Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

POV Shane Hollander, Bottom Shane Hollander, Top Ilya Rozanov, Light Dom/sub, Submissive Character, Explicit Sexual Content, Under-negotiated Kink, Anal Sex, Rimming, Verbal Humiliation, Orgasm Delay, Coming Untouched, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Feminization, Women's Underwear, Panties, Panty Kink, Sexual Overstimulation, Multiple Orgasms

Language:

English

Collections:

StormVandal's Heated Rivalry works & reclist

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-13 Words: 6,806 Chapters: 1/1

romantic talking (you don't even have to try)

Summary

Staring suspiciously at Rozanov, Shane starts blindly fumbling with the tissue paper. He’s just starting to think that this is a very weird prank and there’s actually nothing in the bag when finally his fingers close around something… silky. Thin and silky. That draws his eyes back away from Rozanov down to his hands — more specifically, to the fucking panties that he’s just untangled from the tissue paper.

He should probably ask what the big idea is, but his brain has gone all fuzzy and his mouth has gone dry. There are several beats of silence before he manages to speak, and even then, all he manages to croak out is, “Um…?”

“You have this thing, gifts, in Canada, yes?” says Rozanov. “Is for you. You’re welcome.”

Notes

Content Warning: I don't really Go Here (feminization kink etc.) so please forgive me if I use any incorrect terminology to explain this (and if so, pls correct me and I'll change the wording)! This fic involves Ilya referring to Shane's body (inc. his genitals) using what I guess you might call "AFAB-coded language" (???), as well as using words like "girl" to refer to him, and Shane feeling humiliated by (and therefore horny about) it. Nothing here should be taken as reflecting my actual views on gender! But if this is something that sounds triggering to you, please keep yourself safe and give this fic a miss.

---

Okay idk where this story came from. I think I blacked out for a spell.
Alright, that's a joke. Where this story came from is that I noticed how Shane will basically do anything Ilya tells him to with very little pushback, going all the way back to their conversation in the hotel gym in episode 1, and it was making me crazy. :') So I started thinking about what the dirtiest thing Ilya could get Shane to do on the ice might be, and this is what came to me. This is baby's first smut, please be nice to me :(( LMAO

Set during the nebulous period right at the start of e04 when they're fucking on the reg but not Acknowledging Feelings or anything. I think technically in the show we do see Shane at Ilya's place for Canonically The First Time and it's for the tuna melt scene, but sshhhh we're ignoring that.

Thank you to marthman for the beta! <3

Also, I do not speak Russian - I apologize for any mistakes and would super appreciate being corrected if there are any! :)

Title is from MONTERO (Call Me By Your Name) by Lil Nas X!

It’s not often that Shane meets up with Rozanov before a game. The logistics just work out better when they meet up after (if they meet up after), considering they’re working around both of their schedules — team meetings, practices, flights, the games themselves — and trying not to make their teammates suspicious. But this is the pre-season; the expectations on him are lower, people are paying less attention to where he goes and what he does, the stress hasn’t built up that much yet, he’s not as tired, and the travel schedule is looser. It’s some combination of those factors that mean that when the Metros land in Boston the afternoon before their exhibition game against the Raiders, and Shane’s phone lights up with a text from ‘Lily’ that says I hear a rumor your team arrive today followed by an address and a winky face, he doesn’t make any effort to turn Rozanov down or brush him off. Instead, he shoots back a quick See you soon and then tries very hard to pay attention to the conversation JJ and Mitty are having about Chicago’s prospects this year.

He goes to the hotel just long enough to drop his stuff. The rest of the team have made various and assorted plans around the city, and he gets a few cursory invitations, but all of them are easy enough to decline. Once he’s shaken everyone else off, he takes a taxi to Rozanov’s place, telling himself over and over that there’s no way the driver knows Ilya Rozanov’s address.

The house is fucking gorgeous, but Shane barely gets a chance to look around, because Rozanov picks him up practically the second the front door closes behind him and carries him through the his bedroom. Shane has no idea if Rozanov picks him up like that because it speeds the process up or because he knows it gets Shane going, but he has no complaints either way. When Rozanov drops him onto the bed, he keeps his ankles locked behind Rozanov’s back, bringing him down on top of Shane so that he’s within kissing range and Shane can crush their lips together.

It’s been months since they last saw each other, and as loathe as Shane is to admit it, he’s felt every second of it. The sensation of Rozanov’s hands on his skin, his lips against Shane’s, is such a relief that he almost feels like crying. If he were even halfway inside his own head right now, that would probably send him into a tailspin; luckily, he’s far too occupied with hitching his hips up against Rozanov’s, rutting against his thigh, making broken, desperate noises into his mouth.

