Chapter 1: Flying
Chapter Text
Casual.
That's what they were. What Ilya had sworn he wouldn’t let it get past.
Casual.
Безразличный. Fuck.
Ilya lay in his bed, the dark sheets highlighting his blonde curls, softly framing his face. He had a bruise, dark and heavy on his hip from a rough hit he had taken the evening before. He’d been distracted - still playing better than the average player, of course, but… he’d been somewhere else. In his head, he was in bed with a tan fit body, moving slowly lower, mouthing at skin, tracing Ilya's moles like constellations in the night sky.
Not just a warm body, someone Ilya knew he shouldn’t care about. Shane. Hollander. But what was something casual between rivals? That's what he told himself as he held his breath waiting for a text chime late at night. Waiting for the teasing English words that meant more than he was willing to admit.
Fuck! Causal, no attachment.
The ceiling was white as snow as Ilya stared up from his lying position. He shifted slightly to look out the window at Boston, home. Russia was supposed to be his home. The glass was foggy, the cold outside creating slight condensation to run down the pane. He had an interview today, he should get up, check his email. Why should he, though, really? He’s lazy; he’s been told it enough to know that. The sheets are soft and comforting; all that could make it better would be someone to hold.
He groans, voice rough from dissuse. He rubs his hands hard against his eyes, then runs them through his bed-messed hair. With the bruise on his hip, he’s more careful than normal when sitting up. Pain was fine, expected even, nothing he can't deal with. It's early, though, so he’s careful. Careful not to think too much about freckles and crinkly eyes.
~
His coffee machine gurgles quietly as he leans against his counter. The tiles cold against his feet, and his hip hurts just enough for him to try to keep his weight off that side. He flips aimlessly through videos before landing on one of the latest game between him and Hollander. The video shows them close; Ilya obviously knows what he's saying, chirping about a stupid choice Hollander had made. The video continued, and Ilya watched as his own face turned horribly fond. Moreso than he even knew he was capable of. The video was a commentary about their ‘rivalry’ about how they ‘hated each other’. How wrong they were.
“Fuck…I am… Idiot.” His accent was strong in the morning air. The coffee steamed where it had been forgotten. He watched the video again, willing his own face to change, be less of a mirror of his emotions. Emotions he knew were there, not that he’d ever admit it to anyone but himself. Liking men… liking Hollander was not allowed. Not in the daylight at least. Anonymous in a 5-star hotel, late at night, that's when they were something. A fraction of what Ilya craved, but what else could they have? Nothing, so wet kisses and stifled moans were the soundtrack to what he allowed himself in fantasies. Domestic was never a word he used. Imagining making Hollander coffee with a sweet russian pastry he had baked the day before? Holding him close through the night? Not the fantasy he could have.
He waved the thoughts from his mind and grabbed the hot coffee, drinking it fast, not caring about the burn from it being too hot. The ginger ale taunted him from his counter, stupid, Hollanders' favorite drink. Ilya didn’t like it, yet he had it.
Hollander didn’t even know Ilya’s address. Because they were ‘casual’. Ilya hadn’t even known that English word before them.
His phone chimed, and he checked it quickly, pulse skipping for a second as he scanned for a name starting with J. Just a reminder: he was expected at the rink for the interview at 9. He exhaled, tension knotting the back of his neck. Another stupid interview where all the same questions would be asked. Where he would reply with short sentences even when there was more to say because they didn’t have time for him to translate from English to Russian to English again in his head. He sends a quick thumbs-up emoji to his manager. Fewer words are better. His English was fine, but words escaped him often, except one ‘casual’, how could he ever forget that one?
~
The rink is welcoming to Ilyas turmoil. The crisp air smelling slightly of sweat and chemicals always cleared his head. What was not welcome was the pain in his hip twinging again. He spotted his manager watching the few teammates of his who liked to warm up early on the ice to start their days. He loved hockey, but why they chose to wake up early when they would play just a few hours later was a mystery to him. His hoodie was warm. Hollander had left it behind after one of their hookups and had told Ilya to keep it because it was a normal grey one that couldn’t be tied back to him. Ilya wished he had given it to him on purpose.
“Am here” He said it flippantly, not particularly wanting to be there, c’est la vie (Shane spoke French, Ilya chose not to think about that too hard).
“Ah, there you are Mr.Rozanov. The interviewer is waiting. You look tired. Want me to grab you anything? Coffee?” His manager is a short man, kind but boring, not the way Hollander was boring. Real boring.
