Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Background & Cameo Characters

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - College/University, House Party, Recreational Drug Use, Shotgunning, (weed), Drunk Blow Jobs, Blow Jobs, Semi-Public Sex, Shane Hollander Has an Oral Fixation, Shane Hollander Has a Praise Kink, POV Shane Hollander, the most stereotypical college frat house party shit you've ever read, it's giving: woah dude last night was a movie, Hotboxing, Dom Ilya Rozanov, Sub Shane Hollander, Spit Kink, Anal Sex, Exhibitionism, Kinda, Masochistic Shane Hollander, Light Masochism, High Sex, Light BDSM, Blindfolds, Choking, a bit of fluff as a reward, lots of yearning, Porn With Plot

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-14 Completed: 2026-02-24 Words: 31,222 Chapters: 3/3

blowback

Summary

Rather than give him the joint, Ilya takes it back between his own lips and sucks in a deep breath, the tip glowing as he does so. Then, before Shane can process it, he’s reaching up and sliding one large hand around the back of Shane’s neck, pulling him down so their lips meet.

Shane gasps softly, and Ilya takes the opportunity to blow smoke into his open and waiting mouth.

Oh, God. Are you there? It’s me, Shane Hollander. We’ve had our differences, but I think I’d like to convert for real this time. I’m ready. Open the pearly white gates. I’m coming up.

Shane goes to a house party, gets high, then gets on his knees. bon appetite
now ft. part 2 and 3 with more high shenanigans, flirting and fucking

Notes

for those wondering: a "blowback" (often referred to as a "shotgun") in the context of smoking a joint is a technique where one person inhales smoke from a cannabis joint and then exhales it directly into another person’s mouth.

also, disclaimer, i've never been to a college frat party (mostly because i live in the UK and we don't even have frats here) but i've been to my share of house parties and smoked a joint like twice so those are my qualifications for writing this. i just wanna watch hollanov swap smoke and spit, sue me.

yet again i wrote this in various fugue states (#noticing and #observing a pattern here), so any mistakes or bad writing choices are a result of that and my inability to proofread more than once <3

i hope you enjoy nonetheless :)

Chapter 1

Shane Hollander is at what could possibly be the most insane fucking house party of his entire college experience. 

It had been JJ’s idea, because of course it had. Word came by a friend of a friend who knew a guy going around campus bragging about hosting an ‘absolute fucking rager’ after the Friday night game (football, not hockey this time), and so naturally, down through the grapevine it went, and Hayden and then Shane had received invites by proxy. 

Whoever was hosting (Shane still didn’t know, and frankly it never really mattered anyway), had absolutely delivered on their promise. It was absolute chaos. From the moment he and Hayden had rocked up to the address JJ had hastily texted them earlier that evening, Shane had been floored at the sheer number of people they were faced with. The house, a regular two story student house from the outside, with a modest front yard and a porch, had bodies spilling out every which way. There wasn’t a square inch of grass out front that didn’t have people on it, standing around and talking (well, shouting), some dancing to the music that leaked out from the open windows and front door. There was even one guy already face planted into the dirt, blacked out and unmoving.

Despite the windows being cracked open, Shane could see a layer of condensation fogging up the glass, distorting the flashing neon lights glowing through them and making the inside of the house look like some kind of alternate dream-like dimension they were about to enter into. It didn’t help either that the panes themselves were shaking in their frames from the force of the bass bumping beneath the EDM track that was playing. 

“Jesus,” Hayden had whistled as they made their way up to the front door, “the whole fucking campus must be here.”

Off to the side, a huddle of bodies parted slightly as they passed to reveal a guy in the middle of a keg stand, illuminated by phone flashes, all capturing what would no doubt be a blurry Instagram story to look back on with shame (or pride, depending on the person) in the morning. 

“Let’s just get in,” Shane replied, steeling himself, “I’m way too sober for this.”

Manoeuvring past the group of bodies congregated on the front deck and around the porch swing, which was hanging off one side and still had four people crammed on it, passing a joint between them, they made it over the threshold and into the fray.

Inside was a whole other level of pandemonium. The noise level had increased tenfold just by entering the building, the music and the sound of people’s shouts and jeers bouncing off the walls and making the floor beneath their feet shake. Bodies lined the entryway, grinding up against each other in a dirty rhythm, squeezed into corners with mouths hot against ears to talk, or pressed up on walls with mouths hot against mouths. 

“Fucking Christ–!” The stairs leading up to the second floor were, at that moment, being used as a makeshift slide, someone having stolen a mattress from one of the bedrooms and using it like a giant sled, and Hayden had side-stepped just in time to narrowly avoid being taken out. Both its riders had stood up whooping, clapping each other on the back like they’d just accomplished something incredible. Shane shook his head, wondering what the fuck they had gotten themselves into. 

Muscling through the crowd, they found themselves in what resembled something like a bombsite, but was in fact the kitchen. Red solo cups, bottles and cans littered every available surface, along with stubbed out cigarettes and discarded lighters. Playing cards were scattered across the countertop, some clinging together by some ominous sticky substance. The counters were overflowing with every brand of alcohol imagineable, and amongst the array was a large bucket filled with a radioactive-looking mixture that people were sticking straws into and taking sips out of as they walked by. Shane couldn’t help the way his nose wrinkled at what a fucking insane health hazard it was, but since when were college students ever capable of making good decisions? 

“Let’s go!” Hayden yelled above the thump of the music, turning around and brandishing two cans of beer. He’d plucked them from the kitchen sink, which had been loaded up with ice and was acting as a makeshift cooler for various cans, bottles and mixers. Shane accepted a can and they cheers'ed. 

“I absolutely,” Hayden groaned between chugs, “needed this. Semester’s been such a fucking bitch so far.” 

Shane nodded between taking a few hefty gulps of his own beer, eager to catch up with the rest of the room and stop feeling like he was fucking sleepwalking. Some of it slipped out the corners of his mouth and ran down his chin, which he swiped up with the back of his hand. 

“Where the hell do you think JJ is?” he asked, eyes taking in the scenes before them. If there was any hope of finding their buddy amongst the anarchy, it was an infinitesimal amount. 

Hayden shrugged, knocking back the rest of his beer already and then crushing the can flat between the palm of his hand and the countertop. Then proceeded to belch in the most obnoxious display of college bro masculinity that Shane had ever seen.

“Dude.”

“Fuck you, catch up.” 

Not like he wasn’t fucking trying. 

Hayden turned to grab another beer from the sink, then turned and clapped Shane on the back, the force of it causing Shane’s beer to slosh and coat his hand, making it sticky. “I’m gonna go see where he is, you think you can stay alive long enough for me to find you again?” 

Shane rolled his eyes. “Seriously? Ten bucks I find you sucking face with Jackie somewhere instead.”

His best friend simply smirked in response.

“Actually, make it twenty,” Shane added. “And for fuck’s sake, use protection if you do anything tonight. I’m not ready for a kid running around the rink.”

“Oh, but baby you’d make such a good uncle,” Hayden said with a shit-eating grin, pinching Shane’s cheek between his thumb and forefinger, which Shane immediately batted away. “Alright, seriously though, don’t wander off. I’ll find you back here.”

Shane waved him off with a nod and a promise to be on his best behaviour. He’d known they’d end up splitting up at some point in the night, ever since Hayden had caught wind from Jackie’s circle that she’d be here, and Shane knew that was a very large part of why Hayden had wanted to come in the first place. For all his posturing as the typical college athlete fuckboy, Shane knew Hayden was horrifically soft on the inside, particularly when it came to Jackie. Since meeting her at their first fresher’s night on campus, he hadn’t stopped talking about her. It was sickening. And very cute, if Shane was being nice.

After watching Hayden disappear into the throng, Shane nursed his beer leaning up against the counters, surveying his surroundings a little more. Streamers and confetti hung haphazardly from the popcorn ceilings, flung over light fixtures and ceiling fans that weren’t spinning. They’d be useless anyway, with just how fucking hot it was in the house. The sheer amount of people crammed into the space and their combined body heat made it feel like a tropical summer’s night, despite the chill of the February air outside. Shane could feel the sweat already beading at the back of his neck, knew that it would soon be running in rivulets down his spine and soaking the back of his fitted black tee. 

There were a few other people around the kitchen, sitting atop the counters and perched on the breakfast bar, talking amongst themselves or, like Shane, nursing a drink and staring into space. They were probably far more drunk than Shane was, by the looks of them, eyes glassy and limbs loose. Hayden had insisted they pre-game a little before coming, thankfully, so Shane was already feeling slightly buzzy by the time he finished his beer. But still, it wasn’t enough to feel like he wasn’t sticking out like a sore, sober thumb. Deciding that beer wasn’t going to cut it, he poured himself a few shots of the nearest spirit (white rum, it looked like), knocking them back in quick succession and wincing only slightly at the heat in his chest as they went down.

Which brings him to the present moment, standing in the kitchen waiting for the shots to kick in and wondering whose bright idea it was to hide a broken lampshade in the oven. At least it’s not turned on. He eventually decides to take a lap around. May as well see the sights if Hayden is going to be as occupied as he imagined. He takes another drink for the road, this one a sloppily mixed rum and coke which is definitely fifty percent more rum than coke. 

His feet lead him first to the living room, a wide space with arguably the largest concentration of people in the entire house. A worn, grey couch has been shoved up against one wall to make room for an improvised beer pong match, taking place across a shitty fold out table. It’s unclear who’s winning, because there are about 20 too many cups on the table to count, and the players keep knocking their own cups over every time they make a throw, rowdy and boisterous. 

Absorbed by the game nonetheless, Shane only snaps out of it when he feels one of the ping-pong balls hit his foot and roll to a stop. He leans down, picks it up off the filthy carpet, and hands it back to one of the guys closest to him at the table.

“Hey, thanks man!” the guy slurs, before dunking it into the nearest cup to rinse it off before resuming play. 

Fucking hell. Shane has done many questionable things throughout his time at college so far, but there are certain things he draws the line at. Most of them to do with not being a walking fucking plague-carrier. He’s way too invested in hockey to get sick doing half the things some of his peers get up to. 

Getting shit-faced on the weekends, or in the holidays, or on the odd week night when they had afternoon practice the next day, however, does not fall past the imaginary line. 

The other side of the living room has seemingly been dubbed the unofficial dance floor, the crowd there moving and undulating in sync to the music. Bodies pressed on bodies, arms slung around necks and waists. Two tower speakers are tucked into the far corner, the cones on the front visibly vibrating with the force of the bass being pumped through them. Deciding he’d rather not go deaf from standing too close for too long, Shane makes to turn and cut through into the hallway, but gets stopped by the feeling of a hand sliding its way up his back.

“Hey, you,” a sultry voice says, way too close to the shell of his ear, “wanna dance?”

The girl is attractive, all smoky eyes and tousled dark hair, wearing a slinky top that clings to her curves. She’s biting her lip, corners of her mouth turned up in a smile that Shane thinks is supposed to be alluring to him. Her fingers have come around to rest on his bicep, beckoning him to her. Shane wishes he cared. 

“I’m, uh, trying to find a friend,” he says, with what he hopes is an apologetic smile. 

The girl pouts in a show of exaggerated disappointment. “Aw, don’t be like that,” she whines, fingers squeezing the muscle of his arm playfully. She wiggles closer, pressing the swell of her chest against Shane like that’s going to convince him.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, squeezing past her awkwardly and ignoring the way she huffs and cusses him out as he walks off. 

Seeking solace, he ends up in the downstairs bathroom that is, mercifully, empty. He presses the door shut behind him and locks it with a soft click, temporarily muffling the chaos outside. While the noise is somewhat diminished, the décor in here is just as absurd and disorientating. Someone has duct-taped a rotating disco light to the ceiling, the whole room lit up in a swirl of multi-coloured lights dancing across the tiled walls like some kind of fucked up LSD trip. The wall above the toilet has been defaced with scrawlings and stickers, some of them citing phone numbers that promise a good time in exchange for a call. On the opposite wall, above the sink, the mirror has been graffitied as well, this time with lipstick that simply reads ‘WHORE’ in big, red, wobbly letters. 

Shane takes stock of his reflection behind the writing. Hair mussed, cheeks flushed with the heat, a sheen already coating his skin and making him glow. Eyes, a little glazed over and bloodshot. Now alone in the bathroom, the familiar tipsy feeling has caught up and taken over his brain, a pleasant thrum beneath his skin and between his ears, brain fuzzy in the best way. He grins at his reflection, and his reflection grins back, and they both let out a little giggle. 

This is fun. He’s needed this. To let loose, to forget about classes and hockey practice and expectations. To crawl out of his skin that always sits slightly too tight, too awkwardly over his skeleton, to be free. He wishes he was more drunk. Wishes he was drunk enough to dance, to fall into the music and let it hold him, sway him. Wishes he was drunk enough to dance with a pretty girl, to hold her, to kiss her, to take her back to his place, or her place, to make out, to fuck, to not think about the thing that has been gnawing away inside of him for far too long. 

Fuck.

Shane turns on the tap and splashes cool water on the back of his neck. Looking down, he realises there’s an empty baggy discarded in the sink, the remnants of a white powder clinging to the bottom. He doesn’t do hard drugs, mostly because if anyone found out he’d be kicked off the team and his scholarship ripped out from under him faster than he could spell coke. But also because he’s scared of how addicting it would be to feel that kind of high, that kind of liberation from his own mind. He knows he’d never be able to stop. But, for just a moment, he thinks about it. 

No. His line is drawn at alcohol and weed. A few rips from Hayden’s bong now and again, when he’s feeling particularly caged in his own skeleton, itching to burst, but that’s it. 

Shane splashes more water on his neck, his wrists, his forehead. He looks around for a hand towel, only to find it discarded on the floor in the corner, soaking wet with god knows what. He settles for slicking his hair back slightly, mussing it up in a way that he hopes looks dishevelled but sexy. He kind of just feels like it looks stupid. Oh well. 

He exits the bathroom and is hit with the full force of the noise and heat. He takes a long haul of his drink, braces himself, then pushes back amongst the crowd. Finishing his lap of the house, Shane wanders upstairs and checks out the bedrooms that aren’t currently occupied, then tries the bathroom only to find it locked and a tell-tale thumping and moaning emanating from the other side. He finds no sign of Hayden or JJ, though he does run into a few buddies from his regular classes, and they spend a while talking shit and lounging on the staircase.

“I need some fucking air,” Shane says after a while, shirt sticky with sweat. The drinks have finally caught up to him, his head swimming and warmth spreading through his chest. He excuses himself, heading back down and towards the kitchen where he knows there are doors that lead out onto the rear deck. It takes a great deal of effort not to fall over his own feet, but he manages. 

Stepping into the frigid night is a relief, the cool breeze washing over him and turning the feverish skin on his arms to gooseflesh. He sucks in a breath, revelling in the relatively peaceful atmosphere of the back yard, only a handful of people scattered across the lawn and on the porch. There’s a small group huddled at the far end of the garden, leaning back in plastic chairs, feet kicked up on a low table, blowing smoke into the sky and laughing. To Shane’s left, there’s a couple, the girl with her back resting against the wooden railings of the porch, the guy bracketing his arms around her and leaning down, whispering something in her ear that has her blushing. 

It’s respite, but still not quite enough. He needs to be further away, away from what he isn’t entirely sure, maybe from himself, to shed the suit of skin he wears and reach for something beyond what he is. Shane considers for a moment, then hops up on the railing of the deck and hoists himself up onto the roof, surprisingly lithe for all his drunkenness. The porch overhang is deep enough and flat enough for him to scoot back on, stretching himself out and laying with his back flat against the cool surface, head tilted up to the stars. He gets comfy, arms coming up to interlock his fingers at the base of his neck, pillowing his head. He shuts his eyes, enjoying the way the world feels like it’s swaying and tilting around him as he does so, the alcohol in his system making him feel tingly all over. 

This is better, this is something. He can be himself here, peeled away from his husk and laid bare under the knowing gaze of the sky, the stars, the heavens, free of judgement. Cradled in the dark and in the warmth of a drunken glow. Just this, just for now. 

For a while, Shane just lays with his eyes shut and drifts to the steady thump thump thump of the speakers and distant shouts and hollers of the people inside. He doesn’t even realise that he isn’t alone anymore until he feels the air around him shift with another presence settling down in the space beside him. 

Slowly, Shane tilts his head to the left and opens his eyes, taking in the figure.

The guy is stretched out, much like Shane is, relaxing back on his arms and propping himself up on his elbows. He’s holding a joint in one hand, taking a slow drag and tilting his head back to exhale the smoke, his mess of blonde curls falling back from his face as he does so to reveal the crooked line of his nose, the deep curve of his lips. 

He turns and finds Shane watching him, though doesn’t seem surprised or bothered. 

“I thought you might be dead or something.”

His voice comes out in a low rumble, a heavy Russian accent colouring the words. It makes Shane shiver a little. 

“Glad you’re not,” he continues, flicking the end of the joint slightly, “I don’t want to deal with that shit.” 

Shane finds himself chuckling, which in turn brings a small smile out of the guy. 

“Not dead,” Shane groans, shifting to sit up straighter, hands coming up behind his back to support himself. “Just enjoying a little R and R.”

“Yes, I also like to come to house party to relax,” the guy scoffs, and takes another toke.

Shane takes the opportunity to appraise him, trying to work out whether he’s seen him around campus before or at another party somewhere. No, he thinks. He’d definitely remember seeing this guy somewhere. 

Long limbs and broad shoulders, thick muscular arms straining against the fabric of his white T-shirt that clings to the hard lines of his chest and abdomen. If he isn’t an athlete then Shane will go home cursing his genetics for the rest of his life, because the man has the figure of a fucking Greek god and Shane, for all the lean muscle he’s built doing hockey over the years, suddenly feels small in comparison.

The guy must feel Shane’s eyes on him again, because he turns and raises an eyebrow. “You want?” he asks, holding out the joint, interpreting Shane’s attention as a desire to get in on a hit. 

Shane wouldn’t usually indulge outside of his and Hayden’s late night hangouts, just the two of them passing the bong back and forth and getting giggly in Hayden’s dorm room, but he’s feeling reckless tonight. Like he’s on the edge of something happening, hair standing on end right before a lightning strike. And the way this guy is looking at him, gaze steady and daring and full of something Shane can’t quite place, it makes him feel like he could do anything. 

He plucks the joint from the guy’s fingers, wetting his lips before taking the tip between them and sucking, deep, drawing the thick smoke into his lungs. The guy watches him with rapt attention, eyes dark, and Shane finds himself staring back. 

Just as Shane thinks he can’t take anymore in, the guy opens his mouth and murmurs, “More.” It’s both a command and a challenge.

Shane breathes deeper, eyes never leaving the guy’s face as he sucks the smoke further into his lungs, filling himself with it and holding it in until he’s dizzy. He gets a nod of satisfaction, a silent praise for his effort. As if given permission, he finally exhales, a heavy cloud escaping through his nose and mouth, the smoke hanging heavy between the two of them. 

Something about that was… almost erotic. 

Shane’s skin is tingling, head buzzing. He passes the joint back, and the guy takes it and pops it back in his mouth immediately. Shane can’t help but think of how they’re indirectly sharing saliva, and his stomach clenches. 

“You are Shane Hollander, yes?”

Shane blinks. “You know me?”

The guy rolls his eyes, smirking. “Hard not to. Whole campus knows you. Big hockey star.” 

Being called a ‘star’ is a little embarrassing, although part of Shane preens at the fact that his name is known enough around campus to have reached this guy’s ears. 

“Do you play sports too?” Shane asks. 

“No, no.” The guy turns away momentarily to spit into the gutter. Shane doesn’t even find it gross. “I like hockey though. But I am Psychology major.”

