Chapter Text
You're fucking crazy, Rozanov.
Ilya had been hearing that phrase for a long damn time; sometimes it was jokingly, said on a laugh by someone like Marleau as Ilya drunkenly scaled a fence, or tried to take home two girls at once at a club, or half-seriously debated getting some stupid tattoo or another. Sometimes it was out on the ice, when Ilya would pull some wild, highlights-reel stunt that no one else would dare. And sometimes it was mean; snarled through bared, bloody teeth that Ilya had just split his knuckles on with a punch.
But sometimes he said it to himself too; when he was alone late at night, his hand on his cock and his mind on the boring, overly-perfect Canadian hockey player with black hair and beautiful freckles. Or when he would text said hockey player, playing a game he wasn't sure he could win, trying to coax the man he couldn't get out of his head to come into his bed.
And it was crazy, really; he shouldn't want Hollander at all, he should put their previous encounters in the past where they belonged, but Ilya just couldn't resist a bad idea. He liked the forbidden, the taboo; his coach's son, his brother's girlfriend, his teammate's sister, and, apparently, his number one hockey rival.
That's all it was. It was because Hollander was off-limits that made Ilya want him so bad, made him reach out, again and again, slowly chipping away at Hollander's hesitation with every flirtatious text, bolstered by the fact that Hollander never told him to stop, nor did he ever truly stop responding. Not even when Ilya would get a little too overt and Hollander would cease replying for the night; Ilya would just give it a couple weeks, let Hollander be flustered and get over it, and they'd be right back into a textual volley that made Ilya's mouth smile and his cock hard.
And what do you know, his patience had paid off; the right amount of flirty sexting right before meeting each other on the ice the final straw to get Hollander to snap, to stop fighting this thing they both clearly wanted, giving Ilya his address after furiously slamming him into the boards all night.
And now Ilya was here, in Hollander's bedroom, with his stupid, ornamental pillows and his sexy glass fireplace, and Ilya's tongue was pressing inside Hollander's tight little asshole like he'd been thinking about doing for literal years.
"Holy fuck don't stop."
Holy shit, Hollander.
Ilya couldn't stop the unsteady groan that slipped out of his throat if you paid him; he knew Hollander got needy when he was turned on, he vividly remembered Hollander's fingers in his hair the last time they had been together like this, he remembered Hollander's hips raising in protest when Ilya pulled his mouth off Hollander's cock, his whiny huff of want. But this—Hollander making a breathless demand for Ilya's mouth, his hard cock dripping pre-cum, knees pressed up until he was folded in fucking half under Ilya's hands—this was so beyond anything Ilya had hoped for; of course he wasn't going to stop, and he sure as fuck wasn't going to rush.
Was Hollander always like this? So sensitive, so responsive? Ilya barely had the tip of his tongue inside him but Hollander was panting, squirming, hole fluttering around Ilya's tongue like it didn't know whether to pull Ilya in or push him out. But Ilya knew, was sure enough for both of them, letting the spit pooling in his mouth slip down his tongue as he worked Hollander open until his nose was smushed against Hollander's perineum, and fuck that was great too. Hollander had showered after the game, of course, and had definitely prepared when he got home before Ilya arrived, which meant he just smelled good, he tasted good. Clean, yes, but the underlying, natural scent of him, taste of him, masculine and heavy, filled Ilya's head like cigarette smoke, and Ilya was savoring it like it was the last cig he'd ever have, but he wanted more.
Hollander whined—whined!—when Ilya withdrew, greedy hole trying to beckon him back and almost succeeding, Ilya unable to resist pressing a temporary, parting kiss to the spit-slick rim before giving Hollander's left leg a firm squeeze.
"Hold yourself open, Hollander."
No hesitation, no questions, Hollander immediately doing what Ilya directed him to do; pliant, perfect, so into this that he was putty in Ilya's hands, sweet little puppy eager to please, and Ilya praised him like one.
"Good boy."
Whether Hollander minded that little affirmation or not, Ilya didn't let him say, distracting him with another plunge of his tongue into Hollander's waiting heat and taking advantage of the slick spit to press the tip of his finger in alongside, Hollander's dusky brown rim clenching around the new addition uncertainly, but quick to relax, to let Ilya in.
