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Perhaps it was when the door clicked shut, and the hoard of people and booming music became ever so slightly muffled, topped with the sound of maniacal laughter from other varsity members, that Shane realized he was in trouble.
“You know the rules, seven minutes, boys!” they called, in a teasing tone, one which Shane could sense despite being on the other side of the door.
The shuffle of shoes next to him, a silhouette gently illuminated by a shitty small lamp on the bedside table of whoever's room they had been trapped, no, imprisoned in, reminded him he was not alone, and he wasn’t just in trouble, but he was fucked.
He could smell him before he could see him, fully at least. The man in front of him, dangerously close, always smelled like ridiculously overpriced cologne, cigarettes and something else that Shane could never identify. Still, it smelled so fucking good, there was no mistaking who it was. Even if Shane somehow lost his sight, he would always know.
He shifted his weight, trying to distance himself, because this was way too close, and it was too much, but the other man simply closed the gap, a deviously playful smirk on his goddamn pretty lips. “So, Hollander… will you disappoint them?” he purred.
Ilya fucking Rozanov.
Shane gulped. He was so fucked.
He couldn’t even respond, like a bunny caught in the headlights, moments away from a gruesome death; he froze. The ample amount of liquor he had consumed was not helping, either; his body felt like it had doubled in weight, his undershirt was damp with sweat, clinging to his back in a way Shane could only describe as disgusting. Was he always able to hear his heartbeat this loud? He ended up pressing himself against the wall, half to stabilize himself and half to try once again put some space between him and the man in front of him, because, quite frankly, he was way too close for Shane’s liking.
Of course, Rozanov laughed at that, teasing. He probably found this incredibly entertaining because, really, what were the chances that the bottle would land on both of them in the same round? There was no strict rule about what had to happen when enclosed in that dark room; at least, people had options there. Shane knew that all of the men’s hockey team probably assumed they would fight, tension from the ice finally boiling over, fueled by the alcohol and proximity.
But Shane knew what Rozanov wanted.
It wasn’t a fight.
There was a sudden pressing weight into Shane’s lower half; he had to literally glance down to see that Rozanov was using his thigh to push into his crotch, dark jeans pressing hard enough that it made Shane’s stomach tense. Rozanov’s hand was resting on Shane’s side, light but firm enough that it was keeping him in place. Pinned.
When he dared to look back up, Ilya’s gaze was soft, playful. A small stream of light was cutting across his cheek, the cheap door of the frat bedroom not fitting the frame properly. He wouldn’t complain, though. The light allowed Shane to see Ilya’s expression, the softness of the curls near his hairline, and the absolutely delicious golden tone of his skin. He must have seen the way Shane studied Ilya’s face, because the corners of his lips turned up in a small smile. “You like what you see?”
Even if Shane were in a daze, Ilya’s chirps would always get a response. “No,” he said, firm, but he knew from the speed at which he answered that it was a lie.
Shane had liked what he saw ever since the first semester of the second year, when they’d ended up being the last two to hit the showers. Shane had tried to keep his gaze fixed on the shitty chipped tiles, but he could see Rozanov in his peripheral vision; he could feel his stare. When he’d worked up the courage to turn and see what the fuck the man wanted, he was greeted with a scene that made his cock stir. Rozanov, soaking wet, curls falling into his face, staring at Shane like he was about to consume him, lightly biting his lip as he lazily stroked himself.
He tried to purge it from his mind.
(he masturbated to the memory nightly for two whole weeks.)
He just needed to survive seven minutes. He needed to exercise his self-restraint and keep Rozanov away.
He gulped once more, trying to look anywhere but the man pressed against him. Another hand, hot to the touch, came up to grab at his chin, forcing him to look Rozanov in the eye. “You are a terrible liar.”
Seven minutes.
Maybe Shane was a bad liar, perhaps he had been sneaking glances at Rozanov, sure, there may have even been a couple of occasions where he’d looked up the mans instagram and touched himself to the thought of Rozanov’s rough hands all over his body, the sultry voice laced with a thick accent and the gruffness of a regular smoker telling him what to do, calling him a pretty boy-
But he could not give in; he wouldn’t let Rozanov beat him this time.
“You know who is not a bad liar?” he said in a low voice barely above a whisper. Shane could literally feel the other man's body heat, far too close for comfort, almost suffocating.
And like an idiot, Shane replied, taking the bait. “Who?”
Rozanov leaned in closer, somehow, lips coming so close to Shane’s ear he could feel the other exhale. “Your hard dick.”
