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Hollander has too many commercials. An obscene amount, really. If Ilya didn't know him so well, he would almost think the man was ashamed of being a hockey player.
They’re all the same too. Tilting his head there, giving an imploring look here. An endless parade of desperate attempts to tie an irrelevant brand to one of the hottest names in the sport.
And it’s not like Shane does them any favors. He plays his part perfectly of course; makes sure he’s always seen with the right accessory on, tastefully plugs his sponsors into interview questions, dutifully hits his marks.
But they used to give him lines. And Hollander tried, he really did try. He just couldn’t act to save his life. A fact that Ilya found deeply amusing, considering. So everybody went back to the drawing board and came back with a classic. Easy, breezy, sex appeal.
Ilya’s not ashamed to say it works on him. Not that he actually gives a shit about anything that’s on the screen around him, but you put Shane on TV, prettied up and with his shirt half open, then of course he’s going to look.
He even has favorites.
The underwear one is ridiculous, just Hollander aimlessly wandering around in a clearly CGI arctic background with the most ridiculously pristine pair of white boxers to ever exist. He’s supposed to be a sexy polar bear or something, Ilya doesn’t know. It makes no sense to him. There’s nothing sexy about the snow. Cold and wet and annoying. Traps you inside and disrupts your plans before melting away into disgusting slush. You would think the Canadians would know this. But it does make him think about the way that Shane always whines about how Ilya keeps his room too cold, burying his face into the crook of Ilya’s shoulder and snuggling in for warmth.
The Montbray commercial is almost the exact nonsensical inverse, with Hollander fully clothed and in the desert. Ilya likes Shane in suits though. Awards season will never compare to the actual game one, but it’s not so bad. Hollander is always in a new suit and has some fancy watch. Ilya gets to tease him about it, joke about Shane losing the last few and having to wear the flashy new ones to keep people from asking questions. It’s his excuse. One passing cheap shot so he can hear the ‘fuck you Rozanov’ and watch Shane’s mouth twitch as he tries to suppress his smile.
It also shows off Hollander’s wrists, which Ilya likes very much. He strides forward on the screen, completely wooden, adjusts his suit to show off the watch, and his stupid fucking wrist bones barely peak out from underneath the leather strap, and Ilya always loses his mind a little bit. He wants to tie Shane up, bind his ridiculous, tiny, strong, flexible wrists and make him writhe. But then Ilya will get his hands on him, and Shane will follow so easily. Hangs on to his every word, stays exactly wherever Ilya puts him, clings like he can’t live without him. It’s a real problem. He’ll swear to himself that this time will be the one, but then Shane will fold, he forgets, then he’ll see the fucking commercial again, and he’s back to square one.
Valencio Pocaterra; terrible name, terrible commercial. It’s absurd in the way that all cologne commercials are, outrageously over the top and obsessed with justifying selling perfume to men. Hollander plays some…some dark and stormy sex god, brooding and dangerous like the calm before the storm. Utterly ridiculous. He first saw it during a team workout, the background show cutting to the first shot of Hollander sitting solemnly in black in white, and burst out laughing. Which led to the immediate calls from those around him to ‘check this shit out right now immediately.’ By the end of it they were all giggling, taking turns showing off their blue steel and deeply tortured souls.
However. There’s this one shot. Where Hollander is looking up at the computer-generated clouds, taking in the fake flashes of lightning and the simulated rolls of thunder, looking upward like the first drops of rain will set him free. Like he is begging, begging, to be given the signal he can finally let go, drop everything, and surrender to all of the repressed feelings churning inside of him. The pale column of his throat strains with the force he’s using to keep himself still, his adams apple bobbing as he swallows in anticipation, the slightest hint of his collarbone shifting like he's clenching his fists, with sheer desperation in his eyes-
Ilya wants to bite. Very badly. He wants to sink his teeth in until he tastes blood and then keep going, twist until he can gnaw on bone. Feel Shane’s pulse beat against his tongue, nip against his jugular. Whenever he tries Shane stops him. Hisses out something about how Ilya can’t leave any marks. Ilya tells him he actually can, Shane says ‘fuck you’, and then Ilya gets to leave bruises all over his thighs. He’ll try for the neck again and Shane will yank him back by his hair, hard, desperation making him wild, and Ilya will get to luxuriate in it. Close his eyes and relax into Shane’s grip.
But his favorite, his absolute favorite, is the orange cream soda commercial. It’s simple, so it works. An attractive man in a wet t-shirt holding a product with the label showing. It honestly didn’t even need to be a video. Ilya is glad it is. He gets to watch the water turn the fabric translucent, the way it beads at the tips of his hair, creates slow tracks down Hollander’s muscles.
He likes to pretend it’s sweat. Like he’s seeing Shane just after finishing a game, stripped down to his undershirt and jock, smelling absolutely horrible and fucking filthy, so Ilya can make good on his promise of ripping Shane’s cup off with his teeth.
And his nipples. God, Hollander’s nipples haunt him, plastered across every square foot of available advertising space, it seems. The way the wet shirt clings to his body leaves nothing to the imagination, but the way it perfectly frames his pecs and barely conceals how hard his nipples are…
Ilya wants to make him wear a bra. One of those ones with a front clasp, so he can take it off with his teeth and study the way Shane gasps, squeezing his eyes shut like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Ilya will tell him to look, and Shane will, because he’s good. He’ll make him watch as he ruts between his tits, maybe even make him hold them together for him. Because with his hands free Ilya can fuck his fingers into Shane's mouth. Slide them in and out and around his tongue, tease him about how badly Shane wishes they were his dick instead. How he can’t have it, but he’ll get Ilya’s cum across his chest. If he’s very good Ilya might even feed him some.
He hates the brief promotional interview that Hollander did at his lake house. Or cottage, as he calls it. It’s unremarkable; the few seconds of Hollander’s body on display unable to keep Ilya’s interest. He sits by the water and talks about how he just gets away from it all, decompressing in nature or whatever. Boring, boring, boring.
Ilya can’t stop watching it. Maybe it’s the fact that there’s less Hollander in it, and more Shane. A slight openness that he normally never shows on camera, only when he’s doing something he cares about. Maybe it’s the fact that the kitchen looks fantastic. Open and warm, like Ilya should be there cooking in it. Maybe it’s the way Shane stands on the boardwalk and the only thing Ilya can think of is how badly he wants to be there to push him off it.
How badly he wants to fuck him too. Long and slow, deep and tender, sweating and shaking. He wants to hold Shane’s hands, press him down into the mattress and fuck, until Shane can’t speak, shudders out little gasps like he can’t decide if he wants Ilya to stop or keep going, feeling something that his brain can’t process, just knowing that he needs to take it.
God, he wants to hear Shane say his name again; scream it, cry it, greet him in the mornings with it. He wants to know how Shane takes his coffee, if he even drinks coffee, or if he drinks orange juice because of all his stupid rules. He wants to find out if Shane snores, what complicated system he uses to organize his stuff, the way he brushes his teeth, every single fucking thing that normal couples get to discover about each other.
Ilya doesn’t even know Shane’s favorite color. He wants to. He wants to hold Shane. For more than one night.
He wants, he wants, he wants, which is exactly the fucking problem.