Work Text:
Ilya is sitting alone at the counter for his shift, having just clocked in and popped open a can of Monster. In the fridge just a few feet away, an array of entirely too colorful cans sit with their labels freshly turned to face outwards by the blond himself. Ghost, Redbull, Reign - who even drinks Reign? Yuck.
The uniform shirt hugs him nicely, having bordered on snug about twenty washes and two personal records (two-seventy-seven, by the way) a while ago. Now? The hems of the sleeves dig into his biceps when he flexes them or even just raises them above his head. His female coworkers love asking him to carry heavier things for them - he knows it just so they can see his arms flex, see the vein sitting pretty on his bicep strain just that much more.
The shirt is a simple black athletic material with his name tag pinned to one side and a bright blue ‘EOS’ embroidered on the other. He gets to wear simple black pants and greet people as they walk in and scan their barcodes for entry. It’s an easy job, and he doesn’t have to pay the monthly fee to work out whenever he wants. There’s a plethora of women in tight fitting clothes and men also in tight fitting clothes that he gets to ogle at as they walk by into the workout area.
So yeah, it’s a good job. Nothing to complain about.
Except maybe the occasional insecure asshole that wants to size Ilya up or clutch his botox-ridden girlfriend closer in the off chance that Ilya felt like sweeping her off her feet today.
And while yeah, Ilya can appreciate a strong, fit form, he definitely prefers his partners a little softer around the edges. He likes having something to hold onto while he really goes to town on them. Because all the best fruits are ripe when they’ve got a little give, right?
It’s seven in the morning on a Sunday. During the week, maybe it would be a busy hour, but Sundays are typically slower in general - most people resigning to taking the day off from working out. He’s sitting at the counter with his face in his phone, cheek in his palm, elbow on the counter. His coworker - who, bless her, got him this job - flicks a pen at him.
“Cameras, Ilya.”
“No one is coming in,” he whines, rolling his eyes.
He scrolls through his reels. Two hockey players fighting and yelling at each other in Russian, he likes the video and scrolls. A girl ‘showing off her outfit’ and jumping up and down, he turns his brightness down and likes the video, then scrolls. A man in a Spiderman costume falling off a roof and playing accordion, he chuckles to himself, likes, and scrolls.
Oh.
This video is something he’d seen a rise of on the internet lately. ‘Mukbangs’, Svetlana explained to him. They’d gotten high and she insisted on watching a few while also stuffing their own faces. He didn’t really see the appeal in watching someone pour obscene amounts of ranch onto their food - in their cars, usually, for some reason - and take bites too big to actually ingest and instead just cut and edit to shorten the video playtime.
However.
One: this guy was sitting in his actual kitchen and not the driver’s seat of his car. Less mess.
Two: this guy was speaking, something these type of content creators didn’t often do - opting instead to dive right in, literally.
Three: this guy was unbelievably, boyishly handsome. As in, to the point it made Ilya turn his brightness back up just to get a better look, eyebrows furrowed.
Big brown eyes that sparkled when he spoke, freckles dusted over his cheekbones, plump lips twitching each time the man would seemingly find himself in his camera.
Ilya turns his volume up.
“Hey everyone. I got some Del Taco today.”
He gives a thumbs up, half a smile gracing his lips. He toys with the paper bag for a second, taking out a large burrito wrapped in tinfoil, a large fry, a very large cup with a lid on it, and three smaller items wrapped in tinfoil. There aren;t any jump cuts like Ilya had seen used in previous mukbang videos, he wonders if this guy hates them as much as he does.
“As usual, eat in moderation. Full video up on Youtube. Happy bulking,” the man says, then takes a sip of the drink.
The jump cuts start. Ilya scoffs, swipes over to the man’s profile and clicks the link in his bio that has his Youtube channel linked.
What? He’s curious.
He clicks the video with the thumbnail matching the one from Instagram, then tilts his phone to watch it full screen. It starts the same way, though rather than jumping into the unnecessary cuts and edits - all of which always include too many mouth and bag noises - the man not only speaks, but eats at a normal pace.
He doesn't dump ranch over the burrito as he unpacks it - Ilya cringes at the memory of ranch slipping down one woman’s fingers while he took a monstrous bite. He doesn’t speed the video up or cut any of the chewing. The microphone also sounds different here, like maybe he’d toyed with the audio to bring those specific noises down.
“Hey everyone. I got some Del Taco today.”
Yeah, yeah.
“As usual, eat in moderation. Happy bulking,” the man says, then takes a sip of the drink.
He swallows, then takes a normal person sized bite that is entirely proportionate to the size of him.
And fuck, does he looks big, Ilya notes.
He’s sitting up straight at his dining table, shoulders maybe a little narrow for his size unless it’s the camera distorting the image - does it really add ten pounds? - and holding the burrito in one of his large hands. He has a nice face, framed by his freckles and warm-toned skin. This video includes more talking than the average mukbang.
Ilya checks the title.
Food Vlog #50: Del Taco + Year One
He cocks his head to the side, minimizes the window playing the video to still hear the man’s voice while he lurks through the Youtube channel.
The bio catches his eye.
Lifestyle. Healthy Weight Gain. Exercise.
I’m Shane, I’m 23 and currently in recovery.
Mind your triggers please. I’m not responsible for them.
Ilya furrows his eyebrows. Someone enters and scans their barcode, he welcomes them without looking up from his phone. This guy has at least thirty-thousand subscribers on his channel. The man - Shane - speaks again in the video.
“-Maybe my third bulk? I don’t think I did it for long enough the first time, back when I was still scared of calories. Three-thousand-two-hundred a week terrified me.”
Ilya clicks the video and it takes up his full screen again.
