Chapter Text
Don’t get him wrong, Quinn loves hockey. But every single time he has to play against the wilds, he finds himself dreading the mere idea of stepping onto the ice.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like the wilds. Of course, there was a little tension simply due to the fact that they were his opponents, but the team seemed to be full of good dudes and they were all a force to be reckoned with in the rink. Almost every time the canucks were against them within the last few years, they got their asses ripped apart and handed to them.
His whole body felt heavy when he first stepped onto the ice after warm ups. Maybe it was because he felt like they’d lose, get their asses handed to him, and he’d have to comfort his teammates like he wasn’t also butt hurt. It’s not like he wouldn’t comfort them each time, not like he wouldn’t comfort them over any hardships they may face, but having to force through his own want to sulk long enough to give a pep talk that his heart wasn’t really in was starting to drive him insane.
Maybe they could win if Quinn could focus. This game wasn’t different than any of the others they’d played against the wilds, except…
Kirill Kaprizov had body checked him into the wall so hard he almost fell, and that would’ve been normal. He’d come to expect that he would fall easier, maybe get tossed around a little, being a fairly small guy for a hockey player. But that wasn’t what was weird. Kaprizov had fucking winked at him after Quinn regained his footing. He swears there was a tiny smirk on his lips too.
What the hell was that about?
No player had ever winked at him after slamming him into the wall. Hell, no player had ever winked at him and meant it, period. His teammates had, in a sarcastic or teasing way, and he thinks his brothers probably have too. But none of his opponents had ever, and will most likely never will, besides him.
Why would he do that? What did he mean by it? Was he just fucking around, trying to see if Quinn would freak out and punch him, trying to antagonize him by pretending to flirt a little?
His brain was moving at a thousand miles an hour, trying to decode Kaprizov’s whatever that was while still trying to stay locked into the game. Before he got the chance to even form an opinion on it, Kaprizov was skating back over to him, keeping his distance this time while gazing intently at him. Quinn was only a little nervous.
The puck came flying to him and he was forced out of his thoughts. He couldn’t throw this game just because his opponent was trying to make him blush. He skated away from Kaprizov, the other boy following after him, trying to bring the puck to the other team’s net while he was trying to steal it.
Their sticks clacked against each other as Kaprizov got a little too close for comfort, leaning near his back and he swears he can feel his breath against his neck. Logically, he knew he couldn’t since both of their helmets would never allow that. He glanced back at him, and he instantly regretted it, Kaprizov was smirking like this was the most amusing thing in his life.
Quinn passed the puck to Elias and tried to get away from the too-handsome-for-his-own-good Russian boy. He caught his lip between his teeth as he made his way back to the bench. He had been on the ice for a little over a minute already, and he needed some time away from Kaprizov to try and process what kind of game he was trying to play other than hockey.
Someone was definitely going to say that the ghosts were talking to him with how hard he was staring into nothing. But it was easier to think when he focused on only thinking, and right now he felt like he’d go insane if he didn’t at least try to figure out what was going on with Kaprizov.
Was he actually trying to flirt with him? Mid game? While they were playing against each other? No way. He wouldn’t, surely. Would he? Quinn hadn’t heard anything that would suggest that Kaprizov was gay, or that he’d be so bold as to flirt with him on the ice, but on the other hand he hadn’t heard anything that would suggest the opposite. He’d never seen anything about Kaprizov with any girls (or any guys for that matter, but still), however he knew that the Russian was incredibly confident and that only amplified when he was playing. Maybe he really did mean it.
The first period ended without another hitch, and he was thankful for that. When he got back on the ice for the first time in the second, he instantly spotted Kaprizov at the other side of the rink. There was a pit in his stomach for reasons he wasn’t sure of.
When Tom passed the puck to him, Kaprizov was rushing over to him in the blink of an eye. He shoved him up against the wall again and tried to force the puck from him. His heart rate increased a little. Kaprizov was so close, and this was so much longer than just a little shove, he could feel his body heat and it was a stark difference to the chilly rink.
