Chapter Text
Shane raps his knuckles on the door, then stuffs both hands into the pockets of his joggers. Rose stands next to him, dabbing more lip gloss at her plump lips where her dark reflection looks back at them in the window to the left of the door. She glances over her shoulder at him as he watches her with a raised eyebrows and without turning the rest of her body as he turns her face side to side - every perfectly curled hair in place - she blanches.
“What?”
Shane shakes his head and looks away, lips tugged into a knowing smile.
“You look fine,” he supplies her, and he means it.
“‘Fine’ won’t have as much of a chance of getting us free weed as ‘irresistible’ would.”
Shane's eyes roll toward the ceiling. He turns to face the street, watching cars pass. It’s midday, the street is in a decent neighborhood. The house is somewhere between modern and not, architecturally. It’s composed of shades of black and grey with floor-to-ceiling windows wrapping around the sharp corners of the midsized building.
It isn’t exactly the kind of home Shane had pictured a college aged weed dealer to have.
“It wouldn’t be free for long,” Shane notes, giving her a pointed look.
She turns to face him, arms crossed.
“No, but it’ll be long enough to stock up for some parties before graduation.”
Shane shrugs, eyes flickering to the door again. Poor customer service, this guy must have, to keep them waiting outside so long.
“Maybe the music is too loud?” Rose ponders aloud, stepping back slightly to check the address and confirm they hadn’t gotten it wrong. “Thanks for coming with me, by the way. Svetlana said she’s known this guy since they were kids, but you never know with the weirdos.”
“I love playing the big scary boyfriend,” Shane joked, earning him a smile from her.
He steps to the door again and his knuckles rap against it - louder this time - as Rose mentions something about Shane joining her for a class one day. Music blares muffled from inside, growing in volume as the door opens finally - as Shane’s fists hangs still in the air. Pale blue eyes drift down to the man’s hand, then up to find his eyes. Shane clears his throat and shoves his hands into his pockets again.
The man, an inch or two taller than Shane but more toned in the body, regards them with a stranger’s gaze. His eyes flicker to Rose and Shane is almost ready to play the part he was brought here to, but the attention shifts to him rather than lingering on her. Pale blue sweeps over him, taking in his athletic joggers and sweatshirt with the drawstrings different lengths. Notably, the man himself is in grey sweatpants and shirtless.
Shane figures it’s purposeful - a shot in the dark in case Rose had shown up alone. The thought makes him seethe a bit.
“Shoes off,” he says simply, stuffing his hands in his own pockets before turning away and walking further into the entryway of his home.
Rose follows first, tossing Shane a wide-eyed glance over her shoulder. He reads her look as impressed by the physical feat of the man before them at first until she points to him and mouths something.
All you.
Shane’s cheeks warm and he shakes his head, expression so indignant she has to suppress a giggle as they enter. He enters behind her and closes the door - noting how the man hadn’t bothered to hold it for them. He didn’t seem all that well-mannered. Rose steps out of her wedged sandals and waits for Shane to carefully peel his sneakers off with his toes before joining them receding down the entryway.
“So…uh, Svetlana said you have like…different strains, ‘n stuff?” Rose asks, stalling in the threshold of where the entryway becomes the spacious living room.
It’s decorated much like the outside is: darker contemporary. Ilya lands on the sleek black couch and leans over the coffee table where a tray with various pieces of paraphernalia relating to his profession sit.
“Sit.”
Rose glances back at Shane, shrugging before walking over and sitting on the opposite end of the couch. Shane joins her, leaving distance between them while creating a barrier between her and the blond man.
Brown eyes take this time while the stranger is distracted pulling the tray into his lap and messing with something on it to comb over him the way he had been moments ago. The stranger - Ilya, as Rose told him - carried an air of nonchalance to him. It was obvious in his walk, in his speech, in the way his eyes combed over them so casually as he guided them into his home to buy drugs that Ilya didn’t have much of a personable bone in his body.
Rose, ever the optimist, tried to spark up conversation anyways.
“Um, so basically…I want something to take to parties. I think whatever you sell Svetlana should be good? She had me try some at the last Lambda Rho party and it was-”
“Sativa. Not sleepy, good for parties.”
Shane furrows his eyebrows at the man, irked by his interruption, by his focus on the task in his hands rather than even glancing up to speak to Rose, by his attitude in general. Just as he parts his lips to speak, Rose nudges his arm and shakes her head at him.
“That’d be great! Thanks!” she cheers, clapping her hands together.
Ilya glances up at them from behind his strong brow and Shane drops his own gaze to the man's hands as he opens a wheel-type mechanism that he places as a tool to grind the plant buds up and dumps the ground contents into a brown paper pinched between his thick fingers. Shane’s eyes linger not on the drug, but the deftness with which Ilya’s hands move. The way his fingertips roll the paper around the mound of muddy green and pinch the ends. The way he brings the roll to his lips and the way that the pink tip of his tongue darts out to lick over the long edge of it.
He swipes it back and forth twice, then rolls the blunt the rest of the way, pressing the wet paper flat on its rounded side. The song playing on the speakers changes to something not at all like what they had heard upon entering. It’s much more gothic in sound than the previous songs - Travis Scott, Lil Wayne, Playboi Carti. Shane places it as soon as the lyrics pick up, though they’re Russian.
“You know this?”
He glances up from where his eyes had fallen again to watch Ilya light the end of the joint. The man is watching him, eyes narrowed almost suspiciously as he leans over the coffee table with horrid posture.
“Molchat Doma,” Shane concedes underneath the heavy gaze, struggling to keep his eyes locked where they were on Ilya’s.
Shane never had been good at eye contact and especially when the recipient of it seemed so adamant on having it.
He sees Ilya nod softly, eyes shifting left and right in an undetectable dance across Shane’s features. His arm outstretches, thick fingers holding the lit blunt between them.
“You can have first hit.”
Shane’s eyebrows furrow and he glances at Rose, who shrugs one shoulder at him.
