Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Bio dom Ilya Rozanov, A-dynamic Shane Hollander, Bio Dom/sub AU, 2014-2016 Montage in Episode: s01e04 Rose (Heated Rivalry), The ravenous maw of want inside Shane Hollander's soul, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant, Avoiding the use of Alternative Universe - BDSM tag on purpose because this is not hardcore and a mild take on the bio D/s verse, Soft Dom Ilya Rozanov, Light Dom/sub

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-07 Words: 10,173 Chapters: 1/1

as useful as dirt (put my body to work)

Summary

Ilya is a biological dominant. Shane is a-dynamic. But he can still be useful.

Notes

some AU notes here that you can review to see if this aligns with your reading interests or not:

-this is a bio BDSM AU, however in this fic i imagined dynamics as more mental and internal, with dynamic therapy as a combo of physical and talk therapy rather than intense sexual scening. (i imagine the intense scening reserved for partners who choose to pursue that as added fun, and not something needed fundamentally to maintain a baseline healthy dynamic). any physical elements of dynamic therapy are not sexual. but, as with a lot of other human stuff, they can be made so if the partners choose.
-doms/subs do not have magic mind meld connections. however they do have dynamic intent, which doms/subs can project into their voice or into their body language. a-dynamics can't read, hear, or interpret intent.
-i see this bio D/s verse as largely similar to our own world, in which relationships can be good or bad or bland or whatever else, and it takes both partners working together to make them successful.

-this story is told from the POV of an a-dynamic character who has been incurious about dynamics his entire life. this ignorance has led to the development of various incorrect assumptions and personal prejudices. this version of #myshane is not thinking about overarching dynamic theory or norms. he's thinking about very specific, inward-focused questions. because of rozanov :) and he is also realizing some of his ignorance. because of rozanov :)

*please do not repost. this is locked for a reason.*

The text, when Shane opened it, left him reeling. Blinking stupidly at his phone, his heart flapping beneath his ribcage.

He’d thought he’d fucked it, in Vegas. He’d come in off base, expecting one thing, getting another. Fumbling his way through it, trying to keep up, wanting anything he could get so badly it made him stupid. After, Shane was pretty sure there was no way Rozanov would ever contact him again, that Rozanov would decide there was nothing good that came with hooking up with an a-dynamic. But here he was, texting Shane again for some incomprehensible reason.

Game in 2 weeks. I come over.

The game was on home ice. Rozanov wanted to come to Shane’s apartment, then. If his pulse wasn’t already so high, maybe it would have ratcheted up a few notches at that idea. As it was, Shane did some square breathing and tried to come up with what to say. ‘No’ would be ideal.

Whatever.

Shane stared at the word he sent. Maybe he should have been more polite. Dominants liked that sort of thing, obviously. Obedience. If Shane was mouthy or didn’t eagerly acquiesce right away, would Rozanov take it back? But Shane couldn’t mimic being a sub, not really. He didn’t understand them any more than he understood doms.

Rozanov sent the grinning purple devil emoji back, so maybe he didn’t care. It was probably different, what someone with a dynamic expected from an a-dynamic person. Shane rubbed the back of his neck. He felt out of his depth with all this stuff. He never really paid attention to it at all, even from the beginning in health class in school. Nowadays it was the same. He tried to avoid locker room talk when the doms got going, not like they’d include him in it anyways. Most people with dynamics viewed a-dynamics as sort of senseless. Groping around in the dark. And Shane could see how that was at least a little bit true. Shane had eyes and ears, but he wasn’t good at picking up on the posturing, and he was incapable of knowing if a dom or sub spoke with dynamic intent. Intent didn’t work on him at all. So if two guys on the team were posturing, and then one of them put some intent into his insults, Shane wouldn’t even be able to tell that things had gotten serious. He and the other a-ds on the team had to pick up on cues from the rest of the doms, how they were reacting. Sometimes Hayden helped, giving Shane meaningful eyes and tilting his head. But he couldn’t rely on Hayden for this.

Shane would just have to rely on Rozanov instead.

Rozanov did this sort of thing all the time and Shane didn’t. Therefore, Rozanov knew how it was supposed to go, the right way to do it. Shane would follow his lead and adjust so he could be successful. Shane could be better this time, and hopefully Rozanov would keep texting him afterwards.

It was clear that Rozanov had acted the way he had the first time because it was Shane’s first time. It was respectful to be kind during someone’s first time. But that was done and now Rozanov could be upfront about how he wanted things. Shane wished he’d known all of this before Vegas, which left him off-kilter. He hated not knowing the rules, hated having the wrong expectations. But at least he hadn’t completely messed it up (and thank God he hadn’t sent that text about kissing). Shane didn’t need that sort of thing, anyways. It wasn’t like he could drop, and maybe that’s what Rozanov liked about their whole deal. He didn’t have to do any of the babying he would have to with a sub.

So Shane could be useful in this way: accessible, level, dependable. He didn’t need kissing or aftercare. Rozanov could just do things how he wanted and Shane would take it, gladly. In Vegas, despite that it felt like he was constantly one step behind, Shane had still come his brains out.

He’d be cool, when Rozanov came over. Shane knew the rules now and he wouldn’t kill the mood by asking personal questions or nearly embarrassing himself afterwards in their text thread. He’d follow Rozanov’s lead, give up the parts of himself that Rozanov wanted, and hide away the other, unsightly parts deep down where they could be ignored.

Rozanov came into Shane’s apartment just like he had before Sochi. Nosy, cocky, some kind of inner light gleaming in his eyes. Maybe excitement, or something. Shane trailed him as he walked around the space, opened the fridge, and shook his head sadly over the neatly stacked Tupperware of nutritionist-approved breakfasts, lunches, and dinners.

“Like you’re one to talk,” Shane said, prickling in spite of himself. He was always so easy for Rozanov in every way, but in this especially. He couldn’t not rise to the bait. “Your fridge is probably full of dinosaur chicken nuggets.”

Rozanov closed the fridge and turned to face him, amusement brightening his features.

“How do you know dino nuggets?”

“I was a kid once,” Shane said. “How do you know dino nuggets.”

“I am the one who lives in America.”

Rozanov had come up to him as he spoke, and now put his hands on Shane’s shoulders. Then, one slid up to the side of his neck. Shane’s whole body flushed hot. Was he going to kiss him!? Rozanov’s hand squeezed, his thumb brushed against the bone behind Shane’s ear. Shane realized his mouth had fallen open, and snapped it shut.

“Ah ah,” Rozanov said, thumbing at Shane’s lower lip.“You want something in here?”

