Chapter Text
Evgeni is going to hell.
He stuffs a fist in his mouth in an attempt to stifle a moan and desperately keeps his hips from thrusting. His other hand is clenched tight, clutching at the wall behind him like it's a lifeline to sanity. He can't look down, because then it'll be over too soon. The sight of Jason kneeling between his legs, cheeks hollowed and occasionally flicking his eyes upward as he sucks, is just too much.
The boy smirks around Evgeni's cock and then—holy fuck—does something incredible with his tongue that has Evgeni's nails digging into his palms as his hips jolt up before he can regain control, and yep, definitely going to hell.
Jason pulls off, and for a moment Evgeni thinks he's going to be scolded, but the boy just guides his hands to the brown hair and whispers hoarsely, "Fuck my face."
And that is completely unfair, Evgeni doesn't think, because he can't think—he's too busy thrusting into Jason's mouth and watching with intense eyes as the boy just takes it, takes it all—and seriously, when did Jason Brown go from an innocent kid to a fucking sex god?!
No, really, this is the best head he's gotten in years. Part of him wants to take this shit up to his room and just have his way with Jason. There's also a small voice in the back of his head whispering that it's just the dry spell talking. It has been a long time since he'd had good sex with another guy—since Vancouver, when Evan had wanted to be tied to the bed and fucked senseless. But no, it's not really the dry spell—it's Jason's skills, and his looks, and (if Evgeni's being completely honest with himself here) the risk of the whole thing. Yes, no one's here now, but it's an unlocked closet and it would be easy for someone to walk in on them. Not only would that make a huge scandal for both of them, their families, and everyone in figure skating in general, but Evgeni would have to leave Russia for good—and for some reason, the possibility of getting caught makes it all hotter.
His hands have tightened involuntarily in Jason's hair, and he thinks that might contribute to the enthusiastic moan the boy lets out, and those vibrations just make everything better, if that's possible. Evgeni's about to come, and he says so (gasping it out in Russian, but the meaning's clear). Jason doesn't pull off, though, and Evgeni can't hold back any longer.
He comes so hard the Perseid meteor shower takes place behind his eyelids.
When he returns to the present, he becomes aware of the fact that Jason's hard—like, really hard—but the boy just sits back on his heels and looks up, smugness written across his face, like he knows he's just blown Evgeni's mind.
It doesn't take much to tug Jason to his feet, and even less to get his pants down. The boy's so on edge already that it's not even a minute before he's gasping and giving the wall behind them a new coat of paint.
For a long moment, there's nothing but the sound of the two of them catching their breath. Then Evgeni says, "I am not cleaning that up."
Jason smirks and then—Jesus fucking Christ—leans over and licks his own come off of Evgeni's hand, and if he were younger, Evgeni would be getting hard again right about now.
There's silence while the cleanup occurs, but it's a warm silence, comfortable, and Evgeni thinks for a moment that maybe, if it means sex like this and—shit—a smile like that, then maybe he'd be glad to leave Russia behind and cross the ocean for this boy.
Then he closes his eyes, shakes his head and thinks, hell, going to hell.
Why? he asks himself, and doesn't realize he's spoken aloud until he opens his eyes and sees Jason staring at him, somewhere between incredulous and confused.
"It's a free blow job. Is a reason really necessary?" the boy asks, and then shrugs. "Well, I suppose you could call it a celebration of your retirement." His voice is rough, fucked, and naturally this sends a flash of desire down Evgeni's spine.
He shamelessly admires Jason's ass as the boy leaves, because it's a nice ass and he kind of wishes he could get to know it better. He lets himself speculate and fantasize, thinking thoughts he'd been avoiding until now, because if he's going to hell, he might as well have a little fun along the way.
***
Jason trots down the hallway with a spring in his step and a smug grin threatening to break out across his face. He's feeling really good, great even—fuck, why wouldn't he, he just gave some head and got a hand job. Besides, that's two squares on the bingo card Josh had given him that he can check off now—debauch a Russian and closet blow job.
He begins whistling as the rink's doors shut behind him. Putin would be disappointed, but America—and Josh—would be so proud.