Archive of Our Own

There's not a lot that Ilya can claim to be envious of. Not in the usual sense, at least. He's hot, probably one of the hottest men on campus — and that's being humble because he'd venture, on his more confident days, that he is the hottest man on campus — and has no qualms about using his looks to get what he wants. But he doesn't just settle for the pretty privilege; he's not boring. He's smart where it counts, in acing his exams, in sweet-talking pretty things into his bed, in pissing off the second-hottest man on campus. He's also good on money, good with money, and not because his father's a particularly generous man.

Even if that's what a lot of people choose to think. Ilya doesn't actively tell people about his little side hustle, but he isn't ashamed of it. Besides, he's sure some clever little genius would connect the dots if they happen to stumble across his porn page and recognise his moles or his glorious cock. 

Regardless, there isn't a lot Ilya finds himself jealous over. Except for the occasionally nigging feeling of unfairness when someone speaks fondly of their father, or when siblings banter with smiles that aren't braised in blood and mutual hatred, or when he watches a mother fuss over her child no matter the age. Except for those, Ilya doesn't get jealous.

Until he's rummaging through Troy's fridge for more beer and overhears two girls in a drunk, too-loud conversation nearby.

“I honestly can't believe he's gay. It, like, actually devastated me,” says one girl that Ilya vaguely recognises as one he's hooked up with a few times. She used to be his wildest, once. Not anymore, which is almost sad. For her, not for him. Losing Ilya and good sex is a tragedy.

“I mean, I can kind of believe it. I remember the few times we hooked up he just never actually fucked me.”

“Oh, yeah. Same, actually. He just ate me out until I thought I was gonna die.”

“Fuck, yes. He was so good at that!”

Well, it's not unheard of. Ilya pops the cap off his beer and takes a swing, relishing the cool condensation down his throat. He's about to move on, find Bood so he can nag him about playing another round of pool, when another girl joins the conversation and Ilya literally freezes in place.

“Wait, who are we talking about?” New girl asks. 

“Shane Hollander and his magic fucking tongue that's apparently gay.”

Record scratch. Nails on a chalkboard scratch. Dog claw on door scratch. All the scratches. 

Hollander?

“Oh my god, yes! I was just talking to Angie about it the other day. Did you know he apparently, like, ate her pussy until she was crying?”

“I can believe it,” the first girl says with a sigh, leaning back against the counter. “I thought he was just the one guy ever who genuinely got off on munching.”

The second girl chimes in with a wistful tone that has Ilya's hairs rising, “He didn't even take his pants off with me. Just pushed my skirt up and went to town.”

“No!”

“Yes! I literally begged for his dick but he just laughed and told me to enjoy myself.”

A shiver rucks down Ilya's spine.

“Ugh, men get everything,” says the new girl, folding her arms over her chest. “Can't believe they get Shane Hollander, too.”

“Selfish bastards.”

“Mmmhm.”

That's the end of that conversation, but definitely not in Ilya's head. His mind is reeling as he strolls, aimless, through the house amid other college students, the buzz of the party fading from his skin, replaced by an all-too familiar feeling.

Because he is intimately familiar with Shane Hollander. Since their freshman year, in fact, when he caught sight of a boy with freckles and deer-in-headlights eyes in a locker room. He'd signed for the university hockey team on a whim, a childhood nostalgia that fed his spare time with competitive spirit. His lick for being an irritating asshole is practically welcome on the ice, and he's had enough hockey experience to know he'd be able to skate circles around everyone else, which he loves to do. And then, first practice of the year, and for once in his life, he wasn't the person besting everyone else in the room.

It was Shane Hollander.

Ilya still remembers the flare of arousal that pumped hot and annoyed in his gut the first time Shane showed him up. Proved himself Ilya's rival. In the beginning, he mistook the sensation for dislike, because who would enjoy being second place?

And then, next practice, Ilya pushed himself until his calves burned and his lungs exhumed ice. He exerted every last inch of himself and did better. And, when he looked over at Hollander, smug and bursting with arrogance, the heated bite of fury in those brown eyes made all the blood from his head rush to his dick.

Worser, still, they actually had to share a dorm that year. In close proximity, snarling and snapping and holding back from doing… something. Anything.

A few weeks later, after consistently grappling for their spot as the better hockey player — despite playing on the same team, mind you — Ilya pinned Shane Hollander against their dorm shower wall and kissed him until they were both red in the face.

The rest, as they say, is history. Almost four years, now, they've been hooking up. Rivals-turned-friends to everyone else, but fuck buddies behind closed doors. And not even constant, at first, because Hollander was so deep in the closet that he never let Ilya touch him unless he was incredibly pent up, which usually happened every two weeks. Like clockwork. And Ilya, horny bastard extraordinaire, kept his usual string of one night stands while he waited for the next time that Shane would eventually crack and make bratty demands for his dick.

He knows he's Shane's first guy, his first gay experience. It goes to his head, sometimes, especially now that Shane's accepted his sexuality and came out quietly. Technically, Shane can have his pick of the crop. There are enough gay men here to form their own hockey team and then some, but he always comes back to Ilya.

Ilya thought he knew everything there was to know about Shane's sexual habits. His quirks. How his gag reflex is almost non-existent, how his ass craves to be filled if he goes too long without it, how he loves to be kissed so much that, if Ilya really tries, he can get Shane off just by sucking his tongue.

He's never once heard about Shane being good at eating pussy.

Shane's rather mum on his experiences with girls. Hates talking about it, gets all ruddy in the face and across his deliciously cute freckles. No matter how much Ilya pokes the bear, it just doesn't wake up, so he knows nothing about it. Women used to flock to Shane, before, and Ilya always just assumed that yeah, Shane might not have enjoyed sex with girls, but if his track record with Ilya is anything to go by, then he isn't a neglectful partner in the slightest. 

But, now, some things are starting to click.

I literally begged for his dick but he just laughed and told me to enjoy myself.

Ripping himself out of the throng of sweaty bodies and alcohol-thick air, Ilya ignores the trickle of moisture crawling down his neck while he thinks about it. About Hollander on his knees, on his back, or standing with legs wrapped around his shoulders. The lower half of his face buried between a girl's legs, tongue buried in her cunt and watching her lose her mind. Those thick brows scrunched in concentration, his jaw working, making small, grunting noises while he eats. Would he even get hard from it? Or would he have to picture something to even be able to do the job enthusiastically?

