Long time tumblrina, this is my everything heated rivalry related side blog now main blog. I didnât transfer every over in the switch, so if youâre looking for something that no longer exists, or anything else seems kind of wonky, thatâs why.
I read a lot of m/m romance, including but not limited to many other horny hockey love stories (affectionate!) Iâve written fanfic for other fandoms and am very slowly working on 3 4 hollanov fics that I really hope to get posted and start sharing soon. ButâŚÂŻ\_(ă)_/¯⌠you know how that goes. For now Iâm mostly reblogging all of your head canons and going off in the tags, so just picture me cheering you on from the edge of the sandbox. Looking forward to diving in and start playing with yâall soon
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Immediately, Shane knows heâs going to regret it. Â
Five minutes ago, standing on the wrong side of a hotel room door and going over the play in his mind, it had seemed like a reasonable solution. Ilya stops extracting Shaneâs heart through his lips one bloody strand at a time, and everybody still gets their rocks off. Itâs perfect, right?
Obviously not, but he had to try something. A voice in his head, one he might envision as a tiny Captain Hollander perched on his right shoulder, says, You could try fucking ending it, and he tells it to stick to the realm of possibility. No kissing, no feelings, risk mitigated. Win-win. (Idiot, shoulder Hollander says, and Shane ignores him.)
The courage of his conviction stuck with him while he knocked, while he waited - heart slamming in his ribcage - until Ilya let him inside. It gave him the fortitude for Stop and STOP and I donât wanna kiss you on the mouth anymore. Then, dealt the devastating blow of Ilyaâs momentarily stricken look, the conviction began to crumble. It didnât matter that the look smoothed instantly into practiced indifference. The damage was done. Â
âOkay,â Ilya said, shrugging. âIf you want.â Â
Shane nodded. âGood,â he said, about as confidently as he felt.
Then Ilya arched an eyebrow, and a dangerous smirk crept up on his lips. âGood,â he purred, and Shane realized he was probably fucked.
Not that fucked is such a bad thing to be. In fact, for a minute there, Shane thinks it might be working. There are plenty of things for a mouth to do, and they run through pretty much all of them on top of the king-size bedspread. He even gets the idea that Ilyaâs giving it a little extra sauce tonight, like heâs proving something. Showing him something. Â
And Shane sees something, all right: Stars. God. The Light. He feels - as per usual - like Ilyaâs sucking his soul out through his dick, and he tells himself thatâs meaningfully different from letting him have his heart. He tells himself heâs good at casual sex, actually. He comes buckets, and Ilya goes off after him like a rocket, and he tells himself heâs cracked the code.
Itâs after that it comes back to bite him. Shaneâs lying blissed-out in their tangle of limbs when Ilya starts pressing kisses, feather light, against his throat. The kisses trail up to his jaw, his cheek, his chin, and the hair stands up on the back of Shaneâs neck. Then Ilya shifts to hover right over Shaneâs face, their lips barely an inch apart.Â
âRozanov,â Shane warns, but his heartâs not in it.
âWhat?â he asks, and brushes him with the tip of his nose. âI am not kissing your mouth.âÂ
And he doesnât. But he kisses the space beside it, and above it, and beneath it. He kisses Shaneâs nose and his eyelids and his ears. He runs maddeningly light fingertips back and forth along his bottom lip, from near enough that Shane feels every accelerating puff of breath like a jolt of electricity. He manages to hold himself back right up until Ilya starts tracing the outline of his lips with the slick, pointed tip of his tongue, and then thirst overwhelms him. He tilts his face and parts his lips to kiss him. Â
Ilya pulls back. âYou said no,â he reminds Shane, who huffs in reply. âYou laid down the law.â
âCome on,â Shane says, reaching for, and not receiving, another kiss. âI didnât mean it.â
âYes, you did,â Ilya says, and brushes one more peck against Shaneâs cheek. Then heâs up and away, and the absence of his weight is crushing on Shaneâs chest. He shoots Ilya a Hail-Mary pair of puppy-dog eyes, but itâs no good. He hears the shower turn on, and flops back against the pillow. Â
Heâs as spent as heâs ever been and he somehow still feels like he blueballed himself. (Fuck off, he tells shoulder Hollander, before he can open his trap.)Â Â Â
--
Inspired by this post I hope that's okay @mojoscircus
My hope for whoever is reading this is that your life starts making sense and coming together. I hope the good days are right around the corner for you.
