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Shane was drunk, maybe.
The lights were set annoyingly low, and people kept vaping, dragging down the air with a sickly-sweet hue. He harbored a deep hatred of nightlife like this, but he was useless to say no when he’d been begged to go out after months of denying.
Shane was the prodigal son all the same as he was captain, and he had to mollify his teammates every now and again.
He dared a glance at his phone, told himself it was fine that Rozanov hadn’t texted. He was out with his own team, drowning the sorrows of their loss, and Shane assumed they’d collide sooner rather than later. Rozanov was the kind of guy who didn’t care if he ended up somewhere that he could run into a frothy, angry fan. He was going to party regardless.
Shane thought it was a waste of their time, eating away at the few hours they got. But he wasn’t going to sit around the condo just idly kicking his feet. So here he was, down near the river, and intoxicated enough that it pushed his self-imposed boundaries. He’d done the shots because everyone else had, wasn’t worth listening to them bitch about how he was a boring stiff. Not tonight, not after a hard-earned win on home ice.
He’d scold himself tomorrow.
Shane’s hip bumped the side of the bar, too hard, as he gazed over the pool of bodies. He’d long lost sight of JJ, who’d gone chasing a girl who seemed like she might go home with him. Shane steadied himself with a hand against the nearest barstool.
“Woah. Since when does Shane Hollander get wasted by himself?” came a smoky, familiar accent, breathed right into his ear. Shane’s body wanted to lock up from the shock, but he couldn’t quite get his limbs to cooperate. Still, he was present enough for his heart to start beating so hard it threatened to bust out of his chest.
He made himself turn.
There was Rozanov in the flesh, sweaty and dressed in a truly garish, patterned silk shirt. It was unbuttoned down past his sternum, putting his heavy chest and the gold glint of his cross on display. Shane blinked, his brain trying to process this complete, unexpected land mine.
Rozanov looked fucking good. How they had ended up at the same exact seedy bar, Shane didn’t know; it wasn’t like they talked about these things. Either he’d gone undetected by the few Voyageurs still around, all on their way to black-out, or he was noticed and pointedly ignored.
“I’m not wasted.”
His snapping lacked its usual bite, but Rozanov still hummed like he was a worthy opponent. The only reason the sound wasn’t lost under the loud music was because Rozanov was hovering. Shane resisted the urge to shove him away, and then wondered what would happen if he pulled him closer.
“Sure,” Rozanov rumbled. “Thought you’d be at home, reading your boring little books.”
“Fuck off.”
“You want to dance? Everyone would like to see that, I think.”
His voice sounded serious, but he was grinning, that same shit-eating grin that meant he was baiting Shane into furiously biting.
The thought would have been hilarious if it wasn’t terrifying. Shane, who shuffled awkwardly every time he was on a dance floor, his feet squaring around in a mimic of celebration. Rozanov grinding on him in front of their teammates, laughing at Shane’s attempt to be a party boy.
In what lifetime?
“Go rub your dick on Marlow,” Shane said, and gestured to the makeshift dance floor that had opened up, consisting of the truly wasted and horny. “I’m going home.”
He’d told himself he’d stay for at least twenty more minutes, but. Being stuck in Rozanov’s orbit while he was this drunk was dangerous, lest he fall into it.
He didn’t need to impress the obvious. If Rozanov wanted to catch a car to the condo right after Shane left, well, wouldn’t that be a coincidence?
“You can’t. I just got here.”
“Is that supposed to be convincing?”
“Mm. Maybe. You’re easy to convince, aren’t you?” he said, and Shane had enough presence of mind to be shocked at this blatant level of flirting in public. Something thrilling and anxious curdled together in his abdomen.
Rozanov’s arm brushed against his, and Shane glanced around out of habit, even though he had to put forward a bit of effort to make his eyes focus. And to remind himself what he was so nervous about in the first place.
“Relax. Everyone is drunk. No one cares. They will think I’m just giving you a hard time, anyway,” Rozanov said, used to Shane’s jumpiness, and Shane finally let himself look at his face for more than a second. His normally-sharp eyes were a little gone, pupils huge and swallowing the hazel of his irises.
“You always give me a hard time,” Shane replied, and it came out lower than he intended.
Someone collided into Rozanov’s shoulder, stumbling past them, and the stranger’s drink splashed onto Shane’s white t-shirt in an icy wash. It carried the sharp tang of gin and immediately plastered the fabric to his skin, semi-opaquely revealing one dark nipple.
The offender breezed past them with a slurred, “Sorry, man.”
“Fuck,” Shane muttered.
“Ruined your shirt,” Rozanov said, moving closer under the guise of making room for the gaggle of girls who were all trying to order around them. “You should go to the bathroom and clean it.”
I have a thousand just like this one at home, Shane wanted to say, but Rozanov was staring at his chest hungrily. He guzzled what was left in his glass, three huge swallows before he slammed it on the bar.
Shane was a little wasted, but he wasn’t stupid. The bathrooms here were dirty, but single-stalled. His cock gave a traitorous twitch at the implication, at the same time some distant part of his brain screamed, no, dude, you fucking idiot. Some of your teammates are still here.
“Yeah,” Shane found himself saying instead, more mouthing it, and he tried to appear unaffected as he started pushing his way through the crowd.
The cacophony of conversations and blurs of faces made him dizzier, but he was a master of piloting his body. The back hallway was like a cavern, yawning into the dark, and he pounded on the men’s bathroom door a few times before trying the handle.
