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“You don’t even look like me,” Ilya sneers in his Russian accent. “How are we identical?”
“I mean, we sort of look alike,” Connor says sweetly, his big eyes crinkling into an automatic smile.
He looks like he could be filming a Coca-Cola commercial, and Ilya’s immediately wary.
“You smile…way too much.”
“Do I?” Connor asks, still smiling.
“Yes. I do not understand those big American smiles— what is there to be so happy about? Are you going to Disneyland after this?”
Connor laughs, delighted: “You’re funny, Ilya.”
And Connor should be easy to hate; Ilya was actually planning on hating Connor Storrie.
He had stalked him on Instagram last night. Ilya had spent an hour just going through each picture, studying Connor’s pretty boy face. Ilya could see why nobody had ever figured out they were twins before their parents told them at eighteen. Connor’s face is so different from his, softer, threatening to burst into a smile any minute, even when he’s posing.
Ilya couldn’t figure out what the feeling twisting in his gut had been as he’d scrolled through Connor’s curated pictures. Contract with YSL? Living in sunny LA? Connor’s the American dream at eighteen.
Hatred, Ilya had decided then as he had rolled over to sleep last night.
But is it? Ilya thinks now as his chest tightens a little as Connor tilts his head, curiously looking at Ilya with those big, kind eyes.
His twin is trying not to smile (keyword: trying).
Because even when Connor’s not actively smiling, his eyes do it for him. Like a sweet, fluffy golden retriever.
“So you are, like, Mr. Big Shot Model, da?”
“I’m new to modeling; I like it, but I always wanted to be an actor,” Connor confesses, honest and humble without even trying.
He’s telling way too much to a complete stranger, Ilya thinks. There’s nothing Soviet about him. He’s so American it makes Ilya’s teeth hurt.
“Actor? That is like, uh, how do you say, professional prostitute?”
“What do you mean?!”
“You kiss anyone for money. Is…prostitution, no?”
“No, Ilya, it’s like make-believe, playing pretend,” Connor says sweetly, earnestly, and he’s so beautiful it’s almost painful to look at him. Like staring directly at the sun.
“Oh, I understand,” Ilya says and tugs at one of Connor’s curls by his ear. “You are like…Disney princess.”
“What’s with your Disney obsession? And I’d be a prince,” Connor objects.
“No, you are American princess I have decided, very pretty,” Ilya says as he looks Connor up from his snug jeans and brown sweater, which stretches tightly over his pecs, making it seem like Connor has a perky set of A cups.
“Thank you? I think,” Connor says, slightly blushing, and then looks Ilya up and down. “Would it be self absorbed to say you’re good looking yourself?”
“No, I am different person.”
“Same genetics though, Ilya.”
“Ah, genetics, shmetics,” Ilya says with an eyeroll. “I am built from Russian winters, one thousand hockey practices and borscht…many, many plates of borscht. You are like, uh, Happy Meal from McDonalds. Made to be pleasing.”
“Ah, Disney and McDonalds, gotcha,” Connor says with raised brows. “That’s what you think American culture is?”
“What else is there?”
“You got me there,” Connor says and laughs again, an adorable sound that Ilya’s already memorized, even though he’s only heard it twice now; he thinks he wouldn’t mind hearing it more often.
“Okay, so, what you want to do? I have no practice today. Unless you want to stand around your hotel lobby, chirping one another all day.”
“Mh, well, I thought we could go to my favorite restaurant in Boston for brunch and then go to the gym,” Connor lists off.
“Brunch? Russians don’t brunch.”
And Connor just looks at Ilya with those Disney princess eyes and Ilya immediately folds— “Fine. Brunch. I will do brunch for one day, just one day…as long as we tell no one about this.”
“My lips are sealed,” Connor promises and takes him by the arm, and Ilya is only too happy to be led around all day like Connor’s pet.
And surprisingly brunch is delicious. Connor orders them both the same thing— eggs, sausage and toast, and it’s in the shape of a smiley face on the plate.
“Do you like it?”
“No, is fucking weird to be making food into faces, just eat the fucking food,” Ilya says as he stabs the egg which is the eye of the smiley face so that it starts to cry a yellow yolk.
