Work Text:
Shane was waiting by the door. At this point, it was part of his routine.
Hockey players occasionally got asked about their pre-game rituals during fluff interviews. It was an easy question, as it was no secret those who chose to play the game were a superstitious cast of characters, so inquiring reporters were bound to get some good answers from players. He himself had gotten the question here and there over the years, and had answered it the same way every time. Because it was a routine and didn't change - not because he was boring. His parents, his teammates, his coaches, the dedicated Montreal fans (hell, probably even casual hockey fans) were all familiar with his pre-game regimen.
But this twisted version of a post-game routine... No one could ever know about it. Ever.
Maybe there was too much variation to this, whatever it was, for it to really count. After all, there were factors that were different: the city they were in, who would text the other first, where they met up, minor details like that. But maybe it did, because at its core, it was simple; whenever he and Rozanov were in the same city, they would make a plan to meet up with one another and have mindblowingly hot sex. Not only that, but Shane danced around it every time in the exact same way too.
Shane’s brain would yell at him that something wasn’t right about what he was doing with Rozanov, that he shouldn’t want this as badly as he did, or even at all. So he would tell himself that he wouldn't text Rozanov, nor would he reply to him; and then he would, inevitably, all resolve crumbling. After he did that, he would move on, try to bargain with himself. He would tell himself he would talk to Rozanov once he showed up, try and rein in whatever it was that was between them; and then he wouldn't, inevitably, instead too focused on the crush of their mouths together. While waiting, Shane would tell himself he wouldn't give in immediately to Rozanov; and then he would, inevitably. He would surrender himself as he always did, because he needed this, whatever it was.
It was the glint in Rozanov's eye that always got him: too knowing, too teasing, too... something Shane couldn't read. But whatever it was, it was too much to even pretend to try and resist when he was faced with it.
Twenty minutes earlier, he'd gotten a 'leaving now, be there in 30' text; so there he was, phone in hand, failing to act as though he hadn't been checking it every two minutes to see if there was a 'here' text from "Lily." He always went down a little early when Rozanov came over to his place, just in case he showed up sooner than expected. When they had first started this arrangement, Rozanov would arrive a little later than the length of time he would give in his message. Recently though, he had started showing up 5 minutes before. Ultimately, it didn't matter to Shane, as he always left his apartment 12 minutes before Rozanov was supposed to get there (part of his routine), so that he'd be at the bottom step at the time he had deemed as on time for this – 10 minutes early. Shane had carried that habit his entire life; in his mind, if he wasn’t 5 minutes early, he was late, and being late was unacceptable. For this, it was no different.
Well… maybe that wasn’t entirely true. But it was true that he didn't want Rozanov outside for longer than he had to be. Their meetings were a secret, so he had to do his best to keep it from ever getting out, even if that meant hanging out in the back stairwell of his apartment building.
That was surely why he did it; no other reason. He checked his phone again – it had only been 23 minutes since the last message when another one came in.
Lily: Come save me from the murder alley.
Before he could stop himself, he huffed out a small laugh, rolling his eyes at Rozanov’s dramatics. He'd never admit it to Rozanov, but the other man was funny sometimes; Shane took in a deep breath, schooled himself into Hollander™, and flung open the door. He got a brief glimpse of Rozanov's curls backlit by the streetlamps before the Russian was pushing Shane back with one big hand on his chest so he could come inside. It was a small moment in the grand scheme of everything that would happen tonight, but Shane had to blink twice before he could push away the image of Rozanov's blonde halo of hair illuminated like some sort of painting, golden and radiant in the still silence of the dark night. Weird. Rozanov shut the door behind him with the other hand.
Shane realized he should probably say something. "Hi."
"Hello Hollander," greeted Rozanov amiably. "You are always right behind the door. Excited to see me, yes?" He grinned crookedly at Shane, his eyes dancing with mirth, his hand still on Shane's chest, lingering. Rozanov seemed like he was in a good mood; he usually was, after his team beat Shane’s.
Shane himself wasn’t in the best of moods – he’d been off-kilter all night, to be honest – but he was starting to feel his spirits lift, just a little bit. Because he was going to get laid. That was obviously why. Not because Rozanov was here, smiling at him.
"No," said Shane quickly – probably too quickly – as he turned and walked up the stairs, his chest not at all feeling cold from the loss of contact with Rozanov’s big, warm palm. His nose wrinkled. "You smell like cigarettes."
"Yes, well," replied Rozanov, "we won, as you know."
"In overtime," Shane huffed, trying to reclaim some of his pride at having Rozanov win the face-off against him and then score, not even a full minute in during the overtime 3 on 3.
The game itself before that had been bitter, grueling, full of long periods of very little real action. When the regulation buzzer had sounded, it was 1-1, with Shane and Rozanov both having scored, though Shane had taken about twice the amount of shots on goal as Rozanov had. Something just hadn't been connecting for him all night, both during the game and now after.
Before Rozanov had shown up, Shane had been running through the entire thing in his head, turning over every play and trying to figure out the weak spots and what he could improve on. Frustratingly though, he had come up short. There wasn't anything in particular he'd been able to point to, he was just off for some reason. The idiopathic nature had upset him more than anything, and was ultimately what had pushed him to finally message Rozanov; he needed a distraction. And no one was more distracting to him than his so-called rival.
"So," Rozanov continued, a little louder now to carry over the sound of their footfalls on the stairway, the volume of it bringing Shane back to the current moment. "I go out to a bar with my teammates, because I am a great captain of my team and am proud of my men for a good, hard-won game. And I buy a round of shots for everyone to take, and then Marlow buys one, and then Becker, because we have beat Montreal on their home ice, which is always a fantastic feeling. You have never experienced the pleasure of a tipsy cigarette, but I have, so after a few rounds of drinks I think to myself, 'God, I want a fucking cigarette.' So I go outside the bar, because I cannot smoke indoors, and I have one."
"Is there a point to this?" asked Shane, pushing open the door to his apartment. He let Rozanov go inside first, before stepping in behind him and shutting and locking the door.