“But after cutting for that first time and noticing even the slightest difference-” he takes a sip of his drink and swallows. “I realized that this would be the best way to maintain that control over my body and actually do something productive with it. I don’t think I’m like…fully healed, by any means, y’know? I still hate scales. I still count my calories. I still have these habits, but I don’t…I guess I don’t feel like I’m punishing myself anymore, because at least I’m balancing it out with the right kind of exercise.”
He takes a bite of the burrito, chews politely with his hand over his mouth. Ilya finds it endearing that he can still see his little chipmunk cheeks. Shane swallows before he speaks, well-mannered.
“Speaking of exercise, I did hit a new PR the other day. Five-thirty-three on the leg press. Still novice, I think, but I’m getting somewhere.”
Ilya paused the video. He weighed two-eighteen. This guy was doing twice his bodyweight on the leg press and didn’t seem to be satisfied by that feat?
“Hi, welcome in!”
His coworker throws something at his head after the guest passes by. He pockets his phone for the time being.
⊰═════════════════⊱
Ilya gets home from his shift and makes himself some food, then gets comfortable on the couch. He pulls up Youtube on his tv, letting the handsome stranger’s face take up the larger screen now while he ate - it was almost like they were eating together, on a date.
What a sad notion, Ilya notes to himself.
But it was a Sunday, and he hadn’t had the energy after his post-shift workout to go out and find someone for the night.
“And it is pronounced novice, by the way! Naw-viss. Not noh-viss.”
Ilya chuckles at the video, watches Shane take another bite, mirrors him.
He watches a few of Shane’s videos and follows his Instagram - of which was nearing a million followers - and in doing so learns that the boy had struggled with anorexia up until just under a year ago. He doesn’t post old photos of his body as it would do more harm than good. His face from that period, he’ll post occasionally, as a reminder of how far he’s come.
And how far is that?
He stays away from numbers when it comes to his weight - sticks to them instead if they’re calories or weights that he’s lifting. He has a range of videos that Ilya sifts through and watches portions of. Twenty to thirty minute long food vlogs posted once a week in which he documents his meals for the week and treats himself with a fast food excursion on Sundays. In these, he talks about his week, about the ingredients and how he’s able to prepare foods that appeal to someone like him, as he puts it.
His gym videos are just as often and have the same format - he speaks about his PRs, his routines, how his body is changing and adapting to the muscle growth, how his mind is adapting to the weight gain. He’s well-spoken and informed in the information that he puts out, offering routines to viewers sometimes based on demand. Though, he’s careful to point out that he is no personal trainer.
It doesn't take long for Ilya to piece together that at least half of Shane’s audience are either also gymrats or they’re recovering from an eating disorder as well - the comments range and tell him such.
hell0k1ttyluvr: tysm shane i havent looked at a scale in two weeks YAY. i watch ur videos whenever i get the urge to, and ive been on the stairmaster more lately and see my legs getting more toned even tho ive been eatingg. Luv luv u <3
→ ShaneHollander24: I’m glad to hear! I found this new strawberry overnight oats recipe, maybe I’ll review it next week for you since I remember you said it’s a safe food for you. : )
BigDawgFitness: Very nice comp Hollander. Been following your journey for a while, so fcking proud of you. Happy one year Bro.
→ ShaneHollander24: Thank you!
Ilya finds himself smiling at his phone as he goes through the comments. He navigates to Shane’s Instagram page while Food Vlog #1: Sushi + Welcome plays on his tv with a considerably - but not scarily - thinner version of the man speaks. The Instagram content is much more tailored to the platform and its average attention span. His vlogs are trimmed down to the bare bones, made for short form entertainment for someone to watch and scroll by in under two minutes.
His photos are a mix of gym photos - never too posed, never too focused on his actual form beneath his gym clothes - and regular photos taken by a regular guy. Pictures of lattes, pictures with friends - one pretty redheaded girl that Ilya recognizes from one of his vlogs. Ilya clicks on one photo that is one of the very few to show much skin. Shane had posted it just two weeks ago, having taken it at the beach. In it, he’s shirtless and wearing vibrant blue swim trunks that hug his hips well. There’s the slightest overflow of plush at his hips - grabbable, Ilya thinks.
The comments, again, are overwhelmingly positive. Save for one.
user079305720239: faaaaaaat
Posted just an hour ago by a faceless, nameless account. Someone miserable, trapped in their own body, seeking to make someone so kind and warm feel just as worthless as them. Ilya reports the account, then types a response despite his better judgement.
user079305720239: faaaaaaat
→ilyushar0z: show face then
→ilyushar0z: scared ass bitch
He scoffs and navigates back to the photo, shaking his head as he examines it. Shane looks strong, arms thick with muscle and eyes sparkling, lips stretched into a wide smile as he holds a peace sign up.
Ilya happens to think he looks beautiful, and fuck it, he comments as much.
ilyushar0z: you are so pretty.
He swipes upwards, sees the circle enclosed around Shane’s profile picture indicating that he’s live, and pauses the vlog on the tv instead to click the circle. Shane’s face takes up his screen and he finds his heart-shaped lips tugged into a smile before he can help it. The man is sitting at a desk, chin in his palm and elbow to the desktop. Whatever light is behind him illuminates his face angelically, showcasing all constellations of freckles.
The pinned message reads: Ask me anything!
Ilya reads the plethora of comments that come across the screen just as Shane’s voice finally connects with his visage.
“It’s a really nice movie. One of my favorites, I think. I like Sci-Fi a lot more, but Jim Carrey’s performance was incredible. ‘What about the story?’ It’s just…about flawed people choosing each other and each others’ flaws over and over. Choosing to try again and again despite everything. The soundtrack is really nice.”
Ilya lets his thumbs hover over the keyboard, pale eyes dancing over the soft brown of Shane’s through the screen.
ilyushar0z: happy one year
He’s sure it gets lost in the fast-moving wall of questions and comments. A few seconds go by, Shane speaks.
“‘Happy one year’, thank you. It’s worth it to enjoy the taste of ice cream again.”