Huh. Would not have guessed that. Shane remembers his theory from earlier and wants to cry with how unfair it is that this guy is sitting in someone’s class, making notes on Piaget and Jung, looking like fucking Achilles himself. 

“You’ve watched some of our games then?” Shane can’t help but ask at the mention of him liking hockey. 

He gets a dry laugh in response. “Yes, I show up with huge banner that says ‘I heart Shane Hollander’, you don’t see me?”

“Don’t think I’d forget seeing something like that.”

Shane doesn’t know if it’s the combination of the alcohol and the weed kicking in, but the moment the words tumble out his mouth, he’s wanting to suck them right back in like the smoke that still lingers in the air. He never says shit like that, let alone to random hot guys on rooftops at parties. He must be fucking high as a kite. 

His tongue darts out again nervously to wet his lips – stupid cotton mouth – and the guy follows the movement with his eyes, still staring unwaveringly at Shane in a way that makes him shudder inside. If Shane’s words had affected him at all, he certainly didn’t give anything away. 

“Ilya,” he eventually says, extending his free hand out to Shane. 

Pretty name, the alcohol-addled, juvenile part of Shane’s brain says. Jesus Christ, the sober and thus much smaller part says, as he reaches out and clasps the guy– Ilya’s hand.

The touch of Ilya’s skin on his has Shane’s body fizzing, all of a sudden feeling hot again like he’s back inside on the dancefloor. Electricity is humming up his spinal column and into the back of his head like he’s been connected up to a live wire. It has to be the cocktail of inebriants in his system, because it shouldn’t be normal for another person to make him feel like this. Like he could stand up and jump clean off this roof right now, and somehow start flying. If he weren’t already drunk five ways to Sunday, this feeling alone Shane is sure could sustain him for the rest of the night.

Ilya withdraws his hand with a slight squeeze. He goes back to smoking and staring out into the night, the glow of the outdoor lights casting shadows across his strong brow and reflecting off the dainty gold crucifix that hangs between the swell of his pecs. 

He shifts slightly, getting more comfortable, and the movement causes the hem of his shirt to ride up a little. It’s just enough to expose the lower part of his toned stomach, dusted with light blonde hairs that disappear along with the deep V of his obliques into the waistband of his jeans. Jeans that ride low on his hips and are obscenely tight in a way that has Shane swallowing heavily. 

Shane has been with men before. A couple of guys throughout his college years so far, nice and patient enough to let Shane clumsily stumble through the motions of sucking dick like the newbie he is. It had been… pleasant. Enjoyable. He’d wanted to, obviously. But there hadn’t been this insatiable lust that he’d heard about from friends and teammates who talked about their hookups, their girlfriends. The way they talked about eating pussy like they were starving for it. Like they could drown in it and die happy. Maybe it’s because Shane had been inexperienced, and, being the perfectionist he is, hated not being good at things on the first try. Maybe he just hasn’t got the hang of it yet. 

Looking at Ilya, Shane very much wants to get the hang of it. Quickly. 

“So… you come alone tonight?” Ilya says, casually. 

Shit, Hayden. Shane remembers all too quickly that he had, in fact, come with someone. His best friend, who had specifically told him to not stray too far. He wonders if he ever found JJ in the end. Oh well, they’d find their way back together at some point. 

“Nah, my buddy dragged me out, there’s a girl here that he likes. He’s so persuasive when he wants to get his dick wet.”

Ilya snorts. “Ah, right.” He pauses, flicking ash on the tiles. Down in the yard, someone whoops, followed by a chorus of laughter. “What about you? Come to get your dick wet?”

Shane almost chokes on his own spit, which would be extremely fucking difficult considering his mouth is as dry as sandpaper. His eyes flick back to Ilya, who is leaning back looking all too relaxed and – fuck he’s so hot – fixing Shane with that same intense look. 

“No, I mean… I’m not– There isn’t anyone…” Shane doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say. No, but maybe that’s changed. Maybe I could. Maybe I want to. Maybe you could– He sucks in a breath. 

“I’m shocked,” Ilya mercifully interrupts Shane’s poor attempt at stringing a sentence together. “A guy like you, athlete…”

“Guy like me?”

Ilya cocks his head in Shane’s direction, tilting his neck in such a way that shows off the thick column of his throat, the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, eyes raking over Shane’s body. 

“I know many people that would like to fuck you, Shane Hollander.”

Fucking hell.  

“Oh?” is all Shane can manage. 

Ilya, as if he hadn’t just said something that is currently doing a number on Shane’s dick, rolls up onto one hip for a moment and reaches behind his body with the hand that isn’t holding the joint, tugging something out of his back pocket before coming back to rest on his elbows again. It’s a small silver flask. His deft fingers work the top off, flicking the cap back before taking a swig. 

“Vodka at these parties tastes like fucking battery acid,” he simply states.

Shane just nods wordlessly, the movement making the world tilt and sway and pitch. He’s lightheaded, floating just above the clouds but also swimming through them, thoughts hazy and limbs heavy. He feels Ilya’s gaze lingering on him, and it makes him want to look up and meet it, to accept whatever challenge lays in the eyes that stare back at him, to lean forward and take, or to lean back and be taken. 

Through low lids and the dark line of his lashes, Shane looks. He wants another drink, wants another hit, wants to wet his lips on something, wants to drink something down, breathe something in, down deep until he’s full and sated. Wants, wants, wants. 

Ilya provides. Offers his joint to Shane like he knows it’s something craved. Shane nods, gulping down desire and settling for the acrid taste of smoke sitting on his tongue instead. He holds his hand out, waiting for it. 

But rather than give him the joint, Ilya takes it back between his own lips and sucks in a deep breath, the tip glowing as he does so. Then, before Shane can process it, he’s reaching up and sliding one large hand around the back of Shane’s neck, pulling him down so their lips meet.

Shane gasps softly, and Ilya takes the opportunity to blow smoke into his open and waiting mouth. 

Oh, God. Are you there? It’s me, Shane Hollander. We’ve had our differences, but I think I’d like to convert for real this time. I’m ready. Open the pearly white gates. I’m coming up.

It’s the hottest fucking thing Shane has ever experienced. Ilya’s lips are barely grazing his own but just the suggestion of them is enough to set off fireworks behind his eyes.

For all his surprise, Shane manages to breathe in a good amount of the smoke that Ilya feeds him, taking it into his lungs and holding it there like a precious gift. All the while, their faces remain mere millimeters apart, and Ilya’s eyes are open, pupils blown wide as he watches Shane take it all. And Shane wants him to watch, wants him to see Shane take it. 

Shane only pulls away slightly when he needs to exhale, considerate enough to blow it out the side of his mouth and not right back into Ilya’s face. Ilya’s hand slips from the back of his neck, and the heat of it is replaced with the sharp sting of cool air, and it makes Shane shiver. 

Ilya swipes his tongue across his bottom lip, eyes still fixed on Shane’s face as he leans back to rest on his forearms. He looks just as high as Shane feels, pupils dilated, hair somewhat dishevelled, chest rising and falling a little heavier. 

For a moment, all that fills the air between them is the music punching its way out the speakers inside, the loud, drunken chatter below, their shallow breathing. 

Shane plunges forward, lips crashing into Ilya’s with a hunger that’s almost ravenous, hands coming up to grab the sides of his face and tangle into the hair that curls around his ears. Ilya lets out a surprised moan, only taken off guard for a second before he’s recovering and kissing Shane back filthily, dropping the remains of the joint and bringing his hand up to splay his fingers at the back of Shane’s head, fingernails scraping his scalp. For a brief, delirious moment, Shane wonders if his lips are dry; the thought is immediately wiped when Ilya’s tongue slides between them and explores Shane’s mouth like he wants to taste him from the inside out. It’s fucking heavenly. 

Feeling insatiable, Shane throws a leg over Ilya’s hips and straddles him, sinking onto his lap and pushing closer. Ilya falls back against the roof tiles, breathless, and Shane just chases him down, lips and tongues not separating for a second. Now with his hands free, Ilya reaches up to grab at Shane’s waist, his fingers finding the skin of his hips and lower back where his shirt has rucked up. He digs the pads of his fingers in aggressively, rubbing them across the juts of Shane’s hipbones, and Shane moans into his mouth at the possessiveness of it. Unbidden, his hips buck and twitch, the fabric of his jeans catching against his cockhead and making him gasp.

Ilya growls, rutting his hips up at the sound, kissing him deeper like he’s trying to swallow each little breath and moan spilling from Shane’s lips. His hands slide over the swell of Shane’s ass in his jeans, kneading the soft flesh with his palms and using what little leverage he has to grind Shane down against him. Ilya’s hard, Shane can feel it through their jeans, the swollen length of his cock dragging deliciously against Shane’s own. 

If he weren’t already on cloud nine, Shane would be fucking doing somersaults over the stars at this point. He’s dizzy in the best way, confident and unreserved in a manner that only alcohol can bring out of him. He’s vaguely aware that they’re doing this out in the open, barely concealed atop the porch overhang where anyone could look up and witness Shane dry humping this guy as he claims his mouth. But this is what people did at parties, get high, get loose, make out, fuck. It’s just that Shane doesn’t. Hasn’t. Until now. 

Breaking their kiss for the first time, Shane mouths messily over Ilya’s cheek and down to his throat where his head is tilted back slightly from the angle he’s laying at, a perfect canvas for Shane to mark. As he kisses and licks and sucks at the spot just below Ilya’s ear, he hears Ilya groan, and feels a hand come up to latch itself around the back of his neck, holding him there tightly. It’s all the encouragement Shane needs, sucking the skin into his mouth greedily, nibbling at it and visualising the pretty mark that will bloom there afterwards. His hands skitter over Ilya’s chest, his huge pecs, down his sides where he can feel the tight coil of his abs. He feels desperate, like he can’t get close enough, can’t have enough in his mouth, can’t get enough friction on his poor, aching dick. He whines. 

“Oh, fuck,” Ilya moans, his voice cracking and rough around the words. He sounds as wrecked as Shane feels. “Your fucking mouth, Hollander.” 

Shane just whines again in response, reduced to nothing but sheer need, floating out of his head and into someplace else where all he wants is his mouth on the man beneath him. Ilya fists his hand into the hair at the nape of Shane’s neck and tugs, yanking him back. Shane’s lips slip off with a wet sound, a thin string of saliva connecting his bottom lip and the raw skin of Ilya’s neck. He moans loudly at the loss, but also at the jolt of pain that shoots through his scalp under Ilya’s fingers. It hurts. And it’s so fucking good. 

Bringing Shane’s face up to eye level, Ilya’s looking at him with an expression of pure lust, eyes glassy and lips glistening with spit. Shane’s spit. 

“Please,” Shane breathes, chest heaving. He rolls his hips, chasing friction, chasing pleasure. He’s so turned on and so high, and nothing is enough. 

“I never expected– Fuck, you are so pretty,” Ilya growls under his breath, his gaze flitting all over Shane’s face, down his body. Like he can’t believe what he’s looking at. 

“Please,” Shane whimpers, digging his fingers into Ilya’s waist and rocking against him. 

Ilya murmurs something under his breath in Russian, the sound of it unbelievably hot. He glances around, searching for something. 

Then, he’s loosening his grip in Shane’s hair and using his hands to nudge at Shane’s hips, directing him to get off, pushing his hips up just a little when it takes a moment for Shane to get the message. With a confused sound, Shane slides off to the side, and Ilya makes to stand up, tucking his flask back into his pocket and grinding out the joint with the toe of his sneakers.

“Come on, in here,” he says, motioning with his head towards the semi-open window behind them, the one that leads into one of the second-floor bedrooms and the one that Ilya must have climbed out of earlier to get onto the roof. 

Oh, Shane realises. 

He wobbles to his feet and follows Ilya to the window where he’s already ducking inside, holding the window open for Shane to squeeze in after. 

The bedroom is miraculously unoccupied, although it seems as if it hasn't been for long. The bedsheets are strewn across the bed, one of the lamps on the bedside table knocked to the ground. There are cans and bottles and streamers littering the floor, along with cigarette butts and a torn condom wrapper.

“Wasn’t me, don’t worry,” Ilya chuckles, noting Shane’s expression. 

The room is dark save for the moonlight spilling in from outside, bathing everything in a silver, dreamlike glow that feels at odds with the setting they’re in. Music still blares from below, vibrating through the walls and floor. Just outside the door, people are shouting and laughing, footsteps thudding up and down the hall. The smell of cigarette smoke and weed mingles with the distinctive sickly-sweet scent that most clubs have, of spilt drinks and sticky floors. And yet all of that falls to the periphery of Shane’s conscious mind when he remembers who he’s in this space with and what they’re about to do.

Standing across the room and with the grace of some distance between them, Shane lets his eyes roam over the full expanse of Ilya’s body. Adonis, Heracles, Achilles… Ilya could stand among the ancient Greeks and they’d worship him like a god. Tall, built, and unfairly beautiful. Shane has seen statues in museums that couldn’t hold a flame to the guy standing in front of him right now. Except he isn’t a statue, he’s living and breathing, soft flesh and hard muscle, and Shane wants to suck more than just the smoke from between his lips. 

He doesn’t have to want for very long, because Ilya strides over to him and captures his face between his hands, mouth crashing down on him with fervour. His tongue slips easily into Shane’s mouth, mostly because Shane is already open and willing and begging for it, and he moans into the kiss like a starved man tasting his first meal in days. 

Their bodies slot together, Ilya shoving his knee between Shane’s legs and Shane slipping his hands up the back of Ilya’s shirt, finding the deep groove of his spine and delighting, perversely, at how his back is slick with sweat. Shane wants to taste it. Wants to taste all of him. He grinds against Ilya’s leg as best he can, moaning into his mouth, but he can’t get the angle right and there’s too much fabric in the way. Hands fumbling, he brings his fingers to Ilya’s belt buckle and starts tugging at it, becoming more and more frustrated when it doesn’t budge, his fine motor skills shot to shit with the alcohol and weed and lust thrumming through his system. 

“Off,” he growls into Ilya’s mouth, proper English falling far down the list of priorities. 

Ilya pulls back and smirks down at him. “I never knew Shane Hollander would be so fucking needy,” he says, and Shane is more annoyed at how calm and unruffled the guy sounds than anything else. Meanwhile, Shane feels like he’s going to fucking faint if he doesn’t get a hand on his dick in the next five seconds. 

It’s a small mercy that Ilya doesn’t tease him any more than that, taking his belt between sure fingers and undoing it in a swift motion, even going the extra mile by sliding it out of his belt loops and letting it drop to the floor. Shane takes over, swatting his hands out the way to replace them with his own, yanking the button open and the zipper down, shoving his hand inside as Ilya takes his mouth in another dirty kiss.

Shane revels in the feeling of Ilya’s cock pressed into his palm, straining and swollen, the skin of it velvety smooth. He runs a finger over the underside, feeling the veins there, feeling the weight of it, how it throbs at his touch. His mouth waters at the idea of having it heavy on his tongue. 

He drops to his knees, and Ilya gasps softly, hand automatically coming to the back of Shane’s head like he’s done this a thousand times. Maybe he has. Shane wants to be the one in one thousand that he remembers. As much as he wants to pull Ilya’s jeans down and take him in his mouth right away, Shane resists, instead skimming his hands up Ilya’s calves and thighs, round to his ass and squeezing – hard. Ilya groans at that, bucking forward and pushing his crotch into Shane’s face, demanding. In response, Shane just continues rubbing and squeezing his ass, marvelling at how fucking round it is, lamenting at how horribly unjust it is that an ass like this has been walking around campus and he hasn’t known about it until today. 

Whilst his hands are busy, Shane puts his mouth to use by pressing his lips to the hard length straining against Ilya’s underwear, mouthing over it and relishing the way it makes Ilya’s hips jerk. Ilya’s fingers are in his hair again, carding through it, tugging and twisting and sending little waves of pain and pleasure all the way from Shane’s head to the tip of his dick. 

“Such a tease,” Ilya grits out from between his teeth, and Shane looks up between his lashes to see Ilya watching him reverently. 

Knowing that he’s being watched, it makes him want to put on a show. So, without wasting any more time, Shane loops his fingers into Ilya’s belt loops and tugs his jeans down just below his hips, enough to get his boxers down his thighs and take out his cock. The sight of it makes Shane swallow, thick and leaking and fucking perfect. The lightheaded feeling from before comes crashing back over him, and he’s reminded just how drunk he is, just how good he feels. He probably won’t remember much of this tomorrow, but for now he wants to enjoy the way his soul hovers just outside the limits of his body. 

Ilya swears under his breath as Shane wraps his hand around the base of his dick, then licks a long, slow stripe up the underside. Shane makes sure to look up as he does so, catching how Ilya’s eyebrows furrow, the way his mouth drops open, his eyes squeeze shut. Shane does it again, this time dragging his tongue over the tip, catching the pre-come that beads there. 

“Oh, fuck,” Ilya moans, the words low and drawn out and raw. 

The reaction makes Shane’s dick jump, and he literally feels himself leak into his underwear.  He brings his free hand around to grind his palm down onto the bulge in his jeans, the other slowly jerking Ilya off on his tongue. 

“Fuck, Shane, you love it.”

He does. 

The moment Shane takes Ilya fully into his mouth, he sighs out through his nose and lets his eyes slip shut, focusing entirely on the sensation of silky skin on his tongue and the sounds of Ilya’s harsh breathing melting into the music. He takes him as far as he can without choking, hand working the rest, head bobbing and tongue fluttering against the weight of Ilya’s cock. He twists his wrist in the way that he usually does when he jerks himself off, and it elicits a low groan from Ilya, so he keeps doing it, sucking and hollowing his cheeks in the process. 

Shane loses himself for a while, drifting away from his mind and down into his body, luxuriating in the slow push and pull of Ilya’s cock between his lips and the fuzzy, warm feeling that settles behind his eyes and between his ears. If it weren’t for the hard floor digging into his knees, keeping him grounded, he’d almost definitely float off entirely, a balloon cut from its string. 

The sound of someone banging on the door and the door handle rattling brings him back to a semi-conscious state of awareness, the music and voices filtering back in. 

“Hey, open up!” a girl’s voice shouts, followed by laughter and more slurred, indistinct voices. 

Shane sucks harder, moaning softly, hand working Ilya’s cock more desperately. The door handle rattles again, but Shane doesn’t react, purely intent on taking as much down his throat as he can, eyelids fluttering. The idea of doing this, just on the other side of the door to all those people, any of who could walk in if the door were unlocked and see Shane on his knees with a cock stuffed in his mouth… he loves it. The idea that people would see him in this state, so far removed from the tight, disciplined mask he wears around campus, star athlete Shane Hollander letting go and losing himself as he sucks dick. Yeah, it does something for him.

“Should we let them in?” Ilya breathes above him. “Let them watch?”

God.

Shane moans loudly around Ilya’s dick, spit slipping from the corners of his mouth and sliding down his chin. In return, Ilya lets out a long groan, which dissolves into short, breathless grunts as he begins thrusting shallowly into Shane’s mouth, hand firm at the back of his head and using it for leverage. 

It feels so fucking filthy, having his mouth being used. It’s euphoric. His own cock aches with how hard he is. Shane can’t resist any longer, pausing in the middle of sucking Ilya off to reach down and pull himself roughly out of his jeans, taking himself in one hand while the other comes back up to resume stroking Ilya alongside his mouth. It’s not as wet as he’d like, but with his pre-come slicking his palm, it’s enough. 

Outside, the voices are still loud and raucous. Someone else bangs on the door, giggling. “If you guys are fucking in there, it better be good!”

“Come on, let us see!” 

“We wanna join!” 

Ilya’s hips are becoming more erratic, the sound of his breathing coming more jaggedly. His grunts and short, restrained moans fill the room and Shane jerks himself harder at the sound of it, at the idea that anyone outside could hear them right now. He’s fucking up into his own hand now, in time with Ilya’s long strokes into his mouth, and he’s so fucking close it hurts.

