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“Why do you wanna make a sextape?” Hollander asks, playing with Ilya’s camcorder in his hand.
It’s a Sony Handycam from his rookie years, found in a thrift store deep by a rural Boston area. Svetlana held up the camera, it was covered in bunny stickers. The two stood in the middle of the store, playing the videos left on it, it was a little girl’s camera. Videos of her and her young mother fill up the screen.
The last clip was from a Boston Celtics game in 2007, focusing on a young Kevin Garnett as he dances across the court. He dunks causing the crowd to cheer loudly, distorting the audio. The camera turns to focus on the girl and her mother before, loudly cheering both decked in Boston Celtics merch.
It reminds Ilya of his mother and her camera.
Irina used to film everything on her own bulky camcorder. Ilya sat next to her during hockey games, she would turn the camera to focus on Ilya’s toothy smile whenever a goal was scored. She had some of Ilya’s first ever hockey games taped, in a jersey a size too big on him, curls all unkept from his helmet and his brother’s old stick from when he was younger.
She would sit a bubbling Ilya down and review the tapes together, praising almost every amateur play Ilya did as she retaped his stick. His coaches from around that time always took note of Ilya’s confidence for being so young, confidence built by his mother cheering on him from the stands, smiling behind her bulky camcorder.
She put the dozen of tapes away in boxes decorated with hearts, stars, and Ilya’s crayon doodles. That box and its tapes hide somewhere in Ilya’s house next to photo-albums of childhood memories long forgotten. Tapes and photos were ways of honoring a memory. You take photos of moments in time you want to remember forever. You film moments you want to revisit.
No amount of professional cameras on him during games or interviews will ever be as important as his mother’s bulky camcorder following him across the playground.
Ilya used that handycam to document his early life on the road, filming his much older teammates goofing around in testosterone-filled locker rooms that reeked of AXE bodyspray and angst. He would sit in his hotel room and practice his English by watching his teammates on the tiny screen. Spending time rehearsing their chirps and vulgar language.
On long bus rides where his legs would cramp up and every girl in his phone ignored him due to timezones, he would point the camera at his teammates.
They spoke about their wives and kids at home, how much they missed them and how one day Ilya will understand that longing feeling. Ilya would scoff loudly behind the camera claiming he would never get married because he values his freedom before any woman while waiting for a text back from his Jane.
They complained about achy bones. Showed off battle scars to the camera which consisted of broken noses never popped back into place or fake teeth the color of paper. They often talked about how the game was changing right in front of them and how Ilya was a clear example of it. The NHL was digging graves for old talent while raking in revenue from the new talent. They talked shit about every rookie, even Ilya some nights, but the team focused most of their attention on Shane Hollander, who Ilya was extremely threatened by.
He would film Hollander’s games whenever he had the chance. Talking to himself in hotel rooms, zooming in on Hollander’s focused face as he chewed on his mouthguard. Narrating Hollander’s plays in Russian, studying his favorite plays and recreating some of them when he would practice with his team.
Hollander is calculated and precise in his movement, he almost looked like a robot, a perfect hockey robot. Ilya rarely thinks about his next move on the ice. Hollander focuses on himself on the ice, Ilya thinks too much about his team costing himself certain plays. Hollander is a natural on the ice, Ilya still sometimes feels like the little boy being filmed by his proud mother. Hollander rarely looked anxious on the ice and rarely looked bad on tv or magazine covers. Everything came easy to Hollander, it made Ilya's teeth hurt.
Instead of filming Hollander through a television screen replaying it until his eyes got tired or flipping through his magazine covers, Hollander is staring right at him through a mirror, all drunk and loose, suit jacket laying around somewhere in Ilya’s expensive room, legs spread as he fiddles with the almost-decade-old camera.
Ilya wants to keep some piece of Hollander for inevitably the day, Hollander distances himself from Ilya forever. When he gets with some equally beautiful woman and they get married and have equally beautiful children.
