Archive of Our Own

Yuna hears about it before Shane does. There's something fucked up about that, Shane thinks, that something can happen with Rozanov, and Shane isn't the first one to know. Especially something like this.

Shane's in Ottawa only for the weekend, eating breakfast at the kitchen island, when Yuna slams her phone down on the counter across from him.

"Oh my god."

He looks up. Yuna's eyes are squeezed shut, face twisted.

Shane swallows his bite of egg. "What is it?"

"Rozanov. He had— There was a…" she drops her voice down to a whisper. "a sex tape. It must have gotten leaked last night, and someone, someone giffed it."

Shane's fork clatters to the counter. "A what?"

"A sex tape." She repeats.

Shane's first thought is that it must have him in it, and the eggs in his stomach threaten to make an early exit. But he's never once recorded himself with Rozanov. And his mother would have a much bigger reaction than mild-mannered scandalization if she saw the stuff he let Rozanov do to him.

"Holy shit," is all Shane can say.

"Well." Yuna picks up her phone gingerly. "I can't really say I'm surprised. Rozanov does seem like the type."

"Who leaked it?"

"I don't know." She shakes her head. "I don't want to know. We already know too much about that man's sex life."

"Right."

Shane waits until she leaves the room before he opens up his phone, not trusting his face to stay neutral.

It doesn't take more than a couple clicks to find the whole story. At about half-past midnight, an empty twitter account posted a link to the full video. Within the hour, the girl was identified as a Kathryn Gillmore from Buffalo, and by morning, she'd privated all her accounts. Nobody knows who posted it. Rozanov hasn't said anything, probably doesn't need to. Making a statement about it would only attract more attention.

But there's a sex tape out there. Of Rozanov.

Shane puts his phone away. Finishes his breakfast. Chews the eggs more thoroughly than needed. Thinks about Rozanov.

How did he react when he saw the video? Where was he? In his apartment in Boston, sitting in the bed Shane's been in before? Had Kathryn been in that bed?

Shane rinses his plate. Sets it in the sink. Thinks about Rozanov.

Did he have the same fear—a single, irrational thought that Shane was the one in the video? Was he relieved that it was Kathryn? A woman nobody would question.

Or maybe… maybe Rozanov had to call her, talk her down from freaking out at the leak. Maybe he spoke to her softly, guided her into privating her accounts, apologized for all the drama.

Shane does his usual workout in the home gym. The one at his parents' house isn't as nice as the one in his cottage, but it gets the job done. Shane spends more time lifting than he's supposed to. The ache in his muscles serves as a nice distraction. Even then, he still thinks about Rozanov.

There's a video out there. Anyone can see it. Rozanov having sex with a woman.

Shane finishes his workout. Watches game tapes. He's never known what to do with an off day. Can't afford them this close to the season starting anyways.

What happens in the video? Does she suck him off? How much of him can she fit down her throat?

In the evening, Shane agrees to watch a movie with his parents. It's some action film, with spies and hostages and a kind of heist—Shane can't pay attention.

Maybe Rozanov fucks her. Maybe that's the entire video. Rozanov pounding into some girl while she cries out, nails clawing into his back. Shane can picture what Rozanov looks like when he finally comes, the way his body would collapse on top of hers as he lets out a final groan.

Shane knows what that looks like. What that feels like.

He's not the only one.

Everyone's seen it.

It feels more than a little perverted. Shane leans back against the headboard of his childhood bed, legs covered by the light blue comforter he picked out in middle school. The only light in the room is from the moonlight and the faded glow of the star stickers dotting his ceiling. Shane tries to find Rozanov's sex tape on his phone. It's terrifyingly easy. One link in the comments of a post talking about it, and Shane's got the video pulled up.

It's longer than Shane was expecting. The runtime is over forty minutes. Jesus, is Shane really going to watch this?

He shouldn't.

He knows he shouldn't.

It was leaked. Rozanov and… Kathryn didn't intend for anyone else to see this. And if something like this happened to Shane, he'd probably have to flee the continent—if he didn't drop dead from embarrassment before that. It's a violation, and Shane should put his phone down, and try to forget all about it. Except…

Well, Rozanov's different. He's not Shane. No one's all that shocked that something like this would happen to him. It's Rozanov. Notorious playboy. This isn't a big deal for him.

Nothing more than a brief embarrassment. Everyone will forget about it in a couple weeks.

Shane still shouldn't watch it.

He hits play.

It's immediately clear that this isn't any kind of professional video. It opens with a shaky camera being placed into something to hold it. In frame is a woman. Short platinum blonde hair, dark roots. She wears light makeup—mascara and blush. She looks like the kinds of girls Shane sees tagging Rozanov on Instagram, leggy and blonde and hot in a casual sort of way. She wears a black, lacy bra and matching panties.

Shane thinks absently that she's probably pretty, but his attention has already shifted. Behind her, Rozanov sits on the edge of the bed. He's only wearing boxers, and Shane's eyes drop down to his thighs first, then to his chest. Sometimes Shane'll watch Rozanov's thirst trap stories—on a burner, once they've been reposted by a fan account—but other than that, the only time Shane gets to see Rozanov like this is in their brief meetups. And he never gets to just look, too consumed by the desire to get close to him, get his mouth around him.

Now, all he can do is look. The expanse of Rozanov's body, the way he leans back on his hands, eyes already hooded with desire as he watches the woman step back from the camera towards him.

Rozanov pushes off the bed to meet her. He runs his hands down her arms, and he grins as she shivers. He turns her so she faces the camera completely, standing close behind her, hands still moving up and down. Goosebumps dot her skin.

"Smile now, Kate. You are on camera."

And oh, Shane knows that tone. Rozanov's voice is low and silky, and even though he's not talking to Shane—he's talking to Kate—it still sends a spark of heat through Shane's core.

Then Kate turns to pull Rozanov into a kiss, and Rozanov's hands fly to her wrist and then trail around, gripping her ass, and Kate melts into it. She looks comfortable, she looks—

"Sit back down, Ilya." Kate's voice isn't as high-pitched as Shane would have thought.

Ilya's smile teases. "And where do you want me, Miss Director?"

Kate laughs and pushes at him. Shane's mind becomes a haze.

Kate directs Rozanov to sit on the bed, drops to her knees to suck his cock—his cock. Shane hasn't seen Rozanov since before the playoffs last year. He's had a whole summer without him, and Montreal and Boston didn't play each other during preseason.

So Shane hasn't seen Rozanov's dick for months.

He tries not to think about it when he can't have it, but that never works. During the summer, Shane often found himself in the middle of his king bed, legs spread, fucking a dildo in and out of himself, wishing it was Rozanov's cock.

Rozanov pulls Kate off him, and then they're both climbing into the bed, and Shane watches as Rozanov pulls off her panties, and they kiss for minutes, hands wandering each other's bodies, Rozanov's creeping down, until Kate's guiding him further, his head landing between her legs, fingers and mouth and dirty talk—you're so wet down here. Kate looks directly at the camera as Rozanov eats her out, and when Rozanov finally lifts his head up to look at her—fingers still circling down there—Kate taps him until he faces the camera too.

"Are you going to touch yourself when you watch?" he asks.

Shane thinks that Kate nods, or makes some other kind of affirmative, but he's not looking at her. He's looking at Rozanov's dark eyes as he dips a finger into Kate's hole and then back out. Wrapping his lips around it. All while looking at the camera. Shane palms his dick through his shorts, but he doesn't take it out, unable to look away as Rozanov goes back between Kate's legs until she's gasping, thighs clenching around his head.

She pulls him up after she comes, but she doesn't kiss him. Shane feels like he's floating somewhere above himself as he watches Rozanov pull a condom over his cock and then push into her. The headboard bangs against the wall as Rozanov thrusts, Kate's hands grasping at his back, her mouth open as she moans.

Rozanov comes first, the name Katie on his tongue. He replaces his cock with his mouth again, one of his hands working on Kate's clit, the other squeezes her breast.

"Ilya," Kate cries when she comes for the second time.

In the after, Rozanov's the one to turn off the camera, shooting it a self-satisfied wink before the video ends. And Shane's alone in the dark.

He's still hard.

He plays the video again.

This time he doesn't look at Kate, doesn't even pretend to. Instead, he lets himself drink in the lines of Rozanov's body—the meat of his thighs where she grips him, the redness of his cock as she bobs up and down it. Shane thinks that he can take Rozanov further. He comes right away, while Rozanov is still in Kate's throat.

He's in a post-orgasm haze as he watches Kate spread her legs wide for Rozanov to settle between them. He notices more this time—pieces he couldn't register during the first watch through, too overwhelmed to look at everything. Rozanov licks at her pussy like he's starving for it, fingers and tongue working. The camera faces the length of the bed, giving Shane a side profile. He's missing some details but his imagination—combined with the wet sounds—is more than enough to fill in the blanks. Rozanov's tongue thrusting into Kate, his fingers circling her clit. Rozanov pulls off a moment.

"Fuck, Katie, you are always so wet down here for me."

"Don't stop, Ilya," she responds, voice a moan. Her hands push through Rozanov's curls, and her head is lolled sideways on the pillow so she can make eye contact with the camera.

Rozanov lets her push his head back down. Shane thinks of how his tongue feels against him, licking at Shane's asshole. Shane's not even hard anymore. The tissue with his come on it hasn't even been thrown away yet. He's just watching to watch it.

It's odd, seeing Rozanov like this from an outside perspective. Unguarded and bent on providing pleasure. Shane watches the way Rozanov lies down, doesn't even bother lifting his head up to take a breath, just drinking in the taste of…

Of Kate.

Her eyes are dark where she looks at the camera, and when Rozanov comes up for air, she taps him on the chin, guiding him to look too.

Shane's had this before—Rozanov between his legs, mouth working against him. Shane remembers the feeling of holding back his thighs, of Rozanov making out with his hole. Shane heard the same noises. Rozanov looked at him the same way he looks at the camera now. Only difference is that Rozanov's face is wetter, slick from the chin down, practically dripping with it.

"Are you going to touch yourself when you watch?" Rozanov asks, somehow making the question sound casual. "You want to see what you look like when you are like this? Wet and hungry for cock." He overpronounces the 'k' making the word sound even dirtier. "See what your face looks like when my mouth is on you."

"Yes, god, Ilya, yes," Kate responds, gaze flitting between Rozanov and the camera as Rozanov licks her wetness off of his fingers.

Then Rozanov returns to his place between her legs and soon Kate's thighs close around his head as she comes, her moan low and long, a mix of fuck and Ilya and oh my god, and she looks at the camera, at Shane the entire time.

