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This isn't working. Ilya knows this isn't working. He knew it probably wasn't going to when he caught the eyes of the beautiful woman at the bar and propositioned her. He knew it, but he tried it anyway because he's desperate.
He shouldn't have done it, it's entirely unfair to her. Candance? Kelly? Something like that. He thinks. God he's terrible.
They're looking for him. The production and crew is probably panicking. Hollander is probably panicking.
Fuck. Hollander.
Just the thought of him makes him work faster, his fingers moving in and out of the woman pinned between him and the bathroom stall as he mouths at her neck. She tastes all wrong. Feels all wrong. Her perfume is too strong. Her skin too soft and her body too delicate.
Still, Ilya presses all the right spots. Touches her in all the right places to bring her pleasure. Just because he won't get off doesn't mean he's going to be a dick to her. He went out of his way to find someone in hopes of getting this out of his system, he's not going to punish her just because she's not who he really wants.
Her body arches and her moans become higher in pitch. Too high. Not just because it's the wrong voice all together, which it is, but because she's trying too hard to be sexy. He has to hold himself back from rolling his eyes and scoffing.
"Oh my god," she moans, her body coming back to it's normal stance. "You really know what you're doing."
She's trying to tease. To playfully banter with him and try to create a spark so he asks for her number. Not because she's interested in him, no she's interested in the star hockey player. Not that it bothers him, if anything he feels bad for her.
"You are beautiful girl," he says sweet talking his way through turning her down. "A beautiful girl deserves someone who knows how to take care."
He fixes her dress and gives her one last kiss to her cheek before patting her ass and all but shoving her out the door.
She smiles but he can tell it's fake and full of annoyance. He can't even blame her for the muttered 'asshole' as she walks out the door. It would make him chuckle if it didn't remind him so much of Hollander.
Ilya can practically hear him. "You're such an asshole." The thought makes him smile. It gives him far more butterflies than whoever the fuck he just sent packing.
"Fuck," he mutters at himself in the mirror as he washes his hands. "Get it together."
He brings his hands up to make sure they smell of nothing but soap, then stops halfway to his hair. He should at least attempt to fix it, it's incredibly obvious someone just had their hands in it. It's unprofessional. It's bad for the tabloids.
But the tabloids aren't the ones who are going to notice. Nor are his teammates.
He doesn't fix it.
He can sense Hollander's panic even before the other man notices him. He shouldn't provoke him. It's a bad idea given what he was just doing. Why he was doing it. But Ilya can see Hollander wringing his hands. Fiddling with his cuffs. He can all but hear the thoughts screaming inside his rival's head. It might make him seem like even more of a dick than he is, but it will get Hollander out of his head.
"Looking for me?"
Hollander doesn't even try to act unaffected as he faces Ilya. His anger is palpable, the fire in his eyes blazing in a way that Ilya isn't all that used to. He's not just frustrated at the situation, or Ilya being late, or even the fact that Ilya was just obviously just with someone.
He's hurt. Ilya hurt him.
Ilya hurt Shane.
He knew that of course, he had ghosted him for months after their first time fucking. He didn't mean to, necessarily. He just... hadn't called him. Or message him back. Or talked to him in person. Or looked him in the eye.
But it shouldn't matter because they're just fucking. Enemies with benefits. Nothing more.
Nothing.
Hollander's heated gaze travels over him like physical flames. The tension in the air could be cut with a knife. But that's all there is. It's want and sexual tension because they haven't been together in a while. Concern and longing are only in Ilya's mind.
"Fuck, Rozanov. What the fuck? We're on in like five seconds!"
"Fifty seconds," Ilya says not being able to stop himself from getting under Hollander's skin. "We're fine."
"Where were you, anyway?"
"Busy."
"Oh yeah?" Hollander says without even looking at him. "With who?"
Look at me, Ilya wants to say. Look at me and see that I wanted it to be you.
