From Russia with love (and a little pain)
Title: From Russia with love (and a little pain)
Characters/pairing: Shane Doan/Viktor Tikhonov
Rating: NC-17
Time: 2008/09 season
Summary: Shane finds out that he and Viktor are made for each other.
Author's note: Sasha Vic made a plea for more "Western" fic, so I took this as a challenge. I'm fascinated by Viktor Tikhonov's story; his grandfather was the legendary coach of the Red Army team, and Viktor grew up in America but still has close ties to Russia and has played there.
Disclaimer: A fictional story, told only for entertainment purposes.
From day one, the kid drove me crazy. From the first moment I set eyes on him. Bodies galore in the locker room, first day of training camp, somebody whispering in my ear: "That's Tikhonov," and I saw the skinny kid with the mop of brown hair and mentally adjusted my captain's mantle and went over to introduce myself.
I was prepared for anything, or at least I thought I was. The kid was a true multinational, with his feet in two worlds, Russia and North America, so he could be brimming with confidence. On the other hand, he was a first-round draft choice and a 20-year-old rookie in his first NHL camp, so he could be nervous and unsure. Either way, as a veteran and as captain, I was sure I could handle him. Take him under my wing, maybe. Help him out.
"Viktor, I'm Shane Doan," I said, holding out my hand. "Want me to show you around?"
He looked around at me and stared for a long moment, his baby face expressionless. His eyes were gray. Has anyone, other than in books, ever had gray eyes? Then he grinned, and those eyes took on a look of mischief. "Captain," he said, and took my hand. "I'm all yours."
Little did I realize that it was going to be the other way around.
He lies spread-eagled on the bed, his wrists cuffed to the headboard with the leather restraints he made me buy, his ankles tied to the baseboard with silk ropes. He watches me avidly as I undress, taking my time, relishing the sight of him lying there helplessly, shivering in anticipation, his cock stiffening by degrees as I shed layers of clothing.
"Can't you go any faster?"
"Shut the fuck up, Viktor."
He grins, his round Russian face beaming with amusement. "Make me."
"I'll slap that fucking grin right off your face," I reply, lowering my voice to a growl.
"No you won't," he says, licking those fucking pouty lips. Jesus, those lips.
"Then I'll paddle your ass."
"Promise?" he lifts his hips up as far as he can, which isn't far, considering that he's pinned down like a butterfly on a board. A droplet of precome oozes out of his cock. Still working at my cufflinks, I lean over and lick at it. He utters a small cry, and I can feel my own cock twitch in my pants. I straighten up, drop the cufflinks on the nightstand, and pull the belt out of my pants. He watches, his eyes alight, as I run the belt through my hand.
I'd been on what I've always, somewhat mockingly, called rookie duty. Looking after the kids during training camp, knowing that most of them were going to end up in San Antonio or back in juniors, but feeling it was a critical part of my job as a captain. Anything that smooths the rocky path for a kid, makes it easier for him to play up to his true ability, makes the team better. That's ultimately what it's all about.
So we had a team get-together and I drove three of the youngsters home, with Viktor somehow managing to be the last one dropped off. Maybe I wanted it that way myself. Maybe I was being manipulated. Probably both. He asked me inside, and I went, not thinking much of it until he spun around as the door closed behind us and pinned me against it. I outweigh the kid by a good 40 pounds, but shock made me helpless, and before I could react, he'd dropped to his knees, yanked my pants down and battened on my cock.
"Viktor! Jesus! The fuck?" I managed to gasp out, and then I was helpless, leaning back against the door, my cock hardening almost painfully under his relentless attack. The little bastard was a pro. And how the fuck did he know? How did he know? I'd never told anyone about that year in juniors, that year of climbing into my roommate's bed, our excited groping, our discovery of what we could do to each other with our hands, our mouths, our cocks. It was our secret, never revealed, and forgotten (at least by me) as we went our separate ways, always dormant, never to reawaken.
