than usual, for him. Shane stuck his thumbs in his pockets, and Ilya wiped his palms down his face, hard. It was so cute. Fuck. “Hollander. Shane,” he said, finally, “I know you and your boyfriend are no longer together.” Shane stared at him. “Oh,” he said, and then — “Shit. Shit. I knew this was a bad idea,” he moaned, coming to life all at once, turning on the spot, his hands in his hair. “I told Rose this was a bad idea, that this was the worst idea, but she wouldn't listen, oh my god —” “Hey, hey, okay, okay,” Ilya murmured, stepping forward, before he could really think about it. Shane turned to face him, and Ilya lifted his hands, carefully, weaving them into Shane's hair; tangling his fingers with Shane's own until he could tug them free, bringing their hands down between them gently but firmly. Shane's hair stood up in small tufts where he had been tugging on it. Ilya tried very hard not to look at it. “Okay. Okay. What the fuck is going on?” Ilya asked, and Shane's face crumpled. “I'm sorry,” he said, and Ilya shook his head. “For what, zaychik?” “I broke up with him,” Shane said, all at once. “After the — after you kissed me. I lied,” he said, and he cringed a bit, looking at the carpet. Stupid ugly grey carpet everywhere. “I lied last time. And maybe a little the first time too.” “Okay,” Ilya said, and he thought he was saying that to ground himself as much as Shane. He was still holding both of Shane's hands between them. He didn't let go. “Okay, too fast. You broke up with him? Evan?” “Yeah I —” Shane stopped; flushed. “I felt bad, last time, about the —” he looked up, once, quickly, “About the kiss, so I went to find him, to talk to him, and I thought — maybe I would try kissing him, see if it felt the same, but like —” Shane winced, “We were sitting down, and all I could hear was your voice in my fucking head.” Ilya shouldn't laugh. This was very serious. This was very strange. They should definitely have this very serious, very strange conversation, and he shouldn't laugh, he shouldn't laugh, he shouldn't laugh — “Hmm,” Ilya hummed, trying to look serious. “Don't laugh, asshole,” Shane said, blush high on his cheeks, and Ilya pressed his lips together. “But yeah, I couldn't do it —” Shane said, drawing a deep breath, seemingly determined to get this out now. “I couldn't kiss him. I pulled away, and he got angry, and I told him — I told him I was breaking up with him, that I liked somebody else, and I realize now that was maybe a bit too honest because he —” He stopped, suddenly, looked at Ilya quickly, and Ilya's eyes narrowed. “He what?” “Nothing.” “Shane.” Shane bit his lip, and whispered: “He said my silly little crush on you was obvious to anyone with eyes and I was just embarrassing myself.” “Oh. Okay,” Ilya said, and Shane's eyebrows furrowed. Cute. “Okay? Okay? Can you — what are you thinking right now?” “I am thinking that the next time I see him I am going to break his face properly.” “Ilya, no, you can’t —” Ilya took a step forward, Shane tripping over his words, and his feet, until his back hit the door. Ilya squeezed Shane's hands, tucked in his, and brought them up above his head, pressing them against the wood safely with his own. He leaned in; Shane's eyes wide and watching. “You have a silly little crush on me?” Ilya murmured into the space between them, like a secret. “Something like that,” Shane breathed, and Ilya grinned, sharp and wicked. “Okay. Tell me the rest, then,” he said, and Shane blinked, once, slowly. “What?” “The rest. Of the story. That was only part,” Ilya said, faux-patient. Shane's eyes flicked down to his lips. “Oh! I'm sorry. Am I distracting you? I will stop touching you so you can finish your story.” Ilya let go of Shane's hands all at once; planted them on the door on either side of his head, and Shane swayed forward for a second. He caught himself, leaned back heavily, and looked at Ilya in disbelief, eyes clear. Then he glared. Cute. “Story,” Ilya reminded him, and Shane's mouth twisted. “Anyway,” he snipped, clearly trying very hard not to sound like he was snipping, “After I broke up with Evan, I told Rose — Landry, my best friend, obviously — and she said she didn't think you were, actually, not into guys —” Ilya laughed, sudden and loud, and for a second, he thought Shane really might kick