Shane let Rozanov hinge his jaw open and curl his thumb over Shane’s lower teeth. He rested his tongue on top of that thumb. Let Rozanov look his fill. His eyes were avid, keyed up. Shane couldn’t know if he was tapping into his dynamic, but it seemed that Rozanov liked this, at least.

“You will take what I give you,” said Rozanov.

“Yeah,” Shane said, already sliding down to his knees, overeager.

Several minutes later, Rozanov yanked Shane off his dick by the hair.

“Where did you learn this,” he demanded.

His voice was low and growly. Maybe he was radiating intent. But Shane could only read his face and tone, something he’d never been good at. With Rozanov, though, it felt a little more accessible. Maybe because Shane thought about him so much, even when he was trying not to.

“I figured it out myself,” Shane said.

His voice sounded kind of wrecked and he swallowed convulsively around the hurt in his throat. Rozanov looked down at him, eyes heavy.

“Yourself,” he said. Then he tilted this head. “Don’t tell me…you were choking yourself on that dildo.”

“Well yeah,” Shane said, defensive. “How else was I gonna get used to it.”

The obvious answer would be hooking up, but he instinctively shied away from that logic. Before Vegas, when Rozanov had gone radio silent for several months, Shane had imagined himself somehow successfully (secretly) picking up some guy from the bar. When out with the team he’d scan the place and pick someone at random and think about it, what it might be like to bring that person home. It was just a thought experiment, really. If it wasn’t with Rozanov, Shane had no genuine interest in it. His sex drive had always been mellow; he wasn’t ever one of those teenagers who jerked off in the bathroom stall between classes, or those guys slavering over porn. Most days he did jerk off, sure, but he’d never really felt the urge to hook up. Until Rozanov, of course. Rozanov had turned all of Shane’s secret personal truths upside down, and somehow he’d found himself practicing to deep throat on a sex toy.

Rozanov was saying something in Russian, something that Shane was beginning to suspect was a favored curse word.

“You practice for me,” he said. “You want to be so good for me you practice on plastic dick.”

“Silicone,” Shane said. He was too dizzy in the head to remember if silicone was also plastic, and if he’d just been a know-it-all for no reason. He wanted to get his mouth back on Rozanov so badly he could drool from it.

Rozanov grinned. He said some more things in Russian and then his fingers raked through Shane’s hair.

“Now you get real thing,” said Rozanov. “Swallow me.”

And Shane did. He was able to show Rozanov just how hard he’d worked on it. All the progress he’d made, and how good he could be at this, for him.

“But…You know that I’m, like, a-dynamic, right?” Shane said, after.

They hadn’t even made it out of the kitchen. Shane was still sitting on the center island where Rozanov had put him in order to suck him off in return, and was watching Rozanov button his jeans back up.

Rozanov slanted a look at him as he adjusted the hem of his shirt.

“Yes, Hollander. Will you tell me again and again, every time I see you?”

“No, right. I just, I don’t know, wanted to make sure, like, I can’t, be like, a sub for you, or whatever.”

He remembered with visceral clarity, that first time in the locker room years ago. Rozanov standing above him, the v-cut of his abdominals like two fucking lit up, blinking runways: ‘This Way! This Way!’ Maybe he’d been putting out intent, but Shane couldn’t read it. Could only read his posture (confident) and hear the way he’d asked for Shane’s room number (demanding). Shane had dropped the sneaker he was holding and stumbled through several attempts to explain, before just baldly stating it all at once: ‘but you can’t mean that. I’m a-dynamic.’

Rozanov had stared him down. ‘Room number,’ he’d said again. And Shane had told him, the numbers tumbling out of his mouth like the shoe from his stupid hands.

“Like, you can’t send me down,” Shane clarified, now.

He didn’t know why he was still talking about this. Sometimes his brain fixated on things and he kept poking and picking at them, even though he knew he shouldn’t, even though maybe it was rude or making someone uncomfortable.

Rozanov leaned a hip against the counter, crossing his arms. His hair was a mess from where Shane’s hands had been gripping him. His mouth was swollen plump and almost a girlish color, red raspberry.

“You go down all by yourself,” he said, a leer curling.

“You know what I mean!” Shane snapped.

Kneeling for a blow job was miles away from kneeling for submission. It was true that Shane liked it. But it wouldn’t do anything for him, physiologically. He was just kneeling. But it seemed like Rozanov didn’t care. Or at least, it wasn’t something that factored into whether or not he’d keep texting Shane, because a couple days later he sent: next time no kitchen. I will fuck u ))

Yeah, no kitchen, Shane replied, and tried not to be too charmed by Rozanov’s signature eyeless smileys, which he still sometimes used instead of emojis.

Shane had Lysol-ed the counters down after Rozanov had left that night and thought about how they hadn’t kissed that time either. Rozanov hadn’t been as aloof as he’d been in Vegas, but definitely not as warm and open as the first time in Shane’s apartment. Of course, Shane knew not to expect that now, and it was still better than good, satisfying some deep well inside Shane’s body. Down on his knees, when the wetness had started leaking from the corners of Shane’s eyes, Rozanov had put the pads of his thumbs there and brushed them away. It was a small thing, probably instinct. But it was one of the two things that stuck with Shane, afterwards.

The second was that his throat felt like he’d shoved a telephone pole down it. He felt it for days.

Shane enjoyed all the private hurts of hockey, from a good session in the weight room to taking a clean hit against the boards. But most especially he coveted the soreness that came on slowly but surely in the days afterwards. Muscles breaking down and rebuilding. Bruises forming. It was the physical evidence of effort well spent. In those sorts of ways his body told him he’d done good work. He’d been useful. This was something Shane hoarded to himself secretly. He liked it almost as much as putting up points or winning. Usefulness was at the core of those two things anyway, the foundational bricks that held up the fancier stuff, the highlight reels and the trophies.

With Rozanov, Shane found something similar in sex. A delicious, lingering feeling, the echoes of getting fucked resonating in his muscles. The marks he kept discovering on his skin: beard burn on his inner thighs, blotches of bruises the size of fingertips on his hips, swollen lips, and the soreness in his throat.

—

The next time was after a brutal game; chippy, exhausting, tense. Rozanov had been ruthless and silent on ice, slamming Shane and the rest of the Metros into the boards, no taunts under his breath that Shane had come to expect. Shane had put his head down and played as fiercely as he could. Boston won 1-0 off Rozanov’s assist, and Shane gave a rote ‘chin up’ post-game speech in the locker room to his worn out team. His body was still ringing, the reverberations from where bones and muscle had hit wood and plexiglass. He wondered if Rozanov would be as quiet and brutal, when they met later, as he’d been during the game. A part of Shane was intrigued, excited, by the idea. Another part was kind of repulsed. He didn’t want to be whipped or caned, or whatever doms did when they were pissed off and needed to satisfy their dynamic. And then, beneath all of that was the pathetic truth that he wanted Rozanov to think he was desirable, satisfactory. Would he let Rozanov beat him, if he wanted to, even if Shane didn’t?

