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Ilya never enjoys award ceremonies, fundraiser galas, or any other events full of assholes in their nicest suits. He’s nursing a glass of vodka and halfheartedly listening to an older man - someone whose name and title he should probably know - tell some story from his glory days. The only good thing about tonight is the opportunity it affords him and Hollander.
He wasn’t sure they’d have the chance to meet up before he leaves for Russia. He’s been dreading it for weeks, so tonight is - special isn’t the right word. Ilya would have fucked someone else if Hollander wasn’t free, but it’s nice to have a reliable option.
The man speaking to Ilya must have noticed his disinterest, as he’s moved on to a small group nearby. Ilya leans against the hotel bar and scans the room. The sight of Hollander stops him in his tracks. Hollander and an unfamiliar man standing extremely close to him.
Ilya notices that the man is fairly attractive. He’s not one of Hollander’s teammates, but he’s definitely built like a hockey player. He towers over Hollander, flashing a too-white smile and listening attentively as he speaks. Ilya’s fingers briefly tighten around his glass of vodka, but he reminds himself he shouldn’t - doesn’t - care.
He doesn’t care if another man is flirting with Hollander. Whatever he and Ilya have is nowhere near exclusive, and Ilya’s certainly been fucking other people. He’s never considered that Hollander has been doing the same. At least, not until now.
Ilya turns away, signaling to the bartender for a refill. He checks the time, hoping it’s late enough for him to slip away to his suite unnoticed. He and Hollander are planning to meet at 12:30 AM, which isn’t too far from now. After getting his drink, Ilya turns back around to face the room, gaze going straight back to Hollander and the other man.
Hollander is now listening to the man speak and seems genuinely interested in whatever he is saying. He looks more relaxed than usual, and his generous smile seems painfully real. It’s not the media-friendly smile or the one displayed in countless advertisements.
It’s the smile that Ilya has only ever seen when they’re alone together, and even then, it’s somewhat rare - plush pink lips parted and sweet, made just for Ilya to ruin.
Get a fucking grip, Rozanov.
Ilya decides to leave the rest of his drink and go up to his suite. As he sets the glass down with a hefty tip, a sound cuts across the room that makes him spin on his heel.
Hollander is laughing. His head is thrown back, and his hand rests on his stomach, as if the man has told the funniest goddamn joke he’s ever heard. The asshole looks utterly pleased by Hollander’s reaction, and something ugly rears its head in Ilya’s core.
Ilya is only irritated because he doesn’t want to waste time. He needs to spend the remainder of the night tasting Hollander’s sweat and salty tears, and needs to memorize the taste to carry him through the rest of the summer. He needs to feel Hollander’s tight heat and commit it to memory. They never have enough fucking time.
He fires off a text and heads to the elevator without looking back.
Shane doesn’t realize how long he’s been talking with Matthews until he checks his phone. It’s twenty minutes past the time he agreed to meet Rozanov, and he has an unread message from him.
Lily: Heading upstairs. See you soon.
“Fuck.”
“Something wrong?” Matthews asks, looking up from his own phone.
“What? Oh, no, just noticed it’s getting pretty late.”
“My wife said the same thing,” Matthews says, gesturing to his phone screen. “I’d better call it a night and go to bed. It’s been great catching up with you, man.”
“Yeah, man, definitely,” Shane replies sincerely. It’s been years since he and Sean Matthews met at a summer training camp for junior players. They bonded over being the so-called boring guys of their group, and hung out fairly often over the following weeks. “Let’s trade numbers before I forget to ask again.”
They enter their respective contact information into each other’s phones before shaking hands and bidding each other good night. Shane pulls up his text thread with Rozanov and quickly sends a reply.
Jane: Shit
Jane: I ran into an old friend and lost track of time.
Jane: Swinging by my room, then headed your way.
He briskly walks to the elevator and drops off his suit jacket and tie in his room. He checks his phone as he enters the elevator again. The last text he sent is marked Read, but there’s no reply. It’s a little unusual for them not to respond to each other when making plans, but it’s probably nothing.
Jane: Coming now.
He pockets his phone, biting down on a smile. It’s been a while since he and Rozanov have had the chance to get together. He’s kind of been looking forward to it, but he’d never admit that to the other man. Shane is sure Rozanov wouldn’t let him live it down.
