Chapter Text
There’s a cute freckled man with big brown eyes and a shy smile that Ilya has delivered heavy ass boxes to for the last three days straight now.
The first day, Ilya reeked of weed and a thick blanket of some douchey European cologne - because the weed smell was notoriously hard to mask. He delivered a mid-sized box, heavier than it looked when he loaded it off the truck. He hopped down onto the ground from the open back, yanking the tucked in portion of his uniform shirt free from his waistband now that he was away from his nagging boss. He turned the matching brown cap around to instead wear as a snapback, blond curls peeking through the window now seated above his forehead and above his ears. He dug his cross necklace out from beneath the brown polo shirt, tugging the top button open.
He stamped out the cigarette hanging off of his lips and sighed, grabbing the small device and ascending the short stairway of the home - modern, all sharp edges. The front yard was mowed neatly and a brilliant green, plants littered the walkway, bringing some sort of life to the otherwise cold exterior. He rapped his knuckles on the doorway and sighed as he waited, ignoring the Ring camera pointed at him and flashing blue. It makes that annoying little chime, then the door opens. Ilya expects some middle aged white woman with some yapping white crusty dog at her ankles and is pleasantly surprised with the view he is given instead.
A man answers. As tall as Ilya almost but not quite as broad. His skin is a shade or two darker than his own, littered in freckles across his cheekbones and what Ilya can see of his collarbone. His hair is short and black, combed but not styled very well, admittedly. His arms, thick with muscle, strain against a powder blue dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to show off delicious, toned forearms. His pants are grey, boring. Nothing about them stands out except the curve of the stranger’s ass when he turns just slightly to take the box into the house with a polite ‘thank you’. He kicks the door shut.
Ilya stands in place, a little dumbfounded as he ponders that maybe, just maybe, there is such a thing as love at first sight.
The second day, the man is wearing glasses. Ilya goes home that night and tugs furiously at his cock to the thought of dirtying the glass lenses with his cum.
The third day in a row now, Ilya sprays another spritz of cologne on and forgoes his cigarette before nearing the home with a large box on a dolly. He rings the doorbell and damn near bounces on his heels in anticipation. The door opens. Today, the man is just coming back from a workout. He is in athletic shorts and a top with no sleeves, face slightly flushed. He’s got an open can of ginger ale in his hand.
He holds the door open and Ilya wheels the box into the home, following the man’s instruction down the hall. Once he unloads it, he speaks before the other has the opportunity to thank him for his labor and effectively end their interaction.
“Are you building bunker or something?”
The man - Shane, Ilya has become aware of after scanning the name on the packages too many times - chuckles.
“Ah, no. I’m renovating the bathroom.”
Ilya nods, leans his elbow against the handle of the dolly, careful to not tip it over since it sits empty now.
“Sorry for the trouble,” Shane continues, looking bashful as he sets his keys and phone down on the counter.
He takes a sip of his water bottle and Ilya watches the bead of sweat drip down the moist column of the man's neck.
“No trouble. Is my job to carry big heavy boxes.”
Shane nods, swallows the water.
“Where’s your accent from?” the freckled man asks politely.
“Russia. Moscow.”
“Oh, nice. Moscow is on my list, I’d love to visit one day.”
Ilya briefly wonders if in his years of casual hookups he’s lost his radar that detects and categorizes interactions into two bins: flirting and not flirting. He’s sure Shane is flirting, keeping him here to speak to him. But this is Canada, everyone is sickeningly polite here.
“Well,” Shane continues, clearing his throat when the silence persists, “thank you, for bringing it in. I’m sorry, I have another box or two over this upcoming week, I think.”
“I do not mind,” Ilya says, and means it.
How could he mind essentially getting paid to work out while also getting to stand and talk to sexy, sweaty men in their workout clothes?
He doesn’t want to leave, not yet. But something about Shane doesn’t strike him as all that personable. Not in the way that Ilya was not personable, he seems much kinder.
“You are renovating yourself? With hammer and nails?”
Shane chuckles again, eyes sliding to the floor briefly.
“More like with a power drill and nails, but yeah.”
“You do not hire anyone?”
“No, no. I’ve helped a couple of friends out before, watched some Youtube videos.”
Ilya sees his way in and takes it, crossing his arms over his chest and glancing down the hallway towards the mentioned bathroom.
“I can do this for you. I am very handy with tools.”
It isn’t a lie. He knows the basics, and what he doesn’t know is available for even the likes of someone like Shane.
“Oh, no, that’s alright. I’ve got it, really. You already carry all these boxes all day, I wouldn’t-”
“I have built houses from nothing in Russia. Boxes can be part time, I like to work with my hands.”
He makes a show of bringing his hands up by his face, palms facing Shane. They’re large, his fingers thick but deft. His knuckles are littered with old scars.
Shane’s eyes linger on the man’s hands as he shows them off, chest stuttering a breath.
“I…well, if you’re sure, then…”
Ilya nods, rolls his brown uniform sleeve up just barely to flex his bicep at Shane, whose big brown eyes zero in on the action like a heat seeking missile. He chuckles softly, shaking his head and walking into the kitchen they stand beside.
“Does that usually work for you?” he asks.
Ilya follows, feigns confusion. Shane must read it as authentic, because he waves his comment off.
“How much are you wanting per hour?” he asks instead, opening the fridge and pulling out a few tupperware containers with various ingredients.
Ilya leans over the island counter that separates them. His eyes burn into Shane’s face while the man distracts himself with prepping what soon becomes apparent is a sandwich.
“UPS is twenty-five an hour.”
Shane glances at him, nodding slightly.
“So twenty.”
Shane cocks his head to the side, eyebrows furrowing adorably and lips twitching into a smile born of confusion.
“You’ll have to cut back at UPS for this and you want to take less than what they pay you?”
Ilya shrugs, looks off into the backyard that is entirely visible thanks to the floor to-ceiling windows. There’s an in-ground pool outside that looks well-kept. It seems like Shane can definitely afford to match, if not surpass, UPS’ wage. Ilya doesn’t think he’ll want to take all that from the man, not if he can collect payment some other way.
“UPS I drive and I am out in the cold and the heat. In here I am not.”
Shane watches him for a minute, his eyes studying his features. Ilya shifts, not used to being stared at so analytically. Usually, the gazes pointed his way were much more heated and ended up with him getting his dick wet.
“Okay,” Shane says finally. “But no smoking before you get here.”
Ilya bristles.
“No amount of fancy European cologne can mask marijuana, not that much of it at least.”
He swears the man’s tone is teasing. Maybe he’s hearing what he wants to hear. Either way, he stands straight and shoots the other a smile.
He makes a mental note about the cologne - about how Shane had noticed it on him despite the distance between them around the corner of being friendly.
“Today’s Wednesday. Can you be here Saturday?”
“Yes Sir,” he jokes, body rigid while he salutes - with the wrong hand.
It earns a chuckle and Ilya feels a swell of pride in his chest at having amused the other.
“Eight am.”
Eight would be earlier than he would ever dare to rise on a weekend, but he was too lost in the possibility of getting to bend this man over his own counter and fuck him until he coughs up Ilya’s cum to back out now.
“I will be here.”
⚬──────────✧──────────⚬
Ilya is miserable come Saturday at seven fifty when he wakes up. He dresses in a simple black shirt and dark wash jeans, an old pair he didn’t care to keep nice and tidy. He drives to Shane’s home from his own apartment and parks his 2000 gold Honda Civic out front, leaving the driveway open, because he’s polite like that. He knocks on the door at eight twelve.
The door swings open and Shane already looks adorably annoyed with him.
“I said eight.”
Ilya resists the urge to roll his eyes at the warning tone lacing Shane's voice. Instead, he bows at him, lifting his head to meet his eyes before coming to stand straight again.
“Sorry, Mr. Shane Hollander. I was…sleeping.”
Shane scoffs, mouth-watering thick arms crossed over his chest. He’s wearing another baby blue button up, though this one looks more soft, more casual than the other from earlier in the week. Ilya finds that he likes Shane in this color, it makes his bronze skin look smoother - radiant. He watches the man’s shackles visibly lower and he sighs, arms falling to his sides.
“Well, at least you didn’t try to come up with some lie. Come in.”
Shane steps aside and Ilya enters. A pleasant smell fills the air and as they pass the living room on their way to the bathroom, Ilya catches sight of a few lit candles. The house is impeccably clean. As Shane passes by him to open the closed bathroom door, the blond gets a waft of clean laundry mixed with something woodsy that fills his senses. He clicks at his lips, allowing himself to steal a glance at the man’s ass in his lounge shorts.