He made the mistake of looking at Kaprizov. The boy’s face was shiny with sweat and flushed with exertion, a grin wide on his round lips. Quinn caught himself wondering what it’d be like to kiss them. He hopes his face wasn’t as red as he felt like it was.
“Cutie,” Kaprizov just barely muttered, quiet enough that Quinn wouldn’t have heard it if he wasn’t staring at his mouth.
It caught him off guard enough to allow Kaprizov to successfully steal the puck from him. He felt like he was going to pass out. Cutie? Did he mean it, or did he just say it because he knew it’d throw Quinn off enough that he’d lose the puck?
He kept his distance from Kaprizov for the rest of the period.
Somehow, they had scored three whole goals in the second period. Quinn was elated. If they kept playing like this, they’d win easily. He wouldn’t have to assure the guys that they’d get them next time, wouldn’t have to sulk back to his hotel and obsess over every mistake he made. He’d get to take his team out for drinks, to celebrate, maybe go back to his hotel room with company.
Could Russians read minds? Because Quinn was starting to think they could. He’d allowed his mind to wander father into the possibility of taking someone back to his hotel, and as he was trying to picture what kind of girl or guy he’d pick, Kaprizov skated past him and stared dead into his soul as he did.
In the third period, they’d managed to score another goal. Wild had too, but they still only had two points while the canucks had four. There was no way they could’ve made a comeback anyhow, and Quinn was absolutely ecstatic.
For some reason, though, he found himself lingering on the ice while his teammates began filing back to the locker room. When Kaprizov skated up by him, he knew that was why. What was it about this boy that was so captivating, seriously?
Quinn found himself talking before he could stop himself, “Did you mean it?”
“Of course,” His accent was not helping the whole captivating thing, “Would not joke about something like that.”
He caught his lip between his teeth, trying too hard not to think as thinking would put an end to their conversation. “You know the hotel that they usually put away teams in?” This was a bad idea.
Kaprizov just nodded beside him, so he continued, “I’m in room 1012. I’ll be back by ten.”
He only allowed himself one glance to Kaprizov, and upon seeing his slightly shocked expression he smirked a little. Two can play at whatever his game was. Without another word or glance, he followed after his teammates into the locker room.
All of them were alternating between pulling a piece of equipment off and cheering. His prior smirk turned into a cheek-aching smile when he saw just how happy his team was about winning.
“Good job, boys!” He said while wrapping his arms around Elias and Aatu’s shoulders, “There’s a bar across the street. Who’s up for some proper celebrating?”
There were a couple of woos from the room and Quinn could not be happier. He quickly shed all of his gear and gathered the members of the team who wanted to go out drinking, leading them out onto the street and then across to the bar.
He ordered a round of shots for all of them, and then another, and then a beer for himself. Every thought he had was about Kaprizov. Ten couldn’t come soon enough, and the nerves were starting to get to him. He can’t believe he actually told him to come back to his hotel room. Marcus was talking his ear off but Quinn wasn’t really paying attention, offering little hums periodically so it didn’t seem like he was ignoring him. His brain thought it was far more interesting to start fantasizing about what he and Kaprizov would do back in his hotel.
His eyes fell on the clock tucked in the corner of the bar, squinting to read it. 9:32. They went back to Marcus, who had stopped talking when Quinn looked away. “It’s getting late, I think I’m gonna head back.”
Marcus nodded and turned to talk to whoever was on the other side of him instead. He called the bartender over, closed his tab, said his goodbyes, and then got in the first taxi he saw. His skin felt electric as he told the driver where to go, knowing that Kirill fucking Kaprizov would be there probably moments after he arrived himself.
When he got there, it was already 9:47 if the clock in the lobby was correct. Kaprizov was probably on his way by now. The elevator ride felt like a million years, almost making him wish he’d opted to take the stairs, though he knew his poor legs would not enjoy that after playing for far longer than he’d have liked to. It was only 9:50 when he made it into his room, and a part of him wondered if Kaprizov was waiting for the elevator as he was in it. He shed his jacket, hanging it up on a small coat rack by the door, and allowed himself to fall into his bed face first. It was soft and plush, and Quinn was so tired.