At least, not until now. Now I had Viktor fucking Tikhonov clawing at my ass, giving me the most incredible fucking blowjob in the history of mankind, and I was 17 again and coming down his throat and crying out with the incredible mindless pleasure of it all.
He stood up, his fluid grace in stark contrast to my struggling effort to stay on my feet and not collapse into a puddle on the floor. A droplet of semen lingered on his lower lip, and he grinned again, grabbed at my hair, and slammed his lips onto mine, shoving his coated tongue into my mouth. I almost came again, just from that long-forgotten taste of salt and metal. Finally he broke the kiss and slid his lips to my ear. "Told you," he whispered. "I'm all yours."
I double the belt in my hand as Viktor watches avidly, slap it against my palm, tap him on the chest with it, then drop it to the floor. "Fuck you," he says.
I chuckle and continue undressing, running my hands along my body, watching his cock twitch as I tweak my own nipple. Actually it feels pretty stupid to me but I know what it does to him, so I indulge him. Then he pulls out his secret weapon.
"Я хочу, чтобы вы," he says.
"Shit," I mutter as my cock leaps to attention. Viktor snickers.
"Ты мне нужен," he says, his eyes dancing with glee.
"Little bastard."
"мало ублюдок," he agrees, cheerfully.
My cock is throbbing, but I force myself to just lean over the bed, slide my hand behind his head and grab a handful of hair. I pull, hard. Viktor's eyes fill with tears, then he grins. "Sick little puppy," I whisper. "Yes," he whispers back. "Take me."
Viktor was waiting for me to take him home the next night. This time he didn't stop at the door, just grabbed my wrist and took me to the bedroom. There was no way I'd resist. I fucked his ass under a picture of him and his grandfather, the fucking father of fucking Soviet hockey. Did that mean I was fucking the grandson of Soviet hockey? What would the old man do if he knew his 20-year-old baby boy was getting nailed by his NHL captain, squealing and shrieking in an incomprehensible mix of Russian and English? Probably send me to the fucking gulag, I thought. But that's as dead as fucking Soviet hockey. The thought made me want to laugh, if I hadn't been breathing so hard in an attempt to hold off my orgasm. But the more Viktor moaned and squirmed, the tighter his ass clamped on my cock, the more he demanded I fuck him harder, dammit, HARDER, well, fuck it. I came in his ass as his grandfather looked grimly down from the wall, and I laughed at the sheer insanity of it all.
Then I flipped the kid over on his back and used my mouth on him. It had been 15 years, but I hadn't forgotten how. Guess it's like riding a bike.
"Shane, what's so funny?" he asked, afterward.
I didn't want to tell him the truth. "You are," I said instead.
I climb onto the bed and swing one leg over Viktor's torso, planting my fat ass on his chest. For a moment, he struggles to breathe. I grin down at him, then slide my hands around his throat and press my thumbs up under his chin. "Open wide," I say, and he obliges, running his tongue out over his lower lip.
I shift my weight forward onto my knees and shove my cock into his mouth. He closes his eyes as I run my fingers through his hair, clutch hard, and pull, feeling his body quiver underneath me in response. I fuck his mouth, but gently, evenly, in contrast to the work my hands are doing. His back is arcing, and I know his cock is throbbing.
I had heard Russian spoken often enough in my hockey life; it was just one of the polyglot of languages you hear in the room or on the ice. So I sure as hell wasn't expecting the effect Viktor speaking Russian was going to have on me. It was fucking weird.
He'd asked to room with me on the road. He didn't have to ask twice. I was like a starving man at a fucking all-you-can-eat buffet, gorging myself on his delicious ass, sucking dick for dessert. But I didn't want to arouse suspicion, and I DID want him to have other friends on the team (though not "friends" like he and I were, no fucking way), so I encouraged him to socialize with the other guys.
He was talking on his cell phone in a Chicago hotel room when it happened. I don't know what the hell he was saying -- he's taught me some phrases, but I sure as hell can't follow a conversation -- and the words, dropping from his lips like maple syrup poured over pancakes, went from my ears straight into my groin. I groaned involuntarily and slipped my hand into my pants. My cock was stiffening.