One day when Ilya is an old pervert, he can play this video and remember a time in history where he made Shane Hollander come all over himself. When he made Shane Hollander feel something he’s never felt before. When he loved Shane Hollander and maybe, somewhere in this tape, Shane Hollander might've loved him back.
Ilya looks at Hollander through the mirror as Hollander sits on the edge of the tub, “Because I am drunk and horny,” he tosses his belt on the floor. A cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. The cigarette has a light mellow scent, something sour and tangy lingers in the air. It’s airier than his usual cigarettes back in Boston, the taste is faintly grassy as it coats his tongue and the back of his throat.
Tequila still burning his vocal chords as he speaks, “And you have a no nudes rule, so I must come up with other ideas, like the genius I am.”
“You’re actually gonna bring this on the road with you?”
Ilya nods his head, “Sleep with it under my pillow, wish for a Hollander fairy to visit me in my dreams.”
Hollander scoffs, “Like you dream about me.”
Hollander makes a cameo in all of Ilya’s dreams. Whether Ilya’s a pizza delivery driver and Hollander has no cash but is really, really, really hungry for Ilya’s sausage pizza or Hollander running his calloused fingers along the back of Ilya's arm in their shared home, muttering something into Ilya’s chest about how he has to get up and walk their dream-dog.
“I do. The Hollander there is way nicer.” Ilya sucks in smoke, letting it cloud his lungs before blowing out the rest, purposefully blowing it down away from the fire alarm.
“Fuck you.”
“See! The Hollander there is never mean to me, he just sits there and takes it.”
Hollander groans, but goes quickly silent.
Ilya unzips his pants, letting them drop to the floor. He looks over at Hollander through the mirror who is now looking down at the camera in his hand.
“I can hear you thinking.” Ilya mutters before stubbing his cigarette out on his thigh, wincing at the pain.
“What if this leaks?” Hollander questions as he rips a piece of dead skin off his nail.
“It will not leak. Is on a thousand year old camera.” Ilya laughs, brushing ash off his thigh.
“But what if it does?”
Ilya tosses the cigarette in the trashcan, “We do not have to do this if you don’t want to.”
“No, I do wanna do this.”
Ilya takes a deep breath, “Are you just saying that, Hollander? You are a grown man, you can make your own decisions."
“No, I—“
Ilya cuts him off, “I, what?” It’s snappy, but Ilya can already feel a hangover coming on and if he doesn't at the very least fuck Hollander tonight, he might blow up Los Angeles.
“I’ve thought about filming stuff too.” Hollander’s voice drops to a whisper.
Ilya bites back a smirk “Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Filming what?” Ilya’s smile lights up the whole bathroom.
Hollander’s socked feet twitch along the bathroom tile, his cock straining against his dress pants, “I’ve thought about filming your face when you come. You always look kinda stupid, it’s hot.”
“Ouch.” Ilya laughs.
“What? Everyone looks stupid when they come!”
“Ah yes, especially you. You look so cockdrunk.”
Hollander’s feet curl up, “I hate you.”
“Mhm. No, you don’t”
˙⋆✮
Their video begins with an establishing shot of the Los Angeles skyline. Lights flicker and wink as the camera zooms out before shakily being turned to stare at a half-drunken bottle of expensive tequila and a box of condoms laid out on the hotel nightstand. Folded up dress-shirt and jacket on a couch. There’s heavy breathing behind the camera, blowing softly into the speaker, slightly distorting the audio.
“Are you trying to get nice shots for our sextape?”
The camera turns and focuses on a now shirtless Shane Hollander. Glistening sweat dripping down every crevice of his bare torso as he splays out plain white sheets. Lips swollen and slick and once perfectly styled hair is now sticking out in every direction. Custom-made dress pants pulled halfway off, still hugging his fleshy thighs. Dick straining against white Calvin Kleins.
“Yes. I want us to win Oscars for this film.” Ilya’s voice wavers behind the camera, he walks around the bed before settling at Shane’s knees.
Shane giggles as Ilya zooms into his mouth, Focusing on his teeth, giving a glimpse of his bright red tongue.
