Work Text:
How many times can you come in an hour?
Shane’s hair was still wet from the shower when the text came through. He was in a towel, standing in front of his locker, surrounded by his teammates; Hayden talking about his plans for the weekend to anybody who’d listen, JJ trying to get Koch to agree to post-game drinks before he flew out to Vancouver that night. Shane’s mind had been preoccupied about what to order for dinner as he washed the game off his body in quick, efficient strokes. He never allowed himself to dwell on his location when he showered after games – it was far too dangerous.
Three? he thought. Four?
He tucked his phone against his chest and hunched his shoulders, doing his best to block Wilson’s view of the screen.
What the fuck? He typed. Then immediately deleted it.
More than you. No, not that either – that probably wasn’t something to brag about. Not that he had any real idea.
Finally, Shane settled on I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.
There was a long gap between texts. Shane pressed the centre button on the keypad to keep the screen lit enough times that JJ started to look concerned.
“You alright, Cap?”
“Yeah,” Shane said, shooting him what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “I’m just … waiting for some news.”
His phone buzzed and he grabbed for it, nearly dropping his towel in the process.
We will test it. Come to my hotel?
Shane pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek and considered how to reply. Eventually he settled on sending Rozanov an address and nothing else. Because, no, he wasn’t going to attempt to break the Orgasm World Record with Cliff Marlow on the other side of a very thin wall. Or – even better – in the next bed over, if Rozanov decided to make good on his jokes about inviting someone to join them.
“Hey.” JJ elbowed Shane in the side. “Come out for drinks?”
“No thanks – I’m … I’ve got an appointment.”
“Yeah, you do.” He grinned and let out a whoop, though thankfully he didn’t announce Shane’s plans to the room at large. He looked at Shane for a moment, then said, “Better get dressed if you don’t want to miss it.”
Shane’s phone buzzed again.
I will come at 9:30.
*
Rozanov was never late. It was like he sat round the corner of the building, biding his time until the exact right moment. Which was stupid because it wasn’t like Shane would ever accuse him of being too eager – it would be downright hypocritical. Worse than that would be Rozanov calling him out on said hypocrisy, leaving Shane to defend the flush in his cheeks and the firm thud of his heartbeat whenever he and Rozanov were alone together.
There was a routine that they’d developed, acted out only when they saw each other. Shane didn’t know if Rozanov realised that it even existed, but they still did the same steps every time, like a choreographed routine.
When Rozanov came through the door, he leaned his back against it to close it. He levelled an interested look at Shane – all raised eyebrows, a half smirk, and a heated gaze that raked down Shane’s front. He toed off his runners without glancing at them and without untying the laces, which always made Shane wonder about the structural integrity of the heels. Most of the time, he took off his jacket, then his shirt. Sometimes he touched Shane first.
“So…” Shane said. He leaned back against the kitchen counter and watched Rozanov observe the space. He received a smirk in return and then Rozanov was leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. It was exactly the kind of thing Shane didn’t want, because he couldn’t handle it right now. That softness, that hint of what the Cosmopolitan magazines the teenage version of him used to steal from his mother would call The Boyfriend Experience. Because Rozanov wasn’t his boyfriend.
Fuck, Shane couldn’t imagine Rozanov being anyone’s boyfriend. He was very aware that the public image of a sports star didn’t often match their personal reality, but he certainly would never sign up to be labelled as the league’s resident playboy if there wasn’t some grain of truth to it. But he also wasn’t about to ask for clarification, so it was better not to think about it.
Rozanov tapped his fingers against the kitchen counter; it was a rhythm that Shane was familiar with, the tempo niggling at the front of his brain. Had Rozanov grown up playing piano? Shane had dabbled in violin when he was young, then bass in middle school, but he couldn’t play either well enough to make a show of it. Was that something they had in common? Or was he grasping at straws?
“You have an answer for me?”
“Hmm?” Shane swallowed, dragging his eyes from Rozanov’s fingers to his face; it was much closer than he thought, and he felt his lips part automatically in response. Soft fingers traced down the side of his neck, a thumb pressing lightly to the hollow of his throat.
“I asked you a question.”
“What, just now?”
“No.” That smirk was back on Rozanov’s face. He slid his phone from his pocket and held it up, giving it a wiggle.
“Oh.” At the reminder of the earlier text chain, Shane’s face immediately heated. But alongside the flush of embarrassment, that telltale twist in his lower stomach also made itself known. “Uh, no, I don’t. Didn’t have time to do a test run before you got here.”
“Is fine.” The screen of Rozanov’s phone lit up and, for a moment, Shane thought he might be getting a call. But then Rozanov turned it around and Shane leaned in closer, narrowing his eyes as he tried to make sense of it.
“Sixty what?” he asked, eyes flicking from the screen to Rozanov’s smirk.
“Minutes.” Rozanov set the phone down on the counter but didn’t activate what Shane now realised was a timer. “I said we would test.”
“Yeah, but that’s so…” Official? Intriguing?
Rozanov raised an eyebrow; he pulled off his shirt and deposited it on the chair beside him. “You do not want to come?”
“I do.”
He held his arms out, then let them drop back to his sides. “Then do not complain.” He slid to his knees in front of Shane then, his face level with the bulge that Shane didn’t realise was tenting the front of his sweats.
“Oh my god,” Shane muttered. He weaved his hand into Rozanov’s hair, the curls flattening against his palm. He sucked in a breath when Rozanov pressed an open-mouthed kiss to his covered cock, the material darkening from the contact. The bottom of his shirt flapped as Rozanov pinched the hem and tugged at it.
