Ilyusha, do you ever feel lonely?"
Ilya had chewed on his strawberry slice, carefully, savoring the burst of sweet juice exploding across his tongue. It had been especially sweet that day, because his mother had cut the fruit for him—each slice a little wonky but perfect. His father had hired a personal chef recently, and while he always cut the fruit into sharp, meticulous pieces, as if they had leapt straight from a magazine spread, personally, Ilya liked it this way.
"Um," he had replied, swallowing the strawberry.
Lonely.
Ilya had a lot of friends both in school and hockey—especially recently, as his performance on the ice had only attracted more and more attention. Big names had been coming to watch him. Well-known figures and coaches and just people in general had always been watching him these days—their eyes washing over him. And, the attention had been awesome.
Lonely? He hadn't thought so.
His mother had watched him, skewering a strawberry with her own fork—not eating it. There had been bags under her eyes. A hollowness to her cheekbones. Even with the smile on her face, those features were impossible to ignore.
A lump had formed in Ilya's throat.
Upstairs, a door had slammed shut. Ilya had pushed a strawberry around on his plate and tried very hard not to listen to it. The lump had expanded, just a little.
Okay, so, maybe it had been a little…uncomfortable sometimes at home, whenever Andrei had shoved past him without a word or whenever his father had shouted after a bad game—his words ringing through Ilya's ears even hours later.
"Pay attention," his father's voice had always been a shock of ice, chilling him down to the bone. Ilya had always gritted his teeth against the "Don't be fucking stupid. Always making excuses, always so lazy. Do you think anyone will want you on their team if you play like that? No team needs a weak link."
But still. It had not always been like that. Not when she was here.
His mother.
She had been sitting opposite him at their dining room table—a ginormous place adorned with velvet and mahogany, two things Ilya learned very quickly that signified importance. Wealth. It felt a little stuffy to him, personally.
She had smiled again at him and slid the bowl of wonkily cut berries in his direction. His mother. With her long, curly blonde hair and gentle hands, Ilya had thought she had looked just like a princess—like Vasilisa the Beautiful, maybe.
Nothing about her had felt stuffy.
She had quirked a brow at him. "Um? What does 'um' mean?"
"I mean, never at school or on the team," Ilya had hurried to continue, face flushing hot. "Just, you know."
His eyes had darted over to the dining room window—at all the mahogany, the velvet drapes entrapping, enclosing, suffocating the room with wealth—and her smile had faded.
Guilt had eaten through Ilya then—the most parasitic of feelings—as it always did when her joy disappeared in his presence and shifted into a sadness so familiar it made his teeth ache. My fault. My fault. All my fault. The lingering strawberry juice on his tongue had suddenly turned very sour.
"Mama," he had started, about to pluck his words out of the air and swallow them back down, before she had leaned in close.
Irina Rozanov had always been beautiful, a beauty that seemed to freeze the world even when she was at her saddest, but more than that, she had also been magical. More magical than any evil witch or blessed doll—of any fairytale myth that Ilya had long since outgrown. That was why, when she spoke, he had always listened.
She had placed a hand on Ilya's cheek.
"I'll tell you a secret," she had said, and Ilya had perked up at the words.
A secret. Normally, secrets were kept from him because he was considered a child (which he wasn't) and children were expected to be seen and not heard, which was just ridiculous, but this—
"Ready?"
He had scooted in a little closer. "Ready."
"Being lonely," she had whispered. "It hurts, sometimes. So much." Her eyes had sparked, green like the forest, like evergreen trees. "But you can find ways around it."
"To get rid of it?"
"To find your way around it, over it, through it," she had corrected. "There's a difference."
Ilya's head had spun. "That's the same thing."
"It's not," her thumb had brushed over Ilya's cheekbone. He hadn't liked the sound of that, and evidently, his distaste had been clear in his face, because his mother's lips had twitched minutely. "You can't destroy loneliness, Ilyusha—you can't kill it. It is not a monster in a video game or beat it like an opponent."
Ilya could do many things, even as the adults in his life had categorized him as a child, even as Andrei had sneered and spat out a word that always sent Ilya's stomach dropping. Even as his father turned to ice. He had thought, then, that he could. If he tried really hard.
No excuses, no laziness.
He could do anything.
"Are you lonely?" he had asked. "I can help you get rid of it. I can."
"You can do many things," she had said, pinching his nose and causing him to squawk. "And you will do thousands of incredible things—today, tomorrow, 30 years later. You'll make many friends, learn so much, and achieve what you work for—"
"—And win a gold medal in the Olympics," he had said. "Three gold medals"
Her lips had twitched again, and a rush of pride had made its way through Ilya at that. "Only three?"
"Five gold medals," Ilya had corrected and leaned back in his seat. "After five, I want to do something else. Maybe I'll start playing for a boring Canadian team."
