hello yes since I last posted my bf sneezed naturally around me for the first time ever, & sent me a voice note of him sneezing. 🫠 also, I am kinda madly in love with him so that makes all of this 2000000x hotter.
we have been dating since October I literally can’t believe it took so long for him to sneeze around me but it was honestly the most perfect and adorable thing you could possibly imagine.
We were at this garden for the day. Walking around looking at flowers taking pics, and we went into this one small garden which was kinda like covered in vines, very small space enclosed just us in there. and I was sitting across from him at this small table so I saw the whole thing. his beautiful face as he felt the urge take him, to the release & ohhhh god just slightly vocal enough to hear his voice but still soft and polite in his elbow. And of course I blessed him sooo sweetly and was practically melting in front of him, and he said thankyou and I couldn’t resist getting up like 3 seconds later and kissing him on his precious mouth. he was smiling so big right after he sneezed bc he knew i would like it.
A and B are driving at night. A, photic, uses the street lamps passing above them to coax out a sneeze they don’t really need — it’s just been a while since they’ve had a good one, so they don’t want to risk it fading away. B notices what they’re doing and gripes at them to watch the road, but it’s too late, they’ve made up their mind. To make matters worse, A isn’t someone who just sneezes once, so B is watching (and feeling) them jerk the steering wheel a little with each sneeze subsequent sneeze. When A finishes, they go back to driving like nothing happened while B sits in the passenger seat looking slightly shellshocked.
okay not me literally constantly only posting here about my bf lmao I’m sorry guys. but literally. Ok last night he let me induce him while we were having s*x which was sooo hot and adorable but he was like wait it actually just occurred to me. sometimes when I’m turned on it makes me sneeze. but it has never happened with another person only if I’m alone.
literally my brain comPLETELY malfunctioned. I am 100% sure that makes this man my soulmate 😂 🤷🏻♀️
there is something so wrong w me guys. every single day i think about my bf sneezing. how badly I need to see it. like legitimately i am in love w him and have not seen it yet. i will truly not be able to contain myself when it actually happens. i might actually tear off his clothes and throw him to the ground foaming at the mouth. EVERYYY DAYYY since i asked him to describe how he sneezes i am daydreaming abt it i am sooo fucking weird and horny helppp 😭😭
I can't get over the way you write allergic Il/ya it's adorable. Maybe more allergic Il/ya and/or allergic Sh/ane pretty please ! Tysm for writing fics
Hope you're doing well!
THANK YOU 💖💖💖 I hope you are doing well too, friend! :D and ty for all the amazing fic ideas!!
From the moment I first saw S/hane H/ollander, I knew I he needed some dust allergies heehee~
Bunny (H/eated R/ivalry, Shane) 🐰
As soon as Ilya exited the taxi in front of the building Hollander had purchased as their fucknest - scratch that, as an investment - the door opened.
Hollander was standing there all dressed up for the occasion, wearing a sweatshirt and track pants and looking a little…grumpy. Something in his expression was pinched and irritated, and it made Ilya wonder if something was bothering him. If he was all right. Hell, if he needed a hug.
So, naturally, Ilya had to deflect from showing any kind of concern by being a smartass instead.
“‘Honey, I am home?’ This is right saying?”
Hollander smirked, but there was a tightness in his mouth and around his eyes that Ilya found a bit jarring. “Get in, you weirdo.”
Ilya raced Hollander up the stairs and narrowly edged him out of reaching the apartment first. Such was their routine. Fighting each other for a scrap of dominance before Ilya took over in the bedroom. (But only if that was what Hollander wanted, of course.)
Ilya stepped into the loft and, as usual, noted the small changes to its appearance - this time, Hollander had painted the kitchen a light beige. Sensible. Practical. Predictable. Boring.
“tsshiew!”
Ilya turned around at the soft sound. At first he thought that Hollander had shushed him, like a handsome, poorly-dressed librarian, but then he saw his brows knitting upward and his mouth gaping open in the unmistakable look of a man who needed to sneeze.
“hihh!”
A very cute man who needed to sneeze.
“hgnxt-shiew!” Hollander buried his face in his elbow with another impossibly tiny sneeze. He straightened back up with a delicate little snff, blinking rapidly, and when he caught Ilya staring at him, he blushed and said, “Excuse me.”
“Oh.” He sniffled again, the sound quieter than Ilya could ever imagine his own sniffles being. “Thank you.”
And just like whenever Ilya noticed a small crack in the veneer of Shane Hollander’s perfection, he had to poke at it a little.
“You are having a cold?”
“What? No, I…” Shane looked down at the floor, avoiding Ilya’s questioning gaze. “I, uh. I was just downstairs looking at the renovation in the other apartment.” His eyes narrowed slightly and his nostrils started to flutter. “Ihht’s really dusty in there.” His breath caught, and then he had his nose tucked right back into his elbow and away from Ilya, courteous as ever. “hdt’schiew! -tschhiew! Excuse me,” he repeated, and not only was he still blushing, he was turning redder than before. He was also, Ilya noticed, blinking back tears. He looked…like a fucking angel. Ilya huffed a laugh.
“Bud’ zdorov. You are…allergic? Is right word?”
Shane said a soft “thank you” and nodded, still not looking Ilya in the eye. Something about his expression - shy, embarrassed, slightly dazed, like he might still have to sneeze - made Ilya fucking melt.