“Take this off.”
“Shit. Yeah, ok.”
A low hum rumbled in Rozanov’s chest as he sat back on his knees; from that position, he was looking up at Shane from under his lashes. Shane had the sudden urge to cross his wrists behind his back, but Rozanov hadn’t asked him to. So he wouldn’t.
“Start it.”
“God,” Shane groaned, tipping back his head as Rozanov gripped his cock through his sweats.
“Hollander.”
A pinch to the thigh made Shane jump.
Rozanov rolled his eyes; he was cupping Shane through the soft grey material, moving his hand in a circle. The stimulation of that slow grind was unfairly good. “The timer?”
“Oh, right.” Shane slapped at the countertop, nearly succeeding in knocking Rozanov’s phone to the ground. His fingers slid over the keypad, missing the large middle button in the centre twice, before finally catching it with the tip of his index. “Done.”
“You have checked, yes? It is on?”
“Yeah.” He hadn’t. But it probably was, so.
“Hollander.” Rozanov rested his chin against Shane’s thigh as he spoke; throughout, his hand kept working Shane’s cock in a leisurely grind. “This is serious business.”
“Yep, completely.” A groan pulled itself from Shane’s throat. “Holy shit, can you—”
“No.”
“I haven’t even asked yet.”
“Yes, but I already know.” He switched to a higher pitch, his accent taking on a disturbingly Canadian lilt. “‘Please suck my cock, Ilya. I am Captain, I deserve this’.”
“I do,” Shane muttered. “And I am. So.”
Rozanov hummed. “No – I think I will do what I want, yes?”
Shane swallowed; he was doing his best to keep it together, to go toe-to-toe with Rozanov and not bend quite yet. But such a task seemed insurmountable when Rozanov was already on his knees, his mouth achingly close to Shane’s cock. “Fuck, could you—”
The grip on Shane’s cock tightened. He closed his eyes and clutched the side of the counter; it was a small mercy that it was behind him, otherwise he’d likely have fallen over already.
Rozanov licked his lips. He was watching Shane, one hand fiddling with the waistband of Shane’s sweats. Every few moments, his thumb would dip inside to rub at Shane’s hipbone.
The pressure on his cock was becoming too much to bear. But Shane kept his hands on either side of him, resisting the impulse to pull Rozanov bodily onto his cock. He waited, letting the heat build and build, before he finally said, “Stop, stop, I’m way too close.”
Rozanov lifted an eyebrow. “That is plan, yes?”
“Yeah but—fuck, Jesus, stop.”
An incredulous look. “Hollander, you do not need to—”
Shane angled his hips, and the pressure alleviated a minute amount, Rozanov’s palm grinding against his pelvic bone rather than his cock. He let out a long breath, tensing his glutes to stave off his orgasm.
“This is not the goal,” Rozanov said.
“I’m not going to come in my pants,” Shane replied.
Rozanov’s bottom lip jutted out. “Why?”
“Because the laundry will suck. And I like this underwear – it’s new.”
What the fuck is wrong with me? Shane thought to himself. Why the fuck am I thinking about this when I’m five fucking seconds away from coming?
Still on the floor, Rozanov blinked. Then he pressed a kiss to the bulge in Shane’s sweats before yanking them down to mid-thigh. Shane had only a moment to gather himself before Rozanov was sucking him down to the base, and then, almost immediately, he was coming.
The marble countertop dug into his tailbone, that hint of pain grounding him just enough that he was able to keep his eyes open. He watched Rozanov’s throat bob as he swallowed, his cheeks hollowing as he coaxed out the final few drops. As he began to ease up on the pressure, he dragged the point of his tongue up Shane’s frenulum and into his slit.
“Fuck,” Shane hissed, knuckles going white as he gripped the countertop. “Fucking—stop, Jesus.”
Rozanov thumbed at the corner of his own mouth; his plush red lips shined, catching the yellow light of the pendant lamps. “What pick was I?”
“What?” Shane blinked, the white spots finally fading from his vision.
“In our draft. When did Boston pick me?”
“Fuck off – you’re not seriously still holding on to that when I beat you for Rookie of the fucking Year.”
Rozanov’s bottom lip poked out further. He looked fucking ridiculous. And sexy. And Shane was about to lose it again, fucking hell. “Do not be nasty, Hollander. What number?”
Shane scrunched his nose as he answered, “One.”
“Good boy – one.” When he rose to stand, it was with a filthy smirk on his face. “You would like me to stop? You do not want to come?”
“Uh…” Shane trailed off as Rozanov palmed at his softening cock. “It was just … a lot. Sensitive.”
“You have no stamina.” Rozanov’s fingers curled around Shane’s length; he began to stroke him leisurely, in a hold that should have been too loose to bring Shane back to full hardness so quickly. But that didn’t take into account the bare chest – muscled, a smattering of hair, a rose-stained flush – that was inches away from him. And that was to say nothing of Rozanov’s obviously hard cock.
“Fuck you,” Shane replied.
“Is ok.” Rozanov kissed him gently, one hand cupping the back of Shane’s neck. “We will work on this.”
“Now?”
Rozanov rolled his eyes. “Maybe not now.” He gave Shane’s traitorously hard cock a squeeze, before stepping back. “Go to your bedroom. Lay down.”
So Shane did.
He reclined against the mountain of pillows, placing only the frontmost decorative ones on the ground; they had little beads on them, scattered amongst thick scratchy thread, but the silk ones would do just fine.