“Who are we here with on this Los Angeles night?” Ilya’s voice rings before he zooms back out, Shane’s whole flushed face filling out the screen.
He softly smiles at the lens, a flush running down his bare chest, "Nobody important.” Shane bites out, a soft glint in his eyes.
“Oh, so you are not Shane Hollander? Mr. Hockey Legend?”
Shane shakes his head, “I am Ilya Rozanov, the worst player ever.” Eyes glazed over as he looks up at his director.
“Do not listen to him,” Ilya turns the camera to himself, “I am Ilya Rozanov. Best player ever.” It’s honed on the tip of Ilya’s nose, “When future perverts watch this sextape. They will be like, who is this random man with the legendary Ilya Rozanov?”
“Oh please, if this ever got leaked, people would be wondering who the fuck you are.”
An off-camera slap happens. Shane’s involuntary moan quickly gets flipped into a chuckle, the “asshole” muttered out is barely picked up over the sound of Ilya’s laughing.
“I need to see how sexy I look on camera, here.” The camera gets tossed into darkness, before being flipped around and greeting the frame with Ilya’s naked body.
Shane starts at the top of Ilya’s body. Ilya winks as the frame slithers down from his face matching the same sweat coating Shane’s face to his twitching pecs to his untamed happy trail to the main star of the film.
The frame gets zeroed in on Ilya’s hand wrapped around his thick dick, “Do I look pretty?”
“Just your dick looks good on camera. Should just retire and become a faceless pornstar.”
Ilya’s dick twitches in his hand, “So, you can stay ahead of me in all-time scoring goals?” He questions.
The shot zooms out as it trails back up to Ilya’s face with a bright smile plastered over it, “No need to catch up. I will forever be ahead of you.” The camera shakes as Shane titters behind the camera.
Ilya’s smile drops, “We will see about next season, Hollander.” The shot lingers on Ilya’s necklace, he fiddles with it until he reaches down to snatch the camera from Shane’s hands, letting the camera focus on Shane’s glossy eyes.
Ilya tuts his tongue, “So, how does Shane Hollander like Los Angeles?”
“Um, it’s pretty hot here. I like, uh, the food even if I can’t eat a lot of it. Not a big hockey scene though. The hotels are always nice.” The camera catches how the lights flicker in Shane’s eyes as he looks around the room.
Ilya moves the camera around the room, showing off the hotel room. “Mhm, yes I like Los Angeles hotels too. Always fancy. Walls are thick, perfect for sex.” The walls blank except for one piece of abstract art right above the flatscreen tv. It’s mixed with all colors of the rainbow creating a muddy work of art, just like the city they’re both in.
Shane’s scoff is barely picked up by the mic, “You’re an actual pervert.”
The camera whips back over to Shane whose entire body is blurry. It takes a second for it to refocus on Shane who is covering his face now.
“What? You are camera-shy now?” Ilya giggles.
“I can’t believe you actually talked me into this. This is actual perversion. You need to be locked up for good”
“I didn’t talk you into anything, Hollander. You like to have fun too, you are a pervert too.”
Shane spreads his fingers to look at the camera, “You make me this way.”
“No, you have always been this way, I just bring it out of you.”
Shane moves his hands, letting them rest across his chest, letting the lens capture his soft features, “I hate that you’re right. You are the only person I would let film me like this.”
The camera is dropped somewhere in the sheets. It’s pitch black as two bodies rustle around on the bed. Their muffled moans overlap as lips loudly smack. “Hollander,” Ilya gasps out before the noises resume. “Thank you.”
There’s a sound of a belt being pulled off and light kisses.
Shane groans before saying, “Stop being sappy and suck my dick already.”
The belt noises stop
“Please.”
The belt is shuckled off. The sound of fabric rubbing against skin is cut abruptly. The camera is picked up and takes a second to focus on Ilya as he gathers spit in his mouth. Cheeks slightly sucked in before letting saliva drip down his bruised lip onto the head of Shane’s dick.