Oh Hollander was enjoying this. Ilya knew he would; if Hollander played with himself with a dildo (he still could not believe that Hollander had admitted that to him), then it was no hard jump in logic that someone else playing with him would be even better, would take Hollander even higher. And judging by the way Hollander shot up in shock when Ilya pressed against his prostate, Ilya was the first to have this privilege.
"Holy fuck!"
A distant part of Ilya's brain acknowledged that yeah, Hollander was right to insist they not fuck like this at the All-Star Game two years ago. The idea of him trying to suppress that, of trying to bury that in a pillow, or behind his own hand, or Ilya's hand, was fucking criminal, and Ilya groaned, suddenly painfully aware of how hard he was, of how viciously he could feel his pulse in his cock, how tight his balls felt, fuck.
"Good?" he couldn't help but raise his head and ask, greedy to hear it, to hear Hollander acknowledge how good Ilya was making him feel, looking up Hollander's flushed body to meet his eye, daring him to deny it.
"Yes," Hollander said instead, cock jumping, shiny pre-cum leaking from the head of his cock like a faucet, and Ilya wanted to eat him, piece by delicious piece. "Fuck yes."
But first he'd coax as many pretty sounds out of him as he could, and Ilya watched the jut of Hollander's adam's apple as his head tilted back a moment later, shuddering so beautifully as Ilya used the pad of his finger to rub a tight little circle over that sensitive spot inside him, Ilya's brain alight with possibilities, with positions and toys he could use on Hollander, imagining how he might squirm with a vibrating plug or a cockring.
Fuck, Ilya needed to be inside him.
He added a second finger, noticing the subtle wince in the downward twitch of Hollander's eyebrows, but any discomfort from the stretch seemed to flee just as quickly as it came on. God he was made for this, he was made to be filled and fucked, and Ilya was made to stuff his mouth full of Hollander's pretty, leaking cock to reward him for it.
Hollander's hand in his hair, his pre-cum bursting across Ilya's tongue, and another gloriously loud sound from Hollander had Ilya's head swimming, so hazy with lust and excitement that it almost made him miss the gasping moans that were ingrained in Ilya's memory, staples of his spank bank when he got himself off to thoughts of Hollander late at night.
Hollander gave him an exquisite, longing whine when Ilya pulled off, body thrashing with confusion, with want, fingers pulling Ilya's hair and the nail beds of his other hand going white with how tight he was holding his knee up.
"Not yet," Ilya commanded him, diverting the attention of his mouth, dragging his lips and teeth up the inside of Hollander's thigh, rocking his fingers against his prostate just to hear him whine again. "Want you to come on my cock, Hollander. Want to feel you inside."
"Please. God, fuck, please."
The fucking throb of Hollander's cock almost gave him a head rush, forcing Ilya to take a slow, steadying breath against the inside of Hollander's thigh, running hockey drills in his head to calm himself down, even as he was drawn like a moth to the flame to where his fingers were still buried inside him, dreamily licking the stretched ring until Hollander said his name and pulled his hair and brought him back down to earth.
Fuck, I need to be inside him.
Ilya licked again like a reflex, collecting his scattered thoughts, forcing himself to let Hollander's leg down and pull his fingers from the silky grip of Hollander's body.
"Well, since you asked so nice, Hollander," Ilya pressed the words against Hollander's muscled abdomen, still trying to calm down even as his cock pulsed along with his rapid heart, smearing his messy mouth over Hollander's skin as his hands found Hollander's sides.
"Come here."
How the fuck could Ilya refuse? He didn't think he was capable, letting Hollander use his grip on Ilya's hair to pull him up to his mouth, surprisingly unsqueamish about putting his tongue down Ilya's throat even after Ilya's mouth had been fucking his asshole.
God he wished he could just sink inside him right now, wished he could hike Hollander's legs over his shoulders and just slide through the spit into that tempting little hole.
"Lube, Hollander," Ilya husked out instead, giving a last little lick into Hollander's sweet mouth before he could answer. "Where?"
"Drawer."
Lube, condom, check; Ilya thankful for the task to help him cool off, let him get his head back on straight, because Hollander suddenly did not look sure.
"Okay?"
Hollander looked up from Ilya's palm full of lube to his face, and Ilya could tell he was flustered, his eyelids blinking rapidly and his throat bobbing as he swallowed, and Ilya pushed through the disappointment sinking its way into his guts.