Shane sniffled, the sound a little wetter than before, then froze. “I’ll be right back,” he said, then Ilya heard him close the bathroom door and the soft ssshhhh of him blowing his nose. So gentle. So polite. So well-mannered. So…Shane Hollander. Canadian wunderkind and consummate gentleman. A prince of the ice.
Ilya wanted to swallow him whole.
When Shane came out of the bathroom, Ilya noticed that he was rubbing at his pink nose absentmindedly. He caught Ilya’s eye and grinned, and the next thing Ilya knew he and Shane were shirtless on the bed, kissing and grabbing at every inch of bare skin they could, and Ilya was only faintly aware of a few itty-bitty snffs cutting through their uninhibited moans and gasps until—
“tschieww! idt-chyiew! hahh! adt’chyew!” Shane pulled away, face buried back in his elbow. When he emerged, with a deliciously vulnerable little “nghuhh,” he scrunched his face up with another snrff, nose twitching, and Ilya couldn’t stop himself from saying, “Krolik.”
Shane, who had been about to place his hands back to where they’d been splayed on Ilya’s chest, paused. “Sorry, what?”
“You. The way you move your face, is like krolik…like, like zaychik, like…fuck…” Ilya grasped at the air as he sought the word. Then he looked back at Shane’s pretty, perfect, dumbfounded face, and it came to him. “Like little bunny,” he finished.
Shane scrunched his face again, this time in annoyance. “I’m not a bunny,” he grumbled, and Ilya was delighted to see that another red flush was spreading over his cheeks and nose. (There was nothing - nothing - Ilya enjoyed more than making Shane Hollander blush. The redness really brought out his stunning freckles.)
Ilya shook his head. “No, no. Of course not. You are big, strong man who makes cute face like bunny.”
There was a pause.
“Rozanov,” Shane warned.
“Hollander,” Ilya challenged.
Shane crossed his arms over his chest. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Just making…observation? Yes, observation,” he said when Shane gave his first attempt a terse nod. “You do this” - he tried his best to copy Shane’s post-sneeze face scrunch and nose twitch - “and I see little bunny. Very cute. Hop hop hop.”
Shane looked about ready to make Ilya hop, hop, hop his ass back to Boston on a stretcher when his breath started to hitch again. He grabbed hastily for a tissue from the box on his nightstand and held it tightly to his nose and mouth. “isch’hew! haSHhew! hy’ishhuu! …ugh, fuck…” Something clenched at Ilya’s heart as Shane groaned and wiped at his eyes with another tissue. He was starting to sound quite miserable. Shane tucked the box of tissues under his arm and started to move off the bed when Ilya touched his shoulder.
“Bud’ zdorov. Where are you going?”
“Thank you. I, uh.” Shane’s shoulders were tensed up to his damn ears. He looked like he wanted to disappear into thin air. “I need to, uh…” he gestured at his nose.
Ilya shrugged. “You don’t need to go for that.”
Shane averted his gaze yet again. “But it’s…gross,” he said softly.
“Not gross. Stay. Is okay.” Ilya patted the pillow next to him.
Shane sighed and sat back down. He plucked a few tissues from the box and blew into them, gently. Ilya could tell that he was holding back how much he really needed to blow. He put a hand on his shoulder and rubbed it with his thumb. “Is okay, Hollander.”
Shane took in a breath and blew a little harder, face crinkling from the effort, and by the relieved sigh he gave after, Ilya could tell that he was feeling a bit better. For some reason, that made Ilya smile. He watched Shane take another tissue and massage his straight nose methodically in circular motions.
Ilya patted his arm. “Wow. Your nose really does not like dust.”
“Nope,” Shane agreed, pinching at the bridge of his now cherry-red nose. “Fuck, I don’t have any allergy meds at this place. I’ll have to go home.”
Faintly, Ilya wondered what “home” looked like for Shane. Would Ilya ever be able to see it for himself? It was probably bland and spotless and inoffensive to the eye, the perfectly appropriate home for the perfectly mannered golden boy. But maybe that wasn’t so bad. And maybe…Shane Hollander wasn’t so perfect after all.
But Ilya, who had seen Shane face down, ass up at least a dozen times by this point, knew that already.
“Okay. But only after I fuck you into this mattress, da?”
Shane looked at him, surprised, tissues clutched in one fist. “You still want to…?”
Ilya nodded. “Yes, Hollander, I am not scared of you and your tiny little bunny sneezes.” He had to hold up his hands as Shane grabbed the nearest pillow - one of the small stupid decorative ones - and whacked him with it. “Oh no, not your pillow army! Malen'kiy krolik—no, nooo!” Ilya gasped with laughter as Shane kept smacking him, saying through his smile, “Am I still a bunny now, Rozanov? Huh?”
After a faux-struggle, Ilya managed to pin Shane down by the arms. For a moment, he just openly stared. Somehow, Shane’s eyebrows were the perfect shape. Did he know this? Was he aware of just how fucking beautiful he was? Ilya cleared his mind of the thought as Shane’s nose twitched, so small that Ilya almost missed it. But he didn’t.
