Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Original Characters

Additional Tags:

Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, off screen abuse, liberties taken with slavic folklore & mythology, More tags to be added, author has developed a mild hyperfixation on russian banya bathing culture now you all get to hear about it, Fantasy, Dragon shifter Ilya, Sauna smut

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-24 Updated: 2026-04-16 Words: 10,841 Chapters: 3/6

Three Questions for a Dragon

Summary

"Hm. Probably he seduced and stole your young wife away... That’s his job. Stealing the hearts of young maidens. Could explain why he was so cross to see you. It’d make you the Hero of this story. Bad news for types like him. You stay away from Rozanov."

-

Shane Hollander finds himself trapped between worlds, living among the spirits without his memories of the human world. The only creature that seems to know him, seems to want him dead.

Notes

A friend on discord mentions the idea of Heated Rivalry doing a Spirited Away and unknowingly kicked off a 12-hour hyperfixation into banya bathhouse culture.

Chapter 1

 

“What are you doing here?” The man seized Shane around the front of his tunic, shoving him up against the door. His head cracked against the sturdy pine wall. He closed his eyes tight against the bloom of pain there. 

 

“I- I’m supposed to sweep the floor of the main hall!”

 

“Rozanov, do not make a spectacle of the staff. It is beneath you.” 

 

Shane was dropped at once. As soon as he was released, Kartofel seized his wrist, hissing under his breath. 

 

“Kneel, now!”

 

Shane hit the floor. He realized the rest of the workers had done the same. Even the guests, in their towels and robes, had also gone still.

 

Only a moment ago the large main hall of the Banya - the great old bathhouse - had been a bustling hub of movement. Spirits, monsters, clever shapeshifting animals and a litany of other indescribable creatures had gathered there to enjoy food and hot tea after indulging in the restorative power of the hot steam rooms. But now everyone stood as if frozen.

 

Shane wasn’t quite sure what the man who shoved him was meant to be - some monster or troll. It tended to be the very old or powerful ones that made the effort to walk about looking human. Folklore had never been particularly interesting to him, at least until about a month ago when it suddenly became an integral part of his day-to-day survival. 

 

The second man who entered - the one who spoke the name Rozanov - seemed to be the one that had caused everything to stop. 

 

His shoes clacked on the hard wooden floors, echoing eerily now in the sudden silence. Shane glanced up to see a tall, grey-skinned man walking by. He had a trim, neat beard and high cheekbones. His nose was long and straight, his eyes a bit too far away from Shane’s angle to make out correctly. His robes were heavy and black, accented with gold and trimmed with sable. There was an iron crown on his head and… yeah, bowing was probably a good call. 

 

The old man walked by, slowing as he drew level with Shane. He felt more than saw the gaze crawl up his back in a way that made him shudder. When he spoke, his voice was withered and dry.

 

“A human.” He breathed shallowly, as if he was at the constant edge of a hacking cough. “How curious. Still. It has the stench the Baba Yaga about him. Leave him be.”

 

Rozanov was standing tense and taut a few paces away. They could not have appeared more different. While the old man (king?) was old and pale, Rozanov was young. His skin was practically golden in its contrast.

 

They were both richly dressed, though while the old man appeared to be practically pulled down by the weight of the opulence of his clothing, Rozanov was dressed a bit more smartly. 

While the old king was disinterested, Rozanov was glaring down at Shane like he wanted to kill or devour him.

 

“Rozanov!”

“Yes. Coming.” He turned, a jerking sort of motion to the way he walked that seemed at sharp odds to the fluid way he otherwise walked - like he had been physically tugged along by the words.

 

The two men disappeared through the doors, and the tension dissipated. A faint murmuration of the guests and staff alike filled the hall as everyone began to resume their business. 

 

“Come on.” Kartofel tugged Shane along. The squat little house spirit only came up to Shane’s waist. He seized him by the front of his shirt to lead him.  “This way.” He whisked Shane swiftly in the opposite direction, through doors and down flights of rickety wooden steps. 

“But, the hall-”

 

“Bah, leave that to Svelka. She’ll get the work done faster without you anyway.”

“Who was that?”

“That was Korschei. Korschei the Deathless. He’s old. Yes. Wealthy, powerful. Do not cross his path again.” Kartofel ordered, as if Shane had chosen to get mixed up in any of that on purpose. 

 

They were descending, making their way down into the bowels of the bathhouse. Twisting metal pipes creaked and hissed, pumping hot water from deep springs up to the structure above and through the base of the mountain. From there, it would be channeled into hot pools and springs for the bathers to enjoy.

 

“You’re not a pretty young maiden, but you are pretty. He might not care, if you found him on a bad day-”

 

“No, not him.” Shane said, breathless. “The man he was with-”

“Oh, Rozanov.” 

 

Kartofel gestured toward a final door. Shane pushed it open, bringing them down into the laundry rooms. They were now down at the base of the mountain, where the hot springs mingled with the cooler water of the river that would flow out and under the ice across the frozen landscape. 

 

Dozens of women were working away here, scrubbing towels and sheets and clothing. Tall natural cavern ceilings caused their voices to echo and reverberate in an ethereal sort of way. But as water spirits, Shane had a feeling their voices might just do that anyway.

 

 Satisfied that they were no longer being chased, Kartofel perched himself up on a wicker basket, fishing out his pipe. 

 

“Rozanov isn’t human, like you. He can just make himself look like a handsome young human so he can do Korschei’s bidding.” He took a few puffs of his pipe, glaring down at Shane over the smoke. “What did you do to stoke his ire, anyway?”

 

Shane rubbed a hand idly over his chest. 

 

“I… I don’t know.” He answered honestly. “You saw, he just charged in and shoved me. I never saw him before today.”

 

Well, as far as he knew anyway. Shane blinked, mulling it over.

 

“Do you think I knew him before coming here? To Buyan?”

 

The words felt right on his tongue, heavy and solid. 

His memories of the human world were gone, but something in the pit of his stomach had lit up - warm and sure like a hot coal.

 

“Hm. Probably he seduced and stole your young wife away.” Kartofel mused, puffing away on his pipe. “That’s his job. Stealing the hearts of young maidens. Could explain why he was so cross to see you. It’d make you the Hero of this story. Bad news for types like him. You stay away from Rozanov.” Kartofel pointed at Shane with a stout little finger. 

 

Shane nodded thickly, still rubbing the sore spot on his chest. 

 

He didn’t want to go against Kartofel’s advice. If it wasn’t for him and Grandma Solenyy he likely would have gotten drowned, burned, gutted or some combination of the three before his first night among the spirits had ended. 

 

They didn’t have to look out for him. Kartofel had helped him get work at the bathhouse in exchange for one of the cigarettes that had been in Shane’s bag. 

He wasn’t sure why he had cigarettes, he still felt a tinge of revulsion when he looked at them, personally. But the domovoi - the house spirits - seemed to love them. 

After Kartofel helped him, Shane gave him a second, just as thanks.

 

That had been all it took. Kartofel decided with grim resignation that it was his mission now to keep Shane alive. It was because of them he had survived this long - though he wasn’t quite sure how. 

