Casino Night
Title: Casino Night
Characters/pairing: Ilya Kovalchuk/Slava Kozlov
Rating: NC-17
Time: January 2009
Summary: Slava wants Ilya. In the middle of the Thrashers' annual charity function.
Author's note: Our own Sasha Vic and Kaatiya attended Casino Night with the Thrashers this year, and Kaatiya's pics, especially ones of Toby Enstrom with Sasha Vic ("poor lady"), and Slava Kozlov with Kaatiya ("diamond necklace"), inspired this fairly silly fic. Not to mention this pic of Slava and Ilya. http://www.flickr.com/photos/geneen/3201156756/in/set-72157611980006187/ Here are the rest of the pics (with thanks to Kaatiya for her permission to link): http://www.flickr.com/photos/geneen/sets/72157611980006187/
Disclaimer: A fictional story, told only for entertainment purposes
Slava Kozlov leaned over Ilya Kovalchuk as his fellow Russian smiled and posed for what seemed like the millionth time. "Aren't you getting sick of this?" he whispered.
"Sick of what? Posing for pictures? It's not that hard," Ilya whispered back as the picture-taker nodded her thanks and moved on.
"Sick of all these women drooling over you, I mean," Slava grumbled. "This is getting ridiculous, Ilya."
"Look who's talking. You just had that lady in the black dress and diamond necklace ready to rip your clothes off and ravish you on the damn table."
"I thought that was your job, Ilya." Kozlov laughed wickedly. Kovalchuk aimed a kick at his teammate's shin but missed among the tangle of chair and table legs. "Just you wait," he hissed.
"I'm tired of waiting. I want you right now," Slava muttered in Ilya's ear. "You look like fucking James Bond in that outfit, you know."
"I thought I looked like a penguin."
"Aren't penguins black?"
"A bus boy, then."
Slava giggled. "Clear my table, boy, and while you're at it, drop your pants."
Ilya snorted and clapped a hand over his own mouth. "Stop it! We're going to get in trouble!"
Slava gazed across the room. "Speaking of which, check out the midget defenseman."
Ilya followed his look. "My God, he's going to tear her dress off!"
"Actually, she seems to be enjoying it," Kozlov said. "Aw, look at that. She took her shoes off so she won't tower over him in the picture."
"Slava, you dunce, that's her camera! Are you blind, or just drunk?"
Kozlov considered. "Drunk, I think."
"Jesus, there he goes again!" Kovalchuk exclaimed. "Kari! Go get a leash on Toby before he embarrasses the whole team!"
"Too late!" Kozlov melodramatically clapped his hands over his eyes.
"Oh, shit," Ilya groaned.
"What?" Slava asked, peeking through his fingers.
"Now Kari's all over her. Damn Scandahoovians."
Kozlov broke into laughter. "'Scandahoovians'? Where the hell did you get that?"
Ilya grinned. "Colby."
"It figures. Fucking nutcase."
Kovalchuk tried unsuccessfully to stifle his giggles. Some fine example he was setting. First few hours as captain and he was acting nuttier than Colby Armstrong. "We have to stop this. Go mingle. That's an order."
Kozlov pouted. "Order? Order? Make a guy captain and the power goes straight to his head."
Kovalchuk stood up. "First thing, I'm going to go rescue that poor lady."
"Rescue?" Slava sputtered. "Who do you think you are, James Bond?"
"Either that or a penguin," Ilya said.
"Bus boy."
"Whatever."
He tried to act as debonair as possible as he swooped in on the pretty woman and her two all-too-attentive admirers, pushing them discretely away, chatting with practiced ease, posing for a photo with what he hoped was a sexy grin but figured deep down looked totally dorky. American women always seemed charmed by what he thought was his incredibly mundane accent, so he used it to his advantage. It worked. She smiled happily, even tried out some Russian on him. He chatted, aware of Slava's eyes boring into him the entire time, then excused himself.
"I thought I told you to go mingle?"
"I'd rather mingle with you. Naked."
"Slava, stop it!"
