Work Text:
S01-E2 30:00 to 42:00
JUNE 2014 LAS VEGAS
Ilya only had three minutes to pull himself together.
Two minutes and fifty seconds, actually.
He was gripping the cool, marble counter in a bathroom backstage at the NHL Awards, his knuckles whitening as he tried to force down the panic that had clawed its way up from his chest, wrapping icy fingers around his throat. It had been simmering all day, a low boil of unease that had finally erupted into a full roar when he’d spotted Shane Hollander backstage, all polished and perfect in his tuxedo, his dark hair slicked back like some golden boy prince. The sight had hit Ilya like a slapshot to the gut, familiar, infuriating, and achingly desirable.
It had been a wild few months. He was a Stanley Cup champion now, the heavy weight of that trophy still echoing in his mind from the night he’d hoisted it overhead, the roar of the crowd in Boston Garden vibrating through his bones. Intermittently, it felt incredible, the rush of victory, the champagne-soaked celebrations, the slaps on the back from teammates who saw him as their unbreakable leader. Surreal, too, like a dream he might wake from at any moment, only to find himself back in the cold, echoing arenas of his youth. And empty, god, so fucking empty, a hollow ache that gnawed at him in the quiet hours, when the adrenaline faded and the world slowed down.
His father wasn’t well. If there had been any uncertainty about that before, going back to Russia for the Olympics had shattered it like glass under a skate blade. It had to be Alzheimer’s, the way Grigori Rozanov’s once-sharp eyes now clouded over mid-sentence, forgetting names, places, even his own son’s triumphs. Ilya needed to deal with it because no one else would. Not his brother, who buried his head in denial like a coward, insisting their father was just “tired” from years of coaching. Not his father’s wife, who fluttered around with forced smiles and changed the subject whenever Ilya pressed. They both pretended nothing was wrong, leaving Ilya to carry the weight alone, a familiar burden that pressed down on his shoulders like the pads he wore on the ice.
Ilya was flying to Moscow next week. First back to Boston tomorrow to pack and take care of some things before leaving for the rest of the summer, endless days of family obligations, forced conversations, and the stifling air of his childhood home. He wished he could stay in Boston, lose himself in the city’s anonymous hum, or go somewhere else entirely. Somewhere relaxing, like a beach with turquoise waves lapping at his feet, or fun, like a club pulsing with music where he could drown out the noise in his head with bodies and bass. When was the last time he’d enjoyed a summer? Truly enjoyed it, without the shadow of expectations or secrets looming over him?
He’d bet Hollander enjoyed every moment of his summers. Soaking up the sun along with the adoration of his friends and family at his stupid fucking lake house thing, probably some sprawling cottage on a pristine Canadian lake, all wood beams and laughter, barbecues and boat rides. Not a care in the world, just easy smiles and effortless belonging. The thought twisted something jealous and bitter in Ilya’s chest, a sharp contrast to his own fractured life.
Ilya hadn’t seen Hollander off the ice since the Olympics. Hadn’t spoken to him since then, those stolen moments in Sochi replaying in his mind like a highlight reel he couldn’t pause. The way Hollander’s voice had cut through the crowd, soft with concern, “Are you okay?” The warmth of his presence, so close in the stands, pulling Ilya from the edge of his despair.
He’d thought about him every day. Obsessively, annoyingly, in ways that made Ilya want to punch a wall or skate until his legs gave out. Thought about the way Hollander had found him during the Sweden vs. Finland game, navigating the sea of spectators like he was drawn by some invisible magnet. The genuine worry in those dark eyes, flecked with gold under the arena lights. He’d thought about how strong the urge had been for Ilya to wrap Hollander in his arms and just hold him, pull him against his chest so Ilya could bury his face in his short, glossy hair and breathe him in, inhaling that clean, citrusy scent that lingered like a promise. It had been so fucking scary, that urge, a vulnerability Ilya couldn’t afford. The way his heart had skipped when he’d spotted Hollander approaching him, and the way he’d wanted to tell him everything, the fear for his father, the exhaustion of carrying secrets, the loneliness that hockey couldn’t fill. But he’d shoved it down, masked it with smirks and deflections, because what the hell was he supposed to do with feelings like that?
Hollander was waiting for him now. Not because he wanted to see him, not in the way Ilya craved, with that mix of fire and tenderness, but because they were presenting an award together. Most Sportsmanlike, which, Ilya had to admit, was funny as hell, the league’s idea of a joke, pairing two rivals who could barely keep their hands off each other for reasons no one suspected. He’d told himself all day that it would be fine, seeing Hollander again. That he could handle the pull, the magnetic draw that always left him unsteady. But as soon as he’d laid eyes on him backstage, that lean frame in a perfectly tailored tux, the curve of his lips set in concentration, Ilya had felt an overwhelming need to hide. He’d dashed away, heart pounding, hopefully without Hollander seeing him, ducking into this bathroom like a coward fleeing the ice.
So now Ilya was hiding in a bathroom when he was supposed to be standing at Hollander’s side, about to walk onto a stage to play up their rivalry for laughs. He stared at himself in the mirror, the fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows on his face. Despite his father’s unhappiness with the length of Ilya’s hair, Grigori had grumbled about it during their last call, calling it “unprofessional” and “disrespectful”, Ilya hadn’t cut it since well before the Olympics. Maybe because of his father’s unhappiness, a small rebellion against the man who’d shaped him into a machine. It was now long enough that he often tied it back, as he had tonight, the curls pulled into a loose knot at the nape of his neck. He thought it looked good with the tuxedo, distinguished, with an edge of wildness. Sexy, even, the way it framed his sharp jaw and those hazel eyes that could shift from playful to predatory in a heartbeat.