They met at the little apartment Rozanov kept in the city by TD Garden, where he’d lived before he bought his big house in the suburbs. Shane didn’t want to know how many people Rozanov had brought back here. It was kind of the perfect hook up spot.

Rozanov let him in only seconds after Shane knocked on the door. The moment Rozanov laid his eyes on Shane, Shane’s nerves and anxiety got swallowed up by a huge well of wanting, hungry beneath his sternum. His heart rate climbed, his skin started rushing with heat, his mouth opened on fast breaths. He could barely focus enough to toe off his shoes and shrug out of his suit coat. Rozanov took it from his hands and hung it on the empty coat rack. It would be bad for the collar, but any common sense was already muffled by desire and Shane didn’t complain.

Rozanov turned and put his hand on Shane’s jaw. It was all he could do not to shudder, not to make some sort of embarrassing noise in the back of his throat. Rozanov held Shane’s jaw firmly, his thumb on one side of Shane’s chin and his fingers on the other side, the ring and pinkie pressing into his jugular. They were of height, but Shane felt a little smaller like this, under Rozanov’s big hands.

He waited. His body felt primed. He wanted so badly to be kissed that his eyes and palms prickled. But Rozanov didn’t need to do that, not with him.

“You want me to fuck you?” Rozanov asked.

“Yes,” Shane said. “Please.”

He was too turned on and the wanting was too strong to pretend otherwise. He was easy. For Rozanov, he was easy. And they both knew it. There was no playing hard to get for Shane, not when he had Rozanov in front of him, eyes dark, smelling like post-game shower and cigarette smoke.

Rozanov got him face down, ass up on the bed and went to town. Shane took it, eyes closed, mouth open, and came about two seconds after Rozanov wrapped an arm around him and fisted his dick.

“Fuck,” Rozanov said.

He kept going and Shane was unable to hold back the pathetic, overstimulated noises that punched out of his throat with each thrust. Rozanov’s hands were biting into Shane’s hips. Maybe there’d be evidence, tomorrow. He’d put his own hands over the faint marks and remember how good this was, how hard he’d come.

“Fuck, you want it so bad,” Rozanov was saying. “You need it. Say it. Tell me.”

“Yes,” Shane hissed. “Need it. Need it. Oh, fuck—I—”

Rozanov hunched over him, wrapped one arm under Shane’s armpit, hooked his hand over Shane’s opposite shoulder, and hauled the both of them upright. Shane flailed, made a shocked, hurt noise at how deep Rozanov was getting like this, and then snapped his mouth shut because Rozanov was coming and he wanted to hear him.

Rozanov pressed all of his sounds into the side of Shane’s neck, baring his teeth but not biting.

“Oh my God,” Shane said. “Holy shit.”

For several long moments, Rozanov held him upright, still inside him. His arms were like vices, barred across Shane’s torso. It seemed like maybe he’d gone somewhere, in his head. He was breathing so deep against Shane’s skin like he was trying inhale him. Shane panted, open-mouthed, and stared at the ceiling. He couldn’t believe how good it always was, with Rozanov.

“That was hot,” Shane said, babbling now, not really knowing why he was still talking, and talking anyway. “That was so hot. What the fuck. Rozanov.”

At the sound of his name, Rozanov stirred a little and then huffed. He tipped the both of them back down to the mattress and then pulled out. Shane made a face at the feeling and rolled from his side onto his back. Rozanov was ditching the condom in the conveniently placed bedside trashcan. That done, Rozanov flopped back onto his side, facing Shane, and flung an arm down on Shane’s stomach.

“Oh,” Shane said, stupidly.

He’d been preparing to get up and leave.

“Good?” Rozanov said, and then his arm slid back across Shane’s stomach, to the side closer to Rozanov.

There was a pretty big red mark on his ribs that would develop into a garish bruise by morning. Rozanov put his hand to it.

“Yeah,” Shane said. “That’s from you, by the way.”

He wanted to ask what was with him, during the game, but knew better than to prod into anything personal.

“Hmm,” Rozanov said. “They were all clean hits.”

“Yeah,” Shane said again. He was trying, but something nosy still slipped out. “Are you in a better mood now?”

Maybe he wouldn’t be, since the sex had only been a little rough. It was nothing like how Shane imagined dominants dealt with anger, or whatever emotion had possessed Rozanov on ice during the game.

But Rozanov nodded, said, “Yes.” And then, “You helped.”

When Shane went back to the hotel later, he found himself smiling for no reason. Had to keep schooling his features back to neutral. He’d been helpful. For the next day or two, his muscles sang with the lingering evidence of it.

—

The next couple of times they met up, Shane tried to catalog what Rozanov might like best, in order to be even better. But he found it was impossible to do in the moment. His brain became mostly useless the moment Rozanov got his hands on Shane. So then he had to review everything after the fact, to parse through memories that were hazy and clouded with lust and overwhelm.

When it came to hockey his life had been split into thirds, waiting to be useful, preparing to be useful, and being useful. Now, with Rozanov, he was falling into the same groupings. Waiting for the next time they were in the same city, going over the rules in his head, going over the things he’d done last time that had elicited positive responses, and then, finally, in the same room as Rozanov, being useful.

Under Rozanov’s hands, Shane came back into his body. It felt like a lot of the time he was up in his head, following his schedule, thinking about the team, the game, one thing after another, or practicing what he might say next during a conversation, or wondering if there was some ulterior meaning behind the words someone spoke to him. With Rozanov these usual habits slipped and his mind stopped churning. Maybe he was rewiring Shane’s brain. Because how he felt with Rozanov was probably something like bliss.

In movies and TV commercials, bliss was bubble baths and sunny vacations and smiling women eating low-fat strawberry yogurt. Bliss was pale colors and fluffy clouds and chocolate truffles. Not for Shane. He had not ever felt an emotion like that, not even after winning a game, which was too sharp, too high adrenaline. The closest he felt to bliss was under Rozanov, kept, sweating, and cracked open like an egg. All the things he usually hated (loss of control, mess, vulnerability) he loved when they were together, when they were fucking. During those times his head was quiet and dripping pleasure chemicals. He didn’t have to think and plan, he was just his body, in and under the hands of another person.

