Shane finds Ilya's necklace in his condo. (1.6k words) // read on ao3.
* * *
Shane was on his way out when he caught something glinting under the bottom step of the stairs in the living room. He thought heâd imagined it but when he craned his neck, he saw that there was something lying there.
Curiosity peaked, he walked back up two steps at a time and crouched to blindly paw at whatever was hiding there. His fingers closed around something flat and delicateâa chain? Shane scowled to himself as he pulled his hand back, already going through a list in his mind of what it could be; if he was missing something.
He sucked in a breath when he realized what it was.
Ilyaâs necklace.
How did it end up under his stairs? Ilya never took it off, as far as Shane knew. At least heâd never seen him without it, and Shane assumed it was something special.
Carefully, Shane untangled the chainâand barely managed to catch the cross pendant as it slipped off. His heart was thundering against his ribs as if heâd been running drills. He couldnât help the little sigh of relief rushing out of him.
With the chain untangled, Shane saw that the clasp was broken.
Shit. Had he done that? Theyâd ripped more than a few seams getting each other out of clothes, so the thought wasnât farfetched.
How long has the necklace been sitting under the stairs? At least a week. Montreal hosted the Raiders Thursday last week.
Ilya mustâve noticed his necklace was missing. Had he guessed it was with Shane? Was that why he hadnât texted Shane about it? Would he not text Shane if he assumed it was with him? Shaneâfor a reason he couldnât even explain to himselfâwas tying himself into knots wondering why he hadnât heard from Ilya about it.
Shaking himself out of it, Shane jogged up to the bedroom and carefully put the necklace and pendant on his nightstand. Heâd google where he could get the clasp fixed later.
Shane pulled his phone out of his pocket, fully intending to text Ilya, when his eyes got caught on the time.
Fuck. He was going to be late.
* * *
Today 12:26 PM
I found your necklace.
It was under the stairs. The clasp is broken.
Iâm having it fixed.
Sorry I didnât tell you sooner. I didnât find it until earlier today.
Read 11:53 PM
No, keep it until next time.
Do you want me to mail it to you when itâs fixed?
Read 08:11 AM
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Today 4:44 PM
Thank you.
* * *
Of course.
Read 4:44 PM
Dad pointed him to his trusty jeweler in Ottawa without asking too many questions that Shane couldnât field. He felt the necklace was too precious to hand it over to a random stranger.
Luckily, he left the cross itself at home when he brought the chain in. (That was after heâd spent at least ten minutes wondering how safe it was to bring the necklace in for repairs without it being recognized as being Ilyaâs.) This way, he could easily come up with a story should questions arise. It was just a simple chain after all.
âWill David be picking it up for you?â the jeweler asked.
Shane blinked at him in confusion. âWhaâwhy?â
âOh, I assumed you wouldnât be here next week.â
âNext week?â Shane could feel the skin between his eyebrows crease as his gaze dropped from the man to the necklace he was carefully handling. âOh.â He stopped himself from chewing on his bottom lip. âIâm sorry, is there any chance I can pick it up tomorrow?â
The jeweler gave him a bemused look, and Shane felt his cheeks heat. âItâsâuhâit canât wait. I mean. I would appreciate it if you could rush it.â He felt like such an entitled asshole. âIâll pââ
âI see,â the man said with a knowing little smile. âOf course. You can pick it up first thing tomorrow.â
Shane left the shop still feeling like an ass and only slightly worried about a gossip piece popping up online tomorrow about him putting a rush on a jewelry order. He was soothed by the fact that heâd be getting Ilyaâs necklace back in time, though.
* * *
Shane was barely through the door, when Ilya said, in an overly dramatic tone, ââShane Hollander spotted leaving a local jewelry shop in Ottawa.ââ
âWhat?â
Ilyaâs necklace was burning a hole through his pocket. Heâd kept a hand on it almost at all times and had only barely managed to keep himself from putting it around his own neck to be sure he wouldnât lose it.
âWere you shopping for jewelry for one of your hoes?â Ilya asked as he closed the door behind him with one hand, lowering his phone with the other.
âSeriously: what? I donât have hoes.â
Ilya hummed. He herded Shane against the kitchen isle, that sly little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Fuck, he looked so good.
âThen what am I?â he asked, shoving his phone in his pocket before dropping both hands on Shaneâs hips, fingertips slipping under the seam of his shirt easily.
With some difficulty, Shane gathered the strands of his thoughts that threatened to fly out of his head. âYouâre notâyouâreââ
âIâmâ?â Ilya raised his eyebrows at him and his smirk grew. He knew exactly what he was doing.
Asshole.
That was what Shane intended to say but it was not at all what came out. âYouâreââ More than I couldâve ever dreamed of asking for. âYouâre Ilya.â
Ilyaâs gaze softened, impossibly, without getting any less intense. Shane felt like he could barely breathe around the lump in his throat.
âI, uh,â he started and fumbled the little jewelry box out of the pocket of his jacket. âYour necklaceâI brought your necklace. I got the clasp fixed.â
Shane flipped open the lid, holding the little box between them, and even his fucking ears were on fire. It was weird presenting the necklace like this, wasnât it? As if he was gifting his. . .whatever they were, still, something, when in reality he was just giving him back what was his already.
Ilyaâs gaze dropped to the box and his hands left Shaneâs hips. He tried not to mourn the loss of the warmth of Ilyaâs fingers against his skin. Reverently, Ilya ran his fingers over the cross, and when Shane looked at his face, the raw emotion on it almost made him avert his eyes.
When Ilya didnât move, Shane dipped his head to try and catch his eyes. âHey,â he said softly, touching the fingers of his free hand to Ilyaâs wrist gingerly. âHey.â
Ilya blinked rapidly, turning his head to the side. âThank you,â he mumbled, the words coming out choked off. âI thought I lost it.â
âWhy didnât you ask me? I wouldâve checked and probably wouldâve found it way sooner than I have.â It was a question heâd turned over and over in his head.
Shane reached up to turn Ilyaâs face back to him. He looked like he was trying really, really hard to hold back tears. It made Shane want to climb onto his lap and hold him tight again.
Instead, Shane lifted the necklace out of the box with careful fingers before putting the box away and unclasping the chain. He raised the ends and Ilya silently leaned in a little so Shane could fasten it behind his head, safe around his neck once more.
âThere,â Shane said when he was done, lightly hooking his fingertips under the chain to adjust it as Ilya pulled back. âGood as new and back where it belongs.â
When he raised his eyes to look at Ilyaâs, Ilyaâs gaze was like a bottomless ocean, and well, maybe Shane wanted to be lost at sea for a second.
The kiss he received made Shane see stars. Ilya was holding onto his face with one hand, keeping him still, alternating between slipping his tongue into Shaneâs mouth with deep, filthy strokes, and sucking and biting at his lips, until Shane felt so lightheaded from it (and, mostly, lack of air) that he had to push Ilya away with both hands on his chest.
His lips felt swollen and raw, and Ilyaâs were shiny with their spit, and Shane couldnât help but lean in for another kiss, though this one was just sweet and lingering.
Ilya sniffled quietly. He lightly knocked their foreheads together, and for a moment, they stayed like that as their breaths evened out. Shane reached up and wrapped one arm around Ilyaâs shoulders and cupped the back of his head with the hand of the other, softly guiding Ilya into a hug that he reciprocated. He leaned heavily against Shane. It was a weight Shane was more than happy to hold.
Shane rested his cheek against Ilyaâs head as he stroked his fingers through his hair.
Ilya said something against his skin, the words muffled and caught in the crook of his neck.
âHm?â Shane asked.
Ilya shifted a little. âIt was my motherâs. The necklace.â
âOh.â Shane squeezed him against his body. âIâm glad I found it. I meanââ
There was a puff of air against his neck, the drag of skin against skin where he felt Ilya smile a little. âI know what you meant,â Ilya said, and then, âI thought I still had it when I left your place. So I didnât want to waste your time.â
Shane moved to lean back but Ilya clung to him like an octopus, so Shane jostled them slightly instead. âIlya.â He really loved saying his name, even when it sounded like now, disbelieving and halfway reprimanding. âYou wouldnât have wasted my time. Even if your necklace hadnât been at my place, you wouldnât have wasted my time asking to check if it was there. I wouldâve looked. Of course I wouldâve looked.â
This time, Ilya squeezed him. And very, very quietly, as if it was a secret and a revelation, he said, âI know.â
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hollanov mafia au, part ii. direct follow up to this, and still based on this wonderful, juicy, tasty premise by @delsicle.
3.4k words.
* * *
The sun is just creeping up over the horizon when Ilya pulls the car into a gas station and Shane, stupidly, sighs in relief so deep he feels his entire body uncurl. The damn tank light has been on for so long Shane started to believe theyâd strand. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ilya grinning to himself.
Shaneâs watch beeps and vibrates, letting him know heâs accomplished his set activity level for the day. Itâs inaccurate as shit, based solely on his heartrate. Considering that it hasnât really come down in hours, the alert means fuck all.
Smirking, Ilya shoots him a look as he kills the engine. âGot your steps in for today?â
âFuck off,â Shane says automatically, with feeling nonetheless, because the past few hours have worn him thin. Heâs pulled tight at all the edges of himself, tearing at the seams.
Ilya holds his gaze for a moment. His face is illuminated by the molten glow of morning light and the sun hits his blond curls just so, making them look like a halo around his head. The softness of his eyes is achingly familiar, devastatingly welcome, and the small smile tucked into the corner of his mouth throws Shane back several years, to the moment when heâd first seen it. It had stolen all the breath out of his lungs. It still does.
Theyâve barely spoken five words to each other since Ilya asked him if heâd rather his parents thought he was dead or knew what he did.
(It was a question Shane could easily answer. And Ilya knows that, and knows the answer, too.)
(Theyâll never know, Ilya told him, as much a promise as it is a threat, Shaneâs come to understand.)
Shaneâs mouth feels dry. He canât stop staring back at Ilya.