“Neit…No. I am fine.” He shakes his head and keeps his hands in the hoodie's pockets. His manager looks unconvinced, but he’s paid to get Ilya deals and fans, not to care that he hadn’t slept because all he could think about was his rival and how much he wants to hold him tightly and never let go. The short man starts walking, and Ilya follows.
The interviewer is set up in an alcove of the rink. She has heavy makeup on, and Ilya pointedly looks away from her low-cut shirt. He’s “Boston's most eligible bachelor,” and he can’t look at any women without people assuming things. What would they think if they knew how torn up he was over a man, one he was supposed to hate? He didn’t go out for sex anymore. He waited; it's casual to wait for someone who lives in another country. Casual. Ugh, Безразличный. Locker rooms were the worst. Teammates teasing, questioning, and looking over his shoulder to see who he was texting. They said he blushed; Russians do not blush. They were lucky, his teammates, having wives or girlfriends to go home to. His teammates were convinced he had someone waiting for him at home, too…someone called Jane. It would be a boring life to be a hockey player's wife, so much time alone waiting, he could relate. The only one waiting in his strange relationship was Lily.
~
The camera trailed him as he shifted in the small chair. He was already annoyed, and they hadn’t even begun.
“Hello, Mr.Rozanov. I’m Ariana Montiague. It's wonderful to get this rare chance to interview such a talented hockey player.” She talks to him slowly as you would to a child, like she thinks he won't understand. It's infuriating.
He waves off her praise with his signature smirk. It's fake. Ilya has become a good actor. Good at pretending not to care, he's able to hide his true feelings for almost anyone. Almost.
“Will be good to answer what fans want to know. Da.” He nods slightly to punctuate his sentence. He runs a hand through his curls intentionally, looking good means more viewers, means more publicity for him and the team. Every move is calculated. On the ice, they have plans, formations they should stick to, but there's also the freedom, flying on the ice. Everything fades away besides him, the ice and the puck. It's his lifeblood.
“Alright!” She's too excited. Ilya wants to cringe away from her high energy; it's too early for this shit. “Do you know the way these interviews go?” He shakes his head no. “Well, quick run down, the fans ask the questions live on the internet, and we pick which ones to ask. Do you understand?” She’s patronizing him, and he just sighs and nods his approval.
“First question: ‘What is your favorite hobby besides hockey-related activities?'”
He thinks a second, considering his options, he could tell the truth -Baking- and be ridiculed by his team and the entire internet, or he could lie, say something manly.
“Fishing.” He decides to say. He’s never fished in his life. Hollander likes to eat fish; he’s seen him eat it pretty much every time there is a event they end up at, at the same time.
“Mmhm. Russia must have some good fishing spots, lots of wilderness, right?” He wouldn’t know. He nods anyway. “Okay, next question: ‘Do you have an irrational fear?’”
Ilya hates it when he doesn’t know a word. “I do not know word ‘Irrational.’” He tugs at his sleeves and thinks about flying, being on the ice instead of here.
“Oh! It's when something is not logical. For example, my irrational fear is spiders.”
“Ah, I see. Mine then…” Should he be vulnerable? Maybe just a little. “Plane crashes. I have been on many plane, have not crashed yet.” He always sits in the aisle seat, the leg room is better, and it is easier to escape from. He’s never been on a plane with Hollander. ‘Does he like the window or aisle?’
The interview continued on that way, deciding between being truthful or lying to be more like what's expected. Ilya was bored, and his fingers itched to check his phone for texts from Jane. He had felt it buzz a few times in his pocket. He stretched in the seat, his hip twinged, and he hid the grimace with another smirk. Stupid heavy hitters. He’s surprised he hasn’t been asked about dates; maybe he’ll get out of this without being accosted about his love life.
“Almost done! Last question: Is there a Mrs.Rozanov? It's been a buzz lately that you have been doing less dating and staying in more. Could that possibly be because you found someone to settle down with?” Fuck, he spoke too soon.
“No, I am still single,” He winks at the camera. “Lately, I have been less wanting to date. Takes too much energy.” That and he already knows who he wants, even though it's casual.
The interview wraps up easily, and he finally gets to leave and enjoy a rare day off. The minute he's away from the cameras and other people, he slips his phone out of his pocket. And like magic, there it is, a blinking red number showing he has 1 new text. From Jane.
Jane- I’m in your area tonight.
Lily- What do you want me to do about that?