"Let's get out of here, Ilya. We can use my car. Five minutes. That's all I need," Slava licked his lips, and Ilya felt his cock spring to life. "Fuck," he groaned. "What can I use for an excuse?"
"Smoke break?"
"Very funny."
"Puke break?"
Ilya twitched. Slava flinched, then grinned and jingled his car keys. "I'm out of here. Follow me in two minutes."
Kovalchuk groaned and looked at his watch. "Eat me."
"I plan to."
Two minutes later, Ilya flung open the back door to Slava's SUV. A hand reached out and jerked him inside. The door slammed shut as he landed on the seat on his back, Slava ripping his pants open.
"Oh, fuck!" Ilya cried as Slava took him in, going from semi-soft to rock hard in seconds. He whimpered as Kozlov's teeth scraped his shaft, then stiffened as he felt Slava worm a finger between his cheeks. The bastard had it lubed and ready, and as Ilya's breath came shorter and heavier, jammed his teammate's cock down his throat and shoved a finger up his ass.
Ilya screamed, a tiny, rational part of his mind hoping to Christ nobody was leaving early and strolling through the parking lot. His hips bucked as he came, shooting his load down Slava's throat. "Oh GOD! Slava, Jesus!"
"No need to think of me as the deity," Slava said, his voice hoarse. He leaned forward and kissed Ilya hard, shoving his tongue deep inside Kovalchuk's mouth. "You taste so fucking good."
"We'd better find some breath mints, or we're in deep shit," Ilya said.
"I don't know, I bet some fans would love to have a taste," Slava said, running his tongue over his own lips.
"You're sick," Ilya said.
"I know. Five minutes, my captain. Time to get back to work."
Ilya pulled up his pants, climbed out of the car, adjusted his tie, dusted off his jacket, and strolled back into the club. Bond, James Bond, he thought. Act the part. And try not to think of Slava Kozlov and his magic tongue.
"Later, Slava," he whispered to himself as he straightened his back, put on his most debonair (dorky) smile, and mingled.
Characters/pairing: Ilya Kovalchuk/Slava Kozlov
Rating: NC-17
Time: January 2009
Summary: Slava wants Ilya. In the middle of the Thrashers' annual charity function.
Author's note: Our own Sasha Vic and Kaatiya attended Casino Night with the Thrashers this year, and Kaatiya's pics, especially ones of Toby Enstrom with Sasha Vic ("poor lady"), and Slava Kozlov with Kaatiya ("diamond necklace"), inspired this fairly silly fic. Not to mention this pic of Slava and Ilya. http://www.flickr.com/photos/geneen/3201156756/in/set-72157611980006187/ Here are the rest of the pics (with thanks to Kaatiya for her permission to link): http://www.flickr.com/photos/geneen/sets/72157611980006187/
Disclaimer: A fictional story, told only for entertainment purposes
Slava Kozlov leaned over Ilya Kovalchuk as his fellow Russian smiled and posed for what seemed like the millionth time. "Aren't you getting sick of this?" he whispered.
"Sick of what? Posing for pictures? It's not that hard," Ilya whispered back as the picture-taker nodded her thanks and moved on.
"Sick of all these women drooling over you, I mean," Slava grumbled. "This is getting ridiculous, Ilya."
"Look who's talking. You just had that lady in the black dress and diamond necklace ready to rip your clothes off and ravish you on the damn table."
"I thought that was your job, Ilya." Kozlov laughed wickedly. Kovalchuk aimed a kick at his teammate's shin but missed among the tangle of chair and table legs. "Just you wait," he hissed.
"I'm tired of waiting. I want you right now," Slava muttered in Ilya's ear. "You look like fucking James Bond in that outfit, you know."
"I thought I looked like a penguin."
"Aren't penguins black?"
"A bus boy, then."
Slava giggled. "Clear my table, boy, and while you're at it, drop your pants."
Ilya snorted and clapped a hand over his own mouth. "Stop it! We're going to get in trouble!"
