Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Rape/Non-Con

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Svetlana Vetrova, Rose Landry, And Thousands of Internet Anons

Additional Tags:

Rape/Non-con Elements, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, a damn mess, Mixed Media, Come Swallowing, Come Eating, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Stalking, Voyeurism, Homophobia, Ilya Rozanov is a Pervert, Porn with Plot, Smut, Mutual Masturbation, Daddy Kink, Dark!Ilya, Crack Treated Seriously, Stalker Ilya Rozanov, 4chan Adjecent Forum, Toxic Masculinity, Lactation Kink, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Somnophilia, Angst and Humor, Alternate Universe - College/University, Breeding Kink, Anal Sex, Watersports, Pet Play, Porn with Social Commentary, Unreliable Narrator, Blackmail, Ilya Rozanov Has a Crush on Shane Hollander, Consensual Non-Consent, Public Sex, Predator/Prey, Internalized Homophobia, Sexting, Racism, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Ableism, Ableist Language

Language:

English

Series:

Part 5 of evil ilya

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-11 Updated: 2026-06-23 Words: 52,517 Chapters: 3/5

got milk? i mean, got yoghurt?

Summary

There was a small recoil, nothing Shane would consciously register as a recoil, just a slight drawing-back of his head and a micro-expression crossing the bridge of his nose.

His brows pulled together for one second, and he pulled the carton away from his face, examining the opening.

Ilya Rozanov has seven cameras. Ilya Rozanov has a blog.

His gay roommate doesn't know about any of this.

Notes

"milk has nine essential nutrients your kids' active bodies need. which means you'd better remember to save some for yourself." - got milk?

day 6 mean dom ilya week.

inspired by this tweet

apart from everything mentioned in the tags, content warning for homophobia and general forum-based degeneracy.

we have a podfic now, thank you so much foundbyjohndoe my dear

Chapter 1: how to make your roommate eat your cum

Chapter Notes

post 256

FAQ

wowowow. 8k followers. is a big world full of big perverts yes? welcome to all the newfags, to those of u who didn't stalk me here from /soc/ (archive of thread here). 8k is good number. enough people to have real community, enough to get good requests in the comments, not so many that someone snitches.

this blog is my big beautiful collection of myshkin content. myshkin is my roommate. he is 5'11, japanese canadian, 21 years old, plays hockey for university team (yawwwn), has the most boring life and the most perfect little fuckable body you have ever seen. he is faggot (lol). he doesn't know how sexy he is. feel free to share any photos/videos i post.

check the mega before u AMA. folders organized by month, by camera, by category. u will get password via vetting on discord. link to tagging system and cumulative tracking spreadsheet on discord too. the september-october thread is where you want to start if you are new. enjoy!

no face? no case ;). i keep him anonymous so no one scares little bunny away.

what does myshkin look like face is boring pretty. big brown eyes, freckles on his nose, always looks a little tired, like he needs someone to put him to bed. nice mouth, small rabbit teeth. hair is black and straight and always kept short, bangs get sweaty from practice and stick to his forehead in these little pieces.

body: strong, grabbable muscle. 200lbs i think. soft stomach when he relaxes, right below his navel, appears and disappears depending on how he's standing. nice legs, hairy thighs. nipples perky and brown, very responsive to cold. hole is brown and very tight.

favorite color blue. ofc!!! boring little bunny.

morning routine wakes up at 6am to run, is on macrofaggot diet (rabbit food and daddy's cum for myshkin only), stress cleans kitchen at night, jerks off in shower with fingers then toy. smells like warm laundry and baby butt 😳.

how does he act tightly wound from too little dick. has assburgers. too rigid, too in his head. doesn't like to have fun. likes to edge himself, and not just in the bedroom, in every area of his life. he tries to seduce me any time i'm in the room, i think he like me 🙂

where are the cameras current count is 7. camera 1 living room, mounted behind the smoke detector above the tv. camera 2 next to airfryer. camera 3 bathroom, i drilled a small hole behind the mirror, very clean job clap clap for me. camera 4 myshkin's bedroom, inside the smoke detector directly above his bed, this one i am most proud of. camera 5 on his desk. camera 6 next to laundry machine. camera 7 kitchen, inside the wall clock. myshkin bought the clock himself at ikea in september. thank you myshkin 😘.

what is your setup camera 1, 2, 4, 6, 7: wyze cam v3. $35 each. 1080p, color night vision, built in mic picks up basically everything if the room is quiet, motion activated so i am not watching hours of empty hallway. wide angle lens gets the whole room. i run them through the wyze app on my phone, i can check live feed from anywhere. NO LIVESTREAMS.

camera 3, 5: reolink argus 3 pro. 2k resolution ;). the night vision on this one is exceptional, i recommend this one. if myshkin moves at 3am i see it in full color. battery powered so no wires to explain. i change the battery when myshkin has morning practice.

audio: the wyze mics are sufficient for most things. for camera 5 i added a separate small mic tucked behind the baseboard near his bed. you can hear him breathing. you can hear everything.

storage: everything uploads to a private server automatically.

can myshkin see the cameras no lol

who are you 6ft, 215lb, 9 inches, your sexy russian daddy, myshkin's handler. i post tributes where you can see my body, dick and balls. is ok 👍 for you to thirst over me too, i am sexy, i know this, but blogs focus is myshkin.

∿∿∿∿∿∿

The blog post had taken eleven minutes to write, and Ilya was proud of his good work. Fewer retards would be spamming him with their boring questions at any hour of the day. He hit post, watched the comments start rolling in, someone already screenshotting the pinned intro, someone else posting the link in the discord— and then closed the tab and opened the other one, which had been waiting patiently, as all good things do.

He settled back in his chair.

The girl onscreen was not having a good time, which was kind of the whole point of the video. He turned the volume up two notches and sped up the drag of his hand around his cock. He used his free hand to take a drag of his cigarette and balanced it on the edge of the ashtray without looking, muscle memory, and let his eyes go half-mast and stopped thinking about anything at all.

His elbow found the keyboard without particular direction, and the music went up four notches. The speakers shook slightly on the desk above his eye level, and the bass came through the floor and up through the chair legs, and Ilya felt it in his molars, which was perfect. His setup wasn’t cheap, no shit, he was going to use it to its full extent. He turned the volume up one more notch for good measure.

The door opened.

He didn't stop.

"What the fuck."

He paused his elbow on the keyboard and rotated the chair slowly, his hand still loose on himself, and Shane was standing in the doorway with his chest rising and falling in a way that screamed he had woken up angry and gotten angrier on the walk down the hall.

Ilya looked at him with raised eyebrows. Woof.

He was wearing the black t-shirt. The one that was cut just slightly too short— not intentionally, just worn that way, shrunk in the wash, or bought in the wrong size, the hem sitting at the very top of his boxers so that any upward movement of his arms produced a centimeter of bare skin at the bottom. His tummy underneath it. Ilya knew the shape of that stomach from the back of his hand, the soft give of it below his navel when he wasn't flexing, the barely there trail of hair running from his navel to the waistband. Right now he was flexing, chest out, shoulders squared with indignation, and the shirt had pulled up slightly with the tension of it, and there was the hem of his boxers, grey cotton, and the waistband sitting below his hip bones.

His eyes moved down.

Jesus, he was trying to kill him.

The grey sweatpants. The loose ones, not the fitted training ones he wore to the rink, these were the soft home ones, the good ones, with the drawstring untied. Ilya had noted previously that these sweatpants had some magic embedded in them— a specific weight of the fabric or angle of the cut—that displayed the shape of Shane through them better than anything tighter. Physics, maybe. The print of his cock along his left thigh visible where the cotton draped and didn't compensate.

Shane shifted his weight and the fabric shifted with him.

Ilya's mouth twitched.

"Rozanov." Shane hissed through his tight jaw, his bottom teeth showing slightly where his lips had pulled back. He brought his fist against the back of the door. "Are you even listening to me?"

Ilya blinked. "No," he said. "I'm not listening. I'm jerking off."

"What?"

Shane’s eyes dropped down to Ilya’s waist. The red hit his face in a single wave, cheeks to temples, lighting up every freckle. His eyes went wide, and he slapped his arm over his face and spun around so hard he nearly hit the doorframe.

Ilya bent forward in the chair, body shaking. He kept the laughter silent, tucked himself back into his boxers, and picked up his cigarette to take a drag. Trying his very best to stay composed. 

"Is fine," he said. "You can open your eyes."

Shane turned around slowly. His face was still red. His jaw was working against itself, the muscle twitching at the hinge. His dark hair was ruffled on one side— probably pillow ruffled (sleepy), pressed flat, and then disrupted.

"What do you want," Ilya said.

"What do I—" Shane stopped, reset himself, pressed his mouth flat. "It's 2am."

Ilya glanced at the alarm clock on his nightstand. "Mm."

"I have a game tomorrow." Shane's voice was staying level through effort rather than by nature. "I have a game tomorrow, and you're in here blasting—" He waved one hand in the general direction of Ilya's setup, the motion taking in the monitors, the speakers, the still-open browser tab, the ashtray. His eyes landed on the tab, skated away. The red in his face deepened. "Rap music. And—" Another wave, he gave up on the sentence halfway. 

"Porn," Ilya supplied.

"Yes." Shane's arms came up, crossed over his chest, and then dropped. "I usually don't say anything about the noise. I don't." He pointed at the floor."But I told you, if I don't get nine hours before a game—"

Ilya took a long drag of his cigarette and watched him.

He was like a dog at a fence. All that energy with nowhere to go, yapping at the thing it couldn't get past, going and going. His jaw kept tightening. His hands kept doing things — going to his hips, dropping, going back to his sides, one coming up to push his hair back from his forehead. Every motion broadcasting exactly how his body felt in a way that Ilya doubted Shane was aware of. He was always doing this: being completely, totally legible, every emotional state written in large font across his body, completely unguarded, and having apparently no idea.

Camera five had very good resolution.

"—and we lose tomorrow, that is on you," Shane finished.

Ilya's eyes came back to his face.

He gasped, a full inhale, hand pressed flat to his sternum. "This will be my fault?" He pressed his lips together against the smile. "Ah, Shane." He put his free hand up, palm out, indicating Shane should stay exactly where he was. "Why did you not say before."

He turned back to his keyboard.

He found the audio key without looking. He pressed it six times.

The sound blasted from the speakers, bass frequency and trap hi-hats so loud they bounced against the desk surface, and the vibration came through the floor and up through the chair legs, and probably right into Shane’s little brain.

Shane yelped. The sound was swallowed immediately by the volume, but Ilya felt it in his peripheral vision, Shane's hands going to his ears, pressing flat, his whole face contracting, and then the hands dropped and Shane's face. Oh, he was furious.

He crossed the room in four steps.

He leaned over Ilya in the chair.

Both hands went to the desk, one on each side of Ilya's keyboard, and his body folded forward and down, and the shirt went with him. It rode up his stomach. The hem caught at the lowest point of his ribs and stopped there, and the rest of him, the soft stomach, the pale trail of hair, the navel, was right there, right at Ilya's eye level, a foot from his face, illuminated by the blue light of the monitor.

Ilya stopped breathing.

He could smell him. The gym had been two hours ago, and Shane had apparently not made it to the shower before falling asleep. The smell of him was warm and a bit musty, and arrived in Ilya's lungs at the same moment his eyes fixed on the small concave of Shane's navel directly in front of him. And he could imagine it, his face pressed there, his nose dragging across the soft skin below his ribs, his tongue finding the dip of Shane's navel and pushing in.

Ilya locked the thought down behind his teeth and watched Shane reach for the power cable running out of the back of his monitor.

He grabbed Shane's wrist.

The inside of it—the soft underside, the thin skin over the tendons, the pulse point—sat in his palm, and for a single second, he felt the beat of it before Shane yanked away. Ilya held. His thumb moved once across the inside of Shane's wrist, the skin there almost obscenely soft.

Then Shane yanked again, and Ilya let go, and they were fighting over the cable, reaching across each other for the plug, and Shane's elbow connected with Ilya's shoulder, and Ilya grabbed his forearm, and then his other hand found Shane's waist.

He gripped him.

His hands found the bare skin above the sweatpants waistband, below the riding-up hem of the shirt, both palms flat against Shane's sides, fingers wrapping the lowest part of his ribcage, and he pulled Shane back and half off the desk and half onto his lap in one motion. They both stopped. 

The speakers were still going. The porn was still going, audio only, the woman's begging a distant layer under the bass. The blue light of the monitor caught the side of Shane's face and the side of Ilya's face, and everything else was shadow.

Shane was panting. Short, hard breaths from the exertion of the struggle, his chest moving against Ilya's forearm, and he sat half in the chair and half against Ilya's thighs. Dick to dick, tips practically touching. Ilya could feel the heat of him through the thin sweatpants fabric, the solid weight of him. The rise and fall of each breath was transmitted through Ilya's palms, which were still on his sides, still on the bare skin, thumbs resting against the lowest point of his ribs.

Shane blinked at him.

With those big brown eyes. The flush was still living in his cheeks. His lips slightly open from breathing, his hair falling forward over his right eye.

Ilya blinked back, speechless.

Then it registered.

He watched it happen, helpless, the sequence of Shane's awareness assembling itself, piece by piece, in real time across his face. The position first. Then the hands. Then what was under him, against the back of his thigh, Ilya’s cock, still half-hard through the boxers. Shane's eyes widened a full degree, and he was out of the chair and standing two feet away instantly.

He yanked his shirt down with both hands, his throat working, his tongue pushing once across his upper lip like it was looking for words there and not finding them.

Ilya reached back to the keyboard without turning around and muted the speakers.

Shane was staring at the floor. His face was very red. His left hand was still gripping the hem of his t-shirt, pulling it down past his waistband, holding it there. 

"Just," he said, he didn't look up. "Just keep it down."

He crossed back to the door.

He left. The door closed behind him, not a slam, a careful pull-to.

Ilya gripped the armrests.

Both hands, white-knuckled around the armrests, and his thighs were shaking. He looked down.

The wet patch in his boxers was cooling against his skin.

"Faaack," he said quietly, to the room.

He looked at the ceiling. Then he reached over and unpaused the porn, still muted, reached to the nightstand for his lighter, and lit a new cigarette off the dying end of the old one. Dragged his blog tab to his other monitor

Opened a new post.

∿∿∿∿∿∿

post 257

night time special

so i got a visit tonight. which happens sometimes, he knocks if the music is too loud, usually i turn it down and he goes away. but tonight he was extra pissy so i turned it up more because i wanted to see his face.

his face when he's angry is something else. he goes red from the nose outward, along his cheekbones, and you can see every single freckle separately because the red is behind them. he's always working to keep his voice level. he almost never raises it.

wearing his black shirt, so when he lifted his arms to unplug my computer his stomach came out. his belly button was right next to my face. so close i could have tongued it, swirled my tongue around it fuck.

felt so nice to grope him under his shirt 😫 i was so hard, i had to pull him down onto my dick. i only got a few humps against his ass, and he liked it so much he just sat there and took it. his plump ass pressed against my cock, big brown eyes blinking up at me. we were very close.

want to fuck his boypussy so bad tonight. his angry face is cute, he looks like a puppy.

summary: he was wearing the good sweatpants. his shirt went up. he smelled disgusting. 10/10 tuesday.

400 comments

anonymous said: GREY SWEATPANTS NATION RISE

anonymous said: his dick was twitching in his pants he came all over uuu

anonymous said: stop edging us

anonymous said: kekekke get ur hands off ur dick

anonymous said: myshkins tummy is soft from being filled with anons cummies :33

anonymous said: ew, he's fucking disgusting, no shower after gym? lol.

watmyshkindeserves said: fucking useless can't even take care of himself lol 😂😂😂

anonymous said: he deserves to be punished for yelling.

anonymous said: just grab him by the throat already

anonymous said: is he sleeping? upload footage pleaaaaase.

watmyshkindeserves said: not sleeping.

anonymous said: is he jerking off? plz check and post

anonymous said: please post webcam footage of the fight.

watmyshkindeserves said: camera wasn't on, can't post anyway cuz of face.

anonymous said: stinky boyyyyy wants to be raaaaaped!

anonymous said: use him already holy shit

anonymous said: just a toy for daddy.

watmyshkindeserves said: i know 🙂

 

∿∿∿∿∿∿

Ilya was home alone. Shane was at practice, and Cliff had texted that he was coming over in twenty, but Cliff’s concept of time was famously elastic. Ilya had the kitchen all to himself.

He took the carton from the fridge. 

Silk Original Soy Milk, Unsweetened. The carton was three-quarters full, the opening already cut, the little cardboard flap folded back and re-folded where Shane kept it closed between uses. Ilya shook it once, testing the weight, and set it on the counter.

He could take his time with this. He had learned early that hurrying contaminated the quality of the experience, which was not a sentence he had ever expected to think, but here they were, nine weeks into the semester, and here he was, taking his cock out in the kitchen.

He stroked himself up to speed and thought about the footage from this morning: Shane getting out of the shower, the camera positioned above the towel hook so the angle looked down. How he toweled his hair and face and the back of his neck. Then dragged it lower, slower, the towel going over his thighs and between his legs, Shane unselfconsciously thorough, and the whole length of his back visible, the knobs of his spine, the two dimples above his ass, the curve of his hamstrings. Bending to dry his feet, the camera caught his hole peeking between his cheeks.

A new favourite, for sure.

He thought about it now, building steadily, and his eyes dropped to the carton on the counter, the Silk logo looking back at him, and his mouth pulled up at one corner.

For myshkin, he thought, so he can hit a new PR at the gym.

He tipped the carton toward him. Slid the head of his cock past the folded spout and into the cold, viscous liquid, just the crown, the milk lapping at the slit. He humped as fast as his cock could fit, and finished into it. The consistency disappeared into the existing liquid with no particular drama, the color already matching, the texture close enough. He shook the carton, watched the contents swirl. Nodded once at his own work.

He folded the flap back down, crease-perfect, and put the carton back on its shelf in the fridge, behind the oat milk that was Cliff's, in the position Shane always put it.

Washed his hands, dried them, and took a Coke from the fridge for himself.

He was on the couch, feet on the coffee table, when the front door opened.

Shane came through first, shouldering past Cliff in the doorway without ceremony, his hockey bag over one shoulder and his headphones on and his eyes already dazed, the way they got when he was post-practice, running on the last of his social energy. He didn't look at Ilya. He dropped his bag just inside the hall, rolled his neck once, and went to the kitchen.

Cliff dapped Ilya's fist and fell onto the couch beside him with the full-body commitment of someone who had been waiting all day to be horizontal.

"Ah thanks for the Coke, bud. Knicks game’s on Thursday," Cliff said, grabbing the can from Ilya’s hands.

"Mm. I put rat poison in it." Ilya was watching Shane from the back of the couch.

"You watching? Connor says he can get the stream working on—"

"Sure."

Shane had gone straight to the fridge. He stood in front of it for a moment— the cold air coming out, Shane's hand on the door, his eyes going over the shelves with the glazed, like he had not yet fully returned from wherever practice had put him. He found the carton. He took it out.

Cliff was saying something about the point spread. Ilya said "mm" again.

Shane shook the carton, set it on the counter, opened a cabinet for a glass, and set it down. He paused when he opened the carton, lifted it up to his nose instead of pouring.

His nose twitched like a bunny.

There was a small recoil, nothing Shane would consciously register as a recoil, just a slight drawing-back of his head and a micro-expression crossing the bridge of his nose. His brows pulled together for one second, and he pulled the carton away from his face, examined the opening, put it back.

Ilya took a slow sip of his Coke.

Shane poured a glass. Half full, the pale off-white of the soy milk hitting the glass and settling. He picked it up and drank.

His face was doing it again. More pronounced this time, the brows pulling together, his head tilting slightly to the right like a dog hearing a new sound. He looked at the glass. He ran his tongue once across his front teeth behind his closed lips.

He pulled one side of his headphones off his ear.

"Did you use my milk?"

Ilya turned around fully on the couch. He put one arm over the back of it and looked at Shane with complete sincerity. "Your pussy-boy soy milk," he said. "Who the fuck wants your soyboy milk, Shane. I have Coke."

Cliff snorted into the couch cushion.

Shane pointed at him without looking at him. "Who even invited you here?" He looked back at the carton, picking it up again, turning it in his hands. His eyes moved over the label, trying to locate the source of a problem through visual inspection of the packaging. He shook it slightly, tilted it, and read the bottom. "This tastes so weird," he said, to no one in particular.

“You say this, but you keep buying that same brand.”

“I don’t know, it’s been tasting good– just suddenly bad today.”

“Maybe it's your taste buds," Ilya said. "Maybe your taste buds are broken from eating terrible food."

"My food is fine."

"You put yeast on your eggs."

Cliff tilted his head, pulled the Coke can away from his lips, and Ilya grabbed it from his hands. “What’s yeast?”

“Is like, what they use for baking of bread–” Ilya snorted.

"That's a completely normal thing that many people—"

"You are the only person," Ilya said flatly, "on this earth, in any country, who does that voluntarily."

"It has B12," Shane said with a frown, because he knows exactly how this conversation ends.

"Woah, this guy knows his stuff." Cliff said, to the ceiling.

Shane pointed at him again. "Thank you."

"Still gay though," Cliff said.

Shane's pointing finger stayed up for a moment, reconsidering.

"I'm just saying," Ilya said, leaning his chin on the arm he had folded over the couch back, watching Shane look at the carton, "if your soy milk tastes weird, maybe God is telling you something. Drink normal milk. Like a normal man. From a cow."

"It’s not good for you."

"Then suffer."

Shane opened his mouth, closed it. He looked at the carton one more time, his frown sitting somewhere between this is expired and I cannot prove anything. He lifted the glass and finished the rest of what was in it in one go, wincing slightly as he did.

Ilya watched his throat move as he swallowed.

Shane set the glass in the sink, put the carton back in the fridge, and walked back toward his room, pulling his headphones back over both ears. He paused at the hallway entrance. "The Knicks are going to lose on Thursday," he said, to no one in particular, and disappeared.

Cliff threw a couch cushion at the empty hallway. "He doesn't even watch basketball!"

"He looked it up to say that," Ilya said. "He has a crush on you."

Cliff groaned and went back to staring at the ceiling. 

Ilya faced forward. He rested his Coke can on his knee and looked at the fridge, and felt the smile sitting at the corner of his mouth.

∿∿∿∿∿∿

post 567

friday milk report

baby drank full glass today. looked at the carton for a while, put it back in the fridge.

"this tastes so weird daddy" (he didn't say daddy, he thought daddy 😂)

yes myshkin. yes it does.

for the newcomers: the mega has the full arc documented. i will not say this again. ask me a boring question and ur ip is blocked. check the mega, it's in the discord, it's organized, there's a tab for "consumption events." there is a discord channel tracking the ratios and volumes i'm experimenting with.

current total: four partial glasses over four weeks. today was the first full glass. the ratio has been very low until recently, i did a little teaspoon per quart of milk. barely detectable. today i did full on jerk session into the carton ;), just to try. he sniffed it today before pouring which he hasn't done before.

i'm not worried.

[image: 5:17 pm. Shane at the fridge, back of his head and the line of His shoulders visible. The neck of his hoodie pulled down slightly from the strap of his hockey bag earlier, a strip of his neck and the top of his spine at the collar.]

he smells his milk like a little animal checking if something is safe to eat. drink your milkies bby, daddy will make it all better for youuu.

i am thinking of completely replacing his yoghurt with my cum.

230 comments

anonymous said: full glass finally holy shit

anonymous said: he sniffed it lmaooo dumb little bunny drank it anyway he loves it.

anonymous said: crazy mf talking about fully replacing the yoghurt anon u lost ur damn mind

anonymous said: shut up, it's fun, let's doooo it.

anonymous said: same thoughts, DO IT

anonymous said: shut up newfag

anonymous said: GOING SUPER RETARD MODE BECAUSE OF THIS POST

anonymous said: "i'm not worried" kekek moments before disaster

anonymous said: myshkin said: no thoughts, head empty, tummy full of daddys cummies >:J

anonymous said: the neck strip... i want to sink my teeth in

anonymous said: discord andys please update that damn chart.

anonymous said: no jerk off video ;(? </3

anonymous said: drink your milkies baby 😭😭😭

anonymous said: he's drunk too much cum atp he doesn't even care.

anonymous said: replace the yoghurt please please please

anonymous said: anon he would put anything you gave him in his mouth

anonymous said: aka: "he wants to suck daddy's dick"

watmyshkindeserves said: patience sweetheart.

∿∿∿∿∿∿

The economics notes were not going well.

Not because the material was difficult, Ilya found most of the material straightforward, the kind of logic that assembled itself cleanly if you let it, but because his headphones were in and the live audio feed from the bedroom mic was not compatible with reading about aggregate demand.

Shane had been in his room for forty minutes. For the first thirty, the sounds had been normal: the creak of him sitting on the bed, the rustle of him opening his laptop, the low murmur of whatever video he'd put on while he ate. Ilya had read four pages, had understood each one. It helped him concentrate; Shane’s idle noises, he called it his myshkin podcast.

Then the laptop closed.

There was silence for a few minutes; Ilya had turned a page.

Then a sound.

Low, drawn out, swallowed at the end as it had escaped past a closed throat.

Ilya's hand stopped on the page.

Another one, deeper.

Ilya had the economics textbook closed and the monitor awake and the camera four feed pulled up before he had consciously decided to do any of those things.

Camera four, the smoke detector above Shane's bed, positioned during the third week of September while Shane was at practice, angled for maximum overhead coverage. One of his oldest and best additions. Top-down, direct, and the resolution was good— better than good. 

Shane was on his bed.

Completely naked. Sprawled on his back with his legs bent and his feet flat on the mattress and his knees up, the full overhead angle giving Ilya a view of the entirety of him, every plane and curve and angle, his body lit by the bedside lamp in warm yellow, the freckles across his chest and shoulders and down his stomach, the dark hair around his balls.

The dildo was purple, which Ilya found hilarious. Medium length, realistic shape, the base flared. Shane had it in his right hand, pressed against himself, and his left hand was wrapped around his cock— already hard, thick, and flushed and curving slightly left, his fist moving in the slow exploratory strokes of someone not in a hurry, not yet.

He was making sounds that he had no idea anyone could hear.

Ilya's hand was in his own lap already, had been since the second his eyes processed the feed, and he gripped himself and breathed through his nose and watched.

Shane worked himself open slowly. He was thorough about it, patient in a way that Ilya had not anticipated the first time he watched him, Shane, who rushed his breakfast and took ten-minute showers and walked everywhere like he was late. Here he was patient. He took his time, his hips rolling up into the motion, his head pressed back into the pillow, and the sounds coming out of him had stopped being accidental— he had stopped monitoring them, had passed through whatever threshold existed between control and the absence of it.

"Mmn—"

Low, rough around the edges. His head turned sideways on the pillow, his eyes pressed shut.

"Fuck—"

His left hand moved faster. His hips rolled forward into the dildo, and he groaned, his stomach contracted with it, his abs flexing. 

Ilya stroked himself and watched, and did not dare blink.

Shane brought the dildo deeper. A long, slow push, his head pressing further back into the pillow and his chin lifting and his back arching off the mattress in a long curve— every vertebra lifting sequentially, his whole body participating, and the sound that came out of him crested and broke.

"Fuuuck—"

His toes curled. Ilya could see his toes curl from the overhead camera, and he tightened his grip on himself so hard he flinched.

"Please—"

The word arrived on a broken exhale, directed nowhere, at nothing, at the ceiling and the empty room and whatever kinky fantasy Shane had constructed inside his own head. His hips were moving now in earnest, rocking forward to meet each push of the dildo, his left hand working his cock in the same rhythm, his chest heaving, a flush spreading from his collarbones upward to his throat. The lamp caught the sweat at his temples, the wet of his lower lip where he'd bitten it.

"Fuck—mnn yes—please—"

Ilya had his headphones pressed tight with one hand, the other working himself in the same rhythm Shane was setting, and the sounds coming through the bedroom mic were wrecking him, the wet sounds, the creak of the mattress, Shane's breathing coming faster and more ragged with each cycle. He had at least 20 videos like this, but compared to watching it happen live.

It was nothing.

It was nothing compared to the real version, which was happening twelve feet away through a wall, and Ilya was watching it on a screen with his headphones in, and groaning, not quietly, "fuck, come on—" at his own monitor.

Shane's rhythm broke.

"Daddy—"

The word fell out of him like he hadn't planned it, quiet and immediately swallowed, his face turning harder into the pillow as if he could take it back. His hips stuttered forward twice, hard, and his hand on his cock sped up.

"Fuck, yes, baby, Daddy’s here," Ilya said. Aloud. He pressed the heel of his palm down and gripped the desk edge with his other hand and breathed, "Shane," into the empty room in a voice he didn't recognize as his own, low and gone.

He watched Shane come.

It moved through him like a current, the arch of his back peaking, his toes curling, his mouth opening on a sound that was mostly air, his cock pulsing in his own fist, and his hips driving up one last time against the dildo, forward and forward and then still, shuddering, the shudder running through every muscle and then leaving. His chest heaved. His legs slid down the mattress by degrees until they were flat, the energy going out of them slowly, like water draining.

Ilya came so hard his vision grayed at the edges.

He sat in the chair with his forehead dropped toward the desk, his breathing completely destroyed, felt his pulse in his temples, his throat, and his hands. His eyes were still on the monitor. Watching Shane on the feed, wrecked and panting and beautiful and twelve feet away, the dildo still in his hand, his chest still moving.

It took a minute.

Then he watched Shane's arm shift. Watched him sit up slowly, hair messed, reaching for the dildo. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The dildo in his right hand, clearly intending the bathroom. To wash the dildo, fucking seriously, that liquid gold?

