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It's Shane's fault, really, because it's been two months without seeing Rozanov. Two months without sex used to be nothing to Shane, he had never really registered how long it'd been in between failed attempts at intimacy. But now Shane knows what sex can be, what it can feel like. With Rozanov. And now after two months without it, it's like he's practically gagging and tripping over his feet to get Rozanov's cock inside of him.
When Rozanov slinks inside of Shane's apartment, instantly Shane is on his knees. His eyes water with the effort of getting the whole length into his mouth and throat, gravelly groans that come out like whines as Rozanov presses in further. Shane could come now with only his denim dressed dick pressed against Rozanov's shoe. Rozanov doesn't let him though, he hauls Shane up by his hair and leads them to the bed.
Where it really becomes Shane's fault is that he pleads Rozanov to fucking take him already, even though Rozanov is only two fingers inside of him. He doesn't even scissor them apart, making room for more. Shane doesn't want it, cant bare the thought he might come before Rozanov can get inside.
He begs. He begs and begs, tears loitering at the edge of his lash line. Lips pink and kiss bitten, forming into a pout until Rozanov pushes in with not enough prep and not the kind of lube he likes best. With the amount of times he's been fucking himself lately, the last of the good stuff is at the bottom of the trash bin.
It hurts. It hurts so deliciously good, as if Shane is being split open. It has never felt so intense before. Rozanov grips at his hips and then his ass, pulls his cheeks apart to watch as his cock drives in again and again.
"Fuck, Hollander," Rozanov groans. His fingers trace Shane's entrance. "Sucking me in."
"Harder," he begs. It's all he knows how to do. All he can do when Rozanov is around.
"I don't want to hurt you."
Shane shakes his head, then arches his back further. The way he knows Rozanov won't be able to resist. "You won't. Harder, Rozanov. Please."
It feels frenzied in a way that their sex always is, but something about the lacking prep makes the fire bloom hotter. The pain lasts longer than he's used to, that feeling of Rozanov's cock making a space for itself inside of Shane's body. The orgasm comes quicker than he's expecting. Hot, white, blinding light hits Shane's eyes as Rozanov fucks him through it.
Spouting mostly mumbled begs, Shane comes. It coats the sheets below him, his chest and stomach get covered with it when Rozanov holds him down flush to the mattress as he finishes. Not for the first time Shane wishes that there was something a bit more solid between the two, something that would allow them to get Rozanov fucking him without a condom. The thought of feeling Rozanov pulse his cum inside of him almost gets Shane hard again.
"Holy shit," Rozanov pants, plastered against Shane's back.
Shane's mouth feels like cotton, too fuzzy to even speak yet and reply with a fuck. He lays against the soiled sheets and shivers when Rozanov pulls out of him. A few dazed moments later, Shane's muscles twitch at the contact from a damp wash cloth.
"Sorry, too cold?"
Shane mumbles a no, but his face is still smushed into a pillow, so he isn't sure if Rozanov even heard him. He knows once he moves, his ass is going to hurt like fucking hell. Rozanov wipes him down completely, takes a few trips back and forth from the bathroom to make sure the rag isn't too cold.
His ass aches when he stands up, that pleasure he had prior turns back into a dull throb of pain. He pushes through it, even changes the sheets while Rozanov throws the rags in the laundry basket. The amount of laundry Shane has to do always doubles on the nights they hook up here. Shane really doesn't mind it all, he finds.
Cozied up in fresh sheets, and with a mostly clean body again, Shane stretches across the bed. He is ready for one killer fucking nights rest, but Rozanov still hasn't left. Instead, Rozanov joins him on the bed again. His finger traces his rim—soft and sweet, not like he is even trying to rile Shane up for a round two. He says, "Wow."
"Wow?" Shane asks, twisting his head so he can look back at Rozanov.
"Very stretched here. Did a number on your little hole."
He scrunches up his nose. "My little hole?"
"Well, maybe not so little right now." Ilya enters him again with that same index finger and Shane quite literally recoils from the touch with a hiss. "Are you okay?"
"It's fine, just sore."
Rozanov, maybe the most careful he's ever moved, removes his finger. He soothes the area around Shane's entrance with a circular motion.
"Did I hurt you?" he asks, voice still and quiet in the room.
"No, just might need to stretch later. And maybe, um, never mind."
Shane tries to heave himself up so he can finally get into the shower but Rozanov just plants him right back down onto the mattress. He hovers over Shane, big hands now grasping at the fat of his ass and rubbing there. It feels good, he sighs back into the pillow like a content cat.
"Never mind what? What were you going to say?"
"Just, uh, I have an ointment. I use. Sometimes."
"Ointment? For hole?"
Shane blushes. "Jesus, yes. I use it… for there, you know, after we fuck."
