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When the fight broke out, Ilya had been in the middle of fixing himself a late night snack, licking yogurt off of the spoon and contemplating why granola tasted so good.
"And that's not what you expect, especially not from these two guys…"
He'd trailed forward from the kitchen back to the couch as the broadcaster's bemused voice echoed over the speakers, mesmerized by the sight of Hollander – goody-two-shoes, always by the book on the ice Shane Hollander – being held back by three teammates and the referee after the whistle.
Even from the TV, Ilya was able to pick up the enraged flush in Shane's cheeks, could see the way his eyes were sparked wild in a way he'd never seen before.
"Has Hollander ever fought anyone?" The broadcaster's bemused voice continued.
"No," Ilya said to the empty room.
Hollander would get irritated and would call out his opponents on their bluffs, but he'd never aimed to go at someone's neck before.
No, he was too polite to actually talk shit which could hurt. Shane only put up semblances of a fight; Ilya would know.
Hollander's teammates had managed to pull him back and Shane's enraged face reminded Ilya of one of the wild kittens that used to roam the neighborhood growing up. They would yowl and open their mouths wide to show off tiny white teeth, an adorable display of aggression.
He felt oddly proud of Hollander for chirping in such a way Hunter had gotten riled up by it. Properly, the way that any self-respecting hockey player should have under their belt.
Outside, the flickering lights of Boston were visible from the big window, sparkling over the harbor's surface. A car honked viciously in the street, and Ilya moved to close the window he'd left open for fresh winter air. The last time they'd met was in a dark hotel room somewhere below in the city, and Ilya had taken all the eager nervous energy in Shane's body and massaged it into liquid pleasure, Hollander's breath hitching as Ilya had hauled his legs up to his shoulders, folding Shane nearly in half.
It'd been three weeks. The spoon in his mouth was starting to get too warm, burst of metallic flavor like blood over his tongue. Ilya kept watching as the post-game replays zoomed right into the fight, commentators curious as to what had triggered the spat on the ice.
The upcoming game against Montreal would be interesting.
Over the next few days, clips of Hollander and Hunter's fight littered the internet. The images were amusing – Ilya found himself saving the zoomed-in frame of Shane's angry face, sullen after all the yelling. Some avid fans of both Hollander and Hunter had slowed the videos down and added funnier sound effects. Ilya had tried to read Shane's lips to no avail, English still too difficult to pick up from just the shape and form of that pouty mouth.
A fight in the rink was as common as concrete apartment blocks falling into disarray on the outskirts of Moscow. Most people were more intrigued by two of the most neutral personalities in the NHL, bursting sharp after a game with very little interaction.
Ilya himself posted a story with just the yawning emoji.
Delightfully, it brought Jane into his messages while he was getting ready for practice.
Jane: Yawning??
Just one word was enough to bring a quirk to the side of Ilya's mouth. Yes, he dashed back out, making sure his phone brightness was low and none of his teammates could peek over his shoulder. No blood! Where is the passion? Not exciting enough.
Jane: I'll show you passion.
Ilya's smirk split wide.
"You see that fight the other day?"
Ilya turned at the comment; Cliff's mouth was full, still chewing on whatever energy bar he preferred. "At the Admirals? Yes."
"Didn't know those two had it in 'em," his teammate chuckled, tossing the wrapper into his locker. "But I dunno if Hollander even managed to get a punch in before the refs got them apart. My money would be on Hunter in a fight, though."
"They're both pussies," Ilya snorted. "We'll give them better show on Thursday, and break some noses."
Cliff laughed. "I'm trying to keep my teeth in for the rest of the season."
He finished pulling on his pads and jersey, tossing his phone into his bag. It would do no good for another of his teammates to catch him smiling at a message – they would at least imagine it as Ilya's string of hookups throughout the cities, and Ilya preferred to keep it that way.
He sped through practice with the memory of Shane's glaring daggers at Hunter, ice cutting clean under his skates. Ilya would love nothing more than for it to already be game time, watching Hollander skate backwards or to indulge in the challenging glint in Hollander's eyes as they bent for the face off.
For now, he made do with eyeing a spot right behind the center line, imagining the figure in blue.
Jane: In Boston right now. Just got to my hotel.
Ilya opened the message and stared at the words on his screen. A break in rhythm was hard to look away from, just like when someone tripped on the ice and spun out. He and Hollander met up after games, not before. That'd been the implicit agreement and Ilya chewed on the end of a toothpick at the shy poke to change that.
He could brush it off. Ilya could wish him a good ass-beating during the game and let the nudge back to after keep the two of them in place. In the carefully cordoned off square of his brain, Hollander was threatening to bleed out.
