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Shane doesn’t even remember why he opened the app that night.
He’d downloaded it weeks before, mostly at Rose’s insistence, “You’re not even trying Shane, you’re just pre-rejecting people”, and then promptly ignored it. It sat on his phone like an accusation. Like proof that he was, in fact, trying, even if trying looked a lot like avoidance.
It was late, which probably had something to do with it. The TV had been on for nearly an hour, some forgettable cooking competition humming in the background while Shane half-watched and half-scrolled through his phone. He is sprawled across the couch, one leg hooked over the arm, thumb dragging lazily across his screen.
And so he opened the app.
At first it was exactly as pointless as he expected. A blur of shirtless mirror selfies, men posing with fish, bios that said nothing and somehow still managed to be annoying. Shane swiped with the detached impatience of someone who had already decided this whole thing was not for him and wanted to be proven right.
Swipe. No.
Swipe. No.
Swipe—
Ilya. 29. Professional athlete.
The bio was spare in a way that felt calculated to look effortless. Travels a lot. Looking for something real, not interested in games.
Shane narrowed his eyes at the screen.
The first photo looks like it wasn’t meant to be impressive, which somehow makes it worse. It was a picture of him mid-laugh, head tipped back, like the world has never once disappointed him.
The second was cleaner and sharper. Dark suit, crisp shirt, one hand in his pocket, jawline like something somebody had designed on purpose.
The third photo is one blurry candid that feels almost intimate, like whoever took it was close enough to matter. Ilya was turned partly away, a thin gold chain visible at his throat with a small crucifix resting against his skin and there was a small mole on his cheek. A tiny, real detail that made the rest of his face feel strangely more unfair.
Shane stares at it longer than he should. He should have kept swiping. He knew that. Instead, Shane stared for another few seconds, then swiped right.
It’s not supposed to match.
People like this did not belong in apps with everybody else. People like this belonged to a different tier of existence, one where they were handed numbers on napkins and asked out in hotel bars and never once had to wonder how they came across in a first message.
The match happened instantly.
He actually sat up on the couch.
“What the fuck,” he said out loud.
The TV audience cheered for something in the background. Shane ignored it and took a screenshot, Rose replied in less than a minute.
ROSE: no fucking way
ROSE: he’s insanely hot
ROSE: like i’m annoyed for you
SHANE: tell me why this feels like a scam
SHANE: like be honest with me
ROSE: if this is a scam then i support it
SHANE: ROSE
ROSE: what did he say
SHANE: nothing yet
ROSE: oh he will. men like that always say something
Shane rolled his eyes and tossed the phone onto the couch beside him, only to grab it again almost immediately when it buzzed.
A message. He opened it too quickly and immediately they’re.. underwhelming.
ILYA: hi
ILYA: how r u
Shane squints at his screen. “That’s it?” he says out loud.
He types back anyway, slower this time.
SHANE: good. you?
The reply takes a while.
ILYA: good
ILYA: busy w hockey stuff lol
The conversation limps along. Not terrible, just.. flat. The replies are slow sometimes, abrupt other times. The person on the other end forgets things Shane has already mentioned. Doesn’t follow up, doesn’t really engage. No follow-through, no real curiosity. A couple of “lol”s that feel like placeholders more than reactions.
It’s not bad enough to be a red flag but it’s not good either. It’s uninspired and honestly forgettable. And that’s what makes it confusing because the face attached to it is anything but.
“Maybe he’s just bad at texting,” he says, pacing slowly in his kitchen, phone wedged between his shoulder and ear.
On the other end, Rose lets out a long, suffering sigh. “You are inventing personality traits for a man who has given you nothing.”
“That’s not true.”
“He said ‘lol’ three times in one conversation.”
“People say lol.”
“Not like that.” Shane actually hears Rose roll her eyes on the other end of the line.
He pauses, leaning his hip against the counter, his gaze drifting toward his reflection in the dark window above the sink. His features look softer in low light, his freckles more noticeable, his expression caught somewhere between uncertain and stubborn. “What if he’s better in person?” he says, quieter now.
Rose doesn’t even hesitate. “You’re going to meet him, aren’t you?”
“..Yes.”
Rose sighs. “What if he’s boring?”
“Then I’ll leave.”
“Sure you will.”
They settled on coffee. Thursday, early evening. Public place. Casual. Low-pressure.
