Chapter Text
The brownstone was too nice for a frat house.
Bricks freshly painted, window shutters uniformly colored and none crooked or showing any sign of wear. Grecian white columns towering in the front, holding up the lip of the roof that held the Pike seal, illuminated like a neon moon in the dark of the Boston night.
God, Shane thought, they must have great donors.
He had followed Rozanov quickly after his moment of celebrity at the beer pong table, making a quick excuse of an early night because of practice that no one could really argue. He caught up with his Russian teammate easily, only halfway down the street when he emerged out of the house.
Shane didn’t see the front of the Pike house for long, being swiftly led by the hand down the alley to the left of the house. It was shrouded in darkness and smelled vaguely of piss. His mom was totally right to be worried he’d get murdered.
Shane was too good at hockey to get murdered. As much as Rozanov would love to be the top scorer, mentioning how Shane was a fraud and would be surpassed by him in no time, he liked to win more than anything. As obnoxious as the Russian was, if you were on his team he was fiercely loyal. Shane had seen it at the Junior Olympics. If someone checked one of the Russians too hard, if they said something particularly egregious in a chirp, no more than a period would pass before Rozanov was taking them out. He saw the penalty box enough times as it was, but he never went without a knowing grin on his face. Once he even bowed, encouraging the boos of the crowd.
It shocked Shane that the hand that had knocked two members of Sweden’s team to the ground was so gentle on his own.
“Slow all the time, not just on ice,” Rozanov grumbled at him, but stayed smirking under the harsh shadows of the alley.
“Asshole.” Shane squeezed his hand a tad too tight, causing Rozanov to fix him with an annoyed look. He squeezed back, though.
Ilya pulled Hollander up to the back door, taking care to look for shadows waltzing the house. It was dark. Most, if not all, of the brothers were at the party and wouldn’t be home for hours. Good.
Just in case, Hollander was pressed against the brick to the left of the door. His back didn’t hit hard, but he still let out a strange huff of air. The bill of his hat was tucked against his neck, causing the whole thing to move, allowing some dark hair to poke back onto Hollander’s forehead. His lips went to form a question, probably what the fuck, but Ilya’s hand was covering the bottom half of his face before he could.
Ilya shushed him softly, holding eye contact with Hollander until the widened anger faded to something softer, accepting. Ilya stared for just a moment. Under the initial annoyance that Hollander always carried when things weren’t in his control, Ilya could see something much more dangerous.
Ilya hummed softly under his breath, raising an eyebrow to ask if he understood. Under his palm, Hollander nodded a little. Ilya pulled his hand away. Hollander’s lips were parted, eyes following Ilya’s. He seemed to follow the hand, just a little, like he couldn’t help himself.
Something fluttered in Ilya’s stomach.
“Must be quiet,” he whispered. Hollander nodded, slow but eager, adjusting his hat. God, Ilya thought, he didn’t even know what he was eager for. Whatever he could get, maybe. His breath was soft through the small gap in his lips, begging to be closed by Ilya’s own. He almost acted on it, but decided better of it.
Rather, he took Hollander’s hand again and led him quietly through the house, darting down the hallway to room 1221. Thanks to the abysmal number of early practices the Terriers had, Ilya was given his own room so as not to wake anyone else who would room with him.
Shane felt his chest release when the door was opened and only one bed was there. It was barely decorated, one small lamp that was on and a Russian flag pinned on the opposite wall. The bed was made, navy bedding and two pillows. It seemed small, probably a twin like his own, and Shane wondered if they were meant to fit in that together.
That’s what this was, right? Fuck.
He followed Rozanov with an ease that terrified him, legs light as he walked through the doorway. All of him felt light. His skin was warm and near electric, so it surprised him that when Rozanov backed him into the same door he’d just closed, and cupped a hand around the back of the neck, the blonde didn’t recoil from a shock.
No, instead he got closer. He was only an inch or so taller than Shane, but he still felt like he had to look up at him. Rozanov’s eyes were dark, despite their usual clear blue, and reminded Shane of a bear, like the few he’d seen in his backyard growing up in Ottawa. Expressive, soulful, and perpetually hungry.
Yeah. This was exactly what it was. Fuck.
“Uh, so, should we…talk?” Shane’s voice came out soft and sounded slightly removed from his body. He cleared his throat like it would help.
