naming the stars in the sky after you --

luna | 20s | heated rivalry | 18+

[myshangel]

luna !

used to be lunahollanova / ilyarozanova81

queer ballerina / mid 20s / go pens / she/they

ao3 @myshangel

#myshangel (user tag #heyshangel)

minors DNI / terfs fuck right off / free Palestine

if ur looking for fandom hate ur on the wrong street baby I love this fandom and it's shitposts !

olympicverse masterlist here

send asks DM do wtvr come play in my sandbox

buy me a coffee ☕

beautiful pinboard by @grabmyboner and lovely blinkies by @ilyasmole <3

[myshangel]

good morning my sweetiepeas i am in much pain today.....how are we all doing.....

[lilyflxwers]

ok i absolutely need to know what accents u all have pls reblog and tell me or comment or whatever I must know

[sackboys-moved]

Me instantly blocking people that have their hogwarts house in their bio

[myshangel]

“Do you feel that?”

send me a word/phrase to practice my smut writing lmao - this turned into sugar au as predicted im so sorry anon…..

“Have you ever been?” Shane asks, the faux-nonchalance that Ilya is becoming so familiar with. “Vegas, I mean?”

Something clicks, when he says it; the pieces of the puzzle that make up Shane Hollander finally coming together. He’s been acting strange all morning, stranger than usual, and Ilya was just on the verge of worried. But it makes sense, now. Ilya looks up from his laptop, narrowing his eyes at him.

“Yes, is very easy to go from Canada to US for a vacation. On a Russian student visa. To gamble the zero money I have.”

Shane nods, considering. His hair is longer than Ilya has ever seen it, long enough to pull into a small bun at the nape of his neck. It looks good. He looks good, fresh off the playoffs and all hard muscle and mottled, purple bruises. His grey sweatpants sit low on his hips, showing off his overly-defined abs and the huge bloom of purple covering his ribs. Ilya licks his lips, the movement almost subconscious; Shane fucking Hollander.

The semester is almost over; finals are done. McGill didn’t get far in the University Cup this year, something Ilya has been stewing over since they were knocked out in the first bracket. He tears his gaze away from the stupid, attractive hockey legend in front of him and focuses back on the post-season reports on his screen.

“I could probably figure it out,” Shane muses, almost to himself. “If you wanted to.”

“Hollander, we both know what the issue is,” Ilya doesn’t bother looking up from his laptop screen, “Goalie is shit, defence is a mess. I do not need you to captain my team, thank you.”

“What? Oh, no, not that. I mean, I can help with your post-season, if you want, but. No. I meant for Vegas.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Vegas?” Ilya complains, finally taking the bait. He slams his laptop shut, letting it slip from his lap and onto Shane’s stupid green couch. He looks way too happy to have finally captured Ilya’s attention, his plump lips turned out into a smirk. Ilya watches his push his glasses a little further up his nose with suspicion.

“The NHL awards.” Shane shrugs, and there’s that faux-nonchalance again. There’s more confidence there now, though, and with Ilya’s lap finally free of his computer, Shane takes the initiative to replace it. He crosses the room in a few quick, purposeful strides, and suddenly his huge frame is pressing down against Ilya’s thighs. He’s always liked this about Shane, the weight of him, a wall of muscle. He brackets him with his thighs, knees pressing into Ilya’s hips, and weaves a hand into his curls.

“The Oscars. See, I can name award shows, too.”

“Mm, you’re funny,” Shane pans, and kisses his jaw. “No, I mean, I have the NHL awards in two weeks. And you finished all your finals, and the U-Cup is over.”

Ilya bites back a moan when Shane pauses, sucks on the spot just beneath his pulse point. It’s getting harder and harder to keep up the unbothered, no-strings-attached mask he’s been wearing since last Christmas. Especially when he can feel Shane getting harder, his cock swelling in his sweatpants and pressing against Ilya’s stomach.