"Well yes, if I can continue with my story."
"Not much of a story."
"As I am smoking," said Rozanov, toeing off his shoes and bending down to pick them up to place them on Shane's shoe rack next to the front door, "finally I get a text that says 'come over' from this lovely girl I know, Jane. So naturally I must go back inside and tell all my teammates I have had a great time with them celebrating, but now I need to go and do it with this wonderfully willing woman I know here in Montreal. And now here I am."
Shane stared at Rozanov's shoes amongst the rows of his sneakers, sandals, and boots and felt something stir in his chest. It couldn't have been more than a few seconds he was stuck looking at them all lined up neatly together, but then Rozanov was suddenly much closer than he had been, crowding Shane until he was backed against the front door. Rozanov planted a hand on either side of Shane's head and just... looked at him, holding his gaze firm.
And there it was. The fucking sparkle in his eyes that he always got.
A silly little thought bubbled up in Shane's brain that that look was what really pinned him, not the strong arms he was currently bracketed by. Warmth bloomed in his cheeks. Now that Rozanov was here, leering at him, the fact that Shane had tried to hold out, to pretend like he wasn't going to text Rozanov after the game - part of the ritual, his mind supplied unhelpfully - seemed kind of ridiculous.
Why did he want to deny himself this? Why was he so awkward about it? After he'd made up his mind to text Rozanov, he'd wasted more time typing out and deleting a few dozen text messages before settling on that one Rozanov had mentioned. He had almost wanted to be direct, wondering how Rozanov might react if Shane texted him something like, 'come fuck me' or 'I need you.' In the end though, Shane had gone back to the first message he drafted and then sent it, that plain 'come over.' Simple, straight to the point. Boring, some might say. But it was silly of Shane to fuss over what the text said. The content of the message itself didn't matter; it never did. Rozanov always came over as soon as he could get away. That he had apparently gone back inside from smoking and immediately left after getting the message, that he was here now, was proof of that.
"Well?" asked Rozanov, raising an eyebrow at him.
"Hmm?" Shane hummed, focusing back on Rozanov. People often thought it was odd how Shane could maintain eye contact with them but be lost in his head, just thinking. Rozanov must've asked him a question that he had missed, too mired in his own thoughts. He'd been hoping Rozanov wouldn't notice how distracted he was tonight, but Shane was never that lucky; his rival always somehow seemed to see right through him. It was annoying. No one else had ever been able to read him like this: not his parents, not his friends, not his teammates. Hell, he barely could understand himself sometimes, and yet Rozanov had seemingly no trouble knowing exactly what Shane was feeling. The fucker.
"Oh, Hollander," Rozanov sighed, basically confirming that yes, he had noticed how adrift Shane was. He moved one of his hands to grip Shane's chin and tilt his face so he could kiss him. The press of his lips was somehow softer than their usual combative style, at least until Shane moaned into his mouth and started kissing him back. Rozanov took that opportunity to wrap his other hand around the base of Shane's neck and thread his long fingers into Shane's hair, tipping Shane's head back and slipping his tongue into his mouth. Shane, who had felt unmoored all evening, gripped Rozanov's hips, digging his nails in. When Rozanov moaned in reply, Shane slipped a knee between Rozanov's legs and pulled him in closer, which shouldn’t really have been possible since their chests were already pressed together. Against his lips, Shane could detect Rozanov smirking, just for a moment before he pulled back; Shane felt the loss of the connection of their mouths acutely.
"Fuck, you are needy tonight, I can tell," said Rozanov, lowly. It was a simple statement, but the words were threaded with desire. In the bottom of the stairwell, his eyes had been shimmering in the fluorescent light. Here, in the ambient lighting of Shane's apartment (he absolutely refused to use The Big Lights in his own home; why would he do that, he lived there, for God's sake) Rozanov's eyes were dark, wanting.
Shane tried to say something in reply, but when he opened his mouth all that came out was a soft whine. What was wrong with him?
"Shhh," soothed Rozanov, scratching his nails over the base of Shane's skull. He kissed Shane's mouth again, a soft peck this time. "I always take such good care of you, don't I?" He planted another gentle kiss on Shane's left cheek. "Let me." Another kiss, this time on the other cheek. Rozanov pulled back to look him in the eye. "Just trust me, yes?"
Shane nodded, words a little difficult right now, though he couldn't for the life of him understand why that was. Maybe it was that he wasn't used to Rozanov handling him like this. Usually when they met up, it was a brutal crush of their mouths together, hard body against hard body. It wasn't that Rozanov wasn't typically considerate with him: the opposite, in fact. He always made sure to check in with Shane, ensure that he was having a good time, that it wasn't too much or hurting in any way. But this felt – different, somehow. Shane leaned forward to try and capture Rozanov's mouth again, but as he did, the other man leaned back, not letting him.
"Out loud, Hollander," Rozanov said. The kindliness from the previous moment wasn't gone, per se, but there was an edge to his voice now that demanded an answer.
The shift in his tone had the words tumbling out of Shane's mouth before he could think twice. "Yes, okay. I trust you."
"Good boy," smiled Rozanov before leaning in and kissing him again, much filthier now than the light – tender, Shane's brain tried to suggest, but he shut down that thought – pecks he'd just given.
The praise went straight to Shane's knees. So did the slide of Rozanov's tongue against his own and the grind of his cock against Shane's thigh.
"We should go to my room," he said against Rozanov's lips. The words were probably muffled a little, but it didn't matter; he knew Rozanov would know what he wanted. He always did. Now that Rozanov was here, all Shane could really think about was getting the two of them horizontal as fast as possible.
"Oh," asked Rozanov, between the brushes of their mouths together. "Is that what you want, me in your bed?"
"Yes," Shane said honestly, his hands tightening on Rozanov's hips, pulling back so they could gaze at one another.
Whatever Rozanov was looking for in Shane’s eyes, he seemed to find it, because then he said, in that same firm voice, "Okay, yes. Go upstairs, get undressed, get on the bed, and wait for me."