It didn’t seem fair that Shane felt all of that and Rozanov…well, Rozanov wouldn’t get the same feelings from their hook ups for a number of reasons. But Shane could still try to be better, could still try to read his cues and give him more of what he liked, could still follow where his hands guided, and listen to his words when he said, ‘relax,’ ‘let me,’ and, ‘come.’

—

They couldn’t meet often enough for Shane to get used to it. And it definitely wasn’t often enough for Shane to have had enough. Instead he worked himself up so bad he was dizzy by the time they were alone in a room together. Dizzy and greedy and half out of his mind, the want so bad it hurt.

Shane had never lusted after anyone, let alone to this degree. In the years before Rozanov, Shane had kind of just assumed other a-ds were like him, finding sex okay but nothing spectacular. His parents were both a-dynamics, so it hadn’t been a surprise when he’d gone through puberty and never developed either way. He was relieved; having a dynamic seemed like a hassle. Yet another thing that could put you off your game if you didn’t manage it properly. Shane already had enough personal quirks to manage, and he was glad there wasn’t a dynamic overlay on top of it all. But he knew some a-ds were disappointed that they didn’t have one.

He’d dated an a-d named Jessica in school, and she had been devastated that she hadn’t presented as a dom, because her older sister and her mother were both doms. ‘I’m fucking deficient,’ she would mutter, full of self-pitying teenaged vitriol and without a thought for Shane, how he might ingest those words being an a-d himself. But he didn’t really feel deficient at all, and was mostly fine to lend a listening ear to her venting and then drive her to Tim Horton’s for a pick-me-up treat. His a-dynamic parents had a great relationship. They never talked about wanting a dynamic and had always told Shane they would love and support him no matter what he turned out to be. But the fact that he was a-dynamic like them just made sense. Eventually he’d find a nice a-d woman to marry and they’d have at least one kid together, like his parents had done.

He’d liked Jessica. The fact that they were hormonal teenagers but rarely had sex did not seem strange to Shane, at the time.

He’d been clueless. Shane had thought he just didn’t like sex that much, but now he knew that wasn’t the case, not at all. It was bizarre, this transition, this revelation of some previously unearthed piece of himself. Because it was true: he loved sex. More specifically, he loved getting fucked. It made him feel like nothing else in his life ever had. So many huge, warring emotions and sensations that left him panting and worn out, nearly brain dead. It was a sobering truth to realize the lengths he would go to get Rozanov’s dick in him, but any attempts to convince himself to stop were fleeting and pathetic. He did not want to stop. He wanted to get fucked. He wanted Rozanov.

Shane could only be grateful, then, that Rozanov seemed to want it too. Obviously not in the same life-changing, devastating way Shane did, but he still wanted it enough to orchestrate the meetings and to badger Shane now and then during their time apart with explicit texts.

It was a given that Rozanov was satisfying his dynamic with compatible subs, and that Shane was a fun aside for him. But Shane did wonder if he fucked other a-ds too, or even doms. When pictures came out of Rozanov leaving various bars and clubs with a girl on his arm, Shane couldn’t help but to stare at her and wonder. Was she a sub? Or was she an a-d like him? Was she good? Was she better than Shane? Did Rozanov like her more? Did Rozanov put his hand on her jaw like he always did with Shane?

Did he kiss her?

—

One of these photos had come out the week before they met up next. It wasn’t that Shane was online looking for them, it was just that he was in the hockey space, reading hockey news and commentary, and one click always led to another and then he was on some stupid gossip blog looking at Rozanov’s arm slung around a young woman’s neck, a cigarette in his mouth and another one behind his ear.

“What a douchebag,” Shane said out loud, in order to better convince himself.

He did not look hot and Shane was certainly not imagining how it might feel, having Rozanov’s arm around Shane like that, casually possessive and in public. That would never happen and it was no use thinking about it.

The Metros won the game, when it came. Rozanov seemed to be in high spirits despite the loss, when he came into Shane’s apartment.

“You will make playoffs,” he said, almost sounding pleased.

“Yeah,” Shane said.

He followed Rozanov as he went into the kitchen and did his customary surveillance of Shane’s refrigerator. Rozanov talked a lot of big, competitive game and certainly acted the part on ice. But off ice with Shane, he never seemed deeply bothered about losing. Shane found it fascinating. When Shane lost, he felt it churning in his guts, in his brain. It felt acidic, inescapable. Rozanov got pissed if he thought the refs made a bad call, or if he was off his own game, but if the loss was fair and the game was good, he seemed content to focus on other things. Now that his perusal of the fridge was complete, his focus was entirely on Shane.

“Last time we do this season, I’m thinking,” Rozanov said.

He prowled forward and crowded Shane against the island counter.

“Yeah,” Shane said again, this time it was markedly more breathy.

“What do you want to do,” said Rozanov.

His big hands pressed briefly against Shane’s abs, and then smoothed around his sides to the small of his back. Rozanov ground their hips together and Shane’s breath stuttered out of his throat.

“Hmm?” Rozanov prompted.

“Huh?” Shane said, having already lost the plot.

He was staring at Rozanov’s mouth.

“What do you want, Hollander?”

“Fuck me,” Shane said.

Rozanov ducked his head down, put his forehead against the side of Shane’s neck and his collarbone. He dragged one of his hands away from Shane’s back and shoved it down Shane’s waistband. Shane’s hips bucked and his hands scrambled at Rozanov’s shoulders.

“Please,” he said, stupidly.

“I already know that,” Rozanov said. “What else?”

“There’s—there’s too much,” Shane muttered, almost nonsensically.

“Just one thing, tell me.”

Just one thing? Shane’s brain, already stupid with lust, was scrambling, trying to figure out the consequences of offering up something more truthful than, ‘fuck me.’ Trying to read the play. But they weren’t on ice where things were simpler. Shane couldn’t predict how Rozanov would react. What if he said something too desperate, too earnest, and it killed the mood, turned Rozanov off, away?

“Tell me,” Rozanov prompted.

“I really just…” Shane started, and then chickened out.

“Just what.”

“Just want you to…to do what you want to me. And I’ll…I’ll be...”

Shane trailed off and swallowed. His body was ringing with need, Rozanov’s hand had brought him easily to full, dripping hardness in his pants.

“And you will be what, Hollander,” Rozanov said, no mercy.

“Useful,” Shane said, nearly without thinking. They were both staring down at Rozanov’s hand in his pants. His cheek was pressed against Rozanov’s curls, still slightly damp from his post-game shower. Rozanov smelled like everything good in the entire world, everything soft and warm and desirable. “Good.”

Rozanov didn’t reply. But he nodded against Shane, forehead smearing, skin to skin. Maybe he already knew this and all Shane had done was confirm it.

