Chapter Text
Today was supposed to be an amazing day. The best day even, but there was currently a flock of geese running through the frat house shitting everywhere, so the pleasure Shane should have been feeling was drowned out by eardrum-shattering honking and the smell of fecal matter. Shane clenched his jaw so tightly that it made a popping sound in his ears.
Fucking Sigmas.
A very large goose rounded the corner, at what was frankly an alarming speed, and made a beeline directly toward Shane. Hayden came flying after it, brandishing a pillowcase. Shane stared at the white linen in Hayden’s hand, wondering what the fuck that was supposed to do. Did he want to strangle the goose? Maybe sing it a fucking lullaby, and the pillowcase was to make sure it had a comfortable place to sleep? Fuck if Shane knew.
Shane stepped to the side, letting the goose barrel past, and grabbed Hayden by the collar of his shirt as he tried to dart around him, and he came to a stop with a choked yell.
“Stop chasing the goose with a fucking pillowcase, you idiot. Call animal control.” Shane was pleased that his voice only had a tiny wobble. He let Hayden go and watched impassively as he rubbed the back of his neck.
“What’s the number for animal control even?” Hayden said, voice taking on the whiny lilt of a child about to have an epic ass tantrum.
“Hayden, google it.” Shane hissed.
“Oooooooh, yeah Prez, good idea.” Hayden said, face lighting up as he pulled his phone out of his back pocket. He made his way toward the door, and Shane watched him walk away, then took a deep grounding breaths.
They weren’t working.
At. All.
Shane took a deep breath as he dug his phone out of his pocket and stared at it for a beat before pulling up a contact he hadn’t used since his sophomore year. He didn’t even know if it still worked. For all he knew, that asshole might have gotten a new number. He sucked in a breath and hit call.
There was a ringing in his ear. Once, twice, three times. He was tempted to hang up, but didn’t, standing stock-still in the middle of the common room as a whirlwind of brothers and fucking geese flurried around him.
After the fourth ring, a low, Russian-accented voice, thick with sleep, answered.
“Who the fuck is calling me this early?”
He clearly didn’t save my number, Shane thought bitterly, then immediately chastised himself for it.
“It’s eleven in the morning, you fucking oaf. In what world is that early?” His voice was too sharp. He closed his eyes with a furrowed brow. Annoyance was not the way to have this issue solved. Not at all. He was off to a bad start.
There was a pause on the other end, a small intake of breath, then—
“Shane Hollander?”
Hearing his name in that voice for the first time in at least a year made his stomach flip.
The voice grew more confident, and Shane bit back a sigh.
“Hollander, is that you? How the fuck-” There was a pause, and then a particularly voracious goose honked, it seemed, directly into Shane’s fucking phone. Ilya Rozanov made a sound of confusion, and then he laughed. Loud enough to drown out some of the loudest honking, and Shane pulled the phone away from his ear, frowning.
He counted to five to combat the scream rising in his throat and then put the phone back to his ear. The laughter was tapering off, and Shane tried to keep calm as the asshole on the other end caught his breath.
“The geese, they actually pulled off the geese. Oh this is going to be one for the books of history.” Ilya snorted, and Shane felt a vein pulse in his forehead.
“The saying’s ‘one for the history books,’ you troglodyte.”
Rozanov scoffed, “Whatever, nerd.”
Again, Shane counted to five, then added another five for good measure.
“Rozanov, my inauguration is supposed to be today. We’ve invited guests, the dean, alumni, some of whom are very important men. How the fuck are we going to do that if the fucking Sigmas released a fucking aviary in our frat house?”
By the last sentence, Shane was shouting.
“What is this aviary?” Rozanov’s voice rolled over the question with a hint of rasp, and Shane’s stomach tightened, which made his annoyance flame into hot incendiary rage.
“It’s like a zoo for birds, you fucking imbecile!”
“Oh,” Rozanov muttered musingly, then— “Why do you Deltas make everything a ceremony? You’re just going to become president of frat, not the world.”
