Heated Rivalry Pink Pony Club Parody- “Gay Hockey Show”.
This is incredible and I love it so much! 😂🤣😍

shark vs the universe
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@heart-worth-breaking
Heated Rivalry Pink Pony Club Parody- “Gay Hockey Show”.
This is incredible and I love it so much! 😂🤣😍
Shane Hollander is blessed with being the bottom of all time who comes all over himself just from having a dick in his mouth or ass but cursed with only wanting one singular very specific dick and, unfortunately, the dude attached to that dick is only available to rail him a few times a year.
God giveth and he taketh away.
[hockey bro voice] does he. you know. play for ottawa?
rules - hollanov - @taylorswiftmicrofic - word count: 250 - click here for my hollanov microfic archive on ao3 - cw: mentions of homophobia but they're mostly jokes
“You’re kidding,” Troy says, stunned, as the entire team stares at Coach Weibe, who is wincing and looking like he wants to crawl into a hole.
“‘Fraid not, boys. Mandatory sensitivity training, Monday morning. The league is really cracking down on their new rules,” Weibe says, grimacing.
“We are the reason these rules exist!” Ilya roars, throwing his hands in the air. “Crowell makes them because he is–what is word, Hollander?”
“Biased.”
“Da, biased, to us! What did we do to need punishment?”
A couple murmurs indicate that the whole team agrees.
“Apparently…”Weibe clears his throat uncomfortably. “Apparently a referee at the last game heard a few of you calling each other ‘homophobic.’ He reported it to the league out of concern, and–”
“Oh my god, we say this all the time!” Ilya yelled again, looking around at all the guys, who were nodding. “Bood does not pass to me? Homophobic. Dykstra checks Barrett? Homophobic. Hollander calls me asshole? Homophobic and husband abuse.” It’s obvious that Weibe is trying to keep a straight face as he shakes his head. “Well, that stuff isn’t a joke, guys. Maybe the training will do you some good. Like I said, Monday at 8am. No arguments.”
But as they all stand and start to get ready to go, a soft, clear voice can be heard above the grumbling.
“Seems pretty homophobic, not gonna lie,” Shane Hollander mutters under his breath, the ghost of a smile on his face.
And everyone, even Weibe, laughs.
(a little canon divergence; the year in between the cottage and ilya moving to ottawa)
The leaves start to change and Ilya and Svetlana go dancing. They hop from bar to bar and Svetlana pretends she doesn't notice the way Ilya checks his phone every five minutes, smiling as he furiously types back and then asks her to repeat what she just said. She is patient, so she does.
They dance closely and fluidly, their bodies so familiar to the other's, and when Ilya's attention is not on his phone, it is completely on her. It is this Ilya she loves so fiercely; the way his energy moves outwards, always giving more than he takes— the way he drags her out onto the dancefloor, something in how he grips her hand that somehow says both I'm here and thank you.
They tired of dancing but not of the night, and find a hot dog stand to eat at, sipping on a shared drink and dripping mustard over the sidewalk. They decide to walk back, even though they've found themselves rather far from home.
They stumble back into Ilya's apartment, hanging onto each other and laughing over some shared joke from their childhood. Svetlana falls into bed giggling. Ilya playfully shakes her, reminds her she is going to be really upset if she falls asleep without taking her makeup off, so she asks him to do it for her, half-joking, and of course he agrees. He messily runs a makeup remover wipe over her face, trying to hold her still as she laughs and laughs and laughs.
She is only half awake when Ilya slips out of the bed to call someone in the other room. She blissfully listens to his soft voice and occassional giggles, too quiet to hear the words but just loud enough to hear the joy in them. When he comes back, she pretends to be asleep.
The next morning, Ilya is up first. He rolls over and watches the steady rise and fall of Svetlana's sleeping body. He had made sure Shane was okay with them still sleeping in the same bed, had asked him over and over and watched for any flicker of doubt or uncertainty, and when he had found none, he was overwhelmed with the feeling of falling even more impossibly in love, feeling so trusted and believed. But now he wakes up next to his beautiful Svetlana— no, not his anymore— he wakes up to her and realizes he can never wake up next to anyone not-Shane ever again for as long as he lives. Nothing could possibly compare.
