this is my favorite tape!

angelica | 28 | unretired lover music/al enthusiast | pfp: raysperson

[redwinerozanova]

my edits

hi everyone! this is my edits masterpost.

heated rivalry

bleachers - wake me

chappell roan - red wine supernova

charli xcx - yuck

[ccrux00]

you'd play in ottawa?

[wayba3]

A teacher and his aquarium

[grimygrimygrimy]

What’s something that keeps you going in life?

beautiful women and rich broths

[the-quasar-hero]

Assign an aspect of nature to prev

Waves at the beach

Rushing breeze through leaves

A crack of thunder

Flow of a river

The shine of a gem

Dancing embers of a flame

Torrential rain

Slow falling snow

An emerald sea of grass

Austere cliffside

A maze of roots

The endless oceans

Remaining time: 6 days 12 hours

[dailyilyarozanov]

Heated Rivalry 1.01 (#ilya that's your mil btw)

[hollanderthoughts]

Why the fuck do burger recipes assume you’re grilling out for a family and not planning an elaborate 2 week baby trapping scenario in which you still don’t exactly know what the baby in this situation would be because you’re gay and he definitely can’t get you pregnant. Not that you’d want to get pregnant of course. But you do think it’d be the easiest means of convincing him to stay. there’s never a recipe for like 4 burgers max.

[raysperson]

a claudia shaped hole

interview with the vampire 2.08 / interview with the vampire 1.05 / emily berry, the numbers game / cy twombly, scent of madness (1986) & the fire that consumes all before it (1978) / interview with the vampire 1.04 / tove ditlevsen, there lives a young girl in me who will not die / interview with the vampire 2.07 / interview with the vampire 2.06 / fayum mummy portrait (1st century b.c - 200 a.d) / fragment of the face of a queen (circa 1353 - 1336 b.c, egypt) / james tadd adcox, scientific method / the vampire lestat 1.03 / daniel hart & danny reisch, the loneliness / interview with the vampire 2.08 / bloc party, positive tension / ana mendieta, silueta (1973-1980) / mary oliver, staying alive / the vampire lestat 1.04 / vanessa cartlon, great house (insp)

[c-leadraw]

Heated Rivalry by Rachel Reid

[hollanovhattrick]

tuna melt but when they’re on the couch and Ilya pulls Shane’s head to rest on his chest Shane actually falls asleep and after a few minutes Ilya’s like huh he’s kind of quiet why isn’t he touching my dick yet fuck I really wanted him to touch my dick maybe tuna was bad and he’s internally panicking because uh oh sleepover failed Shane does not like tuna and will not touch my dick but he looks over and Shane is just. Snoring. Ever so softly, face nuzzled into Ilya’s neck, hand limp on his thigh and Ilya literally melts into a puddle because he just fucked Shane Hollander and then they slept in his bed in his home together and then they woke up and Ilya made him lunch and now Shane is just snuggled up against him, conked the fuck out. And Ilya is going to die. He moves to get more comfortable, hand bracing the back of Shane’s neck, moving carefully so not to wake him, so they’re now horizontal on the couch, legs tangled together, Shane’s head on Ilya’s chest, Ilya’s hand carding softly through his hair and Ilya, heart beating so loud he worries it will wake Hollander up just whispers “Shane” and there’s a few moments of silence and just as Ilya himself starts to drift off Shane’s face crinkles as he sighs and tries to bury himself deeper into Ilya’s chest; snuggling closer, just murmurs sleepily, “Ilya.” And oh Ilya Rozanov is definitely dead now. He died perished deceased and this is heaven

[puncertainty]

continuing traditions

[sobcat]

[timpaxew-art]

Shes literally so pretty

[cruellesummer]

recent journal spreads

[epicsause-official]

just got an idea for a banger couples shirts design

[vesnuszki]

Rozanov returns to where he was sitting, the Polaroid camera in his hand. He looks down, an inquisitive eyebrow raised and Shane lets out a shaky gasp, nodding yesyesyesyes.

