The athletic center is empty at nine on a Tuesday. That’s the only reason Shane is here at this hour — the quiet feels too good to pass up.

He’s on his second dynamic stretch when Rozanov shows up.

Alpha Tau Rho’s best and biggest (and hottest). Shane knows him the way you know anyone on campus of this size — by sight, by reputation, by the fact that their teams have been tearing other schools apart since Freshman Year. He doesn’t say anything when he comes in, just drops his bag and loads a bar.

Shane goes back to his stretch.

They orbit each other for forty minutes without speaking. It’s not awkward. It’s just two people working out beside each other. Shane finishes his core workout, moves to the bench he’d set up. Hits a hip thrust at two-sixty. Reracks. Sits there.

“New PR,” he says, mostly to himself.

“That is nothing.” Rozanov doesn’t even look up from the cable stack, back muscles quivering with his lat pulldown. “I could lift double that.”

Shane turns his head, scoffing at the bravado. “Fuck off. You couldn’t even thrust me.”

Rozanov freezes on the pulldown.

Then, very slowly, he lets the cable up.

He turns around. Looking at Shane for a long moment — the kind that takes stock.

“Say that again.”

Shane straightens his posture, the bar still resting above his thighs. He debates if this argument will be worth it. Rozanov always has such an ego about these things.

Still, he bites.

“You couldn’t thrust double.”

Ilya stands from his seat, rolling his shoulders down.

“That is not what you said, Hollander.”

Shane feels his stomach do something strange. It’s quick, settles fast, but he notices it anyway. Heat creeping up the back of his neck.

“You couldn’t even thrust me.” He echoes it quietly, gaze slowly working up till it finds Ilya’s.

Rozanov offers a very faint smile, like Shane had just handed him something he’d been waiting for.

He crosses the room without another word, and Shane tracks every step without really meaning to — the way he moves, loose-limbed and careless, sweat still cutting lines down the back of his neck. His shoulder obscenely pumped from forty minutes of pull work. He’s huge.

Not in a way Shane forgot, exactly. More like a way that’s easier to ignore when there’s more distance between them.

There isn’t much distance anymore.

Rozanov grips the end of Shane’s bench with one hand and drags it to the center of the floor. The legs scream against the tile. He still doesn't hurry.

Shane watches the flex in his forearm, the shift of muscle under skin. He’s aware that he’s doing it and does it anyway.

Rozanov drops into position — back against the pad, shoulders to the edge. He looks exactly like he’s about to perform a working set. Except there’s no bar. No plates. Nothing loaded across his hips at all.

Shane stares at him. “What are you—”

“One eighty?” Rozanov says, looking him over.

Shane blinks. “What?”

“You. One eighty.”

“Fuck you. Try two hundred.”

Rozanov’s mouth curves again but he says nothing. Just drops his gaze, and pats his thighs twice like he’s beckoning a small dog to hop into his lap.

Shane laughs. It comes out short, disbelieving, punched from somewhere in his chest. He moves out from under the Smith machine bar, straightens up.

He looks at Rozanov.

Really looks.

The way he’s sitting. Feet planted wide, shorts fallen back with it, more thigh exposed than should be legal in a room with fluorescent lighting. He’s huge everywhere. Dense with muscle, still flushed from the workout, a vein tracking up the inside of his forearm where his hands rest open on his hips. Shane’s brain does something useless.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t realize he’s supposed to.

“Come.”

Shane’s heart lurches. Rozanov says it patiently, like he’s waiting on Shane to catch up.

“You’re joking.”

Rozanov tilts his head. “Does it look like I am joking?”

It’s not a question. His hands settle on his hips. “Come sit. Right here.”

Shane’s jaw works. His brain offers several reasonable options. Fuck off. You’re insane. I’m leaving.

Rozanov pats his lap again. Something about that makes Shane’s stomach flutter.

“That’s—” Shane shakes his head. Looking away just to look right back. “I can’t sit on you, Rozanov. That’s crazy.”

“Is not crazy. I am just proving my point.”

“It’s—” He’s staring at his thighs again. Mapping it out in spite of himself, the logistics of it, where his weight would land. He shakes his head a second time. “That’s crazy.”

Rozanov watches him think about it with the patience of someone who already knows how this ends.

“Just hop on,” he says. The smirk curls slowly at the corner of his mouth. “Like you are riding horse.”

A pause.

Ilya’s eyes drop to Shane’s lower half, then come back up. “You look like you are really good at riding things.”

The heat hits Shane’s face before he can stop it. Freckles disappearing into pink.

“Fuck off.”

“Mm.”

“Shut up.”

He swings his leg over anyway.

Straddling Ilya’s lap, hands dropping to his own thighs, Shane stares at the wall directly behind Rozanov’s head and refuses to look down. Ilya’s thighs are solid under him. Warm. He’s annoyingly aware of both.

Rozanov says nothing. Just sits there looking smug, hands loose at his sides, like he’s already won something.

Shane cuts a glance at the door and he really fucking hopes no one walks in.

Ilya’s hands find his hips before Shane can second-guess the position. Shifts him. Once, then again — adjusting like Shane is something to be calibrated — until Shane is seated exactly where Ilya wants him.

The realization of where, exactly, that is arrives a second later. He immediately feels the thick weight of Rozanov’s cock setting right up against Shane’s ass.

Shane’s breath goes shallow.

Ilya laces his fingers behind his head.

And thrusts.

The movement is controlled. Perfect form, of course. Like Shane is the bar and this is just a working set. One. Two. Shane’s hands go to his own thighs and grip. Trying his very best to keep his hands on his own body. Three. The bench creaks under them. Four. Ilya isn’t even straining. That’s the worst part. Five reps, smooth and even, two hundred pounds of hockey muscle moving on his hips like it costs him nothing.

Shane is shaking.

“I could keep going,” Ilya says, barely winded, looking up at him. “You look very good from down here.”

“Shut up.” Shane’s voice comes out wrong. Too thin.

Don’t rock down. Don’t rock down.

He doesn’t. He holds himself still and stares down at Ilya and absolutely does not move.

Then Ilya drops on the last rep — fast and sudden — and Shane’s hands shoot out and land flat on his torso to steady himself. Warm skin. Hard muscle jumping under his palms.

They both tense up for a second.

Shane’s palms are flat on Ilya’s stomach. He can feel every ridge of muscle, the heat radiating off him, the way his abs tighten with each breath. He should move his hands but of course he doesn’t.

Ilya looks up at him.

Then, without a word, his hands slide back to Shane’s hips, gripping the soft flesh. He adjusts him — shifts him forward, tilts him just slightly — and the realignment is so precise it has to be intentional.

Shane feels it immediately. The full length of Ilya pressing directly up against him through two thin layers of fabric, lined up perfectly.

When did Rozanov get hard? And, fuck, why is he big there too?

Shane whimpers.

It slips out before he can swallow it. Small, involuntary, damning.

Ilya goes very still for exactly one second. Then something shifts in his expression — settles into something smug and hungry all at once. He shifts Shane again. Deliberately. Just to feel it happen twice.

“I think you like this.”

Shane exhales. Long and shaky. Says nothing.

Ilya takes that as the answer it is.

He feels Shane twitch against him. He knows. Of course he knows. His hands don’t move from Shane’s hips.

“Is okay,” he says. “Go on. Make yourself feel good.”

“Shut up—”

“I can tell you want to.”

Shane’s cock throbs at that. Hard enough that Ilya feels it pulse against him through the fabric. His eyes drop down for just a moment — long enough to picture it — then come back up to Shane’s face wearing the most devastating expression Shane has ever seen on another human being.

“Shut up, Rozanov.”

Ilya thrusts up.