He had said it to make her laugh—for the curve of her lips to finally break into glee, the sun breaking through the storm clouds, and the gnawing in his stomach would finally die down. She had hummed, instead.
"Whatever makes you happy. Do everything and anything that makes you happy."
"You think playing for Canada will make me happy?" Ilya had snorted, a little affronted—he wasn't boring, and he certainly didn't like maple syrup or moose or whatever it was that Canadians liked. He would much rather prefer America, maybe somewhere cool like New York or Boston. Some place with snow, at the very least.
His mother had pinched his nose again.
"Maybe it will," she had said, and Ilya had batted her hand away.
"Yeah, right!"
She had nudged the bowl of strawberries closer to him, and Ilya had scarfed down the plump red berries without much more prompting. The sweet, sticky juice had stained his mouth, and he had groaned when his mother tried to wipe it away, like he was a little kid.
It was years later, on a late night picking apart every single memory he still held of his mother, that Ilya realized it—that she never said if she was lonely.
In hindsight, she probably didn't have to.
It was clear: Her sorrow was each pill swallowed and lodged deep in her throat. Her loneliness was a shooting star—bright and burning and destructive only to her own existence. And she was always alone, Irina Rozanov; all alone in that prison of mahogany and velvet as the world sped up around her, all alone when she lifted the bottle to her mouth, alone for hours before anyone came upon her, and Ilya—
-
—He's fourteen, and he loses his virginity to a girl. It may be her first time, it may not—Ilya doesn't really know. All he really knows is that one moment, he's bringing her home for some school assignment, kicking the door behind him, and the next, she's pushing him down on the bed.
It's dizzying. She's pretty.
Afterwards, he tries to ask her if this is how it always feels, but the words get stuck, tongue tripping over half-formed syllables. Too clumsy in his mouth, too unfamiliar. She giggles, and it makes him feel—
Don't be fucking stupid.
He's fifteen at a party and kissing another girl. He doesn't know her name, and try as he might, he thinks she may have never told him. It doesn't matter. She looks at him now, with so much desire and heat that none of it really matters.
She tugs his hand up the stairs; Marleu whistles low, and all eyes turn to them. Their team's eyes turn to them. They had lost the game before that night—a brutal fucking loss—and Ilya's father had turned cold.
Colder than usual.
Before he had blinked, and had asked Ilya why he had not brought the bread home.
The question had baffled Ilya, the sudden haziness in those shards of ice his father called eyes, before the horror had set in. It was the looming dread of something about to shatter completely, of everything on the verge of going wrong. His father had simply walked away.
The silence had lingered behind him.
Post game, Ilya's team had been disappointed, his father furious before he had been…something else entirely, but now—now, Marleu was grinning, and his teammates were hooting something about Ilya being a dog with glee in their eyes, a pretty girl's hand was in his. The attention was sunshine. It was everything.
Ilya turns to the girl, and she kisses him, her chapstick tasting like honey and cherry—
Do you think anyone will want you on their team if you play like that? A weak link.
—He's sixteen, and Svetlana asks him to take her virginity. A few months later, he fucks Sasha, a man, for the first time.
Both times, with both people, it feels good—the way sex always does: A sort of heat and red-hot pleasure that dulls the mind and heightens every nerve in the body at the same time. With Sasha, Ilya's hands begin to sweat. With Svetlana, an unfamiliar bout of tears almost springs up.
He snaps out of it, just in time, though, and makes them feel good. Evidently, he succeeds, because Sasha puts a hand on Ilya's thigh a few days later, and Svetlana wraps her arms around his neck a week after that. Two beautiful people want him to warm their beds—a man and a woman, his two closest friends, what more could anyone want?
So, Ilya leans in—
Always so lazy.
—Ilya's seventeen and eighteen. Nineteen, then twenty. He hasn't been lonely in a while. He makes sure of it.
No excuses.
-
Darcy Swim Team:
hey! it's been a while how've you been???
-
Sasha:
Ilyaaaa where were u @?? Svetlana said u were coming to the…
Helloooo???
Youve been soooo boring recently lol
-
Lydia J.J.'s Party:
Are you going to the Epsilon party tonight?
-
The Team (Stop Changing The Name to Rozanov & Etc., Roz):
Chouinard: Is the plan still the Epsilon func???
Boodram: zeta psi is throwing too 🔥their music is better
Chouinard: bullshit
Barrett: Roz's hosting the pregame so let him decide
Chouinard: @Roz What's the move
Boodram: @Roz
J.J.: @Roz
Chouinard: @Roz
Boodram: @Roz
Dykstra: @Roz
Fanboy: @Roz
XXX-XXX-XXX: Stop spamming the gc
Hayes: @Roz
Dillon: is he ghosting lol
-
Barrett:
You still going out tonight?
