Shane stops breathing. His skin goes hot, then cold, prickling, his hair standing on end. There's no way. He must have heard it wrong, there was no way-

"Now why are you limp dick losers talking about my best girl?"

Shane has to shut his eyes. This is not happening, surely. Ilya Rozanov is not swaggering up to the next table, calling Shane his - his -

"Ayyye, Cap. We were just talking about our top fucks."

"Ah, I see. You all had nothing to offer so you had to talk about my conquests, I understand."

Boos briefly follow.

"No but seriously, Cap. Yours has gotta be Jane, right?"

Rozanov hums, slow, indulgent, like he's savouring something. "Mmmh yes. My Jane."

Some catcalls follow, lurid. Shane's pulse is in his throat, thumping thumping thumping. He stares out into the throng of writhing bodies on the dancefloor, unblinking.

"Yeah okay so you love banging this chick, but that still doesn't answer the question: what was your best fuck with her."

Rozanov's laughter is rolling, incredulous. "This I cannot answer - no, no it is true!" He adds when he's met with crows of denial, "My Jane, she is always surprising me. She is crazy for my cock. You would not understand what this is like, for a girl to want your dick so bad she is biting your belt buckle."

It's like getting shoved in the solar plexus, hard. Boston's jeering rises but it doesn't dim the memory - they hadn't seen each other in weeks, and it was coming off of summer besides, and Shane had felt like he was on fire, like he'd die if he didn't get Rozanov's cock inside him now now right fucking now, and in his desperate rush, mouthing his way across denim, over Rozanov's zipper, he'd clipped his teeth against -

"I call bull. No way she's that easy for it."

"Oh, but she is," Rozanov's voice is inescapable, like he's whispering straight into Shane's ear, "I go to eat her out and I can already work three fingers inside - she opened herself up for me in the shower because she needs it so bad."

That's not fair, Shane thinks dizzily over Boston's whooping, that wasn't the same night as the belt thing.

Ilya is still talking, rapturous now:

"- but it does not matter if she does not open herself up before I get there because the way this girl gets wet for me? Oh my god, she is like - like faucet, just dripping, always, making a mess in her little panties -"

And suddenly Shane is standing, uncaring if the movement is obvious through the dim lights of the club. He's weaving, stumbling his way to the bathroom. Jesus, people probably think he's wasted what with the way he's walking, but he doesn't care, he doesn't care about anything apart from getting behind a locked stall door right fucking now.

When the lock clicks shut, Shane is scrambling for his pants. He's so hard he's throbbing, hot to touch. And he's - he's dripping, all down his shaft, down to his fucking balls, making a mess of his -

Panties, Shane hears in Rozanov's indolent drawl, and he puts his fist in his mouth and bites down, hard.

It's enough to muffle his noises, if not the shwick shwick shwick of his hand jacking his cock.

It's enough so that he doesn't miss the door handle of the bathroom turning.

Shane's hand doesn't (can't) stop working, neck arching as it flies over his dick, but he's not worried, not really.

After that it’s a blur of kisses and discarded clothes and then Hollander’s back is arching as Ilya pushes into him. Ilya has a tight grip on Hollander’s hips and not much else. He feels giddy with how Hollander greeted him ready to get what he wants, with how what he wants is Ilya. And, fuck, Ilya wants him too. It’s just that there’s nobody quite like Hollander. How he looks so pretty all spread out on the bed. How he groans and swears and shudders when Ilya fucks him. How he can take everything Ilya has to give. So maybe Hollander’s energy affects him. Maybe it loosens his tongue, makes him say “fuck, Hollander,” and “oh God, Hollander,” and “taking me so good, Hollander,” a bit too often, too awestruck.

After they finish, he flops down on the bed beside Hollander, and neither one makes any move to get up. This happens more and more lately, one or both of them drawing it out, not even talking, really, just dwelling in the sex-spell that hangs over the room as they catch their breath and the sweat dries.

Tonight, Hollander is loose and lax against the pillows, eyes closed and wearing that small, pleased smile he gets when he thinks Ilya’s not looking. Ilya rolls over onto his stomach and lets himself look. He looks at Hollander’s back as it rises and falls, looks down at where Hollander’s legs are still spread, where his hole is soft and open, and Ilya can’t help it, really he can’t, he just has to—

Hollander makes a small, questioning sound when Ilya’s fingers find his hole, not pressing in, just giving the lightest teasing touches against the skin there. “You were ready for me,” Ilya says, a little mischievous, a little questioning, and Hollander must feel too good to be shy because he says, “Mmm, yeah, didn’t want to wait.” 

“Is hot.” 

“Fuck off,” Hollander says with a grin.

Ilya huffs out a laugh as he starts to press one finger inside, moving slowly and with the barest of pressure, relishing in how Hollander’s body relaxes even more into the mattress below him.