Shane overthinks his outfit. Changes twice. Then a third time. He eventually landed on a dark sweater that fit well without looking like he had tried too hard, jeans that actually sat right on him, sneakers he had cleaned for no reason other than nerves. He shaved, then almost wished he hadn’t. The freckles across his nose stood out more when his face was freshly washed and bare, which shouldn’t have mattered except he was already feeling too visible.
Shane checks the location three separate times before leaving, like the address might somehow change if he doesn’t keep an eye on it.
He got to the café ten minutes early and hated himself for it.
The place was warm and smelled like espresso and cinnamon, all low conversation and dim pendant lights. People sat in pairs or alone with laptops, lit amber by the windows facing the street. Shane ordered a coffee he didn’t really want because standing there empty-handed felt worse. He took a table with a clear view of the door and told himself not to be obvious about it.
His gaze flicks to the door every time it opens, then away again, like he can trick himself into not caring.
At 7:03, someone came in wearing a coat similar to one of the photos and Shane’s pulse jumped stupidly before dropping just as fast.
At 7:10, he checked his phone for the fourth time.
At 7:15, he texted Rose under the table.
SHANE: if i get murdered tell people i knew better
ROSE: if you get murdered i’m haunting you for being dramatic
ROSE: is he there
SHANE: no
ROSE: give it ten more mins
At 7:25, the coffee had gone lukewarm.
At 7:30, his stomach had that hollow, sinking feeling that somehow managed to be heavy too. Shane checks the profile. It’s still there, still active. No messages.
At 7:37, he knew.
He still waited until 7:45 before leaving because humiliation apparently had layers and Shane was committed to experiencing all of them.
Outside, the air was cool enough to sting. The city smelled like rain that hadn’t fallen yet, like exhaust and damp pavement and other people’s evenings continuing indifferently around him. He stood under the awning for a moment and called Rose.
She picked up on the first ring.
“What happened?”
Shane laughed because the alternative was probably worse. It came out thin and wrong. “Nothing. That’s kind of the issue.”
“Shane.”
“He didn’t show.”
There was a beat of silence. Not empty silence. Furious silence.
“He didn’t show?” Rose repeated, voice flattening in a way that meant she was about to become a problem.
“Yeah. It’s alright.”
“Oh, baby.”
“It’s really fine. It’s actually kind of funny. Like statistically, this was bound to happen at some point, right? First time so might as well get it out of the way.”
There’s a pause on the other end. The kind that says Rose isn’t buying any of this. “Send me everything.”
“I already did.”
“I’m going to kill him.”
“Please don’t,” Shane says, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. “I’d hate for this to escalate into a full crime.”
He started walking because standing still made it all feel too fresh. His reflection ghosted across dark storefront windows as he passed them, all angles and tense shoulders and a face carefully arranged into something dry and unbothered. He looked like exactly the kind of person who would insist he was fine until he believed it himself.
Rose heard through him instantly, as always. “Don’t do that thing where you decide this means something cosmic about your personality.”
“I’m not doing that.”
“You are already halfway through doing that.”
Shane shoved one hand into his coat pocket and crossed at the light without really seeing the traffic. “It’s whatever. I should’ve known—”
“That he’s an asshole, yes.”
“That it’s not like someone like that was ever going to—”
Rose did not let him get away with it. “Finish that sentence and I’m coming over.”
He exhaled hard through his nose. “I hate you.”
“You adore me.”
Shane smiled despite everything and silently thanked the universe for sending a friend like Rose Landry his way.
“Send me all of it again,” she says eventually. “Every screenshot.”
“I already sent you every screenshot.”
“Send them again. I need to be angry with evidence.”
He did, because that was easier than talking.
By the end of the week, Rose had declared the whole thing a hate crime against common decency and tried unsuccessfully to convince Shane to report the account. He deleted the app instead. That felt cleaner and a lot less like admitting it had gotten to him.
It still got to him.
But eventually, the sting dulled. He buried the screenshots in a folder he never opened, the story became easier to tell. Funny even, if he tilted it right and Rose still referred to the guy as LOL Ilya whenever she wanted to make Shane roll his eyes. The story becomes something Shane tells with a shrug and a half-smile.
At some point it just stopped being a story that meant anything.
Weeks passed. Then months. Work had been busy in that steady, unglamorous way, there were emails that multiplied overnight. Meetings that could’ve been shorter but never were. Programs that required more coordination than anyone admitted out loud.