He must’ve dozed off for a moment, because he was awoken by three sharp knocks on the door. Quickly, he scrambled up, swallowed the lump in his throat, and made his way back over to the door. He looked through the peephole, to prolong having to open the door more than anything else. Obviously it was Kaprizov.
With a deep breath, he opened the door. Kaprizov smiled big as he laid his eyes on Quinn, who motioned for him to come in.
“You actually came,” was the first thing he said to him off the ice.
“And you actually gave me right room number.”
Quinn smiled a little, his not quite right grammar was way too endearing, “You thought I gave you a random number?”
The boy in front of him nodded, “Thought maybe you were just messing with me.”
He laughed a little, “I thought you were doing the same thing when you called me cute.”
“Oh, no. No. I would not lie about that. You are very cute, Hughes.”
A slight blush spread across his nose and cheeks. “See, just like that. When you do that, it is cute,” Kaprizov continued, stepping towards him tentatively.
“Call me Quinn,” is all he could get out.
“Quinn,” Kaprizov repeated, “I’m Kirill. No Kaprizov tonight.”
He nodded, “So, I um, I didn’t really think this far ahe-”
Kirill’s lips were on his before he could even finish his thought. They were surprisingly soft for a hockey player, a little chapped in the center and tasting vaguely of cherry. Kirill must’ve put on chapstick before he came here, and Quinn’s stomach twisted over the idea that he’d planned this. A large hand found the back of his neck, fingers threading into the wavy brown hair at the base of his skull. He had to choke down the whine that threatened to slip at that action. Kirill’s other hand landed on his hip, gently guiding him so his back was against the wall.
“This okay?” He asked, breaking their lips apart but not pulling away. This time, Quinn knows he can feel his breath.
One of Quinn’s arms wrapped around his neck and the other fell about mid back, holding him close as he answered, “Yeah, more than okay.”
The corners of Kirill’s mouth twisted upwards at that, one side cocking a little higher than the other. Quinn pressed forwards instantly, kissing the smirk off his face. The fingers in his hair tightened, not quite pulling but just holding. Quinn didn’t swallow down the whine this time.
Kirill broke away again, “You like when I shove you into the wall? You blush before I even wink. You like when I am rough with you?” He punctuated his words with a sharp tug of Quinn’s hair.
He bit back a moan, “So what if I do?”
“Ahh, do not play games with me, Quinn. I will stop if you are brat,” His voice was steady, leaving no room to question if he meant it or not.
He lifted his hips off the wall and pressed them against the other’s, “I like it,” he admitted hesitantly.
“Good. Good boy,” He whispered, grinding roughly against Quinn.
The way he moaned would’ve had him embarrassed if Kirill didn’t smile big and dip his head down to mouth at his neck. He nipped at a little and a part of Quinn, deep down, hoped he’d leave a mark and that it’d cause a scandal. But he knows, or at least hopes, that Kirill is smarter than that.
When he leans back up to kiss him again, Quinn grabs him by the jaw to stop him. “I wanna suck your dick.”
Kirill licked his lips and released his hair, “Go on then.”
Before he even finished his words Quinn had dropped to his knees with a little wince. He definitely shouldn’t have hit the ground that hard, especially not after a game, but he couldn’t care less. His hands pushed up Kirill’s shirt until he got the hint and pulled it off, forgetting it somewhere on the floor. As soon as it was off, he was shoving his sweatpants and underwear down together.
Fuck. Kirill was huge. He didn’t know if he’d be able to take this in his ass, let alone his mouth.
Seemingly sensing Quinn’s nerves (which didn’t help his theory on whether or not Russians could read minds), he gently stroked his cheek and then ran his fingers through his hair. “You can take it,” his tone was sweet, “You do not need to suck it all, take what you can.”