Something warm settles behind Ilya’s chest and face, cheeks tinting pink despite the fact that it’s actually biologically impossible for Russians to blush - everyone knows this.
Shane reads a few more comments aloud and responds, leaning back in his chair and sipping at a can of ginger ale.
ilyushar0z: ginger ale yuck
“Not yuck, I love ginger ale!”
A moment passes as he reads someone else’s addition to the conversation on the screen. Iya watches his eyelashes flutter prettily.
“Canada Dry should sponsor me. You’re right. I don’t think they’d want to, though. I’ve talked a little too much about how much I used to love it when I..”
He pauses, nose twitching once - like a bunny’s. Ilya sees the cogs turning in his head - sees sadness behind them. Ilya was well-versed in spotting such, having grown into something of an expert at it in the last decade or so.
“When I was underweight-” the word seems foreign on his tongue. “Sick.”
Sick sounds more natural.
Ilya reads one comment from an account with a name so absurd he has to imagine it’s one of Shane’s begrudging followers - hate-watchers. One of his enviers, maybe.
strvingprncess03: bc it make ur tummy cramps go away
strvingprncess03: remember?
strvingprncess03: ana misses u btw
Ilya furrows his eyebrows. He replies to the account’s comment, typing furiously.
ilyushar0z: girl fuck u
Shane is quiet, swiping through comments seemingly. He snorts softly at one, then schools his expression and speaks.
“Don’t bother replying to those accounts guys, that’s what they do it for.”
Ilya, still seething, obeys but only after reporting the account. The account - run by some girl only posting selfies with makeup and insane looking filters on - had some bullshit phrase in the bio about treating people with kindness.
Ironic.
⊰═════════════════⊱
His next shift, he’s sitting with his arms crossed and head tilted up, watching whatever movie they have on the screen today for the cardio enthusiasts. Maria walks over and joins him, gasping softly.
“Oh, I love this movie.”
“What movie?" he asks.
She lifts the DVD case and taps at it furiously with her perfectly manicured nail.
“Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.”
The door opens, she lowers the DVD case from where it had blocked his view of the door briefly. It’s seven am.
Shane Hollander walks through the door, carrying a duffle bag and wearing shorts that ride up even just with his walking. He’s thick with muscle, hair pressed down underneath a white backwards cap.
Ilya’s mouth goes dry.
He walks up and scans his barcode, giving a kind smile to Maria. Brown eyes - persimmon bark - linger on Ilya for a brief moment before he flashes a seemingly nervous version of the same smile and walks into the workout area. Ilya waits until he’s out of sight and ear-shot to bend at the waist and press his forehead into the cool desktop.
“Fuuuck.”
Maria giggles, Ilya shoots her a glare.
“He was yummy,” she agrees, tapping her nails on the desk. “You know, no one’s stopping you from talking to him.”
“And scare him away from the gym, right. Manager would love this.”
“He’s been coming here for like…a year dude.”
Ilya furrows his eyebrows at her, throwing his hands up. Someone walks in. They both turn to greet them simultaneously with a ‘welcome in’, then return to their conversation.
“And you did not tell me this.”
“First of all, watch your tone with me. Second, you’ve only known this dude existed for like, what, three days?”
“Three days I could have already spent married to him.”
“Big step for you, manwhore.”
“You-”
Someone walks in, they greet them.
“Welcome in!”
The person scans their barcode, then passes. Ilya drags a hand down his face, peeking out from the desk and into the workout area in search of six feet of healthy, stocky muscle and pretty freckles.
“Y’know,” Maria’s voice pulls him back. “I don’t think greeting people is such hard work. Maybe you could go…I don’t know….refill the paper towels or something?”
Ilya raises an eyebrow at her. She shoos him and fuck, he doesn't need to be told twice.
He clears his throat, walking into the workout area that is - always - crowded with people. There are lines for popular machines. There are lines at the water stations. Lines, lines, and lines. Yay, EOS.
Ilya wanders for a moment, just checking the paper towels dispensers used to wipe down machines between uses. Most are full, shockingly enough. There’s a woman with long, curled hair down to the small of her back that wears a matching pink Lululemon set who smiles at Ilya when he walks by. She’s pretty, sure, but something tells Ilya that her figure is more expensive than it is well-earned.
No judgment, just not what he’s looking for.
There, stacking a sled of weighted plates to drag across the faux grass, is what he’s looking for.
Shane’s face is pink already. He lingers by the dispenser, watches the dark-haired man stack three forty-five pound plates onto the sled. The tendons in Shane’s large hands and thick forearms flex as he grips the strap connected to the sled and secures it around his waist. He leans back, plants his heels into the ground, and takes easy steps backwards. He moves controlled - but bored.
Ilya moves out of the way when someone moves behind him for a paper towel.
Shane makes his round back to his starting point and adds another plate. Now pulling one-eighty with his elbows tucked at his sides and thick legs - tree trunks, really - working to drag the weight along the same path. Ilya watches, enraptured, and crosses his arms over his own broad chest.
Shane’s body carries weight differently. They look to be similar in height, Ilya having an inch or two at most over the other height-wise. The last time Ilya weighed himself, he’d been a strong two-eighteen - most of it lean muscle. He didn’t often watch his food intake too closely, but had enough sense to know that genetics played a part. His father was rounder, his brother on the same path despite the hole in his nose from all the coke. He’d have another two, three years of bliss before his metabolism slowed, probably.
Shane’s genetics looked to store nutrients, more stingy with them. But the muscle he’d built up underneath the functional layers of subcutaneous fat showed now - proving more functional than some of the strength on the plethora of vanity lifters in the gym. Shane not only looked strong - but he was actually strong.
The proof being in the fact that he was yet again adding a plate to the stack - now effectively dragging more weight than Ilya made up in the entirety of his body.
And something about that just really got Ilya going.
