Chapter Text
”They tell me nothing, it was my idea.”
What the fuck is Shane supposed to do with that?! He’d already had such a hard time staying professional during the shoot, unable to keep a straight face while being that close to Rozanov after he called Shane pretty, looking into those stupidly blue eyes. Every time his annoying mouth quirked into a smile, Shane couldn’t help but laugh too. He’s convinced Ilya was doing it on purpose, anything to make Shane fail at something they both had to do. Though, he had to admit, there were a couple of takes where he was the one who lost it before Rozanov, finding the whole thing absurd and hilarious.
And then,
”They tell me nothing, it was my idea.”
What an asshole! Shane had completely lost focus after that, even finding it hard to concentrate on what his mom was saying. Something about Reebok and being an inspiration to kids like him. Shane never wanted to be any of that, he just wanted to play the sport he loved. And maybe laugh with Rozanov more.
What?!
He huffs as he lathers soap onto his body, wanting to get out of there before Rozanov came in for his own shower, but also wanting to make sure all his sweat was washed off. Of course it’s right at that moment that Rozanov walks in. Shane doesn’t even need to see him with the way the air just seems to change, to thicken, whenever the Russian asshole was anywhere near him.
Still, he chances a glance over his shoulder and fuck! Why did he look? He’s been in locker room showers before, he’s seen other guys in this setting, and it’s always just been like any other part of hockey. He’s lost count of the number of dicks and asses he’s accidentally seen, but he’s never been taken aback by any of it.
Rozanov’s body is…there’s really no other way to put it…a fucking work of art. He looks like something Michelangelo himself dreamed up, planned out, and sculpted from only the best marble. Like it took a decade of sketching him all out until he got it perfectly. There are muscles on his back that Shane isn’t sure he has on his own, and his ass is obscenely round, like you could use those cheeks to make moulds of your fingers if you grabbed them hard enough. His shoulders are so broad, two Shanes could probably perch on them. He’s all wide chest, and biceps that flex as he lathers on soap, and abs that Shane sortofmaybemight want to lick, and pelvic bones that jutted out into a V, like an arrow on a map pointing out treasure.
Treasure?!?! What the actual fuck, Shane!
He realizes belatedly that his gaze has drifted down, and when he looks up, Rozanov is watching him. Then the asshole deliberately lets his own gaze drop down to Shane’s dick. When Ilya raises his eyebrows and meets his gaze again, Shane is horrified to realize he’s getting hard just from looking at Rozanov.
“Fuck off!”
Lame. But what else can he say? He turns away, as if the damage hasn’t already been done, as if he could still hide his (still growing!!!) erection from Rozanov. He can still feel Rozanov’s eyes on him, and he doesn’t know what’s happening, but it’s like he’s being tugged back. When he looks over his shoulder again, he’s shocked to find Rozanov holding his own dick. He’s not even pretending to just wash himself, his fist moving up and down his impressively long, beautifully thick cock.
Shane starts to turn, meeting Rozanov’s eyes. Rozanov turns to face him fully and nods at Shane’s own aching cock, urging him, inviting him to join. Shane’s mouth has gone dry and he swallows thickly as he looks behind Rozanov at the entrance to the showers.
“Is just us here,” Rozanov says in a low voice. “No one’s coming.” His thumb grazes the swollen head of his cock. “Well…I mean, I will, but you can too.”
If anyone ever asked him what came over him at that moment, he wouldn’t be able to tell them. All he knows is that Rozanov’s cock looks so inviting, and his own is aching in protest at being ignored. So he takes a shaky breath before wrapping his hand around himself, gripping himself tight at the base at first, then moving his hand up and down. He does it slowly at first, pressing his lips together to keep from making any noise, but before long, he’s matching Rozanov’s rhythm.
It doesn’t take long before they’re both breathing heavily, and he doesn’t know which of them moves first, but they’re suddenly standing close enough to touch. They don’t, but they hold each other’s gaze as their hands work faster. It’s when Rozanov lets out a low mhm sound that Shane tips forward, and suddenly their mouths are on each other, Rozanov’s free hand cupping Shane’s jaw as he kisses him hungrily. Even the way Rozanov kisses is like a challenge, testing how far Shane is willing to let him go. Shane opens his mouth in response, and Rozanov deepens the kiss.
The kiss is even better than jerking himself off, making his toes curl against the cold tiles. He startles when he realizes he’s got both of his hands on Rozanov, one fisting his hair, the other gripping his hip, his thumb digging into that obscene hip bone. He breaks the kiss to look down and is too slow to stop the quiet moan that escapes his throat when he sees Rozanov’s long fingers wrapped around both their cocks.
“Fuck,” he breathes, biting his lip as Rozanov presses a kiss on his cheekbone. “That’s…”
“What?” Rozanov murmurs against his ear.
“Fucking hot.”
He watches their hard cocks rubbing against each other, swollen heads pressing together as they both leak precome.
“Don’t stop,” he warns when Rozanov pauses, but he only does so to get a better hold of them as he pulls Shane in closer, fingers pinching Shane’s waist.