“Of course a Sigma would thumb his nose at tradition! All your frat is good for is throwing ragers and shooting goals!”
“Scoring goals,” Rozanov corrected blandly, and Shane wondered if this was what an aneurysm felt like. Just then, JJ walked past him with a goose under either arm and a sea of feathers trailing after him, and Shane’s eyes prickled with tears, hot and sudden.
“Can you give me your president’s number so I can see if he’ll be able to help with the mess?” Shane knew his voice was thick with tears, but he was too tired to try and hide it.
“Meh, you don’t want to bother Brayden. I’ll figure something out,” Rozanov said dismissively.
“What? How will you—” but Rozanov hung up before Shane could finish the question.
Thirty minutes later, there was a knock on the door, and when Shane opened it, there Rozanov stood in all his golden-haired glory. He wore a pair of board shorts and a tank top with the armholes cut so low that everyone and their mother got an eyeful of the intercostal muscles that covered his ribs. He bookended the frat douche look with both flip-flops and a backwards cap, and Shane hated himself a little for the spark of arousal that flashed through him. He was pre-med, on the honor roll, and had a GPA of 4.0 for fuck's sake, and even he wasn’t immune to the fuckboi wizardry that Ilya Rozanov possessed.
“Hollander.” Rozanov crooned. “Why are you dressed like you’re going to Bible study?”
Shane didn’t dignify the question with a response, though his fingers itched to adjust the knot of his tie. He looked behind Rozanov and saw a group of about 25 boys—freshmen most likely—who all looked varying amounts of chastised.
“Pledges. They thought doing this would get them in our good books. I heard them discussing it, but never in a million years I thought they would do something like this without running it by us first.” His voice hardened on the last few words, and Shane saw one of the boys actually shiver.
“Now? They fix.” And he clapped his hands, and the pledges poured into the open door behind Shane. He saw some of the boys armed with cleaning supplies and others with cages. He opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again, but no words came out. He tried again, and then one did.
“Why?”
Rozanov smiled crookedly. “Hey, don’t look too much into it. We still think the Deltas are boring, goody-two-shoes with sticks up asses, but—” his voice darkened. “No one messes with you, unless I say so, da?” He placed a gentle finger under Shane’s chin and closed his jaw, which had fallen open sometime during the declaration.
That was the first time Rozanov had touched him in a year and a half, and at the touch, the warmth of Rozanov’s skin against his own, he was instantly transported to back then. But that was not a place he wanted to be in at all. So he snatched his head away and leveled his iciest glare at Rozanov.
“I could say thanks, but the reason that your pledges think that something like this is acceptable is because of the ridiculous culture that you all foster.” Shane was proud because his voice was steady and didn’t sound like his heart was pounding out of his chest.
Rozanov tsked, “That doesn’t sound like a thank you, Hollander.”
“Fuck you.” Shane spat, and Rozanov’s eyes flickered to his lips, then back up to his eyes.
“Whatever you say, Hollander.”
***********************************
Freshman year
The party was loud enough that Shane’s brain rattled in his skull. Everywhere he looked, there was a sea of college students in varying stages of inebriation. Shane himself had been nursing the same beer for the past twenty minutes. It was flat and lukewarm, and he tried not to shudder as he took a sip.
He failed.
But it was college, and he was trying to have fun, so he fortified himself with another sip. The red Solo cup was halfway to his mouth when someone bumped into him hard enough for some of his beer to spill over the rim and fall on the floor, adding to the suspicious sticky layer that coated the hardwood.
“Hey! Watch where you’re going!”
The music was loud, but the asshole who had bumped into him was more than close enough to hear his yell. The guy turned around, and Shane hoped that his brain whirring to a stop didn’t make an audible sound.
Because the guy was hot, like holy shit hot. Muscular, with biceps straining against the sleeve of his polo hot. Thighs thick in his jeans, hot, with an angular face, piercing blue-green eyes, and tousled golden curls that belonged on an angel, not an asshole who bumped into people without apologizing.
