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“What the fuck are you doing?” Hollander asked breathlessly. “We’re both in tuxedos out in public!”
Technically, Hollander was correct. Though, “public” was probably a bit generous. Nobody else was on the rooftop. And the idea hadn’t seemed to have bothered him half a second ago, when he had clutched Ilya’s face and tangled his fingers in his hair and kissed him like Ilya was his only source of oxygen. Ilya would like to get back to that now please.
“No one is looking,” Ilya said with a smile.
“You don’t know that.” Hollander shook his head a fraction, but his eyes flickered down to Ilya’s lips. His breathing was unsteady. He wanted Ilya, that much was obvious. He wanted him even though he shouldn’t, especially not here.
God he was such a rule follower. Ilya wanted to eat him.
Ilya leaned in again, certain that Hollander would relent. Much to his surprise, Hollander pushed him back none too gently. Then, to Ilya’s even greater surprise, Hollander grabbed him by the lapels and spun him around, pressing him into the wall.
Okay then. Unexpected but definitely workable. Ilya didn’t lean toward Hollander again. As a rule, Ilya didn’t push. He would nudge, certainly, when he had good reason to believe a nudge was welcome. But he never pushed.
Hollander was very near and very still. His hands were still balled up around Ilya’s lapels, his mouth close enough that Ilya could feel his breath on his own lips. He looked overwhelmed, which was nothing new. Overwhelmed, indecisive, still a little angry, Ilya thought. Maybe also a little scared. He smelled like champagne. Ilya knew his own breath must smell like cigarettes. Well if I had known…
After what felt like at least a minute, Hollander took a deep breath and released him.
“1802,” he said tightly, like the room number came out of him without his conscious will. “Give me a five minute start.”
He stepped back from Ilya and walked briskly away, disappearing through the door to the stairwell.
Ilya watched the door till it swung shut, then straightened his jacket and glanced at his watch. Five minutes. He could wait that long. He climbed the stairs back up to the railing and considered another cigarette. The knowledge of the smell stopped him. He should really start carrying gum or something.
He looked out over the twinkling lights of the city. Ilya likes Vegas. It was glittery on the outside and seedy on the inside. The duality felt familiar.
Ilya had nearly written this night off. Hollander had won, because of course he had. Perfect little Shane Hollander with his fluent French and his perfect family and perfect life and perfect home. Perfect Shane Hollander, who sometimes fell into bed with him, for some reason.
Hollander had been right. Ilya had absolutely been sulking on the roof, but he wasn’t just sulking over losing. He was sulking because he was going to go home to his very much not perfect family and life and home, and explain to his tremendously imperfect father why he had lost to “that fucking Canadian” again. Why he hadn’t led the Raiders to a cup in his very first year with them. He was going to hear about what an embarrassment he was. How much of a failure he was. How lazy and ungrateful and undeserving he was. Nevermind that he had been the number one draft pick. Nevermind being a top player his very first year in the League. Nevermind that everyone’s lives in Russia were financed on his back. It’d be the same as always. No matter what he gave, on the ice or in a wire transfer, it wasn’t enough.
He hadn’t considered going after Hollander tonight. He meant what he had said, it wasn’t always about him. Ilya had thought he had wanted to be alone. He thought he needed to brood and smoke and marinate in his own self pity and dread. He didn’t even particularly want to get laid. He certainly didn’t want to put on a happy face downstairs and listen to fucking Scott Hunter slap Hollander on the back. If it weren’t for Scott Hunter he and Hollander would have already fucked. Perhaps it was irrational for Ilya to hold this against him, but here he was.
Ilya hadn’t thought Hollander wanted him either. It had been four months since his trip to Montreal had been cancelled and they hadn’t even texted. For all Ilya knew, Hollander had come to his senses and didn’t want anything to do with Ilya anymore. Maybe he hadn’t been as disappointed as Ilya had been. Maybe he didn’t spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about Ilya the way Ilya thought about him. They had only been together twice. Maybe he had a modicum of common sense and realized how foolhardy this entire endeavor was, and was going to celebrate his win with some nice Canadian girl.
