• For SatsumaSegments.

Dear SatsumaSegments, you requested freak4freak Hollanov being feral about each other, I hope this satisfies some of that craving!

thanks to hockeyfinches for looking this over & dinosaur for the hockeypick!

Shane was fishing in the nightstand drawer when Rozanov touched his flank. "Andersen, yes? Columbus."

Shane looked down at the bruise: deep, spreading dark over his side, spilling down his left hip. It was starting to turn ugly, mottled brown and green. "Yeah," he said. Lube in his hand; the condom. "You watched that?"

"Tape review," Rozanov said. His thumb was stroking at the edge of the bruise, feather light. "Here, turn over."

When Rozanov fucked him from behind he liked to hold Shane open and watch himself slide in, slow. He'd say stupid shit, too, look how well you're taking me, so good for my cock, and the only thing more stupid was how hard Shane got at it. Eventually Shane would lose patience and start shoving his hips back and at some point that would do it, the low croon of Rozanov's voice sharpening, turning vicious. When Rozanov switched to Russian that's when Shane knew he'd won: Rozanov's breath panting out against his spine, his dick pressing hot and hard and in, fingers in a vice grip over Shane's hips.

Rozanov had strong hands. Shane looked down at the one splayed over the crest of his hip. Licked his lips. "Rozanov."

Rozanov's eyes were glittering. "Hollander," he said, and ground the heel of his palm down.

Bright, hot pain, radiating out in a starburst. The breath rushed out of Shane in one long hiss. It felt dizzyingly like an orgasm, except Shane was still hard, aching with it.

Rozanov could see it; his grin was all teeth. "Turn over," he said again, and patted Shane's hip. Easy, friendly, except for the sparks rolling across Shane's skin. His pulse throbbed under Rozanov's hand, in his throat, his fucking dick.

Shane turned over. This time, Rozanov didn't bother starting slow.

So Rozanov had a fetish. It didn't matter. Montreal didn't play Boston again for a month, and by then Shane would have gone through a dozen new bruises blooming and fading away. They played hockey; it was a fact of life. The next time they met Rozanov would have forgotten about it.

Shane didn't, though. The Metros had a stretch of away games along the west coast, and in Anaheim Shane got cross-checked hard enough that he folded into himself on the ice, lungs spasming. The trainers checked him over, nothing cracked, But it's gonna be a hell of a bruise, Hollzy. By the time he hit the showers there were already swaths of blue and black splotched over his ribs.

When he got to his hotel room Shane sat on the bed with his shirt off and a tube of IcyHot. It was meditative to map out the hurt with his fingers. The cold came over him first, sharp and biting; then, creeping all over, the growing heat. He was loose-limbed and a little hard when he fumbled for his phone with his clean left hand and took a picture.

A cropped torso, cut off below the shoulders, and a glimpse of the sweats around his hips. The bruising was stark in this light, sheened over by the balm. Shane stared at it for a long moment, his thumb over the delete button.

Rozanov had held him carefully, that last time. Weight draped over Shane's back, hard steady roll of his hips. When Shane muttered, "I'm close," Rozanov's free hand had snaked around, wrapped around Shane's cock—

And over the tender throb of Shane's hip his fingers had dug in, hard, unforgiving, and Shane had come swearing into Rozanov's hand, nearly blind with it.

Rozanov would like the picture. Shane's mouth was wet at the idea of him looking. He hit Send with his fingers thrumming. More than a little hard now: his belly clenching, heat at his groin. He should have been asleep already, but this wasn't going to take long.

Shane didn't normally jerk off with his left hand. He slid it a little awkwardly into his briefs, got his fingers around his dick. Tugged it out from under the waistband. He had to rotate his wrist to get at the sensitive spot under the head. It almost felt like the first time Rozanov had gotten a hand on him, the grip uncertain and unfamiliar. He'd learned quick, though. Good fucking hands. Three days ago, game against New Jersey, backhand saucer straight through the defensemen. The shape of his grin, after.

Shane's dick was leaving a sticky spot on his abs. He'd just gotten a good rhythm going when his phone lit up beside him, a steady buzz through the rumpled sheets. Incoming call, Lily.

