The summary makes this sound less like what it is, which is the sort of horny interlude we get in the first part of episode 4.

With thanks to Phoenix, lately, and Citrusses for beta assistance! And xen (xen!!!!!) for an early encouraging read-through. My friend!!

Hollander's parents weren't mean enough to him, Ilya decides. He's an only child, too — that has to have played a part.

Almost certainly, nobody ever sat backwards on Hollander's chest and farted into his mouth while he tried to get away. Nobody ever poked his lower lip when he was sad and said a bird will come poop on this if you don't put it away. And definitely, nobody ever said my son can be lazy, right in front of his face, right in front of the owner of the new team that picked him first.

Probably, his parents say things like I am so proud of you and you tried your best and… Ilya's imagination falters for a moment, trying to picture Hollander with even more freckles and even bigger inky-brown eyes, with white too-square teeth in that narrow, still-boyish face.

God. He'd been a happy kid, hadn't he?

"What," says Hollander, because Ilya's been staring a bit too long, possibly. Hollander's wrist twists out of Ilya's grip where Ilya had it loosely pressed against the bed. Hollander reaches up and checks his hair, self-conscious. As if Ilya is going to be turned off by Hollander's flyaway bed head.

As if it could be so easy.

But nobody was mean to Hollander when he was little, which makes it impossible to resist being a little mean to him now. Ilya sits back on his heels and looks down between them.

Hollander's cock is, as always, eager and jutting up, even though he came not five minutes ago — came hard and fast on Ilya's tongue, back still pressed up against the inside of Hollander's closed apartment door. The pick-me of pricks, a perfect echo of Hollander's rigid studied posture in a team photo, how he sits at a press conference table.

"What?" says Hollander again, squirming, moving his hand from his hair down towards his cock. He doesn't go so far as to cover it, but his palm hovers between it and Ilya's stare.

God, he's so easy to annoy. "Nothing," says Ilya, raising one eyebrow.

"Just because I don't — spend my life — just — jerking it," Hollander sputters, prim for a guy whose cock is still rock-hard and leaking a fresh blurt of pre-come as they both watch. "I can get a little…pent up. Sometimes. And it's been, like. Two weeks."

Ilya sucks his lower lip into his mouth, nibbles on it, and keeps staring at Hollander's pretty pink dick. "What, you don't touch yourself when you're alone? You need an audience?" he asks, and looks up at Hollander, catches him looking at Ilya's mouth. "You don't take your little dildo friend on road trips?"

Hollander makes a strangled sound in his throat. Ilya knows this sound; it's horniness masked as indignation. "I have roommates," he says, "on the road."

"Rookies," says Ilya, scoffing. "Tell them to fuck off so you have privacy. Is good for captain to enforce team hierarchy this way."

Hollander does grab his dick at this, though it's not clear if it's meant to be an outlet for the indignation or the horniness. "Oh yeah," says Hollander, "is that what you do?"

It could be just a comeback, and not even a particularly good one, except it's Hollander; he's got this knack for seeing through Ilya. It's evident in the way his eyes are flashing: calling bullshit. He knows — how? — that Ilya wouldn't ever make a rookie leave their shared room so he could jerk it. He wouldn't even make them leave if he had a girl.

Ilya's heart squeezes: a jolt of pure adrenaline, the fear of being caught, of being seen, of being known, fuck. Fuck this, fuck it.

Ilya smiles crookedly to hide everything and scoots down the mattress, drops to his belly between Hollander's meaty thighs, licks an impudent stripe over the back of Hollander's closed hand, nips at the fine bump of knuckle where Hollander's thumb bends.

Hollander sighs and his fingers open like a flower with petals unfolding, letting Ilya in. Easy to annoy, easy to distract. Ilya appreciates this about Hollander so much.

Hollander's cock is so familiar. Ilya takes it in his hand and gives it a fond stroke, loving the heat and spring of it. He leans in and licks the almost-invisible scar just under the head, remembering the first time he spotted it, the quick conversation they'd had: this is where they cut you? and yeah, I guess, it's not like I remember and I haven't seen before, in Russia we don't do this, and yeah, I noticed, and I am generous, I can share my foreskin with you, and then they'd tried something Ilya had not done before, and at first they were snickering about it, and then Hollander found the right place to fuck into Ilya's foreskin, all wet like he got, and it almost hurt, but Ilya didn't care when Hollander was doing those little rabbity fucks and panting and then he finished in Ilya's foreskin, and Ilya still fucking jerks off about that time, the visceral feeling of Hollander spurting right against him, warm and slippery.