-
Roxanne w/ Cuck Boyfriend:
hi ilya <3 not sure if u saw my last message
just wondering if u are still down to…
-
Joshua Red's Bathroom:
Hey. What are you up to tonight…
-
Svetlana:
come out with me tonight!!!
we can ditch sasha if he's being annoying 😛😛
i know this promoter…
[You have: 10+ unopened messages (see more)]
-
Me:
Open the door
Shane Hollander 🤓:
?
Me:
Open the door, Hollander
Shane Hollander 🤓:
Is that you knocking???
Me:
No it's Amazon Delivery
🙄
Of course it is me
Shane Hollander 🤓:
Fuck off
Me:
The door
Shane Hollander 🤓:
Say please jerk
Me:
Open the door or else I'm gonna start stripping naked
and ALLLL of your neighbors are going to see
Shane Hollander 🤓:
You wouldn't dare
Rozanov
Hello????
Ilya tugs at the collar of his shirt. There's been an odd sort of pressure building up in his chest for a week—some ballooning, uncomfortable thing on the verge of exploding. He hopes it's not his heart, because it's kind of important.
The team nurse had been utterly dismissive of his concerns—just listened to his heartbeat on her stethoscope, snorted, and set him on his way. So, that was just great. If Ilya died of a freak heart attack, it would be all her fault.
He wonders if Hollander would mourn him—his teammate and rival and guy who gave him orgasms sometimes—if he were to die. If he would care. The thought causes Ilya's chest to squeeze even more, and he winces. What was wrong with him?
The tight feeling rises from his chest and up to his throat—something suffocating, like a bow tie knotted a little too harshly—and Ilya tugs at his shirt collar again.
The door swings open, and Hollander is suddenly standing before him.
"Are you actually stripping right now?" The horror is clear on his face—each strong feature, the crunch of his nose, the pink curve of his mouth—all practically dripping with shock. The feeling in Ilya's chest loosens somewhat at that.
"Maybe," Ilya says, pulling the collar of his shirt further, and watches as Hollander's eyes dip to his neck, lingering on the bare skin and crucifix there. Ilya can feel it too, the weight of Hollander's eyes, like they were a pair of hands, steady and strong. "Would make for good conversation for your neighbors. Most exciting thing they have ever seen grace your front door, probably."
He expects Hollander to start spitting with rage at that, at being called boring in so many words, but instead, the other continues eyeing Ilya's throat. And his eyes are…Jesus, fuck. Dark and hungry, and half-clouded over with something delicate that Ilya wants to pluck out and crush in between two fingers.
"Mm," Hollander hums, noncommittal. A shiver rises up Ilya's spine. "I can smell the cigarettes from here."
"I had one."
"One too many," Hollander nags, and Ilya would roll his eyes, except the knots in his chest are unravelling and he doesn't really want to tear his gaze away from Hollander's face, in case he turns a new, unclassified shade of red or scowls or smiles ever so slightly. He keeps his gaze trained on Hollander's, and after a beat, Hollander's tongue swipes over his lower lip.
The shiver triples in intensity. It's not unlike being electrocuted alive, Ilya thinks.
"Come here," he hears himself saying. Even in his own ears, it sounds less like a command and more like a…plea. His throat closes up—the choking feeling returning with vindication—before Hollander hums again.
"No, you come here," he breathes out. His eyelashes flutter, wispy and stark against those freckles. The feeling subsides slightly.
"No, you come here."
"No, you—"
Ilya takes a step closer, and Hollander grabs a fistful of his shirt, the collar bunched up under his fingers—or maybe Hollander reaches out first, and Ilya is pulled helplessly into his orbit. Ilya doesn't really know. All he knows is that one moment they're apart and the next, they're together, and Hollander is bringing him into his apartment.
Ilya follows. Or leads.
When the door slams shut behind them, they're kissing, a ferocious, hungry sort of kissing that has Hollander gasping into Ilya's mouth. Ilya can't help but make tiny noises of his own, because, Christ, kissing Hollander is something else entirely.
He sinks his teeth into the other's bottom lip.
"How do you want me?" he mumbles against Hollander's mouth, and the other, unfortunately, detaches for air. Hollander squints at him, uncomprehending. His mouth looks soft and a little red already. Ilya leans in closer, hunger turning his stomach.
"In the kitchen again?" he kisses the corner of Hollander's mouth. "On the floor this time?" he kisses the other corner and feels that odd, tiny smile curl under his lips. Ilya pulls away to look at it properly, to see it, but Hollander cups his face and kisses him.
"Fat chance," he breathes out, and Ilya swallows down his words.
He finds himself in Hollander's room a few seconds later, and being here—in Hollander's bedroom, where he slept, is almost jarring enough to distract him. He eyes the bookshelf, made up of unfamiliar titles. How many of them were philosophy books? Did Hollander read anything else for fun? Did he have time?
Each new question piles on and on, and Ilya opens his mouth.
Just as the world spins on its axis, he finds himself on his back, on Hollander's bed.
