Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, POV Cliff Marleau, fellas is it gay to think your captain is exceptional?, First gay experience, Top Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Bottom Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-08 Words: 4,443 Chapters: 1/1

All the roads lead to...

Summary

Cliff isn't entirely sure how he got here. 'Here' being a hotel room in Tampa, with Ilya Rozanov. Who is on his knees.

Notes

Cliff isn't entirely sure how he got here.

Okay, fine, he hasn't actually hit his head today and knows full well where he is, in a technical sense. 'Here' is a hotel room in Tampa, exactly where he's supposed to be at this time of a night after a (disappointing, embarrassing) game before a flight at ass-o-clock tomorrow morning that will take him and his team to the next city in their tour. It's more about the 'metaphysical' side of 'here' that got him confused.

Generally, Cliff sees himself as a pretty easy-going guy. He rolls with the punches as they come — there isn't much use to getting burried under the what-ifs and hypotheticals (or metaphysicals, for that matter). He is a hockey guy, and pretty damn good at it, too. Sure, he pales in comparison to the likes of Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, but what those guys do is not really his job anyway: he is not the star center, the playmaker, the Captain. Cliff doesn't make the rafters go wild, doesn't pinch impossible victories from the jaws of defeat, doesn't get his name cursed in locker rooms across the country. He can't, really, he's not wired that way.

But, like everybody knows, hockey is a team sport. And what Cliff is, is a damn good team mate. He didn't and doesn't plan for it, but every time the option presents itself, he's there to cease it. He is there to put men on the boards with borderline unnecessary force when they go to target Rozanov in desperate attempts to stop him from shining as bright as he does. Cliff is there on the open ice at the right place to receive those passes that should be impossible and put them in the net. Cliff is there to spot at the gym, to reserve a spot in the breakfast buffet, to cover for curfew breaking. Cliff was there when Rozanov made Captain (Only his third year in the league! That would be a record, if only Hollander wasn't doing the exact same) and to put some of the old guard to their right places when some had the audacity to rumble about it even when none of them could pull the team anywhere during the absolute dearth of any significant achievements in the Time Before Rozanov (As if the progress they've made in the last couple of seasons wasn't mostly Rozanov's doing, as if the man wasn't the goddamn beating heart of the whole Raiders operations with his passion and his skill and his magnetic charisma; as if he hadn't spent countless hours working with the rookies and the vets alike in groups and one-on-one to improve their weaknesses, as if… As if Cliff couldn't keep making this list longer and longer to infinity and beyond).

Being a good team mate isn't hard, though it requires quite a lot of effort, especially when Rozanov is being prickly and difficult. And wasn't that a revelation, way back when: the way the easy-going smirk sometimes cracks to show something far more tense and contrary right underneath. Captain Rozanov is smooth, slick, smart, smug, a thousand more words Cliff could use that put together a demanding, compelling man that can keep the whole locker room under his spell as easy as breathing. Or at least make it look easy as breathing. And sometimes, in the right light, some of the effort it takes to make the show bleeds through. Cliff doesn't know how many people see it. He sure as shit hopes he, a nicely-above-average hockey player, is not the only one.

So. That was a long tangent to go off on. Unnecessarily convoluted even, uncharacteristic for such a practical, down-to-Earth man Cliff is. But yes, he needed it, a few seconds to ponder at the profound mechanics of team work, because otherwise he probably would've blown an artery. Or something else. Because the other here that he arrived to without quite knowing how is right now, happening in this general-ass little hotel room like-off-which Cliff has seen hundreds of and will see hundreds more before the end of his career, but for apparent reasons will likely actually remember for the rest of his life, where his Captain, teammate, friend Ilya fucking Rozanov, the youngest Captain in Boston's history, the record breaking scorer, the record holder for pretty much all records ever made in Raiders (not counting ones related to longevity, but give him a few years and Cliff is sure those will break too), Cliff's best friend if Cliff is honest about it, the man he'd hauled home from more bars he can count, is on his knees right in front of Cliff, his pink, plush indecent lips stretching over Cliffs cock, and Cliff is fucking about to come right down his throat if he doesn't get a fucking hold of things right the fuck now.