Shane sat on the bed, clad only in his underwear. He wasn't sure how many minutes had passed since he'd left Rozanov downstairs, but time wasn't really important right now. What mattered was the excitement that was starting to build, low in the pit of his stomach. His body thrummed with the knowledge that at any moment, Rozanov would come through the doorway and they would fall upon one another, an intertwining of mouths, hands, limbs. For a moment, it almost felt like Shane was back in that Vegas hotel room after the 2014 MLH Awards, undressed and sprawled on the bed. Sometimes he wondered what had been going through Rozanov's mind that night. Oftentimes he wondered what had been going through his own mind that night, and how he could get back that sense of... freedom. Of not caring about how wanton he seemed, how wild he'd felt then.
At the time, he'd thought he would be embarrassed afterwards – at how desperate he had been, at the enormity of his desire for Rozanov to undo him completely – and some part of him was, but a larger part was always more fascinated by how Rozanov had been seemingly unable to maintain his typical calm and collected demeanor that evening in the face of Shane’s shamelessness. The knowledge that Shane had done that to him...
The door opening startled him out of his thoughts.
Rozanov stood in the doorway, his hands gripping the frame. What a diva, striking a dramatic pose. Obviously it was sexy, but it was also just so fucking ... Rozanov.
"Shane Hollander," he said, more to himself than to Shane, his accent wrapping around the words in a way that made Shane's name almost sound like a benediction. He raked his eyes slowly, deliberately over Shane's body, as if he was trying to commit the sight to memory. Shane wondered what he must look like from Rozanov's point of view: propped against the headboard with his legs slightly spread, chest flushed, and half-hard already just from anticipation alone.
The desire to be bold, to say what he really wanted, to just accept and lean into his desperation for this struck Shane. Why did he need to pretend he didn't want this, when it was just the two of them anyway?
"Come here," he said, "and touch me."
It was a tame request, all things considered, but it seemed to have the effect he had hoped it would; Rozanov let out a small breath that would have been almost inaudible had Shane not been listening intently for it, and stalked over to the bed. With each step, Rozanov's eyes seemed to grow darker, hungrier. Rozanov stopped once he reached the foot of the bed. He cocked his head to the side and said, "I thought I told you to get undressed?"
There was something playful in his tone that let Shane know he wasn't actually disappointed, that let Shane know he could tease back, if he so desired. Sudden clarity came to him then. He knew what his ultimate goal was; he wanted Rozanov to need him the way Shane needed him, terribly and embarrassingly. He knew how to get it, too. It was no secret that Shane was someone who, in every aspect of his being, clung to control like it was a life preserver in the sea of uncertainty that was life. But here, in the bedroom, Rozanov could not only make Shane lose control, he made Shane want to give it up to him, to take him apart completely.
A thought sprung to his mind, and he let it slip from his lips before he could second guess himself. "You did. But you won, earlier, you know? So I didn't want to deny you the fun of getting to unwrap me, like a prize."
Rozanov's jaw dropped, just for a second, before he shook himself, perhaps to try to regain his composure. Shane wasn't sure if it was true or if he was just hoping that that was the case, but he took note of it all the same. Rozanov said nothing in reply, which was a little surprising; Shane expected him to have a cocky retort ready like he usually did. Instead, all he did was take off his pants before settling on the bed, kneeling between Shane's spread legs, not doing anything further except staring at Shane. He was doing a lot of that tonight. Shane stared back, his teeth worrying his bottom lip just a little. It was a good look that Rozanov was giving him; the heat of it could warm Shane through any winter. But it wasn't what he wanted, it wasn't enough.
He needed to say something, but his mind was lagging a little bit now that Rozanov's hands were on Shane's thighs, big and warm. "Hi," said Shane, probably – most definitely – destroying the sexiness of the moment.
"Hello," replied Rozanov easily, with an air of fond exasperation that Shane somehow just knew was all for show. He made no other movements though, the bastard, seemingly content to just make Shane wait.
"So, are we going to kiss?" asked Shane, putting his hands over Rozanov's, trying and failing to push them closer towards his cock.
"We are going to do much more than kiss, Hollander," chuckled Rozanov lowly. "But yes, yes. I will give you what you want." And with that, Rozanov leaned in and kissed him again, his hands starting to trail up and down Shane's thighs teasingly, always stopping once they reached the bottom hem of Shane's briefs.
Shane felt like he could finally breathe. Whatever wrongness that had settled in his chest in the aftermath of losing the game earlier had finally, finally abated now that Rozanov was here, in his bed. In truth, there was little else on his mind now except for how good of a kisser Rozanov was, how warm his hands felt as they moved to grip his waist, maneuvering them so they were both lying down. He had no room in his head for thoughts of anything except for how he needed to get Rozanov fully undressed, needed to feel the heat that radiated off his skin against his own.
"Take this off," he said against Rozanov's lips, his hands pulling at the hem of Rozanov's shirt. He pulled back and asked, whinier than he meant to, "Why are you so clothed, anyway? I expected you to come in here fully naked, to be honest."
Rozanov pulled back and drawled, "So impatient. You kept me waiting so long for a message to come over, then once I get here I barely make it through the door before you are kissing me and suggesting we take it to the bedroom." His hands roamed all over Shane's chest and arms as he talked, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. "Now I am here on your bed, and you are demanding I get undressed, trying to rush me. Is kind of unfair, is it not? Maybe I want to savor this, huh? I like seeing you all spread out for me, getting to touch every inch of you."
"Oh, well, sorry that I want to get my hands on your perfect fucking body," replied Shane sarcastically, rolling his eyes, playing along. "My bad, seriously, that I want you to take your clothes off and start opening me up for your cock so you can fucking ruin me."
Rozanov grinned again, that stupid fucking crooked grin that Shane, in his weaker moments, privately thought of the one that was reserved for him and him alone. He knew it wasn't true, obviously, but he also had never seen it on Rozanov's face anywhere else. Not when Rozanov was chirping people on the ice, not when he was replying to reporters in press conferences, not in any paparazzi photos: only when it was the two of them like this.
"Who am I to deny you?" asked Rozanov, in a softer voice than Shane had expected he would have used.
