Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Shane chews on the end of his mechanical pencil, plastic bending and creaking where he drives his bottom teeth between the clip and the plastic body. He leaves it suspended by his teeth as he brings both large hands down to the keyboard of his laptop and types rapidly, paraphrasing the block of text he’d read over into a summarized version of itself. He pushes the bridge of his glasses further up the angled line of his nose with a knuckle, finger curled before returning to wrap around the pencil.

A knock sounds at his door, the knob turning before he can even respond. He whips around, eyebrows furrowed at his roommate and friend of years now. Hayden hisses through his teeth and quickly ducks his head back out, closing the door and knocking once again. Shane rolls his eyes, but a fond smile graces his lips against his will. He makes a sound of approval, turning back to face his laptop perched atop his desk alongside his open textbook.

Hayden enters, now with permission. He leans his shoulder against the doorway, one ankle crossed over the other and arms crossed over his chest. He watches Shane type for a few seconds, having enough sense after his initial fumble to wait until he is granted the freckled man’s full attention, on his own terms. After another few sentences typed at lightning speed, Shane turns to look at Hayden over his shoulder, pencil still dangling from his lip.

“Seriously man, you gotta kick that habit,” he watches Shane yank the pencil from his mouth and drop it on his desk, cheeks flushed. “You’re like a dog. What’s next, my slippers?”

“Fuck off,” Shane huffs, turning in his chair to face Hayden fully in the doorway. “Not even a dog could handle those, they stink bad.”

“You’re sniffing my slippers? You want my underwear too, or-?”

Shane chucks a pack of gum at him, Hayden ducks with a barked laugh.

“What do you want?”

The shorter man straightens his back where he’d dodged the vicious attack, running a hand through his hair and pushing the sandy brown back from his forehead.

“I’m gonna meet Jackie and get lunch, then I’m hitting the grocery store after. Text me what you need. With pictures, if you need stuff like that special milk you get.”

Shane thinks briefly of how he had run out of his milk this morning after making his protein shake and nods, tapping his fingers against his desk and letting his mind wander to what else he might need. His phone vibrates on the desk and he picks it up, screen illuminated with a notification of a ghost. Snapchat.

“Oh, by the way, you think you can score us a few pre-rolls? The guys are gonna come over this weekend, I told them you have a guy.”

Shane whips his head back over to the doorway, choppy onyx bangs swaying across his forehead. Eyebrows furrowed and twitching - computing - he stammers.

“I…what?”

Hayden jerks his head back, lips contorting into a confused frown - corners of his mouth pointed to the floor and hands raised in surrender.

“A weed guy?” he laughs. “That guy Rose’s friend has?”

Pale eyes, downturned and seemingly permanently low-lidded with a cloud of arousal flash through his already racing mind. Golden curls that shimmer in the sunlight as it beats down on him occupy his memory, ringlets glistening and damp with sweat. Thick biceps, veins at the front of them tensing while his deft fingers curl around Shane’s knees and press them to his chest. Perfectly bowed lips that curl into a heart-shape while he growls out curses and moans and-

“Oh, Rozanov?” he asks, hoping it sounds nonchalant when his mind is anything but.

“Yeah, the Russian guy? What’s he like, is he cool or is he one of those douchebag plugs?”

“You are good for that,” Ilya says suddenly. 

“Huh?”

Shane blinks a few times, eyes dragging up reluctantly from where Ilya’s back becomes his waist - and then the top of his ass. 

“I said you are good for that, for feeding to me. The weed.”

“Oh. You’re welcome,” he says, despite not being thanked. 

Ilya hums, finishing up the second blunt and starting a third. 

“What else are you good for?” Ilya asks, face still turned away.

Shane shrugs. He drags his blunt fingernail against the edge of his desk, pretends to study it - finds the wood grain intensely fascinating.

“He’s alright. Just…blunt, I guess.”

Hayden makes a noise of acknowledgement, pursing his lips and sighing through his nose. He watches Shane avoid his eyes more purposefully than usually and his lips quirk into a little smirk.

“How much does he charge you? I’ll pay you back.”

Shane thinks a moment and Hayden - in his many years of being in Shane’s orbit and coming to understand his friend on a level deeper than most others - can see the metaphorical cogs turning in his big beautiful brain. 

“Eighty,” Shane lies.

“Eighty? That’s pretty steep, he’s robbing you blind man.”

Brown eyes find his and Shane cocks his head to the side.

“It is?”

“Yeah, you should take Rose with you next time and see if he gives you guys a better price. Plugs are usually sleezy like that with pretty girls.”

In the second before Shane turns to take a sip of his water bottle- effectively hiding his face and with it any reaction - he watches a flush creep behind freckled cheekbones.

“Aaanyways,” he sing-songs, pushing himself away from the door frame and once again grasping the knob. “Let me know about the store. See you in a few hours.”

Shane waves him off and turns back to his laptop screen, taking a deep breath only once his bedroom door has closed. 

The space he’d been sharing with Hayden was a cozy two bedroom apartment near campus. Kept neat and tidy and free of weekend ragers and gatherings of too many people at once thanks to Shane’s impeccable taste in roommate, their shared space was bare bones. Most furniture had come from Hayden, who had lived alone previously as opposed to Shane’s few items he’d brought straight from his parents’ home. Their rooms, sitting on opposing sides of the apartment, provided them each with just enough privacy and separation from each other. 

Shane couldn't imagine having to share his space with anyone else. Apart from the continuous forgetting to wait for an answer before barging into his bedroom, Hayden had proved to be a stellar roommate who was not only aware of Shane’s…quirks, but seemingly endeared by most of them. It was a nice arrangement and they had already planned to renew their lease together even after graduation. 

His laptop having fallen asleep, Shane taps the spacebar to bring it back to life. He picks his phone up, reminded only of the Snapchat notification now that it glared at him. He hardly used the app, having only found reason to open it to satisfy Rose’s itch to send photos back and forth, documenting their days to each other. Their streak sat at a respectable three-hundred-thirty days now - having had to be reset after Shane lapsed in opening the app for a day and got an earful due to his carelessness.

Figuring it’s his daily matcha latte update from her, he opens the app and instead sees that someone has added him. He furrows his eyebrows, gaze focusing on his laptop past his phone screen for a moment in thought. He didn’t give his username out to people and while his phone number was attached, he had adjusted the settings to avoid being found using the number. He reads the username of the mysterious account, eyes widening and heart pounding heavier in his chest. 

ilyar0z81 has added you!

In smaller, grey text below the name: added by search.

How had Ilya gotten his username? Why had he added him? He hadn’t heard from Ilya since the party a week and a half ago - by his own doing. Not only had they not exchanged phone numbers before Shane took his leave the following morning, hobbling out of the man’s house after a night of being wrapped in strong arms and the faint smell of cologne, but Ilya wasn’t a student. Running into each other on campus just simply wasn’t likely in the slightest. Besides, Shane figured that the night they shared had come with the expectation that Ilya - weed dealer, playboy, and far too cool for school, and for Shane - wasn’t looking for anything beyond that night. Anything beyond a quick fuck.