The elevator comes to a stop, and he turns down the hallway in the direction of room 1421. When he gets there, he softly knocks three times in rapid succession before peering around to confirm that he’s alone out here. He’s about to knock again when the door abruptly swings open.
Rozanov stands in front of him, half-dressed in his briefs and unbuttoned dress shirt. His gold crucifix is on display, nestled between his bare pecs. Shane tries not to stare too hard but isn’t sure if he succeeds.
“Hey, sorry I’m late,” Shane says in greeting.
“Yes,” Rozanov replies stiffly.
Huh. Maybe he fell asleep waiting for Shane or something. Rozanov steps back to let him step into the room. Shane is startled by the door slamming shut behind him.
“Did I wake you up?”
“No.”
“Okay,” Shane says slowly. “Did you have a good time tonight?”
“Not as good as you did.”
“What?”
“Nothing, Hollander. Are you here to talk or to fuck?”
Rozanov turns to walk further into the room before Shane can respond. He quickly toes his dress shoes off and follows Rozanov, feeling unmoored by his cold attitude.
When they get close to the bedroom, Rozanov swiftly spins around and fixes his sharp glare on Shane. Shane notices the tension in his rigid posture, and the look in his eyes is alarming. It almost feels…threatening. An undercurrent of anxiety flows through Shane, but his traitorous brain also finds this oddly arousing.
“Stand there.”
Rozanov points to a spot on the carpet right next to the nearest wall, a foot or two to Shane’s left. Shane isn’t sure what’s happening now, and he’s tempted to just follow the instruction without question. Instead, he bravely - stupidly, maybe - decides to challenge him.
“What? Why?”
Rozanov’s eyes roam across Shane from head to toe before settling on Shane’s waistline, zeroing in on the button on his slacks. He looks calculating and deadly, and Shane feels goosebumps break out on his arms. He doesn’t know what that expression means, but some base instinct tells him it’s not a good thing.
“There, Hollander,” Rozanov repeats.
His voice isn’t loud, but the words are woven with something dark and pointed that Shane can’t ignore. He automatically steps to the side until his back is a few inches from the wall.
Shane opens his mouth to ask what the hell is going on, but Rozanov steps forward and slams him against the wall before he can utter a word. His back hits the surface with a resonating thud. Rozanov rips open Shane’s button-down shirt and wraps a hand around the nape of his neck. Shane’s chest heaves, and he glares up at the man trapping him in place.
“What the fuck is your problem, Rozanov?”
“No problem here.”
“If you’re not in the mood tonight, just say so. I’ll go.” Shane isn’t sure what he expects Rozanov to say, but his derisive bark of laughter throws him off.
“Okay, Hollander,” he spits, sarcasm lacing his tone. “I’m the one who doesn’t want it? Sure. Go. Maybe not too late for you to get fucked by your new friend.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Don’t play stupid,” Rozanov snaps. “Saw you with that man tonight. Gagging for it like a slut.”
Slut.
Rozanov’s only called him that a few times before when Shane was begging for his cock, but it’s clearly said for a different reason this time. He ignores the way his dick twitches, but Rozanov somehow seems to know.
“Oh, you like that, da? Being told what a whore you are?”
Rozanov doesn’t wait for an answer, pressing his lips fiercely against Shane’s own. Shane instantly returns the kiss, though it can’t really be called a kiss. It’s more of a battle of tongues and teeth, hot and laced with frustration. Rozanov pushes a thigh between Shane’s legs and presses up until Shane lets out a small whine.
Their bodies are so close, and the angle of Rozanov’s leg combined with their height difference means that Shane has no choice but to rest his weight on him. He attempts to minimize their contact by rising up on the balls of his feet, a silent act of defiance.
Rozanov appears completely unbothered, staring down at Shane with one hand still gripping the back of his neck. He brings his other hand to Shane’s chest and roughly twists his nipple using two fingers, making him hiss from the sting. His legs tremble with the exertion from standing and the white-hot pleasure-pain of Rozanov’s touch.
Still, Shane tries like hell to hold himself up while biting his inner lip to stop any embarrassing sounds from escaping. Rozanov doesn’t comment on it, but his smug expression says enough. He alternates between Shane’s sensitive buds, tugging and flicking and pinching with blunt fingernails. It’s less than a minute before Shane’s feet cramp, forcing him to drop against Rozanov’s sculpted quad muscles.