He’d been occupied enough that when the invitation landed in his inbox, it didn’t feel like anything more than another obligation to check off. It was the sort of thing Shane would have skipped if he could have.
Too many people in a room that smelled faintly of expensive catering and polished wood, all dressed slightly nicer than usual and pretending there wasn’t a point to any of it beyond networking. The venue was a hotel ballroom turned tasteful by sheer force of budget because somebody had decided this would be a good opportunity to celebrate industry partnerships and community outreach in an email invite.
Rose had shown up in a sharp black dress and the expression of someone ready to be entertained by other people’s discomfort.
“You look nice,” Shane said when she reached him near the bar.
“I know,” she said. Her gaze flicked over him. “You’re not so bad yourself. Try not to look like you’ve been forced here by court order.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Shane had, in fact, made an effort. Dark suit, no tie, white shirt open at the collar. His hair behaved for once and under the ballroom lighting his skin looked warmer, the freckles across his cheeks more visible than usual.
He was reaching for a drink he didn’t want when Rose’s hand closed around his forearm.
“Don’t turn around too fast,” she murmured.
That, naturally, made him turn around immediately.
And there he was.
Ilya stood across the room with a cluster of people Shane vaguely recognized from sports media and sponsorship meetings.
Real this time. Not compressed into a screen and not curated into a selection of flattering angles. Taller than Shane had expected, broader through the shoulders, his body carrying that ease certain athletes had even when they were standing still. His suit was dark and perfectly cut, the crisp white of his shirt open enough at the throat for the gold chain to show. The crucifix rested against his skin exactly as it had in one of the photos, absurdly specific and suddenly infuriating. His curls were lighter in this room than they had looked on Shane’s phone, gold catching in the warm light.
And that ridiculous face. Sharp jaw, high cheekbones, and a mouth made for smirking was somehow worse in person. The beauty mark on his cheek anchored all of it in reality.
And reality, it seems, has improved the digital version.
Shane’s stomach drops. For a second he thinks he might actually be hallucinating.
Beside him, Rose exhaled quietly. “Oh no.”
Shane was certain it was him. Not someone who resembled him and not someone close enough that Shane’s memory might have done the rest.
Him.
Across the room, laughing at something entirely unrelated to Shane Hollander’s current emotional crisis, is the man who ruined his first and last attempt at dating apps.
Rose leaned closer. “That’s actually him, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes widened. “Jesus.”
“Don’t say anything.”
Rose starts to sip her drink, “I wasn’t planning to. I’m just absorbing how unfairly attractive he is in person.”
Shane shot her a look.
“What,” she said. “I can be supportive and observant.”
He dragged his gaze away and took a sip of his own drink, it tasted sharp and expensive and mostly like regret. He should have let it go there. He should have kept his distance but every few minutes his attention slid back, he swears it happened against his will.
Ilya laughing at something someone said, one hand loose around a glass, his face opening with real amusement. Ilya listening, the line between his brows faintly visible when he concentrated. Ilya touching the back of a chair as he moved past it, shoulders relaxed, entirely at ease in a room full of people watching him.
“Stop. Staring.”
Shane blinks, dragged abruptly back into himself. Beside him, Rose doesn’t even glance up from where she’s lazily circling the rim of her glass with her finger, condensation gathering beneath it in uneven rings. “I’m not staring,” Shane says automatically, even as his eyes flick back for half a second too long.
Rose exhales through her nose, unimpressed. “You’ve been ‘not staring’ for the past three minutes.”
He exhales sharply and drags his gaze away, jaw tight. “This is ridiculous,” he mutters. “He’s just walking around. Existing. Like he didn’t—”
“Like he didn’t stand you up?” Rose supplies.
Shane glares at her.
“Hmm.”
“Hmm?” Shane repeats. “That’s all you have? Hmm?”
“He is hotter in person,” she says calmly.
“Rose.”
“I’m just saying, if I were you, I’d be furious and conflicted.”
Shane presses his lips together and takes a deep breath. “I am not conflicted.”
Rose hums again, clearly unconvinced.
And then, because the universe is cruel and deeply invested in Shane’s humiliation, Ilya glanced up from a conversation and caught Shane staring. Their eyes met across the room.
Shane looked away a second too late and when he glanced back, Ilya was still looking. There’s a flicker of something brief, almost imperceptible, as recognition tries to form. His brows draw together slightly, like he’s placing a face without context.
Something in Shane’s chest tightens in a way that feels immediate and inconvenient.