It opened. Shane zipped in and locked it as quickly as possible, leaning against the sticky wood with a whoosh of breath. The walls were tiled with hideous mint squares, a by-product of a build date that had never been renovated.
Shane caught sight of himself in the mirror, which was cracked at the corner and dusty, but it told the truth. He was flushed and heavy-lidded, shirt stuck to his chest. If he implored his reflection with enough force, maybe, he would magically sober up and have the smarts to run for the hills.
What the fuck was he doing?
His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he clumsily dug it out.
Lily [11:36 PM]
let me in
Shane’s pulse kicked in his throat as he, somewhat disembodied, cracked open the door. Ilya shoved his way inside, and they both scrambled to shut it, hands overlapping on the rusty deadbolt.
“This is so stupid,” Shane said, and Rozanov regarded him with a hot, dazed look. His curls, those infuriatingly perfect half-formed ringlets, were frizzed with heat. He was red in the face, from bar-hopping and drinking and looking much like he did right after a game.
Shane was getting hard just at the sight of him.
“Yes,” was all he said before he fell onto Shane like a man possessed, gripping his jaw so hard that it hurt, mouth bruising when it met Shane’s. This was a song and dance that had become familiar as breathing – Rozanov knocked, and Shane opened. Rozanov’s tongue was pushing inside immediately, and he tasted like the burn of vodka and the earthy confession of tobacco.
Shane grabbed at his shoulders, and his tailbone bashed painfully into the porcelain of the sink as Rozanov crowded him. He was making these little breathy, pained groans, like kissing Shane was physically hurting him. But he was hard in his jeans, made very clear as he rubbed his cock against Shane.
How long had he been hard? Since he walked down the hallway, since they talked at the bar? Before that, with Shane having nothing to do with it?
“Fuck, Hollander.”
He gathered a healthy handful of Shane’s ass and squeezed tight. Shane angled him with a yank to his hair, deepening another filthy kiss, and his knees wobbled.
He wouldn’t kneel on this nasty floor, he fucking wouldn’t.
Rozanov leaned back, their lips separating on a wet click, and Shane waited for the inevitable sardonic comment or leering question. Instead, Rozanov’s gaze fell once again to Shane’s chest, and then he was pressing his face to the swell of his pec.
Shane gasped as Ilya sucked desperately at his nipple through fabric, pebbled beneath his alcohol-soaked shirt. His hand knotted harder in Rozanov’s tawny curls, holding him there, shivering at the soft shocks that Rozanov elicited with the vicious mouthing. He added teeth, then, and it stung even through cotton. Shane had to fight against a moan.
“You’re so fucking hot,” Rozanov mumbled against his chest, and his hands fumbled with the button of Shane’s jeans, trying to pop them open.
“Hold on,” Shane said, and nearly doubled over as Ilya shoved a hand into his briefs, palming at his cock. For a second, he forgot why he was supposed to be indignant, and then loud, slurred chattering could be heard from the hall.
Right. That.
“Rozanov, not here.”
“Why not?” he asked, and a whiny tone leeched into his voice, not unlike a petulant child. “Let me suck your dick.”
“Not – shit.”
He hissed as Rozanov massaged his palm over the head of his cock, fumbling to get a solid hold beneath the strain of his underwear. Rozanov’s crotch found Shane’s hip again, and his brain filled with static as Rozanov just – humped at him. Gone was his usual finesse, the controlled, supine movements he commanded of his body.
Instead, he was just rubbing on Shane with jerky bumps and thrusts, and Shane’s vision tilted at the neediness of it. He had the sudden urge to see if Rozanov would topple when shoved.
“Fucking hold it,” Shane gasped. Rozanov’s hips stuttered, his hand slipping on Shane’s sweaty back. “Jesus, I’m not doing this here.”
“Want you,” Rozanov breathed, and he smelled so distinctly of cigarettes and useless nicotine gum under his spiced cologne. Shane was profoundly dizzy. “It would be so quick, Hollander. Come on.”
It took every ounce of effort in his body to push Rozanov’s heavy frame against the cracked tile wall. Just like Shane had hoped, he went without complaint, moaning when his shoulder blades hit the surface.
Shane took bleary note of the garish fluorescent lights, the grime of the bathroom. He awarded Rozanov a quick kiss, which was swallowed hungrily.
“You’re gonna get an Uber, and you’re gonna meet me at my place,” Shane murmured into his panting mouth. “And then, if I’m in the mood, I’ll maybe let you fuck me.”
He was totally going to let Rozanov fuck him.
Before Rozanov could respond, a flurry of rapid, heavy knocks landed on the bathroom door, and they both froze.
“Hurry the fuck up!” a man yelled from outside, muffled, and the reality of their situation cut through the syrupy haze that had started to drown Shane’s good senses.
“Shit. Call your car, I’ll handle it,” Shane said, because he suspected that he was somehow the most cognizant out of the two of them. He sounded braver than he felt. Ilya nodded, swaying on his feet, and Shane took a deep breath before forcing himself to walk away.
“Sorry, man, my friend is puking,” he said as he sidled out of the bathroom. Sounded bro-ish enough. The words were clumsy, because he’d always been a terrible liar, but it seemed feasible. The guy gave an exaggerated eye roll, and Shane took the opportunity to get the hell out of dodge.
Almost made it too, a perfect Irish goodbye, before JJ ran into him and demanded he take another shot.
