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The hotel door shut behind them with a soft click. Shane stood there awkwardly, his tennis shoes glued to the gaudy carpet, threadbare and maroon. He pressed his hands flat against the door behind him and gave it a small push. Not hard, just enough to know that it was really shut all the way. Rozanov was nearly to the bed already, toeing off his shoes as he went before flopping onto the nearest queen without a care in the world. What must that be like, Shane wondered. To move through life so sure that everything would work out that you didn’t even take the time to check cheap hotel locks.
Shane didn’t want to check, of course. Hated that he had to think about it at all, but the fact of the matter was that he did. It would be a boner killer for sure otherwise; Rozanov trying to suck him off and Shane just fixated on the door the entire time as he worried about the ridiculously small chance of it opening. Who would even be on the other side Shane couldn’t say, but just the possibility of it alone would weigh on him. He turned the deadbolt and slid the chain into the track at the top of the doorframe, just in case. The metal rattled loudly as he tested it and he heard Rozanov chuckle, followed by the unmistakable click of a lighter. A soft inhale came next.
”No one is coming to catch you,” Rozanov sing-songed. His voice sounded tight in his chest as he held in the drag. “For once we are all alone.”
Rozanov was right, obviously. They had both been asked to film a commercial in New York for some high-end cologne company. The producers had really leaned into the rivalry to an almost comical degree, pinning Rozanov as some mysterious bad boy clad all in black. The scent he was supposed to be representing was something dark and alluring, very clove heavy.
Obnoxious.
Meanwhile Shane was clearly styled to be the all around golden-boy—his assigned scent clean and fresh, the suit they placed him in all white like some virginal loser.
Rozanov had found it all very funny.
But because of this, they were truly alone. Shane’s parents thankfully had been unable to make the trip and there were no teams here, no Scott Hunters hiding in adjacent rooms. It was perhaps the most privacy they had ever been afforded up until this point. New York felt very anonymous compared to their home cities; the people private and too busy with their own agendas to notice two dressed-down hockey players.
Shane twisted around, glaring in Rozanov’s direction.
“Sue me for not wanting to scar some housekeeping lady or something.”
“Ah yes, the ten PM housekeeping call. How could I forget this convenient service,” Rozanov scoffed. He was stretched out like a cat, his body long and loose across the bedspread as his head dangled off the edge. He looked completely at ease: his one hand resting on his stomach, the other holding the cigarette aloft, pinched between his finger and thumb. Rozanov’s eyes were closed, dark lashes fanned across rosy cheeks that were still tinged with makeup for the cameras. His curls hung in messy spirals in the space between his head and the floor, mimicking the smoke trailing and twisting in the air above him.
He looked pretty, Shane thought, recalling how Rozanov had said the same to him before their very first hookup. At the time Shane had disagreed, uncomfortable with the word being used to describe a man at all–let alone himself–but looking at Rozanov now, he thought he understood. The artificial blush that made Shane feel childish was sculpted on Rozanov, his cheekbones carved by it like some marble statue of peak masculinity. The unflattering lamplight illuminated his hair into a sort of golden crown and the only thing that cut through the illusion of perfection was the cigarette that Rozanov periodically brought to his lips.
But fuck if that wasn’t hot too.
“Aren’t you holding that wrong?”
Shane finally left the safety of the door, removing his shoes as he went. He left them paired neatly, toes to the wall next to the bathroom door and stepped over Rozanov’s. They were still left in the walkway, scattered exactly where he had kicked them off. Shane’s zip-up came next, which he folded neatly, placing the perfect square on the other bed. Rozanov ignored him as he walked past, taking another long drag.
“You are smoking expert now,” he drawled, exhaling through pursed lips and blowing the smoke away from Shane out the corner of his mouth.
Shane was standing right next to him, staring down at his annoying face as he towered over him. His eyes drifted down to the lean line of his throat and he watched it bob, working as Rozanov swallowed. Shane’s cock was dangerously close to his face, the front of his jeans nearly touching his cheek. Rozanov’s eyes flicked once at the bulge he could probably see there, forming just under Shane’s fly, but he said nothing.
“Fuck you, I just meant that’s how you hold a joint, not a cigarette.”