“Let me know if you need tissues.” Ilya gestured towards the nightstand before reaching into the drawer for a condom and lube. “Now hold on tight, Shane Hollander.”
guys i have not even watched heated rivalry i’ve only seen clips but jesus fucking christ i’m so deep in the fics, the prompts, the ideas, everything. i think i’ve read all of them. everyone has such great ideas it’s insane. i agree with all of them—even those that conflict. it’s just so good.
ONE IDEA i have —may have been said before—
shane has the kink, obviously, and ilya gets soooooooo possessive whenever shane says bless you to someone else. except shane is a compulsive blesser, it’s just in his nature. it’s polite and it’s an automatic response.
and ilya technically knows this of course but sometimes it gets his bloooooood boiling. tells shane he only wants to hear shane say it for his sneezes.
and on the opposite side—maybe shane gets brave and knows about this possessiveness and if they’re in a fight he’ll dramatize his blessings (like how ilya will exaggerate his sneezes to get shane riled up and try and sweep up sympathy)
every spring i turn into an insatiable horny fucking monster.
and it’s made even worse rn by all these HR fics… (I finally binge watched last night) AND the fact that I am sooo hopelessly attracted to /lowkey probably in l*ve w my bf that just thinking about him makes me horny at this point.
all of these things are making it literally hard to concentrate on anything else the past few days 🙃
Summary: Shane Hollander always finds himself sneezing when he's really turned on. Ilya Rozanov wonders why this boring Canadian boy's nose is always running.
This is like the first episode of the series rewritten through the lens of Shane having honeymoon rhinitis up until the first time they meet in Shane's hotel room
Tags/Warnings: smut, nudity, blowjobs, shower scene, some spray descriptions, getting sneezed on
A/N:
I realized while I was writing this that 1. It was so hard to balance like, the book, the show, and my own head going from scene to scene and 2. This is really just not a smut scene writing time in my life so it's very unlikely that I will write another part and if that does happen it will not be any time soon :( But I did really want to finish and at least post what I had in the hopes that someone might enjoy it. Thank you so much to my extremely kind anons (this fic is finished because of you for real) and anyone who has expressed support for this over the course of the past like 3 months <3
-
It’s not something that Shane really talks about because it’s not something that comes up often. As a matter of fact, in all of his past relationships it hasn’t come up at all. Not when he’s closed his eyes through blowjobs and imagined other people, not when he’s suffered through penetrative sex with women, counting each second, each thrust before it was finally over. Certainly not when his ex girlfriends sent him racy photos. Nope.
One of Shane Hollander’s best kept secrets, honest to god, is that getting horny makes his nose run, makes his eyes water, makes him sneeze if he’s truly worked up.
He doesn’t really understand it himself. He just knows that it happens sometimes, when he’s alone and his hands wander beneath the waistband of his shorts, images of… things he’d rather keep to himself flitting through his arousal drenched thoughts.
He also knows that it’s never happened in front of any of his girlfriends. So maybe he’s just allergic to men. Yeah. That’s it. He’s just allergic to really hot men.
After Ilya Rozanov is announced as first draft pick, Shane can hardly mask his disappointment. He wears it on his face all night, spacing out during conversations he should be paying attention to, sulking while his mom does all the talking. The reception area becomes a blur of suits, chatter, and clinking glasses, all while he thinks, between the light churning of his loss, of how he can be better. Of what he has to do to make sure that next time, he’s the one giving Ilya Rozanov that infuriating ‘better luck next time buddy’ half smirk.
His parents seem lost in another conversation with a potential sponsor, and he’s glad that they’re the ones who take care of things like brand deals and marketing because that’s the furthest thing from his mind right now.
Hands shoved deep in his pockets, he lets his eyes wander, freezing when he notices the sharp gaze directed at him from someone on the upper floor.
Ilya Rozanov. That prick.
They hold eye contact for longer than necessary, before Shane breaks it.
He doesn’t need someone like Ilya Rozanov looking down on him.
-
Later that night when Shane’s mind is racing, he heads to the gym in search of a different kind of quiet. He doesn’t mind spending nights alone, but he gets antsy, restless, when he’s worked up about things like, for instance, his future.
Usually, it’s hockey that takes his mind off of things. When he’s on the ice, he feels like the best version of himself. He loves hockey season because it means that the rest of the world fades away, that it’s just him and his team and the ice. The roar of the crowds, the hype from his team, the burn in his muscles from giving it his all and then some.
The problem is that the next season is a few weeks away, which leaves him alone in this fancy hotel room while time moves like molasses and his thoughts are everywhere at once.
He decides to go work out.
After changing into clothes more suitable to exercise in, he takes the elevator down to the floor with the hotel’s gym. It’s humble, but at least it has a treadmill and a stationary bike, which is all he needs right now.
He realizes, belatedly, that he forgot to bring headphones and decides it doesn’t matter. He steps onto the stationary bike, content with only the whir of the pedals, the steady cadence of his pumping legs as he builds up a sweat. Eyes closed, he loses himself for a few, precious, too short minutes.
Somewhere behind him, he hears the door opening. He blinks, letting the room come back into view, and catches a pale flash of skin as someone gets on the bike right next to him. He glances over and — great. It’s fucking Rozanov. And not only that, but Rozanov’s resistance is like, three levels higher than his, and his legs are moving faster.
What an asshole.
Shane rolls his eyes, ups the resistance on his own machine, kicks up his own performance.
Less than ten seconds later, Rozanov is doing the same thing.