But Ilya was curious, and he was lonely, and it'd been three weeks of walking past the refrigerator purposefully avoiding looking at the calendar and the neat Thursday block listed out for Montreal.
No rain tonight. The view at mine is good, he typed out and hit send before he could think twice.
The response was nearly immediate.
Jane: What's the apartment number?
Ilya chuckled at Hollander's slip – so he knew the address.
A critical eye turned to said surroundings. Ilya didn't mind that his gear was thrown down by the door or that three different pair of car keys were scattered across the kitchen counter. But Hollander would pick up on all of these things, and though Ilya felt no shame in living the way he did, it was the first time Shane would be seeing the penthouse.
He was a proud man. So Ilya organized in amusement, pouring a glass of ice-cold vodka to busy his hands and to dull his nerves.
Perhaps Hollander had just wanted something to fill his time with before the game. It was unlike the man Ilya knew: Shane was a stickler for pre-game routine, and this was – confusing, if not interesting. In the short span of three days, Ilya had been surprised by Hollander's so very uncharacteristic behavior.
As if summoned by his thoughts (and Ilya had a question of just how close the hotel was that the Voyageurs were staying at) the light chime of Ilya's doorbell rang through the house. He set down his glass on the counter and moved to meet Hollander, running a last hand through his hair as he walked past the mirror.
Ilya was unsure of what he'd find at the other side of the door.
Every time Ilya saw Shane, he felt a lurch in his stomach. It had started before he dared to put a name to it, at the very first eager introduction he'd brushed off — a sudden welling tide of affection when he noticed the dark eyes alight in anticipation, freckles shifting with whatever expression was on Shane's face. Like a fool, Ilya had thought not naming it for a long time would keep the emotions at bay.
Ilya still didn't want to put a name to it, but he knew the danger there.
Shane was in a dark jacket, texture thick to bolster from the winter outside. His eyes remained on the hallway outside, as if scared someone would follow behind and shove their way into Ilya's apartment.
"Welcome," he gestured, bravado an easier mask.
"Hi," Shane said stiffly back.
The tense line of Hollander's shoulder made Ilya want to tug off the jacket and the hoodie underneath, and press Shane up against the wall to distract him with his mouth.
But Ilya wasn't an idiot. He knew when to kindle a fire and he knew when to let the explosion burst before wading into the mess. He retreated back to the couch; Hollander would come to him naturally, even if it took some breaking down of the natural fidgeting. Ilya settled back against the cushions and in the fortress of his own home, he didn't hide the once over he gave Hollander. What use was there in beating around the bush?
They'd been doing this long enough that Shane noticed, a faint blush appearing on his cheeks as Ilya's gaze dragged over his entire body.
He could see the word pressing to tumble out of Hollander's mouth as Shane hovered by the doorway still, so Ilya cut it off before it could.
"A surprise," Ilya grinned, settling back onto the couch with cold glass in hand. "But not not welcome."
"Sorry for, y'know," Hollander blurted regardless, hands falling by his sides. "I didn't – this week has been a mess."
"Your first fight," Ilya grinned over the rim of his glass. "It is all anyone is talking about. How does it feel, escaping being boring?"
Usually, Hollander would roll his eyes and shoot back with a comment on how he'd kept his nose intact for his entire playing career and that the sport never required giving each other shit. He'd toss a muttered 'asshole' towards Ilya and brush off the comment.
But Shane chewed the inside of his cheek, dark eyebrows knitted together in some self-inflicted pain. "It was bad."
"Yes, not exciting enough," Ilya laughed. "What did you say to him?"
"That he should show up next time they play," Shane spat, sounding more wound up than Ilya had ever seen him. He'd finally uprooted himself from the entrance, moving slowly through Ilya's space as if he weren't welcome.
A silly sentiment. Ilya thought Shane fit right into place among the sleek appliances, somehow softened around the edges in contrast.
Ilya scoffed. "That is nothing. He start fight over silly little comment?"
"I started the fight," Shane breathed, disbelieving in his own actions.
Ilya raised a disbelieving eyebrow; the broadcast had cut out the beginning of the fight, cameras focused elsewhere with no expectation of action in that corner of the ice. He hadn't known Shane had been the first one to throw a punch. "You."
"Yeah," and for once Shane didn't take the disbelief at offense. He glided his hand over the dark counter top of Ilya's kitchen island as if scanning for dust.
"Because he – " Shane broke off, staring at Ilya's feet. He rubbed his elbow in a tic Ilya had noticed over time, a sort of self-comfort. Maybe it was the equivalent of Ilya reaching for a cigarette, trying to unravel the tension between his shoulders. "After I came at him, he said 'you're starting to sound like him'."
"Who?" Ilya narrowed his eyes. He had yet to connect the dots.