She pulls Rozanov up towards her—his bare chest on top of her, but she doesn't kiss him. Maybe she's turned off by the mess on his face, but Shane knows that if it was him, he wouldn't have been able to resist. He's never able to resist.

But this isn't for Shane. It's for Kate.

Rozanov looks at the camera again as he slips the condom over his cock. A dark, hooded gaze that he never meant for Shane to see. A knot forms in Shane's stomach as he watches Rozanov press into her, fuck her hard, headboard slaming against the wall. His left hand squeezes her tit the entire time.

The room feels smaller than it used to—or maybe that's just Shane, sitting here on his bed with Rozanov's moans coming through his earbuds. Maybe something rotten has crawled itself down Shane's throat, settled deep into his core and spread out far enough to choke the air out.

Rozanov has sex with other people.

Shane's always known that.

Kate moans, loud and wrong. Rozanov answers, and Shane's heard it all before. He knows that moan. He knows it.

He's not the only one.

When the video ends—the last shot still Rozanov sauntering towards the camera, giving it that wink—the rot in Shane's chest starts to calcify.

He starts the video over.

This time he doesn't even get hard. He feels too raw for it. The video barely even seems hot anymore, just a cruel reminder of everything that's wrong with what Shane's doing.

Because he's just like Kate, another name on the long list of people Rozanov fucks. He's the fucking girl.

The video passes by in a sort of haze this time. Shane's attention split between how achingly familiar Rozanov is and how different Kate is from him. More confident. This sex tape seems to be her idea. She directed Rozanov to sit on the bed, pulled him up by his hair after she came when she wanted him to fuck her. She wanted and she told him, instead of waiting for Rozanov to pull it out of her like a rotten tooth.

Rozanov.

She called him Ilya.

Ilya and Kate.

Katie even.

Shane supposes it's different with a girl. You couldn't call a girl by her last name, she'd probably slap you.

Fuck.

Shane shouldn't have watched this video. He needs to go to bed and forget about it.

Fuck.

He needs to clean up first. He just fucking came in his childhood bed from watching Ilya Rozanov's leaked sex tape. The same bed his mom used to crawl into with him when he had nightmares, and now he's ruined it forever.

Now he's probably always going to think about this stupid sex tape and how he watched it three times in a row and how it made a rot grow in his chest and—

Fuck.

Shane cleans himself off in his bathroom, and tries to ignore the spiraling in his stomach.

He'll forget about it.

He has to forget about it.

Shane doesn't think about the video the next morning. He doesn't.

He brushes his teeth like normal, scrubbing the back of his tongue without thinking about Rozanov coming down someone else's throat.

He says goodbye to his mother without thinking about the way she reacted when she caught a clip of the video on her feed. Doesn't wonder about which part she might have seen.

On his drive he listens to an old episode of one of his hockey podcasts and doesn't flinch when they say Rozanov's name. He doesn't.

He's back in Montreal for their afternoon practice, and he changes into his practice jersey in the normal way—the way that doesn't announce to the whole room that he's thinking about Ilya Rozanov's dick.

"Did you guys see that there's that fucking video of Rozanov?"

Shane winces at J.J.'s booming voice, and he ducks further into his stall.

"It's fucking nasty," is all Comeau says.

"It's Rozanov," Hayden says. "He's probably got a whole flashdrive full of videos like those, everyone knows he's an asshole."

Shane freezes, but the conversation moves around him quickly. Nobody gives a shit about Rozanov's sex tape. Nobody else watched it, much less watched it a total of three times last night, and then woke up still thinking about it. Shane's probably the only person in the world who even cares.

Aside from maybe the woman in it.

Shane doubts even Rozanov really minds it—he's so fucking blatant about his sex life already. He's probably just laughing about it in his own locker room, brushing off chirps. He's not tensing up about it like Shane is.

So Shane squares his shoulders, grits his fucking teeth, and gets back to practice. To hockey. And he doesn't think about Rozanov.

He watches the tape again over dinner. Listens to Rozanov moan inside a girl's pussy while he eats. By the time he finishes his last bite, Rozanov's inside her, her nails raking down his back, her mouth twisted open in pleasure, and Shane's hard in his pants.

So, Shane puts his plate in the sink and goes back to his room. Starts the video over.

He takes his time, stroking himself slowly, teases his hole too as Kate gets on her knees for Rozanov. Rozanov's hands wind into her hair.

Shane imagines it was him. He's been there before—kneeling on the floor in front of the bed. Rozanov looking down at him, legs on either side, hands on his head, pushing him down down down.

Rozanov's gentler with the girl, letting her lead the pace, but maybe that's Shane's fault. Shane never wants to lead the pace. And when Shane does wants to—when he gets to that space inside of him that he only seems to have with Rozanov—he's usually fucking desperate with it, not the way Kate does it. She teases Rozanov, pulls his cock out slowly, running her fingers on the inside of his thighs. She licks at the sides of him first—Shane usually starts with the head, unable to resist lapping at the precome. Like Shane, one of her hands dives back to tease at his balls, but she lets the other one join her mouth on his cock. Shane would've dropped it to Rozanov's thigh, gripping the flesh of him to keep himself steady. Maybe he'd let that hand drift down to his own cock eventually—if Rozanov didn't swat him away.

Rozanov doesn't do nearly as much swatting with Kate. He keeps his hands in her hair, tugging when it gets good. Eventually, he pulls Kate off, keeping a hand on her cheek. Shane's mouth parts as Rozanov wipes his thumb over her lips. She sucks it in. Hollows her cheeks out around it.

Shane's been in the same position before.

It's humiliating, and at the same time sends arousal shooting down Shane's spine. He grips the base of his cock. The video isn't over yet. Not even close.

"So good," Rozanov says, his accent thicker like it always is during sex. "Perfect mouth. Up on the bed now?"

Kate nods, and Rozanov pulls his thumb out of her mouth. She looks over at the camera, and Shane meets her eyes for one long look before she's sprawling out on the bed, platinum hair cascading down onto the pillows. She pulls off her bra while Rozanov removes her panties.

Rozanov settles between Kate's legs and Shane scrambles for the lube in his side table. He slicks up two fingers and circles them around his hole as Rozanov licks into Kate.

What does Rozanov look like when his mouth is on Shane instead? Shane doesn't know. He knows what Rozanov's tongue feels like against his hole, hot and blunt as it fucks in and out of him, what he sounds like as he moans into him, the vibrations coursing though him. He even knows what he tastes like afterwards, when Rozanov captures Shane's lips in a kiss that he can't help but give into, even though the bitter taste of himself lingers.

But Shane's got no idea what it looks like.

Rozanov makes eye contact with the camera. The bottom half of his face is obscene. Shane slips his fingers past his rim, eyes fluttering closed with both the pleasure and the need to get away from Rozanov's gaze.

How did Kate feel? When she watched this video again, saw how wet Rozanov made her. Saw herself come from just his fingers and tongue.

Shane opens his eyes and puts himself in Kate's place as the video continues, fucking himself in earnest now, fingers pumping in and out. Rozanov repositions himself, lines up his cock, and before long, he's thrusting into Kate, the drag starting slow and then speeding up with her encouragement.

Matching the rhythm of his thrusts to Rozanov's, Shane angles his wrist upwards to hit his prostate. Rozanov comes with a cry, and Shane knows that expression on his face well.

Once Rozanov's finished Kate off, Shane comes too, nearly at the same time, with one hand on his dick, and the other still inside him. His vision whites out with it, throwing his head back against the pillow, arching, all at the same time as Kate on the screen.

For a moment, the only thing that exists in the room is Shane's heavy breaths and the smell of sex. Then the guilt settles in. With come cooling on his stomach, and his fingers and hole still sticky with lube, Shane comes back to reality, and the nausea returns to his stomach. But still, he can't tear his eyes from the screen as Rozanov saunters back towards the camera, shooting it that familiar wink before turning it off.

Shane swallows.

He needs to stop this. Needs to delete this video from his phone and never try to find it again. He needs to take a shower and clean his sheets and forget about Rozanov. Forget about the sex tape.

Shane only accomplishes two of those things. Once he's lying in bed with damp hair and clean sheets, he pulls the video up again on his phone. He doesn't touch himself this time, even if it does make him half hard. He just watches it.

Somehow, Shane thinks that's almost worse. He already remembers too much. Could map out the whole thing in his mind if he closed his eyes, but it's the details that Shane's hunting for. He wants to know it all, and if he's distracted he might miss something.

So he keeps his hands away from his dick. And he catalogs it, keeps track of the way Rozanov gasps—is it the same or is it different?—the way he forms the name Kate—the single syllable slipping off his tongue easier than Hollander ever could—when he switches to Katie. Kate becomes Katie when Rozanov becomes more tender… or is it more horny? Shane can't figure it out. He's never been great at parsing other people's emotions, but he needs to know. Needs to know everything.

Like watching an opponent on the ice. Shane's always been obsessive about that, studying before his games. When playing in a new arena, Shane used to watch hours of footage just to see how the puck bounced off those boards. In the early days, even before the draft, Shane would scour the internet for any videos of Rozanov's games. This feels the same.

Shane watches the video twice before he goes to sleep.

He settles into a routine after that. Watches the tape at least once every night. Doesn't jack off every time because that always makes him kind of sick—like he's using Rozanov for porn. Shane wasn't supposed to see this so it's definitely completely fucked up to get off to it.

Not like watching it in his other way is any better.

Shane could say all the lines with Rozanov now if he wanted to. Where do you want me, Miss Director? and Fuck, Katie, you feel so good and Oh fuck, blyat, I'm gonna—. And Shane could block out the whole thing like some twisted post-director. He knows where Rozanov's hands go and how Kate responds to them. And that look that Rozanov gives the camera, where his chin is dripping wet—are you going to touch yourself when you watch?—sometimes Shane will make it up until that part, watching with only an analytical eye, but that sight, those words, will have Shane shoving a hand down his pants, trying to get himself off as quick as possible so he doesn't miss anything else.

Shane watches the video on the plane once. Sitting next to Hayden, keeping the screen tilted away. Hayden asks what he's watching, and Shane tells him it's just YouTube.

It doesn't help that Shane has to wait so long before he gets to see Rozanov. The game schedule this season feels like it's designed specifically to torture Shane. He didn't see Rozanov at all during preseason, and the first Montreal-Boston game isn't until the second week of November, so Shane has over a month where the only Rozanov he gets is the one on the screen. The one meant for Kate.