He doesn't respond. Instead they walk out and do their stupid skit about taking a picture together. It was dumb, and very obvious to anyone with eyes that they were uncomfortable and stiff. More Hollander than Ilya.
Ilya knows he shouldn't do it, but it seems to be a day for him to ignore his conscious all together.
It's for Hollander, he tells himself. Just to get him out of his head. To help him relax slightly because Ilya knows he's good at helping him relax.
Ignoring the red flags, he raises his right hand to snap the pic, and runs his left down Hollander's spine. He smiles a bit at Hollander's inability to suppress his shiver, and quickly snaps the pic when he sends a real smirk in Ilya's direction as he elbows him in the ribs.
The audience laughs, and Ilya knows it's because that moment was real. Their shared amusement and competition was genuine. Ilya see's Hollander's shoulders relax the tiniest bit, and he considers that a win.
Then they’re off the stage and before Ilya can even say Hollander wasn't all that bad, he's halfway down the hallway. He takes his chance on betting he snuck off to the bathroom, and because Ilya has no self control when it comes to Shane Hollander, he follows him.
Because, yet again, today is a day for bad ideas.
But everything is when it comes to him and Shane Hollander. For some reason they just can't seem to help themselves. Or at least, Ilya likes to think it's the same for Hollander. Maybe it's wishful thinking, but it helps him keep his sanity.
He keeps his composure as he leans against the paper towel holder, his signature smirk on his lips dispite his heart cracking right down the middle. Hollander is panicking, and Ilya wants nothing more than to walk over and wrap his arms around him. To apologize for the last six months. For ghosting him because Shane Hollander deserves far more than that.
"What the fuck do you want Rozanov." Shane demands more than asks. All Ilya brings himself to do is hold his hand out in a gesture that screams what he wants is obvious. "You haven't messaged me in six months. You don't acknowledge that I exist unless it's a stupid bit for the cameras. So what the fuck do you want?"
I want to hold you.
I want to comfort you.
I want to let you be open with me.
I want to lo-
"I want you to suck my dick."
Hollander scoffs. As he should. Ilya is an asshole. He crafted it that way to protect himself. Except now he's using it to hide behind and this is a new feeling entirely.
"You are such an asshole," Hollander says, but this time he means it. It's not like when he says it as an almost term of endearment. Right now he's all fire and grit and anger. "You suck my dick."
And that's all it took. Just those four words from Hollander changed the air of the room. He didn't mean it to be an actual proposal, but as soon as soon as the words left his mouth the want exploded in his eyes like fireworks.
"Ask nicely."
"Please... suck my dick."
Ilya walks over and grabs Hollander's chin so he can look at his face. His eyes that always seem to be screaming at him in a language far harder to understand than English. His fucking freckles that Ilya wants to count with his finger and then trace with his tongue.
"If you want me to get on my knees, on this filthy bathroom floor, and suck your dick. You need to ask nicer than that."
Hollander's eyes begin to gloss over in that way that makes Ilya's knees weak. But it's too quick, too soon. And too public. As much as he would love to wrap his lips around Hollander right now, despite his front, he can't. Both because Hollander is dropping way too far and way too quickly.
God, it fries Ilya's last nerve. He wants to give in so fucking bad. Hollander's head on his shoulder, his hot breath on his neck. The little whimpers that he might not even be aware that he's letting out. Those sounds alone could undo him.
"No."
It's an amount of willpower that Ilya didn't think he had, but he's glad for it. Judging by Hollander's scoff and offended, "What?" He's not so glad. Ilya can't blame him.
"Let's make a deal," Ilya says, forcing Hollander to bring his head up and look at him. He needs to bring him back. To their current time and place. "If you win... I will blow you, fuck you, whatever you want."
Even if it's nothing. I will sit and do nothing with you if you ask.
"And if you win?"
Hollander blinks, awareness slowly coming back to him. God, he's so perfect. Illya wants to cry.