him. “Ah. Amazing. An intellect for the history books,” he laughed, and Shane's mouth dropped open. “Are you calling me stupid?!” “Hmmm, but you are very, very pretty, so it is okay,” Ilya hummed, noting the way Shane's ears pinked at the word “pretty” and vowing to say it every chance he got. “You know the first bit was my idea, okay,” he snapped, and, despite Ilya’s raised eyebrow, he soldiered on. Ilya didn't think it was humanly possible to blush any harder. “All she suggested was that I could maybe — ramp it up, see what happens.” “Ramp it up? What is next, hmmm? Oh, I want to marry Evan, can I practice with you first?” “Firstly, shut up, I don't sound like that. And secondly, don't be ridiculous. I was just going to suggest — well.” Shane paused, suddenly very still. He bit his lip, glanced up at Ilya once from below his eyelashes, and Ilya realized all at once — “Shane. Shane. Please tell me you did not come here tonight with the plan to ask me to fuck you for science.” Shane cringed, and Ilya moaned, closing his eyes and throwing his head back. “I mean — would you have said yes?” Shane asked, voice small, and Ilya after a long moment, sighed. “Probably, yes.” “Oh,” Shane said, and he sounded — delighted. “Shane,” Ilya tried — he was going to be the grown up here, he really was, any minute now. Shane did not seem to care for that memo. “You know I looked it up — moy lyubeemee,” he said, and his accent was still atrocious, but better, and Ilya couldn't really be surprised — He knew, first hand, what a quick learner Shane was. “So maybe —” Shane breathed, a little quiet, a little excited, “Maybe you have a silly little crush on me too?” “Hmmm —” Ilya hummed, and he lifted a hand; allowed himself this, finally, defeated — wove his fingers into Shane's hair, felt the way the other man melted under his fingers, relaxed into his touch like a kitten, leaned down to whisper against his lips: “Yes, something like that.” “Ilya,” Shane whined, just a little bit, and Ilya hummed again. “Okay, okay moy lyubimiy,” he said, and pressed his mouth against Shane's, gently but surely. He ran his tongue along Shane's bottom lip, and he felt the way the other man's breath caught; the shiver that ran through him, his back arching off the door towards Ilya, untethered, and Ilya stepped forward; pressed himself against Shane, pressed Shane back against the door, and felt the answering sigh in his bones, swallowed by Ilya's tongue in Shane's mouth, claiming, claiming. When he pulled back, just a hair's breadth between them, Shane's breath warm and wet against his lips — “That was all I wanted, last time,” Shane said, small and suddenly so honest, and Ilya raised an eyebrow. “All you wanted?” “Well, no, actually, not all, but —” Shane said; smiled, small and sharp, for a second, before he stopped, seemed to remember; frowned a bit to himself. Ilya pulled back a fraction more; ducked his head to get a better look at Shane's face, and Shane lifted a hand, previously clutched in the hem of Ilya's shirt, and rubbed at his own chest with the heel of his palm. Ilya didn't think he realized he was doing it. “Kotyonok? What is it?” “I—” Shane started, took a small breath, "Ilya, I didn't like it.” Ilya felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water down the back of his shirt. He made to take a step back, put some distance between them, oh my god, but Shane caught him quickly, pulling Ilya back by the front of his shirt before he could get very far. “No, no, no, not that!” he yelped, a bit panicked, “I didn't mean — I definitely like it when you —” Shane flushed, somehow, after everything, “when you touch me. Sorry.” Ilya relaxed, a miniscule amount; leaned forward into Shane's hands, going where Shane wanted him, and paradoxically, Shane seemed to be able to breathe easier, with Ilya pressed against him. “I meant — after. After last time, I felt — I don't know. Just a bit — lost, maybe, unsure,” he winced, and Ilya felt it like a physical blow; remembered, vividly, the way Shane's eyes had looked while he knelt before him, listening carefully; good, so good, taking everything Ilya would give him, not a moment's hesitation. Trusting, so trusting, so good. Remembered, vividly, the way he had looked when he left; cold, alone, without so much as a kiss goodbye. Ilya remembered