Ilya loves munching. Loves eating people out. Cunt or ass, he isn't picky. There's little that's quite as salacious as thighs caging your head while the body you taste writhes under your touch. But, for some reason, he's never really entertained the idea of his ass getting munched on.

He thinks of that girl's comment. —just laughed and told me to enjoy myself.

Pictures Shane's smile, his chin and mouth glistening, before he holds her down and laps at her cunt until her limbs are useless and he can just. Leave. 

Pictures himself there, instead of the girl. Of Shane's large hands on his thighs, holding him open, ignoring his leaking cock and instead making a meal of his asshole. His dark eyes, the flush on his cheeks. He wouldn't leave. Ilya wouldn't let him.

Ilya can honestly say that he isn't envious of many things in life, except for healthy family dynamics.

And every single girl who's had Shane Hollander's head between her legs.

It becomes abundantly clear just how well known Shane is to the female populace of their campus, which is really starting to piss Ilya off.

It's not that he hasn't noticed the looks before. He'd be blind not to, like Shane. Girls will stare when he walks past, or whisper to their friends, or do that thing where they take one glance and then stare blankly at the floor or their phone because they're fighting the instinct to look back at the hottest man they've ever seen. Ilya's seen all of this before, has had it directed towards him, and never gave it a second thought.

But now, he can't. Stop. Thinking.

How many of these girls have had Shane's tongue in their wet cunts? How many have squeezed his head with their thighs? How many have ridden his face?

He likes to think that most of his near ire about the situation is because Shane is his natural rival. Sure, they've grown way past that, but they still get competitive. And what the hell does Super Gay Shane Hollander have any business being better at eating pussy than Ilya? Because apparently, he does. Otherwise, girls wouldn't be lamenting about their loss of his skills.

But Ilya isn't too good at lying to himself when it comes to Shane. It's proven too difficult, and not just about this.

“Are you planning on eating that after you're done stabbing it to death?” Svetlana asks, eyes darting pointedly between his face and the fork he's jabbing into his cafeteria pasta.

Scrunching his nose irritably, Ilya shovels a noodle into his mouth. Alfredo sauce, white and creamy. He hates his brain for drawing up the image of his own come on Shane's lips in this exact shade, because it's gross, and because he's pent up enough.

“Who pissed in your cereal?” 

“I'm eating pasta.” Fuck, that's such a Shane way to answer. He's spending too much time with him. And not enough time sitting on his face. Not that he ever has, anyway.

The reminder sours his mood further.

“Clearly someone pissed in that, too.”

With a roll of his eyes, he sets his fork down to guzzle a swig of his iced Coke. He shouldn't be so weird about all this. Shane ate pussy — so what? Ilya's eaten twice as much and actually liked it. By any means, Shane should be the jealous one.

But why would he be? Ilya's obsessed with his hole, loves licking it, sucking it, fucking it. It's not like Shane's only got dreams and second-hand stories heard at a party to go off of. He has Ilya's best work all packed into that ass.

God fucking damn it all.

“Okay, seriously, what is wrong with you?” Svetlana grabs his wrist to stop his fork-stomping, eyes bugging out of her head. “Who pissed you off?”

He sniffs. “Women.”

She stares at him, lips mashing together in an attempt to stave off a scoff. “I thought you were a feminist?”

“I think you should all be banned from universities, actually. Back to the kitchens.”

“Wow. Give me that fork, you have something in your eye.”

That brings a smile to his face, though it quickly falls as he sinks back in his chair, arms crossed. There are questions burning inside him, poking fire at his throat. Questions he can't ask Shane, because Shane probably won't answer. And Ilya would rather die than ask him, anyway.

“Did you ever sleep with Hollander?” He glances up at Svetlana, who gives him a deadpan look.

“No. You forbade it, remember?” She points her spoon at him. “After I very smartly suggested a very hot threesome?”

“He would not have been interested in you,” he defends, which they both know isn't the reason he all but barred Svetlana from touching Shane. He couldn't stop the rest of the world, unfortunately, but he settled for their circle of friends.

“You didn't know that back then.” She shrugs, nails clinking on her glass as she reaches for her drink. “We all thought he was a ladies man like you. Girls wouldn't stop talking about how good he was at oral.”

Oh, for fuck's sake!

Ilya thunks his head on the table, whacking hard in the hopes that he'll pass out and forget everything to do with this topic. This dreadful, awful, haunting topic.

“I still don't get who you're mad at,” Svetlana says, an edge of amusement in her tone.

“Women!”

“You're so fucking annoying.”

Ilya shovels pasta into his mouth and resolutely does not ask Svetlana anything else about what girls can't shut up about.

Ilya

did shane eat you out when you were together?

Rose Landry

Wow.

Hello to you too, Ilya!

Ilya

hello, Rose Landry

Rose Landry

The fact that you capitalise my name and nothing else is very ominous, I hope you know that.

Ilya

pls just answer the question

Rose

Why do you want to know??

Ilya

half the campus is moaning about how good mr gay hollander is at eating pussy

it is bad for my reputation

i need to know his secret

Rose

Right, yeah.

Your reputation.

That's what's bothering you.

Ilya

yes 

this is very serious 

Rose

You want details on how he ate me out? Are you REALLY asking me that?

Because yeah, he was really good. Broke my heart to let him go.

He's so bad at everything else

But that man can eat

I forgot how to breathe once!

Ilya

…

i regret this conversation

pls pretend it never happened

Rose

Wait! I'm not done telling you about this trick he did with his tongue

Ilya

goodbye Rose Landry !!

Rose

Lol pussy

Ilya

yes

that is the problem

It's too early in the morning, but Ilya's up. Filming.

He's long since learned that his audience — primarily women — prefer when his more explicit content is implied. Moody, dazed lighting, a hand in his sweats with his shirt rucked up, so that instead of seeing his cock getting fisted, they can watch the way his abdomen tightens and shivers with pleasure. When tasteful nudes run dry for the month, he posts one video to last the masses a good few masturbatory sessions. 

Really, he started posting for one person in particular since sophomore year. The account began as a side hustle, and now it's more an archive, a love letter, for a certain roommate currently snoozing like the dead in the room just down the hall from Ilya.

Ilya knows Shane's subscribed to him. Caught it on his phone, once, left trusting on the dorm counter while Ilya uploaded a nude and sipped his morning coffee. Watched the screen light up with a notification.

