Work Text:
"Fuck!"
Chest collapsing against the bed, sweaty hair lying limp on his forehead. The open bottle of lube dangerously teetering towards tipping over and slipping the sticky substance onto the blue comforter. Shane pants while rolling his hips down, once, twice. His mind foggy from the heat of the club, the beers he had loosening the tension in his body.
Rose had parted ways with him following their intimate night of dancing. She claimed to be too tired to go home with him but her eyes held something more. As if she knew he was the one reluctant to take her home. He made sure she got back to her hotel safe, kissed her cheek before reentering the black car and sat quietly in the back while the driver sped off back to his apartment.
Horny, albeit confused that Rose wasn't interested in coming home with him, Shane realized he needed to take care of himself. Ilya Rozanov just had to make an appearance in the exact same club he was in that evening. They haven't shared a single word since Shane began dating Rose. Gripping some random women's hips while mouthing along her neck. Sticking his tongue in her ear with the clear intention of taking her back to his hotel room. Meaningless sex. Shane's stomach had turned so violently, he nearly had to run to the bathroom to empty the contents. Rose captured his attention as her arms had loosely gripped his neck but there he was out the corner of his eye. Watching him.
Shane's attempts at contacting him have been met with a brick wall; countless texts sent with not as much as a "read" receipt in response. A part of him misses the asshole, didn't think they could go this long without talking to one another even if it was just bickering on the ice. Shane even tried to talk to Rozanov earlier during their game, a quick quip about beating the Bears. Nothing. Just a side glare and ice hitting his exposed skin as Ilya turned his back on him and skated away.
That's fine. He doesn't need Ilya Rozanov to get off. He and Rose have done some things. A blowjob. Him going down on her. No penetration as of yet but they're still early enough on in their relationship it doesn't bother him. Shane ignores the fact that there is a quieter, underlying reason as to why their lack of sex doesn't bother him. He likes women and Rozanov had to make things weird by calling him by his first name. Whatever.
His right hand idly moves towards his leaking dick. Since coming home, he's been jerking himself off feverishly for over two hours. Starting on his back then moving to his knees then keeping his hips propped up like he was fucking into someone. His head lolls to the side, half closed eyes watching as his fluid covered fist glides over his erection. Usually his masturbation sessions last a little under an hour—proficiency of time management being a favorite trait of his. No need for imagery or audio. He simply strips himself of his clothes, lies on his back and begins a slow, steady pace that devolves into him rutting his hips into the air when he's gotten close to orgasm.
Moving that same hand to behind himself, he plunges the tips of his pointer and middle finger into his hole. No buildup, he likes the burn and stretch. A hiss escapes his mouth at how unused his hole has become to being touched. The last time he had anything inside of him was when he was with Rozanov. Their lazy afternoon spent between his bed, his kitchen and his couch. Shane ignores the tightness in his chest at the memory and pushes his fingers inside himself deeper, catching ever so slightly on his rim. The pillow his face is currently smushed into is wet from his drool and the tears leaking out of his eyes. His other hand moves to grip himself and keep the same rhythm as he fucks into his hole.
When tipsy—Shane is rarely ever truly drunk—he finds himself hornier beyond his usual "maintenance". He experiences sexual attraction of course, but his intimate relationship with Rozanov is the first time he's ever felt needy. Desperate for another person. Unable to control his inhibitions when they're lost in the pleasure of being with one another in private. Sex with Rose can feel like his typical routine, though that has absolutely nothing to do with her. He just doesn't feel that same low pull of arousal in the bottom of his stomach, the same one that has him drooling for Rozanov's coc—
"F'ckin hell," he slurs silently. His hips have begun thrusting again, seeking the loose grip he keeps. Precum covers his hand as he ruts back onto his other hand, not quite reaching the angle he needs to get off. Every nerve in his body is alight and thrumming with pure adrenaline. He's so close now, it would just take a few more strokes, a few more thrusts into his ass, he can just feel it. "F'ck fuck fu'k fuck—UGH."
His thighs give out underneath him as he fails to cum. Again. The hand around his dick moves to balance him while he adjusts his placement on the bed. His two shaking fingers leave his hole as he wipes that hand against his comforter (he'll have a moment later about how gross it is) and just lies there for a minute.
It's not clear why he's unable to finish himself off.
Evidence A: he's turned on. Evidence B: he's good at getting himself off, usually. And Evidence C: he can feel his impending orgasm building and building but release simply won't happen.