“What I want to do to you is what you want me to do,” he said eventually, and as quietly as a secret. “Bedroom.”

Time slipped and spiraled. They were in the bedroom. They were naked. Rozanov was moving against him, in him, relentless. And, as always, Shane came back into his body with each roll of those hips. All of his higher functions, his worries, his jagged edges, snapped and dissipated and softened. He was his muscles, his blood shivering through his veins. He was the molecules of pleasure flooding his synapses. He was the gasps of air in and out of his throat, his lungs. He was essential, elemental. He was coming. He was bliss.

When he had the wherewithal to lasso a couple threadbare thoughts together, Shane blinked his eyes open. His body was as wet and heavy as a post-swim pool towel. He was flat on his stomach with his right cheek smushed to the mattress. Rozanov was lying curled on his side, watching him.

“Guh,” Shane said.

There hadn’t been any expression on Rozanov’s face that Shane could read or understand in his current state. But at the sound Shane made, he smiled, and that was pretty easy to interpret.

“You are come dumb,” he said, gloating.

Shane made a protesting noise in the back of his throat. Wrinkled his nose.

“Who taught you that?” he said.

“Have you been in a locker room, Hollander?”

Shane grunted. They were quiet for a while, blinking at each other. Shane liked looking at Rozanov’s face, the stubble poking through the skin, the moles and freckles, the interesting curve of his upper lip. Shane thought about the photos he’d been looking at the week prior. Even without women, there were a lot of pictures of Rozanov online and on social media; he was photogenic. But he was the best-looking in person.

“Did you get what you wanted?”

“Obviously,” Shane said.

Rozanov made a pleased, low sound. Shane let himself have five more breaths pancaked as he was, and then forced himself to sit up. Didn’t want Rozanov to think he needed aftercare, or whatever. Pillow talk.

Shane pulled his legs in criss-cross and took a moment to let the soupiness in his head fade. His eyes got stuck on Rozanov, who had rolled onto his back, arms indolently flung up over his head. He was so good looking it made the back of Shane’s teeth tingle.

“But are you? Getting anything out of this?”

Shit. He had not meant to say that. The sight of Rozanov had tranced him, hypnotized him into forgetting the rules. Rozanov blinked at him.

“I just came,” he said. “In your ass.”

“Technically, there was a condom—” Shane began, affronted, before realizing he was getting sidetracked. “I mean besides that! God. You know what I mean.”

“No, Hollander, I do not know.”

“I just mean like, for your dynamic. I mean because you aren’t beating me up and stuff.”

Rozanov briefly closed his eyes as if he was in pain. Then he propped himself up into a seated position and leveled a very serious look at Shane, saying something in Russian.

“This whole time you are thinking, ‘when will Rozanov beat me?’” Rozanov finished in English.

Shane shrugged and shook his head.

“I mean, no, not really. Sometimes I like, wonder, a little bit. I guess.”

“Hollander, I am not lying about this. Many doms like to give pain,” Rozanov said. “Okay, yes, is true. But others? No. I do not want to beat you, Hollander. If I beat you, I would drop. Are you listening? Do you understand?”

Shane rubbed his neck. It felt like he was in trouble, and getting a lecture for it. But Rozanov didn’t look angry, just serious. He was probably trying to be straightforward as possible, because Shane sucked so bad at reading his dynamic. There had always been the stereotype in the back of his mind about doms just wanting to put someone on their knees, to tie them up, beat them, and to do the aftercare only because it was like, societally expected. And he’d included Rozanov as a part of those assumptions.

But over the years Hayden had poked some holes in those stereotypes, had been alternatively shocked and appalled when Shane let some of them slip. Shane had thought he was bad at people in general, through no fault of his own. But in the case of the dynamic stuff, it was probably his own fault. He just hadn’t ever cared enough to think about it seriously, or look into it.

Case in point, when they’d first started this thing, Shane had internally recoiled at and dreaded the thought of Rozanov ordering Shane to call him ‘sir.’ And Shane had fully expected it, never doubting whether Rozanov might want it or not. But of course, Rozanov never once brought that up. And as they continued, he’d never talked about scening or stoplights either. Shane had tried not to feel like he was getting away with something. But it seemed like he wasn’t getting away with anything. It was just how Rozanov was, how he liked it. And Shane hadn’t seen it, couldn’t see it, because he’d stuck his head in the sand ages ago about dynamics, and never thought to pull it back out again.

“No, I, I hear you.”

Shane picked at the side of his thumbnail. The thought of Rozanov dropping was concerning. The thought of Shane making Rozanov do something he disliked so much that he dropped was appalling. Nauseating.

“For the record,” Shane said. “I don’t want to do anything that would make you drop.”

Rozanov palmed Shane’s cheek and smoothed the pad of his thumb across Shane’s eyebrow. It was one of those out-of-nowhere affectionate touches of his that left Shane reeling internally. He had never been touched in that specific way before, not ever.

“I know,” Rozanov said, tacking on a Russian word at the end that Shane, in the deepest and most pathetic parts of his soul, could only hope was some sort of endearment.

—

The first time they were supposed to meet during the 2015-2016 season, Shane had a sinus infection. He was so disappointed and angry about it his eyes stung when he texted Rozanov, We’ll have to cancel. I’m sick.

?? Rozanov sent back.

I’m scratched. Shane replied. Sinus infection.

u want to cancel or think u have to

Shane gave a heaving sniff. Barely any air got through. He’d been mouth-breathing for the past several days like a Neanderthal.

I don’t want to get you sick.

russians don’t get sick

Shane huffed out a laugh, an ugly, horking, full-of-snot sound.

Sure. But I should sleep.

I text u after game. U reply I come. No reply u sleep.

Ok. Shane said. He tried to ignore the true weight of his greed, but it was taking over his whole body. Rozanov wanted to see him even though he was sick.

Put game on tv. I score many goals for u)))

Fuck you. I hope you lose.

The Raiders won 2-1. Shane watched Rozanov grinning, circling the ice in triumph. Then he turned off the TV and lay curled on his side, staring at his black phone screen. There was no way he could sleep, not with the possibility of Rozanov. Still, he had lulled himself into a kind of meditative stupor waiting, aided by cold medication, that the buzzing of the text notification made him jerk and sent his heart racing.

awake?

Yes, Shane sent immediately.

)) u say hotel. room #

The Ritz. 712, Shane said.

He considered the fact that all of his teammates were staying on the same floor. Probably this was an idiotic idea. Shane didn’t care. He was too sick. And the cold meds…Whatever. There was no excuse, really. He wanted Rozanov.

Don’t get caught, he sent, for posterity.

