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The knock is quiet, but not timid, when it comes hours after the game; long enough for them both to have gone out, putting on a good show, as Hollander had put it. Despite his threats not to show up, Ilya is unsurprised at the tap, his sweats slung low, his t-shirt damp at the collar from his wet hair. In his living room, the lights are off, the gauzy curtains over ever so slightly cracked windows, just enough to catch the sharp bite of a bitter winter on the edges of the room. It's a familiar smell, smoky beneath the cold, the scent of snow straight off the Atlantic.
Hollander, he is sure, is on the other side of the door.
He pushes himself up off his couch slowly, taking another sip of his vodka, before he sets it off to the side, glass clinking against the wood. There is no shame, he believes, in taking his time; for all he knows, it may be a lost delivery driver, a crazed fan, a neighbor asking for sugar at one in the morning.
For a moment, he almost wants to wait, wants to see if Hollander would tap his knuckles again, would thump his fist louder, would run the risk of another person besides Ilya hearing, before he shoves the urge away.
It will do no good to ruin the night before he gets what he wants, and what he wants is Shane Hollander ruined in his sheets.
“Ah,” he says, as he pulls the door open, ignoring the way Hollander shoves past him. As ferocious as a kitten, even though Ilya is sure that real rage lies beneath the veneer. “Are eager, no?”
“Fuck you,” Hollander snaps, as Ilya lets the door swing closed, turning to find the other man standing in his living room, a scowl on his face. “The hell are you playing at, leaving me in the hall for so long?”
Ilya shrugs, drinking him in. Hollander looks disheveled, his hair tousled from running his hands through it, snow dusting his shoulders, a sleek black jacket snug around his torso. He looks pretty, haloed by the blunted city lights through the curtains, pink across his cheeks as he glares, kicking off his shoes, before gently nudging them out of the way; polite to a fault.
“Could be stranger,” he says, arching a brow when Hollander scoffs. “I do not know—someone did not text.”
“We talked about it yesterday,” Hollander says, his face wrinkling up as he yanks off his jacket, revealing a button-down underneath. He is cute, when he is angry on the ice, Ilya knows, but there is something about annoying him to death in the quiet of their apartments that makes him glorious. It must be the way he lets himself get bitchy, attitude out on display, in a way he does not let himself be in public. Too Canadian, he assumes, to be a dick in public. “You told—demanded, really—that I come here after, despite it being a bad idea.”
Ilya shrugs again. “Yet, you are here,” he murmurs, unconcerned with Hollander's usual bleating fears. It has been years of this, of this touch and go, and despite the ripple of oil-slick fear that suffuses him sometimes, he knows he does not hold the same worry as Hollander.
Hollander only ever seems relaxed when he has been forced into it, fucked into a daze, kept apart from his worries by the sheer exquisite pleasure of Ilya's cock. He would say it was a hardship, except for the splinters of delight that spark inside him when he remembers: Hollander keeps coming back. It cannot be a hardship when Hollander is so eager to be kept, when he is so greedy to glut himself on sex and orgasms, as if Ilya is the only thing keeping him steady in the night.
Hollander stares at him for a minute before his shoulders round. Ilya licks his lips, his eyes fixed on the curve of his spine; it is almost a shame that defeat looks just as delicious as victory on Hollander. “Yeah,” he says with a sigh, peeking at him between his long sweeping lashes. “Here I am. For you.”
Ilya thinks that is a dangerous thing to admit to anyone, but even more so to him. He has never been shy about his desires to own and use; Hollander should know better by now, unless he is trying to provoke something.
He arches a brow and steps closer, watching the bob of Hollander's throat, the way his eyes get low-lidded, dark with want.
“Da,” he agrees softly, catching the shiver of something rolling through Hollander. It only makes him hungrier, sharp glass under his skin. He feels wild, lightning caught in a bottle, a rumbling implosion of greed rising within. “You are here.”