Ilya takes a shower and dresses, then sits on the edge of the bed. He touches Svetlana's shoulder softly, runs his hand up and down, up and down. Her eyes flicker open and she smiles. He asks her how she slept, and then explains that this is the last time they can sleep in the same bed. She laughs sofly, sighs and stretches her arms above her like a cat.
"I was wondering when this was going to happen. So are you going to tell me about him?"
--
They put on coats and scarves and grab coffee at the cafe down the street, taking it to-go and strolling around the neighborhood. Ilya makes her guess who it is, and stops dead in his tracks when she gets it right on the first try. Svetlana looks just as shocked though, having thought surely this was some ridiculous theory of hers.
"No!"
"Yes!"
"Ilya!"
She throws her head back in laughter and takes his arm, and they walk like this as he tells her everything, and his cheeks hurt from laughing by the end of it.
--
Later, Shane receives a photo of Ilya and Svetlana, a selfie, the two of them bundled up in scarves and smiling with scrunched eyes and full teeth. The accompanying message just says svetlana says hi.
For all the fear of letting people in, for the jealousy harbored for this beautiful woman, for all the intimidating pressure of making this real, Shane stares at this picture and feel tears prickle at the edges of his eyes— so in love and thinking thank god, thank god there are others who love him, thank god I am not alone in it.
I just found out your "Holy trinity" and it's so so good! Pretty please when you can, can you share more?
<< FIRST PART
<- PREVIOUS PART
9.
Cliff was twenty-four years old, and he was pretty sure he was about to have a heart attack.
He ignored that, though, because dammit, he was going to finish what he fucking started before he went out. And what he had started, ever since he opened his door and let Ilya Rozanov slip into his life and take root there like an invasive weed, was this: a casual flirtation that had since ramped up with dizzying intensity.
He hooked his arms under Ilya’s legs, planted his feet on the floor, and rose in one quick, heaving motion. Ilya gasped against Cliff’s throat as he rose and carried him to his bedroom like a child. “Yes,” Ilya mewled in Cliff’s ear. “Please.”
Cliff dumped him on his bed, letting him bounce on the duvet while he stripped off his shirt. He then tugged Ilya’s sweats off by the ankles, pawing at his underwear next. “C’mon, Roz,” he growled, a fire burning low in his belly. He had to focus on that feeling and keep chasing it, lest his good sense catch up with him and kill his nerve in the cradle. “Ain’t like I haven’t seen it before. Off.”
Ilya squirmed under Cliff’s hands, yanking off his shirt first before pushing his boxers off. His erect cock sprung free with almost comical animation, slapping up against his fuzzy stomach. Cliff grinned at the sight. He liked seeing Ilya excited. Liked the proud arch of his cock as it twitched up toward him, like it was trying to reach for Cliff all by itself.
Cliff dug the lube and condoms out of his bedside drawer and knelt between Ilya’s spread knees. Fuck, he looked like a painting of a person, all thick muscle and mole-dappled skin. His gold chain caught the light just right, like a thin line of flame encircling his throat.
He was gorgeous, and Cliff had never felt that way about another guy before, but he’d be damned if he didn’t admit it to himself about Ilya.
“You ever done this before?” he asked as he popped the cap on the lube. “Taken it up the ass?”
Ilya glanced away and shook his head. He looked a little shy, a little embarrassed - but his cock was jumping against his belly, telling Cliff that it had its own ideas.
That ever-present feeling of protectiveness that Cliff had gotten from the first time he saw the kid reared its head full force. Ilya looked so vulnerable there, laid out naked in Cliff’s bed, chest rising and falling sharply with suddenly nervous breath. Fuck, he was still so young. So… new. An adult, sure, but also a sharp reminder that this was his first time being alive, just like everyone else.
Cliff leaned forward and reached for him, gently cupping Ilya’s face in one hand and turning it toward him. “Hey,” he said, drawing those light eyes to his own. “It’s okay. We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, Roz.”
Ilya chewed his lip. He swallowed hard. But finally, he shook his head. “I want to,” he answered, voice steadier than Cliff would have expected. “Please.”
Cliff nodded, brushing his thumb over Ilya’s cheekbone. God help him, he wanted this to be good. He wanted to take care of Ilya. That was his rookie. His perfect, tenacious goaltender. Cliff had to make this just as perfect for him.
“I’ll go slow,” Cliff promised. “Stop me any time if you want to quit.”