He blinks, and Hollander looms over him—standing at the foot of the bed, chin tilted high—like a king. With his dark hair and Prince Charming features, handsome in a way that has had brands salivating after him since he was fourteen—maybe even before then—he could definitely pass for something close to royalty. Ilya's mouth dries.
"Hollander?"
"We've done a lot of things," he says. "Right?"
"Um…right," Ilya says. "I have made a list."
Hollander blinks. "What?"
Ilya props himself up on his elbows. "What? I said that we should. Remember? When we were here, and you gave me all these rules, like no missing more than three sessions—"
"We already missed one," Hollander cuts in. "By the way."
Ilya crinkles his nose. "When?"
"When we went to the bar."
"Oh, come on. You are not serious." Hollander gives him a deadpan look. "You are serious."
"Yes, Rozanov, I am," he says, stilted. "I came to your apartment that night for tutoring, you took me to a gay bar, we didn't go over anything from class that day—ergo, we missed a session."
"Yes, but you were not complaining much," Ilya says, but when Hollander starts spluttering, his brows drawing together, he shrugs. "Okay, fine. Two more get out of jail free cards, then."
Hollander scowls at him, his eyes flashing with an emotion that Ilya is only just getting acquainted with—an emotion that was practically drowning Hollander alive in his car, the week before, under the night sky, street lights, and memories that Hollander had shared through whispers. Hurt.
Regret immediately washes over Ilya.
"Kidding," he says. "That was not very funny."
A long beat. Be gentle.
"You're never funny," Hollander mutters. Ilya sits up, suddenly incredibly antsy and stomach roiling.
"Our tutoring sessions are not jail," he blurts out, staring up at Hollander's eyes. "They are—" Good. Insightful. My saving grace. The words get caught, a jumble of Russian, English, and nonsense. His throat closes in around the mess. "They are very helpful. You are very helpful."
Hollander raises an eyebrow. The hurt is gone from those eyes—mostly—but Ilya can still see traces of it in the tightness of Hollander's pink mouth, the clench of his jaw, and the antsiness jittering through every bone and joint in Ilya's body doesn't fade either.
"I mean it," he says. "You are like a miracle worker, Hollander."
Hollander's other eyebrow rises. "A miracle worker, Rozanov."
"My miracle worker," Ilya nods. It sounds stupid the second time, so he tries for a sardonic smile. He can't quite manage it. Whatever the case, the stifling, heavy emotion that had permeated before is gone from Hollander, and Ilya can finally breathe.
"Whatever," Hollander says. "You actually made a list? Of all the things we've done together?"
"All the things you have liked," Ilya corrects, his limbs loosening with relief. He threads his fingers in Hollander's comforter, and the material is soft. Probably cotton. Did Hollander pick them out himself—squinting at each comforter brand carefully to make sure he was picking the best one—or did his mom pick them all out? "So, yes, I guess everything we have done together."
"Dude," Hollander snorts. "Your ego is massive."
"I possess many massive things," Ilya says and watches Hollander's cheeks flush highlighter pink. "Do you want me to delete the list?"
"What?" Hollander blinks, then shakes his head. "No, it's fine." It looks like he might want to say more, but before Ilya can prompt him to speak, the other steps a little closer—until he's right in between Ilya's legs.
Ilya shuts his mouth, watching Hollander through his eyelashes instead, as he studies Ilya right back—chin still lifted up and ever-so proud. It's an odd angle, unfamiliar, but Ilya thinks that it's not so bad. Hollander places two careful hands on Ilya's shoulders, the warmth of them sinking through flesh and blood, and a small noise claws its way up Ilya's throat, unbidden.
Not so bad at all.
"I was doing research," Hollander says, his voice different from this close, the rumble of it unfairly soothing and gentle, like a lullaby. The urge to press his ear to Hollander's chest and listen to it from the source is one Ilya has to mentally bat away.
He swallows.
"Research?"
"Mhm," Hollander's fingers tap against Ilya's shoulders. Ilya's heart thuds. "Can I?" he blows out a breath. "Can I, er—"
"Er? What is er?"
"Shut up."
"Can I shut up?" Ilya asks. Hollander's brow furrows, and a laugh bubbles up in Ilya's throat. "I mean, I can, but you are going to ask more nicely if you want me to—"
"Can I ride you?"
Ilya has gotten many concussions in his life—an unfortunate byproduct of playing a high-contact sport—and a few of which were even courtesy of the man before him. For all his traumatic brain injuries, he could never get used to them. They were a special sort of beast, unlike any other bodily wound, and the first moments of the concussion were always the worst.
The tidal wave of dizziness, the feeling of your world spinning and rerouting itself, your very sense of reality caving in for a minute: It was a lot.
It was also nothing compared to this.