81to9inches uploaded a new photo!

He'd almost dropped his mug all over their shared, ugly ass, moth-scented carpet. The splash of color might have done the room some good.

He never confronted Shane on it. Didn't want to scare off his sweet, horny little bunny. Because Shane used to be a skittish brat, back then, who knew of Ilya's account because Ilya bragged about his following, and always scrunched his nose in pretend-disgust.

So, since then, every nude, every video, every photo of his spent dick laying lazy on his stomach has been just for his Shane.

Nowadays, Shane outright teases him about it, but hasn't come clean about subscribing. Maybe he never will, the coy bastard, but Ilya knows. And that's all it takes.

“Mmmm,” he moans softly, letting the gravel of his voice hit the mic. His face is hidden, out of view, with the camera focused on where his hand is buried in his sweats, moving in lazy, stroking motions. He presses his free thumb into a bruise on his stomach — a mark of teeth from a vicious man with deceptively sweet eyes. That same sweetness blooms from the pain of the bite, spreading down in glossy runs to his throbbing cock.

Shane marks him now. Especially in places where he knows Ilya will film for his account. It drives the comments crazy, boosts the engagement, because people, for some reason, like watching a marked man get himself off. 

Shane's possessive enough to leave love bites all over him, but not generous enough to share his mouth where he's never gone. Not like with his girls.

… that man can eat.

Rose fucking Landey gets that mouth on her, but Ilya hasn't? It's unjust. Criminal. Ilya's been a better lover than anyone Shane's ever slept with, he knows that for a fact. It's why Shane always came back to him in the beginning. And yet, Shane selfishly keeps that little talent all to himself, doesn't even mention it to Ilya!

Injustice. Unfairness. How dreadful.

Ilya angrily fists himself, staring up at the ceiling with his brows furrowed tight. He wants Shane to burst into his room. Wants him to grapple with Ilya, force him onto his stomach and present his hole. Wants him to bury his face there, leave his teeth indents all around the backs of Ilya's thighs and the meat of his ass, so that Ilya can take a picture and post it. He'll probably never play with his ass for the online masses, but they'll know. They'll know that his hidden lover gets that privilege when no one else can.

Ilya comes into his sweatpants with a stifled grunt, body jerking, and yet. His core is deeply unsatisfied.

Spending time with Shane is always fun, because they are good friends at the end of the day, but it's been six days since Ilya found out about the Pussy Munching, and he's starting to mouth at the proverbial bit. 

Shane is just… wonderful. Everything about him. There's an unfortunate side effect to fixating on him, and that is that it is quite inevitable that one will end up developing feelings that are impossible to wrangle or ignore. Ilya's seen more than his fair share of people falling head over heels for Hollander, but he's also had the added benefit of having tasted him, fucked him. He doubts there's a world where a person can have a lick from Shane's tongue and not immediately want to propose, it's absurd.

More than that, he's a delight to be around. Ilya would never admit to it, indisposed as he is to the scrunch of Shane's brow when he's dubbed as boring, but Shane really is magnetic. Dry humor wrapped in bone-searing sincerity, with an affinity to rudeness around very specific people that he feels comfortable with. He's the sort of friend you can trust with anything, the kind who remembers details about your life and will ask incessant questions about everything you tell him.

He's fun, and steady, and so, so boring. Ilya likes just being around him more than he likes fucking him.

Unfortunately, the past week has proven fucking impossible. All Ilya can think of when he sees Shane, when he watches him talk, is how he'd gone to their shared apartment with Wyatt after that party and ordered a goddamn toy designed to mimic ass-eating in a fit of jealous arousal. And, when it arrived the next day, Ilya's hardly separated from it. He's married to it. It's married to his asshole.

The worst, best, unfathomable part of it all is that he sees Shane daily. They have an apartment together, which they decided on after Shane came out and felt comfortable enough being around Ilya frequently in public. Ilya sees him sleepy, sees him groggy, sees him sweaty after a run and fresh from the shower.

And then he sees Shane on campus. Hangs with him in cafeterias, after classes, with friends. It's never been this much torture, but Ilya's so fixated on Shane's mouth that it genuinely haunts him.

By the time he gets home after every day, his entire body is thrumming and tense. He makes the hurried rush to his underwear drawer and digs around beneath the layers of material for one of his three beloved sex toys.

Three, because being around Shane usually has Ilya in one of three moods.

One: when Shane cares for him. Friendship softened the edges of their dynamic, and ever since they moved in together with Wyatt, Ilya has seen a side of Shane he's never been privy to before. How Shane will make extras of his meal preps and smoothies to share with Ilya. How he'll remind Ilya to drink water after making him a coffee every morning. How he'll keep Ilya company on days when they both just need quiet companionship.

How his eyes will warm, suffusing with affection, and Ilya's stomach will bare itself.

On these days, Ilya usually just needs something, anything, on his dick, and the well-worn fantasy of Shane's throat. His tongue on Ilya's tip, lapping up pearls of precum greedily enough that Ilya wonders if this is for his sake or Shane's own. He's used that particular dream so much that the edges have started fraying like a used blanket. And it still warms him to the core. Makes him cum faster than anything else.

For these moods, all Ilya needs is the electronic milking toy he bought off some dodgy website that works surprisingly well. Technology has come far enough that warming hardware in suction toys is a thing, and fuck, sliding the device over his hard cock is an easy favorite. He can just lie back, close his eyes, and dream while it works him to a heavy orgasm. Picturing it as Shane's mouth, humming in pleasure around him, taking care of him, makes it all the better. 

Two: seeing Shane in his element. Not just when he's training on the ice or studying, but also when he's excited about something meaningful to him. Or when he's lounging on their couch, playing video games with Wyatt with such a concentrated look on his face that it has Ilya's pants tightening and need broiling in his blood. Because he wants to be looked at like that by Shane. He wants to be the center of Shane's focus. Always. Forever. He wants to be the joystick Shane kicks his fingers over with singular purpose.

Ilya needs something else, on those days. When he can't get his hands on Shane in the middle of a game match with Wyatt, he'll retreat to his room and pull out the love doll stashed deep in his closet, a silicone mold with just a pussy and ass that he has to stop himself from rutting into like an animal. It's easy to picture Shane under him because it's happened so many times, and it's the only times Ilya can say, with confidence, that all of Shane's focus, his being, is entirely on Ilya.