 

“If you are down here, then be helpful!” 

Vodorosli -the head of the laundry - had spotted them. Like the other rusalka, her skin was pale, her eyes dark and glassy like a shark. Long, perpetually damp hair was tied back with reeds.

 

“Take these up to the third floor, Vesnushki.” She loaded Shane’s arms up with heavy bundles of washed towels. They were steaming warm with the faint scent of birch. “The pulley to that floor is still broken, so we need them carried up.”

 

“Yes, ma’m- ow!” He hissed as Vodorosli suddenly snatched him by the ear. She sniffled his hair and his neck. Her hands were clammy and cold, despite the heat of the water.

 

“Why does he smell of iron? Is there a dragon in the bathhouse?” She rounded on Kartofel, looking murderous. “You are meant to be looking after him!”

The little house spirit huffed and glowered, chewing on his tongue a bit. 

“I am so! Why do you think we’re down here?”

“To do your jobs, I would think!” The wrathful water spirit seized another heavy basket of laundry, foisting it onto Kartofel’s arms. “These were meant to go up to the guests hours ago! If you can’t do your job then the human should stay here and work with us. We will look after him.” She said with a wide toothy smile.

“Bah! He’ll be drowned in one of your pools by the end of the day!”

“Our pools are lovely! Any human would be lucky to drown in them!”

 

Shane ducked out of the laundry room, beginning the long climb up the servants stairs. Kartofel would likely catch up soon. Though Shane wasn’t in poor physical shape by any means, even the smallest spirit could easily outpace him.

 

He delivered the towels, and met Svelka on his way to fetch more firewood. She was a domovoi like Kartofel. While all the house spirits had a wide range of forms and appearances, she and Kartofel looked quite the same. A wizened little creature with smart eyes and a nose shaped a bit like a potato. 

 

“Are you alright?” Shane asked, getting down on one knee to reach her eye level. “Those men that arrived-”

“Oh I am fine. We’re not all as clumsy as you, Vesnushki. Come on now, I have food waiting for us.”

 

It was a little early to end the day. Normally Shane worked until well after the evening bell, and it hadn’t rung yet. 

Despite how long he had been here, Shane was still getting familiar with the twisting, turning halls and rooms that stacked upon themselves. It was a magic place, he was becoming more certain each day that rooms and wings added and removed themselves at will. Still, he had gotten enough of his bearings in order to know that Svelka was leading him in a very roundabout way to get back to the servants quarters.

 

They were avoiding the main halls and common areas - sticking to back rooms and crawlspaces. 

 

Was Rozanov still about?

 

The polished, gilded halls gave way to more weathered wood and slapdash construction. The workers they passed went from being quiet and respectful to loud and boisterous far away from the eyes of their guests. 

 

Eventually, Svelka and Shane arrived at the little sliding door to their own room. It was a bit chilly, closer to the outside of the overall complex and more exposed to the eastern wind. But Grandma Solenyy had the squat iron stove going, and it was cozy enough once Shane huddled up under a thick quilted blanket. 

Grandma Solenyy was snoozing in the corner - or at least Shane thought she was sleeping. Her hands were still working away on her bone needles, knitting something from coarse yarn. They hadn’t been back long when the door slid open again, and Kartofel slipped inside. It was snug there now, with three house spirits and one human taking up most of the space. Shane had his legs pulled up beneath him, trying to make himself small. 

 

“I spoke with Iaska.” Kartofel plopped himself down, pulling out his pipe again. “Old Korschei will be gone tomorrow.” 

“Hm, good.” Svelka took a cup of stew from the stovetop, pressing it into Shane’s hands.

 

“Does he come here often?” Shane asked. 

 

“Not too often. Every few hundred years.” Svelka mused. “Normally he stays for a week or two. Short visit is better.”

 

Shane hoped she would elaborate, give him any more information on the young man he was with. But instead she took out a little wooden flute, playing a familiar tune.

“You don’t go to the main floor tomorrow, Vesnushki.” Kartofel told Shane, puffing on his pipe. “You’re going to go down to the laundry and work for Vodorosli and the rusalka. Just for tomorrow. I have arranged it.”

 

“Zhaba isn’t going to be happy about that.”

“Zhaba is never happy.” Kartofel said gruffly. “So you don’t eat tomorrow. So what. You won’t die.” He shrugged. “Better you go hungry for a day and keep your head on your shoulders.”

“Thank you, Kartofel.”

The little spirit grunted.

 

Shane didn’t feel particularly grateful, even though he knew he ought to be. There’d be no chance of seeing that young man again. 

 

It ought to have been a good thing. Rozanov seemed to want him dead. He would be better off keeping clear of him.

Even if he might know Shane. 

Know why he was here.

 

Shane took another gulp of stew, determined to relish it if he wasn’t going to get rations tomorrow.

 

He turned to glance out the little, dusty window.

 

It was always snowing outside the bathhouse. 

The perpetual midnight blizzard that surrounded the place was often too terrifying to bear - so Shane tried not to think about it. He closed his eyes halfway, trying to pretend it was an ordinary winter evening.

At this moment he was warm and comfortable. Svelka’s music made him feel calm and sleepy.

 

Outside, far off in the distance, something big was moving. 

Shane leaned forward, turning his back to the stove to better acclimate his eyes to the dark. 

 

A house was moving. Making its way slowly across the landscape on two chicken’s feet. 

 

“First Korschei, now Baba Yaga.” Grandma Solenyy didn’t open her eyes. “The weather is turning.”

 

“Do you think she’ll come here too?” Shane asked.

He didn’t know what he would say to her if she did show up. The Baba Yaga had been far more terrifying than the deathless king and the man with golden skin. Then again, he had first encountered her before Shane had learned how to compromise with kikimora and charm water spirits.

That was when his head was still full of memories of the sun and the human world. 

He was a different person now. Maybe if he met her again, things would be different. 

 

Though he wasn’t quite sure how… begging for his memories back when he had paid with them fair and square wasn’t likely to earn him much sympathy.

 

And it wasn’t as though he could challenge or fight her. He wouldn’t have the slightest idea how.

 

It was nice of Kartofel to consider that Shane might be the Hero of the story. He didn’t feel particularly heroic. According to the Baba Yaga, he was just some Fool who wandered the wrong way in the woods and nearly died out in the snow.

 

He wasn’t quite sure why the witch in the chicken-foot hut decided to pull him out of the blizzard and save his life. Instead of cursing him, she had him swallow the tongue of a newt so he could speak, and sent him here to work in the Banya. 

 

A bathhouse for the fairies and spirits and tricky things of the world in between the lands of the living and the dead.

 

Shane had paid for his life with his memories of the human world.

 

So here Shane was - working for spirits. His days involved sweeping floors, stacking firewood, and staying out of reach of hungry trolls. Even if he could leave, he wouldn’t have the slightest idea which way to go.

It wasn’t exactly heroic.

More like a cautionary tale with a sorry sort of ending.