Ilya wants nothing more than to quickly invite him to his house. To cook him dinner and fuck him till he falls apart. Tell him to stay the night. Instead, he's an asshole and hopes Sha-Hollander still wants to sleep with Ilya when he’s intentionally being dense.
Jane- You know what I want, you asshole.
Lily- Maybe I want you to beg me for it
Jane- In your dreams, Rozanov.
In his dreams Hollander was his everything. And he was allowed to have it.
Lily- Come to this address at 8, *address *
Lily- You’ll be begging when we’re done ;)
It's done. He took a stupid leap. He is weightless, cut loose from sense or reason, tumbling through the cold blue above Boston. He is a plane without a pilot, a body suspended between heartbreak and hope, where the thin air bites his cheeks and the clouds taste of longing. He could crash, splinter into a thousand unsayable words, or he could soar above it all, become free of gravity, dragging him down to reality.
All he did was invite him to his house. It's not that serious. It's casual.
Casual will be his death.
Chapter 2: Atmosphere
Notes:
This is my first time writing smut. I tried lol.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Who told him this was a good idea? What devil possessed him to invite the person whose absence had been tormenting him to his home? Ilya paced his house tidying because he knew Hollander liked things to be clean. He had seen it in the dust-free shelves he had when Ilya had gone to Hollanders' home for the first time. In the way he folded his clothes softly instead of throwing them wherever he wanted before they fucked. He saw the way he picked at lint on his clothes during long press conferences. Stupid things to notice. Of course, he did; it was Hollander. Ilya couldn’t stop noticing if he tried.
He had put the ginger ale in his fridge, another piece of Hollander slotting into his life like a puzzle. A puzzle that Ilya hadn’t seen the image of before putting together. That's what everything felt like lately. A jumble of pieces that he had to sort through.
The pacing wasn’t helping. It was barely 7. Ilya looked at his kitchen, clean and pristine. Then he pulled out the ingredients to make something he’d made 1000 times. Pryaniki, a russian cookie made with honey and spices. Sweet, soft, and quick to make while he waited.
When Ilya was young, before his mother died, he would sneak into the kitchen and watch her cook and bake. Her gold curls swishing while she twirled about their kitchen, humming old russian lullabies. She would catch him watching and beckon him close, she’d pick him up and swing him around with her in a dance. She’d been happy, and he had too. He hummed in the present; he still loved being in a warm kitchen smelling spices and getting flour in his hair. The cookies lined the trays, small balls of brown spiced dough, uniform. Like hockey players waiting to start a game.
His father never liked that Ilya liked to cook. It was too feminine a hobby; he was supposed to be training for hockey games, not dancing with his mother in the kitchen. Memories are bittersweet like cocoa powder. He placed the first batch into the oven and made the glaze while he waited. He checked the time a few times before realizing he was being obsessive. He focuses on the cookies. 20 minutes pass, and the first batch comes out, filling the air with a warm spiced aroma that Ilya thinks is irresistible. Soon, he has 2 more batches cooling on the counter. Perks of having the money for such a big house and living alone, he can hog the multiple ovens for as long as he wants.
He’s so immersed in the cookies he almost misses the quiet knock at the door. But he doesn’t, and finally ruffles his hair before pretending to take his time going to the door. What he really wants to do is run to the door and pull Shane into a kiss. He’ll go slow, though, so he doesn’t seem overeager.
Ilya opens the door right as Hollander goes to knock again. He looks so good, irresistible like the sweets sitting on his kitchen counter. He’s wearing a dark outfit. Black jeans hang from his thick thighs and ass. Ilya wants to grab it. He’s wearing a knitted sweater, which looks handmade with care, dark forest green. Ilyas heart tightens. Shane looks so domestic. What a pair they make.
Ilya looks down at himself and blushes (it's just a flush from the cold outside, Russians don’t blush), embarrassed by the flour covering his loungewear.
“Ah,” Ilya realizes they’ve been staring at each other in the doorway for a good 30 seconds. “Come in… I was making cookies, are Russian, taste like home.” Ilya doesn’t know why he let the last part slip out; it's more vulnerable than they are with each other. He keeps setting new precedents that he hopes Holllander won’t look too closely at. Normally, they’d be kissing right away, but Hollander is looking around curiously, just as Ilya had done at his home all those years ago. He looks like he belongs, another puzzle piece fitting in.
“They smell good. Your house is gorgeous. You should tell me who you hired to get the tiling done.” Ilya chuckles slightly, always such a businessman, landlord. He inches closer to Hollander and softly caresses his cheek. Vulnerable, but casual, always casual.