They both scramble out of their clothes, Rozanov’s hands moving just as fast as Shane’s, everything ending up in a pile on the floor. Shane doesn’t even fold any of it, although he does think about it. It’s almost scary how fast Rozanov can take him apart. He gets Shane sprawled out on his stomach, presses him down into the bed and fucks him slow, makes him feel every inch of it. Shane can barely make a sound before long, his mouth hanging open against Rozanov’s pillow and tiny unh, unh, unhs falling out. When Rozanov manages to get his hand between Shane’s body and the mattress, he barely has to put in any effort to make Shane cum all over the sheets.

After, Rozanov brushes off Shane’s apologies about the state of the bed and lets him shower first, since he has to get going. (A deeply unhelpful little voice in the back of Shane’s mind points out that he doesn’t have to get going, he doesn’t actually have anywhere else to be, he could stay for a while longer — he could even stay the night — but he pushes it aside as firmly as he can. It’s not a good idea to entertain thoughts about things he can’t have. Rozanov probably wants Shane out of his hair now, anyway.) By the time he gets back, Rozanov has disposed of the condom and cleaned himself up a bit, but has gotten back into the bed, sprawled out half-under the sheets. The way his eyes follow Shane as he walks back into the room and starts collecting his clothes makes heat start pooling in his belly again, so he determinedly looks away and tries to focus on the task at hand.

“Before you get dressed, I have something for you,” says Rozanov from the bed, and Shane pauses where he was just about to step into his briefs, his eyes snapping back to Rozanov despite himself. Rozanov untangles himself from the sheets and gets up — unhurried, languid, pausing to stretch his shoulders, and the whole time Shane just stands there like an idiot, naked, his briefs pooled at his feet. Waiting.

Rozanov walks over to his dresser and, after rummaging for a moment, pulls out an honest to god gift bag, with tissue paper and everything. Shane’s stuck somewhere between wanting to laugh in disbelief and wanting to melt into the floor. He settles for raising his eyebrows at Rozanov, who doesn’t react beyond giving him a wide-eyed expression of feigned innocence. He places the bag in Shane’s hands and climbs back onto the bed, sitting closer to the end this time. His eyes don’t leave Shane.

Staring suspiciously at Rozanov, Shane starts blindly fumbling with the tissue paper. His immediate thoughts about what might be in the bag (the game-winning puck Rozanov had scored with last time the Raiders played the Metros? How to Be Less Boring for Dummies?) had been dismissed basically the second he got the gift in his hands and felt how light it is. He’s just starting to think that this is a very weird prank and there’s actually nothing in the bag when finally his fingers close around something… silky. Thin and silky. That draws his eyes back away from Rozanov down to his hands — more specifically, to the fucking panties that he’s just untangled from the tissue paper.

They’re pretty simple, made of some kind of nearly-transparent baby blue mesh without any embellishment or frills, but they’re undeniably panties. Like, women’s underwear. Tag still on, so they’re definitely brand new. Shane should probably ask what the big idea is, but his brain has gone all fuzzy and his mouth has gone dry. There are several beats of silence before he manages to speak, and even then, all he manages to croak out is, “Um…?”

“You have this thing, gifts, in Canada, yes?” says Rozanov. “Is for you. You’re welcome.”

“What… but… why?” Shane stammers. He’s apparently completely incapable of being eloquent while holding women’s underwear. Maybe that’s… a good sign? Probably not. Not with all things considered. He’s pretty sure his face is turning red. He still can’t look at Rozanov.

Rozanov actually tsks at that, but shifts around so that he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, close enough to grab Shane by the hips, pull him in and kiss his stomach. “Not very polite, Hollander.” His voice is dipping into a low, warning tone, which is seriously doing things to Shane, as though this scenario weren’t already confusing enough. “But, there is no real ‘why’. I just think they will look very pretty on you.”

It had occurred to Shane in a very distant sort of way that Rozanov was probably giving him women’s underwear in a gift bag so that he would wear them and not as some sort of bizarre taunt, but hearing him confirm it out loud brings the situation into very sharp focus. All he can do for a moment is stand there gaping, his mouth opening and closing like he’s some kind of fucking goldfish. It’s — just — he can’t wear women’s underwear, he just can’t. That’s not… like… allowed, right? And why would he even want to?

Even with all that crashing around inside his head, when he finally manages to speak, he comes out with possibly the flimsiest option imaginable: “They’re not going to fit me.”