They enter the bathroom together. It’s a decent size. They aren’t pressed up together uncomfortably. Ilya leans his back against the door while Shane opens the blinds on the window above the toilet. He nods, sighing as he looks around for a bit. Once their eyes meet, Shane shoves a hand out at him.
“I’m Shane Hollander. We didn’t introduce ourselves properly.”
Ilya takes his hand, heart-shaped lips tugging into a sly smile.
“Ilya Rozanov.”
His tongue curls with the accent. Shane’s hand tenses in his while they shake and once the formality is completed, the man clears his throat. Before he can speak, a door opens down the hall and in shuffles a sleepy teenaged girl who rubs at her eyes.
“Who are you?” she asks upon pausing in the doorway.
Her long, dirty blonde hair is unruly and tossed up into a ponytail half falling out. She has big brown eyes and freckles adorn her cheekbones below them in a way that matches Shane’s.
Ilya furrows his eyebrows, then turns his gaze to Shane. The man mouths an apology at him and gives the young girl a smile.
“This is Ilya. He’s helping me renovate your bathroom.”
The girl stares Ilya down, judgemental doe-like eyes narrowing while she sweeps her gaze over him from head to toe. He feels slighted. The girl can’t be more than fifteen.
“Remember how I told you to use mine, in my room, until this one was ready?”
Shane has an edge to his voice that isn't rude or condescending, but rather just firm. Ilya connects the dots. The girl rolls her eyes and shuffles off further down the hall.
“Lilliana, what did I tell you about the eyes?” he calls out.
No response.
He sighs and offers Ilya a sad smile.
“Sorry. The one time she wakes up before noon on a Saturday.”
Ilya nods, assessing the situation. Shane must be older than he thought. Not that he particularly thought of his age at all while he was imagining fucking him in every position in the back of the UPS truck.
“This is your…?”
“My daughter.”
Ilya makes a noise of acknowledgement, then looks around at the bathroom - the girl’s bathroom - he had volunteered himself to renovate.
“How old are you?” he asks, then his eyes widen. “If this is okay to ask.”
Shane chuckles, leaning his lower back against the counter and resting his palms against the cool tile.
“I’m thirty-six.”
Okay. Not so bad. Ilya considers that his limit would be forty. Forty-five if they were in shape. Fifty if he was feeling frisky.
“How old are you?” Shane asks, his fingernails digging absent-mindedly at the crevice of grout between tiles.
Ilya reads it for exactly what it is. He lets his cool edge come back, overtaking the shock of the situation.
“Twenty-four.”
Twelve years. It isn't anything to bat an eye at, really.
In the closer proximity of the bathroom - and with his mind enlightened to the fact - Ilya can see the tiniest signs of age that he hadn’t noticed before. The few silver hairs atop Shane’s head, cuddled in the mess of black hair. The way the corners of his eyes crinkle ever so slightly, even with his face relaxed. The well-mannered stance and poise.
He feels his desire for the man grow even more.
They speak about what Shane would like done in the bathroom. It’s mostly new hardware, re-tiling the floor, and a fresh coat of tinted paint. Ilya begins unscrewing the handles off of the cabinets and disconnecting the plumbing. Shane disappears down the hall.
While he works, the Russian can hear the two strangers flittering about in their home very normally. They speak to each other in the kitchen, the tv turns on and he can hear what sounds like some show appealing to teenagers, and he hears Shane’s heavier footsteps head down the hallway. He quickly finishes pulling the shower head off and makes a show - timing it just right - of wiping sweat off of his brow with the hem of his shirt right as the older man appears in the doorway.
Shane catches sight of the man’s abs while his shirt is pulled up, toned and sun-kissed and littered in a constellation of moles. He pauses, hand gripping a fraction tighter at the glass he holds in his hand. He’s wearing his glasses now, having just been reading an article on his phone while he ate breakfast. It’s eleven in the morning now.
“I brought you some water. I have ginger ale and green tea as well,” he offers.
Ilya takes the glass, purposefully brushing his fingers over Shane’s at the exchange. The reaction it receives is miniscule, but observant pale eyes notice the way the older man bristles just the slightest. It isn’t out of discomfort, but rather hesitancy. Ilya chugs the water, eyes locked on Shane’s until the liquid rapidly disappearing from the glass is gone completely. He hands the glass back, wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. The older man’s eyes follow the movement briefly before he snaps his gaze to the old hardware sitting on a towel on the floor by the door.
“I have the new hardware, I’ll go and grab them. I can take these out of your way?” he asks, waiting for Ilya to nod at him to bend down and wraps the towel in a bundle.
Ilya’s eyes follow the curve of Shane’s ass, straining in the lounge shorts he still has on. He decides then and there that he definitely doesn't care about the age gap, the kid, or Shane’s hesitancy to interact with him much.
⚬──────────✧──────────⚬
Shane has him come back the next day an hour later, at nine in the morning. ‘Since you can’t seem to wake up on time to make eight’. The man’s daughter - Lilliana, he’s reminded when Shane mentions her absence - is not home today.
“I’ll have to leave around noon to pick her up from practice, so if you want to go grab lunch during that time until I get back, that would work,” he explains as he guides Ilya down the hall to the bathroom.
Shane is wearing a plain, athletic t-shirt today. His shorts, also made of an athletic material, are an inch or two shorter than his usual mid-thigh length board shorts style.
“Practice?” he asks, taking a stab at small talk with the sexy older man now that their privacy was guaranteed for the next three hours.
“She plays hockey,” Shane says proudly, chest puffing out with pride.
Ilya’s lips quirk into a smile at the obvious display of pride. He almost forgets about his mission to bed the man in the display of genuine joy and love in those big brown eyes.
Almost.
“I used to play, center,” Ilya says, leaning his lower back against the bathroom counter.
Shane cocked his head to the side, eyebrows shooting up in interest. He gave the blond a kind smile, earnest.
“I did too. In highschool and the first year of college. Why’d you stop?”
Ilya shrugs, glances around the half disassembled bathroom. He hadn’t expected to have to answer the question, honestly.
“I stopped when my mother died. I did not want to play just to be family wallet,” he says honestly.
Shane’s face falls slightly, his eyes dance over Ilya’s face - searching.
“I’m sorry,” he says, stepping forward.
He rests his hand on Ilya’s forearm, eyes soft. Ilya shrugs at the attention, letting his own gaze flicker down to the plump pink tissue making up Shane’s lips.
“I loved playing. It was my life. I lived and breathed hockey,” Shane chuckles, eyes twinged with sadness. “But I fractured my T5.”
“T5?”
Shane nods, reaching behind Ilya to press into the middle of his back right over the knob of his spine that sits between his shoulder blades. The touch makes Ilya pause. Was he really being out-rizzed right now? Or was Shane clueless and this was an honest attempt to clarify? Either way, it brought goosebumps to the surface of Ilya’s warm-toned skin.
“Here,” Shane mutters, “I got hit pretty hard on the ice and kind of flipped halfway mid-air, then fractured this when I landed. I have to do yoga most days now, and I see a physical therapist once a month.”
He sighs and backs up again, looking forlorn.
“It broke my heart. But I was really glad that Lilliana wanted to play, I worry though,” he says, eyes trained on the ground while he trails off, lost in thought. “Sorry, I ramble.”
“Is okay,” Ilya rushes, honest. “I liked to play. My mother was my biggest fan. So I do not play, because she is not here.”
Shane smiles sadly at him and he turns his head away from the attention. He clears his throat, moving to take a step closer to the shower, putting distance between them. It was the opposite of his goal, but right now he needed to recalibrate.
“Today we clean, rework plumbing, and…?”
“Take the mirror down, if we have time. She wants one of those LED mirrors.”
“Ah.”
They stand in silence for a moment, then Shane clears his throat and backs out of the bathroom.
“I can make you something to eat, if you’re hungry? I was going to make some breakfast anyways, I’ll make extra. Do you want any coffee?”
Ilya glances over at him and is able to muster up an easy smile.
“Thank you. Sugar and cream,” he lets his eyes wander down over Shane’s legs - taking in the appearance of thick muscle. “I like sweet.”
Shane swallows thickly and nods, stalling for a moment before abruptly turning and walking down the hallway.
⚬──────────✧──────────⚬
Forty-five minutes later - exactly, because Shane Hollander has an impeccably on time internal clock apparently - the older man calls out to Ilya from the kitchen. The blond finishes sanding the cabinets where scuffs in the paint are apparent and washes his hands free of the dust. He walks out and slides his wet hands through his hair to push it back from his forehead before drying his hands on his jeans. The elegant kitchen finds his vision and more importantly, so does Shane.
