Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, Blow Jobs, Riding, Dry Humping, Dirty Talk, Light Dom/sub, Begging, Praise Kink, Marking, Dom/sub Undertones, Top Ilya Rozanov, Bottom Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Walks Ilya Rozanov Like A Dog, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Possessive Ilya Rozanov, POV Ilya Rozanov, Ilya "Down Horrendous" Rozanov, Light Puppy Play, what does that tag mean? read it and you will find out!!, Freak4Freak Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Crying During Sex, unbetaed so sorry if there are any typos!, Pre-Scene: Ilya Rozanov Makes Tuna Melts in Episode: s01e04 Rose, no ai was used in the writing of this work, in the words of the lovely hudson williams fuck ai fuck it so hard

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-13 Words: 15,322 Chapters: 1/1

this is side one (flip me over)

Summary

"Yes, I am touching your boner," Ilya smirked. "Hip boner," he moved his hand down, stroking as he did. "Pelvis boner." He dragged his finger further away, down. "Femur boner."

"I know that you know the difference between a bone and what a boner is, Rozanov," ground out Hollander. "You asshole."

So impatient. So perfect.

"A man cannot forget? Hollander, you know English is not my first language. I cannot understand what you may or may not imply, I need you to be specific for me."

"Okay," agreed Hollander, far too quickly. "Sure, I can do that." There was an expression on his face that Ilya recognized as the same one he got whenever Ilya chirped him during a face-off, right before Hollander would inevitably win the puck and take off flying down the ice, Ilya racing behind him, snapping at his heels.

---

Or: Ilya challenges Shane to talk dirty and gets more than he bargained for.

Notes

title is from "dead on arrival" by fall out boy

this fic originally started off as a funny little thought when I couldn't sleep, just a "what if Shane learned how to dirty talk by reading x-squad fanfiction on the gcu-verse version of ao3, but ilya got jealous thinking he picked it up from fucking other people" and somehow spiraled into ... this.

enjoy!

Ilya must have been a saint in a past life. It was the only possible explanation for why he had been blessed with the sight before him now: one Shane Hollander spread out in his bed, biting his lower lip and glancing up nervously through the fan of his lashes. 

Fuck, he was so cute. Already blushing. 

Ilya had only kissed Hollander a little bit — meaning, of course, that since the very moment that Hollander had opened the door to Ilya's place, they had barely separated their mouths. He had guided Hollander slowly to his bedroom via muscle memory alone, too busy with the brush of their lips together to move quickly or think coherently. Once inside, he'd pushed Hollander onto his bed and climbed on top of him, legs straddling his hips, working his tongue deeper into that plush mouth, trying to lick every single one of his perfect fucking teeth. He wanted every inch of Hollander so completely that it felt absurd. 

What was perhaps more absurd was that as he'd done all that, the only thing he could think was that Hollander probably had an insanely regimented dental hygiene routine he followed every single night to keep his perfect fucking teeth so fucking perfect. Ilya had wondered about mundane things: the order of the steps, if Hollander scraped his tongue or just brushed it, what brand of mouthwash he used. He definitely had an electric toothbrush, the little minx. Fuck, he'd probably even done research to compare which brand was the best before buying not only the toothbrush, but also extras of the corresponding brushheads, all so he could swap them out on the 'recommended schedule.' Or whatever.

Hollander just... he seemed like the type to do that: to make sure he was doing the most optimal thing when taking care of himself. He wanted to be the best at everything all the time. 

It was a fact.

The sky was blue; the ocean was salty; Hollander was wound tight because of his need for meticuolous control in every single aspect of his life.

Another fact: Ilya wanted to unravel him, wanted to make Hollander lose his self-control. He wanted him to give it all to Ilya, make him hold onto it for him. Even if only for a little while, he'd hold it all, whatever Hollander deigned. 

So.

Ilya had kissed him. And kissed him. And then kissed him some more, all before pulling back to look at Hollander.    

All that to say — he had barely even gotten started. 

Hollander was already excited though; Ilya could see it in how darkened his eyes were in the low lighting. He could feel it too; Hollander's rigid cock was pressing against his stomach. But he didn't say anything, just continued to look up at Ilya. 

Not ready to ask for it yet, thought Ilya. 

Throughout the years, Hollander had gotten much more confident during whatever - this - was, but no matter how many times they did it, he still remained bashful at the beginning of every encounter. It was almost like he was focused on all the reasons he shouldn't want this, when instead he should be focused on how much Ilya wanted him. 

No matter. 

He would get Hollander to give into accepting the pleasure Ilya wanted to provide him until there was no room in his head for anything else. He always did. During these occasions, Hollander had proven himself a master at taking it, always transforming into a wild, desperate thing once Ilya had gotten him to loosen up with a hand, a mouth on his cock, some fingers in him, whatever he wanted, whatever he begged for. 

For now though, he was still his usual shy self. 

Ilya, on the other hand, wasn't shy about sex. It was no secret to anyone, least of all himself, that Ilya loved to fuck: women, men, whoever was hot and actively consenting, whether for one night or as part of some other arrangement, whatever. The specific details were various and interchangeable, but what was always the same was this; he loved to feel good and to make others feel good. It was simple, really. 

But sex with Shane Hollander was... different. 

Ilya had fucked many people in his life in many different ways. He wasn't necessarily counting, he just knew it was a decently high number. But there was something about Hollander though - probably the forbidden aspect of it, because what else could it be? - that made their meet-ups stick out in his memory above all others. 

He was the one that Ilya would think about when they were apart, the one he would imagine when he took himself in hand, the one he dreamt of at night and would wake up, hard and aching for in the morning — except, of course, for the one time when Ilya had dreamed about the two of them going grocery shopping and kissing openly in the aisles, the other shoppers paying them no mind at all. Then, he'd woken up with a dull ache in his chest instead of a hard cock. But that had been a fluke, obviously.

Anyway.

What Ilya really should be currently focused on was the gorgeous, gorgeous man in front of him, here, now, warm and willing. He leaned in, trying to subtly breathe in the scent of Hollander, whose skin was probably meticulously scrubbed after the game earlier. 

Montreal had won, 3-1. It was in the past. 

In the present, they were finally in Ilya's bed, and that meant he could reward Hollander for his hat trick. He knew, of course, that there were other players on the Montreal team, but it really did seem like the only reason they ever won games was because Hollander was relentless in his quest to put the puck in the back of the net. The sight of Hollander skating around the ice in celebration after every goal he had scored, clearly basking in the jeers of Boston's angry crowd that only grew louder and louder with each one, evil little grin evident on his face — well. Ilya hoped very, very much that on the ice, people read the look he'd given Hollander as 'pissed off' and not 'turned on.' It was deeply unfortunate that in the moment, he couldn't react like he had wanted to. God, he'd wanted fiendishly to tackle Hollander to the ice and pin him down and fuck him, right then and there. Sadly though, all he'd managed to do during the game itself was slam Hollander into the boards a few times, all harder than he'd meant to.

Maybe.

He wasn't sure how much he'd been trying to rein himself in, but he was sure that Hollander had liked it very much, being knocked around by Ilya. It was like it had only spurred him on more, made him more focused on his goal of being the best, of proving to Ilya he was better than him. He kept casting glances at Ilya every so often, chin jutting, defiant.

Ilya had met each look and wondered if it was the same for Hollander, if whenever they played against one another he too felt like they were the only people in the whole rink, if not the world, because they were the only ones who could keep up with one another. For Ilya, it was like everything narrowed to just the two of them and to their dance with one another and the puck. Even the goalies and referees faded into mere background noise, an orchestra for their waltz. The clock ostensibly ticked on, a metronome keeping time, but for Ilya it felt like there was nothing else except the movement of their two bodies on the ice, chasing after one another, no one else mattering at all. 

Of course, in reality, there were other people, and they were everywhere: on the ice, on the benches, in the stands, living and dying in the surrounding cities. So. Just 'angry' glances and a few forceful collisions together was all Ilya had allowed himself in the rink. But now, here, he could show Hollander just what his goals (and the noises he'd made when Ilya had pinned him against the boards) had done to him then.

And he intended to. 

His skin is so soft, thought Ilya as he kissed the delicate spot behind Hollander's ear, the one he knew would make him shiver. He marveled at how clean the other man smelled: fresh and intoxicating. God, he couldn't wait to make him sweat, to make him stink of sex and of Ilya. Hollander would be thoroughly debauched once Ilya was done with him. Debauched and ruined, utterly ruined for anyone else.

They had more time than they usually did, but not by much really, because Hollander disliked being out too late. Always a stickler for his self-imposed rules. A shame, really —Ilya would love to see how many rounds they could go for, given unlimited time. He allowed himself another moment to sit with the wonderful impossibility of that idea of them somewhere, alone with no defined end... For sex.

Just sex.

Which Hollander was currently clearly starving for beneath his hands, waiting for Ilya to guide him.    

"Tell me what you need, Hollander, and I'll give it to you," Ilya murmured in his ear, before moving his head further down to kiss his neck. He felt, moreso than saw, the shudder that ran through Hollander at that. He hoped that he could feel Ilya's answering smile against his warm skin. He loved how responsive the other man was; nothing turned him on quite like the sounds he could pull out of him — gasps, moans, groans, keens, pleas, whatever. He wanted to hear all of it, wanted to catch every single one he could draw out of Hollander so he keep the sounds somewhere safe in his memory, buried deep, to be unearthed only later in the times when they were apart.   