Finally, pulling the key out of the ignition, Ilya tells him, âWait in the car.â
Shane, inexplicably, feels bereft without Ilyaâs eyes on him; like heâs pushed back under water after being able to come up for air. He lifts his fingers to his eyelashes, comforted by the way the little hairs catch against the groves of his fingertips.
His mind is sluggish, thoughts muddled, more so from anxiety and stress than from a real lack of sleep. His shift, if heâd been able to finish it, wouldâve been over an hour ago. Heâd be on his way home now, probably, get some dinner or breakfast or whatever, consider calling his parents and then distract himself by reading a book or attempting to fix his leaking faucet for the millionth time. Maybe heâd have managed it this time. Maybe he wouldâve called his parents, after all.
Maybe he fell asleep during his shift and this is all a debilitating dream that his brain refuses to let him wake up from.
Shane chances a glance out the window and finds Ilya looking back at him as he stands by the register, paying for the gas. His focus shifts from Shane to the cashier, movements easy and unhurried, a friendly enough smile on his face.
Closing his eyes, Shane lets his head fall back against the headrest and breathes in deep through his nose. He remembers what his meditation app told him, the handful of times heâd tried it: donât latch onto thoughts, let them pass you by, watch them go; itâs normal that you feel like grabbing onto one; if you feel like youâve done that, take a deep breath and release the thought. So, he doesnât think about what it means that he obediently stays in the car, that the thought of disregarding the order doesnât even cross his mind, that he doesnât consider mapping out an escape. Thereâs no point anyway. Ilya took the car keys with him, Shaneâs phone is miles and miles away, abandoned in his patrol car, and thereâs no place he could run to hide. He has no chance of success, so why try?
Donât latch on. Let them pass. Breathe through it.
The door on the driverâs side squeaks. Ilya drops into the seat and the whole car shakes with it.
Whatever slim chance heâs had is gone now.
Donât latch on. Let them pass. Breathe through it.
They donât go far. Ilya rounds the corner of the station, out of sight of the security cameras.
âGet out,â Ilya tells him, not unkindly.
Biting cold fall air stings his face when Shane gets out. Briefly, his mind snags on the fact that his door isnât even locked. A sense of relief floods him then at the sensation of stretching his legs, straightening his spine, breathing in fresh air, only now understanding that the car wasnât just stuffy with the weird tension between them. His shoulders ache from how tense heâs held himself. Itâs not new.
His breath dissipates in a foggy gust as he exhales.
Ilya slamming the trunk of the car shut brings Shane back to the present. Thereâs a brown bag in his hand. Shane eyes it warily.
âRelax,â Ilya says with a smirk, âis hair dye. I like my hoes blonde now.â
Shane bites back the first comment that rises up his throat. He canât help the eye roll, though. âIf thereâs one thing I know about you, itâs that you donât have a type.â
Ilyaâs eyes flash, with delight more than with danger, and he slowly walks up to him, pressing, pressing, and Shane doesnât even realize heâs been giving ground until his back hits a cold wall with an audible thud.
Ilya hums. His nose is a hair-width away from Shaneâs. âAnd is that the only wrong thing you know about me?â
Shane hates the way his breath hitches. Ilyaâs smirk widens.
âItâs not wrong,â Shane argues back. Itâs not. Heâs 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 himâŠmore intimately.
He realizes Ilyaâs 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.
âNo? ĐĐŸĐč Đ»ŃĐ±ĐžĐŒŃĐč,â Ilya coos, and Shane flushes up to his ears, the nickname, coloured by the cadence of Ilyaâs voice, how it sounds in Russian, hitting him so unexpectedly he gasps without meaning to. âYou have always been a bad liar.â
Ilya keeps his hand on Shaneâs 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.
âFooled you,â 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 Ilyaâs breath catches.
Thereâs a hand around his throat between one blink of an eye and the next, and Ilyaâs face is so close to his that his breath is ghosting across Shaneâs skin. Heat slides down his vertebrae, syrupy, melting bones its wake. With enough pressure against Shaneâs Adamâs apple to be more than just uncomfortable, Ilya walks him backwards again. The back of his head hits the wall so hard it hurts, knocking a grunt of pain from him.
Shane is sure his heart is pounding so loudly Ilya has to hear it, too. Heâs breathless and not because Ilya is pressing at his wind pipe.
He needs to fucking get it together.
Without conscious thought, Shane finds himself wrapping his fingers around Ilyaâs wrist. When he presses down over the tender skin right below the heel of his palm, Ilyaâs pulse is beating a wild pace against his fingertips.
âNo,â Ilya says, almost gently. Shaneâs eyes flutter shut and Ilya presses at the hinges of his jaw, pulling Shane forward a bit before smacking his head back against the wall. âEyes on me.â
Obediently, Shane blinks his eyes open. The cold at his back and the heat of Ilyaâs body at his front make him shiver, charging up his nerves like an electrical storm.
Whisper-soft, Ilya says, âYou almost killed me.â
The brown bag drops to the floor with a soft rustle as Ilya draws back a little. With his now free hand, he grabs Shaneâs to guide it under his henley. His skin is warm against Shaneâs, fingers nudging him to a spot between his ribs, until Shane feels raised skin under his fingertips.
This scar, he doesnât know. Carefully, he traces it, its edges, its shape, before he lets his fingers skim over Ilyaâs ribs, mapping where the new mark sits. White spots dance in his vision, head suddenly stuffed with cotton.
Ilyaâs smile is as mean as it is mocking. Shane yanks his hand out from under Ilyaâs grasp. He thinks heâs breathing, sucking in deep gulps of breath, maybe, but his lungs donât seem to fill with air. The hand around his throat has gentled.
âWho?â He chokes out the word with effort.
âDoesnât matter,â Ilya says. âTheyâre dead now.â
Shane nods slowly. He doesnât look at the monster that lurks in the shadows of his mind, the one that is soothed by this knowledge. âGood.â
A smile with the hard edges of a smirk spreads over Ilyaâs face. He moves his hand from Shaneâs throat to grab his face. His thumb brushes across the line of his jaw. Thereâs a glint in his eyes that Shane has seen plenty of times before, and every time, it has kindled a hungry fire inside him.
Ilya lets go of him entirely. Shane tries not to sag against the wall. Jerking his chin at the paper bag now on the floor by Shaneâs feet, Ilya takes a few steps back.
âChange,â he orders.
Shane stares at the bag for a moment while he carefully tries to gather himself. Only now does it occur to him that heâs still in his uniform; so distracted by the last few hours that heâs not even had the time to notice the discomfort of the fabric against his skin.
Small mercies.
He picks up the bag and pulls the first piece out, rubbing the hem of what heâs sure is a sweatshirt between his fingers. Itâs soft and smooth against his skin, the kind of texture and fabric blend that dominate his own wardrobe. From the feel of it, itâs thick enough to keep him warm without making him overheat.
Shane closes his eyes on a soft inhale. He feels his jaw clench.
His eyes snap open when Ilyaâs hand brushes his to take the bag from him. The once-over paired with raised eyebrows is enough to tell Shane what he means.
Shane doesnât need to look at Ilya to know that heâs staring. It makes him feel like no time has passed between them at all. He canât remember an instance when Ilya didnât stare at him while he took his clothes off, even if it was a rushed and impatient stripâwhich, if he thinks about it, is how he shed his clothes most of the time when he was around Ilya.
Now, Shane focuses on undressing methodically to keep his mind from straying. He steps out of his boots first and makes a face at the icy cold floor against the soles of his feet. Shane drops the pants next, folds them and uses them as a barrier between the filthy, freezing floor and his feet. Through it all, he keeps his eyes fastidiously on his own hands.
He makes quick work of the buttons on his shirt, glad to finally rid himself of the stiff fabric, and shivers when the cold hits the naked skin of his arms.
Thereâs a sharp but soft inhale. Shane decidedly doesnât look. Instead, he folds the shirt too, and then pulls his undershirt up and over his head: an extra layer between him and the chafing texture of his uniform.
Left with nothing else to do, Shane raises his gaze, only to find Ilya staring at his chest with an odd expression. Shane almost huffs, but then he remembersâ
His hand flies up to curl around the ring resting on a chain over his heart. Heâs gotten so used to it that sometimes he forgets itâs there. At this point itâs just as much a part of him as any of his limbs: a familiar weight around his neck, a comforting pressure against his breastbone, always close. Shane had fought with himself over it at first, but in the end the decision to carry a piece of Ilyaâof themâaround his neck was easy and made long before he became conscious of it.
Ilya drops the bag of clothes a second time. He crowds Shane up against the wall again. Shane barely feels the cold at all.
âShow me,â Ilya urges, eyes glued to where Shaneâs fingers are still wrapped around the ring.
With a shudder, Shane lets go. Something in him roars at the look on Ilyaâs face and the intensity of his eyes as he raises his own hand to the ring. Carefully, Ilya hooks his fingers under it, resting it on the pads of his fingers and looking at the ring as if he was appraising an especially invaluable piece of jewelry.
Shaneâs heart hammers in his chest hard enough for Ilya to feel it against the backs of his fingers. Shane is sure of it.
Ilya lifts his eyes to Shaneâs as he closes his fist around the ring. His lips are slightly parted and his breaths are coming hard, Shane canât help but notice. His own breathing is shallow. Shane swallows, licks his lips; watches Ilya track the motion with his eyes.
Shane gasps when Ilya yanks him close by the chain around his neck.
Finally, finally, finallyâIlyaâs mouth is on his.
As always with Ilya, Shane feels everything all at once: each touch to his skin, every slide of a palm running up his exposed body, every drag of Ilyaâs tongue against his, the overwhelming pressure of their bodies colliding, the sting of fingers tangling in his hair, the firm but gentle press of fingers on his face, the feeling of solid muscle shifting under his hands. All of it buzzes through his nerves and bypasses whatever filter his brain usually applies, and floods him with each and every sensation, like an overcharge of his nervous system.