Rozanov didn’t seem to agree. As he stepped into Shane’s bedroom, his body devoid of clothes, he shot the pillows a bemused look. “You have robbed the store? Or you are collecting these?” He picked up one of the pillows and tossed it to the floor.
“Shut up.”
The next pillow that Rozanov disposed of came from directly under Shane’s head.
Shane retaliated by pitching one at Rozanov’s face, catching him squarely on the forehead. He was rewarded by fingers winding around his ankle, and then he was being dragged down the bed.
“You will not win this,” Rozanov murmured. He caught the next pillow missile before it made contact.
“I will,” Shane replied, but then he wasn’t saying much at all because Rozanov was shoving his legs apart. “Jesus Christ,” he hissed, back arching as Rozanov sucked him down. “Oh my—” The sheets bunched in his fist, the material straining; they would be wrinkled after the night was done.
Rozanov hummed in approval. His lips stretched around Shane’s cock, slick and shiny. Whenever he lowered his head, the round of his ass came into view; his hips were moving, thrusting against the bed in leisurely rolls. The visual was almost too good to handle; one of Shane’s hands shot down his own body, with the intent of grabbing the base of his dick. Instead, his knuckles bumped against Rozanov’s hollowed cheek, the pad of Shane’s thumb grazing that mole that he loved to kiss.
Rozanov raised an eyebrow. He ran his fingers lightly up Shane’s thigh, guiding it to bend. Then, between downward movements, “Like this, Hollander.” He took Shane’s wandering hand, moving it from his cheek to his hair. Instinctively, Shane’s fingers curled in it.
“Oh god,” Shane groaned. He forced himself to release his grip on the sheets, convinced they were about to rip. He let his arm flop over his head, forearm partially covering his eyes.
“Nyet.” Rozanov batted at Shane’s elbow. “I want to see you.”
“You can see me—fuck. Where the hell did you—” He cut himself off with a groan.
Rozanov blinked up at Shane, the corners of his very occupied mouth curling upwards. His wet, lubricated fingers nudged at Shane’s ass. He pulled off Shane’s cock as he slid the first one inside. “I do not trust you to remember.”
“Bullshit. There’s five different—fuck—lubes in the drawer beside—holy shit, Rozanov.” The finger inside Shane curled and his back arched off the bed.
“I like mine better. Yours are cheap.”
Shane let out a moan as a bolt of heat shot through his lower body.
“You are going to come,” Rozanov said, his tone observational. “You feel it building?” He pressed a kiss to Shane’s balls, then a second one that was longer, more open-mouthed.
Shane nodded. His fingers tightened in Rozanov’s hair; it was probably painful, but Rozanov hadn’t made any attempts to remove them yet. In fact, he looked as though he could spend the rest of the night right there, between Shane’s legs.
Vibrations zinged across the base of Shane’s cock as Rozanov hummed. He dragged his tongue over Shane’s balls and up the length of his cock, the head disappearing between his lips.
Then, between peppered kisses and languid sucks, “Come, Hollander. I want to see it. Show me.” The finger inside Shane curled and he squeezed his eyes shut involuntarily as his back arched off the bed. The hand in Rozanov’s head held him down, Shane’s twitching cock buried firmly in his mouth, as he let out a series of garbled moans that were a poor representation of any language he had a grasp of.
“Oh god,” Shane muttered, moaning when Rozanov didn’t immediately withdraw his finger. It took him a moment to release Shane’s cock from his mouth, his tongue drawing circles around the crown. After letting Shane’s cock drop back to rest against his stomach, he pressed a kiss to Shane’s hipbone.
“Hey, Hollander – what draft pick were you?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Ooh, that is not very nice.” He dragged the point of his tongue up and over the bone. It sent a shiver down Shane’s spine, his breath catching in his throat.
Swallowing, Shane muttered, “Two.”
“Da – two.”
“Fuck,” Shane hissed, squirming against the mattress when Rozanov gently bit down on the jut of his hipbone. “Don’t leave a…” He trailed off, the words catching in his throat.
Though Shane hadn’t finished the sentence, Rozanov clearly understood; he turned his attention back to Shane’s spent cock. He pressed wet, messy kisses along the softened length of it, his fingers digging into Shane’s bent thighs. Then he ducked his head, and the next press of lips was to the sensitive skin above Shane’s hole.
“Hollander, where is your hair? You are like…” Rozanov paused. “…I cannot think of any animals like this.” On his next kiss, his tongue dipped out to trace a circle on Shane’s skin.
“Are you going to—Jesus Christ.” Shane squeezed his eyes shut as Rozanov pressed a slow, languid kiss to his hole. It parted around the tip of his tongue easily, looser than usual from his two orgasms.
“Hmm.” Rozanov pushed up onto his elbows and gave Shane an assessing look. “This position is bad for neck. Go on your front.”
Shane did, obeying without stopping to think. He arched his back, pressing his chest against the bed. Then he paused, glancing down to see his thickening cock was already a deep red. “The bed’s going to get dirty.”
Rozanov rubbed a hand over Shane’s hip. “You have washer.”
“Yeah but … it could stain.”
Rozanov mumbled something in Russian and then the mattress bounced as his weight disappeared.
Shane could have moved. He could have sat up or turned to look over his shoulder or gotten up to see where Rozanov had gone. But he’d been told to go on his front, so there he stayed.
Only a few moments passed before Rozanov returned. He leaned to the side, arms brushing Shane’s chest as he spread one of Shane’s blue bath towels over the sheets below him.
“Is better?” Rozanov asked.