That’s fine. Shane loves a challenge, and he’d love to beat this guy, this fucking dickwad, in anything. Even something as pointless as what they’re doing now. He pedals until his legs are burning, his chest heaving, until sweat stings at his eyes and everything hurts.
-
Rozanov, while fast and insanely sculpted, is no superhero. He might have lasted longer and been faster but he’s still ended up just like Shane, gasping for breath on the gym floor.
The only sound in the room is their heavy breathing, and because Rozanov is right across from him, Shane watches his chest rise and fall, mesmerized by the strain of the sweat soaked fabric. A bead of sweat rolls down Rozanov’s neck, and Shane traces it with his eyes.
Rozanov pushes the sole of his shoe against Shane’s. When Shane looks up, he takes a long pull from his water bottle, maintaining half lidded eye contact the whole time, as if he’s sizing Shane up. Deciding something.
Water rolls down his chin, and Shane looks away. Finds his eyes wandering to Rozanov’s shimmering biceps.
Then there’s a water bottle being shaken in his face, and Rozanov is cocking his head, nodding impatiently. Shane reaches for it, and Rozanov’s damp fingers trail across his knuckles as they exchange. The contact travels like a ghost up his arm, running like a current through his veins and ending in the realization that he’s… starting to get hard?
He nods his thanks to Rozanov, trying to keep a straight face as he hands the water bottle back. Again, Rozanov makes their hands collide in a way that feels completely unnecessary.
Shane’s nose is starting to run.
This whole thing is just really fucking weird.
-
Sometime later, Shane is back in his hotel room. The lights are dim, the view of the city skyline glimmers across from him. He’s so hard that it hurts, and his nose won’t stop running.
He’s thankful that he’s got the hotel room to himself, because he can’t stop sniffling, little trickles of moisture wetting his upper lip every few seconds, waiting to be swept away by a stray knuckle. It’s annoying as hell, and he doesn’t know how he’d even begin to explain to anyone why it’s so incessant. He can hardly explain it to himself, because all he can think about is Ilya Rozanov. Ilya fucking Rozanov.
The way the overhead lights drew attention to all the sweat glistening on his biceps. The contraction of abs as they caught their breath in tandem. Water, dripping down his chin, his neck, disappearing into his too tight sleeveless shirt. The outline of his dick, that Shane had seen, only for a second before forcing his eyes elsew—
“Huhh’EschhhUH!” His body jackknifes from sneezing so hard— harder than he’d let himself if he’d had any company. It leaves a light dusting of moisture, leading from his bicep to the elbow he was too slow to turn into. His brow crumples in frustration.
He hadn’t even noticed the shift in his breathing, but he sure as hell notices the sting in his sinuses now, along with the tightness in his shorts, and the hot, greedy feeling in his lower abdomen, begging him to do something about it.
He can’t fucking jerk off to Ilya Rosanov right after losing first pick to him. That would be insane. Humiliating. Pathetic. And Shane Hollander is none of those things.
With a sigh, he leans back. Closes his eyes. Pictures the outline between Rozanov’s thighs.
His own hands creep lower, until he’s massaging his own erection through his boxers.
Then it’s all over, and he starts jerking off to Ilya Rozanov.
He strokes himself fervently, all while thinking about Ilya’s body, his eyes, what he must have looked like from behind as they fought to keep pace with each other. How good it felt to compete.
In his depraved little fantasies, the last guy he couldn’t look away from when he tried to watch porn of suddenly has Ilya’s face and his body and his deep Russian accent. And they’re fucking the shit out him.
His orgasm builds and crests like it has a mind of its own. When he comes, it’s white hot, blinding. His jaw slackens as he spills into his hand, breathing way harder than he’d ever like to admit.
There are tissues, courtesy of the hotel, on the nearby nightstand, which he strains for while trying not to get any come on the sheets. He cleans himself up, one finger at a time, and in his post orgasm clarity realizes that his nose is running profusely.
He sniffles, tentative and loose, and flinches as a wildfire ignites in his sinuses. Certain that he’s going to sneeze, he scrambles for more tissues. He snags a cluster of them, and holds it near his mouth, shoulders trembling as his breath hitches softly.
“hi’tshhew! hh.. hh…” he squints upwards, blinks a few times. “h’ischhhhHew! … H’mmffshhh! —Mmph’shhuh!”
The feeling backs off, and Shane exhales a shivering sigh, blows his nose one final time, and crumples the tissue pile in his hands.
He really just did that, huh? Jerked off…to Ilya Rozanov.
Suddenly everything feels so still, like the world has frozen just so he can sit in what this betrayal of his own integrity.
He collects everything he used to clean up in a neat pile, eyes sweeping over the sheets in the hopes that he didn’t get them dirty.
This is, he thinks as he tidies up, movements slow and precise as if that will ease the shame, a secret he can easily take to the grave.
-
Shane heads into the locker rooms to shower, grateful for some time to rinse off and collect his thoughts.
His mom had been more than excited to secure a deal with CCM, and since she actually kept up with which brand we’re approaching which players, had let him know that they’d also contracted with Ilya Rosanov.
Shane just can’t get away from him. And honestly, he’s not sure if that’s such a bad thing.
He strips just outside the entrance to the showers, leaving both his change of clothes and his sweaty clothes folded neatly on a nearby bench. The showers are open, showerheads flanking the walls on each side. He picks one further from the entrance, turns the water on, and waits until it starts to steam before stepping into the stream.
