At a particularly low point during the Rose era, Ilya was up until 4am stalking the location of Shane’s cottage and then whoops! he paid a fortune to buy the adjoining plot of land.
Once they’re back together, Ilya has to decide whether to admit to the most insane thing he’s ever done or try to sell property in a country he doesn’t live in without Shane noticing.
shane starts thinking out loud during a trip up there together about whether he should go ahead and try to buy the adjoining lot in case they want to add a guest house one day or just want more privacy and ilya just
I want to sketch my own heated rivalry book cover but !!! I can’t draw the things I have in mind, I have started ten different sketches and none appeal to me completely cbskdfjbzldfh
shane hollander appreciation week // day six
→ a song that reminds me of him
and i’m afraid, oh, don’t let it find me
but you can't outrun yourself, you’ll see
and i’m powerless, oh, don’t remind me
i think a part of ilya truly believes that when god created shane god took one of shane’s ribs and used that to create ilya. sometimes when theyre laying in bed together after having mind blowing sex or whatever ilya catches himself feeling around shane’s ribs like he’s trying to find the gap
i’m like 25 layers deep in the mindpalace of this dinner where shane is like ilya can we please stop talking about my parents potential bisexuality. like this is a one act play to me i can see it so clearly. shane is like “ilya can you not try to convince my parents they are bisexual” and ilya is like “why? something is wrong with being bisexual?” and shane is like “no i just don’t think it’s an appropriate dinner conversation! nobody wants to hear about their parents sex lives. how would you feel if we were talking about your parents sex life?” and ilya gets stony and sniffs and looks away is like “is different. i do not think my mother liked it very much.” and shane is thrown and he’s like “well i…” and then he’s trying to get the conversation back on track and he’s like “okay well even not together nobody wants to think about their parents like that individually. it’s uncomfortable to acknowledge that side of them. you wouldn’t like it either.” and ilya is looking at him like he’s crazy and he’s like “my father was famous in moscow for liking prostitutes with red hair. one time when i was 15 he was drunk and he offered to buy me one and i laughed and told him i wasn’t a pussy like him who needed to pay someone to fuck me. then he threw a clock at my head. is okay, he missed.” and shane is just staring at him like “it’s kind of unfair of you to turn every conversation into a minefield like this.”
They stay in bed for as long as possible, even though both of their stomachs are growling with hunger.
There are clouds blowing past the big windows, a reminder that time doesn’t stand still.
Shane clings to him under the covers. Neither of them speak, as if silence could stop the clouds from moving.
Ilya feels an anxious finger tapping against his chest. He brings the restless hand up to his mouth and kisses it before intertwining with his own.
There’s a weird sort of empty feeling when Ilya closes his bag. He thinks this might have been the best two weeks of his life. No, he’s sure of it, has never been so sure about anything.
“Made some sandwiches,” Shane says, voice low. “For the road.”
Ilya nods. He’s not hungry.
His ribs don't hurt anymore, but Shane still insists on carrying his bag to the car, and Ilya wants nothing more than to steal it from him and put it back in the bedroom.
He doesn’t. Instead he opens the door to the passenger seat and gets in.
They sit in silence for a while, the engine doesn’t start and Ilya is about to say something when Shane speaks.
“We won’t be able to, you know… say goodbye…at the airport.”
Ilya looks at him confused for a second before he understands what Shane actually means.
They can’t kiss goodbye.
Ilya’s hand comes to rest against Shane’s cheek, thumb stroking over his freckles. Shane closes his eyes and Ilya leans in and kisses him. Once, twice, lets the third one linger.
“Thank you for inviting me,” he says as they pull apart.
“You said that already.”
“I wanted to say it again.”
They have to start driving if they want to make it to Ilya’s afternoon flight.
“I love you,” Shane says, and his eyes look so sincere.
This installment of Suck Him Off Sunday is brought to you by this moment and my inability to stop thinking about what might have happened in Shane’s apartment that night. This is the last time we see them together in this particular montage before they start forsaking all others to be addicted to their phones, so I’ve been wondering what might have happened then. Here’s one idea.
