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It's Hollander’s fault.
Actually, it's all Hollander's fault, from fucking Saskatchewan on. Please note for the record. Because Ilya is many things — best hockey player since Wayne Gretzky, built like a Greek god, dumb when his dick is hard — but he is not normally so dumb that four years in he is still risking his career, family, and reputation for some Canadian pussy. Which officially makes this the dumbest thing he’s ever done, a record previously held by #2, Sasha, and #1, the American ambassador's daughter.
But this specific Canadian pussy, and the extremely boring Canadian man to whom it is attached — well, he does not have the words for it, in either language. It’s a good thing no one else has access to it. Economies would collapse. Wars would break out. Civilization might end.
Anyway.
The whole punishment thing is Hollander’s fault.
He asked. Sort of.
The first time it happens, Hollander is kneeling on a hotel carpet and sucking Ilya’s cock like the gutter whore his mother did not raise him to be. Ilya is saying many things, mostly fuuuuck and Hollllllaaander, and cupping Hollander’s skull in his hands as he takes Ilya’s cock into the spasming furrow of his throat and makes wet, desperate sounds.
“Don’t swallow,” Ilya says before he comes, because he likes to see it, the cream on the tongue, and hear Hollander’s pathetic little whines until Ilya lets him close his mouth and swallow like a good boy. He even pulls his cock a few inches back from the vise of Hollander’s throat to better sit it on his tongue, magnanimously. But after he’s come and pulled his spit-shiny cock from Hollander’s mouth, Hollander doesn’t keep his mouth open for Ilya’s perusal.
“I swallowed. I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely.
“’s okay,” Ilya says generously, patting him roughly on the cheek.
“No,” Hollander says meaningfully, “I made a mistake. I’m sorry.”
“Really, it is fine,” Ilya says with a yawn.
“I’m really sorry,” Hollander says, staring him straight in the dick.
It still takes Ilya another second, because excuse him, but his English is not one hundred percent and also his brain just got shot straight through his dick. But then —
“Ah,” he says. “Yes. You made mistake. I must… punish you?” And Hollander manages to nod, shake his head, say “sorry” again, and push his face into Ilya’s thigh all at the same time.
So. That’s how it happens. And how it keeps happening. Because now Hollander makes a “mistake” nearly every time.
It’s — if Ilya thought regular fucking with Hollander was good — the punishments — again, words fail. But the problem — not a problem, but a complication — a nice complication, he’s not complaining — is that Hollander enjoys it too much.
Ilya puts Hollander over his knee and spanks him until his ass is cherry red and he’s hiccoughing tears: and Hollander likes it. Ilya slaps his cheeks and calls him his filthy little faggot: and Hollander likes it. Ilya makes him kneel in a running shower and pisses on him, his cock and panting face: and Hollander likes it. Ilya grinds a booted foot into the crotch of his jeans and tells him he’s not allowed to come, not today, not tomorrow, not until he sees Ilya again in a month: and Hollander really likes that.
The solution comes to him in a dream. Well. Ilya has many dreams about Hollander, he has not washed his bedsheets so often since he was twelve, but there is one dream that strikes him as particularly inspired.
It coincides with another idea, although it was less an idea than a momentary impulse. He had been at the Back Bay 24-Hour CVS, truly a low point of American culture, buying Gatorade, condoms, and cough drops, when he had seen a dog collar on a shelf of pet supplies, pink with a heart-shaped name tag. He had snapped a photo and sent to Hollander, with I buy for you, yes?
Hollander had left him on read for a week, a week in which he broke his own record for goals per game twice, got into three fights on the ice, and made Man in the Crease wonder if he was developing CTE. When he was finally in Ilya’s place at the end of the week, Ilya had a collar ready — not the cheap CVS one, because he was a gentleman, but a soft, buttery leather contraption purchased from a ludicrously expensive website with discrete wording, and for which he had paid nearly double for overnight shipping. He had decided on a dark green, because the idea of Shane in a pink one made him forget both languages and he had decided to, for the first time in his life, not go for everything at once and hold off on too much icing for the cake or whatever the fuck.
The green looks good on Hollander. He should wear it more often. Or maybe he should just always wear what Ilya tells him to. When Ilya attaches the leash his eyes do that half–shut, fluttery thing that makes Ilya feel about ten feet tall, and he reaches for Ilya's a dick.
“Ah, no,” Ilya says, jerking him still with the leash. “That is not for you today. Did you think leash was your punishment?”
Hollander’s expression tells him that he very much did.
“This is not punishment,” Ilya says, jerking him around some more because he can. “This you enjoy too much.”
“What the fuck, Rozanov,” Hollander says, with as much indignation as someone ready to come in his pants can manage.