thinking his knees must've hurt. He didn't think about the rest of him. “It wasn't good, after I left. I don't know if this is making sense, sorry," Shane murmured, Ilya clearly having been quiet too long, and Ilya acted immediately, pressing his lips against Shane's again, holding firm for a long, slow moment, wrapping his fingers around the back of Shane's neck and pressing, firmly. Slowly, slowly, he felt Shane go lax under him, his breathing slow, and he pulled away. “I am sorry, moy lyubimiy,” he murmured, against his lips. “Please forgive me. That was my fault —” Shane was already shaking his head, as much as he could, but Ilya shushed him. “Yes, it was. You — you trusted me, yes? You were so good. You looked after me so well. And I didn't look after you. That is my job. I will do better now,” he said, and Shane, slowly, tentatively, nodded. Ilya took a deep breath. “But if you feel like that, for any reason, even if you think you should not, you come to me, yes? Even if you feel like I am mad at you, okay? Or that I am tired, or don't have time, or anything else — you come to me, yes?” Shane watched him; slowly, again, but a bit more sure, nodded. “Yes?” Ilya said, and Shane parroted. “Yes.” Ilya swallowed, his heart still in his throat, a little bit. “Are you still —” Ilya watched as Shane's mouth twisted, “Maybe, a little, earlier, but this —” he bit his lip, leaned forward a bit to plant a quick peck on Ilya's lips. “This is helping.” Shane smiled, small, a bit cheeky like he just got away with something, and something in Ilya's chest eased. “Thank you for being honest with me, moy lyubimiy,” he murmured against Shane's lips, between long open-mouthed kisses, and Shane nodded, quickly, seeming happy to agree to anything if it meant Ilya kept doing that, except — He pulled back, suddenly serious, eyes wide. “But just for the record, because I don't want you to think — it was only after. I mean, you can — it's okay if —” Shane stumbled over his words, and Ilya grinned, because that meant this was going to be good — “I liked it, I mean, when you were a little mean to me, during, when you talked to me like I was — a little stupid, maybe.” He finished quietly, bit his lip, and Ilya had to fight very hard to form a thought past oh fuck. “Oh? You like that?” he drawled, a little mocking, a little mean, testing, testing, and Shane nodded, quickly. “It is a shame, though,” Ilya said, and he watched Shane's eyebrows draw together, confused, and Ilya paused maybe a bit longer than he strictly had to. “Maybe it was… a bit hot, yes? This little… game, before.” “I can —” Shane started, too-high, too-quick, eyes wide, “I mean — I can always… pretend.” Ilya fought the urge to grin. “And what would you pretend, hmmm?” he asked, lazily, tilting his head. “That — that I'm — I don't know,” he said, his gaze flickering to the floor, but Ilya grasped his chin, lifted his head until he had no choice but to look Ilya in the eye again. “Don't be shy, malysh, tell me.” “I could pretend I'm just — that I don't know what I'm doing,” Shane murmured; tongue peeking out to wet his lips, “That I need your help, for you to — show me. How to be good for you.” Ilya grinned, then, sharp and deadly. “But that is not pretend, hmmm?” Ilya asked, and he felt Shane's breathing pick up under his hand. He didn't let up, didn't let him look away. “It is true, is it not? You are — a pretty little virgin, here at this horrible party,” he husked, dropping his other hand from the door, to rest on Shane's hip, on the seam between his shirt and his pants. "And you don't know. Anyone could take advantage of you, no? Say sweet words to you, make empty promises, and you would believe them,” he murmured, slipping two fingers under the hem of Shane's shirt, grazing the bare skin of his stomach, feeling the goosebumps under his fingertips. Ilya tried very hard not to think about the fact that this was the first time he was getting his hands on Shane's skin, under his clothes, and pouted instead, a bit mocking, as Shane shook his head, pressing into Ilya's touch. “You would, look at you. You would let them touch you,” he said, like it was a fact, indisputable, as his hand trailed around Shane's side, smoothed down the arch of his back covetously. “Touch you where no one has touched you before, take