He smirks when he sees Shane bent over the counter, elbows rested on the counter top while he scrolls at his phone. Ilya walks up, eyes trained on the curve of the man’s ass and tears them away only when Shane is seemingly alerted by his presence. He stands straight and offers a polite smile, sliding Ilya’s plate across the counter to the bar. The blond takes a seat at the counter and offers Shane a dazzling smile across the surface that separates them.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. It’s avocado toast with pepper, capers, and lime juice. Egg whites, scrambled. Some chickpeas. And turkey bacon.”
Ilya raises an eyebrow up at Shane, who already seemingly expects the reaction given how he looks down at his own plate sheepishly.
“I eat pretty clean. I know it’s not everyone's favorite.”
In a show of good faith, Ilya picks up the turkey bacon - it’s less stiff and crispy than traditional bacon - and takes a bite. Shane smiles at him, nodding slightly as he starts to eat from his own plate. Shane slides him the mug of coffee, the color has so much sugar and creamer in it that it matches the older man’s skin tone. Halfway finished with the plate, Ilya speaks up.
“So, if you do not have this big glass house because of hockey, then how?”
Shane chuckles, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
"Actually, I became a sports reporter.”
Ilya nods, chewing the toast while studying Shane’s face.
“Ah, so you are celebrity?”
The man barks a laugh - it’s unguarded in the way the Russian has grown accustomed to form him.
“No, no. I mean, I’m on camera sometimes when I report for hockey, rugby…”
Ilya hums in interest, resting his chin in his palms, elbows on the cold marble counter.
“So you are famous.”
“No,” Shane laughs. “Hardly. I’m on local channels. So maybe if you’re a big sports fan here in Montreal, you’d know me.”
“You are being shy, no…what is the word?”
“Humble,” Shane supplies easily.
“Yes, like the Kendrick Lamar song. Humble.”
Shane tilts his head at him, eyebrows furrowed adorably in confusion.
“Kendrick Lamar, the rapper? You know? ‘My left stroke just went viral’?” he bobs his head, imitating the rhythm of the song to the words.
Shane shakes his head.
“‘Right stroke put little baby in spiral’?”
Shane laughs, shoulders bouncing in a shrug.
“Oh my god, Hollander,” Ilya says, exasperated.
He wipes his hands on his jeans and pulls his phone from his pocket, pulling up the song and playing it before discarding his phone on the counter to eat again.
“You can call me Shane,” the freckled man says, and Ilya glances up just in time to see the bob of the man's throat.
He grins. The song plays and once the main part picks up, Shane nods slightly.
“I think I’ve heard this played at the games. But, the clean version.”
“The stupid version.”
Shane chuckles and shakes his head. He‘s finished eating now and moves to rinse his plate before rounding the counter.
“I’ll be out back, if you need anything.”
Ilya nods, mouth full, and watches him go. He hates to see Shane go, but fuck does he love to watch him leave.
Because he is trying to get in this old man’s pants, he rinses his plate and sets it on the drying rack just as Shane had earlier when he is done eating. Then he heads down the hall to the bathroom and sighs, drumming his fingers against his thigh. He watches a Youtube video on how to spot and remove rusted plumbing, shoving his phone into his pocket once he’s watched it twice over. He glances out the window to the backyard and feels any productivity that might have been coursing through his veins in that moment replace with warmth in real time.
Shane is doing yoga in the yard.
He should feel like a creep for watching this man - blissfully unaware of the eyes on him - exercising in the comfort of his own home. But fuck it does something to him. He can’t seem to tear his eyes away. The man arches and bends and twists and stretches.
Ilya is hard and he feels so incredibly heinous for the reaction his body has to a relatively tame display of Shane’s body. He wonders just how far gone one could be without having even had a real shot at just flirting.
He closes the blinds, closes his eyes and recalibrates, then sets to work on the pipes.
If there was one thing Ilya Rozanov knew how to do, it was lay pipe.
⚬──────────✧──────────⚬
Shane finds him on his hands and knees in the bathtub come noon.
“Hey, I have to pick up Lilliana.”
Ilya nods and stands. He steps out of the tub, tall frame looking out of place in the smaller bathroom, Shane guides him out of the bathroom and down the hall. He’s changed into maroon lounge shorts and a grey sweatshirt. He looks younger now in this attire, his age already not very apparent on him in general. His hair is damp, having freshly showered.
“If I gave you some money, would you mind picking up lunch for all of us, actually?” Shane asks, turning to face Ilya as he grabs his keys and slides on a pair of atrocious beige Birkenstock sandals over his white socks.
Ilya nods, accepting the fifty dollar bill Shane hands him.
“There’s a Panera about ten minutes from here. I’ll place the order for us, just give them my name when you get there.”
Ilya nods.
“I have not had this before. What do they have?”
Shane makes a face as if to say ‘why didn’t I think of this?’ and pulls his phone out. He pulls up the app and hands it to Ilya to peruse.
“Sandwiches, soups, salads. The autumn squash soup is really good.”
Ilya browses the app for a few seconds before picking out a sandwich and a soup to go together as part of some deal. He tries to hand the phone back to Shane, who is hesitant to take it.
“They have chips, cookies, drinks. Order whatever you’d like. My treat.”
Ilya eyes him curiously. In his study, he’s able to pick up on the way that Shane’s irises - a deep shade of brown and carrying stars in them despite it - dance over his face. He wonders if Shane is aware of his expressive eyes. He looks down at the app and adds a lemonade to the cart, then hands the phone to the man again.
“Thank you, Mr. Hollander,” he says, following the older man out of the house.
Shane locks the door and offers the blond a scoff that accompanies a laugh.
“Shane, please,” he insists.
When he turns to face Ilya, they’re much closer than before. At this proximity, their combined colognes - Shane’s woodsy one and Ilya’s overbearing European one - mix even in the open air of the outdoors. Shane clears his throat.
“Yes, of course. Mr. Hollander.”
Surely, someone Shane’s age could understand what the obvious disobedience implies. Ilya sends him a wink for good measure, then descends the stairs towards his car. Shane takes a deep breath while he descends the stairs and makes his way to his Range Rover.
Lunch is an awkward experience. Shane, being the polite Canadian millennial he is, invites Ilya to sit with him and Lilliana to eat lunch. It’s how the Russian ends up sitting at the table while Shane distributes the food amongst them methodically.
“Ilya, chicken bacon ranch sandwich, broccoli cheddar soup, blueberry lavender lemonade,” he says, mostly muttering to himself to organize his thoughts as he hands Ilya the items. “The lemonade was free, because I’m on the rewards program.”
Ilya watches him fondly, the man’s face screwed in concentration. He was becoming increasingly endeared by this old man. The kid, not so much.
“Jenny wants to know if I can come over on Saturday,” she asks, thumbs paused over the keyboard of her phone.
“After the party,” Shane says quickly, sliding her food to her. “I don’t think it’s too much to ask my daughter to come to my birthday party for a few hours, Lilliana.”
She groans and tosses her head back.
“It’s all your friends,” she whines.
“Yes, I think this is how birthdays are usually, no?” Ilya asks while he picks up the lemonade he’d ordered.
He sips at it while the teen’s eyes snap to him. Shane barely conceals a smile, eyes flickering over to Ilya briefly.
“Who asked you?” she snaps. “I don’t even know you.”
“Lilliana,” Shane warns, voice clipped in a way Ilya hadn’t come to know from the man quite yet.
She sighs and picks up her sandwich, glaring daggers at the Russian across the table. Shane sits finally and positions his food very specifically, opening the lid of his salad and setting it down neatly. Ilya watches him discreetly, glancing outside at the pool. After a brief moment, Shane speaks.
“You’re welcome to come, by the way. If you can make it, if not, don’t worry.”
Ilya hums, swallows the bite he’d just taken.
“Your birthday, is here?”
Shane nods, taking a bite of his salad. Ilya ponders this. He loved clubbing and parties, sure, but given the teen’s description of what to expect of the event, he wasn’t sure if it was his scene. Shane’s friends, more likely than not all close to his age. In this big, clean, glass house that Ilya definitely wasn't allowed to smoke in. Shane sips at his drink - ginger ale repackaged into a Panera cup.
“The party starts at noon, ends at five or six. It’s a barbeque, pool…thing,” he chuckles. “You don’t have to swim, but most of us will I think.”
A pool party with Shane seemed delectable, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to spend a Saturday with a bunch of boring adults talking about boring things. And yet?