Oh, now he recognizes me? Now?
Fucking fantastic.
Before Shane can decide whether to look away or commit to glaring, Ilya is already moving toward him. There’s a groundedness to the way he crosses the room, each step deliberate and assured, like he belongs exactly where he is at any given moment.
Shane feels, abruptly, like he does not. He becomes hyper-aware of himself in contrast, the way he’s sitting, the slight tension in his shoulders and the faint scatter of freckles across his nose that always seem more visible under this type of warm lighting. The softer lines of his face, the subtle markers of his Japanese heritage that people tend to notice second, not first.
Then one of the event coordinators appears at Shane’s elbow and the introduction happens before Shane can prepare for it. “Shane! There you are. Come meet one of our guests.”
“Ohh boy,” Rose said softly into her glass.
Shane turned his head slowly. “Don’t.”
She smiled without mercy and winked. “Have fun.”
Shane barely had time to glare at her before he was being steered towards him. This had to be some specific punishment, there was no other explanation.
“Ilya,” the coordinator said brightly, “this is Shane Hollander. He’s with community development, Shane’s been doing incredible work with the youth outreach side of the program.”
Ilya turns toward him fully.
Up close, he was almost distractingly physical. He smelled faintly clean, something like cedar and soap under the hotel air. The chain at his throat flashed when he moved. His eyes were sharper in person than any photo could manage, lighter too, and focused in a way that made Shane feel briefly pinned without being touched.
“Ilya Rozanov,” he says, extending his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
He looked at the hand for a second too long before taking it. Ilya’s grip doesn’t shift or hesitate, just holds firm enough to register.
“Yeah,” Shane said. “You too.” And pulls his hand back first.
The coordinator kept talking and Shane heard maybe a third of it. Enough to nod at the right times and enough to understand that he and Ilya were now, somehow, being encouraged to discuss future collaboration opportunities because the universe was not done with him.
And when the coordinator was pulled away by someone else, leaving the two of them standing there with a small, impossible silence between them, Ilya tilts his head slightly. “I think I have done something to offend you,” he said.
Shane almost laughed. Almost. “That’s a strong assumption.”
“It is kind of obvious.”
And there it is, that complete, unfiltered confusion. No guilt, no recognition, nothing.
Shane feels something tighten under his ribs. He crosses his arms, more defensive than he wants to admit. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Ilya studies him, not casually. He looks like he’s working something out. “You look at me,” he says slowly, “as if you dislike me very much.”
“I don’t know you,” Shane said.
“No,” Ilya agrees easily. “That is why I am asking.”
The infuriating thing was that he sounded genuinely curious. Shane feels something in him snap into place, defensive and sharp-edged. “Maybe you just have one of those faces,” he shrugs.
One of Ilya’s brows lifted very slightly. “A face people dislike?”
“A face that annoys me, apparently.”
That should have ended the conversation. For most people, it would have.
Ilya’s mouth curved just enough to suggest he understood this was an attempt to shut him down and had decided not to let it work. “That is very specific.”
“You asked.”
“That I did.”
There was a pause then and Shane became acutely aware of the room again. He was also acutely aware of how close Ilya stood, near enough that Shane could see the tiny shift in his jaw when he pressed his molars together and the way his thumb moved once against the side of his glass before going still.
“You really don’t know why I’m annoyed with you,” Shane said before he could stop himself.
“No.” Ilya’s answer is immediate.
Shane searched his face. There was nothing slippery in it. No trace of recognition and no concealed guilt. If this man was lying, he was operating on a level of social mastery Shane did not believe in.
“Interesting,” Shane muttered.
“Did I do something?”
That got a reluctant flash of humor out of him despite himself. It vanished as quickly as it came but Ilya saw it anyway. Shane knew he did because something in his expression softened, tiny and precise, like he had just confirmed a theory.
“I think,” Ilya said, “this conversation would go better somewhere less public.”
Shane barked out a laugh. “That sounds vaguely threatening.”
“It is not meant to.” Ilya considered that with maddening seriousness. “We could stand by the bar instead.”
Against all common sense, Shane found himself saying, “Fine. Five minutes. Then I reserve the right to continue disliking you.”
They moved toward a quieter stretch of the room near a hallway leading to the conference suites, away from the music and most of the crowd. The lighting was softer, warmer, and it made Ilya’s hair look even more unfair.