This toy has a special place in his heart, not just because he can fuck it while pretending it's Shane. But because he's fucked it with Shane, once, in the beginning of their romps. Back when Shane still pretended to like girls. He'd bent Shane over his dorm room bed and slid his cock into the toy, watched Shane sputter and squirm until Ilya took pity and filled his hole like he needed it. Made Shane thrust into the toy so he could also hitch his hips back, fucking himself on both ends until he cried out and hid his face in Ilya's mattress.

Ilya made Shane watch as he licked his come out of the toy. It's only now that he wishes he made Shane do it himself. Made him show Ilya how he eats his girls out.

Three: the newer mood, which is daily. From the night of that party. At this point, it doesn't even need a trigger. Ilya will spend time with Shane, smell his cologne, feel his body's warmth, and watch his mouth move.

Always, his bones will hiss with relentless zipping, spitting heat until he gets to his room and does something about it. Turns on the anal licking toy and bites his fist so hard that he leaves indents while the rest of his limbs clench. Begs into his arm for Shane to lick him deeper, bend him over and make a mess of his hole.

Six days. Now, his nails dig into the silicone red of the toy held between his legs. Pleasure bleeds down his spine, warm and loose, and he knocks his head back against his pillow. He'd gone to lunch with Shane, Troy and Harris, spent the entire afternoon with his thigh pressed against Shane's. Watching that pouty mouth purse around a straw, smeared with ketchup from his veggie burger that Ilya had wiped with his thumb to earn a heart-wobbling smile. 

Shane paid for his and Ilya's meal, swatted Ilya's hand the moment he reached for his wallet. Gave him a little glare and everything. 

Memories of his hands cradling a stick and firing at moving pucks flashes through Ilya's mind. They had practice that morning, too. Shane's long fingers wrapped around the shaft of the stick, his body in a natural center's pose because he's been trained for it. His eyes, honing—

Hissing through his teeth as a pulse of want scores his belly, Ilya's hips buck, legs dragging over the sheets of his bed. He can't stop squirming, pressing the toy harder between his thighs as he imagines those fingers thrusting holding him down, curling devilishly. Tension is building in the base of his spine, ready to snap, to carry him over.

“Fuck…” he gasps, deciding he isn't in the mood to edge himself tonight. Too many hours of Shane is enough foreplay. Bracing himself, the toy hums and suckles at his hole, pulsating, and the sweet warmth in his core is seconds away from flushing to the rest of him. Just a few more breaths, and—

Abruptly, the stimulation stops. His eyes fly open, jerking down to the offensive interruption of what would've been a good orgasm. Raising it away from his hole, he ignores the lubed-up silicone to instead focus on the small interface embedded in the base. Displayed, in quiet red, is the empty battery icon flashing against the black backdrop of the screen.

“Are you actually fucking serious?” he groans aloud, tossing the toy onto the bed with a growl that echoes in the room. 

Frustration burns under his skin. Not just from his interrupted orgasm, but from all of it. He still gets Shane regularly, now, gets to fuck him in all sorts of places ever since they moved in together. Sure, they still keep it under wraps, but all they have to do is wait for Wyatt to vacate the premises, and then Shane is crawling into Ilya's lap to kiss him senseless. They've christened every square inch of this apartment, sans Wyatt's room because they're not that gross. 

Ilya can have him whenever. Wherever, almost. Yet, this one thing dangles out of his reach, a conspicuous desire that balls a meteor in his chest and keeps collecting stragglers of thoughts, echoes, dreams. Every time the words will you please eat my pussy locks behind his teeth, reluctance and embarrassment shove them down with a ferocity that shocks even him. He's not ashamed of sex, of any kind, and he's never been. There's a reason his cam-boy side business works so well — Ilya is as shameless as they come.

However, to voice this singular need, even to Shane… Ilya can't. Can't even entertain the idea of Shane pulling away and politely declining, or worse, doing it just because it's what Ilya wants. Sex is so good for them because their drives and kinks are so fucking aligned; not to mention the not-so-dormant emotional connection that's becoming harder to ignore. Ilya doesn't want to ruin that.

Miserable about his dead toy and having to resign himself to an eternity without Shane's tongue near his butt, Ilya fails to hear the front door of the apartment open and close. But what he does hear, down the hall and accompanied by light, familiar footsteps—

“Ilya?”

Shane.

Ilya jerks upright and tugs the blanket over himself and the stupid sex toy while his heart makes the prompt decision to drop out of his ass. His stomach swoops as he looks up in time; peeking through the ajar bedroom door is the object of all his fantasies. The reason he's currently naked from the waist down beneath his blanket, his dick throbbing and his hole vibrating with need. Shane's tall frame slips through the gap, his head tilting as he regards Ilya with his usual greeting affection. In his hand is a pink bag Ilya recognises as the takeaway from a pastry shop he particularly loves.

So, Shane heads out to study and returns with, presumably, a criminal amount of cream puffs just for Ilya because he knows he likes them.

Sweet.

Ilya's going to fucking kill him.

“Normal people knock, Hollander,” Ilya hisses, carefully scooting to sit up properly and hide the way the blanket falls over his legs. 

Shane stares at him, a little bewildered, and then knocks on the door with his free hand. Four times, quick, polite succession, with a smile that suggests he's sincerely happy with himself.

Goddammit. Ilya snorts and pinches the bridge of his nose, praying for some kind of mercy from all this. He doesn't even know why he reacted like this. Shane's walked in on him fucking other people before, in their first year, so it's not like either of them are unused to the spectacle of it.

The toy is nestled against Ilya's thigh, wet with lube. He fluffs at the blanket to hide its shape while Shane takes off his jacket and hangs it properly over the back of Ilya's desk chair. “What're you up to?”

“Jerking off.”

Shane gives him a look, lips quirking. Shrugging, he strides further into the room, closing the door. Normally, his easy confidence in essentially invading Ilya's personal space would've made him feel warm inside. There's no need for propriety between the two of them, after all. But now, painfully aware of his own vulnerability, Ilya can't imagine a worser time for Shane's comfort around him.

“I can't even remember the last time I knocked on your door. Maybe freshman year.”

Yeah, all those polite Canadian manners left the fucking building after the first year. So much for Polite Mr. Hollander.