Shane’s breath punches out of him. His hips rock down to meet it before his brain catches up, just barely, just once — and then they find a rhythm without deciding to. Ilya thrusts up from underneath, steady and controlled, while Shane rolls his hips down into it. The friction is devastating. Their cocks are rutting together through sweat-damp fabric, both of them hard, Shane’s sensitive cockhead dragging against the slick wet spot pooling in his underwear every time they move. He swears he can hear it.

He’s completely forgotten where they are.

A low groan pulls out of Ilya’s chest. Then a breath, unsteady at the edges. It feels good for him too — Shane can feel it in the way his grip tightens, the way his jaw shifts — but his eyes stay fixed on Shane’s face like that’s the thing he came here for. Like he’s been thinking about exactly this. Shane coming apart on top of him, pink-cheeked and shaking and trying so hard to hold it together.

Ilya keeps going. Steady. Like this is just the rest of the set.

Shane’s cock is throbbing in pulses now, precome oozing steadily into the wet mess of his underwear, soaking through. Every thrust drives the slick fabric against the head and he can barely breathe with it.

“You feel that, Hollander?” Ilya says, low. Almost conversational. “You are making such a mess. All of this—” his hips roll up, grinding them together, “—just from sitting on me.”

Shane makes a sound that isn’t a word.

“Y-You proved your point—”

“So you want me to stop?”

Ilya doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down.

“No—” Shane’s hips stutter. “No, no, no—”

He hears himself. Ilya definitely hears him. Shane opens his mouth to correct it, to say shut up or that’s not what I meant or literally anything else, and nothing comes out.

Ilya decides to tease him anyway. Hips rolling to a lazy, torturous grind and then — stopping.

Shane’s whole body protests it.

“Rozanov—”

“Mm?”

“Don’t—” He hates himself, he sounds so pitiful. “Don’t stop. Please.. just keep—keep going.”

“No, you can do it, baby.” Hands squeezing his hips once. “Come on, keep humping me like a good puppy.”

Shane makes a noise he will take to his grave. And then his hips move.

“Mm, Just a little harder,” Ilya murmurs, hands guiding Shane’s hips down into the next thrust. “Yeah. Right there.”

Shane leans forward, hips still moving, and buries his face in Ilya’s neck. Can’t look at him. Can’t look at anything. The skin there is hot and salt-damp and Shane stays pressed against it, breathing hard, eyes screwed shut.

His cheeks are burning, freckles swallowed up in red.

“Good boy.”

“Stop—” It comes out wrecked. Whiny. Nothing like he means it. “Stop talking. You’re being mean..”

Ilya’s mouth curves against his jaw. “Mm, I think sluts like you like it mean.”

Their breaths are coming fast now, close enough that Shane can feel the warmth of Ilya’s exhale. The bench creaks steadily beneath them. Shane’s thighs are shaking. His cock is leaking badly, the wet spot spreading dark through the front of his sweats, and he can feel the moment Ilya notices — the way his grip tightens, just slightly, deeply satisfied.

“Pretty boy. Look at you,” Ilya breathes.

Shane whines. High and helpless. “Shut up—”

Shane’s hips have lost all pretense of restraint. He’s rutting down into every thrust now, chasing it, rhythm gone ragged and needy — eager as anything, like a puppy working for a treat he can already smell. Little sounds spilling out of him into Ilya’s neck that he can’t swallow back down.

Ilya feels the shift immediately. The way Shane’s breath pitches higher. The way his whole body tightens, thighs clamping around him, hips moving with a kind of desperate single-mindedness that makes Ilya’s chest clench with want.

He brings one hand up to the back of Shane’s head. Cups it. Feels him trembling under his palm.

“There you go,” he murmurs. Low, right against Shane’s temple. “That’s it.”

Shane makes a broken noise.

“Good boy. Come for me.”

“Ilya—” It trembles out of him, half-muffled against his neck. Not Rozanov. Ilya. He doesn’t seem to notice. “Fuck — it feels so good, you feel so good, I need you— Rozanov, please—”

“Come on, malysh.” Ilya’s hand tightens in his hair, guiding him through it. “Make a mess in your pants for me.”

Shane babbles. He can’t help it, words falling apart at the seams — you’re so strong, Ilya, fuck, you’re so fucking strong, your muscles, oh my god. His hips stutter and grind down hard and then he’s coming, shuddering through it in long pulses, soaking through his underwear and into his sweats in a hot, spreading mess. His whole body seizes and shakes. Skin has gone clammy, hair damp at the nape of his neck, thighs locked tight around Ilya’s hips.

Ilya holds him through all of it. Hand firm at the back of his head. Watching his face go slack and wrecked and gorgeous.

He wants to devour him whole.

Shane slumps forward, boneless, still trembling. Breathing in ragged pulls against Ilya’s throat.

Ilya’s hand moves through his hair. Slow. Stroking. Once, then again, feeling the damp strands between his fingers, feeling Shane shudder under the touch.

“So good,” he murmurs. His lips brush his temple. “You did so good for me, Shane.”

Shane makes a small, wrecked sound. Not yet lifting his head.

Ilya doesn’t move yet. His cock is aching, swollen and untouched, but he’s not concerned. He has Shane’s scent in his nose and the ghost of his weight on his hips and that’s — that’s plenty. For now.

Shane is still slumped against his chest, trembling in small aftershocks, breath slowly evening out, when voices crack through the lobby. Loud. A group. Getting closer.

Shane goes rigid.

He’s off Ilya’s lap in under a second. Literally scrambling, nearly catching his foot on the bench, yanking his hoodie down over the dark mess on the front of his sweats with both hands.

“I — the showers—” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t look at Ilya. Just grabs his bag from where it’s sitting by the Smith machine and speed-walks toward the changing room like a man whose life depends on it.

Ilya watches him go.

The lobby voices fade down a different hallway. False alarm.

He leans back against the bench pad, hands loose on his thighs, staring at the ceiling. His cock is still hard.

The bench is still in the middle of the room.

From somewhere in the direction of the showers, a door slams.

Ilya laughs.

******

Shane had gone straight for the furthest shower stall.

Hot water. Head down. Arm braced against the cold tile, forehead nearly touching it, letting the spray beat down his neck and back and trying very hard not to think about anything at all.

He’s still trembling a little. He fucking hates that.

The curtain opens.

Shane’s whole body locks up.

“Was just your friend.” Ilya’s voice, entirely unbothered. “The one with the accent. Is okay. I told him you left before he came.”

Shane exhales. Doesn’t turn around. “You talked to him?”

“Mm. Nice guy.”

He feels him before he hears him move — the shift in the steam, the warmth of another body cutting through it. He glances over his shoulder before he can stop himself.

Ilya is bare. Of course he is. All of him, unabashed, still half-hard and heavy and devastating in the low light of the shower room. Wet already from the spray.

Shane’s mouth goes dry and his stomach goes liquid all at once.

He faces the wall again very quickly.

“I was not finished with you.”

Shane whines. It slips out before he can catch it, high and helpless, and Ilya’s hands find his hips.

The heat of Ilya’s chest closes in behind him. Shane can feel every inch of him — the solid wall of his torso, the warmth radiating off his skin through the steam — and then the thick, ruddy press of Ilya’s cock nudging against the curve of his ass as he closes the last of the distance.

“Rozanov—” It comes out as a gasp.

“Shane.” Just his name. His hands begin to move. Slow, exploratory, dragging up his sides, thumbs tracing the dip of his waist, feeling the way Shane’s body reacts to each touch. Like he has all the time in the world.

Shane’s forehead drops against the tile.

“We almost got caught—” He stops himself.

“Caught doing what?”

Ilya knows exactly what. Shane can hear it in his voice. He wants him to say it anyway, wants to hear him name it out loud, and they both know Shane won’t.

His lips find Shane’s shoulder instead, dragging soft and wet against his skin.

Shane shudders.

Ilya’s mouth moves across Shane’s shoulder. The back of his neck. The knob of his spine. Thorough like he’s making a study of every place that makes Shane’s breath catch.