“Gonna come in your mouth,” Ilya snarls, “let them hear it. Let them know how– fuck– how good you are.”

Yes, yes, let me have it, I want it, let me take it, let them hear it. I want them to hear. Want them to know. Please.

Shane can feel tears pricking the corners of his eyes as he pushes down further on Ilya’s dick, taking him to the back of his throat with a muffled whimper. The sound that Ilya lets out when he feels it nudge the soft wall of Shane’s throat and how it reflexively constricts around his girth… it’s enough to send Shane hurtling over the edge, spasming with the force of his climax and seeing stars. He does his best to suck Ilya through it, moaning around his cock.

“Jesus, fuck, yes— Ah!”

Ilya’s hips stutter, his fingers tensing in Shane’s hair as his whole body bows in on itself, and he comes with a loud moan. 

It hits the back of Shane’s throat, salty and hot, and he swallows. Taking it all, taking it like he took the smoke straight from Ilya’s lungs, not wanting to waste a single drop. 

Cheers erupt from behind the door, their audience clearly having heard the grand finale of Shane’s performance. Pulling off Ilya’s dick, Shane licks his lips with a deep sense of satisfaction, savouring the bitter tang on his tongue. It doesn’t taste it, but it sure does feel sweet. 

Ilya takes a moment to recover, supporting his weight on Shane’s shoulders as his breath returns to a somewhat normal pace. Shane sits back on his knees, now cognizant enough to feel his come sticky and wet on his fingers, some of it on his jeans and on the floor. Oops.

He goes to wipe his hand on his thigh, resolved to the fact that his pants are now collateral damage, but he’s stopped by Ilya reaching down and grabbing his wrist. Shane looks up and watches as Ilya bends forward, bringing Shane’s fingers to his lips and sucking them into his mouth. He licks them clean, all the while keeping his gaze fixed on Shane. If it were possible, Shane would be rock hard again and begging for Ilya to put his mouth elsewhere. 

With one last sweep of his tongue, Ilya lets Shane’s hand go and makes a show of licking his lips for good measure. “Tastes good,” he purrs.

“So did you,” Shane replies, voice wrecked but slightly huskier for it. 

Ilya hauls Shane to his feet and captures his mouth in a kiss, this one more slow and deliberate compared to the desperate clashing of teeth and tongues earlier. Shane melts into it, boneless.

“I need to see you again,” Ilya murmurs, lips brushing against Shane’s as he speaks the words into his mouth. 

“That could be arranged,” Shane says, unable to hold back a lopsided grin in his drunken stupor.

“Give me your number.”

They exchange numbers as they take turns redressing themselves, dicks tucked away, pants rebuckled, shirts smoothed. 

“I’ll text you,” Ilya says as he moves toward the window, rummaging in his pocket and pulling out a cigarette and a lighter. He slides the pane up and hooks one leg over the sill before turning back to give Shane a parting smirk. “Was fun. Until next time.”

Shane is left to stand alone in the middle of the room, swaying minutely on his feet and staring at the spot on the rug where his come is already drying. He can feel himself smiling like an idiot, fingers coming up to trace across his lips that are still wet with Ilya’s kisses. He’s not drifting so much now, his soul having come back to settle in the grooves of his bones, feeling like it fits a little better. His skin feels less tight, less unfamiliar, now warm with the afterglow of his orgasm and tingling pleasantly with the ghost of Ilya’s touches. 

He waits for a while until he’s sure that nobody will be waiting for him on the other side of the door, stepping out into the hallway and melting back into the crowd of bodies, the heat of the house, the bump of the bass. 

“Holy fuck, where have you been, dude?!”

Hayden is slumped in an empty bathtub upstairs, legs hanging over the edge, when Shane eventually finds him. He’s crammed in there with Jackie on one side, JJ on the other. Opposite, another guy and girl (friends of Jackie’s, maybe), sit on the floor facing them, drinks in hand. Shane opts for leaning against the doorframe, hoping it’s casual enough to hide the way his legs are still slightly shaky from his orgasm.

“Just… circulating, I guess,” he replies, very convincingly. 

Hayden is thankfully too drunk to notice or care if Shane is giving anything away. He’s got one hand slung around Jackie’s shoulders, hand playing with her hair as she rests on his chest. “Dude, we were looking for you, but–”

“Jackie got totally fucking distracted by some people banging in that bedroom across the hall!” JJ interjects, cracking himself up and then the others.

“Hey!” Jackie protests, leaning around Hayden to smack JJ on the arm. “You were listening too! And it was kinda hot, sue me.”

Shane swallows and tries to force his face into what he prays is a nonchalant, semi-amused expression. Tries not to think about how his friends just heard him blowing a guy and then coming all over himself from it.

“People fucking at a house party? God, what did the cops say when you called?” 

Hayden snorts, rolls his eyes. “Fuck you, buddy. You’re just pissy ‘cause you haven't been laid in, like, a decade.”

Ah, if only he knew. 

The party rolls on far into the early hours. Shane doesn’t see Ilya again for the rest of the night, and when he wakes up the next morning, hungover and head pounding, he almost wonders if the guy was a figment of a sexed-up, drug-induced hallucination. Maybe his night had truly ended in that kitchen, one cup of the suspicious punch putting him under and taking him to gay sex la-la-land. He laughs into his pillow at the thought. Then winces, because ouch, his head.

It could be a feasible theory. If it weren’t for the very obvious cum stain on the front of his jeans, kicked off and in a heap at the foot of his bed. That, and the texts that greet him when he finally stops feeling nauseous enough to check his phone. 

ilya (party guy)  3:47am

missing your mouth already

ilya (party guy)  3:48am

lets get high again sometime 

Shane isn’t sure if it’s a euphemism or if Ilya genuinely wants to sit around and smoke another joint together, but it doesn’t matter. Either way, Shane’s reply whooshes off a moment later, typed through bleary eyes and with heavy thumbs. 

Shane 11:07am

gonna blow me back this time?

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

ya'll i have been having such a BLAST writing this and it's all thanks to you guys' lovely comments on the first part so thank you!!! comments truly mean the world and are so motivating.

it's literally 3am here but i simply could not wait any longer to get this out, so i really hope you enjoy ❤️

please peep the tags since there's... a fair bit going down in this part lmao

as always, any mistakes are my own, everything comes from my own head plus a little help from a thesaurus now and then bc we're only human x

bone apple teeth!!!

Three weeks after the house party, Shane hasn’t stopped thinking about Ilya Rozanov. 

And yes, he knows his last name now. Maybe because he’s spent the last few weeks stalking him on the internet. Maybe because he’d Googled their college’s Psychology department and found their Instagram handle and trawled through every picture on their page until he spotted a carousel post from an awards ceremony they’d hosted last year and seen Ilya’s name listed among the prize winners. 

Maybe that’s why. He’s not telling anyone that, though. Not that he’s ashamed, of course, it was purely curiosity and he’d been bored sitting in the library between classes, and his fingers had just mindlessly tapped through each link and just happened to lead him to Ilya Rozanov’s name. And his personal Instagram. Where he posted a lot of shirtless pictures. Among other things. 

It’s not that Shane is embarrassed by what transpired between them, not necessarily. He’s been with guys before, and whilst he doesn’t particularly advertise it, his sexuality isn’t a secret. He’s rebuffed enough of the girls on campus that come knocking when they find out he’s an athlete for it to not be common knowledge at this point. Yet, they persist. No, he’s not ashamed of that. More so… the effect that Ilya had had on him.

Shane had been drunk, sure. He’d been a little high. His inhibitions were out the window and laying in a crumpled, bloody pile on the lawn. That’s what he’s been telling himself to justify just how needy he’d been, how pliable and… submissive. When Shane had woken up the morning after, admittedly still tipsy, he’d messaged Ilya back with all the confidence and cockiness of the night before, still loose at the edges and unguarded. 

It had only been as the day progressed, headache subsiding and with that a renewed mental clarity, that Shane had started piecing together disjointed memories of the night and turning them over in his mind again and again until there wasn’t a single thing he hadn’t overthought. He’d let go, let himself get carried away, let his carefully constructed guard fall to pieces in the hands and between the lips of a guy that now consumed nearly every waking thought. Again, he’s been with other guys. But this guy in particular… Shane has never felt so stripped bare by someone else’s gaze, has never felt quite so hungry for another person. And all from one meeting. They’d barely even exchanged pleasantries; he had known little beyond the guy’s first name and his major, and yet had no issues getting on his knees and swallowing his load. 

Jesus.

Shane had caught himself a few times over the past three weeks remembering how Ilya’s come had tasted at the back of his throat, how his dick had felt sliding between his lips. He’d be in the middle of class, eyes glazed over and staring into space, daydreaming about the way Ilya’s voice had sounded curling around the low Russian words he’d spoken as he fucked Shane’s mouth. Hayden would be sat next to him, diligently making notes on his laptop and blissfully unaware of the explicit places Shane’s mind wandered to. Shane felt insane, like he’d been put under a spell. Dickmatized. The thought had made him laugh, softly, and Hayden had raised a questioning eyebrow in response. Shane knew he must look insane, too. 

Which is why he’s been somewhat skirting around the idea of meeting up with Ilya again. For one, he’s not entirely sure he could do it sober, though that doesn’t seem like it would be a problem since Ilya had been plenty agreeable to the idea of them smoking again. But that’s also the issue. Being high means letting himself go again. Shucking off his shell and letting the other Shane out for a while, a version of himself he still can’t fully trust to drop the leash for. He’d be willingly putting himself in the hands of someone else that he honestly didn’t know all that well, surrendering his usually well-maintained control. Again. 

He had liked it though. That’s where the difficulty lies now. Logic, discipline and restraint warring with desire, indulgence and recklessness. And Ilya hasn’t exactly helped in swaying Shane away from the latter. 

Shane 11:07am

gonna blow me back this time?

ilya (party guy) 3:49pm 

i can do more than just blow you

ilya (party guy) 3:49pm

if that’s what you want ;)

Shane hadn’t replied to Ilya’s messages that day, too busy psyching himself out. He kind of expected that to be the end of it, Ilya seeing the ‘read’ receipt and assuming Shane was no longer interested. To his surprise, another message had come through a few days later. 

ilya (party guy) 12:32pm 

another party happening @ granville tonight

ilya (party guy) 12:32pm

you coming?

Shane 12:45pm

can’t, i have practice tomorrow morning, sorry 

ilya (party guy) 12:47pm

boo 🍅

ilya (party guy) 12:48pm

okay next time

ilya (party guy) 12:48pm

my offer still stands

Shane 12:53pm

👌

Then, a week after.

ilya (party guy) 6:02pm

i saw your game last night 

Shane 6:04pm

you were there?

ilya (party guy) 6:05pm

yes, you didn’t see me? 

Shane 6:06pm

i was kinda busy lol 

ilya (party guy) 6:06pm

wow i had such a big sign too 

Shane 6:07pm

liar

ilya (party guy) 6:07pm

you looked hot

The conversation had been flowing so easily, and then the last message had made Shane clam up and snap closed again. He’d wished he were back on that roof where the words had tumbled out so naturally, flirty and playful without having to think so hard. Shane sucked at flirting sober. Hadn’t really thought he was good at it drunk, either, until that night. After staring at Ilya’s text bubble for far too long, Shane decided to at least have the decency to heart-react to it. It still felt cheap. 

He’s sitting in the library again when he gets a new text, phone buzzing face-down on the table of the booth he’s sharing with Hayden. They’re both hunched over laptops, papers strewn across the desk with two open cans of Monster making wet rings on them. It’s early evening on a Friday, so it’s fairly quiet, only a few unfortunate souls lingering at desks in corners and behind shelves, no better place to be. Like most people here, no doubt, Shane and Hayden have a deadline looming and poor decisions have led them to a last-minute hauling of ass to get it done. Shane blames Hayden and his bad influence. 

“Literally how am I to blame?”

“Shane, buddy, we have to go out tonight, Jackie’s gonna be there! The essay isn’t even due ‘til next week!” Shane imitates Hayden in a whiny voice. 

“Oh, fuck you,” Hayden snaps, but he’s smiling, “You know, I hope you hurry up and get a boyfriend already so I can finally make your life miserable for a change.” 

“Wow, Hayd, that’s kinda homophobic.”

Hayden chokes mid-sip of his Monster, and Shane has to smother a laugh when a girl in the booth next to them shoots them a dirty look. Shane’s phone vibrates a second time, and he picks it up to check. 

ilya 4:56pm

picked up some more pot today, you want? 

The sight of Ilya’s contact name makes his stomach swoop. After Shane’s little Instagram deep-dive, he’d changed Ilya’s contact name from the one Ilya had saved himself as at the party. There had never really been a need to clarify that he was Ilya ‘the party guy’; he is quite literally the only guy Shane is talking to, anyway. He’d found himself wondering if Ilya names other guys in his phone the same way, a catalogue of hookups for which he needs parenthesis to remember. Shane had hoped he was an exception, despite knowing he shouldn’t. 

Shane chews his lip as he considers Ilya’s message. Despite being blown off multiple times, he still seems interested, which is surprising. It feels… good. To be wanted, pursued. Still, Shane turns himself in knots thinking about seeing him again. It’s been a pretty shit week, all in all, and he’s been itching for relief in some form. He’s been in the gym, out for a run, on the ice, but nothing has dulled the growing restlessness that churns in his stomach. His brain is a jumbled mess of hockey formations and research paper sources, fit to burst and leak out of his ears at any moment. He needs to fucking relax. 

Perhaps against better judgement, he replies.

Shane 5:01pm 

yeah, sounds good

Three dots appear almost immediately. 

ilya 5:01pm

come over tonight if you’re free

ilya 5:01pm

around 9?

Shane’s gut feels like it’s turning itself inside out. God, he’s so not casual about this. 

Shane 5:02pm 

okay, send the address and i’ll come 

Ilya sends it over a moment later, along with a winky face.

ilya 5:03pm

yes, that’s the goal

It takes a second for the joke to register, and then Shane feels his ears go red. Oh, right. Of course, Ilya wasn’t just inviting him over to smoke. The weed is just preamble for other activities. Activities that Shane really cannot think about in the middle of the library, across the table from his best friend. He puts his phone down and gets his head stuck into his essay for another hour or so, though by the time he’s getting up and packing away his stuff to leave, he can’t have written more than a paragraph. Every sentence had been punctuated by the idea of Ilya’s lips, his neck, his chest, his… 

“You wanna grab something to eat on the way back?” Hayden asks.

“Oh, uh, nah. I should probably save some money. You go, though.” 

“You sure?” 

Shane nods.

“Alright, man, I’ll bring you back some fries or something.” 

“Please don’t, I hate fries.”

“You’re so fucking weird.”

With that, they part ways, Hayden setting off in the opposite direction across campus from their dorm. Shane jogs the short distance back to their building. He has, like, three hours until he’d agreed to meet Ilya, but it still doesn’t feel like enough time to both mentally and physically prepare. Prepare for what, he doesn’t really know, which makes it even worse. 

He showers– thoroughly. Brushes his teeth. Then remembers he should probably eat something, and manages to knock back a couple of protein bars, not trusting his stomach to hold down much else around all the nerves. Considers taking a shot for courage, then dismisses the thought. Brushes his teeth again. Changes into clean clothes, then changes again because he looks stupid. Settles on a pair of black sweats, a grey T-shirt that makes his shoulders look a little broader, and a navy hoodie. Casual. Relaxed. 

As he’s shoving the discarded clothes back in his drawers, he catches sight of the bright purple dildo he keeps buried at the bottom, along with a small bottle of lube. He stares at it for a moment. Six and a half inches, average girth, veiny… Ilya’s was definitely bigger, and uncut, it would probably feel diff–

Shane slams the drawer shut. 

The walk over to Ilya’s dorm is a short one, his building just around the corner from Shane’s, and Shane once again marvels at how they haven’t crossed paths sooner. It’s raining pretty heavily, the dark clouds that were hanging over the library when he left now burst, puddles forming on the pavement. By the time he ducks under the porch at Ilya’s dorm, his hoodie is soaked through. Dark patches mottle the fabric on his shoulders and chest, and the hair that sticks out from under his hood is dripping. He drops his hood, shakes out the drops from his bangs and runs a hand through it. The front door is propped open with a brick, and Shane lets himself in and climbs the stairs to Ilya’s floor. Once there, he’s greeted by another door leading to the dorm rooms, and at least someone had the sense to lock this one. 

Shane 9:03pm

here

A minute passes, then Shane hears footsteps padding down the hall, and a soft beep as the door unlocks. It swings open, revealing Ilya. 

If Shane were in the movie Inside Out, he’s pretty sure if you zoomed into his head and took a peek inside his brain at that moment, you’d see the whole place set on fire and burning to the ground whilst a monkey in a fez bangs some cymbals together. Simply put, his fucking brain shortcircuits. 

Ilya’s got one large hand splayed against the door, holding it open. He’s wearing a black tank, muscular arms and shoulders on full display, and grey sweatpants that leave very little to the imagination. Not that Shane needs to imagine. His hair is slightly damp, like he’s just showered, pushed back from his face, a singular curl falling above his left eyebrow like Clark Kent, or something. Even in the harsh, ugly strip lights of the dorm hallway, he looks majestic. 

Shane swallows. “Hey.”

“Hey.” And there’s that deep, Russian accent again. It sends a pang into Shane’s stomach. 

Ilya turns and lets Shane catch the door with his foot, setting off down the hallway towards his room. Shane tries, and fails, not to look at the way Ilya’s ass moves in his sweats as he follows him. They pass three other rooms before they reach Ilya’s, another two just beyond. Five roommates. Shane hopes they aren’t all in tonight. 

1221.

“This is me,” Ilya says, pushing open his door and this time nodding his head for Shane to enter first. Shane has to squeeze past him to cross the small threshold, and as he does so he gets a whiff of Ilya’s cologne, a musky scent that smells incredible. 

The room is small, like any other college dorm room. By the entrance, a separate door off to the side leads into what must be the bathroom. Further in, a single bed is shoved up against one wall, beneath the window that looks out onto the quad. On the other wall, a small desk sits surrounded by shelves with a large pinboard hanging above it. A few photos are pinned up – Ilya with friends, mostly, and a couple that look like family photos, a small blonde kid in the arms of a woman who, Shane assumes, is his mother. Next to that, a closet, which Shane notices has a bunch of glass bottles sitting on top of it, all empty and all looking suspiciously like vodka. Typical. 

Fortunately, Ilya understands the art of ambient lighting and has a small lamp turned on at his desk that emits a soft glow, rather than the sterile harsh white of the ceiling light. There’s music playing too, quietly, though it’s not the kind of music Shane would imagine Ilya listening to on low volume, so he probably had turned it down a notch before Shane arrived. It’s a Drake song, he thinks, though he’s never had the best music knowledge. What little he does know has been bestowed upon him by Hayden and JJ, having to suffer through their pre-game playlists in the locker room. 

Shane hovers in the middle of the room awkwardly, unsure where to put himself in Ilya’s space. He feels Ilya brush past him, dropping down to settle on his bed with his back propped up against the wall, knees bent up and arms resting on atop them. Shane opts for the desk chair, not wanting to be presumptuous, or whatever. Ilya watches him with a smirk, eyes playful. 

“Is good to see you again,” Ilya drawls. 

“You too,” Shane answers, words heavy in his mouth and getting caught in his throat on the way up. He wishes he’d taken that shot before he left, starting to feel that familiar tightness in his skin. 