"When did your English get so good?" Hollander asks with a smile. Not a smirk or a teasing tilt of his lips. But a smile. Like he's proud of Ilya.
"I, uh," he responds trying to shake his mind of these obnoxious rabbit trails. "I read New Yorker now."
"Really?" Hollander looks like he actually might believe him.
"No," Ilya smirks, bringing their conversation back to what he can handle. To banter and playful insults. "New Yorker is boring."
Hollander chuckles to himself a bit and looks down as he says, "My dad loves it." The words leave his lips like an admission of guilt. Ilya suspects it may be, but he can't make sense of it.
"Ahh, so being boring is... genetic?"
"Wow. Genetic."
Hollander's looking at him like he's proud of him again. Like he's impressed. He can't think about that though, so instead he threads his fingers in Hollander's hair and brings him forward. Their lips collide in heat and passion and everything that Ilya craves.
"Good luck, Hollander."
He walks out the door telling himself he didn't see the tears welling in Shane Hollander's eyes. Telling himself Hollander is okay because it's only Ilya that has fallen despite their unspoken agreement to not.
The awards themselves finish off in a blur. He doesn't remember anything other than the speech he gives not involving the only person who actually succeeds in making him a better player. The only person who makes playing more than a job and a hobby. The only person who actually deserves to be addressed.
As soon as he texts Hollander to meet him in the penthouse, he's anxious for the night to end. He makes the obligatory small talk and handshakes, but his mind is solely on Hollander.
Ilya had the intent to break it off when he followed him in to the bathroom. It's the same intent he's had for years. He always convinces himself that this time he'll actually be able to do it, that he'll be able to end this thing between them. But he's too weak, and Shane Hollander is too perfect.
When he can't take it any longer, he takes his leave. The party is still going on, as it always is when he and Hollander fall into this routine, but he doesn't care. He would far rather be upstairs with his hands on Hollander. His mouth on him. His cock inside him.
But he's already in too deep tonight, so he's thinking of trying something different. It's a dick move, and one Hollander will surely be uncomfortable with. One he might even argue against, but Ilya needs some distance tonight. He's already giving in to something he really thought he could withhold against, so he has to have some semblance self control.
It's in the kiss. It's always in the kiss. Every time his lips touch Hollander's, every time there is a breach of tongue and moans, he's gone. So tonight he's going to make sure he stays in his head. He can't give in like he did in the bathroom. He was so confident, it makes him scoff at himself.
Wishful thinking, yet again, on his part really. He shouldn't have thought so highly of himself. He's lazy. And Hollander is always there. Like he's waiting.
Ilya is halfway through his glass of vodka by the time Hollander comes in. Looking fucking perfect. Like always.
"Congratulations," he scoffs when Ilya holds his hands out in an I'm waiting gesture.
"Thank you," Ilya takes a sip. "Now take off your clothes."
"You're such an asshole."
This time, Hollander says it like he never expected anything else of him, which is entirely fair. He's as much an asshole as he is lazy. It's part of his brand. The words still rip his soul in half, anyway.
He's lying to himself, though, when he tells himself it's better this way than Hollander's version of it sounding like an endearment.
Hollander looks around. Even before he asks, he knows what is making the man so nervous. "What?" Ilya asks anyway.
"So many windows."
Ilya doesn't say anything. He only places his hand on the chair nearest to him, and drags it behind him as he stalks his way to the bedroom. He doesn't need to check if Hollander has followed, he can feel his mere presence like a physical weight.
When Ilya sits down in the chair across the bed, he does so with a bravado he only half feels. "Get on the bed," he says, taking another sip.
There is hesitation in Hollander's movements, but not enough to not do it. Ilya is always shocked at how compliant Hollander is. There is so much fight between them. Always this constant competitiveness, and it's part of why Ilya is so addicted to him. But when they're like this, Hollander is more submissive than Ilya could have ever dreamed of.
"Touch yourself," Ilya demands when Hollander is settled against the headboard.