Connor just laughs, and that makes Ilya glow with pride that he can keep eliciting that delightful sound.
Ilya notices how Connor is sitting right next to Ilya in the booth, so their thighs are pressed warmly together. This feels like a date, Ilya thinks suddenly. He pushes that thought down— this is his twin, of course.
Except Connor’s always in his personal space, bumping up against his hands when they reach for the salt.
And when they’re waiting for the check, Connor leans his head against Ilya’s shoulder and says, “I’ve always wanted a brother.”
“I have one, and they generally suck,” Ilya informs him as he grabs the check to pay.
Connor should never have to pay for anything, ever again. Not as long as Ilya is alive.
“Well, maybe a twin is different from a brother?”
“Maybe, I would not know…is my first time having one,” Ilya says as he signs for their meal and then rests his hand idly on Connor’s thigh; when he squeezes, Connor does not say anything back for a minute.
Then Connor gently rubs his cheek into Ilya’s shoulder and stays silent.
“What?” Ilya demands.
“Nothing,” Connor says.
“Bullshit nothing. I can hear you thinking.”
“Okay, yeah. I was just thinking about how my parents never told me about you until now.”
“Mine did not either. So?”
“So then I started to think about how I grew up. How I was lonely. I didn’t have any friends. I think…I think I would have liked to have grown up with you and have been your friend, Ilya. You’re funny, I can tell.”
And Ilya flushes as he signs off for their brunch and tugs Connor up. This conversation is too soft. It’s making him feel strange, almost teary, and he’s not sure he wants to feel that way. He can’t name the feeling in English, but it feels like being nostalgic for something you never had.
Ilya drags them out of brunch: “You are simply projecting. I am cold Russian with no sense of humor.”
“Mh, I don’t think that’s true,” Connor says firmly like he’s made up his mind on the matter.
And Ilya can’t handle any of that, so he just shakes his head and demands that Connor navigate them to the gym, and his heart skips a beat when Connor once again softly slips his hand around Ilya’s bicep, squeezes, and leads them forward. Ilya can’t get over how achingly gentle that Connor is, and he wonders what it's like to be able to grow up like that— so loved that you’re able to be always kind.
Ilya can’t stop staring at Connor; it's like seeing some fairytale version of himself. One where he gets to be soft and kind and easy to love.
He opens the door for Connor: “After you, princess.”
And then Ilya blinks when he realizes he’s checking out Connor’s ass as his twin enters the gym in front of him. Damn, is that what mine looks like? Ilya thinks as he bites his bottom lip. Fucking hot.
He paces over to gently tap Connor’s ass: “Too tight.”
“What?”
“You should not be wearing pants too tight. Men will look.”
And Connor flushes a pretty pink as they enter the locker room to change: “I worked hard for it; they can look.”
“No,” Ilya says as he undoes his own pants and Connor’s eyes drop down to check him out. “Is not just from working out. What was that word you use? When you and I are the same?”
“Genetic?”
“Ah yes, genetic. I’m learning new words with you,” Ilya grins as he confidently pulls off his shirt, and he tilts his head, a challenge, waiting for Connor to do the same. Connor flushes darker, eyes running up and down Ilya’s chest, checking him out, and then he pulls off his off his own top.
Huh.
Because while Connor’s face looks nothing like his (in Ilya’s opinion)….that body?
“Perfect match,” Ilya says, shocked and takes a step forward, gently ghosting his fingers over Connor’s abs.
“I like to work out,” Connor says modestly, looking at him with those big eyes and tucking a curl behind his ear; Ilya wants to pull at it.
“And I think to myself those pictures on Instagram are photoshop, but this is…” Ilya trails off, unable to find the word in English.
“What?”
“Beautiful,” Ilya purrs in Russian because it does not sound the same to him in English, and Connor blinks in understanding.
“Thank you,” Connor says and returns the favor by gently running his hand up Ilya’s chest, fingers light as a butterfly kiss.
“You understand?”
“Just a little,” Connor replies in Russian, and Ilya realizes that his heart just skipped a beat.
