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“—How are you… You know.”
Shane winces, fingers nervously fiddling with his can.
“Well. It’s not like I can own any. Any toy—living with these animals. You know how they are.” Rose’s face twists, pained. “There’s no. Privacy. They’ll come in and go as they please. And go through my—drawers,” his voice dims a bit, suddenly feeling very small.
Believe him or not, but he did try to set boundaries when he’d first moved in.
JJ had laughed while ruffling his hair, as if Shane was a cute, barking puppy.
And Ilya. Sat like a king's fat, luxurious cat on the couch; Ilya’d appeared oddly delighted, staring at Shane with raised eyebrows and a tight line for a mouth doing very little to hide his bubbling amusement.
Shane’s face scrunches as he recalls how he’d averted his eyes, weakly batted JJ’s hand away, and ended his first and last attempt with burning hot ears.
“And so as such, I take advantage of,” he exhales, eyes unfocused somewhere behind Rose. “Quiet moments. They like to go out. A lot.” He plays with his right eyebrow, head tilted. “It’s either I get off with my hands in the middle of the night—or. Or with the showerhead when I’m sure they’re gone. It’s risky but—”
“But it just makes it more exciting,” Rose says with a knowing smile and kind eyes.
He chuckles a little and nods. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s half the fun, I guess.”
And it scares him shitless.
“You sure you don’t wanna come?” JJ asks him again, focused on fixing his hat in front of their full-body entrance mirror. “J’crois queI think Rozanov’s been there since he woke up.”
Drinking and smoking before the party, yeah.
“I’m good, man, pis j’ai deux-trois trucs à faire avant ce soirand I got a few things to do before tonight.”
“Comme quoiLike what?”
Shane sways his head to the side, “like finishing a paper. Like showering.”
A beat. JJ’s mouth curls.
“Ben voyonsMy ass. Don’t do it on our couch.”
“Fuck off.”
“Et si t’es à court, j’ai des préservatifs sur ma table de nuitAnd if you run out, I got condoms near my bed. Or, you know, steal Rozanov’s since that’s where I get my stock from.”
“Yeah. That’s not happening.”
“My sweet Hollzy,” and JJ’s hand lands and lingers on Shane’s nape, massaging him there, fingertips spreading the goosebumps and tingles up to his flushed ears. “So grown.”
And with that, he should have the house for himself until 4 am if he ditches the party.
Which takes him about 5 minutes to decide, because he’s never actually planned on showing up.
Which also brings him back to the present, legs spread as wide as a 200-something-pound man could in a dinky bathtub, with the water pressure muffling the house’s unnatural stillness. Shane thinks this might be heaven, that this rooming arrangement isn’t so terrible, that he likes his new friends, and that no one but Rose and his parents know about what is between his legs.
Shane sighs, satisfied like the big house cat that he is under the warm jet fogging up the bathroom, and begins to lower the showerhead handle. His core, joy, and, sometimes, bane of his existence. His bottom growth juts out in anticipation, proud and of late, attention-starved. The water jet hits its underside, and Shane hisses a little, quickly readjusting the pressure, before aiming it towards his hole.
In hindsight, maybe he should have just joined JJ.
Because there he is: pussy facing the world. The world being Ilya Rozanov, who’d just barged in fully unannounced and far too fast for Shane to react in due time. Stupidly enough, Shane didn’t think he would need to lock the door. Cannot even lie to himself and say lesson learned, because if there’s one thing he’s learned living here—Ilya is anything but predictable.
An angel passes as they stare at each other. Two. Then Shane scrambles to pull himself together. His thighs close shut, effectively and thankfully squishing the showerhead quiet. Too mortified to move. To even think about reaching out and turning off the running water.
"Dude," Shane says. Thankfully, it seems to convey just enough, because Ilya picks up his jaw. His eyes, however, could burn a hole through Shane’s legs. And between the goosebumps, tremor, and full-body flush he must be sporting, Shane's aware his body is having fun betraying him twenty million different ways. He grunts pointedly.
"Dude? What," Ilya sputters, breaking himself out of his trance. "No fucking way JJ was right. You,” he gestures down uselessly, “you really do have a—"
"Fucking. Shut up. Go away. Fuck. Why are you even here? Shouldn't you be out until—"
"—a pussy?"
