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Shane's cock is half-hard by the end of the game.
It's watching Rozanov that does it—because that's how perverted Shane is now, watching a normal hockey game alone in his house turns him on. He tunes into nearly all the Boston games when he can, under the pretense of research, but Shane knows he's lying to himself.
It's only because it's been so long. The last time he saw Rozanov was at the MLH awards in June, then there was a whole summer apart, and now the preseason's started, but the first Montreal-Boston game is still over a week away.
Shane's tired of waiting.
He sighs, flopping back against his bed. It's pathetic, really. Seeing Rozanov, hot and sweaty on his screen, scoring goals and winning, chirping people center ice, making cocky comments to reporters… it's more than enough to get Shane hot.
He's been rewired, at some point, in the past few years, his body so deeply in tune with Ilya Rozanov that every time Shane tries to get himself off without him, it's nothing but a cruel imitation.
And it's not because Shane can't fuck himself as good as Rozanov does (even though he can't—the angle's all wrong, and he can't get lost in pleasure when he has to focus on thrusting), or even that Rozanov's mouth feels better on his dick than anything else does. It's the way Rozanov talks to him, thinks for him. Shane doesn't have to worry about when or how he'll come like he has to when he's alone. He'll just come whenever Rozanov says he can.
It wasn't like that in the beginning, Shane used to be fine, to be normal. He never had a problem reaching the edge—more of a problem with getting to it too quickly, something Rozanov trained out of him by making him wait, bringing him close, then taking it away. And Shane always followed, because Rozanov was always right, the waiting made it better, and so Shane's body rewrote itself into something pliant and willing. The waiting became natural.
So sometimes, when he tries by himself, Shane will get bored before he's anywhere close to coming, even if he wants the relief of it. Like his body already knows before he starts that it won't be as good without Rozanov, so it just… gives up.
But despite all that, Shane's still hard. And he still wants.
He's preemptively frustrated about it, as he grabs his lube and situates himself on the bed, knowing that even if he does manage to come it won't be satisfying, not in the way that he needs, but it's been long enough since he's had any kind of orgasm, that he might as well try.
And, well, if he pulls up his locked folder full of Rozanov pictures to help him, then so be it.
———
Nearly thirty minutes later, and Shane's a sweaty mess. His hole stretched wide enough to fit three fingers, cock painfully hard, but still… nothing. Rozanov's pictures aren't helping, and neither is trying to imagine Rozanov's voice, all it does is make him hornier, more frustrated with it.
Even playing through their old encounters in his head never helps. Nothing compares to the real thing.
The only time Shane came as hard without Rozanov as he does with him was the one time during last year's playoffs when Rozanov goaded him into sexting—something Shane found embarrassing and awkward, but he'd ended up coming in his pants all the same. Just from doing what Rozanov told him to.
God, is that what he needs now? Rozanov to tell him to come?
Desperate, Shane closes the photo album and opens his text thread with 'Lily'. They don't text often. It's mostly plans to meet up, the occasional comment after games if something interesting happens—an embarrassing loss, an especially good goal, and brief check-ins during the summer. Rozanov usually initiates.
This is so stupid. Shane's got two fingers up his ass, and he's reading a text thread.
He sends Rozanov a text before he can think more about it.
Shane: Hi
Rozanov reads the message in seconds. Fuck. This isn't— what is Shane supposed to say? He can't open with 'hi'. Shane starts typing, Can you… deletes it. Can Rozanov what? Shane doesn't even know what he's asking. Just that he's frustrated and horny and he can't come.
Lily: Hello
Can you tell me to come? Shane imagines typing. How pathetic would that be? Rozanov would laugh at him. Probably.
But maybe… maybe Rozanov's eyes would widen, the way they do whenever Shane does something particularly slutty. His lips would part, he'd lean in, and—
Fuck. Shane grinds down on his fingers, types with one hand.
Shane: What are you doing right now?
Lily: Out with team
Lily: Did u see that goal I made?
Shane: Yes
Lily: Was very sexy, yes? ;)
Lily: What r u doing right now?
Shane slips another finger in, groaning. He imagines Rozanov, sitting at a booth or table with his team, phone angled away so nobody else could see his texts with 'Jane'. Rozanov's attention is electric, even from a distance. Shane wants to keep it.
Shane: Touching myself
Read. No answer. Not even those little typing bubbles. Shane imagines Rozanov's surprise. Hopefully getting hard too, thinking about ways to talk Shane through it. Shane crooks his fingers to graze his prostate, and the hand holding his phone slips. The sound of ringing fills the air.