“A heads-up would've still been nice.” Ilya's voice comes out groggy, and if Shane notices, he doesn't comment on it. So, he probably doesn't notice. “I don't like when my jerk-off sessions are interrupted.”

“Pretty sure you've preferred it when I interrupted you in the past.” Shane takes the liberty of unloading the pastry bag onto Ilya's desk. Ilya spots his serene expression in the mirror facing them both, watch his eyes catch his own in the reflection. His grin is small and genuine. “Anyway, figured we could catch up a bit? It's been a week since we've actually got to be alone together.”

Ilya swallows hard. Fuck. Yeah, it's been a week because Ilya has been avoiding being alone with Shane for longer than ten minute intervals. Any more than that and he risks opening his stupid fat mouth.

“Yes, sounds good.” Ilya presses his lips together and flashes him a smile he hopes doesn't look strained. “You make the coffee, then. I want to change.”

Please go make the fucking coffee, he prays. Of course, the universe likes to laugh at him. And so does Shane. With all the pride of a K9 whose's correctly done his duty for the night, he waves Ilya off, pulling out two thick cups from within the bag.

“Already bought some!” 

Ilya laughs, sharp and a little hysterical. “Wow, so sure of yourself, Hollander. What if I wanted to hang out with Pike?”

“I think Hell would freeze over before that happened.”

“Something cold would be helpful right now,” Ilya mutters to himself, adjusting the blanket on top of himself. Shane tilts his head, considering Ilya for a long moment.

His asshole gives a whining throb, a sensation he is wholly unused to. Though his oncoming orgasm has long left his reaching grasp, he's still high-strung, his chest just barely keeping from heaving. What a mess he must look to Shane, now. His own reflection is all parted lips and red cheeks, eyes that look deeply horrified and yet reveal chasms of whatever the fuck is making his stomach tighten right now. Nervousness? More desire? Having Shane here when Ilya's just been toying with his own hole is really not good for the old ‘totally nonchalant over you’ act.

“Hold on,” Shane begins. “You weren't kidding, were you?”

“What?”

“You were actually jerking off before I got here.”

Ilya huffs. “So what? My dick is healthy.”

To his eternal dismay, Shane steps close enough to the bed for him to reach out and press the back of his hand to Ilya's forehead. His fingers are a hot-cold shock to Ilya's skin, and he fights the urge to lean into it, to cherish the delicate touch. With Shane leaning over him, his shadow casts over Ilya's form, blocking the dim light from the small lamp on the desk. 

“You're burning up,” Shane remarks, voice dropping. His fingers trace down Ilya's temple, over his cheek. Nibbling his lip, his gaze drops to the blanket, a familiar flush of desire blooming at his ears. “It's been a while since last time.”

A while meaning a week. To them, it might as well be months for all they're now used to having each other at a beck and call.

“Yes,” Ilya says, dazed. Shane blinks at him, slow, honeyed, and leans down to take his mouth; as desperate as Ilya is to keep his latest obsession to himself, he'd rather die than ever refuse a kiss from Shane Hollander.

It's as easy as breathing to kiss him, to worship the curves of his lips. They're as known to Ilya as his own body's limits, an extension of who he is. When he catalogues himself every morning, when he wakes and subconsciously checks that every limb is present, every organ functioning, every breath measured, he always feels the absence of Shane's mouth like a missing arm.

“Fuck, I miss your cock,” Shane grunts, hiking a knee onto the bed. His fingers slide into Ilya's hair. “Missed it all week.”

“You should learn to ask when you want something.” The irony of the sentence isn't lost on Ilya, but he thinks he can be forgiven when he has a tongue in his mouth.

“I barely saw you.” Kisses trail from Ilya's lips down his jaw and throat, warm and wet with their combined spit. Ilya purrs at the sensation, craning his neck, sinking into the pleasure of having Shane's hands on him.

Unfortunately, when that hand drifts down and grabs the edge of the blanket currently keeping Ilya's dignity intact, all the soupy pleasure goes right out the window.

He clamps a hand over Shane, nails digging painfully into his skin, and pins his wrist hard into the mattress to stop him.

A hiss leaves his lips, and his frown lightens for a moment. “Fuck—” The cadence of his voice hitches high for a moment in shock and unmistakable arousal. Kinky bastard. But the denial has Shane's suspicions piqued, if his narrowed eyes are anything to go by. “Ilya?”

Ilya's mind scrambles for a justification. His pulse is roaring in his ears, palms prickling with rising sweat. Everything narrows down to the stilted breaths Shane exhales, some of the air brushing Ilya's open mouth that parts further to taste it. Ilya stares at Shane's mouth for a long, long moment.

The thick curl of his bottom lip that yields so perfect to a bite. The divot in the skin beneath it, right above his chin, that lends him a natural, devastating pout. The steep dip of his cupid's bow leaving his upper lip upturned like upside-down fangs. Pink, petal-soft, a sentinel of perfect teeth and an eager, rough tongue with muscle that softens just for Ilya.

This gorgeous mouth that has been on every part of Ilya's body except there. This beautiful mouth that has taken apart a large percentage of the female student body without ever expecting reciprocation, if only because Shane is super fucking gay. This unbelievable mouth that has eaten pussy, sucked dick, and never, ever graced Ilya's admittedly inexperienced hole.

A white-hot flash of jealousy, of the injustice of it all, tightens the edges of Ilya's shoulders. “You never told me you were good at eating pussy.” Ilya snaps, humiliation crawling up his spine the moment the words leave his lips.

Silence.

Fuck.

Shane's entire face slackens, like all the strings holding the minute curves of his features have been cut. The utter shock and confusion there is so palpable that, in literally any other circumstance, Ilya would have teased the shit out of him about it.

Instead, all he feels is mortification. Dread curls low in his stomach, promptly killing off any vestige of arousal. The worst part is that the jealousy is still there, lingering. “I'm– I did not mean—”

“How do you know about that?” 

He looks away.

“Did someone tell you?” Shane presses. 

“I overheard it.” Ilya sniffs, wiping his nose as he stares at the pattern of his blanket. “Party last week. How you used to make girls cry when you ate them out.”

It still nigs at him, how highly those girls spoke of Shane and his tongue. Because how come they get to be able to praise him like that when Ilya should be the one with that right? Ilya should be the one who can reminisce about Shane Hollander's devilish mouth and relish the memory. 

