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Shane Hollander is at what could possibly be the most insane fucking house party of his entire college experience.
It had been JJ’s idea, because of course it had. Word came by a friend of a friend who knew a guy going around campus bragging about hosting an ‘absolute fucking rager’ after the Friday night game (football, not hockey this time), and so naturally, down through the grapevine it went, and Hayden and then Shane had received invites by proxy.
Whoever was hosting (Shane still didn’t know, and frankly it never really mattered anyway), had absolutely delivered on their promise. It was absolute chaos. From the moment he and Hayden had rocked up to the address JJ had hastily texted them earlier that evening, Shane had been floored at the sheer number of people they were faced with. The house, a regular two story student house from the outside, with a modest front yard and a porch, had bodies spilling out every which way. There wasn’t a square inch of grass out front that didn’t have people on it, standing around and talking (well, shouting), some dancing to the music that leaked out from the open windows and front door. There was even one guy already face planted into the dirt, blacked out and unmoving.
Despite the windows being cracked open, Shane could see a layer of condensation fogging up the glass, distorting the flashing neon lights glowing through them and making the inside of the house look like some kind of alternate dream-like dimension they were about to enter into. It didn’t help either that the panes themselves were shaking in their frames from the force of the bass bumping beneath the EDM track that was playing.
“Jesus,” Hayden had whistled as they made their way up to the front door, “the whole fucking campus must be here.”
Off to the side, a huddle of bodies parted slightly as they passed to reveal a guy in the middle of a keg stand, illuminated by phone flashes, all capturing what would no doubt be a blurry Instagram story to look back on with shame (or pride, depending on the person) in the morning.
“Let’s just get in,” Shane replied, steeling himself, “I’m way too sober for this.”
Manoeuvring past the group of bodies congregated on the front deck and around the porch swing, which was hanging off one side and still had four people crammed on it, passing a joint between them, they made it over the threshold and into the fray.
Inside was a whole other level of pandemonium. The noise level had increased tenfold just by entering the building, the music and the sound of people’s shouts and jeers bouncing off the walls and making the floor beneath their feet shake. Bodies lined the entryway, grinding up against each other in a dirty rhythm, squeezed into corners with mouths hot against ears to talk, or pressed up on walls with mouths hot against mouths.
“Fucking Christ–!” The stairs leading up to the second floor were, at that moment, being used as a makeshift slide, someone having stolen a mattress from one of the bedrooms and using it like a giant sled, and Hayden had side-stepped just in time to narrowly avoid being taken out. Both its riders had stood up whooping, clapping each other on the back like they’d just accomplished something incredible. Shane shook his head, wondering what the fuck they had gotten themselves into.
Muscling through the crowd, they found themselves in what resembled something like a bombsite, but was in fact the kitchen. Red solo cups, bottles and cans littered every available surface, along with stubbed out cigarettes and discarded lighters. Playing cards were scattered across the countertop, some clinging together by some ominous sticky substance. The counters were overflowing with every brand of alcohol imagineable, and amongst the array was a large bucket filled with a radioactive-looking mixture that people were sticking straws into and taking sips out of as they walked by. Shane couldn’t help the way his nose wrinkled at what a fucking insane health hazard it was, but since when were college students ever capable of making good decisions?
“Let’s go!” Hayden yelled above the thump of the music, turning around and brandishing two cans of beer. He’d plucked them from the kitchen sink, which had been loaded up with ice and was acting as a makeshift cooler for various cans, bottles and mixers. Shane accepted a can and they cheers'ed.
“I absolutely,” Hayden groaned between chugs, “needed this. Semester’s been such a fucking bitch so far.”
Shane nodded between taking a few hefty gulps of his own beer, eager to catch up with the rest of the room and stop feeling like he was fucking sleepwalking. Some of it slipped out the corners of his mouth and ran down his chin, which he swiped up with the back of his hand.
“Where the hell do you think JJ is?” he asked, eyes taking in the scenes before them. If there was any hope of finding their buddy amongst the anarchy, it was an infinitesimal amount.
Hayden shrugged, knocking back the rest of his beer already and then crushing the can flat between the palm of his hand and the countertop. Then proceeded to belch in the most obnoxious display of college bro masculinity that Shane had ever seen.
“Dude.”
“Fuck you, catch up.”
Not like he wasn’t fucking trying.
Hayden turned to grab another beer from the sink, then turned and clapped Shane on the back, the force of it causing Shane’s beer to slosh and coat his hand, making it sticky. “I’m gonna go see where he is, you think you can stay alive long enough for me to find you again?”
Shane rolled his eyes. “Seriously? Ten bucks I find you sucking face with Jackie somewhere instead.”
His best friend simply smirked in response.
“Actually, make it twenty,” Shane added. “And for fuck’s sake, use protection if you do anything tonight. I’m not ready for a kid running around the rink.”
“Oh, but baby you’d make such a good uncle,” Hayden said with a shit-eating grin, pinching Shane’s cheek between his thumb and forefinger, which Shane immediately batted away. “Alright, seriously though, don’t wander off. I’ll find you back here.”
Shane waved him off with a nod and a promise to be on his best behaviour. He’d known they’d end up splitting up at some point in the night, ever since Hayden had caught wind from Jackie’s circle that she’d be here, and Shane knew that was a very large part of why Hayden had wanted to come in the first place. For all his posturing as the typical college athlete fuckboy, Shane knew Hayden was horrifically soft on the inside, particularly when it came to Jackie. Since meeting her at their first fresher’s night on campus, he hadn’t stopped talking about her. It was sickening. And very cute, if Shane was being nice.