Ilya gawks, and really, nothing is all that funny anymore. "You want to—"
Hollander is turning lobster red, his freckles stark against the color—shoulders rising–and Ilya needs to sink his teeth into him. He needs to fuck him, he needs Hollander to bounce on his cock and fucking sing for it—
Head whirling, Ilya's fingers find Hollander's waist, sinking into his shirt and the warm, immovable muscle underneath. He holds on, like Hollander might recenter him. Hollander trembles under the sudden touch, yet. Yet, he doesn't squirm away.
Ilya blinks again and tries to ground himself.
"So," Hollander says, after a beat. "Can…Can I?"
You can do anything you want; the words almost spill free from Ilya's mouth. He swallows them back.
"Yes," he says. "Yes."
Hollander's eyes widen in surprise, his mouth dropping to an "O." He's wearing a button-down—each button fished perfectly through the corresponding hole, and his athletic shorts are just ridiculous. He's still not tilting his chin down to meet Ilya's gaze; instead, looking down at him, his clothes are perfectly pressed and ironed, and, suddenly, Ilya is so aware of everywhere they're touching.
He's handsome, Shane Hollander. Handsome, pretty, good-looking, and another adjective that Ilya knows—of course, he knows it, but he can't—
Hollander pushes him back down to the bed.
Ilya shoves those thoughts away and watches him as he gets undressed and neatly folds his clothes. He watches Hollander's miles of soft, unblemished skin, and the back dimples peek out when he turns. He watches Hollander approach the bed once again, nervous.
Like a skittish kitten.
Fuck.
He lingers there for a moment before Ilya slaps his thighs, and—-Hollander's eyes turn a little hazy, and he goes to Ilya. Heat pools in Ilya's stomach at that.
"Are you sure?" he manages.
Hollander's eyes heat, the competitive flare sending sparks skating up and down Ilya's body. "You think I can't do it, Rozanov?"
"Do you think you can, Hollander?"
"Just wait," Hollander's lips twitch into that odd, tiny smile, and for a moment, Ilya thinks Hollander might not even need to sink onto his cock to undo Ilya completely. His breath catches. "I'll fucking show you, dude."
-
For all his posturing and fire, Hollander seems to hesitate as he positions himself over Ilya—straddling his hips. It takes a second for Ilya to see it, his brain a little sluggish from the sight of Shane fucking Hollander naked and in his lap, his ass inches away from Ilya's cock. It's a fascinating sight, to say the least.
A little surreal, too.
Ilya blinks hard and glances up at the other's face. Hollander stares down at him, gnawing on his bottom lip. His cheeks have been steadily shifting from pink to red, a kind of red Hollander only gets when Ilya is seconds away from slamming his cock into him and making him scream for it. His eyes are wide—a cacophony of emotions in them.
Lust, yes, among a myriad of others—like fear.
Ilya is, quite frankly, so hard that he actually aches. He licks his lips, thinking of the best words to say to Hollander to not send him sprinting away in the other direction, claws and teeth bared. To keep him right here, where Ilya could get a hold of him.
"Slowly," he manages, eventually. Hollander's throat bobs. Ilya thinks of biting it bloody and brings his hands to Hollander's waist again. It still fits perfectly under his fingers, like the curve of it was made for Ilya's hands. "Take your time, Hollander."
"I know," Hollander mumbles, licking his lips. He still looks like he needs one more push to get him off the edge, and Ilya obliges—as he always has in all the years they've known each other.
"If it's too much for you, I can take the lead," he says, innocently. Very gentlemanly too. He bucks his hips up slightly, as if he might try to flip them over and, fuck—
Hollander's thighs tighten around his hips—all thick muscle and coiled strength—and he keeps Ilya pinned down to the bed, unable to move an inch. His hands slam down on either side of Ilya's head, bringing their faces closer together, and the heat of competition etched into every crevice of Hollander's features makes Ilya's cock drip with need in the condom.
Fuck.
"Dream on," Hollander snarls.
I'm in control, his glare screams. The way he's writhing his hips back ever so minutely, so that the head of Ilya's cock can catch at the rim of his sweet, tight hole, and the way the flush deepens every single time there's contact, though—
Even with the lust rushing through his bloodstream, Ilya raises his eyebrows, intrigued. "Okay," he says, and loosens his grip on Hollander's waist—though he doesn't let go. "You want me to be your personal dildo, yes?"
Hollander flinches in his grasp, eyes going big and round. "What?" Ilya ignores his shock.
"Come on, then," he says and bucks his hips up again, teasingly. His cock slides along the crease of Hollander's ass, the sensation nearly sending Ilya's eyes rolling back—fuck, he feels good, and Ilya isn't even inside of him yet. Ilya refocuses his eyes on Hollander's face.
"I can do that," he says. "I will lie here all pretty for you. So, ride me."
Show me.
Hollander's throat bobs once again, his eyes going hazy. For half a second, Ilya thinks the other might actually let him take the lead—to give up without a fight—but then, his gaze hardens. And a hand lands on the headboard behind Ilya's head, gripping tight.