“No, they will fit,” Rozanov replies instantly. “I checked size of your briefs last time I saw you. Your ass has gotten bigger since then —” (For emphasis, he slides his hands from Shane’s hips to his backside and grabs a firm handful, making Shane gasp despite himself.) “— but not that much bigger. They will fit. Try them on.”

He should probably keep arguing, or even better, firmly tell Rozanov that there’s no way in hell he’s going to put panties on and that he should probably just return them. He should maybe be freaked out that Rozanov has apparently been planning this for so long, long enough that he knew to check sizing last time they saw each other. He should get dressed (in his own, normal clothes) and leave, like he was about to. Instead, Rozanov says try them on and Shane, almost automatically, starts fumbling to do so.

They feel so much more delicate than the cotton briefs that he normally wears; he steps into them and then ends up gingerly shimmying them up his legs, not wanting to just pull them straight up in case he tears them. It’s definitely not graceful, and he’s blushing for sure now — he can feel his face burning — but the worst part is that his dick is starting to get interested again, even though he literally came, like, half an hour ago.

The panties… well, they arguably do fit, in that they do go on his body. They’re cut pretty high in the back, which means his fucking asscheeks are hanging out, and they’re barely containing his dick and balls; but they do fit snugly enough that he doesn’t feel like things are going to start popping out if he moves around. They definitely feel weird, though. The material is much softer and lighter than he’s used to. It makes him feel oddly squirmy. He forces himself to plant his feet firmly on the ground and keep his hands by his sides, instead of wriggling around like he kind of wants to.

“Mh, I was right,” says Rozanov, gazing at Shane intensely in a way that’s really not helping with how hopelessly turned on Shane is starting to feel. “Very pretty.”

“Uh… thank you…?”

“You are welcome.” Rozanov pulls back then, leaning back on his elbows. “You will wear these for the game tomorrow.”

Shane stares at him.

“You’re joking, right?”

“Mm, no.”

“Are you fucking insane?”

He feels almost lightheaded, and he wants to believe that it’s entirely from panic, but he’s not completely sure that that’s true. He can’t wear these during the game, he absolutely can’t. No way will he be able to concentrate properly on playing, not to mention that everyone in the locker room would see. That can’t happen. There’s no fucking way.

“Maybe,” Rozanov says, and shrugs with infuriating carelessness. “You will do it, though.”

“No the fuck I won’t!” Shane says, his voice climbing a little higher. He’s clenching and unclenching his hands by his sides, not because he’s thinking of hitting Rozanov, obviously, but just because he needs to channel his nervous energy into something. “I can’t, Rozanov, I need to concentrate on playing hockey.”

“It is preseason game,” Rozanov replies, still so fucking casual. “Probably they will not even play you very much, give the rookies some minutes. Win or lose doesn’t really matter too much.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t have to concentrate when I’m on the ice!” Shane insists.

Rozanov raises an eyebrow. “You think you will not be able to concentrate? You like these, huh.”

Shane glares at him. It’s getting harder and harder not to squirm. “And I don’t know if you forgot, but we get changed in a locker room. Everyone will see.”

Rozanov shrugs again. “Not if you don’t let them.”

There are so many things Shane could say in response to that, like easy for you to say or you can’t actually think I’m going to do this, right?, but the words won’t come. Rozanov smirks and stands up again, placing his hands back on Shane’s hips and pulling him in against his body. “I will shower now,” he says, and plants a bruising kiss on Shane’s mouth. Shane should probably be pissed at him, should probably push him away, but instead he melts into it and kisses Rozanov back. Fuck, he has no self-control. “See you tomorrow,” Rozanov adds when he pulls away, and then he’s gone and Shane is still standing naked in his bedroom. Well. Almost naked.

Everything that he and Ilya Rozanov do is a bad idea, but this really takes the fucking cake.

He should not be doing this. He absolutely should not be doing this. That’s the only thought that keeps going through his head even as he is actively going out of his way to do it. It’s wildly irresponsible. If he gets caught he’s never, ever going to live it down. But here he is, getting changed into his base layers in a bathroom stall. So that no one will see him putting on a pair of women’s underwear under his jock.

He gets a lot of strange looks when he re-enters the locker room, but by some miracle, no one actively questions him on his admittedly-bizarre behaviour. Maybe they all just figure it’s some new idiosyncrasy of his. He gets into the rest of his gear as quickly as possible.

He’s just pulling his jersey over his head when his phone buzzes, and he checks it automatically.

