Work Text:
Shane has a problem. Shane has several problems, actually. They can differ day to day, depending heavily on whether or not he's running late to class or an assignment is almost due, but in general, his problems are thus: he is in love with his roommate, that roommate is Ilya Rozanov, and if Ilya ever discovers even half of the things Shane has done because of that crush, Shane will probably have to either change his name and transfer universities or fake his own death.
Possibly flee the country entirely; it's on the backburner for now. Shane stares at the ceiling of his bedroom and seriously considers the logistics. A fake passport would probably be expensive and he'd have to somehow get into contact with someone who would even be willing to make him one that could pass inspections. It would be worth it though, if Shane did have to flee.
This wouldn't be a problem at all if Shane was normal.
Normal people do not know their roommate's class schedule not because they were told, but because the very strategically followed their roommate around campus every day of the new semester until a routine was established. Normal people do not know the names and majors of every person their roommate has ever hooked up with. Normal people definitely do not maintain spreadsheets of information on said roommate, information accumulated over almost three years of cohabitation.
The spreadsheets are probably, if Shane is being honest, the worst part.
The original spreadsheet had started during freshman year; back when Shane had been normal. Mostly, anyway. At least by comparison.
Back then, Shane had still thought he was straight. He had assumed that the weird fluttering in his stomach whenever he looked at Ilya had been simple admiration for the way he played hockey. Afterall, Shane loved hockey, loved being on the ice, so of course he would admire another player with the level of skill Ilya exhibited.
The fluttering feeling had to be admiration, or envy, maybe aesthetic appreciation; something, anything, because it obviously wasn't attraction. Shane was very straight, after all. So what if Shane spent three hours staring at photographs and game tape of Ilya while justifying it as analyzing his technique; Shane was dedicated to the game.
Freshman year Shane had been stupid.
The spreadsheets had begun during their first semester, not yet roommates, but rather a concerned teammate who noticed how often Ilya complained about missing assignment deadlines. They were actually put into a project group together for a mandatory sports psychology course needed to be on the hockey team; it was the beginning of the end.
"Do you have our rubric?" Ilya had asked one afternoon, fingers fidgeting with a pencil as he sat slumped in his seat.
"Yes," Shane had responded, trying and failing at tracking the way his hands flexed at each movement.
"What page?"
"Four," Shane answered absentmindedly, not having to think about it.
Ilya had blinked at him, his movements stopping abruptly. "You memorized it? Already?"
"N-No," Shane had stuttered, face heating. He had paused for a beat, then looked away from Ilya's raised eyebrow. "Maybe."
The look Ilya had given him afterward had been equal parts impressed and concerned. Shane had gone home and created a document to track their project deadlines because somebody had to keep them organized. It had worked so well, Ilya actually telling Shane to his face with only minimal assholery that he appreciated it, that Shane started keeping track of other things, casually mentioning reminders to Ilya when Shane deemed it necessary.
A tab for their practice schedule was only practical, as well as any exam dates that came up. Of course Shane had to add their games and travel plans, Ilya's planned trips home to Russia just happening to find their way onto the tab as well. Team events and parties that Ilya casually mentioned attending might appear in a separate tab somewhere, as well.
By their sophomore year, the sections are color-coded and have expanded to seventeen separate formulated tabs, their agreement to room in cheap student housing together during the rest of their university stay ensuring Shane had plenty of data to collect.
Shane honestly wishes he were joking; the new tabs grow to include Ilya's grades, his classes, his favorite foods, and random facts he occasionally drops in conversation like they mean nothing, but that Shane hoards like they're previous metals.
The horrifying thing is that Shane doesn't actually need the spreadsheets anymore; he already knows everything there is to know about Ilya, so they really don't serve a purpose. It's archival in nature at this point; a museum dedicated to his inability to get over one extremely attractive Russian man.
Shane closes his eyes tightly, shame eating away at him. What he's doing is not healthy, and he knows that. He's always know how weird his entire thing for Rozanov is.
Most people doing insane things don't realize they're being insane; Shane realized it immediately, the exact second he took it too far. There had been a period sophomore year where he had convinced himself he was just very invested in friendship with Ilya. Shane was straight and could prove it: he met Rose sophomore year. Beautiful, funny, incredibly smart Rose Landy, who asked him out at a party Shane was attending only because Ilya had off-handedly mentioned it at practice the day before.
Shane had spent three months dating her while trying desperately to feel normal, to feel what everyone else seemed to feel. He tried desperately not to compare every interaction they had to his friendship with Ilya.
