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The sound of vomiting woke Ilya out of his woozy sleep. His first thought was that perhaps he was the one being sick. Wouldn’t be the first time he puked in his sleep. His mouth was sticky and his body was clammy and the stench of alcohol filled the small hotel room. The sun was just coming up and, as his eyes stung in the pale yellow light, he reoriented himself and realized, no, it was Hollander in the bathroom.
He sounded pretty bad.
Ilya hauled himself out of the damp bedspread and shuffled with his eyes obstinately closed against any shred of light that peaked in through the window. As he moved his stomach clenched and his mouth filled with spit. He was next if he didn’t control himself.
“You didn’t even drink that much, Hollander.” He was curled over the toilet like a man in church. His breathing was shallow and ragged and the small slivers of skin Ilya could see were pale and damp. Still, Hollander groaned out a “fuck you.”
He lifted his head and a shot went through Ilya’s heart.
“You look pathetic.”
“Fuck-,” Hollander hiccupped before retching up the last of whatever was in his stomach.
Ilya, Russian saint, martyr of hockey, found a water bottle under their (their!) disheveled bed, filled it with fresh water from the tap, and handed it to Hollander, who chugged it so fast he threw up again.
“Pathetic.”
“Did you fuck me last night?”
“Of course,” Ilya shrugged. Stupid question. Has there been a time in his life where he had been in the same room with Shane Golden Boy Hollander and hadn’t fucked him at the first opportunity?
Hollander sucked in a breath. “I don’t…I can still feel it.”
He turned his face up, a needy dog, a rosy faced penitent at the shrine of Saint Ilya. His mouth was wet and his eyes were open, pleading, vulnerable. Ilya wanted to crush him.
“I didn’t realize you were so drunk, Hollander.”
“S’okay.”
They stared at each other for another minute before Hollander returned to vomiting.
Three months later
A yellow plastic bottle sat on the table, directly between Ilya and Hollander.
“Are you fucking insane?”
Hollander’s face was bright red. He looked as if he might be on the verge of collapsing inward, he was shrunken, which was quite impressive for a 200 pound man.
“I don’t want to talk about this any more.” Ilya stood and went around the table and kissed the top of Hollander’s head. “Let’s eat something.”
Ilya had the pills in his medicine cabinet. His eyes caught the offensive yellow color every time he brushed his teeth in the morning. The idea of it gnawed at him. He carried around the thought with him all the time now, Hollander had infected him. What else was new?
He hadn’t brought it up again. Ilya was afraid Hollander might have regressed, might have backed off the intensity of their sex but that hadn’t happened. If anything Hollander had been more assertive, had told Ilya what to do and when to do it, which Ilya enjoyed simply because it was new. Hollander was becoming more confident, which made him brattier. Their sex was aggressive and forthright, like their hockey. No games.
“Come on,” Hollander panted. “We have to go back soon, hurry up.”
Ilya had Hollander bent over the counter of the family bathroom at the back of an MLH event reception. It had been easy to slip out of the hotel ball room once the open bar had been set up. Hollander had alcohol on his breath and a fire in his eyes. His body jolted with every thrust Ilya made and he knew Hollander would have an unexplainable bruise along his hips three days from now. Luckily no one on the Metros team had a functioning brain cell and, therefore, wouldn’t ask their captain any pressing questions.
“Shut up, Hollander, or I’ll stop.”
Hollander shoved his hips back. “Don’t you dare. Make me feel you tomorrow.”
“You got it, sweetheart.”
With one hand he shoved Hollander’s head down onto the counter, his cheekbone pressed hard and uncaring into the laminate countertop. With the other he pulled at Hollander’s ass so he could watch himself slamming in rough. He wondered if Hollander ever bled from this. Surely when they fucked multiple times in a night he must have, at least once.
He didn’t want to injure Hollander, but he wanted to hurt him, sometimes. He didn’t know, yet, how to explain that.
Slick lube and alcohol sweat made the friction smooth between them and so he slipped a finger into Hollander’s ass alongside his cock and smiled as Hollander squirmed and whined.
“I should open the door, Hollander, let someone else come in and fuck you after me. Who should get my sloppy seconds?”