They both fall quiet at the same time to the sound of the running water.
“Wait. What the fuck did you just say? About JJ?”
“Don’t worry about it,” but Shane is wary because Ilya is playing with his earlobe, and his eyes, avoidant, are shadowed by his cap and messy curls. Eventually, he sighs and gives. “He… Err. He suspected. Heavily. But I did not believe,” sure.
Gaze drifting around to avoid his roommate’s scrutinizing eyes, Shane works on slowing down his breathing. From his heavy, puffy inhaling, the rise of his meaty pecs, the glistening sweat rolling off his skin, and right there, down to his half-open fly—which explains his haste—Shane doesn't need to make any eye-contact to know that Ilya's no different to a spoiled dog near a bone.
His head jerks as he snaps out of his reverie, realizing where his eyes had wandered.
In the meantime, the shower’s still running, positively wasting a ridiculous amount of water they cannot afford. Shane cannot afford many things, such as a new place. Finding this house, this rooming arrangement, was a blessing. One his heart and wallet could not bear to lose, for this is his Home. JJ, Ilya, and Shane's home. They are also his home in the small gestures, in the countless times they’d go out of their way to try and include him, and never make Shane feel like an outcast in his own house, but it is also in the mean roughhousing and tactile, fond displays of affection.
The casual and implicit friendship little Shane always yearned for, growing up homeless in his own body.
Shane passes; he knows he does—is aware of his privilege. His chest surgery had long healed; now barely visible, buried beneath the plush rise of his pecs, and he's worked hard to put on just as much muscle, if not more, as other boys his age.
Still, he had never felt so validated and alive as here, between these walls, with them
To no surprise, Shane's body tenses, and, were he a dog, his ears would droop in dejection, in the kicked, miserable feeling of betrayal. Bittersweet at the impending end of an era, he reaches his arm out to turn off the tap when a firm, too-tight grip on his wrist stops him.
The fine hair on the nape of his neck prickles like a spooked cat.
He exhales, then slowly lifts his head to find Ilya, a looming, crushing figure over him, staring at Shane with wide, red-rimmed eyes. Before Shane can begin to wonder if, or how much, he’s smoked or drank or both, Ilya starts leaning in. The movement's almost imperceptible. Time pauses as the hand not holding his wrist begins to slowly and carefully trail along his wet arm, gathering droplets and activating every single nerve in Shane's body in its wake, and causing the small, dark brown buds of his nipples to harden, before finally settling on his face. He lingers there, thumb grazing over his light stubble. Shane’s mouth parts; feeling punched in the gut, as Ilya’s shameless want rushes through him and pools deep, deep in his guts.
"Pig," Shane mouths, sick with adrenaline.
Ilya’s hold on his jaw tightens fleetingly, then relaxes with a groan. His head droops, in theatrical frustration; nose pointing down between Shane’s legs, fallen open at some point during the exchange. Just enough. Enough to see that the fat of his thighs was doing very little to hide his clean-trimmed bush and chubby tdick.
"Is unfair, you know," Ilya mumbles without lifting his head, unabashed in his staring. "I thought we were. Friends? I have always been so good to you."
Shane’s eyes drift to the door, mind racing—he could, potentially, spray his roommate’s face with hot water and use the momentum to run. Run, run so he can be chased, and then caught. Eaten and consumed until nothing's left of him. Then Ilya leans in with parted lips, and now close enough for his hot, boozy breath to waft over Shane’s face, successfully ripping him out of his delirious thoughts. Lazily following Ilya’s grip on his wrist with his gaze, Shane blinks, slow and eerily cat-like, and watches it carefully inch up to his hand until their fingers entwine in an odd stomach-churning tenderness.
Naturally, Ilya breaks the moment by lowering Shane’s hand down to his crotch.
Typical.