He let Shane lift his shirt up over his head and throw it aside. Shane had no idea where it landed, but he didn't care. Not now, anyway, because he was pulling Rozanov back down, his hands trailing up and down Rozanov's strong back lazily as they kissed. They made out fervently, for seconds or minutes or hours, Shane couldn't say. Rozanov was kissing his lips, his neck, his chest, anywhere he could get his mouth on. Shane, never one to be outdone by him, was giving as good as he got, peppering kisses along his jaw, his shoulders. While he loved all the sexual things they did together, something about just kissing Rozanov was addicting.
It was almost enough to forget what he wanted Rozanov to do.
Almost.
One of Rozanov's hands started playing with the waistband of Shane's briefs, dipping his pinky underneath the elastic, but making no real move to take them off. There was no real rush, not like when they could only steal an hour or two in a hotel room together, but Shane wanted more. He rolled them over in one smooth motion so that he was on top of Rozanov, straddling him, and started using the leverage to grind down a little. The slide of their clothed cocks against one another provided a delicious friction. He started to roll his hips, slowly, intentionally, and began kissing Rozanov's neck messily.
"Goddamn, Hollander, what on earth has gotten into you tonight?" murmured Rozanov.
Rather than deign to answer with words, Shane bit Rozanov's neck. Not hard enough to leave a mark, but enough that the nip would sting. He ran his tongue over the spot before switching to the other side and continuing his assault. All thoughts of the game earlier or how disjointed he had felt were forgotten completely. His only focus was on Rozanov, on how he could please him. He wanted to be good, wanted to make Rozanov feel good, better than he ever had before with anyone else.
But he also did love being a bit of a little shit, too, because it was fun to push Rozanov's buttons. So he bit Rozanov again, harder this time.
"Oh my god, you are being such a brat right now," said Rozanov exasperatedly. Shane got the distinct impression he was exaggerating for dramatic effect.
"I think you like it," replied Shane in his ear, before mouthing at the delicate skin right behind it. Beneath his lips, he could feel Rozanov's pulse racing. Shane had about two seconds of feeling smug, knowing he’d caused that, before Rozanov flipped them over. Instead of his gaze pinning Shane, as it had been all night, this time he used his hands to bracket Shane's wrists and hold him down. Shane tried to push up against the restraint of Rozanov's grasp, just to test it, but Rozanov didn't let Shane have a single inch.
"Fuck," he exhaled.
"Is this what you wanted?" he asked, looming over Shane, his voice so quiet that Shane had to strain to hear him. "Me to hold you down? To be made to take what I'll give you?" The moan that Shane let out in reply was desperate and keening. He loved this, loved knowing he was at Rozanov's mercy. "Well? Aren't you going to answer me?"
"Yes," groaned Shane, because it was. He wanted to give up everything to Rozanov and let him take whatever he wanted from Shane. "I want you to give me your fingers, your mouth, your cock. I want it all." He was a little shocked that he was saying these things out loud, considering he barely allowed himself to think them.
"Fuck, if I don't get my mouth on you soon I might die, I need to hear those pretty sounds you make for me when I am sucking you. I bet you are leaking already. You get so fucking wet, like a girl."
"Oh, fuck off," replied Shane.
"Ah, no. That will not do. For that, now you have to ask nicely," said Rozanov, moving one hand to palm Shane's cock through his underwear. His face wore a serious expression, but his eyes shone with good humor.
It was clear he was having fun toying with Shane; it had to be even more clear that Shane was having fun being toyed with. What a match they made, truly.
His other hand cupped Shane’s face, forcing Shane to maintain eye contact between them, a move that never failed to make Shane feel… controlled, but in a good way. Could Rozanov feel the flush in Shane's cheeks? Probably. Whatever.
Shane put on his most innocent expression and stuck his bottom lip out a bit in a pout before asking, "Will you please suck my cock?"
A sharp inhale of breath, and then, "There's my good boy."
Something squirmed low in Shane's gut at those words, pleased.
Rozanov trailed the hand that was on Shane's face down his chest and moved down the bed, repositioning himself so he was lying down between Shane's legs.
“Please,” Shane said again.
Rozanov moved his hands to the waistband of Shane’s underwear. Shane, eager to be helpful, lifted his hips so that Rozanov could pull them off. Rozanov seemed to think for a moment, and then he was sliding off his own underwear and tossing both pairs behind him. “I want you to just enjoy this,” Rozanov said, his voice rumbling.
And then Rozanov was swallowing him down, not easing Shane into it at all.
"Oh god," breathed Shane, his hands moving of their own volition to thread themselves in Rozanov's hair. The slide of his cock in Rozanov's lush mouth was pure hedonism. It took all his willpower not to thrust up into that warm, wet heat like he wanted to. He bit his lip, trying not to make too much noise, a force of habit from years of hooking up in hotel rooms. Distantly though, he knew he was still panting and moaning quietly. He couldn't help the gasps that punched their way out of him as Rozanov sucked the tip of his cock, flicked his tongue over the head, and swallowed him down, throat fluttering. Shane was torn between relaxing into it and trying to focus on not coming too soon. He didn't want this to be over yet, not in the slightest, but Rozanov was just... really good at sucking cock. Shane's hands fell back and grasped the bedsheets.
Rozanov pulled off and murmured, "Stop stifling yourself, I want to hear you." His voice was wrecked, just a little bit. His hand was lazily stroking Shane's cock, like he somehow knew Shane was close and wanted to reel him back from the edge, but still make him feel good. His eyes were watching Shane. There was something almost - greedy? - in them, but Shane had no idea what Rozanov would be greedy for, really.
"Stifling?" Shane asked, before he could stop himself. "When the hell did you learn that word?"
"Really? That's what you want to discuss right now?" laughed Rozanov. It was a warm, rich sound that Shane found he really liked hearing. Huh. "My hand is stroking your cock and yet you want to talk about my vocabulary. I must be doing a bad job," he said, taking his hands away. Shane felt bereft at the loss, but once he heard the click of a cap opening, he realized why Rozanov had pulled them back. When had Rozanov gotten a bottle of lube out? Shane must've been too focused on the sultry warmth of his mouth to notice, but suddenly Rozanov's hands were back. He circled a slick finger around Shane's hole, light and teasing.