Kathryn Gillmore. Shane's not proud to admit that's googled her name more times than is healthy. Her accounts are all still private, but Shane's found out that she works as a personal trainer, and also sells protein smoothie powders for what Shane's pretty sure is a pyramid scheme. She's tagged occasionally on her friends' public accounts—all of them similarly pretty and skinny and blonde—and she doesn't seem to be too disadvantaged by the whole sex tape leak. Shane bets that in a couple weeks she could make her account public again without causing any fuss.

Shane's the only one who cares.

"Shane, can you lay off the game tape?" Yuna asks. Shane's sitting in the armchair at his parents' house, laptop angled away from everyone else. It's the last free weekend Shane's going to have in a while, so he made the drive.

"Uh, what?" Shane pauses and looks up from his screen. Rozanov looks stupid like this, face contorted with pleasure, balls deep into Kate.

"You're only here for the night. If you're going to review tape, at least put it on the TV so I can give pointers too."

"Oh, uh—" Shane stutters. "How, how did you—"

"Know that you're looking at game tape?" Yuna finishes. "I can tell from your eyes. They're intense. Focused. Like you always get when trying to figure out the play."

Trying to figure out the play.

"Right," he says slowly, closing the video out, and pulling up game tape instead. "I can put it on the TV."

Boston is the third city they're playing on this roadie, so Shane has to make it through Detroit and New York before he sees Rozanov.

For once, Shane isn't sure if he's looking forward to it. His text thread with "Lily" has been dry, the bare bones for meeting today—which is Shane's own fault, but he can't bring himself to banter like they usually do over text, irrationally afraid that Rozanov will be able to see it on him, he'll be able to tell that Shane's watched that video more times than he can count.

Shane's in his hotel room in New York, fresh off a satisfying win against the Admirals, when he pulls up the tape again. This time it almost hurts more, since he's so close to seeing Rozanov. Less than twenty-four hours away.

Is this how Kate felt, waiting for Rozanov to come to Buffalo? Did she spend the days leading up to games in anticipation? Get hard—or, wet, Shane supposes—just thinking about it?

Probably not.

Either way, Shane remembers what it feels like to be underneath Rozanov as Rozanov lines himself up with Kate's entrance.

Rozanov groans as he pushes into her, and Kate does the same, her hands grasping onto his back. She runs her hands up and down his sides, like she doesn't know what to do with the feeling of him inside her.

"Fuck, Katie," Rozanov says once he's fully seated. His voice is a low moan. "You feel so good around me. So hot and tight."

Katie responds with another breathy moan, and then Rozanov's moving.

"Katie," Rozanov moans. The headboard hits against the wall, the bangs mixing with their gasps, and it all still sounds so dirty no matter how many times Shane's heard it. Rozanov's hands move down between their bodies, working against Kate's clit while he still keeps his rhythm.

"Ilya," Kate responds.

Sometimes Shane thinks that's the difference between Kate and Ilya and Rozanov and Hollander. The easy response, the simple role. Kate lets Rozanov lead, but she doesn't give him all of her—not like Shane does.

And, of course, there's the first names.

The easy way Ilya drips off Kate's tongue, the name sounding sugar sweet. Ilya fucks into a Kate with familiarity, hands traversing well-trodden routes over her body.

Ilya's face twists. "Oh, fuck, blyat, I'm gonna—"

His sentence cuts off with another groan, and he comes, his head falling onto Kate's chest as pleasure courses through him. Ilya recovers quick though, and as soon as he's back, he's sliding down Kate, pressing his fingers back into her, mouth onto her clit, until she's crying out, coming for a second time.

Once she's done, she whispers something the camera doesn't pick up, pushes at Rozanov until he's climbing off her, heading towards the camera.

It's the wink from Rozanov that always sends the guilt spinning through Shane's stomach. He's used to the feeling by now. It doesn't stop him from getting hard.

Shane takes himself into hand in an almost perfunctory sort of way. Jerks himself dry and tight. His head lolls against the pillow and he imagines Rozanov watching him. His face heats just from the image.

Hollander, you are very worked up from just some video. Rozanov would curl his lip in distaste, look down at Shane where he writhed on the bed, if he ever knew that Shane watched it… that it made him feel like this.

Reduced so totally to wanting from a video that wasn't even meant for him.

No, it was meant for Kate.

How many times did Kate get to watch her private tape before it was revealed to the whole world? Did she tell Rozanov—Ilya—ever when she watched? Shane doesn't think Ilya would give Kate the same disdain he knows Rozanov would give him.

Shane stills the hand on his cock, imagining Ilya standing over him. Is your video everything you hoped for, Miss Director?

"Ilya," Shane whispers, but the word still sounds loud in the hotel room. It sounds unfamiliar. His hand is motionless, just holding his hard cock.

Shane's never said Ilya like that. Not by itself. Ilya Rozanov. Rozanov. Never Ilya.

He swallows hard. Tries again. "Ilya."

This is so stupid. It's just a fucking name.

Kate can just say it. And Ilya can say her name back.

Shane slowly starts moving his hand again. He doesn't dare open his mouth, and when he comes, he's biting back three syllables.

The Boston game was a slog. They were tied for nothing for the first two periods, and Shane finally made the winning goal in the third. Far from the best showing of either of their teams, but at least Montreal won. Shane doesn't think he could make it through tonight if he had to deal with a loss on top of it.

Still, Shane could barely look at Rozanov during the faceoff, certain that if Rozanov looked for longer than a second, he'd be able to see right through him, and know exactly what Shane's been doing with that stupid video.

But once Shane slips through the door of Rozanov's Boston apartment, Shane, for the first time in over a month, forgets about the video.

Rozanov greets him at the entryway, and they reach for each other at the same time. Rozanov's calloused hands on his cheeks, his lips clash with Shane's as he pushes him against the door.

Shane's breathing clean air again, the smog from the video dissipating. His fingers tangle in Rozanov's hair. Rozanov's hand cups his ass.

"Mhmm," Shane hums. Rozanov licks Shane's mouth in response. "Did you miss me?"

He's aiming for teasing, and he mostly manages it, but if Rozanov asked him that same question, Shane would have to say yes. Rozanov on a screen doesn't compare at all to this. Rozanov's pressing against the length of his body, hands wandering, mouth slightly smokey in a way that Shane should nag him about—later. Once he can bear to separate from him.

Rozanov doesn't answer with words. Shifts his hips so his hardening cock presses into Shane's thigh.

After all these years, Rozanov feels familiar. He knows Shane in a way nobody else does, and it doesn't matter that other people know Rozanov like this. It doesn't.

Then Rozanov's walking backwards and Shane's following, he's always following. Rozanov pulls off articles of clothing on the way, like a trail of breadcrumbs leading to the bedroom. Shane doesn't do the same.

Once the door closes, Rozanov speaks for the first time since Shane entered the apartment.

"Take off your clothes."

"Nice to see you too," Shane quips, but he's pulling off his shirt, folding it and setting it down on Rozanov's dresser.

So far it's normal, Shane's been keeping it normal, and he keeps it normal as he climbs onto the bed. With Rozanov's guidance, he positions himself between Rozanov's legs. And once Shane's got his mouth on him, he lets himself fully relax.

It's probably concerning, really, how much of Shane's mind disappears once he's got his lips wrapped around Rozanov, but Shane can't bring himself to care right now. Not when Rozanov's firm hand on the back of his head forces him down, when he can feel him in the back of his throat.

"Oh, Hollander, da, like that." The words tumble out of Rozanov, and he moves his other hand to Shane's cheek, practically dragging Shane up and down his cock. "So perfect. Like this. Da. Fuck."

Shane moans, the words washing over him. His own cock presses against the mattress, and the small amount of friction he can get only makes him harder. Rozanov's firm grip on his head pushes the rest of his thoughts loose, as if the whole world narrows down to this.

Eventually, Rozanov pulls him off, tilts Shane's head so Shane looks up at him, up across the expanse of Rozanov's body to see him, his dark eyes, his mouth an unreadable smile.

"So messy, Hollander." He tsks, then wipes at Shane's mouth, smearing the spit rather than cleaning it off.

"Fuck off," Shane says, voice hoarse.

Rozanov raises an eyebrow, holds Shane there—less than an inch above his cock, chin angled up towards Rozanov.

"Are you going to fuck me?" Shane asks.

Rozanov waits.

"Please."

He smiles. "Da."

Then he's tugging Shane up and licking into Shane's mouth and Shane can't even pretend to care that he tastes like smoke right now, not when it's been months since he's had this, months since he felt Rozanov's touch, tasted him on his tongue. Rozanov's hand is on his ass, fingers creeping towards his hole, searching, and Shane's already prepped because he didn't want to wait—not after he's waited so long. Shane feels more than hears Rozanov's delighted gasp.

"Oh, you are already wet down here." Rozanov teases his finger around his rim.

Shane makes a face. "I prepped."

"I can feel that." His finger pushes inside with minimal resistance, and Shane presses back into it. "Ah. Eager."

"It's been a while," Shane mumbles. "Can you get on with it?"

Rozanov ignores him. Adds in a second finger. He thrusts them lazily in and out, and Shane bites back his protests, knowing that trying to rush Rozanov would only result in him going slower.

"Yes, you are very loose already," Rozanov comments, casual-like, as if they're discussing the weather. "Very ready to be fucked."

The word sounds dirtier in his accent, and Shane hides his head in Rozanov's shoulder.

"How do you want it?"

Shane takes a moment to realize he'd been asked a question, and even then, his brain's too foggy to figure out what he means.

"What?"

"What position?" Rozanov clarifies.

"Oh, uh…" Shane doesn't look up. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, and he doesn't know how to answer.

Rozanov pulls his fingers out, pushes Shane up and off him. "However you want. Just show me."

Shane pushes himself onto his hands and knees. He doesn't think that looking at Rozanov right now will help.

"Okay. Good." Rozanov rests a hand on Shane's waist, positions himself behind. He bends forwards to press a kiss to Shane's shoulder, then pushes Shane's chest down, his ass up.

Shane holds back a 'fucking get on with it' and takes a deep breath as Rozanov starts to enter him. Rozanov groans, as he pushes past the tightness of Shane's rim, and it sounds familiar—the same noise he made when he was with Kathryn. Shane closes his eyes, tries to ignore it.

"Oh," Rozanov moans as he fully seats himself. No matter how many times they do this, Shane can't get over how impossibly full he feels. "Hollander, you feel so good."

Katie, you feel so good.

"Do I feel better than her?" The words spill out before he can even think about them. He wishes he could bite off his fucking tongue.

Rozanov freezes. "Than who?"

Shane's face heats, hot enough to burn a hole into the pillowcase. "Nevermind."