 

“Will she come here? Perhaps.” Solenyy spoke at last, her voice dry as paper. “Perhaps not. Hopefully not. Too much destiny starts to stink up the air when they all start to gather.”

Chapter 2

Shane slept fitfully, as he did on most nights.

He dreamt of snow and of cold. He couldn’t escape it, even in his dreams. 

Tonight though, there was something else haunting him in his. 

Cold blue eyes, gold hair and white teeth - sharp and bright.

 

One of the things that Shane had on his person when he felt between the cracks of the world was a watch, strapped to his wrist. 

He knew many of the spirits of the bathhouse would gladly take it off of him. It had an impossibly soft, supple leather band. The face of it was shiny and intricate. Kartofel said that it had the stink of covetousness about it - and that was something akin to junk food for spirits.

Junk was the best way to describe it now. The face of it had been perpetually stuck with both hands on “12” since he arrived here. Still, it was a piece of home, so it was important.

 

Grandma Solenyy kept their little shared room safe with her own sort of magic, so Shane didn’t have to worry about it or his other meagre belongings being pilfered from their corner of the place. 

 

Shane could only guess that it was early, by the way the three domovoi were still sleeping. 

He dressed quietly in his simple linen uniform and stole outside.

He ought to go down to the caves to work in the laundry.

He knew he should.

Kartofel, Svelka and Grandma Solenyy had kept him alive this entire time. Drilling into him customs and rituals that would keep him alive among his new strange peers. 

 

To switch his shoes when gathering birch branches from the woods.

Don’t whistle indoors.

Don't look anyone in the eyes, unless you have to.

They taught him who to bribe with what to keep their favor - tobacco and salt for the domovoi. Ribbons for the rusalka. Soap and water for the bannik.

 

They had been impressed with how he had been able to keep track of it all. Enough to figure he was worth keeping alive.

 

He didn’t want to disobey them. 

And he wasn’t. Not really.

They told him to go work in the laundry. He would.

He was just going to get breakfast first.

He should, shouldn’t he? If he wasn’t going to eat tonight.

 

But there was something else, more than food.

A desperate panic that fluttered in the back of his throat. 

 

The man, the monster - Rozanov. 

If he knew him.

If he knew why he was here, then maybe-

“Hey! You, human!”

 

Shane hadn’t gone into the main hall, but Zhaba spotted him anyway. 

 

Zhaba, the (quite literally) frog-faced day manager leered at Shane from over the throng of workers who had lined up to get their assignments in the main hall. It was quite the orderly queue, at least until Zhaba plowed through - bustling and shoving the other sprites, fairies and various creatures aside until he was sitting cross at Shane’s feet. 

 

“Special assignment for you today.”

“The laundry?” Shane guessed, taking a small step backwards. 

Zhaba grinned, his entire face squishing slightly flat as he did so.

“No, not today. Today you are a banshchitsa.” 

 

There were some sniggers and peals of laughter from the others, as well as a few scandalized murmurings. Shane flushed, but knew better than to argue outright. He glanced around, wishing he had waited for his friends after all. 

They were better than him at this, finding clever ways to circumvent a spirit without outright refusing them.

 

“The guests are going to end up pissed off if I do that.”

 

For the past few weeks, Shane had busied himself in the background of things. Chopping firewood, running deliveries. Staying out of the way and keeping things clean. It wasn’t glamorous work, but it kept trouble from finding him.

 

The banschik was strictly the work of the bannik spirits. The steam rooms and the cleansing, healing powers contained there was their domain. They channeled the power of fire and the water to empower the spirits who came to visit there.

 

Shane had barely been allowed to set foot in the steam rooms since he arrived, except to keep them cleaned and restocked between use. 

The idea of him trying to carry out the duties of the banschik was little short of mortifying.

 

Not to mention Shane would probably pass out and expire in the heat. The longest he had ever managed to withstand the steam rooms while the fires were lit was just a few minutes.

 

“Not this time. You’ve been requested specifically. Now get out of my sight.” Zhaba shoved him along, moving on to handing out the rest of the tasks. 

 

“I’m going to get eaten.” Shane said thinly. A fox-faced woman stood at his side.

“Yes, well, you were supposed to be in the caves today. It serves you right.” Ianska handed him a new uniform, with a wool hat and wooden shoes. “Kartofel still owes me for that favor by the way, even if you get killed.”

“Ianska…”

“There’s no point in pouting, human. Just be polite, keep your head down. Don’t say anything stupid.” She soothed, walking with him down the hall. “Visitors are not allowed to eat the workers at the bathhouse. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen but you’re not worth the trouble. I have eaten humans before. You don’t taste that good.” She patted him on the shoulder reassuringly.

 

-

 

The overall complex of the bathhouse was impressive. It had many various hot springs and pools. Cold plunges to shock and cleanse the body. Grottos carved out of salt and long shallow pools cloudy with water rich with various minerals.

There were long food halls and private parlors for guests to relax and eat, play cards and drink tea. Gossip and scheme and tell stories of the human world.

 

Outside the main structure of the building, handsome wooden huts were dotted along a stone path that curved around the mountainside up to the treeline, lined with ever-burning torches. Though the wind and the snow howled overhead, it courteously lifted itself up and over the ancient Banya. Smoke lifted up tranquilly from the buildings into the night sky.

 

Sometimes, if you were lucky, Shane had heard that you could even catch a glimpse of the stars.

 

Today, he had been assigned to one of the outermost ones, nearly at the line of the dark birch forest.

 

The old bannik of the sauna trudged out to meet him, looking murderous. He was a willowy, haunched figure with long fingers and deep set beetle-black eyes. A thick, bristly mustache and beard obscured most of his face, but Shane could still tell he was pissed. Shane offered deep apologies, promising to clean the bannik’s hut extra thoroughly for the next month. 

 

As an extra precaution, Shane offered the bannik a small bottle. It was one of the few things that had come with him from the human world. Though his English had gotten a little hazy to read since arriving here, he had determined it was some form of cleansing gel - which he hoped was satisfactory.

The bannik examined it, threw the cap aside and drank the contents in a single loud gulp.

 

“The guest is already inside.” He said gravelly. “Keep the fire lit.” 

“I will.”

 

Having gotten by the bannik without his face pressed into a basket of hot coals, Shane took a  moment to breathe.

The hut was divided into two sections. One had comfortable sofas and a low table for visitors to relax, change and drink tea between hot sessions. It was an inbetween from the biting chill outside and the hot, cleansing heat of the steam room on the other side of the door. 

 

Shane took a moment to breathe.

He tried to remember the steps of the duties of the banschik, but found it lacking. Still, he had a feeling that wasn’t going to be important.

That ache in his chest seemed oddly certain of what he was going to find behind the door.

 

He entered the main steam room, heat curling up around his feet. 

 

On the far bench, the figure of a human man was sitting. His arms stretched out on either side of the shelf of the back wall. He sat up and leaned forward as Shane entered. He was wearing a towel for modesty, but that was all. Everything else was sharp, bare planes of gold skin. Damp amber hair had already begun to stick itself to his face and neck from the heat, pushed back slick with only a stray curl or two managing to spring free. 