Until all Shaneâs mind and body is left with is Ilya, Ilya, Ilya.
Ilya uses his whole body to pin Shane to the wall. He licks into Shaneâs mouth, once, twice, and Shaneâs toes curl. Thereâs a hand on his face, tilting it just so, and another thatâs smoothing up his side, squeezing at his chest, curling around his shoulder. A strange echo loops in his ears and it takes him a moment to realize that itâs their combined gasps and moans that reverberate around the restroom.
Shane runs his hands through Ilyaâs hair, over his shoulders, his neck, his arms, grabbing at everything he gets between his fingers. He arches, just to feel Ilya use his weight to push him more firmly against the wall. Vaguely, Shane registers that Ilya lets go of his face to use both hands to run over his naked skin, skim his fingers along the waistline of his underwear, to reach around to grab at his ass.
One of Ilyaâs thighs slots between Shaneâs legs. A desperate groan crawls up Shaneâs throat when hard muscle grinds against his straining dick. Ilyaâs hard too, pushing his cock to Shaneâs hip as if heâs looking for friction as well.
Shaneâs lips are wet and tingling when Ilya draws back and moves on to his jaw, his neck. Every cell in his body is lit up, humming with a want so hungry it feels like a bottomless pit inside him, and each touch, each kiss, each press, each lick, everything Ilya gives him, feeds it and feeds it and feeds it. And Shane keeps wanting, all through Ilya licking and biting over his jaw, through the open-mouthed, wet kisses sucked along the line of his neck, through all the low hums and moans Ilya presses into his skin.
Shane fists a hand into the curls at the back of Ilyaâs head and drags him up to kiss him again. He smiles when Ilya makes a noise between a growl and a moan that Shane licks out of his mouth. This kiss is hard and biting: filthier, hungrier, more urgent; mean, even.
It feels like a fight. It feels like an accusation.
It feels like a reconciliation, too; like an apology, maybe.
He feels likeâIt feels likeâ
Like a tilted picture frame on the wall, barely noticeable to anyone but him, and now heâs finally straightened it. Finally, itâs right again.
Ilyaâs hand splays his hand out over the ring on his chest. Shane covers it with his own, tucks his fingers between Ilyaâs palm and his sternum.
He turns his head into Ilyaâs neck and latches onto his pulse point. It draws a low moan out of Ilya. Shane feels dizzy with it. Hand still fisted tightly in Ilyaâs curls, Shane uses his grip to tilt his head, expose more of his neck, get better access. Against his tongue, Ilyaâs pulse beats wildly, and Shane feels wild with it, too.
When he bites, Ilya almost flinches. Still so sensitive. Shane buries his own moan in Ilyaâs neck. He slides his free hand down the slope of Ilyaâs back and feels his fingers bump against something hard and smooth. His eyebrows furrow andâ
Ilyaâs hand on his chest pushes hard.
Shane blinks at him, panting, mind going a mile a minute with confusion. Ilya is holding him at armâs length, panting too, with a strange expression on his face. He has his other arm behind his back andâ
Oh.
âIlya,â Shane says, swallowing. His breaths come harder now for a different reason. âIlya, I wasnâtââ
In one fluid motion, Ilya steps away from him, taking the warmth of his hand with him, and pulls the gun from his waistband. Shane shudders, suddenly remembering the freezing cold surrounding them.
âSure,â he says, clipped, as his face settles into hard lines.
âIlyaââ
Ilya almost sneers at him. He waves the gun. âGet dressed.â
Shane clenches his jaw, desperation tipping into frustration. As if he wouldâve been in the wrong to try and go for the gun, fuck this guy. As if he hadnât been kidnapped; as if he should just be the little lamb letting himself be led to the slaughter.
He exhales, hard, and Ilya raises his eyebrows at him, unimpressed.
âFuck you.â He spits it, without meaning to, as he grabs the bag with clothes and starts pulling them on, feeling uncomfortably exposed now.
âYou wish,â Ilya retorts, easily, effortlessly, in a tone that pushes all of Shaneâs buttons at once.
Shane, like most of the time, doesnât have a witty comeback. Maybe he should go for that gun.
Heâs flushed with anger by the time heâs done dressingâeven more annoyed by the fact that the clothes are comfortableâand stuffs his uniform into the bag when Ilya motions him to. Like heâs herding cattle.
Dick.
âTake off your watch,â Ilya orders. He sounds bored.
âIt doesnât have GPS,â Shane says, even as heâs undoing the clasp to slip the watch from his wrist. He holds it out to Ilya.
Ilya moves to grab it but lets it fall to the ground when Shane tries to drop it into his palm.
âHow do you say,â Ilya starts. He stomps on it, once, and the sound of the watch breaking echoes around them. He looks at Shane, with something akin toâŠself-deprecation. âFool me once, shame on you. Fool me twiceâŠ?â
Shaneâs stomach twists itself into a tight, tight knot, shame and anger weaving together into something ugly that makes him nauseous.
When Shane doesnât argue, Ilya tips his head to the side, motioning to the door.
When they step outside, Ilya leads him back to the car with oddly gentle fingers at his elbow. A little tremor skitters through Shane.
As Ilya pulls the car back onto the road, he reaches out blindly, fingers dipping under the collar of Shaneâs shirt until they hook around the chain. He pulls it out from under the fabric, ring resting openly against Shaneâs chest.
Shane sees him glance at it quickly, watches the corner of his mouth curl just so. It feels like forgiveness.
read this mafia au post from @delsicle and it wouldn't leave me alone, and well.
* * *
The road ahead, beyond the illumination of the carâs headlights, is a black hole. Shane should probably be scared. Terrified. Maybe he is. Maybe heâs frozen in shock and canât feel anything beyond the pounding of his pulse in his temples. Maybe the black hole ahead will eventually swallow him.
Maybe it already has.
Ilyaâs fingers are drumming a lazy rhythm against the steering wheel, elbow braced against the edge of the window. Heâs been unbearably quiet, and Shane doesnât know what to do with that. Theyâd gone long stretches without speaking before, sharing a comfortable silence that felt peaceful, really.
Now itâs eerie.
Shane realizes heâs been staring at him when Ilya glances over and a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He reaches out with his right hand, cups the back of Shaneâs head, fingers sinking into his hair and stroking down to his neck with a firm but gentle squeeze. Shane fights the way his body nearly goes limp.
His eyes flick down to Ilyaâs thigh. There, balanced on the right, is his gun. In the dark between them itâs nearly just a dark shape. The gun heâs kept pressed to Shaneâs ribs as he guided him to his car with a hand at the small of his back, that touch so incongruously gentle next to the weapon poised to tear his insides to shreds. It sits there now, like taunt, almost like a dare, and Shane stares at it for a bit too long because he hears Ilyaâs quiet snort of laughter when he looks at Shane again, and his hand is still carding through Shaneâs hair.
âI am happy to see you, Đ·ĐŸĐ»ĐŸŃĐŸĐč,â he says, his accented voice and the once familiar petname curl around Shane with the weight of comfort he shouldnât be enjoying. âBut it is a gun.â
Shane feels a faint heat in his cheeks and is grateful for the darkness. Ilyaâs thumb strokes firmly over his pulse point, drawing an involuntary shudder out of him, a gasp thatâs too revealing, or maybe not revealing at all.
âI know,â he mutters defensively, and Ilya chuckles again. The faint light from the dashboard illuminates his face enough for Shane to see how the smile transforms his whole face: his features soft and open in a way heâd rarely show, and only when it was the two of them, and even then this particular expression had always been special, a rare treat.
It makes Shane want to reach out and trace it with his fingers. A cherished memory come back to life, and it was both a nightmare and a dream, and a part of Shane is terrified how happy it makes him to see it again. How much the dream outweighs the nightmare.
A little nonsensically, Shane says, âTheyâll look for me.â And then he almost laughs at himself. Heâs not a big deal here, not the way he used to be, a promising detective with a bright future ahead of him. Heâs built himself a small network of people here but itâs all superficial connections at best; nobody is going to miss him. Sure, theyâll do some sort of sweep, but there will be no effort put into finding him. His value has long since decreased. Thereâs nothing to gain from finding him.
Ilya cuts through his thoughts, his fingers are so gentle in Shaneâs hair. âYour parents?â His voice is even, free of inflection, and Shane freezes. âYuna and David Hollander, yes?â
The way Ilyaâs accent wraps around his name, Hollander, makes Shane feel like someone put a branding iron to his skin.
No, Shane wants to say. Nothing comes out, voice lost and a vacuum in his lungs.
Ilya leans his head against the headrest and turns to look at Shane. Maybe theyâll hit a moose in a freak accident because Ilya wasnât paying attention to the road, a tiny, panicked voice in Shaneâs head says. Maybe then this will be over.
âThey will not find you.â Ilyaâs voice is still so eerily void of anything, smooth and slippery like a body drenched in blood.
Ilyaâs thumb presses against his pulse point. Shane can feel his blood beat against his finger wildly. Heâs found Shane out. Of course he knows about his parents. This is not a surprise. Shane knows what it is, heâs heard this voice often enough; itâs like another language heâs learned to speak and even though heâs not used it for years, heâs still fluent.
âWhat do you think is worse?â Ilya asks, and Shane feels himself brace for the question. âIf they found out you are dead? Or all the horrible things you did that police did not ask you to do for me? That I asked you to do for me? That not even I asked you to do but that you did all yourself?â
Shane stares at the black hole in front of him.
Strong fingers curl around his chin. He doesnât fight it when Ilya turns his head to face him, and he goes when Ilya pulls. The kiss is hard, a promise and a threat, and when Ilya pulls back, Shaneâs lips tingle, his cupidâs bow wet and cool.
Ilya leans back against his seat and looks at the road. His hand goes back to Shaneâs hair, gentling along the nape of his neck.