After watching Hayden disappear into the throng, Shane nursed his beer leaning up against the counters, surveying his surroundings a little more. Streamers and confetti hung haphazardly from the popcorn ceilings, flung over light fixtures and ceiling fans that weren’t spinning. They’d be useless anyway, with just how fucking hot it was in the house. The sheer amount of people crammed into the space and their combined body heat made it feel like a tropical summer’s night, despite the chill of the February air outside. Shane could feel the sweat already beading at the back of his neck, knew that it would soon be running in rivulets down his spine and soaking the back of his fitted black tee.
There were a few other people around the kitchen, sitting atop the counters and perched on the breakfast bar, talking amongst themselves or, like Shane, nursing a drink and staring into space. They were probably far more drunk than Shane was, by the looks of them, eyes glassy and limbs loose. Hayden had insisted they pre-game a little before coming, thankfully, so Shane was already feeling slightly buzzy by the time he finished his beer. But still, it wasn’t enough to feel like he wasn’t sticking out like a sore, sober thumb. Deciding that beer wasn’t going to cut it, he poured himself a few shots of the nearest spirit (white rum, it looked like), knocking them back in quick succession and wincing only slightly at the heat in his chest as they went down.
Which brings him to the present moment, standing in the kitchen waiting for the shots to kick in and wondering whose bright idea it was to hide a broken lampshade in the oven. At least it’s not turned on. He eventually decides to take a lap around. May as well see the sights if Hayden is going to be as occupied as he imagined. He takes another drink for the road, this one a sloppily mixed rum and coke which is definitely fifty percent more rum than coke.
His feet lead him first to the living room, a wide space with arguably the largest concentration of people in the entire house. A worn, grey couch has been shoved up against one wall to make room for an improvised beer pong match, taking place across a shitty fold out table. It’s unclear who’s winning, because there are about 20 too many cups on the table to count, and the players keep knocking their own cups over every time they make a throw, rowdy and boisterous.
Absorbed by the game nonetheless, Shane only snaps out of it when he feels one of the ping-pong balls hit his foot and roll to a stop. He leans down, picks it up off the filthy carpet, and hands it back to one of the guys closest to him at the table.
“Hey, thanks man!” the guy slurs, before dunking it into the nearest cup to rinse it off before resuming play.
Fucking hell. Shane has done many questionable things throughout his time at college so far, but there are certain things he draws the line at. Most of them to do with not being a walking fucking plague-carrier. He’s way too invested in hockey to get sick doing half the things some of his peers get up to.
Getting shit-faced on the weekends, or in the holidays, or on the odd week night when they had afternoon practice the next day, however, does not fall past the imaginary line.
The other side of the living room has seemingly been dubbed the unofficial dance floor, the crowd there moving and undulating in sync to the music. Bodies pressed on bodies, arms slung around necks and waists. Two tower speakers are tucked into the far corner, the cones on the front visibly vibrating with the force of the bass being pumped through them. Deciding he’d rather not go deaf from standing too close for too long, Shane makes to turn and cut through into the hallway, but gets stopped by the feeling of a hand sliding its way up his back.
“Hey, you,” a sultry voice says, way too close to the shell of his ear, “wanna dance?”
The girl is attractive, all smoky eyes and tousled dark hair, wearing a slinky top that clings to her curves. She’s biting her lip, corners of her mouth turned up in a smile that Shane thinks is supposed to be alluring to him. Her fingers have come around to rest on his bicep, beckoning him to her. Shane wishes he cared.
“I’m, uh, trying to find a friend,” he says, with what he hopes is an apologetic smile.
The girl pouts in a show of exaggerated disappointment. “Aw, don’t be like that,” she whines, fingers squeezing the muscle of his arm playfully. She wiggles closer, pressing the swell of her chest against Shane like that’s going to convince him.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, squeezing past her awkwardly and ignoring the way she huffs and cusses him out as he walks off.
Seeking solace, he ends up in the downstairs bathroom that is, mercifully, empty. He presses the door shut behind him and locks it with a soft click, temporarily muffling the chaos outside. While the noise is somewhat diminished, the décor in here is just as absurd and disorientating. Someone has duct-taped a rotating disco light to the ceiling, the whole room lit up in a swirl of multi-coloured lights dancing across the tiled walls like some kind of fucked up LSD trip. The wall above the toilet has been defaced with scrawlings and stickers, some of them citing phone numbers that promise a good time in exchange for a call. On the opposite wall, above the sink, the mirror has been graffitied as well, this time with lipstick that simply reads ‘WHORE’ in big, red, wobbly letters.
Shane takes stock of his reflection behind the writing. Hair mussed, cheeks flushed with the heat, a sheen already coating his skin and making him glow. Eyes, a little glazed over and bloodshot. Now alone in the bathroom, the familiar tipsy feeling has caught up and taken over his brain, a pleasant thrum beneath his skin and between his ears, brain fuzzy in the best way. He grins at his reflection, and his reflection grins back, and they both let out a little giggle.
This is fun. He’s needed this. To let loose, to forget about classes and hockey practice and expectations. To crawl out of his skin that always sits slightly too tight, too awkwardly over his skeleton, to be free. He wishes he was more drunk. Wishes he was drunk enough to dance, to fall into the music and let it hold him, sway him. Wishes he was drunk enough to dance with a pretty girl, to hold her, to kiss her, to take her back to his place, or her place, to make out, to fuck, to not think about the thing that has been gnawing away inside of him for far too long.