“Oh,” the guy said with lips that were obscene in their lush curviness. He leaned in close enough until those lips brushed Shane’s ear.
“You are very pretty.” His voice was low, deep, and heavily accented, something Slavic, Shane guessed. He tried not to blush.
He failed.
“Come up to my room?” The Russian hottie’s eyes scanned his face, and Shane knew he should say no. Hell, he would normally say no, but this time he hesitated. This was college, wasn’t it? And if you couldn’t make bad decisions and hook up with random, very, very hot strangers, then what was even the point? Right?
Right.
So he nodded, grabbed the guy’s hand when he offered it, and allowed himself to be pulled up the stairs.
The room was pretty standard. It was also surprisingly neat. Shane didn’t know who the golden-haired Russian was, but the guy didn’t strike him as being particularly tidy. Well, that’s what he got for judging a book by its cover.
There was a duffle bag with some kind of sport shoe placed carefully on top of it and a small, neat shelf full of books. Shane dragged his finger idly along one of the spines as he asked,
“What sport do you play?”
The Russian shrugged one well-muscled shoulder.
“Do you really care? Because I didn’t bring you here for—” he clicked his tongue. “What is the saying? For when talk is small and unnecessary.”
“Small talk?” Shane offered, and he shook his head.
“I am thinking of a cat, or of the word ‘cat,’ but I know that is not it.”
This was quickly shooting up the ranks to the weirdest interaction Shane had ever had before getting laid, not that the data pool was particularly bountiful, but this was gunning for number one and leaving the competitors in the dust. Just then it hit him.
“Chit chat?” he said, with more than some uncertainty.
The Russian clapped his hands together, making Shane jump, and broke into a smile that cracked the broody, Slavic thing he had going wide open, and left just a beautiful, smiling boy in its wake. He stalked towards Shane and wrapped a proprietary arm around his waist.
“What is name, smarty pants?” His voice was deep and seductive, that flash of sweetness and joy hidden once again behind dark eyes and a smirk.
“Shane Hollander,” Shane offered, amazed to find that despite the incongruous start, he was still very much into this—no doubt in large part due to the muscular arm tucked securely around him.
The Russian nodded and pointed to himself with his free hand. “My name is Ilya, Ilya Rozanov.”
“I thought you didn’t like chit-chat?” Shane asked, trying to dredge up some snark, instead of focusing on something absolutely ridiculous, like how closely Rozanov was pressed against him, the powerful lines of his body, or the press of his fingers against the exposed skin of Shane’s waist.
Rozanov smirked again. “That was not chit-chat.” He pecked Shane’s nose. “You need to know what name to call when I make you come.” He smiled wickedly and gently dragged his finger along the smattering of freckles on Shane’s cheekbones.
“These are pretty, makes you look like a flower—” then, “Can I kiss you, Shane Hollander?”
The direction of the night changed, for what felt like the fifth time, and Shane was starting to feel wrong-footed.
And it certainly didn’t help that this was his first time.
Well, the first time with a man.
Two years ago, Shane had figured out that, maybe, he was gay. He had just broken up with his girlfriend at the time but never had any opportunities to test his theory in his small Canadian town, but that was what college was for, right?
It was just his luck that he had stumbled upon the hottest man in existence to have his first ‘real’ Gay™ experience with.
Rozanov was staring at him, and Shane bit at his lip as he tried to formulate an answer to the question he’d been asked, but it really shouldn’t be that complicated—it was either yes or no. Shane worried his lip a bit harder as Rozanov’s fingers pressed in a slow, pulsing rhythm against his skin, making it difficult to think.
“Come on, flowerboy, answer me.” Rozanov’s voice held a hint of command that made Shane’s head spin a little.
“Yes, yeah, kiss me,” he said hurriedly, and Rozanov captured Shane’s mouth with a low groan.
It was almost immediately desperate and filthy, a marked difference from the kisses he’d shared with girls before. Rozanov kissed with the authority of a general and a hunger that spoke of years of starvation, and Shane was instantly pulled under in a riptide.