"Yes," hissed Shane, and Rozanov pressed the tip of it inside, returning his mouth to Shane's cock. The sight of Rozanov between his legs, his mouth wrapped around Shane's cock, hand working between his legs was fucking obscene. He chose that moment to glance up at Shane, and their eyes met. Rozanov, the absolute fucker, winked at him, and Shane willed his body to relax, to let go enough to allow Rozanov to push the rest of his finger inside and move it around a little bit. As if to compensate for the stretch, he took as much of Shane's cock as he could down his throat, using his other hand to wrap around what he couldn't get with his mouth and move in tandem with the finger inside. The combination was heady; Shane moaned loudly, shamelessly, any attempts to muffle it completely forgotten about since Rozanov had said he wanted to hear the noises Shane couldn't help but make. Part of him thought maybe he should try dirty talking, since Rozanov seemed to like it when he did, but he was too lost in the sensations on his cock and in his ass to come up with anything. Not even anything clever. Just anything at all.
All he could do was whimper as Rozanov slowly, slowly opened him up. Before long, he was pushing in a second finger alongside the first. It burned a little bit in the way it always did before his body adjusted, but Shane loved it, loved how Rozanov was devoted solely to making Shane feel good. It was undeniable that he was as talented at this as he was at playing hockey. Shane felt his toes start to curl. "F-fuck, you have to stop sucking me," he said suddenly.
Rozanov pulled his mouth off, a knowing glint in his eyes and a self-satisfied smirk on his face. He resettled himself so that he could work his fingers deeper into Shane, scissoring them to really stretch Shane's hole out and get him ready for his cock. Shane had lost his sense of anything outside of how Rozanov's fingers felt. His field of vision felt like it had narrowed and he couldn't see anything except the heavy-lidded expression on Rozanov's face.
"You are so pretty like this," said Rozanov, almost cooing, moving up, putting one hand next to Shane's head and leaning down to kiss him. They made out sloppily for a bit. Well, it was more like Shane trying to kiss him back, but was really just panting into Rozanov's open mouth as the other man continued to fuck him with his fingers. After a moment, Rozanov pulled back to watch Shane's face, a hungry look on his face. Was that all for Shane? It had to be. "I'm almost tempted to go back to sucking your cock and making you come like that."
"No," moaned Shane immediately. He did want to come, but he felt almost dizzy with how much he needed to be fucked. "I'm ready," Shane heard himself say, even though he probably wasn’t.
"Hmmm,” Rozanov looked at him, considering. “Beg for it."
"Please, Rozanov, I've taken your fingers so well, haven't I? I want-" Shane's breath hitched, "I want more, please, please, I need you to fuck me. Please."
"Fuck," Rozanov breathed, looking down at him almost dazedly. His eyes were basically all pupil; Shane couldn’t get enough of it.
"Please," said Shane again, deciding he wanted to push this as far as he could go, his cheeks hot. He knew he wasn’t the best at dirty talking, but he was good at being honest. Or, well, he was a bad liar; was that the same thing? Did that distinction even matter right now? No, no, definitely not. All that mattered was getting Rozanov to do what he wanted. "God, I feel so empty without your cock inside me, I want it so bad."
"Ty menya pogubish,” muttered Rozanov to himself. To Shane, he said, "I know you do, kotenok, but not just yet. I know you are a desperate slut for it, but I need to finish getting you ready to take this big cock, da?"
Shane felt himself blush even more, something he didn't think was even possible, but he gasped out, "Yes, I am, for you."
“Always so eager," purred Rozanov, a pleased grin on his face. "Don't worry, I will give you what I know you need. I always do. I know you want me to fuck you, but you need another finger first. Let me take care of you."
The moment was really sexy. Shane was thrilled that this was going so well. And then he had to go and be himself and ruin it.
"Sorry," he muttered before he could stop himself. That was a weird response. He was weird. He wasn't even sure what he was apologizing for, really, he just felt like he should. Maybe it was obvious he wanted this too much, maybe Rozanov didn't need it as bad as he did.
"No, no, is no problem," said Rozanov, reassuring. His eyes were still darkened with desire, but there was a bit of concern showing through. "I like it, I like taking you apart like this."
"Yeah, but wouldn't it be easier with someone else?" asked Shane before he could stop himself.
…Why the hell was he trying to have this conversation with Rozanov now? It wasn't the time nor the place – Rozanov's fingers were literally inside of him, for God's sake. Shane had been doing so well, too, he had actually been feeling like maybe Rozanov really was as powerless to resist this as he was, and then he decided to open his fat fucking mouth, suddenly needing encouragement or whatever the fuck that that feeling was actually true.
"Hollander, hey, look at me," said Rozanov. Shane – who had been staring over Rozanov’s shoulder – obliged without even thinking; there was a serious expression on Rozanov's face, so unlike the usual teasing one he wore. "You think I can get this anywhere?" he asked, twisting his fingers inside of Shane.
"Fuck," moaned Shane, his whole body jerking from the feeling. Was Rozanov trying to distract him from the question? It wouldn't work. Shane was pretty far gone, sure, but he was determined now. "You can," he retorted, easily. "You're always pictured in the tabloids leaving a bar or club or whatever with someone, everyone knows it. You can just... go out and pick women up whenever you want. It's simple for you."
"It is true, yes, that I am pictured with people and I fuck others. But since we already share this one secret,” Rozanov used his free hand to gesture between them, presumably as a way to refer to the fact that they liked to have sex with one another, “then I will tell you another. You are my favorite."
"What?" asked Shane, trying but probably failing to hide his excitement at that statement. Something settled inside of him, pleased at Rozanov’s admission. He knew he was too competitive for his own good in basically every single aspect of his life, but he was maybe a little shocked at just how much he liked hearing that he was the best in Rozanov’s eyes. “Really?” he asked, all his earnestness threatening to burst out of him with just one word.