“Have you done this before?” Shane asks as spit lands on top of his head.
Ilya looks up through his lashes, past the camera, “You know I’ve sucked dick before.”
Shane huffs out an exasperated breath, “No, filmed something with someone.”
“No,” Ilya doesn’t hesitate before wrapping a hand around Shane’s shaft, “I’ve never wanted to film anyone like this before you.” Is all he says before wrapping his lips around Shane’s dick, still staring past the camera.
“Oh, fuck.” Shane gasps out, dropping the camera on his chest.
The video cuts.
Shane’s hands tremble as he tosses the camera somewhere on the bed. Rozanov’s warm, tight mouth wrapped around his dick.
Shane made a promise to himself to never make a sextape years ago, when he saw articles of players he personally knew getting exposed with supermodels in compromising positions because somebody drunkenly turned on a webcam. It didn’t ruin their reputation or anything, everyone knows most athletes sleep around, but the thought of someone seeing Shane so vulnerable made him sick to his stomach.
He was already vulnerable being filmed during games. Every mistake and slip-up shown on television screens across the world. Trembling hands being shown on jumbotrons. His wandering eyes in ultra-HD as he finds himself looking for Rozanov across the ice. Every loss forever engraved somewhere online. When he was a kid and messed up during practices, he was safe within the confines of a rented out ice rink, nobody remembering the mistake in weeks time.
Until his mom began to film every one of Shane’s games when he was a preteen, Shane complained to her saying her filming made him nervous and mess up basic plays. Somehow the opposite of the Hawthorne Effect. Yuna laughed as she told him to get used to being filmed, telling him how the whole world is going to want to see him play.
Shane quickly sucked it up, he got used to his mom getting as close to the rink as possible with her camcorder as his dad cheered them both on. His mom replayed every mistake Shane made on her heavy laptop right before she cooked dinner. Shane would pick at his plate as she talked on the phone with Shane’s coach. She would grab Shane’s plate muttering a question about his eating habits before kissing his damp hair.
Framed photos of Shane awkwardly smiling at the camera as he held up various trophies and accolades filled up the walls of his childhood home.
Shane quickly got used to the bright lights of photoshoots during his rookie year. Seeing himself awkwardly splayed across Sports Illustrated and GQ covers, but the general public loved those magazine spreads of him. He would stand in line at his local grocery store with his mom, unloading their cart full of different diets Shane found online, and be assaulted with images of Ilya Rozanov on the covers of, Sports Illustrated and GQ right next to tabloids of Beyonce.
Yuna muttered something about Rozanov being so unoriginal, but Shane couldn’t help but stare at the covers. Rozanov shirtless on GQ talking about his gym routine and him in his jersey for the cover of Sports Illustrated talking about his rivalry with Shane. Shane’s attraction to Rozanov was no secret at this time, he was already missing the feeling of coming down Rozanov’s throat, but something else bubbled in his stomach as he stared at the airbrushed magazine covers, Rozanov knew how to control the camera on and off the ice.
When Rozanov played, he would look at one of the hundreds of cameras around that stadium and flash a toothy smile at the camera. He moved flawlessly around the ice. Short, unbrushed curls under a helmet and a thick accent that was identifiable to deaf ears. The way Rozanov slid across the ice without any stiffness or nervousness in his bones, whenever he played against Rozanov, he knew he was the better player.
In every way, Shane was easily the better player but Rozanov was so effortlessly cool with his loud cigarette smell that lingered around the ice and his cocky attitude as he winked to cameras and Shane. Shane was so jealous. Rozanov had natural star-talent that couldn’t be taught.
Shane had trained his whole life to be in front of cameras but no amount of media training could wipe off the stickiness left over his body after paparazzi violate him. Rozanov didn’t care that paparazzi photographed him in compromising situations, when asked about it, Rozanov brushed it off. When Shane is asked about his potential relationships, he has to pluck an answer from his pre-packed list of statements.
