Work Text:
Shane's post-coital bliss lasted about seven minutes, which was pretty good for him, comparatively speaking. Sometimes he barely made it past a minute. Once, maybe, he'd swum in it for half an hour. This time he got seven minutes of quiet in his head — or rather, a steady, soothing buzzing — as all his limbs stayed loose and warm and his body felt perfectly relaxed, every bit of him the right shape and the right size and in the right place. Rozanov was pressed up against him, skin-on-skin, and idly kissing his shoulder and everything was perfect.
Something always ruined it. The sudden awareness of stickiness, sometimes, or a comment from Rozanov. This time it was a thought. That last one, right there: That everything was perfect. He couldn't imagine anything better.
He couldn't imagine anything better than sex with Ilya Rozanov.
It was like someone had opened a window and let in the cold autumn air. He shivered. Rozanov sighed and shifted away from him, unsurprised by his sudden alteration in mood. Shane always lost the bliss, one way or another. But Rozanov didn't leave the bed.
Shane rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. He was pretty sure their sex was, objectively, very good. Like, not just compared to the disappointing sex he'd had, personally, but compared to all the sex that anybody could have, hypothetically.
And that was … sure, that was great. But it was also terrifying. Because what if Rozanov was not just the best he'd ever had, but the best he'd ever have? As soon as Rozanov was bored with him — or either of them came to their senses and stopped doing this stupid, reckless thing — then, what, he'd just have to live the rest of his life and never feel this way again? Ever?
"You are thinking very loudly," Rozanov said.
Shane could try again with women. He could. But then again — and this was a thought he usually avoided, but this time he tried to look at it directly — maybe the fact that Rozanov was a man was, you know, part of it. Maybe that was the trick. Maybe it was just that he'd never had sex with any man but Rozanov and if he did it would feel just as good.
That was a very scary thought. But was it scarier than the thought that the literal only person on earth who could make him feel this way was Ilya Fucking Rozanov?
There was a problem with this line of thinking. Well, there were lots of problems, most of which he absolutely could not handle right now. But one was top of mind, and that was that he wasn't even sure how he could possibly go about having sex with another man.
None of his friends were gay. A stranger couldn't be trusted. And he'd never picked up a man in his life.
Shane swallowed. He kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling. "Do you ever hook up with, y'know, other guys?"
Rozanov propped himself up on one elbow and grabbed Shane's chin, yanking his gaze away from the ceiling. Shane let him, like usual. Rozanov's expression was incredulous.
"Shane Hollander," he said. "We are lying in the very comfortable bed you bought for me to fuck you in, in the very weird condo you bought, also for me to fuck you in."
"It's an investment," Shane grumbled.
"And I have just fucked you, I think, very well," Rozanov continued. "At least I do not remember any complaints."
He swung his body easily across the bed, pinning Shane in place.
"No complaints," Shane huffed, almost a laugh. "No complaints here."
"So why the fuck," Rozanov said into the soft skin beneath Shane's ear, "are you asking me about other men?"
Because you make me feel so good I want to cry, Shane thought. Because you make me feel so good I want it to never stop. Because nothing in my life makes me feel as good as when you fuck me. Because this could end at any time. Because when this ends I think it will kill me. Because I know this is only sex to you and that's our deal and that's fine but what if someday I want to fall in love. Because I'm so lonely and if you're the only person I can do this with I think I'll be lonely my entire life. Because if I could fuck another man maybe I could figure out what kind of broken I am, whether I'm cursed to only ever want to fuck you or if —
"Because it's not fair," Shane said.
Rozanov stilled. He pulled back from kissing down Shane's neckand looked him in the face again. "Not fair?"
"Look, I know you fuck a lot of people, and that's fine, obviously" Shane said, swallowing past an inexplicable tighteness that suddenly popped up in his throat. "But I was curious if any of them are men. Because the thing is, I know how to pick up women, if I wanted to."
Rozanov's face didn't move, in a way that seemed like he was very carefully not making any expression.
"But I don't even know how to go about picking up men," Shane said. "Like, as a somewhat famous person. That seems crazy. So that's something you can do that I can't because I don't know how. And that just doesn't seem fair," he finished, the logic sounding weak in his own ears.