“One for the road!” he exclaimed, throwing his arm over Shane’s shoulder and grinning. When Shane tried to protest, he forcibly shoved the shot glass into his hand with a wink. “C’mon. Liquid courage. You might take someone home.”
The tequila burned as it went down.
.˚○ • °
Shane was drunk, definitely.
It was no longer a question with reasonable doubt. Even at two hundred pounds, his blood stream wasn’t accustomed to hard liquor, and the contours of the condo grew fuzzy.
He tripped taking off his jeans, laughed about it, and his shirt followed. It was mostly dry, now, the alcohol and Rozanov’s spit slowly evaporating. He had half a mind to just jerk off at the thought of it, waiting be damned.
He’d texted the new door code to Rozanov, three times, because the initial two attempts had jumbled numbers.
Not much made sense to him at the moment, aside from the fact that he was horny and uncomfortable with the sweat cooling on his body. Water, you need water, his brain supplied, and Shane stood in the warm light of his kitchen, greedily guzzling down a glass while standing in his underwear.
The keypad of his front door whirred, deadbolt unlocking, and Rozanov stumbled in two seconds later. He haphazardly kicked off his boots, and Shane watched as he padded into the kitchen, hazy eyes searching. There was still a fierce blush in his cheeks, despite some snow still sitting on the shoulders of his leather jacket, refusing to melt.
“You look drunk,” Shane intelligently observed, and Rozanov shucked his jacket over the back of a barchair.
“Ah, funny coming from you, pomidor,” Rozanov replied, and Shane grinned at the slurring in his voice, accent thicker than usual.
“What does that mean?”
Rozanov hummed but didn’t answer, circling the island and pulling Shane into his arms. They kissed, a little sloppy but so, so earnestly. Rozanov held Shane’s waist tight, like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
“Want to get in the shower with me?” Shane asked, words interrupted on and off as Rozanov licked at his lips like a fucking dog.
“Why not,” Rozanov mumbled, and Shane took his hand, yanking him toward the en-suite. The ‘sex condo,’ as Rozanov referred to it, was much more barren than Shane’s private apartment. But it was demandingly elegant, and the shower was massive, with plenty of room for two huge, bumbling men to fit.
Shane accidentally jolted the knob, and the water turned scalding, but he was too busy sinking his hands in Rozanov’s curls to fix it. Steam pillowed around them, and it made Shane even woozier, head stuffed with cotton and cock getting harder by the second.
“Wanted to bend you over in that nasty bathroom,” Rozanov said, kissing at Shane’s neck, and the brush of his lips felt more electric than normal. Like his nerve endings were cranked to a hundred. “God, Hollander. I was hard all game.”
“Yeah? I got hard when we won,” he said, and laughed when Rozanov cracked a palm across the thick meat of his thigh. He felt so giggly. “Which means I get whatever I want.”
“Whatever you want. I’ll give it to you,” Rozanov agreed, and Shane was slow to process this, the easy relinquishing of the typical barbs between them.
He struggled to voice his desire – he hadn’t thought that far ahead, frankly – and Rozanov closed the small gap. This was the easy part, wrapping his arms around Rozanov’s wet, broad shoulders while their tongues slipped and curled together.
He moaned, low, as Rozanov slowly slid his cock against Shane’s. His kisses were insistent, if not a little eager, and Shane wanted those smart lips wrapped around the length of him.
“Get your mouth on me,” he said, and stifled a gasp as Rozanov fell to his knees so fast that they cracked on the slate of the shower floor. The desperate kneeling was usually Shane’s job, and there was a spinning rush of satisfaction at seeing Rozanov there, at his feet.
It wasn’t that Rozanov didn’t constantly and enthusiastically go down on him. But he was never this…pathetic about it. Shane watched in slack-jawed awe as Rozanov rubbed his cheek against Shane’s straining cock, tongue lolling out to catch the head, practically drooling. He wrapped his big hands around the back of Shane’s thighs, clinging.
“Perfect fucking cock,” Rozanov said, just loud enough for Shane to hear over the pitter-patter of the falling water, and Shane was impossibly flushed. He nuzzled his face into the crease of Shane’s groin, nose smushing into the trimmed, wiry hair of his pubes. Shane laid himself against the shower wall, hoping the cold tile would ground him.
“Oh, God,” Shane groaned as Rozanov ran his tongue up the length of Shane’s cock before fitting the head into his mouth, sucking light and loose. It only took a second before he was bobbing, eyes so lidded they were practically shut.
Shane rolled his head, digging his fingers into Rozanov’s shoulder and gulping for air. Rozanov scrabbled to get a grip on Shane’s pec, squeezing tight. He wasn’t ever subtle about his strange obsession with Shane’s chest, grabbing and biting at it whenever he could.
Amazing tits, how can I leave them alone? he’d said once, grinning, delighting in Shane’s indignant blush.
Rozanov moaned around Shane’s cock, and the vibration made Shane kick his hips, driving himself further down Rozanov’s throat. He gagged, slight, but obvious. It made him constrict tighter around Shane’s cock, and if he were sober, he’d maybe be guiltier.
There was no room for that here, especially when Rozanov pulled off, mouth swollen from use and heat.
“Fuck my face,” he rasped, reaching down to give his own neglected cock a few rough jerks. “Come on.”
Shane, wobbly with the steam and an alcohol-soaked brain, didn’t hesitate to get a hand back into Rozanov’s wet curls. He didn’t shove Rozanov on, didn’t have to, because he greedily sucked Shane back into his mouth.