It’s quiet for a beat, Ilya simply appraising Shane, looking amused. Probably finding his obvious discomfort funny. Yes, it probably would be funny to him, the guy that seemingly can’t be ruffled. Shane shifts in the desk chair, the hinges squeaking as he leans back and tries to assume a more relaxed position, legs splayed. He catches the way that Ilya’s gaze slips southwards, then returns to his face. 

“You are wet.” 

Shane huffs a laugh. “Wow, I hadn’t noticed.” 

He hadn’t really been thinking about it, but the mention of it brings his attention to the dampness of his hoodie clinging to him, cold against his skin. 

“Maybe you should take it off, don’t want to catch a cold,” Ilya says, teasing. He does it so easily. 

Shane licks his lips. “Looking out for my health, how kind,” he says stiffly, though it gets a low chuckle from Ilya anyway. 

He sits up and pulls the hoodie off over his head, feeling his T-shirt pull up slightly with it and expose his lower stomach. Rather than rush to pull it down, Shane makes a point of taking his time to fold his hoodie and place it carefully on the desk beside him. He can feel Ilya’s eyes on him, and does his best to seem nonchalant about it. He’s not the only one who can tease, Shane thinks. When he turns back, Ilya’s expression is largely the same, smooth and unfaltering as always, though his eyes seem a touch darker than before. 

“So… what have you been up to?” Shane asks.

Ilya laughs softly. “Go to class, go to party. Not very interesting,” he says, waving a hand dismissively. “I came to your game, of course.”

“Oh, yeah. Was that… interesting?” 

“Mm, very,” Ilya nods. “You are good, I see why they call you a star.”

Shane scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Why does that sound like you’re being sarcastic?” 

“Oh, no,” Ilya says, bringing a hand up to run his fingers through his curls. “I meant it when I said you looked hot. Would be hotter if you were more aggressive on the ice, but…” He trails off, shrugging. 

Shane balks, almost too surprised at the critique to feel flustered at being called hot again. “I can be aggressive on the ice!” 

“Eh, okay.”

Shane lets out another incredulous laugh. This fucking guy. 

“Since when do Psychology majors know so much about hockey? Thought you guys were too busy talking about Freud wanting to fuck his mother, or something.” 

That draws a laugh out of Ilya, which has Shane cheesing right back despite himself. This is easy, this is what he’s used to. Stupid banter, playful jabs. He can manage this, at least. 

Ilya tips his head back, showing off the long line of his neck and the constellation of moles that scatter his skin. The sight has Shane thinking back to the night of the party, his tongue and teeth abusing the spot just below Ilya’s ear as he’d sucked his neck, and Shane wonders how badly it had bruised. He wishes he could’ve seen it, the mark he left. It’s long faded now, anyway, the smooth expanse of skin unblemished save for the beauty marks. It leaves Shane half-wanting to make another. 

“You stare a lot.” 

Shane’s face goes hot at the abrupt observation from Ilya, who’s now looking back at him curiously. 

“Wh– So do you!” Good one, Shane. 

Ilya shrugs, like it’s of no consequence either way. “Is okay, I can’t blame you,” he says, scooting forward on the bed and dangling his legs off. He sticks a foot out, hooking it behind one of the chair’s wheels and tugging, rolling Shane closer and letting the chair stop between his thighs. He leans forwards, placing both hands on the arms of the chair, bracketing Shane’s body and trapping him there.

“I am very nice to look at, I know.” 

Fuck, yes, you are. 

Ilya is a few inches from Shane’s face, leaning over him, close enough for Shane to get another smell of his cologne, to see the outline of the gold crucifix beneath his shirt. His eyes bore into Shane’s, challenging, mouth quirked into a crooked smile. It would take the smallest of movements for Shane to angle his head up and take Ilya’s mouth, kissing that annoyingly perfect grin off his face, licking a groan from between his teeth and sucking the air from his lungs. He could wrap his arms around Ilya’s neck, forcing him back and onto the bed, straddling his hips and watching the way he’d squeeze his eyes shut as Shane ground down on him. He could do it. He’s done it once before. 

He doesn’t. 

Instead, he lets himself admire the curve of Ilya’s cupid’s bow for a moment, then brings his hand up to gently push against his chest, creating some distance between them.

“Don’t we have some weed to be smoking?” 

The intensity drops from Ilya’s gaze and he chuckles. “So eager, Shane Hollander. Does your team know you are such a pothead?”

“Only the people who can be trusted not to say shit,” Shane replies, rolling backwards on the chair to give Ilya some space to stand up. “Plus, Hayden’s the one with the bong.”

“Ah,” Ilya says knowingly, getting to his feet and crossing over to a set of drawers next to his desk. “Pike, yes? He seems the type. You, not so much.” 

Shane is almost offended, partly on Hayden’s behalf for catching a stray, but also for the insinuation that he’s, what? Too boring to seem like he smokes weed? Sure, he isn’t ripping joints every night and getting stoned out of his mind, but Shane isn’t exactly following the path of the straight and narrow. Well, certainly not straight.  

It feels like Ilya is goading him into something, challenging him to prove that he’s more than just a college athlete who can’t let his hair down once and a while. Not like he hadn’t shown that at the party, on his knees with his mouth full and a crowd of people just outside the door. He can let go, be reckless. He can step outside of himself and let the fun, unbridled Shane run free for a bit. He just needs a little help, sometimes, that’s all. Shane knows it’s bait, and yet he finds himself wanting to rise to it anyway. 

Ilya pulls the top drawer open and starts rummaging around, taking out various items and laying them on the desk like he’s doing an unhinged version of a mise en place. There’s a grinder, then a small baggy full of green nuggets, a lighter, and lastly a glass pipe, the end curved into a deep bowl. Shane observes, quietly, as Ilya unzips the baggy and plucks out a few pieces, dropping them in the grinder. 

“Here,” he says, holding the bag out to Shane. “I got new strain. Pink Rozay.” 

Shane takes the baggy and, upon encouragement, takes a sniff. It smells just like what a bag of weed would usually smell like, though he does catch something vaguely floral and sweet about it. He knows next to nothing about specific weed strains and flavours and what makes each one different, he usually just takes whatever Hayden’s offering and trusts it’ll do what it needs to do. Clearly, Ilya is something of a weed connoisseur. 

“Is good for relaxing,” Ilya supplies, hands working the grinder as he stands in front of Shane, looking down at him. There’s a hint of a smile on his face, like he just thought of something funny, though he doesn’t offer anything further. Right.

Shane nods, satisfied, and places the baggy back on the desk. Relaxing. That’s good. He needs to relax. It’s been a rough week, deadlines and early morning practices abound, plus a little something extra simmering under the surface. All in all, since the party, he’s been feeling wound tight like a rubber band ready to snap, pulled taut in all the wrong places. This would be good, take the edge off. And he’d be lying if he said he didn’t need the help in Ilya’s presence. He’s so… much. In a good way. Physically large and commanding, arguably in the way that Shane is, yet socially assertive and flirtatious, in all the ways Shane isn’t. Perhaps that’s why he’s so drawn to him, why he’d buckled so easily on that rooftop. Where Shane is naturally coiled, Ilya seems unwound. And Shane would very much like to come undone by his hands. 

He catches himself before Ilya can accuse him of staring again. Shane’s always had a tendency to get lost in thought, but since meeting Ilya he’s had a penchant for daydreaming too. It’s probably not healthy. 

Ilya seems like he’s just about done grinding, now perched on the edge of the desk. He unscrews the lid and takes a few pinches of the fine leaves, pressing them into the bowl and packing it down with his pinky finger. He works with a concentrated expression, and Shane wonders if this is how he looks in class when he takes notes. It’s the most endearing Shane has seen him. Once he seems satisfied with the amount in the bowl, he collects the lighter and motions over Shane’s shoulder.

“We smoke in the bathroom. Less smell.”

That makes sense. He and Hayden usually just crack a window, though Hayden’s room faces the opposite direction of the quad and so nobody would really notice the smoke from there. 

He follows Ilya into the bathroom, shutting the door behind them. The room is tiny, just enough space to accommodate the small shower cubicle, sink, toilet and not much else. Certainly not two bulky guys over six feet, anyway. Ilya transfers the bowl and the lighter to one hand, reaching up with the other and adjusting something on the ceiling, which Shane realises after a beat is a condom pulled tight over the extractor fan. 

“You stoners sure are creative,” he muses. 

Ilya chuckles, “Yes.” He gestures at the floor. “Sit.”

Shane wrinkles his nose.

“Relax, it’s clean,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Unless you prefer the toilet.”

“Yeah, no thanks.” Shane takes a seat with his back against the wall furthest from the toilet, cold tiles hard against his ass. 

“Have you heard of Hawaiian hotbox?” Ilya asks, leaning against the wall by the shower. 

“Hotbox, yes. Of the Hawaiian kind, no.” 

Ilya grins. “You want to try?” 

“Gonna need a little context first,” Shane says, dubious. 

“You turn on the shower, very hot. Make lots of steam. Then, you smoke,” Ilya explains. “Is fun, you will like it.” 

The last time Shane had hotboxed anywhere, it had been in JJ’s car, he and Hayden in the backseat with JJ up front, passing a shittily-rolled joint around. Shane kind of wanted to go home for most of it. He’d taken a shower straight after, the smell of weed and ash clinging to his hair and clothes. It’d been sub-par, at best.

This, however, didn’t sound nearly as unappealing. Hot steam soothing his tense muscles and weed calming his racing thoughts? Plus, with Ilya? Yeah, that sounded fucking heavenly. 

He nods. “Yeah, do it.”

Ilya’s smile pulls up further, almost wicked enough to make Shane feel like he’ll regret agreeing later. The shower screen is pulled back and Ilya turns the dial, the spray sputtering out and ricocheting off the tile, a little of it bouncing up and hitting Shane from where he’s sat. Ilya nudges the temperature gauge up until it can’t go any further, then pushes the screen back closed, sealing the cubicle and letting the steam slowly build up. There’s just enough of a gap at the top that it can roll out, filling the rest of the bathroom in due course.

For now, Ilya takes his place and sits down against the opposite wall by the sink, assuming a similar position to Shane, facing him. They have to bend their legs to fit comfortably across from each other, Ilya’s knees slotting either side of Shane’s right one, their socked feet almost touching. 

Ilya sets to work on lighting the bowl, the end of the pipe slotted between his lips, one hand supporting the bowl with his thumb pressed over the carb hole, the other hand flicking the lighter. Once it sparks up, he tilts the bowl and runs the flame around the edge, cornering it. It lights, and he removes the flame, hollowing his cheeks and sucking gently, letting the smoke build in the chamber a little before he takes his thumb off the carb and inhales deeply. 

Shane watches with fascination and, if he’s honest, a little arousal. There’s just something hot about the way Ilya smokes, self-assured and casual as he seems to be with everything else. It helps that he’s also a fucking vision regardless, the smoking is just the cherry on top of a very, very delicious-looking cake.  

On the topic of cherries, Ilya leaves the bowl glowing and passes it over to Shane wordlessly as he holds the smoke in his lungs. Shane has smoked enough in a group to understand that he can’t waste too much time with it, so he takes the pipe immediately between his lips, mimicking Ilya by covering the carb and letting the smoke build, then sucking it down quickly as he releases it. The smoke is sweeter than he’s had before, that vague floral scent from earlier now making sense, coating his tongue with a light, rosy taste. 

They both exhale together, thick smoke curling up into the air which is rapidly becoming denser with the heat and moisture from the shower. Some of the smoke trails out of Ilya’s nose as he breathes, serving only to make him look ten times sexier. Waves of steam roll off the walls and form a heavy cloud above their heads, fogging up the mirror and forming beads of condensation on the tiles. 

Shane returns the bowl to Ilya, and as he does so their fingers brush. It’s the first real kind of contact they’ve had all night, and it shoots through Shane like he’s been burned. Ilya must notice the way his finger twitches as he hands it off, because he’s grinning again. He says nothing, still, and takes another hit, sucking in deeper this time and tilting back to exhale the smoke up into the air, mingling with the steam in a sweet, heady mist. 

The stuff must be pretty potent, because just the one hit already has Shane’s head feeling a little foggier. No doubt exacerbated by the heat in the room, and maybe a little to do with the heat in Ilya’s gaze, too. It’s warm, balmy. Shane’s T-shirt is already starting to cling to his lower back a little. There’s a pleasant tingle growing along the lengths of his arms and legs. When Ilya shifts against the wall and his legs fall open a little wider, that tingling feeling spreads up Shane’s thighs.

“You like it?” Ilya asks, handing the bowl back.

“It’s good,” Shane affirms, “really good. Steam is nice, too.” 

Ilya seems pleased, watching with interest as Shane takes another pull. “You’re a natural.” 

Shane’s face and neck glow warmer, no doubt turning a deeper shade of pink at the subtle praise. 

“M’not, just had practice,” Shane mumbles, blowing smoke out the corner of his mouth. 

“You practice sucking dick, or are you just a natural at that, too?” 

Shane breaks into a cough on the tail end of his exhale, then scowls when Ilya starts laughing at him. The laugh takes him a little off guard with how full it sounds, unlike Ilya’s usual suppressed chuckles, even reaching his eyes and making the corners wrinkle. The weed must be hitting him a little now, too. Catching the peeved look Shane’s giving him, he smothers his laugh and catches his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes still sparkling mischievously as they roam over Shane’s face.  

The thing is, yeah, Shane had practiced sucking dick before. Kind of. After the two lackluster attempts with previous hookups, he’d bought himself a dildo for the purpose of getting better at having a cock in his mouth. But it had been just as rigid and unenthusiastic of a performance. He’d tried watching porn, mimicking the way that the guys licked and sucked and played with it, but it felt so ridiculous and pathetic, the cold weight of the toy in his mouth, the bland and plasticky taste of silicone, the wet, sloppy sounds echoing in the quiet of his dorm room. He’d shoved the dildo back in the drawer and hadn’t attempted to suck dick since.

And then came Ilya, and Shane isn’t sure what had changed but, all of a sudden, he’s apparently a natural. Or maybe Ilya is just being nice. Or being sarcastic, and he’s actually ribbing Shane for being the worst blow he’s ever had. Although, Shane wants to believe that’s not true. Not with the way he’d been moaning that night, running his fingers through Shane’s hair and telling him how good he was as he’d spilled into his mouth. That memory, clear and vivid amongst so many blurry memories from that night, will remain imprinted behind Shane’s eyelids for a long, long time. It had been the single most hottest experience he’d ever had. 

His dick twitches in his sweats. Shit.

Reminiscing about taking Ilya’s come down his throat whilst sitting on the guy’s bathroom floor inches away from him, weed coursing through his system, is not a good idea. His head is feeling cloudier by the minute, but the rest of him is lighting up in ways that he’s never experienced smoking with his friends before. Usually, his whole body will sag and slump, limbs like lead weights that pin him to whatever soft surface they’re occupying for a couple of hours. Not this time. The tingling in his thighs is now making a home at the base of his dick, his lower stomach, his spine. And the thoughts of Ilya, combined with how he’s eyeing Shane through the steam and the smoke, is truly not helping. 

Yeah, I practiced, he wants to say. Seems like it paid off. How fast did you come? Like, two minutes? Bet I could do it again. Bet I could make you come quicker this time. Want to try? I’ll suck you off on this bathroom floor right now. Just fucking tell me. Tell me and I’ll do it. I’ll do anything you want me to. I want to. I want you.

Shane wants to say a lot of things. Would, if he had an ounce of Ilya’s bravado and self-assuredness. Would, if he could just get out of his own head for once. 

He takes another hit before he passes the bowl back. Greedy. Craving. 

They don’t speak again for a little while, both succumbing to the effects of the smoke, eyelids drooping, settling back against the tiles that are now slick with moisture. They pass the bowl back and forth a few more times until it’s ashy and spent. The shower’s still going, a constant rush of hot water bubbling down the drain, pleasant white noise. Shane’s T-shirt is damp, clinging to his chest and stomach. There’s a sheen on Ilya’s bare arms and a dark patch around the neckline of his tank where his sweat has rolled down and pooled there. 

Again, Shane imagines what it’d taste like. It feels wrong to wonder, but Shane wants on a level that makes sense not even to him. It’s a carnal thing, the urge to pin Ilya down and lick a stripe up his throat, gather his sweat on his tongue and sample it like fine wine, savour it. Shane’s cock stirs again, and he knows he’s half hard, has been for a while now. It’s the weed, and the heat, and Ilya. A horrible, delightful combination. 

Ilya is breathing heavier, Shane can see it. The way his pecs swell with each inhale. The faint outline of his nipples is visible beneath the fabric. Through the fine mist in the air, Shane can’t be sure, but Ilya’s dark eyes seem to trail over him, stopping when they reach the spot between his open thighs. He’s on display, he knows, can’t help it. Knees bent up and spread wide, making space for Ilya’s leg slotted between them. And Ilya’s foot is dangerously close to his crotch. 

As if to prove it, Ilya shifts a little, foot sliding minutely closer across the tile. Shane’s eyes flick up to his face, but finds nothing there to say he’s doing it intentionally. Just familiar intensity burning away. It’s too much, and Shane’s eyes slip closed, head knocking back against the wall as he sucks in a breath, a poor attempt to steady his heartbeat. He gets another lungful of thick, sweet vapour, and it makes him dizzy. And horny. His brain feels like it’s swimming in syrup, yet his body is thrumming, every sensation heightened. The smallest movement feels huge, the slightest brush of fabric against his skin sends pleasure singing through him. 

So, when Shane feels Ilya nudge his foot almost imperceptibly against his cock, he moans. It’s a small, pathetic sound, almost lost in his throat, but just audible enough for Ilya to hear it. His foot brushes the spot again, and Shane moans louder this time, hips jerking and eyelashes fluttering.

“Fuck, Shane.”

The sound of his name breathed low and throaty in Ilya’s accent is so erotic it’s absurd. His breath catches as Ilya moves his foot with more intention now, pressing down over the hard line of Shane’s dick and flexing against it. Despite the layers between them, Shane feels every sensation at its max, his cock thickening and straining against the persistent ministrations. Shane can’t bring himself to open his eyes, because he knows the sight of Ilya getting him off like this would be all too much for his brain to take in its current state. 

“Ilya, God,” Shane whines, twitching against the wall. 

“Just Ilya is fine,” he replies, and Shane knows he’s smirking as he says it. The image of his crooked grin makes Shane roll his hips up blindly. 

He realises, slowly and then all at once, that he could come from just this, just from Ilya working his foot over him. His eyes snap open as he brings a hand down, hard, on Ilya’s calf, halting his movements. 

“Stop.”

Ilya’s grinning lazily, just as he predicted. “Gonna come?”

“Don’t. Not like this,” Shane mumbles, words viscous in his mouth. 

“How do you want to come, Shane Hollander?” 

Shane pushes himself off the wall, driven by clawing need. He crawls, on his hands and knees, over Ilya’s legs and falls into his lap, one hand planting against his chest for balance and the other twisting into his hair to pull his head back, angling it as he dives down and kisses him. Ilya’s hands find his waist, just above his hipbones. He’s immediately licking into Shane’s mouth, sloppy and aggressive and hot, and Shane lets him, sucks on his tongue and swallows his spit gratefully. 

It’s a position reminiscent of that night three weeks ago, grinding against each other as they kiss filthily, movements clumsy in their inebriated state. Once again, Shane can feel Ilya harden beneath him as he rubs his ass back and forth in his lap, this time unrestrained by an obscenely tight pair of jeans and much more obvious. It feels fucking amazing, having this effect on him. Shane pulls back from the kiss momentarily to just admire Ilya, his glazed eyes, his pretty, wet mouth hanging open slightly. His face is flushed and the vein on his forehead is bulging. I did this, Shane’s brain supplies, smugly. 