Fuck.
Shane turns on the tap and splashes cool water on the back of his neck. Looking down, he realises there’s an empty baggy discarded in the sink, the remnants of a white powder clinging to the bottom. He doesn’t do hard drugs, mostly because if anyone found out he’d be kicked off the team and his scholarship ripped out from under him faster than he could spell coke. But also because he’s scared of how addicting it would be to feel that kind of high, that kind of liberation from his own mind. He knows he’d never be able to stop. But, for just a moment, he thinks about it.
No. His line is drawn at alcohol and weed. A few rips from Hayden’s bong now and again, when he’s feeling particularly caged in his own skeleton, itching to burst, but that’s it.
Shane splashes more water on his neck, his wrists, his forehead. He looks around for a hand towel, only to find it discarded on the floor in the corner, soaking wet with god knows what. He settles for slicking his hair back slightly, mussing it up in a way that he hopes looks dishevelled but sexy. He kind of just feels like it looks stupid. Oh well.
He exits the bathroom and is hit with the full force of the noise and heat. He takes a long haul of his drink, braces himself, then pushes back amongst the crowd. Finishing his lap of the house, Shane wanders upstairs and checks out the bedrooms that aren’t currently occupied, then tries the bathroom only to find it locked and a tell-tale thumping and moaning emanating from the other side. He finds no sign of Hayden or JJ, though he does run into a few buddies from his regular classes, and they spend a while talking shit and lounging on the staircase.
“I need some fucking air,” Shane says after a while, shirt sticky with sweat. The drinks have finally caught up to him, his head swimming and warmth spreading through his chest. He excuses himself, heading back down and towards the kitchen where he knows there are doors that lead out onto the rear deck. It takes a great deal of effort not to fall over his own feet, but he manages.
Stepping into the frigid night is a relief, the cool breeze washing over him and turning the feverish skin on his arms to gooseflesh. He sucks in a breath, revelling in the relatively peaceful atmosphere of the back yard, only a handful of people scattered across the lawn and on the porch. There’s a small group huddled at the far end of the garden, leaning back in plastic chairs, feet kicked up on a low table, blowing smoke into the sky and laughing. To Shane’s left, there’s a couple, the girl with her back resting against the wooden railings of the porch, the guy bracketing his arms around her and leaning down, whispering something in her ear that has her blushing.
It’s respite, but still not quite enough. He needs to be further away, away from what he isn’t entirely sure, maybe from himself, to shed the suit of skin he wears and reach for something beyond what he is. Shane considers for a moment, then hops up on the railing of the deck and hoists himself up onto the roof, surprisingly lithe for all his drunkenness. The porch overhang is deep enough and flat enough for him to scoot back on, stretching himself out and laying with his back flat against the cool surface, head tilted up to the stars. He gets comfy, arms coming up to interlock his fingers at the base of his neck, pillowing his head. He shuts his eyes, enjoying the way the world feels like it’s swaying and tilting around him as he does so, the alcohol in his system making him feel tingly all over.
This is better, this is something. He can be himself here, peeled away from his husk and laid bare under the knowing gaze of the sky, the stars, the heavens, free of judgement. Cradled in the dark and in the warmth of a drunken glow. Just this, just for now.
For a while, Shane just lays with his eyes shut and drifts to the steady thump thump thump of the speakers and distant shouts and hollers of the people inside. He doesn’t even realise that he isn’t alone anymore until he feels the air around him shift with another presence settling down in the space beside him.
Slowly, Shane tilts his head to the left and opens his eyes, taking in the figure.
The guy is stretched out, much like Shane is, relaxing back on his arms and propping himself up on his elbows. He’s holding a joint in one hand, taking a slow drag and tilting his head back to exhale the smoke, his mess of blonde curls falling back from his face as he does so to reveal the crooked line of his nose, the deep curve of his lips.
He turns and finds Shane watching him, though doesn’t seem surprised or bothered.
“I thought you might be dead or something.”
His voice comes out in a low rumble, a heavy Russian accent colouring the words. It makes Shane shiver a little.
“Glad you’re not,” he continues, flicking the end of the joint slightly, “I don’t want to deal with that shit.”
Shane finds himself chuckling, which in turn brings a small smile out of the guy.
“Not dead,” Shane groans, shifting to sit up straighter, hands coming up behind his back to support himself. “Just enjoying a little R and R.”
“Yes, I also like to come to house party to relax,” the guy scoffs, and takes another toke.
Shane takes the opportunity to appraise him, trying to work out whether he’s seen him around campus before or at another party somewhere. No, he thinks. He’d definitely remember seeing this guy somewhere.
Long limbs and broad shoulders, thick muscular arms straining against the fabric of his white T-shirt that clings to the hard lines of his chest and abdomen. If he isn’t an athlete then Shane will go home cursing his genetics for the rest of his life, because the man has the figure of a fucking Greek god and Shane, for all the lean muscle he’s built doing hockey over the years, suddenly feels small in comparison.
The guy must feel Shane’s eyes on him again, because he turns and raises an eyebrow. “You want?” he asks, holding out the joint, interpreting Shane’s attention as a desire to get in on a hit.
Shane wouldn’t usually indulge outside of his and Hayden’s late night hangouts, just the two of them passing the bong back and forth and getting giggly in Hayden’s dorm room, but he’s feeling reckless tonight. Like he’s on the edge of something happening, hair standing on end right before a lightning strike. And the way this guy is looking at him, gaze steady and daring and full of something Shane can’t quite place, it makes him feel like he could do anything.