Rozanov’s eyebrows lifted at that; a brief glimmer of genuine surprise before smoothing away again. He rolled to his stomach before shuffling back on his haunches, slapping one hand to his chest in mock outrage.
“You mean to tell me perfect boy Shane Hollander has smoked?”
Rozanov crawled up the bed and, with an outstretched arm, he laid what little was left of the cigarette in the hotel ashtray. Shane followed his movements; eyes roving hungrily over the curve of Rozanov’s ass before lingering on a bit of skin that was showing above his waistline, the tight shirt he was wearing riding up with the stretch. Cigarette safely in place, Rozanov plopped back down on the edge of the bed dramatically as he broke into a grin.
“We should alert the news media of this.”
“It was just the one time and I didn’t like it.” Shane mumbled. He was staring at the hotel ceiling like the water stains would morph into an answer that wouldn’t sound lame. He avoided looking at Rozanov’s teasing, perfect face under him, feeling like a loser for the first time in years. “It was too—I don’t know—I didn’t find it relaxing. Everyone else was having fun and I just felt like I was going to throw up the entire time. It made me paranoid.”
Rozanov snorted. “You? Paranoid? This is not possible.”
Shane bristled slightly at the rib but noticed that it didn’t sound like Rozanov was actually judging him, his tone light. He heard a creak coming from the mattress, a rustle of fabric as Rozanov shifted, and then he was being tugged forward, two strong hands groping and kneading his ass, thumbs circling his waist. Rozanov’s nose was skimming the light trail of hair on Shane’s lower stomach as he moved his thumbs up and down, tiny motions that made Shane’s mouth dry up, the sensation similar to what he had experienced that night but he felt anything but paranoid now. Rozanov slipped them slightly under the waist of Shane’s jeans, holding him in place.
“So you don’t like getting high, so what.”
As if to prove his point, Rozanov placed a chaste kiss to the button of Shane’s fly and then pressed another to his skin, nipping gently at his hip. The touch was almost soothing in nature and Shane shuddered out an exhale, the tension of his confession leaving him as arousal flooded back instead.
Rozanov didn’t think he was lame.
Shane’s cock twitched in response to the softness of it, the denim contrasting harshly, tight and unforgiving. Rozanov grinned against him, and then he was mouthing at the obvious bulge in the fabric, tongue laving obscenely over him as he sucked and licked at Shane’s clothed cock. Shane hissed at the sudden stimulation, gasping as the fabric dampened, the texture rough and wet. He shot his hand forward reflexively, tangling it in the mess of golden curls in front of him for balance as he swayed on unsteady legs. He caught a whiff of the cologne from the shoot mixed with Rozanov’s shampoo and cigarette smoke. It didn’t smell as obnoxious anymore.
Rozanov nuzzled against him—actually nuzzled—and Shane felt like maybe he was high, his mind buzzing, floating. If this is what it felt like to people, maybe he understood the appeal. Shane finally stole a glance and was treated to Rozanov looking up at him, eyes twinkling in a way that said he knew exactly what he was doing to Shane.
“Lucky for you, I know something that you will find relaxing,” he said.
Shane wheezed out a laugh in response, chest feeling tight, his head dizzy. “Yeah,” he asked, voice cracking ever so slightly.
If Rozanov heard, he gave no indication and instead began unbuttoning Shane’s pants, working the zipper up and over the hard ridge of his cock before pulling it down the rest of the way. Usually Shane sucked him off first, but sometimes it went like this. Rozanov always had this uncanny way of knowing just what Shane needed in a given moment; a push here, a pull there, a light slap sometimes that left him reeling. Tonight he wanted to be anywhere but in his own mind. He slid his hands inside the back of Shane’s underwear, gripping roughly at him, skin against skin this time. A finger brushed lightly against Shane’s hole, but he didn’t press. Shane's breathing was coming faster now and his hand in Rozanov’s hair was shaky. He threaded his fingers through the curls timidly, massaging gently. His hair was so soft.
Was that allowed?
It must have been because Rozanov hummed in a satisfied way and then pulled Shane’s pants down the rest of the way, leaving them pooled around his ankles. Shane’s cock bobbed out, hard and thick and embarrassingly wet already. Rozanov left him like that—untouched, the hotel air conditioning hum filling the silence and the current chilly against his skin. It bobbed, twitching once and Shane could feel more precum gathering at the tip.