âDonât worry, sweetheart,â Ilya says without looking at him. âThey will never know.â
âMh-hmm,â Ilya says, in that tone of his thatâs half disbelief, half mocking. ââJust outâ? And then what? Cause a multi-car pile up? Terrorize horny teenagers? Get a public indecency charge? You do like to make headlines.â
Shane wants to huff out a laugh but it comes out entirely breathy, on the verge of a moan, when Ilya pushes in even closer, his cock a hard, hot line against Shaneâs ass.
âI can already see it,â Ilya continues and his lips brush Shaneâs ear as he talks. His hands slide back around and over Shaneâs quads, below the hem of the shorts, before drifting to the sensitive insides of his thighs, fingertips digging into muscle. ââMHL star Shane Hollander causes series of accidents wearing slutty white satin shorts.â âScandalous: Canadaâs golden boy Shane Hollander charged with public indecency.ââ
Shane swallows a gasp but the shudder he canât conceal. Ilya noses behind his ear, dipping his head down to mouth at his neck, and Shane is sure he can feel his pulse pounding against his lips. âFuck off, theyâre silk.â
âOh, sorry, silk shorts.â Thereâs a grin in his voice, and when he scrapes his teeth over Shaneâs pulse point, the gasps slip out before Shane can catch them. âSo you agree?â
âAgree?â Itâs getting harder and harder to focus on words when Ilya is pushing, pushing, pushing him until the counter is pressing hard against Shaneâs hipbones. Everywhere Ilya touches him leaves behind a pool of embers ready to ignite.
âYour silk shorts,â Ilya says, slowly, as if to make sure Shane understands him, âThey are slutty.â
*
saw someone say we should post more snippets from wips and stuff, so here is my humble offering.
married hollanov | 5.2k words | intercrural sex feat. hudson william's slutty little white shorts from the met gala after party | say thank you @soldieronbarnes | read on ao3.
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Ilya hums against his ear. His breath stirs the hairs at Shaneâs temples, a soft, tingling little sensation that has Shane shivering as much as the ten hot points of pressure of Ilyaâs fingers on either of his thighs, bare skin on bare skin. âWhat do we have here?â
Shane shifts lightly but he doesnât have much room to move. Ilyaâs chest is pressed up against his shoulder blades, his torso molded to the line of Shaneâs spine, perfectly. The heat of his body is searing, making Shane dizzy; or maybe itâs the proximity and the way Ilya has trapped him between his body and the kitchen counter, using his presence, his weight, to pin Shane where he wants him.
Ilyaâs fingers dip under the hem of Shaneâs shorts, not even riding up the fabricânot that there is much to ride up anywayâjust toying with it a little, running his knuckles over skin with a featherlight touch.
âHm?â Ilya prompts, punctuating it with a gentle tug of Shaneâs earlobe with his teeth.
Shane wets his lips and turns his head. âMy stylist sent me new stuff to try.â
âAh,â Ilya says. He hooks his chin over Shaneâs shoulder then and trails his fingers along the hem, to the back of Shaneâs leg, lifting the fabric there just a bit, barely enough to graze his knuckles just below Shaneâs ass. âAnd where would you wear these to?â
His tone is casual, almost disinterested, but the trails of his fingers against Shaneâs skin set him ablaze.
âJustâŠout,â Shane answers.
Ilya hums again, lower this time, closer to a growl. Goosebumps scatter across Shaneâs skin.
âMh-hmm,â Ilya says, in that tone of his thatâs half disbelief, half mocking. ââJust outâ? Without underwear, too?â Shane feels his flush travel all the way from his ears to his chest. âAnd then what? Cause a multi-car pile up? Terrorize horny teenagers? Get a public indecency charge? You do like to make headlines.â
Shane wants to huff out a laugh but it comes out entirely breathy, on the verge of a moan, when Ilya pushes in even closer, his cock a hard, hot line against Shaneâs ass.
âI can already see it,â Ilya continues and his lips brush Shaneâs ear as he talks. His hands slide back around and over Shaneâs quads, below the hem of the shorts, before drifting to the sensitive insides of his thighs, fingertips digging into muscle. ââMHL star Shane Hollander causes series of accidents wearing slutty white satin shorts.â âScandalous: Canadaâs golden boy Shane Hollander charged with public indecency.ââ
Shane swallows a gasp but the shudder he canât conceal. Ilya noses behind his ear, dipping his head down to mouth at his neck, and Shane is sure he can feel his pulse pounding against his lips. âFuck off, theyâre silk.â
âOh, sorry. Silk shorts.â Thereâs a grin in his voice, and when he scrapes his teeth over Shaneâs pulse point, the gasps slip out before Shane can catch them. âSo you agree?â
âAgree?â Itâs getting harder and harder to focus on words when Ilya is pushing, pushing, pushing him until the counter is pressing hard against Shaneâs hipbones. Everywhere Ilya touches him leaves behind a pool of embers ready to ignite.
âYour silk shorts,â Ilya says, slowly, as if to make sure Shane understands him, âThey are slutty.â
Shane scoffs, or at least he thinks he does. It comes out breathy. âTheyâre shorts,â he manages out as Ilya licks at the hinge of his jaw. His whole body jolts when Ilya slides his hand up under the inseam of the shorts, knuckles grazing Shaneâs balls ever so lightly. âFuck. I have worn shorts before.â
Ilya hums in agreement. âYes. I know.â His hands come up to Shaneâs hips to slide the tips of his fingers into the waistband of the shorts, firm and teasing and maddening and not nearly enough at all. âPeople have talked about you in shorts a lot. You have not seen because you are, how do you say, chronically offline.â
Shane grins at the tone in his voice. He covers Ilyaâs hands with his own and pushes back against his hips, luxuriating in the delicious pressure of Ilyaâs hard cock against him, pressing at the cleft of his ass where it belongs. Shaneâs own dick is throbbing already, trapped between the shorts and just below the countertop. âYeah? What did they say?â
âThey said they never realized how hot you are until you married me.â
âFuck off, thatâs not what they said.â
Ilyaâs fingertips dip deeper, grazing the crown of Shaneâs dick just so, and Shaneâs hips buck. He presses his grin against the back of Shaneâs neck and pulls his hands out from under Shaneâs. Strong fingers wrap around his wrists and Shane is glad for Ilya pushing at his back because heâs sure his knees would give out otherwise.
âThey said your super hot husband rubbed off on you,â Ilya murmurs against his ear. He flattens Shaneâs palms against the countertop before he runs his fingers up Shaneâs arms, over his biceps, to his shoulders, down his sides, leaving goosebumps in their wake and drawing another shudder out of Shane.
âMh, yes, he did. Countless times.â
Ilya growls playfully and squeezes his pec, and Shane chokes on his chuckle when a thumb rubs over his nipple with precise pressure, sending jolt after jolt straight to his dick. Shane exhales shuddery as Ilya kisses a hot trailing line across his shoulders. One of his hands snakes down to Shaneâs crotch, tips of his fingers dancing over the line of his straining cock until they find the head. Slowly, with a barely there touch, Ilya traces his thumb around the outline, and Shane tries to shift, chase the feeling, get more pressure. Ilyaâs hips pin him harder against the counter and his finger disappears.
A whine crawls up Shaneâs throat one second and morphs into a choked off moan the next when Ilya grabs a fistful of the shortsâ fabric, pulling it tight across Shaneâs dick. His other hand worms under Shaneâs tank, palming over his stomach, his sternum, his chest, rucking it up in the process.
Ilya moves his hand, the one sunk into the leg of his shorts, dragging the fabric over Shaneâs cock. Itâs a maddening tease, not nearly enough, nowhere close to what Shane wants, what he fucking needs, but his dick is leaking anyway, wetting the fabric, creating a different kind of friction, and Shane groans, head falling forward, hips trying to grind forward, back, just move, getâmore.
âDo you really want to know what other people said about you and your slutty little shorts?â Ilya asks, his voice a low rumble that settles over Shane like a weighted blanket. âOr do you want to know,â he starts againâa bite just below the hinge of Shaneâs jaw, a rough exhale, âwhat I told them I would do to you and your slutty little shorts? What I told them you would beg me to do?â
Shaneâs breath catches in his throat. His heart pounds loudly in his ears, the heat of his own body and Ilyaâs against his back suddenly almost unbearable. The words make his stomach clench and fingers press down hard against the countertop. He canât help the whine that scrapes from his throat: at the words, at the way Ilyaâs let go of the shorts and is now curling his fingers around the crown of Shaneâs dick over the fabric, already soaked through.
Itâs a fantasy Ilya loves to indulge him in, whenever he catches Shane in it. Half a fantasy, really, maybe, sometimes Shane isnât sure how far Ilya really goes with his anonymous accounts, but right now it doesnât matter. Right now, Shane wants to know what Ilya told the world about him, his slut of a husband, and thatâit makes him burn, both with a sense of shame, and a hunger that is only ever sated, temporarily, by the satisfaction and pleasure Ilya grants him.
âShane.â Ilyaâs voice cuts cleanly through the haze in his head, punctuated by a slow, hard grind against his ass.
There are fingers at his face now, on his cheek, the line of his jaw, turning his head. Ilyaâs dark gaze hits him like a freight train, always does, the bottomless desire in his eyes settling something deep inside Shane.
Ilya holds him steady as he leans in. He licks over Shaneâs bottom lip and then into his mouth, deep, just once, and Shane might vibrate out of his skin or go deep under, the sensation of it making him dizzy. His lips are spit-slick, the air cool against the wetness, once Ilya withdraws, tipping Shaneâs head back a little to catch his eyes again.
Shane makes a soft noise, from somewhere deep, when Ilya raises his eyebrows at him. âTell me,â Shane says, orâslurs, maybe, whines. âWhat you told them.â He feels shivery despite the heat of his skin, the searing points of contact of Ilyaâs fingers on his face. âAbout me.â
Ilya snaps the waistband of his shorts against Shaneâs hipâa spark against the embersâand the sensation ripples through him. Shane feels boneless, his whole body nearly going limp against Ilyaâs. Being held up so easily, so effortlessly like that, despite his own bulk, never fails to strike something deep inside him. There is something animalistic in it, the way Ilya could grab him, push him, pin him; how Shane can meet him beat for beat but chooses to yield more often than not; how sometimes, Ilya makes him feel like he truly can overpower him, force his submission, and how that makes Shaneâs vision fuzzy around the edges and his head so empty he doesnât even remember his own fucking name.