"Hang on, hang on," says Hollander now, palm to Ilya's forehead, urging him up, and whoops. Ilya was maybe getting carried away with licking and sucking and memory. "I —" says Hollander, and the pink blooms under his freckles over his nose as he struggles to say it. "I want to — the second time. I want you."

Ilya grins sharply, getting that thump-thump feeling he always gets in his belly when Hollander asks for his cock. "You want to get railed," he suggests. "You want me to split you open on my big dick."

"Fuck, Roz," says Hollander, shoving him away, but he's laughing in spite of himself. "You're so gross."

Oh god, the way he looks when he's smiling. Fuck. Ilya chases it, greedy. "You don't want?" he says, playing up the Russian accent. "You change mind?"

"No, I haven't fucking changed my mind," says Hollander, and crooks a calf up to catch Ilya at the small of his back, kicking him off-balance so he has to catch himself or risk falling onto Hollander.

Ilya lets himself fall. Nose to nose with Hollander, both of them laughing. Something under Ilya's jaw starts to twinge in that too-sweet way it does when they're like this: scattering kisses and pushing faces into necks, little whuffling breaths and half-caught gasps. Ilya nuzzles into the place behind Hollander's ear where the skin is thin and soft, where he sometimes finds a little bit of dried soap Hollander failed to rinse after the game.

After a while, Hollander starts rolling his hips up, asking wordlessly. Ilya pushes up on his hands and goes to find the lube in Hollander's bedside table, comes back to Hollander with one leg lying flat and open against the sheets. Yoga. Fucking hell. Ilya drizzles lube cold out of the bottle right onto Hollander's pretty pink little asshole just to hear him gasp, see him shiver, watch his pupils go big like they do when Ilya is mean in just the right way.

"Say it," says Ilya, circling his index finger through the slick. Hollander's rim flexes greedily into the touch, slutty like Hollander secretly is.

Hollander's jaw muscles flicker briefly, but he must be further gone than Ilya realized, because he doesn't put up much of a fight after all: "Open me up."

"You want my finger?" Ilya prompts. God, the way Hollander says this shit: the way his pink mouth goes taut and then spits the words out like cherry pits. "Tell me."

"I want your finger," says Hollander quickly, then adds on before Ilya can ask. "More. Two fingers."

"Already?" Ilya says with a cluck of disapproval. "Right to two, Hollander?" Ilya's joking — Hollander usually needs a bit of coaxing even for one, and they both know it.

"Yeah, why not," says Hollander, though. "Why not, just — put them in. Make me open for you."

"Jesus fucking," Ilya says, not ready for this, and twists his wrist like a reflex, plunges the tip of his middle finger in, one quick tight screw, pulls it out and goes back in with two — so tight — and Hollander makes a sound that just about tugs Ilya's spine out by the tail. "Like this? It hurts?"

"No, fuck you, it doesn't hurt," says Hollander, lying, the sweat standing on his upper lip, the pink spilling down his neck and shoulders the way it does when Ilya's got anything in his ass. "Don't — don't stop. I don't need —"

Mercy, Ilya's brain supplies, because it's nearly the same word in Russian. He chews his lower lip against saying it, fucking his fingers in and out of Hollander instead. He wants to watch it, the dirty-hot sight of his knuckles twisting into Hollander's ass, but can't look away from Hollander's face. Hollander is working so hard to be the best at this, like he works at everything else. The superstar of having his ass fingered.

"Fuck," explodes Hollander, writhing on Ilya's hand like he can't help it. "Don't —"

Ilya's hand is starting to hurt, cramping from working against Hollander's tight-clamped muscles, but he sets his jaw and keeps on, because he can feel Hollander beginning to yield to him. He curls his fingers, seeking, and Hollander's neck goes corded, his chin lifting, back arching. "There?" Ilya says, though he knows perfectly well it's there.

"Fuck," says Hollander, hands fisted in the sheets, sweating. "Fuck."

"You're going to come," Ilya says, barely making it a question. Hollander's cock is flexing and dribbling and so red, so eager, so hard.

Hollander shakes his head fitfully. "No, no," he says, "I want to — stop, I want —"

"You want," says Ilya, like he's confused.

"I want you," grates Hollander, "to fucking…fucking rail me."