Shane hated how much his own body noticed things. The slight looseness in Ilya’s posture now that he was away from whatever public-facing role he had been performing. The way his attention sharpened when it had somewhere specific to land. The clean line of his throat where the crucifix rested.
“You stood me up,” Shane says flatly.
Ilya blinks. “I did not.”
“Oh, that’s interesting,” Shane says, crossing his arms, anger simmering once more beneath his skin. “Because I distinctly remember sitting in a café for forty-five minutes waiting for someone who looked exactly like you.”
“That was not me,” Ilya replies immediately, tone firm but not defensive.
Shane huffs. “Right. Of course. Must’ve been your identical twin who also uses your name and face on dating apps.”
“I don’t use dating apps.”
“Okay,” Shane says, sharper now, irritation rising again. “See, now you’re just—”
“I don’t,” Ilya cuts in, voice low but more insistent now . “I have never used one. And I would not arrange to meet someone and not show up.”
The conviction in it gives Shane pause because that doesn’t sound like a lie, it sounds like someone stating a fact.
He hesitates, irritation faltering at the edges. “I matched with someone using your name and face.”
For the first time all evening, Ilya went completely still. “He spoke to you as me,” Ilya glances at him again, sharper now, more focused. “And you thought it was me.”
“Well,” Shane gestures vaguely, “your face was involved. Kind of hard not to make that connection.”
“He arranged to meet you.”
“Yes.”
“And did not come.”
“No,” Shane says dryly. The single word sat between them with more weight than Shane had intended to give it. He felt the old embarrassment rise, warm and unwelcome.
“Show me.”
Shane frowns. “What?”
“The profile. The messages. Show me.”
Shane exhales, then pulls up the old screenshots he never quite deleted, shoving his phone toward him. Ilya takes it, expression tightening as he scrolls.
“This is insulting.” Ilya says, still looking at the screen. “He used my face,” Ilya finally looks up, eyes sharper now, “and this is what he says? ‘how r u’?”
Shane stares at him. “That’s what you’re mad about?”
“Yes.”
Shane lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And you believed this was me?” Ilya shoots back, one brow lifting slightly.
Shane rolls his eyes hard enough to feel it. “Fuck off. How would I know?”
“You thought I speak like this?” Ilya snaps, his accent slipping at the edges, consonants cutting a little sharper.
“I thought maybe you were bad at texting!”
“I am not bad at anything,” Ilya says, flat and certain.
And there it is again. That steadiness. The way he stands without shifting, like the ground doesn’t move under him. The way his gaze stays locked, like once he’s decided something matters, he doesn’t let it go.
Shane becomes aware of himself again in contrast, the looseness in his posture that isn’t really relaxed, the faint heat still sitting under his skin, the way his fingers flex once at his side like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them.
The space between them narrows without either of them moving much. And something about that, how sure Ilya is, how he doesn’t even question himself, stops being irritating and starts being something else entirely.
Shane presses his tongue briefly against his teeth, exhaling.
God.
That’s annoyingly hot.
Shane shifts his weight, one foot angling closer before he catches it, too late to take it back without making it obvious. It’s subtle, the kind of movement most people wouldn’t notice, but Ilya does. Of course he does. His gaze drops immediately, tracking the shift with quiet precision, following the line of Shane’s stance as the space between them closes by an inch. When he looks back up, it’s slower, his attention taking its time on the way.
And he doesn’t just look at Shane’s eyes. Ilya’s attention drags, over the set of his mouth, the faint tension in his jaw, the flush sitting high on his cheekbones.
Shane feels it, his jaw tightens. “Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?” Ilya asks, like he genuinely doesn’t know.
Shane looks at him properly now and that’s where it stops being manageable. Up close, it’s worse. The line of Ilya’s mouth is sharper than it should be, his lower lip just slightly fuller, parted like he’s about to say something even when he isn’t. There’s a faint shadow of stubble along his jaw and the crucifix at his throat shifts when he breathes, resting against his skin like it belongs there.
Shane’s gaze drops there for a second, the line of his throat, the open collar and then snaps back up like he didn’t mean to. “Looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
Shane exhales through his nose, dragging a hand briefly through his hair before letting it fall again, more restless than necessary. “Like you’re figuring something out.”
There’s a beat but it isn’t hesitation.
“I am,” Ilya says.
Shane glances back at him, quick and sharp, like he’s trying to catch him off guard and failing immediately because Ilya is still there, still watching him the same way.
