Work Text:
The Zamboni had broken down again. Ilya Rozanov watched from the clinic window as the arena staff swore and kicked at the machine’s rusted underside. His breath fogged the glass — February in Montreal meant the heating system fought a losing battle against the cold seeping through every seam of the old stadium.
Down the hall, Shane Hollander’s covered skates squeaked against the linoleum as he approached. Ilya didn’t turn when the door opened, just tapped his pen against the clipboard. “Good afternoon, Hollander.”
“Dr Rozanov, hi…” Shane said breathily.
Ilya finally turned, eyes flicking over Shane with clinical detachment that did not quite reach his mouth. He gestured to the chair by the exam table. “Sit. Tell me what is wrong.”
Shane obeyed, large frame folding awkwardly into the too-small chair. He set his helmet at his feet, fingers lingering on the chin strap as if unsure where to put his hands. “It’s… not like a pulled muscle or anything,” he said. “I just—” He laughed softly, embarrassed. “I can’t focus. On the ice, off it. Everything feels… fuzzy.”
Ilya frowned, pen pausing. “Fuzzy?”
“Plays I know by heart just… slip. I lose words mid-sentence.” His gaze lifted, caught on Ilya’s face. “It’s been weeks.”
Ilya nodded slowly. “You have headache? Dizziness? Light hurting eyes?”
“Sometimes,” Shane admitted. “Mostly it’s the fog. Like I’m not all there.” He shifted, knees brushing the exam table. The room felt suddenly smaller, warmer, despite the cold pressing at the walls.
Ilya stood, too close now, the scent of antiseptic and something darker — coffee and cigarettes — curling between them. He reached out, then hesitated, fingers hovering near Shane’s temple. “Any hit to head? Even small.”
“Couple,” Shane said quietly. “It’s hockey.”
“Is problem,” Ilya murmured. His voice dropped, softer, roughened by concern. “Brain is not thing to ignore.”
Their eyes met, held. Something unspoken tightened the air — awareness, curiosity, attraction, perhaps.
Ilya cleared his throat, stepping back, professional mask sliding into place. He gestured to the exam table. “We check you properly,” he said. “Take off clothes.”
Shane hesitated — Ilya heard the hitch in his breath, the way his chair creaked under shifting weight.
“You are shy, Hollander?” Ilya teased, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. “But you are so pretty. Someone so pretty should not be shy.”
The smell of sweat and stale arena air clung to Shane’s jersey as he peeled it over his head and folded it along with his pants. Ilya's gaze swept from the tension in Shane’s shoulders down to the way his fingers hovered at the waistband of his boxers. “All,” he clarified, not breaking eye contact as Shane slowly slid them off.
Shane’s briefs hit the floor with a whisper of fabric. His cock — already half-hard from the adrenaline of practice and now the prickling humiliation — twitched against his thigh. Ilya hummed, circling him like a scout assessing trade prospects. When cold, gloved fingers brushed Shane’s chest, he jerked like he’d been checked into the boards. "Jesus—"
"Muscles tight," Ilya murmured, pressing more firmly, thumb drifting over a nipple. Shane bit his lip to keep from making a sound. “Pain?” Shane shook his head, teeth sinking into his lower lip as Ilya’s hands ventured down, massaging down his stomach before reaching his upper thighs, fingers digging into the thick muscle there. Ilya cupped Shane’s balls, rolling them in his palm. "Very full. How long since release?"
Shane's mouth was bone dry. "I—" The words dissolved when Ilya’s fingers traced the vein along his shaft. His hips jerked forward, his cockhead already wet. "Weeks, maybe. It— ah. It hurts when I try."
Ilya made a considering noise, snapping open a drawer with his free hand. The lube bottle crinkled in his grip. "Athlete cannot perform with pressure here." He squeezed Shane’s sac just shy of painfully, watching the way Shane’s thighs trembled. The pop of the cap was obscenely loud. "You will feel better after. Yes?"
Shane’s nod was jerky, his breath hitching as cold gel dribbled over his tip. Ilya’s gloved fingers circled him slowly, thumb rubbing sticky circles under the ridge. "Good size," he murmured, clinical as if he was performing a simple physical exam. Shane whined — high, punched-out — when Ilya’s grip tightened. "Shh. Doctor knows best."
