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send me a word/phrase to practice my smut writing lmao - this turned into sugar au as predicted im so sorry anon…..
“Have you ever been?” Shane asks, the faux-nonchalance that Ilya is becoming so familiar with. “Vegas, I mean?”
Something clicks, when he says it; the pieces of the puzzle that make up Shane Hollander finally coming together. He’s been acting strange all morning, stranger than usual, and Ilya was just on the verge of worried. But it makes sense, now. Ilya looks up from his laptop, narrowing his eyes at him.
“Yes, is very easy to go from Canada to US for a vacation. On a Russian student visa. To gamble the zero money I have.”
Shane nods, considering. His hair is longer than Ilya has ever seen it, long enough to pull into a small bun at the nape of his neck. It looks good. He looks good, fresh off the playoffs and all hard muscle and mottled, purple bruises. His grey sweatpants sit low on his hips, showing off his overly-defined abs and the huge bloom of purple covering his ribs. Ilya licks his lips, the movement almost subconscious; Shane fucking Hollander.
The semester is almost over; finals are done. McGill didn’t get far in the University Cup this year, something Ilya has been stewing over since they were knocked out in the first bracket. He tears his gaze away from the stupid, attractive hockey legend in front of him and focuses back on the post-season reports on his screen.
“I could probably figure it out,” Shane muses, almost to himself. “If you wanted to.”
“Hollander, we both know what the issue is,” Ilya doesn’t bother looking up from his laptop screen, “Goalie is shit, defence is a mess. I do not need you to captain my team, thank you.”
“What? Oh, no, not that. I mean, I can help with your post-season, if you want, but. No. I meant for Vegas.”
“What the fuck are you talking about, Vegas?” Ilya complains, finally taking the bait. He slams his laptop shut, letting it slip from his lap and onto Shane’s stupid green couch. He looks way too happy to have finally captured Ilya’s attention, his plump lips turned out into a smirk. Ilya watches his push his glasses a little further up his nose with suspicion.
“The NHL awards.” Shane shrugs, and there’s that faux-nonchalance again. There’s more confidence there now, though, and with Ilya’s lap finally free of his computer, Shane takes the initiative to replace it. He crosses the room in a few quick, purposeful strides, and suddenly his huge frame is pressing down against Ilya’s thighs. He’s always liked this about Shane, the weight of him, a wall of muscle. He brackets him with his thighs, knees pressing into Ilya’s hips, and weaves a hand into his curls.
“The Oscars. See, I can name award shows, too.”
“Mm, you’re funny,” Shane pans, and kisses his jaw. “No, I mean, I have the NHL awards in two weeks. And you finished all your finals, and the U-Cup is over.”
Ilya bites back a moan when Shane pauses, sucks on the spot just beneath his pulse point. It’s getting harder and harder to keep up the unbothered, no-strings-attached mask he’s been wearing since last Christmas. Especially when he can feel Shane getting harder, his cock swelling in his sweatpants and pressing against Ilya’s stomach.
“You’ve been working so hard,” Shane mutters between kisses, rocking his hips gently against Ilya’s growing erection. “I think you’ve earned a vacation. Vegas, just for a week, and then anywhere you want. Literally anywhere, I can make it happen.”
Ilya can feel Shane’s glasses nudging against his jaw as he kisses his neck, can feel the throbbing of his own cock and the pounding of his heart. It’s fucking ridiculous, because Shane is so hot, and so talented; a hockey legend. He’s kind, and weird, and funny, and a bit of a bitch in a way that makes Ilya so fucking fond. His money is the least interesting thing about him. And it’s getting harder for Ilya to pretend it’s the only reason he’s here.
Instead of saying any of that, and scaring the gorgeous man in his lap away, Ilya pivots to another truth: the fact that he’s so fucking hot for him it’s embarrassing. He winds a hand into Shane’s hair, carefully working the hair-tie and letting the long strands free. Once he has a decent grip he pulls just hard enough to bring Shane’s head away, tilt his chin up.
“You want to take me on vacation?”