But of course, Hollander had found him, whether or not he had been looking for him. Ilya didn’t know why he told Hollander that he was going home in three days. It was meant to be an explanation. An explanation of why he was sulking, why he had snapped so viciously at Hollander. But of course it was an explanation Hollander could never understand. Stupid thing for Ilya to say. But then…
“And I guess I thought maybe we…”
Ilya was still going to let him leave. He couldn’t deal with perfect little Shane Hollander tonight, adorably timid offer notwithstanding. But then he had followed up with the stupidly polite “See you next season,” expecting a fucking handshake. That was what had broken Ilya’s resolve. That stupid face, resigned to disappointment. Those stupid fucking freckles, barely visible in the city lights. Ilya couldn’t let him walk away.
Hollander had kissed Ilya back with every ounce of want Ilya remembered from their last time, when Hollander had barreled toward him as if he couldn’t help himself. It was very, very hot, knowing how badly Hollander wanted him. Maybe he hadn’t yet realized how much of a bad idea any of this was. Ilya hoped not.
He checked his watch again. It had been 5 minutes.
He had barely knocked on Hollander’s door before it swung open and he had Hollander’s hands balled up in his lapels again, pulling him inside. Hollander slammed the door shut with one hand and pressed Ilya up against the wall with the other, finding his mouth with his own immediately. Ilya hummed in surprise and appreciation. He loved that he could make Hollander desperate. Not so perfect now, are we?
Hollander’s hands were tugging at his jacket, and Ilya pulled it off, tossing it uncaring to the ground, hands going up to cup Hollander’s face. They fumbled against each other, unbuttoning shirts and undoing belts without separating their mouths, kissing frantically. Clothes landed haphazardly on the ground, Hollander’s usual care forgotten. The second Ilya’s pants, boxers, and shoes were kicked away, Hollander dropped to his knees and without any further preamble took Ilya’s cock in his mouth.
“Fuck Hollander,” Ilya gasped, hands flying to Hollander’s hair. He was so fucking eager.
Hollander hummed around Ilya’s dick, mouth soft and warm. He took him deep, deeper than he had last time. Ilya wondered fleetingly if he had been practicing, and with who.
“You want to choke on my cock?” Ilya asked, because that did seem to be Hollander’s intention, taking him nearly to the root before pulling back and sucking on the head. Hollander looked up at him through his eyelashes, eyes wide, mouth full of Ilya’s cock. Ilya clenched his jaw hard. He would come far, far too quickly at this rate. His need for Hollander had been steadily climbing since the kiss on the roof, and seeing Hollander literally gagging on him was going to send him over the edge.
“Answer me,” he said, tugging on Hollander’s hair until he released Ilya’s cock. His lips were red and wet and Ilya wanted to tackle him backward and kiss him until they both came untouched. Instead he swallowed deliberately. “Do you want to choke on my cock?”
Hollander nodded emphatically.
“Very good idea. Go on then.”
But Hollander hesitated. Glancing down at the floor and then back to Ilya.
“What?” Ilya asked, running his hand through Hollander’s hair, pulling it out of its styling and making Hollander look even more wrecked. Hollander leaned into the touch so Ilya did it again.
“You can - ” Hollander said quietly, then cleared his throat and started again, “You can hold my head harder.”
“Hold your head?” Ilya asked.
“Yeah.” Hollander was blushing. Perfect Shane Hollander was on his knees, naked, mouth inches from Ilya’s dick, blushing, and asking Ilya to…
“You want me to fuck your mouth?”
Hollander blushed harder but nodded. “And you can pull my hair. If you want.”
Ilya swore in Russian. He may not have won tonight but Hollander could keep every award there was if this was the consolation prize.
“You want me to hold your head, and pull your hair, so you can choke on my cock.” Ilya knew he needed to be crystal clear here.
Hollander nodded again, the blush fading from his cheeks. It was as if he had expected Ilya to laugh at him, and now that it wasn’t happening he was allowing himself to be more decisive. “Please.”
“Jesus Hollander. You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“You’ve been thinking about this?” The thought made Ilya’s head buzz.
“Fuck you.” Hollander leaned away but Ilya stopped him with a hand on the back of his head.
“Okay. If you want. But I’m very big.”
“You’re not that big.”