Shane nodded. He widened his legs, forcing his back into an even more dramatic arch that he knew Rozanov wouldn’t be able to resist.
“Good.” Soft lips pressed against Shane’s shoulder, then his flank. Rozanov shuffled backwards, his fingers dancing across Shane’s skin, as though he couldn’t bear to be without contact for even a second. “Put your hands on the headboard.”
“Why?”
“Because.” Rozanov’s fingers curled around his hips, pulling him open. “You are good boy, Hollander. Show me.”
And fuck if that didn’t do something for him.
Extending his arms forced Shane’s chest against the mattress. He tilted his hips to accommodate, shivering when Rozanov’s hands dragged over his skin. He pressed his palms flat against the buttery soft fabric of the headboard, fingers tensing when Rozanov began to move his thumbs in tight circles. Goosebumps erupted on Shane’s skin and he exhaled loudly, waiting for whatever was next.
Rozanov huffed a quiet laugh. He pressed a kiss to Shane’s tailbone, then another just below it. “Is ok?”
“Yeah.” The word was more garbled than intended – as Shane spoke, Rozanov pressed his wet, open mouth to Shane’s hole. His fingers tensed, nails digging into the headboard. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
“Er, no.” The flat of Rozanov’s tongue dragged over Shane’s hole. “You know my name, Hollander.”
Shane shuddered in response to the sensation. “Oh my god.” His hips bucked involuntarily; the movement did nothing, thanks to the intense angle of his back.
“What is it?”
The sheets dragged against Shane’s bottom lip as he panted. His whole body tingled, heat coalescing between his legs.
“Hollander.”
Rozanov ate him out in the same manner that he kissed – forceful, wet, his clever tongue everywhere. Shane could focus on nothing other than the pressure that radiated outwards from the base of his cock; he fought the urge to close his legs, to bow his back, to beg for more and less in equal measure.
Rozanov clicked his tongue, flicking the point of it against Shane’s hole. “Are you listening?”
“No,” Shane replied. He groaned when Rozanov stopped licking him in favour of resting his chin on Shane’s lower back.
“That is not nice.”
“You aren’t nice.”
“Ah, but you are.” A gentle nip to the base of Shane’s spine made him jump; he felt Rozanov’s grin against his skin. “That is what they say, yes? Shane Hollander, the golden boy.” He punctuated each word with a kiss as he moved back down, elbows on the bed.
“Yeah?” Shane let out something between a gasp and a laugh as Rozanov pressed his pointed tongue inside. “I—fuck—know they say something different about you. Less complimentary.” It wasn’t entirely true. But Rozanov’s ego was already big enough.
“Next time,” Rozanov drawled, lips against Shane’s most sensitive skin, “you will say my name as you come.”
“Next time?”
“Yes. Not this time.” Rozanov’s hand was back on Shane’s hip – cupping, rubbing, caressing. He guided Shane into the most minute of movements, pulling him back against his waiting tongue. His other hand dipped between Shane’s legs to cup his balls. He rolled them in his palm as he said, “This time, you are going to be nice.”
“Oh fuck,” Shane muttered; his whole body tensed as he felt that tight coil begin to loosen. “Oh fuck, fuck.”
“Say thank you, Hollander.”
“Oh my god, holy—”
“Say it.”
“Thank you,” Shane groaned, and then he was coming. His untouched cock spurted onto the towel below, white spots dotting the material like newly formed stars. He clenched around Rozanov’s tongue, panting a stream of syllables that he was fairly certain were repeats of his earlier thank you, broken apart and stitched back together.
Rozanov massaged his balls, tensing and releasing them in time with the twitching of Shane’s cock. He was smirking – despite his orgasm, Shane could still feel it against his skin.
When it was finally over, Shane’s body sagged. He had begun to feel lightheaded, too much air expelled without time to catch his breath. He whimpered when Rozanov ran a hand up his back, fingers dancing along the knobs of his spine.
“Tri.”
“Hmm?”
Rozanov’s lips brushed Shane’s shoulder. “In Russian. Tri.”
Shane repeated it, though it sounded more like tree in his accent.
Fingers carded through Shane’s hair. “Would you like to know the next one?”
“There isn’t…” He went to push himself onto his elbows, but something stopped him. He glanced at his hands – still pressed to the headboard – and asked, “Can I?”
There was an audible catch in Rozanov’s breath. “Da. Yes. Very good, Hollander.”
Shane groaned as he let his arms drop. There was a definite strain in his muscles, but it felt more akin to a post-gym ache than anything serious. “I can’t go again. The hour’s gotta be up.”
“Is not.” The tip of Rozanov’s nose brushed Shane’s shoulder as he kissed him there. “Timer will go off, yes?”
Did he even set the alarm? Shane couldn’t remember. Fuck.
Rozanov groaned; the rumble carried through to Shane’s chest, and he found himself mimicking it. “You … fuck, Hollander.” The fingers in Shane’s hair tightened, then relaxed. Another kiss to his shoulder, then one to the nape of his neck. “You will do next one.”
Shane nodded. He reached behind himself, fingers wrapping around Rozanov’s cock. He began to stroke him, heat rising in his skin when he felt how wet Rozanov was at the slit. “Like this?”
“No.” Rozanov’s fingers curled around his wrist, guiding it between his own legs. Shane’s knuckles bumped against his oversensitive cock and he winced, biting down on his bottom lip.
“I can’t.”
