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Ilya is perched on the edge of his couch, fingers tightly curled around a glass of rum he’s yet to drink from. He’s not sure he wants to drink it anymore, if he’s being honest.
A recap of tonight’s game, Boston v. Montréal, drones on in the background, volume low. The announcer, Patrickson, calls the action on the ice thrilling, and Ilya is inclined to agree. It was a good game. Rough, gritty, unpredictable—just like he prefers. Could have been anyone’s game, but the Bears cinched the win, 4-3.
He should be ecstatic, beaming with pride. But he isn’t. He’s too busy thinking about Hollander, and it’s not the usual stuff. Like his shiny hair, or those little noises that escape that pretty little mouth when Ilya is between his legs, or how his freckles look exceptionally pretty when his face is all red and sweaty under him.
No, it’s because, for the first time ever, Shane Hollander is late—30 minutes late, to be exact.
Ilya is, first and foremost, a logical person. He thinks back to the game. Hollander, while still a formidable beast on the ice, did seem a little quieter than usual. Distracted, maybe. He barely reacted to Ilya’s bait during their face-off. Refused to meet his eye. Not even a scoff or an irritated scrunch of the nose.
He could just be having an off day, Ilya muses—everyone has one of those; he has to imagine even perfect Hollander does, too.
There's a first time for everything, right? So it’s not that big of a deal. Hollander could easily be stuck in traffic. This is a major city after all. Sometimes, leaving the arena can be a logistical headache. He could be in a post-game meeting, scolded by his coach; everyone and their mother knows that Theriault is a hardass. Maybe he got held up at his hotel—that’s always a real possibility; cornered by one of his boring teammates, spinning tales of their uninteresting lives as they unknowingly hold him hostage. Hollander is way too nice to tell them to fuck off.
Fine, perhaps Ilya is a little worried. The radio silence gives the dread some weight, some validity. His leg won’t stop bouncing. Anxiety, he thinks. Such a strange sensation—large and monopolizing, a hostile intruder that clouds his head and hijacks his body. He can feel it expanding as the time ticks forward, each minute excruciatingly slower than the last.
Ilya grabs his phone, checks to see if he missed a text—he didn’t—and his fingers itch to send one first, or maybe even call, but he can’t bring himself to actually do so. It would reek of desperation, like he has nothing better to do than to twiddle his fingers and wait patiently like a loyal dog for Hollander to knock on his door.
He tosses his phone away, taking a sip of his drink. It tastes like nothing.
Isn’t it common courtesy to let someone know if you’ll be late? Isn’t being polite the one trait these boring Canadians are known for? Hollander is the poster boy for all that crap Ilya couldn’t care less about, good manners and respectability.
It’s so gracious of his mind to grant him about five more minutes of sweet reprieve before it veers into that dangerous corner where all his dark thoughts form a shape. On autopilot, before he even realizes it, his phone is back in his grasp, typing Shane Hollander news into Google.
It’s so stupid. Obviously, even if something happened to Hollander, he doubts the public would be privy so quickly. However, that fact is not enough to stop him from scrolling through the search results. There is, of course, no useful information—just some stats, meaningless articles about tonight’s game, a few gossip columns. He’s in full panic mode by the time his phone vibrates in his hands, startling him. The text pops up at the top, and his stomach clenches.
Jane: I’m here.
Hastily, he drops his phone and sets his glass down on the table, hard enough to cause the liquid to slosh over the rim. He doesn’t care to clean it up, already sprinting towards the door. He runs his fingers through his hair, straightens his posture, and takes a deep, steadying breath.
When he swings it open, there stands Hollander, alive and well. Ilya rakes his eyes up and down his frame, and immediately frowns. Maybe well isn’t the correct word to use.
Ilya wouldn’t call himself the Hollander expert or anything, but over the years and through all their hook-ups, he’d like to think he knows him better than most people do. So Ilya’s a little stunned when Hollander’s expression is truly unreadable, his face practically a stone slab. His upper body drowns in a large black hoodie, at least three times his size, and his hair is wet, even though Hollander despises that. It’s all over the place, too, like he’s been frantically pulling at the strands.
Hollander doesn’t spare him a glance when he says, “Hi,” curtly, rushing past Ilya before a word can be uttered in response.
Confused, Ilya shuts the door and hurries to catch up, only to find Hollander pacing in the living room, hands clenched into fists at his sides. The aura that he exudes is intense, more than usual—which is saying a lot considering his default setting is always dialed to high-strung.