Just like before, Shane gets his mouth on Ilya’s neck. Instead of marking it, however, he takes his tongue and licks a long, indulgent stripe up the column of his throat, all the way up to the sharp line of his jaw. It’s exactly as he’d imagined, hot and salty with his sweat, and Shane’s whole body trembles at how dirty it feels, how much he loves it. The saltiness on his tastebuds brings back the memory of how Ilya’s come had tasted, and that has Shane moaning again. 

Ilya shoves Shane backwards, pushing him down until Shane is just about laying on the floor beneath him, as best he can in the tiny space of the bathroom. Ilya braces one arm on the wall behind his head as he looms over him, mouths meeting in another deep kiss. His tongue laps against the swell of Shane’s bottom lip, then takes it between his teeth and nibbles on it, sucks it into his mouth like he’s playing with a piece of candy. Meanwhile, his other hand is roaming over Shane’s chest, his stomach, down past his aching dick to grab at his inner thigh, kneading it and squeezing it until it hurts. Shane whines, bucking his hips in a wordless plea, but Ilya doesn’t give him what he wants. 

This time, he’s the one to pull back and observe Shane, his eyes a bottomless pit that Shane feels like he’s falling upwards into. Ilya hovers above him, his gold chain swinging in the space between their bodies, and Shane can’t help but think, distantly, that this is probably how it would look from below if Ilya were fucking him. Fuck, he wants it so bad. 

Without even processing what he’s doing, Shane tilts his head up and catches the crucifix between his teeth. Ilya sucks in a breath. Taking the chain further into his mouth, Shane lets it settle on his tongue, the taste metallic and warm from where it’s been nestled against Ilya’s skin. Ilya looks dazed. He pulls his hand off Shane’s thigh and brings it to his face, shoving his thumb into the corner of Shane’s mouth where the chain disappears between his lips. Shane moans, opening his mouth just enough to present Ilya with the sight of the gold pendant resting on his tongue. 

“Fucking hell,” Ilya groans, eyes shuttering. His jaw clenches as he runs his thumb over Shane’s tongue, pressing the crucifix hard against the muscle, then up and over his molars. He licks his lips, his own tongue swirling around in his mouth like he’s trying to gather up saliva. 

“Can I…?” he breathes. 

Shane doesn’t need to wonder what he’s asking. He just nods, as best he can with Ilya’s vice grip on his jaw. Ilya pauses, then spits in his mouth. 

Shane’s whole body convulses, a long moan torn from his chest. He lets the chain slip from his lips as he swallows Ilya’s saliva, staring up at him through his lashes as he does so to catch the absolutely dumbfounded expression on his face. Shane knows the feeling, to be so utterly turned on that your brain just stops working for a moment. He just can’t quite believe that he’s the cause of it, the reason for Ilya looking like he’s about to burst a blood vessel. 

It’s all too much, and Shane can’t help but to grab Ilya’s face between his hands and yank him down into another kiss. He wants to taste him, direct from the source, but it’s still not enough. He crushes Ilya against him, rolling his hips up and finally getting some more friction on his cock, but that’s still not enough either. 

“Want…” Shane mumbles into his mouth.

“What do you want?” Ilya growls back.

“Want to–” He cuts himself off with a moan as Ilya squeezes his pec, thumb grazing his nipple. It’s so sensitive, everything is so sensitive. 

“Tell me.”

“Fuck me, please,” Shane whines. 

Ilya hauls Shane up with dizzying strength. He crowds him back against the wall one more time, thrusting a knee between Shane’s legs as he attacks his throat with open-mouthed kisses. Shane tries to grind up against him, but before he can get much purchase, Ilya is grabbing his shoulders and turning him around in one swift motion. 

“Go,” he says, smacking Shane’s ass, “wait on the bed.” 

With an embarrassing amount of speed, Shane fumbles with the door handle and staggers out of the bathroom on unsteady legs, practically collapsing onto Ilya’s bed. He hears the shower dial squeak, the water shutting off abruptly, letting the soft sound of his breathing and the low music filter back into his consciousness. It’s a Herculean effort, but Shane manages to crawl over the covers and situate himself at the top of the bed on his back, head on the pillow. His body is still mostly cooperative, but his head lurches and wobbles with every movement, so heavy on his shoulders. 

Ilya emerges from the bathroom and pauses in the doorway, admiring the way Shane is sprawled out on his bedsheets. He looks like he’s assessing a buffet, trying to decide what to eat first. Shane blushes. The moment breaks a second later when Ilya surges forward and crawls up over Shane’s body, hands and mouth exploring every inch of him. Every inch except the ones that matter most. 

Shane’s whole body is lit up like a fucking bonfire, his skin hypersensitive under every touch, lighting up in the wake of Ilya’s fingers. He’s panting into Ilya’s mouth as they kiss, so hard it hurts. And it hurts so good. The combination of pleasure and pain, intensified by the weed, is almost unbearable. Shane only realises how much he’s whimpering and moaning when Ilya chuckles into his neck.

“So noisy,” he murmurs, licking a path up to Shane’s earlobe and letting out another low laugh when Shane whines again. 

“F– Fuck off.” 

Ilya leans back on his heels. “Shirt off,” he instructs.

Shane obeys, and delights when Ilya does the same. Their shirts get strewn somewhere on the ground next to the bed, and Shane doesn’t even have the faculty to care, because he’s soon confronted with the view of Ilya’s huge chest, his muscles rippling as he leans down. He wastes no time getting his mouth on Shane’s bare chest, tonguing his nipples and making him keen. Shane feels the way he grins against him. He moves south, planting a few kisses over Shane’s stomach on the way, shuffling his body lower down the bed and between Shane’s thighs. 

He stops, lips directly over the bulge in Shane’s sweats. Just the insinuation of his mouth has Shane’s cock throbbing and releasing a dribble of pre-come. 

“Oh, fuck,” he moans, throwing an arm over his face, so overwhelmed. 

“Look at me,” Ilya commands, and Shane cannot help but listen. He peeks out from under his arm to watch Ilya hook his fingers into his waistband, just toying with the idea. He opens his mouth and shows his tongue, grinning, the tip of it just centimetres away from Shane’s clothed dick. 

“Ilya,” he pleads. 

It’s enough. Ilya tugs his sweats down, boxers too, shoving them to mid-thigh. Shane’s cock slaps against his stomach, and he hisses at the sudden exposure, combined with the feeling of Ilya’s breath ghosting over it. He’s leaking all over himself, the head red and glistening, and he wants to shut his eyes in embarrassment, wants to look away, but he doesn’t. Not when Ilya is taking him in hand, and then into his mouth all at once. 

Shane practically arches off the bed at the feeling of Ilya’s mouth sinking down around him. It’s so wet and warm and fucking good, and, holy fuck. Heat rushes to his belly and into the base of his dick, hurtling him towards a cliff edge all too soon. Ilya’s got his eyes closed, blissed out and relishing having Shane on his tongue, head bobbing enthusiastically and completely unaware that Shane is going to fucking come down his throat in about two seconds. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Shane hisses, fisting his hands in Ilya’s hair to try warn him. 

Ilya, mercifully, stops. He pulls off with a lewd pop, glassy eyes flicking up to Shane’s face. 

“You are so sensitive.” 

“Weed’s fault,” Shane gripes. And it’s true, he’s never been affected so strongly by a substance before, never had something make him feel this way. Like he’s a landmine, armed to explode at the faintest of touches. His body thrums with electricity, everything static and buzzing and wired. 

“Are you sure you want me to fuck you?” Ilya says, palms rubbing up and down Shane’s thighs.

It’s an obvious answer, the way Shane’s cock twitches at the words. He knows that the suggestion would send Sober Shane into a panic, mind racing into overdrive, body tensing up and shutting down before he could even allow himself to consider it. He’d want it, but the question is whether he’d allow himself to have it. Such a question is irrelevant to this Shane, liberated from the restraints of his sober mind and free to want and desire and claim as much as he pleases. Free to let go of arbitrary worries and carefully-constructed façades. The smoke has seeped through his lungs and beneath his skin, gently undoing each of his knots and smothering the noise in his head until there’s nothing left but bone-deep relief and blissful silence. 

“Yes,” he says. “Fuck me.”

Ilya nips at Shane’s inner thigh before he sits up, leaning over to his bedside table and pulling a condom and a sizable bottle of lube from the drawer. He helps Shane kick his sweats off the rest of the way, then nudges his thighs apart, popping the cap and drizzling a generous amount over his fingers.

“Have you done this before?” Ilya asks. 

Shane nods. “Not sex, but… yeah.” 

“Fingered yourself?”

“Mm-hm,” Shane replies, wincing a little as Ilya’s fingers find his hole, the lube cool against his flushed skin. He hovers there for a moment, making tiny circles, and Shane wriggles with impatience. 

While Shane hasn’t had sex with with a man before, he’s not entirely ignorant to the process. He’s watched porn, experimented with pleasuring himself in the ways he’d seen on the videos, just the way he’d practiced sucking his dildo in an embarrassing attempt to get better at… being gay, he supposed. At least when touching himself he knew whether or not he was doing something right. He’d opened himself up on his fingers, explored that spot deep inside of him that made his eyes roll and his toes curl. That had been as far as he’d ever gone, until…

One night, a few days after the house party. He’d been laying in bed and unable to stop thinking about Ilya. The idea of Ilya fucking him. He’d reached into his drawer to grab lube, intent on fucking himself on his fingers to get it out of his system, when his hand had brushed against the cool silicone of the dildo. He’d all but forgotten about it. The sheer arousal at the thought of Ilya inside him had been enough to spur him on, stretching himself first on his fingers before lubing up the dildo and pressing it inside. It had been weird, at first, so much more pressure than he was used to with just the width of his fingers. But the more he thought about Ilya, that night at the party, the memory of his hands and lips and cock, the more Shane had relaxed and opened up. 

He’d become kind of addicted, since then. Hah. A-dick-ted. 

A giggle slips between his lips just as Ilya presses a finger inside, and all levity disappears, the sound dropping off into a moan. Ilya’s free hand rubs and kneads Shane’s thigh as he thrusts his finger in and out, his breath heavy. He doesn’t have to wait long to add another, Shane’s body lax from the weed, though it still makes him whimper when Ilya scissors his fingers, opening him wider. 

For a while, it’s just the sound of the music and their breathing, punctuated by Shane’s desperate noises and the wet sound of Ilya’s fingers working into him. It feels like an eternity that they keep on like that, each stroke of Ilya’s fingers pulling Shane deeper into hypnotic bliss. The only thing keeping Shane tethered is the feeling of his dick aching and pulsing between his legs. 

“Please, I’m ready,” he whines, rocking down onto Ilya’s fingers. 

“Impatient,” Ilya purrs, sliding his hand up Shane’s chest to fondle his nipple. It only makes Shane more desperate. 

Finally, finally, Ilya removes his fingers and pulls off his pants. He reaches behind himself to retrieve the condom, ripping it open and rolling it down over his length. Shane tilts his chin down to watch. The sight of Ilya’s fingers, still shiny with lube, sliding over his thick cock is so much better than any porn Shane has ever seen. Squirting another handful of lube over himself, Ilya groans as he slicks himself up, eyes fixed between Shane’s legs with a hungry expression. 

“So fucking pretty,” he whispers, almost half to himself. It makes Shane tremble. 

Ilya curls a steadying hand around Shane’s hip, the other gripping the base of his cock and lining himself up. He gives a cursory glance up to check in on Shane, confirming he’s still okay. Shane has never been more fucking okay. He nods, once and firm. Fuck me. 

It can’t be helped, really. Shane will think about it for days after, the way he moans when Ilya pushes into him, filling him up. It’s utterly euphoric, and Shane’s brain is not functioning at a level strong enough to hold back the sound that punches its way from his lips and into the quiet of Ilya’s bedroom. His hands fly up to scrabble at Ilya’s waist, his shoulders, anything within reach that he can hang on to. 

“Shh, I know,” Ilya murmurs through gritted teeth, eyes pressing shut as he feels Shane clench around him. It looks like he’s trying to hold himself back from moving too fast, so considerate, but Shane doesn’t care. He can take it, wants to take it all, now. Wants Ilya buried to the hilt and stretching him out until he’s sore. 

His hips roll, and Ilya gasps as he slips further inside. He collapses forward, hands coming down either side of Shane’s head to brace himself. The muscles in his arms are straining with the effort of keeping himself upright, glistening with sweat in the low light of the room, and Shane doesn’t know how he ever got so fucking lucky. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve any of this good fortune, to be pinned under a living Greek statue and have his cock buried so deep in him that he’ll feel it for days after, but he’s determined to make it worth Ilya’s while.  

Shane tucks his knees up and wraps his hands around the back of Ilya’s neck, pulling him closer, deeper. “Move, please,” he whimpers, kissing the words into his skin. 

And Ilya does, pulling out and thrusting back in at a maddeningly slow pace. The drag of his cock feels incredible, but Shane wants it harder, wants it to bruise. A reminder that this really happened. Ilya gets the message eventually, pace increasing with each snap of his hips until he’s confident that Shane can take it, and then he’s really going for it.

The force of his thrusts shove Shane’s back up the mattress, each one ripping a strangled whine out of him, mingling with the sound of their skin slapping together. Shane feels each hard smack of Ilya’s hips against his ass, making his own cock jerk and slap against his stomach with the impact. On one particular thrust, Shane feels his head smack into the wooden slats of the headboard, pain shooting through his scalp. He gasps, and then moans louder as the pain blossoms into something delicious. 

“Shane, fuck,” Ilya huffs through his exertion. He pitches forward onto his elbows, bracketing Shane’s head, his face dropping into the crook of Shane’s neck. His breath comes in laboured pants that tickle the skin there and make Shane quiver. He brings a hand around to cup the top of Shane’s head, as if to caress where he’d slammed into the headboard. It’s almost sweet. Then, he shoves his fingers into his hair and pulls. 

Shane practically wails from how good it feels, body jerking, dick rubbing up against Ilya’s stomach. 

Ilya clamps his other hand down on Shane’s mouth, muffling his cries. “I know, I know,” he purrs, tilting his head and breathing the words directly into the shell of his ear. “But my roommates will hear you.”

It’s all Shane can do not to fucking cry with how much that turns him on. And Ilya knows it, of course he does. 

“I know is what you want, everyone to hear how much of a slut you are. How good you take my cock,” Ilya breathes raggedly, “but I want it just for me. Only I get to hear how much you love it.”

Shane’s moans are garbled under the firm press of Ilya’s hand on his mouth. His eyes screw shut with the pleasure of it all, of Ilya’s hot breath on his ear, his strong grip around his jaw, his cock pumping mercilessly into him. Overcome, Shane feels the hot, wet sensation of tears running down his cheeks and back into his hairline. His head is swimming, adrift at sea, punch-drunk off the weed and the sex and Ilya. It’s all so much, so good, he can’t fucking stand it. Ilya must feel the wetness on Shane’s cheeks too, because the hand in his hair loosens just enough to pet at the sore spot there.

“Shh, shh. You take it so good, Shane, so good. So perfect for me.”

Yes, thank you, fuck, yes, please.

“So pretty stretched around my cock, made for it.”

Shane whimpers into Ilya’s palm. He’s so fucking close.

“Want to see you come on it. Can you do that? Let me hear it.”

Shane comes, untouched, with a sob. His orgasm tears through him, whole body writhing against Ilya as he paints his chest and Ilya’s stomach with his come.

Ilya manages a few more thrusts as Shane clamps down around him, and then he’s coming too, a guttural moan spilling from his lips and into Shane’s ear. Heaven. 

Shane feels him pulse inside, one, twice, three times, rutting his hips through the throes of his orgasm. Then, he stills. He crumples on top of Shane, knocking the air from his lungs as he presses the length of their bodies together. It’s wet and sticky and gross, but Shane doesn’t care. Ilya’s hand slips from his mouth, falling to the side of Shane’s face, fingers lingering there and skimming over his cheek. 

“Holy fuck,” Shane breathes.

“Yes,” Ilya breathes back. 

They both let out a soft laugh, shoulders shaking and stomachs brushing against each other. 

“That was… fucking incredible,” Shane murmurs, hand listlessly stroking up and down the length of Ilya’s spine. 

“Yes,” Ilya says, again, seemingly incapable of much else. 

Eventually, they separate, Ilya slowly pushing himself up and Shane grimacing at how sticky he feels. When Ilya pulls out with a soft grunt, the loss is immediately crushing, like a part of Shane has been ripped away. The sense of fullness is replaced with a dull ache, and dread dawns cold in Shane’s stomach when he realises that he’s not going to be able to live without that for long. He’s so fucked. Literally.  

Ilya disappears and then re-emerges from the bathroom condomless, with a couple of damp washcloths. They clean up in a comfortable quiet, Shane delighting at the feeling of the warm fabric against his skin, his sensitive hole. Once clean, Shane pulls his sweats back on, foregoing his underwear, and Ilya follows suit. While Shane gets up to take a piss, Ilya gets comfy against the headboard of the bed, pillows stacked behind his head and blanket pulled up over his thighs, which is how Shane finds him when he reappears. 

For the first time in a long while tonight, Shane hesitates, unsure if this is his cue to leave. His previous post-hook up experiences lead him to believe it might be. He’s still pretty high, and with the afterglow of his orgasm creeping up, his head is feeling heavier than ever. But, if Ilya were to tell him to go, he would.

Thankfully, he doesn’t. He simply looks up at Shane with a soft, disarming smile, and pats the bed next to him. Shane goes, willingly.

“Have you recovered enough to remember English yet?” Shane jokes as he crawls up the bed and wedges himself in the space between Ilya’s body and the wall. 

“Yes,’ Ilya says, trying not to smirk. Shane pinches his thigh. “Hey! I make you come hands free and this is how you treat me?”

“Fuck off, asshole,” Shane grumbles, smiling and getting comfortable in the space that Ilya makes for him at his side. 

“Shane Hollander, such a brat. I will make a note of this.”

Quiet falls over the room again for a while as they both wind down, sinking into the post-sex warmth and the residual high of their smoke session. Shane’s eyelids droop closed, his body growing heavier and mind drifting with the added heat from Ilya’s body radiating against him. Unfortunately, the peace is soon broken by a low rumble emanating from Shane’s stomach. 

“Hungry?” Ilya asks from above him.

Shane remembers the two sad protein bars he’d eaten before coming over. He wonders how long ago that must have been. “Yeah, damn, I really am.”

The bedsheets rustle as Ilya shifts slightly, pulling something from under his pillow. “I can order food. What do you want?” 

“Hmm. Maybe a burger from that place by the library… a milkshake, too… no fries, though,” Shane mumbles, fighting off sleep. “Oh, and some mozzarella bites… or, no, maybe nuggets…” 

Ilya taps away at his phone, and Shane wonders if he’s really writing all this down. He hopes so, he’s so hungry. But also very sleepy… and so warm…

As Shane sinks under and into the murky depths of sleep, high and content and unburdened for the first time in what feels like forever, the last thing he feels is Ilya’s fingers softly stroking his hair.

Chapter End Notes

so, 'pink rozay' is an actual strain of weed that exists and one of its biggest effects is arousal, hence why ilya was acting like the most devious bastard alive lmao he really was plotting that shit but who can blame him?

thank you to the stoners of reddit for helping me understand how the fuck you smoke a bowl, i hope it was at least a somewhat accurate representation🫡

thank you so much for all the lovely comments and kudos, they truly mean so much and please let me know what you'd like to see more of! mwah x

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

well, well, well my friends

when i tell you the comments on this fic have made my YEAR (and yes we're only in february but let a girl celebrate damn) oh my gosh you guys have been so sweet!! i am forever grateful for the support on this and for the kind words, it means so much

i come to you with the third, and probably final, chapter of this fic that i never even intended to be more than a oneshot. look at us now!

this one is a little less drug-fuelled but still a little freaky bc its hollanov (freaks of all time) and me (enabler of freaks), so i hope you still enjoy. as one lovely person pointed out, shane deserves a little sober sex as a treat and i couldn't agree more

enjoy ❤️🚬

Shane had woken to the sound of a door clicking shut and the feeling of the mattress beneath him sagging with another’s weight. 