Ilya’s knuckles brushed Shane’s abdomen as he worked him to full hardness, callouses catching on sensitive skin. Shane’s hips stuttered forward despite himself, chasing the friction. "You like this?" Ilya’s voice was all gravel, his accent thickening. Shane squeezed his eyes shut, nodding again. The glove’s antiseptic smell mixed with sweat now, cloying.
Ilya tutted, twisting his wrist on the upstroke. Shane gasped, thighs quivering. "Look." A command, not a request. When Shane’s lashes fluttered open, Ilya was watching him with dark amusement — the same expression he wore admonishing rookies who tried to play through concussions. "See how your body reacts? Healthy. Normal." His thumb swiped over Shane’s drooling slit, spreading the wetness down his shaft. "But you fight it."
Shane’s moan cracked when Ilya’s fingers tightened at the base, squeezing rhythmically. The glove’s texture was maddening — slick but with enough drag to make every movement sting just shy of too much. "I— can’t—" His hands scrabbled at the exam table’s paper covering behind him, ripping it.
"Can," Ilya corrected. His free hand splayed across Shane’s hipbone, pinning him. "You take slapshots harder than this." He twisted his wrist on the upstroke, thumb pressing into that tender spot beneath the head. Shane let out a sob and tipped his head back, legs trembling as his cock pulsed in Ilya’s grip. "Ah. Prostate fluids. Very good."
Shane barely registered the words, too focused on the coil tightening in his gut. Ilya’s pace was relentless, each stroke calculated: too slow to push him over, too fast to let him breathe. The lube had gone tacky, pulling at Shane’s skin whenever Ilya’s fingers slipped. "Please—" The plea dissolved into a whimper when Ilya’s thumbnail scraped his frenulum.
"Please what?" Ilya leaned in, close enough for Shane to smell the coffee on his breath. His grip never faltered, but his other hand slid up Shane’s chest, gloved fingers pinching a sensitive nipple. "Tell doctor." Shane’s hips jerked, his cock weeping against Ilya’s wrist. Ilya just hummed, rolling the bud between his fingers. "Ah. You want to come, da?"
Shane’s moan was strangled, his thighs shaking as Ilya sped up — just a fraction, just enough to make his balls draw up tight. He gripped the exam table behind him desperately, barely able to stand; Ilya’s fingers were relentless, twisting just right on every upstroke, thumb pressing where Shane was most sensitive. “You— fuck—” Shane’s voice cracked, his hands fisting at his sides as he whined.
"Language," Ilya chided, though his own breath was uneven now, his grip slick with lube and Shane’s precome. He leaned closer, his stubble brushing Shane’s ear as he murmured, "You are desperate for it?" His accent curled around the words, thick and warm, and Shane shuddered, unable to formulate a response. It had been more of a statement than a question, anyway.
The doctor’s rhythm changed then — shorter, sharper strokes that had Shane’s toes curling against the cold floor. Every nerve felt alight, every inch of his skin oversensitive. Ilya’s thumb circled the head of his cock with each upward pull, pressing just beneath the ridge in a way that made Shane’s vision blur. "Close," Shane gasped, his hips lifting off the table, chasing the friction. "Fuck! I’m— I’m gonna—"
Ilya’s grip tightened, his fingers squeezing the base of Shane’s shaft just enough to stall him. "Not yet," he murmured, his breath hot against Shane’s neck. His other hand slid down Shane’s stomach, fingers tracing the tense muscles there before cupping his balls again, rolling them gently. Shane groaned in frustration. "Too much pressure still. You feel it, yes?" Shane whimpered, nodding frantically, his cock twitching helplessly in Ilya’s grasp. He chuckled, low and rough. "Good boy. Let doctor help."
The lube bottle crinkled again as Ilya slicked his middle finger, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet clinic. Shane’s breath hitched when he felt the cold press against his entrance, his body instinctively tensing. "Relax," Ilya commanded, his voice firm but not unkind. "Breathe." Shane exhaled shakily, his fingers clawing at the torn paper on the table behind him as Ilya’s finger breached him slowly, the stretch just shy of uncomfortable. The doctor’s other hand never stopped moving, stroking Shane’s cock in a steady rhythm that kept him teetering on the edge.