“I will come.”
Later, when Ilya attempts to hand Shane the change from the fifty he had handed him for the Panera, Shane refuses it - insists Ilya keep it. The blond is torn between taking that as a polite gratitude as picking lunch up for the three of them or taking it as an awkward attempt at flirting. Either way, he isn’t complaining.
⚬──────────✧──────────⚬
May tenth rolls around and Ilya raps his knuckles on the front door, then rings the door bell for good measure considering there’s music playing in the backyard that he figures drowns out most sound. He clutches the pack of beer in his hand tighter, black swim shorts and flip flops absorbing the warm late Spring sun. The door opens and Ilya deflates slightly when the blonde teen regards him with bored eyes.
“Rasputin,” she hisses, crossing her arms.
“Big word for you, they teach you in spelling bee?”
She rolls her eyes and walks into the house. He crosses the threshold, closing the door behind him and scanning the mostly empty living room. Lilliana flops back down onto the couch and sighs. Ilya walks into the backyard, paying her no mind. He knew it wasn’t her fault; he remembers being just as impossible as a teenager. Then again, the loss of a parent often exacerbates such a situation and even then, he didn’t give his father so much grief.
No matter. He would be sure to make her father plenty happy.
He slides the door to the backyard open and steps out, leaving the door open just to spite the teen - who stands to slam it closed. The turnout is small. A red haired woman sitting on the arm of the porch bench turns to look at him. Her eyes scan over him and she tilts her head curiously. Her hair is tied up in a claw clip, a mimosa in her hand while her neatly groomed nails tap at the glass.
There’s two men sitting beside her, one of them has a beard and the other a mustache. They eye him similarly and Ilya suddenly feels all too aware of how out of place he must look, being visibly younger by at least a decade. Shane’s voice pulls his eyes to the pool just in time to see the man hand a young infant off to a brunet man shorter in stature who follows him as he climbs out of the pool.
“Wow, I’m glad you made it,” Shane says as he nears him, dripping wet.
He’s shirtless and Ilya feels like he’s been hit by a truck. This is the most he’d ever been granted to see of the older man and it’s so rewarding. He’s suddenly incredibly glad he decided to come to the party.
“Would you like a drink?” Shane asks him.
The man turns to the shorter male behind him who’s holding the child.
“Hayden, this is Ilya. He’s renovating Lilliana’s bathroom for me. Ilya, this is Hayden. That’s Rose there. And that’s Scott and Kip.”
“Elena’s on her way,” Kip supplies, raising his glass to Shane.
Ilya regards the warmth between the small group. There are kids screaming and chasing each other around the pool and Hayden gives Ilya another glance before rushing to collect them.
“What’s that?”
Ilya follows the older man’s brown eyes as they slide down to the pack of beer in his hand. He holds it up towards Shane and offers a smile - something akin to nerves settling in his stomach.
“Ginger beer. Happy birthday,” he says.
Rose offers Scott and Kip a knowing glance and the two men raise their eyebrows at her. Shane takes the pack and Ilya swears he can see a blush rising to his cheeks, settling behind the patches of freckles that seem even more brilliant in the sun’s rays now. Blue eyes scan down the man’s chest while he’s distracted reading the label on the package, catching on the brown nipples hardened by the cooler air breezing across his skin.
“Thank you,” Shane says earnestly. “I’ll have one now, if that’s okay?"
Ilya nods and follows Shane to the makeshift little bar set up on the other side of the yard. He plucks a bottle free from the crate-like carrier and rummages around for an opener. Ilya takes the bottle from him - eager to regain some semblance of control in the situation after letting his brain short-circuit - and pops the lid off with the heel of his palm. Once open, he hands the bottle back to Shane, who’s watching him with some sort of hazy look in his eyes.
“Thank you, nice party trick,” he jokes.
Ilya shrugs.
“I go to many parties. There is not always an opener.”
Shane nods, looking away as he wraps his lips around the neck of the bottle and takes a sip. He hums appreciatively and the sound tears Ilya’s eyes off of the man’s mouth and the way his plump lips curl around the opening.
“It’s good. Thank you, you really didn’t have to get me anything.”
Ilya nods, tongue darting out to wet his lips. He swears he sees Shane’s eyes follow the movement and in the split second Ilya lets a smirk overtake his mouth, the man looks away.
“Who is playing this?” he asks, gesturing to the speaker a few feet away.
“Ah, I am, I guess. I just played some playlist of party hits, I think.”
Ilya makes a face.
“You can play something, if you want. My phone is on the speaker, there’s no code.”
Ilya nods, offers Shane a smile that is polite but also just centimeters away from flirty.
The sliding glass door opens and a small group of two men and two women walk in. The older man turns to greet them, then offers Ilya another kind smile before walking off. Ilya unlocks Shane’s phone, finding a genuine smile gracing his lips at the lockscreen being a photo of Shane and his daughter at Disneyland. It’s rare to see the young girl smile in person, the blond had learned, but she’s beaming in the photo. The smile is not Shane’s, unlike her eyes and her freckles.
He pulls up the music app and queues up a few songs, staying away from anything too raunchy considering the other attendees were similar in age and personality to Shane and the one currently juggling three kids in the pool most likely wouldn’t appreciate his taste in songs. The shift in genre is noticed immediately and Ilya is looking at the labels on the various bottles of alcohol, comparing mixers as well when Rose walks up, hair styled up in a loose wavy updo. She smiles kindly at him and rounds the bar.
“Rose Landry,” she says, sticking a hand out.
Ilya takes it cautiously, but plasters a polite smile on his face.
“Ilya,” he says.
She nods, then picks up the nearly empty bottle of wine by her.
“How do you know Shane?” she asks as she pours a more than generous amount in her glass.
“I am rebuilding the bathroom for the girl - ah, his daughter."
Rose laughs softly and nods. She sips her wine, licks her pale lips clean of the juice. Ilya wonders idly if she’s attempting to come onto him. She’s definitely beautiful, and Ilya had always had a soft spot for MILFs - and DILFs too, apparently - but he wasn’t here for her.
“Isn’t Lily a delight?” she asks sarcastically.
Ilya scoffs a laugh, nodding.
“I can make you a drink? There’s whiskey, wine, champagne, vodka…”
“Vodka. And this,” he says, setting a cold can of Sprite on the countertop.
Rose nods, fixing up a drink in a fancy round glass for him. While she pours, she lowers her voice to ask him something.
“So Shane invited you to his birthday party just because you’re renovating his daughter’s bathroom?”
Ilya meets her eyes. He clears his throat.
“Relax. Actually, I think Shane having a little boy toy like you is exactly what he needs. He’s so uptight sometimes,” she whispers, handing the drink over to Ilya.
“We are not-”
“But you want to, right?”
He curls his lips around the rim of the glass and uses it as an excuse to not answer. Why he feels so nervous under her gaze - under every pair of eyes here - he doesn’t know. In a way, he figures it feels like being in a room with all of the adults in his own family as a kid, waiting for his mother to be done talking to her friend so they could go home.
“Right,” Rose chirps, her eyes sliding to where Shane is approaching them with the new party goers. “See if you can get another drink in him. He’s an adorable drunk.”
Then she walks off after greeting the group with a wave.
Shane introduces the men as J.J. and Carter, his younger coworkers. The two women are Jackie, the short man’s wife and mother to the gang of their children, and Elena.
“Is this your music man? No way it’s Hollander’s,” Carter asks him.
He nods, feeling a bit more at ease with the familiarity and the vodka sliding down his throat. Rose Landry pours a strong drink.
“I love this song,” Carter adds, fist bumping him.
They make small talk about their jobs, about how Ilya knows Shane, about what song to play next. The party calms down some and by four pm, Lilliana finally makes an appearance. Ilya watches her approach her father from where he sits beside Carter, who’s talking his ear off about his recent Coachella experience.
Shane looks exasperated and eventually his body language just sags and he nods, rubbing his fingers against his forehead. She hugs him briefly before running back into the house. Ilya quickly takes the time to stand, muttering an apology to the others, and walks over to where Shane stands at the edge of the pool. Hayden and Jackie are collecting their kids, ready to say their goodbyes. Hayden hugs Shane and pats him on the back, then they’re off.
“You look like you need to drink,” Ilya says.
Shane turns to face him and pale eyes watch triumphantly as a smile finds his lips, albeit melancholy.
“I’m alright.”
“Is your birthday, Mr. Hollander. If not today, when?”
Shane scoffs, eyes darting over Ilya’s face before he turns his face away and scratches at his throat.