"Oh," says Ilya, genuinely surprised. Hollander doesn't usually say shit like that, not when he's not actually at the brink, which means he really is — and Ilya withdraws his hand in a hurry as he realizes, even though it makes Hollander groan in disappointment and relief mingled. "Turn over," Ilya says. "For proper railing, you need to be on hands and knees."

Hollander's too far gone to do anything but obey. He goes without a laugh or an eye roll or a sneer, just hands and knees and thighs spread wide, head pillowed on his forearms. Ilya spares a wild thought to the idea of taking what Hollander is offering without the usual condom: just lube and in. Ilya's never done that, gone bare with any man. He's only rarely done it with girls, and certainly not since he started making money. The idea of having nothing between them, the idea of spilling deep inside Hollander, leaving himself there — fuck.

But of course, no. Of course not. Ilya stands up and gets a condom, rolls it on, then perfunctorily takes Hollander by the hips and drags him to the edge of the bed, rough hands, Hollander making a small yelp of surprise but offering no resistance.

In.

Fuck.

It takes a minute, Hollander still tight in spite of the lube Ilya's added. He really doesn't fuck himself on road trips, Ilya thinks wildly.

He really does save it all for Ilya.

Ilya puts a knee up on the mattress so he can bend his body over Hollander's, chasing this warm syrupy feeling, chest to back, kissing the freckles on Hollander's nape. "Let me in, zaichonok."

"You are definitely in," Hollander says, like he's trying to joke, but his voice sounds thick as though Ilya's cock is lodged in his throat.

"Mm," says Ilya, rolling his hips slowly. His cock feels like it's being squeezed. "Make me welcome, then."

"It's not so easy," says Hollander, aggrieved, but he trails off into a little breathy moan as Ilya withdraws and slides in again, slips a hand around and pinches Hollander's hard little nipple, squeezes his big hockey tit. "God," he says.

"That's it," says Ilya, pulling out a fraction and then easing in again, slowly feeling Hollander slacken just a bit. He squeezes again, loving the meat of Hollander, the animal of him, the maleness. Inspired, Ilya adds, in a whisper, "You're doing so well."

And like magic, Hollander's hips roll, his back goes swayed, and Ilya feels Hollander give in with a little sweet sigh.

"Yes," says Ilya, inordinately proud. He straightens up and gets both feet on the floor again, palms Hollander's round perfect ass, and gets to work properly.

Ilya pounds him. Hollander melts. For a while, there's only that: the slap and grunt and gasp of it. Ilya stops thinking. It's gloriously all-consuming and hedonistic and good. Ilya looks at where he's fucking into Hollander, lewd and wet, and then at the dip of Hollander's spine, the carved lines of traps, the faint divots of ribs. Hollander's huge biceps and triceps, the cords in his arms.

And Ilya's a vain motherfucker, so he doesn't shy away from looking at himself, too: his arms, his big hands holding onto Hollander, the way his abs flex and shine as he fucks, the fat hard base of his cock plunging.

He's seen it all so often, now, but he wants it more. He wants it every time, just as much.

Hollander's starting to make the hitching cries he makes when he's getting close, and neither of them has touched his cock yet. Ilya loves it when Hollander goes off from nothing but Ilya's dick in his ass, but it's not what he wants today. He pulls out, panting hard, and slaps Hollander on the flank to get him to roll. Hollander goes over and clambers right up the bed on heels and elbows, his cock bobbing wildly, his face hectic red, hair wet with sweat.

He's staring at Ilya with wide dark eyes like he's slaking his thirst for everything Ilya was just drinking in. Ilya looks down at himself too, pleased, and flexes a little. Hollander reaches up as though drawn, but he doesn't grab Ilya's chest. His fingers close around Ilya's cross pendant, drawing it away from where it's stuck crookedly to his damp skin, letting it dangle back in the middle of the chain.

Fuck.

Ilya drops down onto Hollander, wild, and barely remembers to check that the condom is in place as he frantically seeks to get back in. Face to face, now, and Hollander's got both calves over Ilya's shoulders, but he's so flexible these days, they can still kiss.

They kiss.

Ilya slows down, trying to catch his breath, trying to catch a scrap of sanity. His heart is pounding, his hands shaking. He looks down between them, not feeling equal to meeting Hollander's gaze. Looks instead at the obscene squeeze of Hollander's eager cock between their bellies, the dribble and poke of it as Ilya fucks him. Ilya groans and rolls his hips as deep as he can get, grinding, and Hollander makes a perfect choking sound as he claws his fingertips into Ilya's shoulders.