Oh, right.

He was in Ilya’s dorm room. Shirtless, dick loose beneath his sweats, laid out like a dead man on his bed. While his consciousness had returned quite readily, his body had not been quite so cooperative. Each limb felt like it weighed ten metric tonnes, their energy stores sapped dry. The bedsheets were soft and plush beneath him, smelling of sex and Ilya’s cologne, and he’d felt perfectly content with the prospect of melting into them and never resurfacing. The only thing that got him moving, eventually, was the smell of the food that Ilya was diligently unpacking onto the bed and how it made his stomach gurgle viciously. 

Shane forced himself to sit up, the wall providing much-needed support at his back. 

“I really thought you were dead this time,” Ilya had chuckled. 

“Very nearly,” Shane slurred, still woozy. 

They’d eaten sitting next to one another on Ilya’s bed, an absolute feast that Shane had no regrets about ordering. Well, Ilya had ordered it. And had gone downstairs to pick it up whilst Shane had been knocked out on his bed. There’d been a warm feeling in Shane’s chest when he realised that Ilya had actually made a note of and ordered everything he’d rattled off just before passing out. 

Whilst they plowed through the food, Shane had found himself babbling, mostly to fill the silence since Ilya seemed pretty mellow and content to let Shane do the talking. He’d talked about hockey, mostly, since that felt like an easy topic. His scholarship, his major. Sports Science, obviously. How his dad’s injury playing high-school hockey had sparked his interest in kinesiology and sports rehabilitation, and how if he weren’t gunning for the NHL, he’d probably be a physio, or something. 

He’d definitely still been a little high, given how effortlessly the words were flowing, and the food had only served to reinvigorate him. So, he’d talked, and Ilya had listened and occasionally chipped in with affirming mmm’s and inquisitive ahhh’s, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He hadn’t offered much else in return, which Shane had only realised later, not supplying anything about his own personal life. 

It’d been the early hours when Shane had left, a little buzzed but mostly just very, very sleepy. The sex had taken him for all he was worth and he’d been so ready to just slip back into that deep warmth of sleep. Ilya had walked him down the stairs and to the front door of the building, donning just a pair of slides with his sweats, and they’d lingered there for what felt like a long time. Shane had wanted to kiss him goodbye, but hadn’t. 

Once back at his own dorm, he’d collapsed into bed and had a long, dreamless sleep. 

There’s radio silence from Ilya in the days that follow. Shane half-expects a text following their hookup, a sly remark or a flirty suggestion. Perhaps an invitation to do it again? Nope, nothing. He thinks about messaging Ilya, but what would he even say? ‘Hey, thanks for the weed and for absolutely rocking my shit, I had a great time’? 

Hell no, he can’t say that. But what else? He’s so unaccustomed to this dynamic, having only ever had one-time things with a couple of guys, and even less successful encounters with women before realising he was gay. What did two times with the same guy make? Friends with benefits? Hardly. Obviously not just a one-night stand. Once would be a random fling, and anything more than twice could probably be considered building to semi-regular territory. But twice? It’s ambiguous enough to barely mean anything and yet, to Shane at least, definitely not nothing at all. 

God. It shouldn’t be that complicated. And, when Ilya hasn’t messaged after a week, Shane supposes it isn’t that complicated after all. So it was just a two time thing. They’d met, they’d fucked. It had been mind-blowingly, world-alteringly hot. And that’s probably where it would end. 

The universe has a funny way of proving people wrong, apparently. 

It starts with the campus coffee shop. Shane and a handful of classmates gathered round a table near the back, laptops open and coffees half-drunk. The place is buzzing, being mid-morning and mid-week, filled with the white noise of coffee machines whirring and spitting and the hum of overlapping conversations. They’re in the middle of brainstorming for a group presentation for their marketing class when Shane sees Ilya walk through the door and up to the counter.

It’s almost enough to knock the breath out of him, seeing him for the first time since they fucked. Shane’s been picturing him behind his eyelids for the past six and a half days, though the hazy images of Ilya in a steamy bathroom or between Shane’s legs in his dimly-lit bedroom can’t fully compare to the real thing. He’s wearing a zip-up hoodie that’s slipping off his shoulders a little, tank top peeking out from underneath, black gym shorts on the bottom. His curls are escaping out from beneath a baseball cap, and as he orders he takes it off momentarily to shake his hair from his face. 

“Shane?”

“Huh? Sorry.”

“You’re happy to take slides three through six?”

“Oh, uh, yeah. Sure.”

Shooting glances out the corner of his eye whilst trying his best to seem studious, Shane watches Ilya hover by the pick-up counter, fiddling with his phone. He almost wants to text him right now just to see what he’d do, if he’d smile and pick it up right away or swipe it away without a second thought. It feels pathetic to even entertain the thought. In any case, Ilya’s picking up his drink – iced black coffee, it seems – and heading back out the way he came before Shane can start pining for something he shouldn’t. 

It was just a casual fuck. Get over it. You’ll probably never see him again. 

For better or for worse, he’s afforded no such convenience. 

It’s the gym, next. Shane has a rare free day with no class and no practice, so naturally he takes his ass down to the gym and puts his body to work. It’s perhaps wishful thinking, but the idea is to have his muscles screaming just loud enough to drown out the incessant noise ringing between his ears. Shane’s down by the mirrors, sequestered on a bench at the end of the row by the weight rack, mid-rep on his last set of shoulder presses when he spots him. He fails the rep and nearly drops the dumbbell on his foot. 

Ilya’s loading up a barbell at one of the racks, with the large red plates that Shane knows are the heaviest. He’s got those big over-ear headphones on, a sinfully tight compression shirt and black sweatpants. It’s so, so cruel. He swings a leg over the bench that’s positioned under the bar, sits down and takes a long swig from his water bottle. Even from this far, Shane can see how his throat works as he drinks. And there his brain goes, careening off to magical, impure places that have no right but all the reason to get his dick stirring in his shorts. 

Not here. No fucking way. 

Ilya’s leaning back on the bench and getting set up for his first rep when Shane darts across the gym floor and ducks into the bathroom, shutting himself in one of the stalls. Ilya doesn’t see him. He hopes, anyway. Well, part of him does. The other part kind of hopes Ilya is going to walk into the bathroom after him, slip into the cubicle, and do dirty things to his mouth. Shane takes that part of himself out back and beats it to a pulp, because hope is a silly thing. 

He splashes some water on his neck, takes a long look at himself in the mirror, then exits the bathroom and walks out of the gym. He’d basically been finished, anyway. His muscles are just sore enough to hurt, and he doesn’t mind that one bit. 

If Shane believed in fate, or the universe, or the red string theory, or any of that bullshit, he’d probably feel pretty fucking vindicated right now, standing at the bar in the campus club at eleven thirty on a Saturday night, watching Ilya dance from across the room. It’s sick, really. A sick, sadistic joke that someone must be playing on him. He’s spent two years at college minding his damn business, playing good hockey and getting his head down in class, and he’s never once crossed paths with Ilya Rozanov. Things had been fine.

And then, that fucking house party. And the drinking, and the weed, and the kissing, and the blowjob. That’s how they’d memorialise the start of Shane’s downfall if he were in a movie. 

After his skeleton is found still clutching at his phone open to Ilya’s texts, waiting for a message that’ll never come, they’d look back and wonder how it all went so wrong, where it all started. And they’d trace back to the exact moment that Shane had climbed up on that rooftop and it’d all make sense. Because since that day, Shane hasn’t felt a single bit right in the head. 

The only thing left to do is turn to the stars and blame them, because Shane can’t think of a good enough reason why else he’s ended up here, in the same room as Ilya over and over again more times in the past couple weeks than his whole two years at college so far. The universe has that red string tied tight around his pinky, and the other end is wrapped snugly around Ilya’s, and someone, somewhere, keeps winding it tighter. It’s the only explanation. 

House music thumps through the speakers, and Shane can feel the bass vibrate the bar top where he’s leant up against it, swirling his paper straw in his drink. The tip of it is all mushy – sorry, turtles, but whose fucking bright idea was it to drink liquid through cardboard? He’s grumpy, he knows he is and he shouldn’t be. They’d won the game tonight, thoroughly trounced the other team for that matter, and they’re celebrating. Near enough the whole team had come out, though some had filtered off into their own groups not long after entering the bar, grabbing tables or heading towards the dancefloor. Shane’s waiting for Hayden to come back from the bathroom so that he can help carry the huge pitchers they’d ordered for their table where JJ and Mitty are waiting. They’re too absorbed in conversation to see Shane attempting to wave them over, so he has to settle for hunkering down at the bar and sipping his rum and coke. Through the mushy straw. And staring at Ilya grinding against some girl. 

He looks stunning, as always. Hair slicked back, lacey black button up shirt hanging open at the collar and showing off his chest, his necklace. The same necklace Shane had had in his mouth not too long ago. He shoves the thought away. The girl he’s with is stunning, too. Bouncy, brown curls and smoky eyes. They look incredible together, and Shane wants to throw up. 

They’re not alone, however. There’s another girl, a red-head with a bright smile in a silvery dress who’s dancing with them, hands slung around the other girl’s shoulders, and a couple of other guys, both tall and burly, who seem to be friends of Ilya’s. Shane wonders if they’re people from his class, or perhaps friends he’d met at one of the many parties he frequents, or maybe he’s in some society on campus. He wishes he could remember if he’d spotted their faces throughout Ilya’s Instagram feed, but he’d mostly just been focused on all the pictures Ilya had posted of himself. He hasn’t looked since they last hooked up, had blocked Ilya’s account purely to stop himself spiralling. 

Ilya leans forward and says something into the girl’s ear, her hand coming up behind his head to pull him closer. She laughs, and then his head dips further down to kiss her neck. It shouldn’t feel like a slap to the face, and yet it does. But then, the girl turns her head and leans down to kiss the red-head in front of her, both her hands slipping around her waist and to her ass, and Shane gawps. 

Oh, okay. Shane’s heard of those friendship groups that are basically just one, big incestuous fuck-fest, and given what he knows of Ilya, he wouldn’t be surprised if that’s something he’s into. Stoner, psychology major, social deviant. It sort of adds up. And of course Ilya is seeing other people, fucking other people. Shane can’t blame him, and after having had Ilya for himself, he certainly can’t blame other people either. Still, the thought makes his stomach sour. He’s getting high and hooking up like most normal college kids, not sitting around moping because the object of his infatuations isn’t texting him. That’d be pathetic. 

And that’s what it is, just an infatuation. He’ll get over it. With time, and maybe more sex, with someone that isn’t Ilya. That’s what normal people do. Right? Not that Shane has any idea what normal is supposed to feel like. Normal, to him, feels like having a rock stuck in your shoe that you can’t get out, like having a shirt label scratching at your neck all day, like your jeans being fresh out the wash and just a little too stiff, too tight. Feeling normal is like having to blink manually. How’s he to know what a normal person would do in this situation? 

He decides to find out. 

“So, I hooked up with someone,” Shane says, two nights later, sitting on Hayden’s bed playing Super Smash Bros. He’s third-wheeling, but it was Jackie’s idea that he come, so. 

It’s Jackie that sits up first, throwing her controller down. “What?!” 

“Holy fuck, dude, when?” Hayden says, pausing the game and throwing his whole body around to face Shane head-on. 

Shane’s already regretting having said anything. “At that party, back in February. The one where JJ took that football to the nose.”

“What the fuck?! And you’re only telling us now?” 

“We, uh, also hooked up again a couple weeks ago,” Shane mutters, fiddling with the joysticks on his controller and avoiding eye contact. 

“Oh, absolutely not,” Jackie says, criss-crossing her legs and sitting up straight like she’s about to get into it. “We need details, immediately. With who? Do we know them? Wait, was it a guy, first of all?” 

“Babe, slow the fuck down,” Hayden says, exasperated. “But, seriously, who?” 

Shane takes a deep breath, then starts laughing and has to bury his face in his hands because he feels so fucking ridiculous. When he composes himself enough to peek up at his friends, they’re waiting with expectation written all over their faces. 

“A guy, yes,” he starts, immediately interrupted by Jackie letting out a squeal that’s promptly muffled behind Hayden’s hand. “He’s doing Psychology, we only met that night at the party.”

There’s a beat.

“And?” Jackie flaps her hand around, spurring him on. 

“Hold on, I don’t want explicit details,” Hayden says. 

Jackie looks at him, incredulous. “Why the fuck not?” 

“He’s my best friend!” 

“Yeah, and what do you think I talk about with my best friends when we hook up?” 

Hayden groans. “If it’s not about how huge my dick is, I don’t want to know.”

Meanwhile, Shane’s just happy for the excuse to stay quiet for a minute and let them bicker, because his brain is playing catch-up and trying to figure out how he’s going to tell them about Ilya without letting them figure out that they’d heard him, quite loudly, sucking him off that night. 

“God, men are so boring, what the fuck do you even talk about when you’re together?”

“Hockey,” Shane says, at the same time that Hayden replies, “I don’t know, sports?” 

Jackie rolls her eyes, sighs, then says, “Okay, Shane, ignore him,” gesturing to Hayden, “because I want to hear all about it.” 

Shane decides to spare the more explicit details. “I mean, we had sex–”

“No shit.”

–and, yeah, I mean… it was fucking incredible, to be honest. We got high, and I was totally not myself, which helped, ‘cause it was great to just not be in my head for once…”

“So, you’ve fucked twice?”

“Oh, uh, no. Just the second time. The first time we just… well, anyway. He invited me over to his dorm, we smoked…” Shane can’t help trailing off, reminiscing. The memories of Ilya are extremely hard to block out, loud and insistent. 

“Can’t believe you smoked with someone else, man. I thought I was special,” Hayden mopes, only half-serious. Shane chuckles and slaps a hand on his shoulder.

“You’ll always be the guy who popped that cherry, Hayd,” he says, delighting at how that makes Hayden’s nose screw up in disgust, shrugging out of Shane’s grasp as he fake gags.  

“Let’s… unpack that later,” Jackie cuts in, intent on not being derailed. “But, back to the point. You were high both times? You haven’t fucked sober?” 

Shane shifts uncomfortably, shakes his head. “No, I mean, I don’t think I can. It’d probably be a disaster. Anyway, we haven’t spoken since the last time, so he’s definitely not interested.” 

“And you know that because…” 

“Well, he’d text, right? If he was interested.” 

“Have you texted him?” Hayden asks. 

Shane clicks a few buttons on the controller, aimlessly. Worries the corner of his bottom lip between his teeth. “No…?” he admits, sheepish.

“Oh, babe,” Jackie laughs, albeit sympathetically. “If you want to see him again, text him. Go after what you want. How’d you think I ended up with this one?” She gestures to Hayden. “He doesn’t fucking leave me alone.”

“Hey!”

Could it be that simple? It feels so juvenile, like being back on the playground when kids would ask their friends to tell their crush how they felt because they were too scared, passing notes or whispering behind cupped hands. Shane had wondered why everything had to be so complicated, like there was a game that everyone knew how to play, and he’d never gotten the rulebook for it. He’d played along as best he could, throughout those early days and into high school, approaching girls the way he thought he should, because that’s how he’d learnt to. Be interested, but not too much. Be aloof, because that’s enticing. Don’t say you like her outright, ask her if there’s someone she likes first. Feel it out. Message once, but never double text. That’s weak, that’s what a pussy would do. 

It had been exhausting, confusing. Finding out he wasn’t even that interested in girls had only served to make it all the more so. 

Jackie’s still talking, and Shane tries to refocus on her voice. “–can’t keep getting high as an excuse to see him, though.”

“Yeah, man,” Hayden supplements, “that’ll fuck you up, for sure.” 

They talk a little more, Jackie pressing for details and Shane relatively unforthcoming, mostly for Hayden’s sake. The image of his best friend’s scandalised expression upon hearing just what he and Ilya had gotten up to… yeah, best he keep it to himself. He does, however, agree to catch up with Jackie over coffee at some point in the week, after much bullying on her part. She makes him promise to text Ilya, and insists he give her an update after the fact. 

Shane agonises over it for days. Until the universe, once again, makes the decision for him. 

It’s late into the night when Shane trudges down to the laundromat, lugging a bag of clothes over his shoulder. It’s full to the brim. He’s been putting it off, yet again inundated with classes and coursework and practice. The only clean things he’d had available to pull on before coming out had been his college hockey team’s hoodie and a pair of faded basketball shorts that are slightly too small. Thankfully, it’s not too far of a walk, the cold nipping at his legs only briefly. It’s stupid, really, having one designated laundry room for, like, five apartment buildings. The only time anyone has a chance at a washer space is in the liminal hours between midnight and 4am, and Shane’s fortunate enough to have a sleep schedule that can accommodate that. 

He decides to wait in the laundromat whilst his clothes wash, taking a seat on the row of plastic chairs on the back wall, tucked behind most of the machines. The time could be spent catching up with work, he knows, but he needs the break. And the quiet. The dorms, no matter the time, are always abuzz with something going on. A party downstairs, a roommate down the hall talking loudly on the phone; constant noise. 

Shane plugs his headphones into his ears and settles his head back against the wall, tuning into his favourite hockey podcast on low, simple background chatter. A few people come and go while he waits, but he doesn’t pay them any mind. Just enjoys the rare pocket of solace for the time being, eyes drifting shut after a while. 

Through his headphones, he hears the door scrape open and closed again, though he doesn’t bother looking up. A washer door clicks shut, buttons beep, then comes the hum and slosh of it starting up. A shadow falls over his eyelids and blocks out the harsh ceiling lights, then stays there. Shane opens his eyes. 

Ilya. Towering over him, curls haloed in the light of the spots, face obscured in shadow but nonetheless blinding. Shane feels his stomach drop out of his ass. 

“Hey,” Ilya says. 

Or, Shane thinks he does. His ears are kind of ringing, and he has to yank his headphones out to catch what he says next.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he continues, moving out of Shane’s immediate eyeline and plopping himself down in the chair to his left. 

Shane clears his throat. “Hey, yeah… funny coincidence, huh?”  

“Funny, yes,” Ilya smirks. Shane wants to eat him alive. 

It’s quiet for a long moment, the two of them just holding each other’s gaze. Ilya doesn’t even attempt to hide the way he shamelessly rakes his eyes down over Shane’s body, and Shane can’t help but do the same. He looks… cosy, for once. Hoodie and sweats on, like he’s just rolled out of bed. Maybe he has. Shane feels a little exposed in comparison, in his too-tight shorts. 

“You didn’t text,” he finds himself saying, abruptly. 

Ilya regards him with quiet contemplation. “Neither did you.”

Shane flushes. “I guess I didn’t know what to say,” he admits, quietly. The laundromat suddenly feels very warm. 

“Did you have fun?”

The question takes him by surprise. Ilya asks it softly, too, his tone lacking its usual teasing, playful nature, and that knocks Shane off kilter. 

“Of course,” he says, simply. 

“Good.”

A pregnant pause follows, a bubble fit to burst if either of them were to be the first to reach out and pop it. The washers hum steadily, the lights buzz and flicker a little. 

“I thought maybe you might be… feeling a lot. I wanted to wait, give you space to talk when you are ready,” Ilya says, finally. 

Oh. Wow. 

The confusion and surprise must show on Shane’s face, because Ilya continues. 

“It was your first time, yes? And you were high.”

That tugs at Shane in a way that stings a little. Pride is a funny thing, turning and spitting in the face of truth when confronted with it. He knows deep down that Ilya’s right. It had been a lot, especially for his first time. But he’d been fine. He could handle a little weed, a little rough sex. He’d enjoyed it, for fuck’s sake. 