Shane lowers, sitting close enough that Ilya's knee presses against his lower back. He wrestles his wrist from under Ilya's grip, then reacquaints his hand with Ilya's side.

“I'm gay, Ilya.”

“Not so gay you can't eat pussy.”

“Oh my god.” A bewildered laugh bubbles from Shane's chest, and he knocks his head with a thunk onto Ilya's collarbone. “I got good at it so they wouldn't ask for anything else. And I only did that because I thought I had to. To fit in.”

“Yes, they talked about you and your magnanimous munching.”

This time, Shane's shoulders jerk with his giggling. The sound builds with warmth in Ilya's stomach, because he's helpless to anything to do with Shane's joy, and he finds himself relaxing despite his efforts to stay annoyed.

Shane rubs his forehead into Ilya's shirt. “I can't believe you. I didn't enjoy it, you know. Not like I enjoy things with you.”

That takes only some of the sting away, but it lingers. Festers. “Yes. Well.”

“Well, what? Last I checked, you don't have a cunt.”

“I have a hole. Like you, remember?”

Another long click of silence. Ilya doesn't squirm, but it's a near thing, because he can hear the cogs turning in Shane's head. It's always fascinating, watching him come to conclusions. The thing with Shane and decisions is that he never falters once he makes them. Information slots and locks into place, and then he's go, go, go. Nothing can stop him, not even himself. Shane's about as close to a ride-or-die as you can get in this world, but you just have to debrief him once so he gets it.

There's a smile pressing to Ilya's neck as Shane lifts his head. “Ah.”

Yes. Ah.

Ilya braces himself. Readies to turn this into a moment they can forget about after Shane has his lick of teasing, and then Ilya will tackle him to the mattress and fuck him so hard that none of this will stay in his head after. They'll never bring it up, and Ilya will broil in this soup even though he's the one frog that's long since noticed that it's way too hot to stay.

Fingers curling into the blanket, his shoulders square, a retort ready behind his teeth as Shane murmurs against his jaw: 

“You want me to eat your pussy, Rozanov?” 

Oh. Fuck.

All the blood from Ilya's head goes plunging straight to his dick in a warm, heady rush. He feels it, how his entire body flushes cold and goosebumps rise in place, his mind spinning as those words sink their claws deep into him. His cock hardens again so fast it hurts, brushing up on the blanket hiding it from sight, and his hole clenches around nothing with instinctive shyness.

With a tremor in his jaw, Ilya whispers, “Yes.”

“Yeah?”

“Please, yes.”

When Shane pulls away proper, his freckles stand out prettily above the lovely red of his cheeks. The blush has spread from his ears, which are probably hot to the touch, now, all the way down to dust over his face and crawl down his neck. Arousal always looks beautiful on him, but Ilya's never seen this kind of hunger in his eyes. Bright, clear, and smug in an impossibly irritating way.

“Is that what you were jerking off to? Thoughts of me eating you out?”

Licking his lips, Ilya admits, hoarse, “I was not jerking off.”

Shane cocks a brow. Instead of doing something humiliating — like busting a nut over how attractive that expression is — Ilya rips off the proverbial bandaid and shoves the blanket off his lap. His hoodie rucked up, cock hard against his thigh, and the dead anal licking toy cocooned there on the sheets. Shane picks it up, holding it to the dim lamp light, watching the lube glisten on the silicone, before his eyes drop to Ilya's lap again.

“I thought about it, you know.” His voice comes soft, awed. Shifting, he lifts onto his knees and slots himself between Ilya's legs, dumping the toy somewhere on the bed so both hands can rub on Ilya's thighs. “I didn't think you'd be interested.”

Ilya swallows down the compulsion to say that, really, he'd do anything with Shane. Everything. Whatever Shane wants, Ilya will move heaven and earth to give it to him.

Instead, he croaks, “I was always… curious.” They share a private smile at that word.

Do I make you curious?

Obviously.

“But not more than that. Love your hole so much that I forget my own exists.”

That earns him a snort as Shane leans down. Their noses brush, a kiss planted less for foreplay and moreso to ground themselves in the moment. “And then you overheard those girls and, what? Bought a toy instead of talking to me?”

Ilya rolls his eyes and flops onto his back without bothering to reply. Shane chuckles, pushing Ilya's hoodie up to his armpits on his way to get another kiss.

“You should learn to ask when you want something.”

Having his own words thrown back at him should be annoying, maybe even a little embarrassing, but fuck, Ilya loves when Shane gets like this. Cocky and self-assured, knowing full well his effect on people, on Ilya, and happy to use it up until the last dredge. Confidence in his own body, in his ability to use it for his and Ilya's pleasure in a song and dance as old as time.

So, really, Ilya can be forgiven for the dumb smile on his face. Especially when Shane reciprocates it with one of his own, bright and so, so pretty.

Tracing hands up Shane's back, Ilya clutches him close for a moment, enjoying the sway and taste of his mouth. They feed off of each other's tongues for a few soupy-long minutes, allowing the banked heat to re-stoke between their bodies. There's no need to rush this like they might have years ago, where enjoyment was more in the ferocity of lust than the essence of it.

How easy it is to want Shane. Even easier to love him.

Ilya hums as Shane's heavy hands pet along his sides, squeeze his chest, then down to his thighs. They're not often in this position, with Shane comfortably nestled between Ilya's legs, but Ilya finds he's enjoying the weight of it. Especially when Shane's hips twitch and Ilya feels his erection through his pants.

He grins. “Happy to see me?” 

“Dork.”

They snicker into each other's mouths as urgency bleeds through. Ilya rips off his hoodie and tosses it aside so he can help Shane unbutton his jeans. He knows Shane's naked body better than his own, but fuck, it still takes his breath away when Shane removes his shirt and boxers so his bare skin can slide intimately against Ilya's.

Shane runs his palms down Ilya's torso, thumping briefly at his nipples. His appreciative gaze makes Ilya's stomach squirm. It isn't like Ilya's modest, he knows he's hot. Knows people like looking at him, admiring him. But Shane's attention falls different, somehow. Every time he gets Ilya like this, naked and hard, he earns the privilege to get it again, and again, and again. Just like Ilya does with him. They're both desperate to please, eager to touch, to serve.

Lips descending, Shane litters Ilya's chest and stomach with wet, biting kisses, the same way Ilya does when he goes down on him. God, they really just use each other's tricks constantly.