The only time he didn’t have a PR-provided answer was on the ice. A decade or so of being filmed on the ice has paid off, he can no longer hear the turning of Panasonic cameras as he glides across the ice. It’s the only place, Shane can be himself. With his bitchy chirps and non-PR approved words. It’s also the only time he and Rozanov can be seen together. Camera zoomed in on both of them as they face-off, nobody technically knowing how hard Rozanov fucks him when they’re alone, but the cameras that surround them know. They capture the glint in both their eyes as they stare one another down.
When he’s alone in hotel rooms with Rozanov, he imagines what would happen if someone happened to plant a hidden camera in his room. His perfectly curated media personality on the ground along with his dignity as Rozanov fucks in him from behind. The thought of the world seeing Shane like that makes him sick, but his dick throbs harder in Rozanov’s mouth. His fingers tangle around Rozanov’s curls.
Rozanov pulls off of Shane, “What are you thinking about?”
“What?”
“I’ve never heard that before.”
“Heard what?”
Rozanov’s brows knit together, “That moan you just did.”
“What moan?”
“Hollander, I know you just heard yourself. You sounded like a dying pig.”
“Fuck you.”
“No, it was hot. You know I like bacon.”
Shane covers his face, “Oh my God.” He mumbles into his sweaty palms.
Rozanov kisses Shane’s inner thigh, nipping at the fat there before pulling back, “I need to film you fingering yourself.” He says as he reaches over to grab his camcorder.
When Rozanov points his camera at Shane, it feels as if he’s being seen. Rozanov isn't expecting Shane to regurgitate the same talking points across different medias. He just wants Shane raw and uncut. He wants the Shane on the ice that will slam him into the glass because he wants to hurt Rozanov and press into the bruises against the ridges of his ribs as he sucks his dick.
Not the Shane who sits for postgame interviews, with a Gatorade bottle facing outwards to the crowd of journalists, retelling the event as part of the game and no ‘ill intent’ behind it.
Rozanov’s camera wants the real Shane beneath it. All layers of PR training peeled back to reveal who he truly is. Finally being able to let go under the voyeuristic lens.
“Get me the lube, then.” Shane gestures his head to the side
˙⋆✮
The camera forces itself to refocus as it begins to follow Shane’s lube-covered fingers as it slowly makes its way to Shane’s puckering hole.
“Show the world how good you are at getting fucked Hollander.” Ilya mutters to himself, holding the camera as steady as possible.
Shane spreads his legs wider, “Is this a good angle?”
“Perfect, Hollander. Perfect at everything.”
His fingers rub against his hole. The mic barely captures Shane’s gasp.
“I haven’t,” Shane groans as the tip of his finger slips in, "Done this in a while to myself.”
Ilya lifts the camera up to Shane’s face. Mouth agape as he begins slowly fucking himself. Drool trickling out the side of his mouth, eyes squeezed shut. Heavy breathing once again distorts the audio, overlapping with Shane’s moaning.
Shane adjusts his position as he slips another finger in, eyebrows crinkled up, “Your face.” Ilya’s voice from behind the camera wavers.
“Do I look stupid?” Shane stops, opening his eyes. A tear from the outer corner trickles out.
“No, the opposite. I might give you this video instead so you can come to yourself.”
Shane shudders.
“You like that? Being able to watch yourself get off?”
“Mhm.” Shane nods.
“Might come from just looking at your face in the camera.”
“Oh, fuck.” Shane’s back arches off the bed.
“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya whispers so quietly, the camera barely picks it up over Shane’s moaning, “Such a shame not everyone can see this.”
Ilya keeps going, “I should post this online as you know, charity work. Let everyone come to your pretty face. Imagine the whole world seeing Shane Hollander like this.”
Shane’s chin trembles as his shoulder aggressively moves in and out of the frame, “Rozanov.” He breathes out as a warning.
“Everyone would love to see Shane Hollander make a mess all over himself. I think we should give the world what they want, huh? Maybe somebody will leak this, some crazy fan will go through my luggage and upload it everywhere. Whole world would be coming to this pretty face.”