Relax. I leave before first metro gets on team bus

Ok. And I really am sick. Just warning you.

I come see for myself. 40min

Shane rolled his eyes and put his phone face down on the bed.

Rozanov was usually wishy-washy with timing but he showed up pretty much forty minutes later. Shane opened the door for him and Rozanov slipped in quickly.

“Why did you go on roadie if you are sick,” Rozanov said.

“I thought I’d get better,” Shane said. “I’m never sick. I was gonna play but they scratched me because I passed out in practice.”

Rozanov surveyed him, eyes dragging up and down Shane’s rumpled t-shirt and pajama pants, and then darting across his face.

“You look bad. Pale,” Rozanov said. “These.”

He put his hands on Shane’s face and brushed his thumbs beneath Shane’s eyes. His hands felt so nice. Shane’s eyes slit and then closed completely.

“I can’t breathe through my nose. But I can’t sleep with my mouth open. It’s unnatural.”

He was miserable. He wanted to stick a knitting needle up each nostril and poke holes in his sinuses. Rozanov clucked his tongue and said something in Russian.

“We take shower. Steam is good for this. I make you come and then put you to bed. Best medicine.”

“I want you to come too,” Shane said.

His voice sounded horrible. The m sounds came out like b’s.

“Okay, Hollander,” Rozanov said.

When Shane opened his eyes, Rozanov’s lips were tugged up into a tiny smile.

In the bathroom, Rozanov closed the door and then cranked the shower up to near scalding. He didn’t turn on the ventilation fan, letting the mirror fog and the steam accumulate. He undressed himself and Shane perfunctorily and then maneuvered them both into the shower. The gathering steam and Rozanov being so bossy and so gentle at the same time was making Shane’s head spin. He had thought maybe it would take a while for him to get hard, but he was already halfway there. Rozanov put Shane against the wall and then went down to his knees. Shane gasped.

“What,” he said stupidly.

“Relax,” Rozanov said, and then proceeded to give Shane the most mind altering blow job he’d ever had in his life.

After, Rozanov stood up and opened his mouth under the shower spray, gargled the water, and spat it out onto the drain. Shane watched all of this, panting, feeling like he might at any moment dissolve into goo and follow Rozanov’s spit right down into the pipes.

“Good?” Rozanov said, turning his attention back to Shane.

He put his hand on the side of Shane’s neck, his thumb pressing in to the left of Shane’s Adam’s apple.

“I think you sucked my brain out of my dick,” Shane said, nearly delirious, rubbing his hands up and down Rozanov’s sleek obliques.

Rozanov smiled, pleased.

“But,” Shane continued. “I can’t get you back like that. I’ll suffocate…my nose.”

It was a tragic thing to admit. But Rozanov didn’t seem disappointed at all.

“Here,” Rozanov said, and put Shane’s hand onto his erection.

Once dried off and back in bed, Rozanov brought him a bottle of water from the mini fridge and watched as Shane downed half of it.

“Are you—was that okay?” Shane asked, after he’d capped the water bottle and put it on the bedside table where it joined a couple empty Gatorade bottles, his antibiotic prescription, and a box of tissues.

Rozanov, in boxers, was sitting by Shane’s hip, his right leg pulled up and bent open on the mattress, his left leg handing down off the side. He’d gotten his phone out and was tapping at something.

“Hmm?” he said. “Yes, good.”

He wasn’t paying attention.

“But like, for your dynamic. You were on your knees. Isn’t that, like, bad?”

Halfway through speaking, Shane had to fumble for a Kleenex and hold it to his nose. It seemed like the shower had melted or unplugged something up there, and now it was dripping like a leaky faucet. Shane felt disgusting. He didn’t know why Rozanov hadn’t hightailed it out of the room after the sloppy hand job Shane had given him.

Rozanov scoffed and tossed his phone over onto the arm chair in the corner, where the rumpled pile of his clothes were.

“Hollander, how you have come up with so many stupid thoughts? You think I suck you off on knees, I drop?”

Shane blinked at him. Rozanov was smiling and shaking his head, like he thought Shane was silly and endearing. Shane squirmed and tried not to feel like an idiot. It was his own fault for just assuming things and not wondering about them, not actually looking into them.

“Sorry,” he said, still holding the Kleenex to his running nose.

“Sleep now,” Rozanov said, and made imperious motions with his hands until Shane laid down under the covers.

After, Rozanov sent him daily texts about how he still wasn’t sick, and kept them up for fourteen days straight. Shane tried and failed not to be charmed by them.

—

In high school, Shane hadn’t thought Jessica’s words made any sort of impression besides Shane feeling bad for her that she was so upset. But he was realizing now they’d laid down in the bedrock of his mind and sprouted. Maybe if he’d never hooked up with a dom, the sprouts would have gone unnoticed. But as it was, he was noticing them now. Was he deficient? Did Rozanov think so? Shane tried to look at it logically. Rozanov had never tried to get Shane to do stuff that was textbook dynamic; when Shane went to his knees it was only because he wanted his mouth on Rozanov too badly to wait until they made it to the bed. He was bossy, but that was how he was all the time. He never reprimanded Shane for being prickly or stubborn.

He thought about asking Rozanov to treat him like a sub, but the idea was a bitter one. Shane was already pretending about so much, being normal, sociable, straight. He didn’t want to also have to pretend about this. He wanted Rozanov to want him as he was, an a-dynamic.

After the time he was sick and Rozanov still came to see him anyways, Shane put aside any doubts. It was even more convincing than any of Rozanov’s answers to Shane’s earlier questions, the action over the words. Rozanov, on his knees in the shower. The fact that he even came over in the first place. A person didn’t risk getting infected by germs for someone they thought was deficient.

—

It was a long time after the sinus infection before they played against each other again. Shane spent the weeks as he usually did during the season, training for hockey, playing hockey, and thinking about hockey. He thought about Rozanov almost as much. He tried not to, but his mind was always one left turn away from Rozanov. He was just up there, all the time. Shane couldn’t escape him. He jerked off a depressing number of times to the hazy memories he had of Rozanov in the shower. How his shoulders had looked, how his wet hair had felt in Shane’s fingers. Like silk, like ribbons. As smooth as the water falling from the shower head.

During the game, Shane was so amped up to see Rozanov that he couldn’t even hold onto his expression at the face off. Rozanov chirped him and Shane smiled. Full on. Beaming at his greatest rival. Rozanov’s mouth parted and he blinked at Shane, slow and purposeful, like a cat. The puck dropped and Shane won it.