And well, maybe Shane made that assumption entirely on his own based on context clues he’d also thought up entirely on his own. So what? Was he supposed to sit his weed dealer down and have the ‘what are we’ talk with him? How mortifying that would be, no matter the outcome. 

He studies his screen, thumb hovering over the button that asks him: add back?

He worries his plump bottom lip between his teeth, tip of his tongue tracing along the backs of his bottom incisors. He flicks the pink muscle over the tip of one bottom fang, digs the angle into the meat of his lip. His finger comes to invade the space, blunt fingernail taking the brunt of the attention as he chews at it. The faint taste of hand sanitizer he’d put on an hour ago invades his tastebuds and makes him jerk his hand away from his mouth, a grimace overtaking him.

He adds the other man back.

Within seconds, the app notifies him that Ilya is typing. Shane resists the urge to open the chat immediately and watch his little caricature emoji peek over the keyboard at him. He waits for the box to highlight blue, then counts to seventy-eight before opening the chat - not wanting to seem too eager. 

ilyar0z81: that was quick

Shane scoffs, shaking his head slightly as he leans back in his desk chair and types a response.

24shnehollnder: I happened to be on my phone.

Ilyar0z81: sure lol

His thumbs hover over the keyboard, tongue once again making an appearance from the warmth of his mouth to wet his lips. Rather than forcing out a response when he wasn’t sure what else he had to propel the conversation forward, he taps on Ilya’s story and watches it. The first clip is him in a hot tub the previous night, a video of the jets by his lap drowned out by a song composed entirely of spanish. Shane only really makes out the chorus and he thinks that the singer is talking about gasoline? Like the kind that fills a car?

The next installment of his story is a photo of Ilya shirtless in front of a mirror, the phone in his large hand covering half of his face. Shane lingers on the photo, swipes back to it when the story progresses to the next photo - which is of a joint balanced between Ilya’s thick fingers. He’s staring at the photo of Ilya in the mirror when another notification catches his attention. A photo sent to him from Ilya. He bites the inside of his cheek, counts to fifty-one, then opens the snap.

Ilya’s face instantly takes up the screen, eyes bored and brows low - like he couldn’t be bothered to put on any expression for the photo. And yet, Shane finds himself staring at the photo for as long as he’s able to before it times out. He shifts in his seat, finding himself smiling down at the screen though now it’s just his list of chats. With his laptop all but abandoned, the freckled man lifts one drawstring of his sweater to his mouth and chews at the hard aglet at the tip. He opens the chat and types out a simple response, not wanting to seem so affected.

24shnehollnder: You’re one of those guys that doesn't smile in selfies?

The response is immediate, emoji peering at him over the top of the keyboard again as Ilya types. It looks just like him. 

ilyar0z91: oh so u snapchat many guys? 

Shane scoffs, starts typing. Ilya beats him to it, sending another message.

ilyar0z81: no. ur score is too low

ilyar0z81: and u r virgin

Ilyar0z81: were. no more ;)

Shane’s cheeks flush. He thinks back to the foggy lust cloud that had enveloped him the last time he’d seen Ilya. The sweat-damp sheets coated in layers of his cum, black threading painted white and drying beneath his spent form. The sinew plane of his back covered in glisten and kisses. Ilya’s arm around him while he drifted off into sleep after a quick wipe-down of his stomach and thighs. 

Shane’s mind wanders to the sickening slick feeling gathered between his cheeks that he remembers from Ilya’s jaw working against him, tongue and thumb stuffed into him from behind and eating him out like a man starving. He swallows thickly, eyes unfocused while he sinks deeper into the memory of rough hands on him and wet kisses placed over his back, his neck. His eyes slide shut, cock twitching to life in his pants and spurting a small bead of precum that darkens a tiny spot over the soft grey of his shorts.

He had made himself cum at least six times since that night. Mostly with his hand wrapped around his cock, tugging feverishly while remembering the way Ilya’s voice dipped and lips curled around his mean taunts. Once or twice with his fingers tucked into himself experimentally - not quite reaching as deep as Ilya’s had been but deep enough to pull an orgasm from him each time. He’d browsed online at adult toy websites in the cloak of night, face and shirtless form illuminated only by his laptop screen while he was tucked away in his bed, cozy. 

The selections were plentiful, but he was a simple man. He’d bought a dildo pale and skin colored and nine inches long with a veiny texture according to the example photo. It was set to arrive in three days in discreet packaging. He would hope that Hayden would have enough mind to not press about its contents, let alone open it. It was illegal to open other people’s mail, after all. 

His phone vibrates in his hands.

ilyar0z81: remembering?

Shane huffs, blushing at being so easily clocked behind this six inch screen. 

24shnehollnder: And if I am?

It’s much easier to push back a little at Ilya's taunts through a screen, he finds, as he sends the message with the snarky undertone, daring Ilya to do something about it. A photo comes through.

Another selfie, though this time there’s the faintest smirk on Ilya's heart-shaped lips. He leaned back against his couch, comfortable in his home. The caption is typed in the grey banner along the bottom of the photo.

i can help u remember

Shane’s breath hitches and, on instinct, he glances over his shoulder at his door - still closed. 

24shnehollnder: How?

He tucks one knee up against his chest, cock half-hard in his shorts just at the implication and at the sight of Ilya’s handsome features once again on his screen. Another photo comes through, this time only half of Ilya’s face - his eyes canted off to the side and upwards as if mid-eye roll.

The caption: u r so boring. snapchat is for pictures 

Shane rolls his eyes at the message, opening up the camera part of the app and running his hand through his hair to tousle the dark strands to look careless, casual - unkempt in the way Rose had called sexy one time. He snaps a photo, deletes it. Changes the angle of his jaw and tilts his head back in a shameful attempt to mimic Ilya’s casual coolness. Deletes that one too. He settles on angling the lens upward a bit and capturing just his forehead instead, typing out a caption and sending it before he can change his mind. 

Here.

There’s a pause. Shane wonders if Ilya got bored of their bare-bones back and forth. Then, a message comes through, no picture attached.

ilyar0z81: u wear glasses?

Shane suddenly becomes aware of the framed lenses sitting on his face and sucks his teeth, typing out a quick response.

24shnehollnder: Only when I read. I was studying when you added me.

ilyar0z81: on ur phone when u should be studying? bad boy.

Shane bites his lip, pink stretching into a grin despite the pull behind his teeth.