"Than who, Hollander?" Ilya drapes himself over Shane. There's no hiding from him. He waits, and Shane knows he would wait forever.

"Kate."

Rozanov's silent. He peels himself off of Shane's back. The cool air settles over his skin, and Shane knows he's fucked it all up.

"You watched the video."

It's not a question. Shane isn't sure what to make of the tone, and then Rozanov's pulling all the way out of him and tapping Shane's side. Shane flips over, dread a solid mass in his stomach as Rozanov faces him.

"You watched the video," he repeats.

Shane bites hard on the inside of his cheek. "Sorry."

"You had question." The tip of Rozanov's cock still presses against Shane's hole. "Ask me again."

Shane shakes his head. Looks at a spot on the ceiling that rests to the right of Rozanov's hard eyes.

Rozanov grabs his face, holds it still, cheeks squished together. He waits. Shane's pinned, a butterfly trapped under the glass of Rozanov's gaze. He swallows and meets it.

"Do I feel better than her?" He whispers. "Than Kate."

Rozanov grins.

"You are jealous," he announces.

"No, I'm not." Shane's burning. His face is aflame. He can't look at Rozanov. How's he ever going to look at him again?

"You are," He says it like a fact, not an argument, and then he presses slowly back into Shane. The angle is different here, pace painstakingly slow. "When you watched," Rozanov starts, tone a false kind of casual. "Did you touch yourself? Imagine it was you I was fucking?"

"No."

Rozanov huffs. "You are still a really bad liar."

"Fuck off."

"Hmm, no, I do not think you want me to. I might go back to my friend Kate. Leave my Jane all high and dry."

At the name Jane, Shane's face finishes its transformation into molten lava. Unfortunately, his dick twitches, and he can spot the moment Rozanov notices.

"You like that, don't you? Being my Jane. My Montreal girl, so nice and wet for me."

"Shut up, Rozanov. Just— Just fuck me."

"Oh, Jane is always wanting it, is begging me all of the time—"

"I'm not begging."

"She's just like—" Rozanov's voice turns high-pitched, mocking. "Please, Ilya, please, fuck me right now. Has to rub herself to videos of me when I am gone. She cannot get off any other way."

"Stop it." Shane's mortified, his dick is so hard, and Rozanov still hasn't fucking moved. "You didn't— you didn't talk to Kate like this."

Rozanov's eyes darken. "No, I did not. My Katie would not like this. If I did this, she'd find some other man to fuck, but I know Jane. She's such a slut for it."

"Rozanov, you have to fucking move."

"She's a pervert." He continues like he didn't even hear him, still buried deep inside of Shane, but he only trails his hand up and down Shane's thigh. "Watching me fuck another girl, imagining it was her instead."

"I hate—"

Rozanov rolls his hips, and Shane's protest cuts off with a groan.

"And maybe my Kate is better, but my Jane is so much easier." He grabs Shane's cock now, and Shane cries out when he jerks it. "So responsive too. Better than many of my other girls."

"Fuck off, I'm not— I'm not one of your girls," Shane says, instead of asking How many other girls? Which ones am I better than? What makes you come back here, to me?

"Yes, you are. My Montreal girl. Want me to fuck you like her?"

"What?"

"You want me to fuck you like I fuck Kate? Like one of my girls?"

"Yes," Shane breathes. Anything, he thinks. I'll do anything if you'd just fuck me. "Fuck me like I'm your girl."

Rozanov's eyes widen, just a fraction, he recovers quick. Smiles. Pats Shane twice on the cheek. "See, Jane, was that so hard?"

Shane scowls.

Rozanov pulls all the way out of him. Shane makes a noise at the loss—an almost keening sound that he didn't even know he could make—but Rozanov doesn't look at him, just reaches for the lube. Shane flinches when he pours it directly onto Shane's hole, but Rozanov ignores him, massages it in, then pours more.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Playing with your pussy," Rozanov says simply, then pushes two fingers in, brushing them just above his prostate. He grins as Shane shudders. "Is so nice and wet now."

"It's not a—"

"Shhh." Rozanov pets Shane's thigh with his other hand. "You're Jane now, remember. One of my girls, yes? Like you wanted."

"I didn't—" Shane starts, but he can't even finish it. Rozanov can't be right, this can't be what he wants, but he does. Rozanov scissors his fingers inside of Shane and the horrible squelching sound makes Shane's ears burn… but also makes him hornier than he's ever been in his fucking life.

"Come on, Jane," Rozanov scolds. "Do not be so difficult. I know what you want. So you do not have to think so hard about it."

"What do I want?"

Ilya grins, predatory. "This."

He replaces his fingers with his cock, thrusting in a fluid motion that has Shane crying out and reaching for him, his nails digging into Ilya's back. Just like Kate. Just like a girl.

Fuck, that's what he looks like right now. He's in the same position Kate was when Ilya fucked her, his hair splayed out on the pillow, his arms around Ilya as he blankets him.

"Oh," Ilya groans. "Jane, your pussy feels perfect."

That word sounds so dirty, so awful, Shane turns away from it, but he wants to hear it again. Wants to hear worse. Ilya knows that.

"You will come on my cock, yes?" Ilya asks. "Like a girl would."

Shane's face twists as he remembers how Ilya's hand worked against her clit as he fucked her, how he finished her with his mouth, but Shane doesn't say that, instead he moans—higher than usual, and clenches around Ilya. Pushes a hand through his curls.

"Yes, fuck, Jane." The words spill out of Ilya as he chases his release. "You are such a pretty girl, yes? Best girl in Montreal, comes all the way to Boston just for me. My girl. My girl Janie."

Shane can feel his cock in his stomach. One of Ilya's hands squeezes Shane's chest.

"Ilya," Shane responds, then he freezes, the hand in Rozanov's hair stilling. He waits for Rozanov to stop.

But Ilya doesn't. If anything, Ilya's thrusts become more wild, less precise as he chases his own pleasure.

"Fuck, Jane, so perfect. Taking it so good, fuck," Ilya's ramblings turn to Russian, and Shane closes his eyes and just fucking takes it. He feels so full, like he could feel Ilya almost in his throat, all he can fucking do is grasp at Ilya's back as his whole body shakes with it.

"Ilya," Shane cries, again, encouraged. Because he can. Rozanov can be Ilya if Shane can be Jane.

When Shane comes, he can feel it in his fucking teeth, and Ilya's only a few seconds behind him, spilling into Shane while Shane's still trembling with the aftershocks. Ilya buries his head into the crook of Shane's neck, and Shane tugs at him until their lips meet. Shane feels feverish with it, needing Ilya closer, even as his soft cock slips out of his hole.

"Ilya," Shane repeats. Embarrassingly, he feels tears form at the corner of his eyes. "Fuck, Ilya."

"Jane," Ilya responds, breathing the words into Shane's mouth. Shane shuts up, overwhelmed, and just kisses him.

Shane's back in his body again—no longer hovering on the edge of his skin. Rozanov's still pressed against him. Shane lets out a long breath.

"You back?" Rozanov asks, lifting his head off Shane's chest.

"What?" Shane blinks.

"You went away there for a bit."

"No I didn't."

"Is okay. Was intense."

Shane wrinkles his nose, but falls quiet. It was intense. Rozanov knows now, what Shane did.

"I'm sorry about the video," Shane whispers. "Sorry I watched it."

Rozanov scoffs. "Don't be sorry. Is a very hot video. I'm not surprised that you like it."

Shane doesn't know what to say to that. He should get up and get dressed, but despite how awkward it is, Rozanov is still practically lying on top of him. He waits. He wonders how long Kate stayed after the camera stopped.

"How did the video leak?"

Rozanov makes a noise of displeasure. "Kate's terrible ex still had access to her iCloud. Big whole mess." He sits up, and Shane resists the urge to reach for him. "She thought about pressing charges against him, decided was too much trouble. Asked me if I wanted to. I said no, not worth it. I mostly feel bad for Kate about the whole thing."

Shane nods, hopes his expression is saying oh that's awful. Rozanov's face shifts to a smirk.

"But Kate doesn't even know she also has a pervert Shane Hollander watching her."

"Fuck off." Shane starts to extricate himself from the sheets

"How many times have you watched that?"

"I'm not telling you that." Shane stands to grab his clothes from the dresser. He'll shower at the hotel.

"Oh, so it must be lots then. You really are a pervert."

"I said I'm sorry."

"And I said don't be. Next time I will make you tell me how much. Make you tell me what you liked." Rozanov grins again. "Jane."

Shane tries to forget about it—the Jane of it all. The Ilya.

He can't forget.

He still watches the tape. Feels a little less rotten about it now that Rozanov knows, and basically gave him permission, but it still feels wrong—the attention Shane gives to it.

Shane's standing in his kitchen, heating up his pre-portioned lunch, considering pulling up the video on his phone again, when the message comes through.

Lily: I miss ur pussy

Shane stills. Freezes with the microwave door half open. How the fuck is he supposed to respond to that?

You can't just say that.

I'm going to have to delete that message

Am I supposed to be Jane right now?

Instead, he types:

Shane: What the fuck, Rozanov

Shane deletes both texts while he waits for the reply. Those could exist on Rozanov's phone, but not on Shane's. Shane doesn't have a pussy. He doesn't text anyone named Rozanov.

A new text from Lily comes through. It's an address. In Vermont.

Shane: What is this?

Lily: A hotel

Shane: I can see that. Why are you sending it to me?

Lily: I want ur pussy

Shane deletes that. Types I don't have a fucking pussy Rozanov. Backspace. We both have games tomorrow. Backspace. What the fuck are you doing?

Lily: Hotel is halfway

Lily: We both drive 2 and half hours instead of 5

Lily: Neither of us have game tonight

Shane blinks. Looks up at his ceiling as if there's an answer there. He deletes Rozanov's last message.

Shane: You're serious?

Lily: 🙄

Lily: Yes Jane I am serious

Jane. Shane's cheeks burn with embarrassment, but he stares at the name, taking in the shape of it before he deletes the message. He can't even begin to explain how it makes him feel.

A little dirty. A little cherished.

A whole lot pathetic.

Shane: Fine

Shane: I'll leave in an hour

Lily: 🎉🍆💦

Shane: Fuck off

Lily: See u soon

Shane only has two and half hours to spiral into regret about saying yes. It's more than enough time. He idly entertains the idea of turning around, but he never does. As soon as Rozanov sent that address, it was inevitable that he would end up here, driving to him.

Because that's the kind of person he is now, someone who will drive across the border to just get fucked. To be fucked by someone who calls him Jane.