Still, Shane can't help the breathless laugh he lets out, incredulous, and he dully wonders why he even is. Ilya is shameless beyond help, and he's known that and had admired him—envied him for it, amongst many other things, since day one. This, however, is an experiment. Is what he tells himself as he start applying pressure, and feels the half-hard length twitch enthusiastically in response. He tells himself that this is him pushing his own boundaries, and that Ilya’s strained, punched grunt making him bloom like a bouquet of flowers, petal by petal, and has Shane spreading his legs and presenting to him, is not dangerous by any means.
A choked-off noise, some Russian swear words heard many times before in different contexts, and a jerky hip buck that only serves to grind his growing dick in Shane’s palm. Dizzying, and a high miles better than any drug Shane was coerced into trying these last few College years.
“Shane,” Ilya breaks the religious silence, panting like a dog. “Never in my life have I seen one so big.”
Shane looks down at his pride and chubby little friend, poking out of his messily trimmed bush.
“My dick?”
“Your clit.”
“My dick,” he repeats with a mean squeeze of Ilya’s cock, getting a high pitched yelp out of him. Shane's gaze drags along the protruding veins on Ilya's arm, straining where it grips the edge of the bathtub, up to his parted lips, pink and shiny with saliva—and he just knows that Ilya had enjoyed that. A bit too much for Shane's liking.
“Shane,” he repeats, with a strange coaxing quality to it that Shane should fundamentally find irritating. “Shane. My man. My Shane. You would let me.”
Shane blinks, then feels himself flare up to his ears.
“Let you?” Because he can’t believe it.
“You would share, yes?”
“Yes? No,” he sputters.
“So you have fun sending me out in the cold,” in the middle of summer. “While you have what I need here?”
Shane’s brain short-circuits a little; because Ilya’s looking at him underneath his pretty-boy lashes while fumbling with the rest of his zipper. He’s messy and cocky, and yet, it tickles the parts of him that’d always wondered how it’d feel to have Ilya look at him that way—to watch him struggle with unstable, over-excited hands.
So he watches, and stays put, and watches as Ilya finally frees his cock out of his boxers, barely managing to bounce up from how heavy it is, and giving right to the rumours. Regretfully, Shane does not get the chance to appreciate the rare dick-encounter he's allowed, because a firm hand on the back of his neck forcefully reels him in.
Face first against Ilya’s cock, and nose-full of his wiry, overgrown pubes.
“Fu—Ilya. Fuck,” he struggles. “You reek.”
Ilya hums as he cursorily shimmies out of his pants and underwear, and discards them with little to no care onto the wet bathroom floor, leaving him in dirty white socks and snapback. The attempt at looking unbothered is piss poor, and would probably work just fine with anyone but Shane, who sees the tremors in Ilya’s hands and feels his fat cock quiver against his right cheek.
A dog for attention, just like its owner.
It’s disgusting, and—straight out of Shane’s most shameful desires. Ilya's cock, this moist beast of a piece of meat, sticks and pulls at Shane's skin. He can't tell when Ilya last showered, and yet, it tickles his hindbrain, scratches behind his ears, and digs into his nape with thick, strong fingers. Except it’s Ilya doing all those things, and it should be crazy, because the Ilya in his fantasies goes all out with the shameless head-pushing. This Ilya—no, the real Ilya does not seem to care about getting his dick wet just yet; instead, he carefully cradles Shane's face against his hot flesh like he wishes he could stop time and stay here forever.
Well. That, or the dick fumes are starting to get to his head.
And the cloying smell is bad—so bad that he would probably gag were he less messed up. No, instead, he wishes Ilya had forced him to make room for him, deep, deep in his throat, for him to nestle there and coat his insides with his thick, potent spent. So it’s not all that surprising that he looks up at him with wet, clouded eyes before mutely pressing his face harder against Ilya’s cock. His mouth parts open, and he exhales hotly, lips tugging at Ilya's foreskin. Ilya hisses through his teeth and frowns at him with fevered eyes.
“You kill me, Shane,” Ilya says, pulling a shuddering breath out of Shane and furthering the dampening of Ilya’s grotesque, blood-filled muscles.
Shane closes his eyes and feels himself slowly slip; he can’t take it anymore—he needs—
His breath gets knocked out of him as he finds himself pushed back further into the tub, cornered by a pair of legs between his, keeping him spread open. The showerhead thuds loudly as it hits the bottom of the bathtub, and Shane feels its loss on his pulsing tdick and drooling hole, realizing that somewhere along the line, he'd been trying to aim the stream right back where it belongs.