24shnehollnder: Okay. Bye.

ilyar0z81: no

Shane reads the message, then swipes out of the chat and leaves his phone unlocked, screen facing the ceiling on his desk. He leans back in his seat, watches the screen illuminate with a notification once it’s just about to fall asleep. He snatches the device back up, giddy. It’s a photo, Shane opens it and nearly drops the phone to the floor.

He can’t open the previous selfies again to find out if Ilya had been shirtless the entire time they’d been texting - though he could make an educated guess - but he sure is now. The angle of the camera catches the hard lines of his chest, broad and strong - gold cross dangling between his pecs and catching the sunlight streaming in through his windows. His nipples are soft and dusty pink, sitting atop these ridiculous mounds of muscle that Shane ponders the taste of. Lower, just above the waistband of his joggers, there's a trail of sandy brown hair that dips below the cloth and surrounds what Shane knows, what Shane has already memorized to be the base of Ilya’s cock.

Thick, long, uncut. Musky.

Without thinking, cock-drunk from however many miles away, he reloads the photo and only realizes his blunder just as the photo takes up his screen again. His free hand flies to his crotch, cock hard and wet spot tacky under his touch. The photo times out after he manages two clenches of his groin, then another message comes through quickly.

ilyar0z81: u liked it so much?

24shnehollnder: I was trying to read the caption.

God, he hopes there was one.

ilyar0z81: yea? what did it say then?

The tanned man huffs and runs a hand over his face, cheeks rose colored behind the dustings of freckles.

24shnehollnder: I forgot.

ilyar0z81: cute. 

ilyar0z81: said “come back here”

ilyar0z81: and u did. so obedient

“Fuck,” Shane whispers to no one in particular.

He palms harder at his crotch when the next message comes through. He hasn’t slid out of their chat, waiting patiently in the thread and watching Ilya type each time.

ilyar0z81: maybe u say please and i send more

24shnehollnder: Please.

He should feel ashamed at how easy, how quick the response is. But Ilya seems to like how pathetically desperate he could make Shane, so maybe the darker-haired man should wear the badge of honor.

The photo comes a moment later. Shane makes sure to quickly read the caption first, then indulges in the photo - a horizontal angle of Ilya’s flexed bicep.

ur turn 

The angle is better this time as he snaps a photo of his - slightly flushed - face. His eyes are glossy in that way they get when he's on his way somewhere mind-melting. He tugs his bottom lip beneath his front teeth, pearly white peeking out. It’s a simple picture, somewhat distorted by the camera closer to his face than necessary. He sends it with no caption.

ilyar0z81: u r so bad at sexting

Before he can find offense in the statement, Ilya follows up.

ilyar0z81: not ur fault. i will teach u. just like i teach u to suck my cock

Fresh precum soils the front of his shorts at the memory.

“Back and forth.”

Shane obliges; he bobs his head back and forth and braces his hands on Ilya’s shins for balance. Ilya lets him experiment with the rhythm for a while on his own, content instead with just guiding his head with one strong hand while the other holds the base of his dick that hasn’t made the acquaintance of the freckled boy’s warm mouth yet. A minute or so passes and bravery finds Shane. He tries to force his throat to relax before pausing and sliding down just another inch, taking five out of nine now. 

“Suck in your cheeks.”

Shane hollows his cheeks and feels the reverberation through Ilya’s body while he groans.

“Fuck, good, good.”

Shane lets out a shuddering sigh and displays a bit of confidence spurred by the reminder of his sexuality existing in both of their memories. He takes another photo, the angle high above his head and pointed down to capture most of his face, but also the wet spot in the crotch of his shorts. He sends it before he can talk himself out of it, then tosses his phone on the desk as if the device had suddenly burst into flames in his hands. 

Launching himself from his chair to pace his bedroom, hands fisted in his hair, Shane groans and slaps the heel of his palm against his skull. Why did he do that? He had stakes! He was studying to be a reporter, to appear on tv and to commentate on displays of masculinity. Not that he had such little fate in Ilya, but should this come out? He’d be ruined. A scandal like a star sports journalist not only being gay, but sending lewd photos of himself around? It was a nightmare and had he given himself another second to think about the repercussions-

His phone buzzes. He dashes to the desk and grabs it.

ilyar0z81: much better

ilyar0z81: so fucking wet for me. fuck

ilyar0z81: need to lick it all up off u

Shane suppresses a needy whimper that catches in his throat, turning to sit against the edge of his desk. He types quickly, rewords his frantic question three times.

24shnehollnder: You wouldn’t tell anyone I sent that, right? Please.

He feels like the world’s biggest asshole for asking. Even more so when Ilya responds oh so sweet, saccharine.

Shane feels something thump harder inside his chest against his ribcage. Something fond.

ilyar0z81: never. i promise.

ilyar0z81: is all for me.

Shane nods to himself, releasing the breath he’d been holding.

ilyar0z81: i like ur glasses. keep them on and send me another one.

Shane is already about to comply even before the next message comes through, making his heart skip yet another beat.

ilyar0z81: only if u want. i will not tell anyone. is why i got ur snap from rose instead of phone number. pics go away, u would know if i sc

Shane types a few different responses, then settles instead on something better than words. Still leaning against his desk, Shane lifts the bottom hem of his sweatshirt and lifts it from his waistband, sliver of sinewy skin stark against the white fabric. There’s the smallest matting of hair peeking above his waistband, nothing as thick and thrush as Ilya’s happy trail, but there still. His boxers peek out of the waistband slightly.

He examines the photo for too long before he presses send.

The caption: My glasses are on. You just can’t see them.

And there’s a heavy satisfaction that settles in his stomach - feels like butterflies dive bombing against the inner walls of his body - when Ilya replies instantaneously. 

ilyar0z81: brat. 

ilyar0z81: fuck. would love to suck marks on ur cute tummy

ilyar0z81: nice purple hickies on ur tan skin. so fucking sexy

ilyar0z81: now show me what i really wanna see brat.

Shane giggles, shaking his head and tucking his chin into his collarbone at the revelation of the sound he’d made. He takes another photo, doe-like eyes uncharacteristically glistening with mischief. The ghost of a smirk graces his lips, glasses framing his face well and magnifying his freckles. 

ilyar0z81: fuuck

ilyar0z81: pretty boy.

A new photo, no caption. Just Ilya’s face from a similar angle Shane had used a few photos ago - high up and showcasing his lap along with his many other assets. And he’s so handsome, but Shane’s eyes immediately fall to the prominent bulge at the front of Ilya’s pants and his breath hitches.

He figures it wouldn’t take much pleading to get a photo of it more clearly. He also figures that should he ask, it would only be fair that he reciprocate.

Earlier fears dissolved now by Ilya’s reassurance, Shane finds he doesn't mind the idea so much.