It was hopelessly hot, stabilizing Rozanov’s head with a firm grip, watching him easily accept the messy, gentle thrusts that Shane provided. It was a test, one that Rozanov unsurprisingly passed with flying colors.
In 1410, all those years ago, Shane had been shocked and awed by Rozanov’s breezy handling of a dick in his mouth. Now that Shane was more experienced with the whole dick-sucking thing, he realized now what he hadn’t then – it was a balance of control and effort. Areas that Rozanov never lacked in.
Unless he let himself.
Rozanov gagged again around a particularly harsh thrust, and it should have grossed him out. Instead, it made him feel like he was going to come, and he sped up the pace of his hips. Rozanov’s grip on his pec finally failed, both hands moving to clutch at Shane’s ass.
“Holy fuck, Rozanov,” Shane panted, stilling as he bottomed out. Rozanov’s shoulders lifted as he obviously fought against a retch, nose smashed against Shane’s groin. But his bicep was flexing as he touched himself.
Shane pulled him off, and Rozanov took in a huge, deep inhale, thick spit stringing from his angular lips to the head of Shane’s cock.
Shane grabbed at Rozanov’s moving arm, somewhat frantic, yanking in a wordless command. Shockingly, Rozanov let Shane puppeteer him, thick brows furrowed as Shane guided his hand to his chin.
He rolled Rozanov’s fingers through the spit that was coated there, and Rozanov got the hint, sucking his own fingers into his mouth. It was a nasty fact – saliva got more useful when the consistency turned viscous.
“Get them in me. Open – open me up,” Shane said, and Rozanov pawed at his hips, roughly turning him. The tile was warmed, but not enough to be less shocking when Shane’s nipples hit it. He shuffled, putting a bend in his spine, arching his ass closer to Rozanov’s face.
It got the desired effect, Rozanov groaning at the sight, because he always liked it when Shane acted exceptionally slutty.
Rozanov grabbed one cheek and spread it, and Shane shuddered as he pressed a wanton, sucking kiss to his hole. His spit-coated finger joined the press of his tongue, and Shane wasn’t exactly shocked at how easily it sank it. He was feeling extraordinarily loose-limbed, rim still softened from douching and stretching himself earlier in the day.
“Greedy hole, huh, Hollander?” Rozanov said, voice muffled by flesh, and Shane felt the thick point of his tongue trying to wedge in alongside his finger. He whined, fighting to keep his legs steady as Rozanov crooked inside of him, nudging at his prostate. “Could fit my entire fucking fist in here one day.”
“I’d let you,” Shane gasped, and Rozanov got back to licking, fingertip mercilessly pulsing over the hot target inside of him. “Jesus Christ.”
Time blurred as Rozanov voraciously attempted to eat him out while still finger-fucking him. It was messy, maybe not that great, probably.
Who cared? All of his nerves were raw. Even though the random hits to his prostate were sending shockwaves of pleasure up his spine, it didn’t feel like enough. He was too turned on, if there was such a thing. He wanted Rozanov to follow through and jam his whole fist inside him, wanted to devour him.
“I want – fuck, I’m gonna come if you keep going, stop,” Shane cried, even as he contradicted himself by reaching behind and shoving Rozanov’s head harder against his ass. Rozanov, for the first time all night, pushed back against Shane’s demanding grasp.
“Want to fuck you,” Rozanov said, and Shane didn’t think he was imagining the strange, whiny tone. It scraped at a memory, the room in Nashville when Rozanov had been plastered to Shane, touched his hole for the first time as he begged for permission. “Yes? Let me make you feel good.”
“Yes,” Shane echoed, and allowed Rozanov to get to his feet. His knees were remarkably red, and they were kissing as they stumbled out of the shower, Shane blindly swatting to turn the water off. They dripped their way across the marble floor, and usually, Shane would prohibit both of them from leaving the room until they were thoroughly toweled off.
He couldn’t give less of a shit right now, shoulder slamming into the door frame as they all but crashed into the bedroom. They were steering in the general direction of the bed, not that Shane could see or tell past Rozanov’s tongue down his throat.
“Take the duvet off,” Shane mumbled, because that, for some reason, seemed more important than getting water all over the nice hardwood. Rozanov apparently found this funny, because he started literally laughing in Shane’s face as he kept trying to kiss him. “I’m serious, asshole, it’s Egyptian cotton.”
“Ah, fancy thread count?” Rozanov asked, and Shane watched in abject, dazed horror as Ilya turned and bent over the bed. He shook his head like a dog, water flying from his curls and spattering over the cream duvet.
“Knock it the fuck off!”
“Make me,” Rozanov replied, grinning, and Shane didn’t think. He just shoved, nearly knocking Rozanov off his feet.
His smile refused to falter, used to Shane’s rough-housing, and Shane wasn’t not expecting to get shoved back. Rozanov’s palms hitting his shoulders were maybe weaker than they’d usually be, but Shane was wobbly enough that it sent him stumbling.
“Fucking make me, Hollander,” Rozanov repeated, and the goad was so obvious that any other person would have rolled their eyes and walked away.
Any other person.
He felt distantly satisfied when the air punched out of Rozanov’s lungs as Shane all but tackled him. They hit the bed with a hard bounce, and Shane should have probably cared that they were about to get water and sweat all over the same duvet he’d bitched about.