He could really stand to get laid tonight. He’d love to stop thinking for a while, to lose himself in someone’s body, the mindless rhythm of skin on skin blotting out the chaos in his head. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew it wouldn’t be enough, not unless it was Hollander, with his fierce glares and hidden softness.
He checked the time on his phone, the screen’s glow illuminating his tense features, and decided that, yes, he needed to get out there. Uncurling his fingers from the counter, he straightened and rolled his shoulders back, feeling the crisp fabric of his tuxedo shift against his skin. He took one slow breath, the air cool and faintly scented with industrial cleaner, and forced his face into a more relaxed, unbothered expression, a mask he’d perfected over years of hiding. With a final glance in the mirror, he left the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him like a punctuation mark.
He spotted Hollander at the edge of the stage, glancing around frantically, his posture rigid with barely contained frustration. Those dark eyes scanned the crowd, and Ilya felt a thrill at the sight, Hollander, wound tight because of him. Ilya sauntered up behind him, close enough to catch the faint whiff of his cologne, mint and citrus mingling with the warmth of his skin. “Looking for me?”
Hollander spun around, his tuxedo whispering with the movement. He was wearing a scowl that deepened the faint lines around his mouth, and his hair was neatly parted on the side like a child who was getting his school picture taken, adorable, in a way that made Ilya want to mess it up with his fingers. “Fuck, Rozanov. What the fuck? We’re on in like five seconds!”
Every time Ilya encountered Hollander, whether on the ice or off, he hoped that maybe this time he wouldn’t find him so fucking irresistible. Hoped that the pull wouldn’t be there, that magnetic force that drew him in like gravity. He hoped he wouldn’t want to watch the irritation in Hollander’s dark eyes shift to desire, those pupils dilating with heat. He hoped he wouldn’t want to be thrown against a wall by the man, and let him take his anger out on Ilya for a bit, rough hands pinning him, lips crashing in a battle for dominance.
This time, like every time, those hopes were swiftly shattered. Hollander’s presence ignited something primal in him, a fire that licked at his veins, making his skin prickle and his pulse quicken.
“Fifty seconds,” Ilya said calmly, his voice a low drawl, even as his heart hammered. “We are fine.”
Hollander’s mouth dropped open, eyes blazing with that familiar fury, a storm brewing in their depths. “Does it matter to you that everyone backstage has been having a heart attack looking for you?”
“Not really.” At the moment, Ilya didn’t care about anything other than the way Hollander’s freckles looked darker than usual, as if he’d been out in the sun recently, kissed by summer rays at that damn lake house, probably. The constellation across his nose and cheeks called to Ilya, begging to be traced with fingertips or lips.
“Where were you, anyway?” Hollander asked tightly, his jaw clenching, a muscle ticking there like a countdown.
Ilya went with the most infuriating answer, leaning in just a fraction, close enough to feel the heat radiating from Hollander’s body. “Busy.”
Hollander’s eyes narrowed, a flash of something sharper crossing them, jealousy? The thought sent a dark thrill through Ilya. Did he hate knowing that Ilya slept with other people? That he sought release in anonymous arms when all he really wanted was this? It was dangerous to even consider, a spark that could ignite everything they’d carefully hidden.
“Oh yeah? With who?”
God, yes, that edge in his voice, the possessive undertone. Ilya’s cock twitched at the idea, but he kept his face neutral, smirking just enough to fan the flames. “We’re on.”
He walked quickly onto the stage, the bright lights hitting him like a spotlight interrogation, wishing he could see the furious expression on Hollander’s face as he trailed behind him. The audience, most of whom hated Ilya for his cocky plays and trash talk, loved Hollander for his clean-cut heroism, and were jealous of both of them for their talent, applauded as he made his way to the podium, the sound a distant roar in his ears. Ilya found the teleprompter with their dialogue, the words glowing in stark white, and took a breath. He wasn’t a fan of reading English aloud to an audience, the words sometimes tangling on his tongue, but he’d make it work, turn it into charm.
“Sportsmanship,” he said cheerfully, injecting a mock-serious tone, “is very important.”
The audience laughed, a wave of amusement rippling through the room.
“I didn’t know you knew what that word meant, Rozanov,” Hollander read, stepping up beside him. He sounded authentically angry, his voice laced with that real edge from backstage, vibrating with tension that only Ilya could hear the undercurrent of, desire, frustration, need.
“Of course I know. It is like when I steal the puck from you and score a goal, you are not a sore loser about it.” Ilya grinned, leaning into the microphone, feeling the heat of Hollander’s body inches away.
“Or when I score a hat trick against your team, you graciously accept defeat.” Hollander’s retort was sharp, but Ilya caught the way his fingers twitched at his sides, as if itching to reach out.
“Or,” Ilya said in his most obnoxious tone, drawing out the word for effect, “when I win the Stanley Cup, you are impressed by my achievement.”
That got a lot of laughter, the crowd eating up the rivalry shtick, oblivious to the layers beneath.
“Anyway,” Hollander said grumpily, his voice a low grumble that sent a shiver down Ilya’s spine, “here are this year’s nominees.”