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shane calling ilya captain (insp) while getting railed and called a good boy
more ilya hole, more fingers or a tongue but what i really want is some reversal where ilya soft doms from the bottom and they realize itâs a perfect semi-annual addition to their beautifully full sex life
ilya coming on shaneâs face, can be in the shower but tongue needs to be out
shane dirty talks in russian⌠maybe an entire russian exchange where ilya tells him what to do in russian to test his language comprehension but in the spirit of the âis my special day, hollander, i want to watchâ
they have rough loud sex in a hotel room (maybe even pissed off sex after a bad game and power struggle as shane adjusts to not being a captain) on a road trip and it makes things weird at team breakfast the following morning⌠and hazy is scarred for life
bonus: they go through boxes of old shit as they settle into the ottawa house and shane finds ilyaâs jersey from the intâl prospect cup and surprises him⌠then gets railed and called a good boy (a ~*~theme~*~)
it's Ilyas birthday baby he gets a show.....whatever that means to you.......
very quick short ficlet for my luna on ilyaâs birthday <3
Ilya doesnât know where Shane is. He just opened his eyes, on the morning of his 35th birthday, and his husband is not in bed next to him. What a terrible start to the day.
He puts a hand out to Shaneâs side and the sheets are cold to the touch. Ilya gets up, scratching at the hair on his belly and straightening his pyjama pants as pads out of the room in search of his husband.
Itâs quiet. Too quiet. Shane talks to himself a lot, heâs never really quiet when heâs in the comfort of his own home (which Ilya loves so much). When Ilya is down the final step, he hears the scratching of Anyaâs nails on the hardwood floor and then Shane very quietly trying to shoo her away.
âAnya, shhh, stop, go away.â
Anya apparently gets the hint because she comes prancing around the corner from the kitchen and past Ilya to the living room to play with her favourite toy. Ilya tiptoes towards the kitchen, peering around the wall to see a sight that has him blinking a few times in confusion and awe.
Shane Hollanderâhis husband (if you didnât know), all time best hockey player to ever exist (according to Ilya), three time winner of NHLâs sexiest player (should have been four times)âis standing with his back to Ilya, at the stove, cooking pancakes, and heâs naked.
Not, like completely naked, thatâs not what makes Ilya confused, heâs wearing an apron and a chefs hat. Heâs also wearing his favourite white tube socks that go high up his calves that Ilya calls his lingerie teasingly.
Ilya is staring at Shaneâs ass and his open back apron and longer hair peeking from the bottom of the chef hat and socked feet and he thinks he falls in love a little bit more which he wasnât aware was possible.
âHappy birthday to me.â Ilya says as he rounds the corner fully and stands and stares openly at Shane.
Shane startles a little and turns around holding a spatula in the air. The front of his apron has a shirtless cartoon womenâs body on it with big tits and pink bikini bottoms. Ilya covers his mouth with one hand hiding his smile.
âYouâre awake!â Shane exclaims.
âI am, and youâre⌠cooking?â Ilya says with his hand holding his chin and his smile lingering.
Shane turns around to turn off the stove and Ilya looks at his ass again. He turns back around with a plate pilled with pancakes and a whipped cream can in one hand.
âHappy Birthday!â
Ilya chuckles and walks closer to him and leans over the pancake plate between them and gives Shane a sweet peck on the lips. âThank you, moya lyubov'â
Shaneâs smile is big and cheesey and heâs a little flushed from the heat of the stove. Heâs so perfect. Ilya loves him so much.
He shakes the whipped cream bottle a bit and goes to squeeze it on pancakes but it kind of does a mini explosion from the tip of the can. Little dollops of whipped cream end up across Shaneâs neck and chin.
âOh my god.â
Ilya laughs and grabs the pancake plate and whipped cream can and places them on the counter. Heâs still laughing when he grabs Shane by the hips.
âI can clean it, here,â he leans forward and licks a long thick line up the column of Shaneâs neck and he feels his breath hitch in his throat. âAll clean.â He whispers against his sticky skin.
He pulls back to look at Shaneâs face and glances up at the chef hat realising it says Kiss the chef. He snorts.
âKiss the chef, huh? Not lick the chef?â
Shane swallows and grabs at Ilyaâs biceps, running his thumbs softly over his skin. âItâs your birthday, it can be whatever you want it to be.â
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When Hudson opens his eyes, everything is a blur. The cloudy sky above is muddled, the grey misting into the dark treeline as half-hearted raindrops sprinkle down. He blinks, the floating blobs in his vision slowly attaching themselves to bodies, eventually making out the faces of Jacob and Connor staring down at him.
âGod, are you okay? I am so sorry, I told you-â Connor starts, his face pale, eyes wide and glistening. Was Connor crying? Why was Connor crying?
