Work Text:
Lily: Wait for me at the parking lot
Shane Hollander is still angry and stressed-out but he is waiting at the parking lot of the gymnasium. He is confused why Ilya Rozanov suddenly texted him to meet up, BUT he is more confused why he is agreeing to it. This gymnasium is literally filled with fans and hockey players, notably, Scott Hunter.
You're starting to sound like him.
“Fuck,” Shane swears under his breath as Hunter's words replay in his mind.
All I did was try to shit-talk him. Everyone does that. He tells himself.
A slick black sports car stops in front of him. The slickness of the car and vibration of the sound of its engine are appealing to Shane.
Sports cars are sexy…not practical for everyday drive though. He thought of his Jeep Cherokee, a sports car that is practical and sexy.
The passenger side window rolls down, revealing Rozanov in a grey shirt that is tight enough to outline the muscles on his arms and pecks.
“Hollander, get in,” he says.
Shane can't believe it but he missed hearing the deep Russian voice (despite hearing it in the post-game interview four days ago). Perhaps he misses hearing it in person. He gets in the car, places his gear bag in the backseat, and puts the seatbelt on.
“Oh my god, Hollander. I’m not a reckless driver,” Rozanov teases then puts the gearstick to Drive.
“That's not— Look, it's for safety, okay? I always put a seatbelt on whenever I ride in any vehicle.” Shane can even hear the pinch of defensiveness in his voice.
“Oohh someone's still angry.” Rozanov has to bite his lip to stop himself from grinning too much.
Shane lets out a frustrated sigh as he runs a hand through hair. “You watched the game?”
“Yes. Was boring in my penthouse, so I watched the game. I was expecting it to be boring as fuck because you and Scott Hunter are playing.”
“Wow. Sorry to disappoint you.”
“No. No, am not disappointed, Hollander. I was very entertained.” He turns and smiles at his passenger.
Shane scoffs. “Of course you are.”
Both of them are grinning, ear to ear.
“I, uh, didn’t expect you be someone to fight with old people.” Rozanov glances at Hollander again, who also glances back. They shared a knowing look before bursting into laughter.
”I can’t fucking believe I had a fight with Scott Hunter in front of hundreds of people.”
”What did you fight about?”
Shane breath hitches. He doesn’t want to answer the question because he knows he will never hear the end of it from Rozanov, but he thinks he has to answer to address the Scott-Hunter-sized elephant that Scott Hunter just dropped on him.
He rests his elbow on the window and takes a deep breath. “1221.”
Rozanov’s brows furrowed. “1221? What’s that?”
“Your hotel room.”
”Hotel room where? Oh. The All-Star Games.”
”Yes.”
Rozanov doesn’t say anything. He waits for Hollander to give more information while driving over a road hump.
”For someone that drives a sports car, you’re very careful,” Hollander says.
Rozanov doesn't know how to process that because it's not always that Hollander compliments him outside of hockey.
As cool as he can set his voice, he replies, ”See, I am not a reckless driver. Now, tell me more about your fight with Scott Hunter about 1221, Hollander.”
Shane groans. “At the All-Stars, you told me your hotel room number, Scott Hunter heard, he told me he’s staying next to your room. We hooked-up in your room despite knowing he's right next door. At the games tonight, I attempted to shit-talk him, he retaliated by telling me I’m starting to sound like you.”
Hollander’s chest is rising and falling, many words he isn’t expecting himself to blurt. Rozanov’s mouth fell open, no words came out for the whole minute he drove in a compound of two-story houses. He stops in front of an automated garage door, drives in, and parks the car.
It just dawns on Hollander that Rozanov did not bring him to Rozanov’s penthouse. This is an entirely uncharted building.
“Where are we, Rozanov?” He tries not to sound nervous.
Rozanov chuckles. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to do something bad to you, Hollander.” He adds a bit of raspiness on ‘Hollander’, in which Hollander feel his body shudder in arousal.