"You were just on cover of Sports Illustrated for, like, the fifth time," Rozanov said. "I think you are more than 'somewhat' famous."
"Okay, fine, as a famous-famous person. Even worse," Shane said. "But it seems like you can have sex with anyone you want, any time you want."
"That is not true," Rozanov said. He was still on top of Shane, straddling him, their spent cocks pressed up against each other and their bellies sticking together. Shane suddenly wished he'd gone to take a shower before they started this conversation.
"Oh, what, sometimes you have to go home with the second hottest person in the club?" Shane said, rolling his eyes.
"Maybe sometimes the person I want to fuck is not in the club at all."
"Whatever, the point is, I only even know how to pick up women."
Rozanov looked at Shane for a long moment, his face unmoving. "Yes," he said.
"What?"
"Yes, sometimes I pick up other men. Not often, because it is risky, but every now and again. That is your question, yes?"
"Oh. Yes," Shane said.
"Do you want me to stop?"
"Oh, God, no," Shane said, quickly. "I'm not asking that. I know we don't owe each other anything, obviously."
Rozanov rolled off of him, back to his side of the bed. Now they were both looking at the ceiling. "Obviously," he repeated, in a tone that Shane couldn't read.
"I want to know how you do it. Like, do you use an app? Or … what?"
There was a long moment of silence.
"So I can do it, too," Shane elaborated. "So I'd know how to pick up a man, you know, if I wanted to. Between."
"Because it's too long between?" Shane didn't know how to answer that. Yes, they went too long "between," obviously. Months at a stretch sometimes. But if he said that, he might seem like he was asking — "Do you want me to come and fuck you more often?" Rozanov went on. "We could … meet somewhere, maybe. Somewhere in between. Or Boston and Montreal are not so very far apart, when we both have free days."
Rozanov was still facing the ceiling, but his eyes slid sideways to glance at Shane. Shane quickly glanced away. He felt his face flush.
"No, no, I'm not saying that. What we do is fine. This is fine, right?"
"Mmm," Rozanov said, in a noncommittal way. Shane decided not to spiral about that just at this moment.
"I'm just saying maybe sometimes I'd like to … " Shane trailed off.
"Fuck other men," Rozanov said, his voice very, very neutral. "And you want me to tell you how."
"Well, yeah, you're kind of an expert," Shane said.
Rozanov frowned at the ceiling like it had just whiffed a pass.
"Not such an expert," he said. "But okay. I see what you mean. I could tell you what I do. But it would not work for you."
Shane scowled and crossed his arms. "What, you don't think I'm hot enough to pick up a stranger?"
Rozanov groaned and threw an arm over his face. "God, don't be stupid," he said. "You are so fucking hot, Hollander. There's a reason they put you on all those fucking billboards. You are the hottest man in the MLH. You walk into any bar, you are the hottest man in the bar. Everyone wants to fuck you everywhere you go. This is not the problem. Do not pretend you think this is the problem."
He still wasn't looking at Shane, which meant that Shane could look at him. Rozanov seemed genuinely distressed, which was a weird pairing with these compliments, but Shane could live with it.
"It can't possibly be true that everyone wants to fuck me," he said, reasonably.
"And see, that's your problem." Rozanov sighed. He pulled his arm away from his face and rolled back toward Shane. He slid down the bed a few inches, until his face was level with Shane's chest, and started walking his fingers from Shane's abs to his sternum, then back again. "OK, I will tell you what I do."
Suddenly Shane did not at all want to hear about Rozanov picking up other men, but he had quite literally asked for it, so he couldn't think of a way out of it. He distracted himself by focusing on the sensation of Rozanov's fingers, which kept drifting over his chest.
"I go out to a club, or a bar with dancing."
"A gay bar?"
"No, no," Rozanov said. "That's important. Never a gay bar. A gay guy, if he knows who you are, he'll brag to his friends. Even if he doesn't know, maybe later he sees your picture in the news, he'll tell his friends then. Not safe."
"But then …"
"Shh, I'm getting there," Rozanov said. His fingers were on Shane's mouth now, like they'd hold his lips shut, but almost immediately he slid two fingers into his mouth. Shane let him, like usual. He sucked on them automatically, and saw Rozanov's gaze fix on the sight.