Quinn nodded, wrapping his hand around the base and licked a stripe from his knuckles to the tip. The way Kirill shivered above him only spurred him on further. He licked over the slit, loving the salty taste that collected on his tongue, before he wrapped his lips around it. Kirill’s hands flew to his hair and instantly started tugging. He sank down as far as he could, gagging the tiniest bit, but the way that Kirill moaned made it more than worth it. Kirill let him bob his head and work his hand over what he couldn’t fit for a few moments, sweetly brushing his hair out of his eyes before aggressively grabbing at the locks around the crown of his head and pulling him off.
He whined a little, looking up at him with the most pleading eyes he could manage. “Up,” Kirill said simply, tugging Quinn’s hair and smiling when he rose along with his hand. He pushed Quinn against the wall roughly, the other boy’s body complying easily, pliant and controllable. Kirill toed off his shoes and shed his pants and underwear before his hands were back on Quinn.
As soon as they were, they were all but ripping his shirt off and feeling all over his built chest. Quinn didn’t have abs, not really at least, but he was still visibly covered in muscle. One of his hands squeezed his peck roughly, the other rolling his nipple on the opposite peck. Quinn’s head fell back against the wall, a sigh falling past his lips.
His lips were back on Quinn’s neck, trailing his fingers down his chest until they reached the waistband of his pants. They pressed past it, ghosting over the newfound skin, but they lingered near his hips until he whined. He kissed right under his ear as his hand started slowly working along his cock.
“Can I fuck you?” Kirill asked, whispering into his ear and sending shivers up his spine.
His voice came out as barely a whisper, “Yeah.”
“Have you ever?” he questioned, sounding genuine and not condescending as Quinn would usually expect, “With a guy, that is.”
Quinn nodded, “I’m bi, but I like men more. Have you?”
He hummed, “Yes, back in Russia. Little here. Never anyone as pretty as you.”
His face heated up, definitely bright red. He couldn’t even reply to that, so instead he led Kirill from the wall over to the bed. With a hand on his chest, he pushed the boy down so that he was sitting. Quinn found his bag atop the dresser, rifling through it before pulling out a condom and a little bottle of lube. He turned back to Kirill, shedding his pants and underwear before leaning down to kiss him slowly.
Kirill couldn’t stop touching him, and he definitely wasn’t complaining. As soon as he kissed him, both of his hands flew to rest right above his ass. It felt good to be wanted like this.
Without separating their lips, Kirill flipped them over so that Quinn’s back was pressed to the mattress and the Russian was hovering over him. He pulled Kirill’s hips down against him, seeking any kind of friction as he tried to rut against his stomach. “How do you want it?” Kirill asked, sneaking a hand between them to wrap around Quinn’s dick.
“Like this,” Quinn answered instantly, though struggling to speak between his whines “But, like- fuck. Like, actually on the bed.”
Kirill nodded, letting go of his dick and moving out of the way so he could situate himself how he wanted. He watched him move so that he was laying properly in the bed, letting his head rest in the mess of pillows and allowing his knees to fall apart when Kirill comes to sit between them. When Kirill reached for the lube and condom discarded on the bed, it was his turn to watch, however there was a slight tinge of anxiety in his gaze when Kirill slicked up three of his fingers.
Russians could definitely read minds, Quinn concludes when the one in his hotel bed kisses the inside of his knee and whispers for him to relax. Regardless, it does help ease his worries. His clean hand strokes up and down the expanse of his thigh while he circles his hole with the other. Kirill looks up at him, asking for permission wordlessly, and when Quinn nods he slowly presses the first digit into him. His breath hitches, fuck it’s been way too long since he’s done this. He hadn’t got laid since last time Elias got drunk and desperate, and he doesn’t even remember what his dick had felt like. No time for masturbating past jerking off and cumming as fast as he could in the shower while they were on the road, either.
Once he was accustomed to one, he sank another in alongside it. A little breathy moan escaped his lips as his head tipped back, eyes squeezing shut. They slowly started working him open, with practiced precision, so much so that it made him wonder if he was lying about “little here” or if he’d just racked up a body count back in Russia.