“Then what are you going to do to–”
Hollander didn’t get to finish because Rozanov reaches for his head and clashed their mouths into a heated exchange of spit and moans.
At some point, they are too pressed on each other that they can feel the big pumps of blood on their chests as they groan hungrily, especially Ilya. His hand has grabbed Hollander’s nape, cupped Hollander’s flushed cheek, and gripped Hollander’s hair.
Ilya has to pull his tongue from Hollander’s mouth to say, “You don’t know how hot you make me, Hollander.”
Hollander pulls himself out from the hypnosis of Rozanov’s plump, spit-slicked lips. Despite his ability to control himself in wanting things, when it comes to Rozanov, he can’t stop himself from losing an ounce of it.
“Yeah? How hot?”
“Too hot. Very hot. Whenever I see your angry face, I…drives me crazy.”
“Wow,” Hollander says breathelessly with wide eyes. “You also drive me crazy.” The admission made him feel light like a feather. Maybe it’s because most of his blood is down south that his upper head is floating in the cloud 9 the hot Russian man is driving him to.
There’s mischievousness in Rozanov’s smirk. “Are you still angry at Scott Hunter right now?”
Shane’s aroused expression quickly becomes an angry one. Ilya bites back a smile.
“Don’t bring him up or I’ll step out of the car and walk away,” he warns.
Rozanov cocks an eyebrow. He leans forward, stopping within a breathe’s inch from Hollander’s anticipating mouth. “Are you sure you can walk with your cock so hard?”
Hollander whines when Rozanov moves his hand from Hollander’s hair to the tent on Hollander’s pants. Rozanov smirks, proud to see how much he ‘drives Hollander crazy’. He continues to rub his palm, on the right places with a delicious amount of pressure, listening to the sounds coming out of Hollander’s slack lips.
Those sounds will not be the only things coming out of Hollander any second now.
Rozanov gives Hollander a quick peck before placing his lips on his ears. “Want me to blow you here, or can you walk inside the house? Hm?”
When Hollander only moans in response to Rozanov's squeeze on his cock, Rozanov licks a long line on his throat. He sucks Hollander's Adam's apple, earning a surprised gasp that quickly turns into a moan.
He lifts his head, grabs Hollander's chin, and stares hungrily at Hollander's eyes that are sparkling with desire.
“Where do you want me to relieve your stress, hm? I need an answer right now, Hollander, or I'll fuck you right on the passenger seat.”
“Fuck, Rozanov,” are Shane's last words before he gives Ilya his answer in the form of wrapping his arms on him, crashing their mouths on each other, and pulling him on top.
In a flash, the passenger seat has been adjusted down, shirts are thrown at the backseat, pants are undone, and the windows are beginning to fog.
“Rozanov,” Hollander gasps as he lifts his hips to get friction with any part of Rozanov—in their current positions, it’s Rozanov’s right thigh wedged in between his legs. “Fuck. Here. Right there.”
The car is mostly filled with Shane’s whines, moans, and whimpers. Ilya is just groans and grunts, and fascinated eyes watching Shane get off by rubbing himself on his thigh.
O, Hollander, chto ty so mnoy delayesh'?
(Oh, Hollander, what are you doing to me?)
He just watches—his right hand is on the head of the seat for support, and his left hand on Hollander’s hip to guide him to a steady rhythm.
”Yes, Hollander. Use me to get off. To get your anger off.”
”Rozanov,” Hollander whines whilst he grabs onto Rozanov’s sweat-drenched shirt. “I have to— I…I’m coming.”
Hollander stops following the rhythm and begins frantically humping Rozanov’s thigh to chase his orgasm. Rozanov watches his face scrunches, his mouth falling open to let out his voice, his hips twitching as he finishes, and the wet spot forming on his pants.
While Hollander is coming down—calming down, rather, Rozanov cups his cheek in the intention to suit him.
“Breathe, Hollander,” Rozanov says as wipes a bead of sweat with his thumb. “Breathe,” he says softer as he rests his forehead on Hollander’s. With their forehead touching, he can feel how hot and flushed Hollander is.