“You’ve been working so hard,” Shane mutters between kisses, rocking his hips gently against Ilya’s growing erection. “I think you’ve earned a vacation. Vegas, just for a week, and then anywhere you want. Literally anywhere, I can make it happen.”

Ilya can feel Shane’s glasses nudging against his jaw as he kisses his neck, can feel the throbbing of his own cock and the pounding of his heart. It’s fucking ridiculous, because Shane is so hot, and so talented; a hockey legend. He’s kind, and weird, and funny, and a bit of a bitch in a way that makes Ilya so fucking fond. His money is the least interesting thing about him. And it’s getting harder for Ilya to pretend it’s the only reason he’s here.

Instead of saying any of that, and scaring the gorgeous man in his lap away, Ilya pivots to another truth: the fact that he’s so fucking hot for him it’s embarrassing. He winds a hand into Shane’s hair, carefully working the hair-tie and letting the long strands free. Once he has a decent grip he pulls just hard enough to bring Shane’s head away, tilt his chin up.

“You want to take me on vacation?”

“I want to fuck you after I win MVP,” Shane corrects, eyes dark with lust, that stupid smirk still twisting his lips, “And then I want to take you on vacation.”

The words go straight to Ilya’s cock, his hips bucking up against Shane’s, chasing the friction. Just the thought of fucking Shane after he wins MVP is enough to bring Ilya dangerously close to coming in his pants like a fucking teenager. And then jetting off somewhere, together. Europe, maybe, somewhere that isn’t hockey-obsessed, somewhere they won’t know who Shane is, where maybe they can—

Ilya tugs harder on Shane’s hair, grinding up against him. “You fucking feel that? How hard you make me?”

“Fuck, Ilya. Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yeah, I feel it,” Shane sighs, and that beautiful flush is back, swallowing his freckles. Ilya smiles despite himself; that’s what it takes to be MVP, he supposes. Willing to do as he’s told. And Shane Hollander is, in Ilya’s experience, very, very willing.

“Feel what?” Ilya prompts, bringing his other hand down to Shane’s hip when his rhythm stutters. He squeezes gently, urging him to keep going, grinds up against him in encouragement. “No, no, I didn’t say stop.”

Just when he isn’t sure if he could come with the heavy fabrics of their sweatpants between them, Shane moans, and Ilya’s cock twitches. There’s a first time for everything, and Ilya likes a challenge.

“Feel what, Hollander?” He prompts, again, pulling his hips down with more force, more friction. It’s borderline painful, the dry drag of his cock against his Nike sweats, but it’s so hot that he can’t bring himself to stop. A cursory glance down confirms what he’d assumed, the small wet patch forming on the front of Shane’s sweats, his cock leaking precome; he’s always so fucking wet.

“Your cock, fuck, I feel— Feel your cock. How hard you are. Please, Ilya.”

“I think you can come like this,” Ilya says, squeezing his hip again, pressing his thumb into the bruise he knows is sitting just below the waistband, “And then we will— Fuck — Then we will talk about vacation.”

It’s an illusion of power. Or maybe it isn’t; the line is blurring, has been blurring for a long time. Ilya is sure that Shane would give him anything he wants— Money, vacations, connections. He’d leave him alone for the rest of his life if he asked, delete his number, pretend they never met. If Ilya asked it, he would. And he knows he should break it off, he knows that, but he just—

Well. Ilya is selfish. Right now, what he wants is to ruin his fucking sweatpants and fuck Shane Hollander in Las Vegas. He wants to stop fucking thinking.

Ilya tightens the hand he has in Shane’s hair and pulls him down for a bruising kiss, their lips meeting with such force that he can feel the vibration in his teeth. He licks into Shane’s mouth, the wet heat of it, runs his tongue along the neat row of his bottom teeth. Ilya’s hips rock against Shane’s in earnest, falling into an urgent rhythm, the dry drag sending shivers up his spine.