Later, Rozanov came whirling into Shane’s apartment in a cloud of frenetic energy: frisky, grabby, near manic. Shane felt himself rising to meet it, his adrenaline spiking, desire and competitiveness and playfulness all clamoring together. Rozanov chased Shane into his bedroom and wrestled him down onto the bed. Shane put up a fight and watched Rozanov’s eyes light up with glee, all of his teeth on display as he grinned. They were laughing, both of them. Eventually, Shane called uncle and Rozanov arranged Shane exactly how he wanted him. Pressed him face down, palm over his ear, creating a dim rush of sound in the hollow, like holding a shell there and hearing the ocean. And Rozanov was moving behind him, inside him, lighting him up, burning him from the inside out. It was all Shane could do to keep breathing, mouth open and damp against the mattress. During the game earlier, Rozanov had slammed Shane into the boards. A clean hit. Shane’s mind had twisted it up all dirty, loving it. He felt akin now to how he had then: alive, electric, so much wattage thrumming through his veins that surely he must be glowing.

After, Shane lay on his back dangerously close to the wet spot, gasping up at the ceiling. Rozanov came back from the bathroom where he’d been dealing with the washcloth, and launched himself on to the bed.

“Oof,” Shane said, his whole body jostled as Rozanov landed, bouncing the mattress.

Rozanov put his palm on Shane’s chest and left it there.

“Good?”

“Yes,” Shane said, smiling to himself. “You can probably stop asking that after every time, you know.”

“Mmm no,” Rozanov said.

“Why not?”

Shane rolled his head to the side to see Rozanov’s expression. Rozanov had propped his head up on his free hand and was looking down at Shane avidly. It seemed like he still had a lot of energy.

“Checking in,” he said.

“Oh,” said Shane.

So it was a dom thing, then. Kind of like, Shane suspected, the hand on his chest. Shane had impeccable pattern recognition. It didn’t take him many hook ups to realize Rozanov was doing certain things on purpose, namely, putting his hand somewhere where he could feel Shane’s pulse. When Rozanov put his hand on Shane’s jaw, it was always in such a way that at least one finger was pressed to his carotid. Or, he’d go for Shane’s left pec and then leave his hand there.

“Like this?” Shane asked, tapping Rozanov’s hand where it lay on him.

If it had been last year or the year before, Shane would have never hazarded the risk to ask. But it felt different now.

Rozanov hummed.

“You do not have intent. But I can feel your pulse. I can see your eyes.”

“Oh,” Shane said again.

Shane was still hot all over, sweating and throbbing from getting fucked. But there was a different warmth now, beneath his sternum. Something small and glowing, a tiny flame. Rozanov was taking care of him, even though Shane didn’t need it like a sub.

“Well then, should I—“ Shane said, placing a hand on Rozanov’s chest.

He had to grope a little bit, trying to find the right place. Rozanov was kind of propped up on his side, and also the muscle was so big. If Shane hadn’t come less than ten minutes ago, he’d be getting hard again. Then he found it, against the outer edge of his palm. Rozanov’s heart, kicking hard. He looked up, back to meet Rozanov’s gaze.

“—Whoa,” he said. “Your heart’s going nuts.”

“I just worked out,” Rozanov said, winking, and squeezing Shane’s wrist.

It was a corny joke. Shane smiled in spite of himself.

—

It had always been good. Amazing, even. But that season it felt like it was getting better and better each time. Maybe it was because Shane had started believing that Rozanov didn’t have any ulterior motives and wasn’t hiding his “true” dynamic needs. Maybe it was because Shane had stopped believing in many of the various dynamic stereotypes he had unknowingly put so much faith in for so many years. Whatever the reason, it felt better. Deeper.

“Just like this or not at all,” Rozanov said the next time, punctuating it with a squeeze to Shane’s nape.

Shane, who was lying on top of him, blushed hard and ducked his face down, putting it into the slope of Rozanov’s neck and shoulder. He wormed his hands under Rozanov’s torso and hooked them on his shoulders, liking the weight of him against Shane’s wrists and forearms, effectively taking away the temptation of using his hands at all. Rozanov wouldn’t let him, anyway. Rozanov had fucked him earlier. But when he came out of the bathroom after his shower, Shane had gotten hard again, embarrassingly quickly and just from staring at him. Rozanov had smiled big, delighted. An almost goofy, gleeful smile. Then he had shucked the towel and gotten back into bed. Had pulled Shane on top of him and had said, ‘if you want to come again, you will have to do all the work like this.’ He did not listen to any of Shane’s protests or pleading.

So Shane resolved to do the work himself. He began to rock his hips against Rozanov’s body. Humping him to get off, like he was a pillow and Shane was starting puberty again and just discovering what felt good, how to make himself come.

“Good,” Rozanov said, and Shane could feel it, the short word in Rozanov’s chest, in his voice box, to which the side of Shane’s face was pressed.

He still had one hand firm against Shane’s neck, and the other one was stroking his back in long, luxurious movements. Shane soon became blissed out. All the initial humiliation was gone, dissolved into how much he liked it, being held like this, following Rozanov’s words like this. Shane came short and fast, shuddering, moaning, the good feeling unspooling.

Rozanov’s shower was effectively ruined, but he didn’t seem put out. After a few minutes of letting Shane smush him into the bed, Rozanov rolled Shane onto his back and wiped off their stomachs with some tissues.

“Good?”

Shane watched him through half-lidded eyes and licked his lips.

“Yeah. Have you ever tried to dom me?”

Shane’s brain wasn’t working right, just then. He had no filter, and had been curious about that specific thing since the first time they’d ever hooked up. Shane expected Rozanov to scoff and say no. He hadn’t been expecting the shifty expression that skittered across Rozanov’s face.

“Well…” Rozanov said, hedging.

“You have?” Shane said, propping himself up on his elbows.

All of the mushy, sex-drunk feeling in his brain was eclipsed by bright curiosity.

Rozanov grunted and busied himself with putting on his underwear and t-shirt.

“I mean,” Shane said. “I wouldn’t know the difference if you lied to me. But I’d like it if you told me the truth. I’m just curious.”

He felt the urge now to poke and poke until he got his answers, until he understood why Rozanov’s gaze kept jumping away from his. Usually Shane was the one avoiding eye contact.

“Vegas,” Rozanov said eventually.

“Oh,” Shane said.

He turned the idea over in his head. It made sense. Rozanov had been different, that night. Almost cold. Shane could see it.

“Well, it’s not like it worked,” he said. “I followed your orders because I wanted you to fuck me.”

Rozanov huffed. “Yes, I know, Hollander.”

“That was the only time?”

Rozanov nodded. His back and shoulders were still tense.

“I did not decide to do it then,” Rozanov said. “I do not know why I kept doing it when I realized. Is not a good idea.”