He freezes, and Ilya wonders if he let his cockiness get ahead of himself. If today will be the day that Hollander says no.
Ilya wouldn't mind, of course, that's how this works. He will never push Hollander over his edge, only what he is comfortable giving up. But maybe today he's finally reached that line.
"What?"
"Touch yourself. I want to watch."
Heavy silence sits for a few minutes before Hollander finally says, "I've never..."
"Yes, obviously," Ilya says. "Come on Hollander, is my special day. I want to watch."
This is the most Ilya has seen Hollander think about something. He didn't even blink before sucking Ilya's thumb into his mouth when they first hooked up. And their second, when Ilya, mostly teasing, commanded the man to get on his knees. He never actually expected Hollander to instantly drop to his knees like gravity itself pulled him down.
He changes his tone to something a little softer. As soft as he can without turning into mush anyway. "Pretend you are alone. Show me how you touch yourself."
Determination glistens in Hollander's eyes, and Ilya knows he's going to give in.
"Give me some vodka first, I'm too sober for this."
"No," Ilya says, knowing if he were Hollander he's be pissed. "Vodka is you're reward."
"Fuck you."
"Is good vodka!" They're teasing now, and something in Ilya's chest eases. "Come on Hollander, show me."
Hollander's eyes flick to the glass in Ilya's hand again, and Ilya is seconds away from walking over and pouring some into Hollander's mouth. Fuck, it would be so hot if he did. But Hollander starts moving before he gets the chance, lifting his hips and tugging his briefs down.
"Stroke it," Ilya says, and because he can't help but always say this line at Hollander, he adds, "make yourself come for me."
For me, Ilya's mind adds against his will. Because I am the only one who gets to see you like this. Even if other people get to fuck you between our games, you only submit like this to me. I know it.
"There is lube in the drawer. Beside the bed," Ilya says when he notices Hollander thumbing his slit instead of stroking himself.
"Get it for me," Hollander commands, tilting some of the power dynamic back in his favor if just the slightest bit.
Ilya does, because of course he does. Hollander doesn't know it, but Ilya is just as powerless to them as he is. The only thing holding him back in the bathroom earlier was the prospect of getting caught. It's hot in theory, but not when Hollander is that unaware. Too dangerous.
In attempt to break himself out of his thoughts, he decides to play into their game. Their volley of insults back and forth. The quips they make at each other to keep up the rouse that they hate each other even to themselves.
"Do you want to know how it feels?" He asks as he holds the bottle just out of Hollander's reach before tossing it.
"How what feels?"
"The cup," Ilya smirks. "Do you want to know how it feels to hold the Stanely Cup?"
"Fuck. You."
"I cannot describe it anyway, impossible."
Hollander's face twists into something that screams competition. The same one he gets when they lock eyes across the ice before a game and again inches apart during a faceoff. Ilya thinks it's the sexiest thing he's ever fucking seen.
"Of course," he says. Because it's true. Ilya almost can't believe he won it first. "Now show me how you like it."
His voice sweetened to more of a request than a command, and if the way Hollander's eyes soften are any indication, he didn't miss it. He doesn't say anything about it though, he just closes his eyes and begins to trail his hands over his body.
Ilya watches as if entranced. Maybe he is. Either way, he couldn't look away even if he wanted to. Hollander's chest is rising and falling more rapidly, his breaths stuttering out every now and then. He holds it all together when he opens his eyes presumably to check if Ilya is enjoying the show. Maybe see if he's touching himself, or possibly getting up to join him.
Fuck he wants to. He's ready for it, his dick maybe even the hardest it's ever been. But there is more he wants to see first.
"Open yourself up. Use your fingers." At his command, Hollander reaches for the lube. All hesitation from earlier virtually gone. "Yes, let me see you open yourself up for me."
"You gonna fuck me?" Hollander all but grunts out, but it comes out in one steady sentence and Ilya is fairly impressed.
"We'll see."