He plucks the joint from the guy’s fingers, wetting his lips before taking the tip between them and sucking, deep, drawing the thick smoke into his lungs. The guy watches him with rapt attention, eyes dark, and Shane finds himself staring back.
Just as Shane thinks he can’t take anymore in, the guy opens his mouth and murmurs, “More.” It’s both a command and a challenge.
Shane breathes deeper, eyes never leaving the guy’s face as he sucks the smoke further into his lungs, filling himself with it and holding it in until he’s dizzy. He gets a nod of satisfaction, a silent praise for his effort. As if given permission, he finally exhales, a heavy cloud escaping through his nose and mouth, the smoke hanging heavy between the two of them.
Something about that was… almost erotic.
Shane’s skin is tingling, head buzzing. He passes the joint back, and the guy takes it and pops it back in his mouth immediately. Shane can’t help but think of how they’re indirectly sharing saliva, and his stomach clenches.
“You are Shane Hollander, yes?”
Shane blinks. “You know me?”
The guy rolls his eyes, smirking. “Hard not to. Whole campus knows you. Big hockey star.”
Being called a ‘star’ is a little embarrassing, although part of Shane preens at the fact that his name is known enough around campus to have reached this guy’s ears.
“Do you play sports too?” Shane asks.
“No, no.” The guy turns away momentarily to spit into the gutter. Shane doesn’t even find it gross. “I like hockey though. But I am Psychology major.”
Huh. Would not have guessed that. Shane remembers his theory from earlier and wants to cry with how unfair it is that this guy is sitting in someone’s class, making notes on Piaget and Jung, looking like fucking Achilles himself.
“You’ve watched some of our games then?” Shane can’t help but ask at the mention of him liking hockey.
He gets a dry laugh in response. “Yes, I show up with huge banner that says ‘I heart Shane Hollander’, you don’t see me?”
“Don’t think I’d forget seeing something like that.”
Shane doesn’t know if it’s the combination of the alcohol and the weed kicking in, but the moment the words tumble out his mouth, he’s wanting to suck them right back in like the smoke that still lingers in the air. He never says shit like that, let alone to random hot guys on rooftops at parties. He must be fucking high as a kite.
His tongue darts out again nervously to wet his lips – stupid cotton mouth – and the guy follows the movement with his eyes, still staring unwaveringly at Shane in a way that makes him shudder inside. If Shane’s words had affected him at all, he certainly didn’t give anything away.
“Ilya,” he eventually says, extending his free hand out to Shane.
Pretty name, the alcohol-addled, juvenile part of Shane’s brain says. Jesus Christ, the sober and thus much smaller part says, as he reaches out and clasps the guy– Ilya’s hand.
The touch of Ilya’s skin on his has Shane’s body fizzing, all of a sudden feeling hot again like he’s back inside on the dancefloor. Electricity is humming up his spinal column and into the back of his head like he’s been connected up to a live wire. It has to be the cocktail of inebriants in his system, because it shouldn’t be normal for another person to make him feel like this. Like he could stand up and jump clean off this roof right now, and somehow start flying. If he weren’t already drunk five ways to Sunday, this feeling alone Shane is sure could sustain him for the rest of the night.
Ilya withdraws his hand with a slight squeeze. He goes back to smoking and staring out into the night, the glow of the outdoor lights casting shadows across his strong brow and reflecting off the dainty gold crucifix that hangs between the swell of his pecs.
He shifts slightly, getting more comfortable, and the movement causes the hem of his shirt to ride up a little. It’s just enough to expose the lower part of his toned stomach, dusted with light blonde hairs that disappear along with the deep V of his obliques into the waistband of his jeans. Jeans that ride low on his hips and are obscenely tight in a way that has Shane swallowing heavily.
Shane has been with men before. A couple of guys throughout his college years so far, nice and patient enough to let Shane clumsily stumble through the motions of sucking dick like the newbie he is. It had been… pleasant. Enjoyable. He’d wanted to, obviously. But there hadn’t been this insatiable lust that he’d heard about from friends and teammates who talked about their hookups, their girlfriends. The way they talked about eating pussy like they were starving for it. Like they could drown in it and die happy. Maybe it’s because Shane had been inexperienced, and, being the perfectionist he is, hated not being good at things on the first try. Maybe he just hasn’t got the hang of it yet.
Looking at Ilya, Shane very much wants to get the hang of it. Quickly.
“So… you come alone tonight?” Ilya says, casually.
Shit, Hayden. Shane remembers all too quickly that he had, in fact, come with someone. His best friend, who had specifically told him to not stray too far. He wonders if he ever found JJ in the end. Oh well, they’d find their way back together at some point.
“Nah, my buddy dragged me out, there’s a girl here that he likes. He’s so persuasive when he wants to get his dick wet.”
Ilya snorts. “Ah, right.” He pauses, flicking ash on the tiles. Down in the yard, someone whoops, followed by a chorus of laughter. “What about you? Come to get your dick wet?”
Shane almost chokes on his own spit, which would be extremely fucking difficult considering his mouth is as dry as sandpaper. His eyes flick back to Ilya, who is leaning back looking all too relaxed and – fuck he’s so hot – fixing Shane with that same intense look.
“No, I mean… I’m not– There isn’t anyone…” Shane doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say. No, but maybe that’s changed. Maybe I could. Maybe I want to. Maybe you could– He sucks in a breath.
“I’m shocked,” Ilya mercifully interrupts Shane’s poor attempt at stringing a sentence together. “A guy like you, athlete…”
“Guy like me?”