24shnehollnder: You got hard from my stomach and face?

ilyar0z81: yes

ilyar0z81: so what

Ilyar0z81: i remember how good u look with my cum on that pretty face.

ilyar0z81: imagine what i could do if u send something sluttier

ilyar0z81: 👀

Shane sets his glasses on the desk, then peels his sweatshirt and the shirt underneath it off. He puts the glasses back on and walks over to his bed, a queen sized mattress tucked into the corner of the room to take up the least amount of space. He flops down onto the mounds of pillows - gifted to him by his mother when she and his dad had gotten a new set. 

The photo he snaps shows everything above his ribs, dark nipples hardened by the cool air of his room. His head is tilted just slightly to the side, free hand rested on his stomach. His fingers shake as he sends the photo and watches the other man open it right away. Something prideful flutters again at his chest. It takes a moment, but Ilya eventually does reply.

ilyar0z81: fuck

ilyar0z81: bad boy shane hollander sexting me instead of studying…

ilyar0z81: and don't pretend like u will leave to go back to studying now

ilyar0z81: we both know i am teasing u and we both know u leak so fucking much for it.

A shuddering breath leaves his plump lips. One large hand snakes down his body and presses into the wet spot still ever-present at the front of his shorts. He grinds the heel of his palm into the hard line of his cock, breathing out a soft ‘yeah’.

ilyar0z81: show me.

24shnehollnder: You show me. I’ve sent a bunch of pictures.

ilyar0z81: is this any way to ask me??

24shnehollnder: Please.

ilyar0z81: u can beg better than that. i don't even know what u want

Please send me a picture of your…

What? What does he want to see?

He knows. He just has to find the nerve to ask. He’s typing his response, sends it right as another message from Ilya comes through.

ilyar0z81: i know what u need

24shnehollnder: Please send me a picture of your cock. Please?

ilyar0z81: oh

ilyar0z81: good boy.

ilyar0z81: u listen so well. i can give u this.

Ilya had probably assumed he'd been asking for too much in yet another one of his conquests of taking a first from Shane. But he’d underestimated just how pliant Shane could get with desire replacing the blood in his veins, thick and mind-fogging - sweeping away any of his rationale. 

The picture is definitely more explicit than Shane expected to get, but he isn’t complaining.

Ilya’s cock is hard and full in his hand, the weight of it probably familiar in his grip when it should be resting on Shane’s tongue instead. There’s a clear bead of precum at the tip, sitting on the slit and contrasting the flushed head. There’s a freckle near the base, dark against the otherwise pale skin. Ilya has his hand closer to the base, foreskin pulled down just enough to expose the tip to the air. Sandy brown curls frame the bottom, the man’s wrist resting on them and flattening them against his skin.

He presses his hand into his crotch and moans, hips bucking up into his own touch.

ilyar0z81: no thank u? 

ilyar0z81: everytime u r away from my cock you lose manners. not good. fucking them into u is not working, so maybe i will have to punish u instead.

ilyar0z81: but i bet u would love that. needy, greedy little slut.

“Fuck,” Shane whimpers, pulling his hand away from himself to type a message quickly. 

His hips roll upwards into the open air.

24shnehollnder: Tbank you.

24shnehollnder: Thank*

ilyar0z81: poor baby cant even type right aw

ilyar0z81: one hand?

24shnehollnder: Yes.

ilyar0z81: thats crazy

ilyar0z81: i don't remember saying u could touch urself but ok

Shane’s stomach sinks, something in him curling up - wanting to hide.

24shnehollnder: I’m sorry.

Despite knowing that Ilya’s personality was very domineering, Shane has always had trouble deciphering tone over text. Flinging himself into damage control, erection waning now, he types at a furious rate.

24shnehollnder: Are you mad at me?

It’s pathetic - needy in the wrong way. 

ilyar0z81: no no. not mad. silly boy

Relief crashes over him like a wave, the reassurance alone comforting him - his nervous system - so intensely that he feels his cock start to fill again where he’d lost a bit of it in his panic.

ilyar0z81: i know u like to be good for me, so be good and ask me before u touch. yes?

ilyar0z81: say ‘yes ilya’.

24shnehollnder: Yes Ilya.

24shnehollnder: I’m sorry.

ilyar0z81: no more sorry. not needed. u feel sorry, u send me pretty picture to stroke for.

Shane sighs out the remaining nerves and takes another photo, this time including the waistband of his shorts after tugging them a bit lower on his hips.

ilyar0z81: fuck.

ilyar0z81: pretty tits on u. def need to suck on them next time u come over.

Next time. Shane’s chest swells.

ilyar0z81: gonna get u all high and giggly then play with ur tits until ur begging me to fuck u again like the last times

ilyar0z81: u touch them when you play with urself? pinch them and get them wet?

24shnehollnder: I haven’t.

The mischief is back.

24shnehollnder: Should I? Does it feel good?

24shnehollnder: Can you show me?

24shnehollnder: Please.

ilyar0z81: fuuck

ilyar0z81: see. u still have manners, just need to get u nice and needy for dick and they come back

ilyar0z81: touch ur cock

Shane obeys instantly, hand flying down to duck beneath the waistband of his shorts. He wraps a hand around his cock and pumps himself two, three times. He moans into the air of his room, quickly navigating away from the app to check Hayden’s location and make sure he wasn’t anywhere near the building. Once confirmed, he opens Snapchat back up and a photo is waiting for him. 

Except the load box is purple this time, rather than red. He uses the app just enough to know that it means the media is a video, this time. A breath stutters in his chest as he clicks the box and watches it load. Lifting his phone higher doesn’t improve the signal much, but the video does eventually play, his volume up.

Instantly, Ilya’s voice fills the room. 

“Fuuck, Shane.”

Shane scrambles to turn his volume down a bit despite being home alone. He holds the phone close - probably too close - to his face, the glide of Ilya’s hand over his wet cock reflecting off of his glasses. Ilya’s hand dispappears behind the camera and Shane can hear him spit into his palm before it’s back to stroking the appendage, fresh spit bubbles foaming in the webbing between his thumb and index finger. The slick sound makes Shane twitch in his own hand, throat burning as he swallows.

He resists the urge to replay the video.

24shnehollnder: Fuck.

ilyar0z81: no cute wasian boy to bounce on it. sad : (

Shane has to clench his hand around the base of his own dick to avoid cumming so soon - to avoid a replay of their first encounter. He shimmies his shorts and boxers off, now naked completely save for his glasses and his pristine white socks. Another photo, hand wrapped around himself but camera catching only just where his wrist starts and you to his face. He’s still wary of sending completely nude photos of himself to anyone - let alone someone he’s hooked up with twice.

ilyar0z81: pretty face so fucked out

ilyar0z81: fuck

Ilya doesn’t press for more, doesn't urge to see lower, lets Shane set the pace. The consideration alone almost makes Shane want to bare all of himself to the other through the screen.