Maybe he's broken. The possibility that seeing Ilya Rozanov in public all over an attractive woman, playing with her under her clothes for everyone to see, sends him into a blind rage. He reaches for his phone on his nightstand—with his non-sticky hand—and clumsily uses facial recognition to go to his texts. "Lily" is further down in his contacts list than he recalls but he is still fairly hazy from his drinking.
The last message sits unanswered.
Jane: Good luck tonight, it'll be a good game.
Delivered.
He wasn't expecting any response but seeing the light gray text box indicating that Rozanov didn't even consider opening it, hadn't even looked at his message, invigorated Shane with an entirely new wave of fury. He tapped the audio message feature and took a deep breath.
"'m so fucking tir'd of you," he slurs into his phone, anger fueling every sentence. "Ever'thi'g was gooddd Rozanov a'd you fu'kd it up. An' now I can't… can't get of' with'ut you. Go f'ck yourself. Fuck you." It takes his entire concentration to spit out the last two words but his chest immediately feels lighter. Careful to make sure he doesn't accidentally send the recording, he moves to place his phone back onto his nightstand. Getting his emotions off his chest was all he intended to do. Ilya wouldn't respond to him anyways, so no reason to make things more awkward between them.
The phone slips from his hand just as he's an inch above the wooden surface. Cursing softly under his breath, he leans over his bed to pick it up off his floor and immediately freezes. The audio message had sent in the process of the phone hitting the carpet.
And Lily had already opened it. And is now typing.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Fuck me. Fuck everything. His head rapidly clears of any lingering fuzz as he sits upright in his bed. Scrambling backwards towards his headboard, he watches the three little dots bounce on the screen. Then disappear. Then bounce again. Then disappear. Pulling his hair out seems the least painful option in this moment.
Or moving to Greenland, changing his name and leaving hockey behind forever. This plan is nothing more than a quick flash of desperation; Shane Hollander would rather a tell-all surrounding his sexual encounters with men be released than abandon hockey. At least he's fairly certain he would prefer that. Maybe.
He startles when his phone vibrates in his hand. "Lily"'s contact fills the screen as an incoming call and he stills. Why is Rozanov calling me? He panics. Is he mad about what I said? I shouldn't pick up. Should let him leave a voicemail and block me.
Shane's thumb moves accepting the call before he's realized he's even done so.
"Hollander?" Ilya's gritty voice calls from where Shane holds the phone out in front of himself. Eyes wide as he grasps the fact that he has answered the call, Shane brings the phone to his ear.
"Yeah." His voice sounds like sandpaper grating against rough metal sheeting; prickly and uncontrolled volume. ""m here."
"You sent me voice note telling me to go fuck myself? Are you drunk?" There isn't concern in Ilya's voice but there is a twinge of something similar. Interest? Perhaps amusement? Shane is unable to decipher the reasoning as to why Ilya Rozanov decided to call him after being sent a recording of horny wrath. He's not sure he wants to understand what is going through Rozanov's head.
"Not as much now. Was drunk when I came home and left you that message. Sorry about that by the way, was just upset and needed to get it off my chest." He truly is apologetic. Rozanov probably has some sexy woman in his bed, possibly the same girl from the club, and received this message while laid up beside her. Shane imagines him not wanting to upset his fling for the evening and leaving the room to angrily confront him over the phone in the stairwell. It's entirely possible after this call he'll return to her, kiss her face and neck and begin a second round.
Shane's eyes flit to the clock at the top of the screen. 2:55 AM. Much too late to being this conversation, especially if one of the the people on said call has a guest in their room.
"Don't worry about it. Just meaningless words said while I was inebriated. Go back to—" He can't bring himself to tell Rozanov to go and fuck his one night stand. There is no need to give permission. They aren't anything to one another anymore beyond hockey rivals. He clears his throat. "Uh go back to bed. I'm sorry for waking you."
"You did not wake me. I was already up."
"Oh. Well still sorry for disturbing your night. I'm going to go to—"
"Did you mean it when you said you can't get off without me?"
The question pauses Shane in his rambling. It's a loaded question regardless of the answer but to admit to Rozanov that he is unable to cum without him? Taking a puck to the jaw may be a safer option.
"I said a lot of things in that message, it doesn't—"
"Hollander you told me to go fuck myself and that you couldn't get off without me. Yes or no?"
Shane swallows.