"Fine," Hollander breathes out and, without preamble, begins to sink down onto Ilya's cock.
The heat and tightness and the feeling of HollanderHollanderHollander all around him is almost too much to bear. Distantly, Ilya knows he's thrown his head back, muscles in his neck straining. Distantly, he knows that he's groaning a little too loudly. Distantly, he knows he's barely staving off an orgasm.
But in the moment, what has the most clarity is the man on top of him.
Hollander looms over him, and he hasn't fallen apart on Ilya's cock just yet, which is a shame, but also not really at the same time because there's something insanely sexy about him like this: Strong and proud in Ilya's lap, eyes full of fire, and his body stuffed full of Ilya's cock.
Ilya grits his teeth.
Don't cum, he commands himself. Don't you dare fucking cum.
"Fuck," Hollander breathes out. "H-how—?"
"Hm?" Ilya manages to grunt out a semblance of a question. Hollander gnaws on the inside of his cheek and stares down at Ilya—his pupils blown out wide.
"How much more is left?"
A puff of air escapes Ilya's nose, the world's most pathetic attempt at a laugh. "Halfway."
"Halfway?" Hollander stammers, shocked. "Dude."
"You've, fuck, had me inside of you before. All nine inches."
"But not like this," Hollander says, and his alarm is making him squeeze tighter around Ilya, choking the life out of his dick. Ilya lets out another breath, slow and careful.
"You are doing fine," he says, tracing the length of Hollander's spine with a knuckle. Hollander's back arches into the touch, so sensitive, so sweet, and Ilya has to lean up and press a kiss to his cheek for it. Hollander burns hot to the touch, like the sun itself. "Taking me in very well."
The other man lets out a quiet noise, and after a beat, he sinks further down onto Ilya, another inch or two. Almost there.
Ilya bites back a gasp at the sensation, mind spinning, and presses a kiss to Hollander's lethal jaw, tasting the salt of skin and the warmth there. "So good, Hollander. Fucking incredible."
Hollander lets out another noise and finally, finally bottoms out.
Ilya sees stars.
"Fuck," he wheezes. "Holy—"
"Full," Hollander chokes out. "So full."
"Yeah?" Ilya manages. "You feel full of my cock?"
Hollander nods.
"Show me where."
Hollander stares at him for a second, uncomprehending, before Ilya repeats himself, voice hoarse.
"Show me where you feel full."
Hollander turns beet red, all the way from his chin to his hairline, but one of his hands—the one not gripping the headboard for dear life—reaches down and lands on his stomach. Ilya's heart screeches to a stop in his chest for a second, then two, as Hollander presses down gingerly on the planes of his abs, like he can fucking feel Ilya there, like Ilya's cock is bulging out right there and making him lose his pretty little mind, and—
"Here," he moans. "Can feel you all the way here, what the fuck, you've never been this deep before, Rozanov, oh—"
"Yeah?" Ilya says, delirious. Maybe he's losing his fucking mind. "You can feel me in your stomach, Hollander? I am that deep inside of you?"
He reaches out, and Hollander slaps his hand away, alarm momentarily washing over his features. Ilya tries not to feel like he just got cheated out of a million-dollar winner's lottery ticket.
"No!" Hollander stammers out. "If you do, I'm gonna—"
He cuts himself off just in time, but Ilya can put two and two together. He takes a glance at Hollander's untouched, dripping cock and looks back up at the other's face. He's gonna cum.
So receptive. "You can cum if you want," he says.
"Not yet," Hollander shoots back. "Not so soon."
"I'll just make you cum again."
Hollander shivers, almost looking tempted, but he snaps to it quickly enough. So receptive, yet also so scared. What a dichotomy he was.
"No. I'm gonna ride you." He rocks back onto Ilya's lap, as if testing it out, and Ilya groans. He's so tight.
"Then, do it," he says. "Unless you want me to flip you over and fuck you into the mattress."
"You wouldn't."
Ilya digs his fingers into Hollander's sides and jostles him just a little bit, enough that Hollander squeaks and thrashes in his grasp—fighting back against being manhandled, like he hates it, like Ilya can't feel the way his dick is practically drooling like a fountain at it.
He lets go just as fast and bites Hollander's ear.
"Move."
Hollander's hole twitches around Ilya's cock at that, but he moves.
He starts off a little clumsily at first, but because Hollander is Shane Hollander—eternal golden boy and prodigy blessed by the heavens—it's not long before he's fucking himself on Ilya's cock like he's being paid to do it.
Ilya keeps his eyes on Hollander, unable to look away. Pleasure always looked good on people, but Hollander wore pleasure like it was custom-designed and fitted for him and him alone. His hair was askew, skin flushed with a mix of all shades of red and pink, freckles practically glowing against the colors. The arch of his back, the straining muscles on his neck.