"We do not have to." It fucking pained him to say the words, after so long of wanting this, of thinking about it, flirting, teasing, loving Hollander's adorably honest texts, his cute, cheeky chirps on the ice, his beautiful freckles…
Ilya gently touched the side of Hollander's calf with the knuckles of his clean hand encouragingly; he would be disappointed if Hollander decided he didn't want to let Ilya fuck him, but maybe they could do other things anyway. Maybe Hollander would let Ilya go back to fingering him with his mouth on Hollander's cock, let Ilya feel his climax around his fingers, maybe—
"I want to."
Ilya looked at his face; determined, most certainly, but not fearful. He did not think Hollander was pushing himself to say yes when he really meant no, so Ilya nodded, curling back down over him to kiss a disorganized, lazy path over Hollander's belly and hips while Ilya's lube-slick fingers pressed back inside.
He smiled when Hollander's abdomen shuddered under his mouth, his breath uneven as Ilya rotated his wrist, making sure Hollander was properly slick inside, making sure that nothing about this would leave Hollander hurting.
Then, for the first time since Hollander had taken him into his mouth at the start of the evening, Ilya allowed his own cock a moment of attention, smearing the rest of the lube in his hand along his shaft, letting out a shaky breath against Hollander's hip at the way his dick jumped at the attention.
God, Hollander's hands… Ilya swallowed thickly as the man under him stroked his big palms over Ilya's shoulders, then closed his knees against Ilya's sides, the touch so sweet and gentle, so very… Hollander.
Ilya smiled again as he worked his lips up Hollander's belly, his chest, his neck, so endlessly charmed by Hollander's earnestness, but knowing there was a hungry animal in there too, waiting, and Ilya wanted to get bit.
"It's okay?"
He hovered over Hollander, one hand braced against the mattress right beside his chest, and the other on his own cock, guiding it to press against Hollander's opening questioningly, waiting for Hollander's yes. He got it immediately, a frantic nod and an encouraging squeeze to the back of Ilya's neck, and even in the soft light of Hollander's bedside lamps, the dark brown of his irises was not enough to hide how huge his pupils were—how ready he was, how much he wanted it.
Then he looked down, breath shivering, waiting for Ilya to press inside, and Ilya followed his gaze as he obeyed the unspoken request.
Fuuuuuuck. Fuck.
Ilya honestly had no idea what his body count was; he'd started experimenting with sex when he was fifteen years old, and had never been shy about using his face or his body to coax people into bed with him—men or women. And being an international hockey star all but ensured that he had an endless amount of opportunities to do just that, in clubs and bars and anywhere else he chose to seek it, really.
But none of those people were Shane Hollander, and none of them had looked quite as beautiful as he did when Ilya pressed inside.
God.
None of them felt like Hollander either; Ilya had never been with anyone so strong, so muscular. Never been with someone whose body demanded the way Hollander's did, pulling him in like he was meant to be there, testing the bounds of Ilya's self-control to the absolute limit, leaving him desperately taking steadying breaths as the tight heat enveloping the head of his cock spasmed and clenched. And still Hollander was pulling him in, pulling him down, with his perfect fucking ass and his tight grip on the back of Ilya's neck and his panting breath against the side of Ilya's head.
Slow, slow, slow.
Ilya pressed his lips to Hollander's neck, the racing thrum of his pulse keeping Ilya focused, keeping him from rushing, keeping him steady until his hips met Hollander's ass, unable to keep from moaning, unable to keep from sinking down hard into that perfect clench of heat.
"Ohmygod." Hollander's words slurred together so much Ilya was almost unable to decipher them, concentrating too hard on staying still, giving them both a moment to adjust, but Hollander shoved that thought out of a skyscraper when he purposefully clenched, arching up into Ilya a little as he did it and gasping when Ilya reactively hitched his hips with another moan. "Oh my god, please move."
That, Ilya had no problem understanding, and his body obeyed without a second thought, hooking one arm under Hollander's knee to hike his hips up, give Ilya more access, a better angle, both of Ilya's arms braced on the mattress and pulling back to watch Hollander's face.
Slow, slow, slow.
Hollander didn't want slow; that much became obvious in a matter of moments, in the insistent pull of his hands, the soft moans and pleasured gasps, the tilt of his head back against the pillows and the squirm of his hips until Ilya was moving the way Hollander wanted him to, the sound of his hips hitting Hollander's ass the only thing louder than their heavy breathing.
"Fuck, Hollander."