Excitement hums in Ilya's bones, mingling with trepidation. It's not like he hasn't played with his own ass, he's not an amateur. He fingers himself every now and then, when he needs it. But he's never had anyone else there, let alone Shane. So close, with warm, big hands coaxing the back of his thighs up to expose the most vulnerable part of him to gooey brown eyes.

Fighting the urge to hide, to close his legs, Ilya lets him look his fill, swallowing so hard it hurts.

“Fuck.” Shane thumbs at Ilya's perineum, biting his lip. “You're so pretty, Rozanov.”

A genuine blush of embarrassment scores over Ilya's cheeks. “Shit, Hollander…”

“Prettiest pussy I've ever seen.” 

The praise fissures up Ilya's spine, and he knocks his head back. His face is on fire. “Jesus.”

His knees are pushed up further until he's comfortably exposed without straining his hamstrings. Ilya's cock flops uselessly against his belly, already starting to bead with pre-cum that Shane, for the first time since they started hooking up, ignores. 

He nuzzles just under Ilya's balls, first, inhaling deeply. Ilya braces his hands on the mattress with a small, agonized grunt, lip trembling as he inhales.

Kissing down, Shane lathers the sensitive skin between Ilya's hole and balls with tender attention, turning his head to layer bites on Ilya's inner thighs in between.  He grabs and massages whatever meaty part of Ilya he can reach — his ass, his thighs, his hips. His teeth sink into flesh, second nature, leaving his mark wherever he can, where Ilya can press on later to feel the pleasant throb.

“You treated your girls like this?” Ilya asks, fingers digging into the sheets. Shane hums, settling onto his stomach, which can't be a good angle for his neck, but he doesn't seem to care.

“No." He licks his tempting mouth. “But you post nudes, and I can't let people continue thinking you're available.”

A pleased purr rocks Ilya's chest. As if Shane hasn't already been doing that. “Possessive of my dick, Hollander?”

“Not just your dick.” Leaning in, Shane presses his mouth right to Ilya's hole, leaving a long, wet kiss. “This is all mine, too.”

Ilya's cock throbs, another pearl of precum dribbling onto his belly. His heart skitters madly, his throat bobbing around a difficult, dry swallow. Fuck, fuck. Just that kiss felt divine.

“Fuck, Shane, please.” He wiggles his hips in what he hopes is an enticing manner. “I waited enough, yes?”

Shane noses at Ilya's rim. “Mmm. You're wet.”

“Used lube.”

“Oh? You sure it's not me making you wet?”

Oh, god, he's going to fucking die. Ilya honest-to-god whines, thumping at Shane's back with his heel. “Stop being annoying.”

Shane snickers, eyes meeting Ilya's from between his legs. The view is insane, dizzying in a way Ilya doubts he'll ever experience again.

“Relax for me,” he coos, voice dropping several decibels as he refocuses on Ilya's hole. His touch shivers over Ilya, a low sigh passing Ilya's lips as he plants wet kisses to the sensitive skin of his thighs. All the while, their eyes stay fixed on each other. “You know, you're strong everywhere else, but here…” Shane pauses to dig his nose right where Ilya's inner thigh meets his pelvis, breathing in, rubbing his cheeks against the skin. “You're all soft for me.” 

Pleasure blooms in Ilya's belly like a cat stretching its limbs in the sun. Shane continues to rile him up with an irritating amount of patience, biting, licking, sucking until Ilya's thighs are mottled with colorful bruises. Ilya doesn't even know how long he spends explicitly avoiding his hole, but he's genuinely starting to lose it.

“For fuck's sake,” Ilya hisses when Shane ghosts a warm breath over his hole. “Shane, just—”

“Mm?”

“Боже (God), please.”

Shane laughs, the sound husky yet bright. “Sorry. I can't help but want to drag this out.” He adjusts, spreading Ilya's legs wide enough to have his pelvis properly stretched, keeping his hips flush with the mattress with a hard press of his palm. “No more teasing, okay?”

That sentence feels a bit like a bad omen. Ilya narrows his eyes at him. “That sounds like a threat, Hollander.”

Shane doesn't answer. Instead, he drops his head, blocking Ilya's view with his hair so that when the first tentative slide of his tongue meets him, it's a surprise. 

Oh. 

A groan lifts from between his legs, and again, Shane licks at his hole, this time slower, dragging up to his balls. The sensation catches Ilya off guard, because he knew it would feel good. Most people love to get eaten out, it's almost universal, so of course Ilya would love it when he eventually tried it. But he hadn't expected it to be so goddamn electrifying.

“Oh, fuck,” he moans, melting like butter into the mattress. His hands free the sheets and instead bury into the soft tufts of Shane's hair, nails scratching along his scalp in a way that makes him dig his mouth into Ilya.

“You taste better than I imagined,” Shane mutters, and Ilya barely has time to think about that precious little nugget of information before Shane's sliding his hands up. “This okay?” He asks, large, hot hands gripping Ilya's pecs like tits. He licks again, over and over, and Ilya arcs into his mouth with a gasp.

“Yes, yes, touch me.” Ilya's breathless reply makes him growl, made into a deeper, slightly whining noise when Ilya tugs his hair at the sensation of the sound against him. “Anything's okay. Whatever you want, take it.”

Shane feasts on Ilya's hole with even more fervor than before, face revealed enough that Ilya catches glimpses of his brow furrowed in concentration in between his own vision literally blurring. His tongue works along the rim, cleaning the lube up to replace it eith his own spit, and then he all but unhinges his jaw. Gently sucks, at first, then harder when Ilya bucks wildly against his face. Every movement of that warm, wet tongue has Ilya hissing and spitting curses like a fucking campfire, punctuated by hoarse moans and grunts. And if there is a particular sound Ilya makes that Shane loves, he mocks it right back at him, mirrors it in the same tone but deeper, indulgent, mad. 

“There you go,” Shane’s encouragement comes as he twists his head and bites hard into the flesh of Ilya's thigh. 

Delicious pain zips through Ilya's nerves, makes tingling lava bleed through him, and he tugs Shane's hair harshly in revenge. Of course, Shane moans, shoving his face back between Ilya's legs with a force that rocks his hips back.

This is better than anything Ilya dreamt up. Even when using that stupid toy and picturing Shane just like this, pinching his nipples and rimming him, he could've never come close to reality. To the real feel of Shane's rough tongue on his hole. 