Ilya snorted. “And you are a bad liar. If it’s too much just tap my leg twice okay? I will stop.”
“You won’t need to stop.” Hollander leaned back into Ilya’s hand, forcing him to press harder to keep Hollander from retreating. He closed his eyes. “I’m not going to break.”
“Yes you are very tough. Tough little rookie of the year. But tap my leg anyway.”
“Shut up,” Hollander said, without heat. “Are you going to do it or not?”
Ilya’s answer was to wind his fingers into Hollander’s hair and pull. It wasn’t quite long enough to get a good grip but Ilya made do. “Go on then.”
Hollander immediately took Ilya into his mouth again, sliding up and down. Ilya could feel his tongue working the tip. He waited until Hollander was gripping his thighs tight, then brought his other hand down to cradle Hollander’s head. It was going to take every ounce of self control not to come 30 seconds into this. Ilya couldn’t remember the last time he had been so turned on.
“Ready?” He asked.
Hollander hummed around his cock, which was good enough for Ilya. He gripped Hollander’s hair hard until he stopped moving. Ilya stilled too for a moment, burning the image of Hollander waiting patiently to have Ilya fuck his throat into his mind. Just as Hollander’s eyes flickered up, Ilya jerked his hips forward. Not too hard or too deep, just testing.
Hollander made an approving noise in the back of his throat. Ilya could hear him breathing through his nose. Good. Breathing was good. He thrust again, a little harder, a little deeper, keeping a tight hold of Hollander, who was hanging onto Ilya’s thighs for dear life.
“God Hollander,” Ilya growled, moving his hips faster, “You were fucking made for this weren’t you?”
Hollander moaned around Ilya’s cock. Ilya could see the saliva dripping from the corners of his mouth and had to look away. Heat was already coiling low in his belly. Hollander was fucking gorgeous like this. Desperate and eager and trusting.
“You like that?”
Hollander couldn’t answer but squeezed Ilya’s thighs. He slid his hands upward to Ilya’s hips, pulling at them, urging Ilya faster.
“Jesus.” Ilya had been holding himself back, hyper aware of Hollander’s reactions in case he hadn’t known what he was signing up for. But the Canadian was giving every impression in the world that he was loving this as much as Ilya was.
“Are you hard?” He asked, voice more strained than he would have preferred.
Hollander moaned again and squeezed Ilya’s hip.
“Don’t come. I have plans for you.”
Hollander reached a hand up to grab Ilya’s pec, which Ilya loved. He was confident he had taught Hollander that move. It was like an electric current was running from Ilya’s nipple down to his cock. Something in him snapped.
“I go harder now, okay?”
Hollander hummed and sucked Ilya hard on the next thrust. “Ты меня убьешь,” he muttered before slamming his hips forward at a brutal pace. Hollander’s hands loosened slightly on him, but he didn’t tap.
“Oh god, oh my fucking god.” Ilya was babbling, chasing his release, feeling his cock slide in and out of Hollander’s throat, listening to him gasp breaths through his nose. “Hollander,” he managed, “I’m gonna - ” he released Hollander’s head so he could pull off but Hollander instantly grabbed Ilya’s hips and yanked him forward. That was what sent Ilya careening over the edge. He grabbed Hollander’s head again and came hard down his throat. Hollander held on, working him through the aftershocks. Ilya could feel him swallowing and it made his cock give a feeble final pulse. He released Hollander, who sat back unsteadily on the floor.
Ilya leaned against the wall breathing heavily, brain still floating, eyes on Hollander. He was a mess. He had spit down his chin, which he was now making to wipe away, and tear tracks stained his face. His hair was disheveled and his lips were red and wet. He was also so hard it looked like it might be painful. He coughed, swallowed, then coughed again, harder, then again. Shit. Ilya was yanked out of his blissed out state.
“Hollander.” Ilya crouched down and put a gentle hand on Hollander’s knee. “It was too much?”
Hollander coughed a few more times but shook his head. “No,” he said, and both of them were surprised by how hoarse his voice sounded. He cleared his throat then repeated, “No. It was - it was really hot.” He smiled tentatively up at Ilya, deep brown eyes half lidded and glassy. “Did you like it?”