Shane is already whining. Low, continuous sounds he can’t seem to stop, each one bleeding into the next as Ilya works his way across his skin. The water runs hot over both of them. Steam thick enough to taste.
“Fuck, wait—”

“Mm.” Not a response. Just faint acknowledgement. His lips drag to the other shoulder.

Shane can feel him swelling against him. The press of it growing heavier, more insistent, nudging and prodding with every shift of Ilya’s hips like his body is making an argument all on its own.

“You made such a mess.” Ilya’s mouth is at his ear now, voice dropped low. “Let me clean you up, Shane.”

His hand sneaks around.

Wraps around the half hard base.

Shane’s whine shatters the silence of the entire shower block, wrecked and embarrassingly loud. His cock twitching violently in Ilya’s grip, oversensitive and stupid, still tender from twenty minutes ago.

“Shh.” Ilya’s mouth presses to his temple.

His hand stays where it is, warm and firm and patient, just holding him.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Shane shudders. “I can’t — I’m still—”

“I know, baby.” He coos, squeezing, just barely.

Shane makes another, even louder, sound. Ilya hums, squeezing him again. He wants every single one of those sounds.

Behind him, his cock has gone fully hard now, thick and heavy where it prods insistently against Shane, like a question he hasn’t asked out loud yet.

Ilya strokes him at a tortuously slow pace. Thick fingers wrapped loosely around him, just enough pressure to feel, dragging from base to tip like he has all the time in the world. Shane’s hips jerk forward on the first motion.

“Easy, baby.” Ilya’s lips brush his ear. “I have you.”

“You’re — that’s—” Shane’s voice is already unraveling. “It’s a lot.”

“You can take it. I know you can.”

Another stroke. The same slow and devastating pace. His fist moving lazily through the hot water running between them. Shane’s cock is still tender, oversensitive, every pass of Ilya’s palm lighting him up too bright. His thighs are shaking. His forehead is pressed so hard into the tile it’s going to leave a mark.

“Fuck, Rozanov,”

“You take it so well.” He whispers, mouth dragging along the shell of his ear. “Such a slut for it. Look at you. Already hard again.”

Shane whimpers.

Ilya’s free hand moves. Drifts down past his hip, fingers trailing slow, until they find the cleft of his ass. Shane goes very still.

“Ilya.”

“Shh.”

His fingers find him. The tight, wet furl of his hole, slick with shower water, and he circles it. Just the pad of one finger. Not pressing. Just — there. Making Shane aware of every nerve ending he has.

Shane’s breath stutters.

Ilya circles again. Slow. Feeling him clench around nothing.

“You feel that?” His stroking hand doesn’t stop. “I could fuck you right here.”

He pulls his hand back. Shane almost protests — and then he feels it. The thick, blunt head of Ilya’s cock replaces his finger, dragging slowly through the cleft of him, smearing wet and hot right against his hole. Oozing. Shane can feel the precome slicking against him with every pass.

“I want to.” He hums, like he’s doing Shane a favor by holding back. “You feel how much I want to?””

He drags the tip across him again. He lets it catch just barely at the rim without pushing. He’s hard. He’s so fucking hard.

“You would feel so good, malysh.” Another pass. Shane is shaking apart. “So tight and wet around me. So perfect.” His lips and tongue find the back of Shane’s neck. “Tell me you want it.”

Shane babbles. Vowels and broken consonants and nothing that counts as an answer.

Ilya drags his cock across him one more time.
“Say it, Shane.”

Shane is whimpering steadily now, forehead against the tile, sensitive nipples dragging cold against it every time his chest heaves. The contrast is making him insane — Ilya’s furnace heat at his back, the cold shock of the wall at his front, and the slow merciless stroke of Ilya’s fist between.

“Wanna — want to feel you—” It comes out garbled. Desperate.

He wants to. God, he wants to. But Shane is slick only with water and want and shaking so hard he can barely hold himself up, and Ilya is not an animal. Not entirely.

Instead he pulls back just enough. He shifts his hips and wedges his cock into the tight press between Shane’s thighs, nestled up flush against his ass. The fat head nudging right there — not in, just there — hot, heavy, and insistent.

Shane makes a pitiful breathless sound.

Ilya starts to move.

Long, grinding rolls of his hips, fucking the tight wet channel of Shane’s thighs, his cock dragging slick and thick with every thrust. His fist stays locked around Shane, using his own thrusting to drive Shane forward into his grip, fucking him into his own hand against the wall. Shane can’t do anything but take it — oversensitive and shaking and pinned — his cock twitching helplessly with every pass.

“Ilya—”

“I know.” Wet and breathless in his ear. His lips drag messy across his temple, his cheek, anywhere he can reach. “I know, baby. You take it so well. So perfect.”

Shane’s knees are threatening to go— Ilya locks his arm tight around his waist. It’s the only thing keeping him upright at this point. Shane’s legs are completely useless, weight sagging back into him, and Ilya takes it without breaking rhythm.

Ilya’s thrusts have gone rough and rabid. Water slapping loud between their bodies, the shower spray catching everywhere — the wall, the floor, the curve of Shane’s back.

“Fuck,” Ilya’s mouth is at his ear, breathing hard now, restraint long gone. “Your thighs, god, you feel so good.”

Shane whimpers.

“This—” a rough thrust, “—is what you do to me.” Another. “This body was made for me.”

“Ilya—” Shane’s voice breaks on it. “Ilya, Ilya” He can’t stop saying it, it keeps spilling out of him, his hips stuttering forward into Ilya’s fist. “Please.”

He doesn’t know what he’s asking for. More. Less. Something. Everything.

“Please.”

“I know.” He nips at his shoulder, hard enough to leave an impression. “My eager little slut.” His hips don’t slow. “So good for me. You’re always so good for me.”

Shane is babbling. “Please, please, feels so good, don’t stop, please.”

“Not stopping.” A kiss to the bite mark. “Never stopping.”

Shane’s thighs are trembling around him, his cock leaking freely in Ilya’s fist. Ilya feels the change before Shane does — the way his whole body draws tight, the hitch in his breath going ragged and pitched.

“Again?” Low and delighted in his ear. “Already?”

Shane just wails.

Ilya doesn’t slow down. If anything he speeds up, hips snapping hard and rhythmic, fucking his cock through the slick heat of Shane’s thighs and fucking Shane forward into his fist with every thrust. Shane has stopped trying to hold himself together. His vision has gone blurry, the steam and the heat and the relentless drag of Ilya’s palm making the whole world soft and white.

He doesn’t care anymore. Can’t.

He’s so loud. He can hear himself and he cannot stop.
“There you go.” Ilya’s voice is wrecked, rough with his own pleasure, but it stays steady. Right in his ear. Anchoring him. “Come on. Give it to me.”

“I can’t, fuck Ilya, I can’t, it’s too—” Shane pants weakly.

“You can.” His fist tightens, thumb catching the soft underside of Shane’s much too sensitive cockhead. “You will.”

“Ilya—”

“Come for me, baby.” His lips drag hot across his jaw. “Make a mess for me, slut. Do it right now.”

Shane comes apart.

It tears through him in long violent waves, his cock pulsing messily into Ilya’s fist, striping over his knuckles and the tile. His whole body seizes. He’s barely making sound anymore — just breathing, broken and open-mouthed, cheek against the cold wall.

Ilya keeps fucking through it. Moaning low against his neck, hips stuttering, chasing his own edge with Shane’s trembling thighs clamped around him.

Shane can feel everything. Feels like too much. Feels like he’d do anything Ilya asks of him.

Ilya keeps fucking.

Shane is limp and wrung out, barely holding himself up, and Ilya keeps going — rough, relentless, chasing the orgasm building thick at the base of his spine.

Then voices. Footsteps. The outer door.

“Someone in here? Athletic center closes in ten.”