Shit, he called Rozanov.
Before Shane has the time to panic, the ringing stops, call declined, and even though it was an accident the rejection stings. Because that's what he really needs, isn't it? Rozanov's voice.
Lily: I said I am out with team
Shane groans aloud, the sound echoing in his empty room. Who cares about his team right now?
Shane: Leave
Lily: Why
Shane takes a deep breath, and sends the next message before he can overthink it.
Shane: I want to hear you
Rozanov doesn't answer right away, and Shane waits. He's either ignoring him, shoving his phone into his pocket, turned off by the neediness of Shane, or he's excusing himself from the table, finding a place where he can call him back. Shane has no idea. All he can do is wait.
Lily: Why
Asshole, Shane already fucking told him why. Typing with one hand is getting increasingly annoying, the pool of heat in Shane's stomach turning acidic.
Shane: I already told you waht im doing
He didn't notice the typos until after the message sent. Frustrated, the angle not working anymore, Shane pulls out his fingers, wrapping his hand around his dick instead.
Lily: Yes. I know
Lily: Touching yourself
Shane: Can I call you now
Shane: I wanna come
Lily: And u need my help with that?
A moan escapes Shane's lips. Because Rozanov's teasing him, he doesn't know, he doesn't know how far he's buried himself into Shane's skin, where Shane can't even get off without him. Where without Rozanov, he's left frustrated and writhing in a bed, skin shining with sweat after nearly a half an hour of masturbating, with nothing else to show for it.
Shane: Yes
The typing bubbles appear and disappear. Shane twists his wrist as he passes the head of his cock, the drag slow and good, so much better already now that he knows Rozanov knows what he's doing.
Lily: Want me to send u picture of my cock
I already told you what I want, asshole.
Shane: Are you still with your team?
Lily: No. In bathroom now
Lily: Answer my question
His question? All of Shane's blood seems to be in his dick right now, and it takes a moment for Shane to remember what Rozanov even asked.
Shane: I don't care
Shane: You can send one if you want
Shane: I want to hear you
Shane: Wanna come
Lily: Are u bad at jacking off?
Shane's stokes speed up, swiping the gathering wetness from the tip, head falling back at the pleasure.
Shane: Fuck off
Lily: U messaged me
Lily: U r the one who apparently needs my help to come
As Shane struggles to think of a response to that, an incoming video call from 'Lily' startles him. Shane declines it instantly, Rozanov can't see him like this—reduced down to wanting.
Lily: ???
Shane calls him back, without video. It goes straight to voicemail.
Lily: Is a little too late to be shy Hollander
This time Shane answers the video call. Rozanov looks good, like he always does. There's a mirror behind him, and Shane guesses he's leaning against the sink in the bathroom—hopefully a single stall. Shane's gaze then drops to the corner, where his own face peers back at him. God, he already looks wrecked, it's obvious that he's been at this for a while, hair mussed, eyes blown out, and face a flushed red. Shane rips his gaze back to Rozanov—he wears a satisfied smirk.
"You can't—" Shane takes a fortifying breath. "You can't use my name in texts, that defeats the whole point, you have to delete that."
"Always with the complaining." Rozanov draws out the words, like he's got all the time in the world. "You look like you've been busy."
"Fuck off."
"Is not what you want."
Shane continues the slow drag of his hand on his cock instead of responding. His lip finds its way between his teeth, eyes fluttering between open to see Rozanov or closed to focus on the sensation.
"Show me how you touch yourself," Rozanov commands.
"Fuck. Okay."
Shane flips the camera. It's hard to get the angle right, but Rozanov's eyes darken as Shane shows him as best he can—the expanse of his body, his red, leaking dick. He can't quite show his hole like this, but his hand drops back down to it, letting Rozanov figure it out from the spread of his legs.
"How long have you been doing this?"
Shane gasps as his fingertips flutter over his hole, just having Rozanov's voice here makes each touch more substantial. "Since— since your game finished. I— I can't—" he cuts himself off with another groan.
"And you haven't come yet?"
"No, no, I can't." Shane says. He tugs at the rim of his hole, still so loose and open, then moves his hand back to his cock. He needs to come.
"Why not?" Rozanov looks entirely too comfortable, entirely too put together. He stepped out of a team celebration for this, to see Shane here, to see how he's been desperate and wanting, waiting for him. The contrast tugs at Shane's core, humiliating and delicious all at once.
"I need—" Shane shakes his head.
"Tell me, Hollander, what do you need?"