24shnehollnder: Wanan bounce on it

He doesn't correct the typo - doesn’t see it while he stares at Ilya’s emoji peeking at him as the man types.

ilyar0z81: need that.

ilyar0z81: u better come see me soon.

ilyar0z81: not  arequest

ilyar0z81: u know u need thsi fucking. cock

A photo comes through - a closer shot of Ilya’s cock standing tall and glistening with spit and precum. His thumb - the digit he’d pressed into Shane while he ate him out not too long ago - presses at the base of his cock, angling it away from the camera just slightly. The angle makes it look even longer, even more intimidating. Ilya Rozanov must have a masterclass in dick pics.

24shnehollnder: Need it

24shnehollnder: Pleas

ilyar0z81: how bad

Ilyar0z81: show me

A moment later.

Ilyar0z81: if u want

Shane fumbles clumsily with his phone, flipping the camera to show his hand wrapped around himself. He takes the photo and tries to mimic the angle, the posture of it the way Ilya had. Then, he sends his first ever dick pic to his weed dealer.

The reply is quick.

ilyar0z81: fuck sahne

ilyar0z81: pretty face. pretty tits. pretty fuckign cock

ilyar0z81: pretty hole. coudl be down there for hours. licking u up until u cum all over urself for me

ilyar0z81: u loved it. made u go so crazy on my tongue, whinpering crying

ilyar0z81: came alll over my sheets from it. shoudl have shov e ur face in it. like a bad dog made a. mess fuck

Shane feels that knot tying loop by loop in the pit of his stomach and quickly turns his camera to himself again, catching his face only as he strokes his cock faster - his hips stuttering upwards until he’s gasping brokenly while white ropes paint his chest. A stray two of them deviate from the path and once again, he gives Ilya another first. He cums so hard that for the first time in his life, his own cum reaches new lengths and paints his wet, pink lips and his glasses in milky white. A bit of one rope lands inside of his mouth, tongue twitching when the salty taste blossoms over his tongue. The other lands over his left lens. 

He wipes it away and onto a tissue that he pulls from the nightstand as he reaches to clean himself. The movement makes his thumb shift. Where he’d intended to cut the clip to avoid showing Ilya how he’d cum all over his own face - mouth agape and nose scrunched up in his pleasured state - he presses the send button by accident before he's able. The realization has him jolting to sit upright.

Ilya watches the video immediately.

“Fuck,” he groans, wiping his face with the tissue and setting his glasses on the nightstand for a better cleaning in a moment. 

His phone buzzes. He watches the video he’s sent in return.

“Fuck, fuck Shane,” Ilya groans, voice dipped in something heavy and syrupy while he fucks his fist.

White spills over his knuckles, shoots up onto his stomach.

“Come clean up your fucking mess,” he breathes out, fingers scooping up a bit of the cum splattered on his toned stomach.

The video ends.

24shnehollnder: I got farther.

ilyar0z81: yes yes. world record. good for u 🙄

ilyar0z81: good boy.

Shane’s lips twitch into a smile as he flops back onto his bed.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The student union is a hellscape for someone like Shane Hollander.

It’s cacophonous. It’s bustling, always. It’s impossible to walk past the groups of friends who all decide to walk at the slowest pace humanly possible and in a complete horizontal fucking line, at that, for some reason.

But he has his poke bowl, he has his headphones - the over-the-ear ones he uses for spaces like this when the noise cancelling of his earbuds just can’t seem to do the trick. He’s sitting near the windows of the mess hall, table occupied only by him - missing two out of its four chairs as people come and drag them away to use at their own tables. The taste of salmon blooms over his tongue as he takes another bite, bits of rice clumping to the fish where it’s pinched between chopsticks.

His phone buzzes where he has it set up in front of him, balanced against his water bottle and playing a Youtube video about the history of The Battle of Stalingrad.

What? It came up in his recommended videos.

He grabs his phone and opens Snapchat, lips twitching into a smile as he sees a new photo from Ilya. They’d been texting every so often in the app since adding each other three days ago. He turns his brightness all the way down - knowing Ilya - and opens the photo while hunched over it.

The picture is of him, rather than Ilya’s cock. Mid bite, eyes trained on the video on his phone, taken a distance away.

Snapping his head back up, he scans the area. Gaze settling on the Russian leaning against a column a good ten feet away, something in his chest flutters. He swallows the bite of food in his mouth and lifts his hand in a wave, chopsticks still in his grip. Ilya pushes off of the column and walks over. Shane straightens up in his seat and tugs his earphones off, takes a quick swig of his water bottle and sloshes the water around in his mouth to rid the fishy smell from his breath. 

Ilya pulls the chair next to him out and sits down in it, draping an arm around the back of Shane’s chair. He moves so fluidly, so easily, so entitled to Shane’s space.

The freckled man finds it hard to mind.

“You are eating raw fish-”

“What are you doing on campus-”

They speak at the same time. Ilya chuckles. Shane blushes.

“I brought weed to frat.”

“You do home deliveries?”

Ilya smirks at him, pink tip of his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip.

“Ah, no. Not usually. But they buy…mного за раз. Bulk. Frat leader cannot make it to my house, but money is too good to ignore, so I bring to them.”

Shane hums, head nodding. Ilya juts his chin out to the bowl in front of him, nearly devoured.

“It’s a salmon poke bowl. Avocado, sushi rice, sesame seeds.”

“You do not cook the fish, right,” the blond makes a face, shaking his head. “You don’t get sick?”

“I mean, it’s always a possibility. The chances are pretty low. I’ve never gotten sick from it. I’ve been eating sushi since I was a kid. My mom’s parents used to make it all the time for us.”

Curls bounce as Ilya nods. He plucks a piece of avocado out of the bowl and pops it into his mouth, offering Shane a sly smile and daring him to say something about it. Instead, the freckled man just rolls his eyes, grin plastered on his lips.

Ilya leans closer, cologne invading Shane’s senses while pale eyes invade his personal space. For once, he doesn't mind his space - his bubble - being intruded upon. He doesn't lean away either, challenging Ilya with a narrowing of his eyes. The man - his own lips twitching in a smile, fond - speaks in a low voice to Shane.

“If you come see me soon, I will make sure to get you big platter of all the raw fish you can eat. Will get you high and you will eat every single piece, I bet.”

Shane scoffs at him.

“You got a feeder fetish or something, Rozanov?”

Ilya snorts a laugh, leaning back from Shane’s space now and relaxes into the back of the chair.

“Anyways, I’ve got finals coming up soon. You already distracted me from studying once.”

Ilya yawns, obnoxious. He uses the hand that had been resting on the back of Shane's chair, when he returns it to the place there, he makes sure to brush his fingertips over Shane’s shoulder. He flicks a nonexistent piece of lint off of his shirt.

“Boring. Does not look like studying to me.”

He nods to Shane’s phone. The screen open on Snapchat.

“I was watching a Youtube video on The Battle of Stalingrad, actually, before you-”

“For history class?”