“Mm, no.”
Rozanov leaned in, brushing his lips against Shane’s like it was the easiest thing in the world. It wasn’t soft, but not desperate. Solid, warm, and encompassing of all of Shane’s space in the most comfortable claustrophobia he’d ever experienced. He found himself kissing back, tilting his head into it. The knuckle of Rozanov’s finger nudged at the nape of his neck, rustling the hair and bumping the bill of his hat. Shane smiled into the kiss, just barely, causing Ilya to nip at his bottom lip and then pull away, just slightly.
Hollander followed as Ilya pulled away, then righted himself. Ilya bit back a grin.
“This is a bad idea.” Hollander’s voice was soft, near giddy, the antithesis of his words.
“What is?”
“This,” Hollander whispered, sliding his hands down Ilya’s ribs and settling on his hips, fingers drawing soft lines where the waistline of his jeans sat. “You.”
Ilya cocked his head to the side before easing forward again, watching as Hollander settled back against the door. “I like bad ideas,” he whispered against the soft skin underneath Hollander’s jaw, right below his ear. He swore he heard Hollander let out a sound, but it wasn’t loud enough to be sure.
He could fix that.
Hollander’s grip on him got tighter as Ilya trailed kisses down his neck, switching between soft pecks and just licking at his neck here and there. It was sloppier than he’d usually be, but the drinks in his system had his mind scrambled, even though he hadn’t had one in over an hour. Maybe something else was intoxicating him. He nipped at Hollander’s ear lobe, running his tongue where he teeth had just been, tasting the salt of his skin. Hollander whimpered.
Ilya needed him.
He pulled back, kissing Hollander deeply for a moment. He placed his hands on either side of his face, brushing his thumbs over the freckles towards the tops of each cheekbone.
“You have been with a man before?”
Hollander’s skin seemed to warm under Ilya’s hands. He squirmed as much as he could while crowded against the door, gaze falling to the side. Ilya frowned.
“Is okay if not, Hollander,” he assured him, gently pulling his face back to center. Brown eyes found his again.
“No, I know. I–I’ve like,” Hollander swallowed, brows falling in on themselves in embarrassment.
“You’ve?”
“I’ve sucked a dick, okay? But it was a hazing thing.”
Ilya pulled back slightly, eyes worried. Hollander noticed.
“Yeah I know what that sounds like but it…wasn’t. I enjoyed it. Wanted it, if I’m honest. Sure, it started as a joke and then, you know,” he shrugged. “Fijis, man.”
There was a reputation for Fiji’s shitty hazing behavior, Ilya knew that, but this made his blood heat.
Shane watched something cross over Rozanov’s face. He couldn’t name it, but it wasn’t positive. Oh god. Fuck. He’d disgusted him. He’d fucked this whole thing and he should’ve just lied but he was so bad at lying and–
“Hollander, hey, hey.”
Rozanov’s voice was soft, and again his hands guided Shane’s face to his. Shane blinked a few times up at him, desperate to keep Rozanov’s hands on him.
“You are okay?”
Shane nodded a little.
Rozanov paused, reading something from Shane’s face, but he wasn’t sure what. He never really knew what his own face was saying, much less other people’s.
After a long period of silence, Rozanov gently laid his forehead against Shane’s, holding eye contact. Shane was eternally grateful for the door holding him up.
“You want?” Ilya asked, quiet, softer than Shane had ever heard him be.
“I want.”
Rozanov seemed to decide that was good enough, leaning in and kissing Shane again. Thank fuck, Shane thought, sliding his hands up Rozanov’s back and pulling them closer, deeper into the kiss. They kissed for a while, or maybe not at all, Shane couldn’t tell, before Rozanov was pulling back a bit.
“I want, too. Okay?”
Shane smiled. “Okay.”
Ilya smiled back, placing a quick kiss to Hollander’s lips. “Okay.”
He was going to kill Fijis when he had the chance for what they had made Hollander do. But he could think about that later. He just wanted to focus on making Hollander feel good, letting him do things on his own time.
“If not want at any point, we stop,” Ilya insisted, nodding once to emphasize his words. Hollander rolled his eyes. “I am serious. This is important,” Ilya tried again.