“Hey,” Ilya said, still reading from the teleprompter but adding his own flair, “before we give out the award, can I get a selfie?”
“What?” Hollander’s confusion was genuine, his brow furrowing in that way Ilya found endlessly endearing.
“Just a quick one. I mean, when will this happen again, right?” Ilya pulled out his phone, the cool metal grounding him as he opened the camera app.
“Fine, but hurry up.” Hollander’s words were clipped, but there was a spark in his eyes now, a challenge.
Ilya was excited for this part, his heart racing as he wrapped one arm around Hollander’s shoulders, feeling the solid warmth of him, the way his muscles tensed under the touch. Holding the phone out with the other hand, he could see Hollander’s irritated expression on the screen, lips pressed thin, eyes narrowed, but beneath it, something softer, a flicker of heat that mirrored Ilya’s own.
Ilya took several photos, the shutter sound clicking softly. It was stupid, wanting to have them, a tangible reminder of this moment, even if Hollander’s face was all tight with disapproval. Even if Hollander never wanted to touch him again, Ilya would have these photos, proof of the spark between them, frozen in pixels.
He curled his fingers against the soft fabric of Hollander’s tuxedo jacket, and into the hard muscle beneath, savoring the firmness, the way it flexed subtly. He turned his head, just slightly, to bring his lips momentarily closer to Hollander’s hair, inhaling that mint-and-citrus scent that haunted his dreams. It was just as he remembered from the last time Ilya had been this close, Sochi, when he’d kissed him breathless before pushing him onto a bed, their bodies tangling in desperate need.
Hollander’s irritation was so strong that Ilya could practically see the waves of it radiating from his tense shoulders, a palpable energy that crackled in the air between them. Ilya wanted all of it, wanted Hollander to unleash it on him, to shove him against a wall and claim him with rough hands and bruising kisses. Then kiss him softer, order Ilya to fuck him until they both forgot the world outside. Ilya wanted Hollander to overwhelm him until he couldn’t think of anything else, the panic, the family burdens, the emptiness, all erased in the heat of their connection.
Ilya let his fingers drag across the back of Hollander’s neck as he removed his arm from around his shoulders, a deliberate tease, the skin there warm and smooth. He didn’t miss the tiny gasp that escaped from Hollander’s lips, a soft, involuntary sound that shot straight to Ilya’s groin, making him ache. Ilya’s own lips twitched with the urge to stretch into a wide grin, satisfaction blooming in his chest.
When they finished their spiel, and after Hollander grumpily thrust the trophy into the winner’s hands, a forward for Edmonton, nice guy, whatever, his name barely registering through the haze of Ilya’s thoughts, Hollander turned on his heel and marched off the stage, his strides purposeful and stiff. Ilya sauntered after him, a predator’s grace in his steps, his eyes fixed on the broad line of Hollander’s back.
Hollander entered the same backstage bathroom Ilya had been hiding in earlier, the door swinging shut with a decisive click. Ilya silently counted to ten, his pulse thundering in his ears, each number building the anticipation like a coiled spring. Then he followed, not at all surprised that Hollander had left the door unlocked, an invitation, whether conscious or not.
Ilya barely managed to lock the door behind him, the snick of the latch echoing in the small space, before he had Hollander pressed against a wall. The impact was firm but controlled, Hollander’s back hitting the cool tile with a soft thud. Hollander’s dark eyes gleamed with anger and lust, a intoxicating combination that Ilya had never been able to resist, a storm of emotions swirling in those depths, pulling Ilya under. A combination that Ilya had missed, craved in the lonely nights since Sochi, his hand a poor substitute for this reality.
He’d missed him. The admission burned in his mind, a vulnerability he shoved down, but it lingered, warm and insistent.
“Well?” Ilya asked, his voice a husky murmur, breath ghosting over Hollander’s lips.
“Well what?” Hollander shot back, his chest heaving, the fabric of his tux straining with each inhale.
Ilya’s stomach flipped and his cock twitched, hardening against the confines of his pants. This fucking guy, defiant, challenging, everything Ilya needed. Ilya decided to push his luck, and pointed to the floor, the gesture deliberate. “Are you not going to suck my dick?”
“Fuck you! Why don’t you suck mine?” Hollander’s retort was fire, his cheeks flushing with a mix of rage and arousal, the color spreading down his neck.
That definitely wasn’t going to happen in this gross bathroom, with its faint scent of bleach and echoing drips from a faucet, but Ilya kept his expression neutral and hummed softly, as if considering the offer. Helplessly, he brushed his fingertips along the sharp line of Hollander’s smooth jaw, feeling the faint stubble there, the warmth of his skin sending sparks up Ilya’s arm. “Maybe ask nice.”
Ilya wondered if he had pushed too far. If anger would overtake the lust in Hollander’s dark eyes and Ilya would be shoved backward, rejected. If Ilya would have to watch him walk away, the loss a fresh wound in his already battered heart,
“Please.”
It was barely a whisper, but Hollander’s single word rocketed through Ilya like lightning, igniting every nerve. He managed to maintain his cool exterior, but barely, his breath catching as desire surged hot and heavy. Instead of giving in to what they both wanted, the drop to his knees, the taste of Hollander on his tongue, Ilya pushed further, testing the boundaries.