"You," Shane inhaled. "Hunter meant you. He didn't say… he didn't – I felt like I blacked out. Next thing I knew, the referee was in my face. God, I'm still so embarrassed."
"You started a fight," Ilya said slowly. "Because Hunter said we talk the same?"
"No," Shane's jaw clenched, a divot appearing and vanishing before Ilya could put his thumb on it.
"Was Hunter wrong? I made fun of him few days before," Ilya shrugged. "Said he should be there when I fuck myself."
Shane stared in abject horror. "God, why would you say that? Why would you – "
Ilya shrugged again. "To make fun of him. To bully him. You play like shit, that's what you get."
"Fuck!"
Hollander pushed away from the counter, stalking towards the door before turning back around. There was something warring in him, something Ilya watched in both sympathy and interest. He wanted to corral Hollander in against his chest and hold him still but the way Shane paced made Ilya think he would need more.
"Have a drink," Ilya gestured to the half-drunk liquor bottles which rested in his kitchen. "You look too tense, Hollander."
"I don't want a drink," Shane burst. "I don't want – what Scott said, it was a sign that he knew, that he – he knows because I was so stupid at All Stars, and – people know. People fucking know, Rozanov. Doesn't that scare you?"
Hollander's chest heaved, mouth twisted into a horrible frown. It was the most scared and upset Ilya had ever seen him.
It did scare him, but what scared Ilya more was how the sight of Shane's red-rimmed, panicked eyes made something innately functional break inside him. It made him want to soothe over the hurt and the fear. And that was outside the boundaries of what his life allowed.
Ilya slowly rolled the right words over his tongue. "To be scared from simple shit-talking is… silly."
"This isn't just shit-talking. You know that."
It was easy to forget what they were doing when they were fucking, but it was always sharpest the moments before. Meeting up like illicit partners by sneaking through the back of hotels and double-checking hallways before tapping on a door boasting a different number was a dance Ilya knew well but didn't feel good about.
The only moment where Ilya could ignore the way the spare minutes ticked down was when Hollander was under or above him. Otherwise, there was always a flight to catch.
"There is nothing Scott Hunter can say to scare me," Ilya stated. He could see himself reflected in the mirror over the dining table, own features a carefully blank mask.
The truth was the opposite. Hollander had the same career but he had loving parents who had never struck Ilya as anything but too involved. There was worry about parental acceptance, and then there was a country at your back, waiting for a downfall. Waiting to banish you forever.
Ilya just knew that if he faltered, Shane would fall apart further. He would get caught up in his thoughts, and then Jane would not be sending flustered texts back at every one of Ilya's teasing.
Fear was a dangerous thing, but Ilya had lived with it as a child for so long he'd made a home there.
"Suck my dick, Rozanov," Shane bit out.
His words were undercut by the way he seemed to shrink in the vast space of Ilya's apartment. Like he was ashamed of his actions, and though they were in private behind a locked door and heavily tinted glass, Hollander was acting like he was in the fishbowl: on the ice with a hundred pairs of eyes laser-focused onto them. "Why do I even bother?"
"You come to suck mine, no?"
"Fuck," Shane rubbed his face with a desperate palm "That's not — that's not what I came here for."
Ilya cocked his head up, unbelieving and not trusting the framing of next question. "No? Then what? Is there something else you want?"
He watched as Hollander wavered where he stood. His jaw tensed again along with a deeper furrow in his brow, mouth flat like he was angry at himself and the world for placing him in Ilya's apartment.
Ilya clucked his tongue. "What did you come here for, Hollander?"
Shane didn't respond, but his eyes gave himself away. Ilya's heart plummeted. Hypocrisy was a terrible blade to turn back onto yourself; how many times had Ilya thought to end things because of the risk, because of the burden of sneaking around in secret with a growing sentimentality between them?
But like Shane, he'd watch the figure across the ice and want.
With slow halting movements, Ilya tilted Shane to his shoulder, feeling the heavy weight of his face pressed against the curve of his neck. This close, he could smell Shane's cologne and deodorant, could feel the way his hair was still damp from a shower. Ilya allowed himself to inhale.
"This is a bad idea," Shane said, but he didn't move, giving the game away.
"Maybe," Ilya acknowledged. In the quiet of the apartment, he could recognize they were tearing each other up in ways he couldn't imagine coming back from.
Hollander's hands were rooted into the bottom of Ilya's shirt.
"But I need you," Shane admitted, sounding for all the world like he hated admitting it. "I need you so badly."
He guided Shane back with a firm hand around his jaw. Hollander went easily, staring up at Ilya with the most conflicted expression he'd been privy to. Neither of them could stay away. Ilya couldn't read Hollander's mind but he knew his own: regardless of logic, he never wanted to.
"And you will get what you need."