“Maybe I’ll tell you later. After…” Ilya trails off, implications heavy in the one word. Hollander looks at him with heavy-lidded eyes. Ilya finally reaches down and guides his mouth to his own, closing their lips together in a gentle kiss. He puts the emotions he can’t say out loud into it. Their tongues caress, not fighting for dominance, just coexisting. He sighs into it. This is what he needed. To be close to him again.
The timer for the final batch goes off and pulls them out of their intertwined embrace. The type lovers do. He huffs but pulls away because these cookies are no good if they overbake… well, actually, they might make a semi-decent hockey puck- no good for eating. He groans.
“Come to kitchen with me, eat cookie, very good.” He pulls on Hollander’s sleeve just like he had in his apartment stairwell years ago. Delicately. Afraid that if he tugged too hard, the soft atmosphere might come apart like the yarn of a sweater.
Shane shook his head slightly, amused by Ilyas insistence. “I’m on a diet.” Ilya droops, knowing he had done it, screwed it up already. “...I guess I could have a cheat day for you.” He perks up at this; he’s letting Shane in.
All he wants is to share something he doesn’t show anyone else. His teammates think he’s gatekeeping a really good Russian bakery. Shane gets to know, though, he gets to see him in his safe space. Because Ilya wants him, and he wants Shane to want him too, all of him, especially the gooey parts. But they are casual, it's a mantra he has to keep repeating. And it's suddenly not working as he watches Shane bite into a warm cookie, which Ilya had made for only him. Fuck. He’s so fucking fucked.
Shane lets out a soft moan, and Ilya feels his cock twitch in his sweats. “Good?” He asks innocently. He knows they’re good; he needs to hear him say it. Craves the approval. Just like during sex when he asks if he's doing okay, Ilya needs confirmation that he’s doing the right thing. That he’s doing well. Praise is hard to get in Russia- at least in his family that is. You can always do better; that's his father's idea of praise.
“Mmmmm, maybe I should kidnap you and force you to bake all day. What are you doing wasting your talents on professional hockey?” It's a joke, a bad one. Ilya relaxes and feels the weight of rejection falling away. There's a crumb on Shane's chin. He hates being dirty, so Ilya walks around the counter carefully, still sore on his hip, and smooths away the mess with his thumb. He presses the tip of his finger against plush lips and watches, and he automatically suckles lightly, pressing a kiss there. Ilya presses deeper, opening Shane's mouth, feeling the twitch of his tongue. The contraction as he tried to swallow the spit that gathered in the back of his throat.
“So pretty…” He said under his breath, not meant for anyone but them. Lightly, he pulled his thumb out of his mouth, easily replacing it with his own mouth. It was more heated now, more normal for them, more casual. “Fuck Hollander,” he groaned into the kiss. He gripped tightly to Shane's hips, feeling him stutter against him. Ilya wanted to get on his knees, take him into his mouth, and lavish him. Make him his. Make him come again and again. He moves to Shane's neck, tugging at the bottom of the sweater, urging him to take it off. Sadly, to do so, they break from the kiss. Just for a second, as they manically tug off layers. Shane folds his sweater and puts it on a bar stool in Ilyas's kitchen. Maybe he’ll forget it, let Ilya have his scent for longer than one night. Skin revealed, they come back together. Pressing and touching tenderly. Ilya grips Shane's chin and moves him so he has better access to the sensitive skin on his neck. He kisses, open-mouth breathing hot puffs of air onto delicate skin, reveling in the receptiveness of his partner, teasingly, almost what Shane wants but not enough.
“More,” It's a whisper from above him. Shane's hand is suddenly in his hair, urging him even closer. It would be a command from anyone other than Hollander, but in the quiet tension of his kitchen, Ilya knows it's a request. One he will gladly answer. He bites into flesh on Shane's shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, just enough to make Shane groan in surprise. “Rozy, ugh!” The nickname shouldn’t make Ilya's insides turn to mush, yet here he was licking soothingly over the mark he had made and staring up at Shane, taking in every minute change in his expression. The loose hold he had on Ilyas' hair was grounding. He loved it.
He took his time marking everywhere that couldn’t be seen in their uniforms. He spent extra time suckling and nipping at Shane's nipples, driving the man crazy. Ilya had meant what he said in that text; he wanted to make him beg. Because you only beg for something you want. The skin pebbled, and the hand in his hair clenched tightly. Ilya wondered if he could make Shane come from just his nipples.