Shane knew he should push him off, call him a fucking asshole and use other expletives; he should force space between them both, maybe even go so far as to sock him in the face while he was distracted, just so that Rozanov would get the message. But he didn’t. His body betrayed him once more, and he ended up softening in the other man’s grasp, jaw going slack as he let out a small “oh.”
Because it was true, Shane was rock fucking hard, and the pressure of Rozanov’s body coupled with the mental imagery that had been dancing through his mind was enough to let his self-control (what little he had) slip. His stupid hormones and his stupid biology were betraying him at the worst possible time, a small voice in the back of his head was telling him to lean into the touch, to ask for more, desperate to hear Rozanov say the words that he had fantasized about.
In this dark room, on the second floor of some shitty frat house where the music choice sucked, and the booze was so cheap it tasted like paint stripper, he felt his self-resolve crumble.
Rozanov’s grip on his chin had loosened, hand falling to his shoulder instead, almost like he was anticipating Shane’s walls falling, revealing a truth that he didn’t even want to admit to himself. He couldn’t believe that the stars had aligned once more to put them both in the same room, alone, in a compromising position where alcohol was clouding their consciousness and removing inhibitions. What a recipe for fucking disaster.
Shane was secretly so pleased.
“Fuck it,” he mumbled, mostly to himself, before grabbing at Rozanov’s expensive polo front and pulling his face in for a heated kiss.
There was a split second where Rozanov was clearly surprised at Shane’s actions, because he didn’t move, but he quickly caught on and ended up returning to kiss with an urgency that Shane couldn’t keep up with. It was hot, wet, and the sound of their teeth clashing broke the heavy silence of the room on more than one occasion. Rozanov’s hands were all over him; every touch felt electric, like the crackle of lightning on a stormy summer night. Hot, intense, fleeting.
Things could never go back to normal after this, Shane was well aware. There would always be this shared secret between them, of fervent desire and craving. He wondered whether the alcohol would give him some temporary memory loss, a fragmented recollection of images that he would not be able to piece together. He’d heard so many of the guys say that the day after a rager, as an excuse for their actions. But Shane didn’t want to forget this; he wanted to remember every single second of it viscerally, so that he could relive it over and over.
His sense of self-preservation was long gone; thoughts of how all of the university’s athletic union were just metres away in the main room, waiting for them to return, were pushed to the furthest corner of his mind. The sensation of Rozanov’s hands grasping his ass over his jeans with a sickeningly tight grip was consuming him. He wanted to return the favour, feel all the muscles he had seen up close and intimate in the changing rooms. He wanted Rozanov to consume him, leave him breathless and boneless.
He was already breathless.
They broke apart momentarily, Rozanov breathing heavily as he rested his forehead against Shane’s, but his grip was unrelenting. Shane didn’t even know where to put his hands, simply sliding them up the edge of the man’s shirt, lifting it so his palms were resting comfortably on the dip of his hip. He couldn’t even count how many times he had fantasized about this, especially after the shower incident. Touching himself as stuttering moans fell from his parted lips, riding the wave but feeling like something was missing, craving the real thing.
Now the real thing was here, and his mind was in overdrive, so many overwhelming sensations coursing through his body, like he’d run a thousand laps under the intense summer sun. He let his head fall back, thumping the wall with more force than he intended, but his body was burning with an urge so strong that he didn’t have time to care. Rozanov tilted his head like a confused puppy, looking at Shane like he was a rarity, a curiosity.
A delicacy.
“You want more, don’t you?” he whispered. Shane’s eyes fluttered closed for the briefest moment, like he was checking if he was still awake, but he could still feel Rozanov’s eyes on him, watching every micromovement.
He swallowed again, lower lip trembling slightly. “Yes. God, yes.”
The words seemed to light a fire in Rozanov’s eyes, like permission had been granted, a deal had been struck.
Rozanov resumed his kissing, but this time he was trailing kisses from the side of Shane’s jaw, down to his neck, a place where Shane was extra sensitive. A small groan slipped out before he could stop himself; his grip of Rozanov’s hip tightened as he tilted to give the man better access, but instead he whispered, “Do you think you can come in the time we have left?”
Shane wasn’t sure; he was almost certain he could under normal circumstances, but vodka and whiskey sours were coursing through his veins in levels far higher than he had ever experienced, and he wasn’t about to make a claim he couldn’t back up. “I-I don’t know…” he stuttered, distracted by the sound of Rozanov beginning to undo his belt, buckle clicking.
His childish response just earned a chuckle from the other man, who had successfully removed Shane’s belt and undone the buttons; the pressure release on his hard cock was both a relief and shame, friction no longer there to give him pleasure.