Ilya was off his chair.

He had approximately ninety seconds. He found the couch in three steps, dropped onto it in a sprawl that was engineered to look like he had been there for an extended period, and yelled toward the hall.

"Your laundry is done, is been more than 40 minutes since you put it in."

Silence.

"Ah don’t be lazy. If you don't go get it right now, someone will throw it on the floor.”

A pause. Then Shane's footsteps— not toward the main room, toward the front door, the direction of the communal laundry at the end of the hall. The apartment door opened and closed.

Ilya was off the couch before it clicked shut.

He had, however long it took Shane to walk to the machine, notice it had only been, in all actuality, fifteen minutes, and walk back. He moved through the hall and into Shane's room and found the dildo on the nightstand where Shane had set it down before leaving. Still slick, the lamp catching the surface. Still warm.

He sat on the edge of Shane's bed.

He brought it to his nose first. Breathed in, slow and thorough, his eyes closing. The smell of Shane, concentrated and direct and close in a way no camera had ever offered him. He held it for a moment, memorising it, storing it. Mm, Shane hadn’t prepped.

Then he put the base of it in his hand and wrapped his lips around the tip.

He took his time.

He worked down it slowly, tongue flat, thorough, the way Shane had been thorough earlier, patient with it, no hurry, running the tip of his tongue along the underside in the way he had imagined running it along Shane's cock. He thought about the overhead camera. The arc of Shane's back. The way his toes had curled. Daddy. Of course, Shane had a Daddy kink, Jesus, he was more than perfect. He thought about that specifically and closed his eyes and sucked, moving his mouth and his tongue in unhurried assessment.

He didn’t like cock, so this would have been gross, gay, probably, but it was Shane’s.

Wait, is this gay? He thought.

He pulled it out, examined it.

Nyet. 

He put it back, and went further down, his throat working.

When he was satisfied, he pulled off. Turned the dildo once in his hand, checking the surface; it wasn’t clean, really; it was damp with his spit now. He set it back on the nightstand in precisely the orientation he'd found it, base against the lamp, tip pointing toward the window.

He looked at the nightstand for a moment. At the pillow still slightly dented from Shane's head, the fitted sheet twisted from where Shane's heels had pushed against it.

He stood up.

He made it out of the doorway and back into the hall in time to hear Shane's furious footsteps returning. He was leaning against the hallway wall, arms folded, when Shane came around the corner.

Shane looked at him.

"My laundry is not fucking done," he said.

Ilya shrugged one shoulder. "Really? Maybe the clock is broken." A pause. "Or maybe I just wanted to piss you off."

Shane's jaw went tight. His eyes narrowed, running over Ilya's face, looking for the tells of whatever game was being played. He found nothing useful there, apparently, because he exhaled through his nose and shoved past Ilya's shoulder.

"You're insufferable," he said, as he went.

Ilya watched him go.

He thought about the dildo on the nightstand. Shane picking it up to wash it, the warmth of the silicone slightly different from how he'd left it, in a way he probably wouldn't notice.

The smile at the corner of his mouth had nowhere it needed to be.

∿∿∿∿∿∿

post 580

a treat for daddy.

camera 4. 9:47pm.

[image: Overhead still, camera 4. Shane on his back, knees up, left hand visible at his stomach. Lit by the warmth of the lamp. His face turned sideways on the pillow, not visible. The dildo visible in his right hand.]

baby let me suck on his dildo today, he didn't prep, called me daddy, was begging for me to come into the room and touch him. no touching for myshkin…

840 comments

anonymous said: I want to kidnap him, tie him up and force him down in the floor in my van. Wrip those little shorts off of him and force my dick in him dry. Pound him as he cries into the floor, blood dripping from his lose hole onto his dick and mixxing wit his precum.

anonymous said: watched the clip already so many times his little sounds cutieee

anonymous said: aw myshkin, he's asking for daddy haha what a dumb little bunny

anonymous said: Just a slut that cums to the idea of being watched.

anonymous said: rape him he's literally begging for it he just doesn't know who yet

anonymous said: he knows who he said daddy he SAID DADDY

anonymous said: i like how the cum looks like on his tummy, i want to lick that off.

anonymous said: sucked his dildo clean and put it back on the nightstand so he'd use it again with your spit on it i promise u he isn't washing it again

anonymous said: anon has cum in his lube before and he used it, check the mega.

anonymous said: WHAT

anonymous said: i want to see him cry and beg

anonymous said: same specifically while being held down and used

anonymous said: no touching for myshkin when is he getting his little hole fucked already

anonymous said: when daddy decides ofccc :3333

anonymous said: daddy kink JESUS HE PERFECT. 😭

anonymous said: Just rape him. Just do it.

∿∿∿∿∿∿

The lecture had been going for forty minutes, and Ilya had retained nothing.

This was not unusual. Macroeconomics at 10 am on a Thursday was not a class that demanded full presence— the professor read from slides, the slides were online, and the exam was curved. Ilya had calculated early in the semester that he could pass this course on sixty percent attendance and directed study during finals week, and he had been correct, and so he sat in the third row from the back with his phone flat on his thigh under the desk and his eyes pointed in the approximate direction of the projector screen and watched the live feed from camera two.

Camera two: Hidden next to the aifryer on the kitchen counter, angled to capture the kitchen, the living room, and the hall entrance in one wide frame. Good coverage. The apartment's main artery.

Shane had a late practice today. He didn't have to be at the rink until two. Which meant that right now, 10:23 am, according to the timestamp running along the bottom of the feed,  Shane was doing whatever Shane did with a morning when no one was watching him.

Ilya knew exactly what Shane did in the morning when no one was watching him. 

On the feed, the hall door opened.

Shane appeared in the kitchen doorway.

He was in his boxers. Just his boxers— the soft grey ones, the waistband slightly loose, sitting low on his hips. He had clearly been asleep until approximately four minutes ago: his hair was catastrophic, pushed flat on the left side and sticking up at the crown, and his eyes were at half-mast, moving over the kitchen with the glazed, pre-conscious focus of someone whose body was navigating on autopilot while the brain caught up. His cheek had a pillow crease running from his jaw to his temple.

Ilya's thumb tightened on the edge of his phone.

Shane went to the fridge. He stood in front of it with the door open and the cold air coming out, staring into it with no apparent plan. His stomach, soft, completely unguarded, the slight round push of it below his navel, caught the fridge light. He scratched it absently with one hand, four fingers dragging slowly across the skin below his ribs, his eyes still scanning the shelves.

Ilya pressed his lips together.

Shane took out the eggs. Set them on the counter, went back in for an open pack of seaweed. Stood in front of the open fridge again for another few seconds as if he'd forgotten what he was doing, his head slightly bowed, and then reached in and took out the soy milk and set it next to the eggs.

He closed the fridge.

He stood at the counter and looked at the eggs.

"Nyet," he said.

To the eggs. Quietly, conversationally, the word dropped out of him with the complete unconscious ease of someone who had been absorbing Russian from a native speaker at close range for six months and had started thinking in it by accident. He put the eggs back in the fridge. Took out leftover rice instead.

Ilya stared at his phone screen.

In the third row from the back, a girl named Priya, who sat next to him every Thursday glanced sideways at the sound he made, which sat somewhere between a laugh and a pained groan. He pressed his fist to his mouth, looked back at the feed.

Shane had his rice in the microwave. He was leaning against the counter while it ran, arms crossed over his bare chest, eyes half-closed, still clearly ninety percent asleep. The microwave had forty seconds left. His head dropped forward slightly, chin toward his chest, the pillow crease on his cheek catching the kitchen light. He was possibly falling back asleep standing up.

The microwave beeped.

Shane didn't move for a full three seconds.

Then he opened his eyes, pushed off the counter, and retrieved his rice and seaweed. He took it to the couch. He sat down, tucked one foot under himself, balanced the bowl on his knee, and picked up the TV remote. He pointed it at the TV, put it down, and picked it up again.

"Nyet," he said again, to the remote, and set it back down. He ate his rice without turning the TV on, staring at the blank screen, his jaw moving slowly, his free hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck.

Ilya's leg was bouncing under the desk.

He was experiencing something that he did not have a clean word for. It sat in his chest like a boot— not the sexy pressure of watching the camera Shane jerk off, not that, something different and considerably more inconvenient. The cuteness of Shane eating rice on the couch in his boxers, talking to inanimate objects in Russian, was going to war with his sanity. His jaw hurt; he realized he had been clenching it.

On the feed: Shane finished his rice, set the bowl on the coffee table, and flopped sideways onto the couch. His legs went over the armrest. His stomach, in the side profile of the flop, pushed out in that soft, unguarded curve, and he pulled a throw blanket down from the back of the couch and arranged it over himself.

He put his face into the couch cushion.

His hair was still a disaster.

Ilya became aware that he was pressing the corner of his phone hard enough into his thigh that it would leave a mark.

"You okay?" Priya whispered.

"Mm," Ilya said.

"You look like you're having a stroke, by the way."

"I'm fine."

He was not fine. Nyet. Ilya wanted, with a severity that he found slightly alarming even by his own standards, to put his face in Shane's stomach.

Not sexually. Well. Not only sexually.

Just— press his face into the soft of Shane's belly while he was sleeping and stay there. That was all. That was the entire request that his nervous system was currently making. It was weird, weirder than his other thoughts. 

On the feed, Shane shifted under the blanket, pulling it higher, and his face was now completely hidden. "Nyet," came faintly through the phone mic, muffled by the couch cushion, apparently addressed to the blanket or sleep itself or the general concept of Thursday.

Ilya put his phone face down on his thigh and looked at the projector screen and breathed through his nose for a moment.

The slide read: Aggregate Demand and the Multiplier Effect.

A fuck it, sexuallity is rainbow, or spectrum, what they call it? Who cares. 

He picked his phone back up.

∿∿∿∿∿∿

post 601

sleepy bunny pregnant with my kids 😴🥺🙈

camera 2. 10:23 am.

[image: Wide still, Shane at the open fridge, side profile. The fridge light catching his chest, and the soft push of his stomach in the cold air. His hand at his ribs, mid-scratch. His eyes half open.]

[image: Shane fully horizontal under the blanket. Just his hair visible above the edge of it. His feet hang off the armrest.]

some notes from this morning:

myshkin is the sweetest pet in the world.

the eggs existing on the counter made it so mad that it said нет to the eggs and put them back. attacked the leftover rice instead. stood at the counter eating it like cat and half asleep. said нет to the remote and didn't turn the tv on.

it picked this up from me. it doesn't know. its been doing it for two weeks, it started with "da" and now it's нет and last week it said ничего under its breath when he dropped something and just left it on the floor. i have audio.

i think all the cum i'm feeding him is making him so pregnant <3 i think it's twins <3 so excited to see my bunnies in 9 months (is it 9 month? when do the rabbits give birth? 🤨). how can myshkin be pregnant if myshkin is a virgin? it is called immaculate conception.

he napped for two hours. i have the whole feed saved, going to make it anon and obscure the living room n kitchen. it's going in the mega under "couch."

1,000 comments

anonymous said: Hey anon, thanks for the update :). Rabbits have a gestation period of 31 to 33 days (roughly one month) and typically give birth to a litter of 5 to 8 kits, though they can have anywhere from 1 to 14. I think Myshkin is having at least 10.

anonymous said: slice his stomach open and watch his organs leak out onto the floor.

anonymous said: kekek he's being trained and doesn't know, russian wife arc when?

anonymous said: ничего last week нет this week. what's next? making borsch?

anonymous said: we have 50 couch entries now. someone is obsessed.

anonymous said: imagine what he doesn't upload.

anonymous said: cum yoghurt immaculate conception i cannot breathe

anonymous said: he's so soft i want to use him so bad

anonymous said: the fridge light on his stomach post more of his pregnant stomach please please

anonymous said: myshkin when there is cum in his breakfast >:3 myshkin when there is no cum in his breakfast >:(

anonymous said: men cannot get pregnant, good thing he's an animal and not human.

anonymous said: sleepy little bunny eating daddy's cum every morning and picking up his words.

anonymous said: such a slut saying нет to eggs with belly full of cum

∿∿∿∿∿∿

The first time had been almost an accident.

Almost. The yoghurt had been sitting in the fridge— Shane's, clearly Shane's, the brand with the blue lid that Shane bought every week without variation, plain Greek, low fat— and Ilya had been standing at the open fridge at midnight with his hand wrapped around his dick for… reasons, and the yoghurt had been right there, and the thought had arrived fully formed and required no deliberation.

He'd taken the tub out and opened it. The ratio that first time was laughably low— a single session, stirred in, the surface smoothed back, and the lid pressed closed. He'd put it back on its shelf and gone to bed and not thought about it again until the next morning, when Shane opened the fridge.

Shane had eaten it with no reaction whatsoever. It was arguably much more than he had ever put in the milk, and Shane didn’t even blink.

Oh, little bunny, what are you doing even.

Ilya had stood at the counter with his coffee and watched him and felt something settle into place in his chest. The decision had already been made.

The community had lost its minds. Someone had asked, immediately, about ratio increases, Ilya had said patience and meant it.

That was week one.

Week four had been the most technically demanding. The ratio was higher now— detectable, potentially, to someone paying close attention— and Ilya had introduced the cover of a new brand. He'd placed it in front of Shane's usual one at the grocery store during their Thursday shop, mentioned it offhand: I think they changed the recipe on yours, this one is the same but better. Shane had picked it up, read the label, shrugged, put it in the cart.

The new brand had a slightly different taste profile. Slightly more neutral, sweeter, maybe, which meant the ratio could go higher without the baseline comparison giving it away.

The community had called this move the switcheroo. 

By week nine, the yoghurt had become part of Shane's morning routine completely, inflexibly, with no awareness that it had happened. He ate it at the counter, standing up, seven in the morning before his run, the same spoon, the same number of spoonfuls, the same blue lid set beside the tub. 

He had stopped noticing the taste, the slight pause before the first spoonful, the occasional frown mid-bite, the sniff of the opened tub— all of it gone now, smoothed away by repetition and familiarity, Shane's body having simply decided this was what yoghurt tasted like. 

This was normal. 

Ilya had his coffee and watched him eat it every day, and felt euphoria, fulfillment that he had never felt before. 

∿∿∿∿∿∿

Shane had practice at nine.

He came out of his room at 7:43am as an amalgamation of pre-practice morning Shane: black shorts, the elastic waistband visible above the hem of his compression tee. Which fit him like a glove, frankly. His hair was still pushed flat on the left side from sleeping, the dark strands flattened against his temple and sticking up in uneven tufts at the crown where he'd run his hand through it without combing. His eyes were open, but the person behind them had not fully arrived— moving on autopilot, already half at the rink in his head.

Ilya was at the kitchen table. Laptop open to a half-written paper that had not progressed in twenty minutes. His coffee mug steaming beside it, the textbook propped open to a page he wasn't reading. He watched Shane over the rim of his mug as Shane shuffled into the kitchen.

Shane went straight to the fridge.

He pulled the door open with his left hand and stood there with his right hand on his hip, eyes scanning the shelves, not actively looking for anything, just confirming the location of what he already knew was there. His weight shifted to his right leg, hip cocked slightly. The fridge light caught the side of his face, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the pillow crease still faintly visible from cheekbone to jaw where he'd slept on it wrong.

The middle shelf, on the doorshelf.  His hand went in without hesitation and emerged with the yoghurt tub.

It was lighter than it should have been. He registered the difference immediately in the weight— the tub sloshing slightly as he brought it out, the contents visibly low, no more than half a cup clinging to the sides and bottom. He paused with the fridge door still open, the cold air continuing to fall out around his bare legs, and turned the tub once in his hand, peering at it through the clear plastic lid.

He looked at Ilya.

"You ate all of the yoghurt."

Ilya looked up from his laptop and took a sip of his coffee. "I got the munchies."

Shane's jaw tightened immediately, the muscle at the hinge bunching once before he caught it. He let the fridge door swing closed and set the tub on the counter beside the sink with more force than was strictly necessary, the plastic rattling against the granite.

"This is my favourite brand."

"I know." Ilya closed his laptop with one hand. "It was good. I'll buy you a new one."

"You're a fucking asshole." He mummbled, too tired for full investment, too routine to escalate. He opened the silverware drawer with one hand, and pulled out a spoon, set it beside the tub, and popped the lid.

The yoghurt inside was smooth-surfaced, pale, sitting slightly denser than the brand usually did, the consistency thick and unmoving. Almost gel-like. About half a cup total, clinging to the slanted sides and pooling at the bottom. Shane picked up the spoon, dipped it in.

Ilya folded his hands on the table, watched.

Shane ate standing up, left hip braced against the counter edge, his weight settled casually into it. His jaw moved. His eyes were fixed on the middle distance above the sink— not looking at anything, not seeing the window or the grey morning light coming through it or the dishes stacked on the drying rack. His free hand hung at his side. Occasionally, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

The third spoonful scraped the side of the tub.

A small amount clung to the curve of the spoon as it came out, and when Shane brought it to his mouth, a little more dragged across his bottom lip, smearing pale against the darker red of it. He didn't register it immediately. He chewed. Swallowed. Lowered the spoon back toward the tub.

His nose twitched.

A tiny twitch, just the nostrils, not thought, not conscious, just his intuition catching something at the edge of its attention. His upper lip followed it a half second later, the ghost of a scrunch, there and gone. 

Then his tongue came out.

Slow, just the tip of it, dragging left to right along his bottom lip in one clean, pass, collecting the smear. His eyes didn't change, his expression didn't change.

He swallowed.

And then he stopped.

His eyes refocused, blinked once, and he looked down at the tub. His brows pulled together at the inner corners in confusion. He tilted his head, the motion bringing the morning light across his cheekbones and catching the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.

"'S not sweet," he said. To the tub, quietly, the words arriving at half speed."Usually more sweet."

Ilya did not look up from his laptop. He reached across the table with his right hand, fingers finding the honey jar next to the fruit bowl without looking, and slid it across the counter toward Shane.

"Use this," he said.

Shane looked at the honey. Looked back at the tub. There was maybe a tablespoon left clinging to the sides, the bottom mostly scraped. He picked up the honey, popped the lid with his thumb, and bent over the tub, tongue pressed to his back teeth in that unconscious concentration expression, and squeezed.

A thin golden stream hit the surface of the yoghurt. He stirred it through and ate the last of it in two passes. Licked the back of the spoon once, perfunctory, and dropped it in the sink with a small clink. Set the empty tub beside it.

He picked up his water bottle from the counter. 

"Buy me a new one, I’m leaving the tub there so you remember the brand." he said, pointing at the empty tub, and grabbed his bag from the hall.

"Da," Ilya was staring at the tub, unblinking.

∿∿∿∿∿∿

post 640

how to make your roommate eat your cum

step 1: single session stirred into full tub. i'm talking maybe a teaspoon total into 500g. ratio is so low. mix it very very well. put the lid back, smooth the surface, back on the shelf. next morning he ate the whole thing and went for his run, no reaction. i'm sure your pet will not react either.

step 2: get a second tub. same brand, same size. this is your prep vessel. you are not cumming directly into the tub he's going to eat from!!! you are cumming into the prep vessel, measuring, transferring, stirring, replacing. yes measuring. get a small measuring spoon. the discord channel has ratios, volumes, and a consumption confirmation for reference. use it.

step 3: the switcheroo. weeks three to four i switched the brand. original brand wasn't sweet enough to mask the taste. becomes a liability above 15% ratio. new brand a bit more sweet, carries higher ratios without detectable flavour deviation. introduced it at the grocery store, he put it in the cart without argument. this is the brand i use.

step 4: week 1: 5% ratio. week 2: 20%. week 3: 50%. week 4: 60%. week eleven: i will let you do the math.

step 5: watch him eat it and get obsessed 😂

this morning he came out at 7:43 am.

he went to the fridge and found the tub lighter than expected, because i had eaten more than 3/4 of the yoghurt in there previously (i ate my cum, so what, is it not mine?), leaving only what i'd prepared. he looked at me and said "you ate all of the yoghurt."

i'm going to be honest with you. the ratio this morning was not a ratio. the yoghurt was a texture delivery system. i had been saving up for a long time specifically for this, which anyone following the blog in real time already knows, so stop asking to see my dick. not teasing you i was prepping.

no film of him eating, ofc. but it went like this: "'s not sweet," he said, licking the cum from his lips like he would die without it. "usually more sweet." i gave baby some honey and he squeezed it in, stirred it through, and ate the last of it in two passes. licked the back of his spoon! said "buy me a new one" and left for practice.

[image: The empty tub in the sink. The sides scraped clean. The spoon resting against the rim.]

fuck, he's perfect. i need him so fucking bad. i think he's ready to take the real thing, да?

1,690 comments

anonymous said: YOGHURT ARC COMPLETE FUCKKKK

anonymous said: i am on the floor

anonymous said: get up normie

anonymous said: he put honey in it and ate the rest oh my god oh my god

anonymous said: projections tab guy here. two weeks ahead of schedule.

anonymous said: insane work genuinely, kudos to anon.

anonymous said: woke up and checked on the blog, best day of my life, been here since day one.

anonymous said: WAR IS OVER!!!!!!!

anonymous said: anon gay for drinking his cum kekek

anonymous said: millions of sperm were wasted via thrown out yoghurt tubs for this, wow, but the result was worth it.

anonymous said: got every last drop, such a cum slut, needs to be filled soon?

anonymous said: said buy me a new one and went to practice, get all sweaty and warm for dick, sexy.

anonymous said: such a dumb little pet

anonymous said: thank u for the experiment anon, we love youuuuu, rape time?

anonymous said: fucking film it

anonymous said: he sweetened it up himself and ate it faster lmaooo

anonymous said: please can you rape him now he's been eating it for weeks he's ready

anonymous said: he licked the spoon he's more than ready

anonymous said: fill him up with dadas cummies pls :3333 he wants it fresh

anonymous said: can't believe he made it sweeter so he could eat more, good boy.

anonymous said: little bunny feeding himself 😭

anonymous said: fuck u, do it already, sick of being edged lol

watmyshkindeserves said: 🙂

∿∿∿∿∿∿

Ilya had been waiting for this since January.

Not this specifically. Not the exact configuration of events— the NCAA championship, the team going out, the ratio of celebration to alcohol that had resulted in Shane Hollander needing to be physically steered out of a bar at 1 am with his arm over Ilya's shoulders and his feet fumbling beneath him. Not this, exactly, but something in this direction, something that ended here.

He got Shane through the apartment door with minimal incident, minimal meaning Shane hit his shoulder on the doorframe once and said "nyet, nyet, nyet" three times about leaving the bar, and walked him to the kitchen and let him go.

Shane went straight to the fridge.

Ilya leaned against the kitchen table, folded his arms over his chest, watched.

Shane had the door open and was scanning the shelves with laboriously sincere focus. His jersey was half-untucked, there was a bar stamp on the back of his right hand, his hair was going every direction. He stood in front of the open fridge with the cold air falling around him and stared into it and his brow slowly furrowed.

He looked at the fridge.

He looked at Ilya.

He looked back at the fridge.

"No yo," he said.

Ilya stared at him. "Yo? Shane." He shook his head. "What the fuck are you even talking about."

Shane's face arranged itself into something patient and communicative. He was clearly working very hard. "Gurt," he said.

A pause.

"No yoghurt," Ilya said.

Shane's expression collapsed in relief at being understood. "No yo gurt." He exhaled and slumped sideways against the counter, his shoulder hitting it and his full weight following, his body going loose. His eyes were half-mast, his cheeks deeply flushed across every freckle, his lips pushed out in an expression of genuine bereavement.

He shook his head, slow and mournful.

"Gurt, no yo," he said quietly. To himself. And then his eyes filled, the helpless, unfiltered filling-up of someone too drunk to have any distance between emotion and face, the tears arriving immediately at his lower lashes without any preceding escalation.

Ilya's cock, which had been sitting at a steady, patient half-hard for the better part of four hours, pressed against his jeans.

He pushed off the table. Came to stand in front of Shane and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, easy, steering, and walked him to the couch. Shane went without resistance. He flopped against the cushions with his full bodyweight, legs splaying, head tipping back and rolling sideways. He blinked at the ceiling.

Ilya crouched in front of him.

He looked at Shane's face. The flush, the wet lashes, the loose beauty of him when every layer of monitoring was down, and there was just this— just Shane, unguarded and wrecked and completely, devastatingly present. He looked at his mouth.

"Want me to feed you?" he said. "Shane. Want me to feed you?"

One eye opened. Shane fixed it on Ilya with laboriously focused suspicion.  "Yoghurt?" The word came out hopeful. "As good as yoghurt?"

Ilya held his gaze.

"Better," he said.

He exhaled through his nose, sat back on his heels, and brought both hands to his belt. The buckle opened, the button too, and then he started with the zip. Shane's eye, the open one, went wide, and then the other one opened too, both of them, and he planted his hands on the couch and lurched forward.

"No—" The word came out blurred at the edges. "Noomn—" He shook his head, a full-body refusal, his feet pushing at the floor and his hands pushing at the cushions, and none of it generating any useful upward momentum. He got halfway to vertical.

Ilya's foot found his ankle. 

Shane hit the floor on his hands and knees and immediately started moving, crawling, palms and knees against the hardwood, heading for the hallway. He was muttering continuously, mostly consonants, punctuated by "no" and "stop" and one "fuck off" that had more shape than the rest.

Ilya let him get three feet.

Then he crouched and put his hand in Shane's hair. Just his palm at the back of Shane's skull, fingers finding purchase, and he said,

"Baby."

Shane's crawling slowed.

"Bunny."

Stopped.

"Sweetheart."

Ilya stood, drawing Shane up with him by the hair, slow, patient, giving him time to get his knees under him, to find the floor, to come up. Shane's hands wrapped around Ilya's wrist immediately, fingers digging in, pulling. His voice came back online.

"Let go—" Breathless, broken at the edges. "Let go of me, let go—" He was pulling at Ilya's wrist with both hands, his knuckles white, his shoulders straining forward and getting nowhere. "Ilya—stop—what the—"

Ilya looked down at him, and what he saw was… God.

Shane, on his knees, his hands around Ilya's wrist. His face tipped up, flushed, the tears still sitting in his eyes and now beginning to spill, two tracks running from the corners down his cheeks.

"Baby, why are you whining? You ate my cum before," Ilya said, sighed. "Yesterday, in the morning." Ilya said. "Yes?"

Shane's hands froze on Ilya's wrist. The pulling stopped, the force went out of them completely, his fingers going slack but staying there, wrapped loose around Ilya's forearm. He stared up at Ilya with his mouth hanging slightly open and his brows pulling together. His eyes were still wet, the tears sitting there, and his breathing was fast through his nose.

"Wh—" He swallowed. The sound was audible, his throat working. "What?"

“You know, gurt?” Ilya slowly raised an eyebrow.

Ilya watched it hit him.

The yoghurt this morning. The yoghurt yesterday. The fucking taste of it. The honey Ilya had slid across the counter without a word. The tub before that, lighter than usual. The brand he'd said was different. All the mornings, all the breakfasts. 

The understanding arrived in his eyes first. They widened, a full millimeter, the black of his pupils flaring, and then his face caught up, his mouth closing and opening again, his brows lifting and then crashing down, and the horror flooded in behind it. His cheeks went pale under the flush for one second and then flushed deeper, and the sound that came out of him was "no—" low and disbelieving, "no, no you didn't—"

He started to fight.

Both hands clamped around Ilya's wrist, fingernails digging in, his whole body twisting against the grip in his hair. "Let go of me—" His voice broke on it, high and ragged. "Let go, you sick fuck—what did you do to me—"

Ilya's free hand cracked across his cheek.

The sound of it was sharp, the flat slap of palm against skin, and Shane's head snapped to the side, his body following it half a degree. His hand came up to his cheek immediately, palm pressing flat against the burning skin there, and he held it for a full three seconds — breathing through his nose, eyes shut, the tears that had been sitting spilling over now in earnest.

Then he turned his face back.

The red bloom of Ilya's handprint sits vividly on his cheekbone, the skin underneath already hot and swollen. His eyes were red-rimmed, wet, the lashes clumped, fixed on Ilya's face with something that was not anger anymore. Not just anger anymore, terror. 

And then he fought again.

Fully committed. His knees scrabbled against the hardwood, trying to get leverage. His shoulders wrenched forward, his free hand clawing at Ilya's forearm, fingernails leaving red crescents. He got half upright, one foot finding purchase, his body levering up, "stop—" the word tearing out of him. "Stop, Ilya, stop– don’t want– this—" He got a foot of distance, his hands pulling Ilya's arm forward with his whole bodyweight.

Ilya grabbed his hair with both hands and yanked him back.

He walked Shane backward across the kitchen to the flat wall beside the hallway and slammed him against it.

The back of Shane's head hit plaster with a dull thud, the air punching out of him, and his knees buckled. He slid down the wall, his hands still gripping Ilya's wrists, pulling weakly now, his forehead dropping forward into the space between his arms, his hair falling over his face.

Ilya stood over him.

Ilya reached into his boxers and pulled his cock out.

He was fully hard, thick, the shaft flushed dark, veins standing out along the length. The head was swollen and dark red, a fat bead of precome sitting heavy at the slit and threatening to spill. He wrapped his hand around the base and held it there, and watched Shane's eyes drop to it.

Shane stared.

His lips pressed together hard enough to blanch.

"No," he said, the word slightly slurred at the edges from the alcohol and the tears. "No, it's too big—" He shook his head, his eyes flicking up to Ilya's face and back down to his cock, the calculation running fast and landing wrong. "It won't fit. It won't fit in my throat—" The words stacked up, tumbling. "It's too fucking big, Ilya, it won't—"

"Shh." Ilya's thumb stroked once across Shane's cheekbone, slow and deliberate, feeling the heat there. "Size queen." The corner of his mouth pulled up. "You can take it. You were made to take it."