He started messily mouthing at Hollander's beautiful, strong neck, wanting to hear exactly how he'd react under Ilya's lips, his tongue. He wished he could use his teeth, but he knew he couldn't be trusted to. Despite the fact that he desperately wanted to and the fact that Hollander loved when he did, Ilya knew if he started biting then he'd want to mar that flawless skin with marks everywhere and let everyone know that Ilya had been there. 

So he couldn't, because if he did then Hollander would be mad at him. And Ilya couldn't have that. 

Hollander's hands gripped Ilya's shoulders tightly and his hips canted upwards, searching for some friction. Ilya shifted above him and pushed one of his thighs between Hollander's legs and rocked. He relished in the shaky breaths it drew from Hollander, a force of habit from having to be quiet in hotel rooms, before trailing kisses along Hollander's neck, his jaw, any bit of him he could reach, grinding his cock on Hollander's thigh. Hollander rolled his hips in tandem with Ilya's movements, exhaling heavily.  

He could definitely do better than that. They were at Ilya's home tonight, so they could be as loud as they wanted. Ilya wanted to make him fucking scream. 

All in due time. All in due time.  

Ilya shifted them a bit, just so that their hips were better aligned, just so Hollander's cock could drag deliciously against his own, providing friction that simmered, building more and more with every passing second. He slipped his hands under Hollander's shirt, hands roaming over every inch of his smooth skin; it felt very warm to the touch, moreso than normal.

Hollander's hands were in his hair, directing him to kiss at this and that of his neck, so Ilya had to push back against them in order to look at him and say lowly, "Let me take this off," while his fingers tugged the hem of Hollander's shirt. 

"Yes. Yours too though," Hollander replied, the left corner of his mouth pulling up. "You first, actually."

Ilya pulled up his shirt, using the cover of the fabric to hide the fact that he rolled his eyes at Hollander's antics. He took his off and threw it behind him, not caring where it landed because then Hollander was shifting, letting Ilya take off his shirt, and —  

And fuck. 

His torso was starting to bruise; Ilya could see it, plain as day. It was obvious it was new — the skin was red, the same color as Hollander's lips, not yet bloomed into the typical mottled purple, so it had to be from him roughly shoving Hollander into the boards earlier. Before Ilya could stop himself, he reached out and pressed down on the spot that was the darkest in color. "This does not hurt you?" 

"It does when you put pressure on it, asshole," hissed Hollander. "Jesus." 

Despite his words, Ilya saw right through him as if he were a window; his pulse was visibly thrumming in his neck. He liked it. Ilya added two more fingers to the spot and pushed harder on the area, saying, "These are from me, yes?" 

"Don't know anyone else who was slamming me into the boards tonight like a maniac," ground out Hollander, panting a little bit. Despite his words, which seemed to imply he hadn't enjoyed it, Ilya could feel him getting harder. What a fucking freak, thought Ilya, more affectionately than he probably should have.  

Well, if he wanted to be a brat, Ilya would treat him like one. He wrapped both hands around Hollander's tender, bruised ribs, and squeezed once, experimentally. Hollander whimpered but didn't do anything else, just stared at Ilya, wide-eyed. Trusting. Ilya started applying more pressure, spurred on by the other man's reaction. 

"I liked that little noise you made the third - fourth? - time I had you pinned against the glass, earlier. You took it very well then. You're taking this well now, too."  

"You're a maniac, like I said," breathed Hollander, squirming underneath him, but Ilya could see: the praise was doing its job, getting him nice and compliant.  

Rather than state the obvious, which was, 'sure, but you're a maniac for enjoying it,' Ilya stopped pressing and replied softly, "Oh... so you don't want to wear the bruises that I gave you?" 

"Fuck," moaned Hollander, writhing around underneath Ilya, the frantic movement grinding their cocks together deliciously. He grabbed onto Ilya's shoulders, fingers digging in. 

"Yes? No? Is simple question, I think. Do you want to wear my marks, Hollander?" He knew he was being a little mean with it, but he wouldn't do it if Hollander didn't enjoy it.

"Yeah, yes, I- but..." breathed Hollander, before he stopped talking. It was clear after a few seconds he had no intention of continuing whatever he was going to say. 

Ilya hated when he did that, when he abandoned his sentences halfway through. Regardless, he was pretty sure he knew what Hollander would have said: but if there were marks on me, then people would ask where I got them, and when, and who from, and then they would want to talk about women, and sex, and it's so much easier to not do all of that, to pretend I'm straight and don't get laid because I'm too focused on hockey instead of the real truth. Which, of course, is that I'm a desperate slut for my biggest rival, and he's just as needy for me, if not more so, even though he can and basically does fuck whoever he wants. Or something like that, maybe.   

"If I could, if you let me, I'd cover you in bruises so everyone knew you belonged to me," he said, in Russian. In English, all he said was, "Is okay Hollander, worry not, I won't leave any more marks on you." 

"Well..." said Hollander, his face a scale that was clearly weighing his options. He looked a little shy as he continued, "I could give you some, maybe. People expect you to have those kinds of things, right?" 

There was an idea. Perhaps the only thing in the world that could be as hot as him leaving marks on Hollander was Hollander leaving them on Ilya. Everyone would just assume he'd gotten them from some puck bunny or whoever. The reality - that Shane Hollander had been the one to put them there - was a dirty little secret Ilya desperately wanted to carry around with him. The eager expression on Hollander's face only made him need it ten times more. 

"Da, yes," he agreed. "They do. So you will need to do a good job and give me many, like I would give you."  

"Well how many would you give me?" 

"Why, so you can give me one more than that?" 

"No... two more, obviously." 

Ilya laughed; he couldn't help it. He started kissing Hollander's mouth again, wet and filthy, trailing kisses all along his face, his jawline, his neck. God, he wanted to fucking devour him. But he needed to be patient. He had to be, because Hollander had to be led through this, teased until he'd give into Ilya and let him take from him all that he could. If he could bottle up the feeling of how it felt when Hollander, known control freak, willingly ceded it to Ilya — well. He would never need to smoke another cigarette, never need to take another shot of vodka, never need to smoke another joint, never need to sip another cup of coffee ever again. It would be the only drug he needed for the rest of time. Even thinking about it now... It was enough that Ilya couldn't help himself; he started scraping his teeth over the specific spot on the right side of Hollander's neck he knew would make him melt. 

Fuck, he wanted him so bad.  

"Touch me," gasped Hollander, like it was punched out of him. A beat. And then, sultrily, "I want you to feel how hard I get for you, Rozanov." 

Ilya blinked. Where had that come from? He wondered if Hollander could feel the flutter of his eyelashes against his neck. While he certainly had been expecting the first portion of that request from Hollander, who was usually pretty uncreative in his demands, the second half was definitely new. Normally it was all "please touch me, please suck me, please finger me, please fuck me," and the like, said as if it was ripped out of his mouth. Simple and straight to the point. 

This dirty talk, however, was pretty novel for Hollander. It was undeniably sexy though, so Ilya obliged. He trailed his hands down Hollander's smooth chest, past the hairs of his happy trail. He stopped right at the waistband of Hollander's underwear, cupping his hip with his left hand, dipping a couple of fingers under the band. His right hand lightly stroked all around Hollander's cock but always stopping short, always refusing to directly touch it.

Not yet, anyway. He wanted to have some fun first. 

"You wanted me to touch you here, da?" he asked, digging the fingers of his left hand into Hollander's hipbone, schooling his face into an innocent expression. "Very hard, yes, your bone." 

"You know what I meant," replied Hollander archly, his eyes narrowing. "Aren't you going to be good and give me what I want?" 

Yes, said a small part of his brain. Yes, yes, yes, I want to be so good for you. But a much larger part of his brain said that Hollander was too easy to rile up for Ilya to not continue on with it. He just got so frustrated when Ilya teased him, always managing to strike a balance between helplessly begging and haughtily demanding for exactly what he wanted that Ilya was helpless to resist. Something within him lit aflame at being able to provide what Hollander needed; it didn't matter what it was, it didn't matter how it was asked — though of course, he did like it best when Hollander begged. 

So no, he couldn't be good. If he wanted to get Hollander frustrated and desperate, all for Ilya, then he needed to continue to wind him up first.

"Yes, I am touching your boner," Ilya smirked. "Hip boner," he moved his hand down, stroking as he did. "Pelvis boner." He dragged his finger further away, down. "Femur boner."

"I know that you know the difference between a bone and what a boner is, Rozanov," ground out Hollander. "You asshole." 

So impatient. So perfect. 

"A man cannot forget? Hollander, you know English is not my first language. I cannot understand what you may or may not imply, I need you to be specific for me." 

"Okay," agreed Hollander, far too quickly. "Sure, I can do that." There was an expression on his face that Ilya recognized as the same one he got whenever Ilya chirped him during a face-off, right before Hollander would inevitably win the puck and take off flying down the ice, Ilya racing behind him, snapping at his heels. 

It thrilled him, a little bit, to see it now.  

"Okay, so..." said Ilya, trailing his fingers up and down Hollander's magnificent thighs.  

"I want you," replied Hollander, confidently, looking directly in Ilya's eyes, "to touch my hard, aching cock. You've got such nice hands, Rozanov, I want to feel them wrapped around me." 

Ilya should've known he would start going for it immediately — after all, he had issued a challenge to Hollander to be specific about what he wanted, knowing that the other man would rather cut off his own limbs than back down. 

Ilya didn't say anything in reply, just palmed him through his underwear, following Hollander's demand. He looked down at the sight. His hand looked so good grasping Hollander's hard length; it felt so good in his hand, too. There was a damp spot right by where the head was, his cock already leaking a bit, just from their hips rocking together, from Ilya kissing his neck. 