Shane freezes. Looks back over his shoulder, face scarlet, eyes gone wide and glassy and completely fucked out. Wet lashes. Mouth bitten red. Ilya’s stomach clenches with want so sharp it’s almost violent.

Fuck. He’s so pretty.

He doesn’t stop.

In one motion he brings his hand up — still messy, still covered with Shane’s cum — and presses two fingers into Shane’s open mouth. Shane makes a muffled sound around them, gagging as the tips prod the back of his throat. Ilya’s other arm retightens around his waist.

“Da.” His voice comes out rough. Strained. Clearly something is happening and he doesn’t particularly care. “Almost done.”

A pause, then the footsteps retreat.

Shane sucks and drools around his fingers — tongue working between them, tasting himself — and Ilya’s hips lose their rhythm for exactly one thrust before snapping back harder.

“Fuck.”

He drives forward, rough and fast now, cock dragging through Shane’s thighs, the fat head knocking against Shane’s balls on every stroke. Shane shudders with each one. Muffled sounds around his fingers. The wet heat of his mouth.

Ilya buries his face in his neck.

Goes. Goes. Goes.

And comes — hard, grinding through it, spilling hot and messy across the back of Shane’s thighs, his balls, the tile. His groan vibrates against Shane’s throat.

He catches his breath in ragged pulls. Lips finding Shane’s earlobe. Sucking it in. Letting his teeth drag.

“You see what happens,” he breathes, sounding wrecked and smug all at once. “You are so loud.” He rolls his hips once more, just to feel Shane twitch. “And my cock wasn’t even in you.”

He pulls his fingers from Shane’s mouth slowly, watching the drool drip off his pretty bottom lip.

“You got so dumb on it.” A kiss below his ear. “My loud, messy slut. Calling attention to yourself like that.”

Shane can only whine at that. His overspent cock gives one pitiful twitch.

The shower starts running cold.

******

The salted recovery pool sits at the back of the athletic center. Separated from the main gym by a wall of foggy floor-to-ceiling glass. It’s always quiet here. Hot water, soft light, the faint hum of the jets.

Shane comes here when his shoulders get bad.

He’s midway through his fourth lap when he sees him.
Ilya. On the other side of the fogged up glass, gym bag over one shoulder, looking directly at him with an expression that does something deeply inconvenient to Shane’s nervous system. He stops swimming.

Ilya grins at him, deeply satisfied, like Shane surfacing was something he arranged.

He pushes through the door.

“You look tense today, Hollander,” he says, by way of greeting.

“I’m fine.” Shane pushes his goggles up, watching the way Ilya steps out of his shoes.

“You don’t have swim shorts,” he added.

Ilya looks down at himself. Back up. “No,” he agrees simply.

“You can’t come in here without swim shorts.”

Ilya tilts his head, not really considering this at all.

“I will manage.“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Then he sets his bag down, grips the hem of his shirt, and pulls it off. Shane watches him reach for his waistband. The shorts drop.

White Calvins. That’s all that’s left.

Shane’s eyes travel down before he gets a handle on them. The fabric is thin and fitted and the outline underneath is so thick it makes Shane’s mouth fill with drool.

He looks away before he’s caught, swallowing the mouthful of saliva.

Ilya steps into the water. Shane does his best to ignore this and goes back to swimming.

His heart is doing something stupid and fast in his chest for the entirety of the next lap. He can feel Ilya at the edge of the pool without looking — just standing there, not swimming, not doing anything at all. Just watching. Shane can feel his eyes like a hand on the back of his neck the whole length of the pool.

He comes up at the wall. Tries to roll his right shoulder back. It catches halfway, a dull ache biting into the joint, and he hisses before he can stop himself. He tries again. Same thing.

“You are hurt?” His voice is closer now, though Shane didn’t hear him move.

“No ‘m fine.”

The water shifts. Ilya crosses toward him through the shallows, like Shane not answering was never going to change his direction. Shane watches him come and does nothing about it.

His hand finds the curve of Shane’s neck.

Just — takes it. Wraps around it, thumb pressing slow and firm into the muscle at the base of his skull, fingers curling against his neck, and Shane’s body lights up from the contact like he’s been desperately waiting for it.

He whimpers.

Ilya’s breath catches, just barely. Shane feels his grip tighten — Ilya’s cock twitches against his hip through the thin wet cotton — and he steps in behind him.
Chest to his back. Mouth near his ear.

“You are hurt,” he says again. Like the whimper confirmed something.

“I—”

“You need a massage.” His thumb drags a slow line up Shane’s neck, deliberately finding every tender spot and pressing in — barely hard enough to hurt, just enough to make Shane’s breath stutter and break.

He does it again. Watching for it.

There. A weak, punched-out sound.

Ilya’s mouth curves against his ear. “Knots everywhere.” His thumb circles the sorest spot, patient and ruthless. “Let me help you, malysh.”

Shane nods. His skin is already prickling everywhere Ilya’s hands aren’t.

He reaches up and shoves his goggles off his head, tosses them toward the pool edge. Doesn’t care where they land.

Ilya’s hands get to work.

He’s not gentle about it. Both thumbs digging into the meat of Shane’s shoulders. His fingers work deep into the muscle, finding every knot and grinding into it until Shane makes a sound he’d be embarrassed about in any other context. His hands are warm and relentless — Shane’s head drops forward on the second pass, then back on the third, falling against Ilya’s shoulder like it belongs there.

He’s pulling pitiful sounds out of him systematically. Shane knows it and cannot stop it.

Ilya is hard against his lower back. He has been since Shane made the first noise. Shane can feel every pulsing inch of him through wet cotton and says nothing, just lets his head loll and his mouth fall open and his shoulders finally, finally go loose.

Ilya kisses the side of his jaw.

Shane shivers.

His hands slide down. Over his collarbones, down the plane of his chest, tracking water across his bare skin until they settle on his hips. He starts moving them — slow, steering — closer to the far edge of the pool.

“You know what you need?”

Shane is barely present. “Mm?”

“Distraction.” His lips drag wetly to his neck. “Let me show you something.”

Shane takes a breath. Turns it over in his head for exactly one second — the many things Ilya could mean, the many places this could go — and decides he’s already too far gone to pretend he’s going to stop it.

He’s already leaky and hard. Has been since the massage. Ilya’s cock is a thick, insistent pressure against the small of his back and Shane’s body has made its decision about that without consulting him.

Ilya steers him to the far corner of the pool.

“Let me show you something,” he says.

Shane stares at the jet mounted low in the wall. The current coming off it is strong enough to churn the water white at the surface. It hits him square in the groin through his shorts and he flinches hard, a sharp breath punching out of him.

“What are you — Rozanov, what the fuck—“

Ilya’s fingers hook into his waistband.

His shorts are tight and waterlogged and they don’t give easily but Ilya works them down his thighs, peeling the wet fabric away until it’s bunched just above his knees. Shane’s cock bobs free into the warm water — already flushed, already leaking — and the relief of it pulls a soft, embarrassing sound out of him.

Ilya adjusts him. Both hands on his hips, tilting, angling him with a precision that suggests he has thought about exactly this, where exactly this jet hits, what it would do to Shane specifically. He lines him up.

The jet catches the underside of his cockhead directly.
Shane’s whole body lurches. The pressure is nothing like a hand — relentless and pulsing and constant, drumming against the most sensitive skin he has, the water rushing over him in a hot unbroken current that whites out his thoughts entirely. His fingers scrabble for the pool edge. Find it.

He makes a very loud sound. Loud enough to bounce off the tile.

“Holy shit, Ilya — that’s — fuck,” He gasps, hips jerking back like he’s trying to create distance.

Ilya’s smile drags coyly against his ear. His hand wraps around him from behind — loose and careful — and starts to stroke in time with the jet’s pulse. Thumb catching the tender underside on each pass, spreading the slick warmth of the water over him.

