Frustration/surrender

[savvyfan.livejournal.com]

Title: Frustration/surrender
Characters/pairing: Ilya Kovalchuk/Slava Kozlov
Rating: NC-17
Time: February 2009
Summary: The frustration of the season is getting to Ilya. Thankfully, he has Slava.
Disclaimer: A fictional story, written only for entertainment purposes.

"Frustration," was one of those perfect English words, perfect meaning the sheer sound of it mirrorred how Ilya felt. Frusss... tray.... shunnnnn. Grinding out from between your teeth, thumping into your eardrums, not a pretty word, no, not at all. And why was it that in English, the "tion" spelling was pronounced "shun"? Ilya wondered about that. It helped take his mind off the... frustration. Goddammit, the Thrashers had lost again. Again.

"Frustration," he muttered into the pillow of the hotel bed, fucking goddam hotel beds, he was getting sick of it, and it was only February. The death march was on. They were going to miss the playoffs again. Again. What the fuck was wrong with them? 

"What's that, Ilya?" Slava Kozlov came out of the bathroom, rubbing a towel over his face. "Bathroom's all yours."

"Thanks," Kovalchuk heaved himself off the bed and walked past his roommate, admiring the perfect curve of his naked ass. Thank God for Slava; he was the only thing right now keeping Ilya from leaping off the hotel balcony. OK, maybe that was hyperbole. But damn, the frustration was starting to reach choking level.

"What did you say?" Slava called from the bedroom as Ilya brushed his teeth, scowling at himself in the mirror. "Frshrrrshn," he replied, then spit in the sink. "Frustration! Goddammit!" he shouted.

"OK, OK, you don't have to scream," Kozlov replied.

"Fuck!" Kovalchuk said, turning to the toilet and emptying his bladder loudly. Another good English word, that.

"Jesus, Ilya, you ever going to learn to close the door?" Slava called.

"No!" Ilya shouted "I'm too pissed off!"

"Better than being pissed on," came the reply.

Ilya couldn't help himself; he laughed. Oh God, yes, thank you for my dear Slava. What would I do without him?

"What would I do without you?" he asked, coming out of the bathroom, a small smile creeping across his face despite everything.

"Lose your mind, probably," Kozlov replied. "Come to bed, little captain. Let's forget everything, for a while anyway."

Kovalchuk snorted at the "little" comment, but forgetting sounded perfect. And Slava knew exactly how to make him forget. Still, as he climbed between the sheets to lie down next to his countryman, he couldn't help but slip back into fret mode.

"I don't understand it, Slava. Why can't we win? Damn, we have some talent on this team! What the hell is wrong with us?" He waited for Kozlov to kiss him, tell him to shut up, throw him on his back (or try to, anyway) and start chewing on his collarbone, and was surprised to see his older teammate lie back and think, staring up at the ceiling.

"I don't know, Ilya, honestly, I don't," he said at last. "I may joke and try to make light of it all, but -- God's truth -- it bothers me. Frustration is right. It bothers the hell out of me." He turned onto his stomach and looked at Kovalchuk, propping his chin on his crossed forearms. "That's not the answer you wanted, is it?"  

"No, but it's honest. That's all I can ask for," Ilya sighed and tried to smile. Slava smiled back, and oh, that look, that oh-so-unique Slava Kozlov look...

Surrender was another perfect English word. Surr....ennnn... durrrrrr. Like a cat's purr. The low hum of pleasure Ilya made as he gave in to Slava, stretched out under his hands, his lips, his body. The mewling growl that rumbled deep in his throat as Slava's magic lips and tongue did their work.

Ilya pressed his face into the pillow as he lifted his ass in the air. The warm, moist touch on his ass was mind-blowing. He held his breath as Slava licked around the perimeter of his anus, then let out a small squeal as that amazing tongue slipped inside. He trembled, muttering into the pillow. Slava paused, lifting his head. "What did you say?"

"I said, I love when you do that," Ilya managed to gasp out.

"I know," Slava smiled and bent to his task, holding onto Ilya's broad ass with both hands as the Atlanta captain started to squirm in earnest. Kozlov chuckled as he worked, enjoying Kovalchuk's increasingly frenzied mutterings. Finally he lifted his head and nipped at Ilya's behind. "Turn over," he ordered.

Ilya obeyed, his face flushed, his chest heaving with desire. He reached back for the bottle of lube on the nightstand and shoved it into Slava's hand. "Hurry... please... need you... now...."

Ordinarily Kozlov might take the opportunity at that moment to play the tease, but this night, he could sense his captain's raging need. Quickly lubing his cock, he tossed the bottle aside, hooked Ilya's legs over his shoulders, and plunged, hard.

"HHHHUUUNNNNHHH!" Ilya cried, trying in vain to stifle his cries. He clutched at Slava's shoulders, his eyes unfocused, his head thrown back. "YES, oh yes, hard, hard, fuck me hard, Slava, hard, damn, FUCK YES!" 

Slava pistoned his hips, driving as hard as he could, desperate to satisfy. He reached around Ilya's leg, grabbed his cock, and pumped in time, not gently, oh no, not at all. Ilya wanted it rough and hard, and by God, that was what he was going to get. He pounded and pumped, watching Ilya thrash, listening to him squeal, and was rewarded when that magnificent cock jerked in his hand and spilled its seed over his fingers. Without missing a beat, Slava slipped two dripping digits into Ilya's mouth; Kovalchuk's tongue lapped eagerly, wrapping around his fingers, sucking hard. 

That was all it took. Slava jerked his hand away, leaned forward and shoved his tongue into Ilya's mouth, and came, his body twitching as his cock exploded inside Ilya's ass. He could feel Kovalchuk's large hands pulling at his hair as their lips crashed together, and for one blinding, glorious moment couldn't distinguish where his body ended and Ilya's began.

At last Ilya dropped his head back and gulped in air, his body trembling. Slava released his legs, but Ilya only dropped them down to Slava's waist, reaching up again to wrap them around his teammate's midsection. Slava, smiling, took Ilya's wrists in his hand and pinned them above his head. He remained buried inside; Ilya could feel semen dripping from his ass onto the bed, but Slava made no move to pull out. His cock was still semi-hard.

How does he do that? Ilya thought, then smiled back, flexing his anal muscles, drawing a small moan from Slava, who looked down at him, his smile turning into a cheeky grin. 

"You're mine," he said.

"I'm yours," Ilya agreed.

"Your ass belongs to me," Slava said.

"My ass belongs to you," Ilya repeated, his grin matching Slava's.

"You're my love slave," Slava said.

"I'm your... love slave," Ilya agreed, bursting into giggles.

Slava bit his lip, his eyes dancing, and rolled his hips. Ilya groaned and squeezed his legs, feeling his cock springing back to life. Damn. 

"You'll do anything for me," Slava murmured, pressing his pelvis down.

"I'll do... any... anything for you," Ilya responded.

"You love me," Slava said.

Ilya lay stock-still, staring up at Slava, who had frozen in place, staring back  

"I love you, Vyacheslav Anatolevich," he whispered at last.

"I love you, Ilya Valeryevich," Slava whispered back, and every other word in the world was forgotten.