The sound Ilya made when Cliff first pressed a finger inside of him would be branded into his brain for the rest of his life. It would play on loop on his deathbed, he was sure. It was so breathy and shaky and sweet. A single noise that was both pleasured and surprised by that pleasure.
Cliff wanted to hear him make it again and again and again.
True to his word, though, he went slow. Easing his finger in and out, adding digits only when Ilya whined and begged for more. By the time he reached the third, his own cock was painfully hard, dripping with need.
“Please, Cliff,” Ilya moaned, and the sound of his name on those flushed, quivering lips was nearly enough to make him come all on its own. “Please fuck me. Please, I want you inside me. Please.”
There wasn’t much more imitation that he needed than that. Cliff hastily rolled on a condom, slicked himself with lube, and carefully rolled Ilya onto his side. “Okay,” he panted, bracing a hand on Ilya’s hip. “Easy, baby. Here goes.”
He pressed inside.
NEXT PART…?
send me a message asking for “holy trinity” to continue.
June 15, 1991 - Happy 35th Birthday to Ilya Rozanov!
Hi hello what if I were to say that Connie hasn’t had sex in a while before she and Hudson start hooking up? Like, she dated some after the divorce and her transition and it was OK but she never really hit it off with anybody and after a while she let the whole dating thing slide. It’s not like she gave up, exactly, nothing so dramatic, but she just kind of came to terms with being by herself, and having her own life on her own terms, and looking after her own pleasure, and she’s been pretty content on her own, all things considered. And then along comes this incredibly handsome young man who looks at her like she’s the hottest woman he’s ever seen and he makes her feel so unbelievably good. Before she met Hudson, she would never have believed she'd be hooking up with a 26-year-old in a supply closet but she can't keep her hands off him. It’s never been like this for her, the desire so intense and all-consuming. It should be embarrassing, maybe, how badly she wants him, how often during the day her thoughts turn to his hands, his lips, his cock, but he's just as desperate for her. He’s always texting her the filthiest pictures with captions like couldn't stop thinking about you or wish you were here. And the thing is, she didn't realize how good it would feel to be wanted like this, to be an object of such worshipful desire. She doesn't need it, she was genuinely happy on her own, but she didn't even really let herself hope that this was something she could have--someone who wants her and keeps wanting her and can't help wanting her all the time, exactly the way she wants him.
One year ago today Hudson shared the extended version of the now famous Hudcon wrap party dance. In honor of the one year anniversary, please enjoy this “color corrected” version I made! ☺️
One day this kid will come to know something that causes a sensation equivalent to the separation of the earth from its axis.
Shane Hollander + David Wojnarowicz | Untitled (One Day This Kid...) | 1990
okay so obviously i love shane gaining weight after retirement but now im thinking about a shane who was always meaty and chunky his whole life… ilya meeting him outside the rink and being a little shocked bc he hadn’t imagined that THE shane hollander, young superstar phenomenon, would have such rounded cheeks, so much softness gathered under his chin, so much obvious girth around his middle, noticeable even through his winter jacket… ilya hates to admit it later but it does make him underestimate shane a little. that’s quickly changed when they play their first game and shane is an absolute BEAST on the ice, handling his bulk such a fluid speed and momentum that ilya immediately understands why everyone who knows anything about hockey says that shane is about to become the best in the league. but then the draft happens. and boston picks ilya first. and their statement says something like “we could tell just by looking at him that ilya was the kind of player we want for our team.” and ilya stands beside shane for the picture, can feel the disappointment and anger rolling off shane in waves, and when they’re handed out their jerseys for the photograph ilya catches someone say “sure that one will be big enough for Hollander?” to an audience of laughter, and when ilya slides a glance left he finds shane’s cheeks gone pink, his eyes wet with fury and embarrassment as he holds up his fingers for number two.