“Always so loud, malysh.” He kisses below his ear. His hips press in behind him, cock grinding against Shane’s ass through the thin soaked cotton. “Like you want someone to hear you.” Another stroke. Thumb circling the head. “Like you want everyone to know what a slut you are.”

Shane’s eyes drag to the glass wall and stay there.

The gym beyond is fully lit. Empty right now — but it wouldn’t take much. Anyone could walk past. Anyone could look through and see exactly what they’re doing.

Ilya’s hand works him slow while the jet hammers relentlessly against the underside of his cockhead and Shane is trying so hard not to make another sound.

“Girls really like this,” Ilya murmurs against his jaw, almost taunting. “They cum so hard when you get the jet riiighht on their clit.” His thumb rolls over Shane’s tender cockhead, directly into the current. “You like it just as much, I think.”

Shane’s cock pulses. Hard. A thick bead of precome spurting out of him into the water before he can do anything about it. His whole face goes scarlet.

“Shut — that’s not, ” His voice comes out humiliatingly thin. “That’s not the same.”

“No?” Ilya’s thumb rolls over him again. Feels the next pulse. “Your pretty cock says different.”

Shane bites down on his lip so hard he tastes copper.

The jet is merciless. Constant and pulsing and perfectly aimed — drumming against the most sensitive part of him while Ilya strokes in long pulls, and the combination is making Shane’s vision swim at the edges. His legs have started to give. Ilya’s arm locks around his waist — the only thing keeping him from going fully liquid in the water.

“Ilya,” It comes out in cracked desperate gasps. “I can’t. the jet, it’s too—”

“I know.” A kiss to his shoulder. “You are taking it so well.”

“It’s, fuck, it’s too much—”

“No it isn’t.” His hand tightens around him, stroking up. “You were made for this. Look how well your body listens.” He thumbs over the head, right into the current. “Such a good girl for me. Such a greedy little slut.”

Shane whimpers. High and continuous, barely a sound anymore, just breath and the hot blank space where his thoughts used to be. His forehead drops back against Ilya’s shoulder. He’s shaking so hard the water ripples around him.

“Ilya — Ilya, please, I need” He doesn’t ever truly know what he needs. His hips have started moving on their own, chasing the jet, chasing Ilya’s fist, chasing anything. “Please.”

“I have you.” His free hand drifts down. Past Shane’s hip, under the water, finding the cleft of his ass.

Shane’s breath stops entirely.

One finger circles his water slick opening.

“Ilya,”

“Still.” His lips brush his ear. “Be still for me.”

Ilya’s finger slides in. Shane’s whole body seizes — tight, shocked, the stretch of it compounding every other sensation until it’s all just one enormous unbearable thing. The jet is still ruthlessly hammering. Ilya’s fist still moving. And now this, curling slow inside him, finding the spot that makes Shane’s hips jerk forward involuntarily.

“There,” Ilya breathes. Like he’s found something he was looking for.

“Fuck, Ilya.”

“Feels good on your clit, doesn’t it, malysh?” He taunts, thumb taunting his tender head. “I can feel it throbbing.” His lips drag to Shane’s ear. “Just like a girl.”

Shane makes a sound that isn’t human.

“No—” It comes out pitiful and unconvincing. If Ilya could see Shane’s face, he’d see the pout spread across it. “Shut up.”

“Your body doesn’t lie to me.” A second finger joins the first, pressing in slowly and mercilessly. “So pretty. So wet for me.” He scissors them apart, feeling Shane clench desperately around him. “My good girl. My pretty slut.”

Shane collapses forward. Arms hitting the pool edge, forehead dropping onto them, hips jerking in short helpless pulses — into Ilya’s fist, back onto his fingers, he can’t control it, can’t pick a direction, his body just chasing and chasing.

“So good,” he says against the back of his neck. “Look how good you take it.”

Shane can’t speak. Can’t think. He’s just loud. He stopped caring about it somewhere between the second finger and the jet finding a new angle — he’s just noise now, continuous and helpless, every exhale carrying something wrecked out of him.

“Ilya — Ilya, please.”

“Please what?” Steady, fingers fucking into him mercilessly.

“I need to — I’m gonna,” His hips jerk back onto his fingers, chasing the curl of them, then forward into his fist and the unrelenting pulse of the jet. “Can I — please can I?”

“Can you what, malysh?” His fingers crook. “Use your words.”

“Please,” Shane’s forehead grinds into his arms. “Please let me cum,”

“There.” A kiss to the back of his neck. “Good girl. That’s my good girl.”

Shane’s whole body shudders at that. His cock throbs so hard it hurts.

“Your good — fuck, your good girl, please, please, daddy—”

Everything stops.

His fingers still their movements inside him. The stroking hand pauses. Shane wails at the loss of it, hips bucking desperately into nothing.

“What was that?”

“No, no, no, don’t stop, please—”

“Say it again.” The fingers don’t move. “What did you call me?”

Shane is dizzy. The water, the steam, the glass wall blazing with light — it’s all just a blur around the single point of Ilya’s hands not moving.

“Daddy,” It tears out of him. Loud. Echoing off the tile. “Please, daddy, please,”

The fingers curl roughly.

Shane comes apart so hard he sees white. His orgasm crashes through him in waves, cock pulsing messily into the water, hips humping and stuttering through every aftershock while Ilya works him through all of it — fingers still moving, fist still stroking, murmuring good girl, there you go, so good for me into the back of his neck.

Shane shakes, and shakes, and shakes.

Completely weightless. Completely gone. The glass wall could have a crowd pressed against it and he wouldn’t care.

Ilya holds him up.

Shane is still trembling, still floating half-boneless against Ilya’s chest, when a fist pounds the glass.
Three loud knocks. Right on the other side of the wall.

“Yo, Hollzy! That you in there?”

Shane’s soul leaves his body.

He knows that voice. He knows that voice and he wants to die.

Hayden fucking Pike.

The fog on the glass is thick — thick enough that from the outside it would just be two shapes, close together in the corner, nothing conclusive — but Shane is already scrambling anyway. Ilya’s fingers slip out of him and he bites down on the sound it pulls from him, lurching forward to grab his shorts from where they’re bunched around his thighs.

The wet fabric fights him. His hands are shaking. Ilya considers helping but he’s finding too much amusement in this.

“Uh—” His voice comes out wrecked. He clears his throat. “Yeah! Yeah, just… cooling down. Shoulders.”

A pause. “You good? You sound weird.”

“I’m fine. I’ll catch you later.”

Footsteps. Fading. Gone.

Shane slumps against the pool edge. Eyes closed. Heart trying to exit his chest through his sternum.
Behind him, Ilya laughs. Low and deeply satisfied.

“Every fucking time,” Shane grumbles, finally wrestling his shorts up over his hips.

“Mm.” Ilya’s mouth curves against his shoulder. “You like being bad.”

Shane doesn’t answer.

He absolutely loves being bad.

******

Ilya

Shane

Shut Up.

Today, 8:14 PM

Ilya

heyyyyy🙈🙈

Shane

Hi :)

Ilya

wuddup

Shane

Studying for psych exam, you?

Ilya

thinking bout u 😋

Shane

Busy.

Ilya

wanna fuck u

Fuck.

Shane stares at his screen. Sets his phone face down on his textbook, reaches down to adjust himself in his shorts, picks it back up.

Ilya

Shane

I can't right now.

Ilya

when? 💔

Shane

This weekend maybe.

Ilya

i cant wait that long i need that ass nowwww 😩😩

Shane

....

Where? My car is too small.

Ilya

sauna 😈 soundproof in there

10 tn

Shane

I'm not coming.

Ilya

not yet but soon 😋

Shane locks his phone and goes back to staring at his psych notes. He reads the same sentence four times without absorbing a single word.

***

He shows up at 9:58.