“I want to fuck you after I win MVP,” Shane corrects, eyes dark with lust, that stupid smirk still twisting his lips, “And then I want to take you on vacation.”
The words go straight to Ilya’s cock, his hips bucking up against Shane’s, chasing the friction. Just the thought of fucking Shane after he wins MVP is enough to bring Ilya dangerously close to coming in his pants like a fucking teenager. And then jetting off somewhere, together. Europe, maybe, somewhere that isn’t hockey-obsessed, somewhere they won’t know who Shane is, where maybe they can—
Ilya tugs harder on Shane’s hair, grinding up against him. “You fucking feel that? How hard you make me?”
“Fuck, Ilya. Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yeah, I feel it,” Shane sighs, and that beautiful flush is back, swallowing his freckles. Ilya smiles despite himself; that’s what it takes to be MVP, he supposes. Willing to do as he’s told. And Shane Hollander is, in Ilya’s experience, very, very willing.
“Feel what?” Ilya prompts, bringing his other hand down to Shane’s hip when his rhythm stutters. He squeezes gently, urging him to keep going, grinds up against him in encouragement. “No, no, I didn’t say stop.”
Just when he isn’t sure if he could come with the heavy fabrics of their sweatpants between them, Shane moans, and Ilya’s cock twitches. There’s a first time for everything, and Ilya likes a challenge.
“Feel what, Hollander?” He prompts, again, pulling his hips down with more force, more friction. It’s borderline painful, the dry drag of his cock against his Nike sweats, but it’s so hot that he can’t bring himself to stop. A cursory glance down confirms what he’d assumed, the small wet patch forming on the front of Shane’s sweats, his cock leaking precome; he’s always so fucking wet.
“Your cock, fuck, I feel— Feel your cock. How hard you are. Please, Ilya.”
“I think you can come like this,” Ilya says, squeezing his hip again, pressing his thumb into the bruise he knows is sitting just below the waistband, “And then we will— Fuck — Then we will talk about vacation.”
It’s an illusion of power. Or maybe it isn’t; the line is blurring, has been blurring for a long time. Ilya is sure that Shane would give him anything he wants— Money, vacations, connections. He’d leave him alone for the rest of his life if he asked, delete his number, pretend they never met. If Ilya asked it, he would. And he knows he should break it off, he knows that, but he just—
Well. Ilya is selfish. Right now, what he wants is to ruin his fucking sweatpants and fuck Shane Hollander in Las Vegas. He wants to stop fucking thinking.
Ilya tightens the hand he has in Shane’s hair and pulls him down for a bruising kiss, their lips meeting with such force that he can feel the vibration in his teeth. He licks into Shane’s mouth, the wet heat of it, runs his tongue along the neat row of his bottom teeth. Ilya’s hips rock against Shane’s in earnest, falling into an urgent rhythm, the dry drag sending shivers up his spine.
“I want—“ Shane gasps against Ilya’s mouth, “Fuck, Ilya, I just want to fucking spoil you. You’ve earned it, you— Fuck, I’m gonna come—“
“So come,” Ilya recognises a plea for permission when he hears one, and he’s not far behind. Shane’s words echo in his head, coil tight in his stomach; I just want to fucking spoil you. “Come in your pants like a fucking slut, Hollander.”
Shane moans into Ilya’s mouth, leaning down to kiss him again, and Ilya can feel the moment his orgasm rips through him; the stutter of his hips, first, and then the sticky wetness. Ilya follows him over the edge, biting down on Shane’s plump lower lip as he comes and holding his hips down with an iron grip, grinding up and riding him through the aftershocks.
“Fuck,” Shane pants, when Ilya’s hips finally still, “Fuck you, I liked these.”
“Dry clean them.”
And then, because the universe hates him, Shane laughs, and drops his head onto Ilya’s shoulder. He’s so warm against him, boneless and sated and sticky with sweat; Ilya would give up his career, his scholarship, and any amount of vacations to just stay here forever. On Shane Hollander’s stupid green couch, chest pressed against his, hand in his hair.
Ilya runs the pads of his fingertips over Shane’s scalp, soothing where he’d been pulling. “I would like that. Vegas, vacation. If you can figure out the visa.”