How many times has Rozanov sent that same text? I miss ur pussy to Kate or maybe some other blonde, leggy girl with big tits. They all would probably have enough self-respect not to drive hours to see him.

But my Jane is easier.

Shane doesn't turn around. Doesn't stop. The only reason he waited a full hour before leaving was so he'd have enough time to clean and prepare himself, because if he was Kate, Rozanov wouldn't have to worry about those kinds of logistics.

If he was Kate, he'd probably be dripping after over the driver seat.

Shane wants it, of course he does. He's half hard just thinking about it, about the way that Rozanov will talk to him, the way he'll touch him. Having the video makes the waiting worse, seeing Rozanov but never touching him, never having him. Shane's wants expand out, spiral through him. Two hours has never felt longer.

Once he gets to the hotel—taking the back staircase and heading for the room number Rozanov sent him, it all starts to feel more normal. This could be any hotel in any city. Shane's grown used to hotels.

Rozanov greets him with a grin, crowding into his space and pushing his hair back from his forehead. "Hello, Jane."

Shane drops to his knees. Doesn't say anything, just presses his face against Rozanov's clothed dick. There's no point in overthinking. He's driven over two hours for this, he doesn't get to regret it.

Rozanov laughs above him, a delighted sound. "Somebody's worked up."

"Shut up," Shane mummers, the tone somewhat diminished by the fact that he speaks into Rozanov's thigh. "I just—it's a long fucking drive, Rozanov."

"I know." He tugs at Shane's hair, pulls him away from his crotch. Forces him to look up. "But you drove it. Because I asked."

"I told you to shut up." Shane says. His scalp stings as Rozanov pulls up.

"Hmm, no, I do not think I will. It took, what, seven messages to convince you? Maybe less? You would drive anywhere for my cock."

"I would not."

"Could have probably made you come all the way to Boston. Should be grateful I am so generous to book my Jane a hotel somewhere closer."

I'm not Jane, Shane thinks about saying. I'm not yours.

Instead: "Can we fucking get on with it?"

"Soon. How many times did you watch?"

"What?"

"You wouldn't tell me last time. I want to know. How many times did you watch the video?"

Shane shakes his head.

"You want me to fuck you," Rozanov jerks his hand in Shane's hair back. It exposes the column of Shane's neck. "Then you answer my fucking question."

"I don't know." Shane and Rozanov are the same size—Shane's even a bit taller—but right now, he feels tiny compared to how Rozanov looms. "I didn't count."

"And you touched yourself?"

"Yes. But not… not every time."

"And you thought of this, yes? Saw me with Kate and thought about how it feels to be on your knees for me."

"Fuck." Shane turns his head away. His eyes already sting. "Yes. Of course I did. Yes."

"Good." Rozanov releases his hair, pats him on the head. "I have something for you."

Shane furrows his brow, but he's only confused for a moment before Rozanov's pulling a small metal tube out of his pocket. Lipstick.

"I think this will be your color," Rozanov says, uncapping it to show him the pink. "Do you want to put it on yourself or do you want me to help?"

"I'm not wearing that."

Rozanov gives Shane a look so long that he drops his eyes away from it.

"I think you are."

He shakes his head.

"I think you want to. Jane."

"I don't— I don't want it." Shane's throat tightens, and his nails dig into his own thighs, where he's still fucking kneeling in front of Rozanov. "I'm not—"

His words cut off as Rozanov shoves two fingers in his mouth, pressing down hard on his tongue. He splutters around them, but Rozanov doesn't let up.

"Do not lie to me, Jane. Suck."

Shane's cock strains against the fabric of his pants, face warming as he hollows his cheeks around the fingers. He's rewarded by Rozanov letting up some of the pressure. Shane swirls his tongue around him. Dips between the digits.

"See, you like it. You like being my Jane. You will look pretty in this lipstick."

Cotton fills Shane's head, and he's nodding around the fingers in his mouth, and telling himself that it's just the Jane part making him hot and not the my that makes Shane want to go pliant for him.

One time Rozanov told Shane he was made for this. Made to be on his knees for him, made to suck his cock. It was dirty talk, Shane knows that, knows Rozanov wasn't serious, but he still thinks about it. When they're like this, when he's like this—on the ground below him, taking his fingers like he'd take his cock, it feels truer than anything else.

Rozanov pulls his hand back, presses the pads of his fingers on Shane's lower lip until Shane drops his jaw open. Shane looks up at Rozanov's crooked mouth.

"You are so easy."

Shane snaps his jaw shut. "I'm not."

"I had to drive two hours for you and you're still the easiest pussy I've ever gotten."

"You're such an asshole."

Rozanov pushes a foot between Shane's legs, and Shane spreads them wider to accommodate it.

"And you fucking love it," he says. His shoe nudges against Shane's cock, and Shane moans. "Hear that? I barely even touched you."

Shane nods, breathless now. "Touch me."

Rozanov tsks. The pressure against Shane's dick increases. "Maybe ask nicely."

"Please."

"Please what? Tell me what you want, Jane."

I want you to stop calling me Jane, Shane thinks, but that's not true. Shane's desires writhe on the surface. Worms out on the sidewalk after rain, helpless as Rozanov bends down and picks them up. Or crushes them under his feet.

Shane thinks about Kate, how Rozanov said she wouldn't like this, how she'd hate being treated the way Rozanov treats Shane, and something rankles inside of him.

But… Shane's not Kate right now, he's Jane. And he might as well get into character.

"I want your cock, Ilya," he says, letting his voice sound a bit airier, a bit higher. It's humiliating, but worth it for the way Rozanov's jaw drops open, just a fraction.

"And how do you want it?" Rozanov's hand teases with the waistband of his pants, and Shane's not looking at his face anymore, mouth watering at just the outline of Rozanov's cock.

"In my mouth, and then…" Shane swallows. "in my pussy. Please."

"Fuck," Rozanov groans, and the humiliation must be worth it just for this, to hear Ilya's voice as he starts to lose control. Ilya grips at the base of his cock, but he brandishes the lipstick again. Shane nearly forgot he was holding it. "Do you want my help to put it on?"

Shane nods instead of saying anything, and his heart flips when Ilya crouches so they're eye level with each other. Ilya reaches for his face, and his touch is so gentle that Shane closes his eyes to it, lets Ilya paint his lips.

After Ilya caps the lipstick, he reaches out a finger, scraping slightly below his lip, brushing away an errant bit of color. Shane presses his lips together, finds them tacky.

"Pretty," Ilya remarks, straightening up. Shane swallows.

He must look stupid like this. Pink lipstick, wide eyes, spit on his chin. But Ilya pulls his cock out over the band of his pants, and nothing else matters except for that.

"You want this?"

"Yeah," Shane nods, mouth falling open. He holds eye contact with Ilya's leaking cock.

Ilya nods, waves in a go ahead kind of way, as if he doesn't even care. And Shane leans in, remembering how Kate did this. She started slowly, teasing, but Shane can't hold himself back like that. He licks first into the crease of Ilya's thigh, tasting the salty sweat, then he wraps his mouth around the head of Ilya's cock, licking into the slit, hearing him groan above him. Teasing his balls with one hand, Shane takes Ilya deeper. He tastes lipstick on Ilya's skin, where it wiped off Shane's mouth, and Shane moans.

"Oh, fuck, Jane, you're such a slut for it."

Shane's mouth is too full to disagree—not like he'd have much of an argument anyways. Ilya's right. Shane loves this. Loves being on his knees. Tasting the way Ilya debases him. Ilya's hand winds through his hair, and Shane could sigh with relief.

Instead, he moans again, higher. Swallows around Ilya. He holds onto Ilya's thighs, then opens his throat wider, taking him down as far as he can. Once Shane's nose nearly touches Ilya's skin, he looks up. Meets Ilya's eyes.

"Jane." Ilya drops his hands from Shane's hair. One cups his face and the other lays over his throat, feeling himself inside. "Your pretty lips are all a mess now."

Shane nods as best he can. Wetness pools in the corner of his eyes.

Ilya holds him there until the tears start to fall, then he pulls him off his dick. Shane doesn't go far, drops his head to rest against Ilya's thigh. He feels lightheaded, a little cock-drunk maybe, gone dumb in the way only Ilya makes him.

Ilya has to half-haul him to his feet for Shane to stand again, and even then he's leaning into Ilya, the warmth of Ilya's body a drug, tilting his chin up for a kiss.

Ilya kisses him deeply and wraps his hands around his waist. It's soft and achingly familiar. If someone was watching this, what would they think? Does Ilya look the same as when he kissed Kate?

Or is it different?

Does Shane even want it to be different?

Shane doesn't know, so instead he presses himself harder into Ilya, hands sliding up Ilya's chest until Ilya takes his shirt off. Shane copies him, and Ilya throws his shirt to the side before Shane can even think about folding it. Hands squeeze at Shane's pecs, and Shane pants into Ilya's open mouth more than kisses him.

"Fucking love your tits," Ilya breathes.

Ilya squeezed Kate's tits the same way. And hers were actually big, filling Ilya's palm, spilling out when he closed his hands around them. In comparison, Shane's chest doesn't offer much, but Ilya isn't deterred, only stopping to tweak Shane's nipple.

"Ilya," Shane moans as he pulls on his right nipple. "Oh, fuck, I—"

"Want me to fuck you now?" Ilya's hand twists, and Shane arches into the touch. "Like a naughty girl, you want to be on your hands and knees on the bed, yes? Let me fuck into your dripping pussy?"

"God, fuck, Ilya. You can't— don't say that."

"Jane, is much too late to be embarrassed. Except…" Ilya leans in and nips at Shane's ear before he hisses into it. "I think you like being embarrassed. You like that I won't let you forget just how desperate and easy you are."

"Stop it," Shane whines, but even he knows just how unconvincing he sounds.

"I could tell you to do anything, and you would just do it," Ilya continues. "My perfect, obedient little Jane."

"Fuck you. I'm not obedient. I don't have to listen to y—"

"Shut up."

Shane's mouth snaps closed. Arousal flutters in his stomach.

"Hmm." Ilya raises an eyebrow. "What were you saying?"

"You're such—"

"An asshole, I know." Ilya pulls away from Shane. "Take off your clothes. Get on the bed. Hands and knees."

And Shane, God fucking help him, obeys.

Because Ilya's right. He always is. He knows what Shane wants—even when Shane doesn't. It's heady, to trust someone so much, to let Ilya pluck and pull on the strings of Shane's desire, putting him where he wants him.