“Shane,” the older man corrects, “just Shane.”
Ilya hums, takes note of their privacy here at the edge of the pool while all the others play some lame old person card game on the other side of the yard.
“Let me make you drink, Mr. Hollander.”
He says it so pointedly that there is no room for sheepish misinterpretation. Shane licks at his bottom lip to hide the way his mouth twitches. He sighs, shaking his head fondly while he looks off at the makeshift bar.
“Lilliana left for her friend’s house for the night,” he mumbles, probably to himself.
“Perfect excuse to drink.”
Shane chuckles, then sighs and lets his arms fall to his sides. He has, unfortunately, put his shirt back on now. They’d mostly migrated from the pool to the outdoor seating, the party taking on a more relaxed vibe.
“Alright, fine. You win,” Hollander concedes.
Ilya grins, victorious. He follows Shane to the bar and grabs a ginger ale from the cooler filled with melted ice. He pops it open, hears the crack of the can and the fizz of the carbonation. He fills a glass with ice, pours a lavish amount of vodka into the glass - nearing the halfway mark - then brings the ginger ale to his lips. Their eyes meet, like ocean hitting the rocks off the shore, while he sips the drink.
He hates ginger ale, he decides.
Swallowing and wiping the bead of the soda that slides down his chin - cataloguing the way Hollander’s eyes follow the drip, nearly transfixed - he pours the soda into the mixture. Then, he hands the drink to Shane, brushing his fingers during the exchange.
“Thank you,” the man says, neck tensing as if getting the phrase out strained him.
Ilya offers him a wink.
The party winds down even more and by the time the sun starts to set around six-thirty, the only attendees left are Scott, Kip, Elena, Rose, Ilya, and the birthday boy himself. The music choice gets just a bit raunchier, courtesy of Ilya. The porch lights twinkle above them while the Russian shoves another drink into Shane’s hand, ignoring his protests. Scott, Kip, and Elena partake in the pool finally, relaxing by the edge of it in the water. Somewhere along the way, Ilya produces a rolled blunt from his pocket along with a lighter and becomes that much more interesting to the older individuals while they take turns taking hits of it.
Shane is drunk, swaying slightly where he stands beside the makeshift bar with Ilya and Rose. Ilya notes how adorable the older man looks like this, shoulders relaxed and not shoved up into his ears. His hair is a mess, dry now but sticking up in every direction. His face is flushed a pretty shade of pink, eyes glassy and lids low. He takes another sip of his drink while Rose laughs at something Ilya says.
As if struck by lightning, he jolts and his drink sloshes when he holds it up and exclaims.
“I know this song. Lilliana loves these guys. Chainsmokers.”
Ilya raises an eyebrow at him, hand hovering just above the freckled man’s lower back - a precaution, steady and protective.
“Yes, Chainsmokers,” Rose laughs. “This is that song they did with what’s her name.”
“Halsey,” Ilya supplies.
“I like this one,” Shane laughs, voice dipping higher when the chorus picks up. “‘So baby pull me closer, in the backseat of your Rover’.”
Ilya and Rose chuckle fondly at him. She tosses the Russian a nod, glad to see her friend letting loose and enjoying himself finally. Ilya plucks the drink from Shane’s hand when he raises his hands over his head, setting it down beside them. Rose takes the moment to scurry off towards the pool, tossing her voice over her shoulder.
“Hey Shane, I think Ilya said he was a better dancer than you.”
The blond furrows his eyebrows at her, but he’s immediately accosted by Shane instead as the man scoffs at him. His competitive spirit simmering beneath his drunken-heated skin, he grabs Ilya’s wrist and yanks him a half-step closer.
“You think you’re so funny,” Shane slurs slightly, “picking a song talking about not getting older when I definitely am.”
Ilya smiles at him, walking towards the older man until their chests almost touch. He sips from his drink, watching Shane take a step back with each of his steps forward. It’s a push and pull that Shane quickly seems to realize he’s losing as he crosses his arms over his chest.
“Maybe I choose because you have the Range Rover?”
Shane scoffs and rolls his eyes. With the hand not gripping his drink, Ilya quickly thrusts his hand toward Shane’s wrist and takes it in his grasp to lift his arm up high. He spins him, laughing a little when the older man yanks his hand away and laughs through an attempt at a frown.
“Fuck off,” he says.
“Mr. Hollander,” Ilya makes an expression of mock-outrage. “Language.”
“Shut up.”
Hollander looks down at the grass beneath his feet, lips doing a dance as he fights the urge to smile.
“Adults curse. Shocker.”
“Hm, yes. I know this.”
“You should, you’re old enough to.”
Ilya sees his in. Anyone else in their vicinity has faded into nonexistence in his mind. He steps forward, grinning wider when the man attempts to keep the distance by stepping back yet instead finds his back meeting a corner of the house. Pinned and with just the drink Ilya holds at ribcage level between them, the Russian drops his voice an octave.
“I’m old enough for many things.”
He watches Shane’s expression solemn in real time, big brown eyes flickering up to him. The older man’s gaze flickers over his face - stalling on his heart-shaped lips, notably - before he looks away and breaks the contact. Ilya gives him the time he needs - sees the cogs turning in his head, sees the hesitancy fight for relevance up against the man’s own lust. It’s a fight Ilya loves watching people have.
“What are you doing?” Shane whispers, curling in on himself a little now.
Ilya doesn’t let him hide within himself too far, he drags his eyes over Shane’s body slowly - purposefully. Undeniable.
“What are you doing? You invited me,” he says, though it isn’t smug nor is it accusatory.
Patient.
Encouraging, even.
Shane’s lips part, then close. They part again, then close. He can’t find the words. Ilya does it for him, voice hushed.
“When the party ends, we will stay out here and go into hot tub,” he says, tilting his chin to the covered hot tub a few feet away.
Shane glances over his shoulder toward the motion and Ilya takes that moment to reach out and fix the flipped collar of Shane’s shirt. The man stiffens and snaps his head back toward Ilya, who just offers him a smirk. He leans in slightly, tilting his head so that he can survey the yard while he whispers to him.
“And then, I will do whatever birthday boy wants.”
Shane grumbles something.
“Speak up.”
He doesn't miss the shudder that the command pulls from the other.
“I said that I’m a grown ass man. Not a boy.”
Ilya rolls his eyes and sips at his drink, stepping back to give them more space - and air - between them.
“Okay, fine whatever.”
He tosses him a wink, then heads off to refill his drink yet again.
An hour later, the party winds down enough that Shane’s friends start filing out to head home. It’s only eight.
Fucking old people.
Shane hugs Rose goodbye and where Ilya lingers by the hot tub, she meets his eyes. She winks at him before parting from where her chin is hooked over Shane’s shoulder. The older man does this awkward dance of closing the side gate and checking that it’s locked, scratching at the back of his neck, straightening his shirt. It’s cute. It’s like watching a highschooler meeting up with a crush for a first date.
But this isn’t high school. And Shane Hollander is two-hundred-ten pounds of muscle and - from what Ilya could tell earlier when the man was shirtless in the pool - perfectly plush amounts of grabbable fat.
Ilya feels feral leaning against the side of the covered hot tub while he devours the man with his eyes.
Shane finally turns to face him and starts walking closer. He tries to shove his hands into the pockets of his swim trunks that don’t exist and instead settles them at his sides. Ilya hands him another drink he’d made him during his goodbyes. Their fingers brush when he takes it.
“This is such a bad idea.”
Ilya cocks an eyebrow at him, then wordlessly sets his own drink down and pulls his shirt off over his head for the first time since his entrance. He tosses it on the grass beside his feet, then kicks his sandals off. Shane’s eyelashes flutter while his eyes sweep over the sudden miles of exposed skin. He connects the constellations of moles, chest stuttering on an inhale. His hand clenches at his side, finding comfort in rubbing the soft fabric of his own swim trunks.
Poor thing, Ilya thinks to himself as he turns and uncovers the hot tub. He tosses the cover into the compartment that holds it, then turns on the lights directly above the tub and starts the jets. Once it’s on, he turns back towards Shane, picks his drink up and takes a long sip from it, then makes a satisfied sound once he pulls his lips back from the rim. He licks the liquid left there, offers Shane a shrug.
“Well?”
Shane mutters a soft ‘fuck’ and sets his drink down after downing half of it in one go, then lets his fingertips find the bottom hem of his shirt. As much as Ilya wants to watch him take it off and pretend it’s some strip show just for him in his perverted mind, he instead takes the time to climb into the tub. Hollander peels his shirt off, abandons his sandals, then climbs into the tub and sighs heavily when he submerges himself down into the bench. The water hides most of his chest from view, stopping just below his nipples.