It’s a stressful sight, the atmosphere is stiff and jagged, like the wrong move could be detrimental to them both, and if he wasn’t worried before, he definitely is now. Ilya has no clue how to approach this, but he gives it a try anyway.
He takes a small, mindful step forward, like he’s drawing close to a wild animal. “So, um, is everything okay?” he asks warily, eyes trailing his movements, back and forth.
Hollander freezes in his tracks, rears back, like he’s been struck. “What? Yeah, of course,” he hisses. “Why are you asking me that?”
With Herculean strength, Ilya resists the urge to gesture at Hollander from head to toe as an answer. He swallows. “Well, you are late,” Ilya says dumbly.
That only seems to cause his hackles to rise even further, his eyebrows furrowing. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Well, who cares? I’m here now, aren’t I?”
Exasperated, Ilya expels a quick puff of air, hands firm on his hips. “Yes. You are,” he says again.
Oddly enough, it’s a bit of a standoff now, the two of them glaring at each other from across the room. Hollander’s mouth is scrunched up into a tight scowl, cheeks flushed from fury, and all Ilya really wants to do is cross their gap in wide strides and grab him by the shoulders, kiss him into compliance; over and over and over again until whatever caused his terrible mood is nothing but a distant memory.
Sadly, he does no such thing. Instead, he extends an olive branch, and asks, “You want drink or something?”
Hollander blinks at him like he’s grown a second head. Ilya’s pretty sure he said that in English, right?
“A drink?”
“Da, Hollander. A drink. You have heard of these before?” The sarcasm earns him a look he’s been on the receiving end of many times over the years, unimpressed and slightly annoyed. Confessedly, Ilya loves this look. He likes to believe it belongs to him. “They are very popular. I have them all. Water. Ginger-ale. Alcohol. Juice. Milk,” he says.
For whatever reason, Hollander flinches, his nostrils flaring. Ilya narrows his eyes. What the hell could he have possibly said that was so offensive?
He watches intently as Hollander’s lips part, as he sucks in a deep breath. It’s confusing, the internal battle he seems to embark on over such a simple question. Ilya is intrigued, his curiosity increasing tenfold in the last minute. He wants to push; he’s very good at it, poking and prodding Hollander until he spills his guts. But, for now, Ilya allows him the grace to ride out the motion.
“I,” Hollander starts, his voice thin, then pauses, dragging his palms along his face. “Fuck. Water, I guess. Please. If it’s not too much trouble.”
Ilya shakes his head. “No trouble at all.”
When he returns, Hollander is seated on the couch, awkwardly perched on the edge of the coach cushion, his discomfort palpable, a third presence in the room.
“Here, best water in Boston,” Ilya jokes, passing the water over.
Hollander says, “Thanks,” before he chugs it down in one long swig, and for the life of him, Ilya can’t take his eyes off the line of his throat as it works.
He gently places the empty glass down, fingers wiping his lips, and Ilya asks, “Better?”
Hollander jerks his head, a weird attempt of a nod, and Ilya huffs; Hollander truly is a terrible liar, even non-verbally.
“I’m sorry,” Hollander says, frowning. “I didn’t mean to be so…” He stares up at Ilya, his eyes so brown, so earnest.
Fuck. Like it’s on a hopeless cue, Ilya’s stomach does that weird fluttering thing it always does whenever Hollander looks at him like that. This look, he doesn’t like so much, mainly because it takes everything in him not to jump his bones right there.
Feigning composure, Ilya waves him off, walking over to sit on the opposite side of the couch. “Is okay, Hollander. I can handle your bad mood.”
The frown morphs into a sort of pout, the corners of his mouth curved downwards, bottom lip jutted out. “You don’t have to sit so far away. It’s not like I’m gonna bite you.”
An amused chuckle slips out of Ilya as he scoots closer, only a single cushion separating them now. His self-control has some limits, though, so he can’t help but purr, “Not even if I ask?”
“You’re annoying.” Hollander rolls his eyes, but his shoulders relax an inch from where they were hiked up against his ears. Ilya will take that as a small win.
A brief moment of stilted silence later, Hollander sighs. “I don’t know why I’m here,” he says, fidgeting with the drawstrings of his hoodie.
“What do you mean? We make plans.”
“I mean I should have cancelled,” Hollander clarifies.
Ilya hums. He won’t pretend that it doesn't disappoint him to hear that, a sour twinge of the heart, but if that was something he needed, Ilya would have understood, no questions asked. “Hm. So why did you not?”
“I, uh. I don’t actually know.”
“I cannot help if I don’t know what is going on,” Ilya says.