"I go out onto the floor and I dance with a beautiful woman," he said, his voice lower. "But I don't look at her. I watch the guys at the bar, the ones who aren't dancing. The ones who are scared to dance. Most of them are watching the girls. But I keep looking until I see one watching me.
"Mmm," Shane said, around Rozanov's fingers. He could imagine it. Standing by the bar, mesmerized by Rozanov's body, trying not to look, failing.
"And then a little while I later I come and I stand next to him," Rozanov said. "And I look at him, and he looks at me. And I say 'the women are beautiful, no?' And he says 'yes,' but he's lying. And then look at his lips, and I lick my lips, and then I look at his eyes again. If I'm right, and I'm always right, he looks like he's a starving man. And I ask if he wants to go with me to the bathroom."
Shane gasped. Rozanov's fingers withdrew, leaving him weirdly bereft. "The bathroom?" He flushed, remembering Vegas, remembering begging Rozanov to suck his dick. Okay. If he was the man by the bar in the club, he'd probably say yes to a bathroom, too. A filthy bathroom, that anybody could walk into.
"Sometimes I get a hotel room nearby," Rozanov said, grinning a little at the look on Shane's face. He took his fingers, wet now from Shane's mouth, and trailed them down to tease at Shane's cock, which was half-hard again already. Shane moaned at the light, slick touch, almost too much so soon after his orgasm. "If I think he'll let me fuck him. Too risky to take him back to team hotel. But most of them are too scared for that anyway. Not too scared to blow me in the bathroom, though."
"Then what?"
"Well, then they blow me in the bathroom," Rozanov said, matter of factly. "And I blow them. If I take them back to the hotel room, then I warm them up and then I fuck them.
"Is it … good?"
"It's fine," Rozanov said, casually, his fingers teasing up the underside of Shane's cock distractingly. "I make it good for them. Sometimes they've never done it before. Sometimes they cry."
"But is it good for you? As good as me?" Shane feels a hot flush of shame at even asking the question, but he has to know. His back arches, and he bites his lip, feeling Rozanov's hot gaze on him.
"No, Hollander," Rozanov says, so low it's almost inaudible. "Nobody's as good as you." He muttered something in Russian, stroking Shane in earnest now.
"So that's my secret," he says, louder, suddenly dropping Shane's cock and pulling back from him, eliciting an embarrassing whimper. "I only pick up closeted guys, so they'll be too scared to tell anyone they fucked me."
"And why wouldn't this work for me?" Shane asked. He heard the whine in his voice, but wasn't sure if it was from his question or his desperation to get Rozanov's hand back.
"Ah," Rozanov said, and tugged on Shane's hip to flip him over. Shane let him, like usual. Rozanov started running his fingers up and down his back now, and Shane thrust weakly against the bed to soothe his aching cock. "Because the trick is to know who wants to fuck you. And you never do."
"Fuck you," Shane muttered into the pillow.
"It's true. You walk into a bar and you don't even notice that half the people there would suck your cock in a heartbeat. I stared at your dick in that hotel gym and licked my lips when I looked at your mouth and you just thanked me for sharing my water. I told you I scheduled that photoshoot so I could see you again and you just blinked at me. You didn't know I wanted to fuck you until I had my hard cock in my hand pointed right at you, and that, Hollander, the guys at the bar are not going to do."
Rozanov was bringing his hand lower and lower with every pass down Shane's back, until it was almost — but not quite — teasing at his hole, still wet and swollen from their first round.
"Now, if I were a more generous man," Rozanov whispered, his breath hot against Shane's ear, "I would help you."
Ilya — Rozanov's finger had finally reached his asshole and was brushing ever-so-lightly against it.
"I could stand at the bar and watch the men watching you. I can always tell, you know, when they want to fuck you."
"Like hell you do," Shane said. "We've never even been to a club together."
"It's not just men in clubs and bars who want to fuck you," Rozanov said, his finger circling Shane's hole. "At the MLH awards, all dressed up in your tux, some of the men and nearly all of the women are gagging for you. They make eyes and you don't notice."
"You're absolutely making that up," Shane protested.
