thank you to salad, smug, and star for making this publishable and for indulging me.

how soon after getting ur teeth fucked up can your homie shove his fingers in your mouth for sexual gratification? however soon i want it to be. i don’t remember the timeline of my gum stitches and you shouldn’t care either suspend your disbelief and enjoy that they're two guys who are gross together and into each other.

Second period, ten minutes down: Shane’s on his back on the ice, the bright red of the New Jersey d-man already several strides away. He thinks, fuck, what a hit. Had seen that stick coming one moment too late, heard it before felt it, the crunch as the butt jammed straight into his front teeth. His brain catching up to speed, the dull ache rapidly pinching into a searing pain. His mouthguard’s several feet away, bright red. Cheeks throbbing, jaw clicking when he opens his mouth and yeah, that’s blood on the ice below him as he pushes onto his knees. His vision reels, tilts. Shane spits but can’t work his jaw muscles right and most of it spills down his chin. Half a tooth, so yellow against the ice, pink pulp stuck to the bottom. Not great. He takes a deep breath, feels the air whistle over every exposed nerve, his busted-open gums, everything thrumming like the hit’s ricocheting around his skull in the aftermath.

He tries poking at his gums with his tongue but it won’t go where he wants it to, and when he digs along a canine, the fresh edge of a broken tooth cuts it right open. The twist of his tongue dislodges another molar. He’s pretty sure his whole jaw is about to pop out. Shane can feel it wiggle as saliva floods his mouth and the rank, overwhelming taste of blood overtaking everything else. There’s another one of his teeth on the ice. He shakes off his glove to pick it up, and there’s that whistle he was waiting for. Hayden at his side, New Jersey’s captain off with a ref. Shane needs a wet rag and four wads of dry tissue or something to stuff into his bleeding mouth, and he needs a Tylenol or seven and—

“Hey, Hollzy,” Hayden slides up to him, and Shane can see one of the linesmen approaching behind him with a medic. “You need a hand getting back to the bench?”

Shane tries to say something while waving him off, and he knows when Hayden’s face screws up that he probably looks even worse than he feels. He gets one last good spit in as he skates slowly to the bench, mouth welling with hot saliva and blood. Another one of the medics meets him by the door. Desjardins gives directions to one of the assistant coaches, who stumbles down the hallway alongside Shane, speaking to the medic over his shoulder.

He’s back on the bench by the start of third period—with one successfully replanted tooth, two others far too cracked for reinsertion, and one front tooth halved. Better keep that mouthguard on for the rest of the game, it’ll help keep that tooth in place and the other one from cutting the inside of your lip out, the dentist said as he slotted Shane’s intact tooth back into place. Crazy how that works, Shane thinks, and thinks only of that, and not at all how sensitive his gums are, how he could taste the dentist’s rubber gloves because his fingers kept gliding over Shane’s tongue as he prodded around in there.

“Don’t worry, you’re still better looking than Rozanov,” J.J. says, planting his ass right next to Shane’s on the bench. “Even with half your teeth out.”

His voice is nothing more than a muffle, cheeks puffed up and bruised dark, when Shane says: “Just two and—half.” Pausing to flash his halved front tooth.“One back in.” He points one gloved finger on his right cheek, where they’d shoved the molar right back in. He puts a hand on the boards. Talking is both a chore and a waste of energy, and it doesn’t help with his rippling headache. Shane’s pulse is lodged squarely in his jaw, and the painkillers are only doing so much. Can’t take too many of them or he’ll get groggy: the last thing they need after the wasted powerplay Shane’s broken teeth had gifted them.

Rozanov’s text is immediate. nasty. Then, pic.

Shane sends him a photo of his middle finger.

ugh hollander. photo of your MOUTH now please. big pretty smile for me thank you

Shane remembers, again, the dentist’s fingers in his mouth, inspecting his gums, positioning his tooth after cleaning it off. That pried-open sensation: a new hole against his sensitive tongue.

He doesn’t like taking photos of his face, especially with his lips busted and a fat bruise eating up most of his right cheek and jaw. Shane holds his phone at arm’s length, shows a bit of his naked shoulders, his collarbones. That’s hot, probably. Not that he’s expecting Rozanov to use this as anything other than chirp fodder. When he looks at the photo, after, the stark bathroom light makes the bruise and swelling that much worse. Mottled and dark and ripe. Shane’s teeth bared in a pained smile, like a nervous animal. Then again, he supposes it’s nothing short of a miracle he went this far without knocking a few out.

nice. your jaw still works?