“That was fast,” he says, voice dripping with condescension. It should really piss Shane off, but instead, he feels heat flare in his stomach. “So desperate, da?”
He rocks his leg forward, overwhelming Shane with delicious pressure. He doesn’t have to look down to see that his erection is easily visible through his pants. He hopes that the dark charcoal fabric conceals the damp patch forming near the head of his dick. He doubts it based on the way Rozanov is smirking at him.
“Always so eager for it, Hollander,” he croons. Shane presses a fist to his lips to stop himself from letting out a pathetic whimper. “Such a greedy little whore.”
“Fuck you,” Shane retorts, in total contrast to the way he grinds on the man’s leg. He’s blindsided by a swift tap across his cheek. Rather than pulling away, Shane flinches closer to Rozanov.
“So rude,” Rozanov taunts, slapping the other cheek. It’s a fairly gentle touch, all things considered, but the shock of it is too much. Shane’s fist does nothing to muffle his moan, the sound obviously from pleasure more than pain.
Rozanov has remained still until now, but he starts slowly rocking his knee. The increased friction and sensation make Shane’s cock leak even more. Barely anything has happened to warrant how turned on he is. His belt buckle digs uncomfortably into his waist, and he can feel beads of sweat rolling down his back.
“Please touch me, Rozanov.”
“I am touching you,” he responds, gesturing to where their bodies are pressed together. He threads his fingers through Shane’s hair and sharply tugs it, maneuvering Shane’s head back effortlessly.
“This is all I give to selfish sluts.”
Shane should really say something to defend himself, but his arousal appears to have rendered him mute. He raises shaky hands to Rozanov’s shoulders in an attempt to steady himself, and is surprised when the man allows it. Small mercies.
They go back and forth like this for a little longer. Shane lifts himself by arching his feet, and Rozanov silently tortures him, alternating between abusing his nipples and swatting his cheeks. In no time at all, he’s involuntarily dropping onto Rozanov’s thigh before they start the cycle again.
Rozanov doesn’t make any typical remarks about how stubborn Shane is, but Shane knows it’s because he’s clearly, rapidly losing this twisted game. He finally gives up, bearing down on Rozanov’s leg with a frenzied groan, bucking forward to chase his pleasure.
“Look at you. I have done nothing, and still you are cock drunk.”
Rozanov uses his free hand to grip Shane’s hip beneath his shirt, encouraging his movements. The touch is possessive and rough and keeps him right where Rozanov wants him. Shane knows he’ll find bruises there tomorrow, and that thought is enough to make him unravel.
“Rozanov, please,” Shane pleads. He abandons all pretense of resistance, shamelessly humping Rozanov’s muscled thigh. “Need more, I’m so close.”
“No, Hollander,” he answers. “You come for me just like this or not at all.”
Shane’s face flushes at the reality of his predicament. He knows he could say no and put an end to this, knows that Rozanov would stop immediately with zero hesitation. But he’s going to come in his pants like a horny teenager. It’s mortifying and ridiculous, and his dick gets impossibly harder at the idea.
Shane’s mouth falls open as he pants, and Rozanov releases the hold on his neck to press two long fingers on Shane’s tongue. Shane moans around the digits, not bothering to stifle the noises he makes. He can’t imagine how debauched he looks at this point, but he finds it hard to care now that the steely look in Rozanov’s eyes is tinged with awe and lust.
Shane loses all sense of rhythm, his pace faltering as he gets closer to the brink. The mixture of humiliation and arousal is more heady than anything he’s ever experienced. He’s harshly yanked back to reality when Rozanov suddenly stills his leg. Shane whimpers and writhes pitifully, but it’s not the same without him adding the extra sensation.
“Not so fast, Hollander,” Rozanov chides. “Must ask nicely if you want to finish.”
Shane doesn’t even have to think about it, giving another piece of himself away in another anonymous hotel suite.
“Please, fuck,” he begs. “So close, please, Rozanov, let me come, I need it, c’mon.”
“So easy for me,” Rozanov mocks, but he resumes rocking his leg. “Such a slut, da?”
“Fuck, yes, I’m a slut, such a fucking slut,” Shane babbles, uncaring of the filth he’s spewing. “Want to come for you, please.”