It’s a familiar place by now, this scary alley behind Hollander’s apartment. But when Hollander opens the door, his energy is different. He’s all restless, fidgeting and bouncing on the balls of his feet, reaching for Ilya’s wrist to all but drag him up the stairs. Once they’re inside Hollander’s apartment he’s pulling at Ilya’s clothes, pushing at Ilya himself as they head toward Hollander’s bedroom. It’s infectious. It’s intoxicating. Ilya doesn’t even try to hide his grin as they move up the stairs, bodies and mouths connected the whole way.
At the top, Hollander murmurs against Ilya’s lips, “Already got myself ready. Need you to fuck me.”
“Christ, Hollander,” Ilya says as Hollander pulls him toward the bed, smiling.
After that it’s a blur of kisses and discarded clothes and then Hollander’s back is arching as Ilya pushes into him. Ilya has a tight grip on Hollander’s hips and not much else. He feels giddy with how Hollander greeted him ready to get what he wants, with how what he wants is Ilya. And, fuck, Ilya wants him too. It’s just that there’s nobody quite like Hollander. How he looks so pretty all spread out on the bed. How he groans and swears and shudders when Ilya fucks him. How he can take everything Ilya has to give. So maybe Hollander’s energy affects him. Maybe it loosens his tongue, makes him say “fuck, Hollander,” and “oh God, Hollander,” and “taking me so good, Hollander,” a bit too often, too awestruck.
After they finish, he flops down on the bed beside Hollander, and neither one makes any move to get up. This happens more and more lately, one or both of them drawing it out, not even talking, really, just dwelling in the sex-spell that hangs over the room as they catch their breath and the sweat dries.
Tonight, Hollander is loose and lax against the pillows, eyes closed and wearing that small, pleased smile he gets when he thinks Ilya’s not looking. Ilya rolls over onto his stomach and lets himself look. He looks at Hollander’s back as it rises and falls, looks down at where Hollander’s legs are still spread, where his hole is soft and open, and Ilya can’t help it, really he can’t, he just has to—
Hollander makes a small, questioning sound when Ilya’s fingers find his hole, not pressing in, just giving the lightest teasing touches against the skin there. “You were ready for me,” Ilya says, a little mischievous, a little questioning, and Hollander must feel too good to be shy because he says, “Mmm, yeah, didn’t want to wait.”
“Is hot.”
“Fuck off,” Hollander says with a grin.
Ilya huffs out a laugh as he starts to press one finger inside, moving slowly and with the barest of pressure, relishing in how Hollander’s body relaxes even more into the mattress below him.
“Is this ok?” he says, even though he’s not completely sure what he’s working toward here, but Hollander’s quick to say, “Mmm, yeah, feels good,” and his eyes are still shut and he looks so sweet, so Ilya keeps going, pressing in until he’s as deep as he can get from this angle, then pulling out just as slowly. It doesn’t take much before Hollander’s hips start to shift on the bed, before his breath picks up, and even though Ilya can’t see his cock he knows Hollander is getting hard again. He pulls his hand away, ignoring Hollander’s protesting whine, grabs the lube from the bedside table and gives Hollander a gentle slap on his hip. “Turn over,” and he does, easy as that.
The sight of Hollander so open and trusting and all for Ilya makes his stomach flip. Ilya moves in close, hands and mouth near Hollander’s cock, and lets his eyes flick up to Hollander’s face. His eyes are open now but heavy-lidded, and he’s just watching Ilya, lip trapped between his teeth.
“Can I? I think you’ll like,” Ilya says, fingers once again teasing over Hollander’s hole, and he hasn’t even explained what he wants, not really, but Hollander just nods. Ilya gets his fingers slick and slides two in this time, a slow drag to let Hollander adjust. But then Hollander’s groans pick up, and his cock is so hard and leaking at the tip, and he’s gasping out, “More, I need—please, Rozanov.”