“Мне понравилось? Hollander, if you must ask this you are much stupider than everyone thinks. Here.” He rose and extended his hand. Hollander took it, letting himself be pulled off the floor. He all but collapsed into Ilya’s arms, nuzzling into the crook of Ilya’s neck and wrapping his arms around Ilya’s chest. Ilya was taken by surprise by the gesture. It felt…tender. Intimate even. Hollander was clearly out of it. Still very aroused, and probably feeling a bit floaty himself.
“Come here,” Ilya guided Hollander to the bed, sitting him down and stepping away. Hollander reached for him and made a soft noise of protest. Ilya smiled despite himself. “I am not going anywhere,” he reassured him.
He took a water bottle from the mini fridge, opened it, and handed it to Hollander. “Drink,” he ordered. Hollander drank without hesitation, draining half the bottle in one long swig. He extended the bottle back to Ilya, who shook his head. “More.”
Hollander looked up at him and held his gaze as he drained the bottle.
“Good,” Ilya said, taking the bottle and tossing it in the direction of the bin. “Now. You.”
“Me?” Hollander asked, almost shyly.
“Too bad I can’t fuck you.”
“Mmmmh. It is,” Hollander said, slightly slurred.
“Is okay. We decided, I cannot fuck you where Scott Hunter may hear.” Hollander smiled. Ilya ran his fingers gently through his hair, trying to smooth it back into some kind of order. “I will fuck you in Montreal. In your house - I mean your apartment. Where you can be as loud as you want. Do you want to be loud?”
Hollander closed his eyes and nodded.
“Yes, I think you will be loud. I think you will like it. I will make it good for you.” Hollander trembled under his hand, and Ilya cupped his face running a thumb over his cheekbone. Hollander sighed and leaned into Ilya’s palm. Ilya’s other hand continued to run through his hair.
“But now,” he said, lowering his voice and leaning toward Hollander, speaking directly into his ear. “Now I have other ideas for you.”
“Like what?” Hollander whispered.
Ilya released him and took two steps back. “Pick up your clothes,” he ordered calmly.
“What?” Hollander asked, eyes fluttering open.
“Is a nice tuxedo. Boring, but nice. Shame to leave it crumpled on the floor. Will get wrinkled and you will fuss.”
“I don’t fuss,” Hollander mumbled, but he did as Ilya instructed, rising unsteadily, picking up his clothes and draping them carefully over a chair. Rather than coming back to the bed though, he stood still, hands at his sides, eyes on Ilya, his expression expectant. Waiting, Ilya knew, to be told what to do next. If he were physically capable of getting hard again, he would be right now.
“Good,” Ilya said, striving to keep his tone and face neutral, as if he were actually in control. He sat on the bed and slid back until he was resting against the pillows. “Now come here.” He patted the blanket next to him
Hollander came back, crawling up the bed in a way that made Ilya want to pounce on him immediately. He was patient though, waiting for Hollander to settle on his back next to him, eyes on Ilya the whole time. “Very good,” he purred, “Now spread your legs.”
Hollander did so, and Ilya climbed between them. “I won’t fuck you tonight. Not with my cock, anyway. Did you bring your - thing?”
Hollander, whose eyes had started to go a little glassy again, knit his brow. “My what?”
“Your thing. You told me about it last time.”
Hollander reddened and the spell over him seemed to lift slightly. “Fuck you.”
“Is that a no?”
“Of course it’s a no! I don’t bring it when I travel.”
“Shhh alright, fine. We don’t have to do that either.” Ilya kissed him again, and reached down to take Hollander’s cock in hand.
Hollander closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the headboard, exhaling slowly. Ilya stroked him gently, just teasing, getting him fully hard again.
“You are so good at blow jobs now, maybe you think I am not good enough anymore?”
“You could use your fingers,” Hollander muttered.
Ilya paused. “What?”
The color rose in Hollander’s cheeks again, which was an excellent sign. Ilya was beginning to learn that when Hollander was embarrassed to ask for something, it was almost certainly something Ilya very much wanted to do.
“I don’t have my - my dildo. But you can use your fingers. If you want,” he said haltingly, eyes still closed.
Yep. Definitely something Ilya wanted to do.