God, fuck; Hollander's heavy-lidded eyes slowly slid open, panting breaths huffing out of his parted lips, the flush on his cheeks making his freckles stand out, and it was like a fucking grappling hook into Ilya's guts—gorgeous goddamned Hollander sinking a tether into him and yanking. His body, his hands, his eyes; all of it pulled Ilya down, meeting Hollander's hungry mouth again and again.
"Holy shit, Rozanov."
He felt Hollander's unrestrained knee hike up higher against his side, felt his body tighten, watched his head tilt back against the pillows and watched his eyebrows furrow, hands holding hard to the back of Ilya's neck and the ball of his shoulder, and for a second something like pain almost seemed to flash across Hollander's features.
"Is still okay?" Ilya asked him; I can slow down, I can let your leg down, I can—
Another frantic nod of Hollander's head, his eyes flashing up to Ilya's before pulling him down for another kiss, Hollander's hand hot against the side of his face and his knee trying to hike up higher against Ilya's side again. Easy adjustment, to hook Hollander's other knee over his arm as well, and that…
That drove Hollander's hand into a fist in Ilya's hair, his grip so tight he might very well give Ilya a tension headache but who fucked cared! Who could possibly care about that when Hollander's tight little hole was squeezing him like that, pleasure racing up Ilya's spine like electricity, every messy kiss Hollander pulled him down for putting strain on his shoulders but utterly impossible to refuse.
Then Ilya tilted his head down, his forehead against Hollander's chin, Hollander's breath ruffling through the curls on the top of his scalp as Ilya gorged himself on the sight of Hollander's sweat-damp body and dripping, angry red cock, fuck.
Christ, Hollander hadn't touched his own dick the entire night.
The thought nearly knocked him sideways, groaning at the realization, his brain whirling and tripping over it; would Hollander come if he touched his dick, even a little? Would that make him too sensitive for Ilya to fuck him, so he was holding off, waiting until Ilya came? Was he waiting for permission? For Ilya to tell him to do it? Was he waiting for Ilya to touch him, to jerk him off? He would, of course he would, but he couldn't do it like this, couldn't keep up the pace Hollander seemed to want with just one arm to support him.
Then Hollander writhed, a high whine squeaking out of his throat and his head jerking back further into the pillows, a heavy drip of pre-cum escaping his dick and landing on his lower belly and it was too fucking much.
The sound Hollander made with Ilya withdrew nearly ended him right there—desperate, almost panicked, his hands pulling at Ilya's hair, his arm, his face pinched in confusion that yanked on that grappling hook nestled in Ilya's insides until Ilya could soothe him.
"Shh," Ilya cooed, coaxing Hollander to let go of his hair with a gentle smile, his hand giving a little squeeze to Hollander's wrist. "Trust me, you will like this. Hands and knees."
Like the last time Ilya asked him to get on his stomach, Hollander looked adorably confused for a second before he moved, obediently following the push and pull of Ilya's hands until he was on all fours, trying to look over his shoulder as Ilya guided himself back to Hollander's fuck-puffy hole, and fuck, this time Ilya could see.
He could watch, properly, the way Hollander opened for him, could watch his cock slowly disappear, could watch Hollander's rim flutter and clench while Hollander made the most gorgeous fucking sounds and tilted his hips back, sinking Ilya home to the hilt with a rock of his pelvis that forced Ilya to let out a slow, controlled breath.
Slow, slow, slow.
Hollander was breathing raggedly, even as his hips hitched back, and it gave Ilya pause; he knew it felt different, this way—deeper, more pressure. He was sure Hollander would like it—would like fucking like this—but he stilled his hips anyway, curling over Hollander's back to kiss his skin, wrap his hand over the top of Hollander's shoulder and just let him feel it, make sure it still felt good, that it wasn't too much.
"Is still okay?"
"Jesus Christ," was the answer he got, along with a shove back of Hollander's body that made them both gasp.
Take that as a yes.
It was so much a yes that Ilya couldn't even tease; he couldn't chirp Hollander for being impatient, couldn't wind him up for being so eager after two years of putting Ilya off. Not when Hollander was rocking back like that, panting like that, his hands restlessly moving back and forth between gripping the pillows to gripping the headboard, pushing Ilya into those quick, snappy thrusts that made his cross necklace swing wildly between them.
Fuck, Hollander was hot like this; he liked putting himself in Ilya's hands, liked letting someone else lead him to pleasure—that much had become clear by their second hook-up, Hollander falling to his knees the second Ilya had told him to—but when he wanted something, he got it, and watching his lithe, muscled back flex as he rocked backwards, chasing his pleasure on Ilya's cock, made Ilya want to bite every fucking inch of him.