He was much more invested in tightening his legs around Rozanov’s hips, grabbing one of his meaty forearms as Rozanov tried to roll them. They were a mess of damp limbs and searing, heavy breaths, writhing to get the upper-hand. Shane accidentally elbowed Rozanov in the chin, right when Rozanov jammed his knuckles into the soft meat beneath Shane’s ribs.
“Ow, fuck –”
“Blyad’, dirty cheater –”
Shane was laughing. He didn’t know when he’d started, just that he couldn’t stop, jolting out of him as they kicked and pushed. Like two stupid teenage boys, though it had been a while since they’d been exactly that.
Rozanov liked to swan around and gloat about how much he could bench, but the truth was that Shane was benching just as much. It made it all the more fun as Rozanov repeatedly failed to wrestle Shane onto his back.
When his knee slipped across the sheets, a vulnerable window, and Rozanov threw Shane sideways. His body moved faster than his brain, trained to just react, and he twisted them both around like some drunken crocodile the moment Rozanov tried to pin him.
Except they’d run out of mattress, and crashed to the floor in a tangle, the rug hardly doing anything to stop the painful slam. Shane couldn’t exactly complain, because Rozanov absorbed most of it, definitely made worse by his body weight.
But this was the same man who’d been flipped backwards over the boards during a game against Philly and skated off like nothing had gone wrong. He was the one laughing hard, now, and Shane had to kiss him about it, mostly pressing his lips to teeth before Rozanov got the memo.
Rozanov returned the kiss hungrily, fingers sinking into Shane’s short hair, and somehow neither of them had flagged. Shane was just as hard as he’d been in the shower, if not harder after wrestling around on the bed.
He didn’t consciously start moving his hips, but it was happening. He was straddling sort of high on Rozanov’s torso, and the movement slipped his cock between Shane’s ass cheeks.
“You’re a fucking tease,” Rozanov bemoaned as Shane kept rolling, addicted to feeling the hot length of him brush over his hole. “Let me – shit – let me up. Need the condoms.”
“In a second,” Shane panted, and clumsily re-adjusted so Rozanov’s cock had room to pop forward. He reached down and pressed them together, hot skin-on-skin, and Shane couldn’t help but close his grip tight as he jerked forward.
He was leaking like a fountain, aiding the slide, a fact that didn’t go unnoticed by Rozanov. Rozanov, who was flushed a deep red from the heat of the shower and the touch of their bodies, lips parted as he stared down between them.
“Wet like a fucking girl,” he said lowly, and before Shane could snap at him, he continued, “Hotter than any girl I’ve ever touched, shit, Hollander. Move, I need to come inside you.”
Shane grit his teeth against the pathetic moan that threatened to leave his mouth. I need to come inside you. It pinged around his skull like an errant tennis ball. He knew what Rozanov meant – he wanted to come buried in Shane’s ass, in the logical, safe confines of the condom.
His bare cock felt so silken, so warm. What would it be like to have it inside him, just like this? To feel his cum, wet and messy and dangerous; would he be able to feel it, or was that a myth?
“So come inside me,” Shane found himself saying. “Come inside me for real.”
Rozanov’s unfocused eyes dragged over Shane’s face, widening minutely before his breathing picked up harder than it’d been going before.
“Hollander, you mean–”
“Don’t you want to? Just this once?” Shane asked. He felt a little insane, maybe he was insane, but now that he was imagining it, he couldn’t stop. The mysterious, unknown sensation of Rozanov’s cum tucked inside of him, leaking out, running down his thigh.
Shane was a tidy, meticulous person, careful in every way.
He only got like this with Rozanov. He couldn’t explain it, would never be able to even if threatened, but maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe it was just a fact of life. Water was wet, the sky was blue, Shane Hollander wanted Ilya Rozanov to drunkenly fuck him without a condom.
“Of course I want to,” Rozanov rasped. “Stupid idea, though.”
“Everything we do is stupid,” Shane replied, grasping at the permission. “Just – you don’t even have to fuck me all the way. Just enough to get inside me, so I can feel it. I’m stretched enough, you could – I could get you inside of me right now.”
“Shit,” he breathed, and Shane almost preened when Rozanov’s dick gave a visible twitch. He was leaking more than usual, too, and Shane wanted to explore that like poking on a bruise. Was it the alcohol, or was he solely that turned on by the thought of having Shane without anything between them?
“You want just the tip inside? You want me to jerk off into your tight ass?”
Rozanov sounded like he was being strangled. All of his usual suave, purring cadence had vanished into thin air.
But the words still hit Shane like a freight train, and he scrambled to roll them, the rug scratching his shoulder blades and thighs as he yanked Rozanov atop him. Rozanov nearly face-planted trying to get himself between his legs, and he fit one hand behind one of Shane’s sweaty knees.
He could have been imagining it, but Shane thought he might be trembling.
“Come on,” Shane urged, spreading wider. “Come on, I can take it.”
Rozanov, like so many times this night, didn’t have a smart response. He was panting like a damn mutt, steadying the base of his cock and pushing Shane’s leg up to his chest. Rozanov shuffled closer, practically dragging Shane into his lap.
“You’re so pretty here,” he said before he sucked two fingers into his mouth, pressed them to Shane’s hole. It gave easily under the pressure, even without lube, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head at the intrusion. They prodded and poked, testing the stretch.