Lily: 👀😏

Shane: Fuck off.

Lily: 😘

Instead of responding, Shane all but throws his phone into the back of his shelf. God. Fuck Ilya fucking Rozanov, and fuck Shane’s total inability to resist him.

After the game, Shane doesn’t even bother to go back to the hotel. He has to take one for the team and talk to the press for a while, which at least buys him some time for the rest of the locker room to thin out, but which is also a uniquely torturous experience this particular afternoon.

The game overall went… fine, all things considered. Neither team put up as hard a fight as usual, given that it was a preseason game, but both had still clearly been in it to win it. As Rozanov predicted, the Metros (and the Raiders) had used the opportunity to give their rookies minutes and to try out new lineups. Shane and Rozanov had mostly ridden the bench. But still, neither team was going to let a game between them pass by without putting Hollander and Rozanov on the ice against each other at least once, and so Shane had spent most of his time on the ice avoiding Rozanov’s eyes and fucking praying he wouldn’t try to check him. Neither of them scored, but Shane did manage an assist, which makes him feel marginally better about his… distraction. Montreal wins it 4-3, and now they have some good data to work with before the regular season to help them tighten up the team.

Shane answers questions from reporters about game highlights, potential weak spots, how he’s feeling heading into the regular season; and he hopes to god he sounds fully coherent and composed, but he really can’t be sure. Then he kills some time, taking his gear off as slowly as possible and letting the locker room empty out around him. He receives a few invites to various plans the others have made for the evening and declines all of them with the excuse that he hadn’t slept very well and isn’t up for it. Hopefully that will also account, in his teammates’ minds, for his below-average performance on the ice. Only JJ gives him shit, but JJ always gives him shit about not getting out enough, so that’s normal.

Once he’s alone, he finally hits the showers.

Even if he had undressed in a bathroom stall again, he couldn’t have showered with his teammates, because he’s… a little hard. Well, more accurately, he’d been a little hard through the whole game, and now he’s pretty fucking hard. The underwear had turned out to be a double-edged sword; the very fact that he was wearing them was distracting, but also, even under his layers of clothing and padding, the feeling of the soft fabric against his skin and the way that it shifted over the head of his dick every time he fucking moved had drawn his attention.

Shane turns the water on hot and steps under the spray, grateful that Boston’s arena has really good water pressure. The water pelts down on him and he, almost automatically, starts sliding a hand down his stomach, before he realizes what he’s doing and snaps out of it; instead, he presses both his hands hard against the wall and takes the deepest breaths he can manage. Unfortunately for him, sternly telling himself that he cannot jerk off in the locker room showers only brings to mind the image of Rozanov doing just that, that first time, and that really doesn’t help Shane’s situation. He stays in the shower longer than strictly necessary, fighting to get ahold of himself with little success.

When he gets dressed in his street clothes, he puts the panties back on underneath. He’s well aware that they’re sweaty and probably don’t smell great, but his gut tells him that Rozanov will probably want him to be wearing them when he shows up, and he goes for it without letting himself overthink. Hopefully they won’t stay on for very long once he gets there, anyway.

Rozanov answers his door with a smirk on his face. Earlier, Shane had been imagining that he’d basically pounce on Rozanov the second he saw him. Instead, he stands there silently, flexing his hands at his sides and refusing to make eye contact.

He’s so, so hard. Without the game to concentrate on and his layers of gear to mute the sensation, the feeling of these stupid fucking panties against his dick has been working him up beyond belief. He’d spent the whole cab ride over biting the inside of his cheek, practically having to sit on his hands to resist the urge to start rubbing himself off through his track pants right there in the backseat. None of his attempts to distract himself had been remotely successful; in fact, the harder he’d tried not to think about the situation, the more desperate he’d felt. At some point, his dick had started leaking precum, and it hasn’t stopped since. The panties are clinging to his skin now, and even without having seen them, he’s pretty sure they’re a lost cause. He’s even going to have to wash his fucking pants. Thank god they’re dark.

He still wants to pounce on Rozanov — even though he should probably be pissed off at him, literally all he wants right now is to get Rozanov’s stupid dick inside of him — but he’s a little worried that the second they touch each other, he’s going to cum in his pants.

Rozanov stands there, silent and expectant, for several long moments, seemingly waiting for Shane to make the first move. Eventually, though, he says, “You did it, didn’t you?”

Shane doesn’t trust himself to speak. Instead he nods jerkily.

“Good girl,” says Rozanov, his voice low and warm, and a jolt of arousal goes through Shane that’s so intense he’s surprised it doesn’t take him out at the knees. “Come with me.”