Hollander let out a high pitched groan and arched into Ilya’s cock.
He put a second finger in.
“Scott Hunter is out there. He’s probably small enough, could fit in here alongside me. Would you like that, sweetheart?”
Hollander had drool coming out of his mouth.
“Whore.”
And yet it was Ilya that came first, no condom, hot and slick and powerful enough to make his ears ring. He could hear himself moaning into Hollander’s shoulder, the part where he was always tense and bunched beneath his white button down shirt.
Even as he softened he kept thrusting, low and slow, until Hollander wasted himself all over the bathroom floor instead of into his hand where Ilya could have licked it up.
“Fuck.” Hollander’s voice was broken.
“That what you wanted?”
Hollander shoved himself upright. His eyes were black and wet and his mouth puckered pink.
“Gonna think of you tomorrow.”
Ilya grinned, his canines flashing in the bathroom mirror. “Good for you.”
It became a game. How much could Hollander take? Ilya had him bent over, pretzeled up, tied down, a cock, a finger, a vibe in his ass, usually at the same time. Hollander took all of it with grit and determination and pink cheeks. It was better if Hollander had a drink, too, but that was so, so rare. But it made him more limber, less likely to worry the inside of his cheek.
Ilya bought him an extra large dildo for his birthday and Hollander nearly threw up at the sight of it but, just a few hours later, had it all the way inside of him. Ilya could swear he could see the shadow of the thing pressing inside of Hollander’s belly.
“Am I not enough for you anymore, little whore?”
And Hollander cried real tears and threw the damn thing away.
“You’re the only thing I want, Rozanov, please, don’t - ,”
And Ilya couldn’t listen anymore, he was inside Hollander, loose and pliant and crying.
He didn’t want to injure. But he did like to hurt.
Shane Hollander knew the ugly insides of Ilya’s heart. Knew the biting and scratching wasn’t just for show, it’s how he’d been trained down in the bear baits. Ilya didn’t care what anyone thought of him, save Hollander, because no one else could touch him. He was in a high tower of his own building and no one at all could get him to come down.
From his position in the world he could get anything he wanted, fast cars, women, drinks, clothes, money, opportunities he didn’t earn, people he didn’t pay, favors he didn’t ask for. None of this worried him because, deep down, Ilya knew he would be okay if he was on his own again. Well. That was a lie, now, but it was still close to the truth. But Hollander has yet to reject his ugly heart and that was the only thing that truly scared Ilya Rozanov.
Mr. Golden Boy, down on his knees, getting cock forced down his throat, getting the threat of a surprise third person, getting pissed on in the shower. Hollander had yet to turn away.
He handled the season’s stress with nothing but grace. His teammates loved him and looked up to him and, in return, Hollander accepted the jokes about his absent sex life and poor social skills.
What they don’t know won’t hurt them, eh, sweetheart? Ilya whispered in his ear once, after Hollander brought it up.
“I just worry, y’know, that they’ll figure it out or ask the wrong question or-,”
Ilya cut him off with a kiss, but Hollander kept going.
“It’s hard to explain, y’know. I think they like me but I worry they don’t. And I know there’s things I could change to make them like me but I don’t know what those things are, or, like, how to actually be different. Because even if I act differently it’s just an act. And then I think, well if I start acting differently won’t that be more suspicious? And then if I make them suspicious of me they’ll figure it all out before I’m ready to tell them, and my contract is up at the end of the season, and if YOU get found out because of me - ,”
“Hollander, Hollander. Stop spiraling. You need to go lay down.”
Ilya massaged the spot above his heart as he watched Hollander slink down the hall to the bedroom.
“The problem is in my head, I think,” he’d said. Understatement of the century.
Cliff Marleau was getting married and, somehow both Ilya and Shane Hollander were invited. Ilya did not question it (Shane and Marleau had played together for three seconds one time some years ago) and simply accepted that this was yet another ray of blessed light in his already lucky life.
There was a certain painful irony in having to put their phones down and pretend not to know each other for a few hours while the wedding happened around them, a white and cream swirl of love, dedication, and tears. Ilya did let anybody see him get emotional as Marleau danced with his new wife to some slow song, tender and sweet, each of them looking at the other like they were the only people in the 500-person room.