He did not succeed.
Every date eventually became a story about Ilya, every conversation somehow circled back to Ilya, and every comparison favored Ilya.
Eventually, Rose had stared at him across a restaurant table and directly told him, "You know you're in love with your roommate, right?"
Shane had nearly died choking on his drink.
That was the conversation where he knew there was no turning back; that Shane was not normal, not because he was gay, but because he was obsessed with his roommate to an unhealthy degree.
He probably should have been clued in by the fact he had six hundred and fourteen photos of Ilya saved to a password protected folder on his phone. Not that he'd counted, recently. Actually, the count may be higher now. By only a little.
Shane groans into his pillow, pulling it tightly against his face, half hoping to suffocate himself to escape his own degeneracy.
Normal people certainly don't spend forty dollars printing photographs for a scrapbook before realizing halfway through the project that they were behaving like a stalker. The scrapbook currently lives hidden in a storage box beneath Shane's bed. He refuses to think about it.
Shane often thinks about taking a step back, getting himself away from Ilya for Ilya's own sake, not even his own, but then Ilya smiles at him, or laughs when saying his name, or slams into Shane after a powerplay goal, or even just falls asleep on their couch with his curls falling into his eyes, and Shane immediately loses every ounce of common sense he's ever possessed.
A crashing sound coming from the kitchen jolts him from his thoughts, Shane sitting up immediately with a groan. Ilya has the survival instincts of a particularly reckless golden retriever, so Shane hurries to throw on some pants, forgoing a shirt as he opens his bedroom door to go see what Ilya has broken this time.
The apartment smells like coffee and Ilya's preferred shampoo, the bathroom door open in the hallway, Shane catching the steamed mirrors as he passes by. Shane finds him standing barefoot in the kitchen, wearing gray sweatpants and a Boston hockey shirt that stretches deliciously across his broad shoulders.
There is a broken mug in the sink, Ilya's hulking form turning slowly to meet Shane's eyes when he enters the kitchen. "I dropped it," Ilya says, eyes darting down to Shane's chest before sheepishly grinning. Shane stares are his grin because he is pathetic and hopeless. The morning sunlight catches on Ilya's curls, his mother's necklace just visible against his throat. There are still pillow marks on one side of his face. Shane wants to bite something.
"Thank you for the explanation," Shane says dryly. "I was worried maybe the mug attacked you."
Ilya laughs that particular laugh that is responsible for at least forty percent of Shane's problems. "Was very aggressive mug," Ilya jokes.
"You survived," Shane retorts, finally walking further into the room, eyes on the floor to make sure none of Ilya's mess had made it anywhere Shane could step on it.
"Barely," Ilya complains, turning back to the sink to start collecting shards.
Shane rolls his eyes and reaches for the coffee maker, ignoring the way he can feel Ilya's eyes on him. It doesn't matter where or how long, Shane can always feel Ilya's gaze and presence like a physical touch. Sometimes Shane catches himself wondering whether Ilya is looking for something, a reason to reach out and touch like Shane always fantasizes about, but then he remembers that Ilya hooks up with half the student population and has probably never once not pursued someone outright if he really wanted them.
"You have class?" Ilya asks, throwing the collected debris into the kitchen trash can.
"At ten."
"I have economics."
"I know," Shane replies a little too quickly. Ilya raises an eyebrow and Shane looks away, face heating from embarrassment. "I mean," he says quickly, "that was what you told me earlier."
"Did I?"
"Probably," Shane mutters, focusing very hard on pouring coffee into his mug. Ilya did not tell him his schedule yet this semester; they had only been back from break a week and hadn't had time to discuss most of their classes. Shane knows because Ilya's economics lecture ends at eleven fifty and his sports psychology class starts at twelve thirty.
"You're weird this morning," Ilya states, eyeing Shane with an odd look on his face.
Shane nearly chokes. God, if only Ilya knew. If he knew that Shane has spent three years quietly obsessed with him, that Shane had once walked twenty minutes out of his way just to confirm that Ilya had gotten home safely after a party, or that Shane has anonymously reported two genuinely awful hookups of his for academic misconduct after discovering they were cheating and had spread unsavory rumors about Ilya, he would run screaming.
"You're staring," Ilya says.
Shane blinks, realizing Ilya is staring right back. He seems amused, mostly curious about Shane's absent expression. He looks dangerously handsome in the morning light.
Shane wants to crawl into traffic.