that night ilya can’t sleep, so he goes down to the gym. hollander is already there. hollander is there in a tight white compression shirt that leaves very, very little to the imagination, and ilya grips the handles of his bike and tries not to dart too many glances at the way the shirt clings to the thick cushion of shane’s biceps. then they’re off the bikes, panting together on the floor, ilya’s eyes drawn inexorably to the way shane’s stomach heaves as he catches his breath. the shirt is so tight around shane’s belly that ilya can see the clear outline of his deepset navel, the fabric clinging to the soft rolls that have formed when he sat down. ilya shakes his water bottle at him for something to do, and when shane reluctantly accepts ilya drinks in the sight of shane’s thick rounded thighs rubbing together as he shifts positions, the fat bulge of his dick visible beneath the slight hang of his soft gut. shane leans forward again to return the water bottle, and the movement makes the shirt ride up, exposing an inch of smooth, plush belly. shane immediately turns pink and yanks his shirt back down, but ilya is already so hard in his gym shorts that he comes almost immediately after getting back to his hotel room.
ilya gets asked to do the CCM shoot. they ask if he has a suggestion for another player to do it with, and of course he immediately suggests shane. the marketing team glance around at each other, weird about it. “what?” ilya demands, and the campaign director responds delicately that they’re not sure if hollander really has the look they want to represent with their brand. “he is exceptional hockey player, and your brand sells hockey gear. where is problem?” ilya responds bluntly, and the team can’t find a way to refute him.
after the shoot, ilya heads to the showers, and hollander is already there. he hasn’t noticed ilya yet, and ilya drinks in the naked breadth of him, the body he’s jacked off to just imagining nearly every night. and shane is even better in reality. the ass ilya’s ogled through pants is even fatter and rounder when it’s bare, his thighs so thick and wide he’s almost pear-shaped. and his belly. gorgeously plump and soft beneath his broad muscular chest, the plush lower curve marked with silvery stretch marks, his hips curved with thick love handles. ilya watches as shane nonchalantly lifts up his belly to wash the crease underneath, and ilya gets so hard it’s nearly painful.
when ilya gets into the shower, shane’s whole body blushes, the prettiest pink blooming across his soft tanned skin, and there’s no way ilya can hide the way he’s staring. shane notices, of course, and his cheeks flush darker. “fuck off,” he says, eyes downcast but defiant. “if you’re going to chirp me about my weight just know i’ve already heard it all.”
ilya’s hand is on his dick at this point, throbbing so hard that he can’t help palming himself for some relief. “ah, no,” he says, and now he feels his own face growing hot. “insulting you, this is not what i wish to do with you.”
shane throws him a look, and finally notices ilya’s erection. the hand rubbing again and again on ilya’s cock.
shane swallows audibly. “oh,” he says.
And Shane has heard “he’s this good at his size, imagine how good he’d be if he were actually in shape” a thousand times. Other players, coaches, teammates’ parents, commentators, analysts, media outlets, even some of the training staff during his early days with the Metros. He knows it’s bs and doesn’t let the comments get to him anymore.
Ilya hates those comments though. One night a few years into their situationship, he asks purely out of curiosity, not judgment. He wants to know Shane’s take on it and wonders if it actually impacts his choices because, selfishly, Ilya hopes Shane never loses the weight.
Shane says it doesn’t bother him anymore and he will never let it affect his choices. He likes to eat and his body is very healthy. It makes him a threat on the ice and brings him a lot of confidence. He also explains that he had a phase around 15 where he did let it get to him, so he dropped weight by forcing himself to run all the time and nearly starve himself with some diet he found online for high performance athletes. It made him miserable and he played the worst hockey of his life, to the point where his team was begging him to stop and promised to lay off the weight talk.
If anything, the part that pisses Shane off is that people assume he’s not in shape like this. He rants and raves to Ilya about how strong he is, how agile he can move at his size, how much of a threat he is on the ice. Ilya can’t disagree because Shane is right. It’s evident in his game every time he steps on the ice. Ilya knows many players throughout the league that pray not to be thrown into the boards by Hollander because it hurts like hell. Ilya also knows that very well himself.
So, Ilya makes a point to discredit those comments. Always touching on Shane’s abilities whenever he’s brought up in conversation, especially after a Boston loss to Montreal. He makes a point to order solid takeout whenever they meet up after games. He makes a point to shutdown any weight talk in his own locker room.
And after they are officially together, Ilya won’t shut up about his soft yet sturdy brick house of husband and his full intentions to keep it that way.