 

Sharp, blue eyes watched him under long lashes in an arresting stare.

 

It was Rozanov. 

 

“What are you doing here?”

His voice was low, and urgent. It was the same question he had demanded yesterday. But this time it was like a different person was asking altogether.

 

“I- uh,” He floundered. “I was called here. To-” Shane gestured awkwardly around their surroundings.

 

Rozanov glowered, leaning forward. A muscle in his jaw worked, his expression steely. 

 

“What are you doing here, Shane?”

 

He knew - distantly - that he ought to be surprised. Shocked. Nobody in the bathhouse knew his real name. But instead, the ache in his chest burned vicious, vindicated.

 

“You do know me.” Shane took two steps forward, but faltered. Rozanov was still some sort of monster. Very possibly, one that wanted him dead. Still he couldn’t help himself but pressing. 

 

“Do you know why I’m here?” Rozanov was sitting frozen. “Please, tell me!”

 

The man watched him, breathing long and slow through his nose.

 

“Your memories are gone. I thought they might be when I saw you but-” 

 

Rozanov was closing up. He leaned forward on his elbows, his head bowed forward. He breathed in the dry, hot air.

 

“You should not be here.”

 

“Yeah, I know!” Shane laughed, exasperated. “That’s all anyone has been telling me since I got here! But I don’t know how to leave. Or what I’m here to do.”

 

Rozanov leaned back with a small sigh. He ran a hand over his face, contemplatively. 

 

“Well, you typically start with the first steam.”

 

Shane watched Rozanov for a long moment. He wanted to press him. Wanted to shake him and demand he give Shane the answers he needed here. 

But he could practically hear Grandma Solenyy’s stern advice.

There was nothing that the spirits despised more than arrogance. Disrespect.

 

“Right, okay.”

 

He did his best to school the deep scowl on his face into submission and threw another log on the fire of the small iron stove. It sat under a tall pile of hot, jagged stones stacked up in the corner. Sitting beside it was a wooden bucket of water and a ladle with a long handle. Shane took a scoop of water to pour over the hot stones. It evaporated instantly, sending steam up into the air. 

 

He was distantly aware there was some critical step he was meant to be doing here. Blessing the water. 

Or, no. 

You were meant to make a wish.

 

“Do monsters make wishes?” Shane asked, almost more to himself than to Rozanov.

 

“No, we don’t.” He sighed, sitting back on the wooden bench. His legs were spread, making the towel work quite hard. “You might as well skip that part.”

 

Shane cast the water over the hot stones. They crackled and hissed with delight and another plume of steam billowed up into the air. A few more tosses of water, and the room was thick and heavy with it. Shane set the ladle aside for the wide handheld fan to waft and move the steam in the air of the small, hot room.

 

Rozanov’s eyes slid closed, and he leaned back a bit. Sweat and condensation from the steam had begun to bead up on his body, pebbling his brow and the dip of his neck, across his shoulders and down his bare chest. Shane was probably starting to sweat as well, though his mouth had begun to feel quite dry.

 

If he did a good job, would Rozanov tell him who he was? Tell him anything about himself?

Shane frowned, pissed off that he had been put in this situation.

 

After the fan, he couldn't remember what happened next. The domovoi never prepared him for this.

He was supposed to be chanting something. 

At some point Rozanov was meant to plunge his body into cold water.

There was a scrub of salt and honey at some point as well…

Something else to be done with the dried birch leaves…

 

“You’ll have to be okay with me skipping most of it.” Shane said quietly, trying to keep himself from sounding too bitter. It figured the first spirit that Shane really wanted something from would present him with an impossible task.

 

“Yes, that’s fine.” Rozanov said, his head resting against the wooden planks of the cabin.

 

“Why-” Shane lowered the fan. He was carefully studying the mole on Rozanov’s cheek.

Don’t look at the eyes. Grandma Solenyy had warned.

 

Though she hadn’t warned Shane about looking at a spirit’s chest, or the soft smattering of hair that rested there. She hadn’t said anything about the hard planes of their stomach, or the sharp cut of the hips that trailed in a sharp ‘V’ to the legs, where a damp, thin towel was straining against the tight fold that held it in place. The suggestion of a shadow between his legs, where something thick might - might - have been pressing up against it.

 

“Why-”

 

“You want to know why I called you here?” Rozanov asked. His tone was light, just on the cusp of mocking. He ran his palm against his neck, damp and gleaming gold.

Sweat was pooling in the small of Shane’s back, his pupils blown wide. 

 

“Yes.” Shane’s voice nearly broke. 

He didn’t realize he had moved until his legs bumped against Rozanov’s knees. 

 

Rozanov leaned forward in a rapid, fluid motion. He grabbed Shane’s chin, turning his face toward him roughly.

He could not look away now, couldn’t keep his eyes from meeting the burning blue steel of his gaze.

 

“Because I am a monster.” Rozanov’s teeth were white and sharp. “Who steals the hearts of young women and men.”

 

The heat was getting to Shane. That must have been it - or else Shane had finally slipped up. Been bested by one of the spirits here who wanted him dead. His body stood arrested, drawn in and captivated by his gaze.

 

At least this wasn’t such a bad way to go. 

He wasn’t drowned in a pool, or had his eyes clawed out. 

 

Shane breathed out sharply. A thumb brushed against the soft pad of his lower lip. 

He parted his teeth, letting it slip inside and press against the velvet pad of his tongue. 

 

Shane sank down to his knees on the hot floor. Rozanov’s hands were on either side of his head, his fingertips gentle on the back of his scalp. 

It had to be some kind of fae magic that moved Shane’s hands, moved his mouth to kiss hot and insistent against Rozanov’s navel. There was the tang of salt there. A hint of iron. But maybe that was the blood pounding hot through Shane’s body.

He was so sick and tired of being cold. 

 

The towel had disappeared sometime between Shane’s body moving and his knees hitting the floor. Rozanov’s cock was already thickening when Shane leaned forward, nuzzling against it reverently. 

 

He looked up at Rozanov for a moment, a final confirmation. 

This this okay?

The man’s eyes were dark, hungry. There was a barest hint of a nod. 

Shane breathed in, sinking his lips over Rozanov’s rigid member.

 

He swore softly, gripping the locks of Shane’s sweat-mussed hair.

 

“Shane…”

 

He nearly sobbed, hearing his name for the first time in so long.

It was like getting to see the sun again. 

Shane groaned, leaning in. Rozanov’s cock was hard and heavy against his tongue. He worked it in long, languid strokes. 

 

Far above him there was a blessed rush of cool air. Rozanov must have opened the little window above the bench.

 

That was good. Passing out with a cock in his mouth wasn’t something he was particularly interested in.

 

No, what he wanted was for Rozanov to say his name again. 

Shane moved forward, relaxing his jaw and taking in as much of the thick organ as he could. 

 

I’ve done this before.

The thought struck him wildly, nearly causing him to laugh around it.

 

“Hey, what is so funny?” Rozanov tugged Shane’s ear, though he could practically hear the smile in his words. “Do your job properly, banshchitsa.”