The camera pans down to Shane, three fingers inside himself, lube spilling out the sides.
“I’m gonna—oh fuck—“ Shane shakes his head as he pulls out his fingers, “I’m ready, fuck me already, come on.” His hole already puffy and irritated as it clenches around nothing.
“That was fast.” Ilya remarks.
“Shut up and fuck me already.”
“Everyone can finally see how bossy you are.”
“Rozanov.”
“Do me one little favor before.”
The camera pans up slowly zooming out to show more of the pillow below Shane, “Show your fingers.”
Shane looks past the camera as he lifts up three sticky fingers.
“Clean them up for me.”
“You’re not about to film me doing that.”
“Please, Hollander, for me.”
Shane looks up to the ceiling, taking a deep breath before bringing his lube-covered fingers up to his lips. He licks along the edges of his fingers as he looks back at the camera. He shoves them in his mouth.
He moves his fingers in and out as he loudly moans around them. Shane pulls them out, a trail of spitting connecting from the bottom of his lip to the very tip of his fingers, “Are you gonna fuck me now or keep making me recreate your wet dreams?” He smiles up at the camera.
“You being alive is my wet dream.” Ilya says earnestly, both of them giggling in unison.
The camera cuts again.
˙⋆✮
“Hi world, say hello to my amazing cock.” Ilya points the camera down to his throbbing dick.
Shane hiccups as he laughs loudly.
Ilya zooms the camera into Shane’s permanent smile. Ilya lets the camera stay on Shane’s face for a while. Zooming in on the freckles that cover Shane’s cheeks.
“Say hello to Shane Hollander’s cock,” The camera pans down to the shaft of Shane’s wet dick. Ilya wraps a hand around it, earning a gasp from Shane, “Is pretty big for being so useless.”
“Shut up.” Shane stammers out as he lifts his hips up into Ilya’s hand.
The camera zooms out, showing Shane’s dick spurting out precome against his stomach and Ilya’s fingers, “I bet you all would pay millions for this view. I pay nothing.”
The camera trails up Shane’s chest until both his brown, hardened nipples wave hello to the camera, “Nobody’s paying millions to see me get fucked.” Shane mutters.
“You’d be surprised. Forget hockey, I could become a trillionaire selling this video.”
Another cut.
˙⋆✮
Shane is now on his stomach, his dick leaking against the white cotton sheets below him. Rozanov behind him, holding the camera above his back, breathing heavily. Rozanov’s hand runs all over Shane’s back.
“Are you gonna fuck me or what?” He can’t help but feel restless. Rozanov has spent the last twenty minutes or so filming every inch of Shane’s naked body. Tequila ripping open his veins and fucking its way into his bloodstream.
“So mean,” Rozanov mutters to himself. Shane feels the weight of the camera as Rozanov uses his free hand to spread one cheek to the side, “I should just leave you here.” His hot, disgusting tequila-flavored, cigarette-scented breath blows over the curve of Shane’s back.
Shane looks back at the lens, “Fuck, please don’t.”
The camera stares back at Shane and he swears he can see a whole crowd of people watching him, he drops his head on the sheets as he grinds against the soft mattress below them, “Do not get camera shy now. You are the star of my film.” Rozanov’s yanks at the slightly overgrown hair that hugs the back of his neck.
“You are the A-lister. You are the one that will get people in the theater.”
Shane gets people in the arena everytime he plays. He has fans in every city he goes to. Even Boston. Jerseys are always sold out, any sort of collaboration or sponsorship Shane is a part of gets sold out in minutes, “I am so lucky. I am the only one who gets you like this. People would kill to be me.” Rozanov says as he takes the camcorder and flips the viewfinder around. He leans over Shane and places the camera on the nightstand in front of them, right in front of their shared bottle of tequila.
“You’re so dramatic.”
“Everyone wants you, Hollander. Is no secret.”
Shane looks away from the lamp to stare at Rozanov through the viewfinder, “Shut up.”