Ilya leaned over him, bracing himself against the headboard and kissed him. Hollander leaned into him, mouth soft and receptive. Ilya pulled back and ran a tongue down Hollander’s neck. Hollander tensed briefly and made a high, quiet noise, then tilted his head to give Ilya better access. Ilya continued to lazily stroke him. Between warm, open kisses down Hollander’s neck and chest, he asked, “You have lube?”
“Yes,” Hollander breathed.
“Good. Where?”
“T-Toiletry bag. Bathroom counter,” Hollander’s voice shook slightly as Ilya took a nipple between his teeth. “Do you want me to - ”
“No. I will get it. Don’t move.”
Ilya released him and climbed off the bed with a final nip at Hollander’s chest and tried not to hurry too obviously as he went to the bathroom. Hollander’s toiletries were meticulously organized in neat, matching little bottles that all fit together for maximum storage efficiency. Ilya suppressed a smile. Tiny labels identified each of the bottles. He doubted very much that Hollander had named all of them accurately.
“What do you call it?” He called back to Hollander without turning around.
“Hair gel,” was Hollander’s weak reply.
“Smart,” Ilya commented, finding the correct bottle. “No one in airport security will know that Shane Hollander has a sex life.”
He returned to the bed where Hollander was waiting, obediently still, not even turning his head to see Ilya. His breathing was faster, and Ilya could see his pulse pounding in his neck.
“You are nervous?” he asked, climbing back over Hollander.
“No.” Nervous and stubborn, then.
“You have done this before? With a girl maybe?”
Shane huffed a laugh. “Definitely not. Just me, you know, alone”
“Okay. I go slow then.”
“You don’t have to. I won’t - ”
“Break,” Ilya cut him off. “I know. But slow is fun. For me, anyway.” Hollander’s expression flickered into a smile and he seemed to relax a bit. “Okay? Ilya asked.
Hollander nodded. “Okay.”
“Move your legs wider.”
Hollander did so, clearly self-conscious. Ilya ran his hands over the soft skin of Hollander’s inner thighs. He really was gorgeous. The perfect mix of hard and soft. He opened the bottle of lube and poured a bit onto his fingers. Hollander tensed again, watching Ilya. Ilya slid down the bed without breaking eye contact, and took Hollander into his mouth.
“Fuck!” Hollander cried, hips bucking involuntarily. “Oh fuck.”
Ilya went slow, his purpose just to relax Hollander, not get him close yet. He savored the feel of Hollander on his tongue, the taste of him, the noises coming from his mouth. He pressed back on Hollander’s thigh and Hollander took the hint, hitching his arms under his knees and spreading to give Ilya better access.
Ilya hummed in appreciation and pulled off of Hollander’s cock. He took a slick finger and delicately traced the rim of Hollander’s hole. Hollander shuddered and clenched his hands into fists.
“Okay?” Ilya asked.
Hollander nodded, eyes squeezed shut. Ilya sunk back onto his cock, sucking gently as he continued to lightly probe around Hollander’s entrance. Sure enough, he felt Hollander begin to relax. He released him from his mouth again.
“Ready?” Hollander nodded again, opening his eyes. “Breathe in deep for me, Hollander.” Hollander did so. “Good, now out.” As Hollander exhaled, Ilya pressed a finger past the tight ring of muscle. Hollander gasped.
“Keep breathing for me. Deep breaths.”
Hollander clearly struggled to obey, but he did. Gradually, his face relaxed and his fingers unclenched.
“Very good Hollander.” Ilya began to move his finger in and out, slowly. Hollander leaned his head back again, sighing and moaning quietly as he continued to breathe. Ilya kissed his thighs, the crease of his leg, his hip. He reached up to palm his pec with his free hand as he dropped his head to take Hollander back into his mouth.
When he felt Hollander begin to feel less tight around him, he released him again. Hollander whined.
“More?” Ilya asked
“Please,” Hollander sighed.
Ilya felt drunk, or high, or maybe like he was flying, or all three at once. Hollander was utterly unselfconscious. All his careful curation was gone. He was completely in this moment. Completely with Ilya. He wanted to kiss him and fuck him and hold him and - he blinked hard and took a breath. He was getting carried away. All Hollander wanted was another finger inside him.