Ilya slipped out and made his way to a bathroom where, because he was God’s favorite soldier, Shane Hollander was washing his hands.
“Hello sweetheart.” The smell of blood was in the air.
Shane grabbed him and kissed him hard. “I hate pretending.”
“I know. I’ll see you tonight. What’s your room number?”
Shane leaned in and kissed Hollander again. “1714.”
Ilya could taste the champagne and steak on Shane’s mouth. He was really letting loose tonight. That was good.
“I want you to do something for me, sweetheart. Get another drink, just one, and find a girl to dance with.”
Big wet eyes. “A girl?”
“You know, boobs and long hair?” He mimed a curvaceous body with his hands.
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
Shane opened his mouth to say something (Ilya could imagine it - “why?” “go fuck yourself” “I don’t like girls anymore, Rozanov, I’m a big gay bottom now.”) but the bathroom door opened and stopped their conversation. Ilya smiled.
“And I’ll beat you, too!” He called out as Shane skirted around him.
He rolled his eyes to himself and went to piss.
11:30pm. The DJ was doing his best to keep up with the raucous crowd but, unfortunately most of the people in the crowd knew how to hold their liquor.
Shane had his arms around a pretty blonde and, in one hand, a tilted glass of something brown. Ilya watched him from the edges of the crowd, his arms crossed, and his own drink in his hand. He gulped it down in one go and absently placed the glass on someone’s table before making his way to the dance floor. He needed to make it natural. No one would believe him.
He walked slowly, as if he was perusing the crowd, as if he didn’t know who his target was. The pill in his hand felt like a knife. It cut him long before it cut Shane.
“Can I cut in?”
He stood behind the pretty blonde and tapped her on her shoulder. She turned slowly and her eyes adjusted to his face before she smiled. In the tiny window of distraction, the millisecond where the woman and Shane’s brains were adjusting to the new stimulus, he ghosted his hand over Shane’s drink and prayed.
“I can’t let Hollander hog the prettiest girl in the room all night.”
“Fuck off, Rozanov.” Shane sounded actually pissed and, as he walked off the dance floor, swallowed the rest of his drink.
Ilya couldn’t let his gaze linger. He wrenched his face back towards the woman and smiled down at her. He knew he was no longer hiding himself, that the glee of what he’d done was taking over his face and he knew this because the woman, her instincts rising, politely excused herself.
He let her go.
He couldn’t turn and look yet but he needed to be close by. Hayden Pike’s wife, Jasmine? Jacqueline? Was dancing by herself. He introduced himself and smiled and lingered and tried to make conversation. She was drunk herself and made some bad joke that Ilya didn’t quite understand, whether because of his English skills or her slurred words he didn’t know. He nodded and smiled as if he knew what she was saying. Pike didn’t deserve her, she was beautiful, he could see the tops of her breasts. He hoped she cheated on him.
Time became a cloud he was stuck in, he was frozen to the dance floor while he strained his ears and used all the powers of his peripheral vision to see what was happening behind him. He couldn’t measure time by the songs because they blended all together, morphed and mushed. The people swirled around him, smiles and laughter, unquestioning as to why Ilya was out here by himself. He should have brought Sveta anyway. No, that was a bad idea. He needed no distractions.
Slowly, achingly, his body ringing as if he’d been slammed into the boards he turned and searched. As if ordained by the Pope himself, a ray of pink laser light shone right on his sweetheart. Shane was drooping. Marleau was shouting something in his ear. Ilya pounced.
In a few short strides he made his way over to the table and put on his best relaxed, friendly-drunk smile.
“What is the groom doing taking care of Mr. Lightweight?”
Marleau laughed and stumbled, slightly. “I’ve never seen Hollander drunk!”
“Just…ginger ale…,” Shane slurred.
“Nyet, liar. I saw you have champagne.”
Marleau laughed again and had to clutch the back of a chair to hold himself upright. More than one person would forget this night.
“C’mon, we are on same floor. I needed to go grab my cigarettes, anyway.”
He bent and looped his arm under Shane’s shoulders and hauled him upright and, under his breath, knowing only Shane would hear, whispered “C’mon, sweetheart.”