Rozanov stares back, “I am serious,” He smiles once he realizes Shane is watching him, “There is no way you think I am only person that wants to fuck you all the time. I feel so special that you allow me to fuck you.”
Shane’s hips begin to stutter as he pushes back into Rozanov, “I allow you?” He repeats.
“Yes. You could have anyone else, but you always come back to me.”
The fact that Rozanov is right makes Shane’s skin crawl. Late nights in the back of mansion parties where NDAS are signed and phones are given up at the door. With Rose hanging off of Shane’s shoulders, he’s tried so hard to move on from Rozanov. Famous actors all lining up to court Shane and all he can do is wish he had his phone to see if Rozanov sent him anything. It’s pathetic. He hates how Rozanov can see right through him.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” He mewls.
“Yeah, he probably wants to fuck you too, but you only let me. You do not understand what that does to me, Hollander. You’re mine.”
Shane watches both of their blurry bodies blend together on the small viewfinder. They both stare at Shane, the camera can barely make out his freckles. If this ever got leaked, Shane can have plausible deniability. Could say it’s too blurry to even identify the faces, this could very well be a weird porn parody of him and Rozanov featuring lookalikes or even photoshop.
“What are you thinking about now?” Rozanov asks, now kissing along the shell of Shane’s ear.
Shane leans up into the light kisses, “Our statements if this ever leaked.”
Rozanov stops, leaving his lips against Shane’s ear, “Do you still want to do this?” He whispers.
“Yeah.” Shane whispers back.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
Rozanov licks behind his ear before pulling back, adjusting himself until they can both see Rozanov’s dick as he slowly enters Shane.
Shane gasps, already clenching around the head of Ilya’s dick, “I always forget how you feel.” He breathes out.
Rozanov slowly drops down to his elbows, going deeper and deeper into Shane. Shane tries to even out his breathing. Maybe he inhaled secondhand cigarette smoke earlier because suddenly Shane can’t breathe properly. He tries any one of his breathing methods but none of them work. Meanwhile Rozanov is sucking up all the oxygen in the room as he slowly ruts into him, leaning his forehead against the back of Shane’s head. Kissing the back of his neck.
It feels as if Rozanov cut a slit in Shane’s back and slipped his skin over his. He can feel Rozanov everywhere. He can feel Rozanov twitch inside him, all their nerve endings binding together to become one.
Shane grips the side of the bed beneath him as Rozanov fucks him deeper and harder. His dick pressing into a slightly bruised prostate and possibly Shane’s stuttering lungs, “Rozanov.” He moans out, looking up at the camera to see the man draped over him. Eyebrows tightly knitted together as he breathes heavily into Shane’s hair.
Watching Rozanov get lost in the feeling of Shane along with the feeling of him, mouth agape as his drool drips onto Shane’s nape, softly moaning, is too much for Shane. His chest hurts.
Shane drops his head against the bed again until he’s pulled up by a sweaty hand gripping a chunk of hair, “No, no, no. I do not finally get you like this and you keep hiding your face.” Rozanov mutters against him, his grip never loosening on Shane’s scalp.
Shane squeezes his eyes shut, “Hollander, if I have to pry your eyes open, I will. Look at the fucking camera.”
“Fuck,” Shane whimpers, “I can’t.”
“You can. Please, Hollander. Look at how beautiful you are.”
He barely opens his eyes, squinting as he quickly gets overwhelmed with the vision of Ilya’s crumpled up face as he fucks deeper and deeper into Shane.
˙⋆✮
Ilya’s chest hurts as Hollander swallows him in, maybe it's the quick cigarette he had an hour ago mixing with shitty LA air pollution or the way Hollander is panting and writhing beneath him, but Ilya feels like if he doesn’t keep taking deep breaths every second, he might pass out inside Hollander, maybe go in cardiac arrest.
Hollander finally giving in and looking at the blurry viewfinder in front of them. Ilya has seen Hollander like this more times than he can count, but the fact Shane’s Hollander’s face is forever immortalized on his nine-year old SD card, Ilya can’t help but whisper thanks to God against Hollander.