He turns around and walks down the hallway that leads to his bedroom, never once looking back to make sure Shane’s following him. Because of course Shane’s following him. He trails after Rozanov helplessly, and when they reach his bedroom, he stands silently in the middle, waiting for Rozanov’s next move.

Rozanov rounds on him, and (finally, finally) crowds into his personal space. He takes Shane’s jaw in his hand, tilts his head up and kisses him. Shane lets out a moan of relief into Rozanov’s mouth despite himself, and presses forward without thinking, trying to rut against Rozanov’s leg; but Rozanov stops him, pushing Shane’s hips away from his own with his free hand.

“Ne volnovat'sya,” he murmurs. “Be patient.”

Shane wants to protest that he’s been fucking patient, but his voice isn’t working.

Rozanov moves his hand around to the small of Shane’s back, before sliding it down under the waistband of his track pants. He pulls away from the kiss as he does, which means Shane sees the way his eyes go dark and hungry when he feels the fine mesh under his fingertips. God, Shane’s going to completely come apart before they even get on the bed.

“Good girl,” Rozanov says again, and Shane shudders.

“Don’t — stop it, I’m not —”

“Not what? A good girl?” Rozanov pulls away entirely, and Shane can’t stop the pathetic whine he lets out in response. “What are you then, a bad girl?”

This is so fucked up. Shane would almost think that Rozanov is chirping him, if not for the look in his eyes. He raises one eyebrow challengingly, staring Shane down, clearly waiting for him to answer. And Shane needs this to move along, right now, so he opens his mouth to reply. What he means to say is, stop calling me a fucking girl, asshole. Instead, what he hears himself say is, “...Maybe.”

“Oh?” Rozanov says, feigning surprise. He steps back into Shane’s personal bubble and then, in one swift movement, he shoves Shane’s pants down. Somehow, Shane is caught off-guard. His face flushes red-hot, and he stares determinedly at a point over Rozanov’s shoulder. He can only imagine how fucking obscene this must look — how he must look.

He’s so fixated on staring at the wall that he doesn’t even notice Rozanov’s hand moving, until he trails two fingers lightly up Shane’s dick, over the panties, and Shane almost completely crumbles. His mouth falls open, but he can’t even make a noise, and it takes serious effort to remain upright.

“Oh, yes,” Rozanov says, and it’s another blow of humiliation to hear how unaffected he sounds while Shane is coming apart at the seams in front of him. “You are very bad girl. So wet for me.” His fingers are still moving, feather-light, and Shane thinks he’s going to fucking cry.

“Rozanov,” he manages, although it’s barely more than a whisper. “Please.”

“Please what?”

Shane pushes his hips forward into Rozanov’s hand, and for a split second the pressure is so so good, too good, oh fuck, he’s going to —

Rozanov pulls his hand away, and a desperate whimper tears its way out of Shane’s throat. He squeezes his eyes shut, afraid that tears might actually start escaping, but he can hear the smirk in Rozanov’s voice regardless when he adds, “Use your words, sweetheart.”

Does he even remember how to do that? Keeping his eyes closed, he sucks in the deepest breath he can manage and lets it out slowly. When he’s finally confident that he can speak without bursting into tears, he says tersely, “Please fuck me.”

He opens his eyes again, and finds that Rozanov has once again perched himself on the edge of his bed and is staring at him intently. He doesn’t respond to Shane’s request, just waves his hand loosely towards him in a gesture that Shane understands to mean ‘take your clothes off’, and he obeys the silent order. When he goes to pull the panties off, though, Rozanov shakes his head. “Leave them on,” he says, and Shane knows he should refuse — or at least argue, point out that they’re sweaty and probably disgusting — but he doesn’t. He does as he’s told. Rozanov nods his head towards the bed, and Shane nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to lie down. He watches Rozanov strip his own clothes off, trying to concentrate on keeping his breathing steady, although it hitches when Rozanov settles onto the mattress between his legs. Then Rozanov kisses him again, and he stops caring about breathing.

Having Rozanov so close to him has Shane’s whole body fizzing with anticipation, but he’s carefully keeping his hips away from Shane’s, making sure he can’t get any friction against him. Shane’s fucking aching, he needs to be touched. Finally, he can’t take it anymore — he moves his hand down to wrap it around his cock, but Rozanov grabs him by the wrist and stops him before he gets anywhere close.

“Okay, okay,” he says against Shane’s jaw with an infuriating chuckle. “You have been patient. I will make you feel good now. Roll over for me.”