This is part two of the TPACU (the polaroid agenda cinematic universe)

The distance between the front door and bedroom is covered in a haze of desperate greed, mouth on mouth and mouth on neck, rigid gasps echoing through the hallway. Shane feels like he’s been starving for weeks, for Ilya’s breath in his mouth, for his hands slipping under his shirt to palm at his ribs. Rozanov grabs hard at his hips, the friction causing a blur to his vision. By the time they’re at the foot of the bed, shirts off, groping at the other’s skin, Shane pushes Rozanov to sit back on the bed and drops to his knees, clawing at Rozanov’s sweatpants to drag them down to his ankles, his hard cock springing out. Shane palms at Rozanov’s knees, bringing his face to Rozanov’s thigh, cheek dragging across soft, hairy skin. He’s panting by the time his mouth is almost close enough to Rozanov’s dick. He wraps his hand around the base and opens his mouth, flat tongue sticking out. He looks up, eyes hooded and glossed. He sees Rozanov looking back down at him, intent. The warm light of the nightstand casts a honey-like glow to his skin; his blue eyes tinted into dark grey. They flicker sharply; like the surface of a lake, disturbed.

“Wait-” Rozanov says suddenly and pulls away. Shane's attention snaps back to reality. “Don’t move” Rozanov adds quietly, but steady. He scoots back on the bed towards the nightstand, and Shane stays on his knees, breaths shallow, eyes following the moves of Rozanov’s naked body. His mouth waters at the sight of thick muscles flexing; his dick twitching in his pants. He loves how strong Rozanov looks, he loves how he can so easily pin him down or toss him around. He wants to lick the divot in between Rozanov’s thigh muscles, right up to the cliff of his Adonis belt. Shane bites at his bottom lip, transfixed. 

Rozanov returns to where he was sitting, the Polaroid camera in his hand. He looks down, an inquisitive eyebrow raised and Shane lets out a shaky gasp, nodding yesyesyesyes. 

Shane leans back down between Rozanov’s legs and takes him all the way in, until he can feel the head of Rozanov’s dick at the back of his throat and the coarse curls of his pubic hair tickling his nose. He remembers to relax, and breathe through his nose, and feels a surge of warmth in his stomach as the camera clicks and whirrs.

“Look up now” he hears, and obeys. Rozanov’s face is hidden behind the camera as he takes another picture and Shane cannot see his expression, but the change in his breathing is audible, stuttering, louder, less controlled. Rozanov laces the fingers of his left hand in the dark of Shane’s hair, then squeezes hard. The sensation of tight grip on his scalp sends jolts of hot pleasure through Shane’s veins and he whimpers. Rozanov lowers the camera, and snaps a close up of the top of Shane’s head.

The pressure is encouraging enough, his movements are now faster, deeper somehow, there’s saliva running down his chin. He digs his nails into the sides of Rozanov’s thighs and looks up again to meet the other’s eye. Rozanov is a vision - his head is thrown back, his mouth agape, soft, whiny ah ah ahs escaping. His eyes are hooded and wet, the soft light of the room reflecting in shimmers. His Adam's apple bobbles as he swallows, and Shane wants to bite into the soft skin of his neck, right beside the throbbing vein there. Then their eyes meet and suddenly Shane feels much closer to falling apart than he cares to admit and it happens, all at once and without his permission, when Rozanov breathes, low and raspy: 

“I’m gonna come on your face”

His vision goes white and he shudders, the orgasm bolting through his entire body like lightning.

It barely takes two strokes after that, then Rozanov groans and Shane feels the spatter of warmth on his cheeks and mouth. His breaths are still coming out in gasps, loud, almost moans, he knows he’s making sounds so pathetic he’ll blush if Rozanov brings them up after. Then, just as he slides out his tongue to lick the taste of it off his lips, Rozanov catches him in the act, posing the camera at the level of his chin. 

He reaches to pick up the plastic square sliding out of the machine, and leans down to the floor to pick up the other three. He doesn’t look at them, but there is no point in looking yet. He neatly stacks them under the duvet in the corner of the bed.

[vesnuszki]

AO3

The camera lies on a shelf by the top of the stairs. 