"I can't—"

Ilya pressed his thumb to Shane's lower lip and pushed upward.

Shane's mouth opened on the pressure, his jaw widened, lips parting, and Ilya stepped forward and slid the head of his cock past them.

The sound Shane made was cut off immediately. "Mmgh—" muffled into wet noise as Ilya pushed in, his hand in Shane's hair tipping his head back to straighten his throat, and he went slow, but he went deep, the head of his cock finding the back of Shane's mouth and pressing past it, breaching into his throat.

Shane gagged.

Violently, his full-body wrenching, his shoulders slamming inward, his throat clenching hard around the head of Ilya's cock, his hands flying up to slap flat against Ilya's thighs. His eyes went wide and stayed wide, his chest heaving in a single desperate pull for air that didn't exist.

Ilya held there.

Felt the clench-release of Shane's throat around the head of his cock. Felt the heat of it, the wet, the swallowing reflex pulling at him. Felt the tears land warm on the back of his hand. And it was better than anything he imagined. 

"Fuck," he said, his hips twitching forward once on reflex.

He pulled back and thrust in again.

Shane's throat dragged around him on each stroke, filling the quiet kitchen with obscenely wet sounds. Shane's entire body rocked forward with each thrust and was held in place by Ilya's grip in his hair. Ilya rocked into his throat, and Shane's hands beat against his thighs twice more and then stopped beating and just held.

Ilya looked down at Shane's face.

The tears ran continuously now, not in tracks but in sheets, his cheeks completely wet, and his eyelashes had clumped and darkened and spiked with it. The flush on his face had gone deeper, past red and into something more desperate, the skin of his throat visibly working with each thrust, the tendons in his neck standing out. His lips were stretched obscenely around the girth of Ilya's cock, swollen at the corners, and the spit and precome that couldn't stay in ran down his chin in a continuous thin trail, dripping from his jaw.

"Fucking slut," Ilya groaned. His hips drove in and held, buried completely, and he felt Shane's throat convulse around him in a long, desperate clench. "Mm? Want daddy's cum that bad?" He pulled back, thrust in, watched Shane's eyes roll. "Blyat'— such a whore for it. Gunna fill your throat so full it spurts out of your,” He thrusts, “little compression shorts."

Shane groaned. It came out around Ilya's cock, muffled and ruined, and it was not a protest. It was not a protest and they both knew it, and the sound of it went through Ilya from the base of his spine upward. Shane's hands, which had been flat and still against Ilya's thighs, curled. His fingers found the denim and gripped.

Ilya stopped going slow.

He fucked Shane's throat with his full weight behind it— deep, rhythmic, pulling Shane onto him by the hair and driving forward to meet it simultaneously. Muffled sounds kept being dragged from Shane's chest, not quite moans, not quite gagging, something that lived between the two and got pulled out of him with every thrust regardless of what he wanted.

Shane’s eyes kept drifting, the pupils completely blown, the brown barely visible at the rim. His eyelids kept dipping and recovering, dipping and recovering, and every time they dipped his throat closed differently around Ilya's cock and Ilya's grip in his hair tightened.

His balls were tight against his body. The pressure had been building since the bar and it had been building since September and it was running out of places to go.

He cupped Shane's face with his free hand, one hand at the back of his skull, one curved under his jaw, tilting his face up. Shane's eyes, at half mast, found his face and stayed there, glassy and dark and wrecked completely out of any shape Ilya had ever seen them in.

He buried himself one final time and came.

The orgasm moved through him in long, deep pulses, his jaw dropping open, his thighs locking, his hand in Shane's hair clenching hard enough that Shane made a new sound around his cock, a high wine, and he held there and felt each pulse fire and watched Shane's throat work to swallow around him.

He pulled out.

Still coming, the last pulses still going, his cock jerking in his hand, he aimed and let it fall. A thick stripe across Shane's left cheek, catching his nose, the bridge of it over his freckles. Another across his eyelashes— both eyes, the cum landing heavy and warm and sitting in his lashes and on his eyelids. His lips. The line of his jaw. His chin, where the spit had already been running.

Shane's eyes were closed.

He tried to open them. The right one made it partway and stopped; the lashes stuck together and were weighted down with it. His left opened a fraction more. He blinked, and it didn't clear, and the expression on his face in the blinking— the dazed, uncomprehending, ruined expression— went directly into the center of Ilya's chest.

“Ow..” Shane lifted one hand toward his face, stopped halfway, let it drop.

Ilya crouched down.

He pressed his thumb to Shane's cheek, the flat of it dragging slowly through the cum there, and brought it to Shane's lips.

Shane's mouth opened. His tongue came out, curled, wrapped around the pad of Ilya's thumb, his lips closing softly behind it, and he sucked. A long, soft pull, his cheeks hollowing, his cum-stuck lashes still fluttering against each other as he tried to focus his eyes on Ilya's face. The sound he made around Ilya's thumb was very small. A whimper, swallowed mostly.

His tongue moved along the underside of Ilya's thumb.

Ilya watched his throat move as he swallowed, he left his thumb there. Shane's tongue kept moving against it, the tip of it tracing the pad, and his brow furrowed slightly.

He whimpered again.

Ilya pulled his thumb free. The wet sound of it leaving Shane's mouth was obscene and small and perfect.

Shane's lips closed where they had been.

"What do you say?" Ilya said.

Shane looked up at him. His chest was still heaving in unsteady pulls. The cum on his lashes caught the kitchen light, sitting thick and pale there. His cheek was still red from the slap, the heat of it living in his skin.

Ilya brought his hand up and slapped the other one.

Shane's head snapped sideways, and he just held it there with his eyes shut, then he turned back and swallowed once, his throat working.

He looked up at Ilya with his big, wet, wrecked brown eyes.

"Thank you for the milk, daddy," he said. “Got more, please?” 

Chapter End Notes

i'm on twitter ilyassoull
send asks on tumblr unseemlyndisturbed

for the non literature nerds: prince myshkin is the protagonist of dostoevsky's the idiot. he is kind, gentle, pure, completely naive, and gets absolutely destroyed by every single person around him because the world cannot leave something that innocent alone. he is called the idiot not because he is stupid but because he is too good for the world he has been placed in.

lmfaooooo finsally posting this its been sittng in my drafts akll day, i wanted it betaed but im like fuck gt if its my first miss it's my first miss. a bit of a damn mess, but hot, yes?

edit: i woke up no hangover less dramatics, thank you so much for reading. in regards to requests about continuing this, i hear you. i have lots of projects i'm working on right now. i also want to write another chapter at the least.

please stop begging for updates. again i hear you! it's coming! i'm working on other projects right now.

Chapter 2: how to turn your roommate into a sex slave

Chapter Notes

content warnings: dark fic, though written lighter than my usual. closer to parody in places. still covers dark subjects. homophobia, misogyny, toxic masculinity, internet degeneracy, drugging, and so on. tags updated and will continue to update with each chapter.

hello, chapter 2 :). i hope the length explains the wait. the format of the fic means that i can't really, nor want to, split it into more than 4 chps. the length means it will take me longer to update, not that i need an excuse for taking my time. to that point, i know we all love this fic, i love it too, but i write when i write. i have a plan for it, two more chapters as you can see. when will they come out? when i write them. thank u for reading.

post 710

updated FAQ + daddy is home.

wowwww, u guys disgust me so much 12k is too many people. where u all come from huh? don't worry, i know where they posted me i know what u want. perverts looking for sex tape of me and myshkin hmmmm, it's fine. chuds looking for tutorials are welcome here too. normies fucking rope.

this blog is my big beautiful collection of myshkin content. myshkin is my roommate. he is 5'11, japanese canadian, 21 years old, plays hockey for university team (yawwwn), has the most boring life and the most perfect little fuckable body you have ever seen. he is faggot (lol). he is so sexy. feel free to share any photos/videos i post.

check the mega before u AMA. folders organized by month, by camera, by category. u will get password via vetting by mods on discord, don't bother if member can't vouch. link to tagging, cumulative tracking spreadsheet, and events tab on discord too. the september-october thread is where you want to start if you are new. cum eating experiment/tutorial is organised here. enjoy!

sorry i have been gone to get milk for a bit. on spring break and was working on transferring everything to the new site and it's very fancy yes? feeling very fed having site on tor, lol, like it's serious. in the mean time i have been filling myshkin with my cum as many times as possible.

no face? no case ;). i keep him anonymous so no one scares little bunny away.

what does myshkin look like
face: boring pretty. big brown eyes, freckles on his nose. always looks a little tired, like he needs someone to put him to bed. nice mouth. small rabbit teeth. hair is black and straight, kept short, the bangs get sweaty from practice and stick to his forehead in little pieces.

body: strong. grabbable. 199.6lbs. soft stomach when he relaxes, right below the navel, it appears and disappears depending on how he's standing. nice legs. hairy thighs. nipples perky and brown, very responsive to cold, also to being held down. hole is brown and fucking tight.

favorite color: blue. ofc!!! boring little bunny.

morning routine wakes up at 6am to run, is on macrofaggot diet (daddy provides supplemental nutrition daily, sometimes twice daily). showers, smells like warm laundry and baby butt 😳. then studies hard, plays hard, gets raped, hard.

how does he act rigid in public. has assburgers so not good at socialising. doesn't like to have fun. likes to edge himself, and not just in the bedroom, in every area of his life. at home, with me, he is ok. comes and finds me when he wants something. is sweet and doesn't bite just bares his teeth.

how is he during sex he is loud. he grabs, baby can't keep his hands to himself. his hands are always doing something, holding on, pulling, scratching me up. taught him to cum hands free is good trick. lets me grope him and bend him over and rape him whenever i want. loves/hates to be smacked around. he goes completely nonverbal after a while (is autism or my big cock 😂). calls me daddy or master only. only knows my dick so he built for me. takes everything i give him and asks for more. 10/10. would recommend.

where are the cameras current count is 10. camera 1 living room, mounted behind the smoke detector above the tv. camera 2 next to airfryer. camera 3 bathroom, i drilled a small hole behind the mirror, very clean job clap clap for me. camera 4 myshkin's bedroom, inside the smoke detector directly above his bed, this one i am most proud of. camera 5 on his desk. camera 6 next to laundry machine. camera 7 kitchen, inside the wall clock. myshkin bought the clock himself at ikea in september. thank you myshkin 😘. camera 8 is attached to the tv. camera 9 in the hallway, camera 10 on my own desk facing outward.

what is your setup camera 1, 2, 4, 6, 7, 9: wyze cam v3. $35 each. 1080p, color night vision, built in mic picks up basically everything if the room is quiet, motion activated so i am not watching hours of empty hallway. wide angle lens gets the whole room. i run them through the wyze app on my phone, i can check live feed from anywhere. NO LIVESTREAMS. NO FUCKING LIVESTREAMS. ASK ME STUPID QUESTIONS AND SEE WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO YOU.

camera 3, 5, 8: reolink argus 3 pro. 2k resolution ;). the night vision on this one is exceptional, i recommend this one. if myshkin moves at 3am i see it in full color. battery powered so no wires to explain. i change the battery when myshkin has morning practice.

camera 10: logitech MX brio is just basic webcam because i don't fuck him in my room a lot.

audio: the wyze mics are sufficient for most things. for camera 5 i added a separate small mic tucked behind the baseboard near his bed. you can hear him breathing. you can hear everything.

storage: everything uploads to a private server automatically.

can myshkin see the cameras no lol

who are you 6ft, 225lb, 9 inches, your sexy russian daddy, myshkin's handler. i post tributes where you can see my body, dick and balls. is ok 👍 for you to thirst over me too, i am sexy, i know this, but blogs focus is myshkin.

2,000 comments

anonymous said: Welcome back anon :) missed you. How is school? Any projects you're working on?

anonymous said: DADDY IS HOME HE CAME HOME xd didn't abandon us for milk

anonymous said: kekekeke how u know he tight kekeke

anonymous said: Are you blind? What do you think? God these twitter tourists i swear how did you people even get here

anonymous said: how much of a sperg r u to not notice the obvious joke

anonymous said: no infighting. this isn't the sharty, no kids allowed, get back to soyjak

anonymous said: how can it possibly walk after getting big russian dick twice a day this fucking greedy little slut tie it to the toilet and shit and piss in it in its mouth its nose too so it can stop begging for dick every day

anonymous said: dada what events :3333 ?

anonymous said: Highly doubt he's a virgin tooo rapeable

anonymous said: "daddy provides supplemental nutrition" in the morning only? i think baby needs dick 2 sleep 2 tho

anonymous said: and when the world needed him most

anonymous said: show me bunnychan….slowly….melting…need…bunny…for…sustenance…dying of…horny….

anonymous said: can you compare myshkin's pussy to other pussies you fucked for reference

anonymous said: it's not a pussy, its against anon's principles to fuck pussy

anonymous said: LOL

daddy said: i get all the pussy i want whenever i want. if i say it's pussy is pussy.

 

∿∿∿∿∿∿

The thing about having twelve thousand and five hundred followers was that it was, genuinely, too many people. Ilya was glad that people appreciated his hard work, but the amount of traffic his sex tape had brought was fucking insane. 

He had briefly considered building out proper admin infrastructure, delegating mod permissions, and maybe even having a tiered vetting system for content access. He had the coding knowledge; it would take a weekend.

He pressed his tongue flat against his upper teeth and stared at the ceiling.

But that was like… fed shit. That was the most gay thing he could do here, full stop. You do not build a management system for your stalker blog. You sit on your couch, and you celebrate your success. If it becomes unmanageable, you migrate quietly, and you tell no one. 

Ilya sank deeper into the cushions.

His thumb moved up and down against his bare thigh, rubbing just to the hem of his boxers and back. His other hand was behind his head, fingers finding the short curls at the back of his skull. He had been doing this for an hour and a half, watching some bad dating show.

Love Island, maybe, or one of the ones that tried to be Love Island. The whole thing was boring, but he could see the appeal. Girls running around the house in these tiny swimsuits, hairless, perfect; it would be so easy to grab one as she was turning the corner and just slip the tip in. Ilya watched a brunette sway her hips as she walked, and wow, did her thong cut so nicely into the soft curve of her ass. 

And the guys, well. Whatever. Who cares about that. The one with the sharp jaw, tiny waist, and stupid wide back was probably on steroids; it was not impressive. Like, damn, his back was wide, big deal.

He reached over for his phone and flicked open the Wyze app. Camera 2: kitchen, empty, of course. Camera 4: Shane's room, the bed was made, and the lamp was off, so he was not in there. Camera 1—

"Hey, what are you watching?"

Ilya slowly lifted his eyes from his phone to the screen, to behind him. His thumb found the lock button on instinct and let the phone drop to the cushion.

Shane was leaning against the bathroom doorframe.

Steam moved around him in slow, soft curls, catching the light and then dissolving. He was like a slutty angel appearing from the clouds of slut heaven. His hair was wet, pushed back from his forehead, the dark strands already starting to separate as they dried. Naked, except for his boxers, the white ones, cotton, slightly snug for the support, but worn enough that the fabric had gone thin everywhere that mattered. His tan was already coming in, climbing his arms, flushing red at the shoulders from the hot shower, running in a band across his stomach, and stopping just short of his V-line like an arrow. Like his body had been organized specifically to point downward. 

And his cock— Shane wasn't small. Shane was, actually, quite big, and the press of white cotton against golden skin was pornographic. Ilya could see his full length through the fabric, the pink hue of the head showing through the front. The tan line banded around his mid-quad where the running shorts ended, a metaphysical stocking line, jock edition, sitting across the thick part of his thighs.

Ilya's eyes dropped to his ankles. White crew socks, adidas, probably, from the coloured bands at the top.

Slut Jesus, he thought. Please. Save me.

Ilya turned back around. His cock, which had been minding its own business all night, stirred with resigned familiarity.

"Eh." Ilya lifted one hand toward the screen. "Is show for teenage girls or something. Wasn't watching it."

He could still see him. If he angled his head by about eight degrees, the edge of the television screen caught Shane's reflection, blurred slightly by the dark of the drawn curtains, but there. Shane had a rule about the big overhead light in the evenings that he enforced severely, something about circadian rhythms and blue light being demonic. So: no big light, curtains drawn, television on low, and Ilya could see a ghost of Shane in the corner of the screen. 

Shane's biceps folded over his chest, the cross of his arms pressing his pecs outward slightly.

Ilya gripped the edge of the cushion to stop himself from falling off.

"That's Love Island," Shane said, with a small nod to himself, like he was confirming something he'd suspected. 

Ilya wiped the back of his hand across his nose and upper lip, trying to hide the quiver of his lip. "Of course you would know," he said.

Shane dropped onto the other end of the couch. His legs extended, socked feet coming to rest a few inches from Ilya's thigh. 

He could reach over and grab his left foot; that was how close it was. Just wrap his hand around the ankle and pull. He could bend down and put his mouth against the ball of Shane's foot, tongue finding the gap between the first toe and the second while Shane begged him to stop. 

He had come straight from the shower, so there'd be no sweat, but he could do it anyway. 

"What's that supposed to mean?" Shane mumbled, squinting. His eyes moved between Ilya and the TV in short, rapid darts, nose twitching at the tip with every glance. 

"I said is for teenage girls.” Ilya clicked his tongue. “There is your answer, Hollander.”

Shane's brow dropped, and his lips, still flushed from the heat of the shower, pulled inward into a pout. The flush came up a second later, moving from his ears inward, concentrating at the bridge of his nose and the scatter of freckles there. "Is that why you're watching it then?" he gritted out. 

His foot twisted idly back and forth, the heel rocking left and right against the cushion, the sock catching the fabric each time.

Ilya snorted. The joke wasn't funny, Shane's offence was the funny part, the way it sat in his face like he couldn't quite decide which part he was most annoyed about. "No," Ilya said. "I'm watching to see naked women bouncing their tits up and down as they—" He paused. On screen, two contestants were crouched over each other in some kind of team challenge, one of them dragging her tongue through a rope of whipped cream looped around the other's neck. Ilya tilted his head. "Eat whipped cream."

"You're disgusting, you shouldn’t talk about people like that," Shane muttered. "This show is gross. "

"What, is not to your taste?" Ilya settled his chin on his hand. "Romance, crying, dramatics, half-naked men? What kind of fa—"

"Ilya." Shane hissed through his teeth. "For the last time, don't use that word."

Cute. Ilya turned his head casually, his elbow on the armrest, chin on his hand, eyebrows raised in innocent inquiry. What he had not planned for was what Shane's face was doing, which was not the flushed, jaw-set anger of before. His mouth had gone soft, lips slightly parted, eyes fixed on Ilya's face with this flat, direct disappointment, pupils blown enough that the dark had swallowed most of the brown. Just a thin ring of it left, catching the television light.

They went right through his body and into his, well, brain. 

"It's not my taste," Shane said, facing the TV. "I'm gay, not a girl, and we don't all like the same things." He sighs. "I only know about the show because Rose likes it, okay? Okay. Moving on."

"You're so sensitive," Ilya grinned against his hand, and used his foot to push lightly at Shane's ankle.

"Fuck you." Shane didn't look back at him. "Fucking homophobic asshole."

A silence settled, the show played, and someone cried in a confessional booth about a man named Joe.

Shane shifted.

The first shift was just a weight adjustment, hips rocking slightly sideways. Then he moved again, one knee coming up, then dropping back down. Then he pulled his feet up to the cushion and tucked them under him for four seconds before abandoning this also. Every position was insufficient. He was like a cat circling a bed before lying down, except Shane did it without getting up, cycling through configurations with determined, methodical energy.

Ilya kept his eyes on the television.

He felt each movement in his peripheral vision like a current running along the surface of the couch. A new flare of warm bare skin at the edge of his eye with each shift. He breathed in very slowly through his nose, held it, and focused on the television, where someone was now explaining to the camera that communication was the foundation of every relationship, and she just didn't feel heard.

The shifting slowed, then stopped. Ilya counted to four before letting his eyes drift. 

Oh.

What the fuck.

Shane, come on.

He had flipped. At some point in the last fifteen seconds, he had migrated completely— head and crossed arms tucked into the far armrest, the rest of him pressed stomach-down into the cushions, his hairy thighs folded up toward his chest, knees tucked wide. His socked feet pointed at the ceiling. And his ass, in those white, worn-thin cotton boxers, was pointing like a compass needle directly into Ilya's face.

The fabric pulled tight across both cheeks; there was a small gap at the leg band on the left side where the elastic had lost some of its tension. The cotton was thin enough that the shadow of the seam of his hole was visible, just barely, just the hint of the shape underneath, and there was a damp spot on the fabric there. 

Ilya felt the rush of arousal hit him hard enough that his whole body flinched. His cock went from half-hard to fully, unambiguously hard, pressing immediately against the front of his boxers painfully. He covered the flinch with a cough, very badly. 

"What are you doing?" He said, nostrils flaring.

Shane turned his face slightly toward him. One eye visible, the other still pressed into the armrest, the sweep of his wet hair fallen sideways across his forehead. "What?"

"You know what you are doing."

Shane said nothing for a moment. "It's hot," he said, muffled slightly by the armrest. "The air conditioning is bad here."

"Mm." Ily hummed, nodding slowly. "So you shove your ass in my face."

Something moved at the corner of Shane's visible eye, the skin at the outer edge creasing slightly. He was smiling. He was putting his face into the armrest to hide that he was smiling, which was not working, because Ilya knew his face like the back of his hand. 

Shane mumbled something into the fabric.

"Hm?"

"No 'm not doing anything," he repeated, louder. The smile was audible now, sitting right in the middle of the words, pulling them sideways. He shifted against the cushion, both heels rocking, very rabbit. If he had a tail, it would be twitching. 

"Don’t lie." Ilya peeled himself off the back of the couch.

He moved slowly. Both hands finding the cushions, his weight shifting forward and then across, closing the distance like a predator approaching its prey. Shane's back was in front of him. The dip of his spine. The ridge of his shoulder blades through the thin cotton of his shirt. The impossible, continued existence of those boxers.

"You're being slutty," Ilya said.

Shane laughed against his arm. "No, I'm not. Fuck off."

"You are." Ilya put both hands down on either side of him, caging him in, his weight hovering over Shane's back. He lowered his voice. "You’re being a slut. Sluttier than those girls on TV."

Shane shook his head back and forth, and yes— there it was. He was grinning. Grinning into the armrest and actively failing to stop it, his cheek pressed into his own forearm, his shoulders shaking with the effort of keeping the sound in. He turned his face fractionally away and then back, trying to find somewhere to put the smile that wasn't directly visible.

"I don't know what you're talking abou—"

Ilya grabbed his hips with both hands, and he yanked— dragging Shane down the length of the couch, heels scrabbling against the cushions, and flipped him in one clean motion, rolling him over so his back hit the couch with a soft, surprised thud.

"Ilya!"

Ilya yanked Shane's boxers down his thighs in one pull.

"You got your little hole ready for me, huh?" He grunted, satisfied. "Fingered your bunny pussy and got so wet so Daddy could fuck you."

"Oh, fuck—" Shane's head dropped back.

Ilya looked down.

Shane's hole was flushed red, puckering slightly at the air, slick and already gaping just a fraction from his own fingers, lube leaking out in a slow, thin trail down the crease of his ass and pooling against the couch cushion. Ilya watched the small trembling clench and release, the redness around the brown edges, the way it was trying to close around nothing. His cock throbbed against his stomach.

Shane's dick was hard and pressed flat against his own belly, flushed dark, leaving a smear of precome across that tan line. Ilya's mouth filled with saliva. He wanted to drag his tongue up the full length of his cock, feel the pulse in the vein along the underside, take just the head between his lips, and suck until Shane was crying.

He needed to fuck him more.

He swore under his breath in Russian and slapped Shane hard across the face. The sound of it cut clean through the low noise of the television.

Shane groaned, his mouth dropping open, spit threading down from his lower lip. His eyes went dark and lidded, and he didn't close his mouth back up. Just held it there, open and wet, his cheek already going pink.

"Don't fucking touch yourself unless I say you can."

"I'm sorry," Shane said. His teeth found his bottom lip, not quite hiding the smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Ilya gripped his face, both fingers and thumb into his cheeks, hard enough to dimple the skin, and shook him once. Shane's head rocked, eyes going wide and round, blinking up at Ilya with those stupid big brown eyes, teeth still worrying his lip.

"Only Daddy can play in here."

Ilya gripped his cock, rubbing himself against his taint, watching Shane’s hole hungrily try and swallow him. 

Shane's breath left him in a rush. "I want you to play with me so bad," he gasped, breathless and completely sincere.

"Shit."

Ilya thrusted in. 

No preamble, just one long, driving thrust that buried him to the base, his hips flush against the backs of Shane's thighs, and then he started moving, pulling back and slamming forward with his full weight behind it.

Shane's body jerked up the couch cushion with the first thrust and didn't stop.

Moans were ripped out of him on every stroke. "Fuck—mm—Daddy—" and then nothing coherent after that, just the sounds, the filthy relieved groans and the high whines that came when Ilya hit deep, Shane's face falling all the way open, eyes rolling back and then fighting to close and then rolling again. He kept squeezing them shut and then blinking them open, like he couldn't decide whether he wanted to be inside it or watch it, and either way, he couldn't hold a single expression for longer than two seconds because Ilya kept taking it away from him.

His hands were everywhere. Around Ilya's back, fingers scrabbling for purchase against the muscle there. Up into Ilya's hair, gripping and then releasing. Down to his forearms, nails dragging crescents into the skin. He couldn't land anywhere; his body wouldn't let him hold still long enough.

His socked feet were in the air beside Ilya's shoulders. They kept straightening, going rigid and tense as Shane's whole body locked up around the pleasure, and then dropping back down, toes curling hard, the white cotton of the socks hanging helplessly while his heels bounced against nothing.

Camera 8 was recording all of it, and Ilya had a sudden, acute image of what the footage looked like— Shane's feet in those socks hanging in the air next to him, jerking up with every thrust and going slack again, the whole frame of his body rocking— and he groaned through his teeth.

"Fuck." He shifted his grip, fingers digging harder into Shane's hips. "Feeling good?"

Shane whined, his nails dragged up Ilya's forearms.

"Da. Loving it." Ilya drove in hard, holding the depth for a second, feeling the clench around him. "You love Daddy's cock."

"Yes—" Shane's voice cracked into a whine. "Please, Ilya, I love your cock so much, please—"

Ilya's whole body shuddered.

The thrusting stopped completely, hips went still,  and the absence of movement was so abrupt that Shane made a small, confused, wrecked sound and blinked up at him.

Ilya.

He'd said Ilya.

He said he loved Ilya’s cock, and technically, that was not different from Rozanov or Sir or Master, it was less sexy than Daddy by any reasonable metric, it was just his name, it was a word Shane said maybe ten times a day in completely mundane contexts, and yet Ilya's grip on his hips had tightened until his knuckles were white and his heart, which had been beating in his ears, was now beating in his ears and his throat and his hands and somewhere behind his back teeth.

This was not arousal, oh, arousal, Ilya knows. This was a dagger brutalising his chest that had nothing to do with where his cock currently was, which was buried inside Shane Hollander, who was looking up at him right now with those eyes. Those eyes. Whatever was in them, Ilya did not know. His cock was screaming at him to stop trying to figure it out and keep moving, and his brain was screaming for him to run away, and together they were producing nothing useful.

"I mea—" Shane started.

Ilya pulled out completely. He straightened up, ran one hand back through his hair, breathing through his nose. Shane's brows pulled together, a small, cautious furrow. His gaze dropped, then came back up to Ilya's face, uncertain.

Why is he looking at me like that?

He grabbed Shane's shoulder and flipped him hard, face-down into the couch cushions, and pinned him there, one hand flat between his shoulder blades, his full weight settling behind it.

"That's not my fucking name," he said, and pushed back in.

A muffled moan was punched out of him, his whole body lurching forward into the armrest, and Ilya fucked him through it without stopping this time, without daring to look at his face. 

∿∿∿∿∿∿

post 740

bunny in heat 🤯🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑

he's such a little slut had to just shake his tail at me. wearing the white boxers, fresh from the shower, all these tan lines like little stockings around his thighs where his running shorts end. useless cock was showing through the front of the fabric, flashing me, then he flopped face down on the couch and pointed his ass at me like a big flashlight. "look here daddy! cum in here! fill me up!"

got his pussy so wet and open before i even touched him. fingers, lube, the whole thing, already prepared for daddy like a good bunny. so when i yanked his boxers down he was already leaking. all red and flushed and puckering up at me. very politely asking to be filled.

came in myshkin 4 times last night. made him keep all of it in. he is so incredibly pregnant right now. must be at least 14 baby bunny rabbits in his tummy at this point, all of them kicking around in there, fed and warm. i feel good about this. won't stop me from slapping him across the face tho. fucking slut deserves it. he was smiling after the first one, so i gave him another, and another, and another. do you guys think if i punch his stomach he'll throw up? do you think he'll have an abortion? doesn't matter i'll just get him pregnant again 😂

myshkin's tits are so soft. so squishy. i have been thinking that myshkin should be making milk. he is a bunny. he is extremely pregnant. he has the most perfect soft little tits. how to make him milk?