Ilya takes his time. Shane thinks that half of the rummaging through his duffel is faked just to see how much harder Shane gets from waiting like this, cool air on his exposed ass, but he stays quiet.

When Ilya settles behind him, he nudges Shane's legs further apart, squeezes his cheeks. "So patient for me. So good."

Shane tries not to preen from that last word.

"Always so good," Ilya repeats. The click of the lube cap. Ilya's fingers pushing past his rim. "And so wet."

Ilya tests the stretch of Shane's hole, scissoring his fingers, then he pulls out. Shane closes his eyes against the feeling as Ilya's dick starts to press into him.

And this—sometimes, Shane thinks that this is what it's all for, Ilya touching every part of him, filling him up. Shane clenches around him. They're so close. As close as two people can be before they merge together. Pleasure surrounds Shane, like he's floating in a still pool, Ilya thrusts into him and Shane's shaking.

No matter how many times they've been together, each time is the first time; Shane remade new again underneath Ilya, as Ilya breaks him down, builds him up. Molds him. Like this, the only thing that matters to Shane is Ilya.

And, maybe… the only thing that matters to Ilya is Shane.

"Ilya, please," Shane pants. "Fuck."

"Jane," Ilya responds.

The name Jane spills through him. Dark oil seeping through the pleasure. Shame arrives, thick and glossy on the back of Shane's tongue. He swallows down the bitter taste.

"Ilya," Shane says again, as Jane. Jane who's never known oil spills or shame. He tips over the edge, crying out as he comes. Tears slide down his cheeks.

He won't choke, no, he's got too much practice with this. Instead, the sludge amasses inside him, unforgiving in its viscosity.

Shane shouldn't be here. He never should have done this. He lets his head fall into the pillow as Rozanov collapses on top of him, and he cries.

Crying with Rozanov isn't anything new. Usually the overwhelm feels good, but now a piece of Shane has crumpled off, somewhere between watching that video for the first time and letting Rozanov call him Jane.

"You good?" Rozanov asks.

Shane nods, watery, but doesn't trust himself to speak.

"You sure?" Rozanov touches his side, soft enough to hurt. "It was… a lot again today, okay if you are not."

"I'm fine," Shane spits, letting anger wash out the other emotions. He pushes Rozanov off him. "Quit fucking asking me."

Rozanov's eyebrows rise, but he stays quiet. Lies next to Shane.

Shane looks at the ceiling. He's cold, exposed. Rozanov can probably see it on him. He'd forgotten, somewhere during that, that they were pretending, and he'd called Rozanov Ilya anyways.

Shane gets out of the bed.

"You don't have to drive all the way back right now." Rozanov sits up, watching him gather up his clothes. "I have the room for night."

"I'm not staying here. I have a game tomorrow."

A pause.

"Okay."

"We shouldn't be fucking doing this," Shane bites out, still raw. "I can't be— Driving across the border for this is such a stupid idea. Don't— don't make me do this again."

Rozanov scoffs. "I do not make you do anything."

He stands to get dressed.

"You know that's not fucking true."

"Not anything you don't already want to do," Rozanov amends. Pauses. "Jane."

"Fuck off."

Rozanov mutters something in Russian. Shane swallows back the rest of his anger. "I'm going to shower before I leave."

Rozanov doesn't bother with a response. In the bathroom mirror, Shane finds lipstick smeared all over his face.

Shane tells himself he's never going to watch the video again. This new conviction lasts less than three days.

Shane pulls it up on his laptop and stares at Kate's now familiar face as she steps away from the camera. He doesn't let himself pretend this time, doesn't take the place of Kate.

Instead, he tries to imagine being Rozanov. Imagines fucking into Kate, or another girl, wonders if it could ever feel as good for him as it clearly does for Rozanov.

It's not like Shane's never had sex with girls before, but all of his relationships have been immature, in a way, and not… not satisfying like being with Rozanov is. Rozanov can have normal sex with girls, Shane should be able to too.

In the video, Kate moans on Rozanov's cock, and Shane thinks about being Jane.

He's been Jane the entire time. That's the problem. The only thing that changed the last couple times was some of the words Rozanov used. And the lipstick.

Shane's been letting Rozanov treat him like a girl.

And he's fucking liked it.

"You feel so good around me, Stella," Shane groans, thinking of how Rozanov says it. He thinks he got it right, although it probably doesn't sound the same without the accent. "So hot and tight."

"You don't have to say anything," Stella says underneath him. "Just keep moving. Faster maybe."

"Okay." Shane pistons his hips. He doesn't think the angle is right for her. He shifts. How does Rozanov do this?

"Ugh, fuck, okay," Stella says, places a delicate hand on Shane's side, stops him. "Can I ride you?"

Shane nods—she said he didn't have to talk. He lets her flip them over.

He'd met Stella at the bar, went out with Hayden and some of the other guys. They'd all been amused and half-delighted when he took her home—he's already got a reputation for being someone who doesn't pull. Usually they rib him for being too picky. Stella's nice, and she looks good. Cute, he thinks Hayden would say.

She's got dark blonde hair and a button nose. She's smaller than Shane. Right now, she's bouncing on his dick. It takes a moment before he remembers to place his hands on her hips. He's still mostly just lying there. What does Rozanov do when Shane's riding him?

Right now, like this, Shane can't even remember. The only thing he can think of is Kate, and the way that she and Rozanov flowed together, moving against each other with ease. This is nothing like that.

If this was being recorded… If someone could watch this…

It would be humiliating. Shane can already feel himself softening, but either Stella hasn't noticed yet or she's polite enough not to mention it. Shane's face warms, but this embarrassment isn't at all pleasurable like it is with Rozanov.

Shane closes his eyes. Wills his dick to stay hard.

If a sex tape of him doing this came out, Rozanov would probably watch it just to make fun of him. Poor little Hollander, can't even use his fat stupid cock. Better off as my Jane.

That's all Shane's good for, isn't it? Being underneath Rozanov. Being fucked like a girl. Rozanov's ruined him so much he can't even use his dick anymore, so used to just lying there and taking it.

That's all you're good for, the Rozanov of his mind says. You can't even fucking come with a girl without thinking about me.

Shane squeezes his eyes tighter. Imagines it's Rozanov's mouth on his cock instead. Stella moans on top of him, ruins the image. Shane tries to ignore her. Thinks of what Rozanov looks like on his cock.

When he does eventually come, it's only because of the Rozanov behind his eyes.

Rozanov isn't at All Stars. He took a nasty hit on his shoulder during the last Boston game and was placed on injury reserve. He texted Shane telling him that he's not mad about missing All Stars, but he is upset about missing "his Jane".

Shane's stomach turns when he thinks too hard about that.

And while Shane's busy at All Stars, Rozanov's bored from resting, and so he's been sexting Shane relentlessly. Talking about his pussy and his tits and video call me later jane so i can watch you play with your clit. It's a cruel twist of emotions that comes with wanting and being wanted by Rozanov. When Rozanov texts him as if he's "Jane", Shane feels more desired than ever, and all the grosser for it.

He does end up video calling Rozanov. Calls him Ilya as he touches his dick while Rozanov calls it a clit. He comes harder than he ever has from masturbating.

After Rozanov hangs up, he watches the video twice.

The next time he sees Rozanov, in Boston, Shane puts a stop to it.

"I don't want you to call me Jane this time," Shane looks at the floor while he says it. Boston won, and Shane's already feeling raw, exposed in the way he always is around Rozanov, but it's worse now.

If he looks at Shane too closely, he'll see it. He'll see how many times Shane's watched that tape, how he's studied it. How he tried to be Kate. Tried to be Ilya.

How he wants to be Ilya's Jane, but not because then he'd be Jane, but because then he'd be Ilya's.

Rozanov's quiet for a long moment. Shane twitches with it, doesn't look up, doesn't elaborate.

"Okay," Rozanov finally says, the word careful. "You do not like it?"

Shane presses his lips into a line. "Not really."

He risks a glance at Rozanov and finds his brows drawn. It's obviously not the truth—they both know how Shane was affected the last few times. Shane tries again.

"Well, it's not— It's not that I don't like it, just… not today."

The cautious expression Rozanov wears morphs back into his usual smirk. "Ah, you are feeling… off because of the loss, yes?"

"Fuck off," Shane says, although Rozanov's only half-wrong. Shane wasn't in the game today. He missed shots he should have gotten. Fumbled passes.

"No, is okay," Rozanov says, and Shane swears his face might be softer. "No Jane if you don't want to be. I can be… be nice, yes?"

Shane shakes his head. "I didn't ask for that."

Rozanov edges Shane twice before he ever puts his dick inside him. Even without Rozanov calling his hole a pussy, Shane's just as desperate for it, begging and crying for Rozanov to fuck him. When Rozanov finally gives it to him, Shane's knees are up to nearly his ears, Rozanov holding his hands above his head as he pounds into him. He's going to feel it for days, but that doesn't matter.

What matters is Rozanov calls him Hollander, and Shane doesn't even think the name Ilya once.

But he does think about Kate.

Sometimes, even more since Stella, Shane's had the absurd thought that he has to talk to Kate, to ask her about Rozanov, tell her everything that's happened to him and ask her if it sounds at all familiar.

Am I just one of many? What does it mean if I am? What does it mean if I'm not?

Because Shane's been watching that tape, he's been studying it. He knows how Ilya acts when he's fucking Kate, and how Rozanov acts with Shane—or, with Hollander. With Jane. And it's different.

It's different.

Shane doesn't know how it is, but—as Rozanov leans down to kiss Shane, sloppy, hips still thrusting—Shane knows that it is.

This is different. More than just the anatomy. There's something tangibly, irrevocably, different between the way Rozanov acts with Shane and the way he acts with Kate.

Only Shane doesn't know what it is.

Shane doesn't jerk off anymore when he watches the video. Well, maybe sometimes. But usually he just watches with a single-minded persistence. That's how Rozanov touches her waist. That's how he grabs her hair. That's how he pinches her ass.

Some of it's the same. Some of it's different. But there's something else there… something big.

Shane can't compare it properly. He doesn't have anything to compare it to. If only he could watch Rozanov fuck him, maybe then he'd be able to see. He could pull them both up side-by-side to compare.

But he can't.

He can't.

The idea lodges itself somewhere into the corner of Shane's mind. Floats by at inopportune moments. When he's having dinner at Hayden's. Talking on his phone with his parents. In the middle of a hockey game.

What if he had a video of himself with Rozanov? What if he could see what he looks like when Rozanov fucks him?

He'd need to make sure they did everything Rozanov did with Kate, and then he could compare them. He could find the difference between how Rozanov treats Kate and how he treats Shane. He could know if he's just another hook-up, or a shameful secret, or…

Shane always pushes that last thought away before he finishes it. He can't go there.