Ilya cocks his head in Shane’s direction, tilting his neck in such a way that shows off the thick column of his throat, the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, eyes raking over Shane’s body.
“I know many people that would like to fuck you, Shane Hollander.”
Fucking hell.
“Oh?” is all Shane can manage.
Ilya, as if he hadn’t just said something that is currently doing a number on Shane’s dick, rolls up onto one hip for a moment and reaches behind his body with the hand that isn’t holding the joint, tugging something out of his back pocket before coming back to rest on his elbows again. It’s a small silver flask. His deft fingers work the top off, flicking the cap back before taking a swig.
“Vodka at these parties tastes like fucking battery acid,” he simply states.
Shane just nods wordlessly, the movement making the world tilt and sway and pitch. He’s lightheaded, floating just above the clouds but also swimming through them, thoughts hazy and limbs heavy. He feels Ilya’s gaze lingering on him, and it makes him want to look up and meet it, to accept whatever challenge lays in the eyes that stare back at him, to lean forward and take, or to lean back and be taken.
Through low lids and the dark line of his lashes, Shane looks. He wants another drink, wants another hit, wants to wet his lips on something, wants to drink something down, breathe something in, down deep until he’s full and sated. Wants, wants, wants.
Ilya provides. Offers his joint to Shane like he knows it’s something craved. Shane nods, gulping down desire and settling for the acrid taste of smoke sitting on his tongue instead. He holds his hand out, waiting for it.
But rather than give him the joint, Ilya takes it back between his own lips and sucks in a deep breath, the tip glowing as he does so. Then, before Shane can process it, he’s reaching up and sliding one large hand around the back of Shane’s neck, pulling him down so their lips meet.
Shane gasps softly, and Ilya takes the opportunity to blow smoke into his open and waiting mouth.
Oh, God. Are you there? It’s me, Shane Hollander. We’ve had our differences, but I think I’d like to convert for real this time. I’m ready. Open the pearly white gates. I’m coming up.
It’s the hottest fucking thing Shane has ever experienced. Ilya’s lips are barely grazing his own but just the suggestion of them is enough to set off fireworks behind his eyes.
For all his surprise, Shane manages to breathe in a good amount of the smoke that Ilya feeds him, taking it into his lungs and holding it there like a precious gift. All the while, their faces remain mere millimeters apart, and Ilya’s eyes are open, pupils blown wide as he watches Shane take it all. And Shane wants him to watch, wants him to see Shane take it.
Shane only pulls away slightly when he needs to exhale, considerate enough to blow it out the side of his mouth and not right back into Ilya’s face. Ilya’s hand slips from the back of his neck, and the heat of it is replaced with the sharp sting of cool air, and it makes Shane shiver.
Ilya swipes his tongue across his bottom lip, eyes still fixed on Shane’s face as he leans back to rest on his forearms. He looks just as high as Shane feels, pupils dilated, hair somewhat dishevelled, chest rising and falling a little heavier.
For a moment, all that fills the air between them is the music punching its way out the speakers inside, the loud, drunken chatter below, their shallow breathing.
Shane plunges forward, lips crashing into Ilya’s with a hunger that’s almost ravenous, hands coming up to grab the sides of his face and tangle into the hair that curls around his ears. Ilya lets out a surprised moan, only taken off guard for a second before he’s recovering and kissing Shane back filthily, dropping the remains of the joint and bringing his hand up to splay his fingers at the back of Shane’s head, fingernails scraping his scalp. For a brief, delirious moment, Shane wonders if his lips are dry; the thought is immediately wiped when Ilya’s tongue slides between them and explores Shane’s mouth like he wants to taste him from the inside out. It’s fucking heavenly.
Feeling insatiable, Shane throws a leg over Ilya’s hips and straddles him, sinking onto his lap and pushing closer. Ilya falls back against the roof tiles, breathless, and Shane just chases him down, lips and tongues not separating for a second. Now with his hands free, Ilya reaches up to grab at Shane’s waist, his fingers finding the skin of his hips and lower back where his shirt has rucked up. He digs the pads of his fingers in aggressively, rubbing them across the juts of Shane’s hipbones, and Shane moans into his mouth at the possessiveness of it. Unbidden, his hips buck and twitch, the fabric of his jeans catching against his cockhead and making him gasp.
Ilya growls, rutting his hips up at the sound, kissing him deeper like he’s trying to swallow each little breath and moan spilling from Shane’s lips. His hands slide over the swell of Shane’s ass in his jeans, kneading the soft flesh with his palms and using what little leverage he has to grind Shane down against him. Ilya’s hard, Shane can feel it through their jeans, the swollen length of his cock dragging deliciously against Shane’s own.
If he weren’t already on cloud nine, Shane would be fucking doing somersaults over the stars at this point. He’s dizzy in the best way, confident and unreserved in a manner that only alcohol can bring out of him. He’s vaguely aware that they’re doing this out in the open, barely concealed atop the porch overhang where anyone could look up and witness Shane dry humping this guy as he claims his mouth. But this is what people did at parties, get high, get loose, make out, fuck. It’s just that Shane doesn’t. Hasn’t. Until now.
Breaking their kiss for the first time, Shane mouths messily over Ilya’s cheek and down to his throat where his head is tilted back slightly from the angle he’s laying at, a perfect canvas for Shane to mark. As he kisses and licks and sucks at the spot just below Ilya’s ear, he hears Ilya groan, and feels a hand come up to latch itself around the back of his neck, holding him there tightly. It’s all the encouragement Shane needs, sucking the skin into his mouth greedily, nibbling at it and visualising the pretty mark that will bloom there afterwards. His hands skitter over Ilya’s chest, his huge pecs, down his sides where he can feel the tight coil of his abs. He feels desperate, like he can’t get close enough, can’t have enough in his mouth, can’t get enough friction on his poor, aching dick. He whines.