Fuck.
“Okay, so I teach Russian to you; you teach English to me. Perfect,” Ilya says and he’s not sure when but at some point his hands have settled on Connor’s little waist, and Connor does not complain, in fact he seems to like having Ilya’s hands on him.
The gym door opens as someone walks in, and Ilya reluctantly lets his hands fall away from Connor, but Ilya’s eyes are still hot against him, checking him out. The curve of that ass. The tightness of that waist. Ilya’s mouth waters in a way that’s so out of the bounds of brotherly that he has to splash water on his face.
“You okay?” Connor asks as he bounds over to him, on his heels like a loyal, little puppy.
“Da, okay,” Ilya says instead of “I’ve been picturing what I would look like if I bent you over and pushed inside of you.” Difficult to translate.
But Ilya’s fully obsessed with Connor and not in any normal way. It’s a feeling he’s come to associate over the last months when he watches videos of Shane Hollander.
Ilya tracks Connor working out like he’s prey. At some point Connor gets deep into his squats, and Ilya has to force himself to look away and instead increase his speed on the treadmill. Because now he knows what Connor’s face looks like when it’s flushed with exertion and his brain is picturing other ways he could get Connor’s heart rate up. Ways with a lot less clothes involved.
That’s all to say that Ilya needs a cold shower after because his cock is throbbing.
“Fuck, you work out hard, Storrie,” Ilya groans as he gets under the cold spray, and Connor chirps back—
“Really? That’s just my normal routine, Rozanov.”
This boy. Un-fucking-real.
Ilya insists on escorting Connor back to his room post workout. The sun is setting behind them as they enter Connor’s hotel. And Ilya can’t help himself; he’s never felt more feral, more desperate to claim something that’s not his to claim.
“Safe in your room, princess,” Ilya rumbles as he opens Connor’s door for him, and he knows he’s not going to be able to resist temptation when his hand ends up on the small of Connor’s back.
“Safe from what?” Connor asks, allowing Ilya to keep touching him. It’s like electricity. Everytime Ilya pushes and Connor just gives.
Fuck, he’s starting to get hard again.
“They must have American version of classic story, da? The one with hungry wolf,” Ilya says, swallowing, and his eyes fall to Connor’s soft lips. He feels his cock twitch in his jeans.
“Little Red Riding Hood? Yes, we have that story,” Connor says and his eyes meet Ilya’s and knowingly drop down to his lips as well and then back up to Ilya’s eyes; Ilya wonders how aware Connor is that he’s about to be devoured.
“This is the part where I usually kiss my date,” Ilya says, voice dipping low, dangerous. “So say word ‘stop’ now.”
“You know,” Connor says softly, brushing his kind hand over Ilya’s sharp face. “I once read a version of that story where Little Red wanted to be eaten.”
“That would be very foolish,” Ilya says as he runs a tender hand against Connor’s jaw, until he’s cupping his face, and Connor leans into Ilya’s hand, looking at him from under his light lashes.
“Yeah? Why’s that?” Connor asks and blinks up at him slowly, and it’s then that Ilya realizes that Connor’s eyes look just like his mother’s.
Oh my god.
And that’s who Connor’s laugh reminded Ilya of.
Ilya is helpless to do anything else but lean in, so their foreheads are pressed together. Fuck. Pretty, loving eyes? Gentle laugh? It’s like she’s back.
“Because this is not how family acts, trust me. I do not do this with brother in Russia,” Ilya reassures Connor.
“I’ve never had a brother, so, I wouldn’t know.”
“Well, you do not do something like this,” Ilya says and leans in to gently brush his lips against Connor’s, soft at first and then he gives into his hunger, allows himself to lick Connor’s mouth open, and Connor happily moans under his dominance, beautifully submitting himself to Ilya.
It feels illegal, wrong, profane.
Ilya shouldn’t be allowed to pull Connor onto his lap, to feel that ass up under his big hands and squeeze as they make out. There should be something to stop their tongues from sliding together.
“We should not be doing this,” Ilya pants. “Tell me to stop, Connor.”
And Connor licks Ilya from his lips: “Please don’t stop.”