A shade of brown unlike his eyes that are dark and rich. A shade of brown more akin to hickory, less enveloping and more appetizing. There’s a distance between them, Ilya having relaxed into the bench closest to the wall, Shane having chosen the distance by putting himself on the bench just left of him. They both sip at their drinks. Ilya’s music is still playing.
“So, how is it?”
Shane cocks his head to the side, swallowing the alcohol and cringing at the strong taste. He’s tipsy and quickly becoming drunk. He keeps drinking.
“Being old?”
Shane scoffs, swallows.
“Fuck you.”
Ilya grins at him. It’s easy, not hungry like before - comforting. Like there’s a camaraderie between them.
“Do you creak when you walk?”
“Fuck. You.”
Ilya tosses his head back and laughs, relaxing into the water. He shifts in his seat, the water around him sloshing and making his chest glisten with it. His pendant shines underneath the dim lights.
Shane tears his eyes away and clears his throat, willing toned muscle and sly grins from his mind.
“So. How is UPS?”
Ilya groans, the sound makes Shane look his way again. Their eyes meet and the blond wears an expression of exasperation.
“I did not climb into hot tub to talk about fucking UPS, Shane.”
Shane shrugs, matching the other’s irritation - less playful with it.
“I know why you’re in here. I’m not stupid. I’m fucking-” Shane pinches his brow. “I’m twelve years older than you.”
Ilya tosses his hands up in a gesture that showcases his disdain for the statement.
“Who cares? You act like I am some street kid.”
“Fuck, that’s - it’s weird! You shouldn’t-”
“Is not fucking weird. I turn twenty-five in a month. You are thinking too much.”
Shane sighs heavy and sets his drink down, closing his eyes to recenter himself. The water is warm and loosens the muscles in his back that tend to overcompensate for his spine after his injury so long ago. He relaxes into the water a bit, willing himself to keep his lids closed even when he hears the soft sloshing of water over the thunderous jets. He feels a presence next to him and when he finally does open his eyes, Ilya is sitting next to him. Their shoulders almost brush.
Ilya’s eyes are a pale shade of blue - green in some lighting. They’re soft on him, dancing side to side while they examine just how much leeway he has in the situation. How much tolerance Shane has for him. His arm is wet when it breaks through the surface of the tumultuous water and rests along the edge of the tub just behind Shane.
They’re quiet for a long time. Ilya sips at his drink and looks away, anywhere but Shane’s big brown eyes, bobs his head to the music. Shane wrings his hands underneath the water, head fuzzy and inner voice ping-ponging back and forth with arguments both for and against the blond’s cause. Ilya relaxes into the water a bit and seems content with the silence, for now.
Shane breaks it.
“No,” he sighs, closing his eyes and shaking his head.
It’s final. It’s determined. It’s firm.
Ilya watches him for a moment, wills him to open his eyes. When he doesn’t, Ilya finishes his drink and nods to himself, then stands. The water clings to his skin, black swim trunks vacuum sealed to his thighs and ass - nothing about his groin left to the imagination. The sound of the water rushing to break for him makes Shane finally open his eyes. He turns his head and their proximity prior to his standing has the Russian’s hips at exact eye height, inches away.
Wet. Half-hard, somehow.
Shane’s mouth goes dry. Even half-hard and hidden behind the dark fabric, Ilya is very obviously well endowed. The swim trunks cling to his skin, light catching along the soaked fabric and providing him with the context clues needed to deduce that if this was half of Ilya, then he was ridiculously big at his full potential. Something stirs deep in Shane’s gut, his own cock twitching beneath the surface of the water. His skin feels hot, the bubbling water the main culprit but he’s sure that the cock so near to his face was a close second.
Ilya hasn’t moved. When Shane glances up at him, the younger man wears a shit-eating grin that oozes confidence.
Shane wants to feel irritated at his smug expression, wants to shove him away and tell him to go home, to not look at him like that. He can’t find the motivation to. Ilya licks his lips and cocks his head at him, arms crossing. Like this, he looks god-like. Beautiful and strong and amused at the freckled man’s inner turmoil.
“Do you like, Mr. Hollander?”
Shane can’t do anything other than let his jaw fall open slightly and nod. He knows, logically, that his reaction is only feeding into Ilya’s ego. But he’s drunk and he can’t find it in him to care about that now, not while he feels Ilya’s fingers sliding into the hair at the back of his head. The blond licks his lips and guides Shane’s head forward until he’s nuzzling the wet fabric, letting the warmth press into his cheek. His eyes fall closed when Ilya groans. He turns his head so that he faces the quickly hardening bulge head-on, nose dragging over where it twitches - interested in the attention. A shuddering sigh leaves his lips where they’re pressed against Ilya’s clothed cock.
“Fuck,” Ilya breathes out above him, thumb caressing through his hair gently where he has the older man’s face pressed to his cock.
Shane mouths at the hard line of Ilya’s cock in his shorts, uncaring now of whatever had been bothering him so much earlier. The press of the hard third limb against his lips makes him shudder, he finds himself rubbing his face over Ilya’s crotch like a cat needy for attention. He’s leaning closer, inhaling deeply though he gets only the chemical-like smell of the hot tub water rather than what he really wants. One of his hands breaks through the water and shoots up to grasp at the man’s black swim trunks over his thick thigh, anchoring him in place while he mouths at what he wants so desperately.
“Suck it,” Ilya offers, voice uneven.
Should Shane refuse - because it was his birthday after all, if anything, Ilya should be the one sucking him off - he’d have no problem switching their positions.
Shane is nodding and pressing his forehead to where the sandy brown happy trail dips down below the waistband of his trunks though, and Ilya takes that as enthusiastic agreement. The older man digs his fingers into the waistband and helps Ilya tug them down until he can step out of them. Once his cock is free he wraps a hand around the base, free hand still petting at Shane’s hair, thumb brushing over the flecks of silver strands by his temples.
“Fuck, you’re so fucking sexy,” he groans, stroking himself at a leasurely pace until the man looks up at him.
Shane looks so gone, lost in his own desire. Why he’d ever try to deny himself something that brings such a cloudy, blissful look to his eyes is beyond Ilya. He tugs at his cock faster when Shane’s eyes meet his, grip tightening in his hair. The grasp earns a breathy moan from the other. Fully hard now, Ilya finally drags the head of his cock over the older man’s plump bottom lip, smearing precum over the pink tissue like a gloss.
The way Shane’s mouth parts on instinct, tip of his tongue twitching where it rests against his lip, drags another groan from Ilya above him. He slides the head of his cock over the soft, pliant plane of Shane’s tongue, soft muscle dragging across the sensitive underside. For the first time since he was a teenager, he doesn’t trust himself not to come undone prematurely right then and there. So, he slides his cock into the older man’s waiting mouth until he feels his throat tighten around him. Shane gags slightly and Ilya’s lips twist into a tense frown as he fights the urge to close his eyes and fuck forward.
He takes a deep breath, petting the back of Shane’s head until the man’s lips close around him. He’s halfway in, and he can work with this. But he’d love nothing more than to fit as much of himself in as the male below him can handle in this present moment. He licks his lips, then moves his hand from the short, coarse strands of hair to instead cup underneath Shane’s jaw, thumb resting on the hinge.
“A little more, hm?” he coaxes, voice patient.
He feels Shane shudder underneath him and nod eagerly. Shane takes a deep breath, eyes closed now, and tries to relax completely. Ilya presses in, thumb digging into the hinge of Shane’s jaw to encourage him to stay open, to stay pliant. Shane takes him another two inches and then gags again, wet hands flying up to grasp at his thighs. He pulls back quickly, looking down and watching Shane cover his mouth to cough, eyes wet with tears.
“Fuck.”
Shane looks up at him and swallows around nothing. He’s panting, face flushed pink as his blood - thinner from the alcohol and the heat of the hot tub - rushes to tint his freckled cheeks. He parts his lips again and averts his gaze, leaning forward. Ilya lets him wrap his hand - wet and warm - around the base while he takes him into his mouth again. The blond breathes out a sigh born of relief, head tipping back slightly while he looks out at the fenced perimeter of the yard.
The taste is biological. Shane clearly wasn’t a virgin, he’d been with a few women and kissed a man or two - in college - in his lifetime. Despite the inexperience, he knew he wasn’t so completely innocent. The nights he’d spent with just his hand and his imagination or a video online or two had melded his mind into one ever curious. So he was no stranger to the taste of cum, having grown used to tasting his own on his fingertips over the years. Would he ever admit something so perverted? Not in a million years. Ilya already had plenty of ammo, now especially with his cock stuffed in the older man’s mouth.