Viktor paused, then continued his conversation as I watched him, licking my lips. His mouth quirked as he spoke, listened, spoke again, then snapped the phone shut. He grinned at me.
"You like it when I speak Russian?"
I nodded. "Say something," I replied, a sense of urgency in my voice. I was getting close.
His grin widened. He said something, I have no idea what. Could have been his mother's blintz recipe for all I knew. It didn't matter. I pulled my pants down, he did the same and climbed on top of me, Russian pouring out of his mouth in a torrent. Barely pausing for lube, he impaled himself on my cock and bounced hard, bringing us both to orgasm in a matter of moments, never shutting up for a second.
"невероятно," he said, and laughed.
"Don't you EVER do that in public," I warned. "I'm serious, Viktor."
He giggled. "I won't. I promise."
Of course he was lying. There were a few times when my teammates wondered if I had a bladder infection or some damn thing when I had to excuse myself and rush out of a room. But mostly he resisted the temptation. Not because I'd threatened to beat the shit out of him, though. It didn't take long for me to find out that such a threat wasn't a deterrent for Viktor.
I pull my cock out of Viktor's mouth with a soft popping sound, climb off his chest, and rummage in my bag for the bottle of lube. Viktor waits, quietly for once, his chest heaving, licking his lips. I untie his ankles, and he lifts his long legs toward the ceiling, stretching the muscles, then rolls backward, framing his head with his knees, exposing his ass. His look beckons me. I lean over and bite his ass, hard. He squeals. I laugh, then kiss the red mark, give it a lick, and bite the other cheek. He bites his lip, and his cock twitches. Oh, he wants it, so bad, and I oblige at last, spanking his ass until it glows red, then slamming my cock inside, up to the hilt in one thrust, listening to him whimper and cry and then howl in my ear as he comes, his cock emptying on his chest and throat. He slips into Russian again, and it sends me over the edge as my own raging orgasm grabs me, rolls me over in pounding surf, and leaves me panting and helpless, lying on top of his slim, quivering body.
How it happened, I still have no idea. Caught up in the frenzy of fucking, I guess, one night when I'd had a few too many, I slapped his ass, and he squealed, but the cry -- even to my intoxicated ears -- held as much pleasure as pain. I stopped and stared at him.
"You like that?" I asked. He blushed crimson -- the first time I'd ever seen him blush -- and nodded. Experimentally, I reached out and tweaked his nipple, hard. He sucked in his breath, hard, but his cock jerked.
"I'll be damnned," I said, and slapped him again. He squealed, and I saw his eyes dialate as he looked at me.
The thing was, I liked it too.
I liked the way he squirmed and quivered, the noises he made, how fucking turned on he got. I never hit him hard enough to hurt, I mean, not REALLY hurt. He's a hockey player, after all. He's used to pain. Conveniently, bumps and bruises and marks are part of the game. And hey, we all have our kinks, right? His just happens to be getting smacked around a little, and mine is hearing him speak Russian. We oblige each other. It's worked out pretty damn near perfectly, when you think about it.
I untie his wrist restraints and pull his arms down, rubbing his cramped muscles. He purrs, catlike, and snuggles in close to me as I reach for a towel and slide it over his chest. As much as he likes being dominated -- and who am I kidding, really; he dominates me just as much, fucking kid -- he loves being cared for. And hell, I love caring for him. Thank God he found me, or we found each other, or whatever. I shudder to think of him in someone else's hands. Someone who wouldn't care.
I must have literally shuddered, because he looks up at me, those gray eyes slanted now in satiation. "You OK?" he asks.
"I'm fine," I say, and sliding my hand along his jawline, I kiss him, gently. He smiles, closes his eyes, and murmurs: "Я тебя люблю." I have no idea what it means. It doesn't matter. I'll probably never tell him, but he knows that I love him. And he belongs to me.