“Rozanov, please…” Shane shocked him with this; he really thought he'd last at least until Ilya was inside him.
“Begging? Already, hmm?” Ilya moved up Shane's body as he teased, leaving small kisses in his favorite spots. He ended up standing face-to-face with him. He pressed a kiss to Shane's lips and nudged him good-naturedly. “Go to my bed, yes?” Ilya took his hand, he pictured doing it in public as his boyfriend, fuck. He led him to his bedroom. The big bed is inviting, not too many pillows. It's bigger than the queens they get in hotel rooms, perfectly sized for 2 hockey players. He had kept the lights dim, knowing they would eventually end up here. He raised his arms and spun in place to show off to Shane, then flopped on the bed. Fuck that was a bad idea, he thought as his hip throbbed, making him grimace. He quickly smoothed his expression, but Shane had noticed. Of course he did.
“Are you okay? What happened?” Shane fretted and quickly came closer to where Ilya was propped on the bed. He was worried, crawling onto the bed to be next to him and scan his body, trying to find where the pain had come from. Ilya could handle how cute he was when he worried, maybe, if his heart stopped pounding at 100 km/h.
“Just a bruise, nothing I can’t deal with, Hollander.” Shane didn’t look convinced, so Ilya pulled his pants down to show the bruise, blotchy and purple, covering his entire hip. “See? Is fine.” Shane ran a gentle finger over the skin before he pressed down, making Ilya hiss.
“Fine? That looks painful. During your last game, you got hit. I was watching; it took you longer than normal to get up. You'd better tell me a doctor has looked at this; I can’t have my rival injured. Wouldn’t be as fun to win without you at 100%.” He caressed the skin, and Ilya felt his face heat up. Leave it to Hollander to hide his worry behind hockey. Ilya closed his eyes at the sensation of soft hands massaging lightly at his bruise. When he opened his eyes, he made eye contact with Shane. The look was tantalizing. Shane still looked concerned; Ilya was supposed to reply cheekily. Get them back to the comfortable casual sex. Just a little longer, he’d linger here, able to imagine Shane touching him this way as a worried boyfriend. For a little longer, he’d imagine not always having to wait. Shane would be there right after he got injured instead of finding out long after the fact.
“Da, doctor looked, just a bruise. I am okay.” He reassured instead of joking back. While in his home, Ilya could let himself have this, pretend it was requited, the stupid longing he felt every time he thought of Shane. Just for now, he could pretend it was more than casual. “Going to kiss it better?”
Shane did just that. He leaned down and tenderly pressed his mouth to purple skin. Ilya inhaled heavily as his eyes followed Shane's path. Shane’s mouth lingered there for a moment, gentle and reverent, before he began to travel upward, planting slow, deliberate kisses along the curve of Ilya’s waist. Reaching Ilya’s belly button, Shane paused, teasing the sensitive skin with the tip of his tongue before continuing. He traced a languid line downward, following the soft trail of coarse hair that led from Ilya’s navel toward his pelvis. He paused at the band of his sweats.
“Can I?” Can he? Fuck, Ilya needed him too.
“Da, Hollander, touch me.” He commanded it; he may be soft for this boy, but he also knew he had the power here. And Shane liked it, he moaned softly at Ilyas' voice and moved to slip the sweats off him. They came off swiftly, and Ilya watched fondly as Shane stopped for a second to fold them and set them aside. He then turned and looked over Ilyas almost nude body hungrily. He moved back to where he was before, finally moving to where Ilya wanted him, needed him. He licked his lips and nuzzled at Ilyas cock through his briefs. His hand made its way to Ilyas chest, cupping his pec. Imitating how Ilya liked to give head. He was hard in the confines of his briefs. Shane could likely feel it, how riled up Shane made him. He let Shane lick and mouth through the fabric till it was wet with his spit before grabbing his hair, sternly pulling him away while he wrestled with his other hand to get out of the briefs.
Shane watched closely as Ilya’s hard dick was finally released from the fabric. The head was flushed and glistening with precum. Ilya exhaled, a low, shuddering sigh escaping his lips as the tension eased. Shane looked at him, taking it in. It had been a month since they last had time to do anything, and even that had just been a quick fuck in a hotel. This felt more serious.
Ilya saw him watching. He reached his hand out to Shane's mouth and huffed out a quiet demand. “Spit.”