God. How Hollander always got so wet - like a girl, his mind supplied - Ilya would never know. It was fucking obscene. 

As if he could almost read Ilya's mind, Hollander asked, "Can you feel wet I am for you already, even through the fabric?"  

Fuck, thought Ilya. Hollander was going for it now. 

"Answer me, Rozanov," said Hollander, grabbing Ilya's chin, tilting it back up and forcing him to make eye contact. Jesus, was he aware how hot this was? He had to be. Ilya had to regain control somehow.  

"Da," Ilya said. "I can. But I want to take these," he snapped the waistband of Hollander's underwear with the hand had been absentmindedly stroking his hip, "off so I can better feel how wet you get for me with my..." he trailed off, knowing he had fucked up somehow from the furrow that appeared between Hollander's brows. "What?"

"Don't do that," pouted Hollander, "I don't want the elastic to wear out faster than it needs to." He had the randomest concerns, always, but it was so him that it was utterly endearing. 

"What?" asked Ilya, again, just to hear Hollander reprimand him once more.   

"Don't snap my underwear, it'll stretch out the band," he said, as if that was his biggest concern right now. 

That, and not Ilya's hand massaging his hard cock through his underwear. Ilya was a failure. A complete and utter failure. 

"Also, that wasn't very nice," continued Hollander. He was still pouting. His eyes were so round, so dark. He was a little flushed, his freckles radiant. His mouth was red and wet as he said, "Say sorry." 

Oh!

"I am sorry, Hollander, that was rude of me," said Ilya, trying moreso to look guileless than apologetic. This was kind of fun. 

"Hmm," Hollander replied, scanning Ilya's face. He seemed to find whatever he was looking for, because then he said, "That wasn't good enough for me. I think you should kiss that spot better. It kinda stung, you know?" 

Ilya felt himself start salivating as he maneuvered himself on the bed, positioning himself right between Hollander's thighs. "Yes, sweetheart," he replied, the word falling from his tongue as he leaned in. He was a little worried Hollander wouldn't like the petname, would freeze up and freak out, but thankfully either he didn't notice or didn't seem to mind. Maybe he had said it in Russian? Ilya wasn't sure, he just knew he wanted to get his mouth on Hollander's perfect cock. "Can I take these off to do it?" Ilya asked, his fingers tracing the fucking elastic Hollander had just scolded him over.

Hollander, the beautiful, beautiful bastard, looked down at Ilya and said, "Nyet." 

The word was a punch of desire to his gut. He dragged his cheek across Hollander's hard cock, feeling the warmth of it through the cotton, inhaling the scent of him as he made his way to where he'd snapped the band against Hollander's hip. 

"I'm sorry," Ilya said again as he pressed his wet, wet tongue to the spot, mouthing in a messy imitation of a kiss at Hollander's skin and the elastic band together. He could feel the fabric getting damper and damper with spit the longer he kissed it. His hands dug into Hollander's thighs, his nails pressing into the hard flesh enough to leave an indent, but not a permanent mark like he wished he could. 

He dragged his face down the straining length of Hollander's cock once more, murmuring, "That was so rude of me," and then started licking broad stripes over the fabric. They were probably from some brand Hollander had done a sponsorship with; they felt nice under his tongue, but he hated them fiercely, wanted them gone so he could put his mouth on bare skin.   

Above him, Hollander hummed, considering. 

Ilya looked up and saw on his that the gears were turning in his head. He shouldn't think at all; he should sink into the pleasure Ilya would provide him, bit by bit, until he was floating weightless in it. Ilya needed to say something, to convince Hollander he could let go, that Ilya was right there with him, for him. 

"Let me make it up to you, my pretty boy," he rumbled; he was pretty sure he'd said the epithet in Russian, but in truth he was so eager for Hollander to say yes, to give himself over to Ilya, that he wasn't entirely positive it was. 

No matter though. 

What concerned him more was that his throat felt like gravel. How was it possible he felt incredibly parched, while at the same time his mouth was practically drooling? But he knew why he felt that way, knew what he was salivating for as if he were one of Pavlov's dogs. He stared at Hollander, watching, waiting, every muscle in his body taut with anticipation. 

A shiver ran down Ilya's spine when he saw the exact moment that Hollander stopped thinking because that was it, what he'd been eagerly leaning in for. There was a certain glint that appeared in his doe-like eyes; Ilya had no words to describe what it looked like, he just knew it when he saw it. And there it was now, all his, and he was glad, so glad, because he craved it like nothing else. It was impossible for anything besides that to hit like this. 

Hollander was so pink, his eyes so dark, his voice so breathy when he said, "Yes. Okay." 

"Good," smiled Ilya, all teeth. Now that he'd been given permission, he wanted to tear the underwear off of Hollander. If he had claws, he honestly might've tried, he was that desperate; but he was human, so he settled for merely pulling the pair off and tossing them over his shoulder, kissing and biting his way back up Hollander's muscular thigh on his return. 

Hollander was letting out those soft sighs Ilya adored, each one a tiny puff of air that meant he was relaxing more and more into this, would let Ilya take care of him more and more. Ilya could never defininitively rank the list of his favorite sounds that he got Hollander to make, but there definitely was a list, and those quiet little noises were definitely on it. He dragged his mouth along the crease of Hollander's thigh where it joined his pelvis, wanting to tease some more. He scraped his teeth over Hollander's hipbone, wishing he could bite and mark his territory. But rather than lament what he couldn't do, as it was a longer list than Ilya wanted to think about right now, he kissed his way down, down to lap at his balls instead of putting his mouth on Hollander's cock. 

He knew if he kept this up, Hollander would start up with his whining. Ilya loved it when he whined. His view of Hollander wasn't great from this angle, but it worked well enough he could glance up and somewhat make eye contact.  

"F-fuck, Rozanov," Hollander stuttered, his eyes half-closed, brows furrowing, lips pinched around the corners in the way they did when he wanted more but didn't want to ask for it quite yet. 

Ilya wanted Hollander to ask. He wanted to make him beg for it. He winked and took one of Hollander's balls into his mouth, sucking.    

"Come on," groaned Hollander, his back arching a little, trying to hump the air as if it would somehow get Ilya's mouth where he wanted it to go. That was certainly like him. 

"What?" asked Ilya, innocently, pulling off. He turned his head to kiss at Hollander's perfect, thick corded thigh and was, for a brief moment, struck blind with anger that he could not leave a mark here, even in this most intimate spot, because Hollander's teammates might see it in the shower. 

A hand at the back of his neck brought him back, guiding him exactly where it wanted him to go. He found himself face to face with Hollander's cock, aching and beautiful and wet already. His tongue darted out to moisten his lips; he wanted to taste so badly. 

"Look at me," said Hollander softly. 

It was somehow the hardest thing in the world to drag his eyes away from the beautiful sight in front of him, but also the easiest, because Hollander had told him to. 

His pupils were large, so large, like he was getting as high off of this as Ilya was. 

"Yes?" asked Ilya, his voice rough. But because he was still himself, he asked, "You want something?" 

The hand at the back of his neck tightened its grip; the possessiveness of it went straight to Ilya's cock. 

"I want," said Hollander, lowly, sexily, staring directly into Ilya's eyes, "for you to suck my cock. You're so good at it, Rozanov, god, I've been thinking about it all night." 

The tone was new, not nearly as whiny as he was used to. It wasn't bad; actually, it was great. And the praise wasn't unwelcome to Ilya either; it was just a little odd to hear it now. Hollander was typically vocal whenever they did - this - but it erred more on the side of keening sounds than it did coherent sentences uttered in a way meant to rile up Ilya. He wasn't complaining; it was turning him on, but Ilya did idly wonder where this was all coming from, since it seemed to be ... was smooth because of being practiced a word in English? No, probably not, but that was exactly what it seemed like. Though he'd told Hollander to be specific, he figured any request would've been said haltingly and while blushing. Not this polished, not at all.  

He pushed those thoughts aside, though, and got to work. He'd reduce Hollander to his usual moans in no time. Ilya swirled his tongue around the head of Hollander's cock in the way he knew drove the other man wild before taking it into his mouth and bobbing his head. Above him, Hollander cursed softly. Had his mouth not been full, Ilya would've smirked. He really was so vocal, so lovely. 

Ilya wondered if he could take all of Hollander's cock down his throat. It seemed only right to try and have him as deep as he possibly could in this moment. He eased down further, slacking his jaw as he went inch by inch. He knew he must look obscene, his lips stretched wide around the base of Hollander's cock, nose practically touching his toned stomach. Ilya bet he could do it, could get that last inch; he was attempting to, the tip of his nose almost about to graze the smattering of hair there, when Hollander threaded one of his hands in Ilya's hair and pulled him back a little. 

"Too much," he said, chiding gently. The words felt like the swat of rolled-up newspaper on his nose.  

Ilya hummed in reply. And also a little bit because Hollander was pulling his hair. He started running his mouth up and down Hollander's cock, dragging his tongue, teasing again. He kept on doing that tonight, getting ahead of himself, trying to do too much too soon because he just wanted so fiercely that he could barely contain himself. But he needed to get ahold of himself and focus on Hollander, on taking good care of him, on making sure he'd come back for more and more. It was a precious thing, after all, to be entrusted with Hollander's pleasure; he needed to be appropriately reverent. He could do this for his - for him. For Hollander. 