A slow, dangerous smile spreads over Ilyaâs face. He leans in again for a kiss and this one is deep, sloppy; the kind of kiss that feels like Ilya wants to consume himâShane would let himâwhile swallowing up the little, needy noises Shane canât help but make in his throat.
Ilyaâs mouth looks as wet and swollen as Shaneâs feels once he withdraws. It enticing enough to make Shane lean in again, kiss him again, lick and bite at his lips, Ilyaâs hand still on his face, and his tongue meets Shaneâs, pushes it back between Shaneâs teeth, kissing and sucking and biting at him until Shane is moaning with each breath.
Shane is panting by the time Ilya pulls back. He smirks when Shane makes a frustrated sound, trying to chase his mouth, and says, âLetâs not get sidetracked, yes?â
Ilya lets go of his face and uses his other hand to tip Shaneâs head back against his shoulder, fingers drifting softly over his forehead, his hair, before he cups Shaneâs chin briefly, runs a thumb over his bottom lip. His palm slides down then, over Shaneâs exposed throat, soft pressure to his Adam's apple, to the base, and Shaneâs knees almost give out.
Teasing fingers dance down the line of his body, grazing at the skin where it meets the waistband of his shorts. Ilya leans his own cheek against Shaneâs and it would be sweet if it wasnât for his hand sliding deeper to scrape blunt nails over the fabric over Shaneâs now desperately aching dick. It tears a keen from his throat and another dribble of precome from his cock. Shane doesnât need to see to know the front of his shorts is utterly soaked.
âWhere were we?â Ilya asks conversationally, almost, but Shane hears the slight hitch in his voice. Ilyaâs hips sway a little, moving them both just so, two magnets, one motion. âAh, yes. Me telling all the people thirsting over you on the internet what a slut you are for me.â
Ilya says it so sweetly and Shane can feel his lips moving against his jaw and his fingers are still lightly dragging up and down Shaneâs dick and heâs so close and not close at all and Ilya is toying with him.
Ilyaâs low hum runs through Shaneâs body like an earthquake. âI said I wouldnât even wait to get you to bed. How I would get on my knees and suck you through your little shorts until your dick was hard and leaking and straining. I told them how you would moan so prettily for me, how you would make these beautiful, breathless little noises, and how flushed you would look. How pink your cheeks would be. Your frecklesâŠâ For a moment, Ilyaâs hand leaves its spot at the base of his neck to draw his fingers over Shaneâs cheek, across the bridge of his nose, before returning to settle heavily at the hollow of his throat. âAnd all these people that were reading, they asked for more.â
Shane feels his pulse stutter and his flush, impossibly, deepen.
âSo then I told them how I would get you on the bed and how you would spread your legs for me,â he murmurs against the side of Shaneâs face. His hand leaves his dickâShane whines at the lossâand moves down to the inside of his thigh. His fingers tease at the inseam before they dig into the muscle, pushing, pushing, pushing until Shane clumsily spreads his legs a little. Blunt nails bite into his skin, leaving tingling imprints for sure, maybe enough to bruise.
Shaneâs legs tremble. He turns his head a little on Ilyaâs shoulder and Ilya licks at the corner of his mouth.
âSaid your slutty little shorts would be bunched around your thighs and stretch tight over your dick,â Ilya continues. He hooks his chin over Shaneâs shoulder as he idly brushes his knuckles along the inseam of the shorts. Itâs a slow and teasing touch, one designed to drive Shane out of his mind, feeling like moving to strike a match but not hard enough to ignite it.
Shane hears himself make a truly ridiculous sound: something needy, from deep within his body, a noise straight out of porn.
âTold them how you would already be begging for my cock.â Ilya pushes his hand up and under the hem of the shorts. Itâs a tight fit: between Shaneâs dick, Ilyaâs fingers and the hard stretch of the shorts the touch creates pressure. Enough so that Shane can feel his own pulse where Ilyaâs fingers are dragging along a vein in his cock; enough to make Shaneâs hip buck again. Another obscene sound crawls up his throat.
âW-what else?â Thereâs a tremor in Shaneâs voice. Heâs not even sure he really gets the words out fully articulated, stuck halfway between his tongue and vocal chords. A shudder runs through him when Ilya presses his thumb into his pulse point and Shaneâs heartbeat cracks like thunder underneath.
Ilya sucks wet, messy kisses up the line of his neck and to his jaw. âThey asked if Iâd give it to you and I said that I could not ever deny you my dick.â
Shane mewls. Which he would be embarrassed about if he had the wherewithal to care about it but Ilya is pulling his hand back out of his shorts, and Shaneâs cock is a throbbing, aching mess, and Ilya is doing nothing about it.
âIlyaââ
âTold them how you would be so impatient with me while I was getting us both ready. How I wouldnât even let you take off your slutty shorts.â Ilya shifts behind him and grinds his own erection against Shaneâs ass. âHow I would fuck your hole through your shorts first. Not much, of course, just a little, just the tip.â
âFuck,â Shane moans. He pushes back against him, trembling at the sensation of Ilyaâs dick pressing into the cleft of his ass through his shorts. Itâs too much and not enough all at the same time. âFuck, fuck, fuck.â
âGet you all worked up until all you could say is âplease, please, Ilya, pleaseâ,â Ilya says and fuck, Shane is dangerously close to just repeating that plea.
Ilya licks a stripe across Shaneâs jawline. The hand at his throat skims down and back under his top, all the way back up to his chest, while the other palms at the inside of his thigh, close to Shaneâs groin, his balls. Lazily, he rubs a thumb over Shaneâs nipple and the rough drag of it is striking, hard-wired to his dick that pulses out another string of precome.
It occurs to Shaneâs pleasure-hazy brain that thatâs exactly what Ilya wants, what heâs waiting for: to hear Shane beg, for real.
He lolls his head on Ilyaâs shoulderâitâs easier than to lift it, he doesnât even know if he could, gooey as he feelsâand looks at him. His lips, at first, because theyâre in his eyeline: theyâre swollen, shiny, reddened from Shaneâs five oâclock shadow, and Shane strains for a kiss. Ilya, luckily, indulges him, and thereâs a hand back at Shaneâs neck, gently curling at his throat, below his jaw, to tip his head just so, and Shaneâs entire body goes boneless.
Ilya laughs softly against his lips as he shifts a little to catch Shaneâs weight, strong body catching him, holding him, and itâs so fucking hot, Shane is so fucking hotâ
âIlya.â He pants into Ilyaâs open mouth. âPlease.â
Ilya drags his tongue across Shaneâs upper lip. âM-hm, just like that,â he says against Shaneâs mouth, pressing a sloppy kiss to it. âSo sweet, so perfect. My Shane.â
Shane groans. His palms slide over the countertop, squeaking, and he flexes his fingers, resisting the urge to lift his hands.
âGood boy,â Ilya whispers against his ear and, oh, Shane feels dizzy.
Below his shirt, Ilya flattens his palm to Shaneâs skin and slides it from his chest down to his stomach, while his other hand returns to Shaneâs dick to cup it through the shorts. The press of hot skin through wet fabric makes Shane realize how utterly drenched he is. That does make him lift his head off Ilyaâs shoulder to look down at himself andâ
He makes another obscene noise at the sight. The shorts are nearly translucent with wetness. The head of his dick is poking out from where the rest of it is covered by Ilyaâs hand, shimmering through in a startling red, and that, too, is obscene. Shaneâs entire body heaves with his breaths.
Ilyaâs fingers slide over the head of his cock; it makes Shane whimper from how much he needs to come. But Ilya withdraws his hand again because thereâs barely anything that he loves more than teasing Shane until heâs incoherent.
âAnd when youâve begged me like that,â Ilya starts again as he slides his hands up over Shaneâs ribs, pressing, pushing against them at each shuddering inhale. âBegged me and begged me, of course I could not deny you. And you know what they said?â
Shane shakes his head. âTell me,â he says; mouths, really, barely making a sound.
âThey said I was too easy. That they would hold out, wait, make you work for it. But you know what I think? I think they all couldnât deny you either. They would all be so easy for you. So eager to give you what you want.â
Shane drops his head back against Ilyaâs shoulder as shudder after shudder wrack him; gasping moan after gasping moan pulled from his lungs. He feels so close to the edge and so far away from it at the same time. His body is a live wire under Ilyaâs hands and all Ilya does is ramp up the charge.
Or maybe itâs Ilya whoâs the live wire, sending shock after shock after shock through Shaneâs body, galvanizing him until he is helpless but to do whatever it is Ilya wants.
âI said I would turn you over, chest down and ass up, your favourite position, giving it all up for me.â
Shane groans low, guttural and pushes back against Ilya again. The heat of his cock against Shaneâs ass is tantalizing, promising, and Shane wants.
âTold them Iâd fuck you.â The way Ilya says fuck runs through Shane like a hot knife through butter. âWould pull aside your shorts and make you take it like that. Fuck you and fuck you and fuck you.â
Shane curses and squirms. It doesnât matter that what Ilyaâs saying is practically impossible, he doesnât care, because the mere idea sparks red-hot want in his gut. Ilyaâs hands have slid down, one cupping his hip and the other is at his ass, fingers questing along the inseam to his twitching hole.
âAh! Fuck.â Shane pushes back and whines when Ilya withdraws his fingers again. âIlya, câmon.â
Ilya tsks at him. âYou said to tell you, not show you.â
Shane huffs in frustration. âRozanov.â He means it to sound like a warning. It comes out like a plea.