“Rozanov, stop fucking stalling if you’re gonna do it. Do you want it raw or not?” he replied, and Rozanov all but whined. It was heady as hell to see him sweating bullets, eyes hazy and gone, staring at Shane like he’d personally invented all of Rozanov’s desires.
He stripped a palm over the wet head of Shane’s cock, a jolt of electricity, before rubbing over his own. Slicking himself up as much as possible, and Shane whispered, “Spit on it.”
“Christ, Hollander.”
He sucked in his cheeks and obeyed, spitting down onto his braced cock. He slapped the head against Shane’s entrance and circled. It was logically, honestly, not a huge difference. He’d felt Rozanov bare against him before, right until the point that he wrapped himself in latex.
But this was different. It was going to be inside him.
Or it would be, if Rozanov would get on with it. He kept teasing the tip against Shane, and he didn’t know if it was awe or hesitance or some mix of the two, but he needed this to hurry up. Shane edged his heel against the small of Ilya’s back and pushed him inward, thigh flexing hard.
“Fuck, oh my God,” Rozanov hissed as he started to sink, and Shane kept reeling him in, gasping at the sensation of his rim being stretched the farthest it had been dared tonight. For a split millisecond, he regretted attempting this without lube, but his body didn’t even try to lock up. Instead, it yielded, and the tip of Rozanov’s cock managed to wedge home.
“Does it feel good?” Shane asked, earnestly, because he wanted to hear it. “What’s it like? Jesus Christ, I know it’s just a little, but you feel bigger.”
“So hot,” Rozanov panted. “You’re so hot inside. Tight. I’ve never – I don’t know, I don’t know. I wish you could see what I see. You are so…”
He trailed off, and Shane felt delirious, simultaneously wanting Rozanov to delve all the way in but loving this suspension.
“Let me see,” he said, impressed with the bite in his tone. This was so different from the way it usually went, but Shane didn’t care. He loved it. He loved it, even if he’d want to slap himself tomorrow once he’d sobered up. “Where’s your phone?”
“What?”
“Your phone, Rozanov,” Shane snapped. Because he needed something to happen, needed to be touched and to come and to get fucked, even though they’d agreed on this suggestion of how deep Rozanov could actually get.
Rozanov fumbled a hand around, where his jeans had been abandoned near the foot of the bed before he’d gone into the bathroom. He cussed under his breath, and yanked Shane across the rug as he shuffled back the smallest bit, refusing to leave the clutch of his body.
“Are you sure?” he breathed, after he’d managed to yank the phone from the abandoned pocket of his pants.
“No. Do it anyway,” Shane said, and the tinny, echoing ping of the recording alert made his cock twitch. Rozanov pointedly did not move the lens up to Shane’s face, instead angling it down the heave of his abs, right where they were connected.
“You are so pretty. Everywhere, but definitely here, taking my cock,” Rozanov said again, sounding like all the air had gotten punched out of his lungs. “Feel like I am dreaming. I’ve wanted to come in you for years.”
Shane allowed himself to whine, but refused to talk while the camera was rolling, had enough presence of mind to do that, at least. Instead, he watched Rozanov as his eyes fluttered, flickering between the phone screen and Shane’s sprawled, naked body.
He inched his hips forward, rocking the head of his cock the tiniest bit deeper, before popping it back out. Shane didn’t have time to mourn the empty loss before Rozanov was slowly pressing his way back in.
“You feel so good,” Rozanov panted, and Shane couldn’t help but to reach down, getting a grip on himself. Rozanov followed suit, using his free hand to cover the inches between his groin and Shane’s rim. When he started jerking his hand, his knuckles bumped repeatedly against the swollen, sensitive skin.
Shane writhed in Rozanov’s lap, wanting it deeper, needing them to be closer, but they couldn’t tempt fate more than they already had.
Right? Wasn’t that right?
Rozanov jammed his finger on the screen and tossed it aside before falling forward, forearm bracketing Shane’s head.
“Hollander,” Rozanov whined. Whined, voice returning to that petulant tone. “You’re so tight on me. Want to fuck you like this all the time.”
“Yeah?” Shane egged. “Why? Tell me why.”
“Why wouldn’t I? So hot and soft on my cock, yes? God, I want to fill you up until you’re dripping with it. Want you so fucking full that you’ll feel it in your guts,” he babbled.
When Shane moaned, Rozanov returned the sentiment ten times harder, rapidly jerking himself as he languished in the squeeze of Shane’s ass. It was like the words worked him up more than anything else, and a drop of sweat rolled from his chin and splashed onto Shane’s freckled cheek.
“Yeah,” Shane groaned. “Do it. Come inside me. Fucking – fucking knock me up, Rozanov.”
He had no idea where that had sprung from.
Whatever, it was already said, and it apparently did something to Rozanov, if his broken groan was anything to go by. He slammed his lips down onto Shane’s, hardly kissing, more just huffing and practically drooling into his mouth.
“Yeah, sweetheart, wanna fuck a baby into you,” Rozanov murmured, circling his hips, and Shane almost blacked out at the sensation of Rozanov’s cockhead pulsing at his rim. He’d only heard that endearment once before, and it was as weighty and saccharine as it’d been the first time. “Please, let me give it to you. Gonna get you all wet and make sure it takes, huh? Please.”
He didn’t know what to do with Rozanov’s pleading. It was so rare, so jarring, and Shane ate it up in a way he hadn’t expected. He was in control of the wheel, and it was wild, to see and hear how desperate Rozanov was.