"So good," says Ilya, mindlessly, and Hollander keens in answer. "So good for me, Hollander," he says, chasing that sound.

"I need your hand," says Hollander, writhing. "Rozanov, your hand."

Ilya shifts his weight to get a hand free, slides it between them, and rings Hollander's dick in his fist, tight and timed to his thrusts. Considers, for a moment, taking his hand away again and making Hollander ask nicely — but no, Hollander the superstar of bottoms would just jizz everywhere anyway, untouched, fuck. Ilya jerks him, and Hollander shakes and strives, crying out.

"Give it to me," Ilya says. "It's mine."

Hollander shakes his head, closing his eyes, but his hand comes up and flattens over Ilya's chest. Hollander's not looking but his reach is unerring: his palm covers Ilya's pendant, traps it between them. It's — presumptuous, too intimate, too near to something raw inside Ilya's body — it's —

"Please," says Ilya. "Please, Hollander."

He doesn't even know what he means. Please let go of that? Please let go of yourself? Please let me go?

Please, please, please let it stop.

Please let it never stop.

Hollander opens his eyes, dark and mindlessly wanting, and he blinks once heavily before his jaw drops — pink tongue, perfect North American teeth — and he comes noisily, messily. He shoots up his chest, into Ilya's chest hair, and Ilya has the wild realization that maybe Hollander was just trying to keep jizz off Ilya's necklace, what a fucking dork, what a — fucking — and Ilya fucks hard and fast and determined, three, four, five —

"Hollander," he says, and comes so hard his vision goes spangled.

He doesn't notice the moment that Hollander releases his pendant, too busy in the post-orgasmic necessity of pulling out, holding the condom in place, not falling over from the overwhelming and immediate lassitude of it all. But when Ilya lies down next to Hollander, he realizes that of course Hollander must have let go at some point.

Hollander doesn't actually look capable of gripping anything right now: he's all open palms and heaving chest and fluttering eyelids.

Ilya kisses him between the eyebrows, impulsive and fond and stupid as always. "Good?" he says.

"Fuck you," says Hollander, but his hand comes up blindly to cup Ilya's jaw, hold him still so Ilya will keep dropping kisses like raindrops.

"Is still early," says Ilya, because their game had been in the afternoon and he'd come over right after dinner. "We could probably go one more time."

"Hm," says Hollander, mostly asleep, but still holding onto Ilya's face with his lax hand.

Ilya looks down Hollander's body, the mess of him: spunk smeared everywhere, sweat drying, lube visibly glistening on his thighs as they splay apart. His cock is still fucking half-mast. Shane Hollander doesn't know when to quit.

In a minute, Ilya will go get a cloth and wet it in the bathroom, bring it back to wipe them both down. He knows where Hollander keeps them. He knows the trick of where to stand in the shower while they're waiting for the water to get hot. He knows that Hollander makes a face when Ilya forgets to put the used condom in the trash in the bathroom, the one with the lid.

For now, he'll give in to the way Hollander is demanding affection: with simple unselfconscious entitlement, a beloved only child who knew reassurance and abundance so fully he can't even imagine anything else. Ilya kisses the freckle just under Hollander's left eye, lingers. Mm, says Hollander, and smiles lazily without opening his eyes.

"I really think," says Ilya, half-whispering, intimate and low, "that you should spend more time putting things in your ass. Ass is hungry. Ass needs more attention."

Hollander shoves Ilya away by the face and comes up on his elbows, a furious sweet bunny. "You're such a dick."

"I am not the one who still has massive boner," Ilya says, nodding downwards, because of course Hollander got harder when Ilya talked about putting things in his ass. "Don't worry. I told you, we have time. Maybe I can get my whole hand up there before I need to catch flight. You could be — what's it called? Hand puppet?" He mimes with his hand, playing at being very serious about this proposition, and then he's got an armful of indignant Hollander (with hard cock), and everything is good, easy, funny.

The fight spirals into laughter, and laughter into more playful kissing, and then Hollander is resting his head on Ilya's shoulder, breathing sleepily, lax and trusting.

Fuck. Hollander is so sweet, so good.

Maybe a happy child makes happy parents, and not the other way around.

Hollander sleeps. Ilya doesn't.

Written by a human in Ellipsus.