“Uh, we’re just here to buy.”
“You smoke so I know you aren’t police, and so I know you don’t react bad.”
“Oh, an ethical weed dealer, cool,” Shane mutters, eyes finding the slowly growing head of ash at the tip of the blunt.
Ilya chuckles at Shane’s dry joke, and it’s a genuine little bob of his shoulders accompanied by the quirk of his pink lips. He nudges the weed at the freckled man whose chest is swelling oddly at the pride of having made Ilya laugh, but he can unpack why that is that later.
“You smoke or you get nothing.”
Shane sighs, takes the thing form between Ilya’s fingers clumsily - he nearly drops it on the couch and it earns him a stern glare from Ilya.
“You have smoked before, or you want water?”
“I have, in highschool.”
Ilya nods and hands him his water bottle. Shane almost wants to ask for an unopened water bottle - he isn’t sure what this guy might carry in his bloodstream after all.
“You will cough. Try not to piss yourself on my couch.”
Shane’s cheeks heat and he’s sure the color reaches the tips of his ears. Ilya smirks at him, seemingly having gotten exactly the response he’d wanted.
“Has that…happened before?” Rose asks suddenly.
Ilya glances at her as if he had forgotten she was there at all.
“No, but he looks type.”
“The fuck is that supposed-”
“It’s joke. Smoke before all burns away,” Ilya encourages, leaning back on his couch and grabbing the stereo remote.
He lowers the volume slightly and Shane is silently grateful - the room had gotten entirely too loud between the music and their talking. He huffs, bringing the unlit end to his lips and sucking in the smoke. He coughs it all up immediately, quickly making waste of the blunt by passing it over to Rose, who takes it from him eagerly. She pats his back to aid him in coughing. Ilya’s eyes watch the touch - friendly enough in nature - with a glower.
Rose coughs after her hit, but not as much as Shane. She is one to often partake in the generosity of strangers at parties, so her lungs were more attuned to the pollution. Shane, the athlete with a strict diet nine out of twelve months of the year - was not. Rose passes the blunt back to Ilya and he takes a longer hit than the both of them combined, showing no signs of his throat drying even as he breathes it out. He ashes it, then takes another generous puff before passing it to Shane again.
Shane attempts to decline, Ilya persists.
“One hit is not enough for you. You are big, сильный.”
Shane can’t help but let his eyes drift down to the curl of Ilya’s bowed lips as he pronounces whatever it was he called Shane in Russian. Rather than argue in vain, the tanned boy instead just took the blunt back and brought it to his lips with a sigh. As he coughs up another storm, Ilya toys with his phone. It isn’t until they are nearly done with the roll, having passed it between them rhythmically until it’s nearly burnt down to the edge, that Shane realizes - in his foggied mind - that nothing but Molchat Doma songs have been playing.
Rose has her knees pressed to her chest, back pressed to the back of the couch and eyes unfocused but trained on something outside the tall window to her right. Shane sits with his feet flat on the ground, socked toes clenching and unclenching - feeling the cool press of the wood floor on his soles. His hands fiddle in his lap, thumbs twiddling together in a motion that soothes his skin with its soft caress. The room feels warmer.
“Two hours, then you leave,” Ilya tells them, turning the tv on and finding a sports channel.
He settles on hockey and crosses his ankle over his knee, arms crossed as he leans back against the couch. They’re quiet for a while as Ilya studies them in his peripheral vision. He had pegged the redhead as a talker, but she seemed content squinting out the window and watching birds flutter by like a cat. The twunk with the freckles behaves as Ilya had expected - having gone just as quiet while his eyes stayed trained on the floor a few feet in front of him. Ilya shifts where he sits and the motion catches the brown-eyed gaze.
“I’m Shane, by the way,” the man - Shane - drawls.
His speech was slowed slightly, nothing like that of a drunkard’s but barely comparable in terms of speed. Ilya nodded at him, lips twitching in amusement.
“Ilya.”
“Ilya,” Shane repeated, testing the name on his lips.
Ilya’s eyes catch pink lips parting to form the word and he sucks at his teeth.
“Eel-iyah. Not Ill-ee-uh.”
“Eel-iyah.”
Ilya nods at him, attention dragged away from the hockey now.
“I’m Shane.”
The blond snorts a laugh.
“Yes, you said.”
A shocked expression overtakes Shane’s boyish features at the same time pink overwhelms his warm toned skin and he hides his face in his hands to giggle. Ilya’s cock twitches in his pants.
“Oh, fuck…sorry.”
Ilya watches him rub his large hands over his face, up and down. He pushes his hair back from his forehead and it sticks up in all sorts of directions, coarse black strands resembling that of a child-like hairstyle aided with too much gel. He breathes out a long breath and clears his throat, then reaches for the water Ilya had offered him earlier. He downs the rest of it like a man dying of dehydration.
Rose glances over, large eyes squinted and red.
“Bathroom?” she asks.
Ilya points her to the hallway with the instruction and once the door clicks shut, he lets his eyes find Shane’s again.
“You do not smoke often.”
It isn’t a question. Still, Shane nods.
“Rose likes this girl in her classes. She’s a film major. Svetlana. So they smoked together at, uh…a party. And Rose likes her a lot. So they were talking and Svetlana said she gets her weed from you.”
Ilya nods, lips tugged into a smirk as the words fall from Shane’s lips easily. Halfway between mumbled and not.
“So she is not your girlfriend?”
The question seems innocent enough - he could play it off as a passing curiosity, should he need to, should he be reading Shane and Rose’s relationship incorrectly.
“No, no, no. We tried, but we aren’t compatible.”
“Compatible?”
Shane’s brain is buffering - then he startles as if something clicks suddenly, as if a lightbulb goes off.
“Oh, it means like, we didn’t go well together.”
“Because she likes girls?”
“And guys, but yeah. Yeah.”
“And you?”