It takes every ounce of Shane’s willpower not to start humping the bed when he rolls onto his stomach. Rozanov seems aware of the danger, because he hauls Shane up onto his knees by the hips. Shane obligingly spreads his thighs further apart and arches his back, biting hard on his lip in anticipation. Rozanov carefully pulls the panties aside and presses his fingers against Shane’s entrance, and Shane just about sobs with relief. But then Rozanov just… rests there, not pushing in, not moving. Shane tries to push back, but Rozanov stops him with a firm hand on his hip.

“Hmm,” he says.

“What?” Shane bites out. “Rozanov, come on.”

“Well, I do not want to hurt you,” says Rozanov, ponderously, as though it’s not a given that he’s going to have to work Shane open before he fucks him. Shane suddenly wishes that he’d fingered himself open in the shower before he came over (as though he ever would’ve had the nerve), so that Rozanov couldn’t pull whatever the fuck it is he’s pulling right now.

“You’re dripping wet for me,” Rozanov continues, “but still, you are so tight. It will not fit yet. I will help you relax, yes?”

Shane’s entire body shudders. He’s acutely aware that… whatever the fuck this is, it should not be working for him, and the fact that it’s working for him anyway just makes him even more turned on. He’s stuck in some kind of fucked-up feedback loop, and the worst part is that he’s not even mad about it. What he is mad about is that Rozanov isn’t fucking him yet.

That train of thought is cut off when Rozanov ducks his head and replaces his fingers with his fucking tongue. Rather than tense up at the unexpected sensation, Shane melts into the mattress, his mouth gaping open soundlessly. He presses backwards without thinking, without even really meaning to, and Rozanov welcomes it, gripping onto Shane’s hips and encouraging him. He’s calm but unrelenting, working his tongue against Shane’s hole with almost single-minded intensity. It feels so good, he never would’ve even believed it could feel this good — and then Rozanov presses two fingers in alongside his tongue, and Shane’s elbows collapse out from under him. Rozanov doesn’t let up for a moment, following Shane as the angle changes and pressing his nose more firmly into the crease of Shane’s ass. Soon he has three fingers in, Shane loosening easily around him; Shane’s breath is coming in gasps, and he’s barely resisting the urge to start riding Rozanov’s hand. He’s so close, pulled taut, and he’s pretty sure he’s only holding on through sheer willpower — he doesn’t want to cum before Rozanov gets the fuck inside of him already.

“There we go,” says Rozanov, pulling away from Shane just enough to speak. (Shane wants to cry at the loss, and maybe a little bit at the smug tone in his voice). “What do you think, pretty girl? Are you ready to take my cock now?”

“Please,” Shane manages. There are tears prickling behind his eyelids. “Please, please…”

“What did I say about using your words, úmnitsa?” Rozanov is still fucking his fingers slowly in and out of Shane, fingertips just grazing his prostate and drawing helpless whimpers out of his throat. “Please what? Ask me nicely for what you want.”

He presses in deeper, almost as if to punctuate his words, and Shane’s whole body shudders. “I want you to fuck me, I need you to fuck me, Rozanov, please —”

Even on top of everything else, it’s a little bit humiliating to be begging like this. It pays off though, because when Rozanov speaks, it’s the first time he sounds kind of breathless — like he might be starting to lose it too. “And how do you want me to fuck you?”

“Like this,” Shane gasps, too far gone to try to restrain himself. “Want it deep, want every inch of you,” and Rozanov swears in Russian before pulling away entirely. Shane almost panics before he realizes that Rozanov is reaching for the bedside drawer and fumbling around for lube and a condom. He’s not thinking about what he does next; he’s just acting on pure instinct and need and want when he reaches back and pushes his own fingers into his hole. The feeling of Rozanov’s spit on his skin, inside of him, makes his stomach clench warningly. He breathes through it, moving his fingers lazily, keeping himself relaxed. He’s rewarded by Rozanov letting out a soft groan. Shane can feel his eyes on him.

“You really are not patient, hm?” says Rozanov, and now Shane’s positive he’s getting to him. He can hear it in Rozanov’s voice. “Need to play with your own pussy when I stop doing it for you?”

He buries his face into the mattress so that Rozanov won’t see the few embarrassed tears that leak out of his eyes. He still nods, though.

“Is okay,” Rozanov says. He’s settled back behind Shane, now, and Shane arches his back. An invitation. A plea. He pulls his fingers away without Rozanov having to ask, and then the head of Rozanov’s cock is pressed against his entrance — pressing inside of him so, so slowly. “I give you what you need now. I will make you feel me.”