One of his hands trailed up Hollander's chest to play with his pecs, squeezing. The other cupped his balls. He let the head of Hollander's cock rest on his tongue, mouth open, waiting. 

"Feels good?" asked Ilya, words misshapen by the weight of Hollander on his tongue. 

"Yes, Rozanov, fuck, keep going," Hollander moaned. 

There he was, the needy thing. God, Ilya wanted to wreck him, make him completely lose his composure, make him come down Ilya's throat and swallow every last drop. He wished, for a brief moment, that Hollander was a girl, capable of coming over and over and over in one night. What might that be like, to wring orgasm after orgasm after orgasm out of him until he couldn't come anymore? Would he scream? Would he cry?  

Currently, Hollander was making soft, almost rumbling noises, and it was their presence - and the lack of anything else substantial - that made Ilya realize he hadn't even put on any music in his haste to fuck Hollander. The fan was spinning above them, the heating kicked on every so often with a sudden whoosh, and his air purifier whirred softly, but beyond that, there was nothing to dull whatever noises Hollander made, nor the sound of Ilya wetly sucking his cock, using his hand to stroke in time with his mouth. It was somehow much, much more obscene like this in the quiet stillness of the room. 

Fuck, he needed to take Hollander apart with his mouth even more. He wanted the other man's moans to echo off the walls. Hollander's hands roamed, grasping the sheets, gripping Ilya's shoulders, threading themselves in his hair. Ilya wasn't sure how long had passed, too lost himself in the rhythm of sucking Hollander's cock. 

So it certainly took him off guard when Hollander, sounding almost confused, said, "Your hair is so soft." 

It was obvious that he wasn't trying to sound sexy at all; the way it was delivered, it was clear it was just an observation that had struck him that he voiced aloud. He was so adorable, so hilarious, so unique, so... Hollander. That was what Ilya was used to. 

Ilya pulled off his cock and huffed a laugh into Hollander's warm thigh. "Thank you," he said, smiling, taking a peek up at him. He'd been in - a trance, really, there was no other word for it - while sucking his cock and therefore wasn't really looking at Hollander. But during this break, he needed to take in the sight before him.   

Hollander was resplendent; a sheen of sweat on his pink face was starting to make him glisten, and he grinned down at Ilya with something in his eyes that Ilya wanted, very desperately, to call fondness. Hollander ran his fingers through Ilya's curls, scratching his scalp. It felt so good. Ilya was sure if he had a tail, it would be wagging. 

As it was, his dick did get a little harder, so... 

"You're welcome," came the reply. And then: "You may resume sucking my cock now." 

"Oh, may I?" asked Ilya, raising an eyebrow. He wanted to rile up Hollander a little bit more. Ilya loved pulling it all out of Hollander, bit by bit. He opened his mouth to say something else, but was beaten to the punch. 

Hollander fisted his hand in Ilya's hair, stuck out his bottom lip in a pout, and asked, "Please suck my cock again?" 

Ilya had wanted to put Hollander in his place; he found himself in his instead. 

"Yes," he gasped helplessly, and dove back down, his tongue swiping broad stripes up and down Hollander's cock before taking it in his mouth once more. The weight of it on his tongue was grounding. He needed to make him feel so good. Above him, Hollander gasped. Ilya slowly began to bob his head, building up his rhythm again, curling his tongue around Hollander's cock. He hollowed his cheeks, sucking hard because he wanted to hear - 

"Fuck," cried Hollander, "fuck, fuck, fuck, Rozanov. Rozanov, please." - 

that. 

Ilya ran his thumb over the wetness where his mouth was joined to Hollander's cock, trying to gather some of the spit that was leaking out onto the digit so he could get it well-lubricated. When he was satisfied, dragged it down, down, down, and pressed the tip of his finger against the furl of Hollander's hole, rubbing around the rim of it, light, teasing, just enough to let Hollander know what he intended to do next. He expected a few more "pleases" because Hollander was always so polite in his requests - for more, to be fucked, harder, please - ever the perfect Canadian boy, even when he was being a filthy slut for Ilya.  

"R-Rozanov," he murmured, softly, brokenly. Ilya looked up at his face as best he could while still sucking his cock. Hollander's brow was furrowed, his lip red and swollen. His eyes were hazy, glazed over.    

"Hollander," he said, pulling his mouth off Hollander's cock. He was surprised at how evenly it came out, much more so than he believed himself capable of at the moment. He didn't say anything else, just continued circling his finger around Hollander, dipping into him every so often but never enough for any real satisfaction. 

Hollander sucked in a breath. Ilya tried to commit the sight of his eyes in that moment to memory: they were dark, so dark, and so, so trusting. It made Ilya sick to think about anyone else seeing Hollander like this. He'd rather light the bed on fire with them both still in it than have anyone else know how it felt to have the Shane Hollander in their bed, doe-eyed with pleasure. He went to take Hollander's cock in his mouth again, when the other man spoke.  

"You need to stop sucking my cock or else I'm going to come. But I want-" he hitched a breath as Ilya pressed his thumb directly to his hole and started to push the digit inside, "Fuck." His eyes fluttered shut as he said, "I want you to open me up for your perfect cock." 

Ilya stilled, just for a brief moment. "Yes," he replied. "Yes, I want that too." 

Again: very hot. Again: unlike normal Hollander. 

It wasn't that Hollander wasn't excruciatingly sexy, typically; he was, but he was in his Hollander way. The man folded his clothes before sex, for God's sake. This was hot in a hot way, and for someone like Hollander who was usually flustered about sex in that cute, prudish manner of his... Well. Ilya wondered when he'd practiced this — because he was Hollander, so obviously he had practiced sexy things to say and how to say them.

Ilya shrugged off the thought that Hollander was doing it with someone else. That wasn't like him. It wasn't. 

... Right? 

Focus, Rozanov.  

He spit onto Hollander's hole and used it to work his thumb inside, watching his face as he did. Hollander's mouth was open, his eyes screwed shut. Ilya wanted it to be a little dirty, a little overwhelming at the start; he'd get lube and use his fingers to actually stretch Hollander out for his cock in a little bit. But he wanted this first, feral and filthy and fucked up, a little too much friction for it to be perfectly pleasurable. Ilya knew how Hollander liked it after the years spent doing this, and he needed to give Hollander exactly what he wanted so he'd keep coming back, taking more and more of him. 

"That's it, kotenok," he cooed. "You take me so well."

"Oh," gasped Hollander, his eyes flying open to stare at Ilya as Ilya started twisting his finger in and out of him, slowly, so slowly, like he was in no rush. He wasn't; he wanted to go achingly and deliberately, melting away at Hollander bit by bit. He didn't want to miss the moment when Hollander's eyes would go from searching to satisfied, like he'd finally gotten what he wanted. Ilya often wished he had an eidetic memory so he could commit the sight of it to exact detail, a perfect picture every time, instead of the imperfect impressionistic brushstrokes he was always left with. 

Hollander looked at him, luminescent.  

Ilya wanted to snort him like a line of cocaine. Fuck. He needed more of him, now, but instead he settled for sitting up, searching for the bottle of lube he knew he'd put within reach somewhere for easy access. Trust him to have the foresight to do that and then forget where it was. 

"It's on the nightstand," Hollander said, as if he knew exactly what Ilya was thinking. "So are condoms."

"Ah, very good Hollander," he said, noting the pleased expression that graced Hollander's face at his words. "I'm going to take my finger out, one second," said Ilya, giving him a heads-up. He knew Hollander liked to know what to expect. 

Ilya took the opportunity to strip off his underwear before he used his newly freed hands to reach and grab the bottle of lube, opening it and drizzling some onto his fingers, rubbing them together to try and warm up it up before bringing his hand back to Hollander's ass. He paused for a second, considering, and then he rolled off of Hollander and said, "Scoot over." 

Hollander looked at him questioningly, clearly unsure what Ilya had in mind, but he moved over slightly so Ilya could lay in the bed. 

Ilya gestured, trying to say, 'I want to plaster myself against your back and open you up with my fingers' with a wave of his hands. 

Hollander hadn't gotten Ilya's exact meaning. Instead, he rolled onto his side, presenting his perfect, perfect ass to Ilya. Ilya took a moment to admire it, but then used his non-lubed up hand to push on Hollander's shoulder and roll him over so that his stomach was on the mattress, his head turned turned to the side in the pillow so Ilya could still look at his pretty face. Ilya shifted so he was half on top of Hollander, careful not to press too much on him because of his bruises, and splayed his hand on Hollander's ass. 

"Please," was all Hollander said. 

It caught Ilya's ear and he decided he could give this to Hollander, since he begged so nicely. There would be more time to take him apart, anyway. Ilya liked it best when Hollander begged for his cock. 

Ilya slid his pointer finger into Hollander, saying, "There, that's what you needed, isn't it?" 

"Yes," Hollander breathed. 

It went much easier than his thumb had, due both to the fact that said thumb had been there before, and also because of the lube. He worked it in and out of Hollander for only a moment or two before Hollander started asking for more.  

"Give me another," rasped Hollander.  

"So greedy for it," he murmured, slipping a second finger in, just as asked. "Aren't you?"

He thought Hollander would've gasped at the feeling of it, but instead he sighed, pleased.

Ilya kissed his neck, messily. He was being so good, remembering not to use any teeth, when all he really wanted to do was bite into the soft flesh of Hollander's throat until he went limp and rolled over, showing his belly in submission like he should for Ilya. He moaned loudly when Ilya nipped at the back of his neck, unable to help himself. Ilya would have been upset that Hollander wasn't answering, but it was clear he'd gone a little stupid already, just from this. 

