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Scott Hunter kisses like a drowning man.
Ilya is delighted and also a little surprised. But mostly, he’s amused and aroused, because he would be lying if he said he never imagined doing this. Even though he’s old and bad at hockey, Scott Hunter is a hot man. That’s a fact no one can deny.
And right now, the way Hunter kisses - hot, wetly, and a little desperate - is most welcome.
“Breathe,” Ilya says with mock concern when they part. “I don’t want Scott Hunter dead from heart attack in my hotel room. People will think I’m serial killer for real.”
“I’m not that old, you know,” Hunter says dryly, quickly unbuttoning his shirt and taking it off.
Ilya raises a brow, letting his eyes wander over Hunter's chest and abs approvingly. “All old people say that.”
Hunter scoffs. He steps out of his pants next. “I think you just like making fun of people a little bit too much.”
“I think you would like to be on your knees for me,” Ilya says. Half a suggestion. Half a test.
“Fuck you,” Hunter says, but oh, his pupils dilate, and his lips part slightly, his skin flushing beautifully.
Ilya smirks.
He palms his cock and doesn’t miss how Hunter's eyes dart to it. How he licks his lips.
“Come on,” Ilya drawls. “I won. Is only fair.”
Hunter rolls his eyes. But he does sink to his knees in one fluid movement, getting Ilya out of his pants in a heartbeat. He wastes no time, wrapping his lips around the head of Ilya’s cock.
“Yes,” Ilya hisses, burying his fingers in Hunter's hair.
He looks down, watching Hunter bobbing his head, one of his hands resting on Ilya’s hip, the other one stroking what he can’t take with his mouth.
Hunter's eyes are closed. Maybe he’s imagining he’s somewhere else. With someone else. That’s fine.
It’s not like Ilya isn’t doing a fair amount of imagining, too, in the end. He throws his head back, closes his eyes, and sees. Dark hair. Freckled skin. But he doesn’t like how the fantasy makes him feel. Doesn’t like the ache that starts in his chest and spreads. Ilya opens his eyes, frowning. This is not enough …
“Let me fuck you,” he says, cupping Hunter's face.
Hunter glances up at him with hazy eyes, sliding off Ilya’s cock, his lips still connected to the tip by a string of salvia. Ilya stares, a little mesmerised. That’s fucking hot.
He watches as Hunter gets on the bed, lying on his back, and takes a moment to just look at him. To take him in.
“What?” Hunter asks, frowning.
“You have very beautiful body,” Ilya says seriously.
“Well, thank you,” Hunter says with a breathless chuckle. “I bet you’re not too bad yourself under all these layers of clothes you’re still wearing.”
Ilya takes care of that fast, stripping his clothes and throwing them away carelessly.
He raises his brows questioningly. “And?”
Hunter smiles, giving his cock a couple of slow strokes. “Not bad.”
Ilya scoffs and smirks. He grabs the lube and climbs on the bed, covering Hunter with his body, kissing him again.
He enjoys the way Hunter gasps into his mouth when he pushes two fingers in and hitches his hips up greedily.
“Come on,” Hunter says soon, impatiently.
Chuckling, Ilya puts on a condom. He watches as Hunter gets on his hands and knees, arching his back beautifully. With a pleased hum, Ilya lines up his cock and pushes in.
“Fuck,” Hunter breathes, throwing his head back.
“Yes,” Ilya agrees. He loves to give his partners pleasure. Loves to see them coming undone because he makes them feel good. He puts his hands on Hunter's hips, pulls back slowly, then snaps back in hard, making Hunter gasp.
Ilya doesn’t hold back.
Hunter never asks or tells him to.
A steady string of moans slips from his mouth with every thrust of Ilya’s hips. He has his head turned to the side, his eyes closed, and his mouth open, drooling onto the sheets.
Ilya reaches under Hunter's belly, where he’s rock-hard and hot. He strokes Hunter's cock slowly, teasing another breathless groan out of him.
“You close? Will you come on my cock?” Ilya asks, snapping his hips even faster and harder, the noise of slapping skin echoing from the walls.
“Yeah,” Hunter breathes, fisting the bedsheets. “Jesus.”
Ilya chuckles. “Rozanov is okay, you know.”
Hunter seems too far gone to react to the teasing comment, which only delights Ilya more.
He strokes Hunter's cock to the rhythm of his thrusts, basking in the glorious heat of the moment and the pleasure coiling in his stomach.
Hunter comes with a gasp and a broken groan.
He tightens around Ilya, and Ilya curses, throwing his head back and gripping Hunter's hips hard as he comes too, his rhythm stuttering as he empties himself into the condom.
After Ilya pulls out, Hunter rolls on his back, breathing hard, his skin slick with sweat.
“You okay, old man?” Ilya asks, amused. “Do I need to call help?”
“Oh, fuck you. Shut up,” Hunter groans, hiding his face in his hands.
“I fucked you good,” Ilya states with a happy smile. “After beating you good at hockey. You like that, Hunter?”
“Fuck you, Rozanov,” Hunter says dryly, getting out of bed and stumbling to the bathroom.
Ilya looks after him with a grin.
When Hunter gets dressed, he glances at Ilya and says, “This. This was a one-time thing. No one can know."
Ilya shrugs. “Sure. You had fun?”
Hunter raises his brows. “Not as much as you had, clearly. You just love it when people tell you how amazing you are and do what you want, huh?”
On the ice. In bed. Everywhere.
“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “So?”
“I had some fun, asshole,” Scott Hunter says, his lips twitching. “Goodnight, Rozanov.”
And then he leaves without another word.
“So. You think that Scott Hunter is hot?” Hollander asks, clearly trying to sound like he doesn’t care and failing.
“Yes,” Ilya says. “You?”
Hollander hesitates, blushing. “He’s … a handsome man.”
Ilya suppresses a laugh. “Handsome. Would you fuck him?”
He enjoys the way Hollander’s mouth falls open in shock. Still. Ilya still manages to startle him. It’s cute.
“I … What kind of question is that? I’m sure he wouldn’t even be interested in me! He’s probably straight, too.”
Ilya scoffs. “He’s not.”
Hollander blinks. “How do you know? Did he tell you?”
“No,” Ilya says. “I fucked him once. It was fun.”
He watches as Hollander’s face makes a cute little journey from shock, to realisation, to angry jealousy. Huh. “It was fun?!”
“It was fun,” Ilya nods. Then, he reaches out to cup Hollander's face. “Not like this.”
Hollander blinks in surprise, but he doesn’t move away from Ilya’s touch. “What do you mean?” He asks carefully, his wide eyes searching Ilya’s face.
And for a brief, crazy moment, Ilya just wants to tell him that he’s not like anyone else. That Ilya is thinking about him all the time. That he dreams of Shane’s freckles and his beautiful smile. That his chest aches when he thinks of being separated from him again. That he wants him to stay. But … He can’t.
Not right now.
Ilya thinks of Scott Hunter’s closed eyes and wonders how similar they really are in the end.
“You’re more fun than him,” he just says, smirking.
Hollander scoffs, rolling his eyes. “You’re such an asshole!”
And Ilya says “Yes” because it’s true, and kisses Hollander hungrily, consuming him in the only way he is allowed right now.
Can Ilya dare to dream of more?
Does Scott Hunter dream of more?
Or is this it? Is this all they will ever get?
In the background, someone on the TV says they think that the Admirals are going to win the Stanley Cup.
Ilya doubts it. After all, Scott Hunter is hot, but he’s also 100,000 years old.