Shane stills. Yields.

“No. It just…came up on my - it looked interesting.”

“Mm, yes, very interesting. I will tell you how it ends: many people died. The end. Now, you-”

“I can’t just come hang out at your house and get high all day, Ilya.”

Ilya groans and tosses his head back dramatically. He perks back up again and leans in to, once again, invade Shane’s personal space. 

He smells like cypress and, well, weed.

But only faintly.

“You can come and not smoke, then. Just do other things. Hm?”

Shane’s face heats up and he glances around quickly, hissing at Ilya.

“If I can’t blow off studying to come get high, what makes you thinks I’ll do it to-”

“Blow off me?”

“That’s not even-”

“So cute when you are angry. Like a little bunny stamping the floor.”

Shane huffs and shakes his head, looking away from crystalline blue eyes and heart-shaped lips to compose himself. In his periphery, Ilya licks his lips and leans in again to whisper to him, seemingly content now with lowering his voice properly.

“Does Mr. Future Sports Reporter have time for dinner, then? No weed, not my house.”

And suddenly - because even though Shane wasn’t too good at picking up on undertones and clues from others, he could pick up on this request, this bid for something softer - Shane has time for dinner.

He nods, eyes having slid back over to connect with Ilya's. The man nods, face unreadable. Soft, blond curls bounce against his forehead. He tosses Shane a wink, hand brushing over the line of his shoulders - pressing into the nape of his neck - and stands from his seat.

“I will text you.”

“I’ll answer.”

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Dinner is nice. They go to a Korean BBQ place as a compromise between a hard place and a rock - Ilya the hard place and Shane the rock.

They take turns cooking the meat on the grill. Shane tries to teach Ilya how to hold chopsticks and laughs when Ilya tries to swat his offending hand away when it offers him the colorful plastic guides often used by children with little to no dexterity in their fingers. They leave full, Ilya even complaining about how distended his stomach is beneath his shirt. 

They climb back into the sleek, neon colored car. Ilya had insisted on picking Shane up, had even come up to his door on the fifth floor of his apartment building and knocked like a gentleman. Hayden meeting Ilya was interesting. The conversation Hayden will pry out of Shane later will also be interesting. And irritating.

The handle of Ilya’s gear shift was discussed upon Shane’s entry into the passenger seat, but even now, watching Ilya’s deft fingers curl around the black and gold samurai sword handle, the tanned man shifts in his seat.

His seat.

Rose would taunt him about that later when he’d recount the night to her. She’d ask about the model of the car, about the gearshift. She’d call Shane a passenger princess.

“I take you home to boring apartment? Or will you be bad and let me show you spot up on hill to look at city lights?”

Shane looks over, sees Ilya already watching him - hand still on the gearshift. The clock reads nine-thirty.

“What? You have bedtime? Are you old man? Honk shoo, honk mimimi-” Shane smacks his arm with the back of his hand, laughing as he continues. “The fucking little poof ball hat too?”

“Shut up.”

“Night dress?”

“Shut up.”

“Sooo sexy,” Ilya jokes, fingers clenching around the sword handle in a way that draws Shane’s attention again.

Upon watching his gaze zero in one the handle, Ilya smirks and strokes his thumb over the ridges of the handle. Knowing.

“Okay, I take you home then.”

Shane’s eyes snap to Ilya’s, narrowed and irritated. 

“I didn’t say that.”

A grin breaks out over perfectly bowed, pink lips. He shrugs one shoulder, pursing those annoyingly kissable lips and faking an obnoxious yawn.

“Hm, I am so tired though. I think bedtime for me.”

“Bullshit.”

Ilya turns his face away to avoid bursting into laughter at the downright indigent tone in Shane's voice - as if he’s astounded at Ilya's audacity to joke about that. He rubs his hand over his jaw, scratching at his mouth quickly before turning his attention back to the mess of freckles quickly growing bratty in his passenger seat.

Marinating.

He puts the car into drive and his eyebrows bounce up - skyward - once before he takes off. Shane’s hand flies to the seat beside his thigh at the sudden acceleration in his periphery. He doesn’t miss the way that as soon as Shane is used to the force of being pinned to the back of the seat, his thighs press together. Whether he’s aware of his body betraying him this way or not, it’s very telling in a way that his mouth isn’t. 

His mouth lies - it says ‘the speed limit is 65 on the freeway, Ilya’. His body is honest - his thighs clench together and he squirms just a little bit, all two-hundred-twenty pounds of him suddenly restless in the passenger seat the faster Ilya goes, the smoother he swerves between lanes with expert precision. 

Call Ilya the best worst driver in the world. 

Shane’s honest body tells a story for him, he studies every movement and shift. In the corner of his eye while he slides easily into the HOV lane and speeds up to just under a hundred miles per hour, Shane’s chest is rising and falling in quicker procession. And it could be the adrenaline of speeding in the cloak of night on the freeway.

But it isn’t and they both know it.

They both knew it the second Ilya picked Shane up at his apartment and walked him up to where he’d parked his car. An attention-seeking shade of orange, able to reach sixty miles per hour in four seconds and one-hundred-eighty over all, should he feel brave. Sleek curves accented in black. The Lotus Emira.

Thank you for your connections, Sveltana.

Ilya was no stranger to the girls he’d had in his passenger seat over the years being in love with the car, in love with the adrenaline coursing through their veins the second he tipped over a certain speed, in love with the casual weight of his hand on their thigh while he’d drive. 

Shane was all that and more.

Shane blushes a pretty shade of crimson when he reaches over and rests his heavy palm on the man’s thigh, high enough on the muscle that his pinky - outstretched - brushes the crease where his thigh becomes his hip. Shane’s breath picks up when Ilya glances over his shoulder to ensure the lane beside them is clear before swerving and gliding effortlessly through the air like a knife through softened butter. Shane’s eyes zero in on the samurai sword gearshift every few seconds - and Ilya wishes he could read his mind.

The song changes. Shane’s breath picks up again.

“Love this song,” Ilya notes conversationally, pinky tapping Shane’s thigh to the beat. “You remember it, yes?”

Sicko Mode by Travis Scott.

Shane remembers, of course.

When they navigate away from the freeway and up a hill - circling it along the path upwards - Ilya finds a spot to park within some brush trees where there’s an opening. His precision is practiced, familiar.

“You take a lot of people up here?” Shane finds himself asking, and maybe his tone is a little clipped.

He can explore why that is later.

Ilya chuckles, puts the car into park. The song has changed along the way. The samurai sword handle of the gearshift sits between them, music soft and melodic.

“Ah, no. Svetlana, sometimes.”

Shane nods, fixes his eyes on something down by his feet. 

“We smoke here, talk. After my father died, we stayed here all night. No one else.”

His tense jaw relaxes just barely. He reminds himself that whatever Svetlana is to Ilya now is just friendly, no longer what they probably once had. She’s with Rose now. And Ilya is…what?