advantage of your sweet little mouth,” he growled, fingers from one hand trailing across Shane's bottom lip; fingers from the other dipping low, slipping under the waistband of Shane's pants, resting on the curve of the top of his ass, a tease, “Take advantage of your tight little hole, stretch you out until you cry.” Ilya noticed the way Shane's pupils dilated, the way his breath quickened, and — “No, no — only you, I promise,” Shane breathed, whined, almost, and Ilya grit his teeth; pulled his hands reluctantly from their very comfortable resting places to hook one under each of Shane's thighs and lift him between Ilya and the door. Shane's hands flew to Ilya's shoulders, grabbing on tight, and Ilya turned, took three steps forward and dropped Shane on (probably) Marlow's bed, Ilya following immediately. “Twice now, Hollander,” he murmured, against Shane's lips, something that seemed to be becoming a habit, “twice I have left you hard and unsatisfied, and this is very bad for my reputation, you understand.” Shane giggled, for a moment, and Ilya slipped his hand under Shane's shirt; pinched his waist, and then smoothed his palm up Shane's side, grazing a nipple with one thumb. Shane stopped giggling. “So I will tell you what I am going to do. Tonight, I will make you come, once with my fingers, and my mouth,” Ilya promised, and Shane's breath hitched on a stuttered inhale. “And the second time, you will come on my cock. Only my cock.” Shane's mouth dropped open, and Ilya leaned down; grazed his teeth along the soft skin of Shane's jaw. “Can you do that for me?” “I don't know — I've never done it before,” Shane said, breathless, and Ilya laid open- mouthed kisses up to his ear, shucking Shane's shirt up his chest at the same time. “Which one? Come twice in one night? Or come just from playing with your little hole, hmmm?” “B-both,” Shane breathed, and Ilya grinned, and sank his teeth into Shane's earlobe. “Don't worry. Of course, I will teach you,” he whispered, like a secret between them, and Shane wriggled underneath him, grabbing his own shirt and pulling it over his head, closely followed by Ilya's. “Hot,” he moaned, and Ilya agreed — he was hot, although judging by the flush high on his chest, that wasn't what Shane meant. “Sorry, baby,” Ilya murmured against his skin, nonsensically, and made quick work of Shane's pants as well. Finally, he hooked two fingers in the waistband of Shane's briefs, and pulled them down his body slowly, sitting back on his heels to drink his fill. Shane was just as pretty as he had always imagined: smooth tan skin, his cock pretty and flushed and so hard it was leaking against his stomach. Ilya watched as Shane fidgeted, seeming to be fighting with himself to hold still under Ilya's inspection, and Ilya — Ilya brought Shane's underwear to his own face, pressing it against his nose and mouth on a deep inhale. “Ilya!” Shane's reaction was immediate, his hands flying up to cover his own face, and Ilya grinned as he watched Shane's cock twitch against his stomach. “What, moy lyubimiy?” Ilya mocked, tossing the briefs somewhere behind him. He crawled up Shane's body again, dropping his head to mouth at Shane's stomach wetly, avoiding his aching cock, trailing wet kisses up to Shane's pretty brown nipples, taking one in his mouth, pinching the other between his thumb and forefinger. Shane whined, his hips bucking against Ilya, and when Ilya flicked his gaze up to Shane's face, he found the beautiful boy beneath him watching him from under his own fingers, eyes wet, mouth dropped open. Ilya took the hardened nub between his teeth and one of Shane's hands landed in his hair, fingers flexing. “Ilya,” Shane whined, and who was Ilya to disagree. He pulled back a moment, not too far, even as Shane mewled and pouted; just far enough to reach over and rummage in (probably) Marlow's bedside drawer until he found — “Ah hah!” he said, dramatically, and Shane rolled his eyes a bit. “Lube.” “I know what lube is, Ilya,” Shane muttered, petulant, and Ilya, in answer, grabbed one of Shane's knees and hitched it up and to the side, exposing Shane beneath him. Shane's breath hitched, freckles blooming against the flush on his cheeks, but he didn't fight it, fingers curling into the pillow above his head instead. “Oh? So you have touched yourself