Sorry this took me a bit, also never attempted to write sub space ever before so not sure how it reads but I love the concept and I'd definitely like to write more about it sometime so hopefully it improves!:
It isn’t until Shane empties the second black plastic takeout container of Chinese food that Ilya notices anything is up. And even then, he really only catches on because Shane reaches for a third container, most of the way full of pork lo mein that Ilya had ordered. Ilya always over-orders from the Chinese place with the expectation that they’ll have easy leftovers to warm up for lunch the next day (or breakfast if he feels like it, because sometimes does). But it seems maybe they won’t have any leftovers tomorrow at the rate Shane is going.
Ilya eyes him for a moment, but aside from Shane eating more than usual, he isn’t sure what he’s even noticing, so he turns his attention back to the game. Colorado is in the middle of blowing a 3 goal lead in Game 4 of the Conference Finals against Vegas. If they lose this one, that’s the end of their season. Vegas scores again. Goalie interference for sure, Ilya thinks. Ludicrously, the refs don’t seem to agree.
“What?! That was—Shane, you are seeing this shit?” Ilya exclaims, indignant on Colorado’s behalf. He expects Shane to back him up on this, but oddly, he says nothing.
“Shane.”
Ilya looks over at him, and realizes he isn’t answering because his mouth is full. He also doesn’t even really seem to be paying attention to the game. His head is angled towards the TV, sure, but his eyes aren’t focused on it. Ilya takes a moment to observe. He’s still slurping down lo mein, but his pace has slowed down considerably. He’s taking ages to chew and swallow each bite, like it’s hard work. Like he’s almost forcing himself to do so. That is, until his chopsticks hit the empty bottom of the container. Ilya raises his eyebrows. That was a lot of food. More than Shane typically eats in one sitting, he’s sure.
Shane, meanwhile, seems to almost have forgotten Ilya is sitting with him on the couch. He leans forward to place the empty container back on the coffee table, and lets out a faint “oof” as he does so. Free of the container, he flops back and burps quietly into the back of his hand, immediately followed by a soft sound that’s awfully similar to—
Ilya raises his eyebrows even further. Did Shane just moan to himself? Is he imagining things? He whips his head around to look for Anya. Did she make a noise? No. Anya is across the room, asleep in her bed. He looks back at Shane.
Shane is still facing the TV, still looking at but really seeing the game. His eyes are a little glazed over and his chest is rising and falling more quickly than it should be for just sitting on the couch. He’s got one hand hidden inside the front pocket of his hoodie. His lips are slightly parted, and his cheeks are a little pink. He looks…fucked out, for lack of a better word. He looks, Ilya realizes suddenly, a lot like he does when he’s on his knees for him, wordlessly imploring Ilya to let him get his mouth on his cock, so turned on he can barely come up with the words to beg.
Ilya knits his brows together. What the fuck? He glances back at the hockey game. No, nothing crazy happening there. He glances back down at the empty takeout containers littering the coffee table. He glances at Shane’s presumably empty can of ginger ale.
Hmm. A mystery. Ilya loves a mystery, especially when said mystery involves deducing why his husband is currently visibly hard and leaking in his sweatpants in the middle of Colorado-Vegas Game 4 for no discernible reason. Ilya’s feeling the telltale heat of arousal building in his gut himself from this display, even if he’s still confused.
He isn’t sure what compels him to say it, he doesn’t make a habit of commenting on Shane’s eating habits, especially not like this, but—
“That was a lot of food, malysh.” It’s out of his mouth before he can think better of it.
Shane slowly turns his head to face him, lips slightly parted, eyes a little hazy. He swallows, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Huh?”
“I said,” Ilya repeats, “That was a lot of food. Someone was hungry, yes?”
Shane blinks at him, slowly. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. “I…huh?”
Ilya raises an eyebrow, amused by whatever’s going on. Shane appears to be hearing him from somewhere underwater, from that familiar place he goes to where his mind is blissfully quieted by want and sensation and the only thoughts he can manage are need need need more Ilya please more. It’s just that usually Ilya can tell how he got there.
“You ate almost three containers of Chinese food Shane, you must be…ah, what is the word..,” Ilya gestures vaguely, trying to remember the English phrase he’s heard people say at parties when they’ve eaten too much. “You must be stuffed, yes?”
His words finally get through to Shane, who gasps quietly. He stares at Ilya, cheeks pink. “Ilya, I..I’m..uh.” He sounds far away, like his thoughts are coming to him slowly from off in the distance. Ilya notices again that he still has a hand hidden in his hoodie pocket, but that it’s at a weird angle. It’s like he’s got his hand pressed resting higher up his torso than it would normally be if it was just resting in there.