“I was bad,” Shane said.

He had already known he’d messed up in Vegas and was waiting for Rozanov to agree. But he didn’t.

“No, I was bad.”

“What do you mean?” Shane said, his voice tinged with surprise.

He sat up completely, and scootched a little closer to where Rozanov was sitting at the edge of the bed with one leg pulled up. Rozanov groaned and muttered something in Russian. Rubbed a hand down his face.

“For my dynamic,” he said after all that. “I was not taking care that night. I was…trying something…I do not know. It was bad for me, for my dynamic, to treat you like something you are not.”

“Doing stuff with me affects your dynamic?” Shane asked, surprised.

“You think it turn off when I’m not fucking a sub?”

Rozanov could have been patronizing about how dense Shane was about dynamics, but instead he sounded genuinely curious.

“Well,” Shane said, wincing a little. “I guess not. But. Y’know, sex doesn’t have to include dynamic stuff. And I’m not dynamic, so.”

“I am still me when I am fucking you,” Rozanov said. “All me. Not parts. Not little bits.”

“Right,” Shane said, uncomfortable.

“You think is magic, between dom and sub?”

Shane shrugged and fiddled with the edge of the bedsheet. It wasn’t that he thought it was magic, it was more that it was something that didn’t pertain to him and he’d never thought to attempt to understand.

“I put a sub down, I see they like it, this is good for my dynamic. I do not scene with you, Hollander, but I see you coming untouched on my dick. I see you like it. This is still good for my dynamic.”

Shane went hot all the way up to his hairline, his ears burning.

“Jeez,” he said. “Okay, I get it.”

Rozanov gave him a considering look. “I do not think you do,” he said.

Shane wrinkled his nose.

“Maybe not,” Shane admitted. “I’m bad with this stuff. But I’m trying. It helps when you explain.”

“You not go to J.J., ask dynamic question?”

Shane rankled, appalled.

“Gross!” he exclaimed, before realizing Rozanov was teasing him. “Whatever, shut up.”

“You keep asking me,” Rozanov said. “I tell you if ideas are stupid.”

Shane couldn’t even put up a fuss about that, because he knew a lot of his ideas had been pretty dumb.

“So with me it’s still, like, positive? For your dynamic?”

“Hollander, I tell you this years ago. When you kneel, it is just you wanting to. There is no dynamic telling you to do it. It is just you. I like this. Is very good for my dynamic.”

“Oh,” Shane said.

He did remember that, in his kitchen in 2014. At the time, he’d thought it had been a throwaway joke. ‘You go down all by yourself,’ Rozanov had said. But it was true. And it had always been true, the lengths Shane would go to get fucked by Rozanov. To get to see him, even. He could see why a dom would like that.

Something pleased and selfish was unfurling beneath Shane’s sternum, a big, warm feeling, almost like glee. He had something that Rozanov liked. He had something different; he could offer something special. Something that was innate to him, something he didn’t have to mimic or pretend or project. It was just himself.

“It is just me, I guess,” Shane said, ducking his head to hide the smile that was pulling at the corners of his mouth.

But Rozanov would have none of that. He put a crooked forefinger beneath the point of Shane’s chin and tipped his head up. He was smiling too, Rozanov.

“You like being good for me,” he said. “Just you, liking that. Not your dynamic.”

“Yeah,” Shane said.

They held the silence, then, smiling. A few moments later, though, in one startlingly swift motion, Rozanov swooped in and stamped a kiss to the corner curl of Shane’s mouth.

—

Shane spent the whole time between then and the next floating on that press of Rozanov’s lips. He kept thinking about it and beaming, poking his finger into that corner. The team was on a winning streak and Shane was mostly able to hide his good mood in that and avoid any excess attention from the guys.

It felt like he smiled all the way up until he was alone again with Rozanov, and then the desire won out, making his mouth part, making his breath come fast and heavy.

“What do you want,” Rozanov said.

As always, Shane wanted everything. There was so much want in his brain, in his blood, he felt like he was swelling up with it, waterlogged. Dripping. His limbs felt heavy with that desire. He wanted to give his body over to Rozanov for a time, and to trust him with all of it. To not have to think or worry. He was too dizzy to decide. He wanted to be taken care of. He wanted to get off. He wanted to be alone with Rozanov for eight hundred years. There was never enough time.

Rozanov took a step closer. Their toes were near touching. He leveled Shane with a serious look, eyes hot, the curves of his lips only just pressed into a straighter, firmer line. Shane felt his mouth drop open further, hypnotized like a tranced snake.

“You,” he said.

His voice didn’t sound as it usually did. It was low-pitched and full of breath, like a sigh.

Rozanov’s eyes pinged across Shane’s face, cataloging, searching. Shane let himself be seen. It was easy to do with Rozanov, he was used to it now. And besides, the wanting was too big to hide.

“That is sweet, Hollander,” Rozanov said. “But I want specifics.”

Rozanov’s face didn’t have any expression on it at all. Everything was in his eyes, which Shane could almost feel palpably, as hot as embers.

“I want you to fuck me.”

Rozanov’s mouth quirked. “I already know that. What else.”

Shane frowned a little at him, humiliation swirling along with desire, hot in his gut. His face was surely red. His ears felt like they were burning.

“I want to be good,” Shane said, which was what he said the last time, when Rozanov pressed.

“I already know that, too. What. Else.”

Shane made a noise in the back of his throat, a grumble, cut off at the root. Shane knew what he wanted. What he would ask for, if he let himself.

“I want you to…” Shane said, before he could lose his nerve, before the greediness drained away. He could trust Rozanov with this, after everything. He’d ask for it and Rozanov would at least let him down gently, if he really didn’t want to. “I want you to kiss me. Like those first times.”

Now, Rozanov’s face did change. If they hadn’t been nearly nose to nose, maybe Shane wouldn’t have caught all the minute shifts. But they were and he did. Rozanov looked surprised, and then a little soft, and then hungry. He stayed very still for several long moments, long enough that Shane thought he might say no. But when Rozanov did respond, it wasn’t with words. He put his hand firmly to Shane’s jaw and kissed him, slipping him tongue right away. Shane surged, both internally and externally. His emotions, the lust, his muscles, his hands, his mouth. All pushing forward, wanting closer, wanting on, wanting around. Wanting everything.

Shane clutched at Rozanov’s waist, greedily dragging him closer. Rozanov laughed against Shane’s lips, a low noise, mostly breath. But he let Shane grab at him and deepened the kiss. It was wet and lush and Shane went dizzy with the confident, sweet drag of Rozanov’s tongue, teeth, and lips.

They kissed all the way up the stairs.