here, hmmm?” Ilya hummed, palm sliding down the inside of Shane's thigh; thumb brushing teasingly along the crease of Shane's ass, over his hole. “Y-yes,” Shane stuttered, and Ilya slicked up two fingers, quickly, suddenly impatient. He grabbed Shane's other knee; pressed it to his chest, and ran the pad of one lubed finger over the furl of Shane's virgin asshole. Ilya couldn't decide if he wanted to look at Shane's face or his ass. He settled for alternating between the two. “How? Tell me,” Ilya asked, as he massaged Shane's hole lazily, feeling the way it clenched under his touch. Greedy. “When I — when I jerk off, sometimes I — oh!” Shane moaned as Ilya pressed forward with one finger, breaching him slowly, gently, sliding in to the last knuckle easily. “What's wrong, malysh? You have done this before, yes?” Ilya teased, mocking, and Shane nodded, then shook his head. “Yes, yes, but it feels — it feels different, when you do it,” he whined, and Ilya bit down on his back molars for a moment. He could not come in his pants. That would be very embarrassing, he reminded himself. “Different?” Ilya asked, managing that much, as he pulled back, started a slow exploration with his finger, as his other hand smoothed down Shane's stomach until he took his cock in hand, wetting his palm with Shane's precum to ease the slide. Shane moaned, his hips jerking once, and nodded, a bit frantically, his pupils blown. “My fingers don't really — reach, they feel okay but I don't know. I have a — a vibrator, and sometimes when I jerk off I'll put it —” he bit his lip, and Ilya grinned. “Put it here?” Ilya asked, and brushed his finger along Shane's prostate, slow and indulgent. “O—oh! Yes, yes, there, yes,” Shane panted, and Ilya took the opportunity to press in another finger; feel Shane roll his hips into the stretch, then back up into Ilya's hand around his cock, greedy. “That's your prostate, baby,” Ilya said, and he was sure Shane knew that, but Shane didn't snark him this time, just bit his lip again, eyes glassy, locked on Ilya. Like he was a little bit stupid, maybe. Ilya curled his fingers; continued his assault, drank in the sight and sounds as he fingered Shane open for his cock. He let go of Shane's cock for a second, not willing to leave the tight clench of his body with his other hand; reached over to dribble more lube onto Shane's taint, and pressed in his ring finger as well. Shane's hands found his biceps; nails digging into the straining muscles. “Oh fuck, Ilya —” “You put your vibrator here, hmmm, press it against your spot until you come?” Ilya murmured, crooking his fingers cruelly, just rubbing Shane's prostate mercilessly now, and Shane shook his head, his eyelashes wet. “No, no, I — just a little, never until I — oh!” His hips jerked, and Ilya leaned forward a bit; suddenly wanted to taste the sounds falling out of Shane's mouth. “Why just a little? It feels good, yes?” Ilya growled, and Shane nodded, frantic. “Yes, yes, it feels good, oh my god, oh my god, but — Ilya, Ilya, wait, wait, it feels weird, it feels — wait, wait — ” Ilya could've kept going. He could feel the way Shane was clenching around him, the way his hole milked his fingers, knew he was only moments from coming. And he knew he could take it, knew it would be beautiful, but — He slowed, stopped, paused, and Shane panted, drawing in deep breaths as he twitched around Ilya's fingers, still inside him. “What's wrong, malysh?” Ilya asked, and Shane's fingers tightened on his biceps. “It feels like — it feels like I'm going to pee,” Shane whispered, and he looked — mortified. Fuck, Ilya was so hard it hurt. “You won't,” Ilya said, simply, and he tightened his grip on Shane's cock again; gave it one stroke, two, felt the way Shane tightened against him as soon as he pressed up with his fingertips from inside him. “And if you do, so what?” “Ilya,” Shane said, voice high and a bit shocked, and Ilya thought he probably meant it as an admonishment, to scold him, but it fell a bit flat, given the way his voice cracked; the way his name carried on a sob. Ilya leaned forward; put some weight on Shane, pinned him down as his fingers worked inside him, driving him closer and closer to the edge, to the inevitable, even as Shane tried to fight it. “What? You think I won't like that?” Ilya growled, into