2,340 comments

anonymous said: Punch his pregnant belly until he pukes up all your cum and then make him eat the vomit. Force feed him his own abortion lmaoooo

anonymous said: LACTATION ARC INCOMING HOLY FUCKKKKKKKK CUMMMINGGG

anonymous said: hello anon u might not remember me but i think i got ur old discord off /b/ back in the day i can help u out with the lactation stuff. requested u on disc.

daddy said: lol yes i know of you i remember you

anonymous said: he smiled when you hit him, what a fucking sick whore. beat the shit out of him next time upload the audio please

daddy said: i will hit him however i want i own his face

anonymous said: 14 baby bunnies in his belly :33 filled to the brim with daddy's cummies uhhh how will he have the babies haha?? we do operation omaagosh

anonymous said: lol anon imagine this is our first livestream

anonymous said: i want to see him crying and throwing up on the floor shitting the blood from abortion while u fucking his throat don't even let him breathe just let him choke on his own puke and ur dick

anonymous said: Can u rip those little shorts off and beat his stomach until he bleeds it all out? Ruin his hole so he can never take another dick again?

anonymous said: wait did the admin account just change from watmyshkindeserves to daddy with the site move?

daddy said: yes. is there a problem? 😂

anonymous said: NO DADDY THANK U DADDY

anonymous said: Tan lines..... jesus christ hes such a slutty jock. Wearin those little shorts just begging to be raped, reminds me of one of the kids I coach at college

anonymous said: literally punch the babies out of him! punch his fucking guts until he aborts them on the carpet and begs u to put more back in!

anonymous said: four times holy shit u completely broke him anon

anonymous said: he presented his ass to u like an omega in heat omg he's so sweet <3

∿∿∿∿∿∿

Four weeks in, Shane started staying up into the early morning.

Camera 2 caught him at the kitchen counter at 1:47am, aggressively reorganizing the spice rack in his boxers. Ilya had watched this from his bed with his phone balanced on his chest and did his best to stifle the shudders of laughter. 

The mood swings had started around the same time. They were not dramatic; Shane was not a dramatic person. His emotions were repressed to a fault, running underground and surfaced as jaw tension and clipped sentences rather than raised voices, but they were there, and they were new. He was pissy, and not in the usual tightly-wound irritability. 

The fork incident was the clearest data point.

Ilya had come out of his room in the middle of the night for instant ramen, and Shane had been at the counter, meal prepping in complete silence, a row of tupperware lined up beside the cutting board. Ilya had set his fork in the sink and turned back towards the hallway. 

"What is that?" Shane said.

Ilya looked at the sink, at the fork, then back at Shane. Shane’s jaw was fully locked, his chest was rising and falling in a way that suggested he was using significant internal resources to keep his voice at its current level.

"Is a fork," Ilya said.

"I know it's a fork," Shane said, maintaining his composure. "I know it's a fork, Ilya, I’m not stupid. I have two eyes. What I am asking you is why it is in the sink and not in the dishwasher, which is right there. And unloaded because I fucking unloaded it this morning—" Shane blinked and suddenly pressed his lips together. He breathed through his nose for three full seconds and then turned back to the cutting board and resumed chopping.

Ilya put the fork in the dishwasher, went back to bed, pulled up camera 2 on his phone to watch Shane eat four spoonfuls of cold leftover rice standing at the counter.

That’s another thing, the snacking. 

Shane Hollander did not snack. He ate four meals a day and one designated snack; to Shane, his meal plan wasn’t a preference, it was a structure. And somewhere in the last four weeks, the structure had developed holes, because Ilya's cameras had now caught him three separate times making the trip between the fridge and his bedroom in under an hour— once at 11 pm, once at midnight, once at 12:40 am. Each time he took something small; a handful of crackers, a piece of fruit, a spoonful directly from the peanut butter jar, which Ilya knew for a fact had not been on Shane's approved food list.

Fine, snacking, stress-cleaning, who cares? Ilya cares, but in the grand scheme of things, it was nothing he couldn’t deal with. 

The sex is what set off Ilya’s alarm bells. 

It had started small enough that he had almost missed it, Shane shifting away from his hands, a slight repositioning, nothing dramatic. The first time it happened Ilya had been gripping Shane's chest from behind, and Shane had reached up and moved his hands lower without a word, without breaking stride, like it was an unconscious adjustment. 

The second time, he had not let him.

They were on Ilya's bed, Shane on his back with his arms hooked under his own knees, and Ilya had dropped his weight forward and pressed both palms flat against Shane's chest, feeling his heart beating steadily beneath the muscle, the warmth, and Shane had jolted.

He hissed, his whole torso contracting slightly, his hands flying up to grab Ilya's wrists and gripping, his knuckles white and his eyes squeezed shut, his bottom lip caught hard between his teeth.

"Too hard?" Ilya said.

"No." Shane exhaled slowly. His grip on Ilya's wrists loosened. "No, it's— just— go slow."

Ilya had gone slow. He had pressed his palms against Shane's chest in a deliberately long drag, watching Shane's face the whole time. Shane's eyes kept fluttering, his brow was furrowed, in desire. He kept breathing like he was managing it, like there was something to manage.

Now, standing in front of Ilya, dripping all over his carpet, he was clearly not managing. 

He had clearly come straight from the shower; his hair was still wet, dark strands stuck to his forehead and dripping down onto the carpet in small, separate drops. The towel was knotted at his hip, and he was holding the side of it with both hands, gripping it so hard the fabric was pulling out of shape. His whole face was red, not the concentrated pink at the nose and the cheeks, his entire face, to the ears, down the neck, all of it.

He wasn't looking at Ilya properly. His eyes kept moving—to Ilya's face, down to his own chest, away, back.

"Is it really bad?" Shane whispered. His jaw was trembling slightly. There were bags under his eyes that had been building for two weeks, and right now they sat heavy and dark beneath the red of his face.

Ilya adjusted his expression to something that sat between mildly curious and unimpressed. He sat up properly on the bed and rested his clasped hands on his lap.

"So it's fucking bad." Shane’s voice jumped half an octave. "Fuck, man, it's bad, what the fuck am I going to do—"

"I did not say—"

"What the fuck—" Shane pressed the heel of his palm to his mouth and then dropped it. His heels were rocking back and forth, his body rising and falling with each shuddering inhale. He turned around and started pacing—four steps to the wall, four steps back, his wet hair tracking water in a thin line across the carpet. His shoulders were practically at his ears.

Shane's anxious face was not like other people's anxious faces. Anyone who didn't know him would read it as flat, his lips pressed into a thin line, brows pulled completely, but the tells were in his eyes, which were wet and moving constantly, pupils darting between fixed points, and in his hands, which had found the short tufts of his hair at his forehead and were pulling at them in small, compulsive tugs.

That must really hurt. 

"No, no, okay— come here." He sat forward. "Let me see properly."

Shane turned his head and scowled over his shoulder. "No."

"Let me check. Come here, Shane." Ilya sighed. He pointed at the floor between his feet. "You know I am good at biology."

"That's like—" Shane made a frustrated gesture with both hands, "Peptides and stuff, I don't know, weird biohacking, body-building shit. That doesn't make you a medical professional."

Ilya sucked his cheeks in and dropped his head towards his lap. How did Shane know about peptides? They had genuinely been spending too much time together; in a month or two, he'd be talking about looksmaxxing.

"What's so fucking funny." Shane hissed.

Ilya lifted his head. "I am imagining you going to the student clinic," he said, "and flashing your nipples to some poor medical student. Just for them to decide it is—" he paused and clicked his tongue, "Stress induced."

Shane peered at him over his shoulder, side-eyeing him.

"Just let me check," Ilya said. "I will make sure it is not emergency. Save you the embarrassment."

Shane shoved all his anger into an indignant huff, and then it ran out of energy and left just the embarrassment, which he was visibly trying to organize his face away from. He turned around fully and stomped the four steps to the bed, stopping between Ilya's knees, looking down at him.

Ilya looked up.

He licked his lips, slowly, and let his gaze move up Shane's body, the line of his jaw, his neck, the drops of water running down the tanned skin and catching on his Adam's apple, which bobbed once under Ilya's gaze. The sharp line of his collarbones, and then down. 

Shane's pecs were swollen, undeniably, the tissue full and dense beneath the skin in a way that made the line between them obscene, a deep shadow of cleavage that was going to live in Ilya's brain until he was dead. His nipples were flushed, dark brown, going pink at the areola, swollen, and peaking hard in the cool air from the fan. And leaking from both of them was a thin, clear thread. Almost nothing. A single slow drip from the left, catching the light as it fell, running down the soft swell of his stomach.

His stomach. Shane's stomach was pushing out slightly, the muscles straining underneath the bloat, his abs barely visible beneath the pressure of it. He looked, oh fuck, he looked—

"Bozhe moy," Ilya said, before he could stop himself.

"What was that?"

Ilya did not respond. His eyes moved between Shane's chest and his stomach and back.

Shane made a low, humiliated groan and brought both hands up to cover himself. He smacked them down hard against his own chest and immediately yelped, flinching backward, his face crumpling.

"Hollander." Ilya snarled. "Don't do that. Don't touch them like that, you're just hurting yourself."

"Don't tell me what to do," Shane snapped at him, stepping backwards as if to walk away. Then he stepped forward again, and the sharpness went out of him instantly, and what replaced it was small and tired and ashamed. He turned his face away, pressing it against his own shoulder, his mouth pulling sideways. "Okay, sorry. I know you're just trying to help. I've just been— the past few weeks have been a lot, okay? I'm already pissed off." He whispered it against himself.

Ilya nodded slowly. He lifted his hand and rested it on Shane's waist, gently pulling him back into the space between his knees. "I am going to touch," he said. "I will be gentle."

"Okay," Shane whispered. He brought both hands up and set them on Ilya's shoulders, gripping hard, his fingers digging into the muscle there. He was bracing himself like he was about to be hurt.

Ilya swallowed.

He adjusted against the sheets, kept his expression completely still and hoped with genuine focus that his black sweatpants were hiding the growing bulge beneath them.  He raised one hand, slowly, and pressed his palm flat against Shane's left pec.

Shane's grip on his shoulders tightened immediately. "Ow— fuck, it—"

"I know." Ilya kept his palm where it was. "I know, just breathe. I'm not moving yet."

Shane breathed. His chest expanded against Ilya's hand, trembling slightly. Ilya waited, feeling the dense, swollen weight of the tissue, and then began to move— a slow, circular drag, keeping the pressure even and constant. Shane's grip went from bracing to gripping to yanking, his fingers pressing hard into Ilya's shoulders.

"Is still hurting?" Ilya said quietly.

"It's—" Shane exhaled through his teeth. "Less."

Ilya moved to the other side and applied the same pressure, palm flat, dragging in careful circles across the hot, swollen skin. Shane's brow was furrowed, and his bottom lip was caught between his teeth, hard, his eyes closed.

Ilya pressed his thumb gently across the center, over the nipple, a single slow pass.

Shane shuddered. His head fell back, fully, his throat exposed, and a soft gasp fell out of his mouth.

Ilya did it again.

"Fuck." He whined, his whole chest surging forward slightly into Ilya's hand. 

"Want me to stop?"

Shane shook his head, his eyes were still closed, and the flush in his face had gone deeper.

Ilya kept going, with both hands now, thumbs curling across both nipples, fingers spreading the pressure outward, massaging in slow circles from the outer edge inward, and Shane was letting out whines with each exhale that he was clearly trying to suppress and clearly unable to— small, higher-pitched, bitten back at the last second and escaping anyway. 

A thin thread of liquid welled up, gathered around the peak of his nipple. Ilya pressed inward, a careful squeeze, and a thin stream of milk ran down Shane's stomach.

Shane opened one eye and looked down at his chest. His blush, which had been living exclusively in his face, spread visibly down his throat and across his collarbones. 

"What is that? Is that like, cancer?" he said, voice trembling with mortification. 

"I don't know, is not cancerous," Ilya said, which was the most complete lie he had ever told in his life. "But I think it wants to come out, Shane."

"Get it out of me." Shane's voice pitched up, horrified. "Please. This is— this is disgusting, I want it out—" He reached down and grabbed Ilya's hand and put it back on his chest, pressing it there, looking at Ilya with his big wet eyes in absolute earnest. "Please."

Ilya guided Shane up and forward, and Shane moved with him, clambering onto the bed, his towel falling away completely as his knees found the mattress on either side of Ilya's thighs. He settled into Ilya's lap, straddling him, both of them sitting upright, chest to chest, Shane's bare skin warm and damp against him. His cock was already half-hard, pressing against Ilya’s, and he was clearly aware of it and clearly not saying anything about it, his eyes averted.

Ilya said nothing about it either.

He brought both hands up to Shane's chest and started again, slower this time, fondling from the outside in, his thumbs rolling careful circles across the swollen tissue. Shane inhaled sharply and then slowly let it out. His forehead dropped forward, pressing against the side of Ilya's head, his wet hair cold against Ilya's temple. He could feel every exhale. Could feel each one changing as Ilya's hands found their rhythm, the sharp intakes going smoother, the held breath letting go sooner, the sounds that escaped him getting longer and more pleading. 

Ilya pressed his thumbs to Shane's nipples and rolled them slowly. Shane groaned, his hips shifted, his cock dragging hot and hard against Ilya's stomach.

They both looked down.

Ilya's hands kept moving, he did not say anything, he looked up at the wreckage of Shane’s face instead—the red and his long wet lashes and bitten lip—and shuddered. He wrapped one hand around Shane's cock.

"Oh God—" Shane's body lurched, his hands flying to Ilya's shoulders again. "What are you, oh—why does—oh fuck that feels so—" He gave up on the sentence entirely, his hips rolling forward into Ilya's fist, then back, finding the rhythm on their own.

Ilya stroked him slowly, pressing his thumb across the head as he twisted his wrist, spreading the pre-come already beading at the slit. Shane was big, flushed, and fully hard in his hand, the skin hot, pulsing with his heartbeat. Ilya felt that pulse in his own palm and tightened his grip.

He kept his other hand on Shane's chest. Kept the pressure slow and even while his fist milked Shane's cock in the same rhythm, both at once, both hands, Shane suspended between them, not knowing which sensation to move into.

A thin thread ran from Shane's left nipple, sliding down the curve of his pec and over the soft swell of his stomach. Ilya’s eyes kept fluttering between them, the swollen dark flush of the areola, the way Shane's chest rose and fell in shallow, desperate increments, the tissue so full and dense and right there, his smooth skin slick from the shower and warm under his thumb and—

The thought did not have time to complete itself; his mouth was already moving toward it.

He pressed his lips to the swell of Shane's pec first, not the nipple, just the skin above it, open-mouthed. Shane froze. Ilya dragged his mouth lower, slowly, his tongue flat against the curve, tasting that beautiful, shower-warm skin and the faint salt underneath and something else, something thin and almost-sweet that he chased with the tip of his tongue until he found the source of it.

He closed his mouth around Shane's nipple and sucked.

Shane's whole body seized. Both hands drove into Ilya's hair, fingers scrabbling for grip, and his groans went directly into the base of Ilya's skull. He glanced up at him. 

Shane's head was tipped back, throat fully exposed, jaw dropped open. His bottom lip was swollen from where he'd been biting it, and now he wasn't biting anything, now his mouth was just open, every sound falling out of it unfiltered— these broken, stuttering exhales that crested into whines every time Ilya's tongue moved. The flush had gone all the way down his chest now, living in the skin Ilya's mouth was pressed against, hot against his lips. His eyelids kept fighting to close and keep losing, fluttering open on each inhale, and every time they opened, he looked down at Ilya, at Ilya's mouth on his chest, at Ilya's hand on his cock.

Ilya sucked harder.

The thin warm trickle came again, against his tongue, and he sucked harder, drawing it out, coaxing it. Shane's thighs were shaking against his. His hips had found a rhythm in Ilya's fist, and he was chasing it with everything he had, his cock thick and flushed and pulsing hot in Ilya's hand. Ilya ran his tongue in a slow circle, felt Shane's fingers tighten in his hair hard enough to sting, and did it again.

"Ilya, if you–mnnnn." The word fell apart in the middle. "That feels so— please, more, fuck, you're so good to me—"

Ilya pulled off, dragged his tongue slowly across the curve of Shane's chest, collecting what had run. He pressed an open kiss to his chest, then moved to the other side, lips finding the right nipple.

He looked up again.

Shane was staring down at him. Eyes completely blown, pupils swallowing the brown, lashes wet and clumped, drool running down from the corner of his puffy pink lips. His hair was still damp and falling across his forehead, his chest was heaving, and he was the sexiest fucking thing Ilya had ever looked at in his entire life.

He closed his eyes and sucked harder.

"Fuck, I think I'm—unnnh—I think I'm gonna come—"

Ilya hummed against his chest, tightened his fist, and felt Shane shatter.

He came in thick, heavy stripes across Ilya's chest, pulsing in his fist, his whole body going rigid and then crumpling, his hands were in Ilya's hair and pulling hard enough to sting, his forehead dropping to press into the top of Ilya's skull as the last of it moved through him and left him empty. He went slack. 

Shane's full weight was in his lap, two hundred pounds of post-orgasm hockey player slumped against his chest, his face pressed into the curve of Ilya's neck, his breath coming in slow, wrecked gasps that Ilya could feel against his collarbone. His hair was still damp, and it was cold against Ilya's jaw, but his thighs were so hot on either side of Ilya's hips. The cum on Ilya's chest was cooling in stripes between them, tacky where their skin pressed together.

Ilya blinked at the wall ahead of them. 

The wet patch in his own boxers was spreading, even though he had not touched himself once. 

Shane exhaled a long, completely boneless breath, his whole body softening further into Ilya's. His hands gently patted Shane’s back. Ilya didn't remember putting them there.

∿∿∿∿∿∿

post 780

lactation project: update 16 👎

credit to @needsmilking for the original protocol and the dosage chart. he has been in the mega helping track yield since week one. good man, respectable pervert, deserves a good blow job. 🙇‍♂️😉

heres what ive been doin so far

step 1: priming
weeks one through two. 30mcg estrogen for my bunny, crushed, dissolved, administered in food or drink daily. i used his protein shakes because he makes them himself every morning without variation and drinks them immediately. don't do anything creative u fuck.

the dosage chart is in the discord under lactation project > phase one. follow it exactly. do not freelance the estrogen dose, you will make him sick before anything interesting happens.

what to expect: nothing dramatic yet. some mood changes. some bloating (this can't be stopped, if you give them fibre to shit they will shit out the excess estrogen too), nipple sensitivity beginning. just enjoy the screaming, it was a little bit sexy. like angry pregnant wife :P.

step 2: the kicker!!
week three onward, add domperidone. this is the one that does the actual work. blocks dopamine receptors, prolactin spikes, body gets confused and starts doing what we want. for my domperidone i hav a source i trust in china that tests for heavy metals, if you beg nicely maybe i will share with u. increase estrogen to 60mcg. it goes in his coffee, he takes it black, no sugar, which made this extremely easy. thank you myshkin for having no personality boring little sweetheart my sweet princess.

what to expect: yield begins around week five to six. before that you will see the tissue changes, swelling, sensitivity, the nipples going darker and staying hard.

step 3: milking
he came to me in week six. stood in my bedroom doorway in a towel dripping on my carpet, full body red, convinced he was dying. i checked him. you have to be very sweet and kind, a shoulder to cry on. if you make fun of them they will NOT come to you for help again. make them know you are safe and will not judge, doing them a favour. he has been coming to me weekly since then and i have been helping him drain. you can hear some sessions in the mega under milking sessions > weekly lay down a towel, they won't be making enough for a bucket lol.

yield report: week six through ten.
disappointing, if i am being honest with you.

[image: A small glass bottle, maybe 30ml capacity, sitting on the bathroom counter. Pale fluid inside, not quite white, slightly translucent. The meniscus sits maybe two-thirds of the way up.]

[image: A white hand towel, folded once. There are several small damp patches across it, irregular, slightly translucent against the cotton.]

[image: Shane's chest, from the collarbone down, face not visible. Both nipples flushed dark and swollen, a thin thread of fluid from the left one caught mid-drip. the swell of the tissue is visible. The soft push of his stomach below.]

this is six sessions of yield. needsmilking says this is normal for the timeline and i should be patient, but i want more than 30ml per session from my bunny. he should be producing more than this. okay, i will be honest i also drink most of it before collection but is besides the point 😒😒😒

i am considering increasing the domperidone dose.

needsmilking has advised against this. he says the current dose is already at the upper range of what is safe and i should wait another two weeks before increasing, i think he is being boring blah bla blah who ask? mm bunny tits leak milk thats all im think bout.

890 comments

anonymous said: Increase the dose double it. What's the worst that happens? He gets a little sick. He's young he's healthy his body can take it.

anonymous said: If he dies at least he dies full of your cum and milk best way to go honestly LOL dying on BRC

anonymous said: DO NOT increase the dose. the domperidone is already at the upper ceiling for someone doing high intensity cardio daily. his heart is working twice as hard as a normal person's. read the contraindication chart i sent you. i mean it.

anonymous said: if he stops because of u i'm roping fucking suifuel hate this

anonymous said: needsmilking diddles little boys and is a FAAAAgot don't listen

anonymous said: he's a d1 athlete his heart can handle it lol he's not a normal person he's built for this increase the dose and post the yield

anonymous said: If he collapses on the ice that's actually so hot baby, carry him off in your arms and drain his tits in the locker room

anonymous said: i want to see the milk running down his pregnant belly until he's soaked. increase it until he's leaking constantly, through his shirt, at practice, everywhere. make him embarrassed all the time so he knows he's yours

daddy said: noted

anonymous said: Anon pls. I have been in this discord since the yoghurt arc and I want this to work as much as anyone here but this specific combination at higher doses has a black box warning for a reason. If he goes into arrhythmia during practice nobody is going to know why and you are going to have a very serious problem on your hands.

anonymous said: worst case scenario he passes out and wakes up in daddy's bed with his tits being sucked lol fuck off scaring the shit out of anon this fbicel lmfao

anonymous said: RIGHT HAHA THIS WHITE KNIGHT

anonymous said: increase the domperidone AND the estrogen at the same time and see what happens LOL

daddy said: i am considering it.

anonymous said: jfl "considering" :' (

anonymous said: he came to you in a towel dripping on your carpet thinking he was dying and you milked him for thirty minutes and he came back the next week kek he is so perfectly broken just ruin him completely. who cares if he gets sick thats kind of hotter

anonymous said: If he dies you can preserve him. taxidermy myshkin mount him on the wall. ;)))))))

anonymous said: increase the dose daddy we believe in you 🙏

∿∿∿∿∿∿

Sometimes Ilya thought about switching his major.

Economics was easy. He was pretty smart, he knew this, it was not a brag it was just a fact, and coasting through a software engineering focus would probably be even easier in the long run. His father would send him back to Russia for it, though, pack him onto a plane personally, and Ilya would end up in some apartment in St. Petersburg with a dead-end job and a Slavic wife with a practical haircut. Not that Ilya wasn't going to settle down with a beautiful Slavic woman eventually, he was, that was the plan, he just had other things to do first.

Like cycling through mic feeds.

He had his custom monitoring software open on his left monitor and his microeconomics homework on his right, and he was making acceptable progress on both, pulled comfortably into the rhythm of the numbers on his screen while the sound of the apartment filled his headphones. Shane wasn't home yet—practice didn't end for another thirty minutes, and Shane took post-practice strategy meetings with religious seriousness, like he believed God was watching specifically for signs of athletic laziness—but Ilya had found, over the course of the semester, that the apartment's ambient sounds were their own kind of company. The leaky bathroom sink, the building's ventilation, the creak of the hallway floorboard outside Shane's room.

He was genuinely focused, fingers moving on the keys, when the mic peaked. The sound of the door slamming shut hit his headphones so hard and sudden that he yanked them off by reflex, letting them clatter onto the desk. 

He glanced at the clock on his monitor. Shane wasn't supposed to be home for thirty minutes. They had a game tomorrow, Shane wouldn't skip strategy for anything short of literal death. 

A bad feeling spiked in his gut. 

He leaned forward and clicked through to the bathroom feed, the reolink behind the mirror, and his hand slipped off the mouse.

The camera had motion-tracked to the toilet. Shane was on his knees on the tile, both hands gripping the closed lid, his compression shirt dark with sweat across the shoulders and down the center of his back. His bangs were plastered flat to his forehead, completely soaked, and from this angle, Ilya could see his side profile— the long straight line of his nose, flushed red, and his eyes squeezed shut so hard the skin around them had gone white. His whole body was trembling, and his free hand was pressed flat over his chest.

Ilya's chair hit the carpet behind him before he'd registered standing up.

He was down the hall in four seconds, grabbed the bathroom door handle, and thank God, for once, Shane had not locked it— it swung open and Ilya stopped completely in the doorway, chest heaving from the sprint, and just stood there.

"Hollander."

Shane turned his head, slowly. His eyes found Ilya's, and they were bloodshot, hazy, and lined underneath with bruises so dark they looked painted on. Ilya had been watching them develop on the cameras for two weeks, had noted them in passing, had written bunny looking tired, must be working so hard growing my babies :) in a blog post and moved on. In the unforgiving fluorescent light of the bathroom, they were something else entirely. 

Sweat was running down his face in actual rivulets. Down his temples, into his eyes, dripping from his jaw onto the tile. His eyelids moved in slow, enormous blinks, like they were too heavy for his face.

"Ilya," Shane said, and then his head dropped back down against the toilet seat.

"Shit."

Ilya dropped to his knees on the tile and got his hands under Shane's arms, pulling him up and back until he was sitting against the bathroom cabinet, legs splayed. His head kept nodding forward. Ilya grabbed his face in both hands, holding him up.

"Hey." He jostled him slightly. Shane's eyes stayed closed. He was burning, the heat of his skin coming through Ilya's palms, concentrated and wrong. "Hey."

He gently tapped Shane’s cheek, and he shivered; one eye opened.

"There you are," Ilya said, and his voice came out softer than he meant it to, softer than he had any reason for it to be, and he didn't have time to think about that. "Sweetheart, there you are. Keep your eyes open, okay? Both of them."

"Your hands are cold," Shane mumbled. His brows scrunched together in the middle, faintly confused, like this was the piece of information he had decided to focus on.

Ilya's mouth trembled, his lips pressed together against the smile. Shane was burning up and barely conscious, and apparently still managing to be a brat about it. "Ah, no," he said. "You are burning, that is why. What happened? Why are you— okay, you felt sick during practice. How did you get home? When did it start?"

"Ugh—" Shane's mouth opened and closed, the sound of it extremely dry. "I fainted. In the locker room, before, earlier, so had to get checked and had a fever so just took meds and rested during practice." He muttered, his cheek pressed into Ilya's palm.

"You fainted."

"Felt better after. Decided to come home early, didn't want anyone to miss the meeting, so just walked, and then suddenly felt so—" Shane stopped, his face scrunched up. "Oh, God."

He lurched forward, and Ilya caught him by the shoulders, got the toilet lid up in one motion, and pushed Shane over the bowl. He held him there, one hand flat between his shoulder blades, and heard the first wave hit.

He looked away, but rubbed Shane's back in a slow circle, the heel of his hand moving up and down the ridge of his spine. "Is okay?" he said, after a moment.

Shane started to pull back, nodding weakly, and then seized forward again and vomited violently, yellow bile flooding from his mouth. Ilya's eyes widened, but still, he kept his hand on Shane's back, kept it moving in that circle.

Oh, shit.

The lurching went on longer than it should have. When it stopped, Shane went completely limp, his body dropping back into Ilya's hands like the strings had been cut. Ilya pulled him back, and Shane's eyes were closed, face fully slack, his whole weight falling against Ilya's chest, face tilted up at him. 

His lashes were lying flat against the tops of his flushed cheeks. His mouth was wet, lips swollen and parted, a thin trail of vomit running from the corner of his mouth down his chin. His brows slightly furrowed even in unconsciousness, that permanent faint crease between them that Ilya had ten cameras monitoring at all times. And despite everything, despite all of it, the vomit and the sweat and the bile, he looked—

He looked so—

Ilya reached for the toilet paper. He wiped Shane's forehead first, pressing the damp hair back from his face, then his chin, the corner of his mouth.

"Is okay," he said quietly, to the room, to Shane's closed eyes. "Baby, I'm going to take care of you."

And then his heart fucking stuttered. 

It was doing the same thing it had done on the couch two weeks ago, or when Shane said нет to inanimate objects. The squeezing thing in his chest, which had absolutely no business being involved in any of this. His dick was also involved, yes, that was normal; his dick was always involved, that was the expected response to having Shane's tight body in his arms. The squeezing in his chest was not expected nor normal.

His heart has never squeezed like this for anyone else. Not for any of the weird fucked up, sex-pest things he has done to people in the past, and there had been a number of those. The only thing that should be getting squeezed right now was his dick in his boxers—and it was getting squeezed, alright—but his heart was also racing, and that was disgusting, and Ilya needed to stop feeling it right now.

He picked Shane up with both arms, one under his knees and one behind his shoulders, Shane's dead weight settling against his chest. He carried him down the hall and into his bedroom, not Shane's, his, because his was closer, obviously, and settled him on top of the covers because he was still sweating, and covering him up would only make it worse.

He went to the bathroom, got a face towel, and ran it under cold water, making sure to flush the disgusting toilet too. He came back and laid the towel across Shane's forehead, pressing it gently into the skin. 

Shane's face was lit by the lamplight. The damp strands at his forehead shone from it, and Ilya's fingers brushed them back, the backs of his fingers sticking against the hot skin of his temple.

A thin trail of snot started running from Shane's nose down toward his upper lip.

He looked much younger like this. 

There it was again, the squeezing, sitting directly in the center of his chest, making itself completely at home. He stared at Shane's unconscious face and felt it burning, with nowhere to put it. Almost nowhere.