Hollander nods, shifting on his feet, creeping another inch closer even as Ilya prowls towards him. He can feel his cock growing harder in his sweats, a heavy line of heat against his thigh. He doesn't bother to drag his eyes up and down Hollander to check; he already knows that the man is hard.
“Is good, yes?” he asks, as he draws even with Hollander. He gestures around his apartment, not bothering to look away. “You are where you belong.” He arches a brow as Hollander's eyes widen, lust and something else unreadable in his eyes. “Ready to be fucked. Like a slut.”
“No,” Hollander says, shaking his head, even as Ilya reaches out and sets a heavy hand on his shoulder. “That’s not—I'm not—”
Ilya hushes him, his fingers meandering to his collar, before he flicks the top button, nestled into the hollow of his throat. “Is okay,” he murmurs, heat simmering under his skin as Hollander bites back a groan. He can see the tips of his ears flushing through the waves of his hair as greed unspools into the pit in his stomach. He wants more than he can say, and it is awful. He makes up for the feeling by continuing, “You are not public slut. Only my slut, Hollander.” He meets his gaze, a smirk emerging as Hollander stares up at him with wide eyes. “Repeat it.”
Hollander wordlessly shakes his head, and Ilya tsks, neatly undoing one button, before he pulls his hand back, hiding a grin when Hollander sways towards him. His dick twitches, another wave of arousal spilling across his skin. “You say no, yet you are here, no? Eager.”
“Rozanov,” Hollander starts, only to falter as Ilya leans down and bites at the tip of his ear; Hollander tastes of skin and synthetic lemons, blood-warm and delicious. He moans, the sound just as addicting as it was the first time. Ilya lets go to drag his lips across Hollander's cheek, leaving a faint smear of saliva across his skin before he pulls back to admire the look of him, rumpled and wanting, desperation in the lines of his body. Russian rasps from his throat as he forgets himself; quiet murmurs to ask Hollander to stay, to let himself be kept.
“Fucking—goddammit,” Hollander mutters, his voice already low and gravelly with want. “You asshole.”
Ilya smirks, shoving his stupid feelings to the side. “Is not what I want to hear,” he rumbles, before he finally lets himself touch again, undoing another button. “Want to get fucked, da?” He slides his hand up to curl around Hollander's throat, simply touching, not pressing; his fingers make for a beautiful collar, and heat flares in his navel. “Repeat it.”
Glassy eyes blink up at him, Hollander's pink tongue sweeping across his lips. “I—” He shudders as Ilya tightens his grip, red searing across his face. “Fucking—shit. I'm your—” He bites down on his mouth, worrying at his chapped skin, but Ilya has played these games with him long enough to know; victory is imminent.
It nearly feels as good as it does to win on the ice, to capture and take, to have Hollander ready to beg and plead just for a chance to be fucked by him; although Hollander can never know that it is less of a chance and more of a need on Ilya's end as well. The stupid Canadian has somehow wormed his way under Ilya's skin, has somehow become this lure hooked into his ribs; a seething mess of crackling desire and botched, pitiful wants.
“I—” Hollander starts again, and as a reward, Ilya undoes another button. He slides his hand across Hollander's skin, ghosting his thumb over his nipple, dragging his nails across the muscles that ripple under his touch. “I can't think when you touch me,” Hollander admits, dazed, his voice low.
Ilya grins at him and leans down to press an open-mouthed kiss to the arch of Hollander's plush mouth. He opens for him immediately, folding up the pressure under the slick touch of his tongue, the relentless bite of his teeth.
Ilya can hear the lewd, wet sounds of their kissing filling the air, can taste the lush, sinful desire that Hollander is panting into his mouth as Ilya licks across his tongue, before he tries his level best to devour him. It's intoxicating, the taste of him, the hitching moans that spill from his throat, the way Hollander sinks further into it with every firm stroke of Ilya's thumb along the line of his throat.