Rozanov, the bastard, took advantage of Shane's surprise and added a third finger, studying Shane's face as he did so. "Ah," he said, after a moment, as if he had just had a sudden realization. "You think it is always like this, this good?"
Shane shrugged wordlessly, trying to be as casual as one possibly could be when their rival was fingering them open. It hadn't been for him, the times he had tried with other people, but he kind of just assumed that Rozanov was having mindblowing sex with everyone, and Shane was merely his routine hookup for Montreal and anywhere else they both happened to be. His favorite one, apparently, but still only one in a string of lovers (ew, what a weird word) in a number of different cities.
"You do. Trust me, it definitely is not.” Rozanov leaned in and in a low, almost conspiratorial voice in Shane’s ear, he whispered, “You think other people have the effect on me that you do? Not even close." He pulled back to look at Shane, maybe so he could see the effect this revelation had on him.
"Oh," said Shane, suddenly shy. It felt absurd to him that he should feel bashful over something like that, especially when he'd been sort of angling for that all night (if not longer, a voice from his hindbrain suddenly said) but to hear it was... well. Rozanov had seen him exposed in a way no one else had. Yet this was the first time he felt vulnerable like this.
"You have no idea what you do to me, do you?" prompted Rozanov, brushing his fingers against Shane's prostate. His other hand settled on Shane's stomach, holding him in place as Shane nearly jolted off the bed at the feeling. "I suppose I can help with this. You are so enthusiastic, so responsive, it turns me on so much. Look at me, Hollander."
When had his eyes fluttered shut? He couldn't recall, but opening them felt imperative. He wanted to fulfill Rozanov's every request, he wanted to be so good, he needed to live up to his title of the best.
"Da, like that, very good Hollander," Rozanov said softly, his eyes swirling with pure molten heat and something else Shane couldn’t identify, not for lack of trying. "Now look at my cock," he continued. Shane let his gaze fall and almost felt his mouth drop open. He hadn't touched it at all – which was a terrible oversight on his part, actually, he fucking loved getting his hands and mouth on Rozanov – and yet the hard length of it jutted out from Rozanov's torso.
"It's pointing right at me," he whispered dumbly.
"Well yes, Hollander,” said Rozanov, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I have a stunningly gorgeous boy writhing on my fingers, gasping and moaning so perfectly while I get him ready to take me." Rozanov brushed his fingers against Shane's prostate again, as if to demonstrate that Shane's body would jump in reaction. It did, dutifully. "I would have to be dead to not be turned on."
"I haven't even touched you though." Shane felt a little bad for how selfish he surely was being, but Rozanov didn't seem to care at all; he seemed to only want to take care of Shane tonight.
"Yes, but you are making such lovely noises and looking up at me with those big, wet fuck-me eyes, and you are opening up so beautifully for me."
He loved when Rozanov spoke to him like this. Two could play at that game though, Shane thought, out of nowhere. He felt out of his mind in the best way possible. "All that's for me," Shane said as he lightly brushed his fingers over Rozanov's cock, intending for it to sound like a question, but not upset that it came out like a statement instead.
"Da, fuck," hissed Rozanov. He seemed, impossibly, to get even harder than he was before, now that Shane's hand was on him. "I like it when you talk dirty, with that pretty little mouth of yours. Fuck, do you think you can take me now? I need to be inside you."
"You don't want me to suck your dick or anything first?" asked Shane, a little surprised.
"No, no, I just nee- want to feel your hole around me."
"Oh... well, yes," said Shane, smiling dopily. “I think I can take every inch of your perfect cock inside me. You’re so good at getting me ready for it.”
Rozanov closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath. Shane grinned impossibly wider, knowing that he was successfully riling his rival up further. This was fun, he was having fun. Rozanov took a deep breath and let it out, opening his eyes. Something in them had shifted; the playfulness was still there, as it always was, but he looked fucking ravenous, like he hadn’t eaten in months.
"Alright, I'm going to take my fingers out then," warned Rozanov. Through all the years of them doing this, Shane had never tired of when Rozanov did small things like that. Shane was - to put it lightly - someone who thrived within clearly communicated expectations and directions. So when Rozanov peppered in little comments like that, for Shane to be able to anticipate what to expect… he liked the consideration. "Turn over," he said, turning away to grab something.
Shane did, settling onto his hands and knees, his blood simmering. He heard the rustle of a condom wrapper being opened, the soft click of the lube bottle being opened and shut again, the heavy breathing of Rozanov as he slicked himself up. His stomach lurched in anticipation, the way it usually did, but he felt one of Rozanov's big hands on his hip.
"Ready?" asked Rozanov softly, using the other to guide the head of his cock to Shane's hole.
"Yeah," he replied, not caring how eager he sounded. He wanted Rozanov to hear it in his tone and know how much Shane wanted this, craved it.
Rozanov pushed inside him slowly. The feeling of Rozanov's cock felt like a surprise to him every time, no matter how many times they did this. Each time he felt split open anew by the length of it, filled impossibly full from the girth of it.
"Okay?" asked Rozanov, once he was fully seated inside of Shane.
"Yeah, just give me a second," said Shane. It was like his body forgot what it felt like to be fucked until it was happening again. He took a few deep breaths and said, "You can start moving a little bit now, slowly though."
Rozanov didn't answer for a beat, until he said, "Sorry, I forgot you can't see me right now. I just nodded."
Shane huffed out a laugh, because it was a ridiculous thing to say. But it made him relax a little bit more. Rozanov's other hand came up to rest on Shane's other hip and he started to pull out, inch by inch, before slowly easing back in. Each time he did it, Shane felt himself open up further and further. He shocked himself every time they did this, the way he could just make space inside himself for Rozanov.
"You can move more now," he said, knowing Rozanov probably could tell from the feel alone, but wanting to say it out loud anyway. When no reply came, he asked, "Did you nod again or something?", because he did kind of enjoy being a brat, like Rozanov had said earlier.