"Okay," Rozanov says. "Where?"
"Man, on my hole."
"No, Hollander," he chuckles. "Where is the ointment? I will put it in for you."
"No!" Shane objects, cheeks already reddening with the thought of it. "Also not in my fucking ass. Just… around it and stuff."
Rozanov gets off of him then, starting to peer through the bedside table, which gets him nowhere closer to finding the tube. He sets off through the doorway, Shane already calling out his name but still too exhausted to get up out of bed again and chase him back to the bedroom. Through the walls Shane can hear him pillaging through the items in his bathroom cabinets. A few minutes later, Rozanov comes back with a tube of Aquaphor in his hands and a shit eating grin. He's not yet clothed, soft dick hanging heavy as he rushes back towards the bed.
"For baby butts!"
"Jesus, Rozanov," Shane groans.
Shane places his hands above him on the pillow, coincidentally in a perfect position for Rozanov to sit on the backs of his thighs and push back a cheek to get his hands on Shane's hole. Which he does.
Outside of sex, Rozanov isn't getting up close and personal with his ass like this. No one ever is. It feels wildly different than when Rozanov has his tongue inside of Shane and fondling his balls. Because now, Rozanov's eyes aren't lidded over in lust. They're probably peering at his hole like it's a shot on goal, trying to figure out how to maneuver around it for the best chance.
But really, all it is, is Shane's abused and puffy-red hole that Rozanov caused. He's deciding now, that actually it can't be his fault, only Rozanov's.
"Is this okay?" Rozanov asks, because he likes to pretend to be sweet. Or is sweet. Sometimes, but mostly he's an asshole. A wet, cold finger braces itself softly onto Shane's rim.
"Y-yes," he stutters. His shoulders relax as the cold gel eases the irritation.
"Okay, good."
A too-fat glob of the gel is gently rubbed around his entrance. Rozanov is silent for a few moments, like he is focusing on the intimate action of rubbing fucking baby rash lotion onto his hole and that nothing else matters to him in the moment.
"Doing very good for me," Rozanov whispers, Shane can't help but shiver in reply.
The amount he's already applied is surely enough, but Rozanov's touch lingers still. It's weird, Shane has kneeled to get Rozanov's cock shoved into his throat, has been on his hands and knees as Rozanov spits onto his asshole, has been completely bare and unbidden around this man, and none of it has felt quite as intimate as this. Shane isn't even hard. Rozanov's hands melt over him, touching him, and Shane isn't even fucking hard.
"So good, so pretty."
"It's—" Shane chokes, mostly on air, but a little bit on the reverance of Rozanov's voice. "It's not pretty. It's just an asshole."
"But I like her."
"Her?" Shane balks.
"Sorry, sorry," Rozanov groans. He pets over the heated skin softly. "I like your tight hole. But like I said... does not look very tight right now."
"Fuck off, you're such a dick."
He says it, and doesn't mean it. He says it, and Rozanov smiles like he definitely knows Shane doesn't mean it. Even more so than usual.
"All better now?"
"Might be a bitch to walk tomorrow morning when I wake up, but it's good. Um, thank you. You didn't have to do that."
"It is okay," Rozanov waves him off. "You put your body in my hands. I should always make sure it is good afterwards. I will have some when I see you next in Boston, okay?"
Shane nods a little dumbly, a little struck at the words and the way his heart is pounding faster than it was when he was getting fucked.
—
Rozanov's hands are big. Weirdly not as big as Shane's, but still big and comforting. Shane likes when they hurt him, too. That sort of staticky pain, where it burrows into Shane's brain and makes him feel really, really calm.
It was a shitty fucking game. Boston completely wiped the Metros, and not for the lack of Shane fucking trying really hard. Rozanov had checked him into the boards, his elbow digging into the muscled flesh of his ribs. Now, Rozanov presses on that bruise as he bullies his cock in and out of Shane. Shane always tells himself it's like a punishment for a bad game, but he really knows it's Rozanov's way of comforting him after a loss.
"Fuck," Shane curses. "Fuck, Rozanov."
"Yes, it hurts so good, yes?"
"Yes, yes," he cries.
Shane's on his back, legs wrapped around Rozanov. His nails are probably leaving red marks where he scratches them against his back.
"I like to leave marks," Rozanov groans. His fingers press into the blooming bruise and Shane cries out. "Can't mark you with my mouth here, so I do it there on the ice instead. It makes me crazy. Want to suck your dick in front of whole arena."
"Sh-shit, that's fucking crazy."
"Yes." A harder thrust. Shane can feel Rozanov in his gut, past further that too. He can feel Rozanov in his heart, he swears. In his head, in his veins. "Don't care. Fuck, Hollander. Everyone would know you are such a whore for my cock."