“Good?” Kirill asked, his tone sweet, “Think you can handle last one?”
“Yeah, ‘s good,” Quinn sounded breathless, “Give me another.”
He obliged, finally finding his prostate when he curled them this time. Quinn’s thighs shook a little as he cried out, hands flying out to grab at anything they could, one settling on Kirill’s shoulder and the other on his waist, fingers and nails digging in so harshly there’d surely be marks.
“Oh? There?” Kirill’s smirk could be heard through his voice. He rubbed the pads of his fingers against it, roughly, eliciting a long groan from the boy below him.
“Fuck, just put it in,” Quinn was almost about to start begging, “I’m ready, c’mon.”
His smirk only grew, but he listened. As gently as he could, he slid his fingers out before grabbing the condom. He fucking ripped it open with his teeth. Quinn felt his dick twitch against his stomach at that. Why was that so hot? Quinn thinks he could get used to this, even if he knows he can’t. Part of him wishes he could.
Kirill rolled it over his cock, following it with a little more lube. He wiped his hand off on the bedsheet (to which Quinn has to bite back a comment since he knows the sheets will probably be worse off in a few minutes anyway) before grabbing both of his thighs and forcing them up higher and further apart. There's a slight burn in his thighs, once again reminding him that this was a stupid bad idea and what he really needed was to rest after playing thirty minutes tonight. But Kirill was thumbing the head of his cock against his hole.
And when he pressed in, Quinn thinks he might be ascending. It’s nothing like any of the other guys he's slept with, regardless of if they were or weren’t the same size. It’s addictive, if he’s being honest, in a way that he thought sex could never be. He definitely understood sex addicts now.
Something he couldn’t understand was being muttered above him while Kirill’s eyes were trained where their hips were flush. When he looked back up to him, his Russian accent sounded almost thicker than before, “You take it so good, made for my dick. Tell me how it feels.”
“Huge, fuck,” Quinn’s voice is shaky enough that he’s worried it might break, “Like it’s in my stomach. So good.”
“Can I? Please?” Kirill splayed one big hand across his chest, “Let me fuck you, please.”
All he could do was nod frantically and try to pull him down to kiss him before embarrassing sounds were being forced from his throat. Kirill let himself be dragged down, but before he connected their lips he was rocking his hips into the boy below him. Quinn’s moans sounded fucking pornographic. He knew he wouldn’t last if this is what he’d sound like all night.
Quinn smashed their lips together in an almost bruising kiss before he could allow any more noises to slip. Each thrust was right up against his prostate and it was mind-melting. He didn’t even know sex could feel this good. He was so pissed that this would most likely be a one night stand.
But right now was not the time to think about that. Right now, he had to live in the moment, he had to focus every ounce of his being into not blowing his load like a virgin. Kirill was grinning against his mouth, swallowing down every moan he could no longer control. Every touch felt like fire against his skin, Kirill’s hand exploring every inch of his body while the other keeping his leg hiked up.
His pace picked up and he allowed his head to fall into Quinn’s neck, panting and huffing out the quietest little moans. It was driving him insane. Both of his hands went to grab at Kirill’s back and shoulders, squeezing and clawing and digging his fingertips into his pale skin.
“Kirill, fuck, I’m not gonna last,” He just barely gets out between his moans.
The boy above him laughed a little, earnestly, “It’s that good?” All he could manage was nod, not trusting his voice anymore. Kirill didn’t seem to mind, “Me neither, you feel so good, vozlyublennyy.”
His stomach twists at the Russian petname (at least, that's what he assumes the word is), unsure of exactly why. He feels hot all over, and Kirill isn’t helping. There was definitely blush from his hairline to his nipples, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel embarrassed. Not when Kirill was kissing from the single mole on his cheek all the way down to his navel.
Tears pricked at his waterline and threatened to fall as Kirill picked up his pace, clearly chasing his own pleasure after Quinn admitted he was going to be a two minute man. Not that he was complaining, with every thrust his thighs shook a little more and his back arched a little higher off the bed.