“You want me to kneel on this dirty bathroom floor? You have to ask nicer than that, Hollander.” His voice was low, teasing, laced with the accent that thickened when he was aroused.
“Please,” Hollander said again, his voice strained and shaking, probably from the effort it took to not punch Ilya. Or to not die of embarrassment, his pride warring with his need. “Get on your knees and suck my dick. Please.”
Ilya raked his gaze over Hollander’s body, slow and deliberate, pausing at the obvious bulge in his tuxedo pants, the fabric tented with arousal. Ilya cupped him through the sleek material, feeling the hard length throb against his palm, hot and insistent. He enjoyed the way Hollander had to close his eyes, lashes fanning against his cheeks, and the way he gasped, a soft, needy sound that made Ilya’s own arousal pulse.
Ilya leaned in, hovering his lips next to Hollander’s ear, his breath warm against the shell. “No.”
Hollander’s reaction was even better than Ilya had hoped. His eyes flew open, brow pinched with confusion, a mix of shock and frustration etching his features. “What?”
“No. I will not do anything to you in here.” The words were firm, but Ilya was suddenly struck by a fantastic idea, a spark of mischief and desire. “We will go back out there, and sit in our seats, and then go to the party. And then, when you have been waiting all night for it, you will come to my hotel room. And I will maybe do more than suck your dick.”
Shane mesmerized by the shape of Ilya’s mouth, moving smoothly, “When did your English get so good?” He asked, with a smile that reached his eyes.
Ilya huffs, answering, acting cool, “ I read New Yorker Now.”
Shane smiles widening, “really?!”
Ilya rolled his eyes, “No. The New Yorker is boring.”
“You’re really going to leave me like this?” Hollander asked, his voice a whine of protest, stalling pointlessly as his hips shifted subtly into Ilya’s touch.
“Yes. For now.” The promise hung in the air, thick with anticipation, Ilya’s mind already racing ahead to the night, sheets tangled, bodies slick, Hollander’s moans filling the room.
Another few seconds of hesitation, Hollander’s eyes searching Ilya’s, a storm of emotions flickering there. Then, with an absurd amount of irritation, “Fine.”
“Aw… I will make a deal, if you win MVP tonight, I will blow you, fuck you…whatever you want.” The words spilled out, a challenge wrapped in seduction, knowing it would hook him.
Hollander stared at him, and Ilya could practically see the suggestion rolling around in his brain, the competitive fire igniting. He would say yes to this. He wouldn’t be able to resist such an offer, not when Ilya had made it a competition with a winner and a loser, tapping into that rivalry that defined them.
“And if you win?”
Ilya grinned, wide and wicked, his teeth flashing. He knew this man so well, without really knowing him at all, the depths of his heart, the secrets he guarded. “I will let you know.”
Now would be the moment to make his exit. Leave Hollander confused and horny without showing how badly Ilya wanted him too, how much he’d missed him, the ache a constant companion. But Ilya couldn’t resist stealing a kiss, now that he finally had him alone, the air between them charged like the moments before a storm.
Before he could overthink it, he grabbed Hollander’s lapel, the fabric crumpling under his fingers, and kissed him. It was hard and messy and probably more urgent than Ilya would have liked, his lips crashing against Hollander’s with a desperation born of months apart. Hollander tasted like mint and victory, his mouth opening under Ilya’s with a soft groan, tongues tangling in a frantic dance. It still wasn’t the way he wanted to kiss Hollander, a slow exploration of his mouth that would provide Ilya with enough memories to get him through the long summer ahead, savoring every sigh, every brush of lips. But if he kissed him like that, they would never leave this bathroom, lost in each other until the world intruded.
It was fucking stupid, this pull, this need that threatened to unravel him. But god, it felt like coming home.
Ilya let him go, the separation a physical ache, his lips tingling. “Good luck tonight.”
He left without looking back, the door clicking shut behind him, his heart pounding with a mix of triumph and terror at what he’d set in motion.
˚˚˚˚˚˚
Shane left the party as early as he could. He wished he had the willpowerto stay later, to make Rozanov wait. He wished he had the strength to stand Rozanov up.
He'd been on edge for hours, half hard and buzzing with need. He'd had a few beers, which was a few more than he usually had, and his brain was only able to focus on his desire to get off as soon as possible.
He had a text with Rozanov's room number, and he'd seen him slip out of the party a few minutes ago. They hadn't spoken since the bathroom backstage.
Rozanov had won. Of course he had won. And now Shane had to find out what exactly he wanted from him.
They had done...everything? Shane was pretty sure they'd done everything at this point. Blow jobs: check. Hand jobs: of course. Fucking: yes, but only with Shane bottoming. Shane couldn't see Rozanov wanting to change that up. He hoped not, anyway.
Shane sent Rozanov a text as he approached the door, and he heard it click open just before he arrived. He entered quickly.
Rozanov had an enormous suite booked at the Las Vegas casino where the award ceremony was held. He stood in the middle of it now, most of his tuxedo already removed. He was down to just the sleek, black pants, with his dress shirt halt unbuttoned. His feet were bare. Shane had removed his bowie and stuffed it in his pocket when he had unfastened a couple of his own shirt buttons earlier, but he had some catching up to do.
"Here to congratulate me?" Rozanov said.
Shane demanded his eyes to move away from Ilya’s perfect six pack,
"I guess."
Rozanov spread his arms out, as if to say Well?
"Congratulations," Shane said flatly.