Those pretty lashes fluttered close when he kissed him. Ilya took the opportunity to pull Shane forward, back towards the couch. He got Hollander on his knees with a nudge, directing his hands to rest on his thighs.
Shane peered up at Ilya from between his spread legs. His lips were parted in anticipation, already tipping forward to where Ilya's cock was pressed up against the zipper of his jeans. No matter the emotion – agony, anger, frustration – Ilya found himself unable to calm the lust that beat in his stomach at the sight of Shane Hollander.
Sometimes, Ilya marveled at how Shane could keep surprising him. Did Hollander know what Ilya was guiding him to? Ilya could never tell in these moments, when new was on the precipice and Hollander's inexperience came out in the way he couldn't take his eyes off Ilya, asking for silent instruction. The thrill of being Shane's many firsts was something Ilya used in moments alone, reliving every tremble of Shane's thighs and the way his hands brushed down Ilya's stomach as if there weren't enough moments to touch.
Maybe there weren't. Even with the game on his schedule, Ilya had been feeling restless. He could've called up any number of hookups in his phone and coaxed them into his bed but it wouldn't have sufficed. The thought of touching someone else in this way curdled in Ilya's stomach, anyways.
He unzipped his jeans, guiding Shane's hands to tug them off. Hollander did so, nuzzling into the swell of Ilya's cock in his briefs as he worked the pants down Ilya's legs.
"You hold my cock in your mouth," Ilya said, brushing his knuckles over the swell of Shane's cheek. Had a punch actually landed and was Ilya seeing the remnants of a bruise?
Shane nodded, a soft moan falling from his lips.
Eager hands pulled his boxers down, his hard cock slapping out against his shirt. Hollander didn't waste a minute, pitching forward and wrapping his lips around the head of Ilya's cock, inhaling deep to work more down his throat.
"No," Ilya commanded, forcing Shane still even though he wanted to buck up into that warm heat. "Stay still, just hold."
Hollander blinked in confusion. "You don't want me to…?"
"Later," Ilya brushed his thumb over Shane's open mouth. He always looked so sweet like this, waiting for Ilya to do whatever he wanted. "But first you just stay still. Just hold my cock, take what you want."
Shane did as he was told, though Ilya could still see the lack of assuredness. But he looked a vision with the head of Ilya's cock heavy on his tongue, eyes begging for approval as Ilya took to holding the base of his cock, feeding more and more into Shane's mouth.
A shaky moan fell out of Ilya's lips. This was for Hollander, he reminded himself, even as all the blood in his body rushed down and the pleasure coiled tight in his stomach. It was for the already more relaxed set of Shane's whole body, calmed by having only one thing to focus on.
"You missed this, didn't you, Hollander?" Ilya tipped his head back against the couch; Shane was listening to instruction but only barely, seemingly incapable of not suckling the cock in his mouth. An oral fixation of Ilya's own to exploit, pretty cupid bow lips always looking best smeared in come and spit.
Shane whined with his mouth full, nodding slightly.
He let out a pleased rumble as Ilya started combing through his dark short hair in a steady rhythm, aiming to soothe.
Time ticked by like sweet honey, syrupy pleasure spreading over every inch of Ilya's body as he pet the back of Hollander's head and let him settle down, warming his cock to his heart's content. Hollander's breathing had evened out and though his tongue still moved up and down, he was truly holding Ilya steady, uncaring of the spit trickling out of the corner of his mouth.
"Don't think," Ilya said softly, voice strangled at how good it felt to have his cock held on Hollander's tongue. "Just be pretty mouth for me to use, hm? Is good, is good all the time."
A full body shudder ran through Hollander's body at being called good, just as Ilya aimed for. God, how he wanted to be able to call him that in public, in a dimly lit club with the bass pounding; he would dip close so only Shane could hear his voice and Ilya would call him a good boy and he'd slide a hand down to cup where Hollander would be hardening in whatever neatly pressed pants he'd decided on.
Ilya would own him for everyone to see. The way Hunter implied.
The fantasy made Ilya want to say dangerous things that he forced back down.
Another ten minutes passed, torture for Ilya to hold still. But he busied himself with watching Shane. Watching how Shane's eyes were heavy, how he shifted occasionally to ease his knees on the plush rug. How he would take peeking looks up at Ilya for approval.
Ilya granted every one with squeeze to the hand on his thigh.
Drool was all over Shane's chin by now and Ilya was so hard he could barely think. He wished he could take a picture, could dare to have this for nights back in Russia when the thought of Shane's mouth would give him both comfort and relief. But he took slow deep breaths, letting Shane suck on his cock to his hearts content, head lolled now onto Ilya's thigh.
He'd never looked better. Still, Ilya was just a man.