"Roz," Cliff says and his voice comes out so pitchy he almost doesn't recognize it. Roz's eyes open — when did he close them? — and he pulls off Cliff's cock with a wet plop that is the most obscene sound Cliff has heard in his life. Un-fucking-believable, he's gotten his cock sucked many a-times, too many to count, with all levels of enthusiasm and skill, but somehow, some fucking how, Ilya fucking Rozanov is putting them all to shame (But it is Ilya fucking Rozanov, so Cliff shouldn't be surprised, right?).

"What?" Roz snaps, and Cliff is acutely reminded that many steps of 'getting here' were about Roz being a goddamn asshole after their stupid overtime loss, and the embarrassment of getting caught while trying to sneak out. There is a limit on how much shit Cliff is ready to bear any given day, and this time Roz managed reached it. They have never been shy about ribbing each other, especially about sex, and somehow it lead to Cliff slamming a very unruly Roz against that goddam wall of their shared hotel room and Roz liking it. There were couple of steps here and there that had to happen in the middle, probably, but that was the general gist of it, more or less, because, as established, Cliff is fucking great at taking things on a stride.

And now, Roz is looking up at him, brow furrowing irritably, curls artfully tousled (somehow looking like he haven't touched them at all even though Cliff knows full well the man spent upwards of 15 minutes getting them just so. And who's he kidding, the effort was worth it), his stupid club-going shirt flow-y and open and leaving nothing to the imagination, and Cliff has never in his life seen a man in that position, but now, somehow, it's doing something to him, because never in his life has he also ever received a blowjob quite this sloppy, making his cock downright drippy and shiny, and Roz's face is shining too, drool and precome smearing his whole jaw, and he fucking licks his lips, and—

Roz lifts his eyebrows and for a second, something in Cliff's chest downright bangs on the thought that whatever the spell that got them here was, it is now broken and they'll move back to the regularly scheduled programming for hotel nights (Why is he upset?).

"What's the matter, Marly?" Roz says, and that's his goddamn smug brat voice he uses to get a rise out of someone, and Cliff knows the shape of what's coming next, if not the words exactly. "About to come already? Such a dry spell, the sight of someone on their knees gets you off in two seconds, yes?"

Cliff sighs, because that's not even a good chirp: Roz knows full well that Cliff had a girl in their hotel at the last stop of their roundtrip, sexiling Roz for a change. "Do you ever shut up?" he says, which is also a lazy question, because the answer is, irrevocably, no.

Roz grins, and Cliff could swear that his eyes sparkle. "Make me," and Cliff knows what that means when it comes out of someone on their knees, so he rolls with the punches once again, wholly without a plan or forethought, and before he can have any, there's warm wetness around his cock and further thought becomes impossible. Roz makes a sound that reverberates right through Cliff's cock, and automatically, his fingers tighten. Oh, shit, he shouldn't pull hair, nobody likes that— Except Roz, apparently, because when Cliff tries to let go, Roz's hand snatches up and takes him by the wrist and pulls until Cliff's fingers are in his curls again. So, okay, sure, Cliff can do that, and Roz's curls are a bit stiff with product but still nice and plenty long enough for Cliff to really get a handful of. He pulls slightly and Roz makes a sound, garbled and guttural, and holy fuck, if Cliff's cock wasn't already painfully hard, hearing that would make it so immediately.

"Fucking hell, Roz," Cliff says, but this time Roz doesn't stop, just pops his head with more speed. And Cliff is not a small man, anywhere. Typically, the ladies he brings home (or goes home to) take some time to be ready for all of him. He doesn't mind, at all, since the preparation is a large part of the fun. But it means that he's more than used to being careful, used to tentativeness that must be eased away little by little. He knows all the polite (yet still sexy) ways of saying that it's completely alright to use hands as part of a blowjob, to only take him as far as is comfortable, because he will like it whatever way his partner of the night prefers doing it; he's not picky and blowjobs are awesome, and he doesn't expect to be just deep throated like it's not a big deal. He knows he's a lot and it's fine.

Well, he has a distant thought that maybe, just maybe it'll be a little bit less fine the next time, because right now, Roz's fucking nose nuzzles onto his happy trail and the head of his cock is hitting Roz's fucking throat, and it feels magnificent.