Ilya plays with the drawstring of his sweatpants, an action so innocuous that it wouldn't strike anyone as anything other than absent-minded. Shane’s eyes drop to catch the movement, jaw going slack. Ilya suddenly wishes he could take a peek inside the other’s brain, even just for this brief moment.
“Guys, yeah. Mainly. Only guys, I guess.”
Shane wets his lips and Ilya knows he isn’t aware of just how obvious he looks now, all tenseness freed from his broad shoulders thanks to the weed. As if to test the waters, Ilya adjusts where he sits. He tugs at the front of his grey sweatpants, making a show of the waistband accidentally being tugged lower than what would be considered normal. He isn’t an animal - he’d put on boxers when he heard he’d be having company. The waistband of his boxers sits exposed to the open air now, branding not even slightly important in the range of Shane’s vision while Ilya’s hand stays rested there over his own crotch.
Shane swallows visibly. Ilya chews the inside of his cheek to suppress a grin.
Rose returns from the bathroom. They watch hockey - Ilya is surprised to discover that they all have this mutual interest. As their high wanes, small-talk becomes easier.
“The Metros are playing rough this season,” she notes, leaning her shoulder against Shane.
“Every season,” Ilya mutters, toying with the drawstring of his sweatpants again.
Shane chuckles, covering his mouth with his hand to suppress it when Rose turns to give him an incredulous look that only makes his voice devolve into giggles. He lays back on the couch, seemingly more comfortable on this stranger’s couch than anyone would ever think of Shane Hollander.
“Okay, jerk. If you’re gonna be some big time reporter, you better get a better poker face,” she teases, poking at his pink cheek.
He covers his face with his arm, chest bouncing as he tries - and fails - to stifle his laughter.
“Reporter?” Ilya asks, lips pulled into a genuinely fond smile as he watches Shane giggle on his couch - unabashed.
“Sports journalism,” she supplies for the man currently too busy having a laughing fit to speak for himself.
“Ah.”
“I used-” Shane takes a deep breath, wiping at eyes wet with tears of laughter, “I used to play hockey. I broke my ankle when I was seventeen.”
The air around him suddenly turns melancholy. Ilya watches his face fall serious - sad.
“I did too. I have not since I was fourteen.”
Shane looks at him from where he lays relaxed on the couch cushions just a foot or so away from where Ilya sits.
“What position?” he asks, big brown doe eyes canted towards the blond.
“Center.”
“Me too.”
They talk for a bit longer. Shane’s injury took away his chance at a scholarship and he decided that he wasn’t going to give up the love of his life so easily, deciding to report on it even if that was the best he could get. Ilya recalls falling out of love with the sport after the death of his mother, though he doesn't let them linger on the pity that always arises during conversations like this. Another hour passes and once Shane is sure he feels sane enough to drive, he and Rose take their leave.
Ilya, in a show of chivalry, walks them back through the entryway to the front door. Rose turns to face him before they open it while Shane puts his shoes back on. Ilya quickly tears his eyes away from the dramatic curve of Shane’s ass as he’s bent over and regards Rose with a cool gaze.
“How much do we owe you?” she asks.
Shane stands straight now, hair still poking up in every direction from laying back on the couch. Ilya resists the urge to snort a laugh at him, hellbent on letting him walk out of the house like that. The Russian shoves his hands into his pockets and regards the two, mulling over the amount he’d given them and what strain it was.
“For you,” he meets Rose’s wide blue eyes, “eighty. For him,” his eyes slide to Shane, who bristles at the attention with an adorably confused glare, “free.”
Shane’s head tilts like that of a confused puppy and Rose looks over at him with a knowing gaze. She hides her smile, instead nodding at Ilya before turning to open the door. Ilya holds the door open for them to walk through and Shane pauses at the threshold, turning to look at the man.
“‘Cause the ‘first one’s free’ or whatever?” he asks, genuinely confused.
Ilya scoffs a laugh and purses his lips. He rakes his eyes over Shane’s body - thick with muscle and dressed in crumpled athletic clothes - shamelessly.
“Sure, something like that.”
The door closes after Shane steps outside fully and he turns to Rose, who grins at him. She clasps her hands on his shoulders and jostles him slightly.
“You have the opportunity to get us so much free weed.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Shane lets out a slow breath as he checks his hair in the reflection of the window beside the door, patting down the front slightly and then thinking better of it and fluffing it back up by combing his fingers through it. Neither looks quite right.
He huffs in frustration, resisting the urge to yank at the strands in frustration and instead smoothing his clammy palms over his thighs. He worries his lip between his teeth, eyes locked on the door in front of him. Rose’s words haunt him.
“You don’t have to fuck him!”
“He’s not-“
“Don’t even with me. He wants in your butt, Shane!”
“Don’t say that!”
“Look, if you fuck him, then cool. He’s not the worst looking guy in the world. If you don’t fuck him, that’s better! Just do a little flirting. You didn’t even have to try last time.”
Brown eyes snap to attention as a car drives by and the sound of the tires on asphalt bring him back to the present moment. He knocks on the door before he can talk himself out of it, then struggles to find a good spot to rest his hands. His sides are too awkward looking. His pockets are casual in a too forced way. He settles on crossing his arms and pretending to admire the foliage in the yard.
The door opens.
He turns to face it and wonders if Ilya ever wore a shirt at home.
“No girlfriend today?” the man asks easily, crossing his arms to mirror Shane and leaning against the doorway, blocking it with his large body.
Shane swallows thickly and clears his throat, hoping to sound composed as he struggles to keep his eyes up above the other’s collarbone.
“She’s not my-“ Ilya’s lips quirk into a smirk and Shane realizes he’d blindly clamped onto the bait dangled by his face. “I need some.”
He forces himself to sound casual, turning his head away to appraise the foliage and the neighborhood again. It looks more paranoid than he intends.
“Yes, I know. Sveta texts me.”