“So?” It comes out a little more venomous than he’d intended. 

Ilya stares unwaveringly, expression unreadable. “You are different when you are sober. Nervous, maybe.” 

Shane huffs out a tight, cold laugh. Is he really so obvious? Fuck. 

“I don’t regret it, if that’s what you’re trying to get at,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest indignantly. “It was fucking great, actually.”

A tiny bit of heat returns to Ilya’s eyes at that. “Mm, it was.” 

“And I don’t care that I was high, I’d still–” Shane cuts himself off. I’d still want it, want you. Fuck it. “I’d still want to.” 

Ilya’s hand, that’s been resting on his own leg, drops to the side. With the movement, his fingers brush the skin of Shane’s thigh just below the hem of his shorts. The contact makes his quad muscle twitch. “Oh?” Ilya says, eyebrows raising the faintest amount. 

“Yeah,” Shane breathes. His throat feels tight. 

Ilya’s fingers start to play with the frayed edge of his shorts, tugging at the loose string there. Shane can feel the ghost of them squeezing his inner thigh, his waist, threading through his hair, in his mouth. He shivers, as if caught by a cold chill. The door is still firmly shut, and they’re alone. 

Shane sucks in a breath when Ilya slips his fingers beneath the hem, skin on skin. Electricity runs straight to the head of his dick, his stomach tensing involuntarily. Ilya smiles faintly at the sound of Shane’s gasp, his hand curving inwards to the soft swell of Shane’s inner thigh. Shane’s eyes flick toward the door again, all too aware of their location, their position. 

Ilya leans in, breathes against his ear. “No one is looking.” 

Shane tries not to whimper, a strangled sound getting lodged in his throat as he bites his lip. And Ilya continues, because he knows that part of Shane loves the risk. Behind the wall of machines, they’re mostly hidden, tucked away in the corner to have enough warning if anyone were to walk in. Shane’s legs drop open a little wider. Ilya takes the invitation. 

His hand slides up and over the front of Shane’s shorts until his palm is resting firmly over the half-hard outline of Shane’s cock. It throbs at the touch and swells, and Ilya grinds his hand down in a way that has Shane groaning between his teeth, head knocking back against the wall. He keeps his arms wound tightly against his chest, hands balled into fists. He can’t bring himself to release them, to fully surrender into Ilya’s touch. Not like this. 

Ilya leans even closer, plastic chair squeaking beneath his weight as he gets his mouth on the shell of Shane’s ear, his tongue finding his earlobe and toying with it. The sensation makes Shane want to curl up and away from it in pleasure, but he steels himself against the chair and tries not to make it obvious just how desperately aroused he is. He’s failing miserably, he knows, but he can pretend for a while. 

“I have not stopped thinking about you,” Ilya purrs into his ear, “fuck, you were so pretty.” 

His hand is pressing insistently on the length of Shane’s dick, massaging it through his shorts. It takes everything Shane has not to buck up into his touch, his thigh muscles straining and flexing with the effort of keeping still. He can’t help how his breathing stutters though, soft hiccups and hisses spilling from his lips. 

“Did you think about me after? Miss me?”

Shane can only nod, not trusting his voice. He’d thought about Ilya every day since, got off on the memory of him nearly every night. He’d felt empty ever since Ilya had slid out of him, like a part of him was missing. It had been impossible not to feel the loss of him. Ilya lets out a satisfied chuckle in response, directly against his ear. He continues mouthing there, nibbling and sucking, his nose bumping against Shane’s temple. 

A gust of wind outside makes the door rattle slightly on its hinges, the sound of it making Shane’s heart and stomach lurch. God, anyone could walk in and see this. Ilya getting Shane off beneath his shorts, tongue in his ear and whispering filthy things. The thought has his cock twitching again, and Shane’s clenching his fists so tightly that his nails are surely making welts in the delicate flesh of his palms. It’s such a fucked up, wonderful thing. 

The washer beeps, loud. 

It breaks the spell, ripping Shane’s awareness back into his body, and he surges to his feet. 

“My washing’s done,” he chokes out. He’s hard in his shorts, there’s spit cooling on his earlobe, his skin is burning. What the fuck is he doing?

He doesn’t look back at Ilya as he walks over to the machine, fingers fumbling with the handle as he pries it open. He can feel Ilya’s eyes on him as he bends over to pull his clothes out and transfer them to the dryer, and warmth crawls up his neck. He takes far longer than necessary to stuff his clothes into the drum, punching in the buttons with unsteady hands as he deliberates over spin cycles and drying temperatures. Anything to stall and give himself a moment to breathe, force his dick back down, before he has to face Ilya again. 

Once the dryer whirrs to life, he turns back and carefully positions himself on the chair at the end of the row with his back up against the wall and feet on the chair between him and Ilya. The distance helps regulate his heartbeat a little. Meanwhile, Ilya’s got an arm slung over the back of the chair and is lounging there like nothing happened, his nonchalance as bewildering as ever.

“Uh, maybe we should… talk?” Shane suggests tentatively. Can’t crawl into someone’s lap and make out ‘til you’re breathless if you’re talking. Talking is good. 

“About…?” 

Shane opts for the safest line of enquiry. “Have you always lived here? In America.”

Ilya snorts, face splitting into a grin at the question, like it’s the last thing he expected to be asked. The sound eases some of the tension in Shane’s shoulders and cuts through the atmosphere that had settled heavy between them. 

Ilya’s courteous enough to reply after he’s finished laughing. “Why, because my accent is that bad?” 

“No, no!” Shane splutters. “Fuck, that’s not what I meant, I just–”

“It’s fine, Hollander,” Ilya interrupts, pulling him out of the hole he’s in the middle of digging himself. “No, I have not. I was maybe fourteen, I came to live with my aunt after my mother died.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Shane feels guilty for having asked.

Ilya waves it off. “Is okay, feels like a long time ago.”

“Don’t you have other family back in Russia, then?” 

“Yes, my father and brother,” Ilya says, making a face that’s altogether pretty sour. “I came here to get away from them.”

“Ah, that sucks,” Shane says, unhelpfully. He tries to steer the conversation away from family, which is clearly a complicated topic. “So, what made you come to college for Psychology?” 

Ilya’s expression morphs into something a little less bitter, though still fairly guarded. It’s quickly masked with a playful smirk. “So many questions, wow.”

“Shut up,” Shane laughs. “Forgive me for trying to get to know the guy that’s literally been inside me.” 

It’s a little crude, but it pays off by getting another snort from Ilya. “Touché.” 

He pauses, eyes wandering away from Shane and across the room, up to the ceiling. His tongue prods at the inside of his cheek, like he’s rolling the answer around in his mouth, tasting it before letting Shane hear it. The side of his face catches the light as he tilts his head, and Shane once again finds himself in awe of how beautiful he is. The night on the rooftop flashes behind his eyes, Ilya’s face in the moonlight and the soft glow of the porch lamps, full lips pursed and blowing out smoke in pretty clouds. Shane clamps down on the urges that bubble up inside him, shoves them back into the pit of his stomach. 

“I will become a therapist, I think,” Ilya says, thoughtfully. “I have always been good at reading people. And I have an interest in, ah, mental health. You know.” 

It’s a vague answer, but from the look on Ilya’s face, the way his lips pull down and his eyebrows knit tightly together, Shane senses there’s a reason for it. None that he can ascertain, but he takes the hint to not press further. The answer is enough, anyway, to satisfy some of Shane’s curiosity. To afford him a glimpse into the person at the core of Ilya’s playful, flirtatious exterior. 

It comes as no surprise that he’s good at reading people. He’d read Shane like a book that first night, had known with full certainty that he wasn’t taking a risk by pulling him into that kiss. And Shane had fallen apart under his perceptive eyes, laid open and bare, and had continued to do so ever since. Ilya had the ability to disarm him like that. 

When the machine with Ilya’s washing is done, he doesn’t waste time in shoving his clothes in the dryer and coming to sit back next to Shane. He returns looking a little lighter.

“Alright, so how’d you know so much about hockey then, mister Psychology major?” Shane asks, because he can’t help himself. 

“Ah,” Ilya chuckles. “I have a friend, from high school. She is big hockey fan, knows all about it. We came to college together, and she met her girlfriend here. Her girlfriend has three brothers, all hockey fans also. Is awful, they do not shut up about it.” 

The cogs turn in Shane’s head for a moment. “Oh, I think I saw you guys at the club last week. Your friend and her girlfriend, I mean.” 

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “You are stalking me, Shane Hollander?” 

The shame of knowing that that isn’t entirely false makes Shane cringe. Okay, to cut himself some slack, their run-ins over the past couple of weeks had been entirely coincidental. Had Shane stalked his Instagram religiously before their last hook-up? Maybe. But that doesn’t count. 

“Fuck you, I was out with my team. I just saw you guys across the bar.”

“You should have said hi.”

Shane fidgets, foot tapping on the plastic chair. “I kinda thought you were ghosting me, remember? Plus, I saw you guys… kissing and, I don’t know, I thought you were together, or something. Didn’t want to interrupt.” 

“Ah, no,” Ilya smiles, looking kind of endeared. “Svetlana is close friend. We used to fuck, but she is definitely gay now. Rose is her girlfriend.”

“Wow, so you sucked so bad in bed that she realised she was a lesbian, huh?” Shane quips, feeling much more at ease now. The conversation has been slowly undoing a knot in his chest that he didn’t even realise he’d been harbouring, and it’s now almost completely undone. 

Ilya’s grin turns seductive. “I think you know that’s not true,” he says. 

Shane swallows. Yeah. Definitely not.

There isn’t a chance for either of them to say anything else, because this time Shane’s dryer is clicking and shutting off, beeping to signal it’s finished. He feels reluctant to get up this time, wanting to stay in the moment for a while longer. The conversation had actually been… nice. It’s grounding, knowing Ilya beyond the built-up image that Shane’s been carrying of him for so many weeks. Not just Ilya, stoner and sex-god, but Ilya, son, nephew, friend. 

He can’t stay forever, though, and it’s already the early hours. So, he gets up, stretching his sore legs and taking himself over to unload the dryer, packing the clothes haphazardly back into the bag he lugged them over in. Once done, he turns back to Ilya. He’s sat, legs splayed, arms crossed, his eyes on Shane, as always. 

Shane realises he doesn’t want to go. 

Go after what you want. 

“Do you, uh, wanna come over tomorrow night?” 

Ilya smiles. “You want me to bring the bowl?”

“No,” Shane replies, firmly. “No weed this time.” 

His smile widens. “Okay.”

Shane spends the entire next day at practice shooting pucks like it’s his first day on earth and someone just put him in the rink, handed him a stick and said ‘good luck’. Hayden eventually gets so sick of him that he pulls him over to the bench to have an intervention.

“Buddy, are you good?”

Shane feels like he’s going to throw up the eggs he had for breakfast. Hayden’s looking at him from under his helmet like he’s about to start playing 21 questions to figure out who the hell this guy is and what he’s done with the real Shane. 

“Fuck, okay, fine,” Shane concedes, putting his head in his gloved hands, “I invited the guy over.”

Hayden slaps his back so hard he nearly yelps. “Fuck yes! Good for you, man. Jackie’s gonna be so excited. Oh, shit, do you need condoms? I can give you one. I’ll slide it under your door later. Oh, man, actually I don’t think I wanna be across the hall if you’re gonna be… Yeah, maybe I’ll go out…”

God bless Hayden and his rambling, because it actually proves really hard to have a panic attack when your best friend is gnawing your ear off about safe sex and the importance of respecting noise levels. Shane doesn’t have the heart, nor the balls, to tell Hayden that this wouldn’t be the first time he’s been across the hall from them listening to them get off. It’s for the best.  

Shane 6:37pm

any time after 8 is cool 

Shane 6:38pm

1410 is my room, i’ll leave the doors open for you so you can come straight up

ilya 6:40pm

see you soon 😉

The knock comes a little after quarter past, and Shane practically bolts off his bed at the sound. He’s been wringing his hands for the past hour, fiddling with his sheets, his curtains, the pens on his desk. His whole body is a live wire, primed to trip at any given moment. 

He’d stayed in the shower far longer than necessary, hoping the steam would ease the tightness of his muscles and calm the roiling storm in his gut. No such luck. He’d come out all pruney but, on the upside, impeccably clean. Now, at the sound of Ilya’s knuckles rapping softly on his door, sweat prickles under his arms and at the back of his neck, so it all seems a bit futile. 

Shane cracks the door first to check, then opens it up all the way to let Ilya inside. He brushes past Shane without a word, and Shane nudges the door closed behind him. He swallows, takes a breath, turns around. 

“H–” He’s immediately cut off by Ilya shoving him up against the door and kissing him senseless. 

The surprise of it and the feeling of the door handle digging sharply into his lower back makes Shane moan, embarrassingly loud, which only serves as an opportunity for Ilya to get his tongue into Shane’s mouth. His hands grip Shane’s face tightly, fingers pressing into his cheekbones as he slides their lips together, and Shane finds himself scrabbling for purchase against Ilya’s waist. His fingers find the curve of his hips, the smooth skin beneath his shirt, and he holds on. 

Fuck, okay, we’re doing this. Shane had planned out a whole conversation whilst he showered, acted out his lines and imagined how Ilya would respond, how they’d skirt around the topic of fucking before maybe, maybe acknowledging the very obvious elephant in the room. Ilya clearly had no such intentions. And that’s probably for the best, because with the way he’s pressing his tongue against Shane’s and making soft, breathy noises against his lips, Shane can’t remember a single fucking thing worth talking about. 

Ilya wrenches himself backward a second later, breathing hard, eyes heated. “Sorry,” he says, wiping saliva from the corner of his lip with his thumb. “I have wanted to do that all week.” 

Shane steadies himself against the door, wincing as he stands up straighter and feels the ache of where the handle had jabbed into him. It’ll probably bruise. Good. 

“Yeah, me too,” he admits. Ilya’s eyes sparkle. 

There’s something in the way Ilya looks at him, Shane realises, that’s almost animalistic. With his back up against the door, and Ilya standing in the middle of his room in all his tall, broad, muscular glory, Shane can’t help feeling a little vulnerable, a little cornered. Of course, he’s entirely in this situation of his own volition and there’s no part of it that he’s entering into unwillingly. He wants this. Desperately and painfully. But something in Ilya’s stare, that unwavering hunger… Ilya is the glinting eyes between the trees in the forest and Shane is a hare with his foot caught in a trap. It’s fucking hot. 

“Come, sit,” Ilya says, gesturing to Shane’s desk chair. Despite being in Shane’s space, he’s still comfortable ordering Shane around. Probably because he knows that Shane will follow, no questions asked, like a well-trained dog on a leash. 

He sits, gets comfortable. Looks to Ilya for approval. It’s given, Ilya nodding softly as he uses the arms of the chair to swivel Shane around slightly, making room for himself to… Oh. He kneels down on the floor, in the space between Shane’s legs, and looks up at him.

“Okay?” he asks, hands coming to rest on Shane’s thighs. Large, strong, grounding. 

Shane’s chest feels tight, and his head feels dizzy despite being stone-cold sober, the room cool from the window he’d cracked earlier. It’s not warm, yet his entire body is lighting up like someone’s lit a fire beneath his feet. But no, there’s no fire. Just Ilya, looking up at Shane between his curls, mouth slightly ajar and expectant, oil on canvas titled ‘Dangerous Temptation’. 

“Yeah,” Shane breathes. He doesn’t have the capability to form more words than that, his brain rewiring itself on the fly to adjust to Ilya’s presence between his legs, assertive and, surprisingly, calming. It’s like Ilya had known his brain would be going into overdrive, and the only thing to prevent it would be to throw the playbook out the window and knock Shane off his axis completely, sending him spinning off into space, his only tether being Ilya’s firm hands and guiding words. 

“Can I blow you?” 

Ilya’s hands skate down his legs, rubbing soft circles into his calves and ankles with his thumbs. Shane sucks in a breath, flushing at the directness of it. He nods. 

Licking his lips, Ilya nudges Shane’s legs a little wider so that he can shuffle closer into the space between them. He kneels up, hooking a hand behind Shane’s neck as he presses an open-mouthed kiss to the hollow of his throat, then travels down, mouthing over his chest and nipples through his T-shirt. Shane squirms, shifting restlessly in the chair, but keeps his hands firmly grasped around the armrests, fingers digging into the foam. He’s so aware of himself, his limbs and his face, and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Being sober and thus being far more present within his skin is proving difficult; he’s already missing that floaty, loose feeling of being high. 

Still, Ilya continues, mouthing lower until he gets to the soft pouch at Shane’s lower stomach, where the line of his happy trail curls around his belly button and disappears below his pants. He lifts Shane’s shirt for better access, his hand slipping beneath it to come up and squeeze his pec, and Shane groans. Ilya takes that in his stride, removing his mouth just long enough to tug Shane’s shirt up beneath his armpits, and Shane helps him out by removing it the rest of the way. 

Ilya sighs contentedly. “You look so good,” he murmurs into the skin of Shane’s abdomen, his breath tickling the spot between kisses. Shane’s not religious, and maybe Ilya is, but it feels like some form of worship. 

As his mouth travels lower, so do his hands, until they’re hovering at the waistband of his sweats. Shane lifts his hips, and Ilya hooks his fingers in to pull everything down, over the swell of Shane’s ass and down his legs, all the way off until he’s naked save for his socks. He gets the urge to cover himself, so exposed in comparison to Ilya who remains fully clothed, but Ilya’s got his hands rubbing up his legs again, over his hips and waist, and Shane tries to relax into the touch.

He’s half-hard, the nerves and the noise in his head overpowering the sensation of Ilya’s hands on his body. If he were high, he’d already be leaking. 

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya breathes, his eyes now lasered in on the sight of Shane’s cock. He leans in, presses a kiss to the underside that feels way too tender for what they are, then follows it up with his tongue. He drags it up and over the head, hand coming up to grab the base and squeeze a little. Shane’s knuckles go white on the armrests, eyes scrunching shut at the feeling. 

Ilya sinks down, the hot wetness of his mouth enveloping Shane’s cock, taking him all the way to the back of his throat. 

“Oh, f– fuck,” Shane hisses. His cock pulses, Ilya using his tongue to massage the underside as he keeps it in his mouth, letting it grow between his lips and stretch them out further. The sight would be fucking sinful, if Shane could only open his eyes to look. 

There’s a long minute spent just like that, Ilya keeping his cock warm in his mouth, breathing steadily through his nose, hands kneading the tight muscles of Shane’s obliques, and Shane screwing his eyes shut and keeping his hands well out of the way, rigid and restrained. His dick stays hard, mostly thanks to Ilya’s tongue and the occasional hollowing of his cheeks, but Shane knows he’s not enjoying it to the fullest. Not how he did the other night, bucking and whining and thrusting his hips up into the blissful heat of Ilya’s mouth. 

Ilya slowly pulls off, letting Shane’s dick fall back against his stomach, coated in spit. There’s a trail of it connecting his cockhead and Ilya’s lips, Shane sees it when he unscrews his eyes just enough to catch Ilya wiping it away with the back of his hand. 

“You are tense,” he states. No fucking shit.

“Sorry, just…” Shane sighs, the fabric of the chair scratching at his bare skin uncomfortably. “It’s not you. I’m in my head too much, I guess.”

Ilya traces patterns into the skin of Shane’s hipbone with his finger. “I have an idea.” 

“You and your ideas,” Shane huffs, unsteadily. “What is it?”

Ilya stands up and pulls his sweatshirt off over his head. His torso is bare underneath, and Shane gets to enjoy the way his muscles ripple and flex with the movement. His gold chain glints in the soft light. Instead of dropping the shirt to the floor, discarding it, he takes it between his hands and finds the sleeves. 