So, Shane takes him into his throat as much as he’s able and then some, because the feeling of being used like this makes him twitch in his blue trunks underneath the water. He closes his eyes, corners of them crinkling more than usual when Ilya rocks his hips forward and chokes Shane just barely. His grip is firm still on Shane’s jaw, thumb pressed firmly into the hinge of his jaw as he holds his mouth open. The stubble on Shane’s jaw scrapes the pads of his fingertips pleasantly.
Ilya is rocking into his mouth with restraint, chasing the gags and surges of Shane’s chest that come with the physiological reaction. Spit pools at the corners of his mouth and he quickly wipes them away with his fingers, huffing out through his nostrils. Ilya pets his hair and holds his head still while he presses at the back of it, urging more of himself into Shane’s throat. The freckled man wants to punch him in the thigh at the lack of consideration, but he can’t bring himself to with how embarrassingly hard he is under the water. It’s worse when Ilya speaks, confirming that he knows exactly what’s going through Shane’s head.
“You love getting face-fucked, don’t you?” he asks, voice raspy and thick with his slavic accent.
Shane trembles. Ilya smirks and caresses his thumb over the freckles by his grip.
“Maybe I do it for real? Hm? I choke you on my big cock?”
Shane adjusts in his seat, skin entirely too searing hot now with the humiliation chipping away at his resolve. He's painfully hard and sure that he’s leaking below the water break. He finds himself nodding before he can think to stop himself, one hand dropping from Ilya’s thigh to palm at his crotch. He hopes Ilya hasn’t noticed the not-so-discreet movement.
He has, of course.
“I think so. I think you are dirty fucking pervert and you will get off on it,” Ilya says almost conversationally, as if he isn’t beginning to roll his hips forward with the goal of bruising the back of the older man’s throat.
The first time he presses them together enough that the tip of Shane’s nose brushes at his happy trail - smelling distinctly of hot tub water and masculinity - Shane’s body lurches and he pushes at Ilya’s thighs so that the cock leaves his mouth and slaps against the man’s toned stomach instead. It shines with spit that matches Hollander’s lips.
“Fucking asshole!” he shouts between coughs.
He wipes at his mouth, wipes the mess of saliva and precum away while he coughs more out onto his arm. A tear slips down his cheek and before he can recognize that it’s there, Ilya is bending down and pressing wet kisses over his cheekbone. Their lips meet after a few of these pecks and Shane melts into it, hands shaking when they come to grip at Ilya’s shoulders. Ilya slides an arm around his middle and hauls him to stand, cock pathetically hard in his trunks and tenting obviously.
“You fucking love it,” Ilya groans into his mouth, both hands coming to grasp greedily at Shane’s ass.
He kneads the muscle, yanking him closer so their cock brush - the fabric of Shane’s swim trunks separate their pleasure. Ilya nips at his bottom lip, left hand greedy on him while the right slides up between their bodies and grasps Shane’s jaw in a grip that leaves no room for argument.
“Look how hard you are,” he whispers, their lips a matching shade of kiss-bitten, spit soaked reddish pink.
Ilya wears a smirk. Shane’s eyes swim with desperation while they stare into his pale ones.
“Look how fucking hard you are,” he repeats, jostling Shane around a bit by his jaw and watching the slack take over the man’s features while he slips somewhere inbetween desperation and paltry.
His eyes are teary, sparkling in the dim lights above the two of them. His lips are pressed into a line that twitches downwards into a frown.
“Do you like it when I treat you like worthless whore, Mr. Hollander?”
Shane doesn't get to respond; Ilya is nodding his head for him with his grasp. Shane closes his eyes and lets a sob wrack through him. His skin burns with shame while his cock twitches valiantly between their bodies. He finds that he misses the taste of Ilya’s cock on his tongue, sliding down his abused throat.
“Okay, I can fuck you like one,” Ilya finishes, voice dipped like he’s pondering whether he wants to or not.
He definitely wants to, more than anything does he want to bury his cock so far into the older man’s ass that the taste of his cum lingers in the back of Shane's throat for days.
Hollander doesn't need to know that right this second; it’s more fun this way.
He takes pity on the other, pressing an all-too-gentle kiss to his lips and carding his hand through his hair while he finally releases his grip on his mandible. The tip of his tongue traces the line of Shane’s soft lips, licks at where the tear from a second ago has slid down over the bow of them. He’s still kneading at Hollander’s ass with his other hand, keeping them pressed together while he rocks his hips in circles in time with the music still playing.
Shane is thirty-seven and even if he were in his right mind right now he wouldn’t recognize The Weeknd, Ilya is sure.
He finds his way into Shane’s mouth and licks over the man’s tongue with careful swipes of his own, eyebrows furrowing the more sounds the action pulls from the freckled man. Shane is moaning so pretty into his mouth, halfway lucid now as his own hands find each side of Ilya’s jaw. His fingers slide into the soft, dirty blond curls that frame his ears. The touch makes Shane shudder - he twirls one curl around his index finger and it’s such a soft touch that it makes guilt settle in Ilya’s gut when he recounts how he’s treated their encounter so far.
If he weren’t so sure of how much it was making Hollander leak, he’d kneel and apologize right now.
But it’s Shane - Mr. Hollander - who should be kneeling.
He parts from their kiss, lips twitching into a smirk as Shane whines and chases him. Just to satiate him, he presses one, two pecks to his twitching lips and watches the man’s long, dark eyelashes flutter at the tenderness.
“Turn around, bend over.”
Shane’s throat ripples as he swallows, but he obeys. He tears his lips away and turns to face the same way as Ilya, then braces his hands on the walls of the hot tub as he bends at the waist. He’s angled in a way that makes his back pain flare up just slightly, but before he can let his mind drift too much towards that ache, Ilya is gripping his hips and grinding their hips together. Shane’s head drops between his shoulders, face warm as the steam rises from the water below them.
Ilya’s hands ground him, Ilya’s cock presses against his clothed ass from behind - hard and throbbing, Shane swears, in time with the rhythm of his heartbeat. The older man’s legs tremble, nearly giving out when he’s suddenly supplied with the distant memory of the sheer length and girth of the younger man behind him. He’d managed only to get all of it in his mouth by sheer force - his cock twitches at the recollection - so how was this supposed to be any different?
He tenses. Ilya notices, leans over his back and presses a kiss to the back of his neck. It’s sweet. Shane's eyes slip closed.
“My back,” he mumbles, shame creeping in again at the reminder of his age - of the gap in their ages.
Ilya hums, drags his lips down the knobs of Shane’s spine before he stops just above the dimples in his lower back. He slides his hands there and his thumbs fit into the dents exactly - like they were put there for him.
“I would love to fuck you in hot tub. But maybe another time. Maybe for now I take you to your bed and make your back hurt even more.”
Shane shakes his head, snorting a laugh. The fog in his head is slowly dissipating. They leave the tub - Shane diligently turning the lights and jets off on their way. He supplies them with towels, and after the awkward padding inside through the livingroom, they end up in the master bedroom. It’s just down the hall from the bathroom currently closed for renovations. He’d seen Shane dip into this room once or twice and now he was finally joining him, ready to take him apart.
Shane closes the door - for some reason, even though the house is theirs for the night.
Ilya can see the cogs turning in the man’s head the second they face each other. Shane’s towel is wrapped around his shoulders and he looks so small, so unsure. Ilya drops his towel and his swim trunks with it, they fall on top of the towel with a wet slap. Then he walks to Shane and tugs the towel from him with a coy smirk, eyebrows bouncing suggestively. The older man loses the fight against his smile and then Ilya is shoving him back onto the bed.
“My trunks-"
“My trunks,” Ilya mocks, sending him a wink to ease him while he slides the offending garment down tanned legs thick with muscle.
“Fuck you.”
There’s no bite. Ilya climbs over him once they’re both bare and kisses him, sliding one thigh between his thighs to rub against him. Hollander gasps into his mouth, eyebrows dancing.
“I haven’t, uh-” Ilya kisses him, interrupts him for a second before he pulls away. “I haven’t done this. With a man.”
Ilya pulls back, their breath still close enough to mix. Shane’s big brown eyes are starry, though now his features are tainted with nerves.
“You want to, yes?”
“Fuck, yes,” Shane breathes out too quickly, too eager. “Please.”