He pauses, then slides his full length inside Shane in one smooth motion, wrenching a wanton moan from somewhere deep in Shane’s guts. In very short order, Shane is proven correct in his assessment that Rozanov is starting to lose it too. He sets a hard, steady rhythm right away, not bothering with any of the teasing, shallow thrusts he sometimes starts with in order to rile Shane up — it’s clear that neither of them needs any further riling up tonight. For fuck’s sake, Shane’s been on the brink of losing it since before he even got here. Now he’s pushing back shamelessly, panting around moans, and only vaguely registering the way that Rozanov’s murmuring under his breath in Russian.

With how long Shane’s been right on the edge, it really doesn’t take long for him to go crashing over it. Heat flares in his guts and races up his spine, and then he’s finally cumming, into the panties and up his stomach. He can hear himself practically sobbing, hear his own voice saying “thank you, thank you” and “don’t stop, Rozanov, please don’t fucking stop,” but it’s like he’s hearing himself from somewhere up near the ceiling. It’s only the feeling of Rozanov’s hands gripping his hips, the feeling of him still moving inside of Shane, that makes him certain he hasn’t simply floated right out of his body.

Rozanov keeps hammering into him, and Shane gropes around for one of the pillows so that he can grab onto it, dig his fingers into something. They’re dancing right on the line between ‘perfect’ and ‘too much’, and it’s exactly what Shane has needed all fucking day. “Still feels good?” Rozanov asks, his voice rough, and Shane nods frantically, pushing back against him as if for emphasis.

“So fucking good, don’t stop —”

“I won’t stop, don’t worry.” He leans low over Shane’s back and presses a careful kiss to his shoulderblade, and Shane tries his best to ignore how that makes his heart feel like it’s exploding. Rozanov’s thumbs rub over his hips, catching at the fabric of the underwear he’s still wearing. “You look so pretty taking my cock like this. Do you like getting fucked in your panties?”

Shane flushes bright red as he answers in the affirmative, but what else can he do? It’s pretty fucking clear that he likes what’s going on here — he doesn’t think Rozanov would let him get away with saying otherwise.

“Fuck,” Rozanov grunts, thrusting in a few more times, and then he pulls out and Shane whines pathetically. “Get on your back. Want to see your face.”

Shane scrambles onto his back, fully prepared to sulk if Rozanov doesn’t get back inside him immediately, but that thought is knocked right out of his head when he sees Rozanov’s expression. He’s staring at Shane like he can’t even believe he’s got him in his bed. It makes Shane’s breath hitch, makes his heart jump strangely in his chest — but then Rozanov is pressing his knees up to his chest, pushing back inside of him, and going right back to the pace he’d set before, which effectively stops Shane from starting to overanalyze whatever the fuck just happened.

This position does mean that Shane can reach up and pull Rozanov down into a kiss. That’s a pretty nice perk. Being able to slide his tongue into Rozanov’s mouth more than makes up for the fact that Rozanov can’t get quite as deep inside of him like this. It also means that Rozanov notices almost immediately when Shane’s dick somehow starts getting interested again. He chuckles against Shane’s lips and murmurs, “Touch yourself for me, malishka,” and Shane complies with a whimper. He has to slide his hand under the waistband of the panties to get a hand around his hardening cock, and any vague thoughts he’d had about how this stupid underwear is completely fucking ruined get swept away instantly. Fuck, it’s so much — he feels so overstimulated, but he doesn’t even think about stopping, just breathes through it.

Soon he’s fully hard again, whimpering and twitching and falling to pieces under Rozanov, and it’s really no surprise that he doesn’t last long this time either. It’s almost more of an aftershock than anything, his body tensing and arching up towards Rozanov as a small spurt of cum pumps out into his hand, but it feels like he’s fucking exploding. There are stars behind his eyelids. He’s only just there enough to notice when Rozanov’s hips speed up, his thrusts getting erratic. His fingers are digging so hard into Shane’s thighs that he’ll be surprised if he doesn’t have bruises tomorrow.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans out, and then he’s kissing Shane again, hot and intense but weirdly delicate — almost sweet; and Shane, fucked out and pliant, melts into it. Rozanov’s thrusts get shallow and careful as he rides out his orgasm, breathing heavily against Shane’s lips. Then he’s gingerly pulling out, chuckling at Shane’s noise of complaint.

Shane’s distantly aware that he desperately needs a shower, but he’s not going to be able to move for at least a few minutes, and he’s not even that sure he wants to. Instead, he goes easily when Rozanov lies down beside him and captures his mouth again.