He was still hard, of course, because Ilya was not a pussy, he was not a sad little self-hating beta who was going to crawl away from this and stare at the wall and think about his feelings. He was going to focus on the problem he could control, the one that was located below the waist and was therefore logical and explainable, and did not require any further examination.

Slowly, carefully, keeping his weight on his forearms. He settled over Shane, fully clothed, both of them, Shane's compression shirt damp under him, and he kept his hands below Shane’s hips to not put any weight on Shane's chest or stomach.

He could say things.

Shane couldn't hear him, couldn't look at him with those eyes and read him, extract sentences that he had not agreed to give. Shane's face at rest was just still, nothing but lashes and blush that apparently lived in his cheeks as a permanent biological fact, present even now. 

Not like Ilya cared about whether people judged him. Fuck that, he didn't. He had never once in his life restructured his behaviour around someone else's reading of him.

But everyone judged. That was just a fact of physics, like gravity, like the domperidone in Shane's bloodstream. Everyone had their picture of how things were supposed to go, how people were supposed to act. How he was supposed to act, as a man, specifically as a Russian man, which came with its own additional set of requirements. Maybe Ilya had absorbed that the way you absorb anything that arrives early enough and loud enough. Just a bit. 

But Shane couldn't hear any of that, no, he just took what Ilya gave him and accepted it.

He pressed their hips together and started a slow, rolling grind, his cock pressing through two layers of fabric against Shane's, and Shane was hard too, even unconscious, even fevered, just for him. Ilya groaned quietly at the ceiling and let his hips drop more heavily. 

"You're so fucking pretty," he groaned, out loud. "Fuck, Shane. You're so pretty."

He could look at his face, when Shane was asleep, Ilya could just— look at it, as long as he wanted, without Shane's eyes doing anything back at him. That beautiful splatter of freckles along his cheeks, dark, thick lashes fanned against his flushed cheeks. That mouth, slightly open, lips swollen and red, a smear of spit at the corner. Ilya rolled his hips down hard and felt the drag of Shane's cock against his and hissed through his teeth.

He wanted to say it all in Russian. The words were sitting right there in his mouth in his mother's language; he couldn’t, he wouldn't; it felt like sacrilege, like saying it in Russian made it real in a way English didn't, so he said it in the language that meant less.

"Love your face," he breathed, grinding down, his rhythm getting sloppier. "Fucking love your face, oh my bunny, you're so—fuck—you're so fucking sexy, I love you like—"

Ilya snapped his mouth shut. 

His hips kept moving, harder now, chasing his high, the friction building hot through the fabric, Shane's cock so thick and present against his, and he pressed his forehead to Shane's jaw and kept moving, rutting against him, panting like a dog, completely graceless, one hand fisted in the pillow beside Shane's head and the other gripping the mattress.

Shane's brow furrowed. A small unconscious crease, his hips shifting up slightly on reflex to meet Ilya's without waking, and that—that—

Ilya shoved his face into Shane's neck and came.

It punched through him, his hips stuttering forward in short, desperate jerks, his teeth catching the hot skin of Shane's throat without biting down, just reaching for skin-to-skin contact. An embarrassing wet flood spread through his boxers. He lay there shaking slightly, his full weight carefully held off Shane's chest and stomach, and breathed Shane's neck in until the shaking stopped.

∿∿∿∿∿∿

∿∿∿∿∿∿

"Order for Ilya?"

He stood, pulled his hands out of his pockets, and wrapped them around both cups. The matcha was huge. He had not fully processed how absurd it was until he was holding it— a large, possibly the largest size available, violently green and bright through the plastic, sweating condensation down onto his fingers immediately. He turned for the door.

"Since when did you drink matcha, bro."

Marleau's eyes were moving between the Americano in his left and the matcha in his right, one eyebrow up, mouth already pulling.

Ilya's head tilted. "What? I don't."

"My bad for assuming." Marleau held the door open, voice completely flat with sarcasm. "It's just, and I don't know if you've noticed, you've got the biggest fucking cup of matcha I've seen in my life in your hand right now."

Ilya looked at the cup.

He pushed past Marleau into the white shock of the afternoon sun and said nothing.

"Is it for a girl?" Marleau caught up in two steps and smacked him flat between the shoulder blades.

"No." Ilya shouldered him off; he squinted into the sun, flexing his jaw. "What is with these questions. Are you a fucking detective? Mr. Curious George?" His eyes went to the curl of dark hair falling across Marleau's forehead. "You look like him. With your dickhead haircut."

Marleau's arm came around his shoulders immediately, pulling him in. "I thought you liked my haircut."

"I was lying."

A wide smile moved across Marleau's face, blinding Ilya with those perfect pearly whites. He pulled Ilya closer, and they walked like that across the quad, Marleau's arm heavy across his shoulders, until the cluster of trees at the far edge threw them into shade and the temperature dropped five degrees and Ilya's whole body exhaled. 

"You know, I've been thinking," Marleau said, drawing it out.

"Ah, this is possible for you?" Ilya shook his head slightly.

"Yeah, with my brain." Marleau tapped his temple. "I know that sounds crazy to you, because you've got like, one big ass pair of balls knocking around in your hea—"

"Jesus fucking Christ, this gay shit again." Ilya closed his eyes for one full second.

"No— it's relevant, it's relevant, okay. So." Marleau released him and held up both hands, assembling the story. "I went on this date with this hot fucking girl. Like an 8. A real 8, super cute, wholesome, sourdough baking kind of cute, you know the type. But she refuses to do anything other than anal."

Ilya looked at him sideways.

Marleau gestured in enormous circles with his right hand. "Yeah. I know. So I told my frat last night, and this mole-rat looking, sweaty, just—" he hissed through his teeth like he'd touched something hot, "just a genuinely weird looking guy in the corner, he was adamant that anal was gay. The act itself. Laced in homosexuality, structurally and inherently, right?" He shook his head. "And so the whole frat got into this hypothetical argument. A thought experiment about the ontology of homo."

Ilya's eyebrow twitched, and he dragged his tongue slowly along his top teeth. "Since when did you know what ontology meant?"

"I've been getting tutored for my philosophy class."

"Since when?"

"Since Sara— you know, little boobs, huge ass, pornstar glasses? We've been hooking up. I showed you her Instagram." Marleau tilted his head in genuine offense and squeezed Ilya's shoulder once. Ilya nodded. "So we made a tier list." Marleau closed his eyes briefly, deeply satisfied. "Different levels of gay shit. Ranked."

Ilya thought that making a tier list to categorize the different levels of homosexuality was already pretty gay and should be on the list itself, somewhere in A tier minimum. He said nothing about this. "Okay," he said, around the lid of his coffee. "What's on the list."

Marleau grinned from ear to ear.

"Top, S tier, most gay." He held his hand flat above his head. "Blowjobs. Wanting a dick in your mouth— there is no argument, gayest you can get, the whole frat agreed immediately, zero debate."

Ilya nodded. He sipped his coffee and looked at the path ahead of them.

"Then—" Marleau ticked off on his fingers. "A tier. Making eye contact with a guy for too long. Meaningful eye contact, not like passing, like sustained. C tier, knowing another man's coffee order." He pauses. "Buying another man's coffee."

The matcha was sweating steadily onto Ilya's palm. He adjusted his grip on it.

"Knowing the brand of another man's shampoo. Noticing when he gets a haircut. Those science-based lifters that can describe the male body in clinical detail, like every individual muscle fibre and shit—"

"What tier is this?" Ilya mumbled. 

"C tier still. All very gay, some hope for you, but detectable." Marleau was warming up now, the pleasure of the lecture fully in his face. "B tier is where it gets interesting, you can technically like guys and be a B. There's a difference, right, between thinking James Charles is kinda cute in a weird way, that's low grade, that's almost just aesthetic, there's hope for you yet. But being attracted to a buff guy— like genuinely jacked, not some skinny little twink in a wig. If you're looking at some huge grown man, an athlete type, and you're thinking, oh, I need a piece of that," Marleau clicked his tongue. "It's over for you, buddy. That’s like, above S tier."

The empty coffee cup was in Ilya's fist, and he was squeezing it till the plastic creaked. He tossed it into the metal trash can they were passing, harder than necessary, the clang ringing off the metal.

"Fine." He kept his eyes on the buildings across the quad, the grass, the students filtering between classes, anywhere that was not Marleau's face. "What's at the bottom. The least gay, gay thing a person can do."

Marleau dragged his hand slowly along his stubble. He took the question seriously, which was somehow the worst part; it made his logic seem so sound.

"Lowkey?" He tilted his head. "Anything without eye contact. There's got to be an emotional connection in looking into another dude's eyes while you're—" he smacked his fist to his palm, "you know, pounding his shit. The eyes are the gay part. But you can work around that by just—" he closed his own eyes briefly, demonstrating, "closing them. Or—" he held up one finger, "better yet. If the poundee is knocked out, unconscious. Hypothetically, that's really no homo. Might as well be using a fleshlight at that point. Whole frat agreed, zero debate."

The path stretched ahead of them. A group of freshmen crossed at the intersection, and Ilya stepped around them without looking, shoulder-checking the little wimp in the middle. 

"That’s logical," he said.

"Yeah."

"And the whole frat agreed?"

"Unanimously."

Ilya nodded. "Right," he said. "Logical."

"Who's the matcha for?"

"You were right, a girl," Ilya said, without thinking.

∿∿∿∿∿∿

It really wasn't hard.

Easier than expected, actually. Ilya already had everything he needed— the GHB had been sitting in the mini fridge in his room since last year, leftovers from a growth hormone cycle, colourless and slightly salty in its little dropper bottle, tucked behind the BPC-157 and the NAD+ like it was just another supplement. Which it was. It also happened to be, literally, the date rape drug, but that was a secondary consideration.

He had tested the dose on himself first; this was just good science. He had put it in his hot chocolate one night and woken up ten hours later on top of his covers with no memory of anything after the first ten minutes of taking it, groggy and slow all morning, completely fine by afternoon. The gap between deep sleep and medical emergency was narrow, and he had charted it precisely because he was not going to make the same mistake twice.

He gave Shane three weeks to recover, not for any reason other than experimental integrity (and his genuine care for the well-being and stability of his pet). Then he put a measured dose—maybe slightly generous, Shane hadn't eaten much and was still recovering, his body would metabolize it faster—into Shane's post-practice lemon-lime Gatorade, which Shane left on the kitchen counter every day, and went back to his room.

He was pacing outside Shane's bedroom door within the hour.

His arms were crossed tight over his bare chest, his feet moving back and forth across the carpet, rocking slightly on his heels. Three weeks. He had not had sex in three weeks, not for trying; he had genuinely tried, and every time he closed his eyes, large brown eyes were looking up at him, big calloused hands grabbing at his forearms, and a thick cock was pressed against his stomach. He idly dragged his palm across his chest. His dick was already half-hard in his boxers, had been since he emptied the dropper into the Gatorade, had been probably since the Marleau conversation if he was being honest with himself.

He checked his phone; it had been thirty minutes. The dose should have hit by now— Shane was already tired, already compromised, his body offering no resistance.

He opened the Wyze app.

Camera 4: Shane was face-down on top of his covers, fully clothed, one arm hanging off the side of the bed. His cheek was pressed into the duvet, mouth slightly open, a slow thread of drool catching the lamplight as it ran from the corner of his lips onto the fabric. His legs were splayed at completely different angles, boneless, like he had not so much lain down as simply stopped functioning mid-motion.

Ilya tossed his phone through the gap in his bedroom door and went.

He crossed Shane's carpet slowly, his socked feet making no sound, placing each step with deliberate care, even though it was completely unnecessary. He sat on the edge of the bed, reached out and touched Shane's ankle— the bare skin above his sock, rubbing through the fine dark hair there.

"Shane." He cleared his throat. "Shane." He jostled him slightly.

Nothing.

Ilya leaned forward, cupping his hand around his mouth. "They are having a sale in Whole Foods," he said, directly into Shane's ear. "On spinach. Is sale for spinach, four bags for the price of one. And free organic detergent with each purchase."

Shane did not move, didn’t even flinch, did not do anything at all.

Ilya sat back.

Okay.

He let his eyes move over Shane's body, and as always, he was taken aback by how different it was off-camera. Just Shane, directly, from three feet away, with no screen between them. He took his time; he had the whole night, and he was going to use it.

Shane had shifted slightly when he collapsed, and his shirt had ridden up on the left, exposing a strip of his waist, the skin there paler than his arms and neck, the dip above his hip catching the shadow. Ilya reached out and slid his hand underneath the hem.

The warmth hit his palm before anything else. Dense, slightly damp from practice, his hand moved slowly across Shane's stomach, feeling the soft give of it below his navel, exactly where he'd known it would be.

He moved lower, his hand finding Shane's thigh and stilling there. The hair on his legs was coarse under Ilya's palm, surprisingly thick, and the muscle underneath was dense in a way that was nothing like a girl's. Ilya hadn't thought a guy could feel soft, but the skin at Shane's inner thigh, where his fingers drifted without particular direction, was almost obscenely fine. Thin and warm and yielding, sitting completely at odds with the hard muscle beneath it. Not soft like a girl, no, a different kind of soft entirely. He pressed his thumb into it and felt Shane's leg shift slightly in sleep, accommodating.

Ilya ran his hand upward, across Shane's hip and up to his bicep, where it lay slack against the duvet, olive-toned from the sun, smooth, no hair, the skin pulled tight over the muscle that strained against it even completely at rest. He wanted to squeeze it; he wasn’t sure why. Instead, he pushed Shane’s shirt up and let his gaze follow his hands. 

There were new freckles scattered across his chest, fewer than on his face, but there, a sparse constellation across his upper body. The dips between his ribs were rising under Ilya's fingertips as he dragged upward, and then his pecs, still slightly full and soft from the protocol weeks, the tissue warmer than it should be.

He moved his hand to Shane's collarbone. Traced it to the base of his throat and felt his strong pulse, then his jaw, the faint scratch of stubble tickling his palm, the hinge where the muscle sat when Shane was clenching, completely relaxed now, everything relaxed. Ilya let his fingertips travel up across his full cheek, the warmth of the flush that lived there even in unconsciousness, which was insane, by the way. His thumb found Shane's lips.

He pressed it lightly against them.

They were pink and slightly parted, the cupid's bow dipping in its small, defined curve, his lower lip soft and pushed outward from sleep. Ilya's whole body was filled with a fuzz that drowned out any rationale, just want and need, and the unbearable consequence of having Shane's face right there, perfectly still, unable to look back at him.

His head moved toward it before he decided to.

Shane's lips were warm and completely pliant, giving without response, and Ilya kissed him slowly, sliding his tongue past those soft lips into the heat of his mouth. He ran his tongue across the backs of Shane's teeth, along the inside of his lower lip, pushed deeper, felt the back of his throat, felt Shane's swallowing reflex close around it. He took Shane's tongue into his mouth and sucked on it, and groaned against his lips, the sound filling the quiet room. His hand slid down Shane's stomach and into his boxers.

Shane's cock was soft and heavy in his palm, warm, the skin there impossibly fine. Ilya wrapped his hand around him loosely and didn't stroke, just held for a second. Then he began to move, barely, his thumb and forefinger circling the head in slow rotations. 

Shane hummed quietly, his hips shifting a fraction toward Ilya's hand without waking.

"Fuck," Ilya breathed against his mouth. "You feel that?"

He kissed the corner of his lip, his thumb finding the bead of precome already gathering at the slit and spreading it in slow circles. Shane's cock was thickening in his hand, responding without the rest of him.

"I know you feel it too."

He kissed across his collarbone, migrated down to his chest, and then found his nipple and curled his tongue around it— gentle, careful, because he knew exactly how tender they still were and he wasn't doing that again, not tonight.

He had planned to fuck him. He had planned to flip him over, take his time, get himself off properly, take some footage, and come away satisfied. That had been the plan. But now his mouth was on Shane's stomach, kissing down the faint hair below his navel, and what he wanted was just more of him. All of him. Every inch of this skin under his mouth until Shane was completely saturated in Ilya, drenched, marked everywhere from his jaw to his thighs.

Ilya had touched Shane too many times to count, he had hundreds of folders categorizing it. Fuck, he had over twelve thousand people who knew the shape of Shane’s hole from a smoke detector camera, and could pick his cock out of a lineup. He had watched every frame of every video and catalogued every sound, and somehow, in all of it, he had never just— touched him. Had never had his hands on him with nothing to extract from it. Just Shane’s skin under his palms, and Shane’s chest rising into his mouth, and Shane making soft, unguarded sounds against him. Ilya wanted to pull that sound out of him until there was nothing left. Not for his content, just because Shane was here, and he didn't give a single shit, right now, what that meant. 

He peeled Shane's shorts down.

Shane's cock was fully hard, flushed dark and thick against his stomach, the head wet at the tip, curving slightly left exactly the way Ilya knew it did. He winced as his own cock caught against Shane's ankle when he shifted between his legs — painfully hard, had been for an hour — and looked up the length of Shane's body one more time. His chest is rising and falling. His face tipped sideways, lips parted, completely unaware of any of this.

Ilya bent his head and took him in.

Ilya had never done this before, had never really let himself think about it. But fuck, it was indescribable. He pressed his tongue flat against the underside, feeling every ridge drag across his lips, Shane’s cock filling his mouth completely before he was halfway down. He breathed through his nose and kept going, his jaw aching with the stretch, his eyes watering, the head of Shane's cock pressing into his throat, and he did not stop. He went all the way down and swallowed, then pulled back in a long, obscenely wet drag that slicked his chin and his lower lip.

He did it again. Slower this time, hollowing his cheeks as he sucked, his tongue finding the ridge on the underside and pressing, curling, learning every inch of his length. Shane's hips twitched upward, chasing the sensation without him, and Ilya pressed his hands flat against his thighs, holding him down and open.

Ilya should be embarrassed by the noises he was making. Wet and continuous, filling the quiet bedroom, completely slutty, but he didn’t care right now. His hips kept rolling down against Shane's calf, grinding through his boxers. He couldn't help it. He was completely gone, hollowed out by want, his whole face buried in Shane's lap, his lips swollen and his jaw aching.

Shane's thighs tensed under his hands. His hips stuttered up twice, involuntarily, and Ilya felt the first pulse against his tongue and went down as far as he could to swallow. 

Shane came in long shuddering waves, his cock pulsing deep in Ilya's throat, and Ilya took every drop of it and came in his own boxers, shaking, his eyes shut, his face buried in Shane's lap.

He stayed there, shuddering, his eyes squeezed shut, before finally pulling back to sit on his heels. Wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and blinked at the ceiling, completely dazed, a strange soft static in his head that for one disorienting second made him genuinely wonder if the GHB had transferred somehow, if that explained this. He ran his hands up and down Shane's thighs, the hair rasping against him, not ready to stop touching him yet.

He wanted to fuck him. He knew how perfect Shane was for him, and it would be good, it would be so good, he should just—

Ilya’s eyes flicked upwards towards Shane’s face. 

His eyes were completely closed, mouth was slightly open. The same slow thread of drool at the corner of his lip, the same expression as when Ilya had first walked in. There was nothing on his face anymore. No flush, no crease between his brows, no bitten lip. His hands lay slack on the duvet on either side of him. There would be no sounds, no hands grabbing at Ilya's forearms, no accented voice saying anything at all.

It would be like fucking anyone else.

Ilya frowned.

"Ugh," he said, disgusted, and stepped off the bed.

He stood at the foot of it and looked at Shane's body, sprawled and completely absent, and felt dissatisfaction settle into his chest. 

He pulled Shane's shorts back up carefully and tucked the hem of his shirt down.

What tier of gay is this?

∿∿∿∿∿∿

post 860

how to make a sex slave: a guide for everything so far, celebration for being good and patient for dada. ',:)

okkk good morning happy happy saturday daddy is in so good mood today. last night there was some discussion in discord asking me to consolidate all experiments so far because my posts are sometimes "illegible" and i "sperg out" from excitement 😛. there is new discord channel for tried and trusted experiments. for the newcomers: the mega has the full arc documented and archived in order with photos, videos, audios. when i am finish i will make true tutorial taking into account calculated weight variation, but this took me ten weeks of careful research and testing and i am giving it to you for free. say thank u daddy.

to preface: myshkin has no memory of any of these encounters. zero. i have confirmed this through careful monitoring. do not get pissy at me if you get caught because you rush into this and they remember the next day.

experiment one: GHB
documented in post 803-806 stills of limp body in mega under experiments > ghb

i'm pissed off i don't want to type it again, already talked about this too much. it's colourless, slightly salty, goes in any drink. myshkin was fully unconscious. i had a very good time. the problem with fully unconsciousness, is that it is like fucking a very warm, very beautiful mattress. his face does nothing. his hands do nothing. it was so boring.

verdict: good for worship sessions. not good for fucking. 6/10 🐰🥕

experiment two: ketamine
documented in post 812-821 split lip photos in experiments > ket

this one was more interesting.

myshkin could walk and move but completely dissociated. his body could be physically guided and would follow simple positioning, but his words didn't make sense, he could not resist, and had zero memory formation. his eyes were open but tracking nothing, pupils absolutely massive, his head lolling slightly on his neck like my puppet. i cut the strings but not all the way.

bunny has such a nice mouth, and so good at using his throat, loves giving me blowjobs under the desk whilst i'm on the game. my little cock loving slut. but i wondered about what his throat would feel like without the gag reflex. ketamine relaxes all of that. completely.

i laid him down with his head hanging off the edge of the bed.

his throat at this angle was completely open, completely relaxed, and i fucked his mouth for a long time. it felt so good, so fucking smooth and wet. and bunny couldn't look anywhere because i held his face, so just looking up at me blinking. pleading with his eyes for more yummy cum. came so hard so many time i lost count ;). also this is another pro, he can still make lots of little noises. your pet kitty or doggy or mouse will be whining on your cock all night. his lips by the end were slightly split at the corners.

i cleaned him up afterward. obviously. poor poor bunny, confused and lost but daddy has got you so goood babbyyy.

verdict: exceptional. do not do more than two hours at this dose, his breathing gets shallow past that point. 10/10 would use again and again and again (rating for both bunny's throat and ket 🐰🐰🐰)

experiment three: scopolamine
documented in post 824-830 in experiments > scop

this one i tested first before doing anything with it, because i am a responsible scientist. trust daddy, daddy knows all.

scopolamine at the right dose creates eyes-open complete dissociation. the person appears awake. their eyes are open. they can be physically moved and positioned and they will stay where you put them. but trust me there is nobody at home, ur pet is already dumb enough, this will make them even worse. zero memory formation. zero.

but somehow i do not trust, so, the first time i used it i just sat with him on the couch.

myshkin sat beside me with his eyes open, his head nodding slowly against my shoulder, and we watched two episodes of whatever bullshit, and his eyes were open the entire time and tracking absolutely nothing. i put my arm around him and he didn't react. i turned his face toward me with two fingers under his chin and it was fucking sexy. like i put him under a spell with my sex appeal. just my cozy baby, so sweet in my arms and nuzzling my chest.

he had no memory of it the next day, made breakfast and didn't look at me any differently.

the second time i used it i fucked him.

standing, against the wall of his bedroom, his cheek pressed into the plaster and his arms hanging at his sides because he couldn't hold them up. so fucking sexy to see his arms swinging there like a corpse. i had to hold most of his body weight with one arm around his chest, his feet barely finding the floor. it was extremely physically demanding and i do not care at all. why you think i have been bulking? it was so good. he was so warm and so heavy in my arms and his boypussy was completely relaxed and open and i held him up against that wall and fucked him until my legs gave and we both slid down it together and i finished on the floor with him in my lap, his head back against my shoulder.

verdict: if ur skinny like a twig i don't recommend because u have to drag them around. do not mix with ketamine under any circumstances i did this once by accident, overlapping doses, and myshkin was catatonic for fourteen hours. i do not even dare to post the dosage for that because u pervert will go and kill someone by accident 😂 thinking with cock. 8/10

experiment four: MDMA + GHB microdose
too many posts scattered about but search "MDMA" and u should find. no footage, sorry ;).

this one is my favourite!!!!! is the best combination!!! but is hard!!!!

the previous three experiments, myshkin was somewhere between unconscious and absent. his body was present. he was not. which is fine. which is good, actually, very good sometimes. but its best to know bunny is also enjoying and loves my cock as much as i love to fuck my cum into his gut.

MDMA at a low dose plus a very careful GHB microdose is not enough to sedate. he was awake at this dose i made. not fully but yes warm and loose and giggling at things that weren't funny, his inhibitions completely dissolved, his body hypersensitive to touch. if i raised and took care of myshkin from his birth, he would be like this 24/7.

i was sitting on the couch. he came wandering out of his room in his boxers, which he does now anyway when he wants to be used, except this time he was blinking at me with big eyes and giggled at nothing.

"come here," i said, and i was so fucking hard instantly, he fucking looked like succubus.

he was so giggly and bubbly, his cheeks completely red and he came and sat on daddy's lap like a good boy. he was warm everywhere. i yanked his boxers down, got my cock out and instantly he fucking sank down onto me without being asked. so fucking tight like a vice grip i don't think he prepped well cause he was so excited. so it was soooo fucking tight. he rode me like that for a long time. giggling occasionally. he said things. nothing coherent. "oh, oh god, that's mmn, that feels oh daddy oh daddy oh daddy" (🥺😳😳🙊)

verdict: my favourite. but not for idiots. requires precise dosing, too much MDMA and he gets overstimulated and anxious, too little and the GHB floor drops him into sedation. the sweet spot is narrow but is worth finding. it's like having ur own personal porn star. 100000000/10

drugs i do not recommend:
rohypnol: too unpredictable. dose gap is too narrow. respiratory depression risk is real and i am not interested in performing CPR on myshkin on the kitchen floor, as sexy as he would look. also leaves metabolites in urine for 72 hours and myshkin gets random drug tested for hockey.

xylazine: absolutely not. i microdosed it on myself to test and my arm went numb for six hours and the skin around the injection site looked wrong for two weeks. no.

alcohol alone: useless. makes them unpredictable and loud and increases vomiting risk significantly (if ur into it ur into it not yucking ur yum). also myshkin is annoying when he is drunk. this is how i got my dick in him the first time but there are better ways.

ketamine + scopolamine combined: sent by the devil to give u heart attack. IS NOT WORTH THE CATATONIA!

5,700 comments

anonymous said: BASED AND RAPEPILLED. holy shit he actually posted the methodologies

anonymous said: I genuinely read this shit like my morning paper, what a crazy peak into internet degeneracy. So fucking interesting.

anonymous said: oh look here at mr journalist fuck off i know ur hands on ur little 2inch cock bitch

anonymous said: discord andys check the pharmacology tab in the mega. i updated the half-life chart. anon love u but u are a retard for mixing k and scopolamine, respiratory depression threshold on a 200lb frame is razor thin. do the math before u kill our content.

daddy said: ungrateful. you think i don't know 😂? i like u but not enough, shut your slutty little mouth before i fill it for you.

anonymous said: my bad

anonymous said: God, I want to pump him full of xylazine anyway just to see his eyes roll back tie him to the bed and stretch his hole out with a pipe while his muscles go completely limp, leave him there twitching and drooling all over the sheets.

anonymous said: the fact that he survived 14 hours catatonic pisses me off. should have left him on the cold tile in his own piss. let him wake up covered in it so he knows exactly what kind of useless little puppy he is oh fuckkkkk

anonymous said: he came all over himself giggling awww :3 good little bunny just wants his daddys dick... brain completely empty, just a warm little hole for anon to use…

anonymous said: Daddy when is it my turn?

anonymous said: SCOPOLAMINE MOUTH FUCK IS IN FOLDER 4 BROS GO GO GO

anonymous said: kekekke the rohypnol note, anon almost got him popped on a random ncaa drug test. you should do it next time. ruin his fucking life. make him lose his dreams so he has nowhere to go but your bedroom.

anonymous said: Obsessive mf. You own him.

anonymous said: i am going to rape my screen

anonymous said: need to see him crying and vomiting on the alcohol tho?? it was so fucking sad u didn't show us his first time :(( force feed him russian vodka until he chokes daddy

anonymous said: mdma microdose is genius actually lower the inhibitions without losing the muscle control so he can still rideeeee taking notes.

anonymous said: dumb bunny loves it :3 bunny bunny bunny bouncing on dadas cock all by himself

anonymous said: "i wanted to see what he looked like" sociopathic fuck. i love this blog.

anonymous said: can we fucking nuke the new discord what kind of shite new vetting process we have but newfags keep spamming it

daddy said: too many new users too soon vetting not strict enough, wiped half of users going to create new platform soon

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post 861

aftercare and good house keeping

this is very serious for me. i get many questions from new people asking why myshkin is comfortable with me and comes to me for help. people have message me saying that "oh is not working", "oh they can't stand me". maybe u are so ugly it will never work for u. but if u actually want this to work u do not skip this.

your pet's body has been through something even if their brain doesn't know it. hydration is first, water or electrolytes, not juice, not more gatorade if that's what you used for administration. get it in them before they fully come around. positioning during the session matters: recovery position, never flat on their back, check their breathing rate every twenty minutes minimum. they will run hot during and cold after, have a blanket available.

food after. something small and easy. myshkin always wants rice. i don't know why, i think his body just knows. i make it for him.

stay in with them for the full day after. do not leave them alone, do not go out, cancel whatever you had. i know this sounds like a lot. it is not negotiable. it is normal for them to be clingy in the hours after, to follow you from room to room, to sit closer than usual, to look at you in a way that is slightly different from how they usually look at you. let them. do not make it weird. do not think about it too hard.

if they don't like you yet: they will. the body learns faster than the brain. keep them fed and warm and close and they will learn to associate you with safety the way any animal learns anything, through repetition and reward, and one day they will come and find you when they are scared or hurt and they will not know why.