Jacob shushes him, and when he turns to Hudson his voice is calm. âHudson, how many fingers am I holding up?â
Hudson squints, letting the hand Jacob is holding up slowly sharpen into focus. â4?â And, because heâs an asshole, he snaps a grin, holding up both hands, folding his fingers so just his middle fingers stick up. âHow many am I holding?"
Tension releases from the air like a popped balloon. Jacobâs brow relaxes, and Connor lets out a relieved laugh. They sit back on their heels, and itâs not until then that Hudson finally registers the abrasive edge of the cottage's deck steps along his spine.
He swallows, his tongue feeling like soft fruit inside his mouth. âWhat happened?â
He doesnât miss the quick look Jacob and Connor share. Oh. Was it that bad?
âHow much do you remember?â Jacob says carefully as Connor worries his bottom lip between his teeth.
Hudson throws his forearm over his eyes, inadvertently covering his wince as pain flinched throughout his skull. Memory seeps back in like a wave, and he adds to the dramatic effect with a whiny sigh. âConnor cheated."
âI did not-â Connor immediately squawks.
Hudson lets his arm fall to articulate a pronounced roll of his eyes. âYou knew you couldnât beat me otherwise.â
âI didnât,â Connor spluttered, defensive palms up as he sent begging looks to Jacob. âHe was the one who wanted to wrestle.â He points an accusing finger at Hudsonâs nose, and Hudson nips at it, grinning when Connor draws it back with a yelp.
Jacob pinches the bridge of his nose, as if he has escaped fatherhood for 46 years to just be saddled with them now. âJust- try not to kill each other, yeah?"
âYeah, if Connor ever learns how to grapple and not trip me-"
âItâs slippery.â Connor snipes, grabbing Hudsonâs outstretched hand to haul him to his feet. Hudson closes his eyes against the burst of light that whites his vision, grabbing Connorâs full bicep for support. The thick muscle jumps under his palm. Jesus.
âI donât know, Hudson.â Jacob sounds doubtful. âI think we should take you to the ER.â
âWhat? No,â Hudson gives his best impression of a dismissive wave, almost smacking Jacob in the process.
âYou might be concussed.â Jacob insists, gesturing to one of the assistants to come over. âThatâs it for the day. No more filming. Start packing up."
âAw, câmon Jacob, Iâm fine-"
Jacob cuts him off with a swipe of his hand. âYeah, nah. Weâre not doing that. Iâll meet you at the car in five, alright?â He walks off, leaving the rest of Hudsonâs protests to die on his tongue.
Instead, Hudson turns to Connor with a scoff. âIâve had five concussions. Youâd think heâd trust me to know."
Connorâs face is still pale. The rain has turned into a steady drizzle, making his curls frizz, glistening droplets dripping as he shakes his head quietly. âYou didnât see yourself fall, Huddy. You hit the deck hard. You scared me.â Connor finishes lowly, a tremble to his voice and chin.
Hudson swallows, running his hand up Connorâs shoulder to his neck, giving the junction of throat and clavicle a soothing squeeze.
Connor breathes deep and pulls Hudson in for an embrace. Connorâs chest shudders against his, one hand splayed against the back of his ribs as the other slides up to gingerly touch the back of his head. Hudson hisses a breath, burying his nose into the rain-damp skin of Connorâs neck. Ok, yeah. Maybe a doctorâs a good call.
âThis is nothing,â Hudson says when they pull apart, hands trailing between to tangle together as Connor follows him to Jacobâs jeep. Jacob is already waiting, one hand on the hood and the other propped on his hip- may as well be tapping his foot as he glares at them to hurry it up.
Still, Hudson watches his step, conscious of the way his vision blurs at the edges if he walks too fast. His thumb rubs along the skin of Connorâs palm. âDid I ever tell you about how I got the scar on my shoulder?"
thereâs so much plot to fit into unrivaled like how is ilya going to have time to meet the devil, visit the crucifixion and drink jesusâ blood, then lap up someoneâs period blood and still make it home in time to play the centaurs game like omfg busyyy
thereâs so much plot left to fit into the vampire lestat like how is lestat going to have time to almost die in a plane crash, wear a gladiator skirt, adopt a dog, go to therapy, lead his team to the nameless cup playoffs and get gay married in a wedding with no chairs and still make it home in time to play long face like omfgggg busy
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chilly early mornings at the bus stop, just far enough from the watchful eyes of the house to dare to take a practiced pull of an imaginary cigarette. staring into the distance, into the fantasy of another life â or else an equally impossible, unreachable future. breathing out as much hurt as can fit into the puff of pretend smoke that hangs crystallized in the air, wishing it could dissipate into the crisp morning, disappearing just as easily as cloud of breath that slowly drifts away