"On the ice, sometimes," Rozanov said. "There's a Carolina player so obsessed with you I'm amazed no one else has realized. A lot of straight boys get less straight when you are playing like you're on fire. Your friend Pike thinks about it."
"Oh, bullshit," Shane said.
"No, it's true," Ilya said, amused. "After a very sexy goal. Just a little bit." His finger pulled back from Shane, who whimpered at the loss, and then came back after a few seconds freshly slicked. Shane decided, very firmly, to stop thinking about Hayden.
"You'll just have to take my word for it," Rozanov said. "I notice when people want to fuck you, and you don't. So I could pick one out for you, at the bar, someone handsome and scared, desperate for your body. I would go up and ask him, 'all the women are beautiful, no?' And when he lies and says yes, I'd say, 'Not just the women, though' … and I'd look at you, and he'd look at you, and then I'd ask them if he wants a taste of my good friend over there."
One finger slipped in, barely, just to the first knuckle, and then back out. Shane moaned.
"But I think you would not want a bathroom blow job. I think you would want to be fucked. And that's a riskier thing, being fucked by a stranger; they are not all as considerate as they should be," Rozanov said, conversationally. "So maybe I would come back to the hotel with you, just to keep an eye on things."
Shane buried his face fully in the pillow. His blush traveled from his cheeks down to his chest; he could feel it.
"And that would be nice for you, because I could give him tips. I would watch, not too close, from a chair. Tell him that you like to be told what to do. That when he sticks his cock in your mouth he should pull your hair a little bit. Tell him how to open you up, make sure he takes his time, tell him when you're ready. Tell him to start slow and wait to fuck you hard until you start getting noisy."
He tried not to imagine it. But he couldn't help it. Him, on a bed, naked, beneath a stranger's body, Ilya — Rozanov's voice through the darkness, directing the stranger, offering Shane up like a prize.
Two fingers now, deeper. They teased at his prostate, almost enough, not nearly enough.
"But there is a problem, Shane Hollander. He would not fuck you right. Not the way you need to be fucked."
"Please," Shane gasped. He was not above begging. He needed Rozanov's cock in him again, needed it now.
Rozanov's fingers slowed down. Shane groaned with frustration.
"I know he would not fuck you right, Hollander, because I have fucked so many people." The fingers slid out entirely, and Shane made a wounded noise. It had nothing to do with imagining Ilya in bed with an endless stream of strangers. It was just the sudden emptiness. Probably.
"I have fucked the most beautiful, enthusiastic women," Rozanov said, a little breathless. His cock, blunt and dripping wet, nudged up against Shane's hole and Shane was whimpering, shamelessly, begging for it. "I have fucked such charming and pliable men."
He slid in agonizingly slowly. Shane could feel every fraction of an inch. He couldn't stop himself from pressing back, tiny thrusts, taking him deeper.
"Sh — shit," Rozanov gasped. "I've had such good sex, Hollander, you wouldn't believe."
Shane was pressing his face into the pillow, eyes screwed up. He couldn't listen to this. But he couldn't let Ilya stop, either.
"And it's never, ever as good as this," Rozanov said, his voice a ragged growl right in Shane's ear. "Nothing compares. Nothing, Hollander, you hear me? Nothing comes close." His cock was seated all the way inside Shane now, the rightness of it humming through his entire body. He pressed back, babbling something, he wasn't sure what, asking for more.
"So I couldn't bear to just watch," Rozanov said, sliding almost all the way out, and then slamming back in. Shane shouted, the sound muffled slightly by the pillow. He was grateful, yet again, that he'd never gotten around to renting out the other unit. He could scream as loud as he had to.
"I couldn't just sit in that chair, and tell him to change his angle and go deeper," Rozanov said, punctuating his words by changing his own angle just slightly and hitting Shane's prostate dead on. Shane felt himself get even louder.
"I couldn't watch him get it almost right. I couldn't watch him fuck you just fine when I knew I could make you lose. Your. Mind," Rozanov said, each word paired to a single, confident thrust, each one hitting home.
"So I'd pull him off you and take you for myself," Rozanov said. He yanked Shane's hips up and back, dragging him backward away from the headboard, then pressing between his shoulder blades to push his chest and face even deeper into the bed. Shane let him, as usual. As always, really.