“Is this ok?” he says, even though he’s not completely sure what he’s working toward here, but Hollander’s quick to say, “Mmm, yeah, feels good,” and his eyes are still shut and he looks so sweet, so Ilya keeps going, pressing in until he’s as deep as he can get from this angle, then pulling out just as slowly. It doesn’t take much before Hollander’s hips start to shift on the bed, before his breath picks up, and even though Ilya can’t see his cock he knows Hollander is getting hard again. He pulls his hand away, ignoring Hollander’s protesting whine, grabs the lube from the bedside table and gives Hollander a gentle slap on his hip. “Turn over,” and he does, easy as that.

The sight of Hollander so open and trusting and all for Ilya makes his stomach flip. Ilya moves in close, hands and mouth near Hollander’s cock, and lets his eyes flick up to Hollander’s face. His eyes are open now but heavy-lidded, and he’s just watching Ilya, lip trapped between his teeth.

“Can I? I think you’ll like,” Ilya says, fingers once again teasing over Hollander’s hole, and he hasn’t even explained what he wants, not really, but Hollander just nods. Ilya gets his fingers slick and slides two in this time, a slow drag to let Hollander adjust. But then Hollander’s groans pick up, and his cock is so hard and leaking at the tip, and he’s gasping out, “More, I need—please, Rozanov.”

“Yes, yes, Hollander, I know,” is all Ilya can say as it crashes down on him how badly he needs to get Hollander’s cock in his mouth.

Hollander must know how much Ilya likes blowing him. Ilya knows he gives it away in how quick he is to do it, in how he can’t help but moan from the first taste of Hollander on his tongue until he’s swallowing Hollander’s release. But Hollander shows he likes it too. He asks for it often enough, and it makes him noisy in his Hollander way, all bitten off curses and whines and Rozanovs. It’s all so good it makes Ilya feel drunk.

Ilya’s not one to deny himself what he wants, so he takes Hollander’s cock down in a single, smooth motion that has him arching off the bed immediately. Ilya flings his free arm over Hollander’s hips to hold him down and keep his fingers and mouth in place, and Hollander’s hands find Ilya’s hair, and it’s perfect, getting to touch and be touched like this. Ilya is used to people wanting things from him during sex, used to giving and giving and giving. But with Hollander it’s different. Even tonight, with Hollander’s needy, grasping hands all over him, Ilya feels a balance, like Hollander wants to give and give and give right back.

Hollander’s unraveling quickly, though Ilya keeps his fingers gentle and his mouth soft. His hips are bucking against Ilya’s hold on him, and he’s whimpering each time Ilya’s fingers press deep inside. He’ll come like this, Ilya knows, and the thought makes Ilya suck harder.

“Jesus fuck, Rozanov,” Hollander grits out as his hands go tight in Ilya’s hair, tugging hard, and oh, oh fuck, it’s Ilya groaning now, loud even around Hollander’s cock in his mouth, so loud that Hollander’s eyes fly open and he says, “Shit, shit, sorry,” but Ilya’s shaking his head, pulling off his cock, clearing his throat to say, “Again.”

Their eyes meet over Hollander’s cock, wet and straining toward Ilya’s mouth, and Hollander raises a questioning eyebrow.

“You like that?”

“Da, yes, fuck, Hollander,” Ilya says before dropping right back down onto Hollander’s cock, keeping his eyes open and eager as he starts up the rhythm that had Hollander moaning under him moments ago.

There’s a second of hesitation before Hollander’s hands go tight in Ilya’s hair again, but then it’s back, that perfect stinging pressure that has Ilya’s eyes rolling back into his head.

“Fuck, you really like that,” Hollander says, and it’s all Ilya can do to breathe as he tries to focus on making Hollander come. Ilya really, really wants him to. He wants to feel the pulse of Hollander’s cock in his mouth, to feel Hollander’s hole go tight around his fingers, so he redoubles his efforts, curling his fingers up right where Hollander needs them and burying his nose into Hollander’s soft belly, and that’s all it takes for him to come. Ilya would be more than happy to just stay there as Hollander softens in his mouth, but he’s being pulled up roughly by his hair to meet Hollander’s lips, the sting of the tug making his cock twitch.

Ilya’s shaking a bit and achingly hard, just rutting his hips down against Hollander’s thigh. He feels dizzy from Hollander’s tongue in his mouth, Hollander’s hands pullingpullingpulling with the most perfect aching soreness. In between kisses Hollander breathes out, “Want you to come, just from this,” and all Ilya can do is moan as he’s pulled into the next kiss. Hollander learns fast. It might actually be a problem.

Ilya’s hips pick up speed, and then they’re not even kissing anymore, not really, not with Ilya too desperate and close to do much more than pant against Hollander’s mouth. But Hollander’s strong hands are gripping his hair and Hollander’s beautiful brown eyes are watching him so closely and Ilya doesn’t, can’t, look away as he spills between them, wet and messy, before he falls limp, half on top of Hollander.

It takes a moment for Hollander’s hands to move in Ilya’s hair again, but they do, and this time it’s so gentle, just strong fingers lifting Ilya’s sweaty curls from the back of his neck over and over. Ilya hums his pleasure and opens his eyes— when had he closed them?—to see Hollander’s keen gaze still fixed on him.