"Yes but—"
"No buts. Take your hand and trace it over your nipple. Lightly."
He splutters down the line. "Rozanov no, what the fuck. I'm dating Rose and you have someone in your bed—"
"There is no one in my bed but me Hollander. And you sent me message saying you can only get off with me. So now I provide, even if you do not deserve it." His voice lowers as he continues to talk. "So take your hand and trace lightly over your nipple. If you cum without permission I will be upset."
The growl at the end of that spiel sends a shiver down Shane's spine. Absently, he moves his right hand to his right nipple and gently grazes over the pebbled nub. Another small shiver at how hard he finds the raised area. A small huff and he moves his hand to rest underneath his pec. "Rozanov…"
"Did you listen? Good boy." Shane bites his lip to resist moaning. "Now pinch it. Not too hard but enough pressure so it feels good."
Shane obeys, his hand moving back to his nipple to pinch ever so hard and tug the area outwards. He is incapable of holding in his moan that time, noise reverberating into his microphone on the call. There are few sounds from Rozanov's end. Just some light shuffling of the hotel bed sheets and light breathing.
"Good boy Hollander, such a perfect little slut. Have the beautiful Rose Landry to fuck but you need me to get you off."
"Don't mention her. Please." Shane knows he sounds desperate but he can't have Rozanov talking about her. Not now when he's calling Shane a perfect slut in the same breath. He needs Rozanov to only focus on him. "Just talk to me."
"Okay, if you want. Only talk to filthy whore who needs me to get him off over phone. Can't even touch his dick properly to get off, needs instructions."
Shane whimpers. He fucking whimpers at Rozanov degrading him, hips thrusting against nothing, his cock leaking steadily onto his abs. His hand moves back to his nipple, pressing down and pushing the nub back into his chest. A low hiss escapes his mouth.
"You are touching yourself again? Stop." Shane immediately releases his chest and moves his hand to lay beside him.
"Do not touch your dick unless I tell you. Were you fingering yourself earlier?" Shane nods. "Can't hear you Hollander, speak up."
"Yes, I had two fingers in."
"Good, put them back inside yourself." His entire body is thrumming again, arousal clouding his mind for a third time this evening. Listening to Rozanov's clear instructions, he slides his fingers back towards his hole and slips the two back in. Looser than he was before but not quite ready for a third yet. Testing the waters he pumps them in and out a few times.
"Did I say you could fuck yourself slut?" He halts like a scared animal that's been caught being naughty. "Hollander if you cannot follow my orders, I will hang up and leave you wanting and leaking."
"No, I can," he pants. Shane shifts himself into an easier position—back flat on his bed—and waits. "I'll be good, I promise."
"You better fucking be." Ilya's growl sends chills down Shane's spine. "Now slowly begin to finger yourself. Start with the two and work up to fitting your third."
Again he stretches himself on his fingers, the burn a pleasant feeling he welcomes, and moans lowly into the speaker. Somehow his phone has slipped out of his hand and onto his bed during his process of adjustment so he leans down and presses the speaker phone button. Better to have both hands free in case Rozanov wants him to touch himself elsewhere.
"Feel good? Cocksluts like yourself need something inside to get off. Either in mouth or hole. Just sucks in whatever is given." Slick sounds are heard through the speaker; Rozanov is getting himself off. Shane preens at the thought of turning him on enough he needs release (ignoring the fact that he was the one who ran away and attached himself to a pretty model). He's loose enough to try for his third finger.
"Can I—fuck—can I put my third finger in? Please."
"Please what slut?"
"Please sir. I need it."
Rozanov curses under his breath, in Russian or English Shane can't tell. There is shuffling and he finally returns.
"Yes put your third finger in now. Two slow thrusts then begin fucking yourself hard on your fingers." The burn this time is intense, bordering on too much, but Shane obliges. He gives himself a minute to adjust, then presses into himself once, twice, before fucking himself steadily. The pace is uneven at first, needing to adjust to feeling so full, but once he discovers the best angle, he's gone on the feeling.
"Fuck Rozanov, fuck—oh—it feels so good, fuck."
"What do you call me Hollander?"
"Sir, fuck. Sorry, sir, it feels so fucking good."
"Good slut. Needy little thing just wants to be filled. Maybe is time to grab your dildo?"
The thought of ending this blinding pleasure was unsettling. "No please, can't get up sir. Just let me fuck myself on my fingers please."