Thanking God for letting Hollander into his life after everything God has taken away from him. Ilya huffs out a laugh, only Hollander’s hole could make him believe in a higher power again.
Hollander doesn’t even pick up on Ilya’s light laughter, as he gets off to the image of himself getting fucked. Grinding down against the bed, Ilya has to chase after him to prevent himself from slipping out.
“Are you even looking at me or just looking at yourself?”
Hollander smiles, “Don’t get jealous.” He snorts.
Ilya has fucked Hollander too many times for it feel this earth-shattering. It can’t be because they’re drunk, he’s been inside Hollander so many times after drinking, he knows Hollander can taste the alcohol in his come. He’s fucked Hollander high and sober, but right now, Hollander feels like like he’s becoming apart of Ilya’s cock everytime he thrust inside him.
“Why does this feel so different?” Ilya questions as he feels every crease inside Hollander.
He expects some romantic answer about how it feels different because Hollander is finally about to confess his love for Ilya but instead gets, “You never put a condom on, idiot.” Hollander says so matter-of-factly.
Ilya freezes and Hollander whines beneath him, “It’s okay.” Hollander slurs out, trying to fuck himself back on Ilya’s cock. Ilya pulls back, sitting slightly up, his dick still halfway in Hollander.
“Shane, I—” Ilya slips up, trying to do something, fuck, Ilya can’t even remember before Shane is getting himself off using Ilya.
“It’s okay,” Shane reassures him, looking up at the camera to catch a glimpse of each other, “Ilya. I’m only yours, right? Keep fucking me like I am,”
“We’ll talk later about it later,” Shane fumbles with his words. “I promise. I’ll let you come inside me if you keep going.” He eggs Ilya on. Flipping the right switches and turning on the right buttons
“You never play fair,” Ilya slips deeper back in, “You always know what to say.”
A low battery warning pops up in the corner of the screen. Ilya ignores it as he fully drapes his body over Shane’s, trapping him against the bed.
“Not just to me, to everyone. You always have a perfect answer. Fuck, you’re perfect. Perfect ass, perfect heart, fuck, a perfect player.” Ilya can’t stop him from rambling into the crook of Shane’s neck.
Shane shakes his head, “Ilya,” He gasps out, “I can’t, I’m going to—“ He can’t even finish his sentence before squeezing his eyes shut, Ilya pulls one eye of his eyes open, letting Shane watch himself come hands free against Ilya’s cock.
Ilya quickly moves his hand to Shane’s mouth, muffling the scream that comes out of him. His whole body trembles as he clenches around Ilya.
“Oh fuck,” is all Ilya can get out before he’s coming inside Shane. Everything hidden deep within his body shooting out inside him. Ilya biting down on Shane’s shoulder to muffle his own cries, drawing blood. Shane just takes it, not bothering to flinch or yelp at the pain.
Ilya fucks his come deeper inside him, until nothing comes out anymore.
They both lay there. Shane would usually complain about the come connecting his stomach and the sheets but he lays there, attempting to steady his breathing as he shakes.
Ilya doesn’t really know what he’s muttering into Shane’s warm skin anymore. A mix of English and Russian. A mix of love confessions and lustful words. He lazily kisses a bundle of freckles next to his bite mark on Shane’s shoulder.
The camera sits there, taking in every detail of them.
“I think I’m in l—“
Ilya cuts him off, “You aren't and that’s okay, Hollander.”
Shane too fucked out to argue, huffs out an irritated sigh as Ilya stops the camera from filming them anymore.
“I am.” Shane coughs out.
“I think I am too.” Ilya confesses, turning Shane’s chin, presses his lips against Shane’s. Ilya shoves his tongue in Shane’s mouth, the wet muscle says everything Ilya can't bring himself to.
Shane immediately sucks on Ilya’s tongue. Soaking up the tequila and precome hidden within his tastebuds, shoving away three words Ilya so desperately wants to say, but he shoves it in the back of his throat where it will await its execution, the next time Ilya has a cigarette.