Embarrassing.
“You know you are big, right?”
Shane’s hands stilled, tangled in the silky, soft strands. Leave it to Rozanov to make fun of him with his dick out. Cheap fucking shot.
“Fuck off,” Shane mumbled, but he didn’t make any effort to leave. He wasn’t sure what that said about him, that he was willing to take abuse from Rozanov as long as he still got his mouth on him.
“No, I mean it.” Rozanov’s expression was amused, the corner of his mouth quirked up slightly in a sort of half-smile, but his voice was earnest. “It’s very pretty, Hollander. I would not lie about this.”
“Stop—“
Rozanov cut him off, placing a kiss directly to the tip of Shane’s cock. He kissed it the same way he always did, almost chastely at first, feigning gentleness before chasing it with his tongue. He swirled it around the head greedily and all of the fight left Shane at once, arguments dying with each sloppy swipe.
“I wonder if you know how to use it?”
He peppered kisses along Shane’s cock as he spoke, small licks and sucks that felt like torture, making it difficult to stand. Shane's eyes were now glued to the scene in front of him, Rozanov’s lips stretching widely as he finally took Shane’s leaking tip into his mouth. He didn’t move or do more, just looked up at Shane expectantly as he sucked on the head. Shane wanted to scream. It felt like too much and not enough all at once. Rozanov’s cheeks hollowed rhythmically before pulling off. “Or,” he whispered, lips so close that Shane could feel the words better than he could hear them, small feathery movements whispered against his shaft. “Is it only pretty?”
With Rozanov under him, Shane realized his cock did look big this way; long, red, and thick—the tip hovering close to Rozanov’s mouth and obscenely taking up most of his face.
“Let me try this,” Rozanov said, and Shane found himself in no position to argue. He stood there dumbly at the end of the bed and watched wide-eyed as Rozanov smoothly rolled over and then dangled his head off the edge. His neck was extended, the corded muscles taut and bisected by the twinkling gold chain he always wore. Shane quickly realized what Rozanov meant for him to do, the angle perfect for him to slide right in. It was shocking just how far his cock had to go in order for Rozanov to manage it all. It looked like it would nearly be in his lungs.
But he had before—easily—just not like this.
Shane wondered if he would be able to see himself this way, the proof of how deep he was bulging under Rozanov’s skin as the cross made a sort of sick finish line for his cock. Would he feel him for days after like Shane did, throat sore and voice so hoarse he had to make up excuses? He wanted him to.
Maybe Rozanov thought Shane didn’t understand because he dragged him forward, his hands leading the way as he gripped Shane’s hips harshly, blunt nails stinging and digging into the skin as he pulled. Shane’s cock collided messily with Rozanov’s mouth, his knees nearly buckling as he felt the warm wet heat of his mouth against him, lips plush and breath hot. Everything was happening so fast, Rozanov’s mouth doing so much, words flying as he toyed with Shane’s cock. Shane had to focus to make it out; Rozanov’s accent thick as he rambled, panting with each word as if he was the one above Shane instead.
“Come on Hollander—fucking prove it. Give me that big fucking cock, make me take it—“
Shane didn’t think. He was beyond thoughts at that point, torn down to his basest instincts as his body responded where words had failed him. His hips pushed as Rozanov pulled, one smooth motion working in tandem until his cock slid down Rosanov’s waiting throat.
Shane froze, the room suddenly silent from Rozanov’s begging. It was overwhelming and filthy, his chin pressed to Shane’s stomach with only a bit of the shaft visible that he hadn’t managed to take. Rozanov groaned around him, the sound garbled and muffled with what little room there was for it to escape, and the sensation licked straight up Shane’s spine.
“Oh fuck—Jesus fuck—Rozanov are you—can I—“
The room felt heavy, the smell of cologne and smoke and sex nearly suffocating. Rozanov nodded, head moving only as much as it could. He tried to speak and it was barely intelligible, his throat making a thick, wet sound as he tried to say “uh huh” around Shane’s cock.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Shane considered the possibility that Rozanov’s cigarette had caught the hotel room on fire and they were both dead. And, if not, they would be soon with the way his heart was beating out of his chest.