He tapped two fingers on Shane's filled cheek, pulling Hollander out from his daze. "I'm going to fuck your mouth now."
Hollander moaned as loud as he could with his mouth still full, right hand darting to the front of his jeans and pressing down against where he must've been hard and aching since he'd fallen to his knees.
A slow thrust turned into quicker ones as Shane relaxed and Ilya could hold back no longer, loud slurps as Hollander matched his pace and his head started bobbing in Ilya's lap, eager to take more. There was greed in Shane's movements, sucking loud and dirty, throat working to take all nine inches best he could.
Hollander pulled back for air and when their eyes met, Ilya felt wild at the lust painted heavy over Shane's pretty face.
"Please, I – want it, want to keep tasting you."
Ilya shushed the harried plea with a kiss, leaning over to taste himself on Hollander's tongue. This wouldn't do – Hollander needed to be relieved of whatever poor narrative had coiled its way around his head. Ilya knew what it was like to look out at an audience and imagine the worst forms of yourself assessed, and they were playing with fire in a way which threatened no recourse.
But he let Shane take him into his mouth again, groaning as eager sucks turned sloppy, turned hasty, trying to cram Ilya down as far as he could.
"Your mouth, made for my cock," Ilya moaned, because if there was anything Hollander loved, it was praise. A pretty pink would rise to his face at compliments; too often Ilya hated how other people would laud them onto Hollander, achieving the same result.
The effect should be for him and him alone to bring out.
Fucking Hunter, Ilya suddenly thought. On one hand, Scott had brought Hollander early to his doorstep. On the other, Ilya had hoped for the dropped gloves to be his to cherish. He wanted Shane to only look at him with that fire, and so far, Ilya had maintained that focus.
He combed his hand gently into Shane's hair, less put in place than before. A gentle push had Hollander working hard, swallowing and gagging on the length.
"So pretty," Ilya uttered in Russian, unable to translate when all of his brain was focused on wet, wet, wet perfection. "Every day I think about coming down your throat."
He tugged gently, guiding Shane up and the shaft of his cock to a deep inhale. When Ilya pulled his hair again, Shane rocked his hips against nothing, hands placed like they were stuck to Ilya's strong thighs, caressing up and down as if Hollander needed another point of connection.
His own briefs were wet from his pre and Shane's spit and Ilya loved the mess of it all, of putting neat and tidy Hollander through his paces and seeing him keep up beautifully.
Another tug of that soft dark hair and then Hollander's nails were digging into Ilya's thighs as he moaned with a full mouth, whole body shuddering as he came in his jeans.
"Fuck, Hollander," Ilya gasped, as Shane whined with his mouth full, hips jerking through the tremors of his orgasm. Shane Hollander, Rookie of the Year, perfect poster child of the NHL, was on his knees brainless at holding Ilya's cock in his mouth, and he'd just come untouched from cock-warming for the past twenty minutes.
"Enough, enough," he groaned, pushing Shane back.
Shane protested with a desperate whimper, but Ilya didn't want to come down Shane's throat when it would be better buried in his ass.
Hollander wobbled when Ilya pulled him up and guided him back towards the kitchen, a careful thumb pulling slack his swollen lips. Lashes were brushing against freckled cheeks and Shane's pupils were so blown, his irises were a ring of black. Ilya felt his own breath catch in his throat at the sight, of sheer bliss painted over the face and the wetness staining the front of Hollander's pants.
"Why are you dressed?" Ilya teased as if he weren't the one to direct Hollander around his cock. He groped Shane's front, feeling how even after his orgasm, Hollander was still hard. "Strip for me, come on now."
Shane was halfway to floating in that wonderful space which made him melt in Ilya's hands. He could only blink in confusion at Ilya's question, sweetly licking his lips.
"Clothes off," Ilya pressed a feather-light kiss to Hollander's neck, then another, then another, inhaling that familiar cologne and resisting the urge to bite down and leave a tell-tale mark. Shane would be in the locker rooms and any bruise would invite question.
He guided Hollander's shaky hands through the movements, pulling the soft cotton off of Shane's top. The expanse of muscle and pale skin needed Ilya's hands. He mapped over the abs, the strong arms, the little scar three-quarters of the way down Shane's back Ilya wished he knew the story behind.
Had it been a childhood injury? Was it a brief altercation on the ice?
Hollander tilted his head up, asking silently for a kiss, and Ilya was too weak not to give it to him. Particularly not when Hollander had just held his cock so beautifully in his mouth.
A satisfied hum rose from Shane's chest when Ilya kissed him, hot and open mouthed, more breath co-mingling than with any finesse. Ilya nudged him back so he could work at Shane's belt, dropping the accessory onto the ground with a soft clink. Then came his messed jeans, and then underwear, and then Hollander's gorgeous body was bare in Ilya's apartment for the first time.