"Thank you. Now take off your clothes."
Shane had been kind of hoping Rozanov would help him with that, but he obeyed, draping each discarded piece of his suit carefully over the back of the sota. Rozanov didn't remove any of his own clothing. He just leaned against the wall , his shirt open, sipping his drink , watching. Shane undressed and folded every piece neatly, except his boxers,
"Shouldn't we… I mean… There are windows." There were a lot of windows..
Ilya raised a brow, "We are on the sixteenth floor"
"Yeah, but..."
Rozanov sipped his drink and flicked his hand in the air, gesturing for Shane to follow him to the bedroom.
Shane was down to his briefs. When he reached the bedroom, Rozanov was already drawing the curtains across the windows.
"On the bed," he instructed, without looking at Shane.
Shane did his best to appear comfortable and relaxed on the giant bed, as if he wasn't nervous as hell about whatever Rozanov had planned. He expected Rozanov to join him on the bed, but instead, Rozanov left the room.
The silence stretched unbearably long. When Rozanov finally returned, he wasn’t just carrying a drink, he was dragging a heavy armchair behind him like it weighed nothing. The legs scraped loudly against the hardwood floor as he hauled it into position, placing it directly opposite the bed, perfectly centered so there was no escape from his line of sight.
He dropped into the chair with lazy confidence, one ankle crossed over his knee, crystal glass of vodka dangling from his fingers. The low light of the suite caught the sharp angles of his face as he took a slow sip, eyes never leaving Shane.
“Mmm… This hotel continues to impress me,” he murmured, voice low and rough with satisfaction. “This vodka is not so easy to find...”
Shane’s pulse hammered in his throat. “Okay,” he said, the word clipped and impatient, trying to mask the sudden spike of nerves.
Rozanov’s lips curved into something dangerously close to a smirk. He leaned back, the picture of relaxed power.
“Touch yourself.”
Shane blinked. “What?”
“You heard me.” Rozanov’s voice dropped an octave, dark and velvet-rough. “Show off for me.”
Shane’s mouth went dry. “You…what?”
“It’s my special night, Hollander.” Rozanov’s gaze dragged slowly down Shane’s body like a physical touch, then back up to lock with his eyes. “I want to watch you.”
Every inch of Shane’s skin ignited, a violent flush racing from his chest to the tips of his ears. His hands trembled where they rested on the sheets.
“I-I’ve never...”
Rozanov’s grin sharpened, predatory and delighted. He took another unhurried sip of vodka, the ice clinking softly, before gesturing lazily with his free hand.
“I thought as much. That makes this even better.” His voice turned low, commanding, impossible to ignore. “So show me. Be a good boy and show me exactly how you touch yourself when you’re alone and thinking filthy thoughts. Don’t rush. I want to memorize every stroke, every sound you make.”
He settled deeper into the chair, eyes burning with dark hunger.
“Go on. I’m waiting.”
Shane wanted to protest, but since his briefs were not at all concealing how excited his dick had gotten in the past minute or so, he felt his argument would be weak.
"Give me some of that vodka, then," he said. "I'm too sober for this." Rozanov shook his head. "No. The vodka you can have after. As reward."
"Fuck You."
Rozanov laughed. "Is good vodka. Come on, Look at your poor dick, Hollander. Give him some attention, yes?"
Shane glared at him, but Rozanov only leaned back in his chair, comfortable as anything.
Shane exhaled and closed his eyes. He tried to ignore the smirking Russian in the corner as he placed a nervous hand on his own stomach. He rubbed slow patterns over his skin, letting his nerves wake up He heard Rozanov shifting in his chair. Shane's lips curled up a bit; maybe he still had some power here.
His palm flat, he rubbed his hand over the bulge in his shorts, slow and deliberate. He let out a low, shameless moan, and slid his hand lower to cup his balls.
If Rozanov wanted a show, he was going to get a fucking show.
He rubbed himself through the fabric of his briefs for a few minutes, making sure to emphasize the outline of his erection. He already found himself enjoying this; his fear was forgotten.
He opened his eyes and looked directly at Rozanov, whose gaze was Locked on Shane's crotch, his lips parted.
Shane lifted his hips, hooked his thumbs into his waistband, and tugged the underwear down to his thighs. His cock sprang free, hard and glistening.
Shane wrapped his fingers around himself, but instead of stroking, just slid his thumb over his slit a couple of times.
“There is lube in the drawer," Rozanov said. "Beside the bed."
"Mm... Get it for me." There. Fuck you, Rozanov.
Rozanov stood without protest and retrieved the bottle of lube. He held it out to Shane, but when Shane reached for it, Rozanov pulled it away. He laughed at Shane's glare, and tossed the bottle onto the bed. He moved forward to his seat and lay comfortably, saying, "how it feels?"
"Would you like to know," Rozanov asked as he settled himself.
"How what feels?" Shane asked, voice already rough.
Rozanov leaned forward in the armchair, elbows on his knees, grinning like a shark that had just scented blood. His eyes glittered with pure, wicked delight.
"The Cup," he said slowly, savoring every syllable. "Do you want to know what it feels like to hold the Stanley Cup, Hollander? The real weight of it in your hands… heavy, cold, perfect. The way the crowd screams your name when you lift it."
Shane’s stomach flipped. Heat flooded his face. "Oh, fuck you."