They stumbled forward, together and Ilya straightened, trying not to look like Shane was that plastered. This was a terrible idea. He loved terrible ideas. As if in slow motion they dodged women and waiters, revelers and kids up past their bedtimes. Shane nearly slipped on an errant piece of confetti.
“Let’s get you to bed, Hollander, c’mon.”
Heads turned to look at them and Ilya winked and smiled like this was all just a joke. Something they would laugh about in the morning.
The lobby was full of the echoes of the party and the elevator, too, smelled like someone’s expensive perfume. The wedding wafted through the entire hotel. No matter where they turned a guest in formalwear nodded at them. Shane was mostly walking under his own power but Ilya knew if they stopped to chat at any point that his sweetheart would be long gone.
After a marathon of hotel elevators and circuitous hallways they arrived at 1714. Ilya had to hold Shane up while he fished his wallet out and, from here, the keycard out of the wallet. The door lock peeped green-means-go and they were inside, stumbling, tangled. Ilya dumped both of them towards the bed and Shane landed face up, a little smile on his mouth.
For a brief moment Ilya was reminded of Shane in the hospital and stopped himself.
“Are you okay, sweetheart? Truly?”
Shane squirmed, his arms up above his head and his feet grazing the floor. He looked smaller like this, somehow. Vulnerable. But not in the same way he had shrunk himself down at the dinner table when he first explained why he had gone to the doctor and what the pills were for. He was smaller in a bigger kind of way. He knew he would never be able to explain it.
Ilya took two steps and got himself in between Shane’s lax legs. He looked down. Shane was unmoving, limp. His breathing was regular and the furrow between his brow was long gone.
“Night night, baby.”
Shane’s big problem was he didn’t think he could ask for what he wanted. Or, more specifically, that he couldn’t have what he wanted. Total relaxation was off limits because the moment he relaxed the world went to shit. Ilya tried to gift him a massage once, at a fancy spa, and Shane nearly cried at the idea of one hour.
Ilya bent and lifted Shane by the legs, his arms under his knees, and pushed him securely onto the bed. Shane’s eyes fluttered, a little, the only indication that he wasn’t completely asleep. Ilya kissed his forehead and smiled to himself. He was allowed to get what he wanted, too. To devour. To consume Shane until they lived inside one another, until they were one being, each of whom could protect the other. Ilya’s confidence and Shane’s intelligence, Ilya’s social skills and Shane’s good looks. One or the other at the front, the other hanging back until they were needed.
Ilya popped the button on Shane’s pants and pulled down the fly. Now or never. The pants came off in one long tug, the sound of tuxedo wool against the hotel duvet loud enough to make Ilya deaf. His underwear came next and, because Ilya was a conscientious lover, he left Shane’s socks on, knowing that’s what he would have done if he were in the room.
A smile ghosted Shane’s lips. His cock was mostly soft but there was something, a hint of arousal there. Maybe he’d been hard at the party. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to hide his erection just because Ilya walked in the room.
“You want me so bad, Shane, is okay. You’re allowed to have me. You do have me.”
He unbuttoned Shane’s white shirt and cocked his arm to throw his bowtie across the room but, in a moment of psychosis, bent and folded all of Shane’s clothes and placed them lovingly on the dresser. He almost felt like this was a normal thing to do.
Ilya never got to stand and stare because Shane was too self conscious, always fidgeting, or adjusting, or hiding, as if he was worried he was doing something wrong. As if the Shane inside him was too big for his body.
He raked his eyes down Shane’s body, from the pulse of his heart in his neck to his fat pecs and abs. He was bulking and there was a hint of fat on him. His thighs were as powerful as ever. Ilya’s favorite part of him was those legs, strong enough to crush a watermelon and yet limp and easy enough for him to slide between when Shane was loose, wet, needy.
Ilya looked around and, after a minute, began to rummage through Shane’s bag for lube. He should have asked if he should wear a condom. They mostly didn’t use them now, except for quickies where Shane couldn’t shower after or prep properly before, but this was uncharted territory. Shane decided for him, though, as there was only lube in the secret little suitcase compartment. Good boy, Shane.
“Are you awake?”