 

It nearly made him laugh again. This was the furthest thing from a proper cleansing ritual as one could possibly get. 

 

Whatever magic Rozanov had dosed him with, it was heady. Just the knowledge that Shane was pleasuring him, that he was doing a good job had him thick and hard between the legs. He pressed his palm against his own cock with a slight hiss and a moan.

 

“Yes,” Rozanov growled. “But don’t come. Not yet. Can you do that for me?”

 

Shane closed his eyes, gripping the base of his cock tightly. His hips thrusted weakly into his fist. 

He redoubled his efforts, sinking his mouth deep over Rozanov’s cock. His free hand braced the man’s hip, his thumb stroking over the slick, smooth skin of his waist. 

Rozanov swore softly again, nearly doubled over so the soft curls of his hair were nearly brushing against the top of Shane’s head.

 

“Fuck, Shane… come here.”

He was pulled up suddenly, dragged forward onto the broad planes of Rozanov’s lap. Shane gasped, needing to grasp behind Rozanov’s head with one hand, the other braced against the wall. He made a choked, lustful sound as the man’s hand found his own straining erection, thrusting their cocks together. 

Shane was above him now, blue eyes burning up into him, greedily drinking in the sight of Shane. His neck and shoulders were trembling. He wasn’t going to last long. 

Neither was Shane. 

 

“Oh, oh fuck-”

Shane quaked, his legs trembling taut as he spilled over into a rough, messy orgasm. Distantly, he was aware of Rozanov as well, going rigid, breathing sharply, then slowly.

“Shane…”

“...!” 

Something was caught at the back of his throat. Some word he wanted to say. Like his own name was incomplete. There was something else that was supposed to follow it. Something he was supposed to say.

 

He breathed deeply, struggling for breath in the hot air. Shane pressed his forehead against Rozanov’s, who leaned up eagerly into the touch. His lips looked so soft…

 

“No, not that.” 

 

Shane realized he had moved to kiss him. At the last moment, he had caught Shane’s chin, directing his mouth away. Rozanov pressed his lips instead to just below Shane’s ear, down the line of his neck, kissing away the brief flutter of embarrassment.

 

“You are very warm. Come, you need air.”

“Oh, um. Yeah.”

 

He helped Shane gingerly to his feet, who nearly toppled over as his legs gave out from under him. Rozanov guided Shane into the cooler sitting area on the other side of the door in the cottage.

No, not a cottage. 

This structure was called a parilka. 

Shane knew that.

 

Shane sat down, collapsing onto his elbows on the low table. 

Between the heat and the orgasm, he had been left weak and boneless. 

The door to the parilka opened, and closed. 

Shane pined softly. 

 

Rozanov had been quick to leave.

 

The ennui only lasted a moment however, before something sharp and cold and wet was crushed over the nape of his neck. 

“Aah!”

“Don’t whine.” Rozanov hushed him, spreading another handful of snow over his shoulders and pressing down with firm hands. “It’s good for you.”

Shane gritted his teeth together, bearing the rough treatment with difficulty. 

It did give him a sense of sharp clarity, however. It didn’t lessen the relaxed feeling in his bones, but enhanced it. 

 

“Isn’t this supposed to be my job?” Shane groused.

“Yes, well. You don't know how. One of us ought to.” Rozanov said curtly. He had another handful of snow in his other hand, which he spread over the back of his own neck, shaking it through his hair. 

He took a kettle off of a nearby stove and two cups, setting one out for each of them. 

The snow melted cold down Shane’s back, further soaking his already drenched shirt.

 

“Well, I know there are fresh things to wear in the lockers by the door. You must want to- um?”

“Hm, I suppose so.” Rozanov groused slightly as he sipped his tea. Just from the tone of voice, Shane could tell that it sounded like he would have been just as happy for the two of them to stay there in their skin indefinitely.

 

Shane set out a spare change of clothes for Rozanov before seeing to himself. He peeled out of his damp linen shirt, grimacing as the melted snow and cooled sweat clung to his body. 

He was just about to pull on a fresh one, when he heard the scraping of a chair behind him. 

A heavy hand was on his neck, stilling him. The hair on the back of his neck was on edge. 

The air in the room had gotten still and dangerous.

 

Rozanov’s fingertips were just below his shoulderblade, across a thin pink line still a bit tender to the touch. 

It was the last fading remnant of Shane’s first night in the bathhouse - the first time he had broken one of their hundred little rules of etiquette and gotten lashed with a switch.

It had hurt, yes. Mostly it had been embarrassing.

Zhaba had gotten him covered in some sort of awful slime from his skin that had taken ages to scrub off. 

Shane didn’t even know what he did to deserve it until later. Grandma Solenyy telling him solemnly that he hadn’t bowed quite the right way as someone important walked by.

 

“Who did this?”

Rozanov’s voice was low and dangerous. 

 

“Ugh. Zhaba, frog guy. I uh, fuck I don't even remember what I did. Something dumb.”

 

He sighed sharply through his nose. Shane glanced up to see Rozanov behind him through a mirror, though he wished he hadn’t looked. 

The man looked murderous.

 

“It’s fine.” Shane said hastily, pulling on the new tunic. “You - you should have your tea. You’re supposed to drink it hot.” He gestured helplessly back to the table. 

 

Rozanov moved slowly. The predatory gait had returned to his movements. Still he sat.

He drank the tea. 

 

Shane joined him after a moment, willing the uncomfortable quiet to dissipate. 

 

“Are you safe here?” Rozanov asked shortly, after a long while. “Do you have friends?”

“Uh, yeah. Kind of.” Shane took a sip of his tea. 

It was meant to pair well after the regenerative heat of the parilka. It was earthy, and just a bit sweet. The heat trickled down to his fingers and toes, buzzing pleasantly. 

 

“It was pretty scary the first few days. But I made some friends, that helped.”

“Good.” Rozanov nodded curtly. “You are eating?”

“Yeah?”

“How long have you been here?”

“About two weeks. Maybe a month.” Shane took another sip of his tea. He wasn’t sure why Rozanov was so keenly interested in him in particular. “How long have you been here?”

 

It was a weird thing to ask, as spirits were immortal. He wasn't sure why he said it. Rozanov's lip quirked. There might have been a slight tremble there, or it could have been the heat messing with his head.

 

“Longer.”

“Oh, right.” 

 

“You…” Rozanov's mouth flattened into an unhappy line. He looked away. “You don’t look well.”

Shane wasn’t quite sure what to do with that.

“Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” He tossed back the rest of his tea. “Humans aren’t meant to live in a world without the sun.” He stood with his hands on his hips, looking over Shane. 

 

“I can take you back to the human world.”

 

Shane startled. It wasn’t what he was expecting him to say.

 

“You can? How?”

Rozanov smiled, toothy and bright.

“I will show you.” He moved to the door, holding out his hand. “Come with me. We'll go now.”

 

For a brief, brilliant moment, Shane’s heart soared. 

Shane stood, his hand outstretched. At least until he noticed that bright smile - it wasn't reaching Rozanov’s eyes.