God, he was so pliant, so gone off of just two fingers; Ilya could see it on the half of his face that wasn't in the pillow. His eyes were shut, nose smushed a little bit, mouth agape, soft little moans escaping as Ilya thrust his fingers in deeper. He probably would let Ilya maneuver him however he wanted. In fact, Ilya probably should test this theory right now. He took one of Hollander's arms and put it over his head, and then the other: no resistance. He held both wrists in one hand, his fingers straining just a tad to fully grasp both; it would do, though. He didn't think Hollander was going to try to get loose any time soon. Hollander, who fought him fiercely on the ice, off the ice, hell, anywhere outside of the bedroom (or hotel room shower, or, on one memorable occasion, supply closet), was just letting Ilya arrange his limbs easily. 

Yes, this sealed it, Ilya definitely was a saint in a past life. It was the only explanation for why, in this one, he got to be able to do this, to hold Hollander's arms above his head and press him into the mattress as he opened him up for his cock. 

"You fucking love this, don't you?" he asked, his voice sandpaper rough. He ground his hardness down on the cheek of Hollander's ass, letting the other man know just how turned on he himself was. Because he was turned on; he was possibly harder than he had been in his entire life, fuck. How was it that Hollander did this to him?  

"Y-yes," moaned Hollander. It was half-muffled by the pillow; Ilya concentrated very hard so he could make out what Hollander was saying. "I fucking love your fingers, fuck, they drive me fucking crazy." 

"Do you think about them inside of you, when you're getting yourself off?" Ilya couldn't help himself. "Do you use yours and mourn the fact that they aren't mine?" he asked, his voice thick with his accent, with tension, with lust. Curiosity was gripping him in the base of his spine, curiosity or maybe jealousy. Both? 

Hollander was red, cherry red in the face. Ilya felt red-hot himself, his blood simmering. He needed to know Hollander thought about him, about this, about them. His hand tightened on Hollander's wrists, his grasp vicelike. 

"No," he gasped out, "I think-" he hitched a breath as Ilya slid his slick third finger in, no warning, "F-fuck. Rozanov." 

"Da?" the word was sharp, a mountain's jagged peak. An entire range spilled forth from his lips: "What do you think about then, when I'm not there to take care of you, needy boy?" He tried to press his fingers in deeper, reach parts of Hollander that - he hoped - only he had known.   

"I think about you," Hollander cried. "Your cock. F-fucking me. My ass. Or uh," he moaned, "Or my mouth sometimes." 

A shiver crept down Ilya's spine. His mouth curled into a smirk; his fingers curled as well, searching for Hollander's prostate. "Yes, that's so good, kotenok," his voice honey-sweet from knowing Hollander fantasized about him - too, supplied his traitorous mind - when he took himself in hand.  

"Oh, god," huffed Hollander, writhing under Ilya at the praise, starting to hump the mattress. Noting this, Ilya pushed a bit more of his weight onto him. He mouthed at Hollander's neck again, messily, as Hollander bucked underneath his weight, searching for both the press of Ilya and his fingers in his hole and the friction of the mattress on his cock. His movements were frantic, bucking, desperate. It wasn't enough for Ilya, though. He himself felt fucking feral; Hollander needed to be driven even wilder.  

In Hollander's ear, Ilya rumbled, "I want you to think about this next time you're doing that, taking yourself in hand. Can you be a good boy do that for me?" 

"Unh," moaned Hollander, rolling his face so it was fully in the pillow. Sometimes Ilya liked to watch as Hollander's greedy hole took him easily, and he did now, but it wasn't the sight that was undoing him. No, it was the desperate, keening noises that Hollander was making, quieted by the pillow, but not at all quiet. It was somehow hotter than if Ilya had been able to hear them at full volume, and they spurred Ilya on. He moved harder and faster, the way he knew Hollander loved, thrusting his fingers in and out, stretching him open. The fact that he had nothing coherent to say in reply meant Ilya was starting to break him. Good.

He leaned back and up, used the hand that had been restraining Hollander's hands to grasp the back of his neck instead, possessive, and press him further down into the mattress.

"I asked you a question," Ilya said, an edge of disappointment in his voice. Enough so that Hollander would behave the way he wanted. "I want you to answer me. Are you going to think about this, about me pressing you into the mattress and opening you up for my cock, the next time that you get yourself off?" 

"Yes," the word flung itself into the air, clear through the pillow. 

He moved his hand from the back of Hollander's neck to his hair, tugging so his head was turned to the side again. The expression on the half of his face could only be described as blissful. He loved this, it was so clear. Ilya loved giving it to him, putting that expression on his face. He wanted to lose himself in the sight of Hollander, dazed with pleasure. But he couldn't; he had a job to do.  

"Yes, what?" he prodded, wanting Hollander to go on.  

"Yes, I'm going to fucking think about this. About you above me, pressing me down, gripping my wrists, about your hand on my neck," he said, pushing his ass back on Ilya's hand, grinding himself against it, desperately searching for more, the poor thing. "I'm going to think about your mouth at my ear whispering filthy things as you fuck me open with your fingers, fuck." 

A bit more than he'd bargained for; Hollander kept surprising him tonight. He was trying hard to not let the fact his first reaction was to be taken aback and wonder when, exactly, Hollander had decided he should get better at dirty talk and had practice, every time Hollander did it. It was getting harder and harder though; the thought that Hollander was practicing with other people kept springing to the forefront of his mind, no matter how many times Ilya shoved it away.

"Very good, Hollander," he purred.    

"Fuck, Rozanov, I need you to give me your cock," panted Hollander, rolling over onto his back, Ilya's hand sliding out of him. "Need you to put it in me and make me take every fucking inch it so deep I feel it tomorrow." 

Ilya felt, abruptly, like a pot that had boiled over. All of Hollander's comments were getting him overheated to the point where, "Where the fuck did you learn all of this?" bubbled from his lips before he could stop himself. 

"What?" asked Hollander, his face doing — something.  

"The dirty talk, where does it come from?" 

On one hand, Ilya couldn't deny the filthy things Hollander was saying were working to drive him crazy. He felt dazed; probably because all the blood from his brain had made its way to his hard cock. But on the other hand, he was worried that Hollander had picked this up from... well, from someone else. Worried was too weak of a word, actually. It was more like Ilya was terrified of that, that someone else got to see Hollander aching and desperate and give him what he needed. Instead of him. 

There was a crackling noise in Ilya's ears: kindling catching, maybe.  

"Do you promise you won't make fun of me?" asked Hollander, his eyes finding Ilya's. They were so big, so guileless, so beautiful. 

"Sure," Ilya replied, wondering what could possibly be so embarrassing that he had to agree to this. A hook-up gone wrong, maybe?  

Some girl had taught him, probably, during a one night stand that had ended embarrassingly, something like that. Or, worse, another man. Ilya steadfastly refused to examine why another man would be much worse than a woman. Maybe it didn't matter; what did matter was that Ilya felt certain that Hollander had finally taken the stick out of his perfect, round, tight ass and started 'seeing' other people.

Which was... fine. Really. Ilya hooked up with other people all the time; he was infamous for it. Hollander on the other hand... did not. Maybe that was why it bothered Ilya so much. Because he was good at separating sex and relationships, whereas Hollander... 

Hollander was talking. Ilya should stop feeling - jealous, his traitorous mind supplied - and listen to him. 

"So there's this website..." began Hollander, before trailing off, clearly embarrassed. 

"Ah, Pornhub? XVideos?" Ilya asked when it seemed like Hollander wasn't going to continue. So Hollander was watching porn, not hooking up with anyone else. That was a totally normal explanantion. What was not normal was the Gordian knot in Ilya's chest that he felt fall to pieces, sliced cleanly in half by Hollander's admission that no other sexual partner had taught him how to talk dirty like this.  

"No," said Hollander, his nose wrinkling. "I think watching porn is kind of gross." 

"Wow, Mr. Feminist," said Ilya before he could stop himself. 

"Shut up," Hollander huffed. "I'm trying to tell you something here." 

"Sorry, yes, will shut up now."   

"Well... you know those X-Squad films?" At Ilya's nod, Hollander continued, "A lot of people ship Doctor X and Magnetus, and um, well they post stories on this website, OOA, sorry, ourownarchive.org. Some of them are kind of..." Hollander blushed even more, something that probably should not have been logistically possible. And yet. He looked exquisite, his freckles aglow. "Smutty." 

"Ship? Smutty? I do not think I know these words," said Ilya, slowly. He wracked his brain, but came up with nothing. He was, perhaps, distracted, because Hollander looked so discomfited. This was more what Ilya had been expecting when he'd issued the challenge to Hollander to be specific. He was a walking contradiction, shy when speaking about having sex and yet a freak when fucking. 

"It's like explicit stories about characters you want to be in a relationship," he ground out. 

"Explicit? So they curse a lot?" 

"They're having sex!" Hollander all but shrieked. 

God, Ilya was so charmed by it. By him.

"Ah, so you are merely reading porn, not watching it? And that's where you learned this?" Ilya let out a breath he didn't know he was holding; it came out as a laugh. 

"I said not to laugh!" Hollander's brow furrowed. He looked angry, like a little kitten would. How he managed to be so fucking adorable, Ilya would never know.  

"No, no, kotenok, you said not to make fun of you. I said nothing like that!" 

"You laughed!" pouted Hollander.