“Yes,” Rozanov murmured, lips against Shane’s shoulder, “you can.” He moved Shane’s hand himself, rubbing his knuckles against his mostly-soft dick. When Rozanov let go, Shane didn’t stop. Despite the roaring flames that licked across his skin, searing and rending, he kept touching himself.
“Oh god.”
“Da, Hollander. That is it.” Rozanov laid down beside him, his body turned toward Shane. He was so hard that his cock looked bruised, but he didn’t touch himself, didn’t offer himself any relief. The back of his hand dragged up Shane’s thigh; every strand of hair that he disturbed felt like a bolt of lightning to Shane’s spine.
Shane squeezed his eyes shut, focusing only on the sensation of his hand on his dick. He was only half-hard, but it certainly didn’t feel like it. The sensation of Rozanov’s breaths puffing against his cheek was so heightened that Shane buried his face in the pillow. It was rougher, in comparison, and he needed that. He wanted to ask Rozanov to rake his nails down his back, to pinch him, bite him, anything but those soft, leisurely touches that were driving him insane.
Then Rozanov’s hand was in his hair and Shane’s head was being turned. A thumb pressed to Shane’s bottom lip and Rozanov whispered, “Do not hide from me. I want to see you.” He kissed the corner of Shane’s mouth, the tip of his nose leaving a path of burning embers on Shane’s skin.
“I can’t,” Shane whined. He was holding himself properly now, but his grip was loose. Every time his hips jumped, the sensitivity increased. Now that he’d opened his eyes and could see Rozanov’s face – the size of his pupils, the sheen on his lips, the pink in his cheek and on his chin where it had rubbed against the skin between Shane’s legs … it was too much.
“Good boy.” Rozanov moved his head onto the same pillow as Shane, but just slightly higher up. He had his chin tilted down so that he could see Shane’s face as well as his hand on his cock. “You like this, yes?”
“No,” Shane groaned.
“Oh? Then stop.”
Shane closed his eyes. He did not stop.
“Fuck,” Rozanov groaned. The movement of his hand was quick enough that it jolted Shane. His eyes flew open to see Rozanov’s hand squeezing the base of his own dick; his chest heaved as he exhaled, long and slow. After a few moments, he shifted down the bed until his face was level with Shane’s. “You almost made me come, Hollander.”
“I’m not—fuck—touching you.”
“You do not need to be.”
“Fuck, Rozanov, I can’t—”
“You can.” Rozanov kissed his cheek, his nose, the corner of his mouth. His words turned to whispers, elongated by that honey-thick accent. “Who is making you come, Hollander?”
Me, Shane thought, but that wasn’t right. Because he hadn’t put his hand on himself. He hadn’t set the pace, hadn’t arranged the position of his body. He’d done nothing but take direction.
“You.” The word felt like it was dragged from his chest, scratching at his throat and spilling across his tongue. “Fuck, I’m going to—”
Shane’s vision went spotty. He vaguely heard himself saying Rozanov’s name again and again in a garbled plea, a prayer for absolution. His body bucked, hips jumping away from his hand. But he chased it, completing the order as required. He could feel Rozanov’s firm lips against his slack ones, the point of Rozanov’s tongue wetting skin that had been parched by his prolonged panting.
“Good boy, Hollander,” Rozanov was saying. His touches were firmer now, his fingers digging into Shane’s hip, gripping at his thigh. He was close to losing control, and Shane couldn’t believe how much he wanted it. How keenly he desired that contact, overstimulation be damned. “How many is this?”
“Four.”
“Da – chetyre.”
Shane’s hand fell from his soft, aching cock to the towel beneath. It was testament to the fuzziness of his mind that he didn’t care if it landed atop one of the many dirty patches.
But then gentle fingers wound around his wrist and Rozanov was wiping his hand. He was careful as he lifted Shane’s fingers one by one, running the edge of the towel between them. He took care not to scratch Shane’s cuticles, dabbing rather than rubbing as he cleaned him.
Rozanov’s eyes flicked up to meet Shane’s. He stared for a moment, his lips parted, eyes hungry. “Okay?”
Shane nodded. He cleared his throat, throwing Rozanov a grin. He still felt a bit loopy, like he’d sucked in a lungful of helium; if he spoke, he was sure his voice would squeak.
Rozanov pulled his own bottom lip between his teeth. He gnawed at it as he stared at Shane, visibly debating what to do. “You are not—”
With great effort, Shane turned his hand, linking their fingers together. Their joined hands pressed against his stomach, suspended. “I’m okay.” His voice did not squeak – it was deeper than usual, gravelly. Not as much as Rozanov’s, but still noticeable.
Rozanov leaned forward to press his forehead against Shane’s shoulder. He kissed him there, once, twice, four times, before he drew back. “Put your arms here.” He guided them up, until they rested, crossed, beneath Shane’s pillow. “Hold on to yourself.” He ran a hand through Shane’s hair, pushing away any strands that touched his face. “Am I nice guy, Hollander?”
“No,” Shane mumbled. He smirked, grin widening when Rozanov rolled his eyes.
“Because I am such a nice guy, I will let you choose: do you want me to touch your cock or your ass?”
Despite all reason, Shane’s cock twitched. It was a valiant – if disturbing – effort. That would be summarily ignored, because – contrary to popular belief – Shane did still possess an ounce of self-preservation. He turned his face into the pillow and mumbled, “Ass.”
Rozanov clicked his tongue. He splayed his hand across Shane’s shoulderblades, the gesture so possessive that it made Shane groan. “Come on, Hollander, you can do better than that.”
Shane turned his head, saying, “Fuck me.”