“You trust me?” he asks.

Shane’s voice is thick with equal amounts of desire and nerves. “Absolutely.”

Ilya leans over and carefully positions the sweatshirt around Shane’s head, plunging him into darkness, the material thick enough to block out the light of the room in a way that his eyelids hadn’t been capable of. He feels the fabric shift over his face, tightening, and realises that Ilya is tying the sleeves around the back of his head, securing it in place. 

“Is okay?” he hears Ilya say, slightly muffled. 

All of his senses are dulled now, the shirt laying over his head in just the right way to cover his eyes, ears and nose. He can still breathe just fine, though if he struggles he at least has his mouth free. It smells of Ilya, unsurprisingly. Soft notes of his cologne, underlaid with a hint of smoke and weed. It envelops Shane like a blanket, like a heady cloud of smoke in a steamy bathroom, and he finds himself sinking into it, into the comforting blackness. 

“It’s good, yeah,” he hears himself say, a little detached. His body feels immediately heavier, like falling back into a mountain of pillows and settling there, held and safe. It’s amazing, really, how transformative it is. 

He feels Ilya’s hand trail over his cheek, caressing. It makes him shiver. It makes him horny. 

There’s a sound of shuffling, the distinctive press of a body between his legs, warm hands spreading over the width of his thighs. His hips jerk. Ilya chuckles. 

“So good for me, Shane,” Ilya murmurs, spoken into the crease between his thigh and his balls, making him jump. He presses a kiss to the flesh there. Then, turns his head, nose brushing against the skin and leaving goosebumps in its wake. The next thing Shane feels is his teeth sinking into the meat of his inner thigh. 

“Oh, fuck!” he moans, head thrown back and muscles convulsing with the pain and pleasure of it. His cock spurts, pre-come dribbling onto his stomach. The sensation, the pain, it’s so much more vibrant like this, without the weed or alcohol to dull it, dilute it. It’s fucking incredible, tiny starburts exploding beneath the hard press of Ilya’s incisors, and Shane wonders if it’ll leave a mark in the shape of Ilya’s bite. What a sick, twisted, delicious picture that would make. 

Ilya follows his teeth with his tongue, lapping at his handiwork. Then, his tongue turns to other, more important matters. He takes Shane into his mouth again, and this time Shane doesn’t hold back the whine that crawls up his throat. He hears it, but it’s muted just enough through the fabric around his ears that he can ignore it, instead focusing on the sound of Ilya’s stilted breathing, the wet suction of his mouth sliding over Shane’s cock. 

The head of his dick hits the back of Ilya’s throat over and over again, and with each bob of his head Shane feels the tension being stripped away. Ilya groans around his length, enjoying himself, and Shane moans back in response. After taking him to the base yet again, Ilya hollows his cheeks on the upstroke and pulls nearly all the way off, just the tip of Shane’s cock resting between his lips. He feels Ilya’s tongue dart out and press into his slit, and he nearly comes then and there.

Ilya can tell he’s close, knows the signals, and has the forethought to pull away completely. Shane feels the spit running down his length and onto his balls, and it’s definitely going to leave a wet patch on the chair. It’s unimportant. Especially when he feels Ilya sit back, the heat of his body disappearing from the gap between Shane’s thighs. His eyes search, uselessly, beneath the sweatshirt, trying to anticipate the next touch.

Instead, he hears Ilya say, “Come on. On the bed.” 

Shane rises out of the chair like a baby deer trying to stand minutes after being born. The bite on his thigh twinges, and he tries not to enjoy it too much. He feels the strong grip of Ilya’s fingers encircling his wrist, guiding him forward until his shins kiss the wooden base of the bed. He crawls forward, makeshift blindfold staying firmly in place, until he’s somewhere near the headboard. His cock hangs heavy between his legs and he wonders if it’s dripping on the sheets. 

“Fucking hot, Shane,” Ilya coos. “You have no idea how good you look right now.” 

Shane feels the dip of the mattress as Ilya climbs on behind him, feels his knees knock against the insides of his calves. Ilya’s hand smooths over the planes of his back, the curve of his hip. Then, he presses his clothed cock against Shane’s bare ass. Shane’s head lolls forward, breath knocked out of his lungs. His arms go weak beneath him, though he manages to stay upright on his elbows by some miracle. 

“Are you gonna fuck me?” Shane moans, low in his throat. 

“If you want me to,” Ilya says, grinding his hips and stroking his cock back and forth between Shane’s cheeks.

Shane inhales deeply, sucking in the smell of Ilya’s sweater and holding it in his lungs just long enough to feel a hint of light-headedness. He exhales in a rush, “Yeah. Please.” 

He hears Ilya hum appreciatively, feels his hands roam over the roundness of his ass. His thumbs dip between the cheeks and then he’s pulling them apart and oh fucking hell. It should feel humiliating, on his knees with his ass in the air, Ilya pulling him apart to expose his hole just to look at it. It’s so intimate. And yet, in the confines of the blindfold and the dark, Shane doesn’t feel all that ashamed. Especially not when Ilya groans, deeply and gutturally, exhaling like he’s just taken a long drag.

“You are perfect,” he says, followed by a Russian word that Shane doesn’t understand, but it sounds like praise. His stomach coils, fingers digging into the blankets. 

He hears Ilya make a sound in the back of his throat, then feels something hot and wet hit his hole as Ilya spits on it. 

“Oh my fu– god, fuck,” Shane moans. His face is red hot, mouth hanging agape at how dirty it feels.  

It starts to dribble down his skin before Ilya swipes it up with his thumb, smearing it across Shane’s asshole as it clenches around nothing. He dips his thumb inside, just barely, and Shane mewls. 

“Good boy,” Ilya whispers. “You have lube?” 

Shane just about manages to gesture in the general direction of his drawer. He feels Ilya’s weight press over his back as he stretches over to the bedside table, hearing the drawer slide open and its contents being rifled through.

“Oh, what’s this?”

Shane’s heart nearly stops when he remembers the dildo hidden away at the back, right next to the lube. 

“S’my dildo,” he mumbles, shifting his hips nervously and feeling Ilya’s hard cock twitch against his thigh.

“Do you use this when you think about me fucking you?” Ilya purrs.

Yes, fuck. I can’t get off without it, imagining you inside me. 

Shane nods listlessly. Ilya practically growls, swearing under his breath in a mix of English and Russian; Shane can’t fully make it out through all the material and the way Ilya sounds like he’s saying it into his fist. 

“You will get the real thing soon, I promise.” 

Ilya tilts backwards, hands finding Shane’s thighs and ass again, pulling him closer. There’s a soft click as the bottle opens, and Shane gasps at the feeling of Ilya’s slicked-up fingers pressing into him. Ilya preps him diligently, stretching Shane over and over until he’s quivering and whimpering and begging for it. The whole time, Shane is taking in wave after wave of Ilya’s scent that clings to his sweater, picturing the way he must look as he opens Shane up. He’s not confident enough to take the blindfold off yet, so he settles on imagination for now. The strong lines of his body, the way his arms would look holding Shane still as he fingers him, the way his eyes would glaze over. 

The sound of Ilya’s fingers sliding out of him is obscene. 

“Gonna fuck you now, okay? Take care of you,” Ilya says, the warmth of his palms smoothing up and down Shane’s waist.

“Yes, fuck, please,” Shane stutters into the crease of his elbow, having been on the edge for far too long. He’s not so nervous anymore, not so embarrassed, just full of want and need. 

Ilya takes a moment, presumably to lose the rest of his clothes and pull on the condom before settling back between Shane’s thighs. The anticipation of it is unbearable. Shane whines, pushing his hips back and bumping against Ilya’s cock, his stomach.

The crack of Ilya’s hand coming down on his ass cheek has him seeing stars.

“Ah! Fu–” he cries out, whole body jolting forward.

“Impatient,” Ilya scolds. Still, he yanks Shane’s hips back against him, hand finding the spot he’d spanked and rubbing it where it smarts. 

“Fuck you,” Shane whimpers, grinding back against Ilya’s throbbing length and half-hoping he’ll get reprimanded for it again. 

Instead, he gets something so much better. The deep, delicious stretch of Ilya’s cockhead burying itself into him, inch by inch, until he’s buried to the hilt. Shane moans loud enough that he’s certain it’ll be heard by somebody on his floor. He can’t help it, the sensation of being so full is absolutely dizzying. The angle is different this time too, and when Ilya shifts on his knees to get into a better position, he nudges up against Shane’s prostate just enough to have him convulsing.

“Fuck!” Ilya grits out as Shane pulses around him. He snaps his hips forward and pushes up against that spot again, and Shane nearly blacks out. Maybe he does, with his eyes covered it’s hard to tell. All he knows is that Ilya starts moving at a hellish pace, and he’s an absolute goner. 

He wants to see. That’s his next thought, between the waves of pleasure crashing over him. He wants to watch Ilya fuck him, no substances, no gimmicks, no pretence. Just wants and wants and wants. 

Shane manages to get a hand up and yank the sweater down just enough below his face, squinting even in the dim light of the room as his other senses return to him. He rebalances on his elbows, doing his best to stay upright as Ilya drives into him from behind, shoving him up toward the head of the bed just as he’d done the other night. The sound of their skin slapping together is sharper now, no longer muffled, and Shane can hear their breaths and moans and grunts in all their filthy glory. 

“Yes, Shane, fuck, let me see you,” Ilya moans, falling forward to plant his hands either side of Shane’s elbows and get a clearer view of his face. Shane turns to look over his shoulder at him, over the bundle of Ilya’s sweater that’s still hanging loosely around his neck. Ilya looks wrecked, hair mussed and falling into his eyes in messy ringlets, his face and neck flushed, veins popping out beneath his skin. Just as Shane had imagined, his eyes are glassy and half-gone, full of lust and hunger and awe. 

He can feel Ilya’s chain swinging against his back with the force of each thrust, dangling in the space between their bodies. Shane wants to close that space, wants to press himself against Ilya completely, be utterly consumed by him, have him everywhere. His hand claws uselessly behind him, eventually finding Ilya’s forearm and holding there, squeezing. 

“Want you– ah– want you closer,” he whines.

Ilya grunts, pushing himself upwards and away from Shane, and Shane nearly fucking cries from the loss. It’s only temporary. The next thing he feels is a slight pressure on his throat, then the sharp tug of Ilya fisting a hand around the sleeves of the sweater that are still tied around his neck, wrenching him upward in one swift motion until he’s crashing back against Ilya’s chest. 

A firm arm wraps across his hips, steadying him, whilst the other rips the sweater off and away from his neck. It’s replaced with the tight grip of Ilya’s hand, fingers circling his throat. 

“Better?” comes Ilya’s voice, hot in his ear. 

Shane is grateful to be held up in that moment, because his bones turn to jello. Ilya is still fucking up into him, the angle of their bodies now making it so that Shane is practically sat in his lap, sinking onto his cock with every thrust, their thighs smacking together. 

“Yes, yes,” Shane breathes, voice constricted in his throat from the way Ilya’s fingers press against it. 

Ilya tightens his fingers and thumb, pressing down on the sides of Shane’s neck where his pulse is racing, nowhere close to cutting off his air supply but just a solid pressure that has his head going woozy. It’s euphoric. 

“Touch me,” Shane whimpers, eyes going blurry with tears. “please.” 

His orgasm has been threatening ever since Ilya pushed inside, and now it’s so close that Shane can feel the way his dick throbs, pre-come dribbling over his length and onto his thighs. He’s so fucking wet. Ilya’s other hand encircles him and uses the slickness to glide it up and down, pumping Shane in his fist at an all too leisurely pace. 

Shane bucks up, getting more friction on his cock but making Ilya slip out a little, and the hand on his throat tightens minutely in response.

“Be good and I’ll make you come,” Ilya growls. 

Shane stills, submitting into Ilya’s touch, lightheaded from the pressure at his throat and the commanding voice in his ear. Ilya rewards him with a couple of solid strokes, and then, when he’s certain Shane’s behaving himself, starts fucking up into him again. It’s too much, the hand on his throat, on his dick, Ilya’s cock buried inside him and throbbing with each well-timed thrust. 

His head falls back onto Ilya’s shoulder, exposing more of his throat for Ilya to squeeze, and their eyes meet. Ilya holds Shane’s gaze, entranced, as he fucks him, and Shane feels a tear escape the corner of his eye and drip onto Ilya’s chest. It mingles with the sweat there, his back slipping against Ilya’s chest as they move together, all wet and messy and beautiful.

Ilya leans down and their lips meet in a sloppy, uncoordinated kiss of teeth and tongue and breathy moans, and Shane is so close he could sob.

“So good for me, you are so good, Shane,” Ilya says into his mouth, and Shane eats up the praise like he’s starving. “So pretty, so well behaved. Make me feel so good.”

“Please, I need–” Shane chokes, breath hitching. Ilya’s fingers at his throat squeeze harder and his head goes fuzzy. 

“Shh, it’s okay. Come for me.”

Shane comes. His moan is captured by Ilya’s lips, vibrating in his chest as he shudders through his orgasm, clenching helplessly around Ilya’s cock. Ilya strokes him through it until he’s raw and sensitive, muscles twitching. His hand falls from Shane’s throat, and with it comes a rush of endorphins that has Shane’s vision going spotty. He pitches forward, hands finding the headboard and clinging on as Ilya fucks him through it, chasing his own orgasm. 

His moans stutter off into short, dreamy hums, overstimulated and dizzy. Ilya’s hands are on his hips, now with the extra leverage on his side as he plows deeper. He follows Shane over the edge with his mouth on the back of his neck, panting sweet nothings into his skin. Shane feels him tremble, then still.

“Come here,” Ilya eventually breathes, guiding Shane down to the mattress, still inside of him. They arrange themselves with Shane as the little spoon, Ilya’s hand flung over his waist and resting against his stomach as their breathing slowly levels out. 

“Are you okay?” Ilya asks once they’re settled.

“Very okay,” Shane mumbles.

He feels Ilya press a kiss to the back of his head, and his stomach does something weird. That’s new. Sweet, even. Shane bookmarks it for later, far too fucked out to think anything of it in the moment. Ilya’s still inside of him, and neither of them are thinking straight. 

Shane takes stock of his body. He’s thrumming all over, warm and sated. His lower back and his inner thigh where Ilya had bitten him feel sore, definitely bruised, aching in a pleasant way. His head is… clear. A little lightheaded from the blinding orgasm and soft choking, but the mental clarity is there. No noise, either, no nagging worries or anxious static. Perfectly coherent and perfectly okay. 

“Are you okay?” he says, stroking his fingers over Ilya’s wrist. 

He feels Ilya smile against his hair. “Yes. Very.” 

Shane breathes a sigh of relief. 

They stay like that for a long time, until Ilya’s dick is soft and begins to slip out. 

“I should…”

“Yeah, probably.”

Ilya untangles himself from Shane with some difficulty, tugging his arm out from beneath Shane’s head and shaking it a little to get the feeling back into it. He pads into the bathroom to remove the condom, and Shane hears it fall into the wastebin with a gross noise. Only then does he realise just how quiet the dorm is, and he tries not to think about how loud they’d been. 

The toilet flushes, and the bathroom door cracks open, Ilya’s curls poking out from behind it. 

“Do you mind if I shower?” 

“Oh, uh, sure. I have a spare towel in there already. You can, uh, use the soap and stuff. Obviously.” 

Ilya grins at Shane’s sudden awkwardness. “Yes. Thank you.”

The door closes and the shower springs to life a second after. 

Shane floats for a while, naked and content amongst the pillows, listening to the sound of water hitting the tiles and bottles clattering around on the shower rack as Ilya cleans up. He’s tired, but not the same kind of whole-body exhaustion that followed their previous hook-up, with his head cloudy from the weed and limbs dragging him down. It’s perfect. If it were possible, he’s convinced he’d be glowing with pure joy. 

Ilya must notice it when he steps out of the bathroom in a gush of steam, towel slung low around his waist, hair damp.

“You look happy.”

Shane sits up, still smiling. “Should I not be?” 

Ilya laughs, coming over to sit on the edge of the bed, hand running up Shane’s calf. Shane does his best to ignore how insanely good he looks fresh out of the shower with nothing but a towel on, because his dick can only take so much in one night. 

“I would be very upset if you were not,” Ilya chuckles, and it’s meant to be playful, but all it does is make Shane’s heart clench oddly in his chest. 

“Thank you,” Shane says, suddenly and all too sincerely. “For, uh… I don’t know. Just… yeah, it was good. Really good.” 

Ilya looks up at him for a moment, eyes soft, then crawls up the bed and straddles him, hands either side of his face. The towel, miraculously, stays on. 

“You are thanking me for sex?” he teases. 

Shane huffs. “Shut up, I was trying to be nice.”

“So sweet, I am flattered.” 

Shane’s gaze flits between his eyes and his mouth. Ilya’s crooked smile doesn’t falter as he leans down and presses their lips together. It’s chaste, nothing like their usual needy, ravenous kisses. Shane’s hands find their way to the back of Ilya’s neck, into his hair, tugging him closer. Ilya sinks down to his elbows, their noses bumping together and making them both laugh. They make out lazily, tongues sliding against each other, savouring it for the first time in a while. 

By the time they pull apart, they’re both breathing hard and Shane’s dick is plumping up again, but he ignores it. He’s way too spent, and he desperately needs a shower of his own. He considers asking Ilya to stay while he cleans up, but Ilya beats him to the punch.

“I should go,” he says, voice soft. 

Shane tries not to show how much he deflates from hearing it. “Oh, yeah, okay.”

“Early class. But I would… stay, if I could.”

Perhaps hope isn’t such a silly thing. 

Shane pulls on his hoodie and sweats to walk Ilya downstairs. Once again, they find themselves lingering in the doorway. 

“Cigarette?” Ilya offers, pulling a pack and a lighter from his jacket pocket and popping one between his lips.

“Seriously?” 

He snorts, grinning around the stick as he lights it. “Okay, I get it, weed only for you.”

Feeling bold, and in the spirit of pursuing the things he wants, Shane reaches up and plucks the cigarette from Ilya’s mouth and, before he can protest, slots their lips together in a kiss goodbye. 

When he pulls away, Ilya is looking at him with something poignant swimming in his eyes. Shane returns the cigarette to his lips, ash flaking off and dusting the sleeve of his hoodie. 

“I’ll text you this time,” he says, a promise to Ilya but also to himself. 

“You better.” 

Ilya finishes his cigarette in the doorway, neither of them saying anything but neither quite wanting to be the first to go. Eventually, the cigarette’s all out and Ilya drops it by his foot, grinding it out with his heel. 

“Goodnight, Shane.”

“Night.” 

Shane watches him go, then watches the remaining embers of the cigarette fizzle out before he heads back inside. 

Shane 11:02pm

my bed is so sticky

ilya 11:03pm

its cum 

Shane 11:03pm

no shit sherlock 

Shane 11:03pm

the sheets still smell like you

ilya 11:04pm

😈 good

ilya 11:05pm

mine dont smell of you

ilya 11:05pm

you should fix this 

Shane 11:06pm

[A picture of a cologne bottle on his desk.]

ilya 11:06pm

fuck you 

Shane 11:07pm

you did that already 

Shane 11:08pm

okay fine

Shane 11:08pm

same time tomorrow?

ilya 11:08pm

😘

Chapter End Notes

this took a rather tender turn that even i hadn't anticipated, but i'm such a sucker for these two falling in love in every universe so ofc i had to sprinkle that in 😌

i don't think i'll ever be able to top the golden mind nugget that was the crucifix in the mouth but i hope the hotness factor was still there for yall lmao

in any case, thank you SO much for reading, your kudos and comments mean the world. hopefully be back at ya sometime soon with more hollanov drabbles and whatnot! for now, mwah ily x