Ilya thinks it’s brand new, or at least not frequently used. There’s no scratches on the box, no trace of a human hand giving it a soul. Not even a speck of dust covering it, as if this object with no emotional value accumulated was placed here out of context. He wonders why Hollander bought it, the guy was so tightly wound and invested in hockey it seemed unimaginable that he spends however little free time he has left with people or things interesting enough for him to capture permanently on film. 

He wishes sometimes to be able to photograph his time with Hollander. The attraction of the visual aspect of their arrangement is undeniable, and recently…

He’s never risked glancing through this particular door in his head before, but if tonight was anything to go by, this shift in their dynamic was getting increasingly difficult to dismiss. 

He doesn’t yet examine the pull he feels whenever Hollander is near, the rush of adrenaline when he skates by, swift and precise and focused. The warmth spreading through his chest whenever he says something outrageous and Hollander smiles, the skin on the sides of his eyes creasing, or the pitch of his voice when he calls Ilya an asshole, like it’s the sweetest lie he could say, the insult threaded with fondness. 

Before he can talk himself out of it, he grabs the camera and quietly walks back towards Hollander’s bedroom. The door is half open and Ilya sees Hollander on the bed. He hasn’t moved since Ilya left, a little smile on his face and an arm thrown over his eyes. He brings the camera visor to his eye. Perfect. 

He hopes the snap of the shutter will not bring Hollander back to earth, and as the camera whirrs ejecting the plastic square he finds he has not shifted in the bed. Lucky. He turns back to the shelf to quietly put the camera back to its place, then tucks the developing photo behind the towel at his hip. 

“Hollander, why do you have a Polaroid camera?” he leans down to his duffel bag and slides the picture into the side pocket. He’s not in a hurry to leave, he’s hungry for any crumb of attention Hollander will be willing to offer. He picks up his clothes lazily and straightens up, stretching his arms above his head, flexing his back muscles. He wants Hollander to notice, he wants for Hollander’s sharp focus applied directly to his skin, unable to look away. He hopes Hollander has not had enough and will ask for seconds. Ilya’s mouth salivates at the thought of being inside him again.

Hollander sits up suddenly, as if he forgot Ilya was still there.

“Hayden gave it to me a couple of months ago” he says, then adds in a mocking tone  “Buddy, you need to start chasing moments away from hockey, that’s not all there is to life”

“Pike calls you buddy?” Ilya asks, amused. He throws on his shirt, and shrugs into his crumpled sweatpants.

Hollander rolls his eyes: “I know” He does not offer a follow-up.

“So what moments away from hockey will you be chasing?” 

Hollander hesitates, his eyes fixed on Ilya. Not quite Ilya’s face, not quite making eye contact, but not hiding, not looking away. 

“I was thinking-” Hollander goes quiet, and Ilya can feel him calculating the gap between too-much-thought and not-enough-said. He still feels his gaze on him, lodged somewhere at the crook of his neck, where the fabric of his shirt meets skin, as if he’s mulling over in his head whether to cross the border between casual and wherever-the-hell-this-could-be-going-otherwise. 

Ilya desperately wants him to make that first step, into danger that lurks when you acknowledge a bond forming. If either of them plays their cards right, if the stars align, they could go from rivals fucking to friends with benefits to a new and bold thing that is not just friction. 

“You were thinking what?” Hollander’s face changes. Maybe he’s sensed Ilya’s pathetic longing, or maybe Ilya has just fucked him brave?

“I want to have pictures. Of you.” spills out of his mouth and now he finally looks away. Is he ashamed? Ilya wants to reach out and caress the courage back into him, wants to goad him into opening up. 

What he says instead is more palatable for either of them at this moment.

“Oh you want pictures of my dick to keep you warm when you’re lonely? Why don’t you just watch porn like everyone else, Hollander, I thought you had internet in Canada?”

“Fuck you” he spits back instinctively but there’s no real bite to it. No real bite.

Ilya hears a sharp intake of breath as he turns to leave the room - did Hollander think he was leaving? Did he want to call after him to stay?

He grabs the camera from the shelf, walks back to the room and tosses it next to Hollander sprawled on the bed. 

“Here, take pictures of me then.” Ilya straightens up exaggeratedly and flexes his biceps.