the shell of Shane's ear, and Shane gasped, sobbed, wet and a bit lost. “Ilya, I — I can't, oh my god —” “Fuck, Shane, you think I wouldn't like it if I made you feel so good you pissed yourself?” “Fuck Ilya you can't say — fuck, fuck fuck Ilya —” Shane pulled taut underneath him, his breath caught in his lungs, his eyes rolling back in his head. Ilya turned his head to the side; bit down on Shane’s collarbone as he felt Shane pulse and clench around his fingers, his cock jerking in Ilya's hand, his orgasm washing through him in waves from his fingertips to his toes. Ilya worked him through it; only let up when he felt Shane jerk against him, a bit too-violent, breath leaving him on a whine, clearly on the edge of overstimulated. Ilya thought, dimly, that they really needed a safeword. He really needed to see how far he could push that. Shane would cry so prettily, he knew. Ilya nuzzled his nose into Shane's throat; wiped his lube-slick fingers on the sheets (sorry probably-Marley) so he could run his hands up Shane's sides soothingly, feel Shane's breath return to normal underneath him. “Jesus Christ,” Shane whispered, thinly, eventually, and Ilya grinned; leaned up to kiss him, gently; no tongue, as he let Shane get his breath back, just gentle presses of his lips, then slowly, lazy licks into Shane's mouth, just tasting, feeling, grounding. “That good, baby?” Ilya asked, and Shane groaned; arching against Ilya like a cat. “You know it was,” he moaned, a little petulant, and Ilya smiled, properly. “Good,” he murmured, dipping his head to kiss Shane again, unhurried. Shane, however, seemed to have other ideas. “Ilya,” he moaned, into Ilya's mouth, twisting a bit beneath him. “What's wrong, zaychik?” Ilya asked, lifting himself slightly, giving Shane some space, “Am I —” “No I —” Shane cut him off, grip tightening on Ilya’s shoulders, pulling him back down. Then Shane wrapped one calf around Ilya's hip, and they both hissed through their teeth as Ilya's clothed erection made contact, grinding against Shane's softened cock obscenely. “Are you gonna fuck me now?” Shane asked, against his mouth, and Ilya swore, in Russian, the words pulled from somewhere deep inside him. “We do not have to, if you —” Shane whined, high and petulant. “You said you would.” Ilya huffed a laugh, despite himself. He was so fucked. “You still want?” he asked, and Shane nodded, quickly, sweet and eager. “I still want,” he parroted, using his words, like a good boy. Ilya needed to remember to tell him that rule, too. “Okay,” Ilya said, remembering the first time he said that word, back when Shane had first asked Ilya to kiss him. Maybe the gods did not hate him all that much, after all. He shucked off his pants and underwear; kicked them off the edge of the bed somewhere, and stuck his hand back in the bedside drawer, looking for — come on, come on, come on — “Ilya, please,” Shane moaned, impatient. Ilya laughed, once, a bit mean. “Pillow princess,” he mocked, and Shane whined, kicked Ilya’s shin weakly. “I'm not,” he said, which was quite rich, coming from someone reclined against — quite literally — a pillow; someone who looked like they had no intention of moving from their position, waiting to be fucked well and proper. Luckily, Ilya was a keen and willing servant. If only he could find a fucking — “What are you looking for?” Shane asked, sounding a bit pissed now. “A condom, pretty,” Ilya said, and Shane frowned. “Oh. I mean —” he started, trailing off. Ilya narrowed his eyes. “What?” “I mean, I've never,” Shane said, slowly, and Ilya nodded. “And you…” “I have,” Ilya said, flatly, and Shane kicked him again. “I know that, asshole. I just mean…” Shane stopped for a moment; bit his lip and looked up at Ilya from under his eyelashes. Then: “You're careful, right?” And oh, Ilya took it back. The gods hated him again. Definitely still hated him. Because he really shouldn't — he really shouldn't. Because yes, he had never fucked anyone without a condom before, and got tested regularly, and so he could — he could, but he shouldn't, because it was irresponsible, and Shane shouldn't pick up bad habits like trusting random men when they say that they're clean, he really really shouldn't — “Fuck,” Ilya groaned, dropping his forehead against Shane's collarbone. “Is that a yes?” Shane