“No, no. Your punishment is that today I am tired. Yes, I need break. Today, you top.”
It’s gratifying to see how expeditiously Hollander loses his shit. Ilya smiles through the sixty seconds it takes Hollander to say “What? I — No, what?”, start hyperventilating, blink back the tears starting to gather at the corners of his eyes, and do everything he can to convey to Ilya that he really, truly, absolutely cannot handle this.
It’s sweet. Ilya thinks Hollander should maybe see a therapist.
“Da, Hollander,” he says instead. “Will be good. You can learn what it means to be real man. And I get to rest for once.”
“Rozanov,” Hollander says, and he is desperate and shaking his head but does not seem aware that he is nodding, too.
“Oh, so is my fault I am big strong top with giant Russian dick and all little bitch boys want to bend over for me? No one cares about my prostate?” Ilya says. He does not say that this will be a first time for him, too. He is trying not to think about Hollander’s first time, their first time, and how softly and sweetly Hollander had opened for him, how it had made Ilya want to lock him in a box where no one could ever hurt him, because it’s not about that, it’s about finally having an actual punishment for Hollander, and Ilya getting something he’s wanted for a while, and Alexei calls him a faggot anyway, so he might as well embrace it.
Hollander has his face pressed hard into Ilya’s shirt, which already feels a little damp.
“Is ok,” Ilya says. “You will not be in charge. You will never be in charge. That is what leash is for, yes?”
This seems to calm Hollander a fraction, and the leash is in fact very useful for jerking him where Ilya wants, which for the start is kneeling by Ilya’s bed, his face glued between Ilya’s cheeks. This they have done before, and Hollander is good at it, eating him out like it’s an honor, tongue laving over whorled skin and pubic hair and plunging hungrily inward. Ilya grunts and tries to keep his knees as close to his shoulders as possible as he holds Hollander in place and tells him when to add fingers.
When he's ready he yanks at the leash and pats the bed beside him. "Up."
Hollander scrambles up eagerly. Interesting. Ilya tries to kiss him so filthily he'll forget what's coming next, and from Hollander's expression it half works, but by the time Ilya has dealt with the condom and lube the panic is back on his face.
Ilya bares his teeth and tightens his hold on the leash. "Put it in, Hollander."
Shane Hollander does as he's told.
Ilya lets out a sound he's never made before and throws his head back against the pillow, his consciousness arcing out of the room and into space as he realizes fuck and yes and almost hurts and so good and they were right, every asshole on the ice, I love to take it in the ass. And then he's brought immediately back into the room by the realization that Hollander has pitched forward to bury his face in Ilya's shoulder, each stuttering thrust of his hips punctuated by a sob.
Ilya grins, feral. Oh, he could eat him. Why had no one told him it could feel like this? He is not penetrated but enveloping, not invaded but surrounding. Hollander's cock is inside him, and that makes it his.
His scratches his fingernails through Hollander's hair and shakes him. "You are going to come, Hollander?” He asks, and feels the nod against his skin. He digs his nails in. "But that would make you bad dog. I come first. You must make me come."
Hollander is still crying, but he wasn't second drafted in the MLH for nothing, and despite the state of overwhelmed abjection Ilya's ass has thrown him into he manages to get a hand around Ilya's cock.
Ilya shoves him a bit upright so he can see his face as he jerks Ilya's cock and tries to regulate the rhythm of his thrusts. Ilya thought he had seen him in every state of sexual emotion, but never like this, the bitten back sobs and the ugly, snotty tears that make him so pretty. He wants to protect him. He wants to hurt him. He settles for grabbing the leash tighter.
"Yes, good, fuck, harder, Hollander…"
His orgasm rolls through him like thunder and he just manages to keep his eyes open and grit out "Ok, now, good boy” and Hollander collapses on top of him with an undignified spasm. They lie like that, heaving, sweat-slick. Hollander is not sobbing anymore, but tears still tremble on his eyelashes. Ilya kisses them away, murmurs in Russian, calls him sweetheart and darling and my good little faggot. They lie together for so long that they start to shiver, and Ilya, thinking with weariness about how wonderful he is, gets up despite the sting in his ass to fetch warm washcloths and clean them both. He crawls back in bed and stretches like a cat while Hollander gets dressed.
“Was good, yes? We do again?”
Hollander looks wrung out, calm, pleased, concerned, and several other emotions Ilya is too tired to read. “Uh yeah, definitely. Sounds like a plan.” He’s not quite making eye contact with Ilya, but he often doesn’t. He gives a dorky little wave as he walks out the room that makes Ilya snort with fondness.
“Lock door when you leave,” he shouts at the sound of his retreating steps, and then rolls over to sleep.