The sauna is at the end of a far hallway of the athletic center’s locker room. It’s cedar-paneled and dim, heat rolling off it in visible waves even through the glass door. Shane can see Ilya through it before he even opens it — sprawled on the upper bench like he lives there, sweat already tracking down his chest, a white hand towel draped across his lap that is doing the absolute bare minimum.

Shane opens the door.

The heat hits him like a wall.

Ilya looks over. Smiles slow.

“You said you weren’t coming.”

“I considered it.” Shane drops onto the bench across from him. He tries his best to avoid looking at the towel. Instead, he looks everywhere but the towel.

Ilya watches him with a certain amused patience, shifting on the bench to make the towel move once again. One more shift and it will likely slip completely off.

Shane lasts about forty-five seconds before he gets up and crosses the cedar floor and climbs into Ilya’s lap.

He’s flushed already from the heat, hair starting to curl at his temples, wearing a white tank and shorts that are doing very little to hide the fact that he’s been half hard since he read that text. Ilya’s cock lifts visibly under the towel the second he walks over. Shane watches it happen and feels his mouth go dry.

He settles into his lap, looking at him with his big brown eyes.

“Hi.”

Ilya’s mouth curves. “Hi.”

And then they’re kissing — or Ilya is kissing him and Shane is melting into it, which is how it always goes.

Sloppy from the start, too much tongue, Ilya’s hand coming up to grip his jaw and tilt him exactly where he wants him. Shane makes a small, wet sound into his mouth.

“Missed you,” Ilya says against his lips.

Shane hides his face in his neck immediately. “Me too,” he mumbles into his skin, quiet and unwilling.

Ilya’s hands are already pulling at his tank, shoving it up and off, palming down his bare back, fingers in the divot of his spine.

Shane is already leaking in his shorts, in truth he has been since the parking lot.

They grind. Slow at first, then less slow, the heat of the sauna pressing in around them thick as a second skin, sweat beading between their chests where they’re pressed together. Shane rolls his hips and Ilya groans low into his mouth and his hands shove Shane’s shorts down his thighs with a certain eagerness.

They keep kissing. Ilya’s hands roam everywhere — his ribs, his waist, the curve of his bare ass — like he’s relearning him despite it only having been a few days.

Shane’s fingers curl into his shoulders and he tilts his head and just lets himself be kissed thoroughly, sloppily, until his lips feel swollen and his hips are moving on their own.

Ilya breaks the kiss long enough to look over Shane in his entirety. His eyes drag down Shane’s bare chest, his stomach, the freckles scattered across his shoulders — and then his hands are back, sliding down his spine, between the thick spread flesh of his cheeks.

He pauses.

Shane feels the exact moment he finds it. The way Ilya’s fingers go still, then curious, pressing gently against the base of the silicon plug sitting snug and wet inside him.

Ilya pulls back from the kiss.

Just enough to look at him, one eyebrow raised.

“Malysh.”

Shane’s whole face goes pink instantly, freckles disappearing into the flush. “Hm?”

“What is this?”

He knows exactly what it is. His fingers find the base and tug — gently, just enough — and Shane squirms in his lap with a wet squelch audible even over the low hiss of the sauna. His breath stutters.

“I…” Shane’s eyes drop. “I got myself ready for you.”

Ilya stares at him for a long moment.

His hand moves again, fingers curling around the base, tugging slowly — feeling the resistance, the way Shane’s whole body clenches desperately around it.
Shane whimpers.

“You came here already ready for me.” His voice has dropped an entire register.

“…Yes.”

The groan that pulls out of Ilya is gruff and involuntary, dragged from somewhere deep in his chest. His forehead drops to Shane’s bare shoulder. Shane can feel the heat of his breath against his damp skin, the way his grip tightens on the base of the plug like he’s steadying himself.

“Shane.”

“Don’t—” Shane’s voice is already thin. “Don’t make it weird—”

“Is not weird.” He lifts his head. His eyes are dark. “Is the best thing you have ever done.”

He tugs on the plug again. Shane’s whole body shudders with it, the slick drag of the silicone shifting inside him sending heat crawling up his spine. The sauna is sweltering around them, sweat slicking every place their bare skin meets — Shane’s chest against Ilya’s, his thighs bracketing his hips, the sauna bench warm under them both.

Ilya works the plug in a slow, shallow rhythm. Just enough. Watching Shane’s face do things he can’t control.

“You sat with it like this.” He mouths at his jaw. “Waiting for me.”

Shane’s cock throbs against his stomach, oozing wetness onto himself. He can feel it.

“Ilya—”

“How long?”
Shane makes a sound instead of answering.

“How long, malysh.”

“Since … since you texted.”

Another groan. Ilya’s cock is rigid and straining between them, the towel long since lost to the floor, and Shane can feel every hot inch of him pressed against his own.

“Since I texted.” Ilya repeats, like he’s tasting it. “You’re so good for me.”

Ilya’s mind can’t help but wander.

It wanders to Shane. In his little frat house bed. On his knees probably, or on his back with his knees pulled up — working himself open with slick fingers, two at least, maybe three by the end, whining into his pillow trying to stay quiet with his housemates down the hall.

Getting himself ready. For him.

Ilya bites down on his lip hard enough to feel it. A rough sound escaping through his nose.

He taps Shane’s hips. “Get up.”

Shane blinks at him, dazed. “What—”

“I need to see it.” He’s already guiding him up off his lap, turning him, pressing between his shoulder blades until Shane gets the idea and bends forward over the upper bench. His shorts are still bunched around his thighs — Ilya hooks his fingers in and drags them the rest of the way down, dropping them to the ground. Bare now. Flushed pink from the heat down the entire length of his spine.

Ilya sinks to his knees on the cedar floor.

He takes Shane in both hands and spreads him wide.

The groan that comes out of him is embarrassingly loud. There it is — a little teal plug, silicone-smooth and snug, Shane’s body gripping it perfectly. Glistening. Waiting.

“Bozhe moi.”

His thumb finds the base, twisting it. Shane makes a sound into the wood of the bench. Ilya pushes it in slightly deeper and pulls it back, not enough to remove it, just enough to feel the resistance, the wet give of Shane’s body around it. Enough to see the rim stretch a little.

“Filthy,” he mutters, almost to himself. His other hand spreads him wider just to look. “You are so filthy.”
Another twist. “Such a slut.” A slow push. “My slut.” He drags his thumb in a slow circle around the stretched rim. “God, I love you like this.”

Shane’s sounds have gone continuous and pitiful, hips twitching back with each movement, knuckles white where he’s gripping the bench.

“Ilya.”

Ilya leans in and presses his mouth to the curve of his ass. Soft. Reverent. Completely at odds with everything else.

“What, baby.”

A pause. Shane’s whole back rises and falls.

“Need you.”

“Be patient.”

“The door doesn’t lock, Ilya—”

“I know.” He sounds completely unbothered. His thumbs trace slow circles against the stretched rim, feeling Shane clench helplessly. “Anyone could walk in.”

He says it like it’s a good thing.

Shane makes a desperate, strangled sound.

Ilya just looks at him. Spread wide in both hands, the little teal toy sitting pretty, slick with heat. He stares at it for a long moment like it’s something he wants to memorize.

Then he leans in and closes his teeth around the base.

Shane’s breath stops.

Ilya pulls. Slow, steady, jaw working, teeth sunk into the silicone — drawing it out bit by bit while Shane trembles above him. When it finally slips free the sound it makes is obscene. Wet and soft and filthy. Shane’s hole flutters at the loss of it, clenching around nothing, slick and open and glistening.

Ilya sits back on his heels and just — looks.

“Fuck. Your pussy’s so pretty like this.”

“Shut up. Don’t say that,” Shane’s body betrays him instantly, clenching tight around nothing, a full-body shudder rolling through him.

Ilya feels it. Of course he feels it.

“Mm.” Deeply satisfied. “That is not what your pussy wants.”