Eyes closed, he lets the warm water run down his face, sluice down his entire body. He wonders if what Rosanov said to him earlier was true, if it really was his idea for Shane to be part of this ad campaign or if he was just fucking with him, which seemed a lot more likely.
When he hears the locker room door swing open a few seconds later, Shane can’t help but tense up. His dick twitches with the memory of the last time he was alone with Ilya, and he clenches his jaw, as if that will keep blood from rushing between his thighs.
A few moments later, Rozanov pads in, taking a shower stall two away from him on the same side of the room. Shane bites the inside of his cheek. That’s… unnecessarily close. And then he can’t help himself. He’s curious. His eyes wander to Rozanov’s naked body.
To his horror, he feels himself getting hard, feels the familiar, damning sensation of his nose starting to run too. He looks up, as if to ask a higher being why the fuck this is happening to him. Then he blinks as his nose really starts to run, letting his lips fall open so he can breathe softly through his mouth.
If he starts sniffling, that’s going to give Rozanov a reason to look over, and then Rozanov is going to see his erection, and then he’s going to have to live with that for the rest of his life.
Tentatively, he glances towards Rozanov, wanting to reassure himself that his rival is minding his business, totally unaware of how turned on he is. When he finds Rozanov staring at him, he can’t help but think he should’ve known better.
Rozanov meets his eye, looks down, and then raises an eyebrow. Damn.
Every muscle in his body locks up, goes rigid.
“Fuck off,” Shane mutters, embarassed as hell. He shifts his weight, so that the water is hitting his upper lip.
His will is normally pretty strong, but with his eyes trained on the ground, he notices that Rozanov’s stance has shifted. That Rozanov’s feet are now planted firmly in his direction. He looks up once more, incredulous, another fuck off ready on his tongue, only to have his breath completely stolen away.
Rozanov is stroking himself, moving his hand with a steady, sure rhythm while he looks at Shane with sex drunk eyes. He didn’t think it was possible, but Shane’s body reaches a new level of immobility.
“What are you thinking of?” Ilya murmurs, and Shane’s eyes are glued to Rozanov’s dick, mesmerized by the long, hard, length of it. The backs of his sinuses start to prickle, little traitors, so he stops breathing, feels the sensation redirect itself and bloom underneath his eyelids.
“You,” he whispers, like he’s in a trance.
A few seconds later, when he finds himself able to look up, Rozanov is looking at him expectantly. He nudges with his chin, saying with only his half lidded eyes and his lazily moving hand, now you.
“Do you want to touch me, Hollander?”
Yes. So bad.
“Not here,” Shane says, his brain resurfacing for long enough to wrest the wheel from his dick. He forces himself to look away then, commits to keeping his eyes to the side and away from Rozanov until he’s done showering.
He can only hope that Rozanov isn’t still paying attention to him as he blinks hard, turning his head slightly so that he can wriggle his nose to the side. Irritation crests in the center of his face anyways, as if his body isn’t already doing enough to remind him how hot Rozanov is.
He holds his breath so that when it finally, inevitably hitches, it’s soft, hidden by the sound of water hitting the ground. Angling away, Shane concentrates hard on sneezing as unobtrusively as possible.
“hehHh… —’nt!” He shudders with a tightly controlled, near imperceptible spasm. Even though he needs to, he doesn’t let himself sniffle, so when he blinks, he can still feel the itch between his eyes. He shivers again. “hihHh—! -nt’tiew!”
Oblivious to the perplexed look he’s being given from behind, Shane exhales, slow and measured. If anyone were paying close enough attention, they’d be able to see tension easing itself from the muscles in his back. And Rozanov is paying attention, making an amused mental note of how tightly wound Shane Hollander is.
Shane steps out soon after, hurrying to the far corner of the locker room to quietly blow his nose where Rozanov can’t hear it.
-
Ilya knew, as soon as he saw Shane Hollander in the shower, that he was going to try to fuck him. Not just going to try, actually, but going to succeed.
Hollander has, over these past few months, endeared himself to Ilya by being both so naive and so hopelessly awkward underneath all of that talent. It helps that he’s trying and failing to put on stoic, unbothered appearances each time they’re alone, and failing spectacularly. It’s pretty clear that Hollander wants him too, and Ilya saw the boner to prove it, just seconds ago.
He smiles to himself, cupid’s bow lips curving into a wicked grin, and turns the shower off. The water overhead slows to a trickle, pooling around the drain, catching one final flash of his receding reflection.
Predictably, Hollander is sulking on a bench when Ilya emerges with a towel draped low around his waist. His eyes are trained on the ground, but his cheeks are pink, highlighting his freckles. There’s a flushed tint to his nostrils too, like they’ve just been rubbed harshly and haven’t yet had time to recover.
“Can we just forget that happened?”
Ilya considers Hollander’s words, shrugs.
“Is what you want?”
“Yes,” answers Hollander, too quickly. His ears are turning the same color as his face. He’s hunched protectively over his knees, so Ilya can’t say for sure if Hollander is hard right now, but he has a pretty good guess.
Ilya takes a few steps closer, amusement bleeding into his words. He can feel the tension in his blood right now, the certainty that if he leaned in and kissed Shane Hollander on the mouth that Hollander would kiss him back, if only for a little bit before pushing him away.