“Stupid,” he hears Ilya say, then watches him bend to the side and turn off the shower. “We will not be needing this.” Normal, everyday Shane would probably snort here, and he would definitely not just stay quiet and watch Ilya turn around and slide a hand underneath his frankly large, sagging balls. Ever the charmer, Ilya tilts his head to the side as his eyes crinkle. “Next time?”
Right. Right, right.
Realistically, Shane should tell him to fuck off, eat shit and die. He should remind him that there won’t be any next time, or even any time at all because this is not happening, and that his huge, angry cock, with its spongy mushroom head, half covered by an impressive amount of thick foreskin, and with its tip pearling with slimy, clear pre-cum, and dangling between strong, fuzzy thighs, and framed by an impressively low-hanging pair of balls he wishes he had gotten to nuzzle earlier, and Shane is jealous of every taint or face they slapped against everytime Ilya bottomed in—What the fuck is wrong with him?
His roommates, his friend, his sword of Damocles, and, ultimately, his own personal incubus, looming over him and breathing like a breeding bull.
Frozen like the prey animal Shane’s endeavoured not to be his whole life up until now, something clicks in his mind, and it feels homecoming, to take it all in and accept Ilya as his predator. He finds that he does not feel any shame for wanting, just as much as Ilya, if not more. So he wills his brain to quiet, closes his eyes, tilts his head, tongue peeking out, and leans in for a taste—a chance to lick the pink, plush mushroom tip, and kiss Ilya in the most intimate way one can.
A sharp pain in the back of his head startles him into looking up.
“Don’t. Don’t fucking do that,” Ilya says hoarsely with scared, wild eyes and veins running up his flushed neck.
“Why. Why not? Are you a chicken?” The delivery fails like Ilya’s wet socks. It doesn't work, not with Shane's begging, shiny eyes and curved up eyebrows.
Any other time, Ilya’s tense silence and blown, dark eyes would easily unsettle Shane and trigger his prey fight or flight reaction. Today, Ilya's as weak as he is, and having a hard time at controlling his breathing. Credibility so far down the drain that not even half a beat later, Shane tries to lunge in once more; but Ilya is a machine, and reacts faster, bending his body forward for his cock—Shane’s treat—to be angled away, and fully and maddeningly out of reach.
“Fucking—Listen to me,” Ilya stammers, tightening his hold. “I will shoot. Too soon,” and they both look down. Understandably, his heavy balls are abnormally drawn up, and his angry red cock is threatening to burst in thick, messy strings. Deranged, Shane hopes it lands somewhere, anywhere on him.
So he wills his body to relax into a malleable puddle, and leans as far back into the tub as he can, leaving both of his tight, brown holes exposed and winking. He parts his pussy folds, slides his fingers up, and shows off his bottom growth for Ilya to see.
“Well,” Shane says with a barely there come-hither head tilt. “Come on then. Come pet it.” His middle finger slides between his folds, gathers some of the potent cream pooled there, then wetly pats and lathers his swollen, hyper-sensitive cock head with it. “Better make it count.” Because this would be the first and last time—
Shane flinches at the sound of this stupid, ridiculous hunk of a man dropping to his knees in front of him, and he’d worry about the tub, and the state of their rented apartment, and should probably suggest taking this to his bedroom, were he in a better, less desperate state. One risky look at Ilya, and all thoughts are pushed aside, and his lower body manhandled into the air. Ilya positions Shane's lower back and butt against his stomach, and holds his thick upper thighs on his broad, sweaty shoulders, and then proceeds to wolf down the entirety of his puffy pussy in one big gulp. Shane squeaks, confused between pain and pleasure, as his head unceremoniously bangs against the bathtub walls. Ilya keeps him steadily held up with an arm curled around his waist, while holding his pussy lips open with his free hand.
“You are ridiculous. Acting like a dog—” Ilya leers into his skin. “Surely this isn't the first vagina you've seen?” He knows it’s not, has seen the many, many plethora of beautiful women hanging off his arms. Heard the famous tales.