Pleasure was made for Shane Hollander.
Hollander blinks down at him, blearily, and Ilya's chest squeezes.
Those eyes—onyx and clouded with lust and need and a desperation for Ilya. They were beautiful. He is so fucking—
"Rozanov," he mewls.
Ilya leans up and crushes their lips together, unable to help it. They kiss, as Hollander seems to tire. His thighs tremble around Ilya's body, his movements becoming more sluggish. Still, to his credit, he tries to continue to move, unwilling to relent.
"Hollander," Ilya mumbles against the other's mouth. "Let me."
"I'm fine," the other grits out.
"You are tired," Ilya corrects.
"I can still—"
Ilya grabs his hips, his hold bruising, and Hollander keens. "You've done plenty, Hollander. I will help you now."
"How?" Hollander asks. In response, Ilya plants his feet on the bed and fucks up into the other. Hollander's grumbles evolve into gasps.
"Fuck," he moans, as Ilya bucks up, dragging Hollander down by his hips to meet him halfway, and Hollander's entire body jolts in shock. His eyes roll back for a second before they refocus to glare down at Ilya. Ilya would take it more seriously if it weren't for how flushed he was. "I don't need your help."
To prove his point, he drags himself off of Ilya's cock, each inch torturous, before nothing but the head is catching on his rim. Ilya grits his teeth. Hollander shoots him another glare and drops back down—all the way until Ilya's balls hit his ass and holy fuck—
Ilya throws his head back, a pathetic noise ripping free from his mouth.
Don't cum. It's easier said than done.
"Hollander," he manages.
Hollander whines above him. "You're t-too fucking big," he snarls. "Why are you so fucking big?" He sounds annoyed about it, irate about being stuffed full of Ilya's cock. The spasming, needy clench of his hole around Ilya says otherwise.
Ilya digs his fingers into the divots in the other's back. "You like it that much?"
"As if," Hollander's arms tremble and shake. Ilya grins and lets one of his hands fall down to grip the other's ass.
"Liar," he says and fists Hollander's cock. It spurts in his grasp, already halfway towards leaking completely over. So wet, like a girl. Hollander jolts again and wobbles precariously, his grip on the headboard slipping.
Ilya pumps the other's dick slowly. Hollander, seemingly overcome with the sudden stimulation to his neglected cock, rocks into his touch—chasing after it. His lips form around Ilya's name. Ilya's last name.
The need to hear Hollander moan his first name, his real name, overcomes Ilya for a moment. He digs his thumb into the underside of the other's cock.
"You like that I can get this deep," he rasps and lets go. Hollander's eyes fly open, alarm and lust and everything in between flashing over them, just as Ilya places a hand on his belly and pushes down.
Hollander screams.
He collapses onto Ilya's chest—a boneless, trembling mess—and Ilya can feel his cum splashing everywhere. Onto the probably 100% cotton sheets, onto both of their stomachs, and even on Ilya's chin.
Fuck, it feels good.
Hollander burns crimson, and he begins to move, as if he might try to push himself up.
As if.
Licking his lips, Ilya holds the other in place, an arm around his waist, and thrusts up into the other. The pace is savage and a little disjointed, and Hollander lets out a muffled cry with each movement, his forehead pressed to Ilya's shoulder. Hiding.
Ilya tolerates it for a second before he tilts the other's face to him.
And, God.
Hollander's a wreck—drool drips down his chin, beads of sweat dot his forehead, and his eyes are glassy with unshed tears. He no longer looks irate; he no longer looks proud—all of the bravado of being annoyed at finding pleasure in this is completely gone.
Now? Now, he just looks like a wanton slut.
Like Ilya's slut. His.
Ilya's heart lurches in his chest at the sight.
"You're leaking all over, out of every hole," he manages and bucks his hips up into the other, his pace faster now. Hollander lets himself be used now, shivering and trembling but not running away. His hands dig scrabble for purchase on Ilya's chest. Gripping on.
"Here," Ilya traces over the rim of Hollander's entrance, the lube turning the puffy, abused skin slick all over, as it swallows up Ilya's cock again and again. So fucking greedy.
"Rozanov," Hollander stammers, his eyes going wide. He tries to glance back over his shoulder, and Ilya nudges his chin back with his free hand.
He dips his thumb into the other's mouth, slack with drool and saliva. Hollander stares up at him—not biting down. His eyelashes are wet. "Here, too."
"Hnngh," Hollander cries, around his thumb.
Ilya pushes up into the other, harder, deeper, more-more-more, until he can hit the parts of Hollander that have never been touched before, to bruise Hollander in ways nobody else would ever be able to inflict, to take. He can feel his cock crush against Hollander's most sensitive place, and he holds it there for a beat, then two, as the man in his arms writhes like a livewire—his back arching with need and eyes rolling back.
Ilya holds him in place.
"Mmf!"