Shane feels him grin where heâs pressing his face against the side of Shaneâs neck. Ilyaâs fingers trace the spot where Shaneâs ass meets his thigh, a lazy back and forth that draws another frustrated noise from him. He presses a kiss to Shaneâs ear. The soft rustle of clothes and a quiet hiss from Ilya tell him that Ilyaâs shoved his own pants and underwear down. His cock feels hot and heavy against the regretfully still clothed cleft of Shaneâs ass.
âAlways so impatient.â Ilyaâs hand curls at Shaneâs hip, the other at his own cock. âDonât worry, Hollander, I will show you what I would do in reality.â
Shaneâs retort dies on his tongue when Ilya squeezes his dick up the inseam of Shaneâs shorts, bumping the head against his hole: a tease so tantalizing that whatever Shane has meant to say comes out garbled.
âAlways so needy,â Ilya adds. Thereâs a different quality to his voice now: itâs lower, rougher, coloured by his own desire. He brushes the tip of his cock over Shaneâs hole. Thereâs a splash of wetness as Ilya spurts precome, and all the air rushes out of Shaneâs lungs on a moan.
Shane is pretty sure he can feel his pulse in his dick. âAlways need you,â he pants. Distantly, he feels his own precome slide down his leg; the fabric of his shorts soaked all the way through, not absorbing the wetness any longer. He screws his eyes shut. âPlease. Ilya, need you, pleaseââ
Ilyaâs answering moan may be one of the hottest things Shaneâs ever heard.
âFuck, Shane,â he groans. One of his hands pushes Shaneâs legs back together while he gropes around for the drawer that has the lube. His cock slips out from under Shaneâs shorts and itâs a loss Shane canât help but whine at.
Ilya shushes him as he slicks himself up, the wet sounds echoing loudly in Shaneâs ears, his body poised and waiting. And then Ilyaâs guiding his cock between Shaneâs thighs, hips pushing and pushing and pushing until Shaneâs hips are pinned firmly against the counter. Shane squeezes his legs tighter and shudders out another moan when he feels Ilyaâs dick throb between them.
âYeah, like that, Shane, fuckââ Ilyaâs mouth drags over his ear and his hands are everywhere: on his hips, his chest, his stomach, at his neck, in his hair, anywhere they can reach and grab and leave burning marks that pull whine after whimper from Shane.
Each thrust nudges the tip of Ilyaâs cock against Shaneâs balls and each time, it feels like cinders against his skin, white-hot and blistering. Heâs constantly making sounds now, an endless stream of little noises that just fall from his mouth, egged on by the heavy pants and low groans that Ilya presses into his shoulders, his neck, his ears.
Ilyaâs hands grip the counter next to Shaneâs hips and he changes his pace from fast, shallow snaps to slow, deep thrusts. The sound is dulled by the fabric between their skin but even that is hot in a way that burns Shane up from inside. He drops his chin to his chest, vaguely aware that his mouth is open too, and a moan falls from it as if itâs being ripped out. The drag of Ilyaâs cock between his thighs is spine-meltingly hot. Shane feels reduced to that single sensation.
âAh, fuck, Jesus Christ.â Shane arches on a particularly hard thrust that grinds his hip bones against the edge of the counter and slams the head of Ilyaâs cock against his sac just so. The insides of his thighs feel drenched.
Ilyaâs breath is hot on his neck, open mouth dragging across the knob of his spine where Shaneâs tipped his head forward, moaning aborted little things, Shaneâs name, and his pace turns erratic, uncoordinated.
âYeah, Ilya, câmon, câmon, I needâneed toââ He needs so much. Shane turns his head, seeking, seeking, seeking, and presses his thighs together even tighter. He feels more than he hears Ilya groan in response and then their open mouths are catching against each other, with Ilyaâs breath hot on Shaneâs tongue.
Ilya pauses without breaking apart and gets a hand down between them, around his own cock, to drag the head from the cleft of Shaneâs ass across his taint. The shorts, Shane thinks a little wildly, are undeniably ruined.
A low growl sends goosebumps scattering across Shaneâs whole body, and then Ilyaâs hand is between his shoulder blades, pushing him down onto the kitchen counter, pinning him, while his free hand stays just above Shaneâs hip, gripping firmly enough to surely leave bruises, and Shane feels his head grow fuzzy.
âTouchâyourself,â Ilya pants above him. The hand between Shaneâs shoulder blades slides up and over his shoulder, a thumb stroking firmly across his skin, with still enough pressure to pin Shane to the surface.
Shaneâs hand flies to his cock. The sound he makes at the touch is ridiculously obscene. He doesnât have room to shove his hand down the shorts with the waistband trapped between the counter and his abdomen, but his dick still jumps in his grip. When he feels how wet the shorts are for himself, it punches all the air out of him. Is there even a singly dry spot on them at this point? The thought makes him feel a little insane.
His dick throbs in his hand, hot and aching, and Shane whines high in his throat when he wraps his hand around it as much as he can on a downwards drag.
Shane looks over his shoulder and sees the glazed look on Ilyaâs face, the black of his eyes, the flush high on his cheeks, looking, for all its worth, as if heâs on an entirely different plane of existence. Shane did that. Shane did that. It punches another moan out of him.
Ilya catches him looking. It feels like the dark of his eyes is swallowing him up and Shane wants to sink into it. He twists a little and Ilya goes, drapes his own body over Shaneâs back, linking his fingers with Shaneâs on the countertop and using his free hand to card over Shaneâs hair. He presses an open-mouthed kiss to his cheek.
Thereâs barely a rhythm to what heâs doing anymore. Ilyaâs rutting against him blindly, wildly, chasing his orgasm, his cock a hard, hot line between Shaneâs thighs, twitching and throbbing and driving Shane further out of his mind than he already is.
Shane feels his own dick leak against his hand.
âTold them,â Ilya says between breathless gasps, âthat youâre perfect for me.â
Shaneâs fingers go tight around his dick, around Ilyaâs fingers in his hand.
âYouâre perfect for me, Shane.â
Thereâs static in Shaneâs head, white spots dancing in his vision, and heâs so wholly surrounded by and surrendered to Ilya that his entire body locks tight, something deep inside snapping, unspooling so suddenly it makes his head spin.
ââlya,â he slurs, more a sound than a name. âYâre perfect for me, too.â
Ilya comes with a curse and Shaneâs name on his lips, and Shane feels it, the hot splash of come through the soaked fabric of his shorts, smearing between his legs, under the hem, into his skin, and itâs enough to tip him over and into his orgasm.
It feels like itâs being torn from him, leaving him gasping for breaths that feel like theyâre not coming. He shudders and shakes through it as streak upon streak of come spills from his dick, surely soaking the shorts beyond saving. Shane sucks in air once the peak passes but tremors keep running through him. Ilyaâs body is still blanketing his. The touch feels like too much and not enough, and Shane wishes there werenât clothes between them now.
Ilya is pressing soft, sweet kisses to the side of his face, gentling his fingers over his forehead, his hair, so achingly tender. Heâs breathing heavily and each heave of his lungs presses Shane more firmly against the countertop.
âI could tell them whatever,â Ilya murmurs. He sounds fucked out and Shaneâs lips curl a little. A kiss to the corner of his mouth makes his eyes flutter shut. âNothing I say compares to reality.â
Shane hums quietly, happily, and they stay like this for a moment, glad for it because heâs certain his legs would give out under him if he tried to move now.
Then, Ilya hoists himself up and pulls Shane with him, and walks them to the bathroom draped across Shaneâs backside. The insides of Shaneâs thighs are slippery.
Turns out, there are dry spots on the shorts but they are few and small, and heâs going to have to keep them just to throw them out.
âWhat a waste,â Ilya says mournfully as he peels the shorts off Shaneâs legs and drops them in the garbage.
âYou wasted them,â Shane points out. His mind is starting to return to him.
Ilya sniffs. âIs your fault. You wore them and you went commando. What else was I supposed to do?â
âOh, I donât know,â Shane muses. He probes at his thighs and shudders at the tender feeling. âTake them off?â
Ilya snorts inelegantly as he pads over to him and grabs Shaneâs wrist. He turns it over to lick at his fingers, gathering the mixture of precome, come and lube sticking to his skin on his tongue. Shane groans softly.
âWould you have let me?â Ilya asks after releasing Shaneâs finger from his mouth with an obscene pop.
When Shane doesnât respond right away while his cheeks flush again, Ilya smirks at him before herding him into the shower. He raises his eyebrows and pulls Shane against him by the hips, and finally, Shane gets his skin on skin contact.
âYes?â Ilya prompts. He grins shit-eatingly, knowing the answer full well.
Shane drops his head on his shoulder. âNo,â he grumbles, and then basks in the warmth of Ilyaâs laughter, his skin and his care.
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Shane was used to the jokes, the not-so-subtle digs, the thinly veiled attempts at goading him into spilling some information on his soulmate mark. They were always the same, always some variation of Shane Hollanderâs soulmate is hockey, and Shane Hollanderâs soulmate mark is a puck, and Can Shane Hollander love anything or anyone more than hockey?
At times, it felt like people were more interested in finding out about his mark than about the hockey he played, despite his best efforts to skirt around the topic, despite his repeated attempts to shut the questions down, despite his insistence that he wanted to focus on the game he loved since that was also his job and his responsibility.
Sometimes, it felt like his mark and the continued interest in it was under even more scrutiny than he himself.
Heâd stopped questioning the publicâs insistence on finding out about his mark and instead started giving out the same set of answers, always with a tight smile, and thanked the reporters and interviewers for their interest but that heâd had long decided to keep that information private.
Other players, the ones who werenât married or attached, faced a similar, though far less vigorous, interest, and every one of them capitalized on their fame and visibility to find their soulmate. It made no sense to Shane. It was no secret that people tried to replicate soulmate marks to convince the person they were supposedly in love (or lust, or obsessed) with that they were their soulmate. There were many such cases of public, famous figures and Shane didnât know of a single one that had actually ever worked out.