Hollander gnaws on the inside of his cheek, considering. Then he says, “Fuck. Okay, I…have this problem,” his voice barely audible. A few seconds drag on, like pulling teeth, and when it’s clear that’s all Hollander is willing to divulge, Ilya presses, “What problem?”
Hollander shifts uncomfortably, rolling his neck. “Fuck, this is so embarrassing. I—I don’t even know how to begin to explain it.”
“You are in trouble?”
“What?”
“Owe money to somebody scary?”
“No.”
“Illegal sports betting?”
“Who, exactly, do you think I am?”
“You get a girl pregnant?”
Hollander makes a sputtering sound, eyes wide. “Rozanov.”
“Okay, sorry. Ah, maybe you are pregnant?”
“God, enough,” Hollander huffs, cheeks pink. “Just fucking—stop trying to guess.”
Ilya, usually a patient man, can’t take much more of this. He’s beyond curious now, the surface of his skin thrumming with anticipation; there’s an undercurrent of fear present, too, with how squirrelly Hollander has been behaving. He doesn’t know what to expect, his mind spinning with endless speculation.
“I only guess because you’re not telling me anything. Just tell me,” Ilya whines. “Is killing me.”
Hiding behind his hands now, Hollander groans into the skin of his palms, long and guttural. Ilya wants to reach out, comfort him, smooth out all the frayed edges of his nerves with his touch.
He’s debating doing as much when Hollander throws his arms down with conviction, abruptly standing up. Ilya jolts up, too, almost tripping into the coffee table.
Seemingly to himself, Hollander whispers, “Fuck. Fuck, okay, you can do this,” before slowly removing his sweater.
Ilya’s mouth twitches, the beginnings of a smile, when Hollander takes a second to, even in this frazzled state, neatly fold it. After all these years, he still finds it as endearing as the first time. He’s not quite sure what that says about him.
Under the hoodie, he’s wearing another comically large article of clothing, a black t-shirt that, adorably, swallows up his figure.
“What are you doing?” Ilya asks, straightening his posture.
Hollander’s fingers dance along the hem of his shirt, cautious. “I think it’d be better if I just showed you.”
Mouth dry as a desert, his heart rate spiking up, Ilya replies, “Okay.”
“But…before I do, I need you to promise not to be an asshole about this,” Hollander says.
On the precipice of whatever this is, he’d agree to just about anything. Ilya nods solemnly. “Yes, Hollander. I promise,” he says, one hand splayed across his chest, the other up in the air, like he’s taking a sacred oath.
Hollander stares at him; Ilya would describe the aimed look as deathly serious.
Ilya scoffs. “When have I ever broken a promise?”
He doesn’t answer Ilya’s question. Instead, his gaze remains, bores into him like he’s trying to crack open his skull and meticulously sift through his thoughts.
Which, for the record, Ilya would hate if that were possible.
At this current point in time, there isn’t much going on up there besides an incessant stream of Hollander Hollander Hollander. It’s not a new occurrence, either. Admittedly, Ilya finds it difficult to tune out on a regular day. It’s much, much worse when he’s lucky enough to have the man in his orbit.
Hollander still hasn’t uttered a word. The moment stretches between them, stock-still and torturous, pumping the air with a sudden frenetic energy—electric, like a lightning bolt dares to strike him where he stands. Ilya’s heart thumps and thumps in its bone cage, and Hollander is a statue. So, he really isn’t expecting it when Hollander turns around, removes his shirt in one swift motion, folds it and places it on the couch.
Ilya observes him take a deep inhale; the taut line of his shoulders, the rigidity of his back muscles remain, even as he exhales. “This is so stupid,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m nervous.”
“No need for that,” Ilya tells him, carefully stepping closer, like he’s traversing a minefield. “Is just me.”
It catches him off guard when Hollander laughs, a sweet sound that bounces off the walls. Ilya likes his laugh, hard not to. But he likes it even better when he’s the reason behind it.
“Yeah. Just you,” he echoes in a tone Ilya can’t quite decipher. Especially not under these circumstances—so close to Hollander that he can smell the sensitive body wash he always uses after a game, fresh and citrusy.
Ilya presses a chaste kiss on Hollander’s shoulder, and he doesn’t miss the way his breath hitches. “Yes, just me,” Ilya repeats softly. “Now show me, Hollander.”
You don’t have to be a genius to discern how apprehensive he is, his body stiff as he spins around, but he’s doing it anyway, because Ilya told him to, and he’s so good at listening, and holy shit, Ilya cannot fucking breathe.