Shane grabs an electrolyte drink out of the fridge. i mean, yeah. i can talk. just some pain.

ok. A pause. how wide can you open

And maybe Shane had been wrong about the jerking it off part. His mind supplies a very unhelpful image of Rozanov tilting his head back, one hand wriggling his jaw until he opens it, glove-covered fingers—no, bare, dirty probably, maybe sweaty-palmed from a game—stuffing into Shane’s mouth. Keeping his aching muscles in place as he drags one curled finger along the inside of Shane’s cheek.

wide enough i guess, Shane says.

Rozanov sends four laughing faces back. when will you go to the dentist

Shane lets out a breath, unscrews the cap of his drink, and texts back, week and a half.

Boston arrives seven days later for their matchup at the Bell Center. Shane makes sure to smile real big when Rozanov slides a bit too close to their blue line during warmups. Even through the visor, Rozanov’s eyes are dark. Pupils blown wide. Shane wonders if he’s hard.

Rozanov’s elbow is in Shane’s ribs, puck slotted between Shane’s skates and the board, Rozanov’s face close enough that Shane can tell him, “You keep that up and we’ll have matching smiles before this night’s over.” But Rozanov just grins wide, shoves at him again, trying to wedge Shane’s legs open to go for the puck, and then the Boston rookie’s fishing it out from Shane’s legs, and in two quick strides they’re off.

Shane rinses his mouth with dentist-approved mouthwash four times in fifteen minutes. It burns like hell every time, but he wanted the funky taste of his own scabs out before Rozanov got there. It’s past eleven when Rozanov shows up at his doorstep with damp hair and a grey t-shirt that says STINKYSOCKS in all capital letters, and the same black leggings he’s worn the last three times. They could probably get him on some serious charges of public indecency across the country, Shane thinks, with the way they cling to Ilya’s ass. There’s a wet patch in the center of Rozanov’s t-shirt, so he didn’t even bother drying off completely.

“In a hurry?” Shane asks. He doesn’t sound casual. He sounds like he’s about to get the fucking hiccups.

“Shut up, Hollander,” Rozanov says, but he’s smiling, and then they’re kissing.

He grips Shane’s jaw hard and Shane grunts, parts his lips, tries to suck Rozanov’s tongue in deeper. He’d take it into his throat if he could. And when he tilts his head to the side, Rozanov’s grip slipping up and back to tangle into Shane’s hair, he feels a wet slide against the line of his teeth. Rozanov’s tongue drags over the hollow in Shane’s gum, right between the two upper molars, and Shane groans into the kiss as he’s jerked back by his hair, scalp stinging from the tug. If Rozanov’s eyes weren’t so heady, like they’re trying to peel Shane open, Shane would tell him to fuck off. But he can’t get the words out, throat shut tight.

Rozanov holds him by his hair for a second and then shoves him toward the couch, grip digging into Shane’s hips. Shane goes easy.

“No underwear?” he asks slyly, one hand groping Shane’s bare ass inside his shorts, and Shane doesn’t dignify him with a response.

Rozanov’s hands on his hips have him spread out over the length of the couch before he climbs on top of Shane, letting his full weight rest on Shane’s stomach and fuck, he’s huge, and from this close Shane gets a nice view of Rozanov’s hard cock in those stupid leggings. He wants his tongue on it, to mouth at him through the fabric and suck it until it's so soaked it clings to Rozanov’s shape, to taste Rozanov’s salty precome through the polyester. He wants Rozanov’s so deep in his nose he wakes up tomorrow and smells it before anything else. That’s why he rattles the hesitation out of himself before Rozanov shows up: so he can scramble for Rozanov’s waistband now, that flicker of shame temporarily smothered. Shane has half his hand down the front of Rozanov’s leggings when Rozanov yanks on his hair again, pressing the back of Shane’s head into the cushion.

“Not yet,” he says. “Open up. I want to see.”

“Come on,” Shane pants. He’s thought about this all day. He’s thought about this all week. “Don’t be—”

Rozanov tilts Shane’s head from side to side, leaning forward without taking his weight off Shane’s body. Shane kicks his legs up, shorts racking up around his thighs, and he wishes he could get some friction onto his hard-on, anything, since Rozanov is taking his sweet time petting Shane’s bruised face. He scratches his nails over the skin, the flared bruise that’s turning greenish, then pushes his thumb against Shane’s cheek until it dips in. Shane scrunches his nose, can’t help but bare his teeth when Rozanov holds still, manages to choke out a, “Hey, watch it,” before Rozanov shrugs and pulls his hand away. Shane’s cheek throbs.