asked, and Ilya could hear the smile in his voice. “Shut up,” he growled, and took Shane's face in one hand, biting down on his plump lower lip almost too-hard. His other hand grabbed Shane's ass; pulled his hip over Ilya's and Ilya ground down, their bare cocks sliding against each other, Shane's come from earlier slicking the way. Shane was half-hard again, in no time at all, and Ilya thought, idly, that if he fucked this boy within an inch of his life, it really was his own fucking fault. Ilya slicked up his cock; gripped the base, and pressed the head against the soft clench of Shane's hole, still wet and wanting from earlier. “Are you going to let me in, baby, hmmm?” Ilya murmured — teasing, honestly, pressing his cock against Shane's opening and letting it slip away before it could catch once, twice. “I stretched you open so nice for my cock, c’mon, let me in, kotik,” he husked, and Shane whined, bucking his hips — or tried to, Ilya's other hand holding him down cruelly, not letting him take what he so desperately wanted for himself. “I promise I'll be gentle,” Ilya murmured, dark, against Shane's throat, enjoying this maybe a little too much, but Shane — Shane shivered under him, his fingers clenching almost too- tight in Ilya's hair, and Ilya thought maybe he was enjoying it a little too much as well. “Maybe just the tip, hmmm? Would you let me do that, Shane?” he growled, “Put just the tip in you?” Shane mewled, his breath stuttering in his chest, and then Ilya heard him, quiet, sweet, so sweet, too sweet — “I don't know, I've never done that, I don't know if — I don't know if it'll fit,” he breathed, and Ilya grit his teeth so hard they ached. “Fuck,” he spat, and that was all the warning Shane got before Ilya notched his cock against his hole and pressed forward. Shane's body gave way without complaint, Ilya popping in easy, so easy, and he choked on a noise as Shane's hole gripped his cockhead, planting a wet kiss on Shane's chest as the other man hiccuped a half-moan half-cry beneath him, fingers flexing in Ilya's hair. “Ilya-ah—” Shane whined, and Ilya thought he never wanted to hear his name said any other way. “Shhh moy lyubimiy, relax, let me in, come on —” Ilya murmured, a dark, filthy stream of consciousness as he rolled his hips, fucking into Shane slowly but surely, carving out a place for himself in Shane's willing body, his beautiful boy rolling his hips to meet Ilya's on every thrust, now, head thrown back on the pillows, eyes squeezed shut. Ilya reached up; took Shane's chin in his hand, stuck his thumb in Shane's mouth and pressed down on his tongue as he tilted his head forward. “Eyes on me, pretty,” he panted, and Shane watched him as requested, eyes glassy under his lashes, sucking on Ilya's thumb convulsively as he pressed his cockhead up against Shane's prostate on the next thrust in. He bottomed out, hips meeting Shane's ass, and Shane's eyelids fluttered, but he kept them open. “Good boy,” Ilya growled against the side of his face, before dropping to suck a bruise into the side of Shane's throat as he started a steady roll of his hips. Shane's mouth dropped open, his breath hot, wet pants against Ilya's finger, and Ilya pulled his thumb free; wiped Shane's spit across his own bottom lip, along the side of his face, as Ilya picked up the pace, his hips slapping against Shane's ass now. “Uuuuuuuh — oh fuck, oh fuck oh —” Ilya started a new bruise, this one definitely above any collars Shane would wear, feeling electricity start to spark up his spine as — Suddenly, there was a bang against the door, and both he and Shane froze. Someone giggled, just outside, voices low and teasing, and Ilya figured it was another couple, looking for a private place to have some fun, making a pit stop against their door. He listened, a second longer, then slowly, pointedly, aiming upwards, he rolled his hips. Shane, as expected, let out a noise, almost a yelp, his eyes wide and panicked, and Ilya grinned, reaching up a hand and planting his palm firmly against Shane's mouth, making sure he still had space to breathe through his nose. “Shhhhhh,” Ilya hushed, into the shell of Shane's ear, as he rolled his hips again. Shane, to his credit, tried, the only noise leaving him this time a harsh exhale against the back of Ilya's hand. On the next