Unbeknownst to him, Ilya’s been teetering off the edge of a cliff. His naivety only becomes clear once he finally sees what all that fuss was about, what has had Hollander ready to crawl out of his skin; once he’s shoved off that proverbial edge, unsuspecting—no parachute—gaping at Hollander’s pecs, swollen and round and full, his nipples puffy. They’re—boobs. Hollander has tits.
Ilya has never been struck in the head with a baseball bat before, but he has to imagine it would feel something like this. His thighs sting where his fingers cling to the meat, unrelenting, just so he doesn’t reach out. “How?” is all his caveman brain can manage.
Hollander’s hands ball into fists. He hisses, “I don’t fucking know,” through his gritted teeth. “It’s been like this since I woke up.”
Ilya’s mouth falls open, and a noise escapes from the back of his throat, genuine shock laced with wonder. More questions come to mind, and yet, he’s speechless, trapped in a perverse trance. He clamps his lips shut before he drools.
“Rozanov,” Hollander admonishes, probably because Ilya hasn’t blinked once since he turned around.
It’s just—okay, Ilya can acknowledge he might have a slight obsession with Hollander’s chest. Any sane person would. He likes the way they feel in his grasp, likes to squeeze the fat and the tissue and the muscle, drag a fingernail over the brown nub; Hollander likes it, too, if all the moaning and writhing he does when Ilya gets his mitts on him is any indication.
In front of him, Hollander grows impatient, or maybe self-conscious, scoffing, “Ugh, I told you not to be an asshole.”
“No, no. Not being an asshole,” Ilya replies automatically.
Hollander rolls his eyes. “You’re staring.”
Ilya throws his hands out. “I stare because you look…” he trails off. Huh. Well, what can he say? That’s the million-dollar question. As far as he knows, there is no adjective, no descriptor, no phrase—in either language he speaks—that could come close to conveying how Ilya sees him right now. How he always sees him. If Ilya could touch him, it would translate, he’s certain.
“What? I look what?” Hollander asks, exasperated.
“Good,” Ilya chokes out.
Hollander scoffs again, draws his arms across his chest, then poorly conceals his wince, the wrinkle of his nose, before they fall back by his sides.
“Are you—” Ilya begins to ask, but his voice splinters, despite how wet his mouth is. “Fuck.” He shakes his head, clears his throat. “Does it hurt?”
Hollander breaks eye contact, stares down at his socked feet, and bites his lip; the hesitation scrawled across his features is almost too easy to read. Ilya can’t allow that. He tuts, fingers grabbing his chin so he can guide his gaze back where it belongs.
Hollander stares at him, open expression and plush lips, and Ilya wants to devour him. Ruin him the way he has ruined Ilya.
“Tell me the truth,” Ilya says.
“Fuck, yeah,” whispers Hollander, like it’s killing him to admit, his eyes dark. “It’s—I’m sore.” He pauses, takes a deep breath; on the exhale, he adds, “Full.”
Ilya doesn’t mean for his fingers to tighten where they grip Hollander’s chin, but they do anyway. He lets go then, if only not to hurt him. Hollander makes a soft, unhappy noise.
“Full? Full with what?”
Hollander looks so miserable, like a sad little kitten. “Please don’t make me say it.”
“I think I need you to say it,” Ilya urges.
“Ugh, this is so embarrassing.” Hollander covers his face with his hands again, but this time, his elbows slightly push his breasts together, and the view hits Ilya like a knee to the gut.
Ilya, on the world’s thinnest hair trigger, takes a much-needed beat to compose himself before he guides Hollander’s hands down. “No. No hiding.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Hollander snaps. He points at his chest, and Ilya does not look down. “You’re not the one with—with fucking milk coming out of you.”
No, Ilya thinks distantly, that is an excellent point. He isn’t. Suddenly, the room is boiling him alive, and his skin buzzes, and his knees tremble. He’s hard now, no question about it. In fact, he’s so fucking hard he can actually feel his brainpower depleting to zero.
“Okay,” Ilya says, squeezing his eyes so tight all he can see are abstract stars and wavy lines.
It’s difficult to open his eyelids, so heavy with lust, but when he does, “Show me,” is the next thing that barrels out of his mouth, his voice unrecognizable, hoarse like his vocal cords have been replaced with sandpaper.
The irritation melts off Hollander's face, gawking at Ilya, almost scandalized.
Ilya doesn’t have a concept of what his own face is doing, just that there’s sweat starting to drip down from his hairline and every molecule in his body is vibrating. For all he knows, he could look like some sort of feral animal, keen to pounce on its innocent prey, rip its throat out with its fangs.