“I want—“ Shane gasps against Ilya’s mouth, “Fuck, Ilya, I just want to fucking spoil you. You’ve earned it, you— Fuck, I’m gonna come—“

“So come,” Ilya recognises a plea for permission when he hears one, and he’s not far behind. Shane’s words echo in his head, coil tight in his stomach; I just want to fucking spoil you. “Come in your pants like a fucking slut, Hollander.”

Shane moans into Ilya’s mouth, leaning down to kiss him again, and Ilya can feel the moment his orgasm rips through him; the stutter of his hips, first, and then the sticky wetness. Ilya follows him over the edge, biting down on Shane’s plump lower lip as he comes and holding his hips down with an iron grip, grinding up and riding him through the aftershocks.

“Fuck,” Shane pants, when Ilya’s hips finally still, “Fuck you, I liked these.”

“Dry clean them.”

And then, because the universe hates him, Shane laughs, and drops his head onto Ilya’s shoulder. He’s so warm against him, boneless and sated and sticky with sweat; Ilya would give up his career, his scholarship, and any amount of vacations to just stay here forever. On Shane Hollander’s stupid green couch, chest pressed against his, hand in his hair.

Ilya runs the pads of his fingertips over Shane’s scalp, soothing where he’d been pulling. “I would like that. Vegas, vacation. If you can figure out the visa.”

“Yeah?” He can hear the smile in Shane’s voice. “Where do you wanna go? Anywhere you want. Greece, Monaco. France. Fucking, I don’t know, Alaska. Anywhere.”

Ilya hums, continues to scratch his fingers against Shane’s scalp, and lets the promise of the word anywhere float through the haze of his mind. Anywhere, with Shane. Just the two of them. Anywhere.

The sun is setting outside, painting the walls of Shane’s penthouse orange. It’s a beautiful fucking view, the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over uptown Montreal. All Ilya can really see from his spot on the couch is the top of Shane’s head and the curve of his ass against Ilya’s knees; he’ll take this over stupid Montreal any day.

[thickness-protection-program]

"so I asked chatgp-"

[swagsmeister]

hollanov grocery run

[al9x-deactivated20210909]

Anonymously tell me something you think about me 💭

[fairycosmos]

a slaughterhouse. an outlet mall. slot machines. fear of god. you know the usual

[myshangel]

seven but make it about ilya

the entirety of folklore could be about ilya......folklore is my fave album and so dear to me and seven is my favourite song AND SO ILYA CODED LIKE

Irina.......

and of course . I mean of Course

[shanehollandergirl]

always an angel, never a god // shane hollander + "not strong" enough by boygenius

[8nin]

so done with tumblr. see u all in two minutes

[russianblush]

Hudson Williams in The Dating Game

[myshangel]

“Do you feel that?”

send me a word/phrase to practice my smut writing lmao - this turned into sugar au as predicted im so sorry anon…..

“Have you ever been?” Shane asks, the faux-nonchalance that Ilya is becoming so familiar with. “Vegas, I mean?”

Something clicks, when he says it; the pieces of the puzzle that make up Shane Hollander finally coming together. He’s been acting strange all morning, stranger than usual, and Ilya was just on the verge of worried. But it makes sense, now. Ilya looks up from his laptop, narrowing his eyes at him.

“Yes, is very easy to go from Canada to US for a vacation. On a Russian student visa. To gamble the zero money I have.”

Shane nods, considering. His hair is longer than Ilya has ever seen it, long enough to pull into a small bun at the nape of his neck. It looks good. He looks good, fresh off the playoffs and all hard muscle and mottled, purple bruises. His grey sweatpants sit low on his hips, showing off his overly-defined abs and the huge bloom of purple covering his ribs. Ilya licks his lips, the movement almost subconscious; Shane fucking Hollander.

The semester is almost over; finals are done. McGill didn’t get far in the University Cup this year, something Ilya has been stewing over since they were knocked out in the first bracket. He tears his gaze away from the stupid, attractive hockey legend in front of him and focuses back on the post-season reports on his screen.

“I could probably figure it out,” Shane muses, almost to himself. “If you wanted to.”