It was such a cute expression. Ilya wanted to kiss it off his face. So, he leaned in and did exactly that, just a few soft presses of his mouth to Hollander's. Too tender, perhaps, but he couldn't help himself. He pulled back before he did something dumb and said, "But so, they fuck. And that's where you learned all these things?" 

"You," stressed Hollander, "asked for specificity. 'Oh, Hollander,'" he huffed, in an awful imitation of a Russian acccent, "'I am not from here, you must say exactly what you want.'" 

"Fuck off, that's not what I sound like," said Ilya, petulant. He wanted confirmation it was just the fictions. "Answer me." 

"Some of them, yeah. Some have like, real stories and stuff, and the smut is also there scattered in the plot but, um." He looked at Ilya, his eyes large. "Some of them are just them fucking."   

"And they help you with dirty talk?" He felt like a fucking lawyer cross-examining Hollander, instead of his usual cross-check. He just... he had to be sure it was just this. That there was no one else. That Ilya was the only one lucky enough to experience what Shane Hollander was like when he was desperate to be fucked. 

Hollander nodded, seemingly shy again. "They um, they help with imagination." 

"Oh," said Ilya. "So I am not giving you enough material? Is that it?" 

"No," replied Hollander immediately. "Not at all. More like, um." 

"Like?" asked Ilya, needing to know how the rest of the sentence ended. It was imperative. 

"More like I need help." 

"You?" laughed Ilya. "Hollander, you are perfect. You need no help." Hollander looked like he wanted to protest, so Ilya pressed one of his hands - not the one that had been inside him, Hollander would kill him if he did that or, worse, never let Ilya fuck him ever again - to Hollander's face, holding him. "Yes, it is very hot to hear you say these new things, all sexy. But your noises you make, the little gasps, the way you breathe, how your eyes look at me, the way your mouth falls open, these are the things you do not intend, things that are natural to you. Very sexy. Devastating to me, actually."

"Okay, but you say shit like that!" Hollander cried, "I want to reciprocate, take you apart with my words like you do to me." 

"Ah, sure. You'll get better if we practice." Ilya hoped, very selfishly, that there was a lot of practice in his future. He looked Hollander up and down and then said, lowly, forcefully, "I like it. You studying on how to be such a good slut for me." His grip on Hollander's jaw tightened. Hollander's pupils dilated. 

"I want to suck your cock," declared Hollander. His eyes glittered with it. 

"Okay," Ilya replied, before he even thought about it. In truth, he was already hard and ready to fuck Hollander, but he was... hm. Obsessed was probably the correct word, but it didn't feel strong enough to convey how much Ilya loved the sight of Hollander sucking his cock. So who was he to deny himself of it?    

Hollander, always obedient, maneuvered himself down, down, so that he was right by Ilya's cock. Ilya couldn't help but look down at him. Hollander didn't tease at all; no, he went about sucking Ilya's cock with the same dogged determination he did everything with — jumping straight in, his desire to be the best at the forefront of his approach. His mouth was hot and eager. His fervency never failed to heat Ilya as well. 

Ilya put his hands on either side of Hollander's face, fingers gripping. Hollander's eyes fluttered shut, but Ilya kept watching him, transfixed by the blissful expression on his face. God, it was so clear he loved doing this, loved taking Ilya into his wet, slutty mouth, deeper and deeper and impossibly deeper. 

"Fuck, Hollander," Ilya breathed.  

Hollander pulled off and used his hand to stroke Ilya. In between kisses and bites to Ilya's thigh - which Ilya hoped would leave bruises - he asked, "Do you want to fuck my mouth?" 

"Yes," Ilya replied, almost immediately. Trying to play it cool didn't even occur to him. Why would it? Of course he wanted Hollander to take more of him. Ilya felt like if he got deep enough, he'd be able to plant little pieces of himself in there, where no one else could ever reach. 

Hollander put his mouth back on Ilya's cock and just... waited for Ilya to set the pace. 

"Relax," coaxed Ilya, "and breathe. That's it," he said, as he eased his cock in and out of Hollander's greedy mouth, further into his throat. "Just like that, you are being so good for me, taking it all." 

Hollander moaned, eyes opening and looking up at him. 

"Ready?" asked Ilya, waiting for Hollander to let him know that he could move in earnest. Hollander tapped Ilya's thigh, and Ilya took it as a sign to start moving his hips. He was lying on the bed, so he couldn't get too much leverage to really thrust, but he was so deep in Hollander's mouth that it didn't matter. Hollander's hands helped Ilya drive his hips and fuck his mouth. It felt wonderful, but Ilya was trying to focus on other things because he didn't want to come yet. He still had to fuck Hollander, after all.

He made the mistake of looking down at Hollander. There were tears in his eyes. Fuck, could Ilya make him cry when he came tonight?  

"You look so good like this, Shane Hollander. Mouth open and wet, taking my cock so well in your throat. Such a good whore for me."

The only reply that Hollander gave was the digging of his nails into Ilya's hips, hard enough that Ilya prayed they'd leave marks. He wanted to be covered in them, little reminders that this was actually real.  

"You love that, no? Being told what a good cockslut you are," said Ilya as he thrust more forcefully.    

The nails started raking down Ilya's thighs, scratching, as Hollander took him deeper and deeper, his throat working. Hollander's nails were neatly trimmed, but the way he was dragging them, Ilya figured there would be some evidence behind. Good. It wasn't enough - it never could be - but it seemed a start. Once, Ilya had fucked a girl with nails filed to sharp points. Stilettos, she'd called them, and she'd scraped them down his back, his chest, his legs. His hindbrain whispered what it might be like if Hollander had nails like that; he'd be able to get his claws in and carve Ilya up, into tiny little pieces that maybe he would put into the pockets of his clothes to take with him when he inevitably left.    

"I like it very much when you mark me. Yes, that's it, show everyone that you own me, fuck," he said in Russian. In English, he groaned, "I know, I know. You get off on me calling you a perfect whore." 

The vibrations of Hollander's answering moan hummed around Ilya's cock, delicious and almost too much. Ilya tightened his hands in Hollander's hair and pulled him back.    

"Hollander," he said, sternly. "I want to fuck you now. You want, yes?" 

"Yes," replied Hollander. "But I want to get on top, I want to ride you." 

All Ilya could think was: holy fuck. Hollander was really going for it. He cursed the past version of himself that set this challenge for Hollander, since it seemed like Hollander was trying to tick all the boxes on the "Ruin Ilya Rozanov for Everyone Else" checklist. He should've known. The other man was such a freak, deep down, probably mentally going through all the little notes he had gleaned from reading porn of comic book movie characters on some fan website, all so he could fuck Ilya better.

Ilya wouldn't want him any other way. Fuck.   

He took a moment to look - really look - at Hollander. His face, settled between Ilya's broad, hairy thighs, was bright red and streaked with tears, the lower half of it soaking wet with spit. His lips were puffy, wet. He was sniffling a tad, his freckles wrinkling a little when he did. And his eyes were saucers, begging. He was the most beautiful thing Ilya had ever seen. 

"Da," groaned Ilya. He scooted backwards a little so he could better prop himself against the pillows. Hollander followed his movement, shifting so that he was sitting in Ilya's lap, his strong thighs on either side of Ilya's legs. 

It was clear though that Hollander was a little timid still, now faced with the reality of being on top. Ilya was more than happy to help him out. He reached out with one hand and tugged Hollander in to kiss him. The other man went eagerly, opening his mouth beautifully so that Ilya could deepen the kiss. With his other hand, he pressed his fingers to Hollander's hole again. Ilya figured he was still pretty wet and open from his fingers earlier, but he figured he might as well check, make sure. Or tease Hollander some more. Whatever.

Hollander gasped a little as Ilya dipped his fingers in, just to tease really. He needed a task. 

Ilya murmured, "Can you get me a condom?" 

Hollander leaned a bit, hand fumbling on the nightstand where Ilya had laid out condoms before he grabbed one, opened it, and wordlessly handed it to Ilya. 

"Good boy," said Ilya softly. He knew Hollander liked praise; he was more than happy to give it. Especially when Hollander was about to let Ilya fuck him. He still, even after all these years, couldn't believe that Hollander allowed him do this — never in his wildest dreams would he have dreamt that Hollander would beg him to. God, he needed to hear it now. "You listen to me so well. I want you to watch me get myself ready." 

Above him, Hollander shivered and looked down, watching as Ilya rolled the condom onto his hard cock with one hand. The fingers of his other hand were still in Hollander, rubbing against his prostate. 

"You look very good like this, waiting for my cock. So patient, aren't you?" 

Hollander bit his lip and didn't say anything.  

"No? You aren't patient? You want me to fuck you that bad, you can't wait a little bit?" 

"I-"  

"Ask me, Hollander," said Ilya, his voice thick with desire. There was a war happening inside of him, and he wasn't sure which side would win. He needed to be inside Hollander; Ilya was sure he would go out of his mind if he wasn't feeling that tight heat in the next few seconds. But he wanted, very very badly, to know that Hollander needed this like Ilya did. Luckily, Ilya was well-practiced at pushing down how much he desired Hollander, so he was sure he could hold himself together long enough to get some lovely begging out of the other man.   

"Please, Rozanov." 

"Please what?" 

"Please fuck me." 

Ilya shook his head. "Not good enough." 

"Come on, Rozanov," whined Hollander. 

"Nyet," said Ilya. "You are better, be better." 

That landed exactly where it needed to; Hollander's eyes locked with Ilya's, sly, and he said, "Aren't you going to reward me for my win earlier? My hat trick? I know you liked it." 