Shane lets his gaze come back and fights with himself again to maintain a respectful eye contact. It proves difficult when the Russian’s broad chest has a gold cross necklace dangling over a giant patch of sandy brown hair.
“Come,” Ilya says, and Shane’s feet move of their own accord before the blond man has even cleared enough space in the threshold of the door.
He doesn't leave it entirely, instead he just crowds against the frame to create a thin channel for Shane to slip through. It’s purposeful, even Shane of all people can see that. He grazed past Ilya, his shoulder brushing the patch of hair, the cross.
He hears the door close as he walks through the hallway again towards the living room like before, commandeering the space with as much faux-confidence he can muster while his back is turned. It dawns on him as he’s walking that Ilya, who he can hear just a couple steps behind him, is probably watching his ass.
Which is entirely true.
He glances over his shoulder as he rounds the couch, shoving his hands in his pockets. It isn’t purposeful, but the action stretches the fabric of his shorts over his ass just that much more. Ilya presses his tongue into his cheek to contain a grin, ushering Shane to sit.
“How much do you want?”
Ilya sits. Shane sits a few cushions away, same as the last time.
“Uh, same as before, I guess? Same strain too,” he pauses, then figures that even to a weed dealer, manners would go a long way. “Please.”
Ilya glances at him as he pulls the tray into his lap. His eyes - baby blue - crinkle at the corners just the slightest when he chuckles.
“So polite,” he teases, fingers shoving a few buds into the grinder.
He closes the top and twists it - the squeaky sound makes Shane’s lips twist and he twitches his head to the right slightly. The action doesn't go unnoticed.
“Remote is there,” Ilya says, nodding his head to the end table by Shane. “For stereo and tv.”
“Thanks,” Shane mutters, turning the tv on and quickly finding another hockey game to watch like before.
“You want me to roll for you? I don’t think you know how.”
Shane tears his eyes away from the game just as they score and finds Ilya looking at him expectantly.
“Yes please,” he says out of habit.
Ilya’s jaw tenses, tongue coming to wet his bottom lip. He nods, then tears his eyes away from Shane’s doe-like brown ones to focus on the task in his hands.
“Are you always so polite?”
“Mostly.”
A beat. Ilya nods. Shane swallows.
“This is Canada after all,” he jokes, letting his lips quirk into a small smile.
Ilya glances at him and chuckles, eyes flickering down to Shane’s lips.
“Ah, funny boy. Comedian.”
Shane blushes at the praise, letting his eyes fall to the floor. Something about the tone in Ilya’s voice - something close to endearment at Shane’s dry joke - made his stomach twist and turn. It was oddly pleasant.
For a second, he forgets why he’s here.
“You’re pretty funny,” he mutters, bringing his hand up to chew at his thumb nail.
“Yes I think so. You do too, you were so giggly last time. Is that word?”
Shane shakes his head, throat rippling as he swallows. He remembers the last time he was here, giggling all flushed and warm stretched out on this very couch. His eyes find the cushion next to him where he had made himself so comfortable.
“Do I have to smoke some here again? Or is that first time only?” he asks, eyes finding Ilya’s handsome profile while the other was still distracted licking the edge of the roll to stick it together.
“First time only,” Ilya answers easily, eyes sliding to meet Shane's just as his tongue swipes over the paper.
Brown eyes flicker down and catch the movement. His throat bobs. Ilya grins.
“Unless you want to smoke here again.”
Shane thinks of the commitments to studying he’d made. Then he thinks of how that was really his only plans for today other than coming here to acquire weed. Then he thinks of strong arms pinning his face down in the couch and fucking him stupid. Then he shifts slightly where he sits.
“Sure, I mean, if that’s cool.”
Ilya nods, smiling to himself as he finishes rolling one blunt. He pats the couch beside him and Shane stands. He walks closer and sits beside Ilya, leaving at least half a cushion between them while the man passes the freshly rolled joint to him.
“Water?”
“Do you have ginger ale?”
“No,” Ilya chuckles. “Diet Coca Cola.”
“No, thanks.”
He presses the end of the joint to his lips and the blond produces a lighter, lighting the other end for him.
He takes one long drag, earning a sideways glance from Ilya.
“What?” he asks in between coughs as he exhales.
“Nothing,” he lies, eyes glancing down to Shane’s feet. “You forgot shoes off.”
“You didn’t remind me,” he quips back.
Ilya snorts a laugh at him - then returns to the task of rolling another joint.
“I didn’t know you liked being told what to do,” he says easily.
Shane sputters, his face grows hot. He can’t even really think of a comeback. Instead, he scoffs and takes another hit of the joint.
They watch the game for a moment, then Ilya speaks.
“Gimme,” he says, nodding to the blunt in Shane’s fingers.
Shane nods, sitting up from where he’d relaxed against the back cushion just barely. He offers it to Ilya, who motions to his busy hands.
“Hands are busy.”
Shane’s brain holds a buffering symbol over it for a second, then when it clicks that Ilya wants him to hold the blunt in front of his lips, he leans forward quickly in an attempt to hide the twitch his cock does in his shorts. He clears his throat - sore from coughing and coated in smoke - and scoots just an inch closer.
He holds the end in front of Ilya’s lips and watches the man lean forward slightly to suck the drug into his lungs. His hands never stop moving on the roll in his hands. Even his eyes are fixed on the game before him. He pulls back and blows the smoke out, nodding at Shane in thanks.
As Shane retracts his hand, he lets his eyes travel over the tan expanse of Ilya’s back where the man is leaned over the tray. There’s a constellation of moles littered over the toned plane. Shane’s brain starts to fog and he has to stop himself from reaching out to trace a pattern with the marks.
“You are good for that,” Ilya says suddenly.
“Huh?”
Shane blinks a few times, eyes dragging up reluctantly from where Ilya’s back becomes his waist - and then the top of his ass.
“I said you are good for that, for feeding to me. The weed.”
“Oh. You’re welcome,” he says, despite not being thanked.