Characters/pairing: Shane Doan/Viktor Tikhonov
Rating: NC-17
Time: 2008/09 season
Summary: Shane finds out that he and Viktor are made for each other.
Author's note: Sasha Vic made a plea for more "Western" fic, so I took this as a challenge. I'm fascinated by Viktor Tikhonov's story; his grandfather was the legendary coach of the Red Army team, and Viktor grew up in America but still has close ties to Russia and has played there.
Disclaimer: A fictional story, told only for entertainment purposes.
From day one, the kid drove me crazy. From the first moment I set eyes on him. Bodies galore in the locker room, first day of training camp, somebody whispering in my ear: "That's Tikhonov," and I saw the skinny kid with the mop of brown hair and mentally adjusted my captain's mantle and went over to introduce myself.
I was prepared for anything, or at least I thought I was. The kid was a true multinational, with his feet in two worlds, Russia and North America, so he could be brimming with confidence. On the other hand, he was a first-round draft choice and a 20-year-old rookie in his first NHL camp, so he could be nervous and unsure. Either way, as a veteran and as captain, I was sure I could handle him. Take him under my wing, maybe. Help him out.
"Viktor, I'm Shane Doan," I said, holding out my hand. "Want me to show you around?"
He looked around at me and stared for a long moment, his baby face expressionless. His eyes were gray. Has anyone, other than in books, ever had gray eyes? Then he grinned, and those eyes took on a look of mischief. "Captain," he said, and took my hand. "I'm all yours."
Little did I realize that it was going to be the other way around.
He lies spread-eagled on the bed, his wrists cuffed to the headboard with the leather restraints he made me buy, his ankles tied to the baseboard with silk ropes. He watches me avidly as I undress, taking my time, relishing the sight of him lying there helplessly, shivering in anticipation, his cock stiffening by degrees as I shed layers of clothing.
"Can't you go any faster?"
"Shut the fuck up, Viktor."
He grins, his round Russian face beaming with amusement. "Make me."
"I'll slap that fucking grin right off your face," I reply, lowering my voice to a growl.
"No you won't," he says, licking those fucking pouty lips. Jesus, those lips.
"Then I'll paddle your ass."
"Promise?" he lifts his hips up as far as he can, which isn't far, considering that he's pinned down like a butterfly on a board. A droplet of precome oozes out of his cock. Still working at my cufflinks, I lean over and lick at it. He utters a small cry, and I can feel my own cock twitch in my pants. I straighten up, drop the cufflinks on the nightstand, and pull the belt out of my pants. He watches, his eyes alight, as I run the belt through my hand.
I'd been on what I've always, somewhat mockingly, called rookie duty. Looking after the kids during training camp, knowing that most of them were going to end up in San Antonio or back in juniors, but feeling it was a critical part of my job as a captain. Anything that smooths the rocky path for a kid, makes it easier for him to play up to his true ability, makes the team better. That's ultimately what it's all about.
So we had a team get-together and I drove three of the youngsters home, with Viktor somehow managing to be the last one dropped off. Maybe I wanted it that way myself. Maybe I was being manipulated. Probably both. He asked me inside, and I went, not thinking much of it until he spun around as the door closed behind us and pinned me against it. I outweigh the kid by a good 40 pounds, but shock made me helpless, and before I could react, he'd dropped to his knees, yanked my pants down and battened on my cock.
"Viktor! Jesus! The fuck?" I managed to gasp out, and then I was helpless, leaning back against the door, my cock hardening almost painfully under his relentless attack. The little bastard was a pro. And how the fuck did he know? How did he know? I'd never told anyone about that year in juniors, that year of climbing into my roommate's bed, our excited groping, our discovery of what we could do to each other with our hands, our mouths, our cocks. It was our secret, never revealed, and forgotten (at least by me) as we went our separate ways, always dormant, never to reawaken.