Thank God Shane is gay. Women deserve many good things, but nobody deserves this. Except Ilya.

After a long moment, Shane rears up, panting. Ilya's legs tremble with the force of his need, his eyes trained on Shane's face. His gorgeous face, red and damp with sweat, eyes frazzled and lips parted. As if he's the one getting eaten out. His cock is livid, looking almost painful even though he ignores it completely in favor of reaching across to the bedside table for the lube.

“Gonna finger me?” Ilya rasps, heaving with pants. “Open me up for your tongue?”

Shane curses, slamming the drawer shut. He hovers over Ilya, planting a hand beside his head so he can kiss him. Ilya searches his mouth for the taste of himself, groaning when he finds it, just barely. A surprised moan escapes him as Shane bullies their mouths open even more, turning the kiss into a sloppy mess.

“Need to get you wet,” he says, almost too quiet for Ilya to hear over the roar of blood in his ears. “Come on, spit on my tongue. Want you dripping for me.”

Ilya almost can't do it, too dizzy to even think past the words want you dripping for me, because holy fucking shit. Shane taps his cheek, gentle, and opens his mouth. In any other circumstance, the gesture of spitting in his mouth, watching him cradle it like something precious on a curled tongue, would have the power going straight to Ilya's head. Spin him until he's pinning Shane down and fucking his face so tears stain those freckles.

But now, with the knowledge of what Shane plans to do with his spit, Ilya's never felt more powerless in bed in his life. He's helpless to obey Shane's imploding voice, craning his neck up to spit right onto that waiting tongue, watching Shane's lashes flutter.

It's as if time slows when Shane descends again, hooking hands behind Ilya's knees to expose him further. Ilya gasps, watching Shane's tongue hang out, letting his and Ilya's combined spit drool down onto Ilya's hole. Then, he bends, fixing his mouth over the rim like a starving animal, and Ilya ceases to exist.

And it's insane. It's insane. But Ilya can feel his orgasm cinching at the base of his spine, liquid hot. He's about to come just from having his ass eaten out. By Shane.

“Fuck, fuck, Shane…” he groans, scrabbling at the sheets, hips bucking, though he's held down firm enough to bruise. Fuck, he really can't hold it in. He can't. His mind has gone soupy, his vision blurring. He taps at Shane's hand on his leg desperately. “Stop, stop, ‘m going to—”

Instead of pulling back, Shane burrows, somehow, even deeper. A warm, slick tongue breaches Ilya's entrance, this part of him untouched, and his vision blanks. His core supernovas, electrifying every limb until he's shaking and fighting Shane's grip on him violently. His cock bobs against his stomach, ropes of white painting his chest, and it's so good it hurts. It almost scathes him, how deep this orgasm goes.

“Holy shit, Ilya, you– oh, fuck—”

Dazed, he opens his eyes to find Shane's, only to catch him jerk up with a surprised moan. Hand shooting down to his dick, but he's too late to stave off his orgasm, coming right onto Ilya's hole with a full-body tremor. His face scrunches the way it always does when he comes, eyebrows drawn in and pouty mouth dropping open.

Ilya shivers at the feel of Shane's come on his hole, unable to stop himself from clenching and unclenching, as if trying to suck it in through sheer muscle tension alone. 

Their unsynchronised panting fills the room. The bottle of lube stays, unused, on the mattress. Shane's mouth and chin are wet, his eyes glassy with the haze of pleasure and the high of arousal that hasn't really left.

“You…” he swallows audibly. A smile grabs the corner of his mouth. “Didn't even get to finger you.”

Ilya shudders at the thought, legs flopping down. His body is wrung out, cool air brushing his wet hole, and he wonders, distantly, if this was how all those girls felt.

Probably not. Ilya doubts any of them were on the receiving end of Shane's hungry eyes.

“At least I got something done to me.” Ilya quirks his brow at Shane's softening cock. “You fucking came untouched.”

Shane grins. “You were so fucking hot, Ilya.”

That goes straight to his head. “Wanna take a picture? Post for my fans?”

“Don't tempt me.”

Neither of them are particularly embarrassed about this, then, which is good. They reach for each other at the same time, rolling until Ilya can nestle between Shane's thighs and kiss him lazy and whole. This is, admittedly, Ilya's favorite part when they hook up. He can't remember when it became that, when he started to look forward to this — soaking in each other's warmth, stroking away the last vibrations of an orgasm with heavy, slow hands, exchanging kisses just to calm each other's hearts — over the actual sex. The sex itself is mind-boggling, always has been, but Ilya remembers the first time they cuddled with more crystal clarity than the first time he tasted Shane's dick.

“I really enjoyed that,” Shane whispers to his mouth, humming as Ilya presses a dry peck to his throat.

“More than with your girls?”

A pinch to his earlobe. “Shut up.”

Ilya smirks, tucking his face against Shane's shoulder. Then, after a few minutes of just their breathing, he admits, “I liked it, too.”

“No shit.”

This time, Ilya's the one who pinches him, right on the nipple, laughing as Shane yelps and whacks him on the arm. Ilya whacks him right back, and they settle again after a small bout of breathless wrestling, limbs rearranged comfortably around each other. Shane's face is where it belongs, where Ilya can nose at his hair and inhale the scent of his expensive seaweed shampoo, draw patterns over his spine with light teases of his nails.

His heart aches, yet swells. How is it possible for what he wants to be right here, in his arms, yet so fucking out of reach?

Be mine, he wants to say. Be only mine. Let me mold myself into your life so permanently that you have to break us both to escape.

Instead, he says, “You should finger me next time. Show me the way you like it.”

Shane exhales shakily against his collarbone, kissing the skin. His fingers are tracing the moles on Ilya's back from pure memory. “Yeah. Yeah, sounds good.”

They'll get up in a few minutes. Shower together, which is just an excuse to make out under the warm spray for fifteen minutes. They'll eat pastries on Ilya's bed, drink coffee that's gone cold, and talk. Catch up. Ilya will watch the way Shane smiles, coy, and the way his eyes scrunch when he laughs, and he'll promise himself that he'll say something. Soon. Someday.

There's not a lot he's envious of. Except people with functional families and loving fathers, and perhaps the future version of himself that is brave enough to ask Shane for more than what they have.

But hey, Shane ate him out and enjoyed it, which is more than any girl can say. In the end, Ilya Rozanov always wins.