Hollander's hands tangle in Ilya's hair, pulling him closer, as if Ilya isn't already swallowing him down enough. Needy, Ilya wants to murmur, but he's too focused on taking Hollander apart with his mouth, something that he could dedicate hours to. He's rolling his hips against Ilya's thigh, bitten off groans echoing through the cavern of Ilya's mouth, another delectable sign of just how stupidly wanton he is, how keen he is to let Ilya ruin him.
And, oh, how Ilya intends to keep this searing promise they've exchanged.
By the time he pulls away, Hollander looks wrecked, shattered against the swell of his lust. Somehow, his shirt is hanging off his shoulders, buttons torn from their frantic hands, his chest heaving. He's a vision as he stands entwined with Ilya, a gorgeous, foul-mouthed creature, one that Ilya cannot wait to see splayed out across his sheets, ruined for anyone else.
“You—I'm your s-slut,” Hollander rasps, his hands tightening in Ilya's hair, against Ilya's skin. Mine, Ilya wants to howl, wants to demand. He feels insane, shipwrecked on his own idiotic urges. “I—Rozanov, please.”
Ilya grins, relishing the hitch in Hollander's voice. “Is nice when you beg,” he murmurs, before he drops both his hands to Hollander's waist, smoothly undoing the button on his jeans. “Your voice, it gets soft? High?” He shakes his head as Hollander kicks his pants off, leaving him in just socks and his briefs, his dick dripping, a spot of damp precum that's growing against the fabric. Ilya drags his top off but keeps his sweats on, grinning broadly at the other man. “I do not know words for it. But I do know—you are needy, Shane Hollander. Greedy for me.”
Hollander whines, flushing deeply, as if this is some unbearable notion, and not the truth, before it cuts off into a gasp as Ilya lifts him up, spinning the two of them. Hollander's legs wrap around his waist, his arms looping around his neck even tighter as Ilya walks them back down the short hallway to his bedroom.
Hollander is just as insatiable as he was before, sucking bruises into the curve of Ilya's collarbone, his tongue hot and wet as he traces down the bone to bite at his shoulders, his hands twisting in Ilya's curls.
Ilya hisses, the sting sharp before it fades into an ache as Hollander pulls away. “You are brat,” Ilya announces, before he drops Hollander onto his giant bed. He spares a moment to watch the shift of Hollander's abdomen, the muscles rippling under his skin. “Good thing, I like.”
“Rozanov,” Hollander says, his legs dropping from around his waist to spread wider, before he seems to remember he’s still wearing his underwear, and swears, shoving it down his legs. He squirms out of them, eager as always. “Get fucking undressed.”
Ilya shrugs, reaching out to snag one of his ankles, tightening his grip over his bone and tendons, admiring the strength of Hollander's legs. “I like this,” he says. “You, naked. For someone who argues, you undress fast, da?” He tugs on Hollander's ankle. “Is nice to see, that you are my cockslut.”
Hollander's mouth drops open, but a keen rises before any words, neatly wiping any arguments off the map as Ilya leans forward and wraps his other hand around his dripping cock.
He pumps Hollander's dick, watching as he arches into the touch, his chest heaving.
“See,” Ilya murmurs, grinning wildly as precum spills across his knuckles, down the shaft of Hollander's cock. “You would let me do anything.” He lets go to drag a finger over the curve of his balls, down past his perineum, to press against his warm hole, gently massaging the skin as Hollander shouts, his head tossed back. “Perfection, yes? To know that on the ice you are force. Here, though, here you are nothing more than mine.”
“Please,” Hollander begs, his free leg splaying wider as Ilya keeps his grip tight on his ankle. His finger presses in, just enough to make Hollander hiss at the dry burn, before Ilya pulls back. “Fucking, do it, Rozanov—fuck me.” He lifts his head high enough so Ilya can see the dark promise in his eyes, the slick want painted across his face. “I want you to—to fuck me.”
For a moment, Ilya lets himself drown in the impossibility of I want you, before reality returns.