“Oh, fuck,” Ilya moans, his voice cracking and rough around the words. He sounds as wrecked as Shane feels. “Your fucking mouth, Hollander.”
Shane just whines again in response, reduced to nothing but sheer need, floating out of his head and into someplace else where all he wants is his mouth on the man beneath him. Ilya fists his hand into the hair at the nape of Shane’s neck and tugs, yanking him back. Shane’s lips slip off with a wet sound, a thin string of saliva connecting his bottom lip and the raw skin of Ilya’s neck. He moans loudly at the loss, but also at the jolt of pain that shoots through his scalp under Ilya’s fingers. It hurts. And it’s so fucking good.
Bringing Shane’s face up to eye level, Ilya’s looking at him with an expression of pure lust, eyes glassy and lips glistening with spit. Shane’s spit.
“Please,” Shane breathes, chest heaving. He rolls his hips, chasing friction, chasing pleasure. He’s so turned on and so high, and nothing is enough.
“I never expected– Fuck, you are so pretty,” Ilya growls under his breath, his gaze flitting all over Shane’s face, down his body. Like he can’t believe what he’s looking at.
“Please,” Shane whimpers, digging his fingers into Ilya’s waist and rocking against him.
Ilya murmurs something under his breath in Russian, the sound of it unbelievably hot. He glances around, searching for something.
Then, he’s loosening his grip in Shane’s hair and using his hands to nudge at Shane’s hips, directing him to get off, pushing his hips up just a little when it takes a moment for Shane to get the message. With a confused sound, Shane slides off to the side, and Ilya makes to stand up, tucking his flask back into his pocket and grinding out the joint with the toe of his sneakers.
“Come on, in here,” he says, motioning with his head towards the semi-open window behind them, the one that leads into one of the second-floor bedrooms and the one that Ilya must have climbed out of earlier to get onto the roof.
Oh, Shane realises.
He wobbles to his feet and follows Ilya to the window where he’s already ducking inside, holding the window open for Shane to squeeze in after.
The bedroom is miraculously unoccupied, although it seems as if it hasn't been for long. The bedsheets are strewn across the bed, one of the lamps on the bedside table knocked to the ground. There are cans and bottles and streamers littering the floor, along with cigarette butts and a torn condom wrapper.
“Wasn’t me, don’t worry,” Ilya chuckles, noting Shane’s expression.
The room is dark save for the moonlight spilling in from outside, bathing everything in a silver, dreamlike glow that feels at odds with the setting they’re in. Music still blares from below, vibrating through the walls and floor. Just outside the door, people are shouting and laughing, footsteps thudding up and down the hall. The smell of cigarette smoke and weed mingles with the distinctive sickly-sweet scent that most clubs have, of spilt drinks and sticky floors. And yet all of that falls to the periphery of Shane’s conscious mind when he remembers who he’s in this space with and what they’re about to do.
Standing across the room and with the grace of some distance between them, Shane lets his eyes roam over the full expanse of Ilya’s body. Adonis, Heracles, Achilles… Ilya could stand among the ancient Greeks and they’d worship him like a god. Tall, built, and unfairly beautiful. Shane has seen statues in museums that couldn’t hold a flame to the guy standing in front of him right now. Except he isn’t a statue, he’s living and breathing, soft flesh and hard muscle, and Shane wants to suck more than just the smoke from between his lips.
He doesn’t have to want for very long, because Ilya strides over to him and captures his face between his hands, mouth crashing down on him with fervour. His tongue slips easily into Shane’s mouth, mostly because Shane is already open and willing and begging for it, and he moans into the kiss like a starved man tasting his first meal in days.
Their bodies slot together, Ilya shoving his knee between Shane’s legs and Shane slipping his hands up the back of Ilya’s shirt, finding the deep groove of his spine and delighting, perversely, at how his back is slick with sweat. Shane wants to taste it. Wants to taste all of him. He grinds against Ilya’s leg as best he can, moaning into his mouth, but he can’t get the angle right and there’s too much fabric in the way. Hands fumbling, he brings his fingers to Ilya’s belt buckle and starts tugging at it, becoming more and more frustrated when it doesn’t budge, his fine motor skills shot to shit with the alcohol and weed and lust thrumming through his system.
“Off,” he growls into Ilya’s mouth, proper English falling far down the list of priorities.
Ilya pulls back and smirks down at him. “I never knew Shane Hollander would be so fucking needy,” he says, and Shane is more annoyed at how calm and unruffled the guy sounds than anything else. Meanwhile, Shane feels like he’s going to fucking faint if he doesn’t get a hand on his dick in the next five seconds.
It’s a small mercy that Ilya doesn’t tease him any more than that, taking his belt between sure fingers and undoing it in a swift motion, even going the extra mile by sliding it out of his belt loops and letting it drop to the floor. Shane takes over, swatting his hands out the way to replace them with his own, yanking the button open and the zipper down, shoving his hand inside as Ilya takes his mouth in another dirty kiss.
Shane revels in the feeling of Ilya’s cock pressed into his palm, straining and swollen, the skin of it velvety smooth. He runs a finger over the underside, feeling the veins there, feeling the weight of it, how it throbs at his touch. His mouth waters at the idea of having it heavy on his tongue.