Hollander breathes by Rozanov’s instruction.
Once Hollander feels he has taken enough oxygen, he chooses to use that to ignite a heated kiss. This time it is Rozanov that is following Hollander.
“Switch,” is all Hollander says and positions are switched swiftly.
There were little adjustments made with the passenger, but they got where they wanted to be; Hollander on his knees on Rozanov’s sports car, Rozanov on the passenger seat with his legs spread as wide as the space allowed him.
As Hollander pulls out Rozanov’s cock out of his pants, Rozanov grabs hold on the window console and the headrest.
“Aahh,” Rozanov sighs when Hollander gives him a languid stroke. “More, Hollander.”
Hollander swallows hard on that request, which he interpreted as a command, and that thought drives him crazy.
Since Rozanov commands for more, Hollander gives him more by swallowing his whole length in one go. That elicits a loud, “Fuck! Ugh!”
Hollanders holds Rozanov in his mouth and throat for three more seconds before he pulls away to breathe. In a beat, he takes Rozanov again, now stroking Rozanov’s cock with his mouth.
Rozanov wanted to keep his eyes open to watch Hollander blow him, but he is already on the tipping edge that he can’t help but close his eyes as he lets immense pleasure take over his body.
On the edge, he takes off his hand on the window console, placing it on Hollander’s head to grip his hair.
“More, Hollander. I’m close.” His voice never sounded as raspy. He lets out a shaky sigh and says, “Fuck, Hollander.”
He tries to pull Hollander off of him as he feels his load start spurting out. “Hollander,” he says under his breath, “Ho—ughh!”
His grip on Hollander’s hair gets tight, pressing Hollander on his cock as he releases all his load in Hollander’s mouth.
All of the windows are moist due to the condensation. The two men give themselves a second to breathe before connecting their mouths in a languid kiss. It is still sensual but they’re both well spent to elevate it to something else.
Shane has retrieved his seat on the passenger’s; Ilya crossed the central console to get back on the driver’s.
“I’ve never had sex in a car before,” Shane suddenly says.
Ilya chuckles, endearingly. “Not surprised about. You sure you’ve had sex before?”
”Yes!” Shane replies, defensively. “I’ve had a lot of sex, for your information, asshole.”
”Sure, of course, Mr Lots-of-Sex,” Ilya teases more with his hands in a joking surrender.
Shane hears himself chuckle at that, which then turns into a grin of a person that just had the hottest sex they ever had.
“We should get inside,” Ilya prompts.
”Yes.”
Ilya turns off the engine of the car whilst Shane grabs a pair of pants and boxer briefs from his duffel bag. Ilya taps a keycard, pushes the door open, toes off his shoes, and dramatically lifts his arms to welcome Shane in.
”Is this one of your properties?” Shane asks whilst taking off his shoes by the door.
”No. I rented it for tonight.” He sits on one of the couches near the fireplace.
Shane doesn’t exactly know how to respond to that. “Oh.”
“So, do you want to shower or do you want to look into the bedroom?”
The flirtatious smirk is doing magic in Shane’s mind, body, and…reasons. He takes slow phases towards the other man.
”I have an early flight tomorrow,” Shane says, but he doesn’t really worry about that right now. He could sleep through the flight to avoid his teammates asking about the ‘fight’.
”Okay,” Ilya responds dismissively, to which Shane is ready to cuss him for the love of banter, but he adds, “There are taxis at the front gate that will take you to the airport tomorrow morning.”
”What?”
Ilya stands up and walks in Shane’s personal space. ”I rented this place because it’s close to the airport. You don’t have to panic if you wake up late.”
Sometimes, Shane surprises himself by being able to pick up what Ilya is putting down.
“Why would I be waking up late?”
On a sexy second there, Hollander feels himself levitating in a lust cloud, but Rozanov just had to be a little shit.
”Because I will relieve all stress on every inch of your body. Although there are not many inches so I’ll be done quick.”