“Yes,” he agrees, before he points to the pillows. “You will open yourself, no? Make a performance?” He raises a brow and drops Hollander's ankle. “Show me how slutty you are?”
Hollander's cheeks are bright red as he slides backwards further up the bed, but he doesn't argue, his cock leaking across his stomach.
He is glorious like this, stained with nothing more than his own need, his own sharp-toothed hunger. Ilya watches as Hollander leans over and slides his bedside drawer open, pulling lube out, before he leans backwards against the pillows and spreads his legs even wider.
It strikes a deep chord, some song he does not know but can recognize; Hollander knows his room well enough to know where things are. It feels impossible that they are here, and yet still, they are here.
“If only your team could see you now,” Ilya murmurs, his dick dripping in his sweats as Hollander slicks up his fingers. He feels insatiable, as if the world is skating by him and Hollander is the anchor tying him to the ground. “If only they could see how eager you are.”
Hollander shakes his head, but Ilya raises a brow. “You are—what is word—attention whore?” He says, smirking when Hollander groans. “You are demon on ice, and demon in bed.” He tsks as Hollander slowly slides a finger inside himself. “If not whore, then why so eager for touch? Greedy, greedy.”
“Rozanov,” Hollander mutters, looking like he might cry. Ilya hopes he does, wants to taste the all too familiar taste of tears on his skin. “You can't—you can't just say that.”
“Say what? The truth?”
Hollander moans, shuddering under his own hands. It makes Ilya feel wild with lust, watching as one of the best athletes in the world fingers himself open just so Ilya can fuck him.
“I do not know why you lie to yourself, Hollander,” Ilya murmurs as Hollander slides another finger inside his hole. Ilya can see the clench, the drag of his fingers, can catch the shiver as pleasure runs under Hollander's skin like a livewire. “You are keptboy, yes? You listen to no one but me.”
“Just you,” Hollander agrees, raspy with want. His lips are slick with spit, a tiny panting noise slipping from between his teeth. “Just—Rozanov, please—fuck me.”
Ilya ignores him, reaching down to adjust his dick. He smirks as Hollander's gaze follows his hand, his mouth dropping open on a loud whine. “What would you do?” Ilya muses, stroking himself through his sweats. “If I asked? Would you beg?”
“I am begging,” Hollander mutters, his jaw flexing as he grinds his teeth.”Rozanov, please, let me—just fuck me. I want—I want your cock.”
“You are very pretty with such sweet words,” Ilya allows. He can feel his precum pooling under his hand as he strokes his shaft, though it is nothing compared to the mess Hollander has made of his stomach. “But nyet, that is not what I mean. No, it is—would you let me ruin you?” He meets Hollander's eyes and lets him see the grin on his mouth, the dagger of ravenousness that looms in the shadows of his face. “Would you let me take you on the ice? For everyone to see?”
Hollander shakes his head immediately, his mouth opening, but Ilya can see the way his dick spurts more precum, the liquid drooling from its head. He nods towards it, grinning when Hollander snaps his jaw shut and, somehow, flushes even deeper.
“Your words—bah, they do not matter. Your cock? It answers for you.”
“Rozanov,” Hollander warns, but he is too late, as Ilya shoves his sweats down, his cock bouncing up. Hollander stills, his fingers still inside, his eyes wide as Ilya crawls up the bed towards him, before he sits back on his heels, in between the split of his legs.
“Is okay,” Ilya says quietly, his eyes drifting across Hollander's face, down his limbs, lingering on his red cock, before falling to his fingers, the glimpse of his puffy rim behind his hand. “I know, Hollander. You want to be good boy.” He smiles, slow and broad, as cruel as he can make it. He wants to burn Hollander from the inside out, wants to brand the man with his dick, wants to force himself inside until he has tasted every bone, gnawed on his sinew. He is wolfish with desire, a scythe of lust carved straight through his spine; nothing but need swirls inside of him. “I will make you be good.”