At least, not until now. Now I had Viktor fucking Tikhonov clawing at my ass, giving me the most incredible fucking blowjob in the history of mankind, and I was 17 again and coming down his throat and crying out with the incredible mindless pleasure of it all.
He stood up, his fluid grace in stark contrast to my struggling effort to stay on my feet and not collapse into a puddle on the floor. A droplet of semen lingered on his lower lip, and he grinned again, grabbed at my hair, and slammed his lips onto mine, shoving his coated tongue into my mouth. I almost came again, just from that long-forgotten taste of salt and metal. Finally he broke the kiss and slid his lips to my ear. "Told you," he whispered. "I'm all yours."
I double the belt in my hand as Viktor watches avidly, slap it against my palm, tap him on the chest with it, then drop it to the floor. "Fuck you," he says.
I chuckle and continue undressing, running my hands along my body, watching his cock twitch as I tweak my own nipple. Actually it feels pretty stupid to me but I know what it does to him, so I indulge him. Then he pulls out his secret weapon.
"Я хочу, чтобы вы," he says.
"Shit," I mutter as my cock leaps to attention. Viktor snickers.
"Ты мне нужен," he says, his eyes dancing with glee.
"Little bastard."
"мало ублюдок," he agrees, cheerfully.
My cock is throbbing, but I force myself to just lean over the bed, slide my hand behind his head and grab a handful of hair. I pull, hard. Viktor's eyes fill with tears, then he grins. "Sick little puppy," I whisper. "Yes," he whispers back. "Take me."
Viktor was waiting for me to take him home the next night. This time he didn't stop at the door, just grabbed my wrist and took me to the bedroom. There was no way I'd resist. I fucked his ass under a picture of him and his grandfather, the fucking father of fucking Soviet hockey. Did that mean I was fucking the grandson of Soviet hockey? What would the old man do if he knew his 20-year-old baby boy was getting nailed by his NHL captain, squealing and shrieking in an incomprehensible mix of Russian and English? Probably send me to the fucking gulag, I thought. But that's as dead as fucking Soviet hockey. The thought made me want to laugh, if I hadn't been breathing so hard in an attempt to hold off my orgasm. But the more Viktor moaned and squirmed, the tighter his ass clamped on my cock, the more he demanded I fuck him harder, dammit, HARDER, well, fuck it. I came in his ass as his grandfather looked grimly down from the wall, and I laughed at the sheer insanity of it all.
Then I flipped the kid over on his back and used my mouth on him. It had been 15 years, but I hadn't forgotten how. Guess it's like riding a bike.
"Shane, what's so funny?" he asked, afterward.
I didn't want to tell him the truth. "You are," I said instead.
I climb onto the bed and swing one leg over Viktor's torso, planting my fat ass on his chest. For a moment, he struggles to breathe. I grin down at him, then slide my hands around his throat and press my thumbs up under his chin. "Open wide," I say, and he obliges, running his tongue out over his lower lip.
I shift my weight forward onto my knees and shove my cock into his mouth. He closes his eyes as I run my fingers through his hair, clutch hard, and pull, feeling his body quiver underneath me in response. I fuck his mouth, but gently, evenly, in contrast to the work my hands are doing. His back is arcing, and I know his cock is throbbing.
I had heard Russian spoken often enough in my hockey life; it was just one of the polyglot of languages you hear in the room or on the ice. So I sure as hell wasn't expecting the effect Viktor speaking Russian was going to have on me. It was fucking weird.
He'd asked to room with me on the road. He didn't have to ask twice. I was like a starving man at a fucking all-you-can-eat buffet, gorging myself on his delicious ass, sucking dick for dessert. But I didn't want to arouse suspicion, and I DID want him to have other friends on the team (though not "friends" like he and I were, no fucking way), so I encouraged him to socialize with the other guys.
He was talking on his cell phone in a Chicago hotel room when it happened. I don't know what the hell he was saying -- he's taught me some phrases, but I sure as hell can't follow a conversation -- and the words, dropping from his lips like maple syrup poured over pancakes, went from my ears straight into my groin. I groaned involuntarily and slipped my hand into my pants. My cock was stiffening.