“You are a very bad liar.”
In response, Hollander says nothing, only presses a knuckle to his septum while staring at the lockers as if willing them to open up and swallow him whole. Ilya lets them sit in silence for a beat, then asks,
“What is your room number?”
Hollander replies instantly, a domino falling, and Ilya lets him know he might knock.
After that, Ilya dresses himself and collects his things, while Hollander scrolls through his phone, sniffling intermittently. He hasn’t moved at all since Ilya asked for his room number, and Ilya’s not a complete monster. One look at Hollander, and it’s easy to tell that his heart is in danger of beating straight out of his chest.
Ilya throws his bag over his shoulder and leaves without saying goodbye, catching a soft sigh as he weaves through the lockers towards the exit. He opens the door and pauses without walking out, wondering if Hollander is going to take care of himself right then and there. Instead he hears two soft, breathy sneezes bouncing off the concrete walls and a muttered, “fuck.”
Ilya steps out into the fluorescent lights of the empty hallway, shaking his head.
Not exactly the show he was hoping for.
-
Shane is a fucking wreck.
He’s been on edge since Rozanov asked for his room number, nervous that Rozanov might actually show up, nervous about how much he wants him to. Currently, he’s pacing around the room with his arms clasped behind his head. He’s already changed outfits twice, made and unmade his bed (it should look like he’s at least slept in it, right?), brushed his teeth, messed with his hair, debated on whether or not it looks more casual if the TV is on or off— he’s overthinking things. Clearly. Fuck!
He’s never even fucked around with a guy before. What if he’s no good? What if he messes something up?
It’s all fine. It’s all completely fine.
Then someone knocks, two raps echoing through too much empty space. It sucks all of the air out of the room.
Everything is not fine.
-
Iyla breaks into a wide grin when Hollander opens the door, looking so doe eyed and eager that Ilya could devour him whole. He steps in, and, how sweet, Hollander moves to the side fluidly to accommodate. He leans in for a kiss as the door clicks shut, and that’s where their dance goes awry, and Hollander starts to step on his toes.
“Do you want to sit or anything?”
“No,” Ilya says, closing in on Hollander, pressing kisses along his neck. Hollander lets out a shivery breath.
“I think we should, like, at least talk or something—“ Hollander’s words hike up as Ilya continues to kiss him, driving him towards the wall.
“No,” Ilya says again, pulling back so that he can look Hollander in the eye. He cups the side of Hollander’s face, using his thumb to tilt Hollander’s chin up while he tilts his hips so that he can feel Hollander’s excitement against him. “I don’t think so.”
He kisses Hollander then, plush lips tentative against his, then welcoming, then hungry. They make out for a bit, before Hollander breaks the kiss, staring pointedly off to the side with his lips drawn tight.
“What?” asks Ilya, impatiently. “Is not what you want?”
“No,” Hollander shakes his head quickly, giving Ilya a pleading look. He nods, though it looks mostly like it’s for himself than for Ilya’s sake. “I do want this, it is what I want.”
“Okay.”
Hollander sniffs, concentrating hard on what seems to be Ilya’s shoulder.
“Okay?”
“Okay.” Ilya raises an eyebrow, “So then what is problem?”
Hollander only shakes his head, awkwardly mumbling, something about there being no problem. Cautiously, Ilya sets a hand on Hollander’s chest, skimming his fingers down Hollander’s torso until he reaches the waistband of Hollander’s shorts. He toys with the elastic for a second before reaching in and taking Hollander in his hand, watching with satisfaction as Hollander whimpers and tips his head toward the ceiling while.
That’s more like it.
“Fuck,” Hollander breathes, coming undone so quickly. His eyebrows pinch together, and then he sets a hand on Ilya’s shoulder, nudging him away instead of pulling him in.
Frustrated and horny, Ilya’s expression morphs into one of unbridled confusion. Why game is Hollander playing? What wars are going on inside of him, and why weren’t they settled before he let Ilya into his hotel toom? He’s about to ask, but holds his tongue, because Hollander isn’t looking at him even though his dick is still in Ilya’s hand and nothing about this moment is making any sense.
Abruptly, Hollander’s chest rises with two shaky breaths, and then he jerks into his shoulder.
“h’isshhyu! hyht’tzzihew!”
When he emerges, his face is redder than Ilya’s ever seen it and there’s a dark, sneezed on blotch on his shirt sleeve.
“Sorry,” Hollander murmurs.
Ilya raises an eyebrow.
“Are you sick? Is that it?”
“No.”
“Because that would be dirty trick, Hollander.”
“No, no that’s not it,” corrects Hollander, almost like he’s offended. “Sometimes when I… you know,” he gestures to his erection and then sniffles.
“You are allergic to sex? Is that what you are telling me?”
“No!” This time, Hollander is defiant. He glances towards the ceiling and huffs. “Its not all sex. I sneeze sometimes when I’m like…”
Ilya widens his eyes expectantly, waiting for Hollander to supply the words he already suspects, but all Hollander does is make vague nodding gestures.
“you know…”
“I get it, I get it.” Ilya takes his hand out of Hollander’s pants so he can wave it around. “Just good sex.”
