you know, since this mafia hollanov au part is getting (much) longer than i anticipated, have a snippet:
“Relax,” Ilya says with a smirk, “is hair dye. I like my hoes blonde now.”
Shane bites back the first comment that rises up his throat. He can’t help the eye roll, though. “If there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that you don’t have a type.”
Ilya’s eyes flash, with delight more than with danger, and he slowly walks up to him, pressing, pressing, and Shane doesn’t even realize he’s been giving ground until his back hits a cold wall with an audible thud.
Ilya hums. His nose is a hair-width away from Shane’s. “And is that the only wrong thing you know about me?”
Shane hates the way his breath hitches. Ilya smirks widens.
“It’s not wrong,” Shane argues back. It’s not. He’s spent a significant amount of time learning everything he could about Ilya off every scrap of information law enforcement had on him, and then several more years by getting to know him…more intimately.
He realizes Ilya’s crowded him against the restroom door when he reaches around to open it. Shane stumbles backwards and a strong, unreasonably warm hand catches him by the waist, stabilizing him.
“No? Мой любимый,” Ilya coos, and Shane flushes up to his ears, the nickname, coloured by cadence of Ilya’s voice, how it sounds in Russian, hitting him so unexpectedly he gasps without meaning to. “You have always been a bad liar.”
Ilya keeps his hand on Shane’s waist, walking him into the restroom, close enough that Shane starts to feel the heat of his body through his clothes. He uses his other hand to carelessly pull the door closed behind them, locking it without even so much as a backward glance.
“Fooled you,” Shane shoots back and immediately clamps his mouth shut, biting at his tongue.
He feels a sick little thrill, a sort of vindication maybe, when Ilya’s breath catches.
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