"Ah, you are being asshole," said Rozanov, his accent curling deliciously over the words. "Now I know I can really fuck you." With that, he pulled out almost completely and snapped his hips back in, as if to punish him. But they both knew it wasn’t anywhere close to that for Shane; he wanted Rozanov to make him take it hard and then praise him for how good he was at it, how well he did.
"Oh god," Shane groaned, unable to stop it from slipping out of his mouth as Rozanov started to pick up the pace. He pushed his face into the pillow, trying to muffle the noises he couldn't stop himself from making, too lost in the sensation of Rozanov behind him. The room was quiet except for the obscene slap of their bodies together, the soft noises Shane was making, his occasional pleas to the other man for "more, harder, deeper, please," and Rozanov's running commentary.
It wasn't every time they hooked up that Rozanov talked during sex. In the early years of them doing this, when his English wasn't as good as it was now, he hadn't said that much. But over the years, he'd picked up a penchant for talking dirty to Shane when given the chance. When they were in hotels, they both tried to be quiet, too keyed up by the thought of someone overhearing to really let loose. But when it was just the two of them like this at one of their own places, they were much louder, like they were tonight.
These were Shane's favorite times – because of how loud and uninhibited they could be. Not for any other reasons, of course.
"You love this, don't you?" asked Rozanov, not expecting a reply from Shane, who was currently too lost in the sensation of Rozanov moving in him to do anything but moan helplessly. "Me fucking you like a desperate slut, taking you apart like this. I love hearing you moan and beg for more from me." He threw some Russian phrases mixed in along with the English that Shane couldn't understand, but he assumed they were just as filthy. Sometimes Shane thought that the Russian words he couldn't understand turned him on more than the English he could, if only because of how fucking sexy Rozanov sounded when he spoke it, his voice deeper, raspier. “I want to make you feel so good, Hollander, tomorrow when you move I want you to feel how well I fucked you and blush because you are turned on again, thinking about this.”
Shane felt fucking insane, out of his mind with desperation. He wanted to hump the bedspread, he wanted to push back and fuck himself on Rozanov's cock, he wanted things he couldn't name, could only feel. There was nothing else except this, the two of them, moving together as one. Shane wished for a moment that they could stay like this forever, just the two of them wrapped up in each other, but he knew it was impossible. Even now, it almost seemed like it would be over sooner rather than later. With every thrust, Rozanov brought Shane closer and closer to the edge. He felt his body start to draw up tight; he was close, so close. It seemed like Rozanov was as well, his movements becoming a little more erratic in the way Shane knew meant he was almost there.
"I want to see you," said Rozanov, suddenly, stilling his movements.
"Huh," slurred Shane, “Wha-?” He was so far gone, words barely made sense to him anymore.
"Turn over," urged Rozanov, "and let me see that pretty face, pozhaluysta." He slipped out of Shane carefully, so that there was no choice but to obey. With gentle hands, Rozanov turned Shane over so that he was on his back. He eased himself back into Shane, his eyes on Shane's the entire time, before he started slowly rolling his hips, building up speed again.
It felt good, it always did with Rozanov, but the angle of this position wasn't as good as it was when Rozanov was fucking him from behind. Shane wanted him deeper inside, wanted Rozanov to hit his prostate with every fucking thrust and make him come. He needed it. He was so close earlier…
Shane was pleased that past him had decided he should do yoga; it made him very flexible. He used that skill to lift his legs up, resting his ankles on Rozanov's shoulders.
"Oh very good," murmured Rozanov, "moy malen'kiy shlyukha."
"No idea what you're saying," said Shane, "but fuck, don't stop, I love it. Fuck, keep going, I need more, please."
Rozanov grinned, a devilish thing. “Pryamo tam?” he asked, his cock dragging against Shane's prostate with his next thrust.
It was like the floodgates were opened.
"Fuck," Shane whimpered before starting to babble incoherently. He had no idea what he was saying, he just wanted to push Rozanov further to the edge, wanted to make this as good as possible, wanted to live up to his title of Rozanov's favorite fuck, wanted to take him apart with his words like Rozanov could do to him. "Yes, that's it, fuck, you feel so good inside of me, I can't fucking – I can't fucking stand it." The sentence was punctuated with gasps and moans that were wrung out of him as Rozanov pounded mercilessly into him. "Come on, fuck me like you own me," he said, surprising himself with that one, but Rozanov seemed to love it, practically growling.
"Ty moya, vsya moya," Rozanov groaned, his eyes wild as he continued to fuck into Shane. The grip he had on Shane's thighs was almost bruising, and Shane fucking loved it. His face was so red, his chest was so slick with sweat, he looked so fucking perfect like this. Shane never wanted to close his eyes lest he be deprived of the beauty of the sight before him, but he somehow also knew that if he did shut them, the image of Rozanov would be seared onto his lids, like an imprint on your eyelids after you looked at the sun. "Nikto drugoy ne uvidit tebya takoy, tol'ko ya."
"You're far too coherent right now," huffed Shane, even though it wasn't really true. Whenever he devolved into Russian, it meant the English-speaking portion of his brain had shut off entirely. Shane wanted to push him further. "Put your back into it, Rozanov, and make me fucking come." That seemed to snap Rozanov out of whatever stupor he was in. He never could resist a challenge from Shane; it was one of the things Shane lov-
He cut that thought off. Immediately. Shane bit his lip to try and stop himself from saying anything else, but his mind was working now, turning itself over. Maybe Rozanov wasn't the only one too coherent right now.
"So bratty, Hollander,” smirked Rozanov. “You want me to put you in your place?"
"I want you to give me what I need, and I need to come," Shane retorted, a little whiny, even as his competitive nature came out again. He brought his hand up to form a loose circle around his cock. "Or do I need to take care of myself?"
"Nyet," said Rozanov, knocking Shane’s hand away, "let me, let me."
"Okay," said Shane, letting his hand trail up his stomach to play with his nipple instead.
Rozanov's eyes tracked the movement. "Blyat," he huffed, "you are going to kill me, Hollander."