Ilya feels something slowly falling into place. He’s still not sure what’s happening, but he’s not stupid, and he can tell that something about what he just said is definitely turning Shane on more. He scootches over closer towards Shane and smirks. He’s definitely sure which version of him Shane needs right now, regardless of the cause. Clambering into Shane’s lap, he looks down at him, gently gripping his chin and running his thumb across Shane’s bottom lip.
“What is it, Shane?” He asks steadily, purposefully. “What is getting you like this, right now?” He tilts Shane’s head up to look at him. He’s met with those big, beautiful, brown eyes, pupils blown out, lashes fluttering.
“Ilya,” Shane says it so quietly. He tries to lean up to kiss him, but Ilya sits up straighter, mouth just out of reach. Shane’s brows crease adorably, and he frowns. “Ilya, please?”
Ilya desperately wants to give Shane whatever it is that he needs, if he could only figure it out.
“Shchenok, talk to me. Was it something I said?” He runs through the last few sentences. He’d only said a few things, all variations of the comment on how much Chinese food Shane had put away. Could that be it?Shane had started sinking into this headspace in the middle of eating, now that Ilya thinks about it. Is that a thing? Are people into that? More importantly, is Shane into that? Shane is certainly not going to be helpful, it seems. It’s all Ilya has to work with, so he tries.
“Was it the Chinese food? Was it me saying you ate a lot?”
He reaches down and palms Shane through his sweatpants, feeling him twitch at the words. Shane moans in lieu of an answer, eyes closing, trying to hide his face in Ilya’s chest. Ilya does not let him. He grins, delighted to have made this discovery.
“Ahhh, it was, wasn’t it? Me saying you must be stuffed, yes?”
“Ugh, fuck, Ilya,” Shane is back looking up at him now, eyes so dark. “I don’t, I can’t—“
“Are you full, Shane? Does that feel good for you? What are you doing with your hand?”
“Ilya, ungh, wait—“
Ilya slips his hand into Shane’s pocket before Shane can react, covering Shane’s hand with his own where it had apparently been resting flush against what Ilya now realizes is the taut crest of Shane’s stomach under the sweatshirt, rounded out and packed with takeout.
Shane’s chest is heaving now, and he’s closed his eyes to avoid looking at Ilya. He tugs his hand free from inside the sweatshirt and grips Ilya’s thighs, nails digging into the fabric of Ilya’s sweatpants. Ilya searches his face as he slides his own hand out of the pocket, only to slip it under Shane’s shirt and onto the skin of his stomach. He spreads his fingers out experimentally, fitting his hand back over the gentle swell of Shane’s upper belly. The skin is warm, and so soft, and when he pushes in with the pads of his fingers, he quickly feels how full Shane must actually be. He feels solid to the touch, and he whimpers quietly at the pressure, throwing his head back against the couch.
“God, fuck, Ilya, I need—that feels—mmff.”
Ilya is enthralled. He’s fully hard now. Perhaps because Shane being horny never ever fails to also make Ilya horny. How could it not? But perhaps also because it’s just sexy to see Shane, usually so buttoned up around food, at least in Ilya’s presence, overindulge a little. Perhaps because it feels so hedonistic that Shane is obviously enjoying this overindulgence so much.
Ilya’s always been something of a hedonist himself, never one to deny himself his base urges; he likes feeling pleasure in all its forms. Sex, food, fast cars, loud music, anything that feels good usually feels even better in excess, in his experience. Shane has never been like that. Shane has always defaulted to the opposite, everything in carefully monitored moderation, never too much, sometimes not even enough. Yet here he is, brain foggy with pleasure just from filling himself to the brim with greasy noodles and meat and rice.
Ilya pushes up the front of Shane’s sweatshirt and t-shirt to expose his belly to the slightly cool air of the living room. Colorado loses in overtime, but neither of them notice. They’re both too busy watching Ilya’s hands frame the bloat of Shane’s stomach. Ilya places one hand on the side of his belly, drags the tip of a finger across its surface with the other, licks his lips subconsciously. He can see Shane’s belly rise and fall with the quick in and out of his breathing. Somewhat labored breathing, he might add. Shane seems to have eaten enough that taking a deep breath is a little difficult. Fuck. Why is that so hot?