“Please,” Shane’s hips push back desperately. “Ilya, please just—“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

“Tsk.” He sets the plug on the bench beside Shane’s white knuckles. “Sluts don’t get to decide what happens.”

“Ilya.”

“I need to taste you.”

Shane drops his cheek to the timber. Looks back over his shoulder with big, wrecked eyes.

Ilya doesn’t make him wait. He leans in, pulls back just enough to gather saliva, and spits directly at the slightly gaping hole. Watches it land. Watches a little slip inside.

The sound he makes is involuntary and guttural.

“So fucking lucky,” he mutters against Shane’s skin. “How did I get so lucky?”

Then his tongue finds him.

It’s not gentle. It’s not trying to be — it’s sloppy and thorough and relentless. Ilya works him open with the flat of his tongue before pointing it and pushing in, pulling back to lick broad stripes over the whole of him before diving back in. The sounds it makes echo off the cedar walls obscenely. Wet and slick and loud, every slurp and groan bouncing back at them two-fold.

Shane stops trying to be quiet.

He was told it was soundproof. He is choosing to believe that entirely.

“Fuck, that’s — don’t stop, please don’t,” The words are falling out of him with no filter, cheek grinding into the wood, hips rolling back to meet every stroke of his tongue. “Feels so good, your mouth, god your mouth. I’ve been thinking about you all week.”

Ilya groans into him. Hands gripping his ass hard enough to bruise.

He works him with his tongue until Shane is grinding back onto his face without shame. He humps backwards until his thighs are trembling against Ilya’s hands, until the sounds coming out of him have gone high and mindless and continuous. Then Ilya pulls back just enough — just enough — and replaces his tongue with two fingers.

They slide in easily. Slick and deep, curling immediately, finding the spot that makes Shane’s whole body jerk forward.

“Ilya.”

“I know.” He mouths wetly at his cheek, his hip, anywhere he can reach, drool smearing across his skin. His fingers don’t slow. “I know, baby.”

Shane’s cock hangs heavy between his legs, flushed dark and dripping, a thin strand of precome swinging with every roll of Ilya’s wrist. Ilya can see it perfectly from here. Can see everything.

“Look at you.” He crooks his fingers. Shane wails. “Dripping. Untouched.” Another curl, deeper. “You going to cum for me like this?”

“Yes — yes, please, don’t stop.”

“So easy,” Ilya murmurs, and it’s not cruel — it’s reverent, lips pressed to the base of his spine. “My sensitive little slut.” His fingers scissor and curl and Shane’s whole body shudders. “So desperate. So fuck hungry.” He speeds up, wrist snapping, watching Shane come apart above him. “Bet you could cum from anything.”

“Ilya — Ilya — I’m gonna—”

“Go on.” His free hand reaches under and wraps loose around Shane’s dripping cock — barely holding, barely touching, just there. “Make a mess for me.”

Shane comes with a broken wail, cock pulsing in Ilya’s loose fist, striping the bench, his thighs, dripping down onto Ilya’s fingers still working inside him through every aftershock. His arms buckle. Ilya’s free hand catches his hip and holds him up.

“There you go.” Fingers still moving, slow now, gentling him through it. “There you go. Such a good girl for me.”

Shane is shaking so hard the bench creaks.

“Always so easy,” Ilya says again, soft and smug, pressing a kiss to his lower back.

He gives Shane a moment. Sitting back on his heels, chest heaving, dragging the back of his wrist across his mouth. Then he stands.

His cock is aching. Has been for what feels like hours. He wraps his hand around himself and strokes slowly — once, twice, just to take the edge off the throb. It twitches looking at Shane slumped over the bench, still trembling, skin flushed and sticky with sweat and sauna heat. His hole is still fluttering slightly from the orgasm.

Ilya reaches over to his bag. Grabs the small bottle of lube sitting on top — he came prepared, of course he did — and flicks the cap. Squirts a heavy, generous stream directly onto himself, then onto Shane’s hole, not bothering to be neat about it. It drips everywhere. Down Shane’s thighs, pooling at the base of his spine. Ilya smears it with his thumb, working it in slow circles, watching Shane’s hips twitch.

He gets into position behind him.

Leaning down first. He presses his lips to Shane’s shoulder. His spine. The small of his back. Slowly and carefully working his way up like he has all the time in the world while Shane’s breathing slowly evens out beneath him.

Then he straightens, and lines himself up.

The thick tip of him smacks against Shane’s slicked hole — once, wet and heavy — and Shane shudders so hard his arms nearly give out.

“You want this?”

Shane’s eyes are bleary. Wet at the edges. He nods against the bench.

“Beg for it.”

“Please.” Immediate. Breathless.

Ilya hums. “You can do better than that.” He drags the head slowly up and down, not pushing, just — there. Teasing. “Let me hear you.”

Shane makes a pitiful sound. His hips push back and find nothing.

“Please—” It cracks in the middle. “Please, Ilya, I need it, I’ve been good.. I’ll be good.”

“Little more.”

“Please fuck me, daddy, please.”

There it is. Ilya pushes in.

Slow. Every thick inch of him, sinking to the hilt as Shane’s back arches and his mouth falls open and a long, high keen tears out of him. Bared teeth. White knuckles. The cedar bench groaning under his grip.

He doesn’t move at first. Just holds himself there, buried completely, one hand braced on Shane’s hip and his forehead dropping to his spine. A long, guttural moan dragged out of him from somewhere deep — the sound of a man trying to hold himself together by a single thread.

“Fucking hell.” His voice comes out completely wrecked. “You feel me? All deep in this pretty pussy of yours?”

Shane’s whole face goes scarlet. His spent cock gives a helpless throb against the bench beneath him.
“Ilya—”

“Mm?”

Shane doesn’t answer. He loves it. He hates that he loves it. He presses his burning face into his arms and says absolutely nothing.

Ilya stays still.

Completely, infuriatingly still.

Shane waits. Ten seconds. Twenty. His body is screaming. He can feel every inch of Ilya inside him, can feel his own pulse around him, and Ilya is just waiting like this is so easy for him. (It definitely is not.)

Shane’s hips move.

Just slightly at first. A small, experimental rock back.

Testing.

Ilya doesn’t stop him.

So Shane does it again. Finds a shallow rhythm, fucking himself back onto Ilya’s cock in short desperate strokes, thighs already trembling with the effort, little sounds escaping him with each push back.
Ilya watches this with enormous satisfaction.

“Look at you,” he says. Completely unbothered.

“Fucking yourself on me like a puppy in heat.”

“Shut up—”

“More,” he says. Just to see what happens.

Shane whimpers and gives him more.

It’s not enough. It’s never going to be enough at this angle and this pace and Shane knows it, his hips stuttering and desperate, chasing something he can’t quite reach.

“Please,” He drops his forehead to the wood. “Please, Daddy, just—“

“Just what?”

“Move.”

“Where am I, Shane?”

Shane makes a sound that isn’t words.
Ilya’s hands go still on his hips, stopping him completely.

“Tell me where you feel me.”

Silence. Shane’s jaw works.

Ilya pulls back — almost all the way — and drives forward in one hard, precise thrust.

Shane’s vision whites out. The sound that tears out of him is embarrassing and he doesn’t care even slightly.

“So deep.”

“Deep where, baby?” Patient. Relentless. “Tell me where.”

Shane squeezes his eyes shut. His whole face is on fire.

“…in m’pussy.” It comes out wrecked and tiny and he buries his face immediately after.

Ilya groans. Long and low and completely undone, his composure cracking all at once — and then he starts to move.

Hips snapping hard, driving forward with a rhythm that nearly knocks the breath out of Shane on every thrust, one hand gripping his hip and the other finding his hair.