Ilya's response was low and quiet. He doesn't even know if Hollander heard him, but he prepares himself like he did.
In truth, this is one of Ilya's favorite parts. Making this man, this man in particular, needy and reducing him to whimpers all from his fingers until he's arching into his hand and begging for his cock. It almost makes him want to rush onto the bed and replace Hollander's hand with his own.
Almost. Because this is far hotter than he thought it would be when he demanded Hollander get on the bed. Despite being several feet apart, there is something intimate about being able to witness this. He wonders if this is what Hollander actually does when he is home alone and thinking about Ilya, or if it's just for show. If this is how he prepares for the mysterious dildo he still hasn't told Ilya the color of, or if it's purely clinical.
Ilya can't hold out much longer. It's a testament to his self-control that he's lasted this long without touching Hollander.
Then one small word leaves Hollander's lips.
"Please."
And Ilya knows he's a goner.
"Please, what?" He says, because he needs to hear it. He needs to hear Hollander say he needs him from those pretty fucking lips that Ilya's world practically orbits for.
"I need..."
So close. He's so close to getting what he wants. What he needs. He doesn't know why he needs to hear Hollander say it, but it feels like he won't be able to breathe until he does.
"What do you need, Hollander."
"You. I need you."
Ilya is going to be playing those words on repeat in his mind for the rest of his life. Long after they stop whatever it is they're doing. Anytime he hooks up with anyone, man or woman, it's going to be those words in Shane Hollander's voice that tip him over the edge.
He took a deep breath and walked over to set his glass on the night stand. He was doing a good job keeping his fascade of nonchalance until Shane fucking Hollander crawled to the edge of the bed to him.
"Ты меня, блядь, убьешь, Холландер." Ilya muttered as he threaded his fingers into Hollander's hair. He was mouthing at him through his briefs, and as much as he wants to feel his cock enveloped entirely in Hollander's mouth, he loves that Hollander gets lost in the little things. No one else he has ever been with has treated every single step like it could be the main course if they just spent enough time there.
It doesn't take long for Hollander to push his underwear down and take Ilya down his throat. It's amazing how good he has gotten at this. Ilya doesn't know how many other men have had the pleasure of enjoying Hollander's oral fixation, not that he dwells on it. Or even thinks about it. Ever.
But he takes credit for it. Only he knows the progression from his first time, which was genuinely impressive despite the shy and anxious nature of it, to how he can expertly open his throat and hollow his cheeks in a way that all but sucks Ilya's soul out through his dick. distantly he thinks he could do this with Shane Hollander forever.
"Fuck Hollander," Ilya says, making sure his thoughts are in check before he switches to English. "You love it."
Ilya lives for the blush that rises on Hollander's face. The bright red that blooms behind those fucking freckles that drive him crazy.
"Turn over," Ilya says, tapping Hollander's shoulder and doing his best to keep his promise to himself despite it being at the forefront of his mind since Hollander. Fucking. Crawled. To him.
Within the blink of an eye, Hollander is turned over on his hands and knees with his ass in the air and Ilya could fucking die right here. He barely has the presence of mind to remember to grab a condom and lube himself as to not hurt the precious man underneath him.
Ilya fucked into Hollander in one thrust and bottomed out, both of them moaning at the feeling of them together. God, Hollander felt so goddamn good every fucking time he was inside him.
He started moving, his hand pressed between Hollander's shoulder blades to keep him down as he fucked him with everything he could give.
Hollander is the only person who can take him like this. Who can not only handle everything he has to give, but can get hard a minute later by nothing more than mouthing at his cock. He's perfect, and Ilya could swear he was crafted by the gods just to torture him.
Ilya doesn't think they've ever been this loud before, and when Hollander fucking screams when he comes, he's grateful he's in a penthouse. Ilya doesn't want anyone to hear them, but he knows Hollander is far more anxious about it in general than Ilya is.