He removed his hand and Hollander whined again. Ilya shushed him, pouring more lube and going back in with 2 fingers. Hollander tried to muffle a hiss of discomfort and Ilya froze.
“No, no, don’t stop, it’s okay.” Hollander panted.
Ilya kept going, moving his fingers slowly in and out. It was hitting him in waves that he was inside Hollander. That he was the first person ever to be inside Hollander. It was insane. He almost wanted to laugh, it was so ridiculous. He didn’t laugh though, he was focusing on finding -
“Holy shit!” Hollander cried, jerking off the bed. Ilya grinned and pressed him back to the mattress.
“There you are,” he said, before taking Hollander’s cock back in his mouth. He picked up the pace, brushing over Hollander’s prostate on every thrust, sucking him harder and deeper, tongue running over his leaking slit. Hollander was getting louder, and letting spill a mix of profanity, Ilya’s name, and incomprehensible noises. God, what would he sound like when Ilya was fucking him?
“Rozanov, fuck, please! I’m - don’t stop, please don’t stop.”
Ilya would gladly die rather than stop, speeding even more, and timing so he sucked Hollander right as he pressed into his sweet spot.
“Holy - Oh my god Rozanov!” Hollander cried and arched off the bed as he came. Ilya gladly swallowed him down, pulling his fingers out of Hollander as the last of the aftershocks shivered through him. Hollander dropped his legs and Ilya released his cock, laying a kiss to his jutting hip bone. He crawled up his body to kiss him, languid and soft. Hollander’s mouth seemed to be only partially working, but he kissed back as best he could. When Ilya rolled over to lay next to him. Hollander followed, tucking his chin onto Ilya’s chest and throwing a hand over his stomach. He hummed happily.
Ilya stilled for a moment. They hadn’t - cuddled - the last two times. But Hollander didn’t seem caught up by this fact. And Ilya wasn’t - opposed, per se. He wrapped a tentative arm around Hollander, holding him loosely, breath ruffling Hollander’s hair. After a minute or two, he was beginning to fear Hollander would fall asleep on him. Then he heard him take a deep breath. “I think it’s a good idea to wait until we can be in my apartment,” he said blearily. “You’re right. I’ll be loud.”
Ilya snorted. “I told you.”
Hollander rolled away from him with a grunt. “That was…”
“Yes,” responded Ilya. He was suddenly cold without Hollander’s body against him. He felt an insane urge to reach for him, to pull him back to him. To kiss him again; not because he wanted to fuck him right now, but just to kiss him. He gave himself a mental shake.
“I should go. Party will be over soon. Lots of people in the halls.”
“Yeah.”
Ilya rose and dressed as quickly as he could while trying to look like he wasn’t going as quickly as he could. Hollander pulled the sheets over him in bed, watching.
When Ilya was mostly presentable he turned back to Hollander. “Goodnight Hollander. Congratulations.”
Hollander quirked up one corner of his mouth. “Thanks.”
“I meant congratulations on the sex. It was very good, yes?”
Hollander’s eyes went wide but he responded quickly, “Go fuck yourself Rozanov.”
“No need anymore.”
“Oh my god just admit you’re jealous!”
Ilya smirked. “Don’t get cocky. Is just one little award.”
“Okay.”
“Everyone knows I am better. They just like you more.”
“I wonder why.” Hollander was fully smiling now. “Goodnight, Rozanov.”
“See you next season, Hollander.”
Ilya opened the door, casting a quick glance up and down the hallway before slipping out and heading to the elevators.
On the ride to his own room, he wondered if Hollander would really let Ilya fuck him next time he was in Montreal. It was okay if not, obviously. Ilya didn’t really care. It was probably better that way actually. Tonight was - nice, yes. It was really, really nice. It was a distraction from his own problems, of course it was nice. That was no surprise. And Hollander was…good. Ilya didn’t think he had any idea how good he was. If he did he probably wouldn’t bother with Ilya at all. Which would be smart. This whole thing was still a bad idea. A terrible idea. It was reckless and dangerous and couldn’t possibly end well. Hollander must know that. Ilya certainly did.
But, as was becoming increasingly evident, he did not give a single fuck.