Heâd assumed Rozanov would jump at the chance and flaunt his mark the first opportunity he got.
It continued to surprise him that even after all these years and the publicâs same vicious, intrusive interest in it as in Shaneâs, Rozanov had not revealed his soulmate mark to anyone. Except he didnât seem to mind the attention, reveled in it, maybe, and always left the interviewers with a funny quip, a chirp that was bordering on offensive, or, if he seemed to be feeling particularly playful, an innuendo. Yet he never gave a straight-forward answer, never admitted to anything, never divulged anything that could be turned into something.
Honestly, Shane envied him. He wasnât sure for what exactly, though: for his ability to face these questions with such humour, or his apparent indifference to his mark and everything that concerned it.
Heâd never even shown any interest in Shaneâs. Heâd never mentioned it, not once, not even after he had touched and kissed and licked every part of Shaneâs body in all these years that theyâd been fucking.
Shane had settled into it, tension and anxiety leaking from his body, from his mind, with every touch and kiss and fuck and tender gesture that Rozanov bestowed upon him, and kept giving him, over and over and over, always insistent, always unprompted, always all-encompassing.
It had lulled him into a sense ofâhe wasnât sure what, exactly. Camaraderie, perhaps.
No, that made no sense.
It had led to a thought taking root in Shaneâs mind, one that made something inside him flutter with excitement, regardless of how hard he tried to squash it.
That maybe Rozanov didnât care about his soulmate mark or Shaneâs, because he was like Shane: Because he, too, didnât have one.
Itâs why Shane felt oddly, inexplicably betrayed when Shane spotted it on Rozanov, the unmistakable shape of a mark, small and tucked into the crease of where his thigh met his groin. He stared at it, shame and jealousy and regret mixing into an ugly cocktail of emotions inside him, and he wondered if heâd truly been this blind, this stupid, thisâŠdesperate for it that heâd never noticed it before.
âHollander,â Rozanov was saying now, an odd cadence to his voice, as Shane stared at the mark with his pulse pounding in his temples.
Rozanov had a soulmate mark. He wasnât like Shane, after all, and maybe. Maybe that was for the best. Maybe this meant that Shane could finally stop this, them, whatever it was.
Rozanov had a soulmate mark and Shane didnât, and that was for the best.
okay, lil sneak peek for the hook up era shane wants to try porn he saw thing:
âAlways so eager,â Rozanov croons. He reaches up and pushes the pad of his thumb down on Shaneâs bottom lip until Shane opens his mouth, lets it slip inside, closing his lips around the digit to lick and suck at it. âDesperate for it, Hollander? Need something in your mouth?â
Shaneâs eyes flutter shut. He hates when Rozanov talks to him like that; hates it because itâs true and Rozanov reads him so well, lays open so easily what Shane tries to hold in so hard. The words coat him in syrupy heat, though, sliding over and through him: a potent mix of humiliation, frustration and pleasure that has Shane moaning around the thumb in his mouth. He nods. There is no point in denying it, when itâs all out on display.
Rozanovâs thumb strokes his tongue firmly. âDonât worry,â he murmurs, leaning close and using his free hand to palm at Shaneâs straining dick through his sweatpants. âYou can have it. Iâll give it to you.â
Shane moans, deep and guttural. Maybe heâs not the only one whoâs easy here. Itâs a comforting thought. An arousing thought. That his own desire, his blatant, rampant need, affects Rozanov so much, too.
He lets go of Rozanovâs thumb with a wet pop and licks his lips. âFucking give it to me then,â he says impatiently, bitchily, and watches Rozanovâs gaze darken even further.
Rozanov grins at him. His hands hook around Shaneâs ankles and he places Shaneâs feet on his thighs before hooking under the waistband of Shaneâs sweats and underwear. âUp,â he says, and then pulls them off when Shane braces on his palms and lifts his ass off the counter.
Once Shane is naked, too, Rozanov trails light fingers up the length of his cock, smearing the wetness into flushed skin.
âSo wet already,â he drawls. âYou are excited, yes?â
It makes Shaneâs dick twitch and leak more precome. Fuck, this should not be doing it for him.
âWhatâs it look like?â he snaps, glad that heâs flushed all the way already. Going by the way his face heats even more, he might change shade and give himself away anyway.
âMmmh, I donât know. You tell me.â
What. A. Fucking. Asshole.
Through clenched teeth, Shane says, âYes. Now can we get on with it?â
Rozanov sighs dramatically. âAnd they say romance is dead.â
Shaneâs stomach flips, heart stuttering. âShut up. This isnât a fucking romance.â
âYou have such a way with words.â Rozanov is smirking his shit-eating smirk again. âYou could ask nicely.â
Shane shoves at his thigh with his foot before he turns, laying himself down on his counter. Briefly, he considers moving this endeavor somewhere elseâthis is his kitchenâbut decides against it. Heâll just have to disinfect it after.
âPlease hurry up, asshole.â
Rozanov laughs at that while Shane wiggles into place, and his cock bounces with the movement in front of Shaneâs face. Itâs flushed a dark, dusty pink, beading at the tip, and Shaneâs mouth fills with saliva.
Your poll introduced me to the concept of sex teacher Ilya and I am now intriguedâŠconsider this a free space smut space for him
aaahhhh hi del!! thank you so much <33 this kinda took over... it is 1.30am, i need to be up at 5, so yeah. wild. please enjoy.
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ilya rozanov week & day three -> smut
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Hollanderâs name flashes across his screen unexpectedly. Ilyaâs thumb hovers over the accept call button. Something in his stomach flutters and thatâs dangerous.Â
Hollander doesnât call. He barely texts, and when he does, Ilya imagines itâs under threat of never being able to play hockey again.Â
Something must really have crawled up Hollanderâs ass for him to call, and Ilya has never been able to leave well enough alone.Â
He takes the call. âI donât do remote maintenance, Hollander.â
âWhat?â
âYou need help with satisfying your girlfriend?â
âI am satisfying my girlfriend just fine, asshole, and no.âÂ
Ilya grins at Hollanderâs huffy tone. He always rises to the bait so easily. With a deep, dramatic sigh, Ilya says, âYes. Of course. Is fantasy sex I teach you, I forgot.â
âFuck off.âÂ
âOkay.â Ilya makes himself sound overly cheerful. âGoodbye, Hollander.â
âNo, wait!â Hollander sounds like heâs cut himself off, and Ilya can see him in his mind, clamping his mouth shut, his jaw clenching as he gathers whatever wants to slip through his cracks to cram them back inside himself.Â
âYou told me to fuck off,â Ilya reminds him helpfully, grinning at his room at large when Hollander makes an annoyed sound.
âThatâs not what I meant,â Hollander says as if he needs to clarify. Ilya feels his face soften into a smile and bites his tongue to stop himself. There should be no softness here.
Ilya hums and decides to be magnanimous. For Hollanderâs sake. âWhat did you mean then?â
âIâfuck you, you know what I meant!â
Ilya sniffs theatrically. âI try to be helpful and you are always so mean.âÂ
Thereâs a pause, long enough that Ilya wonders if the call got disconnected maybe, his shitty ass phone does that sometimes, but then he hears Hollanderâs soft exhale.
âFuck,â he says, and it sounds like he aimed it more at himself than at Ilya. âI donâtâI donât know whyâforget it. Good night, Rozanov.â
Ilya is bowled over by the need to keep him on the line, all of a sudden.Â
Stupid.
âHollander,â he says before he can hang up. Hollander still spooks so easily, and Ilya knows to be gentle with him. âWhatâs wrong?â
Another pause, though now Ilya hears soft rustling. Hollander is wrestling with himself, probably, always so keen on keeping things in when they so desperately want to get out. Ilya wants to smooth out his edges, to give him a safe space to unwind, and that, too, is a dangerous thought.
Stupid, again.
âNothing,â Hollander finally settles on. He doesnât sound like it at all.
Then why did you call?
Ilya gives him a moment. Itâs always best and easiest to wait him out.
âJustââ A soft, frustrated noise. âItâsâIâm trying but. It doesnât seem to workââ It sounds as if the words are being ripped out of him violently.Â
âWell, it is very hard and takes skill,â Ilya says and nods, despite the fact that Hollander canât see him.
âIt canât be that hard if youâre doing it.â Hollander manages to sound both sullen and condescending at the same time, and it draws a laugh out of Ilya, unbidden.
âAh, is natural talent. Not everyone has it,â Ilya explains in his sweetest tone, as if he was breaking bad news to a child.Â
âFuck you, you just said itâs a skill,â Hollander scoffs. It sounds more light-hearted than before. âMaybe youâre just a bad teacher.â
Ilya gasps in mock shock. âMaybe you are not just slow hockey player. You are slow learner, too.â
âIâm not a slow hockey player!â
Ilya grins. Of course thatâs what he would focus on. âSlow learner, then.â
âIâm notââ Hollander cuts himself off. âItâs just sex. It canât be that hard.â
Ilya snorts.
âOh, fuck off, you know what I mean.â
Ilya settles against his headrest and considers for a moment. Some people, heâs learned, do not enjoy sex. For a moment, before heâs really gotten into this thing with Hollander and his girlfriend, Ilya thought maybe Hollander was one of those people.Â
Now, Ilya is sure heâs not. Heâs sure that Hollander views sex as a chore, not as a pleasure, not as something to make him feel good. Heâs also sure that Hollander himself doesnât realize that.
âIs not,â Ilya finally says, thoughtfully. He decides to spook the horse. âYou enjoy it?â
âWhat?â Hollander sounds caught off guard.
ââJust sexâ,â Ilya repeats. âYou like it?â
âOf course.â Hollander throws it out before Ilya even finishes asking the question.Â
Ilya hums.
âI do!â Hollander insists, as if he thinks Ilya doesnât believe him.Â
Ilya doesnât believe him.
âItâs fine,â Hollander adds.
That word again. Ilya almost feels bad for him. He does, a little, maybe. Another part of him, a much meaner part, doesnât.