Shane stared at the phone as it went dark. A text, Pick up, then another call coming through. It was late, plus there was the time difference. An absurd time for a phone call.

Shane leaned over; his thumb left a smear on the screen. He tucked the phone between shoulder and ear, put his hand back low on his stomach. "Rozanov."

"Who was it?" Rozanov said, no preamble. "Meunier? Prokopenko?"

"Meunier," Shane said. There was noise in the background, a thumping bassline. "Are you out right now? Isn't it three am?"

"New York," Rozanov said, like that explained anything. "Are you touching yourself?"

Rozanov's tone hadn't changed. Light, casual. Not loud, but not trying to prevent himself from being overheard, either. Shane's fingers twitched, very near the base of his dick—but. "No."

A considering hum over the line. Shane could picture the face Rozanov would be making, mouth pulled down at one corner. "I think you are a liar."

Shane didn't owe Rozanov anything. He could hang up, get off, go to sleep. Back to back: in nineteen hours they were playing LA.

The words scraped out of his mouth. "I was. Before you called."

"Ah," Rozanov said. The noise in the background abruptly faded out. The sharp flick of a lighter; a quiet sigh. "Okay. Keep going."

So: hand back on his dick, trying to get the pressure just right. Shane had no idea if Rozanov was getting the slick slide of his cock along his palm, but surely he could hear Shane panting open-mouthed. Was Rozanov— he was fucking smoking, he wasn't even—

"Your ribs," Rozanov said. The cigarette had given his voice a darker edge. "They hurt?"

"Yeah."

"You want more?"

Fuck. Fuck. Shane pressed his free hand over the deepest part of the bruise, hot palm over hot skin. That dark expanse, framed by his fingers. His hand didn't feel like his own as he pushed down.

The pain came in waves. His other hand hadn't stopped moving. "Oh god," he said helplessly, his voice nearly unrecognizable. "Rozanov."

"Don't stop," Rozanov said, low, urgent. Like Shane could. Like Shane's spine wasn't curling up, his dick pulsing hot in his hand. "Can you—harder, you can take it, you can—"

He did. A groan burst out of his throat. He was trying to strangle it when he came all over his fingers, his stomach, wrung out of him in long blinding pulses. "Oh fuck." Ear jammed against the phone, hearing the echo of his ragged breaths. "Rozanov. Fuck."

"Did you—"

"Yes. Jesus. Yes." The skin over his ribs was throbbing in time with his heart.

"Good." Rozanov sounded pleased. Somewhere a door opened, slammed shut, and then he said briskly, all business: "Good night, Jane."

"Wait, don't you— I mean, should I—?"

Rozanov laughed. "Oh, now you're worried about me?" The music had filtered back beneath the sound of his voice. "You give me a gift, I pay you back, hm? I'll see you in two weeks."

The line went dead. Shane put down the phone and wondered if Rozanov had finished his cigarette. If Rozanov was going to— find someone, take her home—

There was come spattered up to his chest, a smear of it painted over the purple of the bruise. Shane stared at it while his heart rate came down, and then went to clean up.

Two weeks. The Metros finished their roadie. Two home games, Buffalo, then home again. Shane drew a tripping penalty against Toronto, slid hard into the boards and slammed the shit out of his shoulder. Fine. In the game with Tampa Shane caught a puck at just the wrong angle, was bruised and tender for days. He grimly did his ice baths, got worked over by the massage therapist, and didn't text Rozanov at all.

Four days before the Raiders were due in Montreal, JJ dropped a link in the Metros group chat. Crazy motherfucker. The preview image was Rozanov's face, mouth bloodied. "Ilya Rozanov on his fight: 'All part of the fun.'"

Shane closed the chat, instinctively. He was still sweaty from his run. He made himself take a shower first, cold. When he got out he finally searched Ilya Rozanov fight, feeling unaccountably like a criminal.

Rozanov didn't fight often. He was too good to make a habit of taking major penalties; his style was more baiting other guys into throwing a punch, then scoring on the power play. Still, he didn't shy away from one, got right into guys' faces at a dirty hit—he'd had his share of fights, enough that there were YouTube compilations. Dropped gloves, circling intently like a predator. A big jungle cat, tail lashing.