Viktor paused, then continued his conversation as I watched him, licking my lips. His mouth quirked as he spoke, listened, spoke again, then snapped the phone shut. He grinned at me.
"You like it when I speak Russian?"
I nodded. "Say something," I replied, a sense of urgency in my voice. I was getting close.
His grin widened. He said something, I have no idea what. Could have been his mother's blintz recipe for all I knew. It didn't matter. I pulled my pants down, he did the same and climbed on top of me, Russian pouring out of his mouth in a torrent. Barely pausing for lube, he impaled himself on my cock and bounced hard, bringing us both to orgasm in a matter of moments, never shutting up for a second.
"невероятно," he said, and laughed.
"Don't you EVER do that in public," I warned. "I'm serious, Viktor."
He giggled. "I won't. I promise."
Of course he was lying. There were a few times when my teammates wondered if I had a bladder infection or some damn thing when I had to excuse myself and rush out of a room. But mostly he resisted the temptation. Not because I'd threatened to beat the shit out of him, though. It didn't take long for me to find out that such a threat wasn't a deterrent for Viktor.
I pull my cock out of Viktor's mouth with a soft popping sound, climb off his chest, and rummage in my bag for the bottle of lube. Viktor waits, quietly for once, his chest heaving, licking his lips. I untie his ankles, and he lifts his long legs toward the ceiling, stretching the muscles, then rolls backward, framing his head with his knees, exposing his ass. His look beckons me. I lean over and bite his ass, hard. He squeals. I laugh, then kiss the red mark, give it a lick, and bite the other cheek. He bites his lip, and his cock twitches. Oh, he wants it, so bad, and I oblige at last, spanking his ass until it glows red, then slamming my cock inside, up to the hilt in one thrust, listening to him whimper and cry and then howl in my ear as he comes, his cock emptying on his chest and throat. He slips into Russian again, and it sends me over the edge as my own raging orgasm grabs me, rolls me over in pounding surf, and leaves me panting and helpless, lying on top of his slim, quivering body.
How it happened, I still have no idea. Caught up in the frenzy of fucking, I guess, one night when I'd had a few too many, I slapped his ass, and he squealed, but the cry -- even to my intoxicated ears -- held as much pleasure as pain. I stopped and stared at him.
"You like that?" I asked. He blushed crimson -- the first time I'd ever seen him blush -- and nodded. Experimentally, I reached out and tweaked his nipple, hard. He sucked in his breath, hard, but his cock jerked.
"I'll be damnned," I said, and slapped him again. He squealed, and I saw his eyes dialate as he looked at me.
The thing was, I liked it too.
I liked the way he squirmed and quivered, the noises he made, how fucking turned on he got. I never hit him hard enough to hurt, I mean, not REALLY hurt. He's a hockey player, after all. He's used to pain. Conveniently, bumps and bruises and marks are part of the game. And hey, we all have our kinks, right? His just happens to be getting smacked around a little, and mine is hearing him speak Russian. We oblige each other. It's worked out pretty damn near perfectly, when you think about it.
I untie his wrist restraints and pull his arms down, rubbing his cramped muscles. He purrs, catlike, and snuggles in close to me as I reach for a towel and slide it over his chest. As much as he likes being dominated -- and who am I kidding, really; he dominates me just as much, fucking kid -- he loves being cared for. And hell, I love caring for him. Thank God he found me, or we found each other, or whatever. I shudder to think of him in someone else's hands. Someone who wouldn't care.
I must have literally shuddered, because he looks up at me, those gray eyes slanted now in satiation. "You OK?" he asks.
"I'm fine," I say, and sliding my hand along his jawline, I kiss him, gently. He smiles, closes his eyes, and murmurs: "Я тебя люблю." I have no idea what it means. It doesn't matter. I'll probably never tell him, but he knows that I love him. And he belongs to me.