Ilya hums, finishing up the second blunt and starting a third.
“What else are you good for?” Ilya asks, face still turned away.
Shane studies the blond curls and how they sway each time Ilya looks down between his occupied hands and the tv in front of them. Shane pulls his knee to his chest, the end of the joint in his grasp hovers by his lips.
“I’m pretty good at running. Calisthenics.”
Ilya laughs, shoulders bouncing. He glances over his shoulder at Shane and instantly the humor drains from his face.
“You have your shoe on my couch?”
Shane gasps and sits up quickly, peeling his shoes off one by one with his free hand. Ilya snatches the joint from him and ashes it in the tray, then sets it to rest on his own pink bottom lip. Once Shane’s socked feet are freed from his shoes, he goes to stand to put them away. Ilya’s arm pushes him back down by his waist.
“Leave it.”
Shane nods, eyes red and lips parted.
Ilya finishes rolling the joint and sets the tray back on the coffee table. He leans back against the couch, adjusting his sweatpants slightly and shifting in a way that has his knee pressing against Shane’s when he parts his legs wide. He slings one arm around the back of the couch behind Shane and rests it there while he inhales more of the previously lit blunt. The inside of his elbow rests just behind Shane’s shoulders and for a moment the room is quiet and peaceful while they watch the end of the hockey game.
Then there’s an ever-so-gentle brush of one fingertip on Shane’s shoulder where Ilya’s hand lingers by. The man picks at the seam where the sleeves of the shirt meet the fabric making up the torso of it. Shane turns his head and watches Ilya’s index finger toy with the thread.
Now, he figures, is the time to act on the thoughts that had been plaguing his mind of the Russian for weeks.
He turns his head to let his eyes fall upon Ilya’s profile. The man pretends not to notice the staring, though the slight way that the corner of his lips quirk gives him away. He breathes out more smoke and Shane waits until his mouth is free of it to lean closer. At the motion, Ilya turns his head to watch him lean in. Shane kisses him and something in Ilya’s stomach flips at the confidence emboldened in Shane by the weed. He groans, kissing him back with less hesitance than he was currently being given.
He threads his hand through the hair at the back of Shane’s head, pressing their mouths together harder. Shane moans softly into his weed flavored mouth and the sound goes straight to Ilya’s cock in his sweatpants. He knew Shane would be coming over alone this time, so he hadn’t bothered to put any underwear on. They kiss firmly and collectively for a minute before Ilya grips Shane’s hair and carefully pulls the boy away from his lips by the grasp. Shane’s body trembles, lips shiny with spit.
Ilya leans forward - taking Shane with him by his hair - and puts out the remainder of the blunt. He leaves it on the tray before leaning back and letting his lips find Shane’s again. He keeps his fingers nestled in the coarse strands, locking Shane in place even as the boy’s jaw moves to capture as much of Ilya’s mouth as possible. The faint taste of weed and dry mouth mixes with spearmint and half a can of ginger ale from earlier in the day.
Ilya leans over Shane then, overbearing and imposing as he covers the freckled boy’s body with his own and pins him to the couch on his back. Shane lets himself be guided, maneuvered, manipulated. His hands are unsure of where to rest as he grasps at the cushion beneath him. Ilya’s hands are pressed into the couch on either side of Shane’s head and when they part, the tanner of the two chases the tingling sensation left on his lips.
“You want something?” Ilya asks, keeping his mouth out of range as Shane strains to try to kiss him again.
The man below him nods feverishly, eyes glassy. Ilya licks his lips and tastes Shane there.
“Ask then. And you say please, since you are such polite Canadian boy.”
“Fuck,” Shane whispers, eyebrows knitting into a submissive upturn.
Ilya feigns surprise, hand coming to grip at Shane’s jaw. He digs the pads of his fingers in, reveling in the way brown eyes flutter shut so pretty. He jostles the man’s face to get their gazes locked again and brushes his lips over kiss-bitten pink ones.
“What do you want?”
Shane buffers. What does he want? This has surpassed the free weed at this point. He can feel Ilya’s hard cock pressing against his thigh where they’re slotted together and his brain almost goes blank when Ilya presses more of his weight on top of him. The pressure feels nice all over, but especially between his legs.
“Fuck me,” he finds his mouth saying before his brain can catch up.
Ilya’s eyebrows shoot up and he laughs softly. Shane, even in his foggier high, doesn’t like being laughed at. His face screws up into something reminiscent of angry - his cock twitches in his shorts and betrays him.
“What’s funny, asshole?”
“You want to fuck? You have never with a man, yes?”
Shane’s cheeks heat and he looks away, though his jaw is held in place. He averts his gaze at the least.
“No, okay. So I won’t fuck you while you are high. Everything dries up anyway, is not as fun.”
Shane chances a glance back to Ilya’s eyes and allows himself to relax when he finds patience there. He huffs, which earns him an incredulous grin from the man above him.
“Not good answer? You are so bossy,” Ilya marvels before leaning down and pressing their lips together again.
Shane can’t help but let his eyelashes flutter as his lids close again. His hips buck upwards where Ilya’s leg is slotted between his own thick thighs. The man’s free hand comes to scour down the side of his body. It’s slow and firm, a comforting touch that grounds Shane and reminds him that he isn’t floating currently. Then, Ilya shoves his hand between the cushion and Shane’s ass, grabbing a greedy handful. He moans appreciatively into the kiss while Shane grinds his ass back into the grip.
He’s caught between wanting more of Ilya’s clutch into the plush mounds of his ass and wanting more friction on his hard cock. He wonders briefly if Ilya can feel how embarrassingly hard he is just from kissing alone. He wonders less briefly if the blond will tease him about it. He feels a gush of wet at the front of his boxers and knows that precum will stain the front of his shorts, but he’s too far gone to care for once. He figures that was the appeal of weed.