His balls are tightening and his orgasm approaches like a freight train, inevitable and coming right at him. Roz has the audacity to hum when he finally pulls back a bit and Cliff cocks drags against his palate, outwards and then, after a quick sharp breath through the nose, in again, just as deep, his tongue running smoothly on the underside. Roz swallows around him, and the feeling of the tight heat convulsing around the head of his cock is the most insane feeling Cliff has felt maybe ever, Jesus Fuck.

"Roz," he says, urgent and low, "I'm about to—" He spares one mourning thought on it being over, and pulls Roz's hair, but the man doesn't move. Roz opens his eyes again, and the corners are wet, nearly spilling over, pupils blown, and if Cliff wasn't close a second ago, he certainly is now.

"Roz," he warns again, more urgently, but Roz doesn't relent, grabbing on the back of Cliff's thighs and holding on. Then the bastard even adds suction, and Cliff is gone. He shoots his load right into Roz's throat, and nearly brains himself with the wall when the force of his orgasm makes him curl forward. He's pretty sure he's pulling Roz's hair, but all he can feel is that mouth working around him, prolonging the best orgasm he's had in a while (a looong while…) It's fucking birds chirping around his head, fireworks behind his eyelids, electricity shooting through him and curling his toes. Fucking hell.

He slumps against the wall and only by instinct manages to move his hand to the back of Roz's head for protection, and pull his hips back, too, for good measure. The man doesn't deserve to suffocate after giving Cliff that, and also Cliff doesn't want to explain to the coach how their Captain expired. Roz makes a wet noise when Cliff's cock slips out of his mouth, and his hands finally let go of Cliff's thighs. Cliff opens his eyes just in time to see them drop right into Roz's lap and dive for his fly, and that just won't do.

The years of hockey where he's pushed through many and varied Situations in all kinds of circumstances ranging from dangerous to downright stupid come to his aid once again when he forces his body to move. He reaches down and grabs Roz by the armpits and hauls him up against the loyal wall that has so nicely helped Cliff to keep outright and shall support him once more. Roz makes a wild noise, and his eyes are enormous when Cliff raises him up to eye level. And goddamn, the man is always almost unfairly beautiful but right now he is downright stunning: his lips, plush and pink on a regular day are swollen and glistening with spit, his pale skin is blushed from his hair line to his chest, and his mouth hangs open like he can't quite get enough air. He looks like a man who just sucked a cock like his life depended on it and liked it.

Cliff wastes no time as he yanks Roz's fly all the way open and wrenches his pants down (his stupid club pants that look like they are painted on, all shiny and tight and showing off) along with his underwear. For a second or so Cliff is curious about what kind of underwear Ilya Rozanov considers club appropriate, but now, doesn't bother to look. Maybe he'll regret the lost opportunity later, but a man gotta have priorities to get through life, and right now, Cliff's are as clear as when on ice: score.

Cliff crowds Roz right against the wall and kicks his legs apart as far as they go with his pants dangling somewhere around his knees, but luckily, Cliff doesn't need that much space to jam his thigh between Roz's. Roz groans, and it sounds like he's been garbling gravel. His hips stutter forward against Cliff and he is hard, harder that Cliff would've maybe expected a man to get just from sucking another man's cock, but what the fuck does he know? Those things could fill a library, anyway, so it doesn't matter, and Cliff does what he always does, which is to take things as they are and move forward.

Roz squirms and wiggles, but given that his toes barely reach the floor from where he hangs on Cliff's thigh that doesn't get him anywhere, except grinding against Cliff. His hands end up on Cliff's shoulders, pushing against him but also grabbing his shirt, and that signal Cliff knows with the easy familiarity of a man who is, as a rule, much larger than his partners, and most of the time, that is a point to his favor. And even now, with a person like Roz who is all solid muscle and spitfire attitude, Cliff doesn't need both hands to keep him where he wants him and there's shit all Roz can do about it. And based on the face Roz is making right now he knows it, and the points for Cliff are stacking up.

Roz could probably, maybe, get off against Cliff's thigh, at least based on how red his face is and the slightly desperate edge in the movements his hips make, but letting him do that doesn't feel right to Cliff, not after receiving what was probably (definitely) the best blowjob of his life. Cliff sure as shit won't be able to reciprocate on that area, but then again, everybody knows Roz is exceptional, a fucking legend in a making, and Cliff has made his peace with that. Imitating Roz won't lead to anything but embarrassment and choking up (this time more literally than usually), so he moves on to the next best option which he actually can take.