Hollander sucks in a deep breath, but nods, his fingers slipping from his hole despite the way his hips chase after them instinctually; it is delicious to watch his desperation, as if he does not understand that Ilya will replace them with his cock soon enough.
He slides forward, settling into the vee of Hollander's hips, and readjusts, settling over him, delighting in the drag of their cocks against each other for a minute, as he leans down to press teasing kisses against Hollander's mouth.
“Please,” Hollander whispers as he pulls back, his legs rising up, his body opening for Ilya, sharp want spreading across his face. “Rozanov, please just—I want you to—can you—” Ilya reaches down and grabs his dick, nudging the head of it up against the tight furl of Hollander's asshole, just barely pressing in. Hollander moans, as though he's fucking him hard, and Ilya cannot contain his grin.
“Is noise whores make,” he murmurs, grabbing the lube and coating his cock. “Perfection, Hollander.”
“I'll show you perfection when you fuck me,” Hollander gasps out, bearing down as Ilya begins to bully his way in. “C'mon, Rozanov, ruin me.”
Ilya doesn't bother to be coy about those magical words; he rocks forward in one steady motion and slides in, all the way to the hilt.
For a moment, pleasure so dazzlingly good settles in the small of Ilya's back, spreading out under his skin as if a heated blanket. Hollander is warm and slick and tight, the clutch of his body nearly as unbearable as it was the first time; he feels as if he may black out at the sensation.
Beneath him, Hollander's mouth is wide, his tongue useless in his mouth as he whines, dazed and empty-headed, just as Ilya likes him. He is gorgeous like this, his head tossed back, the lines of his face set into delicious agony even as he reaches out to Ilya to cling, his nails sharp on the back of his neck.
“You are mine,” Ilya says, rolling his hips back before surging forward with a snap. Hollander moans even louder, his eyes cracking open to meet Ilya's. “Is okay to be nothing but my cockslut, Hollander. Is best use for you. Will keep you and use you every day. You are nothing more than—” He grinds forward, dissolving into Russian in an attempt to explain just how good he feels, how right it is to see him underneath.
Somehow, Hollander tightens, as Ilya looks up to catch his eyes wide. “You are unreal,” Hollander gasps, sweat collecting on his hairline. Ilya wants to lick it, wants to taste the shattered desire that is sure to be soaked through. “Do it—fucking use me, Rozanov.”
Ilya can't take it; he just has to kiss him, dropping down to press against him, to lick into his mouth and taste him.
Have we not ruined each other already? he wants to ask, but can't force the words out, instead pressing them into Hollander's mouth. He hopes the other man can drink them from his lips, his ardent desire, his stupid, awful wants, his slow bleed of greedy pleasure.
Hollander's panting into his mouth, weak grunts of uh, uh, uh, as Ilya carves a permanent space for himself inside Hollander's body. He scrapes his teeth over Hollander's tongue, bites at the swell of his lip, uncaring as spit smears between them. He almost wants to split his skin beneath his teeth, wants to taste blood smeared across his tongue, another piece of Hollander for him to take.
“Will keep you as cockwarmer,” Ilya mutters, unsure what he's even saying, words falling from his mouth in graceless, clunky English. He only knows that it feels good to spit the snarled wants that bunch in his chest at Hollander. “You will not need hockey, when I am done. Will only need cock. Will only want to be good boy for me.”
“Rozanov,” Hollander keens, clenching around him as he fucks him. He is greedy, his hole sucking him in, unwilling to give up one inch as Ilya tries to brand him with the weight of his dick. “Please, please, please—harder, faster, ohmygod—”
Ilya chuckles, a rumble rolling through him. “Greedy, greedy,” he whispers into his mouth. “You are naughty, Hollander. You want more from me, yes? More cock, more fucking, more orgasm. You will never be free from this, no? Only slut left inside; I have fucked the rest out.”
