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Scott did not expect to be standing in Ilya fucking Rozanov’s back yard, at Ilya fucking Rozanov’s wedding, let alone talking to Rose fucking Landry, but hey. Life is weird as hell. The Hollander-Rozanov wedding is a particular new kind of weirdness, but he’s decided to just ride the wave.
Rose fucking Landry apparently knows a lot about hockey, so at least the conversation is easy enough. At least until Rozanov himself bulls up behind them, nudging his shoulders into the space between the two of them.
“Shots!” he yells, and indeed he’s carrying three full shot glasses, plus a bottle of vodka tucked into his suit pocket.
“Hey, Rozanov,” Scott says.
“Ilya!” Landry exclaims.
“You must drink with me. We are all part of very exclusive club, which is getting no more members ever.” Ilya is clearly very drunk already, but he’s radiant and delighted with it. Sickeningly happy.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Scott says, wearily.
“The Shane Hollander club!” he declares. “Come on, come on, this is the good vodka.”
Scott takes the shot glass with a feeling of dread. “Oh god,” he says.
Rose Landry still looks baffled. “I mean, I’m not turning down the vodka, but you’re not making very much sense, babe.”
Rozanov holds his shot glass out in front of him, and waits until Scott and Rose both hold theirs out too. “To fucking Shane Hollander!” he says, and downs the drink.
Scott downs his, too, because there’s no non-mortifying option, and at least this one includes alcohol.
Landry looks absolutely thrilled. “No,” she gasps. “Oh my god, that’s amazing.”
“Drink your fucking vodka, Landry,” Scott grumbles, and she cackles and drinks.
⬥
Ilya finds out about it well after the fact. He only even asks because he’s curious, one night.
“You ever fuck other men, Hollander?” he says.
They’re lying in the dark, still breathing heavily. Hollander is flat on his back on the bed, and in the dimness Ilya can just see the red of his cheeks and his chest, so beautifully flushed.
His breath stutters. “Uh. What?”
“Other men,” Ilya repeats.
“Why do you want to know?” Hollander says defensively.
“Just curious. Come on, Hollander, like I’m going to fucking judge you. I just had my dick inside you.”
Hollander makes a noise that’s half laugh, half embarrassment. “Um, not often.”
“Ah, but not often means sometimes, no?” Ilya sits up, leans over him. He doesn’t know why he's doing this. “Tell me who.”
“It was just once.” Hollander turns his face away, into the pillow. “In Sochi.”
Ilya laughs. “You fucked a man in Sochi? Damn, Hollander.”
“Shut up!” he says.
“Who? Another athlete? What sport?”
Hollander groans. “Oh, god. Yes, an athlete. Um, actually —”
“Another hockey player? Wow, Hollander, you have a type.”
“I’m not going to tell you if you’re going to be a dick about it,” Hollander says.
“Mm, but I’m a dick about everything,” Ilya tells him, and shuffles in close. He pushes at Hollander’s hips until he shifts to lying on his side, and Ilya can curve his body around the swell of Hollander’s ass. He’s not hard again yet, but Hollander blushing and indignant will probably get him there soon. He puts his mouth against Hollander’s ear. “Tell me,” he whispers.
Hollander shivers under him. Ilya smooths one hand down his flank. “It was, uh. Scott Hunter.”
Ilya freezes. “You fucked Scott Hunter?” he says. He had not been expecting that. He’d thought some European, probably, not an NHL player, that Hollander never saw otherwise.
“Well, not exactly fucked,” Hollander says. He sounds awkward, and suddenly Ilya regrets not being able to see his face. “Just, you know…”
“Just what?” Ilya manages to say. “You give Scott Hunter a blowjob?”
Shane squirms. “Um. Yes.”
Ilya isn’t quite sure how he’s almost all the way hard again, but he takes advantage of it, pressing the length of his cock into Hollander’s ass. “Was he bigger than me?” he asks. His voice comes out hoarse. “Did he return the favour?”