"I was not," Shane denies, simply to say something.
"You were."
"I was thinking."
"About?"
How good you look in sweatpants, Shane thinks before replying, "Statistics."
Ilya bursts out laughing, the sound bright and effortless. Shane hates him; he wants to lick him so fucking badly.
Later, after his morning classes are done and he's found himself in one of the little cafes on campus that actually carry food he's willing to eat, Hayden plops down beside him, J.J. and Rose appearing nearly at the same time.
"You're staring again," Hayden grumbles, his own salad looking wilted and sad.
Shane nearly drops his fork at being caught, a blush heating his cheeks. Across the student union, Ilya is laughing at something their teammate Cliff has said.
"You have the most innocent crush I've ever witnessed," Rose says, smiling sweetly as she takes her seat.
J.J. nods along, agreeing. "It's actually kind of adorable."
Shane almost chokes on his food. Innocent, right. If they knew the truth they'd probably stage an intervention or maybe have him committed. It's a tossup.
They don't know about the scrapbook, or the countless social media accounts he follows despite not having spoken to half those people, or the fact that their bedroom walls touch and sometimes Shane lies awake listening to Ilya move around in the next room.
It's pathetic, unhealthy, and obsessive.
Knowing this, however, does not make him stop.
Across the union, Ilya glances over, their eyes meeting for just a second. Ilya throws him a little smirk and wink, causing everyone around Shane to simply disappear from his notice. Shane feels himself fall a little harder, which is impressive, because at this point he should have hit rock bottom years ago.
Shane trudges back to their apartment with half a mind to send in a complaint to the university over the staff they hire; this is the third time his History 315: Sex, Crime and Deviance in Europe, from 1200 to 1800 professor has cancelled class this month. Shane isn't entirely sure what he has going on in his life, but he really needs to get a handle on it before Shane has to start a campaign to find someone to replace him.
He starts to think about what they should make for dinner after Ilya gets out of his own Exercise Physiology 410: Resistance Training - Theory and Application course; he's always sweaty and hungry after any hands-on assignments, eager to get back to their place to shower and cook with Shane.
Shane is distracted by the image of a sweaty Ilya Rozanov, idly daydreaming about the way he once stretched out along their sofa, wet and glistening, and then argued with Shane for forty minutes before finally taking his half-naked self into their shower to clean the grime from his skin, so he misses the first couple of clues that he is not alone in the apartment. He misses the shoes, and the keys still hanging by the door, as well as the jacket Ilya has left hanging on the back of the couch that he would usually be wearing when out.
He does not miss the sound coming from Ilya's room.
Shane would maybe panic about someone being in their place while they should be gone, but he can hear the muffled Russian, Ilya's voice saying something in a rough tone. Shane hums, slightly concerned. Was Ilya late for his classes, ditching, or did his professor cancel too? It's an odd coincidence, sure, but that just means Shane gets to spend even more time with him, so he's not complaining.
Shane sheds his own jacket, dropping his backpack onto the couch, and then heads towards Ilya's cracked bedroom door. Shane can picture how Ilya will look laying on his bed, rehearsing the questions and the banter they always fall into in his head, so he's completely caught off guard when he actually catches a glimpse of Ilya through the crack of his bedroom door.
Glistening skin fully on display, his ass out and flexing as he thrusts forward, his strong arms tensed as he fucks into something on his bed. Shane stares, unable to look away, as Ilya shifts slightly, his body turning to the side just enough for Shane to get a look at his massive cock pummeling into what Shane realizes is a sex toy.
It's surprisingly realistic looking, the puffy pussy lips brown and wet, the furled asshole just as brown-blushed as the lips. Shane assumes it's just the torso because there are no legs attached to the toy as far as Shane can tell. Ilya groans, sliding his shiny dick out of the toy pussy, an absurd amount of length appearing before he's free. Shane stares as Ilya takes his cock in hand, slapping the head loudly against the pussy, what he can only assume is Russian filth falling from his lips. Ilya leans forward slightly, stroking his hard cock, and then spits on the toy's lips, rubbing the spit around and then fingering it inside with two fingers.
Shane's own pussy throbs at the sight. He feels light-headed, completely brain-dead, only able to barely hold himself up against the wall as heat gathers between his legs. He's never been turned on this fast before, unable to believe it when he can actually feel an empty ache in his pussy or the way his clit fucking throbs as Ilya fucks his cock back into his toy, a deep groan leaving him as his cock slowly slides back in.