“Rozanov,” Hollander near hummed, kissing down Ilya’s neck, then chest, sliding to his knees with a soft thud on the 70 year old dorm room carpet. Hollander’s puppy dog eyes, stupid and boring and cute, looked up at Ilya before he placed a soft, slow kiss to the growing bulge in Ilya’s jeans. Ilya’s mouth fell open slightly.
“I want, okay?” Hollander’s voice was laced with earnestness, eyes full of desire.
Ilya Rozanov decided there and then he’d never be able to deny Shane Hollander anything.
Without any protest from Rozanov, Shane made quick work of undoing the button of his jeans, sliding them and the boxers under them down enough to get his cock out.
Holy shit.
Rozanov wasn’t even fully hard yet from what Shane could tell, but he was bigger than Shane and certainly bigger than Brad who he’d blown during rush. Determined not to look nervous and worry Rozanov, or worse, fuel his ego, Shane took him into his mouth.
He couldn’t take him all, he knew better, but he did his best. What he couldn’t fit in his mouth he wrapped a hand around, moving in tandem as he bobbed up and down on Rozanov’s cock. His tongue pressed up against the underside of his shaft as he pulled back before sliding down again, earning him small swears from the Russian. Shane glanced up, curious and terrified that they were bad swears.
Rozanov’s face was scrunched around his eyes and nose, focused down on Shane with an intensity he wanted to shy away from but also felt weirdly proud to have on him. His lips, full and tinted red from kisses, lay open, soft breaths falling from them.
Then, “So fucking good Hollander.”
Shane hummed, couldn’t help the excited noise, and Rozanov cursed again. As much as Shane wanted to watch him, memorize his face like this, he needed to focus. His eyes fell shut as he took care to move his tongue and hand in the ways that got the best noises from Rozanov, He was heavy and hot on his tongue, skin like velvet, and Shane wondered briefly where his racing thoughts had gone.
A cool breeze hit his head, and a soft thump happened somewhere behind Rozanov, muted but there. His hat hitting the bed.
Rozanov ran a hand through Shane’s hair a few times, moaning a bit as Shane blew him in earnest. The hand fell to his cheek and jaw, tapping a few times before gently pulling him off. Shane opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, what he didn’t like, but Rozanov’s thumb was pressing passed his lips before he could. Shane sucked it gently, eyes watching Rozanov once more.
“Too good,” Rozanov answered his silent question, reading his mind just like he did on the ice. “Could be over too soon.”
Shane pulled back, Rozanov letting his thumb fall out.
“But I want,” he whimpered softly. The words surprised him. He was supposed to say something clever, a joke at Rozanov’s expense about how long he could last, not that.
Rozanov’s eyes darkened. Rather than answer, he smirked and gestured lazily to his dick. Get to it, then, his eyes seemed to say.
Shane took him deep, as deep as he could, moving faster and with more purpose now that he had been given permission. He worked Rozanov with his hand again, too, humming around his cock to get those small noises to spill from the Russian’s lips again. He worked at it, faster, letting Rozanov tangle a hand in his hair and set the pace that way, gripping it just tight enough that Shane was aware of it, but not enough to hurt.
After a few moments, those noises got louder, whinier. The curses fell with more vigor.
“Fuck, Hollander, I am going to cum,” Rozanov groaned. Shane fought the urge to smile around his cock, decidedly keeping the pace and doing what he had been.
His moans got louder and more desperate, a chorus of broken swears and Russian words Shane didn’t know, before Rozanov was tapping his face in warning. Shane took him impossibly deeper, breathing deep through his nose.
“Fuck,” Rozanov swore as he spilled into Shane’s mouth, gently moving through it, hips stuttering but never pressing too hard. He looked at Shane with a fondness that made him nervous and proud in one fell swoop. He would worry about that later. For now he’d done a–
“Good job, such a good boy,” Rozanov whispered, helping Shane to his feet and kissing him in spite of being able to taste himself on his lips.
“So fucking good, “ he said a little louder, placing kisses to Shane’s cheeks. Shane beamed at him, leaning their foreheads together.
He was about to say something when three heavy bangs hit the wall. Both men startled, staring at the wall Rozanov’s bed was against.
“Quit fucking jerking it and get to sleep, Rozanov. We have practice early and I don’t want to fucking hear it.”
Even muffled through a dorm wall, it was unmistakable. That was Scott Hunter’s voice.