Rozanov laughed, low and filthy, the sound curling straight down Shane’s spine. "I cannot describe it any way. Impossible. You just have to… imagine."
Shane’s hands shook with a mix of fury and unbearable arousal. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs and shoved them down his thighs in one rough motion, kicking them off completely. His cock sprang free, flushed dark and already leaking at the tip.
Instead of dropping the briefs on the floor like he’d intended, he balled them up and hurled them straight at Rozanov’s face.
Ilya caught it one-handed, effortless, his gaze never leaving Shane’s. Then, without breaking eye contact, he lifted the crumpled fabric to his nose and inhaled deeply , slow, deliberate, shameless. His eyelids fluttered half-closed for a moment, and a low, guttural sound rumbled in his chest.
Something hot and electric twisted low in Shane’s belly. His cheeks and ears burned crimson. His pulse hammered in his throat. This damn man had a way of claiming every single move, every scrap of control, turning even Shane’s petty defiance into fuel for his own filthy satisfaction.
Rozanov’s eyes darkened to a dangerous, molten hazel as he exhaled against the fabric. "Smells like you," he murmured, voice thick with accent and lust. "Desperate. Needy."
Shane’s cock twitched hard at the words, a fresh bead of pre-come sliding down the shaft. He hated how much he loved it. Hated how his body betrayed him so completely.
He snatched the bottle of lube from the bed, making a deliberate show of it. Popping the cap with a sharp click, he drizzled a generous amount directly over his aching cock, letting the cool liquid drip obscenely down the length. He wrapped his fist around himself and gave one slow, slick stroke from root to tip, twisting at the head just the way he liked it.
A broken moan tore from his throat before he could stop it.
Rozanov’s grin widened, predatory. "That’s it. Show me how you fuck your own hand when you’re thinking about me, Hollander. Let me see everything."
If Rozanov thought Shane was going to be chatty during this thing, he didn't know Shane very well. Shane would be surprised if he uttered two words.
He stroked himself with slow, lazy movements. He closed his eyes again and let pleasure light up every part of him. With his other hand he reached down and played with his balls. He arched off the bed a bit, gasping and moaning.
He wondered if Rozanov was going to start touching himself too. He cracked an eye open and it seemed that Rozanov was happy to just watch.
But he was leaning forward now, and he looked a little flushed.
Shane opened both eyes. He wanted to get off the bed and crawl on his fucking knees to where Rozanov was sitting. He wanted to nuzzle his cock through his pants. He wanted to press his open mouth to that bulge he could see from here.
The thoughts made Shane's hand speed up. He let out a broken "ah" sound and planted his feet flat on the bed, legs splayed, knees bent.
Shane felt simultaneously mortified and excited. He reached for the lube.
"You gonna fuck me?" Shane managed to get out.
"We'll see."
Shane got to work.
It was humiliating.
Soul-crushingly, cock-throbbingly humiliating.
Shane lay splayed open on the expensive hotel sheets like a fucking offering, knees bent and spread wide, two of his own slick fingers buried knuckle-deep in his ass while Ilya Rozanov sat only feet away in that damn armchair, legs spread, crystal glass of vodka dangling lazily from his fingers. The man watched with the kind of focused, predatory intensity that suggested he was memorizing every twitch, every wet sound, every desperate flutter of muscle, like Shane’s body was going to be on the final exam.
Every shallow thrust of Shane’s fingers made an obscene, slick sound that seemed to echo in the quiet room. His cock lay heavy and leaking against his stomach, untouched, throbbing in time with his racing pulse. He couldn’t stop the broken little sounds escaping his throat no matter how hard he tried.
And then the words slipped out before he could swallow them.
“Please…” Shane gasped, voice wrecked and shaking. He was begging. Actually begging.
Rozanov’s eyebrow twitched. His voice came out low, rough, deceptively calm. “Please what?”
“I-I need…” Shane’s fingers pushed deeper on instinct, a helpless whine tearing from his chest as pleasure-pain spiked through him. His face burned hotter than the rest of his body. “I can’t…fuck…”
He could see the exact moment Rozanov’s legendary composure began to fracture.
The Russian’s throat worked hard as he swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing sharply. His jaw tightened. The tip of his tongue dragged slowly across his lower lip, teeth following right behind, biting down just hard enough to turn the flesh white for a second. His free hand had curled into a fist on the arm of the chair, knuckles paling.
“What do you need, Hollander?” Rozanov asked, voice darker now, edged with gravel and hunger. The calm was slipping. Fast.
Shane’s head fell back against the pillow, eyes squeezing shut in mortification even as his fingers kept moving, chasing that unbearable ache.
“You,” he choked out, the word raw and desperate. “Fuck me. Please…, just fuck me.”
The sound of his own name on Shane’s lips hit Rozanov like a live wire.
He sucked in a sharp, audible breath. The glass of vodka met the floor with a heavy clink, forgotten. In one fluid, powerful motion, Rozanov rose from the chair, towering over the bed. The air in the room seemed to thicken, charged and dangerous. His eyes had gone almost black, pupils blown wide with raw, barely-leashed need.
He looked like a man who had just decided to stop playing games.
Shane crawled to him, just like he'd imagined doing. He crawled along the mattress until his face met the bulge in Rozanov's tuxedo pants. He nuzzled and mouthed at it, and Rozanov buried his fingers in Shane's hair and murmured something in Russian.