Steady and patient, focused in a way that feels less like curiosity now and more like intention.
Shane’s gaze betrays him again before he can stop it, dropping briefly to Ilya’s mouth, then lower, to the open line of his collar where the first button sits undone, the faint glint of the chain catching the light. He pulls it back up quickly, but not quickly enough.
Ilya catches it this time.
There’s a small shift at the corner of his mouth, close enough to feel like he’s noticed something he intends to keep.
Shane presses his tongue against his teeth, the tension in his jaw easing into something else, something warmer and harder to ignore. He pushes off the wall first, turning toward the elevators without saying anything. Like if he keeps moving, he can channel the heat building inside him.
But it’s deliberate, an invitation wrapped in nonchalance.
Ilya moves with him. His steps steady and close, the faint scent of his cologne, clean with a hint of cedar trailing like a promise. The elevator doors open with a soft chime, Ilya steps in first before Shane and presses the button for the upper floor, the enclosed space amplifying everything.
He steps in close, towering yet gentle, his hand coming up to brace against the wall beside Shane’s head, caging him.
“You’re not walking away that easy,” Ilya murmurs, his voice low and accented. His free hand brushes Shane’s jaw, thumb tracing the line of freckles across his cheek.
Shane’s lips curve into a smirk, bossy even in the heat. “Who said I was?”
He leans in, closing the gap, and their mouths crash together, not rough but urgent, fueled by the tension that’s been simmering all night. Ilya’s lips are firm, tasting of mint and desire, and he kisses back with a softness that belies his strength, letting Shane set the pace even as his body presses forward. Shane’s hands fist in Ilya’s shirt, pulling him closer, their tongues sliding together in a slow, heated dance that makes Shane’s cock twitch against his slacks.
The elevator hums upward.
Ilya’s hand slides down Shane’s neck, over his collarbone, unbuttoning his shirt further with careful fingers, exposing more of that freckled skin. Shane groans into the kiss, nipping at Ilya’s lower lip, guiding him with a firm grip on his hip.
“More,” Shane demands softly, his voice breathy but commanding, and Ilya complies, his touch turning bolder. Ilya’s fingers dip under Shane’s waistband, teasing the skin there while their bodies grind together, cocks hardening through fabric.
When the doors ding open, they’re both flushed, shirts askew, breaths ragged. Ilya pulls back just enough to meet Shane’s eyes, his gold curls disheveled and toned chest glistening with a sheen of sweat.
Ilya’s hand settles on his back as they step out, guiding him down the hallway without pressure.
By the time they reach his room, they’re already too close.
They pause at the door just briefly, meeting Shane’s eyes again, dark orbs blown wide and glossy with arousal. Ilya's hand moves to the keycard and the lock clicks open, the door pushes inward.
Ilya gives Shane the choice, low and direct, asking if he wants to continue.
Shane steps inside, his perfectly styled hair now tousled, cheeks flushed with need, freckles standing out on his heated skin.
The door to the suite clicks shut behind them to reveal the luxurious space. Sleek lines, king bed with crisp sheets fading into the background as Shane learns immediately that Ilya doesn't waste time, his massive frame crowds him against the entry wall, mouth crashing down in a heated kiss, teeth clashing as tongues duel.
“You’re beautiful,” Ilya whispers against Shane’s skin, voice thick with lust and his lips trailing kisses down freckled shoulders. Shane's back arches, hands fisting in Ilya's curls, yanking him closer while his legs part instinctively.
"Get on the bed," Ilya commanded, his tone allowing no argument but Shane twisted them, pressing Ilya back instead, dropping fluidly to his knees. His face flushed as he unbuckled Ilya's belt, freeing the thick cock that strained against black briefs, veined and heavy, like the man wielding it. Shane's glossy hair fell forward as he engulfed the head, sucking with eager pulls, tongue lapping the salty bead at the tip. Ilya's hand fisted in his hair, hips snapping forward with controlled power.
"Da, suck it good Shane," he groaned, the words laced with his accent, veins bulging in his neck as Shane took him deeper, throat relaxing around the girth. Shane's hand pumping the base while the other fondled Ilya's sack, his thick thighs tensing under Shane’s touch.
Ilya hauled him up after a heated minute, eyes blazing. "Not finishing there. Need to bury myself in you." Ilya's mouth latches onto Shane's neck, sucking a mark into the skin just below his jaw, while his hand wraps around both their cocks, stroking them together in a tight fist, pre-cum mixing and the delicious friction making Shane writhe.