“Moy khoroshiy mal'chik. Tak krasivyy. Vsyo moyo.”
Sometimes Rozanov slips into speaking Russian when they fuck. Shane has no clue what any of it means - especially not tonight. It could be anything from light praise to calling Shane nasty names.
When Rozanov goes quiet, Shane continues pleading like he’s possessed by it. Please and need it and need you. He’s not even sure his words are coherent anymore, but Rozanov must approve because he finally responds.
“Come.”
Shane thrusts his full body weight onto Rozanov’s leg when he comes, spilling messily in his briefs while making an undignified sound. He throws his head back as he finishes riding out his release, bracing the other man to keep himself from falling. His orgasm seems to last forever and is far too intense given that Rozanov didn’t even touch him.
When Shane stops moving, Rozanov takes his leg away and grabs him by the shoulders. Rozanov kisses him like a punishment, digging his teeth into Shane’s lower lip before sucking on it hungrily. It’s painful and passionate and scorching.
He eventually pulls away and quickly pushes Shane down so his knees smack the floor.
Ilya tilts his head, considering his next move as Hollander sits perfectly still. He looks so open, so willing, so fucking innocent. Ilya feels a wave of affection for the briefest moment, but it’s ripped away when he remembers Hollander with that other man.
Ilya has no qualms with getting what he wants out of sex - particularly with Hollander. They often do things on Ilya’s terms, and Ilya focuses on his own gratification, but there’s more to it than that. He always considers what Hollander will get out of it and makes sure they’re equally satisfied.
But not right now. Not tonight.
Right now, he gets to take, gets to act selfishly, gets to make it about him and only him.
He grabs the back of Hollander’s head, pushing his face into his clothed crotch. His surprised yelp is promptly muffled, but he doesn’t fight Ilya or try to pull away. Ilya’s briefs quickly grow damp with drool - possibly some tears, too. Hollander mutters something unintelligible, and Ilya responds with a sardonic chuckle.
They’ll talk afterwards. Maybe.
For now, Ilya shoves his underwear down until his hard cock and thighs are exposed. Hollander takes a loud gulp of air but doesn’t otherwise move or speak.
When he tilts his face upwards, Ilya is mildly stunned to see blown pupils and an expression of unguarded want. He grasps his dick firmly by the base, tapping it hard against Hollander’s freckled cheek. He gasps softly, and his eyelashes flutter.
“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya groans. “You love this, don’t you? Such an eager slut.”
Ilya tangles his fingers in Hollander’s dark hair, rubbing the tip of his cock on his cheek and lips. Hollander’s mouth falls open and his tongue flicks out, but Ilya instantly moves out of his reach.
“Nyet. So greedy. Ask nicely.”
“Can I suck your dick?” Hollander rasps, sounding more desperate than Ilya has ever heard him. “Please?”
The idea of anyone but Ilya seeing Hollander like this courses through his body like acid. He grips both sides of Hollander’s head, lurches forward, and slams his cock into his waiting mouth. Ilya doesn’t give Hollander time to adjust like he normally would, burying himself down to the hilt.
Hollander’s eyes immediately start tearing up as he swallows around Ilya’s length. Ilya considers asking him if this is okay, but the blissed-out look on his face is enough of an answer. Ilya tightens his hold on Hollander’s head and begins thrusting into his mouth forcefully.
“Fuck,” Ilya grunts, rocking into the snug warmth. “You are made for sucking my cock.”
Hollander gags at the repeated intrusion, but he doesn’t try to push Ilya away. He gazes up at Ilya with wetness gathering on his long lashes. A line of spit drips from the corner of his mouth, his lips already red and puffy from the abuse. He appears totally wrecked, and it’s the prettiest Ilya has ever seen him.
He moves his hands, threading his fingers at the back of Hollander’s head and yanking him forward until his nose smashes against Ilya’s stomach. Ilya stops pulling and holds him in that position, his lips stretched obscenely around Ilya. He grinds his hips slowly, savoring the sight of more drool spilling from his mouth.
“Perfect,” Ilya murmurs. “My perfect whore.”