Shane didn’t move, just breathed easy and deep. His heartbeat was strong in his neck.
Ilya poured lube in his hand and, reflexively, warmed it up a little before absently thinking that Shane wouldn’t feel it. How strange.
His body was warm and relaxed. Absently Ilya wondered if he’d prepped himself beforehand. Probably he did because, at worst (never worst), they’d be having regular sex right now, Shane blushing and moaning like a cat in heat, Ilya slamming into him and biting marks onto his shoulders, his back, his thighs. They’d get to that, he supposed, but right now Ilya just took it slow. He could be mean but this felt mean enough. He was caring for Shane the way he needed to be cared for. He added another finger and a third, easy. The whore was stretched out, probably, used. Easy. Slutty.
“Sweetheart,” Ilya cooed. Shane breathed easy.
Without the panic of a deadline, or Shane’s imaginary timeline, Ilya was slow getting his clothes off. He didn’t fold them, of course, because he wasn’t a freak.
He slid onto the bed and hoisted Shane’s legs that were predictably limp and heavy. Still no sign of waking. He put Shane’s legs on his shoulders and looked down at Shane’s ass, pink and wet with lube. If this were any other time he’d be hearing about it by now, “fuck me already, I need it, I need you”.
“Don’t worry, возлюбленная, I got you.” The Russian slipped out like a ghost.
He wiped the rest of the lube on his hand onto his own cock, slightly surprised to see how hard he was, and pushed in.
A low moan came from Shane’s throat and he stopped himself, as if he were going to get caught. He didn’t want to, that would ruin the fantasy.
“You belong to me, yes, дорогая?”
Shane turned his head but didn’t open his eyes. Ilya began.
Without him fighting back Shane was quite easy to fuck. His body was made to be fucked. He should have been born with a pussy, Ilya thought to himself, he should have been made with two holes for the taking. Then he’d have to wear a condom, he realized, and went back to appreciating Shane’s non-hypothetical body.
His head lolled with every thrust, the meat of his pecs and belly twitched back and forth, that small layer made to protect his body doing nothing from the ravishing he’d specifically asked for.
“You asked for it,” Ilya muttered, and felt dirty. He shuddered.
“You belong to me,” he tried again. This was better.
“You’re my little sex doll, huh? Шлюха? You do anything for me, next time I make you fuck girl while I watch.” He had never vocalized this little fantasy of his, of making Shane perform for him, of humiliating him, knowing in his heart Shane would take it like a punch to the face. Well, and wouldn’t fight back. He would fuck Shane within an inch of his life afterwards.
He was fucking Shane now, his compulsion to bite and devour and rip and tear coming though him, filling his limbs with that rage-manic-hyper-vibrting quality that pushed him towards all of his goals.
“I love you, Shane,” he gritted out. He’d said it before, in Russian, but he knew Shane didn’t understand. He himself didn’t understand how to submit and, so, he didn’t begrudge Shane’s inability to understand how much Ilya wanted to eat him. He bent down and bit his chest, hard, and fucked him. Only when the tinge of copper came through his wolfish teeth did he come, hard, loud. Pity to whoever was staying next to Shane. Pity to Ilya, who would be arrested tomorrow because of Shane’s beautiful, singular mind.
He keened, almost cried, fucked his lover, his sweetheart, his beloved, and shook his limp shoulders until his eyes fluttered.
“Are you happy with what you’ve done to me?”
Shane’s eyes rolled back into his head but Ilya could swear on his life there was a host of a smile on his lips.
11:30am.
They missed breakfast.
Shane struggled upright out of bed and turned his head to the body beside him, relieved to see dark blonde curls and a muscular back, one arm dropped over the side of the bed. His head felt funny, like he was on a carousel, but it was a different feeling from being hungover. Worse and better, somehow. Different.
He did inventory, rooting himself back down into his body. His head felt funny but okay. His muscles ached but in a good way. His ass -
He turned and shook Ilya awake. When he lifted his head Shane saw that the rumpled pillowcase had left a pink imprint on his face and he squinted into the brightness of the room.
“Did you fuck me last night?”
Ilya just smiled and plopped his head down.
“Да, дорогая.”