Summary:

Shane isn’t sure if Rozanov will understand his reasoning, if it makes sense to him, if he’ll comprehend why Shane likes the idea of Rozanov doing something to him that he normally wouldn't allow. It’s almost like a punishment – a punishment for wanting it, a punishment for lying, a punishment for losing. Shane didn’t like to lose, not on the ice, not to anyone, but he liked losing to Rozanov’s will, liked being forced under him. Only like this. Always like this. Rozanov is quiet long enough for shame and dread to invade Shane’s mind, his stomach twisting under the force of it, but then Rozanov soothes him, too, as he plants another kiss on Shane’s nape, and then two more, each one wet and hot. “You want me to make a mess of you? Fuck, Hollander”, Rozanov groans, sounding almost painfully turned on. “You’re going to fucking kill me.” Or, after losing a game against Boston, Shane asks Rozanov to fuck him without a condom.