A ragged sob escapes from Hollander, distorted by Ilya’s cock buried in his throat. Ilya is stunned by how much the man enjoys such harsh words and treatment. He tamps down on the fondness in his chest, reminding himself that tonight isn’t about what Hollander likes, and he focuses on chasing his pleasure again.
It’s messier, faster, and louder now. It takes enormous effort for Ilya to keep his eyes open. He wants to memorize the way Hollander looks right now: the shape of his lips, the hollows of his cheeks, his tears steadily flowing down his face.
Ilya thrusts into Hollander uncompromisingly, making him choke around his dick over and over again. He feels his throat flutter as he gags even harder from the brutal treatment. Ilya stops to pull him back by the hair, causing him to cough and sputter as he desperately gulps down air. He pants gutturally as he tries to catch his breath.
“Relax,” Ilya demands. “Just take it. Be a good hole.”
Hollander readily follows Ilya’s command. His shoulders fall as he goes limp; Ilya’s grip on his head is the only thing stopping him from hitting the wall. The tension leaving his body makes his mouth and tongue feel even softer. He’s Ilya’s favorite sex toy, his own living doll to use however he wants.
Ilya violently fucks into Hollander like it’s the last time he’ll ever have the chance. He wants to hold onto his anger, how infuriated he’s felt tonight, but it’s such a struggle when Hollander freely gives himself to Ilya - his body, his trust, his control.
“Ty moy,” Ilya begins to ramble, too far gone to stop himself. “All mine, Hollander. Pretty fucking mouth, my little shlyukha.”
He goes on and on, unsure if he’s speaking English or Russian. Hollander reacts beautifully, moaning helplessly as his eyes roll back in his head. Ilya is drunk on the feeling of Hollander being ruined like this. His face is red and smeared with a viscous mixture of spit, sweat, tears, and Ilya’s precome. Ilya can see the muscles in his throat spasming and feel his tongue trembling against the underside of his cock.
It’s not like he and Hollander haven’t had rough sex before, but it’s never been quite like this. He’s never touched him so brusquely or spoken in such a venomous way, and Hollander has never been so beautifully pliant and receptive.
Right now, he feels like he could break Hollander into pieces. It should probably bother him how badly he wants to do just that. It festers in his gut - a primal urge that fits his mood for the evening, raw and animalistic.
Ilya presses his forehead against the wall as he hurtles toward the edge. He towers over Hollander and slowly pulls his cock from the man’s mouth, dragging the tip across his lips. Hollander meets his gaze, his mouth still open and his eyes wide and eager.
“Tongue out,” Ilya instructs, his grasp on English impeded by his arousal. “Close your eyes.”
His eyelids fall shut, looking utterly destroyed yet so serene. Ilya rests the head of his cock on Hollander’s tongue, using one hand to stroke himself frantically and the other to hold him by the hair, keeping him in place.
Ilya groans low and long, a sound ripped from deep inside of him. He comes in thick spurts of white that paint Hollander’s cheeks, lips, and chin. The last of his release lands squarely on his tongue.
“Swallow it,” Ilya commands.
He instantly swallows and then licks his lips, too.
Blyat.
Ilya bends down in front of Hollander and uses his thumb to wipe a string of come off his cheek. He pushes the digit into Hollander’s mouth, who sucks on it eagerly. He repeats the movement over and over until his face is mostly clean. He cleans the final bit of mess with a hot swipe of his tongue, feeling the way Hollander shudders beneath him.
Ilya can’t help himself. He tilts Hollander’s chin upwards, lightly pressing his thumb into his swollen lips before gently kissing him. Hollander gasps quietly and slightly parts his mouth in invitation. It’s tender and subdued in complete contrast to the kisses they shared earlier tonight.
It’s too much. Ilya reluctantly pulls away, watching Hollander’s eyes flicker closed. He briefly dips his nose into Hollander’s sweat-dampened hair before grabbing his bicep and hauling him to his feet. The rest of the night plays out in his mind, a familiar pattern:
They’ll quietly fall into bed and wait for their energy to return. Hollander will complain about how gross the mess in his pants feels. They’ll shower together, exchanging lazy handjobs before Ilya fucks him facedown into the mattress. Hollander will slip out the front door and out of Ilya’s world until next season.
Ilya knows they should talk. He can’t bring himself to do it, not right now. Not when they’re like this - peeled open and far too exposed.
Later. Someday. Eventually.