He drops to his knees, and Ilya gasps softly, hand automatically coming to the back of Shane’s head like he’s done this a thousand times. Maybe he has. Shane wants to be the one in one thousand that he remembers. As much as he wants to pull Ilya’s jeans down and take him in his mouth right away, Shane resists, instead skimming his hands up Ilya’s calves and thighs, round to his ass and squeezing – hard. Ilya groans at that, bucking forward and pushing his crotch into Shane’s face, demanding. In response, Shane just continues rubbing and squeezing his ass, marvelling at how fucking round it is, lamenting at how horribly unjust it is that an ass like this has been walking around campus and he hasn’t known about it until today.
Whilst his hands are busy, Shane puts his mouth to use by pressing his lips to the hard length straining against Ilya’s underwear, mouthing over it and relishing the way it makes Ilya’s hips jerk. Ilya’s fingers are in his hair again, carding through it, tugging and twisting and sending little waves of pain and pleasure all the way from Shane’s head to the tip of his dick.
“Such a tease,” Ilya grits out from between his teeth, and Shane looks up between his lashes to see Ilya watching him reverently.
Knowing that he’s being watched, it makes him want to put on a show. So, without wasting any more time, Shane loops his fingers into Ilya’s belt loops and tugs his jeans down just below his hips, enough to get his boxers down his thighs and take out his cock. The sight of it makes Shane swallow, thick and leaking and fucking perfect. The lightheaded feeling from before comes crashing back over him, and he’s reminded just how drunk he is, just how good he feels. He probably won’t remember much of this tomorrow, but for now he wants to enjoy the way his soul hovers just outside the limits of his body.
Ilya swears under his breath as Shane wraps his hand around the base of his dick, then licks a long, slow stripe up the underside. Shane makes sure to look up as he does so, catching how Ilya’s eyebrows furrow, the way his mouth drops open, his eyes squeeze shut. Shane does it again, this time dragging his tongue over the tip, catching the pre-cum that beads there.
“Oh, fuck,” Ilya moans, the words low and drawn out and raw.
The reaction makes Shane’s dick jump, and he literally feels himself leak into his underwear. He brings his free hand around to grind his palm down onto the bulge in his jeans, the other slowly jerking Ilya off on his tongue.
“Fuck, Shane, you love it.”
He does.
The moment Shane takes Ilya fully into his mouth, he sighs out through his nose and lets his eyes slip shut, focusing entirely on the sensation of silky skin on his tongue and the sounds of Ilya’s harsh breathing melting into the music. He takes him as far as he can without choking, hand working the rest, head bobbing and tongue fluttering against the weight of Ilya’s cock. He twists his wrist in the way that he usually does when he jerks himself off, and it elicits a low groan from Ilya, so he keeps doing it, sucking and hollowing his cheeks in the process.
Shane loses himself for a while, drifting away from his mind and down into his body, luxuriating in the slow push and pull of Ilya’s cock between his lips and the fuzzy, warm feeling that settles behind his eyes and between his ears. If it weren’t for the hard floor digging into his knees, keeping him grounded, he’d almost definitely float off entirely, a balloon cut from its string.
The sound of someone banging on the door and the door handle rattling brings him back to a semi-conscious state of awareness, the music and voices filtering back in.
“Hey, open up!” a girl’s voice shouts, followed by laughter and more slurred, indistinct voices.
Shane sucks harder, moaning softly, hand working Ilya’s cock more desperately. The door handle rattles again, but Shane doesn’t react, purely intent on taking as much down his throat as he can, eyelids fluttering. The idea of doing this, just on the other side of the door to all those people, any of who could walk in if the door were unlocked and see Shane on his knees with a cock stuffed in his mouth… he loves it. The idea that people would see him in this state, so far removed from the tight, disciplined mask he wears around campus, star athlete Shane Hollander letting go and losing himself as he sucks dick. Yeah, it does something for him.
“Should we let them in?” Ilya breathes above him. “Let them watch?”
God.
Shane moans loudly around Ilya’s dick, spit slipping from the corners of his mouth and sliding down his chin. In return, Ilya lets out a long groan, which dissolves into short, breathless grunts as he begins thrusting shallowly into Shane’s mouth, hand firm at the back of his head and using it for leverage.
It feels so fucking filthy, having his mouth being used. It’s euphoric. His own cock aches with how hard he is. Shane can’t resist any longer, pausing in the middle of sucking Ilya off to reach down and pull himself roughly out of his jeans, taking himself in one hand while the other comes back up to resume stroking Ilya alongside his mouth. It’s not as wet as he’d like, but with his pre-cum slicking his palm, it’s enough.
Outside, the voices are still loud and raucous. Someone else bangs on the door, giggling. “If you guys are fucking in there, it better be good!”
“Come on, let us see!”
“We wanna join!”
Ilya’s hips are becoming more erratic, the sound of his breathing coming more jaggedly. His grunts and short, restrained moans fill the room and Shane jerks himself harder at the sound of it, at the idea that anyone outside could hear them right now. He’s fucking up into his own hand now, in time with Ilya’s long strokes into his mouth, and he’s so fucking close it hurts.
“Gonna cum in your mouth,” Ilya snarls, “let them hear it. Let them know how– fuck– how good you are.”
Yes, yes, let me have it, I want it, let me take it, let them hear it. I want them to hear. Want them to know. Please.