“Blyat,” Ilya curses in Russian as his hips shift up, and he’s pantomiming fucking Connor in his lap, and he feels the subtle way Connor shifts into it, grinding against Ilya’s throbbing cock. Precum smears against Ilya’s boxers as he leans back in for another hungry kiss.
And then the room is silent except for the smack of their lips and their ragged breathing.
Connor pulls back, grinding down against Ilya’s hard-on as he begs for “more.”
Fuckfuckfuckfuck.
What’s left of Ilya’s restraint breaks. He pushes Connor onto the bed and pulls off his jeans, needs to kiss and lick and worship those thighs. Connor’s red faced and glassy eyed when he looks down at Ilya. Ilya presses a kiss to Connor’s inner thigh just to hear him gasp. He’s deliciously soft. It makes Ilya’s mouth water as he unzips himself.
And then they’re both naked and Ilya’s pressing their hard cocks together, admiring the way it even curves the same.
“No,” Connor says as Ilya strokes them together once. “More, closer, Ilya, I want you…”
“Where do you want me?”
“Want you inside me, please,” Connor begs, shameless.
“Fuck, this is American greed they talk about,” Ilya gasps as he watches a bead of precum dribble from the head of his cock at the idea of being inside Connor.
He’s so aroused he’s almost dizzy.
Ilya lets Connor go to grab some lube from his bag, and it’s delicious torture, gripping the base of his cock as he watches Connie open himself up with his fingers.
“Not your first?” Ilya surmises as he watches Connor expertly stretch himself open.
“No, my, uh, my first was my best friend, Hudson,” Connor confesses as he sinks a second finger inside himself. “We model together I guess and the- the line gets blurry.”
“Oh? Hollander’s brother?”
“Mhm,” Connor moans in affirmation as he works inside a third finger, putting on a show for Ilya. It is hard to resist stroking himself to the sight of Connor opening himself up for him.
Ilya bites his lip: “Hollander brothers— they are pretty, no?”
“Very pretty,” Connor agrees with a cheeky grin. “You have your eyes on Shane then?
“Oh yes. He has this look.”
“What look?”
“Like Mr. Professional Hockey needs someone to take all that control away from him, hm?”
Connor bucks against his fingers: “God. Don’t- don’t break him, Ilya.”
“I will not break him, just fuck him…like I’m about to do to you now,” Ilya says, low and dirty—
A promise and a threat.
“Ilya” Connor gasps as he pushes his fingers all the way in and out, and Ilya fucks up into his fist in response, anticipation making him ache. Connor looks so pretty stretched open, soft and perfectly fuckable.
And Connor does not disappoint. Ilya lets out a string of Russian curses as he presses just the head to Connor’s slick entrance.
“Gospdi,” Ilya hisses. “So tight.”
Even stretched open, Connor is so achingly tight around Ilya’s cock.
Ilya kisses Connor as he bottoms all the way inside of him.
“Ilya,” Connor gasps against his lips, and Ilya flushes in primal pleasure at having Connor as his, completely naked and tight around his cock. Mine, he thinks as he stills, just enjoying the sensation of filling up Connor, and Connor happily sighs under him—
“Is it- is it weird to have missed someone you never met?”
“No, I feel same,” Ilya confesses as he gently rocks his hips, making Connor whine. “It is…I have many words, but it is too hard to explain in English.”
“Tell me in Russian then.”
“You will not understand.”
“I don’t care,” Connor says and tenderly wraps his hands around Ilya’s neck, petting him. “Tell me anyways; I want to know how you feel, Ilya. Because the way I feel is like…like I’m no longer alone anymore.”
“Yes, like that; I am not alone anymore,” Ilya agrees in English before switching languages. “And then I feel so angry at all those cold winter days when you should have been there, warming my side, Connor. They stole my sunshine away. All my life there’s been this hole inside of me that I couldn’t fill until today, until I had you back, right where you should have been all this time— right here, with me.”
And Connor must understand some of it or maybe he just hears the meaning in Ilya’s voice because he hugs Ilya to his chest, and Ilya melts down into him. It’s not even about fucking, not really.