But he still has to know.

The only problem is it's impossible.

Shane's not stupid. He can't film a sex tape with Rozanov—not when they've already seen first-hand how those things can leak. But no matter how hard he tries, he can't purge the idea from his mind.

"Smile girls!' Jacki says. Shane watches as she snaps a couple photos with her phone while Ruby and Emma pose with their birthday presents.

Shane stands off to the side with Hayden. It's their family plus Shane—apparently there's a separate pool party planned for the weekend with their school friends, but the Metros have away games. Shane's known the twins since they were babies, and according to Hayden, they couldn't celebrate without their Uncle Shane, so he's invited to the family one.

Shane likes being at the Pikes', likes the domesticity of it. Plus, even though Shane's been off these last few weeks, Hayden's good about not poking him.

Jacki puts her phone down and takes out a small red video camera. She turns it on before telling the girls to open their gifts.

Emma squeals as she pulls a large pink stuffed bear out of a bag. Shane's still looking at the camera.

"What's with the video camera?" Shane asks Hayden. He shifts his can of ginger ale from one hand to the other.

"Oh, Jackie's been really into that lately. She wants our kids to have home video like we did, instead of everything being on her phone. Plus, like the cloud or whatever, isn't that unreliable?"

"Oh, yeah that makes sense."

Shane orders a camera that night. A small one. Something that isn't even capable of connecting to the internet. He'd put the recording on a USB drive and then lock it up in a safe or something. No one would find it. It would just be for him. He wouldn't leak it. No one would know.

He still watches the tape with Kate. Each time makes him crave it more.

What do I look like under Rozanov? The sounds that I make, the way that I reach for him. Is it different? What's different? Could it be different?

Rozanov winks at the camera. Shane shuts his laptop.

He lies awake at night imagining asking Rozanov. Please can I record us having sex? I know you just had a tape leak and it would be so much worse if I was in it, but I need it. I need to see it. Why? Oh, because I've been watching the last one over and over again and it's different with her. How is it different with her? Why? What's different about me?

He can't do that.

Rozanov would be stupid to say yes, and even if he did… it would give Rozanov too much power over Shane. It would reveal too much.

But… there's a reason Shane bought the smaller camera.

He knows he shouldn't do it.

Every time he watches the tape, the ball of guilt in his chest expands as he thinks about what he's planning.

But Shane's already has the camera. Already found the best place in his room for it—the spot that'll frame his bed the same way it framed Kate's. When he watches the tape, he thinks of everything Kate does with Rozanov, and how to make sure he does the same with Shane.

He buys a flash drive. And a safe—a smaller safe to put in his bigger one.

Shane's the only person who will watch the tape. Rozanov didn't mind that he'd watched the one with Kate, and this one is only going to be for Shane, so it's not really going against Rozanov's wants.

And if Shane were to tell him, it would mess up the whole experiment. Maybe if Rozanov knew he was on camera,  he'd know that Shane was searching for the difference and he'd get rid of it.

Rozanov doesn't need to know.

"Hi," Shane says, ushering Rozanov into his apartment. He feels breathless, already anxious about what he's doing. The camera is already running in his bedroom.

"Hello, Hollander," Rozanov says, teasing as he crowds into Shane's space. "You are not too mad about losing this time?"

"Fuck off. We barely lost. And I scored more points than you."

"Still lost." Rozanov captures Shane in a kiss before he can respond. Shane nearly loses himself in the taste of him, but his nerves hold him back. He guides Rozanov towards the stairs and the bedroom.

Shane feels hopelessly aware of the camera. He needs to get Rozanov to sit on the bed for Shane to suck him, but without Rozanov knowing that Shane's plotted this out.

That they're being recorded.

Shane will get to watch this later. He'll see the way he pushes Ilya towards the bed, the back of his knees hitting the mattress just so, Ilya falling onto it. He'll see himself drop to his knees.

Ilya makes a noise of surprise, but recovers quick. His hands slide into Shane's hair. Shane tugs at his waistband.

"Want my cock?"

"Obviously," Shane mutters, freeing Ilya from his pants.

He'll get to see what he looks like as he mouths at Ilya, wraps his lips around the head, fits as much into his mouth as he can at this angle. Shane looks up, catches the hooded look in Ilya's eyes. When he reviews this tape back, he'll see what Ilya looks like the whole time.

Shane closes his eyes and moans around Ilya's cock, losing himself in the sensation. He's always loved this, Ilya weighing on his tongue, Ilya's hands on his head, his gasps of pleasure. Shane groans thinking about watching it, seeing how full his mouth is, seeing Ilya stare down at him.

Shane has no idea how long the runtime on the camera is when Ilya pulls him off his cock and onto his lap. Shane greedily kisses his lips, then trails down his neck, nips at his ear.

"Eat me out," he gasps.

"Eat you out?" Ilya repeats, mock-scandlized. "Oh, are we Jane again?"

"Sure," Shane says. Kisses Ilya again. "I don't care. I just want— I want your mouth on me."

"My mouth on your pussy."

"Yeah. Fuck. I want that." Shane scrambles off Ilya to position himself on the bed, pulling his clothes off as he goes. He takes the time to fold his shirt—because he doesn't want wrinkles, but he can't bring himself to care about the sweatpants or boxers today.

He pulls his legs apart, lets Ilya see him. Ilya doesn't wait.

Shane always feels exposed like this—Ilya's mouth on his hole. It's obscene every time, the way Ilya uses his fingers and his mouth to open Shane up. Licks into his hole like a perverted kiss. Shane loses himself in it, forgets, for a moment, that the camera is there. He floats above it all.

When Shane remembers, it's a jolt of electricity through his body. He'll be able to watch this. See himself fall apart on Ilya's tongue. Shane looks down, groans at the sight of curls between his legs. Tilts his head sideways to look at his bookshelf.

He hid the camera well, only spotting it because he knows what to look for. It hides behind a stack of books, the lens barely visible. A tiny red light indicates it's on. Shane holds eye contact with it. Imagines watching this view from the other side. Ilya between his legs, Shane panting in pleasure, eyes wide as—

"What are you looking at?"

Shane freezes, caught. He rips his gaze back to Rozanov, who's slowly pumping his fingers in and out of Shane, face a mess, but it's too late.

"Nothing."

Rozanov's hand stills. "Is something."

"No. It's nothing." Even Shane can hear the lie in his voice. His chest tightens. "Keep— Keep going."

Rozanov grins. Shane feels like prey. "Tell me what it is."

"It's nothing, Rozanov. I promise— Forget about it."

But Rozanov is already pulling his fingers out, sitting up. He looks towards the shelf.

"It is something over there."

Shane pointedly doesn't look over, terrified his eyes will go right to the camera, but Rozanov's scanning the shelf, and he's going to find it, oh god, he's going to find it.

The floating feeling inside Shane turns acidic, but he's still too far in his head to do anything other than weakly protest as Rozanov gets up and stalks over to the shelf. Bile crawls up Shane's throat.

"Don't— Rozanov, it's nothing. Come back here— You can't—" Shane cuts himself off with a panicked breath as Rozanov pushes his books out of the way.

"Is this…" Rozanov's accent is thicker. Shane can't place the tone. He can never place the fucking tone. "Hollander, is this a fucking camera? Are you fucking— You are recording me."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Shane's heart is caving in, his face is on fire. Humiliated and guilty, and still fucking naked, asshole still wet with spit and lube. He sits up, pulls his legs close. "I'm so fucking sorry. I shouldn't— You weren't supposed to. I just—" Shane can't breathe, he can't fucking breathe, and he's so stupid. Rozanov is never going to want to see him again. Shane couldn't get this idiotic idea out of his head and because of that he's going to lose everything. What was he thinking? Hiding a camera?

He's so fucked up.

Shane's distantly aware of Rozanov moving back towards the bed, camera cradled in his hands, red light gone. He turned it off. Probably deleted the video too, and Shane will never know what he looks like with Rozanov in his mouth. Between his legs. The only memory he'll have of him is that stupid video with stupid Kate.

"Hollander, you have to fucking breathe," Rozanov says. The mattress dips as he sits on the edge. "You cannot die because of camera."

"I'm—" Shane tries, but he still can't take a good breath. "I'm sorry—"

"You are sorry, yes, I heard this already." Rozanov's still holding the fucking camera. "Now breathe."

Shane's always helpless to that tone, so he breathes in, deep, and out. Blinks several times. Eventually, the world stops spinning.

"Sorry, sorry," Shane says once he got his breath under control. His heart still hammers in his chest. "I don't know why I just—"

"Is okay. Is scary, yes? Me finding your little pervert camera."

"I'm not a—" Shane cuts off at Rozanov's brow raise. "I'm sorry."

"I know."

Shane doesn't know how to read his expression. "I shouldn't have done that."

"No, probably not."

"I wasn't gonna—" Shane shakes his head. "It was just for me. It's on the camera, not a phone, so it won't get uploaded to any kind of cloud. I wouldn't let it leak, nobody would find it. It was just—"

"Just so you could watch."

"Yes," Shane breathes.

Rozanov is silent. Shane wants to sink into the bed. Melt away. If he stopped existing right now, it would probably be for the best.

"I'm sorry. I understand if you're mad. If you want to leave."

Rozanov shifts, and Shane's certain that this is it. He's about to get up and walk away, and Shane will never see him again except for across the faceoff circle. But, instead, he pushes himself further onto the bed, sits next to Shane. He sighs, limbs loose compared to the ball Shane has compressed himself into.

"I should be pissed at you."

"You're not?" Shane asks. He doesn't believe it. If Rozanov did this to him, he'd probably scream at him.

"After all," Rozanov continues. "It was not long ago that I had big sex tape leak."

"I know."

"I know you know. That is why you want to do this, yes? You are tired of watching a video without you in it. My jealous Jane."

"Stop." The word comes out small. This is too much. Rozanov should just leave now, let Shane lick his wounds alone instead of rubbing salt into them.

"No. You don't want me to do that." Rozanov pushes the camera at Shane, not letting up until Shane removes his arms from where they cradle his knees and takes it. He holds onto it gingerly, feeling guilty just looking at it. "Ask me."

"What?"

"I can do what you want. But ask me. None of this hiding camera bullshit."

"I'm not—" Shane tries to hand the camera back, but Rozanov won't take it. "I'm not going to— I'm sorry, okay. If you're not… if you're not mad, then we can just forget about it. I feel… I feel awful."