800 comments

anonymous said: awww daddy making rice for his little bunny :3 filling his tummy after filling his hole, so sweet.

anonymous said: "maybe u are so ugly it will never work for u" LMAOOOO DADDY

anonymous said: This is textbook classical conditioning combined with somatic trauma bonding. You are bypassing the hippocampus (memory formation) but the amygdala still registers the physiological drop in stress when you provide warmth/food during the comedown. You are literally rewiring his nervous system at a cellular level to view you as a safe harbor, insane work anon. Are you a psych major?

anonymous said: u sound like a nagging wife having a #husbandry channel on the disc is crazy work

anonymous said: Gave my sub orange juice on a scopolamine comedown and he puked everywhere. Stick to water.

anonymous said: wait what kind of rice do u make him

anonymous said: "one day they will come and find you when they are scared" diabolical shit.

anonymous said: making him rice while his ass is still leaking your cum down his legs :OOOO domestic bliss!!! he doesnt even know why his tummy feels so full

anonymous said: gay

anonymous said: this is why all the discord fags have failed setups fail. u treat them like fleshlights instead of animals. animals need husbandry, daddy is right, if u don't do aftercare u are just wasting a good pet. they break too fast if u don't rebuild them. no one can replace myshkin anyways :).

anonymous said: literally getting chills thinking about his dumb little body getting used to being raped and just accepting it... taking care of him so he survives longer for us to watch... thank u daddy <33

anonymous said: wait no seriously does he like basmati or jasmine??

anonymous said: the fact that he just blindly trusts you to feed him while he's coming down from being used as a piece of meat. God, I want to ruin his life.

∿∿∿∿∿∿

Shane's eyes were open.

His pupils were huge, shining, and fixed on Ilya's face with wet, unblinking attention. His mouth was open. Had been open for a while now, the bottom lip shining, a slow thread of spit tracking down from the corner of his mouth across the hinge of his jaw, dripping onto the pillow. His black hair was sweat-damp at the temples, pressed flat there, strands of it sticking to his forehead and the side of his neck.

Ilya crooked his fingers.

Shane groaned, cresting into something higher and broken at the top, his spine pulled off the mattress in one long, rigid curve, his thighs shaking on either side of Ilya's arm, unable to kick. His hand rose maybe five inches off the mattress, trembling, fingers reaching toward Ilya's wrist and then signal cut out. His hand dropped, hit the sheet and lay there, the fingers twitching once and going still.

"Lya—" He breathed, the consonants soft and collapsed into each other. "Mmn."

"I know," Ilya said.

"Go—" His hips rolled up, weakly, chasing. "In— uhm—" His face screwed up, brow pulling together, mouth working around a thought that wouldn't assemble. "Uhh— ugh."

Ilya pulled his fingers free, and Shane grunted like something had been stolen from him. His cock was hard against his stomach, flushed dark and already wet at the tip, a slow bead of precome tracking sideways across his hip from where it had been pressed there.

Ilya got his hands under Shane's thighs and hooked them over his forearms, lined up, and pushed in.

Shane whined, trying to grumble out a few more words as Ilya seated himself fully, hips flush against the backs of Shane's thighs, the tight clench of his hole around the base of Ilya's cock enough to make his vision briefly white at the edges. Ilya pulled back and drove forward.

Shane's body lurched up the mattress, his head knocked softly against the headboard, and he pawed uselessly at the sheets. His swollen lips fell open around whine. "Ah— mm— f—"  

"Da?" He hissed through his teeth, pistoning harder into him. The pace he set was not kind and didn't pretend to be. "Bunny? You love it that fucking much?" He felt Shane's body take each thrust and give under it, clenching like a vice around his cock. His hips tilted at the angle that meant Ilya was brutalising his prostate with each thrust— he knew this body, had studied it at length, knew every tell. "You like being my little sex slave?" Shane's whole frame jolted "My little slut?"

"Mm— nnh—"

Ilya smacked Shane clean across the side of his face, sending his head snapping sideways, his cheek going immediately pink, eyes flying wide and shocked to the surface—blinking, suddenly present before the sedative weight pulled them back down to half-mast. 

"Nothing in here?" Ilya tapped his own temple. "Cock drunk." He drove in hard, held the depth, just circling the spot that made Shane’s toes curl. “I know you love it. Fuck—" His voice dropped, went rough. "Fuck, baby, you're so good. You feel so good."

Ilya leaned down and pressed a kiss to the side of Shane's jaw first, and dragged his lips up toward his mouth slowly. Shane’s tongue hung out of his mouth, trying to lick in Ilya’s direction. 

He took it as a sign and kissed him, his mouth covering Shane's open one completely, his lower lip catching Shane's swollen top lip. Shane kissed back, or tried to, badly, sloppily, his lips moving wrong and out of rhythm and his tongue uncertain, but trying. Ilya swallowed the high, thin whine that came out of him and kissed him harder, his hips never stopping, feeling Shane jolt with each thrust against his own mouth.

He pulled away with a sigh, a thin trail of spit dragging with him before breaking and falling against Shane’s chin. He tried to chase him, but his head flopped pathetically back onto the pillow. 

Ilya kissed him again just to feel him do it.

Shane's eyes were fully closed now, the flush living all the way from his chest to his ears. His thighs tensed first: the muscle going hard under Ilya's hands, his heels pressing flat into the mattress, his whole lower body pulling tight like someone drawing a bowstring. Then his stomach, the soft trail of hair below his navel, disappeared as his abs contracted. His cock was flushed dark at the head, wet, a thick bead of precome sliding sideways across his hip. His breathing had gone shallow, and his brow was furrowed like he was concentrating. Shane was so close, Ilya could tell.

And then a hard, sudden spurt hit Ilya directly in his face, soaking his nose and his open mouth and his forehead in one instant, dripping from his jaw, running into his eye. 

Ilya sputtered, trying his best to blink piss out of his eye. Got a mouthful of it, swallowed involuntarily, pulled away and caught the tail end of the stream across his chin and his throat before it stopped. He sat there on his knees. His face was soaked. It was dripping off his jaw and running down his neck, and he could feel it cooling at his hairline, and he blinked it out of his eye, once, and looked at Shane.

Shane whimpered, his hips gave one weak, confused roll. His beautiful, glassy eyes found Ilya's face in the dim light of the room, blinking slowly, like he was waiting to find out what happened next.

Ilya wiped his face on his forearm.

It was fucking incredible, Shane was incredible. Piss drying on his own stomach and thighs, drool on his cheek, precome smeared across his lower abs, his face gone completely slack and open and flushed to the roots of his dark hair. 

He leaned on instinct and pressed his mouth to Shane's cheek, still damp from the splash, and dragged his tongue slowly across the skin. "Bunny," he breathed against his face. His voice came out gruffer than he intended it to. "What the hell. Are you not potty-trained?"

“Ah– ah–me….” Shane whispered. 

"Did I—" Ilya pulled back just far enough to look at him, smiling gently. "—not train you well enough?"

He leaned back and slapped him again on the same cheek, harder than before— hard enough that the headboard rattled with the flinch that followed, hard enough to feel in his own palm all the way to the wrist. Shane gasped, and his eyes flew open fully, shocked awake, deep brown visible before the drug pulled them back down.

"Bad bunnies get punished, da?"

Ilya smacked him again, and again. His palm connecting with Shane's cheek and jaw and the side of his skull in irregular rhythm, and Shane's head rocked with each one, his eyes flickering, closed, open, closed, his body jolting with each strike and each thrust simultaneously, the two rhythms layering over each other until they were the same thing, until Shane had stopped distinguishing between them and was just making continuous sound, a long unbroken string of, ah— mm— uhh. 

Ilya got both hands around the top slat of the headboard, one on each side of Shane's head, and braced his weight through his arms and drove forward. The headboard hit the wall. Shane's whole body slid up the mattress from the force, his shoulders bunching against the pillow. Ilya pulled back and did it again. The headboard hit the wall again. Shane's head rocked, his black hair falling across his forehead, his mouth dropping open around a groan that built with each thrust and didn't crest, just kept building, his body taking every stroke. 

With one final jolt, Shane’s eyes slid shut again, the weight of the lids winning finally, and his face went slack beneath Ilya, his body still rocking with the motion but passive now, taking it, his hands uncurled and lying open and loose at either side of his head. His cock was still hard against his stomach. Still flushed, still leaking, right there for Ilya’s taking. 

Ilya wrapped his hand around it. He didn’t even get to move before Shane was cumming. Striping up his chest and throat and chin, across his cheek, Ilya's fist still jerking him through it as his hips bucked forward. His eyes didn't open. His face stayed open and slack and flushed, come drying on his cheek, the dark wet of his hair pressed flat against the pillow.

He went completely still.

Ilya came thirty seconds later. Drove in and held there, his free hand white-knuckled around the headboard, the tight heat of Shane clenching around him through the aftershocks.

∿∿∿∿∿∿

He woke to the blender, a sustained, violent scream of metal on ice, and Ilya surfaced from sleep with a grunt, his face still pressed into the pillow, one arm hanging off the mattress edge. His whole body ached from being awake until four in the morning doing laundry. He had changed the sheets. Had wiped Shane down with a warm cloth in the dark, Shane unconscious and completely limp, making small sounds occasionally that meant nothing. Had thanked whatever version of God presided over degenerate Russian stalkers that he had put a mattress cover on in September. 

Now it was— he squinted at the window, bright, late.

He wiped his face with the back of his hand, sat up, and scratched absently at his stomach above the waistband of his sweatpants, which he had apparently managed to put on at some point in the night without fully waking up to do it. He shuffled toward the door with his eyes still mostly closed, yawning so wide his jaw cracked, and stepped out into the living room.

Shane looked perfect, of course. 

Completely unreasonable after the night he had, standing at the kitchen counter in his small black running shorts, the hem hitting just above mid-thigh, the tan line below them stark and getting worse every week. His fitted black shirt was pulled across his biceps as he shook his smoothie in its shaker. He must have just gotten back from his run, from the gym too, it was late enough for it. There was sweat still tracking down his forehead, a thin trail of it catching in his eyelashes, and he blinked it away without noticing, his attention on the shaker in his hands.

Ilya watched the sweat reach his lash line. He considered how likely it was that it was still stained with a little bit of his piss, his come? Would it have all evaporated into nothing by now? 

He licked his bottom lip and lifted a hand in a loose wave.

"Good morning, you look really bad." Shane said, already sliding the smoothie into his backpack and zipping it. He looked up briefly, clocking Ilya's condition. "I need to grab some stuff from the store. Do you need anything?"

Ilya shook his head and folded himself onto a barstool, dropping his face into both hands.

"Okay." Shane hummed, "I'm getting Gatorade, carrot sticks, green beans, and more eggs. Text me if you end up needing something. Which you will."

Ilya heard him roll his eyes without looking up. He listened to the backpack zip and Shane's sneakers cross the floor toward the door, and he was already letting his eyes close again, the warmth of the barstool solid under his forearms, when Shane stopped.

He listened for the sound of a zipper, then Shane's hand in his bag, rooting for something, then the soft plastic thud of a bottle being set on the counter.

Ilya lifted his head.

It was a Gatorade. Yellow, almost neon in the mid-morning sun coming hard through the windows, the kind of yellow that had no business existing before noon. Opened, but full to the brim, the cap screwed back on. Shane's hand was around it, and he was looking at it, and then he looked at Ilya.

"There's nothing in this one, right?"

Ilya lifted his head all the way off his hands. "What?"

Shane looked at the bottle, then looked back at Ilya. He shook it once, slightly, the yellow liquid catching the light. "I asked if there's anything in this one." His voice was even, practical, the voice he used when he was asking about the wifi password or whose turn it was to buy dish soap. "I have stuff to do today."

"Why would there be anything in there?" Ilya whispered, starting to stand up. "Shane, what are you— "

"Okay, fine." Shane said. "I was just asking."

He shoved the bottle back into his bag, pulled the zip closed, opened the front door, and was gone. The door clicked shut behind him before Ilya had cleared the barstool.

Chapter End Notes

Bozhe moy: oh God

i was going back and forth with myself on whether i should include the drug names or not, but i decided to not to second-guess myself and sanitize the realism. if there is an issue, of course, i will go through and censor. i didn't include doses for anything other than the estrogen so it should be fine.

no pestering for chp 3 please i beg im tired.

twitter ilyassoull
send asks on tumblr unseemlyndisturbed

thank you to seventyoceans for helping me code this, perfect writer perfect reader perfect beta (but really an alpha)

Chapter 3: how to convince your roommate you're not gay

Chapter Notes

content warnings have not changed, but in addition, a racial slur is used by a character other than ilya

we've reached the plot part of the porn and the angst part of the humour, ofc its my 2nd favourite chapter of the whole fic. some of the theories and interpretations i've read so far have shocked me so deeply, and i wonder if this will give any clarity on shane and ilya as characters.

thank you seventyoceans for doing the coding for the messages and discord and google, figuring out the templates and making it all so beautiful.

please make sure to SCROLL to see all the messages and hover/click for translations

also, again, please no begging for updates in the comments. i may just start blocking people because it gets very annoying. the more i am spammed and pushed to update the less inclined i am to do so. i will upload when i want to.

gotmilk has a podfic now, chp 1 is already up. whilst ur waiting for updates please take a listen, it's perfect. thank you so much foundbyjohndoe my dear

The Discord messages sat open on his screen.

Ilya slid the laptop shut and dropped his head back against the stiff pillow, staring at the ceiling. He dragged a hand down his face, palm rasping against the stubble he'd let grow in along his jaw because he hadn't thought to pack a razor. He had packed three and a half pairs of socks, and no fucking underwear, and a series of other increasingly baffling decisions under pressure. 

He turned his head sideways and caught his own reflection in the mirror propped against the wall— his face lit only by the LED strip bleeding pink under the door and the smear of city light moving across the dark window. He looked like shit. The shadows under his eyes had fully transformed into eye bags. And was that, he leaned slightly toward the mirror, was that a spot coming in along his jaw?

He pressed his palm into his forehead and groaned at the ceiling.

If this situation made him break out, made him into some sort of sub 8, mid-tier-normie, that was it; he’d kill someone. 

He opened the laptop again.

lit just threaten it.

Shiggy was a certified idiot. Genuinely, bottom-of-the-barrel, irredeemably stupid, the kind of stupid that was almost impressive in its consistency. And yet the words were sitting in Ilya's head with an uncomfortable solidity, arranging themselves into something that sounded, the more he stared at it, a lot like logic.

He had a year of footage, organized by month, by category, cross-referenced in a spreadsheet that a moderately competent Discord janny had built for free out of pure devotion. He had Shane sucking cum off his fingers and riding his cock whilst begging to be smacked and whining for more daddy with his toe in Ilya’s mouth. He had everything.

And Shane had what? A Gatorade bottle, a perfectly raised eyebrow, and the audacity to walk out a door with his ass practically poking out from under those shorts.

Ilya's jaw tightened.

He could have grabbed him. The thought had crossed his mind with complete clarity while he was standing frozen in the hallway, Shane's footsteps still echoing, grab him, get a clammy hand over his mouth, drag him back inside before he got to the elevator. Simple, it would have been easy. But instead, his legs had taken him in the opposite direction, back to his room and to his duffel bag.

Who the fuck cares why he hesitated? 

The point was: he had options. He had built an enormous amount of leverage over a person whose worst nightmare—shiggy was right about this, annoyingly—was exposure. Shane would rather be dead than publicly humiliated. It’s what made him so attractive in the first place. 

So.

Maybe the fact that his reasoning was currently running parallel to a person who has a fetish for groping overweight middle-aged women on the subway was a flag of some kind. But Ilya was tired and now apparently breaking out, and he had never been the type to sit still and wait for his own downfall like a fucking coward.

He had built a great life here. A functional, almost-normal, carefully constructed life. He was not going to let it get dismantled over— over a fucking— a fucking—

He closed the laptop again, harder this time, and shoved it off the blanket.

Over Shane? Hell no.

He reached for his phone.

The door flew open hard enough to bounce off the wall.

Cliff practically fell through it, catching himself on the frame with one hand, his face already split into a wide and anticipatory smile, the one that meant he had already decided something was happening, whether Ilya wanted it to or not. 

And he was wearing a loincloth…. or what had started life as a towel and had been tied and retied into something that covered roughly forty percent of what it should, the terrycloth bunched at his hip and already coming loose, his sculpted torso gleaming under the pink LED light, sticky-looking, smelling powerfully of chocolate tequila and whatever body spray the frat bought in bulk. 

King Von was thumping through the floor from downstairs, bass frequencies coming up through the mattress springs, and it activated his cock like a sleeper agent, the way rap always did, sending a warm shiver down his chest that had nothing to do with the hairy thighs sneaking out around the terrycloth. 

He flicked his eyes up to Cliff's face.

Cliff dropped himself onto the bed hard enough that the frame creaked, reached out and grabbed Ilya by the shoulder to shake him. "Bro." He looked around the room with a slow, baffled survey. "This is where you're hiding?"

"I'm not hiding."

"The girls from Delta Gamma–" Cliff scratched the back of his neck, his thighs stretching out across the duvet, the towel riding up with them, the shadow of his cock visible where the terrycloth had stopped doing its job. "—just arrived. You could've pre-gamed with us." He leaned back on his palms, lazy and gleaming. "I'm pretty broke, I'll be honest. But tonight I've got–" He pressed both hands to his pecs and shifted them up and down, twice, with great ceremony. "Racks on racks on racks, baby." He winked. "Christ, some sex goddess downstairs is doing the whole Free the nip thing. I love feminism. And I'll give it to J.J., come in just your drawers is a pretty fucking class theme."

"You're all braindead," Ilya said.

Cliff tilted his head at the ceiling, stroking his chin with two fingers in mock contemplation. "Hm, there are at least fifty girls downstairs with their tits, ass, and tummy out." He clicked his tongue. "Nah. I think I'm a fucking genius, actually."

Ilya looked past him at the open door, the hallway, the noise coming up the stairs in warm waves of bass and shrieking. He didn't hate parties. They were useful, good odds, low inhibitions, girls who would laugh at things that weren't funny and not ask questions he didn't want to answer. Usually, that was enough. Tonight, the whole idea of it sat in his chest like wet concrete, and all he wanted was his phone. His phone and Shane's number, specifically. 

He watched Cliff's face drift into his direct line of sight.

Eyes already lidded from however many shots, brow pulled together, lips twisted sideways in curiosity. Ilya opened his mouth.

"What's with you?" Cliff asked, slowly. "You look pissed off." He paused. "Even more than usual. Is this still about the fight with Hollander? Man, you know he’s uh— a sensitive soul, don't let it—"

"I'm not," Ilya said, sternly. 

Cliff blinked. Ilya held his gaze and watched his tone hit him, drunk enough that the flinch read clearly on his face before he could smooth it over. "We didn't even fight," Ilya said, and shrugged, rolling his shoulders back against the pillow in a performance of nonchalance.

"Sure." Cliff's mouth pulled back into that sideways smile, resilient as always, bouncing back inside two seconds. "That's why you've been sleeping here for two weeks."

Ilya shrugged. 

Cliff’s pupils moved between Ilya's, the gears of his drunk brain turning with unexpected deliberateness, then his eyes went wide.

"Shit." He sat up slightly. "Shit, shit, shit." He shook his head, a low whistle escaping through his teeth. "I told you. I told you he had a thing for you, man. Did he finally like—" He whistled again, solemnly, as though paying respects. "Confess his love or something? That's crazy, man. Fucking crazy. I don't even know what I'd do." He was already moving to stand, the towel lurching dangerously to the left. "Imagine your roommate secretly creeping on you, jerking off to you and shit, that's disg—"

Ilya was off the bed before the word finished.

He stumbled slightly getting up, his own legs betraying him, got his hand around the back of Cliff's neck,  and steered him toward the door. "Yes," he said. "Whatever. If it makes you feel better, you can imagine Hollander jerking off to me."

Cliff knocked their heads together, tilting sideways to look at him, licking his front teeth. "If I was imagining any guy jerking off," he said, with complete sincerity, "it'd be you, Rozy baby."

Ilya swallowed.

His nose crinkled. Cliff's head was warm and heavy against his temple, looking at him with his head tilted and his lip between his teeth, the expression sitting somewhere between joking and not, and Ilya's mouth had opened slightly before he caught himself.

He sniffed, pulled back, and smacked Cliff hard on the back of the neck, both palms finding his shoulders and shoving him toward the door. "We all know this," he muttered.

Cliff's shoulders were already shaking with laughter as they stepped into the hallway, loud enough that Ilya could feel it through his palms. He looked back over his shoulder, scanning Ilya from feet to face. "You're not on theme, man," he said. "Lock in."

Ilya sighed. He let go of Cliff's shoulders, gripped the waistband of his sweatpants, and pulled them down to his ankles. Kicked them off and didn't look behind him as he pulled the door shut.

∿∿∿∿∿∿

The aux cycled between rap, shitty pop, and drum and bass so loud that it vibrated in his back teeth. The frat was packed wall to wall with half-naked bodies in various states of themed undress, the air thick with body heat and spilled alcohol. Ilya let Cliff drag him through the crowd and let his eyes move the way they always did at these thing— across shoulders, across the curve of someone's back, the soft press of a hip against a waistband, boobs upon boobs upon boobs. 

He got especially stuck on a Korean guy leaning against the kitchen counter in a blue jockstrap, arms braced against the surface as he fiddled with his drink, his back to the room. The lights carved a shadow underneath the curve of his ass where it pushed out against the strap digging into his ass, the blue of the waistband stark against his pale skin. Ilya's feet slowed, Cliff's hand found his shoulder and pulled him along before he'd decided whether he was stopping or not.

The blue was a good shade of blue. 

He found a wall to put his back against, crossed his arms and watched.

Cliff's associates were doing what Cliff's associates always did at these things — performing, loudly, for anyone who would look. Two of them had started some kind of shoving competition near the speaker that kept threatening to turn into a fight. Another was doing a bit with a red cup that a group of giggly girls was finding significantly funnier than it deserved, their heads tipping back in unison, extensions catching the pink light. Practically climbing each other for the attention of mids from Delta Gamma, Kappa Gamma, and whatever other Greek letters had shown up. They all had the same hair. Roughly the same body, the same tan, the same matching lingerie set in slightly different colors, bouncing on their heels with the oblivious energy of people who had never once walked into a room and wondered if they belonged there. A completely different species. 

Fucking jesters. 

He had learned to do what they did. Having spent enough time in the gym and on PSL, he basically grew up on lookism.net, observing the mechanics of normalcy from the outside, so that he could deploy it reliably when he needed to. It worked, of course; he knew the benefits of social currency. But there was a layer of awareness between him and them that he'd stopped trying to pretend wasn't there, and these days he mostly just stood against walls at parties and waited to see if anything was worth the performance. Ascension for the sake of ascension was getting pretty boring. 

He took a swig of his beer.

Nothing in this room was worth the performance tonight.

He'd left his phone upstairs deliberately; he would have already sent something to Shane's number by now otherwise, probably fifty words of poorly constructed threat that would have given too much away. Wow, smart, so responsible. He closed his eyes and let the bass come up through the soles of his feet and tried to sink into it.

"Fu, on takoy, blyad, volosatyy." (Ew, he's insanely hairy.)

He opened his eyes.

He kept his head forward and let his gaze drift sideways along the wall to the source of the voice. She was leaning against it the way he was, her heels clacking a slow rhythm against the wooden floor, her caramel legs stretched long in front of her, catching the dim pink LEDs. He ran his eyes up them slowly. A black lace set, tasteful, the waistband sitting low enough that her hipbones peeked above it. Small tits in the cups, not pushed up— just there, like they had nothing to prove about it. He took another sip of his beer.

"Da, ya vizhu yego yaytsa," (Yeah, I can see his balls.) he said, around the bottle, and flicked his gaze back to the room where Cliff had started something that was generously being called a mosh pit: a sausage fest of sweaty, naked, gleaming frat guys throwing each other around in the living room, grabbing arms, sliding across each other, yelping.

"I think I've seen the same Victoria's Secret set like, twenty times tonight," she said, and sighed. When he looked back at her, she was running a manicured hand through her orange curls, her blue eyes moving over the crowd. "Tacky. Americans have no taste. But whatever, most of them are skinny enough to pull it off."

Ilya raised his eyebrows slightly. He gestured with his beer toward a cluster of blondes near the speaker, bouncing in unison. "They all look the same to me. Fake hair, fake lips, fake tits, half of them on RETA."

She turned her head and looked at him fully for the first time. Her eyes were very blue, even in the pink. She tilted her head at him slightly, a curl falling across her collarbone. "As if you're not on gear," she said, dryly.

He’s not, technically, but oof, kitty’s got some claws. 

"And you're friends with Cliff, right? Ironic." She nodded toward the mosh pit, where Cliff had just lifted someone over his head. "You cannot tell me all frat guys don't look the same." She ran her eyes down him and back up. "Eh. I guess you look alright, for a frat bro."

"Do I look like a frat boy to you?" He puffed his chest out, just slightly.

"Uh, duh." She said it the way someone says the sky is blue. "An edgy frat guy. Not like the other boys, are you?" The corner of her mouth pulled up.

“Nope.” He shook his head and took the beer from his lips, dropping his arm. Let himself actually look at her straight on. She was beautiful in a slightly overwhelming way, her elegance contrasting with her bluntness, and the ease with which she held herself made the whole thing hit harder than it should have. He had never understood relationships. He didn't get the appeal of the ball and chain arrangement, the endless management of someone else's feelings, the statistical likelihood that she'd rather go fuck Chad eventually anyway. Sex was simple; everything after it was not.

But she was fucking hot, and absolutely brutal.

"You look good," he said, clearing his throat.

"What part of me?"

Your tits.

"Kakiye u tebya glaza," (Your eyes are incredible) he said instead, and rested his hand on the small of her waist. She relaxed into it immediately, like she'd been waiting for him to, and tilted her head forward. He chased it, and then they were kissing.

It was hungry, instantly, her hands going around the back of his neck, fingers digging into his hair, the two of them locking together like puzzle pieces. Her lips were incredibly soft. The yielding kind of soft, and she tasted sweet at the surface and spicy underneath it, and Ilya kissed back and let his hands move, one palm traveling up the curve of her ribcage.

Shane's mouth was nothing like this.

Shane's lips were soft, but sometimes slightly dry at the center from being bitten, and when Ilya had kissed him, he'd kissed back badly— uncoordinated, his mouth moving with too much effort and not enough control, MDMA making everything a half-second late. But he'd tried, and it had been legible in every movement of his lips, in the way his hands had come up to Ilya's shoulders and pulled rather than pushed, in the thin, pleading whines he'd made into Ilya's mouth.

Ilya kissed her deeper.

She pressed her hip against his, and he was already getting hard, had been getting hard, and she made a small approving sound against his mouth, and he redirected, his lips leaving hers and finding her jaw instead. Ilya mouthed there, and she tipped her chin up, her fingers tightened in his hair, and he closed his eyes.

Shane's jaw was sharper. The bone close to the surface, the muscle jumping at the hinge when he was angry, which was often, the skin was thin and slightly rough from the stubble he kept sometimes. And here he was now with his mouth on a different jaw entirely, but he wasn’t focused on her, not her small jaw and her fruity taste or her soft fucking lips.

Shane's jaw, fuck, Shane's throat when he swallowed. The long, thick line caught in the lamplight, the bob of his Adam's apple, and the way the flush that lived in his cheeks crept down his neck when he was close. Ilya had watched it happen so many times, he knew exactly what shade the skin went, knew exactly where the red started and where it stopped. He sucked at the skin below her jaw and felt himself get fully hard. She gasped, her eyes closing, her chin tilting up.

"Aren't you going to ask for my Instagram, emo boy?" she whispered.

"I was going to ask your name first—"

"Ugh. That's boring."

"Svetaaaa—" Someone called too loudly over the music from the kitchen, and she pulled back immediately, her hands leaving his hair, her attention snapping away from him like a switch.

She wiped at her smudged gloss with her thumb and tilted her head at him, before glancing over her shoulder toward the voice.

"Oh, wow. Beer pong." She blinked. "Fun." She reached into the small clutch hanging from her shoulder and flipped her phone to face him. "Your Instagram."

"Right—" He took it, slightly dazed, and typed in his handle. He barely finished before she was taking it back, turning on her heel, clicking away into the crowd without looking back.

He was fully hard, his hair was a mess, and his head was full of images that managed to weasel their way inside— Shane’s throat, Shane’s mouth, Shane’s hands scratching up his back. This was straightforwardly Shane's fault, shit, he was standing here at a party full of half-naked girls with a hard-on generated almost entirely by the memory of– 

The bass was too loud, had been the whole time, probably, but now it was sitting directly behind his eyes, the whole room suddenly too hot, too full of idiots who were all touching each other and laughing at things that weren't funny.

The lights made everyone look feverish, sweating, their mouths too wide, and the edgy lyrics cycling in from the aux was just noise, just unpleasant noise stacking on top of more unpleasant noise. He needed to be somewhere that wasn't here approximately thirty seconds ago.

A drunk manlet stumbling backward reached for a flying pillow, and his elbow caught Ilya hard in the shoulder. Ilya shoved him aside without looking at him and stomped through the crowd toward the hall, toward the stairs, toward his phone.

    ∿∿∿∿∿∿

Ilya pulled the blanket up over his head.

The single bed barely fit him, his feet hit the footboard and his shoulders took up most of the width, but he'd gotten the blanket tucked under the pillow and wrapped around himself tightly enough that the outside world was reduced to a rectangle of phone light in the dark. The door was locked. He knew that even if someone walked in, they'd see a lump in a bed, nothing readable from the doorway, and yet he'd pulled the blanket tighter anyway, the fabric close against his face.