“I think your mouth is working no problem.” Rozanov’s forefinger drags down the bridge of Shane’s nose. “And is very sexy to hear you whine like this, Hollander, but”—his finger traces the bump of Shane’s cupids bow to the fat plush of his mouth, finally coming back to its shape after the swelling, and pushes down on his bottom lip—“I should make sure is good to be used, yes? Before I put my cock in here.”

Shane swallows, and that thick-pink knot of shame he’d stuffed away rises from his tense stomach until his face is so hot. He hopes the bruises make the flush less noticeable. Rozanov enjoys his embarrassment too much.

“I could just kick you out,” Shane says. Rozanov leans down to kiss him, laughing as he does, tells Shane, “You would never do this,” before licking a broad stripe across Shane’s mouth. He nips at Shane’s cheek and Shane squirms under him. If Rozanov was more considerate, he would give Shane something to rut up against. Instead Shane gets Rozanov’s breath, an underlying tang of what’s probably a Coke.

“No pain?” Rozanov asks. Shane’s skin burns from the scratch of Rozanov’s stubble against his chin and cheeks.

“I took some pills,” Shane murmurs, and then Rozanov’s fingers brush over his lips again, and he opens them on instinct. Rozanov’s grin is so pleased and Shane’s insides so light and squirmy. When Rozanov shoves two of his fingers past Shane’s teeth, he tells Shane, “Good,” and then curls them so he can drag his finger along the ticklish roof of Shane’s mouth, so strange, enough of a shock for Shane to cough, stomach tensing up.

Rozanov uses his thumb to hold Shane’s tongue down. “No fussing, I can’t see if you are trying to lick me like big puppy.”

Rozanov pushes his fingers back to the soft palate; Shane’s throat clicks when he swallows around them. Keeps waiting for Rozanov to pull out a bit, let up the pressure, but instead he worms another finger inside. He tilts his wrist up and forces Shane’s jaw apart a bit further, rubs the spongy flesh at the back like he’s in no hurry, even when spit pools warm behind Shane’s teeth, some of it dribbling out. It makes him feel sloppy, his chest fluttering at the thought of what he must look like, already disheveled. With his mouth pried open, he can smell his own breath, the crusted blood and layers of the minty, antiseptic mouthwash. The smell never really goes away with his stitches so fresh, but Rozanov’s not complaining.

“Look so pretty with your mouth stuffed, Hollander,” Rozanov tells him, and moves his free hand to cup Shane’s face. His thumb brushes up against the side of Hollander’s nose, idly pushing one nostril shut. He slides his fingers to the inside of Shane’s cheek, rubs along it full length before dipping his forefinger into the crevice between cheek and gum, stroking along each curved line of a tooth, and Shane tries to swallow some saliva down, but it’s like he can hear every little scrape of Rozanov in there, flat thumb stroking the pad of Shane’s tongue. He tastes dirty. Shane wonders if he washed his hands.

He expects Rozanov to test how far in he can go immediately, but Rozanov seems insistent on taking his time tonight. Murmurs to himself in Russian things Shane can’t make sense of, only knows that the sound of it makes the ringing in his head so much louder. Shane shudders when Rozanov taps one of his teeth with a nail, slides it over one tooth to push, see if it’ll wiggle at the pressure. And Shane knows it won’t, that the emergency dentist already checked him twice, but his throat closes up every time Rozanov grips a tooth, nudges and pulls without hesitation. Maybe one of them will really dislodge, dredge up more blood and tender flesh.

Rozanov asks, “How many stitches?” at the same time he rubs the edge of his thumb against the dip in Shane’s gum where his tooth used to be, pushing down so hard Shane winces, feeling the pull of the stitches all the way in his neck and throat like a cold flash. Shane glares at him and Rozanov raises his brows, keeps his fingers right where they are, as if he’s expecting Shane to speak around them. “Looks sore. Very red, and wet, like—”

Rozanov’s nail digs into Shane’s gum and he gasps so hard, the air so cold and of course his mouth is wet, of course it’s red and sore and the painkillers only do so much; dampens the worst of it, but do nothing to help with Rozanov’s careless jabbing. It’s like every nerve in his mouth is exposed, zipping sharp at the lightest of touch and then rippling throughout his entire body, threads all through his cock and it shouldn’t be good, the tenderness shouldn’t have his heart jackhammering like this, but Rozanov is attentive and greedy and he works Shane’s mouth like he does all his bruises. The pain blooms, but the painkillers make the aches sort of distant, like they’re stuffed several layers deep. He gasps, tries to get Rozanov to pry beneath his tongue again, where everything is sensitive and prickles at the slightest touch.