He gets pulled toward the bed, both of them stumbling in their haste, shedding the last of their clothes. They crash onto the king-sized mattress in a tangle of limbs, Ilya's weight pinning Shane down, their bare skin sliding slick with building sweat. Ilya's hand trails down Shane's sweat-slicked chest, fingers tracing his nipples with deliberate softness.
He presses a kiss to Shane's shoulder, lips lingering, then murmurs against his skin, "On your stomach," voice a rumble as he flips Shane with effortless strength.
Shane shivers at the command but complies eagerly, his ass lifting in silent invitation. The movement is eager, almost needy, and he glances back over his shoulder, dark eyes half-lidded. Ilya's answering smile is soft, his hands warm as they part Shane's cheeks, thumbs spreading him open to reveal the tight pucker. He doesn't dive in immediately. Instead, he leans down and presses a kiss to the small of Shane's back, then another to each cheek, taking his time. Shane's toes curl, a low moan vibrating in his chest.
Then Ilya's tongue touches him, broad and flat, dragging up over the hole in one slow, wet stripe. Shane gasps, fingers fisting the sheets. Ilya explores him with methodical tenderness, circling the rim, dipping inside in short, teasing thrusts that make Shane's hips push back, seeking more. There's no rush as Ilya licks and sucks like he's savoring every taste, one hand stroking Shane's hip, grounding him, while the other kneads the firm curve of his ass.
"God, Ilya.." Shane's voice cracks, half plea, half praise.
Ilya pulls back, his lips shiny, a glint of hunger in his blue eyes. He kisses up Shane's spine, trailing warm, open-mouthed kisses along each vertebra until he reaches his ear. "Tell me what you need."
Shane turns his head and captures Ilya's mouth in a messy kiss then breaks it with a whisper, “Fuck me like you mean it.”
Ilya doesn't need to be told twice. One finger slides in slow, the stretch familiar and electric. When did Ilya even get the lube Shane is too far gone to figure it out as he moans loudly, pushing back onto the digit, his cock grinding against the sheets, already slick with pre-cum.
"More. Stretch me more," he begs, voice breathy, dark hair fanning across the pillow and a second finger joins, scissoring gently and opening him up with careful precision. Ilya watches Shane's face, reads every twitch and gasp, adjusting his angle until he finds that spot inside.
He curves his fingers and presses, sending sparks up Shane's spine. "There?" Ilya asks, voice tender. And Shane's broken "Yes! Fuck, yes," is all the confirmation he needs.
Soon a third finger slides in and Ilya works them in and out, stretching the ring of muscle with patience, crooking to massage Shane's prostate until he's trembling, a litany of Russian words falling from Ilya's lips.
"So beautiful like this," Ilya murmurs, pressing a kiss to Shane's shoulder blade.
When Shane is loose and desperate, Ilya withdraws his fingers, reaching for a condom. He rolls it on with deliberate slowness, letting Shane watch. Then slicks himself with lube, his cock thick and heavy in his fist.
He positions himself at Shane's entrance, the head nudging against the tight ring and pauses, leans over and presses his forehead to Shane's shoulder, breath warm. "You ready for me, Shane?"
Shane answers with a push back, a demand in the arch of his spine. "Get inside me, now."
And then Ilya pushes in agonizingly slow, inch by thick inch. The stretch is exquisite, burning and full, and Shane gasps, his walls clenching around the invasion.
Ilya groans, deep and guttural, his hips pausing when he's fully seated, balls flush against Shane's skin. "Fuck, you're so fucking tight," he breathes, voice strained with the effort of holding still.
"Move, Ilya." Shane pants, nails digging into the sheets. "Please."
Ilya starts a rhythm that's smooth and powerful. Deep, rolling thrusts that drive the breath from Shane's lungs. His hips snap forward with controlled force, the bedframe groaning beneath them but his hands stay gentle.
One braced on the mattress beside Shane's head, the other sliding down to grip his hip, thumb stroking the jut of bone. "So good for me," Ilya murmurs, picking up the pace.
Shane braces on his elbows, shoving back to meet each thrust, their bodies slapping together in a wet, primal rhythm. Ilya's hand snakes around to grip Shane's chest, pulling him up, arching his back, and captures his mouth in a kiss over the shoulder. Lips bruised, tongues sloppy, breaths mingling. Sweat drips from Ilya's gold curls onto Shane's freckled shoulders, the crucifix swinging to brush his skin like a heated brand.