Could Rozanov even breathe? And why was it so hot that maybe he couldn't?
Shane rocked his hips once, gentle and experimental and watched as the rest of him disappeared. Rozanov’s chest and neck were bloomed ruddy from the strain and Shane could see it, the thick outline of himself under his skin as Rozanov’s chest heaved before he adjusted to the intrusion. He was breathing through his nose, the rhythm even and low and Shane tried to match it, eyes glued to the round bulge his cock formed. The tiny gold cross was balanced on it and it wobbled and then fell to the side as Shane began to move.
Fuck fuck fuck.
Shane set a quick and focused rhythm, pausing every so often to pull out so Rozanov could fight to catch his breath before selfishly starting again. It was messy and dirty—the roughest Shane had probably ever been with him. Drool was sliding out of the corner of Rozanov’s mouth as he arched his neck to ease the angle and Shane felt like he might understand the appeal of getting high. This was beyond any fantasy he could chase away with cheap silicone because Rozanov was a drug, the worst kind probably, and they hadn’t even fucked properly yet. Shane wondered how Rozanov would do it when he finally let him, because it was getting harder to pretend that he wouldn’t anymore. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it since Tennessee, fucking himself to unsatisfying orgasms while he thought about what might have happened if Scott Hunter had been booked in any other room.
He fucked Rozanov’s mouth the way that he wanted to be fucked and hoped that he could tell.
Don’t go easy on me.
Thrust.
I can take it.
Thrust.
Give me all of you.
Thrust.
Shane rutted against him with long deep strokes until his balls were pressed to Rozanov’s face, grinding down just that much further. He wanted it like that too, Rozanov so deep inside him you could almost see it. Shane reached out to feel himself, his thumb tracing the hard ridge he made under the skin, thumbnail catching on the thin chain of Rozanov’s necklace. Rozanov was making little punched out sounds with each thrust but groaned around him, loud and low, when Shane put his hands on him for leverage.
He was squirming but in a controlled way, hips shifting ever so slightly as he bent one leg up and then the other. The sheets rustled as he laid them flat again, toes flexing and curling. It would be funny if it wasn’t so annoying. Only Rozanov could make choking on a cock look effortless. Shane was certain he would not be as collected in his position, eyes full of tears, gagging and making noises that would be embarrassing to think about later. He always got so hard and would probably be leaking through his pants. He could hear Rozanov’s teasing voice when he would inevitably notice.
“So wet, Hollander.”
His eyes flicked up to Rozanov’s groin and Shane took pride in the fact that his jeans were tented too at least. Rozanov liked sucking cock but Shane had learned that he loved it. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stay still, his hips lifting off the bed chasing any bit of friction. If it were him, Rozanov might have to hold him down; he'd be moving so much. That was a thought.
Fuck, he was going to cum.
“Rozanov, I’m close.”
It felt wrong not to give him a warning even though he could probably tell. Rozanov always seemed to know, eyes glinting before taking Shane to the root, working until he had swallowed him down easier than his Russian vodka. He made no move to stop Shane or push him off now, instead pulling him closer with wandering hands that slipped under Shane’s shirt and spread widely over his hips as he hummed around him in encouragement. The abrasive feel of skin on skin was searing, hotter even than the discarded cigarette left on the nightstand, and the vibrations around Shane were unbearable, each thrust in and out sounding like a yes.
“Mhm. Mhm. Mhm—”
He came hard, throwing his head back as his cock throbbed and pulsed in thick spurts that Rozanov swallowed easily. Shane could barely breathe, only managing deep shuddering gasps that devolved into whimpery whines of overstimulation and Rozanov held him through it, letting himself be used until the room felt devoid of oxygen, as if he had taken every last drop of that too.
Shane stood there for a moment, his breath ragged and mind numb as the whir of the cheap air conditioning unit filled the silence both in his head and in the room. His cock softened until it slipped out and Rozanov gave him a sort of half-hearted pat on the thigh before sitting up. Shane tried to help him, his hands outstretched in support, but Rozanov was too quick. They trailed behind his neck and shoulders lamely, just a fraction too late to be helpful, before finding better use in putting himself back together. He hitched his jeans up and shoved himself back inside before buttoning them. From the head of the bed, Rozanov coughed once to clear his throat before finally breaking the awkward silence that had settled over them.