He smiles. He’s never had sex with anyone like this before, and the possibility of catching a stray sneeze from Hollander isn’t enough to keep him from wanting to. There’s something that intrigues and excites him, the idea of this additional tell he can exploit, a new kind of challenge he’s never faced.
“Bud’ zdorov, Hollander.”
“What?”
Ilya dives back in then, taking Hollander in his hands and kissing all along Hollander’s neck as he strokes. It earns him a surprised moan, certainly a sound Hollander wouldn’t be proud to make in front of others. Music to Ilya’s ears.
He loses himself in the quick, heavy rhythm of Hollander’s uneven gasps, the shaky rise and fall of his chest, until Hollander dips down, sneezing openly into the space between them.
“f-fuckhhy’GXxshhu! iesschh’ew!”
Mist prickles against Ilya’s forearm. He finds that he doesn’t mind. There’s something surprisingly hot about it even, this unconventional confirmation of how little he has to do to get Hollander off.
Hollander slips from his arms and sinks to his knees, taking Ilya in his mouth, dear god, his mouth. He sucks Ilya off with a sloppy fervor, not practiced but still so warm, so good.
“Stop, stop,” he instructs, breathlessly yanking the reins on his building orgasm. When Hollander pulls away, his lips are bright and wet, lines of spit smeared across his chin. Messy, Ilya thinks. Pretty.
“Am I doing something wrong?”
Ilya shakes his head, wanting to wipe the doubt from Hollander’s brow.
“No, you’re doing good. A little too good.”
He heads towards the bed and begins to take his clothes off, throwing them wherever haphazardly in his haste to get laid. He has to direct Hollander into taking his own clothes off, waiting patiently while Hollander takes his time folding his clothes one by one into tidy squares and fussing with his nose in between.
Ilya has had plenty of sex. He has never had sex with someone like Shane Hollander.
“Okay.” Hollander stands at the foot of the bed, looking adorably lost. Ilya gives himself a second just to take Hollander in, mapping the plains and the hard ridges of Hollander’s torso, committing the shape of his dick to memory. Eyes roving greedily, he feels himself getting harder.
“Come here,” he says in a low murmur. And then Hollander is on him, crawling between his thighs and taking all of him in his mouth, hands digging into either side of Ilya’s waist, sucking and teasing his tongue up the flat of Ilya’s shaft until Ilya sees stars.
Ilya moans, hiking himself up so that he can see how Hollander looks as he sucks him off, captivated by the bright, swollen lips of such a pretty face wrapped around his dick.
“Da, Hollander,” he purrs. “Just like that.”
His legs start to tremble, breath coming harder, faster and ragged. Just before he comes, he urges Hollander off of him, finishing the job himself while Hollander watches rosy cheeked and panting softly, perched by his bicep.
Clarity descends over the room as he comes down. He reaches to the side where there’s already a conveniently placed box of tissues, and starts to wipe his fingers off.
Beside him, Hollander sits up abruptly, his hand flying to his face. Ilya pauses mid swipe to observe Hollander flinching painfully into his knees.
“H’XSsst!” Hollander resurfaces for a second, blinking. “eh’ngSHh’hu!” His gaze flickers, settling into a faraway glance at the wall, tension in his curled upper lip. He shudders forward, shaking his head like a dog. “-E’gSHhhHyIUwh!”
Ilya nabs the rest of the tissues, jostling the box in front of Hollander.
“You need?”
“Oh, fuck off.” Hollander sniffles adamantly. The light catches on his chest, a dotted sheen of moisture glimmering on smooth skin. And Ilya has hardly even touched him.
Ilya lets his face settle into something practiced, appraising Hollander with a raised eyebrow.
“Alright, well,” he sits up, reaching for the nearest of his haphazardly tossed clothing items. “Was fun.”
“Wait.” Ilya has to hide his smile behind his bicep. Hollander sounds pissed. “Are you serious?”
Letting the stray sock in his hands fall to the wayside, Ilya meets Hollander’s stern gaze. He takes his sweet time crawling on top of Hollander, inching his way down until his thigh is pressed against Hollander’s erection, until his breath is fluttering against one of Hollander’s pink earlobes. He laughs.
“So you think I’m asshole?”
The look Hollander gives him is flushed and watery, yet still, it conveys that he thinks Ilya has just said something glaringly obvious.
“I know you’re an asshole.”
Ilya’s smile glitters with mischief. Hollander will have to pay for that.
“Let me show you how it’s done, kid.”
He slides down, anchoring himself using Hollander’s chest, and takes Hollander into his mouth, playing Hollander with the flat of his tongue, his head bobbing up and down. His mouth is full of Hollander’s erection, but the corners still stretch with satisfaction as Hollander starts to writhe underneath him, gasping like he’s never been touched like this in his life.
“Shit,” Hollander whines, quite the poet. “Holy fucking shit.”
And Ilya drinks it in, observing through hooded eyes how Hollander’s face collapses, how his muscles strain and constrict as he bucks into the warmth of Ilya’s mouth, gripping the sheets so hard that his knuckles are losing color. He meets all of Hollander’s crests and waves with ease, lavishing the show, marveling at how quickly Hollander’s thighs have begun to tremble underneath him. He’ll show Hollander something real. Something revelatory.