Shane didn't know if Rozanov was saying something encouraging, or reverent. Or maybe he was calling Shane a slut. Shane felt a little slutty, in that moment. He felt wild. He wanted Rozanov's cock in every part of him at once. He wanted to come right away or not for hours. He wanted to kiss Rozanov and maybe also punch him for being such an arrogant fucking prick.
And he hated himself for wanting any of this. But not enough to stop.
Never enough to stop.
Shane opened Rozanov’s pants with shaking hands, shoving the sleek tuxedo trousers and underwear down to his ankles in one frantic motion. Ilya’s cock sprang free, thick, heavy, already rock-hard and flushed dark at the head, a bead of pre-come glistening at the slit. The scent of him hit Shane instantly, musk and clean skin and that faint trace of vodka.
With a broken sound of pure relief, Shane wrapped his lips around the fat head and sucked him in deep. He moaned loudly around the thick shaft, the vibration traveling straight down Ilya’s cock. The weight of it on his tongue, the way it stretched his mouth, the salty-bitter taste, it all flooded him with desperate satisfaction. He’d been aching for this for months.
“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya groaned, voice rough and low. “You love it. Look at you, on your knees for me. So desperate and needy.”
Shane’s face burned beet red, shame twisting hot in his gut, but he couldn’t deny it. He sucked harder, hollowing his cheeks, taking Ilya deeper until the head bumped the back of his throat. He gagged slightly but didn’t pull back, instead pushing forward until his nose pressed against the dark hair at the base. Spit already dripped down his chin. He bobbed his head with messy, eager strokes, tongue swirling around the thick vein underneath, sucking hard on every upstroke.
Ilya’s fingers tightened in Shane’s hair, not guiding yet, just holding him there while he fucked shallowly into his mouth. “That’s it. Suck my cock like you’ve been dreaming about it every night since Sochi.”
For several long, blissful minutes Ilya let him work, let Shane drool and choke and moan around him like he was starving for it. The wet, obscene sounds of suction filled the room. Shane’s own cock throbbed untouched against the sheets, leaking steadily.
Then Ilya suddenly pulled him off with a wet pop, spit stringing from Shane’s swollen lips to the glistening head of his cock. Before Shane could protest, Ilya shoved him roughly down onto the bed, face-first into the mattress.
“Turn over,” Ilya ordered, voice thick with command. He twirled one finger in the air.
Shane obeyed instantly, rolling onto his stomach and then pushing up onto his knees, raising his ass high in the air far too eagerly. His face was flushed crimson, chest heaving. He knew how he looked, ass up, back arched, hole still slick from his own fingers earlier, completely exposed and desperate for the man he was supposed to hate.
Behind him, he heard the crinkle of a condom wrapper tearing open. The empty foil hit the floor with a soft metallic sound. Then came the wet sound of lube being slicked over Ilya’s cock, long, deliberate strokes that made Shane’s hole clench with anticipation. Ilya was breathing hard now, the cool control finally cracking, and Shane fucking loved it.
Ilya climbed onto the bed, knees spreading Shane’s thighs wider. One large, rough hand slammed between Shane’s shoulder blades, pinning him down hard against the mattress. Shane’s chest hit the sheets, cheek pressed into the pillow, ass still tilted up obscenely.
Without warning, Ilya lined up the thick head of his cock and pushed in with one brutal thrust.
Shane cried out sharply, a raw, broken sound, as the sudden stretch burned through him. Ilya was big, and he wasn’t gentle. He drove forward until his hips slammed against Shane’s ass, burying every thick inch in one relentless stroke. The fullness was overwhelming, almost too much, the slight sting only making Shane’s cock throb harder against the sheets.
“Fuck… yes,” Ilya growled, voice gravelly. “Так чертовски тесно… Ты так хорошо принимаешь мой член, Холландер.” (“So fucking tight… Taking my cock so well, Hollander.”)
The shift in language hit Shane like a live wire. Something about the raw, rolling consonants, the deep timbre of Ilya’s voice wrapping around those filthy words, made his cock throb violently against the sheets. And Shane didn’t understand a word. Heat flooded his spine, his balls drawing up tight. He tried to bite back the rising pressure, but it was useless.
He didn’t give Shane time to adjust. He pulled back almost all the way, the fat head catching on the rim, then slammed back in hard, setting a punishing rhythm immediately. The sound of skin slapping skin echoed loudly in the suite, wet, filthy, rhythmic. Each thrust rocked Shane’s entire body forward on the bed. Ilya’s hips snapped forward with brutal force, balls slapping against Shane’s ass on every deep plunge.
Shane moaned shamelessly with every thrust, the sound punched out of him. “Ah…fuck…”
Ilya’s hand stayed heavy between his shoulder blades, keeping him pinned down, helpless. The other hand gripped Shane’s hip hard enough to bruise, yanking him back onto every savage thrust. The angle was perfect, Ilya’s cock dragging over Shane’s prostate with every brutal stroke, sending white-hot sparks of pleasure shooting up his spine.
“You feel that?” Ilya grunted, pounding harder, faster. “Вот что значит победа. Мой член так глубоко в твоей тесной заднице, пока ты стонешь для меня как шлюха.” (“That’s what winning feels like. My cock buried so deep in your tight ass while you moan like a whore for me.”)