"Fuck, come on, Rozanov. Harder."
Then Rozanov flips them, Shane face planting into the sweat damp sheets before getting fucked, somehow impossibly harder. The new angle makes his spine tingle, the immediate affect of his balls tightening. He comes hard, shaking in the strong grasp Rozanov has around his hips.
Shane should bolt, get back to his hotel so he can actually get a few hours rest before he has to wake up to fly back to Montreal. Yet, he lets Rozanov lead him into the bathroom, lets Rozanov drape them both in the hot spray of the shower.
Scents of pine fill the room, heavy and steamy as Shane is enveloped in complete complaceny as Rozanov wipes him down. He's melting by the time Rozanov gets his hands lathered with shampoo to rub into his scalp.
Soft touches over his chest, his stomach, his hip bones, his half-hard cock. When Rozanov takes two hand fulls of his ass, Shane jolts back into himself and chuckles. They're always ravenous, even when sleepy and soapy. Moments like these take the breath out of him sometimes, a domestic happy future fills his head. He always ends up feeling betrayed by his own brain.
A soapy finger slips between his cheeks and brushes against his hole. Instinctively, Shane hisses through his teeth.
"You are sore," Rozanov notes.
"A little."
"Let me help?"
Shane shakes his head and laughs. "You just want to touch my ass some more."
"Maybe." A big grin spreads across Rozanov's face, his hands curl around Shane's ass as he kneads at the muscle there. "But you are very good for me. Give me so much. This ass, this hole." He brushes a finger past his rim once again. "It does so much for me. I said I would take care of it."
Without a single say from Shane's logical brain that knows these are just meaningless fucks, his heart skips a beat. When this side of Rozanov comes out, the soft and tender part of him, Shane doesn't quite know what to do with it. Lean into his touch? Fling himself out of the embrace? Maybe compromise, let himself finish the shower and then leave after a final kiss.
"You really don't have to. I should honestly, um, get back to my hotel. Early flight."
"Just let me, please?" Rozanov pouts. "I said I would have some for when you were in Boston."
"Okay," he relents, because he was really never going to say no.
Once out of the shower and sufficiently dried, Rozanov lays him down. Shane's heart is beating erratically, he can hear the rush of it in his ears. The mattress dips with Rozanov's weight and when Shane looks up, he isn't holding a tube of Aquaphor, but instead a small tub of something else.
"It is not yours. I googled. I will use this. More made for, er, after anal."
Shane swallows, nods, lets himself rest against the pillows once again. Rozanov chuckles and says, "what, are you not going to check ingredient?"
"No. I trust you."
"Okay," he says softly.
For the second time, Shane lays pliant as Rozanov manipulates his body into the position he wants. He applies the balm just as softly as the first time he did this. Something about it, the closeness, the care, it has Shane's eyes welling up with tears. Rozanov keeps it fairly perfunctory, which makes the tears well up even faster. This isn't foreplay, it is not a means to an end, rather it is pure intimacy.
"Okay," Shane snaps, sitting up so quickly he gets a headrush. "I really need to go. Um. Good game, I guess. Thank you… um, just. I'll see you in a few months then."
Shane doesn't listen to Rozanov's retort about beating the Metros, doesn't listen to him as he says what the brand of stupid fucking anal balm he used in case Shane wants to use it when they aren't together. It makes him feel sick, stomach in knots and heart aching for unknown reasons. Known reasons, actually, maybe the fact that Shane is in a constant fear he has fallen in love with Ilya Rozanov.
The Ilya Rozanov that he gets to see. Not always bravado, or snappy remarks, but the quiet moments like these too. The kind of Ilya Rozanov who researches the best brand of after-anal balm to buy for Shane.
—
Shane Hollander was not really meant to have facial hair. Not even for the growing aspect of it, moreso the scratchy awful feeling of it drives him fucking insane. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, Ilya does not adhere to those same set of beliefs.
Stupid, beautiful playoff beard. Ilya can't even really grow that impressive of a beard, so he has never stuck with the superstition of not shaving during playoffs. Now on the same team, wanting something fated and electric to hit the Centaurs, he has now given in.
As much as Shane loves his husband, the scratchy stubble isn't that great of a look on him. However, what Shane can contend with, is that he loves the feeling of it scraping across his skin. Inner thighs now paled over with red beard burn, the sting accompanying the bite of the bruises Ilya is still in the process of perfecting.
Ilya hasn't touched his dick yet, not with his mouth or hands, anyway. Instead, he rubbed his jaw against the length of it, let the stubble do the teasing. Lower, and then even lower to where he licks across Shane's rim. The sensation of the facial hair against the most sensitive skin has Shane hissing, hiccuping in a breath as Ilya soothes it over with more of his tongue.