Ilya looks gorgeous, his neck red for exertion as he fucks himself into the toy with hard, deep thrusts. Shane barely registers that his hand has wandered, palm suddenly grinding against his hard clit. His slit is soaking already, wet and achy as he drags his fingers through his arousal, using the gathered slick to allow him to rubs his clit with furious, efficient abandon.
Shane feels possessed, spreading his legs wider to he can tug slightly on his engorged clit, barely stifling a whine at the tingling pulse it sends down his spine. Shane feels like he's gushing, his pussy on fire as he watches Ilya pleasure himself, the Russian's head falling back with a pleased groan.
Shane has never in his life come this fast, but he can feel his orgasm already building, his underwear a mess, so turned on by the sight of Ilya's swelling cock pistoning in and out, glistening with smeared fluid on his shaft. Shane is unable to stop little hiccupping gasps from escaping, about ready to fall over the edge, when their doorbell suddenly rings, a knock following swiftly after.
Ilya cursing out loud is the only thing that saves Shane from getting caught, his sudden jolt at the knock sending him tumbling against the wall, a dull thud echoing in the hallway.
Shane starts to panic, barely functioning enough to slip away into the hallway bathroom, holding his breath as he hears Ilya pull something on before passing by him, heading directly to whoever is at their door. Shane quickly exits the bathroom, ready to retreat into his room, but he catches a glimpse of the toy pussy sitting half covered by Ilya's bed sheets and he isn't able to control his feet as he slowly approaches it.
It really is incredibly painted, Shane thinks, hesitantly reaching out to run a finger along the toy's ass cheek, poking at the rubber. It feels firmer than he thought it would, like there is some actual structure on the inside of it, something to give it a more realistic feeling. With the way the blanket is covering it, it almost looks like someone's real pussy and ass just hanging out in the air, exposed.
The breath freezes in Shane's lungs. He stares at the brown pussy lips, calculating, biting his bottom lip when the idea fully forms in his head. Shane doesn't look that dissimilar to the toy; he's seen his own body, has fucked his dildo in front of a mirror more than once, just to watch the way he stretched around the toy. If he adjusted himself in just the right way, made sure the pillow fell slightly on top of him, he could easily slide under the blanket and replace the toy and Ilya would never know.
The thought, once Shane actually thinks it, is absurd. Of course Ilya would know, there is a difference between fucking a toy and a real person. Shane slides his finger along the toy again, feeling silly, his finger rubbing idly at the toy's useless clit. He blinks slightly, surprised. The toy is warmer than he thought it would be. He slips his finger inside, flushing at the knowledge he is touching where Ilya had just been sliding his dick inside, and he feels the subtle warmth.
Warming lube, Shane realizes, pulling his finger out. Ilya had been using warming lube.
Shand is dropping his pants within seconds, heart racing. He doesn't know who is at the door and he doesn't know what the hell he's doing, but he tugs his clothes off as rapidly as he can, stuffing them under the bed as he pulls the surprisingly heavy toy free, also stuffing it under Ilya's bed without any care. He climbs onto the bed and under the sheets, trying to keep his breathing under control as he pulls pillows back into place, trying to keep the same vague shape Ilya had originally arranged the pile in, probably using them as a vague sort of illusion that an upper half of the toy existed.
Shane has managed to stick his pussy out, exposed, and get his legs hidden by the blanket, right when he hears steps in the hallway approaching. He freezes everywhere, his lungs seizing and his eyes squeezed shut, absolutely positive that Ilya is immediately going to notice that a real human replaced his toy.
That doesn't happen.
Instead, Shane can hear Ilya muttering to himself in Russian, the sound of his clothes falling to the floor. There is a sigh, steps approaching the bed, and then a brief silence. Shane keeps holding his breath, certain that this is it, but he is glad for the lack of air in his lungs when Ilya's cock is suddenly forced into him with one easy slide.
Shane's mouth drops immediately, eyes snapping open as Ilya let's out a shocked moan behind him, little swivels of his hips forcing his massive cock deeper into Shane's pussy. Shane feels a little silly at the shock of it; why would Ilya stretch a toy? Toys do not need to be prepped for the sheer girth of Ilya's cock, not like a real person would be.
He feels enormous, stretching Shane to what feels like obscene lengths, a slight burn just from the sheer width accompanying every shallow thrust. If Shane hadn't been as desperate wet and sloppy as he was, it probably would have hurt more. Instead, Shane has to stealthily cover his mouth with his hand, doing his best to muffle the high-pitched whine that wants to leave him as Ilya gently rocks his hips back and forth.