The article Shane wanted was right at the top. Dated yesterday, when the Raiders had hosted Anaheim. The video started playing automatically. End of second period, Rozanov knocking into Meunier as he skated past. An answering shove, hard, Rozanov whipping back. It's been an aggressive game, and these two have been trading words all night, the commentator was saying, and Shane watched Rozanov shake out his shoulders and then—Jesus Christ—tear a glove off with his teeth.

Shane's ribs had cleared up in a week. No residual tenderness, not even when he probed carefully with his fingers. He'd already deleted the picture from his camera roll. There would be no evidence that Shane Hollander had gotten off with his own hand, Rozanov's voice urging him on, the sweet ache of the bruise.

In the video, Rozanov was alight with intent as he swung a fist.

He closed the tab and stared at the text thread with Lily. At the bottom, the last time they'd talked: Call ended, 7:18.

Shane typed, Your PK isn't that good. Deleted it. Have a good night? Deleted that, too. He was chewing at his bottom lip, the same place Rozanov's had been scabbing over in that preview. Was it still— Shane imagined the tender seam of the split under his tongue. The bright taste of blood.

He opened the group chat back up. Won't stop us beating 'em. A chorus of Yeah, Caps; a scatter of emoji. It was nearly time for practice. Shane grabbed his bag and headed out the door. In his pocket, his phone, locked, unsent message:

Does it hurt?

Across center ice Rozanov's lip was still a little swollen. Shane flicked his eyes up at the pink of his mouth, and Rozanov winked when he saw Shane looking, swiped his tongue over the cut. "You want?"

Shane settled his hands on his stick and yanked his gaze back down. "Not gonna fight you, Rozanov."

A disappointed sound. "So boring."

Rozanov's stick settled on the ice. Shane worked his jaw—his mouth guard felt too big for his mouth—set his, too. The puck dropped.

The Raiders were a physical team, and Rozanov fit in like he was born to it. A hard hip check that sent Shane tumbling over his back; slamming him against the boards, fighting for the puck. In bantam Shane had learned very quickly how to take hits from guys two years older and twenty pounds heavier, but tonight they lingered, his body lit up everywhere Rozanov had marked him.

Shift change. Shane got off the ice. Squirted water into his mouth. He wasn't quite hard in his cup, but he wasn't entirely soft, either. He didn't look at the visitor's bench; he could feel Rozanov's gaze on him anyway, heavy, waiting.

"Clothes off," was the first thing Rozanov said when he came through the door. Hands at Shane's waist, impatient, pushing down his sweatpants and briefs even as Shane was shucking off his shirt. Ambient air brushed over Shane's dick, nothing else: Rozanov had stepped back, was surveying Shane with a deep and intense hunger. "This is me, yes?"

Rozanov touched a fresh bruise on Shane's left side, two fingers, ungentle. Shane hissed. "You know it is, asshole." He'd dogged Shane all game, got called once for hooking and another for interference. Shane had enjoyed scoring on the power play; and Rozanov, after, skating out of the box with fluid grace, getting right back on Shane.

"This one, too?" Puck bruise, vivid on Shane's thigh, from a shot that would have tied the game. Hayd picking up the rebound; a flash of Rozanov's teeth. Shane nodded, and Rozanov slid his hand up to wrap around the base of Shane's dick, flushed nearly as dark as the bruise. "And this, I already know is me."

"Fuck off," Shane said, but he was grinning. "You wanna do it here?" He'd started stashing supplies in the side table by the sofa.

"Mm, no." Rozanov's hands came up to Shane's waist, spun him toward the stairs. "Bed, I think."

So, bedroom, Rozanov shrugging out of his shirt in a hurry while Shane perched at the foot of the bed and shamelessly watched his abs flex. He looked absurdly good. When he'd shimmied out of his pants he came stalking toward the bed, caging Shane in, dense solid muscle. "You like what you see?"

Rozanov could see exactly how hard he was. "Shut up," Shane said, and let Rozanov tilt forward to kiss him. "Are you gonna fuck me or what?"

"Wow, so eager." Shane knew what it felt like when Rozanov was grinning against his mouth. "Okay. Only because you asked nicely, hm?"