“Fuck, Rozanov fuck thatssogood,” Hollander slips on his own words, an arm coming up to grade his chin, blocking Ilya’s view. Ilya doesn’t know Hollander well enough to distinguish the cause of his gasps. Which are from pleasure, which are from his flaring sinuses, how different those things even are under Ilya’s care. But he feels it as Hollander jerks underneath him, into him.
They’re soft, wet, spraying things, different from what he’d heard in the locker room earlier. An after effect of Hollander’s shaky control? Ahh, hang on. So Hollander had wanted him so terribly, even then?
The moment is so heated, Hollander so captivating, that Ilya doesn’t even question the curious stir of arousal that re-emerges within him. Despite Hollander’s efforts to shield him, Ilya feels a light mist settle against his browbone. He should mind— getting sneezed on has never exactly been his idea of sexy— but he doesn’t.
Ilya peeks around Hollander’s elbow, catches a glimpse of Hollander with the palm of his hand pressed desperately against his septum, nostrils flaring wildly. He reaches up and bats at Hollander’s arm, a string of saliva glimmering on his chin as he withdraws his mouth.
“Move this. Let me see you.”
“No, I might sneeze on you.” Hollander resists his grip, wrestling Ilya to keep his arm in place.
“Is fine, Hollander. You already have. ”
“Fuck.” Hollander sounds concerned. “Seriously?”
“Is whatever.” Ilya is getting impatient now, He takes advantage of the split second he feels Hollander’s resolve wavering, inching his arm off until he can see a sliver of Hollander’s face again. “Sneeze on me, whatever, I don’t care. I want to see you.”
Hollander’s lips pinch tight, considering. He sniffles, and Ilya takes that as his cue to give Hollander an encouraging double tap on his pec before diving back in.
It’s music to his ears, the way Hollander whines.
It doesn’t take long before Hollander’s hands gravitate to Ilya’s curls, tugging at the roots of his scalp as Ilya sucks him, licks him.
And Ilya watches as his eyebrows contort and his bottom lip buoys, never ceasing in his rhythm, even as Hollander-
“-IhTSSschH!”
“-hIhd’zZischhw!”
“-hh…. HehhhH’NGShhhH’HU!”
—sneezes, sneezes, sneezes into his bicep, unable to keep Ilya fully out of the line of fire, no matter how hard he tries. Ilya comes to think of them like praise, delayed kisses, unfiltered encouragement where someone as awkward and stilted as Hollander’s words start to fail.
Hollander arches sharply and gasps, the tension he’s been collecting reaches a fever pitch. He moans, scrambling to create distance.
“Holy shit Rozanov, get off I’m going to— I can’t stop—“
Steady, jaw tender, Ilya keeps Hollander in his mouth as he grows more frantic.
“Seriously, Rozanov, fuck fuck fuckfuckfuhhH—“
Then, Hollander shudders and moans, waves of his orgasm rolling through him. Once he’s finished, Ilya gives him another quick pat and rolls off of him.
“Oh my god,” Hollander sniffles. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think that I-“
“What? that you would come so quick?
“Fuck you.”
Ilya stretches one arm behind his head, sinking into the mountain of plush pillows provided by the hotel now that his head is clear enough to appreciate them. With the other, he reaches for the tissues again, waving them lazily in front of Hollander.
“You want?” Hollander’s nose is quite red, scrunching with frequent sniffles, Ilya observes. He looks pretty.
“Fuck you,” Hollander sighs out as he sits up. “Yes.”
He takes the entire box from Ilya, then only presses them to his face, silently massaging his nostrils instead of blowing. Suddenly unwilling to let Ilya witness him doing something undignified, reserved once again.
“You didn’t have to,” mumbles Hollander eventually. “And I’m sorry if I— that I—“
“Oh,” Ilya shakes his head. “I didn’t mind. Was interesting. To blow someone who is allergic to sex.”
“That’s not true.”
Ilya raises an eyebrow and laughs, sure Hollander would be pissed at his expression if his back weren’t turned.
“Is a little true.” In the silence, he can feel Hollander rolling his eyes.
“So this is…uh…”
“Yes, yes, yes.”
They both start to laugh then, acknowledging the gravity of what they’ve just done. Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander. The MLH’s upcoming stars, rivals of generational talent, laying naked in a sex soaked hotel room. Because they blew each other.
Hilarious.
Now that his mind is no longer clouded by the raw need to come, Ilya starts to search for his clothes. He assures Hollander that this is their little secret, leaves him with the promise that they’ll be seeing each other soon. He finds as he’s walking away that he’s already excited for it, the chance to see Hollander again, to finally have someone that he has to work to show up on the ice.
This isn’t the last they’ll be seeing of each other, and he can feel it, somewhere in his bones, that together they’ve started a fire.
Despite the risk of being seen, Ilya waits with his ear pressed to the wall in the empty hall for a second after the door clicks shut behind him, laughing to himself when he hears it— the sound of Hollander sneezing. Unable to disguise the fact that he feels it too.
I feel like this time it was at least a somewhat reasonable timeline too. we’ve been dating since November and I didn’t tell him until like a month ago. after we were like officially exclusive. and I still haven’t seen him sneeze yet, but we’ve talked a lil bit about what I like and stuff which is cool. I asked him theoretically if he would sneeze on me and he said yes. then I asked him if there was anything specifically he fantasized about. He’s submissive asf so I was expecting him to be like you dominating me. He literally said “I don’t know, mostly just spending time with you”
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