He's always found that a bit ironically funny considering Ilya would be in more actual danger than Hollander would be, but they would both implode their lives, so it's not like Hollander's anxiety is unwarranted.
But he's letting himself be loud. For the first time. And Ilya's heart... does something with the idea that right now Hollander feels safe enough with him to let himself go.
If Ilya thought Hollander's quiet whimpers and whispers were hot, the full on moans and shouts burn through his veins as if his blood is pure fire. He's already come but he's not indicating that he wants Ilya to stop at all.
When Ilya checks in, Hollander just moans again and presses back harder against Ilya's cock wordlessly begging him to pick up pace again. And who is Ilya to deny, especially this close to his orgasm.
It always feels different, coming inside Shane’s body. Well, into a condom inside Shane’s body. Sex is always good for him, always pleasurable. But Shane Hollander? For some reason it’s different. Better. It’s not just good, it’s pure fucking bliss. And not for the first time, he wonders just how good it would be without the thin latex.
Part of him doesn’t think he’d survive it.
After, when he flops beside Hollander on the bed, he starts to feel the inevitable weight settles in his chest. He doesn’t know why he feels it, it’s Ilya’s least favorite thing about this particular hook up.
It’s crazy, and annoying as hell. He doesn't feel like this when it comes to the end of his times with Svetlana, who, as his only other regular hook-up would be the closest comparison he has. He definitely couldn't care less about any of his one-night stands.
"How about that vodka?"
Hollander's voice breaks him out of his thoughts. He even managed to make Ilya chuckle.
"Sure, Hollander."
It takes a lot of effort for Ilya not to laugh at the grimace Hollander makes when he sips the glass. He doesn't know why he would insist on it if he doesn't like it, but he's not in the mood for questions right now.
Hollander, it would seem, does not feel the same.
"So, are you going back to Russia soon?"
"Da."
"Do you want to?"
No, but there is nothing for me here.
"What do you mean, do I want to? It is home?"
"Yeah, but..." Hollander hesitates. Ilya wishes he would just stop all together, but he doesn't even have the energy to get onto him about it. So, instead, he is just going to answer Hollander's incessant questions with half answers until he realizes it's a lost cause.
That he's a lost cause.
"...do you even like it there?"
"What difference would it make?" He asks in response, a bit harsher than he meant. Not that he feels bad about it. Why would he?
"A pretty big one, I think," Hollander scoffs. As if it's that easy.
Maybe it would be if there was something here that mattered to him. Something other than a job... and sex. Because sex is never a reason to make a home out of somewhere. Sex is something he can get anywhere. From anyone. It's... disposable.
"I should get to sleep," he spits out. More so to shut his fucking brain up than to snap at Hollander, but he feels the air around the man shift. And he doesn't care.
"Right, yeah me too."
His voice is tighter now. Before it was inquisitive. There was care in the questions he was asking. Even if it wasn't the kind of care that could have meant something, it was care nonetheless.
Now he's stilted. Closed off. Despite what the man may think, Shane Hollander wears his heart on his sleeve. Ilya can tell when he thinks he's hiding his emotions. Despite his tone of not caring, it's always in his eyes. Ilya might not be able to read them, but he knows with enough time spent in his presence, he could. He could study the language and be more fluent than he is in English. Not that it's a possibility.
He tells himself he doesn't care when Hollander gets out of bed and goes to the main area. He tells himself he doesn't care as he hears the rustling of fabric as Hollander gets dressed and gathers himself together. He tells himself he doesn't care when Hollander scoffs at Ilya's pathetic, 'goodnight Hollander," when he announces his leave.
But for some reason, as soon as the door closes, it's like his brain refuses to let him lie to himself further.
He should be happy about it. It was his goal for the evening. Don't get too close; don't fall too deep. The only way he could think of to do that was not to kiss him. but as he sits on the bed smoking the cigarette Hollander never scolded him for, the only thoughts running though his head are;
I never even fucking kissed him.
I should have kissed him.