His come was smeared over his flushed cock. Ilya's mouth watered.
"Bend over, show off that ass for me."
Shane turned immediately, bracing both of his hands on the cool counter. The muscles of his back flexed, in sharper relief from the low light. He was a vision of perfect symmetry – honed from intense dedication, the swell of his ass needing a bite mark to mar that perfect skin.
Spreading Shane's perfect ass apart, Ilya spit into his hole.
"Oh, fuck," Shane keened, craning his head to look at the way Ilya was spreading out the spit with his thumb over the twitch of his entrance. "That's so – "
He didn't give Shane time to finish whatever he was about to protest. Hollander cried out as Ilya licked a fat stripe from his balls over his perineum and then over his twitching hole. "Rozanov, fuck–!"
Ilya had done this often enough that Hollander didn't flinch, didn't protest, just pushed back to work Ilya's tongue in further as Ilya dove in, sucking open-mouthed over the rim of Shane's ass. It was sloppy and hurried, but Hollander whined at his ministrations, begging with no coherent intent.
Ilya stiffened his tongue and spread Shane out, licking into his ass with greedy hunger, his own cock throbbing and begging for a touch. But his hands were busy: he squeezed the muscle of Hollander's ass and spread his cheeks farther apart to get deeper, to eat Shane out like he was starving.
And maybe he was. Maybe Ilya could let all his free time fall into the category of making Shane Hollander a writhing, whining mess and who gave a fuck, really, about practice or games? Who could blame him when his walking sex dream was trembling under his touch and pleading for more of Ilya in any way, shape, or form?
"You're so good," Shane babbled, voice strung thin. "So good, I – oh my god."
Ilya had spit again on his hole, and this time Shane clenched on nothing, filling Ilya's mouth with saliva. He let more drip down, adding to the mess and dove back in, uncaring of how he couldn't breathe and how his jaw clicked: all he wanted and needed in this moment was to be buried between Hollander's cheeks.
Ilya responded to the begging of gimme it, need you, give me more with two fingers, sinking easily into Shane's slick hole and that was what had Hollander slamming his hand hard against the counter which bore his weight.
"Rozanov, oh, fuck, I'm gonna –"
Shane cried out as he came again, cock kicking and spurting a white mess all over Ilya's kitchen floor. Ilya imagined making Hollander get onto his knees to lick up his own mess, and God, he would, wouldn't he? He'd go down like a marionette with its strings cut, hands shaking and sweaty as he brought his mouth to his own come, a whore for anything Ilya wanted.
Ilya bit down hard on his own bottom lip to keep himself in check.
The force of a second orgasm had Hollander's thighs trembling where he stood; for a moment, Ilya was worried he would collapse onto the cold floor, but then Shane pressed further back, hinging at his hips in a display Ilya could only read as presenting for Ilya to fuck him.
"Rozanov," Hollander panted, peering back with a pink face and those big doe eyes still silently pleading. "Your cock."
He was no saint; he didn't listen to instruction often. But Ilya loved this command.
Even with Ilya's mouth, Hollander was tight, not as stretched as he would be after Ilya fingering him open. But Shane moaned so loud Ilya knew he was loving it, loving the extra roughness, entire body no doubt sensitive from coming twice and still pushing himself for more.
"God," Shane's head dropped, back arching as Ilya finally fucked into him. "Yes, yes, please, like that–"
"Taking it so well," Ilya goaded, watching Shane's hole twitch around him, eager for more of his cock. He loved the sight, the way Shane always pushed back on instinct. "All of my cock, Hollander, so good for me."
He leaned over to press one, two, three kisses to the back of Shane's shoulder. Beneath him, Shane was making those pretty whimpering sounds which seemed to be trapped in his throat. Ilya would have to fuck them loose.
He didn't waste any more time. Watching Shane nestled between his legs, in his apartment, with spit drooling from the side of his mouth, suckling on Ilya's cock like it was the only thing that mattered in the world had tested all of Ilya's resolve.
Something always came over him when Shane relinquished all control – he felt all powerful, the control a heady mix which made Ilya want to bite and mark and pull until Shane was a sobbing mess. Pressing Shane down against the counter, Ilya rolled his hips slow and steady, a deep groan rising from the man beneath him.
Hollander's fingers scrabbled across the marble. "Fuck, more, I need –"
"You take what I give you," Ilya braced a hand around Shane's stomach, hitching his hips up and forcing a deeper arch. The angle meant Shane cried out at his next thrust forward, hitting his prostate directly. Ilya proved his point by keeping a steady pace – sweat was pooling in the small of Hollander's back and Ilya nestled both his thumbs there, an apex point holding Shane still to take the insistent pounding of his cock.