Fuck. "Maybe I did." 

"There's no maybe, Rozanov," said Hollander, taking himself in hand. "I know you did. It got you all hot under the collar, me scoring on you over and over, til you just had to mark me then and there, didn't you?" 

"Maybe," said Ilya, again, dumbly. Fuck, was that all he could say? Really? He was using most of his energy to focus on his cracking resolve. He reached around for the bottle of lube and opened it, squirting some onto his cock and slicking himself up.  

"Would you have fucked me on the ice if it was just the two of us?" asked Hollander, softly.

Jesus Christ.  

"Da," said Ilya with no hesitation. "If you asked me to, yes." 

"I would've then." Hollander looked him in the eyes, lower lip stuck out, and purred, "And I'm asking now. Will you fuck me? Please?" 

"Yes," said Ilya, any desire to tease Hollander anymore completed melted away. Ilya lined up his cock with Hollander and pushed into him, just so the tip was in, before he stilled, looked at Hollander's face, and asked, "Okay?" 

Hollander glanced down at him, teeth dug into his lower lip, and nodded. 

"Aloud," commanded Ilya. 

"Yes, please, god, just keep going so you can fuck me already!" 

Satisfied, Ilya started to push further in. Hollander, apparently not on board with the pace Ilya was going at, lowered himself down until Ilya was fully seated inside him.  

"Oh," Hollander sighed, the most perfect sound in the world. Ilya wished he could replay it, over and over and over. He could set it as his alarm in the morning and never be tired of the sound of it.  

"Good?" asked Ilya, checking in. It felt great on his end, but he wanted to make sure it was pleasurable for the other man as well. 

"So good," murmured Hollander. He rolled his hips experimentally, grinding.

Almost as if they moved on their own accord, Ilya's hands grabbed Hollander's hips. "I'm glad," he breathed. "Now be good for me and show me what you've got, Hollander." 

It was apparently the right thing to say to him, as he proceeded to draw himself up and then sink down onto Ilya's cock, over and over. Watching Hollander as he bounced on it was interesting. They had done this a few times before. Hollander was getting much better at it, but one thing that remained the same was that he always seemed to chase his own pleasure. Normally in bed, he took whatever Ilya would give. Yet here, he was the one doing it all, setting the pace, taking Ilya deeper and deeper. It was incredibly fucking hot for Ilya to watch as Hollander threw back his head and started really moving. 

"Fuck, Rozanov, you feel so good," Hollander groaned, his palms flattening on Ilya's chest as he leaned into it more.

Ilya realized he was still attached to his own hands - he was a little distracted, sue him - and put them to use, urging Hollander to go harder. He wished he'd been lying on his back, so he could plant his feet and fuck up into Hollander, meet every movement with a thrust of his own. 

"You are such a good whore for me," said Ilya, in Russian, low and deliberate. He knew Hollander got off on him speaking Russian like this.  

As if to prove him right, Hollander started moaning. Though perhaps that was because he seemed to find the perfect rhythm and angle. The bed creaked with the sound of their movements — how embarrassing. Ilya was a professional hockey player who got paid a lot of money to play: meaning, he could buy the nice things. Expensive things. Luxurious, well-made things. And yet his bed was creaking under the weight of him and Hollander fucking, from the frantic bounce of Hollander atop Ilya. God, it was insanely hot. Had it ever done this with anyone else? Maybe Ilya was just not paying attention during those times; not like now, anyway, where he was trying to commit every detail to memory. The flush on Hollander's well-built chest, the movements of his muscular thighs, how he moaned when Ilya leaned forward to mouth messily at his nipples.       

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," chanted Hollander, his mouth screwing up tight, just like the rest of him was beginning to get. Once he started to get stuck repeating one word or so, that meant he was fairly close to coming — not urgent, but he was getting there. 

Low, in the base of Ilya's own spine, there was a building frisson as well. Wasn't that a pleasant surprise. When exactly had that happened? In truth, Ilya was lost in the filthy heat of Hollander and the rhythmic way he moved. He was sure he could come like this if he wanted to, but Ilya only got so many moments with Hollander; he needed to make them count.   

"I am going to flip us over," announced Ilya. "Because I want to fuck you on your back. Do you want me to?" 

"Yes," came the reply, very eager sounding. 

Ilya pulled out and rolled the two of them over - maybe next time, he'd try doing it while still inside Hollander, wasn't that a sexy idea - and positioned himself better so that he could slide right back into Hollander, he took a moment to look at Hollander beneath him. A progress check: his hair was messy and sticking to his forehead from sweat, his eyes were needy and begging, his lips were red and wet, and his cock was hard and weeping pre-cum.

Not utterly debauched; not yet. 

"Rozanov," Hollander groaned. "Stop dicking around and fuck me." 

Ilya let out a snort at that. He was sure the pun was unintentional. 

"Come on," whined Hollander. 

"You know how to get what you want." 

Hollander looked very much like he wanted to roll his eyes - the brat - but apparently he decided to be good this time, because he pouted and asked, "Please will you put your cock back in me again? I was getting close earlier. I fucking need to come on your cock. Please make me." 

The breath rushed out of Ilya at that. He sent a silent 'thank you' to whatever perverted freaks were on that website Hollander had been on who had taught him how to say things like this. Maybe he could make some sort of donation to it or something.

There was a lovely little loophole Hollander had created there that Ilya intended to exploit.   

"Yes, kotenok, I'll give you what you ask so pretty for, how could I not?" 

He pushed the rest of the way into Hollander but stilled. He'd gotten Hollander to beg; now he wanted Hollander to boss him around, just a little bit. And, well, technically, he just asked for Ilya to put his cock in — he hadn't asked to be fucked. And he was supposed to be specific about what he wanted. So, despite the fact that it was killing Ilya to not move, he didn't  

"Oh fuck you," whined Hollander when it became clear to him Ilya was waiting for him to say something else. "Don't you want to be good and give it to me?" he asked. 

Ilya didn't say anything. He knew how to push Hollander's buttons to get what he wanted. And get what he wanted, he did. 

Hollander grabbed Ilya by the throat, his fingers not digging in at all, just holding.  

"This is because I just asked you to put your cock in me, isn't it?" he asked. Ilya expected the next words out of Hollander's mouth to be 'you asshole,' so he was very surpised when Hollander said, low and kind of mean, "Should've known. You need a very short leash, don't you, puppy?" he asked, and fuck, if that didn't make Ilya's brain short-circuit, then nothing else would. He was dizzy with the thought of it, of Hollander actually putting a collar on him and using a leash to pull and drag him exactly where he wanted him, where he needed him. Ilya would be so good, would go along with it, because he wanted to please Hollander. He wanted to be the only one who would, who could. He knew for a fact he was the only one who should. "Oh," chuckled Hollander. It was a little condescending, and so, so sexy. "You like that thought?" 

"Da," replied Ilya. There was no point in pretending otherwise; he was practically vibrating with how much he liked it, coiled tight. Like a fucking dog play bowing, coiled and ready to go as soon as he got the signal. Fuck. 

"I thought you might. If I had a leash, I could tug on it now, get you to be a good boy and fuck me, Rozanov." His fingers squeezed lightly around Ilya's throat.   

Ilya felt slow, stupid with desire. His mind was shutting down; he was lucky his body knew exactly what to do, how to snap his hips forward to make Hollander squeak. And squeak he did. Fuck, he was so perfect. Ilya was going to ruin him; it was going to be beautiful. There was a place of himself that he only ever went when he was fucking Hollander, and he was there now. It was like his mind shut off, and all that there was was pure muscle memory and primal instinct. 

"You are so fucking needy," he said, not thinking anymore. Just acting, speaking, moving. One of his hands grabbed Hollander's wrist from where his hand was still wrapped around Ilya's neck and pinned it above his head; his other hand roamed over Hollander's taut body, fingers pinching his nipples and prodding the bruised area of his ribs. Hollander was gasping softly in reply, his mouth a little o. "So greedy for my cock. You want to take it?" Ilya asked, pulling out almost all the way so he could back in, in one hard and fluid motion, to punctuate the statement. "Hmm?"  

"Yes," replied Hollander, the word falling into the air like a bomb, shattering all of Ilya's remaining self-control. 

Ilya grinned, pleased, and all but snarled, "Then fucking take it all," as he thrust back in.   

He set a hard, bruising pace that, judging by Hollander's loud moans, was exactly what he wanted. His heels dug into the small of Ilya's back as he urged him in deeper and he was staring down, transfixed, at where Ilya was fucking into him. Ilya could tell, because he was staring at Hollander's face, relishing in the sight of him. It was insane, but Hollander was never so - blissed out was really the only word for it - as he was than when Ilya's cock was up his ass. The look on his face was pure pleasure.

Knowing he'd been the one to put that expression made Ilya fuck into him harder, deeper. He needed to give him more, needed Hollander to take everything he had; he would, he would, Ilya would make him. It was possible he said that out loud instead of just thought it. Ilya was so gone, he couldn't even tell the difference. Nor could he even begin to guess what language it could have been in. No, he was too focused on Hollander, on how perfect he felt around Ilya, even through the condom.   

In response to Ilya's thrusts, Hollander moaned like it was being pulled out of him, loud and long. Hollander was trying to say something; his mouth was moving. Whatever it was, the words were incoherent to Ilya over the rushing of blood in his ears as he chased the spot inside Hollander he knew would make the man howl. He needed Hollander baying like a hound, needed to know he felt as wild and desperate as Ilya did.