Shane twists his wrist on the downstroke again and he gasps, head throwing back, eyes falling closed. He's close, has been close for a while, close but never able to fall over. What do you need? Rozanov asked.
Shane wonders if he already knows. Sometimes, when they're together it's like Rozanov can see through Shane, right down into his pit of desire.
"Hollander," Rozanov pushes.
"I need—" Shane grits out. "I need help."
"Help with what?"
"Tell me to come." The words come out in a jumbled heap—tellmetocome—and then for a terrible second Shane's met with silence. He rushes to fill it, flipping the camera back onto his face so Rozanov can't see how his strokes speed up. "Rozanov, you gotta, you gotta tell me to come, I can't— I need— I need you."
"You need me?" Rozanov repeats.
"Yes." The word punches out of Shane, the admission heating his face. A lump of something settles in Shane's throat.
"You can't come without me?"
It should be humiliating, the way Rozanov asks it, sarcastic and condescending all at once, but he just shakes his head, barely even listening, broken down already, pinned under Rozanov's gaze, waiting for him to tell him. One word and he'll be hurtling over that edge.
"S'not as good," Shane manages in response, words slurring. "There's no point."
Rozanov freezes, Shane closes his eyes to shield himself from his stare, focusing instead on the heady rush. Sensation and embarrassment mixes into pleasure.
"Stop touching," Rozanov says, and Shane can't help his cry as he pulls his hand off his dick.
"No, Rozanov," he says, and comes out as a whine, high and reedy. "I don't— it's been long enough, you can't—"
"I can do what I want. You are the one who cannot come without me."
"Don't say that."
"You said it first."
"I don't—" Shane pulls his phone back, bringing his other hand into frame. He tells himself that it's more comfortable, not that he's trying to show Rozanov he listened. Show him how easily he obeys. See how good I am. "I didn't mean it like that."
"Then how did you mean it?" There's a certain edge to Rozanov's voice, but Shane's too far away to place it. He can't even look straight at Rozanov right now, it'd be too telling.
"I can come without you," Shane says, defensive. Too defensive. Rozanov waits. "It's just… better with you. A lot better. By myself is fine, but with you is…" Shane trails off, it's too much, he's said too much, he's too hot and too frustrated and he wants.
"When was the last time you came?"
Shane ignores the question, risks a glance at Rozanov. He's gotten sloppy with the camera angle and only half of his face is visible. "Can I touch myself again?"
"Tell me first."
"I don't know, like two weeks ago, maybe longer."
"And how did it feel?"
"Fine." Shane's shaking his head while he says it. "Felt fine."
Rozanov wrinkles his nose. "High praise. When was the last time it felt good?"
"You were there."
"Fuck." Rozanov groans the word, and Shane brings his phone closer to his face.
"Are you jerking off right now?"
"Obviously."
"Can I?" Shane asks, breathless.
"Okay," Rozanov says. "But just your hole, not your cock."
A wounded sort of noise escapes Shane,but he's nodding, reaching for the lube to slick up his fingers again, and pressing them into himself. Somehow the sensation is even better, even worse, with the sounds of Rozanov on the other side of the phone, stroking himself while Shane grinds back down on his fingers, the angle's not great, not enough, but maybe it could be, Shane thinks he could do it, he could let go, if Rozanov just—
"Tell me to come," Shane cries, not even caring how desperate it sounds, how telling it is. He's above all of it right now, mind floating somewhere else. "You gotta let me, Rozanov. Please."
"Hollander," Rozanov groans, and then he's moaning, camera going shaky as he tips over the edge, the sound only sending more heat through Shane's body. Shane's right there, so close, he wants—he needs—Rozanov to tell him. He could come untouched now, without a hand on his cock, if only Rozanov told him to.
"Oh, god, Rozanov, please." Shane's face burns. "I need it, it's been so long, please. I need you. Let me come, please. Tell me—"
"No."
Rozanov's firm tone shocks Shane's hand into stilling. His entire body freezes, waiting for a command.
"What?" The arousal in his stomach is so thick it's almost nauseating. There's no way Rozanov means…
"No," Rozanov repeats. "Don't come. I don't want you to."
"What the fuck?"
"You heard me."
"I don't— I called you to help me, you asshole." Shane doesn't know what kind of game Rozanov is playing with him, but he's too frustrated for it. He's on hair trigger right now, even a finger light touch on his dick would send him careening towards the edge. He starts moving again, slowly, thrusting his fingers in and out. "This isn't—"
"Don't care."