Shane grinds his hips forward against Ilya’s thigh, sighing relief into the other man’s mouth. Ilya releases Shane’s jaw finally to grab his wrist and shove the freckled boy’s hand between their bodies. Not without fumbling around clumsily does Shane’s palm eventually find the hard length nestled between them. Ilya has him cup it over the sweatpants and Shane shudders as he runs his palm back and forth over the solid cock. It feels so hard that he would think it was a toy at first.
“For you,” Ilya whispers into his mouth. “Fuck, you’re so sexy.”
Shane Hollander would never consider himself sexy and he was sure no one else would describe him as such either, but something very earnest sits on Ilya’s tongue when he says it. Shane blushes and moans needy against Ilya’s mouth.
“Fuck me,” he whines, closing his eyes and tipping his head back.
He thrusts his hips up against Ilya’s, squeezing the man’s impossibly hard cock.
“Yes? You want me to fuck you, hm?” he asks.
Shane nods feverishly.
“You want me to pin you down here and fuck your brains out? Fuck you until you’re drooling on my couch?”
Shane keens, tossing his head to the side as if it would hide his shameful blush. Ilya watches him with wild eyes, rolling his hips down against Shane’s in a steady rhythm. He can feel Shane’s thighs clenching around his own, essentially humping his quad while Ilya spat filth down at him. He presses his lips to Shane’s ear and continues, not letting him escape it. As if he’d even want to.
“Split you open on my big cock? Hm? Fuck you while you whine and beg for more? ‘Please, Ilya. Harder. I want it, I want it’. Since you like to say please so much, cute, polite little Canadian boy.”
Shane digs the fingers not cupping Ilya’s cock into his bicep instead. Warmth pools in his stomach.
“Go on, say so. Use your manners.”
“Please,” Shane cries out, face scrunching up while he tosses his head back and makes a mess of the inside of his boxers.
He pants while he cums in his shorts, fucking his hips faster against Ilya until he loses rhythm and melts into the couch with a broken whine. Ilya’s eyebrows furrow slightly - in astonishment mostly. He feels the warmth seeping through Shane’s pants and dirtying the front of his own.
“Fuck, did you cum in your pants?”
Shane whimpers and tosses his head to the side, skin coated in a thin sheen of sweat.
“I barely touched you.”
“Fuck off,” Shane whines, clearing his throat and trying with all his might to hide his face.
Ilya attacks his exposed throat, kissing open-mouthed at the salty skin. Shane lets out a moan that shudders just as much as his spent body does and it does something to Ilya. The Russian squeezes harder at Shane’s plump ass and groans into his neck.
“Fuck,” he grunts, “put your hand in.”
Shane just barely realizes what’s being asked of him and complies with about as much grace as anyone suspects from someone high out of their mind and wet in the pants. He reaches beneath the waistband of Ilya’s sweatpants and grabs his cock. It’s warm to the touch and Shane closes his eyes while he imagines what that heat would feel like sinking into him.
“I can-“ he starts to say, licking his lips. “I can suck it.”
No he can’t. He’s never sucked cock before in his life. He’s never even seen another cock other than his own in a real life sexual setting like this. But his mouth speaks for him. His mouth waters at the image of the heavy slavic cock resting on his tongue, choking him to near tears should he go down too far on it. He shudders again, dick twitching valiantly in his wet boxers.
“No,” Ilya shakes his head, grinding into Shane’s hand. “Your mouth will be too dry."
He speaks like a man with experience. Shane persists.
“No, no I-“ he turns his head and opens his eyes, taking in the sight of Ilya’s face buried into his neck. “I want to. Please. I can. I can do it.”
Ilya curses into his skin again and quickly pulls away, nodding as he flops back onto where he had sat previously on the couch. Resolve now broken as he pushes the coffee table away with his foot, he digs his thumbs underneath the band of his sweatpants and Shane springs into action. His limbs feel heavy while he slides to the floor between Ilya’s parted legs. He waits patiently, palms resting on his knees where he sits on them on the ground in front of the blond man. Ilya drags his sweatpants to his ankles, kicking one foot out of them to make sure Shane’s broad shoulders have enough room to fit between his thighs. He takes his cock into his hand and strokes it, sandy brown eyebrows furrowed while his pale eyes flicker across Shane’s face.
“You haven’t before,” he asks, though it sounds much more like a statement.
Shane nods bashfully, eyes dancing between Ilya’s face - handsome in a virile way that contrasts Shane’s own boyish features - and his thick cock currently glistening at the tip and just a foot away from Shane’s face.
“I will help you,” Ilya says after a moment.
Shane watches the other swipe his thumb over the tip, catching a bead of clear precum pooling. Jaw slack and eyes locked on the flushed tip of Ilya’s cock, he only brings his gaze up again when Ilya whistles at him. His cheeks flush pink and as much as he wants to snap - because he isn’t a fucking dog - he instead feels Ilya’s wet thumb glide over his plump bottom lip. The blond smears his lips with the precum and Shane lets him, pink tongue darting out to follow.
“Fuck,” Ilya breathes out, diving into Shane’s mouth with his thumb and pressing the rough pad of it against the edges of the boy’s teeth.
Shane shivers when he feels Ilya’s touch glide over the tops of his molars, then hook his cheek and tug lightly. His eyes fall shut and he can feel his eyebrows knit together skywards. He lets Ilya toy with his mouth and lips - feeling, hooking, tugging, whatever. It’s an oddly comforting feeling, to have something to do with his mouth. Usually, he’d bite at his nails or chew on his hoodie strings or a straw he'd drink a beverage through, but this felt much better.
“Mm, you like having something in your mouth, yes?”
Shane nods, eyes still closed. He should feel embarrassed at just how much he likes Ilya prodding away in his mouth, at how obvious his enjoyment of it is. Instead, his now once again fully hard cock strains against the cooling patch in his pants. Ilya’s finger leaves his mouth and he huffs at the loss, which earns chuckle. When he opens his eyes, Ilya is sliding his hand through the coarse black strands of hair at the corner of his head and guiding him closer. He scoots closer on his knees, big brown eyes reverent while he waits for the next instruction.