“I think … I can make you feel good, you can pay me back the favour another time.” To emphasize his point, he palmed at Shane through his boxers, resulting in Shane bucking his hips involuntarily, like some ridiculously horny teenager.
“Fuck…” he breathed out, head hitting the wall once more as Rozanov bit down lightly on the juncture of his neck and shoulder.
“Tell me what you want,” he stated, more firmly.
Shane didn’t even think he could form a complete sentence at this point, but he could manage a few words. “You.”
Rozanov pulled back; their eye contact was intense.
“I want you,” Shane added softly.
Their lips crashed together once more. Shane could feel himself being pressed deeper against the wall while Rozanov’s previously calmer composure seemed to break. His hands were moving quickly, desperate to get into Shane’s boxers, and once he finally did, his hand wrapped around his hot, hard cock with a firm grip that had Shane feeling weak at the knees, but he was pinned down so hard there was nowhere for him to go, except be wholly consumed.
Rozanov’s strokes were slow at first, almost as if he were teasing Shane. He moaned gently into his mouth, his hips lifting away from the wall slightly to try and get more friction, but Rozanov just pulled further away. Shane could feel the smirk on his lips from the kiss, and it frustrated him. He momentarily broke the kiss to protest. “Rozanov… please.”
“Please, what?” he played along.
Shane knew exactly what he was trying to do, and he didn’t like it. Their stubborn and competitive natures were battling it out for dominance, just like they always did on the ice. Except this time, Shane was weak, compromised, and desperate, like an animal in heat. Rozanov had infected him with a sickness that overtook the body and mind, but his touch was the only cure. He wanted him so badly that there was an ache deep in his gut, something which wanted to claw its way out and allow him to be consumed.
He just needed to submit.
“Please… touch me… I need it,” he almost whimpered, the torture of the ghost of Rozanov’s touch driving him to say things he never thought he could utter outloud.
Shane’s submission, his begging, was all he needed.
Rozanov started to lower, trailing some kisses down his neck to the exposed part of Shane’s chest before he sank to his knees. Shane looked down at him, eyes clouded with lust at the anticipation of what he thought was going to happen and confusion that his mind could not comprehend that one of his competitors was getting on his knees for him. It was enough to make his head spin, chest heaving as he took a deep breath.
Settling down, one hand rested on the right side of Shane’s hips, the other resumed its grasp on Shane’s needy cock, giving a few gentle strokes as Rozanov glanced up through his unnecessarily nice-looking lashes to check that Shane was watching him. That annoying, playful smirk was painted on his face, and if it weren’t for the fact that he was about to blow Shane, he would have had an insatiable urge to slap him.
Continuing the teasing, Rozanov’s tongue gave a couple of kitten licks to the tip, tasting the embarrassingly large amount of precum that was smeared across the head. The sensation was unlike anything Shane had ever experienced before, and it took everything in him not thrust into the heat of Rozanov’s mouth. They were already on a tight deadline, and he knew that Rozanov was not going to make this easy for him, but he had to maintain some semblance of decorum… even if he was getting blown by his teammate.
He stroked gently as he licked, each time taking a bit more of Shane into his mouth until he finally took him in deep and holy fuck, Shane had to pinch himself not to bust right then and there. He’d be damned before he let one of his teammates make him come in seconds, because he would never live it down. Ilya’s other hand was wandering up, pulling his shirt up to expose the expanse of Shane’s abdomen, giving him an even better view of the delights happening just below.
Rozanov looked so fucking hot as his pretty lips wrapped around his cock, leaving the skin glistening with spit and heat. Now and then, he would take Shane down deeper than he thought was possible, his tongue rubbing along the sensitive underside, letting out a soft moan when he felt the tip of Shane hit the back of his throat, the vibrations alone pulling even louder moans from Shane.
He once again didn’t know what to do with his hands, choosing instead to lift his shirt higher with one whilst the other tangled into Rozanov’s unruly curls, not forcing him to go deeper or faster, but just resting on the side, giving the illusion that he was almost fucking the man’s mouth. Deep down, he knew that he was not in control; every movement and sensation was gracefully gifted to him by Rozanov’s hands and lips, and all he could do was behave and wait for more.
There was heat building under his skin, all-consuming; sweat was accumulating in his hairline and beginning to drip. He wasn’t even doing anything strenuous, but the concentration and effort it took not to come down Rozanov’s throat was extreme, enough to make him feel like he was out on the ice in a third-period showdown, seconds on the clock. The thought reminded him that they really didn’t have much time, which fucking sucked, because if he could, he would spend the rest of his life chasing this feeling.