“Please Ilya, I need—I’m so fucking—“ Shane’s eyes drop closed. “Ilya, just—please.”
“Hmm? What do you need?” Ilya looks at him expectantly, schooling his features despite his own growing need to do what Shane obviously wants and kiss him, touch him, fuck him.
Shane looks a little desperate. He grips Ilya’s wrist, stopping him as he moves to rub his palm over what Ilya has to admit is a really adorable little belly.
“Please touch me,” he pouts, trying to drag Ilya’s hand down to his dick.
“Oh, but I am already touching you.” Ilya reminds him, stroking across his belly with the other hand. Shane huffs out a breathy little sound, clearly frustrated but also clearly loving the sensation of Ilya’s hand on the sensitive skin where he’s fullest.
“Not my stomach, Ilya, please,” Shane tries again.
“Oh, no? You do not want me to touch your stomach?”
Ilya removes both hands and Shane whines, trying to lean forward to reach for them again, but stopping short when all the food he ate gets in the way. He flops back against the couch, hands coming to cradle his own belly again, wincing.
Ilya tuts, replacing Shane’s hands with his own. “Hmm. You are so full, malysh. What is the expression? Eyes bigger than stomach, yes?”
Shane nods rapidly, not bothering to pretend. He’s too far gone. He just wants Ilya to touch his cock. Or his belly. Or ideally both at the same time.
Ilya considers him, gently gripping his stomach and pressing in here and there, as if judging exactly how full.
“Hmm. I will give you what you need.”
Shane looks at him like he hung the moon. “Thank you Ilya, thank you, I—“
“Which is dessert, I think.” Ilya cuts him off.
Shane gapes up at him, eyes a little unfocused. “What?”
“Dessert. I think is what you need. I will go get you some dessert. After dessert, I will give you the other thing you need.”
“Ilya, wait—please”
“Stay,” Ilya tells him as climbs off of Shane’s lap. Ignoring his pleas, he makes way to the kitchen. He returns shortly with a container of mango sorbet from the freezer, and a spoon. Shane is sitting exactly where he left him, hoodie still pushed up over his belly.
“Good boy.” Ilya tells him. Shane whimpers quietly, wetting his lips with his tongue as he eyes the container of sorbet. This is going to be fun, Ilya thinks.
okay someone made a post about Shane feeling like his body isn't his, it's a product or a piece of equipment, and hollanov reclaiming his body via the methods of free use. and I accidentally wrote a whole essay in the tags about body modification and weight gain as a form of reclamation, so I'm screenshotting it and putting it here so we can all play toys about this
via n8ivy_ on X
via n8ivy_ on X
I just read Game Changer and I love Ilya at Scott Hunter Night at the end. Such a delight that what was a brief line in the show about Ilya talking to Scott after the MLH awards is so much more rich and meaningful in the book.
The thing about the Cottage is that yes they are making love. Yes they are saying the most emotionally vulnerable shit that they have ever said to another living person. Yes they are going at it missionary style bathed in moonlight and calling each other baby about it.
They are also, crucially, having the filthiest and nastiest sex that two guys in their twenties with an extremely willing monogamous partner can think up. Things are WILD. They are Yes And'ing each other in ways that they are legit going to have to process by sitting quietly alone in a room for an entire day at some point in the future.
They're going at it raw, of course. Ilya is spitting in his mouth and making Shane thank him for the privilege, then calling him a slut when he does. Shane is letting Ilya chase him through the woods. He's wrapping Ilya's fingers around his neck and begging while Ilya tightens his grip. Ilya decides at one point that if Shane can't come on his cock alone then he doesn't get to come. Shane doesn't receive oral a single time at the Cottage without having to swallow his own cum. Ilya walks around with a piece of gauze on his forearm because Shane bit him and drew blood. Ilya fucks Shane with his nose way up inside Shane's armpit the entire time, huffing and licking. Ilya comes on Shane's face in the shower and Shane is so far down and loves the feeling of being marked so much that he asks Ilya to piss on him. Shane is never more than two minutes away from having Ilya's tongue or dick in one of his holes, no warning given aside from a command to spread his legs or get on his knees.
It's a fucking tour de force of debauchery. And this, too, is lovemaking.