thrust, he was less successful. Shane glanced at the door, quick, but his eyelids fluttered shut on the next assault to his prostate, his fingernails sinking bright-red crescents into the pale skin of Ilya's shoulders, and Ilya leaned forward again, whispering filth into Shane's ear as he fucked him deep, watching the way Shane flushed deeper with every word, feeling him squirm beneath him, helpless. “Shhhh. What if they hear you, kotyonok? What if they hear what a little slut you are for me, hmmm, giving up your little virgin hole to me at a dirty frat party, in some stranger's bed, where anyone could walk in?” Ilya laughed, low and mean, and Shane whined, high and thin and helpless. “Did you even lock the door, Shane? What if they come in here? What if they see you like this, hmmm?” Shane tried to close his legs, thighs clenching around Ilya's hips, and Ilya merely tightened his grip on one thigh; spread Shane wider for him so he couldn't escape, couldn't do anything but take the assault on his hole like a good boy, cock leaking into his own belly button like a fucking faucet. “What if they come in here and see you coming on my cock, hmmm, I haven't even touched you and you're crying for me, baby, everyone will know — everyone will know what a pretty slut Shane Hollander is for me, only for me —” Shane sobbed, the sound muffled, and then he was coming, his knees clenched on either side of Ilya's hips, his body rolling against Ilya's helplessly, and Ilya had done it, he really had made Shane come untouched, his cock spurting with every roll of Ilya's hips against his sweet spot, his insides milking Ilya's cock like a mouth, a throat, every part of Shane working so hard for Ilya's come — Ilya grit his teeth and pulled out, gripped his own cock and then he was coming over Shane's stomach in two quick strokes, shooting so hard a drop landed just shy of Shane's chin. When Ilya's vision cleared, it was to the sight of Shane panting small breaths into the air, eyes shut, head thrown back against the pillow. He was also absolutely covered in come. Ilya thought he should wipe him clean before it dried. But — “Kiss,” Shane breathed, eyes still closed, so Ilya did that instead, pressing his chest against Shane's, plying him with sweet, open-mouthed kisses, at points just sharing air more than anything as Ilya ran tender fingers through Shane's hair, over his shoulders, up his forearms, weaving their hands together next to Shane's head. Slowly, Shane's eyes blinked open, back with him, and Ilya smiled, his chest warm and so, so happy. “Next time, you can come inside me,” Shane breathed, against his lips, and Ilya fought the urge to turn his head and bite the pillow. Shane Hollander was going to fucking kill him. “Oh?” he half-said half-panted instead, raising an eyebrow, “You want me to come inside you? Fill you up, hmmm?” Shane watched him, eyes lidded, pupils still blown, and nodded. “You would be walking around full of me, leaking, you know that, zaychik? Hmmm? That's why I did not come inside you —” He stopped, groaned at his own words. “You would have been leaking my come the whole night, the rest of the party, while you talk to your friends, and play beer pong; I would have been leaking down your leg, reminding you who you belong to, who you're such a little slut for. You wanted that?” Shane stared at him, breath short, and just said, “Yeah.” Ilya closed his eyes. Heaven help him.

Chapter End Notes

I'm afraid he’s not gonna make it guys. Alternate title for this fic was “have you ever tried this one?” and Shane's gonna live up to it. I am sooooooooooo close to writing CNC for these two because you KNOW Mr-Please- Sir-I’m-Just-A-Bellboy would get off so hard on that. I swear to god the pissing kink mention crept up on me as much as it did you I SWEAR I HAD NO PLANS AND THEN. These two are lowkey ruining me. Also can you tell how obsessed I am with post-Vegas-we-didn’t-even-kiss-subdrop fics. Can you. Also — not me shipping Cliff and Hayden in the year of our lord 2026? Like I love Jackie but I'm sorry, have you SEEN Hayden Pike? With thine own eyes?? Every time that motherfucker is on my screen the only thought I can form is SOMEONE TOP THAT TWINK RIGHT NOW. So — sorry, I guess. For all of this. Huzzah.

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