"He could watch, though," Rozanov said, almost snarling now. Shane moaned into the bed, picturing it: the stranger, still hard, sitting on the hotel armchair and stroking himself to the sight of Ilya Rozanov fucking Shane Hollander, just like this, face down, ass up, noisy, desperate. "He could take notes. He could see how it's done. He could see how good you are for me."
"Fuck," Shane gasped.
"You like that," Rozanov said, a little breathless. "You like thinking about him watching me fuck you, knowing I'm doing it better than he could. He'd watch you beg for it."
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Shane repeated, senselessly, into the mattress.
"Yes," Rozanov agreed. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. God, you're so —" he switched back into Russian again. Shane had thought he couldn't possibly get any harder. But the sound of Rozanov dirty talking him in Russian had his cock throbbing even more, desperate.
Rozanov reached a hand around and stroked him, like he could read his mind. Shane was writhing now, trying vainly to thrust simultaneously back onto Ilya's cock and forward into his hand, Ilya's merciless hand between his shoulder blades pinning him in place with his full body weight.
"Because you see, Hollander," Rozanov gasped, "You could fuck a hundred men. You could fuck a thousand. You'd have fun, and they'd have fun, and sometimes it would be very hot. But we were made for this. You and me. Nobody, but nobody, will ever fuck you like I do."
Shane would reflect, much later, on how strange it was. That's what he was scared of, right? That's the whole crux of it, the terror that had him going down this rabbit hole to begin with: that it would never be this good with anybody else.
And yet, for some reason, when Rozanov snapped out those words in between thrusts, his cock unerring, a burst of stars with every stroke, one hand holding him down and the other tugging on Shane's dick, teasing under the head of his cock just how he liked best — it was that sentence, that promise, that threat, that statement of fact, that pushed Shane over the edge. That was what made him come, howling into the mattress, feeling the truth of it pulse through his body.
Nobody will ever fuck you like I do.
Rozanov followed after him, collapsing over his body and biting onto the meat of one shoulder to muffle the sound of what must have been Russian curse words.
Or maybe he just said it again, in Russian, to drive it home. Nobody will ever fuck you like I do.
Five minutes, this time, of floating in pure bliss. And then what hit him wasn't a sense of shame or disquiet, but, bizarrely, a fit of the giggles.
"No," Rozanov moaned, grabbing a pillow and putting it over Shane's head. "Not yet. Don't get weird yet. I'm too comfortable."
"That was so —"
"It was hot, Hollander, that's all," Rozanov said, casting an arm over his face.
"It was hot and it was so fucked up," Shane said, still giggling. "What the hell, Rozanov?"
"What the hell to YOU, Hollander," Rozanov shot back. "You started it."
"I had a simple question —"
"Oh, da, very simple," Rozanov said, sarcastically.
"And you turned it into this whole — scene, like dude, I think there was dialogue —"
"And you fucking liked it, so don't complain," Rozanov said, smacking half-heartedly at Shane's shoulder.
"I wouldn't like it in real life, I think," Shane said, in the general direction of the ceiling. Rozanov got very still beside him.
"No, I imagine not," Rozanov said.
"But it was hot to imagine," Shane said.
"Mmm," Rozanov said. "Yes. And you come to Boston in just a few weeks. So it won't be so long until next time. Maybe you don't even need to go to a bar and practice finding closet cases."
"Oh, shut up," Shane said, but with no heat to it. "Whatever. I need a shower." He got up, a little unsteady on his legs still, and headed for the bathroom.
"You want to rinse off before you leave?" he called back toward the bed.
"Be right there," Rozanov said.
"Thank you, by the way," Shane said. It was easier to talk now that they were in different rooms, in this brief moment where no part of Rozanov was touching him, and he couldn't be seen.
"For what? Fucking you so good, twice?" Rozanov's voice called from the bed. "Any time, Hollander, any time."
"No, asshole, for answering my question," Shane called back. "You didn't have to do that." He turned on the hot water and stepped under the spray.
It felt like a long time before Rozanov stepped in to the shower. When he did, he didn't say anything at all.