“Can’t anyway. You feel so good.” He’s not sure what it is about Rozanov’s accent that gives him goosebumps all over his body.
Shane is helpless, the sensations too much, too good, and his legs start to tremble. Rozanov wraps an arm around him, nudging Shane until he’s head is resting on that strong shoulder.
“I got you, Hollander. Come on, is only me. You can come on my cock.”
Shane makes an embarrassing sound, and he clamps his teeth onto Rozanov’s neck to keep from crying out as he spills out in long ropes onto Rozanov’s cock and hand. He’s not sure if it’s the sight or his bite, but Rozanov is quick to follow, muttering under his breath in what Shane is pretty sure is Russian. Then he switches back to English.
“Da, like that, Hollander. Just like that. So pretty. So good for me.”
The words spoken against Shane’s temple while he wrings them out send a shiver down his spine, and he can only bury his face against Rozanov’s neck where his bite has definitely left a mark. He trembles when Rozanov’s thumb presses down on the oversensitive slit of his cockhead, closes his eyes when his chin is tipped up so Rozanov can kiss him and swallow his soft whimper.
This kiss is not as hungry as the one before. It’s slower, more an exploration than a claiming, and Shane can’t decide which kind he likes better.
“You have such a pretty mouth,” Rozanov murmurs against his lips. “I want to see it wrapped around my cock.”
Shane again makes an embarrassing sound that makes Rozanov smile.
“I want to taste you, too.” And as if to make sure Shane understands what he means, Rozanov squeezes Shane’s oversensitive cock lightly. “What’s your room number?”
After everything they’ve done just now, all the stupid sounds Rozanov was able to wring out of Shane, there’s really no point in being embarrassed by how quickly he answers.
“1410.”
Rozanov kisses him again, nibbling at his lower lip before pulling away and letting Shane go.
“9 o’clock?”
“Mmm.” Shane nods, moving back to his shower on shaky legs.
”Gavno!”
Ilya all but rips off the stupid cerulean shirt off his shoulders, then curses again when the last button snags on one of his curls. He tosses it onto the bed where the three other shirts he’s discarded lay in crumpled heaps. The clock on the nightstand tells him he’s got plenty of time, but he only brought a handful of shirts with him, and none of them look right.
He checks his reflection again in the mirror by the closet, fixing the curl that got snagged back into place, before grabbing the first shirt he’d tried on. A simple black tank top that hugs his chest just right and makes his shoulders look great. Which is a stupid thing to consider seeing as Hollander had already seen all of him anyway. Still, he checks his reflection yet again, frowning and tilting his head as he considers. He wants Hollander to see him like this, with his nice jeans and tight tank top, but for some reason, it didn’t feel right showing up at his door like that.
”Leather or denim?” he mutters in Russian, eyeing the two jackets he brought. ”Denim. Leather is stupid.”
Fifteen minutes later, he’s riding the elevator, watching the numbers climb and gripping the handle bar that lined the back wall, thumb rubbing circles on the cold metal surface. Why was he even nervous? Hollander obviously wanted this too, if the bite mark on his neck is any indication. He bites his lip and smiles as he replays that moment in his head, how Hollander had needed to bite down on something to keep from moaning too loudly.
The doors open and Ilya straightens up, smile faltering when a woman he recognizes as Hollander’s mother pauses in front of the elevator. She looks up at the digital display on top of the doors.
“Going up?”
“Ah, yes.”
She smiles awkwardly and steps in, hand hovering over the numbers by the door. She pulls her hand back when she sees the 14th floor is already lit up, and Ilya’s shoulders sag.
“I’m Yuna, by the way, Shane Hollander’s mom.”
He plasters on a smile as he shakes her hand, adjusting the collar of his jacket when her gaze drifts down to the bruise that’s forming on his neck.
“Ilya Rozanov.”
“Yes, I know.” She says it lightly, sounding amused, as if Ilya is supposed to expect everyone to know who he is.
He stares at his feet in disappointment as they ride the few floors up to the 14th floor. When the doors open, he gestures for her to go ahead, still holding on to the hope that her own room is on this floor and that she’s not actually headed for her son’s. He waits a few seconds before stepping off, walking slowly and pretending to fish for his keycard in his pocket. He tsks under his breath when she knocks on the door to 1410. The door swings open just as Ilya is walking past behind her.
“Uh.” Hollander stands there, eyes widening as he looks first at his mother, then at Ilya behind her. Ilya keeps walking, pressing his lips together and raising his eyebrows knowingly.
“I just got an email from Rolex,” Ilya hears Yuna say as she steps into the room. When he looks back, Hollander is looking at him as he closes the door slowly.
Shane is absolutely not annoyed that his mother is sitting on his bed, discussing a possible future deal with one of the biggest luxury brands in the world, instead of Ilya Rozanov. And he’s definitely listening to her and not wondering if Rozanov has already turned back around to ride the elevator back to his own room. It’s stupid to think that Rozanov would actually loiter out in the hallway like some idiot, waiting for Yuna to leave, and yet when she finally does get up and kisses him good night, he’s still disappointed to find the hallway empty.