âWhat do you like about it?â Ilya asks. Maybe, maybe, if he pisses Hollander off enough, they wonât do it again.Â
He doesnât believe that either.
âWhat.â
Ilya rolls his eyes. âSex, Hollander, pay attention. What do you like about it?â
âI like all of it,â Hollander says and Ilya almost laughs.
âWhat is âall of itâ?â Ilya asks because heâs decided to push it.Â
Thereâs silence on the other end of the line. Then, âI likeâIââ He sounds as if heâs trying to think of something, desperate to give Ilya an answer. âOrgasms.â
Ilya almost bursts out laughing. âOkay,â he says, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice. âSure.â He takes a breath. âOrgasms is not all of it.â
âI like the rest, too,â Hollander says bitchily.
âM-hm. You have convinced me.â
âFuck you, you asked.â
And you couldnât even answer.
Now that heâs pushing, he might as well keep going. âWhat do you think about when you get yourself off?â
âWhat?â Hollanderâs voice sounds oddly squeaky for a brief second.
âTo feel good, to get off, what do you think about?â Ilya repeats, as nonchalant as he can, stomping down the sudden need to know the answer. âWhat do you do?â
âNone of your fucking business,â Hollander says, full of outrage and something else that Ilya canât quite place. Panic, maybe. Shame. Guilt.Â
âYour girlfriend?â Ilya prompts, relentless, offering the one olive branch he knows Hollander would take, even if itâs a lie.
âOf course.â
So predictable. Such a liar.
Ilya hums. âIf you want to make it good for Jessica, you have to feel good, too. So, what makes you feel good, Hollander?â
He hears a soft little gasp. Ilya grins to himself.
âDidnât you say you donât do remote maintenance?â Hollander asks.
Ilya grins wider. âI changed my mind. Now tell me.â
He can practically hear Hollander telling him to go fuck himself before heâs said it out loud. It doesnât come though. Instead, thereâs more silence and the soft sounds of breathingâheavy breathing.Â
âFine,â Ilya relents a little, afraid that Hollander might hyperventilate if he keeps pushing him to share his thoughts. Action then, since Hollander is a man of it. âTell me what you would do. If it was just you.â
Hollanderâs exhale is audible through the phone. Heâs quiet otherwise, a few moments passing in silence before he speaks again.
âIâdâIâd touch myself,â he says quietly, slowly, carefully, as if he could spook himself with his own admissions.Â
âWhere?â
Hollander makes another soft sound. âI wouldâŠbrush my neck.â
âGood,â Ilya murmurs. âWhat else?â
Hollander curses softly. âIâdââ He sucks in a breath. âI would. Run a hand over my chest andâŠIârub myââ He breaks off, as if he canât make himself say it.
Ilya shifts on his bed, ignoring the way his cock is stirring. âNipple?â he offers, and hears Hollander release a rough exhale.
A soft little gasp tumbles through the line. âYes.â
âContinue.â
Hollander makes a bitten off sound and Ilya smiles.
âContinue telling me, Hollander,â he nudges.Â
Hollander clears his throat. Ilya can practically see his flushed cheeks.Â
âI wouldâŠfuck. I would rub my nipple until itâs hard and thenââÂ
Ilya palms his cock and a rough sound escapes him, loud enough for Hollander to hear, going by the way he falls silent again, and fuckâ
âFuck,â Hollander breathes. âIâd pinch it. Roll it between my fingers. Iâd do it with the other one, too. Tug a little.â
âYou like that, Hollander? A little pain?â Ilya swallows against the dryness in his mouth.
âNo,â Hollander says, and then, âA little,â so quietly Ilya almost misses it.Â
Ilya wishes he could see him now. Wishes he could see what Hollander looks like when heâs experiencing actual pleasure. But thatâs probably a push too far for now. So he closes his eyes and imagines Hollanderâs face, the freckles swallowed up by his blush, pupils blown wide, hands running over his own body.
âI would stroke myself,â Hollander continues, breath hitching. He sounds like heâs working to focus on his words. âSlowly at first butânot for long.â
Ilya feels oddly lightheaded. âYou would be hard? From playing with your nipples?â
A pause, then, âFuck off.â
âYes?â he prompts, and when he hears Hollanderâs drawn out exhale, he knows the answer.
âYes.â
âFuck, Hollander.â Ilyaâs cock spurts precome, wetting his boxers. He takes a deep breath to even out his breathing. âYou are freak?â
Hollander huffs. âIâm not, shut up.â
âOkay,â Ilya chuckles, still trying for casual. His cock jumps in his hand when he hears Hollander stifle a moan with medium success. âSo you have your dick in hand. What now?â
âI stroke it. Slowly, at first. And thenâŠfaster. Tighter.â
âGood.â
âFuck. Rozanov, you canât say shit like that.â
âNo? Why not? Feels good, no?â
âYeah,â he says after a moment, breath shuddery. Ilya wonders if heâs touching himself right now the way he describes.Â
âHow long do you last?â Ilya feels the wet spot leak through his underwear and soak into his sweatpants.
âJesus Christ, Rozanov,â Hollanderâs voice sounds so different now, almost thin, toneless, as if he has to concentrate on speaking, forming words. âIânot long.â
Ilya grins. âPlay with your balls?â
Itâs meant as a question but even to his own ears, it sounds like an order. Hollander curses again.
âYeah. Yeah, wouldâwould do that.â
âYeah? Would you feel them pull up before you shoot off all over yourself?â Ilya shoves his free hand in his boxers to get his fist on his dick and sucks in a breath at the first too rough, too dry drag.
Hollander gasps. âYes.â
âHow does your dick feel in your hand?â Ilya didnât meant to ask but it is out before he can stop himself.Â
The little gasp on the other end of the line zips straight to his cock, making it throb. Ilya spreads some of his pre over the tip of his dick.
âHot,â Hollander breathes. He sounds out of it. âWet.â
Now Ilya curses. âYou leak, Hollander? Get all wet and messy?â
Hollander groans, low and guttural, and Ilya loses his fucking mind.
âHow do you finish?â Â
âIââ Hollanderâs breath catches. âI jerk off and itâs. Itâs wet andâthereâthereâs a spot behind my balls. When I press it just rightââ
Ilya squeezes at the base of his cock to ground himself. He cannot come yet. Not just from this. He clenches his jaw, lets the fire lick low at his spine and Hollanderâs voice wash over him.
âHow does it feel? When youâre close?â
Hollander is breathing hard. Ilya is too, but he hides it better.
âIt feelsââ
âJust fine?â
âFuck off, it feels. I donât knowâŠit feels. Great.â
Ah, Hollanderâs ever superlative descriptions. Really evoking emotions. Ilya would laugh if he wasn't still trying not to shoot off.Â
âHow great? Describe it to me.â
âYou know how it feels,â Hollander says, apparently breaking through his haze again, embarrassed and defensive.
âYes. I do. But this is about you. If you want me to help you, I need to know how it feels for you.â
Itâs not even a total lie.
Thereâs another brief moment of silence before Hollander speaks again. âIt feels likeââ He sounds even breathier now, stumbling over the words. âIt feels like. Like when weâre on the power play.â
Of course Hollander would use hockey as a point of reference.Â
âLike when I know weâre about to score. When itâs building and lining up perfectly, like when itâs all just right there. Just right.â
Ilyaâs cock throbs in his hand. âI know.â He does. He knows that feeling, he knows what itâs like, and he knows how Hollander looks when it happens.
It feels like theyâre the only two people in the world.Â
But that is hockey. This isâŠsomething else. Something Ilya should not be chasing. He does anyway.
âAnd then you push yourself over the edge?â Ilya asks. Wants to ask, While youâre thinking about me? âMake a mess of yourself, Hollander?â
He hears his sharp intake of breath, and then a low, drawn out moan, a string of fuck fuck fuck, the wet, furious slide of wet skin, the undeniable sound of orgasm.
Ilya squeezes the head of his cock, a spurt of precome wetting his palm.Â
âGood?â
Hollander shudders out a breath. âGood.â
âNow all you have to do is make yourself feel good like this when youâre fucking Jessica,â Ilya says matter-of-factly.Â
He's met with another short silence.Â
âRight,â Hollander mutters then. He sounds like his breathing is still evening out, like heâs not convinced of that strategy. And then, âI do feel good when fucking her.â
Ilya rolls his eyes even though Hollander canât see him. âYes, of course.â
âWell then whatâs the fucking point?âÂ
Ah. Hollander is back.Â
âPoint is, think about doing with her what makes you feel good,â Ilya says with much more patience than is warranted, really, considering how hard his dick is. âYou have fun, she has fun, you feel good, she feels good, both of you have great sex. Not âjust sexâ.â
âSure.âÂ
By the tone of his voice, Ilya knows heâs reached Hollanderâs limit.Â
Did you feel now like when you fuck her? Ilya wants to ask, stupidly. He shouldnât.Â
He knows Hollander wouldnât give an honest answer. Might not even know that it wouldnât be honest.
âWell, then,â Hollander says, and he sounds like heâs ready to forget this ever happened.Â
Ilya sighs, put-upon. âWe will work on your skills, Hollander.â
âFuck off.âÂ
âYou may not have my natural talent, and you may be slow learner, you may not be giving it your best, but you are giving it a shot.â
Hollander huffs. âGo fuck yourself, Rozanov,â he scoffs, and ends the call.
Ilya drops his phone onto his bed.
Hollanderâs quickly soured mood, unfortunately, has done nothing to soften his cock. Instead, all the sounds heâs made are playing in a loop in Ilyaâs head, echoing, bouncing off the walls of his mind.
Ilya strokes himself firmly from base to tip, twisting his hand around his flushed, leaking head, and pictures Hollander doing the same earlier.
As his orgasm washes over him, Ilya realizes that it was the first time heâs heard Hollander make any noise at all, and the fleck of pity he feels is bowled over by another wave of arousal.Â
It may be the first thing Hollander has given him voluntarily.