“Say please.”
He hoped his glare was strong enough to adequately convey what he was thinking. “Please.”
“Okay,” Rozanov replied, almost jauntily. “Since you ask so nicely.” He shuffled down the bed on his knees, cock bobbing in front of him. Shane wanted it in his mouth very badly, lips parting for it, but he could be patient. He could wait for next time.
Rozanov’s hands came down on Shane’s ass, his thumbs stretching him open. He groaned loudly, and then came the noise of him slicking up his cock. That sound of approval went through Shane like a rocket. The hair on his forearms stood on end and he whined into the pillow.
“No, no,” Rozanov murmured, his tone soothing. He cupped the back of Shane’s neck, thumb rubbing circles against his skin. “Do not hide, Hollander. Let me hear you, yes?”
It took every bit of effort Shane possessed to move the pillow. He had to untense each finger one by one, then push himself onto his elbows to remove the weight that pinned it down. His whole body shook – his bones felt like water, his muscles like taffy.
“Fuck,” he muttered, hanging his head. He could see the towel below him, how long and thick the streaks of white covering it were. Was he dehydrated? Probably. Maybe Rozanov was too. But, then again, he seemed to run off just vodka and cigarettes, so. Maybe not.
“Is ok.” The head of Rozanov’s cock nudged against Shane’s ass, before it slid upwards; the crown rubbed the outside of Shane’s rim and he shuddered, arms nearly giving out.
“Ilya,” Shane groaned. He swallowed, blinking against the cloudiness in his head. That wasn’t right, he wasn’t supposed to say that. “Fuck, can you—”
Then the pillow was gone, and Rozanov was pressing his lips to Shane’s spine. His hands were everywhere, rubbing, caressing. “Good boy. Are you listening, Hollander?”
“Yeah.”
“So good,” Rozanov murmured. “So lovely.” Then his cock was pressing in and Shane’s vision blurred. It went inside so easily, his body opening for it, welcoming Rozanov in like they did this every day. Like they spent every minute that they weren’t on the ice fucking, staying up long into the night and rising early in the morning so that they had more hours in the day left to touch each other. It was embarrassing how obviously Shane’s body wanted it.
What was even worse was how badly Shane desired that mental picture he’d just conjured up.
“Oh god,” Shane muttered. He clutched at his forearms in an effort to stop his back from bowing; a simple nudge from Rozanov could send him toppling off the bed. “Holy shit, fuck, I can’t—”
Rozanov let out a wounded noise. He placed a hand on Shane’s lower back, fingers splayed wide. He began murmuring in Russian, his sentence cleaving in two as he drew his cock out and thrust it back in. “Fuck, Hollander.”
“Oh my god.” Something was happening to Shane. His entire lower half felt both numb and incredibly oversensitive at the same time. His arms and legs shook, the frequency of the vibrations increasing with every pass of Rozanov’s cock against his prostate. His nails dug into the skin of his forearms, his knuckles screaming under the pressure. “Holy shit, Roza—I can’t—” He shuddered, clenching down around Rozanov’s cock. It only heightened the sensation, and Shane let his gasps and groans devolve into whines and whimpers; they left jagged edges as they tore from deep in his chest, soothed only by the touch of Rozanov’s hands on his hips.
“Is okay?”
“Fuck.”
“Inside?”
Shane had no idea what question he was being asked, nor would he be able to respond in any meaningful way. He thought Rozanov meant that he was close – that he was asking Shane’s permission to come. But then his hands tightened on Shane’s hips and he held Shane in place as he changed the angle of his thrusts. It dragged the crown of his cock directly over Shane’s prostate and Shane felt his back stiffen.
“Ooh,” Rozanov murmured, “it is big? I can feel inside, like … swollen.”
It wasn’t. It couldn’t be – anatomy didn’t work that way. But now Shane was picturing it, imagining what it would look like if he could see inside himself, watching his body stimulate Rozanov’s cock. And it was doing things for him. Things that didn’t need to happen yet because Rozanov wasn’t going to stop, even if Shane came. He’d keep going and Shane would black the fuck out or something.
But it was inevitable.
With a long, drawn out moan that was punctuated by Rozanov’s unending, unyielding thrusts, Shane came. His cock didn’t reach full hardness and barely more than a few drops spilled from his slit, but he came. Again.
“Are you…” Rozanov leaned over Shane, his eyes trained on Shane’s face. His thumb rubbed at the tip of Shane’s cock, smearing the come that dripped – rather than spurted – from it. “Holy shit, Hollander.”
Shane gave a weak laugh; he could barely move, his limbs completely useless. “Four? I think? I don’t…”
Rozanov whispered something in Russian and then he was moving, withdrawing his cock from Shane’s body. He was still hard, his balls drawn up tight against his body. “Come here, lyubimyy.” Gently, he shifted Shane to the side, away from the towel. Then he flipped him onto his back on the clean sheets. He looked down at Shane for a long moment. Then he ducked his head, curls bouncing, and pressed a series of soft kisses to Shane’s jaw. “Is five. Pyat.”
“Pyat,” Shane echoed. He ran his fingers through Rozanov’s hair, marvelling at the softness. “Did you finish?” Rozanov shook his head. “Do you want to?”
“Is stupid question.” A kiss to the corner of Shane’s mouth, fingers coaxing his thighs apart. Rozanov looked down at Shane’s spent cock, then back up to Shane’s face. “Yes?”
“Yes.” Shane’s head tipped back as Rozanov slid inside again. He couldn’t do anything but lie there, arms wrapped around Rozanov as he fucked him hard and fast.