"Just a little death," winked Shane, having no idea where any of this was coming from, but loving it, loving how much Rozanov seemed to get off on it. "La petite mort, you know."
"No French please."
Shane laughed then, delighted and a little delirious. "Fine, fine. I feel like you would like it if I started talking dirty in French, though."
“I think you are the one who is too co-whatever you said right now.” Rozanov spit into one of his big hands and wrapped it around Shane's cock, starting to jerk him off in time with his thrusts.
Shane normally was kind of repulsed by body fluids: always had been. But fuck, he was filing that image of Rozanov away to get himself off to later, when they were apart once more. Rozanov shifted them a little bit so he could have a better angle to play with Shane's cock.
"There," gasped Shane, the word wrenching itself out of him as Rozanov hit his prostate head on. The new angle meant he was doing it now on every thrust, and Shane felt his body starting to tense, the way it did when he was close. There was no connection between his mouth and his brain; higher order thinking had left him completely. He babbled on, mindlessly, "Right there, please, don't stop, I'm so..." He felt his entire body start drawing up, his legs fucking shaking with it. "I'm so close, I need... I need... Please." Words left Shane then. All he could do was pant and moan. He felt like he was going to die. It was too much, it wasn't enough.
"That's it," Rozanov grit out. He looked like he was about to lose it himself. "Moy krasivyy mal'chik, I want you to be so good and come for me. Can you do that?"
It was perfect, it was everything, it was going to make him come. Shane knew he must look like a sight right now. His face was so hot he could feel it, his expression drawn tightly together, his brows furrowed and his mouth open, lips bitten red. Every ounce of his remaining resolve was being spent trying to keep his eyes open, because he wanted to watch Rozanov fall apart.
"Yes," he groaned, "for you, all for you, only ever you, fuck... I'm gonna..."
The look that overtook Rozanov's face was like he'd been struck by lightning. And that was it; Shane's cock pulsed as he finally, finally came, shooting everywhere.
Rozanov stroked him through it, still in time with his thrusts. When it was obvious Shane was spent, he dragged his fingers through the cum on his chest, scooping up some of it and sticking his fingers into Shane's open mouth. Shane, for his part, was so blissfully fucked out all he could do was lap it up and suckle on Rozanov's fingers, moaning around them. That was what seemed to do it for Rozanov, because he thrust once, twice, a third time and then he was coming too, practically snarling with it.
He didn't immediately collapse onto Shane; he waited a moment or two, and then eased Shane's legs off his shoulders before gently saying, "I'm going to pull out now, okay?"
"Mmm," hummed Shane, his head euphorically empty and his limbs wonderfully weightless. He felt like he was floating outside of himself.
Rozanov patted his leg and then slowly slid out. He removed the condom from his softening cock, tied it off, and tossed it into the trash can by Shane's bed. A second later, Shane felt what must be the towel he always placed on the nightstand – for this express purpose – carefully wipe him down. He closed his eyes, enjoying Rozanov’s ministrations.
When the other man was done, he flopped down next to Shane, not saying anything. They laid side by side, their arms and legs brushing, just breathing in silence.
"So..." said Shane, quietly after a moment, "that was nice."
"Nice," laughed Rozanov as he rolled on top of Shane, "is not the word I would use." He started to kiss Shane all over his face, his neck, his chest. They were gentle kisses, not meant to do anything really, but they made Shane feel... safe inside his own body. Sometimes when they were done hooking up, Shane felt wrung-out. But Rozanov was a master at small gestures like the clean-up, like these kisses that always brought him back to himself.
Shane traced his fingers over Rozanov's arm and asked, "What word would you use then?"
"Oh I don't know, my brain is not really working right now, since I just came harder than I have possibly ever."
The urge to ask, "Really?" was on the tip of Shane's tongue, but he held himself back. Instead, he said, "Yeah, same. Good job, us."
"Go team," replied Rozanov, holding his hand up for a high five.
Shane laughed and obliged him, slapping their palms together. Before he thought better of it, he used his other hand to swat at Rozanov’s ass. "Great job, we should probably hit the showers in a bit, get cleaned up."
"Yes, yes," agreed Rozanov, "but we can lie here for a little bit longer first, I think." He rolled onto his side and took Shane with him, pulling him into his chest and throwing his arm over Shane. Their legs tangled together.
"Oh yeah,” agreed Shane, not wanting to get up. He wanted to stay like this, face buried in Rozanov’s warm neck, breathing him in. “My legs feel like they’re made of Jell-O right now anyway.” He was maybe exaggerating a little bit. They did feel a little shaky, but not that bad. He just didn't want to break the moment too soon. It was... nice to just lie with Rozanov.
"Jell-O?" asked Rozanov. "Like the shot?"
"Oh my god, you would only be familiar with it because of that," laughed Shane. Maybe it was the earth-shattering orgasm, maybe it was because Rozanov had basically confirmed that Shane was the best partner he'd slept with… maybe it didn't really matter what it was, because he felt giddy all the same. "Jell-O is just the flavored gelatin, the alcohol portion is separate. I just meant they might be a little wobbly, since they were, you know, slung around your shoulders only a few moments ago."
"Well some of us are not from here, and so the only time we encounter fucking Jell-O is when we go out and party at a teammate's house and someone hands you a weird shot. We can't all be boring good boys from Canada."
"You like that I'm a good boy, you asshole," said Shane, fondness creeping into his voice. He couldn't help it though. Whatever, he could blame it on post-coital bliss.
"Yeah, I really do," came the reply, just as fond.
Shane smiled – as amazing as the fucking was, and it was fucking amazing – he did enjoy getting to have these quiet moments where he was wrapped up in Rozanov’s strong arms, reality seemingly on pause.
They'd get up soon and shower. Rozanov would leave. He'd go back to Boston, and Shane wouldn't see him until their teams played against one another again and they could steal another evening together. Life as usual would restart and the real world would come creeping in, as it always did, with its demands of who Shane had to be, how he had to act. They'd be rivals once more.
But for now, they could just lie with one another, limbs tangled, lingering in the bed they had ruined together, enjoying this, enjoying each other.
It was almost enough.