They’re maybe going to have to talk about what the fuck just happened, but for now, Shane would much rather be doing this.

When Shane finally manages to get off the bed, the first thing he does is peel off the completely destroyed panties and toss them in the garbage bin tucked under Rozanov’s bedside table. Rozanov lets out an exaggerated gasp, and when Shane looks up at him, he has one hand pressed dramatically to his chest. “Very rude!” he says, faux-affronted. “Throwing very nice gift in the trash!”, and Shane rolls his eyes at him even as his face flushes red-hot.

“It’s your fault they got ruined,” he says, and practically flees to the bathroom.

As he showers, he thinks back over the day. Really, he knows that he should probably be, like, ashamed of himself, or something. Embarrassed. Angry at Rozanov. Something. But actually, he kind of feels like he’s glowing. It’s the same feeling he gets when he scores a goal that even he realizes was impressive, the same way he felt getting sprayed down with champagne in the locker room after they won the Cup. The feeling he gets when he knows that he’s done a good job.

When he returns to the bedroom, Rozanov has tidied the bed up somewhat (read: he’s bundled the soiled comforter into his laundry hamper, but pulled out a blanket that’s folded at the foot of the bed in case Shane wants to be under something heavier than just the sheets — which makes Shane’s heart do a weird, delighted little jump that he resolutely ignores) and Shane can’t help but take it as an invitation to stay a bit longer. It’s an invitation he can’t bring himself to decline. He gets back onto the bed, pulling the proffered blanket over himself, and waits for Rozanov to return from his turn in the shower.

When he does, he gets onto the bed with Shane, immediately pressing up against his side and trailing kisses down Shane’s shoulder. Shane tilts his head and manages to catch Rozanov’s lips with his own. They kiss for a while before Shane finally pulls away to speak.

“I can’t believe I fucking did that,” he says, but any message he’d been hoping to convey with those words — like oh god, that was such a bad idea, we can never ever do that again — gets messed up by the fact that he can’t stop smiling.

Rozanov shrugs carelessly, the same way he had when he first gave Shane the panties yesterday, and the corners of his lips pull up in a self-satisfied smirk. “I can.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Shane asks, giving Rozanov a shove without any actual force behind it. He’s expecting Rozanov to make some kind of stupid Jane Hollander joke, but what he says instead knocks Shane completely off-balance.

“You always do what I tell you,” he says, his tone as nonchalant as if he were telling Shane that it always snows in Boston in the winter. “I think probably you love it.”

Shane tries to protest, but mostly just manages to gape at him. “I do not,” he says eventually, fully aware that that’s not very convincing but unable to come up with a better argument.

“No, you do.” He takes Shane’s chin in his hand and laughs softly when he takes in the affronted look on his face. “Don’t worry, is very hot.”

Shane glares half-heartedly at him, and Rozanov smirks again. “Unless there is different reason you were so worked up today?” Shane opens his mouth to argue, but Rozanov arches one eyebrow and cuts him off. “You came twice, Hollander.”

…Okay, Rozanov kind of has him there.

“Fuck, okay, fine,” he grumbles. “You don’t have to rub it in, asshole. And we can never do that again. I’m not going to fuck up any more games just to get laid.”

Rozanov sighs heavily, as though he’s just suffered a great disappointment. “Okay, fine. We will not do it again. Is not a good idea for the regular season. I could barely keep my eyes off you for whole game.”

That makes sparks go off inside Shane’s head. Of course he’d been distracted and worked up through the whole game, but it hadn’t even occurred to him that Rozanov might have been distracted too. Fuck, he can’t let himself think about that right now, he does not have it in him to go again tonight.

“Well… good,” he says, with some effort. After a long pause, he adds, “Um, I should probably get back to the hotel.”

“Yes, probably,” says Rozanov, and if there’s a flash of disappointment in his eyes, Shane pretends he doesn’t see it.

He slips off the bed and goes over to where he’d left his clothes in a pile on the floor. It’s only once he’s standing there that he realizes, and he has to hold in a groan.

“Um… Rozanov?” he says sheepishly. “Could I maybe, like… borrow a pair of briefs?”

Rozanov proceeds to roar with laughter, and it only intensifies as Shane’s ears go pink and he glares at him. But he does get out a pair of black briefs, tells Shane he can keep them “as another gift” with a rakish wink, and even accompanies him to the front door, where he sees him off with a long, heated kiss that leaves Shane rumpled and blushing. So really, it’s not so bad.