He lifts his free hand to his mouth and spits on his palm. Roz makes a noise, half outraged but more than half curious, like when somebody makes a play on ice he is intrigued to see play out, and it's followed by a moan when Cliff closes his hand around Roz's cock. It is weird, Cliff has never touched another man's cock before, but he is intimately familiar with his own, and it can't be that different, can it? Sure, the angle is new, and this cock doesn't fit into his hand quite like his own does, but when Cliff tightens his grip it pulses and dribbles precome just the same. As a bonus (a remarkable one) Roz makes a sound again, something between a choke and a squeak, and that will definitely become a part of Cliff's spank bank material, and he's not even sorry about it.

Roz squirms again and says something, probably in Russian. He sounds slurry, the words unrecognizable, and if Cliff is confident about anything, it's his ability to clock Russian obscenities and swears, so either Roz is saying something brand new and creative (which Cliff wouldn't put past him, the man has imagination) or he's too far gone to make his mouth work (which would be achievement of the century, surely). Nevertheless, Cliff takes that as a sign to speed up. Roz's hands claw his shoulders, and his head tilts backwards, arching his neck, and Cliff gets an absurd urge to bite it. And what is one more thing, because Cliff is not thinking that much anyway, so before he even knows it, he's latching on Roz's pulse point, right under his jaw. Roz goes tense like a plank, and then his whole body arches up against Cliff without even a pretense of holding his own weight up. Cliff gets one more stroke in before Roz spurts all over his hand, and that's probably goodbye to Cliff's shirt, but it has served him well, and for this, it's a sacrifice he's willing to make, glad even, he'll konmari it in a second in honor of this particular memory of Ilya fucking Rozanov's O face. Because of course, Roz can't look goofy or awkward or slightly ridiculous when he comes, no, he has to be his striking self even now, lips pursing and eyes sparking and every line of his handsome face somehow both sharpening and slackening at the same time. Stupid sexy Rozanov.

Roz slumps against him and hides that face onto Cliff's shoulder. His own shoulders are heaving as he pants, body relaxed and languid in a way Cliff very rarely sees. Somehow, the kinetic energy running in him even in the early mornings now uncoils and settles, like he has no care in the world.

Cliff, on the other hand, does have cares in the world, the chief among them the fact that he just got off with his friend, his captain, who is, to put a finer point on what exactly the issue is in the myriad of features that constitute Ilya Rozanov, a man. And on top of that, a very perceptive man, so if Cliff is freaking out about it, Roz will know and then all the fucking hell will break lose, and Cliff will be the collateral, because he sure as fuck isn't letting Roz to be it. So, he has approximately the time it will take for Roz to get his breath back to decide what to do about it.

Or. Well. What the hell. He got this far by going with the flow, so why disrupt it now? He has never even looked at another dude with any intention on touching their cock (or having them touch his), but who the fuck is he kidding? If there ever was an exception to any rule, Ilya Rozanov would be it. Anything applying to him is not applicable to anything wider (except maybe Hollander, but Hollander is not here nor is he Cliff's friend or Captain. Though he is pretty. Anyway.) So there's no reason to make a big deal out of any of this, right? Right?

Roz stirs against his shoulder, spine stiffening again, and Cliff has officially run out of time. So, rolling time. And what's better to roll with than his body that has never let him down and is usually much smarter than his head anyway?

He grabs Roz by the backs of his thighs and hoists him up.

"What the fuck—!" Roz snaps before his arms wind around Cliff's neck which is actually pretty useful, because Roz is a big man, and shuffling with his pants half off isn't making moving any easier (neither does the fact that Roz's voice is still fucking ruined; if only Cliff was a bit younger, he could follow the interested twitch in the bottom of his stomach… Alas). Regardless, Cliff manages to turn around and step further into the room, where he deposits (with care) Roz on the bed. Roz blinks back at him, surprised and wrong-footed enough to be compliant when Cliff pulls his pants all the way off. The trick is to always push forward, so Cliff goes: he pulls his own clothes off (goodbye, shirt) and goes to the bathroom to clean up and wet a towel. When he comes back, Roz is still on the bed, in the same position. He blinks owlishly when Cliff bends down to gently and quickly (but thoroughly) wipe the cum from his thighs and stomach. Roz's shirt is probably a goner, too, Cliff notes as he pulls it over Roz's head and throws it on the floor, though Cliff wouldn't be surprised if he had some magic way of removing bodily fluids from clothes and making them pristine again. And even if not, Roz has a fucking closet full of shirts like that, every one sluttier than the next. And it definitely would be like Roz to forgo a shirt entirely if wearing one would prevent him from going out.