“Pig, chicken, dog,” he says conversationally as he resurfaces, and Shane instantly misses his hot, shaky breath. “You can call me whatever you want, but what I know,” he pauses dramatically. “What I do know is that this giant clit—” tdick! Shane half-heatedly kicks him in the back with his heel, “is made for my huge fucking cock.”
Shane snorts at that, mildly entertained. It would be nice, wouldn't it. To have someone tailor-made for you, and to have them fully, unabashedly complete you.
“You don’t get it. Is fucking beautiful, Shane. The colour, shape… Wait,” and he's about to ruin it, isn't he. “Can you fuck someone with it?” Shane blinks, half-dazed and wholly irritated, then nods. He'd never wanted to, though, and right now, he’d like to fuck a certain someone's mouth, if the certain someone could cease yapping. “And it can get even bigger, yes? With a pump? I’ve seen—”
“Ilya. What the fuck.”
Undeterred, Ilya buries his face in the pubes around his pussy, nose nuzzling his tdick like a rabid dog. His nostrils flare as he takes a deep, shuddering breath, eye comically rolling back with a long, exaggerated groan.
“So fucking good,” he mumbles into it. “My Shane. Always so clean, so proper. Fuck. Let me die smelling this.”
Feeling as delirious as Ilya looks, Shane watches him slowly drag his face up and down his cunt and take a moment to linger on his hard tdick with a cute nudge of his aquiline nose. Idly, he wonders if he’s still tipsy, and the morality of it all.
Shane feels drunk, and he hasn’t had anything. His head lolls to the side, and he gives Ilya a brave, playful smile.
“You’d smell half-decent too if you, you know, fucking showered—”
“Oh, he thinks he has jokes,” then the fucker puckers his lips to blow cold air on his pussy. “I will make you regret hiding this from me.”
Too curious for his own good, Shane bends sideways to risk a peek—hoping and praying that he’s not the only one having an out-of-body experience. It doesn’t disappoint, throat dying up at the sight of Ilya’s shiny, red cock pitifully bobbing up and down like a forgotten heavy third leg. Shane forces a painfully dry swallow. The lack of relief and friction must hurt. That is, if Ilya cared at all. If he weren’t in his own world, mouthing Shane's entrance and making the most embarrassing noises. Blissfully too busy to notice anything at all, least of all his cute, dripping cock.
“Oh—Oh fuck, Ilya,” he keens at the feeling of Ilya’s impossibly long tongue flatten on his virgin asshole.
Any semblance of shame he'd had left prior to this moment is thrown out the window. Ilya’s slobbering and drooling relentlessly over his small, unused, most private hole. The sloppy work doesn't last too long. The tip of his tongue eventually hardens, then slowly probes around his furled rim, tentatively edging towards his tight entrance. His nose, beautiful nose, digs in between his labia folds, and Shane foolishly wonders if he’s happy there. Smelling him at the source.
“This is fucking insane,” Shane throws his head back in a huff. But still, he slides a hand down his waist to rest on top of Ilya’s, and uses his other hand to grip the edge of the tub behind his neck. The gesture startles Ilya into looking up, suddenly reminded that he’s not alone in this delirious feast. His eyes zeroes in on Shane's armpit, looking like he still has a hard time believing that he’s not having a dream in which he can freely ravish Shane for hours on. Which. Well. Ilya then rubs his thumb on the back of Shane’s hand and nothing really matters—until Ilya plants an ungraciously loud, wet kiss on his asshole.
“I have called dibs on your asshole day one,” Ilya says in between wet kisses, apropos of nothing, never mind that his glazed, red eyes made him so glaringly obvious. “Wanted to corrupt you. Use your tight little hole until it’s all. Used. Vertical, like a pussy. Make fun of you. Shame you for having a greedy hole for me. And this,” he points at, and punctuates with a clumsy attempt at stroking Shane's tdick, “is nice bonus.”