“Fuck, I need a cigarette,” he croaked.
Rozanov’s voice was hoarse, husky and rough, and it sounded as though another cigarette was in fact the very last thing that he needed. Still, Shane felt a twisted sense of satisfaction. Rozanov had asked for it after all.
“Have you considered water?”
Rozanov rolled his eyes, tongue clicking in disapproval as his hands patted his pockets, no doubt in search of his lighter and pack of cigarettes. Ignoring him, Shane made his way to the bathroom, hand blindly searching and then finding the switch just inside the door. He flicked on the harsh, fluorescent light and was immediately met with a loose-limbed, mussed-hair, just-fucked-someone’s-face version of himself in the mirror. He didn’t look long. As he had suspected, there were some paper cups stacked on the countertop next to the complimentary soap and shampoo. He filled one with some water from the tap and then another. It wasn’t ideal but it would do. He heard the click of Rozanov’s lighter from the next room and scoffed—better make it four.
Shane balanced the tiny cups–two in each hand–and when he got back to the bed, he placed one set on the nightstand before foisting the other pair under Rozanov’s nose, less of an offering and more a demand. Rozanov pursed his lips, exhaling smoke out of the corner of his mouth and away from Shane.
“What is this?”
He still sounded like shit. Shane sat on the bed next to him, mattress protesting some under their combined weight.
“It’s vodka,” Shane deadpanned. “The best the city has on offer.”
Rozanov’s mouth twisted into a fleeting sort of half-smile. There and gone, but Shane still inhaled it, pleased that he was the cause. He took one of the paper cups from Shane, holding it by the rim, but didn’t drink, instead opting to take another drag.
“Lucky me.”
Shane watched Rozanov’s motions, eyes flicking between the untouched water in his grip, the cigarette balanced easily between his lips, and the unhurried rhythm at which he smoked, cheeks hollowing as the tip turned cherry red like none of it had affected him at all, even as the taste of Shane’s cum probably still lingered on his tongue.
It was annoying.
“You should drink that.”
Rozanov’s eyebrows lifted and disappeared behind a sweaty mess of curls. Any styling product leftover from the shoot was long gone.
“Oh, you have a big cock so now you are bossy?”
“Something like that.”
Rozanov hummed but didn’t say anything. He brought the cup of water to his mouth and sipped, an infinitesimally small amount of water passing his lips, before returning to his cigarette, eyes locked onto Shane’s. It was childish, a challenge maybe, like a toddler would do, defiant just to see what would happen.
“Did you like it?” He exhaled, his expression lighting up in a way that made Shane nervous.
“Drink some more.”
Rozanov ignored him, taking another drag and then leaning closer to Shane, cross-legged on the bed and bent forward like he had a secret.
“Sasha always did.”
Shane didn’t really think, his body simply reacting. His best plays were always like that–reflexive and spontaneous–and Rozanov gasped a sharp intake of breath as his eyes widened in shock. It was the best sound all night in Shane’s opinion, Rozanov’s calm facade audibly crumbling as Shane snatched the cigarette out of his lips and then placed it between his own. He inhaled before he could overthink it, letting the smoke fill his mouth and willed his lungs to cooperate as he took a deep, measured breath. He would regret all of this, he already was, but Rozanov was watching him with rapt fascination. His gaze looked hungry and Shane felt like it was maybe worth this one time lapse in judgment just for that.
Rozanov was always worth the lapse in judgement he was finding.
Shane exhaled a bit shakier than he wanted to, head turned to the side and not nearly as cool. If Rozanov noticed he didn’t say anything, but his expression was molten as Shane reached across the gap between them and returned the cigarette, tucking it safely back between Rozanov’s parted lips. Rozanov closed them around the tiny cylinder, catching the tip of Shane’s finger as it left and took a drag. His chest worked easily as his eyes bored into Shane’s. He chased the easy exhale with a deep swig of the proffered water and didn’t argue when Shane silently passed him the second, crushing both empty cups in his fist when he had finished.