Hollander snickers “Now’s not the moment, asshole. I just-” he goes quiet again, and Ilya can hear the wheels in his head turning, as Hollander strategises what to say next.

“I do, by the way. Want to have pictures of you for when I’m lone- alone.” he blurts out, a slow smile spreading on Ilya’s face. “We’re hot, what we’re doing is hot, I want-” he pinches the bridge of his nose, and sighs “we can’t really take any photos in any other ways and-”

“No, no, I get it.” Ilya interrupts. It’s so endearing to watch Hollander ask for what he wants, and what he wants right now, apparently, is just a sliver of proof for mutual attraction or - affection. 

“Next time then. Just make sure you keep them in a safe.”

“Yeah, fuck, of course” amusement fades from Hollander’s face and morphs into something else Ilya can’t quite pinpoint. There’s still fondness to it, but it’s now tainted with seriousness, like maybe he’s already regretting making the suggestion, because it bared a piece of him that wants. They stay like that for a few more moments, Hollander sitting up in bed, hair tousled from being grabbed at, a sight to behold, and Ilya swears he looks like there’s words at the tip of his tongue, like he’s bursting at the seams with invitation, but loses the fight with the Hollander that backs out. He’d take a picture of him like this, too, along with the fucked out, blissed out version of him, and press them both somewhere close to his heart. Ilya finds himself at the verge of caving in, almost asks to be asked to stay the night but won’t take the chances on something so new and fragile.

“Anyway, I should probably go-” Ilya says suddenly, shuffles to pick up his bag from the floor and turns to the door. “Goodnight, Hollander.” 

“Goodnight, Ilya” he hears Hollander’s voice, low and soft, and Ilya freezes. For a split second he thinks he misheard, then the shape of Hollander’s words arranges itself and settles in his brain. Slowly, he turns his head to look back at Hollander and hears the shutter of the camera click.

***

Later in the cab back to the hotel Ilya slides his hand into the side pocket of his duffel. The photo has fully developed by now, half of the frame covered by the black of Shane’s bedroom door. The other half is the bed and Shane in it, all loose and beautiful, his arm covering his eyes, lips curling into a small smile - he looks happy. His legs are tangled in the sheets, his thick thighs spread like an invitation. This is tangible proof of the mess they made, and Ilya’s brow furrows at the thought that it’s not only literally, but figuratively too, at least for him, and how he could never come back from this. 

“Fuck” he swears under his breath, and suddenly a jolt of panic surges through him. This picture should not exist, he thinks. It should not be in his hands, outside of a safe, in a cab to a hotel in Montreal. It was supposed to be a fleeting moment, just a convenient warm body in his hands, and now it was real, a thread unspooled and connected to something.

Ilya was fucked.

***

After Ilya leaves, Shane showers. He washes away the sweat and come and the smell of sex. A thought creeps into his head that he wishes he could keep the smell of Ilya on him, wishes he could keep the memory of his fingertips on his skin like a brand. That’s new, he thinks to himself, the soreness of pleasure in his lower body is an unfamiliar sensation but he craves more of it, even as Rozanov has barely made it to the cab. He closes his eyes as water rains down on him, and the flashbacks of pressure - Rozanov pressing inside him, Rozanov’s hand firm between his shoulder blades, Rozanov’s body weight flush against his - appear instantly and he fixates his attention on the sensation of it. 

Wrapped in a towel he sits back against the headboard of the bed. His hand slips under the pillow to grab at the picture he took.

Ilya is at the center of the frame, dressed in black, his back to Shane. The bedroom is lit only by the low glow of the lamp at Shane’s nightstand. The light barely catches the frame of his shoulders but bounces off his curls softly, cherub-like. It emphasises how much gentleness there is in him lurking beneath the surface, when there’s no act and no pretense. The look on his face is a palimpsest of emotion, shock first like he hadn’t expected such a display of familiarity. And underneath that, something softer, something without a name yet, something young and hopeful, that made Ilya’s eyes fill with light. 

Shane slips the picture back underneath the pillow, turns off the nightlamp, and lies down to sleep.