Hollander doesn't say a word, just slowly nudges Ilya back until the back of his knees hit the couch; there’s a determination in his eye he reserves for the ice, and it sends a violent shiver down Ilya’s spine.
Ilya goes willingly, his body basically putty, primed and malleable. He falls onto the cushion, legs spread, and Hollander straddles him, his breasts jostling with the movement as he settles in. Ilya curses under his breath, his shameless cock twitching under the weight of Hollander’s ass.
“Wow, uh. You’re really into this,” Hollander says, incredulous, eyes wandering down to his chest, then back to Ilya.
Ilya’s holding on by the skin of his teeth just so he doesn’t frighten Hollander with the absolute force of his eagerness. He nods dumbly, head swimming, assaulted by a barrage of filthy thoughts. It’s impressive, his restraint.
Hollander leans in. Ilya holds his breath. “Can you kiss me, please?” he asks.
A world where Ilya says no to that question, is not a world worth living in. “Yes,” he replies. “But only since you asked so nicely.” Ilya guides him down by the back of the neck so he can press their mouths together. Ever the opportunist, he instantly deepens it, feeding Hollander his tongue; wet and luxurious, luring himself into a much headier sense of desperation, now that the mental seal has broken.
Eventually, they break apart. “Fuck,” Hollander breathes, lips red and puffy, shiny with spit. Like something plucked directly from Ilya’s dreams, a figment of his active imagination.
Ilya wants to dive back in, taste him again, but there’s something else he craves more. “Now can you show me?” he asks, and Hollander nods slowly, dazed.
Hollander’s tits are a magnet, and his eyes are steel, so Ilya watches keenly as his fingers creep up his torso, unhurried and, to Ilya, agonizing. Simultaneously, Ilya can’t keep his own from roaming every inch of skin they can reach, clutching at the dip of his hips, the length of his thighs, the curve of his ass.
Hollander throws his head back once he draws tantalizing circles around his nipples, exposing the long line of his neck, the skin already covered in a thin layer of sweat. Naturally, Ilya wants to lick it off, chart a course with his tongue, nibble into the tendon, but he’s rendered motionless by the show unfolding before him. Hollander kneads the swell of his breasts, bites down on his lip until it’s white, suppressing all the wonderful noises that could be gracing Ilya’s ears.
“Hey,” Ilya manages to say through the dense fog surrounding his mind, nails clinging into Hollander’s thighs like an anchor. “Let me hear you.”
Hollander’s lip slips out from his teeth, and an unabashed moan follows suit. Ilya’s toes curl.
“Like that?” Hollander asks, panting.
Ilya hums, the surface of his skin fizzing with wild satisfaction. “Yes. Keep going,” he coaxes.
This is his favourite part of their arrangement, when the taut thread of control coiled around Hollander's existence begins to loosen. When there’s enough room for Ilya to sneak through. It’s always a pleasure to behold, like now, Hollander pinching his nipples, brazen with his motions, with the sinful sounds that break free from his lips.
Ilya’s positive it can’t get any better than this. And then—
“Fuck, Hollander.”
It’s impossible to miss, the tiny pearls that seep through his nipples, undeniably milky; Ilya’s mouth waters, head instinctually swaying forward, a beacon.
Hollander yelps, clutching Ilya’s shoulders when he flips their position, Ilya now looming over him, predatory; Ilya’s thighs cage his hips, and Hollander’s hard cock presses into Ilya’s belly. His hands move of their own accord, cupping both breasts, plump in his grasp. He squeezes and Hollander gasps.
Ilya leans in, plants a kiss on Hollander’s jaw that’s more teeth than anything else. He chuckles when Hollander lets out a ragged breath, sinking further into the cushion. Ilya drags his tongue along the feverish skin of his neck, down to his clavicle.
“Can I?” Ilya asks, voice rough.
Hollander blinks rapidly at Ilya, long lashes fluttering, pink as a peach. “Can you what?”
How adorable. In response, Ilya peers at Hollander’s chest, at the milk pooling on his areolas, so enticing. Then back up at him.
“Oh,” Hollander breathes. He clears his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, if you want.”
“And what do you want?”
“I don’t know,” Hollander mutters. “I want whatever you want.”
Well, that's a lengthy list. Ilya wants many things. He can be greedy like that. He wants another Cup and all the glory that accompanies that. He wants to get out from under his family’s scrutinizing thumb. Stupidly, he wants them to be proud of him, too. And, most of all, he wants Hollander for more than a few hours once in a blue moon.