“Good girl.” Gritted out through his teeth. “Good fucking girl. Pussy so tight—” a thrust, “—so wet for me—” another, “—just for me—”

Shane can’t speak. Can only take it, cheek grinding against the cedar, cock dragging slick against the bench beneath him, Ilya filling him up completely on every stroke.

“Daddy—”

“I’m here.” His lips find the back of his neck. “I’m right here, malysh.”

Ilya finds a ruthless rhythm and doesn’t let up.

Hard and deep and relentless, the bench scraping against the floor with every thrust, sweat dripping off both of them in the suffocating heat. His hands on Shane’s hips are bruising. He doesn’t ease up. Shane wouldn’t want him to.

“This pussy,” Ilya grits out, hips snapping. “This pussy was made for me.”

Shane wails.

“Yeah.”

“Say it.”

“Made for you — fuck — Ilya.”

Another thrust. Harder. Ilya groans from somewhere deep in his chest, the sound tearing out of him raw and reeling. He’s as wrecked as Shane is. His thighs are burning. He doesn’t care.

“So wet.” He rolls his hips in a slow grind and Shane keens. “Listen to that.” The obscene sounds of it fill the humid room, echoing back at them off every wall. “Listen to how soaked you are for me.”

“Please — so wet just, please don’t stop.”

“Not stopping.” His hand tightens in Shane’s hair, pulling his head back. “Never stopping.”

Shane’s mouth falls open, eyes glassy and unseeing, lost somewhere past thought. He’s just sound and sensation, every nerve ending overwhelmed, sweat stinging his eyes and he couldn’t care less.

“Daddy.”

“I’m right here, baby. I have you.”

The door opens.

Ilya hears it. Sees it over his shoulder in his peripheral — the rectangle of light, the silhouette in the doorway.

He clocks it immediately.

Ilya doesn’t let up.

From where JJ is standing the view is mostly Ilya’s broad back, his shoulders, the flex and drive of him. Around the edges — bare feet on the cedar slats. A shoulder, pale and freckled, barely visible. A hand white-knuckling the bench.

But he doesn’t need to see more than that.

He can hear him.

He knows that voice. He has known that voice for two years. He would know it anywhere, in any context, and absolutely not like this — wrecked and high and babbling, bouncing off wooden walls, saying things JJ is going to need significant time to process.

Shane.

Shane Hollander.

With Ilya fucking Rozanov.

The scene assembles itself in horrible detail — scattered clothes, lube bottle tipped on its side, something small and teal and silicone on the bench that JJ’s eyes skate past and then drag back to against his will. The sounds. The sounds.

Ilya drives forward with careful precision, and Shane moans so loud it bounces off the walls.

JJ doesn’t move.

Ilya keeps his eyes forward. Keeps his grip on Shane’s hips. His jaw tightens slightly — the only acknowledgment.

“No one,” he thrusts. “No one could ever fuck you like this.”

Shane doesn’t notice anything. He’s completely gone, cheek to the wood, hips pushing back greedily to meet every stroke.

“Yeah… yeah, no one.”

“Ever.” His voice drops lower. Eyes cutting briefly to the doorway. Still there. “I’ve ruined you for anyone else.”

Shane whines high and helpless. “All yours. Daddy, I-I’m gonna,”

Ilya’s hand finds the back of Shane’s neck and presses down.

Keeping him firmly pinned to the bench, holding him exactly where he is while Ilya shifts his angle — just slightly — and starts fucking into him harder.

The sounds that come out of Shane are extraordinary.

“You gonna cum for me again?” Ilya grits it out through his teeth, hips snapping relentlessly. “Cum on my cock like a good girl?”

“Yes, yes, please, please,” Shane’s eyes are wrenched shut, lashes wet, mouth slack, completely and utterly gone. He doesn’t feel the hand on his neck as a warning. He feels it as an anchor. “Daddy — so deep — so full, feel you in my stomach.”

JJ hasn’t moved.

He’s standing there with one hand still on the door, taking in the sounds, the filthy words, the wet green thing on the bench that makes his stomach do something complicated. Oh my god, Ilya Rozanov has his best friend pressed down and is — is—

Shane moans and it’s loud. Echoing throughout the sauna.

JJ’s hand moves slowly to cover the front of his pants.

Ilya glances back at him, holding eye contact for exactly five seconds. Then the corner of his mouth curves.

JJ’s face goes from red to scarlet.

“Merde,” he whispers. Barely a sound at all.

Ilya’s smirk widens.

JJ looks horrified. Looks down at his own hand covering himself and looks more horrified. When his eyes come back up and find Ilya still watching him, still smiling—

He flees.

The door swings shut behind him.

Ilya doesn’t pause for a single thrust.

“Good girl,” he grits out, both hands on Shane’s hips now, dragging him back onto every stroke. “Good fucking girl, cum for me, right now.”

Shane goes first — a wail that absolutely is not contained by any amount of paneling, cock pulsing untouched against the bench. Shane’s whole body seizing and clamping down around Ilya so perfectly that Ilya follows him over in the next three thrusts. Before it registers he’s burying himself to the hilt and groaning so loud and ragged it tears out of him like something he had no choice about. Spilling deep. Hips grinding through every aftershock, wringing it out completely.

They stay like that.

Breathing hard. Wrecked. The sauna hissing softly around them.

Ilya’s forehead drops to Shane’s spine.

Shane makes a small, ruined sound.

“Ilya.”

“Mm.” He reaches for the discarded towel. Runs it slow and almost tender down Shane’s spine, his thighs, cleaning him up with the same slow certainty he does everything.

“…Did someone come in?”

A long pause.

“No.“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

******

AFTERMATH

Shane gets back to the Delta Kappa Phi house at 12:43 in a genuinely excellent mood.

His hair is still damp. He’s walking a little carefully.

He’s also, objectively, thriving.

JJ is on the couch when he comes in, laptop open, not looking at it.

“Hey.” Shane drops his bag by the door. “I was at the gym. How was your night?”

JJ looks up.

Something is wrong with his face.

“…Good,” he says. “Fine. Good.”

Shane tilts his head. “You okay?”

“Yes.” A pause. “No.” Another pause. “Yes.”

Shane stares at him. “Which one.”

JJ closes his laptop. Opens it again. Closes it.

“Mon ami.” He says it very carefully. Like he’s defusing something. “Can I tell you something?”

Shane pulls out a chair and sits. “Yeah, of course. What’s going on?”

JJ looks at the middle distance. His jaw works. He appears to be choosing words from a very limited and unfortunate selection.

“JJ. Spit it out.”

JJ looks at him.

“Did you know…” He stops. “Did you know that the sauna—” He stops again. “That the sauna door does not have a lock on it.”

Shane blinks.

“And that.” JJ’s ears are red. His entire neck is red.

“The walls are very. They are not. They are quite thin, actually, the walls—”

The excellent mood evaporates.

Shane’s face goes from neutral to the color of a stop sign in under two seconds.

“JJ.”

“I did not see anything.”

“JJ.”

“I heard,” He winces. “A lot.”

Shane puts his face in his hands.

Oh my god he is going to kill Rozanov.

“I just.” He clears his throat. “I want you to know that I support you. Whatever this is. Whatever — whoever—” He gestures vaguely. “I am your friend and I support you.”

Shane lifts his face out of his hands just enough to look at him.

“Thank you JJ.”

“And I will never bring it up again.”

“Good.”

“After this.”

Shane’s eyes narrow.

JJ looks deeply uncomfortable and also like he absolutely cannot stop himself.

“He called you — ”

Shane’s hand comes down flat on the table so hard the laptop jumps.

“We are never speaking of this.”

JJ closes his mouth.

Shane stands up. Picks up his bag. Walks toward the stairs with what remains of his dignity, which is not very much.

“Mon ami.”

“Never.”

He takes the stairs two at a time. His face is still completely red when he closes his bedroom door behind him. He stands there in the dark for a moment.

Then he picks up his phone.

Opens his texts with Rozanov.