He pressed his tongue against the seam of Shane’s lips, and when Shane gasped, Rozanov took the opportunity to slip his tongue inside Shane’s mouth, insistent and overwhelming. He licked into Shane with a soft moan, and the sound, combined with the feel of Rozanov’s tongue against his own, made heat curl low in Shane’s stomach, and he realized that he was getting hard. Kissing had never made Shane hard, not once.
Not until Ilya Rozanov.
Shane lifted his arms and wrapped them around Rozanov’s neck. He anchored himself and rocked his hips against Rozanov’s thigh, which had found its way between his legs.
A high, breathy sound rang in the room, and it took a moment for Shane to realize that it came from him.
Rozanov tore his mouth away, gasping. He stared down at Shane, and the pupils of his eyes were huge, almost eclipsing the pretty blue-green circling them.
“Who are you, Shane Hollander? Huh? How can you look like that and sound like that? Are you a—a sukkub?” He said in a low voice. He latched his lips to the space under Shane’s ear as soon as he asked the question, so any capacity Shane had for understanding and answering dissolved as Rozanov grazed his skin.
Rozanov worried at the spot with his lips and his teeth, then his lips again, and Shane thought deliriously that he was going to leave a mark. And the thought of it, made his stomach tighten and he got even harder. He trailed his hand down Rozanov’s body, pawing at the swell of muscle at his chest and then his stomach.
His hand drifted lower, then up under Rozanov’s shirt to toy with the waist of his jeans. Rosanov groaned against his neck and pressed himself into Shane even more.
Shane wanted to slide his hand even lower but hesitated. Everything they had done so far could be explained away, at least that’s what Shane told himself, but to step over this line, to touch Rozanov where they were both so desperate for him to touch, would be crossing some kind of arbitrary boundary in Shane’s mind, and no amount of ‘no homos’ would change that.
He dragged his fingers along the trail of hair on Rozanov’s stomach and worried the top of his jeans once more. His heart, which had been going at a steady trot, began beating so hard he heard it in his ears.
Rozanov lifted his lips from where he was trying to gnaw his initials into Shane’s neck and peered at Shane.
“If you are scared, you don’t have to.” His voice, though breathless, was kind and understanding, and it aggravated Shane.
“I’m not a chicken,” Shane snapped, and Rozanov huffed out a laugh.
“Who called you chicken, Hollander? Not me. All I am saying is we can slow down if you—hnng.”
Rozanov’s platitudes broke off into a low moan as Shane gripped his cock and stroked it as best as he could through the thick material of his jeans.
“Fuck Hollander,” Rozanov said, voice low, and that was better, that’s what Shane wanted, instead of pity. He undid the button of Rozanov’s jeans with one hand, surprising himself with his dexterity, and slid his hand inside.
Rozanov’s cock was hot and hard under his palm, and Shane’s own cock throbbed in sympathy. He thumbed at the head, and Rozanov gasped, surged forward, and captured Shane’s mouth in a blistering kiss.
“Da Hollander, like that,” he said, and broke off into a stream of Russian. It was so fucking hot, and Shane had never been harder in his life. His cock pulsed, and Shane knew that his underwear had to be a mess of pre-come.
He was suddenly hit with an urge, seemingly out of nowhere, to see Rozanov’s cock. It felt huge in his hand, and he had to see it for himself.
To taste it.
He sank to his knees, pretty fucking gracefully, and he spared a stray thought of thanks to his years of yoga. He grasped at Rozanov’s jeans, which had somehow shot to number one on the FBI’s Most Wanted List, and began to tug them down.
Rozanov was muttering a litany of curses above him, and when Shane risked a glance up, Rozanov was staring down at him, pupils blown out, his pretty mouth hanging open. Shane threw a small smile up at him.