The funny part is, Ilya doesn’t always get what he wants, accustomed wholly to that disappointment. But that means he’s willing to take what he can get.
“This is what I want,” he says, finally wrapping his lips around the pebbled nipple.
Arching his back, Hollander moans, loud and wanton, fingers scrambling for purchase in Ilya’s scalp.
The first spurt of warm milk that floods his mouth is instant, so sweet and so rich, and hot tears fill his eyes to the brim; the taste is slightly reminiscent of vanilla—fitting for Hollander, Ilya thinks, as he continues to lap his tongue around the nub. It’s driving him up the fucking wall. He sucks and sucks as more milk makes its way down, smooth and slow like a spoonful of thick honey.
Annoyingly, lungs burning, he’s forced to let go with a heavy inhale. He makes a surprised noise when Hollander immediately steers his head to the other breast, glassy-eyed and panting when Ilya sneaks a glance at him.
“Please, Rozanov,” Hollander cries, tugging helplessly at the roots of Ilya’s hair. It’s a little painful, but he likes it. “Fuck, oh my god, please. Just—fuck.”
Ilya swallows harshly, the lump in his throat unmoving. Jesus.
See, if this were a regular night, Ilya would already be teasing him relentlessly about how needy he is. But this is about as irregular as nights can get—Hollander is already sobbing, and Ilya is halfway there himself, somehow longing for a taste that’s still fresh in his mouth, so he figures there’s no point in wasting another precious second, and latches on.
Hollander just lies there, occasionally stroking his face, and allows Ilya to drink his fill. Ilya grinds against Hollander’s leg, erratic, kindling to the fire that roars up his spine, threatening to consume his entire existence. He’s a man possessed, frantically switching back and forth between his tits, this goldmine in his palms. It quickly forms into a messy affair, milk dripping from the sides of his mouth, wet and sticky.
Until, once again, he yanks Ilya’s head off, this time crashing their lips together into a kiss that’s purely a tangling of tongues. Hollander groans particularly loudly as he licks behind Ilya’s teeth, and Ilya understands, then.
Ilya pulls back with a knowing smirk; it curls into something wider when Hollander chases his mouth.
“Thirsty?” Ilya asks, delighted.
Hollander rears back. “What? No, fuck off,” he says, all too quickly.
Ilya chuckles, low. Slowly tracing circles around a nipple, he says, “Nothing to be shy about, Hollander. You taste good. Should be proud, feeding me so well.”
“Ugh, you are so gross,” Hollander says weakly, eyes fixated on Ilya’s thumb as it gathers a droplet of breastmilk, inching closer to his mouth. Predictably, after all his scolding, Hollander still opens wide, humming around the digit, tongue keen and moist.
“Good boy,” Ilya purrs in Russian, replacing his finger with his mouth. Hollander takes it just as well.
They kiss and kiss until Ilya can’t feel his lips anymore, swollen and tingly, until it slows down into something saccharine, that sweltering heat simmering into a steady warmth. Ilya’s hands map out his chest like he’s committing every inch of skin to memory, and it’s only a matter of time until Hollander starts to squirm under him.
“Rozanov,” Hollander mumbles against his mouth, blunt nails raking down Ilya’s back. “I need—”
“Oh, I know. I know what you need, I swear,” Ilya interrupts, kissing him one more time before peeling himself off Hollander’s body. Hollander whines, arms falling limp by his sides. On wobbly legs and a full belly, he scoops Hollander up, bridal-style, trekking to his bedroom.
“I can walk, y’know,” Hollander mutters, a flimsy protest made even weaker when his arms loop tighter around Ilya’s neck.
Ilya presses a chaste kiss onto his damp cheek. “Da, Hollander. You have many talents,” Ilya chuckles, softly depositing him on the bed.
Hollander sits on the edge of the mattress, tilts his head up to look at Ilya. Ilya caresses his jaw, too delicate, too revealing, and Hollander shuts his eyes, leaning into the touch.
“Now, take off your pants,” Ilya demands.
By the time Ilya is three fingers deep into Hollander, mouth leisurely suckling at his chest like he’s got all the time in the world, Hollander’s patience has, understandably, worn thin. Ilya has already taken him to the edge and back twice; his red and angry cock leaks profusely, shiny pre-cum settling into the grooves of his torso.
Ilya couldn’t help himself if he tried, despite how badly he’d like to fuck him. It’s fun to draw it out, to turn Shane Hollander into an incoherent, mewling mess. And, perhaps, somewhat masochistic, since his own neglected dick weeps between his legs. It’ll make everything so much more worth it when he finally gets inside him, like a prize he earned. Besides, he knows Hollander likes it, even if he trembles and sobs as if Ilya is torturing him with medieval devices.