Ilya’s finger curled inside him, probing deeper until Shane gasped, his back arching off the table. "Ah— there," Ilya murmured, his thumb pressing against Shane’s perineum as his finger found its mark. Shane’s vision blacked out for a second, his whole body convulsing as Ilya rubbed firm circles against his prostate. The sensation was overwhelming and foreign — sharp and sweet and relentless — and Shane couldn’t help the broken moan that tore from his throat. "Good," Ilya praised, his voice rough with something Shane couldn’t name. "You feel that? Pressure releasing?" Shane nodded frantically, his hips jerking helplessly between Ilya’s hands, his cock leaking steadily onto his stomach.
Ilya’s finger crooked again, pressing harder this time, and Shane’s toes curled against the floor, his thighs trembling. Ilya’s other hand sped up, stroking Shane’s shaft in time with the rhythm of his finger inside him, the dual stimulation making Shane’s breath come in short, desperate gasps. "Look at you," Ilya muttered, his accent thickening as he watched Shane fall apart beneath him. "Such a good boy. Taking treatment so well." Shane whimpered, his cock twitching in Ilya’s grip, the praise sending a fresh wave of heat pooling low in his gut.
Ilya’s finger twisted inside him, rubbing insistently against that sweet spot until Shane’s hips jolted forward, his back arching. "There— there— Yes!" Shane choked out, his hands scrambling for purchase on the exam table. Ilya hummed, his thumb smearing precome down Shane’s length as he worked him faster, his finger never relenting. "You feel it, yes?" Ilya murmured, his breath hot against Shane’s ear. "Pressure leaving you?" Shane could only nod, his throat too tight to form words, his whole body taut as a bowstring.
The finger crooked deeper, pressing in just the right way to make Shane’s toes curl against the cold floor. A strangled moan tore from Shane’s throat as his prostate pulsed under Ilya’s touch, his weeping, red cock twitching violently in his grip. "Ah— ah— fuck—" Shane gasped, his thighs trembling as Ilya’s finger dragged against his walls, milking him with relentless precision.
"Good," Ilya murmured, his thumb rubbing circles into Shane’s perineum while his finger worked inside him. His short stubble scraped Shane’s skin as he leaned closer. "Feel how your body opens for me? How it—" He twisted his wrist, dragging another broken noise from Shane’s throat. "—begs?" Shane could only nod, his cock blurting out globs of precome, dripping down his shaft and onto Ilya’s glove.
"Come now," Ilya commanded, his voice thick with arousal, and Shane came obediently with a sob, his back arching as his orgasm ripped through him. Thick streaks painted his chest, his abdomen, the floor, Ilya’s gloved hand, and the doctor didn’t stop stroking him, milking him through it until Shane whined, oversensitive and shaking, pawing at Ilya to stop. Ilya just hummed, finally releasing Shane’s cock only to press another finger firmly against his prostate. Shane gasped, his thighs trembling, his spent cock twitching pathetically. "N-No more—" he choked out, but Ilya ignored him. “Please! Please, doctor. Can’t— Too much—”
Ilya laughed meanly and swatted Shane’s hands away, returning his free hand to Shane’s rapidly-softening cock and working it roughly. Shane tried and failed to squirm away, whining in pain.
“No…” Shane whimpered softly, but it was too late. The warm rush of piss hit him like a second humiliation, his body convulsing as he wet himself, the liquid pooling beneath him on the floor. Ilya didn’t pull away — just watched hungrily as Shane’s cheeks burned crimson, his breath coming in ragged hitches. The piss squirted out rhythmically, in time with Ilya’s hand on his cock, and Shane just grunted in relief, unable to do anything but surrender himself to it.
"Ah," Ilya murmured, finally withdrawing his hands. "Pressure relieved, yes?" Shane could only nod weakly, his limbs limp, his mind blissfully empty. Ilya peeled off his soiled gloves with a snap, tossing them into the biohazard bin with practiced efficiency.
Shane expected judgment — disgust, maybe — but Ilya merely handed him a wad of paper towels without comment, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched as Shane wiped himself down, the stale scent of urine mingling with sweat and lube. When he dared to glance up, Ilya was staring at him. "You play better now.”