Shane can feel tears pricking the corners of his eyes as he pushes down further on Ilya’s dick, taking him to the back of his throat with a muffled whimper. The sound that Ilya lets out when he feels it nudge the soft wall of Shane’s throat and how it reflexively constricts around his girth… it’s enough to send Shane hurtling over the edge, spasming with the force of his climax and seeing stars. He does his best to suck Ilya through it, moaning around his cock.
“Jesus, fuck, yes— Ah!”
Ilya’s hips stutter, his fingers tensing in Shane’s hair as his whole body bows in on itself, and he cums with a loud moan.
It hits the back of Shane’s throat, salty and hot, and he swallows. Taking it all, taking it like he took the smoke straight from Ilya’s lungs, not wanting to waste a single drop.
Cheers erupt from behind the door, their audience clearly having heard the grand finale of Shane’s performance. Pulling off Ilya’s dick, Shane licks his lips with a deep sense of satisfaction, savouring the bitter tang on his tongue. It doesn’t taste it, but it sure does feel sweet.
Ilya takes a moment to recover, supporting his weight on Shane’s shoulders as his breath returns to a somewhat normal pace. Shane sits back on his knees, now cognizant enough to feel his cum sticky and wet on his fingers, some of it on his jeans and on the floor. Oops.
He goes to wipe his hand on his thigh, resolved to the fact that his pants are now collateral damage, but he’s stopped by Ilya reaching down and grabbing his wrist. Shane looks up and watches as Ilya bends forward, bringing Shane’s fingers to his lips and sucking them into his mouth. He licks them clean, all the while keeping his gaze fixed on Shane. If it were possible, Shane would be rock hard again and begging for Ilya to put his mouth elsewhere.
With one last sweep of his tongue, Ilya lets Shane’s hand go and makes a show of licking his lips for good measure. “Tastes good,” he purrs.
“So did you,” Shane replies, voice wrecked but slightly huskier for it.
Ilya hauls Shane to his feet and captures his mouth in a kiss, this one more slow and deliberate compared to the desperate clashing of teeth and tongues earlier. Shane melts into it, boneless.
“I need to see you again,” Ilya murmurs, lips brushing against Shane’s as he speaks the words into his mouth.
“That could be arranged,” Shane says, unable to hold back a lopsided grin in his drunken stupor.
“Give me your number.”
They exchange numbers as they take turns redressing themselves, dicks tucked away, pants rebuckled, shirts smoothed.
“I’ll text you,” Ilya says as he moves toward the window, rummaging in his pocket and pulling out a cigarette and a lighter. He slides the pane up and hooks one leg over the sill before turning back to give Shane a parting smirk. “Was fun. Until next time.”
Shane is left to stand alone in the middle of the room, swaying minutely on his feet and staring at the spot on the rug where his cum is already drying. He can feel himself smiling like an idiot, fingers coming up to trace across his lips that are still wet with Ilya’s kisses. He’s not drifting so much now, his soul having come back to settle in the grooves of his bones, feeling like it fits a little better. His skin feels less tight, less unfamiliar, now warm with the afterglow of his orgasm and tingling pleasantly with the ghost of Ilya’s touches.
He waits for a while until he’s sure that nobody will be waiting for him on the other side of the door, stepping out into the hallway and melting back into the crowd of bodies, the heat of the house, the bump of the bass.
“Holy fuck, where have you been, dude?!”
Hayden is slumped in an empty bathtub upstairs, legs hanging over the edge, when Shane eventually finds him. He’s crammed in there with Jackie on one side, JJ on the other. Opposite, another guy and girl (friends of Jackie’s, maybe), sit on the floor facing them, drinks in hand. Shane opts for leaning against the doorframe, hoping it’s casual enough to hide the way his legs are still slightly shaky from his orgasm.
“Just… circulating, I guess,” he replies, very convincingly.
Hayden is thankfully too drunk to notice or care if Shane is giving anything away. He’s got one hand slung around Jackie’s shoulders, hand playing with her hair as she rests on his chest. “Dude, we were looking for you, but–”
“Jackie got totally fucking distracted by some people banging in that bedroom across the hall!” JJ interjects, cracking himself up and then the others.
“Hey!” Jackie protests, leaning around Hayden to smack JJ on the arm. “You were listening too! And it was kinda hot, sue me.”
Shane swallows and tries to force his face into what he prays is a nonchalant, semi-amused expression. Tries not to think about how his friends just heard him blowing a guy and then cumming all over himself from it.
“People fucking at a house party? God, what did the cops say when you called?”
Hayden snorts, rolls his eyes. “Fuck you, buddy. You’re just pissy ‘cause you haven't been laid in, like, a decade.”
Ah, if only he knew.
The party rolls on far into the early hours. Shane doesn’t see Ilya again for the rest of the night, and when he wakes up the next morning, hungover and head pounding, he almost wonders if the guy was a figment of a sexed-up, drug-induced hallucination. Maybe his night had truly ended in that kitchen, one cup of the suspicious punch putting him under and taking him to gay sex la-la-land. He laughs into his pillow at the thought. Then winces, because ouch, his head.
It could be a feasible theory. If it weren’t for the very obvious cum stain on the front of his jeans, kicked off and in a heap at the foot of his bed. That, and the texts that greet him when he finally stops feeling nauseous enough to check his phone.
ilya (party guy) 3:47am
missing your mouth already
ilya (party guy) 3:48am
lets get high again sometime
Shane isn’t sure if it’s a euphemism or if Ilya genuinely wants to sit around and smoke another joint together, but it doesn’t matter. Either way, Shane’s reply whooshes off a moment later, typed through bleary eyes and with heavy thumbs.
Shane 11:07am
gonna blow me back this time?