He pushed away from the wall, kept his eyes locked on where Shane’s shorts strained against his ass as he waddled with the weight, back turned in relation to where Ilya stood.
Shane makes it back to his starting position and Ilya quickly looks away, making his way to the other side of the gym to not only check the dispensers, but get his mind occupied on something other than the thick curve of the stranger’s ass.
⊰═════════════════⊱
He’s making rounds in the bathrooms - checking for towels left behind, lockers left locked - when he quite literally runs into the man again.
He rounds a corner too fast and crashes into him, the citrusy scent of his cologne - shampoo? - invading Ilya’ senses. They both shoot their hands out to brace each other, Shane’s warm hands touching his biceps. He swears he feels the man’s fingers twitch around the muscle before they both pull away.
“Sorry, I did not-”
“I’m so sorry-”
They speak simultaneously. Shane laughs softly, it’s an awkward sound - his eyes dart elsewhere and Ilya only then realizes that he’s still standing entirely too close to the man and blocking the exit at the same time.
“Sorry,” he coughs, stepping aside.
Shane gives him a soft nod and a polite smile as he passes - Ilya wants to bite his freckled cheeks.
He lingers in the threshold where they’d collided for a while, tapping his foot as he recalls the deep brown of Shane’s irises up close and considers his options.
He hurries out of the bathroom, finds Shane - looking broad-shouldered in his navy blue t-shirt and unfairly endowed from behind in his black shorts. Ilya catches up to him and taps his shoulder, feeling like a vile creep - a true freak - until Shane turns and regards him still with warmth. Not put off. In fact, if Ilya didn’t know any better, he’d say Shane almost looked pleasantly surprised. Excited?
“Hi,” he says, and Ilya has to stop his pale eyes from darting down to the man’s lips - wet from drinking water.
“You are-” he searches his vocabulary for the word. “Big.”
Wrong word.
Hurt flashes across Shane’s face, throat bobbing as he swallows thick. Ilya tracks that Shane’s hand - previously laying at his hip - comes to cover his already covered stomach subconsciously. Alarm bells ring in Ilya’s head.
“Ah, no. Strong. Big,” he makes a show of squeezing at his own bicep one, twice.
Shane’s eyes track the movement, shackles lowering slightly. His eyes still have that kicked puppy dog glossiness to them.
“My english is not so good, I’m sorry.”
Shane shakes his head, smile wobbly as he tries.
“It’s alright. Thank you.”
He turns to leave. Ilya curses himself mentally.
He has enough mental clarity to leave the man alone for now, having hurt his feelings enough for one day.
⊰═════════════════⊱
Shane comes in again the next day at the same time. Maria teases Ilya about how much nicer his cologne smells today - about how he’d combed his hair differently and seemingly slicked it back a bit and just how convenient that was. She is ignored.
It’s not as busy today. Ilya finds Shane on the hip thrust machine tucked away in a corner. He walks over, clears his throat as Shane scrolls on his phone. The other looks up at him, eyebrows twitching as he pauses his music and regards him with a patient stare.
“Is it broken? It was working fine.”
Ilya shakes his head, clasps his hands behind his back. The action makes his chest jut out a bit, thick pecs straining against the fabric. It’s a small victory when Shane's eyes dart to the movement and back up, blush overtaking his freckles that he’s sure he could blame on exertion.
“I am sorry, for yesterday.”
Shane’s face does this odd thing - it’s like multiple emotions flash over it at once. He settles on something neutral, but vaguely surprised.
“It’s okay, really.”
“I did not think…I was…hm,” he huffs. “I follow you, on Instagram. And Youtube. I like your videos.”
Recognition flashes over the man’s handsome features now. He laughs softly, scratches at his jaw awkwardly.
“You don’t have to feel bad, really. It’s not your responsibility to-”
“You are very pretty.”
Two girls working out on a machine a few feet away look over, interest piqued. Shane keeps his eyes on Ilya’s, the tips of his ears matching the crimson overtaking his face. He clears his throat, worrying the bottom hem of his shirt to have something to fiddle with.
“Oh. Thanks.”
Ilya nods once, ready to walk away with his tail tucked between his legs. Shane stops him with a quick, nearly panicked ‘um’.
“You’re…” the blond watches pearly white teeth peek out to drag over his plump bottom lip. “I’m Shane.”
He scrambles to stand then - seemingly only just then considering his manners and how he’d been forgetting them in talking to Ilya while sitting. They shake hands.
“Ilya.”
Ilya lets his lips quirk into a smile, settling into something more comfortable now that the attraction was seemingly returned. Now he wanted to tease and tug and push and shove.
“What is your best?”
He motions to the machine.
“Three-ninety. For now.”
Ilya scoffs and crosses his arms.
“What, you think you can do more?” Shane asks, mirroring Ilya in crossing his arms.
His biceps press against his chest, nipples hard underneath the fabric and taunting Ilya - begging to be sucked on.
Ilya wordlessly climbs into the contraption after adding a plate on both sides - increasing the weight by ninety. He secures the belt strap around his waist and braces his hands on the handle beside him.
He hasn’t stretched. He’s too gone in Shane Hollander’s eyes and thigh thighs to pause.
Luck seems to be on his side as he manages four easy reps of the weight without tearing anything - eyes not leaving Shane’s once.
He rests, looks up at the other man who stands unimpressed. The blond motions to his waist, then lets his eyes rake down the length of Shane’s body.
He takes this time to unabashedly take in the figure before him, standing over him imposingly. He’s by no means overweight - miles from it in fact. There’s a healthy ring of plush around his middle, Ilya imagines how smooth it would feel in his grip while he fucked into the man from behind. Shane is narrow enough in the shoulders that the weight gain doesn't make him look any shorter or too wide, but rather proportionate to the rest of his build. Ilya pictures what he must look like under all those layers - what he must sound like getting dicked down.