Yes, it’s heaven to be inside Connor, but it’s another heaven to feel so safe, so loved as he pumps in and out of him, rocking their bodies together.
And as if Connor can read his mind, he says, “Yeah, I know; I know. But I’m here now.”
Then Connor kisses him, soft and loving and-
It activates a part of Ilya that he’s been keeping locked deep down. The part of him that misses his mother, and he starts to make noises he didn’t even know he could make. The word “whimper” comes to mind, and Ilya tries to swallow it down, just lose himself in fucking Connor, but the tears spring to his eyes, and he can’t hold them in, and then Connor’s softly reassuring him “it’s okay” and “I’m here,” and Ilya just lets himself cry, and it might be the most fucking insane sex he’s ever had.
“It hurts, you were not there,” he says, unsure if he’s speaking to Connor or his mother.
“I’m sorry,” Connor says softly as Ilya possessively pushes into him, as if he could make up for all the space that’s been between them.
“I needed you, needed you so badly,” Ilya pants, feeling the embarrassing wetness of his face as he wipes it against Connor’s chest.
Connor’s soothing him through it, making his body into something soft, something Ilya can take out his anger and frustration against by driving into it.
And there’s no more talking, just Connor guiding Ilya’s face up to kiss him, soothing him with a gentle hum and a hand running through his hair, from the top of his head to the nape of his nape. Ilya feels like they’re speaking a language only they can understand.
“Mm,” Ilya asks against his mouth, and Connor just affectionately hums back, answering with his soft submission under him, allowing Ilya to take what he needs.
He’s starting to get closer to the edge; he can feel himself getting closer to his orgasm, skin hot like the flush after a fever, and Connor’s a cool calming hand, letting him, allowing Ilya to find relief between his spread thighs.
Mine, Ilya thinks, possessive without any right as he grips Connor’s thighs, fucking into him like it’ll save them both, like it could take back all the years of forced distance.
Connor makes a pretty little sound, and Ilya thinks—
You’re never leaving me again. You’ll fuck other people, and I’ll fuck other people, but you won’t leave me, ever. You are mine.
“Ilya, yesyesyesyes,” Connor gasps as Ilya hits a certain spot that makes Connor arch in pleasure.
“Connor, fuck.”
And then Connor squeezes his hands in Ilya’s hair and says for the first time, “Yes, baby.”
Fuck.
Connor feels Ilya’s hips stutter, and he says it again— “Come on, baby.”
And Ilya feels like something in him breaks at that (baby? I’m his baby?) and he cums so hard inside of Connor, filling him up with a gut-wrenching moan, so lost in the pleasure of the stupid pet name.
“Baby?! What- what was that?” Ilya asks, embarrassed at the way his orgasm was ripped from him.
“Oh, you’re the only one who gets to use pet names?” Connor asks, just a touch smug.
Ilya slaps his thigh: “Alright, princess; have it your way.”
And then he pulls out, so his cum leaks down his twin’s thighs. Ilya gets a thrill at the idea that only him and Shane Hollander’s brother, Hudson, have been here.
Ilya goes down, kissing Connor’s chest, so like his own, until he’s by his still leaking cock. Ilya returns the favor by going down on Connor, worshipping him with his tongue. It only takes a couple minutes before Connor’s gasping, clenching Ilya’s hair and cumming nice and hot down his throat with an— “Ilya, oh my god, Ilya!”
Afterwards they lay there panting, Ilya’s head pillowed on Connor’s thigh, and Ilya is just gazing up at him.
“I wanted to hate you, you know,” Ilya confesses as his eyes start to flutter closed. They should go shower, but it’s so nice to just lay here, soaking up Connor’s sunshine.
Connor runs a sweet hand through Ilya’s hair, effectively petting him: “Do you?”
“No. Is not possible. Too hard,” Ilya says with a laugh. “Is much easier to love you.”
Connor flushes, pleased, and strokes a hand through his hair: “Are we going to keep doing this?”
Ilya just presses a kiss to Connor’s thigh in answer and thinks— I’d like to see anyone try to take you away from me again.