Silence stretches between them.

“Well?”

Shane snaps his attention to Ilya at the prompt. 

“Well what?” he finds himself asking, cringing at just how snippy he sounds.

He tries to force his shoulders to drop, tries to relax his scrunches up expression - his eyebrows ache where they’re knitted. Ilya just smiles at him, heart-shaped lips tilted up in one corner. He reaches over, smoothes his thumb over the creases between the freckled man’s brows.

“No, no,” he coos, voice soft, patient. “None of that.”

Shane melts into the touch when it evolves into a warm hand cupping the side of his head, thumbs smoothing over his right eyebrow in slow strokes until his face rests. Ilya cups the side of his head, palm warm against his temple - fingers laced in short, onyx hair above his ear. He fiddles with the strands, drags them through his fingers as he slides his hand back into the other’s silky hair in slow caresses. The warmth makes Shane’s lashes flutter - eyes threatening to close. He keeps them open, keeps brown locked on pale blue. 

Ilya’s petting him, he realizes after a while. And he’s letting him.

And he likes it.

Ilya’s hand moves from his head, around behind his ear where it tucks one of the slightly long-ish strands back, then cups the right side of his jaw. The blond’s palm cradles his jaw and cheek, thumb stroking slow over his plump bottom lip. He can’t help how his lips fall open on instinct, mouth begging to be filled - to be rooted around in.

Ilya’s going to make him beg, he knows it.

Instead, Ilya dips the tip of his thumb past the threshold of his mouth just enough to wet the pad of his finger with Shane’s saliva. The muscle chases the taste when Ilya pulls his thumb back out and wipes Shane's lips with the moisture. Only once it’s wet and glistening does he dive back in. His eyes - hard, focused - are trained on his own actions. Trained on where his finger disappears into the wet, willing cavern of Shane’s mouth. 

“So sweet, yes?”

Shane nods, head just barely moving, eyes transfixed and hazy. His head feels foggy, the taste of Ilya’s finger blooming over his tongue. Ilya mumbles an agreement under his breath while he presses in further and drags the pad of his thumb over Shane’s molars. They’re jagged beneath his touch, wet and warm. He hooks his thumb into the boy’s cheek, watches the muscle protrude inside of his mouth not unlike the tip of a cock, then tugs his head to the side just barely. Shane closes his eyes and whimpers, shoulders wracking.

The poor thing trembles.

Ilya glides his wet finger over his front teeth then, bottom canines poking into the spiral of his fingerprint. He lifts his attention then to the row of teeth directly above, flipping his wrist to press that spiral into the little fangs hiding behind the other’s top lip. His nail - blunt, short - catches the ridges of Shane’s teeth when he digs beneath his lip and tugs it upwards to reveal those fangs to him.

“Pretty fangs. Like a kitty.”

Shane’s eyes snap open, his defiance melts away when Ilya tugs again at his cheek - at the corner of his mouth.

“You like it. Look how fucking hard you are,” he taunts, keeps his voice soft and encouraging.

Shane’s hand comes to cover where he’s obviously hard in his pants. It makes Ilya chuckle, the absurdity of it.

“You love it. You love the attention, me petting you. Hm? Admit it.”

When the man tries to pull back enough to speak, Ilya shakes his head and tuts at him, thumb still hooked in his mouth and holding him in place. Catching on easily to the silent command, he clears his throat and tries to speak with Ilya’s thumb still stuffed in his mouth. It comes out lispy.

“I luff it.”

“You luff it,” he imitates, teases. “Like a mean little kitty. Kотик. Meow for me, hm?”

Shane huffs, fingers clenching the seat below him.

“Meow,” he manages, voice monotone and eyes glossy while he grapples with the humiliation creeping up and pressing at the back of his neck.

Ilya shakes his head at him.

“You will do better than that for me.”

“Fucking - meow.”

He’s getting indignant, impatient. Ilya tests his limits, shakes his head again and presses into one fang.

“Come on, I know you want to be good for me.”

A shudder wracks through Shane’s body, shoulder slumping a little. His face drops, eyes wet and droplets clinging to his dark eyelashes. 

Gotcha, Ilya thinks.

Shane meows -  it’s as accurate as a grown man can achieve, just the right octave for Ilya. The blond curses and hooks his thumb behind Shane's bottom teeth, reeling him closer and meeting him halfway where they both lean over the middle console. They kiss, half of Ilya’s mouth caught over his own knuckle where his thumb is still stuffed in Shane’s mouth. 

Hands come to grasp at the front of his shirt. Shane squirms and tries to lean closer. The tip of the samurai sword presses into his chest, making him huff in annoyance. Ilya pulls them apart then, pulls his thumb free and pats Shane's cheek. Brown eyes watch him, dazed.

“Out of car.”

They both scramble out - Ilya tries to maintain his cool, his suave. He needs to be buried balls deep in Shane’s ass yesterday.

He leaves the car on, leaves the music on and his door open. Shane is faster than him, rounding the front of the car and grabbing at the front of Ilya’s shirt. His fists bunch at the collar of the t-shirt while he presses Ilya into the body of the car where a backseat door would be, just behind the open driver’s door. The kiss is bruising, all-encompassing and desperate. Ilya has never been more turned on in his life, he thinks.

He slides an arm around Shane's waist, anchoring their bodies together at the chest. His other hand - eager for something to do - comes to rest on the dramatic curve of the darker-haired man’s ass. He grasps greedily at it, grabs a handful and clutches at the muscle. While Shane clumsily shoves his tongue between Ilya’s lips - and Ilya parts them for him because fuck, the effort is sexier than anything - the Russian brings his open palm down in a muffled smack. The man in his arms stills against him save for a broken whimper that he swallows down between their mouths.

The opportunity is seized - Ilya shoves Shane up against the body of the car and pins him there by the hips. His cock is hard in his own pants, imposing against Shane’s front. One hand slides into the hair at the back of Shane’s head, raven-tinted strands sliding between warm-toned fingers that constantly reek of weed. He presses their faces together at the mouth and devours him, speaking in hushed reverence every few seconds when he parts them for air.

“So fucking good for me.”

“My kitty.”

“Gonna fuck you up.”

“Prettiest,” a kiss. “Neediest,” a kiss. “Greediest fucking ass I’ve ever seen.”

Shane mewls each time, having long since given up on maintaining any dignity. His lips taste more like Ilya at this point than they do anything else.

Ilya tugs him away from the car, presses another lingering kiss to his starstruck lips before guiding him to the front of the car. The way he’d parked has the headlights - still illuminated - facing the look out of the city. They aren’t ridiculously high up, but the elevation is enough for the array of city lights to look like a sea stretching miles and miles. Shane almost stops to admire it.