“Is that how much you think I weigh?” Shane asks, adds up the plates in his head. “Four-eighty?”
Ilya sputters, quickly stands. Shane regards him with a small smirk, eyes darting down to the ground to avoid smiling right in the man’s face.
“Oh, funny boy.”
“Hilarious,” Shane counters as he slides into the empty spot and secures the strap.
He completes five reps of the same weight Ilya had tried to out-do him with. Ilya gets so aroused he feels like he might pass out.
⊰═════════════════⊱
Ilya tests his luck in asking Shane out on a date after they finish their weight-lifting pissing contest and it seems, momentarily, that it has run out. The rejection stings only for a moment because the other had made a good point in saying that he’d rather go home, shower, change, and spend his night doing what he’d already had planned.
Instead, they plan for all-you-can-eat sushi on Saturday afternoon, followed by a movie afterwards.
And maybe Ilya is presumptuous in his offer of the movie being at his place, because Shane had gone red in the face at the implication. The blond was about to correct himself when, instead, Shane offered to host.
He wouldn’t look a gift horse in the ass, or whatever the phrase was.
In the days leading up to their planned date, Ilya only fell deeper and deeper down the rabbit hole that was Shane Hollander’s online presence. The man had followed him back on Instagram, giving them a means of communication. He’d spent a good chunk of his day after his shift on Friday going through every photo. The vlogs, naturally, were in abundance. He’d watched a couple, the ones titled with his favorite fast food restaurants. In them, Shane lets his personality shine much more than he does on Instagram.
He loves the Star Wars movies - namely, the prequels and namely, because of a certain blue-eyed, dirty blond tragic hero. In one vlog, he speaks about how Anakin Skywalker had awoken something in him at a young age in between bites of something artisan chicken sandwich from Panera. He even has a cat he shows in a few clips named Anakin with a tan and brown coat.
His music taste is an even blend of his father’s - white guy hits from the eighties - and his mother’s - The Smashing Pumpkins, and the likes. His own sprinkling in the blend is a toss up of The 1975, Arctic Monkeys, and Phoebe Bridgers. It’s unexpected, coming from someone that looks like he could flip a car if he tried really hard. Ilya is incredibly endeared by the picture Shane Hollander is painting himself to be.
Saturday rolls around. Ilya spritz his best cologne on in moderation, dresses in a white Adidas shirt and black joggers, and makes his way to meet Shane at the place.
Standing in the lobby, waiting with his choppy bangs parted and styled in a way that showcases his forehead a bit more than he’d probably typically used to, is Shane. He’s wearing a black t-shirt and navy blue slacks, probably from H&M. His face is neutral save for the way his eyes - naturally glossy, seemingly - dart around in some attempt to settle anywhere and calm. Wide, doe-like, Ilya notes.
A fond smile graces his heart-shaped lips as he approaches Shane and greets him.
“You look pretty,” he repeats lamely for the third time to this man.
A better compliment that sits at the tip of Ilya’s tongue is how he looks godly, like Aphrodite. Venus as a boy, even.
Shane blushes all the way to the tips of his ears at the compliment, eyes dropping to the column of Ilya’s throat.
“I’m not good with eye contact,” he’d said in Vlog #18: Subway.
They sit across from each other at the table. By the end of their ninety minutes, the two of them amass a total of sixteen orders of salmon nigiri (Shane’s favorite), four orders of yellowtail, three dragon rolls, two rainbow rolls, one orgasm roll (Ilya’s favorite, purely based on the name), and two tiny little cups of mochi ice cream.
Green tea for Shane, chocolate for Ilya.
They drive separately back to Shane’s apartment. It’s on a higher level of a nice, sleek building. He’d seen only the inside of it and only the dining room/kitchen at that - in Shane’s vlogs.
“What is that? This, that they post on your videos?”
They’re walking down the hall to Shane’s front door, one comment on a recently edited mukbang on his account having caught Ilya’s attention. He shows it to Shane as the man unlocks his door and allows Ilya to step through it first.
“Yeah. Some people do videos like mine for money. People uh…like it.”
“Fetish content,” Ilya states, turning to look at Shane.
“Yeah.”
“As in-”
“As in they get off to videos of people eating, yes. Usually the messier ones, or mostly the women.”
Ilya makes a face - not necessarily of disgust, oddly enough, but more so of vague understanding. He’s seen worse online; getting off to someone eating isn’t close to the horrors he’d been subjected to at a young age and with his unsupervised internet access.
“I don’t do that,” Shane adds, and Ilya sees the way his face is a little flushed, eyes searching Ilya’s face for some sign of distaste.
Something behind Ilya’s chest softens, warms.
“But you could, you are pretty enough.”
Shane scoffs, looks away as he toes off his shoes and lines the heels of them up against the wall. When he turns back around, Ilya is a step closer - it’s more pleasant than it is suffocating.
“Really.”
“Nobody wants to get off to me - fucking - stuffing my face,” Shane grumbles, trying to sound less affected by Ilya’s presence than he is.
Ilya hums, it’s a non-committal noise.
“You don’t know this.”
Shane clears his throat and looks anywhere but at Ilya, who takes the hint and lays off of the proximity. He backs up, offering Shane something between a smile and a smirk.
“I use your bathroom, please?”
“Down the hall, first door on the right.”
Ilya nods once, then turns to follow the direction.
“Um-” Shane calls out, Ilya pauses and glances back. “When you’re done, you can start the movie. I’m gonna change, really quick.”
Ilya nods and disappears down the hall. When he’s done, he sits down on the nice, cream colored modern couch and turns the tv on. Shane certainly makes money off of his videos - thousands of followers and views bringing in sponsors left and right. He’s a proper influencer - gymfluencer? Svetlana taught him that word.