“Tongue out,” Ilya commands with a patient voice.
Shane obeys, sticks his tongue out just slightly so the tip of it rests against his bottom lip. Ilya pulls his head in more and then the flushed head of the man’s cock is on his tastebuds. It’s salty, but not unpleasant. From here, Ilya smells much less artificial; he isn’t doused in cologne and weed here between his legs. It’s another sick and perverted thought, but Shane wishes he could bury himself here.
He closes his lips around the tip of Ilya’s cock, the rest of the intimidating length left to suck down reminiscent of staring down the barrel of a shotgun. Shane tears his eyes away from the patch of hair sitting at the base and looks up at Ilya as best as he’s able. Pale eyes watch him half-lidded and laced with muse. Ilya nods at him, hand still grasping his hair while he urges with gentle pushes to slide down more. Shane lets his tongue glide along the underside while he sinks down slowly on Ilya’s cock, careful to keep his jaw neutral and open so his teeth don’t scrape against the skin.
He has the overwhelming urge to please and to do his very best at it.
“Back and forth.”
Shane obliges; he bobs his head back and forth and braces his hands on Ilya’s shins for balance. Ilya lets him experiment with the rhythm for a while on his own, content instead with just guiding his head with one strong hand while the other holds the base of his dick that hasn’t made the acquaintance of the freckled boy’s warm mouth yet. A minute or so passes and bravery finds Shane. He tries to force his throat to relax before pausing and sliding down just another inch, taking five out of nine now.
“Suck in your cheeks.”
Shane hollows his cheeks and feels the reverberation through Ilya’s body while he groans.
“Fuck, good, good.”
Shane blushes at the praise, averting his eyes so he can try to fight the grin threatening to adhere to his progress.
“You like being good, don’t you?” Ilya asks, sounding as smug as ever if not also a bit out of breath.
Shane doesn't answer. Ilya pinches at his cheek right over a patch of freckles. Shane’s eyes snap up to him halfway between angry and so, so incredibly horny. Ilya just has a shit-eating grin plastered on his face.
“You do. You like to be a good boy, Shane? Hm?” he pinches the pink spot again and Shane can’t help the shudder that wracks through his body.
Ilya pulls him back by his hair carefully, watching a string of saliva that connects them sever and fall messily over the other’s lips. The tissue is irritated from stretching around Ilya’s cock, glistening a bright pink.
“Lay on the couch, head over the arm.”
Shane stands on shaky legs and obeys - because of course he does. Ilya kicks the sweatpants off of his other ankle and rounds the couch to where Shane’s head lays over the arm, neck supported by the cushioning there. Ilya grasps the base of his cock and stands over Shane so he can smack the tip against the boy’s cheek gently.
“Be a good boy and let me fuck your face.”
Shane’s eyebrows do that thing that Ilya has noticed as dancing. They knit and furrow as if he’s debating with himself in his head. Usually, in the short amount of time Ilya has spent with him, they end up surrendering into an upturned furl. The doe-eyes complete the look; Shane looks unbearably fuckable.
He presses his thumb against Shane’s chin and nudges his mouth open and without even commanding it, the man’s wet tongue goes with it. He smirks down at the pliant shuddering mess at his mercy before nudging his head to tilt back just a bit more. Then he’s sliding into the wet warmth with a quiet groan. Shane takes him well, just about the same length as before on his knees. At this angle, with his head tilted back and throat more open, it should be easier to fit another inch or two.
He wasn’t expecting the first-timer to deep throat his cock or swallow his cum. Then again, he also wasn't expecting to make Shane cum in his pants just with dry-humping either.
Ilya lets his hand move from Shane’s chin to his throat. He presses his palm over the hump at the front of the other’s neck, feeling the muscles flutter beneath him while Shane strains to relax his throat and greedily draw in more cock. Ilya pauses when Shane gags the first time; he’s five inches in like before. His thumb caresses over Shane’s neck slowly while he takes a few deep breaths. Ilya also collects his breathing, sure that even with only half his cock sheathed he wouldn't last much longer. Not while Shane was oh so pliant and eager to please like this.
“Good?”
Shane nods as best as he can. Ilya presses in more, feeling the warmth around him tighten at the intrusion. Shane gags again, coughing lightly as his knees come to bend. He rests his feet on the couch and Ilya can see the purposeful attempt to relax. He nearly decides to just take the five inches of wet cavern he has now, but Shane nods again under him and even grasps at the Russian’s strong thigh. The muscle flexes under the grip while he guides more of his cock in.
Shane gags and chokes every few seconds, but Ilya keeps pressing until he has no more length to give. He’s astonished at the feat, even while Shane whimpers so pretty and coughs wet around his dick. If not for the obvious tent in the front of Shane’s shorts, he would pull out. Instead, he rolls his hips forward experimentally and groans when Shane gags around him.
“Fuck, look how hard you are again already.”
Shane clenches his thighs together as if it hides his erection.
“Touch yourself while I fuck your throat.”
You, apparently, don’t have to tell him twice. The brown-eyed boy shoves his hand down his pants quickly, body shuddering once he wraps a hand around himself and squeezes. Ilya watches the frantic movement within the fabric and chuckles softly - the sound goes straight to Shane’s dick.
“You like embarrassing yourself, look at you. Fuck. I’m going to fuck your mouth now. Tap me twice to stop.”
Shane nods quickly. Ilya pulls his hips back a fraction and half of his cock - now soaked in spit - hits the air. He slides back in slowly, making sure to have the patience needed for Shane.
The other man breathes a moan out as best as he can around the intrusion. Ilya braces one hand on Shane’s throat and the other on the side of his head over his jaw. He sets a fair pace, only using half of his full length but enjoying it all the same. What Shane lacked in experience he definitely, definitely made up for in enthusiasm. Ilya is content like this for a while, then once he’s sure Shane has gotten used to the tug of war this was becoming, he speeds up.