Eventually, reaching his breaking point, Hollander groans, throws his head back. He’s lax and beautiful and pink all over; through wet hiccups, he cries, “Please. Please just fuck me already. Please.”
Contrary to popular belief, Ilya isn’t a complete asshole, so he retracts his fingers, feeling around for the condom he carelessly threw on the sheets earlier. He tears the packet open with his teeth, hissing as he rolls it on quickly, dick throbbing.
Ilya shushes him, rubbing soothing patterns on the outside of his shaking thigh, and playfully nips his knee. “Okay, I will fuck you now.”
Hollander’s relief is unmistakable, flashing Ilya a lazy smile that makes his stomach flip. “Oh, thank God,” he says, sluggishly propping himself up on his elbows. “How should I—how do you want me?”
Ilya doesn’t even have to ponder. “Like this,” Ilya says, gentle when he pushes him back, hovering over him. He taps the head of his cock against his hole, earning a slight gasp from those pretty lips. With his free hand, he pinches one of Hollander’s nipples, tender and puffy from Ilya’s relentless and insatiable mouth. “So I can suck your tits when I want.”
Hollander shivers, nodding enthusiastically. “Yeah, yeah, that makes sense,” he says, voice shaky.
Cute, Ilya thinks for the millionth time tonight, wholly and recklessly mesmorized with the man he’s about to pound into the mattress. Ilya kisses him because he can, and so he doesn’t say something stupid. He presses in further, barely pacing himself around the wet, inviting heat. Fingers grasp Ilya’s scalp, and thick thighs crush his waist, and he welcomes the sting with open arms.
“Oh, fuck. Good?” he asks with laboured breath when he’s buried at the hilt, hips flush with Hollander’s ass.
“Mhm,” Hollander affirms distantly, and it’s evident he’s already ventured off into that faraway place he likes to go whenever Ilya’s cock is nestled deep inside his body. It’s a great cock, so to some extent, Ilya can’t fault him.
“You always take me well, Hollander,” Ilya tells him, then proceeds to give it to him good, no build-up, so hard there’s no chance he won’t feel it in the morning.
Ilya desperately craves that, foolishly enough. Some sort of physical reminder of what they did, and what they continue to do.
One of the first times they hooked up, Ilya received a stern warning from Hollander when he got a little too bite-happy. No marks, Hollander had said, nostrils flaring, scowling at Ilya like he was insane. Maybe he was. All Ilya could do was tuck his tail between his legs, and nod. He’s well aware of all the reasons why it’s a terrible idea, recites them like a mantra when Hollander is within arm's reach. It never actually stops him from wanting it, though.
So, selfishly, he sets a punishing pace. Hollander doesn’t seem to mind, each thrust punching out a whimper, gradually louder than the last; the sounds spur Ilya on, his own delicious score.
His hands wander aimlessly over dewy, heated skin, eventually finding themselves where they belong, cupped around his tits. He fondles the flesh until he’s graced with the object of his desires, the milk that sits prettily on his brown nipples. Ilya licks his lips, suddenly ravenous.
“Oh,” Hollander moans when Ilya hunches over, and rolls his tongue over them in one long sweep.
It should be cause for concern, just how addicted Ilya has become to this in such a short time. But he’s not the least bit surprised—there isn’t a part of Hollander that Ilya doesn’t find himself obsessed with at a destructive level.
He pulls off with an obnoxious wet smack. A small droplet of milk leaks down his bottom lip and he catches it with his tongue. He looks down at Hollander's chest, ruined by Ilya's indulgence, at the way they bounce with each thrust. A dizzying thought burrows into the folds of his brain, bursting out of him before he even has the wherewithal to stop it.
“Should get you a bra,” Ilya slurs, deeply kissing Hollander so he can enjoy the lingering taste in his mouth, too.
“Do not—mmhg, fuck, don’t fucking say that,” Hollander says, but his face is flushed, and he’s breathless, and Ilya, delirious, lets out an unsteady laugh.
“No? Ah, I think you would like it,” Ilya replies. “Huh, Hollander? Something pink, yes?” And Ilya can see it crystal clear, balls tightening at the mental image of Hollander, one of the best hockey players in the world, beloved captain of the Montréal Voyageurs, in a lacy rose-coloured bralette. It’s a perilous road to go down, and when Hollander doesn’t answer him, Ilya wonders if he’s imagining it, too.