He’s twenty minutes into scouring Netflix for something to watch when Shane finally emerges from where his bedroom had to have been down the hall. He’s wearing blue lounge shorts and a white sweatshirt, face pink like he’d just splashed some water over it and dried off quickly. He sits down, a cushion of space between them, and tucks one leg under him where he snuggles into the couch. In his element, in his own space here, Shane looks comfy - radiant.
A cat - Anakin, Ilya recognizes from the vlogs - trots over from the same direction, likely having been hiding out due to the stranger in the space. He jumps up onto Shane’s lap and butts his head into the freckled man’s chest before sliding over the expanse so hard it pulls face back from his delicate skull. Shane pets him gently, pats at his butt.
“You are telling me this is the Sith Lord ruling our galaxy?”
Shane chuckles, stealing fond glances over at Ilya.
“Not ours. It takes place in a galaxy far, far away, remember?”
“No, I have only seen one of the movies, so I do not remember. I do remember Natalie Portman.”
Shane laughs then, nodding. Anakin eyes Ilya, sniffing in his general direction for a moment before slinking over and rubbing his loose hair all over Ilya’s shirt. Ilya pets him with a cautious hand, yanking it back when the cat tries to nip at his wrist.
“He won’t bite hard, he just gets overwhelmed.”
“Shane, you are in abusive relationship with your cat.”
“All cat owners are.”
They put on one of the original trilogy movies. Ilya notes just how fashionable the blond twink with the bowl cut happens to be. Anakin curls up against Ilya’s side, licking himself relentlessly.
They’re about twenty minutes into the movie when Shane finally speaks up after Ilya has watched him twiddle his thumbs in his periphery - something obviously plaguing the other’s mind.
“I’ve never…” Ilya turns to look at him, head tilted back against the couch and eyes following the curve of Shane's lips. “Why did you ask me out?”
The blond tosses a hand up, it startles Anakin enough that he stretches and moves off of the couch to go wander.
“Because I think you are pretty.”
“Okay.”
He doesn’t sound convinced. Ilya has no problem with doing some convincing. He scoots closer to Shane, arm slung over the back of the couch and fingers brushing past the nape of the man’s neck in his readjustment. His knees are spread, one of them knocking gently against Shane’s. The action garners a slightly nervous, slightly desperate reaction from the other.
“Your freckles,” he licks his lips, Shane’s eyes track the dart of his pink tongue over them. “I am mad about them. Pretty lips. Pretty eyes, brown like Гренки.”
Shane’s eyebrows furrow the slightest bit.
“French toast for you. And you are Canadian, maple syrup.”
Shane scoffs a laugh, picking at a loose thread on his sock and focusing his gaze on it.
“Are you trying to pick me up with food analogies?”
“Maybe.”
“Because I’m-”
Ilya shushes him, predicting exactly what word was coming next and silencing the self-depreciation with a kiss. Shane is stunned at first, body rigid and lips stiff while Ilya moves their mouths together slow, gentle. He slides his arm around Shane’s shoulder, hooking his hand underneath the soft slope of Shane’s chin and holding him firm. He caresses his thumb across the soft spot beneath the other’s earlobe, listens to the soft sounds that the touch elicits.
Shane’s eyes flutter shut finally, a shaky exhale through his nostrils tickling over Ilya’s face. He’s unsure of what to do with his hands, fingers twitching in his lap. It isn’t all that twitches in his lap.
Ilya pulls them apart with a muted smack of their lips, palm warm where it presses against the column of Shane’s neck. They sit and huff in each other’s soft breathing for a moment, pale blue eyes low-lidded while Ilya casually surveys Shane’s face - marked with bliss despite the tension in his shoulders. Ilya leans in again, presses their mouths together more firm this time. He tests his luck, traces the plush line of Shane's lips where they’re pressed in a line with the tip of his tongue. They part for him and he swallows down a smile that would break the kiss as he dives in.
Shane tastes unnaturally fresh, like he'd gone and spent time to brush his teeth in the bathroom when he’d said he was changing. Ilya licks over the tip of his tongue, humming into the wet cavern of his mouth. He threads his hand - fingers long, thick - into the man’s dark hair and scratches gently at his scalp. The gesture seems to comfort Shane enough to get his shoulders to relax and drop from his ears. He notes the minty fresh taste lingering on his tongue from Shane’s mouth when they part again, a thin string of spit connecting their mouths.
Shane dives back in this time; Ilya is overjoyed.
The couch cushions are soft when Ilya is knocked back to lay against them, Shane’s hands at his chest - kneading, grabbing greedy - pinning him to the spot. His cock is hard in his joggers in record time, the warm press of Shane’s weight on them as the freckled boy moves to straddle Ilya’s waist. Automatically, like heat-seeking missiles zeroing in, the blond’s hands find Shane's waist and grip the plush.
Shane sits up, face flushed and pink while he pants. Ilya sneaks his hands up the front of Shane’s sweatshirt only to have his wrists caught in a tight grip. His fingertips twitch against the warm, soft flesh sitting just above the tanned man’s waistband. The quivering muscle behind the bulk taunts him.
“Let me,” he breathes out, his voice sounds more desperate than he intends. “Please. Let me touch you. Anywhere, everywhere.”
Shane’s throat ripples as he swallows, glassy eyes dancing over the handsome features on Ilya’s face. Still unsure, his grip tightens just a fraction.
“You are so fucking pretty, beautiful. I want to fuck you so bad, want to kiss you,” he bucks his hips up carefully, the strength behind them moving Shane upwards when he’d probably expected there to be resistance. “Want to make you cum for me. Over and over.”
Shane trembles, takes a second, then releases his hold on Ilya's wrists. The blond shoves his hands up under the fabric and takes advantage of the permission, hands roaming over the soft expanse of warm skin. His right hand comes to cup one of Shane’s pecs, kneading the husky plush and rubbing a dry thumb over the nipple. His other hand is greedy, blunt nails digging into the waistband at the back of Shane’s body. He’s cautious, waiting for any rejection as he slides his palm over the curve of Shane’s ass and squeezes.