“Touch me, please, oh my god,” That was probably the most coherent sentence he’d spoken all night, “Need it, Kirill please, I’m so close just-”
He was silenced by a hand wrapping around his leaking, achingly hard, cock. Kirill stroked in time with his thrusts and it took every bit of self control he had left to not bust the moment he touched him. No, he was better than that, he let Kirill get in a good four and a half pumps before his orgasm crashed over him like a tidal wave. Hot ropes of milky white coated his chest and stomach, even a little on Kirill’s stomach, his eyes trying to see his brain as his entire body went rigid. The sight alone made Kirill groan and bury himself in Quinn, cumming only seconds after him. Quinn thinks he can feel the condom balloon inside of him.
Kirill slowly pulled out and just barely moved to the side before he collapsed on the bed. And Quinn thinks he might not have minded if he fell on top of him, minus the whole being crushed by a professional athlete's body weight thing. One of his hands stayed put on Quinn’s hip, though.
“Fuck,” He mutters after a moment, dazed, his chest still heaving yet tightening when he heard Kirill giggle beside him.
The bed dipped and then plateaued again when Kirill stood, and Quinn didn’t watch but he assumes he’s disposing of the condom and collecting his clothes. When the bed dips again, Kirill is in his line of sight, sitting right next to him — a pile of clothing in his lap. He reached over to the bedside table and pulled a tissue from the box, one Quinn hadn’t even noticed was in the room before now, and used it to wipe the cum from each of their stomachs. He went to throw it away before regaining his position, this time a hand came to rest idly on Quinn’s hip.
“Can I shower before I go?” Kirill asked, “Bet you have very early fight tomorrow and want me gone fast as possible.”
Quinn sat up, “Uh, yeah, the flight’s at like 6am. But you can shower, of course.”
He nodded and leaned over to press a kiss into his shoulder, standing after and making his way to the bathroom with all his clothes still collected in his arms.
Their flight wasn’t until 9am. Still sort of early, but definitely not early enough that he had to kick Kirill out. But, he really doesn’t think he could stomach aftercare or even a little bit of snuggling. Not from a guy as sweet as Kirill when it wasn’t certain they’d ever see each other again. The shower started and he allowed the hum of the running water to act as white noise and wash all of his thoughts away.
Kirill was back in less than ten minutes, and honestly Quinn is surprised that he’s still awake. He’s half glad and half not that he is when the bathroom door opens to reveal the beautiful Russian boy, his curls dripping slightly as he scrunches them against the towel. There’s a little, almost bashful grin on his lips when he notices Quinn staring.
He doesn’t leave instantly, doesn’t force his shoes on and scurry out, instead he leisurely waltzes over and leans down to press a kiss against Quinn’s cheekbone. One finger gently brushed the hair from his green eyes before he straightened his back again. He left the side of the bed to collect Quinn’s clothing, handing it to him once he’d found every item. Quinn wishes he could get used to this.
Only when he has underwear and a shirt back on does Kirill begin making his way towards the door. Quinn doesn’t bother with his pants, and Kirill doesn’t comment, so he just follows him to the little hallway. It’s a little awkward just standing there with Kirill as he ties his shoes, but he gets them on quick enough that he doesn’t have time to drown in it.
“I hope you know I am not leaving because I did not like this, or because I do not like you,” Kirill says, the care in his tone making Quinn’s stomach churn, “Just because you need sleep so you can be up early. I had fun, and I like you. Not— well, you know what I mean.”
Quinn nodded, “Yeah, for sure.”
He’s not sure he can take anything sappier than that, so he’s almost relieved when Kirill twists the doorknob and waves as he steps out of his room. Almost, because the pit in his stomach wasn’t the regular guilt he’d feel post-hookup, rather, it feels more like he misses Kirill.
He falls asleep the moment his head hits the pillow, and he’s glad none of his dreams are about a certain Russian opponent of his.