Once he did, Ilya used it to stroke his hard length. Softly, not trying to get anywhere fast, putting on a show. Shane's eyes dilated, pupils blown wide with lust. He flicked the head with his thumb and groaned loud and throaty into the quiet. Shane looked enchanted. Ilya knew he wanted more.
“You want to suck? Beg.” Ilya’s voice was rough with need. He roughly stroked and widened his legs more. His breathing was harsh, in, out, loud in the anticipation. He waited for Shane's reply.
“I-Rozan-Fuck. Please.” It was perfect, he was perfect. The only one Ilya ever wanted in his bed. The broken plea came out as if he were the one getting pleasure. Ilyas is not sure he's met anyone who wants to suck dick as much as this anomaly watching him. Well- besides himself, that is, Ilya really liked sucking Shane's dick.
“Please what?”
“Please-” Shane swallowed roughly, still trailing the movement of Ilya’s hand. “Please let me suck you off.” Ilya stops his hand and grabs Shane's head, pushing him down to what he wants, giving him nonverbal permission.
Shane licks at him greedily, just how he likes it. Tip to base, his hot tongue dragging along a vein. Ilya groaned, hips thrusting of their own accord. He took the head in his mouth and suckled before pushing deeper, taking more into his warmth. He went down till he couldn’t take any more without gagging, then pulled up until just the head was in his mouth. He sucked hard, twirling his tongue in a way that made Ilya moan.
“Yeah, good, just like that, Solnyshko.” Ilya lets the term of endearment out easily; it feels right. Shane is his sunshine, even if he doesn’t know it. It's a good thing Shane doesn’t know Russian; he might be scared off by how tender Ilya is. He continues sucking, up and down, the sensation was intense and brought Ilya closer to coming than he’d like to admit. “Ugh, you need to stop, going to cum.” He huffs out as he feels his orgasm nearing. He can’t cum yet. Not before he gets to hold Shane as he fucks him. Hold him after they’re done and pretend he may stay. Shane pulls off but doesn’t relent fully as he moves to nuzzle Ilya’s balls lightly while staring directly into his eyes. “Черт, ты просто идеальна..” (Fuck, you are perfect). Shane raises an eyebrow at the Russian, wondering if Ilya will tell him what he said.
Ilya tugs Shane up to slot their mouths together. Shane whines into the kiss as Ilya’s hands grip his hips and moves him to straddle his body. Ilya grabs blindly at the bedside table where he left the lube and condoms. He grabs the lube and breaks the kiss for a short second to slick up his fingers and ask, “This okay?” he presses short kisses to Shane's jaw and grinds up onto him.
“Yes, very okay…but will your hip be okay?” Ilya wants to devour this stupid boy. Worrying about him even in the heat of the moment. His finger traces Shane's hole, sending shivers through his body. Not dipping in but gliding possessively over it.
“Maybe you do all the work, make sure I don’t injure it anymore. Hmm?” He winks at the insinuation, and Shane blushes (Canadians do blush). Ilya takes this opportunity to press his finger in slowly; he’s tight like always. Ilyas cock gets even harder.
“Ride you?” Shane asks, already knowing the answer, while pushing back on his finger.
“Da, Solnyshko,” He adds another finger and scissors with them, stretching Shane languidly. Shane, from his place on top, moans. He shifts his hips to make Ilya go in at a better angle. “You are so good for me, such a good boy.” He praises easily. Shane is so good for him. The best part of his life, the stupid jokes they make, the banter on the ice that makes him want to play even better, the way he worries about a bruise stopping him from having sex. Ilya can’t stop the lov-care he has for Shane.
Shane seems to love the praise and strats grinding back and forth. Trying to get more friction on his cock and more of Ilya’s fingers in his ass. Ilya gets rougher, his fingers move faster, and he drags against Shane's walls searching for the spot that drives him crazy.
When he does press against it, Shane chokes out a “Fuck, Ilya.”
Everything goes quiet, and his hand stops momentarily as the word rings in his head. Hollander…Shane had just said his name, first name. They didn’t do that, because that isn’t casual.
Notes:
How we feeling, y'all? Episode 4 wrecked me... hopefully Shane doesn't leave this time ;)
Tell me what you think
drarry_is_life on Chapter 2 Sun 14 Dec 2025 07:21AM UTC
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noomi_mooomi on Chapter 2 Mon 15 Dec 2025 02:23AM UTC
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Vibez12 on Chapter 2 Mon 15 Dec 2025 02:47AM UTC
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noomi_mooomi on Chapter 2 Mon 15 Dec 2025 03:02AM UTC
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