Before their fingertips could touch, his expression smoothed over.

 

“No.”

 

He pulled his hand back, sitting down again. 

 

“What?” Rozanov’s face fell. 

“Why do you want to help me?” Shane said evenly. Not angrily, or demanding. He spoke it with the resignation of someone who had grown wise to the way of fairies. 

“Don’t be stupid, Shane.” Rozanov said sternly. 

“It’s not stupid to ask why a spirit wants to help a mortal for nothing.” Shane said flatly. “If it’s a stupid question then give me the st- give me the answer.”

 

Rozanov breathed sharply out of his nose.

 

“I can’t.” 

“Tell me how you know me.”

“I can’t tell you that either!”

“Then I’m not going with you.”

Rozanov snarled. He paced angrily across the cabin, lashing out and striking against the wall, splintering the wood.

 

“You are telling the bannik that’s your fault.” Shane raised his eyebrows at the broken wood before turning away from him.

 

“Fine.” Rozanov said through his teeth. He turned and stormed out the door, slamming it behind him. 

 

Shane blinked, a bit surprised. 

He hadn’t meant he had to tell him right now.

 

The silence lengthened. Shane looked down at his tea, the muscles in his throat worked around a lump forming there.

 

Had he just made a mistake?

 

No. He told himself firmly. Kartofel had told him that Rozanov was a dragon that stole hearts. Letting him lead Shane away from the only (relatively) safe place in this entire world…

 

Fuck, he had nearly gone with him, too.

Shane rubbed the back of his neck, letting his forehead touch the cool surface of the table.

 

Maybe Grandma Solenyy had a remedy for whatever magic Rozanov had dosed him with. His mind was still swimming with the scent of him, the taste of him. His eyes burned into Shane's when he closed his eyes.

His chest ached.

Chapter 3

When it was clear that Rozanov wasn’t coming back, Shane made himself useful cleaning the parilka. He washed and dried the tea set, scrubbed the floorboards (thoroughly), cleaned the stove and re-stocked it for the next visit. 

 

He took his time, not wanting to incur the bannik’s wrath by leaving behind any trace of what the two had done there. 

Shane might have also been stalling to see if Rozanov would return. 

 

On his way back to the main complex of the Banya, Shane was stopped by three separate banniks, all demanding he clean their cabins as well. Even if none of them were planning on gouging out his eyeballs, they had clearly gotten word of the human who had the gall to take over their jobs for the day and hadn’t been terribly impressed.

 

Shane resigned himself to the work. He still preferred the relative quiet of the cabins to the frenetic energy of the laundry and the main halls, but it was late by the time he got back. 

 

-

 

The servants' showers were cold. Shane minded this less than the thin film of algae on the floors and walls. It was an ever-present feature, largely due to the frogs who were constantly snoozing there rather than whatever jobs they were meant to be doing.

 

Shane grit his teeth together and bore it - it was a quick and efficient way to shake off the clawing, glowing warmth that glowed under the surface of his skin. He stood under the freezing spray and forced himself to count slowly to ten, thoroughly dousing himself of the experience.

 

It wasn't going to do him any good to carry it around - not when he wasn't going to see Rozanov again.

 

-

 

“Vesnushki!”

 

Shane groaned softly as laska bound up to him. 

“Do not make that annoying human sound at me!” She chided, cuffing him on the back of the head. “Come with me, I was meant to find you hours ago.”

“Since when do you assign chores?”

“Ach! Since when do you complain?” Iaska rounded on Shane on the landing, scruffing up his hair. “Everyone always fawns over the soft human.” She kicked her voice up an octave, shrill and mimicking. “So polite! So helpful! That’s why we don’t eat him!’ Why don’t I get to bully that human, hm? Where is he?”

Shane laughed, shoving her off of him.

“He’s starting to wonder if he shouldn’t just give the spirits the satisfaction of an unpleasant meal.” Shane chided back. Iaska laughed, harsh and loud before continuing to pull him along.

 

They were higher up now, the floors gradually turned from granite to warm, carved wood underfoot. The furnishings went from simple to intricate the more levels they ascended - the columns polished twisting marble, the walls laden down with heavy brass and gold frames of dark oil portraits of impressive and possible creatures and landscapes. 

The ceilings grew tall. 

 

Shane had lost count of how high up they had gone, but he knew that the upper levels were where distinguished guests stayed and relaxed after enjoying the hot springs. He had never gone up there before, and had always been under strict orders to keep clear of it.

Iaska approached one such room with handsome red doors.

 

“In here, Vesnushki.”

 

It was impressive. The ceiling arched tall overhead with a small bronze chandelier. A heavy four-poster bed carved from dark pine was set in the corner, piled high with soft fur. The same stone of the walls curved into a large fireplace. It was already well into a large, satisfying burn that made the place pleasantly warm. Rich red drapes across the far wall kept in the heat and muted the air inside.

 

“It already looks pretty clean in here.” Shane said, glancing around. He could recognize the touches of the domovoi now, here and there. The place has been very recently seen to and made ready for guests.

 

“What am I supposed to do here, Ianska?”

 

“Ach, how am I supposed to know?” She shrugged. “Zhaba is missing, we have an angry dragon roaming the halls. I don’t have time for your dumb questions. I was told you are to be here, here is where you are. If you are not dead by morning, we can play durak.”

 

Shane tried for a smile, but it was weak and failing. Not only because he had learned his lesson early about playing cards against Iaska.

 

The doors closed, and Shane was left alone in the quiet, opulent room.

He realized - with some embarrassment - he was still dressed in the work uniform of the lower floors. He knew nobody here would have terribly high expectations of him, but it did make him feel a little further out of sorts in the drab grey linen.

 

Perhaps whoever wanted him here was like Rozanov - not really expecting him to do a proper job but just wanting to … tease him. Or something.

 

The moment lengthened. By the way his legs and his back were starting to ache, he had been standing for a while, maybe an hour.

Not wanting to get caught sitting on furniture set aside for a (very important) guest, Shane finally crouched down by the large, crackling fire. There was a thick white fur spread out just short of the hearth, and it felt good to soak up some extra warmth after the miserable shower.

 

He had secretly wanted to try the saunas since arriving at the Banya - where it was freezing more often than not in a way that got into the bones. Sitting in the deep warmth and just relaxing, letting it soak in. On some cold nights he couldn't help but openly yearn for it. Today though he had been so worried about who or what he was going to find there he hadn’t really taken the time to enjoy it.

 

Well, no. He had enjoyed it. 

Thoroughly.

Shane groaned softly as his cock twitched in agreement. He hadn't paid that sort of attention to his own body since arriving here. There hadn’t been the time or the space or the privacy.

Shane dipped his head, trying to squash down the phantom sensation of Rozanov’s hands on his hips, or the weight of his cock in his mouth. If he was going to get in trouble for sitting on a guest’s chair, he didn’t want to imagine what would happen if said guest walked in on him touching himself.

 

The fire crackled on. 

Shane’s eyes were tired, his lids heavy.

Maybe they had forgotten him here.

Should he leave?

 

It had to be very late now. 