"Will need to thank Cliff for suggestion," Ilya mutters to himself, a grunt leaving him as he pulls out further than before. "This warming lube is unbelievable."
Shane feels slight tremors running along his frame, doing his best to stay still as Ilya starts to pick up the pace, a wet squelching sound starting to get louder as his pussy drips around Ilya's hard cock. He feels drunk on lust, his clit throbbing each time Ilya's balls slap wetly against him, his pussy lips swollen and sensitive with arousal. Shane's chest is pressed against Ilya's sheets and his nipples have peaked, rubbing deliciously against the fabric every time Ilya thrusts forward.
Shane has to hold back a sob from escaping, body flush with pleasure as Ilya really starts to rail forward, his cock practically battering Shane's greedy pussy. He feels overstimulated already, shuttering and spasming around Ilya's cock, unable to stop. Ilya keeps muttering things in Russian, his accent curling seductively into Shane's ears, his tone gravely with his own arousal.
"Fuck, Shane," Ilya says and Shane feels like dying.
Fuck, Shane thinks dread spilling cold over his overheated body, I've been caught. There's nothing Shane can do, caught out as the obsessive pervert he is, sliding into Ilya's bed and letting himself be used as a toy; Ilya must hate him, must be getting ready to slide out of his pathetically needy pussy and give Shane a look of disgu—
"Your pussy feels so good, baby," Ilya groans, sliding deeper inside of Shane. Shane's mouth drops open behind his hand, genuine shock painting his features as Ilya's thrusts actually speed up. "I knew it would look so pretty, always see it through your shorts when you do yoga, fat pussy lips just begging for my cock."
Shane is gaping at the words, beyond gone as his pussy flutters, his heart racing frantically in his chest.
"Want to fuck you so bad, sweetheart," Ilya grunts above him, lost in his fantasy. "I know your pussy would be so wet and sweet, stretched out and gaping just for me," he continues, his thrusts creating smacking sounds as he rides Shane's ass hard into the mattress. It's occurring to Shane that Ilya is currently thinking about him, fucking into what he thinks is a toy, fantasizing about how messy Shane would be for him, but his thoughts are derailed when Ilya swipes a finger along his wet lips, collecting the slick there, and then he feels it press directly to his furled asshole, wet thumb pressing in and hooking into his hole without hesitation.
Shane can't stop it, nor does he want to, the build up of his orgasm cresting and flooding his mind as his pussy does the exact same thing, squirting and subsequently flooding Ilya's bed with his pussy juices. Shane can't stop the way he squeezes around Ilya's cock, hips jerking sporadically as a scream leaves his mouth, his hand useless to muffle it. Shane shakes on Ilya's cock even as the blanket is suddenly torn from over him, his pussy still squirting as he turns his teary eyes to meet Ilya's shocked gaze.
"Please," Shane sobs, pushing up onto his hands from his elbows, head still turned back to keep Ilya's gaze. "Please, Ilya, I need it," Shane begs, rocking back onto the dick still planted firmly inside him. "Fuck me, I need it, please."
"Holy fuck," Ilya says, hands coming up to grasp tightly at Shane's hips, his strong arms pulling Shane even further back onto his cock. His hips finally start up their previous pace, wet squelching noises loud as Ilya starts fucking into Shane once more. "You look so good on my cock, so pretty," Ilya pants above him. "Your pussy is perfect, just made for me. You are drooling around my cock, so hungry for it," Ilya continues, moaning loudly when Shane sobs at his words, pussy contracting as another orgasm quickly approaches.
"Please, please, please," Shane pants out, meeting Ilya's thrusts. Ilya's right hand releases his hips from his bruising grip, reaching in front of Shane and quickly finding his engorged clit. It's easy for him to start rapidly rubbing it, Shane so wet and messy the glide feels phenomenal. That's all it takes for Shane to come again, sobbing out as he squirts once more, convulsing and shaking as his limbs give out, falling face fist into the sheets. He's crying, tears leaking out of his eyes, as Ilya's thrusts fall out of rhythm, his hand coming to rest on the top of Shane's ass.
"I'm going to cum," Ilya groans, his hands pushing Shane forward slightly, starting to pull his cock free from Shane's spasming channel.
"No!" Shane gasps out, forcing himself on shaky hands so he can use his leverage to force Ilya's cock back into his overstimulated pussy. "You have to cum inside," Shane demands, furious at the very idea of Ilya pulling out. "I need it inside!"