One last squeeze of Shane's thigh, just brushing at the bruise there, then Rozanov went to rummage for the lube. The absence of ache was nearly an ache in itself. Shane flexed the muscle, thought about the last time Rozanov had fucked him. Rozanov's fingers bracketing his hips.

He got onto his stomach, cheek laid against a pillow so he could watch Rozanov. His mouth was filling with spit. He swallowed, and it must have made a sound because Rozanov looked up and clicked his tongue.

"No, no, like this." Hand curling around Shane's shoulder, steady pressure until Shane turned, belly up. Rozanov tucked another pillow beneath Shane's ass before he climbed onto the bed and pushed Shane's thigh up with his thumb in the crook behind Shane's knee. "You like looking. Look."

Shane did look. Over him Rozanov was golden, flushed, magnificent. He took his time working Shane open, three lube-slick fingers in him before he rolled on the condom. There was the familiar way Rozanov's face screwed up tight as he slid in, unsteady jerks of his hips. When he finally stopped, pelvis flush against Shane's ass, he was panting.

"Good?"

"Yeah," Shane said, "yeah, yeah—"

"You will send me this picture, too?" Rozanov shifted his weight. Shane jolted at the dick moving inside him, and again when Rozanov splayed his hand over the bottom of his ribcage. Framed black and blue, a good night's work.

"You already know what it looks like."

"Send it anyway," Rozanov said. There was sweat at his temple, gleaming at the hollow of his throat. "So you remember."

Shane wondered if he'd deleted the other one. Decided he didn't care. "Okay," he said. "Sure." What was one more. He would have to pick: when, how much. His dick jerked against his stomach.

Rozanov's fingers flexed on Shane's thigh—slipped, then pushed up further still. Like this Rozanov could sink in deeper. "Still good?"

Shane nodded. Shut his eyes and then opened them again. Rozanov was leaning down, slow and inevitable. His cross slid against Shane's mouth first; then his lips. Just a fluttering touch.

Too much. Too much. Shane was full of Rozanov, peeled open, held. He was flying out of his skin, and the swell of Rozanov's lip was yielding between his teeth.

"Motherfucker." Rozanov flinched back. "You are like wild animal, fuck." He licked at the place where Shane had bitten him, and his eyes went wide.

There was— he'd drawn blood. Rozanov licked again; swallowed. His pulse was kicking hard in his throat.

Shane reached up to touch the hot soft place on Rozanov's lip where the split had reopened. "Oh." Rozanov's breath, warm and wet on the exhale. A third-liner's clenched fist had marked that beautiful mouth. Shane wanted to soothe away the hurt; he wanted to bite harder.

Rozanov's mouth moved. "Hollander." He was crashing down, the whole of him buckling. "Hollander," again, urgent, his hips snapping forward. He was dissolving into Russian, fuck, coming, coming, dazed with it. Still looking at Shane's mouth.

The tang of blood was sharp on Shane's tongue. He reached up blindly and moved his thigh—Rozanov's hand—until the fingers were lined over the bruise Rozanov had left there. Croaked, "Kiss me."

He did. Shane's dick was sliding slickly between their bodies and Rozanov was clamping down over muscle, no finesse to it, just raw strength. The pain burst through him like a fever.

Shane bit again, felt rather than heard Rozanov's wounded noise. He swallowed it down, and the orgasm stole over him, tidal.

Rozanov didn't stop kissing him, even as Shane twitched beneath him, shuddered, went limp. Dimly Shane thought it would scar, that cut. Rozanov would always carry it with him.

A little drowsy now, he pulled back and slid a finger over the red smear of Rozanov's mouth. "You didn't have to fight Meunier."

Rozanov didn't answer. He pushed himself up, though, one arm and then the other, looking down at the landscape of Shane's torso. With one hand he drew a line, a steady curve over the ribs. The bruises there had long gone, but Shane's skin came alive under his touch anyway, a low burning hum.

They had to clean up. Rozanov's softened dick was sliding out of him bit by bit. "You should send me one, too," Shane said. His voice was hoarse like he'd been shouting. "A picture, I mean."

Rozanov smiled, a bright sudden thing. "You want?" He licked blood off his teeth and blinked, long and slow like a contented cat. "Okay. I will."