“Yes, he — ah.” Hollander can’t seem to help himself, squirming back against Ilya. “Fuck, Rozanov — yes, he returned the favour.”
“Bigger than me?”
Hollander twitches. “No.”
Ilya lets the smirk creep over his face where Hollander can’t see it. “That’s just embarrassing. Scott Hunter, really?”
“You said he was hot!” Hollander protests.
Ilya levels a look at him. “Hot for old man. We do not fuck senior citizens, Hollander!”
“Fuck off,” he says.
Ilya reaches down and positions his cock in the cleft of Hollander’s buttocks. In a moment, he’s going to grab another condom, going to nudge himself into Hollander’s still fucked-out hole, going to take him again and again.
“Too embarrassing,” he repeats. “No, I refuse to fuck same people as Scott Hunter. Not allowed.”
Hollander laughs. “Already did, I’m afraid.”
“No more,” Ilya insists.
With a little push of his hips, Hollander presses himself against Ilya’s cock. “That doesn’t feel like no more, Rozanov.”
He loves when Hollander gets pissy like this, when he’s obviously desperate for Ilya to hold him down and fuck him, but he’s too in his own head to ask for it. So instead he tries to tease and provoke, and yeah, it always works anyway. Ilya is going to destroy him. He reaches over to the nightstand, fumbles for another condom, separates his hips from Hollander’s just long enough to roll it on.
“If you ever fuck Scott Hunter again,” Ilya says, low and deadly, pulling Hollander’s cheeks apart. He nudges his cock between them, until he’s resting right up against Hollander’s hole. “I will never fuck you.”
Hollander groans, pressing back against Ilya, trying to draw him inside. He’s so greedy for it. Ilya shifts his hips back too, not letting him have it. “Fuck off, Rozanov,” he says weakly.
Ilya pushes Hollander over until he’s face down on the bed, his cock trapped against the sheets. From between Hollander’s legs, he has a perfect view of his ass, the plush swell of it, the dimples in his lower back.
“Tell me, Hollander,” he says. “Tell me you won’t fuck Hunter again.”
“I won’t,” Hollander says, and god, he’s so easy. Ilya can’t get enough of it. “I won’t, I won’t, come on.”
Ilya rewards him by pushing the tip of his cock inside, letting the heat of Hollander’s body engulf the head. He’s still wet with lube. “It’s too embarrassing,” he tells Hollander. “Okay? If you fuck him, you never get this again.”
Hollander groans, and his fingers scrabble at the sheets. “Okay,” he says, muffled.
Ilya fucks him then. “Good boy,” he growls in Hollander’s ear, and then he slides home with a slow thrust that has both of them groaning in unison. He sets a brutal pace after that, fucks Shane Hollander fast and hard, makes him moan and cry out into the pillows. Sets his hands on Hollander’s hips so his thumbs press into the dimples right above his ass. Rides him into the mattress.
Hollander is as pliant and beautiful as always. Lying there, taking it. Ilya gets worked up faster with him than he thinks he ever has with anyone else, and he'd bet anything Hollander does too. Even on round two, it doesn’t take long until he's hitching his hips for friction against his cock, rubbing against the sheets. Ilya aims for his prostate, rubs himself over it, and Hollander cries out — the most exquisite sound in the fucking world — and clenches around Ilya, coming into the sheets. Ilya bites his lip, and follows him over the edge.
He has just enough presence of mind to topple off Hollander. They end up on their sides again, almost spooned together, heaving with exertion.
After a moment, Shane mumbles out, “I only did it because you weren’t talking to me.”
The small motions of Ilya’s body all freeze. There’s a vice round his chest. Carefully, so carefully, he reaches out and grasps Shane’s shoulder, pulling him down onto his back. He props himself up on one elbow, hovering over Shane, whose face is slack with pleasure and vulnerability.
Gently, he cards his fingers through Shane’s hair, and leans down. He fits their mouths together perfectly, gliding together. Shane is wet-mouthed, fucked out. He kisses Ilya back.