“Yeah?” He can hear the smile in Shane’s voice. “Where do you wanna go? Anywhere you want. Greece, Monaco. France. Fucking, I don’t know, Alaska. Anywhere.”
Ilya hums, continues to scratch his fingers against Shane’s scalp, and lets the promise of the word anywhere float through the haze of his mind. Anywhere, with Shane. Just the two of them. Anywhere.
The sun is setting outside, painting the walls of Shane’s penthouse orange. It’s a beautiful fucking view, the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over uptown Montreal. All Ilya can really see from his spot on the couch is the top of Shane’s head and the curve of his ass against Ilya’s knees; he’ll take this over stupid Montreal any day.
Neil goes through his usual routine every half hour, cracking practically every joint in his body. and Aaron, who’s been forced to witness this for a solid three minutes now, finally can’t hold back his medical confusion anymore and blurts out, “There AREN’T even any fucking bones in HALF those places, so WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU CRACKING?!”
Witness Protection AU where the Foxes are told Neil doesn’t survive Baltimore when he’s actually just sat in a bungalow in the middle of bumfuck nowhere with only FBI agents to keep him company. This man does NOT like to be held hostage, he’s escaping through windows, through the roof, once leapt out of a moving car because “I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again” and managed to run half way to the nearest gas station before they re-caught him.
Eventually he managed to get hold of a phone after demonstrating good behaviour (he doesn’t try to escape for 2 weeks), and the first thing he does is dial in the one number he actually deigned to learn to memory but he doesn’t press call. Instead he stares at the screen because “he hated me before but he’s really going to hate me now.” But all Neil wants to hear is Andrew’s voice.
Shakily he presses the call button and listens to the phone ring…and ring…and ring until it goes to voicemail but he doesn’t have the guts to leave a message. Neil hangs up the phone and throws it on his bed, letting out a shaky breath that he can’t quite seem to get back into his lungs after he’s released it. Breaths coming quicker and quicker until he’s gasping and shaking and curling into himself on the floor because “everyone thinks I’m dead, I’m not real, this isn’t a way to live, I can’t do this anymore” and he’s spiralling.
Then through the haze of his thoughts an unfamiliar ringtone cuts through and he’s staring at his bed before scrambling across the room to reach for his phone to answer the call with a choked “Hello?”, there’s silence on the other end of the line and Neil draws back to stare at the number on the screen before pressing the phone to his ear again. He knows he has to stay quiet because his latest agent is literally sat outside the door so he’s half whispering, “Andrew, Andrew, I don’t know what they told you but I’m here. They made me leave, I had no choice, I didn’t want to leave you, I can’t do this…”.
Neil’s babbling almost incoherently down the phone until he hears an aggravated sigh on the other end of the line, “1000% Junkie”. Neil collapses on his bed, half sobbing, half laughing and Andrew asks where he is. Neil doesn’t even know but has escaped enough to tell Andrew local street signs and landmarks and lets out a relieved breath when he’s told “we’re coming, stay put”.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Guess who just locked tf in to make these rq for my homeboy Andrew. This one’s dedicated to him. A bit more twinyard and Andrew content for you 💗 hope you enjoy buddy
Jean’s french to English translation roughly:
america is stupid. stupid language with too many words. stupid america that holds idiotic kevin day. what an atrocious place.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Anya is LIVE right now
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
i don’t know if there’s a specific name for this but that thing where one person uses their finger to ‘draw’ on the other person’s back and the other person has to guess what they drew and i’m just thinking about ilya laying flat on his stomach and shane sitting on the back of his thighs tracing his finger along ilya’s back and ilya guesses them all because shane draws like a house, a dog, a hockey stick, a heart and shane can never guess what ilya is drawing because no you are wrong again shane, is me and you swimming at the cottage, no this is me scoring ten goals on hayden pike while he cries…yes i know he is not goalie but i still score on him, this is clearly me fucking you on the hood of my car, shane you are so bad at this
baratheonpilled
jbbartram-illu
izzy806
dededos