“I wanna—” he paused, wondering how to get the words out without sounding like a complete slut, but he was on his knees in the room of a man he’d met like twenty minutes ago. Maybe he was a slut. “Do you mind?” he tried again, gesturing to Rozaov’s body, where his jeans were now around his thighs, and his cock strained in his underwear.
“Mind?” Rozanov asked, voice pitched up. “I have beautiful boy on knees in front of me, and you ask if I mind?” His accent sounded even thicker, as he laughed.
“No, Shane Hollander, I do not mind if you suck my cock.” He ran his hand through the shorter hairs at the back of Shane’s head near his neck, and Shane shivered.
“Come on, pretty, put it in your mouth, I know you want to.” Rozanov’s voice was dark and low, and Shane moved almost on autopilot, lowering Rozanov’s underwear and watching as his cock sprang out. It jutted out proudly, rock hard and a deep red.
It was huge. Huge enough for Shane’s brain to start screaming at him about bruised soft palettes and sore throats. Before he could successfully psych himself out of it, he leaned forward and sucked the tip into his mouth.
Shane didn’t know what it would feel like. He had fantasies, of course, but not even his most lurid daydreams had prepared him for the juxtaposition of hard and soft. The feel of Rozanov on his tongue was heady, and, to his dismay, instantly addicting. He mouthed at the smooth skin and took Rozanov in a little deeper, tracing a particularly interesting vein with the hardened tip of his tongue.
Rozanov cursed and tightened his grip on Shane’s hair. He canted his hips forward slightly and cursed again.
Shane drew back until the tip was barely in his mouth, descended, then worked his way up to a steady rhythm, never going further than halfway down. He knew he was doing an alright job, if the sounds Rozanov made were anything to go by, but he knew that throwing up all over his dick wouldn’t win him any competitions.
So he focused on keeping a steady pace and making sure his teeth weren’t in the way.
Above him, Rozanaov sounded like he was losing his mind. His hands were all over Shane’s hair and face, and Shane felt himself get even harder. His stomach clenched tightly, the tight ball of desire spreading, and he realized, in a very faraway fashion, that he might actually be able to come from this, from just sucking Rozanov’s cock.
“Hollander, Hollander, you need to slow down—I’m so fucking close—your fucking mouth—Chto ty so mnoy delayesh?” Rozanov slurred, and he sounded so desperate, so fucking close to the edge, that obviously the only option was to speed up.
He bobbed his head faster, and Rozanov hissed and finally pulled Shane off. The sound Shane made as the contact broke was high, bereft, and completely embarrassing, if Shane had any brain cells left to spare for his dignity.
Rozanov stroked himself once, twice, and then came into his own fist, with a low grunt and his eyes tightly shut.
Shane’s face was flushed, and he knew he was also only about two strokes away from a hell of an orgasm himself. He fumbled at his slacks with shaking fingers, but before he could get a hand on himself, he was hauled to his feet.
Rozanov kissed him roughly and shoved his hand—wet and warm with his own come—into Shane’s pants and grasped firmly at his cock. The slick feel of it made Shane moan into Rozanov’s mouth. He rutted helplessly into the grasp and struggled to keep his eyes open as Rozanov breathed,
“Come for me, moy sladkiy.”
And everything exploded to white as Shane’s orgasm ripped through him. Stars burst behind his eyes, and he moaned Rozanov’s name as he shook with it.
A moment passed, or maybe an eternity, and Shane finally opened his eyes when his heart slowed enough for it to no longer be a diagnosable tachycardia.
Chest still heaving, Rozanov stared at him with wide eyes.
“Who the fuck are you, Shane Hollander?” he asked, with genuine wonder in his voice.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Shane said, though the tremble in the words took some of the sting out of them. He cleared his throat and tried for more assertiveness.
“I need to get out of here,” he said, his voice a little steadier this time. “And if you think I’m leaving here with my pants filled with come from both you and me, you’re sorely fucking mistaken. You need to give me something to change into.”
Rozanov nodded slowly, still looking a bit shell-shocked.
And that was the first time he met Ilya Rozanov.