“Oh, fuck you, Rozanov.”
Hollander’s offended expression elicits a cheeky grin on Rozanov’s face. He shoves Rozanov on the shoulder, then walks towards the small kitchen table. Rozanov follows him.
”Where’s the shower?” He asks in a tone he means to sound serious. The seriousness lasted in record time because Rozanov pressed himself on his back, and pressed more until he had to put both his hands on the table surface.
Rozanov rubs his nose on Hollander’s nape, in which he earns a breathy groan from the man he’s pressing on the table.
“I like seeing you angry on ice,” he says with his lips brushing on Hollander’s skin, with his breath warming the skin as well.
“Wow,” Hollander says with a gasp because Rozanov just grazes his teeth on his nape. “You saw me fight Hunter on a live game and you want to fuck me so bad.”
“Yes, yes, of course. But just you, not Hunter. Your face is cute.”
Hollander has received random compliments from Rozanov over the years, both in-person and through text messages, and each compliment still surprises him. To deflect what he feels in his chest, he replies in the same cheeky, horny way he does every time.
“Jesus christ, Rozanov. What does not get you hard?”
“This conversation,” the Russian deadpans with a punctuated thrust of his front on the Canadian’s back. “Come on, Hollander, you are hard too.”
”Take me to the bedroom first, you impatient asshole.”
Rozanov chuckles but he leans back, pulling Hollander with him by the shoulder. He leads them upstairs, towards the first door on the right.
”Shower is there.”
”Okay.”
Hollander doesn’t know why he waited for a solid five seconds before he got in the door. He feels his cheeks warm at the idea that maybe he waited for Rozanov to suggest they shower together. I’m becoming crazy.
When he’s done and in a fresh seat of clothes, he sits on the foot of the bed. Rozanov is sitting by the headboard, so he thought to move up there, but Rozanov suddenly stands up and says, “I’m taking shower too.”
Dumbfounded, he stares at the bathroom door, waiting for Rozanov to open it again and tell him he’s just being an asshole, and then go back to bed to make use of his words of relieving Shane stress in every inch of his body.
Many pictures flashes in his mind, pictures that are arousing him. So he takes off his shirt and pants, lays on the bed, and rests his hands on his stomach.
Rozanov steps out of the bathroom after a significant time. He intended to. His intention is to have Hollander fall asleep on the bed.
Initially, he wanted to fuck Hollander because seeing Hollander heated on ice does many things to him; immersed, amused, aroused being some of the things he knows a word for.
He walks to Hollander’s side, stares at Hollander’s proper sleeping posture, to which he finds himself endeared.
“Even while sleeping you have to be boring, Hollander.”
After memorizing the image of Hollander, he tucks Hollander under the comforter. He stares for a minute more before leaving the room. He cannot stay inside for longer because he knows he’ll have to preoccupy himself with a lot of things just to erase his desire to stay in the same bed with Hollander beyond the sex. He cannot afford to feel this much especially that the Olympics is near. He cannot have Hollander look at him nor smile at him, or else he will truly fall of a cliff.
Shane wakes up past his alarm (set on 6AM). Normally, he will panic and rush on getting to the airport. This time, he panics when he wakes up with no sign of Rozanov on the other side of the bed.
He sees a note beside his phone on the bedside table. It says, “Can’t wake you to have sex. I also have early flight. See you at the Olympics, Hollander.”
A chuckle comes out his lips, followed by a blush of pink on his cheeks.
”Screw you, Rozanov,” he says on the note as if Rozanov will hear his reply. He folds it and puts it in the pocket of his pants before putting them on.
He walks down, sees his duffel bag on the couch, grabs it, then puts his shoes and steps out of the house. Lucky for him, there is a taxi that is waiting at the taxi station. Through the taxi drive and the flight with his team, the giddiness he feels in his chest never left. Perhaps he has one foot over the ledge. It is scary, but there is nothing wrong with indulging himself to acknowledge his feelings for a few hours before going back to game mode.