 

There was a table in the corner stacked high with food - though Shane knew better than to take something that had been set aside for the spirits. He was hungry, but it was nothing he couldn’t manage.

 

The fur underneath him was soft and warm. 

 

-

 

Sometime later, Shane’s body was being moved. 

“Hm?”

His body sank down into something warm, deep and soft. The thick blankets and furs of the bed were pulled up over him. 

“Ngh,” Shane twisted halfheartedly. “No, stop -”

The hands stilled, for a moment. Then they continued to move, tucking the sheets around him purposefully. 

“Sleep.”

The voice was heavy and low. 

Shane breathed out, his body obeying immediately and effortlessly as he sank down into the dark.

 

-

 

As usual, it was impossible to know how long Shane slept for. 

It must have been a while, from the absence of the usual deep weariness in his bones. His mind still felt foggy, and slow.

Shane ran his fingertips lightly across the water-soft silk, his eyes still closed.

He breathed in. There was an unusual scent in the air. 

 

Shane sat up, looking around the room.

 

Rozanov was sitting on the corner of the bed.

He had changed his clothing again. Like the first time they met, he seemed to favor black. The dark linen shirt he wore was embroidered with gold at the collar and the wrists. It was synched tight at the waist with a wide sash, but loose at the chest, unstrung and open to the sharp dip and curve of his collarbone.

 

In his hands was an orange. 

He was peeling it deftly. Sharp fingernails made quick work of the skin. Sprays of ripe citrus were cast up into the air. It smelled fresh, and bright.

 

“Here.” Rozanov peeled off a wedge, handing it to Shane. “Eat this. You will feel better.”

 

Shane looked down at it dubiously. Rozanov frowned, watching him stern and intent.

 

“Take the orange, Shane.” He said flatly. “Or if you want, I can feed it to you.” He suggested, a nefarious lopsided grin spread across his face.

 

Shane took the orange. He supposed that by fairy rules, that was all he had to do. Rozanov hadn’t told him explicitly to eat it. There were dozens of rules about accepting and eating food here - mostly around taking and asking.

 

The sly, wicked smirk was still there on Rozanov’s face - somehow suggesting he’d like nothing more than for Shane to be difficult with him on this. 

He ate the segment - if only to deny him the satisfaction.

It burst bright in his mouth. He made a soft sound that was more than just delight. Was this Rozanov’s magic again? Shane had eaten oranges before. He couldn’t remember when he had, but he knew what it would taste like before biting in. It was how he knew there was something particularly incredible about this one. The ripe, thick juice bit brilliantly at the inside of his mouth, scattering stars up across the bridge of his nose and the back of his eyes.

 

To his mortification, Shane felt something like tears beginning to well there.

 

“You should eat these while you’re here.” Rozanov’s hand was heavy and grounding on his back. He offered Shane the rest of the peeled fruit, which he took and ate without further objection. “Also more fish. But the oranges will help more, I think.” He murmured, watching Shane closely. “It will keep you from losing heart. Until we can get you home.”

 

Shane sucked a bead of juice off of the corner of his mouth. He looked up at Rozanov, disgruntled and wary.

To his frustration, he was only met with a look of such tender fondness that it made that empty place in his chest cry and ache again.

 

Only this time instead of fading, it surged, it threatened to overwhelm him.

 

Shane rolled out of the bed, stumbling away from Rozanov.

 

“I, uh. I should go.” Shane balked. His shirt had been removed during the night. His pants traded out for soft, clean ones that didn’t suit the working levels of the Banya at all. 

“Should you.” Rozanov said, sitting back against the headboard. 

“Yeah I, fuck. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“Not anymore.” Rozanov produced another orange, peeling it. “I bought out your contract.”

“You what?” Shane rounded on him, disbelieving. “Why would you do that?”

“Oh, what, you like scrubbing floors?” He stuffed an orange segment into his mouth. 

“If I work here, the spirits can’t kill me.” Shane threw a hand out, panic rising up in a flurry. “And I -”

 

I don't have anywhere to go.

Shane looked at Rozanov, the realization creeping in. 

Was he giving Shane no choice but to go with him?

 

“Ah, now that is an angry face.” Rozanov said, looking properly delighted with himself.

 

“Is this about going with you?” Shane demanded

 “I don't let you take me to the human world and you make it so I can't stay here anymore?”

 

Rozanov was right, Shane was angry. The bathhouse was tiring and frustrating and terrifying, but he had made it work. 

 

And now it was all undone… what, on a whim?

 

“Of course you can still stay here, if you wish.” Rozanov shrugged. “As a guest.”

“I can’t afford to stay here.” Shane growled. “I don’t have any money! Nothing that the spirits want anyway, except like. I don’t know. A watch and three cigarettes.”

“You have cigarettes?” Rozanov sounded delighted.

“Yeah I. I don’t know I had some random stuff with me when I arrived here.”

“Shane.” Rozanov said curtly, standing up. “It is already done.”

 

He heard the words, but scarcely managed to process them. Shane’s body was a twisted mass of stress and nerves. 

 

Shane flinched, but didn’t pull away as Rozanov’s arms came around him from behind, squeezing him tight. Shane breathed out. His neck as Rozanov tucked his head into the crook there, his mouth warm on Shane’s skin. 

 

“Why are you doing this?” Shane said tightly. 

 

He didn't want to be at the mercy of a dragon that wanted to steal his heart.

 

“Because I am a mon-”

“No-” Shane's voice was thick. “A real answer, please.”

 

The arms around Shane loosened. Rozanov took a step back, his eyes narrowed. He ran his hand through the curls of his hair, exasperated.

 

It was a risky move. The spirits loved deflecting and dodging, answering in riddles.

 

“It is… convenient.” Rozanov settled on, looking away from Shane. “A human on this side of the veil. I don't get sent to the human world often. If you won't go home, then you might as well be entertaining for me.”

 

The words stung. Shane knew that spirits couldn't lie.

 

“What happens when I’m not… entertaining anymore?” Shane cautioned. Rozanov smirked, his lip curling as if Shane had said something very funny. He took Shane’s arm, pulling him back in.

 

“Somehow, I don’t think that will happen.”

 

Rozanov's teeth were on Shane's neck then, causing him to shudder and gasp. It would have been easier if he had lunged at him. Seized him and sank his teeth in.

 

It would have been so much easier if Rozanov hadn't moved slowly enough that Shane could have pushed him away, leaving the man to contend with the implications that he didn't.

 

Fingers tugged at the hair at the base of his skull, wrenching his head back to expose more of his throat. 

 

Shane had tried to tell himself it was the sauna that had gotten to him last time - the hot air and heavy steam - that had made Shane lose his nerve. Something about Rozanov that had his body moving without him, responding eagerly to his touch. But just as readily now Shane found himself stumbling, falling into it.

 

“S-stop-” Shane gasped. 

“Why?” Rozanov pulled off of him all the same, though his hands still gripped Shane’s forearms possessively. “I know you like this,” He shifted forward, his thigh nudged between Shane’s leg. “I can feel that you like this.”