“Hollander, we both know what the issue is,” Ilya doesn’t bother looking up from his laptop screen, “Goalie is shit, defence is a mess. I do not need you to captain my team, thank you.”

“What? Oh, no, not that. I mean, I can help with your post-season, if you want, but. No. I meant for Vegas.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Vegas?” Ilya complains, finally taking the bait. He slams his laptop shut, letting it slip from his lap and onto Shane’s stupid green couch. He looks way too happy to have finally captured Ilya’s attention, his plump lips turned out into a smirk. Ilya watches his push his glasses a little further up his nose with suspicion.

“The NHL awards.” Shane shrugs, and there’s that faux-nonchalance again. There’s more confidence there now, though, and with Ilya’s lap finally free of his computer, Shane takes the initiative to replace it. He crosses the room in a few quick, purposeful strides, and suddenly his huge frame is pressing down against Ilya’s thighs. He’s always liked this about Shane, the weight of him, a wall of muscle. He brackets him with his thighs, knees pressing into Ilya’s hips, and weaves a hand into his curls.

“The Oscars. See, I can name award shows, too.”

“Mm, you’re funny,” Shane pans, and kisses his jaw. “No, I mean, I have the NHL awards in two weeks. And you finished all your finals, and the U-Cup is over.”

Ilya bites back a moan when Shane pauses, sucks on the spot just beneath his pulse point. It’s getting harder and harder to keep up the unbothered, no-strings-attached mask he’s been wearing since last Christmas. Especially when he can feel Shane getting harder, his cock swelling in his sweatpants and pressing against Ilya’s stomach.

“You’ve been working so hard,” Shane mutters between kisses, rocking his hips gently against Ilya’s growing erection. “I think you’ve earned a vacation. Vegas, just for a week, and then anywhere you want. Literally anywhere, I can make it happen.”

Ilya can feel Shane’s glasses nudging against his jaw as he kisses his neck, can feel the throbbing of his own cock and the pounding of his heart. It’s fucking ridiculous, because Shane is so hot, and so talented; a hockey legend. He’s kind, and weird, and funny, and a bit of a bitch in a way that makes Ilya so fucking fond. His money is the least interesting thing about him. And it’s getting harder for Ilya to pretend it’s the only reason he’s here.

Instead of saying any of that, and scaring the gorgeous man in his lap away, Ilya pivots to another truth: the fact that he’s so fucking hot for him it’s embarrassing. He winds a hand into Shane’s hair, carefully working the hair-tie and letting the long strands free. Once he has a decent grip he pulls just hard enough to bring Shane’s head away, tilt his chin up.

“You want to take me on vacation?”

“I want to fuck you after I win MVP,” Shane corrects, eyes dark with lust, that stupid smirk still twisting his lips, “And then I want to take you on vacation.”

The words go straight to Ilya’s cock, his hips bucking up against Shane’s, chasing the friction. Just the thought of fucking Shane after he wins MVP is enough to bring Ilya dangerously close to coming in his pants like a fucking teenager. And then jetting off somewhere, together. Europe, maybe, somewhere that isn’t hockey-obsessed, somewhere they won’t know who Shane is, where maybe they can—

Ilya tugs harder on Shane’s hair, grinding up against him. “You fucking feel that? How hard you make me?”

“Fuck, Ilya. Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yeah, I feel it,” Shane sighs, and that beautiful flush is back, swallowing his freckles. Ilya smiles despite himself; that’s what it takes to be MVP, he supposes. Willing to do as he’s told. And Shane Hollander is, in Ilya’s experience, very, very willing.

“Feel what?” Ilya prompts, bringing his other hand down to Shane’s hip when his rhythm stutters. He squeezes gently, urging him to keep going, grinds up against him in encouragement. “No, no, I didn’t say stop.”

Just when he isn’t sure if he could come with the heavy fabrics of their sweatpants between them, Shane moans, and Ilya’s cock twitches. There’s a first time for everything, and Ilya likes a challenge.