It was so hot, fucking into Shane's tight hole. He prided himself on making sure his lovers were satisfied and comfortable, but Ilya got a sort of sick satisfaction in stretching Hollander to this degree – forcing the edge of pleasure and pain so he could watch the entire girth of his cock slide in with the resistance forming perfect pressure. As if Shane's body needed him deep out of sheer nature, and would do anything to take him.
The sound of skin on skin was undeniable, loud and echoing against the cold appliances, the sounds of their pleasure unhidden. There were no neighbors on this side of the building. There were no teammates in the hotel room next door. Ilya could pull Hollander out to the balcony and make him gasp into the night air, loud for the entire city to hear, and nobody would be able to see.
"What a cock slut," Ilya said roughly. He grunted as he snapped his hips deep in quicker rhythm; each impact brought pink to Hollander's ass.
Shane moaned, a shaky fragile sound. He tipped his head back, eyes screwed shut and wetness glistening in the corners.
One day, maybe, Ilya would put Shane over his thighs and spank him steadily, making Shane count. Until he was leaking uncontrollably and coming untouched in his lap. And then Ilya would fuck him slow and gentle, would revel in the scrabble of Shane's nails down his back.
"Maybe it's a good thing," Ilya's brain was melting at the tight clench of Shane's ass around his cock, "How loud you get. Fuck you so good everyone can hear."
Hollander hiccuped, pressing back against Ilya's hips. In the reflection of the window, Ilya could see how Shane's cock bobbed with the force of his thrusts, head shiny and wet and making a mess of the floor as precome leaked. He pulled Shane up to slot their mouths together, so he could taste himself on Shane's tongue.
"So pretty when you cry, Hollander," Ilya groaned, bent with the force of the pleasure. Hollander's ass was perfect, always hot and tight and greedy for Ilya's cock. "One more for me, just one more."
"Can't – fuck, Roz - ah, ahh –"
Ilya wanted to hear his first name fall in a moment of passion, but that just meant he needed to earn it. He forced Hollander's back into a deeper curve and from this angle, the head of his cock must've been perfectly lined with Shane's prostate, if the broken whimper was anything to go by. Ilya ground deeper, deeper, rolling his hips the way he knew Hollander loved.
In the dark window was the reflection of their bodies joining. The vision was hazy, just beautiful shapes rutting frantically against each other. But Ilya could see the way Shane's mouth fell slack, the sheer ecstasy as he took all of Ilya's cock as if he were made for it.
Just a hole to use, Ilya thought viciously, painfully. A hole for me to use, and a man to drive me crazy.
Shane's moan cracked halfway through, high and reedy as he jerked against Ilya's hips, coming again. His cock put up a brave fight with weak spurts of come dribbling down the shaft. He'd fucked Hollander nearly dry, and Ilya wanted – oh, another one, another time, to see just how much Hollander could take before he broke.
He'd be ruined for breakfast and dinners now. Ilya would walk into the kitchen and see the phantom memory of Shane bent over the counter. And he would want so badly before eight in the morning. Ilya would want from dawn to dusk, and nothing would cut the distance or the secret wrapped around them.
"Fuck," Ilya grunted, pleasure unspooling rapidly in his spine and then he was coming too, plastered over Shane's shaking body as he released deep inside. He could hear nothing except for a buzz, orgasm so intense he had to grip Shane's hips hard to keep himself upright.
"Fuck," Shane mewled, hips jerking at Ilya filling him. "Oh, fuck, we didn't– oh god, it feels so –"
We, Ilya thought dimly. We.
And it was only then that he realized they'd gone at it bare, so caught in the daze of each other.
Ilya cursed softly, expecting Hollander to burst into panic with anxiety and stress leeching back into his body as the realization hit. He didn't want to pull out; to break the point of connection and to withdraw from the blissful cradle of Hollander's felt like a sort of heartbreak.
But Shane only rocked back, keening. "It's so hot, I didn't think …"
Hollander had never been able to put his desires into words the way Ilya could. He responded when pressed, but it took careful coaxing from Ilya, an artful dance to bring Hollander's filthy fantasies to life. His heart pounded as the first question sprung to mind: would you let me do this again?
He kept it safe behind his teeth.
Ilya fucked into Shane a few more times, enraptured by how his come made a mess of Shane's already wrecked hole. He rubbed a thumb over the swollen rim, and Hollander's breath hitched.
"Too much," Hollander sobbed, and Ilya could feel his entire body shaking at the overuse. "Ilya, God."
He sounded intoxicated. He sounded overwhelmed and fragile, come-drunk from Ilya filling him and his first name ricocheted over Ilya's senses, weakening his knees.