Rozanov never finishes the sentence, just grins impishly down at him and puts his own teeth to Shane’s jaw, snickering. His lips brush over Shane’s pulse and then he fits his tongue over it. Sucks gently, for a moment, as if he’s going to leave a hickey. The thought of it, Rozanov’s mark plainly out for everyone to see, another secret for them, has Shane groaning, and then Rozanov is pushing himself up again.

Rozanov continues prodding until he finds the gap between Shane’s teeth, again, and shoves the tip of his ringfinger against it, finger too big to be a proper fit, but enough to push harshly into the tissue and Shane whines around him.

“You want something to suck on, you take it.” Rozanov raises his brows, eyes on Shane’s.

Shane feels flayed open. But he does it; he hollows his cheek around Rozanov’s knobbly fingers and sucks them like he would his cock, slips his tongue between them until it notches into the vee where they meet. He wiggles his jaw, the tension of holding it open a steady, pulsing ache. Rozanov’s face is beet red. Shane’s tongue must feel good, plump and insistent as it coils around the tip of Rozanov’s middle finger. With his free hand, Rozanov pushes against Shane’s cheek, the one that’s less swollen, digging in like he’s trying to feel the shape of his own fingers inside of Shane, thumb hooked underneath Shane’s jaw. Digs in and in and in, holds him as if Shane’s going to turn away again. Shane takes everything Rozanov gives him, caves to the hot flush over his face, his ears, how his eyes sting from holding them open just so he can see Rozanov’s expression mirror his own.

Everything is jabbed and poked at by Rozanov until it fizzles. A nonstop tingling, a pinch at the hinge of his jaw, morphing into a loud buzz in his head. Rozanov’s knuckles wedged against his teeth, like he wants to see if he can fit his fist in there, crack Shane open. Leave a bone-deep fissure. When Shane swallows, Rozanov’s hand moves to his throat, thumb stroking over his Adam’s apple.

He can’t move his right arm: Rozanov’s knee has it pinched against the couch. But he can get his left hand to Rozanov’s thigh, massaging the corded muscle, almost touching the tented fabric. Shane meets Rozanov’s gaze, sucks harder, and shifts his eyes just in time to see his dick twitch. Rozanov’s fingers curl again, rubbing over the second gap in Shane’s gums. Less of a hole and more of a slit as the stitches heal. A pang of worry jumps in his chest when he feels a tug, and he imagines the stitches ripping out as Rozanov pries into him. He might not even notice until he pulls out, threads plastered to his fingers with Shane’s spit.

Shane looks at the thick jut of Rozanov’s cock, and if he could take that into him, too, right now, it’d be so perfect. He’s already warmed up and spit-slick and if Rozanov fucked his mouth with it this sensitive, he might—it’d take so little to get him off, right now. Shane pants, ass clenching around nothing as Rozanov pumps his three, long fingers into Shane’s as if they were his cock, shoves them deep, coaxes a retching gag out of Shane, the sopping, wet noise of Shane’s mouth no different than when he bends Shane over and fucks him.

His hips jerk and Rozanov looks back for a second, at how humiliatingly hard Shane is right then, twitching in his shorts. He can’t even reach down to touch himself with Rozanov in the way. Everything is so tight. Like he could implode at any moment, one more drag of the thin fabric against his bare cock and his heavy balls threatening to send him spiraling. And there’s spit all over his chin and throat. Tomorrow, he’s going to have to walk into practice, face freshly swollen again, and pray his stitches have held up.

Shane’s vision blurs and Rozanov’s tongue is at the corner of his eye, lapping up the line of one stray tear, and still he doesn’t let up. His teeth rake over Rozanov’s hand with each thrust: his knuckles must be hot-pink by now, must burn like how Shane’s whole face pounds.

Rozanov turns his face, lips to Shane’s cheekbone. “I think you can come like this.”

He’s so empty. Rozanov splays his spit-soaked fingers out in front of Shane’s face. It looks like he’s just fingered wet pussy. Shane needs to come so bad he’d knock another tooth out to get there.

“So desperate,” he says.

Shane’s throat scratches on every word. “You’re the one texting me for pictures and showing up at my door.”

“True,” Rozanov agrees, licking Shane’s spit off his fingers. He nudges his thumb against the edge of Shane’s mouth, massages harsh little circles there, as if he’s contemplating pushing back inside; he doesn’t let up until Shane jerks his head to the side, trying to give his rubbed-raw skin a break. “You’re not going to suck my cock, Hollander.”