Roz's uncharacteristic meekness finally evaporates when Cliff tosses the towel and crawls into the bed, too.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he says, "I don't—" and it escalates into the world's least coordinated slap fight before Cliff manages to bully them into nice spoons by utilizing such inventive strategy as using his size and wrapping himself around Roz's back. That doesn't stop Roz from wiggling like an eel, but it feels halfhearted at best because there are no elbows in Cliff's ribs or bites on his arms (both of which are very much in Roz's arsenal of moves, Cliff knows by bitter experience), so Cliff just holds on, until Roz gets it out of his system and settles.

"Marly," says Roz.

"Roz."

"What the fuck."

"What," Cliff says. "You've never been cuddled before?"

"I fucking brain you," Roz says, but Cliff doesn't believe him for a second, because he could've done it anytime, and anyway, Roz doesn't believe in advanced warnings: he just executes.

"Roz, you already sucked my fucking brain out via my cock," Cliff says bluntly, and to his delight, pink spots bloom on Roz's cheek bones. Who would've guessed? "So take the fucking cuddles, you'll like them."

"No, I will not."

"Yes, you will," Cliff declares, confident now, and shakes Roz a little bit. Roz huffs, like deeply put-upon, but doesn't move, instead seeming to relax further into the mattress. It might be a ploy to bid for his time before a real break for freedom, but Cliff doesn't think so. He risks letting go to reach for the light switch, and Roz turns his head to follow the movement (and if Cliff is not totally delusional, there was the slight beginning of something like a protest when he let go, but he is absolutely not going the say that out loud; he does value his life and his body, thank you very much). The room plunges into darkness, and Cliff retreats back. He winds his arms back around Roz and settles comfortably on the pillow. Roz's curls tickle his nose, but that's surprisingly nice, as is the solidity of the body against his, the heft and scope of it that is nowhere near delicate. Hmph. Leave it to Roz to force Cliff to find new aspects of himself. Whatever. That's a problem for Future Cliff.

"Marly," says Roz, apparently determined to cut Cliff's post-nut languidity short.

"Roz, go the fuck the sleep."

Roz turns his head. His eyes catch the little bit of light coming through the sheer curtains. He's frowning, and Cliff wants to smooth the stress lines off his face. "Seriously, what the fuck is this?"

You started it, Cliff wants to say, but heroically refrains, because a) he wants to think he's not that immature, and b) he's not completely sure it was Roz who started it. There are several other things he could say, like 'Nobody can know' or 'This was one time only', but doesn't want to. So instead he goes with what he knows, and says, "Didn't think of you as a guy who needs to talk things to dead."

Roz sputters and the outrage on his face is clear even in the dark. "It's fine," Cliff says, and it was, is, and actually way more than just fine. "We are fine. We can talk about it in the morning if you absolutely have to, but it's fucking late and we have an early flight tomorrow."

Roz stares. "Fine," he repeats.

"We are," Cliff says succinctly, hoping that that's enough of a declaration, and doesn't bother hiding a giant yawn his body is desperate to make. The corners of Roz's mouth twitch up like against his will.

"Sleeeeeep," Cliff says, like a mature man he is, and tugs Roz's elbow insistently. Roz huffs but something must've gotten through, because he untwists his spine and settles his head on the pillow. He wiggles a bit, but this time it's clearly a wiggle of seeking the position of ultimate comfort, because he settles after only a moment. It doesn't take long for his breaths to go long and steady, his enviable ability to sleep anywhere at any time coming to him again.

Cliff, on the other hand, spends some incalculable time staring in the dark. His lying on a comfortable hotel bed in fucking Tampa, arms full of fucked out Ilya fucking Rozanov, after a magnificent, fucking transcendent blowjob and the first time in his life he touched another man's cock.

So. No, Cliff is not entirely sure how he got here, but by God, he isn't about to complain.