Shane moans into the air, eyebrows still twitching - debating with himself on just how far he wants to go.
“Can I?” Ilya breathes out, tugging at the bottom hem of Shane’s sweatshirt.
A nod, then he’s tugging it over the man’s head and cursing quietly to himself at the sight. Shane is all tanned skin, brown nipples, and spongey buff. Ilya sits up enough to attack one of his pecs with his mouth, licking over the hardening nub and flopping back onto the couch, tugging Shane with him. Shane balances on his elbows where they cage Ilya’s curls, lips pressed into the soft mess of them.
“Ilya,” Shane breathes out, thighs twitching.
Ilya yanks his hand out of Shane’s shorts and lets both hands find the boy’s hips, rolling his own up to grind his hard cock against Shane’s clothed ass.
“Feel that?” he whispers wetly against Shane’s chest, face stuffed between soft mounds of muscle. “For you. All for you.”
Shane shudders, rolling his hips down in a circle experimentally.
“For me,” he whispers, sounding astonished and reverent in this discovery.
Ilya cranes his neck up at kisses at Shane’s chin, large hands coming to grasp at the other’s ass - pawing, grabbing.
“On your back,” he huffs out, moving off of the couch to give Shane the room to situate himself.
Ilya is pulling his shirt off when Shane speaks, arms crossed over himself.
“I..I haven’t…I’ve never…”
“Been with a man?” Ilya finishes for him, palming at his hard dick through his clothes.
Shane nods, swallowing.
“You want to?”
A pause, then another tentative nod.
“Where is your lube?”
“Bedroom.”
Ilya disappears down the hallway and retrieves the lube from Shane’s bedside drawer, closing the door to trap the cat in there when he sees him curled up on the bed. He comes back to see Shane staring at the ceiling, lost in thought and worrying his bottom lip.
He settles on the cushions by Shane’s ankles, hand sliding a slow path up the side of his strong leg and dipping underneath the waistband of his shorts. He kisses up Shane’s calf, making a soft moan each time his lips pressed against a new spot of sinew. The man trembles at the attention, helping Ilya rid him of his clothes until he’s laying there in just his pristine white socks.
“I will be good to you,” he promises, dragging his soft lips over the sensitive, thin layer of skin along Shane’s inner thighs.
There’s stripes here that match the ones on his hips, a couple shades lighter than the rest of his skin. A testament to his dedication and hard-work. Ilya licks over them, the thinner density of them warm under the tip of his tongue. Shane gasps, hands coming to grip at Ilya’s hair and follow along with his ministrations.
“Make you cum all you want,” he mumbles, drunk off of the briney taste of Shane’s skin. “Fuck you until my dick falls off. You’re so sexy, fuck.”
“Please.”
Ilya shudders, clumsy as he uncaps the lube and coats two fingers in it. It drips down onto the couch, Shane is too far gone to notice. One finger presses against the fluttering ring of muscle and the gasp Shane lets out just at the bit of contact makes it hard to resist sinking the digit in slowly. He should have more pause, their large meal earlier in the day proving to be an issue maybe. Except from where he lays between Shane’s legs, intimate with his groin like this, the other smells fresh and clean.
He thinks back to the twenty minutes it took for Shane to change. He’d come out with minty breath. What else had he cleaned in preparation?
“You get yourself ready for this, for me?” he asks, pumping his finger in and out slowly. “You wanted me to fuck you, hm? Wanted me to touch you like this.”
Shane huffs a moan, tossing his head to the side to avoid eye contact.
“So ready for me. So needy,” he kisses Shane’s thigh, drags his lips up by his cock and presses ghost-like kisses around it.
He licks the flat plane of his tongue up the length, hooking the leaking head of Shane’s cock in his cheek to swallow it down hands-free. Shane’s back arches, tummy quivering beautifully right in front of Ilya’s eyes. The man hums around the length in his mouth, taking him down halfway first, then gagging around the full length on the second glide downwards. He presses a second finger into Shane, groaning at the clench around his digits.
“Ilya, fuck,” Shane annunciates the ‘k’ especially hard, thighs clamping together and drowning out sound as he muffles Ilya’s ears.
Ilya just sucks him like that, with hallowed cheeks while he swallows around the head of his cock. He doesn’t mind the leash keeping him there, the heavy weight of Shane’s dick down his throat making him rut his hips down into the couch. The taste blossoms throughout his mouth, Shane is leaking so much precum that it slides down his throat and Ilya wears for a second that the other has blown his load.
He pulls his head back, Shane’s legs loosen slightly to let him.
“You’re so wet,” he slurs, a bit of the drooly-precum spitting up over his lips like a gloss.
“Sorry.”
Ilya crooks his fingers, Shane sputters and squeezes his eyes shut.
“Sorry for what?” he chuckles, pressing wet kisses along Shane’s inner thighs - along his stretchmarks.
He fucks his fingers a little faster, watches the man beneath him tense up at the sudden stimulation. Ilya tilts his wrist, presses up - Shane cries out louder than any sounds he’s made so far.
“There? Hm?” he presses into the spot and revels in the way it makes Shane’s body tense up again on command. “Need more there? Give you whatever you want, fuck.”
He assaults his prostate, milks it, watches Shane grips at the backs of his own knees and haul them towards his chest to expose himself more.
“God please, please f-fuck me, fuck me, Ilya, Ilya,” he begs, uninhibited, lost in this.
Ilya wants to see him cum all over himself, wants to lick up the cum and feed it back to him in a filthy kiss. But he said he’s give Shane whatever he wants, and what Shane clearly wants is-
“Need your dick, fuck, please. Need you, need you, fuck me.”