Shane blinks. His eyes are wet, face hot. Has he not already debased himself enough for Rozanov? What more does he want? "Please."
It's a pathetic attempt at begging, the word coming out more stubborn than pleading. Rozanov raises an eyebrow in response.
"Please, Rozanov," Shane tries again. "Let me come. I need it."
"Better," Rozanov says. "But still no."
"It's not fair," Shane says, petulant. "You came."
"No, is very unfair, you are right." He pushes himself up straight, no longer leaning against the counter. "My teammates are still out there. I have been in this bathroom long time now."
"No!" Shane cuts in. "You can't— I'm still— Please, just let me, I need it. Please."
Oh, god, He can't be serious. He's messing with him, he's joking, he has to be. Shane's still got two fingers in his ass, cock weeping against his stomach, and Rozanov's talking about leaving.
"I'll see you in nine days," Rozanov continues. "You can wait, yes?"
"What?" Shane's no longer floating, he's crashed back into his body, right back into the terrible wanting. Something like panic rises in his chest.
"Nine days," Rozanov repeats. "I'll be in Montreal. You say it's better with me, might as well wait until you have all of me."
"I—" Shane stammers. He spreads the fingers inside himself, pressing against his walls. It already doesn't feel as good, only increases the wanting. "I'm hard right now."
"I know."
"I want to come."
"Okay." Rozanov shrugs, and the indifference of the movement sends heat down Shane's spine again. "I am not telling you to. You could have a, what did you call it?" Rozanov grins. "A fine orgasm now, or wait until I tell you to and have a good one."
Shane shakes his head, feels his eyes well up. "I've already waited for three months. We've been apart the entire summer."
"Is true."
"It's not—" Shane sniffs hard, trying to stop the tears from falling. "I can't—"
Unable to think, Shane finally removes his fingers from his ass, sitting up on the bed now. The room kind of seems to be spinning and Shane isn't sure what to make of the way his arousal still presses against his skin, he's lightheaded with it.
"Oh, poor Hollander," Rozanov croons, condescension coating his vowels. His hand reaches out of frame and the paper towel dispenser whirls. "Is not how you thought this call would go, yes?"
"I—" Shane's attention drifts as he watches Rozanov wipe come off his fingers.
"You text me, all hard and horny, because you need me to help you come, and you think that I will just let you."
"You're serious," Shane breathes. Rozanov really isn't going to help him. Shane put himself through this humiliating phone call, admitted to Rozanov that he needed him, and he's not… he's not going to tell him to come.
Rozanov nods. "Very serious."
"You're an asshole." Shane crosses his arm over his chest
"Ah, but you like it," Rozanov grins, it splits his face meanly. "You need it to come, yes?"
"Fuck you. I don't have to listen to you."
Rozanov doesn't bother answering. Its almost more humiliating than if he'd teased him. Because Shane doesn't have to listen to Rozanov. But they both know he will.
Shane takes a deep breath, settles more into his body. He waits until he feels a little less like crying before he talks.
"Now what." Shane's aware he sounds like he's pouting. "I'm still hard."
Rozanov laughs, a cruel chuckle. "I don't know. I really do have to go. Perhaps you should take a cold shower. Or touch yourself some more, I don't care. But don't come." He smirks. "I hear it won't be very good without me."
"I should never have told you that."
"Probably not. But I'm glad you did. It'll be fun."
"For you," Shane huffs.
"And for you. You went three months without having a good orgasm? I could be nicer than that."
"And you'll let me come when I see you?" Shane asks, still off-kilter. He's small like this, under Rozanov's gaze.
Rozanov's eyes widen, and Shane nearly kicks himself, knowing that he's put the idea into his head. Rozanov fucking Shane, making Shane blow him, using him, but not letting him come…
"Maybe," is the response Rozanov lands on. "If I feel like it."
"You can't—" Shane tries, but he's quickly cut off.
"Oh, Hollander. I think we've established, I very much can. Bye bye now. I will see you later."
The phone call ends and Shane blinks. His cock is probably harder than it was before he called, his frustration worse. The room seems darker, smaller than earlier, like the heat of Shane caused it to close in, and Shane still wants. He wants to come so bad.
But it doesn't matter.
Rozanov was right. It wouldn't even be very good.
The idea of waiting shouldn't be so hot, but that's all Shane does anyway, right? Wait for Rozanov. The only thing different now is that Rozanov knows.
Shane shudders and extracts himself from the sheets with shaking legs. He takes a cold shower.
Nine days.