"Fuuuuck, Hollander."
He could tell Hollander wanted it faster, harder, the two of them falling out of sync a little as he chased that frenzied pace, squirming at the discord until Ilya fixed it; leaning back with one hand on Hollander's hip and the other planted on the mattress, the change turning Hollander into fucking putty under him.
"Oh fuck."
Hollander's elbows hit the mattress, his back in a gorgeous arch, tensing his thighs as he let Ilya completely take over; let him dig his fingers into Hollander's hip and pull him back onto his cock so hard and fast Ilya was sure they'd both end up with bruises, Ilya huffing and panting with the effort but fuck it was worth it. It was worth it to see Hollander clinging to the pillow under his head like a lifeline, side of his face mashed against it and upturned cheek flushed and sweaty.
"Ah! Ah! Ah!"
Holy shit. Holy shit.
Ilya gasped as Hollander suddenly tightened, hands twisting in the pillows and face pinched, tense in a way that only meant one thing, and for a second Ilya was so shocked he could only gape.
"Are you…?" he gasped stupidly, even though he knew Hollander was, knew what the feeling of Hollander rhythmically pulsing around him meant, the squeeze so fucking good that Hollander's feeble confirmation a moment later hit him like a jolt of electricity.
"Oh god, Hollander!"
Ilya rocked back, grabbing Hollander's hips with both hands, orgasm punching through him like a body check to the boards, immediately pulling him back into a curl over Hollander's body and his teeth bared in a snarl, hunched like an animal as wave after wave of pleasure coursed through his body. And he was making noise, fuck. He was never loud like this, but he was moaning on every exhale, every hitch of his hips, chasing every ounce of pleasure he could wring from the clench of Hollander's body around his cock.
Then Hollander reached for him, his hand wrapping around Ilya's forearm, and Ilya could do nothing but melt, could do nothing but drape himself over Hollander's back, stroke his hand over Hollander's hair and kiss his sweaty shoulder and try to remember how to breathe.
"You have killed me, Hollander. I am dead."
It was a little too easy to fall back into bed, to rest his arm on Hollander's bent knee, nestle his head on Hollander's shoulder, accept Hollander's arm around him, his hand brushing Ilya's chest. It was a little too easy and a little too comfortable, and that should have been the first warning bell, really.
"That was so fucking hot."
Yes, it fucking was, and Hollander's body had already told him so; but hearing Hollander say it so plainly and earnestly, his voice low and warm and content, still tugged at that hook Hollander had sank inside him. A hook that Ilya already knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, was going to exsanguinate him someday.
And still Ilya brought his hand up to touch Hollander's wrist, stroking his hand up Hollander's forearm, down to his hand, and Hollander rubbed his thumb against Ilya's chest until Ilya wiggled up the bed a little more, turning his face up toward Hollander's with a tiny smile.
"Worth the wait?"
He could pass it off as a light tease, a friendly little jab at Hollander's two-year-stint of playing hard to get, and it was that, a tiny bit.
But Hollander looked at him, and Ilya felt all the sharp little points of that grappling hook sink in all the deeper.
Hollander had looked at him a lot of ways over the years; annoyed and angry being the most common, given the nature of their professional relationship. But Ilya had also seen determined, perplexed, incredulous, amused (an ice rink in Toronto, a photo shoot Ilya still thought about). He'd seen shy and flustered, he'd seen cheeky and flirty. And sometimes, when Ilya was lucky, he had seen aroused Hollander; desperate, lustful, hungry, blissed out. He'd gotten the fucking gambit of Aroused Hollander tonight, a mental video reel that Ilya was going to be replaying forever.
None of those words fit the way Hollander was looking at him now. Ilya didn't think anyone had ever looked at him the way Hollander was looking at him now; no one had laid a gentle hand on his throat and kissed him the way Hollander was—on his lips, his forehead, their noses brushing together. Content… affectionate.
Fuck. Fuck.
"I should go." Before it became impossible to leave, before Ilya did something stupid like ask to stay.
Closed off. Yes, Ilya had seen this look before too; he hated this look on Hollander's face, hated to watch him withdraw into himself and close the door, but it was safer, this way. For both of them.
Hollander nodded, and Ilya forced himself to sit up.