Shane’s hole clenched greedily around the thick intrusion, slick sounds growing wetter as lube and pre-come leaked out around Ilya’s pistoning cock. Sweat slicked both their bodies. Ilya’s thrusts grew even rougher, deep, punishing strokes that left Shane gasping and shaking. The bed creaked violently beneath them.
“Harder,” Shane begged, voice wrecked. “Fuck me harder… please…”
Ilya snarled and gave it to him, slamming in so deep Shane felt it in his throat. The hand on his hip slid down to spread one ass cheek wider, opening him up even more for the relentless pounding. Ilya’s cock bullied in and out, stretching him wide, the head dragging relentlessly over that sensitive spot inside him until Shane was sobbing with pleasure.
They were both loud, grunts, moans, filthy curses filling the air. Shane cried out with every brutal thrust, begging incoherently for more even though it already felt like too much. His own cock rubbed against the sheets with every punishing snap of Ilya’s hips, the friction driving him insane.
Ilya leaned over him, chest pressed to Shane’s back, breath hot against the back of his neck. “Gonna come for me like this? Gonna make a mess of these sheets again while I fuck you?”
Shane could only whimper and nod frantically, hole fluttering wildly around Ilya’s cock.
Ilya’s pace turned feral, short, vicious thrusts that hammered directly into his prostate. “Then come. Come on my cock, Hollander. Show me how much you need it.”
The orgasm hit Shane like a freight train. He yelled, a loud, raw, broken shout, as pleasure exploded through him. His cock pulsed hard against the sheets, shooting thick ropes of come all over the expensive bedding while his hole clenched rhythmically around Ilya’s thrusting cock.
Ilya fucked him straight through it, growling praises and filth in a mix of English and Russian, hips never slowing. Only when Shane was shaking and oversensitive did Ilya finally slam in deep one last time, burying himself to the hilt. His body went rigid as he came with a guttural groan, cock pulsing hard inside the condom, filling it while he ground his hips against Shane’s ass in short, possessive thrusts.
For a long moment they stayed locked together, both panting harshly, bodies slick with sweat. Ilya’s hand finally eased off Shane’s back, but he didn’t pull out immediately. He stayed buried deep, letting Shane feel every twitch and aftershock.
“Jesus, Hollander,” Ilya finally panted, voice rough and satisfied as he slowly withdrew, leaving Shane gaping and empty. He flopped onto his back beside him, chest heaving.
His hair had fallen out of its little ponytail and was clinging to his forehead in a damp swoop.
Shane carefully flipped to his back, leaving the wet spot on the bedsheets between them. "How about that vodka?" Rozanov laughed. "Yes. Give me a minute."
Shane grinned. He knew he'd be at least a little mortified and ashamed later when he thought about this night, but at that moment, he was giddy.
Rozanov did eventually leave the bed and, after cleaning himself in the bathroom, brought Shane a damp washcloth and an ice-cold glass of vodka.
He brought himself a cigarette and a lighter.
He sat with his back against the headboard, one leg bent and the other outstretched. Still naked, but for his gold chain and crucifix. He lit his cigarette and Shane didn't even have the energy to lecture him about it.
Especially since he looked so goddamned sexy.
Instead, Shane sipped his vodka, which was gross. He really didn"t drink anything beyond beer very often. At least it was cold against his tongue.
"Are you heading back soon?" Shane asked, just to make conversation.
"Back?"
"To Russia. For the summer."
Rozanov exhaled a long stream of smoke. "Yes."
"Oh."
They were silent a moment, then Shane couldn't help but ask, "Why?" Rozanov shrugged. "It is home."
"But... do you like going there?"
Rozanov didn't answer. He took another drag of his cigarette and closed his eyes.
"I should sleep," he said finally.
"Oh. Yeah. I should... I need to get going, anyway."
"Yes."
Ah. There was that shame Shane had been expecting. He got cleaned up in the bathroom, then went to the main room to retrieve his clothes. He put on the pants and the shirt and carried the rest of the tuxedo. Rozanov didn't leave the bedroom.
"See you," Shane called out.
"Goodbye, Hollander," Rozanov replied from the other room.
And Shane left.
˚˚˚˚˚˚
The elevator doors slid shut with a soft, final ding, sealing Shane inside the sleek metal box. The moment he was alone, his hand shot to his phone like it was a lifeline and a weapon at the same time. His fingers trembled as he typed:
“see you next season :)”
He stared at the words for half a second, then viciously backspaced until they vanished.
His heart slammed against his ribs so hard it felt like it might crack them. Heat flooded his face, his neck, his chest, shame and frustration and something far darker twisting together inside him. He tried again, thumbs flying across the screen with desperate speed.
“We didn’t even kiss.”
The sentence glared back at him, naked and pathetic. The full horror of what he’d just done, of what he’d allowed, slammed into him like a fist to the gut. His stomach dropped. His breath fractured into short, ragged gasps that echoed too loudly in the small space.
“Fuck,” he whispered, voice cracking.
He deleted every word, one savage tap at a time, muttering the curse again and again under his breath like a broken prayer.
“Fuck… fuck… fuck.”
The elevator kept descending, smooth and indifferent, while Shane stood there shaking, chest heaving, the ghost of Rozanov’s voice still burning in his ears and the memory of those dark, hungry eyes watching him come undone still scorching every inch of his skin.
He couldn’t send it.
He couldn’t even finish the thought.
All he could do was delete, delete, delete, until the screen was blank again, just like the aching, humiliating emptiness now clawing inside his chest.