His grasp on Rozanov’s hair tightened ever so slightly, causing the man to pull away, catching his breath as he did so. Shane mourned the loss of the heat.
Licking at the top corner of his lips, Rozanov looked up at him once more. “Are you gonna come for me? Or are we going to have to take this somewhere else?”
The possibility of this continuing somewhere else set off sparks in Shane, but he knew there was no way he could last. If he had to walk out of this frat before he could come… well, he probably wouldn’t be able to walk. He might have to crawl. He might even cry.
“I-” he cut himself off, swallowing thickly as he glanced to the side. “Will you let me?”
“Let you what?” Rozanov purred, jerking him as he did so.
Shane was going to die, either from embarrassment or desperation. “Will you let me come in your mouth?”
The words certainly elicited a reaction from Rozanov, who seemed even more eager than before, if that was even possible. “Fuck, yes, let me taste you.”
Shane’s eyes closed, and his head tilted up, saying a silent prayer to whatever god was listening to thank them for granting whatever kind of fucked up wish he had. While he was whispering silent words to whatever deity, Rozanov’s tongue and mouth were back on him, and somehow it felt even better than before.
He had increased his speed, probably eager to get Shane to finish. Part of him wanted to finish, wanted to feel Rozanov swallow him all and see him do so, but the other part of him wanted this to go on forever. When would he ever get to experience this again? He felt his fingers tighten unconsciously, a wave of possession washing over him.
Rozanov’s free hands grasped at Shane’s hips, fingernails digging in hard enough to leave marks, a hidden reminder. Shane was feeling light-headed, and an unstoppable desire to chase the feeling was taking over him, feeling his hips thrust ever so slightly and good fucking lord, Rozanov stopped his movements to let him do so.
His movements were uncoordinated, rudimentary as he fucked into Rozanov’s mouth like a dying man clamouring for life. He knew he was close; moans were falling from his lips with little care. He didn’t fucking care if anyone heard, not anymore. Rozanov felt so good, so hot and wet, and his tongue was stroking under his cock with every thrust. He looked even better, a small streak of drool running down the side of his mouth, his eyes occasionally looking up to see Shane’s reactions. Shane tried to ignore the softness of Rozanov’s thumb gently stroking at his hip bone, almost like he was encouraging him.
His orgasm didn’t build; it crashed into him with reckless abandon, hips stuttering ever so. “Oh fuck, fuck- Rozanov I- I’m gonna-” but he couldn’t even finish his warning, feeling himself come hard, right into the back of Rozanov’s throat. Riding the wave, he thrust a couple more times, feeling Rozanov swallow around him, which, Jesus Christ, felt so unbelievably good.
The grip on Rozanov’s hair relaxed, and he truly felt like he was going to collapse. Rozanov gave one last playful lick to Shane’s spent tip, which was so sensitive it felt like fucking fire. He yelped, but he was promptly silenced by another fierce kiss from the other man, who, with a gentleness he was not expecting, cupped his face and gently stroked Shane’s side.
The other man was slightly breathless, which Shane thought made sense. “Good?” he asked, eyes searching Shane’s for something.
“Extremely…” he replied, which he felt was a stupid response. He felt like he was on cloud nine. Words didn’t do the feeling justice.
Rozanov ran one of his hands through his own hair, pushing back the stray curls that Shane had disrupted. “I think we still have a minute to spare. Impressive, no?” he gloated, the annoying smirk back on his face.
Shane really wanted to smack him now. “You’re an asshole.”
“A talented one.”
Shane just scoffed, shaking his head and glancing to the side. He didn’t really know what happened now, but he took the opportunity to dress himself again. At least there was no heavy cleanup since Rozanov swallowed his whole load. The room was dark, so he couldn’t tell how fucked he looked, but he could just blame it on alcohol flush.
When he looked at Rozanov again, he looked smug as fuck, and it annoyed him. He had spent enough time with the Russian to know that he was going to enjoy knowing that he made Shane come within minutes, a sick sense of pride stroking his already inflated ego.
He wanted to get even.
Shane’s hands slid down from Rozanov’s front towards his own belt, teasing. There was no way they had enough time, but there was the aforementioned “next time’, and the unspoken boundary had already been crossed; there was no going back now, so he might as well enjoy the ride while he could.
Shane cleared his throat slightly, glancing up to meet Rozanov’s gaze. “So… when should I repay the favour?”
Rozanov grinned, baring teeth, as if he was not anticipating the question. But he should have known that Shane was just as competitive as he was, and whatever game they were going to play had just started.