He thinks Hollander might have let out a muffled version of Ilya's name—he seems to be blabbering out something. With his mouth full, Ilya doesn't know if it's pleas for him to stop, to keep going, or to make him cum again.
What is unmistakable, though, is how fat tears begin to gather at his waterline and spill over.
Ilya leans down and licks one off of Hollander's freckled cheek. It's salty.
His thrusts go sloppy, careless, as he chases after his own pleasure. Hollander scrabbles at his chest, and Ilya lets his thumb slip free, just to hear the other's moans and mewls unmuffled.
Gasping for breath, Hollander stares up at him, and it looks like he might be trying for a glare.
"Cum," he slams his fists against Ilya's chest. Ilya can, personally, barely feel it right now. "Cum, you f-fucking—"
Ilya bounces him on his cock harder, a little harsher, and then, his eyes go hazy. Pleading. Oh, so sweet.
"Just cum already!" Hollander wails. He spasms around Ilya's cock violently, like he wants to push him out, yet when Ilya draws out as he pounds into the other, Hollander's walls also grip onto him like he never wants him to leave, as tight as a vice. A fucking dichotomy. A goddamn mystery. Shane Hollander.
"You, ah, want it?" Ilya grunts out. "Ask nicely."
Hollander's nails dig into his skin. "Please!" he begs, and—
Ilya kisses him. He has to. There's nothing else to do.
Hollander kisses back, desperately. They kiss as Ilya cums, spilling into the condom and shuddering as his softened cock slips out. Hollander's hands find Ilya's face, fingers sinking into Ilya's curls, a steady sort of weight. Ilya hums into his mouth.
A warmth seeps over his bones, across every inch of skin. It's soothing. He thinks he could fall asleep right here, right now, and his eyes nearly flutter shut.
"Showed you."
Huh. Ilya cracks open an eye and glances up at the other, blearily. It's a mistake.
If Shane Hollander is gorgeous in the throes of pleasure, drenched in sex and desire, he's something else like this—post orgasm, skin glowing with sweat, and hair all mussed. The choking feeling comes back at full force, a vine around the throat.
Hollander pushes Ilya's hair back off his forehead. His hand is warm and callused, from years on the ice and many more years to come. "You doubted me," he says. "I told you I could do it."
He stares down at Ilya, all onyx eyes and a constellation of freckles. Enjoy the loss from up there.
Shane fucking Hollander.
The vines tighten.
"Yeah," Ilya manages. "You really showed me."
-
Hollander pads out of the shower as Ilya is pulling on his T-shirt.
"You're leaving," he says, not like a question. More like an observation. Ilya pulls the hem of his shirt down.
"Uh huh."
Hollander is quiet for a moment, like he wants to say something. Ilya fiddles with the hem of his shirt, and for some reason, he finds himself waiting for…something. Anticipation roils in his gut.
"Can I see the list?"
He blinks. Whatever he had been expecting, it had certainly not been that. "What list?"
"The list you made. About," Hollander's cheeked, scrubbed nice and clean from the shower, darkens to an apple red. The rest of his features are relaxed, though, neither sharpened nor hardened into jagged edges. So, not pissed. "Y'know."
It's odd to see that color on Hollander's face, not accompanied by every other component that made up anger. Ilya doesn't think it looks half-bad.
"Why?"
"It's a list about what I like during sex, right?" Hollander snorts and rubs a towel over his damp hair. He had put his clothes on in the bathroom, and Ilya eyes the way his ratty boring shirt clings to his shoulders, molding on like a second skin. An image of sinking his teeth into the fabric and pulling it off makes his cock twitch.
Fuck.
"Right."
"Then, I should be able to look at it."
"Fair enough," Ilya says and pulls out his phone. Clicking onto the notes app, he angles the screen towards Hollander, and the other steps in closer to read it.
"'Things Hollander likes to do with me, who is famously a man: Kissing. Dry humping,'" Ilya recalls out loud, from memory as Hollander's eyes fly over the screen. "'Blow jobs—giving and receiving in parentheses—'"
Hollander blinks, his face going cherry red.
"'Handjobs—giving and receiving, as well. Anal. Missionary and from the back. Kitchen sex'. I guess we can include riding on there, now."
"Presumptuous, much?" Hollander mutters.
Ilya raises his eyebrows toward the bed and the bedsheets soaked with Hollander's cum, already neatly folded up and ready to go to the laundry machine. "Is it presumptuous?"
Hollander rubs the nape of his neck, still cherry red. "Whatever."
As Ilya takes the phone back and types, he can feel Hollander eyeing him, like he wants to say something. Ilya waits patiently, and a minute passes. Eventually, he looks up and bites.
He swears, he used to be more patient than this.
"Yes?"
"What else is there to do?" Hollander asks. "I mean, haven't we basically done everything?"
Ilya laughs.
"I can think of more things," he says. A lot more things.