“Yes, yes, Hollander, I know,” is all Ilya can say as it crashes down on him how badly he needs to get Hollander’s cock in his mouth.
Hollander must know how much Ilya likes blowing him. Ilya knows he gives it away in how quick he is to do it, in how he can’t help but moan from the first taste of Hollander on his tongue until he’s swallowing Hollander’s release. But Hollander shows he likes it too. He asks for it often enough, and it makes him noisy in his Hollander way, all bitten off curses and whines and Rozanovs. It’s all so good it makes Ilya feel drunk.
Ilya’s not one to deny himself what he wants, so he takes Hollander’s cock down in a single, smooth motion that has him arching off the bed immediately. Ilya flings his free arm over Hollander’s hips to hold him down and keep his fingers and mouth in place, and Hollander’s hands find Ilya’s hair, and it’s perfect, getting to touch and be touched like this. Ilya is used to people wanting things from him during sex, used to giving and giving and giving. But with Hollander it’s different. Even tonight, with Hollander’s needy, grasping hands all over him, Ilya feels a balance, like Hollander wants to give and give and give right back.
Hollander’s unraveling quickly, though Ilya keeps his fingers gentle and his mouth soft. His hips are bucking against Ilya’s hold on him, and he’s whimpering each time Ilya’s fingers press deep inside. He’ll come like this, Ilya knows, and the thought makes Ilya suck harder.
“Jesus fuck, Rozanov,” Hollander grits out as his hands go tight in Ilya’s hair, tugging hard, and oh, oh fuck, it’s Ilya groaning now, loud even around Hollander’s cock in his mouth, so loud that Hollander’s eyes fly open and he says, “Shit, shit, sorry,” but Ilya’s shaking his head, pulling off his cock, clearing his throat to say, “Again.”
Their eyes meet over Hollander’s cock, wet and straining toward Ilya’s mouth, and Hollander raises a questioning eyebrow.
“You like that?”
“Da, yes, fuck, Hollander,” Ilya says before dropping right back down onto Hollander’s cock, keeping his eyes open and eager as he starts up the rhythm that had Hollander moaning under him moments ago.
There’s a second of hesitation before Hollander’s hands go tight in Ilya’s hair again, but then it’s back, that perfect stinging pressure that has Ilya’s eyes rolling back into his head.
“Fuck, you really like that,” Hollander says, and it’s all Ilya can do to breathe as he tries to focus on making Hollander come. Ilya really, really wants him to. He wants to feel the pulse of Hollander’s cock in his mouth, to feel Hollander’s hole go tight around his fingers, so he redoubles his efforts, curling his fingers up right where Hollander needs them and burying his nose into Hollander’s soft belly, and that’s all it takes for him to come. Ilya would be more than happy to just stay there as Hollander softens in his mouth, but he’s being pulled up roughly by his hair to meet Hollander’s lips, the sting of the tug making his cock twitch.
Ilya’s shaking a bit and achingly hard, just rutting his hips down against Hollander’s thigh. He feels dizzy from Hollander’s tongue in his mouth, Hollander’s hands pullingpullingpulling with the most perfect aching soreness. In between kisses Hollander breathes out, “Want you to come, just from this,” and all Ilya can do is moan as he’s pulled into the next kiss. Hollander learns fast. It might actually be a problem.
Ilya’s hips pick up speed, and then they’re not even kissing anymore, not really, not with Ilya too desperate and close to do much more than pant against Hollander’s mouth. But Hollander’s strong hands are gripping his hair and Hollander’s beautiful brown eyes are watching him so closely and Ilya doesn’t, can’t, look away as he spills between them, wet and messy, before he falls limp, half on top of Hollander.
It takes a moment for Hollander’s hands to move in Ilya’s hair again, but they do, and this time it’s so gentle, just strong fingers lifting Ilya’s sweaty curls from the back of his neck over and over. Ilya hums his pleasure and opens his eyes— when had he closed them?—to see Hollander’s keen gaze still fixed on him.
“Good?” he says, and Ilya grins, nods, and says “good” right back.
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