“God,” Rozanov groaned. He panted against Shane’s mouth, his tongue darting out to wet their lips every few moments.
The pressure between Shane’s legs hadn’t let up, even with a short break. Every inch of his skin felt overheated, and he couldn’t stop his muscles from twitching. He was sure Rozanov could tell – Shane could see it in the furrow of his brow, the uptick at the corner of his mouth, the firm press of Rozanov’s hands. He could see exactly what he was doing to Shane and he loved it.
“Fuck,” Shane whined, tucking his face into the crook of Rozanov’s neck. “Holy shit, Ilya, fuck.” No, not that. You can think that but you can’t say it.
From the kitchen, a buzzing noise. It sounded like the hum of construction vehicles and, for a moment, Shane thought about how someone in the neighbourhood was going to need to make a noise complaint.
But then Rozanov let out a breathy laugh and whispered, “Is last chance.”
Shane nodded. His hands squabbled at Rozanov’s back and then it was like something snapped, a rubber band inside him finally pinging back to its original form. It was difficult for Shane to pinpoint exactly what was going on – he’d never experienced this before, hadn’t ever come close. His cock twitched once, but nothing came out. Then there was a sudden wave of heat and pressure that radiated through his abdomen, his thighs, right down to his toes.
Distantly, he heard Rozanov swear. He heard him mutter oh god and Shane’s name and plenty of things that Shane couldn’t make out. Then his whole body stiffened as he came, hips undulating, inside Shane. He panted against the side of Shane’s face, his skin slick with sweat. He was kissing him, Shane realised, peppering them over every part of Shane he could reach without needing to move.
Shane huffed a laugh. He tried to pet the back of Rozanov’s head, but his fingers refused to properly straighten. So he ran his knuckles over Rozanov’s nape instead.
Rozanov leaned back, pressing his forehead against Shane’s. For a moment, he just breathed. Then he said, “I do not know if we can count the last one.”
Shane blinked, the words taking a second to register. “Fuck off.” He tipped his head back so that Rozanov could see his frown. “I fucking earned that.”
“Mmm. Yes – I agree.” He exhaled against Shane’s lips as he whispered, “Shest.”
The kiss that Rozanov gave him was so sweet that Shane’s toes curled. Then his heart began to speed up – not from any positive emotion, he was sure, but from anxiety. Obviously. Because what the fuck were they even doing right now? It was all so much, and he still hadn’t decided if they should keep doing this – not when the risk was so high, the penalty so great. Yet there he was, letting Rozanov kiss him like he loved him, rubbing their noses together and picturing what it would be like if Shane never told him to leave. Which was an internal problem that he’d need to solve in the near future.
Rozanov dipped his head, his next kiss falling on Shane’s clavicle. “Stop thinking.”
“I can’t.”
“You worry. Panic thoughts.”
“I don’t.”
Rozanov raised both eyebrows.
Shane did the same right back.
Another set of vibrations sounded from the kitchen.
Rozanov muttered something in Russian – more than likely a swear – and then he stood up. There was lube smeared across the top of his thighs, and a streak of Shane’s come bisected his hipbone. He looked unfairly good. He leaned down for a moment to press a kiss to Shane’s knee. “I will be back.”
“Okay.”
“Do not worry.”
He watched as Rozanov peeled off the condom and tied the top; he carried it into the kitchen, and Shane heard his metal trash can open. Then the timer finally stopped.
In the absence of distant vibrations, other things could be made out: Rozanov opening cabinets and flicking at something, feet padding across the tiles, another door closing, the faucet turning on.
“Give yourself a personal tour,” Shane muttered to himself. He ran his hands down his face, then pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. He breathed out, trying to calm both his racing heart and the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. “Fuck. What the fuck am I doing?”
In that moment, he felt strangely vulnerable. Like he’d been turned inside out and was about to be displayed for all the world to see. Like someone other than Rozanov had seen him stripped back to his core elements, had heard the words that had spilled from his lips when he wasn’t aware of what he was saying. He wanted to wrap himself in a blanket and turn out the lights, but not go to sleep. He wanted…
Rozanov came back through the door, a red washcloth in hand. He’d gotten it from the guest bathroom, under the sink – Shane knew that, because the washcloth in his laundry basket was blue, just like all the other amenities in his ensuite. It was easier to assign a colour to each bathroom, because then he knew where everything was supposed to go without having to stop and consider it. His mum had understood his logic perfectly fine, but Hayden had looked at him as though he had two heads when Shane tried to explain. So he wasn’t about to tell Rozanov.
Silently, Shane took the washcloth. It was warm, but not hot. He ran it over his sensitive cock, hissing at the contact. He could feel Rozanov’s eyes on him as he wiped his stomach and chest, then the tops of his thighs, the skin around his hole. He’d need a proper shower, but this would do for now.
Moving was difficult – standing was even worse. Shane’s legs shook when he tried to push himself off the bed, his arms damn near giving out. He let himself flop backwards, huffing in exasperation.
“Idiot,” Rozanov muttered. He tugged the washcloth from Shane’s hand. “Get into bed, Hollander.”
“Don’t touch the middle of that,” Shane replied.
Frowning, Rozanov looked at the washcloth. “Why?”
Shane shrugged. “I put it on my ass, so.”
“Yes,” Rozanov replied. “My mouth was also on your ass. So.” The last word was said with a frighteningly accurate rendition of Shane’s accent. It was enough to shut Shane up, and he stared at the ceiling as Rozanov gathered the towel and made his way over to the laundry hamper. He held up both, pausing, then folded the towel in half and put it in first, before setting the washcloth atop it.