“Give it to me,” Shane said, and let the leg still wrapped around Rozanov’s hips to shift. He dug his foot into the meat of Rozanov’s ass, and he dredged up what was left of his pointed energy to kick. “Fuck it in. All the way. Now.”
And Rozanov obeyed, thrusting forward and burying himself nearly to the base. Shane’s strangled cry got lost under the half-shout Rozanov let out, practically clawing off the skin around Rozanov’s shoulder blades.
His body couldn’t decide whether it wanted to lean into the sensation or flee, but the decision was made either way. He was impossibly full, drowning under the pressure, and thanked God that he’d had so many steps of prep throughout the entire day. It would have torn him otherwise, maybe, trying to accept nearly all of Rozanov’s full girth.
“Sha – Hollander, fuck, I’m gonna come,” Rozanov said through gritted teeth, and Shane dizzily catalogued his clenched jaw, his curls plastered to his forehead, crooked teeth digging into his bottom lip.
“You’re so beautiful,” was all Shane could manage, and Rozanov dropped his head, pressing their foreheads together as his hips jerked once, twice, before he was shaking through his orgasm.
Shane fit his hand between their bellies, and it only took a couple quick, rough touches for the heat to finally bubble over. He’d been nursing it since the club, since the game, since the days and days that separated him and Rozanov from their last meeting. He came easily, white-hot and consuming, spilling down over his knuckles and onto his abs.
It was so good, a release that turned his bones to liquid, and his eyes fluttered shut as Rozanov kissed him, sucking on his tongue and whispering something incomprehensible.
And then –
“I can kinda feel it,” Shane slurred, because he could, a slight warmth spreading inside of him. Rozanov was gentle as he pulled out, and Shane crept his fingers past his still-twitching cock, right to his entrance. It was hot to the touch, slightly puffy, and slick.
“Let me see,” Rozanov insisted, and Shane allowed him to push both his legs up, fingers digging into the soft place where calf met thigh. Shane fit his hands on his ass cheeks and spread them, clenching and unclenching involuntarily as he adjusted to being empty.
“Holy shit.”
“Is it…?”
“Fucking leaking out,” Rozanov supplied, and Shane borderline sobbed as Rozanov dove in and fit his lips against his swollen hole. His legs landed heavily on Rozanov’s shoulders as the other man ate him out, hands roving all over Shane’s heaving ribs and chest. It added an edge to the ebbing pleasure, and Shane squirmed, listening to how wet it was as Rozanov’s jaw worked. God.
His cock gave a weak, valiant twitch, but Shane knew he was done, suddenly exhausted and extremely sated. Rozanov left him with a parting kiss, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, like he’d just casually finished a meal.
“Tastes so good coming from you,” he said, and Shane hummed, accepting the soft kisses that Rozanov laid to his abdomen, up to his sternum, trailing to his neck.
“That was fucking insane,” Shane mumbled as Rozanov kissed him and kissed him, slow and indulgent. The taste of it was tangy, slightly bitter, and oh-so familiar. He’d swallowed this exact taste more times than he could count.
“Yes. Should boss me around more often, was very hot,” he replied, sounding properly sleepy. Shane pet his hand over Rozanov’s shoulder, wincing at the twinge of his tailbone, proof that he’d been on the floor much too long. Rozanov helped him clamber to his feet, and when Shane let out a nearly-manic giggle, he mirrored it perfectly.
“Yes, yes. Feel good?” Rozanov asked, and Shane dared to press a vulnerable kiss to the swell of his chest, right above his thudding heart. Rozanov’s breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away.
“Yeah-huh. Let me get a little cleaner before you go.”
Shane scrubbed himself with a hand towel in the bathroom and yanked on a pair of sweatpants, something lethargic and achy creeping into his temples. In the wake of their fucking and the small morning hours, the aftermath of all the alcohol was already looming.
“Found some cheese in your fridge. Which is very strange,” Rozanov said when Shane entered the kitchen. He was dressed, once again, in the same outfit he’d been wearing before. Tight dark jeans, ugly shirt. But he was loose-limbed and wild-haired, smiling at Shane’s presence as he smashed brie on gluten-free crackers and hosed them.
“Oh, yeah. Jackie – you know, Hayden’s wife – brought all that over to my house the other day. I hosted a team party,” Shane said, and yawned.
“So why are they in sex condo?”
Shane snorted.
“I figured you’d be hungry after we hung out,” he answered, which was the simple truth. Something complicated happened on Rozanov’s face, a sort of shuttering, and Shane itched at his elbow.
“Ah, you know how I get,” Rozanov confirmed.
Because Shane might not understand anything about Rozanov’s murky family history or the stretch of his untold childhood, but he knew this. That he got voracious after sex, craving cigarettes and indulgent food.
Shane might not know Ilya, but he knew Rozanov. Well enough, anyway.
They sat in amicable silence as Rozanov munched on the rest of the crackers and cheese, popping grapes into his mouth, funneling a few over to Shane. When it came time for him to call a car, Shane resisted the urge to cling. That wasn’t what they did.
“Are you sharing the hotel with anyone?” Shane asked as Rozanov shrugged on his jacket.
“Marly. He knew I’d be out. Said he’d cover for me until the morning if I needed,” he replied, and the sentence hung between them. Curfew was long gone, with Rozanov already breaking the rules.