Slava gazed across the room. "Speaking of which, check out the midget defenseman."
Ilya followed his look. "My God, he's going to tear her dress off!"
"Actually, she seems to be enjoying it," Kozlov said. "Aw, look at that. She took her shoes off so she won't tower over him in the picture."
"Slava, you dunce, that's her camera! Are you blind, or just drunk?"
Kozlov considered. "Drunk, I think."
"Jesus, there he goes again!" Kovalchuk exclaimed. "Kari! Go get a leash on Toby before he embarrasses the whole team!"
"Too late!" Kozlov melodramatically clapped his hands over his eyes.
"Oh, shit," Ilya groaned.
"What?" Slava asked, peeking through his fingers.
"Now Kari's all over her. Damn Scandahoovians."
Kozlov broke into laughter. "'Scandahoovians'? Where the hell did you get that?"
Ilya grinned. "Colby."
"It figures. Fucking nutcase."
Kovalchuk tried unsuccessfully to stifle his giggles. Some fine example he was setting. First few hours as captain and he was acting nuttier than Colby Armstrong. "We have to stop this. Go mingle. That's an order."
Kozlov pouted. "Order? Order? Make a guy captain and the power goes straight to his head."
Kovalchuk stood up. "First thing, I'm going to go rescue that poor lady."
"Rescue?" Slava sputtered. "Who do you think you are, James Bond?"
"Either that or a penguin," Ilya said.
"Bus boy."
"Whatever."
He tried to act as debonair as possible as he swooped in on the pretty woman and her two all-too-attentive admirers, pushing them discretely away, chatting with practiced ease, posing for a photo with what he hoped was a sexy grin but figured deep down looked totally dorky. American women always seemed charmed by what he thought was his incredibly mundane accent, so he used it to his advantage. It worked. She smiled happily, even tried out some Russian on him. He chatted, aware of Slava's eyes boring into him the entire time, then excused himself.
"I thought I told you to go mingle?"
"I'd rather mingle with you. Naked."
"Slava, stop it!"
"Let's get out of here, Ilya. We can use my car. Five minutes. That's all I need," Slava licked his lips, and Ilya felt his cock spring to life. "Fuck," he groaned. "What can I use for an excuse?"
"Smoke break?"
"Very funny."
"Puke break?"
Ilya twitched. Slava flinched, then grinned and jingled his car keys. "I'm out of here. Follow me in two minutes."
Kovalchuk groaned and looked at his watch. "Eat me."
"I plan to."
Two minutes later, Ilya flung open the back door to Slava's SUV. A hand reached out and jerked him inside. The door slammed shut as he landed on the seat on his back, Slava ripping his pants open.
"Oh, fuck!" Ilya cried as Slava took him in, going from semi-soft to rock hard in seconds. He whimpered as Kozlov's teeth scraped his shaft, then stiffened as he felt Slava worm a finger between his cheeks. The bastard had it lubed and ready, and as Ilya's breath came shorter and heavier, jammed his teammate's cock down his throat and shoved a finger up his ass.
Ilya screamed, a tiny, rational part of his mind hoping to Christ nobody was leaving early and strolling through the parking lot. His hips bucked as he came, shooting his load down Slava's throat. "Oh GOD! Slava, Jesus!"
"No need to think of me as the deity," Slava said, his voice hoarse. He leaned forward and kissed Ilya hard, shoving his tongue deep inside Kovalchuk's mouth. "You taste so fucking good."
"We'd better find some breath mints, or we're in deep shit," Ilya said.
"I don't know, I bet some fans would love to have a taste," Slava said, running his tongue over his own lips.
"You're sick," Ilya said.
"I know. Five minutes, my captain. Time to get back to work."
Ilya pulled up his pants, climbed out of the car, adjusted his tie, dusted off his jacket, and strolled back into the club. Bond, James Bond, he thought. Act the part. And try not to think of Slava Kozlov and his magic tongue.
"Later, Slava," he whispered to himself as he straightened his back, put on his most debonair (dorky) smile, and mingled.