Rozanov sighs, like Shane's being particularly annoying. "Don't feel awful. Ask me what you want."

Shane shakes his head.

"I am going to say yes."

He turns the camera over.

"Ask me your fucking question, Hollander."

Shane inhales, looks slightly to the left of Rozanov's eyes. "Can I turn the camera back on?"

Rozanov tilts his head. "Why?"

"What?"

"Tell me exactly what you want. One more try, Hollander. Or I take camera home with me and you never see that first video."

"You didn't delete it?" Shane asks before thinking. It's still there. He can still watch it.

"No, but you will never see if you don't ask me your fucking question."

Shane takes another deep breath, spits out the whole question in one go. "Can I record us? Having sex?" His voice drops down to a whisper. "So I can watch it later?"

"Good. Yes, I can do this with you." Rozanov takes the camera back out of Shane's hand, and Shane watches while he fiddles with the settings. The little light turns on, and he points it right at Shane's face. "Smile, Hollander."

Shane looks away. Rozanov moves the camera closer.

"You want me to fuck you?" he asks.

Shane's entire face must be hot as a furnace. He nods.

"Want me to fuck you in a video like I fucked Kate?"

Shane wrinkles his nose.

"No?" Rozanov hums. "Ah, you want me to fuck you like Jane?"

Shane ducks his head, but whispers. "No."

"Then what do you want?"

Shane looks up, risks a glance into the camera lens. Imagines watching this back.

"I want you to fuck me like Shane," he whispers, then immediately wishes he could vanish. Wishes he'd said anything else. He should've just gone with the Jane thing.

Rozanov's eyes widen.

"Oh," he says.

Shane turns away, but Rozanov doesn't let him, follows him with the camera.

"No, Hollander, come back. Look at camera."

He doesn't.

"Shane," Ilya says. The name like a demand. A plea.

Shane's eyes snap up. Not to the camera, but to Ilya. There's a look on his face that Shane hasn't ever seen before. He wants Ilya to face the camera to himself so he can keep it. Replay that expression over and over again.

"Ask me again," Ilya says, and it sounds as much desperate as it does commanding. "Ask me that again, Shane."

"Please," Shane says. "Please fuck me on camera, Ilya. But not like I'm Kate or… or Jane or whatever. Just like me, like Shane."

"Okay. Okay." Ilya repeats, as if to steady himself. He passes Shane the camera. "Go set this up again."

Shane nods, takes the camera. He walks backwards towards the shelf, pointing the lens at Ilya as he goes. Ilya drinks in the attention, leaning back, stretching his arms just so his muscles pop.

Shane returns the camera to its place on the shelf and then climbs back onto the bed with Ilya. Ilya straddles him. He leans down so they can kiss. The kiss starts slow, exploratory, then Ilya gets harsher, teeth scraping against his lip. He pulls back and gives Shane a vicious look.

"You wanted to see this," Ilya says. "See how you let me treat you."

Shane nods, helpless. Ilya grabs his wrists and pins them above his head.

"You would let me do anything to you. My Shane, so obedient and good for me."

"I'm not."

"Not what?"

Shane shakes his head. "I don't know."

"You think you are not good for me?" Ilya asks. His cock presses into Shane's thigh. "I never have someone like you. Someone who wants me so much all the time. So desperate for it. Is very good."

"I'm not desperate."

"Stop that." Ilya nips at his nose. "Don't be so combative."

"Combative," Shane repeats, rolling the syllables in his mouth. "New word for you."

Ilya huffs out a laugh. "Useful word. Fits you well. Besides, you cannot lie about being desperate. Not when I see how you react when you know you are on video."

Shane shakes his head.

"So horny, pushing me onto the bed like that. Dropping to your knees, but you see, I did not notice anything different. You know why?"

Ilya waits.

"Why?" Shane asks.

"Because you are always like that," Ilya whispers. "Falling at my feet, begging for my cock. Shane Hollander did not have to act any new way for camera. Always such a slut."

"Ilya, please." Shane pushes his hips up, trying to get some friction on his achingly hard dick.

"Please what?"

Shane whines. He's so tired of talking. Ilya knows what he wants; he should just fucking do it.

"Fuck me. Please."

"Look at the camera."

Shane does. The red light stares back at him.

"Say it again."

"Please fuck me, Ilya."

Shane looks back at Ilya in time to catch his grin. "When you watch this back, you will see what I see. A slut who just wants his pussy fucked."

Shane moans.

"Isn't that right, Shane?" Ilya says, but he's not talking to the Shane that's here right now. He's looking straight into the camera, talking to the Shane who's going to watch. "You see what I mean now, yes. You see how much you always want it. I bet you want it right now, too. Touching your fat cock, already ready to come. Just seeing how fucking desperate I make you."

"Ilya," Shane gasps, tugging against the grip Ilya still has on his wrists. "Fucking touch me already. Please."

Ilya growls, but finally, he listens to him, his hand shifting between them to grip Shane's cock. He strokes it twice, his hold tight and dry and almost painful, but Shane groans with it anyway. He feels raw. Imagines what he must look like, and feels his dick leak just from the thought.

"Please," he says again, but he doesn't even know what he's begging for.

But Ilya does. He leans back, lets go of Shane's wrists to nudge his legs apart, and then, without even warning him, he presses into his open hole. Shane grapples for a hold on Ilya, making cut-off whimpers and oh sounds as he adjusts to the feeling of him. His nails claw at Ilya's back.

He thinks of Kate once, how she did the same thing. Then he remembers that he's being recorded right now, and he can't bring himself to care about the other video.

"Okay?" Ilya asks.

"Yeah," Shane breathes. "So okay."

When Ilya starts to move, thrusting in and out of him at a pace that makes Shane shake, Shane's mind turns to cotton. All he thinks about is the pleasure coursing through him, the sound of Ilya's voice above him as he coos at Shane in Russian, and the steady red light in the corner.

"Ilya," Shane cries, the name almost cut off by the moan that rakes through Shane next. "I'm so— I'm close."

"Come on my cock," Ilya says. "You can do it, Shane. Come now for me."

And, Shane, god fucking help him, comes. He tips over the edge with a cry, and Ilya fucks him through it. And Shane's going to see this later, he's going to see what he looks like coming on fucking command, hands gripping into the meat of Ilya's back, face squeezed up in pleasure, Ilya thrusting into him as he shakes with it.

Ilya pulls out of Shane and strokes himself until he's coming too, the ropes of it landing across Shane's chest. And Shane's going to see that. He'll see everything.

Ilya collapses next to him in a slump, tugs him sideways so they can kiss. Shane's a little out of it, floating. He kisses Ilya back weakly, and reaches out, grasping onto the solid mass of him for stability.

Ilya cards a hand through Shane's hair.

"My Shane," he says, softly, almost reverently. Shane doesn't know what to do with that so he kisses him again.

Time passes languidly. Shane whines when Ilya slips away from him, but he comes back with the camera, red light still on. He rakes it over Shane's body, moving it up and down to capture it all, and Shane closes his eyes from it, bringing his hands up to his face.

"Stop it," he tries weakly.

"Don't you want to see?" Ilya says. "You want to see what you look like after. All fucked out and sleepy."

Shane makes a noise of disagreement and shoves his head into the pillow. He doesn't look up until Ilya's back in the bed with him. Ilya sits against the headboard.

"I turned it off," Ilya says. "On your nightstand now."

Shane nods. He can't believe what's just happened. He reaches out for Ilya and climbs onto him, straddling his legs. He kisses him slowly, exploring—it's all familiar.

"Thank you," he whispers into Ilya's mouth. "Thank you."

"What are you thanking me for?" Ilya laughs, touches a hand to Shane's cheek. "I should have left the camera on. You are so sweet like this."

Shane hums. "I'm sorry again."

Ilya shakes his head. Looks at him so tenderly that Shane wants to look away. "Don't be. I wish you had asked first, but," Ilya shrugs. "Was hot."

"Yeah," Shane breathes. He looks over to where the camera sits innocuously on the nightstand.

"You are already thinking about watching it." Ilya runs his hands up and down Shane's side. "Going to get worked up again?"

"No." Shane says, but Ilya's hands don't stop moving.

"I think you are." Ilya tweaks Shane's nipple.

"If you keep doing that maybe."

Ilya does, and maybe Shane should have had him keep the camera on longer, then he'd be able to see this too, the way he starts shaking on top of Ilya, cock hardening as Ilya plays with his chest.

"Oh, fuck, Ilya," Shane says, shifting his hips to try and get friction against him. "Fuck. Fuck."

"Hmm, and this is just for me," Ilya says. "I told you you are always like this. With or without a camera, so pretty and so horny."

Shane doesn't even protest, just drops his head to Ilya's shoulder, and whispers, "touch me."

And Ilya must be a little gone too because he doesn't argue or make Shane wait any longer, just takes Shane into his hand and strokes him, still pinching his nipples with his other hand. Shane trembles in Ilya's lap, rocks his hips into the hold, and kisses Ilya, sloppy and sweet, as he climbs closer and closer to the edge.

Once Shane tips over it for the second time that night, come smearing onto both of their chests, he slumps, boneless, over Ilya. Hums as Ilya's hand rubs at his back and breathes in, inhaling the scent of him.

"You tell me when you watch, yes?" Ilya asks, after Shane tips his head up towards him.

Shane nods. Then narrows his eyes. "Is that what Kate did?"

Ilya laughs, pinching at his sides. "You are so jealous. Stop it. You have much better video than Kate."

"How so?"

Ilya smiles, raises his eyebrows. "You will have to watch it to find out."

"You're such an asshole, Ilya" Shane pushes at him, but he's laughing while he says it. He settles, resting his head on top of Ilya.

Something's shifted now. Shane and Ilya. Shane wants to find another excuse to use his first name. Wants to find the right buttons to push to make Ilya call him Shane again, to make him never stop.

The difference that Shane was looking for… he didn't make it up. And he doesn't know if he even needs that video to figure out what it is.

The next morning—his apartment feeling empty without Ilya—Shane takes the camera from his nightstand. He navigates to the first video and skips ahead to where he and Ilya enter the room. He doesn't even need to upload it to his computer, compare and contrast with the Kate tape to see it. From the first frame, the difference is obvious.

It's all in the way Ilya looks at him. A softness in his eyes, a crook in his smile. Shane knew it. He knew it, he saw it last night, he felt it, and now it's here—tangible, physical proof that Shane's not remembering it wrong.

The way Ilya looks at Shane, the way he treats him. It's not the same as it was with Kate, as it was with those other women. Shane can see that now.

He lets the camera fall into his lap.

"Fuck."