He even lets himself steal another inch. Shane takes it; there is no tap at his thigh.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he finds himself babbling, eyes trained on where his cock disappears into Shane’s mouth. “You come into my home looking so pretty, like Hollister model. You come back and lie to me like you only want weed. You let me hump you while you cum in your pants. Dirty, slutty boy.”
Shane’s hand stutters on his cock, legs shaking. Each upward tug has his back arching up off of the couch like he’s nearing another climax already.
“Then you bully me into letting you suck my cock. Is big enough for you, Shane? Hm? Little bully.”
The irony of his words should make him laugh but he’s too busy fucking Shane’s throat and listening to those sweet wet, gagging sounds.
“So fine, I let you suck it. I even fuck your face, do you a favor. And you are going to cum all over yourself for me again because you like it so much. You like being used? You like when I embarrass you.”
Shane nods, he’s humming like he’s moaning continuously around the cock choking him. The sight of Shane shimmying his pants down over the curve of his ass to grasp freely at his wet cock undoes Ilya completely.
“And now you put your ass on my couch? After your shoe? Bad boy,” he pulls out of Shane’s mouth, leaving the man flushed in the face and coughing.
Spit soaked red lips, forehead shiny with sweat, and vein in his temple straining slightly against his skin. Ilya strokes his cock in feverish tugs, bracing his hand on the back of the couch while he cums thick ropes over Shane’s face. On instinct, the man closes his eyes and scrunches up his face so adorably that once Ilya is spent, he drags the tip of his cock around in the mess he’s made. Milky white sits on Shane’s freckled cheeks mostly, though Ilya advises he keeps his right eye shut while he grabs a tissue. He grabs the box on the coffee table and wipes at Shane’s face in gentle swipes, sure to get all of it.
“You look good covered in my cum,” he teases, tossing the tissue aside and climbing over Shane’s tensing body on the couch.
He yanks him down so he can crowd his space and pin him to the couch, then swats the boy’s hand away from his cock and grins at him before taking the hard length in his mouth. He swallows it down easily and Shane’s hands come to fist in golden blond curls.
“Fuck you,” Shane breathes out, throat sore and voice sounding wrecked - raspy.
Ilya pulls off of his cock and strokes it with a slow hand instead.
“Fuck me? I give you weed, let you put your shoes on my couch, let you suck my cock since you ask so nice, and I give you two orgasms and fuck me?” he taunts, canines peeking out of his predatory grin. “I think you say sorry and I keep sucking you.”
Shane’s face flushes at the treatment. It was like Ilya was checking every box of what could get Shane going the quickest. Shane really was too easy.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, big brown eyes swapping between watching the languid strokes of Ilya’s hand and the wet kisses he was placing to the base of Shane’s abdomen.
Ilya ponders this, then figures that there would be plenty of time to unravel the boy completely and have him crying and begging later. He swallows him down easily again, feeling tugging at his hair immediately. Shane arches his back, eyes fluttering shut and fingers tangling in blond ringlets.
“Fuck, Ilya,” he trembles while the Russian takes him down his throat easily.
Shane finds that he aspires to learn this technique - and to outperform it. He always did have a competitive spirit.
He feels his stomach twist and turn and in about thirty embarrassing seconds, he’s huffing out little pants and trying to push Ilya off of him.
“Fuck, I’m - get off, I’m cumming, I’m cumming,” he whines, shooting cum down Ilya’s throat and tossing his head back when he feels the man swallow around him easily.
He stares at the ceiling, chest rising and falling with his deep breathing. Ilya pulls off of him and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“You didn’t,” Shane pauses and covers his face with his hands, his high subsiding now. “-have to do that.”
“I don’t mind.” Ilya says easily, sliding up and pressing his forearms into the couch cushions beside Shane’s shoulders.
Shane takes a moment to pull his hands away, but when he does, Ilya is watching him with a careful gaze.
“Did you like?”
Shane nods slightly, lips wanting to tug into a small smile. Ilya grins, nods.
“Good.”
He kisses Shane, and the taste of both of their cocks mixes on their tongues. The darker-haired of the two sighs into the other’s mouth, hands settling on his jaw and pulling him in closer after a moment. Ilya presses his weight on him and it’s warm and firm - grounding. They part when Shane’s phone dings in his pocket.
Ilya climbs off of him, pulling his sweatpants on while Shane does the same with his shorts. He cringes at the cold wetness in the front of his boxers, fishing his phone from his pocket to reply to Rose’s text asking him if he’d made the trip yet.
“I will be having a party here next Saturday,” Ilya says as he passes where Shane stands by the edge of the couch. “You come.”
It’s an invitation, but there’s no room for negotiation about it.
“Uh, okay. Do I need to bring anything?”
Ilya gives him an odd look.
“Like wine, or-?”
He bristles at the chuckle pointed at him.
“Ah, no, no. Just…yourself.”
Shane nods, shoulders falling from where they’d risen to his ears tensely.
“Make sure you are extra clean.”
Shane furrows his eyebrows then, quickly sniffing at his armpit in hopes that he didn’t smell.
“You are clean, yes. But clean extra,” Ilya says.
He gestures down to Shane’s bottom half with his eyes, shoving his hands in his pockets. Shane catches his drift - his cheeks heat.
“Why?”
The blond man looks at him deadpanned.
“Just do it. You do what I say much better when you are horny.”
Shane huffs in response, looking away in hopes of hiding just how hot his face felt. Ilya walks him to the door and opens it for him. Shane tries to reach into his pocket and hand over some bills after he’s handed the two rolled blunts. Ilya gives him another strange look and notably doesn't take the money.
Something about it feels vaguely icky, but Shane pockets the money again anyways.
When he gets back to his apartment, he sits down to study for class. But first, he Googles what kind of preparation and cleaning he would need to be doing for Saturday.