He pulls his fingers free, resists the urge to lick them clean as he yanks his joggers down just enough to free his cock, and shuffles up closer to Shane on the couch cushions. He pulls a condom from his pocket and slides it over his cock, then presses the head of his dick against Shane’s ass, rubbing along the slick valley while heat pulses against him. The head of it catches on Shane’s rim, his free hand comes to cover one of Shane’s own, keeping the man bent in half like this.
Ilya guides his cock into him slowly, eyebrows doing a dance while he watches Shane swallow him up. It’s tight and warm - searing-hot, in fact. He sinks into Shane with just a bit of resistance, hand tightening on the other’s when he hears a pained sound come from him. Pale blue irises nearly blown completely black in his haze flicker up to Shane’s face, finding the freckles he’d grown so fond of lost behind a deep crimson blush. Shane watches Ilya’s hips near him, watches the space between them close.
“Good?” he asks.
Shane’s eyes snap up to his and he nods. He’s propped up against a pillow, soft chin doubled behind a sharp jaw. It’s candid, endearing to Ilya. He doesn’t mention it, instead focusing on the expressions Shane’s pretty face makes while Ilya slides into him. Their hips are seated together finally and Ilya rolls forward just enough to watch Shane’s eyes threaten to roll back, head tipping back against the pillow.
“Pretty,” he breathes, pulling out halfway and gliding back in. “So fucking pretty.”
Shane grumbles something, nails digging into his own flesh as Ilya sets a slow pace.
“My pretty boy.”
“Oh God,” Shane groans, high and needy.
“You like this? You like being my pretty boy?”
He stutters at first, then nods, still not meeting Ilya’s eyes. Ilya leans down to cover Shane’s body with his own, their nipples brushing, slick chests pressed together. He cups the side of the other man’s face with his hand, warm palm pressed to damp skin. Shane preens under the touch, leans into it and presses a barely-there kiss to Ilya’s wrist.
Ilya snaps his hips forward and Shane buries the sound it yanks from him into Ilya’s palm.
“No, no,” Ilya coos, moving his hand to cup the nape of Shane’s neck instead. “Want to hear you. Let me hear.”
He fucks into Shane again, their damp skin slapping together. The movie plays on in the background.
“Ilya,” he breathes out, sounding like he was getting the air punched out of him.
“Shane,” he parrots.
Ilya sets his pace then, pulling out halfway and driving back into him deep and quick. Shane’s thighs cage him, plush muscle framing his toned hips - hipbones pressing into bulk.
“You like?” he asks, breathless, after a moment of getting quiet, yet breathy sounds from Shane.
Shane nods.
“Let me hear. Want to hear, please,” he buries his face into Shane’s neck, kisses over the soft expanse.
Shane whimpers once when Ilya bites down at the junction where his shoulder meets his neck, then it’s like a dam breaks. Breathy sounds turn into wanton moans that bounce off of the walls of his condo. He slings an arm around Ilya’s shoulders, holds him close while he tries to muffle some of his obscene noises against the damp curls plastered to Ilya’s neck. He’s cursing like a sailor.
“Fuck, oh, fuck. Ilya, mm-hmm-mm, fucking - ah!”
Ilya nods and speeds his hips like a man possessed, digging his fingers into Shane’s hips so hard he wonders if they’ll leave pretty mottled purple bruises for him to reminisce over.
“Like that, like that,” he pants into Shane’s neck, sucking a dark mark into where he’d bit into sinew. “Cum for me. Cum on my cock, Shane, do it. Cum, baby, cum.”
Shane obeys, legs locking Ilya in place and body tensing up. He clenches down so hard on Ilya’s dick that all it takes is another fruitless pump of his hips and they’re cumming together.
“Cum-cumming, fuck, cumming f-for you!” Shane arches his back and cries out, ropes of thick, milky white painting their chests.
And fuck, he cums a lot.
Ilya is shaking, thighs trembling from overuse, while he fills the condom and presses kisses over Shane’s neck and shoulder. By the time he’s pulling back to look at the mess below him, Shane’s cock is still flushed red and still dribbling out thick, viscous cum.
In his many escapades, Ilya has come to realize that on average, women have longer, drawn-out orgasms. They’re still shaking and moaning and leaking all over him by the time he’s ready to pull out. Men, the few that he’s been with, spurt and moan a few times before they fall limp beneath him. Shane’s orgasm is still fucking going by the time Ilya finally pulls out. He lingers with just his tip still stuffed in Shane, feeling the aftershocks of the freckled boy’s insides milking him for all he’s worth while he watches an unnatural amount of cum pool sticky over Shane’s stomach.
Shane must notice him staring, slack-jawed and amazed at the sight, because he covers his flushed face with his elbows.
“S-sorry, it’s-” he pants heavily, chest rising and falling. “It’s from the calorie increase and the supp-plements.”
Ilya, tip still seated neatly inside Shane where it belongs, leans down and licks up the copious amount of cum. He manages to get most of it cupped over his tongue by the time Shane makes a whining sound, then he shimmies upwards and gently peels the man’s arms away from his face. There’s a drop of cum at the corner of his mouth, Shane can see the gears turning in Ilya's head.
Shane leans up, tentative, and kisses Ilya deeply. His own cum floods his mouth when Ilya slides his tongue past the man’s lips, letting Shane suck at the tip of it as it intrudes his mouth. Hands grab at each other - kneading sweaty pecs and cupping flushed faces. They share the cum between them, kissing it back and forth until some of it glides down each of their throats respectively. Ilya pulls away from the sloppy kiss with a smack, both their lips wet with each other.
“My pretty boy is such a good kisser,” he whispers, grinning down at the blushing, fucked-out man beneath him. “Tastes good, healthy.”
Shane scoffs and shoves at his chest playfully. There’s a pause, then a loud, keening meow from the bedroom. They both break out into a mess of giggles, Ilya pulling out of Shane to dispose of his condom.
They shower together. Ilya stays the night.