“Lie down, Hollander.” His voice still sounded coarse but notably better.
“If I do, are you gonna fuck me?”
“Fucking Christ,” Rozanov swore, coughing as he tucked the cigarette back into the corner of his mouth.
Shane knew he was saying things just to say them now, high off the way Rozanov was looking at him ever since the stolen cigarette. He felt good, powerful even, but it wasn’t an outright lie. If Rozanov wanted to take his turn by fucking him here in this seedy hotel before they parted to their fancy sponsored rooms, he would let him. Admittedly, he hadn’t planned on it when they came here, but there was no doubt in his mind now that he would.
“Hollander you are so—“
Rozanov trailed off as Shane pushed past him, shuffling when he reached the head of the bed so that he was lying properly, as if maybe the vision of him being cushioned by pillows could somehow convey that he was serious. Rozanov followed behind him and Shane almost thought he was going to take him up on the offer, watching greedily as he crawled toward him before pausing between his legs. But then he kept going, climbing up and over Shane’s body, one hand braced on the headboard as he neared the top and walked on his knees. Up and up he went until he had caged Shane in, broad thighs planted on either side of his chest and clothed cock straining in Shane’s face. He was only a little disappointed.
“So…boring?” Shane supplied, fingers working deftly to undo Rozanov’s belt and then fly. When he had gotten it open, he tugged, shucking the tight pants and underwear until they were down just enough for his cock to spring free.
Rozanov rocked forward and used his thumb to guide it into Shane’s mouth.
“Ah no, not boring. Fuck, Hollander just like that, fuck that’s good.”
He sank fully into Shane’s mouth and Shane welcomed the weight of him on his tongue, eyes fluttering closed as Rozanov began to move. He rocked delicately at first, feeding Shane his cock with tentative thrusts as he babbled praises that melted into Russian. Taking it like this, it was easy for Shane to imagine the way Rozanov could stretch him open, pinned beneath him as he finally accepted the gentle invasion of his body to complement the neverending one in his mind. Earlier had been fun, but this heady sensation was what he really craved; the moment where the world stopped and then narrowed, until all that was left was Rozanov’s cock in his throat and spit and cum and Shane wanted to drown in it sometimes, willingly forgoing oxygen to ride another wave.
Rozanov began to move faster and Shane gave himself over to it, happy to be pulled under.
He wasn’t really sure whose idea it was to stay. Just that after Rozanov had finished and his cum had landed thickly on Shane’s lip and in the hollow of his throat and hair it became obvious that they would need to shower at minimum. And then the shower had led to more as it always seemed to, Rozanov’s chin hooked over Shane’s shoulder as he pumped his cock from behind and pointed it crudely downwards, aimed for the swirling drain.
“Da, there you go, Hollander,” he crooned, forearm flexing as he twisted his wrist over the tip. “Just one more.”
Rozanov swallowed Shane’s cries when he came for the second time that night, the water rinsing over them both and mixing with the lingering taste each of them had left behind in the other. They stayed there, using the excuse that they needed to wash away the makeup and cologne, taking turns touching each other and kissing until the water had run cold and nearly all of the hotel soap had been used and then washed away. By the time they had toweled off and gotten dressed, it was long past time to leave and it made more sense to stay—or at least that was the excuse again. Shane set his alarm for just a couple hours, taking the bed closest to the door while Rozanov finished another cigarette before settling into the other, a respectable distance away.
Some time later, Shane awoke to the soft click of a latch and the rustling of clothes. He froze for a moment but relaxed when he heard Rozanov’s voice carrying over from the doorway despite how softly he was speaking. The syllables and sounds he used were flurried and unfamiliar to Shane’s ears, but his tone was obviously heated. Rozanov said a few more words in Russian, each one sounding angrier than the last, before he abruptly disconnected with whoever he was speaking to, and the room fell silent again. Shane pretended to stay asleep throughout the entire conversation and again when he felt the dip of the mattress behind him as Rozanov gingerly positioned himself next to Shane on the bed. If he noticed that Shane was awake he didn’t say anything, and when Rozanov pressed his body lightly against Shane’s back, Shane couldn’t find it in himself to care even a little about if the door had locked or not.