Then Ilya is turning him around by his shoulders and pressing a hand to the nape of his neck. Hinging at the waist, Shane is bent over the hood of the car, his hands coming to catch his weight. He looks down at the orange shade, waist bent not at a complete ninety degree, but something closer to forty-five. Ilya runs his hand down the length of his spine, both hands gripping at his waist in warning before the warmth behind him is gone.

“Stay.”

Shane stays.

He does watch Ilya walk to the passenger side, open the door, and retrieve a small bottle of lube and a condom from the glove compartment though. He tries not to think about the obvious reasoning for just how prepared Ilya seemed to be.

Ilya returns to him, condom in his pocket and lube dangling from his teeth. Sneaking a glance over his shoulder at the sound of Ilya’s belt buckle, persimmon-bark tinted irises watch Ilya tug his pants down just barely over the curve of his ass. A hand snakes around his front and guides Shane into a similar state of undress, cool air dragging goosebumps to the surface of his skin. The waistband of his pants sits mid-thigh, hard cock exposed to the air and leaking precum onto the hood of the car he’d bent over currently.

Ilya’s fingers are warm when he coats them in lube and shoves the small bottle in his free pocket. He runs two of them over Shane’s hole, the dense muscle of his glutes swallowing up his digits to just before the second knuckle. He presses into Shane’s shoulder, bends him over so the man is balanced on his elbows over the hood. He kicks at Shane’s ankles to spread his legs further, opening him up so that Ilya’s able to toy with him.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, watching Shane’s head hang between his shoulders while he slides his slick fingertips over the puckered hole. “Look at you.”

Shane huffs something close to a whimper, bucking his hips back in a silent plea to get the fuck on with it already.

Ilya turns his wrist so that when he slides his middle fingertip - and only the middle one - into the warm channel of Shane’s ass, it doesn't take that long of a push inside to graze over his prostate. The man whimpers, Ilya withdraws his finger to the tip again and revels in the angry glance tossed his way.

“So bossy,” he teases, sliding his finger back in.

He adds a second soon. After Shane’s little display last time, he’s sure that not only will the action not be rejected - it’ll be welcomed. Two fingers stuff Shane’s ass, their glisten catching in the moon light.

“Ilya, fuck,” the freckled boy breathes out, pressing his forehead to the hood.

Condensation forms where he breathes hot against the metal. Fingers tease him - they slide instead of pump, stretch instead of curl. A third one comes shortly, making his voice crack when he tries to speak again.

“Il-ya!”

“Look so good,” Ilya groans behind him, warm palm flat between his shoulder blades, pinning him down. “Sound so good. Beg for it.”

“Please,” it’s instantaneous, because of course it is. “Please fuck - fuck me. Mm, ple-hease.”

It’s too soon, they both know it. And yet, Ilya pulls his fingers free and slips the condom on his cock. He strokes some fresh lube over himself, glides his wet, wrapped cock between Shane’s ass and presses at the sides of his glutes to envelope himself there. The blond groans at the friction, the warmth pressed around him. Impatient, Shane tries to lean up and buck his hips so that the head of Ilya’s cock catches on his rim.

Ilya’s hand flies up to his hair and pins his cheek to the hood again, the force of it smashing his lips into a pout. It’s degrading and it’s rude and it’s crude and Shane has never been harder.

“Fucking impatient slut,” Ilya chuckles, half-amused. “Fucked you with this cock once and you’re already desperate for it.”

The head of his cock presses at Shane’s asshole, slides in with a pop. Shane’s breath catches in his throat.

“You were thinking of it all week, hm? Playing in your fucking ass thinking it’s me. Wishing.”

Inch by inch, until he’s seated and the trail of hair at the base of his cock tickles Shane’s skin.

“So needy for something in your greedy fucking holes. The way you looked at my handle, I saw.”

Shane shakes his head, Ilya’s thumb taps against his temple. The sword gearshift handle: ridged texture, at least ten inches.

“Don’t lie. I can give you what you want. You want to ride it? Hm? Wanna put on a show for me?”

He’s thrusting, setting a pace brutal on the recently deflowered man below him. Shane squirms, moans into the air.

“Make you ride it for me. Naked whore in my car, taking the whole thing in his ass.”

Shane is grappling at the hood for purchase, knees buckling underneath him. Ilya slides his free hand around Shane’s waist, forearm brushing his leaking cock.

“Look how fucking wet you are for it. For me. Can’t even stand up.”

“Il-Ily-a,” he breathes out. 

“Maybe I will take video so I have something to jerk my cock to, hm? You be my little porn star, my personal porn slut.”

“Gonna cum, gonna - cum. Cum-”

“Fucking cum, cum for me. Cum on my cock like the porn slut you are.”

“Porn - porn slu-ut, fuck! Cumming, cum-cumming, I’m-”

White paints the orange below him, hole clamping down on Ilya while he tenses and kicks one leg out. He cries out against the hood of the car by his face, smashing his lips against the warm metal in some attempt to muffle the sound. The tip of his nose presses white at the pressure. His eyelids fall shut, breath heavy and skin riddled with goosebumps.

“Look at your mess.”

Ilya takes his hips in his hands and steps back, pulling Shane with him where they’re still connected at the hips. The freckled man presses himself up on his elbows just as a hand comes to thread in his hair again. 

“Lick it up. Clean it up.”

Ilya’s breathless. Close, throbbing inside of Shane. Cock-drunk and foggy in the brain, Shane’s tongue lulls out of his mouth and he licks over his mess. Curls the tip of his tongue around the puddle of milky white, sucks it into his mouth when the flat surface proves to be a challenge. It’s an obscene sound that his lips make - smacking wet on the metal while he, for a lack of better words, makes out sloppy with the metal surface until he’s licked up and swallowed all of his own cum. 

Ilya cums, folding himself over Shane’s back and humping into him like a dog in heat. Golden curls press into sable strands and pink lips kiss exasperatedly over the shell of Shane’s ear. He’s whispering, condom filled with cum and cock still twitching valiantly in the other’s ass.

“Good boy, good. So good for me.”

It takes him a minute to collect his thoughts before he finally sits upright and pulls himself free. He pulls his pants up and ties off the condom - wraps it in a napkin from the glove compartment and sets it in the backseat for disposal, because he doesn’t litter. He's not an animal.

Coming back to the hood of the car where Shane is finally pushing himself up straight and yanking his pants up, Ilya catches his shoulder. He turns him, helps him tugs his pants up the rest of the way before cradling his face in both hands.

It’s far more intimate than any other hook up he’s ever had when he peppers Shane’s face in kisses and holds him close, whispering over and over to him how good he was - how good he did. Shane’s forehead drops to Ilya’s shoulder, soaking in the praise and the gentleness.

It’s then that Ilya realizes the first thing he needs to do when he gets home - after dropping Shane off - is delete any contact in his phone that he’d hooked up with previously or planned to.