Ilya kisses him hard, thick fingers carding into his hair again and pressing their mouths together hard at their seams. He slides his tongue into the space that tastes faintly of ginger beer from hours ago and revels in the shallow thrusts upwards against him that the action earns. They part when Ilya has something to say, but he drags his soft lips over the stubble along Shane’s jaw while he speaks.
“I like when you beg,” he breathes, nipping at the spot where he knows Shane’s pulse hammers against his warm-toned skin.
The column of his throat tastes like aftershave and sweat. Ilya presses the flat plane of his tongue there and drags it upwards until he’s closing his lips in a wet kiss over his ear instead. Shane moans for him, eyelids falling shut.
“Please fuck me.”
Ilya nods, kissing over his warm ear again before finally pulling away and taking it upon himself to rifle through the bed side drawer nearest to them. He finds a half-empty bottle of lube and a roll of condoms. Shane’s cheek flush when their eyes meet again.
“Do you think this is enough?”
“Shut up.”
Ilya sits up on his knees, settling Shane’s knees bent so that his heels press into the tops of his paler thighs. The position exposes all that tanned skin to him and even in the dim light of the room he can make out constellations of freckles in all the most delicious parts. He’d have time to explore those later - he would make sure of it.
The first slick finger to press into Shane is his middle one. He watches the older man’s expression tighten briefly before he’s melting into the mattress and letting his lips fall open in a moan. Ilya watches his expression twist - watches his lips tremble while he sinks his finger in and out of him over and over and over. The light catches the glisten of his fingers and he finds his eyes bouncing between watching where the digit disappears and reappears between the older man’s legs and the pretty expression that graces the other’s features.
He adds a second finger then, his index. His free hand comes to rest on the outside of Shane’s thigh, holding him in place while the ring of muscle makes way for him, albeit with some coaxing. Heart-shaped lips curl into a nasty but handsome little smirk. He’s getting off on just how desperate for his jabs Hollander is - how pathetically his cock twitches when Ilya is a little mean and teasing to him.
“What, you want it, no?”
Shane nods, hands gripping the pillow above his head. He looks so much different like this - torn apart, dripping wet with flushed pink skin, teary-eyed. Ilya wants to devour him.
“Then spread your fucking legs, Mr. Hollander.”
Shane curses under his breath and obeys so easily, knees falling apart more to accommodate the request. Ilya sinks both of his fingers in down to the knuckle and the action makes Shane jittery, squirming on the bed while he’s filled with the thick appendages that curl upwards and press right into the spot that has him lifting his hips off of the bed - away from it while simultaneously towards it.
Ilya’s free hand presses flat on his stomach and pins him back down into the mattress.
“Take it,” he mutters, leaning over Shane’s body a bit now to further cage him in.
Shane feels a third finger press against him before he's fully ready; he doesn’t shy away from it. He wants the stretch. He wants Ilya to taunt him, to continue pouring filth down at him like he’s some common whore. Plump lips fall open and shake while Shane nods discreetly at Ilya, brown eyes darting between the pools of greyish-blue above him. Ilya presses a third finger in slowly, giving the older man just a bit of grace finally.
“Fuck, fuck Ilya,” Shane breathes, eyes falling shut.
He feels a light warning pat - halfway to a slap - at his cheek and his eyes shoot open.
“Watch your mouth.”
Shane’s brain feels like a buffering symbol is superimposed onto it, then his eyes narrow in a fraction of a second. He studies Ilya’s face that second, then huffs at him.
“Fuck y-”
Cum splatters onto his chest in a wave of spurts when the cracking sound fills his ears. The pain blossoms over his cheek only after a second - after his head whips to the side, after a stray drop of cum lands right over the blooming handprint. He squeezes his eyes shut and lets the shudders wrack through his body, cock twitching with the final valiant pump of cum that drips onto his stomach.
Then shame freezes like ice in his veins, burning frosty. He covers his face with his hands, panting and shaking his head.
“I’m sorry,” he croaks out, pools of milky white quickly drying on his skin.
The sensation makes him start to squirm.
Ilya’s fingers slow to a stop, still stuffed inside of Hollander’s spasming asshole, still pressed to that sweet spot inside of him. He registers that the older man had cum all over himself after Ilya smacked him across the cheek. The freckled man below him starts apologizing, starts shaking and tensing like he’s withdrawing from the moment entirely.
Ilya yanks his body closer and pulls his fingers out with as much patience as he can muster. He can’t even find any care for wiping his fingers off onto the bedsheets before ripping the condom open with slippery hands. He rolls it onto himself and covers Shane’s body with his own, shoving his legs open when he tries to close them on instinct and guiding his hard cock into him. Strong biceps are yanked away from where they hide Shane’s face, then they’re kissing feverishly with Ilya dominating the action.
Shane gasps into his mouth so pretty while Ilya fills him, inch by inch. It isn’t until their hips are finally seated together that he tries to speak, tries to babble into Ilya’s restless mouth. The blond shuts him up by licking into his mouth - by chasing that faint taste of alcohol and dragging the tip of his tongue over Shane’s teeth. The older man shudders, finally shutting up and taking the shallow, testing thrusts Ilya delivers to him.
“You’re so hot,” Ilya mutters into his mouth, eyes closed reverently while he worships the first nine inches of Shane’s ass with his cock.
“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane whimpers, cock half-hard between their bodies and brushing the hair that makes up Ilya’s happy trail.
Ilya drops his forehead to Shane’s shoulder, wraps an arm around his smooth waist, and goes to town on him. Sounds never made before by a man of his age fall from Hollander’s lips while he tosses his head back against the pillow. His bangs fall back from his hairline, dim lamplight catching the silver strands gracing his temples. He digs his blunt, neatly groomed nails into Ilya’s back and drags them over the flexing shoulder blades within his reach.
“Ilya, Ilya,” Shane is panting, body surging upwards towards the headboard each time the Russian thrusts into him.
He feels so overwhelmed, mind and body buzzing and alive and warm and damp. He can’t comprehend anything other than how good it feels to have Ilya’s cock - all fucking, what, eight inches? Nine? - fucking into him. The man shifts and the pleasure switches just from the sensation of being full - of being used, useful - to white-hot heat shooting up his spine with each jab at his prostate. He digs his teeth into Ilya’s shoulder before he can realize what he’s doing, huffing through his nostrils and squeezing his eyes shut.
Ilya hisses at the sinking of Shane’s teeth into him, body wracking with a shudder. Shane lets go after a moment and before Ilya can groan at the loss, those soft lips are moving along his neck and peppering feverish, wet kisses. Over the faint moon shaped imprint of teeth, over the muscle that connects his neck to his shoulder, right underneath the corner of his jaw. Shane’s grabbing him, licking and biting and kissing him, wrapping his shaking legs around Ilya’s waist.
He comes undone finally when Shane bites at his trap, grip tightening anywhere he can reach. When he digs his fingertips into Shane’s thigh, the man subconsciously returns the favor by moaning into the bite mark that is quickly forming beneath his fucking fangs. Ilya groans, dragging the head of his cock into the same spot inside of the freckled man until he’s gasping behind a grimace, moaning through his closed lips. He fills the condom, rolling his hips until he’s sure he’s expelled every ounce of cum he’d have for the next hour.
Shane is breathing heavier than him, legs strained as they fall to the mattress. The angle changes; Ilya pulls out of him and discards of the condom. He grabs a rag and wets it in the en-suite bathroom, cleaning Shane’s dried cum from his chest and stomach - including the drop that had made it to his jaw. The older man is half-hard still, but he bats Ilya’s hand away when he tries to touch him.
“Too much,” he huffs.
“Can’t keep up?”
Shane swats at Ilya’s smirk and the younger man catches his wrist, dragging him to lay against his chest. They’re on their sides facing each other, Shane’s eyes struggle to stay open.
“I’m thirty-seven.”
Ilya hums, drags his hand through Shane’s sweaty hair to push it back from his forehead. Shane tries to shy away from the touch, but Ilya leans in and presses a kiss to the patches of silver at his temples. It makes the other man shudder.
“Bed time for you, old man.”
“Fuck you.”
Ilya kisses him again, yanking the blanket from where it’s tucked neatly and covering their bodies. Shane tries to stand - yapping about his nighttime skin care, brushing his teeth. Ilya tugs him back down and traps his back against him, caging him in strong arms littered in moles.
Shane snores just barely in his sleep, Ilya discovers. It’s a cute, breathy sound. His lips are parted just enough that when he breathes out, the sound is ragged and wet.
It’s then, after everything they’d done that night, that he realizes how fucked he is.