"Holy shit," Shane gasps. He tugs a handful of Ilya's hair into a fist and cries out. "S-shit, Ilya."
"Feel good?" Ilya mumbles. Shane can feel the shit-eating grin Ilya's got on his face.
He teases some more, rubbing his cheeks against his rim and thighs. It's honestly starting to burn, dipping into that maybe-too-much zone. Shane tugs at Ilya's hair again, shifts his hips so that Ilya's mouth is back on him. His tongue laves, and dances, and then ultimately spears inside of him. Saliva pools at the front of Ilya's mouth, dripping it slowly onto the overstimulated flesh of his hole. The image alone of it might have Shane busting.
A finger dips in at his entrance, allowing even more room for Ilya to plunge his tongue inside. The stubble still scrapes against Shane's skin as Ilya fucks his finger in and out, then placing open mouth kisses to his taint and the skin around his hole.
"Please," Shane whimpers.
"Please what?"
"I want to come."
"Is this enough?" Ilya taunts. His finger finds his prostate, electricity shooting up Shane's spine. He massages it slowly with just one digit, while rubbing his jaw against every part of exposed skin Ilya can get it on. "One finger and my beard rubbing on you. May be the gayest thing you have done if you come from just this."
Shane can't roll his eyes with the way Ilya is working his prostate, the burning feeling of stubble across sensitive skin makes him too fucked out to be a brat back. Instead, he just begs. "Please, Ilya."
"Are you waiting for my permission?"
Ilya breathes hot against Shane's hole, his finger still working inside of him. Shane nods incessantly, fucking urging the orgasm to be staved off with only pure will and the need to be completely obedient to Ilya's wishes. Ilya crooks his finger to get Shane spread open and tries to spit directly inside of him.
"Yes, please, Ilya. Please, it hurts."
"What hurts?"
"The—the stupid playoff beard. You can't even grow a proper fucking beard and it hurts, please, it hurts so fucking good. Let me come, Ilya. You've already come, please, please—"
Ilya plunges two fingers inside of him then, gets his tongue working on the outside as well. He's humming and making content little noises as he fucks his fingers and keeps up a continuously brutal pace of chafing Shane's irritated hole.
"Okay, sweetheart," Ilya coos, half condescending and half dripped in utter adoration. "Come for me, Shane."
Back arched like something out of a painting, Shane comes, exploding over his belly and chest. Ilya works him through it, still pressing on his prostate and keeping up with the unrelenting scrape of his beard. Shane cries out, the burn now definitely too much. He shakes, every last drop of cum being wrung out of him until he feels covered in it.
"Shh," Ilya soothes. Shane must be being fucking loud if Ilya is actually shushing him. Ilya's slipped out his fingers, Shane's completely empty now. "It's okay, good job."
On the come down, Shane is now acutely aware of how much his ass and thighs are fucking on fire. It's like the worst chafing he's ever had from sweaty hockey gear, but a million times hotter. Every time his thighs get sweaty and red from exertion, is he going to get hard now? Probably. Ilya's made him get hard over more innocuous things.
"Please stop," Shane pleads. "I mean, just, the beard. It hurts. In a not-hot way."
"Oh," Ilya says and pulls away, finally letting Shane's poor skin get a break. "That was very, very hot, though."
"My fucking hole is on fire, dude."
Ilya cackles. "You like it!"
"Fuck you!" Shane laughs back. "Yeah, I like it when your tongue is also in me. But I'm not going to be able to walk tomorrow!"
"Hmm." Ilya slinks his way up towards the bed, crowding Shane with his entire body draped over him. Ilya palms at Shane's chest and jaw before kissing him. "I love you, very, very pretty boy. So loud tonight, too."
"It was a lot."
"Yes… but too much?" he asks, wholly serious now. "I can shave if it is hurting you too much."
"No," he replies a little too quickly. Ilya is already grinning at the admission. "I-I like it. Just… maybe apply some of the Backdoor stuff?"
"Of course, sweetheart. C'mere, let me wipe you down and then I will get you all lathered up in your butt cream."
Shane rolls his eyes, but mostly still floating down from the high of his orgasm. Ilya cleans him with Shane's preferred brand of wipes before grabbing the balm. They don't really need to use this a lot, but when they do, Shane always gets transported back to when he was a shaky twenty-something with very bad interpersonal skills.
As softly and careful as he did the first time many, many moons ago, Ilya applies to salve to his rim and inner thighs. Instantly, Shane feels better. The burn lessens and his chest expands. There could honestly be absolutely nothing on Ilya's fingertips and Shane thinks he would react the same, placebo effect and all, only the calmest touches from his husband can make him feel as safe.
"I love you," he whispers into Ilya's curls when he's finished up.
"I love you, too, and your little hole, which is all mine to take care of and pamper."