The world had seemingly narrowed without Ilya noticing; when had that happened? It wasn't important. There wasn't anything else outside of this bedroom. How could there be? How could anything that wasn't Hollander, the impossible heat of him wrapped around Ilya's cock, exist? No, Ilya was sure that there was only this, only them as they moved together as one. Maybe they didn't even exist separately. Maybe if Hollander's eyes were to close right now, Ilya would be in the dark too. 

"Look at me," he rumbled. 

Hollander obeyed immediately, looking back up at Ilya through his lashes. Their gazes, as if magnetized with opposing charges, locked together. Hollander was wearing that utterly perfect expression he got: his brows furrowed, his mouth hanging open, his eyes fucking huge and wet as he stared up at Ilya. Ilya was sure he was red in the face from the effort he was exerting to hold himself up and fuck into Hollander. It wasn't always that they fucked face to face, but he liked this, liked being able to see Hollander's face darken under his smattering of freckles. Fuck, Ilya wanted to lick them. Ilya’s golden necklace swung between their slick chests. The bed was creaking beneath them again and the sound of it, combined with the steady slaps of Ilya fucking into Hollander, was music to his ears. 

There was nothing Ilya felt more suited to than this, the slide of his cock in and out of Hollander's ass as he drove himself deeper, deeper. Maybe when he was made, whatever higher being that had created Ilya had crafted him with the sole purpose of fucking Hollander, of taking him apart bit by bit. He could believe in God - something he hadn't done since he was 12 years old - if it meant that that he and Hollander - Shane - were supposed to meet and do this. 

"F-fuck, Rozanov, I'm close," Shane sighed, his face screwed up. There were tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, ready to fall.  

"Oh?" asked Ilya. "Well... how then does my little slut want to be fucked? Should I keep going like this," he thrust at the same pace he'd been, "Or. Should I give it to you harder and deeper?"

"Oh god," moaned Shane. He started to rake his nails up and down Ilya's back, hard, much harder than he had done on Ilya's legs. Ilya was fairly sure these would leave marks he could admire after Shane left, his own perverted trophies that he sadly could only carry until they faded. 

"What's the answer?" In the base of his spine, Ilya felt sparks building, meaning he himself was getting close too. That was fine, but he needed to make Shane come first; Ilya's pleasure was always secondary when it came to his.         

"I want... I need... I want... I need," chanted Shane, over and over. It was almost like he was trying to start a different sentence each time, but gave up on it because he was too focused on the pleasure that was clearly overwhelming him, shutting down his ability to form a coherent sentence. Tears streamed silently from the corners of his large, searching eyes as Ilya continued to thrust in, hard. Shane was on the ledge, he just needed to be talked off of it. 

"Answer me," he commanded. 

Shane keened, "Harder, deeper, just use me, please, please, I need it." 

"Yes," hissed Ilya, "yes, that's it, take me, take my fucking cock." He couldn't stop talking. "My perfect fucktoy, my favorite, to use exactly how I want, how I need." 

"Fuck yes, yours, all yours," groaned Shane, his entire body tensing, his legs wrapping tighter around Ilya's hips, a sure sign he was about to come.

"Hollander," grit out Ilya. "I am close, so you need to come, because I want to feel your hole clenching around my cock when I do it. Can you be my good boy and do that?" 

"Y-yeah," nodded Shane. 

"Then be good, kotenok, and come for me."  

It wasn't exactly at his command that Shane came, but it was pretty damn close, since it took a few more hard, deep strokes. And he did come untouched all over his stomach and chest, making such a lovely mess of himself as he did, so Ilya counted it as a win. He had a scoreboard in his head for all the various ways he'd made Shane come. He also refused to examine why he didn't have that for anyone else — there was no time. There was nothing else now except Ilya's desire to come. He was content to come inside the condom inside Shane, but an idea struck him and he asked, "Fuck, Hollander, can I come on your chest?" 

"You can do whatever you want to me, Ilya Rozanov," smiled Shane dopily, his eyes closed, tear tracks still evident on his face. Ilya had done a great job then, if Hollander was this fuckdrunk, but he needed to do an even better one memorizing this very moment, the way his pretty lips had shaped out the syllables of Ilya's name, post-coital contentment dripping from every single one. 

Ilya tapped him to let him know he was pulling out. He didn't have any words, not anymore really, just a driving urge - in his spine, or his stomach, or his lungs, or his heart, or his fucking spleen, maybe - that pushed him to pull out, strip off the condom, and start stroking himself with no spit or lube or anything, just the precum leaking from the head of his cock.  

Shane, the perverted freak he was, scooped up some of his come that was on his chest into his hand and gestured with the other that Ilya should let him take over. It did make it slick, but the angle was slightly awkward, but it worked because Hollander was - heh - an expert stickhandler.

It felt good, of course it did, but then Shane was saying, "Rozanov, I want you to come for me. I want you to come all over me," and dropping his hand, shifting so that both of them were behind his head, stretching himself out.

Ilya, realizing what Shane was doing, began to stroke himself again. 

There was a smirk on Shane's face as he deliberately looked down at Ilya's hand on his cock, and then back up. "Reminds me of old times," he said, his eyes twinkling.  

The memory of the two of them in the shower sprang to the forefront of his mind. Ilya replied, "Yes, me too, but you are going to watch me finish this time." 

"Oh believe me," said Shane. "I want that. I like watching you come for me." 

"You want to be my muse and let me paint you? Mine, all mine," snarled Ilya in Russian as he got more frantic with it; there was no way he could manage English right now, he was so far gone with the need to finally, finally come. 

"Yeah, come on, be my good boy, Rozanov. Mark me with it, I want you to, please," panted Shane, and that was it. 

Ilya felt like a puppet whose strings had been cut — any tension that was in his body was swept out through his dick as he came, striping Shane's chest with it, mixing with what was there before. His post-orgasm brain latched onto that thought, of their cum mixing together on Shane, and he knew he must be making the dumbest face right now above him. He didn't care, but holding himself up was a Herculean task he no longer wished to do, so he flopped down on top of Shane - gently, since he knew his ribs probably were very tender - because he knew the other man loved being... smothered was the wrong word. Pressed. Squished? English was a weird language. 

"Rozanov, the cum is going to get on you too now," whispered Shane.

Ilya couldn't help it; he laughed. "Is a bit late for that. But okay, so we shower in a little bit? Maybe you let me see if I can get another round out of you? I need a moment, though, before we try that. You are a homicidal maniac who tried to murder me just now. I need to recover from this attempt on my life." Before he realized what he was doing, he was blowing a raspberry into the warm skin under his mouth.  

"God, you're stupid," laughed Shane. "No, not stupid, sorry. Silly." 

"Gee thanks," said Ilya, kissing Shane's neck. 

"Silly Ilya Rozanov," Shane giggled and oh.

Oh. Ilya realized suddenly that he'd somehow switched, that Hollander had become Shane, and that something dangerous was growing, deep within Ilya, and had been for a long time perhaps. The roots of it were already gnarled around all his organs like another circulatory system. He refused to name the feeling, even though he knew how it was shaped, what it might sound like if he said it aloud. But he couldn't, not yet. Not ever, probably. 

"That's me," he said instead, kissing Shane, thinking again of dental routines and spare toothbrushes.   

Ilya had done a good job scrubbing Hollander (Ilya forced himself to think of the other man as Hollander again) clean in the shower, once they had gotten up from the bed they'd all but torn apart. Unfortunately, they were both too spent to try and get it up again, but they had showered together, soaping each other up and lazily kissing, which wasn't something they typically did. It had been nice though. Ilya would've fed him something, or given him something other than water, but he wasn't entirely sure what Hollander might want. He'd have to figure that out for next time. 

Fuck. This time wasn't even over yet and Ilya was already imagining the next one. He couldn't help it though; any time he got a small sliver of Shane Hollander, it did nothing to satiate him. The opposite in fact - it just added to his gnawing hunger for the other man. His so-called rival.  

Hollander had tugged his clothes on afterwards, mumbling about the next games Montreal would be playing, where they were headed next. Ilya had listened, over the roaring bloodflow in his ears that said Hollander should stay here, with him.

But he shouldn't. He couldn't, and he definitely wouldn't; Ilya knew it as fact. 

He walked Hollander to the door because he was a gentleman, and also because he wanted all the last few precious seconds he could get with him. Ilya couldn't let him leave without a good movie kiss goodbye. He stepped in, crowding Hollander, hoping that he could somehow fill all his senses at once; he needed to give Hollander something to remember him by.

Or maybe he needed to take something to remember Hollander by; Ilya felt like he was panning a river, shaking rocks and trying to find gold he could keep. He pressed a hand around the back of Shane's neck and the other on his hip, tugging him impossibly closer so he could kiss Hollander breathless. When they broke apart, a string of spit connected their lips together. Ilya wondered if they could stay here like this, forever, this gossamer thread between them. 

But it broke when Hollander murmured, "See you around, I guess." He looked down, shifting from foot to foot. He always got so awkward after they were done, clearly anxious to go be able to freak out in peace now that reality was settling back in. 

"Yes, I'll see you when I am looking at you next," said Ilya. 

Hollander huffed out a small laugh at that, stole another kiss, just a peck, and then slipped out the doorway. 

Ilya closed the door to his penthouse after Hollander and felt, absurdly, like he was somehow the one outside of it, a stray dog scratching and begging to be let in.  

He sighed. His fingers itched for a cigarette, his throat burned for some vodka, his heart ached for something more than this, his once-more empty apartment.