And isn’t that a crazy series of things to say. Shane’s body ungracefully jerks forwards into reeling Ilya in by a handful of curls. The action pulls a high, surprised yelp out of Ilya, and manages to successfully knock the irritating snapback off. It falls in the pool of water to their left, revealing a full head of golden, wet curls, looking just as messy as Shane feels. Shane, who’s panting and heaving, body glistening with sweat drops on his temples, cupid bow, and between his fat pecs.
“I don’t care,” he grits out, trying to move his hips in the smallest tub in the world. “Save your poetry. No point lying to me now, not when I’m already like this.” Fuck. Not when I already want you. Shut up and get to work.
Ilya doesn’t seem to agree.
“Wha—Shane, what the fuck? You know I like both,” he tries, while fighting off Shane’s attempt at force-feeding him his tdick, immensely worsening Shane's ever building frustration. “Seriously, dude? And. Is obvious I have wanted you.” It ends in a muffled mess, and a triumphant Shane.
And realistically, Shane doesn’t think Ilya’s ever been up close to a tdick, so he'd fully expected the clumsy work. As expected, he first tries to eat his cunt, as a whole, the same way he’d eat one of his regular hookups. Which is to say; while not particularly low effort, it focuses on all the wrong place, and uses way too much spit. Shane still finds himself enjoying it, somehow, despite the overwhelming urge to throw all inhibition out the window and face-fuck his roommate until cum drips down his chin. The daydreaming doesn’t last long; Ilya glances at Shane, grunts in frustration, and promptly changes tactics.
And, fine, maybe he isn’t lying about being bisexual.
“Fuck—Yes, God, okay, I believe you,” Shane’s heart feels like it might explode, jump out of his chest and spill everywhere for Ilya. “Just like that.”
Ilya, Ilya, Ilya, Ilya, who rumbles like a large, pleased cat. Ilya, whose nose is buried deep in Shane’s wiry pubes. Ilya, whose tongue is skillfully dancing between Shane’s gland and foreskin. Ilya, who’s sucking and bobbing on the first tdick he’s ever had like his life depends on it.
So maybe Shane’s a little gone and extremely loud. But they’re also alone, and Ilya’s glancing up with furrowed brows and eyes that are blown out dark and an inner thigh squeeze that will definitely leave finger-shaped marks, and Shane’s only Shane, and it’s been so long since he’s allowed himself to be taken and eaten at such a base, primal level.
He’s not too surprised to find himself grunting and moving his hips in tandem, like a scorned, crown prince who’s owed the world and finally gets to take what he wants from mouths that he deserves, with trembling hands buried deep in the softest, prettiest curls in the kingdom.
But he’s a greedy creature, and while being so close to perfection, it’s not enough. Shane is stuck up on what he was unfairly refused. So distraught that his hair tugs are borderline cruel, and Ilya’s happy grunts only serve to rile him up further.
Eventually, his frustration reaches Ilya; Shane’s legs abruptly slide off his shoulders, dropping his entire lower body, with little finesse, onto Ilya’s lap. His tdick abandoned once again, and frustratingly close to Ilya’s cock. Shane isn’t given the grace to complain because Ilya bends forward like a tiger on the prowl and painfully squishing his cheeks with a face grab.
Shane feels Ilya exhale shakily before he sees him through wet, troubled eyes. It brushes the apple of his cheeks, pinkens his freckles, and squeezes his heart. He wonders how many times they’ve told themselves never to bother—beyond stolen, curious glances and bitten smiles. Shane blinks, slow with heavy lids, smiles dopily, and leans into Ilya. Perhaps they both do. Their noses bump, rub, and slot in like puzzle pieces.
Ilya laughs, something fragile and gut-wrenching. It’s instinctive; Shane snakes an arm around Ilya’s neck and urges him forward.
“Fuck. Come here.”
Ilya hums. “No, you come here,” and they close the distance with parted, smiling mouths and tongues that are eager to be the first to meet, taste, and waltz. Short-lived, as Ilya impatiently bullies them into Shane’s mouth, feeding him his saliva and a taste of his own arousal that is not as appalling as Shane should find it. And eerily similar to a purring feline, Ilya never stops his rumbling humming. Shane chokes out an excited groan, locking his trembling thighs around Ilya’s waist, and sucks on Ilya’s tongue, warm and tangy with the remains of cheap alcohol, as he would his dick. The dick that he hadn’t been allowed to taste, Shane mourns. The dick that he might never taste. He gnaws on Ilya’s bottom lips, who grins through it, before biting him back tenfold harder.