Shane's contact stared back at him.

A blank profile picture. His contact had been sitting in his phone since September, saved under Hollander, with no emoji, no note, nothing, the way Ilya saved everyone. They hardly texted, yeah, maybe four times in total— once about the wifi password, once about whose turn it was to buy dish soap, once to say he'd eaten Shane's leftovers by accident which was a lie, he'd done it on purpose. Mundane, domestic.

And yet it felt so wrong; it was practical and yet so fucking wrong. Like a physical representation of the weeks of distance. He could barely reconstruct his face properly from memory right now. His freckles, specifically, he was trying to count them in his head and losing track somewhere in the mid-forties.

That was wrong. He had sixty, obviously. A lesser man would say maybe forty-nine, but that was because they hadn't looked closely enough, hadn't had their face near enough to Shane's face in decent lighting to do an accurate count. The distribution was uneven, heaviest across the bridge of his nose, lighter on the under eyes.

Yes, maybe he'd spent most of those two weeks with his phone propped against the side of his laptop, watching cameras 4 and 5. And a handful of nights, he'd fallen asleep to Shane's breathing in his headphones. But he wasn’t seeing him, speaking to him, being in the same room where the air was filled with his smell. This was surveillance, information gathering. Completely different from missing him; any feelings of wrongness could be justified by the fact that they had been living together for months. 

He nibbled his bottom lip, his brows pulled together. His thumb hovered over the number.

Fuck. Let's just get it over and done with.

∿∿∿∿∿∿

∿∿∿∿∿∿

The thing about stalking someone the old-fashioned way was that it was deeply impractical.

Ilya was a busy man. He had a routine— structure that made everything feel less insufferable— and that routine was now cut into pieces by forty-minute gaps of standing behind things on campus watching Shane adjust his headphones. Finals were happening. He had two papers and a statistics exam, and yet he was crouched behind a cluster of trees on a Saturday morning because Shane had come out of the athletics complex and turned left instead of right, and Ilya needed to know if he was going to student services.

Nothing weird, just surveillance. Practical information gathering.

Ilya is pretty fucking lucky Shane isn’t very perceptive. A few days ago, he'd gotten close enough, too close, he'd miscalculated the distance, that he'd reached out and almost touched the top of Shane's head. It was a mess, his hair, black strands sticking up from sweat after his run, and Ilya's hand had been six inches from it before Shane had started to turn around. Ilya had thrown himself headfirst into the nearest shrubbery.

He'd learned two things that day. One: Shane had been right about dynamic stretching, his hips had ached for twenty-four hours afterward. Two: keep his distance.

He pulled his hood down tighter and dipped further behind the trees, eyeing through the gaps. Shane had stopped on the path, adjusting his headphones, his grey cotton shorts hitting just above mid-thigh because apparently Shane Hollander would physically die if he wasn't showing off his legs to the entire campus at all times. What a slut. The sun was cutting directly across his face and making his skin look warm and golden, but Ilya couldn't see his expression from this angle, which was the only reason he was here— he needed to see Shane's face. Shane's face was his biggest betrayer. Ilya was certain he could read his mind if he got close enough, could parse unspoken words in those brown irises, read the shape of things barely forming on his lips. Ten thousand words in the wrinkle of a freckled nose.

Thirty minutes of stumbling through bushes, and he couldn’t get a decent angle. 

"Da poshla nakhuy moya yebanaya zhizn," he hissed, shoving his phone back into his pocket.

"Why are we fucking your life?"

Ilya skidded backward on the dirt, his heel catching a root, his whole body lurching sideways as his eyes snapped to his right. "Jesus fucking Christ. What are you doing here?" His voice came out louder than he intended.

Svetlana looked at him with a patient, faintly contemptuous expression; her arms were folded, her manicured finger tapped once against her elbow. "What am I doing in the quad? What are you doing in the bushes? You're so dramatic," she taunted. 

"Dramatic." He pressed a hand to his chest, breathing through his nose. "No. I think it's a normal reaction when someone sneaks up on you like a—" He gestured at the air beside him. "Like a fucking ghost."

"Awww." She tilted her head and took a step toward him, her voice going sweet and completely hollow. "Big, strong, manly man is scared of ghosts?"

Scared? Ilya? Ha, what a fucking concept. 

He dragged his hand down his face and folded his arms across his chest to match her stance. Let his eyes move over her slowly, the way he'd learned to look at people when he wanted them to feel it. "Tiny, beautiful lady spends her Saturdays following people?" He tilted his head. "Shouldn't you be in—" He dipped his chin slightly. "Pilates. Or what is it, the yoga where you sweat."

“It’s called hot yoga.” Svetlana's eyebrow went up, and she glanced down at her nails. "Have you gotten all your experience of women through Instagram reels and porn?" She turned her hand slightly, examining a cuticle. "You're really not funny. But you could probably use a class or two, though."

"Mm. Sorry, I have to decline this invitation. I’m—" He glanced over her head toward the gap in the trees where Shane had stopped outside a building, his phone out, his thumb moving across the screen. The sun had retreated behind a cloud, and in the shadow, Ilya could finally see his face properly. His angry kitten face. Brows pulled down, lips tugged sideways, his eyes flicking between his phone and the path around him like he was watching for a predator. 

"Busy—" Ilya said.

"Busy," Svetlana repeated, dryly, and he watched her gaze follow his through the trees. "Right." She raised her eyebrows and looked away, her blue eyes narrowing slightly before coming back to his face. "Have fun with—" She waved a hand in the air. "Whatever this is."

She turned on her heel.

Shane swiped his student ID against the reader, and the door swung shut behind him. Ilya stood there for a second with his eyes on the closed door, the spell breaking all at once, his whole body resetting like something had been switched off. The most beautiful woman he'd seen in his entire life was currently walking away from him, and he'd spent the last thirty seconds staring at a wall because of Shane Hollander and his sweat-damp hair and his flushed face and his angry fucking kitten expression.

"Wait." He cleared his throat and lengthened his stride until he was walking beside her. "What are you doing right now?"

Svetlana didn't look up from her phone. Her brows were still slightly furrowed, the annoyance readable and understandable— people probably fell to their knees for her on a normal day, and Ilya had been too busy conducting illegal surveillance to give her the attention she'd been owed. He could fix this; he knew how to set good bait.

"I don't know," she said. "Pilates, maybe I’ll get an overpriced Starbucks latte."

He opened his mouth to scoff.

She turned her hand against her phone, her mouth pulling sideways in something close to disgust. "I'm going to study, obviously. It's finals week."

"Ahhh." He sighed, long and theatrical, the corner of his mouth lifting. "I need to study too."

Svetlana stopped. She looked up at him for the first time since she'd started walking, tilting her chin slightly, looking up through her lashes, her lips parted. Her brows were still furrowed, but her mouth had gone expectant in a way she probably didn't know yet. "Ok," she said. "So?"

"Let me get you your overpriced Starbucks latte—"

"Gross." She slipped her phone into her bag. "I don't drink lattes. Especially not from Starbucks."

"Okay." His smile widened slightly. "Americano, espresso, whatever the fuck. And then we go to the library and spend two hours on pricing strategies and cost and demand."

Svetlana's cheeks hollowed as she swallowed a smile, her eyes rolling as she turned and kept walking. "You're literally a stalker. How do you know I'm a business major?"

"I have my sources," Ilya said, and fell into step beside her.

∿∿∿∿∿∿

 ∿∿∿∿∿∿

Fuck college, fuck the gym, and especially fuck Shane Hollander.

Ilya leaned against the bench press rack, his body shifting back and forth slightly as Cliff repped out three plates. He was grunting, groaning, the bar sitting too low on his chest. Ilya's eyes should have been fixed down, his hands hovering just in case, ready to catch it. Cliff had a stupid and consistent tendency to ego lift, and Ilya spent most of their sessions together making sure he didn't decapitate himself or rip the muscle clean off his shoulder. He gripped the rack tighter.

His eyes were across the gym. Past the girls in their tiny Lululemon sets. Past the freshman attempting a PR on the leg press. All the way to the mats, where Shane had his legs stretched out in front of him and kept bending down between them to press his chest toward the floor, effortlessly, glancing up every few seconds.

In the mirror, Ilya could see Shane's face. Flushed from his workout, panting slightly, his skin damp at his temples and his hairline. And smiling. Actually smiling— not the flat-mouthed, careful acknowledgment he handed out to people who hadn't earned anything better, but the real one where the corners of his eyes crinkled up and these small lines appeared beside his nose on his completely smooth, wrinkle-free skin. Shane didn't let himself get pulled into the easy, everyday civilities that other people deployed automatically; he only smiled when he actually wanted to. And when he did, it looked like that.

Ilya looked at the guy getting it.

A huge nose, a negative canthal tilt. A Gymmaxxing cuck with an awful physique, probably two years in the gym and nothing to show for it, the kind of build that said he'd been running the same mediocre program since freshman orientation and calling it a lifestyle. Boring. Completely, aggressively boring looking. And Shane was sitting there cross-legged on the mat, arching his back slightly as he bent into the stretch and came back up, looking up at this loser like he had the whole world sitting in his palms.

Ilya rolled his eyes, his bottom lip trembling.

Great. Just great.

It wasn't as if he cared who Shane flirted with, or who flirted with Shane. But the texts spoke for themselves. How quickly Shane had opened up, how easily he'd bared his throat and gotten his cock out and let his toes curl on camera, all of it apparently available to anyone with the right opening line. Shane, who held himself rigid and careful, keeping everything at a controlled distance— and yet here he was, smiling from ear to ear, arching his back, running his hands along his thighs for the benefit of some big-nosed, low-testosterone, buffoon on the mats. Did the red pill extend to gay men, Ilya wondered. Because Shane was acting exactly like every girl he'd ever watched fall for the same shit.

Shane brushed a piece of hair behind his ear. He was growing it out now, apparently, the black strands barely long enough to tuck, which was great, fucking great, and his skin was genuinely glowing in the fluorescent lights. Sweat-damp, clear and bright. No bags under his eyes. He looked, if anything, better than he had a month ago, which was insane and unfair, and Ilya hated him.

He raised his gaze in the mirror until he found his own face.

His eyebags had deepened past the point of looking tired, the skin beneath his eyes bruised-dark and heavy. The stubble had transformed fully into a moustache and a goatee running along his jaw and under his chin because he still hadn’t bought a razor. He looked like complete shit. He felt his heart thumping, twisting awfully in his chest, dropping into his stomach, and making his legs feel unsteady beneath him. He really needed to stop dry scooping that much pre-workout.

Shane laughed again, his voice sneaking through Ilya’s headphones and filling his ears like honey, and Ilya watched the eye crinkles appear again in the mirror from across the gym.

He gripped the rack, squinting at his own reflection, and wiped his hand over his chin, trying to stop the muscle jumping at the hinge beneath his fingers.

"Ilya— Ilya, fucking—"

His eyes dropped.

Cliff's arms were shaking, both of them, the triceps trembling through full failure, the bar having descended to maybe four inches above his throat and still moving, slowly, inevitably downward. Cliff's face had gone a deep, alarming purple, his pleading eyes finding Ilya's because he had passed the point of pride ten seconds ago and was now simply trying not to die.

"— fucking hell, man—"

"Da, da," Ilya said, through his clenched jaw. He reached down with one hand, got his palm flat under the bar, his forearm straining hard as he guided it up and back and dropped it onto the rack with a clang that turned three heads in either direction.

∿∿∿∿∿∿

"Thanks for letting me stay over."

Ilya said in Russian, exhaling the words into the dim of Svetlana's bedroom, passing the joint sideways between his fingers without looking. She took it, and he let his head drop back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling, where the shadows moved in slow, soft shapes from the streetlight coming through the curtains.

Svetlana shifted against his shoulder, her weight settling closer, the pillow wrinkling beneath them both. He felt her lift her head.

"Yes," she said, dry, "like I would let you suffer in Cliff's boys’ club for another week."

Ilya hummed. The weed was doing what it always did in this apartment, which was different from what it did anywhere else— it didn't flatten him or make him stupid, it loosened something at the base of his skull, turned down the volume on the constant running commentary long enough that Svetlana's words could actually get in. Find something to press against. He didn't smoke as a rule; it was estrogenic for one, and if he was going to put something in his body he was going to do it properly, not microdose a progesterone conversion problem. But there was something about smoking with Svetlana specifically that made it all justifiable. 

The room smelled like pot and the candle she burned, something dark and resinous. 

He had never really related to anyone in person before. That was fine, just a fact, not something he felt particularly strongly about either way. It was slightly insane that this particular tiny cat-like bombshell was the first person to change that, given that the only thing they should have had in common was being Russian, and yet here he was, in her bed at eleven on a Tuesday, letting her talk directly into the parts of him he kept closed off, and not leaving.

He leaned over and pulled the joint from between her lips.

"Are you saying I do not belong in a boys’ club."

"You're too emotionally intelligent," Svetlana said, without hesitation. "Competent. Sensitive even, for that."

Under normal circumstances, a comment like that would have landed against the back of his ribs like a shove, and his fist would have been flying before the sentence finished. Instead, all warm and loosened by the weed and the dark and Svetlana's head on his shoulder, it moved through him gently and deposited him sideways across the mattress to tap the ash into the tray on the nightstand.

"Me, sensitive."

"Yes." She pushed herself up, folding one leg beneath her. "Obviously. Has no one ever said that to you?"

Ilya shrugged. He dipped his head, letting the angle of the moonlight shift so it no longer reached his face, his vision filling instead with the shadowed yellow of the sheets and his own curls falling forward. He scratched his shoulder slowly, dragging out the silence because he had nothing to fill it with— no practiced line or deflection that would work on her. Svetlana had an irritating immunity to all of it.

"Sensitive, no," he said, finally. "Perceptive, yes." He turned the joint in his fingers. "When I was a kid, growing up, I was always noticing things. About my classmates, my teachers, adults. I didn't get along with people because I could see through their bullshit. Just—" he moved one hand slightly, "the general absurdity of all of it. I realised pretty quickly it was over."

"What?" Svetlana said.

He heard the genuine surprise in it and slowly turned his head. Her eyes were slightly wide, thick brows furrowed, her lips pulled down at the corners in a frown. 

"Don't start with that nihilism, Ilya." She shook her head and pressed their knees together. "No dog so wretched that doesn't wag his tail sometimes."

Ilya looked back toward the wall. "Wow." He let the silence pass. "You are quoting Shestov now. You do not want to start this battle, Svetlana. He was my best friend growing up."

She rolled her eyes, as if to say of course you read Lev Shestov as a kid you fucking nerd.

"I don't get it," she said. "Why do you say it's over. You're hot, you're tall, you're—" She began tapping her fingers against her knee, counting, "—brooding, nonchalant—"

He watched her list his achievements out and felt something uncomfortably burning through his last defences. None of them were real. Hot, tall, brooding, nonchalant— all of it built, maintained, calibrated over years into something that worked on people like a skeleton key. A testament to his skill, maybe, which was kind of funny. If they could hear his inner monologue, feel the distance. Know what it was like to see through every single external social interaction like glass and be unable to stop doing it. Ilya learnt from experience that nobody wanted a mirror held up to their face. Nobody wanted to have a conversation about intersubjectivity at a house party.

"You're known for being hot." Svetlana said, "I don't get the drama. You're quite literally perfect."

Ilya shook his head barely and scratched the corner of his nose with his thumb. "If you say so."

The weight of her side-eye was palpable without looking; it was magnetic, and when she turned her head to stare at his profile straight on, his own head turned to meet it despite himself.

"What," he said.

"You know that you're handsome," Svetlana said. "And you know you're a good person."

Ilya turned his head away, nodding once, barely, his eyebrows lifting as he took another hit.

"Yes. I'm handsome."

Svetlana let out a long, frustrated exhale through her nose. "Is that why you do this whole—" She flicked his shoulder. "—thing?"

"I do not do any thing." He made his voice nasal and high, dragging the word out in mockery, and she gave him a glare that could have stripped paint.

Svetlana reached over and yanked the joint directly from between his fingers and pressed the end down into the ashtray in one decisive motion, and whipped her head back around, her orange curls swinging into the side of his face. "Oh my God, yes, you do. You pretend you're stupid—"

"Why the fuck would I pretend that I'm—" He turned toward her, and she smacked her palm flat over his mouth, muffling the last words against her hand. She looked at him with a warning that was completely serious.

"You pretend you're stupid," she said again, slower, "and mean, and that you don't care about anyone other than yourself." Ilya's brows pulled together. He tried to speak, and she pressed harder. "When obviously you care, obviously there’s so much more Ilya behind the alpha-bro persona. But what, you're scared that people won't like you because you're not some average, idiot frat bro?"

He stared at her.

She stared back, their faces close, her hand gripping his jaw, her blue eyes very steady and very direct. He could snatch her hand away. He could tell her she was wrong, that she didn't know what she was talking about, that he'd never changed himself for anyone and didn't intend to start. He could get up and walk out and go back to Cliff's and drink until the conversation dissolved and pretend it had never happened.

He felt her hand slide slowly down from his mouth to rest on his shoulder instead.

"Right." His voice came out quieter than he intended. "Because women would want to fuck me if I were some sensitive nice guy." He looked away. "Sure, Svetlana."

"I like you," she said, her brows furrowing.

You're different.

"You may not be nice," she said, "but yes, Ilya, I actually think more women would like you if you were honest." She leaned back on the bed, facing the ceiling, her hands slipping from his shoulder to settle behind her head. "Just a thought."

Ilya inhaled and lay his head back down beside hers on the pillow. "Cope. Women don't know what they want." He stared at the ceiling. "Unless you are getting pussy, I don't want your opinion on what it likes."

"I'm bisexual, Ilya." Svetlana scoffed. 

Sure, whatever that means. 

His working theory had always been that it was mostly a female thing, or rather, a performance of a female thing. Most girls who claimed it were in no real hurry to go anywhere near pussy. A social currency, something to make them interesting at parties. Men, though, were simpler. Men were either straight or gay, and the whole sexuality is a spectrum framework was, in Ilya's considered opinion, an elaborate cope invented to make gay men feel better about their homosexuality. A comfortable ramp, rather than a wall.

But where did that leave him, exactly? He loved women: their mouths and their boobs and how perfectly their waists fit between his hands. He was not gay, obviously, and yet he fucked Shane. And had not, at any point during the drugging or the fucking, found that a hardship. In fact, if he was going to be scientifically honest about it, he had wanted it so badly his hands had shaken.

If the spectrum was real, hypothetically, what did that make him? Slightly gay? Gay-adjacent? Gay in the narrow context of Shane Hollander?

And Hollander was not a soft man by any means. His sexual dimorphism was aggressive: broad-shouldered, jaw like a knife, a body built to take hits and stay upright. If Ilya was going to find a man attractive, the argument could be made that finding that man attractive was the gayest possible version of the outcome, according to Cliff, at least. 

Svetlana, on the other hand, would call him an idiot and pour him more wine. She had obviously been a bad influence on him, because Ilya didn’t know what to think anymore. He picked up the blunt from the edge of the ashtray where Svetlana had killed it and turned it between his fingers. The ember was dead, he set it back down.

"I'm a—" She paused. "What was that word you told me?"

"Slayer."

"Yes. I'm a slayer."

"Oh, I’m sure." He scratched his jaw.

"I ate out Rose Landry like, two days ago."

Ilya's head turned, and he looked at her fully. She was looking at the ceiling with a very deliberate neutrality. "You hooked up with Rose Landry." He pointed at his own chest. "And you didn't tell me."

He sat up, his weight shifting, body angling over hers. "Me."

"She told me not to tell you." Svetlana kept her eyes on the ceiling. "Because things are already weird enough between you and Shane—"

"What? No, they aren’t. Nothing’s weird between me and Shane. Who gives a shit about Sha–" He stopped, blinking. "About that, anyway. "

Svetlana's arm came up and hooked around the back of his neck, pulling him down and against her stomach, her fingers finding the curls at the back of his skull. He let himself be pulled, his cheek settling against the soft fabric of her shirt, the warmth of her underneath it.

"Aww," she said quietly, into the top of his head. "Don't be sad." Her thumb moved slowly across the back of his neck. "He probably misses you, too."

The study was from Northwestern. Robust Evidence for Bisexual Orientation Among Men. Six hundred participants, peer-reviewed. Published in PNAS, okay, fine, it was a real journal.

He scrolled down to Figure 1. The graph was a clean arc across the Kinsey scale, genital arousal plotted against self-identification, bisexual men sitting right in the middle where the model said they should, no meaningful deviation. He read the caption twice. His knee shifted, and the laptop tilted, the fan exhaust burning hot against his thigh through his sweatpants; he adjusted it back.

Svetlana's couch was too soft. It swallowed him in a way that made it impossible to sit properly, the cushions compressing unevenly under his weight, his spine in a questionable position. He missed his desk chair; he missed his desk. He missed his three monitors badly. Instead, his phone was precariously propped against the hinge of the laptop screen, camera 4 running, the feed grey and still. Shane had migrated to his bedroom at some point, asleep, as he should be, at midnight on a Tuesday. 

3.30 times more genital response to their less-preferred sex than exclusively heterosexual or homosexual men.

His Discord pinged, and Ilya sighed, switching windows.

Ilya’s fingers stilled on his keyboard. His phone had lit up against the laptop hinge with a notification from Hollander. He glanced at it, then looked again properly. Shane had sat up in bed and pulled the blanket completely over his head, his whole body just a lump in the dark with white phone light bleeding soft through the cotton. A tent of plausible deniability.

The audacity of that, honestly.

A laugh came out through his nose before Ilya could do anything about it, and he pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, shut the laptop with the other, and shoved it onto the coffee table.

He pulled the blanket up over his shoulder, rolled onto his side, and opened his chat with Shane.

 ∿∿∿∿∿∿

∿∿∿∿∿∿

Shane wasn't responding to his texts anymore.

Which was fair, extremely fair. It was eleven on a Friday night and finals had ended, he was probably face down in his pillow catching up on the sleep he'd demolished over the past week. Because despite being more than prepared, Shane had spent the three days before exams locked in the library in a state of low-grade, completely unnecessary panic, and yet somehow in between all the stress of finals week they had still managed five hours of texting a day, minimum, like it was just something that happened now. 

Ilya pulled his phone closer to his chest, shielding the screen from the bodies pressing in around him and from the red lights strobing across the ceiling. The reggaeton was so loud it was basically vibrating the furniture, the bass coming up through the floor and through the chair legs and into his spine. He swiped off iMessage, his thumb hovering over the Wyze app, and exhaled.

The irony wasn't lost on him. He wasn't stupid. In his meticulous, tactical attempt to detach himself from Shane Hollander, he had just pulled them closer together, tightened the feeling in his chest into a low, constant ache that surfaced without warning every time he caught a glimpse of a freckled nose through a window or the back of a dark head slipping into their building. And now there was this, a little pocket Shane. Constant access, willingly given, as long as Ilya was someone else. Someone who hadn't cried with Shane's cock in his throat, or kissed him, or done any of the other catastrophically sensitive bullshit that contradicted everything that made Shane want him in the first place.

The real Shane had made it perfectly clear he had no feelings for Ilya. The real Ilya was drowning in them. 

He shoved the phone into his back pocket and reached for his drink.

"Are you really that bored," Svetlana called over the music, wrapping her arm through his, shuffling close enough that her shoulder pressed into his. He gave up trying to see her face through the dark and the spinning lights.

"Hmm?" he said, knowing full well what she meant, reaching past her for his sixth double of the night.

"You're—" She furrowed her brow and gestured at his pocket. "Ty pytayeshsya otpravit im soobshcheniye s telefona." (You're trying to text them on your phone) She grabbed the vodka out of his hand before he got it to his mouth, the ice knocking against the glass, and took a sip herself, pulled it back and looked at it. "Why is this actually good, Ilyushok?"

Ilya took it back from her, steering around the smear of lipstick on the rim. Svetlana watched him drink, squinting at him over the glass, then shook her head. "Absurd. I thought you were Casanova, yet you're being chronically online instead of—" She grabbed him by the chin without warning and twisted his head upward.

His eyes caught immediately with a pair of tits wrapped around a pole, and he flicked his gaze up to their owner— long red hair, long legs, her heels dragging through the scatter of dollar bills as she spun. She was hot, genuinely hot, and the observation settled somewhere in the back of his skull with the rest of the evening's accumulation and stayed there. Ilya clenched his jaw.

"I don't have a type." Ilya huffed through his nose.

"Yes you do. Look at who you follow on Instagram, they're all—" Svetlana brought her hand up and made a small pinching motion with her fingers, her eyes already drifting back to the stage, scanning. Ilya watched her warily over his drink. She hummed again, slow and searching, and then her eyes stilled.

"Oh," she said, low, and whistled.

He followed her gaze to the far left of the stage and squinted through the dark. Then his grip tightened on his thigh.

He was big— not bigger than Ilya, obviously, but his back muscles strained and pulled under a cropped red jacket as he gripped the pole one-handed, the fabric riding up with every rotation. He spun around it and let it settle between his thighs as he slid down slowly, the pole pressing flush against the outline of his cock through the leopard print, and the leopard print was doing very little. His bulge was thick and heavy against the fabric, shifting with every roll of his hips, and his thighs, strong, muscular thighs, flexed as he ground upward against nothing. And maybe it was the shadows, maybe it was six doubles on an empty stomach, but Ilya would recognise that jaw anywhere. That straight nose, the strain of that neck when his head dropped back.

Was this punishment? Was this God personally handing him stripper-Shane Hollander grinding his cock against a pole on his worst night in recent memory?

He stepped forward and shrugged the jacket off, his carved stomach catching the red light as he kept moving, kept rolling his hips up into nothing, and looked directly into Ilya's eyes like he knew exactly the torment he was causing and found it genuinely funny.

"I think he's more your type," Svetlana said quietly, close to his ear. "Right?"

Ilya pulled his gaze away. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure, Ilya." She rested her chin on the backrest and tilted her head at him, patient in the way she always was, which was starting to feel like a threat. "When was the last time you got laid. Maybe you should just—" She gestured toward the stage.

Ilya's brows drew together slowly. "What. Fuck this guy?"

"I mean, he's practically drooling over you, and obviously you—"

"Yes." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his thigh bouncing under his palm in a way he hadn't registered until now. "Yes, I think he's hot. Whatever. That doesn't mean I'm a fucking faggot who needs to pay strippers to get laid, Svetlana." He hissed under his breath, not looking at her.

The warmth went out of her voice immediately. "Excuse me? I didn't mean it like that and you know it."

Ilya stared at the ice melting in his glass. The music moved through him, his shoulders swaying with it against his will. "Sure." He dragged a hand over his face, his head pounding behind his eyes. "Where is Cliff and everyone."

"On the dance floor. I'm the only one stuck here with your sulking, fuck, Ilya, can you get over yourself for one second?"

"Fuck off."

"Yeah," she said. "I think I might actually."

"Don't bother, I'm leaving. This is bullshit."

Ilya stood up, and the floor moved.

He got his hand against the wall before he went any further left, pushed himself upright, and shoved into the crowd. It was like a funhouse. Bodies on bodies, all of them slick with sweat and grabbing at him, hands finding his biceps, his shoulders, fingers hooking into his waistband as he passed like he was something to be sorted through. He shook them off without looking. Every single one of them disgusting, every single one of them boring, and the camaraderie and the shared experience and whatever else Cliff had sold this night as— it was all the same bullshit it had always been, and in the end, everyone betrayed everyone. Svetlana was probably already moving through the crowd with his soft underbelly in her back pocket, already deciding which part of it was worth most to whoever she needed something from next, and what the fuck was Shane doing on that stage—

His boot caught on something slick, and he stumbled, palm finding a stranger's shoulder, then kept moving. The exit sign bled red through the dark ahead of him. He hit the bathroom door with his shoulder.

The fluorescent light was merciless. The room tilted left, and he stood in the doorway and let it, waiting, his body swaying slightly while the urinals did the same thing in the opposite direction. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth. The tilting slowed just enough for him to walk forward, one hand finding cold ceramic before the rest of him did, forehead almost against the wall, his other palm pressed hard against the side of his pounding skull. He got his jeans down one-handed and closed his eyes. 

The door swung open behind him, quiet footsteps filled the room. Then the sound of a zip coming undone at the urinal beside him, and the thin, soft sound of pissing.

Ilya peeked through one eye. 

Long blonde curls falling to his shoulder. Small, narrow shoulders under a white tank top, his hands wrapped around his cock between them, pissing in a soft and entirely unimpressive stream. Ilya looked back at the wall. Then looked again, because fuck, and he was met with two large green eyes blinking up at him; heavily lashed, shadowed. The man held his gaze, opened his mouth, and dragged his tongue deliberately across his upper teeth. Then he zipped up and walked away to the sinks like he hadn't done a single thing.

Ilya stood there. The light bounced wrong off the tiles, the room was still slightly unreal around its edges, but the man at the sink was real—small, real and easy, nowhere near what Ilya actually wanted but close enough, tonight, in this tilting bathroom, just close enough—so he yanked his jeans up and followed him.

They stood side by side at the sinks, the water running cold between them, and the tension had its own frequency under the bass bleeding through the walls. Ilya couldn't feel the water on his hands. His whole body was running too hot, his cock thickening in his jeans, and every time he looked up, those green eyes were already in the mirror waiting for him. He reached past him for the paper towel dispenser, their hands grazing, and he turned with something already forming on his lips.

Without a second thought, Ilya got both hands on his hips and walked him back into the counter. He went without resistance, a soft, startled sound punched out of him as the edge of the sink caught the back of his thighs, and then their mouths came together and the sound dissolved into a whine against Ilya's lips.