"Harder there! Yes, fuck!" Shane pants, fingers clawing at the sheets. Ilya shifts his angle, hips hammering against Shane's prostate with relentless precision, his thighs flexing with every drive.
"You feel so fucking good," Ilya pants, voice cracking with lust and he slows just enough to grind deep, circling his hips, letting Shane feel every inch of him.
Shane's cock leaks steadily against the sheets, the pressure of pleasure coiling tight in his gut.
His hand reaches back, finds Ilya's gripping his hip, and laces their fingers together. "Babe, I'm gonna cum. Holy shit, Ilya—fuck, I'm gonna!" Shane cries, body starting to tense. The endearment slips out raw and unguarded, and Ilya stills for half a second.
He bends down to press his lips to Shane's ear, "Do it, Shane. Milk me dry."
His fist wraps around Shane's cock, slick with pre-cum, stroking in time with his thrusts, thumbing the slit, while his other hand holds their joined fingers tight. Shane comes with a shattered cry, body clenching around Ilya's cock as waves of pleasure rip through him. Ilya fucks him through it, slower now, deeper, and follows a moment later with a low, aching groan, burying his face in Shane's neck as he spills into the condom, his whole body shuddering.
They collapse together, Ilya careful not to crush Shane, rolling to the side as they both try to catch their breaths.
“Babe,” Ilya repeats softly, like he’s trying the word on.
Shane goes a little still at that, then huffs out a quiet breath. “Shut up, that doesn’t count,” he shakes his head, a faint, embarrassed smile tugging at his mouth. “Heat of the moment.”
After, the world feels quieter.
There’s still the faint hum of the city beyond the windows, the distant rush of traffic far below but inside, everything feels quieter, like the noise has been pushed back just enough to make space for the aftermath.
Shane stays where he is for a moment, staring up at the ceiling, his breathing still a little uneven as it finds its rhythm again. It takes him a second to catch up to himself, to the fact that this actually happened and that none of it was imagined.
That this, this is real.
Beside him, Ilya shifts. Their arms brush, skin still warm and Shane lets out a quiet breath, turning his head just enough to look at him. “..So,” he says.
Ilya glances back at him, expression calmer now, the earlier intensity settled into something steadier. “So,” he echoes.
There’s a beat where Shane just looks at him, taking him in properly this time without the distraction of everything else. The looseness in his demeanor now, the way his hair has fallen further out of place, the crucifix resting against his chest again like it’s found its usual place.
“You’re definitely not a catfish,” Shane says finally.
Ilya huffs out a quiet laugh, the sound low but bright. “I should hope not.”
A small smile pulls at Shane’s mouth, something softer than anything he’s shown all night. “Good,” he says.
The word sits there for a second, simple and easy, and then he adds, a little quieter, “I’m glad I met you. For real this time.”
Ilya looks at him then, not just a glance but really looking. “I am glad too,” he says.
It isn’t said lightly and it doesn’t feel like a throwaway response. Shane watches him for a second then lets out a small breath, shifting onto his side without thinking too much about it, the movement bringing him closer without asking permission for it.
Ilya’s hand comes to rest at his side, fingers warm against his skin. He doesn’t pull him in, not right away. He just leaves it there, steady, like he’s giving Shane the space to move if he wants to.
He doesn’t.
Ilya glances toward the bedside clock for a second, then back at him. “We will get coffee tomorrow,” he says.
Shane blinks, the shift catching him off guard just enough to make him huff out a quiet, disbelieving breath. “Coffee?” he repeats, one brow lifting slightly.
“Yes,” Ilya says, like it’s obvious. “I owe you coffee, remember?”
Shane blinks. “What?”
“You were supposed to have one,” Ilya says. “That did not happen.”
“That wasn’t technically your fault.”
“Still,” Ilya replies. “I would like to correct it.”
Shane lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head as he looks at him again, something warmer settling under his ribs now, easier than before. “Fine,” he says. “Let's get coffee tomorrow.”
Ilya nods once. “For now,” he adds, voice quieter, “sleep.”
He shifts closer as he says it, arm sliding around Shane’s waist in an easy, unspoken motion that pulls him in without asking. It happens like the most natural thing in the world and Shane goes with it, settling against Ilya.
And for once, he doesn’t argue.