Shane doesn’t think he’s ever been so wet—so fucking turned on—during sex. He’s definitely never smiled so much, and been so viciously against the mere thought of closing his eyes and missing out on his partner’s pleasure.
And through all that; the obscenely wet sounds coming out of the slide of their plush, open mouths is almost enough for Shane to think that he’s just been hallucinating the fat, swollen cock continuously smearing precum up and down Shane’s creamy entrance.
“Oh my God,” he heaves out a sob when a particularly deep hip roll causes Ilya’s spongy head to push against the underside of his whimpering tdick.
He’s not dreaming, so he pulls himself out of his drunken daze, and answers with desperate, clumsy thrusts of his own, for Ilya’s thick cock to slobber where he needs it the most. Ilya does not complain nor react when Shane’s fingers dig painfully into his nape, letting himself be used, happily grunting once Shane abandons his mouth to maul his neck instead. In disbelief that he gets to lick the sweat off Ilya’s Adam’s apple and mouth along the tense, protruding veins, so similar to the ones on his arms and cock. Ilya stays very still for Shane, coaxing him with pets and rough hands on every bit of skin Shane has available—from Shane’s thick waist to his soft, doughy pecs. His hands rest there, in what looks like awe, then starts attack-groping him. The squeeze stings, and should not fucking turn Shane on.
“—ane… Shane. Turn over.” What?
Shane groans from where he hid his face in Ilya's damp, hairy pits, disgruntled, and stubbornly continues to grind the length of his tdick and his slick entrance on Ilya’s engorged cock, coating him. Only fair. His to enjoy, just for now, just for today, and it was the least Ilya could do for interrupting his rare solo time. All he needs to do is sit pretty and stay hard for Shane—for Shane to finally take, be greedy for once in his life, and—
“Shane. Stop fucking around and get on your knees.”
Shane reluctantly lifts his head. “God. Why are you so—”
And. God, indeed, Shane shudders, heart rate slowing down to a dull hum.
Half convinced that he will never experience this again, Shane reaches out, and thumbs around the five o’clock shadow along Ilya’s jawline, up to his cheekbones, then slowly inches towards his wet, pinched eyebrows and creased forehead, where he gently pushes the mess away from his clouded eyes. Pretty, pretty eyes.
“Cute,” he murmurs, then drops his gaze, and then his legs.
Getting on his knees for Ilya to—what—mount—is not as easy as it sounds. They bump into each other as he tries to make himself as comfortable as a large, athletic man in a ridiculously small bathtub possibly can. Huffing in frustration, Shane glances over his left shoulder. Here stands Ilya, frozen in place, breathing like a rutting animal, eyes drilling holes into Shane’s dimpled back arch and his tan, muscled ass. With both holes on display. In another universe, Shane’s used to this, used to Ilya, and would snort and gently tease him for being so tense. In this one, he looks him in the eye one last time before burrowing his head in his arms. He submits and presents, like a bunny mid-breeding season; face down, butt up.
He frowns a little. And, well. At least he’s not showing Ilya how embarrassed he feels, not—not after acting so brazen.
Unsurprisingly, his relief is short-lived. Ilya’s sweaty, bare stomach slots in behind Shane, and Shane just knows there is no hiding his full-body flush. Overwhelmed, he closes his eyes to try and recenter. Take it all in. Except it heightens everything: the perfect fit of Ilya’s stomach in his arch, his meaty pecs and perky nipples dragging and catching along his spine—and worst of all, Ilya’s erratic heartbeat, synchronizing in with Shane’s.
And then, Shane feels the first push of Ilya’s fat cock between his thick, muscled legs. It slides sloppily between his fat labia; gathers, and lathers his slick all over his length, kisses Shane’s tdick, and withdraws to repeat it all. Again, and again. Shane's pussy pulsates for Ilya. By now fully aware that he’s doing a piss poor job at biting back his whorish moans. Fuck. He’s so fucking horny. He is going to die, and Ilya’s his sole saviour. Never mind that Ilya’s just as gone as he is, grunting and rutting in his ears. A caveman with his first-ever wet hole.