Ilya's shout is broken in the middle, his hips bucking and stilling as he grips Shane's hips so tightly he already knows they're going to bruise. Ilya chokes on his own breath from behind him, a few aborted thrusts occurring before a final long groan is let out, his cock jerking so harshly that Shane can feel it when Ilya empties himself inside him.
Shane pants on his hands and knees, vision blurry as he process what just happened. Ilya pulls out slowly behind him, a soothing had running along Shane's back as he collapses once Ilya is no longer inside him to keep him up. Shane feels the wet trickle of Ilya's cum leak out of him and he can't help the moan that leaves him when Ilya's fingers scoop up the cum and then fuck it back inside of Shane's glistening pussy.
"So," Ilya says after he's done shoving his cum back inside, his body shifting as he comes to lay beside an exhausted Shane.
Shane groans, embarrassment and shame starting to flood his senses as he realizes what just happened. "Oh my god, I am so sorry."
"Why are you sorry?" Ilya asks. Shane turns his head to look at the other man, watching as Ilya raises an eyebrow. "I am not sorry."
"Do you realize how fucked up what I just did is?" Shane asks, feeling completely ashamed of what he did. He pretended to be a sex toy and took advantage of Ilya; his roommate should be yelling at him and threatening to call the police on Shane, not laying next to him on ruined sheets.
"You wanted my dick so badly that you pretended to be pussy toy just to get it," Ilya says, a smirk on his face as he looks at Shane. "It is hot that your pussy was so wet and hungry that you let me use you." Shane can't stop the little moan that escapes him at Ilya's words. Ilya looks smug, his hand drifting up to start rubbing small circles on Shane's exposed side. Shane makes direct eye contact, stomach actually fluttering at the gentle touch.
"I love you," Shane blurts out, eyes widening as soon as he says it.
Ilya says nothing, his touch freezing as he stares at Shane.
"Sorry," Shane squeaks out, shifting quickly to pull himself away, ready to escape from his quickly forming humiliation. He doesn't get very far, Ilya's strong arms darting forward and pulling Shane into Ilya's broad chest, his hand gripping Shane's face as he forces him to look at him.
"I love you too," Ilya says firmly, grip shifting to cup Shane's cheek.
"Oh my god," Shane whispers, eyes searching for any hint on Ilya's face that could disprove his words, any sign that Shane was hallucinating. He finds none as Ilya leans forward and licks into his gaping mouth, tongue hot and wet as they share their first kiss. It's sloppy and desperate, both of them clutching tightly to the other as they make out in ruined sheets that quickly twist around their tangled legs. Shane's lips are tingling by the time he pulls away, trying to catch his breath.
"I'm still sorry," he says, letting Ilya pull him up and off the bed, the other man stripping the wet sheets off. He shoots Shane a look as he drops them into his laundry basket, fresh sheets soon pulled out and carefully put on his bed.
"No sorrys," Ilya insists, stretching out onto his back, arms coming up to rest behind his head. He looks gorgeous like this, fully on display for Shane's hungry gaze. He smirks when Shane finally pulls his eyes away from the way his semi-soft cock lays against his toned stomach, eyes burning. "Maybe next time, when you are using that stupid purple dildo," Ilya starts saying slowly, his voice nonchalant. Shane's breath catches in his chest because how does Ilya know what color his dildo is? "Maybe you have to leave your room for a minute. Maybe when you get back, you don't notice how much bigger your dildo looks, how it looks so much more realistic," Ilya proposes, humming as Shane finally shuffles closer to the bed, enraptured. "You ignore that the condom you usually put on it for easy clean up is gone, just a bare cock there waiting for you to climb on it and fuck yourself, yes?" Ilya teases, looking pleased with himself when Shane gasps out loud, his thighs coming to rub together as his pussy aches at the image he puts in Shane's head.
"Maybe," Ilya says, enunciating the word with an exaggerated version of his own accent, thick and heavy in a way it hasn't been since he first came to their university, "you get so wet it slips out of your greedy pussy, sliding right into your tight little asshole. You can't help how good it would feel, how quickly your pussy would start squirting around nothing, your ass sucking the dildo in—"
Shane falls onto Ilya, mouth hungry as he straddles the other man's lap, head emptying as his unnecessary thoughts drift away, the only thing left being the consistent drum of Ilya, Ilya, Ilya as hands start to wander.