Shane opened his mouth, wanting to ask why – it was what Shane would have done, but he thought about things like that a lot, about keeping order and routine, preparing in advance. To him, the towel was bigger, so it should be first, because it would be easier to stack other things atop it. And the washcloth was damp, so it shouldn’t have something heavier on top because it wouldn’t get any airflow and that awful damp smell might attach itself to it. But Rozanov didn’t know any of that. Or, at least, Shane didn’t think he did.
“I will be back,” Rozanov said again.
The sheets were pleasantly warm against Shane’s naked body. He bent his legs to ensure that nothing would come into contact with his cock, and waited, propped up against the pillows, for Rozanov to return. When he did, it was with a mug in hand. He set it down on the sidetable next to Shane; beneath it, he slipped one of Shane’s dad’s old University of Ottawa coasters that he must have found in the kitchen drawer.
Shane leaned to the side, eyes narrowing. “Is that soup?” He had a few cans in the cupboard that he’d been meaning to eat, but the flavours weren’t exactly appealing.
“Is hot chocolate. You have on kitchen bench.”
“Oh,” Shane said, raising his eyebrows. “Yeah, my mum told me my apartment wasn’t complete without a tea station, but I don’t really drink it, so. Hot chocolate it is.”
Rozanov lifted the top sheet and slid under it, aligning his body with Shane’s. He bent one arm and set his hand atop Shane’s head, fingers carding through his hair.
“Er,” Shane said, the word catching in his throat. “I, uh, only really drink it around Christmas. So hopefully it’s not expired.”
“Is sugar, you will be fine.” Rozanov leaned across Shane to grab the mug. He pressed it into Shane’s hands, and Shane automatically took a sip. Then it occurred to him that it was more than a bit odd for Rozanov to do that. And he should probably ask about it in case it was a cry for help or something.
“Why did you…?”
Rozanov pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. He stared at the wall, fingers still in Shane’s hair. “Is not just for you – we can share.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Rozanov shrugged. He took the mug from Shane and sipped it, staying quiet for a moment. A few flecks of chocolate powder clung to his cupid’s bow, highlighting the dramatic curve of it. They were incredibly distracting, adding to the tapestry of moles that dotted Rozanov’s skin. Shane still hadn’t found them all – he wondered when he would.
It felt like the easiest thing in the world to lean in and drag his tongue across those chocolate flecks. To take Rozanov’s bottom lip between his teeth and lick the taste from his mouth.
Roughly, Rozanov gripped the back of Shane’s neck. He kissed him firmly, desperately, and didn’t stop until Shane shook his head.
“I can’t,” Shane groaned, tipping his head back to make room for Rozanov’s wandering kisses. “Fuck, I can’t. Not anymore.”
In his slow drawl, Rozanov replied, “Kissing is not sex, Hollander.”
“Right. But with you, it fucking feels like it is.”
Rozanov drew back, both eyebrows rising. His expression was interested, calculating. “We should do this before next game in … two weeks. What time is your flight?”
“No,” Shane said, letting out a bark of laughter. “Not before the game, I won’t be able to fucking skate after. You’d beat me.”
The grin that Rozanov threw at him was sharklike. “I know.”
“And you’d hate that.”
“Mmm, no. Because I would win.”
“And,” Shane repeated, “you’d hate that. You like playing against me because you don’t get handed an easy win. I make you work for it.”
Rozanov threw him a lazy smile. “Easy road is always better.”
“Not,” Shane said, “when it comes to us.”
This time, when he kissed Rozanov, his mouth tasted less like chocolate and more like Shane.
Later, after Rozanov had thrown on his jacket and kissed Shane goodbye, whispered promises in his ear about their next meeting, touched Shane’s jaw so sweetly, the apartment felt emptier. After the door had clicked shut for the final time, Shane was left alone with only the lights of Montreal to comfort him.
He padded into the kitchen, blanket pulled tight around his shoulders. He told himself that he just felt cold, that the heating must be broken. It wasn’t true, but it was better than admitting that his bedding smelled of Rozanov, and he wasn’t ready to leave it yet, even while stretching his legs.
On the counter was a ceramic jar in the shape of a pumpkin; the lid had been put back wrong, and the corner of a hot chocolate packet peeked out the top. Shane felt a sudden rush of longing that was certainly misplaced; he’d see Rozanov in two weeks, after all. Then it wouldn’t be for a while, but that was ok. He could handle one more visit between now and next season. It had never been a problem before, so why would it be one now?
For a long moment, Shane just stared at that ceramic pumpkin.
Then he rounded the counter, picked it up, and put it inside the cupboard.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Which is exactly how it was supposed to be when it came to Rozanov. Shane knew that.
But the next morning, with sunlight streaking across the floors and sports radio humming in the background, Shane went looking for the granola. Only, he found the pumpkin. But it didn’t look like it should; he didn’t see the garish smile, the black stalk on top, the packets of hot chocolate inside. Instead, he saw Rozanov’s wide smile, those golden-brown curls falling over his forehead and creases by his eyes, as he leaned down to kiss Shane.
Lyubimyy, Rozanov was mouthing. Good morning.
Shane knew it wasn’t a memory, because he’d never seen Rozanov like that – not in the light of the morning, and certainy not with so much love in his eyes. He wasn’t sure if he ever would, or if he even wanted to.
Silently, Shane closed the cupboard.
He didn’t have breakfast that day.