Ilya finally gave pity, stilling his movements so Shane could catch his breath. When he pulled out, Ilya couldn't help but stare at the fucked open gape of Shane's hole, where his come and spit were marking him dirty. All Ilya's. All Ilya's, so long as nobody found out.
Hollander turned, still bracing himself up with his hands against the counter. The gash of his mouth told Ilya that he knew he'd flown too close to the sun, half a guilty party in bringing them past the point of no return.
Any upset wouldn't do. Before Hollander could say anything, Ilya captured his mouth, coaxing him back to peace with a gentle cupping of his jaw. The difference between them was stark on the ice but Ilya imagined the shades of their souls inside were the same slivers of blue. Wanting across a divide which felt impossible to move.
He hauled Hollander up by the thighs, a soft huff escaping Shane as he tipped into Ilya's arms. Strong legs came to wrap around Ilya's waist as he brought them back towards the couch. The leather protested under their sweaty bare bodies as they sprawled together, arms and legs still tangled.
"I can't move," Shane groaned; he was heavy, half on Ilya's chest.
Ilya smoothed a hand down the soft skin of Shane's cheek. Hollander looked dazed, limbs limp and curled onto the couch. Ilya would have to hire housekeeping to get the stink of sweat and sex off the couch but that was a problem for later. Hollander stayed true to his word as Ilya grabbed a warm towel to clean him up.
Ilya let his movements slow over the still pink swell of Shane's ass. And Hollander didn't comment.
His body was a comforting warmth against Ilya's side, eyes heavy-lidded. Shane was finally relaxed; Hunter's remarks had been banished far away for the time being.
Dear God, he hoped someone up above was listening. Ilya wasn't going to survive the night after the game, not if Hollander kept peeking up at him like this – like he'd wrung him dry through three orgasms and that it wasn't enough, that maybe Ilya was someone worth risking a life for.
"You can use shower," Ilya offered, knowing how Hollander was. He was proud of that thing with its overhead rainfall shower head and the sleek dark tiles. It felt luxurious. "Go for round two in few minutes."
Hollander chuckled faintly. "I don't think I can walk, let alone go again."
"Hm," Ilya fiddled with the now sweating glass of vodka he'd set aside. "Waste of being young."
They sat with their sides fully connected, watching the glitter of the Boston skyline outside the broad, broad window in silence. Then Hollander shifted. Immediately, Ilya mourned the loss.
"I should go," Shane said, quiet.
Post sex clarity washed over Ilya faster than he wanted. He wished they could stay suspended in that high after sex, curled up in an intimacy which always hurt to dispel. Ilya wanted to press soft kisses over the twinkle of freckles all over Shane's cheek, wanted to brush his sweaty hair back, wanted to say…
"So tied to curfew," Ilya replied, voice wavering more than he liked. "Such a good boy."
Shane snorted, sounding more like himself. He stole a mouthful of Ilya's vodka – it was lukewarm by now, a nasty way to drink it. Ilya watched Hollander get dressed in neat movements, a shaking hand attempting to smooth down the wrinkles in his shirt before he pulled on his jacket.
He stretched back onto the couch, arm behind his head. There was the show before – Shane's frenzied undressing – and then there was the show after, with Hollander bashful at how slutty he'd just been, but always with a glow on his face from good fucking sex. And this time, Hollander was leaving with Ilya's come between his legs. Marked and claimed.
Ilya earmarked this memory away for when he needed it.
Shane was cute, bending down to straighten the laces of his sneakers. His eyes flickered back to Ilya when he got to the door. "After the game, I, uh –"
"When I win," Ilya goaded, slipping easily back into the part he knew how to play. "I'll come to hotel. And maybe during game, I show you how to actually fight."
Hollander couldn't hide the smile at mention of after; it quickly shifted into an exasperated roll of his eyes. "I know how to fight."
"Mm, not from what I was able to see. Like angry kitten."
"Shut up," Shane huffed. "You better fucking take it seriously on Thursday."
"When do I not? And no fights unless I get to see," Ilya grinned, smile sharp. "You should fight me. Or else I may get jealous."
Hollander blushed, blinking rapidly. "Shut up. Good night, Rozanov."
He wanted the syllables of his name to shorten in Hollander's mouth again, but then Ilya himself would have to give up the gun. Ilya nodded in acceptance of the goodbye; this one was temporary. This one had a redux, waiting for Ilya after the game on Thursday.
Shane slipped out; the front door closed with a soft click.
Hollander was a bad habit. But bad habits were fallible too – they were proud and passionate, and always responded to Ilya's baited words, and the sight of them upset made Ilya's heart feel like it could crack in two.
He could hear the elevator ding as it arrived to his floor, indicating Shane was about to make his full exit. Ilya swigged the last of the vodka down. He had a lot of bad habits already, anyways.