“Feel what, Hollander?” He prompts, again, pulling his hips down with more force, more friction. It’s borderline painful, the dry drag of his cock against his Nike sweats, but it’s so hot that he can’t bring himself to stop. A cursory glance down confirms what he’d assumed, the small wet patch forming on the front of Shane’s sweats, his cock leaking precome; he’s always so fucking wet.

“Your cock, fuck, I feel— Feel your cock. How hard you are. Please, Ilya.”

“I think you can come like this,” Ilya says, squeezing his hip again, pressing his thumb into the bruise he knows is sitting just below the waistband, “And then we will— Fuck — Then we will talk about vacation.”

It’s an illusion of power. Or maybe it isn’t; the line is blurring, has been blurring for a long time. Ilya is sure that Shane would give him anything he wants— Money, vacations, connections. He’d leave him alone for the rest of his life if he asked, delete his number, pretend they never met. If Ilya asked it, he would. And he knows he should break it off, he knows that, but he just—

Well. Ilya is selfish. Right now, what he wants is to ruin his fucking sweatpants and fuck Shane Hollander in Las Vegas. He wants to stop fucking thinking.

Ilya tightens the hand he has in Shane’s hair and pulls him down for a bruising kiss, their lips meeting with such force that he can feel the vibration in his teeth. He licks into Shane’s mouth, the wet heat of it, runs his tongue along the neat row of his bottom teeth. Ilya’s hips rock against Shane’s in earnest, falling into an urgent rhythm, the dry drag sending shivers up his spine.

“I want—“ Shane gasps against Ilya’s mouth, “Fuck, Ilya, I just want to fucking spoil you. You’ve earned it, you— Fuck, I’m gonna come—“

“So come,” Ilya recognises a plea for permission when he hears one, and he’s not far behind. Shane’s words echo in his head, coil tight in his stomach; I just want to fucking spoil you. “Come in your pants like a fucking slut, Hollander.”

Shane moans into Ilya’s mouth, leaning down to kiss him again, and Ilya can feel the moment his orgasm rips through him; the stutter of his hips, first, and then the sticky wetness. Ilya follows him over the edge, biting down on Shane’s plump lower lip as he comes and holding his hips down with an iron grip, grinding up and riding him through the aftershocks.

“Fuck,” Shane pants, when Ilya’s hips finally still, “Fuck you, I liked these.”

“Dry clean them.”

And then, because the universe hates him, Shane laughs, and drops his head onto Ilya’s shoulder. He’s so warm against him, boneless and sated and sticky with sweat; Ilya would give up his career, his scholarship, and any amount of vacations to just stay here forever. On Shane Hollander’s stupid green couch, chest pressed against his, hand in his hair.

Ilya runs the pads of his fingertips over Shane’s scalp, soothing where he’d been pulling. “I would like that. Vegas, vacation. If you can figure out the visa.”

“Yeah?” He can hear the smile in Shane’s voice. “Where do you wanna go? Anywhere you want. Greece, Monaco. France. Fucking, I don’t know, Alaska. Anywhere.”

Ilya hums, continues to scratch his fingers against Shane’s scalp, and lets the promise of the word anywhere float through the haze of his mind. Anywhere, with Shane. Just the two of them. Anywhere.

The sun is setting outside, painting the walls of Shane’s penthouse orange. It’s a beautiful fucking view, the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over uptown Montreal. All Ilya can really see from his spot on the couch is the top of Shane’s head and the curve of his ass against Ilya’s knees; he’ll take this over stupid Montreal any day.

[ilyasmole]

shane pushing ilya's cum out of his Hole while ilya watches and praises him rly is something that can be so personal

[myshangel]

im going thru flight risk trying to get some level of continuity bc i have actually just been throwing spaghetti at the wall all this time and poor kat is having to teach me that washington DC and washington state are not only different places but ON SEPERATE COASTS jksdfhksjhfdkjdhf

[hudconera]

"i am thinking only about you right now. a million memories. thank you for those"