"If you want. Only time I will let you decide tonight. Now stop."
Shane gasps wetly as he pauses his assault on his prostate. Precum pools in the ridges of his lower abs on his stomach. He debates taking his finger and scooping it off to bring to his mouth.
"Now continue like a good boy." Rozanov's tone is even gruffer, deeper, than before. Clearly their phone sex is effecting him as much as it's effecting Shane. He imagines how the blonde man is jerking off. On his back, phone clenched tightly in his hand, abs expanding on every downstroke. Shane loves sucking Rozanov off and watching how the muscles in his stomach contract, almost involuntarily. As if being lost in pleasure gives too much of him away. He moans at the image of Rozanov fucking relentlessly into his fist, dripping onto his stomach.
His angle has changed ever so slightly, having losing the original when he abruptly had to stop fucking himself. The head of his cock is a deep purple, angry even. Rozanov hasn't given him permission to touch his cock yet. He abides like the obedient man he is and continues fucking himself at a fast pace. The tips of his fingers brush ever so nicely against the spot inside that produces bursts of light in his vision.
"Sir, I can't—it feels too good. Shit. Gonna cum." He's not sure how much time has passed since the start of their call. Surely it's well past 4AM now and both men have early mornings. "Please let me cum, I need it."
"Such a needy, pathetic thing. You think you deserve to cum after sending me rude message? What if I don't let you tonight? Stop fucking yourself."
He cries out in frustration, hand stilling inside himself once again. There is a slight fear his dick may fall off from being edged the entire evening, whether intentionally or not. Tears trail down his cheeks, salt hitting the corners of his mouth, and he rasps out one final plea.
"Sir, please. I haven't cum all night. My dick is throbbing and it hurts so badly." A slight hiccup leaves him. "Just want to cum and go to sleep. I meant what I said, I need you to get off. Please I beg."
Rozanov is quiet on the other side. Shane's worried he fucked everything up for a moment and prepares to apologize, grovel possibly, and try to salvage what remains of their professional relationship. "Hey I'm—"
"Is ok." His tone is much softer, quieter. "You can continue fucking yourself. Let's get you off. Come on and be good for me."
Immediately Shane continues fucking himself. He's right on the brink of orgasm and for a moment he's afraid he won't be able to finish. So much of this evening has been spent fighting ruined orgasm attempts, he knows another stopped one will be the death of him.
"Good boy Hollander, can hear how desperate you are for me. That's it, fuck yourself hard. Not even touching your dick and you're ready to cum for me like a slut."
He realizes that Rozanov's right; he's on the edge of cumming and he hasn't touched his dick at all since he picked up the phone. It's so fucking hot.
"Hnghh—I'm going too—please sir," he babbles while mindlessly humping the air. "Need to cum, please sir, I'm so close—fuck!"
"Do it Hollander, fuck. Cum for me. Cum without touching your dick, only fucking your slutty hole. Cum for me." And that's all it takes.
Shane thrusts into himself three more times then he's cumming, release splashing as far onto his chest, it hits his collarbone. He groans at the feeling, finally able to breathe again after hours of torture. He collapses back onto the bed when his orgasm subsides, twitching slightly at the cool air hitting his wilting erection. The only sounds in the room are his panting and Rozanov's heavy breathing.
"Did you finish?"
"Mhm Hollander, you were too busy moaning like a wanton whore to hear it but I did."
"Fuck you Rozanov. Just wanted to make sure it was mutually beneficial." His fingers play with the edge of his comforter. He's not sure what to do now, air growing thick with post-orgasm tension.
Ilya snorts. "Thank you for making sure it was mutually beneficial," a teasing lilt to his voice. He trails off, clearly not sure what else to say either. "Is time to go to sleep now. Early morning flight."
"Right, well. Thank you Rozanov. For the call and everything."
"Welcome Hollander." Shane swears it sounds soft like affection but that would be absurd. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
A black screen is left once their call ends. No notifications from Rose or Hayden or anyone else. Shane and Ilya were practically in a bubble of their own creation during those few hours of phone sex. He presses the side button to read the time. 5:24 AM. Shit he really needs to go to sleep for the last hour if he can. He places his phone back on his side table and rolls onto this side.
Wistfully he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, preparing to get zero sleep before his morning practice. Rozanov and him would eventually have to talk about their relationship (Shane would have to break things off with Rose). Too many issues swirled inside his head.
"Fuck."