He’d asked Marlow to, what? Lie if he didn’t show back up to the hotel? Which meant he’d prepared for…something. To not come back until dawn. Like he’d be able to sleep next to Shane.
“Oh. Well. That’s nice of him. Good thing he won’t have to, I guess,” Shane replied, and Rozanov ducked his head as he slowly pulled on his boots.
“Yes,” he replied, after a long beat. “Am going to smoke while I call a car.”
“You could have done that on the balcony.”
“Ah, no. You would complain if the smell got into the place,” Rozanov replied.
“Want me to walk you down?”
“You are such a polite fucking Canadian. No, Hollander, stay.”
Shane nodded, because he didn’t know what else to do, and crossed his arms. He felt chilly, standing in the foyer without a shirt, and his lower back throbbed. He suddenly wished he’d indulged in more of the snacks, asked Rozanov questions, held him longer.
Stupid, stupid fantasies. Not exactly half-regrets.
“Come here.”
Rozanov wiggled his fingers, and Shane was helpless but to step forward into his embrace. He sighed as Rozanov kissed him, feather-light and sweet, lips clicking wetly as they let it go on for a second too long.
You already came in me. Stay the night. Take a nap, just lay down, Shane thought, for a wild moment, and shut his eyes.
Maybe he was still drunk.
“Bye, Hollander,” Rozanov said, with one single, chaste smooch to Shane’s cheek.
“Bye,” Shane whispered, and then Rozanov was gone.
Shane responsibly checked the lock, drank more water, and collapsed onto the couch. The idea of going back to the bedroom was strangely unappealing. He’d have to stare at the rumpled duvet, the water droplets smeared across the hardwood, the crooked rug.
He wished, sometimes, that he had selective memory when it came to Rozanov. If he was able, he’d just hoard the time they spent together, sweaty and wanting. Everything else would be recycled – the sporadic texts, their on-ice clashing, how Rozanov sometimes stared like he was peering into Shane’s soul.
The body was easy and understandable. If he drank several shots, he’d be silly and drunk. He would, apparently, let his long-time hookup come inside him. The body wanted what it wanted, always needy and reaching and predictable.
His heart was apparently no exception.
.˚○ • °
Shane restlessly paced down the sidewalk, hands tucked into the pocket of his coat. It was still snowing heavy in Salt Lake City, and the tiny flakes were illuminated as they rushed past the yellow glow of the street lamps.
They were flying back home tomorrow before starting up another round with the East Coast, which meant he was only five days away from seeing Rozanov again.
The want had settled into his bones so deeply that he could practically feel it in his molars. It would be one of the last times he got to see Rozanov before summer came, taking him back to Russia, thousands of miles away.
He didn’t miss him during those long months. It would just be nice to see him more, was all. The dry spells between their meetings were growing unbearable.
As if Rozanov was somehow synced to Shane’s brain, his phone buzzed in his pocket. When he fished it out, he could see a familiar contact name on the screen.
Lily [11:56 PM]
hey
Shane sucked in a sharp breath, and slowly typed back.
Jane [11:57 PM]
Hey?
Lily [11:57 PM]
want to see something fun?
Jane [11:57 PM]
Is this a trick question?
Lily [11:58 PM]
no)))
do you want to see or not?
Jane [11:58 PM]
Fine.
Lily [11:58 PM]
porn was getting very boring
then I remember I have something better
Shane blinked, brushing the snowflakes from his blunt bangs, and furrowed his brow at the screen. He didn’t understand.
That was, until, a video popped up. It took a second for him to understand, and then he was whipping his head around, as if some stranger was going to sprint over and snatch his phone.
Hand trembling slightly, he yanked the hood of his layered sweatshirt down over his brow and adjusted his headphones. They hugged his ears, firmly in place, before Shane pressed play.
And then he was greeted by the rapid rise and fall of Rozanov’s tight abs, shot at a bird’s eye view. He was huffing into the microphone, and Shane was absurdly mesmerized by the way his thick cock stretched the dusky hole beneath him.
That was Shane’s twisting body. His thick thighs, his trimmed pubes, his bitten-off, swallowed sobs.
You are so pretty. Everywhere, but definitely here, taking my cock, Rozanov said off-screen. He could hear now what he hadn’t heard then – the note of awe, the yearn of them, like Rozanov was trying to sear the words into his skin.
He watched as the blunt tip of Rozanov’s cock popped out, leaving him momentarily gaping, before it was shoved back in. Just the tip, carefully managed, and what wasn’t captured was the way Rozanov had buried himself deep.
Just for a moment, but it had been real, and literally raw. Shane’s face was burning hot and alive.
Jane [12:02 AM]
WHY THE FUCK DO YOU STILL HAVE THAT?
Rozanov. Delete it. Now.
Lily [12:02 AM]
Make me 😈
Shane hastily locked him phone and shoved it back in his pocket. Five days. He could wait five days. They would have responsible, ill-advised, sober sex. They would employ a condom or two, even if Shane craved the feeling of Rozanov so hot and bare back inside of him.
A drunken mistake. Why couldn’t he be one of those people who forgot everything when they were plied with alcohol? Except he probably didn’t want to forget. He could savor it and cram it into one of the many compartmentalized boxes he kept in his mind for Rozanov.
It wasn’t like it would happen another time. The chances of them having been in the same bar in the first place were astronomically rare, anyway.
If Shane ever ran into Rozanov again while he was out on the town, he’d be smart. He’d walk away and go home alone. It would, surely, ache less that way.