“Yes,” Hollander chants, as Ilya shifts again, and his dick glances off his prostate. He can tell immediately, Hollander's whole body tightening, a garbled moan leaving his throat. “Yes, yes, yes—anything you want, just keep, oh god—just keep fucking me.”
Ilya slows his thrusts, ignoring the way Hollander whines and clutches, his face turning red, his eyes wet. “Ask nicely,” he demands quietly. “Beg, Hollander. Tell me what you would do for my cock.”
“Anything,” Hollander answers immediately, squirming underneath him. “I would do—jesus christ—anything for y-your cock. For you.”
For a moment, the world crystallizes into perfection; Hollander, under him, his dick deep inside, their bodies warm against each other as Hollander's cock drools on his stomach, a needy, pathetic thing.
Anything for you, echoes through the air, and Ilya cannot leave it unanswered, as he rocks forward again, breathing heavily into Hollander's open mouth.
“I will give, da?” he murmurs, as he settles back into a rhythm. “I will give my good boy anything.”
Hollander warbles nonsense against his lips. Ilya can taste the salt from his tears, the tang of his sweat. This close to him, Hollander is all that exists, the axis his world spins on as the bed rocks beneath them.
“Close,” Hollander gasps out, minutes later, as lust swirls through his veins. “I'm so—ohmygod—Rozanov—I'm going to—can I—”
Ilya speeds up his thrusts, applying constant punishing pressure against Hollander's sweet spot as he grinds his cock in deeper. He can feel the tight clench, the waves that ripple down his walls, the glorious slick slide as he splits Hollander wide open.
This is a better kind of winning, he thinks wildly, the world slipping through his fingertips, heady desire rising from a pit inside of him. He has conquered the unconquerable; he has clawed the best of the best from first place with nothing more than his touch, his teeth, his tongue, his cock.
“Cum for me, Hollander,” Ilya croons, his voice shot through with ferocious need. His own orgasm looms, arousal thick in his veins. “You want to be good, yes? Then, cum.”
Hollander shouts, his whole body locking up, as if Ilya's permission is all he's waiting on. He cums so hard that Ilya can feel it, hitting his skin, the tacky and warm drip of it across him.
It only makes him more desperate, as he rocks forward, listening to Hollander moan, listening to the thud of his hips, the slap of his balls. He feels wild, bloated with need, as Hollander arches into it, his face slack with bliss, no thoughts behind his eyes. He looks gloriously undone, ruined beyond compare, his hair wild, sticking up everywhere, pink dappled across his face.
Despite having just cum, Hollander is still greedy for more, pressing kisses against Ilya's mouth, whining for more.
“You like this,” Ilya breathes into him. “You are—fucking, perfection, Hollander. You are good, so good for me.”
Hollander gasps, panting. “Fucking—wanna feel you, Rozanov. Wanna feel you cum, wanna feel it—shit—don't you want to cum?” Ilya meets his eyes, black with desire. “Please,” he whispers, everything Ilya has ever wanted, wrapped in the worst possible person he could desire; it does not matter, he knows. Hollander has already won this war of theirs. “Cum for me.”
Ilya is helpless to do anything, except to obey as he thrusts forward and cums, a slow, drugging pulse of pleasure sliding through his veins, across his skin. Hollander whines at the feeling, his hands sliding up to tug Ilya down, sealing their mouths together.
The rush of dizzying relief that slides through him is impossible to ignore, a sludge of too-honest comfort that burns.
Yet still, Ilya cannot make himself pull away.
He can’t. Won’t.
Instead, he’ll let Hollander suck on his tongue and whimper on his cock, and he’ll want and wait, and force himself not to ask, not to reach. He would say that it will ruin him, except for how he has already been ruined; seared on the fires that burn bright between them.
He slides his tongue against Hollander’s and lets himself sink into him.
It will be fine, he is sure. He is not unfamiliar with pain.
And in the end, it will not matter. For Shane Hollander, he is willing to burn forever.