He shuffles forward on his knees and lifts his ass off Shane’s stomach so he can push his leggings down to sit just below his junk and the curve of his ass, uses his still-wet hand to stroke himself right in front of Shane’s face. Shane wishes he hadn’t showered, that Rozanov had crowded himself into Shane’s apartment fresh out of his worn-down pads and underclothes, reeking and victorious and sizzling from adrenaline. But he’ll have this Rozanov, too, who takes his hand off his cock and puts it right in front of Shane’s face so he can lick the precome off his palm before nudging his fingers past Shane’s lips again. His other hand is working over his cock, fitting his fingers over the thick, shiny head.

The tautness in Shane’s groin pulls along his thighs, his waist, has his toes curling and his cock jumping, begging for the lightest touch. Rozanov doesn’t reach back for him, and Shane’s right side is pinned against the back of the couch. He ropes his free arm around Rozanov’s thighs, drags his palm up the swell of his ass before grabbing for his own cock. Can’t cover himself but can angle his wrist close enough to give him something to rub up against as Rozanov’s fingers push further than they ever have, to the back of his throat, until Shane’s mind spins, the pulse in his gums spreads, seeps into his stomach into his groin into the thick line of his cock, has him gagging and spilling all over himself, his saliva a wet pool by the side of his head, jizz soaking through his shorts, chest heaving and swelling as all of his skin is pins and needles.

Rozanov shoves his thumb to Shane’s front teeth, takes a good look at his fucked-up half-tooth and pushes until Shane’s mouth opens again and he can put the tip of his cock on Shane’s bottom lip. His hand rhythmically bumps into Shane’s mouth as he jacks himself off, the obscene sound of it right in Shane’s ears. Shane watches Rozanov’s foreskin scrunch as he twists his wrist, balls swinging from the movement as Rozanov leans forward, hand on the armrest behind Shane’s head. His thumb digs into the slit at the red tip, gleaming with spit and precome, and Shane pushes his tongue out to lick at it, and Rozanov’s breath hitches, thighs flexing. He stripes Shane’s face and lolled-out tongue with come, gumming up his stitches. It’s all Shane can taste, and when Rozanov doesn’t get off him or scoot back, he pushes himself up on one elbow and leans in, nose to the base of Rozanov’s cock. He drags his tongue over the seam of Rozanov’s balls, lets the sharp edge of his broken tooth scratch over them and Rozanov hisses. Shane hums when he rubs his nose into the skin before kissing the curly, dark pubes right at the crease of Rozanov’s thighs. The soap smell has rubbed off him, by now. He’s plain and musky and hair is coarse on Shane’s tongue when he licks down Rozanov’s groin.

Shane rests his face on Rozanov’s hip.

“So good, Hollander,” Rozanov says, stroking Shane’s forehead where his hair sticks up wildly, damp at the roots. “Perfect for me however I want you.”

Shane ignores him. He just came from Rozanov pistoning his fingers into his mouth. He’s got no room to argue. Instead he closes his eyes and tries to breathe steady. Rozanov’s fingers massaging his neck feel so good.

“You didn’t keep the teeth?” Rozanov asks, holding a handful of ice cubes wrapped in tissue paper against Shane’s aching jaw. He didn’t have any bags of frozen food and he couldn’t find the cooling pack anywhere, so this was the best they could do.

Rozanov smiles wide, tapping his front tooth. One of them is significantly whiter than the other. Sometimes Rozanov will poke it out for fun before slotting it back in its place. No implants until retirement, he’d said.

“You know, they can put your teeth in milk,” he continues, holding the soggy paper to Shane’s face. “If dentist thinks that he can put it back in later.”

Shane can’t remember if the on-call dentist was slugging around a jug of milk in his bag, but for how annoying he is, Rozanov’s not a liar. He flinches when Rozanov presses the ice a bit too hard to his jaw, then underneath it, the melting ice dripping down his throat in cold licks. Before he can relax his face, Rozanov’s mouth is on his nose, then the corner of his mouth, eyes wide open. Shane parts his lips just enough for Rozanov to take one between his teeth, and then he’s licking the water off Shane’s neck, sucking at the tender spot right below his jaw, where he’d hooked his thumb earlier.

“You’re making a mess,” Shane complains.

“Is what we do together, yes,” Rozanov agrees, a little muted, face tucked away into the curve of Shane’s shoulder. And then he laughs, close enough for Shane to feel how his body shakes, their chests pushed together. “Make big messes.”

Shane closes his eyes for a moment, and Rozanov puts the ice back to his cheek.

STINKYSOCKS HOCKEY: no jerks, just the best adult hockey league in the boston area!

also like...i wrote this in my head imagining he got high stick'd in the mouth and then i realized i said puck in the summary....and it's just gonna have to be whatever. because i refuse to fix it at this point