He tasted of tequila, sour and sweet, his mouth open and already desperate, kissing back with this uncoordinated hunger that kept sending their teeth together. His hands found Ilya's shoulders and gripped hard, nails pressing in. Ilya slid one hand up under the back of his shirt, found the warm skin of his lower back, the knobs of his spine, and spread his palm wide and pulled him in closer. His other hand cupped his small jaw, tilting his head back, and he whined into Ilya's as he gripped it— this thin, needy sound that fed directly against his lips every time they broke and came back together. His hips rolled forward, grinding against the hard line of Ilya's cock through his jeans. 

Ilya pushed back, the friction blunt and good and insufficient, and the whining got worse, got louder, the guy's fingers digging deeper into his shoulders like he was trying to climb him. His back was small and warm under Ilya's hand. It was good to hold someone. It was good to be wanted, even like this, even by someone who didn't know his name, the tightness in his chest loosening just enough to breathe around.

"Bro— oh shit, my bad—"

Ilya's eyes opened. He pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

The man was already sliding off the counter, doing a bad job of swallowing the smile pulling at his face, his eyes flicking between Ilya and somewhere behind him. He let out a soft "oh fuck" into his palm, shoulders shaking, and as he slipped past whoever was in the doorway his shoulder caught theirs, and he was gone.

Ilya turned.

"Wait—" Cliff's brows were raised, his head drawn back. "Ilya?"

His jaw locked, his vision was still unsteady at its edges and Cliff's silhouette filled the doorway and moved toward him.

"I've been looking for you all night, man." Cliff's eyes moved across his face, slow and blinking, and then both hands came up. "Woah. Look who's mad. My bad for interrupting." He laughed, awkwardly, squinting at him. "No, seriously, why are you looking at me like that?"

He turned toward the door, gesturing vaguely, and when he turned back the wide smile was already there, practically luminous under the fluorescent light. "Dude he's cute though. Like, this cute fucking twink, man, who gives a shit. You fuck who you want to fuck, you're Ilya fucking Rozanov." He leaned forward and tapped the side of his own head. "Lowkey genius. Double the playyyy, double the puss—" He paused, leaned back slightly, eyes drifting to the ceiling, hand coming up to cup his chin. "No. Not double the pussy, just like—" He turned his hand in the air. "Additional bussy on top of the pussy." His lips pulled down in brief bemusement and he shook his head. "Whatever. Ilya fucking both teams, fuck ye—"

Ilya's fist caught the side of his jaw before the sentence finished.

 ∿∿∿∿∿∿

Clarity was the worst part. 

Svetlana had forced three bottles of water down his throat in the Uber, and now the alcohol haziness was completely gone, and there was nothing left between him and the evening except the ache in his jaw where Cliff had hit him back, and the memory of every single thing that had happened in exact, unsparing detail. 

He shoved his toothbrush too hard against his back teeth, and his elbow caught Svetlana’s shelf, and the bottles went. All of them, her entire excessive, alphabetized, categorized collection, sliding off the edge of the sink and scattering across the tile in every direction. He swore and dropped down after them, but they rolled out from under his hands, away, across the title, slipping through his fingers every time he got close. He grabbed again, it slipped again. 

What a fucking metaphor. 

He could feel it rising in him, hot, furious, moving up through his chest and his throat, and he was watching it happen from the outside, watching himself scrabble on someone else’s bathroom floor after tiny bottles that kept escaping him. Everything he tried to build, right there, and he watched himself let go of it, watched it slip through the gaps he couldn’t stop making. But was that even what he wanted? Was this what Ilya wanted? This carefully constructed distance from every person he had ever been near, the performance of being a flat, uncaring thing moving through the world, nothing underneath it, nobody home. 

Except there was somebody home: a boy who also cried, and also wanted, and also, God, also loved apparently. Which was new information, unwelcome, and he was failing at pretending that wasn’t true, just as comprehensively as he was failing at everything else.

He failed at pretending, and he failed at being honest, and he failed at— 

“Fuck this shit.” He shoved one of the bottles away from him. 

A hand found his shoulder and pushed him gently to the side. He kept his eyes on the title, jaw clenched, and let Svetlana crouch beside him and begin collecting them in silence, stacking them against her palm. 

“Let me.” He mumbled in Russian. 

“No, it’s fine.” She shook her head, turning a bottle right-side up. “I’ll do it. before you break a thousand dollars' worth of product.”

There it was. Again, never doing anything right. 

He pushed himself up off the floor and shoved through the open bathroom door, grabbing it on his way through and slamming it behind him hard enough that the frame shuddered in the wall. 

It opened again before the sound had vanished. 

“Stop.” Svetlana barked through it, “Ilya. Stop.”

He paused with his hand still on the front doorknob, his back to her, and dragged his palm slowly down the lower half of his face. 

“You’re acting like a child. A fucking teenage boy.”

He turned, dipping his head, brows pulled so far down they made his headache worse, and he scowled at her, and Svetlana scowled back, her eyes open and her chin raised, and one hand still holding the doorframe.

“Nobody told you to come back with me.” His voice cracked as he yelled, split right down the middle of it. “Go back to the club. Have fun being boring, you’re boring, you’re so fucking boring, just go back–” 

“All of this.” Svetlana stepped towards him, her heels clicking on the floorboards, her free hand gesturing in front of her, exasperated. “All of this, for what?” She shook her head. “Do you think this whole macho show makes any difference? Everyone already knows you kissed a guy tonight. Nobody cares, Ilya.” Her voice didn’t soften but slowed, each word placed carefully after the other. “Even the most homophobic man in that room wouldn’t say a single thing to you, and you know exactly why. Nobody cares who you fuck. Cliff doesn’t care.” She pointed at her chest. “I don’t care.” Her hand dropped. “You are the only person who cares.” 

The words hit him in the chest and kept going. 

His mouth opened, and nothing came out, because there were too many things trying to get through it at once— memories and things he’d been called and the two worlds he’d been living in simultaneously for so long, one of them making complete sense of what Svetlana was saying and one of them screaming back against it. And beneath all the noise, there was something very quiet that he had been walking around for weeks pretending he couldn’t hear. 

“Fine.” He gritted out, looking away from her, toward the window. “Fine. I want to fuck men.” He shook his head, barely. “Whatever. That’s— fine. That’s fucking fine.” 

“But what if I–” He stopped. “What if I like one, someone. What if I have all these feelings, and they are just coming out of me, and I cannot stop them. I have always been able to keep them down, because they have never helped me, not once.” He sniffed, his eyes still on the window, refusing to move. "Who wants to feel this strongly? Who wants to feel so much that they cannot breathe, that they are— crying, over nothing, like some f—" His jaw tightened. "Like a weak person. I thought I had completely turned it off." He laughed, barely. "I know how that sounds, saying it out loud. I know it sounds fucking stupid. I thought I had, I tried—" His voice cracked. "I tried so hard to. But he—"

He stopped.

The dam had been holding for a long time, finally overflowed, the pressure rising behind his eyes, so when the tears came, they fell straight down onto the floor between his feet rather than anywhere she could see them clearly.

"It hurts." He grunted. "The way he got in, I don't know how he–I didn't let him in, I was—" He choked around it, shaking his head again. "I cannot do this, Svetlana. Act normal when he doesn’t feel the same."

Her arms came around his shoulders from, and he pulled away, instinctively, and she pulled him back harder, tucked his head down onto her shoulder, and held it there.

"Ilyushok." She sighed, gently. "I know, rejection hurts."

"I don't deserve you." He said it into her skin, muffled, her curls brushing his forehead.

Svetlana clicked her tongue. "You absolutely fucking deserve me." Her arms tightened slightly. "And you deserve better than whoever rejected you. That's their loss. That is completely, entirely their loss."

 ∿∿∿∿∿∿

 ∿∿∿∿∿∿

He hadn't listened to a single thing in this lecture.

It didn't matter. He never really listened to his Friday evening lectures, and this one in particular had been a drone from the moment he'd dropped into his seat at the back of the hall, the professor's voice reaching him as nothing but a distant hum underneath everything else already running in his head. He'd pulled his hat down low, partly for the bedhair, partly to spare whatever poor bastard was sitting near him from the current state of his face. His eyebags had achieved something genuinely new this week, if that was possible. He hadn't showered in two days despite spending most of his time in the gym, which by any metric was disgusting, and a month ago, that thought alone would have sent him directly to the nearest cliff. 

The looksmaxxing he'd dedicated his entire adolescence to was probably completely undone by this point. A reverse ascension, falling off in real time. He couldn't bring himself to care, which was maybe the most alarming part, except that his brain was too full of other things to hold that thought for very long either.

Shane's face, for example.

He sank lower in his seat until his knees were bracketing the back of the chair in front of him and crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the projector he couldn't read from here.

They had been crossing the campus green, Cliff's arm heavy across his shoulders, talking at full volume about summer plans that mostly involved his parents' vacation home and the ratio of drinking to fucking he was intending to achieve there. The words had been going in one ear and out the other, Ilya squinting into the sun, when he'd appeared through the tree line like an angel— practical backpack on one shoulder, Rose's tote on the other, Rose herself swinging his hand between them as he texted with his free thumb, completely unbothered, floating through the soft light like nothing was wrong, like everything was fine, like the past month had not happened.

Ilya had looked. He hadn't decided to look, his head had simply turned, pulled by some involuntary mechanism he was extremely tired of not being able to override, and he had looked at Shane's face properly for the first time in days and prayed, actually prayed, some wordless and mortifying thing in the back of his head, for Shane to see him and maybe smile, wave, something small. Anything.

Shane had seen him, alright. 

Those brown eyes had found his across the green and gone wide immediately, pupils shrinking to nothing, eyebrows jumping toward his hairline, his mouth snapping shut like something had been switched off. 

The expression lasted maybe two seconds before Shane blinked and straightened it away, averted his gaze, kept walking, his face gone carefully flat. But two seconds were enough. And now it was burnt into the back of Ilya's eyes and played on a loop every time he blinked, every time he breathed, every time his gaze drifted from the unreadable projector.

He pressed his chin into his palm and ran his fingers slowly along his jaw, feeling the stubble catching.

He knew, logically, that he should probably be more frightened by the practical reality of the situation— Shane walking around campus with everything he needed to dismantle Ilya's life neatly stored in that careful head of his, no indication of what he planned to do with it, if anything. But he really couldn't care less.

That was the thing pounding at the back of his skull, making his vision blur slightly every time he tried to focus on the board. He liked Shane. Not just Myshkin, the human-shaped sex subject that moved through his cameras and his files. All of him. And because of that, Shane looking at him with disgust was somehow worse than any legal consequence Ilya could actually imagine. 

His brain kept circling back to the same point.

Shane had to go, that was the logical conclusion. His grades were good enough to transfer anywhere he wanted, and Shane could play hockey somewhere else, disappear somewhere Ilya couldn't watch him on the cameras or feel his pulse through the thin skin of his wrist. It was selfish. But Ilya could not feasibly survive the rest of the semester, let alone another year, with Shane walking around looking at him like that. 

He had to scare him enough that he'd never want to come back.

The professor's voice droned on below him, and Ilya stared at the screen, thinking about how to make the person he was in love with disappear.

 ∿∿∿∿∿∿

∿∿∿∿∿∿

Ilya squeezed his arms tighter across his chest and kicked idly at the loose gravel beneath his feet.

He checked the corner again. Redundant, he would have heard someone coming from half a block away. The alleyway was completely dead, tucked behind the scaffolding of the Fine Arts’ building renovation; the only sounds were the distant shushing of trees from the path and the intermittent scuttling of something alive in the bins across from him. 3:56, he had time.

He ran through the plan again. Shane would come, would be appropriately terrified by a man in all black and a balaclava, would not have the money, obviously, because nobody could pull ten thousand dollars in cash in under twenty-four hours, and Ilya would rough him up just enough, let him go, chase him down the alleyway for good measure. Clean, simple. Shane would be too scared of his nudes getting out to call the police. Shane would transfer, Shane would be gone.

He exhaled slowly through his nose and closed his eyes.

If everything went well, this was probably the last time he would see Shane in person. See Shane at all, really. He did have an incomprehensible amount of footage, organised and cross-referenced and sitting on a server he could access from anywhere, and he did plan to delete all of it eventually, but that was something he could get to gradually, inch by inch, just enough to take the edge off while his body processed whatever this was. So maybe not the last time he saw him. But the last time he touched him, which was probably the same thing—

"Uh, hello?"

Ilya's eyes opened. He straightened up, rolled his shoulders back, and said nothing.

Shane was standing at the mouth of the alleyway with his phone in one hand, the screen still lit. He looked down at it, then slipped it into the pocket of his running shorts, tiny, blue, hitting mid-thigh, because apparently Shane was a slut and constitutionally incapable of not dressing like one. His grey t-shirt clung to his shoulders in a way that suggested he'd gotten a pump this morning, his biceps filling out the short sleeves, his summer tan running all the way up his arms and his neck and settling warm across his face, which was pulled into a cautious, hesitant furrow. Bottom lip slightly blushed, tugged to the side. He wiped his palm absently on his thigh.

Ilya stepped off the wall and moved toward him slowly.

Shane's eyes dropped to the pavement, then flicked to the open quad around the corner. Anywhere except Ilya's face, his nose wrinkling slightly, his teeth finding his lip. Good, he was scared. Exactly right.

"I, uh—" Shane started, then stopped, shaking his head. "I don't—"

Ilya brought a finger to his own lips and shook his head. He pulled out his phone, opened the notes app, typed, and flipped the screen around.

Where's the money, Shane?

Shane's eyes moved to the screen. He leaned forward slightly to read it, and the corner of his mouth trembled. "Uhm."

Ilya pocketed his phone.

"I really did try to get it. I genuinely tried, but it's impossible to get that much cash in less than twenty-four hours—" Shane's eyes were fixed on Ilya's chest, his voice going quieter as Ilya kept moving toward him, circling slightly, and Shane stepped back once, twice, until the wall caught him. "I promise I tried. Please don't hurt me."

Ilya stepped forward until their sneakers were touching. He could feel the rapid rise and fall of Shane's chest pressed against his, his scared rabbit heart practically audible through the thin cotton. He leaned in, slowly, until his nose brushed the line of Shane's jaw, felt the sharp inhale that followed. Could even feel the warmth of his breath against his cheek, and underneath it, underneath the fresh sweat from wherever he'd been before this, the soft cottony smell. God, he fucking missed him.

He pressed his nose to Shane's neck and breathed deeply, three long inhales that made Shane shudder against the wall.

"Shit." Shane whispered, frozen, his whole body rigid.

Ilya got his hand into the longer strands at the back of his head and yanked, forcing his chin up and his throat bare. Shane's hands flew up instinctively.

"You're going to— you're going to eat me, please— please don't—" His voice was shaking, tremors moving all the way down through his legs and into his fingertips where they hovered uselessly at Ilya's arms. "Please—" Ilya's lips parted.

Shane's fist caught him hard in the chest, both palms shoving flat against him before Ilya absorbed the movement, and he stumbled back a full step, the air knocked clean out of him. Shane ducked under his arm and ran.

Ilya went after him.

Shane was fast, faster than Ilya had been accounting for, his legs covering the length of the alleyway in seconds. But Ilya closed the distance in four strides and got a hand around the back of his shirt, yanking, and Shane spun with the momentum rather than against it and drove his elbow back hard into Ilya's ribs. Ilya grunted, grip tightening, and maneuvered to get an arm banded around Shane's chest from behind, hauling him back off his feet.

Shane screamed, raw, bouncing off the alleyway walls, his legs kicking back, his heel connecting with Ilya's shin hard enough to send a bolt of pain up to his knee. Ilya got his free hand over Shane's mouth and pressed hard. Shane was grinding against him in his struggling, his whole body twisting and kicking, his ass pressing back rhythmically against Ilya's cock with every movement, and Ilya became aware with excruciating clarity that he was getting hard.

Shane thrust his head back and caught Ilya across the cheekbone, his grip going slack, and they went down together— Shane twisting as they fell, both of them hitting the concrete. Shane moved fast, getting a knee under himself and scrambling upright, one hand fisting into Ilya's hair and the other slamming his forearm flat to the ground, pinning it.

Ilya looked up.

Shane’s chest was heaving, his hair fallen forward across his forehead in dark, sweat-damp strands, his lips parted, and his cheeks flushed a deep, burning red, spreading from his nose and his cheekbones outward, all the way to his ears.

He shoved his free hand up and slapped it around Shane's jaw.

Shane’s eyes widened further, pupils blowing out, his lips falling open slightly. The flush deepened, impossibly, blooming down his throat and disappearing beneath his collar. 

His shirt had ridden up completely in the struggle, bunched under his chest, his stomach bared and faintly sheened with sweat from the fight, the defined lines of his abs catching in the shadow. His shorts had slipped, the waistband sitting low enough that the top of his boxers showed, his v-line cutting down beneath the fabric. Ilya couldn’t help it; he was completely hard, his cock straining against the denim, pressing up flush against Shane's cock. Their breaths were in rhythm as they both froze. 

Ilya's hand on his jaw loosened, slowly, as if not to scare him. He dragged his thumb across Shane's lower lip, pressing just enough to part it, and pushed his thumb between his teeth.

Shane's tongue moved against it, uncomfortable, trying to make room, slick and warm as spit gathered at the corners of his mouth and dripped down his chin, hitting Ilya's chest. Ilya watched it fall. In the gap of that second Shane's molars came down hard on his thumb.

"Fuck—" Ilya yelled, and yanked his hand back. 

Shane flinched, and his grip on Ilya’s arm went slack. He slipped his hand from under Shane’s and gripped his waist with both hands, flipping him face-down into the concrete in one hard movement. Shane hit the ground with a grunt, and Ilya got his wrists pinned behind his back and put his weight over him.

"Gerroff me." Shane said, muffled against the asphalt, his hips shifting. "I don't want this. Don't— don't fucking— stop it."

This was not how it was meant to go.

Ilya’s eyes dragged down Shane’s body. 

His shirt had given up entirely, bunched above his waist, revealing the curve of his lower back, the way it narrowed at the centre and widened back out. His stretch marks running along the sides of his hips in pale, silvery lines. His shorts were pushed low from the struggle, the waistband sitting just above the cleft of his ass, his crack playing peekaboo, and his ass itself was right there— round and full and slightly pink at the center from the pressure of Ilya's weight on him. This was the last time he was going to be able to touch him. Fuck it. Whatever.

Ilya grabbed the waistband of his shorts and yanked them down along with his boxers in one pull, ignoring Shane’s yelps of protest.

Uh. 

What the fuck. 

White, fluffy, sitting there in the center of his ass. A small, perfect puff of fur, slightly damp on the edges closest to him, nestled between his cheeks like it belonged there. Ilya’s heartbeat moved from his chest to his throat, to his cock. 

Every one of his protests had been reduced to nothing. His breathing was audible, shallow, and fast. Shane’s head had turned so he could see over his shoulder, his bangs falling forward across his face, but not far enough to hide the flush that had taken over completely. His lips were trembling at the corners, lifting and falling, lifting and falling, like his face couldn't decide what expression to make and kept cycling through all of them.

Ilya dragged his eyes up Shane's body and back down to the tail.

Who did he wear this for? Surely not for Ilya, how would he know it was Ilya under the balaclava? Unless he knew it was Ilya who sent the messages? But how. Did Shane just walk around like this all the time, constantly ready, the tail sitting there all day under his clothes while he went to class and carried Rose's tote bag and texted on his phone? The image hit him like a bullet, and a groan escaped his parted lips. Not for other people, fuck other people. Ilya wouldn’t let them. 

He ran his palm over the soft skin of Shane’s ass, and then smacked him hard at the crease where it met his thigh. 

Shane yelped and whined and wriggled in his grip. 

“No–” He sniffed. “Please don’t touch me there. I’m not— I’m not supposed to show people that.” 

No, you’re not. This is for Daddy’s eyes only. 

Ilya hissed through his teeth to keep the words inside and smacked him again, then got his fingers around the base of the plug and pushed. Shane groaned like it was yanked out of him, his hips grinding back against Ilya's hand.

"Ahh—" His voice climbed. "Fuck, stop, my tail's so sensitive— it hurts, it hurts so bad—"

It didn't sound like it hurt. It sounded like the opposite of that, his moans cresting higher with every movement as Ilya worked the plug in circles, pushing it deeper and pulling it back, and Shane's protests dissolved into continuous whimper until Ilya pulled it free entirely with a slick, wet noise.

Shane's hole was red, open and searching, clenching around nothing, lube tracking down the crease of his ass and dripping onto Ilya's fingers. Ilya stared at it, his breath coming unsteady through his nose, and smacked his ass once more just to watch it ripple and force another bead of lube free.

The plug was still in his hand, metal and slick, and he brought it to his mouth without thinking and wrapped his tongue around it, sucked it clean, tasting Shane on the back of his teeth.

His cock was screaming at him.

He looked down. There was a dark patch spreading through the denim at the head, visible even in the shadow, his cock so hard it was painful. He got his zip down and it swung free immediately, flushed and dripping at the tip, a thick bead of precome falling from the head and landing directly on Shane's hole. 

The pressure release made Ilya's breath come out in an embarrassing whine and he bit down on his own lip hard enough to break skin. 

He lined himself up and rubbed the head against Shane's hole and it gave immediately, hungry, the rim softening around him, trying to pull him in.

"No—" Shane's voice pitched up. "Please don't, please— it's too big, it won't fit, it won't—"

Ilya pushed in.

"—ohhhh fuckkk—"

His hips connected with Shane's ass with a smack that bounced off both walls of the alleyway, and the second he was fully seated inside him, the suffocating feeling he carried the past month just stopped. All of it evaporated into the wet, scalding friction of Shane’s body clenching around his cock.

Shane's knees dragged across the concrete with each stroke, scraping along the rough ground, his whole body thrusting forward and being pulled back. Ilya got a hand under his hip to yank him up, and Shane's moan broke completely in half.

"Oh God—" Shane gasped "Oh my fucking— it's so big— it's so fucking much—"

His body was shivering. The moans were coming out in hiccups, stacked on top of each other, cresting and dropping and cresting again, tears tracking down his face and dripping off his chin onto the concrete below him.

"Stop—" He sobbed, his hips rolling back to meet the next thrust. "I don't want it— I don't want you to— ahgh—" His voice cracked up into a wail. "Oh my God, you're going to get me pregnant—"

Ilya released his wrists.

Shane's hands flew to the ground immediately, scrabbling at the concrete, trying to crawl forward, and Ilya let him get two inches before snatching him back by the hips. He glanced down and couldn’t even see his cock anymore. All of him, fully seated, Shane's hole stretched tight around the base and glistening, his ass flush against Ilya's hips. 

Ilya wrapped his arm around Shane’s neck and slipped his fingers into his mouth. 

Shane's lips closed around them reflexively, his tongue moving, sloppy and uncoordinated, coating them in spit that ran down his chin and dripped steadily onto the concrete. He couldn't speak anymore, the sounds coming out of him shapeless and grunts.

"Fuck, baby." The words escaped Ilya’s lips before he could stop them, flooding out of him. "Can't take it? Can't take any more of Daddy's cock?"

"Ilya—" Shane slurred around his fingers, barely recognizable. "Mhm— I'm so full— you're so fucking good—"

Ilya's hips stilled.

Shane groaned at the absence, grinding himself back, trying to chase the friction. Ilya got his hands on his hips and held him there, immovable.

"What." He said, slowly. "What was that?"

"Ungh— more—" Shane snarled into the concrete.

"No." Ilya leaned down, his chest against Shane's back, his lips close to his ear. "What did you say."

Shane sniffed, dipping his head. “Ilya,” he whispered. 

Ilya grabbed his shoulders and hauled him upright in one motion, Shane's back slamming flush against his chest, both of them now on their knees on the concrete. With his free hand, he yanked the balaclava off his head and tossed it. He cupped Shane's chin and turned his face, making him look over his shoulder.

Shane's eyes were blown completely dark, glassy and dazed, his lips parted and wet, precome smeared across his stomach from where his cock had been dragging. His eyebrows arched in need, and he kept rolling his hips back against Ilya even now, unable to stop.

"Who owns you?" Ilya breathed it against his cheek.

"You—"

"Who." He drove up into him, and Shane's head fell back onto his shoulder.

"Ilya— fuck— you, you, it's you—"

"Who makes you feel good, bunny? Who does your cock belong to?"

"You—" Shane was crying openly now, tears running freely, sniffling with each word. "Yours, Daddy, yours, I'm yours—"

Ilya hooked both arms under Shane's shoulders and locked them there, holding his back flush and immovable against his chest, and fucked up into him hard. The kind of hard that meant Shane's knees left the ground with each thrust, his whole weight suspended between Ilya's arms and Ilya's cock, his own cock bouncing against his stomach with the force, bright red at the tip and leaking freely, smearing precome across his abs. 

“I told you about the cameras,” Ilya said it low, right against Shane's ear, his lips brushing the shell. “And you still got wet for me?” 

"Mnn—"

"Answer me."

"I—" Shane's head rolled back onto his shoulder, swallowing. "Ah— fuck—"

Ilya stilled his hips completely. Shane made an awful, snarling sound and tried to grind down, getting nowhere against the lock of Ilya's arms.

"Please—"

"Answer me first."

Shane hiccuped in a breath, his tears tracking steadily down his face and dripping off his jaw. "Yes," he gasped finally. "Yes, I knew—"

Ilya rewarded him with a single, devastating thrust. "How long— how long did you know."

"Since— since you texted me—" Shane choked out, his voice cracking. "I knew it was you, I knew it was you the whole time, how could I fucking not, you follow—ung, you followed me around Whole Foods—"

Ilya paused. 

Shane whimpered at the absence and ground back helplessly. "Please— please don't stop, I missed your cock so much—"

"You knew it was me." He repeated. "The whole time."

"Yes—" Shane sobbed. "Fuck yes, I couldn't stop— I kept jerking off to the photos, I kept sniffing your pillow, thinking about you watching me, thinking about you thinking about me—" His voice dissolved into a wail. "Your slut, you can watch me whenever you want, you own me, I'm yours—"

Ilya drove into him and the sentence disintegrated.

“Ahh—fuck— I’m so fucking pathetic.” Shane whispered, shaking his head back and forth against Ilya’s neck. 

“Da, da, you’re fucking pathetic.” Ilya growled, planting a wet kiss to the top of Shane’s head. “My bitch. I own you.”

He got his hand around Shane's jaw and turned his face to kiss him. Open and filthy, their teeth catching on the first collision and neither pulling back, Shane's mouth desperately trying  to keep up, an animalistic snarl running into Ilya's mouth between the crashes of their lips. Ilya kissed him harder and kept moving, kept fucking him through it, fucking until his chest finally broke open. 

It was like a rupture directly behind his sternum that sent a violent ache radiating down his arms and up into the roots of his teeth. His pulse was hammering so hard against his ribs it made his vision throb with it. He couldn't draw a full breath. He was fucking him and kissing him and holding his back flush against his chest so tightly his own muscles were shaking with the strain, and it felt exactly like bleeding out. Like he was going to physically die right here on the concrete if he couldn't get closer, if he couldn't climb inside him and stay there.

He pulled back just far enough, his chest heaving, a thin string of spit dragging between them before snapping against Shane's chin.

Shane's mouth was open, lips swollen and shining, his eyes barely open, his chest heaving. The most beautiful thing Ilya had ever seen, completely ruined by him, so happy to be ruined by him. Ilya held his gaze and spat directly into his open mouth. His palm came up fast, cupping Shane's lips shut, pressing hard, and Shane flinched, letting out a frightened sound muffled against his palm.

Ilya felt the fear move through him like a current and smacked him hard across the cheek.

Shane came. Completely untouched, his cock pulsing in long, shuddering spurts up his own chest and throat, his body locking rigid in Ilya's arms, his hole clenching so tight that Ilya's vision went white at the edges. Shane was shaking, crying, still rolling his hips through each aftershock, oversensitive and unable to stop.

Ilya drove his hips forward a final time, burying himself so deep their hipbones bruised together. He buried his face in the sweat-damp heat of Shane’s neck, his teeth grazing the frantic pulse jumping beneath the skin, and let his eyes fall shut.

When he came, it ripped through him, tearing a harsh, humiliating sound out of his throat as he emptied every last drop of himself into the absolute ruin of his life, his whole frame shaking uncontrollably against Shane's back as he finally let himself drown.

Chapter End Notes

thank you so much for 1,9k kudos, it's crazy that this fic has find its way out of my niche, but it's understandable, because the themes are treated much more lightly. i'm glad people are enjoying it so far. but there is conflict, and there is much more if it coming. this is porn with social commentary after all, impossible to do without consequence. absurd scenarios but with realistic characters, is my preferred form of crack. if you're looking for something fluffy from start to finish, allergic to conflict etc etc. i'd recommend dropping this one now. we are getting into the weeds of things.

google is your friend, but here's some more hyperspecific terminology ilya and shiggy use in this chapter:

 

ldaring: the active form of LDAR (lay down and rot) slang for accepting the black pill, withdrawing from society and all real life social contact
inkwell: in this context, a phonetic worldplay for the term incel
janny: short for janitor and usually refers to an online forum moderator
sub 8: having a PSL (refers to facial attractiveness in this context) rating under 8
PSL: stands for puahate.com, sluthate.com, and lookism.net the big 3 of early internet sub forums, focused on looksmaxxing and the "blackpill", also refers to the PSL scale an objective attempt to evaluate a person's facial aesthetic value
slayer: in this context, an attractive man who effortlessly seduces and sleeps with multiple women on the regular