 

“I mean,” Shane gasped, looking anywhere but at Rozanov’s face. “Not when you’re using - dragon magic - or something to make me-!”

 

“Wh-?” 

Shane glanced up, treated to the sight of Rozanov looking properly shocked. His lips parted, his eyes wide. 

Then, he laughed. Open and genuine. 

It made him look young.

 

“Who told you that?” He choked out as he scrambled for composure. 

“I - uh.” Shane floundered, trying to remember the exact wording of the warnings he had been given. “I mean, in the sauna-”

“Oh, I see.” Rozano grinned, looking sharp and predatory. “You think I used magic to make you so hungry for my cock?” He walked up to Shane, grasping him by the back of the head. Shane’s knees went immediately weak. 

 

“I don’t have to do that.” Rozanov said lowly. A hand pressed flat against his lower back, pulling him flush against Rozanov’s hard body. He could feel the deep thrum of his chest, rumbling into Shane’s very bones. 

“Everything you feel right now is you.” 

The light of the fire crackled behind Rozanov’s body, casting him in warm plumes of light. Though his face was shadowed in the dark, his eyes still burned. 

 

“So what do you want to do?”

 

Under Rozanov’s shirt, his skin was hot to the touch under Shane’s palms - as if he had spent hours out under the sun. There was the barest hint of a tremble of Rozanov's stomach under Shane's touch - so quick he must have imagined it. 

 

Shane pressed against his skin, his mouth against the crook of Rozanov’s shoulder, groaning softly. Under the scent of iron, he smelled and tasted like the fresh ozone of a summer day. 

 

Rozanov lifted his arms as Shane pulled the shirt off and over his head and cast it aside. 

He lifted Shane from behind, walking him two steps back until they fell down against the bed. Rozanov bracketed Shane between thick, solid thighs. One hand pressed against his chest. 

They had barely moved, but Shane was breathless and panting as if he had just finished a rapid sprint. 

 

Rozanov loomed over him. His mouth was slack, his pupils blown wide.

 

“Do you want me to stop?” His voice was low. 

Shane knew he would only ask once.

“No,” He breathed.

“Good.” He loomed over Shane, looking ravenous. “I won’t.”

 

Rozanov made good on his promise. He seemed determined to taste every inch of Shane, kissing his way down his body before pushing his legs back. Shane only had a few precious moments to realize what Rozanov was about to do before something hot and wet laved against his exposed skin of his entrance. Shane choked down a cry, nearly lifting himself off of the bed by the hips. He would have, if not for strong hands on his thighs, holding him in place. 

 

“Good boy.” Rozanov praised. “Don't hold back. I want to hear you.”

 

Shane didn't want to grant him the satisfaction, but he was given little choice. There was a live wire connecting Rozanov's tongue to the chords of Shane's throat. With each pass, he tugged until Shane was gasping and pleading in a hot, quaking mess.

 

Had Shane ever done this before with a man? With a woman? 

His body seemed to know.

Shane’s cock was rigid and throbbing, wet against his stomach as Rozanov tongue took him apart. He grasped blindly at it, only for Rozanov to swat his hand away.

 

“No.” The word was bitten into the meat of his thigh. “I'm not done with you.”

“No - please!”

“Please, what?”

Shane bit back a strangled cry, his head hitting the back of the bed.

“I - I don't know!” He sobbed. His cock was so hard, flushed angry and straining up flush against his chest. He looked down and what little breath was left in his lungs left him. Rozanov was looking down at him with dark, pupil-blown eyes. Open, desperate like a man starved.

 

A hand splayed out against Shane's chest. Pinning in down, stilling him like one might for a spooked animal. Rozanov shifted up, grasping Shane's slick, drooling cock. His tongue ran flat up the shaft before sucking him down in a single slick motion that tore a guttural gasp from deep in Shane's chest.

 

It didn't take long for Shane to come - three, maybe five strokes of Rozanov's tight, powerful throat. All the while he watched Shane with those dark, hungry eyes, feasting on the sight of him coming apart in an untidy, trembling mess.

 

“You should see yourself,” Rozanov's hands ran greedily down Shane's sides. Shane could only imagine. There was a deep, rosy flush that ran down his shoulders and across his chest. Rozanov moved up onto his knees, moving Shane's body again.

By the time Rozanov rolled him over and pushed inside of him, Shane was half delirious with want. He had already come once - messily and suddenly into Rozanov’s mouth. It had taken the edge off, but it hadn’t been enough. Instead it left him feeling sensitive and raw. 

 

“Good,” Rozanov breathed, working his way slowly to the hilt. “You take me in so well,” 

Shane sobbed, working his hips uselessly. Rozanov was holding them up, keeping Shane from achieving any sort of friction as he set the pace. 

 

“Harder, please-”

“Don’t cry,” Rozanov’s voice was dark and sultry as he continued his maddenly careful pace, working into him at a pace only a hair above leisurely. “I will make you come again.” He said it evenly, a simple certainty.

 

He did begin to move faster however, slowly working themselves up to a more desperate pace. Shane collapsed onto his elbows, gasping for air. He could feel another sticky bead from the tip of his cock roll down his stomach. 

 

Shane could feel it welling up in him, his thighs trembling and quaking, his muscles going taught as his breathing became rough and ragged.

 

“That’s it Shane, come on my cock-”

 

This climax was rougher, sharper than the first. He screamed and thrust into Rozanov’s fist, coming messily. The man’s forehead was pressed against his back, his breath plumed over Shane’s sweat-sheened skin. Shane could feel him coming as well, hot on his heels - finishing with a gasp and a shudder. 

-

 

Shane’s trembling elbows finally gave out. He collapsed on the bed, exhausted and breathless.

 

A heavy hand was on his shoulderblades, stroking the damp planes of his skin. 

Shane knew without looking there would be a bloom of marks on his skin where Rozanov’s teeth had laid claim on him. 

 

“I have to leave now.” Rozanov said quietly, almost apologetically. “You will be safe here. I will come back.”

“Wh-? When?”

Shane startled. A damp cloth was running down his legs. He squeezed his eyes tight against a pillow, trying to bite down on his embarrassment at the strange intimacy of the moment. 

“Difficult to say. One night. Maybe two.” 

Rozanov ghosted his fingertips over the marks on Shane’s neck.

“You should let others see these.”

“Is that like a-?”

“A rule? No. I would just like that.” Rozanov said with a smile in his words. Shane could feel him draw away then. 

 

He picked up his head at last, looking toward the large doors to the hall. 

Rozanov had not gone that way, however. Instead, he stepped through the thick red curtains, opening the doors to the balcony. For a moment a spray of snow and a gust of cold wind curled up into the warm room as he strode outside. 

 

A strange sound followed next, like the unfurling of a massive ream of heavy fabric - like leather, or hide. 

 

Shane staggered to his feet with some difficulty. He made his way to the balcony, a blanket from the bed tugged around his waist.

He opened the curtain, but Rozanov was gone.

 

Something massive and black was winging its way over the horizon - only scarcely discernable by the way that its form disrupted the ever-falling snow against the midnight sky.