Hollander pants like he’s in heat while Ilya fucks him, shaking like a pathetic leaf, long eyelashes clumped together by tears. He’s close, Ilya can tell by the way he uncontrollably clenches tight around his cock.
Ilya moans, “Shit,” and pushes Hollander’s knees into his chest, hammering into that sweet spot, unabating. His vision goes blurry around the edges as he gives him his all, almost at the finish line; heart thrumming rapidly like a hummingbird’s wings, legs trembling, temples pounding.
Hollander crosses first, untouched, his beautiful face twisted up as he comes wordlessly. It looks painful, cock ribbons spurting all over his stomach. Ilya lazily fucks him through it, pressing kisses on his knees, hips only halting when Hollander goes limp against the mattress.
Ilya hastily pulls out, ignoring Hollander’s protesting whines, slips the condom off and tosses it over his shoulder. He crawls over Hollander’s torso, fists his cock at a brutal pace, brain melting at the sight below him, until he’s painting Hollander’s tits with a guttural groan.
“Wow,” Ilya pants, patting Hollander’s cheek before he flops over, landing in the spot next to him.
“Yeah,” Hollander agrees weakly, equally out of breath.
Ilya tilts his head, eyes his handiwork with pride welling in his chest. Hollander is a mess, upper body glistening from spit and cum and sweat. Ilya wants to take a picture, his memory alone is not enough. Hollander scoffs when he notices Ilya gawking, and finds the strength to roll over and throw himself over Ilya’s worn muscles.
Ilya tugs him into his arms, lethargic limbs intertwined, drawing irregular shapes across the wide expanse of his back. Hollander pulls him in, and then they’re kissing. It’s kind of disgusting, sticky and warm where their bodies connect. But, weirdly, Ilya likes it; Hollander would definitely wrinkle his nose if he were of sound mind.
Hollander jolts against him, hisses, “What the fuck,” when Ilya meanly rolls a nipple between his fingers, breaking their lips apart.
Ilya kisses an apology into his forehead. “Still hurts?” he asks.
Hollander sighs, snuggling deeper into Ilya’s neck. “A little,” he says.
A soft hum drones from Ilya’s chest as he lets his eyes drift shut. It’s nice to have Hollander in his arms, he thinks dangerously. A few more moments of shared serenity, and Ilya begins to drift off, the day and the night finally taking their toll on him, but it’s Hollander’s voice that pulls him back to shore.
“Hey, Rozanov?”
Ilya’s eyes remain closed when he answers, “Yes?”
Voice small and shy, Hollander asks, “Were you serious? Before. About the bra?” whispering the last word like it’s a secret. “Or was that just, like, dirty talk?”
“It is whatever you want, Hollander,” Ilya tells him truthfully.
Hollander is quiet after that, and unwittingly, Ilya dozes off for a couple of minutes. He’s awakened by Hollander, untangling himself from their embrace. Ilya shivers. The cold air rushes in instantly, brisk as it clings to his naked body, seeps through his skin into his bones.
Standing at the edge of the bed, Hollander folds his arms across his chest. Ilya doesn’t understand the science behind it, but he always looks ten times more gorgeous after sex; relaxed, hair tousled, freckles illuminated over the span of his face. No one else gets to see Hollander like this. Only Ilya.
“I should probably shower before I go,” he tells Ilya, hooking his thumb over his shoulder. The corners of his mouth twitch, fighting back a smile. “You probably should, too.”
“Thank you, mother,” Ilya replies sarcastically.
“Asshole,” Hollander huffs. He’s in front of the bathroom door when he pauses, and turns. “Oh, before I forget. I just wanted to say thanks,” he says softly, staring at the carpet rather than at Ilya. “For…you know.”
Ilya quirks a brow, barks a laugh. “Mmm, I should thank you, I think.”
Hollander chuckles, shaking his head in amusement. “Yeah, you are way too into that,” he says.
“Not only me,” Ilya counters.
Cheeks turning pink in record time, Hollander stammers, “Uh, I guess not. It was—a lot. Good, I mean. I liked it. Yes.” He clears his throat. “But seriously. Thank you, Rozanov.”
Ilya says, “You are welcome, Hollander,” earnestly. He can’t stomach looking at him anymore. All that rests on the tip of his tongue is the offer to stay. But that isn't allowed. So he averts his gaze to the ceiling, pressing deeper into the pillows, eyes tracking the spinning fan above his bed. “Now, go shower.”
“Yeah,” he hears Hollander mumble, slipping into the bathroom, the door closing softly behind him.
Ilya sighs, heart heavy for a reason he can’t afford to name, and he wonders if he ever will.