A possessive one at that, with an unforgiving iron grip that paws at Shane’s sore chest like it owes him money. Shane feels weak, but he’s also aware he’s the sole reason they haven’t collapsed flat into the bathtub, with Ilya being long gone—pussy drunk—jack-hammering his cock between Shane’s wet folds. A hare with his rabbit.
He can’t move, can’t even begin to think about moving, fully content to be trapped under Ilya’s warm blanket of plush muscles, like the touch-starved prey he is.
And for once, Ilya seems to agree.
“—s’that what it was?” Breath hot in Shane’s buzzing, burning ear. “Poor little bunny needed someone to catch him.” Little? He’s not fucking—
Shane shakes his head vehemently, mouth open in a silent, outraged moan. Blissfully unaware that he’s been drooling all over himself.
“Lucky day for stupid, horny bunny,” he drawls, reaching out to swipe a thumb across Shane’s messy chin.
Fuck, you’re such an asshole. No, wait, I’m sorry. God, please, please let me come, but only an embarrassing whimper comes out. You’re right. I’m bait for you.
Or perhaps he did say it out loud. He doesn’t know, doesn’t truly care. Not when Ilya, ever so his merciful God, hears him anyway and cups his slick, chubby mound. The light fondling forces Shane to buck desperately, searching for more friction. Eventually, he gives in, using Shane’s own drool to jerk him off between his calloused thumb and crooked index finger. It’s so rough that it hurts, but Ilya’s long helped him cross the fine line between pain and pleasure. Shane’s panting pitiful little huh huhs, eyes rolling so far back he’s one step away from seeing both Heaven and Hell blurred into one. The gates pull him in. He dips and takes the fall.
His body seizes in a barely-there moan, and his thighs clamp shut, shot with pleasure. Shane doesn’t think he’s ever came so hard, so much, everywhere, and mostly on Ilya’s cock.
Eventually, he comes back to himself, putty as a doll, and resurfaces for air to Ilya’s loud, heavy breathing and bruising grip on his sore, bruised waist and tits. A mutt in heat frantically seeking his own pleasure. His curly, blond head is burrowed in Shane’s throat; mouthing, licking and biting him everywhere—deliriously muttering about needing to put the tip in and coming inside.
Shane adamantly refuses to entertain him, or even catch himself considering it.
He does, however, help him reach completion by rolling his ass and abnormally slippery vagina all over Ilya’s warm, weeping cock.
“Shane,” Ilya begs. Way too sweet, way too dark, way too much.
Shane contorts himself to pull Ilya in by his hair, pouty mouth and all, and devours him so wholly. He ignores their teeth painfully clashing, or how badly Ilya is struggling for air, cheeks as red as his cock. They lick into each other’s mouth, even as Ilya’s groaning loud, in pain or pleasure, hip thrusts stuttering. His cock nestles warmly between Shane’s wet folds, where it finds home, washing over Ilya like a revelation—jerking forward one more time before spurting and pulsating all over Shane’s sex. Shane groans in his mouth, low, and so satisfied.
His head buzzes euphorically, until he feels something wet and hot continue to spray his lower body.
“The fuck…” Shane mutters groggily as he looks down. And there, dripping hot and yellow from his tdick and his thighs, and splattering loudly in the bathtub—“Are you. Are you peeing on me?”
Nose digging further behind Shane’s ears with no shame in the world, Ilya shows absolutely no desire to release him.
“You like it,” he whispers hotly in his ears, and Shane feels him angle his stream back to his sore tdick. “And you started it.”
Shane thrashes for show, “That wasn’t fucking—That was squirt, asshole.”
Ilya tightens his hold around Shane’s torso, as his hips jerk forward one final time.
“Let me fuck a hole next time. Any,” he says, breath wet and somehow, endearingly shaky. ”Both. You can pee, squirt, whatever you want.”
Shane snorts, eyes crinkling into something soft.
“You’re asking?”
Ilya hums, pleased and rumbling, and peppers Shane's face with wet kisses.